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diff --git a/old/53996-0.txt b/old/53996-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 170fad6..0000000 --- a/old/53996-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,11822 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Where Love Is, 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: Where Love Is - -Author: William J. Locke - -Release Date: January 18, 2017 [EBook #53996] -Last Updated: March 12, 2018 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHERE LOVE IS *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - - - - - -WHERE LOVE IS - -By William J. Locke - -New York - -Grosset & Dunlap Publishers - -Copyright, 1903 By John Lane - - - -“_Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and -hatred therewith_.” - -_The Proverbe of Solomon_ - - - - -WHERE LOVE IS - - - - -Chapter I--THE FIRST GLIMPSE - - -HAVE you dined at Ranelagh lately?” asked Norma Hardacre. - -“I have never been there in my life,” replied Jimmie Padgate. “In fact,” - he added simply, “I am not quite sure whether I know where it is.” - -“Yours is the happier state. It is one of the dullest spots in a dull -world.” - -“Then why on earth do people go there?” - -The enquiry was so genuine that Miss Hardacre relaxed her expression of -handsome boredom and laughed. - -“Because we are all like the muttons of Panurge,” she said. “Where one -goes, all go. Why are we here to-night?” - -“To enjoy ourselves. How could one do otherwise in Mrs. Deering's -house?” - -“You have known her a long time, I believe,” remarked Norma, taking the -opportunity of directing the conversation to a non-contentious topic. - -“Since she was in short frocks. She is a cousin of King's--that's the -man who took you down to dinner--” - -She nodded. “I have known Mr. King many weary ages.” - -“And he has never told me about you!” - -“Why should he?” - -She looked him full in the face, with the stony calm of the fashionable -young woman accustomed to take excellent care of herself. Her companion -met her stare in whimsical confusion. Even so ingenuous a being as -Jimmie Padgate could not tell a girl he had met for the first time that -she was beautiful, adorable, and graced with divine qualities above all -women, and that intimate acquaintance with her must be the startling -glory of a lifetime. - -“If I had known you for ages,” he replied prudently, “I should have -mentioned your name to Morland King.” - -“Are you such friends then?” - -“Fast friends: we were at school together, and as I was a lonely little -beggar I used to spend many of my holidays with his people. That is how -I knew Mrs. Deering in short frocks.” - -“It's odd, then, that I have n't met you about before,” said the girl, -giving him a more scrutinising glance than she had hitherto troubled to -bestow upon him. A second afterwards she felt that her remark might have -been in the nature of an indiscretion, for her companion had not at all -the air of a man moving in the smart world to which she belonged. His -dress-suit was old and of lamentable cut; his shirt-cuffs were frayed; -a little bone stud, threatening every moment to slip the button-hole, -precariously secured his shirt-front. His thin, iron-grey hair was -untidy; his moustache was ragged, innocent of wax or tongs or any of -the adventitious aids to masculine adornment. His aspect gave the -impression, if not of poverty, at least of narrow means and humble ways -of life. Although he had sat next her at dinner, she had paid little -attention to him, finding easier entertainment in her conversation with -King on topics of common interest, than in possible argument with a -strange man whom she heard discussing the functions of art and other -such head-splitting matters with his right-hand neighbour. Indeed, her -question about Ranelagh when she found him by her side, later, in the -drawing-room was practically the first she had addressed to him with any -show of interest. - -She hastened to repair her maladroit observation by adding before he -could reply,-- - -“That is rather an imbecile thing to say considering the -millions of people in London. But one is apt to talk in an imbecile -manner after a twelve hours' day of hard racket in the season. Don't you -think so? One's stock of ideas gets used up, like the air at the end of -a dance.” - -“Not if you keep your soul properly ventilated,” he answered. - -The words were, perhaps, not so arresting as the manner in which they -were uttered. Norma Hardacre was startled. A little shutter in the -back of her mind seemed to have flashed open for an elusive second, and -revealed a prospect wide, generous, alive with free-blowing airs. -Then all was dark again before she could realise the vision. She was -disconcerted, and in a much more feminine way than was habitual with her -she glanced at him again. This time she lost sight of the poor, untidy -garments, and found a sudden interest in the man's kind, careworn face, -and his eyes, wonderfully blue and bright, set far apart in the head, -that seemed to look out on the world with a man's courage and a child's -confidence. She was uncomfortably conscious of being in contact with -a personality widely different from that of her usual masculine -associates. This her training and habit of mind caused her to resent; -despising the faint spiritual shock, she took refuge in flippancy. - -“I fear our Tobin tubes get choked up in London,” she said with a little -laugh. “Even if they did n't they are wretched things, which create -draughts; so anyway our souls are free from chills. Look at that -woman over there talking to Captain Orton--every one knows he's -paymaster-general. A breath of fresh air in Mrs. Chance's soul would -give it rheumatic fever.” - -The abominable slander falling cynically from young lips brought a look -of disapproval into Jimmie Padgate's eyes. - -“Why do you say such things?” he asked. “You know you don't believe -them.” - -“I do believe them,” she replied defiantly. “Why shouldn't one -believe the bad things one hears of one's neighbours? It's a vastly more -entertaining faith than belief in their virtues. Virtue--being its own -reward--is deadly stale to one's friends and unprofitable to oneself.” - -“Cynicism seems cheap to-day,” said Jimmie, with a smile that redeemed -his words from impertinence. “Won't you give me something of yourself a -little more worth having?” - -Norma, who was leaning back in her chair fanning herself languidly, -suddenly bent forward, with curious animation in her cold face. - -“I don't know who you are or what you are,” she exclaimed. “Why should -you want more than the ordinary futilities of after-dinner talk?” - -“Because one has only to look at you,” he replied, “to see that it must -be very easy to get. You have beauty inside as well as outside, -and everybody owes what is beautiful and good in them to their -fellow-creatures.” - -“I don't see why. According to you, women ought to go about like -mediaeval saints.” - -“Every woman is a saint in the depths of her heart,” said Jimmie. - -“You are an astonishing person,” replied Norma. - -The conversation ended there, for Morland King came up with Constance -Deering: he florid, good-looking, perfectly groomed and dressed, the -type of the commonplace, well-fed, affluent Briton; she a pretty, -fragile butterfly of a woman. Jimmie rose and was led off to another -part of the room by his hostess. King dropped into the chair Jimmie had -vacated. - -“I see you have been sampling my friend Jimmie Padgate. What do you make -of him?” - -“I have just told him he was an astonishing person,” said Norma. - -“Dear old Jimmie! He's the best fellow in the world,” said King, -laughing. “A bit Bohemian and eccentric--artists generally are--” - -“Oh, he's an artist?” inquired Norma. - -“He just manages to make a living by it, poor old chap! He has never -come off, somehow.” - -“Another neglected genius?” - -“I don't know about that,” replied Morland King in a matter-of-fact way, -not detecting the sneer in the girl's tone. “I don't think he's a great -swell--I'm no judge, you know. But he has had a bad time. Anyway, he -always comes up smiling. The more he gets knocked the more cheerful -he seems to grow. I never met any one like him. The most generous, -simple-minded beggar living.” - -“He must be wonderful to make you enthusiastic,” said Norma. - -“Look at him now, talking to the Chance woman as if she were an angel of -light.” - -Norma glanced across the room and smiled contemptuously. - -“She seems to like it. She's preening herself as if the wings were -already grown. Connie,” she called to her hostess, who was passing by, -“why have you hidden Mr. Padgate from me all this time?” - -The butterfly lady laughed. “He is too precious. I can only afford to -give my friends a peep at him now and then. I want to keep him all to -myself.” - -She fluttered away. Norma leaned back and hid a yawn with her fan; then, -rousing herself with an effort, made conversation with her companion. -Presently another man came up and King retired. - -“How is it getting on?” whispered Mrs. Deering. - -“Oh, steady,” he replied with his hands in his pockets. - -“Lucky man!” - -Morland King shrugged his shoulders. “The only thing against it is papa -and mamma--chiefly mamma. A Gorgon of a woman!” - -“You'll never get a wife to do you more credit than Norma. With that -face I wonder she is n't a duchess by now. There _was_ a duke once, but -a fair American eagle came and swooped him off under Norma's nose. You -see, she's not the sort of girl to give a man much encouragement.” - -“Oh, I can't stand a woman who throws herself at your head,” said King, -emphatically. - -“What a funny way men have nowadays of confessing to the tender -passion!” said Mrs. Deering, laughing. - -“What would you have a fellow do?” he asked. “Spout blank verse about -the stars and things, like a Shakespearean hero?” - -“It would be prettier, anyhow.” - -“Well, if you will have it, I'm about as hard hit as a man ever -was--there!” - -“I 'm delighted to hear it,” said his cousin. - -A short while afterwards the dinner-party broke up. - -“I don't know whether you care to mix with utter worldlings like us, Mr. -Padgate,” said Norma, as she bade him good-bye, “but we are always in on -Tuesdays.” - -“I'll tie him hand and foot and bring him,” said King. “Good-night, old -chap. I'm giving Miss Hardacre a lift home in the brougham.” - -Before Jimmie could say yes or no, they were gone. He found himself the -last. - -“You are certainly not going for another hour, Jimmie,” said Mrs. -Deering, as he came forward to take leave. “You will sit in that chair -and smoke and tell me all about yourself and make me feel good and -pretty.” - -“Very well,” he assented, laughing. “Turn me out when it's time for me -to go.” - -It had been the customary formula between them for many years; for -Jimmie Padgate lacked the sense of time and kept eccentric hours, and -although Connie Deering delighted in her rare confidential chats with -him, a woman with a heavy morrow of engagements must go to bed at a -reasonable period of the night. She was a woman in the middle thirties, -a childless widow after a brief and almost forgotten married life, rich, -pleasure-loving, in the inner circle of London society, and possessing -the gayest, kindest, most charitable heart in the world. Her friendship -with Norma Hardacre had been a thing of recent date. - -She had cultivated it first on account of her cousin Morland King; she -had ended in enthusiastic admiration. - -“It is awfully good of you,” she said, when they were comfortably -settled down to talk, “to waste your time with my unintelligent -conversation.” - -“There's no such thing as unintelligent conversation,” he declared. - -“For a man like you there must be.” - -“I could hold an intelligent conversation with a rabbit,” said Jimmie. - -Norma Hardacre, on arriving home, entered the drawing-room, where her -mother was reading a novel. - -“Well?” said Mrs. Hardacre, looking up. - -Norma threw her white silk cloak over the back of a chair. - -“Connie sent her love to you.” - -“Is that all you have to say?” asked her mother, sharply. She was a -faded woman who had once possessed beauty of a cold, severe type; but -the years had pinched and hardened her features, as they had pinched and -hardened her heart. Her eyes were of that steel grey which the light -of laughter seldom softens, and her smile was but a contraction of the -muscles of the lips. Even this perfunctory tribute to politeness which -had greeted Norma's entrance vanished at the second question. - -“Morland King drove me home. What a difference there is between a -private brougham and the beastly things we get from the livery-stable!” - -“He has said nothing?” - -“Of course not. I should have told you if he had.” - -“Whose fault is it?” - -Norma made a gesture of impatience. “My fault, if you like. I don't -lay traps to catch him. I don't keep him dangling about me, and I don't -flatter his vanities or make appeal to his senses, I suppose. I can't do -it.” - -“Don't behave like a fool, Norma,” said Mrs. Hardacre, rapping her book -with a paper-knife. “You have got to marry him. You know you have. Your -father and I are coming to the end of things. You ought to have married -years ago, and when one thinks of the chances you have missed, it makes -one mad. Here have we been pinching and scraping--” - -“And borrowing and mortgaging,” Norma interjected. - -“--to give you a brilliant position,” Mrs. Hardacre continued, unheeding -the interruption, “and you cast all our efforts in our teeth. It's sheer -ingratitude. Why you threw over Lord Wyniard I could never make out.” - -“You seem to forget that, after all, there is a physical side to -marriage,” said Norma, with a little shudder of disgust. - -“I hate indelicacy in young girls,” said Mrs. Hardacre, freezingly. “One -would think you had been brought up in a public house.” - -“Then let us avoid indelicate subjects,” retorted Norma, opening the -first book to her hand. “Where is papa?” - -“Oh, how should I know?” said Mrs. Hardacre, irritably. - -There was silence. Norma pretended to read, but her thoughts, away from -the printed lines, caused her face to harden and her lips to curl -scornfully. She had been used to such scenes with her mother ever since -she had worn a long frock, and that was seven years ago, when she came -out as a young beauty of eighteen. The story of financial embarrassment -had lost its fine edge of persuasion by overtelling. She had almost -ceased to believe in it, and the lingering grain of credence she put -aside with the cynical feeling that it was no great concern of hers, so -long as her usual round of life went on. She had two hundred a year of -her own, all of which she spent in dress, so that in that one -particular at least, if she chose to be economical, she was practically -independent. Money for other wants was generally procurable, with or -without unpleasant dunning of her parents. She lived very little in -their home in Wiltshire, a beautiful and stately young woman of fashion -being a decorative adjunct to smart country-house parties. In London, if -she sighed for a more extensive establishment and a more luxurious style -of living, it was what she always had done. She had hated the furnished -house or flat and the livery-stable carriage ever since her first -season. In the same way she had always considered the omission from -her scheme of life of a yacht and a villa at Cannes and diamonds at -discretion as a culpable oversight on the part of the Creator. But -the sordid makeshift of existence to which she was condemned was not -a matter of yesterday. In spite of the financial embarrassments of the -maternal fable she had noticed no cutting down of customary expenditure. -Her father still played the fool on the stock exchange, her mother still -attired herself elaborately and disdained to eat otherwise than _à la -carte_ at expensive restaurants, and she, Norma, went whithersoever -the smart set drifted her. She had nothing to do with the vulgarity of -financial embarrassments. - -As to the question of marriage she was as fully determined as her -mother that she should make a brilliant match. She had had two or three -disappointments--the unwary duke, for instance. On the other hand she -had refused eligibles like Lord Wyniard out of sheer caprice. - -The only man who had given her a moment's stir of the pulses, a moment's -thought of throwing her cap over the windmills, was a young soldier in -the Indian Staff Corps. But he belonged to her second season, before -she had really seen the world and grasped the inner meaning of life. -Besides, her mother had almost beaten her; and in an encounter between -the dragon who guarded the gold of her daughter's affections and the -young Siegfried, it was the hero that barely escaped destruction; he -fled to India for his life. Norma lost all sight and count of him for -three years. Then she heard that he had married a schoolfellow of -hers and was a month-old father. It was with feelings of peculiar -satisfaction and sense of deliverance that she sent her congratulations -to him, her love to his wife, and a set of baby shoes to the child. She -had cultivated by this time a helpful sardonic humour. - -There was now Morland King, within reasonable distance of a proposal. -Her experience detected the signs, although little of sentimentality -had passed between them. He was young, as marrying men go--a year or two -under forty--of good family, fairly good-looking, very well off, with a -safe seat in Parliament being kept warm for him by a valetudinarian ever -on the point of retirement. Norma meant to accept him. She contemplated -the marriage as coldly and unemotionally as King contemplated the seat -in Parliament. But through the corrupted tissue of her being ran one -pure and virginal thread. She used no lures. She remained chastely -aloof, the arts of seduction being temperamentally repugnant to her. -Knowledge she had of good and evil (a euphemism, generally, for an -exclusive acquaintance with the latter), and she was cynical enough in -her disregard of concealment of her knowledge; but she revolted from -using it to gain any advantage over a man. At this period of her life -she set great store by herself, and though callously determined on -marriage condescended with much disdain to be wooed. Her mother, bred in -a hard school, was not subtle enough to perceive this antithesis. Hence -the constant scenes of which Norma bitterly resented the vulgarity. “We -pride ourselves on being women of the world, mother,” she said, “but -that does n't prevent our remembering that we are gentlefolk.” Whereat, -on one occasion, Mr. Hardacre, in his flustering, feeble way, had told -Norma not to be rude to her mother, only to draw upon himself the vials -of his wife's anger. - -He came in now, during the silence that had fallen on the two women--a -short, stout, red-faced man, with a bald head, and a weak chin, and -a drooping foxy moustache turning grey. He was bursting with an -interminable tale of scandal that he had picked up at his club--a -respectable institution with an inner coterie of vapid, middle-aged -dullards whose cackle was the terror of half London society. It is -a superstition among good women that man is too noble a creature to -descend to gossip. Ten minutes in the members' smoking-room of the -Burlington Club would paralyse the most scandal-mongering tabby of Bath, -Cheltenham, or Tunbridge Wells. - -“We were sure she was a wrong 'un from the first,” he explained in a -thick, jerky voice to his listless auditors. “And now it turns out that -she was in thick with poor Billy Withers, you know, and when Billy broke -his neck--that was through another blessed woman--I'll tell you all -about her by'm bye--when Billy broke his neck, his confounded valet got -hold of Mrs. Jack's letters, and how she paid for 'em's the cream of the -story--” - -“We need not have that now, Benjamin,” said Mrs. Hardacre, with a -warning indication that reverence was due to the young. - -“Well, of course that's the end of it,” replied Mr. Hardacre, in some -confusion. - -But Norma rose with a laugh of hard mockery. - -“The valet entered the service of Lord Wyniard, and now there's a pretty -little divorce case in the air, with Jack Dugdale as petitioner and -Lord Wyniard as corespondent. Are n't you sorry, mother, I did n't marry -Wyniard and reform him, and save society this terrible scandal?” - -Turning from her disconcerted parents, Norma pulled back the thick -curtains from the French window and opened one of the doors. - -“What are you doing that for?” cried Mrs. Hardacre irritably, as the -cold air of a wet May night swept through the room. - -“I'm going to try to ventilate my soul,” said Norma, stepping on to the -balcony. - - - - -Chapter II--THE FOOL'S WISDOM - -LIKE the inexplicable run on a particular number at the roulette-table, -there often seems to be a run on some particular phenomenon thrown up -by the wheel of daily life. Such a recurrent incident was the meeting of -Norma and Jimmie Padgate during the next few weeks. She met him at Mrs. -Deering's, she ran across him in the streets. Going to spend a weekend -out of town, she found him on the platform of Paddington Station. -The series of sheer coincidences established between them a certain -familiarity. When next they met, it was in the crush of an emptying -theatre. They found themselves blocked side by side, and they laughed as -their eyes met. - -“This seems to have got out of the domain of vulgar chance and become -Destiny,” she said lightly. - -“I am indeed favoured by the gods,” he replied. - -“You don't deserve their good will because you have never come to see -me.” - -Jimmie replied that he was an old bear who loved to growl selfishly in -his den. Norma retorted with a reference to Constance Deering. In her -house he could growl altruistically. - -“She pampers me with honey,” he explained. - -“I am afraid you'll get nothing so Arcadian with us,” she replied, “but -I can provide you with some excellent glucose.” - -They were moved a few feet forward by the crowd, and then came to a halt -again. - -“This is my ward, Miss Aline Marden,” he said, presenting a pretty -slip of a girl of seventeen, who had hung back shyly during the short -dialogue, and looked with open-eyed admiration at Jimmie's new friend. -“That is how she would be described in a court of law, but I don't mind -telling you that really she is my nurse and foster-mother.” - -The girl blushed at the introduction, and gave him an imperceptible -twitch of the arm. Norma smiled at her graciously and asked her how she -had liked the play. - -“It was heavenly,” she said with a little sigh. “Did n't you think so?” - -Norma, who had characterised the piece as the most dismal performance -outside a little Bethel, was preparing a mendacious answer, when a -sudden thinning in the crush brought to her side Mrs. Hardacre, from -whom she had been separated. Mrs. Hardacre inquired querulously for -Morland King, who had gone in search of the carriage. Norma reassured -her as to his ability to find it, and introduced Jimmie and Aline. -Mr. Padgate was Mr. King's oldest friend. Mrs. Hardacre bowed -disapprovingly, took in with a hard glance the details of Aline's cheap, -homemade evening frock, and the ready-made cape over her shoulders, and -turned her head away with a sniff. She had been put out of temper the -whole evening by Norma's glacial treatment of King, and was not disposed -to smile at the nobodies whom it happened to please Norma to patronise. - -At last King beckoned to them from the door, and they crushed through -the still waiting crowd to join him. By the time Jimmie Padgate and his -ward had reached the pavement they had driven off. - -“Wonder if we can get a cab,” said Jimmie. - -“Cab!” cried the girl, taking his arm affectionately. “One would think -you were a millionaire. You can go in a cab if you like, but I'm going -home in a 'bus. Come along. We'll get one at Piccadilly Circus.” - -She hurried him on girlishly, talking of the play they had just seen. It -was heavenly, she repeated. She had never been in the stalls before. -She wished kind-hearted managers would send them seats every night. Then -suddenly: - -“Why did n't you tell me how beautiful she was?” - -“Who, dear?” - -“Why, Miss Hardacre. I think she is the loveliest thing I have ever -seen. I could sit and look at her all day long. Why don't you paint her -portrait--in that wonderful ivory-satin dress she was wearing to-night? -And the diamond star in her hair that made her look like a queen--did -you notice it? Why, Jimmie, you are not paying the slightest attention!” - -“My dear, I could repeat verbatim every word you have said,” he replied -soberly. “She is indeed one of the most beautiful of God's creatures.” - -“Then you'll paint her portrait?” - -“Perhaps, deary,” said Jimmie, “perhaps.” - -Meanwhile in the brougham King was giving Norma an account of Jimmie's -guardianship. She had asked him partly out of curiosity, partly to -provide him with a subject of conversation, and partly to annoy her -mother, whose disapproving sniff she had noted with some resentment. And -this in brief is the tale that King told. - -Some ten years ago, John Marden, a brother artist of Jimmie Padgate's, -died penniless, leaving his little girl of seven with the alternative of -fighting her way alone through an unsympathetic world, or of depending -on the charity of his only sister, a drunken shrew of a woman, the wife -of a small apothecary, and the casual mother of a vague and unwashed -family. Common decency made the first alternative impossible. On their -return to the house after the funeral, the aunt announced her intention -of caring for the orphan as her own flesh and blood. Jimmie, who had -taken upon himself the functions of the intestate's temporary executor, -acquiesced dubiously. The lady, by no means sober, shed copious tears -and a rich perfume of whisky. She called Aline to her motherly -bosom. The child, who had held Jimmie's hand throughout the mournful -proceedings, for he had been her slave and playfellow for the whole of -her little life, advanced shyly. Her aunt took her in her arms. But the -child, with instinctive repugnance to the smell of spirits, shrank from -her kisses. The shrew arose in the woman; she shook her vindictively, -and gave her three or four resounding slaps on face and shoulders. -Jimmie leaped from his chair, tore the scared little girl from the -vixen's clutches, and taking her bodily in his arms, strode with her -out of the house, leaving the apothecary and his wife to settle matters -between them. It was only when he had walked down the street and hailed -a cab that he began to consider the situation. - -“What on earth am I to do with you?” he asked whimsically. - -The small arms tightened round his neck. “Take me to live with you,” - sobbed the child. - -“Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings we learn wisdom. So be it,” - said Jimmie, and he drove home with his charge. - -As neither aunt nor uncle nor any human being in the wide world claimed -the child, she became mistress of Jimmie's home from that hour. Her -father's pictures and household effects were sold off to pay his -creditors, and a little bundle of torn frocks and linen was Aline's sole -legacy. - -“I happened to look in upon him the evening of her arrival,” said King, -by way of conclusion to his story. “In those days he managed with a -charwoman who came only in the mornings, so he was quite alone in -the place with the kid. What do you think I found him doing? Sitting -cross-legged on the model-platform with a great pair of scissors and -needles and thread, cutting down one of his own night garments so as to -fit her, while the kid in a surprising state of _déshabillé_ was -seated on a table, kicking her bare legs and giving him directions. His -explanation was that Miss Marden's luggage had not yet arrived and she -must be made comfortable for the night! But you never saw anything so -comic in your life.” - -He leaned back and laughed at the reminiscence, not unkindly. Mrs. -Hardacre, bored by the unprofitable tale, stared at the dim streets out -of the brougham window. Norma, on friendlier terms with King, the little -human story having perhaps drawn them together, joined in the laugh. - -“And now, I suppose, when she grows a bit older, Mr. Padgate will marry -her and she will be a dutiful little wife and they will live happy and -humdrum ever after.” - -“I hope he will provide her with some decent rags to put on,” said Mrs. -Hardacre. “Those the child was wearing to-night were fit for a servant -maid.” - -“Jimmie would give her his skin if she could wear it,” said Morland, -somewhat tartly. - -This expression of feeling gave him, for the first time, a special place -in Norma's esteem. After all, a woman desires to like the man who in a -few months' time may be her husband, and hitherto Morland had presented -a negativity of character which had baffled and irritated her. The -positive trait of loyalty to a friend she welcomed instinctively, -although if charged with the emotion she would have repudiated the -accusation. When the carriage stopped at the awning and red strip of -carpet before the house in Eaton Square where a dance awaited her, and -she took leave of him, she returned his handshake with almost a warm -pressure and sent him away, a sanguine lover, to his club. - -The next morning Constance Deering, taking her on a round of shopping, -enquired how the romance was proceeding. - -“He has had me on probation,” replied Norma, “and has been examining all -my points. I rather think he finds me satisfactory, and is about to make -an offer.” - -“What an idyllic pair you are!” laughed her friend. - -Norma took the matter seriously. - -“The man is perfectly right. He is on the lookout for a woman who can -keep up or perhaps add to his social prestige, who can conduct the -affairs of a large establishment when he enters political life, who -can possibly give him a son to inherit his estate, and who can wear -his family diamonds with distinction--and it does require a woman of -presence to do justice to family diamonds, you know. He looks round -society and sees a girl that may suit him. Naturally he takes his time -and sizes her up. I have learned patience and so I let him size to his -heart's content. On the other hand, what he can give me falls above the -lower limit of my requirements, and personally I don't dislike him.” - -“Mercy on us!” cried Constance Deering, “the man is head over ears in -love with you!” - -“Then I like him all the better for dissembling it so effectually,” said -Norma, “and I hope he'll go on dissembling to the end of the chapter. I -hate sentiment.” - -They were walking slowly down Bond Street, and happened to pause before -a picture-dealer's window, where a print of a couple of lovers bidding -farewell caught Mrs. Deering's attention. - -“I call that pretty,” she said. “Do you hate love too?” - -Norma twirled her parasol and moved away, waiting for the other. - -“Love, my dear Connie, is an appetite of the lower middle classes.” - -“My dear Norma!” the other exclaimed, “I do wish Jimmie Padgate could -hear you!” - -Norma started at the name. “What has he got to do with the matter?” - -“That's one of his pictures.” - -“Oh, is it?” said Norma, indifferently. But feminine curiosity compelled -a swift parting glance at the print. - -“I imagine our guileless friend has a lot to learn,” she added. “A few -truths about the ways of this wicked world would do him good.” - -“I promised to go and look round his studio to-morrow morning; will you -come and give him his first lesson?” asked Mrs. Deering, mischievously. - -“Certainly not,” replied Norma. - -But the destiny she had previously remarked upon seemed to be fulfilling -itself. A day or two afterwards his familiar figure burst upon her at -a Private View in a small picture-gallery. His eyes brightened as she -withdrew from her mother, who was accompanying her, and extended her -hand. - -“Dear me, who would have thought of seeing you here? Do you care for -pictures? Why have n't you told me? I am so glad.” - -“Love of Art did n't bring me here, I assure you,” replied Norma. - -“Then what did?” - -Jimmie in his guilelessness had an uncomfortable way of posing -fundamental questions. In that respect he was like a child. Norma smiled -in silent contemplation of the real object of their visit. At first her -mother had tossed the cards of invitation into the waste-paper basket. -It was advertising impudence on the part of the painter man, whom she -had met but once, to take her name in vain on the back of an envelope. -Then hearing accidentally that the painter man had painted the portraits -of many high-born ladies, including that of the Duchess of Wiltshire, -and that the Duchess of Wiltshire herself--their own duchess, who gave -Mrs. Hardacre the tip of her finger to shake and sometimes the tip of a -rasping tongue to meditate upon, whom Mrs. Hardacre had tried any time -these ten years to net for Heddon Court, their place in the country--had -graciously promised to attend the Private View, in her character of Lady -Patroness-in-Chief of the painter man, Mrs. Hardacre had hurried home -and had set the servants' hall agog in search of the cards. Eventually -they had been discovered in the dust-bin, and she had spent half an hour -in cleansing them with bread-crumbs, much to Norma's sardonic amusement. -The duchess not having yet arrived, Mrs. Hardacre had fallen back upon -the deaf Dowager Countess of Solway, who was discoursing to her in a -loud voice on her late husband's method of breeding prize pigs. Norma -had broken away from this exhilarating lecture to greet Jimmie. - -He kept his eager eyes upon her, still waiting for an answer to his -question: - -“What did?” - -Norma, fairly quick-witted, indicated the walls with a little -comprehensive gesture. - -“Do you call this simpering, uninspired stuff Art?” she said, begging -the question. - -“Oh, it's not that,” cried Jimmie, falling into the trap. “It's really -very good of its kind. Amazingly clever. Of course it's not highly -finished. It's impressionistic. Look at that sweeping line from the -throat all the way down to the hem of the skirt,” indicating the -picture in front of them and following the curve, painter fashion, with -bent-back thumb; “how many of your fellows in the Academy could get that -so clean and true?” - -“I have just met Mr. Porteous, who said he could n't stay any longer -because such quackery made him sick,” said Norma. - -Jimmie glanced round the walls. Porteous, the Royal Academician, was -right. The colour was thin, the modelling flat, the drawing tricky, the -invention poor. A dull soullessness ran through the range of full-length -portraits of women. He realised, with some distress, the clever -insincerity of the painting; but he had known Foljambe, the author of -these coloured crimes, as a fellow-student at the Beaux-Arts in Paris, -and having come to see his work for the first time, could not bear to -judge harshly. It was characteristic of him to expatiate on the only -merit the work possessed. - -“Mr. Porteous even said,” continued Norma, “that it was scandalous -such a man should be making thousands when men of genius were making -hundreds. It was taking the bread out of their mouths.” - -“I am sorry he said that,” said Jimmie. “I think we ought rather to be -glad that a man of poor talent has been so successful. So many of them -go to the wall.” - -“Do you always find the success of your inferior rivals so comforting?” - asked Norma. “I don't.” She thought of the depredatory American. - -Jimmie pushed his hat to the back of his head--a discoloured Homburg hat -that had seen much wear--and rammed his hands in his pockets. - -“It's horrible to regard oneself and one's fellow-creatures as so many -ghastly fishes tearing one another to pieces so as to get at the same -piece of offal. That's what it all comes to, does n't it?” - -The picture of the rapt duke as garbage floating on the tide of London -Society brought with it a certain humourous consolation. That of her own -part in the metaphor did not appear so soothing. Jimmie's proposition -being, however, incontrovertible, she changed the subject and enquired -after Aline. Why had n't he brought her? - -“I am afraid we should have argued about Foljambe's painting,” said -Jimmie, with innocent malice. - -“And we should have agreed about it,” replied Norma. She talked about -Aline. Morland King had been tale-bearing. It was refreshing, she -confessed, once in a way to hear good of one's fellow-creatures: like -getting up at six in the morning in the country and drinking milk fresh -from the cow. It conferred a sense of unaccustomed virtue. The mention -of milk reminded her that she was dying for tea. Was it procurable? - -“There's a roomful of it. Can I take you?” asked Jimmie, eagerly. - -She assented. Jimmie piloted her through the chattering crowd. On the -way they passed by Mrs. Hardacre, still devoting the pearls of her -attention to the pigs. She acknowledged his bow distantly and summoned -her daughter to her side. - -“What are you _affiché_-ing yourself with that nondescript man for?” she -asked in a cross whisper. - -Norma moved away with a shrug, and went with Jimmie into the crowded -tea-room. There, while he was fighting for tea at the buffet, she -fell into a nest of acquaintances. Presently he emerged from the -crush victorious, and, as he poured out the cream for her, became the -unconscious target of sharp feminine glances. - -“Who is your friend?” asked one lady, as Jimmie retired with the -cream-jug. - -“I will introduce him if you like,” she replied. He reappeared and was -introduced vaguely. Then he stood silent, listening to a jargon he was -at a loss to comprehend. The women spoke in high, hard voices, with -impure vowel sounds and a clipping of final consonants. The conversation -gave him a confused impression of Ascot, a horse, a foreign prince, and -a lady of fashion who was characterised as a “rotter.” Allusion was also -made to a princely restaurant, which Jimmie, taken thither one evening -by King, regarded as a fairy-land of rare and exquisite flavours, and -the opinion was roundly expressed that you could not get anything fit to -eat in the place and that the wines were poison. - -Jimmie listened wonderingly. No one seemed disposed to controvert the -statement, which was made by quite a young girl. Indeed one of her -friends murmured that she had had awful filth there a few nights before. -A smartly dressed woman of forty who had drawn away from the general -conversation asked Jimmie if he had been to Cynthia yet. He replied that -he very seldom went to theatres. The lady burst out laughing, and then -seeing the genuine enquiry on his face, checked herself. - -“I thought you were trying to pull my leg,” she explained. “I mean -Cynthia, the psychic, the crystal gazer. Why, every one is going crazy -over her. Do you mean to say you have n't been?” - -“Heaven forbid!” said Jimmie. - -“You may scoff, but she's wonderful. Do you know she actually gave me -the straight tip for the Derby? She did n't mean to, for she does n't -lay herself out for that sort of thing--but she said, after telling me -a lot of things about myself--things that had really happened--she was -getting tired, I must tell you--'I see something in your near future--it -is a horse with a white star on its forehead--it has gone--I don't know -what it means.' I went to the Derby. I had n't put a cent on, as I had -been cleaned out at Cairo during the winter and had to retrench. The -first horse that was led out had a white star on his forehead. None of -the others had. It was St. Damien--a thirty to one chance. I backed him -outright for £300. And now I have £9000 to play with. Don't tell me -there's nothing in Cynthia after that.” - -The knot of ladies dissolved. Jimmie put Norma's teacup down and went -slowly back with her to the main room. He was feeling depressed, having -lost his bearings in this unfamiliar world. Suddenly he halted. - -“I wish you could pinch me,” he said. - -“Why?” - -“To test whether I am awake. Have I really heard a sane and educated -lady expressing her belief in the visions of a crystal-gazing -adventuress?” - -“You have. She believes firmly. So do heaps of women.” - -“I hope to heaven you don't!” he cried with a sudden intensity. - -“What concern can my faith be to you?” she asked. - -“I beg your pardon. No concern at all,” he said apologetically. “But I -generally blurt out what is in my mind.” - -“And what is in your mind? I am a person you can be quite frank with.” - -“I could n't bear the poem of your life to be sullied by all these -vulgarities,” said Jimmie. - -“As I remarked to you the first evening I met you, Mr. Padgate,” she -said, holding out her hand by way of dismissal, “you are an astonishing -person!” - -The poem of her life! The phrase worried her before she slept that -night. She shook the buzzing thing away from her impatiently. The poem -of her life! The man was a fool. - - - - -Chapter III--A MODERN BETROTHAL - -A YOUNG woman bred to a material view of the cosmos and self-trained to -cynical expression of her opinions may thoroughly persuade herself that -marriage is a social bargain in which it would be absurd for sentiment -to have a place, and yet when the hour comes for deciding on so trivial -an engagement, may find herself in an irritatingly unequable frame of -mind. For Norma the hour had all but arrived. Morland King had asked -to see her alone in view of an important conversation. She had made an -appointment for ten o'clock, throwing over her evening's engagements. -Her parents were entertaining a couple of friends in somebody else's -box at the opera, and would return in time to save the important -conversation from over-tediousness. She intended to amuse herself -placidly with a novel until King's arrival. - -This was a week or two after her encounter with Jimmie at the -picture-gallery, since which occasion she had neither seen nor heard of -him. He had faded from the surface of a consciousness kept on continued -strain by the thousand incidents and faces of a London season. To Jimmie -the series of meetings had been a phenomenon of infinite import. She had -come like a queen of romance into his homely garden, and her radiance -lingered, making the roses redder and the grass more green. But the -queenly apparition herself had other things to think about, and when she -had grown angry and called him a fool, had dismissed him definitely from -her mind. It was annoying therefore that on this particular evening the -fool phrase should buzz again in her ears. - -She threw down her book and went on to the balcony, where, on this close -summer night, she could breathe a little cool air. A clock somewhere in -the house chimed the half-hour. Morland was to come at ten. She longed -for, yet dreaded, his coming; regretted that she had stayed away from -the opera, where, after all, she could have observed the everlasting -human comedy. She had dined early; the evening had been interminable; -she felt nervous, and raged at her weakness. She was tired, out of -harmony with herself, fretfully conscious too of the jarring notes in -a room furnished by uneducated people of sudden wealth. The -Wolff-Salamons, out of the kindness of their shrewd hearts, had offered -the house for the season to the Hardacres, who had accepted the free -quarters with profuse expressions of gratitude; which, however, did not -prevent Mr. Hardacre from railing at the distance of the house (which -was in Holland Park) from his club, or his wife from deprecating to -her friends her temporary residence in what she was pleased to term the -Ghetto. Nor did the Wolff-Salamons' generosity mitigate the effect of -their furniture on Norma's nerves. When Jimmie's phrase came into her -head with the suddenness of a mosquito, she could bear the room no -longer. - -She sat on the balcony and waited for Morland. There at least she was -free from the flaring gold and blue, and the full-length portrait of the -lady of the house, on which with delicate savagery the eminent painter -had catalogued all the shades of her ancestral vulgarity. Perhaps it was -this portrait that had brought back the irony of Jimmie's tribute. The -poem of her life! She sat with her chin on her palm, thinking bitterly -of circumstance. She had never been happy, had grown to disbelieve in so -absurd and animal a state. It had always been the same, as far back -as she could remember. Her childhood: nurses and governesses--a swift -succession of the latter till she began to regard them as remote from -her inner life as the shop girl or railway guard with whom she came into -casual contact. The life broken by visits abroad to fashionable watering -or gambling places where she wandered lonely and proud, neglected by her -parents, watching with keen eyes and imperturbable face the frivolities, -the vices, the sordidnesses, taking them all in, speculating upon -them, resolving some problems unaided and storing up others for future -elucidation. Her year at the expensive finishing school in Paris where -the smartest daughters of America babbled and chattered of money, money, -till the air seemed unfit for woman to breathe unless it were saturated -with gold dust. As hers was not, came discontent and overweening -ambitions. Yet the purity was not all killed. She remembered her first -large dinner-party. The same Lord Wyniard of the unclean scandal had -taken her down. He was thirty years older than she, and an unsavoury -reputation had reached even her young ears. The man regarded her with -the leer of a satyr. She realised with a shudder for the first time the -meaning of a phrase she had constantly met with in French novels--“_il -la dévêtit de ses yeux_.” His manner was courtly, his air of breeding -perfect; yet he managed to touch her fingers twice, and he sought to -lead her on to dubious topics of conversation. She was frightened. - -In the drawing-room, seeing him approach, she lost her head, took -shelter with her mother, and trembling whispered to her, “Don't let that -man come and talk to me again, mother, he's a beast.” She was bidden not -to be a fool. The man had a title and twenty thousand a year, and she -had evidently made an impression. A week afterwards her mother invited -a bishop and his wife and Lord Wyniard to dinner, and Lord Wyniard took -Norma down again. And that was her start in the world. She had followed -the preordained course till now, with many adventures indeed by the way, -but none that could justify the haunting phrase--the poem of her life! - -Was the man such a fool, after all? Was it even ignorance on his part? -Was it not, rather, wisdom on a lofty plane immeasurably above the -commonplaces of ignorance and knowledge? The questions presented -themselves to her vaguely. She was filled with a strange unrest, a -craving for she knew not what. Yet she would shortly have in her grasp -all--or nearly all--that she had aimed at in life. She counted the tale -of her future possessions--houses, horses, diamonds, and the like. She -seemed to have owned them a thousand years. - -The clock in the house chimed ten in a pretentious musical way, which -irritated her nerves. The silence after the last of the ten inexorable -tinkles fell gratefully. Then she realised that in a minute or two -Morland would arrive. Her heart began to beat, and she clasped her hands -together in a nervous suspense of which she had not dreamed herself -capable. A cab turned the corner of the street, approached with -crescendo rattle, and stopped at the house. She saw Morland alight and -reach up to pay the cabman. For a silly moment she had a wild impulse to -cry to him over the balcony to go away and leave her in peace. She -waited until she heard the footman open the front door and admit him, -then bracing herself, she entered the drawing-room, looked instinctively -in a mirror, and sat down. - -She met him cordially enough, returned his glance somewhat defiantly. -The sight of him, florid, sleek, faultlessly attired, brought her back -within the every-day sphere of dulled sensation. He held her hand long -enough for him to say, after the first greeting: - -“You can guess what I've come for, can't you?” - -“I suppose I do,” she admitted in an off-hand way. “You will find -frankness one of my vices. Won't you sit down?” - -She motioned him to a chair, and seating herself on a sofa, prepared to -listen. - -“I've come to ask you to marry me,” said King. - -“Well?” she asked, looking at him steadily. - -“I want to know how it strikes you,” he continued after a brief pause. -“I think you know practically all that I can tell you about myself. I -can give you what you want up to about fifteen thousand a year--it will -be more when my mother dies. We're decent folk--old county family--I can -offer you whatever society you like. You and I have tastes in common, -care for the same things, same sort of people. I'm sound in wind and -limb--never had a day's illness in my life, so you would n't have to -look after a cripple. And I'd give the eyes out of my head to have you; -you know that. How does it strike you?” - -Norma had averted her glance from him towards the end of his speech, -and leaning back was looking intently at her hands in her lap. For the -moment she felt it impossible to reply. The words that had formulated -themselves in her mind, “I think, Mr. King, the arrangement will be -eminently advantageous to both parties,” were too ludicrous in their -adequacy to the situation. So she merely sat silent and motionless, -regarding her manicured finger-nails, and awaiting another opening. King -changed his seat to the sofa, by her side, and leaned forward. - -“If you had been a simpler, more unsophisticated girl, Norma, I should -have begun differently. I thought it would please you if I put sentiment -aside.” - -Her head motioned acquiescence. - -“But I'm not going to put it aside,” he went on. “It has got its place -in the world, even when a man makes a proposal of marriage. And when I -say I'm in love with you, that I have been in love with you since the -first time I saw you, it's honest truth.” - -“Say you have a regard, a high regard, even,” said Norma, still not -looking at him, “and I'll believe you.” - -“I'm hanged if I will,” said Morland. “I say I'm in love with you.” - -Norma suddenly softened. The phrase tickled her ears again--this time -pleasantly. The previous half-hour's groping in the dark of herself -seemed to have resulted in discovery. She gave him a fleeting smile of -mockery. - -“Listen,” she said. “If you will be contented with regard, a high -regard, on my side, I will marry you. I really like you very much. Will -that do?” - -“It is all I ask now. The rest will come by and by.” - -“I'm not so sure. We had better be perfectly frank with each other from -the start, for we shall respect each other far more. Anyhow, if you -treat me decently, as I am sure you will, you may be satisfied that -I shall carry out my part of the bargain. My bosom friends tell one -another that I am worldly and heartless and all that--but I've never -lied seriously or broken a promise in my life.” - -“Very well. Let us leave it at that,” said Morland. “I suppose your -people will have no objection?” - -“None whatever,” replied Norma, drily. - -“When can I announce our engagement?” - -“Whenever you like.” - -He took two or three reflective steps about the room and reseated -himself on the sofa. - -“Norma,” he said softly, bending towards her, “I believe on such -occasions there is a sort of privilege accorded to a fellow--may I?” - -She glanced at him, hesitated, then proffered her cheek. He touched it -with his lips. - -The ceremony over, there ensued a few minutes of anticlimax. Norma -breathed more freely. There had been no difficulties, no hypocrisies. -The mild approach to rapture on Morland's part was perhaps, after all, -only a matter of common decency, to be accepted by her as a convention -of the _scène à faire_. So was the kiss. She broke the spell of -awkwardness by rising, crossing the room, and turning off an electric -pendant that illuminated the full-length portrait on the wall. - -“We can't stand Mrs. Wolff-Salamon's congratulations so soon,” she said -with a laugh. - -Conversation again became possible. They discussed arrangements. -King suggested a marriage in the autumn. Norma, with a view to the -prolongation of what appealed to her as a novel and desirable phase of -existence--maidenhood relieved of the hateful duty of husband-hunting -and unclouded by parental disapprobation--pleaded for delay till -Christmas. She argued that in all human probability the Parliamentary -vacancy at Cosford, the safe seat on which Morland reckoned, would occur -in the autumn, and he could not fix the date of an election at his -own good pleasure. He must, besides, devote his entire energy to the -business; time enough when it was over to think of such secondary -matters as weddings, bridal tours, and the setting up of establishments. - -“But you have to be considered, Norma,” he said, half convinced. - -“My dear Morland,” she replied with a derisive lip, “I should never -dream of coming between you and your public career.” - -He reflected a moment. “Why should we not get married at once?” - -Norma laughed. “You are positively pastoral! No, my dear Morland, that's -what the passionate young lover always says to the coy maiden in the -play, but if you will remember, it does n't seem to work even there. -Besides, you must let me gratify my ambitions. When I was very young, -I vowed I would marry an emperor. Then I toned him down into a prince. -Later, becoming more practical, I dreamed of a peer. Finally I descended -to a Member of Parliament. I can't marry you before you are a Member.” - -“You could have had dozens of 'em for the asking, I'm sure,” returned -the prospective legislator with a grin. “Take them all round, they're a -shoddy lot.” - -He yielded eventually to Norma's proposal, alluding, however, with an -air of ruefulness, to the infinite months of waiting he would have to -endure. Tactfully she switched him off the line of sentiment to that -of soberer politics. She put forward the platitude that a Parliamentary -life was one of great interest. Morland did not rise even to this level -of enthusiasm. - -“'Pon my soul, I really don't know why I'm going in for it. I promised -old Potter years ago that I would come in when he gave up, and the -people down there more or less took it for granted, the duchess -included, and so without having thought much of it one way or the other, -I find myself caught in a net. It will be a horrible bore. The whole of -the session will be one dismal yawn. Never to be certain of sitting down -to one's dinner in peace and comfort. Never to know when one will have -to rush off at a moment's notice to take part in a confounded division. -To have shoals of correspondence on subjects one knows nothing of and -cares less for. It will be the life of a sweated tailor. And I, of all -people, who like to take things easy! I'm not quite sure whether I'm an -idiot or a hero.” - -He ended in a short laugh and leaned against the mantelpiece, his hands -in his pockets. - -“It would be the sweet and pretty thing for me to say,” remarked Norma, -“that in my eyes you will always be heroic.” - -“Well, 'pon my soul, I shall be. We 'll see precious little of one -another.” - -“We'll have all the more chance of prolonging our illusions,” she -replied. - -On the whole, however, her conduct towards him was irreproachable. The -thaw from her usual iciness to this comparatively harmless raillery -flattered the lover's self-esteem. Woman-wise, as every man in the -profundity of his vain heart believes himself to be, he not only -attributed the change to his own powers of seduction, but interpreted as -significant of a yet greater transformation. A man of Morland's type is -seldom afflicted with a morbid subtlety of perception; and when he has -gained for his own personal use and adornment a woman of singular -distinction, he may be readily pardoned for a slight attack of fatuity. - -The idyllic hour was brought to a close by the return of Norma's -parents. As Norma, shrinking from the vulgarity of the prearranged scene -and intolerable maternal coaching in her part, had not informed them of -her appointment with Morland, alleging as an excuse for not going to the -opera a disinclination to be bored to tears by _Aida_, they were mildly -surprised by his presence in the house at so late an hour. In a few -words he acquainted them with what had taken place. He formally asked -their consent. Mr. Hardacre wrung his hand fervently. Mrs. Hardacre's -steel-grey eyes glittered welcome into her family. She turned to -her dear child and expressed her heartfelt joy. Norma, submissive -to conventional decencies, suffered herself to be kissed. Mother and -daughter had given up kissing as a habit for some years past, though -they practised it occasionally before strangers. Mr. Hardacre put -his arm around her in a diffident way and patted her back, murmuring -incoherent wishes for her happiness. Everything to be said and done -was effected in a perfectly well-bred manner. Norma spoke very little, -regarding the proceedings with an impersonal air of satiric interest. At -last Mr. Hardacre suggested to Morland a chat over whisky and soda and -a cigar in the library. In unsophisticated circles it is not unusual -at such a conjuncture for a girl's friends and relations to afford -the lovers some unblushing opportunity of bidding each other a private -farewell. Norma, anticipating any such possible though improbable -departure from sanity on the part of her parents, made good her escape -after shaking hands in an ordinary way with Morland. Mrs. Hardacre -followed her upstairs, eager to learn details, which were eventually -given with some acidity by her daughter, and the two men retired below. - -“My boy,” said Mr. Hardacre, as they parted an hour afterwards, “you -will find that Norma has had the training that will make her a damned -fine woman.” - - - - -Chapter IV--THE GREAT FROCK EPISODE - -JIMMIE PADGATE was the son of a retired commander in the Navy, of -irreproachable birth and breeding, of a breezy impulsive disposition, -and with a pretty talent as an amateur actor. Finding idleness the root -of all boredom, he took to the stage, and during the first week of his -first provincial tour fell in love with the leading lady, a fragile waif -of a woman of vague upbringing. That so delicate a creature should have -to face the miseries of a touring life--the comfortless lodgings, -the ill-cooked food, the damp death-traps of dressing-rooms, the long -circuitous Sunday train-journeys--roused him to furious indignation. He -married her right away, took her incontinently from things theatrical, -and found congenial occupation in adoring her. But the hapless lady -survived her marriage only long enough to see Jimmie safe into short -frocks, and then fell sick and died. The impulsive sailor educated the -boy in his own fashion for a dozen years or so, and then he, in his -turn, died, leaving his son a small inheritance to be administered by -his only brother, an easy-going bachelor in a Government office. This -inheritance sufficed to send Jimmie to Harrow, where he began his -life-long friendship with Morland King, and to the École des Beaux-Arts -in Paris, where he learned many useful things beside the method of -painting pictures. When he returned to London, his uncle handed him over -the hundred or two that remained, and, his duty being accomplished, fell -over a precipice in the Alps, and concerned himself no more about his -nephew. Then Jimmie set to work to earn his living. - -When he snatched the child Aline from the embraces of her tipsy aunt and -carried her out into the street, wondering what in the world he should -do with her, he was just under thirty years of age. How he had earned a -livelihood till then and kept himself free from debt he scarcely knew. -When he obtained a fair price for a picture, he deposited a lump sum -with his landlord in respect of rent in advance, another sum with the -keeper of the little restaurant where he ate his meals, and frittered -the rest away among his necessitous friends. In the long intervals -between sales, he either went about penniless or provided himself with -pocket money by black and white or other odd work that comes in the -young artist's way. His residence at that time consisted in a studio and -a bedroom in Camden Town. His wants were few, his hopes were many. He -loved his art, he loved the world. His optimistic temperament brought -him smiles from all those with whom he came in contact--even from -dealers, when he wasted their time in expounding to them the -commercial value of an unmarketable picture. He was quite happy, quite -irresponsible. When soberer friends reproached him for his hand-to-mouth -way of living, he argued that if he scraped to-day he would probably -spread the butter thick tomorrow, thus securing the average, the golden -mean, which was the ideal of their respectability. As for success, -that elusive will-o'-the-wisp, the man who did not enjoy the humour of -failure never deserved to succeed. - -But when he had rescued Aline from the limbo over the small apothecary's -shop, as thoughtlessly and as gallantly as his father before him had -rescued the delicate lady from the trials of theatrical vagabondage, he -found himself face to face with a perplexing problem. That first night -he had risen from an amorphous bed he had arranged for himself on the -studio floor, and entered his own bedroom on tiptoe, and looked with -pathetic helplessness on the tiny child asleep beneath his bedclothes. -If it had been a boy, he would have had no particular puzzle. A boy -could have been stowed in a corner of the studio, where he could have -learned manners and the fear of God and the way of smiling at adversity. -He would have profited enormously, as Jimmie felt assured, by his -education. But with a girl it was vastly different. An endless vista -of shadowy, dreamy, delicate possibilities perplexed him. He conceived -women as beings ethereal, with a range of exquisite emotions denied -to masculine coarseness. Even the Rue Bonaparte had not destroyed his -illusion, and he still attributed to the fair Maenads of the Bal des -Quatre-z' Arts the lingering fragrance of the original Psyche. Of course -Jimmie was a fool, as ten years afterwards Norma had decided; but this -view of himself not occurring to him, he had to manage according to his -lights. Here was this mysterious embryo goddess entirely dependent on -him. No corner of the studio and rough-and-tumble discipline for her. -She must sleep on down and be covered with silk; the airs of heaven must -not visit her cheek too roughly; the clatter of the brazen world must -not be allowed to deafen her to her own sweet inner harmonies. Jimmie -was sorely perplexed. - -His charwoman next morning could throw no light on the riddle. She had -seven children of her own, four of them girls, and they had to get along -the best way they could. She was of opinion that if let alone and just -physicked when she had any complaint, Aline would grow up of her own -accord. Jimmie said that this possibility had not struck him, but -doubtless the lady was right. Could she tell him how many times a day -a little girl ought to be fed and what she was to eat? The charwoman's -draft upon her own family experiences enlightened Jimmie so far that -he put a sovereign into her hand to provide a dinner for her children. -After that he consulted her no more. It was an expensive process. - -Meanwhile it was obvious that a studio and one bedroom would not be -sufficient accommodation, and Jimmie, greatly daring, took a house. He -also engaged a resident housekeeper for himself and a respectable cat -for Aline, and when he had settled down, after having spent every penny -he could scrape together on furniture, began to wonder how he could pay -the rent. A month or two before he would have as soon thought of buying -a palace in Park Lane as renting a house in St. John's Wood--a cheap, -shabby little house, it is true; but still a house, with drawing-room, -dining-room, bedrooms, and a studio built over the space where once the -garden tried to smile. He wandered through it with a wonderment quite as -childish as that of Aline, who had helped him to buy the furniture. But -how was he ever going to pay the rent? - -After a time he ceased asking the question. The ravens that fed Elijah -provided him with the twenty quarterly pieces of gold. Picture-dealers -of every hue and grade supplied him with the wherewithal to live. -In those early days he penetrated most of the murky byways of his -art--alleys he would have passed by with pinched nose a year before, -when an empty pocket and an empty stomach concerned himself alone. -Now, when the money for the last picture had gone, and no more was -forthcoming by way of advance on royalties on plates, and the black and -white market was congested, he did amazing things. He copied old Masters -for a red-faced, beery print-seller in Frith Street, who found some -mysterious market for them. The price can be gauged by the fact that -years afterwards Jimmie recognised one of his own copies in an auction -room, and heard it knocked down as a genuine Velasquez for eleven -shillings and sixpence. He also painted oil landscapes for a dealer -who did an immense trade in this line, selling them to drapers and -fancy-warehousemen, who in their turn retailed them to an art-loving -public, framed in gold, at one and eleven pence three farthings; and the -artist's rate of payment was five shillings a dozen--panels supplied, -but not the paint. To see Jimmie attack these was the child Aline's -delight. In after years she wept in a foolish way over the memory. He -would do half a dozen at a time: first dash in the foregrounds, either -meadows or stretches of shore, then wash in bold, stormy skies, then a -bit of water, smooth or rugged according as it was meant to represent -pool or sea; then a few vigorous strokes would put in a ship and a -lighthouse on one panel, a tree and a cow on a second, a woman and a -cottage on a third. And all the time, as he worked at lightning speed, -he would laugh and joke with the child, who sat fascinated by the magic -with which each mysterious mass of daubs and smudges grew into a living -picture under his hand. When his invention was at a loss, he would -call upon her to suggest accessories; and if she cried out “windmill,” - suddenly there would spring from under the darting brush-point a mill -with flapping sails against the sky. Now and again in his hurry Jimmie -would make a mistake, and Aline would shriek with delight: - -“Why, Jimmie, that's a cow!” - -And sure enough, horned and uddered, and with casual tail, a cow was -wandering over the ocean, mildly speculating on the lighthouse. Then -Jimmie would roar with laughter, and he would tether the cow to a buoy -and put in a milkmaid in a boat coming to milk the cow, and at Aline's -breathless suggestion, a robber with a bow and arrow shooting the -unnatural animal from the lighthouse top. Thus he would waste an hour -elaborating the absurdity, finishing it off beautifully so that it -should be worthy of a place on Aline's bedroom wall. - -The months and years passed, and Jimmie found himself, if not on the -highroad to fortune, at least relieved of the necessity of frequenting -the murky byways aforesaid. He even acquired a little reputation as a -portrait painter, much to his conscientious, but comical despair. “I -am taking people's money under false pretences,” he would say. “I am an -imaginative painter. I can't do portraits. Your real portrait painter -can jerk the very soul out of a man and splash it on to his face. I -can't. Why do they come to me to be photographed, when Brown, Jones, -or Robinson would give them a portrait? Why can't they buy my -subject-pictures which are good? In taking their money I am a mercenary, -unscrupulous villain!” Indeed, if Aline had not been there to keep him -within the bounds of sanity, his Quixotism might have led him to send -his clients to Brown or Jones, where they could get better value for -their money. But Aline was there, rising gradually from the little child -into girlhood, and growing in grace day by day. After all, the charwoman -seemed to be right. The tender plant, left to itself, thrived, shot up -apparently of its own accord, much to Jimmie's mystification. It never -occurred to him that he was the all in all of her training--her -mother, father, nurse, teacher, counsellor, example. Everything she was -susceptible of being taught by a human being, he taught her--from the -common rudiments when she was a little child to the deeper things of -literature and history when she was a ripening maiden. Her life was -bound up with his. Her mind took the prevailing colour of his mind as -inevitably as the grasshopper takes the green of grass or the locust the -grey-brown of the sand. But Jimmie in his simple way regarded the girl's -sweet development as a miracle of spontaneous growth. - -Yet Aline on her part instinctively appreciated the child in Jimmie, and -from very early years assumed a quaint attitude of protection in common -every-day matters. From the age of twelve she knew the exact state of -his financial affairs, and gravely deliberated with him over items of -special expenditure; and when she was fourteen she profited by a change -in housekeepers to take upon herself the charge of the household. Her -unlimited knowledge of domestic science was another thing that astounded -Jimmie, who to the end of his days would have cheerfully given two -shillings a pound for potatoes. And thus, while adoring Jimmie and -conscious that she owed him the quickening of the soul within her, she -became undisputed mistress of her small material domain, and regarded -him as a kind of godlike baby. - -At last there came a memorable day. According to a custom five or six -years old, Jimmie and Aline were to spend New Year's Eve with some -friends, the Frewen-Smiths. - -He was a rising architect who had lately won two or three important -competitions and had gradually been extending his scale of living. The -New Year's Eve party was to be a much more elaborate affair than usual. -Aline had received a beautifully printed card of invitation, with -“Dancing” in the corner. She looked through her slender wardrobe. Not -a frock could she find equal to such a festival. And as she gazed -wistfully at the simple child's finery laid out upon her bed, a desire -that had dawned vaguely some time before and had week by week broadened -into craving, burst into the full blaze of a necessity. She sat down on -her bed and puckered her young brows, considering the matter in all -its aspects. Then, with her sex's guilelessness, she went down to the -studio, where Jimmie was painting, and put her arms round his neck. Did -he think she could get a new frock for Mrs. Frewen-Smith's party? - -“My dear child,” said Jimmie in astonishment, “what an idiotic -question!” - -“But I want really a nice one,” said Aline, coaxingly. - -“Then get one, dear,” said Jimmie, swinging round on his stool, so as to -look at her. - -“But I'd like you to give me this one as a present. I don't want it -to be like the others that I help myself to and you know nothing -about--although they all are presents, if it comes to that--I want you -to give me this one specially.” - -Jimmie laid down palette and mahl-stick and brush, and from a -letter-case in his pocket drew out three five-pound notes. - -“Will this buy one?” - -The girl's eyes filled with tears. “Oh, you are silly, Jimmie,” she -cried. “A quarter of it will do.” - -She took one of the notes, kissed him, and ran out of the studio, -leaving Jimmie wondering why the female sex were so prone to weeping. -The next day he saw a strange woman established at the dining-room -table. He learned that it was a dressmaker. For the next week an air of -mystery hung over the place. The girl, in her neat short frock and with -her soft brown hair tied with a ribbon, went about her household duties -as usual; but there was a subdued light in her eyes that Jimmie noticed, -but could not understand. Occasionally he enquired about the new frock. -It was progressing famously, said Aline. It was going to be a most -beautiful frock. He would have seen nothing like it since he was born. - -“Vanity, thy name is little girls,” he laughed, pinching her chin. - -On the evening of the 31st of December Jimmie, in his well-worn evening -suit, came down to the dining-room, and for the first time in his life -waited for Aline. He sat down by the fire with a book. The cab that had -been ordered drew up outside. It was a remarkable thing for Aline to -be late. After a while the door opened, and a voice said, “I am ready.” - Jimmie rose, turned round, and for a moment stared stupidly at the sight -that met his eyes. It was Aline certainly, but a new Aline, quite a -different Aline from the little girl he had known hitherto. Her brown -hair was done up in a mysterious manner on the top of her head, and the -tip of a silver-mounted tortoise-shell comb (a present, she afterwards -confessed, from Constance Deering, who was in her secret) peeped -coquettishly from the coils. The fashionably-cut white evening dress -showed her neck and shoulders and pretty round arms, and displayed in a -manner that was a revelation the delicate curves of her young figure. A -little gold locket that Jimmie had given her rose and fell on her bosom. -She met his stare in laughing, blushing defiance, and whisked round so -as to present a side view of the costume. The astonishing thing had a -train. - -“God bless my soul!” cried Jimmie. “It never entered my head!” - -“What?” - -“That you're a young woman, that you're grown up, that we'll have all -the young men in the place falling in love with you, that you'll be -getting married, and that I'm becoming a decrepit old fogey. Well, God -bless my soul!” - -She came up and put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him. - -“You think it becoming, don't you, Jimmie?” - -“Becoming! Why, it's ravishing! It's irresistible! Do you mean to -say that you got all that, gloves and shoes and everything, out of a -five-pound note?” - -She nodded. - -“Good Lord!” said Jimmie in astonishment. - -In this manner came realisation of the fact that the tiny child he had -undressed and put to sleep in his own bed ten years before had grown -into a woman. The shock brought back some of the old perplexities, and -created for a short while an odd shyness in his dealings with her. He -treated her deferentially, regarded apologetically the mean viands on -which he forced this fresh-winged goddess to dine, went out and wasted -his money on adornments befitting her rank, and behaved with such -pathetic foolishness that Aline, crying and laughing, threatened to -run away and earn her living as a nursery-maid if he did not amend -his conduct. Whereupon there was a very touching scene, and Jimmie's -undertaking to revert to his previous brutality put their relations -once more on a sound basis; but all the same there stole into Jimmie's -environment a subtle grace which the sensitive in him was quick to -perceive. Its fragrance revived the tender grace of a departed day, -before he had taken Aline--a day that had ended in a woeful flight to -Paris, where he had arrived just in time to follow through the streets -a poor little funeral procession to a poor little grave-side in the -cemetery of Bagneux. Her name was Sidonie Bourdain, and she was a good -girl and had loved Jimmie with all her heart. - -The tender grace was that of March violets. The essence of a maid's -springtide diffused itself through the house, and springtide began -to bud again in the man's breast. It was a strange hyperphysical -transfusion of quickening sap. His jesting pictured himself as of a -sudden grown hoary, the potential father of a full-blown woman, two or -three years short of grandfatherdom. But these were words thrown off -from the very lightness of a mood, and vanishing like bubbles in the -air. Deep down worked the craving of the man still young for love -and romance and the sweet message in a woman's eyes. It was a gentle -madness--utterly unsuspected by its victim--but a madness such as -the god first inflicts upon him whom he desires to drive to love's -destruction. In the middle of it all, while Aline and himself were -finding a tentative footing on the newly established basis of their -relationship, the ironical deity took him by the hand and led him into -the cold and queenly presence of Norma Hardacre. - -After that Jimmie fell back into his old ways with Aline, and the Great -Frock Episode was closed. - - - - -Chapter V--A BROKEN BUTTERFLY - -ALINE sat in the studio, the picture of housewifely concern, mending -Jimmie's socks. It was not the unoffending garments that brought the -expression into her face, but her glance at the old Dutch clock--so -old and crotchety that unless it were tilted to one side it would not -consent to go--whose hands had come with an asthmatic whir to the hour -of eleven. And Jimmie had not yet come down to breakfast. She had called -him an hour ago. His cheery response had been her sanction for putting -the meal into preparation, and now the bacon would be uneatable. She -sighed. Taking care of Jimmie was no light responsibility. Not that he -would complain; far from it. He would eat the bacon raw or calcined if -she set it before him. But that would not be for his good, and hence the -responsibility. In slipping from her grasp and doing the things he ought -not to do, he was an eel or a twelve-year-old schoolboy. Last night, -for instance, instead of finishing off some urgent work for an art -periodical, he had assured her in his superlative manner that it was of -no consequence, and had wasted his evening with her at the Earl's Court -Exhibition. It had been warm and lovely, and the band and the bright -crowd had set her young pulses throbbing, and they had sat at a little -table, and Jimmie had given her some celestial liquid which she had -sucked through a straw, and altogether, to use her own unsophisticated -dialect, it had been perfectly heavenly. But it was wrong of Jimmie to -have sacrificed himself for her pleasure, and to have deceived her into -accepting it. For at three or four o'clock she had heard him tiptoeing -softly past her door on his way to bed, and the finished work she -had found on his table this morning betrayed his occupation. Even the -consolation of scolding him for oversleep and a spoiled breakfast was -thus denied. She spread out her hand in the sock so as to gauge the -extent of a hole, and, contemplating it, sighed again. - -The studio was a vast room distempered in bluish grey, and Aline, -sitting solitary at the far end, in the line of a broad quivering beam -of light that streamed through a lofty window running the whole width -of the north-east side, looked like a little brown saint in a bare -conventual hall. For an ascetic simplicity was the studio's key-note. -No curtains, draperies, screens, Japaneseries, no artistic scheme of -decoration, no rare toys of furniture filled the place with luxurious -inspiration. Here and there about the walls hung a sketch by a brother -artist; of his own unsold pictures and studies some were hung, others -stacked together on the floor. An old, rusty, leather drawing-room suite -distributed about the studio afforded sitting accommodation. There was -the big easel bearing the subject-picture on which he now was at work, -with a smaller easel carrying the study by its side. On the model-stand -a draped lay figure sprawled grotesquely. A long deal table was the -untidy home of piles of papers, books, colours, brushes, artistic -properties. A smaller table at the end where Aline sat was laid for -breakfast. It was one of Jimmie's eccentricities to breakfast in the -studio. The dining-room for dinner--he yielded to the convention; for -lunch, perhaps; for breakfast, no. All his intimate life had been -passed in the studio; the prim little drawing-room he scarcely entered -half-a-dozen times in the year. - -Aline was contemplating the hole in the sock when the door opened. -She sprang to her feet, advanced a step, and then halted with a little -exclamation. - -“Oh, it's you!” - -“Yes. Are you disappointed?” asked the smiling youth who had appeared -instead of the expected Jimmie. - -“I can get over it. How are you, Tony?” - -Mr. Anthony Merewether gave her the superfluous assurance that he was in -good health. He had the pleasant boyish face and clean-limbed figure of -the young Englishman upon whom cares sit lightly. Aline resumed her work -demurely. The young man seated himself near by. - -“How is Jimmie?” - -“Whom are you calling 'Jimmie'?” asked Aline. “Mr. Padgate, if you -please.” - -“You call him Jimmie.” - -“I've called him so ever since I could speak. I think it was one of the -first three words I learned. When you can say the same, you can call him -Jimmie.” - -“Well, how is Mr. Padgate?” the snubbed youth asked with due humility. - -“You can never tell how a man is before breakfast. Why are n't you at -work?” - -He bowed to her sagacity, and in answer to her question explained the -purport of his visit. He was going to spend the day sketching up the -river. Would she put on her hat and come with him? - -“A fine lot of sketching you'd do, if I did,” said Aline. - -The young man vowed with fervour that as soon as he had settled down to -a view he would work furiously and would not exchange a remark with her. - -“Which would be very amusing for me,” retorted Aline. “No, I can't come. -I'm far too busy. I've got to hunt up a model for the new picture.” - -Tony leant back in his chair, dispirited, and began to protest. She -laughed at his woeful face, and half yielding, questioned him about -trains. He overwhelmed her with a rush of figures, then paused to give -her time to recover. His eyes wandered to the breakfast-table, where lay -Jimmie's unopened correspondence. One letter lay apart from the others. -Tony took it up idly. - -“Here's a letter come to the wrong house.” - -“No; it is quite right,” said Aline. - -“Who is David Rendell, Esquire?” - -“Mr. Rendell is a friend of Jimmie's, I believe.” - -“I have never heard of him. What's he like?” - -“I don't know. Jimmie never speaks of him,” replied Aline. - -“That's odd.” - -The young man threw the letter on the table and returned to the subject -of the outing. She must accompany him. He felt a perfect watercolour -working itself up within him. One of those dreamy bits of backwater. He -had a title for it already, “The Heart of Summer.” The difference her -presence in the punt would make to the picture would be that between -life and deadness. - -The girl fluttered a shy, pleased glance at him. But she loved to tease; -besides, had she not but lately awakened to the sweet novelty of her -young womanhood? - -“Perhaps Jimmie won't let me go.” - -Tony sprang to his feet. “Jimmie won't let you go!” he exclaimed in -indignant echo. “Did he ever deny you a pleasure since you were born?” - -Her eyes sparkled at his tribute to the adored one's excellences. -“That's just where it is, you see, Tony. His very goodness to me won't -let me do things sometimes.” - -The servant hurried in with the breakfast-tray and the news that the -master was coming down. Aline anxiously inspected the bacon. To her -relief it was freshly cooked. In a minute or two a voice humming an air -was heard outside, and Jimmie entered, smilingly content with existence. - -“Hallo, Tony, what are you doing here, wasting the morning light? Have -some breakfast? Why haven't you laid a place for him?” - -Tony declined the invitation, and explained his presence. Jimmie rubbed -his hands. - -“A day on the river! The very thing for Aline. It will do her good.” - -“I did n't say I was going, Jimmie.” - -“Not going? Rubbish. Put on your things and be off at once.” - -“How can I until I have given you your breakfast? And then there's the -model--you would never be able to engage her by yourself. And you must -have her to-morrow.” - -“I know I'm helpless, dear, but I can engage a model.” - -“And waste your time. Besides, you won't be able to find the address.” - -“There are cab-horses, dear, with unerring instinct.” - -“Your breakfast is getting cold, Jimmie,” said Aline, not condescending -to notice the outrage of her economic principles. - -Eventually Jimmie had his way. Tony Merewether was summarily dismissed, -but bidden to return in an hour's time, when Aline would be graciously -pleased to be ready. She poured out Jimmie's coffee, and sat at the side -of the table, watching him eat. He turned to his letters, picked up the -one addressed to “David Rendell.” Aline noticed a shade of displeasure -cross his face. - -“Who is Mr. Rendell, Jimmie?” asked Aline. - -“A man I know, dear,” he replied, putting the envelope in his pocket. He -went on with his breakfast meditatively for a few moments, then opened -his other letters. He threw a couple of bills across the table. His face -had regained its serenity. - -“See that these ill-mannered people are paid, Aline.” - -“What with, dear?” - -“Money, my child, money. What!” he exclaimed, noting a familiar -expression on her face. “Are we running short? Send them telegrams to -say we'll pay next week. Something is bound to come in by then.” - -“Mrs. Bullingdon ought to send the cheque for her portrait,” said Aline. - -“Of course she will. And there's something due from Hyam. What a thing -it is to have great expectations! Here's one from Renshaw,” he said, -opening another letter. “'Dear Padgate'--Dear Padgate!” He put his hands -on the table and looked across at Aline. “Now, what on earth can I have -done to offend him? I've been 'Dear Jimmie' for the last twelve years.” - -Aline shook her young head pityingly. “Don't you know yet that it is -always 'Dear Padgate' when they want to borrow money of you?” - -Jimmie glanced at the letter and then across the table again. - -“Dear me,” he said thoughtfully. “Your knowledge of the world at your -tender age is surprising. He does want money. Poor old chap! It is -really quite touching. 'For the love of God lend me four pounds ten to -carry me on to the end of the quarter.'” - -“That's two months off. Mr. Renshaw will have to be more economical than -usual,” said Aline, drily. “I am afraid he drinks dreadfully, Jimmie.” - -“Hush, dear!” he said, becoming grave. “A man's infirmities are his -infirmities, and we are not called upon to be his judges. How much have -we in the house altogether?” he asked with a sudden return to his bright -manner. - -“Ten pounds three and sixpence.” - -“Why, that's a fortune. Of course we can help Renshaw. Wire him his four -pounds ten when you go out.” - -“But, Jimmie----” expostulated this royal person's minister of finance. - -“Do what I say, my dear,” said Jimmie, quietly. - -That note in his voice always brought about instant submission, fetched -her down from heights of pitying protection to the prostrate humility -of a little girl saying “Yes, Jimmie,” as to a directing providence. She -did not know from which of the two positions, the height or the depth, -she loved him the more. As a matter of fact, the two ranges of emotion -were perfect complements one of the other, the sex in her finding -satisfaction of its two imperious cravings, to shelter and to worship. - -The Renshaw incident was closed, locked up as it were in her heart by -the little snap of the “Yes, Jimmie.” One or two other letters were -discussed gaily. The last to be opened was a note from Mrs. Deering. -“Come to lunch on Sunday and bring Aline. I am asking your friend Norma -Hardacre.” Aline clapped her hands. She had been longing to see that -beautiful Miss Hardacre again. Of course Jimmie would go? He smiled. - -“Another unconscious sitting for the portrait,” he said. His glance -wandered to a strainer that stood with its face to the wall, at a -further end of the room, and he became absent-minded. Lately he had been -dreaming a boy's shadowy dreams, too sweet as yet for him to seek to -give them form in his waking hours. A warm touch on his hand brought him -back to diurnal things. It was the coffee-pot held by Aline. - -“I have asked you twice if you would have more coffee,” she laughed. - -“I suppose I'm the happiest being in existence,” he said irrelevantly. - -Aline poured out the coffee. “You have n't got much to make you happy, -poor dear!” she remarked, when the operation was concluded. - -His retort was checked by a violent peal at the front door-bell and a -thundering knock. - -“That's Morland,” cried Jimmie. “He is like the day of doom--always -heralds his approach by an earthquake.” - -Morland it was, in riding tweeds, a whip in his hand. He pointed an -upbraiding finger at the half-eaten breakfast. The sloth of these -painters! Aline flew to the loved one's protection. Jimmie had not gone -to bed till four. The poor dear had to sleep. - -“I did n't get to bed till four, either,” said Morland, with the -healthy, sport-loving man's contempt for people who require sleep, “but -I was up at eight and was riding in the Park at nine. Then I thought I'd -come up here. I've got some news for you.” - -Aline escaped. Morland's air of health and prosperity overpowered her. -She did not dare whisper detraction of him to Jimmie, in whose eyes he -was incomparable, but to Tony Merewether she had made known her wish -that he did not look always so provokingly clean, so eternally satisfied -with himself. All the colour of his mind had gone into his face, was her -uncharitable epigram. Aline, it will be observed, saw no advantage in a -tongue perpetually tipped with honey. - -“What is your news?” asked Jimmie, as soon as they were alone. - -“I have done it at last,” said Morland. - -“What?” - -“Proposed. I'm engaged. I'm going to be married.” - -Jimmie's honest face beamed pleasure. He wrung Morland's hand. The best -news he had heard for a long time. When had he taken the plunge into the -pool of happiness? - -“Last night.” - -“And you have come straight to tell me? It is like you. I am touched, it -is good to know you carry me in your heart like that.” - -Morland laughed. “My dear old Jimmie--” - -“I am so glad. I never suspected anything of the kind. Well, she's an -amazingly lucky young woman whoever she is. When can I have a timid peep -at the divinity?” - -“Whenever you like--why, don't you know who it is?” - -“Lord, no, man; how should I?” - -“It's Norma Hardacre.” - -“Norma Hardacre!” The echo came from Jimmie as from a hollow cave, and -was followed by a silence no less cavernous. The world was suddenly -reduced to an empty shell, black, meaningless. - -“Yes,” said Morland, with a short laugh. He carefully selected, cut, -and lit a cigar, then turned his back and examined the half-finished -picture. He felt the Briton's shamefacedness in the novelty of the -position of affianced lover. The echo that in Jimmie's ears had sounded -so forlorn was to him a mere exclamation of surprise. His solicitude as -to the cigar and his inspection of the picture saved him by lucky chance -from seeing Jimmie's face, which wore the blank, piteous look of a child -that has had its most cherished possession snatched out of its hand and -thrown into the fire. Such episodes in life cannot be measured by time -as it is reckoned in the physical universe. To Jimmie, standing amid the -chaos of his dreams, indefinite hours seemed to have passed since he had -spoken. For indefinite hours he seemed to grope towards reconstruction. -He lived intensely in the soul's realm, where time is not, was swept -through infinite phases of emotion; finally awoke to a consciousness -of renunciation, full and generous. Perhaps a minute and a half had -elapsed. He crossed swiftly to Morland and clapped him on the shoulder. - -“The woman among all women I could have wished for you.” - -His voice quavered a little; but Morland, turning round, saw nothing in -Jimmie's eyes but the honest gladness he had taken for granted he should -find there. The earnest scrutiny he missed. He laughed again. - -“There are not many in London to touch her,” he said in his -self-satisfied way. - -“Is there one?” - -“You seem more royalist than--well, than Morland King,” said the happy -lover, chuckling at his joke. “I wish I had the artist's command -of superlatives as you have, Jimmie. It would come in deuced handy -sometimes. Now if, for instance, you wanted to describe the reddest -thing that ever was, you would find some hyperbolic image for it, -whereas I could only say it was damned red. See what I mean?” - -“It does n't matter what you say, but what you feel,” said Jimmie. -“Perhaps we hyperbolic people fritter away emotions in the mere frenzy -of expressing them. The mute man often has deeper feelings.” - -“Oh, I'm not going to set up as an unerupted volcano,” laughed Morland. -“I'm only the average man that has got the girl he has set his heart -on--and of course I think her in many ways a paragon, otherwise I should -n't have set my heart on her. There are plenty to pick from, God knows. -And they let you know it too, by Jove. You're lucky enough to live out -of what is called Society, so you can't realise how they shy themselves -at you. Sometimes one has to be simply a brute and dump 'em down hard. -That's what I liked about Norma Hardacre. She required no dumping.” - -“I should think not,” said Jimmie. - -“There's one thing that pleases me immensely,” Morland remarked, “and -that is the fancy she has taken for you. It's genuine. I've never heard -her talk of any one else as she does of you. She is not given to gush, -as you may have observed.” - -“It's a very deep pleasure to me to hear it,” said Jimmie, looking -bravely in the eyes of the happy man. “My opinion of Miss Hardacre I -have told you already.” - -Morland waved his cigar as a sign of acceptance of the tribute to the -lady. - -“I was thinking of myself,” he said. “There are a good many men I shall -have to drop more or less when I'm married. Norma would n't have 'em -in the house. There are others that will have to be on probation. Now I -shouldn't have liked you to be on probation--to run the risk of my -wife not approving of you--caring to see you--you know what I mean. But -you're different from anybody else, Jimmie. I'm not given to talking -sentiment--but we've grown up together--and somehow, in spite of our -being thrown in different worlds, you have got to be a part of my life. -There!” he concluded with a sigh of relief, putting on his hat and -holding out his hand, “I've said it!” - -The brightening of Jimmie's eyes gave token of a heart keenly touched. -Deeply rooted indeed must be the affection that could have impelled -Morland to so unusual a demonstration of feeling. His nature was as -responsive as a harp set in the wind. His counterpart in woman would -have felt the tears well into her eyes. A man is allowed but a breath, a -moisture, that makes the eyes bright. Morland had said the final word of -sentiment; equally, utterly true of himself. Morland was equally a part -of his life. It were folly to discuss the reasons. Loyal friendships -between men are often the divinest of paradoxes. - -The touch upon Jimmie's heart was magnetic. It soothed pain. It set free -a flood of generous emotion, even thanksgiving that he was thus allowed -vicarious joy in infinite perfections. It was vouchsafed him to be happy -in the happiness of two dear to him. This much he said to Morland, with -what intensity of meaning the fortunate lover was a myriad leagues from -suspecting. - -“I'll see you safely mounted,” said Jimmie, opening the studio door. -Then suddenly like a cold wind a memory buffeted him. He shut the door -again. - -“I forgot. I have a letter for you. It came this morning.” - -Morland took the letter addressed to “David Rendell” which Jimmie drew -from his pocket, and uttered an angry exclamation. - -“I thought this infernal business was over and done with.” - -He tore open the envelope, read the contents, then tilted his hat to -the back of his head, and sitting down on one of the dilapidated -straight-backed chairs of the leather suite, looked at Jimmie in -great perplexity. In justice to the man it must be said that anger had -vanished. - -“I suppose you know what these letters mean that you have been taking in -for me?” - -“I have never permitted myself to speculate,” said Jimmie. “You asked me -to do you a very great service. It was a little one. You are not a man -to do anything dishonourable. I concluded you had your reasons, which it -would have been impertinent of me to inquire into.” - -“It's the usual thing,” said Morland, with a self-incriminatory shrug. “A -girl.” - -“A love affair was obvious.” - -Morland spat out an exclamation of impatient disgust for himself and -rose to his feet. - -“Heaven knows how it began--she was poor and lonely--almost a lady--and -she had beauty and manners and that sort of thing above her class.” - -“They always have,” said Jimmie, with a pained expression. “You need n't -tell me the story. It's about the miserablest on God's earth, is n't it -now?” - -“I suppose so. Upon my soul, I'm not a beast, Jimmie!” - -The unwonted rarefied air of sentiment that he had been breathing for -the last twelve hours had, as it were, intoxicated him. Had the letter -reached him the day before, he would have left the story connected -with it in the cold-storage depository where men are wont to keep such -things. No one would have dreamed of its existence. But now he felt an -exaggerated remorse, a craving for confession, and yet he made the naked -remorseful human's instinctive clutch at palliatives. - -“Upon my soul, I'm not a beast, Jimmie. I swear I loved her at first. -You know what it is. You yourself loved a little girl in Paris--you told -me about it--did n't you?” - -Jimmie set his teeth, and said, “Yes.” - -Morland went on. - -“Some women have ways with them, you know. They turn you into one of -those toy thermometers--you hold the bulb, and the spirit in it rises -and bubbles. She got hold of me that way--I bubbled, I suppose--it -was n't her fault, she was sweet and innocent. It was her nature. You -artistic people call the damned thing a temperament, I believe. Anyhow -I was in earnest at the beginning. Then--one always does--I found it was -only a passing fancy.” - -“And like a passing cab it has splashed you with mud. How does the -matter stand now?” - -“Read this,” said Morland, handing him the letter. - -“Dearest,” it ran, “the time is coming when you can be very good to me. -Jenny.” That was all. Jimmie, holding the paper in front of him, looked -up distressfully at Morland. - -“'The time is coming when you can be very good to me.' How confoundedly -pathetic! Poor little girl! Oh, damn it, Morland, you are going to be -good to her, are n't you?” - -“I'll do all I can. Of course I'll do all I can. I tell you I'm not a -beast. Heaps of other men would n't care a hang about it. They would -tell her to go to the devil. I'm not that sort.” - -“I know you're not,” said Jimmie. - -Morland lit another cigar with the air of a man whose virtues deserve -some reward. - -“The letter can only have one interpretation. Have you known of it?” - -“Never dreamed of it.” - -“Was there any question of marriage?” - -“None whatever. Difference of position and all the rest of it. She quite -understood. In fact, it was like your Quartier Latin affair.” - -Jimmie winced. “It was n't the Quartier Latin--and I was going to marry -her--only she died before--oh, don't mind me, Morland. What's going to -be done now?” Morland shrugged his shoulders again, having palliated -himself into a more normal condition. His conscience, to speak by the -book, was clothed and in its right mind. - -“It's infernally hard lines it should come just at this time. You see, -I've heaps of things to think about. My position--Parliament--I'm going -to contest Cosford in the autumn. If the constituency gets hold of any -scandal, I'm ruined. You know the Alpine heights of morality of a -British constituency--and there's always some moral scavenger about. And -then there's Norma--” - -“Yes, there's Norma,” said Jimmie, seriously. - -“It's unpleasant, you see. If she should know--” - -“It would break her heart,” said Jimmie. - -Morland started and looked at Jimmie stupidly, his mental faculties -for the second paralysed, incapable of grappling with the idea. Was it -scathing sarcasm or sheer idiocy? Recovering his wits, he realised -that Jimmie was whole-heartedly, childishly sincere. With an effort he -controlled a rebellious risible muscle at the corner of his lip. - -“It would give her great pain,” he said in grave acquiescence. - -“It's a miserable business,” said Jimmie. - -Morland paced the studio. Suddenly he stopped. - -“Should there be any unpleasantness over this, can I rely on your help -to pull me through?” - -“You know you can,” said Jimmie. - -Morland looked relieved. - -“May I write a note?” - -Jimmie pointed to a corner of the long deal table. - -“You'll find over there all the materials for mending a broken -butterfly,” he said sadly. - - - - -Chapter VI--THE LOVERS - -PROUD in the make-believe that he was a fashionable groom, the loafer -holding Morland's horse touched his ragged hat smartly at his temporary -master's approach. - -“Give him something, Jimmie; I have n't any change,” cried Morland. He -mounted and rode away, debonair, with a wave of farewell. Jimmie drew -from his pocket the first coin to hand, a florin, and gave it to the -loafer, who came down forthwith from his dreams of high estate to -commonplace earth, and after the manner of his class adjured the Deity -to love the munificent gentleman. The two shillings would bring gladness -into the hearts of his sick wife and starving children. Subject to the -attestation of the Deity, he put forward as a truth the statement that -they had not eaten food for a week. He himself was a hard-working man, -but the profession of holding horses in the quiet roads of St. John's -Wood was not lucrative. - -“You're telling me lies, I'm afraid,” said Jimmie, “but you look -miserable enough to say anything. Here!” He gave him two more shillings. -The loafer thanked him and made a bee-line for the nearest public-house, -while Jimmie, forgetting for the moment the pitiable aspect that poor -humanity sometimes wears in the persons of the lowly, watched Morland's -well-set-up figure disappear at the turn of the road. There was no sign -of black care sitting behind that rider. It perched instead on Jimmie's -shoulders, and there stayed for the rest of the day. In spite of his -staunch trust in Morland's honour and uprightness, he found it hard to -condone the fault. The parallel which Morland had not too ingenuously -drawn with the far-away passionate episode in his own life had not -seemed just. He had winced, wondered at the failure in tact, rebelled -against the desecration of a memory so exquisitely sad. The moment after -he had forgiven the blundering friend and opened his heart again to -pity. He was no strict moralist, turning his head sanctimoniously aside -at the sight of unwedded lovers. His heart was too big and generous. -But between the romance of illicit love and the commonplace of vulgar -seduction stretched an immeasurable distance. The words of the pathetic -note, however, lingering in his mind, brought with them a redeeming -fragrance. They conjured up the picture of sweet womanhood. They hinted -no reproach; merely a trust which was expected to be fulfilled. To her -Morland was the honourable gentleman all knew; he had promised nothing -that he had not performed, that he would not perform. All day long, as -he sat before his easel, mechanically copying folds of drapery from the -lay figure on the platform, Jimmie strove to exonerate his friend from -the baser fault, and to raise the poor love affair to a plane touched by -diviner rays. But the black care still sat upon his shoulders. - -The next morning he rose earlier than usual, and sought Morland at his -house in Sussex Gardens. He found him eating an untroubled breakfast. -Silver dishes, tray, and service were before him. A great flower-stand -filled with Maréchal Niel roses stood in the centre of the table. Fine -pictures hung round the walls. Rare china, old oak chairs, and sideboard -bright with silver bowls--all the harmonious and soothing luxury of a -rich man's dining-room, gave the impression of ease, of a life apart -from petty cares, petty vices, petty ambitions. A thick carpet sheltered -the ears from the creaking footsteps of indiscretion. Awnings before the -open windows screened the too impertinent light of the morning sun. And -the face and bearing of the owner of the room were in harmony with its -atmosphere. Jimmie reproached himself for the doubts that had caused -his visit. Morland laughed at them. Had he not twice or thrice declared -himself not a beast? Surely Jimmie must trust his oldest friend to have -conducted himself honourably. There was never question of marriage. -There had been no seduction. Could n't he understand? They had parted -amicably some three months ago, each a little disillusioned. Morland was -generous enough to strip a man's vanity from himself and stand confessed -as one of whom a superior woman had grown tired. The new development of -the affair revealed yesterday had, he repeated, come upon him like -an unexpected lash. The irony of it, too, in the first flush of his -engagement! Naturally he was remorseful; naturally he would do all that -a man of honour could under the circumstances. - -“More is not expected and not wanted. On my word of honour,” said -Morland. - -He had been upset, he continued smilingly. The consequences might be -serious--to himself, not so much to Jenny. There were complications -in the matter that might be tightened--not by Jenny--into a devil of -a tangle. Had he not pleaded special urgency when he had first asked -Jimmie to take in the letters under a false name? It might be a devil -of a tangle, he repeated. - -“But till that happens--and please God it may never happen--we may -dismiss the whole thing from our minds,” said Morland, reassuringly. -“Jenny will want for nothing, and want nothing. Do you think if there -were any melodramatic villainy on my conscience I would go and engage -myself to marry Norma Hardacre?” - -This was the final argument that sent the black care, desperately -clinging with the points of its claws, into infinite space. Jimmie -smiled again. Morland waved away the uncongenial topic and called for a -small bottle of champagne on ice. A glass apiece, he said, to toast the -engagement. Rightly, champagne was the wine of the morning. - -“It is the morning sunshine itself distilled,” said Jimmie, lifting up -his glass. - -He went home on the top of an omnibus greatly cheered, convinced that, -whatever had happened, Morland had done no grievous wrong. When Aline -went to the studio to summon him to lunch, she found him busy upon the -sketch portrait of Norma, and humming a tune--a habit of his when work -was proceeding happily under his fingers. She looked over his shoulder -critically. - -“That's very good,” she condescended to remark. “Now that Miss Hardacre -is engaged to Mr. King, why don't you ask her to come and sit?” - -“Do you think it's a good likeness?” he asked, leaning back and -regarding the picture. - -“It is the best likeness you have ever got in a portrait,” replied -Aline, truthfully. - -“Then, wisest of infants, what reason could I have for asking Miss -Hardacre to sit? Besides, I don't want her to know anything about it.” - -Aline glowed with inspiration. Why should things the most distantly -connected with somebody else's marriage so exhilarate the female heart? - -“Is it going to be a wedding present, Jimmie?” - -“It is a study in indiscretion, my child,” he replied enigmatically. - -“You are perfectly horrid.” - -“I suppose I am,” he admitted, looking at the portrait with some -wistfulness. “Ugly as sin, and with as much manners as a kangaroo -=--does your feminine wisdom think a woman could ever fall in love with -me?” - -She touched caressingly the top of his head where the hair was thinning, -and her feminine wisdom made this astounding answer: - -“Why, you are too old, Jimmie dear.” - -Too old! He turned and regarded her for a moment in rueful wonder. -Absurd though it was, the statement gave him a shock. He was barely -forty, and here was this full-grown, demure, smiling young woman telling -him he was too old for any of her sex to trouble their heads about him. -His forlorn aspect brought a rush of colour to the girl's cheeks. She -put her arms round his neck. - -“Oh, Jimmie, I have hurt you. I'm sorry. I'm a silly little goose. It's -a wonder that every woman on earth is n't in love with you.” - -“That is the tone of exaggerated affection, but not of conviction,” he -said. “I am the masculine of what in a woman is termed _passée_. I might -gain the esteem of a person of the opposite sex elderly like myself, but -my gallant exterior can no longer inspire a romantic passion. My day is -over. No, you have not hurt me. The sword of truth pierces, but it does -not hurt.” - -Then he broke into his good, sunny laughter, and rose and put his arm -with rough tenderness round her shoulder, as he had done ever since she -could walk. - -“You are the youngest thing I have come across for a long time.” - -Aline, as she nestled up against him on their way out of the studio, was -thus impressed with a salutary consciousness of her extreme youth. -But this in itself magnified Jimmie's age. She loved him with a pure -passionate tenderness; no one, she thought, could know him without -loving him; but her ideal of the hero of romance for whom fair ladies -pined away in despairing secret was far different. She was too young -as yet, too little versed in the signs by which the human heart can -be read, to suspect what his playful question implied of sadness, -hopelessness, renunciation. - -On Sunday they lunched with Connie Deering. Morland and Norma and old -Colonel Pawley, an ancient acquaintance of every one, were the only -other guests. It was almost a family party, cried Connie, gaily; and it -had been an inspiration, seeing that the invitations had been sent out -before the engagement had taken place. Jimmie and Aline, being the first -arrivals, had their hostess to themselves for a few moments. - -“They both think it bad form to show a sign of it, but they are awfully -gone upon each other,” Connie said. “So you must n't judge Norma by what -she says. All girls like to appear cynical nowadays. It's the fashion. -But they fall in love in the same silly way, just as they used to.” - -“I am glad to hear they are fond of one another,” said Jimmie. “The -deeper their love the happier I shall be.” - -The little lady looked at him for a second out of the corner of her eye. - -“What an odd thing to say!” - -“It ought to be a commonplace thing to feel.” - -“In the happiness of others there is always something that is pleasing. -By giving him the lie like that you will make poor Rochefoucauld turn in -his grave.” - -“He ought to be kept revolving like Ixion,” said Jimmie. “His maxims are -the Beatitudes of Hell.” - -He laughed off the too trenchant edge of his epigram, qualifying it in -his kind way. After all, you must n't take your cynic too literally. No -doubt a kindly heart beats in the ducal bosom. - -“I should like to know your real opinion of the devil,” laughed Mrs. -Deering. - -The opportunity for so doing was lost for the moment. The lovers -entered, having driven together from the Park. At the sight of Norma, -Aline twitched Jimmie's arm with a little gasp of admiration and -Jimmie's breath came faster. He had not seen her hitherto quite so -coldly, radiantly beautiful. Perhaps it was the great white hat she -wore, a mystery of millinery, chiffon and roses and feathers melting -one with the other into an effect of broad simplicity, that formed an -unsanctified but alluring halo to a queenly head. Perhaps it was the -elaborately simple cream dress, open-worked at neck and arms, that -moulded her ripe figure into especial stateliness. Perhaps, thought -poor Jimmie, it was the proud loveliness into which love was wont to -transfigure princesses. - -She received Connie's kiss and outpouring of welcome with her usual -mocking smile. “If you offer me congratulations, I shall go away, -Connie. I have been smirking for the last hour and a half. We were so -exhausted by playing the sentimental idiots that we did n't exchange a -word on our way here; though I believe Morland likes it. We saw those -dreadful Fry-Robertsons bearing down upon us. He actually dragged me up -to meet them, as who should say 'Let us go up and get congratulated.'” - -“I don't see why I should hide my luck under a bushel,” laughed Morland. - -“Thank you for the compliment,” said Norma. “But if you won at Monte -Carlo you would n't pin the banknotes all over your coat and strut about -the street. By the way, Connie, we're late. Need we apologise?” - -“You're not the last. Colonel Pawley is coming.” - -“Oh dear! that old man radiates boredom. How can you stand him, Connie?” - -“He's the sweetest thing on earth,” said her hostess. - -Norma laughed a little contemptuously and came forward to greet Aline -and Jimmie. As she did so, her face softened. Jimmie, drawing her aside, -offered his best wishes. - -“The happiness of a man whom I have loved like a brother all my life -can't be indifferent to me. On that account you must forgive my speaking -warmly. May you be very happy.” - -“I shall be happy in having such a champion of my husband for a -brother-in-law,” said Norma, lightly. - -“A loyal friend of your own, if you will,” said Jimmie. - -There was a short pause. Norma ran the tip of her gloved finger down the -leaf of a plant on a stand. They were by the window. A vibration in his -voice vaguely troubled her. - -“What do you really mean by 'loyal'?” she said at last, without looking -at him. - -“The word has but one meaning. If I tried to explain further, I should -only appear to be floundering in fatuity.” - -“I believe you are the kind that would stick to a woman through thick -and thin, through good repute and ill repute. That's what you mean. Only -you don't like to hint that I might at any time become disreputable. I -may. All things are possible in this world.” - -“Not that,” said Jimmie. “Perhaps I was unconsciously pleading for -myself. Say you are a queen in your palace. While humbly soliciting -a position in your household, I somewhat grandiloquently submit my -qualifications.” - -“What's all this about?” asked Morland, coming up, having overheard the -last sentence. - -“I am pleading for a modest position in Her Majesty's Household,” said -Jimmie. - -“We'll fit him up with cap and bells,” laughed Morland, “and make him -chief jester, and give him a bladder to whack us over the head with. -He's fond of doing that when we misbehave ourselves. Then he can get us -out of our scrapes, like the fellow in Dumas--what's his name--Chicot, -was n't it?” - -Pleased with his jest, he turned to acquaint Connie with Jimmie's new -dignity. Both the jest and the laugh that greeted it jarred upon Norma. -Jimmie said to her good-humouredly: - -“I might be Chicot, the loyal friend, without the cap and bells. I am a -dull dog.” - -She looked out of the window and laughed somewhat bitterly. - -“I think you are a great deal too good to have anything to do with any -of us.” - -“It pleases you to talk arrant nonsense,” said he. - -Luncheon was announced. At table Jimmie and Norma were neighbours. Aline -sat between Morland, who was next to Norma, and old Colonel Pawley. As -the latter at first talked to Mrs. Deering, Aline and Morland carried -on a frigid conversation. They had never been friends. To Morland, -naturally, she was merely a little girl of no account, who had often -been annoyingly in the way when he wanted to converse with Jimmie; and -Aline, with a little girl's keen intuition, had divined more of his real -character than she was aware of, and disliked and distrusted him. Like -a well-brought-up young lady she answered “yes” and “no” politely to -his remarks, but started no fresh topic. At last, to her relief, Colonel -Pawley rescued her from embarrassed silence. To him she had extended -her favour. He was a short fat man, with soft hands and a curious soft -purring voice, and the air rather of a comfortable old lady than of -a warrior who had retired on well-merited laurels. He occupied his -plentiful leisure by painting on silk, which he made into fans for -innumerable lady acquaintances. In his coat-tail pocket invariably -reposed a dainty volume bound in crushed morocco--a copy of little -poems of his own composition--and this, when he was in company with a -sympathetic feminine soul, he would abstract with apoplectic wheezing -and bashfully present. He also played little tunes on the harp. Aline, -with the irreverence of youth, treated him as a kind of human toy. - -His first word roused the girl's spontaneous gaiety. She bubbled over -with banter. The mild old warrior chuckled with her, threw himself -unreservedly into the childish play. Connie whispered to Jimmie: - -“I should like to tie a bit of blue ribbon round his neck and turn him -loose in a meadow. I am sure he would frisk.” - -Morland exchanged casual remarks with Norma. She answered absently. The -change in Aline from the unsmiling primness wherewith Morland's society -had cloaked her to sunny merriment with Colonel Pawley was too marked to -escape her attention. In spite of the ludicrousness of the comparison, -she could not help perceiving that the old man who radiated boredom -had a quality of charm unpossessed by Morland, and she felt absurdly -disappointed with her lover. During the last few days she had made -up her mind to like him. Sober forecast of a lifetime spent in the -inevitable intimacy of marriage had forced her to several conclusions. -One, that it was essential to daily comfort that a woman should find the -personality of a husband pleasing rather than antipathetic. With more -ingenuousness than the world would have put to her credit, she had -set herself deliberately to attain this essential ideal. The natural -consequence was a sharply critical attitude and a quickly developing -sensitiveness, whereby, as in a balance of great nicety, the minor -evidences of his character were continually being estimated. Thus, -Morland's jest before luncheon had jarred upon her. His careless air -of patronage had betrayed a lack of appreciation of something--the word -“spiritual” was not in her vocabulary, or she might have used it--of -something, at all events, in his friend which differentiated him from -the casual artist and which she herself had, not without discomfort, -divined at their first meeting. The remark had appeared to her in bad -taste. Still ruffled, she became all the more critical, and noted with -displeasure his failure to have won a child's esteem. And yet she felt -a touch of resentment against Jimmie for being the innocent cause of her -discomposure. It gave rise to a little feline impulse to scratch him and -see whether he were not mortal like every one else. - -“Do you ever exhibit at the Royal Academy?” she asked suddenly. - -“They won't have me,” said he. - -“But you send in, don't you?” - -“With heart-breaking regularity. They did have me once.” He sighed. “But -that was many years ago, when the Academy was young and foolish.” - -“I have heard they are exceedingly conservative,” said Norma, with the -claws still unsheathed. “Perhaps you work on too original lines.” - -But she could draw from him no expression of vanity. He smiled. “I -suppose they don't think my pictures good enough,” he said simply. - -“Jimmie's work is far too good for that wretched Academy,” said Connie -Deering. “The pictures there always give you a headache. Jimmie's never -do.” - -“I should like to kill the Academy,” Aline broke in sharply, on the -brink of tears. A little tragedy of murdered hopes lurked in her tone. -Then, seeing that she had caused a startled silence, she reddened and -looked at her plate. Jimmie laughed outright. - -“Is n't she bloodthirsty? All the seventy of them weltering in their -gore! Only the other day she said she would like to slaughter the whole -Chinese Empire, because they ate puppies and birds'-nests!” - -Connie chimed a frivolous remark in tune with Jimmie. Morland, as -befitted a coming statesman, took up the parable of the march westwards -of the yellow races. Colonel Pawley, who had been through the Taeping -rebellion, was appealed to as an authority on the development of the -Chinaman. He almost blushed, wriggled uncomfortably, and as soon as he -could brought the conversation to the milder topic of Chinese teacups. -Successful, he sighed with relief and told Aline the story of the willow -pattern. The Royal Academy was forgotten. But Norma felt guilty and -ashamed. - -Nor was she set more at ease with herself by a careless remark of -Morland's as Connie's front door closed behind them an hour or so later. - -“I am afraid you rather rubbed it into poor old Jimmie about the -Academy. The little girl looked as if she would like to fly at you. She -is a spoiled little cat.” - -“I have noticed she does n't seem to like you,” answered Norma, sourly. - -The drive as far as Grosvenor Place, where Norma proposed to pay a -solitary call, was not as pleasant as he had anticipated. He parted from -her somewhat resentful of an irritable mood, and walked back towards -Sussex Gardens through the Park, reviling the capriciousness of woman. - - - - -Chapter VII--A MAD PROPHET - -A VIOLENT man, pallid and perspiring, with crazy dark eyes and a -voice hoarse from the effort to make himself heard above the noise of -a hymn-singing group a few yards to the right and of a brazen-throated -atheist on the left, was delivering his soul of its message to -mankind--a confused, disconnected, oft-delivered message, so -inconsequent as to suggest that it had been worn into shreds and tatters -of catch-phrases by process of over-delivery, yet uttered with the -passion of one inspired with a new and amazing gospel. - -“I am speaking to you, the working-men, the proletariat, the downtrodden -slaves of the plutocracy, the creators in darkness of the wealth that -the idlers enjoy in dazzling halls of brightness. I do not address the -bourgeoisie rotting in sloth and apathy. They are the parasites of the -rich. They sweat the workers in order to pander to the vices of the -rich. They despise the poor and grovel before the rich. They shrink from -touching the poor man's hand, but they offer their bodies slavishly to -the kick of the rich man's foot. It is not in their hands, but in yours, -brother toilers and brother sufferers, that lies the glorious work -of the great social revolution whose sun just rising is tipping the -mountain-tops with its radiant promise of an immortal day. It is -against them and not with them that you have to struggle. In that day -of Armageddon you will find all tailordom, all grocerdom, all -apothecarydom, all attorneydom arrayed in serried ranks around the -accursed standards of plutocracy, of aristocracy, of bureaucracy. Beware -of them. Have naught to do with them on peril of your salvation. The -great social revolution will come not from above, but from below, from -the depths. _De profundis clamavi!_ “From the depths have I cried, O -Lord!” - -He paused, wiped his forehead, cleared his throat, and went on in -the same strain, indifferent to ribald interjections and the Sunday -apathy of his casual audience. The mere size of the crowd he was -addressing seemed to satisfy him. The number was above the average. A -few working-men in the inner ring drank in the wild utterances with -pathetic thirst. The majority listened, half amused, half attracted by -the personality of the speaker. A great many were captivated by the -sonority of the words, the unfaltering roll of the sentences, the vague -associations and impressions called up by the successive images. It is -astonishing what little account our sociological writers take of the -elementary nature of the minds of the masses; how easily they are -amused; how readily they are imposed upon; how little they are capable -of analytical thought; at the same time, how intellectually vain they -are, which is their undoing. The ineptitudes of the music hall which -make the judicious grieve--the satirical presentment, for instance, of -the modern fop, which does not contain one single salient characteristic -of the type, which is the blatant convention of fifty years back--are -greeted with roars of unintelligent laughter. Books are written, vulgar, -fallacious, with a specious semblance of philosophical profundity, and -sell by the hundred thousand. The masses read them without thought, -without even common intelligence. It is too great an intellectual effort -to grasp the ideas so disingenuously presented; but the readers can -understand just enough to perceive vaguely that they are in touch with -the deeper questions of philosophy, and through sheer vanity delude -themselves into the belief that they are vastly superior people in being -able to find pleasure in literature of such high quality. And the word -Mesopotamia is still blessed in their ears. Nothing but considerations -such as these can explain the popularity of some of the well-known -Sunday orators in Hyde Park. The conductors of the various properly -organised mission services belong naturally to a different category. It -is the socialist, the revivalist, the atheist, the man whose blood and -breath seem to have turned into inexhaustible verbiage, that present the -problem. - -Some such reflections forced themselves into the not uncharitable mind -of Jimmie as he stood on the outer fringe of the pallid man's audience -and listened wonderingly to the inspired nonsense. He had left a -delighted Aline to be taken by Colonel Pawley to the Zoological Gardens, -and had strolled down from Bryanston Square to the north side of the -Park. To lounge pleasantly on a Sunday afternoon from group to group -had always been a favourite Sunday pastime, and the pallid man was a -familiar figure. Jimmie had often thought of painting him as the central -character of some historical picture--an expectorated Jonah crying to -Nineveh, or a Flagellant in the time of the plague, with foaming -mouth and bleeding body, calling upon the stricken city to repent. His -artist's vision could see the hairy, haggard, muscular anatomy beneath -the man's rusty black garments. He could make a capital picture out of -him. - -The man paused only for a few seconds, and again took up his -parable--the battle of the poor and the rich. The flow of words -poured forth, platitude on platitude, in turbid flood, sound and fury -signifying elusively, sometimes the collectivist doctrine, at others the -mere _sans-culotte_ hatred of the aristocrat. Jimmie, speculating on -the impression made by the oratory on the minds of the audience, moved -slightly apart from the crowd. His glance wandering away took in Morland -on his way home, walking sedately on the path towards the Marble Arch. -He ran across the few yards of intervening space and accosted his friend -gaily. - -“Come and have a lesson in public speaking, and at the same time hear -the other side of the political question.” - -“What! go and stand among that rabble?” cried Morland, aghast. - -“You'll have to stand among worse, so you had better get used to it. -Besides, the man is a delightful fellow, with a face like Habakkuk, -capable of everything. To hear him one would think he were erupting -red-hot lava, whereas really it is molten omelette. Come. Your purple -and fine linen will be a red rag to him.” - -Laughing, he dragged the protesting Morland within earshot of the -speaker. Morland listened superciliously for a few moments. - -“What possible amusement can you find in this drivel?” he asked. - -“It is so devilish pathetic,” said Jimmie, “so human--the infinite -aspiration and the futile accomplishment. Listen.” - -The hymn next door had ceased, the atheist was hunting up a reference, -and the words of the pallid man's peroration resounded startlingly in -the temporary silence: - -“In that day when the sovereign people's will is law, when the -weakest and the strongest shall share alike in the plenteous bounty of -Providence, no longer shall the poor be mangled beneath the Juggernaut -car of wealth, no longer shall your daughters be bound to the rich man's -chariot-wheels and whirled shrieking into an infamy worse than death, no -longer shall the poor man's soul burn with hell fire at the rich man's -desecration of the once pure woman that he loves, no more rottenness, -foulness, stench, iniquity, but the earth shall rest in purity, securely -folded in the angel wings of peace!” - -He waved his arms in a gesture of dismissal, turned his back on the -crowd, and sat down exhausted on the little wooden bench that had been -his platform. The crowd gradually moved away, some laughing idly, others -reflectively chewing the cud of their Barmecide meal. Morland pointed a -gold-mounted cane at the late speaker. - -“Who and what is this particular brand of damned fool?” - -Jimmie checked with a glance a working-man who had issued from the inner -ring and was passing by, and translated Morland's question into soberer -English. - -“Him?” replied the working-man. “That's Daniel Stone, sir. Some people -say he's cracked, but he always has something good to say and I like -listening to him.” - -“What does he do when he is n't talking?” asked Jimmie. “Snatches a nap -and a mouthful of food, I should say, sir,” said the man, with a -laugh. He caught Jimmie's responsive smile, touched his cap, like the -downtrodden slave that he was, and went on his way. Jimmie glanced round -for Morland and saw him striding off rapidly. He ran after him. - -“What is the hurry?” - -“That damned man--” - -“Which? The one I was talking to? You surely did n't object--?” - -“Of course not. The other--Daniel Stone--” - -“Well, what of him?” - -“He's a dangerous lunatic. I have heard of him. Why the devil did you -want me to make an exhibition of myself among this scum?” - -Jimmie stared. Morland broke into a laugh and held out his hand. -“Never mind. The beast got on my nerves with his chariot wheels and his -desecration of maidens and the rest of it. I must be off. Good-bye.” - -Jimmie watched him disappear through the gate and turned back towards -the groups. The pallid man was still sitting on his bench; a few -children hung round and scanned him idly. Presently he rose and tucked -his bench under his arm, and walked slowly away from the scene of his -oratory. His burning eyes fixed themselves on Jimmie as he passed by. -Jimmie accosted him. - -“I have been greatly interested in your address.” - -“I saw you with another of the enemies of mankind. You are a gentleman, -I suppose?” - -“I hope so,” said Jimmie, smiling. - -“Then I have nothing to do with you,” retorted the man, with an angry -gesture. “I hate you and all your class.” - -“But what have we done to you?” - -“You have turned my blood into gall and my soul into consuming fire.” - -“Let us get out of the dust and sit down under a tree and talk it over. -We may get to understand each other.” - -“I have no wish to understand you,” said the man, coldly. “Good-day to -you.” - -“Good-day,” said Jimmie, with a smile. “I am sorry you will not let us -be better acquainted.” - -He turned to the next group, who were listening to a disproof of God's -existence. But the atheist was a commonplace thunderer in a bowler -hat, whose utterances fell tame on Jimmie's ears after those of -the haggard-eyed prophet. He wandered away from the crowd, striking -diagonally across the Park, and when he found comparative shade and -solitude, cast himself on the grass beneath a tree. The personality of -Daniel Stone interested him. He began to speculate on his daily life, -his history. Why should he have vowed undying hatred against his social -superiors? He reminded Jimmie of a character in fiction, and after some -groping the association was recalled. It was the monk in Dumas, the son -of Miladi. He wove an idle romance about the man. Perhaps Stone was -the disinherited of noble blood, thirsting for a senseless vengeance. -Gradually the drowsiness of deep June fell upon him. He went fast -asleep, and when he awoke half an hour afterwards and began to walk -homewards, he thought no more of Daniel Stone. - -But on following Sunday afternoons he frequently stood for a while -to listen to the man. It was always the same tale--sound and fury, -signifying nothing. On one occasion he caught Jimmie's eye, and -denounced him vehemently as an enemy of society. After that, Jimmie, -who was of a peaceful disposition, ceased attending his lectures. He -sympathised with Morland. - - - - -Chapter VIII--HER SERENE HIGHNESS - -A PRETTY quarrel between a princess and a duchess gave rise to -circumstances in which the destiny of Jimmie was determined, or in -which, to speak with modern metaphor, the germ of his destiny found the -necessary conditions for development. Had it not been for this quarrel, -Jimmie would not have stayed at the Hardacres' house; and had he not -been their guest, the events hereafter to be recorded would not have -happened. Such concatenation is there in the scheme of human affairs. - -The Duchess of Wiltshire was a mighty personage in the Hardacres' part -of the county. She made social laws and abrogated them. She gave and she -took away the brevet of county rank. She made and unmade marriages. To -fall under the ban of her displeasure was to be disgraced indeed. She -held a double sway in that the duke, her husband, had delegated to her -his authority in sublunary matters, he being a severe mathematician and -a dry astronomer, who looked at the world out of dull eyes, and regarded -it with indifference as a mass of indistinguishable atoms forming a -nebula, a sort of Milky Way, concerning which philosophic minds had from -time to time theorised. He lived icily remote from society; the duchess, -on the contrary, was warmly interested in its doings. In the county she -reigned absolute; but in London, recognising the fact that there -were other duchesses scattered about Mayfair and Belgravia, she was -high-minded enough to modify her claims to despotic government. She felt -it, however, her duty to decree that her last reception should mark the -end of the London season. - -To this reception the Hardacres were always invited. - -In previous years they had mounted the great staircase of Wiltshire -House, their names had been called out, the duchess had given them the -tips of her fingers, and the duke, tall, white-haired, ascetic, had let -them touch his hand with the air of a man absently watching ants crawl -over him; they had passed on, mixed with the crowd, and seen their -host and hostess no more. But this year, to Mrs. Hardacre's thrilling -delight, the duchess gave her quite a friendly squeeze, smiled her -entire approbation of Mrs. Hardacre's existence, and detained her for a -moment in conversation. - -“Don't forget to come and have a little talk with me later. I have n't -seen you since dear Norma's engagement.” - -To dear Norma she was equally urbane, called her a lucky girl, and -presented her as a bride-elect to the duke, who murmured a vague formula -of congratulation which he had remembered from early terrestrial days. - -“I can't tell you how proud I am of you, Norma!” said Mrs. Hardacre, -with a lump in her throat, as they passed on. “The dear duchess! I -wonder if I am sufficiently grateful to Providence.” - -Norma, although in her heart pleased by the manifestation of ducal -favour, could not let the opportunity for a taunt pass by. - -“You can refer to it in your prayers, mother: 'O God, I thank Thee for -shedding Her Grace upon me.' Won't that do, father.” - -“Eh, what?” asked Mr. Hardacre, very red in the face, trailing half a -pace behind his wife and daughter. - -Norma repeated her form of Thanksgiving. - -“Ha! ha! Devilish good! Tell that in the club,” he said in high -good-humour. His wife's glance suddenly withered him. - -“I don't approve of blasphemy,” she said. - -“Towards whom, mother dear?” asked Norma, suavely. “The Almighty or the -duchess?” - -“Both,” said Mrs. Hardacre, with a snap. - -Mr. Hardacre, seeing in the distance a man to whom he thought he could -sell a horse, escaped from the domestic wrangle. Mother and daughter -wandered through the crowd, greeted by friends, pausing here and there -to exchange a few words, until they came to the door of the music-room, -filled to overflowing, where an operatic singer held the assembly in -well-bred silence. At the door the crush was ten deep. On the outskirts -conversation hummed like an echo of the noise from the suite of rooms -behind. There they were joined by Morland. Mrs. Hardacre told him of the -duchess's graciousness. He grinned, taking the information with the air -of a man to whom the favour of duchesses bestowed upon his betrothed -is a tribute to his own excellence. He thought she would be pleased, he -said. They must get the old girl to come to the wedding. Mrs. Hardacre -was pained, but she granted young love indulgence for the profanity. -If they only could, she assented, the success of the ceremony would be -assured. Norma turned to Morland with a laugh. - -“We shall be married with a vengeance, if it's sanctified by the -duchess. Do you think a parson is at all necessary?” - -He joined in her mirth. She drew him aside. - -“Well, what's the news?” - -He accounted, loverwise, for his day.. At last he said: - -“I looked in upon Jimmie Padgate this morning. I wanted him to go to -Christie's and buy a picture or two for me--for us, I ought to say,” - he added, with a little bow. “He knows more about 'em than I do. He's a -happy beggar, you know,” he exclaimed, after a short pause. - -“What makes you say so?” - -“His perfect conviction that everything is for the best in the best of -all possible worlds. There he was sitting at lunch over the black scrag -end of a boiled mutton bone and a rind of some astonishing-looking -yellow cheese--absolutely happy. And he waved his hand towards it as if -it had been a feast of Lucullus and asked me to share it.” - -“Did you?” asked Norma. - -“I had n't time,” said Morland. “I was fearfully busy to-day.” - -Norma did not reply. She looked over the heads of the crowd in front -of her towards the music-room whence came the full notes of the singer. -Then she said to him with a little shiver: - -“I am glad you are a rich man, Morland.” - -“So am I. Otherwise I should not have got you.” - -“That's true enough,” she said. “I pretend to scoff at all this, but I -could n't live without it.” - -“It has its points,” he assented, turning and regarding the brilliant -scene. - -Norma turned with him. She was glad it was her birthright and her -marriage-right. The vast state ballroom, lit as with full daylight by -rows of electric lamps cunningly hidden behind the cornices and -the ground-glass panels of the ceiling, stately with its Corinthian -pilasters and classic frieze, its walls adorned with priceless pictures, -notably four full-length cavaliers of Vandyck, smiling down in their -high-bred way upon this assembly of their descendants, its atmosphere -glittering with jewels, radiant with colour, contained all the -magnificence, all the aristocracy, all the ambitions, all the ideals -that she had been trained to worship, to set before her as the lodestars -of her life's destiny. Here and there from amid the indistinguishable -mass of diamonds, the white flesh of women's shoulders, the black and -white chequer and brilliant uniforms of men, flashed out the familiar -features of some possessor of an historic name, some woman of -world-famed beauty, some great personage whose name was on the lips of -Europe. There, by the wall, lonely for the moment, stood the Chinese -Ambassador, in loose maroon silk, and horse-tail plumed cap, his yellow, -wizened face rendered more sardonic by the thin drooping grey moustache -and thin grey imperial, looking through horn spectacles, expressionless, -impassive, inhumanly indifferent, at one of the most splendid scenes a -despised civilisation could set before him. There, in the centre of a -group of envious and unembarrassed ladies, an Indian potentate blazed in -diamonds and emeralds, and rolled his dusky eyes on charms which (most -oddly to his Oriental conceptions) belonged to other men. Here a Turk's -red fez, a Knight of the Garter's broad blue sash, an ambassador's -sparkle of stars and orders; and there the sweet, fresh rosebud beauty -of a girl caught for a moment and lost in the moving press. And there, -at the end of the vast, living hall, a dimly seen haggard woman, with -a diamond tiara on her grey hair, surrounded by a little court of the -elect, sat Her Serene Highness, the Princess of Herren-Rothbeck, sister -to a reigning monarch, and bosom friend, despite the pretty quarrel, of -Her Grace the Duchess of Wiltshire. - -The song in the music-room coming to an end, the audience for the most -part rose and pressed into the ballroom. The Hardacres and Morland were -driven forward. There was a long period of desultory conversation with -acquaintances. Morland, proud in the possession of Norma's beauty, -remained dutifully attendant, and received congratulations with almost -blushing gratification. Mrs. Hardacre, preoccupied by anticipation of -her promised talk with the duchess, kept casting distracted glances at -the door whereby the great lady would enter. The appearance from a group -of neighbouring people of a pleasant young fellow with a fair moustache -and very thin fair hair, who greeted her cordially, brought her back -to the affairs of the moment. This was the Honourable Charlie Sandys, -a distant relative of the duchess, and her Grand Vizier, Master of the -Horse, Groom of the Chambers, and general right-hand man. He was two and -twenty, and had all the amazing wisdom of that ingenuous age. Morland -shook hands with him, but being tapped on the arm by the fan of a -friendly dowager, left him to converse alone with Mrs. Hardacre and -Norma. The youth indicated Morland's retiring figure by a jerk of the -head. - -“Parliament--Cosford division.” - -“We hope so,” said Mrs. Hardacre. - -“Must get in. Radical for her constituency would make duchess buy her -coffin. The end of the world for her. She has a great idea of King. -Going to take him up _con amore_. And when she does take anybody up-- -well--” - -His wave of the hand signified the tremendous consequences. - -“She does n't merely uproot _him_,” said Norma, whose mind now and -then worked with disconcerting swiftness, “but she takes up also the -half-acre where he is planted.” - -“Just so,” replied the youth. “Not only him, but his manservant and -maidservant, his ox and his ass and everything that is his. Funny woman, -you know--one of the best, of course, but quaint. Thinks the Member for -Cosford is ordained by Providence to represent her in Parliament.” - -He rattled on, highly pleased with himself. Norma cast a malicious -glance at her mother, who perceptibly winced. They were shining in the -duchess's eyes in a light borrowed from Morland. They were taken up with -the ox and the ass and the remainder of Morland's live-stock. That was -the reason, then, of the exceptional marks of favour bestowed on them by -Her Grace. Mrs. Hardacre kept the muscles of her lips at the smile, but -her steely eyes grew hard. Norma, on the contrary, was enjoying herself. -Charlie Sandys was unconscious of the little comedy. - -“I am glad to see the princess here to-night,” said Mrs. Hardacre, by -way of turning the conversation. - -The youth made practically the same reply as he had made at least a -dozen times to the same remark during the course of the evening. He -was an injudicious Groom of the Chambers, being vain of the privileges -attached to his post. - -“There has been an awful row, you know,” he said confidentially, looking -round to see that he was not overheard. “They have scarcely made it up -yet.” - -“Do tell us about it, Mr. Sandys,” said Norma, smiling upon him. - -“It's rather a joke. Let us get out of the way and I'll tell you.” - -He piloted them through the crush into a corridor, and found them a -vacant seat by some palms. - -“It's all about pictures,” he resumed. “Princess wants to have her -portrait painted in London. Why she should n't have it made in Germany I -don't know. Anyhow she comes to duchess for advice. Duchess has taken -up Foljambe, you know--chap that has painted about twenty miles of women -full length--” - -“We saw the dear duchess at his Private View,” Mrs. Hardacre -interjected. - -“Yes. She runs him for all she's worth. Told the princess there was -only one man possible for her portrait, and that was Foljambe. -Princess--she's as hard as nails, you know--inquires his price, knocks -him down half. He agrees. Everything is arranged. Princess to sit -for the portrait when she stays with duchess at Chiltern Towers in -September--” - -“Oh, we are going to have the princess down with us?” Mrs. Hardacre grew -more alert. - -“Yes. Couldn't find time to sit now--going next week to -Herren-Rothbeck--coming back in September. Well, it was all settled -nicely--you know the duchess's way. On Friday, however, she takes the -princess to see Foljambe's show--for the first time. Just like her. -The princess looks round, drops her lorgnon, cries out, 'Lieber Gott -in Himmel! The man baints as if he was bainting on de bavement!' and -utterly refuses to have anything to do with him. I tell you there were -ructions!” - -He embraced a knee and leant back, laughing boyishly at the memory of -the battle royal between the high-born dames. - -“Then who is going to paint the portrait?” asked Norma. - -“That's what I am supposed to find out,” replied the youth. “But I can't -get a man to do it cheap enough. One can't go to a swell R. A. and ask -him to paint a portrait of a princess for eighteen pence.” - -Norma had an inspiration. - -“Can I recommend a friend of mine?” - -“Would he do it?”, - -“I think so--if I asked him.” - -“By Jove, who is he?” asked the youth, pulling down his shirtcuff for -the purpose of making memoranda. - -“Mr. James Padgate, 10 Friary Grove, N. W. He is Mr. King's most -intimate friend.” - -“He can paint all right, can't he?” asked the youth. - -“Beautifully,” replied Norma. “Friary, not Priory,” she corrected, -watching him make the note. She felt the uncommon satisfaction of having -performed a virtuous act; one almost of penance for her cruelty to -him on Sunday week, the memory of which had teased a not over-sensitive -conscience. The scrag end of boiled mutton and the rind of cheese had -also affected her, stirred her pity for the poor optimist, although in -a revulsion of feeling she had shivered at his lot. She had closed her -eyes for a second, and some impish wizardry of the brain had conjured -up a picture of herself sitting down to such a meal, with Jimmie at the -other side of the table. It was horrible. She had turned to fill -her soul with the solid magnificence about her. The pity for Jimmie -lingered, however, as a soothing sensation, and she welcomed the -opportunity of playing Lady Bountiful. She glanced with some malice from -the annotated cuff to her mother's face, expecting to see the glitter -of disapproval in her eyes. To her astonishment, Mrs. Hardacre wore an -expression of pleased abstraction. - -Charlie Sandys pocketed his gold pencil and retired. He was a young man -with the weight of many affairs on his shoulders. - -“That's a capital idea of yours, Norma,” said Mrs. Hardacre. - -“I'm glad you think so,” replied Norma, wonderingly. - -“I do. It was most happy. We'll do all we can to help Morland's friend. -A most interesting man. And if the princess gives him the commission, -we can ask him down to Heddon to stay with us while he is painting the -picture.” - -Norma was puzzled. Hitherto her mother had turned up the nose of -distaste against Mr. Padgate and all his works. Whence this sudden -change? Not from sweet charitableness, that was certain. Hardly from -desire to please Morland. Various solutions ran in her head. Did an -overweening ambition prompt her mother to start forth a rival to the -duchess, as a snapper up of unconsidered painters? Scarcely possible. -Defiance of the duchess? That way madness could only lie; and she was -renowned for the subtle caution of her social enterprises. The little -problem of motive interested her keenly. At last the light flashed upon -her, and she looked at Mrs. Hardacre almost with admiration. - -“What a wonderful brain you have, mother!” she cried, half mockingly, -half in earnest. “Fancy your having schemed out all that in three -minutes.” - -Enjoyment of this display of worldcraft was still in her eyes when -she came across Morland a little later; but she only told him of her -recommendation of Jimmie to paint the princess's portrait. He professed -delight. How had she come to think of it? - -“I think I must have caught the disease of altruism from Mr. Padgate,” - she said. Then following up an idle train of thought: - -“I suppose you often put work--portraits and things--in his way?” - -“I can't say that I do.” - -“Why not? You know hundreds of wealthy people.” - -“Jimmie is not a man to be patronised,” said Morland, sententiously, -“and really, you know, I can't go about touting for commissions for -him.” - -“Of course not,” said Norma; “he is far too insignificant a person to -trouble one's head about.” - -Morland looked pained. - -“I don't like to hear you talk in that way about Jimmie,” he said -reproachfully. - -The little scornful curl appeared on her lip. - -“Don't you?” was all she vouchsafed to say. Unreasonably irritated, -she turned aside and caught a passing _attache_ of the French Embassy. -Morland, dismissed, sauntered off, and Norma went down to supper -with the young Frenchman, who entertained her for half an hour with a -technical description of his motor-car. And the trouble, he said, to -keep it in order. It needed all the delicate cares of a baby. It was as -variable as a woman. - -“I know,” said Norma, stifling a yawn. “_La donna e automobile_.” - -On the drive home in the hired brougham, whose obvious hiredom caused -Norma such chafing of spirit, Mrs. Hardacre glowed with triumph, and -while her husband dozed dejectedly opposite, she narrated her good -fortunes. She had had her little chat with the duchess. They had -spoken of Mr. Padgate, Charlie Sandys having run to show her his cuff -immediately. The duchess looked favourably on the proposal. A friend -of Mr. King's was a recommendation in itself. But the princess, she -asseverated with ducal disregard of metaphor, had her own ideas of art -and would not buy a pig in a poke. They must inspect Mr. Padgate's work -before there was any question of commission. She would send Charlie -Sandys to them to-morrow to talk over the necessary arrangements. - -“I told her,” said Mrs. Hardacre, “that Mr. Padgate was coming to pay us -a visit in any case in September, and suggested that he could drive over -to Chiltern Towers every morning while the princess was honouring him -with sittings, and paint the picture there. And she quite jumped at the -idea.” - -“No doubt,” said Norma, drily. - -But her dryness had no withering effect on her mother's exuberance. The -hard woman saw the goal of a life's ambition within easy reach, and for -the exultant moment softened humanly. She chattered like a school-girl. - -“And she took me up to the princess,” she said, “and presented me -as her nearest country neighbour. Was n't that nice of her? And the -princess is such a sweet woman.” - -“Dear, dear!” said Norma. “How wicked people are! Every one says she is -the most vinegarish old cat in Christendom.” - - - - -Chapter IX--SENTIMENTAL EDUCATION - -FAME and fortune were coming at last. There was no doubt of it in -Jimmie's optimistic mind. For years they had lagged with desperately -heavy feet, but now they were in sight, slowly approaching, hand in -hand. Jimmie made fantastic preparations to welcome them, and wore his -most radiant smile. In vain did Aline, with her practical young woman's -view of things, point to the exiguity of the price fixed by Her Serene -Highness. If that was the advent of fortune, she came in very humble -guise, the girl insinuated. Jimmie, with a magnificent sweep of the -hand, dismissed such contemptible considerations as present pounds, -shillings, and pence. He was going to paint the portrait of the sister -of a reigning monarch. Did not Aline see that this might lead to his -painting the portrait of the reigning monarch himself? Would not the -counterfeit presentment of one crowned head attract the attention of -other crowned heads to the successful artist? Did she not see him -then appointed painter in ordinary to all the emperors, kings, queens, -princes, and princesses of Europe? He would star the Continent, make -a royal progress from court to court, disputed for by potentates and -flattered by mighty sovereigns. He grew dithyrambic, a condition -in which Aline regarded him as hopelessly impervious to reason. His -portraits, he said, would adorn halls of state, and the dreams that he -put on canvas, hitherto disregarded by a blind world, would find places -of honour in the Treasure Houses of the Nations. It would be fame for -him and fortune for Aline. She should go attired in silk and shod with -gold. She should have a stall at the theatre whenever she wanted, and a -carriage and pair to fetch her home. She should eat vanilla ices every -night. And then she might marry a prince and live happy ever after. - -“I don't want to marry a prince or any one else, dear,” Aline said once, -bringing visions down into the light of common day. “I just want to go -on staying with you.” - -On another occasion she hinted at his possible espousal of a princess. -Again Jimmie dropped from the empyrean, and rubbed his head ruefully. -There was only one princess in the world for him, an enthroned personage -of radiant beauty who now and then took warm pity on him and admitted -him to her friendship, but of whom it were disloyalty worse than all -folly to think of. And yet he could not help his heart leaping at the -sight of her, or the thrill quivering through him when he saw the rare -softness come into her eyes which he and none other had evoked. What he -had to give her he could give to no other woman, no other princess. The -gift was unoffered: it remained in his own keeping, but consecrated to -the divinity. He enshrined it, as many another poor chivalrous wretch -has done, in an exquisite sanctuary, making it the symbol of a vague -sweet religion whose secret observances brought consolation. But of all -this, not a whisper, not a sign to Aline. When she spoke of marriageable -princesses, he explained the rueful rubbing of his head by reference to -his unattractive old fogeydom, and his unfitness for the life of high -society. - -But Aline ought to have her prince. The coming fortune would help to -give the girl what was due to her. For himself he cared nothing. Cold -mutton and heel of cheese would satisfy him to the end of his days. -And fame? In quieter moments he shrugged his shoulders. An artist has -a message to deliver to his generation, and how can he deliver it if he -cannot sell his pictures? Let him give out to the world what was best -in him, and he would be content. Let him but be able to say, “I have -delivered my message,” and that would be fame enough. - -These were things of the depths. The surface of his mood was exuberant, -almost childish, delight, tempered with whimsical diffidence in his -power of comporting himself correctly towards such high personages. For -the duchess, who never did things by halves, and was also determined, -as she had said, of not buying a pig in a poke, had conveyed to him -the intimation that Her Serene Highness the Princess of Herren-Rothbeck -would honour him with a visit to his studio on the following Thursday. -Jimmie and Aline held long counsel together. What was the proper way to -receive a Serene Highness? Jimmie had a vague idea of an awning -outside the door and a strip of red baize down the steps and across the -pavement. Tony Merewether, who was called into consultation, suggested, -with the flippancy of youth, a brass band and a chorus of maidens to -strew flowers; whereat Aline turned her back upon him, and Jimmie, -adding pages in fancy dress to hold up the serene train and a major-domo -in a court suit with a wand, encouraged the offender. Aline retired from -so futile a discussion and went on sewing in dignified silence. At last -she condescended to throw out a suggestion. - -“If I were you, Jimmie, I should get the princess some portraits to look -at.” - -“God bless my soul,” cried Jimmie, putting down his pipe, “I never -thought of it. Tony, my boy, that child with the innocence of the dove -combines the wisdom of the original serpent. My brain reels to think -what I should be without her. We'll telegraph to all the people that -have sat to me and ask them to send in their portraits by Thursday.” - -He crossed the studio and began to rummage among the litter on the long -table. Aline asked him what he was looking for. - -“Telegram forms. Why have n't we got any? Tony, run round the corner to -the post-office, like a good boy, and get some.” - -But Aline checked the execution of this maniacal project. Three -portraits would be quite sufficient. Jimmie would have to pick out three -ladies of whom he could best ask such a favour, and write them polite -little notes and offer to send a van in the orthodox way to collect the -pictures. Jimmie bowed before such sagacity, and wrote the letters. - -In the course of the week the portraits arrived, and the studio for a -whole day became the undisputed kingdom of Aline and a charwoman. The -long untidy table, so dear to Jimmie, was ruthlessly cleared and set in -dismaying order. The frame-maker was summoned, and the unsold pictures -that had long slumbered sadly on the ground with their faces to the -wall, were dusted and hung in advantageous lights. The square of Persian -carpet, which Jimmie during an unprotected walk through Regent Street -had once bought for Aline's bedroom, was brought down and spread on the -bare boards of the model-platform. A few cushions were scattered about -the rusty drawing-room suite, and various odds and ends of artists' -properties, bits of drapery, screens, old weapons, were brought to light -and used for purposes of decoration. So that when Jimmie, who had been -banished the house for the day, returned in the evening, he found a -flushed and exhausted damsel awaiting him in a transfigured studio. - -“My dear little girl,” he said, touched, “my dear little girl, it's -beautiful, it's magical. But you have tired yourself to death. Why did -n't you let me do all this?” - -“You would never have done it yourself, Jimmie. You know you wouldn't,” - said Aline. “You would have gone on talking nonsense about red baize -strips and flower-girls and pages--anything to make those about you -laugh and be happy--and you would never have thought of showing off what -you have to its full advantage.” - -“I should never have dreamed of robbing your poor little room of its -carpet, dear,” he said. - -They went upstairs for their simple evening meal, and returned as usual -to the beloved studio. Aline filled Jimmie's pipe. - -“Do you think I dare smoke in all this magnificence?” - -She laughed and struck a match. - -“You did not realise what a lot of beautiful pictures you had, did you?” - -“They make a brave show,” he said, looking round. “After all, I'm not -entirely sorry they have never been sold. I should not like to part -with them. No, I did not realise how many there were.” In spite of -his cheeriness the last words sounded a note of pathos that caught the -girl's sensitive ear. - -“'Let us make a tour of inspection,” she said. They went the round, -pausing long before each picture. He said little, contrary to his habit, -for he was wont to descant on his work with playful magniloquence. He -saw the years unfold behind him and disclose the hopes of long ago yet -unfulfilled. What endless months of dreams and thrills and passionate -toil hung profitless upon these walls! Things there were, wrought from -the depths of his radiant faith in man, plucked from the heart of his -suffering, consecrated by the purest visions of his soul. Had Aline been -an older woman, a woman who had loved him, lived with him in a wife's -intimate communion, instead of being merely the tender-hearted child -of his adoption, she would have wept her heart out. For she, alone of -mortals, would have got behind such imperfections as there were, and -would have seen nothing but a crucifixion of the quivering things torn -out of the life of the beloved man. Only vaguely, elusively did the -girl feel this. But even her half-comprehending sympathy was of great -comfort. She thought no one in the world could paint like Jimmie, and -held in angry contempt a public that could pass him by. She was hotly -his advocate, furious at his rejection by hanging committees, miserably -disappointed when his pictures came back from exhibitions unsold, or -when negotiations with dealers for rights of reproduction fell through. -But she was too young to pierce to the heart of the tragedy; and Jimmie -was too brave and laughter-loving to show his pain. Other forces, -too, had been at work in her development. Recently her mind had been -grappling with the problem of her unpayable debt to him. This silent -pilgrimage round the years brought her thoughts instinctively to herself -and the monstrous burden she had been. - -“I have been wondering lately, Jimmie dear,” she said at last, “whether -you would not have been more successful if you had not had all the worry -and expense and responsibility of me.” - -“Good Lord!” he cried in simple amazement, “whatever are you talking -of?” - -She repeated her apologia, though in less coherent terms. She felt -foolish, as a girl does when a carefully prepared expression of feeling -falls upon ears which, though inexpressibly dear, are nevertheless not -quite comprehending. - -“You have had to do pot-boilers,” she said, falling into miserable -bathos, “and I remember the five-shillings-a-dozen landscapes--and you -would have spent all that time on your real work--Oh, don't you see what -I mean, Jimmie?” - -She looked up at him pathetically--she was a slight slip of a girl, and -he was above the medium height. He smiled and took her fresh young face -between his hands. - -“My dear,” he said, “you're the only successful piece of work I've -ever turned out in my life. Please allow me to have some artistic -satisfaction--and you have been worth a gold-mine to me.” - -Thus each was comforted. Jimmie settled down to his pipe and a book, -Aline sat over her sewing--the articles to which she devoted her -perennial industry were a never solved mystery to him--and they spent a -pleasant evening. The inevitable topic naturally arose in conversation. -They discussed the princess's visit, the great question--how was she to -be received? - -“The best thing you can do,” said the practical Aline, “is to go to Mrs. -Deering to-morrow and get properly coached.” - -Jimmie looked at her in admiration. - -“You are worth your weight in diamonds,” he said. “I will.” - -He carried out his project, and not only did he have the pleasure of -finding Connie at home undisturbed by strange tea-drinking women, but -Norma Hardacre came in soon after his arrival. The two ladies formed -themselves into a committee of advice, and sent Jimmie home with most -definite notions regarding the correct method of receiving Serene -Highnesses. He also brought Aline the news that the committee would -honour him with a visit the following morning, accompanied by Mrs. -Hardacre, who had been pleased to express a desire to see his pictures. - -The appointed hour came, and with it the ladies. Mrs. Hardacre's lips -smiled sweetly at the man who was to be taken up by a duchess and to -paint the portrait of a princess. She declared herself delighted with -the studio and professed admiration for the pictures. - -“Are they all really your own, Mr. Padgate?” she asked, turning towards -him, her tortoise-shell lorgnon held sceptre-wise. - -“I'm afraid so,” answered Jimmie, with a smile. “Sometimes I wish they -were not so much my own.” - -“But I should feel quite proud of them, if I were you,” said the lady, -desirous to please. - -Connie broke into a laugh, and explained that Jimmie had implied a -regret that they had found no purchasers. Mrs. Hardacre sniffed. She did -not like being laughed at, especially as she had gone out of her way to -be urbane. This was unfortunate for Jimmie; for though he strove hard to -remove the impression that he had consciously dug a pit of ridicule for -her entrapment, Mrs. Hardacre listened to his remarks with suspicion -and became painfully aware of the shabbiness of his coat. Presently she -regarded one of the portraits--that of a pretty, fluffy-haired woman. - -“Dear me,” she remarked somewhat frigidly, “that is Mrs. Marmaduke -Hewson.” - -Jimmie, in the simplicity of his heart, was delighted. - -“Yes. A most charming lady. Do you know her?” - -“Oh, no; I don't know her, but I know of her.” - -Her stress on the preposition signified even deeper and more -far-reaching things than the nod of Lord Burleigh in the play. - -“What do you know of her?” asked Jimmie, bluntly. Mrs. Hardacre smiled -frostily, and her lean shoulders moved in an imperceptible shrug. - -“Those matters belong to the realm of unhappy gossip, Mr. Padgate; but -I'm afraid the duchess won't find her portrait attractive.” - -“It is really rather a good portrait,” said Jimmie, in puzzled modesty. - -“That is the pity of it,” replied Mrs. Hardacre, sweetly. - -The victim smiled. “Surely the private character of the subject can have -nothing to do with a person's judgment of a portrait as a specimen of -the painter's art. And besides, Mrs. Hewson is as dear and sweet and -true a little woman as I have ever met.” - -“You are not the first of your sex that has said so.” - -“And I most sincerely hope I shall not be the last,” said Jimmie, with -a little flush and a little flash in his eyes and the politest of little -bows. Whereupon Mrs. Hardacre bit her lip and hated him. Norma, seizing -the opportunity of contributing to the final rout of her mother, -unwittingly did Jimmie some damage. - -“We women ought not to have given up fancy work,” she said in her -hardest and most artificial tones. “As we don't embroider with our -fingers, we embroider with our tongues. You can have no idea what an -elaborate tissue of lies has been woven about that poor little Mrs. -Hewson. I agree with Mr. Padgate. I am sorry you believe them, mother.” - -Jimmie's grateful glance smote her undeserving heart. She had gained -credit under false pretences and felt hypocritical--an unpleasant -feeling, for the assumption of unpossessed virtues was not one of her -faults. She succeeded, however, in rendering her mother furious. In a -very short time Mrs. Hardacre remembered an engagement and went away in -a hansom-cab, refusing the seat in Connie's carriage, which was put at -her disposal on the condition of her waiting a few moments longer. She -had thanked Jimmie, however, for the pleasure afforded by his delightful -pictures with such politeness when he saw her into the cab, that he did -not for a moment suspect that the lady who had entered the house with -expressions of friendliness had driven away in a rage, with feelings -towards him ludicrously hostile. He returned to the studio at peace -with all womankind; not sorry that Mrs. Hardacre had departed, but only -because courtesy no longer demanded his relegating to the second sphere -of his attention the divine personage of whom he felt himself to be the -slave. No suspicion of Mrs. Hardacre's spiteful motive in deprecating -the display of his most striking piece of portraiture ever entered his -head. He ran down the studio stairs with the eagerness of a boy released -from the flattering but embarrassing society of his elders and free to -enjoy the companionship of his congeners. And he was childishly eager to -show his pictures to Norma, to hear her verdict, to secure her approval, -so that he should stand in her eyes as a person in some humble way -worthy of the regard that Morland said she bestowed on him. - -He found his visitors not looking at pictures at all, but talking to -Aline, who rushed to him as soon as he entered the studio. - -“Oh, Jimmie--just fancy! Mrs. Deering is going to take me to Horlingham -on Saturday, and is coming upstairs with me to see what I can do in the -way of a frock. You don't mind, do you?” - -Jimmie looked down into the happy young face and laughed a happy laugh. - -“Mrs. Deering is an angel from the most exclusive part of heaven,” he -said. And this was one of the rare occasions on which he was guilty of a -double meaning. Had not the angel thus contrived an unlooked-for joy--a -few minutes' undisturbed communion with his divinity? - -The first words that Norma spoke when they were alone were an apology. - -“You must not take what my mother said in ill part. She and I have been -bred, I'm afraid, in a hard school.” - -“It was very kind of Mrs. Hardacre to warn me of the possibility of the -duchess being prejudiced against me by the exhibition of a particular -portrait. I can't conceive the possibility myself. But still Mrs. -Hardacre's intention was kindly.” - -Norma turned her head away for a moment. She could not trust herself to -speak, for a stinging sarcasm with just a touch of the hysterical would -have been all she could utter, and she had not the heart to undeceive -him. She shot into the by-path of the gossip concerning Mrs. Hewson. - -“Mother believes the stories about her. So do I in the loose sort of -way in which our faith in anything is composed--even in our -fellow-creatures' failings.” - -“You defended her,” said Jimmie. - -“You made me do so.” - -“I?” - -“Either you, because you carry about with you an uncomfortable Palace of -Truth sort of atmosphere, or else the desire to rub it into my mother.” - -“Rub what in?” Jimmie was puzzled. - -Norma laughed somewhat bitterly. She saw that he was incapable of -understanding the vulgar pettiness of the scheme of motives that -had prompted the utterances of her mother and herself. She could not -explain. - -“I think you are born out of your century,” she said. - -It was lucky for Jimmie that he was unaware of the passionate tribute -the light words implied. She gave him no time to answer, but carried him -straight to the pictures. - -“I had no idea you did such beautiful work,” she said, looking around -her. - -Jimmie followed her glance, and the melancholy of the artist laid its -touch for a moment upon him. He sighed. - -“They might have been beautiful if I had done what I started out to do. -It is the eternal tragedy of the clipped wings.” - -She was oddly responsive to a vibration in his voice, and gave out, like -a passive violin, the harmonic of the struck note. - -“Better to have wings that are clipped than to have no wings at all.” - -She had never uttered such a sentiment, never thought such a thought in -her life before. Her words sounded unreal in her own ears, and yet she -had a profound sense of their sincerity. - -“There is no apteryx among human souls,” said Jimmie, released from the -melancholy fingers. They argued the point in a lighter vein, discussed -individual pictures. Charmed by her sympathy, he spoke freely of his -work, his motives, his past dreams. Had Norma not begun to know him, she -might have wondered at the lack of bitterness in his talk. To this man -of many struggles and many crushing disappointments the world was still -young and sweet, and his faith in the ultimate righteousness of things -undimmed. The simple courage of his attitude towards life moved her -admiration. She felt somewhat humbled in the presence of a spirit -stronger, clearer than any into which chance had hitherto afforded her -a glimpse. And as he talked in his bright, half-earnest, half-humourous -way, it crossed her mind that there was a fair world of thought and -emotion in which she and her like had not set their feet; not the world -entirely of poetic and artistic imaginings, but one where inner things -mattered more than outer circumstance, where it would not be ridiculous -or affected to think of the existence of a soul and its needs and their -true fulfilment. - -Hitherto meeting him as an alien in her world, she had regarded him with -a touch of patronising pity. From this she was now free. She saw him for -the first time in harmony with his environment, as the artist sensitive -and responsive, integral with the beautiful creations that hung around -the walls, and still homely and simple, bearing the rubs of time as -bravely and frankly as the old drawing-room suite that furnished -the unpretentious studio. Now it was she who felt herself somewhat -disconcertingly out of her element. The sensation, however, had a -curious charm. - -There was one picture that had attracted her from the first. She stood -in front of it moved by its pity and tenderness. - -“Tell me about this one,” she said without looking at him. She divined -that it was very near his heart. - -In the foreground amid laughing woodland crouched a faun with little -furry ears and stumps of horns, and he was staring in piteous terror at -a vision; and the vision was that of a shivering, outcast woman on a wet -pavement in a sordid street. - -“It is the joyous, elemental creature's first conception of pain,” said -Jimmie, after a few moments' silence. “You see, life has been to him only -the sunshine, and the earth drenched with colour and music--as the earth -ought to be--and now he sees a world that is coming grey with rain and -misty with tears, and he has the horror of it in his eyes. I am not -given to such moralising in paint,” he added with a smile. “This is a -very early picture.” He looked at it for some time with eyes growing -wistful. “Yes,” he sighed, “I did it many years ago.” - -“It has a history then?” - -“Yes,” he admitted; and he remembered how the outcast figure in the rain -had symbolised that little funeral procession in Paris and how terribly -grey the world had been. - -Norma's chastened mood had not awed the spirit of mockery within her, -but had rendered it less bitter, and had softened her voice. She waved -her hand towards the crouching faun. - -“And that is you?” she asked. - -Jimmie caught a kind raillery in her glance, and laughed. Yes, she had -his secret; was the only person who had ever guessed him beneath the -travesty of horns and goat's feet. - -“I like you for laughing,” she said. - -“Why?” - -“Other painters have shown me their pictures.” - -“Which signifies--?” - -“That this is one of the most beautiful pictures I have ever seen,” she -replied. - -“But why are you glad that I laughed?” asked Jimmie, in happy puzzledom. - -“I have told you, Mr. Padgate, all that I am going to tell you.” - -“I accept the inscrutable,” said he. - -“Do you believe in the old pagan joy of life?” she asked after a pause. -“I mean, was there, is there such a thing? One has heard of it; in fact -it is a catch phrase that any portentous poseur has on the tip of -his tongue. When one comes to examine it, however, it generally means -champagne and oysters and an unpresentable lady, and it ends with -liver and--and all sorts of things, don't you know. But you are not a -poseur--I think you are the honestest man I have ever met--and yet you -paint this creature as if you utterly believe in what he typifies.” - -“It would go hard with me if I did n't,” said Jimmie. “I can't talk to -you in philosophic terms and explain all my reasons, because I have read -very little philosophy. When I do try, my head gets addled. I knew a -chap once who used to devour Berkeley and Kant and all the rest, and -used to write about them, and I used to sit at his feet in a kind of -awed wonder at the tremendousness of his brain. A man called Smith. He -was colossally clever,” he added after a reflective pause. “But I can -only grope after the obvious. Don't you think the beauty of the world is -obvious?” - -“It all depends upon which world,” said Norma. - -“Which world? Why, God's world. It is sweet to draw the breath of life. -I love living; don't you?” - -“I have never thought of it,” she answered. “I should n't like to die, -it is true, but I don't know why. Most people seem to spend two-thirds -of their existence in a state of boredom, and the rest in sleep.” - -“That is because they reject my poor faun's inheritance.” - -“I have been asking you what that is.” - -“The joy and laughter of life. They put it from them.” - -“How?” - -“They draw the soul's curtains and light the gas, instead of letting -God's sunshine stream in.” - -Norma turned away from the picture with a laugh. - -“That reminds me of the first time I met you. You told me to go and -ventilate my soul. It gave me quite a shock, I assure you. But I have -been trying to follow your precept ever since. Don't you think I am a -little bit fresher?” - -For the moment the girl still lingering in her five-and-twenty hard -years flashed to the surface, adorably warming the cold, finely -sculptured face, and bringing rare laughter into her eyes. Jimmie -marvelled at the infinite sweetness of her, and fed his poor hungry soul -thereon. - -“You look like a midsummer morning,” he said unsteadily. - -The tone caught her, sobered her; but the colour deepened on her cheek. - -“I'll treasure that as a pretty compliment,” she said. There was a -little space of silence--quite a perilous little space, with various -unsaid things lurking in ambush. Norma broke it first. - -“Now I have seen everything, have n't I? No. There are some on the floor -against the wall.” - -Jimmie explained their lack of value, showed her two or three. They were -mostly the wasters from his picture factory, he said. She found in each -a subject for admiration, and Jimmie glowed with pleasure at her praise. -While he was replacing them she moved across the studio. - -“And this one?” she asked, with her finger on the top of a strainer. He -looked round and followed swiftly to her side. It was her own portrait -with its face to the wall. - -“I am not going to show you that,” he said hurriedly. - -“Why not?” - -“It's a crazy thing.” - -“I should love to see it.” - -“I tell you it's a crazy thing,” he repeated. “A mad artist's dream.” - -Norma arched her eyebrows. “Aha! That is very like a confession!” - -“Of what?” - -“The ideal woman?” - -“Perhaps,” he said. - -“I thought everything was so positive in your scheme of life,” she -remarked teasingly. “Don't you know?” - -“Yes,” said Jimmie, “I know.” - -Again the vibration that Jimmie, poorest of actors, could not keep from -his voice, stirred her. She felt the indelicacy of having trodden upon -sanctified ground. She turned away and sat down. They talked of other -matters, somewhat self-consciously. Both welcomed the entrance of Connie -Deering and Aline. The former filled the studio at once with laughing -chatter. She hoped Norma had not turned Jimmie's hair white with the -dreadful things she must have said. - -“I don't turn a hair, as I'm a mere worldling, but Jimmie is an -unsophisticated child of nature, and is n't accustomed to you, my dear -Norma.” - -She went on to explain that she was Jimmie's natural protectress, and -that they who harmed him would have to reckon with her. Jimmie flew -gaily to Norma's defence. - -“And this child's garments?” he asked, indicating Aline, whose face was -irradiated by a vision of splendid attire. - -“Don't meddle with what does n't concern you,” replied Connie, while -she and the girl exchanged the glances of conspirators. - -A short while afterwards the two visitors drove away. For some time -Norma responded somewhat absently to Mrs. Deering's light talk. - -“I am so glad you have taken to Jimmie,” said the latter at last. “Is -n't he a dear?” - -“I remember your saying that before. But is n't it rather an odd word -to use with reference to him?” said Norma. - -“Odd--? But that's just what he is.” - -Norma turned in some resentment on her friend. - -“Oh, Connie, how dare we talk patronisingly of a man like that? He's -worth a thousand of the empty-souled, bridge-playing people we live -among.” - -“But that's just why I call him a dear,” said Mrs. Deering, -uncomprehendingly. - -Norma shrugged her shoulders, fell into a silence which she broke by -risking: - -“Do you know whom he is in love with?” - -“Good gracious, Norma,” cried the little lady, in alarm. “You don't say -that Jimmie is in love? Oh, it would spoil him. He can't be!” - -“There was one picture--of a woman--which he would not let me see,” said -Norma. - -“Well?” - -Norma paused for some seconds before she replied: - -“He called it 'a mad artist's dream.' I have been wondering whether it -was not better than a sane politician's reality.” - -“What is a sane politician's reality, dear?” Connie asked, mystified. - -“I am,” said Norma. - -Then, woman-like, she turned the conversation to the turpitudes of her -dressmaker. - - - - -Chapter X--TWO IDYLLS - -JIMMIE was trudging along the undulating highroad that leads from -Dieppe to the little village of Berneval, very hot, very dusty, very -thirsty, and very contented. He carried a stick and a little black bag. -His content proceeded from a variety of causes. In the first place it -was a glorious August day, drenched with sunshine and with deep blue -ether; and the smiling plain of Normandy rolled before him, a land of -ripening orchards and lazy pastures. He had been longing for the simple -beauty of sun and sky and green trees, and for the homely sights and -sounds of country things, and now he had his fill. Secondly, Aline was -having a much needed holiday. She had been growing a little pale and -languid, he thought, in London, after a year's confined administering to -his selfish wants. She was enjoying herself, too, and the few days she -had already spent in the sea air had brought the blood to her cheeks -again. Thirdly, he was free for the moment from everyday cares. A dealer -had fallen from heaven into his studio and paid money down for the -copyright of two of his worst pictures. Fourthly, he had definitely -received the commission for the portrait of the Princess of -Herren-Rothbeck. Her Serene Highness and her tutelary duchess had paid -their visit, expressed themselves delighted with his work (the duchess -especially commending the portrait of the hapless Mrs. Marmaduke -Hewson), and had driven away in a most satisfactory condition of -serenity and graciousness. - -Jimmie was happy. What could man want more? In addition to all these -blessings, Norma had written to him from Lord Monzie's place in Scotland -a letter _à propos_ of nothing, merely expressive of good-will and -friendliness; and he had received it that morning. He had never seen -her handwriting before. Bold, incisive, distinguished, it seemed to -complement his conception of the radiant lady, and in a foolish way he -tried to harmonise the ink-marks with the curves of her proud lips, the -setting of her eyes, and the poise of her queenly head. The dreariness -of a rainy afternoon with all the men and half the women away on the -grouse-moor had been, she said, her excuse for writing. She sketched -various members of the house-party with light, satiric touches; -notably one Theodore Weever, an American, whose sister had married an -impecunious and embarrassing cousin of the Duchess of Wiltshire. He was -building himself a palace in Fifth Avenue, wrote Norma, and had been -buying pictures in Europe to decorate it with; now he was anxious to -purchase a really decorative wife. Morland was expected in a few days, -and she would be glad when he appeared upon the scene. She did not say -why; but Jimmie naturally understood that her heart was yearning for -the presence of the man she loved. “I have very little to say that can -interest you,” she concluded, “but you can say many things to interest -me: this letter is purely selfish, a mere minnow, after all, that I use -as bait.” So Jimmie walked along the dusty road thinking out an answer -that could bring comfort to the Hero pining for her Leander; thinking -also of Aline, and revelling in the sunshine. - -He delighted, like a child, in all he saw. He stopped before the red, -gold, and green paradise of an orchard and feasted upon its colour. He -lingered in talk with a tiny girl driving a great brown cow; asked her -its age, how many calves it had had, its name, and whether she were -not afraid it would mistake her for a blade of grass and bite her. The -little girl scoffed at the possibility. She could drive three cows, -and, if it came to that, a bull. “_Ça me connaît, les bêtes,_” she -said. Whereupon he put a couple of sous in her hand and went on his way. -Presently he sat down on the rough wooden bench in front of a wayside -café and drank cider from an earthenware bowl, and played with a mongrel -puppy belonging to the establishment. When the latter had darted off -to bark amid the cloud of dust and petroleum fumes left by a passing -motor-car, Jimmie, sipping his second bowl of sour cider in great -content, re-read the precious letter, filled his pipe, and reflected -peacefully on the great harmony of things. The hopelessness of his own -love for Norma struck no discord. The Stephen so closely connected with -the life of Saint Catherine of Siena did not love with less hope or more -devotion. - -He paid the few coppers for his reckoning, took up his stick and little -black bag, and trudged on refreshed, and as he neared Berneval the -expectation of Aline's welcome gladdened him. He had rented for the -month a cottage with a straggling piece of ground behind, from an artist -friend whose possession it was. The friend had fixed the figure absurdly -low; the modest living under Aline's experienced management was cheap, -and the _bonne à tout faire_ cooked divinely for a few halfpence a day. -By a curious coincidence Mr. Anthony Merewether had also pitched -upon Berneval as a summer resting-place. He had come on -business, he gave out, and every morning saw him issue from the hotel -by the beach, armed with easel and camp-stool, and the rest of the -landscape-painter's paraphernalia, and every evening saw him smoking -cigarettes on Jimmie's veranda. Whether the hours of sunshine saw him -consistently hard at work, Jimmie was inclined to doubt. He certainly -bathed a great deal and ran about with Aline a great deal, and Jimmie -read the pair moral lessons on the evil effects of idleness. But Tony -was a fresh-minded boy; his ingenuous conversation provided Jimmie -with much entertainment, and his presence on their holiday gave him the -satisfaction of feeling that Aline had some one of her own age to play -with. - -The ramshackle vehicle, half diligence, half omnibus, that plies -between Berneval and Dieppe, passed him with great cracking of whip and -straining of rusty harness and loud _hue_'s from the driver, just as he -entered the village. It was late afternoon, and the trim white and green -of the place was bathed in mellow sunshine. The short cut home lay up a -lane and through the churchyard, a cluster of grey slabs around a -little grey church; and many of the slabs bore the story of the pitiless -sea--how Jean-Marie Dulac, many years ago, was drowned at the age of -nineteen, and how Jacques Lemerre perished in a storm; for it has been -from time immemorial a tiny village of fisher-folk and every family has -given of its own to the waves. The pathos of the simple legends on the -stones always touched him as he walked by; and now he paused to decipher -some moss-grown letters of fifty years ago. He stooped, made out the -same sad tale, moralised a little thereon, and rose with a sigh of -relief to greet the sunshine and the fair earth. But the sight that -suddenly met his eyes banished dead fishermen and hungry sea and sunny -tree-tops from his mind. It was a boy and a girl very close together, -his arm about her waist, her head upon his shoulder, walking by the -little church. Their backs were towards him. He stared open-mouthed. - -“God bless my soul!” said he, in amazement. - -Then he dropped his stick, which clattered upon a gravestone. - -The foolish pair started at the sound, assumed a correct attitude with -remarkable swiftness, and turning, recognised Jimmie. Tony Merewether, -who was a fair youth, grew very red and looked sheepish; Aline awaited -events demurely, with downcast eyes. Jimmie pushed his old Homburg hat -to the back of his head, and in two or three strides confronted them. He -tried to look fiercely at Tony. The young man drew himself up. - -“I have asked Aline to marry me, sir,” he said frankly. “I was going to -speak to you about it.” - -“Good Lord!” said Jimmie, helplessly. - -“We can't marry just yet,” said Tony, “but I hope you will give your -consent.” - -Jimmie looked from one to the other. - -“Why did n't you let me know of this state of things before?” - -“I have n't done anything underhand. I thought you guessed,” said Tony. - -“And you, Aline?” - -She stole a shy glance at him. - -“I was n't quite sure of it until just now,” she replied. And then she -blushed furiously and ran to Jimmie's arms. “Oh, Jimmie dear, don't be -cross!” - -“Cross, my child?” he said. - -The world of tender reproach in his tone touched her. The ready tears -started. - -“You are an angel, Jimmie.” - -The hand that was on her shoulder patted it comfortingly. - -“No, dear, I am a blind elderly idiot. O Lord, Tony, I hope you feel -infernally ashamed of yourself.” - -“As Tony says, we sha'n't be able to get married for a long, long time,” - said Aline, by way of consolation, “so for years and years we'll go on -in just the same way.” - -“I only ask you to consent to our engagement, sir,” said Tony, -diplomatically. “I am quite willing to wait for Aline as long as you -like.” - -The abandonment of Jimmie by Aline had been the subject of the last -half-hour's discussion between the lovers. The thought of Jimmie alone -and helpless appalled her. She was a horrid selfish wretch, she had -informed Tony, for listening to a word he said. How could Jimmie live -by himself? She shuddered at the dismal chaos of the studio, the gaping -holes in his socks, the impossible meals, the fleecing of him by every -plausible beggar in frock coat or rags, the empty treasury. He needed -more care than a baby. She would marry Tony, some day, because her head -was full of him, and because she had let him kiss her and had found a -peculiar, dreamy happiness during the process, and because she could not -conceive the possibility of marrying any one else. But she was more than -content to leave the date indefinite. Perhaps, in the stretch of aeons -between now and then, something would happen to release her from her -responsibilities. She had made the position luminously clear to Mr. -Merewether before she had consented to be foolish and walk about with -her head on his shoulder. - -“No, until Jimmie gets properly suited,” she said, quickly following -Tony's last remark. - -“My dear foolish children,” said Jimmie, “you had better get married as -soon as ever you can keep the wolf from the door. What on earth is the -good of waiting till you are old? Get all the happiness you can out of -your youth, and God bless you.” - -The young man bowed his head. - -“I will give my life to her.” - -Jimmie touched him on the arm, waved his hand around, indicating the -little grey church, the quiet graves. - -“This is not the place where a man should say such a thing lightly,” he -said. - -“I am not the man to say such a thing lightly in any place,” retorted -the youth, with spirit. - -Jimmie nodded approvingly. “My dear,” he said to Aline, “that is the way -I like to hear a man talk.” - -He turned and collected the fallen stick and the black bag which he had -deposited by the side of the slab. He had gone into Dieppe that morning -partly for the sake of the walk and partly to purchase some odds and -ends for the house. Aline, not trusting to his memory, had given him a -list of items with directions attached as to the places where he was to -procure them, so that when he came to “pepper,” he should seek it at -a grocery and not at a milliner's establishment. Now, without saying -a word, he opened the bag and rummaged among its queer contents, which -Aline regarded with some twinges of a tender conscience. She ought to -have gone into Dieppe herself, and made her purchases like a notable -housewife, instead of sending Jimmie and passing the day in selfish -lovemaking. The twinge grew sharper when Jimmie at last fished out a -little cardboard box and put it in her hands. - -“At any rate, I can give you an engagement present before Tony,” he said -with a laugh. - -It was only an old filigree silver waist-buckle he had picked up at a -curio shop in the town, but it was a gem of infinite value to the girl, -for she knew that Jimmie's love went with it. She showed it to Tony -Merewether, who admired the workmanship. - -“If you can give me anything I shall prize more, you will be a lucky -fellow,” she said in a low voice. - -The three strolled quietly towards the cottage, and it was Jimmie's arm -that Aline clung to, and Mr. Merewether who carried the black bag. That -night, after she had dismissed the young man, she sat a long time with -Jimmie on the veranda, telling him in one shy breath of the wonder that -had suddenly come into her life, and in the next that she would never -leave him until he was rich and famous and able to live by himself. -Jimmie, unguileful in the nature of men and maidens and the ways of -this wicked world, kept on repeating like a refrain his formula of -astonishment: - -“It never entered my head, dear, that you two children would fall in -love with one another.” - -“You don't think I ought n't to have done it, do you, Jimmie?” she said -at last. - -He broke into his happy laugh, and kissed her. “If you want to please -me, you'll go on doing it,” he said. - -It was some time after he had gone to bed that sleep came. Yes; Nature, -the dear mother, had spoken, and who could gainsay her? A clean, bright, -healthy English lad, and a clean, bright, healthy English girl had read -truth in each other's eyes. It was one of the sweet things in the world, -for which we who live in the world should be thankful. The dimly seen -white curtains of his bed became gossamer veils that enveloped him with -beauty. Now, on either side, his inner life was touched by the magic of -romance: the fair dream of these two children, and the love of the other -betrothed pair. It was on happy eyelids that sleep settled at last. And -Aline, too, lay awake, her young cheeks burning at the delicious yet -frightening memory of a kiss in the little churchyard, and her heart -swelling at the thought of the infinite goodness of Jimmie. - -Meanwhile, unconscious of these idyllic happenings and romantic -speculations, Norma was enjoying herself in her worldly way at Lord -Monzie's place in Scotland. Lord Monzie, a dissipated young man who had -lately come into the title, had married a well-to-do young woman in very -smart society. Consequently there was no lack of modern entertainment -in the house. So modern was everything that the host had got down Mr. -Joseph Ascherberg, the financier, to hold a roulette bank every night -against all comers; but he took care that he himself, or his own -confidential man, turned the wheel and spun the marble. Most of the -people had unimaginative nicknames, the extremes of the Submerged -Tenth and the Upper Ten thus curiously meeting. Lord Monzie was called -“Muggins;” his bosom friend, and, as some whispered, his _âme damnée_, -Sir Calthrop Boyle, was alluded to as “The Boiler;” and Ascherberg -responded to the appellation of “Freddy.” There were also modern -conveniences for the gratification of caprices or predilections that -need not be insisted upon. In fact the atmosphere was surcharged with -modernity; so much so that Norma, who would have walked about the -Suburra of Imperial Rome with cynical indifference, gasped a little when -she entered it. One or two things actually shocked her, at which she -wondered greatly. She regarded Mr. Ascherberg with extreme disfavour, -and winced at the women's conversation when they were cosily free -from men. For the first day or two she held herself somewhat apart, -preferring solitude on sequestered bits of terrace, where she could -read a novel, or look at the grey hills that met the stretch of purple -moorland. But gradually the sweeter tone of mind which she had brought -with her lost its flavour, and having won sixty pounds from Ascherberg, -and having told the feminine coterie what she knew of the Wyniard -affair, she began to breathe the atmosphere without much difficulty. Yet -occasionally she had spasms of revolt. In a corner of the drawing-room -stood a marble copy of the little Laughing Faun in the Louvre, put there -by the late baron, and every time her eye fell upon it, the picture of -another faun arose before her, and with it the memory of a homely man -with bright kind eyes, and she seemed to draw a breath of purer air. But -she called the fancy foolishness and hardened her heart. - -Still, had it not been for Theodore Weever, the American man of affairs, -she would probably have found some pretext for an abrupt departure. He -alone was a personality among the characterless, vicious men and women -of the house-party. Short, spare, alert, bald-headed, clean-shaven, -clear-featured, he was of a type apart. Norma, who had a keen -intelligence, divined in him from the first an adversary upon whom she -could sharpen her wit and a companion who would not bore her with dreary -tales of sport or the unprofitable details of his last night's play. And -from the first Theodore Weever was attracted towards Norma. Their lax -associates, in spite of her engagement to Morland being perfectly well -known and in spite of Morland's expected arrival, recognised their -pairing with embarrassing frankness, and said appalling things about -them behind their backs. For a few days therefore they found themselves -inseparable. At last their friendship reached the confidential stage. -Mr. Theodore Weever avowed the object of his present visit to England. -He was in search of a decorative wife. - -“It ought to be as easy as turning over a book of wallpapers,” said -Norma. - -“And as difficult to choose,” said he. - -“You must know what scheme of colouring and design you want.” - -“Precisely. I don't find it in the books of stock patterns, either here -or in America. And I've ransacked America.” - -“Is n't the line--I believe in commercial circles they call it a -line--is n't the line of specially selected duchesses for the English -market good enough for you?” she asked with a smile. - -He was about to light a cigarette when she began her question. He lit it -and blew out the first few puffs of smoke before he replied. They were -sitting in Norma's favourite nook on the terrace, where he, solitary -male who had not gone forth with a gun that morning, had been -gratuitously told by an obliging hostess that he would find her. - -“The American woman makes a good decorative duchess,” he said in -his incisive tone, “because she has to sweep herself clean of every -tradition she was born with and accept bodily the very much bigger and -more dazzling tradition of your old aristocracy. She can do it, because -she is infinitely sensitive and intelligent. But she is a changed -creature. She has to live up to her duke.” - -He puffed for a moment or two at his cigarette. - -“Do you see what I am coming to?” he continued. “I am not an English -duke. I am a plain American citizen. No woman in America would make it -her ideal in life to live up to me.” - -“I don't mean to be rude,” interrupted Norma, with a laugh, “but do you -think any Englishwoman would?” - -“I do,” he replied. “Not to this insignificant, baldheaded thing that is -I, but to what in the way of position and power I represent. An American -woman would bring her traditions along with her--her superior culture, -her natural right to be enthroned as queen, her expectation that I would -take a back seat in my own house. It is I that would become a sort of -grotesque decoration in the place. Now, I may be grotesque, but I will -not consent to be decorative. I fully intend to be master. I am not -going to be Mrs. Theodore Weever's husband. I want an Englishwoman to -bring along her traditions. She will be naturally _grande dame_; she -will come to my house, my social world, frankly the wife of Theodore -Weever, and ready to support the dignity, whatever it may be, of -Theodore Weever, just as she would have supported the dignity of Lord So -and So, had she been married to him in England.” - -“You will find thousands of English girls who can do that,” said Norma. -“I don't see your difficulty.” - -“She must be decorative,” said Weever. - -“And that means?” - -“She must be a queenly woman, but one content to be queen consort. Your -queenly woman--with brains--is not so easy to find. I have met only -one in my life who is beyond all my dreams of the ideal. Of course the -inherent malice of things screws her down like one blade of a pair of -scissors to another fellow.” - -“Who is the paragon?” asked Norma. - -“It wouldn't be fair on the other fellow to tell you,” said he. - -“Is it sheer honesty, or the fear of being cut in half by the pair of -scissors that keeps you from coming between them?” - -“I think it's honesty,” he replied. “If I can guess rightly, the -scissors have n't so fine an edge on them as to make them dangerous.” - -“They may be desperately in love with one another, for all you know.” - -“They are delightful worldlings of our own particular world, dear lady,” - said Weever, with a smile. - -Thus was Norma given to understand that the post of decorative queen -consort in Mr. Theodore Weever's Fifth Avenue palace was at her -disposal. A year ago she might have considered the offer seriously; now -that she felt secure of a brilliant position as Morland's wife, she was -amused by its frank impudence. She held other laughing conversations -with him on the subject of his search, but too prudent to commit -indiscretions, she gave no hint that she had understood his personal -allusion, and Weever was too shrewd to proceed any further towards his -own undoing. They remained paired, however, to their mutual -satisfaction, until Morland's arrival, when Theodore Weever took his -departure. In fact, the same carriage that conveyed the American to the -station remained for a necessary half-hour to meet Morland's train, and -Norma, who dutifully drove down to welcome her affianced, shared the -carriage with the departing guest. - -She stood on the platform chatting with him as he leaned out of the -window. - -“When shall we see each other again?” she said idly. - -“Next month.” - -“Where?” she asked, somewhat taken aback by his decided tone. - -“I am putting in some time at Chiltern Towers. I had a letter this -morning from the duchess, asking me to come and meet the Princess of -Herren-Rothbeck.” - -They looked at each other, and Norma laughed. - -“Beware of Her Serene Highness.” - -“Oh, I've had dealings with her before,” replied Weever. “I reckon I get -my money's worth. Don't you fret about me.” - -The guard came up and touched his cap. - -“We are off now, miss.” - -She shook hands with Weever, saying with a laugh, “I hope you will find -that bit of decoration.” - -“Don't you fret about that, either,” he said with a quick, hard glance. -“I'm in no hurry. I can wait.” - -The train started, and was soon swallowed by a tunnel a few hundred -yards up the line. Norma patrolled the platform of the little wayside -station waiting for Morland. The place was very still. The only porter -had departed somewhither. The station-master had retired into his -office. The coachman outside the station sat like a well-bred image on -his box, and the occasional clink of the harness, as the horses threw -up their heads, sounded sharp and clear. Nothing around but mountain and -moorland; a short distance in front a ravine with a lazily trickling, -half-dried-up mountain stream. Here and there a clump of larch and fir, -and a rough granite boulder. An overcast sky threw dreariness on the -silent waste. Norma shivered, suddenly struck with a sense of isolation. -She seemed to stand in the same relation with her soul's horizon as with -the physical universe. The man that had gone had left her with a little -feeling of fear for the future, a little after-taste of bitterness. -The man that was coming would bring her no thrill of joy. As she stood -between a drab sky and a bleak earth, so stood she utterly alone in the -still pause between a past and a future equally unillumined. She longed -for the sun to break out of the heaven, for the sounds of joyous things -to come from plain and mountain; and she longed for light and song in -her heart. - -She had been watching for the past few days the proceedings of -a half-recognised, irregular union. The woman was the frivolous, -heartless, almost passionless wife of a casual husband at the other end -of the earth; the man an underbred fellow on the stock exchange. She -ordered him about and called him Tommy. He clothed her in extravagant -finery, and openly showed her his sovereign male's contempt. Norma had -overheard him tell her to go to the devil and leave him alone, when she -hinted one night, in a whisper that was meant for his ears alone, that -he was drinking overmuch whisky. It was all so sordid, so vulgar--the -bond between them so unsanctified by anything like tenderness, chivalry, -devotion. Norma had felt the revulsion of her sex. - -What would be the future? By any chance like this woman's life? Would -the day come when she would sell herself for a gown and a bracelet, -thrown at her with a man's contemptuous word? Was marriage very widely -different from such a union? Was not she selling herself? Might not the -man she was waiting for go the way of so many others of his type, drink -and coarsen and tell her to go to the devil? - -She longed for the sun, but not a gleam pierced the leaden sky; she -sought in her soul for a ray of light, but none came. - -At last with a shriek and a billowing plume of smoke the down train -emerged from the tunnel. Norma set her face in its calm ironic mask and -waited for the train to draw up. Only two passengers alighted, Morland -and his man. Morland came to her with smiling looks and grasped her by -the hand. - -“You are looking more beautiful than ever,” he whispered, bringing his -face close to hers. - -She started back as if she had been struck. The fumes of brandy were in -his breath. Her hideous forebodings were in process of fulfilment. - -“The whole station will hear you,” she said coldly, turning away. - -The Imp of Mischance rubbed his hands gleefully at his contrivance. -Morland, a temperate man, had merely felt chilly after an all-night's -journey, and, more out of idleness than from a desire for alcohol, had -foolishly taken a sip out of his brandy flask a moment or two before, -when he was putting up his hand-bag. - -Norma collected herself, summoned with bitter cynicism her common-sense -to her aid, and made smiling amends for her shrewish remark. She -suffered him to kiss her on the drive home, and strove not to despise -herself. - - - - -Chapter XI--DANGER - -HEDDON COURT had been purchased by a wealthy Hardacre at the beginning -of the nineteenth century, and was exhibited by his grandnephew, the -present occupant, as a gem of Georgian architecture. Mr. Hardacre -had but a vague idea what the definition meant, but it sounded very -impressive. As a matter of fact, it was a Palladian stone building, with -pediments over the windows and severe rustication on the lower -courses. As none of the succeeding Hardacres had any money to devote -to extensions, the building had remained in its original perfection of -formality, and Mr. Hardacre did well to be proud of it. The grounds had -been laid out in the Italian style; but the tastes and fashions of -over a hundred years had caused the classic architect's design to be -practically indiscernible. A lawn with trim flower-beds, bounded by an -arc of elm-trees and bordered by a circular carriage drive faced the -south front. Along the east front ran a series of terraces. The highest, -a foot or two below the level of the drawing-room floor, ended on -the north in a porticoed temple, now used as an afternoon lounge, and -incongruously furnished with rugs and frivolous wickerwork chairs and -tables. The next terrace, some eight feet below, was devoted to a tennis -court. A thick hedge of clipped yew and a screen of wire netting hid the -lowest, the most charming of all, which, surrounded on all sides by -a sloping bank and flanked on three sides by tall trees, had been -delicately turfed for a bowling-green and was now used for croquet. - -In this stately paradise, warmed by sunny September weather, Jimmie -had already spent two or three blissful days. His only regret was -the absence of Aline. She had been invited, but for reasons in which -doubtless Tony Merewether had a place, she had declined the invitation. -She gave Jimmie to understand that she had already had her holiday, that -the house could not possibly look after itself any longer, and that -she had no clothes fit to appear in among his grand friends. The last -argument being unanswerable, save by contentions at which the young -woman tossed a superior head, Jimmie had yielded and come down alone. -His regret, however, was tempered by the reflection that Aline was -probably enjoying herself after the manner of betrothed maidens, and it -did not seriously affect his happiness. Either chance or the lady's own -sweet courtesy towards a guest had caused him to see much of Norma. She -had driven him over to Chiltern Towers, where the sittings had -begun. She had walked with him to Cosford to show him the beautiful -fourteenth-century church with its decorated spire. She had strolled -with him up and down the croquet lawn. She had chatted with him in the -morning-room yesterday for a whole rainy hour after lunch. His head was -full of her beauty and condescension. It was not unnatural that they -should be thrown much together. Morland's day was taken up by partridges -and electors. Mr. Hardacre, honestly afraid of Jimmie, not knowing -what on earth to talk to him about, and only half comprehending his -conversation, kept out of his way as much as his duties as host would -allow, and Mrs. Hardacre, who, though exceedingly civil, had not -forgotten her defeat in the studio, felt justified in leaving his -entertainment in the hands of others who professed to admire the -creature. These were Norma, Morland, and Connie Deering. - -This afternoon they found themselves again alone together, at tea in the -classic temple at the end of the terrace. Mrs. Hardacre and Connie had -driven off to pay a call, and the men were shooting over ducal turnips. -Jimmie had received an invitation to join the shooting-party, but -not having handled a gun since boyish days (and even then Jimmie with -firearms was Morland's conception of the terror that walketh by day), -and also having an appointment with the princess for a second sitting, -he had declined, and Morland, when he heard of it, had clapped him on -the back and expressed his fervent gratitude. - -Jimmie had been narrating his morning's adventures at Chiltern Towers, -and explaining the point of view from which he was painting the -portrait. It was to be that of the very great lady, with the blood of -the earth's great rulers in her veins. It was to be half full-length, -just showing the transparent, aristocratic hands set off by rich old -lace at the wrists. A certain acidity of temper betrayed by the pinched -nostrils and thin lips he would try to modify, as it would be out of -keeping with his basic conception. Norma listened, interested more in -the speaker than in the subject, her mind occasionally wandering, as -it had been wont to do of late, to a comparison of ideals. Since that -half-hour's loneliness on the platform of the little Highland station, -she had passed through many hours of unrest. To-day the mood had again -come upon her. A talk with her mother about the great garden-party they -were giving in two days' time, to which the princess and the duchess -were coming, had aroused her scorn; a casual phrase of Morland's in -reference to the election had jarred upon her; a sudden meeting in -Cosford with Theodore Weever, and a laughing reference to the decorative -wife had brought back the little shiver of fear. The only human being -in the world who could settle her mood--and now she felt it -consciously--was this odd, sweet-natured man who seemed to live in a -beautiful world. - -As he talked she listened, and her mind wandered from the subject. She -thought of his life, his surroundings, of the girl whose love affair he -had told her of so tenderly. She took advantage of a pause, occasioned -by the handing of a second cup of tea and the judicious choosing of -cake, to start the new topic. - -“I suppose Aline is very happy.” - -Jimmie laughed. “What put my little girl into your head?” - -“I have been thinking a good deal about her since you wrote of her -engagement. Is it really such an idyll?” - -“The love of two sweet, clean young people is always idyllic. It is so -untainted--pure as a mountain spring; There is nothing quite like it in -the world.” - -“When are they going to set up house together?” - -“Soon, I hope.” - -“You will miss her.” - -“Of course,” said Jimmie, “enormously. But the thoughts of her happiness -will keep me pleasant company. I shall get on all right. Meanwhile it -is beautiful to see her. She does n't know that I watch, but I do. It -is sweet to see her eyes brighten and her cheeks flush and to hear -her laughter. It is like stepping for an enchanted moment into a -fairy-tale.” - -“I wish I could step into it--just for one enchanted moment,” said -Norma.. - -“You?” asked Jimmie. - -“I have never been in one in my life. I disbelieved in them till you -came like an apostle of fairyland and converted me. Now I want the -consolations of my faith.” - -An earnest note in her voice surprised him. She did not meet his eyes. - -“I don't understand you,” he said. - -“I thought perhaps you would,” she answered. “You seem to understand -most things.” - -“You have your own--happiness.” - -He hesitated on the word. A quick glance assured her of his -ingenuousness. She longed to undeceive him, to shriek out her -heartlessness, her contempt for herself and for her life. But pride and -loyalty to Morland restrained her within bounds of sanity. She assented -to his proposition with a gesture of the shapely hand that lay on the -tea-table absently tracing the pattern of the cloth. - -“Yes, I have that. But it isn't the fairyland of those two children. You -yourself say there is nothing like it in the world. You don't know how -I pine for it sometimes--for the things that are sweet and clean and -untainted and pure as a mountain spring. They don't come my way. They -never will.” - -“You are wrong,” said Jimmie. “Love will bring them all to you--that and -a perfect wedded life and little children.” - -For a flash she raised her eyes and looked full into his, and for the -first time the love in the man's heart surged tumultuously. It rose of a -sudden, without warning, flooding his being, choking him. What it was of -yearning, despair, passion, horror that he saw in her eyes he knew not. -He did not read in them the craving of a starved soul for food. To -him their burning light was a mystery. All that ever reached his -consciousness was that it was a look such as he had never before beheld -in a woman's face; and against his will and against his reason it acted -like some dark talisman and unlocked floodgates. He clenched the arms of -the wickerwork chair, and bit his lip hard, and stared at the ground. - -Norma broke into a hard laugh, and lay back in her chair. - -“You must be thinking me a great fool,” she said, in her usual mocking -tones. “When a woman tries to swim in sentiment, she flounders, and -either drowns or has to be lugged ignominiously to shore. She can't swim -like a man. Thanks for the rescue, Mr. Padgate.” - -He looked at her for a moment. - -“What do you mean?” he said curtly. - -“I'm back on dry land. Oh! it is safer for me. There I am protected by -my little bodyguard of three--the World, the Flesh, and the Devil. I -can't get on without them.” - -Jimmie leaped from his chair and brought his clenched hands down to his -sides in a passionate gesture. - -“Stop talking like that, I say!” he cried imperiously. - -Then meeting her scared and indignant glance, he bowed somewhat wide of -her. - -“I beg your pardon,” he said, in a tone of no great apology, and marched -out of the little temple and along the gravelled walk of the terrace. -Flight, or the loss of self-control, was his only alternative. What she -thought of him he did not care. The sense of increasing distance from -her alone brought security to his soul. - -At the further end he met Mrs. Deering just back from her drive. - -“Why, what is the matter, Jimmie?” she asked, twirling an idle sunshade -over her pretty head, for the terrace was in deep afternoon shadow. - -“Nothing,” he replied, with a ghastly attempt at a smile. “I am going -for a walk before dinner.” - -He left her standing, reached the highroad and pounded along it. What a -fool he had been! What a mad fool he had been! - -Mrs. Deering, with a puzzled expression on her face, watched him -disappear. She turned and strolled down to Norma, who greeted her with a -satiric smile. - -“What have you been doing to Jimmie?” asked Mr. Deering. - -“I have been giving him lessons in worldly wisdom.” - -“Poor dear! They seem to have disagreed with him.” - -Norma shrugged her shoulders. “That's his affair, not mine.” - -“You don't mean to say that you and Jimmie have quarrelled?” laughed -Connie. “How delightful! I've always wanted to quarrel with Jimmie -just for the pleasure of kissing and making friends. But it has been -impossible. Is it serious?” - -“I hope not,” Norma answered; and then after a pause, “Oh, Connie, I'm -afraid I've been a positive brute.” - -Which evidence of a salutary conviction of her own wrongdoing shows that -Jimmie's amazing shout of command had not aroused within her any furious -indignation. Indeed, after the first moment of breathless astonishment, -she had expressed an odd, almost amusing thrill of admiration for the -man who had dared address her in that fashion. It was only a small -feminine satisfaction in the knowledge that by going away he would -punish himself for his temerity that had restrained her from summoning -him back. As soon as he was out of call, she reproached herself for -misconduct. She could have strangled the wanton devil that had prompted -her cynical speech. And yet the same devil had saved an embarrassing -situation. Wedded life and little children! If she had spoken what was -trembling on her lips, how could she have looked the man in the face -again? Her sex was revolting against that very prospect, was clamouring -wildly for she knew not what. She dared not betray herself. - -She greeted him smilingly in the drawing-room before dinner, as if -nothing had occurred, and chatted pleasantly with Morland over his day's -fortunes. Jimmie observed her with a sigh of relief. He had passed the -last two hours greatly agitated; he had trembled lest he had revealed -to her his soul's secret, and also lest his unmannerliness had given -unpardonable offence. In any case, now he saw himself forgiven, and -breathed freely. But he remained unusually silent during dinner, and -spent most of the evening in the billiard-room with Mr. Hardacre. - -That gentleman, joining the ladies later, fell into conversation with -his daughter. - -“How long is Padgate going to stay?” he asked, mopping his forehead with -his handkerchief. - -“Till the princess has completed her sittings, I suppose,” said Norma. - -“I wish she'd be quick. I don't know what to do with the fellow. Does -n't shoot, can't play billiards worth a cent, and does n't seem to -know anybody. It's like talking to a chap that does n't understand your -language. I've just been at it. Happened to say I'd like to go to -Rome again. He fetches a sigh and says so should he. 'Some of the best -wild-duck shooting in the world,' I said. He stared at me for a moment -as if I were an escaped lunatic. Now, what on earth should a reasonable -being go to that beastly place for except to shoot wild-duck on the -marshes?” - -Norma laughed the little mocking laugh that always irritated her father. - -“You need n't be afraid of not entertaining Mr. Padgate. He must have -enjoyed the conversation hugely.” - -“Damme--if the fellow is laughing at me--” he began. - -“He would not be the very fine gentleman that he is,” said Norma. “Where -is he now?” - -“Morland relieved guard in the billiard-room, when the post came in,” - growled Mr. Hardacre, who shrank from crossing swords with his daughter, -and indeed with anybody. “He is happy enough with Morland.” - -At that particular moment, however, there was not overmuch happiness in -the billiard-room. A letter from Aline had been accompanied by one for -“David Rendell, Esquire” which she had enclosed. Morland read it, and -crushed it angrily into the pocket of his dinner-jacket, and began to -knock the balls about in an aimless way. Jimmie watched him anxiously -and, as he did not speak, unfolded his own letter from Aline. Suddenly -he rose from the divan where he had been sitting and approached the -table. - -“There is something here that you ought to know, Morland. A man has been -enquiring for you at my house.” - -“Well, why should n't he?” asked Morland, making a savage shot. - -“He enquired for David Rendell.” - -Morland threw down his cue. - -“Well?” - -“I am afraid Aline, who is a miracle of sagacity as a general rule, has -made a mess of it. You mustn't be angry with my poor little girl. Her -head is full of sweeter things.” - -“What has she done?” Morland asked impatiently. - -“I'll read: 'I told him that Mr. Rendell was a friend of yours, and gave -him your present address. He muttered something about a false name and -went away without thanking me.'” - -“Good God!” cried Morland, “what damned fools women are! Did she say -what kind of a man he was?” - -Jimmie looked through the letter, and finding the passage, read: “'An -odd-looking creature, like a mad Methodist parson!'” - -Morland uttered an exclamation of anger and apprehension. His brow grew -black, and his florid comely features coarsened into ugliness. - -“I thought so. It could n't have been any one else. He was the only -person who knew. She has given me away nicely. The devil only knows what -will happen.” - -Jimmie leant up against the table and folded his arms, and looked at -Morland moving restlessly to and fro and giving vent to his anger. - -“Who is this man you seem to be so afraid of?” he asked quietly. - -Morland stopped upon the unpleasant word, then shrugged his shoulders. - -“Yes, I suppose I am afraid of him. One can't reckon upon anything that -he might or might not do. He's like a mad cat. I've seen him. So have -you.” - -“I?” - -“Yes--that socialist maniac you dragged me to hear one Sunday in Hyde -Park.” - -“Whew!” said Jimmie. He remembered the look in the orator's eyes, his -crazy, meaningless words, his fierce refusal to enter into friendly -talk; also Morland's impatient exclamation and abrupt departure as soon -as they had learned the man's name. - -“He's as mad as a hatter,” he said. “If he should take it into his head -to come down here and make a row, there will be the deuce to pay,” said -Morland. - -Jimmie reflected for a moment. The man, with his wild talk of maidens -lashed to the chariot-wheels of the rich, must have been tortured by the -sense of some personal wrong. - -“How does he come into the story?” he asked. “You had better tell me.” - -“The usual way. Oh, I wish to God I had never got into this mess! A man -of position is an infernal fool to go rotting about after that sort of -thing. Oh, don't you see? He had a crazy passion for her, was engaged to -her--he was mad then. When I came along, he had to drop it, and he has -been persecuting her ever since--divided between the desire to marry her -in spite of everything, and to murder me. That's why I had the assumed -name and false address. I would n't have let you in for this bother, -but I could n't go and run the risk of being blackmailed at a confounded -little stationer's shop up a back street. He has been trying to get on -my track all the time--and now he's succeeded, thanks to Aline. Why the -devil could n't she hold her tongue?” - -“Because she is an innocent child, who has never dreamed of evil,” said -Jimmie. - -Morland walked about the room, agitated, for a few moments, then halted. - -“Oh, yes, I know, Jimmie. She is n't to blame. Besides, the mischief is -done, so it's no use talking.” - -“Were you thinking of any such possibility in the summer when you asked -me to help you?” said Jimmie. Morland cast a quick, hopeful glance at -his friend. - -“Something of the sort. One never knows. You were the only man I could -rely on.” - -“Does this man know you by sight?” - -“Not to my knowledge.” - -“Then what are you so afraid of? Look here, my dear old boy,” he -said cheerily, “you are being frighted by false fire. If it is only a -question of dealing with the man when he comes here--that is, supposing -he does come--which is very unlikely, I will tackle him as the only -person who knows anything about David Rendell. I'll tell him David -Rendell is in Scotland or Honolulu.” - -“He is on the track of the false name,” said Morland, uneasily. “Aline -mentions that.” - -“He is bound to come to me first,” said Jimmie. “I'll fix him. We'll get -on capitally together. There's a freemasonry between lunatics. Leave it -all to me.” - -“Really?” cried Morland, in great eagerness. - -“Of course,” said Jimmie. “Let us go upstairs.” - -They passed out of the billiard-room in silence. On their way to the -drawing-room Morland murmured in a shamefaced way his apologia. He was -just at the beginning of his electoral campaign. It was his own county. -He was hand in glove with the duchess, sovereign lady of these parts, -and she never forgave a scandal. “Besides,” he added, “to quote your -own words, it would break Norma's heart.” Also, employing the limited -vocabulary of his class and type, he reiterated the old assurance -that he had not been a beast. He had done all that a man could to make -amends. If Jimmie had not loved him so loyally, he would have seen -something very pitiful in these excuses; but convinced that Morland had -atoned as far as lay in his power for his fault, he trembled for the -happiness of only those dear to him. - -Norma met them on the drawing-room landing. - -“I was coming down to see what had become of you,” she said. - -“I have been the culprit. I restore him to you,” laughed Jimmie. He -entered the room and closed the door. The betrothed pair stood for a -moment in an embarrassed silence. She laid a hesitating hand on his -sleeve. - -“Morland--” she said diffidently. “I was really wanting to have a little -talk with you. Somehow we don't often see one another.” - -Morland, surprised at the softness in her voice, led her back to the -billiard-room. - - - - -Chapter XII--NORMA'S ENLIGHTENMENT - -THE development of the germ of goodness in woman may be measured by -her tendency towards self-sacrifice. Even the most selfish of her sex, -provided she has some rudimentary virtues, hugs close to her bosom some -pet little thorn which she loves to dig into her shrinking flesh. She -enjoys some odd little mortification, some fantastic humiliation, that -is known only to the inner chamber of her soul. Your great-hearted woman -practises Suttee daily, greatly to the consternation of an observant yet -unperceptive husband. Doubtless this characteristic has a sexual basis, -psychological perhaps rather than directly physiological, being an -instinctive assertion of the fundamental principle of passivity, which -in its turn is translated into the need to be held down and subdued. -Thus, if the man does not beat her, she will beat herself; if he is -a fool, she will often apply caustic to her wisdom, so that she may -reverence him; if he is a knave, she will choke her honesty. Side by -side with the assertion of this principle, and indeed often inextricably -confused with it, is the maternal impulse, which by manifold -divergences from its primary manifestation causes women to find a joy, -uncomprehended by men, in pangs of suffering. The higher the type the -stronger the impulse towards this sweet self-martyrdom. - -Some such theory alone explains the softer tones in Norma's voice -when she spoke to Morland. She had passed through two periods of sharp -development--the half-hour in Scotland and the hours she had spent -since her talk with Jimmie that afternoon. She acted blindly, obeying an -imperative voice. - -They sat down together on the raised divan. She was dressed in black, -with a bunch of yellow roses at her bosom, and her neck and arms gleamed -white in the shadow cast by the green shades over the billiard-table. -Her face had softened. She was infinitely desirable. - -“I have been thinking over our relations, Morland,” she said. “Perhaps I -have been wrong.” - -“What do you mean?” he asked in some alarm. - -“I told you when you asked me to marry you that it would be wise to put -sentiment aside. You agreed, against your will, and have observed the -convention very loyally. But I have not treated you well. In putting -sentiment aside I was, perhaps, wrong. That is what I wanted to say to -you.” - -“Let me see that I understand you, Norma,” said Morland. “You wish that -we should be more like--like ordinary lovers?” - -“We might try,” she whispered. - -She waited. Heaven knows what she waited for; but it did not come. The -Imp of Mischance again scored his point. The man's mind was filled with -the thoughts of another woman in her agony and of a crazy avenger coming -with murder in his heart. He took her hand mechanically and raised it -to his lips. Her yielding to the caress told him that he could throw -his arms around her and treat her loverwise; her words told him that he -ought to do so. - -Yet he did not. For the moment he was passionless; and to men of -his type is not given the power, possessed by men of imaginative -temperament, of simulating passion. He forced a laugh. - -“How do you think we might begin?” - -She went on bravely with her self-imposed task of submission. - -“I have heard that the man generally takes the initiative.” - -He kissed her on the cheek. To do less would have been outrageous. - -“I am glad you realise that I am in love with you, at last,” he said. - -“Are you sure that you are in love with me?” she asked, the chill that -had fallen upon her after the lack of response to her first whisper -growing colder and colder. - -“Of course I am.” - -“That is all I wanted to hear. Good-night,” she said in an odd voice. -She rose and put out her hand. Morland opened the door for her to pass -and closed it behind her. - -Norma went straight to her room, feeling as though she had been tied by -the heels to a cart-tail and dragged through the mud. Half undressed, -she dismissed her maid summarily. Every place on her body that the -girl's fingers touched seemed to be a bruise. She went to bed stupefied -with herself. - -Meanwhile Morland rang for whisky and soda, and cursed all that -appertained to him, knowing that he had missed an amazing opportunity. -After the way of feeble men, he thought of a hundred things he might -have said and done that would have brought her to his feet. Had he not -been watching patiently, ever since his engagement, for her to put off -her grand airs, and become a woman like the rest of them? He should -have said the many things he had often said to others. Or, if words were -difficult, why in the world had he not kissed her properly after the -manner accepted by women as the infallible argument? He conjured up the -exceeding pleasantness of such an act. He could feel the melting of -her lips, the yielding of her bosom; gradually he worked himself into -a red-hot desire. A sudden resolve took him upstairs. There he learned -that Norma had retired for the night, and returning to his whisky in the -billiard-room, he cursed himself more loudly than before. A hand thrust -into the pocket of his dinner-jacket met the poor girl's crumpled -letter. Mechanically he took it to the empty grate, and then cursed the -fire for not being lit. When Mr. Hardacre came down for a final game of -billiards, he found his future son-in-law in an irritable temper, and -won an easy game. Rallied upon his lack of form, Morland explained that -the damned election was getting on his nerves. - -“Did n't get on them when you were shooting to-day,” said Mr. Hardacre. - -“I made believe that the birds were the beastly voters,” replied -Morland. - -Norma had not yet come down the next morning when he started for Cosford -on electioneering business. Nor did he meet her, as he hoped, in the -town, carrying on the work of canvassing which she had begun with great -success. A dry barrister having been sent down to contest the division -in the Liberal interest, was not making much headway in a constituency -devoted to the duchess and other members of the tyrannical classes, and -thus the task of Norma and her fellow-canvassers was an easy one. Today, -however, she did not appear. Morland consoled himself with the assurance -that he would put things right in the evening. After all, it was easy -enough to kiss a woman who had once shown a desire to be made love to. -Every man has his own philosophy of woman. This was Morland's. - -Jimmie also started upon his morning's pursuits without seeing Norma. -He was somewhat relieved; for he had spent a restless night, dozing off -only to dream grotesque dreams of the mad orator and waking to fight -with beasts that gnawed his vitals. He came down unstrung, a haggard -mockery of himself, and he was glad not to meet her clear eyes. The -three-mile walk to Chiltern Towers refreshed him, his work on the -portrait absorbed his faculties, and his neighbours at the ducal -luncheon-table, to which the duchess in person had invited him, -clear-witted women in the inner world of politics and diplomacy, kept -his attention at straining point. It was only when he walked back to -Heddon Court, although he made a manful attempt to whistle cheerily, -that he felt heavy upon his heart the burden of the night. It was a -languorous September afternoon, and the tired hush of dying summer -had fallen upon the world. The smell of harvest, the sense of golden -fulfilment of life hung on the air. Jimmie swung his stick impatiently, -and filled his lungs with a draught of the mellow warmth. - -“The old earth is good. By God, it's good!” he cried aloud. - -Brave words of a resolute optimism; but they did not lighten his burden. - -He reached the house. Beneath an umbrella-tent on the front lawn sat -Norma, her hands listlessly holding a closed book on her lap. Jimmie -would have lifted his hat and passed her by, but with, a brightening -face she summoned him. They talked awhile of commonplace things. -Then, after a pause, she asked him, half mockingly, to account for his -behaviour the day before. Why had he rated her in that masterful way? - -“I can't bear you to speak evilly of yourself,” he said. - -“Why, since I deserve it?” - -“The _you_ that you sometimes take a pleasure in assuming to be -may deserve it. The real you does n't. And it is the real you that I -know--that has given me friendship and is going to marry my dearest -friend. The other you is a phantom of a hollow world in which -circumstances have placed you.” - -“I think the phantom is happier than the reality,” said Norma, with a -laugh. “'The dream is better than the drink.' The hollow world is the -safer place, after all.” - -“Where imagination doth not corrupt and enthusiasms do not break in and -steal,” said Jimmie, with unusual bitterness. “I have seen very little -of it--but you have told me things,” he continued lamely, “and your -being in it and of it seems a profanation. When you wilfully identify -yourself with its ideals, you hurt me; and when I am hurt, I cry out.” - -“But why should you care so much about what I am and what I am not?” she -asked in a tone half of genuine enquiry and half of expectancy, wholly -kind and soft.. - -He dug the point of his stick into the turf and did not raise his eyes. -He knew now what a fool's game of peril he was playing, and kept himself -in check. Yet his voice trembled as he replied: - -“Morland is very dear to me. You, his future wife, have grown dear to -me also. I suppose I have lived rather a simple sort of life and take my -emotions seriously.” - -“I hope you thank God for it,” said Norma. - -The swift rattle of a carriage turning into the drive broke the talk, -which had grown too personal to be left voluntarily. Jimmie felt -infinitely grateful to the visitors, like a man suddenly saved from a -threatening precipice. Leaving Norma with a bow, he fled into the house -and selecting a book from the library, went onto the terrace. He needed -solitude. Something of which he was unaware was happening. Circumstances -were not the same as when he had first arrived. Then he had looked on -Norma with brave serenity. He was happy, loving her and receiving frank -friendship from her condescending hands. Now it was growing to be a -pain to watch her face, a dread to hear her voice. Sweet intercourse had -become a danger. And a few days had brought about the change. Why? Of -the riot in the woman's nature he knew nothing. In his blank ignorance, -seeking the cause within himself, he asked, Why? - -He crossed the tennis lawn, went through the little opening at the end -of the hedge, and down to the seclusion of the croquet ground. Half-way -along the sloping bank beneath the upper terrace some one had left a -rug. He threw himself upon it, and tried like many another poor fool -to reason down his hunger. But all the sensitive nerves with which -the imaginative man, for his curse or his blessing, is endowed, were -vibrating from head to foot. Her words sang in his ears: “Why should you -care so much about what I am and what I am not?” The real answer burst -passionately from his heart. - -He had lain there for about half an hour when a gay little laugh aroused -him. - -“You idyllic creature!” - -It was Connie Deering, bewitchingly apparelled, a dainty, smiling pale -yellow butterfly, holding as usual an absurd parasol over her head. - -“I have been looking for you all over the place,” she remarked. “They -told me you were somewhere about the grounds. May I sit down?” - -He made room for her on the rug, and taking the parasol from her hand, -closed it. She settled herself gracefully by his side. - -“I repeat I have been looking for you,” she said. - -“The overpowering sense of honour done me has deprived me of speech,” -replied Jimmie, with an attempted return to his light-hearted manner. - -“Norma is entertaining those dreadful Spencer-Temples,” said Mrs. -Deering, irrelevantly. - -“I must have had a premonition of their terrors, for I fled from before -their path,” he said. “After all, poor people, what have they done to be -called names?” he added. - -“They are ugly.” - -“So am I, yet people don't run away from me.” - -“I saw you run away from them,” she said with a significant nod. “I -was at my bedroom window. They spoiled a most interesting little -conversation.” - -Jimmie was startled. He looked at her keenly, but only met laughing -eyes. - -“They interrupted me certainly. But I could n't have inflicted my -society on Miss Hardacre all the afternoon.” - -“You would have liked to, wouldn't you? Jimmie dear,” she said with a -change of tone, “I want to have a talk with you. I'm the oldest woman -friend you have--” - -“And by far the sweetest and kindest and prettiest and fascinatingest.” - -She tapped his hand with her fingers. “Ssh! I'm serious, awfully -serious. I've never been so serious in my life before. I've got a duty. -I don't often have it, but when I do, it's a terrible matter.” - -“You had better go and have it extracted at once, Connie,” he laughed, -determined to keep the talk in a frivolous channel. But the little lady -was determined also. - -“Jimmie dear,” she said, holding up her forefinger, “I am afraid you -are running into danger. I want to warn you. An old friend can do that, -can't she?” - -“You can say anything you like to me, Connie. But I don't know what you -mean.” - -He suspected her meaning, however, only too shrewdly, and his heart beat -with apprehension. Had he been fool enough to betray his secret? - -“Are n't you getting just a little too fond of Norma, Jimmie?” - -“I could n't get too fond of her,” he said, “seeing that she is to be -Morland's wife.” - -“That's just why you must n't. Come, Jimmie, have n't you fallen a bit -in love with her?” - -“No,” he said with some heat. “Certainly not. How dare I?” - -Kindness and teasing were in her eyes. - -“My poor dear husband used to say I had the brain of a bird, but I may -have the sharp eyes of a bird as well. Come--not just one little bit in -love?” - -She had sought him with the best intentions in the world. She had long -suspected; yesterday and to-day had given her certainty. She would put -him on his guard, talk to him like an elder sister, pour forth upon him -her vast wisdom in affairs of the heart, and finally persuade him-from -his folly to more sensible courses. - -“He sha'n't come to grief over Norma if I can prevent it,” she had said -to herself. - -And now, in spite of her altruistic resolve, she could not resist the -pleasure of teasing him. She had done so all her life. Her method -became less elder-sisterly than she had intended. But she was miles from -realising that she touched bare nerves, and that the man was less a man -than a living pain. - -“I tell you I'm not in love with her, Connie,” he said. “How could I -dream of loving her? It would be damnable folly.” - -“Oh, Jimmie, Jimmie,” she said, enjoying his confusion, “what a -miserably poor liar you make--and what a precious time you would have in -the witness-box if you were a co-respondent! You can't deceive for nuts. -You had better confess and have done with it.” Then seeing something of -the anguish on his face, she bethought her of the serious aspect of her -mission. “I could not bear you to break your heart over Norma, dear,” - she said quite softly. - -“Don't madden me, Connie--you don't know what you are saying,” he -muttered below his breath. - -Connie Deering had never heard a man speak in agony of spirit. Her lot -had fallen among pleasant places, where life was a smooth, shaven lawn -and emotions not more violent than the ripples on a piece of ornamental -water. His tone gave her a sudden fright. - -“You do love her, then?” she whispered. - -“Yes,” said Jimmie, drawing himself up in a tight, awkward heap on -the slope. “My God, yes, I do love her. I love her with every fibre of -brain and body.” - -The words were out. More came. He could not restrain them. He gave up -the attempt, surrendered himself to the drunkenness of his passion, -poured out a torrent of riotous speech. What he said he knew not. -Such divine madness comes to a man but few times in a life. The -sweet-hearted, frivolous woman, sitting there in the trim little -paradise of green, with its velvet turf and trim slopes, and tall mask -of trees, all mellow in the shade of the soft September afternoon, -listened to him with wondering eyes and pale cheeks. It was no longer -Jimmie of the homely face that was talking; he was transfigured. His -very voice had changed its quality.... Did he love her? The word was -inept in its inadequacy. He worshipped her like a Madonna. He adored her -like a queen. He loved her as the man of hot blood loves a woman. Soul -and heart and body clamoured for her. Compared with hers, every other -woman's beauty was a glow-worm unto lightning. Her voice haunted him -like music heard in sleep. Her presence left a fragrance behind that -clouded his senses like incense. Her beauty twined itself into every -tendril of every woman's hair he painted, stole into the depths of every -woman's eyes. It was a divine obsession. - -“You must fight against it,” Connie whispered tonelessly. - -“Why should I? Who is harmed? Norma? Who will tell her? Not I. If I -choose to fill my life with her splendour, what is that to any one? The -desire of the moth for the star! Who heeds the moth?” - -He went on reckless of speech until his passion had spent itself. Then -he could only repeat in a broken way: - -“Love her? Heaven knows I love her. My soul is a footstool for her to -rest her feet upon.” - -Connie Deering laid her hand on his. - -“I'm sorry. Oh, I'm sorry, Jimmie. God bless you, dear.” - -He raised the hand to his lips. Neither spoke. He plucked at the grass -by his side; at length he looked up. - -“You won't give me away, will you?” he said with a smile, using her -dialect. - -She went on her knees and clasped both his wrists. She said the first -thing that came, as something sacred, into her head. - -“I could no more speak of this to any one than of some of my dead -husband's kisses.” - -“I know you are a good true woman, Connie,” he said. - -In the silence that followed, Norma, who had come to summon Connie to -tea (the Spencer-Temples having called on their drive past the gates -merely to deliver a message), and hearing the voice behind the hedge had -been compelled against her will to listen--Norma, deadly white, shaken -to the roots of her being, crept across the tennis lawn and fled in -swaying darkness to her room. - - - - -Chapter XIII--THE OPTIMIST AT LARGE - -CONNIE DEERING walked back to the house with a silent and still -tremulous Jimmie. She had slid her hand through his arm, and now and -then gave it an affectionate pat. Within the limitations of her light, -gay nature she was a sympathetic and loyal woman, and she had loved -Jimmie for many years with the unquestioning fondness that one has for -a beloved and satisfying domestic animal. She had recovered from -the fright his frantic demonstration had caused her, and her easy -temperament had shaken off the little chill of solemnity that had -accompanied her vow of secrecy. But she pitied him with all her kind -heart, and in herself felt agreeably sentimental. - -They strolled slowly into the hall, and paused for a moment before -parting. - -“When you come to think of it seriously, you won't consider I have made -too impossible a fool of myself?” he asked with an apologetic smile. - -“I promise,” she said affectionately. Then she laughed. Not only -was Jimmie's smile contagious, but Connie Deering could not face the -pleasant world for more than an hour without laughter. - -“I have always said you were a dear, Jimmie, and you are. I almost wish -I could kiss you.” - -Jimmie looked around. They were quite unperceived. - -“I do quite,” he said, and kissed her on the cheek. - -“Now we are really brother and sister,” she said with a flush. “You are -not going to be too unhappy, are you?” - -“I? Oh no, not I,” he replied heartily. He repeated this asseveration to -himself while dressing for dinner. Why indeed should he be unhappy? Had -he not looked a few hours before at God's earth and found that it was -good? Besides, to add to the common stock of the world's unhappiness -were a crime. “Yes, a crime,” he said aloud, with a vigorous pull at his -white tie. Then he perceived that it was hopelessly mangled, and wished -for Aline, who usually conducted that part of the ceremony of his -toilette. - -“It will have to do,” he said cheerfully, as he turned away from the -glass. - -Yet, for all his philosophising, he was surprised at the relief that his -wild confession to Connie had afforded him. The burden that had seemed -too heavy for him to bear had now grown magically light. He attributed -the phenomenon to Connie Deering, to the witchery of her sweet sympathy -and the comfort of her sisterly kiss. By the time he had finished -dressing the acute pain of the past two days had vanished, and as -he went down the stairs he accounted himself a happy man. In the -drawing-room he met Norma, and chatted to her almost light-heartedly. -He did not notice the constraint in her manner, her avoidance of his -glance, the little pucker of troubled brows; nor was he aware of her -sigh of relief when the door opened and the servant announced Mr. -Theodore Weever, who with one or two other people were dining at the -house. Mr. and Mrs. Hardacre followed on the American's heels, and -soon the rest of the party had assembled. Jimmie had no opportunity -for further talk with Norma, who studiously kept apart from him all the -evening, and during dinner devoted herself to subacid conversation with -Morland and to a reckless interchange of cynical banter with Weever. -Jimmie, talking with picturesque fancy about his student days in the Rue -Bonaparte to his neighbour, a frank fox-hunting and sport-loving young -woman, never dreamed of the chaos of thoughts and feelings that whirled -behind the proud face on the opposite side of the table; and Norma, -when her mind now and then worked lucidly, wondered at the strength -and sweetness of the man who could subdue such passion and laugh with a -gaiety so honest and sincere. For herself, Theodore Weever, with his icy -humour that crystallised her own irony into almost deadly wit, was her -sole salvation during the interminable meal. Once Morland, listening -with admiration, whispered in her ear: - -“I've never heard you in such good form.” - -She had to choke down an hysterical impulse of laughter and swallow -a mouthful of champagne. Later, when the women guests had gone, she -slipped up to her room without saying good-night to Morland, and, -dismissing her maid, as she had done the night before, sat for a long -time, holding her head in her hands, vainly seeking to rid it of words -that seemed to have eaten into her brain. And when she thought of -Morland, of last night, of her humiliation, she flushed hot from hair -to feet. She was only five-and-twenty, and the world had not as yet -completed its work of hardening. It was a treacherous and deceitful -world; she had prided herself on being a finished product of -petrifaction, and here she lay, scorched and bewildered, like any soft -and foolish girl who had been suddenly brought too near the flame of -life. Keenly she felt the piteousness of her defeat. In what it exactly -consisted she did not know. She was only conscious of broken pride, the -shattering of the little hard-faced gods in her temple, the tearing up -of the rails upon which she had reckoned to travel to her journey's end. -Hers was a confused soul state, devoid of immediate purpose. A breach -of her engagement with Morland did not occur to her mind, and Jimmie was -merely an impersonal utterer of volcanic words. She slept but little. In -the morning she found habit by her bedside; she clothed herself therein -and faced the day. - -Much was expected of her. The great garden-party was to take place -that afternoon. Her Serene Highness the Princess of Herren-Rothbeck had -signified that she would do Mr. and Mrs. Hardacre the honour of -being present. Her Grace the Duchess of Wiltshire would accompany the -princess. The _ban_ and _arriere-ban_ of the county had been invited, -and the place would be filled with fair women agog to bask in the smiles -of royalty, and ill-tempered men dragged away from their partridges -by ambitious wives. A firm of London caterers had contracted for the -refreshments. A military band would play on the terrace. A clever French -showman whom Providence had sent to cheer the dying hours of the London -season, and had kept during the dead months at a variety theatre, was -coming down with an authentic Guignol. He had promised the choicest -pieces in his repertoire--_la vraie grivoiserie française_--and men -who had got wind of the proposed entertainment winked at one another -wickedly. The garden-party was to be an affair of splendour worthy of -the royal lady who had deigned to shed her serenity upon the county -families assembled; and Mr. Hardacre had raised a special sum of money -to meet the expenses. - -“I shall have to go to the Jews, my dear,” he had said to his wife when -they were first discussing ways and means. - -“Oh, go to the--Jews then,” said Mrs. Hardacre, almost betrayed, in her -irritation, into an unwifely retort. “What does it matter, what does any -sacrifice matter, when once we have royalty at the house? You are such a -fool, Benjamin.” - -He had a singular faculty for arousing the waspishness of his wife; yet, -save on rare occasions, he was the meekest of men in her presence. - -“Well, you know best, Eliza,” he said. - -“I have n't been married to you for six-and-twenty years without being -perfectly certain of that,” she replied tartly. - -So Mr. Hardacre went to the Jews, and the princess promised to come to -Mrs. Hardacre. - -Norma was not the only one that morning who was aroused to a sense of -responsibility. The footman entering Jimmie's bedroom brought with him -a flat cardboard box neatly addressed in Aline's handwriting. The box -contained a new shirt, two new collars, a new silk tie, and a pair of -grey suède gloves; also a letter from Aline instructing him as to the -use of these various articles of attire. - -“Be sure to wear your frock-coat,” wrote the director of Jimmie's -conduct. “I wish you had one less than six years old; but I went over it -with benzine and ammonia before I packed it up, so perhaps it won't be -so bad. And wear your patent-leather evening shoes. They'll look quite -smart if you'll tie the laces up tight, and stick the ends in between -the shoe and the sock. Oh, I wish I could come and turn you out -decently! and _please_, Jimmie dear, don't cut yourself shaving and go -about all day with a ridiculous bit of cotton wool on your dear chin. -Tony says you need n't wear the frock-coat, but I know better. What -acquaintance has he with princesses and duchesses? And that reminds -me to tell you that Tony--” _et caetera, et caetera,_ in a manner that -brought the kindest smile in the world into Jimmie's eyes. - -He dressed with scrupulous regard to directions, but not in the -frock-coat. He had a morning sitting with the princess at Chiltern -Towers to get through before airing himself in the splendour of benzine -and ammonia. He put on his old tweed jacket and went downstairs. Morland -was the only person as yet in the breakfast-room. He held a morning -paper tight in his hand, and stared through the window, his back to -the door. On Jimmie's entrance he started round, and Jimmie saw by a -harassed face that something had happened. - -“My dear fellow--” he began in alarm. - -Morland smoothed out the paper with nervous fingers, and threw it -somewhat ostentatiously on a chair. Then he walked to the table and -poured himself out some tea. The handle of the silver teapot slid in -his grasp, and awkwardly trying to save the pouring flood of liquid, he -dropped the teapot among the cups and saucers. It was a disaster, but -one that could have been adequately greeted by a simpler series of -expletives. He cursed vehemently. - -“What's the matter, man?” asked Jimmie. - -Morland turned violently upon him. - -“The very devil's the matter. There never was such a mess since the -world began. What an infernal fool I have been! You do well to steer -clear of women.” - -“Tell me what's wrong and I may be able to help you.” - -Morland looked at him for a moment in gloomy doubt. Then he shook his -head. - -“You can't help me. I thought you could, but you can't. It's a matter -for a lawyer. I must run up to town.” - -“And cut the garden-party?” - -“That's where I'm tied,” exclaimed Morland, impatiently. “I ought to -start now, but if I cut the garden-party the duchess would never forgive -me--and by Jove, I may need the duchess more than ever--and I've got a -meeting to attend in Cosford this morning to which a lot of people are -coming from a distance.” - -“Can't I interview the lawyer for you?” - -“No. I must do it myself.” - -The butler entered and looked with grave displeasure at the wreckage on -the tea-tray. While he was repairing the disaster, Morland went back to -the window and Jimmie stood by his side. - -“If you fight it through squarely, it will all come right in the end.” - -“You don't mind my not telling you about it?” said Morland, in a low -voice. - -“Why should I? In everything there is a time for silence and a time for -speech.” - -“You're right,” said Morland, thrusting his hands into his trousers' -pockets; “but how I am to get through this accursed day in silence I -don't know.” - -They sat down to breakfast. Morland rejected the offer of tea, and -called for a whisky and soda which he nearly drained at a gulp. Mr. -Hardacre came in, and eyed the long glass indulgently. - -“Bucking yourself up, eh? Why did n't you ask for a pint of champagne?” - -He opened the newspaper and ran through the pages. Morland watched him -with swift nervous glances, and uttered a little gasp of relief when he -threw it aside and attacked his grilled kidneys. His own meal was -soon over. Explaining that he had papers to work at in the library, he -hurried out of the room. - -“Can't understand a man being so keen on these confounded politics,” his -host remarked to Jimmie across the table. A polite commonplace was all -that could be expected in reply. Politics were engrossing. - -“That's the worst of it,” said Mr. Hardacre. “In the good old days a man -could take his politics like a gentleman; now he has got to go at them -like a damned blaspheming agitator on a tub.” - -“Cosford was once a pretty little pocket borough, wasn't it?” said -Jimmie. “Now Trade's unfeeling train usurp the privileges of His Grace -of Wiltshire and threaten to dispossess his nominee. Instead of -one simple shepherd recording his pastoral vote we have an educated -electorate daring to exercise their discretion.” - -Mr. Hardacre looked at Jimmie askance; he always regarded an allusive -style with suspicion, as if it necessarily harboured revolutionary -theories. - -“I hope you're not one of those--” He checked himself as he was going -to say “low radical fellows.” Politeness forbade. “I hope you are not a -radical, Mr. Padgate?” - -“I am sure I don't quite know,” replied Jimmie, cheerfully. - -“Humph!” said Mr. Hardacre, “I believe you are.” - -Jimmie laughed; but Mr. Hardacre felt that he held the key to the -eccentric talk of his guest. Jimmie Padgate was a radical; a fearful -wildfowl of unutterable proclivities, to whom all things dreadful were -possible. - -“I,” he continued, “am proud to be a Tory of the old school.” - -The entrance of the ladies put a stop to the distressful conversation. - -Jimmie, whose life during the past few days had been a curious compound -of sunshine and shadow, went about his morning's work with only -Morland's troubles weighing upon him. Of their specific nature he had -no notion; he knew they had to do with the unhappy love affair; but -as Morland was going to put matters into the hands of his lawyers, a -satisfactory solution was bound to be discovered. Like all simple-minded -men, he had illimitable faith in the powers of solicitors and -physicians; it was their business to get people out of difficulties, and -if they were capable men they did their business. Deriving much comfort -from this fallacy, he thought as little as might be about the matter. In -fact he quite enjoyed his morning. He sat before his easel at the end -of a high historic gallery, the bright morning light that streamed in -through the windows tempered by judiciously arranged white blinds; and -down the vista were great paintings, and rare onyx tables, and priceless -chairs and statuary, all harmonising with the stately windows and -painted ceiling and polished floor. In front of him, posed in befitting -attitude, sat the royal lady, with her most urbane expression upon -her features, and, that which pleased him most, the picture was just -emerging from the blurred mass of paint, an excellent though somewhat -idealised portrait. So he worked unfalteringly with the artist's joy in -the consciousness of successful efforts, and his good-humour infected -even his harsh sitter, who now and then showed a wintry gleam of gaiety, -and uttered a guttural word of approbation. - -“You shall come to Herren-Rothbeck and baint the bortrait of the brince -my brother,” she said graciously. “Would that blease you?” - -“I should just think it would,” said Jimmie. - -The princess laughed--a creaking, rusty laugh, but thoroughly well -intentioned. Jimmie glanced at her enquiringly. - -“I like you,” she responded. “You are so natural--what you English call -refreshing. A German would have made a ceremonious speech as long as -your mahl-stick.” - -“I am afraid I must learn ceremony before I come to court, Madam,” said -Jimmie. - -“If you do, you will have forgotten how to baint bor-traits,” said the -princess. - -Thus, under the sun of princely favour, was Jimmie proceeding on -the highroad to fortune. Never had the future seemed so bright. His -bombastic jest about being appointed painter in ordinary to the crowned -heads of Europe was actually going to turn out a reality. He lost -himself in daydreams of inexhaustible coffers from which he could toss -gold in lapfuls to Aline. She should indeed walk in silk attire, and set -up housekeeping with Tony in a mansion in Park Lane. - -On the front lawn at Heddon Court he met Connie and waved his hat in the -air. She went to him, and, peering into his smiling face, laid her hand -on his sleeve. - -“Whatever has happened? Have you two stepped into each other's shoes?” - -“What on earth do you mean? - -“You know--Norma.” - -“My dear Connie--” he began. - -“Well, it seemed natural. Here are you as happy as an emperor; and there -is Morland come back from Cosford with the look of a hunted criminal.” - - - - -Chapter XIV--THE BUBBLE REPUTATION - -THE princess had the affability to inform Mrs. Hardacre that it was a -“charming barty,” and Mrs. Hardacre felt that she had not lived in vain. - -Henceforth she would be of the innermost circle of the elect of the -county. Exclusive front doors would open respectfully to her. She would -be consulted on matters appertaining to social polity. She would be a -personage. She would also make her neighbour, Lady FitzHubert, sick with -envy. A malignant greenness on that lady's face she noted with a thrill -of pure happiness, and she smilingly frustrated all her manoeuvres to -get presented to Her Serene Highness. She presented her rival, instead, -to Jimmie. - -“My dear Lady FitzHubert, let me introduce Mr. Padgate, who is painting -the dear princess's portrait. Mr. Padgate is staying with us.” - -Whereby Mrs. Hardacre conveyed the impression that Heddon Court and -Chiltern Towers contained just one family party, the members of which -ran in and out of either house indiscriminately. It may be mentioned -that Jimmie did not get on particularly well with Lady FitzHubert. He -even confided afterwards to Connie Deering his suspicion that now and -again members of the aristocracy were lacking in true urbanity. - -By declaring the garden-party to be charming the princess only did -justice to the combined efforts of the Hardacres and Providence. The -warm golden weather and the chance of meeting august personages had -brought guests from far and near. The lawns were bright with colour and -resonant with talk. A red-coated band played on the terrace. Between the -items of music, Guignol, housed in the Greek temple, with the portico -for a proscenium, performed his rogueries to the delight of hastily -assembling audiences. Immediately below, a long white-covered table -gleamed with silver tea-urns and china, and all the paraphernalia of -refreshments. At the other end of the lawn sat the august personages -surrounded by the elect. - -Among these was Morland. But for him neither blue September skies nor -amiable duchesses had any charm. To the man of easy living had come -the sudden shock of tragedy, and the music and the teacups and the -flatteries seemed parts of a ghastly farce. The paragraph he had read -in the paper that morning obsessed him. The hours had seemed one long -shudder against which he vainly braced his nerves. He had loved the poor -girl in his facile way. The news in itself was enough to bring him face -to face with elementals. But there was another terror added. The chance -word of a laughing woman had put him on the rack of anxiety. Getting out -of the train at Cosford, she had seen the queerest figure of a man step -on to the platform, with the face of Peter the Hermit and the costume of -Mr. Stiggins. Morland's first impulse had been to retreat precipitately -from Cosford, and take the next train to London, whither he ought to -have gone that morning. The tradition-bred Englishman's distaste for -craven flight kept him irresolutely hanging round the duchess. He -thought of whispering a private word to Jimmie; but Jimmie was far -away, being introduced here and there, apparently enjoying considerable -popularity. Besides, the whisper would involve the tale of the newspaper -paragraph, and Morland shrank from confiding such news to Jimmie. No one -on earth must know it save his legal adviser, an impersonal instrument -of protection. He did what he had done once during five horrible weeks -at Oxford, when an Abingdon barmaid threatened him with a breach of -promise action. He did nothing and trusted to luck. Happy chance brought -to light the fact that she was already married. Happy chance might save -him again. - -Beyond the mere commonplaces of civility he had exchanged no words that -day with Norma. Moved by an irritating feeling of shame coupled with a -certain repugnance of the flesh, he had deliberately avoided her; and -his preoccupation had not allowed him to perceive that the avoidance was -reciprocated. When they happened to meet in their movements among the -guests, they smiled at each other mechanically and went their respective -ways. Once, during the afternoon, Mr. Hardacre, red and fussy, took him -aside. - -“I have just heard a couple of infernal old cats talking of Norma and -that fellow Weever. There they are together now. Will you give Norma a -hint, or shall I?” - -Morland looked up and saw the pair on the terrace, midway between the -band and the Guignol audience. - -“I'm glad she has got somebody to amuse her,” he said, turning away. He -was almost grateful to Weever for taking Norma off his hands. - -Meanwhile Jimmie was continuing to find life full of agreeable -surprises. Lady FitzHubert was not the only lady to whom he was -presented as the Mr. Padgate who was painting the princess's portrait. -Mrs. Hardacre waived the personal grudge, and flourished him -tactfully in the face of the county; and the county accepted him with -unquestioning ingenuousness. He was pointed out as a notability, became -the well-known portrait-painter, the celebrated artist, _the_ James -Padgate, and thus achieved the bubble reputation. A guest who was -surreptitiously reporting the garden-party for the local paper took -eager notes of the personal appearance of the eminent man, and being a -woman of the world, professed familiarity with his works. For the first -time in his life he found himself a person of importance. The fact -of his easy inclusion in the charmed circle cast a glamour over the -crudities of the gala costume designed and furbished up with so much -anxious thought by Aline, and people (who are kindly as a rule when -their attention is diverted from the trivial) looked only at his face -and were attracted to the man himself. Only Lady FitzHubert, who had -private reasons for frigidity, treated him in an unbecoming manner. -Other fair ladies smiled sweetly upon him, and spread abroad tales of -his niceness, and thus helped in the launching of him as a fashionable -portrait-painter upon the gay world. - -He had a brief interlude of talk with Norma by the refreshment-table. - -“I hope you are not being too much bored by all this,” she said in her -society manner. - -“Bored!” he cried. “It's delightful.” - -“What about the hollow world where imagination doth not corrupt and -enthusiasms do not break in and steal?” - -“It's a phantom dust-heap for inept epigrams. I don't believe it -exists.” - -“You mustn't preach a gospel one day and give it the lie the next,” she -said, half seriously; “for then I won't know what to believe. You don't -seem to realise your responsibilities.” - -He echoed the last word in some surprise. Norma broke into a little -nervous laugh. - -“You don't suppose you can go about without affecting your -fellow-creatures? It is well that you don't know what a disturbing -element you are.” - -She turned her head away and closed her eyes for a second or two, for -the words she had overheard there by the hedge, last evening, rang in -her ears. Perhaps it had been well for Jimmie if he had known. Before he -had time to reply, she recovered herself, and added quickly: - -“I am glad you are enjoying yourself.” - -“How can I help it when every one is so kind to me?” he said brightly. -“I came down here an obscure painter, a veritable _pictor ignotus_, and -all your friends are as charming to me as if I were the President of -the Royal Academy.” - -Connie Deering came up with a message for Norma and carried her off to -the house. - -“How does Jimmie like being lionised?” she asked on the way. - -Norma repeated his last speech. - -“He has n't any idea of the people's motives.” She added somewhat -hysterically: - -“The man is half fool, half angel--” - -“And altogether a _man_. Don't you make any mistake about that,” said -Connie, with a pretty air of finality. “You don't know as much about him -as I do.” - -“I'm not so sure about that,” said Norma. - -“I am,” said Connie. - -Jimmie was wandering away from the refreshment-table when Theodore -Weever stopped him. - -“That's a famous portrait of yours, Mr. Padgate. I saw it to-day after -lunch. I offer you my congratulations.” - -Jimmie thanked him, said modestly that he hoped it was a good likeness. - -“Too good by a long chalk,” laughed the American. “Her Serene Skinflint -does n't deserve it. I bet you she beat you down like a market-woman -haggling for fish.” - -Jimmie stuck his hands on his hips and laughed. - -“You don't deny it. You should n't have let her. She is rolling in -money.” - -“I am afraid one does n't bother much with the commercial side of -things,” said Jimmie. - -“That's where you make the mistake. Money is money, and it is better in -one's own pockets than in anybody else's. But that's not what I wanted -to speak to you about. I wonder if you would let me have the pleasure -of calling at your studio some day? I'm collecting a few pictures, and I -should regard it as a privilege to be allowed to look round yours.” - -Jimmie, having no visiting cards, scribbled his address on the back of -an envelope. He would be delighted to see Mr. Weever any time he was -passing through London. Weever bowed, and turned to greet a passing -acquaintance, leaving a happy artist. A miracle had happened; the -star of his fortunes had arisen. A week ago it was below the horizon, -shedding a faint, hopeful glimmer in the sky. Now it shone bright -overhead. The days of struggle and disappointment were over. He had come -into his kingdom of recognition. All had happened to-day: the princess's -promise of another and more illustrious royal portrait; the sudden leap -into fame; the patronage of the American financier. One has to be the -poor artist, with his youth--one record of desperate endeavour--behind -him, to know what these things mean. The delicate flattery of strange -women, however commonplace or contemptible it may be to the successful, -was a new, rare thing to Jimmie and appeased an unknown hunger. The -prospect of good work done and delivered to the world, without sordid, -heart-breaking bargainings, shimmered before him like a paradise. Old -habit made him long for Aline. How pleased the child would be when she -heard the glad news! He saw the joy on her bright face and heard -her clap her hands together, and he smiled. He would return to her a -conqueror, having won the prizes she had so often wept for--name -and fame and fortune. The band was playing the “Wedding March” from -“Lohengrin.” By chance, as he was no musician, he recognised it. - -“Aline shall have a wedding dress from Paris,” he said half aloud, and -he smiled again. The world had never been so beautiful. - -He embraced all of it that was visible in a happy, sweeping glance. -Then with the swiftness of lightning the smile on his face changed into -consternation. - -For a moment he stood stock still, staring at the sudden figure of a -man. It was Stone, the mad orator of Hyde Park. There was no possibility -of mistaking him at a distance of fifteen or twenty yards. He wore the -same rusty black frock-coat and trousers, the same dirty collar and -narrow black tie, the same shapeless clerical hat. His long neck above -the collar looked raw and scabious like a vulture's. In his hand he -carried a folded newspaper. He had suddenly emerged upon the end of the -terrace from the front entrance, and was descending the steps that led -down to the tennis lawn. If he walked straight on, he would come to -the group surrounding the princess and the Duchess of Wiltshire. Two or -three people were already eyeing him curiously. - -Morland's strange dread of the man flashed upon Jimmie. He hurried -forward to meet him. Of what he was about to do he had no definite idea. -Perhaps he could head Stone off, take him away from the grounds on the -pretext of listening to his grievances. At any rate, a scandal must be -avoided. As he drew near, he observed Morland, who had been bending down -in conversation with the duchess, rise and unexpectedly recognise Stone. - -A manservant bearing a small tray with some teacups ran up to the -extraordinary intruder, who waved him away impatiently. The servant put -down his tray and caught him by the arm. - -“You have no business here.” - -Stone shook himself free. - -“I have. Where is Mr. Rendell? Tell him I have to speak with him.” - -“There is no such person here,” said the servant. “Be off!” - -Jimmie reached the spot, as a few of the nearer guests were beginning to -take a surprised interest in the altercation. Morland came forward from -behind the duchess's chair and cast a swift glance at Jimmie. - -“If you don't go, I shall make you,” said the servant, preparing to -execute his threat. The man looked dangerous. - -“I must see Mr. David Rendell,” he cried, beginning to struggle. - -Jimmie drew the servant away. - -“I know this gentleman,” he said quietly. “Mr. Stone, Mr. Rendell is not -here, but if you will come with me, I will listen to you, and tell him -anything you have to say.” - -Mr. Hardacre, who had seen the scuffle from a distance, came up in a -fluster. - -“What's all this? What's all this? Who is this creature? Please go -away.” He began to hustle the man. - -“Stop! He's an acquaintance of Padgate's,” said Morland, huskily. - -There was a short pause. Stone stared around at the well-dressed men -and women, at the seated figures of the princess and the duchess, at the -servant who had picked up the tray, at the band who were still playing -the “Wedding March” from “Lohengrin,” at the red-faced, little, -blustering man, at the beautiful cool setting of green, and the look in -his eyes was that of one who saw none of these things. Morland edged to -Jimmie's side. - -“For God's sake, get him away,” he said in a low voice. - -Jimmie nodded and touched the man's arm. - -“Come,” said he. - -“Yes, please take him off! What the dickens does he want?” said Mr. -Hardacre. - -Stone turned his burning eyes upon him. - -“I have come to find an infamous seducer,” he replied, with a -melodramatic intensity that would have been ludicrous had his face not -been so ghastly. “His name is Rendell.” - -There was a shiver of interest in the crowd. - -“_Was sagt er?_” the princess whispered to her neighbour. - -Jimmie again tried to lead Stone away, but the distraught creature -seemed lost in thought and looked at him fixedly. - -“I have seen you before,” he said at last. - -“Of course you have,” said Jimmie. “In Hyde Park. Don't you remember?” - -Suddenly, with a wrench of his hands he tore an unmounted photograph -from the folded newspaper and threw it on the ground. His eyes blazed. - -“I thought I should find him. One of you is David Rendell. It is not -your real name. That I know. Which of you is it?” - -Jimmie had sprung upon the photograph. Instinct rather than the evidence -of sight told him that it was an amateur portrait of himself and Morland -taken one idle afternoon in the studio by young Tony Merewether. It -had hardly lain the fraction of a second on the ground but to Jimmie it -seemed as if the two figures had flashed clear upon the sight of all -the bystanders. He glanced quickly at Morland, who stood quite still now -with stony face and averted eyes. He too had recognised the photograph, -and he cursed himself for a fool for having given it to the girl. He had -had it loose in his pocket; she had pleaded for it; she had no likeness -of him at all. He was paying now for his imprudent folly. Like Jimmie, -he feared lest others should have recognised the photograph. But he -trusted again to chance. Jimmie had undertaken the unpleasant business -and his wit would possibly save the situation. - -Jimmie did not hesitate. A man is as God made him, heart and brain. To -his impulsive imagination the photograph would be proof positive for the -world that one of the two was the infamous seducer. It did not occur to -him to brazen the man out, to send him about his business; wherein -lies the pathos of simple-mindedness. The decisive moment had come. To -Morland exposure would mean loss of career, and, as he conceived -it, loss of Norma; and to the beloved woman it would mean misery and -heartbreak. So he committed an heroic folly. - -“Well, I _am_ Rendell,” he said in a loud voice. “What then?” - -Heedless of shocked whisperings and confused voices, among which rose a -virtuously indignant “Great heavens!” from Mrs. Hardacre, he moved away -quickly towards the slope, motioning Stone to follow. But Stone remained -where he stood, and pointed at Jimmie with lean, outstretched finger, -and lifted up his voice in crazy rhetoric, which was heard above -the “Wedding March.” No one tried to stop him. It was too odd, too -interesting, too dramatic. - -“The world shall know the tale of your lust, and the sun shall not go -down upon your iniquity. Under false promises you betrayed the sweetest -flower in God's garden. Basely you taunted her in her hour of need. -Murder and suicide are on your head. There is the record for all who -wish to read it. Read it,” he cried, flinging the newspaper at Mrs. -Hardacre's feet. “Read how she killed her newborn babe, the child of -this devil, and then hanged herself.” - -Jimmie came two or three steps forward. - -“Stop this mad foolery,” he cried. - -Stone glared at him for a fraction of a second, thrust his hand into the -breast-pocket of his frock-coat, drew out a revolver, and shot him. - -Jimmie staggered as a streak of fire passed through him, and swung -round. The women shrieked and rushed together behind the princess and -the duchess, who remained calmly seated. The men with one impulse sprang -forward to seize the madman; but as he leaped aside and threatened his -assailants with his revolver, they hung back. The band stopped short in -the middle of a bar. - -Norma and Connie Deering and one or two others who had been in the -house, unaware of the commotion of the last few minutes, ran out on the -terrace as they heard the shot and the sudden cessation of the band. -They saw the crowd of frightened, nervous people below, and the -grotesque figure in his rusty black pointing the pistol. And they saw -Jimmie march up to him, and in a dead silence they heard him say: - -“Give me that revolver. What is a silly fool like you doing with -fire-arms? You could n't hit a haystack at a yard's distance. Give it to -me, I say.” - -The man's arm was outstretched, and the pistol was aimed point-blank at -Jimmie. Connie Deering gripped Norma's arm, and Norma, feeling faint, -grew white to the lips. - -“Give it to me,” said Jimmie again. - -The man wavered, his arm drooped slightly; with the action of one -who takes a dangerous thing from a child, Jimmie quietly wrenched the -revolver from his grasp. - -Norma gave a gasp of relief and began to laugh foolishly. Connie clapped -her hands in excitement. - -“Did n't I tell you he was a man? By heavens, the only one in the lot!” - -Jimmie pointed towards the terrace steps. - -“Go!” he said. - -But there was a rush now to seize the disarmed Stone, the red coats -of the bandsmen mingling with the black of the guests. Jimmie, with a -curious flame through his shoulder and a swimming in his head, swerved -aside. Morland ran up, with a white face. - -“My God! He has hit you. I thought he had missed.” - -“No,” said Jimmie, smiling at the reeling scene. “I'm all right. Keep -the photograph. It was silly to give one's photograph away. I always was -a fool.” - -Morland pocketed the unmounted print. He tried to utter a word of -thanks, but the eyes of the scared and scandalised crowd a few steps -away were upon them, and many were listening. For a moment during the -madman's crazy indictment of Jimmie--for the horrible facts were only -too true--he had had the generous impulse to come forward and at all -costs save his friend; but he had hesitated. The shot had been fired. -The dramatic little scene had followed. To proclaim Jimmie's innocence -and his own guilt now would be an anticlimax. It was too late. He would -take another opportunity of exonerating Jimmie. So he stood helpless -before him, and Jimmie, feeling fainter and fainter, protested that he -was not hurt. - -They stood a bit apart from the rest. By this time men and women had -flocked from all quarters, and practically the whole party had assembled -on the tennis lawn. Norma still stood with Connie on the terrace, her -hand on her heart. A small group clustered round a man who had picked -up the newspaper and was reading aloud the ghastly paragraph marked by -Stone in blue pencil. The Hardacres were wringing their hands before -a stony-faced princess and an indignant duchess, who announced their -intention of immediate departure. Every one told every one else the -facts he or she had managed to gather. Human nature and the morbidly -stimulated imagination of naturally unimaginative people invented -atrocious details. Jimmie's new-born fame as a painter was quickly -merged into hideous notoriety. His star must have been Lucifer, so swift -was its fall. - -Mr. Hardacre left his wife's side, and dragged Morland a step or two -away, and whispered excitedly: - -“What a scandal! What a hell of a scandal! Before royalty, too. It will -be the death of us. The damned fellow must go. You must clear him out of -the house!” - -“He's hit. Look at him,” exclaimed Morland. - -Jimmie heard his host's whisper in a dream. It seemed a hoarse voice -very, very far off. He laughed in an idiotic way, waved his hand to the -gyrating crowd, and stumbled a few yards towards the slope. The world -swam into darkness and he fell heavily on his face. - -Then, to the amazement of the county, Norma with a ringing cry rushed -down the slope, and threw herself beside Jimmie's body and put his head -on her lap. And there she stayed until they dragged her away, uttering -the queer whimpering exclamations of a woman suddenly stricken with -great terror. She thought Jimmie was dead. - - - - -Chapter XV--MRS. HARDACRE LAUGHS - -THEY took Jimmie into the house, and Norma, looking neither to right -nor left, walked by the side of those carrying him, the front of her -embroidered dress smeared with blood. Every time her hands came in -contact with the delicate fabric, they left a fresh smear. Of this she -was unconscious. She was unconscious too, save in a dull way, of the -staring crowd; but she held her head high, and when Morland spoke to her -by the drawing-room window through which they passed, she listened to -what he had to say, bowed slightly, and went on. - -“It is only a flesh wound. If it had been the lung, he would have spat -blood. I don't think it is serious.” - -He spoke in a curiously apologetic tone, as if anxious to exculpate -himself from complicity in the attempted murder.. He was horribly -frightened. Two deaths laid in one day at a man's door are enough. The -possibility of a third was intolerable. The sense of the unheroic part -he had just played was beginning to creep over him like a chilling mist. -The consequences of confession, the only means whereby Jimmie could be -rehabilitated, loomed in front of him more and more disastrous. It would -be presenting himself to the world as a coward as well as a knave. -That prospect, too, frightened him. Lastly, there was Norma, white, -terror-stricken, metamorphosed in a second into a creature of primitive -emotions. Like the other shocks of that unhallowed day, her revelation -of unsuspected passions brought him face to face with the unfamiliar; -and to the average sensual man the unfamiliar brings with it an -atmosphere of the uncanny, the influence to be feared. His attitude, -therefore, when he addressed her was ludicrously humble. - -She bowed and passed on. By this time she knew that Jimmie was not dead. -Morland's words even reassured her. Her breath came hard through -her delicate nostrils, and her bosom heaved up and down beneath the -open-work bodice with painful quickness. Only a few were allowed to stay -in the dining-room, Morland, Mr. Hardacre, Theodore Weever on behalf of -the duchess, and one or two others, while the Cosford doctor, who had -been invited to the garden-party, made his examination. Norma went -through into the hall. At the bottom of the stairs she met Connie in -piteous distress. - -“Oh, my poor dear, my poor dear, we did n't know! I have just heard all -about it. It is terrible!” - -Norma put up her hand beseechingly. - -“Don't, Connie dear; don't talk of it. I can't bear it. I must be alone. -Send me up word what the doctor says.” She went to her room, sat there -and waited. Presently her maid entered with the message from Mrs. -Deering. The doctor's report was favourable--the wound not in any way -dangerous, the bullet easily extractable. They had carried the patient -to his bedroom, and Mrs. Deering had wired for Miss Marden to come down -by the first train. Norma dismissed the maid, and tried, in a miserable -wonder, to realise all that had happened. - -A woman accustomed to many emotions can almost always hold herself in -check, if she be of strong will. Experience has taught her the -meaning and the danger of those swift rushes of the blood that lead to -unreasoning outburst. She is forewarned, forearmed, and can resist or -not as occasion demands. But even she is sometimes taken unawares. -How much the more likely to give way is the woman who has never felt -passionate emotion in her life before. The premonitory symptoms fail to -convey the sense of danger to her inexperienced mind. Before the -will has time to act she is swept on by a new force, bewildering, -irresistible. It becomes an ecstatic madness of joy or grief, and to the -otherwise rational being her actions are of no account. This curse -of quick responsiveness afflicts men to a less degree. If the first -chapters of Genesis could be brought up to date, woman would be endowed, -not with an extra rib, but with an extra nerve. - -Now that she knew the shooting of Jimmie to be an affair of no great -seriousness, her heart sickened at the thought of her wild exhibition of -feeling. She heard the sniggering and ridicule in every carriage-load -of homeward-bound guests. From the wife of the scrubby curate to the -Princess of Herren-Rothbeck, her name was rolled like a delicate morsel -on the tongue of every woman in the county. And the inference they could -not fail to draw from her action was true--miserably true. But she had -only become poignantly aware of things at the moment when she saw the -lean haggard man in rusty black covering Jimmie with the revolver. Then -all the unrest of soul which she had striven to allay with her mockery, -all the disquieting visions of sweet places to which she had scornfully -blinded her eyes, all the burning words of passion whose clear echoing -had wrapped her body in hateful fever the night before, converged like -electric currents into one steady light radiant with significance. Two -minutes afterwards, when Jimmie fell, civilisation slipped from her like -a loose garment, and primitive woman threw herself by his side. But now, -reclothed, she shivered at the memory. - -The door opened suddenly, and Mrs. Hardacre entered. There was battle -in every line of the hard face and in every movement of the thin, stiff -figure. Norma rose from the window where she had been sitting and faced -her mother defiantly. - -“I know what you are going to say to me. Don't you think you might wait -a little? It will keep.” - -“It won't. Sit down,” said Mrs. Hardacre between her teeth. - -“I prefer to stand for the moment,” said Norma. - -Mrs. Hardacre lost her self-control. - -“Are we to send you to a madhouse? What do you mean by your blazing -folly? Before the whole county--before the duchess--before the princess! -Do you know what I have had to go through the last half-hour? Do you -know that we may never set foot in Chiltern Towers again? Do you know -we are the scandal and the laughing-stock of the county? As if one thing -was n't sufficient--for you to crown it by behaving like a hysterical -school-girl! Do you know what interpretation every scandal-mongering -tabby in the place is putting on your insane conduct?” - -“Oh, yes,” said Norma, looking at her mother stonily; “and for once in -their spiteful lives they are quite right.” - -“What do you mean?” gasped Mrs. Hardacre. - -“I think my meaning is obvious.” - -“That man--that painter man dressed like a secondhand -clothes-dealer--that--that beast?” - -Mrs. Hardacre could scarcely trust her senses. The true solution of her -daughter's extraordinary behaviour had never crossed her most desperate -imaginings. But then she had not had much time for quiet speculatien. -The speeding of her hurriedly departing guests had usurped all the wits -of the poor lady. - -“You have indeed given us a dramatic entertainment, dear Mrs. Hardacre,” - Lady FitzHubert had said with a sympathetic smile. “And poor Norma has -supplied the curtain. I hope she won't take it too much to heart.” - -And Mrs. Hardacre, livid with rage, had had no weapon wherewith to -strike her adversary who thus took triumphant vengeance. It had been -a half-hour of grievous humiliation. The fount and origin thereof was -lying unconscious with a bullet through his shoulder. The subsidiary -stream, so to speak, was in her room safe and sound. Human nature, -for which she is not deserving of over-blame, had driven Mrs. Hardacre -thither. At least she could vent some of her pent-up fury upon her -outrageous daughter, who, from Mrs. Hardacre's point of view, indeed -owed an explanation of her action and deserved maternal censure. This -she was more than prepared to administer. But when she heard Norma -calmly say that Lady FitzHubert and the other delighted wreakers of -private revenges were entirely in the right, she gasped with amazement. - -“That beast!” she repeated with a rising intonation. Norma gave her -habitual shrug of the shoulders. With her proud, erect bearing, it was a -gesture not ungraceful. - -“Considering what I have just admitted, mother, perhaps it would be in -better taste not to use such language.” - -“I don't understand your admitting it. I don't know what on earth you -mean,” said Mrs. Hardacre. - -There was a short pause, during which she scanned her daughter's face -anxiously as if waiting to see a gleam of reason dawn on it. Norma -reflected for a moment. Should she speak or not? She decided to speak. -Brutal frankness had ever been her best weapon against her mother. It -would probably prevent future wrangling. - -“I am sorry I have n't made my meaning clear,” she said, resuming -her seat by the window; “and I don't know whether I can make it much -clearer. Anyhow, I'll try, mother. I used to think that love was either -a school-girl sentimentality, a fiction of the poets, or else the sort -of thing that lands married women who don't know how to take care of -themselves in the divorce court. I find it is n't. That's all.” - -Mrs. Hardacre ran up to the window and faced Norma. “And Morland?” - -“It won't break his heart.” - -“What won't?” - -“The breaking off of our engagement.” - -Mrs. Hardacre looked at her daughter in a paralysis of bewilderment. - -“The madhouse is the only place for you.” - -“Perhaps it is. Anyway I can't marry a man when I care for his intimate -friend--and when the intimate friend cares for me. Somehow it's not -quite decent. Even you, mother, can see that.” - -“So you and the intimate friend have arranged it all between you?” - -“Oh, no. He does n't know that I care, and he does n't know that I -know that he cares. I'll say that over again if you like. It is quite -accurately expressed. And you know I'm not in the habit of lying.” - -“And you propose to marry----” - -“I don't propose to do anything,” interrupted Norma, quickly. “I at -least can wait till he asks me. And now, mother, I've had rather a bad -time--don't you think we might stop?” - -“It seems to me, my dear Norma, we are only just beginning,” said Mrs. -Hardacre. - -Norma rose with nervous impatience. - -“O heavens, mother,” she said, in the full deep notes of her voice, -which were only sounded at rare moments of feeling, “can't you see that -I'm in earnest? This man is like no one else I have ever met. I have -grown to need him. Do you know what that means? With him I am a changed -woman--as God made me, I suppose; natural, fresh, real--” Mrs. Hardacre -sat in Norma's vacated chair by the window and stared at her, as she -moved about the room. “I somehow feel that I am a woman, after all. I -have got something higher than myself that I can fall at the feet of, -and that's what every woman craves when she's decent. As for marrying -him--I'm not fit to marry him. There is n't any one living who is. -That's an end of it, mother. I can't say anything more.” - -“And do you propose to go on seeing this person when he recovers?” asked -Mrs. Hardacre. - -“Why not?” - -“I really can't argue with you,” said her mother, mystified. “If you -had told me this rubbish yesterday, I should have thought you touched in -your wits. To-day it is midsummer madness.” - -“Why to-day?” asked Norma. - -“The man has shown himself to be such a horrible beast. Of course, -if you think confessing to having seduced a girl under infamous -circumstances and driven her by his brutality to child-murder and -suicide, and blazoning the whole thing out at a fashionable garden-party -and getting himself shot for his pains, are idyllic virtues, nothing -more can be said. It's a case, as I remarked, for a madhouse.” Norma -came and stood before her mother, her brows knitted in perplexity. - -“Perhaps I am going crazy--I really don't understand what you are -talking about.” - -Mrs. Hardacre leant forward in her chair and drew a long breath. A gleam -of intelligence came into her eyes as she looked at Norma. - -“Do you mean to say you don't know what the row was about before the man -fired the shot?” - -“No,” said Norma, blankly. - -Her mother fell back in her chair and laughed. It was the first moment -of enjoyment she had experienced since Stone's black figure had -appeared on the terrace. Reaction from strain caused the laughter to -ring somewhat sharply. Norma regarded her with an anxious frown. - -“Please tell me exactly what you mean.” - -“My dear child--it's too funny. I thought you would have been too clever -to be taken in by a man like this. I see, you've been imagining him a -Galahad--a sort of spotless prophet--though what use you can have -for such persons I can't make out. Well, this is what happened.” - Embellishing the story here and there with little spiteful adornments, -she described with fair accuracy, however, the scene that had occurred. -Norma listened stonily. - -“This is true?” she asked when her mother had finished. - -“Ask any one who was there--your father--Morland.” - -“I can't believe it. He is not that sort of man.” - -“Is n't he? I knew he was the first time I set eyes on him. Perhaps -another time you'll allow me to have some sense--of course, if it is -immaterial to you whether a man is a brute--What are you ringing the -bell for?” - -“I am going to ask Morland to come up here.” - -The maid appeared, received Norma's message, and retired. Norma sat by -her little writing-table, with her head turned away from her mother, and -there was silence between them till the maid returned. - -“Mr. King has just driven off to catch the train, miss. He left a note -for you.” - -Mrs. Hardacre listened with contracted brow. When the maid retired, she -bent forward anxiously. - -“What does he say?” - -“You can read it, mother,” replied Norma, wearily. She held out the -note. Mrs. Hardacre came forward and took it from her hand and sat down -again. - -It ran: - -_“Dear Norma,--I think it best to run up to town on this afternoon's -business. I have only just time to catch the train at Cosford, so you -will forgive my not saying good-bye to you more ceremoniously. Take care -of poor Jimmie._ - -_“Yours affectionately,_ - -_“Morland.”_ - -“Poor Jimmie, indeed!” said Mrs. Hardacre, somewhat relieved at finding -the note contained no reference to the part played by Norma. “It's -very good of Morland, but I wish he would not mix himself up in this -scandal.” - -“I can't see what less he could do than look after his friend's -interests,” said Norma. - -“I wish the man had been shot or hanged before he came down here,” said -Mrs. Hardacre, vindictively. “That's the worst of associating with such -riff-raff. One never knows what they will do. It will teach you not -to pick people out of the gutter and set them in a drawing-room.” Mrs. -Hardacre rose. She did not often have the opportunity of triumphing over -her daughter. She crossed the room and paused for a moment by Norma, -who sat motionless with her chin in her hand, apparently too dismayed to -retort. - -“I am glad to see symptoms of sanity,” she remarked. - -Norma brought down her hand hard upon the table and leaped to her feet -and faced her mother. - -“I tell you, it's impossible! Impossible! He is not that kind of man. -It is some horrible mistake. I will ask him myself. I will get the truth -from his own lips.” - -“You shall certainly do nothing of the kind,” cried her mother; and in -order to have the last word she went out and slammed the door behind -her. - -Norma sat by the window again. The red September sun was setting, and -bathed downs and trees in warm light, and glinted on the spire of a -little village church a mile away. Everything it touched was at peace, -save the bowed head of the girl, clasped with white fingers which still -retained the dull brown marks of blood. Could she believe the revolting -story? A woman so driven to desperation must have been cruelly handled. -Her sex rose up against the destroyer. Her social training had caused -her to regard with cynical indifference ordinary breaches of what -is popularly termed the moral law. In the fast, idle set which she -generally frequented it was as ordinary for a man to neigh after his -neighbour's wife as to try to win his friend's money; as unsurprising -for him to keep a mistress as a stud of race-horses; the crime was to -marry her. But it was not customary, even in smart society, to drive -women to murder their new-born babes and kill themselves. A callous -brutality suggested itself, and the contemplation of it touched -humanity, sex, essential things. Could she believe the story? She -shuddered. - -The dressing-gong sounded through the house. Her maid entered, drew the -curtains, and lit the gas; then was dismissed. Norma would not go down -to dinner. A little food and drink in her own room would be all that she -could swallow. - -Later, Connie Deering, who had changed her dress, tapped at the door -and was bidden to enter. A quantity of powder vainly strove to hide the -traces of recent tears on her pretty face. She was a swollen-featured, -piteous little butterfly. - -“How is he?” asked Norma. - -“Better, much better. They have taken out the bullet. There is no -danger, and he has recovered consciousness. I almost wish he hadn't. Oh, -Norma dear--” - -She broke down and sat on the bed and sobbed. Norma came up and laid her -hand on her shoulder. - -“Surely you don't believe this ghastly story?” - -The fair head nodded above the handkerchief. A voice came from-below it. - -“I must--it's horrible--Jimmie, of all men! I thought his life was so -sweet and clean--almost like a good woman's--I can't understand it. If -he is as bad as this, what must other men be like? I feel as if I shall -never be able to look a man in the face again.” - -“But why should you take it for granted that he has done this?” asked -Norma, tonelessly. - -Mrs. Deering raised her face and looked at her friend in blue-eyed -dismay. - -“I did n't take it for granted. He told me so himself. Otherwise do you -think I should have believed it?” - -“He told you so himself! When?” - -“A short while ago. I went into his room. I could n't help it--I felt as -if I should have gone mad if I didn't know the truth. Parsons was there -with him. She said I could come in. He smiled at me in his old way, and -that smile is enough to make any woman fall in love with him. 'You've -been crying, Connie,' he said. 'That's very foolish of you.' So I began -to cry more. You would have cried if you had heard him. I asked him how -he was feeling. He said he had never felt so well in his life. Then -I blurted it out. I know I was a beast, but it was more than I could -stand. 'Tell me that this madman's story was all lies.' He looked at me -queerly, waited for a second or two, and then moved his head. 'It's -all true,' he said, 'all true.' 'But you must have some explanation!' -I cried. He shut his eyes as if he were tired and said I must take the -facts as they were. Then Parsons came up and said I mustn't excite him, -and sent me out of the room. But I did n't want to hear any more. I had -heard enough, had n't I?” - -Norma, as she listened to the little lady's tale, felt her heart grow -cold and heavy. Doubt was no longer possible. The man himself had -spoken. He had not even pleaded extenuating circumstances; had merely -admitted the plain, brutal facts. He had gone under a feigned name, -seduced an honest girl, abandoned her, driven her to tragedy. It was all -too simple to need explanation. - -“But what are we to do, dear?” cried Connie, as Norma made no remark, -but stood motionless and silent. - -“I think we had better drop his acquaintance,” she replied with bitter -irony. - -Connie flinched at the tone, being a tender-natured woman. She retorted -with some spirit: - -“I don't believe you have any heart at all, Norma. And I thought you -cared for him.” - -“You thought I cared for him?” Norma repeated slowly and cuttingly while -her eyes hardened. “What right had you to form such an opinion?” - -“People can form any opinions they like, my dear,” said Connie. “That -was mine. And on the terrace this afternoon you know you cared. If ever -a woman gave herself away over a man, it was Norma Hardacre.” - -“It was n't Norma Hardacre, I assure you. It was a despicable fool whom -I will ask you to forget. My mother was for putting it into a madhouse. -She was quite right. Anyhow it has ceased to exist and I am the real -Norma Hardacre again. Humanity is afflicted, it seems, periodically with -a peculiar disease. It turns men into beasts and women into idiots. I -have quite recovered, my dear Connie, and if you'll kindly go down -and ask them to keep dinner back for five minutes, I'll dress and come -down.” - -She rang the bell for her maid. Connie rose from the bed. She longed to -make some appeal to the other's softer nature for her own sake, as she -had held Jimmie very dear and felt the need of sympathy in her trouble -and disillusion. - -But knowing that from the rock of that cynical mood no water would gush -forth for any one's magic, she recognised the inefficacy of her own -guileless arts, and forbore to exercise them. She sighed for answer. -By chance her glance fell upon Norma's skirt. Human instinct, not -altogether feminine, seized upon the trivial. - -“Why, whatever have you been doing to your dress?” - -Norma looked down, and for the first time noticed the disfiguring smears -of blood. - -“I must have spilt something,” she said, turning away quickly, and -beginning to unfasten the hooks and eyes of her neckband. - -“I hope it will come out,” said Connie. “It's such a pretty frock.” - -As soon as she was alone, Norma looked at the stains with unutterable -repulsion. She tore off the dress feverishly and threw it into a corner. -When her maid entered in response to her summons, she pointed to the -shapeless heap of crêpe and embroidery. - -“Take that away and burn it,” she said. - - - - -Chapter XVI--IN THE WILDERNESS - -NORMA went down to dinner resolved to present a scornful front to -public opinion. She found the effort taxed her strength. During the -night her courage deserted her. The cold glitter of triumph in her -mother's eyes had been intolerable. Her father, generally regarded with -contemptuous indifference, had goaded her beyond endurance with his -futile upbraiding. Aline had arrived, white-faced and questioning, -and had established herself by Jimmie's bedside. Norma shrank from the -ordeal of the daily meeting with her and the explanation that would -inevitably come. She dreaded the return of Morland, uncertain of her own -intentions. As she tossed about on her pillow, she loathed the idea of -the marriage. Innermost sex had spoken for one passionate moment, and -its message still vibrated. She knew that time might dull the memory; -she knew that her will might one day triumph over such things as sex and -sentiment; but she must have a breathing space, a period of struggle, of -reflection, above all, of disassociation from present surroundings. If -she sold herself, it must be in the accustomed cold atmosphere of -brain and heart. Not now, when her head burned and flaming swords were -piercing her through and through. And last, and chief of all her dreads, -was the wounded man now sleeping beneath that roof. Father, mother, -Aline, Morland--these, torture though it were, she could still steel -her nerves to meet; but him, never. He had done what no other man in the -wide world had done. He had awakened the sleeping, sacredest inmost of -her, and he had dealt it a deadly wound. If she could have consumed him -and all the memories surrounding him with fire, as she had consumed the -garment stained with his blood, she would have done so in these hours of -misery. And fierce among the bewildering conflict of emotions that -raged through the long night was one that filled her with overwhelming -disgust--a horrible, almost grotesque jealousy of the dead girl. - -In the morning, exhausted, she resolved on immediate flight. In the -little village of Penwyrn on the Cornish coast, her aunt Janet Hardacre -led a remote, Quakerish existence. The reply to a telegram before she -left her room assured Norma of a welcome. By eleven o'clock she had -left Heddon Court and was speeding westwards without a word to Jimmie or -Aline. - -Morland returned in the afternoon, and after a whisky and soda to brace -his nerves, at once sought Jimmie, who roused himself with an effort to -greet his visitor. - -“Getting on famously, I hear,” said Morland, with forced airiness. “So -glad. We'll have you on your feet in a day or two.” - -“I hope to be able to travel back to London to-morrow.” - -“To-morrow?” - -“Yes,” said Jimmie, with a curious smile. “I fear I have outstayed my -welcome.” - -“Not a bit of it,” said Morland, seating himself at the foot of the bed. -“We'll put all that right. But you will give one a little time, won't -you? You mustn't think you've been altogether left. I ran up to town -at once to see my solicitors--not my usual people, you know, but some -others, devilish smart fellows at this sort of thing. They'll see that -nothing gets into the beastly papers.” - -“I don't see that it matters much,” said Jimmie. - -“Why, of course it does. I'm not going to let you take the whole blame. -I could n't come forward yesterday, it was all so sudden. The scandal -would have rotted my election altogether. But you shall be cleared--at -any rate in the eyes of this household. I came down with the intention -of telling Norma, but she has bolted to Cornwall. Upset, I suppose. -However, as soon as she comes back--” - -“Let things be as they are,” interrupted Jimmie, closing his eyes for a -moment wearily, for he had been suffering much bodily pain. “When I -said I was David Rendell, I meant it. I can go on acting the part. It's -pretty easy.” - -“Impossible, my dear old chap,” said Morland, with an air of heartiness. -“You went into the affair with your eyes shut. You didn't know it was -such a horrible mess.” - -“All the more reason for Norma to remain ignorant. It was for her sake -as well as yours.” - -A peculiar tenderness in Jimmie's tone caused Morland, not usually -perceptive, to look at him sharply. - -“You are very keen upon Norma,” he remarked. - -Jimmie closed his eyes again, and smiled. He was very weak and tired. -The pain of his wound and a certain mental agitation had kept him awake -all night, and just before Morland entered he had been dropping off -to sleep for the first time. An unconquerable drowsiness induced -irresponsibility of speech. - -“'The desire of the moth for the star,'” he murmured. - -Morland slid from the bed to his feet, and with his hands in his pockets -gazed in astonishment at his friend. - -An entirely novel state of affairs dawned upon him which required a -few moments to bring into focus. The ghastly tragedy for which he was -responsible, presenting itself luridly at every instant of the night and -day, had hidden from his reminiscent vision Norma's rush down the slope. -and her scared tending of the unconscious man. Jimmie's words -brought back the scene with unpleasant vividness and provided the -interpretation. When he saw this clearly, he was the most amazed man in -the three kingdoms. That Jimmie should have conceived and nourished -a silly, romantic passion for Norma, although he had never interested -himself sufficiently in Jimmie's private affairs to suspect it, was -humorously comprehensible. Ludicrously incomprehensible, however, was -a reciprocation of the sentiment on the part of Norma. In spite of -remorse, in spite of anxiety, in spite of the struggle between cowardice -and manhood, his uppermost sensation at that moment was one of lacerated -vanity. He had been hoodwinked, befooled, deceived. His own familiar -friend had betrayed him; the woman he was about to honour with his name -had set him at naught. He tingled with anger and sense of wrong. - -The sick man opened his eyes drowsily, and seeing Morland's gaze full -upon him, started into wakefulness. He motioned him to come nearer. - -“If you marry Norma--” he began. - -“If I marry her!” cried Morland. “Of course I'm going to marry her. I'll -see any other man damned before he marries her! She's the only woman -in the world I've ever set my mind on, and no matter what happens, I'm -going to marry her. There are no damned if's about it.” - -“Yes, there are,” Jimmie retorted weakly. “I was going to preach, but -I'm too tired. You'll have to be especially good to her--to make up.” - -“For what?” - -“For the wrong done to the other.” - -Morland was silent. He went up to the window and stared out across the -lawns and tugged at his moustache. The reproach stung him, and he felt -that Jimmie was ungenerous. After all, he had only done what thousands -of other men had done with impunity. The consequences had been enough to -drive him mad, but they had been the hideous accident of a temperament -for which he had not been responsible. - -“You surely don't believe all that mad fool said yesterday?” he muttered -without turning round. - -“The promise of marriage?” - -“It's a crazy invention. There never was any question of marriage. I -told you so months ago. I did everything in my power.” - -“I'm glad,” said Jimmie. - -Morland made no reply, but continued to stare out of the window and -meditate upon the many injuries that fate had done him. He arraigned -himself before the bar of his wounded vanity. He had broken the moral -law and deserved a certain penalty. The magnanimous verdict received -the applause of an admiring self. He was willing to undergo an adequate -punishment--the imposition of a fine and the hard labour of setting -devious things straight. But the alternative sentence to which he saw -himself condemned--on the one hand, the ruin of his political career, -his social position, and his marriage with Norma, to all of which he -clung with a newly found passion, and on the other, ignoble shelter -behind an innocent man who had done him a great wrong--he rebelled -against with all his average, sensual Briton's sense of justice. It was -grossly unfair. If there had been a spiritual “Times,” he would have -written to it. - -The opening of the door caused him to turn round with a start. It was -Aline, anxious and pale from an all-night sitting by Jimmie's bedside, -but holding her slim body erect, and wearing the uncompromising air of -a mother who has found her child evilly entreated at the hands of -strangers. She glanced at the bed and at Morland; then she put her -finger to her lip, and pointed at Jimmie, who lay fast asleep. Morland -nodded and went on tiptoe out of the room. Aline looked round, and being -a sensitive young person, shivered. She threw open the window wide, as -if to rid the place of his influence. Jimmie stirred slightly. She bent -down and kissed his hair. - -During the dark and troubled time that followed, Morland fell away from -Jimmie like the bosom friend of a mediaeval artist stricken with the -Black Death. At first, common decency impelled him to send the tainted -one affectionate messages, invitations to trust him awhile longer, and -enlarged, with the crudity of his mental habit, on the noble aspects of -Jimmie's sacrifice. But after Jimmie left the Hardacres' house, which -happened as soon as he could bear the journey, Morland shrank from -meeting him face to face; and when public exposure came, the messages -and the invitations and the protestations ceased, and Jimmie was left -in loneliness upon a pinnacle of infamy. Morland, in the futile hope -of the weak-willed man that he could, by some astonishing chance, sail a -middle course, did indeed give himself peculiar pains to keep the story -out of the newspapers, and his ill-success was due to other causes than -his own lack of effort. It was a tale too picturesque to be wasted -in these days of sensation-hunger. The fact of the dénouement of -the tragedy having taken place in the presence of royalty lent it a -theatrical glamour. A sardonic press filled an Athenian public with what -it lusted after. Indeed, who shall say with authority that the actual -dramas re-enacted before our courts and reported in our newspapers -have not their value in splashing with sudden colour the drab lives of -thousands? May it not be better for the dulled soul to be occasionally -arrested by the contemplation of furious passions than to feed -contentedly like a pig beside the slaughtered body of its fellow? - -Be that as it may. The press paid no heed to Morland or the smart -fellows of solicitors whom he employed. It published as many details as -it could discover or invent. For the tragical business did not end with -the scene on the Hardacres' lawn. There was an inquest on the dead girl. -There was the trial of Daniel Stone for attempted murder. The full glare -of publicity shed itself upon the sordid history. In the one case the -jury gave a verdict of suicide during temporary insanity; in the other -the prisoner was found to be insane and was sent to an asylum. These -were matters of no great public interest. But letters to the dead girl -in a disguised handwriting were discovered, and Stone gave his crazy -evidence, and a story of heartless seduction under solemn promise of -marriage and of abandonment with cynical offer of money was established, -and the fashionable portrait-painter, who was supposed to be the hero -of the tale, awoke one morning and found himself infamous. The thing, -instead of remaining a mere police-court commonplace, became a society -scandal. Exaggeration was inevitable, not only of facts but of the -reprobation a virtuous community pronounces on the specially pilloried -wrongdoer. The scapegoat in its essential significance is by no means a -thing of legendary history. It exists still, and owes its existence to -an ineradicable instinct in human nature. The reprobation aforesaid is -due not entirely to hypocrisy, as the social satirist would have it, -but in a great measure to an unreasoning impulse towards expiation of -offences by horrified condemnation of some notorious other. Thus it -came to pass that upon Jimmie's head were put all the iniquities of the -people and all their transgressions in all their sins, and he was led -away into the social wilderness. After that, the world forgot him. He -had been obscure enough before he burst for a day into the blaze of -royal patronage; but now blackest darkness swallowed him up. Only Aline -remained by his side. - -Morland wrote to Jimmie once after the exposure. As he had been the -cause, said he, of the probable ruin of Jimmie's professional prospects, -it was only right that he should endeavour to make some compensation. It -was, besides, a privilege of their life-long friendship. He enclosed a -cheque for two thousand pounds. Jimmie returned it. - -“My dear Morland,” he wrote in answer, “loyalty can only be repaid by -loyalty, love by love. If I accepted money, it would dishonour both -yourself and me. It is true that I took upon me a greater burden than I -was aware of. The world, if it knew the facts, would, as you say, call -me a quixotic fool. But if I took your money it would have the right to -call me a mercenary knave. I have always suffered fools gladly, -myself the greatest. I can go on doing so. Meanwhile you can make full -compensation in the only way possible. Devote your life and energies -to the happiness of the woman you are about to marry.” This was a stern -letter for Jimmie to write. After he had posted it he reproached himself -for not having put in a kind word. - - - - -Chapter XVII--THE INCURABLE MALADY - -I'll never let you inside the house again until you go down on your -knees and beg Jimmie's pardon,” cried Aline. - -She stood, a slim incarnation of outraged womanhood, with her hand on -the knob of the open door. A scared but stubborn youth hesitated on the -threshold. Few men, least of all lovers, like being turned out. - -“I don't believe you care a hang for me!” he said. - -“I don't,” she retorted bravely, but with tremulous lip. “Not a hang, as -you call it. I dislike you exceedingly and I don't want to see you any -more. I'll never speak to anybody who believes such things of Jimmie.” - -“But, my good child,” expostulated Tony Merewether, “they are facts; he -never has denied them.” - -“He could if he liked.” - -“How do you know?” - -“How do I know?” Aline repeated scornfully. “That just shows how far we -are apart. There's not the slightest reason for talking any more. You -have insulted Jimmie and you are going on insulting him. I can't stand -by this door forever. I want you to go.” - -“Oh, very well, I'll go,” said the young fellow. “But you've behaved -damnably to me, Aline--simply damnably.” He strode down the passage -and slammed the front door behind him. Aline turned back into the prim -little drawing-room where the interview had taken place, and after an -attempt to remain composed and dignified, suddenly broke into tears. She -could struggle no more against the cruelty of man and the hopelessness -of life. It had been a stormy interview. Tony Merewether had come, as -her natural protector, to insist upon immediate marriage. A small legacy -recently bequeathed to him would enable them to marry with reasonable -prudence. Why should they wait? Aline pleaded for time. How could she -leave her beloved Jimmie in his blackest hour? - -“It's just because I don't think it quite right for you to live here any -longer, that I want you to come away at once,” Tony had said. - -“Not right to live here? What on earth do you mean?” The luckless lover -tried to explain. Aline regarded him icily, and in his confusion and -discomfiture he lost the careful wrappings which he had prepared for his -words. - -“You think that Jimmie is not a fit person for me to associate with?” - she had asked in a dangerous tone. - -“Yes, since you choose to put it that way,” he had replied, nettled. -He believed that women liked a man of spirit and generally yielded to -a show of masterfulness. He was very young. Taking up his parable with -greater confidence, he showed her the social and moral necessity of -immediate recourse to his respectable protection. Naturally he admired -her loyalty, he signified, with a magnanimous wave of the hand; but -there were certain things girls did not quite comprehend; a man's -judgment had to be trusted. He invited her to surrender entirely to his -wisdom. The end of it all was his ignominious dismissal. She would not -see him until he had begged Jimmie's pardon on his knees. - -But now she buried her face in the sofa-cushions and sobbed. It was her -first poignant disillusion. Tony, whom she loved with all her heart, was -just like everybody else, incapable of pure faith, ready to believe the -worst. He was cruel, uncharitable. She would never speak to him -again. And the sweet shy dream of her young life was over. It was very -tragical. - -Jimmie's step coming up the studio stairs caused her to spring from the -sofa and frantically dry her eyes before the mirror. The steps advanced -along the passage, and soon Jimmie's head appeared at the door. - -“Where have you hidden the little watercolour box?” he asked cheerily. - -“In the cupboard. On the second shelf,” she replied, without turning -round. - -He caught sight of the reflection of a tear-stained face, and came and -stood by her side. - -“Why, you've been crying!” - -“I suppose I have,” she admitted with affectionate defiance, looking up -into his face. “Why should n't I, if I like? It's not a crime.” - -“It's worse--it's a blunder,” he quoted with a smile. “It can't do any -one any good, and it makes your pretty nose red. That will spoil your -good looks.” - -“I wish it would. My looks will never matter to anybody,” she said -desperately. - -He put his arm round her shoulders, just as he had done since she could -remember. - -“What has happened to distress you--more than usual?” he added. - -She was silent for a moment, and hung her head. - -“I've broken off with Tony,” she said in a low voice. - -“You'll mend it up with Tony at once, my dear.” - -“I'll never marry him,” declared Aline. - -“You'll write and tell him that you'll marry him at the very first -opportunity. There are reasons why you should, Aline, grave reasons.” - -“You wouldn't have me marry any one I dislike intensely?” she flashed. - -“Wouldn't you do it to please me, even though you hated him violently? -I have been going to speak to you about this. It's high time you were -married, dear, and I particularly wish it. So make friends with Tony as -soon as ever you can.” - -“I never want to see Tony again--until he has gone on his bended knees -to you,” said Aline, with a quivering lip. “I don't want to breathe the -same air with any one who does n't think of you as I do.” - -This was the first allusion that the girl had made to unhappy things, -since they had become common knowledge a month ago. She had conveyed to -him by increased tenderness and devotion that she loved him all the more -for his suffering, and it had been easy for him to perceive that the -main facts of the story were not unknown to her. But hitherto there had -been absolute silence on the part of each. He had been greatly -puzzled as to the proper course he should take. An interview with Tony -Merewether that morning had decided him. It had been short, coldly -courteous on the young fellow's side, who merely asked and obtained -consent to marry Aline forthwith, and wistfully dignified on Jimmie's. - -He sat down on the arm of a chair and took her hand, deeply moved by her -passionate faith in him. - -“Listen, dear. I am a dishonoured man and it is n't right that you -should live with me any longer. Tony, dear good fellow, is no more to -blame for what he thinks of me than the crazy wronged man who shot me. -But the only way for you to make him think better is to marry him. No, -don't interrupt. Stand quietly and let me talk to you. I've been making -plans and I should be tremendously upset if there was any difficulty. -I'm going to give up the house and studio.” - -Aline regarded him in frightened amazement, and then looked round as -if the familiar walls and furniture were in danger of incontinent -disappearance. - -“What?” she gasped. - -“I shall give it up and wander about painting abroad, so it's absolutely -necessary that you should marry Tony. Otherwise I don't know what on -earth I should do with you.” - -He swung her hand and looked smilingly into her eyes. - -“You see I really am in a hurry to get rid of you,” he added. - -Aline gazed at him for a long time, gradually recovering from her -stupefaction. Then she withdrew her hand from his clasp and laughed. - -“You are talking unadulterated rubbish, Jimmie,” she said. - -Upon this declaration she took her stand, and no protest or argument -could move her. She withstood triumphantly a siege of several days. -Jimmie tried to exert his quasiparental authority. But the submissive -little girl, who had always yielded when Jimmie claimed obedience, had -given place to a calmly inflexible woman. Jimmie swore that he would not -commit the crime of spoiling her life's happiness. She replied, with a -toss of her head and a pang of her heart, that her life's happiness had -nothing to do with Tony Merewether, and that if it did, the crime would -lie at his door and not at Jimmie's. - -“As for leaving you alone in the wide world, I would just as soon think -of deserting a new-born baby in the street,” she said. “You are not fit -to be by yourself. And whether you like it or not, Jimmie, I must stay -and look after you.” - -At last, by the underhand methods which women often employ for the -greater comfort of men, she cajoled him into an admission. The plan of -giving up the house had, as its sole object, the forcing of her hand. -Victorious, she allowed herself to shed tears over his goodness. Just -for her miserable sake he had proposed to turn himself into a homeless -wanderer over the face of Europe. - -“Do tell me, Jimmie,” she said, “how it feels to be an angel!” - -He laughed in his old bright way. - -“Very uncomfortable when a tyrannical young woman cuts your wings off.” - -“But I do it for your good, Jimmie,” she retorted. “If I did n't, you -would be flying about helplessly.” - -Thus the clouds that lay around them were lit with tender jesting. -During this passage through the darkness he never faltered, serene in -his faith, having found triumphant vindication thereof in the devotion -of Aline. That he had made a sacrifice greater than any human being had -a right to demand of another, he knew full well; he had been driven on -to more perilous reefs than he had contemplated; the man whom he had -imagined Morland to be would have thrown all planks of safety to the -waves in order to rescue him. He felt acutely the pain of his shipwreck; -but he did not glorify himself as a martyr: he was satisfied that it was -for the worshipped woman's happiness, and that in itself was a reward. -His catholic sympathy even found extenuating circumstances in Morland's -conduct. Once when Aline inveighed against his desertion, he said in the -grave manner in which he delivered himself of his moral maxims: - -“We ought never to judge a human being's actions until we know his -motives.” - -Aline thought the actions were quite sufficient for a working -philosophy, but she did not say so. Jimmie half guessed the motives and -judged leniently. Though he had lost much that made life sweet to him, -his heart remained unchanged, his laugh rang true through the house; and -were it not for the loneliness and the dismal blight in her own little -soul, Aline would not have realised that any calamitous event had -happened. - -One other of Jimmie's friends maintained relations with him. This was -Connie Deering. She had gone abroad soon after the disaster, and moved -by various feelings for which she rather forbade her impulsive self to -account, had written one or two oddly expressed letters. In the first -one she had touched lightly upon the difficult subject. She would not -have believed a word of it, if she had not heard it from his own lips. -If he would write to her and say that it was all a lie, she would accept -his word implicitly. He was either a god or a devil--a remark that -filled Jimmie with considerable alarm. A shrewd brain was inside the -pretty butterfly head. In his reply he ignored the question, an example -which Connie followed in her second letter. This consisted mainly in a -rambling account of the beauty of Stresa and the comforts and excellent -cuisine of the hotel by the lake; but a postscript informed him that -Norma was travelling about with her for an indefinite period, and that -she had heard nothing of Morland, who having easily won his election -was now probably busy with the beginning of the autumn session. Jimmie, -unversed in the postscriptal ways of women, accepted the information as -merely the literal statement of facts. A wiser man would have grasped -the delicate implication that the relations between the affianced pair -were so strained that an interval of separation had seemed desirable. - -The unshaken faith of the man in the ultimate righteousness of things -kept him serene; but the young girl who had no special faith, save in -the perfect righteousness of Jimmie and the dastardly unrighteousness of -the world in general and of Mr. Anthony Merewether in particular, found -it difficult to live in these high altitudes of philosophy. Indeed she -was a very miserable little girl when Jimmie was not by, and pined, -and cried her heart out, and grew thin and pale and sharp-tempered, -and filled her guardian with much concern. At last Jimmie took heroic -measures. Without Aline's knowledge he summoned Tony Merewether to an -interview. The young man came. Jimmie received him in the studio, begged -him to take a seat, and rang the bell. The middle-aged housekeeper ran -down in some perturbation at the unusual summons, for it was Jimmie's -habit to shout up the stairs, generally to Aline, for anything he -wanted. She received his instructions. Miss Aline would oblige him by -coming down at once. During the interval of waiting he talked to -Mr. Merewether of indifferent things, flattering himself on a sudden -development of the diplomatic faculty. Aline ran into the room, and -stopped short at the sight of the young man, uttering a little cry of -indignant surprise. Jimmie cleared his throat, but the oration that -he had prepared was never delivered. Aline marched straight up to the -offending lover. - -“I don't see you on your knees,” she said. - -Tony, who was entirely unexpectant of this uncompromising attitude, -having taken it for granted that by some means or other the way had been -made smooth for him, retorted somewhat sharply: - -“You're not likely to.” - -“Then I wonder,” said Aline, “at your audacity in coming to this house.” - She turned and marched back to the door, her little figure very erect -and her dark eyes blazing. Jimmie intercepted her. - -“Tony came at my request, my child.” - -For the first and only time in her life she cast a look of anger upon -Jimmie. - -“Let me pass, please,” she said, like an outraged princess; and waving -Jimmie aside, she made the exit of offended majesty. - -The two men looked stupidly at each other. Their position was -ignominious. - -“I did it for the best, my boy,” said Jimmie, taking up a pipe which -he began to fill mechanically. He was just the kind creature of happier -days. The young fellow's heart was touched. After a minute's silence he -committed a passionate indiscretion. - -“I wish to God you would tell me there is something hidden beneath this -ghastly story, and that it's quite different from what it appears to -be!” - -Jimmie drew himself up and looked the young man between the eyes. - -“That's a question I discuss with no human being,” said he. - -“I beg your pardon,” said Tony Merewether, in sincere apology. “I would -not have taken such a liberty if it had n't been a matter of life and -death for me. Perhaps you think I ought to do more or less as Aline asks -me; but she is too precious to purchase with an infernal lie. I'm hanged -if I'll do it, and I don't think you're the man to misunderstand my -frankness.” - -Jimmie had lit his pipe during the foregoing speech. He drew two or -three meditative puffs. - -“Have as little to do with lies, my boy, as ever you can,” said he. “And -cheer up, all is sure to come right in the end.” - -He was sunk in reflection for a long time after the young man had gone, -and again for a long time after Aline had done remorseful penance -for her loss of temper. Then he went out for a walk and brought back -something in his pocket. At dinner-time he was unusually preoccupied. -When the meal was over, he fished up a black bottle from beneath -the table, and going to the sideboard, came back with a couple of -wineglasses. Aline watched him as though he were performing some rite in -black magic. - -“This is rich fruity port,” said he, filling the glasses. “Evans, the -grocer, told me I should get nothing like it at the price in London. You -are to drink it. It will do you good.” - -Aline, still penitent, obeyed meekly. - -“How could you be so extravagant, Jimmie?” she said in mild protest. “It -must have cost quite three shillings.” - -“And sixpence,” said Jimmie, unabashed. He lifted up his glass. “Now -here's to our _Wanderjahr_, or as much of it as we can run to.” - -“Whatever do you mean, Jimmie?” - -“I mean my dear,” said he, “that we are going to take a knapsack, a -tambourine and a flute, and appropriate ribbons for our costumes, and -beg our way through southern Europe.” - -He explained and developed his plan, the result of his meditations, -in his laughing picturesque way. They were doing nothing but eating -expensive fog in November London. A diet of sunshine and garlic would -be cheaper. They would walk under the olive-trees and drift about on -lagoons, and whisper with dead ages in the moonlit gloom of crumbling -palaces. They would go over hills on donkeys. They would steep their -souls in Perugino, Del Sarto, Giorgione. They would teach the gaunt -Italian flea to respect British Keating's powder. They would fraternise -with the beautiful maidens of Arles and sit on the top of Giotto's -Campanile. They would do all kinds of impossible things. Afford it? Of -course they could. Had he not received his just dues from the princess -and sold two pictures a week or two ago? At this point he fell thinking -for a couple of dreamy minutes. - -“I meant to give you a carriage, dear,” he said at last in mild apology. -“I'm afraid it will have to be a third-class one.” - -“A fourth or fifth would be good enough for me,” cried Aline. “Or I -could walk all the way with you. Don't I know you have planned it out -just for my sake?” - -“Rubbish, my dear,” said Jimmie, holding the precious wine to the light. -“I'm taking you because I don't see how I can leave you behind. You have -no idea what an abominable nuisance you'll be.” - -Aline laughed a joyous laugh which did Jimmie good to hear, and came -behind his chair and put her arms about his neck, behaving foolishly as -a young girl penetrated with the sense of the loved one's goodness is -privileged to do. What she said is of infinitesimal importance, but it -lifted care from Jimmie's heart and made him as happy as a child. Like -two children, they discussed the project; and Aline fetching from -the top shelf of the bookcase in Jimmie's bedroom a forlorn, dusty, -yellow-paged Continental Bradshaw, twenty years old, they looked up -phantom trains that had long ceased running, speculated on the merits -of dead-and-gone hotels, and plunged into the fairyland of anachronistic -information. - -A few days were enough for Jimmie's simple arrangements; and then began -the pilgrimage of these two, each bearing a burden, a heart-ache, a pain -from which there was no escaping, but each bearing it with a certain -splendour of courage that made life beautiful to the other. For the girl -suffered keenly, as Jimmie knew. She had given a passionate heart for -good and all to the handsome young fellow who had refused to bow the -knee to the man whom he had every reason to consider a blackguard. They -had come together, youth to youth, as naturally as two young birds in -the first mating-season; but, fortunately or unfortunately for Aline, -she was not a bird, but a human being of unalterable affections and -indomitable character. She had the glorious faith, _quia incredibile_, -in Jimmie, and rather than swerve aside from it she would have walked -on knife edges all the rest of her days. So she scorned the pain, and -scorned herself for feeling it when she saw the serenity with which he -bore his cross. Dimly she felt that if the truth were known he would -stand forth heroically, not infamously. She had revered him as a child -does its father; but in that sweet and pure relationship of theirs, she -had also watched him with the minute, jealous solicitude that a mother -devotes to an only child who is incapable of looking after itself. -Nothing in his character had escaped her. She knew both his strength -and his enchanting weaknesses. To her trained eyes, he was all but -transparent; and of late her quickened vision had read in letters of -fire across his heart, “The desire of the moth for the star.” - -So they travelled through the world, hand in hand, as it were, and drank -together of its beauty. They were memorable journeyings. Sleeping-cars -and palatial hotels and the luxuries of modern travel were not for them. -Aline, who knew that Jimmie, as far as he himself was concerned, would -have slept upon wood quite as cheerfully as upon feathers, but for -her sake would have royally commanded down, held the purse-strings and -dictated the expenditure. They had long, wonderful third-class journeys, -stopping at every wayside station, at each having some picturesque -change of company in the ever-crowded, evil-smelling, wooden-seated -compartment. She laughed at Jimmie's fears as to her discomfort; -protested with energetic sincerity that this was the only way in the -world to travel with enjoyment. It was a never-failing interest to see -Jimmie disarm the suspicion of peasants by his sympathetic knowledge of -their interests, to listen to his arguments with the chance-met curé, -perspiring and polite, or the mild young soldier in a brass helmet a -size too big for him. In France she understood what they were saying, -and maintained a proper protectorate over Jimmie by means of a rough and -ready acquaintance with the vernacular. But in Italy she was dumb, could -only regard Jimmie in open-mouthed astonishment and admiration. He -spoke Italian. She had known him all her life and never suspected this -accomplishment. It required some tact to keep him in his proper position -as interpreter and restrain him from acting on his own initiative. In -the towns they put up at little humble hostelries in by-streets and in -country-places at rough inns, eating rude fare and drinking sour wine -with great content. The more they economised the longer would the -idyllic vagabondage last. - -Through southern France and northern Italy they wandered without fixed -plans, going from place to place as humour seized them, seeking the -sunshine. At last it seemed to be their normal existence. London with -its pain and its passion grew remote like the remembered anguish of a -dream. Few communications reached them. The local newspaper gave them -all the tidings they needed of the great world. It was a life free -from vexation. The decaying splendour of the larger cities with their -treasure-houses of painting and sculpture and their majestic palaces -profoundly stirred the young girl's imagination and widened her -conceptions and sympathies. But she loved best to arrive by a crazy, -old-world diligence at some little townlet built on a sunny hillside, -whose crumbling walls were the haunts of lizards and birds and strange -wild-flowers; and having rested and eaten at the dark little _albergo_, -smelling of wine and garlic and all Italian smells, to saunter out with -Jimmie through the narrow, ill-paved, clattering streets alive with -brown children and dark-eyed mothers, and men sitting on doorsteps -violently gesticulating and screaming over the game of _morra_, and to -explore the impossible place from end to end. A step or two when they -desired it would bring them to the sudden peace of the mediaeval church, -with its memories of Romanesque tradition and faint stirrings of -Gothic curiously reflecting the faith of its builders; the rough, -weather-beaten casket of one flawless gem of art, a Virgin smiling -over the child on her lap at many generations of worshippers, superbly -eternal and yet quaintly woman. And then they would pass out of the -chilly streets and down the declivitous pathways below the town and sit -together on the hillside, in a sun-baked spot sheltered from the wind. -This Aline, vaguely conscious of the Infinite, called “hanging on the -edge of Nowhere.” - -One day, on such a hillside Jimmie had been painting three brown-faced -children whom he had cajoled into posing for him, while Aline looked on -dreamily. The urchins, dismissed with a few halfpennies, bowed polite -thanks, the two boys taking off their caps with the air of ragged -princes, and scampered away like rabbits out of sight. - -“There!” cried Jimmie, throwing down his brush and holding out the -little panel at arm's length. “I have never done anything so good in all -my life! Have n't I got it? Is n't it better than ten cathedralfuls of -sermons? Is n't it the quintessence of happiness, the perfect trust in -the sweet earth to yield them its goodness? Could any one after seeing -that dare say the world was only a dank and dismal prison where men do -nothing but sit and hear each other groan? Look at it, Aline. What do -you think of it?” - -“It's just lovely, Jimmie,” said Aline. - -“If I painted a pink hippopotamus standing on its head, you would say it -was lovely. Why did n't you tell me that arm was out of drawing?” - -He took up his brush and made the necessary correction. Aline laughed. - -“Do you know one of the few things I can remember my father saying was -about you?” - -“God bless my soul,” said Jimmie. “I had almost forgotten you ever had a -father--dear old chap! What did he say?” - -“I remember him telling you that one day you would die of incurable -optimism. For years I used to think it was some horrible disease, and I -used to whisper in my prayers, 'O God, please cure Jimmie of optimism,' -and sometimes lie awake at nights thinking of it.” - -“Well, do you think your prayer has been answered?” asked Jimmie, -amused. - -She shifted herself a little nearer him and put her hand on his knee. - -“Thank goodness, no. You've got it as bad as ever--and I believe I've -caught it.” Then, between a sob and a laugh, she added: - -“Oh, Jimmie dear, your stupid old head could never tell you what you -have done for me since we have been abroad. If I had stayed at home I -think I should have died of--of--of malignant pessimism. You will never, -never, never understand.” - -“And will you ever understand what you have done for me, my child?” said -Jimmie, gravely. “We won't talk about these things. They are best in our -hearts.” - - - - -Chapter XVIII--A RUDDERLESS SHIP - -THAT autumn pressed heavily upon Mrs. Hardacre. Norma's engagement, -without being broken off, was indefinitely suspended, and Norma, by -going abroad with Mrs. Deering immediately on her return from Cornwall, -had placed herself beyond reach of maternal influence. It is true -that Mrs. Hardacre wrote many letters; but as Norma's replies mainly -consisted of a line or two on a picture post-card, it is to be doubted -whether she ever read them. Mrs. Hardacre began to feel helpless. -Morland could give her little assistance. He shrugged his shoulders at -her appeals. He was perfectly determined to marry Norma, but trusted to -time to restore her common-sense and lead her into the path of reason. -Nothing that he could do would be of any avail. Mrs. Hardacre urged him -to join the ladies on the Continent and bring matters to a crisis. He -replied that an election was crisis enough for one man in a year, and -furthermore the autumn session necessitated his attendance in the House. -He was quite satisfied, he told her stolidly, with things as they -were, and in the meantime was actually finding an interest in his new -political life. But Mrs. Hardacre shared neither his satisfaction nor -his interest, a mother's point of view being so different from that of a -lover. - -As if the loss of ducal favour and filial obedience were not enough for -the distraught lady, her husband one morning threw a business letter -upon the table, and with petulant curses on the heads of outside -brokers, incoherently explained that he was ruined. They were liars and -knaves and thieves, he sputtered. He would drag them all into the police -court, he would write to the “Times,” he would go and horsewhip the -blackguards. Damme if he would n't! - -“I wish the blackguards could horsewhip you,” remarked his wife, grimly. -“Have you sufficient brains to realise what an unutterable fool you have -been?” - -If he did not realise it by the end of the week, it was not Mrs. -Hardacre's fault. She reduced the unhappy man to craven submission -and surreptitious nipping of old brandy in order to keep up the feeble -spirit that remained in him, and took the direction of affairs into her -own hands. They were not ruined, but a considerable sum of money had -been lost through semi-idiotic speculation, and for a time strict -economy was necessary. By Christmas the establishment in the country -was broken up, a tenant luckily found for Heddon Court, and a small -furnished house taken in Devonshire Place. These arrangements gave Mrs. -Hardacre much occupation, but they did not tend to soften her character. -When Norma came home, sympathetically inclined and honestly desirous to -smooth down asperities--for she appreciated the aggravating folly of her -father--she found her advances coldly repulsed. - -“What is the good of saying you are sorry for me,” Mrs. Hardacre asked -snappishly, “when you refuse to do the one thing that can mend matters?” - -Then followed the old, old story which Norma had heard so often in days -past, but now barbed with a new moral and adorned with new realism. -Norma listened wearily, surprised at her own lack of retort. When the -familiar homily came to an end, her reply was almost meek: - -“Give me a little longer time to think over it.” - -“You had better cut it as short as possible,” said Mrs. Hardacre, “or -you may find yourself too late. As it is, you are going off. What have -you been doing to yourself? You look thirty.” - -“I feel fifty,” said Norma. - -“You had better go and have your face massaged, or you'll soon not be -fit to be seen.” - -“I think I want a course of soul massage,” answered Norma, with a hard -little laugh. - -But when she was alone in her own room, she looked anxiously at her face -in the glass. Her mother had confirmed certain dismal imaginings. She -had grown thinner, older looking; tiny lines were just perceptible at -the corners of eyes and lips and across the forehead. The fresh bloom of -youth was fading from her skin. She was certainly going off. She had not -been a happy woman since her precipitate flight to Cornwall. The present -discovery added anxiety to depression. - -A day or two afterwards Mrs. Hardacre returned to the unedifying attack. -Had Norma written to Morland to inform him of her arrival? Norma replied -that she had no inordinate longing to see Morland. Mrs. Hardacre -used language that only hardened and soured women of fashion who are -beginning to feel the pinch of poverty dare use nowadays. It is far more -virulent than a fishwife's, for every phrase touches a jangling nerve -and every gibe tears a delicate fibre, whereas Billingsgate merely -shocks and belabours. Norma bore it in silence for some time, and then -went away quivering from head to foot. A new and what seemed a horrible -gift had been bestowed upon her--the power to feel. Once a sarcastic -smile, a scornful glance, a withering retort would have carried her in -triumph from her mother's presence. Secure in her own callous serenity, -she would have given scarcely a further thought to the quarrel. Now -things had inexplicably changed. Her mother's stabs hurt. Some curious -living growth within her was wrung with pain. She could only grope -humbled and broken to her room and stare at nothing, wishing she could -cry like other women. - -No wonder she looked old, when the spirit had left her and taken with -it the cold, proud setting of the features that had given her beauty -its peculiar stamp. Dimly she realised the disintegration. When a nature -which has taken a colossal vanity for strength and has relied thereon -unquestioningly for protection against a perilous world, once loses -grip of that sublime mainstay, it is impossible for it to take firm hold -again. It must content itself with lesser planks or flounder helplessly, -fearful of imminent shipwreck. Norma, during those autumn months, had -found her strength vanity. The fact in rude, symbolic form was brought -home to her a short time after her return. - -It was a bright Sunday afternoon, when, on her way to pay a call in -Kensington, she had dismissed her cab at Lancaster Gate and was walking -through Kensington Gardens. Half-way a familiar figure met her eye. It -was her own maid sitting on a bench with a man by her side. The girl was -wearing a cheap long jacket over an elaborate dress, absurdly light -for the time of year. It caught Norma's attention, and then suddenly it -flashed upon her that it was the dress she had given to be burned months -ago. She walked on, aching with a sense of the futility of grandiose -determinations. She had consigned the garment stained with Jimmie's -blood contemptuously to the flames. It was incongruously whole in -Kensington Gardens. She had cast her love for Jimmie out of her heart in -the same spirit of comedic tragedy. Forlorn and bedraggled it was still -there, mockingly refusing to be reduced to its proper dust and ashes. -Her strength had not availed her to cast it out. Her strength was a vain -thing. Yet being forlorn and bedraggled the love was as hateful as -the unconsumed garment. It haunted her like an unpurged offence. -The newspaper details had made it reek disgustfully. At times Connie -Deering's half faith filled her with an extravagant hope that these -sordid horrors which had sullied the one pure and beautiful thing that -had come into her life were nothing but a ghastly mistake; that it was, -as Connie suggested, a dark mystery from which if Jimmie chose he could -emerge clean. But then her judgment, trained from childhood to look -below the surface of even smiling things and find them foul, rebelled. -The man had proclaimed himself, written himself down a villain. It was -in black and white. And not only a villain--that might be excusable--but -a hypocritical canting villain, which was the unforgivable sin. Every -woman has a Holy Ghost of sorts within her. - -Norma did not write to Morland. She dreaded renewal of relations, and -yet she had not the courage to cut him finally adrift. The thought of -withered spinsterhood beneath her father's roof was a dismaying vision. -Marriage was as essential as ever to the scheme of her future. Why not -with Morland? Her mother's words, though spoken as with the tongues of -asps, were those of wisdom. - -All that she could bring to a husband was her beauty, her superb -presence, her air of royalty. These gone, her chances were as illusory -as those of the pinched and faded gentlewomen who tittle-tattled at -Cosford tea-parties. Another year, and at the present rate of decay -her beauty would have vanished into the limbo of last year's snows. She -exaggerated; but what young woman of six-and-twenty placed as she has -not looked tremulously in her mirror and seen feet of crows and -heaven knows what imaginary fowls that prey upon female charms? At -six-and-thirty she smiles with wistful, longing regret at the remembered -image. Yet youth, happily, is not cognisant of youth's absurdities. -It takes itself tragically. Thus did Norma. Her dowry of beauty was -dwindling. She must marry within the year. Sometimes she wished that -Theodore Weever, who had not yet discovered his decorative wife and had -managed to find himself at various places which she had visited abroad, -would come like a Paladin and deliver her from her distress and carry -her off to his castle in Fifth Avenue. He would at least interest her as -a human being, which Morland, with all his solid British qualities, -had never succeeded in doing. But Theodore Weever had not spoken. He -retained the imperturbability of the bald marble bust of himself that -he had taken her to see in a Parisian sculptor's studio. There only -remained Morland. But for some reason, for which she could not account, -he seemed the last man on earth she desired to marry. When she had -written to him, soon after her flight to Cornwall, to beg for a -postponement of the wedding, giving him the very vaguest reasons for her -request, he had assented with a cheerfulness ill befitting an impatient -lover. It would be impertinence, he wrote, for him to enquire further -into her reasons. She was too much a woman of the world to act without -due consideration, and provided that he could look forward to the -very great happiness of one day calling her his wife, he was perfectly -satisfied with whatever she chose to arrange. The absence of becoming -fervour, in spite of her desire to postpone the dreaded day, produced -a feeling of irritated disappointment. None of us, least of all women, -invariably like to be taken at our word. If Morland lay so little value -upon her as that, he might just as well give her up altogether. She -replied impulsively, suggesting a rupture of the engagement. Morland, -longing for time to raise him from the abasement in which he grovelled, -had welcomed the proposal to defer the marriage; but as he smarted at -the same time under a sense of wrong--had he not been betrayed by -his own familiar friend and the woman he loved?--he now unequivocally -refused to accept her suggestion. He had made up his mind to marry her. -He had made all his arrangements for marrying her. The check he -had experienced had stimulated a desire which only through unhappy -circumstances had languished for a brief season. He persuaded himself -that he was more in love with her than ever. At all costs, in his -stupid, dogged way, he determined to marry her. He told her so bluntly. -He merely awaited her good pleasure. Norma accepted the situation and -thought, by going abroad, to leave it at home to take care of itself. It -might die of inanition. Something miraculous might happen to transform -it entirely. She returned and found it alive and quite undeveloped. -It grinned at her with a leer which she loathed from the depths of her -soul; and the more Mrs. Hardacre pointed at it the more it leered, and -the greater became the loathing. - -At last Mrs. Hardacre took matters into her own hands and summoned -Morland to London. “Norma is in a green, depressed state,” she wrote, -“and I think your proper place is by her side. I imagine she regrets her -foolishness in postponing the marriage and is ashamed to confess it. A -few words with you face to face would bring her back to her old self. -Women have these idiotic ways, my dear Morland, and men being so much -stronger and saner must make generous allowances. I confidently expect -you.” - -Morland's vanity, spurred by this letter, brought him in a couple of -days to London. - -“My dear Morland, this is a surprise,” cried Mrs. Hardacre -dissemblingly, as he entered the drawing-room, “we were only just -talking of you. I'll ring for another cup.” - -She moved to the bell by the side of the fireplace, and Norma and -Morland shook hands with the conventional words of greeting. - -“I hope you've had a good time abroad?” - -“Oh, yes. The usual thing, the usual places, the usual people, the usual -food. In fact, a highly successful pursuit of the usual. I've invented a -verb--'to usualise.' I suppose you've been usualising too?” - -The sudden sight of him had braced her, and instinctively she had -adopted her old, cool manner as defensive armour. Her reply pleased -him. There was something pungent in her speech, irreconcilable in her -attitude, which other women did not possess. He was not physiognomist or -even perceptive enough to notice the subtle change in her expression. He -noted, as he remarked to her later, that she was “a bit off colour,” but -he attributed it to the muggy weather, and never dreamed of regarding -her otherwise than as radically the same woman who had engaged herself -to many him in the summer. To him she was still the beautiful shrew -whose taming appealed to masculine instincts. The brown hair sweeping -up in a wave from the forehead, the finely chiselled sensitive features, -the clear brown eyes, the mocking lips, the superb poise of the head, -the stately figure perfectly set off in the dark blue tailor-made dress, -all combined to impress him with a realisation of the queenliness of the -presence that had grown somewhat shadowy of late to his unimaginative -mental vision. - -“And how do you like Parliament?” she asked casually, when the teacup -had been brought and handed to him filled. - -“I find it remarkably interesting,” he replied sententiously. “It is -dull at times, of course, but no man can sit on those green benches and -not feel he is helping to shape the destinies of a colossal Empire.” - -“Is that what you really feel--or is it what you say when you are -responding for the House of Commons at a public dinner?” asked Norma. - -Morland hesitated for a moment between huffiness and indulgence. In -spite of his former gibes at the stale unprofitableness of parliamentary -life, he had always had the stolid Briton's reverence for our -Institutions, and now that he was actually a legislator, his traditions -led him to take himself seriously. - -“I have become a very keen politician, I assure you,” he answered. “If -you saw the amount of work that falls on me, you would be astonished. If -it were n't for Manisty--that's my secretary, you know--I don't see how -I could get through it.” - -“I always wonder,” said Mrs. Hardacre, “how members manage to find time -for anything. They work like galley-slaves for nothing at all. I regard -them as simply sacrificing themselves for the public good.” - -“A member of Parliament is the noblest work of God. Don't, mother. -Please leave us our illusions.” - -“What are they?” asked Morland. - -“One is that there are a few decently selfish people left in an age of -altruists,” said Norma. - -She talked for the sake of talking, careless of the stupid poverty of -her epigram. Morland, as the healthy country gentleman alternating -with the commonplace man about town, was a passable type enough, though -failing to excite exuberant admiration. But Morland, with his narrow -range of sympathies and pathetic ignorance of the thought of the day, -posing solemnly as a trustee of the British Empire, aroused a scorn -which she dare not express in words. - -“I don't know that we are all altruists,” replied Morland, -good-temperedly. “If we are good little members of Parliament, we may -be rewarded with baronetcies and things. But one has to play the game -thoroughly. It's worth it, is n't it, even from your point of view, -Norma?” - -“You're just the class of man the government does best in rewarding,” - remarked Mrs. Hardacre, with her wintry smile that was meant to be -conciliatory. “A man of birth and position upholds the dignity of a -title and is a credit to his party.” - -Morland laughingly observed that it was early in the day to be thinking -of parliamentary honours. He had not even made his maiden speech. As -Norma remained silent, the conversation languished. Presently Mrs. -Hardacre rose. - -“I have no doubt you two want to have a talk together. Won't you stay -and dine with us, Morland?” - -He glanced at Norma, but failing to read an endorsement of the -invitation in her face, made an excuse for declining. - -“Then I will say good-bye and leave you. I would n't stand any nonsense -if I were you,” she added in a whisper through the door which he held -open for her. - -He sauntered up to the fireplace and stood on the hearth-rug, his hands -in his pockets. Norma, looking at him from her easy-chair, wondered at -a certain ignobility that she detected for the first time beneath his -bluff, prosperous air. In spite of birth and breeding he looked common. - -“Well?” he said. “We had better have it out at once. What is it to be? I -must have an answer sooner or later.” - -“Can't it be later?” - -“If you insist upon it. I'm not going to hold a pistol to your head, -my dear girl. Only you must admit that I've treated you with every -consideration. I have n't worried you. You took it into your head to put -off our marriage. I felt you had your reasons and I raised no objection. -But we can't go on like this forever, you know.” - -“Why not?” asked Norma. - -“Human nature. I am in love with you, and want to marry you.” - -“But supposing I am not in love with you, Morland. I've never pretended -to be, have I?” - -“We need n't go over old ground. I accepted all that at the beginning. -The present state of affairs is that we are engaged; when are we going -to be married?” - -“Oh, I don't know,” said Norma, desperately. “I have n't thought of it -seriously. I know I have behaved like a beast to you--you must forgive -me. At times it has seemed as though I was not the right sort to marry -and bring children into the world. I should loathe it!” - -“Oh, I don't think so,” said Morland, in a tone he meant to be soothing. -“Besides--” - -“I know what you are going to say--or at any rate what you would like -to say. It's scarcely decent to talk of such things. But I have n't been -brought up in a nunnery. I wish to God I had been. At all events, I am -frank. I would loathe it--all that side of it. Could n't we suppress -that side? Oh, yes, I am going to speak of it--it has been on my mind -for months,” she burst out, as Morland made a quick step towards her. - -He did not allow her to continue. With his hand on the arm of her chair, -he bent down over her. - -“You are talking wild nonsense,” he said; and she flushed red and did -not meet his eyes. “When a man marries, he marries in the proper sense -of the term, unless he is an outrageous imbecile. There is to be no -question of that sort of thing. I thought you knew your world better. -I want you--you yourself. Don't you understand that?” - -Norma put out her hand to push him away. He seized it in his. She -snatched it from him. - -“Let me get up,” she said, waving him off. She brushed past him, as she -rose. - -“We can't go on talking. What I've said has made it impossible. Let us -change the subject. How long are you going to stay in town?” - -“I'm not going to change the subject,” said Morland, rather brutally. -“I'm far too much interested in it. Hang it all, Norma, you do owe me -something.” - -“What do I owe you? What?” she asked with a sudden flash in her eyes. - -“You are a woman of common-sense. I leave you to guess. You admit you -have n't treated me properly. You have nothing to complain of as far as -I am concerned. Now, have you?” - -“How do I know? No. I suppose not, as things go. Once I did try to--to -feel more like other women--and to make some amends. I told you that -perhaps we were making a mistake in excluding sentiment. If you had -chosen, you could have--I don't know--made me care for you, perhaps. -But you didn't choose. You treated me as if I were a fool. Very likely I -was.” - -“When was that?” asked Morland, with a touch of sarcasm. “I certainly -don't remember.” - -“It was the last night we had any talk together--in the billiard-room. -The night before--before the garden-party.” He turned away with an -involuntary exclamation of anger. He remembered now, tragic events -having put the incident out of his mind. He was caught in a trap. - -“I did n't think you meant it,” he said, hurrying to the base excuse. -“Women sometimes consider it their duty to say such things--to act a -little comedy, out of kindness. Some fellows expect it. I thought it -would be more decent to let you see that I did n't.” - -There was a short silence. Norma stood in the centre of the room, biting -her lip, her head moving slightly from side to side; she was seeking -to formulate her thoughts in conventional terms. Her cheek grew a shade -paler. - -“Listen,” she said at length. “I am anything bad you like to call me. -But I'm not a woman who cajoles men. And I'm not a liar. I'm far too -cynical to lie. Truth is much more deadly. I hate lying. That's the main -reason why I broke with a man I cared for more than for any other man I -have ever met--because he lied. You know whom I mean.” - -He faced her with a conscious effort. Even at this moment of strain and -anger, Norma was struck again with the lurking air of ignobility on his -face; but she only remembered it afterwards. He brazened it out. - -“Jimmie Padgate, I suppose.” - -“I can't forgive him for lying.” - -“I don't see how he lied. He faced the music, at any rate, like a man,” - said Morland, compelled by a remnant of common decency to defend Jimmie. - -“All his pose beforehand was a lie--unless the disclosures afterwards -were lies--” - -“What do you mean?” asked Morland, sharply. - -“Oh, never mind. We have not met to discuss the matter. I don't know why -I referred to it.” - -She paused for a moment. She had begun her tirade at a white heat. -Suddenly she had cooled down, and felt lassitude in mind and limbs. An -effort brought her to a lame conclusion. - -“You accused me of acting a comedy. I was n't acting. I was perfectly -sincere. I have been absolutely frank with you from the hour you -proposed to me.” - -“Well, I'm sorry for having misunderstood you. I beg your pardon,” said -Morland. They took up the conversation from the starting-point, but -listlessly, dispiritedly. The reference to Jimmie had awakened the -ever-living remorse in Morland's not entirely callous soul. The man did -suffer, at times acutely. And now to act the conscious comedy in the -face of Norma's expressed abhorrence was a difficult and tiring task. -Unwittingly he grew gentler; and Norma, her anger spent, weakly yielded -to the change of tone. - -“We have settled nothing, after all our talk,” he said at last, looking -at his watch. “Don't you think we had better fix it up now? Society -expects us to get married. What will people say? Come--what about -Easter?” - -Norma passed her hand wearily over her eyes. - -“I oughtn't to marry you at all. I should loathe it, as I said. I should -never get to care for you in that way. You see I am honest. Let us break -off the engagement.” - -“Well, look here,” said Morland, not unkindly, “let us compromise. I'll -come back in three days' time. You'll either say it's off altogether or -we'll be married at Easter. Will that do?” - -“Very well,” said Norma. - -When Mrs. Hardacre came for news of the interview, Norma told her of the -arrangement. - -“Which is it going to be?” she asked. - -Norma set her teeth. “I can't marry him,” she said. - -But the proud spirit of Norma Hardacre was broken. The three days' -Inferno that Mrs. Hardacre created in the house drove the girl to -desperation. Her father came to her one day with the tears running -down his puffy cheeks. Unknown to her mother he had borrowed money from -Morland, which he had lost on the Stock Exchange. Norma looked in her -mirror, and found herself old, ugly, hag-ridden. Anything was preferable -to the torture and degradation of her home. The next time that Morland -called he stayed to dinner, and the wedding was definitely fixed for -Easter. - - - - -Chapter XIX--ABANA AND PHARPAR - - -Do you know, Miss Hardacre, that I once had a wife?” said Theodore -Weever, suddenly. - -It was after dinner at the Wolff-Salamons', who, it may be remembered, -had lent their house to the Hardacres in the summer. - -“I was not aware of it,” said Norma, wondering at the irrelevance of the -remark, for they had just been discussing the great painter's merciless -portrait of their hostess, which simpered vulgarly at them from the -wall. They were sitting on a sofa in a corner of the room. - -“Yes,” said Weever. “She died young. She came from a New England -village, and played old-fashioned tunes on the piano, and believed in -God.” - -Not a flicker passed over his smooth waxen face or a gleam of sentiment -appeared in his pale steady eyes. Norma glanced round at the little -assembly, mainly composed of fleshy company promoters, who, as far as -decency allowed, continued among themselves the conversation that had -circulated over the wine downstairs, and their women-kind, who adopted -the slangy manners of smart society and talked “bridge” to such men as -would listen to them. Then she glanced back at Weever. - -“I don't want any more wives of that sort,” he went on. “I've outgrown -them. I have no use for them. They would wilt like a snow anemone in -this kind of atmosphere.” - -“Is it your favourite atmosphere, then?” Norma asked, by way of saying -something. - -“More or less. Perhaps I like it not quite so mephitic--You are racking -your brains to know why I'm telling you about my wife. I'll explain. In -a little churchyard in Connecticut is a coffin, and in that coffin is -what a man who is going to ask a woman to marry him ought to give her. I -could never give a quiet-eyed New England girl anything again. At my age -she would bore me to death. But I could give the woman who is accustomed -to hot-houses a perfectly regulated temperature.” - -Norma looked at the imperturbable face, half touched by his unsuspected -humanity, half angered by his assurance. - -“Are you by any chance making me a formal demand in marriage?” she -asked. - -“I am.” - -“And at last you have found some one who would meet your requirements -for the decorative wife?” - -“I found her last summer in Scotland,” replied Weever, with a little -bow. “My countrymen have a habit of finding quickly what they want. They -generally get it. I could n't in this particular instance, as you were -engaged to another man.” - -“I am still engaged,” said Norma. - -“I beg your pardon. I heard the engagement was broken off.” - -“Not at all. In fact only yesterday was it settled that we should be -married at Easter.” - -“Having gone so far on a false assumption,” remarked Weever, placidly, -“may I go without rudeness a step farther? I do not dream of asking you -to throw over King--if my heart were not in Connecticut, I might--but -I'll say this, if you will allow me, Miss Hardacre: I don't believe you -will ever marry Morland King. I have a presentiment that you're going to -marry me--chiefly because I've planned it, and my plans mostly come -out straight. Anyway you are the only woman in the world I should ever -marry, and if at any time there should be a chance for me, a word, -a hint, a message through the telephone to buy you a pug dog--or -anything--would bring me devotedly to your feet. Don't forget it.” - -It was impossible to be angry with a bloodless thing that spoke like -a machine. It was also unnecessary to use the conventional terms of -regretful gratitude in which maidens in their mercy wrap refusals. - -“I'll remember it with pleasure, if you like,” she said with a -half-smile. “But tell me why you don't think I shall marry Mr. King. I -don't believe in your presentiments.” - -She caught his eye, and they remained for some seconds looking hard at -each other. She saw that he had his well-defined reasons. - -“You can tell me exactly what is in your mind,” she said slowly; “you -and I seem to understand each other.” - -“If you understand me, what is the use of compromising speech, my dear -lady?” - -“You don't believe in Morland?” - -“As a statesman I can't say that I do,” replied Weever, with the -puckering of the faint lines round his eyes that passed for a smile. -“That is what astonishes me in your English political life--the little -one need talk and the little one need do. In America the politician is -the orator. He must move in an atmosphere of words half a mile thick. -Wherever he goes he must scream himself hoarse. But here--” - -Norma touched his arm with her fan. - -“We were not discussing American and English institutions,” she -interrupted, “but matters which interest me a little more. You don't -believe in Morland as a man? I want to know, as they are supposed to say -in your country. I disregard your hint, as you may perceive. I am also -indelicate in pressing you to speak unfavourably of the man I'm engaged -to. Of course, having made me an offer, you would regard it as caddish -to say anything against him. But supposing I absolve you from anything -of the kind by putting you on a peculiar plane of friendship?” - -“Then I should say I was honoured above all mortals,” replied Weever, -inscrutably, “and ask you to tell me as a friend what has become of the -artist--the man who got shot--Padgate.” - -The unexpected allusion was a shock. It brought back a hateful scene. It -awoke a multitude of feelings. Its relevance was a startling puzzle. She -strove by hardening her eyes not to betray herself. - -“I've quite lost sight of him,” she answered in a matter of-fact tone. -“His little adventure was n't a pleasant one.” - -“I don't believe he had any little adventure at all,” said Weever, -coolly. - -“What do you mean?” Norma started, and the colour came into her face. - -“That of all the idiots let loose in a cynical, unimaginative world, -Padgate is the greatest I have yet struck. If I were a hundredth part -such an idiot, I should be a better and a happier man. It's getting -late. I'm afraid I must be moving.” - -He rose, and Norma rose with him. - -“I wish you would n't speak in riddles. Can't you tell me plainly what -you mean?” - -“No, I can't,” he said abruptly. “I have said quite enough. Good-night. -And remember,” he added, shaking hands with her, “remember what I told -you about myself.” - -Only after he had gone did it flash upon her that she had not put to -him the vital question--what had Padgate to do with his disbelief -in Morland? As is the way with people pondering over conundrums, the -ridiculously simple solution did not occur to her. She spent many days -in profitless speculation. Weever prophesied that the marriage would not -take place. When pressed for a reason, he brought in the name of Jimmie -Padgate. Obviously the latter was to stand between Morland and herself. -But in what capacity? As a lover? Had Weever rightly interpreted her -insane act on the day of the garden-party, and assumed that she was -still in love with the detested creature? The thought made her grow hot -and cold from head to foot. Why was he an idiot? Because he did not -take advantage of her public confession? or was it because he stood -in Weever's eyes as a wronged and heroic man? This in the depths of her -heart she had been yearning for months to believe. Connie Deering almost -believed it. About the facts once so brutally plain, so vulgarly devoid -of mystery, a mysterious cloud had gathered and was thickening with -time. Reflection brought assurance that Theodore Weever regarded -Jimmie as innocent; and if ever a man viewed human affairs in the dry, -relentless light of reason, it was the inscrutable, bloodless American. - -His offer of marriage she put aside from her thoughts. Morland was the -irrevocably accepted. It was February. Easter falling early, the wedding -would take place in a little over a month. In a cold, dispassionate -way, she interested herself in the usual preparations. Peace reigned -in Devonshire Place. And yet Norma despised herself, feeling the -degradation of the woman who sells her body. - -During the session she saw little of Morland. For this she thanked God, -the duchess, and the electors of Cosford. The sense of freedom caused -her to repent of her contemptuous attitude towards his political -aspirations. To encourage and foster them would be to her very great -advantage. She adopted this policy, much to the edification of Morland, -who felt the strengthening of a common bond of interest. He regularly -balloted for seats in the Ladies' Gallery, and condemned her to sit for -hours behind the grating and listen to uninspiring debates. He came to -her with the gossip of the lobbies. He made plans for their future life -together. They would make politics a feature of their house. It would be -a rallying-place for the new Tory wing, in which Morland after a dinner -at the Carlton Club when his health was proposed in flattering terms, -had found himself enlisted. Norma was to bring back the glories of the -_salon_. - -“When it gets too thick,” he said once laughingly, ashamed of these -wanderings into the ideal, “we can go off into the country and shoot and -have some decent people down and amuse ourselves rationally.” - -Yet, in spite of absorbing political toys, his complete subjugation of -Norma, and the smiling aspect of life, a sense of utter wretchedness -weighed upon the soul of this half-developed man. He could not shake it -off. It haunted him as he sat stolid and stupefied in his place below -the gangway. It dulled all sensation of pleasure when he kissed the -lips which Norma, resigned now to everything, surrendered to him at his -pleasure. It took the sparkle out of his champagne, the joy out of his -life. Now that he had asserted himself as the victorious male who had -won the female that he coveted, the sense of wrong inflicted on him grew -less and the consciousness of his own shame grew greater. In his shallow -way he had loved Jimmie dearly. He also had the well-bred Englishman's -conventional sense of honour. Accusing conscience wrote him down an -unutterable knave. - -One day in March, as he was proceeding citywards to see his solicitors -on some question relating to marriage settlements, his carriage was -blocked for some minutes in Oxford Street. Looking idly out of the near -side window, he saw a familiar figure emerge from a doorway in a narrow -passage come down to the pavement, and stand for a few moments in -anxious thought, jostled by the passers-by. He looked thin and ill and -worried. The lines by the sides of his drooping moustache had deepened. -Jimmie, never spruce in his attire, now seemed outrageously shabby. -Certain men who dress well are quick, like women, to notice these -things. Morland's keen glance took in the discoloured brown boots and -the frayed hem of trousers, the weather stains on the old tweed suit, -the greasiness of the red tie, the irregular mark of perspiration on the -band of the old Homburg hat. An impulse to spring out of the carriage -and greet him was struggling with sheer shame, when Jimmie suddenly -threw up his head--an old trick of his whose familiarity brought a pang -to the man watching him--and crossed the road, disappearing among the -traffic behind the brougham. Morland gazed meditatively at the little -passage. Suddenly he was aware of the three brass balls and the name of -Attenborough. In a moment he was on the pavement and, after a hurried -word to his coachman, in pursuit of Jimmie. But the traffic had -swallowed Jimmie up. It was impossible to track him. Morland returned to -his brougham and drove on. - -There was only one explanation of what he had seen. Jimmie was reduced -to poverty, to pawning his belongings in order to live. The scandal had -killed the sale of his pictures. No more ladies would sit to him for -their portraits. No more dealers would purchase works on the strength -of his name. Jimmie was ill, poor, down at heel, and it was all his, -Morland's, fault, his very grievous fault. In a dim, futile way he -wished he were a Roman Catholic, so that he could go to a priest, -confess, and receive absolution. The idea of confession obsessed him -in this chastened mood. By lunch-time he had resolved to tell Norma -everything and abide by her verdict. At any rate, if he married her, he -would not do so under false pretences. He would feel happier with -the load of lies off his mind. At half-past four he left the House of -Commons to transact its business without him as best it could, and drove -to Devonshire Place. As he neared the door, his courage began to fail. -He remembered Norma's passionate outburst against lying, and shrank from -the withering words that she might speak. The situation, however, had to -be faced. - -The maid who opened the front door informed him that Norma was out, but -that Mrs. Hardacre was at home. He was shown upstairs into the empty -drawing-room, and while he waited there, a solution of his difficulty -occurred to him. He caught at it eagerly, as he had caught at -compromises and palliatives all his life. For he was a man of half-sins, -half-virtues, half-loves, and half-repentances. His spiritual attitude -was that of Naaman. - -Mrs. Hardacre greeted him with smiles of welcome, and regrets at Norma's -absence. If only he had sent a message, Norma would have given up her -unimportant engagement. She would be greatly disappointed. The House -took up so much of his time, and Norma prized the brief snatches she -could obtain of his company. All of which, though obviously insincere, -none the less flattered Morland's vanity. - -“Perhaps it is as well that Norma is away,” said he, “for I want to have -a little talk with you. Can you give me five minutes?” - -“Fifty, my dear Morland,” replied Mrs. Hardacre, graciously. “Will you -have some tea?” - -He declined. It was too serious a matter for the accompaniment of -clattering teaspoons. Mrs. Hardacre sat in an armchair with her back -to the light--the curtains had not yet been drawn--and Morland sat near -her, looking at the fire. - -“I have something on my mind,” he began. “You, as Norma's mother, ought -to know. It's about my friend Jimmie Padgate.” - -Mrs. Hardacre put out a lean hand. - -“I would rather not hear it. I'm not uncharitable, but I wish none of us -had ever set eyes on the man. He came near ruining us all.” - -“He seems to have ruined himself. He's ill, poor, in dreadful low water. -I caught a sight of him this morning. The poor old chap was almost in -rags.” - -“It's very unpleasant for Mr. Padgate, but it fails to strike me as -pathetic. He has only got his deserts.” - -“That's where the point lies,” said Morland. “He does n't deserve it. I -do. I am the only person to blame in the whole infernal business.” - -“You?” cried Mrs. Hardacre, her grey eyes glittering with sudden -interest. “What had you to do with it?” - -“Well, everything. Jimmie never set eyes on the girl in his life. He -took all the blame to shield me. If he had n't done so, there would have -been the devil to pay. That's how it stands.” - -Mrs. Hardacre gave a little gasp. - -“My dear Morland, you amaze me. You positively shock me. Really, don't -you think in mentioning the matter to me there is some--indelicacy?” - -“You are a woman of the world,” said Morland, bluntly, “and you know -that men don't lead the lives of monks just because they happen to be -unmarried.” - -“Of course I know it,” said Mrs. Hardacre, composing herself to -sweetness. “One knows many things of which it is hardly necessary or -desirable to talk. Of course I think it shocking and disreputable of -you. But it's all over and done with. If that was on your mind, wipe it -off and let us say no more about it.” - -“I'm afraid you don't understand,” said Morland, rising and leaning -against the mantel-piece. “What is done is done. Meanwhile another man -is suffering for it, while I go about prospering.” - -“But surely that is a matter between Mr. Padgate and yourself. How can -it possibly concern us?” - -As Morland had not looked at the case from that point of view, he -silently inspected it with a puzzled brow. - -“I can't help feeling a bit of a brute, you know,” he said at length. -“I meant at first to let him off--to make a clean breast of it--but it -wasn't feasible. You know how difficult these things are when they get -put off. Then, of course, I thought I could make it up to Jimmie in -other ways.” - -“Why, so you can,” said Mrs. Hardacre, with the elaborate pretence of -a little yawn, as if the subject had ceased to interest her. “You could -afford it.” - -“Money is no good. He won't touch a penny. I have offered.” - -“Then, my dear Morland, you have done your best. If a man is idiot -enough to saddle himself with other people's responsibilities and -refuses to be helped when he breaks down under them, you must let him go -his own way. Really I haven't got any sympathy for him.” - -Morland, having warmed himself sufficiently and feeling curiously -comforted by Mrs. Hardacre's wise words, sat down again near her and -leant forward with his arms on his knees. - -“Do you think Norma would take the same view?” he asked. After all, in -spite of certain eccentricities inseparable from an unbalanced sex, she -had as much fundamental common-sense as her mother. The latter looked at -him sharply. - -“What has Norma got to do with it?” - -“I was wondering whether I ought to tell her,” said he. - -Mrs. Hardacre started bolt upright in her chair. This time her interest -was genuine. Nothing but her long training in a world of petty strife -kept the sudden fright out of her eyes and voice. - -“Tell Norma? Whatever for?” - -“I thought it would be more decent,” said Morland, rather feebly. - -“It would be sheer lunacy!” cried the lady, appalled at the certain -catastrophe that such a proceeding would cause. Did not the demented -creature see that the whole affair was in unstable equilibrium? A touch, -let alone a shock like this, would bring it toppling down, never to -be set up again by any prayers, remonstrances, ravings, curses, -thumbscrews, or racks the ingenuity of an outraged mother could devise. - -“It would be utter imbecility,” she continued. “My dear man, don't you -think one mad Don Quixote in a romance is enough? What on earth would -you, Norma, or any one else gain by telling her? She is as happy -as possible now, buying her trousseau and making all the wedding -arrangements. Why spoil her happiness? I think it exceedingly -inconsiderate of you--not to say selfish--I do really.” - -“Hardly that. It was an idea of doing penance,” said Morland. - -“If that is all,” said Mrs. Hardacre, relaxing into a bantering tone, as -she joyfully noted the lack of conviction in his manner, “I'll make you -a hair shirt, and I'll promise it shall be scratchy--untanned pigskin -with the bristles on, if you like. Be as uncomfortable, my dear -Morland, as ever you choose--wear a frock-coat with a bowler hat or dine -_tête-à-tête_ with Mr. Hardacre, but do leave other folks to pass their -lives in peace and quiet.” - -Morland threw himself back and laughed, and Mrs. Hardacre knew she had -won what she paradoxically called a moral victory. They discussed the -question for a few moments longer, and then Morland rose to take his -leave. - -“It's awfully good of you to look at things in this broadminded way,” - he said, with the air of a man whom an indulgent lady has pardoned for a -small peccadillo. “Awfully good of you.” - -“There is no other sane way of looking at them,” replied Mrs. Hardacre. -“Won't you wait and see Norma?” - -“I must get back to the House,” replied Morland, consulting his watch. -“There may be a division before the dinner-hour.” - -He smoked a great cigar on his way to Westminster, and enjoyed it -thoroughly. Mrs. Hardacre was quite right. He had done his best. If -Jimmie was too high and mighty to accept the only compensation possible, -he was not to blame. The matter was over and done with. It would be -idiotic to tell Norma. - -Meanwhile, having made confession and received absolution, he felt -spiritually refreshed. - - - - -Chapter XX--ALINE PREPARES FOR BATTLE - -THE look of illness that Morland had noticed upon Jimmie's face was due -to the fact that he had been ill. Italian townlets nestling on hillsides -are picturesque, but they are not always healthy. A touch of fever had -laid him on his back for a week, and caused the local doctor to order -him to England. He had arrived in a limp condition, much to the anxiety -of Aline, who had expected to see the roses return to his cheek as soon -as their slender baggage had passed the custom-house. He was shabbily -dressed because he had fallen on evil times, and had no money to waste -on personal vanities. The four guineas which Aline had put aside out of -their limited resources to buy him a new suit he had meanly abstracted -from the housekeeping drawer, and had devoted, with the surreptitious -help of the servant, to purchasing necessary articles of attire for -Aline. He was looking worried because he had forgotten in which of the -cheap Oxford Street restaurants he had promised to meet that young lady. -When he remembered, the cloud passed from his face and he darted across -the road behind Morland's brougham. He found Aline seated primly at -a little marble table on which were a glass of milk and a lump of -amorphous pastry for herself, and a plate of cold beef and a small -bottle of Bass for Jimmie. It was too early for the regular crowd of -lunchers--only half-past twelve--and the slim, erect little figure -looked oddly alone in the almost empty restaurant. - -Jimmie nodded in a general, kindly way at the idle waitresses about the -buffet, and marched down the room with a quick step, his eyes beaming. -He sat down with some clatter opposite Aline, and took two cheques, a -bank-note and a handful of gold and silver from his pocket, and dumped -them noisily on the table. - -“There, my child. Seven pounds ten. Twenty-five guineas. Five pounds. -And eight pounds three-and-six-pence. Exit wolf at the door, howling, -with his tail between his legs.” - -Aline looked at the wealth with knitted brow. - -“Can I take this?” she asked, lifting up the five-pound note. - -Jimmie pushed the pile towards her. “Take it all, my dear. What on earth -should I do with it? Besides, it's all your doing.” - -“Because I made you go and dun those horrid dealers? And even now Hyam -has only given you half. It was fifty guineas--Oh, Jimmie! Do you mean -to say you forgot? Now, what did you tell him? Did you produce the -agreement?” - -Jimmie looked at her ruefully. - -“I'm afraid I forgot the wretched agreement. I went in and twirled my -moustache fiercely, and said 'Mr. Hyam, I want my money.'” - -Aline laughed. “And you took him by the throat. I know. Oh, you foolish -person!” - -“Well, he asked me if twenty-five would be enough--and it's a lot of -money, you know, dear--and I thought if I did n't say 'yes,' he would -n't give me anything. In business affairs one has to be diplomatic.” - -“I'll have to take Hyam in hand myself,” said Aline, decisively. “Well, -he'll have to pay up some day. Then there's Blathwayt & Co.,--and -Tilney--that's quite right--but where did you get all that gold from, -Jimmie?” - -“Oh, that was somebody else,” he said vaguely. Then turning to the -waitress, who had sauntered up to open the bottle of Bass, he pointed at -Aline's lunch. - -“Do you mind taking away that eccentric pie-thing and bringing the most -nutritious dish you have in the establishment?” - -“But, Jimmie, this is a Bath bun. It's delicious,” protested Aline. - -“My dear child, growing girls cannot be fed like bears on buns. Ah, -here,” he said to the waitress who showed him the little wooden-handled -frame containing the tariff, “bring this young lady some galantine of -chicken.” - -Aline, who in her secret heart loved the “eccentric pie-thing” beyond -all other dainties, and trembled at the stupendous charge, possibly -ninepence or a shilling, that would be made for the galantine, yielded, -after the manner of women, because she knew it would please Jimmie. But -accustomed to his diplomatic methods, she felt that a red herring--or a -galantine--had been drawn across the track. - -“Who was the somebody else?” she asked. - -He nodded and drank a draught of beer and wiped the froth from his -moustache. Something unusual in his personal appearance suddenly caught -her attention. His watch-chain was dangling loose from the buttonhole of -his waistcoat. - -“Your watch!” she gasped. - -Dissimulation being vain, Jimmie confessed. - -“You told me this morning, my dear, that if we didn't get fifty pounds -to-day we were ruined. You spoke alarmingly of the workhouse. My debt -collecting amounted to thirty-eight pounds fifteen. I tried hard to work -the obdurate bosom up to eleven pounds five, but he would only give me -eight.” - -“You don't mean to say you have sold your beautiful gold watch for eight -pounds?” cried the girl, turning as pale as the milk in front of her. - -It had been a present from a wealthy stockbroker who had been delighted -with his portrait painted by Jimmie a couple of years ago, and it was -thick and heavy and the pride of Aline's existence. It invested Jimmie -with an air of solidity, worldly substantiality; and it was the only -timekeeper they had ever had in the house which properly executed its -functions. Now he had sold it! Was there ever so exasperating a man? -He was worse than Moses with his green spectacles. But Jimmie reassured -her. He had only pawned the watch at Attenborough's over the way. - -“Then give me the ticket, do, or you'll lose it, Jimmie.” - -He meekly obeyed. Aline began her galantine with a sigh of relief, and -condescended to laugh at Jimmie's account of his exploits. But when the -meal was ended, she insisted on redeeming the precious watch, and much -happier in knowing it safe in his pocket, she carried him off to a -ready-made tailor's, where she ordered him a beautiful thin overcoat for -thirty shillings, a neat blue serge suit for three pounds ten, handing -over in payment the five-pound note she had abstracted from his -gleanings, and a new hat, for which she paid from a mysterious -private store of her own. These matters having been arranged to her -satisfaction, she made up for her hectoring ways by nestling against him -on top of the homeward-bound omnibus and telling him what a delightful, -lovely morning they had spent. - -Thus it will be seen that Jimmie, aided by Aline's stout little heart, -was battling more than usual against adversity. Aline had many schemes. -Why should she not obtain some lucrative employment? Jimmie made a wry -face at the phrase and protested vehemently against the suggestion. -A hulking varlet like him to let her wear her fingers to the bone by -addressing envelopes at twopence a million? He would sooner return to -the five-shillings-a-dozen oil paintings; he would go round the streets -at dawn and play “ghost” to pavement artists; he would take in washing! -The idea of the street-pictures caught his fancy. He expatiated upon its -advantages. Five pitches, say at two shillings a pitch, that would be -ten shillings a day--three pounds a week. A most business-like plan, to -say nothing of the education in art it would be to the public! He had -his own fantastical way of dealing with the petty cares of life. As for -Aline working, he would not hear of it. Though they lived now from hand -to mouth, they were always fed. He had faith in the ravens. - -But all the fantasy and the faith could not subdue Aline's passionate -rebellion against Jimmie's ostracism. She was very young, very feminine; -she had not his wide outlook, his generous sympathies, his disdain of -trivial, ignoble things, his independence of soul. The world was arrayed -against Jimmie. Society was persecuting him with monstrous injustice. -She hated his oppressors, longed fiercely for an opportunity of -vindicating his honour. It was sometimes more than she could bear--to -think of his straitened means, the absence of sitters, the lowered -prices he obtained, the hours of unremitting toil he spent at his easel -and drawing-table. During their travels she had not realised what the -scandal would mean to him professionally. Now her heart rose in hot -revolt and thirsted for battle in Jimmie's cause. - -Her heart had never been hotter than one morning when, the gem of his -finished Italian studies having been rejected by the committee of -a minor exhibition, she went down to the studio to give vent to her -indignation. At breakfast Jimmie had laughed and kissed her and told -her not to drop tears into his coffee. He would send the picture to -the Academy, where it would be hung on the line and make him famous. -He refused to be downhearted and talked buoyantly of other things. -But Aline felt that it was only for her sake that he hid his bitter -disappointment, and an hour later she could bear the strain of silence -no longer. - -The door of the studio was open. The girl's footstep was soft, and, not -hearing it, he did not turn as she entered. For a few seconds she stood -watching him; feeling shy, embarrassed, an intruder upon unexpected -sacred things. Jimmie's mind was far away from minor exhibitions. He was -sitting on his painting-stool, chin in hand, looking at a picture on -the easel. On his face was unutterable pain, in his eyes an agony of -longing. Aline caught her breath, frightened at the revelation. The eyes -of the painted Norma smiled steadfastly into his. The horrible irony -of it smote the girl. Another catch at the breath became a choking sob. -Jimmie started, and as if a magic hand had passed across his features, -the pain vanished, and Aline saw the homely face again with its look -of wistful kindness. Overwrought, she broke into a passion of weeping. -Jimmie put his arms about her and soothed her. What did the rejection of -a picture matter? It was part of the game of painting. She must be his -own brave little girl and smile at the rubs of fortune. But Aline -shook the head buried on his shoulder, and stretched out a hand blindly -towards the portrait. “It's that. I can't bear it.” - -An impossible thought shot through him. He drew away from her and caught -her wrists somewhat roughly, and tried to look at her; but she bowed her -head. - -“What do you mean, my child?” he asked curtly, with bent brows. - -Women are lightning-witted in their interpretation of such questions. -The blood flooded her face, and her tears dried suddenly and she met -his glance straight. - -“Do you think I'm jealous? Do you suppose I have n't known? I can't bear -you to suffer. I can't bear her not to believe in you. I can't bear her -not to love you.” - -Jimmie let go her wrists and stood before her full of grateful -tenderness, quite at a loss for words. He looked whimsically at the -flushed, defiant little face; he shook her by the shoulder and turned -away. - -“My valiant tin soldier,” he said. - -It was an old name for her, dating from nursery days, when they thought -and talked according to the gospel of Hans Christian Andersen. - -No more passed between them. But thenceforward Jimmie put the finishing -touches to the portrait openly, Instead of painting at it when he knew -he should be undisturbed. The wedding was drawing near. The date had -been announced in the papers, and Jimmie had put a cross against it in -his diary. If only Norma would accept the portrait as a wedding-present, -he would feel happier. But how to approach her he did not know. In her -pure eyes, he was well aware, he must appear the basest of men, and -things proceeding from him would bear a taint of the unspeakable. Yet he -hungered for her acceptance. It was the most perfect picture he had -painted or could ever paint. The divinest part of him had gone to the -making of it. It held in its passionate simplicity the man's soul, as -the Monna Lisa in its mysterious complexity holds Leonardo's. Of -material symbols of things spiritual he could not give her more. But how -to give? - -Connie Deering settled the question by coming to the studio one morning, -a bewildering vision of millinery and smiles and kindness. - -“You have persistently refused, you wicked bear, to come and see me -since my return to London, so I have no choice but to walk into your -den. If it had n't been for Aline, beyond an occasional 'Dear Connie, I -am very well. The weather is unusually warm for the time of year. Yours -sincerely, J. P.', I should n't know whether you were alive or dead. I -hope you're ashamed of yourself.” - -This was the little lady's exordium, to which she tactfully gave Jimmie -no time to reply. She stayed for an hour. The disastrous topic was -avoided. But Jimmie felt that she forbore to judge him for his supposed -offence, and learned to his great happiness that Norma had asked after -his welfare, and would without doubt deign in her divine graciousness -to accept the portrait. She looked thoughtfully at the picture for some -time, and then laid a light touch on his arm. - -“How you must love her, Jimmie!” she said in a low voice. “I have n't -forgotten.” - -“I wish you would,” he answered gravely. “I oughtn't to have said what -I did. I don't remember what I did say. I lost my head and raved. -Every man has his hour of madness, and that was mine--all through your -witchery. And yet somehow it seemed as if I were pouring it all out to -her.” - -Connie Deering perceptibly winced. Plucking up courage, she began: - -“I wish a man would--” - -“My dear Connie,” Jimmie interrupted kindly, “there are hundreds of men -in London who are sighing themselves hoarse for you. But you are such a -hard-hearted butterfly.” - -Her lips twitched. “Not so hard-hearted as you think, my good Jimmie,” - she retorted. - -A moment later she was all inconsequence and jest. On parting he took -both her white-gloved little hands. - -“You can't realise the joy it has been to me to see you, Connie,” he -said. “It has been like a ray of sunlight through prison bars.” - -After a private talk with Aline she drove straight to Devonshire Place, -and on the way dabbed her eyes with the inconsiderable bit of chiffon -called a handkerchief which she carried in her gold chain purse. She saw -Norma alone for a moment before lunch, and told her of her visit. - -“I don't care what he has done,” she declared desperately. “I am -not going to let it make a difference any longer. He's the same dear -creature I have known all my life, and I don't believe he has done -anything at all. If there's a sinner in that horrible business, it is -n't Jimmie!” - -Norma looked out of the window at the bleak March day. - -“That is what Theodore Weever said,” she answered tonelessly. - -“Then why don't you give Jimmie the benefit of the doubt?” - -“It is better that I should n't.” - -“Why, dear?” - -“You are a sweet little soul, Connie,” said Norma, her eyes still fixed -on the grey sky. “But you may do more harm than good. I am better as I -am. I have benumbed myself into a decent state of insensibility and I -don't want to feel anything ever again as long as I live.” - -The door opened, and Mrs. Hardacre appeared on the threshold. Connie -bent forward and whispered quickly into Norma's ear: - -“One would think you were afraid to believe in Jimmie.” - -She swung round, flushed, femininely excited at having seized the unfair -moment for dealing a stab. - -“I hope I _have_ made her feel,” she thought, as she fluttered forward -to greet Mrs. Hardacre. - -She succeeded perhaps beyond her hope. A sharp glance showed her Norma -still staring out of window, but staring now with an odd look of fear -and pain. Her kind heart repented. - -“Forgive me if I hurt you,” she said on their way downstairs to lunch. - -“What does it matter?” Norma answered by way of pardon. - -But the shrewd thrust mattered exceedingly. After Connie had gone, the -wound ached, and Norma found that her boast of having benumbed herself -was a vain word. In the night she lay awake, frightened at the reaction -that was taking place. Theodore Weever had shaken her more than she had -realised. Connie Deering proclaimed the same faith. She felt that she -too would have to accept it--against argument, against reason, against -fact. She would have to accept it wholly, implicitly; and she dreaded -the act of faith. Her marriage with Morland was fixed for that day week, -and she was agonisingly aware that she loved another man with all her -heart. - -The next day she received a hurried note from Connie Deering: - -_“Do come in for half an hour for tea on Sunday. I have a beautiful -wedding-present to show you which I hope you'll like, as great pains -have been spent over it. And I want to have a last little chat with -you.”_ - -She promised unreflectingly, seeing no snare. But as she walked -to Bryanston Square on Sunday afternoon, more of a presentiment, a -foreboding of evil, than a suspicion fixed itself upon her mind, and she -wished she had not agreed to come. She was shown into the drawing-room, -and there, beside a gilt-framed picture over which a cloth was thrown, -with her great brown eyes meeting her defiantly, stood Aline. - - - - -Chapter XXI--THE MOTH MEETS THE STAR - -THUS had Aline, her heart hot for battle in Jimmie's cause, contrived -with Connie Deering as subsidiary conspirator. She had lain awake most -of the night, thinking of the approaching interview, composing speeches, -elaborating arguments, defining her attitude. Her plan of campaign was -based on the assumption of immediate hostilities. She had pictured -a scornful lady moved to sudden anger at seeing herself trapped, and -haughtily refusing to discuss overtures of peace. It was to be war -from the first, until she had brought her adversary low; and when the -door-handle rattled and the door opened to admit Norma, every nerve -in her young body grew tense, and her heart beat like the clapper of a -bell. - -Norma entered, looked for a moment in smiling surprise at Aline, came -quickly forward, and moved by a sudden impulse, a yearning for love, -sweetness, freshness, peace--she knew not what--she put her arms round -the girl and kissed her. - -“My dear Aline, how sweet it is to see you again!” - -The poor little girl stood helpless. The bottom was knocked out of her -half-childish plan of campaign. There was no scornful lady, no haughty -words, no hostilities. She fell to crying. What else could she do? - -“There, there! Don't cry, dear,” said Norma soothingly, almost as -helpless. Seating herself on a low chair and drawing Aline to her side, -she looked up at the piteous face. - -“Why should you cry, dear?” - -“I did n't know you would be so good to me,” answered Aline, wiping her -eyes. - -“Why should n't I be good to you? What reason could I have for not being -glad to see you?” - -“I don't know,” said the girl, with a touch of bitterness. “Things are -so different now.” - -Norma sighed for answer and thought of her premonition. She was aware -that Connie had deliberately planned this interview, but could find -no resentment in her heart. The reproach implied in Aline's words she -accepted humbly. She was at once too spiritless for anger, and too much -excited by the girl's presence for regret at having come. Her eye -fell upon the picture leaning against the chair-back, and a conjecture -swiftly passed through her mind. - -“Mrs. Deering asked me to come and look at a wedding-present,” she said -with a smile. - -“Did she tell you from whom?” asked Aline, thrusting her handkerchief -into her pocket. She had found her nerve again. - -“No.” - -“It's from Jimmie.” - -“Is it that over there?” - -Aline caught and misinterpreted an unsteadiness of voice. She threw -herself on her knees by Norma's side. - -“You won't refuse it, Miss Hardacre. Oh, say you won't refuse it. Jimmie -began it ever so long ago. He put everything into it. It would break -his heart if you refused it--the heart of the best and beautifullest and -tenderest and most wonderful man God ever made.” - -Norma touched with her gloved fingers a wisp of hair straying over the -girl's forehead. - -“How do you know he is all that?” - -“How do I know? How do I know the sun shines and the rain falls? It's -just so.” - -“You have faith, my child,” said Norma, oddly. - -“It isn't faith. It's knowledge. You all believe Jimmie has done -something horrible. He has n't. I know he hasn't. He couldn't. He -couldn't harm a living creature by word or deed. I know he never did it. -If I had thought so for one moment, I should have loathed myself so that -I would have gone out and killed myself. I know very little about it. I -did n't read the newspapers--it's hideous--it's horrible--Jimmie would -as soon think of torturing a child. It's not in his nature. He is all -love and sweetness and chivalry. If you say he has taken the blame on -himself for some great generous purpose--yes. That's Jimmie. That's -Jimmie all over. It's cruel--it's monstrous for any one who knows him to -think otherwise.” - -She had risen from her knees half-way through her passionate speech, and -moved about in front of Norma, wringing her hands. She ended in a sob -and turned away. Norma lay back in her chair, pale and agitated. The -cynical worldling with his piercing vision into men and the pure, -ignorant child had arrived at the same conclusion, not after months of -thought, but instantly, intuitively. She could make the girl no answer. -Aline began again. - -“He could n't. You know he could n't. It's something glorious and -beautiful he has done and not anything shameful.” - -She went on, with little pauses, hurling her short, breathless -sentences across the space that separated her from Norma, forgetful of -everything save the wrong done to Jimmie. At last Norma rose and went to -her. - -“Hush, dear!” she said. “There are some things I mustn't talk about. -I daren't. You are too young to understand. Mr. Padgate has sent me a -wedding-present. Tell him how gladly I accept it and how I shall value -it. Let me see the picture.” - -Aline, her slight bosom still heaving with the after-storm of emotion, -said nothing, but drew the cloth from the canvas. Norma started back -in-surprise. She had not anticipated seeing her own portrait. - -“Oh, but it is beautiful!” she cried involuntarily. - -“Yes--more than beautiful,” said Aline, and mechanically she moved the -chair into the full light of the window. - -Norma looked at the picture for a long time, stepped back and looked at -herself in the mirror of the overmantel, and returned to the picture. -And as she looked the soul behind the picture spoke to her. The message -delivered, she glanced at Aline. - -“It is not I, that woman. I wish to God it were.” She put her hands -up to her face, and took a step or two across the room, and repeated a -little wildly, “I wish to God it were!” - -“It is very, very like you,” said Aline softly, recovering her girl's -worship of the other's stately beauty. - -Norma caught her by the arm and pointed at the portrait. - -“Can't you see the difference?” - -But the soul behind the picture had not spoken to Aline. There was love -hovering around the pictured woman's lips; happy tenderness and -trust and promise mingled in her eyes; in so far as the shadow of a -flower-like woman's passion could strain her features, so were her -features strained. Yet she looked out of the canvas a proud, queenly -woman, capable of heroisms and lofty sacrifice. She was one who -loved deeply and demanded love in return. She was warm of the flesh, -infinitely pure of the spirit. The face was the face of Norma, but the -soul was that of the dream-woman who had come and sat in the sitter's -chair and communed with Jimmie as he painted her. And Norma heard her -voice. It was an indictment of her life, a judgment and a sentence. - -“I am glad you can't, dear,” she said to Aline, regaining her balance. -“Tell him I shall prize it above all my wedding-gifts.” - -They talked quietly, for a while about Jimmie's affairs, the pilgrimage -through southern France and northern Italy, his illness, his work. His -poverty Aline was too proud to mention. - -“And you, my dear?” asked Norma, kindly. - -“I?” - -“What about yourself? You are not looking as happy as you were. My dear -child,” she said, bending forward earnestly, “do you know that no one -has ever come to me with their troubles in all my life--not once. I'm -beginning to feel I should be happier if some one did. You have had -yours---I have heard just a little. You see we all have them and we -might help each other.” - -“You have no troubles, Miss Hardacre,” said Aline, touched. “You are -going to be married in a week's time.” - -“And you?” - -“Never,” said Aline. “Never.” - -Suddenly she poured her disastrous little love-story into Norma's ears. -It was a wonderful new comfort to the child, this tender magic of the -womanly sympathy. Oh! she loved him, of course she loved him, and he -loved her; that was the piteous part of it. If Miss Hardacre only knew -what it was to have the heart-ache! It was dreadful. And there was no -hope. - -“And is that all?” asked Norma, when she had lowered the curtain on her -tragedy. “You are eating out your heart for him and won't see him just -because he won't believe in Jimmie? Listen. I feel sure that he will -soon believe in Jimmie. He must. And then you'll be entirely happy.” - -When the girl's grateful arms suddenly flung themselves about her, Norma -was further on the road to happiness than she had ever travelled before. -She yielded herself to the moment's exquisite charm. Behind her whirled -a tumult of longing, shame, struggling faith, nameless suspicion. Before -her loomed a shivering dread. The actual moment was an isle of enchanted -peace. - -The clock on a table at the far end of the room chiming six brought -her back to the workaday world. She must go home. Morland was coming to -dinner; also one or two Cosford people, who had already arrived in town -in view of the wedding. She would have to dress with some elaborateness. -Her heart grew heavy and cold at the prospect of the dreary party. She -rose, looked again at the picture in the fading light. Moved by the -irresistible, she turned to Aline. - -“I should like to see him--to thank him--before---before Wednesday. Do -you think he would come?” - -Aline blushed guiltily. “Jimmie is in the house now,” she said. - -“Downstairs?” - -“Yes.” - -For a moment irresolute, she looked vacantly into the girl's pleading -eyes. An odd darkness encompassed her and she saw nothing. The -announcement was a shock of crisis. Dimly she knew that she trod the -brink of folly and peril. But she had been caught unawares, and she -longed stupidly, achingly, for the sight of his face. The words of -Aline, eager in defence of her beloved, seemed far away. - -“Of course he does n't know you are here. He was to call for me at a -quarter to six, and I heard the front door open a little while ago. I -brought the picture in a cab, and he is under the impression that Mrs. -Deering will ask you to--will do what I have done. Jimmie is perfectly -innocent, Miss Hardacre. He had not the remotest idea I was to meet -you--not the remotest.” - -Norma recovered herself sufficiently to say with a faint smile: - -“So this has been a conspiracy between you and Connie Deering?” - -Aline caught consent in the tone, and ignored the question. - -“Shall I send him up to you?” she asked breathlessly. - -“Yes,” said Norma. - -There was a girl's glad cry, a girl's impulsive kiss, and Norma was left -alone in the room. She had yielded. In a few moments he would be with -her--the man who had said, “Her voice haunts me like music heard in -sleep... I worship her like a Madonna... I love her as the man of hot -blood loves a woman... My soul is a footstool for her to rest her feet -upon,” and other flaming words of unforgettable passion; the man for -whom one instant of her life had been elemental sex; the man whose love -had transfigured her on canvas into the wonder among women that she -might have been; the man standing in a slough of infamy, whose rising -vapours wreathed themselves into a halo about his head. She clenched her -hands and set her teeth, wrestling with herself. - -“My God! What kind of a fool am I becoming?” she breathed. - -Training, the habit of the mask, came to her aid. Jimmie, entering, -saw only the royal lady who had looked kindly upon him in the golden -September days. She came to meet him frankly, as one meets an old -friend. A new vision revealed to her the heart that leapt into his eyes, -as they rested upon her. Mistress of herself, she hardened her own, but -smiled and spoke softly. - -“It is great good fortune you have come, so that I can thank you,” she -said. “But how can I ever thank you--for that?” - -“It is a small gift enough,” said Jimmie. “Your acceptance is more than -thanks.” - -“I shall prize it dearly. It is like nothing that can be bought. It is -something out of yourself you are giving me.” - -“If you look at it in that light,” said he, “I am happy indeed.” - -With a common instinct they went up to the portrait and regarded it side -by side. Conventional words passed. He enquired after Morland. - -“You have n't seen him for a long time?” she asked hesitatingly. - -“Not for a long time.” - -“You must have been very lonely.” - -“I have had Aline--and Connie Deering--and my work.” - -“Are they sufficient for you?” - -“Any human love a man gets he can make fill his life. It's like the -grain of mustard-seed.” - -Norma felt a thrill of admiration. Not a tone in his voice betrayed -complaint, reproach, or bitterness. Instead, he sounded the note of -thanksgiving for the love bestowed upon him, of faith in the perfect -ordering of the world. She glanced at him, and felt that she had wronged -him. No matter what was the solution of the mystery, she knew him to be -a sweet-souled man, wonderfully steadfast. - -“Your old way,” she replied with a smile, sitting down and motioning him -to a chair beside her. “Do you remember that we first met in this very -room? You have not changed. Have I?” - -“No,” he said gravely, “you were always beautiful, without and within. -I told you that then, if you remember. Perhaps, now, you are a little -truer to yourself.” - -“Do you think so?” she asked, somewhat bitterly. - -“Perhaps it is the approach of your great happiness,” blundered Jimmie, -in perfect conviction. She was silent. “It has been more to me than I -can say,” he went on, “to see you once again--as you are, before your -marriage. I wish you many blessings--all that love can bring you.” - -“Do you think love is necessary for married happiness?” - -“Without it marriage must be a horror,” said Jimmie. For a moment she -was on the brink of harsh laughter. Did he sincerely believe she was -in love with Morland? She could have hurled the question at him. Will -checked the rising hysteria and turned it into other channels. - -“Why have you never married? You must have loved somebody once.” - -It was a relief to hurt him. The dusk was gathering in the room, and she -could scarcely see his face. A Sunday stillness filled the quiet square -outside. The hour had its dangers. - -“My having loved a woman does not necessarily imply that I could have -married her,” said Jimmie. - -The evasion irritated her mood, awoke a longing to make him speak. She -drew her chair nearer, bent forward, so that the brim of her great hat -almost brushed his forehead and the fragrance of her overspread him. - -“Do you remember a picture you would n't show me in your studio? You -called it a mad painter's dream. You said it was the Ideal Woman.” - -“_You_ said so,” replied Jimmie. - -“I should like to see it.” - -“It is mine no longer to show you,” said Jimmie. - -“I think you must have loved that woman very deeply.” She was tempting -him as she had tempted no man before, feeling a cruel, senseless joy in -it. His voice vibrated. - -“Yes. I loved her infinitely.” - -“What was she like?” - -“Like all the splendid flowers of the earth melted into one rose,” said -Jimmie. - -“I wish some one had ever said that about me,” she whispered. - -“Many must have thought it.” - -“She must be a happy woman to be loved by you.” - -“By me? Who am I that I could bring happiness to a woman? I have never -told her.” - -“Why not?” she whispered. “Do you suppose you can love a woman without -her knowing it?” - -“In what way can the star be cognisant of the moth's desire?” said -Jimmie, going back to the refrain of his love. - -“You a moth and she a star! You are a man and she is but a trumpery bit -of female flesh that on a word would throw herself into your arms.” - -“No,” said Jimmie, hoarsely. “No, you don't know what you are saying.” - -The temptation to goad him was irresistible. - -“We are all of us alike, all of us. Tell her.” - -“I dare n't.” - -“Tell me who she is.” - -She looked at him full, with meaning in her eyes, which glowed like deep -moons in the dusk. He brought all his courage into his glance. He was -the master. She turned away her head in confusion, reading his love, his -strength, his loyalty. A lesser man loving her would have thrown honour -to the winds. A curious reverence of him filled her. She felt a small -thing beside him. All doubts vanished forever. Her faith in him was as -crystal clear as Aline's. - -“I have no right to mention her name,” he said after a pause. - -Norma leaned back in her chair and passed her handkerchief across her -lips. - -“Would you do anything in the world she asked you?” she murmured. - -“I would go through hell for her,” said Jimmie. - -There was another span of silence, tense and painful. Jimmie broke it by -saying: - -“Why should you concern yourself about my fantastic affairs? They merely -belong to dreamland--to the twilight and the stillness. They have no -existence in the living world.” - -“If I thought so, should I be sitting in the twilight and the stillness -listening to you?” she asked. “Or even if I did, may I not enter into -dreamland too for a few little minutes before the gates are closed to -me forever? Why should you want to shut me out of it? Do you think much -love has come my way? Yours are the only lips I have ever heard speak of -it.” - -“Morland loves you,” said Jimmie, tremulously. - -The door opened. The electric light was switched on, showing two pale, -passion-drawn faces, and Connie Deering brought her sweet gaiety into -the room. - -“If I had known you two were sitting in the dark like this, I should -have come up earlier. Is n't it nice, Norma, to have Jimmie back again?” - -The spell was broken. Norma gave an anxious look at the clock and fled, -after hurried farewells. - -The mistress of the house arched her pretty eyebrows as she returned to -Jimmie. - -“_Eh bien?_” - -“Connie--” He cleared his throat. “You have kept my secret?” - -“Loyally,” she said. “Have you?” - -“I have done my best. God knows I have done my best.” - -He sat down, took up a book and began to turn the leaves idly. Connie -knelt down before the fire and put on a fresh log. This done, she came -to his side. He took her hand and looked up into her face. - -“I have n't thanked you, Connie. I do with all my heart.” - -She smiled at him with an odd wistfulness. - -“You once thanked me in a very pretty manner,” she said. “I think I -deserve it again.” - - - - -Chapter XXII--CATASTROPHE - -CONNIE DEERING was dining that Sunday evening with some friends at the -Carlton, an engagement which had caused her to decline an invitation to -the Hardacres'. The prospect, however, for once did not appeal to her -pleasure-loving soul. She sighed as she stepped into her brougham, and -wished as she drove along that she were sitting at home in the tea-gown -and tranquillity harmonious with a subdued frame of mind. Problems -worried her. What had passed between Norma and Jimmie? Ordinary delicacy -had forbidden her questioning, and Jimmie had admitted her no further -into his confidence. In that she was disappointed. When a sentimental -woman asks for a kiss, she expects something more. She was also half -ashamed of herself for asking him to kiss her. A waspish little voice -within proclaimed that it was not so much for Jimmie's sake as for her -own; that her lifelong fondness for Jimmie had unconsciously slid on -to the rails that lead to absurdity. She drew her satin cloak tightly -around her as if to suffocate the imp, and returned to her speculation. -Something had happened--of that there was no doubt--something serious, -agitating. It could be read on both their faces. Had she, who alone knew -the hearts of each, done right in bringing them together? What had been -her object? Even if a marriage between them had not been too ludicrous -for contemplation, it would not have been fair towards her cousin -Morland to encourage this intrigue. She vowed she had been a little fool -to meddle with such gunpowdery matters. And yet she had acted in all -innocence for Jimmie's sake. It was right for Norma to be friends with -him again. It was monstrous he should suffer. If he could not marry the -woman he loved, at least he could have the happiness of knowing himself -no longer a blackened wretch in her eyes. But then, Norma had taken it -into her head to love him too. Had she done right? Her thoughts -flew round in a vicious circle of irritatingly small circumference, -occasionally flying off on the tangent of the solicited kiss. - -The first person she met in the vestibule of the Carlton was Theodore -Weever. They exchanged greetings, discovered they belonged to the same -party. She had come across him frequently of late in the houses that -Norma and herself had as common ground. In a general way she liked him; -since Norma had told her of his view of the scandal, he had risen high -in her estimation; but to-night he seemed to be a link in the drama that -perplexed her, and she shrank from him, as from something uncanny. He -sat next her at table. His first words were of Jimmie. - -“I was buying pictures yesterday from a friend of yours--Padgate.” - -In her pleasure Connie forgot her nervousness. - -“Why, he never told me.” - -“He could scarcely have had time unless he telephoned or telegraphed.” - -“He was at my house this afternoon,” she explained. - -He carefully peppered his oysters, then turned his imperturbable face -towards her. - -“So was Miss Hardacre.” - -“How do you know that?” she cried, startled. - -“I was calling in Devonshire Place. Her mother told me. I am not -necromantic.” - -His swift uniting of the two names perturbed her. She swallowed her -oysters unreflectingly, thus missing one of her little pleasures in -life, for she adored oysters. - -“Which pictures did you buy?” she asked. - -“The one I coveted was not for sale. It was a portrait of Miss Hardacre. -I don't think he meant me to see it, but I came upon him unawares. Have -you seen it?” They discussed the portrait for a while. Connie repeated -her former question. Weever replied that he had bought the picture -of the faun looking at the vision of things to come, and the rejected -Italian study. Connie expressed her gladness. They contained Jimmie's -best work. - -“Very fine,” Weever admitted, “but just failing in finish. Nothing like -the portrait.” - -There was an interval. Connie exchanged remarks with old Colonel -Pawley, her right-hand neighbour, who expatiated on the impossibility -of consuming Bortsch soup with satisfaction outside Russia. The soup -removed, Weever resumed the conversation. - -“Have you read your Lamartine thoroughly? I have. I was sentimental -once. He says somewhere, _Aimer pour être aimé, c'est de l'homme; mais -aimer pour aimer, c'est presque de l'ange_. I remember where it comes -from. It was said of Cecco in 'Graziella.' Our friend Padgate reminds -me of Cecco. Do you care much about your cousin Morland King, Mrs. -Deering?” - -Connie, entirely disconcerted by his manner, looked at him beseechingly. - -“Why do you ask me that?” - -“Because he is one of the _dramatis persona_ in a pretty little comedy -on which the curtain is not yet rung down.” - -She greatly dared. “Are you too in the caste?” - -Theodore Weever deliberately helped himself to fish before replying. -Then with equal deliberation he stared into her flushed and puzzled -face. - -“I hope so. A leading part, perhaps, if you are the clever and -conscientious woman I take you to be.” - -“What part has my cousin Morland played?” she asked. - -“I must leave you the very simple task of guessing,” said Weever; and -he took advantage of her consternation to converse with his left-hand -neighbour. - -“I have painted a peculiarly successful fan, dear Mrs. Deering,” said -Colonel Pawley, in his purring voice. “A wedding-present for our dear -Miss Hardacre. I have never been so much pleased with anything before. I -should like you to see it. When may I come and show it you?” - -“The wedding is fixed for two o'clock on Wednesday,” said Connie, -answering like a woman in a dream. The bright room, the crowd of diners, -the music, the voice of the old man by her side, all faded from her -senses, eclipsed by the ghastly light that dawned upon her. Only one -meaning could be attached to Weever's insinuations. A touch on the -arm brought her back to her surroundings with a start. It was Colonel -Pawley. - -“I hope there is nothing--” he began, in a tone of great concern. - -“No, nothing. Really nothing. Do forgive me,” she interrupted in -confusion. “You were telling me something. Oh, I'm dreadfully sorry.” - -“It was about the fan,” said Colonel Pawley, sadly. - -“A fan?” - -“Yes, for dear Miss Hardacre--a wedding-present.” - -She listened to a repetition of the previous remarks and to a -description of the painting, and this time replied coherently. She would -be delighted to see both the fan and himself to-morrow morning. The kind -old man launched into a prothalamion. The happy couple were a splendidly -matched pair--Norma the perfect type of aristocratic English beauty; -Morland a representative specimen of the British gentleman, the -safeguard of the empire, a man, a thorough good fellow, incapable -of dishonour, a landed proprietor. He had sketched out a little -wedding-song which he would like to present with the fan. Might he show -that, too, to Mrs. Deering? - -It was a dreadful dinner. On each side the distressing topic hemmed -her in. In vain she tried to make her old friend talk of travel or -gastronomy or the comforts of his club; perverse fate brought him always -back to Norma's wedding. She was forced to listen, for to Weever she -dared not address a remark. She longed for escape, for solitude wherein -to envisage her dismay. No suspicion of Morland's complicity in the -scandal had crossed her mind. Even now it seemed preposterous for a man -of honour to have so acted towards his dearest and most loyal friend, -to say nothing of the unhappy things that had gone before. Suddenly, -towards the end of dinner, she revolted. She turned to Weever. - -“I don't believe a word of it.” - -“Of what, dear lady?” - -“Of what you have told me about Morland and Jimmie Padgate.” - -“I have told you nothing--absolutely nothing,” he replied in his -expressionless way. “Please remember that. I don't go about libelling my -acquaintances.” - -“I shall go and ask Morland straight,” she said with spirit. - -“_Au succès_,” said Weever. - -Dinner over, the little party went into the lounge. The screened -light fell pleasantly on palms and pretty dresses, and made the place -reposeful after the glare of the dining-room, whose red and white and -gold still gleamed through the door above the steps. The red-coated band -played a seductive, almost digestive air. A circle of comfortable chairs -reserved by the host, invited the contented diner to languorous ease and -restful gossip. It was the part of a Carlton dinner that Connie usually -enjoyed the most. She still took her pleasures whole-heartedly, wherein -lay much of her charm. The world, as Jimmie once told her, had not -rubbed the dust off her wings. But to-night the sweet after-dinner hour -was filled with fears and agitations, and while the party was settling -down, she begged release from her host on the score of headache, and -made her escape. - -She would carry out her threat to Weever. She would see Morland before -she slept, and ask him to free her from this intolerable suspicion. -She was a loyal, simple woman, for all her inconsequent ways and close -experience of the insincerities of life; devoted to her friends, a -champion of their causes; loving to believe the best, disturbed beyond -due measure at being forced to believe the worst. Jimmie had most of her -heart, more of it than she dared confess. But there were places in it -both for Norma and for Morland. The latter was her cousin. She had known -him all her life. To believe him to have played this sorry part in what -it pleased Theodore Weever to call a pretty comedy was very real pain to -the little lady. Her headache was no pretence. No spirit of curiosity or -interference drove her to the Hardacres', where she knew she would find -Morland; rather a desire to rid herself of a nightmare. Granted the -possibility of baseness on Morland's part, all the dark places in -the lamentable business became light. That was the maddening part of -Weever's solution. And would it apply to the puzzle of the afternoon? -Had Norma known? Had Jimmie told her? The pair had been agitated enough -for anything to have happened. Theodore Weever, too, had calmly avowed -himself an actor in the comedy. What part was he playing? She shivered -at the conjecture. He looked like a pale mummy, she thought confusedly, -holding in his dull eyes the inscrutable wisdom of the Sphinx. -Meanwhile the horses were proceeding at a funereal pace. She pulled the -checkstring and bade the coachman drive faster. - -The scene that met her eyes when the servant showed her into the -Hardacres' drawing-room was unexpected. Instead of the ordinary -after-dinner gathering, only Mr. and Mrs. Hardacre and Morland were -in the room. The master of the house, very red, very puffy, sat in an -armchair before the fire, tugging at his mean little red moustache. Mrs. -Hardacre, her face haggard with anxiety, stood apart with Morland, whose -heavy features wore an expression of worry, apology, and indignation -curiously blended. On a clear space of carpet a couple of yards from -the door lay some strings of large pearls. Connie looked from one to -the other of the three people who had evidently been interrupted in the -midst of an anxious discussion. Here, again, something had happened. - -Mrs. Hardacre shook hands with her mechanically. Mr. Hardacre apologised -for not rising. That infernal gout again, he explained, pointing to the -slashed slipper of a foot resting on a hassock. Norma had made it worse. -He had been infernally upset. - -“Norma?” Connie turned and looked inquiringly at the other two. - -“Oh, an awful scene,” said Morland, gloomily. “I wish to heaven you had -been here. You might have done something.” - -“Perhaps you might bring her to her senses now, though I doubt it. I -think she has gone crazy,” said Mrs. Hardacre. - -“But what has occurred?” - -“She declares she won't marry me, that's all. There's my wedding-present -on the floor. Tore it from her neck as she made her exit. I don't know -what's going to happen!” - -“Where is she now?” - -“Up in her room smashing the rest of her wedding-presents, I suppose,” - said Mrs. Hardacre. - -“Eh, what? Can't do that. All locked up downstairs in the library,” came -from the chair by the fire. - -“Oh, don't make idiotic remarks, Benjamin,” snapped his wife, viciously. - -The air was electric with irritation. Connie, a peacemaker at heart, -forgot her mission in the face of the new development of affairs, and -spoke soothingly. Norma could not break off the engagement three days -before the wedding. Such things were not done. She would come round. It -was merely an attack of nerves. They refused to be comforted. - -“God knows what it is,” said Morland. “I thought things were perfectly -square between us. She was n't cordial before dinner, I'll admit; but -she let me put those beads round her neck. I asked her to wear them all -the evening, as there were only the four of us.” - -“The Spencer-Temples sent an excuse this afternoon,” Mrs. Hardacre -explained. - -“She agreed,” Morland continued. “She wore them through dinner. Then -everything any one of us said seemed to get on her nerves. I talked -about the House. She withered me up with sarcasm. We talked about the -wedding. She begged us, for God's sake, to talk of something else. We -tried, so as to pacify her. But of course it was hardly possible. I said -I had met Lord Monzie yesterday--told me he and his wife were coming on -Wednesday. She asked whether Ascherberg and the rest of Monzie's crew -of money-lenders, harlots, and fools were coming too. I defended -Monzie. He's a friend of mine and a very decent sort. She shrugged her -shoulders. You know her way. Mrs. Hardacre changed the subject. After -dinner I saw her alone for a bit in the drawing-room. She asked me to -take back the pearls. Said they were throttling her. Had n't we -better reconsider the whole matter? There was still time. That was the -beginning of it. Mr. and Mrs. Hardacre came up. We did all we knew. -Used every argument. People invited. Bishop to perform ceremony. Duchess -actually coming. Society expected us. The scandal. Her infernally bad -treatment of myself. No good. Whatever we said only made her worse. -Ended up with a diatribe against society. She was sick of its lies and -its rottenness. She was going to have no more of it. She would breathe -fresh pure air. - -“The Lord knows what she did n't say. All of us came in for it. Said -shocking things about her mother. Said I did n't love her, had never -loved her. A loveless marriage was horrible. Of course I am in love with -her. You all know that. I said so. She would n't listen. Went on with -her harangue. We could n't stop her. She would n't marry me for all the -bishops and duchesses in the world. At last I lost my temper and said it -was my intention to marry her, and marry me she should. Don't you think -I was quite right? She lost hers, I suppose, tore off the pearls, made -a sort of peroration, declaring she would sooner die than commit the -infamy of marrying me--and that's the end of it.” - -He threw out his hands in desperation and turned away. His account -of events from his point of view was accurate. To him, as to Norma's -parents, her final revolt appeared the arbitrary act of unreason. They -still smarted resentfully under her lashes, incapable of realising the -sins for which they were flagellated. - -If she had remained at home that afternoon and continued to practise -insensibility, she would probably have followed the line of least -resistance during the evening. Or, on the other hand, if she could -have been alone, a night's fevered sleeplessness would have caused dull -reaction in the morning. The cold contempt for things outside her, which -had served for strength, was now gone, leaving a helpless woman to be -swayed by passion or led spiritless by convention. The heroic in her -needed the double spur. Passion shook her; miserable bondage, claiming -her, drove her to rebellion. She rose to sublime heights, undreamed of -in her earth-bound philosophy. - -She had gone into the street after her interview with Jimmie, white, -palpitating, torn. Though the man had spoken tremulous words, it was -the unspoken, the wave of longing and all unspeakable things in whose -heaving bosom they had been caught, that mattered. The Garden of -Enchantment had thrown wide its gates; she had been admitted within its -infinitely reaching vistas, and flowers of the spirit had bared their -hearts before her eyes. Dressing, she strove to kill the memory, -to deafen her ears to the haunting music, to clear her brain of the -intoxication. A thing hardly a woman, hardly a coherent entity, but half -marble, half-consuming fire, stood before Morland, as he clasped the -pearl necklace around her throat. The touch of it against her skin -caused a shudder. Up to then sensation had blotted out thought. But now -the brain worked with startling lucidity. There was yet time to escape -from the thraldom. The Idea gathered strength from every word and -incident during the meal. The commonness, sordidness, emptiness of the -life behind and around and before her were revealed in the unpitying -searchlight of an awakened soul. - -She pleaded with Morland for release. The necklace choked her. She -unclasped it. He refused to take it back. She was his. He loved her. Her -conduct was an outrage on his affections. She dared him to an expression -of passionate feeling. He failed miserably, and her anger grew. -Unhappily he spoke of an outrage upon Society. She fastened on the -phrase. His affection and Society! One was worth the other. Society--the -Mumbo Jumbo--the grotesque false god to which women were offered up in -senseless sacrifice! Her mother instanced the bishop and the duchess -as avatars of the divinity. Norma poured scorn on the hierarchy. Mrs. -Hardacre implored her daughter by her love for her not to humiliate her -thus in the world's eyes. She struck the falsest of notes. Norma turned -on her, superb, dramatic, holding the three in speechless dismay. Love! -what love had been given her that she should return? She had grown -honest. The gods of that house were no longer her gods. They were paltry -and dishonoured, shams and hypocrisies. Once she worshipped them. To -that she had been trained from her cradle. Her nurses dangled the shams -before her eyes. The women who taught her bent fawning knees before the -shrines of the false gods. A mother's love? what had she learned from -her mother? To simper and harden her heart. That the envy of other -simpering hardened women was the ultimate good. That the dazzling end of -a young girl's career was to capture some man of rank and fortune--that -when she was married her lofty duty was to wear smarter clothes, give -smarter parties, and to inveigle to her house by any base and despicable -means smarter people than her friends. What had she learned from her -mother? To let men of infamous lives leer at her because they had title -or fortune. To pay court to shameless women in the hope of getting to -know still more shameless men who might dishonour her with their name. -She had never been young--never, never, with a young girl's freshness -of heart. She spoke venom and was praised for wit. She was the finished -product of a vapid world. Her whole existence had been an intricate -elaboration of shams--miserable, empty, despicable futilities. How dared -her mother stand before her and talk of love? - -Then a quick angry scene, a crisp thud of the pearls on the floor, a -stormy exit--and that, as Morland said, was the end of it. The three -were left staring at each other in angry bewilderment. - -In the face of this disaster Connie could not find it in her heart to -reproach Morland, still less to hint at Theodore Weever's insinuation. -Rather did she reproach herself for being the cause of the catastrophe, -and she was smitten with a sense of guilt when Mrs. Hardacre turned upon -her accusingly. - -“She had tea with you, did n't she? Did you notice anything wrong?” - -“She didn't seem quite herself--was nervous and strange,” said Connie, -diplomatically. “I think I had better go up and talk to her,” she added -after an anxious pause. - -“Yes, do, for God's sake, Connie,” said Morland. - -She nodded, smiled the ghost of her bright smile, and, glad of escape, -went upstairs. The three sat in gloomy silence, broken only by Mr. -Hardacre's maledictions on his gout. It was a bitter hour for them. - -In a few moments Connie burst into the room, with a letter in her hand. -She looked scared. - -“We can't find her. She's not in the house.” - -“Not in the house!” shrieked Mrs. Hardacre. - -Morland brought his hand down heavily on the piano. - -“I heard the front door slam half an hour ago!” - -“This is addressed to you, Mrs. Hardacre. It was stuck in her -looking-glass.” - -Mrs. Hardacre opened the note with shaky fingers. It ran: - -_“I mean what I say. I had better leave you all, at least till after -Wednesday. My stopping here would be more than you or I could stand.”_ - -Mr. Hardacre staggered with a gasp of pain to his feet, and his weak -eyes glared savagely out of his puffy red face. - -“Damme, she must come back! If she does n't sleep here to-night, I'll -cut her off. I won't have anything more to do with her. She has got to -come back.” - -“All right. Go and tell her, then,” retorted his wife. “Where do you -suppose you are going to find her?” - -“Oh, she is sure to have gone to my house,” said Connie. “But suppose -she has n't,” said Morland, anxiously. “She was in such a state that -anything is possible.” - -“Come with me if you like. The brougham is here.” - -“And you go too, Eliza, and bring her home with you, d' ye hear?” cried -Mr. Hardacre. “If you don't, she'll never set foot in my house again. -I'm damned if she shall!” - -His wife looked at him queerly for a moment; then she meekly answered: - -“Very well, Benjamin.” - -Once only during their long married life had she flouted him when he had -spoken to her like that. Then in ungovernable fury he had thrown a boot -at her head. - -Mr. Hardacre glared at Morland and Connie, and scrambled cursing into -his chair. - - - - -Chapter XXIII--NORMA'S HOUR - -SOMETHING had happened--something mysterious, quickening; a pulsation -of the inmost harmonies of life. Its tremendous significance Jimmie -dared not conjecture. It was to be interpreted by the wisdom of the -simplest, yet that interpretation he put aside. It staggered reason. It -was enough for them to have met together in an unimagined intimacy of -emotion, to have shared the throb of this spiritual happening. - -She was to be married in three days. He set the fact as a block to -further investigation of the mystery. On this side his loyalty -suffered no taint; their relations had but received, in some sense, -sanctification. Beyond the barrier lay shame and dishonour. The two were -to be married; therefore they loved. He disciplined a disordered mind -with a logic of his own invention. It was a logic that entirely begged -the question. Remembered words of Norma, “Do you think much love has -come my way? Yours are the only lips I have ever heard speak of it,” - fell outside his premises. They clamoured for explanation. So did the -rich tremor of her voice. So did the lamentable lack of conviction in -his reply. To these things he closed his intelligence. They belonged to -the interpretation that staggered reason, that threatened to turn his -fundamental conceptions into chaos. And past incidents came before him. -During those last days in Wiltshire he had seen that her life lacked -completion. That memory, too, disturbed his discipline. Fanatically he -practised it, proving to himself that ice was hot and that the sun shone -at midnight. She was happy in her love for Morland. She was happy -in Morland's love for her. She had not identified with herself the -imaginary woman of his adoration. She had not drunk in the outpouring -of his passion. Her breath had not fallen warm upon his cheek. And -the quickening of a wonderful birth had no reference to emotions and -cravings quite different, intangible, inexpressible, existent in a -far-away spirit land. - -He was strangely silent during their homeward journey in the omnibus and -the simple evening meal, and Aline, sensitive to his mood, choked down -the eager questions that rose to her lips. It was only after supper in -the studio, when she lit the spill for Jimmie's pipe--her economical -soul deprecating waste in matches--that she ventured to say softly: - -“I am afraid you'll miss the picture, Jimmie dear.” - -He waited until the pipe was alight, and breathed out a puff of smoke -with a sigh. - -“Our happiness is made up of the things we miss,” he said. - -“That's a paradox, and I don't believe it,” said Aline. - -“Everything in life is a paradox,” he remarked, thinking of his logic. -He relapsed into his perplexed silence. Aline settled herself in her -usual chair with her workbasket and her eternal sewing. This evening she -was recuffing his shirts. Presently she held up a cuff. - -“See. I'm determined to make you smart and fashionable. I don't care -what you say. These are square.” - -“Are n't you putting a round man into a square cuff, my dear?” he asked. - -She laughed. “Why should you be round? You are smart and rectangular. -When you're tidied up--don't you know you are exceedingly good-looking, -almost military?” - -She was delighted to get him back to foolish talk. His preoccupation had -disturbed her. Like Connie Deering, she was femininely conscious that -something out of the ordinary had passed between Norma and Jimmie, and -apprehension as to her dear one's peace of mind had filled her with many -imaginings. He returned a smiling answer. She bestirred herself to -amuse. Had he remarked the man in the omnibus? His nose cut it into two -compartments. What would he do if he had such a nose? Jimmie felt that -he had been selfish and fell into the child's humour. He said that he -would blow it. They discussed the subject of noses. He quoted Tristram -Shandy. Did she remember him reading to her “Slawkenbergius's Tale”? - -“The silliest story I ever heard in my life!” cried Aline. “It had -neither head nor tail.” - -“That is the beauty of it,” said Jimmie. “It is all nose.” - -“No. The only story about a nose that is worth anything,” Aline declared -with conviction of her age and sex, “is 'Cyrano de Bergerac.'” She -paused as a thought passed swiftly through her mind. “Do you know, if -you had a nose like that, you would remind me of Cyrano?” - -“Why, I don't go about blustering and carving my fellow-citizens into -mincemeat.” - -“No. But you--” She began unreflectingly, then she stopped short in -confusion. Cyrano, Roxana, Christian; Jimmie, Norma, Morland--the -parallel was of an embarrassing nicety. She lost her head, reddened, saw -that Jimmie had filled the gap. - -“I don't care,” she cried. “You _are_ like him. It's splendid, but it's -senseless. You are worth a million of the other man, and she knows it as -well as I do.” - -She vindictively stitched at the cuff. Jimmie made no reply, but lay -back smoking his pipe. Aline recovered and grew remorseful. She had -destroyed with an idiotic word the little atmosphere of gaiety she had -succeeded in creating. She pricked her finger several times At last she -rose and knelt by his side. - -“I'm sorry, Jimmie. Don't be vexed with me.” - -He looked at her, wrinkling his forehead half humorously, half sadly, -and patted her cheek. - -“No, dear,” he said. “But I think Slawkenbergius's the better tale. -Shall I read it you again?” - -“Oh, no, Jimmie,” cried the girl, half crying, half laughing. “Please -don't, for heaven's sake. I've not been as naughty as that!” - -She resumed her sewing. They talked of daily things. Theodore Weever's -purchases. The faun--he was sorry to lose it after its companionship for -all these years. He would paint a replica--but it would not be the same -thing. Other times, other feelings. Gradually the conversation grew -spasmodic, dwindled. Jimmie brooded over his mystery, and Aline stitched -in silence. - -The whirr of the front door-bell aroused them. Aline put down her work. - -“It's Renshaw,” said Jimmie. - -Renshaw, a broken-down, out-at-heels, drunken black-and-white artist, -once of amazing talent, was almost the only member of a large Bohemian -coterie who continued to regard Jimmie as at home to his friends on -Sunday evenings. Jimmie bore with the decayed man, and helped him on his -way, and was pained when Aline insisted upon opening the windows after -his departure. Renshaw had been a subject of contention between them for -years. - -“He has only come to drink whisky and borrow money. Luckily we have n't -any whisky in the house,” said Aline. - -“We can give him beer, my child. And if the man is in need of half a -crown, God forbid we should deny it him. Has Hannah come home yet?” - -“I don't think so. It is n't ten o'clock.” - -“Then let him in, dear,” said Jimmie, finally. - -Aline went upstairs with some unwillingness. She disapproved entirely of -Renshaw. She devoutly hoped the man was sober. As she opened the front -door, the sharp sound of a turning cab met her ears, and the cloaked -tall figure of a woman met her astonished eyes. - -“Miss Hardacre!” - -“Yes, dear. Won't you let me in?” - -The girl drew aside quickly, and Norma passed into the hall. - -“You?” cried Aline. “I don't understand.” - -“Never mind. Is Mr.--is Jimmie at home?” - -“Jimmie!” The girl's heart leaped at the name. She stared wide-eyed at -Norma, whose features she could scarcely discern by the pin-point of gas -in the hall-lamp. “Yes. He is in the studio.” - -“Can I see him? Alone? Do you mind?” - -In dumb astonishment Aline took the visitor to the head of the stairs, -half lit by the streak of light from the open studio door. -Norma paused, bent forward, and kissed her on the cheek. - -“I know my way,” she whispered. - -Jimmie heard the rustle of skirts that were not Aline's, and springing -to his feet, hurried towards the door. But before he could reach it -Norma entered and stood before him. Her long dark silk evening cloak -was open at the throat, showing glimpses of white bare neck. Its high -standing collar set off the stately poise of her head. She wore the -diamond star in her hair. To the wondering man who gazed at her she was -a vision of radiant beauty. They held each other's eyes for a second or -two; and the first dazzling glory in which she seemed to stand having -faded, Jimmie read in her face that desperate things had come to pass. -He caught her hands as she came swiftly forward. “Why are you here? My -God, why are you here?” - -“I could stand it no longer,” she said breathlessly. “I am not going to -marry Morland. I have cut myself adrift. They all know it. I told them -so this evening. The horror of it was unbearable. I have done with it -forever and ever.” - -“The horror of it?” echoed Jimmie. - -“Don't you think it a horror for two people to marry who have never even -pretended to love each other? You said so this afternoon.” - -He released her hands and turned aside. Even the deep exulting sense of -what her presence there must mean could not mitigate a terrible dismay. -The interpretation that staggered reason was the true and only one. He -had been living in a dream, among shadow-shapes which he himself had -cast upon the wall. Even now he could not grasp completely the extent of -his heroical self-deception. - -“There has never been any love between you and Morland? It has been -a cold-blooded question of a marriage of convenience? I thought so -differently.” - -“Since when?” she asked. “Since this afternoon?” - -“No--not since this afternoon.” - -“If it had n't been for you, I should have married him. You made it -impossible. You taught me things. You made me hate myself and my mean -ambitions. That was why I hesitated--put it off till Easter. If I -had n't seen you this afternoon I should have gone through with it on -Wednesday. When I got home I could n't face it. He put some pearls--a -wedding-present--round my neck. They seemed like dead fingers choking -out my soul. At last it grew horrible. I said things I don't remember -now. I could n't stay in the house. It suffocated me. It would have sent -me mad. I think a cab whirled me through the streets. I don't know. I -have burnt my ships.” - -She stopped, panting, with her hands on her bosom. His exultation grew, -and fear with it. He was like a child trembling before a joy too great -to be realised, frightened lest it should vanish. He said without -looking at her: - -“Why have you come here?” - -“Where else should I go? Unless--” She halted on the word. - -“Unless what?” - -She broke into an impatient cry. - -“Oh, can't you speak? Do you want me to say everything? There is no need -for you to be silent any longer.” She faced him. “Who was the woman--the -picture woman we spoke of this afternoon?” - -“You,” he said. “You. Who else?” There was a quiver of silence. Then he -caught her to him. He spoke foolish words. Their lips met, and passion -held them. - -“Had I anywhere else to go?” she whispered; and he said, “No.” - -She released herself, somewhat pale and shaken. Jimmie, scarcely knowing -what he did, took off her cloak and threw it on the long deal table. -The sudden fresh chill on arms and neck made her realise that they were -bare. It was his doing. She blushed. A delicious sense of shyness crept -over her. It soon passed. But evanescent though it was, it remained long -in her memory. - -Jimmie took her in his arms again. He said: - -“You madden me. I have loved you so long. I am like a parched soul by a -pool of Paradise.” - -He took her by the hand, led her to his chair near the stove, and knelt -by her side. She looked at him, the edges of her white teeth together, -her lips parted. She was living the moment that counts for years in a -woman's life. She can only live it once. Great joy or endless shame may -come afterwards, but this moment shall ever be to her comfort or her -despair. - -He asked her how she had known. - -“You told me so.” - -“When?” - -“At Heddon. Do you think I shall ever forget your words?” She laughed -divinely at the puzzledom on his face. “No. You were too loyal to tell -me--but you told Connie Deering. Hush! Don't start. Connie did not -betray you. She is the staunchest soul breathing. You and she were on -the slope by the croquet lawn--do you remember? There was a hedge of -clipped yew above--” - -“And you overheard?” - -She laughed again, happily, at his look of distress. “I should be -rather pleased--now--if I were you,” she said in the softer and deeper -tones of her voice. - -A few moments later he said, “You must give me back the portrait. I -shall burn it.” - -“Why?” - -“You are a million times more beautiful, more adorable.” He asked her -when she had begun to think of him--the eternal, childlike question. She -met his lover's gaze steadily. Frankness was her great virtue. - -“It seems now that I have cared for you since the first day. You soon -came into my life, but I did n't know how much you represented. Then I -heard you speaking to Connie. That mattered a great deal. When that man -shot you, I knew that I loved you. I thought you were dead. I rushed -down the slope and propped you up against my knees--and I thought I -should go mad with agony.” - -“I never heard of that,” said Jimmie in a low voice. - -He became suddenly thoughtful, rose to his feet and regarded her with a -changed expression, like that of a man awakened from a dream. - -“What is going to be the end of this?” he asked. - -Norma, for once unperceptive and replying to a small preoccupation -of her own, flushed to her hair. - -“I know Connie well enough to look her up and ask her for hospitality.” - -“I wasn't thinking of that,” said Jimmie. “We have been like children -and had our hour of joy, without thinking of anything else. Now we must -be grown-up people. After what has passed between us, I could only ask -you to be my wife.” - -“I came here for you to ask me,” she said. - -“I have no right to do so, dear. I bear a dishonoured name. The wonder -and wild desire of you made me forget.” - -She looked at him strangely, her lips working in the shadow of her old -smile of mockery. - -“That proves to me that it is your name and not yourself that is -dishonoured. If it had been yourself, you would not have forgotten.” - -Jimmie drew himself up, and there was a touch of haughtiness in his -manner that Norma in her woman's way noted swiftly. In spite of his -homeliness there was the undefinable spirit of the great gentleman in -Jimmie. - -“I am dishonoured. The matter was public property. I discuss it with no -one, least of all with you.” - -“Very well,” she said. “Let it never be mentioned again between us. I -range myself with Aline. I shall believe what I like. You can't prevent -my doing that, can you? I choose to believe you are the one thing God -made in which I can find happiness. That's enough for me, and it ought -to be enough for you.” - -Jimmie put his hand on her shoulder, deeply moved. - -“My dearest, you must n't say things like that.” He repeated the words, -“You mustn't say things like that.” Then he was conscious of the warm -softness on which his hand rested. She raised her arm and touched his -fingers. It was a moment of deep temptation. He resisted, drew his hand -away gently. - -“There is another reason why it cannot be,” he said. “You belong to -a world of wealth and luxury, I have been in poverty all my life. God -forbid I should complain. I have never done so. But it is a life of -struggle for daily bread. Aline and I are used to it. We laugh. We often -dine with Duke Humphrey. We make believe like the marchioness. What the -discipline of life and a sort of gipsy faith in Providence have made -us regard as a jest, would be to you a sordid shift, an intolerable -ugliness stripping life of its beauty--” - -“Oh, hush!” she pleaded. - -“No, I must talk and you must listen,” he said with a certain masterful -dignity. “Look at you now, in the exquisite loveliness of your dress, -with that diamond star in your hair, with that queenly presence of -yours. Do you fit in with all this? Your place is in great houses, among -historic pictures, rare carpets, furniture that is invested with the -charm of an artist's touch. The chair you are sitting in--the leather -is split and the springs are broken.” He was walking now backwards -and forwards across the studio, fulfilling his task bravely, scarcely -trusting himself to look at her. “Your place,” he continued, “is among -the great ones of the earth--princes, ambassadors, men of genius. Here -are but the little folk: even should they come, as they used to do: -homely men with rough ways and their wives--sweet simple women with a -baby and a frock a year, God help them! I can't ask you to share this -life with me, my dear. I should be a scoundrel if I did. As it is, I -have fallen below myself in letting you know that I love you. You must -forgive me. A man is, after all, a man, whether he be beggar or prince. -You must go back into your world and forget it all. The passion-flower -cannot thrive in the hedge with the dog-rose, my dearest. It will pine -and fade. We must end it all. Don't you see? You don't know what poverty -means. Even decent poverty like ours. Look--the men you know have valets -to dress them--when you came Aline was sewing new cuffs on my shirts. I -don't suppose you ever knew that such things were done. Mere existence -is a matter of ever anxious detail. I am a careless fellow, I am a -selfish brute, like most men, and give over to the women folk around me -the thousand harassing considerations of ways and means for every day in -every year. But I see more than they think. Aline can tell you. I dare -n't, my dear, ask you to share this life with me. I dare n't, I dare -n't.” - -He came to a stop in front of her; saw her leaning over the arm of the -chair away from him, her face covered by her hands. Her white shoulders -twitched in little convulsive movements. - -“Why, my dear--my dear--” he said in a bewilderment of distress; and -kneeling by her, he took her wrists and drew them to him. The palms of -her hands and her cheeks were wet with miserable tears. - -“What must you think of me? What futile, feeble creature must you think -me? Heaven knows I'm degraded enough--but not to that level. Do you -suppose I ever thought you a rich man? Oh, you have hurt me--flayed me -alive. I did n't deserve it! I would follow you in rags barefoot through -the world. What does it matter so long as it is you that I follow?” - -What could mortal man do but take the wounded woman of his idolatry -into his arms? The single-hearted creature, aghast at the havoc he had -wrought, bitterly reproached himself for want of faith in the perfect -being. He had committed a horrible crime, plunged daggers, stab after -stab, into that radiant bosom. She sobbed in his embrace--a little -longer than was strictly necessary. Tears and sobs were a wonder to her, -who since early childhood had never known the woman's relief of weeping. -It came upon her first as a wondrous new-found emotion; when his strong -arms were about her, as an unutterably sweet solace. And the man's voice -in her ears was all that has nearly been said but never been quite said -in music. - -Presently she drew herself away from him. - -“Do you think I am such a fool that I can't sew?” - -He sank back on his heels. She rose, helping herself to rise by a hand -on his arm, an action wonderfully sweet in its intimacy, and crossed -over to Aline's cane-bottomed, armless easy-chair. She plucked the shirt -from the basket on the top of which Aline had thrust it, groped among -the wilderness of spools, tape, bits of ribbon, scissors, needle-cases, -patterns and year-old draper's bills for a thimble, found the needle -sticking in the work, and began to sew with a little air of defiance. -Jimmie looked on, ravished. He drew nearer. - -“God bless my soul,” he said. “Do you mean to say you can do that?” - -There was nothing she could not do in this hour of exaltation. She had -found herself--simple woman with simple man. It was her hour. Her feet -trod the roots of life; her head touched the stars. - -“Sit in your chair and smoke, and let us see what it will be like,” she -commanded. - -He obeyed. But whether it was tobacco or gunpowder in his old briarwood -pipe he could not have told. The poor wretch was mazed with happiness. - -“Poor little Aline is all by herself upstairs,” said Norma, after a -while. - -“Heaven forgive me,” cried Jimmie, starting up. “I had n't thought about -her!” - -Chapter XXIV--MRS. HARDACRE FORGETS - -WHILE this tragical comedy of the domestic felicities was being -enacted, Connie Deering's brougham containing three agitated, silent, -human beings was rapidly approaching the scene. - -They had made certain of finding Norma at Bryanston Square. The news -that she had not arrived disquieted them. Morland anxiously suggested -the police. They had a hurried colloquy, Morland and Connie standing -on the pavement, Mrs. Hardacre inside the carriage, thrusting her head -through the window. Connie falteringly confessed to the meeting of -Jimmie and Norma in the afternoon. Something serious had evidently -passed between them. - -Morland broke into an oath. “By God! That's where she's gone. Damn him!” - -“We must get her away at all costs,” said Mrs. Hardacre, tensely. - -“I am afraid it is my fault,” said Connie. - -“Of course it is,” Mrs. Hardacre replied brutally. “The best you can do -is to help us to rescue her.” - -They started. The brougham was small, the air heavy, their quest -distasteful, its result doubtful. The sense of fretfulness became acute. -Mrs. Hardacre gave vent to her maternal feelings. When she touched on the -vile seducer of her daughter's affections, Connie turned upon her almost -shrewishly. - -“This is my carriage, and I am not going to hear my dearest friend -abused in it.” - -Morland sat silent and worried. When they stopped at the house, he said: - -“I think I shall stay outside.” - -Connie, angry with him for having damned Jimmie, bent forward. - -“Are you afraid of facing Jimmie?” she said with a little note of -contempt. - -“Certainly not,” he replied viciously. - -A few moments later Aline ran into the studio with a scared face. - -“Jimmie!” - -He went up to her, and she whispered into his ear; then he turned to -Norma. - -“Your mother and Connie and Morland are upstairs. I don't suppose you -are anxious to see them. May I tell them what has happened?” - -Norma rose and joined him in the centre of the studio. “I would sooner -tell them myself. Can they come down here?” - -“If you wish it.” - -He gave the order to Aline. Before going, she took him by the arm and -swiftly glancing at Norma, asked eagerly: - -“What has happened?” - -“The wonder of wonders, dear,” said Jimmie. - -With a glad cry she ran upstairs and brought down the visitors, who were -waiting in the hall. - -Jimmie stood by the open door to receive them. Norma retired to the far -end of the studio. She held her head high, and felt astonishingly -cool and self-possessed. Mrs. Hardacre entered first, and without -condescending to look at Jimmie marched straight up to her daughter. -Then came Connie and Aline, the girl excited, her arm round her friend's -waist. Morland, on entering, drew Jimmie aside. - -“So you've bested me,” he said in an angry whisper. “You held the cards, -I know. I did n't think you would use them. I wish you joy.” - -A sudden flash of pain and indignation lit Jimmie's eyes. - -“Good God, man! Have you sunk so low as to accuse me of that? _Me?_” - -He turned away. Morland caught him by the sleeve. - -“I say--” he began. - -But Jimmie shook him off and went to the side of Norma, who was -listening to her mother's opening attack. It was shrill and bitter. When -she paused, Norma said stonily: - -“I am not going home with you to-night, mother. I sleep at Connie's. She -will not refuse me a bed.” - -“Your father means what he says.” - -“So do I, mother. I can manage pretty well without your protection till -I am married. Then I sha'n't need it.” - -“Pray whom are you going to marry?” asked Mrs. Hardacre, acidly. - -“I should think it was obvious,” said Norma. “Mr. Padgate has done me -the very great honour to ask me to be his wife. I have agreed. I am over -age and a free agent, so there's nothing more to be said, mother.” - -Mrs. Hardacre refused to take the announcement seriously. Her thin lips -worked into a smile. - -“This is sheer folly, my dear Norma. Over age or not we can't allow you -to disgrace yourself and us--” - -“We have never had such honour conferred on us in all our lives,” said -Norma. - -Mrs. Hardacre shrugged her shoulders pityingly. - -“Among sane folks it would be a disgrace and a scandal. Even Mr. Padgate -would scarcely take advantage of a fit of hysterical folly.” She turned -to Jimmie. “I assure you she is hardly responsible for her actions. -You are aware what you would be guilty of in bringing her into -this--this--?” She paused for a word and waved her hand around. - -“Hovel?” suggested Jimmie, grimly. “Yes. I am aware of it. Miss -Hardacre must not consider herself bound by anything she has said -to-night.” - -Connie Deering, who had come up waiting for a chance to speak, her -forget-me-not eyes curiously hard and dangerous, broke in quickly: - -“Why did you say _even_ Mr. Padgate, Mrs. Hardacre?” - -“Mr. Padgate has a reputation--” said Mrs. Hardacre, with an expressive -gesture. - -“Jimmie--” - -He checked his advocate. “Please, no more.” - -“I should think not, indeed! Are you coming, Norma?” - -“You had better go,” said Jimmie, softly. “Why quarrel with your -parents? To-morrow, a week, a month hence you can tell me your wishes. I -set you quite free.” - -Norma made a movement of impatience. - -“Don't make me say things I should regret--I am not going to change my -mind. No, mother, I am not coming.” - -Morland had not said a word, but stood in the background, hating -himself. Only Connie's taunt had caused him to enter this maddeningly -false position. He knew that his accusation, though he believed it true -at the time, was false and base. Jimmie was true gold. He had not -betrayed him. Connie, when Jimmie had checked her, went across to -Morland. - -“Do _you_ believe that Jimmie deserves his reputation?” she said for his -ears alone. - -“I don't know,” he answered moodily, kicking at a hassock. - -“I do know,” she said, “and it's damnable.” - -A quick glance exchanged completed her assurance. He saw that she knew, -and despised him. For a few moments he lost consciousness of externals -in alarmed contemplation of this new thing--a self openly despised by -one of his equals. Mrs. Hardacre's voice aroused him. She was saying her -final words to Norma. - -“I leave you. When you are in the gutter with this person, don't come to -ask me for help. You can _encanailler_ yourself as much as you like, for -all I care. This adventurer--” - -Jimmie interposed in his grand manner. - -“Pray remember, Mrs. Hardacre, that for the moment you are my guest.” - -“Your guest!” For the second time that evening she had been rebuked. Her -eyes glittered with spite and fury. She lost control. “Your guest! If -I went to rescue my daughter from a house of ill fame, should I regard -myself as a guest of the keeper? How dare you? How do I know what does -n't go on in this house? That girl over there--” - -Norma sprang forward and gripped her by the arm. - -“Mother!” - -She shook herself free. “How do I know? How _do_ you know? The man's -name stinks over England. No decent woman has anything to do with him. -Have you forgotten last autumn? That beastly affair? If you choose to -succeed the other woman--” - -“Oh, damn it!” burst out Morland, suddenly. “This is more than I can -stand. Have you forgotten what I told you a week ago?” - -The venomous woman was brought to a full stop. She stared helplessly at -Morland, drawing quick panting breaths. She had forgotten that he was in -the room. - -The cynicism was too gross even for him. There are limits to every man's -baseness and cowardice. Moreover, his secret was known. To proclaim it -himself was a more heroic escape than to let it be revealed with killing -contempt by another. The two forces converged suddenly, and found their -resultant in his outburst. It was characteristic of him that there -should be two motives, though which one was the stronger it were hard to -say--most likely revolt at the cynicism, for he was not a depraved man. - -Norma looked swiftly from one to the other. - -“What did you tell my mother a week ago?” - -Jimmie picked up Morland's crush-hat that lay on the table and thrust it -into his hand. - -“Oh, that's enough, my dear good fellow. Don't talk about those horrible -things. Mrs. Hardacre would like to be going. You had better see her -home. Good-night.” - -He pushed him, as he spoke, gently towards Mrs. Hardacre, who was -already moving towards the door. But Norma came up. - -“I insist upon knowing,” she said. - -“No, no,” said Jimmie, in an agitated voice. “Let the dead past bury -its dead. Don't rake up old horrors.” - -Morland cleared himself away from Jimmie. - -“My God! You are a good man. I've been an infernal blackguard. Everybody -had better know. If Jimmie hadn't taken it upon himself, that madman -would have shot me. He would have hit the right man. I wish to heaven he -had.” - -Norma grew white. - -“And this is what you told my mother?” - -“I thought I ought to,” said Morland, looking away from the anxious -faces around him. - -“You shouldn't have done it,” said Jimmie, in a low voice. He was bent -like a guilty person. - -Norma went to the door and opened it. - -“Kindly see my mother into a cab.” - -“Please take the brougham,” said Connie. “Norma and I will take a cab -later.” - -Morland made a movement as if to speak to Jimmie. Norma intercepted him, -waved her hand towards her mother, who stood motionless. - -“Go. Please go,” she said in a constrained voice. “Take the brougham. -She will catch cold while you are whistling for a cab--and you will be -the sooner gone.” - -Mrs. Hardacre, stunned by the utter disaster that she had brought about, -mechanically obeyed Morland's gesture and passed through the open door, -without looking at her daughter. As Morland passed her, he plucked up a -little courage. - -“We both lied for your sake,” he said; which might have been an apology -or a tribute. Norma gave no sign that she had heard him. - -Jimmie followed them upstairs and opened the front door. He put out his -hand to Morland, who took it and said “Good-night” in a shamefaced way. -Mrs. Hardacre stepped into the brougham like a somnambulist. Morland did -not accompany her. He had seen enough of Mrs. Hardacre for the rest of -his life. - -When Jimmie went down to the studio, he saw Norma and Connie bending -over a chair in the far corner. Aline had fainted. - -They administered what restoratives were to hand--water and Connie's -smelling-salts--and took the girl up to her bedroom, where she was left -in charge of Mrs. Deering. Jimmie and Norma returned to the studio. The -preoccupation of tending Aline, whose joy in the utter vindication of -her splendid faith had been too sudden a strain upon an overwrought -nervous system, had been welcomed almost as a relief to the emotional -tenseness. They had not spoken of the things that were uppermost. - -They sat down in their former places, without exchanging a remark. -Jimmie took up his pipe from the table by his side, and knocked the -ashes into the ash-tray and blew through it to clear it. Then he began -to fill it from his old tobacco-pouch, clumsy as all covered pouches are -and rough with faded clumps of moss-roses and forget-me-nots worked by -Aline years before. - -“Why don't you go on with the sewing?” he said. - -She waited a second or two before answering, and when she spoke did not -trust herself to look at him. - -“I ought to say something, I know,” she said in a low voice. “But there -are things one can't talk of, only feel.” - -“We never need talk of them,” said Jimmie. “They are over and done with. -Old, forgotten, far-off things now.” - -“Are they? You don't understand. They will always remain. They make up -your life. You are too big for such as me altogether. By rights I should -be on my knees before you. Thank God, I did n't wait until I learned all -this, but came to you in faith. I feel poor enough to hug that to myself -as a virtue.” - -“I am very glad you believed in me,” said Jimmie, laying down the unlit -pipe which he had been fondling. “I would n't be human if I did n't--but -you must n't exaggerate. Exposure would have ruined Morland's -career, and I thought it would go near breaking your heart. To me, an -insignificant devil, what did it matter?” - -“Did n't my love for you matter? Did n't all that you have suffered -matter? Oh, don't minimise what you have done. I am afraid of you. Your -thoughts are not my thoughts, and your ways not my ways. You will always -be among the stars while I am crawling about the earth.” - -Jimmie rose hurriedly and fell at her feet, and took both her hands and -placed them against his cheeks. - -“My dear,” he said, moved to his depths. “My dear. My wonderful, -worshipped, God-sent dear. You are wrong--utterly wrong. I am only a -poor fool of a man, as you will soon find out, whose one merit is to -love you. I would sell my body and my soul for you. If I made a little -sacrifice for the love of you, what have you done tonight for me--the -sacrifice of all the splendour and grace of life?” - -“The lies and the rottenness,” said Norma, with a shiver. “Did you -comprehend my mother?” - -He took her hands from his face and kissed her fingers. - -“Dear, those are the unhappy, far-off things. Let us forget them. They -never happened. Only one thing in the world has ever happened. You have -come to me, Norma,” he said softly, speaking her name for the first -tremulous time, “Norma!” - -Their eyes met, and then their lips. The world stood still for a space. -She sighed and looked at him. - -“You will have to teach me many things,” she said. “You will have to -begin at the very beginning.” - - - - -Chapter XXV--THE LAND OF ENCHANTMENT - -EVERY one knew that the marriage arranged between Morland King and -Norma Hardacre would not take place. It was announced in the “Times” - and “Morning Post” on the Tuesday morning; those bidden to the wedding -received hurried messages, and a day or two later the wedding-gifts were -returned to the senders, who stored them up for some happier pair. But -the new engagement upon which Norma had entered remained a secret. -Norma herself did not desire to complete the banquet of gossip she -had afforded society, and Mrs. Hardacre was not anxious to fill to -overflowing the cup of her own humiliation. The stricken lady maintained -a discreet reserve. The lovers had quarrelled, Norma had broken off -the match and would not be going out for some time. She even defied -the duchess, who commanded an explicit statement of reasons. Her grace -retorted severely that she ought to have brought her daughter up better, -and signified that this was the second time Norma had behaved with -scandalous want of consideration for her august convenience. “She shall -not have the opportunity of doing it again. I dislike being mixed up -in scandals,” said the duchess; and Mrs. Hardacre saw the gates of -Wiltshire House and Chiltern Towers closed to her forever. But of the -impossible painter wretch she spoke not a word, hoping desperately -that in some mysterious fashion the God of her fathers would avert this -crowning disgrace from them and would lead Norma forth again into the -paths of decency and virtue. As for her husband, he stormily refused to -speak or hear the outcast's name. He had done with her. She should never -sleep again beneath the roof she had dishonoured. He would not allow her -a penny. He would cut her out of his will. She had dragged him in the -mud, and by heaven! she could go to the devil! It took much to rouse -the passions of the feeble, mean-faced little man; but once they were -roused, he had the snarling tenacity of the fox. Mrs. Hardacre did not -tell him of Morland's confession and the rehabilitation of his rival. -The memory of her stunning humiliation brought on a feeling akin -to physical nausea. She strove to bury it deep down in her -sub-consciousness, beneath all the other unhallowed memories. There were -none quite so rank. On the other hand, her husband's vilification of the -detested creature was a source of consolation which she had no desire -to choke. Why should she deny herself this comfort. The supreme joy of -vitriol throwing was not countenanced in her social sphere. At odd times -she regretted that she was a lady. - -While the black fog of depression darkened Devonshire Place, in -neighbouring parts of London the days were radiant. A thousand suns -glorified the heavens and the breaths of a thousand springs perfumed the -air. It was a period of exaggeration, unreality, a page out of a fairy -tale lived and relived. Norma abandoned herself to the intoxication, -heedless of the fog in Devonshire Place, and the decent grey of the -world elsewhere. She refused to think or speculate. Rose veils shrouded -the future; the present was a fantasy of delight. For material things, -food, shelter, raiment, she had no concern. Connie fed and housed her, -making her the thrice welcome guest, the beloved sister. From -society she withdrew altogether. Visitors paid calls, odd people were -entertained at meals, the routine of a wealthy woman's establishment -proceeded in its ordinary course, and Norma's presence in the house -remained unknown and unsuspected. She was there in hiding. The world was -given to understand that she was in Cornwall. Even common life had thus -its air of romance and mystery. Being as it were a fugitive, she had -no engagements. There was a glorious incongruity in the position. She -regarded the beginnings of the London season with the amused detachment -of a disembodied spirit revisiting the scenes of which it once made -a part. Morning, afternoon, and evening she was free--an exhilarating -novelty. Nobody wanted to see her save Jimmie; save him she wanted to -see nobody. - -They met every day--sometimes in the sitting-room on the ground floor -which Connie had set apart for her guest's exclusive use, and sometimes -in Jimmie's studio. Now and then, when the weather was fine, they walked -together in sweet places unfrequented by the fashionable world, Regent's -Park and Hampstead Heath, fresh woods and pastures new to Norma, who -had heard of the heath vaguely as an undesirable common where the -lower orders wore each other's hats and shied at cocoanuts. Its smiling -loneliness and April beauty, seen perhaps through the artist's eyes, -enchanted her. Jimmie pointed out its undulations; like a bosom, said -he, swelling with the first breaths of pure air on its release from -London. - -Most of all she loved to drive up to St. John's Wood after dinner and -burst upon him unexpectedly. The new Bohemian freedom of it all was a -part of the queer delicious life. She laughed in anticipation at his cry -of delighted welcome. When she heard it, her eyes grew soft. To lift -her veil and hang back her head to receive his kiss on her lips was -an ever-new sensation. The intimacy had a bewildering sweetness. To -complete it she threw aside gloves and jacket and unpinned her hat, a -battered gilt Empire mirror over the long table serving her to guide the -necessary touches to her hair. Although she did not repeat the little -comedy of the shirt which had been inspired by the exaltation of a rare -moment, yet she sat in Aline's chair, now called her own, and knitted at -a silk tie she was making for him. She had learned the art from her aunt -in Cornwall, and she brought the materials in a little black silk bag -slung to her wrist. The housewifely avocation fitted in with the fairy -tale. Jimmie smoked and talked, the most responsive and least tiring of -companions. His allusive speech, that of the imaginative and cultured -man, in itself brought her into a world different from the one she had -left. His simplicity, his ignorance of the ways of women, his delight -at the little discoveries she allowed him to make, gave it a touch -of Arcadia. In passionate moments there was the unfamiliar, poetic, -rhapsodic in his utterance which turned the world into a corner of -heaven. And so the magic hours passed. - -“I do believe I have found a soul,” she remarked on one of these -evenings, “and that's why I must be so immoderately happy. I'm like a -child with a new toy.” - -She was unconscious of the instinctive, pitiless analysis of herself; -and Jimmie, drunk with the wonder of her, did not heed the warning. - -Of their future life together they only spoke as happy lovers in the -rosy mist shed about them by the veil. They dwelt in the glamour of the -fairy tale, where the princess who marries the shepherd lives not -only happy ever afterwards, but also delicately dressed and daintily -environed, her chief occupation being to tie silk bows round the lambs' -necks, and to serve to her husband the whitest of bread and the whitest -of cheese with the whitest of hands. Their forecast of the future might -have been an Idyll of Theocritus. - -“You will be the inspiration of all my pictures, dear,” said Jimmie. - -“I will sit for you as a model, if I am good enough.” - -“Good enough!” Language crumbled into meaningless vocables before her -infinite perfection. “I have had a little talent. You will give me -genius.” - -“I will also give you your dinner.” She laughed adorably. “Do you know -Connie told me I must learn to cook. I had my first lesson this morning -in her kitchen--a most poetic way of doing sweetbreads. Do you like -sweetbreads?” - -“Now I come to think of it, I do. Enormously. I wonder why Aline never -has them.” - -“We'll have some--our first lunch--at home.” - -“And you will cook them?” cried the enraptured man. - -She nodded. “In a most becoming white apron. You'll see.” - -“You'll be like a goddess taking her turn preparing the daily ambrosia -for Olympus!” said Jimmie. - -On another occasion they spoke of summer holidays. They would take a -little cottage in the country. It would have honeysuckle over the porch, -and beds of mignonette under the windows, and an old-fashioned garden -full of stocks and hollyhocks and sunflowers. There would be doves and -bees. They would go out early and come home with the dew on their feet. -They would drink warm milk from the cow. They would go a hay-making. -Norma's idea of the pastoral pathetically resembled that of the Petit -Trianon. - -The magic of the present with its sincerity of passionate worship on the -part of the man, and its satisfaction of a soul's hunger on the part -of the woman, was in itself enough to blind their eyes to the possible -prose of the future. Another interest, one of the sweetest of outside -interests that can bind two lovers together, helped to fix their serious -thoughts to the immediate hour. Side by side with their romance grew up -another, vitally interwoven with it for a spell and now springing clear -into independent life. The two children Aline and Tony Merewether had -found each other again, and the fresh beauty of their young loves lit -the deeper passion of the older pair with the light of spring sunrise. -In precious little moments of confidence Aline opened to Norma her -heart's dewy happiness, and what Norma in delicate honour could divulge -she told to Jimmie, who in his turn had his little tale to bear. More -and more was existence like the last page of a fairy book. - -The reconciliation of the younger folk had been a very simple matter. It -was the doing of Connie Deering. The morning after Morland's confession -she summoned Tony Merewether to an interview. He arrived wondering. She -asked him point blank: - -“Are you still in love with Aline Marden or have you forgotten all about -her?” - -The young fellow declared his undying affection. - -“Are you aware that you have treated her shamefully?” she said severely. - -“I am the most miserable dog unhung,” exclaimed the youth. He certainly -looked miserable, thin, and worried. He gave his view of the position. -Connie's heart went out to him. - -“Suppose I told you that everything was cleared up and you could go to -Aline with a light conscience?” - -“I should go crazy with happiness!” he cried, springing to his feet. - -“Aline deserves a sane husband. She is one in a thousand.” - -“She is one in twenty thousand million!” - -“There she goes, hand in hand with Jimmie Padgate. It's to tell you that -I've asked you to come. I hope you'll let them both know you're aware of -it.” - -Satisfied that he was worthy of her confidence, she told him briefly -what had occurred. - -“And now what are you going to do?” she asked, smiling. - -“Do? I'll go on my knees. I'll grovel at his feet. I'll ask him to make -me a door-mat. I'll do any mortal thing Aline tells me.” - -“Well, go now and do your penance and be happy,” Connie said, holding -out her hand. - -“I don't know how I can thank you, Mrs. Deering,” he cried. “You are the -most gracious woman that ever lived!” - -A few moments later an impassioned youth was speeding in a hansom cab -to Friary Grove. But Connie, with the memory of his clear-cut, radiant -young face haunting her, sighed. Chance decreed that the very moment -should bring her a letter from Jimmie, written that morning, full of -his wonder and gratitude. She sighed again, pathetically, foolishly, -unreasonably feeling left out in the cold. - -“I wonder whether it would do me good to cry,” she said, half aloud. But -the footman entering with the announcement that the carriage which was -to take her to her dressmaker was at the door, settled the question. She -had to content herself with sighs. - -Tony Merewether did not go on his knees, as Aline had ordained; but he -made his apology in so frank and manly a way that Jimmie forgave him at -once. Besides, said he, what had he to forgive? - -“I feel like Didymus,” said Tony. - -Jimmie laughed as he clapped him on the shoulder and pushed him out of -the studio. - -“You had better cultivate the feeling. He became a saint eventually. -Aline will help to make you one.” - -If plain indication of another's infirmities can tend to qualify him for -canonisation, Aline certainly justified Jimmie's statement. She did not -confer her pardon so readily on the doubting disciple. His offence had -been too rank. It was not merely a question of his saying a _credo_ -and then taking her into his arms. She exacted much penance before she -permitted this blissful consummation. He had to woo and protest and -humble himself exceedingly. But when she had reduced him to a proper -state of penitence, she gave him plenary absolution and yielded to -his kiss, as she had been yearning to do since the beginning of the -interview. After that she settled down to her infinite delight. Nothing -was lacking in the new rapturous scheme of existence. The glory of -Jimmie was vindicated. Tony had come back to her. The bars to their -marriage had vanished. Not only was Tony a man of substance with the -legacy of eight thousand pounds that had been left him, and therefore -able to support as many wives as the Grand Turk, but Jimmie no longer -had to be provided for. The wonder of wonders had happened; she could -surrender her precious charge with a free conscience and a heart -bursting with gratitude. - -Thus the happiness of each pair of lovers caught a reflection from that -of the other, and its colour was rendered ever so little fictitious, -unreal. The light of spring sunrise, exquisite though it is, invests -things with a glamour which the light of noon dispels. The spectacle of -the young romance unfolding itself before the eyes of Jimmie and -Norma completed their delicious sense of the idyllic; but the illusive -atmosphere thus created caused them to view their own romance -in slightly false perspective. Essentially it was a drama of -conflict--themselves against the pettinesses and uglinesses of the -world; apparently it was a pastoral among spring flowers. - -Another cause that contributed to Norma's unconcern for the future was -her exaggerated sense of the man's loftiness of soul. Instead of viewing -him as a lovable creature capable of the chivalrous and the heroic -and afforded by a happy fate an opportunity of displaying these -qualities--for the opportunity makes the hero as much as it does the -thief--she grovelled whole-sexedly before an impossible idol imbued with -impossible divinity. While knitting silk ties and devising with him the -preparation of foodstuffs (which she did not realise he would not be -able to afford) she was conscious of a grace in the trifling, all the -more precious because of these little earthly things midway between the -empyrean and the abyss which they respectively inhabited. In the deeply -human love of each was a touch of the fantastic. To Jimmie she was the -Princess of Wonderland, the rare Lady of Dreams; to Norma he appeared -little less than a god. - -She was talking one evening with Connie Deering in a somewhat exalted -strain of her own unworthiness and Jimmie's condescension, when the -little lady broke into an unwonted expression of impatience. - -“My dear child, every foolish woman is a valet to her hero. You would -like to clean his boots, wouldn't you?” - -“My dear Connie,” cried Norma, alarmed, “whatever is the matter?” - -“I think you two had better get married as quickly as possible. It is -getting on one's nerves.” - -Norma stiffened. “I am sorry--” she began. - -Connie interrupted her. “Don't be silly. There's nothing for you to be -sorry about.” She brightened and laughed, realising the construction -Norma had put upon her words. “I am only advising you for your good. -I had half an hour's solitary imprisonment with Theodore Weever this -afternoon. He always takes it out of me. It's like having a bath with an -electric eel. He called this afternoon to get news of you.” - -“Of me?” asked Norma serenely, settling herself in the depths of her -chair. - -“He is like an eel,” Connie exclaimed with a shiver. “He's the -coldest-blooded thing I've ever come across. I told you about the dinner -at the Carlton, did n't I? It appears that he reckoned on my doing just -what I rushed off to do. It makes me so angry!” she cried with feminine -emphasis on the last word. “Of course he did n't tell me so brutally--he -has a horrid snake-like method of insinuation. He had counted on my -getting at the truth which he had guessed and so stopping the marriage. -'I'm a true prophet,' he said. 'I knew that marriage would never come -off.'” - -“So he told me,” said Norma. “Do you know, there must be some goodness -in him to have perceived the goodness in Jimmie.” - -“I believe he's a disembodied spirit without either goodness or -badness--a sort of non-moral monster.” Connie was given to hyperbole in -her likes and dislikes. She continued her tale. He had come to ask her -advice. Now that Miss Hardacre was free, did Mrs. Deering think he -might press his suit with advantage? His stay in Europe was drawing to -a close. He would like to take back with him to New York either Miss -Hardacre or a definite refusal. - -“'You certainly cannot take back Miss Hardacre,' I said, 'because she is -going to marry Jimmie Padgate.' I thought this would annihilate him. But -do you think he moved a muscle? Not he.” - -“What did he say?” asked Norma, lazily amused. - -“'This is getting somewhat monotonous,'” replied Connie. - -Norma laughed. “Nothing else?” - -“He began to talk about theatres. He has the most disconcerting way of -changing the conversation. But on leaving he sent his congratulations -to you, and said that you were always to remember that you were the wife -specially designed for him by Providence.” - -“You dear thing,” said Norma, “and did that get on your nerves?” - -“Would n't it get on yours?” - -Norma shook her head. “I have n't any nerves for things to get on. -People don't have nerves when they're happy.” - -“And are you happy, really, really happy?” - -“I am deliciously happy,” said Norma. - -She went to bed laughing at the discomfiture of Weever and the -remoteness of him and of the days last summer when she first met him -among the Monzies' disreputable crowd. He belonged to a former state -of existence. Jimmie's portrait, which had been put for two or three -reasons in her bedroom, caught her attention. She looked at it with -a dreamy smile for a long time, and then turned to the glass. Made -curiously happy by what she saw there, she kissed her fingers to the -portrait. - -“He is the better prophet,” she said. - -But Connie's advice as to the desirability of a speedy marriage remained -in her mind. Jimmie with characteristic diffidence had not yet suggested -definite arrangements. She was gifted with so much insight as to -apprehend the reasons for his lack of initiative. His very worship of -her, his overwhelming sense of goddess-conferred boon in her every smile -and condescension, precluded the asking of favours. So far it was she -who had arranged their daily life. It was she who had established the -custom of the studio visits, and she had taken off her hat and had -inaugurated the comedy of the domestic felicities of her own accord. She -treasured this worship in her heart as a priceless thing, all the -more exquisite because it lay by the side of the knowledge of her own -unworthiness. The sacrifice of maidenly modesty in proposing instead -of coyly yielding was at once a delicious penance for hypocritical -assumption of superiority, and a salve to her pride as a beautiful and -desirable woman. It was with a glorious sureness of relation, therefore, -that she asked him the next day if he had thought of a date for their -marriage. - -“There is no reason for a long engagement that I can see,” she added, -with a blush which she felt, and was tremulously happy at feeling. - -“I was waiting for you to say, dear,” he replied, his arm around her. “I -dared not ask.” - -She laughed the deep laugh of a woman's happiness. - -“I knew you would say that,” she murmured. “Let it be some time next -month.” - - - - -Chapter XXVI--EARTH AGAIN - -ONE day Norma received a polite intimation from her bankers that -her account was overdrawn. This had happened before but on previous -occasions she had obtained from her father an advance on her allowance -and the unpleasant void at the bank had been filled. Now she realised -with dismay that the allowance had been cut off, and that no money could -come into her possession until the payment of the half-yearly dividend -from the concern in which her small private fortune was invested. She -looked in her purse and found five shillings. On this she would have -to live for three weeks. Her money was in the hands of trustees, wisely -tied up by the worldly aunt from whom she had inherited it, so that she -could not touch the capital. While she was contemplating the absurdity -of the position, the maid brought up a parcel from a draper's on which -there was three and eleven pence halfpenny to pay. She surrendered four -of her shillings, and disconsolately regarded the miserable one that -remained. The position had grown even more preposterous. She actually -needed money. She had not even the amount of a cab-fare to Friary Grove. -She would not have it for three weeks. - -Preposterous or not, the fact was plain, and demanded serious -consideration. She would have to borrow. The repayment of the loan and -the overdraft would reduce the half-yearly dividend. A goodly part of -the remainder would be required to meet an outstanding milliners' bill, -not included in the bridal trousseau for which her father was to pay. -The sum in simple arithmetic frightened her. - -“I am poverty-stricken,” she said to Connie, to whom she confided her -difficulties. - -Connie blotted the cheque that was to provide for immediate wants, and -laughed sympathetically. - -“You'll have to learn to be economical, dear. I believe it's quite -easy.” - -“You mean I must go in omnibuses and things?” said Norma, vaguely. - -“And not order so many hats and gowns.” - -“I see,” said Norma, folding up the cheque. - -With money again in her pocket, she felt lighter of heart, but she knew -that she had stepped for a moment out of fairyland into the grey world -of reality. The first experience was unpleasant. It left a haunting -dread which made her cling closer to Jimmie in the embrace of their next -meeting. It was a relief to get back into the Garden of Enchantment and -leave sordid things outside. Wilfully she kept the conversation from -serious discussion of their marriage. - -When next she had occasion to go to the studio, she remembered the -necessity of economy, and took the St. John's Wood omnibus. As a general -rule the travellers between Baker Street station and the Swiss Cottage -are of a superior class, being mostly the well-to-do residents in -the neighbourhood and their visitors; but, by an unlucky chance, this -particular omnibus was crowded, and Norma found herself wedged between -a labouring man redolent of stale beer and bad tobacco, and a fat Jewish -lady highly flavoured with musk. A youth getting out awkwardly knocked -her hat awry with his elbow. It began to rain--a smart April shower. -The wet umbrella of a new arrival dripped on her dress while he stood -waiting for a place to be made for him opposite. The omnibus stopped at -a shelterless corner, the nearest point to Friary Grove. She descended -to pitiless rain and streaming pavements and a five minutes' walk, for -all of which her umbrella and shoes were inadequate. She vowed miserably -a life-long detestation of omnibuses. She would never enter one again. -Cabs were the only possible conveyances for people who could not afford -to keep their carriage. She fought down the dread that she might not -be able to afford cabs. The Almighty, who had obviously intended her to -drive in cabs, would certainly see that His intentions were carried out. - -She arrived at the studio, wet, bedraggled, and angry; but Jimmie's -exaggerated concern disarmed her. It could not have been less had she -wandered for miles and been drenched to the skin and chilled to the -bone. He sent Aline to fetch her daintiest slippers to replace the -damp shoes, established the storm-driven sufferer in the big leathern -armchair with cushions at her back and hassocks at her feet, made a -roaring fire and insisted on her swallowing cherry brandy, a bottle of -which he kept in the house in case of illness. In the unwonted luxury of -being loved and petted and foolishly fussed over, Norma again forgot -her troubles. Jimmie consoled the specific grievance by saying -magniloquently that omnibuses were the engines of the devil and vehicles -of the wrath to come. With a drugged economic conscience she went home -in a cab. But the conscience awoke later, somewhat suffering, and she -recognised that her exasperated vow had been vain. Jimmie was a poor -man. She recalled to mind his words on the night of their engagement, -and apprehended their significance. The trivial incident of the omnibus -was a key. The abandonment of cabs and carriages meant the surrender of -countless luxuries that went therewith. Her own two hundred a year would -not greatly raise the scale of living. She was to be a poor man's wife; -would have to wear cheap dresses, eat plain food, keep household books -in which pennies were accounted for; hers would be the humdrum existence -of the less prosperous middle class. The first pang of doubt frightened -her for a while and left her ashamed. Noble revolt followed. Had she not -renounced the pomps and vanities of a world which she scorned? Had not -this wonderful baptism of love brought New Birth? She had been reborn, -a braver, purer woman; she had been initiated into life's deeper -mysteries; her soul had been filled with joy. Of what count were -externals? - -The next evening Connie Deering gave a small dinner-party in honour -of the two engagements. Old Colonel Pawley, charged under pain of her -perpetual displeasure not to reveal the secret of Norma's whereabouts, -was invited to balance the sexes. He was delighted to hear of Norma's -romantic marriage. - -“I can still present the fan,” he said, rubbing his soft palms together; -“but I'm afraid I shall have to write a fresh set of verses.” - -“You had better give Norma a cookery-book,” laughed Connie. - -“I have a beautiful one of my own in manuscript which no publisher will -take up,” sighed Colonel Pawley. - -Norma, who had been wont to speak with drastic contempt of the amiable -old warrior, welcomed him so cordially that he was confused. He was not -accustomed to exuberant demonstrations of friendship from the beautiful -Miss Hardacre. At dinner, sitting next her, he enjoyed himself -enormously. Instead of freezing his geniality with sarcastic remarks, -she lured him on to the gossip in which his heart delighted. When Connie -rallied her, later, on her flirtation with the old man, she laughed. - -“Remember I've been a prisoner here. He's one of the familiar faces from -outside.” - -Although jestingly, she had spoken with her usual frankness, and her -confession was more deeply significant than she was aware at the time. -She had welcomed Colonel Pawley not for what he was, but for what he -represented. As soon as she was alone she realised the moral lapse, and -rebuked herself severely. She was sentimental enough to hang by a ribbon -around her neck the simple engagement ring which Jimmie had given her, -and to sleep with it as a talisman against evil thoughts. - -She spent the following evening at the studio, heroically enduring -the discomforts of the detested omnibus. When she descended she drew -a breath of relief, but felt the glow that comes from virtuous -achievement. Jimmie was informed of this practice in the art of economy. -He regarded her wistfully. There were times when he too fought with -doubts,--not of her loyalty, but of his own honesty in bringing her down -into his humble sphere. Even now, accustomed as he was to the adored -sight of her there, he could not but note the contrast between herself -and her surroundings. She brought with her in every detail of her -person, in every detail of her dress, in every detail of her manner, an -atmosphere of a dainty, luxurious life pathetically incongruous with -the shabby little house. He had not even the wherewithal to call in -decorators and upholsterers and make the little house less shabby. So -when she spoke of practising economy, he looked at her wistfully. - -“Your eyes are open, dear, are n't they?” he said. “You really do -realise what a sacrifice you are making in marrying me?” - -“By not marrying you,” she replied, “I should have gained the world and -lost my own soul. Now I am doing the reverse.”' - -He kissed her finger-tips lover-wise. “I am afraid I must be the devil's -advocate, and say that the loss and gain need not be so absolutely -differentiated. I want you to be happy. My God! I want you to be happy,” - he burst out with sudden passion, “and if you found that things were -infinitely worse than what you had expected, that you had married me in -awful ignorance--” - -She covered his lips with the palm of her hand. - -“Don't go on. You pain me. You make me despise myself. I have counted -the cost, such as it is. Did I not tell you from the first that I would -go with you in rags and barefoot through the world? Could woman say -more? Don't you believe me?” - -“Yes, I believe you,” he replied, bowing his head. “You are a -great-hearted woman.” - -She unfastened her hat, skewered it through with the pins, and gave it -him to put down. - -“I remember my Solomon,” she said, trying to laugh lightly, for there -had been a faint but disconcerting sense of effort in her protestation. -“'Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and -hatred there with.' Besides, you forget another important matter. I am -now a homeless, penniless outcast. I am not sacrificing anything. It is -very kind of you to offer to take me in and shelter me.” - -“These are sophistries,” said Jimmie, with a laugh. “You gave up all on -my account.” - -“But I am really penniless,” she said, ignoring his argument. “_Anch' io -son pittore_. I too have felt the pinch of poverty.” - -“You?” - -She revealed her financial position--the overdraft at the bank, the -shilling between herself and starvation. Were it not for Connie, she -would have to sing in the streets. She alluded thoughtlessly, with her -class's notions as to the value of money, to her “miserable two hundred -a year.” - -“Two hundred a year!” cried Jimmie. “Why, that's a fortune!” - -His tone struck a sudden chill through her. He genuinely regarded the -paltry sum as untold riches. She struggled desperately down to his point -of view. - -“Perhaps it may come in useful for us,” she said lamely. - -“I should think it will! Why did n't you tell me before?” - -“Have you never thought I might have a little of my own?” she asked with -a touch of her old hardness. - -“No,” said Jimmie. “Of course not.” - -“I don't see any 'of course' in the matter. The ordinary man would have -speculated--it would have been natural--almost common-sense.” - -Jimmie threw up his hands deprecatingly. - -“I have been too much dazzled by the glorious gift of yourself to think -of anything else you might bring. I am an impossible creature, as you -will find out. I ought to have considered the practical side.” - -“Oh! I am very glad you did n't!” she exclaimed. “Heaven forbid you -should have the mercenary ideas of the average man. It is beautiful to -have thought of me only.” - -“I am afraid I was thinking of myself, my dear,” said he. “I must get -out of the way of it, and think of the two of us. Now let us be severely -business-like. You have taken a load off my mind. There are a thousand -things you can surround yourself with that I imagined you would lack.” - He took her two hands and swung them backwards and forwards. “Now I -shan't regard myself as such a criminal in asking you to marry me.” - -“Do you think two hundred a year a fortune, Jimmie?” she asked. - -“To the Rothschilds and Vanderbilts perhaps not--but everything is -relative.” - -“Everything?” - -Her heart spoke suddenly, demanding relief. Their eyes met. - -“No, dear,” he said. “One thing at least is absolute.” An interlude of -conviction succeeded doubt. She felt that she had never loved him so -much as at that moment. It was more with the quickly lit passion of the -awakened woman than with the ardour of a girl that she clasped her hands -round his head and drew it down to their kiss. She had an awful need of -the assurance of the absolute. - -It nerved her to face a discussion on ways and means with Aline, -whom Jimmie at her request summoned from demure sewing in her little -drawing-room. - -“You are right,” she had said, referring to his former remark. “We ought -to be severely business-like. I must begin to learn things. You don't -know how hopelessly ignorant I am.” - -Aline came down to give the first lesson in elementary housekeeping. She -brought with her a pile of little black books which she spread out -at the end of the long table. The two girls sat side by side. Jimmie -hovered about them for a while, but was soon dismissed by Aline to a -distant part of the studio, where, having nothing wherewith to occupy -himself, he proceeded to make a charcoal sketch of the two intent faces. - -Aline, proud at being able to display her housewifely knowledge before -appreciative eyes, opened her books, and expounded them with a charming -business air. These were the receipts for the last twelve months; these -the general disbursements. They were balanced to a halfpenny. - -“Of course anything I can't account for, I put down to the item -'Jimmie,'” she said naively. “He _will_ go to the money-drawer and help -himself without letting me know. Is n't it tiresome of him?” - -Norma smiled absently, wrinkling her brows over the unfamiliar figures. -She had no grasp of the relation the amounts of the various items bore -to one another, but they all seemed exceedingly small. - -“I suppose it's necessary to make up this annual balance?” she asked. - -“Of course. Otherwise you would n't know how much you could apportion to -each item. Jimmie says it's nonsense to keep books; but if you listen to -Jimmie, you 'll have the brokers in in a month.” - -“Brokers?” - -Aline laughed at her perplexed look. “Yes, to seize the furniture in -payment of debt.” - -The main financial facts having been stated, Aline came to detail. These -were the weekly books from the various tradesmen. She showed a typical -week's expenditure. - -“What about the fishmonger?” asked Norma, noting an obvious omission. - -“Fish is too expensive to have regularly,” Aline explained, “and so -I don't have an account. When I buy any, I pay for it at once, in the -shop.” - -“When _you_ buy it?” - -“Why, yes. You'll find it much better to go and choose things for -yourself than let them call for orders. Then you can get exactly what -you want, instead of what suits the tradesman's convenience. You see, -I go to the butcher and look round, and say 'I want a piece of that -joint,' and of course he does as he's told. It seems horrid to any one -not accustomed to it to go into a butcher's shop, I know; but really -it's not unpleasant, and it's quite amusing.” - -“But why should n't your housekeeper do the marketing?” - -“Oh, she does sometimes,” Aline admitted; “but Hannah is n't a good -buyer. She can't _judge_ meat and things, you know, and she is apt to be -wasteful over vegetables.” - -“You don't bring the--the meat and things--home with you in a basket, do -you?” asked Norma, with a nervous laugh. - -Jimmie, interested in his sketch, had not listened to the conversation, -which had been carried on in a low tone. The last words, however, -pitched higher, caught his ear. He jumped to his feet. - -“Norma carry home meat in a basket! Good God! What on earth has the -child been telling you?” - -“I never said anything of the kind, Jimmie,” cried Aline, indignantly. -“You needn't bring home anything unless you like; our tradesmen are most -obliging.” - -Norma pushed back her chair from the table and rose and again laughed -nervously. - -“I am afraid I can't learn all the science of domestic economy in -one lesson. I must do it by degrees.” She passed her hand across her -forehead. “I'm not used to figures, you see.” - -Jimmie looked reproachfully at Aline. “Those horrid little black books!” - he exclaimed. “They are enough to give any one a headache. For heaven's -sake, have nothing to do with them, dear.” - -“But the brokers will come in,” said Norma, with an uncertain catch in -her voice. - -“They are Aline's pet hobgoblins,” laughed Jimmie. “My dear child,” - pointing to the books, “please take those depressing records of wasted -hours away.” - -When they were alone, he said to Norma very tenderly, “I am afraid my -little girl has frightened you.” - -She started at the keenness of his perception and flushed. - -“No--not frightened.” - -“She is so proud of the way she runs her little kingdom here,” he said; -“so proud to show you how it is done. You must forgive her. She is only -a child, my dearest, and forgets that these household delights of hers -may come as shocks to you. I shall not allow you to have these worries -that she loves to concern her head about.” - -“Then who will have them?” she asked, with her hand on the lapel of his -jacket. “You? That would be absurd. If I am your wife, I must keep your -house.” - -“My dear,” said Jimmie, kissing her, “if we love each other, there will -be no possibility of worries. I believe in God in a sort of way, and He -has not given you to me to curse and wither your life.” - -“You could only bless and sanctify it,” she murmured. - -“Not I, dear; but our love.” - -Soothed, she raised a smiling face. - -“But still, I'll have to keep house. Do you think I would let you go to -the butcher's? What would Aline say if you made such a proposal?” - -“She would peremptorily forbid him to take my orders,” he replied, -laughing. - -“I am sure I should,” she said. - -It was growing late. She glanced at the wheezy tilted old Dutch clock -in the corner, and spoke of departure. She reflected for a moment on the -means of home-getting. To her lowered spirits the omnibus loomed like a -lumbering torture-chamber. The consolation of a cab seemed cowardice. An -inspiration occurred to her. She would walk; perhaps he would accompany -her to Bryanston Square. He was enraptured at the suggestion. But could -she manage the distance? - -“I should like to try. I am a good walker--and when we are outside,” she -added softly, “we can talk a little of other matters.” - -It was a mild spring night, and the quiet stars shone benignantly upon -them as they walked arm in arm, and talked of “other matters.” As she -had needed a little while before the assurance of the absolute, so now -she craved the spirituality of the man himself, the inner light of faith -in the world's beauty, the sweetness, the courage--all that indefinable -something in him which raised him, and could alone raise her, above the -terrifying things of earth. She clung to his arm in a pathos of yearning -for him to lead her upward and teach her the things of the spirit. Only -thus lay her salvation. - -He, clean, simple soul, lost in the splendour of their love, expounding, -as it chanced, his guileless philosophy of life and his somewhat -childishly pagan religious convictions, was far from suspecting -the battle into which he was being called to champion the side of -righteousness. He went to sleep that night the most blissfully happy of -men. Norma lay awake, a miserable woman. - - - - -Chapter XXVII--A DINNER OF HERBS - -SHE loved him. Of that there was no doubt. To her he was the man of -men. The half angel, half fool of her original conception had melted -into an heroic figure capable of infinite tendernesses. The lingering -barbaric woman in her thrilled at the memory of him contemptuously -facing death before the madman's revolver. Her higher nature was awed at -the perfect heroism of his sacrifice. She knelt at his feet, recognising -the loftier soul. Sex was stirred to the depths when his arms were -about her and his kiss was on her lips. In lighter relations he was the -perfect companion. For all her vacillation, let that be remembered: she -loved him. All of her that was worth the giving he had in its plenitude. - -The days which followed her initiation into domestic economy were days -of alternating fear and shame and scornful resolution. She lost grip of -herself. The proud beauty curving a contumelious lip at the puppet -show of life was a creature of the past. Set the proudest and most -self-sufficing of women naked in what assembly you please, and she -will crouch, helpless, paralysed, in the furthest corner. Some such -denudation of the moral woman had occurred in the case of Norma -Hardacre. The old garments were stripped from her. She was bewildered, -terrified, no longer endowed with personality. - -Sometimes despising herself and resolved to perform her manifest duty, -she sought other lessons from Aline. They ended invariably in dismay. -Once she learned that Jimmie had never had a banking account. The -money was kept in a drawer of which Jimmie and Aline had each a key. -On occasions the drawer had been empty. Another lesson taught her that -certain shops in the neighbourhood were to be avoided as being too -expensive; that cream was regarded as a luxury, and asparagus as -an impossible extravagance. Every new fact in the economy of a poor -household caused her to shiver with apprehension. All was so trivial, -so contemptibly unimportant, and yet it grew to be a sordid barrier -baffling her love. She loathed the base weakness of her nature. It was -degrading to feel such repulsion. - -One evening Connie Deering was going to a Foreign Office reception, and -came down an enchanting vision in a new gown from Paquin and exhibited -herself to Norma. - -“I think it's rather a success. Don't you?” - -Norma assented somewhat listlessly, but to please her friend inspected -the creation and listened to her chatter. She was feeling lonely and -dispirited. At Aline's entreaty she had persuaded Jimmie to go with Tony -Merewether to the Langham Sketch Club, thus showing himself, for the -first time since the scandal, among his old associates. For her altruism -she paid the penalty of a dull evening. Their visits to each other were -her sole occupation now, all that was left in life to interest her. In -moments of solitude she began to feel the appalling narrowness of the -circle in which she was caged. Reading tired instead of refreshing her. -She had been accustomed to men and women rather than to books, to -the sight of many faces, to the constant change of scene. When she -speculated on employment for future solitary hours, she thought ruefully -of recuffing shirts. - -Connie apologised for leaving her, hoped she would manage to amuse -herself. Norma, who had made strenuous efforts to hide the traces of -tumult, returned a smiling answer. Connie, quite deceived, put an arm -round her waist and said suddenly in her bright, teasing way: - -“Now don't you wish you were coming too?” - -Norma, staggered at the point-blank question, was mistress enough of -herself to observe the decencies of reply, but when Connie had gone, she -sat down on the sofa and stared in front of her. She did wish she were -going with Connie. She had been wishing vaguely, half-consciously all -the evening. Now the wish was the pain of craving. It came upon her like -the craving of the alcoholic subject for drink--this sudden longing for -the glitter, the excitement, the whirl of the life she had renounced. -Her indictment of it seemed unreal, the confused memory of a brain-sick -mood. It was her world. She had not cut herself free. All the fibres of -her body seemed to be rooted in it, and she was being drawn thither -by irresistible desire. The many, many people, the diamonds, the -brilliance, the flattery, the envy, the very atmosphere heavy with many -perfumes--she saw and felt it all; panted for it, yearned for it. That -never, never again would she take up her birthright was impossible. That -she should stand forevermore in the humble street outside the gates of -that dazzling, wonderful, kaleidoscopic world was unthinkable. - -She remembered her talk with Morland at the Duchess of Wiltshire's -reception at the end of the last season, her shiver at the idea of a -life of poverty; was it a premonition? She remembered the blessed sense -of security when she had looked round the splendid scene and felt that -she and it were indissoluble parts of the same scheme of things. A -crust and heel of cheese as Jimmie's wife had crossed her mind then as a -grotesque fantasy; the air of that brilliant gathering was the breath of -her being. - -But now the grotesque fancy was to be the reality; the other was to -become the shadow of a dream. No yearning or panting could restore it. -The impossible was the inevitable. The unthinkable was the commonplace. -She had made her choice deliberately, irrevocably. She had lost the -whole world to gain her own soul. In the despair of her mood she -questioned the worth of the sacrifice. The finality of the choice -oppressed her. If at this eleventh hour she could still have the -opportunity of the heroic--if still the gates of the world were open to -her, she would have had a stimulus to continued nobility. The world and -the passionate love for the perfect man--which would she choose? Her -exaltation would still have swept her to the greater choice. Of, this -she was desperately aware. But the gates were shut. She had already -chosen. The heroic moment had gone. The acceptance of conditions was now -mere uninspired duty. She gave way to unreason. - -“O God! Why cannot I have both--my own love and my own life?” - -The tears she shed calmed her. - -The next day she felt ill from the strain, paying the highly bred -woman's penalty of nervous break-down. Connie Deering noted the circles -beneath her eyes and the pinched nostrils. Norma casually mentioned a -night's neuralgia. It would pass off during the day. She refused to be -doctored. She would pay a visit to Jimmie before lunch. The fresh air -would do her good. - -“The fresh air and Jimmie,” laughed her friend. “You are the most -beautifully in love young woman I have ever met.” - -Norma started on her visit, walking fast. At Baker Street station it -began to rain. She took the penitential omnibus; but her thoughts were -too anxious to concern themselves with its discomforts. Besides, it was -almost empty. The night had brought counsel. She would go to Jimmie and -be her true self, frank and unsparing. With a touch of her old scorn she -had resolved to confess unreservedly all the meanness and cowardice -of which she had of late been guilty. She would bare to him the soon -spotted soul and crave his cleansing. He would understand, pardon, and -purify. Perhaps, when he knew all, he would be able to devise some new -scheme of existence. At any rate, she would no longer receive his kisses -with a lie in her heart. She loved him too ardently. He should know what -she was, what were her needs, her limitations. The meeting would be -a crisis in their lives. Out of it would come reconstruction on some -unshakable basis. Up to a certain point she reasoned; beyond it, the -pathetic unreason of a woman drifted rudderless. - -It had stopped raining when she left the omnibus and started on the -short walk from the corner to Friary Grove. At the familiar gate her -heart already seemed lighter; she opened it, mounted the front steps, -and rang. The middle-aged servant, minus cap and with thin untidy hair, -in a soiled print dress, her sleeves rolled up to the elbow exposing red -coarse arms, was the first shock to Norma when the door opened. - -“Both the Master and Miss Aline are out, Miss,” said Hannah, with a -good-natured smile. “He has gone into town on business, and Miss Aline, -went out a little while ago with her young man. But they'll be back for -lunch. Won't you come in and wait, Miss?” - -Norma, vaguely resenting the familiar address of the servant and her -slatternly appearance, hesitated for a moment before deciding to enter. -Hannah showed her into the drawing-room and retired. It was a small dark -room looking on to the back. Part of it had been cut off when the -house had been altered, so as to construct the studio staircase, which -contained one of the original windows. Norma felt strangely ill at -ease in the room. The prim, cheap furniture, the threadbare carpet, -the flimsy girlish contrivances at decoration, gave the place an air of -shabby gentility. The gilt mirror was starred with spots and had a crack -across the corner. Some of Jimmie's socks and underwear lay on the table -for mending. They were much darned, and fresh holes could not fail to -meet the eye that rested but momentarily on the pile. To mend these -would in the future be her duty. She took up an undervest shrinkingly -and shook it out; then folded it again and closed her eyes.... She could -not wait there: the gloom depressed her. The studio would be brighter -and more familiar. She went downstairs. Nothing in the room she knew so -well was changed, yet it seemed to wear a different aspect. The homely -charm had vanished. Here, too, shabbiness and poverty stared at her. The -morning light streaming through the great high window showed pitilessly -the cracks and stains and missing buttons of the old leathern suite, and -the ragged holes in the squares of old carpet laid upon the boards. It -was a mere bleak workshop, not a room for human habitation. The pictures -on the walls and easels ceased to possess decorative or even intimate -value. The large picture of the faun that had exercised so great an -influence upon her had been despatched to its purchaser, and in its -place was a hopeless gap. - -She sat down in her accustomed chair, and once more strove to realise -the future. There would be children who would need her care. On herself -would all the sordid burdens fall. She saw herself a soured woman, worn -with the struggle to make ends meet, working with her hands at menial -tasks. The joy of Life! She laughed mirthlessly. - -She rose, walked restlessly about the studio, longing for Jimmie to -come and exorcise the devils that possessed her. A little sharp cry of -distress escaped her lips. The place echoed like a vault, and she felt -awfully alone. In her nervous tension she could bear it no longer. She -went up the stairs again into the bare hall. On the pegs hung two or -three discoloured hats and an old coat. Scarce knowing whither she went, -she entered the dining-room. Luncheon had been laid. A freak of destiny -had reproduced the meal of which Morland had spoken at Wiltshire House -and of which last night had revived the memory: a scrag end of cold -boiled mutton, blackened and shapeless, with the hard suet round about -it; a dried-up heel of yellow American cheese; the half of a cottage -loaf. The table-cloth--it was Friday--was stained with a week's meals. -It was coarse in texture, old and thin and darned. The enamel on the -plates was cracked, the hundred tiny fissures showing up dark brown. -The plate on the forks had worn off in places, disclosing the yellowish -metal beneath. The tumblers were thick and common, of glass scarcely -transparent. She stared helplessly at the table. Never in her life had -she seen such preparations for a meal. To the woman always daintily fed, -daintily environed, it seemed squalor unspeakable. - -She shrank back into the hall, pressed her hands to her eyes, looked -round, as if to search for some refuge. The stairs met her eye. She -had never seen what lay above the ground floor--except once, on the -memorable evening when Aline had fainted. Suddenly madness seized -her--an insane craving to spy out the whole nakedness of the house. The -worn stair-carpet ended at the first landing. Then bare boards. The door -of the bathroom was wide open. She peeked in. The ceiling was blackened -with gas; the bath cracked and stained; the appointments as bare as -those in a workhouse. Her glance fell upon a battered tin dish holding -an uncompromising cube of yellow soap with hard sharp edges. She -withdrew her head and shut the door hurriedly. Another door stood ajar. -She pushed it open and entered. It was the front bedroom--inhabited by -Jimmie. The thought that it would be her own, which a fortnight before -might have clothed her in delicious confusion, chilled her to the -bone. Bare boards again; a strip of oil-cloth by the narrow cheap iron -bedstead; a painted deal table with a little mirror and the humblest of -toilette equipments laid upon it; a painted deal chest of drawers with -white handles; a painted deal wash-stand; a great triangular bit broken -out of the mouth of the ewer. - -It was poverty--grinding, sordid, squalid poverty. From the one -dishevelled, slatternly, middle-aged servant to the cheap paper -peeling off the wall in the bedrooms, all she had seen was poverty. The -gathering terror of it burst like a thunderstorm above her head. Her -courage failed her utterly. Like a creature distracted, she rushed -downstairs and fled from the house. She walked homewards with an -instinctive sense of direction. Afterwards she had little memory of the -portion of the road she traversed on foot. She moved in a shuddering -nightmare. All the love in the world could not shed a glamour over the -nakedness of the existence that had now been revealed to her in its -entire crudity. She could not face it. Other women of gentle birth had -forsaken all and followed the men they loved; they had loved peasants -and had led great-heartedly the peasant's life. They had qualities -of soul that she lacked. Hideously base, despicably cowardly she knew -herself to be. It was her nature. She could not alter. The world of -graceful living was her world. In the other she would die. He had warned -her. The gipsy faith in Providence had made him regard as a jest what -would be to her a sordid shift, an intolerable ugliness, stripping life -of its beauty. The passion-flower could not thrive in the hedge with the -dog-rose. It was true--mercilessly true. The craving of last night awoke -afresh, imperiously insistent. She walked blindly, tripped, and nearly -fell. A subconscious self hailed a passing hansom and gave the address. - -What would become of her she knew not. She thought wildly of suicide as -the only possible escape. From her own world she was outcast. Its gates -were barred with gold and opened but to golden keys. She was penniless. -In this other world she would die. Love could not prevent her starving -on its diet of herbs. She clung to life, to the stalled ox, and recked -little of the hatred; but at the banquet she no longer had a seat. She -had said she would follow him in rags and barefoot over the earth. She -had not fingered the rags when she had made the senseless vow; she had -not tried her tender feet on the stones. She could have shrieked with -terror at the prospect. There was no way out but death. - -The Garden of Enchantment faded from her mind like a forgotten dream. -The sweet Arcadian make-believe alone rose up in ironical mockery, a -scathing memory which seemed to flay the living heart of her. She sat -huddled together in a corner of the cab, tortured and desperate. -On either hand hung the doom of death. In the one case it would be -lingering: the soul would die first; the man she loved would be tied to -a living corpse; she would be a devastating curse to him instead of -a blessing. In the other she could leave him in the fulness of their -unsullied love. The years that the locust hath eaten would not stretch -an impassable waste between them. In his sorrow there would be the -imperishable sense of beauty. And for herself the quick end were better. - -She was aroused to consciousness of external things by a husky voice -addressing her from somewhere above her head. The cab had stopped at -Connie's house in Bryanston Square. She descended, handed to the man the -first coin in her purse that her fingers happened to grasp. He looked at -it, said that he was sorry he had not change for a sovereign. She -waved her hand vaguely, deaf to his words. The cabman, with a clear -conscience, whipped up his horse smartly and drove off. - -A figure on the doorstep raised his hat. - -“How delightful of you to arrive at the very moment, Miss Hardacre! I am -summoned back to America. I sail to-morrow. I was calling on the chance -of being able to bid you good-bye.” - -Norma collected her scattered wits and recognised Theodore Weever. She -looked at him full in the eyes. - -Her lips were parted; her breath came fast. He stretched out his hand -to press the electric button, so as to gain admittance to the house. She -touched his arm, restraining his action, and still stared at him. - -“Wait,” she said at last. “I have something to say to you.” - -“I am honoured,” he replied in his imperturbable way. - -“Have you found your decorative wife, Mr. Weever?” - -A sudden light shone lambently in his pale, expressionless blue eyes. - -“Am I to understand that I can find her on Mrs. Deering's doorstep?” - -“If you look hard enough,” said Norma. - -He took her hand and shook it with the air of a man concluding a -bargain. - -“I felt sure of it,” he said. “I intended from the first to marry you. -I shall ever be your most devoted servant.'” - -“I make one condition,” she said. - -“Name it.” - -“You don't enter this house, and I sail with you to-morrow.” - -“Certainly.” - -“What train shall I catch and from what station shall I start?” - -“The ten o'clock from Waterloo.” - -She rang the bell. - -“May I trouble you to book my passage?” - -“It will be my happiness.” - -“_Au revoir_,” she said, holding out her hand. - -He raised his hat and walked away briskly. The door opened, and Norma -entered the house. - - - - - -Chapter XXVIII--THE WORD OF ALINE - -WHAT she wrote to him is no great matter. - -Her letter, which he opened on coming down to breakfast the next -morning, filled many pages. It was a rhapsody of passionate love and -self-abasement, with frantic appeals for forgiveness. In its cowardice -there was something horribly piteous. Jimmie read it beneath the high -north window of the studio, his back turned towards Aline, who was -seated at the breakfast-table at the other end. For a long, long while -he stood there, quite still, holding the letter in his hand. Aline, in -wonder, stole up quietly and touched his arm. When he turned, she saw -that his face was ashen-grey, like a dead man's. - -The shock left its mark upon him. Physically it accomplished the work of -ten years, wiping the youth from his face and setting in its stead the -seal of middle age. It is common enough for grief or illness to lay its -hand on the face of a woman no longer young and shrivel up her beauty -like a leaf and set her free, old and withered. But with a man, who has -no such beauty to be marred, the case is rare. - -For a week he remained silent. The two women who loved him waited in -patience until the time should come for their comforting to be of use. -From the very first morning he let no change appear in his habits, -but set his palette as usual and went on with the new picture that was -nearing completion. In the afternoon he went for a walk. Aline, going -down to the studio, happened to look at his morning's work. For a moment -she was puzzled by what she saw, for she was familiar with his -methods. Gradually the solution dawned upon her. He had been painting -meaninglessly, incoherently, putting in splotches of colour that had -no relation to the tone of the picture, crudely accentuating outlines, -daubing here, there, and anywhere with an aimless brush. It was the work -of a child or a drunken man. Aline cast herself on the model-platform -and cried till she could cry no more. When he came back, he took a -turpentine rag and obliterated the whole picture. For days he worked -incessantly, trying in vain to repaint. Nothing would come right. The -elementary technique of his art seemed to have left him. Aline strove to -get him away. He resisted. He had to do his day's work, he said. - -“But you're not well, dear,” she urged. “You will kill yourself if you -go on like this.” - -“I've never heard of work killing a man,” he answered. Then after a -pause, “No. It's not work that kills.” - -At last the sleep that had failed him returned, and he awoke one morning -free from the daze in the brain against which he had been obstinately -struggling. He rose and faced the world again with clear eyes. When -Aline entered the studio to summon him to lunch, she found him painting -at the unhappy picture with his accustomed sureness of touch. He leaned -back and surveyed his handiwork. - -“It's going to be magnificent, is n't it? What a blessing I wiped out -the first attempt!” - -“Yes, this is ever so much better, Jimmie,” the girl replied, with tears -very near her eyes. But her heart swelled with happy relief. The aching -strain of the past week was over. She had dreaded break-down, illness, -and permanent paralysis of his faculties. The man she knew and loved had -seemed to be dead and his place taken by a vacant-eyed simulacrum. Now -he had come to life again, and his first words sounded the eternal chord -of hope and faith. - -From that day onwards he gave no sign of pain or preoccupation. Only the -stamp of middle age upon his face betrayed the suffering through which -he had passed. He concerned himself about Aline's marriage. Arrangements -had been made for it to take place on the same day as that of their -elders--a day, however, that Norma had never fixed. The recent -catastrophe had caused its indefinite postponement. Aline declared -herself to be in the same position as before, the responsibility of the -beloved's welfare being again thrust upon her shoulders. She pleaded -with her lover for delay, and young Merewether, disappointed though he -was, acquiesced with good grace. At last Jimmie called them before -him, and waving his old briar-root pipe, as he spoke, delivered his -ultimatum. - -“My dear children,” said he, standing up before them, as they sat -together on the rusty sofa, “you have the two greatest and most glorious -things in a great and glorious world, youth and love. Don't despise -the one and waste the other. Get all the beauty you can out of life and -you'll shed it on other people. You'll shed it on me. That's why I want -you to marry as soon as ever you are ready. You'll let me come and look -at you sometimes, and if you are happy together, as God grant you will -be, that will be my great happiness--the greatest I think that earth has -in store for me. I have stood between you long enough--all that is over. -I shall miss my little girl, Tony. I should be an inhuman monster if I -didn't. But I should be a monster never before imagined by a disordered -brain if I found any pleasure in having her here to look after me when -she ought to be living her life in fulness. And that's the very end of -the matter. I speak selfishly. I can't help it. I have a great longing -for joy around me once more. Go upstairs and settle everything finally -between you.” - -When they had gone, he sighed. “Yes,” he said to himself, “a great -longing for joy--and the sound of the steps of little children.” Then he -laughed, calling himself a fool, and went on with his painting. - -A day or two afterwards Connie Deering, who had been a frequent visitor -since Norma's flight, walked into the studio while Jimmie was working. - -“Don't let me disturb you. Please go on,” she cried in her bright, airy -way. “If you don't, I'll disappear. I've only come for a gossip.” - -Jimmie drew a chair near the easel and resumed his brush. She -congratulated him on the picture. It was shaping beautifully. She had -been talking about it last night to Lord Hyston, who had promised to -call at the studio to inspect it. Lord Hyston was a well-known buyer of -modern work. - -“He is stocking a castle in Wales, which he never goes near, with acres -of paint,” she said encouragingly. “So I don't see why you should n't -have a look in.” - -“Is there a family ghost in the castle?” - -“I believe there are two!” - -“That's a blessing,” said Jimmie. “Some one, at any rate, will look at -the pictures.” - -She watched him in silence for a minute or two. Then she came to the -important topic. - -“So the two children have made up their minds at last.” - -“Yes, they are to be married on the twenty-eighth of May.” - -“Poor young things,” said Connie. - -“Why poor?” - -“I don't know,” she said 'with a sigh. “The subject of marriage always -makes me sad nowadays. I am growing old and pessimistic.” - -“You are bewilderingly youthful,” replied Jimmie. - -“Do you know how old I am?” - -“I have forgotten how to do subtraction,” he said, thinking of his own -age. - -“Yes. Of course you know. It's awful. And Aline is--what--seventeen?” - -“Eighteen.” - -“You'll be dreadfully lonely without her.” - -“Lonely? Oh, no. I have my thoughts--and my memories.” - -She looked at him fleetingly. - -“I should have thought you would wish to escape from memories, Jimmie.” - -“Why should I?” - -“'The sorrow's crown of sorrows.'” - -“I don't believe in it,” he said, turning towards her. “What has been -has been. A joy that once has been is imperishable. Remembering happier -things is a sorrow's crown of consolation. Thank God! I have had them to -remember.” - -“Do you think she is finding consolation in memories?” She spoke with -sudden heat, for Norma's conduct had filled her heart with blazing -indignation. - -“I hope so,” said Jimmie dreamily, after a pause. “But she has not so -many as I. She loved me deeply. She had her hour--but I had my day.” - -“If I were you, I should want never to think of her again.” - -“Not if you were I, my dear Connie,” he said gently. “If either of us -was in the wrong, it was not she.” - -“Rubbish,” said Mrs. Deering. - -“No. It is the truth. She was made for kings' palaces and not for this -sort of thing. I knew it was impossible from the first--but the joy -and wonder of it all blinded my eyes. She gave me the immortal part of -herself. It is mine for all eternity. I wrote to her a day or two ago--I -was not able at first. I could not sleep, you know; something seemed to -have gone wrong with my head.” - -“You wrote to her?” - -“To tell her not to be unhappy for my sake.” - -“And you have forgiven her entirely?” - -“Since our love is unchanged, how could I do otherwise?” - -“But she has gone and thrown herself into the arms of another man--and -such a man!” said Connie, brusquely. A quiver of pain passed over his -face. - -“Those are things of the flesh that the discipline of life teaches a man -to subdue. I think I am man enough for that. The others are things of -the spirit. If ever woman loved a man, she loved me. I thank God,” he -added in a low voice, “that she realised the impossibility before we -were married.” - -“So do I; devoutly,” said Connie. - -“It would have made all the difference.” - -“Precisely,” said Connie. - -“She would have been chained hand and foot to an intolerable existence. -She would have fretted and pined. Her life would have been an infinite -burden. Heaven's mercy saved her.” - -“I was n't looking at it from her point of view at all,” exclaimed -Connie. - -“Hers is the only one from which one can look at it,” he answered -gravely. - -When she bade him good-bye some ten minutes later, she did not withdraw -the hand which he held. Her forget-me-not eyes grew pleading, and her -voice trembled a little. - -“I wish I could comfort you, Jimmie--not only now, but in the lonely -years to come. But remember, dear, there is nothing on earth I would n't -give you or do for you--nothing on earth.” - -It was not till long afterwards that he fully comprehended the -meaning of her words; and then she herself prettily vouchsafed the -interpretation. For immediate answer he kissed her on the cheek in the -brotherly fashion in which he had kissed her twice before. - -“What greater comfort,” said he, “can I have than to hear you say that? -I am a truly enviable man, Connie. Love and affection are showered upon -me in full measure. Life is very, very sweet.” - -The next two or three weeks brought pleasant surprises which -strengthened his conviction. One by one old friends sought him out, -and, some heartily, others shamefacedly, extended to him the hand of -brotherhood. His evening at the Langham Sketch Club had inaugurated the -new order of things. The Frewen-Smiths, whose New Year party had marked -the epoch between child and woman in Aline's life, invited the two -outcasts to dinner, and pointedly signified that they were the honoured -guests. Brother artists looked in casually on Sunday evenings. Their -wives called upon Aline, offering congratulations and wedding-gifts. A -lady whose portrait he had painted, and at whose house he had visited, -commissioned him to paint the portraits of her two children. The -ostracism had been removed. How this had been effected Jimmie could not -conjecture; and Tony Merewether and Connie Deering, who were the persons -primarily and independently responsible, did not enlighten him. By -Aline's wedding-day all the old circle had gathered round him, and a -whisper of the true story had been heard in Wiltshire House. - -Thus the world began to smile upon him, as if to make amends for the -anguish it could not remedy. He took the smile as a proof of the world's -essential goodness. The great glory that for a day had made his life a -blaze of splendour had faded; the sun in his heaven had been eternally -eclipsed. But the lesser glory of the moon and stars remained undimmed; -the tenderness of twilight lost no tone of its beauty. He stood unshaken -in his faith, unchanged in himself--the strong, wise man looking upon -the earth and the fulness thereof with the unclouded eyes of a child. - -The man whom he had most loved, the woman he had most worshipped, had -each failed him, had each brought upon him bitter and abiding sorrow. -They had passed like dead folks out of his daily life. Yet each retained -in his heart the once inhabited chambers. They were dear ghosts. His -incurable optimism in this wise brought about its consolation. For -optimism involves courage of a serene quality. Aline, with her swift -perception of him, had the opportunity of flashing this into an epigram. -There was a little gathering in the studio, and the talk ran on personal -bravery. Some one started the question: What would the perfectly brave -man do if attacked unarmed by a man-eating tiger? - -“I know what Jimmie would do,” she cried. “He would try to pat the beast -on the head.” - -There was laughter over the girl's unchallenged championship, but those -who had ears to hear found the saying true. - -The night before the wedding the two sat up very late, spending their -last hours together, and Aline sat like a child on Jimmie's knee -and sobbed on his breast. The lover seemed a far-away abstraction, a -malevolent force rather than a personality, that was tearing her away -from the soil in which her life was rooted. Jimmie stroked her hair -and spoke brave words. But he had not realised till then the wrench of -parting. Till then, perhaps, neither had realised the strength of the -bond between them. They were both fervent natures, who felt intensely, -and their mutual affection had been a vital part of their lives. If -bright and gallant youth had not flashed across the girl's path and, -after the human way, had not caught her wondering maidenhood in strong -young arms; if deeper and more tragic passion had not swept away the -mature man, it is probable that this rare, pure love of theirs might -have insensibly changed into the greater need one of the other, and the -morrow's bells might have rung for these two. But as it was, no such -impulse stirred their exquisite relationship. They were father and -daughter without the barrier of paternity; brother and sister without -the ties of consanguinity; lovers without the lovers' throb; intimate, -passionate friends with the sweet and subtle magic of the sex's -difference. - -“I can't bear leaving you,” she moaned. “I can't bear leaving the dear -beautiful life. I'll think of you every second of every minute of every -hour sitting here all alone, alone. I don't want to go. If you say the -word now, I'll remain and it shall be as it has been for ever and ever.” - -“I shall miss you--terribly, my dear,” said he. “But I'll be the gainer -in the end. You'll give me Tony as a sort of younger brother. I am -getting to be an old man, darling--and soon I shall find the need of -_les jeunes_ in my painting life. You can't understand that yet. Tony -will bring around me the younger generation with new enthusiasms and -fresh impulses. It is to my very great good, dear. And if God gives you -children, I'll be the only grandfather they'll ever have, poor things, -and I'd like to have a child about me again. I have experience. I have -washed your chubby face and hands, _moi qui vous parle_, and undressed -you and put you to bed, my young lady who is about to be married.” - -“Oh, Jimmie, I remember it--and I had to tell you how to do everything.” - -“It seems the day before yesterday,” said Jimmie. “_Eheu fugaces!_” - -The next day when she in her wedding-dress (a present from Connie -Deering) walked down the aisle on her husband's arm and stole a shy -glance at him, radiant, full of the promise and the pride of manhood, -and met the glad love in his eyes, she forgot all else in the throbbing -joy of her young life's completion. It was only afterwards when she was -changing her dress, with Connie Deering's assistance, in her own little -room, that she became again conscience-stricken. - -“You _will_ look after Jimmie while I am away, _won't_ you?” she asked -tragically--they were going to the Isle of Wight for their honeymoon. - -“I would look after him altogether if he would let me,” said Connie, in -an abrupt, emotional little outburst. - -Aline drew a quick breath. - -“What do you mean?” - -Connie threw the simple travelling-hat, whose feathers she was daintily -touching, upon the bed. - -“What do you think I mean?” she laughed nervously. “I'm not an old -woman. I'm as lonely as Jimmie will be--and--” - -“What?” - -“Oh!---only I've found out that I love Jimmie as much as a silly woman -can love anybody, if it's any satisfaction to you to know it--and -you may be quite sure I'll see that no harm comes to him during your -honeymoon, dear.” - -The ensuing conversation nearly caused the bride to miss her train. But -no bride ever left her girlhood's room more luminously happy. On the -threshold she turned and threw her arms round Connie Deering's neck. - -“I'll arrange it all when I come back,” she whispered. - -And Aline kept her word. - - - -THE END - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Where Love Is, by William J. 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