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diff --git a/79023-0.txt b/79023-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c0fe37e --- /dev/null +++ b/79023-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8421 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79023 *** + + + + [Cover Illustration] + + THE + MASTER HOPE + + BY + PHYLLIS BOTTOME + + AUTHOR OF “LIFE THE INTERPRETER” + + + LONDON + HURST AND BLACKETT, LIMITED + 13, Great Marlborough Street, W. + 1904 + + + + + _Dedication_ + + TO WILMETT, IN HOPE AND LOVE + + + “Ah! if indeed there be + Beyond one darksome door, a secret stair + Which winding to the battlements, shall lead + Hence to pure light, free air, + This is the master hope, or the supreme despair!” + + —WILLIAM WATSON + + + + + The Master Hope + + + CHAPTER I. + + “Thou canst not choose Freedom and go in bondage to the delight + of life.” + + —RUDYARD KIPLING + +It was Daphne’s last day in London. She wondered as she looked out over +the sunny gardens, with their new birth of green leaves and neatly +ordered flowers, why the country should take possession of her, and if +the riches it gave would really compensate for the riches she must lose. + +If it had been a little later in the season, and she had not been in +mourning, perhaps she would not have wondered at this. It is only when +we cannot do what we want, that what we can do becomes such a drudgery. + +Daphne anticipated nothing but the uncongenial, so she sat fretting at +fate and wondering what to do with the hours left her. Beyond the wish +to avoid her stepmother, whose somewhat hasty re-marriage had caused her +flight, she had no settled plan. She had just decided to ring for a maid +and go out into the gardens, when she was startled by the announcement +of Lord Cheston, who came in apologetic and a little shy to find out, as +he expressed it, “What she was up to?” + +“I have a day of last moments before me,” she explained, “without even a +luggage label to write: and I _don’t_ want to leave London, Reggie, +isn’t it awful?” Reggie looked as if he thought it was very awful indeed +and shook his head at the hopelessness of the prospect. + +“You could stay on, you know,” he finally brought out, “couldn’t you?” + +“With Vera—and a new husband, a young man with a moustache!” cried +Daphne impatiently. “And to hear him called my stepfather once removed! +It’s an impossible situation. You might as well suggest that I should go +to an orphan asylum, or become a foundling!” + +“Do you object to moustaches?” asked Reggie, seizing the only subject on +which he felt himself competent to speak. “I do, myself, you know. I +always think they hide a fellow’s mouth.” + +“That’s their one advantage,” said Daphne with some bitterness, “they +hide his! If we stay here much longer Vera will come in; can’t you think +of something to do?” Reggie’s face expressed the terrible struggle that +the importance of such a subject suggested. He was perfectly content +where he was, and so unused to projects which included Daphne, and so +unwilling to include projects that didn’t, that it was she who had +finally to help him out. “Have you ever seen the Tower?” she said. “I +haven’t. We might go on the top of a ’bus, and walk about in the city. I +have never walked about in the city; have you?” + +“Rather,” said Reggie with pride, “my lawyer’s office is in the city. +I’ve been there heaps of times.” + +“Jews are there, too,” said Daphne with painful emphasis. Reggie looked +crestfallen. + +“What I say is,” he ventured feebly, “there isn’t any real harm in +Jews.” + +“I daresay you are competent to judge,” said Daphne a little grimly. +There was a pause. + +“We can’t go alone, can we?” Reggie asked doubtfully. + +Daphne, who had just decided that they couldn’t, regarded him with +unmixed scorn. + +“I should very much like to know why not?” she said with some dignity. +“I am quite able to judge of such matters for myself.” + +“Oh! all right,” said Reggie delightedly. “Go and put your things on, +and I’ll square Vera if she comes in.” + +“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” said Daphne as she left the room, +“by squaring Vera!” Reggie, left alone, chuckled. Vera, it seemed, was +closeted with her housekeeper, and would not need squaring. In a few +moments, his companion descended with the addition of a large +rose-covered hat, a well-fitting jacket, and an admirably handsome and +useless feather boa. Daphne asked him if her hat was on quite straight. +It was a superfluous question, as the room was well supplied with +mirrors, but it gave him a valuable opportunity of surveying the whole +effect from every possible point of view. “There’s nothing wrong, is +there?” she pleaded anxiously. + +“It’s fairly decent,” said Reggie contentedly, “only it hides your face +a little.” + +“It’s meant to do that,” Daphne informed him. + +“Well, then, I don’t approve of its intentions,” said Reggie. “They’re a +bit too shady.” This obvious pun having met with the scorn it deserved, +the two descended, and stood for a blissful moment surveying the bright, +sweet freshness of the morning, which seemed expressly created for their +benefit. Their youth laid claim to every breath of spring. They wandered +through the Gardens to the Park, reaching the verge of Piccadilly at +about twelve. Time, however, meaning nothing to them, they continued +their journey, while Reggie explained to her from the front seat of a +’bus all the places that he didn’t know along their route, and she +contradicted him in equally happy ignorance. The foolish moments +gathered an extra force, until at last when they had reached their +destination and passed in due form through the historical associations, +which seemed so very far away, they were confronted by an obviously +absurd clock which asserted that it was half-past one! When they found +that both their watches were under the same delusion, Daphne became +alarmed. + +“What on earth _shall_ we do, Reggie?” she said; “you ought to have been +more careful!” He met her reproach with a rueful sigh. “Can’t you think +of anything?” she demanded indignantly. + +“I can think of lunch,” he ventured. “I could think quite a lot about +lunch.” + +“We oughtn’t to,” said Daphne hesitating. + +“Well, that settles it,” said Reggie; “besides,” he added solemnly, “I +have known you since you were five years old. And you scratched me. It +is one of my earliest memories.” + +“Well, I don’t wonder!” said Daphne crossly; “but I don’t see that has +anything to do with it—anybody would have scratched you!” + +“Armed with the days of our infancy,” Reggie assured her, “why shouldn’t +we share chops, particularly if they are grilled? I grant you it would +be improper if they were fried. I know an awfully good place, too.” That +decided her. Daphne could not refuse what sounded so eminently +satisfactory; besides, it was really great fun, and Reggie was only a +boy. She always considered him a boy, though, as a matter of fact, he +was her senior by three years. + +“I don’t know how you came to know of such a good place,” she said to +him suspiciously as she finished her beautifully grilled cutlet. “I +suppose you lunched here with your lawyer?” Reggie looked a little put +out. + +“I don’t see why you should always drag him in,” he said, “just when I +was enjoying myself, too.” + +“Well, you mustn’t any more,” said Daphne. “It’s time we went home, and +if we meet anybody I shall never forgive you.” + +“The principle is the same,” said Reggie sternly, “if we don’t.” + +“How absurd you are, Reggie. We aren’t doing any harm, are we?” + +“I’m not, certainly,” said Reggie; “but I can’t answer for you.” + +“Well, if we aren’t doing any harm,” Daphne went on, ignoring his +remark, “it can’t be wrong, but if people see us and think it’s wrong, +it _will_ be, you must see that. We are told to avoid the very +appearance——” + +“Of evil,” Reggie finished; “you are, that’s where that hat comes in, it +imputes a bad motive to the whole proceeding. You’d better not take it +into the vicarage, your uncle would want to reform it.” + +“Oh! do you think he’ll reform me?” cried Daphne aghast. Reggie +chuckled. + +“I daresay he’ll _try_,” he said reassuringly, “but I shouldn’t be +anxious about the _result_ if I were you.” Daphne tried to frown, but +her success was dashed by a dimple which she could not overcome. They +went for one more look at the river. The sun caught the sails of the +boats and floated with them into the distant mist. The dome of St. +Paul’s shone like a lighted window, and far off the towers of +Westminster shot up to share the glory. + +“I shall remember to-day,” said Daphne with a little sigh. “Now that I +drift off too, into the mist, where shall I land, I wonder, and shall I +ever come back? It will be all the same, but I sha’n’t be; you know, +Reggie. It will be another girl! I hope,” her eyes rested on the +cathedral in sudden self-searching, “I hope a very much better girl, +Reggie.” + +“Oh! I wouldn’t go as far as that,” he pleaded, “if I were you!” but his +voice was not as steady as he could have wished. + +“You don’t know,” said Daphne in a low, earnest voice, “you don’t know +what I mean.” + +“And won’t you tell me?” he asked. Daphne shook her head. + +“Don’t let’s be sentimental,” she said, “it doesn’t suit you nor please +me. Now, which is most respectable for us: a ’bus or a hansom?” Reggie +looked thoughtful. + +“A hansom is nicer in some ways,” he concluded, “but a ’bus takes a +longer time.” + +“Then we’ll take a hansom,” said Daphne decidedly. “I agree with you, +that the shorter time is a great advantage.” + +“Now, who ever said that?” cried the exasperated Reggie, “you’re simply +unfair!” It was nearly four o’clock, and people had begun to call, +before they reached their destination. “I suppose you’ll write to a +fellow?” Reggie asked as the unnecessarily speedy hansom gave its last +jerk and plunge. Daphne shook her head. + +“There are so many things to do in the country,” she exclaimed as she +said “good-bye.” He held her hand as long as he dared. + +“I say,” he said, blushing furiously, “it’s been a good day, hasn’t it?” +Daphne ceased to gibe, her eyes grew tender as they met his. There was +no doubt that he was an exceedingly nice boy. + +“I told you I wouldn’t forget,” she said, “and I try not to remember +what I haven’t enjoyed.” She turned swiftly and passed into the house. +Even the hat with roses could not hide the friendliness of her eyes. + +The last moments were nearly over, but not quite, when she ran up to her +room and unlocked an old writing-desk full of letters. The handwriting +was strong and full of character, and the letters had been read more +than once. She did not re-read them now, she only glanced at the +signatures Arthur—Arthur—Arthur. There was almost a monotony in the +authorship, yet each had a golden difference to the girl who held them +on her lap. She took them all over to the empty grate and set a match to +them. Passion, and faith, and hope were burned to ashes in a few +moments. + +She sat watching them with hungry eyes. “Now it is all over,” she said, +knowing that nothing had been changed but the visible, and that even +that was not altogether a satisfaction. + +She could not alter so lightly what the letters had meant. + +The drawback to many destructions is that they destroy so little. + + + CHAPTER II. + + “To love as others love, and hate a little less.” + + ERNEST HARTLY COLERIDGE. + +“Of course,” said Mrs. Fordington, “I am not complaining. If it is +Providence (and we can hardly call it anything else) I will say nothing. +I must attend to the Mothers’ Meeting at Aslington, and there is no +necessity for us to go to the station, I have ordered the dog-cart. This +means that I shall have to take a fly. I am quite willing to do so, +Wilfred, though she is no relation of mine.” Her husband smiled gently, +he understood all (that if it had not been Providence, she would have +said), and he was grateful to Providence. + +There are people who are completely managed by a system of catch-words, +and though very often we disagree with their meaning, we would not for +the world interfere with their result. Mrs. Fordington was one of those +persons. She was a very capable woman—that is to say, there were few +things she felt she could not manage, and the remainder she managed +without the faintest hesitation. “There is nothing,” she was fond of +saying, “like being quite sure.” One did not hear so much of Mr. +Fordington. He was a scholar, and there is so little to say about +scholars. He was also a deeply spiritual man. + +“And when does Daphne come, my dear?” he asked her. Mrs. Fordington told +him, and then, finding that she had some minutes to spare, she decided +to use them profitably. + +“Now, Wilfred,” she began, sitting down and drawing on her gloves, “I +should like to speak to you seriously about your niece. I have no +objection to giving her a home, but there must be no misunderstanding +her position here. Your brother John died leaving next to nothing. Yes! +I know what you are going to say, my dear—he gave his money to the +poor! Very true, and if you will allow me to say so, culpably silly. Had +his own daughter no more claim on him than gutter children, and are +people in the gutter any more important than people out of it? What,” +said Mrs. Fordington, “is there in the gutter to make people lose their +heads over it? John lost his, he spent his own money and Mary’s, then +after her death, not even his marriage with an exceedingly worldly woman +made any difference to his gutter money! _She_ burned the candle at the +other end. I don’t believe in extremes. I have often said, ‘Be moderate +and you’ll be safe! Start a crank and everything goes to swell it.’ +Where would Daphne be now if it wasn’t for you?” The Vicar made no +attempt to create a destination for her. + +“John knew I should look after her,” he said. + +“Then,” said his wife, “it was about the only sensible thing he did +know.” Mr. Fordington did not try to defend his brother, not because no +defence was possible, but because there was none his wife would +understand. When he gave her a real reason, she suspected him of keeping +something back. + +“Daphne must accommodate herself to her new position,” she went on. “She +must learn to live as the people of Overham do—the nice people, I mean, +of course. There is plenty of work for a well-regulated mind, and if she +has not yet regulated hers, I daresay I can help her.” + +“We must win her heart first,” said Mr. Fordington, “before we undertake +to influence her mind, and I am not sure that I believe in influencing +anyone’s mind.” + +“I wish you had not such a lax way of talking,” said his wife with a +sigh, “you might be Buddhist!” + +“I think I see the cab,” said her husband, “I hope you will have a nice +time.” + +“Aslington is a dreadful place,” said Mrs. Fordington, “the children +look very unhealthy, and most of them are cross-eyed. I cannot +understand the neglect with which these women treat their children. I +shall speak very plainly indeed. Home is a mere word without a good +mother.” + +“That will come in,” said the Vicar, “very nicely.” + +“Yes,” said his wife with pardonable pride, “I have inserted it in the +last paragraph.” + +“Mother! mother! mother!” called a child’s voice from the lawn, but Mrs. +Fordington was looking over her notes: she did not mean to be unkind, +she was only absent-minded. + +“Be a good girl, Dora,” she said, without looking up, and the cab drove +off. + +“Oh! father dear,” said Dora, coming to the open window, “there was +promises for a drive, and mother didn’t see me at all, she said ‘Be a +good girl,’ and I are a good girl, already!” She was seven years old, +but small and delicate for her age, with eyes like her father’s. Dora +knew that _his_ promises were certain as the sun, but mother forgot hers +until the child almost wondered whether promises were as true as things +which happened. It is puzzling to find out, that what people say can +mean something different and even mean nothing at all, and it is better +not to find this out any sooner than can be helped. + +“You shall drive to the station with me, to see Cousin Daphne,” said her +father, “only it seems to me you might have a clean frock on.” Dora’s +face brightened. + +“You see,” she explained, “I was playing with the chickens, it is a kind +of game where you have to creep under the wires, and look for nests, and +one hen spluttered dirt all over me, an’ I said ‘you’re a ’orrid old +beast,’ and don’t you fink she was, father?” + +“No,” said her father, “you came into her nursery and meddled with her +toys. If she had pecked your dollie, wouldn’t you have been angry?” Dora +hesitated. + +“Dollie’s real,” she explained, “eggs is silly things what you eat for +breakfasts.” + +“They are just as real to the hen,” her father explained, “as Dollie is +to you, and I daresay she would eat Dollie’s sawdust for breakfast if +she could.” Dora grew rather red. + +“Only a _little_ of Dollie is sawdust,” she said; “_most_ of her’s +real!” + +“The hen would say just the same about her egg,” said her father. “Why +did you call her a horrid beast, Dora?” + +“That’s Jack’s name for things,” said Dora with some pride; “isn’t it a +nice name?” + +“I think not,” said her father. “I should call her an estimable bird if +I were you.” + +“That’s a very long name to remember,” said Dora thoughtfully. “Oh, +Daddy!” she suddenly exclaimed, “do you know that I had a dreadful +thought when I was with the hen?” + +“What was it?” asked the Vicar gently. + +“I thought about the very one that spluttered gravel,” said Dora, her +sensitive lips trembling, “that it looked rather—rather like mother, +father dear. Wasn’t it a very wicked thought?” There was a silence +between them. The daffodils were still dancing in the sunlight, but a +light April cloud was coming up over the Church tower. The Vicar watched +it a moment or two. + +“I don’t think God would call it that,” he said at last, “but it was +certainly an undesirable reflection, and, do you know, I don’t think I +should go into the chicken-yard again, except when Jack feeds them?” + +“Is that a punishment, daddy?” she asked with her eyes full of tears. +The Vicar shook his head. + +“It is a precaution,” he said, “and a precaution is a safe thing which +prevents dangerous ones happening.” + +“Like taking off wet shoes and saying ‘please’ before jam?” Dora +enquired. + +“Very much like,” said her father. “Run and put on something pretty and +we will go for our drive if it doesn’t rain.” Dora looked sadly at the +cloud. + +“It most always _does_ rain when I get a clean frock on and Jack does +the windows!” she said with a sigh. + +“Then we will make up a new game if it does,” said the Vicar. The child +ran off happy. “We should not,” said Mr. Fordington to himself, “let +things make too much difference. An estimable bird,” he repeated +thoughtfully. Then he began to smile. He smiled very often. It was a +great help. + + + CHAPTER III. + + “To have the sense of the Eternal in life is a short flight to + the Soul; to have had it is the Soul’s vitality.” + + —GEORGE MEREDITH. + +The stillness and sweetness of the April world broke upon Daphne like a +discovered continent. The country had been silent to her before. She had +passed from house-party to house-party all through the golden summers of +her life, and nature had seemed a picturesque setting—a background for +well-dressed humanity; she wondered now how she had dared to point out +“views” as if they were Academy pictures, and patronize roses by +arranging them in vases. She realized, as the bustling Paddington train +took her through mile after mile of fields and woods and hills, that +nature is an element, not a convenience. They stopped at last at a +little wayside station, a spot of flowers and trees; this was her +destination, and as she stepped off on to the platform, she caught her +breath in a strange sense of loneliness and vastness. She was within +hail of nothing that was customary or usual. The bucolic blue-eyed youth +who stood in heavy uncertainty over her trunks had nothing of the +friendly alertness she expected from porters. As far as she could see +there were neither houses nor signs of life. It was a silent world of +green, and she had not even her maid to fall back upon! Before she had +made up her mind to accost the youth, who evidently expected though he +had not asked for her ticket, she was relieved by the sound of wheels, +and in a few moments the kindly anxious face of Mr. Fordington was +looking down at her. + +“I can’t doubt that you are Daphne,” he said smiling, “because there is +no one else to choose from. That is the beauty of country life, it +individualizes. Dora, this is your cousin.” + +“I should choose you anyhow,” said Dora, “’cause I like your face.” +Daphne laughed. + +“If that is a country compliment,” she said, “it is a very pretty one.” +The groom and the bucolic boy, who, it seemed, was in charge of the +station while the station master was having his tea, bore away the +trunks between them. The drive to the vicarage was a silent one, sunset +lit up the sky, but the steep hills and cold spring leaves struck Daphne +with a sense of cheerless beauty. There seemed something almost stern in +the chilly loveliness of her surroundings. There was much that must be +explained and considered between her uncle and herself, but Dora’s +presence gave them an excuse for putting it off. Daphne felt, in the +silence that was between them, a sense of friendliness and trust that +was grateful to her. She was sure she should be happy with him, and she +meant to be different—oh, quite different—from what she had ever been +before. + +Her uncle watched her thoughtfully. He knew little about her as a young +lady, though he had loved her dearly as a child, when he had stayed with +his brother on his occasional visits to London. He recognized now that +she was what people would call exceedingly pretty, though that struck +him as mattering very little, even if it were more obvious than her +other qualities. He reflected that his wife had never seen her, and +wondered how much she would permit her mind to be regulated by her aunt. + +“Emma will probably bring the Vicar of Aslington back to dinner,” said +her uncle after tea, “to talk over parish matters, and I expect my +curate, Mitchell. I thought I would just tell you. He is what they call +a high churchman, and your aunt does not quite approve of him.” + +“And what are you, uncle?” said Daphne, to whom religion, and especially +its various forms, was an interesting topic. Her uncle smiled. + +“I don’t think I am a party man,” he said, “I have never considered my +position from that standpoint. To me form is beautiful as an interpreter +of Spirit. All that leads one to the height of great realities, +humility, and truth, and love, and thanksgiving, are surely doors into +the infinite; and all that helps us to realize them, whether it is in +the simplicity of a village church, or the magnificent solemnity of a +cathedral, lead us to those doors. Form without Spirit is idolatry, and +Spirit without form is very vague for human hearts to accept, so truth +is given us in parable, and grace in sacraments.” + +“I meant something a little more definite than that,” said Daphne in a +puzzled tone. + +“Bread and butter is definite,” said her uncle, “but it is bread and +butter. You must be content to believe mysteries without explanations, +it often seems to me, a refuge of the superficial, to require things to +be quite clear. It’s a shallow pool you can see the bottom of, and more +often than not an unhealthy one.” + +“I like good music,” said Daphne doubtfully. + +“So do I,” said her uncle, “and I hope you will play to me to-night.” + +“She is not awake yet,” thought her uncle as she went to her room, “and +so many things happen when people wake up.” + + + CHAPTER IV. + + “How very hard it is to be a Christian! Hard for you and me!” + + ROBERT BROWNING. + +“Now, my dear Mr. Ogden,” said Mrs. Fordington as they drove home after +the Mothers’ Meeting, “we shall find that young Mitchell there to-night. +A confirmed Ritualist, and a most bad-tempered young man, and rather +handsome, which is so dangerous, with a young niece in the house; and I +should so like you to take him down a bit. You know my husband—he is +too tolerant, far too tolerant—and I can assure you he won’t say a +word, though he has told me he dislikes incense, and wouldn’t know how +to put on a chasuble if he tried!” + +Mr. Ogden could not quite follow all his neighbour said—the fly jolted +rather—but he caught the gist of it. “I will endeavour,” he said, “to +expose the young man’s ignorance.” + +“No one could do it better, I am sure,” said Mrs. Fordington. Mr. Ogden +looked a little suspicious. “You have such a penetrating mind,” she went +on, “and such a grasp of truth.” + +Mr. Ogden looked as if he had, as if, in fact, he would have closed his +hand on truth, grasped it to fragments, and never parted with the +pieces. “I will uphold the truth,” he assured her, “the Evangelical +truth,” he added rather hastily, as if it were the only safe brand, and +all imitations fraudulent. + +Mrs. Fordington felt that the truth would be all right then; nor did +either of them think that a truth, not capable of standing firm by +itself, might be a shallow, superficial truth, or perhaps not a truth at +all, only a plausible imitation. + +Daphne wore a beautiful dinner dress. She had a lovely neck and +shoulders, even her aunt was surprised—though she was much irritated by +her appearance. She herself was dressed in black trimmed with blue, a +good deal of blue. + +“My dear child,” she said, when she had passed her large, hard cheek to +Daphne, “we dress very simply here. Let me introduce you to our +neighbour, Mr. Ogden, and to my husband’s colleague—Mr. Mitchell. I +hope you are not tired, dear, after your journey?” + +Mr. Mitchell was dark, and undeniably good-looking. He was muscular and +athletic, and Daphne also thought he must be quite six foot. He had deep +blue eyes that turned almost black when he was angry; at least the young +ladies of Overham said so, and they had watched them very carefully. + +At Overham the curate’s eyes were tremendously important. They backed +his sermons wonderfully, and lent force to all his appeals. They even +sold pincushions at bazaars, made by other young ladies. There was no +end to their general utility, and it is to his credit that he knew +nothing at all about them. + +Daphne talked to Mr. Ogden till dinner-time. She asked him how to teach +at Sunday School. He told her, and found her most intelligent. “Of +course there _are_ other methods besides mine,” he modestly declared. + +“But your’s are so clear!” said Daphne, “and so interesting, and that’s +a very unusual combination for Sunday School teaching—isn’t it?” + +Mr. Ogden found her quite exhilarating to talk to. They went down to +dinner. Mrs. Fordington was an economical housekeeper. She gave you +plenty to eat, perhaps more than you fancied, but she economized in +quality. Sometimes her husband wished it was the other way round, but he +never said so. He often frowned when Dora ate no breakfast. Mrs. +Fordington frowned too, when she noticed it; but _she_ frowned at Dora. + +“What kind of a meeting did you have this afternoon, my dear?” asked her +husband. + +“We really did very well, I think. Twenty women turned up, and were +quite attentive. We had tea afterwards. Of course the poor things are +sadly ignorant, but at any rate I spoke plainly to them. I tried to make +them understand their duties.” + +“And what are their duties?” asked Daphne innocently. + +Her aunt looked annoyed. “When you are a mother, Daphne, you will +understand,” she said coldly. + +“But then, why don’t they understand?” Daphne persisted; “they are +mothers, aren’t they—or they wouldn’t—meet?” + +“You are quite silly, Daphne; because they are uneducated, ignorant +women, of course. Their duties——” Mrs. Fordington paused. (Daphne felt +relieved. The curate really had a sense of humour—he was smiling.) +“Their duties,” the Vicar’s wife repeated, “are to make their homes +happy and comfortable, to keep their children healthy and tidy, and to +be good examples and kindly companions to their husbands.” + +“Well, for uneducated, ignorant women, that must be a lot for them to +learn,” said Daphne smiling. “You must forgive me for asking silly +questions, please. It seems so very funny to be in a parish: I don’t +believe I ever dined with a clergyman before; if I did he was lost +somewhere among the others. You must excuse me if I make mistakes.” + +“Miss Fordington,” said Mr. Mitchell quietly, “clergymen are quite like +other men, you know.” + +“Except,” said Mr. Ogden, seeing his opportunity, “what we may call +those sexless creatures, modern Ritualists.” + +There was a pause, but before the bomb shell had had time to go off, or +Mr. Mitchell to accept the sudden and sweeping challenge of his +adversary, Mr. Fordington gently intervened. He hoped, he said, that Mr. +Ogden had not forgotten to make him one of his especial flies. + +“I go in for trout fishing,” he explained to his niece, “and Ogden goes +in for making flies, better than nature, and twice as natural. Of course +May is our month, but one ought to get ready in April.” + +Her uncle landed his fish, and for ten minutes Mr. Ogden talked about +flies, but the danger was not over yet. + +“I noticed,” said Mrs. Fordington, “that when I went to church this +morning to do the flowers, it was already open. Was it an oversight, or, +if not, may I ask for what reason it can possibly have been open at that +hour of the morning?” + +The curate looked uncomfortable. The Vicar again intervened. “But if you +wanted to do the church vases, my dear,” he said mildly, “you must have +been pleased to find the door open.” + +“I had the keys with me,” said his wife coldly, “and that is not the +point, Wilfred: _why_ was it open?” + +“Do you not think, Mrs. Fordington,” said the curate bravely, “that it +is a good thing to have the church open, all day if possible, so that +people may go into it if they choose?” + +“Why should people go into it, Mr. Mitchell?” asked the Vicar’s wife +severely, glancing across the table to Mr. Ogden. + +“They might wish to pray,” said the young man, hating himself for what +looked like cant. Daphne liked him for saying it. + +Mr. Ogden snorted. “And why, sir,” he exclaimed, “should they pray +there? They can pray at home if they want to, though I daresay it would +be better for them to do a little hard work, instead of reeling off +prayer like a Chinaman’s flying wheel.” + +“Do you consider work incompatible with prayer then?” asked the young +clergyman defiantly. + +“I believe in prayer, sir,” Mr. Ogden replied angrily. “Real, earnest +prayer, sir! at the proper times——” + +“Ah, and what do you consider the proper times?” asked Mr. Mitchell. + +“The proper time,” began Mr. Ogden, who was not quite sure of his +footing, and was thinking of a text to floor his adversary, “the proper +times are morning and evening in your own home, and on the Sabbath day, +in the Lord’s House.” + +There were at least three statements in this answer that Mr. Mitchell +longed to tear limb from limb—they were to him—the very dragon, and +the world’s old enemy, but he contented himself with asking Mr. Ogden a +little ironically, and as a preparation for the conflict in store: “Have +you chapter and verse for all that—sir—or does the Church teach it?” + +Daphne listened with great amusement, but she was almost as startled as +the rest of them, when her uncle said in a voice full of pain: “My dear +friends! may I ask if this discussion is being carried on in a Christian +spirit—and if it is not, would it not be better to refrain?” + +“It is a discussion upon Christian topics,” Mr. Ogden at length replied. + +“But scarcely I would imagine,” Mr. Fordington said very quietly, with +the pained expression deepening on his face, “scarcely for the Glory of +God—and so I venture to think, my dear Ogden—unprofitable.” + +“I beg your pardon, sir,” said young Mitchell quickly, “and yours, Mr. +Ogden—I fear I spoke hastily and without due consideration.” + +Mr. Fordington’s face cleared. Mr. Ogden pursed up his mouth rather +stubbornly. He was a firm man, and besides, he felt that the text would +have come to him in a minute; he was three years older than the Vicar of +Overham, but it was certainly not his place to rebuke him. Aslington was +a larger parish. + +Daphne turned to her uncle. “What music shall I bring down after +dinner?” she asked. Conversation began again—and the truth had been +upheld. + + + CHAPTER V. + + “O fancies that might be! Oh, facts that are!” + + ROBERT BROWNING. + +Mrs. Fordington was forced to take her girls’ Bible Class soon after +dinner, leaving her niece still playing to the rest. Daphne played well, +she played from her emotions. So music took it out of her—as indeed it +does, from all those who have it _in_ them, and she soon became +exhausted. + +Her uncle and Mr. Ogden were absorbed in “flies.” She turned to the +curate, “I wonder why you are here?” she said. “Tell me about it.” + +The curate had decided at dinner that she was flippant, and not to be +trusted; he was therefore surprised to find himself telling her, what he +had told to no one—of a slight weakness in his lungs, and the necessity +of good air for a year or two. He told her of his passionate love of +humanity, with the ambition of a home somewhere in London, and the +chance of a life-work among the hurried workers in strange places, so +near, some of them, and yet so little understood by the world from which +she came. + +“Ah!” he said, “the monotony! think of it! One little piece of shoe +perhaps—made and remade, minute after minute, through hours, and days, +and years, through lives and generations! Lives, spent too, without +privacy, without horizon, with neither light nor beauty, and the break +in them! The terrible holidays! when their jaded spirits find in the +re-action of gross self-indulgence the only joy that it is in their +power to attain! + +“They talk of ‘reversion to type,’ what kind of a type are we Englishmen +making to send down its curse to posterity, to guard and keep the +interests of our Empire? We do not go back to old types in our +retrogression, for they were at least free from the complications of +modern life. We form new and hideous possibilities; brains that have +become machines, and machines in charge of depraved human passions. + +“Not even a limited company can get rid of human nature—it can only +poison it. + +“Think of the bodies and souls of London districts! Have you watched +them pour out of factories, or seen them stagger into the only free +Homes open to them, at the street corner? We talk about the Church, and +we have services on Sunday, and they don’t know—and could not practice +if they did—the barest decencies of life.” + +Daphne listened intently. She was quite used to people telling her what +they felt. They generally did, for she was by nature sympathetic. That +is to say, she voluntarily saw things from other people’s points of +view, a faculty which has its dangers. She saw now, the grey multitude +the curate pictured, and her heart met his in a passionate enthusiasm of +pity. She hated the dress she was wearing. It had cost sixteen pounds. +One might, she thought, have given it to them somehow, but of course she +couldn’t stop wearing the dress. + +“Oh!” she said, looking into the curate’s eyes, “how terribly selfish we +are! We are so willing to give up other people’s things! I remember +hearing an address in town on the East London Fund. The girl I went with +cried terribly, and I made resolutions. Then we went to Fuller’s and +bought some lovely chocolates and had tea. Wasn’t it horrible?” + +The curate shrugged his shoulders. + +“Your uncle’s is a very easy parish,” he said; “sometimes it makes me +feel as if I were buying chocolates.” + +“Yes,” she said, “but in two years——” + +His eyes grew grave and happy. “If I am permitted in two years,” he +said, “I shall think myself a most fortunate man.” + +She felt irritated. He was throwing himself away. “My uncle is a very +good man,” she said, “yet _he_ does not consider it necessary to work in +the slums.” + +“Mr. Fordington is married,” said the curate slowly. “That—is very +different.” + +Suddenly she knew that he was thinking of some girl, and that it was +hard. “I understand,” she said gently; “so you won’t marry?” + +“One must give up one’s life to one’s work,” he said. + +“And one’s love?” said Daphne. + +The curate glanced at her hurriedly. Then he looked away. The Vicar was +happily examining his fishing gear with Mr. Ogden. Below them, in the +parish room, the monotonous unwavering tones of Mrs. Fordington’s +Bible-Class voice, were quite audible. “That belongs to one’s work, +too,” he said finally. + +“Ah! you poor, dear young man!” thought Daphne to herself, “are you so +very sure?” + +After they had gone, she asked her uncle, a little suddenly, if there +were any nice girls in the parish. + +“The Overham young ladies,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “play +hockey very well in the winter, and they have tennis in the summer. I +imagine your aunt would tell you, that they all teach in Sunday school, +but I am not quite sure!” + +“Good Heavens!” cried Daphne, “don’t they read, think, or work, have +they no interests, no resources, no characters?” + +“My dear!” said her uncle smiling outright now, “you are very impulsive. +They are good, sensible, English girls. I daresay you would find them a +little dull, a trifle local, too, perhaps. You see there is little +excitement in a place like this, and a great paucity of young men.” + +“That has nothing to do with it,” flashed Daphne angrily. + +Her uncle laughed aloud. “Oh, yes, my dear! it has!” he said. “It has +everything in the world to do with it!” + +“Well,” said Daphne smiling unwillingly, “am I supposed to play tennis +too?” + +“You may play any game you like,” said her uncle with quick gravity, +“Daphne dear—if you play fair.” + +“I don’t know what you mean,” said Daphne blushing, but she knew +perfectly well; and, as she kissed him good-night, she thought almost as +much of his penetration as of his charity. + +Mrs. Fordington found her husband alone. “Wilfred,” she said, “don’t +tell me that you let her flirt with that young Mitchell?” + +“My dear Emma,” said her husband, “Mitchell doesn’t know how to flirt, +and Daphne has gone to bed.” + +“I knew we should have trouble,” sighed his wife, “the moment I saw that +low-necked dress.” + +“My dear! you wear them yourself,” her husband pleaded. + +“Yes, but they do not look the same on me,” she replied; “besides, she +has three enormous trunks.” The Vicar was silent. His silences often +baffled his wife, for she felt as if they did not come from her having +convinced him—she did not dream they came from his being unable to talk +down to her level. “I can’t understand you, Wilfred,” she said, “you +always seem to evade my arguments.” + +“My dear Emma,” he said, “they are unanswerable, and we are very late. I +hope the girls’ class after your full afternoon did not tire you.” + +“Well!” said Mrs. Fordington, not yet fully mollified, “whether I am +tired or not, I hope I always do my duty.” + +“I am quite sure you do,” said her husband; “I will just see if Dora is +asleep before I go to bed.” + +“You simply spoil that child, Wilfred,” said his wife, and she did not +offer to go with him. + + + CHAPTER VI. + + “It requires a long time to know any one.” + + SANCHO PANZA’S PROVERBS. + +Daphne grew to like Overham, and indeed it would have been strange if +she had not. She carried the place by storm. The men liked her because +she was so uncommonly well up on subjects which interested them. She was +a good listener. The women, who at first were inclined to stand +off—partly because she dressed so well and was hard to snub—were quite +won over by her deprecating way of asking advice from them about +subjects on which they knew nothing. + +Daphne was not consciously insincere, but mingled with an intense desire +to please lay a dramatic ability, too delightful to be subdued. She let +herself go, and afterwards she was sorry. She came too soon through all +conventions and polite barriers into the garden of souls, and when she +found potatoes instead of roses, she tried to get out again. The result +was, that sometimes she did a good deal of damage in the garden, for she +was usually disappointed—and she undervalued potatoes altogether. + +One of the first things she did was to offer to play the organ, but her +uncle told her that there was a girl who did that already. + +“She is a fine girl,” he said; “I should like to introduce her to you, +she is so absolutely true.” + +“I’m afraid that means that she is very abrupt and wears a sailor hat, +doesn’t it?” asked Daphne smiling up at him, as she dusted the books in +his study. It was one of her gifts to handle books properly, and even +when she took them out to put them back in their proper places and right +side up. + +“Yes,” said her uncle, “in this case it does mean that, but it also +means a great deal more. She is very poor, and lives with a widowed +mother, who is in some ways unfortunate. They manage to rub on somehow, +with what the girl does, training choirs, giving music lessons, and the +like. She does most of the work in the parish. She is coming to give +Dora a lesson this morning, but I want them to go out and pick primroses +instead. It is such a lovely morning, perhaps you would like to go with +them?” + +Daphne nodded. “I think it would do me good,” she said. + +Her uncle looked at her as if he would like to say something, but he +checked himself. He had come to the conclusion that if you wished +someone to like someone else, it is wiser not to tell them so. + +A few minutes later, Daphne was formally introduced to Katherine Linton. + +It was not until they had reached a certain wood, carpeted with +primroses, where Dora, silent with delight, was tremulously and +hurriedly digging her little hands into the cool, mossy home of them, +that Daphne began to take stock of her companion. She was smaller than +Daphne, and had a face and figure almost too strong to be pretty, but in +spite of this she was pretty, by reason of a complexion typically +English, and yet so rare, that not even in England does one come across +it often. She had the skin of a little child, clear white, with shades +and tints that made a wild rose, hackneyed as the comparison seems, the +only term for it; but it was her mouth that pleased Daphne most. It was +beautiful, and on it one saw her character written plainly. + +“I wonder why my uncle never told me about you before?” Daphne said. + +Katherine laughed. “Why should he?” she asked, “and what on earth was +there to tell you? I am his organist and he is very good to me.” + +“He certainly wouldn’t be likely to tell me that!” said Daphne. “But he +might have said that you were simply delightful, and that I should be +sure to like you immensely!” + +Katherine’s eyes flashed and she bit her lips. “You are simply laughing +at me!” she said, “and I don’t like it!” + +Daphne felt suddenly young and abashed. There were a hundred ways in +which she might contradict this, but she used none of them. “I am so +sorry,” she said, “I am afraid that it was just my way of talking.” + +“You have no business to talk that way, unless you mean it,” said +Katherine. + +Daphne had never been spoken to like this before. She burst out +laughing. Katherine looked perplexed for a moment, but she soon joined +her. “And do you mean to say,” said Daphne at last, “that you never say +nice things to people?” + +“I don’t think lies _are_ nice,” said Katherine firmly. + +“Oh, yes, they are, awfully,” said Daphne, “and, besides, you know, nice +things aren’t always lies, anymore than rude things are always true!” + +Katherine turned penitent. “Oh, Miss Fordington!” she said, “I am afraid +I was dreadfully rude.” + +Daphne laughed. “I can assure you,” she said, “I liked it immensely, and +it is most bracing, but please call me Daphne, it sounds so much more +natural in a wood—and even out of it!” + +“No. I shall not do that,” said Katherine Linton. + +“Are you afraid you wouldn’t mean it?” said Daphne smiling. + +“No,” said Katherine, “I am not.” + +“Then, for Heaven’s sake, what principle does it offend?” cried Daphne. + +“I am your uncle’s organist,” said Katherine. + +“I am his niece,” said Daphne, “but what of it?” Their eyes met, and +they looked long and hard at each other. Then suddenly Daphne leaned +forward and kissed her. “Now, what are you going to call me?” she asked. +“You have a perfect right to call me most impertinent.” + +“Well, I won’t call you that—Daphne,” said Katherine very slowly. + +Katherine went home with the knowledge that life had become rich in +possibilities. She was one of those people who love, very simply, and +very entirely—and so as a natural consequence—very rarely. She thought +Daphne was wonderful. + +Daphne shrugged her shoulders over the episode, that was what she called +it. “Now,” she said, “when I go away from here, I shall have to write to +that girl. I wonder why I made her call me Daphne?” + +“Cousin Daphne,” said Dora very slowly, “I wish you wouldn’t pin those +primroses.” + +“Why, sweetheart,” said Daphne, “don’t you think they look nice there?” + +“Yes, but it must hurt them terribly,” said Dora, “and they have such +good faces.” + +Daphne hesitated, but she loved children. “All right, Dora,” she said, +“put them in water with yours, and then come and lie down while Daphne +reads to you.” + +“My dear Daphne,” said her Aunt, coming in, “Dora has missed her +lessons, and she must really practise a little now. I should be glad if +you would help me do the Parish library accounts.” Daphne obeyed, but +came back to find Dora in tears over her five-finger exercises. + +“I can always find my fingers,” Dora explained tearfully; “but oh, I +can’t never find the keys!” Daphne shut the piano gently, and together +they arranged the primroses. + + + CHAPTER VII. + + “The worldly Hope, men set their Hearts upon, + Turns Ashes—or it prospers; and anon, + Like Snow upon the Desert’s dusty Face, + Lighting a little hour or two—is gone.” + + RUBAIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM. + +An event was at last going to happen at Overham, Lady Middleton, +Daphne’s stepmother, was going to take a house in the neighbourhood for +three months. It is perhaps one of the things that is most to be envied +in possessors of riches, that they can take houses, really beautiful +houses, in places of a thousand lovely kinds, and sink into them as +naturally as to-morrow follows to-day for a few months, and then drift +out of them with equal ease and comfort to other places also prepared +for them. + +The rich are not indifferent to pain, nor cruel to poverty, they are +merely ignorant of daily bread, and the efforts required to attain it. +They have much of the happy-go-lucky fatalism to be found among the +outcasts of society, and the tramps in hedges; only the one class learns +it in defiance of an experience that has proved too hard, and the other +from an absence of experience which has proved too comfortable. + +Lady Middleton was of this latter sort. She had been known to scold a +poor governess for walking on a cold winter’s day without furs, and when +the governess had remarked with some spirit that she had not got them, +she became very vague indeed, and said she supposed that there was a +society for that sort of thing. Then she rang for some cold milk and +biscuits for the governess. + +Lady Middleton’s first child had married well, she had three thousand a +year pin money, and she had known little of her husband. Daphne, her +stepdaughter, she had taken great trouble over, and Daphne was much +prettier than her own daughter, but she was more wilful. She even said +she wished to know before-hand something of her husband, which Lady +Middleton had felt was not quite nice. However, she meant to do her duty +by her, and for that purpose had taken a place at Overham, filled it +with servants and pretty things, and had invited suitable guests. Among +them Lady Cheston and her twin daughters Alice and Maude, who, if they +had not worn different ribbons on their clothes, could scarcely have +been told apart. The difficulty, as Lady Cheston herself explained, was +obviated by the fact that it didn’t make the slightest difference, as +nobody cared, except perhaps, Alice and Maude. + +With them came their brother Reggie, whom no one except the servants +seemed to remember as Lord Cheston, and David Grey, who owned a good +deal of property and the handsomest head in London. There was also a +young American said to be literary, and certainly amusing. The men +almost at once began to call him Russell, and the women equally soon +discovered that his first name was Bert. The party was finished off by +the lion of the season, a certain well-known surgeon, who had added +hypnotism to his other talents. + +Lady Middleton wished Daphne to marry David Grey, or, if the child +preferred an alternative, she had no real objection to Reggie, though he +had little money. Sir Henry Middleton came down for Sundays. He was ten +years younger than his wife. + +Lady Middleton went to call at once upon Mrs. Fordington. “You must +really let me borrow Daphne,” she said, looking at Mrs. Fordington’s +afternoon dress, and deciding that she was “impossible.” “I have not +seen the dear child for so long. A few days with some of her old friends +may do her good, don’t you think?” She added in the same breath, “I +should so much like to live in a vicarage. Don’t you find it charming?” + +Mrs. Fordington had not asked herself this question. “The house is +rather too small,” she said, “and the garden too large——” + +“Oh, but _can_ a garden be too large, dear Mrs. Fordington?” said Lady +Middleton looking intensely earnest, and wondering whether Daphne would +come in. “I never feel as if I could breathe without an horizon.” + +“I was thinking of gardeners,” said Mrs. Fordington, “they are an +additional expense.” + +“Oh, yes! of course,” said Lady Middleton with enthusiasm; “but then, +they wear such _nice_ hats, don’t they?—and know the names of +flowers—I do think it’s _so_ clever of them! I have often wanted to ask +some one who knew. Do you really think they’re _good_, Mrs. Fordington?” + +“_My_ gardeners are,” said the Vicar’s wife, “but then I keep my eye on +them.” + +“_How_ clever of you! I wish I could, but I always say to them, ‘Now, my +dear creatures, please _don’t_ turn up in the wrong places, and _never_ +appear suddenly in secluded corners,’ and then, you see, they keep out +of the way, and I can assure you they are no trouble at all. But I’m so +glad that you think they’re _good_.” + +The Vicar entered at this moment, much to his wife’s relief. + +Lady Middleton stretched out both her hands to him. “My dear Wilfred,” +she said, “how unspeakably like dear John you are!” And then she burst +into tears. Mrs. Fordington looked hopelessly at the bell-rope, and then +at the family bible. She was seldom at a loss when there was anything to +be done, but for a moment she stood paralyzed before she opened a +window. + +“Oh, thank you _so_,” said Lady Middleton, whose dress she had trod on +as she passed, “_how_ kind you both are to me! I know you’ll let me have +Daphne for a few days—she will be such a comfort to me.” + +“Of course you can have Daphne,” said her brother-in-law, but he did not +refer to “dear John.” + +A few minutes later Lady Middleton was telling them both of a wonderful +cure for sin. “It’s all _so_ easy,” she explained. “You are hypnotised +by a really good man, who says to you, ‘When you wake up, such and such +a sin will be loathsome to you,’ and whatever it is, debt, or drink, or +betting, you just wake up hating it, and in the same way you get to love +your neighbour, and make sacrifices, and go to church regularly, and be +nice to your maid, and do real good in every possible way—and don’t you +think, dear Wilfred, we might try it on here?” The Vicar gasped. + +Mrs. Fordington’s patience was at an end. “My dear Lady Middleton,” she +said with some firmness, “your suggestion is absolutely unpractical, +and, though I am sure you do not mean to be so, it strikes me as +exceedingly irreverent.” + +Lady Middleton got very red. “You misunderstand, Mrs.—er—Fordington,” +she said. “I was speaking to your husband.” + +Mrs. Fordington rose, and swept majestically to the door. +“Good-afternoon, Lady Middleton,” she said, facing her adversary with an +intense indignation that was not becoming. “In that case, I will leave +you with my husband!” + +“How clever of you,” murmured Lady Middleton, then she turned to the +Vicar with her sweetest smile. “I’m so sorry to have vexed your wife, +dear Wilfred,” she said, “but women who have not read, or thought, or +_lived_ deeply, scarcely understand these things. I feel barely on the +threshold of them myself.” + +The Vicar smiled. “If you take my advice, Vera,” he said, “you will +remain on the threshold. I am afraid the agricultural mind is not +receptive to new ideas. Why not try your theory, if you feel sure of its +efficacy, upon some of your personal friends?” + +“It requires active willingness, and a blank mind,” explained Lady +Middleton. + +“Well, surely,” said the Vicar, “you could supply both those +requirements—outside the labouring classes.” + +Lady Middleton looked discouraged, but a happy thought struck her. “I +will find a child,” she exclaimed, “that is what I want, a school child +for a penny an hour——” + +The Vicar cut her short. “Not a single school child from this parish, +Vera,” he said sternly; “I do not approve of experiments upon children.” + +Lady Middleton’s face fell again, but at that moment she saw through the +window Katherine Linton and Daphne crossing the lawn. + +The Vicar had scarcely time to open the long French window, and free her +dress from a nail, before she made a graceful dash out into the garden, +and caught Daphne in her arms. “My dearest, dearest child!” she said, +kissing her passionately, “at last I have you!” + +Daphne looked startled and annoyed; unconsciously she clung to +Katherine’s hand as if she were afraid. “I did not know you would be +here—so soon,” she answered finally. Lady Middleton poured out her plan +for Daphne’s visit. “I have not introduced you to Katherine,” said +Daphne, after she had listened carefully to all her stepmother said, and +wondered not a little, as to what she meant, and didn’t say. “She is to +have a holiday for a week, may she come with me?” + +Lady Middleton’s eyes turned hard for a moment, but a glance at Daphne +showed her that she must change her attitude, or lose her game. +Unconsciously the two girls faced her, as if they were her enemies. She +smiled charmingly. “You must let me call you Katherine, dear,” she said, +“and I should quite _love_ to have you both. Will you come to-morrow?” + +Katherine was silent and perplexed. She would have refused at once, but +for what looked like fear in Daphne’s face. The two had grown, in the +last few weeks, into a friendship for each other so profound and +absorbing that they seemed capable of a communion as much beyond words +as it was independent of them. + +She smiled, and said naturally, “I am afraid, Lady Middleton, I have no +decent clothes.” + +Lady Middleton was quite shocked, and became vague in a moment. “You +dear child!” she said, “come in anything! Daphne will help you. It is +all quite simple. I don’t _believe_ in luxury, it always seems to me to +be not really Christian, I like _quiet_ comfort.” + +Daphne met her stepmother’s eyes again. “Comfort is so expensive,” she +said, “isn’t it? I mean one’s own comfort.” + +“Dear child!”—murmured Lady Middleton. She kissed her good-bye, and +shook hands caressingly with Katherine. + +The Vicar took her to her carriage, before she got in she handed him a +cheque for £50. “My dear Wilfred,” she said, “please buy something +really _nice_ for your people with this. It might provide Christmas +trees, mightn’t it? or spring clothes for the children? I think it never +does to be indefinite, don’t you? But you will know best, I am sure, as +to what is most suitable. I will send the carriage to-morrow for dear +Daphne. It was a great grief to me to give the child up, but I felt that +I owed it to _you_. After all I am only her stepmother!” + +“Thank God for that!” said the Vicar solemnly to himself. He did not +tell Lady Middleton that it was kind of her to give him the cheque. She +wondered a little afterwards at his omission, but decided to herself +that his breath had been taken away by her generosity. As a matter of +fact, the Vicar said to himself that Lady Middleton was paying a little +hush money to Providence. He wondered what for, but Daphne knew. + + + CHAPTER VIII. + + “Courage slays giddiness at abysses; + And when is not man confronted with abysses?” + + NIETZSCHE. + +“Daphne,” said Katherine, when they were left alone, “why did you make +me give in? You know I shall not be at home there. What is that you want +me for? If I didn’t think you wanted me, nothing would induce me to go.” + +“Well—I do want you,” said Daphne. They walked towards a garden seat +and sat down, with a silence between them which expressed a confidence +deeper than words; yet words were to follow as an outcome of their +confidence. It was Katherine who spoke first. + +“There is one thing that you ought to understand,” she said, “and that +is that I should never have let you become my friend.” + +“I do not think that it is necessary for me to understand that now, +Katherine, it is too late!” said Daphne smiling. + +Through the open window the white-capped maid was preparing tea, they +watched her carefully. + +“But I want to tell you,” said Katherine; “I think you ought to know.” + +“I ought to know nothing that does not make it easier for you,” replied +Daphne firmly. + +“I think it would make it—easier,” said Katherine. Mrs. Fordington +entered the drawing-room, and spoke shortly to the maid, who had been +extravagant over jam sandwiches. Daphne frowned. + +“Then—tell me,” she said. + +“People don’t call much—on my mother,” said Katherine. “That’s all.” + +Daphne had seen Mrs. Linton, a pretty, dark woman, who was an officer’s +widow. “I have often wondered why,” said Daphne. + +“But you never asked me!” said Katherine, her voice trembling a little. + +“Dearest, why should I? It could make no difference to us. And there are +so many things one can’t tell.” + +“There is nothing that I could not tell you!” said Katherine. + +Daphne smiled a little. “Tell me—then,” she repeated. + +“My father is alive,” said Katherine quietly, “and I have never seen +him. Captain Linton was not—my father. People think there is something +wrong, but, of course, no one knows the truth.” + +“Does anyone—ever know the truth?” said Daphne wearily. + +“Yes,” said Katherine. There was an absolute silence again, except for a +boisterous thrush, tossing his views of spring across to a blackbird +digging up a worm, and far too busy to answer him. Daphne put her hand +over Katherine’s. “Don’t!” said Katherine quickly. + +Mrs. Fordington walked out on to the lawn. “Miss Linton,” she said +coldly, “will you come in to tea?” + +Katherine excused herself and went home. “Mother, dear,” she said, “do +you think you could spare me for a week to-morrow? I will come in and +see every day how you are getting on. Daphne wants me to go with her to +her stepmother’s.” + +“That would be Lady Middleton’s, wouldn’t it?” her mother asked, laying +down some expensive embroidery. + +“Yes, mother.” + +“Well, dear, I have always wanted you to see some society; but the +people are so strange here. They never call, I can’t understand it,” +sighed Mrs. Linton. She always lived on that side of her mystery. It was +far harder for Katherine than if she had permitted them both to face the +truth. “You’ll have to have some new clothes, you know, and I could get +some money for you quite easily. I think it’s so cruel of you, +Katherine, never to let me have any money! It is not for myself I +complain, but it is so terrible to see my daughter a fright, and to know +that we could afford a really good carpet.” + +“Mother, dear,” said Katherine firmly, “I will never touch any of that +money, nor, so long as you choose to live with me, shall you. Daphne and +I have seen about clothes, and she is giving me some of hers.” + +“Do you mean to say you are accepting charity?” almost screamed Mrs. +Linton. + +Katherine winced as if she had been struck. Then she smothered a retort +that had risen to her lips. “I do not look upon it in that light, +mother,” she said. + +“Katherine,” said Mrs. Linton, “you are a fool. That girl is only +amusing herself with you.” + +“Mother,” said Katherine, “I am not going to stay here and listen to +your abuse of my friends!” + +Mrs. Linton laughed. “This is the kind of brawl, my dear child, that you +treat me to so often. You have your father’s temper.” Katherine clenched +her teeth, and for a moment her mother seemed quelled. “And his little +tricks of manner,” she concluded. + +Her daughter walked towards the door. Their discussions usually ended +this way. + +“Katherine—come back!” her mother called after her. The girl turned, +her eyes were blazing. “I hope you will have a good time, dear,” said +her mother gently. “And when you’re angry, don’t stride, it looks +ridiculous.” + +Katherine checked herself again, and moving swiftly over to her mother, +caught both her hands. “You’ll be all right, dear, till I come back?” +she whispered. + +Mrs. Linton laughed. “Silly child,” she said, “kiss me, and go and see +to your frocks! You are a good child, too, you know, and almost a pretty +one.” Katherine drew herself away from her mother angrily. + +She was alternately repelled and fascinated by her, and since sixteen +she had worked for her and watched over her with the devotion of a slave +and the strength of a master. Her reward was that she kept her mother, +and that though people talked, they did not know that worse than what +they said was true, neither did they guess that Katherine and Mrs. +Linton knew that they said it. Katherine had to work hard, and she had +never left her mother alone before. The moment the door shut, Mrs. +Linton moved swiftly and gracefully over to her writing-table, and tore +up a letter she had written. Then she began to cry, walking up and down +the room. She did all this as dramatically as if she had an audience, +but she did not cry very hard. + +When Katherine returned, she was still doing embroidery. “I am afraid +you will tire your eyes, mother,” Katherine said. + +“My eyes are always tired, Katherine,” replied her mother, “I am going +to bed.” They said good-night but they did not kiss each other. + +After her mother had gone to bed, Katherine saw the paper on the floor. +It had been torn so loosely, that she could read the address. “Well! she +tore up the letter,” said Katherine, “so it’s all right. I can go +to-morrow!” + +She rose to her feet almost light-heartedly. She had lived so long and +so closely with tragedy, that she had grown quite used to it. There were +times when it wouldn’t leave one alone, when there seemed no let up, for +the emotions, and there were times when it would. It was Katherine’s +nature to believe that there were more of the easier times, and to face +the hard ones when they came with the quietness of a great courage. + + + CHAPTER IX. + + “That we devote ourselves to God is seen + In living just as if, no God there were.” + + ROBERT BROWNING. + +The two girls were in their room dressing for dinner. From their window +the view of wood and hill, with here and there a great red field, and +the new-born freshness of green trees, delighted them both. + +“I must tell you about them all,” said Daphne, “David and Reggie are +great friends of mine. I think they both want to marry me, but I’m not +sure. I am quite sure Vera wishes me to marry them both, or _would_, if +it were ‘quite nice,’ to have two husbands, one for his title, and the +other for his money, David’s family is good as well. Mr. Russell I know +also, but I don’t understand him, he says very pretty things. The twins +would be immensely nice, if there was only one of them, as it is, there +is too much ‘repetition,’ even their own mother laughs at them.” + +“Daphne, how horrid!” exclaimed Katherine. + +Daphne looked surprised. “My dear girl,” she said, “they’re simply +absurd.” + +“I hate you when you talk like that!” said Katherine twisting her hair +back fiercely. “You ought to know it’s unkind to laugh at people! you +wouldn’t like it yourself!” + +“What a dear, you are!” said Daphne; “but you had better let me do your +hair, you have a way of making it as rigid as your principles, and stiff +hair is horrible you know. Then there’s Lady Cheston,” she went on, +giving finishing touches to her companion’s dress. “You won’t like her, +I know. She smokes and flirts with David. She will marry him if I don’t, +that’s why Vera has her here, she thinks it will put me on my mettle. +Keep still, Katherine, you’re restive! Then there is Arthur Field, the +great surgeon, who became a hypnotist, he’s one of Vera’s passions, but +they are all very innocent, she is only dangerous when she tackles +theories, and he’s not a sham.” + +“Do you like him?” asked Katherine. + +“Oh, one doesn’t _like_ those sort of people you know,” said Daphne +fastening on a rose. “One justs talks about them. It’s an amusement, +like a pianola, Vera has a pianola. By-the-bye, she has picked up Mr. +Mitchell somewhere, and invited him to dinner; he will be rather out of +it I should imagine, but she always has a parson, she thinks a great +deal of her soul.” Daphne watched her friend—she was blushing. “You are +very silent, Katherine,” she said. + +“I have nothing at all to say,” said Katherine, the colour deepening in +her face. + +“Is that quite true?” Daphne asked her, drawing her into her arms. + +“Well! I’m not going to say it, anyway,” Katherine admitted. + +Daphne smiled down at her. “I think Mr. Mitchell is very nice,” she +whispered. + +“And I am trying not to think so, Daphne,” said Katherine quietly. + +“And he?” asked Daphne. + +“We can neither of us marry,” said Katherine; “I could not spoil his +work, nor leave my mother, but you mustn’t think it’s a trouble, Daphne +dear, it did not go far enough for that.” + +The dinner-bell rang, and, without a word, they went down into the +drawing-room. Reggie and David were talking to the twins, who were +dressed in pink and blue. They looked as if they were saying the same +things. Lady Cheston was laughing very loudly at something Arthur Field +had said. + +Katherine noticed him at once, he had a face like an eagle, and eyes +that, if they were not on you, still gave the impression that they saw +you. Bert Russell took her into dinner. She was glad he was an American, +for it gave her a safe topic, but he took it away from her at once. + +“Yes, I have been ever so long in England, I can see you’re going to ask +me, and I do think it’s a perfectly fascinating country, though I’m not +sure I like to ride in a small box, instead of a car, and drawn by a toy +engine as well.” + +Katherine laughed. “I was afraid you’d be difficult to talk to,” she +said, “but I don’t believe you will.” + +“Oh, don’t you worry about that!” said Bert smiling, “American men are +always easy to talk to; you see they have listened to American women, +and when they meet an English woman with half-a-dozen words, and the +loveliest complexion, they put a value on their chance.” + +Katherine couldn’t help smiling, his intonation, which was less than an +accent, but more than a drawl, had something irresistibly funny about +it, yet she felt that he needed snubbing. + +“You’re a friend of Miss Daphne’s, aren’t you?” he went on. “I should so +much like to know, is it true, that if I were to say what I really +thought about her, it would make you angry?” + +“I can’t possibly tell,” said Katherine; “but if it were what you really +thought, I daresay I shouldn’t mind, though I shall probably disagree +with you.” + +“Yes, that’s just what I fancied,” said Bert with evident mischief. “I +think—she’s such a perfectly lovely girl!” + +Katherine tried to look put out, and failed. “Well,” she answered, “I am +obliged to confess, I fully agree with that.” + +“But you do hate to agree with me,” said Bert, “I can see that. I wonder +why?” + +“Because you are so flippant,” said Katherine. + +“Good Heavens, Miss Linton, you never made a greater mistake in your +life! I couldn’t be flippant if I tried, it wouldn’t be possible for me! +My faults lie all on the other side. You might as well accuse a County +Council of being generous! I do think that’s such a rich institution, +though for the best joke I ever struck, give me the Church of England!” + +“What do you mean by talking of the Church of England as a joke?” asked +Katherine indignantly. + +“Well, I confess,” said the American ruefully, “it’s like most English +jokes, they have to be repeated twice before you can catch the +meaning—and you couldn’t, you know, repeat the Church of England twice! +It’s unique.” + +“I wish you wouldn’t say such things,” said Katherine, “they are very +irreverent, and so cheap.” + +The young man glanced at her approvingly. “I guess you’re right,” he +said, “I will be like Paul!” + +“I don’t know what you mean,” said Katherine stiffly. + +“Obedient to the Heavenly Vision,” Bert answered very softly. + +“I wish I hadn’t asked you!” cried Katherine, blushing furiously. + +“That’s the beauty of girls,” he replied calmly, “they want to run away, +but they tell you where they’re going to; sometimes they don’t run so +very fast either!” + +“Oh! you’re insufferable!” exclaimed Katherine. + +“No! you aren’t used to me, that’s all. I am an acquired taste, you must +try to see a great deal of me.” + +“I shall do nothing of the sort. I don’t wish to acquire the taste,” +said Katherine frowning. + +“Well! that’s not a very good beginning,” said the young man +thoughtfully; “still, if you felt indifferent, I should be more +discouraged.” + +“Well, I—I do feel indifferent!” cried Katherine defiantly. + +“Oh, you just _say_ that,” said Bert. “If you could see your own eyes +you’d know it wasn’t true. I am awfully sorry for you.” + +“I’m sure I don’t know why,” said Katherine. + +“Oh, because you can’t see your own eyes,” he explained, “you miss so +much!” + +Now Katherine knew it would be impossible to plunge knives or dig forks +into this horrible fountain of personality beside her, but words, which +were never good friends to her, forsook her utterly, and she was more +thankful than she could have thought possible to Lady Middleton, when +she started a general conversation. + +“Now, I think, Mr. Field,” she began, “if you could put an end to +drunkenness, it might be a better world!” + +“Better stuff, and nonsense!” said the great surgeon, with some +brutality, “you can’t stop human nature. What’s drink, anyway, but an +effect? You’ve got to go to your cause, and causes aren’t easy to stop. +There are poisons all around us, and we use them, and abuse them as we +will, some of them we shut up and call bad names, others we don’t even +mention, but there’s an instinct that is inside of us, which goes for +them as naturally as a dog to a bone; the bone is not to blame if by +some chance there’s rat poison on it, and if you were to take it away, +the dog wouldn’t thank you, it would probably bite.” + +“Ah! how true!” said Lady Middleton. + +Mr. Field looked at her as if he would have liked the dog to have bitten +her. “To begin with you couldn’t stop drink,” he continued. “If there +were no wine or beer, people would get drunk on eau de cologne, or +paraffin, or methylated spirits, and if you did stop drink, it wouldn’t +make any difference.” + +“Ah, and what would?” asked Lady Middleton. + +“A new heart,” said the curate suddenly. + +Mr. Field shot a contemptuous glance at him which became interested as +he forgot his cloth and looked at his face. “You’re quite right,” he +said curtly. “But the question is, providing it’s a possibility, who +wants it? We, none of us, want to get any better, we prefer a religion +that doesn’t interfere with our lives; what we really wish is, that +nobody else should get any worse, particularly the poor, they might make +it so uncomfortable for the rest of us.” + +“Then there is no salvation for the world?” said Daphne very slowly. + +Arthur Field looked at her strangely. The unreal party were silent, they +thought such things were uncomfortable and rather shocking. + +“The world is going to be burnt up, they say,” Arthur Field said at +last. “That is a great satisfaction to me personally.” + +“And there is going to be a new Heaven, and a new earth,” said Mr. +Mitchell, he did not add, “they say.” + +David Grey laughed insolently. “I don’t know that I should altogether +like that!” he said. + +“You probably wouldn’t _be_ there!” Katherine found herself retorting +very indignantly. There was a general laugh. + +“Oh, I’m so glad!” said Bert Russell, “that somebody else is going to +catch it besides me, I felt kind of lost!” + +Lady Middleton rose to her feet. “Meantime, there is our earth here,” +she quoted with a smile. “You may amuse yourselves as you like,” she +said to the men. “Reggie, please act as host. It’s such a lovely night, +you will probably find us in the garden.” + +“With the other flowers,” said Bert Russell as he opened the door. + +“Daphne,” said Katherine as they walked out on to the lawn, “what a +perfectly odious young man!” + +“Who?” said Daphne thoughtfully. + + + CHAPTER X. + + “Is Hope not plumed, as ’twere a fiery dart? + And oh! thou dying day, + Even as thou goest, must she too depart + And Sorrow fold such pinions on the heart as will not fly away?” + + D. G. ROSSETTI. + +There are times when one cannot accept the reassurance of the external +world. When bright sunlight is a mockery, and a peaceful evening a gibe +at our own restlessness. + +Daphne, waiting for what she knew was inevitable, underwent this +rebellion to nature. The exquisite fresh beauty of the May night, with +its deepening tints across the sky, the rising moon, and the last broken +songs of sleepy birds, stung her with a sense of how alone she was, and +in what alien surroundings. She was waiting for what she, above all +things, hoped, and feared, desired, and trembled at. She wanted to +escape, and she wanted to be recaptured. In fact she wanted (as in the +depths of our hearts we all want) both to eat our cake and have it +unbroken, to accomplish, and yet not to reach the goal. It was only when +the actual, sharp, decisive tread of the surgeon approached her, that +she realized she had only one emotion left, a fear that kept her from +moving away. + +“Oh!” he said, “it is you, Daphne! it is you!” For a moment he stood +gazing down at her. The hardness of his eyes becoming tender, until he +ceased to look as the world knew him, and looked as she only could make +him look. “It has been a long three years,” he said at last, “and you +are much, much more beautiful!” + +Then she took courage and began to speak. “Arthur, you should never have +come—why did you come? I had learnt how to be good, how to do without +you! These three years have been long indeed, long enough to show me +that what I promised was wrong, and that I can never, never keep it! Oh! +Arthur, it was cruel of you to come back! Let me go, promise you will +let me go?” He pointed to a seat sheltered by the house. + +“Sit down,” he said, “and don’t be afraid!” She obeyed him with a little +gesture of despair. + +“You have made me afraid of all the world—and you!” she said. He passed +up and down once or twice in front of her. Then he turned and faced her. + +“You begged me to leave you,” he said, “because you were so young, and +it was all such a shock; but, you don’t suppose I meant to keep away, do +you? You, yourself said, ‘Come back in three years.’ I have worked +alone, and it has been hard, but I thought it only fair to give you +time, and you were worth waiting for, Daphne! What mistakes I have made, +have been paid for out of hand. I don’t mean to make you suffer for +them. I have a plan which is perfectly easy and simple to put before +you. It will not remove the essential difficulty that will have to +remain your secret and mine, but it will remove all the obvious +disadvantages, and give you a perfectly recognized position before the +world, but I won’t go into details unless you trust me. You _must_ trust +me or we can go no further. I suppose I was a fool to let you go? The +next I hear is that the girl who was to train herself into the courage +of her emotions, means to marry with no emotions whatever a raw boy out +of a college because he happens to have money and position. Do you break +no moral law there, Daphne?” + +“I didn’t say I would marry him,” moaned the girl, “I only told Vera she +might have him here—if she liked.” + +“To help you make up your mind about me?” he suggested. + +“Arthur,” she said, “won’t you let me go? Won’t you please let me go?” +The surgeon knitted his brows in perplexity as he looked down at her. If +she had ceased to care for him, she would never have asked him this +question, there would have been no need, she had only to say “I do not +love you.” If she had not ceased to care for him, how could he let her +go for another man? And as for any alternative—there was no alternative +for a girl like Daphne, and no other alternative for a man like himself. +He knew that there is no safety for passion, but in the definite, and +the irrevocable. Compromise is but a flimsy barrier, in the war of +emotions, ready to fall at the lifting of an eye-lash, or the touch of a +hand. He realized that he was the more responsible, because he knew this +so much better than she did, but it was hard to keep back the words that +sprang to his lips, and the thoughts that thrilled his heart, as he +looked at her. He tried not to look at her, but he could not cease to +see her. + +“Ah!” he said at last, “how I have hoped for this! Do you want me to let +you go? Tell me, Daphne?” He bent over her as he spoke, and put his +hands on her shoulders. She looked up at him, and tried to speak, it was +so much too difficult to send him away, and yet, in her heart of hearts, +she knew that she could never do anything else, and still she could not +speak. “Well! you don’t cry!” he said with grudging admiration for the +face beneath his. + +“No! I don’t cry,” repeated Daphne sadly, “but I am much more unhappy +than if I did!” He gave an exclamation of impatience, and let her go +only just in time, for the young American had turned the corner, which +sheltered them, and the light of his cigarette, made a warning signal in +the dark. + +“Ah, now! Mr. Field!” he said, “were you hypnotizing Miss Daphne? You +were so very still; tell me, Miss Daphne, what sin do you want to be +saved from? Maybe if I think hard like Mr. Field, it’ll work doubly +quick, and you’ll wake up hating it?” + +The girl gave a gasp of relief. “Take me indoors, Bert,” she said, “this +night is—cold. It is too early to play at summer!” + +“Why, yes! it’s pretty fresh!” agreed the young American, “and how you +are shivering, Miss Daphne.” He took her into the empty billiard-room, +where a bright wood fire was burning. “Why! your little hands,” he said +very gently, “your little hands are just as cold!” He rubbed them +between his own, and she let him without a word, sinking back into the +chair he had brought her, and closing her eyes. + +“Oh! I’m so glad I can trust you, Bert,” she said at last. + +“Why, certainly!” he said, “you can trust me, why not?” + +Daphne did not answer. She felt as if he had carried her in, out of a +storm. She was quite exhausted, and the worst of it was, the storm was +still outside. A few minutes later, Lady Cheston and David Grey burst +into the room. + +Lady Cheston gave a shriek of laughter when she saw them. “Oh! you have +left a savage creature out there, Daphne!” she said. “I mean the rude, +quiet man, Wood—Hill—Field—some country name, isn’t it? I asked him +just for fun, you know, how he came to do hypnotism, and he blazed out +at me, ‘If you want to see performing dogs go to a circus!’” + +“And served you jolly well right, you know!” said David Grey. “Beastly +kind of thing to say to a man when——” he stopped suddenly, and glanced +at Daphne. + +“You might finish your sentence,” said Lady Cheston crossly. + +David Grey gave a short laugh, and picked up a rose of Daphne’s, which +had fallen to the floor. He put it in his button-hole. “There isn’t any +need to finish the sentence,” he said. “Where are the twins?” + +“They’re singin’ duets to the curate,” said Lady Cheston with another +little shriek. “And Vera’s talkin’ to him about teachin’ Sunday School +teachers the harp, she thinks they’ll be able to enter more into the +lives of Old Testament characters! And—give me a cigarette, David! The +girl with the mouth is reforming, Reggie.” She suddenly remembered +Daphne. “Oh, my dear, I forgot you,” she said, “I’m always sayin’ awful +things before girls!” David frowned. + +“Do you want to smoke?” he said; “you haven’t lit your cigarette yet, +you know?” + +“I believe you think it’ll stop me talkin’,” said Lady Cheston archly, +as she accepted a match. + +“Good Lord, no!” said David with some bluntness. He turned insolently to +Daphne. “And you,” he said, “do you want a match too?” + +Bert Russell stepped quickly in between them. “Thank you, awfully,” he +said, “I shouldn’t mind.” Then he also turned to Daphne, “Do you mind my +smoking in here?” he said. Lady Cheston got very red. + +“No!” said Daphne, “oh, no! I don’t mind your smoking!” She got up as +she spoke, and walked slowly towards the door. The group looked after +her, silenced for a moment. Then David flung down his cigarette, and +left the room. The American told a very, very funny story to Lady +Cheston. + +“Daphne,” said David overtaking her at the foot of the staircase, “will +you marry me?” + +“Oh! I suppose so,” said Daphne wearily, “but don’t talk about it, and +for Heaven’s sake don’t come near me!” For a moment, they looked at each +other. The man’s eyes were hungry with passion, the girl’s indifferent +with pain. + +“I don’t seem to get much out of this, do I?” he said. “In London you +were more generous with me.” + +“Oh! but I never let you kiss me!” cried Daphne with sudden emotion. + +“And now—you are never going to let anybody else—kiss you,” said +David. + +She felt her breath coming quick and fast under his eyes. Then she +looked beyond him, and saw Arthur Field. She made a tremendous effort to +pull herself together, the lights on the floor danced before her eyes. +She could hear the twins singing in the drawing-room. The hall door +opened, and a rush of cool night air entered, and with it—Katherine. +She glanced towards the staircase, and without a word passed Arthur, and +then David. + +“Get me some brandy!” she said to the surgeon contemptuously. “Can’t you +see the girl’s going to faint?” she threw her strong arms round Daphne, +who clung to her silently, as a child in a dark room clings to its +nurse. + +“Let me carry her upstairs,” said David hoarsely. + +“Don’t let him touch me,” Daphne whispered. + +“Go on ahead, and open the window over the sofa on the first landing,” +ordered Katherine briefly, “she can get as far as that.” + +In a few minutes it was all over, and Daphne safe in her room. David +went into the smoking-room with Arthur Field. “You are a doctor,” he +said, “what do you make of a girl fainting like that?” + +“It was a warm evening, she was over-tired—and her dress fitted her +very well,” said Arthur Field with a laugh. + +“I don’t believe that’s true,” said David, “she isn’t that kind of +girl.” + +“Pooh!” said the doctor irritably, “they’re all that kind of girl!” +David poured himself out a stiff glass of whisky and soda. The surgeon +watched his hand as he poured it out. “And we’re most of us that kind of +man,” he added unconcernedly. David grew very red. + +Two hours later (it was nearly twelve), Lady Cheston opened the +smoking-room door. The surgeon had gone to bed. “Where’s my Reggie?” she +cried, shaking her finger at David. + +“I don’t know—where—the devil—your Reggie is!” said the man at the +table. + +Lady Cheston gave a scream of laughter. “David!” she said, “you’re +drunk!” + +“Damn you!” he shouted, “what if I am?” + +“Oh! you’d better go to bed,” said Lady Cheston, “if you can get there,” +she added, still laughing. + +Reggie came behind her. “What are you doing, mother?” he asked very +rudely. + +“My sweet pet, I was looking for you,” said his mother. + +“Well! now you see me,” said her sweet pet rather crossly, “you had +better go upstairs.” + +His mother followed his advice and ran laughing into Lady Middleton’s +room. “My dearest Vera,” she said, “who’s going to marry Daphne?” + +“Oh! don’t you know? she’s going to marry David Grey, that’s been going +on for a long while,” said her hostess calmly. + +Lady Cheston smiled. “My dear—the boy drinks!” she said. + +“Well! there’s the butler,” said Lady Middleton vaguely, “and he can be +hypnotized, you know. There’s always something wrong with some of them.” + +“Well! his _pockets_ are all right,” said Lady Cheston with emphasis. + +“O, yes, dear! perhaps they are,” said Lady Middleton, ringing for her +maid, “but I never believe in anybody marrying for money, you know. Have +you everything you want, darling? I _hope_ so, good-night!” + +Lady Cheston went to her room, but she did not go to sleep for a long +time. Downstairs Reggie and the American were helping David Grey to bed. +Katherine sat at Daphne’s bed-side by the open window, looking out into +the night. The sky was full of stars. + + + CHAPTER XI. + + “The Moving Finger writes; and having writ + Moves on, nor all thy piety, nor all thy wit + Shall lure it back to cancel half a line, + Nor all thy tears, wash out a word of it.” + + “Rubaiyat.” + +It was four o’clock in the morning, and across the grey of the sky, a +dawn rush of rain, passed before the windows to glance over the garden, +and vanish in the fields. A chill wind, following after, shook the +trees, and bird after bird awoke, to call out sleepily to each other, +that it was time for the earliest of them to seek his worm. + +“Katherine, are you awake?” said Daphne quietly. + +Katherine was by her side in an instant. “What is it? I am awake,” she +said, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. + +“Oh, you must be angry with me!” said Daphne. + +“For waking me up?” + +“For not telling you, Katherine.” + +“You are going to tell me, then?” said Katherine throwing a blanket +around her, and sitting by her friend’s bed-side. + +“I have been telling you all night long, I think,” said Daphne. “Now I +have no words left. The morning is coming into the room, isn’t it? Oh, +Katherine, I am afraid of the morning!” + +“But you are not afraid of me,” said Katherine quietly. Daphne drew in a +long breath. Katherine took both her hands with the same protecting +gesture that the American had used the night before, and then it seemed +easier for Daphne to speak. + +“I loved my father so,” she began. “My mother died when I was born, and +he taught me everything I know, I was with him always, constantly, till +I was sixteen, then he married Vera. He knew nothing at all about women, +he thought they were all angels, and that the lovelier they were, the +better their characters must be. Poor father! that was not very much to +know, was it? He seemed to begin at the wrong end. Vera said she loved +me, and he was beginning to find there were some things hard to teach a +daughter. He never would let me have a governess, or any companion of +that sort, and Vera’s daughter, Lily, was a great friend of mine. He +thought it would make us all very happy, and at first it seemed to, I +was so fond of Lily, and Vera was very kind, and she taught me things I +didn’t know. I think she must have taught me all wrong, for I grew most +unhappy, and father and I seemed separated. Then Lily married. I must go +quickly over this part, Katherine, it was so very terrible. I saw her +only once afterwards, alone, and she asked me if I thought it was wrong +to wish to kill one’s mother, because she did, and she begged me never +to leave them together. I was very, very angry, and I came home, and +said awful things to Vera. I couldn’t tell father, so she made up lies +about me, and asked him to go away for a time, and he did. Katherine, +dear, how fast the morning is coming into the room. There seems very +little air.” + +“The window is wide open,” said Katherine, “can’t you hear the birds? +Look! how the curtains blow.” + +“They look as if they were shivering,” said Daphne; “you won’t leave go +of my hands, promise me?” + +“I won’t leave go of them,” said Katherine. + +“Well, then——” Daphne went on, “Vera met Arthur Field, he was not such +a great surgeon then, but she seems to have taken a fancy to him, and +when I sprained my wrist, she asked him to come and see me. He came very +often, far more often than he need. I was only sixteen, Katherine, she +should not have let him come! She wanted him to influence me, she was +terribly jealous of my father. It was only too easy. Arthur was so +clever, so very clever! and so gentle. Men should never be clever and +gentle too, I think, unless they are very good. Arthur was not good, he +wanted me to marry him, and he had a wife, a dreadful woman who drank, +somewhere a long way off I think. Vera was the only person who knew +about it, they neither of them told me. Then father came back, and he +disliked Arthur and would not let me see him, and oh, Katherine, I used +to! Vera never knew, father allowed me perfect freedom. I hated myself +for going, but I used to go! Of course, Vera never meant it to go on so +far, she thought it would take my love away from father, that we should +cease to trust each other, and that she would get a hold over me by +threatening to tell him about some letters of Arthur’s she had +discovered, I don’t know how! If I had been older, I should have told +him everything! Oh, how I wanted to! I used to cry all night sometimes, +I was so ashamed! One day I went to his study to tell him. I went on my +knees beside him, and he kissed me. ‘Look, my darling,’ he said, ‘here +is such a lovely photograph of Vera!’ Oh, Katherine, Katherine, it +nearly broke my heart! I never answered him, I got up and went out of +the room. He called me back, but I never went. I never tried to tell him +again. Arthur wanted to marry me secretly, but I said ‘No’ twenty times +I think, then I said ‘Yes!’” + +“You should not have said ‘no’ twenty times, you should have said it +once,” said Katherine. + +“I must have some air,” said Daphne. + +Together they went to the open window, and Daphne looked out over the +misty fields. The sun behind the hills broke into glory, like a great +red rose, scattering pink petals over the sky. + +“It is five o’clock,” said Katherine. + +“And the worst of it was,” said Daphne kneeling by the open window, “I +was not sure that I loved him, only sometimes I did. I was terribly +afraid of him. I couldn’t stop his marrying me if he wished to, but oh, +I did so wish someone else to! I suppose it was this that drove me into +telling Vera one night, what I was going to do. I hoped she would tell +my father, but she didn’t. She turned on me and said that I might go to +him if I liked, but that he was married already. + +“Then she got frightened and cried, and begged me to forgive her. She +said she had never meant to deceive me, never dreamt that we really +cared for each other, that it was all a dreadful mistake, and that if I +would only not tell my father, she would do anything that I wanted, +anything in the world! Of course I wrote and told Arthur that I would +never see him again, and he came, and I did. Katherine, I don’t think I +can tell you any more.” + +“Oh, yes, you can,” said Katherine taking her in her arms. “Now you must +tell me everything.” + +“I begged him to let me alone, because of his wife; he said that he was +free. I suppose men always are more or less, aren’t they, unless they +happen to be good? But I said I wasn’t. Finally he agreed that I was +very young to make such a big choice, and he promised me my freedom for +three years, till I was nineteen. His wife might be dead by that time, +and if not, I said that—— Oh, how horrible this light is, Katherine!” + +“Hide your head on my shoulder,” said Katherine, “then you won’t see.” + +“I said that—it should be as he wished, but I didn’t mean it, I meant +to get engaged to somebody else. Then Vera came in, and he frightened +her to death, and she promised him to let him see me at the end of three +years, and not to tell. After he went, she said I must marry David, and +I said I would, only to let me have my three years first. They seemed to +go so quickly, Katherine, as quickly as the light came up over the hills +just now. I never saw Arthur. He became famous and took up hypnotism, +and father died. Katherine, he never knew. I thought it would kill me, +but of course it didn’t. Sometimes it strikes me that to die, is almost +as difficult as to love, only more final. When Arthur heard that father +was dead, he came back, and Vera took him up tremendously, you see he +was so famous, he was a great catch. And I came here to Uncle Wilfred. I +think that’s all, except last night I accepted David Grey, it was the +only way out of it. Arthur has as much power over me as ever, and the +wife’s alive. Those kind of people don’t die you know, I told him that +before.” Daphne began to laugh. Katherine walked up and down the room, +it was terrible to hear Daphne laughing. + +“The beauty of it is,” said Daphne between her sobs of laughter, “that +Arthur told me he hated women to be cynical! Don’t you think men are +very wonderful?” + +“I think they are beasts!” said Katherine. “Beasts!” + +“Oh, no!” said Daphne with a quick smile, “only a little lower than the +angels, Katherine, a little lower, and you and I would rather have them, +dearest, than the angels, any day, because we are women.” + +“And what do you suppose a woman is?” said Katherine savagely. + +“One finds it all in Genesis,” said Daphne a little wearily. “She was +tempted by the serpent. (Let’s go to bed, Katherine dear.) And she +handed the temptation on, so perhaps there’s not so very much to choose +between us, after all.” The sun was fully up now, even the latest of the +birds had had his breakfast, and was singing his Choral Celebration on +the lawn. + +“I am going to have a cold bath,” said Katherine, “and then I am going +out for a walk.” + +“You will terrify the housemaids,” said Daphne sleepily, “but it’s very +like you, dear. Those are the kind of things I want to do, and can’t.” + +“You can do a great many other things though,” said Katherine a little +grimly. + + + CHAPTER XII. + + “Alas, that the longest hill + Must end in a vale; but still + Who climbs with toil, whereso’er + Shall find wings waiting there.” + + H. C. BEECHING. + +“It does seem right natural to see you here,” said Bert Russell. He +himself had been up and out at six o’clock, and finding even the large +garden too restricted for him, had passed out into the fields. It was +here that, an hour later, he met Katherine; she seemed the very spirit, +and freshness of the morning. + +“I don’t see why!” said Katherine a little ungraciously. He was the last +person she had expected, or wanted to see. + +“There was a kind of goddess, I seem to remember,” he said, “who came +out of the earth with the spring, bringing flowers in her hand, didn’t +she? And the earth was ever so glad to see her. It broke right out into +summer, and everything that was down below came up to have a look at +her. It must have been pretty poor fun down below, I guess, after she’d +gone.” + +Katherine frowned impatiently. “I came here to be alone,” she said. + +“Why, so did I,” he replied, “but I’m ever so glad it didn’t happen; +still, if you want it to, I’ll go right away.” + +Katherine looked at him and found that, without her knowledge, or even +her wish, he was telling her something. He had tremendously taking +silences. The articulate seemed only the ripple, to cover the expression +of an infinite number of other things that went on below; and it seemed +to her that what he was trying to express, was something very kind and +friendly indeed, and something of a help to her, but she would not +listen. + +“Thank you,” she said, “I want to be alone.” + +“May I ask you a question before I go?” he said quite gravely, and with +his bright, kind eyes still on hers. + +“Yes,” said Katherine. + +“If I can be of any use to you or to Miss Daphne, will you let me be?” +he said. + +“I should like you to tell me what sort of a man David Grey is?” said +Katherine thoughtfully. + +“Well, I think he’s a very good sort of fellow,” said Bert Russell, “in +the smoking-room.” + +“Thank you,” said Katherine. They stood for a moment silent. “But you +wouldn’t like him to marry your sister?” Katherine continued. + +“Why, you’re asking me some very hard questions,” he said at last. + +“I am not asking them for fun,” she said impatiently, “nor because I +want to talk to you!” + +“Oh, no!” said Bert Russell with a whimsical smile, “I wasn’t expecting +an encore, Miss Linton, but no one likes taking a man’s character away +without good reason.” + +“I have a good reason,” said Katherine. + +“Then I would be quite willing for Grey to marry my sister if she were a +barmaid, and I didn’t have to support them both afterwards,” he said. + +“That’s all I wanted to know,” said Katherine. + +“Then I’ll go out into the cold, cold world, to seek my fortune,” he +said lifting his hat to her, “but before I go, perhaps you’ll let me say +that this grass is the wettest thing out, and that I hope you’ve got +thick shoes on.” + +“I haven’t got any shoes on at all,” she replied briefly, “nor +stockings,” she added as an afterthought. + +“Well, it must feel good,” said Bert Russell cordially, and he left her. + +Katherine waited till he was out of sight, then she swung herself on to +a stile, and sat for an hour thinking about Daphne. She had a simple +soul and saw things very much as they are. The consequence was, she made +fewer mistakes than most people, and had never felt afraid. She did not +feel afraid now, but she was puzzled. It struck her that Daphne, for +whom she meant to do things, would not like the things she meant to do, +and yet she meant to do them all the same. + +Katherine loved Daphne, with all the love in her heart. She did not +think that Daphne had behaved well, but that did not make the slightest +difference. If Daphne had behaved far worse, Katherine would have acted +on the same basis, but she would have suffered a good deal more. + +The American wandered back into the park again, he found himself very +much amused with Katherine, American girls do not take their shoes and +stockings off, to go into wet fields, nor could they have told him they +had done so, with such calm eyes. + + + CHAPTER XIII. + + “So free we seem, so fettered fast we are.” + + —ROBERT BROWNING. + +Katherine could scarcely believe her eyes when, on entering the large +dining-room, she saw Daphne seated opposite Arthur Field, and beside +David Grey. Daphne, who was afraid of the morning when she had merely to +tell her story, facing her life now with an air, as fearless as it was +charming, and with an appetite, which seemed not averse to strawberries +and cream, with which Reggie had plentifully heaped her plate. + +“Daphne tells me you have been out, dear,” said Lady Middleton, smiling +at her, and wondering what her name was. “_So_ clever of you! I have +always _wanted_ to get up early, _really_ early you know, and go out +into the fields to see the dawn, and _mushrooms_. It _is_ mushrooms, +isn’t it, that one finds there? Only I hate upsetting my maid, and one +must have one’s hair done. It is so easy to upset one’s maid.” + +“It is quite easy to do one’s own hair,” said Daphne. + +Katherine said nothing. To Lady Middleton’s casual absurdities, this +wall of silence was exceedingly difficult. She wished Daphne would not +have such awkward friends, it made one feel ridiculous, which was bad, +or serious, which was worse. Lady Middleton gave a little friendly +laugh, and glanced over the table. “Now we are all here,” she said, +“aren’t we? And I’ve got a lovely piece of news to give you. I feel +quite ‘beautiful upon the mountains.’ What do you think it is?” +Katherine felt the toast in her hand crumble. She glanced over the faces +at the table. Arthur Field looked up enquiringly. David looked down on +his plate morosely. Lady Cheston looked at David. The twins both clapped +their hands. Reggie was cutting ham at the sideboard. Daphne, with quite +a steady hand, poured more cream over her strawberries. “Our dear +Daphne,” said Lady Middleton, “and our dear David, are going to make +each other happy.” + +“Oh! but that’s taking rather a lot for granted, Vera!” said Daphne, +putting down the cream jug. + +Lady Cheston gave a little shriek of laughter, rushed round the table, +pecked at Daphne’s cheek, and pulled one of David’s curls. The twins +exclaimed in joyous surprise, “Oh, Daphne! Oh, David! how awfully +lovely!” This covered up the fact that the rest of the party said +nothing. + +Arthur Field, after one swift glance at Daphne, grew white to the lips. +Katherine knew that she was very angry, and looked it. Reggie stopped +cutting ham. + +Vera leant back in her chair satisfied. There had been reasons why she +and Lady Cheston were not very fond of each other, and now Vera was +quite ready to forgive and forget. + +“Well,” said Daphne, “I think it’s frightful to have these things talked +about at breakfast, if it had been dinner now, you could have all drunk +my health, and David could have got up and thanked you. Couldn’t you, +David? The next time, Vera, that you have good tidings please announce +them upon the mountains, a dining-room is so crowded.” + +“She takes it very coolly,” said Lady Cheston, in an aside to Bert +Russell. + +“Why, I don’t see what there is for her to throw bouquets about,” he +said. “In my country we only congratulate the young men.” + +“She’ll have £30,000 a year,” said Lady Cheston. + +“You don’t say!” he replied coolly, and then added, “you forget she’ll +have him.” + +“Oh, no! I don’t forget that!” said Lady Cheston. + +“I say,” began Reggie, doubtfully, “it won’t stop our fishing this +morning, will it?” + +“Daphne needn’t go,” said Lady Cheston sweetly. + +“I am going to see my uncle,” said Daphne quietly. + +Lady Middleton looked a little anxiously at Arthur Field. “I am going to +adopt you for this morning,” she said genially. “There is so much I want +to learn. We will fish farther up the stream where we can be away from +all the others.” + +“Mother,” said Reggie, “you can’t fish you know, you’d only laugh. You’d +better stay here and amuse David, unless he’s going with Daphne.” + +“Oh, no! he’s not going with me,” said Daphne quickly. + +David bit his lip. “It seems to me you chaps are trying to arrange too +much,” he said. + +Reggie paid no attention. “Miss Linton knows all the best places,” he +went on, “she’s going to take me, and the twins will go with Bert. +You’ll take them won’t you, Bert?” + +“Why, I should be only too happy,” said the American smiling kindly at +the girls. + +“Yes, you’d probably be _too_ happy!” shouted Lady Cheston, “if you’re +takin’ them both!” + +“Well!” said Lady Middleton, smiling pleasantly, “it’s very sweet of you +to plan things out for yourselves. Lunch will be brought out to the +hollow place beyond the bridge, if it’s fine you know, and really, it +does seem,” said Lady Middleton going to the window and glancing out +over the lawn, “as if it _would_ be fine!” She looked at the sky with a +shade of warning. “I shall be exceedingly annoyed,” she added, “if it is +not.” + + + CHAPTER XIV. + + “Love’s throne was not with these; but far above + All passionate wind of welcome or farewell + He sat in breathless bowers they dream not of, + Though Truth foreknow Love’s Heart, and Hope foretell, + And Fame be for Love’s Sake desirable, + And youth be dear, and Life be Sweet to Love.” + + ROSSETTI. + +“Your uncle is out,” said Mrs. Fordington. She was dressed in a long +pink over-all, and was superintending the gardening. “He has gone to a +clerical meeting, he will probably only get a cold lunch, and make +himself ill with smoking. I am very busy indeed with some new chickens, +would you like to come and see them? They have to be fed every two hours +you know, and they are a particularly delicate sort, needing constant +attention.” + +“Where is Dora?” asked Daphne listlessly, as she followed her aunt +towards the poultry yard. + +“Oh, Dora? I really don’t quite know what to do with Dora this +afternoon,” said her aunt poking a recalcitrant hen with the tip of her +rake; “you see her father lets her do so few lessons, and Marie does +most of my dressmaking, and can’t be always attending to her, I quite +miss you. I have my Parish Magazines to deliver, and a Temperance League +address to prepare. I suppose you could scarcely take her back to Lady +Middleton’s, her father would call for her after tea?” + +“Do let me,” said Daphne eagerly, “I am sure Vera wouldn’t mind. The +little chickens are so pretty,” she added. She felt her eyes filling +with foolish tears, as they rested on the little innocent balls of +fluff, and their eager, agitated mother. + +Spring seemed to teach her to yearn for love. Birds love that sings, +flowers love that glows, earth’s love rich in increase, the sea’s love +infinite in depth. Man’s love alone seemed out of place in the scheme of +beauty, for where it most would soar, it falls most pitifully. So Daphne +thought, knowing in her own heart that the battle she was fighting +against her love would be sweetest to her in defeat. + +“I am not sure,” said her aunt looking at them with a keen, experienced +eye, “that they will turn out satisfactorily.” Daphne gave a little +hysterical laugh. Her aunt glanced at her sharply. “You want some milk,” +she said; “you have been walking too fast in the heat. It is a pity you +are so impulsive, Daphne.” + +An hour later Dora and Daphne set off, hand in hand, radiant with youth +and happiness. + +“I fink,” said Dora, “we _might_ find a waterfall, don’t you, Cousin +Daphne?” + +“What should we do with it if we found it, sweet?” + +“Oh! we’d go there, often and often,” said Dora happily, “and there +would be ferns, and we could take our shoes and stockings off, and it +would make ever’n and ever’n so much more noise, than both the bath-room +taps.” + +“And a prince with ever such long, golden hair,” suggested Daphne, +“would come out of the wood and take us in a little boat——” + +“A _safe_ little boat?” interrupted Dora anxiously. + +“Oh! ever such a safe boat,” laughed Daphne, “right down the stream, on +and on through woods and dales, all down to the sea, and then we could +paddle all day long, and he could find us shells——” + +“And seaweed?” chanted Dora. + +“Red seaweed!” exclaimed the triumphant Daphne. + +A shadow came over Dora’s face. “If the prince wouldn’t mind _very_ +much,” she said politely, “I fink I should like to find _some_ of the +shells myself, Cousin Daphne.” + +“You should find a great many _more_ than the prince could,” said Daphne +with emphasis, “and all the seaweed.” + +Dora’s eyes shone with delight. “And would there be room for father in +the boat?” she cried. + +“Yes,” said Daphne growing a little thoughtful, “there would be plenty +of room for father.” At this moment they came out of the shadows of the +trees and met face to face with a tall man whom Daphne seemed to know. + +“Is this the prince?” whispered Dora pulling at her hand. “Oh! Cousin +Daphne, how cold your hands are.” + +Daphne drew the child closer to her side. “He has no golden hair,” she +whispered. Then she looked up at him. “What do you want with +me—Arthur?” she said. He looked at her with haggard eyes. All that day +he had been fighting with his future and hers. He knew that the issue +lay in his hands, and he had lived all his life among great issues, and +so he was afraid. + +It is only the ignorant and inexperienced who dare to throw down their +challenge to fortune, and stake a smile against the world. They are +audacious because they are blind, and assured because they do not know. +Those who have lived longer, tremble more and dare less, and when they +dare they achieve. + +“I cannot tell what I mean to do,” said Arthur, “but I am very sure +about what you are not to do. You are not to marry a man you do not +love. I am not sentimental, I have always dealt with facts, and marriage +where there is no love is an unpleasant fact. I cannot let you face +this, Daphne. I suppose that in some mad moment of panic, after you left +me last night, you gave an answer to the very man you refused to admit +you meant to marry. I cannot believe that you meant to lie to me. Will +you tell me why you did it?” + +“You would not let me go,” said Daphne. Her breath came fast, and she +could not meet his eyes. “So I took the one way out.” There seemed in +the soft summer stillness, an almost audible clash of human wills, and +human passions. The quiet wood, at full noon-day heat, and peace, became +a battle-field, a place to fear, and to escape from. Dora began to cry. + +“This is not the right place for a child,” said Arthur sternly. With a +sudden movement he bent forward, and took the child up in his arms. He +carried her, still crying with fright, further in among the trees, then +he came back to Daphne. + +“Now,” he said, “be honest! For once in our lives let us face truth and +abide by it. Forget that you are a well-brought-up member, of the +upper-middle-classes, and come back to your elemental womanhood. You +have given me to understand that you love me. Love is not a gentle +preference for a suitable person, it is a very real thing, and it is +quite true I am an unsuitable person. The question is, have you really +this love for me?” Daphne felt that terrible struggle to evade, which is +at once the curse and the defence of Eve’s daughters. + +“I care—for you, Arthur,” she said slowly. + +“What do you mean by ‘_care_?’” he asked impatiently. + +“I would have married you if—if it had been possible!” she pleaded. + +“Who is to say it is impossible?” he asked her scornfully. “Protesting +is not my forte, but you know that I have loved you against my wish, my +will, against my reason, against everything that is transitory and easy +to assume! I love you so that I cannot work, or think or live without +you, as well as I could work, and think, and live for you! You rob me of +the best that is in me, if you withhold what you have already pledged to +me in words! And you? Is it for your advantage that you should marry a +man you neither love nor really know? Will you go out into the dark, +without even the safeguard of a true emotion? Whose ultimate good can +you hope to gain by such an experiment, an experiment that you will not +be able to escape from when it fails? Are you entirely blind to the +probable consequences of such a step and its almost inevitable +conclusion?” + +Daphne shivered before the torrent of his words, and she was not quite +satisfied with his protestation. She would so much rather have had him +say, that he could not live without her at all, than that he could live +better with her. + +“Don’t you see,” she tried to explain, “that it is less wrong for me to +suffer, even the failure of an experiment, than to succeed in a wrong +experiment? It is because I should be so happy with you, because we +should be deceiving the world, that I cannot do this! Can people be +rightly happy whose whole life is based on a lie?” + +“The foundation of our life would not be a lie,” he said. “The merest +barrier of convention, a law of man which cannot reach our hearts, +_this_ indeed we should ignore; but there is no deception in ignoring +what does not concern us. Love and our work, and the life we can lead +together, it is to this you must listen, and if you listen to this, the +voice of your scruples will be dumb.” + +Daphne fell back on her last line of defences; they were her defences, +but they were not the truth; she was giving him every reason in the +world—instead of the real one—and yet behind the feebleness of her +weapons she knew her spirit was right, while behind the strongest of his +passionate reasons she felt him to be in the wrong. “I have promised +David,” she said. + +“You promised me before you ever promised David!” he cried. + +“Will you never stop loving me?” she asked, pleading for the reward of +virtue, not the wages of sin. Arthur smiled. + +“There are some things you will have to take for granted,” he said, +“meanwhile I am quite able to look after my own interests and yours. I +give you one week to think over what I have said to you, and to dismiss +your rather weak excuse. You will grant he is rather weak?” + +“I have granted so much!” said Daphne. + +“That is it,” he said, “you have granted so much, that there is nothing +left, but for you to grant it all. I am sorry you made this blunder, it +will cause you pain. It has done so already I fear, and I want to save +you from all the trouble I can.” + +The keen look faded from his eyes, and they grew tender as he glanced at +the slight figure of the girl—a smile began to quiver about his +mouth—after all he was a little like other men, she thought. + +But without another word he turned and left her. For a few moments +Daphne stood quite still. She knew enough about men to understand, that +there was one argument, generally very efficacious, that Arthur had +never used with her. The nearest he had ever come to it was when he had +taken her by the shoulders, and even then he had merely shaken her, as +he would have done a perverse child, and let her go. She knew that he +would not permit an emotional surrender, and that was the only one she +felt as if she could have made. The colour came into her face, and +frowning, she turned back into the trees to find Dora. She passed in +among the trees until she saw the child’s figure; as she came towards +her, a twig snapped, Dora turned with a terrible little cry, and fell +forward on her face. + + + CHAPTER XV. + + “Our Lord Himself cannot make the wheel swing backward.” + + RUDYARD KIPLING. + +Daphne felt wildly for the child’s heart, she would have called Arthur +back, but her voice failed her, and a great anger against the man who +had unwittingly caused the child’s terror took possession of her. She +felt that she would never call him back again even if it left her in the +world alone. + +“I say, what’s up?” sounded a friendly voice beside her. “I thought I +heard some kind of a row. Has the child fainted?” + +“Oh! Reggie, I am so glad to see you!” cried Daphne. “It is the heat! I +should not have brought her out! I am quite sure it is the heat!” + +“Yes,” said Reggie, who was of the opinion that the important point was +not so much what _had_ happened, as what could be done to remedy it. +“Shall I take her to the stream?” He picked the child up and carried her +through the trees to the water’s edge, where, in a few moments, she +opened her eyes. + +“I fink,” she whispered, “this is the prince—Daphne? And oh, look, +Daphne, all the rest is true?” Daphne and Reggie looked up the stream, +to where the child was pointing. At the head of a little glade some +hundred yards away was a waterfall. + +“It’s awfully pretty here, isn’t it?” said Reggie. “I’m awfully glad I +found you.” Daphne had recovered herself by now. + +“Where are the others?” she asked. Reggie’s face fell. It mattered +exceedingly little to him where the others were, provided that they +remained there. + +“The twins are down the stream with Miss Linton and Bert Russell,” he +explained, “and I think David is with my mother. You’d better stay here, +hadn’t you, and I’ll bring you some lunch, then you can drive back.” + +“Bring Miss Linton as well as the lunch,” said Daphne. + +“It seems to me I like London better than the country,” Reggie ventured. + +“I hope you will do as I ask,” said Daphne gravely. + +“I think you know I will, Daphne,” he replied, with an earnestness not +altogether as boyish as she would have liked to believe. Then he +remembered David, and bit his lips to keep the words back. He knew that +there was a mistake somewhere, but he could not set it right. David was +his friend, and Daphne was very much more than his friend, so for a +moment he was silent. “Wasn’t there someone in the wood with you?” he +asked finally. “I thought I heard a man’s voice before this young lady +distinguished herself.” + +“How did I distinguish myself?” Dora asked with interest. + +“The way people usually do,” said Reggie with a chuckle, “by making a +row!” Daphne looked up at him, and for a moment she hesitated, but there +was something in the absolute friendly honesty of his eyes that made it +impossible for her to lie to him. + +“Mr. Field was with me,” she said, “for a few minutes. I was looking for +Dora afterwards, when she cried and fainted.” + +“What was I like when I fainted?” asked Dora with shining eyes. “There +was an old lady who fainted in church once, and her bonnet fell over +into our pew,” she went on, “but mother wouldn’t let me pick it up.” + +“You were very much like you are now,” said Reggie, “only quieter. I +didn’t know you knew that surgeon chap,” he said to Daphne, throwing a +pebble into the stream with obvious irritability. “I don’t think much of +him.” + +“Oh! I suppose he can’t fish,” said Daphne. “Are we going to get any +lunch?” Reggie accepted his rebuke, and went on his errand. + +“He hasn’t got golden hair,” said Dora in some disappointment, “and he +doesn’t say sensible things, but he has a prince’s eyes I fink, don’t +you?” + +“Yes, I think he has,” said Daphne. + +“What happened to that dreadful other man?” Dora asked looking round her +fearfully. + +“Oh, he was only a pretend man,” said Daphne soothingly. “He has quite +gone away, we only _thought_ we saw him.” + +“I am so glad he isn’t real,” said Dora happily. “But it was a _horrid_ +thought.” + +Daphne took Dora’s hands in hers and kissed them passionately. “We will +never have any more horrid thoughts,” she said. + + + CHAPTER XVI. + + “Truth is a strong thing—let man’s life be true.” + + ROBERT BROWNING. + +Confusion reigned over the picnic party. In spite of Lady Middleton’s +hint to Providence it had begun to pour. Black soft rain-clouds covered +up the sun. The trees themselves proved little shelter from the deluge, +and it was very unbecoming. Katherine knew a short cut home, and by this +she conducted Daphne, Dora, and the young American, leaving the twins to +drive in a tiny brougham with Lady Cheston, whose face was a daring +spectacle of rouge and rivulets, and Lady Middleton, who was (as she had +said she would be in the event of its raining) exceedingly annoyed. It +was suggested that Dora should be taken with them, but both Vera and +Lady Cheston said that it was absurd, and that there was no room. The +twins at once offered to walk, but Lady Cheston’s eyes sharply reminded +them that she had paid for their dresses. + +Reggie and David (who had broken through the arrangement made for him) +walked home together. + +“Do you think I’m a brute?” David asked his friend à propos of nothing, +as they trudged on through the mud. + +“Does she know?” Reggie asked. + +“Know? Know what?” shouted David angrily, stopping in the middle of the +lane. + +“I say, come on home,” said Reggie, “I’m getting fairly wet. I mean, +does Daphne know your little weakness?” + +“Damn my little weakness!” said David gloomily. + +“That’s right, do!” said Reggie cheerfully. “Then you won’t need to tell +her.” + +“Who talks about telling her? Do you suppose a girl like Daphne would +ever speak to me again if she knew I got drunk like a beast?” David +asked. + +“Not like a beast,” said Reggie soothingly. “Beasts don’t! Like a man.” + +“Oh, hang your distinctions,” David muttered, “you might help a fellow, +Reggie.” + +“If I were you, I should tell her,” said Reggie, “you wouldn’t like it, +to get to her from any other quarter.” + +David shot a quick glance at him. Reggie’s face was a pleasant blank. +“Do you suppose,” said David, “it would be likely to?” + +“I shouldn’t take the risk myself,” said Reggie. + +“I don’t believe she cares for me,” said David. + +“Then you _must_ tell her,” said Reggie. + +“Oh, confound your _must_,” growled David, “I don’t believe you know +what it is to care for a girl like Daphne. She isn’t like the usual sort +of London girl. I wouldn’t look at any of ’em. Innocent-faced, +scheming-hearted little foxes! Bound to try for a man or get sent to +grass in the country while the younger ones are coming out! Daphne +is—is different, I can’t explain——” + +“Don’t try,” said Reggie briefly, “I know.” + +“What do you know?” David asked suspiciously. + +“Why—that you’re a silly old ass!” laughed Reggie. They became silent +after Reggie’s confession of knowledge, and trudged on through heavy +rain, regardless of the beautiful young world of green drinking in life +around them. It was not until they reached the park gates that Reggie +spoke again. “You’ll tell her, old man?” he said anxiously, “won’t you?” + +David frowned. “She’ll never look at me again,” he repeated. The sky +began to clear. Spaces of blue broke through the blackness overhead. The +sun catching the edges of the clouds set them on fire. Lady Middleton +stood at the hall door. She was comfortable again and happy. Her maid +had been very busy the last half-hour. + +“My dear David,” she said, “no Daphne? I left you to come home +together?” + +“Well, we’ve come home,” said David with an unpleasant look, +“separately.” + +“We’re awfully wet,” said Reggie apologetically, “we ought to have come +in some other way.” + +“But such a lovely sky!” said Lady Middleton. “I so often wish I was a +cloud!” + +The remark that David contributed on clouds was fortunately lost, Lady +Middleton went back into the drawing-room. She had had the fire lit. +Arthur Field was there. + +“Well!” she said rather briskly, “when are you going?” + +“At the end of a week,” he answered. “Who was that out there with you?” + +“Reggie Cheston,” said Lady Middleton, taking up some embroidery—it was +always the same piece. + +“There were two voices,” he reminded her. + +“Oh, the other was the young American!” said Lady Middleton. + +Arthur Field opened a note-book of his next month’s appointments. “I +wonder,” he said aloud, “why women always lie?” + +“Because men are such brutes,” said Lady Middleton viciously. + +“Then you shouldn’t lie to them,” he said smiling, “they might take a +brute’s advantage.” + +“Well—some of them don’t find out,” said Lady Middleton. + +“Then they might take a fool’s advantage.” + +“What’s that?” she asked quickly. + +“I am not sure that I will tell you,” he said, “sometimes it seems to me +as if fools had _all_ the advantages.” + +“I don’t know what you mean,” said Lady Middleton looking annoyed, “and +I don’t see how a fool could do any one harm.” + +“And yet there is a great deal of harm done,” he reminded her, “and very +few wise people.” + +Reggie went straight upstairs to his mother’s room and knocked at the +door. Lady Cheston opened it, and though she looked surprised at seeing +him, she let him in. She shrieked when she saw his clothes. “Oh, Reggie! +what a shocking mess you’re in! What do _you_ want to come and drip +about my room for?” + +“All right, mother,” said Reggie, “I’m not doing any harm. Look here! I +don’t want you to meddle in this affair.” + +His mother looked at him keenly. “What affair?” she asked, shutting her +lips tight. + +“Between Daphne and David,” said Reggie. “If any tales are told, or any +change in their relations takes place while you are under this roof, I +cut down your allowance. What you do afterwards I can’t trace, though if +I find out that you have been interfering in any way, I shall be forced +to take unpleasant measures. Do you quite understand?” + +Lady Cheston tapped her foot on the carpet, an angry pulse beat in her +cheek, but she was holding herself in. “I don’t see what difference it +makes to you!” she said, “unless you think that although you can’t get +her now, after she’s married David——” + +“Mother!” + +Lady Cheston checked the words on her lips. She was not easily +frightened, but there were times when Reggie could silence her. “Well,” +she said, “people do those things, Reggie, but I’m sure I’m sorry if +I’ve made you angry. It isn’t a good look out for Daphne, and I did +mention it last night to Vera. However, she knew already, and she’s not +likely to tell Daphne—you remember the Lil Courteny episode? So you +ought to be satisfied. Are you still angry?” she asked. There was +something almost timid in her appeal to him, he was her only son, and +all that was good in her centred around the thought of that. + +“No, mother,” he said, “I’m merely disgusted, and I’m quite used to that +you know. You’ll remember about the money?” + +Lady Cheston’s eyes hardened. “Oh, yes, Reggie!” she said, “trust me to +remember that!” and he left the room. + + + CHAPTER XVII. + + “Who rowing hard against the stream + Saw distant gates of Eden gleam, + And did not dream it was a dream.” + + ALFRED TENNYSON. + +“The child is really ill,” said Katherine, “I don’t think there is any +doubt of it, what with the heat, the fainting fit you mention, and a +wetting afterwards, it is not to be wondered at.” + +“Oh! I must keep her! I must look after her!” cried Daphne. “Aunt +Emma——” she stopped abruptly. + +“You can leave her out,” said Katherine, “she is out so often.” The +child lay shivering and burning on Daphne’s bed. The two girls talked in +low tones by the window. + +“I cannot face Uncle Wilfred,” said Daphne, “it is my carelessness!” + +“Whatever it is,” said Katherine, “the child is ill—we must have a +doctor.” She looked at Daphne. “There is one in the house,” she added. + +“Don’t—don’t let him see her!” cried Daphne. + +“Why not?” asked Katherine sharply. + +“She has seen him already,” whispered Daphne, “I meant to have told +you——” + +“Oh, no! you didn’t!” interrupted Katherine. + +“He frightened her—in the wood—send for some one else! Go and ask +Bert,” Daphne pleaded, “don’t tell anyone!” Katherine hesitated, feeling +unaccountably shy. Then she grew angry with herself and hurried out of +the room. + +Bert Russell was in the drawing-room giving the twins their tea. They +were explaining to him, with little bursts of laughter, how sandwiches +were made. + +“I want to speak to you,” said Katherine bluntly. There was a shocked +pause. Lady Cheston raised her eyebrows at Vera—who shrugged her +shoulders as an equivalent answer, and a shifting of responsibility. + +“Why, that’s good,” said Bert Russell, springing to his feet. “But I +only receive lectures in private, and I can tell by your tone it’s going +to be a lecture, Miss Linton. Take me away where the rest won’t hear.” + +Katherine answered nothing. She led the way into the conservatory. The +rain and the wind had blown her hair about (it was generally too tidy) +and her embarrassment was making the colour in her cheeks a delight to +the eyes. Bert Russell took it all in appreciatively. Then his light +manner completely forsook him—he saw that she was upset at the +consequence of her abruptness in the drawing-room, and that she did not +quite know what to say. + +“I guess you want me?” he said with a genial alertness. + +“Dora is ill,” said Katherine, “fever and a cough—and some nervous +shock, I think—— She ought to see a doctor,” she added in a gentle +tone, “and Mr. Fordington ought not to come here till then.” + +“I’ll just drop round and see him on the way from the doctor’s,” Bert +Russell said. + +“How do you know where the doctor lives?” Katherine asked. + +“Well, I guess I could have found out even if I hadn’t happened to pass +his house this morning,” smiled Bert. “Have you any other things you +want me to tell you, Miss Linton?” + +Katherine turned on her heel. “No!” she said, “I’m telling you this for +Daphne.” + +“That’s real good in you,” said Bert Russell. Katherine went out of the +conservatory. It is a pity, but she certainly did—bang the door after +her. The American whistled and put his hands in his pockets. When he +stopped whistling he began to smile, but he got very quickly to the +doctor’s. + +He apologized for calling at The Vicarage unintroduced, but he explained +to Mr. Fordington that, as an American, and he was afraid, of no fixed +denomination, he was very much interested in the English Church, and +very curious about it. + +The Vicar gave him a warm welcome, he was preparing to go for Dora, but +he re-seated himself in his study. “What is it you want to know about +the Church?” he said. + +The American smiled at his adroit evasion of the adjective. “Well!” he +said, “if we had cathedrals, I guess they wouldn’t be quite such lonely +buildings. Your Church doesn’t seem much of a social success either, it +doesn’t bring people together, and even your parsons fight each other +half the time, and their flock the rest. It doesn’t seem to me, you +teach the same things. Here, I’m told that if I don’t make my +confession, I shall get cast off, and right in the next parish, the +parson says, Auricular Confession is a kind of Devil’s Diary. It doesn’t +seem to hang together. Then look at what you pay your ministers! An +office boy would want to get more in our country or he’d chuck his job! +Either they’re worthy of their hire and oughtn’t to be given +pocket-money or they should be kicked out altogether. That’s the way we +seem to think it is, but I want to know your view of it from the inside. +When I say things to what you call the laity, I’m told, ‘Oh, that’s +broad church!’ or ‘They don’t do those things in our parish,’ and I +can’t seem to pin them down.” + +Mr. Fordington listened with grave attention. “Do you know what are the +two hardest things to find in the world?” he asked, offering the +American a pipe and lighting his own. Bert Russell shook his head. “A +consistent Christian,” said the Vicar, “and an unprejudiced observer. +Keep that in your mind as the key-note to what I shall try to tell you. +The Church,” the Vicar went on, “is in some ways influenced by the +English character. You know perhaps from your stay in the country, that +the owners of the oldest and most famous of our great country seats live +much of the year in town, and have shown an inclination to let their +houses to rich Americans. I do not say this explains the cathedrals, +only when you know that centuries ago they were there—and that coming +centuries will still find them—you become less momentarily anxious to +fill them, and yet you would never find them unoccupied even if they are +rarely filled. I must confess that we lack a social system in connection +with our Church, though I believe that more and more the spirit of unity +is creeping in among us. We have far more social gatherings with the +classes mixed, than in the old days would have seemed possible. You must +remember that the Church is not the only power that finds class +prejudice difficult to cope with, but I believe I am right in thinking +that it is the only power that will be enabled to ultimately cope with +it. I think that you are in great danger in your country of forgetting +that the Church is primarily spiritual. She should never compromise with +the world, nor seek to make her doctrines popular. What is truly +Christian can never be popular.” + +“But why not, sir?” questioned the young man. “Surely you wouldn’t shut +the world out?” + +“It is the world that shuts itself out,” said the Vicar sadly. “‘The +natural man receiveth not the things of the spirit of God.’ Let him give +up the world to find the Church. It is not the place of the Church to +give up anything to attract the world. Her Master and Guide said indeed +to His Disciples, ‘Ye are the salt of the earth,’ but he warned them at +the same time not to lose their savour, and a bid for popularity is the +destruction of the spiritual essence. ‘Ye _cannot_ serve God and +Mammon,’ and still less can we serve God by making religion easy to +Mammon. The curse of modern times is, to my mind, the making things +easy. We shudder too much at acquaintance with grief, and we would +rather not hear about a man of sorrows. We will gladly cry Hosanna after +a miracle, and when we have the crowd with us, but if He turns commerce +out of our temples and strips from us the external and the material, the +barriers we have put up of comfort, and of custom, and calls upon us to +deny our _selves_, to take up a cross, and to follow—quite a poor +person, it becomes almost a necessity to cry crucify Him! Or perhaps in +more modern language, ‘Ignore Him! give us back the law! The +satisfaction in being as other men are! Let the external do our religion +for us! The Christ asks too much!’ Alas!” said the Vicar, gazing sadly +out of his study window, “we are willing to give so little! We have not +‘resisted unto death,’ we have not even perhaps resisted unto +inconvenience. And when anybody wakes up to the claims of the Cross—we +say, ‘he goes too far.’” + +Bert Russell became conscious that he was talking to a really good man. +A thing that had rarely happened to him. “But the Church?” he said +gently, “and its inconsistencies, surely if it showed a more Christ-like +spirit to the world——” he hesitated. The pain in the Vicar’s face made +him pause. “If we were better Christians there would be _more_ +Christians?” he questioned. + +“Yes—yes, that is our great Rebuke, yet you must not blame the Church +for the frailties of her members. She is inviolate! If we but obeyed her +precepts we should have ‘shown forth Christ—and Him crucified.’” The +Vicar’s head was bowed for a moment as if the reproach had overwhelmed +him with a personal shame, and Bert Russell watching him, wondered why +the innocent should always know Remorse, so much more heavily, and with +so much greater intensity than those who had caused the evil. + +The Vicar raised his head. “It is our life that is at fault,” he said +almost with passion, “never our Faith! The Apostles’ creed is so very +simple, so clear, and so, I venture to believe, truly primitive, that I +may not be wrong in holding it up as our mirror of truth, our home of +dogma, and our real consistency! I take it that all who use these words +in their most obvious meaning, belong to the Church of God, and I hold +that all who cannot honestly believe and take these words as their +Standard of Christian Faith have no room in the Church. Beyond the +simple creed, there are many deep and important questions on which great +and good men will always differ, but I trust that these differences, +grave as they seem, will not exclude the believers in them from the same +Heaven. I venture to think that in another life they will understand +each other a great deal better, and when we understand people, it is but +a short step towards understanding their views and assimilating the +portion of Truth that is almost always enfolded in them. The Church and +Truth are alike in this—in one question you can challenge either—but +it would take many answers to barely outline the spirit of each, and the +answers would seem self-contradictory and inconsistent, for you cannot +see all around either of them. In the long run you will realize that the +Church is large enough to be inclusive even of extremes and strong +enough to be tolerant of them.” + +“Thank you,” said the American. + +Mr. Fordington smiled. “I fear I have wearied you,” he said, “and I have +given you but an inadequate answer. The longer you live the more +difficult you will find it to put things into Black and White, the +prevailing shade is grey. We are mixed, you know, very mixed!” + +“Why, yes!” said Bert, “we can’t even be angry without laughing up our +sleeve, and when we love people, we would rather deprive them of their +other loves.” + +“Perhaps you will walk back with me?” said Mr. Fordington. “I must fetch +my little girl.” + +“Miss Daphne asked me to tell you, sir,” said the American, taking out +an old volume from the Vicar’s shelf, “that as your daughter was a +little tired with her walk, she would keep her over night and bring her +back to-morrow herself.” + +“That was thoughtful of Daphne,” said the Vicar, “very thoughtful, and +most kind of Lady Middleton to keep her.” He looked rather anxious. “She +is so easily tired!” he explained. + +“Oh! she’ll out-grow it,” said the American. “I guess she thinks too +much.” + +The Vicar nodded. “I am afraid,” he said, “only children so often do, +and there is nothing that is so tiring physically.” + +“Why, no!” said the American, “one can’t keep up one’s strength when one +has got to follow one’s mind. It goes too far.” They shook hands and +Bert Russell borrowed the book. The Vicar saw by his handling of it that +it was safe. He told his wife about Dora. + +“Yes,” said Mrs. Fordington, “I shall try cod-liver oil.” + +The American walked back slowly. “He didn’t argue about the pay of the +clergy,” he said to himself smiling a little. “I guess he thought it +didn’t matter. ‘Poor and unpopular’—it might have come out of the New +Testament, but it won’t go down with the world. Somehow one isn’t +surprised that Prophets get stoned.” + + + CHAPTER XVIII. + + “Now methinks I hear Death say of Life, as John Baptist said of + Christ, ‘He that cometh after me is before me.’” + + —HENRY MONTAGUE, EARL OF MANCHESTER. + +Sir Henry Middleton had bought a yacht. It was really very convenient. +When Dora’s illness became serious and the doctor refused very curtly +Lady Middleton’s tentative suggestion “that the poor child would be +really better at home—should she order the carriage?” the whole party +seemed at loose ends. Lady Cheston remembered that she and the twins +were really due in town for two balls and a dinner-party, and Reggie +that a fellow wanted him to fish somewhere, soon. Arthur Field +discovered that his practice called him immediately, and David that it +was no use hanging about after Daphne. + +Lady Middleton said that “It was really most sad and so exceedingly +trying.” She proposed to go for a two weeks’ trip, and when she returned +to Overham, she said “She hoped the dear child would be out of danger.” +What she really meant was that the child should be out of the house, and +the doctor assured her that he thought this likely, “very likely,” he +added gravely. + +Mr. and Mrs. Fordington were staying at The Hall, but Daphne and +Katherine nursed the child. The hush and darkness that came over the +house, when the last trunk had been swung into the last dog-cart, and +the vague, light pleasure-seekers had all left, soon gave place to that +sadder atmosphere of forced cheerfulness to be noticed in a house when +the mystery of danger has become an hourly thing, not to be talked +about, but to be dealt with. The Vicar sat a great deal by his child’s +bed-side, and Daphne believed that the rest of the time he was on his +knees. His eyes had that peculiar far-seeing look that holds patience +and pain in one glance, and one felt behind them both, there was a faith +in the spiritual that was almost stern. + +It was as if, he were facing one by one the struggles of love, and +doubt, and darkness, and through them all claiming and asserting his +hold on Eternal life. The doctor came in and asked him a question about +his parish. He was a clever young man, and he generally asked questions. +On this occasion his manner was a little nervous, and he seemed to be +weighing many things. The Vicar looked at him appealingly. “What do you +really think of the case, doctor?” he pleaded. + +The doctor became professional and non-committal. “Your daughter?” he +asked. “I think you have two very good nurses for her. She has been +delicate for some time, hasn’t she? Easily over-tired—excitable, you +have noticed that?” + +The Vicar nodded. “Indeed—yes,” he said. + +“Well, then, I should say, in that state of health the severe chill she +took would fully account for her present condition.” + +“And her lungs?” the father pleaded. “She coughs so much, doctor.” + +“Do you think so?” the doctor answered. “Well, yes, on the whole, I +should say she coughed a good deal, a slight spot at the base of one +lung would be the cause—I will call in again to-night, unless Miss +Linton sends for me before. I leave her in most excellent hands. Pray do +not be over-anxious, Mr. Fordington.” The doctor had another case in the +village. It seemed so extraordinary to the Vicar, though he was a most +charitable man, that it should matter about the case in the village. + +Mrs. Fordington came into the room. “Now, doctor!” she said, “what have +you been saying to my husband?” + +“That I hope he will not be over-anxious, Mrs. Fordington.” + +“That’s just what _I_ tell him,” said his wife. “Really, to hear him +talk, one would think the child was seriously ill.” The doctor said +nothing. “When do you think she might begin to sit up?” she asked. “Of +course I feel that my place, as her mother, is by her bed-side, but the +girls feel that their carelessness has brought this about, and it would +hurt them if I were to send them away. Besides, of course, I have a +great deal on my shoulders already.” + +“I think she is in safe hands,” said the doctor. “She cannot sit up at +all at present.” + +“Dear me!” said Mrs. Fordington. “Don’t you think, doctor, that all this +lying in bed is very weakening?” + +“I think it is essential,” said the doctor, turning towards the door. + +“And, Dr. Fern!” Mrs. Fordington called after him, “I really _do_ object +to Dora being given brandy. Our principles are so very distinctly +temperance ones, that it sets a bad example to the parish when we use +stimulants for our own child.” + +The doctor returned. “I must insist upon the stimulants, Mrs. +Fordington,” he said. + +The Vicar’s wife looked really annoyed. “How very arbitrary these +medical men are!” she remarked to her husband. “I feel quite sure, from +my own experience, which has been a varied one, that he merely says +brandy because he cannot think of anything else to say. Local doctors +are so ignorant. I shall tell Katherine Linton to give her milk alone.” + +“It will make no difference,” said her husband suddenly, “_what_ you +tell Katherine.” + +“What do you mean, Wilfred?” cried his wife. It will never be known what +the Vicar meant, for at that moment Katherine came into the room. + +She looked strangely white and nervous, and passing over to the window, +pulled down a blind. “I think,” she said slowly, “it would be better for +you to come upstairs, sir.” + +“May her soul rest in peace—and may perpetual light——” said the +Vicar; then he broke down and covered his face with his hands. + +“Wilfred, don’t be Popish!” said his wife. “Katherine, tell me _at once_ +what is the matter? Is Dora worse?” + +“No, Mrs. Fordington,” said Katherine very gently with the tears running +down her face. “She is _quite, quite_ well.” Then Mrs. Fordington +understood. + + + CHAPTER XIX. + + “Come away, for Life and Thought here no longer dwell; + But in a city glorious, + A great and distant city—have bought + A Mansion incorruptible; would they could have stayed with us!” + + TENNYSON. + +Upstairs, Daphne lay face downwards on the floor of the child’s room. +She had done with Katherine all the quiet, hopeless things that have to +be done. The little body lay beneath the sheet with folded hands, shut +eyes, and smiling lips. The only change was that the noise of the +laboured breathing had ceased, and in its stead, the palpable hush of +death was in the room. + +The sun shone through the blind upon the lilies; they had not been able +to have lilies in the room before. Daphne felt that it was cruel to shut +the windows; it was so difficult for the child to breathe with the +windows shut. Her uncle had been into the room and prayed over the +child. Her aunt, who had been crying a great deal, came in and made +suggestions about the room. She talked in a whisper—and walked on +tiptoe—but she did not stay very long. Now the sun was setting, and all +around the hall there were the cries of birds. + +“Daphne, dear!” said her uncle’s voice, “Daphne?” + +“Oh! it is so terrible to hear you speak in this room!” she cried, but +she rose to her feet, and stood before him shivering. + +“The problem is over,” said her uncle gently; “our child has passed, as +we all pass at length, from the trivial surface out into the infinite +deep—of God. Daphne, let us believe, ‘Who made, hath not _unmade_ the +child.’” Daphne looked at him; the lines of pain in his face made him +look ten years older. There was no doubt he realized. + +“Full of immortality,” he said half to himself, “beyond the reach of +tears, and pangs, and pain, and _alive_ for evermore! Can you not say, +‘Thank God she is spared?’ Not _to_ us, but _from_ the things that hurt +and fail? Dear Daphne, try to say with me ‘Christ’s blessing on the +newly born!’” + +“You don’t seem to understand,” she said in low, level tones. “It was my +carelessness—I could have saved her!” + +“And now God has saved her,” said her uncle gently. + +The girl looked at him with despair in her eyes. “Oh! you won’t +understand!” she said, “you won’t even leave me anything to be +forgiven!” + +“God forgive us all!” said her uncle very solemnly. “And Daphne—you +made the child very happy—she loved you.” Daphne moved helplessly +forward, and her uncle took her into his arms. They were both crying. +“And she won’t cough any more; one can be glad of that!” said her uncle. + +“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Daphne sobbed. “One can be glad of that!” + +Downstairs, Katherine was sitting with Mrs. Fordington. “I am so glad,” +said the Vicar’s wife, “that the last skirt I bought was black—it seems +a Providence; I had half a mind to buy a navy blue!” She took out her +pocket-handkerchief. + +“I meant to tell you, Mrs. Fordington,” said Katherine quietly, “she +died quite without pain. She was unconscious when the doctor came, and +he was not gone half-an-hour when—when the room became quiet.” + +“I shall always think,” said Mrs. Fordington, “that that young man, +Fern, acted most reprehensibly in giving us no warning. What do you have +a doctor for if it’s not to tell you what you may expect!” Katherine did +not attempt an answer. “I told Wilfred all along that a homœopath was +best. I was _much_ averse to the giving of brandy. I have heard before +now of people who died from the reaction of stimulants, but doctors do +anything to save themselves trouble!” + +“You see, her heart was weak,” Katherine threw in. + +“I cannot believe that it was necessary, and it certainly did no good,” +said Mrs. Fordington firmly. “I have seen the undertaker,” she went on, +“poor Wilfred has no head at such times, and I have made all +arrangements. We shall feel much better after the funeral. I have had a +very kind note from Lady Middleton putting her carriage at our disposal. +My idea was to stay here till it was all over. I was going to ask Mr. +Ogden to take it, but Wilfred almost insists upon young Mitchell. It +seems to me not at all the proper thing, he is only a curate, and he’s +sure to do something Roman. However, I gave in as usual. After all, why +should _my_ feelings be considered, I am only the child’s mother!” Mrs. +Fordington put her handkerchief to her eyes, she expected sympathy, but +Katherine got up and left the room. + +The house was lost in twilight and the creeping shadows rested her. The +servants turned on the electric light, and the terrible world grew plain +again. + +Katherine was a little tired, she had been on her feet all day, and she +was going to see her mother. On the way through the hall a servant met +her with a letter. + + “DEAR MISS LINTON,” she read, + + “I really have no right in the world to write to you, unless + wishing to be read by you constitutes a right, but I am just so + sorry as I can be about the dear little girl. I thought when I + began to write I might find something to say, but there isn’t + anything, is there? I do believe though that Death isn’t what we + think it is, but the great way Out; and if the little girl you + are looking after finds it, don’t grieve too much! What we can + see that’s good in life (and after all it’s a great world!) sort + of makes one think there’s something better that we are bound to + see later on. If the child goes first be very sure she is going + to have a good time. I’m coming down over Sunday this week if + you don’t tell me not to. I think Overham is a lovely place and + you will have to say a very firm ‘no’ to stop my coming. + + “Ever yours, + “BERT RUSSELL.” + +Katherine tore the letter very slowly into little pieces, then she +dropped them into a waste-paper basket. “Oh! how stupid!” she exclaimed +suddenly. “I’ve torn up the address and now I can’t tell him not to +come!” All the same her anger at her own stupidity was not very deep. It +did not seem worth while to investigate the scraps in the hope of +reconstructing his address. She walked briskly through the park. It was +a very lovely evening, and she did not feel so tired now. + + + CHAPTER XX. + + “. . . . God forbid + We judge man by the faults of youth in age!” + + ROBERT BROWNING. + +Katherine walked into her mother’s room humming a tune. The exercise had +done her good, and there was relief in the air. The relief from +uncertainty, which death, in spite of its terrors, sets at rest. Mrs. +Linton was dressed in rose-coloured silk, there was a delicate flush on +her cheeks, and her eyes were unusually bright. A tall, military man, +with a white moustache, was sitting opposite her; he might have been +fifty, but he did not look it. There was something slightly familiar in +his face, though Katherine knew that she had never seen him before. She +stood silently looking from one to the other. Her mother made a little +nervous movement towards her. + +“We were expecting you, dear,” she said. “Won’t you sit down?” + +The man shut the door after her, he also offered her a chair. + +“I am very, very happy, my dear,” said her mother, “but there is so much +to explain, that I don’t know where to begin!” + +“You might begin by telling me,” said Katherine, glancing at her +mother’s companion, “who this gentleman is, and what he is doing here?” +She was not altogether unprepared for her mother’s answer. She had been +waiting for it for seven years. + +“This is your father, Katherine, and he has come to take me away.” + +“This man,” said Katherine, looking at her mother, “is a perfect +stranger to me, and I should be glad if he would go away until you have +finished your explanation.” + +“The girl’s quite right,” said the man with an awkward chuckle. “Better +talk it out alone, Louie.” + +“Walter, I must beg you not to go!” cried Mrs. Linton. + +Katherine’s lips quivered for a moment; she saw that her mother was +afraid of her, and it hurt her. + +“Very well, then,” she said, “say what you have got to say, and then let +me go, this situation is impossible.” Mrs. Linton sank further into her +chair, she almost cowered. + +“Colonel Dalgeny,” she began, moistening her lips, “knew me when I was a +little girl, Katherine; then he went to India, and I married Edward +Linton. I do not think I ever really cared for him——” + +“You have told me that before,” interrupted Katherine, “and I told you +that was no excuse.” The Colonel coughed, and shot an amused glance at +Mrs. Linton. Mrs. Linton gasped, and went on: + +“Shortly after our marriage he began to drink; we went out to India, and +there was a child, and it died.” + +“They do die in India, you know,” said the Colonel in a friendly aside +to Katherine. + +“I was not supposing that my mother had killed it!” said his daughter +viciously. + +“Oh, Katherine!” groaned Mrs. Linton. + +“Go on, mother!” said the girl impatiently, “the child fortunately +died.” + +The Colonel walked across to the window. He hated with all his heart the +whole scene, but his duty to the woman he had come back for, prevented +his escape. He remembered that Louie was rather fond of scenes. + +“Colonel Dalgeny was at the station,” went on Mrs. Linton. + +“I don’t think you need go into all that, Louie,” said the Colonel from +the window. “Go on from the time you left.” + +“Walter was married too, you know,” Mrs. Linton said rather helplessly. + +“Did—_his_ wife drink?” asked Katherine bitterly. The Colonel shot +round from the window. + +“No!” he shouted, then he recovered himself, and added gently, “She was +a very good woman. She died ten days ago.” + +“How extremely fortunate,” said Katherine; then she turned to her +mother: “I suppose that is why you have gone out of mourning,” she said, +“for Captain Linton?” + +“You are simply cruel,” cried her mother. “Have you no pity?” + +“May I ask you the _point_ of this discussion?” said Katherine coldly. +“In other words, what do you intend to do now there are no more +encumbrances?” + +“We are going to be married,” said Mrs. Linton, “at a registry office, +to-morrow. Colonel Dalgeny meets me in town, he has a special licence.” + +“I should think,” said Katherine, “he would need one.” There was an +awkward silence. “I suppose your kindly waiting here, to see me,” began +Katherine, “implies a desire to feel easy about me, and not to leave me +in the lurch.” + +“Yes, dear,” said her mother. “If you only knew what I feel——” + +“Thank God I don’t!” said Katherine very shortly, “nor do I wish to!” + +Mrs. Linton began to cry, and the Colonel drummed with his fingers on +the pane. “I will allow you two hundred a year,” he said without looking +around. + +“You may allow it to something else,” said Katherine. + +Her mother shook with sobs. Katherine’s lips quivered again, but her +father’s next words steeled her heart. “You cannot have led your mother +a very happy life,” he said. + +“You should have thought of that before,” retorted Katherine, her eyes +blazing. “You may like to know my plans, mother,” she added. “I have ten +pounds in the bank, which should procure me a nursing outfit. I shall go +up for an examination to be held in June at one of the London hospitals. +Till then, I shall stay with Daphne.” + +“You may fail?” her father put in. + +“I may,” said Katherine. The Colonel smiled a little grimly to himself; +his daughter was certainly (he thought) a surprising young person. “Then +I think there is nothing more to say, mother,” said Katherine, rising to +her feet, “except that I hope Colonel Dalgeny will lead you—a very +happy life. If you should need me at any time, I feel sure that the +Vicar would forward your letters to me. By-the-bye, Dora died this +morning.” Katherine walked towards the door. + +“Oh, I’m so sorry, Katherine!” said Mrs. Linton. “Have you nothing to +say to your father?” she pleaded. + +The Colonel turned towards her, their eyes met. For one moment, in spite +of herself, Katherine felt a strange unspoken sympathy rise up between +them, then the passionate jealousy that was fighting at her heart got +the better of her moment’s tenderness. + +“I have nothing at all to say to my father,” she said. + +“Oh, my child!” cried her mother, “won’t you even say good-bye to me?” + +“Good-bye, mother,” said the girl, facing her from the door. She went +out, shutting it carefully after her. + +The two, left by themselves, looked at each other. + +Outside, the moon was rising and hung frail as a “little feather” above +the trees. The air was full of the poetry of spring, and the two birds +that sang in the lane were nightingales. Katherine began to feel +bitterly ashamed. + + + CHAPTER XXI. + + “Put pain from out the world, what room were left, + For thanks to God, for love to man?” + + ROBERT BROWNING. + +There were not many passers-by in the street, though it led from one of +the principal thoroughfares of London. Bareheaded students strolled by, +and nurses hurried nervously towards the great iron gates. It seemed a +borderland between the place inside them, and the fierce clamour of the +open road, where the ’busses caught one up, and landed one later on in +Oxford Street, or Piccadilly, or anywhere in the world beyond, if anyone +wanted a world beyond! As a matter of fact many of the neatly dressed +women passing so swiftly through this borderland would have given much, +that they did not possess, to pocket this freedom. + +They came to the iron gates and gave up a “pass” into the hands of a +venerable porter, who might have been a St. Peter without h’s, so grave +and reverent was his bearing. + +Even in this simple operation they betrayed the secret of their +characters. Some passed by him, self-engrossed, and unthinkingly, others +with an increased rigidity to show their superior caste, some with a +flippant and familiar remark, and one with a greeting of real +friendship, and an enquiry about his wife. There are not many people who +remember that porters have wives. + +“She’s goin’ in to-morrow, Miss!” he said. + +“What ward?” his friend asked. + +“Yours isn’t Luke, Miss, by h’any chance?” he asked anxiously. + +“By the happiest chance in the world—it is!” she told him; “you must +let me know her number, John,” she added. + +“Twenty I think it be, Miss, but you’ll know her for sure, she’s to ’ave +so much took away.” + +The nurse nodded sympathetically. There were many others who were in the +same case, but she did not say so. To-morrow the great visiting surgeon +was to go through the ward, with his little sentences that had such +strangely wide and deep effects upon the listeners. “I’ll look out for +her, John,” she said. “Keep a good heart, why they pull you through +anything, these doctors!” + +His face brightened. “H’and I should say, Miss,” he said with a slow +compliment, “the nurses ’ave an ’and!” + +“Thank you, John,” the girl laughed, “good-night.” She passed swiftly +through the large court. It was a still, shut-in place, in spite of rows +of students on seats by a fountain, and nurses passing from one wide +open door to another. The steps and the lifts were seldom empty, but the +same people so rarely seemed to come out. After awhile the feeling that +inside there was some great, silent call, that drew first one and then +another from the outer world within, became a superstition and a fear. +You could go up the steps too, and look into the hall, no one stopped +you. An occasional staff-nurse or sister cast you a quick, withering +glance, but left you undisturbed. Certain doors that closed quickly +after these figures had the names of the wards written above them, and +these doors you could not pass through. Then one knew that from behind +them the call came. The great, terrible call of those who have been +caught under the wheel of life. The cry of children born with death +fighting in them, and against them, the appeal of the down-trodden who, +through no fault of their own, face the battle-field of the world, and +find themselves carried to the rear before the fight begins. The +diseased, the intemperate, the broken, those placed for awhile in the +back-water, those for ever stagnant and counted out. Oh, the hundreds of +the counted out! Surely the cry of them was in itself enough to draw, +with unremitting impulse, the brave, strong ones of the earth, into a +desperate attempt to save, and a powerful purpose to assist them? And +through the cry of those who suffer comes the whisper of those who die. +That seemed the answer to the ordered stillness and the hurrying quiet +of the place. One felt that the issues of life demanded the very +atmosphere that reigned. One understood why all the workers seemed +absorbed, tired, and quick. They were the hand-maidens of a tremendous +struggle, these quiet-voiced, pleasant-faced women. Outside, in the +world, or in the hours off duty, many of them were impatient, cross, +small-minded, and they would not have known what was meant by the soul +of their work. Only when the iron gates clanged behind them, and the +call of the door drew them within, every feature and muscle and feeling +became unconsciously at one. A stern harmony of mercy, at war with pain. + +“You are two minutes late, Miss Linton,” said the sister. “Kindly take +No. 10’s temperature—pulse—and respiration. I shall require you as +special for No. 5 to-night.” + +Katherine was not changed, but she had softened, she had lost her +bitterness and gained a sense of toleration which she had never known +before. There is nothing like realizing pain to soften one’s heart +towards sinners. One is brought face to face with consequences, and when +from wronged and exhausted nature the uttermost farthing is wrung, there +is nothing left but pity. Katherine had become very sorry instead of +very angry, and it had done her good. + +Daphne, in a sudden impulse, partly of friendship, partly of remorse, +and partly perhaps from a desire to put off her marriage, had joined her +friend and shared a room with her. + +She was not in the least changed, and one student dreamed about her at +night. Katherine said by day too, for he was always stupid over the +dressings. + +Daphne spent much of her time off with David, and could not make up her +mind whether to sign on at the end of her probation, or to marry David. +If Katherine was very upset, she supposed she would sign on, and if +David was very angry, she might (she supposed) have to give in to him. +What she should do if both these things were to happen she had not yet +fully considered. The shocks and changes of the last few months had left +her strangely indifferent to her own future, and for Daphne indifference +meant indecision. It was only when she wanted a thing that she grew +determined. + +Meanwhile she had grasped at the novelty and picturesqueness of +Katherine’s choice, and entered into hospital life with an even keener +interest and enthusiasm than her friend. The staff-nurse liked her +because she was good at her work. The patients adored her because she +was so sorry for them, but they preferred Katherine to do things for +them; she seemed to have more useful hands. + + + CHAPTER XXII. + + “The wind of Death’s imperishable wing.” + + —ROSSETTI. + +“No. 5” was a baby, and he must not be allowed to cry. Nurse Linton’s +strong arms grew very weary before morning, and yet she felt strangely +proud. + +A staff-nurse commiserated her on the case; she said she would rather +have a whole ward to see to than one baby. Katherine could not +understand this, but it does not do to question a staff-nurse. + +The ward at night seemed an unreal place. Katherine watched a delirious +woman counting unendingly on her fingers. “2s. 3d.—2s. 4d.—2s. 6d. +cash!” she repeated monotonously. “Change for a half-sovereign, change +for——” The nurse on duty gave her a drink. She was disturbing the +other patients; they did not feel very friendly towards her. She had +been very proud when she first came in, and boasted of her salary as a +“hand” in one of the big Oxford Street shops. She was not so proud now; +her operation had shown her to be riddled with tubercles—abscesses were +constantly forming, and she was very feverish every night. “Mr. Delany, +_I_ said change for——” she began again. + +“I wish to goodness they’d put ’er h’inter another room, that’s what _I_ +wish,” grumbled the woman next to her with a broken leg. “_I_ can’t get +h’any good h’out of the night with ’er jabberin like mad ’un! Why can’t +they put ’er away, that’s what _I_ want to know!” + +“You be quiet!” said the nurse briefly. Katherine’s baby woke and she +began walking up and down with him. + +“Nurse,” whispered a young girl as she passed her, “oh, nurse! do you +think they’ll operate on me to-morrow? Oh! I’m so frightened! I can’t +sleep! Can’t you come and hold my hand or something?” + +Katherine looked at her baby and satisfied herself as to his being +asleep again. “Don’t fret,” she said kindly to the girl; “why, you won’t +know anything about it—you’ll be put to sleep!” + +The staff-nurse came over to her. “Nurse, go back to your place!” she +said curtly; “you seem to forget you’re doing special to-night!” + +Two women snored on separate notes steadily; this infuriated a third who +lay between them, and she whispered terrible language towards the +ceiling. As it neared morning the light of the sky made the ward look +like a scene in a theatre. One or two of the worst cases had to be +rubbed. One woman fainted, and the nurse rushed into the ward kitchen +for hot-water bottles. Katherine’s baby became very cold, she gave it +stimulants, and she began to be afraid that it was going to die. + +The staff-nurse was fighting over the fainting woman. “Put the baby down +and come here,” she said to Katherine. + +“Let me hold it,” whispered the girl who was afraid of the operation. +“I—I know how to hold babies, nurse.” Katherine placed it gently in her +arms. + +“Put the screens round the bed,” said the staff-nurse, “now the brandy +again! You fool, not that bottle!” neither she nor Katherine noticed the +expression. The woman’s face became grey. “Well! she won’t have to have +her operation to-morrow,” said the staff-nurse, putting back the bottle. +“Heart failure. Get some water and a clean sheet, nurse!” + +“Oh! but she isn’t dead!” pleaded Katherine, “feel how warm her hands +are! Can’t we go on working?” + +The staff shook her head. “Not a bit of use!” she said kindly. “It’s +your first death, isn’t it? I shall report you to sister as having been +very serviceable. Get the things, and then go back to your baby!” + +Katherine obeyed. The ward was quite light now, the probationer was +putting out the gas. Katherine met the nurse with the hot-water bottles, +her eyes filled with tears. “It’s no use now,” she said. + +“What? No. 11’s gone? Well, they’ll do for someone else!” said the other +nurse. + +Katherine went back to the girl who had held her baby. She was afraid it +would be dead too, and hugged its little warm body with a sense of +passionate possession in her arms. + +The girl looked at her hungrily. “I had one like that, nurse,” she said, +“but it died.” + +“Oh! I’m so sorry!” said Katherine. + +“Well, you needn’t be,” said the girl, turning her head away, “it wasn’t +wanted.” Katherine saw her hands were bare of rings. The patients were +being roused for their breakfasts. No. 10, the one who had been +delirious all night and had just dropped off to sleep, was left alone. +The woman next to her was very angry. + +“Well, h’of h’all the h’injustice,” she exclaimed, “’ere am I, a +respectable woman with my leg broke in two places and me situation as +charwoman gorne for months, kept h’awake h’all night by this young +baggage, and when I just tikes me forty winks h’Im shook up, h’and she’s +let to lie peaceful h’as a bibe! Bloomin’ fivorite, that’s what _she_ +is. My belief h’is nurse h’is bribed!” + +“Here, you take your breakfast,” said the nurse. In the full light of +the morning sun the nurses looked tired and white, but their eyes were +awake, and their hands seemed unwearied. + +The day-nurses came into the ward. One came up to Katherine and relieved +her of her baby. “I’m special for No. 5,” she said; “you look as if you +needed your dinner.” + +The sister swept up the ward to the bed with the screens around. When +she came out, she spoke sharply to a new probationer, who nearly dropped +a basin; she had been a sister for ten years, but even she was not used +to what happened behind the little screens; but now she only showed it +by a little extra sharpness. In her morning report she put “No. 11 +vacant.” + +The next four hours were simply a strenuous fight with time. A noisy +chaos of labour with the sharp-tongued sister directing up and down the +long wards, and reducing at length all to an order, a cleanliness and a +brightness, that looked to the outsider as if anything else was never +known, yet the process was gone through every day. + +In the dining-room the night nurses were having their dinner. Some of +them talked, but most of them hurried through their meal and +disappeared. + +“It’s a pity you were on night, Nurse Linton,” said Katherine’s +next-door neighbour. “Our great consultant goes round this afternoon; we +call him the King, you know. He has such fine eyes!” + +“And oh! you should see him at the theatre,” said another. “He’s _the_ +man on hip disease, you know, and his fingers—well, I never saw such +fingers on a man! They say his touch is as quick as lightning, and he +can spot a tubercular abscess in half-an-eye!” + +“What is his name?” asked Katherine, more for want of something to stem +her friend’s details than a desire to know. + +“Why, didn’t you know? We have Arthur Field; we’re as proud of it as if +we had the House of Parliament, and he’s a great deal more useful.” + +“No, I didn’t know,” said Katherine thoughtfully. Daphne was on day +duty, she remembered. The Home Sister, glancing down the table, told her +to be quick and go to bed. She almost stumbled upstairs fighting against +sleep, as against an enemy, but the moment her head touched the pillow, +she was conquered. She did not even know that she had been defeated. She +was asleep. + + + CHAPTER XXIII. + + “In the end one experiences only one’s true self.” + + NIETZSCHE. + +Arthur Field had crippled himself at twenty-three when he married +Rosamonde Dormay, the very pretty daughter of a neighbouring squire, and +everybody said he had done very well for himself. Mrs. Dormay had some +mysterious malady called “headache,” which frequently confined her to +her room for days at a time, a malady apparently escaping definition. + +Two months after his marriage with Rosamonde, coming back one night late +from his practice, he found her lying on the sofa. She was very flushed, +and complained of pain in the head. It was so bad that she did not see +she had left the brandy bottle on the table. Her husband carried her up +to bed, and the next morning asked her about it. She was very +frightened, very angry, and very hysterical, finally she confessed that +it was the malady which escaped definition in her mother, but she swore +it was the first time for herself. Arthur Field did not believe her, and +he never believed her from that hour. He understood why the Dormays had +been so ready to accept him for a son-in-law. He did all that human +service and skill could suggest to cure his pretty young wife. He spent +far more than he could afford on the best specialists of his time, he +put her under the most excellent treatment he could procure, and people +thought he could not be very kind to his wife or she would not go away +from him so often. Stories grew up about him, and his practice fell off. +He went to London and fought for fame, and because he was utterly +concentrated on his profession, desperate, unhappy, and entirely alone +and also, perhaps, because he cared very little about it, he became +known as one of the “best men” in London. His wife lived under a +different name at a little seaside place with a good nurse. She hated +her husband, but she was abjectly afraid of him, and her family almost +from the time of her marriage had nothing to do with her. In spite of +most careful watching she still, from time to time, had headaches. + +In his holidays Arthur Field went to Paris and studied hypnotism. When +he felt himself to have mastered all that was as yet found out about it, +he tried the process on his wife. At first it seemed an evident success, +and he began to hope; while he was with her, she even resisted +temptation. The day after he went back to London the nurse telegraphed, +“Failure.” + +That day he performed an operation that his older colleagues had +pronounced out of the question. It was a success, and the patient +recovered, but there was one thing that never recovered, and that was +Arthur Field’s hope. + +No one in London knew that Arthur Field was married. The little country +place where it had all happened was too far off; only one of the Dormays +ever met him again, and Lady Middleton wished to hear nothing of her +sister. “For what,” she said, “is the use of hearing anything, when +there is nothing pleasant to hear?” Arthur Field quite agreed with her, +and would indeed have avoided her sedulously, had it not been for his +introduction to Daphne and the sudden opening of his closed and saddened +heart to the child. He knew that there was no happiness for him in +honesty, but his whole nature was starving for it. He had never drugged +his misery with the antidotes, that the world tries to supply, and now +every thwarted passion, controlled desire, and keen zest, for the beauty +of life, clamoured at his heart. He was a man of honour and he did not +mean to harm the child. There were ways of proving to the Dormays that +Rosamonde was dead, if it was necessary to prove anything. No one would +ask any questions, partly because he was a man that people were a little +afraid to question, and also because everyone would wish to take the +answers for granted. It would be an ugly secret, but as a visible fact +it was a much more ugly truth. Daphne would never know, and oh! he would +be good to her! He never counted on Daphne’s speaking to Vera before the +fact was accomplished. He knew she hated her stepmother; but when the +fact that he had never counted upon happened (as it usually does) though +the girl was practically in his power, though he could have persuaded +her to do anything that he chose, he deliberately let her go. She knew, +and now she must prove the strength of her love, he would never give her +an excuse to regret. It cost him more than anything in his life had ever +cost him, and for three years he called himself a fool daily, but he +never gave in to wisdom. When he saw Daphne again, she had confused the +issues of things with principles of which before she had been ignorant, +and which he had always ignored. At first he could not face the notion +of giving her up; what he considered her underhand engagement to David +Grey only strengthened his decision. He never meant to force her will, +and only threatened her to see if, after all, there was not at the back +of her attempt to send him away, a desire for him to refuse to go. Then +circumstances, through the illness and death of Dora, drove Daphne’s +heart away from him; she wrote him a terrible little letter, and because +he could not see her face, he believed every word of it. He thought over +it all with the deliberate intention of doing the best for them both. +There was only one thing he left out of his calculations, and that +was—three years. They had influenced him as well as Daphne. He was now +thirty-eight, and he loved his profession. When, after a bitter struggle +with himself against his longing for the beautiful girl, he reached the +knowledge that his duty was to give her up, he thought his last joy in +life was killed with his own hand. There was an important consultation +to be held the next day, and he began to take some notes on the subject. +They presented a fresh and entirely original idea, and he forgot Daphne. + +More of us do right because to do wrong breaks into our life, than we +know, but in this case Arthur Field had given up a lower life for the +sake of a higher, and even if this higher were not the highest, it was +distinctly a step towards it. + + + CHAPTER XXIV. + + “One has to learn to leave oneself out of account, this hardness + is required of every mountain climber.” + + —NIETZSCHE. + +There was a perceptible stir down the long ward as the great consultant +entered, followed by his train of eager students. + +The sister knew that her pulse was beating faster, and the nurses stood +at attention, ready for an instant’s flight in any direction. It was +Nurse Fordington’s turn to go round with the doctors, and to wait upon +the sister. The other nurses did not wonder that she looked rather +white. Daphne’s ward was a men’s surgical; at first she had been with +Katherine, and the change had only been made two days before. The +surgeon did not see her, he bent over the bed of a young fellow in great +pain, who was biting his lips to keep the groans back. + +“Want another tube,” the surgeon said without turning. The hand that +gave it to him trembled. He was a man that noticed everything, and he +turned sharply round. It was a moment from which only years of utter +self-control could save him. He scowled, and muttered something about, +“confounded clumsiness,” and the sister shot Daphne a look which was +calculated to make some difference in her manner, but it made none. What +the sister’s warning had failed in though, the surgeon’s scowl +accomplished. Daphne did not see why he should scowl at her like that, +and the next thing she handed to him quite firmly. + +“I have half-an-hour to spare, sister, and must operate upon No. 6 +to-day. Can’t put it off till to-morrow. Can you get him ready? While +you are doing so, I wish to speak to this nurse. I know her in another +capacity.” The ward round had been made, and he spoke to the sister +alone. + +“It’s quite against the rules, sir,” said the sister hesitating. + +“I am quite aware of that,” said the surgeon. “I have not much time to +spare, where can I see her?” + +“In my room, sir,” said the sister. “I will send her to you +immediately.” + +The surgeon nodded. He did not look like a man who was nervous, but when +he got into the sister’s little sitting-room he sat down. When Daphne +entered, he rose to his feet and scowled again. “What are you doing +here?” he asked, “and why on earth did you come?” + +“I am a nurse as you see,” said Daphne, “and I came here because I could +not bear my life.” + +“Nonsense! We can all bear our lives,” said Arthur Field, “and make +other people’s lives unbearable as well! You aren’t strong enough for +this work, and this hospital’s mine!” + +“I did not know that when I came here,” said Daphne. + +“And now you do?” asked he sharply. + +“I shall stay here,” said Daphne, “I think.” + +He walked up and down the tiny room with impatient strides. He had +determined to give her up, and he was a man who generally carried out +his determination, but he had not expected to see her, and he found +chance a disconcerting adversary, who could not be counted on. Around +them both, the life of the great hospital sped on. The time table of the +nurse’s hours hung over the sister’s desk. He read it twice through +without stopping. Then he turned to Daphne again. + +“This is the best managed hospital in London,” he said, “but somebody +must always suffer for everything. We keep people alive who would be +better out of the world, and we work people to death who would make it a +better world! In old days the patients died, and the doctors were saved. +Now it’s the other way about. I have barely fifteen years more good work +in me, and then I shall die in my tracks! My God! though, but it’s worth +it! Daphne, why aren’t you sitting down?” + +“You forget I am a nurse, sir.” + +He stopped amused, and again his eyes travelled over her in her neat +uniform. “Nonsense!” he said, but he did not press the point. They +neither of them could forget that they were in the hospital. “I got your +letter, Daphne,” he said. + +“I—I wrote it,” she murmured, “when I was quite desperate.” + +“Yes,” he said, “it was desperate, and it was real. Daphne, you are +quite right, it would be impossible for us to live together with such +different standards. Once I thought that I could change yours, now I do +not know that I have any right to try.” + +Daphne looked at him. Was this the man who had demanded love of her, as +his due, who had thrust aside her passionate appeals, had over-ridden +her new-born principles, had broken her will, as he might straighten out +an instrument? Now he was offering her a freedom which struck her as she +looked at him, as the emptiest, and coldest thing in the world. Words +sprang to her lips which would have changed their lives. Pride, +indignation, vanity, surged through her, lit by a passion she could not +understand. It did not seem possible that the man before her could be +oblivious to this change in her, to the fact that he had only to claim, +what he had pleaded for, from the depths of his thirsty heart three +months ago. The silence deepened the stress, and movement, of the world +beyond the sister’s room. They seemed cast on eternal loneliness and +stillness, a void place had been made for them in the universe, and just +outside the great hungry stream of life rushed by. + +The surgeon looked at his watch. “Do not let me keep you,” said Daphne, +“I understand.” + +“You have been the dream of my life, Daphne,” he said. + +“And now you have found the reality,” said Daphne bitterly. + +“No! but I have found that you are not strong enough to do what you do +not think is right,” he said; “you would repent, and you are very young, +Daphne—I should never forgive myself. You do not realize, and until +lately I did not realize myself how little I have to offer you, in +return for the most tremendous sacrifice a woman can make.” + +“Oh, Arthur!” she cried at last, feeling as if not a single thing in +life could make up for the separation from him, “isn’t it worth while to +make a sacrifice for love?” + +“Not if you are going to be sorry for it afterwards,” he said. +“Good-bye. Stick to your work here. I shall never disturb you.” + +He held out his hand; for a moment she would not take it, she thought he +would never let her go without kissing her, and she knew that if he +kissed her, he would never let her go. If he had been a weaker man she +would have ruined both their lives. + +“Good-bye, Daphne,” he said, and passed by her to the door. He met the +sister in the passage. + +“No. 6 has gone to the theatre, sir,” she said, “I shall have to let you +have Nurse Fordington. I am very sorry but we are under-staffed.” + +“It does not matter,” said Arthur Field. And yet it made it very hard. +Her presence at his side, the knowledge of her still, white face, the +cry in his heart to win her back to him, to ignore the consequences, to +prevent the irrevocable, made the operation a time of intense trial. His +hand never faltered, a few stern directions shot out, clear and concise +as usual. Daphne, watching him, felt quite sure he had ceased to care +for her, and she knew that she should have felt relieved. Instead she +was hurt beyond the power of words, and smarted under a sense of bitter +wrong. + +She had pleaded to him to let her go, but she had never meant that he +should let her go so easily. She had written to him that though he might +force her will the love in her heart was dead to him, but she could not +forgive him for not kissing her, she was almost sure he knew, that she +wanted him to. Last and worst of all, she had trusted unconsciously, +that he would set her free from David, and now she was face to face with +the inevitable consequences of her word, and inevitable consequences are +not always pleasant facts to deal with. + +“Well, nurse!” asked the other probationer on her return, “how did you +get through your first operation?” + +“Was it my first?” said Daphne. + +“Why, of course it was, sister wouldn’t have let you go in, if she could +have helped it. The king hates raw nurses.” + +“I think I got through all right,” said Daphne, “thank you.” + +“And what did you think of the king?” the nurse persisted. + +“I don’t quite—know,” said Daphne slowly. + +“Of course it takes some time to get used to him, you know,” the nurse +continued. + +“I should think it would,” said Daphne. Looking up at the clock she saw +that it was time for tea. + + + CHAPTER XXV. + + “What name doth joy most borrow + When Life is fair? + To-morrow. + What name doth best fit sorrow + In young despair? + To-morrow.” + +Bert Russell was a young man, about whom people knew extremely little. +He was taken for granted because he had well-bred manners, and was very +useful. If disagreeable things had leaked out about him, plenty of his +acquaintances would have professed themselves as not in the least +surprised; but meantime he was invited everywhere and went out a great +deal. He made no confidences about his life, partly because he found +people were more interested, in making confidences about their own, and +also because he felt quite certain no one would understand. He had been +recommended to Lady Middleton’s husband by a transatlantic Professor, +and Lady Middleton had brought him out. She generally said that he was +extremely well off. She probably thought he was, on the theory that +American men did so well at business. There were many things that this +particular American man did very well, but business was not one of them. +His father had been a consumptive New England farmer, who gave his sons +as good an education as he could afford, and a conscience of which he +had an almost over-abundant stock; then he died. The eldest brother took +on the farm, and Bert went to New York. There he passed through most +things in his attempt to get on, even through tramp shelters, and nights +in Central Park. But they were summer ones and somehow his good humour, +his conscience, and his pluck, pulled him through. At last he wrote up +his experiences rather picturesquely on borrowed paper, and was given +occasional jobs on a New York daily. This opened the way, and he was not +slow to take it. + +Two years of yellow journalism, a sub-editorship, a brilliant novel, and +he was launched. Then he went back to New England, and nursed his mother +until she also died of consumption. His brother had married, his family +increased yearly—and his profits decreased every season, and his +wife—nagged him. Bert had been rather fond of her himself at one time, +but he had always been a little suspicious of her mouth which bent down +at the corners. Six years of married life had made the corners go very +far down indeed. Bert was offered a good post on an English paper, +through some English acquaintances, and it was this, which had taken him +to London. + +There he made friends with everybody, from his London landlady who +smiled at him and saw that no one cheated him but herself, to the head +of his office and the conductors of busses. It paid him to go into +society, and he used to be very careful of his dress suit. He sent back +two-thirds of his income to his brother in New England. + +Katherine was unlike any girl he had ever met. Society types he +understood, and the different shades of village aristocracy in America +made him famously at home with the lower middle classes; but this curt, +determined young woman who could blush so beautifully, and look at you +so steadily, who had so very little to say, and yet gave you the +impression that she could do so much, delighted and puzzled him. + +He was quite aware that she had very strong prejudices, and that he +upset nearly all of them, but this only added zest to their encounters. +When he went back to Overham the Sunday after Dora’s death, he met her +at the early service, to which, through the sweetness of the morning, he +had himself been drawn. The sun was shining down on the quiet +churchyard. Weeping willows drooped over the grass, and the flowers that +grew over and around the graves were covered with dew. It was a perfect +summer morning, and as he looked at the girl in her muslin dress, and +her fair, fresh, English face, he began to wish very much he had not +come. He took her prayer-book out of her hand, and they walked in +silence to the old wood gate. + +“I can carry my prayer-book quite well myself, thank you,” said +Katherine crisply as they reached the gate. His wish vanished. + +“It makes me feel good to carry a prayer-book,” he said. “It reminds me +of the time when I had to learn my collect every Sunday and sit on the +hardest chair in the room. My! those Sundays, how they took the +stiffening out of one. And I wonder how much religion they managed to +insert? Do you know the story of the little girl whose dog followed her +down the street one day? ‘Jack!’ she said, ‘go home! It’s bad enough to +have God always tagging after me without _you’re_ being around!’ She was +a little American girl, you know, Miss Linton.” + +“I do not think that is any excuse,” said Katherine sternly. Then the +image caught her, and she began to smile. When they reached the hill +that led up to Lady Middleton’s park, they both turned back, and looked +at the beautiful old church, and the sun-fretted, rich, green landscape. + +“I got your letter,” said Katherine gently, “just after the child had +left us. It was good of you to write it.” + +“Oh, no!” said the American, “my little sister died just at that age. +The winters are very bad where we live. I had three sisters, and they +all died, that one stayed the longest. After all, they’re so many things +we can’t understand, perhaps it would be more of a mystery if they had +lived; and God’s side of the mystery must be the brightest.” Katherine +said nothing, but she glanced at him as if she understood. “Where is +your home, Miss Linton?” he asked her, after a silence which cost him an +effort to break. + +“I do not live anywhere at present,” Katherine answered, “I am staying +with Daphne until I can go into Hospital.” + +“To earn your own living?” he questioned in surprise. + +“Why on earth _not_?” said Katherine angrily; “you speak as if it were +an unheard-of thing; I have always earned my own living, since I was old +enough to know what life meant!” + +“Why do you know _that_?” he asked her smiling; “tell me what it means?” + +“Hard work!” said Katherine, giving him her hand, “and if you happen to +be a woman, very little pay. I am going into breakfast.” + +“Will you come out with me this afternoon,” he asked, “into the woods; I +must go back to-night?” + +Katherine frowned. She had been indoors so much lately, and she was a +creature of the fresh outdoor world. “If I can get Daphne to go to +sleep,” she said; “the girl’s worn out!” + +“I will call for you at three,” he said, “to enquire.” + +“I don’t think it’s worth while you doing that,” Katherine answered +hesitatingly. + +“Oh! you must leave that question for me to decide,” Bert Russell +replied laughing. + +Daphne went to sleep, and Katherine went out. It was impossible for her +to realize that she had been happy, but she was too honest to deny it +even to herself. Though it was the day after little Dora’s death, and +though she had seen her home taken from her in an hour, yet in the +woods, and in the sunshine, and in the presence of her companion, she +had found a pleasure which was more than that of relief. A positive +gladness in the world and life and youth. She was not at all sure that +she liked him, but she was quite sure that she had enjoyed the day. + +When he went back by train that night, Bert Russell cursed himself for a +selfish fool, and sent more than he could rightly afford to his brother +in New England. He had not seen Katherine since, but he found out from +Lady Middleton that Daphne was with her, that they both had passed the +entrance examination, and were together in the hospital. + +“Why!” said poor Lady Middleton, shaking her head, “Daphne should shut +herself up in an unpleasant, positively painful place for the hottest +months of the year, when she ought to get married, or go to Scotland +with me, or stay quietly in the country with her uncle, is _more_ than I +can explain. Her friend’s mother has just married Colonel Dalgeny, a +delightful creature! It seems, things used to be said, you know, but now +of course they are married and it is quite all right. Still, Katherine +Linton would earn her own living, though I hear she could have married a +parson. What girls are coming to, I positively daren’t think! The ones +who might marry don’t, and there are such herds of those who can’t, and +_no_ nunneries to speak of! Such a pity there aren’t more nunneries, I +think, Mr. Russell, don’t you?” + +“Was there a _real_ parson?” Bert asked, “or do you simply mean on +general principles she might have married one?” + +“Oh, no one marries on general principles, Mr. Russell,” said Lady +Middleton smiling. “I mean that nice fellow at Overham, he quite saw my +point about teaching Sunday school teachers the harp. I wonder if he +believes in nunneries? Those High Churchmen _do_ rather, you know.” + +“I do not expect he would believe in a nunnery for Miss Linton,” Bert +said gravely. “I am not altogether sure that I should myself. It seems +to me, Lady Middleton, you ought to start a scheme for emigrating the +women who can’t marry. The women who won’t, may change their minds.” + +Lady Middleton looked interested. “I think I will just make a note of +that,” she said, dragging out a silver pencil and a little ivory slate. +“Emigration for women who can’t—— Oh, Mr. Russell, an idea has just +occurred to me.” + +“What is it, Lady Middleton?” asked the young American. + +“Well, you know,” said Lady Middleton with great concern, “perhaps they +won’t like to have it thought that they can’t marry, you see!” + +“Better call it by another name then. Emigration an opening for the +unmarried?” he suggested, taking up his hat. + +Lady Middleton wrote it down. “I think,” she said with much enthusiasm, +“this may lead to a really important movement, Mr. Russell.” + +Bert Russell walked through Grosvenor Square and looked towards the +City. The hospital was in the City. + +“I wonder if she likes that parson,” he thought; “at any rate nurses get +off sometimes, she may let me take her out.” + + + CHAPTER XXVI. + + “Strange the world about me lies, + Never yet familiar grown, + Still disturbs me with surprise, + Haunts me like a face half known.” + + WATSON. + +“I wish you were coming, too,” said Daphne, rather wistfully. She had a +late pass, and David was coming to take her to a theatre. + +Katherine sat on her bed drinking cocoa while her friend dressed. “I +don’t like David,” she said slowly, “at all.” + +Daphne flung a scarf of scarlet chiffon over her dark hair. She was +dressed all in white, and the contrast told. “David is a dear boy,” said +Daphne. “He really doesn’t bother me in the least. Sometimes I quite +forget we are engaged.” + +Katherine frowned. “That’s just it,” she said, “you ought not to forget +it, and what is more, you ought not to wish to!” + +“Your verbs, dear,” said Daphne, playing with some scarlet carnations, +“are so imperative! you don’t seem to realize—that I do not expect +golden dreams, and I do not like thrills. I have had my day of +excitement. Nevertheless I have got possibly a good many years before +me, so I shall marry David. It will be——” she paused to look at the +result of the carnations, “very restful.” + +“That’s just exactly what it _won’t_ be!” said Katherine, putting down +her cup with a bang. “It will be hell! You’ll hate yourself, and you’ll +be tied to him. It wouldn’t matter so much if he didn’t care for you but +he does, and you’ll hate that!” + +Daphne’s lips shut tight. This was already true, but she did not mean to +acknowledge it. “I never heard before that a woman disliked a man for +caring for her,” she said. + +“Possibly not—when he’s not her husband!” said Katherine. “That is +where the difficulty comes in.” + +“Of course I shouldn’t let David take me alone to-night,” said Daphne +irrelevantly, “his aunt is coming too.” + +“Yes,” Katherine persisted, “but his aunt won’t always be coming too, +Daphne.” + +Daphne put down the flowers on the dressing-table and went over to her +friend. She took her by the shoulders, and looked into her eyes. +“Katherine,” she said, “I have given my word, you must never talk to me +in this way again. I understand quite well what it means. One must pay +for everything in this world, and we women have to pay high, but I’m not +prepared to talk about the price! Good-night!” She caught up the cloak, +Katherine had put out for her, and ran out of the room. The day-nurses +were coming in for supper, she met and passed them, with merry +greetings. They envied her a great deal. She crossed the cool courtyard, +stopping to speak to the porter about his wife; she was in Katherine’s +ward, and was doing very well. A hansom swung into the little street, +and pulled up at the iron gates. The figure of a tall, well-dressed +young man sprang out. + +“Is that you, Daphne?” + +Daphne drew in a long breath, then she held out her hand. “I am quite +ready, David,” she said. “Is your aunt going to meet us at the theatre?” +she asked a few minutes later. + +David gave a queer little laugh. “I think not, dear,” he said, “it +seemed to me we would have more fun alone. After all what does it +matter, we’re engaged, we can do what we like?” + +“I am not altogether sure I do like it,” said Daphne, “you told me you +would bring her.” + +“Don’t be cross, Daphne,” David pleaded, “I don’t often bother you this +way, but I wanted you quite alone. You see I know such an awfully nice +little room near by, where we can have supper. You don’t mind very much, +do you?” + +Daphne did mind, and she minded very much indeed. There was something +about David which puzzled her to-night. His eyes were too bright, he +spoke very fast, and there was a restlessness about him which infected +her with nervousness. Nevertheless she made an effort, and throwing off +her fears, fascinated him, by her delight and joy in the London streets. +“Oh! but it’s good to get back again!” she cried. “Often in Overham when +everyone was saying, ‘How you must be enjoying the country life,’ I was +wondering how much longer I could put up with it, and thirsting for the +roar and the crowds, and the lights of London! I get so tired of wearing +a uniform too, and Katherine and I can only afford the tops of ’buses. +Just looking at me, as I am now, you wouldn’t think I was a nurse, would +you?” + +But what David thought of her at that moment was left unsaid, for a too +sharp turn at the corner, brought their horse with a crash against a +lumbering four-wheeler. Daphne felt David’s arm about her, a sound of +broken glass, and his hand before her face. In another moment she was +lifted on to the pavement. + +“It’s all right!” he said, steadily enough, “and we are just here.” He +gave something to the swearing cabman, and drew her quickly out of the +crowd. + +Daphne knew suddenly that she would have been very badly hurt if it had +not been for David. Then she saw his hand and wrist were bleeding from a +cut by the broken glass. “It’s just as well you took a nurse out with +you,” she said smiling, as she tore her handkerchief into strips, and +took out a safety pin. “Come under this jewellers’ window, David, and +I’ll fasten you up.” She thought he was badly shaken for he stumbled as +he crossed the pavement. “After all ’buses are safer,” she said, as she +neatly fixed the safety pin. “Now let me take your arm, there is such a +crowd here!” Daphne’s hand on his arm guided him through the crowded +Strand. Voices of flower girls, and the scent and sounds, of the streets +at night, remained a memory of Daphne’s. She was quite conscious that if +she had not been guiding David people might have thought him the worse +for drink; she was conscious also, as it was, that several people turned +and looked after them. She wanted to explain to them that David had just +had an accident. She explained it several times to herself. “Now, +David,” she said, as they reached the lighted doors, “give me the +tickets.” + +He fumbled in his pockets and obeyed. With her light firm hand still on +his arm, they reached their seats. She threw off her long cloak, and +leaned back with a sigh of relief. The theatre rested her as nothing +else could, the orchestra, the lights, the crowds of well-dressed +people, seemed to her an assurance that she was quite safe, and quite +happy, and that after all, in the best regulated families, accidents +didn’t happen. The play for the time being swallowed up all her +emotions. She was watching a great actor, and it stirred her pulses, and +set her brain on fire. The man beside her watched her face, and seldom +glanced towards the stage. + +“Oh, but David,” she said when the curtain went down, “the heroine’s a +stick, why won’t she let herself go?” + +“Women are always afraid to do that,” said David, “they want everything +else to go, and then to be able to say ‘no, thank you,’ and skip out of +the circle of emotions. I never met a good woman yet, who let herself +go.” His eyes were on her face, and seemed to devour her. Again she felt +a sensation as distinct as it was unpleasant, if she had not known David +so well she would have thought it fear. + +“One must be sure of one’s man before one does that,” she said lightly. + +“Well—are you?” he asked. + +The slow colour mounted in the girl’s face, she felt her heart speaking +in every pulse. Would he see that she was breathless, guess that she was +afraid? “Naturally, I trust you, David,” she said rather coldly. + +“Naturally!” said David, and he laughed. Daphne grew angry, and the next +scene passed before she could enter into the spirit of the piece. It was +_David Garrick_, and the man by her side was immensely amused at the +drunken dinner-party scene. “That man knows what it’s like!” he said, as +the curtain went down. + +“Oh!” said Daphne, “what horrible, loathsome days those were! I—I don’t +believe I liked that scene, David!” + +David laughed. “Why, you little fool!” he said, “it’s only acting!” + +“David!” exclaimed Daphne in astonishment. + +“I beg your pardon,” said the man, getting very red. Daphne looked away +from him. She was beginning to believe there were some things she did +not understand about David. The curtain went down for the last time +amidst tremendous applause. David put the cloak around the girl. As he +did so he stooped and kissed her bared shoulder. These seats were under +the shelter of the boxes. Daphne felt as if he had struck her. + +“Never do that again, David!” she said, turning round on him with +flashing eyes. + +“Oh! all right!” said David awkwardly. They went out into the crowded +streets in angry silence. + +“Get a hansom and let me drive home, David,” she said, “I don’t want any +supper.” + +“Oh! but Daphne,” he said, “I’ve ordered it!” He was so evidently +disappointed that she changed her mind. + +“That was very nice of you,” she said gently. “I won’t be so ungrateful +as not to come then.” The restaurant was only a step from the theatre; +David led the way upstairs to a private room. It was beautifully +appointed, and the little table with its dazzling candles and lovely +flowers astonished her. + +“Why, what a pretty room it is, David!” she said. “I had no idea +restaurants had such lovely private rooms.” + +“Some of ’em don’t,” said David. “This is an old friend of mine.” + +“Then you’ve been here often,” said Daphne, smiling at him across the +table. David got up and looked out of the window. + +“Daphne, dear,” he said, “if you really like me to take you back now, I +will, you know.” + +“Oh, but we must have supper first, since you’ve ordered it,” she said. +“We’ll be back before twelve o’clock, won’t we?” + +“Oh, yes!” said David, “of course!” The waiter, a swift and silent +individual, came in. Daphne was astonished at the supper, it was +exquisitely cooked and served, and the best she had ever tasted. David +ate very little, but she noticed he drank a good deal. He did not talk +much, and being still a little shaken with silence and the uneasiness of +the evening, Daphne talked continuously and nervously, until at last the +almost oppressive silence of her host made her catch her breath. She +gave a frightened little laugh. + +“What is the matter with you, David?” she said; “why won’t you speak to +me?” and then she wished she had not spoken. He came over and caught her +hands. + +“Daphne!” he stammered, “Daphne!” She looked into his eyes, and all the +inarticulate rose up to meet her. She was afraid now in real earnest, +desperately, horribly afraid. + +“Oh! my God!” she whispered, “my God! David, let me go! you’re—drunk!” + +“Damn it!” he muttered between his teeth, “do you think I am the only +man who won’t get your kisses?” He drew her closer and closer to him, +she felt his hot breath on her neck. He was mad with drink and passion, +she dared not scream, and she was too far off the bell to ring it. She +began to struggle with him, and the pattern of the wall, the carpet, the +chairs got caught in her brain, till she saw nothing but these, and the +two hands she was so vainly fighting against. + +“David!” she moaned, “for God’s sake let me go!” He was pressing her +backwards, and she knew that behind her was a chair she had admired a +little while before; with a quick movement she avoided it, David saw it +too late, stumbled and fell. In an instant Daphne was at the open door. +Something stopped her from going down into the crowded hall below. She +heard voices coming down the passage. + +“Most improper _I_ call it, goin’ with a young man to a theatre at +night. I should never let the twins do it if they were twenty times +engaged!” + +“I wish you wouldn’t talk so loud, mother!” the voice was Reggie’s. + +“Oh, you go ’long!” said his mother, laughing, “and get us some kind of +a gee!” Quick steps followed. + +“Oh! Reggie!” whispered Daphne into the passage. There was a moment’s +pause, then he came in quietly, shutting and locking the door after him. +David was on his feet again, and the eyes of the two men met in one +long, angry gaze. Reggie said nothing at all, but his face had changed +from a pleasant boy’s, into a firm and steady man’s. His eyes looked as +cold and fierce, as only blue eyes can look, when they are angry. +Daphne, watching him, felt a surprise, almost as strong as her shame, +and terror. He took up her cloak which was hanging over a chair. + +“You—put that down,” said David heavily. Reggie fastened the cloak over +her shoulders in silence, then he went up to David and looked at him. + +“Come along with me,” he said shortly. Daphne stood in wide-eyed terror, +expecting some fearful termination to the scene. To her intense surprise +David quietly obeyed. + +“Stay here, please, till I come back,” said Reggie to her over his +shoulder, “and lock the door after us.” Reggie slipt his arm under +David’s, and they left her. He came back alone. “I am sorry,” he said, +“you’ll have to wait a few minutes till my people have gone.” Then he +saw that she was trembling from head to foot. He got very white, crossed +to the table, and poured her out some wine. “Take this,” he said. Her +hands trembled too much to hold the glass, and he knelt down beside her +putting it to her lips. + +“Reggie,” she whispered, “David—poor David was drunk! He didn’t mean to +be horrible!” + +“All right!” he said, “we can go now, but pull that red thing over your +face as much as you can.” + +“Like this?” said Daphne, drawing it low over her dark hair, and looking +up at him. + +“I daresay that’ll do,” said Reggie evasively. When they got to the door +of the restaurant there was a hansom waiting. “You’ll go straight back +to the hospital?” he asked. + +“Yes, but Reggie,” she pleaded, “you won’t let me go alone? I’m so +frightened!” She caught her breath. He said nothing, but got in beside +her. They drove in silence for a little way. “Reggie,” she said at last, +“I’m still terribly frightened. Won’t you hold my hand?” + +“All right,” said Reggie briefly. She gave a little sigh of relief, +remembering how good he had always been to her when she was a little +girl and they had stayed together at the seaside, and he had always been +willing to lend her his spade. He looked ahead down the lately crowded +streets, they were emptier now, only the habitués were still out. He +looked at the still blazing lights in the jewellers’ windows, he looked +in fact everywhere, but at the girl beside him. + +“Reggie,” she said, “has David ever been like that before?” Reggie said +nothing. “Then he—has!” sighed Daphne wearily. “I don’t think I could +bear to see him again,” she said. “Oh, you _don’t_ think I ought to +marry him after this, do you?” + +“No! I don’t,” said Reggie decisively. They had reached the hospital +gates. He got out and lifted her down. “Do you feel better now?” he +asked, looking at the porter’s lodge. Daphne gave a little sigh of +relief. + +“Reggie!” she said, “do you know, I think I shall join a sisterhood?” + +“You’d better go to bed,” said Reggie. “I’ll see David to-night, and you +can write to him yourself to-morrow.” + +“You have been good to me,” she said; “I’ve always wished you were my +younger brother, Reggie.” + +“A wish that couldn’t be granted!” said her companion rather stiffly, +“seeing I’m three years older than you are! Good-night!” + +She turned and went into the hospital gates. Katherine was asleep, she +leaned over her and kissed her. “After all!” she thought, “I have not +got to pay the price!” + + + CHAPTER XXVII. + +“I do not see them here; but after death, +God knows I know the faces I shall see, +Each one a murdered self, with low, last breath, ‘I am thyself—What hast + thou done to me?’ +‘And I—and I—thyself’ (lo! each one saith), ‘And _thou_ thyself to all + eternity!’” + +ROSSETTI. + +Reggie drove straight to David’s rooms; his thoughts were troubled but +his purpose was clear. It was necessary to look after David. The clock +chimed twelve as he reached his friend’s chambers and climbed the +stairs. David’s rooms were some of the best in London, magnificently +furnished; with large windows over-looking the park. As Reggie entered +he saw his friend sitting in a big arm-chair, gazing stupidly before +him. + +“What the devil do you want?” he asked thickly, as he eyed the intruder. + +“I want a smoke,” said Reggie, taking up a cigar and lighting it. A long +pause followed. + +“What did you do with her,” David asked finally. + +“Took her to the hospital,” said Reggie, puffing at his cigar. + +“And left her there?” + +“And left her there.” David sank morosely into silence again. He was +trying to clear his dulled and fettered faculties. Something had +happened he knew, something, sad, shameful, terrible, but he could not +for the life of him remember what. He was afraid to ask Reggie, for he +was not sure that he wanted to find out. Reggie rang the bell. “Bring +two cups of coffee, black,” he said to the man-servant. + +“Do you think I’m drunk?” asked David with sudden fierceness, “for if +you do I’ll kick you downstairs!” + +“These are precious good cigars of yours, David. Where do you get ’em +from?” Reggie asked coolly, knocking off some ashes into a tray. + +“Best cigars in London,” said David. “Best cigars in the world!” he +added with much force and gravity. When the man brought in the coffee, +David fixed angry eyes upon his companion. Reggie drank his cup with +much appreciation. + +“Good coffee,” he said thoughtfully. David tossed his down thirstily. + +“Best coffee in the world!” he exclaimed with fervour. A long uneasy +silence followed. Reggie, watching him, saw David’s hands clench over +the arms of his chair. The dulled look left his eyes and instead, +knowledge, memory, and pain drove meaning into every line of his face. +An almost passionate self-pity came over him, he turned to Reggie. “But +I love her!” he cried, “I love her! I wouldn’t hurt a hair of her head! +Daphne? Why I worship her! It couldn’t have been Daphne, tell me it was +some other girl?” + +“It was this cursed drink!” said his friend bitterly. + +“Oh, curse it! curse it! curse it!” said David starting to his feet. +“And give me some more brandy, old boy! I must have some brandy! I can’t +think! I can’t——” + +“Hold on!” said Reggie, “you don’t want any more, David.” + +“I tell you I must have it! I shall go mad! Oh, damn you, let me have +some brandy!” Reggie pushed him back into his chair, David was trembling +all over like a frightened child. + +“Not while I’m here, old man!” said Reggie firmly. David struggled for +awhile and then gave in. + +“I could ring for my man to turn you out,” he said sullenly. + +“You could, but you’re not going to!” said Reggie. They eyed each other +for a while. Then David burst out angrily as if his friend were accusing +him. + +“After all, what’s the fuss about? I may have taken a glass too much, +but a man can’t always be on his guard. It will never happen again, I’ve +learnt my lesson now. I’ll write and explain, and as for the rest——” + +“I don’t wish to hear about the rest,” said Reggie rather sharply. + +“Well, I only tried to kiss her!” muttered David defensively, “I swear I +never meant any harm! I may have been a little rough, but, good God! a +man’s made out of flesh and blood, and that old hag your mother——” he +stopped short. “I’m sorry,” he added in apology, “she told me she had +seen that surgeon kiss her—the night she promised to be my wife, and we +were engaged, a man ought to be allowed to kiss the girl he’s engaged +to!” Reggie made no answer, and David’s mood changed. His friend’s +silence seemed to show him more plainly than anything the actual case. +He strung himself together, and the words that came from him seemed +wrung out of his soul. “God forgive me,” he said, “she trusted me!” It +was probably the first time in his life that he looked at what happened +to him, from the aspect of how it affected somebody else, and it could +not last more than a minute. “She will never look at me again,” he said, +and he covered his face with his hands. + +Reggie’s thoughts became fixed on some words he had seen somewhere, “He +found no place for repentance though he sought it carefully and with +tears.” He had vaguely felt this an injustice, he remembered, now he +knew that it was a simple fact. There is more than one way of forfeiting +a birth-right, but self-indulgence lies at the root of them all. Esau +could find no place for repentance because he had lost the faculty for +the search, and Reggie, looking at the wreck of the handsome youth +beside him, felt that the inexorable answer to selfish luxury, is a +ruined self. David was not a bad man, he had, indeed, not one wholly +cruel impulse in him; he was a good fellow, only he was not quite good +enough. There are few characters sufficiently strong to retain their +true balance, in an atmosphere of comfort surrounded by attainable +pleasures, and pleasant-looking sins, of a sort too, which people term +“very natural.” David’s sins were no more than this at first, until they +became only too natural, and then he ceased to call them sins. + +Reggie, looking at him, had a growing consciousness that the happy, +healthy existence which he had hitherto enjoyed, might not really be +life at all. He did not go much farther than this, but he felt +dissatisfied, and it is a great deal to feel dissatisfied. Three o’clock +struck, and he rose to his feet. + +“David, old man,” he said, “don’t you think you’d better get to bed?” +David looked up at him with haggard face, and blank, miserable eyes. + +“Tell her to forgive me!” he said. “I can’t write to her and ask her not +to think about me any more. I don’t think she’ll find it difficult!” he +added bitterly. “I’ll just sit here and rest for a few minutes longer, +then I’ll turn in.” + +Reggie nodded and left him, but he took away the brandy bottle, and said +a few words to the valet downstairs. He was a devoted man and understood +his master quite well. The moment the door shut David sprang to his feet +and, crossing the room with quick, noiseless steps, he opened a little +cupboard in the wall. Reggie had taken away the brandy, but this was +gin. Gin would do just as well, anything would do just as well that +would shut out Daphne’s face, and that startled cry of hers +“David—you’re drunk!” + +Dawn rose over the great weary city. The streets that had been +practically hidden by the pitying darkness of the night awoke afresh to +“The shame that loads the intolerable day.” + +Lady Cheston came down late to breakfast; she eyed her son’s face a +little doubtfully. There were stern lines round his mouth which reminded +her a little unpleasantly of his father. Life had been made easier for +Lady Cheston since her husband’s death. + +“I should like a few words with you, mother,” said Reggie, at last +pushing away an untasted breakfast. + +“Then I suppose the girls had better go away?” said Lady Cheston +resignedly. + +“Very much better,” said Reggie. The twins, who were most obliging young +persons, smiled pleasantly and left the room. “I have been forced to cut +down your allowance,” said her son gravely, “you will now only have the +sum my father left you, the rest I must use for other purposes.” + +His mother gasped. He had found out and she had been so careful, and he +was going to do what he had said. She was a plucky woman, and besides, +she wanted to know if it had been worth while, a great deal depended +upon that. + +“Why?” she asked bluntly. + +“Because I find that you have interfered with David’s engagement.” + +“They were both at the theatre last night,” said Lady Cheston, “which +doesn’t look like a break.” + +“Nevertheless, there has been one,” said Reggie. Lady Cheston’s eyes +fell on her plate, she did not wish her son to see them at that moment, +they were too happy. She began to crumble her bread. + +“I do not see why you should put it down to my interference,” she said. +“They were never suited to each other, and now they have found it out.” + +“And you have helped them to find out,” said Reggie. Lady Cheston +shrugged her shoulders. + +“It would be no use my telling you that I didn’t,” she said, “because +you wouldn’t believe me.” + +“Besides, it is not true,” said Reggie quietly. Lady Cheston laughed. + +“Where’s the _Field_?” she asked, “I must get a Scotch terrier!” Her son +handed her the paper, and left the room. Her hand trembled too much to +hold it. She went over to a mirror and studied her face. It was true she +was forty, but she was a very fine-looking woman still. + +“Oh! David! David! David!” she whispered. She knew that for the moment +he must hate her, but there would be other moments. In the worst things +that she fancied coming up between them, she could never have imagined +that he had called her, to her own son, “That cursed old hag!” If she +had known of it she would never have understood Reggie’s not repeating +it to her, and she would have felt just the same to David. + + + CHAPTER XXVIII. + + “Love like a bird hath perched upon a spray, + For thee and me to hearken what he sings, + Contented he forgets to fly away; + But hush! . . . remind not Eros of his wings!” + + WATSON. + +The two girls dressed quickly, exchanging no word. Katherine looked at +Daphne sharply from time to time, but the work before them both warned +her to touch on nothing but the external. She ventured on a “You’re +tired?” as they hurried down to breakfast. Daphne stared at her. + +“My dear,” she said, “I am tired right through to my soul.” Katherine +laughed; she was used to her extravagances. + +Nevertheless she felt uneasily that some things were different. Daphne +had thrown off her sweet manner, little bitter things came to her lips +all the morning, and the young dresser who adored her got tossed down +precipices of blackness by a withering snub. Katherine had often +counselled her friend to be less charming in her ways, now she would +have given a great deal to catch her in a pretty insincerity, instead +Daphne was cuttingly truthful. + +“Do you think I shall make a good nurse?” a new arrival asked her. + +“I don’t know what you’ll be in the next world,” said Daphne, “but +you’ll never be a nurse in this!” Katherine gasped. At tea-time she +attacked her. + +“What happened last night, Daphne?” she asked sternly. + +“Last night,” said Daphne, “I realized that I had been insulted by a man +who was supposed to be in love with me. It was a dose to my +self-conceit. I thought I understood David, and I found I had left out +an important ingredient in his composition. It will make very little +difference as far as he is concerned, as it will put him out of my life; +but in my dealings with mankind in the future, I must reckon on the +ingredient David introduced me to! Must things always happen before one +can see?” she added passionately. “I thought I knew most things and was +prepared to face them, yet a child on the streets knows more of life +than I do!” + +“I thought you understood,” said Katherine, “and were pretending that +you didn’t mind, and I thought that Arthur Field——” + +“Ah, no!” interrupted Daphne, “Arthur never taught me those kinds of +things! I remember his saying to me once, ‘Daphne, your ignorance of +passion amounts to genius,’ but it isn’t the things a man says that +makes you see, it’s what they mean, and show that they mean quite +wordlessly—David was drunk! and even _that_ I didn’t know! One seems to +have been given instincts to act as warnings, only they don’t go far +enough to tell us what we are being warned against! It’s time I went +back to work again, I suppose? Has Sister had her tea yet?” + +“Yes,” said Katherine. + +“Katherine,” Daphne asked suddenly, “is it because I am not really good +that it has happened?” Her friend looked at her very tenderly. + +“Not quite that,” she said, “only you do make things terribly difficult, +Daphne. Couldn’t you be more impersonal somehow? I can’t explain +exactly, but people get awfully fond of you, and you do and say the very +things, to make them worse.” + +“But I like people to be fond of me if they would stop at the right +place.” + +“Well, they won’t,” said Katherine, “if you mean the place that you want +them to stop at.” + +“You’re off now, aren’t you?” said Daphne, preparing to return to her +ward. “Katherine, I believe you see things very plainly.” + +“I sometimes see very plain things,” said Katherine quietly. The maid +announced a visitor for her. + +“Let us hope this is not one of them!” laughed Daphne. + +“It is a gentleman, Miss,” said the maid importantly. + +Katherine walked into the nurses’ sitting-room. + +“Philip!” she exclaimed. Mr. Mitchell shook hands with her very warmly. + +“I hoped you wouldn’t mind my coming here to see you,” he said; “I’ve +got my work at last, an East-end curacy.” They sat down opposite each +other. + +“Tell me about it,” said Katherine. + +Philip Mitchell gave a sigh of content. She was a picture of what he had +all his life missed, a sympathetic and strongly sensible woman; that she +was good to look at as well, did not take away from the value of the +picture. There were other nurses sitting, and standing about the room. +All of them looked tired, and some of them looked inquisitive. + +“If you have time, won’t you come out?” he asked. + +“I have two hours,” she said, and left him to get her things on. + +A part of her previous history he knew from Mr. Fordington. When he had +heard of her mother’s marriage, he had wanted immeasurably to put the +unspoken feelings, that had grown up between them on a solid basis, but +he knew her too well to imagine she would listen to him just then. She +must, first of all, prove her soul in the work she found to do, before +she would be ready to help him in his. He had still a scruple as to a +married priesthood, but it was a scruple which love of Katherine had +worn thin. Now he felt sure as he looked at her in her plain and +serviceable uniform, that she was quite as competent to be a slum-worker +as himself. It was after all one thing to give up love for one’s work, +and quite another and a foolishly impossible thing, to give up a love +that would act as a stimulant to one’s work. As he waited for Katherine +he assured himself of this, and looked curiously at her sister nurses. +They talked slang over his head and lolled about, he noticed; he was not +sure that he thought such things as they must live amongst quite +suitable for women. Katherine appeared. + +“Come along,” she said shortly. When they entered the street, she looked +up at him and smiled. “I should not have done this for anybody but you,” +she said; “I shall get awfully chaffed about you!” + +Philip frowned. “Who by?” he asked almost angrily. + +“Oh! all the nurses!” said Katherine. “Would you like to bite their +heads off, for mentioning your name?” + +“If they mention yours as well I’ll forgive them,” said Philip; “all the +same I think it’s not quite a profession for _young_ women, Katherine.” + +“Now I wonder why you think that?” she asked him. + +“They must see a side of life which they would be better without,” said +Philip. Katherine looked at him thoughtfully. + +“You are a good man, Philip,” she said, “but there would be more good +men I think, if young women knew ‘sides of life’ as you call them. Our +ignorance fights against the very good we desire.” + +“I do not consider this a fit matter for discussion,” said Philip +stiffly. Katherine smiled at him good-humouredly. + +“Oh, well!” she said, “we won’t quarrel over my sex’s limits on our +first afternoon, and you shall discuss only the most respectable +subjects. We can begin on the thirty-nine articles if you like. Can we +take a ’bus?” He hailed a green one, and they climbed to the top. It was +a perfect evening early in July. Great water carts had laid the dust of +the streets, and all the folk of the city, had drifted out in cool +garments on to the pavement. Men were in their shirt sleeves smoking, +girls walked arm in arm up and down the street, house-wives haggled over +piled up barrows for to-morrow’s dinner. It was a Saturday evening, and +the world was given up to summer thoughts and ways. The two on the +’bus-top watched, with new eagerness, the crowds below them. + +“They are sordid,” Philip said, “but how they are alive! Look at that +girl with a baby in her arms, hasn’t she got a soul?” + +“She has got a baby,” said Katherine smiling, “and that makes most +women, half-way to being Madonnas.” Philip looked at her gently. + +“I did not know you were so fond of children, Katherine,” he said. +Katherine blushed furiously, she hated to show her feelings, and the +intensest of them all, was her passion of motherhood. + +“I said ‘most women,’” she said rather shortly. “Is your parish like +this?” He gave her an earnest and sanguine outline of what it was, and +what he meant it should be. She watched him with silent interest; she +felt that he was far too hopeful, but that was a fault that time would +soon cure. + +“Your work is one,” she said at last, “in which you ought to have no +self-love, a very deep purse, and a little judgment wouldn’t be a bad +thing either, Philip.” + +“You think I have none?” he asked ruefully. + +“I was only wondering whether you would know when you were taken in,” +she said. He looked a trifle indignant. “Don’t ever be angry when you +are,” she said, “even with yourself, for it blinds one as to what to do +next.” + +“Have you any other advice to offer me?” he asked a little stiffly. +Katherine laughed so merrily that the ’bus driver turned his head and +smiled at her. Katherine, to Philip’s horror, smiled and nodded back. + +“You must learn to laugh, Philip,” she said, “or you will break your +heart, and you mustn’t mind ’bus drivers!” Philip changed the subject. + +“We get out here,” he said. To his amazement Katherine was down and off +the ’bus before he had had time to signal to the ’bus driver to stop; he +was a little awkward in following her. “You should never do that,” he +said disapprovingly, “it’s very dangerous.” + +“How long did you say you had been in London?” Katherine asked, as they +turned into a narrow street where the people were all on the steps. + +Philip was not sure that after all a celibate priesthood was not the +better part. “The parish begins here,” he said rather shortly. Katherine +glanced down a net-work of alleys, broken into by tenement courts, and +finished off at the corners by public houses, none of which on this +summer evening were empty. There were callings of fretful babies, and +the sharp tongues of exasperated mothers, with the usual asides that if +Tom didn’t stop making that row, his neck would be wrung, or some +equally strong and final operation performed on him. Katherine imagined +it was not a bad quarter. There were plants in the windows, and a smell +of steak floated out of one of the doors. Two loud-voiced women at the +end of the street advanced sharply towards each other. There was a +moment’s preliminary language, and then, to Katherine’s amusement, and +Philip’s horror, the fight began. + +One woman, standing back for a moment, launched herself in growling fury +upon the other, who clawed at her with a skill, won through many +encounters. A small crowd gathered around them, and called out +encouraging expletives, gave hints as to the handling of hair, and +advised the stouter of the two to “come down on ’er like a feather-bed.” +Philip cast an anxious glance at his companion. He looked white and +troubled. + +“I must separate them,” he said. “I am so sorry to have brought you +here!” Katherine smiled. + +“You may need my services afterwards,” she said “It is just as well I +came.” + +He hardly heard her, for in a moment he had pushed his way through the +crowd. “Mrs. McCullen!” he gasped in horror, catching the fat woman by +the shoulder. This worthy lady who was getting the worst of the +encounter, sat down heavily upon the pavement and began to dab her +scratched face with a dirty apron. The other woman, of an alert and wiry +nature, finding nothing for the work of her hands to do, lifted up a +high and piercing voice, and began to describe her opponent, starting +with her entry into the world, and ending up with her final destination +beyond it. + +Someone made an offer to Philip, that if he would fork out a bob, they +would stop her jaw, but he refused shortly and bent, in wretched +disappointment, over the woman on the pavement. + +“Oh! Mrs. McCullen, how did this come about?” he exclaimed, “and you +were at church on Sunday, too!” + +“Wot if I were?” exclaimed the indignant lady, with a savage glance at +her enemy. “Is she to call me a mongrel? Me, that lived h’on this ’ere +street one-and-twenty years come Monday! D’ye think it likely, _h’an’_ +my pore ’usband in the grave, h’an’ my daughter ’ead ’ouse-maid in the +West h’end!” + +“Ho! that’s where you belong, h’is it?” shrieked her opponent with a +jeer; “thought ye seemed a bit h’out of plice in this ’ere street, more +h’at ’ome in Buckingham Palace, _I_ believe. Want to sit in h’a golden +droreing room that’s what _you_ want—h’oh, I knows ’ere——” Philip +held up his hand and turned and looked at the woman, something in the +pained boyishness of his expression touched her. “I’m not blaming you, +sir!” she said, “we h’all knows what Mrs. McCullen is—nasty drunken +drab!” + +“Hi’ll lern ye to call me nimes!” shrieked Mrs. McCullen, who had now +got her second wind and was on her feet. Philip held her back. + +“Mrs. McCullen!” he said, “you will be sorry for this to-morrow! you, a +Christian woman, trying to fight like this! I am ashamed of you.” + +“Be ashamed of ye’self!” grumbled Mrs. McCullen sullenly, but she made +no fresh attempts on her late companion, and retreated scowling into her +own room, whacking an inoffensive baby playing with a tin can on her +steps. If the mother had been present hostilities would have been +renewed, but she was (for this event) fortunately in the public house. +The baby clung to the can, and picking itself up unconcernedly, toddled +off to another step. It was probably accustomed to a cup-and-ball +existence. + +Philip turned to the other woman. “Why should you quarrel with your +neighbour?” he asked gently, “it seems such a pity.” + +“She said as ’ow my ’usband was no class!” grumbled the other woman, +“cos ’e comes ’ome drunk! Lor! what d’ye expect? Don’t they all? She’s +been so long without an ’usband she forgot! h’i told ’er _that_, too!” +she added with relish. It was a sting that had gone home. “H’and I +h’added that she were a mongrel, h’and so she be, sir!” Philip looked +perplexed. + +“I hope you will never do so again!” he said. “Think, if you have any +children, what a bad example it must be for them to see their mother +quarrelling with her neighbour!” The woman hung her head. The crowd had +dispersed long ago, and Katherine had joined them. + +“That’s a pretty little girl you have behind you,” she said. “Is she +yours?” + +“Yes, Miss!” said the woman, dragging the child in front of her. “Oh! +but she’s a dirty little girl,” she said in a lighter tone, “I don’t +like for you to see ’er.” Philip’s face brightened. + +“I do not know what your name is,” he said, “but I will come and see you +to-morrow; I hope your little girl will grow up a good one.” The woman +looked at him sharply. + +“H’i was married in church, sir!” she said. + +“I must go now,” Katherine said to Philip quietly. + +“Can’t you even come to see my church?” he asked. + +“I will come some Sunday with Daphne,” said Katherine. “Philip, what do +you think about that woman?” + +“She seems respectable,” said Philip, “but the drunken brute of a +husband has got on her nerves! Ah! the lives those women lead!” + +“The lives we all lead!” said Katherine, “fighting for our destinies in +the dark!” His face grew radiant. + +“With the certainty of Light Eternal!” he said firmly. “Oh, Katherine, +it has been ringing so in my mind, ‘Beloved, love one another!’ After +all, it is simply in our love of the poor brother whom we _have_ seen, +that the love of the Father whom we have not seen is revealed to us! It +was Mr. Fordington who always said, ‘We are unspiritual because we are +_unreal_ about what we see. When we are honest with the things in sight, +the out of sight will rush in on one, in full reality!’ Tell me, could +you do your work without an intense love?” Katherine hesitated. + +“I think it teaches love,” she said, “but only as a disciplined emotion, +one must never let one’s heart go without one’s common sense.” + +“What do you mean?” he asked. + +“One mustn’t think well of people because one feels kindly towards +them,” she explained, “but one must go on feeling kindly towards them in +spite of their not doing well. Then one doesn’t get disappointed, for +they are sure not to do well!” He looked at her a little severely. + +“You look too much on the dark side!” he pronounced. + +“All right!” laughed Katherine as she caught her ’bus, “only don’t +forget that the dark side is a large one!” + +Philip was sick of heart that night over Mrs. McCullen, who passed him +reeling drunk. First enthusiasm gets bitterly depressed, and only a +strong will and much courage get the better of depression. Katherine +told Daphne of the incident. + +“Do you know you could not have told me all that,” she said, “if you had +been really in love with him?” Katherine looked away. She was cutting +bread and butter for the patients’ supper, and a sharp exclamation of +anger from the Sister, who was passing through the kitchen, showed her +she had nearly cut herself. “I said, ‘Cut _bread_,’” the Sister reminded +her. + +“Daphne,” said Katherine with much emphasis, after the sister had passed +them, “I don’t! I thought I did, but something has changed me, and the +worst of it is, I don’t know _what_!” + +“Perhaps that isn’t the worst of it,” said Daphne, and Katherine did not +ask her to explain. + + + CHAPTER XXIX. + + “Dome up, O heavens! yet higher o’er my head; + Back, back, horizon! widen out my world; + Rush in, O infinite sea of the Unknown! + For though He slay me, I will trust in God.” + + GEORGE MCDONALD. + +It was evening, and the heat was more terrible because of the darkness, +the stones were hot to the touch of one’s feet: the very shadows seemed +a mockery and a delusion. The air that hung above the hospital had a +pressure, and a thickness, that made breathing an intolerable burden. + +Katherine, sitting by the open window within sight of a great market, +wondered how she had been able to keep on her feet all day; now it +seemed almost too much of a struggle even to wonder. + +The door opened, and Daphne came into the room. At first Katherine did +not see her face; when she did, she started to her feet. + +“What is the matter?” she asked quickly. Daphne sank into a chair and +covered her face with her hands; she was trembling from head to foot. + +“Oh! Oh! Oh!” she gasped. “I can’t bear to die! I can’t—die!” For a +moment Katherine thought she had gone mad. + +“What are you talking about?” she asked her. + +“Sister said I was to go to him, but she did not tell me!” Daphne moaned +incoherently. “Only his face—Katherine, his face! He gasped as I lent +over him, ‘Don’t let me die, nurse!’ And he kept muttering ‘I’m only +nineteen! I’m only nineteen!’ And then he began to struggle, and the +terror in his eyes! Oh! Katherine, I never saw such terror in anybody’s +eyes before! and I couldn’t think what to say to him! I asked him if he +wanted to pray to God, and he said ‘I don’t want God—I want to live!’ +And I saw he couldn’t! It seemed as if there was really someone +struggling with the spark of life in him, and he died fighting it, died +with that frightful look of terror in his eyes.” She rose to her feet +and began walking up and down hurriedly in the tiny room. “I didn’t know +it was like that!” she said. “Think! It is summer-time, and somewhere +there is sea, and coolness, and roses, and he was only nineteen! They +say it is a beautiful world, but it isn’t! It’s cruel! It’s simply +cruel! to let him die like that when he was fighting so, to send his +soul out of his fine young body into the dark! Oh! I am afraid! It is +all going on the same—nobody knows, nobody cares, and all around us is +this struggle between our weak, impotent lives, and this cruel, +masterful death! picking us—oh! so short sometimes, like a heedless +child in a field of flowers, only to throw them away! Katherine, _you_ +have got to die! And I? Oh, I don’t want to! I wish I had never been +born, and no one can help us! We have to go out alone, and we don’t know +_what_ is on the Other Side! Arthur said he had fifteen years more work, +and then he would drop in his tracks, only fifteen years, and I—perhaps +I may not have so long.” Daphne’s face was working terribly—she was +completely unnerved and worn out. Katherine blamed herself bitterly for +not having taken more care of her. + +“Anyway, you’re not dying now!” she said, “so you had better sit down +and get rested; it is much too hot to run up and down the room!” Daphne +obeyed her listlessly. + +“Nothing is worth while!” she said. “I might have married David, or gone +to Arthur! When Dora died it nearly broke my heart, but I wasn’t +frightened, now——” she began to shiver again. “I can’t go back to the +ward!” she muttered, “I can’t face them again, they might—die! I tell +you it’s the end!” she cried fiercely to Katherine. “It’s the end! the +end! I don’t believe in Heaven, and Hell is here! To have love and +beauty, and the gifts of life, and then be robbed of them one by one, +and last of all hustled out of one’s own familiar world! And then you +ask me to believe in something else!” Katherine looked at her in blank +astonishment; this was a Daphne whom she did not know. + +“God gave them to you, and so can’t you believe He has got something +better for you as well?” she asked at last, and Katherine smiled at her. + +“You have had so much love,” she said, “and that is the way to Eternity, +and the consolation for all that is beautiful which seems to perish. +Surely you understand?” + +“What do you mean by love?” Daphne asked angrily. “Arthur’s profession +coming before his heart, or David’s fits of passion, or Philip +Mitchell’s spiritual twaddle?” Katherine’s eyes flashed. + +“I have loved you, Daphne,” she said. + +“Thank you!” said Daphne. “What is a girl’s love for another girl, but a +kind of make-shift before the bridge is built? Do you suppose I love +_you_, as you call it? I can assure you, you have frequently bored me to +death!” + +“I will be more careful in the future,” said Katherine. + +Daphne laughed. “Future?” she questioned—“is there to be a future?” + +“It is ten o’clock,” said Katherine quietly, “and I am going to bed.” +Daphne held out her arms to her. + +“I didn’t mean it!” she cried, “not one single, cruel word of it! It was +only those eyes, that poor boy’s eyes!” And she began to cry. Katherine +held her hands and soothed her, as she would a frightened child. Later +she prayed, and Daphne knelt by her gazing out of the window across the +hot roofs and heavy London sky. For the first time in her life she felt +the call of green fields, and quiet country lanes, for the pureness of +the sky, and the clear air, and all the life of trees, and birds, and +flowers. She began to think about her uncle and Dora; as she knelt she +became aware that he had loved her, and that she had been very cruel to +leave him when he needed her most. Words and thoughts of his came back +to her, that she had never really understood, and she began to ponder +them in her heart. She remembered once she had been very angry with him; +they had been sitting in his study, and he had turned to her and said, +“Daphne, I know what you are thinking about.” She had questioned him, +and he had answered very sadly. “You are thinking of yourself. One day +you will have to stop doing that.” Now she knew that the time had come. +The life behind her became a terrible burden even to think of. One got +paid for selfishness (she thought) by Death, for pleasure by satiety, +for luxury by ruin, for scepticism by despair, and for the love of +others by vanity of heart. + +Katherine was in bed, but Daphne knelt on, forgetting everything but the +new vision that was born in her. + +“Katherine,” she asked, “are you awake?” + +“Yes,” said her friend sleepily. + +“I was afraid of Death,” said Daphne, “because I was not alive. I +believe I know now what it is to be alive.” + +“Well, you’d better go to sleep,” said Katherine. Daphne smiled to +herself in the dark. + +“Oh! no!” she said, “I am going to wake up now.” + + + CHAPTER XXX. + + “Yet, ah! that Spring should vanish with the Rose; + That youth’s sweet-scented Manuscript should close! + The nightingale that in the branches sang— + Ah, whence and whither flown again who knows!” + + RUBAIYAT. + +He had made up his mind not to think about Katherine, so that when he +actually met her in an A. B. C. he felt that the reward of his decision +was clear. She looked tired and white, and he ordered a succession of +ices for each of them. + +“In this country,” he said, “you have your luxuries in egg-cups, so the +only way is to get a lot of egg-cups. I think perhaps that is the real +reason why English people take their pleasure sadly—you see, they are +always coming to the bottom of the egg-cup. In fact, you ought to go for +a holiday, which proves my point.” + +Katherine hoped his nonsense had covered her visible embarrassment at +the sight of him. It had covered it, but he had seen it, and he knew +better than Katherine did what it meant. + +The sun burnt through the window of the dull little shop, the sugar +trickled off the buns, the butter floated. The girls who lounged about +the small tables made the idea of eating difficult. A young man in a +billy-cock hat sucked lemon-squash, through a straw. + +The American enjoyed the scene before him. “Oh! it’s good! it’s good,” +he said. “Think of this in the heart of London—and it pays.” + +“Why shouldn’t it pay?” said Katherine crossly. + +“If you came here oftener it would pay more,” said Bert Russell +audaciously. Katherine looked steadily before her. + +“I shall not come here again,” she said. + +“Then where shall we go?” he asked. + +“You can go where you please,” she replied with irritation, “and I shall +go somewhere else.” They both laughed, but Bert Russell, remembering the +look of unwilling welcome in the girl’s eyes, made the mistake of +supposing she knew it also. + +“I have been looking for you for some twenty-eight years,” he said. +“What are you going to do about it?” + +“I should suggest that you wasted no more time,” said Katherine. + +“That’s what I feel about it myself,” said Bert. “Will you have another +ice in honour of your decision?” + +“You are wilfully misunderstanding me,” said Katherine angrily. “I have +never liked, nor trusted you. If you will force me to tell you +unpleasant truths, I cannot help it. You have no right to jest with me +on—on such subjects!” + +“Pardon me, I was not jesting,” said Bert with a queer little smile. “I +was only proposing to you, and the laugh is all on your side.” + +The young man with the lemon-squash pushed back his chair with a noisy +squeak, and began to tease one of the girls across the counter. Their +nasal voices made Katherine wince. + +“Then you might have found a simpler way of doing it,” she said, “but it +makes no difference. I am sorry I cannot marry you.” She had not meant +to speak so brutally, but she was hurting herself as well as him, and it +is not easy to hurt oneself gracefully. + +“And you neither like nor trust me?” he said thoughtfully. Katherine did +not answer him. “Well, thank you, Miss Linton, for being frank; it saves +ever so much time. You won’t have another ice?” + +“No,” said Katherine. “Mr. Russell?” + +“Yes, Miss Linton.” + +“I do like and trust you, but it doesn’t make any difference!” Bert +Russell laughed. + +“It makes a lot of difference to me,” he said, “I can assure you!” + +“It doesn’t to what we have just been talking about,” persisted +Katherine. + +“Maybe we can be friends?” he asked lightly, “or brothers?” Katherine +frowned. + +“It might lead to mistakes,” she said. + +“I believe in the policy of the open-door,” he said. “Some day the right +person walks in. Anyway, it’s much more hospitable, don’t you think?” + +“Well, I sometimes come to tea here on Tuesdays,” said Katherine. + +“Good,” said the American. “It’s a fine place to come to.” + +The young man at the counter said something to the girl which made her +giggle. Katherine walked out of the shop. As they turned towards the +hospital they were stopped, by one of those swiftly-forming little +London crowds. On the pavement, surrounded by their pressing figures, +was a very well-dressed woman, who might have been good-looking—only +she was drunk. Katherine and her companion made their way to her side. + +“Let us take her somewhere,” said the American, “before a policeman +comes.” He tipped a bystander, and a cab appeared. Somehow they got her +into it. + +The heat and the glare of the day made the world terrible—a world in +which such a thing could easily happen. The crowd dispersed as the cab +drove away, and a policeman sauntered up. + +“We were just in time,” said Bert with relief. + +“And now will you tell me what you are going to do?” asked Katherine +with some asperity. “In half-an-hour’s time I am due in the ward. +This——” she hesitated as she looked at the heavy, inanimate figure he +was supporting, “this woman is completely helpless and will remain so +for some hours. She is probably an actress,” glancing at her clothes. + +“She ought to have a card somewhere about her,” said Bert Russell. +“Why—here is one in her pocketbook. My gracious! Miss Linton,” he said +aghast, “she’s Mrs. Arthur Field!” The two gazed at each other in a +communion of horror. Why, in all the world, had this black secret come +to them? The stern, indomitable face of the surgeon rose up between +them, and the weak, lost loveliness of the woman was in itself an +appeal, and an explanation. “We must take her to her husband,” said the +American. + +“Ah, poor fellow,” said Katherine. They drove in silence through the +noise and glare, of the great city, shrouded in the stillness of a human +mystery, unseeing and unhearing. They arrived at the impressively blank +house where the surgeon lived, before they had framed an explanation. + +The maid told them Mr. Field was engaged, but would be free in a few +minutes. “People did not usually see him without an appointment,” she +added, looking suspiciously at the nurse and the young man. + +“The nurse has brought a patient of Mr. Field’s to him; she is in the +cab, but unfortunately she has fainted. Will you kindly find us a +private room. I take all the responsibility of settling affairs with Mr. +Field,” said the American. “The case is urgent,” he added in an +undertone, handing her a sovereign. The maid nodded. + +The nurse had roused the woman to a stumbling consciousness; they +managed between them to get her into the house. The maid’s suspicion +deepened, and a further proof of another sovereign was needed before the +private room was found. Katherine looked at her watch, and Bert Russell +took her back to the cab. At the door she gave him her hand. + +“I can’t bear leaving you to face it alone,” she said. + +“Ah!—now I wonder why?” asked Bert Russell, smiling. Katherine withdrew +her hand sharply. + +As the cab drove off she leaned to him out of the window. “Good-bye,” +she said, “and thank you.” Bert went back to his post. + +The woman had been more or less roused, but she was still only +half-conscious; sometimes she muttered and tossed to and fro in her +sleep. She had such pretty hands. The minutes were heavier and longer +than hours. Once, through a partition at the end of the room, he heard a +woman’s voice. + +“Then, Mr. Field, you would suggest a winter abroad?” + +“I never suggest, madam, I merely state what is necessary.” + +“It will be very expensive,” said the lady. + +“That has nothing whatever to do with me,” he replied a little brutally. + +He heard the door close sharply, and a moment later a quick, decisive +tread stopped at the door of the room, and the surgeon entered. + +“May I ask the meaning of this intrusion, sir?” he asked in a short, +hard voice. Then he saw the woman on the sofa. He stood quite still for +a moment, and swayed a little. The storm had burst upon him, and he was +not quite ready for the storm. Yet the thought came to him even then +with a rush of gladness that Daphne had been spared this. “Ah!” he said, +coming swiftly forward, “my wife, sir.” He looked down at her with +passionate loathing and anger in his eyes. As Bert Russell watched him, +he saw the clear-cut mouth quiver once, as if old memories were tugging +at his heart; his eyes grew soft, and he turned to the young man. “I +think I have met you before?” he said. + +“At Lady Middleton’s,” said the American. + +“Yes,” said Mr. Field, “I remember. May I ask you where you met my +wife?” Bert explained. The surgeon raised his eyebrows. “Do you often do +these things?” he asked; “must be a little awkward at times?” Bert +smiled. + +“Why, no!” he said, “I don’t find it so. It was lucky I saw her card.” + +“Was there anyone with you?” Mr. Field questioned. Bert hesitated. + +“A lady,” he said finally. + +“Ah,” said the surgeon, “I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Russell.” +Bert rose to his feet, and the two men looked at each other. Suddenly +the woman on the sofa screamed “Arthur.” Mr. Field winced, then he +walked to the door with Bert, with his back to the sofa. When he had +gone, Arthur turned to his wife and sat down near the sofa. The sight of +him and her surroundings brought her back to herself; she began to +whimper: + +“I didn’t mean to come here, Arthur. It was all an accident. Nurse and I +came up for a change only for a night or two—and we went shopping, we +missed each other somehow—and I got faint with the heat and had to have +some brandy; it went to my head, I think, and I became unconscious, +so—so someone brought me here—I am sure I don’t know how they knew +where to come.” + +“Providentially you had a card-case with my name on,” he said drily. “If +it had not been so you would have been taken to a police station, you +know. That would have been a new experience, wouldn’t it? We might try +it next time!” + +“Oh, Arthur! how unkind,” sobbed his wife. Then she looked up at him. +“Where am I to go?” she said quickly—“not to another dreadful Home?” + +“On the contrary,” he said, “we will try this—home, and I hope you will +find it a pleasant one!” Rosamonde drew back and laughed hysterically. + +“You’re—you’re joking!” she said. + +“My dear Rosamonde,” said her husband, “I never joke. I thought you knew +that.” + +“But people will find out,” she whispered breathlessly—“they will +talk.” + +“Yes,” said Arthur, “they probably will.” + +“I thought it would ruin you,” she said. + +“I don’t think so now,” said Arthur. “I am going to give you another +chance,” he said gently. “You are only twenty-eight—you used to be +beautiful; you may be again, if you get the better of your trouble. You +will live in this house with your nurse, as before, only this time under +my name, and I shall be within call. Another thing, Rosamonde, if you +fail again, I shall punish you, but I shall go on keeping you. I shall +never let you go again. I am going to conquer this thing. Are you going +to help me?” He spoke with a repressed force that frightened her. She +looked at him with dull, curious eyes. He bent forward and, placing his +arm around her, he took her across the room to a mirror. She looked at +herself speechlessly, then she struggled to escape from the horror in +the glass. He held her there for a minute, then, placing her on the +sofa, he crossed the room, and came back to her with a photograph of a +beautiful girl of eighteen. “These are both you, Rosamonde,” he said. “I +am going to give you this photograph to keep; some day you may be like +it again.” + +“Oh, Arthur,” she whispered, “I’ll try.” He rang the bell. The maid, +looking more curious than ever, answered the door. + +“You will prepare the spare room for Mrs. Field, and the dressing-room +next door for a nurse. Mrs. Field is an invalid; she will therefore not +take over the housekeeping at present,” said the surgeon in his usual, +quick, imperative tones. Then he went into his study. He took the +picture of Daphne off his table and quietly tore it to pieces. He +telephoned for a trustworthy nurse, and requested that the nurse he had +had before should be dismissed from her association. Then he sank like +an old man into his chair. “Only another few years now,” he muttered, +“and another shock like this may set me free.” + +It was not known in medical circles that the great surgeon suffered from +an obscure and fatal disease. But the man himself knew it, and studied +his own case day by day, noting its interesting symptoms and bearing its +peculiarly absorbing pain. For a few hours he sat quite grey, and still, +in his private consulting room. Then, as evening came on, in a sudden +rush of summer rain, his breath came more easily, and he rose to his +feet, swaying a little as he stood erect. There came a knock at his +door. It was his housekeeper, a woman of rigid principle with a real +attachment to him; he had saved her life a few years before. + +“If you please, sir, I should like to leave,” she said; she had been +crying and was ready to begin again. He stared at her scarcely out of +the dumb valley of his pain. + +“Very well,” he said shortly. She had meant to pour out explanations and +reproaches, and possibly to recant at the end. Now she was too +frightened to speak and went downstairs to tell the other servants “That +master looked white as a ghost.” + +After she had gone Arthur turned on the electric light. “And now I am +alone,” he said, and then, with half a smile, he quoted to himself, “I +was ever a fighter”; so one fight more, the best and the last. The +shower lashed down the dust of the streets, and the burning day died in +a mist of rain. + + + CHAPTER XXXI. + + “Everyone is as God made him, and very often worse.” + + SPANISH PROVERB. + +“Vera, you must see her, you must try to help her!” cried Daphne, with a +force and vigour which rang through the drawing-room like a trumpet +call. Lady Middleton sighed, she did not care for trumpet calls in her +drawing-room, she preferred low, musical laughs, and a quiet drawl. + +“Daphne, dear,” she said, “there is always a footman, and you invariably +overlook his possibility. I am sure you must be a Socialist at heart.” + +“But Vera, she only needs a helping hand. It could hardly hurt you to +have her to tea, and Arthur is doing all he can, only there are so few +things a man _can_ do! You might take her out shopping, or give her a +lunch-party, mightn’t you?” Lady Middleton felt distinctly uncomfortable +and, naturally, knowing that she had done nothing to deserve discomfort, +she became aggrieved. + +“I really think it is very hard on me,” she said. “People always say I +have done so much good, and I gave ten pounds to that young man Mitchell +only the other day for a slum chapel, yet you break off your engagement +to the catch of the season, and Arthur Field disappoints all my +expectations.” + +“You are not very logical,” said Daphne bitterly, “you wish me to marry +a drunkard and yet you won’t receive your sister who——” Vera seldom +looked angry, when she did her eyes appeared small. They appeared very +small indeed at this moment, and she interrupted Daphne, by dropping a +cup. + +“It was really good china,” she said, looking at the pieces regretfully. +“Don’t say any more, Daphne, unless you know how to put things more +carefully. I have always said there ought to be societies for those sort +of people, with Homes. I should be quite willing to help support her at +one of them. As for David, a husband is a different thing. You need +never have known anything about it, if you had gone about properly +chaperoned. All one really needs is a beaten track. You have stepped out +of it, and so uncomfortable things have happened. Very few men would +marry you now, suitable men I mean. It is no use offering you advice, or +I should say return to your uncle and find a curate.” + +“And you won’t help Rosamonde?” said Daphne, buttoning up her gloves. +Lady Middleton put her hand up to her hair. It was all so unpleasant. + +“If I could do her any _real_ good!” she said, “I don’t mind calling +some morning, she might like to do things for a bazaar; besides, I know +a book on the ‘Power of the Will over Vice,’ I might lend her that, but +it would be impossible for me to receive her here. She couldn’t expect +it of me, it would be so exceedingly awkward. Besides,” added Lady +Middleton virtuously, “I don’t think that sort of thing ought to be +encouraged. She is my own sister, but the sin is just the same.” Lady +Middleton took out her pocket-handkerchief, it was edged with beautiful +lace. “Dear child,” she said, “your young, fresh mind cannot understand, +I have intense principles——” + +“You have intensely selfish ones!” cried Daphne with blazing eyes. + +“Lady Cheston, my lady!” Lady Cheston emitted a sharp, friendly shriek, +and tapped both the women on the shoulder with the handle of her fan. + +“Positively dyin’ for tea, Vera,” she began. “That dreadful old hag, +Mrs. Rounceman, has been talkin’ to me about her children for an hour. +Only dumb people ought to have children, it’s so fatiguin’, and this hot +weather, too—I told her finally that I loved Reggie when he was at +Eton, but I only _talked_ about him in the Christmas holidays! What’s +the matter with you, child?” she said, turning upon Daphne suddenly. +“You haven’t got a family so you needn’t be dumb! And now I come to look +at you, you’re angry! Has Vera been talking sense to you? People +oughtn’t to talk sense except in Advent. That’s the time we’re meant to +meditate on the four last things, you know.” Daphne rose to her feet. +Her mission had failed. Looking from one to the other of them, she knew +why. + +“Yes,” she said, “Vera has been talking sense to me, only I wasn’t quite +sure what to call it. I am not so good at finding names for things as +you are, Lady Cheston!” + +“Don’t get sharp-tongued, my dear,” said Lady Cheston, “leave that to +old women like me who have to keep up a second complexion. Don’t you +find yours, awfully tryin’ this weather, Vera?” Vera looked dreamily at +the sugar-tongs. + +“Two lumps, dear?” she questioned. + +Daphne left the room in all the hot disgust of indignant youth. It is so +easy to sit in the seat of the scornful, when one is under twenty-five. +Wandering about in the hall as if it belonged to someone else, and he +was not altogether sure that he might not be turned out, she found Sir +Henry Middleton. He was a young man with a very fair moustache. Daphne +was exceedingly sorry for him. + +“Sir Henry,” she said, “why aren’t you in Scotland?” He shook hands with +her heartily. + +“Well, I’m very glad I’m not,” he said cordially, “at this present +moment. Fact is, I’m waiting for Vera, something has got to come off +first. I’m not quite sure what, but the kind of thing that does come +off, you know.” + +“Oh, yes! I know!” said Daphne sympathetically. + +“I hope you won’t mind,” the young man began nervously, “but I’ve +something to say to you. It’s jolly awkward having things to say, isn’t +it?” + +“Horrid,” said Daphne, “but are you quite sure you have got to say it?” + +“Well, yes,” he said, “it’s about—it’s about——” he hesitated +painfully. + +“Vera?” questioned Daphne. + +“In a way—yes,” he said. “It seems she had a sister. I didn’t know; who +married that chap Field who used to be about so much, do you remember?” + +“Yes,” said Daphne, “I remember.” + +“Well, you see,” he went on, pushing a rug over with his foot, “Vera’s +queer about it. Won’t have her here, shut me up when I talked about her, +and it doesn’t seem quite fair, you know, does it—one’s own sister? +Unless she’s come an awful cropper, of course. So the long and short of +it is, do you know what’s wrong? I don’t want you to tell me +out-and-out, but if it’s too bad, then it’s all right you see,” he +finished lamely. + +“And if it isn’t?” Daphne questioned. + +“Oh! well, then I must fairly make a row,” said Sir Henry sturdily. +Daphne’s eyes shone with pleasure, she had not known that he had +anything in him. + +“She is fighting hard against her troubles,” she said finally, “and a +helping hand from Vera might put her straight. Perhaps I had better tell +you what it is after all—she drinks.” Sir Henry gave a low whistle. +“Oh, yes! I know,” said Daphne impatiently, “a man takes a glass too +much and you call him a good fellow, when a woman does you whistle, and +the whistle keeps the door shut.” + +“No, it doesn’t,” said Sir Henry. Daphne held out her hand to him. + +“Then you’re a better man than most,” she said warmly. “Only don’t make +a row. Send her one of Vera’s invitation cards to the ball. That’s what +is coming off next week.” + +“Yes, and a jolly nuisance it is,” said her host. + +“Well, will you do it?” said Daphne, “and introduce her to all Vera’s +friends as her sister? She’ll be bound to recognize her after that.” + +“By Jove!” said the startled young man, “but you’re fairly knowing!” +Daphne frowned. + +“Will you?” she repeated. + +“There’ll be the devil to pay you know,” he mused helplessly. + +“Well—pay him then,” said Daphne sharply, “if that’s where you owe it!” + +“All right!” said the young man, straightening his shoulders, “I will.” + +“Do you know,” said Daphne very softly, “I am so sorry you ever married +Vera.” + +“Oh, come! come!” the young man exclaimed with a vague gentleness. +Daphne turned to the door with tears in her eyes. + +“Good-bye!” she said. + +When the door closed, the young man looked after her for a moment: he +also was very sorry that he had married Vera. + + + CHAPTER XXXII. + + . . . . “Lord, if too obdurate I, + Choose Thou before that spirit die, + A piercing pain, a killing sin, + And to my dead heart run them in!” + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +The days pass, we can always be certain of that; we live, we eat our +breakfast, and we do our work. + +The superficial claims an absolute sway over the history of daily bread, +and Arthur Field’s private struggle was no exception to the general +rule. He was much too awake to the knowledge of things to expect the +Heavens to fall, only sometimes as he looked at Rosamonde, she recalled +to his mind such old sweet memories, such sad, bright hopes that shone +or fell, or vanished as they came; old quarrels and old tears, and the +belief so radiant and so true, in joy and love, shaken and darkened now +into a faith with clipped wings, and all uncertain of its flight, until +the heart-ache grew more dominant than he cared to own, and he rushed +into his work with feverish activity. Rosamonde herself was not more +happily placed, the new nurse never let her out of her sight, and the +servants all looked curiously at her. + +She had written an imploring letter to Vera which had received no +answer, and Arthur’s stern, cold manner, and attempts at conversation on +abstract points, frightened and bored her. She liked French novels, and +Arthur threw her favourites in the fire; she liked Fuller’s sweets, and +Arthur limited her to plain chocolate. Finally, one Sunday morning, he +met her going to church and asked her where she was going, she mentioned +a Roman Church in the neighbourhood. + +“Why go to a Roman Church?” he asked her coldly. “I prefer a less +excitable service for you, better go to St. George’s, Hanover Square.” +Rosamonde cried like a naughty child, and throwing her book of devotions +on the floor, ran out of the room. It ended in her going nowhere, and +being very rude to the nurse. + +The next morning she received a beautifully gilt-edged card of +invitation to Lady Middleton’s ball. + +“I suppose you won’t let me go?” she said. “I believe you wish to send +me mad, so that you can shut me up in a lunatic asylum.” Arthur Field +studied the card very carefully, he was weighing many things in his +mind. He had not expected a social opening; was it an opportunity, or +would it prove a temptation? He looked across the table at Rosamonde’s +flushed, anxious face. Disappointment was, he knew, quite the worst +thing for her. He pushed his chair back impatiently from the table. + +“Let us go by all means,” he said. “Have a first-rate dressmaker fit you +out, and send the bill in to me.” Rosamonde became suddenly as happy as +a girl. The nurse was sent for, and Arthur left her in a whirl of +delightful indecisions. He became conscious, as he drove off to the +hospital, that if all went well at the ball, in front of him stretched +the dreary lane of a mock, social existence. For a man entirely +overworked, and passionately attached to one of the deeper problems, +this prospect was an inquisition. He wondered a little at the purpose +that was in him to sacrifice himself and his life work to the flighty +commonplace little creature he had married. It would have been so easy +to have let her sink, and no one could have blamed him. He made excuses +and reasons for himself, he said that it was all because he hated to be +beaten, but he was quite aware that it was something a great deal larger +than that. He had let the infinite into his life, through every +conquered instinct, and severe self-government, he had given room even +against his judgment to Unseen Powers, and the result was that within +him was something stronger than himself, making for sacrifice. He would +have told you, that if you give human nature rope enough, it will use it +for one purpose—destruction, yet the rope life had given him he threw +out over its waters to preserve—what?—why, simply Rosamonde, a +butterfly submerged. He saw himself with a grim smile facing the +Immortals with Andrea Del Sarto’s great excuse: + + “So still they overcome + Because there’s still Lucrezia, as I choose.” + +The hansom stopped with a plunge and a jerk at the familiar gate, the +tall, brisk figure shot out across the square into the theatre. One by +one the patients were brought in on stretchers, only the worst and most +important cases, for it was his afternoon. Afterwards he went back into +one of the wards with the Sister, there was a girl he always went to see +if he had an extra moment, she had been operated upon, but her case was +quite hopeless. She knew it, and he had never seen a pluckier soul. He +looked down at her with kind, grave eyes. + +“Bad night?” he questioned. The girl smiled. + +“A fight, doctor,” she said, “but I came out top.” A queer impulse +seized him, he bent over her. + +“I’m fighting, too,” he said, “but I don’t know how I shall come out.” + +“I feel sure, sir,” she said, looking full into his eyes, “that you’ll +come out all right.” + +“How do you know?” he asked her. + +“Because God won’t let go,” said the girl. Arthur Field left her +abruptly—with a curt good-day to the Sister. He never saw her again, +for her fight ended in the final freedom only a few days after, but all +that day his sub-conscious voice repeated the girl’s message, “God won’t +let go.” And when a week afterwards Rosamonde knocked at his door to +show him her ball-dress, the words forced a smile that was almost kindly +to his lips. + +“You look very fine, my dear girl,” he said to her quietly. She was +flushed with the triumph of her appearance. + +“Vera never was really pretty,” she said. “Do you think so?” He gave her +his arm to take her down to the carriage. + + + CHAPTER XXXIII. + + “Women are strongest; but above all things + Truth beareth away the victory.” + + I. BOOK OF ESDRAS. + +Everything was really going well. Lady Middleton, casting her eyes over +the large and spacious rooms, the wide staircase and the cosy nooks, +thinking also of the well-prepared little tables, in a not too distant +dining-room, felt a thrill of positive elation. When one could depend on +one’s cook and trust one’s florist, life became simple. + +She turned to mingle among her guests, when Mr. and Mrs. Field were +announced; and she stood confronted by a dream. Rosamonde was facing +her, dressed in pale sea-green with masses of white chiffon, three +perfect roses on her shoulder, her fair, fluffy hair framing her +appealing blue eyes. For a moment Vera’s one fixed idea, was of a +primitive order; she longed to tear the white chiffon on her younger +sister’s dress. The thin smile that crept in a tight band across her +lips witnessed to the march of civilization. + +“My dear Rosamonde,” she murmured, “how well you’re looking.” Sir Henry +Middleton came forward. + +“Introduce me to your sister, Vera,” he said, and Rosamonde, taking his +arm, went the round of the room. Arthur Field lingered by his hostess. + +“It was kind of you to ask her,” he said in a grave undertone. Vera +lifted her eyebrows; she could tell by his voice that after all, they +had received an invitation. + +“I wanted to do all I could,” she murmured; “it’s so brave of you.” + +She had no intention of punishing the wrong person when she could punish +the right, but if Daphne _was_ the right person—then Daphne’s +punishment lay in her hand. Arthur Field frowned, and left her. Looking +over the brilliant scene before him, he soon discovered Daphne; she was +dancing, of course, and as he watched her, he felt within him the glow +of his old pride in her. She danced so beautifully, her dress of palest +yellow made him think of young spring flowers, and their gracefulness. +She was dancing with Reggie Cheston; he watched them as the waltz closed +stroll towards the dimly-lighted conservatory. Then, with a rigid +effort, he turned back to the thought of Rosamonde. + +“I don’t think I am going to stay on at the hospital,” Daphne said to +Reggie. “I wish you cared more for the Church, Reggie,” she added, “it’s +such a help.” + +“It must be,” said Reggie; “does he preach very well?” Daphne’s eyes +flashed, then she laughed a little under her breath. + +“He is a tremendously good man, Reggie,” she said, “and you don’t know +what I’ve been feeling lately. It would be such a relief to know that I +was doing something really helpful.” + +“It is a little difficult to catch what you mean,” said Reggie; “but if +you feel that marriage with a clergyman is a kind of spiritual vocation, +I should advise you to be careful; the bonds are for life, and you are +not my ideal of a parson’s wife; besides, you must remember he has a +vocation too.” + +“Oh, of course he cares for me,” pursued Daphne; “we have a great deal +in common.” She sat down gracefully beneath a huge fern. Reggie stood +beside her with a peculiarly dogged expression on his face. + +“Do you think you are quite fair?” he asked her. + +“What do you mean?” said Daphne in real surprise; “I can assure you, +Reggie, I am not playing with him. If I say yes I will stick to it. I +feel that I ought to explain. I have lived such a worldly, artificial +life. No wonder you think that, in spite of my hospital experience, I am +only fitted for a ball-dress and an evening party! But, indeed, I am +learning many things! Philip Mitchell’s position is not an easy one, but +his work is the noblest in the world, an attempt to let sunshine into +dark lives! Think what it means. Oh! if I could tell you how the faces +of the poor haunt me! How the call of their miseries comes up to me, you +would understand! And then, Reggie—I have never forgotten David! He +loved me and suffered because he loved. I can see this man is beginning +to care for me, and I feel that it is partly _because_ of David that I +could make him happy. I have no right to ruin two lives! After all, what +does it matter whether I am happy or not?” + +“It does not matter at all whether you are happy or not,” said Reggie, +sitting down quietly by her side. “But that is not the question you +know, the question is whether it’s right?” It did not please Daphne that +he should be as willing to sacrifice her happiness as she was herself, +but she could not admit this. + +“Yes,” she said, “that is what I feel.” + +“May I tell you what I think?” + +“Of course,” said Daphne surprised. + +“Let us begin from the beginning,” said Reggie in a measured voice, +looking straight in front of him at a pink geranium. “You were unhappy +with Vera, so you shipped her—for your uncle?” + +“It was against—— I couldn’t possibly stay here after my father’s +death,” said Daphne. + +“Exactly,” Reggie continued. “So you went to your uncle’s and found it +rather dull there. Then you thought it would be easier to marry David.” + +“I had especial reasons for that!” Daphne pleaded. + +“Especial reasons then,” said Reggie, “pointed to David. I may add, in +passing, that you didn’t care for him, and that he was giving you all he +had, and you were giving him nothing at all except ‘especial reasons’—a +little thin that for a marriage settlement!” + +“Reggie!” + +“Let me go on,” pursued the young man gravely. “After your little +cousin’s death, you threw over your uncle and aunt, and went to the +hospital with your friend. Circumstances arose showing you an +objectionable weakness in David, so you threw over David. Now you talk +of giving up your friend, and the hospital, in order to go and work in +the slums. Marriage again, you notice, with a man you don’t care for, +because you are haunted by the faces of the poor. Are you quite sure +that you are fitted for the work? Or that it is sufficient to offer a +man in return for the best that is in him, a friendly interest in his +parish? Do you know what anything _real_ means?” Daphne was breathless +with anger; she could not get up and go away, and for a moment she could +think of no suitable reply. + +Reggie had taken her so absolutely by surprise. She had always +considered him an admiring friend, a little weak perhaps, but in a +good-natured, boyish way, and very fond of her. Of course, very fond of +her—most of her friends were that. Imperceptibly she had all her life +leaned on what her friends thought of her. The likeness was too +flattering to be true, but it was impossible to look with comfort upon a +likeness too true to be flattering, and it was this that Reggie held up +inexorably before her. But her motives were so good. Taken one by one, +her every action had been so kindly, unselfish, so high-principled! This +picture of Reggie’s looked as if he held in his hand a list of posings, +the posings of a heartless egoist! + +“Do you know what anything real means?” he repeated, with his eyes upon +that terrible pink geranium. She was looking at it now, it appeared so +very artificial. + +“I—Reggie, do you really think I am like that?” she gasped. She was too +ashamed to look at him, so she did not see his lips twitch, nor the new, +kind light in his eyes. + +“I think you have thought that you were a princess in a fairy-tale, +Daphne, and that it was merely a question of flowers, and favours, and +magic words, and it isn’t a fairy-tale. Men aren’t like that. Most girls +are brought up in the fairy-tale fashion, and it’s awfully hard on us; +you play with fire, and you won’t have anything more to do with us if +you see sparks. You are always throwing gloves into an arena of lions, +because you don’t quite understand lions! I don’t like talking to you in +this way, but when I hear you speak of marrying a man who loves you—in +order to help the poor, you are putting the wrong things together. Love +earns one thing and that only—love—you can’t give anything else +instead. Esteem, affection, help, by all means give them in exchange +for—esteem, affection—help, but don’t try to barter the respectables, +in exchange for love. It’s an attempt to stop the tide with +sand-castles. Sell yourself if you like, but be frank about it, and +don’t call it by grand names. Flirtation is a repulsive system of theft; +you take all you can get, real things mind you, not names, and you give +worthless trash back, for your part of the bargain. Be shocked at drink +and play, and then intoxicate with your eyes, and gamble with your +complexion—and say that ‘The poor boy behaved very badly’; I used to +think better things of you, Daphne!” + +“Oh! for Heaven’s sake, stop!” cried Daphne; “do you think I am a +flirt?” + +“Yes,” said Reggie, “I do.” + +“Then take me back at once to Vera!” cried Daphne. “Oh! how _dare_ you +say such things to me? Reggie—how can you?” Reggie looked miserably at +the pink geranium. He was asking himself the same question. He had never +talked so much in his life before, but he could bear no longer, the ache +in his heart, and what gave fire and force to his condemnation, made it +more than impossible to explain. + +“I am sorry,” he said at last, “I knew you wouldn’t like it.” + +“Like it?” flashed Daphne. Then she rose to her feet. “You have behaved +intolerably,” she said, “good-bye.” And she swept past him alone, into +the glitter of the great ball-room. Reggie picked the geranium and put +it in his button-hole. + + + CHAPTER XXXIV. + + “But what if I fail in my purposes here? + It is but to keep the nerves at a strain + To dry one’s eyes and laugh at a fall, + And baffled get up and begin again, + So the chase takes up one’s life, that’s all.” + + ROBERT BROWNING. + +Daphne felt almost a passion of relief as she caught sight of her face +in a mirror. The world had just turned upside down, but, thank God, she +was still beautiful! She stood in the babble of the gilded room, and +watched the swarm of well-dressed men and women around her. She had, at +that moment, a strange, psychological experience; even as she watched +them, the noise of the room ceased, and instead of the figures and +colours of the brilliant gathering, she saw the long stretch of the ward +at night. The faces in shadow of the sick, pain-stricken men, some of +them sleeping restlessly, and some with wide eyes watching the hours as +they passed. She seemed to feel the heat of the long night, and to see +again at dawn the bustle of returning life and day. She was on night +duty at present which explained her presence at the ball. Once a month +the night nurses had a day and a night off which they generally spent in +sleep, but to Daphne the old life formed a greater recreation. + +The tiny jewelled watch she wore told her it was three o’clock, so many +of them die at three o’clock! The band was playing one of those +half-divine, and passionately human waltzes that seem to strike on all +the chords of love and pain. Daphne drew a deep breath and the vision of +the ward faded. When she looked before her again, something seemed to +have past away from the glow and beauty of the brilliant scene. The +women appeared a little tawdry, and the flowers drooped, under the flare +of the electric light. + +“Do you know what anything real means?” Daphne asked herself. Vera came +up to her on the arm of a fine, soldierly-looking man, whom she +introduced to her as Colonel Dalgeny. He began at once to speak to her +about Katherine; he took her down to supper, and she found that she +liked him very much. + +“My wife wants to talk to you,” he said; “but you look very tired, will +you wait here till I bring her to you?” He placed her in a curtained +alcove by an open window, a portière marked it off from the rest of the +hall. Daphne assented thankfully, and leaning back closed her eyes and +waited. + +“David,” said a voice close to her, “do you know you have not spoken to +me for a hundred years?” + +“I haven’t wanted to, Lady Cheston.” + +“Ah, poor boy—poor boy,” said Lady Cheston. “Have you felt so badly +about it as that?” There was a silence and Daphne felt subtly conscious +that David could be made not to mean what he had said. She could not see +them, but she almost felt the summoning power of Lady Cheston’s large +grey eyes. Reggie’s eyes were like them, only they did not say the same +things. + +“But she did quite right, you know,” Lady Cheston went on; “she never in +the least understood you, and you behaved very badly, my poor boy.” + +“Well—she didn’t care for me,” said David miserably. + +“No, she didn’t care for you,” repeated Lady Cheston. + +“No one does,” he muttered sulkily. “I might as well go to the devil.” +There was a long, breathless pause, a pause in which the blood runs +riot, and pulses tell tales. That something passed between the two, +Daphne felt sure, she thought that Lady Cheston had put out her hand. + +“Oh, no! no! David, that’s not true!” she said at last, “somebody +cares.” Daphne rose to her feet and, with a quick movement, gained the +hall. Behind her she heard a startled exclamation, and a low laugh. The +angry colour rushed into her face, the Colonel returned opportunely with +Mrs. Dalgeny on his arm. + +“My dear child,” she said, softly catching hold of Daphne’s hands, “tell +me about my girl?” + +Daphne could hardly believe it was Mrs. Linton who stood before her, she +was dressed so beautifully, and she looked so happy. Then, looking at +the Colonel, she understood, the tragedy was still there, but now it was +in his face. She withdrew her hands from Mrs. Linton and told her +briefly about Katherine. “She signed on yesterday for two years, and I +go up to-morrow,” she said. + +“Are you going to sign on?” the Colonel asked her. Daphne hesitated. + +“No,” she said, “I am not.” + +“Perhaps Miss Fordington is going to sign a different _kind_ of +contract?” suggested Mrs. Dalgeny in her cooing voice. Daphne threw back +her head. + +“I am not going to be married, if that is what you mean,” she said +shortly. Mrs. Dalgeny smiled sweetly. + +“That is what young girls always say until they are asked,” said Mrs. +Dalgeny; she was not very fond of Daphne. + +“Or until they have answered,” said the girl with ready assurance. They +parted still smiling, and the Colonel suppressed a chuckle. + +It was four o’clock and Daphne stood at a little table in the +supper-room drinking lemonade. Looking up, she met Arthur Field’s eyes, +he was standing at the opposite side of the room. She turned to the man +who was with her, and asked him to fetch her an ice, then she looked +back at Arthur Field. A moment later he reached her side, and for awhile +they were silent. + +“Which is your wife?” Daphne asked finally, glancing over the little +supper-tables. + +“She is with Sir Henry Middleton,” said Arthur. Daphne’s eyes found her. + +“I did not know she was so pretty,” she murmured, and Arthur fancied her +lips quivered. He wanted immensely to know how much she minded, and if +she thought he had done right. + +Then he saw that by Rosamonde’s side was a glass of champagne. She was +talking and smiling to her companion, but her hand went out towards the +glass. Arthur crossed the room, and stood by them. + +“Is this your handkerchief, Rosamonde?” he asked, holding out a dainty +lace trifle in his hand. Rosamonde looked up startled, and Arthur Field +stupidly overturned her glass. He apologized profusely and went to fetch +her another, he brought it back more carefully this time. It was filled +with lemonade. When he looked back at Daphne her partner had rejoined +her. “I think it is time for us to go, Rosamonde,” he said to his wife. + +“Where did you find the handkerchief, Arthur?” Rosamonde asked angrily +as they drove back. + +“In your room,” said her husband; “I brought it with me in case you +might want another one.” Rosamonde bit her lips, and they drove home in +silence. + + + CHAPTER XXXV. + + “God’s justice, tardy though it prove, + Rests never on the track + Until it reach delinquency.” + + ROBERT BROWNING. + +When Daphne went up to her room a thin, grey light was growing out of +the east. From her window the houses stood out in heavy, mysterious +shapes against the sky, the street lamps flared dimly, and far off in +the city the great tide of labour, gave morning witness, to its +intention of flooding the town. Daphne shivered and turned on the +electric light; she never could think much in the dark, and she wanted +to think more than anything in the world. In a few hours time she would +have to answer at the Board of Trustees as to whether she would sign on +or not, and she was not going to. Katherine would be hurt, and she would +have to say good-bye, then she would go to her uncle and tell him that +she meant to stay. + +She would grow old there doing good in the parish; it would be very +dull, doing good seemed to be that, she thought; but then, wasn’t even +doing bad, dull, when you had to keep it up? In time her hair would turn +grey, and she would begin to call people “My dear”; her aunt always +called people “My dear.” Then Reggie would see that she was not a flirt, +but of course it didn’t matter in the least what Reggie saw, he had +behaved abominably, she would never speak to him again. Arthur would be +surprised, but his wife was very pretty, perhaps he would not be +surprised long. As for Philip, he had never really spoken, she would +write him a very nice little letter, and he would probably keep it, but +he would stick to his parish. All these thoughts passed like pictures +through her mind, and left her staring blankly before her, and repeating +word for word what Reggie had said. + +Then she took up a pen and wrote to her uncle. “I want to come back to +you,” she wrote, “and live differently. I have taken an absolute +pleasure in getting my own way, and then have been proud of myself for +getting it. There is not a single thing in my life at this present +moment, which is not a self-indulgence or the result of one. Life has +brought me up sharp very often, and I have given up the accursed thing, +but I have found other ones just as much accursed. I have done good +things from bad motives, and when I have had good motives, I have +generally not done the things! I have been independent and it has not +succeeded, I have made my own discipline, and been careful that there +shouldn’t be thorns. + +“Now I wish to put my life in your hands. I want to wake up and be +forgiven, and punished, and to begin again. Do you remember reading me +one night Rossetti’s ‘Landmark?’ + + “Yet though no light be left nor bird now sing + As here I turn, I’ll thank God, hastening, + That the same goal is still on the same track.” + +“Let me return then, and show me what I must do. I must tell you, I have +not played the game fair. I have made some people very unhappy because I +have wanted to be liked, and I _still_ want to be liked, only not by +making people unhappy. That is a very terrible way, and I hope it will +hurt me horribly whenever I think about it. May I come? Daphne.” + +Then she wrote a short note three times and tore it up; the fourth time +she let it stand. + +“Dear Reggie,” she had written. “All that you said to-night was +perfectly true, and a great deal more that you might have said and +didn’t, that was true as well, and indeed, I am grateful to you, though +I was very angry at the time. I am going back to my uncle, and I do not +expect I shall ever see you again. But you will know that I think of you +most gratefully and wish you all good luck. Daphne Fordington.” + +“And I won’t write to Philip at all,” she said, and that was very hard, +for she knew she could have written such a nice letter to Philip. Then +she undressed and went to bed. It was seven o’clock, and London was wide +awake now. + +In Lady Middleton’s dressing-room London was very wide awake indeed. She +stood facing her husband, and he, with his hand on the door, was obliged +to stay. + +“So _you_ sent that invitation,” she said at last in piercingly chilly +tones. “Who made you?” + +“I don’t see why,” said her husband a little sulkily, “you think I had +to be _made_ to—it was only right.” + +“Oh, right!” said Vera, with infinite scorn. “I should have thought you +would have had more sense than to make that excuse to me.” She repeated +the question. Sir Henry told her, and then wished he hadn’t; both of +these things were a habit with him. “Do you know that she is a very bad +woman?” his wife asked coldly. + +“I know that she drinks,” he blurted out. Lady Middleton sat down, she +was very tired, and she had not counted on his knowledge of facts. + +“Why do you wish to disgrace us?” she asked. “People will want to know +why Arthur Field lived alone, and where she was. The thing will get out. +I shall never be able to hold up my head again. Daphne and David were +bad enough, but this——” She paused speechless. + +“She’s your own sister,” he threw out feebly. + +“Oh, go to bed!” snapped his wife, “you were born a fool! At any rate in +the future leave things to me and don’t meddle.” + +Sir Henry Middleton backed out of the door, he was very thankful indeed +that there was a door. Vera sat there for a long time, she looked grey +and old. By-and-bye a maid brought her tea. When she left her, Vera +leaned back in the chair and cried. She was very tired, and it was all +so unfortunate, and there were no societies, for that sort of thing. + + + CHAPTER XXXVI. + + “The glad, sad, tranquil, passionate human heart.” + + WILLIAM WATSON. + +Of course Katherine was startled and at first almost angry at her +friend’s decision. It is so difficult not to be angry when one is +startled, but it was her custom always to take the common-sense version. + +The work was telling on Daphne, Overham had always suited her, and it +was very, very much better for Philip. Daphne had been making things +very hard for Philip. Katherine had spoken to her quite frankly about +it. “I do not care for Philip,” she said, “as I thought I did, but I do +not like to watch him being played with, I like him a great deal too +much for that.” And Daphne had said, that she wasn’t playing with him, +and that she thought Katherine was very unkind, and that she was going +to evensong. But even though Katherine took all these things into +consideration, her heart ached at the thought of her own loneliness. She +would be quite cut off from the rest of the world, only a part of a +great machine, and to be a part of a great machine is very cruel. Then +there was Bert Russell. + +The hours off which had been started in the quiet little A. B. C. had +been carried on by the side of the Thames, and in many city wanderings. + +The American knew London better than many who were born and bred in her. +He had explored, visited and wandered into all unlikely places. At night +he had passed out into the life of the streets, North, South, East and +West, and he had seen and heard strange and surprising things. To +Katherine he revealed only the fascinating side of them. During their +holiday hours he never attempted to make love to her, but he had made +himself indispensable. When she looked out into the future, it was he +who made that indescribable difference between a blank out-look, and a +bracing cheerfulness. She did not consciously count him in, but it had +become impossible for her to count him out. Daphne’s going would mean +that he might become more to her, and Katherine knew this would not do +at all, he was quite enough to her already. Daphne herself felt leaving +the hospital more than she had thought possible. She was shutting +herself out of a world that has a fascination greater than its +hardships. It is terrible to give up possibilities, for experience has +laid no dark restraining hand upon their hopefulness. + +“Oh, Katherine!” said Daphne their last evening, “I do not want to say +good-bye.” Katherine looked at her steadily. + +“You have not told me yet,” she said, “why you are going to say it.” + +“Because,” said Daphne, “I should never have come here, I should have +stayed with my uncle. It has been a mistake, a beautiful mistake, for I +have been very happy here, but that was not right either, now I must go +back. Oh, why is one always going back?” Katherine never understood why +Daphne should sorrow over abstract things. She felt herself so very +unhappy at losing her friend, that she could not argue, nor did she wish +to explain. + +“I shall—miss you!” she said. So the next morning Daphne disappeared. + +If she had expected to find Overham changed, because she had, she was +disappointed. + +Her aunt was managing a Sunday school treat in the Vicarage field. She +kissed Daphne when she came in (after handing the last bun to the last +child) and told her how many pounds of cake were left over from the +treat. It would keep, she explained, until next week when there was to +be a choir tea. Her uncle said very little, she thought he was looking a +great deal older, and she was a little disappointed that he entirely +overlooked her spiritual trials. She had come there to be made good, and +for the first few weeks she expected to see dramatic signs of it, but +she found it very difficult to keep her temper with her aunt. By-and-bye +the first dismal feeling of unwontedness wore off, there appeared many +little things that she could do, she arranged the flowers, did the +church vases, and ran errands for her aunt. She had asked her uncle if +she might take a district to visit, but he had evaded her request, and +she was too proud to ask him again. In the autumn he suggested that she +should start an evening club for the village boys, and she jumped at the +opening. At first it was very hard, they were extremely shy, red and +awkward, and had horribly large hands, but in the course of a few weeks +they grew to like the pleasant parish room with its wood fire, and +tables covered with games, books and papers, and the sight of “Miss +Daphne,” who was always smiling and willing, and to whom they gave a +surprising deference and affection. + +Daphne grew humble, with a keen sense of how little she was doing to +deserve so much. + +The club grew and she started a Sunday Bible Class in connection with +it. Her letters to Katherine grew full of daily difficulties and +surprises in her new work. It _was_ surprising, and at first very much a +system of working in the dark. + +“One gets,” Daphne wrote, “very disconcerted about what may be going on +in their minds, but, by-and-bye, one understands that it is more +probably nothing at all, than anything so very terrible. Of course they +are quite inarticulate. If there is anything they don’t like, they won’t +tell you, you have to feel it in the air, and then suggest to them all +the things it may be until an increase of vacancy in their faces, tells +you that you have found the stumbling block, and by the time you have +found it, it is quite possible that they may have got so used to it, +that they will object to its departure, and you will have to bring it +back again. You may get angry sometimes, but you must be good-humoured +after it, and you must always be fair. In all these things one finds +that it is merely character that tells. What you _are_ strikes through +all that you say, and if you talk beautifully and it does not come out +of your heart, they don’t listen. It is tremendously good for one not to +be listened to, it makes one so careful what one says.” + +Days passed into weeks, and then into months, until one day Katherine +became a staff-nurse, and Daphne found she had been back in Overham a +year. + +Routine puts wings to time, and it is really only events that interfere +with the flight of it. Overham was now, to Daphne, a large and exciting +centre of existence. She had forgotten all about dullness and grey +hairs. She had not, however, forgotten all about Arthur, nor had the +sting of Reggie’s sudden truthfulness passed out of her life; but these +things she had buried, and though they sometimes called to her that she +had not buried them deep enough, she put it down to the cry of a girl’s +heart for love and recognition. And after all, the cry and the ache only +came to her sometimes, when she was alone in the garden on summer +nights, or as she struggled home on autumn evenings when the wind was +high, and the spirit of passing things called out upon her youth and +loneliness. When she felt these moods she would go and play to her +uncle, and he would watch her a little wistfully. + + + CHAPTER XXXVII. + + “And the way to end dreams is to break them, + Stand! Walk! Go!” + + ROBERT BROWNING. + +“And to-morrow,” said Katherine, “my holiday begins.” + +“Oh! Good! Good!” cried the American. The hot, dry end of another summer +found them still in London, in empty London, when the park seats are +stacked together, and the sun hot in the sky, shows unrelentingly the +deep coating of dust under which the tired world lies, and the people +who don’t go away grow old before their time. + +“Only,” said Katherine, looking at the heavy, crawling waters of the +Thames, “I don’t know where to go! Do you believe,” she said, eyeing her +companion sternly, “in treating people as they deserve?” + +“Good Heavens, no!” cried Bert in dismay. “Besides, how do you know what +they deserve?” + +“Oh, it is so easy to make allowances for people,” said Katherine +angrily, “so easy to let things pass, and be tolerant, that is how +people behave toward wrong! They look away from it, and call it a +‘Pity!’ It is not fair on those that do right. It is a premium on sin. I +am tired of the doctrine of ease, and a standard of Blindness. If people +were half as casual about their incomes as they are about their conduct, +they would, most of them, be beggars. But in questions of right and +wrong, we take the ostrich attitude and make the world a great, vague +place of lost truths and buried treasures. I am sick of cheap excuses +for sin!” Bert looked at her in surprise; he had never heard her talk +before, and he found it suited her almost as excellently, as her +silences and short replies. He had to pull himself together, as he had +to do more often than ever of late, when watching her face took the +place of listening, to what she said. + +“You are trying to think hardly of someone,” he said, “but I wouldn’t if +I were you. You see, we know so little about each other anyway, and +temptation is such a very real thing. There is never more than a hair’s +breadth of difference between right and wrong, and sometimes when one +gets lifted off one’s feet by an immense emotion, the ‘oughts’ drop out. +Haven’t you ever known a time when the ‘oughts’ dropped out?” + +“No,” said Katherine; “I have done wrong frequently, but not like that, +I have been quite able not to. I believe one can always help it.” + +“Maybe that’s so,” said Bert, “and that makes it pretty easy for us if +it is so, but it doesn’t prove anything about other people. I guess +there are times for most of us when one almost _can’t_ help it. When one +sees red or blue as the case may be, and then goes for it. It is all +very well for someone who doesn’t see it to look shocked, and say one +might have gone somewhere else, but they’re way off. It’s not their +funeral. You’ve lived a very simple life, Miss Linton, and I don’t mean +by simple an easy one. The easy ones are generally the most complicated, +and the hard ones sometimes pretty straight, but wait till you get to +the cross roads before you make statements, and when other people take +the wrong way, just give ’em a chance to come back. You see, there isn’t +much virtue in doing right if you haven’t with all your heart longed to +do wrong—and not done it.” + +“I could not trust anyone who had committed certain great sins, +wilfully,” said Katherine. + +“Well! it wouldn’t be sin, you know, if it wasn’t wilful,” said Bert, +smiling; “besides, what do you mean by great, and what do you mean by +trust?” + +“Oh, you do quibble,” exclaimed the girl impatiently. + +“Why, no!” said Bert; “words have such loose meanings, I wanted to be +quite sure. You see what you might call a great sin someone else might +think a poor kind of a mistake, and trust——! Well ‘trust’ means any +amount of things. There are men one could trust with one’s money, but +not with a little tale, and there are some one could trust with all +one’s little tales, but not with half-a-crown.” + +“I couldn’t trust anyone at all unless I could trust them entirely,” +said Katherine. + +“Well, I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Bert gently, “because +human nature is sure to give way somewhere. Better wait for the Angels.” + +Katherine had received a letter from her mother asking her to come and +spend her holiday with them, at a lovely little place on the Thames. Her +father warmly seconded her mother’s invitation. Katherine looked +doubtfully at her companion. + +“There seems very little to be said for the people who do right from +your point of view,” she said shortly. + +“They don’t need anything to be said for them,” Bert replied, smiling. +“They can get along without.” + +“I shall probably spend the next fortnight with my mother,” said +Katherine. + +“All the time with your mother?” Bert pleaded, holding out his hand. + +“What’s that for?” Katherine asked, scornfully. + +“The address,” said Bert, “I want to see—your mother.” Katherine gave +it to him. + +“Come on Sunday, then, if you like,” she said, a little ungraciously. +“It will make no difference.” + +“Well, I wouldn’t be too sure,” said Bert as she turned to leave him, +“it all depends on what you mean by difference.” + +Bert walked to the edge of the embankment and gazed out over +Westminster. It was a view that he loved, but meant to leave. Deep down +in his heart the call of the hurrying, shouting continent, he called his +home, could be heard very plainly—and of late very frequently. + +As he looked at the stately grey towers, and the slow, small river +before him, his eyes saw more clearly still the great sweep of New York +harbour, and the huge, incongruous, marvellous city rose up out of its +water home, to beckon to him. There were many tyrants in his city of +liberty, but there was the clear, dry air, the friendly sun, and myriads +of his brothers, a hustling, inconsequential, kindly horde. All going as +fast as they could, with humorous knowledge of their own speed, towards +uncertain gigantic goals of their own imagining. + +He had lived two years in England, and he had learnt how to hide crude +longings, and big dreams, and just how long afternoon-tea took, and how +to show a dignified friendliness with footmen, and a self-respecting +reverence to little personages. But he was getting tired of it, sick and +weary of the neat little days, and the carefully drawn little lines. +“The twice-breathed air blew damp.” There was only one thing, one +motive, which had kept him there so long. The steady-eyed, rather +inarticulate girl who had just left him. Then he began to realize just +how he wanted her to see America. They would go and stay with his +brother for awhile, and then look around for a little house somewhere +quiet near New York. Maybe they would come back to visit England. He +turned back resolute and inspired. “I guess,” he said, with a wave of +militant Americanism getting the better of his newly-acquired English +manner, “I guess little old New York is good enough for me!” + + + CHAPTER XXXVIII. + + “So when the Angel of the darker Drink, + At last shall find you by the river brink, + And, offering his cup, invite your soul + Forth to your lips to quaff—you shall not shrink!” + + RUBIAYAT. + +Arthur Field rang an electric bell, and as his wife’s nurse entered the +room, he swung round on his chair, and looked at her. “You may sit +down,” he said. + +The nurse was a quiet, sensible-looking woman of thirty, but she was a +woman with one enthusiasm, and that was devoted to her profession in the +abstract, and to the surgeon in particular. + +“I never trust nurses,” he announced, “they are usually either +professionally or socially incompetent for their positions, and in the +rare cases, where they neither neglect nor interfere with their +patients, they make difficulties with servants or quarrel with +relations. However, there are exceptions to every rule, and it would +suit me very well if you were to turn out one of the exceptions. + +“I, therefore, propose to put you in a position of trust, though I shall +of course keep my eye on you.” He paused. “I meant to leave town +to-morrow with my wife, but a case has arrived which I must attend to +myself, so that I shall send you and Mrs. Field on ahead. It is possible +I may be detained in town for some weeks longer. I should prefer that +you did not wear uniform, but accompany Mrs. Field unofficially, and as +her friend. I wish a weekly report from you, and if any undesirable +symptoms should arise, you may wire. If I should send for my wife, you +would of course bring her here directly. That is all. Do you +understand?” + +“Yes, sir, but I wish we need not leave you,” said the nurse, with +unaccustomed boldness. + +“Why?” asked her companion. + +“You have not looked yourself lately, sir.” The surgeon stared a little, +but took no further notice of her remark. + +“Here is a cheque for a hundred pounds,” he said; “you are to keep an +account of your expenditure and let me know if you need more.” He turned +back to his desk again. The nurse hesitated. + +“Good-bye, sir,” she said at last. + +“What?” asked the surgeon over his shoulder. “Ah—good-bye.” + +The nurse turned away quickly. She did not wish him to see that her eyes +were full of tears. When he had seen them off, he gave a sigh of relief +and drove to the hospital. He did not feel himself at all, and the case +he intended to devote his time to, was his own. He began to feel the +need of a consultant. + +An hour later, bending in absolute absorption over the operating-table, +an intense spasm of pain seized him, making furrows in his face, and +bringing out strange blue lines about his mouth. He felt furiously +angry, and forced himself with the whole power of his will, to carry out +his task. The assistant, handing him a sponge, gasped; he had distinctly +seen the great operator’s hand tremble. Arthur Field felt that +intolerable struggle of will and flesh, which comes fortunately to few +of us, and only to the strongest. The perspiration stood in heavy drops +on his forehead. He seemed swimming through bewildering seas of +faintness and pain; through it all, he saw the sharp instruments +succeeding each other in the hands, of what seemed to him another man, a +man provokingly, cruelly slow. He felt his legs shake under him, and the +great theatre rose and sank in queer, slanting lines, above and around +him. A voice was crying in his brain, “Let go! let go! let go!” He was +submerged in a storm of pain at the mercy of an element he did not +understand, an element which claimed an absolute surrender. The +important thing was to keep the other fellow’s hands steady. It took +several years to put in the last stitch; at the end of the time the +other fellow fell down on the floor, and someone poured brandy between +his teeth, but the operation was finished, and he knew it would be +successful. A group of students carried the other fellow out, and put +him in a cab. Strangely enough one of them came with him, and took him +to the surgeon’s own house. Then Arthur Field came to himself, and knew +that he had performed his last operation. + +“Wouldn’t you like to see someone, sir?” the young man asked him +deferentially. “The big men aren’t all out of town yet; there +are——and——” + +“Yes, I mean to see Sir Edmund Blake this afternoon,” said Arthur Field. +(He felt it was bitterly unfair that, after one had surrendered, the +enemy should go on fighting.) “I am obliged to you,” he added. (If the +young man would only go, one might breathe without the world pressing on +one’s chest; it is impossible for two people to breathe comfortably in +one room.) + +“May I send you one of our nurses, sir?” the young man questioned him. +Arthur bowed suddenly to the necessity. + +“Get me one of the hospital staff, if you can,” he agreed, “one who will +know how to hold her tongue. This is not—my first attack.” The student +put on an expression of forced cheerfulness, (it was this more than +anything else that revealed to the surgeon that he had joined the +ranks—he was a patient now, and they would all try to deceive him.) + +“You need a short rest,” the young man observed, reassuringly. + +“I am going to take one,” said the surgeon, a little grimly. +“Good-afternoon.” Then he sent in his resignation to the hospital. + +Katherine, within a few hours of her expected holiday, was sent for to +the Matron’s room. The Matron gave her a quick, searching glance. + +“I cannot spare you to-morrow,” she said, “I have a very responsible and +important case to put into your hands. You have shown yourself to be +reliable. I hope you will continue to be so. You will kindly report +yourself at Mr. Field’s as soon as you can put your things together.” + +“Am I to nurse for him please, Matron?” Katherine asked wonderingly. + +“You are to nurse—him,” said the Matron. “You will not, however,” she +added, “mention this at present. Good-afternoon.” + +Katherine hesitated and then went. After all, why should she not nurse +him? She could find no answer, and she dared ask no more questions. +Curiosity is a weakness that hospital life is quick to eradicate. + +When she reached the surgeon’s, she found him in his room on the sofa. A +few hours had changed him into a wreck of his former self, he seemed +like someone suddenly grown old. The lines in his face had deepened into +furrows, and his deep set eyes gleamed from veritable caverns. They +seemed, indeed, the only signs of his old, keen life about him, as he +lay huddled, struggling with short, uncertain breath, upon his sofa. + +He knew her in a moment, but he gave no sign of recognition. His blue +lips murmured an expostulation when she told him they must get him to +bed. + +It was evident to Katherine that he meant to die as hard as he had +lived. She had seen the great heart specialist before she went into her +patient. He had been (for him) very much upset. + +“He has been fighting it for two years,” he told her, “though the +mischief must have been latent for a much longer time. If he had had +proper treatment and perfect rest—but it’s too late now. And he knew +it—he knew it the whole time!” Sir Edmund Blake had grown almost +incoherent in his admiration and grief. “It is unjustifiable, perfectly +unjustifiable—but it’s magnificent,” he had exclaimed to himself. +Katherine questioned as to the future, and the doctor froze into a +realization that he had been talking more freely than he liked—to a +nurse. “He may get over this attack,” he said, “but even he cannot get +over the next.” + +“And he may have another?” Katherine ventured. + +“Any sudden shock—or strain,” said the doctor; “but you had better go +to him, nurse,” and Katherine went. She began to feel glad that she had +come. + +Katherine would have been terrified of nursing him had he not been so +ill, as to make action, work off all her fears. Yet even when he was at +his worst, he was sternly, implacably critical. + +Once or twice he made her valuable suggestions, which she was quick to +carry out. Then he smiled, and she was able to understand about Daphne. +A few days later the worst of his attack was over, he had insisted upon +remaining alive, and his fight had been apparently successful. He lay in +comparative comfort, watching Katherine as she quickly tidied his room, +giving the finishing touches to some flowers sent to her from +Devonshire. + +“Nurse!” said the patient, sharply. + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Where did those flowers come from?” Katherine hesitated. + +“From Daphne,” she said finally. Then she waited, trembling, for the +storm. The surgeon said nothing. Half-an-hour later he called to her +again. + +“I am getting over this,” he said. “Of course I may have another—that +is why Sir Edmund Blake wishes you to stay on, but I do not. I wish you +to take a holiday. I shall join my wife to-morrow.” + +“You are not fit to travel, sir,” said Katherine; “please keep me a week +longer. I can wait quite well for my holiday. I should so much +prefer——” + +“I am not questioning your preferences,” said the surgeon, “I am merely +stating my intentions. I should be glad if you would travel with me +to-morrow, to the place in Surrey where my wife is staying. Now go!” A +spasm of pain shot across his face, and Katherine, knowing what it +meant, left him unwillingly. + +After she had gone, he re-read a telegram he had received. “Unfavourable +symptoms have arisen.—Smith.” He got up and crawled across his room. It +took him half-an-hour to reach a cupboard in the wall where his things +stood, and he fainted four times. When he reached it, he poured out a +tremendous dose, which he would have considered murder, to have given to +another patient. Its effect was marvellous, and he reached the sofa +again in comparative comfort. Later in the day he sat up, and the next +morning Katherine, with a sinking heart, made all preparations for their +journey. + +It had passed much more easily than she had imagined. The surgeon looked +almost his former self again; his power of recuperation was wonderful. +Once or twice he took something from a bottle when her back was turned. +For the first time since she had been with him, he talked to her +charmingly. + +Rosamonde and her friend, Miss Smith, had taken a lovely house in the +Surrey Hills, where many of their London friends had joined them. +Rosamonde was absolutely happy. Had she not at last all the appearances, +the semblances, the artificialities which she had always hankered after? +She was treated with deference and admiration, she had her own way, and +her husband was in London. Once or twice lately she had felt a wave of +her old trouble. The sparkling wine, the gaiety and irresponsibility of +her guests, had pushed her to the brink of a temptation, but her friend, +Miss Smith, kept the key of the cellars, and watched her glass at +dinner-time. By-and-bye Rosamonde ceased to be on the watch, and became +instead quite convinced that she had won the day. Nothing disagreeable +(she felt quite sure) would ever happen again—she told Miss Smith so. +Rosamonde showed herself horribly shocked at the tale of a great lady’s +slip in an alcoholic circle. + +“I really can’t understand people doing such things,” she affirmed. +“Drink is so despicable—and for a woman——” Miss Smith smiled, and +sent the telegram. + + + CHAPTER XXXIX. + + “For I say this is death, and the sole death— + When a man’s loss comes to him from his gain, + Darkness from light, from knowledge ignorance, + And lack of love from love made manifest.” + + ROBERT BROWNING. + +Lady Cheston, Reggie and the twins were numbered among Rosamonde’s +guests. + +Vera had taken a house not far from them, and Rosamonde had invited her +to lunch. It was very hot, and in spite of deck-chairs in the shade, +iced drinks and muslin frocks, life was somewhat of a burden. + +Rosamonde stopped the gardener from rolling the lawn; she said it made +her uncomfortable to see hot people, and that she didn’t see why they +should work in the summer. + +“What about the cook?” Lady Cheston suggested. “It’s always disgustingly +hot in the kitchen.” Rosamonde frowned. + +“One doesn’t see one’s cook,” she said, “so of course it doesn’t +matter.” Miss Smith was in the house, and Rosamonde had some iced +champagne. It was terrible not to be able to take as much as she wanted, +and she began to want it a great deal. She looked anxiously towards the +house, then she gathered up two bottles and said she must take them in +to poor little Mrs. Ellis, who had a shocking headache; did Lady Cheston +know that champagne was awfully good for headaches? + +Lady Cheston had barely time to scream after her, that she knew it was +good for _givin’_ headaches, before she reached the house. She went +swiftly upstairs to her room and locked the door. + +An hour later Miss Smith heard the sound of a fall in Rosamonde’s room; +she hurried upstairs to find the door locked, but she was a woman of +resources, and kept a duplicate key. When she went into the room, she +saw—what she expected to see, and put It to bed. + +It was nearly time to meet Mr. Field’s train. No one but herself knew of +his arrival. So she locked the door after her, leaving a message with +the servants that Mrs. Field had a headache and must on no account be +disturbed. Then she met the train. + +When Arthur saw her face on the platform, a queer smile came to his +lips. “Nurse,” he said, turning to Katherine, “I may need you another +week after all. Do you mind?” + +“No, sir, I meant to stay if you would let me,” Katherine answered. + +Miss Smith was shocked at the sight of him, and she hated Katherine, but +she made haste to call a cab. “I didn’t know you had been ill, sir,” she +explained, “or I would have brought a carriage. It is only a short walk +from here, perhaps the nurse——” she left the sentence unfinished. + +“Yes, you may walk, nurse,” said Mr. Field. When they were alone in the +cab, Miss Smith told him her little story. He listened to it calmly. + +“The duplicate key,” he remarked, when she had finished, “was a distinct +gain.” + +“I fear you may think me careless, sir——” the nurse broke out, with +tears in her eyes. + +“Then, I should have said so,” Arthur replied. Miss Smith was silent. +“By-the-bye,” Arthur said carelessly, “my wife’s friends do not usually +address me as ‘Sir.’” As they reached the drive, Arthur looked at his +watch. “She must be down to dinner; how many hours have we got?” he +asked. + +“Four, sir—Mr. Field, I mean!” + +“I will rest for two hours,” said Arthur, “then I will come to her.” +Miss Smith gazed at him. + +“Do you—do you require another nurse, sir?” she asked pleadingly, “I +could look after you.” The surgeon shot a quick glance at her. + +“My wife’s friends do not nurse me as a rule,” he said, with a smile, “I +think it would scarcely do. Besides, you have your hands full already.” +Miss Smith’s face clouded, she did not like what was in her hands. Then +she remembered that she did the housekeeping. At any rate she could give +Katherine an uncomfortable room. + +Houses, like people, seem to have their hours of tension. In certain +rooms there is a secret emotion of disaster, which communicates itself +to the very furniture, till, on entering, one might accuse them of being +haunted by anticipation. The garden under the Surrey Hills seemed a +victim to a kindred feeling. The slow, drowsy hours between tea and +dinner had about them an under-current of suspense; even Lady Cheston +assured her companion on the lawn that it was an uncomfortable +afternoon. Her friend suggested thunder, and they watched a cloud-bank +rise up over the hills and prophesied a storm. At six o’clock the +surgeon went to his wife’s room, he found Miss Smith with her. Rosamonde +was awake but still stupid; she gazed at him in sulky discomfort until +Miss Smith left them alone. + +“Now Rosamonde,” he said, “you are quite sensible enough to know that +you must come down to dinner to-night. But before then we must try to +make you sensible enough to do it. Have I got your attention?” There was +something in his eyes and voice, a repressed emotion that was so deeply +guarded, and had about it such an immense restraint, that even his wife +was partially aroused by it. She began to cry weakly; and he waited with +his eyes fixed on her. + +Then she became too frightened even to cry. “Yes, I hear you,” she +muttered. + +“I spoke to you of punishment,” he said, “but we will postpone that +until to-morrow. Rosamonde, look at me!” The words shot out with so +sudden a force, that she started up abruptly, only to sink back again in +her seat with her eyes drawn to his, in ineffectual combat. He rose +slowly, and painfully, and walked across to her. “Shut your eyes,” he +said. She shut them. With the tips of his fingers on her forehead, and +his head bent a little towards her face, he began to speak. “You will +get up in half-an-hour,” he said, “your natural self. You will be a +little tired, a little stupid, that is unavoidable, but you will be +sober, quite sober. Do you hear?” + +“Quite sober,” said Rosamonde instantly. + +“You will be able to walk straight, and to talk distinctly, quite +distinctly. Do you understand?” There was a moment’s pause. The word was +a difficult one, but it came at last. + +“I shall be able to talk—quite distinctly,” she said with perceptible +effort. + +“Say that again,” said the surgeon. She repeated it with less effort. +“Now walk across the room steadily,” he said, and stepped aside. She +stood up, and with her eyes still shut, walked erect, and gracefully to +the window. Then she stopped and reeled as if she would fall. He kept +his eyes on her without moving. “Now come back and sit down,” he said. +Rosamonde obeyed. He gave what might have been a sigh of relief, and sat +down near her. + +Whom, after all, do men marry behind the pretty masks they are drawn to? +One leaps a gulf with an enigma, and never can recross, but in time one +reads the enigma. Arthur had read her very soon indeed, but it had made +no difference; bit by bit she had destroyed his life. + +“You may open your eyes now,” he said at last. She looked at him +angrily. + +“I don’t know what you are doing _here_?” she said, as if he had only +just entered the room. + +“I appear to be sitting in amicable conversation with my wife,” said the +surgeon in sudden bitterness. He wondered if any man had ever hated a +woman quite as he hated her, and she was his wife. Rosamonde blushed. + +“Oh!” she said, “I did want to be—what I used to be—like that +picture.” She stopped, afraid of his stern eyes. + +“Well,” he said, with raised eyebrows, “and what has prevented it?” + +“You don’t care enough,” said Rosamonde. The surgeon said nothing, for +he knew that it was true. He was stronger than his wife, but he was not +stronger than her peculiar and terrible curse, because the one thing +that would have made him so was lacking. He could, indeed, break her +will, but to cure her he would have had to win her heart. For Love is +the only saviour of the world. Without speaking he turned and left her. + +He found Miss Smith outside the door. They exchanged a long, strange +glance; at that moment he and the nurse understood each other as they +had never done before, and ignored their understanding. + +“Give her a cold bath,” he said, “and plenty of black coffee, and be in +the drawing-room by a quarter to eight. It is now seven—do you +understand?” + +“Oh! yes, sir,” said Miss Smith—she followed the surgeon’s figure with +a smile—then she went into Rosamonde. + + + CHAPTER XL. + +“No! at noon-day, in the bustle of man’s work time, +Greet the unseen with a cheer! Bid him forward, breast and back as either + should be! +Strive and thrive! Cry! speed! fight on! fare ever _there_ as _here_!” + +ROBERT + BROWNING. + +The night was dark, and the dinner-table gleamed with light and silver. +Long sprays of autumn leaves covered the white cloth, and large pots of +early chrysanthemums stood about the room. Katherine, glancing over the +faces of the guests, felt an unreasoning anger at their beautiful +costumes and easy laughter. The hour she had just spent face to face +with her patient’s agony seemed the only reality; the dream (which +almost made her rub her eyes) was their host’s face. Arthur Field had +rarely looked more handsome as he glanced across the table at his wife, +or flashed keen wit and two-edged compliments at Lady Cheston, sitting +at his right hand. Katherine could only rest on the truest of all +platitudes, the exceeding strangeness of Truth. + +Rosamonde looked flushed and a little stupid. Reggie had frequently to +repeat his remarks twice before she understood them. She kept up little +bursts of nervous laughter, that made Miss Smith wish to choke her. It +was impossible to tell what Arthur Field wished. + +“Now you’re here, Mr. Field,” Lady Cheston began in a voluble aside, “do +tell us what Miss Linton’s doing, and why that woman, who looks like a +poached egg on a rasher of bacon, should manage things for your wife?” +Mr. Field glanced down the table at Miss Smith. She certainly looked +better in uniform. Her hair, uncapped, was very yellow, and her face, +without a dark background, very red. + +“Miss Linton,” he explained, “came here for a holiday; she’s a nurse, +you know, in my hospital. I brought her here. She is a nice girl.” + +“Oh! all girls are nice!” chuckled Lady Cheston, “and all rice puddings +are healthy, but I prefer ’em in the nursery.” + +“As for Miss Smith,” said her host, ignoring her interruption, “she is +perhaps not what one could call a girl, but she is certainly a +treasure.” + +“In that case,” said Lady Cheston, “pray bury her—or send for Captain +Kidd!” + +Lilian Courteny, who was on Arthur’s other side, leaned forward. She was +a beautiful woman still, in spite of that inexplicable, hard barrier of +an unhappy marriage which was written in her eyes, and in the guarded +watchfulness of her proud head. Arthur Field, looking at her, felt that +she expected to be made to wince. He had seen the same look in the faces +of children with cruel mothers; if you spoke suddenly to them, they put +up their hands to protect themselves. Lilian Courtney merely raised her +eyebrows and tried to smile, but it gave one the same effect. + +“Do you believe in treasures, Mr. Field,” she asked. “I always thought +doctors and nurses got a little farther than that.” + +“How far,” questioned Arthur, “did you think we got?” + +“Far enough,” she said, deepening her little smile, “to know that +treasures grow best in a fool’s paradise.” + +“Ah,” said the surgeon, “I am not so sure that the only paradise belongs +to fools; if so, one certainly does well to lose it, yet I am inclined +to believe that in becoming more or less wise, one regains the paradise +without reassuming the folly.” + +“And how can you regain it?” Lilian asked lightly. Rosamonde’s nervous +giggle sounded along the table. Lilian watched him. + +“The old way, I suppose,” he said slowly; “we go through the world—and +die.” + +“Ah! but I don’t want to die,” broke in Lady Cheston quickly. “I want, I +want—something quite different from that!” + +“Then you’re still in the Fool’s Paradise,” said Arthur, “depending upon +the unexpected to be favourable.” Rosamonde’s laugh grew too loud, +Lilian stared a little. Miss Smith moved uneasily in her chair. Then the +surgeon rose to his feet. Katherine’s lips parted; she, too, half-rose +from her chair; she noticed the peculiar swaying motion he had when he +stood erect; but no one saw her, they were all looking at him. Standing, +with his glass in his hand, he made them a little speech. He welcomed +them in his wife’s name, and in his own, telling them that although the +pleasure of their friendship, was for him in anticipation, he felt sure +that in this case the reality would be pleasanter still. He told them +that his long bachelorhood, owing to his wife’s ill-health, he believed, +had positively ended, and he congratulated himself on their all being +there to celebrate the event. Then, in terms which afterwards, his +guests unanimously agreed, were simply touching, he asked them to drink +to Rosamonde’s health and their future acquaintanceship. + +Katherine watched him breathlessly. His eyes shone exultantly, in a kind +of savage mastery over his physical weakness. Someone rose opposite to +him, and replied courteously and heartily. There was a general tilting +up of glasses, and the toast was drunk. Arthur Field leaned forward a +little to return thanks. His lips moved, but no words came. Silence fell +over the party like a pall. How long it lasted no one could tell. A grey +pallor spread over the surgeon’s face, his hand shook, the glass slipped +out of it on to the floor with a crash, and, with a long, sighing groan, +he fell forward on his face. In an instant Katherine was beside him. The +guests’ attention was called off by Rosamonde—she broke into shriek +after shriek of hysterical laughter; Miss Smith went over to her, and +shook her. Lady Cheston said, “Well! I never!” There seemed nothing else +to say. + +Reggie suggested that they should all go into the drawing-room. He and +the man who had made the nice little speech carried the surgeon +upstairs. When Reggie came down to get some more brandy for Katherine, +he found Miss Smith still shaking Rosamonde in the dining-room. + +“Hadn’t you better take her to her room?” he asked. Miss Smith glared at +him, and he hurried away on his errand. After he had gone Miss Smith +took Rosamonde by the shoulders, and pushed her, before her, upstairs, +and into her room. + +Rosamonde fell asleep on her bed, while Miss Smith was undressing her. +Lilian Courtney went out into the garden wondering if Arthur Field had +regained his Paradise. + +Lady Cheston talked a great deal to everybody about the way poor, dear +Lord Cheston, who was always eating the wrong things, went off in an +apoplectic fit, and her companions listened respectfully, awed by her +experience with the unseen; certainly Lord Cheston had died, but they +had never fully realized it before. Then a bustling young country doctor +who had been called in, came downstairs to say that though undoubtedly +Mr. Field was in a serious way, there was no immediate danger, and that +his patient had particularly begged him to ask everybody to remain, as +he hoped to be about again soon. + +“I may say, on my own authority,” said the little doctor, with great +importance, “that in _my_ opinion, I greatly fear my esteemed colleague +is not correct in his last statement.” A buzz of talk started up after +his departure, which was interrupted by Reggie stating lazily that he +had lit everybody’s candles, and that they would probably all go out +soon. + +The guests went upstairs on tiptoe, and possibly, for the first time in +their lives, noticed that silk skirts are noisy. After all there was no +thunderstorm—the clouds had moved on elsewhere. The big harvest moon +swung high, and clear over the trees, and rays of moonlight crept +through the blind into the surgeon’s room. Katherine, sitting by his +bed-side, thought it was already morning; the night was very long. + +“Nurse!” said the voice from the bed. The girl turned towards him +startled. He beckoned to her to come nearer. + +“Oh! but you mustn’t talk!” she said. + +“That means I shall not have much longer to talk,” he said slowly; “I +know that quite well. All the more reason, to my mind, to express myself +fully. I have not more than a day or two to live.” Katherine put her +fingers on his pulse; it was intermittent and very feeble. “A thread +with knots,” he explained, still smiling; “we shall come by-and-bye to a +knot that won’t come undone. I have always felt badly at losing a case. +It’s a thing one can’t get used to. Death interferes with skill, and +won’t explain. When one is puzzling out a sum he rubs it off the slate +like a child in a temper, ‘I can’t do it, and you sha’n’t.’” There were +pauses between his words. He seemed like a swimmer coming through the +surf—he had to dive each wave as it came, or he would be carried off +his feet, before the breath came. He was being beaten to exhaustion, but +he was a strong swimmer. “Have you ever thought,” he went on, “how +arbitrary nature is? Idiot children are always very strong; they can’t +reason, but they can do harm. Nature is like that; she cuts through a +law by a catastrophe, and claps her hands at the débris. One can clap +too, only in this case, I am the débris.” He stopped exhausted, and she +gave him a stimulant by his side. “We have learned to make compromises,” +he said, as she put the glass down, “this will float the débris a little +longer.” + +“Oh! don’t talk like that!” said Katherine, feeling an immense pity, and +an immense weakness rush over her. “Indeed, indeed there is a reason! a +destination! a completion of things! If your powers leave this world it +is because there is a fuller, richer channel for them in some other +world. There is no waste, no loss.” She saw, with passionate terror in +her eyes, that he could not follow her. He saw that she was troubled, +and he made an effort to understand, but the words were beyond his +attenuated powers of sense; he could only shake his head. + +“All right,” he said, after a little, “don’t worry—that was a good +thought of yours about the duplicate key.” But consciousness in him was +too strong a force to be left in abeyance; a moment more and it flashed +out again. She saw a new look come into his eyes—a look she had never +even dreamed of; it was so infinitely gentle, as if his sight enclosed +some picture too fragile to risk a fall. + +“What is it?” Katherine asked him. + +“You’re very good,” he whispered, “but I want—Daphne,” and his eyes +closed to shut out the difference. When he opened them again he looked +at her coldly. “You need not sit up, nurse,” he said, in usual tones. “I +have everything I need.” + +She leaned over him. “To-morrow,” she said, “Daphne goes to stay with +Lady Middleton. I heard from her to-day. I will send over for her to +come here. You would like to see her.” He gazed fixedly in front of him. + +“I am—obliged,” he said at last. “You are very thoughtful.” Katherine +felt the tears rush to her eyes, and to avoid his seeing them turned to +pull a curtain straight; but she need not have done so, for Arthur Field +would not have seen her. His own eyes were full of tears—tears that had +never fallen over a grief that had never died. + +“Nurse,” he said, after a moment. She stood beside him again with the +little glass, but he pushed it from him, “don’t be cheated,” he said, +looking at her with piercing eyes, “some things are pretty good, but +they don’t satisfy, and some things are pretty terrible to face, but +they are worth the facing. I can see such a lot now only—it’s too +late!” Katherine knelt by him, and laid her hand on his. + +“No! no! no!” she said, “you leave out God.” He lay watching her +grieved, earnest eyes. + +“So He won’t let go?” he said, smiling. “Well, then—if He’s there—I’ll +go to Him, and if He isn’t—I’ll just rest!” He closed his eyes, and +presently as she watched him, she saw that he was asleep. + +Then, in a flash, her old thoughts became new to her. She felt a +passionate hope and pain, that changed her from a good woman into an +infinite being; immortality, which had been her faith, became a +certainty. Her life rose from its narrow, outward landmarks, into a +thing of eternity, a spark of that which neither knows death, nor +accepts it. It seemed in that instant of time, as if she had passed +scatheless through a fire, had leapt into some strong, unbroken circle +of life in whose centre, was the very source of it all. A fire which +indeed consumed, until nothing was left, but the answering spark of Life +and Light, unhindered and unfettered utterly. “I will not be cheated,” +she cried in her heart. “The perishable perishes simply to show the +Imperishable its invincible, unutterable Triumph.” Her thoughts swept +over her past life, catching up memories, hopes, ambitions, as if to +hurry with them into the warmth and shelter that had mastered every +fear, she had ever known or feared to know. She grew radiant over this +new wonder, and longed, as the human soul must long, for the soul she +loved best to grow radiant too. Then she ceased to think of things in +the abstract, and the face of the man she did not wish to believe she +loved, by turns entreated and compelled her to answer, not as she might +have answered before the change of a moment had illuminated her life, +but with the eternal answer of the heart that sees beyond. “I love—not +because you are—but because God is. I am Love’s answer to you, your +eternal counterpart, which claims us Children of God, who are not afraid +to enter into His Courts with the Light of Him in our faces, and the +Love of Him in our hearts.” So Death and Love together seemed equal +pledges to Katherine of other worlds; and duty (by which she had lived +before) was a word she had forgotten, she turned quickly to do all she +could for Arthur, but not because she ought—ought had lost itself in +the privilege of service. The shaded lamp burned low, and the growing +outlines of things by the window told her the night was over. + +The surgeon’s pulse beat very feebly now, his nostrils worked painfully, +and his lips were blue. The curious sharpness of feature that the +approach of Death reveals showed in his face. She wondered if his spirit +could wait till Daphne came. She heard a faint tap at the door, and +crept noiselessly to answer it. + +The increasing light showed, to her astonishment, Miss Smith. “You +cannot come in,” said Katherine, “he is asleep.” + +“I will come in!” hissed the other nurse, “get out of my way!” Katherine +gazed at her in surprise, but she was strong, and firmly barred the way +against the intruder. “You cannot possibly come in,” she repeated, “and +if you do not go away, he will wake, and it will kill him!” Miss Smith’s +glare at her was of something rendered too furious for reason, then, +with a sudden, miserable sense of impotence, the poor woman began to +shake with sobs. Katherine very gently closed the door and locked it. + +“What is it?” said her patient quite composedly. + +“Miss Smith, sir, to ask how you were.” The surgeon looked annoyed, then +his face lightened. + +“Let her come in,” he said, “but don’t go away.” + +“I shall certainly not do that, sir,” said Katherine quickly. She obeyed +him unwillingly. Miss Smith hung back at first and came in frightened. +She was not placed more at her ease by the surgeon’s sharp, cold glance +at her. + +“Come nearer,” he said. “It is very tiresome to have to shout—when one +is—dying!” + +“Oh, sir—Mr. Field, I mean—you aren’t! I can’t bear it!” Miss Smith +murmured desperately. + +“You are not asked to,” said the surgeon quietly, “at present. I have +sent for you because you are the only person who has ever understood—my +wife. I have tried to cure her, that is why I am here. I should like to +feel that it has not been quite useless. Will you help her? I have +settled most of my money on her, on the condition that she places +herself under your orders—or some substitute to be chosen by Miss +Linton. If, in ten years’ time she is not a complete cure, her income +will be very much limited, and you will be freed from the care of her, +the rest of my money will then go to the hospital, except that you or +your substitute shall have a small income for life. Choose?” He closed +his eyes and Katherine held the glass to his lips; he struggled to +swallow it, and, after a moment’s terrible tension, he rallied. Miss +Smith, who had started forward, made up her mind. + +“Miss Linton need not look for a substitute, sir!” she cried, “I will +stay with your wife until I die, or she dies—so help me, God.” + +“I daresay He will,” murmured the surgeon with an amused look. “If He +exists. He certainly ought to—if He can!” Katherine opened the door and +Miss Smith, with her heart full of anger and pain, looked passionately +and unavailingly at the man who held her in obedience, even at the door +of death. Then, seeing that for the moment he had left consciousness +behind him, she tossed her head at her enemy and ran to her own room. + +Katherine, closing the door again, took up a new wonder. She had seen a +small soul in a great moment, but the moment had not been great enough +to enlarge the soul. “It takes more to redeem a soul,” she remembered +hearing. She imagined, as she thought of Miss Smith, that it would take +a great deal more. + + + CHAPTER XLI. + + “Simplify, simplify.” + + THOREAU. + +“She was certainly dreadfully upset,” said Mrs. Ellis. “That laughter +was terrible! I always thought there was something a little weak about +dear Mrs. Field (I hope you don’t mind my saying so, Lilian, though she +_is_ your aunt). Doctors so often marry hysterical women.” + +“So many women are hysterical,” said Lilian Courtney quietly. + +“Well,” said Lady Cheston (who had been really upset by last night’s +scene and did not like to be reminded of it), “here’s another drowning +accident in the paper this morning; everybody gets drowned this time of +the year, and when one thinks of the bathing-dresses some of us wear, I +don’t wonder! I always tell Reggie I’ll wait to go in bathin’ till I get +to the Dead Sea—where one can’t sink, you know.” + +“But you can’t bathe there either, I believe,” put in Mrs. Ellis +doubtfully. Lady Cheston never made efforts to talk to other women; it +was a waste of time and ammunition; besides, she had expected a letter +from David, so she merely tossed a Bradshaw to the twins. Everybody felt +uncomfortable, and the twins looked up an afternoon train. + +“I can’t bear being in a house where people die!” remarked an intense +young lady in green. She had published a volume of poems at her father’s +expense. “It makes one feel inexpressible things!” + +“Well, don’t express them then!” said Lady Cheston shortly. She hated to +think about Death, more than she disliked a poor relation. One could say +“no” to a poor relation. + +The intense girl had two very pink spots on her cheeks, and she +ostentatiously took up a beautifully bound little book called +“Heart-throbs.” It was written by a friend of hers whom she called the +“Master.” The margins were three inches wide and the poems were +remarkably short; but then, as Miss Ingleside would have told you, it +was their strength that shook your soul—one, in fact, needed the +margin. Mrs. Ellis, who could never restrain what was uppermost in her +mind, and whose mind only contained the uppermost, broke forth again. + +“It is so specially sad about their being re-united again, and all that, +and everybody could see how he adored her!” + +“Because he made her a speech?” suggested Lilian lazily, “or because +they had lived so long apart?” + +“Oh! both!” said Mrs. Ellis a little doubtfully. “Though I never knew +Mrs. Field until recently; of course, it all seems very strange.” + +“Rosamonde was my mother’s younger sister,” said Lilian clearly to the +now-listening room. “And she married a poor country doctor; no one knew +that he was going to get on, and in fact the Dormays had nothing more to +do with either of them. Rosamonde was never very strong, and soon after +her marriage she grew queer and hysterical, and had to live away +somewhere with a nurse. No one knew Mr. Field as a married man, when he +came to London, and he was certainly not the person to take the world +into his confidence, about his private affairs, besides, he was too +busy. When he got on, my mother met him again—one does meet people when +they get on, you know. He was always very uncommunicative, and she knew +nothing further about Rosamonde until Mr. Field had practically cured +her, and brought her home again. There isn’t any real mystery, you see.” +Lilian repeated the story as if it were a lesson she had had to learn by +heart. Everybody listened breathlessly, and believed as much of it as +went with, what they had already thought out, for themselves. + +“How romantic!” murmured little Mrs. Ellis. Lady Cheston put down her +paper and snorted she did not believe a word of it, but before she had +time to question Lilian, Rosamonde herself came into the room looking +almost plain. The ladies all floated up to her with low voices and +detached kindlinesses. They made her feel that it was wonderful how +brave she was after all she had suffered, and when she was comfortably +settled with several unnecessary shawls and cushions—and Miss +Ingleside’s smelling-salts, without which (she explained) she never +moved—they all began to explain how they had to go away, and how +dreadful it was to leave her just at this time, but all of them hoped +she’d write. They should be waiting so anxiously for news of dear Mr. +Field! There was a splendid train at five something, when it would be +cool enough to travel, and could they send her anything down from town? +Miss Ingleside implored her to try a Faith Healer, a great friend of +hers who had effected the most marvellous cures by praying over tumours, +positively prevented loads of operations, that would inevitably have +proved fatal if they had been performed. + +“Perhaps you have heard of her?” she concluded, “Lucia Lovington—she +has _such_ a soul.” + +“And such a waist too,” murmured Lilian. + +“Ah! you know her?” Miss Ingleside asked her. + +“Not her soul,” said Lilian gently, “only her figure!” + +Rosamonde hastened to exclaim that it was awfully sweet of her. “But you +see,” she exclaimed, “Arthur is a surgeon and doctors never like Faith +Healers, they are inclined to call them the New Disease; not that Arthur +is at all bitter about them, on the contrary, I have heard him say that +if they had a healthy faith and knew the first elements of logic they +would do very well. Still, I don’t quite think,” Rosamonde concluded, +“that he would like to see one at present.” Lilian got up and strolled +out into the garden. Later, Reggie told her that Daphne was coming to +Lady Middleton’s and that he was going to drive over for her that +afternoon and bring her back with him. + +“Miss Linton is very tired,” he explained, “she has been up some nights +before they came here, and Daphne is quite competent to help her.” + +“Oh! quite _competent_ I should think,” assented Lilian. + +Reggie felt a little uncomfortable, he couldn’t quite tell why. He liked +Lilian “awfully” as he phrased it before her marriage, and he did still, +but somehow she was not so easy to talk to. He thought it was one of the +jolliest days he had ever known, and then reproached himself bitterly +for having forgotten the surgeon. In a few hours he would be with +Daphne. + +As he drove off he was watched by two people, Katherine from the +surgeon’s window, and Lilian on the lawn. When the dog-cart disappeared, +Lilian looked up at Katherine, and something passed between them, +intimate, mutual and compassionate. They barely knew each other to speak +to, but Katherine knew the outlines of Lilian’s story, and they both +knew Daphne’s, and both of them were very much afraid for Reggie. + + + CHAPTER XLII. + + “Duty makes us do things well, + But Love makes us do them beautifully.” + + PHILIPPS BROOKES. + +“Of course,” said Mrs. Fordington, “you will do what you like, my dear. +You always have done and I shall never interfere. The Bible-Class tea +must be put off, but when one has to deal with unmethodical people one +must expect changes. Fortunately, Dorket is always nice about orders for +food, she will hold it over until you come back.” Mrs. Fordington +paused, and in the pause Daphne vaguely pictured the stout lady of the +village in her kindly attitude of “holding over” the food. “Before you +go,” her aunt continued, “I hope you will spare time to put some autumn +leaves into my bonnet. I thought of cherries, but cherries look better +in June. Don’t you think so, Daphne?” + +“I think they look better in the orchard,” said Daphne absent-mindedly. + +“I am not referring to trees,” said her aunt rather sharply. “I wish you +would listen, Daphne, I was talking about hats.” + +“Oh! _hats!_” said Daphne, with a cheerful smile. + +“If you are in town,” her aunt went on, “you might have a look at the +autumn fashions. I want something that will look smart without being +worldly; do you know what I mean, Daphne?” + +“Dear me, yes,” exclaimed her niece now, thoroughly roused. “At about +five guineas—with frills.” And she looked out of the window for her +uncle. + +“Well, don’t buy anything out-and-out, but look around you, and let me +know,” said her aunt; “and I want a new penny reading-book as well, +something brighter than a tract but with a deep meaning.” + +“Amusing without being immoral?” Daphne suggested. + +“My dear Daphne! immoral!” cried her aunt, “of course not, it’s for the +‘Mothers.’” + +“It would certainly be easier to find something immoral without being +funny,” said Daphne, “for the daughters!” Fortunately her aunt was not +listening. + +“Here is your uncle,” she said, “walking across the wet grass, and mark +my words, he will try to come in without wiping his feet.” It was only +too true, and his wife’s agonized shriek of “Wilfred, your boots,” only +brought him to his senses just in time. “You had better change them,” +said his wife, “and your socks.” Daphne went into his study and awaited +his return. + +When he came down she handed him Vera’s invitation. She hoped that he +would tell her not to go. She wanted to go, just enough to feel that it +would be a pleasant sacrifice not to, and she would have immensely liked +to make a sacrifice. Her uncle handed her back the note. + +“I think you had better go, dear,” he said; “you need a change, and +besides, it is only kind not to refuse her request.” + +“I don’t see how I can leave my work,” Daphne began. + +“Then I am quite sure it is time for you to go,” said her uncle, +smiling, “and don’t come back till you wonder how you can return to it.” + +“Are we always to distrust our feelings then?” she asked. + +“No, certainly not,” said the Vicar, “but we mustn’t act on them unless +we have something else to back them. They are good company but blind +guides, you know, and as you have such a large stock of them, Daphne, +some of them must conflict. It would do you no harm to make a few +reductions.” + +“I shall have to face temptation!” she said. + +“It is in this study,” said her uncle. + +“Ah! I have not told you everything!” Daphne confessed. + +“Tell no one _everything_, my child!” said her uncle, “and do not tell +many people anything. I have always noticed that young people are +dangerously fond of the verb ‘to tell.’ When you reach my age you will +have learned to put a negative before many of these vigorous intentions. +Confidences make secrets, and secrets make mischief.” + +“Oh! but one must trust people!” cried Daphne. + +“By all means,” said her uncle, “_have_ as much confidence as you like +in people, but don’t _make_ confidences _to_ people, that is quite a +different thing.” + +“Then you wish me to go?” she protested. His eyes twinkled at her +feminine leap. + +“I shall miss you very much, dear child,” he said quietly. + +Daphne went over to him, and her eyes filled with tears. “Oh,” she said, +“I don’t want to leave you!” + +“Then it seems as if we were both doing right,” said her uncle. + +Mrs. Fordington had hoped the Vicar would come down to her; she felt +vaguely aggrieved about her husband. “Wilfred,” she often told people, +“was as close as a fish about some things.” She was quite willing for +Daphne to go, only she would have liked to talk over the objections. She +never let anything happen without talking over the objections; it was +what she called “having a thing out,” and the study door was shut. Mrs. +Fordington had learned soon after her marriage what that meant, though +the Vicar’s courteous “What may I do for you, dear?” was as far as from +turning her out as possible, yet that was what it had effected. She +remembered that in their early married days she had felt it her duty to +sound his faith, and walking boldly into his study, had poured forth her +views to him on Hell and everlasting punishment; when she had finished, +he had said to her very gently that she might believe exactly what she +chose, he would never interfere with it, he would not even contradict +her as to her statement about the Andersons, but she must never, under +any circumstances, teach these doctrines in his parish. + +“What, Wilfred,” she had cried, “don’t you even believe that those +backbiting Dissenters _must_ go to Hell?” + +“I feel quite sure,” her husband had replied, “that there will be no +backbiting nor dissent in Heaven; but I very much hope the Andersons +will be there, with their generosity and their kind hearts.” His wife +had got up in despair. + +“Wilfred,” she had said, “this is terrible! We have nothing in common +about Hell.” The Vicar had bowed his head and she had left him. + +Suddenly she saw the gardener sitting, actually sitting with clasped +hands upon his wheelbarrow; she went out into the garden and drew his +attention with severe emphasis to some neglected weeds. In doing this +she scolded both her husband and Daphne, and could go and make the tea +with unruffled feelings. Mrs. Fordington did not believe in sending +scapegoats out into the wilderness, she liked them within easy reach. +Two days after Daphne travelled to Lady Middleton’s, missing, by a post, +a letter from Katherine about Arthur Field. + + + CHAPTER XLIII. + + “And woman’s slander is the worst!” + + TENNYSON. + +Vera agreed with the world at large that Tit-for-Tat is the ruling +Principle, but she went on a step beyond in her ethics, in her ability +to keep “Tat” for the appropriate moment. She lay on the sofa with a +French novel and awaited Daphne’s arrival. She could see the +carriage-drive from where she lay, and when she saw Reggie drive up, she +closed her novel; it was not one she would quite like Reggie to see her +read. When he was announced she held out her hand languidly. + +“My dear Reggie,” she said, “this is really very nice of you. I have +wanted to hear for ages how you liked your prospective stepfather?” +Reggie took a moment selecting the most comfortable chair he could find. +Then he turned his pleasantest and blankest expression to Lady +Middleton. + +“Why,” he said, “I haven’t been introduced to him yet. Is he a friend of +yours?” + +“Then you have not come to tell me about him?” she said with +disappointment. She had not quite courage enough to break the news to +him herself, but, of course, if he insisted on knowing he could not +blame her. To her surprise he dropped the subject and briefly announced +his purpose. Vera rose to her feet and then sank back again on to the +cushions. + +“Daphne,” she repeated, “Daphne! You have come to fetch Daphne to nurse +Arthur Field?” + +“Yes,” said Reggie, “I have.” + +“This,” said Vera dramatically, “is terrible!” She watched Reggie +beneath her eyelashes. + +“It is very sad, isn’t it?” said he. He was absolutely unimpressed. She +turned to him gravely and quietly: + +“Reggie,” she said, “I don’t quite know what to do. What you have just +told me has put me into a most difficult position. You have always been +a friend of the family, and I must have some advice——” + +“Your husband?” Reggie interrupted her. + +“Is in London,” said Vera quickly, “Daphne is a motherless girl. I did +not come to her in time. Oh! if it had been a few months earlier—I +might have helped the poor child, I might have saved her!” + +“What do you mean, Lady Middleton?” Reggie asked her sternly. Vera +shuddered. + +“It is dreadful—dreadful to have to tell you!” she said. “I do not know +how she first got to know Arthur Field, but she fell desperately in love +with him before she knew that he was already married. I was shocked and +terrified when I discovered the state of things, and felt it my duty to +tell her the whole story immediately. I told her—two weeks too late!” +Reggie got up and went to the window. He heard the sound of wheels +coming from the station road. Vera looked at her watch, she had at least +ten minutes. “I broke off the affair at once,” she went on, “and for the +girl’s sake kept it entirely quiet. I never even told her father. I +blame myself for that now.” The wheels passed the gate. There was a girl +and a man in the dog-cart laughing. Vera sighed deeply. “I urged her +engagement to David, although in many ways I felt he was unsuitable. I +was afraid to break off completely with Arthur Field; he is a dangerous +man, and for the girl’s sake I had to be careful. He came to me at +Overham, and I believed she struggled against his power over her—but I +had to send him away. Then she went to his hospital and I gave her up. I +had done all I could for her. Rosamonde’s return did, indeed, give me +fresh hope, and as Arthur Field was not here I asked her to come to me +again, but if she goes to him now, what am I to do? Is it not my duty to +hush up this affair? No one will believe in the nursing story, and +Daphne will not know that he ever sent for her? You are sure he is +dying?” + +“Quite sure,” said Reggie. The sound of wheels came near again, and Vera +saw that her ten minutes were over. + +“Let us say nothing at all about it?” she pleaded. + +“I think I must give my message to Miss Fordington,” said Reggie +steadily. The trap drove in at the gate, and he saw Daphne. Devonshire +air had filled her face with life and colour, her eyes gleamed with +happy expectation, she sprang lightly to the ground. In a moment more +she was in the room, and Vera was murmuring “Dear child,” and ringing +for the tea. + +Reggie turned slowly, and faced her. Her colour deepened, and her eyes, +when they met his, were full of a welcome, that a few minutes before +would have made the world beautiful to him. He held out his hand +frigidly. + +“You must have had a long journey, Miss Fordington,” he said. Daphne +turned away to the tea-table. For a moment she was speechless, and +afraid that he would see, that he had hurt her. + +Then, with a merry laugh, she broke into a history of her journey and +its incidents. Vera, watching her, could tell nothing. She waited until +Daphne had finished her tea before she turned to Reggie. + +“Now, Reggie,” she said, “tell Daphne why you have come?” Then, leaning +back in her chair, she looked from one to the other of them. Reggie’s +eyes were fixed straight in front of him. + +“I came to ask you to assist Miss Linton who is nursing a case in the +neighbourhood at the house where I am staying,” he said; “perhaps you +did not get her letter?” + +“No,” said Daphne, wonderingly, “I thought she was off for her holiday.” + +“She has been sitting up some nights, and she begged that if you were +not too tired you would drive over with me and relieve her to-night.” He +paused. + +“Of course I will,” said Daphne; “who is the patient?” + +“It is someone you know,” said Reggie. Then Daphne knew that he was +going to break some news to her; she put her cup down very carefully and +looked at him, but he would not meet her eyes. + +“It is Mr. Arthur Field,” said Reggie. Vera watched Daphne’s face with +increasing pleasure. All her happy colour had left her, her hands +grasped the chair, with that strange clinging to the inanimate that +terror gives. For the moment the room was so still that the country +world about them seemed full of noises; it might have been London. + +“Is he so very ill?” the girl asked finally. + +“Very ill,” said Reggie. Vera saw that he would not see how white Daphne +was, nor how stricken, she had her voice in such perfect control. + +“My dear child,” she exclaimed, “are you going to faint? Shall I ring +for some brandy?” Daphne got up. + +“You have a trap here?” she asked Reggie. “I saw it at the door.” + +“Are you going?” Vera asked her. “I am sure it is not really necessary.” + +“I am going,” said Daphne, with a sudden flash of anger, “whether it is +necessary or not.” Vera looked at Reggie, and had the pleasure of seeing +him wince. + +“I am quite at your services, Miss Fordington,” he said drily. They left +the room in silence. As the cart drove off, she gave a sigh of perfect +satisfaction. There are a good many rewards that virtue does not give. +Vera felt as if she had them all, and virtue into the bargain. She had +always been very good to Daphne, on her twenty-first birthday she had +sent her a pearl necklace. + + + CHAPTER XLIV. + + “Ah! let none other alien spell so’er + But only the One Hope’s, One name be there— + Not less nor more, but even that word alone.” + + ROSSETTI. + +It was six o’clock and growing dark, only across the fields, rich with a +late harvest, the last light caught colour from the golden corn, lying +in rippling fields beneath the hills. The air was fresh and sweet, and +the shadows lay sharp and clear over the country. Reggie drove very +fast, and Daphne saw nothing but old memories. + +“Is he dying?” she said at last. + +“Yes,” said Reggie. + +“Oh!——” murmured Daphne. Reggie lashed the horse, it danced a little, +and quickened its pace. Daphne did not notice that they were driving +much too fast. “Reggie,” she said at last, “why did you call me ‘Miss +Fordington’? I don’t believe you were a bit glad to see me!” Reggie was +simply furious; that she could dare to make him such a speech at the +present moment, showed that she was not only thoroughly bad, but cruelly +heartless. That at the time, when the man who ought to have been her +husband was dying, she could observe the greeting of another man, struck +him as about the lowest and vainest thing he could imagine. + +“I do not think we need discuss my feelings,” he said, “they are not +your concern, nor ought they to be.” Daphne looked at him in hurt +surprise. + +“Oh! Reggie!” she said, “I can’t understand you.” + +“It is just as well,” he said coldly, “that you should not.” They barely +escaped running over a child, and Daphne caught his arm in terror. Then +he looked at her, it was a look of such absolute disgust that it stung +her like a whip. + +“Does he suppose I am trying to flirt with him?” she thought. Her only +wish now was for the drive to end. The garden was deserted, everyone had +left but Lilian. She stood in the hall to welcome Daphne; it was years +since they had met, and Lilian held her close to her, in silence. Reggie +did not see their meeting, he drove furiously to the station and caught +the last train up. There was nothing especial for him to do in town, so +he took the night express to Scotland, but his troubled thoughts kept +pace even with the Edinburgh express. + +“Am I too late?” said Daphne. Lilian shook her head, and they went +upstairs hand in hand. + +“It has been a fight against the hours,” Lilian told her, “but I do not +think he could die until he saw you.” + +“And his—wife?” said Daphne. + +“Is dressing for dinner,” replied Lilian simply. “He will not see her, +and she would not go to him if she could, I think. Oh! my dear, it’s a +terrible business.” + +“Oh, Arthur,” said Daphne, “I can’t imagine him helpless——” she bit +her lips to keep the tears back. “I only knew this afternoon,” she +explained. + +The surgeon’s room had that atmosphere of utter calm, and order in which +the mind has only itself to fight against. All the windows were wide +open, and by the light of the shaded lamp, Daphne saw his grey face, +propped up by many pillows. His hands plucked at the counterpane, with +futile, unpausing fingers. Daphne remembered how they had boasted of +them in hospital, as the most beautifully formed hands in London, and +she understood that their work was done, as no amount of mere terrible +reports of him could have shown her. Hope can keep alive against all +reason, until sight stuns it with reality. When she saw his face, the +rest of the world vanished, and she knew that nothing at all existed but +his fight with the unseen. She did not notice Katherine until the other +pointed out to her, the little compromises with death that he himself +had brought down with him. Then she left them. Daphne sat by his side +and put her hand over one of his. He looked at her and smiled as a child +does who has been looking for its mother. + +He had passed beyond surprises, and forgotten all his troubles, but he +knew that she was there. + +“It’s all right, Daphne,” he said, “they told you it was all right, +didn’t they?” he repeated, frowning a little. + +“Yes,” said Daphne, “it is _quite—quite_ all right now.” He was +satisfied, and lay watching her face in absolute restfulness, only his +fingers still picked fruitlessly at the counterpane. + +Three hours later Katherine looked in at them, they neither of them +moved, and until she died she never forgot the picture that they made. +The fire-light (which in spite of the summer the chill of failing life +made good to him) flickered “with subtle sound of flame.” And the +moonbeams flooded the room. Daphne was still beside him, but now her arm +lay beneath his head holding him up, her other hand was on his, and her +dark eyes were filled with light. When Katherine saw his face, she came +in, and closed the door, for she saw that there was another presence in +the room. The end had come, but they neither of them heard her. + +“God keep you, Arthur,” Daphne said. For a moment the old, amused look +came back into his failing eyes. + +“He—won’t—let—go!” he whispered. The effort was too much for him, the +breath stopped with one short gasp. His weight on her arm was terribly +heavy. She looked at Katherine. + +“I don’t see why _you_ should cry,” she said. Then her own lips +quivered, she buried her head in her hands. Steps sounded outside the +door, and Katherine went to it. + +“I’m his nurse!” sobbed Miss Smith. “I always nursed his cases!” + +“Yes! yes,” said Katherine gently, “but he doesn’t want either of us +now, he——” Miss Smith broke away from her, and rushed into Rosamonde’s +room. + +“You’ve killed your husband!” she cried. “Do you hear me? You’ve killed +your husband!” + +“Oh! how horrible!” cried Rosamonde. “How dare you frighten me so, I +sha’n’t be able to go to sleep, I must have some——” + +“No! you don’t!” cried Miss Smith, her sobs ceased. She began to make +Rosamonde some coffee on a spirit lamp. + +Arthur had done the kindest thing he could for her when he gave her +something to do for him. Almost as kind as if he had known, but it was +always impossible to tell what he knew. + + + CHAPTER XLV. + + “For the storm, and the rain, and the darkness borrow + But an hour from the suns to be, + But a strange swift passage, that we + May rejoice, who have mourned to-day, to-morrow + In the sun, and the wind, and the sea.” + + SWINBURNE. + +It was impossible for Katherine to realize anything in the quick days +that followed. A dressmaker from town, a morning when the hall was +filled with wreaths, the grim, tearful face of Miss Smith, the departure +of Lilian and Daphne, passed by her like scenes in a theatre. + +It was not until the funeral had taken place, and the last wreath lain +upon the newly-dug grave, that Katherine realized her task was over. She +noticed that the handsomest of all the flowers was a cross of lilies of +the valley and white roses sent by Lady Middleton. People had come down +to the funeral. One or two of Mr. Field’s well-known colleagues, he had +few personal friends, and no relations. There was something infinitely +pathetic to Katherine in the impersonal, almost professional aspect of +the scene. + +It was just as he would have liked. Rosamonde was too upset to go, and +Miss Smith stayed with her, but after it was all over, she crept into +the empty cemetery and cried the most futile and unsatisfying of all +tears. Tears over death which (at any rate, to Arthur) had been the +least of his troubles. When Katherine re-entered the house Rosamonde met +her in the hall. + +“When are you going, nurse?” she asked her curtly. + +“I—I suppose I had better go now,” said Katherine. “There is nothing +else, is there, that I can do?” + +“You can pack your things,” said Rosamonde. Katherine went upstairs to +the little dressing-room next to his room, where she was to have slept +if it had been possible. Her things had been barely unpacked, and it was +easy to put them up again. A few hours later she reported herself at the +hospital. The Matron sent for her at once. + +“You will take your holiday now, nurse,” she said. Then, for a moment, +she forgot her position. “We were all so proud of him!” she said. “God +knows I wish we could have saved him! There never was such a man for hip +troubles—and as an operator——! and for all his sharp ways, he was the +kindest-hearted man I know!” The Matron shook her head. As Katherine +went to her room she passed a bevy of nurses just going on night duty. +They were discussing the new consultant. + +“He has such a lovely moustache,” said one of them. Katherine fled past +them hurriedly. She did not wish to have to hear about the new +consultant. + +The next day found her at Link-Water, the house her father had taken. It +was a little house with a sunny lawn leading down to the river. Mrs. +Dalgeny welcomed her very warmly, the Colonel was away, and as she +watched her mother sewing under the great yellowing trees, she could not +realize that the two past years were more than a vivid dream, only that +she felt so very much older than her mother. + +“It is all very curious,” said Mrs. Dalgeny, “but you really seem to +have improved. I had no idea that what you call your profession was so +becoming. At one time you quite threatened to be fat. Now your figure is +not unlike mine at your age, though _I_ was a mother then,” added Mrs. +Dalgeny, thoughtfully. + +“Are you happy?” asked Katherine bluntly, “with—with him?” Mrs. Dalgeny +laughed. + +“Dear child,” she said, “you still have your crude, odd way of putting +things! I did not marry Colonel Dalgeny from any fairy-tale motives. I +knew just what I might expect. He is obstinate, selfish, and absurdly +scrupulous. I am fond of my own way and of my own pleasure, and I +believe in expedients, but nevertheless we get on capitally. Do you ask +me how?” said Mrs. Dalgeny, putting down her embroidery. “Because I feed +him beautifully, and let him smoke where he likes. I am always +well-dressed, and if I do not agree with him, I do not tell him so. I +also never ask him where he has been, or what he is going to do, and I +arrange my life for myself. There are wives who tell their husbands when +they have made a mistake about a joint and expect him to look up their +trains for them. An unhappy marriage in such cases is inevitable. I know +the value of reserve. If he asks me why I do a thing I give him a reason +he can understand. If he is angry with me, I confess that I am in the +wrong, and cry. After that he naturally calls himself a brute, and I +remain where I was. This makes everything quite simple, and I always +make a point of listening to his suggestions.” + +“Oh, mother!” said Katherine, “how horrible!” + +“Oh, but I don’t follow them!” explained Mrs. Dalgeny. + +Katherine saw the uselessness of Reformers. One can change the external, +but when one tackles human nature the spots remain, and it is considered +unbalanced to go quite so far. + +“He must be desperately unhappy,” she thought. Then, looking up, she saw +the Colonel crossing the lawn. Mrs. Dalgeny carefully placed her +embroidery upon another chair and advanced to meet him, signalling to an +open window for the maid to bring out tea. It might have been an awkward +moment, but it was not. As the pair crossed the lawn to Katherine, the +Colonel had already begun to tell his wife what had happened to him in +town. After he had shaken hands with his daughter, he turned to his wife +again. + +“They gave me a beastly lunch,” he said, sitting down comfortably in a +garden chair. Mrs. Dalgeny sent a veiled glance at her daughter. It was +her moment of triumph, and the Colonel immensely enjoyed his tea. +Katherine was disgusted. + +“He is too comfortable to be unhappy,” she thought contemptuously. After +tea Mrs. Dalgeny rose gracefully and left them. The Colonel regarded his +daughter thoughtfully for awhile. + +“Do you think your mother is looking well?” he asked her at last. “Are +you satisfied about her?” Katherine looked out over the water. The +shadows had deepened and lay long and dark across it; she could scarcely +see her father’s face, but she could hear the wistful tone in his voice, +and at last she understood. It was quite true that her mother had made +him comfortable, but it was also true that she could never make him +happy. Katherine trembled for a moment, then she put out her hand to +him. + +“Father,” she said, “I—I didn’t understand!” The Colonel pressed her +hand, but he did not try to answer her, something in his throat choked +him. By-and-bye he leant over her and kissed her. Then, as it was +growing cool, he drew her hand in his arm, and they walked up and down +the lawn together. Katherine told him all about her work. + +Mrs. Dalgeny saw them from her bedroom window, and the satisfied smile +left her face. Of course her husband thought her a very clever woman, +but this was different, even Mrs. Dalgeny saw that. The Colonel talking +with his daughter down below, was very happy. He would not have been so +happy if his wife had joined them. Mrs. Dalgeny tried to sneer, but it +is difficult to sneer when one’s lips are trembling. She called out of +the window, “Katherine, it is time to dress for dinner!” but she could +not always call her daughter in. + + + CHAPTER XLVI. + + “How we are made for happiness! how work + Grows play, adversity a winning fight!” + + ROBERT BROWNING. + +Katherine felt certain, as soon as she saw Bert, that he was keeping +something back. He looked older and very much more determined, and there +was a restless, anxious expression in his eyes. He got on singularly +well, she noticed, with her mother, and her father, though he left his +wife to do most of the entertaining, smoked in evident enjoyment of his +company. Katherine was anxious that her father should like him, but she +was more anxious that he should like her father. + +“I have got,” said Mrs. Dalgeny, “to decorate the church for the Harvest +Festival to-morrow, and I want some Autumn leaves, and things to hang +down and drape well. Suppose you and Katherine go out and get them, Mr. +Russell, and meet me at the church. The fields are certain to be wet and +Katherine immensely enjoys discomfort, as I know by experience. It makes +you feel like an early Christian Martyr, doesn’t it, dear?” she asked +her daughter. + +“On the contrary,” Katherine replied, “it makes me feel capable of +becoming a savage.” + +“Ah, well,” said Mrs. Dalgeny lightly. “Saints and savages were both +very primitive, and could afford to get their feet wet. I shall stay +here, and drive to the church later.” She dismissed them with a smile of +content. After they had left the room she turned to the Colonel. +“Katherine,” she said, “is twenty-five, she will never marry sensibly. +This young man is delightful, but certain to be poor. Nevertheless one +might do worse, she must marry him.” The Colonel smoked in silence. + +“You have a way of talking about these things,” he said at last, “which +I don’t like, Louie; and it is no use saying ‘must’ to Katherine.” + +“I should never dream of saying it to Katherine,” said his wife, +smiling, “I was saying it to you. I told Katherine last night I did not +see much in him.” The Colonel was curious. + +“What did she say?” he ventured. + +“Why—nothing!” said Mrs. Dalgeny, “but a few moments afterwards, she +suggested he might stay over Sunday.” + +“I wish you weren’t so infernally sly, Louie,” said her husband, +angrily. “I don’t want Katherine to marry anybody.” His wife laughed. + +“Men never like their daughters to marry,” she said, “and mothers never +like them to be old maids. It is very easily explained. You can see the +drawbacks of marriage for any woman except your wife, and your wife can +see its consolations for any woman but herself. Besides, no woman likes +to have an elderly daughter with grown-up critical eyes for ever in the +drawing-room.” + +“Do you know, Louie,” he said slowly, “sometimes you strike me as being +very hard?” Mrs. Dalgeny laughed. + +“That is the way sensible people always strike one,” she said; “but I +can assure you that it is really only the sentimentalists who are +brutal, and I am quite sure men are much more prone to that than women, +they call things by such easy names, and throw sunbeams over their past. +Sunbeams are much nicer to get on with than remorse.” + +“What do you know about remorse, I wonder?” asked her husband in a queer +voice. + +“I know it is a very uncomfortable thing to have,” said Mrs. Dalgeny, +“and also a little absurd. Now I am going to drive to the church. Can I +do anything for you in the village?” The Colonel shook his head. + +The autumn fields were rough with dew, and the trees gave a light of +dusky gold in response to the bright sunshine breaking its way through +the river mist. The dampness of the place brought out wonderful tones of +crimson and brown, and the woods on the horizon were shaded black and +mauve. + +“English autumn is more toned down than our Fall,” said Katherine’s +companion. “We die in a blaze of madness, but your old English trees +drift softly into death with quiet colours. They are too old to make a +fuss!” + +“Ah! but we understand it is all coming back to us,” said Katherine +eagerly. “I like that best; we are content because we know that death is +a phase and life a permanence. The faith of generations has made us calm +and sure;” her thoughts went back to the surgeon. “Mr. Field must have +been sure,” she said, “or he couldn’t have been so brave, only he didn’t +_know_ he was sure. Don’t you think, Mr. Russell, that all good +people—people, I mean, who have struggled to live up to a standard—are +immensely looked after, and unconsciously possessed by the God they +think they do not believe in? + +“Of course, conscious faith is best, because it is so much simpler, and +one can meet things with it so much more possibly, but an unconscious +faith seems to me to have a wonderful hold upon unseen powers.” + +“Yes,” said Bert, “I guess that God’s belief in us is the bigger of the +two, and can keep a hold of us just as long as we don’t fight against it +with our character. What we think we know, and what we believe we think, +is a precious little part of it all, and fortunately not such a very +large part of us.” Katherine caught a branch above her head and broke it +short with a turn of her wrist. “My! but you’re strong!” said Bert, +admiringly. Katherine flushed. + +They had their arms full of leaves, red, brown, and gold, and about them +both was the bloom of the fresh, sweet morning. They sat down to rest on +a fallen trunk, and Bert Russell turned his bright, dark eyes on her. + +“I am going home,” he said; “England has had enough of me.” Katherine +put down her armful of leaves, and bent over to sort them. + +“I thought you had work here,” she said. + +“Why, yes! I have work,” said Bert, thoughtfully, “but I can’t get on! +They don’t want me to. I want to press ahead and make the other papers +jump, but they don’t seem to want the other papers to jump. They’re +quite willing for the whole lot to crawl. Now I didn’t come over here to +crawl. Besides, I can’t make enough money here; I am going to be +married, and I want some more money pretty quick.” + +“Yes,” said Katherine, “marriage is very expensive, isn’t it?” (It was +really too cold to sit out in October; she might be strong, but she felt +very tired. If he married an American girl, he would have to go out for +his walks alone.) “I am so glad,” Katherine said, “so very glad; do you +care for her very much?” + +“Why, yes,” said Bert, “with all my heart, or I wouldn’t want to marry +her.” (He was capable of changing his heart very quickly, Katherine +thought.) “You’ll be good to her?” he said gently, “won’t you?” + +“I shall not have much opportunity to be good to her if you are to live +in America,” Katherine said, a little stiffly. She loved the way his +hair grew at the back of his neck, and the queer little way he had of +wrinkling up his forehead, as if it helped him to think. She wondered if +the American girl noticed these things. + +“I have my doubts as to whether I ought to marry her,” he went on; “I am +not very well off, you know, and she has a profession of her own which I +don’t like asking her to give up.” + +“You won’t need to ask her to give it up,” said Katherine in a low +voice, “if she cares for you, and she’d love to have you poor so that +she could help you. + +“She’d have to live a long way from her home,” he continued. + +“Nonsense!” said Katherine briskly, “she will make her own home; women +are not so incapable as you seem to think! Even if you wanted her to go +to a strange country she would probably manage very well.” + +“Well—I do want her to go to a different country,” said Bert, watching +the way she was trying to arrange her leaves and—failing. “See here,” +he said, “let me fix those for you,” and he took them out of her hand +Their fingers touched, and involuntarily Katherine gave a little cry. + +“I ran a splinter into my finger,” she explained. And then she blushed +furiously and hated herself, because it was not true. “Then she’s an +English girl?” she said carelessly. + +“Yes—she’s an English girl,” said Bert. There was something in his +voice that made her turn and look at him. He was wrinkling up his +forehead, but his eyes were dancing with fun and tenderness. + +“Oh!” she cried, springing to her feet. “How dare you! What do you +mean?” + +“Is there another splinter in your finger?” he said. “I am a real good +hand at taking them out.” He spoke lightly, but he was terribly afraid; +he had risked everything, and Katherine’s eyes were blazing. +“Katherine,” he said, “oh! Katherine, it’s so much to ask a woman to +give up! Do you think she’ll come back with me?” Katherine looked away +for a moment; when her eyes met his again the anger had quite gone. + +“There—there wasn’t a splinter in my finger,” said Katherine. + +Mrs. Dalgeny waited for half-an-hour in the church. Then she got some +Virginia Creeper from a cottage near by. It did just as well. + + * * * * * + +“Do you wish him told?” said the Colonel. They stood together by the +fire in the library. He had been very good to her and it had, none of +it, been so difficult as she had thought. + +“I am not afraid of his knowing,” she said, a little proudly. “It would +make no difference.” + +“Men don’t look at these things in the same light as women do,” said the +Colonel. “But it would be very hard for me and your mother——” he +paused a moment. “I could not tell her that I had done it,” he finished +gravely, “she would not understand.” + +“You think he should know?” said Katherine. The Colonel looked into the +fire; it is hard to answer “yes” or “no” to most questions worth asking, +and it is very hard to inflict one’s own punishment. + +“It seems to me his due,” he said at last. + +“Then I am quite sure you will tell him,” said his daughter. There was a +long pause; the Colonel walked up and down his room, and bit his grey +moustache rather savagely. He came to a stand in front of his daughter. + +“Katherine,” he said, “this Russell is a poor man, and I am very well +off. You are my only child. Two years ago I offered you an allowance +which you would not take. I do not think anything has ever hurt me quite +so much. Will you take it now?” The girl hesitated, but only for a +moment. + +“Thank you,” she said simply, “thank you very much, it will be a great +help to us.” The door opened and Bert Russell came in. + +“Help,” he said, “who’s going to help us.” + +“My father,” said Katherine quietly as she left the room. A few moments +later he joined her in the drawing-room. She was playing on the piano, +and he came up behind her and put his hand on her shoulder. + +“Why, Katherine!” he said, “my Katherine! you’re crying!” + +“No, I’m not,” said Katherine furiously, brushing away the tears from +her eyes. “Only—only I was thinking of what you said about temptation, +do you remember? You said, ‘sometimes the oughts drop out.’” + +“Well—have they?” laughed her lover. + +“No,” said Katherine, “only I can see quite well how they might.” + +“And you don’t go on treating people as they deserve?” he asked her, his +eyes twinkling. + +“You can ask me that?” said Katherine. “Oh! Bert, I don’t treat you as +you deserve!” + +“No!” he said, smiling down at her, “you only treat me the way I’d like +to deserve!” Katherine shook her head. + +“You deserve more than I can ever give you,” she said, “but I will give +you all I can.” Bert slipt his arm about her—and kissed her forehead. + +“Do you know,” he said, “I somehow guess it _does_ make a difference +after all.” + +The Colonel, sitting in his study opposite the picture of his dead wife, +had buried his face in his hands. He had loved her, and she had been a +very good woman, and yet he had sinned. Now he was face to face with the +emptiness of future years—and must for ever carry in his heart “the +torment of the difference till he die.” + + + CHAPTER XLVII. + + Yea, in God’s name, and Love’s, and thine, would I + Draw from one loving heart such evidence + As to all hearts, all things should signify; + Tender as dawn’s first hill-fire and intense + As instantaneous penetrating sense, + In spring’s birth hour, of other springs gone by. + + ROSSETTI. + +“Do you know,” said Daphne, leaning back luxuriously on a sofa in +Lilian’s boudoir, “I met an old friend of mine this afternoon in the +park, and he was very much afraid of me.” Lilian smiled affectionately. + +“I wonder why an old friend always means the man we didn’t marry?” she +said; “but I don’t wonder that he was afraid of you, Daphne.” + +“Well—he was!” said Daphne, ignoring her friend’s remark, “and he said +that he was going out as a missionary to India, and that he was very +happy.” + +“Poor fellow!” said Lilian gently. + +“I never really meant to marry him,” said Daphne. “I suppose it was what +Reggie quarrelled with me about, but I told him I was sorry, and then I +went to Overham, and it was all over. You know he wouldn’t speak to me +when I was at your mother’s, and he came to fetch me to nurse Arthur.” +Lilian sat up straight. + +“Was he with my mother when you arrived?” she asked. + +“Yes,” said Daphne, shuddering, “they were sitting there together. He +told me, and at first I didn’t understand—oh! it was awful! Reggie was +horribly unkind. He wouldn’t speak to me or help me a bit!” Lilian +looked at her friend thoughtfully. + +“I wonder if you would tell me the truth, Daphne,” she said, “if I were +to ask you a pretty straight question?” Daphne looked startled. + +“I suppose I might,” she said. + +“Do you mind Reggie’s being horrid?” said Lilian. Daphne fidgeted a +moment, then she looked at her friend steadily. + +“Well, yes, Lilian,” she said, “I do. No one likes to be thought +despicable by a man like Reggie.” + +“I am going to see my mother this afternoon,” said Lilian. “Have you +everything you want?” + +“Everything, thanks,” said Daphne. “Lilian, do you mind seeing your +mother now?” she asked her suddenly; “I have always wanted to ask +you—you don’t mind, do you? Are you still desperately unhappy?” Lilian +sat down again. + +“No,” she said in a low voice, “not now.” Daphne waited. “My husband was +so very bad,” Lilian went on at last, “that it simplified matters. I +could have got a divorce any day, so he went his way, and I went mine. +There were terrible hours first. It is so hard to realize evil; one +hears of it in church on Sunday, and people talk about bad books, and +bad plays, but it is _quite_—quite different from that! You see, there +are so many other things to be considered. It gets mixed up with one’s +life; by-and-bye it becomes usual. It is easier to get used to than +good, I think; I wasn’t a bit shocked after the first year. If I had had +a child it would have been different; I should have had to leave him +then.” + +“And there was never any one else?” said Daphne. Lilian played with a +book on her lap. + +“Yes,” she said, in a very low voice, “there might have been someone +else. I do not know how far it would have gone. God knows I was pretty +desperate, and so was he. Then one day I went out for a drive, and we +ran over a child. Daphne, it was horrible! I thought it was dead. I took +it to the nearest hospital, and they were so good to me, the nurses—I +shall never forget! They let me stay there till the surgeons saw it, and +they came back to tell me it would live. After that I went to see it +every day, and by-and-bye I got to know such lots of darling little +children, and I have been to see them two or three times a week ever +since—that’s all.” + +“And the man?” said Daphne. + +“I could not give up the love of little, innocent children even for +him,” said Lilian softly. “I told him about it, and I asked him to go +away, and he did. He is married now to such a sweet, nice girl, and he +has little children of his own. I shall never have that,” said Lilian, +with the tears running down her cheeks; “only, all the little children +in the world seem mine, when I look at them!” + +“Ah! Lilian! Lilian!” said Daphne. When Lilian had gone Daphne sat alone +by the fire-light thinking of her friend’s story. It was so very +different from Katherine’s. She had been to see them off, Katherine and +Bert, and the docks at Southampton had looked like Paradise to them, a +station on the way to Heaven. Katherine had tyrannized over Bert to her +heart’s content and ended by always doing what he wished, and Bert, +pretending to be badly treated, had been so immensely proud, and they +started off for their new life across the sea in the absurdest and most +childish manner possible, as if the world had been a room full of hidden +Christmas presents, and they had just set out to find them all. Daphne +had been happy when she was with them, but now the world had grown cold +and grey. It was hard to go back to Overham. Rosamonde and Miss Smith +had taken a flat in town, she and Lilian had been to see them, and, as +far as they could see, all was going on well. It seemed as if, after +all, Arthur’s sacrifice had not been as useless as he thought. She had +no excuse for staying in town any longer, and yet she felt conscious +that she was going back, unsatisfied, unrested, uninclined even for her +boys and her club, and the sight of her uncle’s loving eyes. + +The door opened, and she started at the lapse of time. Lilian had come +back, and it was their last evening. + +“Oh! come and talk to me,” she said; “I want someone to talk to me!” The +words died on her lips, for it was not Lilian, but Reggie who stood at +the door. + +“I—I am awfully sorry,” he stammered, “but Mrs. Courtney told me to +come in; I met her at a squash somewhere, and she told me you were at +home——” + +“And that I would be delighted to see you, I suppose?” said Daphne +icily, but she sat down again. + +“No—no!” said Reggie. “_I_ told her—_that_, the other way round, you +know!” + +“You seem a little involved,” said Daphne coldly. There was an awkward +silence; Reggie watched her face with eager, unembarrassed eyes, and +Daphne, knowing that there was a change, became the more anxious not to +commit herself. + +“I say,” said Reggie at last, “it’s ages since I’ve seen you, isn’t it?” + +“I believe it is two months,” said Daphne; “I have not thought it long.” +Her manner plainly inferred that she would have liked it to be +indefinitely longer. Reggie’s eyes twinkled; she looked irresistible +when she was angry, the fire-light showed the gleam of her eyes—and the +impatient tapping of her foot. + +“That awfully nice friend of yours has gone and got married to that +American chap, hasn’t she?” he asked her cheerfully. + +“Yes,” said Daphne, and she seemed to think it a sufficient answer. + +“My mother is to be married,” he began in a graver tone, “to David +Grey.” + +“Oh, Reggie!” said Daphne quickly, “I’m so sorry!” Then she could have +bitten her tongue out at her indiscretion—Reggie moved into a chair +nearer her—she had forgotten he was so tall. + +“Thank you—dear,” he said. Daphne blushed, but she kept her face +steadily from him; she had made a false step, and she had to pay the +forfeit. The room was singularly quiet; in the street below the cries of +evening papers, and a belated muffin-bell came up to them quite clearly. +“Daphne,” Reggie said in quite a different tone, “I’m afraid you’ll +think me an awful cur for what I am going to tell you, but you’ll +listen, won’t you? You won’t be dreadfully angry till I’ve quite +finished?” + +“You’re very inconsistent in your use of my name,” she said, taking a +fire-shield from the mantelpiece. + +“Ah—listen,” he exclaimed impatiently—“and please promise?” There was +a queer little smile round Daphne’s lips, but it did not matter—she had +the fire-shield in position. + +“I don’t see quite what difference it makes,” she said, “but, of course, +I’ll promise you not to get angry _until_ you’re finished.” Reggie drew +a long breath. + +“It’s going to be horribly difficult to tell you,” he said. “Well, that +day I came over to fetch you back. Lady Middleton was there, and she +told me—she told me——” + +“What did she tell you?” cried Daphne, her eyes flashing. + +“Remember your promise,” he reminded her. “She told me—lies about you +and that surgeon chap.” + +“What were they?” asked Daphne. + +“I sha’n’t tell you,” said Reggie. + +“Oh—and you believed them?” she cried. + +“Yes, I believed them,” said Reggie. + +“And you dare to come here and tell me so?” + +“Yes, Daphne,” said Reggie, “I know they aren’t true, and—and I +couldn’t help coming.” He laid his hand over hers, and pleaded with her +with his eyes. Daphne sprang to her feet. + +“Oh! and you wish to flirt with me, do you?” she cried. “I can imagine +you would think me a fit subject! You ‘couldn’t help coming’—that was a +pretty way of putting it, Lord Cheston.” Then, as it came over her, +_who_ had failed her, that he had always been, even when she was angry +with him, the man she trusted and relied upon, she had hard work to +fight back her tears. “Oh, Reggie! Reggie!” she said, “I did think you +were a better sort of man! I know I’ve been horrid, and I’ve done lots +of wrong things, and I behaved dreadfully with Arthur! (Oh! not what +Vera told you, of course, though even that was more his doing than +mine!) But in spite of it all, I thought that you were my friend, that +you respected me—that I could trust you! Please go before I say what I +shall be sorry for—I will not think of this again. I will only remember +that you were kinder to me once!” + +“Look here, Daphne,” Reggie interrupted her, “I haven’t finished; +perhaps you will think this worse cheek than all the rest. But I can’t +help it; it’s better for you to know the truth than what you are +thinking now. I came here because I love you, because I have always +loved you. Long before you got engaged to David, and all that rot. I +didn’t tell you before, partly because it wouldn’t have been any use, +and partly because I didn’t want to marry you the—the way I thought you +_were_, you know. I think a woman owes it to her husband not to be a +flirt; that was why I jawed you so about it, d’you remember?” + +“Y—es, I remember,” said Daphne in a quieter voice. + +“And, oh, you took it beautifully,” he went on, “and I saw that you +weren’t really a flirt at all. You simply couldn’t help it. It was just +that you were so awfully fetching, you know. You don’t mind my saying +that, do you? because it’s what I really think, and I was coming to see +you at Overham, only I heard that you would be at Lady Middleton’s and +then—— Oh, Daphne, I haven’t hurt you, have I?” He moved towards her, +but she only shook her head. “I say—Daphne,” he exclaimed in amazement, +“you—you don’t care, do you?” + +“Of course not,” said Daphne; “why should I? Please go away, Reggie, +you’ve hurt me horribly. I—I don’t know how much you haven’t hurt me! +And you can’t possibly want to marry a woman who has been engaged +twice—and encouraged other men, and been a horrid little flirt. You +said I was a horrid little flirt yourself!” + +“Oh! I didn’t, Daphne,” he implored, “honour bright!” + +“And even if you do want to marry me, how—how do you know that I care +for you?” Daphne finished with a rush. + +“I don’t,” said Reggie, “but I’m here to find out.” + +“Then all I can say is,” said Daphne, with great asperity, “that if you +don’t know by now, I don’t think you ever _will_ find out—and I had +better tell you——” Reggie was quite close to her now; he took both her +hands. + +“Look here!” he said, “what are you marrying me for?” Daphne met his +eyes bravely, but her lips trembled a little. + +“Because I love you,” she said, “and for no other reason whatever.” He +bent his head and kissed her hands very gently and tenderly. “Reggie,” +she whispered, “I—I loved Arthur, too.” + +“Then he was a very lucky fellow,” said Reggie; “but I’m glad he’s +dead,” he added to himself, as Lilian opened the door. + +“My dear people,” said Lilian, “why on earth haven’t you rung for +light?” + +“Oh! I thought we—had,” said Daphne. Lilian looked at them and smiled. + + * * * * * + +“I really think,” said Mrs. Fordington, “that you might have remembered +about that penny reading-book, Daphne; now I shall have to send for it +and pay the postage. Still, of course, I am very glad to hear that you +are going to make a great marriage. I hope Lord Cheston is a good young +man, as well as a peer.” + +“I hope so, too,” said Daphne, as her aunt left the room. Then she +turned to her uncle. “I am trusting to my feelings,” she said with a +little smile. “Tell me, is it right?” Her uncle looked at her for a +moment or two before he answered: + +“I am inclined to think it is the best thing in the world,” he said at +last. “And ‘every good and every perfect gift cometh from above’; you +are awake now, I think, Daphne, so you will remember that!” + +“And understand?” said Daphne very softly. + +“And understand,” said her uncle. There came a silence between them, and +then her uncle, with his eyes turned, to a little picture of Dora, spoke +again. “You must let love go the whole way,” he said, “not stop at +Death, which is only one of the Station Houses of the Soul. Be very sure +that whatever comes to you of darkness or pain, nothing, either from +above or below, can take from you the knowledge that ‘The same goal is +still on the same track.’” + +“And that is immortality?” said Daphne. Her uncle did not answer her in +words; he looked out of the window over the autumn fields, now fast +losing their last touch of summer life. Then he smiled back at her. + +“We shall have the everlasting spring,” he said. + + THE END. + + + PRINTED BY KELLY’S DIRECTORIES LTD., LONDON AND KINGSTON. + + + + + TRANSCRIBER NOTES + +Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple +spellings occur, majority use has been employed. + +Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors +occur. + + [The end of _The Master Hope_ by Phyllis Bottome] + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79023 *** |