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diff --git a/old/56013-0.txt b/old/56013-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index b101c9d..0000000 --- a/old/56013-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9092 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The White Dove, 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: The White Dove - -Author: William J. Locke - -Release Date: November 20, 2017 [EBook #56013] -Last Updated: March 12, 2018 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHITE DOVE *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - - - - -THE WHITE DOVE - -By William J. Locke - -New York: John Lane Company - -1899 - - - O White Dove of the Pity Divine - - J. H. Skunk - - -[Illustration: 0009] - - - - - -THE WHITE DOVE - - - - -CHAPTER I--FATHER AND SON - - -“ Life is a glorious thing,” said the girl. - -Sylvester Lanyon looked at her half in amusement, half in wistfulness. -There was no doubt whatever of her sincerity. Therein lay the pathetic. -To reply that the shadow of death and suffering clouded life's glory was -too obvious a rejoinder. So he smiled and said,-- - -“Well?” - -“We ought to conquer it, make it our own, and live it to the full.” - -“If it is to be conquered by us weak wretches, it can't be such a -glorious thing,” he remarked. - -“But who said we were weak wretches?” she retorted. “You're not one, -and I'm not one!” She laughed, flushing a little. “No, I'm not,” she -repeated. - -If Sylvester Lanyon had been endowed with the power of graceful words, -here was a chance for a pretty compliment. It was challenged by the -girl's self-conscious glance and by the splendid vitality of her youth; -for Ella Defries usually carried the air of a conqueror with a certain -sweet insolence. Some such idea passed vaguely through his mind, but, -unable to express it, he said, shifting his ground lamely,-- - -“You see I'm getting elderly.” - -“Nonsense!” she said. “You're only five and thirty. My own age to a -day.” - -“I don't quite follow,” said he. - -“A woman is always ten years older than a man. You ought to know that.” - -“And that proves?” - -“That you ought to go into the world and win fame and mix with the -brilliant men and women in London who can appreciate you.” - -“I don't want to mix with more brilliant men and women than those who -are under this _roof of Woodlands_,” said Sylvester. - -Ella flushed again, but this time she drooped her eyes and bent her head -over her sewing for some time abandoned. A smile played round her lips. - -“Your Aunt Agatha, for instance.” - -“No, dear soul. The other two.” - -He rose and filled his pipe from a tobacco jar on the mantel-piece. -The room, furnished with the solid mahogany and leather of a bygone -generation, was his father's particular den, where, however, of all -rooms in the house, he was least likely to find the privacy for which it -was set apart. Ella, during her periodical visits to Ayresford, calmly -monopolised it; Sylvester strolled in naturally from his widowed house -over the way; Miss Agatha Lanyon, although she pretended to cough at -the smoke, would leave her knitting promiscuously about on chairs -and tables, while the little grandchild Dorothy spilled the ink with -impunity over the Turkey carpet. - -There was a silence while Sylvester lit his pipe and settled down again -in the leathern armchair by the fire. - -“I want no better company than the dear old man's, and yours,” said he. - -“My conversation is not fit for an intellectual man,” said Ella, with a -humility that contrasted with her conquering attitude of a few moments -before. - -“You are a very clever girl,” said Sylvester. - -She shook her head with a little air of scorn and threw her sewing on -the table. - -“Oh, no. It pleases my vanity to think so. But what do I know in -comparison with you? What can I do? You go to a bedside and hold the -keys of life and death in your hand. To you, all the hidden forces and -mysteries of nature are every-day commonplaces. Professor Steinthal of -Vienna, whom I met the other day at Lady Milmo's, told me that, if you -chose, you could become the greatest bacteriologist in Europe.” - -“Did he say that?” asked Sylvester, eagerly. - -“Yes, and that is why you ought to go away and live in London and fulfil -your life gloriously.” - -A look of amusement came into his grave eyes, and lit for a moment the -sombreness of a face prematurely careworn. - -“I _am_ going to London,” he said. “I sold the practice this morning.” - -Ella rose from her chair impetuously. “Why didn't you tell me at once, -instead of letting me say all these silly things? It is just like a -man.” - -“You took my apathy so much for granted,” he said, laughing. - -“I suppose I am a weak wretch, after all,” said Ella. - -Sylvester put down his pipe and stood by her side. - -“It is really all your doing, Ella. This is not the first time you have -pointed out my way to me. And it won't be the last, will it?” - -There was a note of pathetic appeal in his tone that made her heart beat -a little faster. Of all the phases of his manhood that her instinctive -feminine alertness had caused him to present to her, this one moved her -the most strongly. An unwonted shy tenderness came into her eyes. - -“It is for you to settle that,” she said. - -He looked at her for a moment as if about to speak, but some inward -conflict seemed to check the words. A man's memories and dead loves rise -up sometimes and stare at him in sad reproach. - -“I wish I had the gift of speech,” he said. - -“What do you want to say?” she asked gently. - -He smiled whimsically. “If I could tell you that, I should have the -gift.” - -“You'll let me see something of you in London, won't you?” - -“Why, of course! Whom else should I want to see? Frodsham's practice is -a large one--I am buying a share, you know. A specialist generally has -his hands full. I shall have neither the time nor the desire to go -about butterflying. Besides, it is only a few people that like me. I'm -generally looked upon as a 'stick.'” - -His head had been turned aside; and while there had been no danger of -his glance, Ella had scanned his face as a girl does that of a -man who is already something more to her than friend or brother. It -was thin and intellectual, somewhat careworn, with deep vertical lines -between the brows. The hair was black and wavy, thinning a little over -the temples; the features well cut and sensitive; the eyes, deeply -sunken, possessing keenness, but little brilliance; a moustache, -standing well away at each end from the cheeks, accentuated their sharp -contours. Yet in spite of the intellectual delicacy of the face, the -tanned, rough skin, corresponding with the well-knit wiriness of his -frame, gave assurance of strong physical health. - -The last epithet in his remarks, so at variance with the character she -was idealising from her scrutiny, moved her ready indignation. - -“I should like to have, a quarter of an hour with the fool that said -so!” she exclaimed. - -“You are loyal to your friends,” said Sylvester. - -They discussed the point. Ella let loose the fine scorn of five and -twenty for the shallow society that could not appreciate a man of his -calibre. Her championship was sweet for him to hear. For some time -past he had been gradually growing conscious of the force that this -sympathetic intelligence and this warm nature were bringing into his -life. Unwittingly he had revealed the fact to Ella. As woman, and -especially the fresh girl, is responsive, and gives bit by bit of -herself, as it is craved, Ella, when she looked into her heart, found -much that had been yielded. The situation therefore was sweet and -delicate. - -“My going will be a blow to my father,” he said after a while. “I hardly -like to tell him.” - -“He wouldn't stand in your way,” said Ella. “He's not like that. We have -talked it over scores of times. He is as anxious as I am for you to take -your proper place in the world.” - -“Dear old fellow,” said Sylvester, his face brightening. “He would cut -off both his feet for me, gladly. But he would feel the pain all the -same.” - -“Yes, who wouldn't love him?” said Ella. - -“I wish I had a father.” - -“We'll go shares in him,” said Sylvester. - -“His heart is big enough.” - -And again the girl coloured and felt very happy, as if the puzzle of her -life were being explained to her. - -“And Dorothy?” - -“That's where the difficulty comes in. Would London be good for her?” - -“Why not leave her here?” - -Ella looked at him sharply and saw, as she had expected, the alarm on -his face. - -“You don't know what she is to me,” he said. - -“It would cheer Uncle Matthew when you 're gone. He is devoted to her.” - -He was silent awhile. The thought of parting from the child, the living -memory of his dead wife; was a pang whose intensity he could not express -even to Ella. She was seven. For four years he had brought her up alone -in his own house, under the care of an old family servant who had taught -her to read, and say her prayers, and use her knife and fork in a way -befitting her station. The rest of her tiny education Sylvester himself -had seen to. She was his constant companion, abroad and at home. - -He could talk to her as it was in his power to--talk to no one else, -almost persuading himself that her innocent clear eyes saw into the -depths of his heart. To leave her behind was a prospect filled with -unspeakable dismay. - -“It's a weary world,” he said, by way of generalisation. - -“It isn't!” cried Ella. “It's a glorious world, full of love and heroism -and beauty. I won't have my dear world abused! It is sweet to be alive -in it, to use all one's faculties, to go about among men and women, to -hear the rain, to smell the hay--” - -“And get hay fever and then come to me--the misanthrope--to cure you. -Paganism generally ends that way.” - -“I should call your being able to cure me a very beautiful thing too,” - she exclaimed conclusively. “Isn't your knowledge of healing a glorious -thing?” - -“Oh, don't tell me about the child gathering pebbles by the sea-shore.” - It was modesty on Newton's part, but mock modesty on that of the people -who quote him now. “Children can pick up a tremendous lot of pebbles in -two hundred years!” - -The door opened and Matthew Lanyon stood on the threshold, with an -amused smile on his grave face. For the girl had been speaking with -animation, and the fresh colour in her cheeks and the happiness in her -eyes made her goodly to look upon. - -“Syl annihilated as usual?” he asked, coming forward. - -“I hope so. He won't be converted, Uncle Matthew. What do you think of -the world? Isn't it a beautiful world?” - -“Since it holds you, my dear, how could it be otherwise?” - -She laughed and looked at Sylvester with some coquetry. Here was a -lesson in compliment by which he might profit. Sylvester thrust forward -an armchair for his father. - -“Tired?” - -“Of course not. What has a healthy man got to do with being tired? No, -my dear Ella, please don't. You know I disapprove of cushions. They are -for the young and delicate.” - -“Where shall we haye tea?” asked Ella. “Here, or in the drawing-room? -Aunt Agatha is in her district.” - -“Oh, here, then, by all means. We can have it comfortably.” - -Ella rang the bell and cleared an occasional table of a litter of pipes, -cigar-boxes, and papers. Matthew Lanyon lay back in his chair with the -air of a man who had earned his home comforts, and stretched out his -feet to the fire. Then he put his invariable question,-- - -“How's Dorothy?” - -Sylvester replied, gave the usual bulletin as to her health, recounted -the small incidents in the child's day. She had driven with him on his -rounds that morning; during one of the waits had urgently requested -Peck, the coachman, to die forthwith--straight and stiff--so that she -might have the pleasure of seeing how her father brought him to life -again. Her mind had been much exercised by a picture in the Family Bible -of the raising of Jairus' daughter, and had identified her parent with -the chief actor in the scene. - -Tea arrived during the narration. Matthew listened with amused interest, -for his son and his son's child were the dearest things earth held for -him. His wife had died many years ago, when Sylvester was just emerging -from boyhood and the great glory had gone out of his heaven. But his -love for Sylvester had deepened, and of late years the sad parallelism -of their widowed lives had drawn the two men very near together. In many -ways they were singularly alike, the mere facial resemblance -stamping them at the first glance as father and son; both were grave, -intellectual-looking men, of the same clean, wiry make, with an air -of reserve and good breeding that commanded respect. But the older man -possessed that peculiar grace of manner, called nowadays of the old -school, which the brusquer habits of more modern times have forbidden to -flourish. Both faces bore the marks of suffering; but the passage of the -years had chastened that of the father, who looked more frankly at the -world than the son and out of kindlier grey eyes. He was a little over -sixty, his hair whitening fast; still he held himself erect, and scoffed -satirically at old age. - -“The prime of life, my dear sir,” he would say, “the heyday of -existence! Up to sixty a man gathers his experience and tears his -fingers dreadfully. After sixty he can sit down quietly and enjoy it and -let his fingers heal.” - -There was a pause in the talk, and the three sat, as they often did, -content to be together, looking into the fire and thinking their own -thoughts. Perhaps the girl's were the happiest. The room had darkened, -and the firelight played on their faces gathered round the hearth. -Suddenly Sylvester spoke. - -“I was talking to Ella about my plans, father, before you came in.” - -“A very sensible person to talk to,” said Matthew. - -“I've burned my ships. I have sold the practice and am going to join -Frodsham in London.” - -“I'm very glad indeed to hear it,” said the old man; “you should have -done it years ago.” - -His voice was suave and even, but the keen eye of the physician detected -a trembling of the fingers resting on the broad leathern arm of the -chair. - -“I don't at all like to leave you,” said Sylvester, feeling guilty. -Matthew waved away the reluctance. - -“Nonsense, my boy. I'm not a cripple that requires to be taken care of. -Grown up men can't be for ever hanging on to--I was going to say, to -each other's apron strings. London is your place. Perhaps after a time, -when I am dead and gone,--a man must die some day, you know,--you'll -like to come back to the old house and devote yourself entirely to -research and be independent of two guinea fees and that kind of thing. -That would be nice, wouldn't it, Ella?” - -The girl's heart throbbed at the share implied, but a tenderer feeling -quieted it at once. - -“It would be impossible without you, Uncle Matthew,” she said. - -He rose with a laugh. “None of us are indispensable, not even the most -futile. I'm going to dress. You'll dine here, of course, Syl? And, Ella, -tell them to get up some of the '84' Pommery to drink good luck to Syl.” - -He walked out of the room with the brisk air of a man thoroughly pleased -with life; but outside, in the passage, his face grew sad, and he -mounted the stairs to his dressing-room very slowly, holding on to the -balusters. - -The younger folks remained for a while longer in the library. Sylvester -bent forward and broke a great lump of coal with the poker. - -“I'm not fit to black his boots, you know, My companionship means much -more to him than Dorothy's does to me, and he gives it up without a -murmur.” - -“And that settles the Dorothy question?” asked Ella, in the direct -manner that sometimes embarrassed him. - -“Of course it settles it,” he cried warmly. “What a selfish beast you -must have thought me!” - -“If you didn't love others so warmly, I shouldn't--” - -She came to a dead stop because his eyes were full upon her. - -“Well?” - -“I shouldn't care for you so much.” - -“Do you care very much for me?” he asked rather wistfully, and came to -where she was standing with one foot on the fender. - -“You know I would do anything in the world you asked,” she answered in a -low voice. - -“Some day I may claim your promise.” - -“You know I always keep my promises,” she said. - -The dressing bell clanged loudly through the house. Sylvester hurriedly -departed so as to dress in time for dinner. But Ella lingered by the -fire, the girl in her wondering whether she had said too much, and -the woman in her filled with a delicious pity for the strong-brained, -deep-natured man who seemed dumbly to be holding out his hands for her -love. She gave it generously and gratefully. Compared with him, all -other men seemed of small account, and in her aunt Lady Milmo's house, -where most of her life was spent, she had seen all the sorts and -conditions of males that a well-to-do collector of minor celebrities can -gather around her in London. But to her direct mind the truest men of -her acquaintance were Matthew Lanyon, her former guardian, whose title -of uncle was purely one of courtesy, and Sylvester, with whom the old -quasi-cousinly relations were being transmuted into sweeter ties. - - - - -CHAPTER II--THE SHADOW IN A LIFE - -Father and son sat together in the dining-room, smoking their -after-dinner cigars, and speaking very little, as their custom was when -together. With its snow-white table-cloth set off by the glass and cut -flowers and the rich purple of the old port in the decanter; with its -picture-hung walls, its massive mahogany sideboard gleaming with silver, -amid which displayed itself opulently a huge salver presented to Matthew -Lanyon, Esquire, by his fellow-townsmen on the completion of his third -year of mayoralty; with its great red-shaded lamp suspended over the -table, and its dark marble fireplace,--the room had an air of warmth and -generous comfort that spoke of a long continuance of worldly ease. In -his younger days Matthew Lanyon had roved about the world, picking up -much knowledge of men in new lands where life was rude, and a little -money wherewith to start a career when he returned to civilisation. His -return was speedier than either himself or his friends had anticipated. -The latter beheld him married to a sweet flower-like girl whom he had -met not long before in Australia; but more than this they did not learn. -He was not given to offering information as to his doings, and there -was that suggestion of haughtiness behind his frank young smile which -forbade questioning. He was there; his wife was there. The friends must -accept both on their merits. He had served his articles as a solicitor -before leaving England. He turned to his profession for maintenance and -bought a share in a cousin's practice in Ayresford. He was to have made -his fortune, gone away again with his young wife into the wide world, -and seen all the wonders that it held. But as in the case of many other -young dreams, it seemed otherwise to the gods. Wealth had come quickly, -and he had added gradually to his little home until it had become a -great house, and his cousin had died, and his wife had died, and in -Ayresford he had lived all the time, married and widowed, and now the -longing for change had gone, and in Ayresford he hoped that he himself -would die, in the home endeared to him by so many memories, in the bed -consecrated by the pale sweet shadow of her who even now seemed to lie -by his side. - -Wealth had come, yet much of it had gone; how, no man knew but himself -and one other; he had toiled hard to win it, was toiling hard at sixty -to win it back. And how strenuously he toiled, again no man knew; least -of all his son. - -The desultory talk had drooped. Suddenly Matthew Lanyon plunged his hand -in the breast pocket of his dress-coat and drew out an old-fashioned -miniature, which, after regarding it for a few moments, he handed to -Sylvester. - -“I've been rummaging about to-day and found this. Perhaps you'd like to -have it.” - -“My mother!” said Sylvester. - -It was a portrait, on ivory, of a singularly sweet face, possessing the -tender, unearthly purity of one of Lorenzo di Credi's Madonnas, -executed when the original was very young, a few months, in fact, before -Sylvester was born. - -“A very good likeness,” said Matthew. - -“I shall be glad to keep it,” replied the son, putting it into his -pocket. - -“I thought you would,” assented the elder. - -“It will be a companion to my miniature of Constance,” said Sylvester. - -And then silence came again; for memories crowded into the minds of each -that they knew not how to speak of. Yet each knew that the other was -thinking of his dead wife and wished that he could burst the strange -bonds of reserve that held him and speak out that which was in his -heart. - -“It's a devil of a muddle, isn't it?” said Matthew at last. - -“What?” - -“The cosmos. And the more one tries to establish order, the worse -confounded becomes the confusion. The high gods seem to have given it up -as a bad job.” - -“That reminds me,” said Sylvester, with a laugh. “I found Billings to-day -having a glorious drunk on champagne. For a man earning twenty-five -shillings a week, with a large family to support and a wife half dying -of pneumonia, I thought it rather strong.” - -Matthew rose from his chair, his brows bent and his eyes kindling with -sudden anger. - -“The damned hound! What did you do with him?” - -“I took him outside so as not to disturb his wife and then I kicked him -until he was sober,” replied Sylvester, grimly. “I wonder who could have -sent the champagne.” - -“Some silly fool,” said Matthew, nursing his wrath. - -“Yet nearer to heaven than most of us,” said Sylvester, knocking the ash -off his cigar. - -“Rubbish!” said Matthew. “Besides, silly fools don't go to heaven. -There's no place for 'em.” - -“I don't think Billings will rob his wife again,” remarked Sylvester. - -“Well, you can send him up to me in the morning.” - -“I think he'd sooner have another kicking,” laughed Sylvester. - -A picture rose before him of the reprobate cringing before his father, -wriggling at each sentence as at a whip lash, and going away with two -more bottles of wine that would burn his dirty hands like hot bricks. -He laughed, but Matthew thrust both hands in his pockets and stood with -feet apart on the hearth-rug. - -“Did you ever hear of such a mean skunk?” - -“You will never fathom the depth of human meanness, father, if you live -to be a hundred.” - -“I thank you for the compliment, Syl,” replied the old man, drily, “but -I happen to think otherwise. May you never live to know it as I do.” - -“Mr. Usher, sir,” said the servant, suddenly throwing open the door. - -Matthew started, and glanced instinctively at his son. Sylvester, who -had been struck by an unusual note of emotion in his father's voice, -was looking at him curiously. So their eyes met in a mutual sensitive -glance, and Matthew flushed slightly beneath his tanned and care-lined -skin. - -“Confound Usher!” muttered Sylvester, irritably. - -An elderly man of about Matthew's age appeared, white-bearded, -gold-spectacled, wearing a tightly buttoned frock-coat. He was of heavy -build and had loose lips and dull watery eyes, the lids faintly rimmed -with blood-red. He came forward into the room with extended hand. - -“My dear friend, how are you this evening?” he said with a curious -deliberation, as if he had duly sucked each word before he spat it -out. “And, Sylvester, my dear lad, how are you? I have been very unwell -to-day, and the weather has increased my sufferings. You notice that -there is a wheezing in my bronchial tubes. Yet I thought I must come to -see you this evening in spite of the weather. I said to Olivia, 'It is a -duty, and I must fulfil it.'” - -“Pray sit down, Usher,” said Matthew, politely. “Let me pass you the -port.” - -“A little port wine would be very good for me. I cannot afford port -wine, Matthew, like you, or I should drink it habitually. I should think -this was very expensive.” - -He smacked his loose lips and held the glass up to the light. - -“It is a sound wine,” said Matthew. - -“If you would not put too high a price on it,” said the other, in his -monotonous voice, “perhaps I might buy some from you. What would you -charge?” - -“In the market it would fetch about a hundred and eighty shillings a -dozen,” said Sylvester, savagely. - -But his father raised a hand in courteous deprecation. - -“I am not a wine-merchant, Usher, and am not in the habit of retailing -my cellar. But if you'd accept a dozen, I should be very pleased to -send it round to you.” - -“I will accept it with great pleasure,” said Usher, blandly. “It would -hurt your feelings if I refused your generosity. Have you ever remarked -how generous your father is, Sylvester?” - -The young man moved impatiently in his chair. He could never understand -the almost lifelong intimacy that existed between his father and this -old man, Usher, whom he held in cordial detestation. So he said nothing, -while the guest took a fresh sip of wine, and rolled it appreciatively -over his tongue. - -“Your father and I were young men together in Australia, Sylvester,” he -remarked. “Youth is a glorious time, and its friendships last. I never -forget my old friends.” - -“The sentiment does you credit, Usher,” said Matthew. - -The servant entered with the London evening paper just sent from the -railway bookstall. Usher held out a large soft hand for it, and the -servant retired. - -“I want to see what has happened in the Trevelyan divorce case,” he -said, unfolding the paper. “I have followed it closely.” - -A _cause celebre_ was setting England whispering and sniggering, and -there were many like Usher who scanned the columns of the newspapers -that evening in pleased anticipation. But Sylvester expressed his -distaste. - -“How can you read it? The air is reeking sufficiently with the nastiness -already.” - -“I am interested,” replied Usher. “I think nothing human alien to me. -_Nil humani_, as we used to say at school. I remember my classics. -I have a very good memory. Here it is. The jury found Mrs. Trevelyan -guilty of adultery with the co-respondent. Damages £5000 and costs. -The judge pronounced a decree _nisi_; the husband to have custody of the -children. I pity the poor woman.” - -“I don't,” said Sylvester, shortly. “Such women are better dead.” - -“No doubt you are right,” returned Usher. “The sacred principles of -morality ought to be upheld at any cost. I have always upheld morality. -What do you think, Matthew?” The old man looked steadily at his finger -nails and replied in a dispassionate voice,-- - -“One never knows what lies behind.” Sylvester rose and shrugged his -shoulders. - -“Wantonness and baseness lie behind. I have no patience with misplaced -sympathy in such cases. Here is this woman you are reading about,--she -betrayed her husband, deserted her children. She deserves no pity.” - -Usher waggled his head indulgently. - -“I am a Christian man,” he said, “and I have a tender heart. I have -always had a tender heart, Matthew.” - -Sylvester laughed and threw the end of his cigar into the fire. He was -half ashamed of having been betrayed into a display of deep feeling -before one whom he considered a shallow egotist. - -“Well, I haven't,” he said. “I'm going up to the drawing-room. Perhaps -you'll join me.” - -He nodded to his father and left the room. Matthew edged his -chair further from the fire, and wiped his lips and brow with his -handkerchief. - -“You are getting too warm,” said Usher. - -“The room is hot. When you have finished your wine, we may as well -follow Sylvester.” - -Usher poured out another glass. - -“I am very comfortable,” he said. “I always am here. You must be proud -to have a son with such sentiments as Sylvester.” - -Matthew rose abruptly from his seat, clenched his hands by his side, and -bit a quivering lip. Evidently he was mastering something. - -“Drink your wine and come upstairs,” he said. - -The other looked at him askance and hesitated. Then yielding, as it -were, to compulsion, he gulped down the contents of his glass and rose -with watery eyes. - -“It was a sin to do that,” he said with a sigh. “You always were an -unreasonable fellow, Matthew. I only said I was glad that Sylvester -held such opinions. Most young men nowadays are shockingly lax in their -principles.” Matthew did not reply, but with cold, imperturbable face -opened the door for him to pass out. Usher hung back. - -“I must speak to you about my son Roderick. Business before pleasure. It -has been my constant rule in life.” - -“What has Roderick been doing now?” asked Matthew, closing the door -again. - -“He is bringing my grey hairs in sorrow to the grave again,” replied -Usher. “My son and your son--what a difference, Matthew! 'Tis sharper -than--” - -“Rubbish! What's the matter, man?” - -“A serpents tooth, to have a thankless child. I dislike being -interrupted. Matthew, Roderick has gone to the Jews. The bills have -fallen due. They won't renew, and if they are not paid, they'll put him -in prison. I cannot have my son in prison.” - -“Get him out, then,” replied Matthew. “I can't do more for him than -I do. I promised, years ago, that what Sylvester had, Roderick should -have, and, by Heaven! I've kept my promise. I can't do more. You can't -draw blood from a stone.” - -“As if any one ever wanted to. Proverbs are foolish. I never make use of -proverbs. I think you must take up those bills.” - -“And if I don't?” - -Usher shrugged his shoulders and, sitting down again, refilled his -glass and held it up to the light. Matthew stood on the hearth-rug, his -hands behind him, and regarded him impassively. - -“I gave you Roderick's quarterly allowance only a short while ago. What -has he done with it?” - -“I do not know,” said Usher, impressively, turning his dull venerable -face towards him. “He has nearly ruined me already.” - -“Have you brought his letters with you?” - -“I burned his letters. It is imprudent to keep compromising letters. But -I have made out a statement of affairs.” - -Usher took from his pocket a double sheet of foolscap, smoothed it out -and examined it deliberately, then handed it to Matthew. The latter -glanced through the statement. His lips quivered for a moment. - -“This is practically fraud,” he said. “A magistrate might commit on it, -a jury find a verdict of guilty, and then--” - -“His dear mother's memory,” said Usher, wagging his head solemnly. - -Matthew involuntarily clenched the paper tight in his hand. - -“Damn you!” he said. Then he repeated it. “Damn you!” - -But Usher stretched out a deprecating hand and spoke in tones of gentle -reproach. - -“You must be calm, my dear friend. I am always calm. I have never said -a word in all my life that I have had cause to regret. Not even this -morning, when Olivia with great carelessness destroyed a new book-plate. -And it was a very valuable book-plate. It belonged to Hugh, the first -Earl of Lawford, of Edward III.'s creation.” - -“Are you aware that your own son is in danger of penal servitude?” asked -Matthew, sharply. - -“Why, of course. Is not that my reason for coming to you? I put the -matter into your hands, as lawyer and friend and second father to my -erring boy, and I am content. Yes, I am content, for I have trust in -you. Shall we go up now and join the ladies?” Matthew bit the end off -another cigar and lighted it. Then, as if his guest had made the most -natural and relevant proposal in the world, he said with a courtesy not -devoid of grimness,--“My sister is not feeling very well this evening, -and the young folks might be happier alone together, so perhaps we'll -not go upstairs. And as this affair of Roderick's will give me some -thinking, you'll excuse me if I leave you shortly.” - -“You are right,” replied Usher, rising ponderously. “The night air is -not good for me. I suffer much from my bronchial tubes. I must have some -one fitter than Olivia to nurse me. Servants are never grateful for -the bounties one heaps on them. If only Miss Defries would look upon -Roderick as favourably as she does upon Sylvester, how happily things -could be arranged.” - -There was not a spark of cunning or rearward thought in his dim, -unspeculative eyes. Yet Matthew felt a sudden pang of suspicion at his -last words, and scanned his face intently. Was it the first hint of -some scheme long maturing in his dull yet tenacious brain, or the mere -surface fancy of the egotist? He could not tell, although he flattered -himself that he knew the man's soul as a priest his breviary,--every -line and phrase, every thumb-mark and dog's ear. - -“I think the less said about Roderick for some time, the better,” - he remarked, ringing the bell. Then before the servant came, he said -suddenly,-- - -“But, by Heaven! this is the last time. Understand that. Once more, and -I break down the whole structure though it kill me--carry the war into -your quarters and tell Roderick all.” - -Usher's face was shadowed by a faint smile. - -“My dear friend, Roderick has known all his life. I could never leave my -son in ignorance. I gave him the best training.” - -The servant appeared. Usher extended his hand, which the other touched -mechanically, and in another moment was gone, leaving Matthew staring -incredulously, conscious of utter dismay. - -“Is he lying?” he asked himself, a short while later, as he paced the -library, whither he had betaken himself with the moneylending document. -“Can the boy be such a blackguard? He must be lying.” But how base the -lie was in reality, even he could not surmise. - -The boy was a man of forty now, yet Matthew had watched and paid for -every step upward and downward in his career. He remembered him a -handsome and wayward child, a wild lad, a young man brilliant in -promise, yet unstable as water, excelling in naught. He had seen him -by turns poet, painter, journalist, social reformer, musical critic, -dramatist, always obtaining successes of estimation, always floating -iridescent and futile as froth on the waves of literary and artistic -London. What Roderick was doing now, he did not know. For some time -past he had heard little of him. Now he had come to light again somewhat -luridly. A foolish friend had backed bills under false representations. -The Jews were pressing, the friend recalcitrant. It was a criminal -matter. If he were guilty of this, why not of that knowledge of which -his father boasted so cynically? Matthew's face grew worn and hard. He -unlocked a safe, drew therefrom a small padlocked ledger, and sitting -down at his desk began to pore over its contents. Roderick must be saved -this time at any cost, for his mother's sake, as Usher had remarked. At -the reminiscence Matthew reiterated his execration. - -After long, anxious thought, he made a rough calculation on a scrap of -paper, and leaning back in his chair regarded it until something dim, -like tears, came across his vision. - -“My poor Syl,” he said, “I have to rob you--for your own happiness.” - -And at that moment, just outside the door stood Sylvester and Ella -bidding each other good-night. The full glow of the hall lamp shone down -upon her radiant young face, as he held both her hands in his, and made -a glinting aureole of her hair. Suddenly he laughed awkwardly and kissed -her; with a half-mirthful, half-reproachful “Oh, you shouldn't!” she -snatched away her hands and ran up the stairs. He stood and watched the -last gleam of her skirts disappear and then entered his father's room. - -Matthew closed his ledger and looked up with one of his rare smiles. - -“Going, Syl?” - -“Yes. I 've been sent for, as usual. It's all very well for me to work -at this ungodly hour. I'm a medical man, and I'm young. But I don't like -to see you at it. You 're overdoing it, father.” - -“Nonsense!” replied Matthew, cheerily; “I'm as strong as a horse and -younger than you are. Besides, I was only amusing myself, like the king -in his counting-house, counting out my money.” - -He rubbed his eyes, yawned, and stretched himself contentedly in his -chair. - -“Usher kept me a long time,” he continued, “telling me one of his -interminable yarns--_a dormir debout_, as the French say.” - -“I can't think how you stand him,” said Sylvester. - -“Oh, you can stand a devil of a lot if you try,” said the old man, -laughing. “Have some whisky before you go?” - -But Syl pleaded urgency, went out for hat and coat, and returned ready -for departure. His father accompanied him to the front door. - -“By the way, Syl,” he said, “do you really think so hardly of the woman -who sins, or was it only that Usher made you contradictious?” - -“I think a woman must be pure and chaste. If she falls, she falls for -ever. Why do you ask?” - -“I only wanted to know if you were genuine.” - -“It is the most sacred of my convictions,” said Sylvester, gravely. - -The two men shook hands, and the door closed behind Sylvester. The -father listened to his quick footsteps crunching the gravel until the -sound died away. Then he turned and sighed. - -“My poor lad, God help you,” he said. - - - - -CHAPTER III--SYLVESTER CONSULTS THE STARS - -Sylvester walked home from his case, along the undulating high-road -patched with moonlight and shadow, swinging his stick. The night was -crisp with a touch of frost, and the air smelt sweet. Now and then a -workingman regaining his home after town convivialities, passed him by -with a salute to which he replied with a cheerier good-night than usual. -One he stopped, and discoursed with him at length on family ailments, -much to the man's surprise; for Sylvester was renowned far and wide for -his shy silence as well as for his skill. Once he began to whistle an -air, wofully out of tune, and then broke into a short laugh. - -Yes, Ella was right. It was good to be alive, to feel heart and brain -and body on the alert, responsive to outer things. But whence had come -the change? It was years since he had felt so young and conscious of -power. Was it the touch of a girl's fresh cheek against his lips? He -did not know. The feelings that had prompted the act were too new, too -undefined, for immediate analysis. The spell of the benumbing heartache -that had held him nerveless for four long years seemed to be broken, and -he was a man again. - -He looked upward at the stars in the simple fancy that the dear dead -wife, the Constance he had worshipped so passionately, was gazing down -upon him with happy consent in her pure eyes. The love he had given -her was immortal, and she knew it. It was no disloyalty to love another -sweet woman on earth and to put his own broken life and his motherless -child into her keeping.... Yet after a few moments he lowered his gaze -for a while and walked on, his heart filled with the old love. - -He was one of those reserved natures, capable of intense feeling, yet -incapable of outward expression, who make for themselves few friends and -are often condemned to loneliness of soul. Born with greater cravings -for sympathy than most men, they have less power to demand it. This is -too busy a world for us to stop to wonder whether a man wants what he -does not ask for; too many are clamouring loudly for what we cannot -give. So the unfortunates are passed by unheeded, each working out in -his heart his little tragedy of unfulfilled longings. But when a finer -spirit comes and divines their needs, then their hearts leap towards it -and cling to it with a great unexpressed passion of gratitude. Such had -been the beginning of Sylvesters love for his wife; such that of his -dawning love for Ella. Each in her way had comprehended his solitude; -unasked in words, but spiritually besought, each had filled it with her -influence. He needed the peculiar sympathy that a woman alone can give, -her companionship, her practical intellect, to complement his theoretic -mind. His nature cried dumbly for a whole-hearted, expansive creature -to give objectivity to life. Left to himself, he sank into routine; he -lacked the power of bringing colour and harmony into his world. This -the woman he loved could do. Once, for a few short years, a woman had -changed his universe. Then she had died, and the blackness of night -had encompassed him. He had suffered silently, as a strong man suffers, -rarely mentioning her name, but eating out his heart in desolation; and -then Ella had come. He had known her from early childhood, but had last -seen her as the schoolgirl of no account. - -Now she had sprung into his horizon, a young and splendid woman of -amazing opposites, who compelled attention; and she was the only woman -other than Constance who, during all his life, had sought to know him -and to act towards him tenderwise. Nevertheless, he could not say as yet -that he loved her, in the sweet and common way of love. The old and new -hung equipoised on a delicate balance. The vague sense of this, perhaps, -was one element in the rare exaltation of his mood. - -Another element, no doubt, was the final resolve he had taken that -morning, to go to London, whither his ambitions summoned him. He was a -specialist of some note in zymotic diseases. His researches had met with -a recognition not confined to England. He had felt keenly that he was -giving up to the small circle of a country practice what was meant for -the general needs of mankind. London was the only place for study and -work; for the quick amassing, too, of the small fortune that would free -him from the necessity of earning daily bread and would allow him to -realise his dreams of a great bacteriological laboratory, where he could -devote himself exclusively to independent research. - -It was at the urgent entreaty of Constance that he had bought, just -before his marriage, the practice at Ayresford. A year's life there had -made him regret London. A little later he had spoken of returning. She -had thrown her arms about him and implored him by all his love for her -to stay. She had a horror of London; why, she could not tell. It was -unreasonable, but the fact remained. London would kill her,--its gloom, -its hardness, its cruelty. It had been the same story whenever he had -broached the subject. And then, Dorothy. The child was delicate, would -pine away in the reek and fogs of the town. All her woman's armoury of -passionate weapons had been employed. And he had yielded, out of his -great love. Her death had set him free. But it had taken him four years -to realise his freedom. The mere thought had been anguish. Now he could -gaze upon the past with calmness and the future with hope. As he walked -along, he began to picture the vigorous life before him. He passed -from wide conception to trivial details,--the fittings of his library, -domestic economies. A room for Dorothy--he pulled himself up short. He -had arranged to part with her. The prospect brought a pang. His father's -comfort in the child, however, was a consolation. He thought of him -tenderly,--the dear old man, the most generous and unselfish being who -had ever blessed the earth. He was a man of deep reverences; his father, -his dead mother, and his dead wife were enshrined in his Holy of Holies. -Dorothy, then, should remain at Ayresford. Perhaps the separation would -not be for long. There was a means of shortening it whose readiness was -a great temptation. The vision rose before him of the child's dark curls -nestling against a girl's soft shoulder. Often had he seen the reality -of late, and it had disturbed his depths. Was it not his duty to give -the little one so sweet and strong a mother? Again he consulted the -stars. - -He had reached a set of workmen's cottages in process of erection, on -either side of the road, which marked the beginning of the town. The -moonlight beat hard upon them, showing up vividly their windowless and -doorless skeletons and the piles of bricks, mortar, and lime-covered -boards at their thresholds. He had passed the first block and was -about to traverse a cross-road that led to the railway station, when a -dog-cart containing two men and some luggage turned out of it sharply on -to the highway. Before he could realise the fact, the vehicle suddenly -lurched, the horse plunged, and in a moment the occupants were thrown -heavily on to the road. Sylvester could see at once the cause of -the mishap. A pail of mortar left by the roadside, either through -carelessness or urchin mischief, had caught the wheel. He ran forward. -One of the men, the driver, rose, and shaking himself went to the -horse's head, which was turned round in calm inquiry. The other man lay -still. - -“Hurt?” cried Sylvester. - -“No, doctor,” replied the driver, who belonged to the George Hotel of -Ayresford. “The gentleman may be.” - -He left the pacific animal, and bent with Sylvester over the prostrate -form. - -It was that of a handsome, full-blooded man in the prime of life. He had -fair hair and a great moustache. His face gleamed very white beneath -the moon, and his eyes were glassy. The driver supported his head, -while Sylvester straightened the inert body, which had remained huddled -together after the fall, wrapped in a disordered Inverness cape. -Apparently no bones were broken. Sylvester felt his pulse, which was -just perceptible. Then suddenly he viewed the man's face full, and -started back in amazed distress. - -“Good heavens! it's Frank Leroux!” - -“That's the gentleman's name, sir,” said the driver. - -“How do you know?” - -“He telegraphed from London for a bed to-night, saying that he was to be -met by the last train, which I just did, sir.” - -“But he's my oldest friend,” exclaimed Sylvester. “Leave him to me and -see if the trap is all right. Bring the cushions for his head.” - -He pursued his investigations. Leroux was alive. A trickle of blood -damped his hair. After a while Sylvester drew an anxious breath. - -It was a severe concussion; how grave he could not for the moment -estimate. To drive him in the narrow two-wheeled cart was out of the -question. He hailed the driver, who had righted the vehicle. - -“Get a ambulance as quick as you can from the Infirm. That's nearest.” - -The man touched his hat, and mounting drove off at a forced speed. -Sylvester remained by Leroux, and having done all that was momentarily -possible, was at last able to reflect upon the entire unexpectedness -of his presence. They were old friends, had been at school and at Guy's -together. Leroux, who was somewhat of a waif in the world, had spent -many holidays here in Ayresford, at Woodlands. And even after he -had thrown over medicine for painting, they had maintained the old -relations. Sylvester had reckoned upon him being best man at his -wedding; and when for some whimsical reason, which Sylvester could never -discover but attributed to the artistic temperament, he declined and -went off to Norway, the bridegroom elect knew no one intimately enough -to appoint in his stead save Roderick Usher, against whom he had a -constitutional antipathy. Although he had seen little of him during his -married life, owing to his confinement in the country, and had heard -little of him of late years, save that he was abroad, Sylvester still -entertained for him the warmest affection. How, therefore, was he -to explain this sudden unannounced appearance in Ayresford? It was -preposterous that Frank Leroux should put up at the George Hotel; as -preposterous as if he himself, in earlier days, had driven there instead -of to Woodlands. The act was a sort of treason against friendship, and -Sylvester felt absurdly hurt. He wished that Leroux would straightway -recover consciousness and health so that he could rate him soundly for -his unfriendliness. But there the man, with all the mystery of motive -locked in the dull brain, lay helpless and inert, amid the builder's -refuse from the fantastic shells of houses hard by. It was an ironical -way for friends to meet after an absence and a silence of years. - -Some stragglers from the station came up, passengers by the train, one -or two porters, and the postman with the bag of local mails, and offered -assistance. Sylvester declined, explaining briefly. Not daring to -proffer suggestions as to the patient's treatment, they cursed in honest -terms the offending pail and the worthless hands that had moved it, -and loitered around. Dramatic incidents of a public kind are rare -in Ayresford, and each man determined to make the most of this one, -conscious, perhaps, of a lurking regret that he had not seen the -accident. - -Soon the dog-cart returned, bringing the ambulance and a couple of -bearers from the Infirmary. Leroux was lifted on to the stretcher and -covered with a blanket. The bearers started, the muffled form between -them giving a ghastly suggestion of death in life; Sylvester walked by -the side, the stragglers followed, and the trap brought up the rear. - -“To my house,” said Sylvester. - -The melancholy procession went on its way through the outskirts of -the little town. The cottages gave place to villas, then came houses -standing on their own grounds. Opposite the front gates of Woodlands was -the doctor's house. Sylvester dismissed his followers at the gate and, -taking Leroux's portmanteau from the trap, opened the door for the -bearers and their burden, and directed their way upstairs. The old -housekeeper, roused by the tramping, met them on the landing. - -“It's a man hurt,” explained Sylvester. “Frank Leroux. We'll put him in -my room.” - -A short while afterwards, the unconscious man was settled in Sylvester's -bed, a fire lighted, and Sylvester was left alone. Able to make a more -minute diagnosis, he grew very grave and prepared for an all-night -sitting. - -***** - -In the morning Leroux was still unconscious. - -Sylvester sent for a trained nurse, and as soon as she arrived and had -received her instructions, he went over to Woodlands. The family were -at breakfast. Miss Lanyon, a faded elderly woman, her lean shoulders -enveloped in a black shawl, paused in the act of pouring out tea, -tea-pot in hand. - -“Oh, Sylvester, what a dreadful thing! We have just heard. How is he?” - -He briefly described the accident and hinted at the result, which might -be fatal. Everything depended upon treatment and nursing. He had been up -all night. - -“How tired you must be!” said Ella. - -A world of tenderness underlay the commonplace words. Sylvester looked -at her gratefully. She was deliciously fresh and sweet in her simple -morning dress, and again Sylvester felt how gracious a thing was -life,--especially after his night's battle with death. They talked of -Leroux. All were deeply shocked by the news, for he had been a universal -favourite. In the days past Ella had been accused of a schoolgirl -flirtation with him. Miss Lanyon used to save up especial household -goodies for his consumption during the holidays. Matthew, always fond -of youth, had loved the boy's frank nature, and in his generous way had -seldom let him leave the house without a five-pound note, or a watch, or -a silver-mounted walking-stick in his possession. And now the prodigal -had returned in this dismaying and tragic fashion. - -“What I can't understand,” said Sylvester, “is why he did not announce -his coming,--why he should suddenly turn up at that ungodly hour. There -are plenty of day trains.” - -He appealed unconsciously to his father, who made no reply. But a -little later, when Miss Lanyon and Ella had left the room, Matthew said, -suddenly breaking a short silence,-- - -“I was expecting him.” - -“Why didn't you tell me?” asked Sylvester, involuntarily. - -“He was in some trouble apparently, and asked to see me alone this -morning on business.” - -“I wonder what it could have been?” - -“I wonder,” said the old man, drily. - -Sylvester flushed, as if at a rebuke. Knowing his father, he was aware -of indiscretion. Matthew had always maintained the most impenetrable -reserve as regards his business affairs; the son had been trained -from childhood to look upon them as sacrosanct, and to question was an -indecency. - -“I beg your pardon, father,” he said deferentially. - -“I mentioned the fact, for obvious reasons,” said Matthew. - -“Quite so,” said Sylvester, and then hesitating and finally blurting it -out, as if he were ashamed of it, he added,-- - -“I know you are a father confessor to every poor devil in trouble.” - -The old man looked at his son and his kind eyes grew a little moist. -Any tribute of faith and love from Sylvester touched him deeply. But he -laughed and said characteristically,-- - -“There are some people who'll tell you anything, if you 're only -soft-headed enough to listen to them.” Then he nodded towards the -window, and waved his hand,-- - -“There is one, anyhow, who doesn't want a confessor.” - -It was Ella, standing in the clear March sunshine of the garden, looking -in through the French window, and holding up a bunch of fresh-gathered -violets. With a word of adieu to his father, Sylvester went out and -joined her. She pinned the flowers in his buttonhole and for ten -pleasant minutes they walked along the trim-kept paths. - -“You were not angry with me last night?” he asked. - -She murmured very meekly,--“If I were, I should not be here with you -now.” - -“I never thought I should--ever do such a thing again,” he said -awkwardly. “I couldn't help it. It has made a different man of me.” - -She drew herself up quite proudly and looked him straight in the eyes. -They were brave, clear eyes, and so were the man's that met them. - -“Are you in earnest?” she asked. - -“Am I the man not to be in earnest?” he answered. - -The doctor's page, running across the strip of lawn to them, broke the -spell with the time-honoured morning announcement,-- - -“There is some one in the surgery, sir.” - -Sylvester dismissed the urchin and looked at his watch. It was some -minutes past his consultation hour. - -“We will have a long talk this evening,” he said, bidding her farewell. - - - - -CHAPTER IV--LEROUX SPEAKS - -Matthew and Miss Lanyon were standing under the front porch talking -over poor Frank Leroux when Ella came up with a very happy face. - -“What a colour you 've got, child!” cried Agatha Lanyon. - -“It is the fresh country air. I was being choked in town.” - -“And the country people,” suggested the elder lady, archly. - -“And the fresh country people,” assented Ella. - -“My dear,” said Matthew to his sister, “this is the first time we've -been complimented on our adorable rusticity.” - -“We don't count,” said Miss Lanyon. - -“I never knew you could be so wicked,” cried Ella, taking her by her -shoulders and kissing her. Whereupon she disappeared into the house. - -“I do hope it is settled,” said Miss Lanyon, with a little sentimental -sigh. - -“What?” - -“Sylvester and Ella. Do you mean to say you haven't noticed? I have been -following it all for months.” - -Miss Lanyon had reached the age when one lives in the romances of -others. - -“I believe you amuse yourself, Agatha, by mixing up your young friends -and sorting them out in pairs, like gloves,” remarked Matthew. - -Miss Lanyon denied the charge indignantly. This was quite a different -matter. Anybody with eyes could see how things were tending. It was a -match. She was sure it was a marriage made in heaven. - -“I like heaven-made marriages as little as machine-made boots,” said -Matthew. “Both are apt to come undone in unexpected places. But if -these two are thinking of a wholesome earth-made union--well, I shall be -delighted.” - -“But hasn't Syl told you anything?” - -“Not a word.” - -“Couldn't you ask him, Matthew?” - -“My dear Agatha,” said he, drawing himself up, “how can you suggest my -committing such an impertinence?” - -Miss Lanyon worshipped her brother, but she felt there were many odd -corners of his mind which needed the housewifely besom; just as there -were cobwebs in his office which, on the rare occasions when she entered -it, made her fingers twitch. But being organically acquiescent she -sighed again sentimentally, and brought Matthew his hat and stick. - -For Ella, the hours of that day were winged with sunshine. She loved -Sylvester as deeply as one of our untried, pure-minded Northern girls -can love; and with larger wisdom, too, than most. For she had lived a -free life in her aunt's eccentric house in London, and had sifted the -vanities of many men. Passion would only be evoked by the clasp of -encircling arms and would rise to meet claiming lips. As yet in Ella it -lay a pure fire hidden in the depths of a fervent nature. But all the -sweet thrills of a woman's early love were hers,--the pride in a -strong man's wooing, the fluttering fears as to her sufficiency for -his happiness, the resolves, scarce formulated, to raise herself to his -level, the dim dreams of a noble life together, striving for the great -things of the world that are worth the winning. Added thereto was the -delicate charm, essentially feminine, of triumph over the shadows that -had fought with her for possession of his heart. - -When she entered her room to dress for dinner that evening, she took -down her frocks and laid them on the bed, and stood a while in deep -thought. She must look her best tonight. She chose a simple cream dress -with chiffon round the bodice and sleeves. Halfway through her toilette -she clasped her white arms over her neck, and looking in the glass held -long converse with her image. It seemed so strange that she, with all -her imperfections of soul and body, should be chosen to guide a man's -destiny. Then lighter fancies prevailed, and she spent anxious moments -in arranging her thick auburn hair. When she came down at last, with a -diamond-hilted dagger thrust through the coils, and a bunch of violets -peeping shyly from the chiffon in her corsage, Matthew paid her an old -man's compliment. - -“Do I look nice?” she asked, gratified. “I'm glad; for you once told me -that you liked me in this frock.” - -There are times when the sincerest of women can be most blandly -deceitful. - -***** - -A general practitioner may propose to himself many pleasant occupations -for his spare hours, but his patients dispose of them effectually. On -this particular day, when Sylvester craved leisure to watch over Leroux -and to open his heart finally to Ella, impossible people fell sick at -interminable distances, tiny human beings came with preposterous haste -into this world of trouble, and larger ones gave sudden and alarming -symptoms of leaving it. It was one of those well-known days of sudden -stress when a country doctor eats his meals standing and wearing his -overcoat. Finally, an evening visit from which he reckoned on being free -by nine kept him by an anxious bedside till nearly eleven. But he had -found time to despatch to Ella a few lines scribbled on a leaf of his -pocket-book:-- - - _Dearest,--I can't come, much as I long to. Will see you in - the morning. S. L._ - -This was almost the first letter he had ever written to her; certainly -the first love-letter. The new sweetness of it soothed Ella's -disappointment. - -At half-past eleven he reached his house, a very weary man. He put on -his slippers, stretched himself, yawned, and thought wistfully of bed. -But first he must go to Leroux, whom he had only seen at odd intervals -during the day. He was pouring himself out some whisky when the -housekeeper entered the dining-room, smoothing her apron. - -“I'm glad you 've come, Mr. Sylvester. He's took worse, nurse says. His -temperature has gone up to 104.” - -He nodded, swallowed the drink, and went upstairs. The nurse was bending -over the bed in the dimly lit room, adjusting the ice-bag. The sick -man's portmanteau had been unpacked, and the contents were piled upon -a chest of drawers. The clothes he had been wearing were hanging from -a row of pegs against the door. The flap of the jacket turned outward, -revealed in the breast-pocket a letter-case stuffed with papers. With -the air of a man accustomed to prompt action, Sylvester withdrew the -letter-case and locked it up. The nurse confirmed the housekeeper's -statements. - -“He has been delirious at times,” she added. - -Sylvester bent down and placed the thermometer in position, then waited, -looking gravely down upon his friend. Leroux's face was congested. His -hands moved feebly. - -Now and then he moaned. Sylvester examined him closely, inspected the -temperature chart of the last few hours, questioned the nurse as to -their history. A surmise that had been troubling him most of the day -now converted itself into a certainty. Leroux must have been drinking -heavily of late. Thus it was that meningitis had set in from the -concussion. But why should Leroux, once the sanest and cleanest of men, -have taken to drink? The pity of it smote Sylvester. The gay spirit -brutalised, the noble mind o'erthrown. His heart yearned over the -unconscious man. His father had spoken of Leroux being in trouble. He -conjectured pitiful histories of downfall. With a sigh he turned away, -gave final directions, and went to bed. - -Three hours later he was waked. The nurse outside the door was calling -him. Accustomed to sudden rising, he leaped up, and thrusting on -dressing-gown and slippers, went back to the sick room. Leroux was -in full tide of violent delirium, his words, wonderfully articulate, -striking almost spectrally upon the utter silence of the house,--“It -is better to die than to live in hell on earth. If you give me up, God -Almighty will give me up.... What is his love to mine?” - -The nurse, who had been on duty since ten, was young and nervous. - -“He has been like this for an hour. I couldn't stand it any longer.” - -“We will go away to the south,” continued Leroux. “No one minds what a -painter does--For God's sake don't give me up--” - -“You can go to bed, nurse,” said Sylvester. “I'll sit with him.” - -The tired girl, glad to gain some extra and unexpected hours of slumber, -retired gratefully. Sylvester sat by the bedside. It was as well, he -thought, that the man's poor secrets should be blabbed into a friend's -ears instead of a stranger's. He tried not to listen, but to think of -other things,--Ella and his meeting with her on the morrow. But the -clear voice, now rising in ghastly emphasis, now sinking to a murmur -losing itself in guttural incoherence, continued its tale of love and -despair, so that Sylvester could not choose but piece it together in -his mind. It was a common tale of unlawful love: a passionate man, -a yielding woman, a deceived and adoring husband. Sylvester, whose -reserved, chaste nature had caused him to train himself in a narrow -groove of orthodox morality, felt strangely repelled by the confession. -He had always regarded Leroux as the soul of honour. The thief of a -man's wife was lowered in his esteem. - -There was a silence. He rested his head on his hand and wearily dozed. -Suddenly came a cry from the bed, a cry of great pain and longing,-- - -“Constance--Constance!” - -The name, fitting in with a waking dream, brought Sylvester with a leap -to his feet, and he looked in foolish bewilderment at Leroux. The latter -murmured incoherently. Had he dreamed the voice crying out the name -so distinctly? He held his breath, trying to seize the half-formed -syllables. “Constance--my love--” had come again. He had not been -dreaming. The voice rose once more, and each word came sharply cut from -the sick man's lips. - -“_Sylvester will never know_.” - -Then the tremendous horror of the revelation crashed down upon the man, -stunning his brain, paralysing his limbs. The great drops of sweat stood -on his forehead, and his eyes were staring. And Leroux, who had struck -upon a quieter vein of reminiscence, babbled on of the happy days of his -love. - -The first thunder-clap had passed. Thought began to return. Sylvester -sank into a chair and stared at the ground. The once clear vision of the -past was distorted into a phantasmagoria of leering shapes. He shivered -as with an ague, rubbed his eyes, and looked sharply at the man on the -bed. Which of the two was delirious? Leroux raved of death and despair. -The involuntary confession was too complete; mistake was impossible. Yet -the other was impossible. Constance guilty of this hideousness? Her -life a lie? The firm anchorage of his soul but shifting sand? He had -worshipped her as more than woman,--as the purest, chastest thing that -God had ever given to man for his guidance. It was a ghastly figment of -Leroux's drink-besotted brain. - -He rose, went to the drawer in which he had locked Leroux's letter-case, -and taking it out with shaking hands, deliberately turned the contents -on to the corner of the chest. In spite of the revulsion of faith he had -a sickening certainty of finding there what he hoped he would not find. - -There it was, staring him in the face amid a heap of stamps, visiting -cards, pencilled memoranda slips, letters, and law papers: a soiled, -crumpled letter in his dead wife's hand. He took it up, and from it -dropped a lock of fair hair,--her hair. He read it through steadily. -It was a letter of passionate love, leaving no doubt as to guilt; of -despair, almost madness; such a letter of abandonment as a woman writes -but to one man in a lifetime. It bore no date save the day of the -week,--Wednesday. Even in his agony he contrasted the difference between -this woman and the serene, methodical wife who would as soon have left -a letter undated as the household dinner unordered. He threw the letter -and the lock of hair into the fire, and watched the two little flames -in the glowing coals. The paper curled, the hair writhed; then a little -light ash remained. - -Methodically he replaced the cards and papers in the letter-case and -locked it up again in the drawer. Then he stood at the foot of the bed -and watched the man who had done him this great wrong, his brain on fire -with bewildering fury. The name of his wife came again from the man's -lips. A red cloud passed before Sylvester's eyes. For a moment he -seemed to lose consciousness of manhood, to become a wild beast. When he -recovered, he found himself glaring into Leroux's eyes with his fingers -at his throat. How near he had been to murder he did not know. - -He drew himself up and wiped the sweat from his forehead, shaken to -the depths by the beast impulse. The reaction brought self-control. -He resumed his vigil by the bedside, listening grimly to the words of -Leroux, now less frequent and distinct. Yet though he could master his -actions, he did not combat with the increasing hatred that took the -place of the old affection. At times he considered calmly whether such a -man should be allowed to live. In his weak state one quick blow over the -heart would stop its beating for ever. The man had done more than wrong -him. He had killed his soul, made it an awful thing to live. Yet, as if -in contempt of such imaginings, he rose once or twice and changed the -bandages with a surgeon's delicate handling, and moistened the swollen -lips with ice. - -Gradually all the phases of realisation developed themselves in his -mind. Far off memories recurred, touched the flesh. It was their -marriage bed whereon Leroux was lying. - -He shuddered from the manifold horror of it, and for the first time -broke into a hoarse cry. - -Toward morning the fever lowered and Leroux lay still. Streaks of a -ghostly daylight crept in through the Venetian blinds and barred the -floor. The nurse came to take over her watch. Sylvester gave brief -instructions, and, going to his room, threw himself on his bed and slept -heavily. At the moment of waking he had a sense of nightmare, was all -but congratulating himself on his release; but another instant brought -the full flood of memory. He rose, shaved, dressed himself as usual, and -went down to breakfast. At the bottom of the stairs was a quick patter -of feet and two little arms were thrown around his limbs. It was -Dorothy. He started back, looked at her stupidly. Then roughly -disengaging her, he thrust her aside and hurried into the breakfast -room. A new and sickening doubt convulsed him. Was she his child? - -She came in a while later, shyly holding by the maid-servant's skirts, -regarding him with scared reproach. Never had her father been cross or -rough. Ungentleness from him was incomprehensible to her child's mind. - -“Run away upstairs,” he said, controlling his voice, then added to the -servant, “Take Miss Dorothy into the nursery.” - -The child burst into tears, as the maid led her out. Tender-hearted a -man as he was, for all the world he could not have called her back. - - - - -CHAPTER V--DE MORTUIS - -He received his patients in the consulting-room, visited Leroux, and -went on his morning rounds. On his return, he perceived Ella at the -gates of Woodlands. He raised his hat and was proceeding to turn into -his own little carriage drive, when she made a gesture of arrest. He -pulled up, descended from the trap, and went to meet her. - -“How is poor Mr. Leroux? we have all been so anxious. Of course the -nurse has reported, but we wanted to know from you.” - -“I am afraid it's a serious matter,” said Sylvester. - -“Do you mean that he may die?” - -“Possibly.” - -“I am so sorry,” she said, laying a sympathetic touch on his arm. “I -know what a dear friend he was.” - -“A dear friend,” he assented grimly. - -“You are looking so fagged. You have been sitting up all night, I hear. -Two nights.” He confessed his vigils, explained Leroux's symptoms, -and gave her an authoritative report for his father. If he found any -material change since the morning, he would send a message across. The -topic exhausted, there was a short silence. She tried to speak, after an -embarrassed glance, but his sombreness daunted her. He was taking this -danger of his friend greatly to heart. - -“You are coming in to see Uncle Matthew some time to-day?” she asked. - -“It depends upon my work,” he said. “I have a great deal to occupy me.” - -With a word of adieu he left her and went into his own house. Ella -passed through the gate of Woodlands and strolled slowly down the -shrubbery walk, carrying a little burden of depression. For all his -anxiety on Mr. Leroux's behalf, he might have made some reference to -his letter, some allusion to the sweet and delicate suspense of their -present relations. She felt vaguely disappointed at the lack of appeal -to her sympathy. But her spirits revived when Matthew Lanyon, coming -briskly home to lunch, overtook her and asked her in his cheery voice -for news of the invalid. She took his arm in girlish fashion and gave -him Sylvester's message. - -“He seems dreadfully distressed,” she said. - -“Poor old Syl! But he'll pull him through. He doesn't realise his -own powers. I don't think we respect Syl half enough. He's a great -physician, you know.” - -He rattled on, proud of his son, quite glad to have a pretty girl -hanging, in that daughterly way, on his arm. He stopped now and then, -pointing to the tiny green shoots on the trees. The fine weather of the -last few days was the cause. Did Ella remember how black everything -was only a week ago? He spoke as if it were a miracle performed for -the first time and not the recurring phenomenon of a million springs. A -thrush flew out of a laurel bush. He named it, followed it with his eyes -to the elm where it alighted, stooped down and picked a snail from the -middle of the gravel, where it might get crushed, and threw it lightly -on the grass. The tender simplicities of the old man touched the girl -deeply that afternoon, and his steady optimism made her feel ashamed of -her misgivings. So the sunshine came into her heart again. - -But two days passed before they saw Sylvester. News came frequently. -Leroux was sinking. At last Sylvester entered the library at the hour of -tea and announced gravely,--“He is dead.” - -Miss Lanyon uttered a little cry, and tears flooded her eyes. Matthew -held out his hand. - -“I'm sorry, Syl.” - -“He died about half an hour ago,” said Sylvester. “He never recovered -consciousness, so what were his last wishes God alone knows. I have put -all his papers into a sealed envelope, which I had better hand over to -you, father.” - -Matthew took the packet in silence and locked it in a drawer of his -writing-table. - -“You had better let me look after the funeral too, Syl,” said he, -kindly. “It's the first chance I 've had of doing anything for the poor -fellow.” - -“Thank you, father,” said Sylvester. - -Miss Lanyon tearfully enumerated Leroux's virtues. What a frank, -open-hearted, generous lad! And to be taken away, like this, in his -prime! Who could fathom the will of God? Ella remained silent, grieved -at Sylvester's loss. But he refused to meet the ready sympathy in her eyes, -and looked stonily through the window on the grey March sky. Presently -he turned away. To remain there longer was unendurable. - -“I have a patient to see, some way out. One mustn't neglect the living -for the dead.” - -Then for the first time he met Ella's glance, and a special application -of his saying occurred to him. - -“Good-bye, all,” he said, and strode hurriedly from the room. He drew a -deep breath on reaching the open air. It was good to be alone, away from -the torturing irony of sympathy. And it was good to be away from the -foreshadowing of reproach in a woman's eyes. - -That night, before he slept, he shut his teeth upon a horrible -repulsion, and went into the death chamber to see that all things had -been decently done. The man lay cold and pale, his jaws swathed and his -eyes closed, an awful sphinx. Sylvester stood and gazed upon him till -his heart grew as cold as the dead man's. It was well that he was dead, -so that he could blab the disastrous secret no more. Sylvester had -questioned the nurses discreetly. To his relief he had found that the -delirious ravings had made no impression on their memories. He alone had -been the confidant. He had tended the man with devoted skill. The -strain of that terrible task was over. Now the dead past would bury its -dead,--his own heart and youth therewith. He was glad the man would no -longer cumber the earth--and he was glad that his wife was dead. - -Three days afterwards, Leroux was buried. A fussy elderly man, Leroux's -cousin and sole surviving relative, shared with Sylvester the post of -chief mourner, and departed into the unknown whence he came. Sylvester -stood by the grave with a set, impassive face, and his father stood by -his side, looking strangely like him. On the drive home it was Sylvester -who exchanged a few courteous remarks with the cousin; but the old man -remained singularly silent. - -They sat together alone that evening in the library. - -“Leroux died intestate,” said Matthew, breaking a long silence. “He was -in a troubled state of mind and was coming to me to help him with his -will.” - -“He had been drinking heavily,” said Sylvester. - -“I presumed so. He had roughed the will out. He only had a few -thousands. But Dorothy was to have the greater part. I showed the draft -to John Leroux to-day, who is a man of great wealth. He is desirous that -his cousin's wishes should be carried out.” - -“I can accept no gifts from Mr. John Leroux,” said Sylvester. - -The old man argued the point. Morally the money was Dorothy's. Sylvester -listened stubbornly. He revolted at the thought of touching Leroux's -money. It was a ghastly impossibility. He repeated,-- - -“I cannot accept it.” - -“Money is money, Syl, after all; and I may not be able, perhaps, to do -what I had hoped for Dorothy.” - -“While my daughter bears my name I can support her decently. If Mr. -Leroux will not benefit by what is legally his, he can devote it to -charity. It is a matter of principle.” - -They were both inflexible men, and they understood each other's nature. -Matthew did not press the point. - -“Very well,” he said in a business tone. “I will tell Mr. Leroux of your -decision.” - -But the impassiveness of his tone was belied by the almost yearning -earnestness with which he regarded his son, who sat staring into the -fire. He would have given years of his own happiness to know whether -a gnawing suspicion were baseless; but the question could not be put. -Sylvester was silent. What troubles were at work behind his sombre -brow the old man could not fathom; and Sylvester, though his heart was -bursting, could not speak. - -How could he disclose, even to the being who now was dearest to him -in the world, his wife's shame, his own dishonour? Better to keep the -hideous fact locked up in his breast. But yet, if he could have found a -rush of tumultuous words, what heart-ease were in it! So many, with -that great gift of expansiveness, had come to his father and gone away -comforted, and he, the son deeply loving and deeply loved, was powerless -to utter a complaint. He bit his lip to repress a groan. - -And so it was all through the remainder of his residence in Ayresford. -His relations with his father continued their old undemonstrative -course. To please him, he assumed his wonted cheerfulness and spoke of -matters political and parochial. And by degrees the old man forgot the -cloud he had seen hanging over him and only thought of his approaching -departure. Dorothy came to live at Woodlands, so as to grow accustomed -to the change, said Sylvester, and he only saw her on his rare visits. -He forced himself to be kind and take notice of her as formerly. But the -sight of her was a great pain. - -Ella he avoided as much as possible, never seeing her alone. One day she -was standing by the porch as he came up. - -“Is my father in?” he asked. - -“He hasn't yet come back from the office.” - -“I will go and meet him there,” he replied, and went away forthwith. - -“Have you and Syl quarrelled?” asked Miss Lanyon, who had observed the -scene from indoors. - -Ella laughed; not a happy laugh. - -“You are behind the times, Aunt Agatha. Nowadays unceremoniousness is a -proof of friendship.” - -“I should call it rudeness, my dear,” said Miss Lanyon. - -“That's a proof of affection,” said Ella. - -But she went quickly up to her room, lest the elder lady should see the -angry tears that rose in her eyes. - -At first she strove to explain away his change of attitude. Then she -examined her own conduct, with a view to discover therein some possible -cause. She could find none. A dull sense of pain and dread crept over -her. What did it mean? He had kissed her, all but asked her to be his -wife, and now, suddenly, he ignored her existence. The realisation of -the fulness of her love for him smote her cruelly as she lay awake at -night. She shrank, fearful-eyed, from the prospect of life without him. -It stretched before her a dreary waste of futile years. Then the quick -hope of youth came back. It was some foolish misunderstanding. Sylvester -was worried, preoccupied, saddened. There were so many things to be -reckoned with in the strenuous life of a man. He would speak, explain. -All would be well. - -But the days passed and that of Sylvester's departure drew nigh. He -had hurried it on. His successor had arrived, been introduced to the -practice; no advantage could be gained by remaining at Ayresford, where -all save his father was strangely hateful. Ella waited, but Sylvester -never spoke nor looked her way. At last she could bear the mortifying -suspense no longer. It was the evening before his departure. She was -sitting with Miss Lanyon in the drawing-room after dinner, having left -the two men below to their coffee and cigars. Her companion was -silently knitting, her eyes somewhat dim, poor soul, at the prospect of -Sylvester's absence. Ella went to the piano and tried to play, but her -heart was not in the music. The men lingered downstairs. An hour passed. -The silence and the aching of her own suspense acted on her nerves. -Suddenly she left the room and went downstairs and opened the -dining-room door. Both men rose as she stood on the threshold, a -graceful figure, with heightened colour and eyes unusually bright. - -“I want to say something to Syl before he goes,” she announced boldly. - -“Here he is,” said Matthew, coming forward. “I was just going into the -library for a little as you came in. No; really, Syl, I was. I'll join -you upstairs when you have had your chat.” - -“You spoil me, Uncle Matthew,” said the girl, touched, as she always -was, by his old-fashioned courtesy. “Why can't Syl and I go into the -library?” - -“Because I'm master in my own house, my dear,” smiled the old man. - -He closed the door behind him. Sylvester motioned Ella to a chair. - -“No,” she said. “I have not come to stay.” - -She was silent for a moment, looking at the tip of her slipper that -rested on the fender. - -“Have I done anything to offend you lately, Sylvester?” she asked at -length. - -“Nothing that I am aware of,” he answered gravely. - -“We don't seem to be such good friends,” she hazarded. - -“I am sure you must be mistaken.” - -The cold formality of the phrase was a knell to her hopes. She looked up -somewhat piteously and met hard, unsympathetic eyes. - -“I thought--you made me think--” she began. He raised his hand slightly -to check her. - -“If I did,” he said coldly, “I was wrong. I owe you all my apologies.” - There was a moment's silence. “If I could say more, I would,” he added. - -But a quickly gathering anger in the girl's heart suddenly broke out. -She drew herself up, flaming-cheeked, with eyes flashing through the -tears that would come. - -“You have behaved horribly, cruelly, and I want never to see your face -again.” - -Sylvester bowed his head. A swift rustle of skirts, a sound of the -door, and she was gone. He raised his head and drew rather a choking -breath. He knew that Ella had just cause for reproach. But what could -be done? The new budding love had been killed outright. He regarded her -with aversion, with something akin even to horror. And his heart was as -cold as a stone. - - - - -CHAPTER VI--THE WALDEN ART COLONY - -It was a Sunday in June, a year after Sylvester had come to London, -and the great stretch of the Park, past Stanhope Gate, north of -Achilles' statue, was thronged. The warm breath of the afternoon air -scarcely stirred the leaves that chequered with shade and sunshine the -mass of cool colour below. Above shone the vivid green of the foliage -and the sea-blue of the sky; but beneath the branches the air was -tempered by the reflection of the whites, the pale greys, the delicate -blues and lavenders, and the soft pinks of dresses and parasols. It was -the ordinary crowd that sat there, very fashionable, somewhat vulgar -below the surface, but delicately picturesque, like human flower-beds -in a sweet but formal garden. And on the walks beside and around and -between passed the endless procession of loungers. The hum of talk, the -subdued patter of footsteps, and the frou-frou of soft drapery hung upon -the air. - -Sylvester sat in the sun at the edge of one of the parterres, flanked, -on the one side, by an elderly matron chaperoning a line of laughing -girls, and on the other by a white-moustached, red-faced Anglo-Indian -laying down the law to a neighbour on the preparation of curry. -Sylvester stared moodily at the parterre in front, separated from him by -the pathway, and felt very lonely. Despite his loss of faith in man -and woman, he hungered dumbly for the human companionship from which -he shrank. The first sense of novelty over, his practice in London had -failed to stimulate him. The interest was absorbing, but unthrilling. -He began to realise that he was degenerating into a consulting and -recording machine,--very sensitive, it is true, but a machine all -the same. He lived alone in a formal house in Weymouth Street. In the -morning he rose early, worked in his laboratory, saw patients, ate, saw -more patients, worked again in his laboratory, ate, and till bedtime -read or worked again among the endless test-tubes and retorts. And so, -without change, day after day. His common-sense told him that it was not -a healthy life for a human being. But how to alter it effectively save -by mixing with his kind? And his kind was hateful to him. He had grown -to be a recluse, misanthropically brooding over its worthlessness. Yet -now and then, as today, instinct drove him into the crowd. - -He caught himself half envying the crowd's irresponsible gaiety. It was -quite within his power, as far as external conditions were concerned, -to become as one of those he saw and to surround himself with -laughter-loving friends. He wondered vaguely what it would be like. - -“It's the proportion of turmeric that does it,” exclaimed his neighbour, -in a more emphatic tone than he had hitherto used. “The only man I -knew that had the secret was poor old Jack Hilton--you remember Jack -Hilton--of the Guides? He ran off with Mrs. Algy Broadbent.” - -Sylvester shivered slightly. A cloud came before his eyes. Were all men -dishonourable and all women faithless? Was all this refined and nicely -civilised crowd rotten to its soul? He looked furtively around. Who -could tell what Messalina lurked beneath yonder girl's pink and white -skin and innocent fresh eyes, what villainy and meanness lay concealed -beneath yonder young soldier's specious bearing of manliness? Disgust -banished the haunting envy. - -A man who had been chattering to the girls on his left took leave of -them with a great sweep of his hat. In the act of passing Sylvester, he -stopped short and regarded him as though in astonishment. - -“_Trône de l'air!_ and by all the oaths of the vehement South, what are -you doing here?” - -“How do you do, Roderick?” said Sylvester, rising and formally shaking -hands. - -“Oh, I'm bursting with fatness, which is more than I can say for you. -But what are you doing in this galley?” - -“Why shouldn't I be here?” - -“The eternal fitness of things. One doesn't as a general rule, for -instance, meet the Archbishop of Canterbury at a Covent Garden ball.” - -He spoke in a hearty voice, with somewhat exotic gestures. Roderick -Usher had spent part of his schooldays in France, and was fond of -insisting on his cosmopolitan training. He was dressed in the most -perfectly fitting of frock-coats and patent leather boots, and wore -faultless grey suede gloves. His only departure from the commonplace -severity of fashionable attire was a yellow Indian silk bow whose -ends spread over the front of his coat. He had light fuzzy hair that -protruded bushily behind his glossy silk hat, and his yellow beard was -pointed in the Vandyke pattern. He was of medium height, rather stout; -his face was broad and ruddy, at first sight giving the impression of -frank good humour; but his eyes, small and somewhat shifty, although -hidden behind gold pince-nez, detracted from the general air of -handsomeness that he was pleased to cultivate. Besides, the deep lines -of nearing middle age were growing troublesomely obvious. - -Sylvester replied in a matter-of-fact way to his last remark,---- - -“I was working in my laboratory all the morning, and I felt the need of -air. Weymouth Street is not far. I don't come here as a rule.” - -“Bless you, my friend, there's no need to apologise. The place belongs -to you just as much as it does to me. How's the old man?” - -“Which old man?” asked Sylvester. - -“Your old man, my old man, both our old men. Our antique but venerated -old men.” - -“My father is very well,” replied Sylvester, stiffly, “and so, I -believe, is yours.” - -“_A la bonne heure!_ So you've come to London to make your fortune? You -steady scientific files always do. We poor artistic devils generally -manage to make other people's.” - -“I don't quite understand,” said Sylvester. - -The other laughed and drawing a cigarette from a silver case lit it -daintily. - -“I don't suppose you do. You approach a paradox as solemnly as if it -were a disease. We play bat and ball with it. That makes the difference -between us. Have a turn?” - -Sylvester assented somewhat reluctantly. He disliked the son as much as -he disliked the father. But the spirit of lonesomeness had been weighing -on him to-day, and human instinct craved relief. They moved away and -took their places in the sauntering procession on the broad walk. - -“Why don't you do more of this sort of thing?” asked Roderick. “You -treat life by rule of thumb, as if it were a science. It isn't; it's an -art,--the finest of the Fine Arts. Colour, form, relief, action, sound, -articulation, all combined, capable of a myriad permutations, any one of -which can be fixed by the inspiration of the moment.” - -“My way of life suits me best,” replied Sylvester. “I teach people how -to kill bacilli; you teach them how to kill time.” - -“Time's a deadlier enemy than all your bacilli, my friend, and takes a -devilish sight more killing. But we won't argue. Argument is a discord -in the symphony of existence. Besides, it's too confoundedly hot.” - -Here he bowed in his grand style to a passing lady acquaintance. - -“Ideals can exist outside of little glass bottles, my dear Sylvester,” - he resumed. “Perhaps you may be surprised at hearing I am approaching -the attainment of one of the ideals of my maturing years. It's a great -scheme for the purification of art and the ennoblement of life. It is my -own conception. Have you been to the Royal Academy yet?” - -“No,” said Sylvester. “I haven't had the time.” - -“Happy man! You have been spared a soul-rending spectacle of England's -utter degradation. In all our art--drama, music, painting, poetry, -architecture--it is the same. The vulgarity of commercialism, the -banality of meretricious prettiness, the hand and brain working -mechanically while the soul is far away wallowing in pounds, shillings -and pence, or following a golf ball, or philandering in my Lady's -boudoir. The true artist is suffocated. But we 're going to change all -that.” - -“How are you going to manage it?” asked Sylvester, with polite -indifference. - -“Ah, that's my secret. A great and glorious scheme just on the point of -ripening. We are going to catch our artists young, painters, -musicians, poets, the whole celestial brood, and keep them out of -contamination,--give them free elemental surroundings for their art to -develop. They will become the teachers and the guides of the race. To -carry this dream through to a reality is something to live for,--to make -one feel twenty again, with all one's glittering illusions.” - -“You are going to carry it through?” said Sylvester. - -“My boy, I should just think I am,” replied Roderick, taking his arm -confidentially. “Funds have been slow in coming in, but people are -promising support, now that they see the magnificence of the concern. -I'll send you our prospectus and other publications. You can judge for -yourself. Perhaps your father would like to further the work.” - -“You'd better ask him,”, said Sylvester, drily. “But where does the -money go to?” - -“To the Colony. Didn't I tell you it was to be a colony? The Walden Art -Colony. After a time it will be self-supporting; the produce will sell -in the European and American markets, and the Colony will wax rich. It -will become the world's great Palace of Art.” - -“How will this fit in with Thoreau and uncontaminated nature?” - -Sylvester put the question idly. He took faint interest in Roderick's -iridescent scheme, which seemed to have no bearing upon the realities of -life, as he understood them. But he could not help wondering as to the -mental attitude of the fools who were providing the money to launch it. - -“It's too complicated to explain now,” replied Roderick. “You read the -literature I shall send you.” He pulled out his watch. “Dear me! it is -ten minutes to six, and I promised to meet Lady Milmo and Miss Defries -at the quarter by the statue. They are my two most enthusiastic -disciples. Shall we turn and seek them?” - -“I think not,” said Sylvester. “I'm too dull a dog for fashionable -dames. I should be a discord in the polka, or whatever you call it, of -existence.” - -Roderick laughed with good-humoured indulgence, showing a set of white, -even teeth. - -“The same old _intransigeant_,” said he. “Well, go your ways. -I'll convert you to the Colony yet, and make you a director! _Auf -wiedersehen!_” - -Sylvester shook hands with him in his glum style and strolled on towards -the Marble Arch, glad to be winning homewards again away from the froth -of fashion and the jargon of art. He smiled once on his way. It was at -the idea of his father, shrewd-headed abhorrer of cranks, putting his -hands in his pockets for the Walden Art Colony. Not while there was -a lazy miscreant with wife and children in Ayresford, he thought. How -could a man of the world like Roderick imagine him to be such a fool? - -But Roderick, with his cheery air of confidence, followed the southward -stream of people. - -“How do, Usher?” said a young man, passing by. - -Roderick stopped him. “My dearest boy, I haven't been able to see you to -shake you by the hand. The play's immense, colossal. You've marked a new -era,--the Marlowe of our time.” - -“Very good of you to say so,” murmured the dramatic author. - -“It is my most esteemed privilege,” said Roderick, and waving an adieu -with his well-gloved hand, he went on his way to Lady Milmo. - -At the corner he looked about for a moment, and not seeing her sat down -and waited. He gazed on the soft blue sky and stroked his pointed beard, -letting his thoughts wander whither they would. - -“I am so sorry, Mr. Usher,” said a voice. He started to, his feet; Lady -Milmo and Ella were before him. - -“A thousand pardons. I was gathering the wool of sweet and bitter fancy! -Oh, no, you are not late, indeed not. Won't you sit? It is somewhat -deserted here, but it is more rural than further up; we can talk more -freely.” - -“I am sure you can talk interestingly anywhere,” said Lady Milmo. - -She was a small elderly lady dressed somewhat youthfully. She wore a -little rouge, a trifle of black along the eyelashes, and a coquettish -straw hat with pink roses and an osprey feather. She seemed thoroughly -contented with herself and her surroundings. - -“One gets into the habit of talking in the key of one's environment,” - said Roderick, reflectively. “Don't you think so, Miss Defries?” - -“It is the fault of this social life of ours,” replied Ella. “There are -so many affectations and insincerities around us that we are afraid to -be genuine.” - -“It is a great charm of Lady Milmo and yourself that with you one is -bound to be genuine.” - -“I do like people to appear just as they are,” smiled Lady Milmo. - -“That is what we are working for,” said Roderick; “the return to -sincerity and simple truth.” - -“Well, what have you to tell us?” - -“Good news. Raynham has come round, and will take a seat on the Council. -He may get a couple more Academicians. One further item in my debt of -gratitude to you, Miss Defries.” - -“It is very little I have been able to do,” said Ella. “I only asked -Mr. Raynham to receive you. Your own earnestness and conviction won him -over.” - -An old gentleman came up and spoke to Lady Milmo. Roderick politely -yielded him his chair and took possession of a vacant one on the other -side of Ella. - -“It is your womanly sympathy and courage all through that I have to -thank; your cheering in depression, your encouragement in the face of -defeat. If the star of success has arisen, it is you who have dispersed -the obscuring clouds. A man may set his heart on a thing, but a woman -keeps it there.” - -He spoke in a low voice, and Ella leaned towards him to listen. Her -cheeks flushed. The flattery was sweet, and there was a subtle vibration -in his voice that stirred her. - -“One would die if there were not something noble to live for,” said she, -suddenly throwing off the stealing languor. “To rise every morning and -look forward to sixteen inevitable waking hours that will not bring -one throb to the pulses, one inspiring hope; to go to sleep each night -feeling dull and useless, and so on for endless months and years,--it is -an unlivable life. It is you I have to thank for putting an interest in -my way.” - -“I love to hear you speak like that,” he said admiringly. “Pray God you -keep your enthusiasms; There are thousands who never know the thrill. It -should be part of our mission to awaken their souls. There is one friend -of ours, for instance, who needs it to make him a great man. Oddly -enough, I have just left him--dear old Sylvester Lanyon, you know. I -found him sitting a little higher up, looking like a sick raven among -birds of paradise.” - -Her clear girl's eyes effected feminine concealment of the old pain that -every reference to Sylvester had caused her for the past year. Her heart -rebelled against it, resenting the inefficacy of time to cure. Wantonly -she ignored it. - -“I have not set eyes on him since he settled in town. He never comes to -see us. He is still mourning and moping, I suppose. The world is for the -living, not the dead; don't you think so?” - -“Yes. He should marry again. A woman of exuberant vitality, who would -carry him along with her.” - -“We'll have to find him a wife, Mr. Usher,” she replied gaily. - -Thus she proved to herself defiantly that all her foolish feeling for -Sylvester was dead; that she had also attained a standpoint of generous -forgetfulness of wrong. - -“And send him out with her to doctor the Colony,” laughed Roderick. “It -would be the making of him. As it is, he is a man of fine honour and -strong character. Even if one's own spiritual horizon is wider than -that bounded by his narrow orthodoxy, yet one can but admire the -steadfastness with which he keeps within its limits. I have always had, -as you know, a great affection for him.” - -The girl's responsive nature was touched by the generous tribute. -Roderick took a sudden leap in her esteem. She had her own haunting -and miserable ideas as to Sylvester's honour, but the praise pleased -her,--the fact of a man's loyalty to the ideal of a friend. At least, so -she half consciously analysed her feelings. - -The talk went on, and time passed. Lady Milmo's friend departed and -mingled in the stream that began to make for Hyde Park Corner and home. -She turned to Ella and Roderick. - -“The dear, tiresome general has been entertaining me with his corns -while I have been dying to hear all about the Colony. And now it's too -late. You must come soon and see us, Mr. Usher. It is useless to try to -talk here. Why didn't we say Battersea? I'm afraid we 're sad creatures -of convention.” - -“Miss Defries will make an adequate report, I am sure,” said Roderick. -“But Raynham's accession to the cause was my main item of news.” - -They all rose and walked to Hyde Park Corner. There he saw the ladies -into a cab and swept one of his elaborate bows as they drove off. But -he remained for some moments on the curb in front of the Park gates -absently watching the hansom until it was lost amid the traffic. - -“I wonder,” he said half aloud, “I wonder.” And he walked slowly up -Piccadilly, his eyes bent on the pavement, his hands behind him, with -the air of a man in deep and somewhat harassed thought. - - - - -CHAPTER VII--THE DANGEROUS HOUR - -A few days afterwards Ella was lying on a sofa in her aunt's -drawing-room in Pont Street. It was a hot afternoon, the windows were -open, and the sun blinds tempered the light. Between their edges and the -tops of the flowers in the window-boxes she could see a great band of -golden sunshine. Having been to a late dance the evening before and to -a stuffy but advanced picture exhibition in the morning, she was feeling -physically languid, and glad to be excused from attendance on Lady -Milmo, who was indefatigably attending a charitable committee. In her -hand she held a letter that had come by the early afternoon post. It was -from Matthew Lanyon, bright and gossipy on the surface, but her quick -perception divined an undercurrent of sadness. He was looking forward to -her promised visit in August. If only he could persuade Syl to come down -too, it would be quite like old times. But perhaps it would be better -for Syl to get right away among the Swiss mountains, as he proposed. -There was nothing like a complete change for a jaded Londoner. He had -come down for a week-end lately and was looking fagged and overworked. -The garden had never been lovelier. The rhododendrons were out and all -a mass of bumble-bees; he had never seen so many in his life. He was -writing late at night, on his knees in the library. Dorothy had made -a complicated web of Berlin wool all over his writing-chair, by way -of fitting it up as a carriage for her doll, which was throned in the -midst, and of course he had not dared to disturb it. - -“I think I make an average grandfather,” he wrote, “but I do wish some -one had given me a few lessons as to how to become a mother.” - -The fragrance of the country garden stole elusively upon the hot London -room, and awakened a longing to get away from the glare and chatter into -the cool quietude of Woodlands; to exchange the heavy dinnerparty where -she was due in a few hours' time, with its heavy hot-house flowers and -its artificial talk, for the peaceful summer evening in the summer-house -under the trees, in the company of the dear old man, so sane, so -sincere, and of Miss Lanyon, whose gentle mind seemed to have lain in -lavender. She was tired; her heart was tired. The beautiful world lay -hidden behind a mountain, up which she was climbing wearily, vainly. Her -feet were tangled in an inextricable maze and her steps were devious. -Where could she find a guide? She conjured up the picture of the old -man's kind, grave smile, and longed, as only a girl can who is enmeshing -her life, to throw herself down by his knees and open all her heart. Had -he appeared at that moment at the door, she would have arisen and with -a cry, half sob, half welcome, have thrown her arms about his neck and -burst into tears. - -“If only he could come!” she said, and she sank vaguely into the -imagined solace. But what could she say to him? The formulated query -crystallised her thoughts into chill dismay. How could she make known, -even to him, the humiliation of that last interview with Sylvester, -expose to him the nakedness of her outraged pride? She shrank from the -thought. And the history of the year's follies? No. Never. She crumpled -the letter fiercely in her hand. Then, suddenly repenting of her -violence, she smoothed the sheet tenderly and kissed it and slipped it -into the bosom of her dress. - -The year's follies. In this hour of lassitude and depression--rare to -Ella, but common to all her sex, coming to woman with rhythmic iteration -as inevitable as the tides--they rose up one by one before her, and her -cheeks burned with shame. First it was Lionel Kavanagh, the poet -and aesthetic critic. She had been reckless, craving excitement, -forgetfulness of her burning humiliation. All through the season a year -ago, she had flirted with him, openly, outrageously. He was one of Lady -Milmo's menagerie, and used to sprawl on the hearth-rug and alternate -rhapsody with mordant wit. And alone in her company he would sail -perilously near the wind with sensuous allusiveness, until one day -he grew bold and brought her a sonnet frankly sensual. She tore the -manuscript into tiny pieces during an ominous silence, and ordered him -out of the house. The next was Bertie Hetherington, who made violent -love to her at Aix-les-Bains, whither she had been led by Lady Milmo's -wandering fancy and rheumatic tendencies. He was a fresh, wholesome -young Briton in a Hussar regiment. The vehemence of his devotion was -sweet to Ella, and she kept him hoping longer than she knew was right. -Perhaps if he had possessed more brains she might have married him. But -when he wrote her an impassioned letter in which he affirmed that his -heart _beet_ only for her, the spelling caught the humorous side of -Ella's fancy and she laughed herself out of her entanglement. Yet she -had wronged him, just as Sylvester had wronged her, and she had wronged -herself. The fresh bloom of her maidenhood had gone. Her sensitive pride -magnified the taint. - -In London once more, the need of an occupation, an aim, a purpose, -tormented her. She had tried the ignoble and found it bitter. She craved -the higher plane of devotion to a cause, something elevated, impersonal. -The ordinary pursuits that call forth a woman's self-sacrifice did -not appeal to the unrest of her imagination. Besides, her young blood -rebelled against self-suppression. In the stress and storm she caught -at the first thing to her hand: Roderick Usher's Utopian scheme for the -regeneration of art and the consequent purification of society. She was -carried away like a straw on the crest of his vehement pro-pagandism. -From an occasional attendant at her aunt's receptions, he became a -regular visitor. Together they elaborated the scheme, discussed the -details. She worked with him in obtaining supporters and canvassing -for subscriptions. At first the correspondence, the interviewing, the -plotting and intriguing, kept her enthusiastically occupied. She made -converts among the young artists and poets who came to the house, -inveighing against the tame formalism on the one hand and the morbid -exaggeration on the other that were the curses of modern art. She -attended meetings in fashionable drawing-rooms and expounded her -theories. Notoriety followed her doings. A weekly paper published an -illustrated interview with the priestess of the new gospel. - -She believed in the scheme. It was audacious, but practical. It was -impossible for convincing art to flourish in the midst of the social -insincerity and commercialism of the day. The teachers of men must lead -a higher life than the taught; to have authority, must dwell aloof from -the world; to have inspiration, must draw it from the pure wells of -nature and their own hearts. These postulates being allowed, the logical -consequence was the conception of a colony of earnest and devoted -artists in some sequestered spot where the world's Babel came but as an -echo. Such a spot was readily obtainable in California. A large ranch, -in one of the loveliest valleys of the Sierra Nevada, was for sale. -Extensions could be built indefinitely at a comparatively trifling -cost. Thither the band of youths and maidens, uncorrupted as yet by the -deadening influences around them, would proceed, and settling down would -allow to flow unchecked the genuine founts of their genius. They would -be in Arcadian ignorance of the arch destroyer of art, the public taste, -and thus be beyond the reach of the temptation to pander to it. They -would reveal the truth as it came crystallised in song or poem or -picture from their own souls. The lack of pence would not disturb -their serenity. Those who could afford it would pay a modest monthly -contribution to the general fund. The penniless children of genius would -obtain free food, shelter, and all the privileges of the Colony. The -subscriptions of the supporters of the movement in England would defray -their expenses. A commission would be levied on the profits of any work -produced in the Colony. This, in the course of years, when public -taste was revolutionised and the Waldenites' productions obtained great -prices, would place the Colony beyond the need of subscriptions or of -contributions by members. It would become, in Roderick's words, “The -world's great Palace of Art.” Roderick himself was ready to sacrifice -his future in London so as to take up the post of director of the Colony -at a handsome salary. - -She believed in the scheme still; success, in fact, justified her faith. -But in this hour of self-abasement she distrusted the sincerity of her -enthusiasm. How much had she done genuinely for the cause? How much, -unconsciously, for the man? The question racked her. He had woven his -influence around her life. Her name was publicly associated with his. -She dreaded meeting him, yet felt the heart taken out of the day on -which she was not working under his direction. Whither was she tending? -She could not answer. Not where happiness would lie. To have brought -herself into this morass was the last and greatest of the year's -follies. In her helpless anger she hated the scheme and all that she had -done to further it. A sickening surmise as to its futility overspread -her retrospect. - -She clasped her hands over her hot eyes and again longed for Woodlands. -Suddenly she sprang to her feet, and smoothed her dress and hair -hurriedly, as if ashamed of her nervelessness. She would write to -Matthew Lanyon then and there, yield herself wholly to her need of -expansion, and let what would flow from her pen. She sat down resolutely -at the ornamental escritoire and drew out writing materials. She had -never given him any definite account of the scheme. She had alluded -to it vaguely, somewhat flippantly, partly anxious to amuse and partly -fearful of criticism. The mention of Roderick Usher's name had been -rare. She had followed the secretive instinct of her sex. The old man's -references hitherto had been jocular; deceived by her manner, he had -merely regarded her interest as an idle young woman's harmless hobby. -Even in this letter that she carried crumpled in her bosom, he had asked -her how her artistic Robinson Crusoes were getting on. He should know -the history of the whole movement, her own hopes and fears,--perhaps -more of her difficulties. She would write whatever words came into her -mind. - -She dipped her pen in the ink, dashed off the date and “My darling Uncle -Matthew,” and was starting the text of the letter, when the door opened. - -“Mr. Usher, miss,” announced the parlour maid. - -Ella closed her blotter with a petulant snap, but rose and greeted her -visitor with a smile. Roderick looked cool and point-device in a grey -frock-coat suit. A slight baldness in front gave his high forehead an -air of intellectuality. He had called, he informed her, just to report -progress. And as he talked she sat, her chin resting on her knuckles, -watching him with that wistful gaze that comes from a woman's weary -uncertainties. - -“There, that is all,” he said in conclusion; “and I am glad there's no -more.” - -“Why?” asked Ella. - -“Because you want a holiday,--a respite from the worry of affairs. -Enthusiasms entail an expenditure of vital force; so there are times -when the temperament is at a low ebb, and ought to be treated with -gentle indulgence.” - -“Do you think I am at low ebb, Mr. Usher?” - -“You are tired,--a little _mal de vivre_. Isn't it so?” - -He said it so kindly that her first impulse of resentment died away. - -“How do you know I'm not simply physically out of sorts? I was dancing -till four this morning and till three the morning before.” - -He smiled with a touch of indulgent superiority. - -“As a sailor who knows the sea reads all its moods on its surface, so I -read yours in your eyes. Confess. You have been feeling the burthen of -life and have not known whence came its heaviness; and you have been -longing for relief in the fresh, cool arms of Mother Nature.” - -“Perhaps,” she said, looking away from him. - -“You are not offended?” he said, after a pause. He had a very musical -voice, trained to modulation of feelings. “My heart is always near my -lips and at times speaks indiscreetly.” - -Ella turned round with a short laugh. - -“No, I am not offended. Of course not. But it was scarcely fair to turn -me inside out like that without warning.” - -Immediately she regretted her confession. His acute perception had half -flattered, half frightened her. She felt now that she had yielded some -of her ground. She strove to regain it. - -“But it's all nonsense,” she added. “And very contemptible, just because -it's a close day, with a stuffy dinner-party looming ahead.” - -“Phases of morale are never nonsense,” he replied. “No one knows what -unrest is better than I. We must find the remedy.” - -“What do you suggest?” - -“Happiness.” - -“What is happiness?” - -“The pursuit of the ideal on the wings of--” - -“Of what?” - -“Dare I say it--in all delicacy? Of love.” Ella again turned her face -aside, uncertain whether to resent the implication or to make a light -answer. Her hesitation was his opportunity. - -“I, too, have been feeling depressed of late,” he said. “All pleasure -has in time to be paid for with pain. In a few months our scheme will -be launched,--the scheme that you and I have built up with pieces of our -hearts,--and I shall go away to end my life in carrying out its working. -I shall be alone. My helper and sweet comrade will no longer be by my -side. Thus I, too, sigh for happiness.” - -He smiled sadly, but she saw that his eyes were regarding her keenly -from behind his gold pince-nez. - -“We won't think of that,” she said hastily. “So many things may happen -between then and now.” - -Roderick rose, rested his hand on the back of her chair, and bent over -her. - -“One thing might happen that would fill the months with glory, and -inaugurate our project in the radiance of the rising sun. Yet not -for the scheme's sake, but for our lives' sake--for the sake of the -expansion and development of all that is yearning within us to find -utterance--Ella--Will you come with me?” - -She sat, looking straight before her, her lips apart, her body slightly -swaying. Words would not come. She vaguely wished that something could -happen to rid her of his presence, that he could disappear, there and -then, once for all, out of her life. Yet she felt it impossible to -dismiss him. Some mysterious feminine chord had been struck whose echoes -proclaimed his right to stand over her and speak to her thus. - -“What are you saying?” she murmured, with an almost piteous emphasis on -the last word. - -“I am telling you that I love you, Ella, that my life is bound up in -you, that I need you for the accomplishment of my manhood. And I am -asking you to come with me to this sweet new land, to be my helper and -my star. Say that you will come with me.” - -“Give me time,” she breathed. “I can't say--I have been living in a -whirl so long. I don't know what I am or think or feel. I will give you -an answer some day--soon--not now.” - -“I will wait devotedly for your answer,” said Roderick, in his -courtliest manner, and moved a pace or two from her chair. - -Ella looked up at him, almost grateful for his assurance. - -“We will fix no period,” she said. “To have to give such a reply by a -definite date--” - -“I do not ask it,” said Roderick, quietly, though his heart was beating -fast at the certainty of victory. - -“You have given me the food of hope, whereon I can live meanwhile.” - -“Could you not bear suspense?” she asked. “I might not answer as you -would like.” - -“I could bear anything for your sake,” said he. Then, after a pause, -“And now goodbye. I must have solitude to dream over my happiness.” - -She gave him her hand; he bent over it and kissed it, and she felt his -lips hot against her skin. It gave her a little shudder of repugnance, -and the feeling remained after he had gone. And yet his fascination was -strong upon her. He dominated her will as no man had done before. She -was conscious that he had the rare power to penetrate to the core of her -woman's weaknesses, to understand her as a botanist understands a plant, -and the rarer power to touch the fibres delicately, so that it became a -pleasure to be weak. Again, her somewhat exaggerated conception of his -wide spiritual and intellectual horizon moved her emotional temperament -to wondering respect, and she thought gratefully of the expansion of her -own under his influence. With the incomplete vision wherewith the -wisest of women must of necessity regard a man, she saw him strong and -masterful, clearing his way resolutely to a definite end. She felt that -he brought this air of mastery into his love; and he had created a need -of him within her. - -He held her bound by many chains. And as she stood in the drawing-room, -half-consciously rubbing the spot on her hand where his lips had rested, -she felt the chains grow tighter, one by one. - -Her maid came into the room. “When will you dress, miss?” - -She remembered the dinner-party and gave her directions. She wished that -she had not to attend it. And then unbidden came the longing for “the -sweet new land” with its freedom and freshness, and her cheeks flamed at -the sudden realisation of what it all implied. - -Her glance fell upon the blotter in which lay the just commenced letter -to Matthew Lanyon. She sat down again at the escritoire and took up her -pen. But the mood had passed. She found herself writing artificially, -in the jargon of her set. Angrily she tore up the paper and threw the -fragments into the waste-paper basket. No; better nothing than the -insincerity he despised; she loved him too dearly for that. So the -letter, that was to reveal her inmost struggling self, remained -unwritten. - -She was very silent as Lady Milmo and herself drove to the dinner-party. -Her head ached and her limbs were tired. - -“The man who takes me down will over-eat himself dreadfully,” she -remarked, as the carriage pulled up. - -“I don't think there is any danger,” replied her aunt, who was a woman -of experience. - -And she was justified; for the girl's youth asserted itself, and as -the meal progressed the headache was forgotten and Ella enjoyed herself -thoroughly. - -“I rather think your partner will want some supper, poor man,” said Lady -Milmo, on the homeward journey. - -“It's his own fault; he would talk,” said Ella, laughing. - -Lady Milmo patted her niece's knee affectionately. - -“I love to see you getting all that enjoyment out of life, my dear. -You seem to take it out in great chunks, like my neighbour this evening -helping himself to iced pudding.” - -Ella thought of her enjoyment with a whimsical feeling of shame, a touch -of disappointment at not being as jaded as she had expected. But with -the quiet darkness of the night her conflict of doubts returned. After -all, what trivial topics she had discussed, what inanities she had -laughed at, what spiteful little shafts of malice she had flung. If she -had enjoyed it, so much the worse spiritually and morally for herself. -Oh, the past year! It had corrupted her. She looked back wistfully upon -the girl whom Sylvester had kissed at Woodlands. That fresh, shy, sweet -something she had given him then was hers no longer to give to any man. -What she could give to Roderick Usher, if she yielded to him, she did -not know; certainly, not that. - -She was very young, very much unversed in the dark and crooked ways of -life, in spite of her experience of men and things; intensely eager to -keep herself pure and proud, to love the highest when she saw it. It is -not to be set down to weakness, therefore, if she grew very sorry for -the girl whom Sylvester had kissed, and cried herself miserably to -sleep. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII--TRIUMPH - -The facilities that London offers as a hiding-place are proverbial. A -man in good position may disappear entirely from his friends and yet be -living for many years as a grocer's assistant half a mile away. But when -two acquaintances who belong to the same social class have no particular -reasons for lying hidden, they are bound sooner or later to meet. Now -Sylvester and Ella had not set eyes on each other since the eve of the -former's departure from Ayres-ford, when he had said things which -Ella firmly believed at the time had broken her heart. This was not -unnatural, seeing that he held rigidly aloof from the society in which -Ella moved. Neither did he frequent theatres nor operas nor picture -galleries, nor places of public resort. But he went this year to the -Ladies' Soirée of the Royal Society, first, because he had been unable -to attend the sterner masculine assembly of the former evening, and, -secondly, because he desired to meet two or three scientists of European -reputation who he knew would be there. - -Lady Milmo, who went everywhere and was proud of taking everywhere -her beautiful niece, was at the soirée also with Ella. Their progress -through the rooms was slow, as they knew many people, and the crowd was -great. Suddenly Lady Milmo pulled Ella's arm. - -“Dear me, if that isn't Sylvester Lanyon!” - -Ella looked instinctively in the indicated direction, and as her -eyes fell upon him, her heart gave a great throb. He was in earnest -conversation with an elderly man who wore an order of some kind, -enforcing his argument, according to a familiar trick of his, with -the forefinger of one hand and the palm of the other. His brown, -intellectual face and well-knit figure marked him as a man of some -distinction. To Ella's dismay he appeared to her the one distinguished -personality in the room. His face had grown more worn than she -remembered it, and his hair greyer at the temples. She found herself -pitying him. - -“Come,” said Lady Milmo, “I'm going to give him a good talking to.” - Before Ella could resist she had adroitly edged through the press and -arrived within his reach, Ella following mechanically. - -“Oh, Dr. Lanyon, fancy meeting you here. Ella and I have jars and jars -of pickled rods for you. Why do you never come near us? Is it because we -'re so aggravatingly healthy?” Sylvester murmured an apology. Indeed, he -had no reasons to offer. Lady Milmo was an old friend. He confessed his -rudeness. - -“Madame,” said Sylvester's companion, with a low bow. - -“Professor Steinthal! I didn't know you were in London. Forgive me.” - -She turned to speak to him as Ella and Sylvester confronted each other. -Ella put out her hand. - -“I hope you are well,” she said. - -“Quite well; and you?” - -“You ought to be able to judge.” - -“You seem to be in good health,” he said. “What maladies may lurk -beneath the surface, I cannot tell.” - -“I don't suppose you can,” she was tempted to say. She saw that he -understood, but he made no reply, and there was an awkward pause. - -“I'm going to see Uncle Matthew in August,” she said at last. - -“So I have heard. I'm going to Switzerland, so I shall not have the -pleasure of meeting you. Do you know many people here?” - -The pointed banality of the question angered her. - -“Will you never have a kind word to say to me?” she flashed out in a -quick undertone, then she turned and greeted the professor effusively. - -Thus, whatever wild, uncontrollable hopes were newly born at the first -sight of him, they were frozen at once to death. She went home in a -furious rage of humiliation. He was a man of ice and steel, an automaton -equipped with an intellect, scarcely a man at all. She put an imperious -end to her doubts. - -Roderick Usher called next day, and spoke as one inspired with lofty -ideals. Before her fascinated vision he seemed to place realities where -hitherto the void had yawned or shadows at the most had shimmered. Life -stretched infinitely in front of her, a lush garden, fertile with a -myriad beauties. Her expanding soul shone out of dewy eyes. All the -blindness, all the weakness, all the deluded nobility of her nature, lay -revealed, pathetically defenceless. It was Roderick's golden hour, when -he knew that he had her at his mercy. - -He rose, flung out his arms in a passionate gesture. - -“Come to me, Ella. Our destinies demand it.” - -She too rose and faced him, her eyes shining like stars, and held out -her hands. - -“Yes, I will come,” she said. - -Roderick went into the warm June sunshine, thrilled with triumph, -holding his head high. He walked along heedless of direction, turned -into Hans Place and completed an entire circuit of the gardens before he -realised what he had done. He paused, to think of some destination. Then -he laughed aloud. - -“Roderick, you must be in love,” he said to himself. A long struggle -with fortune had rendered it a rare occurrence for Roderick not to be -perfectly aware of what he was doing and of what he was about to do. But -the victory had come sooner than he had anticipated, and his immediate -scheme of life, was thrown into confusion. He turned to the right, -and once in Sloane Street, wandered north and found himself again -undetermined at the corner of the Brompton Road. The driver of a -crawling hansom touched his hat inquiringly. It was a brand-new, summer -season cab, with horse and driver well turned out, and it caught his -fancy. He stood upon the step, looked east, looked west, up and down -the surging thoroughfare. Then obeying a sudden impulse, he shouted -laughingly an address over the hood of the cab,--“24 Weymouth Street.” - -He would go and present himself to an astonished Sylvester, acquaint him -with his good fortune, and perhaps learn certain things concerning which -delicacy had forbidden him to make too close inquiries. At any rate, -there was a certain attractive impudence in the adventure. He lit a -cigar and lay back on the soft cushions of the cab and regarded himself -complacently in the strip of mirror. He was wearing well, he thought, -as he caressed his Vandyke beard, and appeared by no means an unromantic -lover. The deepening crows' feet about his eyes gave him a momentary -uneasiness, but he parted his lips, and by way of compensation looked -admiringly at his white, even teeth. The conviction that there was -nothing about him that would be otherwise than physically attractive to -the most fastidious feminine sense brought him an assured content. - -He gazed through the blue cigar-smoke up the long vista of clashing -traffic broadening out by Hyde Park Corner, where London at its gayest -displayed itself in the mellow afternoon sunlight. He waved his hand -towards it as if summoning its blithe spirit to hear him. - -“Do you think I'm going to give you up?” he said, breaking into a laugh. - -For London, to the man of the pavement, the theatres, the studios, -the newspaper offices, the clubs, the restaurants, means the elemental -medium of his being. The deep bosom of Mother Nature would suffocate -him. It is a picturesque thing to talk about, and it may be exploited -by an ingenious contriver to his considerable advantage, but it did -not satisfy the spiritual cravings of Roderick Usher. He had not the -remotest intention of committing himself to lifelong exile with the -Walden Art Colony, if his supple wit could devise other means of -profiting by the enterprise. - -“But I nearly lost you!” he apostrophised London again, after a few -moments. - -In a certain sense, he had been meditating flight, the summary -abandonment of his broken fortunes too far gone for satisfactory -repairing. For Roderick was a man who demanded more from society than -his talents enabled him to give in return. Not that he was, in the -general sense of the term, an adventurer. He had worked hard all his -life; but he had always just not succeeded in his undertakings. He had -written a play which an enthusiastic young manager had run at a loss for -fifty nights. A second play evoked a chorus of delight among the newer -school of critics, but had fizzled out after a week's unsatisfactory -existence. His succeeding plays went the round of rueful and -head-shaking managers. Professionally he was an artist. He painted -pictures, but prices were low. One immense and ambitious canvas hung at -the Royal Academy was to have brought him everlasting fame and fortune. -It was taken over by a firm of art publishers whose royalties on prints -after two years' waiting amounted to a few paltry pounds. Then for some -reason or the other the Academy refused to hang him. Hence his bitter -hatred of the Academy and all its works. He had written a couple of -novels which were universally belauded and nowhere bought. He was art -critic, dramatic critic, reviewer, short-story writer. This work and -the sale of such pictures as the dealers could be prevailed upon to -purchase, together with private orders for portraits, brought him a -maintenance. It would have been wealth to him who was content with beer, -comfort to him who drank modest claret, but it was penury to the man who -claimed at least 1889 champagne as a divine right. Roderick's career had -therefore been an interminable battle with society. He rode through it -a free lance, plundering it blandly whenever a chance offered. He had -scarcely ever during his life as a man been free from debt. But -his unflagging energy, his suppleness of humour, his buoyancy, his -versatility, by winning popular esteem had saved him many times from -social disaster. He played billiards too well; he played whist and poker -too well. He was too disinterested an adviser of young men in search of -ready money. Thus, somewhat paradoxically, he was welcomed at private -houses, but looked shyly upon in clubs. Yet no one had hinted a -dishonourable action. Twice or three times his father had groaningly -sent him a cheque to cover some of his more pressing debts; but in -justice to him, it must be said that in speaking of them to Matthew -Lanyon, the old man had exaggerated the extent of his culpability. Nor -had Roderick the slightest suspicion that any of Matthew Lanyon's money -had ever found its way into his own pocket. - -Once again, however, he found himself more seriously involved than -ever, and his father pleaded empty coffers. There was a billbroking -transaction which might lead to unpleasantness. He had persuaded a -foolish young man to back bills to the amount of two or three thousand -pounds. In two or three months they could be renewed for a further -period. But after that would come the deluge. Exile might save him. But -where should he go? To the Colonies? He was too old. To Boulogne, to -lead a shifty life with compatriot wastrels? “Sooner Death,” said he. - -But for some time past, as it happened, the scheme of the Walden Art -Colony had been idly occupying his disinterested attention. Suddenly his -astute mind perceived in the scheme his own social salvation. His energy -quickly brought it into practicable shape. His plausibility staved off -his creditors. His future position as salaried director of the Colony -would secure him an honourable retreat from an untenable position. - -But now with the heiress of an ample fortune as his affianced bride, he -could laugh at fears and exultantly send the Colony to the devil. His -luck had turned at last. Now he would get to the heart of life. And Ella -was sweet, great-hearted, and beautiful. It was not only for her money -that he wanted her. Perish the miserable thought! He could conceive -a noble existence, all ideals. His thoughts touched the Empyrean. His -facile nature easily persuaded itself of lofty purpose, and for the -moment he was sincere. For Roderick was a man with wings to fly, but -chained to the earth with fetters of brass; and often his wings fanning -the air gave him the delusion of mounting heavenward. - -The cab drew up at the dull and decorous door in Weymouth Street, at -half-past six. A decorous man-servant opened it and showed him into the -consulting-room, formally furnished with dark leather chairs and couch, -and a desk on which lay the stethoscope, tongue-depressor, and a few -other ordinary instruments of the physician. Some old prints hung round -the walls. The windows, glazed halfway, to insure privacy from the -street, gave an air of gloom to the not over cheerful apartment. -Roderick compared it with his own light and artistically furnished -chambers, and wondered at the dark soul of the man who could live amid -such depression. - -He laughed his gayest laugh, however, when Sylvester came in. - -“I'm about as incongruous and unexpected here as you were the other day -in the Park,” said he. “But you'll understand why I've come when I tell -you.” - -“I'm very glad to see you,” said Sylvester, politely. “Won't you sit -down?” - -He seated himself in the writing-chair and motioned his guest to -another. - -“No, thanks, I'll walk about,” said Roderick. “If I sat there I'd feel -too much like a patient, and you'd be wanting to look at my tongue or -pommel my stomach. I've come, my boyhood's friend, to tell you some good -news, to demand your felicitations. I give you a thousand guesses.” - -“Have you succeeded in floating your chartered Thelema Company?” asked -Sylvester, with a smile. - -“Oh, damn the Colony! That is to say, comparatively damn the Colony. -You behold in me the happiest man on earth, engaged to the sweetest and -loveliest girl in the world. And the Colony's in it for something. So I -ought to have said 'thrice bless the Colony.'” Sylvester started in his -chair. - -“You are not referring to Miss Defries?” - -“I am so.” - -“I must offer you my congratulations,” said Sylvester, recovering -composure. Then despising himself for a momentary pang, which he could -not explain to himself, he added: “I am sure she will make you an -excellent wife.” - -“An excellent wife! Hear him, ye gods! As who should say, 'You will find -this a most serviceable umbrella!' She's the dewy dawn of all things -sweet to live for!” - -“My habit of mind is more prosaic than yours,” laughed Sylvester. “But -I think I am none the less accurate. Is Miss Defries going also to -Thelema?” - -“That is the present intention. But plans are but frail barks upon the -capricious sea of time.” - -“I see,” said Sylvester. “Now I understand your condemnation of the -Colony.” - -“No, no; I am sure you don't,” put in Roderick, hastily. - -“Well, never mind,” said Sylvester. “Have you obtained my fathers -consent?” - -“Mr. Lanyon's consent? What for?” - -“The marriage.” - -“But Ella is overage,--her own mistress.” - -“Still, she must not marry without my father's consent, or she loses her -money.” - -Roderick swept his hand in a magnificent gesture. “The money's neither -here nor there. But of course your father will consent.” - -“He's the dearest old man God ever made,” said Sylvester, in his grave -way; “but he has queer crotchets now and then.” - -“But this is the end of the nineteenth century,” laughed Roderick. - -“I don't deny it. The other is a fact, all the same. The late Mr. -Defries's will is valid. Appointing my father trustee for his daughter -Ella, it provides for his administration of the estate until either -her marriage with his consent or his own death, whichever is first. On -either of these events, the whole money comes into her own keeping. If -during his lifetime she marries without his written consent, the money -all goes to some specified charity, I forget what it is.” - -“Well, I never heard of such a damned silly will in all my life,” said -Roderick, falling, into the vernacular. - -“It only shows one man's implicit trust in the honour of another.” - -“And how much does it all run to?” asked Roderick, casually. - -“I haven't the remotest idea,” replied Sylvester. “It never entered my -head to inquire.” - -Roderick took a few quick turns about the room, then he laughed in his -buoyant way. - -“Well, if Damon Lanyon is recalcitrant, Pythias Usher will soothe him -down. So it will all come right. And you, camarado, shall dance at -the wedding. I swear it. I must go and dress for dinner with some -Philistines at Cricklewood. I shall be interested to see how God makes -the creatures who live at Cricklewood. By the way, shall I give Ella -your good wishes?” - -“Most certainly,” said Sylvester. - -He accompanied his guest to the front door; then returning to the -consulting-room, he opened the window, with an exclamation of distaste. -Roderick carried heavy scent about him, and Sylvester, like a wholesome -Briton, detested scent. He also in his heart detested Roderick. - -Before preparing for his solitary dinner he went into his laboratory -to examine some tubes of gelatine in which the anthrax bacillus was -thriving. But he gazed at them somewhat absently. Scorn and contempt -were in his heart,--contempt for the woman whom once he thought fit to -be his own wife, and who had now thrown herself away upon this plausible -but vulgar charlatan. - -“Like to like,” he muttered cynically. - -And putting down his gelatine he went upstairs, apparently satisfied -with the examination he had entirely forgotten to make. - - - - -CHAPTER IX--DAMON AND PYTHIAS - -Mr. Usher the elder had settled down in Ayresford a few months after -the death of Sylvester's mother. At first he had taken a small cottage, -then a semi-detached villa. Finally, he had transferred his household -gods to a comfortable little house standing in its own grounds not far -from Woodlands. He was not beloved in Ayresford on account of his habit -of telling dull stories of uninteresting incidents in his past career; -but as he went to church regularly and did no particular harm to -anybody, he was accepted as a member of the humdrum society of the -somnolent little town. No one knew much of his antecedents. He had been -something in Australia and now lived on his means. That he had chummed -with Mr. Lanyon,--a fact which he proclaimed so unceasingly that people -grew nervous with teasing anticipation whenever Australia was mentioned -in his presence,--was a sufficient guarantee of his respectability. -Then Roderick came on flying visits and with his brilliant ways acquired -popularity. Later, when he produced plays, painted pictures for the -Academy, and wrote novels, Ayresford was quite proud of him. The -father gained a vicarious reputation. They wanted to make him people's -church-warden. But here Matthew Lanyon intervened. - -“I'm not a church-goer myself,” said he, “but I'm hanged if I'll let you -make a mockery of the whole thing.” - -Whereupon Usher replied that it was a pity for lifelong friends -to quarrel over such a trifle, and wrote a letter to decline -the church-wardenship. But he put a little black mark and some -hieroglyphics, with the date, in a little black book, half filled with -similar inscriptions, which he kept locked up in his safe. This was some -years before Sylvester had left for London, and the black marks had gone -on increasing. Ebenezer Usher was a methodical man. - -He was very proud of his house, which was tastefully furnished -and contained a choice collection of old china, of which he was a -connoisseur. Ayresford naturally put him down as a man of substance, -and though he entertained as little as decency allowed, he avoided the -reputation of a miser. His elegant leisure was passed in collecting -the china above mentioned, postage-stamps, and book plates, and in -speculating through outside brokers. - -One morning in June he sat at his table, by the open window, through -which came all the scents of the lawn, immersed in his morning's work -of sorting book plates. He had them before him in cardboard boxes neatly -labelled on the back. They were divided into their several countries, -subdivided into noble families and commoners, further divided into -“Armorial,” “Artistic-Armorial,” and “Fanciful,” and they were all -arranged according to date. A manuscript catalogue by his side gave the -reference to case and position. A pile of loose plates, unmounted, lay -immediately in front of him, through which he was going one by one. If -the plate happened to be new, he put it aside for mounting. If it was -a duplicate, he fished out his original from its case and subjected the -two to anxious scrutiny through a magnifying-glass, to decide which was -the better impression. Of the subject he had profound knowledge, and he -had a sincere appreciation of beauty of workmanship. At such times as -this he was the most harmless of old gentlemen, dignifying the evening -of his days with a learned pastime. - -He was leaning back in his chair, lovingly scrutinising the almost -fragile tenderness of an exquisite Bewick, when a servant brought in two -letters that had come by the second post. He bade her put them on -the table, and there they lay for some time while he continued the -inspection of his Bewick. At last he laid it down with a sigh and opened -the first letter. It ran:-- - - _Dear Sir,--We regret to inform you that the Great Elephant - stock has fallen to 3 1/8. Kindly wire advice as to cover. - We have every confidence in the stock and its ultimate - recovery. - - Yours faithfully, - - Peter Vavasour & Co._ - -Mr. Usher groaned and threw the letter away from him. He felt a most -ill-used man. The ingratitude of the world after a laborious lifetime -spent in its service pained him exceedingly. The sight of Roderick's -handwriting on the other envelope by no means brought him comfort. -Roderick's letters were rare, but unpleasantly to the point. He unfolded -it with distrustful resignation. But when his glance had taken in its -contents, his expression changed. He took off his gold spectacles, -breathed on them, and wiped them with his handkerchief, and putting them -on again, beamed at his son's letter:-- - - _Revered Parent,--I'm going to marry Ella Defries. Can't get - shekels without Lanyon's consent to union. A silly will - gives him the hold. Am writing now for his blessing. Better - let me overhaul the draft of your letter of paternal welcome - to her, as I know your effusive little habits. - - Yours, - - Roderick._ - -“Ah, the flippant ways of youth,” said he, with an indulgent smile. - -The bucket-shop shark's application for cover came to him now through -the rosy cloud of his content. What did a few hundreds matter when his -only son was putting himself into a position to relieve from want his -aged father's declining years? He almost caressed Mr. Vavasour's letter -as he folded it up carefully and placed it with Roderick's in the -breast-pocket of his old frock-coat. He felt kindly disposed towards all -mankind, and prepared with a benevolent air to go forth and visit -his friend, Matthew Lanyon. He cleared his table of the book plates, -scrupulously putting each in its proper case, and then rang the bell. - -“My hat, Olivia. And my stick. No. The sun is warm. It is very hot. I -shall take the green umbrella.” - -The elderly servant brought him these articles. He put on the Panama -straw hat with his accustomed deliberation, while Olivia held the -umbrella. Then he took the latter in his hand, and went out with his -slow old man's tread. - -On his way through the wide straggling main street of Ayresford, he -paused, according to long custom, to look into the window of a little -poverty-stricken bric-à-brac shop, garnished with a few rusty old -pistols, bits of china, and worm-eaten books. To-day was displayed a -couple of leaves torn from an old postage-stamp album. The eye of the -collector at once fixed itself on a Canada, green and unused. He hurried -into the shop. - -“Good-morning, Mrs. Driscoll; it is a very hot day.” - -A dejected old woman rose from a stool by the counter. - -“The Lord sends it, Mr. Usher. We must abide by His mercies.” - -“We must indeed,” replied Usher, wagging his head. - -“I thought I would come in and help you, Mrs. Driscoll, by making a -little purchase.” - -“You 're very kind, sir,” said the old woman, mournfully. - -“What might you be asking for these two sheets of postage stamps?” - -“Ten shillings, I was told, sir.” - -Usher lifted up his hands pityingly and smiled. - -“My dear Mrs. Driscoll, they are not worth half a crown. But I will be -generous. It is one's duty to be generous to the poor and needy. I will -give you five shillings.” - -“Very well, sir,” said the old woman. The bargain was concluded, and -Mr. Usher went out a very happy man. For a green, unused 7 1/2d. Canada -postage stamp, as all philatelists know, will fetch some eight or nine -pounds, if judiciously put on the market, and Mr. Usher had a beautiful -specimen already in his collection. Fortune was really smiling on him -this morning. - -He reached Matthew Lanyon's office in a seraphic temper, which a quarter -of an hour's wait did not ruffle. When Mr. Lanyon's client had departed, -he was shown into the office, where Matthew was seated at his desk. - -“I thought you would come,” said Matthew, without further greeting. “Sit -down.” - -“You are not looking at all well, my dear friend,” said Usher. “You -should really take care of yourself. I always say it is wrong for a man -to let his business affairs get the upper hand with him.” - -It was true. Matthew had been ailing considerably of late, and his -doctor had urged him to do a number of impossible things,--to go for a -sea voyage, to reduce his practice, to take a partner. He was killing -himself. He must stop, or human science wouldn't answer for the -consequences. - -“Human science can wait till she's asked,” the old man had replied with -a certain humour. The past year had aged him considerably. His hair was -greyer, his figure slightly bent, his face and hands thinner, his brow -more care worn. Characteristically he had told Sylvester of none of his -ailments, and during the weekends Sylvester had spent at Woodlands, he -had made special efforts to appear bright and strong. When Sylvester, -anxiously informed by his aunt, questioned him, he had laughed in his -cheery way, but with a touch of petulance, and asked how he, a man of -science, could attribute any importance to Agatha's silly whimsies. - -He was not the man to be fond of pity, even from those dearest to him; -_a fortiori_, he found Usher's sympathy particularly obnoxious. - -“I'm exceedingly well,” he said somewhat irritably. “Better than I have -been for months.” - -“Perhaps the pleasant news has cheered you,” said Usher. “There is -nothing like the happiness of others to make the heart young again. I am -always rejoiced at the happiness of others. It is my nature.” - -He said it with such an air of dull simplicity, uttering each vocable -with weighty deliberation, that a smile flickered around Matthew's lips. -“I really think you believe it.” - -“I never disguise my sentiments. Falsehood is abhorrent to me.” - -“Rubbish!” said Matthew, curtly. “I'm busy. I can only give you ten -minutes. What have you come for?” - -“To share your happiness in the engagement of our dear children,--my -son, your ward.” - -“I am not pleased at all. Even you ought to know that.” - -“Not pleased?” - -“No. A marriage like that is an impossibility.” - -Usher opened his eyes in reproachful astonishment. - -“Why?” - -“How can I let my ward marry a man like Roderick?” - -“My son is a fine fellow,” said Usher. - -“He 's an infernal scamp,” said Matthew, “and you know it.” - -“He has been a little wild, I allow,” said Usher, indulgently. “But -all young men sow their wild oats. Even you, Matthew, have committed -indiscretions--” - -“And I've paid for them a million times over,” said Matthew. “My God! I -have paid the uttermost farthing.” - -He passed his hand with a quick movement across his face, as if to wipe -out a sudden contortion of features. - -“We needn't discuss the matter,” he said in business tones. “I shall not -give my consent.” - -“I don't understand why it is necessary,” said Usher. - -Matthew put him briefly into possession of the facts that Sylvester had -disclosed to Roderick. - -“They will marry without your consent,” said Usher. Matthew laughed. - -“It takes two to make a marriage, Usher.” Usher looked at him dully and -sighed. “I did not expect this ungenerosity from you, Matthew. Remember -I am a father. I have always been a most affectionate father. My -affection has always stood in my way. I plead for my poor son.” - -“Your poor son! Why, I've supported him in comfort all his life. He -earns a decent living himself, and twice I have saved him from gaol. -By George, sir, he would have got there--and richly deserved it. If -you think I'm going to give my consent to Ella marrying that confounded -attitudinising swindler, you take me for a greater rascal than -yourself.” Matthew got up and walked about the room. - -He was not a man who easily lost his temper, but the idea of this -marriage infuriated him. Usher lifted a deprecating hand. - -“Perhaps it can be arranged,” said he. - -“No, it can't. So you can go.” - -“We will withdraw our claim for five thousand pounds.” - -“Where do you suppose I'm to find five thousand pounds?” - -“You can do what you like with Miss Defries's money, Matthew.” - -Matthew stopped in his walk, and his face grew livid. He pointed to the -door. - -“Go out,” he said in a trembling voice, “or I'll have you turned out.” - -Usher rose to his feet and shuffled towards the door. - -“Then poor Sylvester shall know what were the parents in whom he -trusted.” - -“Let him know and be damned to you!” said Matthew. - -He flung open the door into the outer office, and stood rigid and white -with anger, as Usher passed out. Then, when he was alone, he put his -hand to his heart, and staggering to an old couch threw himself down -half fainting among the papers with which it was piled. - -A clerk, coming in a few moments later to announce a client, found him -white and gasping. But he insisted to the frightened youth on his being -well again, drank a glass of water, and with a sheer effort of will, -dragged himself to his feet and concentrated his faculties. - -“Show Sir Trevor in,” said he. - -But the sudden attack rendered him weak and anxious for the rest of the -day. He had never fainted like that before. It must have been the heat -and the fury he had flown into with Usher. When he went home to lunch -Miss Lanyon was alarmed at his appearance. - -“Perhaps I'm a little bilious. It is the heat. It's nothing,” he said -obstinately. - -Miss Lanyon looked at him sadly out of her faded blue eyes. If Dorothy, -herself, or any of the household showed signs of poorliness, he would -worry himself to death about it, get the doctors in, ransack the town -for delicacies, and send special messengers from the office during -the day to make inquiries. But where he himself was concerned, he -was impatient of interference. Miss Lanyon shook her head. Men were -insoluble enigmas. - -In the afternoon he went round the garden with his little granddaughter, -submitting to be decorated with whatever flowers her childish fancy -selected. He wore carnations round the ribbon of his hat, a Maréchal -Niel rose in the lapel of his coat, and pansies stuck down his -waistcoat, and he stalked on, gravely holding the child's hand and -chatting with her on terms of comradeship. As they passed by the -strawberry beds in the kitchen garden, Dorothy pointed to some -ragamuffin children pressing their faces against the iron gate. - -“Dirty little boys,” she announced fastidiously. - -“What would you sooner give them,--soap or strawberries?” asked the old -man. - -Dorothy reflected a moment. - -“Soap is nasty,” she said. - -“Well, we'll give them some strawberries. Open the gate and call them.” - -She ran to the gate and gave the invitation. The children came in shyly, -their mouths watering. - -“Show them how to pick,” said Matthew. - -She bent down and picked and gave a berry to each of the children. The -old man walked away. Presently Dorothy came running after him. Why had -he gone off? - -“They'll eat more if I'm not there,” said he. “But why don't you stay?” - -“One of them ate a slug,” replied Dorothy, in disgusted dignity. - -The old man threw himself down on a garden seat and laughed. Dorothy -clambered on to his knees. - -“Tell me about the kangaroos,” she commanded. So for the next hour he -entertained her with stories of kangaroos and monkeys and crocodiles -and the strange beasts of far lands. Then Miss Lanyon came upon them, in -search of Dorothy. - -“There are some horrid little boys stealing the strawberries,” she said. - -“What! are they there still? They began an hour ago. I gave them leave.” - -“And they have been picking some of the green peaches that were coming -on so nicely.” - -“They'll enjoy them green better than we shall enjoy them ripe,” said -Matthew. “So let them be.” - -“I sha'n't. They'll be ill,” said Miss Lanyon, with spirit. - -The old man went off to distribute halfpence among the children as a -sort of compensation for loss of stomach aches, and his sister carried -off Dorothy. - -“Dorothy,” she said on the way, “your grandfather is a saint.” - -“You said he was the worry of your life to-day,” said Dorothy. - -“Because he's too good, dear. We're none of us good enough for him,” - said Miss Lanyon. - -Matthew returned to the seat and slowly divested himself of his flowers, -giving himself up for the moment to the peaceful charm of the afternoon -hour. The place was dear to him. It was more or less the creation of his -life. It was a small house in a little garden when he had brought his -wife to Ayresford. And he had added on to both, bit by bit, building -a wing, buying a few adjacent acres, until it had come to be a large -property perfectly laid out. - -The house stood mellow and homelike in the soft sunshine, with ivy and -clematis clustering on walls and around windows. The lawn, smooth and -well trimmed, stretched into the dimness of a little wilderness marked -by shrubs. The sycamores on the other side of the house waved their tops -above the roof. He remembered when they were planted. She planted them. -What a number of years ago! And there in the old part of the house was -her window. The clematis had always been there. He remembered how it -used to brush her cheek as she leaned out to call to him. It was just -such an afternoon as this that her delicate face, like a pink shell, -flushed with excitement, had appeared and she had summoned him nearer. - -“Mat, Baby has cut a tooth.” - -My God! He could hear her voice now; almost wondered whether she had not -withdrawn within, and whether the five and thirty years had not been a -vague dream, and he himself was not young and vigorous and defiant -of fate. But the quick memories of the day rushed back upon him and -obscured the dearer vision. - -The marriage was impossible. His heart yearned towards the girl whom -he loved with an old man's tender affection. How could he allow her to -marry a man whom he knew, from heredity, from actual facts that had come -miserably within his own knowledge, to be an unprincipled adventurer? -The misery of it was that his lips were sealed. He could not tell her -of Roderick's real character. To do that would be to break virtually the -promise he had kept for over thirty years. - -“Whatever I do for my own son, I shall do for yours.” - -He could no more blacken Roderick's reputation than he could -Sylvester's. Perhaps the marriage would redeem him. Yet to stake the -life's happiness of a human soul that was dear to him upon the chance of -another's redemption was too great a responsibility. Why had she engaged -herself to this man? It was not through love. He drew from his pocket -the letter he had received from her that morning and read it through. -It was constrained, artificial. The tone jarred upon their intimacy. -Perhaps Ella had changed, grown worldly and cynical, lost her love for -him. Or was it only the letter of a girl at war with her own heart? He -had seen many such battles in his time. - -“At any rate, I withhold my consent,” he said decisively. - -Yet Usher's threat agitated him more than he dared confess. He had never -defied him before on that point. For a moment he was racked with a spasm -of fear lest Sylvester should know the secret of his relations with -Usher. The fear had grown with the years into the roots of his life, had -become an unreasoning terror. To save his son the knowledge, he had been -killing himself by inches with work and worry. - -Suddenly he rose, shook himself as if impatient of the clinging doubts, -and walked briskly across the lawn. Usher daren't do it, for his own -sake. - -Usher turned the corner of the house and met him by the door. Matthew -frowned and regarded him angrily. - -“I told you to go and be damned to you,” he said. - -“You made use of improper language, Matthew. You lost your temper. I -never lose my temper. I am a most peaceful man. And I forgive. It is a -Christian virtue. I thought you might change your mind on reflection.” - -“I haven't changed my mind,” said Matthew. - -Usher took an envelope from his pocket, withdrew a letter, and handed it -to Matthew. - -“Would you like me to send that to Sylvester?” - -Matthew glanced through it; his fingers trembled in spite of his will. -But he tore the paper across and across and put the fragments into his -jacket-pocket. - -“You would not be such a fool as to kill the goose with the golden -eggs,” he said. - -“I thought you would do that,” said Usher, drawing another paper from -his pocket; “but I have prepared a duplicate. I have always been a man -of foresight. It is my firm intention to post this to Sylvester unless -you give me your written consent to the marriage. I do not want money, -Matthew. I have earned enough to keep me in comfort for the rest of -my old age, and your promise to help my poor boy was based on no -conditions. All the country says you are an upright man, Matthew. When -I mentioned the five thousand pounds to-day, I was forgetting your -scrupulous honour. I apologise. I always apologise when I am wrong. I am -a just man.” - -All through this harangue Matthew's stern gaze had never left the puffy, -white-bearded, common face. And he saw, not for the first time, beneath -the old man's dull and red-rimmed eyes, a hard gleam of hate. But -for the first time he realised that even to such a man there might be -something dearer even than money, and the chill fear fastened round his -heart. He made an impatient movement across the threshold of the open -door. - -“Come into the library,” he said. “It is an insult to God's sweet air to -discuss such things here.” - -Usher followed him indoors. Some time later Miss Lanyon came down, -having changed her dress for dinner, and leaned against the jamb of the -creeper-covered porch and drank in the softness of the summer evening -with the country-bred gentlewoman's vague mingling of happiness and -regret. She had heard of the engagement. It had made her sad. Why had it -not been Sylvester instead of Roderick? She sighed over the grave of her -old maid's vicarious romance. A footstep behind her caused her to turn. -It was Mr. Usher, buttoning his old frock-coat. His face showed grave -benevolence. - -“A father lives in his children,” he said, after receiving her reluctant -congratulations. “I live in my son.” - -The dinner-bell rang. - -“I must go,” he continued. “I came to see my old friend on business. He -is so good. His time is always at the disposal of his friends.” - -“I told Dorothy this evening that he was a saint,” she said. - -Usher squeezed her hand impressively. - -“He is indeed, Miss Lanyon. He is indeed.” - -But Matthew sat in his library chair staring in front of him in agony of -spirit. He had yielded. The trace of the writing was there on the fresh -blotting-paper before him. The strong man writhed under the humiliation -of defeat. The proud, sensitive gentleman was tortured in his Nessus -shirt of dishonour. And it comforted him not that it was for his -son's sake. He felt as if he had ransomed him at the price of Ella's -deliverance to the Minotaur. - - - - -CHAPTER X--SYLVESTER DOES BATTLE - -Loss of faith in all through the faithlessness of one is a common and a -tragic phenomenon. It is vain for the robust-minded to prove the illogic -of the conclusion, which is one arrived at more from the emotional than -the logical faculties of the brain. The phenomenon occurs only in men of -a certain temperament. They are endowed with powers of intense individual -passion, but lack that universality of sympathy which makes for breadth -of judgment. To narrow the proposition to a particular case, they take -one woman, not after long and patient deliberation,--that is the supreme -pity of it,--but haphazard, on the impulse of a great emotion, and -glorify her as the queen of all women. She becomes inevitably the test -of a sex. The poor human touchstone fails, and a whole sex is condemned. -To the commoner sort this loss of faith matters little, for the nobility -of a great faith was never in them; they cultivate an easy-going -cynicism, and that is all. But the men whose lives are broken, who feel -within them the horrible weight of a dead ideal, are of nobler mould, -and therein lies the piteousness of the tragedy. - -Sylvester walked slowly homewards from his partner's house in St. John's -Wood, where he had been dining. For Dr. Frodsham, who had ample means -and a large family, had taken the opportunity of moving from the -house in Weymouth Street into the purer air of the N. W. district, -on Sylvester's entrance into partnership, and only retained a -consulting-room, where he attended at certain hours. The sense of his -loss hung heavy upon Sylvester. He had left a home that glowed with a -happiness for ever beyond his reach. He had seen love, trust, sympathy, -reflected from face to face of husband and wife. The house was glad with -the laughter of youth. The somewhat intellectual atmosphere was softened -by an indescribable tenderness of human relation. Faith in themselves as -men and women, in humanity in general, gave a largeness to their social -intercourse. And he had sat there recognising, wondering; envying, until -the door had closed behind him and he was left to his loneliness on the -silent pavement. - -A boy and girl of the lower class passed slowly by, she with her head on -his shoulder, he with his arm round her waist. They were saying -nothing, probably were maintaining a half-hour's silence, but they were -undeniably happy, and, for the moment, Sylvester envied them. Vulgar as -may have been their affection, they, like the Frodshams, possessed that -which he had lost for ever,--faith. And faith meant love and love meant -life. He had seldom felt so keenly the abomination of his desolation, -and the craving for a woman's touch grew to a pang like hunger. And yet -his whole nature rejected the idea of fulfilment. He shuddered as he -walked, and strove to turn his thoughts into another channel. But the -elemental dominates a man's will. Unconsciously he returned to the -subject. Ella had been much in his mind since Roderick's announcement. -Her yielding to such a lover had strengthened his conviction of the -contemptibility of a woman's nature. Cynically he congratulated himself -on his escape. He set down nothing in extenuation. He only saw, on the -one side, a woman of apparent refinement whom he had once thought worthy -of being his wife, on the other side a blatant, sensual, mercenary cad. -The refined woman had thrown herself into the cad's arms. What was -the need of looking further? Any woman would have done the same. The -so-called virtuous were merely the untempted. The kindly matron at whose -table he had been dining had only maintained her position by a series -of lucky accidents. And what living soul could tell whether she had been -true to Frodsham? But he envied Frodsham his unclouded faith and the -happiness that love brought to his hearth. - -Thus Sylvester walked homewards, his thoughts revolving in a vicious -circle. At Baker Street Station he passed through a crowd that was -gathering around two fringed and feathered coster-girls shrieking and -biting and cursing in a policeman's grip. They were too much for one -man, for your coster-girl in drink is a she-devil, and possessed -of extraordinary activities. One escaped, and as her companion was -struggling with the constable, she rushed at his face with a gigantic -hat-pin held dagger-wise. - -In an instant Sylvester had dropped his light coat and had seized -the fury by the arms from behind. And there he held her pinioned. She -kicked, she butted, she poured out torrents of filth, she struggled, -she tried to lie down, to the great excitement of the crowd, who, out of -respect for the hat-pin, kept at a reasonable distance off, and expected -to see a battle royal in which the slight man in evening dress would get -the worst of it. But they were not prepared for such an exhibition of -sheer strength on the part of the slight man. He stood like a figure -of bronze, holding the foul and frenzied Amazon almost at arm's length, -lifting her like a child when she tried to fall, forcing her down when -she tried to leap into the air. The tussle, as far as Sylvester was -concerned, did not last long; for two policemen, forcing their way -through the throng, speedily relieved him of his charge and the lady of -the hat-pin. Whereupon Sylvester, cheered by the crowd, coolly took -his overcoat from a man who was holding it, and walked away down Baker -Street. - -The incident, although not tending to raise the Eternal Feminine in his -esteem, broke the train of his morbid imaginings. He glowed with -the sense of victory and chuckled quietly to himself. The successful -application of one's own brute force brings exultation to the primitive -savage in a man. - -“I'm not in such bad training, after all,” he said to himself -pleasantly. - -So he sprang up the steps of the house in Weymouth Street in a much -healthier frame of mind than that in which he had descended them some -hours before. The sudden stirring of the blood had done him good. - -“Mr. Lanyon is here, sir,” said a servant, meeting him in the hall. “He -said he would wait until you came home.” - -Sylvester disregarded the letters lying on the hall table, and ran -upstairs to the drawing-room, where somewhat breathlessly he expressed -his delight and wonder at seeing his father. But he was struck almost -immediately with dismay at the look of illness on the old man's face. - -“You have no business to be here,” he exclaimed. “You ought to be in -bed. For God's sake, father, what is wrong with you?” He looked at him -keenly. “It is the heart, isn't it?” - -“Yes, that and other things,” Matthew admitted; “I have been a bit seedy -lately. But I'll look after myself; don't fret. And I didn't come here -to talk about my inside. I had to come up to town on business, so I -thought I'd look in instead of writing. I haven't been waiting long. You -see, your man has made me quite comfortable.” - -He pointed to a tray by his side with whisky, soda, and glasses, and a -box of cigars. Sylvester poured himself out a drink and bit off the end -of a cigar. - -“What's gone wrong?” he asked, striking a match. - -“This confounded marriage of Ella's.” - -“I wouldn't worry about it, father, if I were you. They are just worth -one another. She has proved she's on his level by accepting him.” - -“Not at all, not at all,” said the old man. “That shows you know nothing -of women. It is one of the most astounding facts about an astounding -sex, that women of absolute refinement will throw themselves away upon -the most obvious cad, be utterly blind to his coarseness, if once he -gets a hold upon them. It's a kind of helpless infatuation. It doesn't -at all argue the degeneration of the woman.” - -“Well, you can withhold your consent, and in the mean time try to open -her eyes.” - -“I have already given my consent, and there are reasons why I can't open -her eyes,” said Matthew, rather slowly, looking at his finger tips. - -Sylvester swung a straight-backed chair from its place and sat down near -his father. - -“Then you are not going to interfere at all? Don't you think that is -the best thing you can do? Let them work out their own salvation or -damnation, as the case may be.” - -“I love Ella as my own daughter, Syl, and I would save her if I could.” - -“Then I don't understand,” said Sylvester. “Forgive my being -impertinent, Syl, but this is a serious matter. Weren't you fond of Ella -yourself, some time ago?” - -The eyes of father and son met, and the eyes of each were very keen. - -“I would rather not answer the question,” said Sylvester. - -“You needn't,” replied Matthew, taking a sip of his whisky and soda. - -There was a short silence. Sylvester smoked on, his glance fixed on his -father's face, his mind more concerned with the traces of illness and -suffering that he read there than with the subject under discussion. - -“Syl,” said the old man, at last, looking at his son, “we are neither of -us sentimental people.” - -“I suppose we're not,” assented Sylvester, with a short laugh. - -“Good. So what I want to say to you is serious. You have been a good son -to me. I've tried to do my duty by you. But I've never asked you to do -a thing for my sake during the whole course of your life. Do you think I -should be justified in starting now?” - -“It stands to reason,” said Sylvester. - -Matthew rose from his chair and put his hand on his son's shoulder. With -all the tenderness of his heart, he was a man singularly little given to -outward demonstrations of affection. - -“Then do everything in your power,” said he, “to stop this marriage. For -my sake.” He turned and walked away. “I can do nothing,” he added. - -“Very well,” replied Sylvester, quietly; “I'll stop it.” - -“Don't undertake too much. I only asked you to try.” - -“I've said I'll stop it, and I will. Even if it comes to--” - -“What?” - -“To marrying her myself,” said Sylvester, grimly. - -Matthew sat down again, and then passed one of the long silences, so -common between these two, who seemed to understand each other better -when no words were spoken. Each man kept his own life's secrets hidden -in his heart, would have gone through torture rather than reveal them to -the other, or indeed to any human being, and yet each was dearer to the -other than any being on earth. Speech, then, on intimate matters was -dragged reluctantly and painfully from their souls, which preferred -to hold a silent and mysterious communion. Even what he had said to -Sylvester this evening seemed to Matthew an indecency, an exposure of an -integral part of himself that the proud man kept hidden under a usually -inscrutable veil of reserve. It was characteristic of both that the -subject received no further allusion. - -“I must think about turning in,” said Matthew at last. - -“I'll go and see if they've made things comfortable for you,” said -Sylvester. - -“But, bless you, man, I'm not billeting myself on you and turning your -house upside down. I'm putting up at the Charing Cross Hotel.” - -“You'd better stay here for two or three days and let me doctor you a -bit,” said Sylvester. - -But the old man pooh-pooh'd the idea. He did not want doctoring. He had -had some worrying intricate business lately. These confounded landed -proprietors,--they got their affairs into the most disastrous muddles, -and when once they had put them into a lawyer's hands thought themselves -relieved of all responsibilities and gaily went off to borrow more -money. God may have made man in his own image, but he certainly forgot -to supply the majority of the images with brains. However, he had set -things straight by now and could take it easy for a bit. When he wanted -Sylvester to doctor him, he would say so. - -Against his will and better judgment, Sylvester had to let him go. -He announced his intention of walking to Charing Cross, but Sylvester -anticipated him by whistling up a hansom at the street door. Matthew -protested. He had always walked home. - -“Do something for my sake,--for a change,” said Sylvester, with a touch -of humour. - -The old man laughed, entered the cab, and drove off. - -Sylvester went upstairs to finish his cigar. The world seemed a more -ironical place than it had appeared some hours before. He felt certain -aches in his fingers and sundry tinglings in his shins. He stooped and -rubbed the latter with a meditative smile. There was another young woman -between whom and her desires he was about to come. He speculated on the -prospect of rubbing his shins after that encounter. - -“I wonder how it is to be done,” he said, lying back in his chair. - -His promise was given. He would have unquestioningly married his fair -antagonist of Baker Street had his father so commanded. But all the same -it was not without uneasiness that he contemplated his mission. And as -for the girl he had undertaken to save, he assured himself that he took -no interest whatever in her destiny. - -***** - -To celebrate the engagement, Lady Milmo held a great reception to which -came crowds of distinguished and undistinguished persons, but it was -characteristic of her gatherings that the former far outnumbered the -latter. The air hummed with congratulations and with laudations of Art. -Sylvester, moving sardonically through the press, felt like a visitor -dazed by the whirl of a great unfamiliar factory. He confessed the -feeling to an acquaintance who fluttered between the two worlds of art -and science. - -“The manufactory of artificial ideals,” laughed the latter, having also -to maintain a reputation for epigram. - -The wit stayed to speak with a friend, and Sylvester tried to edge his -way towards the further end of the room where Ella stood talking with a -couple of men. From where he was he could see that she looked more than -usually beautiful. Her face was flushed, her eyes held the light of -enthusiasm, her young figure in a simple white silk dress stood out -proud and defiant against the darkness of an open window. It -recalled vividly to his mind her attitude when long, long ago she had -passionately expressed her faith in the glory of the world. His -lips twitched in a half-smile. All around him he heard snatches of -conversation in which the engagement was alluded to. A man cast doubts -on Roderick's solvency. A girl declared she would just as soon marry a -steam-organ. A lean, anxious woman with a mechanical grin ecstaticised -over the union. The Art Colony was discussed on all sides. - -Presently Roderick, resplendent in a great white bow that fell half over -his shirt-front and almost hid a topaz solitaire, caught sight of him -and hailed him with a southern wave of his hand. - -“My dear comrade,” he cried as soon as he was within hand-shaking range -of Sylvester, “it does my heart good to see you here to share our joy. -Have you spoken to her yet? There she is-- - - 'Oh, she is fairer than the evening air - - Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars!' - -Isn't she? A throbbing moment, _amigo_.” - -“I'm glad to see you so much in love,” said Sylvester. “It's -refreshing.” - -“Cynic!” said Roderick. “That's why your hair is turning grey. Look at -mine,--fresh as a rose in June. And I'm older than you.” - -“How's the Utopia?” - -“Colossal. Come, I'll introduce you to Sir Decimus Bland. Lady Derring -has fixed me with her glassy eye, and I must obey her call. Sir Decimus, -let me present my oldest and most valued friend, Dr. Sylvester Lanyon, -the terror of bacilli.” - -Sir Decimus was a portly red-faced man who, from a habit of holding his -hands in front of him, looked as if he were supporting a model of one -of his Art galleries after the self-conscious manner of a “donor,” - supporting his church in the company of various saints in an old Italian -painting. He puffed as he spoke and glared amiably through a single -eye-glass. - -“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Dr. Lanyon,” said he. “Your name -is a household word in the domain of science. In our domain we also have -bacilli to fight against,--commercialism, insincerity, all the cankers -that destroy the soul of art.” - -“So you are going to choose an environment unsuitable for their -development, I hear,” said Sylvester. - -“Yes, the Walden Art Colony. I am, as you may know, guaranteeing the -Director's salary. Our fortunate friend is just the man for the post.” - -“When do you think it will take practical shape?” asked Sylvester. - -“We hope to start next spring--and under very happy auspices. I look -upon this as a fitting culmination to the poor services I have been able -to render to Art in this country. Are you interested in the movement, -Dr. Lanyon?” - -“Not financially. I hardly know enough about it. One thing I don't quite -understand. I thought an artist gave out the experience he had gathered -in his contact with real life. How is he going to get that contact if he -buries himself in what amounts to a desert island?” - -“He goes direct to nature,” replied Sir Decimus, platitudinously. - -“Does he?” argued Sylvester. “Rocks and trees are all very well -for pretty pictures. But what about love and sorrow and other human -emotions. He seems to get away entirely from the important side of -nature.” - -“Yes, yes, so I grant. But it's hardly that,” puffed Sir Decimus, -mopping his forehead. “Ah, here is Urquhart; he will tell you all about -it. Don't you know Urquhart?” - -He performed the introduction, stated the case at great length with a -confusion that irritated the scientist's trained mind, and then, with -visible relief, moved away. Bevis Urquhart, a slight young man, with -a tiny silky black moustache and a languid manner, began a patient -explanation. Sylvester had heard of him as a lad of great wealth who -had convulsed a whole county by refusing to ride to hounds and uttering -blasphemy against partridge shooting. It was whispered that he had -invented a new religion and had an oratory in his bedroom fitted with -expensive idols made of chrysoprasus. - -“It is the mistake of the crowd,” said he, “to regard Art as an -interpretation of experience. Art has nothing to do with Life. Life -claims all for itself and so kills Art, drains it of its blood. In other -words, Life claims Art, Art does not claim Life. If not, Art would be -unexpressed. The poem would remain a pure crystal in the soul of the -poet, the picture a fair-hued mist in the fantasy of the painter. Art is -the revelation of the Undetermined, and this can only reach its fulness -in the quietude of the soul.” - -“Thank you,” said Sylvester; “you have given me a lucid solution of my -difficulty.” - -The young man smiled deprecatingly. - -“Pardon me. I try to be an artist in words, and lucidity is so brutal -and commonplace. Do you read Mallarmé?” - -“No,” said Sylvester. “When I want wholesome unintelligibility I read -Rabelais.” - -Urquhart looked pained. There was a slight pause. - -“Fond of bicycling?” asked Sylvester, cheerily. - -Again came the pitying smile over the face of the young -semi-millionaire. - -“I know so little of the things one does with one's body,” he said. - -“Better learn,” said Sylvester. “Capital exercise. Shakes up your liver, -you know.” - -Here he was carried off by Lady Milmo, who was dying to introduce him to -somebody. - -“Do you understand all the things they talk about here?” he asked. - -Lady Milmo regarded him with a twinkling eye. - -“God bless your soul, no,” she said. - -“I suppose they're all exceedingly clever?” - -Lady Milmo stood upon the points of her toes and looked around, as if -to take in all her guests in one comprehensive glance. Then she half -whispered into his ear,--“They've all got to talk like that to one -another for the sake of their reputations. But I go round and talk to -each in turn of their cooks or their stomachs, according to sex,--and -they love it!” - -“Well, I'd sooner talk to you, Lady Milmo,--though not of my -stomach,--than to any of these people,” said Sylvester, with a laugh. -“Can't you steal five minutes?” - -Lady Milmo spied a couple of vacant chairs in a near corner, and sitting -down on one motioned Sylvester to the other. Then she smiled. She was -a kind-hearted woman, and in spite of her false air of youth possessed -much charm of manner. - -“I suppose you want to talk about the engagement!” she said. - -“No, not particularly. What do you think of this Colony, where Ella -proposes to exile herself?” - -“Utter rubbish,” said Lady Milmo. - -Sylvester expressed surprise. “I was under the impression that you were -one of its fervent propagandists.” - -“Oh, one must do something,” she replied inconsequently. “One bubble -is just as good as another to blow during the season. Whether it's -providing eau de cologne for released criminals, or founding a Garden of -Eden for unsuccessful poets, it all comes to the same thing in the end. -You look puzzled. Well, what is one person's amusement is another's -bewilderment.” - -“But all these promoters--Ella and Roderick--they believe in it?” - -“Oh, yes, they believe in it. People will believe in anything,--Mr. -Urquhart's new religion, for instance. But the Art Colony is rubbish. -Don't put a penny in it. I haven't. It may be a romantic toy for Ella to -play with for the first two years of her married life, but then she will -come back and settle down to a reasonable existence. You won't give me -away, will you?” - -Sylvester promised, and a few moments later found himself standing -alone, wrapped in gloomy wonder at the inanity of life. A voice roused -him from his meditation. - -“Good-evening, Sylvester.” - -He started and found Ella by his side. She looked at him boldly, with a -little triumphant gleam of defiance. He shook hands, explained that his -object in accepting the invitation was to offer her his congratulations. -Social convention required the formula. Ella's ear, however, detected an -ironical note, and the blood came swiftly to her cheeks. - -“For a man who scorns hypocrisy--” she began; then checked herself. His -regard of grave inquiry made her swiftly conscious of a false position, -and her cheeks flamed hotter. - -“You know what I mean,” she said. “You don't really congratulate me.” - -“Why do you say so?” - -“I feel that you are inimical to me, and you have never liked Roderick.” - -“One can wish one's enemies well,” he remarked with a half-smile. - -“Why should we be your enemies? You should hear how differently Roderick -speaks of you.” - -“My dear Ella,” replied Sylvester, “I have not uttered a single word -against Roderick. It would be in very bad taste for me to do so. I have -known him for many years, and we still meet. But he is not an intimate -friend of mine.” - -“You dislike him,” said Ella. “I feel that you do.” - -The feline that is in the nature of all women--just as its stronger, -tigerish development is in the nature of all men--tingled to her finger -ends. She felt the velvet sheaths stiffen back. The sight of him angered -her. She itched to provoke him to battle, to fall on him tooth and claw -if he took up her challenge. An unreasoning instinct clamoured also for -violent defence of Roderick. It was a psychological moment full of many -feminine complexities which she half understood; and that made her the -more angry. - -Sylvester, looking only on the surface, smiled somewhat contemptuously -at her desire to scratch. Certainly he had undertaken a campaign against -her; but he felt that so undignified a skirmish was not the wisest -preliminary to hostilities. He had come here, besides, to reconnoitre. - -“Why should I dislike Roderick?” he asked. - -“Because you never try to understand anybody. Because Roderick has not -locked himself up in your iron cage of convention; because he hasn't set -himself up on a pillar of impeccability as you have done. You sit -within your own prim parlour of moderation and think the man who goes to -generous extremes is a lost soul. You need not have congratulated me. I -should not have resented it. I should have understood and have given you -credit for honesty.” - -But Sylvester was not to be drawn into strife. He replied equably that -he would withdraw his congratulations, if they offended her. Meanwhile -they might talk of something pleasanter. She suggested Shakespeare and -the musical glasses, with a fine air of disdain. - -“Or the Walden Art Colony?” said Sylvester. - -“What have you to say against the Colony?” she flashed. - -“Nothing at all. Do you believe in it?” - -“With all my heart. It is a great movement. It is an idea to live for. -It is the first thing I have had to believe in since--since I threw off -the girl and became a woman.” - -“And I sincerely hope it won't be the last,” he replied with grave -irony. And as a young man drew nigh to take his leave of Ella, he bowed -and turned away with a saturnine sense of a victory after which there -would be no rubbing of shins. But Ella, although she smiled sweetly on -the young man, felt that she had been foolish in wantonly exposing -herself to Sylvester's cold mockery, and the brightness of her evening -suffered a miserable eclipse. It was only when Sir Decimus Bland came up -and talked Colony with ponderous patronage, and elevated her to the -dignity of high-priestess of the undefined cult of the Higher Art, that -she regained her self-respect and looked more serenely on the universe. - - - - -CHAPTER XI--UNREST - -It was late October. People were beginning to return to London, and -among the early arrivals was Lady Milmo, who had been longing to escape -from the discomforts of foreign hotels and English country-houses to her -own familiar surroundings in Pont Street. With her came Ella, who was -anxious to resume the work of the Colony. She had spent the latter part -of July and August in Ayresford. - -It had been a time of rest and quiet happiness, for she loved the old -man in a wistful, daughterly way; yet, in spite of his tender courtesy, -she had divined in him the same antagonism to Roderick as she had -discovered in Sylvester, and this had put a constraint in their -relations which had never before existed. The engagement was seldom -referred to, and though the girl's cheek flushed with pleasure at -Roderick's morning letter, yet during the rest of the day she was -happier when he was not vivid in her thoughts. - -At first it had been arranged that Roderick should pay a long-promised -visit to his father at the same time. But when it came to the point -of making definite arrangements, he had found his presence, in the -interests of the Colony, essential elsewhere. As a matter of fact, the -elder Usher jarred upon his son's more refined susceptibilities. His -personal acquaintance with Ella was sufficiently annoying to Roderick; -but to sit by in silent apology, while she was being overspread with -unctuous and paternal platitudes, was an ordeal too exasperating to -face. So following as usual the line of least resistance, he had accepted -one or two pleasant and profitable invitations. His non-appearance, -though she credited herself with a feeling of disappointment, was a -relief to Ella. She had passed lately through many conflicting emotions, -and she needed solitude, a period of moral repose, wherein to realise -both herself and circumstances. For a proud girl does not surrender to a -man almost against her will, without striving in her heart to account -it to herself as a victory. The fact of the strained relations between -Matthew and Usher, of which Miss Agatha Lanyon informed her, also -mitigated her regret. They were at daggers drawn, did not even salute -each other in the street. Roderick's absence avoided a grotesque -Montague and Capulet situation. It further saved her from much personal -intercourse with Usher, for whom she entertained no very high opinion. -Once, however, she dined with him ceremoniously. He talked in his -reiterative way of the comfort a daughter would be to his old age, and -represented himself as the most generous and indulgent of parents. He -alluded to Matthew more in sorrow than in anger. A man with whom he had -been in intimate bonds of friendship for forty years to throw him over -at the last! It was grievous; it was ageing him rapidly. He was always a -faithful friend. It was his disposition. The saint leered at her out of -his red-rimmed eyes, and Ella felt a shiver of repulsion which lasted -till the next morning, when a fervid epistle from Roderick restored her -serenity. - -“I can't make out why Matthew and Mr. Usher have quarrelled,” said Miss -Lanyon during the day. - -“And I wonder why they haven't quarrelled for forty years,” returned -Ella. “Oh, don't look shocked, auntie. It is no reason for me to adore a -man because I am engaged to his son!” - -Thenceforward she became a violent though silent partisan of Matthew in -his dispute. There must have been serious grounds for such a quarrel; -Matthew could do no wrong; therefore Usher must have treated him -shamefully. The syllogism was perfectly conclusive. This feeling and -a growing anxiety as to the old man's health did much to lessen the -constraint between them. For he was constantly ailing, and was not -the man she had seen fifteen months before. She left him with great -reluctance, in spite of the glowing impatience of Roderick, with whom -she was to spend some weeks as the guest of Sir Decimus Bland. - -Now it was October, and London life began again. Lady Milmo busied -herself in spinning her gossamer web of affairs and appeared smiling and -contented. Ella devoted herself to such studies as she considered would -be of benefit in her peculiar position as Lady Director of the Colony. -Roderick was ever by with suggestion and advice. Things were going -splendidly. Some three thousand pounds had already been subscribed -and lay at Roderick's bankers. Three thousand more had been promised, -irrespective of Sir Decimus's undertaking to provide the Director's -salary. With another four thousand they could start. Ella offered to -provide it. Roderick shook his head. It had better come from the great -heart of the public. She persisted and wrote to Matthew. He urged her -almost passionately not to put money into the scheme until she was -married. Thus Roderick and Matthew were in accord on the point, and Ella -was puzzled. - -“When is it to be, dearest?” asked Roderick one day. - -The question came suddenly after a short pause in their talk. It was -during the few minutes before dinner. Roderick was dining in Pont -Street, and Lady Milmo not having come down yet, they were alone. - -“You know,” replied Ella, with a half-smile. - -“Ah, do I?” said he. “I don't love contingencies. I long for the -glorious life with you, my wonderful Ella. And I am a man, and waiting -is hard.” - -She flushed slightly. The consciousness of being desired ever quickens -a woman's pulses. But she also loves the sense of mastery in maintaining -herself within impregnable walls. In this perhaps lies the delicious -paradox of her sex. - -“I keep to my terms,” she said. “Within a week of our starting for the -Colony. Not before. It will give a new sacredness to our work and to our -married life if we begin them both at the same time.” - -“But who knows when the inauguration of the colony will be?” asked -Roderick. - -“It could be now, practically, if you would let me furnish the deficit.” - -“Ah, no,” he said. “You would be acting against a principle very dear -to me. It must be others who give their money. We give our lives. If -you subscribe, the prestige of the Colony as a great public movement is -gone. It is bound to come to ripeness. But like an exquisite fruit it -takes time.” - -“I am happy to wait for the ripening,” said Ella. - -“But I?” He threw out his arms passionately. “Ella, do you know what the -madness of love is? Don't you fear that in the first rapturous days of -life with you I might forget the work for your enchantment? Would it -not be better to begin the work in the sweet fulness of our wedded -life,--when we have learned each other in the way that only wedded life -can teach?” - -“It will be better to begin things together,” she replied with feminine -reiteration. - -He pleaded flamboyantly. Why not fix the date of his great happiness -for Christmas,--the time of universal rejoicing? The marriage would -stimulate imaginations. The deficit would be made up fourfold. -Subscriptions would come in by way of wedding gifts. Ella remained -calmly obdurate. - -“Before I loved you, the cause was everything to me. Since then, you are -everything. The cause is second. It is the irrefragable law of life and -love.” - -“To me,” replied Ella, “the cause and you are one.” - -She glanced up swiftly and caught, as it seemed, a look of irritation on -his face,--a contraction of the brows, a snarl of the lips between the -auburn moustache and beard, showing the teeth. But it passed like a -lightning flash and left his face aglow with such exuberant adoration -that she attributed it to some-trick of shadow, and dismissed it from -her mind. - -But as the days went on, a vague uneasiness took root and began to -grow. Roderick spoke less of the Colony, more of herself. Negotiations -appeared to be at a standstill. No more names swelled the subscription -list; Roderick took no further steps to make fresh converts among the -young and ardent. He pleaded the necessity of work to supply ordinary -personal needs. He tried to awaken her enthusiasm over a flaring picture -of _Love the Destroyer_, which he had begun to paint. She went one day -to his studio to see it. Love stood, triumphant and cruel, a two-handed -sword in his hand. Around him was the carnage for which he was -responsible. An emaciated creature at last gasp was kissing his feet. -There was a suggestion of the flesh in it that jarred upon the girl. The -commonplace of the conception chilled her. She remained staring at the -picture. It was long before she could trust herself to look at Roderick. -At last she did so, unable to hide her disappointment. - -“You do not like it?” said Roderick, eagerly. - -“Forgive me--” she began rather piteously. - -“Say no more,” he cried, and with a magnificent gesture he seized a -cloth, and in great, swift sweeps of his arm smeared the picture into -a horrid chaos of greens and yellows. Ella sprang forward with a little -cry. - -“So perish all in me that you deem unworthy!” he exclaimed fervently. - -The act brought the woman in her to his feet. Who was she to judge the -creation of an artist's genius? Had he let it stand, she would have -loved the picture. The annihilation, at her bidding, of the result of -days of artistic travail smote her with a sense of guilt. She was ready -to lament a lost masterpiece. She would never rest until he repainted -it. He magnanimously refused. The first impression of a picture on a -pure and beautiful soul was the true one. She would be the touchstone of -all his life's work. He sent her away at once raised and humbled. But -to make amends, she threw herself earnestly into a new conception of -the subject that he put before her, and watched it taking shape upon the -canvas with intense eagerness. And in the meanwhile the Colony was not -quite so much on the surface of her thoughts. Now and then, however, she -questioned him anxiously. Once he turned upon her in solemn reproach,-- - -“Do I understand that you are afraid of my faltering in the sacred cause -to which we have devoted ourselves?” - -Ella was impressed with his dignity and again rebuked herself for her -want of faith. Women are indignant when they are told how often they are -taken in by fustian. - -November came. She met Sylvester at dinner one evening at Lady Milmo's -for the first time since the At Home in July, given to celebrate her -engagement. He sat silent during the meal. Roderick, who made the -fourth, was in his gayest mood. Rebellious defiance again came uppermost -in the girl's heart, and she strove to put forward all her brilliance. -She compared the two men: one, cold, sombre, severe,--a mere intellect -clothed in the outer semblance of humanity; the other warm-hearted, -enthusiastic, sensitive to every impression of life, and gifted with -a perception of a world that had never entered into the purview of -his fellow's dreams. She fortified her unmitigated resentment against -Sylvester with disdain. How could she ever have loved such a bloodless -piece of mechanism? She lashed with scorn her girlish folly. A -heightened colour and an added lustre to her eyes rendered dazzling her -ordinary girlish beauty. - -“You are not one, but all wondrous womankind's epitome to-night,” - whispered Roderick, in the drawing-room afterwards. - -“That is foolishness,” she replied, “but I--I was just going to say I -have never felt so proud of you as I have done this evening.” - -Roderick laughed. “I'm afraid it is because dear old Syl sits by so glum -while I'm such a chatterbox,” he said. - -Ella shot a swift glance upwards. Really this man had marvellous -intuition. Could he ever have suspected--? Her cheek burned. But to her -comforting no trace of malicious insinuation lurked in the frankness of -his eyes. His deprecation of her tribute was sincere. - -Lady Milmo went to the piano. She had a dainty taste in music, and -having lately added an obscure but colossal Herzigovinan rhapsodist to -her menagerie, found intense delight in his compositions. He was only -two and twenty and had already reached op. 236. This Lady Milmo began -to play, while Roderick self-sacrificingly turned over the leaves. -Sylvester exchanged commonplace remarks with Ella. The consciousness of -the task he had undertaken somewhat weighed upon him. He was to break -off the marriage. How? Only by fair means. A man of scrupulous honour, -he characterised as foul any secret investigations into Roderick's -financial position or past career. Nor could he asperse Roderick's -character while maintaining with him a semblance of friendly relations. -To declare open war would be foolish. He could do nothing but bide his -opportunity. Meanwhile he was less than ever at his ease with Ella. She, -however, interpreted his constraint as contemptuous indifference, and -once more she longed for battle. The memory of her humiliation on -the night of Lady Milmo's reception only made her irritation more -unbearable. A chance remark about his father gave her the longed for -opportunity to stab. - -“I suppose you know Uncle Matthew's health is failing,'' she said -suddenly. - -“I am afraid so,” he said. - -“Then why aren't you by his side to take care of him? Since you left he -has been gradually breaking down. Neglect is killing him.” - -Sylvester curled the ends of his moustache and regarded her impassively. - -“You are trying to hurt me,” he said. “I do not neglect my father.” - -“No. You are a paragon of all the excellences. If you had some -infirmities, you might be a better and a happier man.” - -“I do not believe in the new doctrine of the saving quality of evil,” - he replied. “I am of the old-fashioned opinion that evil taints the -character, blunts the moral sense, and comes out sooner or later in evil -actions.” - -“You talk like a Sunday-school tract,” said Ella, with a short laugh. -“But I was speaking of Uncle Matthew--” - -“I should like to speak of him too,” said Sylvester, curtly. “Your -engagement is a great unhappiness to him. He loves you like his own -daughter. You know that. If you had consulted him beforehand, perhaps it -would have been kinder. What his reasons are for wishing it broken off I -do not know, but you may be quite certain they are good ones.” - -Ella looked across the room to the piano where the Herzigovinan rhapsody -was in full tumult of crashing chords, and then edged nearer Sylvester -on the couch where they were sitting. - -“Are you aware that you are committing an impertinence in speaking to me -like that?” she said in an undertone. “How dare you? I acknowledge Uncle -Matthew as my guardian. But you--what right have you to touch upon my -affairs? What concern can you have in them?” - -“Absolutely none,--personally. But my father is dear to me. If I could -break off your engagement to please him, I should do so.” - -“Are you going to try?” - -“Yes, I shall try,” he replied coldly. Their eyes met in undisguised -enmity. - -“It would take a better man than you, Sylvester Lanyon,” she said. - -She rose and walked to the fireplace, with an air of great stateliness. -Sylvester did not attempt to follow her, but lay back on the couch as -if rapt in the music. But his evil mood was upon him. He had at once -divined her desire to wound him in his tenderest spot. It was like a -woman. He felt a great scorn for her. The music suddenly ceased. He -uttered a conventional murmur. Roderick broke into ecstatic comment. - -“A divine genius! Interpreting the message of the wild winds of his -mountain fastnesses,--the elemental throbbing in the hearts of his -rugged forefathers. Ella, Moskovic must come to Walden. This supreme -spirit must not be clogged by the banality of London concert rooms. He -must breathe the freedom of the woods and streams.” - -“He has half consented already,” said Ella. - -“The silly fool!” muttered Sylvester, beneath his breath. - -“Ah, my comrade,” cried Roderick, turning suddenly round, “what message -has science to deliver comparable to this?” - -“None that I'm aware of, thank Heaven!” replied Sylvester. - -Roderick broke into his gay laughter and crossed the room. - -“We must think of him kindly, as good Catholics do of those that sit in -darkness and ignorance, eh, Ella?” - -With a lover's gesture he passed his arm lightly around Ella's waist, -and drew her with ever so delicate a pressure a little nearer to him, -and looked tenderly into her eyes. - -Sylvester started to his feet. A feeling unexpected, undreamed of, -hateful, passed through him,--a wave of disgust, of sudden, fierce -hatred of Roderick standing there as the undisputed possessor of Ella -Defries. Had the man kissed her, he would have struck him. A phrase -formulated in Heaven knows what cell of his brain leaped with ghastly -suddenness into his mind. How dare that loathsome brute touch her? The -revulsion was physical, almost unendurable. It lasted but a moment or -two. Then Ella moved away and Lady Milmo came up with a light remark, -and the world was as it was before,--a great grim vanity which he -regarded with apathetic indifference. - -He took his leave early, pleading professional duties. Ella gave him -a defiant hand and her lips had a contemptuous curl as she bade him -good-night. Roderick, taking upon himself the part of man of the house, -accompanied him downstairs and pressed whisky and soda upon him amid -fervid expressions of regard. The discreet man-servant helped him on -with his overcoat, and the welcome cold air of the street was upon him. -There was a touch, of early frost and the stars shone clear. The memory -of his unaccountable seizure half an hour ago brought back the memory -of a night in Ayresford when he had read, as his heart prompted, the -message of the stars. He hailed a passing cab, entered it with the air -of a man who has the business of life to consider and not the dreams -of a dead past. But in spite of himself the dreams came back, ugly and -chilling, and he spent the drive home in brooding thought. What did -Roderick's caresses matter to him? Did he not despise Ella utterly? For -aught he cared they might marry into eternal misery to-morrow. It was -only for his father's sake that he wished to part them. Roderick was a -plausible knave, Ella a woman, feline, treacherous, delicate of face and -gross of soul. They were well paired. He laughed cynically as he settled -down to his evening's work in his laboratory. Here at least were things -which he could understand. The growth of a bacillus in a bed of jelly -was comprehensible. He could see it, test it. But who could see the -growth of a lie in the heart of a human being? And the man himself was -unconscious that a dead love had awakened that evening from its sleep -and had passionately, for one brief instant, raised the stone that -covered the mouth of its tomb. - - - - -CHAPTER XII--THE CAUSE WANES - -Roderick drove away from Lady Milmo's in a far more comfortable frame -of mind than Sylvester. The evening had been a success. Hitherto, in -spite of his conviction that his hold upon Ella was secure, he had been -puzzled as to the nature of her feelings towards him. Over the life-work -they were to carry out in common she had always glowed; in their purely -personal relations she had exhibited a sad lack of emotionality. His -vanity had often been piqued by her regarding him less as a man than as -the incarnation of an idea. At the same time his own feelings had been -simulated to love. He honestly desired her beauty, youth, and wit. As a -proof thereof, he had abandoned with entire distaste the latest of the -many minor affairs of the heart in which his emotional life had been -spent. A breath of something sweeter, purer, nobler, had stirred his -soul. The train of courtesans shrank back affrighted, and he walked -serene with the higher woman. But desiring her thus uniquely, the man -in him craved response. Until to-night she had given none. To-night, -however, the statue had grown warm woman. She had avowed her pride in -him, had yielded adorably to his caress; before they parted she had -given him her lips. - -At last he felt the triumph of possession. At last she was his to mould -and cherish. A little pleading and their wedded life would dawn with the -New Year. He was confident of victory. - -Yet his heart sank like lead two days afterwards, when he had dropped a -couple of letters into the pillar-box outside his chambers. He stopped -and gazed abstractedly at the oblong imperturbable mouth of the red, -almost personal thing, to which he had irrevocably intrusted his -destiny. For the letters contained cheques to the amount of over three -thousand pounds, and the balance at his bankers, on whom they were -drawn, consisted mainly of the funds of the Walden Art Colony. - -Yet what could he have done? To-morrow the bills, once renewed, with -a foolish youngster's name at the back of them, would fall due. His -father, to whom he had trusted, had refused help. The forcing of the -youngster to pay would at the least create scandal, and scandal -would mean loss of reputation, loss of Ella, and general downfall. -Misappropriation of the funds saved his credit for a season. It would -give him time to urge on his marriage, whilst he cunningly arrested -the progress of the Colony. Once married, he was practically master -of Ella's fortune. A pretext for obtaining a few thousands, so as to -replace the misappropriated sum with his bankers, would easily be found -by a man of his resource. Before posting the letters he had felt the -half-contemptuous exhilaration of the gambler who bets on a certainty. -But now that the bet was entered and made final, doubts and fears began -to assail him. He looked two years older as he walked down St. James's -Street to his club. - -A whisky and apollinaris restored his nerves, so that when young -Lathrop, who had backed the bills, came up to him with a long face, he -was able to assume his southern manner. - -“Dearest of friends--” he began. - -“It strikes me, Usher, _you_'ll be the dearest of friends to-morrow,” - broke in the young man,--“those confounded bills, you know.” - -“Bills!” cried Roderick. “What are you talking to me of bills for? Do -you think I am going to let the bloodsuckers feast upon your young and -beauteous form? My child, put aside that pessimism which is sapping your -youth. Behold, Israel is satisfied.” - -He drew his cheque-book from his pocket and showed the counterfoils to -the two cheques. Lathrop looked intensely relieved. Then he blushed and -stammered. He was devilish sorry; but the time was getting so close. -Would Usher have a drink? Roderick assented and drank another whisky and -apollinaris. - -“You needn't noise abroad the fact of my astounding solvency,” he said, -before they parted. “I hope you haven't told any one about the bills.” - -“Only Urquhart. I saw him last night,” said the young man. - -“You'll be a Metternich yet, Willie,” replied Roderick. As young Lathrop -belonged to the diplomatic service, he was dimly conscious that his -friend's remark was in some fashion ironical. But Roderick waved him a -flourishing adieu and swaggered out of the club. - -A man met him on the steps. - -“Seen Willie Lathrop lately?” - -Roderick looked him squarely between the eyes. - -“He 's a braying jackass,” he said. - -Having thus conveyed an answer to the implied question and given vent to -his anger at the same time, he hailed a cab and drove to Pont Street. It -was a foggy, murky day. Already the lights had appeared in shop windows, -and, where they streamed, the pavement and roadway glistened in brown -slime. Impressionable to external surroundings, Roderick shivered and -drew his fur coat closer round him. The world wore an air of hopeless -depression. On such a day no human undertaking could prosper. It was -only his intellectual contempt for superstition that restrained him from -turning round and driving back to his club. The dreary stretch of Sloane -Street seemed interminable. At last he arrived and was shown up to the -drawing-room. Lady Milmo, Ella, and a lady visitor were having afternoon -tea. He exerted himself to amuse in his usual way, but his efforts -resulted in failure. When should he be able to see Ella alone? The lady -visitor seemed resolved to outstay him. She plied him with questions -concerning the Colony. He replied vaguely. Realisation of the project -was a long way off. To start such a concern otherwise than on a sound -financial basis was magnificent, but it was not business. He was -thinking of a last appeal to the public. Ella listened, somewhat out of -spirits. Roderick's pessimistic utterances argued loss of faith in the -Colony. He caught her glance fixed upon him with perturbed questioning, -and his depression deepened. - -At last they were alone. He cleared his throat and plunged into the -midst of things. Speech restored his confidence. He made an eloquent -appeal. He loved her, worshipped her; the deferring of their marriage to -an indefinite date was making his heart sick, robbing him of energy and -the joy of life. Christmas it must be. He hinted at personages waiting -for their marriage to subscribe largely to the fund. What had the -marriage to do with it? Well, he was an artist, a Bohemian; his very -class did not inspire confidence. But his marriage would set upon him -the seal of irreproachable responsibility. He pleaded desperately, -the restoration of the three thousand pounds being his paramount and -imperative aim. His heart sank at the coldness with which she received -his fervour. His ear detected the note of insincerity, to which he felt -conscious she, too, was sensitive. - -“I can't marry you yet, Roderick,” she said, at length, wearily. “I -can't. It means too much.” - -“Then you don't love me,” he exclaimed, starting to his feet. The old -dramatic device did not succeed. - -“Sometimes I do,” she said. “At others--I don't know--I shall love you -wholly when we realise our dreams.” - -“That will be the Great Never Never,” he replied tragically, “for when -did man ever realise his dreams?” - -The dressing gong sounded through the house. She rose and put out her -hand. - -“You must be patient with me, Roderick. Usually you understand so -finely; can't you understand now?” - -“I understand that you are a woman of an imperious will, to which it -will always be my pride to bow,” he responded. - -There was no help for it. No more pleading could move her that -afternoon. He had to take his leave. When the drawing-room door shut -behind him, his expression changed, and he descended the stairs cursing -the Colony and all who were concerned therein. He went back to his club, -dined, lost fifty pounds at cards, and went to bed morose and miserable. - -The next morning he was greatly surprised by a visit from Sylvester. He -was sitting in the well-lit corner room of his chambers, which he had -converted into a studio, in front of the new picture he was painting -from Ella's conception. His heart was not in it. No good could ever -come from such tame propriety. And there he sat in an armchair, his legs -extended compass-wise, glowering at the picture, when Sylvester came in. - -“What fog has driven you here, camarado?” he cried. “You have arrived -in season. This beastly world is standing on its head, and I don't -know what to make of it. Sit down and have some absinthe, the only true -comfort the devil has vouchsafed us.” - -He pointed to a glass of the opalescent liquid by his side. Sylvester -declined the consolation. - -“I want to have a little talk with you about your marriage,” said he. - -“Oh, damn my marriage!” exclaimed Roderick, irritably. “I tell you the -idiot world is gyrating indecently on its occiput; my engagement with -the rest of things.” - -“Is it broken off?” inquired Sylvester, hopefully. - -“The same thing. Postponed to the Millennium.” - -“The Colonial Millennium--?” - -“Yes. You are quite right, _fratello mio_, to keep clear of women and -their works. No man can ever fathom their infinite incomprehensibility. -Look here--” He rose and marched about the studio, burning with a sense -of his wrongs and led by the instinct of his temperament to give vent -to his grievances. “I love that girl with an imbecile passion. Art is -great, but love is greater. I would make a holocaust of all that is -dear to me in the world in the sacred name of Art. Am I not ready to -expatriate myself? Have I not been working like Sisyphus for months? But -I can't throw my elemental sex into the blaze. Six months' waiting is -enough for all but anchorites. Do I look like an anchorite? I urge her -to fix the marriage at Christmas. She's as hard as your Philistine's -head. We must wait until the Colony is a _fait accompli_. How is it -going to be accomplished without money?” - -“I thought the scheme was getting along famously,” interposed Sylvester. - -“So did I, but it isn't. It hasn't appealed to the imagination of this -haggis-brained public, and so funds remain stationary. As if this worry -and disappointment isn't enough for a man! _Point d'argent, point de -Suisse_. No money, no colony. No colony, no marriage. The two things -could never be connected save in the ineffable convolutions of the -feminine brain.” - -“I see,” said Sylvester. “It is hard lines on you.” - -He was intensely relieved by Roderick's confidences; could afford even -to be magnanimous. Since his avowal to Ella of hostile intentions, he -had felt it his duty to inform Roderick of his attitude. He had come -this morning prepared to make a declaration of war. There were several -little things he had learned incidentally of Roderick's past career, -with which he had intended to confront him. The memory of Mr. Snodgrass -informing the small boy that he was going to begin came into his mind as -he mounted the stairs, and he smiled grimly. But, after all, no one had -ever questioned the chivalry of Mr. Snodgrass's motives. His first words -on entering were an announcement of the object of his visit. Roderick -had implicitly declared that object to be futile. To proceed further -would be to attack a fallen man. To express satisfaction would be to -triumph over a foe's discomfiture. He therefore expressed conventional -sympathy. It was hard lines. - -Roderick caught up the phrase and wove it into a fugue of indignant -lamentation. Luck never came his way. The stars in their courses had -fought against him since his cradle. - -“Some men's touch turns everything to gold; mine to brass and deuced -gimcrack brass at that. I've never loved a dear gazelle; but if I had, -the disastrous animal would have got mange or delirium tremens and -turned round and bitten me and given me hydrophobia. I suppose it's -because of my general nefariousness. I wish I had been an austere -embodiment of the seven deadly virtues like you, _amigo_. Then I should -have waxed fat and prosperous. But there,” he added, lighting a cigar, -“that's enough. I don't know why I'm washing you in this torrent of my -discontent.” - -“If it has done you any good, I am not sorry to have heard it,” said -Sylvester. “As for the Colony, I never did think much of the idea, you -know. It is outside the sphere of practical affairs altogether. Besides, -you could never stay more than a month away from Piccadilly.” - -“It meant a means of livelihood for this profitless child of nature, -anyway,” said Roderick, watching the wreaths of his cigar-smoke. - -“Pardon me if I take a liberty,” said Sylvester, “but I was under the -impression that your father made you a good allowance.” - -Roderick stared at him for a moment and then laughed loud. - -“You don't know Usher senior. How much the old man has, or where the -devil it all came from, I have no idea; but I don't get any of it. And -when he descends to realms below, he'll bequeath it all to a home for -decayed postage-stamp collectors. No; I get what I earn. The Colony was -a fixed income.” - -“Well, you'll have to settle down to something else,” said Sylvester, -consolingly. - -“And meanwhile you can go and persuade our fair enthusiast that the -Colony is all a fizzle and that she must shed happiness upon the head of -your devoted friend at Christmas!” - -“I don't think I can do that,” said Sylvester, drily. He pulled out his -watch, announced his departure. Roderick shook his hand effusively. - -“But, by the way,” said he, “you haven't told me what you came for--my -marriage--?” - -“Oh, after what you've said about the matter that can wait,” replied -Sylvester, hurriedly, and he left his friend to his artistic solitude. - -Roderick felt somewhat ashamed and somewhat relieved after his burst of -confidence. To cry defeat after the first reverse seemed the part of a -craven. Thus were women not won. He determined to return to the attack, -to choose his time more wisely. A week later he caught Ella in -a brighter mood. He had exerted himself to please, to kindle her -enthusiasms, which shone from cheeks and eyes. He struck the personal -chord, watched eagerly, seemed to perceive it vibrate through her. Then -he urged once more. She changed suddenly, held out a warning hand. - -“Not that again, Roderick,” she said. “You must not make me dread your -coming. Some women yield to insistence; it only hardens me. I thought -you knew me better.” - -“Then the Colony shall start at Christmas; I swear it,” he cried -magniloquently, and the remainder of the interview flowed more smoothly. - -It is all very well to command events. But whether they will obey is a -different matter. During the last few weeks Roderick had succeeded -in his design to quash the Colony in so far as to alienate several -hesitating supporters. To win these back was no easy matter. Moreover, -his old power of persuasion seemed to have failed him. There was a -period when he had deluded himself into the belief that the Colony was -a practicable scheme. But the moment it had appeared contrary to his own -interest and he had regarded it dispassionately, he despised it from the -depths of his soul as an inane chimera. To have to simulate a burnt out -enthusiasm was irksome; he failed to carry conviction. And meanwhile he -was a prey to gnawing anxiety. How was he to replace the three thousand -pounds? He anathematised the feminine temperament. - -The feminine temperament, however, was not in that state of -dispassionate, yet unreasoning decision in which he imagined it to be. -These were unhappy days for Ella. She seemed to have become to herself -a vague entity wandering in a land of shadows, forced by some unknown -power therein to wander, and finding her only hope of salvation in one -elusive light that gleamed fitfully in the distance. Her aunt, being -a practical woman, was quick to notice the habitual contraction of her -brow and the wearied preoccupation in her eyes. Nowadays she openly -mocked at the Colony. On such occasions Ella fired up, defended it with -the fierceness of a forlorn hope. Lady Milmo was puzzled. She even went -the length of consulting Sylvester, surprising him considerably by a -morning call in Weymouth Street. - -“The Colony's a fraud, and she knows it's a fraud,” she said, in the -vernacular of her class. “And yet she pins her immortal soul to it. -Why doesn't she marry the man and be done with it? But no--she won't do -that. She's making herself ill because the Colony isn't likely to come -off, which is distinctly good business, and what on earth she can find -to interest her in the rubbishy scheme, goodness only knows. If she -only painted, or wrote poetry, or out-Wagnered Wagner in immortal -tunelessness, one could perhaps understand. But she's no more artistic -than you are.” - -“I know I'm a Philistine,” smiled Sylvester, at the tribute of the -artless lady. “Is that why you 've come to me?” - -“Oh, you know what I mean,” returned Lady Milmo. “Now can't you put some -sense into her, or get that dear Mr. Lanyon to do so? It's my impression -she isn't in love with him one little bit.” - -“Then, for Heaven's sake, my dear Lady Milmo,” said Sylvester, -earnestly, “do all you can to impress that fact upon him!” - -“I should be glad if the engagement were broken off,” said Lady Milmo, -reflectively. - -“So would all the true friends of Ella Defries,” replied Sylvester. - -Lady Milmo arched her eyebrows. She looked at him for a moment -quizzically. - -“Is that purely a disinterested remark, Dr. Lanyon?” - -“I would not marry one single woman that is now living on this earth,” - said Sylvester. - -“Why, whatever have we poor creatures done to you? There are some men, I -know, who look upon women as a disease, but I'm sure you 're not one.” - -Sylvester scanned his finger nails,--a trick he had caught from his -father. - -“One marriage is enough for a man, Lady Milmo,” he said in a low voice. - -Lady Milmo was conscious of an indiscretion. She escaped adroitly and -led the talk back to Roderick. - -“I think we'd better get this silly affair of Ella's broken off, don't -you?” she said at parting. - -“If you could manage it, my father and myself would be exceedingly -grateful to you,” he replied. - -Lady Milmo was driving away, her kind head filled with schemes for -Ella's extrication, when, at the block at Oxford Circus, she caught -sight of a news-vendor wearing as an apron the coloured bill of an early -edition of an evening paper. Across it in enormous capitals ran the -startling legend, “Sudden Death of Sir Decimus Bland.” - -“The best thing the pompous old idiot has ever done in his life!” said -Lady Milmo. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII--THE USES OF ADVERSITY - -It was the music-room in Mr. Bevis Urquhart's mansion in Park Street. -The floor was polished, the walls panelled in white and gold, the -ceiling painted in the Watteau style. About forty fashionably dressed -people sat on gilded chairs in the body of the room. High in front of -them towered the organ; beneath it stretched a low platform containing a -white and gold grand piano pushed into a corner, and a Louis XV. table, -at which sat half a dozen men. Among these was Roderick, looking worn -and jaded, and from the front row of the chairs Ella Defries viewed him -in some concern. The committee of the Walden Art Colony had called -a general meeting of those interested in the project, and Mr. Bevis -Urquhart had lent his music-room for the purpose. - -Mr. Redmayne, R. A., had been voted into the chair. He was a -business-like looking little man, clean-shaven and precise in attire, -and he spoke in a dry, sharp way like a barrister. He announced to the -meeting what Roderick had heard some days before,--that Sir Decimus -Bland had died suddenly and had made no testamentary provision for the -Colony. They all had looked to him for the payment of the Director's -salary and for the guaranteeing of any pecuniary deficit that might -occur in working the concern. Their chief support gone, it was for the -meeting to decide whether the scheme should be continued or abandoned. -From a memorandum supplied by Roderick he read a statement of accounts. -Three thousand and twenty pounds at Mr. Usher's bankers; two thousand -promised. Was there any person or combination of persons willing to -fill Sir Decimus Bland's place? He sat down. No one responded. Lord -Eglington, a withered gentleman with a cracked voice, rose from the -committee table, and after expounding the aim of the Colony regretfully -proposed the entire abandonment of the scheme. Mr. Bevis Urquhart -seconded the resolution. - -Roderick caught an appealing glance from Ella and sprang to his feet. -He pleaded eloquently. He had worked with heart and soul to organise the -Colony; was ready to devote his existence to it. The future of Art was -at stake. Here was the one glorious chance the century had offered -to free Art from the shackles that had degraded it and through its -inexorable influence had degraded modern life. Never had he felt such -pain as when he had heard Lord Eglington and Mr. Urquhart propose to -dismiss the scheme to that unutterable horror of desolation, the limbo -of forsaken ideals. He adjured them to weigh the vast responsibility -they had taken upon themselves. He urged those present to respond -generously to his appeal for funds to carry on the work. - -“I speak as a man,” said he, “fighting for dear life, for all that is -sacred and holy to me in existence. I have pledged myself to bring this -boon upon the world, and I will do it ere I die.” - -He sat down, flushed and excited. The company, moved by his enthusiasm, -applauded encouragingly. Ella rose. - -“It will be a disgrace to us all if the motion is carried,” she said, -turning round to the general body. “Let us fill up a subscription list -now. I will head it with five thousand pounds.” She sat down. There was -a cold silence. Her heart sank with a feeling of shame at her outburst. -_Qui m'aime me suive_ is sometimes an excellent battle-cry. When no -one follows, it falls deadly flat. She realised that most of the people -there knew her personal interest in the affair, and her cheek grew -hotter. Roderick stepped boldly down to her, and whispered in her ear. - -“You have the worshipping gratitude of all my life,” said he. - -A man rose at the back of the room and began to speak. There was -a rustle of garments as every one turned to look at him. He was -a well-known journalist, the editor of a weekly paper that made a -specialty of diagnosing unsound institutions. Roderick tugged at his -Vandyke beard and watched him narrowly. He began in a light bantering -tone, described with delicate satiric touch the objects of the Colony. -Then he playfully analysed the idyllic conditions under which the -colonists would work. The meeting laughed. He sketched the boredom, the -universal hatred of the minor poet who insisted on reading his poems -aloud to the assembled Colony, the flirtations, imbroglios, jealousies, -the lady who paid nothing and went about declaring that the food was -not fit to eat. One by one he touched off the types. The meeting was -delighted. Then the speaker launched out into a trenchant indictment of -the whole scheme, disclosed its absurdity, its financial rottenness, -its infinite futility. He ended amid rounds of laughter and applause. -Ridicule had killed the scheme outright. There were cries that the -motion should be put. It was carried almost by acclamation. Thus ended -the great Walden Art Colony. - -“I did think you would stand by it, Urquhart,” said Roderick to the -young semimillionaire. - -The people were beginning to disperse, among much laughter and gossip. -Ella had lingered on an imploring sign from Roderick. Urquhart stifled a -yawn and buttoned his frock-coat. - -“My dear fellow,” said he, from the heights of his superior culture, -“if you would only study Pradovitch,---- the one genius this century has -produced,--study him as I have done, you would not fail to be convinced -that Art is the leprosy of life.” - -For once Roderick lost his temper. An evil look came into his face. - -“What a God-forsaken fool you are!” he snarled out. And turning on his -heel he joined Ella. - -The young man turned to Lord Eglington. - -“That's the worst of having to do with such _canaille_,” he said -languidly. But in spite of his assumption of supercilious indifference, -his face wore a malignant expression as he watched Roderick and his -companion disappear through the doorway. At the door however, Roderick's -indignation evaporated. It is no doubt an immense satisfaction to tell -a posturing imbecile exactly what you, think of him, but when you have -misappropriated a couple of thousands of that imbecile's money without -any reasonable prospect of restoring it, the satisfaction is apt to be -short lived. - -Roderick and Ella gained the street without saying a word. A cab -sauntered up. - -“Will you--?” began Roderick. - -“I would sooner walk part of the way. Do you mind?” - -“Delighted,” said Roderick. - -“The room was so hot,” she explained, “and it is a beautiful afternoon.” - -They walked down Park Lane in silence, hanging dejected heads, a new -Adam and Eve driven from Eden. Now and then she glanced sideways at -him, to see his brow set and deep lines descending parallel with his -moustache and losing themselves in his beard. His defeat seemed to have -crushed him. Ella felt a pang of pity. She touched his arm lightly. - -“You must not take it too much to heart,” she said. - -“I must,” he replied, with a gesture of despair. “To think it should -have all gone down like a house of cards!” - -They crossed the road and entered the Park. The grey mists of the early -December afternoon were beginning to gather among the trees. Far off a -great crimson blur announced the setting sun. To their right the statue -of Achilles loomed grimly on its deserted hillock. Roderick pointed to -it with his stick. - -“Do you remember that Sunday afternoon six months ago, when all was hope -and sunshine?” - -“Redmayne had just joined,” she remarked. - -“And to-day he took the chair, so as to crush us. They had it all -arranged beforehand. A damnable conspiracy! And we were powerless. It -maddens me!” - -His tones were those of intense feeling Ella was compelled to comfort. - -“You fought splendidly,” she said. “A man can't do more.” - -He stopped abruptly in the path and laid both hands on her wrists by her -muff. A belated nursery maid wheeling a perambulator eyed them dully. - -“Bless you for the words! You cannot tell what your sympathy means to me -now.” - -By a happy chance he had struck the right note. Tears came into the -girl's eyes. For the first time she was able to disassociate the man -from his work. She lost her own sense of disappointment in womanly pity -for the man who had been defeated while battling against great odds. - -“And bless you for the tears standing in those eyes!” said Roderick. - -They walked on. Somehow her hand found its way beneath his arm. They -spoke but little. Roderick's pulses fluttered with a new hope; but his -perceptions into the nature of women were too keen to allow him to force -an advantage. He wore his stricken air, yet subtly conveyed to her the -deep comfort of her sympathy. He pressed her hand against his side and -left her to work out the situation for herself under these excellent -conditions. - -Ella had never felt so near him. The unity in their golden dreams had -not bound them so closely as this unity in catastrophe. For even when -the dreams were most golden, she had haunting misgivings that they were -but visions. Outraged by Sylvester's trampling on her heart, sickened -at herself by her years reckless follies, eager, with all a proud girl's -passion, to vindicate herself, to follow some noble standard, she had -caught at the first that flaunted by and compelled herself imperiously -to believe in it. This forced faith had been the strenuous labour of her -inner life. She had armed herself in triple brass against Lady Milmo's -shafts of flippant satire, against Matthew Lanyon's kindly wisdom, -against her own common sense. The Colony would be merely a paradise of -cranks. No serious artist would throw away his or her career in such a -Cloud-cuckoo-land. - -She herself, at the best but a well-taught amateur painter in -water-colours, what was she doing in that galley? She set aside reason. -To believe in Roderick, she must believe in the Colony. To believe in -the Colony, she must believe in Roderick. The two were inextricably -interfused. Realisation of the dreams was her only justification for -marrying the man. The man's personality and enthusiasm for an ideal -had overpowered her. She would not think. She was young, inexperienced, -warm-natured, seeing things out of proportion. Flight from the self she -had deemed dishonoured was her only chance of salvation; and she mistook -the imaginary cries behind her, hounding her onward, for the voice of -inexorable necessity. If Roderick could accomplish it, the Colony was a -glorious thing. The Colony accomplished, Roderick was the conqueror to -whom she must yield. When the dreams were most golden she saw him such, -and they were near together. - -But then had come the days of Roderick's loss of interest in the scheme. -He put her above the Colony, desired her above all things. She shivered -back. For himself alone she could not marry him. Why, she could not -tell. A girl with a mind pure and sweet does not speculate on that -which, traced logically to its source, is simply elemental sexual -repulsion. She clung fiercely to her point. Then Roderick returned -to the scheme with his old ardour. In her heart she believed him -passionately sincere. Misfortune had come with terrible unexpectedness. -He had fought and failed. He was a beaten man. The dream had been -brutally proved to have been the emptiest of hallucinations. She was -miserably cast down. Roderick seemed broken-hearted. They were at one -in an absolute cynical reality. Both had been pierced by the same shaft. -The doors of the cranks' Eden had clanged behind them, and they were -walking together in the grey, dreary expanse of Hyde Park, with an -unknown world of the most definite prose before them. They seemed alone, -to have nothing in common with the rest of society; to have in common -with each other this all-filling humiliation of defeat. So when he -spoke, the unreasoning woman leaped to comfort the man. She had never -felt so near him. A great and natural revulsion of feeling had lifted -her heart to consolation. - -They quitted the Park at Hyde Park Corner, and paused by common impulse. - -“I suppose you will take a cab now,” he said reluctantly. - -“I suppose I must,” she said in the same tone. “I would ask you to come -with me, but it's auntie's day at home, and the place will be full of -chattering people.” - -“I can't bear leaving you,” said he. - -“Nor I you.” - -“You look tired, poor child. Let me give you some tea. Will you? -I belong to a club in Piccadilly,--the Hyde Park, where ladies are -admitted to tea. It is the home of all the depressed outcasts of London, -and even they shun it. We are sure to be alone in the tea-room. Come.” - -He hailed a hansom. Ella, in that strange mood of passivity which is -woman's fatalest, entered without remark. He followed, and they drove to -the Hyde Park Club. - -As he had prophesied, the tea-room was empty, save for one dejected -member with his neck-tie riding over the back of his collar, who stared -at them for a moment and then passed out like a ghost. A blazing fire, -however, was burning in the grate, and the maroon leather chairs and -divans added a sense of warmth and comfort to the room. The despondent -ones took their seats in a little recess by the fireplace, and Roderick -ordered tea. - -“It's a new club, and no two members are acquainted. It is the most -desolate place in London. A man comes here when he wants to work out his -suicide. There's no one to distract his thoughts. Then he goes out and -commits it.” - -“Why did you join?” asked Ella, mechanically. - -“Perhaps I foresaw this day. If your worshipped dearness had not waited -for me at Urquhart's, I should have come here--and God knows what -desperate remedies I should have brooded over. But I never foresaw -having you here to strengthen me. Thank Heaven I did join, so as to have -a haven of rest and quietude to bring you to.” - -He passed his hand across his forehead wearily, and rested his elbow on -the little table in front of him. - -“My God!” he said. “It has been a bitter day for me.” - -The waiter brought a tray with tea and delicately baked scones. Ella -filled the cups and tried to cheer her companion, praising the tea and -the arrangements of the club. The warmth, the little sense of novelty, -working an unconscious influence, had brought back animation to her -face. She looked very fresh and winsome in the man's eyes. They fixed -themselves upon her despairingly. Ella suddenly broke off her trivial -chatter. - -“Ah you must not,” she said, with a little choke to keep down the tears. -“There are so many great things left in the world to fight for--. Oh, I -wish I could help you!” - -“Bless you!” he replied solemnly--and how much was acting, and how much -was genuine, the man's Maker alone could tell, for the man himself could -not; “there is only one way in which you could help me, and that must -not be. You are rich, I am poor. We are no longer working in the great -common cause in which all such differences could have been sunk. As a -man of honour I must release you from your engagement with me, for the -conditions on which our engagement was based have lapsed. You are quite -free, Ella, and I must go my way alone.” - -He hid his face in his hands. Ella trifled with her tea-spoon. - -“You are generous,” she said in a low voice. “But if your honour is at -stake, so is mine. I could not turn away from you in your hour of need.” - -“I am a defeated man,” he replied brokenly. “You would despise me.” - -The word pierced her like a knife. At that moment she was noble, with -the blind and piteous folly that is so often at the heart of woman's -nobility. She drew herself up proudly, then stretched her arm -impulsively across the table and closed her fresh young fingers on his -hand. - -“I will marry you whenever you please, and we will face the world -together and begin a new life,” she said. - -***** - -“My poor dear child,” said Lady Milmo, kissing Ella affectionately, when -she came home, “I am so sorry for you. Lady Elstree came here straight -after the meeting and told us all about it. But it was bound to come to -smash, darling.” - -“I suppose it was, auntie,” replied Ella, taking off her fur necklet. - -She sat down on the fender stool and looked into the fire. Lady Milmo -came up and took one of her hands and petted it in her kindly fashion. - -“I'm very glad it's all over,” she said. “As soon as it became serious, -I never liked it, you know, dear. And now we can start everything quite -fresh, can't we?” - -“Yes, quite fresh,” assented Ella. - -“You see now,” continued Lady Milmo, “how wise it was to make that -condition about your engagement. I don't want to say anything against -Roderick, but he's an impossible visionary, dear. I always hated the -idea of your marrying him. It is all broken off now, isn't it?” - -To Lady Milmo's great astonishment, the girl suddenly burst into a fit -of miserable crying. She knelt by her and petted her comfortingly. - -“It will be quite easy, my child. I will write him a kind little note -about it, and you can go down to Ayresford and take care of that dear -Uncle Matthew of yours.” - -“Oh, auntie,” cried Ella at last, “you don't understand. I promised -Roderick this afternoon to marry him in a fortnight's time.” - - - - -CHAPTER XIV--AT AYRESFORD - -Whilst the meeting was taking place that brought the Walden Art Colony -to ludicrous collapse, Sylvester was on his way to Ayresford to pay -one of his periodical Saturday to Monday visits. Matthew, with Dorothy -clinging to his finger, met him at the station. Sylvester took the -child up in his arms and kissed her, striving hard to respond to her -demonstrations of affection. But his heart had turned from her. She was -the embodiment of a perpetual pain. - -Sylvester's bag being taken in charge by the gardener's boy, the trio -walked up to the house, Dorothy skipping between them. The old man -looked proudly and lovingly down at her. Sylvester caught the glance -from time to time, and a pang queerly like jealousy passed through him. -If only he could love the small thing as he had loved her two years ago! -But it was impossible. It was a question of blood instinct; she came of -an alien race. He passed the house where he had lived with Constance, -where Frank Leroux had died after the confession of his miserable -secret. To the man's gloomy fancy it appeared a lie in brick. Only when -he found himself alone with his father in the familiar library did he -put away these imaginings and wear a clearer brow. - -“I hope the marriage is as far off as ever,” said Matthew, warming his -hands before the fire. Sylvester laughed. - -“It seems to be postponed to the Greek Kalends. She won't marry until he -takes her to this Colony in the air--and that will be never. The whole -thing will die a natural death.” - -“I hope so indeed,” replied Matthew, reflectively. “She ought to marry a -better man.” - -He glanced involuntarily at his son, and their eyes met, and each saw -that the other understood the reference. - -“I know you wanted me to marry her,” said Sylvester, awkwardly. “I -couldn't. I'm sorry.” - -Matthew raised his hand, as if about to speak; but the habit of reserve -held him back. A word might have unlocked the son's heart, but the -word remained unspoken. Sylvester dismissed the subject by saying in a -lighter manner,-- - -“It's none of my business, but I often wonder what Roderick lives on.” - -“He is an artist and a literary man. I suppose he sells his wares,” said -Matthew. - -“Possibly he does. In fact, I suppose he must. I always was under the -impression that his father made him a handsome allowance.” - -“Usher allows him a few hundreds a year,” said the old man, in a -matter-of-fact tone. - -“Apparently we are both wrong, then. Usher hasn't allowed him a penny -for years. Roderick told me so himself.” - -Matthew started in his chair, and his face wore an expression of great -anxiety. - -“Impossible!” he said almost angrily. - -“I only quote Roderick's explicit statement. And I fancy for once in a -way he wasn't lying.” - -Then he saw his father white and aged, his kind lips quivering, his -breath coming fast. In concern he rose, bent over him. - -“Why, you 're ill--” he began. - -But Matthew pushed him away gently. - -“Nonsense, my boy. It's only one of those confounded pains about my -heart. There, it's all gone now. Don't worry. It's this hot room. I -think I'll go out for a stroll.” - -“You had better lie down,” said the physician. - -“Yes, and stick out my tongue and chew that thermometer of yours! No, -thank you. There!” He rose to his feet, and held himself erect. “I'm as -strong as a horse.” - -“I don't like your going out,” said Sylvester. - -The other looked at his watch. “I must, for a bit,” he said. “Go up and -talk to your aunt for an hour before dinner. She's dying to hear all the -gossip.” - -It was useless to try to restrain him. He had an imperious will to which -Sylvester had yielded all his life. So the son went upstairs, and the -father put on his overcoat and walked at a brisk pace through the dark -December evening to the house of his enemy. - -Mr. Usher put down the “Financial News” and rose from his chair as -Matthew entered the room. - -“My dear friend, how great a surprise! You have come for a -reconciliation. It is a Christian thing. I too am a Christian, Matthew.” - -“I have come to ask you a question,” said Matthew, ignoring the other's -proffered hand. “Roderick denies that he receives any allowance from -you. Is that true?” - -“I am too poor to make my son an allowance,” replied Usher. - -“You know what I mean,” replied Matthew, sternly. “I pay £100 a quarter -into your banking account for you to remit, as from yourself, to -Roderick. Does he get it?” - -Ushers eyes shifted from Matthew's glance. He shuffled a step towards -the fireplace before replying. - -“You outrage a father's feelings, Matthew. I live for my son. You -yourself have a son.” - -Matthew strode up to him and laid a hand on his collar. - -“Confound it, sir, answer my question! Roderick states that he hasn't -received a penny from you for years. Have you kept all these sums back -from him? By God! you shall speak.” - -Involuntarily he shook him in his angry grasp. Usher was scared. - -“No violence, Matthew.” - -Matthew released him with a contemptuous exclamation. - -“I see by your face you have kept the money. I was a fool to trust you. -You're an infernal mean-spirited hound. I've known that for years. But I -never thought you would rob your son.” - -“He's not your son--At least,” he added with an ugly smile, “I presume -not. I have trained him as I have thought judicious. I am a judicious -man.” - -“You 're a damned thief,” said Matthew. Usher waved his hand towards the -door. - -“I think you had better go. I do not like to see an old man so carried -away by passion. It will shorten your life. I am always calm.” Matthew -regarded him for a moment, astounded. Then he spoke in blazing anger: -“_You_ show _me_ the door? _You?_ Sit down in that chair at once.” - Usher obeyed. “There! I stay in this house as long as I choose. It is -mine,--everything in it paid for with my heart's blood. By God, if we -were younger men, I should thrash you within an ace of your life! Now -then--let me see your passbooks for the last six years. Give them to me -at once, I say.” - -Instinctively Usher shrank before Matthew's tone of authority. He rose, -whimpering allusions to his own poverty and Matthew's domineering ways, -and extracted a set of vellum-covered books from a safe in a corner of -the room. Matthew threw his hat and stick upon a chair, and sat down, -by the round table on which Usher had laid the books. The latter resumed -his armchair on the opposite side and watched him furtively as he -scanned the pages with practised eye and bent brows. When Matthew was -dangerous, he had no power to resist. The craven within him yielded to -the stronger personality. But he hated Matthew with a deadlier hatred. -Even now, in the moment of his humiliation, there was a gleam in his -eyes of a revengeful joy at the imperious man's discovery of the manner -in which he had been fooled for years past. He rubbed his palms softly -together beneath the level of the table. - -There was a dead silence, broken only by the faint rustling of the -leaves as Matthew turned them over. At last, when he had looked through -the books, he rose and returned his glasses to their little -leather case. His face was gray and peaked. There on the table lay -incontrovertible proof that his life's atonement had been frustrated, -that instead of smoothing Roderick's path, he had merely been -pandering to Usher's senile vices. A whole fortune had gone in insane -speculations, rotten companies for the exploitation of imaginary mines, -futile inventions, wild-cat schemes. Here and there were amounts -for £100, £200, paid to names which he recognised as those of great -postage-stamp dealers. Not once had a cheque been drawn payable to -Roderick. On the credit side were two large sums which he himself had -paid to extricate Roderick from special difficulties. On the debit side -was nothing to correspond. He felt stricken with sudden age. But he drew -himself up haughtily lest Usher should see his despair. - -“And you have been lying, I perceive,” said he, “when you have come to -me for money to pay Roderick's debts,--or else you haven't paid them.” - -“I have paid them all--all his debts--with securities, Matthew. That is -why nothing is in my pass-book.” - -Matthew shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. - -“Your word is about as good as your bond,” he said, taking up his hat -and stick. - -Usher rose and leaned his hands on the table and regarded him -reproachfully, wagging his head. - -“I could not blacken the character of my only son, Matthew. He has been -wild, but I have a parent's love. Why should I give him £400 a year -when he did not need it? But when he has come to me in distress, I have -relieved his necessities.” - -“I have learned all I wanted to know,” said Matthew. “Good-night to -you.” And he strode out of the room. - -An hour or two later he was sitting alone with Sylvester over their -wine, in the comfortable dining-room, as he had done so many, many times -before,--and the same silence reigned between them. He lay back in -his chair and watched his son, whose face was turned from him in half -profile. He wondered what were the thoughts that held him so serious, -as he gazed into the fire. It was a man's face, marked with the cares -of life, the responsibilities of an anxious profession; proud, reserved, -and intellectual. Matthew was immensely proud of him. In this hour of -relaxed moral fibre, he was humbly grateful, wondered what pleasure a -brilliant man like Sylvester could find in the company of a dull old -country lawyer. It was only the love between them. His heart warmed -towards his son, and a foolish moisture gathered in his eyes. And then, -almost suddenly, came a great longing to tell Sylvester all. He was a -physician, accustomed to view the dark places in the human soul. If only -he could tell him, share with him the burden he had borne for so many -years! It would no longer be a burden. He would face the world at last, -a free man. For otherwise what would be the end? He himself was on the -verge of ruin. He might spit upon Usher's gaberdine, but Usher's demands -must be met. How to meet them and preserve an inheritance for Sylvester? -And Roderick? He felt crushed by this evening's revelations. He had -struggled as few men have struggled to make atonement. It had been in -vain. He had no longer the strength to make fresh effort. A word to -Sylvester, and peace would possess his soul. - -Sylvester glanced round and saw his father's eyes fixed upon him with -a strange yearning. He rose, went up to his chair, and laid a hand upon -his shoulder. - -“What can I do for you?” he asked, with more tenderness than usual in -his tone. - -“Think well of me when I am gone, Syl,” said the old man. Sylvester -grasped his shoulder a little tighter. - -“That's a strange thing to ask me,” he said. “You know what I think of -you. And for God's sake don't talk of the other matter.” - -He moved away and struck a match to relight his cigar, which had gone -out during his reverie. Matthew was silent for a few seconds. - -“Suppose,” he said at last, “that any one you loved and thought the -world of had done you a great wrong and had kept it hidden from you?” - -Sylvester started, and his face grew suddenly pale. Did his father know? -The old pain returned. He stood staring at the back of his father's -chair. The match burned itself out between his fingers. His voice -trembled as he spoke. - -“There are some sins that are unforgivable. We needn't discuss them.” - -It was Matthew's turn to start and look round at his son in anxious -surmise. - -“You are of course speaking of the matter in the abstract?” he said. - -Sylvester struck another match, and spoke between the first few whiffs -of his cigar. - -“Yes. In the abstract. There is the woman, for instance, who betrays -her husband, whose life is a horrible lie. To say to a man 'forgive,' is -vain breath. I know men who say they have forgiven. They are almost as -contemptible as their wives.” - -“You would not forgive, Syl?” said Matthew, gravely. - -“By God, no!” said Sylvester. - -“You are right, my boy,” said Matthew. “We had better not pursue the -subject. Abstract ethics are unprofitable matter for discussion.” - -He smiled in his kindly way and settled himself comfortably in his -chair. But his heart was twenty-fold heavier than before. He closed his -eyes. The memory came vividly of a woman throwing herself on her knees -before him, in that very room, several years ago, and pouring out to him -the agony of her soul. He had listened, questioned, bidden her go and -sin no more. For Sylvester's sake he had counselled silence, secret -atonement. It had been unutterable comfort to him that Sylvester's -happiness had been untouched. And now, in spite of all, Sylvester knew. -Else why should Sylvester have spoken thus of the faithless wife? The -vague conjecture that had haunted him for nearly two years shaped itself -into certainty. Many things that had been dark in Sylvester's recent -life now became clear. But how he must have suffered! None knew better -than he. For a while he forgot his own burden. Then suddenly the memory -returned. But no longer had he the desire to share it with Sylvester. It -was more imperative than ever to keep the secret undivulged. It was no -new thing for him to struggle and endure. And the man of iron purpose -and pathetic tenderness felt ashamed of his former impulse. - -“I'm afraid we've been talking a pack of nonsense, Syl,” he said -lightly. - -“And we're both old enough to know better,” replied Sylvester, with a -laugh. “How did we get on to the subject?” - -“I began to croak in an absurd way.” - -“And I'm afraid I helped you. I must come down here oftener. That dingy -old house of mine is getting on my nerves.” - -“Oh, bosh!” said the old man, “you and I don't believe in nerves. We -leave that to the feeble folk.” - -“Well, I haven't got many, I must confess,” said Sylvester, drawing up -his well-knit figure. “And as a matter of fact, except your seediness, I -haven't a care in the whole wide world.” - -“Neither have I,” returned Matthew, briskly. “And as for my health, I'm -as fit as ever I was. Oh, I know I can't live for ever, but I'm good for -another ten years at least.” - -“You've got to be careful and do what you 're told,” said the physician. - -“Let's have another glass of port before we go up to Agatha,” said -Matthew, reaching out for the decanter. - -Thus father and son tried to throw dust into each other's eyes, so that -each should regard the other as the happiest of men. - -The servant entered, bearing a tray with the letters that had arrived by -the evening post. Matthew glanced at the addresses. - -“Will you excuse me?” he said courteously. And Sylvester, trained in -a brusquer school of manners, felt a great respect for his father's -old-world politeness to a guest. Matthew opened two envelopes and -glanced cursorily at their contents. Over the third letter he paused, -and his lips twitched as he read. Then without comment he handed it to -Sylvester. - -It was a long letter from Ella, written that morning. Amid many feminine -explanations and ambiguities she announced the fact of the downfall of -the Walden Art Colony and her marriage with Roderick in a fortnight's -time. - -“This upsets all my calculations,” said Sylvester, gravely. “I thought -the affair was as good as broken off.” - -“It is only natural,” said Matthew. - -“Natural! How?” - -“The chivalry of woman, Syl.” - -Respect kept Sylvester from contradiction, but his lips curled somewhat -ironically. - -“If a woman won't have a man when he is up, will she rush into his arms -when he is down?” - -“It often happens, my boy,” replied the old man. - -Sylvester took one or two turns about the room. Then he paused by the -table and lifted his wine-glass. - -“Here's to our friend Roderick's confusion,” said he. “I'm afraid I have -been slack in carrying out your wishes, but now I'll use every means in -my power to stop the marriage.” Matthew deliberately set down the glass -which he happened to be holding in his hand, and remained for a moment -in deep thought. Then he spoke. - -“I can't drink a toast like that, nor must you. I release you entirely -from your promise. I have reason to believe I may have misjudged -Roderick, and I have no right to interfere. It is my wish that the -marriage should take place.” - -This was final. Sylvester made an Englishman's awkward little bow of -acquiescence. - -“I have no personal feelings in the matter, as you are aware,” said -he. “On the other hand, if Roderick should be proved to be--well, -as undesirable as you thought, it would be wise to let Ella know, I -suppose?” - -“I would not have her marry a scamp,” replied Matthew, in a low voice. -“It would break my heart. But, O God! Syl, what is a scamp? Which of -us dare judge his fellow?” He was feeling utterly weary, and from his -prostration came the personal utterance which his ordinary strength -rigidly restrained. - -Sylvester, unaware of the stirring of great depths, replied coldly, “A -man with a clean record behind him, like either of us, is certainly in a -position to judge.” - -“And pity?” - -“Pity generally seems to be an elegant method of condoning those -offences which one has in common with the person pitied,” replied -Sylvester. - -“So that when you are stainless you are pitiless?” - -“In the sense of sympathising with evil in any form--yes.” - -“Well,” said the old man, throwing himself back in his chair and -covering his eyes with his hand, “thank God there's still some sin left -in the world to keep it sweet!” - - - - -CHAPTER XV--A STRIP OF PINK PAPER - -A few days afterwards Sylvester received an invitation to the wedding, -accompanied by a despairing note from Lady Milmo. Ella _would_ do -it, and who could prevent her? When a woman was _bent_ on a thing, -especially _matrimony_, no mule in the world was so _obstinate_. Lady -Milmo italicised freely, “obstinate” being doubly underlined. She hoped, -however, that the lovers would be happy, explained that the wedding -would be as quiet as her enormous circle of acquaintance would allow, -and besought Sylvester to come and support her as the only soul that -sympathised with her in this disastrous occurrence. Sylvester read the -letter through somewhat grimly. Then he glanced at the silver-printed -card. The conjuncture of the names caused him a sudden feeling of -repugnance, and with an impulse he did not seek to explain, he threw the -card into the fire. As for the invitation, he declined it on the score -of professional engagements; also because he disapproved of marriage -in the abstract. If all the race for one generation, he wrote, passed -a self-denying ordinance of celibacy, there would be an end of this -miserable thing that was called humanity. - -On receipt of this letter, Lady Milmo smiled astutely and took advantage -of a confidential hour before bedtime to tread upon delicate ground. - -“I shall always wonder why you refused Sylvester Lanyon, Ella,” she said -meditatively. - -The blood flew angrily into Ella's cheeks, and she turned away her head. - -“I never refused him because he never did me the honour to ask me to -marry him.” - -“Perhaps he needed a little encouragement, dear,” said Lady Milmo, -somewhat taken aback. - -“He needs a lot to make a man of him that only his Maker could give -him,” replied Ella, turning round vindictively. “His blood is a kind -of Condy's Fluid, and his heart is a glass retort. He's just a piece of -sentient mechanism. How do you think a man like that could ask a girl to -marry him?” - -“Well, he did once,” murmured Lady Milmo. - -“He was different then,” said Ella, with a queer little shock of pain. -“I used to like him. But now--now there is no one in the whole wide -world I dislike so much. Sometimes when he comes here and talks to me -in that cold, emotionless voice of his, I absolutely hate him. And if it -wasn't for my dear old Uncle Matthew--” she broke off and rang the bell -for her maid. “It's about time to go to bed, auntie.” - -Lady Milmo made no response. A flash of the truth occurred to her; -but the whole matter of Ella's state of mind was very complicated. She -yawned behind gracefully lifted Angers. - -“I think so too, my dear,” she said. - -They bade each other good-night, and Ella fell asleep while cataloguing -the infirmities of the man whom she was not about to marry. - -The man whom she was to marry in ten days' time was meanwhile passing -through a period of sweet delight alternating with the most poignant -anxiety. Ready money for the ordinary expenses of the wedding he had in -plenty. Some overdue royalties on prints from a couple of pictures came -in most opportunely, and these, added to an advance made by a friendly -editor for whose weekly he wrote the art article, put him beyond the -fear of embarrassment. But the thought of the £3,000 which he could not -restore, haunted him night and day. Urquhart had twice asked casually -for a cheque for the amount of his deposit, and he had promised in his -off-hand way. A third demand had been made somewhat threateningly; he -had laughed airily, apologised for his forgetfulness, and undertaken -to send him a cheque for £2000 by return of post. After that Roderick -avoided his club and the haunts where he was likely to meet Urquhart. - -That was three days ago. Roderick hoped that Urquhart would not renew -his request till after his marriage. Then he could obtain a large sum -from Ella, who would be no longer under Matthew Lanyon's trusteeship, -but would be free to dispose of her money as she chose. Besides, no man -would pester another for money during his honeymoon. He would have ample -time to arrange things. He had been rather sore at Matthew's absolute -refusal to allow Ella to make any marriage settlements. Not that he had -taken the initiative in the matter. Matthew himself had done so, in a -friendly letter in which he referred to the greater dignity and feeling -of independence of the man upon whom none of his wife's fortune had -been settled. Roderick had acquiesced with good grace, and in his heart -wished that he really possessed the delicacy of sentiment that would -have made his deprecation of such things as marriage settlements -genuine. For he had grown to love Ella genuinely, and he hated himself -for counting on her money. - -“Just one week more, dear, and then we shall begin our new life -together.” So ran a sentence of a letter from Ella, which Roderick was -reading at breakfast. He sighed, rested his elbows on the table and his -chin in his hands, his yellow beard protruding over his fingers, and -gazed sadly over the elegantly set meal. Their new life! He was -past forty, past the age of fresh ideals. Hitherto his had been the -gratification of the lust of the eyes and the lust of the flesh. -At times he deceived himself, an exuberant mood carrying its own -persuasiveness. But there were hours, and they had been very frequent of -late, when he saw himself as he was and hated the picture. A _poseur_, -a sham, a creature of imperfect moral sense; gifted, it is true, with -certain artistic faculties, wherewith he imposed upon a superficial -world and so made his living; but insincere, devoid of real enthusiasms, -cynically despising the gospel that he preached. For the first time -he had touched a fervent and earnest soul, and the sense of his -responsibility overwhelmed him. He rose and looked into the Empire -mirror over the fireplace. He was middle-aged, puffed, wrinkled, worn -out. There could be no new ideals,--only a reattiring of the old shams -that had peopled his life. He threw himself down in an armchair and read -Ella's letter through again. - -“My God,” said he, from his heart, as a million futile men have said, -“if only I had ordered my life differently!” - -A trim maid-servant, one of the staff of the mansions in which his -chambers were situated, entered with the announcement of a visitor. A -moment afterwards Bevis Urquhart came in, languid, supercilious, with an -ugly expression on his flabby face. Roderick rose, assumed at once his -jaunty manner. - -“Sit down, my dear friend. You come like a ray of morning sunshine -piercing through the fog.” - -Urquhart put his hat on the table and unbuttoned his gloves. “No, I -won't sit down, thank you,” he drawled. “My brougham is at the door, and -I'm in a hurry. I rather want that subscription back.” - -“Why, my dear fellow, you 're worse than a bankrupt bootmaker,” cried -Roderick, pleasantly. - -“Perhaps I am, but I want the money,” replied the young man. - -“I'll send you a cheque this afternoon, 'pon my soul,” said Roderick. - -“You've told me that before, Usher. I want you to write the cheque now.” - -Roderick looked him between the eyes, and threw off his mask of -cordiality. - -“Suppose I say I don't like your tone, and will see you damned before I -do otherwise than suit my own convenience?” - -“Then I shall conclude you have bagged the money and can't repay.” - -“You are insulting,” said Roderick. - -“I believe I am stating facts. It was rather odd your meeting those -bills that Willie Lathrop backed, just at that time, wasn't it?” - Roderick again cursed Willie Lathrop under his breath. He turned aside -and lit a cigarette, so as to gain time. Then he forced a laugh. - -“Come, come, Urquhart. This is all nonsense. It was too large a sum to -leave idle at my bankers,--besides, there's always a risk, you know,--so -I invested it,--in Trust Funds, of course. One can't buy and sell stock -over a counter. There are delays of correspondence. And I've been -so devilish busy with wedding preparations, you know, that I haven't -attended to it. I'll write at once to my broker. There.” - -Urquhart listened with an incredulous smile. He gathered up his hat and -gloves. - -“Sometimes it pleases me to act the Godforsaken fool you did yourself -the pleasure to call me. Sometimes it doesn't. I'll give you till -to-morrow night to send me your cheque for £2,000 with the per cent -interest. If you don't--” - -“Well, my dear friend, what if I don't?” - -“I'll publish it all over London that you have bagged the money--and -make sure that Miss Defries hears it.” - -“And what if I kick you down the ten flights of stairs of these -mansions?” snarled Roderick, his hands clenched and the sweat standing -on his forehead through the effort to maintain self-control. - -“I'll publish it at once,” said the young man, languidly. “Good day, -Usher. Till tomorrow evening, then?” He nodded superciliously and -disappeared, leaving his enemy impotent with wrath and fear. - -“Revengeful devil!” he exclaimed stupidly. - -The servant came in to clear away the breakfast things. Roderick pushed -aside the _portiere_ and went into his studio. The great window was -open. He stood by it, heedless of the raw, damp air. From beneath the -veil of fog came the uncanny rumbling of the traffic in the street. -Everything was hidden. He seemed to be an immeasurable height from the -earth. All below was abysmal, inscrutable. - -A thought shuddered through his being. One plunge into the unknown, -and the sordid fears of living would be at an end. But the fog made him -cough, and the tiny check threw him back again, like a wheel, into his -normal groove. He shut the window and walked moodily to the studio fire. - -Two thousand pounds had to be obtained by to-morrow night. Otherwise, -social disaster and loss of Ella. He had not the faith to trust her with -his wretched story. “I promised to marry a gentleman, and not a thief,” - he heard her saying. The tone of her voice stabbed him with a greater -pain than he had thought himself capable of feeling. There was only -one way out of it,--another appeal to his father. He would go down to -Ayresford at once. It was characteristic of him that he shivered at the -thought of the comfortless journey. - -A few hours later he stood, white and haggard, in the porch of Mr. -Usher's house, bidding his father good-bye. It was fresh and clear -at Ayresford, and the gathering twilight deepened the country hush of -things. - -“I've always looked upon myself as a bad lot, but compared with you I'm -an innocent babe,” said Roderick, in a queer, low voice. - -The old man put out a deprecatory hand and looked at his son out of -expressionless blue eyes. - -“I only point the way, my son. These reverses on the Stock Exchange have -brought me near to penury. I look forward to your marriage, so that you -can provide for your poor old father.” - -“You could easily have lent me the money,” muttered Roderick. - -“I have shown you how to obtain it. Do not fear Matthew Lanyon, my son. -We are not friends, and I will meet him no longer. But he is a snake -with the fangs drawn; and I have drawn them. I have power over men. It -is my way.” - -There was a touch of savage exultation in the old man's tone which was -new to Roderick. - -“You are quite sure about it?” he asked quickly. - -“He would not dare to hurt a hair of my dear boy's head.” - -“What the devil is this hold you have got over him?” - -“I'll leave that to you as your inheritance, my son.” - -Roderick watched the old, ignoble figure with a feeling of horrible -repulsion. He turned, bidding him an abrupt farewell, and walked fast -through the garden and out at the gate on to the road that led to the -station. At the refreshment bar he drank a shilling's worth of brandy. - -Late that night he went into his club,--not the desolate Hyde Park where -he had drunk tea with Ella,--but the little Belvidere in St. James's -Street where they talk Art in Gothic capitals and play “bridge” for -high stakes. As he had hoped, he found Urquhart in the smoking-room -surrounded by half a dozen men who formed the esoteric ring of the club. -The young semi-millionaire was holding forth on his newly discovered -genius, Pradovitch. - -“Thought rapt, deep, unexpressive,--that is the only medium for the -soul. The only ideal of life is to express all consciousness in terms of -abstract and absolute thought--I don't know if I make myself clear. But -that in vulgar language is his doctrine. As for Art, what is it but the -scum that rises to the surface of the pure well of thought?” - -“Oh, rot!” exclaimed young Willie Lathrop, rising with a yawn. “The -Venus of Milo and Beethoven are good enough for me. Let's have a -flutter. Hallo, Usher--” - -Roderick came forward, elegant in his evening dress and great white bow, -and suave in manner. - -“Gentlemen,” he said formally, in a voice that commanded attention, “I -am glad to find you all here. Urquhart came to my rooms this morning -and expressed himself in a manner that I am sure he will see calls for a -public apology. I take you all to witness that I hand him my cheque for -£2,050, being the amount he deposited with me as his subscription to the -funds of the Walden Art Colony, together with the interest on the same.” - -And with his grandest gesture he held out the cheque to Urquhart. There -was a great silence as every one looked at the young man to see what -he would do. He took the cheque, eyed it for a moment, and then met -Roderick's mocking glance. - -“It is quite correct?” - -“Quite,” said Urquhart; and then somewhat desperately, “I have much -pleasure in withdrawing anything I said this morning that you may have -objected to.” - -“Hooray!” cried Lathrop. “Now shake hands, you two, and be friends -again. And Urquhart shall stand the crowd supper on the interest.” - -And so peace was concluded. But Roderick did not sleep that night, and -the next day it was torture to meet a girl's honest eyes. - -She noticed his preoccupation, was tenderly solicitous. What were his -anxieties? - -“If I have any, they are lest any unforeseen disaster should occur -between now and Wednesday,” he replied. - -“Why, what should come?” she asked. - -“It is only a man's inability to realise that such happiness can ever be -his.” - -He burst into rapturous speech, carrying the girl with him on its flood. -For the moment she forgot his troubled look, and when he had gone her -attention was absorbed by practical details. In fact, during these days -of hurried preparation, the material affairs of life were sufficient for -her content. Countless letters had to be written, innumerable purchases -to be made, plans for future living to be discussed. At no time does -modern civilisation allow sentiment to come less within a woman's -spiritual horizon than during the week before her marriage. - -As usually happens, the wedding preparations extended far beyond the -original design. The guest list swelled day by day. Instead of a mere -vicar, Lady Milmo's favourite colonial bishop was engaged for the -ceremony. The bridesmaids increased in number from two to six. The -meeting of a few intimates at Lady Milmo's to drink the bride and -bridegroom's health was gradually magnified into a vast reception for -which the house was being turned upside down. On one point Ella remained -firm. She would be married in a travelling dress. Then there were after -arrangements to be considered. Lady Milmo's old friends, Lord and Lady -Greatorex, who were wintering in Cairo, had put their little place in -Shropshire at the disposal of the young couple for their honeymoon. When -they came back to London, they would take a furnished flat until a house -could be found to suit them; but the furnished flat had first to be -obtained. The days passed in a whirl of occupation, and when Ella laid -her head upon the pillow at night, sheer physical fatigue sent her -forthwith to sleep. - -Once she was touched to tears. Matthew Lanyon had given her a -magnificent present which already stood on the special table in the -morning room. But he had also sent her an intimate gift, a little ruby -ring, with a letter of tender affection. “It belonged to my dear wife,” - he wrote; “and I could give you nothing dearer to me,--perhaps it -symbolises a drop of my heart's blood.... I would come to your wedding, -my dear, but this old machine is getting cracked and wheezy, and is at -present laid up for repairs. I must get Sylvester to come and mend me. -But all my love will be with you.” And that night she sat up late in her -room writing him a long, long letter, pouring out her heart to him, as -she had never done before. - -***** - -The letter reached him on Monday morning. He had been suffering -considerably, and Sylvester was there, having made hasty arrangements -for the care of his patients in town. Matthew submitted to confinement -to the house, but insisted on getting up for breakfast. Bed was not -the proper place for a man to eat in, he declared, and nothing but main -force would have kept him there. So he sat down to table and made a -valiant pretence at eating, while Miss Lanyon cast appealing glances at -Sylvester and suggested arrow-root, and beef-tea, and eggs, and brandy, -at intervals. - -“If you hint at any more horrors, Agatha,” said the old man, looking up -from his letter, “I'll go to the office.” - -The white reflected glare from a slight fall of snow that covered the -lawn filled the comfortable dining-room. Miss Lanyon glanced through the -French window and shivered. Matthew was quite capable of carrying -out his threat. She refrained from further suggestions, and meanwhile -Matthew finished his letter in peace. - -He folded it up when he had read it and put it in his pocket. He felt -happier. Ella had revealed to him a Roderick that he had never realised. -The girl's early struggles showed that she had mistrusted him. Now -she had arrived at the man's heart and found it loyal and worthy. A -fluttering at the glass caused him to rise and gather up a handful -of breadcrumbs for the birds. Having thrown it out on to the lawn, he -closed the window and stood watching the feast, Dorothy by his side. It -was a bright morning, the sun shining from a pale blue sky and glinting -on the myriad facets of the snow. The red clusters on a holly bush and -the breasts of a couple of robins among the fluttering birds made tiny -specks of colour against the white. The earth was sweet. Matthew felt a -sense of exhilaration. After all, perhaps this was the great reparation -that through his indirect agency had been accomplished. Materially, -Roderick was relieved for life from the sordid cares of poverty; and -spiritually, if ever woman could raise a man's soul to gentler things, -that woman was Ella Defries. His life had not been wholly lived in vain. - -Soon his managing clerk brought the office letters. They retired to the -library, and Matthew threw himself with more spirit into affairs than -he had been able to show for some time past. At twelve o'clock Sylvester -entered with some medicine. He found his father alone, writing hard amid -a sea of papers. A professional rebuke induced him to desist. - -“If you write another line, I'll go straight back to London,” said -Sylvester. - -“You are much more needed there than you are here, I assure you,” said -the old man. “I'm as fit as ever I was.” - -But he blotted his letter and put his papers by, and pushing his -writing-chair away from the table settled himself comfortably for a -chat. He was full of small interests this morning. There had been fine -doings, he had learned, the evening before, at the Town Council. The -idiots had actually voted against the Free Library that he had schemed -out in every particular. Hodgkins, the progressive butcher, whose face -was like a hollyhock, had said that he blushed to bear the name of -Englishman in common with them. Matthew wondered how he did it. All the -same, he must get about again and put some sense into the Council. - -“I don't quite know why they listen to me, but they do,” he said. - -Then there were other matters. Jenkins's wife was laid up. That made the -tenth child. Would Sylvester make arrangements for the three youngest -children to board with the Jellicoes as usual? - -“Can Jenkins afford it?” asked Sylvester. - -“Of course not. Otherwise what would be the sense of our arranging -things?” - -Sylvester assented. The old man launched out into an invective against -all the ne'er-do-weels of Ayresford who procreated large families which -they could not support and spent their small earnings in drink. The -brutes! Boiling oil was too dreamy a death for them. As Sylvester knew -that any man of them would, if bidden, have licked his father's boots, -he smoked his pipe imperturbably, unaffected by this outburst of -ferocity. - -“I suppose all this is pretty parochial,” said Matthew, at length, “but -it's a bit of the cosmos, anyhow.” - -There was a knock at the door, and one of his clerks appeared with a -small leather-covered book. Matthew took it from him and laid it on the -table. - -“Take all this stuff to Mr. Findlay,” he said, indicating a pile of -papers. The clerk gathered them up and withdrew. - -Matthew continued his parable, but his fingers played with the banker's -pass-book. - -“Excuse me for a moment, while I see how the balance stands,” he said at -last. - -Sylvester nodded and stretched himself comfortably behind the morning -paper. A few moments passed. Then suddenly he heard a choking sound -and the violent creak of a chair. He started to his feet. There was his -father fallen limp over the arm of the chair, while from his nerveless -fingers a strip of pink paper fluttered to the ground. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI--AT BAY - -It was not until the evening that Sylvester entered the library again. -His father was still unconscious, likely to remain so for many hours. -Matthew's ordinary medical adviser had consulted with Sylvester. A -trained nurse telegraphed for from London had just arrived. At present -nothing more could be done. Possibly the stricken man might recover. But -the case was grave. - -Sylvester had been puzzled all day. What could have induced the stroke? -A moment or two before, his father had been in the best of spirits, -talking with an enjoyment that had been very rare of late. Generally, -when the heart is weak, it is some sudden shock that paralyses. But -here the theory of sudden shock was untenable. Perhaps it was simply the -reaction of the high spirits following depression. - -Miss Lanyon and himself had dined together,--a cheerless meal. The -gentle lady wept and conjectured feebly as to causation, implored -Sylvester, as indeed she had done all day, to pronounce favourably on -the patient's condition. They did not eat much. The cook had sent up -tearful apologies for the spoiling of a dish, on the ground that she was -too upset. But they would not have noticed. The parlour maid's eyes were -red. She had been some years in the house, and the personal charm that -endeared Matthew to all who came in contact with him had gained the -girl's affection. Miss Lanyon used to say that Matthew spoiled the -servants. Matthew replied that he hated perfection, and liked them -spoiled; they were more human. At any rate, his sudden illness spread -consternation and dismay through the household. The news had gone -abroad, and anxious inquiries had been made at the door by all kinds and -conditions of folk. Amongst them was Mr. Usher, who had shuffled up to -hear news of his dear friend in affliction. Sylvester had sent him a -curt reply by the servant. He disliked Mr. Usher cordially, and had -rejoiced over the strained relations that had kept him away from the -house. Dinner was over, and Sylvester went into the library to smoke. -The room was more or less as he had left it that morning. Matthew's -pass-book lay on the table, and three or four passed cheques lay upon -the book. He filled and lit his pipe, and sat down in the writing-chair -to think over the case. Suddenly, the room recalling associations, he -remembered the cheque he had seen flutter from his father's fingers. -Almost idly he looked down to see if it was still on the floor. His -eye fell upon it underneath the armchair, whither it had probably been -kicked during the bodily removal of his father from the room. He picked -it up. But a glance was enough to make him start back with an oath. It -was a passed cheque for £3,000 made payable to and indorsed by Roderick -Usher, and signed “Matthew Lanyon.” At first he could not comprehend it. -Why should his father have paid to Roderick so amazing a sum? And having -paid it, why should he have received such a shock on seeing the cheque? -He brought it nearer the lamp that stood on the table; and then, -suddenly, a suspicion smote him, like a great blow. There were -variations from his father's writing. His signature, so simple as to -be roughly imitated with the greatest facility, had yet certain strong -characteristics which were missing here. Sylvester looked at the numbers -of the cheques on the table; they were consecutive. The three thousand -pound cheque bore a number from a totally different series. The pink -colour, too, was slightly faded. Where was the book from which the -cheque had been torn? His glance fell upon his father's bunch of keys, -depending from one in the lock of the writing-table drawer. An idea -struck him. He remembered that his father, most methodical of men, -kept the stubs of his cheque-books ranged along a shelf of an old press -between the fireplace and the window. For a moment he hesitated. He had -never looked at one of his father's papers in his life. His intention -seemed almost criminal. - -“I beg your pardon, my dear, but I must,” he said, half aloud, and then -finding the key he opened the cupboard. A rapid examination showed him -the stub he wanted. The dates on the counterfoils were of three years -back. With trembling fingers he ran through the numbers. The counterfoil -of Roderick's cheque was missing. - -Mechanically he replaced the stub and locked the cupboard. And then he -stood for a while, fierce-eyed, shivering with a horrible certainty. -Roderick had forged the cheque, and the shock of discovery had nearly -killed his father. - -The whole man was white-hot with fury. In such accesses of anger, stern, -reserved men have killed their enemies mercilessly. Instead of confusing -their judgment, their anger burns it to crystal clearness. Every action -is that of sublimated reason. Sylvester remained for a few moments -motionless; then he picked up a railway time-card from the table, -glanced at it, and consulted his watch. He turned down the lamp and left -the room. In the hall he was met by Simmons, the doctor. The latter was -by far the more outwardly perturbed of the two. - -“Well, how are things?” - -“As satisfactory as can be expected,” replied Sylvester. “Come and see.” - They went together slowly up the stairs, discussing the symptoms, and -entered the sick chamber. There was very little change. Unconsciousness -would still last for many hours. That at least was certain. Meanwhile -they could do nothing but await events. Before leaving the room, -Sylvester bent down and kissed his father's face, that looked shrunken -in the dim light, and never had he felt such yearning love for him. -Downstairs, he drew Simmons into the library. - -“I am going to London to-night,” said he. - -Simmons stared at him. “To London?” he queried. - -“And leave my father in this condition? Yes, I am summoned on a matter -of life and death.” - -The other was puzzled by the non-professional phrase. “An urgent case” - would have been intelligible. But he made no comment. Neither of the -Lanyons was a man to discuss his private concerns with his acquaintance. -Sylvester continued,-- - -“I am more than satisfied to leave him in your hands, Simmons. You know -that. But you would be doing me a good turn if you sent me two or three -telegrams to-morrow. I hope to get back at night.” - -“Willingly,” replied Simmons; and after a few more words, the two men -shook hands and parted. Miss Lanyon, whose simple gospel it was that -whatever Matthew or Sylvester did was right, demanded no explanations -when Sylvester announced his intention of going to London; but when he -was gone, she cried a bit to herself in a sympathetic feminine way. -Men were unaccountable beings in her eyes. They represented mysterious -forces which she had been brought up, in her young days, to regard with -respectful awe. There was a trace of orientalism in the attitude of our -grandmothers towards the male sex. It lingers still in old-fashioned, -sequestered places. - -It was late when Sylvester's cab stopped at his house in Weymouth -Street. He attempted to open the door with his latch-key, but the -chain was up, and he had to ring and wait in the drizzling rain until a -shivering and tousled servant came down. At another time he would have -felt a chill of desolation at entering the dark and fireless house, so -cold in its unwelcome. But to-night he was strung to a high pitch; -and the loneliness of his surroundings failed to touch the usually -responsive chord. He went upstairs to his room, dominated by a fixed -idea. He would stop the marriage, thus tardily doing his father's -bidding, and have Roderick arrested on a charge of forgery. If his -father died, his murder would thus, at least, be avenged. - -Early the next morning he went to Roderick's chambers. The servant, who -was setting the breakfast table, informed him that Mr. Usher had not yet -been called. - -“Wake him and say that Dr. Lanyon particularly wishes to see him,” said -Sylvester. - -The servant retired and returned a few moments afterwards with a request -that he would wait for Mr. Usher in the studio. She conducted him -thither and having put a match to the fire, departed. The room was bare, -the hangings taken down, the knick-knacks packed in cases lying untidily -about the floor, the pictures stacked against the walls,--all in -preparation for the coming change in Roderick's way of living. - -Presently a door opened, and Roderick appeared in dressing-gown and -slippers. His cheeks were sunken, his eyes bloodshot. He looked like -a man hag-ridden. He drew a quick, short breath at the first sight of -Sylvester's threatening face. All his jauntiness had gone. He went a -step or two towards his visitor and said curtly,-- - -“Well?” - -“You have forged my father's name to a cheque for £3,000,” said -Sylvester. - -“Can I see it?” - -Sylvester drew the cheque from his pocketbook and held it up for the -other's inspection. - -“I perceive the bankers have honoured it,” said Roderick. “Mr. Lanyon -will not repudiate it.” - -“He will not have the chance. _I_ repudiate it. He is lying -unconscious,--perhaps at the point of death. By God! if he dies you will -have killed him.” - -“You are talking rank folly,” said Roderick, leaning against the jamb -of the window, his hands in his dressing-gown pockets. “Mr. Lanyon as -my solicitor sold out certain of my investments and sent me a cheque for -the total amount.” - -“A cheque to which there is no counterfoil, taken from a cheque-book in -use three years ago?” - -Sylvester laughed harshly and buttoned his overcoat, which he had opened -so as to get at the cheque. Roderick grew white and passed his hand -across his forehead. There was a moment's silence. - -“As a matter of elementary justice,” said Sylvester, “I came here first -for your explanation. As you can give none, I will now put the matter in -the hands of the police, and in an hour or two there will be a warrant -out for your arrest.” - -He moved towards the door. Roderick staggered away from the window and -drew his hand hard across his face in a gesture of utter weariness. -The strain of the past week had been too much. Always thriftless and -reckless in money matters, he had hitherto stopped short of unredeemed -rascality. The burden of a crime had crushed his self-assurance. - -“Stop a moment,” he said hoarsely. “There are other considerations.” - -“I have them in view,” replied Sylvester, icily. He turned again. -Roderick hurriedly interposed himself between him and the door. - -“For God's sake, man, think of what you are doing! I don't deny it. -There! I can't. It is more than I can bear. I have been in hell for the -past week, devoured alive, with the flames licking my soul. I was driven -to it, to save myself from disgrace. I was desperate. I would have -replaced the money. By Heaven! I would. It was my only chance to avert -sudden crash and to marry the woman I love.” - -“You love!” sneered Sylvester. - -“Yes, the woman I love and crave and worship, for whose sake I'd commit -a thousand crimes. I was pushed hard, I tell you, with my back against -the wall. I had to. Go back to Ayresford and tell your father I'll repay -it,--every penny. I swear to God I will.” - -“With Miss Defries's money. Rob Peter to pay Paul. Let me pass.” - -“You are going to have me arrested?” - -“Certainly.” - -“But--Sylvester--good God!” cried Roderick, in incoherent agony. -“Think of what it means--our old friendship--we were young together--we -have grown old together--years ago, when you too were marrying a sweet -woman, I stood by your side--” - -“Your damned hand has been in every tragedy of my life,” exclaimed -Sylvester, kindled into a sudden flame of anger. “And a damned woman's! -If it had not been for a woman, you would not have killed my father.” - -In the midst of his frantic anxiety, it was suddenly revealed to -Roderick that in alluding to Sylvester's marriage he had touched the -man's hidden wound. He hastened to repair his blunder. - -“I am not pleading for myself alone,” he said, drawing himself up -and speaking in a more dignified voice. “You can disgrace me, but my -disgrace will fall on another--whom your father loves. If you arrest me, -the marriage will be broken off by a miserable, horrible scandal,--one -that will poison a woman's whole existence. It would be more than pain -to your father if such hurt happened to Ella Defries.” - -“You certainly don't propose that I should let this marriage take place -to-morrow?” said Sylvester, recovering his cold scorn of manner. But he -was somewhat checked in his purpose by Roderick's argument, and Roderick -saw that he had gained a point. - -“I happen to know,” said he, “that you would be carrying out your -father's wish in preventing my marriage. I undertake to break it off. -The day I marry her you can arrest me.” - -Again Sylvester laughed harshly. “You know very well you would be safe -then, as Ella Defries's husband.” - -He turned and walked to the window and looked out in deep thought. -He hated the man, clung fiercely to the revengeful joy of seeing him -stamped out of decent existence. Compromise was wormwood, and yet -compromise there must be. Roderick remained by the door straining -haggard eyes at his judge, a strange figure, with his gorgeous -dressing-gown and dishevelled hair, in the midst of the dismantled and -rubbish-strewn room. Sylvester's last words had sent the thrill of a -forlorn hope through his veins and he waited with throbbing heart for -the other to speak. - -At last Sylvester faced him again. - -“I will give you a day's grace,” he said stonily. “You will leave -Liverpool Street tonight at 8.30 for the Hook of Holland; one way of -getting to the Continent is as good as another, and I happen to choose -this one. You can take what steps you like to inform Miss Defries that -you cannot marry her tomorrow or any other time. Those are my terms. I -shall have a warrant ready. If you shuffle out of them, I shall put it -in force and proceed against you without mercy.” - -“Mercilessness is a dangerous game when a creature is driven to bay,” - said Roderick. - -“What could you do?” asked Sylvester, contemptuously. - -Roderick drew his shoulders together and turned away. “Nothing,” he said -in a low voice. “No, damn it! nothing.” - -Somehow he could not utter the threat that rose to his lips. His soul -revolted. It is one of the strangest facts in human psychology that -there is no man so vile but that there is one thing he cannot and -will not do: sometimes the thing is a hideous crime, sometimes only a -comparatively trivial act of dishonour; but whatever may be its relative -importance, there is always one virtuous principle to which the human -soul must cling. Roderick had blackmailed the father,--for that is what -his forgery came to,--but he could not blackmail the son. Nor could he -drag his own father, hoary scoundrel though he knew him to be, down with -him in his disgrace. So he kept silent as to the mysterious relations -between the two old men, and--unutterable pathos of poor humanity--his -silence was a salve to his conscience. - -Sylvester turned the handle of the studio door. - -“Do you accept my terms?” - -“Yes,” said Roderick, suddenly. - -“Good,” said Sylvester, and he closed the door behind him and went -downstairs into the street. There he took a cab and drove to Scotland -Yard. - -He was not the man to utter idle threats. Before dictating conditions to -Roderick, he had coldly calculated upon the power that he could wield. -Like that of every London specialist, his practice was socially varied -to a curious extent. Among his patients was a high official at Scotland -Yard, who, he knew, without dereliction of duty, would courteously carry -out the arrangements he intended to suggest. The official received him -as he had anticipated. In order to avoid a painful scandal in society, -it would be better to let the culprit fly the country. Of course there -would be no talk of extradition. In the mean time, a warrant could be -issued and put in force whenever Dr. Lanyon gave the word. Sylvester -went home grimly satisfied with his morning's work. He found awaiting -him a telegram from Simmons to the effect that his father's condition -was unchanged. - -Roderick went into his dining-room, as dismantled and cheerless as the -studio, and drank a cup of coffee. He tried to eat, but the food choked -him. He was crushed, beaten, ruined. Utter dejection was in his attitude -as he sat in the straight-backed chair, staring helplessly in front of -him. Even in his crimes he had failed. He had deferred paying in the -forged cheque to the very last moment possible for the cheque he had -written for Urquhart to be honoured by his own bankers. He had reckoned -on clearing-house delay, on the half-day of Saturday, on the intervening -_dies non_ of Sunday, in fact, on the cheque not coming under Matthew's -notice until after the wedding. But the cheque had passed from bank to -bank with diabolical expedition, and, like the curses in the Spanish -proverb, it had come home to roost with a vengeance. - -What was to become of him? He could scarcely realise his sentence. Exile -from England meant a bitter struggle with poverty; and yet exile was -his irremediable lot. In eight or nine hours he must start. There was no -escape. He knew Sylvester of old, as hard as iron and as cold as ice, a -man to carry out his purpose relentlessly. To-night--to leave this dear -world of London behind him; tomorrow--to be in the aimless solitude of -some foreign hotel, when, if fortune had been kind, he would have been -standing at the altar with the woman whom he desired above all women -that had ever entered his life. It was like the blank future of the man -condemned to death. - -Thoughts of his own misdoing, of his banishment, faded into a vague -heaviness at the back of his brain, while the pang of a great hunger -gripped him. He flung his arms on the table and buried his head and -clutched his hair in both hands. - -“My God, my God! I can't give her up!” he cried. Now that she was torn -from him, he craved her with the awful passion of the man no longer -young. A picture of her ripe lips and her fresh, eager face, so quick to -flush, floated maddeningly before his closed eyes. Last night on parting -he had held her close and kissed her. He felt the yielding softness of -her bosom against his breast, could almost feel now the throb of her -heart. He bit through his sleeve into his arm. - -The paroxysm passed. He must think. The wedding must be postponed. -Sylvester had intrusted him with that duty, out of regard for Ella. See -her he could not; his soul shrank from it. A cowardly letter to reach -her too late for questions to be asked, giving no reasons, simply -stating that he was summoned away that night for an indefinite period? -It must be written. He grovelled in his self-abasement. - -Suddenly he raised his head and stared up, with panting breath and -trembling body. A wild, mad idea had sprung from a recrudescence of the -forlorn hope with which Sylvester's words had inspired him. He sprang to -his feet with a quavering, hysterical laugh. - -“By Christ! I'll carry it through,” he cried, and he walked about the -room, swinging his arms in great gestures. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII--A WEDDING EVE - -The room was in a state of bewitching confusion. Trunks, half filled, -yawned open on the floor. On the bed were piles of white garments in -the midst of which here and there a pink or blue ribbon peeped daintily. -Cardboard boxes and tissue paper pervaded space. Hats small and hats -immense lay about in unconsidered attitudes upon chintz-covered chairs -and other resting-places. A pearl-coloured ball-dress, all gauze and -chiffon and foamy nothingness, hung over the bed-rail. A thousand odds -and ends--veils, hatpins, mysterious smooth wooden boxes, and cut-glass -phials--were strewn on the tables. And the pale morning sunshine -streamed in a friendly way into the room. - -Ella was superintending her packing. Her maid having gone out for a -moment, she sat on the edge of the bed (leaving, with feminine sureness -of pose, the dainty piles of garments aforesaid unscathed), and gazed -critically at a hat which she held on outstretched fingers thrust into -the crown. In a dark silk blouse and a plain skirt, and with her auburn -hair somewhat ruffled, she looked very simple and girlish. Lady Milmo, -occupying the only vacant chair opposite, also regarded the hat with -the eye of experience. The examination had, however, come to an end, -for Ella, after flicking the great bows with the finger-tips of her -disengaged hand, threw the confection lightly on the top of the pile, -and putting her hands in her lap resignedly, turned to her aunt. - -“I am sure Josephine will disappoint me with the blue dress.” - -“Oh, no, my dear,” said Lady Milmo, “kingdoms may fall and empires may -decay, but Josephine never fails. A woman of her word, my dear. Don't -you know what she did for La Guira, the singer? La Guira ordered -four dresses to take away with her to Patagonia or somewhere. It was -impossible to finish them before the morning of departure. Josephine -herself raced with them to Waterloo in a hansom just in time to see the -train with La Guira in it steam out of the station; and that woman took -a special there and then, and chased the train and got the dresses on -board all right. Josephine is a marvellous woman.” - -Ella laughed. She did not care very much. Her life at that moment was -too full. - -“It's quite sweet of the sun to come in and see me, isn't it?” she said. - -“Provided he keeps up his good behaviour to-morrow,” said Lady Milmo. - -“Oh, I sha'n't mind what he does tomorrow; I shall have too many things -to think of.” - -“But what about us poor unfortunates who are not going to be married?” - -“You could be married now, fifty times over, auntie, if you chose,” said -Ella, out of her lightness of heart. - -“The Lord preserve me!” replied Lady Milmo, vivaciously. “When poor -Howgate died I vowed that when we met in heaven, if there is one, no -other man should stand between us.” - -As the late Sir Howgate Milmo, Bart., had been a notoriously evil liver, -Ella did not think there was much chance of her aunt escaping forsworn, -even on her hypothesis. - -“One can love heaps of times, you know,” she said, stretching out her -limbs girlishly and looking at the tips of her shoes. - -“Love your husband once and for all, my dear,” said her aunt, -sententiously. - -Ella rose to her feet and crossed over to her aunt's chair and sat on -the arm, and kissed Lady Milmo. A spontaneous caress like that was rare -with her, and the recipient looked up in pleased surprise. But Ella had -grasped her fate in both hands and felt mistress thereof, and all seemed -right with the world. She had compelled herself into entire happiness. - -“Of course I do--or I shall,” she replied. “Do you think I could marry a -man to whom I did not feel I could give all that is in me?” - -“It is the fate of women to give,” said Lady Milmo, who was in a -moralising mood. - -“We must do something to justify our existence,” laughed Ella. “Women -can't do much. I used to think differently when I was young. Men do all -the real work in the world, but somehow they seem to want something from -women. And it's a great thing to help on the big world by giving oneself -body and soul to a man.” - -“Cook his food and wash his clothes and see that there is a proper -supply of Salutaris water when he comes home after a city dinner That -was the whole duty of woman in your grandmother's time, child.” - -“I think women are very much the same all through the ages,” said Ella. -“At least,” she added reflectively, “that's the only way the -riddle seems to be solved. A man does, wants, compels. A woman -yields--otherwise--why, well--” - -She rose, confused at' her half-confession, and re-examined the hat. - -“Otherwise why should I be wanting to meet poor dear Howgate in heaven,” - finished Lady Milmo, coming to her assistance with a humorous curl of -the lip. “Anyhow,” she continued with some irrelevance, “I'm glad you're -going to stay in a decent Christian country, where you can wear your -pretty frocks.” - -“So am I, auntie--now,” replied Ella. “But I didn't think I should be.” - -Ella's maid came in, and the work of packing was resumed. Her mistress -tried on the much-considered hat before the pier-glass, while Lady Milmo -arranged the rumpled hair beneath, so that the hat should produce its -due effect. Then one of the bridesmaids came, ostensibly to see if -she could help; really to feast her innocent eyes upon the articles of -attire everywhere displayed. The time slipped by pleasantly. At twelve -o'clock the parlour-maid tapped at the door and entered with the -announcement that Mr. Usher was downstairs and desired to see Miss Ella -on most urgent business. - -Lady Milmo threw up her hands. What could he want? Men were a positive -nuisance at weddings! They ought to be chained up for days before and -only let loose at the church door. - -“I'm in such a mess,” cried Ella. But she sent down a message to -Roderick that she would see him directly. - -The servant smiled and departed. Ella gave herself those anxious -feminine tidying touches before her glass, whose effect the eternal -irony decrees shall never be noticed by man, and ran happily down the -stairs to meet her lover. She turned the handle of the morning-room door -and stood before him, in the heyday of her youth and her charm. All the -anxieties of the past year had fallen from her. Her cheeks flushed a shy -welcome. Her eyes, honest and clear, smiled upon him. She moved quickly -forward, her lips already parted in happy speech, when suddenly she felt -him come upon her and encircle her with strong, resistless arms and rain -passionate kisses upon her mouth and cheeks. - -“Oh, my God, I love you, I love you!” he murmured hoarsely. “I can't let -you go. You are soul of my soul and blood of my blood. No, Ella, no,” he -continued, as, confused and blushing, she strove to release herself; “I -must keep you here. Heaven knows when I may hold you in my arms again. -Listen, something terrible has happened,--a thing that may part our -lives. Are you strong enough to bear it? Brave and strong and heroic, -like the woman I think you?” - -He relaxed his clasp and stood with hands on her shoulders, forcing -her to look at him. She met his passion-filled eyes fearlessly, but her -colour had gone. - -“Part our lives! I don't understand what you mean, Roderick.” - -“Are you brave enough to face a terrible calamity?” - -“I shall not faint, if you mean that,” she replied. “What is it?” - -“I must leave England to-night,” he said in a quick voice. “How long -I shall have to stay away, I do not know. It may be weeks, it may be -months, it may be years.” - -She looked at him with perplexed brows and a dawning fear in her eyes. - -“But to-morrow--” she began. - -“There will be no to-morrow--for me. Unless----” - -“Unless what?” - -He turned away and paced across the room and back again. He had -thrown off the gold pince-nez, and now they swung by the cord over his -waistcoat, and his small blue eyes, usually obscured by them, glowed -strangely and the pupils were dilated. Where the actor, the inveterate -_poseur_, ended and the man began, it were impossible to tell. He was -playing a part, but playing it in desperate earnestness. The words, the -gestures, were false; but the yearning folly of love that vibrated in -his voice was as real a thing as had ever entered into the man's life. - -“I must be plain with you, Ella. It's as much as my life, my honour, -your fair happiness, is worth for me to stay in England over to-night. -There can be no wedding to-morrow. I have done all that a man could do -to avert things. The suspense has been a torturing agony above words. -But the inevitable, the inexorable, has come. Oh, God, Ella, if you knew -what living hell it is to me to tell you this!” - -She put her hands before her face, feeling dazed and sick, and when -she drew them away, her face was very white. Like every pure woman, her -thoughts of late had been absorbed by the sweet vanities of the morrow's -ceremony, with just a warm, tremulous sub-consciousness of the beyond. -The sudden fall about her ears of this structure of vanities bewildered -her. Her brain seemed to be an avalanche of telegrams and letters. Faces -of bidden guests swam lurid before her. Roderick, a long way off, faded -into infinite mist. A pang of disappointment, humiliation, she knew not -what, ached in her breast. She scarcely heard or heeded what the man was -saying. He stopped, seeing her so white, and looked at her, breathless. -Then suddenly a cloud seemed to roll away before her, and she was -conscious of him standing there with haggard eyes and features drawn -in pain. Scorn of her first imaginings drove them into the limbo of all -vain things; the thrill of a proud courage nerved her; she drew herself -up and faced realities. And the first reality was a rush through her -being of yearning pity for the man so stricken. With an impulse of -consolation she went up to him, and again his arms closed swiftly round -her. He murmured burning incoherences. He could not live without her -love, the crown and joy of earthly things. Life would be a purgatorial -flame. He loved her. He worshipped her, so brave, so loyal, so adorable. -His voice was vibrant with elemental passion. - -A woman, young and ardent, with rich blood running through her veins, -is, above all things, a primitive human being. It were an ill day for -the pride and vigour of the race if she were not. There are moments when -the world's music surges like the roar of the sea in her ears, and the -heart within her is lifted to her lips; when her limbs are as water, and -her body is carried in the unfaltering arms of a god through illimitable -space. She has yielded, is swept away by the man's passion, deliriously -lost. - -As in a dream, standing there in his embrace, she heard him whisper:-- - -“There is one way--to scoff at destiny--to rise triumphant above it--to -be married tomorrow in spite of all things. Not here. In Holland where -I am summoned--I have the license--we can explain the urgency of our -flight--the English Consul or Chaplain at Amsterdam will marry us. Come -with me tonight--Ella--for God's sake, Ella, say that you will.” - -She smiled up at him without replying. The mad proposal seemed at -the dreamy moment the sweetest of sanities. He continued in hurried -intensity,-- - -“All will be so easy. You can say you are going to Ayresford--what more -natural?--to stay here would be pain--there is a train for Ayresford -about the time--half-past eight at Liverpool Street. I will meet you -there with a ticket,--and then we shall be carried off to happiness--you -and I--alone together--to conquer the world.... There--it must be.” - -He took her hands, kissed them both, and released her. She stood for -a while with downcast eyes and heaving bosom, recovering her mental -balance. - -“You have not yet told me,” she said presently, in a calmer voice, “why -there should be this upheaval. I have said perhaps I might help you. -Why do your life and honour and my happiness depend upon your leaving -England to-night, Roderick?” - -The supreme moment had come. He braced every nerve to meet the -inevitable question. Summoning up an extraordinary dignity subtly tinged -with sadness, he said with grave deliberation,-- - -“I cannot tell you.” - -Ella recoiled involuntarily, staggered by the unexpectedness of the -reply. She could only regard him in mute but anxious questioning. - -“You must trust me, child,” he said. “It is another's secret.” - -“So grave as to be withheld even from me?” - -“Even so,” he replied. “I know,” he continued gravely, “I am asking you -the ultimate thing a man can ask a woman,--blind trust. It is a thing -that only the great soul, like you, can give. Put your hand in mine and -trust in me!” - -“Let me think,” she said in a low voice. - -She sat down on a couch, baffled. If she looked up, she met the man's -burning eyes fixed upon her, and the depths of her being were stirred. -If she looked away, her life seemed fragmentary chaos, unrealisable, -incomprehensible. She breathed fast from a heaving bosom. Roderick's -mystery hovered between the grotesque and the tragic. To run away -clandestinely with the man to whom she was to have been married with all -the pomp of publicity on the morrow was an idea of comic opera. On the -other hand, the blind trust required raised the proceeding to the heroic -plane. Again, Nature within her shrank from mystery; she was a -child appalled by the dark, and fear was upon her. But the sensitive -gentlewoman felt the appeal to honour in every fibre of her pride. -Generosity swelled against doubt. A strange physical coldness enwrapped -her. To start to-night, with Roderick, surrendering herself utterly; -the maiden in her piteously sought refuge from the thought. She glanced -tremulously up at him, and her face flamed pink, and warmth entered her -heart. She covered her cheeks with her hands and shrank into the corner -of the couch. - -“Oh, could I not join you afterwards?” she moaned. He fell at her feet -and clasped her knees, broke into impassioned pleading. It was a -matter of life or death. His unbalanced artistic temperament burst all -restraints of conventional forms of speech. He raved of his consuming -need. He was less a man than a shaking passion. - -The eternal mystery to woman is man's desire of her. It transcends her -thought, it looms immense, inscrutable, and irresistible before her. She -is the everlasting Semele beneath the fiery glory of Zeus. It is -decreed that when brought face to face with it (a chord within her -being responsive, be it understood), she shall lose all sense of the -proportion between it and the infinite passions of the universe. Life -resolves itself into an amazement that she, with a whisper, a touch of -her hand, can raise a man from hell to heaven. In the piteous, glorious, -tragi-comedy of life, which has been played on millions of stages for -millions of years, this elemental fact is so commonplace that it escapes -our notice. We are apt to judge from externals, from the results of -adherence to ethical systems, from social conventions; and when the -actions of men and women are not provided for in artificial canons, we -are baffled or are shocked by a sense of the immoral, the abnormal, or -the preposterous. But men will desire and women will yield till the end -of the human race. - -And Ella yielded. She bound herself to meet him that evening and go with -him into the darkness, whithersoever he should lead; and Roderick -left the house, holding his head high, exultant in the sense of having -conquered destiny. - -But when he had gone, Ella threw herself face downwards on the couch in -all the abandonment of exhaustion. For a while she could not think; she -could only be conscious of the flow and ebb, and again the flow and ebb, -and once more the flow of emotion, during the past hour. She had entered -the room in light-hearted happiness; there had come the shock of an -awful dismay. Then she had been lifted in the tide of the man's passion; -there had followed the cold numbness of doubt; again passion had swept -away reason. Now was reaction. She felt physically prostrated, and her -body ached as if it had been beaten. Her eyelids burned. She would have -liked to cry miserably, but she could not. She suffered the woman's -torment of unshed tears. Suddenly she rose and drew herself together, -despising her weakness. She had pledged herself to do a certain thing. -It was to be done, and practical commonplaces had to be faced. First -was the breaking of the news to Lady Milmo. The girl's heart was smitten -with pity for the kindly lady who had entered so wholeheartedly into -these wedding preparations. It would be a keen disappointment to -countermand the feast, put off the guests, make lame excuses. And that -would not be the end. There would be the scandal of her flight, of which -Lady Milmo would have to bear the brunt. It was cruel to treat her so. -She went to the window and looked out at the sunny houses on the other -side of Pont Street; wondered whether they all were cages for women -bound as she was in invisible chains. Her course had been marked out -with scrupulous exactness; to deviate from it a hair's breadth would be -not only breaking a solemn pledge, but perhaps endangering the life or -honour, she knew not how, of the man she was to marry. Yet her frank -soul rebelled against the deception. The hour of Roderick's departure -was to be kept secret; her elopement with him not to be whispered of. -She was to give out a journey to Ayresford, to escape from the painful -associations of the house in Pont Street, filled with all the vain -preparations for the morrow. She had never lied barefacedly in her life, -and for a moment she hated Roderick for compelling her to falseness. But -then the lingering echoes of his voice hummed in her ears, and the blood -rushed back into her cheeks, and she felt strong for the sacrifice of -her honour. - -Did she love him? She answered the self-put question with a passionate -affirmative. Else why was she doing this preposterous thing? Was not -the blindness of her trust the very banner of her love? A phrase of -Roderick's crossed her mind. “Life is merely the summation of moments -of keen living.” She caught at it as a plank with the drowning man's -thrill. She was living keenly; that alone was sufficient to justify -everything. She was defying the set uses of the tame world. “Each man -must batter down for himself the doors that hide life's inner glory” was -another of his sayings. Was she not even now battering at the door? -Her soul clutched at every supporting straw. Yet, in spite of these -aphoristic comforts, it was with a strange, dull sense of fatality that -she saw herself sitting by Roderick's side in the train that night, -being carried away further and further into the inscrutable darkness. - -***** - -The first part of her task was over. She had told Lady Milmo. It had -been an interview of pain and self-reproach. Lady Milmo had gasped, -wept, waxed indignant. All her kindly woman's motherliness had poured -itself out upon the girl, whom she considered infamously treated. It -was in vain for Ella to plead the matter of life and death that called -Roderick away. Lady Milmo had her prejudices. She had cordially approved -of Ella's immediate retirement to Ayresford. How could the poor child -stay in the house where every surrounding would be a pain to her? She -had sent Ella off to lie down in peace upon her own bed, away from the -half-packed litter of finery in the girl's room; and while Ella lay -there with a splitting headache, helplessly counting the slow hours, -Lady Milmo sat heroically before her writing-table immersed in lists and -telegraph forms. - -The slow hours passed. A little difficulty arose. Lady Milmo had taken -it for granted that Ella's maid would accompany her to Ayresford. Ella, -alarmed, announced her intention of leaving her behind. She did not even -wish her to come to the station to see after the luggage. She had -to insist that solitude was essential. Lady Milmo yielded the point -reluctantly. At last the time came. Ella's luggage had been placed on -the fourwheeled cab. The door was open; the white-capped maid stood on -the pavement. Ella turned with a sudden rush of emotion and kissed Lady -Milmo, who had come with her to the hall. - -“If I ever hurt you, dear, God knows it's because I cannot help it,” she -said. But before the other could reply, a telegraph boy entered with -a telegram. Name of Defries. Ella tore it open, with a spasm of -anticipation, half fear, half hope, that it came from Roderick. But it -ran:-- - - “_Your coming a joy. Your uncle dangerously ill. Is crying - for you. Agatha._” - -Speechless she handed the paper to her aunt. Lady Milmo glanced at it. - -“Doesn't it all work out for the best, dear?” she said gently. “Agatha -Lanyon would not have wired if to-morrow's affair had not been broken -off.” - -“How did she know?” asked Ella, with white lips. - -“Why, I sent them a message,” said Lady Milmo. - -Ella bade her good-bye again. The parlour maid shut the cab-door and -gave the word “Waterloo” to the driver. The cab drove off, and then -Ella, spreading out the crumpled telegram, broke for the first time into -a flood of passionate tears. - -But some moments later she called to the driver,-- - -“I fancy the servant made a mistake. It is Liverpool Street I want to go -to.” - -And to Liverpool Street was she driven. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII--FELLOW-TRAVELLERS - -A misty evening had followed the sunshine of the day. The lights in -Liverpool Street, in shop-windows, street-lamps, and the lamps of a -thousand crossing and recrossing vehicles, flared red and large through -the slight fog. Luggage-laden cabs clattered down the flagged incline of -the station, sounding a hard treble to the thundering bass of the street -and city above. Down the sides of the incline streamed the throng of -work people and belated clerks hurrying to their trains. The station -portico beyond seemed a dark vortex into which this seething life was -sucked with irresistible swiftness. There, in the uncertain light, was -the bustle of porters unloading cabs, the quick rattle of trucks and -barrows, the ceaseless patter of feet, the din of voices. It was an -eddying whirl of vague shapes appearing for a moment from the fog and -vanishing after a flash of passage. - -Roderick stood by the wall, gazing anxiously at each cab as it stopped -and deposited its fare. He had taken the two tickets, registered his -luggage through to Amsterdam, and now was waiting in feverish suspense -for Ella. Would she come? He looked at his watch. It was only five -minutes past eight, and he had been watching for her since the quarter -to the hour. He threw away a cigarette barely commenced, and a moment -afterwards lit another. By the light of the match his fingers could have -been seen to shake nervously. At last a cab stopped, a porter opened the -door, and Roderick's heart gave a leap of relief and joy as he saw the -familiar girlish figure emerge. He sprang to her side. - -“Oh, thank God you have come, dear, thank God!” he whispered. - -“I keep my word,” said Ella, remotely. Roderick gave some directions to -the porters, and turned to her. - -“I will show you straight into our carriage. I have reserved one for -ourselves.” - -He led the way through the booking offices to the great glass-covered -station, with its blue glare of electric light and babel of sounds. - -“My heroic Ella,” he murmured. She raised her eyes somewhat appealingly. -Then he saw she had been crying; her lashes were still wet. - -“Those tears are the last you shall ever shed,” he whispered, bending -down to her ear. In reply she held out the crumpled ball of paper which -she had kept in her hand. He stood by the platform gate and read, and -looking at the telegram, reflected. The instinct of the self-indulgent -man prompted a reply. A dry-eyed woman, be she never so beloved, was a -pleasanter travelling companion than a tearful one. He handed her back -the telegram with a smile. - -“It's the dear elderly lady's exaggeration. Mr. Lanyon is kept to his -room by a slight cold. That is all. I saw Sylvester this afternoon, -and he had only left Ayresford this morning. Make yourself quite easy, -dearest.” - -She followed him through the gate, along the platform where the Harwich -train stood waiting. - -“You take a great weight off my mind,” she said earnestly. “I have felt -it was wicked and selfish of me to leave him.” - -“My poor child,” said Roderick, tenderly. - -The guard hurried up and unlocked the door of the reserved carriage. The -porter, who had followed them, stowed Ella's hand-baggage and wraps in -the rack. Ella entered and took her seat, while Roderick hastened away -to see to the registration of her heavy luggage. Tears of a great relief -filled her eyes. However much she hated Sylvester, she knew that he -would not have spoken lightly to any one of his father's illness; nor -would he have left his father's bedside if anything serious were the -matter with the old man. Roderick's confident report reassured her. -She felt almost happy. If only her head were not aching, and a strange -heaviness were lifted off her heart! - -Presently Roderick returned, took the seat opposite, and closed the -door. His face had lost the haggardness that had troubled her during the -past week and wore an aspect of conquering pride. He had looked thus in -the few golden moments when she had cared for him most. His bright air -of confidence gave her strength. Her pulses quickened a little. He was -worthy of her blind trust. The instinct of the woman to satisfy herself -that the plank on which she walks is the solid earth brought swift -apotheosis of the man. She was humble, little, of no account; he was -strong and great, with the artist's noble grip upon life. And he loved -her passionately. She leaned forward, touched his arm, and with the -first smile for many hours she asked him whether he was content. He -vowed his utter happiness. - -“You will never have cause to regret this step to the day of your -death,” he said fervently. - -At that moment the face of a man appeared at the window, and Roderick -threw himself back with a stifled exclamation. - -“Sylvester!” cried Ella, involuntarily. - -Sylvester looked from one to the other in silence. - -“I did not expect to see you here, Miss Defries,” he said at last. - -Ella drew herself up haughtily. “I am the sole mistress of my actions,” - she said. “What I choose to do is not your concern, Dr. Lanyon.” For -the moment indignation checked natural wonder at his presence. Sylvester -regarded her sternly. His dark face seemed chiselled out of wood. - -“Unfortunately, it is of vital concern to me,” he replied. “But I -apologise a thousand times for interrupting you.” He turned to Roderick, -over whose face a pallor was spreading. “A friend of mine would like to -speak to you for a few moments.” - -“I am sorry I am not at his disposal,” returned Roderick, with a forced -laugh. - -“You would hardly care to discuss the matter with him here,” said -Sylvester. - -Roderick consulted his watch. The spark of hope died out. There were -still ten minutes before the train would start. - -“Remember our compact,” said he. “You guaranteed I should be annoyed no -further. This is a breach of faith.” - -Ella leaned before the window, obscuring Roderick from the other's view. - -“How dare you intrude in this unwarrantable manner?” - -“Miss Defries,” said Sylvester, coldly, “please do not interfere in the -very grave affairs of men.” - -She sank back in her corner, cut to the quick by the rebuke, and -quivering with baffled indignation. Sylvester again addressed Roderick. - -“Your presence here with Miss Defries is a breach of faith, and renders -our compact void. Once more, for Miss Defries's sake, I beg that you -will come on to the platform and discuss the matter with my friend.” - -He opened the door. Roderick got out of the carriage and went a few -paces along the platform with Sylvester. A decently dressed man took off -his hat as they approached him. - -“This is a police officer,” said Sylvester, quietly. “He has a warrant -for your arrest. You were wrong in thinking me such a fool as to trust -you. My object in coming here was to make certain that you had left by -this train. If you had not, the police would have been on your track -immediately. If you had been leaving alone, I should have told the -officer you were not here, and you would have gone scot free, and the -matter would have been hushed up. As it is, you have played me false, -prevailed by some devilish lie upon Miss Defries to elope with you; and, -by God! I'll have no pity on you. Mr. Wigram, this is the gentleman I -was speaking of.” - -The police officer, on being summoned, drew near, and again touching his -hat stated his errand with due formality and explained that he had no -wish to create any unpleasantness in a public place, and that if Mr. -Usher would walk quietly by his side to the cab rank, they could drive -away unnoticed. A little knot of people saying farewell to friends by an -open carriage door, and one or two hurrying passengers, eyed Roderick's -ghastly face with some curiosity. The guard of the train bustled up. - -“Now, sir, perhaps you had better take your seat.” - -“I am prevented, at the last moment, from travelling with you,” said -Roderick, with bitter cynicism. - -The guard saluted and passed on. Roderick's eyes followed him and rested -on Ella looking anxiously from the carriage window. He turned away with -a sob. - -“Come on, if I must go,” he said hoarsely; “you will pay for this -outrageous blunder, Dr. Lanyon.” - -He walked away defiantly with the police officer, and Sylvester went -up to Ella. The guard was just fitting the key in the door to lock it. -Sylvester laid a detaining touch upon his arm. - -“The lady is getting out.” - -The door was thrown open. Sylvester took Ella's travelling-bag from the -rack. - -“Your companion is not going abroad this evening,” said he, pausing -with the bag on the seat. “And it will be scarcely worth your while -to go to Amsterdam alone.” - -The girl's white, questioning face made him relent for a moment. - -“Forgive me,” he said more kindly. “But what has happened was -inevitable. I have only saved you from the hands of a scoundrel.” - -“How dare you call him that?” she whispered with trembling lips. - -He did not reply, but handed the bag and wraps to a porter whom he -summoned, and descending from the carriage stood in readiness to assist -Ella to the platform. She obeyed his sign involuntarily, but as soon as -she stood opposite him, she turned upon him with flashing anger. - -“Now tell me at once what all this means,” she said in a low, -concentrated tone. “I am not a child to have things hidden from me. I -have lived too many hours to-day in darkness. What does it mean? Why -are you here, coming between me and the man I am to marry? Where has -Roderick gone? Tell me. I must know.” - -“I should like to spare you the knowledge,--at all events, for the -present.” - -He made a motion of his hand to indicate the public place. His glance -fell upon the porter standing expectant with the bag. Giving the man a -shilling, he bade him take the things to a cab and await him there. Then -he turned to Ella. - -“Perhaps we might find a more suitable place.” he added. But Ella -stamped her foot impatiently. - -“No. Here, at once! What is this mystery? Where has Roderick gone?” - -The guard's whistle blew, the engine shrieked, there was a flutter back -of loungers from the carriage doors, and the train steamed out of the -station, carrying neither Roderick nor his fortunes, carrying only, with -the grotesque irony that accompanies most of the tragic issues of life, -the registered luggage of Ella and himself. - -Sylvester waited until the commotion had subsided. Then he spoke in his -cold, unemotional way,-- - -“He has been arrested by the police for forgery, at my instance.” - -The girl's eye closed for a few tremulous seconds, and reeling she put -her hand to her heart; but she waved Sylvester away when he came forward -to prevent her from falling. - -“I am not going to faint--I said so before today--it is a hideous -lie--he is shielding some one else--he told me it was another's secret. -It is some horrible revenge of yours--you always hated him. An honorable -gentleman to do such a thing--it is ridiculous, inconceivable! It is -you that have trapped him.” - -The lowered tones in which the girl spoke contrasted strangely with the -shrieking hubbub of the glaring station. Through her veil he could see -her features distorted with anger. He waited until she had ended her -invective. - -“He forged my father's name to a cheque for three thousand pounds,” he -said with cutting distinctness. “The shock of discovery yesterday has -brought my father to the point of death.” - -Ella swung her head contemptuously. - -“You told Roderick yourself to-day that Uncle Matthew had only a slight -cold.” - -“The lying devil!” cried Sylvester, with one of his rare blazes of -anger. “Read that.” - -He drew a telegram from his pocket, and handed it to her. - - “_Mr. Lanyons condition critical. May not live through - night. For God's sake come back at once and bring Miss - Defries with you. Simmons_ - -She returned it without a word, and stood with both hands pressed -closely to her temples, in an awful convulsion of soul. Roderick's lie -blazed before her eyes in letters of fire. It was blazoned upon the -walls of the station. It reddened the pale glare of the electric light. -It was a magnesium flame illuminating the innermost darkness of the -man's heart. Roderick's mystery was a mystery no longer. - -“Let us go,” she said at last faintly. - -They walked silently, side by side, to the end of the platform. There -was the same eternal scurrying of eager feet. A train had just arrived -at another platform, and the crowd of passengers were streaming through -the gate on to the open space. Nothing in the outer world had changed -during the past hour. But Ella was filled with a vague wonder that -universal chaos did not prevail around her. She followed Sylvester in a -state of dream, to be aroused to practical effort by his voice. - -“This is your cab. Where would you care to be driven to?” - -She collected her faculties. Pride rose in arms against betrayal of -weakness. - -“I suppose there is no train to Ayresford to-night?” she asked steadily. - -“Yes. The ten o'clock. A fast train. I am going down by it.” - -“You would have no objection to my accompanying you?” - -“That my father needs you is enough for me to entreat you to come.” - -“Very well. I shall drive to Waterloo and wait there until the train -starts.” - -“And I in the mean time must do some necessary business.” - -He gave the direction to the driver and the cab drove off. He hailed -another and was carried rapidly westward. - -When the time came for taking her seat at Waterloo in the Ayresford -train, she mechanically followed a porter to an empty first-class -carriage and sat down in a further corner, broken with trouble. She -was only awakened to a sense of surroundings by the door being thrown -violently open as soon as the train began to move, and a man whom she -recognised as Sylvester leaping into the compartment. He sat for a -moment breathless, then moved up the seat. - -“I did not mean to intrude on you,” he said, when he had recovered; “but -I nearly missed the train, and this was the first carriage to hand.” - -She looked out of the window into the whirling darkness. - -“It does not matter,” she murmured. - -“Nothing much matters now.” - -Sylvester lay back in his corner with an air of utter fatigue, and -closed his eyes. They travelled thus in silence for a long time. To Ella -the world seemed to have come to a disgraceful end. The dying state of -the old man to whom she was hurrying was in keeping with the general -finality of things. She suffered a horrible humiliation too deep for -coherent thought. Gradually, however, the sight of Sylvester opposite, -cold and stern, acted upon her like an irritant. At one moment she was -seized with an hysterical impulse to scream. She mastered it, fighting -with scornful violence. Resentment began to burn within her, first dull, -then increasing in intensity to fierceness. The flame fed a smouldering -horror scarcely as yet realised. Roderick was in a police cell that -night. He would be tried on a disgraceful charge. The result would be -imprisonment. Clearer and clearer grew the significance of the term. As -a woman in touch with the thinking world, she had interested herself in -contemporary social problems. Our prison system had been among those -in which she had played the pretty part of amateur reformer. As the -Honorary Secretary of a society which had rapidly burned itself out -with excessive zeal, she had learned many of the hateful facts. For a -fortnight the fate of the tenderly nurtured gentleman condemned to the -unutterable torture of imprisonment had been a nightmare. Her aunt had -rediscovered a teacher of music, once a well-known singer, now voiceless -through illness, Yvonne Latour, who had married a man called Joyce, -a cultivated gentleman who deservedly had passed through the wintry -sorrows of the gaol, and Yvonne had told her what they meant. Her own -troubles, the Walden Art Colony, her relations with Roderick, had put -the subject out of her mind; but now the recollection of these things -grew more vivid every moment. Her own benumbing sense of humiliation -was lost in the new shudder. Liar she knew Roderick to be; that he was -a forger, reason forbade her to doubt. Yet by her yielding to his kisses -that day, she had given him, as it were, some share of her flesh, and -her own flesh quivered at the contaminating touch of the gaol. - -The train thundered on. The windows of the carriage were opaque with -steam. Opposite sat Sylvester like a sphinx, his cap drawn over his -eyes, so that she could not see whether they were open or shut. Suddenly -the brake grated and the wheels dragged beneath the carriage, and -the train stopped with a jerk at a little, vaguely lighted station. -Sylvester looked up mechanically and found the girl's eyes, deep and -dark behind her veil, fixed upon him. She felt impelled to speak, yet -altered her appeal at the instant the prearranged words were about to -leave her lips. Instinctively she sought to wound him. - -“If Uncle Matthew is dying, how could you leave his side? I thought you -at least loved him.” - -He stared at her for a moment without replying. It seemed incredible -that any one should not perceive his torture of anxiety. He forgot the -iron will whereby he had kept it hidden. To sit idly hour after hour, -as he had done that day, poignantly conscious of every train that might -have taken him to that one spot on the earth whither every fibre of his -being was drawn, to disregard the piteous appeals made to him from -time to time, to come and comfort the dying man whom he loved so -passionately, had been an effort of almost superhuman strength. The -inability of his questioner to realise his suffering bewildered him. At -that instant of time it was his whole existence. - -“A man's duty is above love or death,” he said coldly, after a pause. -“I can't discuss it with you, for you would not understand. At least, I -have served him in delivering you.” - -She gripped the arms of the seat and for a while said nothing. Then as -the train moved on, she spoke somewhat huskily, forcing herself to her -point. - -“Are you going to carry out your intentions--as regards--_him?_” - -“Certainly.” - -“Has he not been punished enough already?” - -“I don't understand you,” said Sylvester. “He has broken the law. He has -murdered my father. What punishment has he had yet? He shall have his -deserts,--whatever term of penal servitude the judge thinks fit to give -him.” - -“For God's sake have mercy, Sylvester!” cried the girl, leaning forward -in her seat, so that her voice should reach him above the rhythmic -clatter and the creaking of the train. “If that happened to him, it -would kill me. The awful horror of it,--have you thought?” - -“I have been trained for years to think deeply before acting, even in -trivial matters,” he replied. - -“Heaven knows what awful temptation he may have had,” said Ella. - -“A man who cannot resist temptation is better out of the world.” - -Ella's eyes flashed. The encounter braced her nerves. “Have you always -resisted temptation?” she cried in sharp scorn. - -“I have lived my life a stainless and an upright man,” he replied -sternly. - -“So did Christ; but he had pity.” - -“I am not Christ. I am mortal, and have my limitations. Listen. This man -admitted his forgery. Out of regard for you, I was weak enough to -allow him a chance of escape, on certain definite conditions. These -he violated, like the scoundrel he is. To let him loose now on society -would be a crime on my part.” - -“To pardon the man who has wronged you would be the higher action,” said -Ella. - -“It would be mere weakness,” replied Sylvester. - -Ella threw out her hands in a gesture of despair, and flung herself back -against the cushions. Then suddenly she bent forward again, and laid a -hand upon his knee. - -“For my sake, Sylvester! To save me from the shame and disgrace of it. -To save me from the endless horror of what he will be suffering. My God! -Do you think that he was nothing to me? That a man can be snatched from -a woman's life to degradation without her feeling it? Do you think I -am bloodless marble like you? Oh, I could not live with the thought of -it.... It is not that I love him still. I hope never to see his face -again. God knows whether I ever really loved him. But if this happens -I could not live. I could not live, I tell you! You cannot do it. You -shall not do it. You owe me a reparation--yes, you,” she continued -passionately. “You said just now you had lived a stainless and upright -life. It is a lie. It is not an upright thing to win a girl's love and -then cast it aside.” - -“Stop, Ella,” interrupted Sylvester; “you are talking of things you do -not understand.” - -“I not understand? Does the man who is lashed not understand the pain? -You made me love you two years ago. I gave you my heart, a young girl's -heart, fresh and whole. You kissed me. You said in looks and all but -spoken words that you were going to ask me to be your wife. For a whole -day I lived like a tremulous fool waiting for you. You never came. You -never spoke again. I put away my woman's pride and offered myself--that -evening. You rejected me with cold cynicism. You wronged me cruelly. You -owe me reparation. Give it to me now,--this man's freedom. I claim it as -a right from you.” - -She was reckless in her self-revelation. Words came now too readily. She -continued. What she said, she did not remember afterwards. Only that she -had sunk on her knees before him, pleading passionately for Roderick, -and that he had remained unmoved. - -But as she knelt there, clutching his clothes, she looked exceedingly -beautiful. With an impatient gesture she had thrust up her veil, and the -sight of her young, noble face lit with terrible earnestness was a shock -of strange temptation to the man. She pleaded for Roderick. A spasm of -disgust, similar to that which had shaken him a month or two back when -he had seen her yield to Roderick's caress, passed through him and held -him speechless. - -Another stoppage of the train broke the situation. Ella shrank back -into the corner of her seat. Sylvester rose and crossing to the further -window opened it, and looked out upon the platform. As soon as they -moved on, he drew up the glass again and turned to her, his heart -hardened tenfold. - -“I did all that was possible,” he said. “I thought I cared for you. I -found to my regret you were utterly indifferent to me. To have asked you -to marry me would have been impossible.” - -“Oh, for Heaven's sake say no more!” cried the girl, shrinking. - -“Perhaps it is best,” replied Sylvester. “My determination is absolute.” - -And so they sat silent, facing each other, as the train carried them -onwards through the darkness. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX--THE SWORD FALLS - -“Oh, Syl, I can't tell you how glad I am that you are back. And Ella -too--with that hateful marriage broken off. I don't quite understand how -it is. He backed out at the last moment, didn't he? But my poor head has -been in such a whirl all day that I don't seem to understand anything. -Dr. Simmons is very kind and clever, but he's not like you, Syl. Your -coming gives me hope. Oh, you mustn't let him die, Syl, dear.” - -Miss Lanyon put her hands on Sylvester's shoulders and began to cry -softly. He put his arm kindly round her, and tried to comfort her. - -“I've been crying all day, I think,” she continued. The poor lady's eyes -were red; her grizzling hair, usually so neat, was disarranged; she -wore an old red dressing-gown with great white buttons, within which her -fragile figure seemed to be lost. The dining-room fire was nearly out, -and only one gas-jet was alight. The two were sitting up, neither able -to go to bed and sleep. Ella had retired to her room almost immediately -after her arrival, having learned that the old man was unconscious. - -“He rallied so to-day,” said Miss Lanyon, drying her tears, “I thought -the poor dear had suddenly recovered. He spoke quite sensibly, though he -was so weak, and, oh, he wanted you so badly, Syl. And then Lady Milmo's -telegram came about the wedding, and I gave it him to read. No, you -mustn't scold me any more about it. I thought he would be so pleased. -Then he asked where you had gone, and when you were coming back, quite -in his old quiet way, and called for writing materials, and he wrote -something with great, great difficulty, and made nurse and me witness -his signature. It must have been to do with his will, I think. He had -just time to put it in an envelope when he fainted away. He revived -afterwards, and then he began to moan for you and Ella to come to him. -He didn't like the nurse; the strange face troubled him, poor darling. -He only wanted Ella and you. And now you have come and seen him, what do -you really think, Syl, dear? If it is the worst, tell me, for I am not -afraid to hear it.” - -She drew herself up with a flash of family resemblance to her brother, -which the physician's quick eye noticed. He replied frankly. The old -man was in a natural sleep,--a hopeful sign. His recovery would probably -depend upon his power of resistance. Lytton, the great specialist, was -coming down to-morrow, and they might expect his verdict to be final. - -They talked long together in the cold, dimly lit room. Miss Lanyon -repeated her story, with fresh details added here and there, told of -the kindness of Simmons, the numberless inquiries from the townspeople, -broke off to recall little instances of her brother's goodness. Only -to-day, during his short spell of consciousness, he had asked whether -Sylvester had made the arrangement for the Jenkins' three children to -board with the Jellicoes. At this announcement Sylvester brought his -hand down hard upon the table. \ - -“What a brute I am!” he exclaimed! “I forgot all about it! And he -remembered! What did you tell him?” - -“I said that you no doubt were seeing to the matter,” replied Miss -Lanyon. - -Sylvester sat on the corner of the table and stared in front of him, -his mind full of the father the latchet of whose shoes he felt himself -unworthy to loosen, and tears came into his eyes. The incident touched -him deeply. This tender thoughtfulness for little things in the midst -of events great enough to absorb the attention of a strong man seemed a -keynote of his father's nature. - -“He is the one perfect man of his generation,” said Sylvester. - -A while later he induced Miss Lanyon to go to bed, and went upstairs to -relieve the nurse by his father's side. And for some hours he watched -the beloved face, placid and wan in the dim light. Skilled physician -though he was, he alternated between hope and fear. A world without his -father was unimaginable. His life was barren enough already. His father -was the only being left that could satisfy the dumb craving for human -sympathy that gnawed continually at his vitals. The prospect of his -grim loneliness appalled him. Again he looked intently into the sleeping -face. The muscles all relaxed, it appeared unutterably careworn,--the -face of a man many years older. To the son seemed as if the last two -days had brought the havoc; he cursed Roderick in his heart. - -Only once before had he felt the same murderous hatred of a man. Then he -was watching, even as he was doing now, by a man's bedside. The memory -recurred, intensely vivid. He set his teeth as he lived over again those -hours of agony and strife. Unconsciously he drew up his indictment of -humanity for the wrongs it had inflicted on him. Friendship was naught. -Had not his dearest friend stabbed him in the dark? Woman was inherently -false and corrupt. His own wife, who had lain in his arms, had betrayed -him, and she had smiled, smiled to the hour of her death. To have -children was a curse. How did he know that alien blood did not run in -Dorothy's veins? Woman's love, what was it? To-night Ella had confessed -her love for him. It had not stopped her from throwing herself into the -embraces of a satyr. The brute nature of humanity! He himself had not -been safeguarded from spasms of jealousy. Fiercely he attributed them to -the lower instincts. He forgot how at times in his sombre house he -had let his pen slip from his fingers and had ached for the touch of -a woman's hand and the sound of a child's laughter; how a girl's fresh -face, perilously like Ella's, had quivered before his vision, and how -the grip of cold iron had suddenly fastened round his heart, and he had -resumed his work, hard and scornful. These things that had come to him -were remote from the flesh; but he forgot them. In his hour of dark -misanthropy he ranked her sex and his own temptation at their lowest. -For her humiliation he had no pity. Like other women, she had rolled -in the mire; smirching was the natural consequence. For Roderick he had -hatred, unmitigated by any pleasant memory of old acquaintance. But he -remembered his father's many kindnesses to Roderick, and the man's crime -was further blackened by ingratitude. - -Nor did he pity the father of the son thus disgraced. The ignoble, mean -old man who had always been the object of his scorn had brought his -punishment upon himself; for had he not neglected the elementary -responsibilities of parentage? There could be no pity for a father of -whom the son spoke openly with cynical contempt. Sylvester's eyes fell -upon his own father's face, and the contrast brought a tumultuous rush -of feeling. And from the wall opposite, his mother smiled down upon him -through the gloom. She was gone,--the one pure, divine woman the earth -had held. The one perfect man lay there, still living. He must not die. -Sylvester shook with a great terror. His father was as needful as the -sun in a foul and dismal world. These two were remote as stars from the -rest of humanity. Through them passed his faith in God. - -But his faith in man was gone. On this night of vigil, after his day of -self-repression and stern meting out of justice, was the culmination of -all the disillusion and the bitterness of his life. Towards the three -human beings upon whom he was bringing crushing disgrace his heart was -cold granite. And the old man with the kindly, careworn face slept on -and on by his side. - -At the first streaks of the winter dawn the door opened, and Ella, -simply dressed for the day, entered the room. Sylvester rose with a -frown and advanced to meet her. - -“I must take my turn,” she whispered. - -“There is no necessity,” he returned. - -“I have passed through great trouble,” she said, looking at him with -eyes pathetically bright through want of sleep, “and it would be mere -human kindness to let me sit here for a little alone. And you must take -some rest.” - -“I thank you for your consideration,” he replied ironically, ignoring -her appeal, “but I am not in need of rest.” He held the door open for -her to pass out, but she stood her ground. - -“You are hard, but you claim to be just. Uncle Matthew sent for me. Aunt -Agatha has told you. I have some right to be here. Besides, it would -hurt him to know that you refused to let me be with him.” - -“If you put it that way, I must admit your claim,” he said coldly. “If -you will come into the passage, I will give you some directions in view -of contingencies.” - -She assented, and they went out together. At the end of the passage a -housemaid passed wraithlike on her way to the kitchen. The crack of the -stairs beneath her tread sounded sharp in the unbroken silence of the -house. - -“Thank you, I will not forget,” said Ella, when he had ended his -instructions. She disappeared into the sick chamber; and Sylvester, -going to his own room, threw himself in his clothes upon the bed, and -wrapped in a rug fell, through force of habit and through fatigue, into -a heavy sleep. - -A couple of hours afterwards he was awakened. Mr. Usher urgently -requested to speak with him. Sylvester rose, shook the sleep from his -eyes, and faced the grim contingencies of another day. He was prepared -for this interview with the father, had steeled himself against whining -entreaties and appeals to old comradeship. But to see him was an act of -common decency, however unpleasant and however fruitless. He sponged -his face with ice-cold water and went downstairs to the dining-room. Mr. -Usher was sitting on the edge of an armchair, warming his plump hands -before the fire. He rose as Sylvester entered, and, putting his hands -behind his back, regarded him with eyes more than ever expressionless -and red-rimmed. - -“I had a telegram from my poor boy last night,” he announced in his -slow, pedantic way. “I could not come round last night. I have been -suffering again lately from my bronchial tubes. My doctor tells me the -night air in winter is dangerous for me. I was a prisoner.” - -“Your health is valuable to you, no doubt,” said Sylvester, -sarcastically. - -“I live for my son,” replied Usher, sitting down again in the armchair. -“If I ran risks now and contracted illness, who would stand by my son in -his hour of need? Prudence has been the guiding principle of my life. I -have profited by it.” - -He wagged his head and looked into the fire. Sylvester turned one of the -straight-backed chairs and sat down, his elbow on the table. - -“Perhaps you will state your business, Mr. Usher,” he said. “My time, -like your health, is valuable.” - -“All in good time,” replied Usher; “nothing good comes of hurrying. -I never hurry.” He rubbed his palms together meditatively, like some -colossal and flabby fly. Then he continued deliberately: “I learn from -Roderick that he has been arrested for forging your father's name to a -cheque.” - -“For £3,000,” said Sylvester. - -“Yes. It is a great sum of money. But your father gave it to him as a -wedding present. Your father is a generous man.” - -“Your son confessed to me that he forged it.” - -“Well, perhaps he did,” assented Usher. “Perhaps he did.” - -In spite of his contempt for the old man and his pitilessness towards -Roderick, he gazed upon his interlocutor with some wonder. Not a shaft -of dismay at the disgrace hanging over his son's head seemed to have -penetrated the brass-armoured egotism of this placid, unvenerable man. -Sylvester waited contemptuously for him to speak. - -“You are preferring the charge against him this morning?” asked Usher. - -“I have instructed my solicitor to do so.” - -“There is still time to telegraph to your solicitor to withdraw it.” - -“I have no such intentions.” - -“I cannot let you proceed. I have the feelings of a father.” - -Sylvester rose, and thrusting his hands in his pockets, stood on the -hearth-rug facing Mr. Usher. - -“It is no doubt a painful matter to you,” said he, with cold politeness, -“but my intentions are unalterable. I will prosecute him right through. -Nothing you can possibly say will have the slightest effect on my -determination.” - -Then the old man seemed to hug his stout body with his arms, and for -the first time a gleam came into his pale eyes and he chuckled softly -to himself. At the unexpected sound Sylvester started. Such symptoms -pointed to senility. But suddenly the old man turned to him with a quick -snarl, in startling contrast with his deliberate manner,-- - -“I suppose you are not aware, you young fool, that you will be sending -your own brother to gaol.” - -He bent forward, gripping the arms of the chair, fixing Sylvester with -an inscrutable gaze, his lips beneath the scrubby white moustache parted -and showing his yellow stumps of teeth. - -“Your brother. Don't you understand?” - -“What idiocy are you talking?” exclaimed Sylvester, in angry impatience. - -“I am talking the truth, my young friend. I am a truthful man,” replied -Usher, with mocking resumption of his usual habit of speech. “Roderick -is your own dear brother.” - -“You accuse my father of having an illegitimate son?” - -“Oh, no. Roderick is quite legitimate. He is my son. At least, I quite -believed your poor mother.” - -“My mother--what the devil are you talking about?” cried Sylvester, -fiercely. “What has my mother got to do with it?” - -“Roderick is her son, my dear Sylvester. Hers and mine. She was my -wife.” - -Sylvester glared at him for a moment, and then, the preposterous -absurdity of the story dawning upon him, he broke into a contemptuous -laugh and turned away. The man was mad. - -“I think it time we parted,” said Sylvester. Ushers face expressed -pained surprise. - -“You do not believe me?” - -Then as Sylvester did not reply otherwise than by a shrug, he drew -a mass of papers from his breast-pocket and selected therefrom a -photograph, old and discoloured, of a man and woman posed in the angular -attitudes of the photographer's art in the late fifties, and clad in the -uncouth attire of those days. The woman had a baby upon her lap. - -“Your mother and brother and I,” said Mr. Usher. “I was a handsome young -man. I had fine black whiskers.” - -Sylvester received the picture, looked at it, and a spasm of horrible -disgust shook his frame. The young woman was his mother--unmistakably. - -“She was my dear wife,” said Usher. - -“And you played the brute beast, I suppose, until she divorced you. And -then she married my father. I see,” said Sylvester, grimly. - -But Usher raised his hand in deprecation. “On the contrary,” said he, -“we were never divorced. When I said your father had no illegitimate -children, I was wrong. You are an illegitimate child.” - -Sylvester flung the photograph with a furious gesture into the fire. The -old man darted forward to rescue it, but Sylvester roughly pushed him -back into his chair, and stood over him trembling with anger. Behind him -the photograph curled and flamed. - -“What devilish story are you telling me? Let me have it at once, all of -it,” cried Sylvester. - -There was a slight pause. Usher passed the tip of his tongue over his -lips, and again he hugged himself in his armchair. - -“I have been waiting to tell you this for thirty years. For your dear -father's sake I have held my peace. I am a peaceful man. But I could -not let you send your own brother to prison, your dear mother's son. -Fraternal love is a wondrous thing.” - -“Come to the point and tell me, or I may not be responsible for what I -do,” said Sylvester, in husky menace. - -The swelling triumph of his long-deferred vengeance had not quite -overmastered a craven spirit. A glance out of the corner of his eye -assured Usher of Sylvester's desperation. The sight was an unholy -mingling of delight and fear. He rubbed his soft palms together and -wagged his head. - -“It is a sad story. I blame my wife. She acted wrongly. We lived in -Australia on a little farm. I am fond of rural pursuits. Ayresford -is rural. That is why I came here. We were married and happy with our -little child. We called him Roderick. It is a family name, but perhaps -that would not interest you. He was three years old when your father -came to these parts. Ah! he was a dashing young fellow then. He is not -dashing now. Poor Matthew!” - -“Damn you!” said Sylvester. - -“Ah! that is what your father has often said. You are like your father. -Well, to shorten a long story, he fell in love with my wife, and she -with him, and she ran away with him to England, leaving me alone with -our poor little boy Roderick. Here are proofs.” He patted the sheaf of -papers on his lap and signed to Sylvester to read them; but Sylvester -motioned a negative. He was convinced. His anger had subsided into he -knew not what state of reeling horror. Yet through it all Usher himself -was revealed to him, and he regarded him as something obscene. - -“And you have received money from my father all this time as the price -of silence.” - -“I was poor, and I forgave mine enemy. I am a forgiving man. It is my -way. When your dear mother died I came here and lived near him, to show -that I forgave him.” - -“Like father, like son,” said Sylvester,--“a blackmailer and a forger. -Oh, my God!” He turned away and stood with bowed head, staring at the -carpet, his hands clenched. Without moving he said hoarsely,-- - -“Go. We have nothing more to say to each other.” - -“You see you can't let your dear brother go to a felon's doom--and your -legitimate brother, too, my dear Sylvester,” said Usher, smacking his -lips at each word. Then he rose and buttoned his frock-coat and went out -of the room, chuckling quietly. - -Presently Sylvester roused himself with a great shuddering sigh. - -“Oh, God!” he said, and moved a step or two towards the fire. - -There was a knock at the door and a servant entered, bearing a letter on -a tray. - -“Miss Lanyon said I was to give you this at once, sir.” - -He took it, found the envelope was addressed to himself in his father's -handwriting. He did not notice that the ink on the envelope was wet, nor -that the enclosure had been written some time previously. - -“I, Matthew Lanyon,” it ran, “of Woodlands, Ayresford, hereby declare -that I drew a cheque for £3,000, dated the 10th December, 189-, in -favour of Roderick Charles Usher, Esq., of 13 Queen's Park Mansions, -London, S. W.” The document was signed by him, and the signature was -witnessed by Agatha Lanyon and Mary Evans, the nurse. - -Like a man in a dream, Sylvester crossed to a little desk by the window, -that once had been his mother's, and wrote out a telegram; then a letter -with which he enclosed his father's statement. Both he addressed to his -solicitor. The gardener was summoned and despatched to the post-office. -When he had gone, Sylvester was scarcely conscious of his action. -Roderick's fate was of small account compared with the doom that had -fallen upon himself. - -But an hour afterwards Roderick was driving through the London streets, -a free man. - - - - -CHAPTER XX--“OH, WHITE DOVE OF THE PITY DIVINE” - -But a few minutes had passed since Usher's departure; yet to Sylvester -they represented a great chasm of time,--a living self on the one -side, a dead self on the other. He walked aimlessly about the room in a -curious apathy. That which had been vital to him, his love and reverence -for those two,--father and mother,--had been plucked away from him, and -it seemed merely some reflex action that maintained organic existence. - -On the wall facing the fireplace were two companion water-colour -portraits in old-fashioned oval frames. He paused before them and looked -dully from one to the other. These had been his sacred images in the -house, the ikons of his gods. His mother smiled down upon him. Her -hair, banded obliquely on either side over her forehead, gave an idea -of Madonna-like purity to the delicate contours of her face. That of -Botticelli's fair girl-mother betrayed less a soul at war with itself. -And it was not the artist's contemporaneous delight in investing -feminine portraiture with angelic sentimentality that was at fault. The -son remembered her thus in the flesh, though older,--a rare, flower-like -woman, with hands that, when they touched him as a boy, seemed holy. -She was dead. That other, the young man bright and strong, looking -unflinchingly at the world over his absurd black neckcloth, was now an -old man, dying. And all that they left was a heritage of shame. - -Their lives had been a hollow, hideous lie,--the lives of his gods. _A -fortiori_, the lives of common mortality were false. He seemed to stand -apart from the world, dispassionately regarding a race corrupt to its -core, and shrinking from the step that would bring him again into its -midst. Without Phariseeism he appeared to be the one clean man in a miry -universe; the sense whereof brought with it something of the appalling. -Whither should he turn without rubbing against contamination? - -He moved away from the pictures and looked about the room. The familiar, -old-fashioned furniture, which the old man loved to keep in memory of -her who was once queen of the little space, seemed tainted with the -unutterable. He became aware of a physical feeling of nausea. The room -reeked. He flung open one of the French windows with an instinctive -craving for a breath of the cold December air that was blown across the -dripping lawn. - -He brushed aside his hair, and tried to think. He stood as a judge; that -he realised. Those two were brought before the bar, accused of the -sin that his organic temperament pronounced unforgivable. The pleas -in extenuation would be weakness and folly; and weakness and folly he -despised. He was called upon to pass sentence for the shame of which -he himself was the child; and in passing it on the sinful pair he was -condemning himself to a living death. The man did not see that he had -been working all his life towards this doom. - -The slamming of the door behind him caused him to turn round with -a start. His Aunt Agatha came towards him, wrapping a woollen shawl -tightly around her lean shoulders. - -“Oh, how can you have the windows open on a day like this?” she asked -shivering. - -He closed the window in silence and looked at her inquiringly. - -“Your father has been awake a long time, dear, and is asking so for you.” - -“A long time?” he echoed. - -“Yes; before Mr. Usher came. Didn't you know? He addressed the envelope -of the letter he sent down to you. Didn't you get it?” - -“Yes. I got it,” said Sylvester. - -“What's the matter with you, Syl? Aren't you going to him?” - -“Oh, of course,” he replied. “Of course--yes.” - -He went out slowly and mounted the stairs with limbs as heavy as lead. -He turned the handle of his father's door and entered. The kind grey -eyes of the old man, propped on his pillows, met him as he crossed the -threshold, and a smile flickered over the wan lips. - -“I was afraid you had forgotten me,” whispered the old man, feebly -holding out his hand, which his son pressed in silence. - -Ella was standing in the light of the window, medicine bottle and glass -in hand. Until the liquid was poured out, she paid no attention to -Sylvester. Then she came to the bedside and looked across at him -somewhat defiantly before handing the glass to his father. - -“What is the use of this solemn little comedy?” said the latter, -whimsically, his voice, a whispered echo of the cheeriness of days past. -“It won't make me any better. Simmons knows it and you know it and I -know it. All the king's horses and all the king's men! And Humpty Dumpty -doesn't want to be set up again. He's been on his wall long enough.” - -He drank the draught, however, making a wry face. Ella bent over to wipe -his lips, but he motioned her away with characteristic independence. - -“I can do that for myself. I can't do much, but I can do that. You don't -know how she bullies me, Syl.” - -“Uncle Matthew wouldn't have the nurse when she came to relieve me,” - explained Ella. - -“I want those I love best by me, as now, eh, Syl?” said the old man. - -Sylvester did not answer, but stood by the bedside dumb, vainly seeking -some formula of speech whereby to simulate emotion. Ella set the -wine-glass on the table and smoothed the pillows and counterpane, then -lingered by the sick man, looking down upon him with a puckering of the -brow, as a woman will, counting over the little tale of duties specified -by the forth-driven nurse, so as to make certain of no omission. But her -presence there filled Sylvester with dull resentment. - -“My father has something particular to say to me,” he said stiffly. “Do -you mind?” - -“I was on the point of going,” she replied, somewhat surprised at -feeling hurt by his tone, for she had thought that the successive -emotional shocks of the past four and twenty hours had killed all -feeling within her for ever. Recovering herself, she bent over the old -man, kissed him, and crossed to the door. Sylvester met her there and -accompanied her into the passage and closed the door behind him. - -“How much does my father know of Roderick Usher's affairs?” - -She looked at him bravely enough. - -“Nothing. I believe he guesses. I have told him he was summoned abroad -suddenly.” She moved away. - -“Stop,” said he. “There is something else.” She drew a step nearer. “I -can't bear much more,” she said quietly. - -“It may relieve your mind to know that I have withdrawn the charge -entirely. He is perfectly free.” - -She stared at him for a moment, then grew deadly white and fainted. The -girl's overtaxed strength had given way at last. Sylvester caught her -in his arms and prepared to carry her to her room not far off along the -passage; but at that moment Miss Agatha Lanyon with Simmons turned the -corner, and he gave Ella into their charge. - -“I'm staying with my father,” he said to Simmons. “Come in later.” - -On the other side of his father's door he forgot the recent scene. Of -what importance was a girl's fainting compared with the death hovering -in this chamber and the death enthroned in his heart? He approached the -bed. Matthew looked up at him wistfully. - -“You can't expect me to live for ever, you know. I really have had -enough of it, so don't fret.” - -A thrush fluttered against the window for a moment. Matthew started. - -“What was that?” - -“Only a bird beating against the pane, attracted by the fire, perhaps.” - -“We do that all our lives long. The invisible barrier. Oh, it's time to -go, Syl, when a man begins to moralise. The moral always comes at the -end of the story. Sit down on the bed, my son. I want to talk to you.” - Sylvester obeyed. An expression of pain crossed his face. The old man's -undismayed serenity moved his admiration. He would have given worlds to -have uttered the cry of grief and love that would have been possible an -hour ago. - -“You are a brave man, father,” he forced himself to say. - -“No; a coward. A pitiable old coward. You received my letter this -morning?” - -“Yes. It is all right.” - -“You found a cheque yesterday--thought it forged--stopped Ella's -marriage?” - -“Yes, and brought her back with me.” - -“But you will believe that I wrote the cheque?” - -“If you wish me to,” said Sylvester. - -There was a silence broken only by the crackling of the fire and the -sobbing of the wind outside among the bare trees. Matthew gazed at the -patch of sky framed by the window--it was one of his little obstinacies -to have the fullest daylight in his room--and watched the scudding -clouds. Presently, without turning,-- - -“Syl,” he said. - -“Yes, father.” - -“Something is breaking my heart. It has been the dream of my life to -leave you a little fortune to make you independent, but I have lost it -all, nearly all.” - -“You must not be distressed at that,” replied Sylvester. “I am earning -a good income and am putting by money. In twenty years I shall be a -wealthy man.” - -Matthew turned a face of intense anxiety, and it was some seconds before -he could speak in his feeble voice. - -“But Woodlands will have to go. It is heavily mortgaged,--a debt I owe -to Usher. Forgive me, Syl; I tried so hard to keep it. You'll find Usher -and Roderick in my will, you the residuary legatee; but there will be -nothing. I will explain a little.” - -He paused, thinking of some explanation, a debt incurred to Usher long -ago. But Sylvester, imagining the story to be the one of sickening shame -he had just heard, sought to save the old man unnecessary pain. - -“Don't say anything. Usher has told me.” - -Matthew looked at him wide-eyed. - -“Usher told you?” - -“Yes.” - -“Everything?” - -“Yes.” - -“From the beginning?” - -“Yes. This morning.” - -“You were threatening Roderick with a prosecution?” - -“Yes. When I learned that he was--my brother, I instructed my solicitor -to withdraw the charge.” - -“Merciful God, have pity on me!” murmured the old man, with closed eyes. - -The tremendous irony of existence crushed him. To save his son this -knowledge, he had endured over thirty years of abject humiliation. The -son by his own act had brought the knowledge upon himself. It is an -awful thing when a strong man comes face to face with the futile result -of all his strength. - -Presently he opened his eyes and looked wearily at Sylvester. - -“Forgive me, Syl. Don't judge after the penalty has been paid. Even -common law cannot sentence a man twice for the same offence. And I 've -served my time, and so did she. My God! we served it twice over. And no -one knew or pitied us. I would have killed myself cheerfully to spare -you the knowledge.” - -His voice weakened, and he murmured an inaudible sentence, then lay back -exhausted on his pillows. Sylvester looked at the kind, strong face, -now so ashen and aged, and a gleam was revealed to him of the spirit's -tragedy beneath; confused and blurred, it is true, but still a gleam -that filled him with vague disquietude. It dimly suggested possibilities -of life beyond the jealously guarded gates of his soul. - -“You must have pity, my son,” whispered Matthew. - -The tone wrung the young man's heart like a material grip. It was the -first sign of returning power of sensation. He cleared his throat and -said constrainedly,-- - -“Don't talk like that, father. I am your son and must always honour -you.” - -Matthew again turned his head and watched the grey sky. He knew his son -to be a stern man, and the austere sound of his words chilled him more -than the death he felt approaching. - -“What can I do?” he murmured, dispirited. “It was a long, long penance. -Don't turn from me, my son.” - -“But--father,” said Sylvester, brokenly, “everything seems to have left -me.” - -The numbness had gone, and the whole sensitive man writhed in sudden -pain, with loss of faith. His mother, whom he had deemed holy as a -saint, his wife whom he had worshipped as a star,--both to have been -false wives, women of shame! The old torture revived, intensified -tenfold. The sight of the once revered being who lay dying in utter -sadness before his eyes, and for whom the old love was now fighting -within him for mastery, raised the torture's poignancy to such a pitch -that at last it broke through the reserve of a lifetime and found vent -in a great cry,-- - -“My own wife was unfaithful to me. How, can I judge my mother?” - -A flush of life entered the dying man's cheeks. He turned quickly; his -eyes were luminous. - -“Constance? I did not think you knew--till the other night. And then I -hoped against hope.” - -“Did you know? How long? I only learned it after her death--Leroux's -last illness. My God! does all the country-side know?” - -“No, Syl. I alone.” - -He sought his son's hand on the coverlet, and then continued in the -calm, assured tone that Sylvester knew had given strength and comfort to -so many. The voice had grown suddenly strong. - -“She came to me herself, and told me, a soul-stricken woman,--just -after. She loved the man, Syl, and had always loved him. Circumstances -estranged them, they thought for ever. And then--she was a brave woman, -Syl--she fancied she could make a good man's life happy,--yours. But -the mistake was cleared up, and he returned. She loved him,--my boy, we -can't kill love,--but she was proud of her honour and scorned running -from temptation; relied on her strength too far, until one day, only one -day, Syl, it failed her, in a whirl of madness. She came to me to ask -what she should do. I have never seen such frantic grief in a human -soul. And a good many have brought their troubles to me,” he added with -one of his rare smiles. - -“That is true,” said Sylvester. And a sudden impulse made him add, “God -bless you!” - -For the thought, of a soul in pain flying instinctively to the sympathy -of those kind eyes brought a gush of tenderness. He saw him again as -the wise counsellor, the generous friend, the child-hearted lover of all -things, great and small. - -“And you told her--?” he queried in a low voice, deeply moved. - -“A greater judge than I set the precedent. She was the truest wife to -you thereafter.” - -“Tell me, father,” said Sylvester, huskily, “when was it? Dorothy?” - -“Your own flesh and blood,” said the old man, gripping his hand. “My -poor boy, how you must have suffered!” - -He lay back again, prostrated by his sustained effort of speech, and -closed his eyes. Sylvester leaned forward, half reclining on the bed, -still holding his father's hand. And as he sat there silent, a veil -seemed to be drawn from before his vision. - -“She--Constance must have suffered,” he said at last. - -Matthew opened his eyes and met his son's gaze wistfully. - -“Don't we all? If the stainless like you suffer, what of us poor sinners -who struggle towards the light! Think of the agony of that pure and -delicate soul who bore you, my son. Pray for all poor souls, Syl.” - -His voice had grown singularly faint. The tears leaped to Sylvester's -eyes. He tried to speak, but his throat was clogged with unaccustomed -sobs. With instinctive ashamedness he buried his face in the pillow next -to his father, still holding his hand. He lay there a long time, his -heart aching with the returning love as a limb to which the tourniquet -has been applied aches with the returning blood. Once the old man -whispered a prayer for the son's forgiveness, and when Sylvester pressed -his hand, relapsed into his half-sleep as if reassured. Time went by. -Presently Sylvester heard him murmuring in a scarcely audible voice. -Gradually the sense of the words came to him. The old man was repeating -scraps of verse:-- - - “Freres humains, qui apres nous vivez, - - N'avez les cueurs contre nous endurciz, - - Car, si pitié de nous pouvres avez, - - Dieu en aura plustost de vous merciz. - - Ne soyez done de nostre confrairie, - - Mais priez Dieu que tous nous vueille absouldre!” - -There was a great pathos in the broad English accent with which he -murmured the old French words, and for the first time in all his life -Sylvester understood them. He raised his head and saw his father's lips -moving dumbly. After a little the voice came again, broken and faint, -and only by a word here and there could he gather the meaning. It was -from Swinburne's “Garden of Proserpine:” - - “... Even the weariest river - - Winds somewhere safe to sea,” - -He repeated the couplet two or three times. He had never been a great -reader of poetry, but of some half-dozen poems he was particularly fond, -and had made them his own, and had woven them into the texture of his -life. Among them were such dissimilar things as Villon's “Ballade,” - Macaulay's “Battle of Ivry,” Tennyson's “Brook,” “The Ancient Mariner,” - and Sylvester had often smiled indulgently at this little anthology, his -father's simple spiritual equipment. Especially had he wondered at his -assimilation of this poem of Swinburne's, so remote in feeling from his -steadfast outlook upon life, and his intolerance of cowardly shrinking -from its responsibilities. - -But now he comprehended that his father was a weary, weary man, and that -one of the most beautiful of all utterances to the weary man's heart had -brought him comfort. - - “Then star nor sun shall waken, - - Nor any change of light; - - Nor sound of waters shaken, - - Nor any sound or sight; - - Nor wintry leaves nor vernal; - - Nor days nor things diurnal; - - Only the sleep eternal - - In an eternal night.” - -The murmuring voice ended the poem. Sylvester drew the old man's -withered brown hand to his lips. - -“Forgive me for not understanding, father,” he said brokenly. “I am glad -I know. I love you and my mother more than I have ever done. Would to -God I had been a tenderer son to you!” - -Matthew's clasp tightened, and a smile hovered over his face. He knew -that the awkward words came from his son's heart. - -“We understand each other, Syl. '_Tout comprendre_, et cetera.... I am -happy. I have never been so happy in all my life--'the burden has fallen -from me--fallen into the sea.' I'm sleepy, Syl--stay by me--it comforts -me.” - -So Sylvester, still holding the dear hand in a warm clasp, and fearing -to move lest he should disturb the quiet slumber into which the old -man had fallen, remained by his father's side, his face hidden in the -pillow. And as he lay, there was accomplished one of those integral -spiritual changes that can only be wrought once in the lifetime of a man -here and there. The White Dove of the Divine Pity overshadowed him with -its wings, and he saw deeply into the mysteries of life. He beheld the -unutterable pathos of man, his clogged aspirations, his heroic weakness, -his piteous fortitude, his everlasting struggles. It was revealed to him -that there may be more of the warm spiritual essence of humanity, in a -single passionate sin than in a hundred austere virtues. - -His father, mother, Constance, Leroux, Ella, all of whom he, the -upright, stainless man, had condemned, stood before him clothed in a -new light; and by reason of their warm humanity, their struggles, their -sufferings, they stood higher in the scale of being than he. - -He saw the loves of those two whom he had so cherished unfold in tragedy -before his vision. They were two rare natures, he understood, fitted -only one for the other, too fine for commoner clay. He knew the agony -of the first early struggle, the eternal conflict between love and that -which the world accepts as duty; the mother's heart torn asunder between -the child of her body and the man of her heart's core; the ignoble -husband a thing of horror in her thoughts. Then came their life -together; the perfect union; the sweet community of noble end; but every -step to happiness dogged by the footfall of pain. What must they have -suffered, the two sensitives, with minds (in the son's fancy) of gods -and hearts of little children! He remembered that there were times -when his mother would stand by the window, lost to external things, and -strain her vision through infinite space; and he knew now it was the -yearning for the child that she had forsaken. - -And then she died, the pure gold of her spirit worn thin by suffering. -He remembered his father's ashen face; how he clung unspeaking to him, -even as he himself in after years had clung to Dorothy. Then came -the proud man's lonely penance; Usher's arrival with Roderick. He had -wronged the man and wronged the boy; but what unwearying efforts to -redeem in full! The weight of the burden fell upon Sylvester, and he -knew its heaviness. He knew the scrupulous gentleman's revolt against -the forced intimacy with the underbred egotist, lost to self-respect, -the rapacious blackmailer, the vampire that sucked his heart's blood. -He knew the sordid cares of money that had fallen on the old man, his -struggles to leave his own son an independent fortune and the family -home, and at the same time to carry out his chivalrous vow to give an -exact equivalent to the wife's deserted child; the agony of effort to -spare his son the knowledge. And all that had left untouched his tender, -generous heart, which all men loved. A new reverence arose within -Sylvester's soul. - -And that other,--Constance? Had she not struggled, silently, -indomitably, filling his existence with wifely devotion, battling night -and day with the hydra-headed love that seemed unconquerable? Had she -not fought and suffered and triumphed? And Leroux? Had he not shared in -the battle and the suffering and the victory? Had she not, Ella, too, -bravely striven, seeking light through the darkness that he had cast -about her? And Roderick? Who was he that he should judge his fellow? -The fierce hate died for ever in Sylvester's heart. The bewildering -knowledge of man's infinite weakness, man's infinite strength and -endurance, stirred his inmost soul with unutterable pity. - -***** - -A touch on the shoulder aroused him. Instinctively he sought to free -his hand; but the clasp that held it was singularly stiff and cold. He -lifted his head with a start and looked round. Ella was standing behind -him. Then he freed himself and leaped to his feet. Their eyes met, then -turned to the figure on the bed. He bent over, looked intently into his -father's face, felt his heart. The erring, beautiful life had ended in -his sleep. - -Without a word spoken, they straightened the limbs and smoothed the bed, -the girl crying silently. As soon as this was done, she whispered,-- - -“I will leave you.” - -But to her great wonder, he took her hand and raised it to his lips. - -“No,” he said; “stay.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXI--HERITAGE - -They buried Matthew Lanyon in the quiet churchyard at Ayresford next -to the woman who in everything but law had been his wife. Half the small -town thronged about the grave in sorrow. All felt that one of the chosen -had dwelt in their midst, and that they were poorer by the loss of the -kindness of his simple heart and the wisdom of his grey head. The four -chief mourners stood a little way apart, close together. Sylvester held -the child Dorothy tight by the hand, finding unspeakable comfort in the -tiny clasp, and let the tears fall fast and unheeded down his face. The -grave seemed a chasm that separated them from the rest of the world. The -child, Agatha Lanyon, Ella, and himself stood alone, curiously remote, -and united by a new and strange bond. For the first time for many years -he felt the preciousness of human relationship. Of aught save this and -his irreparable loss, he was unconscious. The crowd was a vague mass -dimly seen through a mist of tears. He scarcely heard the old rector's -voice reciting the familiar words. But when the first clod of earth -clattered sharply upon the coffin-lid, he turned away with a sob; then -meeting Ella's swimming eyes, he sought her right hand with his left and -holding it turned again. And never so much as at that moment did he need -the strength of human tenderness; for looking up he saw standing at -the foot of the grave, his ignoble figure defined against the old grey -church, Usher wagging his bare head in simulated sorrow and gazing at -the last that was visible of his enemy. Then the old man stooped down -and threw a lump of earth into the pit; and as he rose Sylvester saw an -expression of indescribable malice pass over his face. Quivering at the -supreme insult, the young man turned to Ella. - -“Thank God,” he said; “nothing can hurt him now.” - -The reference was too pointed for her not to comprehend. She questioned -him dumbly, feeling suddenly brought to the brink of a revelation. - -“It is selfish to wish him back,” said Sylvester. - -They remained a few moments longer. The crowd was slowly disappearing -through the grey of the early winter twilight. The rector came up with -a few words of sympathy and crossed the churchyard towards the rectory. -The grave was nearly full. - -“Come,” said Ella, gently, and they went to the path where the mourning -coach awaited them. They spoke but little. Miss Lanyon cried softly to -herself. Ella leaned back on the cushion with closed eyes. She was very -weary, spent with emotion; yet the evil spirit of unrest was laid within -her. The past upheaval had been phantasmagoric, in which her integral -self had been lost amid a whirling army of unreal shapes. Now, brought -into contact with an elemental reality, death, and with a deep and -simple grief, it had emerged clear and definite. For the first time -for many months the vibrations of her soul rang true, soothing her -like sweet, sad music after devil's discord. Sylvester's words by the -graveside had moved her. She remembered now a pain that had often come -into the old man's eyes, and she wondered reverently. Sylvester sat -opposite, his arm around Dorothy, who looked up shyly yet gladly into -his face, unable to explain to her childish mind this revulsion of -passionate love. To him it was a happiness that flooded his soul. The -parched places drank it in like the river of life. He was a new man, -able to feel in all its sacredness the sorrow that had come. - -His temperament had undergone a curious transmutation. Instead of -flying, as used to be his wont, to solitude, to brood over his grief, a -newly awakened instinct drove him imperiously to companionship. - -“Come down soon,” he said to the two ladies when, on their arrival at -the house, they went upstairs to take off their things. And they all -sat together for the rest of the long evening, and while he talked, Ella -wondered at his gentleness. - -At ten o'clock the ladies retired. He accompanied them to the hall and -lit their candles. Miss Lanyon bade him good-night and disappeared up -the staircase. Ella held out her hand. He kept it in his for a moment. - -“Won't you stay up with me a little longer?” he asked humbly. The light -of the candle played amid the dark gold of her hair and lit up her face, -that gleamed very pale in contrast with her high black dress. His eyes, -resting upon her, found her stately and sweet. He forgot that only a -few days ago he had despised her, classing her with the wanton of an -inferior sex. She stood before him something noble, helpful, mysterious. -In her calm gaze he read the certainty of a high companionship. He was -dismayed by the sudden revelation of his loss. - -“Willingly,” she said. “But I am so tired.” - -“Just ten minutes,” he pleaded. “I hate to be alone.” - -“You?” Surprise was in her tone. - -“I have been alone so much,” he replied simply. - -She blew out her candle and went back with him into the library. Then -she sat down in Matthew's great leathern chair and watched him as he -stirred the fire. Much of her bitter resentment against him had died by -the old man's death-bed. The common sorrow had brought them once more -on to the plane of old relations. The sudden change in his attitude had -helped the promptings of her nobler nature, and generously she had given -him the dumbly craved sympathy. Besides, the old man's tenderness was -too fresh a memory for her to be harsh now to Sylvester. - -The fire burst into a blaze. Sylvester drew himself up and stood on the -hearth-rug looking at her, and all the hardness had gone from his face. -Suddenly he spoke. - -“I am a poor creature, Ella. I know it now. You have every right to -think ill of me; but try to think as well as you can--for the old man's -sake.” - -“The last few days have changed so much,” she answered. - -“Could they bring you to forgive me for all the pain and suffering I -have caused you?” - -She drew a little sharp breath. “We need never speak of that again. It -is behind us.” - -“But it is beginning to be very present with me,” he answered gravely. -“Lately my eyes have been opened to many things. Some day I may find it -in my power to tell you how. I have wronged you cruelly and unjustly. I -would give much to make atonement--but one can never atone. One can only -crave forgiveness--and pity for a blind man. I feel I can ask it of you -now. Since you have been here you too have shown me things I never knew -of. For nearly two years I have given you every reason to hate me. You -have put all aside, treated me with a sister's gentleness, given me all -your sympathy and tenderness. I am not accustomed to perceive large and -generous natures.... I will make a confession. In my morbid arrogance -and folly, I put myself upon a pedestal and regarded you, God forgive -me, as something beneath me. You are as far above me as he whom we -buried today. I had to tell you.” - -For a few moments she could not find words to reply. She had never known -him to humble himself like this. It was hard to reconcile him with the -grim, pitiless man who had sat opposite her on that nightmare journey -from London. - -“I did hate you--bitterly,” she said at last. “I don't think I do so -now. It is easy to say 'I forgive you,' but I don't quite know what it -implies. As for one of us being higher than the other, you are a great -physician, and I am just an ignorant girl with a miserable set of -unregulated emotions--” - -“You should thank God for them,” he interrupted. - -“They haven't brought me much happiness,” she said, with a little shrug -of her shoulders. - -“See, I am frank! No, I won't say I forgive, but I'll think kindly of -you, Syl, I promise.” - -“It is all I dare hope for,” he said. And so the enmity came to an end. - -For the next two or three days, Sylvester was busy with his father's -affairs. The will provided for a large sum to be paid to Usher, another -to Roderick, while Sylvester was the residuary legatee, charged with a -yearly allowance to Miss Lanyon and certain minor bequests. But after -deducting the legacies to the Ushers, there was nothing left in the -estate but Woodlands itself, and that was heavily mortgaged, and -the mortgage had been bought up by Usher. Sylvester reviewed his own -financial position. - -His professional income was fairly large, and showed every prospect of -increasing year by year, but of capital he had little. Dorothy's future -had to be provided for. Miss Lanyon must receive the amount specified in -the will. Could he afford to pay the interest on the mortgage and keep -up a large country house and grounds as well? He could not. Woodlands -would have to go. The three thousand pounds which Roderick had -fraudulently drawn from the estate would have made a considerable -difference in Sylvester's calculations. - -From his father's books he discovered that this sum roughly represented -the sale of certain stock a day or two before the cheque was forged, and -lay at the bankers awaiting reinvestment. How did the knowledge of this -reach Roderick? Sylvester was puzzled, for a man does not usually keep -a balance of three or four thousand pounds to his credit account, and -Roderick was too shrewd to run the risk of so large a cheque unless he -knew there would be an adequate sum to meet it. Rightly he concluded -that Mr. Usher had given his son the information. But whether Roderick -was acquainted with the blackmailing secret he could not tell. An -instinct of generosity, newly awakened, prompted the conjecture of -Roderick's ignorance. On this assumption he arrived at what happened to -be the correct solution: Roderick in desperate need of money had applied -to Usher; the latter had refused; had suggested the forgery, knowing -of the sale of stock, and had given him the cheque which he himself had -once abstracted from Mr. Lan-yon's cheque-book so as to meet any sudden -emergency, at the same time assuring his son against any unpleasant -risks on the discovery of the forgery. Roderick's silence on the point -Sylvester could only put down to his credit. - -Both Ella and Miss Lanyon were acquainted with the terms of the will, -though neither as yet was informed of the financial condition of the -estate. The large sums bequeathed to Usher and Roderick had astonished -them. Sylvester explained vaguely that they were in payment of a great -debt of gratitude which his father had incurred when Mr. Usher and -himself were young men together in Australia. Miss Lanyon, who never -questioned such statements, took refuge in her grief from further -thoughts on the matter, like the gentle, simple lady she was. But Ella, -with Sylvester's words in the churchyard fresh in her mind, scented -a mystery. After the reading of the will, the subject was not openly -mentioned by her or by Sylvester. Roderick's name stood between them. -The silence was a restraint which each felt to be irksome. At last Ella, -with a woman's greater moral courage, or perhaps with a woman's love of -self-castigation, resolutely plunged into matters. - -“Would you think it impertinent of me if I asked you to let me discuss -Uncle Matthew's will with you?” - -She had stopped him by the library door, as he was entering after -breakfast. - -“By no means,” he replied courteously, holding the door open for her. -“Come in.” - -“What has happened to me during the last six months,” she said, when -they were seated, “will remain with me as a memory all my life. I -should like to know what to think about--Roderick.” She got the name out -bravely, after a second's hesitation. “He really did what you accused -him of?” - -“He acknowledged it to me,” replied Sylvester. - -“Has he always been--what men call a scamp, or was this a sudden -temptation?” - -“He was in a desperate plight. That I know. I can't say what he was -before. I have had a bitter lesson in judging men. All my standards have -fallen away, and Heaven knows whom I dare judge. One doesn't know what's -resisted. Burns said that a hundred years ago. And one doesn't know what -remorse follows. The human soul is an awful thing. Men are better than -their deeds. There is good in Roderick. I believe it.” - -“And his father?” - -“What do you mean?” he asked, startled. “Your father's will,--all that -money to those two.” - -“I explained to Aunt Agatha.” - -“That was no explanation. From a hundred things I can remember now, I -can't help feeling that there was force in the matter--oh, a horrible -feeling--if it is as I suspect, you can understand--” - -“I firmly believe Roderick to be innocent of any wrong of the sort.” - -“Thank you,” she said. “And his father?” Sylvester rose and filled his -pipe without speaking. It seemed odd to him that he felt no resentment -at her questioning him. The chord in his temperament that once would -have vibrated sharply and jarringly seemed to have snapped. He could -only admire in a helpless way the strength of character that had carried -her through so terrible an ordeal, her magnanimity, and the acuteness of -her perception. But he filled his pipe with great deliberation, for to -answer was difficult. - -“I told you, Ella, I was powerless to judge any man,” he said. “Take -my assurance as regards Roderick and forget it all. The answer to your -question I have no right to give to any but one being in the world. Then -it would be my duty.” - -“Dorothy?” - -“No. Another.” - -Their eyes met for a moment. Hers lowered, and a faint spot of colour -came into her cheek. - -“I understand. Forgive me,” she said. There was a slight pause. She rose -to go. Suddenly Sylvester detained her. - -“I may as well tell you what all the world will know soon. After paying -these legacies there will be nothing left for the residuary legatee save -Woodlands, and that is heavily mortgaged. I shall have to sell it.” - -“Sell Woodlands!” She looked at him aghast. “Why, I thought Uncle -Matthew was leaving you a small fortune. It was the dream of his life!” - -“He has left me, thank God, an infinitely greater inheritance,” said -Sylvester. - -She did not question him, only looked at him blankly, dimly -comprehending. Then she reverted to the more easily intelligible. - -“But to sell Woodlands!” she reiterated. “Impossible! When we were tiny -children, he used to talk of your living here after him. You must.” - -“I haven't the money,” he said sadly. - -“But I have. I'll buy it. I shall. You needn't laugh. Who in the wide -world can prevent me?” - -“My dear Ella,” he said with a smile, “how would that help matters? I -could not live in your house.” - -“Dorothy and Aunt Agatha could. You could rent it. There are many -ways. Anyhow, Uncle Matthew would sooner have it in my hands than in a -stranger's. I have made up my mind. It will be my first investment.” - -And so as to have the last word, she swept across the room and retired. -The swish of her skirts had hardly ceased to sound in Sylvester's ears -when a servant came in with a letter. It bore no stamp, and was in -Roderick's handwriting. - -“Trotter from the White Hart brought it, sir,” explained the servant. - -The letter ran:-- - - _Having received your solicitor's letter concerning the - legacy under Mr. Lanyon's will, I came down last evening to - see my father. In the course of conversation he revealed to - me facts which have literally stunned me. I must see you or - write to you. But as these things are best unwritten, - perhaps in the utterly unprecedented circumstances you would - be willing to bear the pain that such an interview might - cause you, and make an appointment to meet me today. I would - suggest this hotel. Perhaps I have little right to do so, - but, I earnestly beseech you to believe in my good faith. - - Roderick Usher._ - -Sylvester read this letter, so uncharacteristic of the man as he had -known him, with a recrudescence of implacable feeling. To meet him was -hateful. The agony of the journey to Ayresford a week ago came upon him. -He crumpled the letter tight in his hand. - -“He was to wait for an answer, sir,” hazarded the servant, after a time. - -The commonplace, as it often does, brought reaction. He scribbled a -line, fixing the appointment at twelve. - -***** - -He found Roderick pacing up and down the stiffly furnished and somewhat -dingy private sitting-room of the White Hart Hotel. The two men brought -suddenly face to face remained for a while in an embarrassed silence, -each looking in the eyes of the other. For the first time Sylvester -realised in all its significance the blood tie that bound them. This man -was his brother. Grotesque and incongruous though it seemed, the fact -was driven home to him as by some mighty blow. This man's mother was his -mother,--the mother who had sung him to sleep as a little child, who had -listened to his boyish confidence, who had been inwoven in all his early -life, whose voice whose caress, whose fragrance, lingered vividly in -all his senses, whose body and soul were unalienably _his_. A horrible -jealousy seized him. - -Roderick, though point-device in blue serge suit and saffron-silk tie, -looked aged and careworn. The lines under his eyes had deepened. He had -lost flesh, and his cheeks were flabby. He was the first to break the -silence. - -“It may be absurd for a man of forty to talk about his mother, but if -I had had your advantages in that respect, I might have been a better -man.” - -Then Sylvester's jealousy vanished, and he remembered the wrong that had -been done. - -“My father did all that a human soul could do to make atonement,” said -he. - -“And mine did everything in his power to prevent it. Will you sit down?” - -Roderick motioned Sylvester to a chair, and sat down near him. - -“I don't pretend to love my father. I never had reason to. I am a bad -lot, I know, but compared to him, I am the incarnation of virtue. When I -forged the cheque, I was given to understand for the first time that my -father had some mysterious hold over Mr. Lanyon. But, as God hears me, -I never dreamed until last night of the true nature of the case. Do you -believe me?” - -“Yes,” said Sylvester; “I believe you.” - -“Thank you,” returned Roderick; “now I know where I am.” - -He lit a cigarette, having offered his case to Sylvester, who declined. - -“It is now in my power,” said he, after enjoying the first two fragrant -whiffs, “to restore the money I stole from you. You observe I have the -grace to use the naked expression. Will you accept it?” - -“Certainly,” said Sylvester. “It is but just.” - -“Did you think I would repay you?” - -“Frankly speaking, no.” - -“And having heard my father's story last night, do you think I'll touch -a penny of your father's money?” he cried, bringing his hand with a -thump on the round centre-table. “My God! I would sooner die.” - -“The balance above the three thousand is yours,” said Sylvester. “I -cannot accept a gift from you.” - -Roderick puffed violently at his cigarette, threw it away, and rose to -his feet excitedly. - -“I can't touch it. I have been a damned villain, I know. I was hard put -to it, and I worked upon a girl's emotions so that I could marry her for -her money. Then, by Heaven, I began to love her, finished by loving her -madly, with an insensate passion. To get her, I committed a cowardly -crime. I broke my parole, as it were, with you. I deserve every epithet -of dishonour as regards that which you like to heap upon me, but to -carry on this horrible, hideous blackmail--by God, I can't do it. -Last night has turned me into a moral man. I'll forswear sack and live -cleanly for the rest of my life. I could vomit with disgust. It is -_écourant_,--makes one's heart retch! Do you know what I've found out? -You asked me once whether my father didn't make me an allowance. That -put me on the track last night. I cross-questioned, found out that for -years and years Mr. Lanyon, besides submitting to my fathers extortion, -had given him £400 a year to be handed to me as an allowance; and I've -never in my life received a penny of it, so help me God, never! Your -father has made atonement, every atonement. I learn that he has been -sucked dry, and that there is nothing left for you. It is I who now must -make atonement for my father. Could blackmail be more abject than -his? Consider for one ghastly moment the nature of it. In the name of -charity, for the sake of what is left of my manhood, take back all this -money.” - -He had delivered this harangue with his old fervour and declamatory -gestures, and when he had ended he flung himself into an armchair and -wiped his brow with his handkerchief. Suddenly he started again to his -feet and seized a folded folio document lying on the table. - -“See,” said he. “I've been down to Higginson the solicitor this morning, -and executed a deed of gift, making the whole thing over to you, less -the legacy duty. For Heaven's sake, take it and let me feel an honest -man again.” - -Sylvester read through the document. Then he folded it up and put it in -his pocket. - -“The three thousand I'll take,” he said. “The remainder, with your -permission, I'll give to the Prisoners' Aid Society; my father took a -keen interest in it.” - -“Anything, so long as I don't touch it,” said Roderick, lighting another -cigarette. “Ha! Now I feel free, and can take up the threads of life -again. By the way, when you go, think as charitably of my father as you -can. I've done with him for ever and ever, but I've explained him to -myself. He is a perfect type of the non-moral being, the instinctive -criminal. There's a family history which you as a physician would find -interesting. To me as a poor devil of an artist, it is a bogey which -only walks abroad in the night of my mind. I suppose I have a share in -the family taint, but as I hope never to propagate my species, it will -die with me.” - -He rattled on in his vehement way, and once more Sylvester fell under -the spell of his exuberant personality, preferring to listen than to -speak. Roderick launched out into a forecast of his future. He would -forswear sack, he repeated, and live cleanly, with Art for his chaste -mistress. “I got an idea for a picture, this morning, that is going to -revolutionise my existence,” said he. Sylvester's acceptance of the deed -of gift was like the removal of a heavy stone that had held prisoner -his elvish spirit. And the more he approached the Roderick of six months -ago, the more did Sylvester wonder at the nature of the man. Yet his -pocket held irrefutable proof of the man's sincerity. At last he rose -and held out his hand. Roderick looked at him, and looked at the hand in -astonishment; then he strode a pace forward and grasped it eagerly. - -“You are a good fellow to shake hands with me,” said he. - -The ring of genuine feeling touched Sylvester deeply. - -“Let us bury the past,” he replied. - -“On my side, God knows how willingly.” - -“And whether we are friends or not, we'll remember that the same mother -bore us.” Roderick bowed, his quick perception divining the cost at -which the words were uttered. - -“I shall always remember it,” he said soberly. - -He accompanied his visitor down the stairs to the front porch of the -old-fashioned hotel. The men shook hands again. Roderick disappeared -in the gloom of the corridor, and Sylvester turned to see, on the other -side of the street, Ella, out on some small shopping errand, watching -him in amazement. - -He crossed the road and walked by her side. - -“Your question of this morning is answered,” he said. - -“Thank you, Syl,” she replied. - -“Perhaps I shall be able to keep Woodlands, after all.” - -“I was praying for it,” she said significantly. - -***** - -Two days afterwards Ella left for the south of France with Lady Milmo, -and Sylvester returned to town to prepare his gloomy house for Dorothy's -reception. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII--A GLORIOUS WORLD - -Two years passed and brought with them their changes, sudden and -gradual. A few months after Matthew Lanyon's death, old Ebenezer Usher -died of an apoplectic fit. Ruin was staring him in the face. Of all the -moneys he had extorted only a few hundreds remained. Peter Vavasour & -Co. and others of their bucket-shop confraternity had sucked him dry as -he had sucked Matthew. Indignation at the wickedness of mankind killed -him and he went to his own place. His effects were sold, and the -considerable sum that was realised--for his collections of china, -postage stamps, and book plates were remarkably fine--was handed over -by Roderick, still zealous to atone, to Sylvester, who paid it into the -funds of the Prisoners' Aid Society. And this was the end of Ebenezer -Usher. The grass grows over the grave wherein he lies, some twenty yards -away from his enemy. - -No tombstone marks, or ever will mark, the spot. “He is not the kind of -man whose memory one cares to perpetuate,” said his son. - -Miss Lanyon lived at Woodlands, where sometimes Ella and sometimes -Dorothy stayed with her; and now and then for change of scene went -Sylvester. He could not realise the old man's dream, and live there, -devoting himself to research, but it comforted him to know that the -house had not passed into alien hands. His own home in Weymouth Street -was gladdened by a child's presence, and the spirit of its desolation -departed. Instinctively he felt that it was too gloomy for a child, -and with the pathetic helplessness of an inartistic man who had never -concerned himself about such things, he took her with him to choose new -wall papers, curtains, and rugs. Perhaps the result was incongruous, but -at any rate it was bright, and pleased the choosers mightily. - -The effect of the great revolution in Sylvester's attitude to life -gradually grew more apparent. The intense humanity of his profession won -to his heart now that the barriers of ice were melted. The intellectual -problem which it had been his duty to solve became the hurt to a -suffering creature which it was his privilege to heal. A new tenderness -softened his nature. The gift of speech came to him as by the miracle of -the gift of tongues. To his great wonder, the society of ordinary kindly -men and women, from which in a general way he had shrunk all his life -through shyness and reserve, and which in positive misanthropy he had -afterwards shunned, gradually appeared to him a sweet and pleasant -thing, until he recognised it as a necessity in his existence. And -old feelings, sweeter, sadder, infinitely deeper than of old, were -reawakened. - -How it came about he knew not. When he had parted from Ella after his -father's funeral, he did not love her. He had realised the irrevocable -loss of a happiness that might have been, and that was all. Then on her -return from the south of France late in the spring he had seen her and -spoken with her, and she had been kind. A month afterwards he had seen -her again, and once more six months after that,--for they rarely met. -And then he knew that she was the one woman in the world for him, and -that the love for which he had kissed her years ago was as moonlight -unto the sunlight of his present love. - -Once more they had met, and he told her. - -“How can I love you when you have done so much to hurt me?” she said. - -“I don't ask for your love,” he urged. - -“You do,” she replied with a smile of wisdom. “Don't deceive yourself, -Syl.” - -“Well, then, I will make you love me.” - -“Don't speak like that,” she said with a shiver. “It is horrible to make -a woman love. There is no woman made to love that does not repent it in -shame and misery.” - -“But you once did love me.” - -“You have hurt me. Life has hurt me,” she said gently. “I don't mean -to say that it was not partly my own fault, nor do I want to pose as an -injured woman. But the fact remains, Syl, dear; and you must let time do -what it can in the way of healing. If you care for me, see me a little -oftener than you have done,--it will be good for both of us,--but don't -speak of this again.” - -“Am I to go through a term of probation?” he asked. - -“Heaven forbid!” said Ella. - -There the matter remained. They met more frequently, became fast -friends, and Sylvester waited. And so the two years slipped by. - -***** - -It was a hot August day, and Lady Milmo sat in the verandah of the -little hotel at Vitznau at the foot of the Righi, with a novel open on -her lap. Her eyes were fixed idly upon a little speck of a boat on the -lake by whose sides rose rhythmically tiny silver flashes. - -“Why don't you come _unexpectedly_ upon us here?” she had written -to Sylvester, of whose arrival in Zermatt a chance-met wandering -acquaintance had told her. “You will find the Righi _much_ more -satisfactory than that silly Jungfrau. And you will find two people -quite disposed to be very kind to you.” - -So Sylvester had left his ice-axes and ropes and mountaineering boots at -Zermatt, and had flown on the wings of hope to Vitznau, and there he was -with Ella in the little boat on the lake. - -Soon an approaching steamboat from Lucerne hid the tiny speck from Lady -Milmo's view,-and gradually drew near. The inmates of the hotel came on -to the verandah to watch the landing of the passengers, the morning's -excitement. The gangway was thrust forward from the little jetty, -and the crowd streamed ashore,--fresh English girls in straw hats, -substantial fathers, anxious, lonely ladies with profusion of -hand-baggage, Germans girt with satchel and vasculum, pacing -sultanesquely in front of their womenkind, English parsons, happy and -perspiring,--all amidst a sort of tangled undergrowth of umbrellas, -and straps, and sticks, and alpenstocks purchased in Lucerne with the -burnt-in names of inaccessible peaks circling round them. Some proceeded -at once to the tiny railway station where the grotesquely slanting train -awaited them. Others poured on to the verandah and took possession of -the hotel. The gong for _dejeuner_ sounded. Lady Milmo looked anxiously -at her speck, which had become visible again, and then at her watch. The -occupants of the boat gave no sign of returning shorewards. They would -be late for _table d'hôte_. Lady Milmo waved her pocket-handkerchief -until she was the last person on the verandah, and then she went into -the _salle-a-manger_ alone, feeling somewhat injured. - -Meanwhile, the two in the boat had been rowing idly over the lake. -Ella lay back on the cushions of the stern with half-closed eyes, while -Sylvester sculled lazily. She had been very glad to see him when -he arrived the evening before, and her heart had given him a little -unbidden throb of welcome. His altered attitude towards her, as well -as dim gleams of revelation of some fundamental change within him, -had caused her to forget, or at least look back unresentfully upon old -wrongs. At times an inflection of the voice, a sudden gentleness of -manner, brought his father vividly back to her. It seemed as if, by some -strange metempsychosis, the old man's spirit had entered into the son, -and was gradually unfolding. He was still the worthiest man she knew. -She lived her old life amid the jargon of culture in her aunt's house, -and it wearied her, and she longed for something nobler. In Sylvester -she found at least reality. She beheld him a sane, sincere, strong man, -around whose life was gathered an indeterminate pathos. - -The sun shone bright from a deep blue sky flecked here and there with -an infinitely distant wisp of cirrus. The tiny promontories jutted -out their green into the lake. Far away rose the glittering white -snow-peaks, and close at hand the mass of the Righi with white specks of -habitations nestling in its sides. The water plashed pleasantly against -the side of the boat. Ella murmured of the loveliness around. - -“The day seems to have got into my heart,” she said. “If you looked into -it, you would see everything as in a camera. I wish it would last.” - -“Why shouldn't it?” asked Sylvester, leaning on his sculls. - -“We are going away to-morrow.” - -“There is a way in which I at least could keep this in my heart for -ever,” said he. - -“I would that could be a way for me too,” she murmured. - -“Why not, dear? I have waited for you.” - -She looked round upon the tremulous beauty of sky and lake and mountain -with a wistful sense of its transience. Her heart was very womanly. - -“It would be a way for me, if there were not something between us, Syl,” - she answered,--“something that keeps us apart. I don't know what it is.” - -“If I could remove it--?” he began. - -Their eyes met. He suddenly took to his oars and began to pull with -vigorous strokes. - -“We are going to land,” he said. - -They were silent until they had reached the foot of one of the little -promontories. Then, finding a convenient landing-place, he clambered out -and helped her ashore. - -“Let us sit down, dear,” he said, when he had made fast the boat. “I -have a great deal to tell you.” - -And there in the cool shade of the pine-trees, with the quivering -noon-tide haze between them and the great stretch of lake, he told her -all his story: of Constance and Leroux, of the awful frost that had -frozen his heart, of his father and the elder Usher, of his own lack -of right to the name he bore, of his father's death-bed. He spoke -continuously in an earnest undertone, although their solitude was broken -only by the twitter of birds and the soft whirring of summer insects. -Ella, sitting a little way apart, kept silent and never stirred save to -look up at him from time to time with piteous wonder in her eyes. And -as the old man's tragedy was unfolded before her, the tears brimmed over -and fell down her cheeks. Thus all the dark places were made light to -her. The man's soul was revealed. She felt humbled, of small account, -as though admitted unworthy into some holy place of sacred things, where -sin and suffering were washed away by a divine pity. He ended abruptly. - -“That's all the story,” said he; “you must judge us both as you think -best.” - -For a moment she sat silent, as her heart was too full for speech; but -her hand, that had some while since found its way into his, gave him a -soft sign of sympathy. At last words came. - -“I understand all, Syl,--both you and him.” - -“That means forgiving all.” - -“Yes, all.” - -“Thank God!” he whispered. - -There was a silence. Their souls held communion, the barrier between -them being broken down. We have passed through pain and sorrow, ran the -mutual message, and our hearts have been made exceeding pitiful, and -love at last dwells therein. And for a season time stood still. - -Ella looked through the mist of her tears at the splendour of the day. -Suddenly the mist cleared, and the splendour was eclipsed by the dawning -of a newer glory. Sylvester saw it in her eyes. With a cry of passionate -joy he flung his arms around her, and she gave her life to him utterly. - -***** - -They rowed back across the lake, and the beauty of earth enfolded them. -Once he paused, and their eyes drank deep of each other. At length she -smiled. - -“The world is a glorious place,” she said. - - -THE END - - - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The White Dove, by William J. 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