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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/21641-8.txt b/21641-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..70e8344 --- /dev/null +++ b/21641-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,15348 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of April's Lady, by Margaret Wolfe Hungerford + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: April's Lady + A Novel + +Author: Margaret Wolfe Hungerford + +Release Date: May 29, 2007 [EBook #21641] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK APRIL'S LADY *** + + + + +Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by the Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions +(www.canadiana.org)) + + + + + + + + + + APRIL'S LADY. + + A NOVEL. + + BY "THE DUCHESS" + +_Author of "Molly Bawn," "Phyllis," "Lady Branksmere," "Beauty's +Daughters," etc., etc._ + + + + +Montreal: +JOHN LOVELL & SON, +23 St. Nicholas Street. + + +Entered according to Act of Parliament in the year 1890, by John Lovell +& Son, in the office of the Minister of Agriculture and Statistics at +Ottawa. + + + + +APRIL'S LADY. + + "Must we part? or may I linger? + Wax the shadows, wanes the day." + Then, with voice of sweetest singer, + That hath all but died away, + "Go," she said, but tightened finger + Said articulately, "Stay!" + + + + +CHAPTER I. + + "Philosophy triumphs easily over past and over future evils, but + present evils triumph over philosophy." + + +"A letter from my father," says Mr. Monkton, flinging the letter in +question across the breakfast-table to his wife. + +"A letter from Sir George!" Her dark, pretty face flushes crimson. + +"And _such_ a letter after eight years of obstinate silence. There! read +it," says her husband, contemptuously. The contempt is all for the +writer of the letter. + +Mrs. Monkton taking it up, with a most honest curiosity, that might +almost be termed anxiety, reads it through, and in turn flings it from +her as though it had been a scorpion. + +"Never mind, Jack!" says she with a great assumption of indifference +that does not hide from her husband the fact that her eyes are full of +tears. "Butter that bit of toast for me before it is _quite_ cold, and +give Joyce some ham. Ham, darling? or an egg?" to Joyce, with a forced +smile that makes her charming face quite sad. + +"Have you two been married eight whole years?" asks Joyce laying her +elbows on the table, and staring at her sister with an astonished gaze. +"It seems like yesterday! What a swindler old Time is. To look at +Barbara, one would not believe she could have been _born_ eight years +ago." + +"Nonsense!" says Mrs. Monkton laughing, and looking as pleased as +married women--even the happiest--always do, when they are told they +look _un_married. "Why Tommy is seven years old." + +"Oh! That's nothing!" says Joyce airily, turning her dark eyes, that are +lovelier, if possible, than her sister's, upon the sturdy child who is +sitting at his father's right hand. "Tommy, we all know, is much older +than his mother. Much more advanced; more learned in the wisdom of +_this_ world; aren't you, Tommy?" + +But Tommy, at this present moment, is deaf to the charms of +conversation, his young mind being nobly bent on proving to his sister +(a priceless treasure of six) that the salt-cellar planted between them +belongs _not_ to her, but to him! This sounds reasonable, but the +difficulty lies in making Mabel believe it. There comes the pause +eloquent at last, and then, I regret to say, the free fight! + +It might perhaps have been even freer, but for the swift intervention of +the paternal relative, who, swooping down upon the two belligerents with +a promptitude worthy of all praise, seizes upon his daughter, and in +spite of her kicks, which are noble, removes her to the seat on his left +hand. + +Thus separated hope springs within the breasts of the lookers-on that +peace may soon be restored; and indeed, after a sob or two from Mabel, +and a few passes of the most reprehensible sort from Tommy (entirely of +the facial order), a great calm falls upon the breakfast-room. + +"When I was your age, Tommy," says Mr. Monkton addressing his son, and +striving to be all that the orthodox parent ought to be, "I should have +been soundly whipped if I had behaved to my sister as you have just now +behaved to yours!" + +"You _haven't_ a sister," says Tommy, after which the argument falls +flat. It is true, Mr. Monkton is innocent of a sister, but how did the +little demon remember that so _apropos_. + +"Nevertheless," said Mr. Monkton, "if I _had_ had a sister, I _know_ I +should not have been unkind to her." + +"Then she'd have been unkind to you," says Tommy, who is evidently not +afraid to enter upon a discussion of the rights and wrongs of mankind +with his paternal relative. "Look at Mabel! And I don't care _what_ she +says," with a vindictive glance at the angelic featured Mabel, who +glares back at him with infinite promise of a future settlement of all +their disputes in her ethereal eyes. "'Twas _my_ salt-cellar, not hers!" + +"Ladies first--pleasure afterwards," says his father somewhat idly. + +"Oh _Freddy_!" says his wife. + +"Seditious language _I_ call it," says Jocelyne with a laugh. + +"Eh?" says Mr. Monkton. "Why what on earth have I been saying now. I +quite believed I was doing the heavy father to perfection and teaching +Tommy his duty." + +"Nice duty," says Jocelyne, with a pretence of indignation, that makes +her charming face a perfect picture. "Teaching him to regard us as +second best! I like that." + +"Good heavens! did I give that impression? I must have swooned," says +Mr. Monkton penitently. "When last in my senses I thought I had been +telling Tommy that he deserved a good whipping; and that if good old +Time could so manage as to make me my own father, he would assuredly +have got it." + +"Oh! _your_ father!" says Mrs. Monkton in a low tone; there is enough +expression in it, however, to convey the idea to everyone present that +in her opinion her husband's father would be guilty of any atrocity at a +moment's notice. + +"Well, _'twas_ my salt-cellar," says Tommy again stoutly, and as if +totally undismayed by the vision of the grand-fatherly scourge held out +to him. After all we none of us feel things much, unless they come +personally home to us. + +"Was it?" says Mr. Monkton mildly. "Do you know, I really quite fancied +it was mine." + +"What?" says Tommy, cocking his ear. He, like his sister, is in a +certain sense a fraud. For Tommy has the face of a seraph with the heart +of a hardy Norseman. There is nothing indeed that Tommy would not dare. + +"Mine, you know," says his father, even more mildly still. + +"No, it wasn't," says Tommy with decision, "it was at _my_ side of the +table. _Yours_ is over there." + +"Thomas!" says his father, with a rueful shake of the head that +signifies his resignation of the argument; "it is indeed a pity that I +am _not_ like my father!" + +"Like him! Oh _no_," says Mrs. Monkton emphatically, impulsively; the +latent dislike to the family who had refused to recognize her on her +marriage with their son taking fire at this speech. + +Her voice sounds almost hard--the gentle voice, that in truth was only +meant by Mother Nature to give expression to all things kind and loving. + +She has leant a little forward and a swift flush is dyeing her cheek. +She is of all women the youngest looking, for her years; as a matron +indeed she seems absurd. The delicate bloom of girlhood seems never to +have left her, but--as though in love of her beauty--has clung to her +day by day. So that now, when she has known eight years of married life +(and some of them deeply tinctured with care--the cruel care that want +of money brings), she still looks as though the morning of womanhood was +as yet but dawning for her. + +And this is because love the beautifier went with her all the way! Hand +in hand he has traveled with her on the stony paths that those who marry +must undoubtedly pursue. Never once had he let go his hold, and so it +is, that her lovely face has defied Time (though after all that +obnoxious Ancient has not had yet much opportunity given him to spoil +it), and at twenty-five she looks but a little older than her sister, +who is just eighteen, and seven years younger than she is. + +Her pretty soft grey Irish eyes, that are as nearly _not_ black as it is +possible for them to be, are still filled with the dews of youth. Her +mouth is red and happy. Her hair--so distinctly chestnut as to be almost +guilty of a shade of red in it here and there--covers her dainty head in +rippling masses, that fall lightly forward, and rest upon a brow, +snow-white, and low and broad as any Greek's might be. + +She had spoken a little hurriedly, with some touch of anger. But quick +as the anger was born, so quickly does it die. + +"I shouldn't have said that, perhaps," says she, sending a little +tremulous glance at her husband from behind the urn. "But I couldn't +help it. I can't _bear_ to hear you say you would like to be like him." + +She smiles (a little, gentle, "don't-be-angry-with-me" smile, scarcely +to be resisted by any man, and certainly not by her husband, who adores +her). It is scarcely necessary to record this last fact, as all who run +may read it for themselves, but it saves time to put it in black and +white. + +"But why not, my dear?" says Mr. Monkton, magisterially. "Surely, +considering all things, you have reason to be deeply grateful to Sir +George. Why, then, abuse him?" + +"Grateful! To Sir George! To your father!" cries his wife, hotly and +quick, and---- + +"Freddy!" from his sister-in-law brings him to a full stop for a moment. + +"Do you mean to tell me," says he, thus brought to bay, "that you have +nothing to thank Sir George for?" He is addressing his wife. + +"Nothing, nothing!" declares she, vehemently, the remembrance of that +last letter from her husband's father, that still lies within reach of +her view, lending a suspicion of passion to her voice. + +"Oh, my dear girl, _consider_!" says Mr. Monkton, lively reproach in his +tone. "Has he not given you _me_, the best husband in Europe?" + +"Ah, what it is to be modest," says Joyce, with her little quick +brilliant laugh. + +"Well, it's not true," says Mrs. Monkton, who has laughed also, in spite +of herself and the soreness at her heart. "He did _not_ give you to me. +You made me that gift of your own free will. I have, as I said before, +nothing to thank him for." + +"I always think he must be a silly old man," says Joyce, which seems to +put a fitting termination to the conversation. + +The silence that ensues annoys Tommy, who dearly loves to hear the human +voice divine. As expressed by himself first, but if that be +impracticable, well, then by somebody else. _Anything_ is better than +dull silence. + +"Is he that?" asks he, eagerly, of his aunt. + +Though I speak of her as his aunt, I hope it will not be misunderstood +for a moment that Tommy totally declines to regard her in any +reverential light whatsoever. A playmate, a close friend, a confidante, +a useful sort of person, if you will, but certainly not an _aunt_, in +the general acceptation of that term. From the very first year that +speech fell on them, both Mabel and he had refused to regard Miss +Kavanagh as anything but a confederate in all their scrapes, a friend to +rejoice with in all their triumphs; she had never been aunt, never, +indeed, even so much as the milder "auntie" to them; she had been +"Joyce," only, from the very commencement of their acquaintance. The +united commands of both father and mother (feebly enforced) had been +insufficient to compel them to address this most charming specimen of +girlhood by any grown up title. To them their aunt was just such an one +as themselves--only, perhaps, a little _more_ so. + +A lovely creature, at all events, and lovable as lovely. A little +inconsequent, perhaps at times, but always amenable to reason, when put +into a corner, and full of the glad, laughter of youth. + +"Is he what?" says she, now returning Tommy's eager gaze. + +"The best husband in Europe. He _says_ he's that," with a doubtful stare +at his father. + +"Why, the _very_ best, of course," says Joyce, nodding emphatically. +"Always remember that, Tommy. It's a good thing to _be_, you know. +_You'll_ want to be that, won't you?" + +But if she has hoped to make a successful appeal to Tommy's noble +qualities (hitherto, it must be confessed, carefully kept hidden), she +finds herself greatly mistaken. + +"No, I won't," says that truculent person distinctly. "I want to be a +big general with a cocked hat, and to kill people. I don't want to be a +husband _at all_. What's the good of that?" + +"To pursue the object would be to court defeat," says Mr. Monkton +meekly. He rises from the table, and, seeing him move, his wife rises +too. + +"You are going to your study?" asks she, a little anxiously. He is about +to say "no" to this, but a glance at her face checks him. + +"Yes, come with me," says he instead, answering the lovely silent appeal +in her eyes. That letter has no doubt distressed her. She will be +happier when she has talked it over with him--they two alone. "As for +you, Thomas," says his father, "I'm quite aware that you ought to be +consigned to the Donjon keep after your late behavior, but as we don't +keep one on the premises, I let you off this time. Meanwhile I haste to +my study to pen, with the assistance of your enraged mother, a letter to +our landlord that will induce him to add one on at once to this +building. After which we shall be able to incarcerate you at our +pleasure (but _not_ at yours) on any and every hour of the day." + +"Who's Don John?" asks Tommy, totally unimpressed, but filled with +lively memories of those Spaniards and other foreign powers who have +unkindly made more difficult his hateful lessons off and on. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + "No love lost between us." + + +"Well," says Mr. Monkton, turning to his wife as the study (a rather +nondescript place) is reached. He has closed the door, and is now +looking at her with a distinctly quizzical light in his eyes and in the +smile that parts his lips. "Now for it. Have no qualms. I've been +preparing myself all through breakfast and I think I shall survive it. +You are going to have it out with me, aren't you?" + +"Not with _you_," says she, returning his smile indeed, but faintly, and +without heart, "that horrid letter! I felt I _must_ talk of it to +someone, and----" + +"_I_ was that mythical person. I quite understand. I take it as a +special compliment." + +"I know it is hard on you, but when I am really vexed about anything, +you know, I always want to tell you about it." + +"I should feel it a great deal harder if you _didn't_ want to tell me +about it," says he. He has come nearer to her and has pressed her into a +chair--a dilapidated affair that if ever it _had_ a best day has +forgotten it by now--and yet for all that is full of comfort. "I am only +sorry"--moving away again and leaning against the chimney piece--"that +you should be so foolish as to let my father's absurd prejudices annoy +you at this time of day." + +"He will always have it in his power to annoy me," says she quickly. +"That perhaps," with a little burst of feeling, "is why I can't forgive +him. If I could forget, or grow indifferent to it all, I should not have +this _hurt_ feeling in my heart. But he is your father, and though he is +the most unjust, the cruellest man on earth, I still hate to think he +should regard me as he does." + +"There is one thing, however, you do forget," says Mr. Monkton gravely. +"I don't want to apologize for him, but I would remind you that he has +never seen you." + +"That's only an aggravation of his offence," her color heightening; "the +very fact that he should condemn me unseen, unheard, adds to the wrong +he has done me instead of taking from it." She rises abruptly and begins +to pace up and down the room, the hot Irish blood in her veins afire. +"No"--with a little impatient gesture of her small hand--"I _can't_ sit +still. Every pulse seems throbbing. He has opened up all the old wounds, +and----" She pauses and then turns upon her husband two lovely flashing +eyes. "Why, _why_ should he suppose that I am vulgar, lowly born, unfit +to be your wife?" + +"My darling girl, what can it matter what he thinks? A ridiculous +headstrong old man in one scale, and----" + +"But it does matter. I want to _convince_ him that I am not--not--what +he believes me to be." + +"Then come over to England and see him." + +"No--never! I shall never go to England. I shall stay in Ireland always. +My own land; the land whose people he detests because he knows nothing +about them. It was one of his chief objections to your marriage with me, +that I was an Irish girl!" + +She stops short, as though her wrath and indignation and contempt is too +much for her. + +"Barbara," says Monkton, very gently, but with a certain reproach, "do +you know you almost make me think that you regret our marriage." + +"No, I don't," quickly. "If I talked for ever I shouldn't be able to +make you think _that_. But----" She turns to him suddenly, and gazes at +him through large eyes that are heavy with tears. "I shall always be +sorry for one thing, and that is--that you first met me where you did." + +"At your aunt's? Mrs. Burke's?" + +"She is _not_ my aunt," with a little frown of distaste; "she is nothing +to me so far as blood is concerned. Oh! Freddy." She stops close to him, +and gives him a grief-stricken glance. "I wish my poor father had been +alive when first you saw me. That we could have met for the first time +in the old home. It was shabby--faded"--her face paling now with intense +emotion. "But you would have known at once that it _had been_ a fine old +place, and that the owner of it----" She breaks down, very slightly, +almost imperceptibly, but Monkton understands that even one more word is +beyond her. + +"That the owner of it, like St. Patrick, came of decent people," quotes +he with an assumption of gaiety he is far from feeling. "My good child, +I don't want to see _anyone_ to know that of you. You carry the sign +manual. It is written in large characters all over you." + +"Yet I wish you had known me before my father died," says she, her grief +and pride still unassuaged. "He was so unlike anybody else. His manners +were so lovely. He was offered a baronetcy at the end of that Whiteboy +business on account of his loyalty--that nearly cost him his life--but +he refused it, thinking the old name good enough without a handle to +it." + +"Kavanagh, we all know, is a good name." + +"If he had accepted that title he would have been as--the same--as your +father!" There is defiance in this sentence. + +"_Quite_ the same!" + +"No, no, he would not," her defiance now changes into, sorrowful +honesty. "Your father has been a baronet for _centuries_, my father +would have only been a baronet for a few years." + +"For centuries!" repeats Mr. Monkton with an alarmed air. There is a +latent sense of humor (or rather an appreciation of humor) about him +that hardly endears him to the opposite sex. His wife, being Irish, +condones it, because she happens to understand it, but there are +moments, we all know, when even the very best and most appreciative +women refuse to understand _anything_. This is one of them. "Condemn my +father if you will," says Mr. Monkton, "accuse him of all the crimes in +the calendar, but for _my_ sake give up the belief that he is the real +and original Wandering Jew. Debrett--Burke--either of those immaculate +people will prove to you that my father ascended his throne in----" + +"You can laugh at me if you like, Freddy," says Mrs. Monkton with +severity tempered with dignity; "but if you laughed until this day month +you couldn't make me forget the things that make me unhappy." + +"I don't want to," says Mr. Monkton, still disgracefully frivolous. +"_I'm_ one of the things, and yet----" + +"Don't!" says his wife, so abruptly, and with such an evident +determination to give way to mirth, coupled with an equally strong +determination to give way to tears, that he at once lays down his arms. + +"Go on then," says he, seating himself beside her. She is not in the +arm-chair now, but on an ancient and respectable sofa that gives ample +room for the accommodation of two; a luxury denied by that old +curmudgeon the arm-chair. + +"Well, it is this, Freddy. When I think of that dreadful old woman, Mrs. +Burke, I feel as though you thought she was a fair sample of the rest of +my family. But she is _not_ a sample, she has nothing to do with us. An +uncle of my mother married her because she was rich, and there her +relationship to us began and ended." + +"Still----" + +"Yes, I know, you needn't remind me, it seems burnt into my brain, I +know she took us in after my father's death, and covered me and Joyce +with benefits when we hadn't a penny in the world we could call our own. +I quite understand, indeed, that we should have starved but for her, and +yet--yet--" passionately, "I cannot forgive her for perpetually +reminding us that we had _not_ that penny!" + +"It must have been a bad time," says Monkton slowly. He takes her hand +and smoothes it lovingly between both of his. + +"She was vulgar. That was not her fault; I forgive her that. What I +can't forgive her, is the fact that you should have met me in her +house." + +"A little unfair, isn't it?" + +"Is it? You will always now associate me with her!" + +"I shan't indeed. Do you think I have up to this? Nonsense! A more +absurd amalgamation I couldn't fancy." + +"She was not one of us," feverishly. "I have never spoken to you about +this, Freddy, since that first letter your father wrote to you just +after our marriage. You remember it? And then, I couldn't explain +somehow--but now--this last letter has upset me dreadfully; I feel as if +it was all different, and that it was my duty to make you aware of the +_real_ truth. Sir George thinks of me as one beneath him; that is not +true. He may have heard that I lived with Mrs. Burke, and that she was +my aunt; but if my mother's brother chose to marry a woman of no family +because she had money,"--contemptuously, "that might disgrace _him_, but +would not make her kin to _us_. You saw her, you--" lifting distressed +eyes to his--"you thought her dreadful, didn't you?" + +"I have only had one thought about her. That she was good to you in your +trouble, and that but for her I should never have met you." + +"That is like you," says she gratefully, yet impatiently. "But it isn't +enough. I want you to understand that she is quite unlike my own _real_ +people--my father, who was like a prince," throwing up her head, "and my +uncle, his brother." + +"You have an uncle, then?" with some surprise. + +"Oh no, _had_," sadly. + +"He is dead then?" + +"Yes. I suppose so. You are wondering," says she quickly, "that I have +never spoken to you of him or my father before. But I _could_ not. The +thought that your family objected to me, despised me, seemed to compel +me to silence. And you--you asked me very little." + +"How could I, Barbara? Any attempt I made was repulsed. I thought it +kinder to----" + +"Yes--I was wrong. I see it now. But I couldn't bear to explain myself. +I told you what I could about my father, and that seemed to me +sufficient. Your people's determination to regard me as impossible tied +my tongue." + +"I don't believe it was that," says he laughing. "I believe we were so +happy that we didn't care to discuss anything but each other. Delightful +subjects full of infinite variety! We have sat so lightly to the world +all these years, that if my father's letter had not come this morning I +honestly think we should never have thought about him again." + +This is scarcely true, but he is bent on giving her mind a happier turn +if possible. + +"What's the good of talking to me like that, Freddy," says she +reproachfully. "You know one never forgets anything of that sort. A +slight I mean; and from one's own family. You are always thinking of it; +you know you are." + +"Well, not always, my dear, certainly--" says Mr. Monkton temporizing. +"And if even I _do_ give way to retrospection, it is to feel indignant +with both my parents." + +"Yes; and I don't want you to feel like that. It must be dreadful, and +it is my fault. When I think how I felt towards my dear old dad, and my +uncle--I----" + +"Well, never mind that. I've got you, and without meaning any gross +flattery, I consider you worth a dozen dads. Tell me about your uncle. +He died?" + +"We don't know. He went abroad fifteen years ago. He must be dead I +think, because if he were alive he would certainly have written to us. +He was very fond of Joyce and me; but no letter from him has reached us +for years. He was charming. I wish you could have known him." + +"So do I--if you wish it. But--" coming over and sitting down beside +her, "don't you think it is a little absurd, Barbara, after all these +years, to think it necessary to tell me that you have good blood in your +veins? Is it not a self-evident fact; and--one more word dearest--surely +you might do me the credit to understand that I could never have fallen +in love with anyone who hadn't an ancestor or two." + +"And yet your father----" + +"I know," rising to his feet, his brow darkening. "Do you think I don't +suffer doubly on your account? That I don't feel the insolence of his +behavior toward you _four-fold_? There is but one excuse for him and my +mother, and that lies in their terrible disappointment about my +brother--their eldest son." + +"I know; you have told me," begins she quickly, but he interrupts her. + +"Yes, I have been more open with you than you with me. _I_ feel no pride +where you are concerned. Of course my brother's conduct towards them is +no excuse for their conduct towards you, but when one has a sore heart +one is apt to be unjust, and many other things. You know what a +heart-break he has been to the old people, _and is_! A gambler, a +dishonorable gambler!" He turns away from her, and his nostrils dilate a +little; his right hand grows clenched. "Every spare penny they possess +has been paid over to him of his creditors, and they are not +over-burdened with riches. They had set their hearts on him, and all +their hopes, and when he failed them they fell back on me. The name is +an old one; money was wanted. They had arranged a marriage for me, that +would have been worldly wise. I _too_ disappointed them!" + +"Oh!" she has sprung to her feet, and is staring at him with horrified +eyes. "A marriage! There was someone else! You accuse me of want of +candor, and now, you--did you ever mention this before?" + +"Now, Barbara, don't be the baby your name implies," says he, placing +her firmly back in her seat. "I _didn't_ marry that heiress, you know, +which is proof positive that I loved you, not her." + +"But she--she--" she stammers and ceases suddenly, looking at him with a +glance full of question. Womanlike, everything has given way to the +awful thought, that this unknown had not been unknown to him, and that +perhaps he had admired--loved---- + +"Couldn't hold a candle to you," says he, laughing in spite of himself +at her expression which, indeed, is nearly tragic. "You needn't +suffocate yourself with charcoal because of her. She had made her pile, +or rather her father had, at Birmingham or elsewhere, I never took the +trouble to inquire, and she was undoubtedly solid in _every way_, but I +don't care for the female giant, and so I--you know the rest, I met +_you_; I tell you this only to soften your heart, if possible, towards +these lonely, embittered old people of mine." + +"Do you mean that when your brother disappointed them that they----" she +pauses. + +"No. They couldn't make me their heir. The property is strictly entailed +(what is left of it); you need not make yourself miserable imagining you +have done me out of anything more than their good-will. George will +inherit whatever he has left them to leave." + +"It is sad," says she, with downcast eyes. + +"Yes. He has been a constant source of annoyance to them ever since he +left Eton." + +"Where is he now?" + +"Abroad, I believe. In Italy, somewhere, or France--not far from a +gaming table, you may be sure. But I know nothing very exactly, as he +does not correspond with me, and that letter of this morning is the +first I have received from my father for four years." + +"He must, indeed, hate me," says she, in a low tone. "His elder son such +a failure, and you--he considers you a failure, too." + +"Well, _I_ don't consider myself so," says he, gaily. + +"They were in want of money, and you--you married a girl without a +penny." + +"I married a girl who was in herself a mine of gold," returns he, laying +his hands on her shoulders and giving her a little shake. "Come, never +mind that letter, darling; what does it matter when all is said and +done?" + +"The first after all these years; and the, _last_--you remember it? It +was terrible. Am I unreasonable if I remember it?" + +"It was a cruel letter," says he slowly; "to forget it would be +impossible, either for you or me. But, as I said just now, how does it +affect us? You have me, and I have you; and they, those foolish old +people, they have----" He pauses abruptly, and then goes on in a changed +tone, "their memories." + +"Oh! and sad ones!" cries she, sharply, as if hurt. "It is a terrible +picture you have conjured up. You and I so happy, and they--Oh! _poor_ +old people!" + +"They have wronged you--slighted you--ill-treated you," says he, looking +at her. + +"But they are unhappy; they must be wretched always about your brother, +their _first_ child. Oh! what a grief is theirs!" + +"What a heart is _yours_!" says he, drawing her to him. "Barbara! surely +I shall not die until they have met you, and learned why I love you." + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + "It was a lover and his lass + With a hey and a ho, and a hey-nonino! + That o'er the green cornfield did pass + In the Spring-time, the only pretty ring-time, + When birds do sing hey-ding-a-ding, + Sweet lovers love the Spring." + + +Joyce is running through the garden, all the sweet wild winds of heaven +playing round her. They are a little wild still. It is the end of lovely +May, but though languid Summer is almost with us, a suspicion of her +more sparkling sister Spring fills all the air. + +Miss Kavanagh has caught up the tail of her gown, and is flying as if +for dear life. Behind her come the foe, fast and furious. Tommy, indeed, +is now dangerously close at her heels, armed with a ferocious-looking +garden fork, his face crimson, his eyes glowing with the ardor of the +chase; Mabel, much in the background, is making a bad third. + +Miss Kavanagh is growing distinctly out of breath. In another moment +Tommy will have her. By this time he has fully worked himself into the +belief that he is a Red Indian, and she his lawful prey, and is prepared +to make a tomahawk of his fork, and having felled her, to scalp her +_somehow_, when Providence shows her a corner round a rhododendron bush +that may save her for the moment. She makes for it, gains it, turns it, +dashes round it, and _all but_ precipitates herself into the arms of a +young man who has been walking leisurely towards her. + +He is a tall young man, not strictly handsome, but decidedly good to +look at, with honest hazel eyes, and a shapely head, and altogether very +well set up. As a rule he is one of the most cheerful people alive, and +a tremendous favorite in his regiment, the ---- Hussars, though just now +it might suggest itself to the intelligent observer that he considers he +has been hardly used. A very little more haste, and that precipitation +_must_ have taken place. He had made an instinctive movement towards her +with protective arms outstretched; but though a little cry had escaped +her, she had maintained her balance, and now stands looking at him with +laughing eyes, and panting breath, and two pretty hands pressed against +her bosom. + +Mr. Dysart lets his disappointed arms fall to his sides, and assumes the +aggrieved air of one who has been done out of a good thing. + +"You!" says she, when at last she can speak. + +"I suppose so," returns he discontentedly. He might just as well have +been anyone else, or anywhere else--such a chance--and _gone_! + +"Never were you so welcome!" cries she, dodging behind him as Tommy, +fully armed, and all alive, comes tearing round the corner. "Ah, ha, +Tommy, _sold_! I've got a champion now. I'm no longer shivering in my +shoes. Mr. Dysart will protect me--_won't_ you, Mr. Dysart?" to the +young man, who says "yes" without stirring a muscle. The heaviest bribe +would not have induced him to move, because, standing behind him, she +has laid her dainty fingers on his shoulders, from which safe position +she mocks at Tommy with security. Were the owners of the shoulders to +stir, the owners of the fingers might remove the delightful members. +Need it be said that, with this awful possibility before him, Mr. Dysart +is prepared to die at his post rather than budge an inch. + +And, indeed, death seems imminent. Tommy charging round the +rhododendron, finding himself robbed of his expected scalp, grows +frantic, and makes desperate passes at Mr. Dysart's legs, which that +hero, being determined, as I have said, not to stir under any +provocation, circumvents with a considerable display of policy, such as: + +"I say, Tommy, old boy, is that you? How d'ye do? Glad to see me, aren't +you?" This last very artfully with a view to softening the attacks. "You +don't know what I've brought you!" This is more artful still, and +distinctly a swindle, as he has brought him nothing, but on the spot he +determines to redeem himself with the help of the small toy-shops and +sweety shops down in the village. "Put down that fork like a good boy, +and let me tell you how----" + +"Oh, _bother_ you!" says Tommy, indignantly. "I'd have had her only for +you! What brought you here now? Couldn't you have waited a bit?" + +"Yes! what brought you?" says Miss Kavanagh, most disgracefully going +over to the other side, now that danger is at an end, and Tommy has +planted his impromptu tomahawk in a bed close by. + +"Do you want to know?" says he quickly. + +The fingers have been removed from his shoulders, and he is now at +liberty to turn round and look at the charming face beside him. + +"No, no!" says she, shaking her head. "I've been rude, I suppose. But it +is such a wonderful thing to see you here so soon again." + +"Why should I not be here?" + +"Of course! That is the one unanswerable question. But you must confess +it is puzzling to those who thought of you as being elsewhere." + +"If you are one of 'those' you fill me with gratitude. That you should +think of me even for a moment----" + +"Well, I haven't been thinking much," says she, frankly, and with the +most delightful if scarcely satisfactory little smile: "I don't believe +I was thinking of you at all, until I turned the corner just now, and +then, I confess, I was startled, because I believed you at the +Antipodes." + +"Perhaps your belief was mother to your thought." + +"Oh, no. Don't make me out so nasty. Well, but _were_ you there?" + +"Perhaps so. Where are they?" asks he gloomily. "One hears a good deal +about them, but they comprise so many places that now-a-days one is +hardly sure where they exactly lie. At all events no one has made them +clear to me." + +"Does it rest with me to enlighten you?" asks she, with a little +aggravating half glance from under her long lashes; "well--the North +Pole, Kamtschatka, Smyrna, Timbuctoo, Maoriland, Margate----" + +"We'll stop there, I think," says he, with a faint grimace. + +"There! At Margate? No, thanks. _You_ can, if you like, but as for +me----" + +"I don't suppose you would stop anywhere with me," says he. "I have +occasional glimmerings that I hope mean common sense. No, I have not +been so adventurous as to wander towards Margate. I have only been to +town and back again." + +"What town?" + +"Eh? What town?" says he astonished. "_London_, you know." + +"No, I don't know," says Miss Kavanagh, a little petulantly. "One would +think there was only one town in the world, and that all you English +people had the monopoly of it. There are other towns, I suppose. Even we +poor Irish insignificants have a town or two. Dublin comes under that +head, I suppose?" + +"Undoubtedly. Of _course_," making great haste to abase himself. "It is +mere snobbery our making so much of London. A kind of despicable cant, +you know." + +"Well, after all, I expect it is a big place in every way," says Miss +Kavanagh, so far mollified by his submission as to be able to allow him +something. + +"It's a desert," says Tommy, turning to his aunt, with all the air of +one who is about to impart to her useful information. "It's raging with +wild beasts. They roam to and fro and are at their wits' ends----" here +Tommy, who is great on Bible history, but who occasionally gets mixed, +stops short. "Father says they're there," he winds up defiantly. + +"Wild beasts!" echoes Mr. Dysart, bewildered. "Is _this_ the teaching +about their Saxon neighbors that the Irish children receive at the hands +of their parents and guardians. Oh, well, come now, Tommy, really, you +know----" + +"Yes; they are there," says Tommy, rebelliously. "_Frightful_ beasts! +_Bears!_ They'd tear you in bits if they could get at you. They have no +reason in them, father says. And they climb up posts, and roar at +people." + +"Oh, nonsense!" says Mr. Dysart. "One would think we were having a +French Revolution all over again in England. Don't you think," glancing +severely at Joyce, who is giving way to unrestrained mirth, "that it is +not only wrong, but dangerous, to implant such ideas about the English +in the breasts of Irish children? There isn't a word of truth in it, +Tommy." + +"There _is_!" says Monkton, junior, wagging his head indignantly. +"Father _told_ me." + +"Father told us," repeats the small Mabel, who has just come up. + +"And father says, too, that the reason that they are so wicked is +because they want their freedom!" says Tommy, as though this is an +unanswerable argument. + +"Oh, I see! The socialists!" says Mr. Dysart. "Yes; a troublesome pack! +But still, to call them wild beasts----" + +"They _are_ wild beasts," says Tommy, prepared to defend his position to +the last. "They've got _manes_, and _horns_, and _tails_!" + +"He's romancing," says Mr. Dysart looking at Joyce. + +"He's not," says she demurely. "He is only trying to describe to you the +Zoological Gardens. His father gives him a graphic description of them +every evening, and--the result you see." + +Here both she and he, after a glance at each other, burst out laughing. + +"No wonder you were amused," says he, "but you might have given me a +hint. You were unkind to me--as usual." + +"Now that you have been to London," says she, a little hurriedly, as if +to cover his last words and pretend she hasn't heard them, "you will +find our poor Ireland duller than ever. At Christmas it is not so bad, +but just _now_, and in the height of your season, too,----" + +"Do you call this place dull?" interrupts he. "Then let me tell you you +misjudge your native land; this little bit of it, at all events. I think +it not only the loveliest, but the liveliest place on earth." + +"You are easily pleased," says she, with a rather embarrassed smile. + +"He isn't!" says Tommy, breaking into the conversation with great +aplomb. He has been holding on vigorously to Mr. Dysart's right hand for +the last five minutes, after a brief but brilliant skirmish with Mabel +as to the possession of it--a skirmish brought to a bloodless conclusion +by the surrender, on Mr. Dysart's part, of his left hand to the weaker +belligerent. "He hates Miss Maliphant, nurse says, though Lady Baltimore +wants him to marry her, and she's a fine girl, nurse says, an' raal +smart, and with the gift o' the gab, an' lots o' tin----" + +"_Tommy!_" says his aunt frantically. It is indeed plain to everybody +that Tommy is now quoting nurse, _au naturel_, and that he is betraying +confidences in a perfectly reckless manner. + +"Don't stop him," says Mr. Dysart, glancing at Joyce's crimson cheeks +with something of disfavor. "'What's Hecuba to me, or I to Hecuba?' I +_defy_ you," a little stormily, "to think I care a farthing for Miss +Maliphant or for any other woman on earth--_save one_!" + +"Oh, you mustn't press your confidences on me," says she, smiling and +dissembling rather finely; "I know nothing. I accuse you of nothing. +Only, Tommy, you were a little rude, weren't you?" + +"I wasn't," says Tommy, promptly, in whom the inborn instinct of +self-defence has been largely developed. "It's true. Nurse says she has +a voice like a cow. Is _that_ true?" turning, unabashed to Dysart. + +"She's expected at the Castle, next week. You shall come up and judge +for yourself," says he, laughing. "And," turning to Joyce, "you will +come, too, I hope." + +"It is manners to wait to be asked," returns she, smiling. + +"Oh, as for that," says he, "Lady Baltimore crossed last night with me +and her husband. And here is a letter for you." He pulls a note of the +cocked hat order out of one of his pockets. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + "Tell me where is fancy bred, + Or in the heart, or in the head? + How begot, how nourished? + Reply, reply." + + +"An invitation from Lady Baltimore," says Joyce, looking at the big red +crest, and coloring slightly. + +"Yes." + +"How do you know?" asks she, rather suspiciously. + +The young man raises his hands and eyes. + +"I _swear_ I had nothing to do with it," says he, "I didn't so much as +hint at it. Lady Baltimore spent her time crossing the Channel in +declaring to all who were well enough to hear her, that she lived only +in the expectation of soon seeing you again." + +"Nonsense!" scornfully; "it is only a month ago since I was staying +there, just before they went to London. By the bye, what brings them +home now? In the very beginning of their season?" + +"_I_ don't know. And it is as well not to inquire perhaps. Baltimore and +my cousin, as all the world knows, have not hit it off together. Yet +when Isabel married him, we all thought it was quite an ideal marriage, +they were so much in love with each other." + +"Hot love soon cools," says Miss Kavanagh in a general sort of way. + +"I don't believe it," sturdily, "if it's the right sort of love. +However, to go back to your letter--which you haven't even deigned to +open--you _will_ accept the invitation, won't you?" + +"I don't know," hesitating. + +"Oh! I say, _do_ come! It is only for a week, and even if it does bore +you, still, as a Christian, you ought to consider how much, even in that +short time, you will be able to add to the happiness of your fellow +creatures." + +"Flattery means insincerity," says she, tilting her chin, "keep all that +sort of thing for your Miss Maliphant; it is thrown away upon me." + +"_My_ Miss Maliphant! Really I must protest against your accrediting me +with such a possession. But look here, _don't_ disappoint us all; and +you won't be dull either, there are lots of people coming. Dicky Brown, +for one." + +"Oh! will he be there?" brightening visibly. + +"Yes," rather gloomily, and perhaps a little sorry that he has said +anything about Mr. Browne's possible arrival--though to feel jealousy +about that social butterfly is indeed to sound the depths of folly; "you +like him?" + +"I _love_ him," says Miss Kavanagh promptly and with sufficient +enthusiasm to restore hope in the bosom of any man except a lover. + +"He is blessed indeed," says he stiffly. "Beyond his deserts I can't +help thinking. I really think he is the biggest fool I ever met." + +"Oh! not the biggest, surely," says she, so saucily, and with such a +reprehensible tendency towards laughter, that he gives way and laughs +too, though unwillingly. + +"True. I'm a bigger," says he, "but as that is _your_ fault, you should +be the last to taunt me with it." + +"Foolish people always talk folly," says she with an assumption of +indifference that does not hide her red cheeks. "Well, go on, who is to +be at the Court besides Dicky?" + +"Lady Swansdown." + +"I like her too." + +"But not so well as you like Dicky, _you_ love him according to your own +statement." + +"Don't be matter-of-fact!" says Miss Kavanagh, giving him a +well-deserved snub. "Do you always say exactly what you mean?" + +"Always--to _you_." + +"I daresay you would be more interesting if you didn't," says she, with +a little, lovely smile, that quite spoils the harshness of her words. Of +her few faults, perhaps the greatest is, that she seldom knows her own +mind, where her lovers are concerned, and will blow hot and cold, and +merry and sad, and cheerful, and petulant all in one breath as it were. +Poor lovers! they have a hard time of it with her as a rule. But youth +is often so, and the cold, still years, as they creep on us, with dull +common sense and deadly reason in their train, cure us all too soon of +our pretty idle follies. + +Just now she was bent on rebuffing him, but you see her strength failed +her, and she spoiled her effect by the smile she mingled with the +rebuff. The smile indeed was so charming that he remembers nothing but +it, and so she not only gains nothing, but loses something to the other +side. + +"Well, I'll try to mend all that," says he, but so lovingly, and with +such unaffected tenderness, that she quails beneath his glance. Coquette +as undoubtedly Nature has made her, she has still so gentle a soul +within her bosom that she shrinks from inflicting _actual_ pain. A pang +or two, a passing regret to be forgotten the next hour--or at all events +in the next change of scene--she is not above imparting, but when people +grow earnest like--like Mr. Dysart for example--they grow troublesome. +And she hasn't made up her mind to marry, and there are other people---- + +"The Clontarfs are to be there too," goes on Dysart, who is a cousin of +Lady Baltimore's, and knows all about her arrangements; "and the +Brownings, and Norman Beauclerk." + +"The--Clontarfs," says Joyce, in a hurried way, that might almost be +called confused; to the man who loves her, and who is watching her, it +is quite plain that she is not thinking of Lord and Lady Clontarf, who +are quite an ordinary couple and devoted to each other, but of that last +name spoken--Norman Beauclerk; Lady Baltimore's brother, a man, +handsome, agreeable, aristocratic--the man whose attentions to her a +month ago had made a little topic for conversation amongst the country +people. Dull country people who never go anywhere or see anything beyond +their stupid selves, and who are therefore driven to do something or +other to avoid suicide or the murdering of each other; gossip unlimited +is their safety valve. + +"Yes, and Beauclerk," persists Dysart, a touch of despair at his heart; +"you and he were good friends when last he was over, eh?" + +"I am generally very good friends with everybody; not an altogether +desirable character, not a strong one," says she smiling, and still +openly parrying the question. + +"You liked Beauclerk," says he, a little doggedly perhaps. + +"Ye--es--very well." + +"Very _much_! Why can't you be _honest_!" says he flashing out at her. + +"I don't know what you mean," coldly. "If, however, you persist on my +looking into it, I--" defiantly--"yes, I _do_ like Mr. Beauclerk very +much." + +"Well, I don't know what you see in that fellow." + +"Nothing," airily, having now recovered herself, "that's his charm." + +"If," gravely, "you gave that as your opinion of Dicky Browne I could +believe you." + +She laughs. + +"Poor Dicky," says she, "what a cruel judgment; and yet you are right;" +she has changed her whole manner, and is now evidently bent on restoring +him to good humor, and compelling him to forget all about Mr. Beauclerk. +"I must give in to you about Dicky. There isn't even the vaguest +suggestion of meaning about _him_. I--" with a deliberate friendly +glance flung straight into his eyes--"don't often give in to you, do I?" + +On this occasion, however, her coquetry--so generally successful--is +completely thrown away. Dysart, with his dark eyes fixed +uncompromisingly upon hers, makes the next move--an antagonistic one. + +"You have a very high opinion of Beauclerk," says he. + +"Have I?" laughing uneasily, and refusing to let her rising temper give +way. "We all have our opinions on every subject that comes under our +notice. You have one on this subject evidently." + +"Yes, but it is not a high one," says he unpleasantly. + +"After all, what does that matter? I don't pretend to understand you. I +will only suggest to you that our opinions are but weak things--mere +prejudices--no more." + +"I am not prejudiced against Beauclerk, if you mean that," a little +hotly. + +"I didn't," with a light shrug. "Believe me, you think a great deal more +about him than I do." + +"Are you sure of that?" + +"I am at all events sure of one thing," says she quickly darting at him +a frowning glance, "that you have no right to ask me that question." + +"I have not indeed," acknowledges he stiffly still, but with so open an +apology in his whole air that she forgives him. "Many conflicting +thoughts led me astray. I must ask your pardon." + +"Why, granted!" says she. "And--I was cross, wasn't I? After all an old +friend like you might be allowed a little laxity. There, never mind," +holding out her hand. "Let us make it up." + +Dysart grasps the little extended hand with avidity, and peace seems +restored when Tommy puts an end to all things. To anyone acquainted with +children I need hardly remark that he has been listening to the +foregoing conversation with all his ears and all his eyes and every bit +of his puzzled intelligence. + +"Well, go on," says he, giving his aunt a push when the friendly +hand-shake has come to an end. + +"Go on? Where?" asks she, with apparent unconcern but a deadly +foreboding at her breast. She knows her Tommy. + +"You _said_ you were going to make it up with him!" says that hero, +regarding her with disapproving eyes. + +"Well, I have made it up." + +"No, you haven't! When you make it up with me you always kiss me! Why +don't you kiss him?" + +Consternation on the part of the principal actors. Dysart, strange to +say, is the first to recover. + +"Why indeed?" says he, giving way all at once to a fatal desire for +laughter. This, Miss Kavanagh, being vexed with herself for her late +confusion, resents strongly. + +"I am sure, Tommy," says she, with a mildness that would not have +imposed upon an infant, "that your lesson hour has arrived. Come, say +good-bye to Mr. Dysart, and let us begin at once. You know I am going to +teach you to-day. Good-bye, Mr. Dysart--if you want to see Barbara, you +will find her very probably in the study." + +"Don't go like this," says he anxiously. "Or if you _will_ go, at least +tell me that you will accept Lady Baltimore's invitation." + +"I don't know," smiling coldly. "I think not. You see I was there for +such a _long_ time in the beginning of the year, and Barbara always +wants me, and one should not be selfish you know." + +"One should not indeed!" says he, with slow meaning. "What answer, then, +must I give my cousin? You know," in a low tone, "that she is not +altogether happy. You can lighten her burden a little. She is fond of +you." + +"I can lighten Barbara's burden also. Think me the very incarnation of +selfishness if you will," says she rather unjustly, "but still, if +Barbara says 'don't go,' I shall stay here." + +"Mrs. Monkton won't say that." + +"Perhaps not," toying idly with a rose, in such a careless fashion as +drives him to despair. Brushing it to and fro across her lips she seems +to have lost all interest in the question in hand. + +"If she says to you 'go,' how then?" + +"Why then--I may still remain here." + +"Well stay then, of course, if you so desire it!" cries he angrily. "If +to make all your world _un_happy is to make you happy, why be so by all +means." + +"_All_ my world! Do you suppose then that it will make Barbara and +Freddy unhappy to have my company? What a gallant speech!" says she, +with a provoking little laugh and a swift lifting of her eyes to his. + +"No, but it will make other people (more than _twice_ two) miserable to +be deprived of it." + +"Are you one of that quartette?" asks she, so saucily, yet withal so +merrily that the hardest-hearted lover might forgive her. A little +irresistible laugh breaks from her lips. Rather ruefully he joins in it. + +"I don't think I need answer that question," says he. "To you at all +events." + +"To me of all people rather," says she still laughing, "seeing I am the +interested party." + +"No, that character belongs to me. You have no interest in it. To me it +is life or death--to--you----" + +"No, no, you mustn't talk to me like that. You know I forbid you last +time we met, and you promised me to be good." + +"I promised then the most difficult thing in the world. But never mind +me; the principal thing is, your acceptance or rejection of that note. +Joyce!" in a low tone, "_say_ you will accept it." + +"Well," relenting visibly, and now refusing to meet his eyes, "I'll ask +Barbara, and if she says I may go I----" pause. + +"You will then accept?" eagerly. + +"I shall then--think about it." + +"You look like an angel," says he, "and you have the heart of a flint." + +This remark, that might have presumably annoyed another girl, seems to +fill Miss Kavanagh with mirth. + +"Am I so bad as that?" cries she, gaily. "Why I shall make amends then. +I shall change my evil ways. As a beginning, see here. If Barbara says +go to the Court, go I will. Now, stern moralist! where are you?" + +"In the seventh heaven," says he, promptly. "Be it a Fool's Paradise or +otherwise, I shall take up my abode there for the present. And now you +will go and ask Mrs. Monkton?" + +"In what a hurry to get rid of me!" says this coquette of all coquettes. +"Well, good-bye then----" + +"Oh no, don't go." + +"To the Court? Was ever man so unreasonable? In one breath 'do' and +'don't'!" + +"Was ever woman so tormenting?" + +"Tormenting? No, so discerning if you will, or else so----" + +"Adorable! You can't find fault with _that_ at all events." + +"And therefore my mission is at an end! Good-bye, again." + +"Good-bye." He is holding her hand as though he never means to let her +have it again. "That rose," says he, pointing to the flower that had +kissed her lips so often. "It is nothing to you, you can pick yourself +another, give it to me." + +"I can pick you another too, a nice fresh one," says she. "Here," moving +towards a glowing bush; "here is a bud worth having." + +"Not that one," hastily. "Not one this garden, or any other garden +holds, save the one in your hand. It is the only one in the world of +roses worth having." + +"I hate to give a faded gift," says she, looking at the rose she holds +with apparent disfavor. + +"Then I shall take it," returns he, with decision. He opens her pretty +pink palm, releases the dying rosebud from it and places it triumphantly +in his coat. + +"You haven't got any manners," says she, but she laughs again as she +says it. + +"Except bad ones you should add." + +"Yes, I forgot that. A point lost. Good-bye now, good-bye indeed." + +She waves her hand lightly to him and calling to the children runs +towards the house. It seems as if she has carried all the beauty and +brightness and sweetness of the day with her. + +As Dysart turns back again, the afternoon appears grey and gloomy. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + "Look ere thou leap, see ere thou go." + + +"Well, Barbara, can I go?" + +"I don't know"--doubtfully. There is a cloud on Mrs. Monkton's brow, she +is staring out of the window instead of into her sister's face, and she +is evidently a little distressed or uncertain. "You have been there so +lately, and----" + +"You want to say something," says the younger sister, seating herself on +the sofa, and drawing Mrs. Monkton down beside her. "Why don't you do +it?" + +"You can't want to go so very much, can you now?" asks the latter, +anxiously, almost entreatingly. + +"It is I who don't know this time!" says Joyce, with a smile. "And +yet----" + +"It seems only like yesterday that you came back after spending a month +there." + +"A yesterday that dates from six weeks ago," a little reproachfully. + +"I know. You like being there. It is a very amusing house to be at. I +don't blame you in any way. Lord and Lady Baltimore are both charming in +their ways, and very kind, and yet----" + +"There, don't stop; you are coming to it now, the very heart of the +meaning. Go on," authoritatively, and seizing her sister in her arms, +"or I'll _shake_ it out of you." + +"It is this then," says Mrs. Monkton slowly. "I don't think it is a +_wise_ thing for you to go there so often." + +"Oh Barbara! Owl of Wisdom as thou art, why not?" The girl is laughing, +yet a deep flush of color has crept into each cheek. + +"Never mind the why not. Perhaps it is unwise to go _anywhere_ too +often; and you must acknowledge that you spent almost the entire spring +there." + +"Well, I hinted all that to Mr. Dysart." + +"Was he here?" + +"Yes. He came down from the Court with the note." + +"And--who else is to be there?" + +"Oh! the Clontarfs, and Dicky Browne, and Lady Swansdown and a great +many others." + +"Mr. Beauclerk?" she does not look at Joyce as she asks this question. + +"Yes." + +A little silence follows, broken at last by Joyce. + +"_May_ I go?" + +"Do you think it is the best thing for you to do?" says Mrs. Monkton, +flushing delicately. "_Think_, darling! You know--you _must_ know, +because you have it always before you," flushing even deeper, "that to +marry into a family where you are not welcomed with open heart is to +know much private discomfiture." + +"I know this too," says the girl, petulantly, "that to be married to a +man like Freddy, who consults your lightest wish, and is your lover +always, is worth the enduring of anything." + +"I think that too," says Mrs. Monkton, who has now grown rather pale. +"But there is still one more thing to know--that in making such a +marriage as we have described, a woman lays out a thorny path for her +husband. She separates him from his family, and as all good men have +strong home ties, she naturally compels him to feel many a secret pang." + +"But he has his compensations. Do you think if Freddy got the chance, he +would give you up and go back to his family?" + +"No--not that. But to rejoice in that thought is to be selfish. Why +should he not have my love and the love of his people too? There is a +want somewhere. What I wish to impress upon you, Joyce, is this, that a +woman who marries a man against his parents' wishes has much to regret, +much to endure." + +"I think you are ungrateful," says the girl a little vehemently. "Freddy +has made you endure nothing. You are the happiest married woman I know." + +"Yes, but I have made _him_ endure a great deal," says Mrs. Monkton in a +low tone. She rises, and going to the window, stands there looking out +upon the sunny landscape, but seeing nothing. + +"Barbara! you are crying," says Joyce, going up to her abruptly, and +folding her arms round her. + +"It is nothing, dear. Nothing at all, darling. Only--I wish he and his +father were friends again. Freddy is too good a man not to regret the +estrangement." + +"I believe you think Freddy is a little god!" says Joyce laughing. + +"O! not a _little_ one," says Mrs. Monkton, and as Freddy stands six +foot one in his socks, they both laugh at this. + +"Still you don't answer me," says the girl presently. "You don't say +'you may' or 'you shan't'--which is it to be, Barbara?" + +Her tone is distinctly coaxing now, and as she speaks she gives her +sister a little squeeze that is plainly meant to press the desired +permission out of her. + +Still Mrs. Monkton hesitates. + +"You see," says she temporizing, "there are so many reasons. The Court," +pausing and flushing, "is not _quite_ the house for so young a girl as +you." + +"Oh Barbara!" + +"You can't misunderstand me," says her sister with agitation. "You know +how I like, _love_ Lady Baltimore, and how good Lord Baltimore has been +to Freddy. When his father cast him off there was very little left to us +for beginning housekeeping with, and when Lord Baltimore gave him his +agency--Oh, _well_! it isn't likely we shall either of us forget to be +grateful for _that_. If it was only for ourselves I should say nothing, +but it is for you, dear; and--this unfortunate affair--this determined +hostility that exists between Lord and Lady Baltimore, makes it +unpleasant for the guests. You know," nervously, "I hate gossip of any +sort, but one must defend one's own." + +"But there is nothing unpleasant; one sees nothing. They are charming to +each other. I have been staying there and I know." + +"Have I not stayed there too? It is impossible Joyce to fight against +facts. All the world knows they are not on good terms." + +"Well, a great many other people aren't perhaps." + +"When they aren't the tone of the house gets lowered. And I have noticed +of late that they have people there, who----" + +"Who what, Barbara?" + +"Oh yes, I _know_ they are all right; they are received everywhere, but +are they good companions for a girl of your years? It is not a healthy +atmosphere for you. They are rich people who think less of a hundred +guineas than you do of five. Is it wise, I ask you again to accustom +yourself to their ways?" + +"Nonsense, Barbara!" says her sister, looking at her with a growing +surprise. "That is not like you. Why should we despise the rich, why +should we seek to emulate them? Surely both you and I have too good +blood in our veins to give way to such follies." She leans towards Mrs. +Monkton, and with a swift gesture, gentle as firm, turns her face to her +own. + +"Now for the real reason," says she. + +Unthinkingly she has brought confusion on herself. Barbara, as though +stung to cruel candor, gives her the real reason in a sentence. + +"Tell me this," says she, "which do you like best, Mr. Dysart, or Mr. +Beauclerk?" + +Joyce, taking her arm from round her sister's neck, moves back from her. +A deep color has flamed into her cheeks, then died away again. She looks +quite calm now. + +"What a question," says she. + +"Well," feverishly, "answer it." + +"Oh, no," says the girl quickly. + +"Why not? Why not answer it to me, your chief friend? You think the +question indelicate, but why should I shrink from asking a question on +which, perhaps, the happiness of your life depends? If--if you have set +your heart on Mr. Beauclerk----" She stops, checked by something in Miss +Kavanagh's face. + +"Well, what then?" asks the latter coldly. + +"It will bring you unhappiness. He is Lady Baltimore's brother. She +already plans for him. The Beauclerks are poor--he is bound to marry +money." + +"That is a good deal about Mr. Beauclerk, but what about the other +possible suitor whom you suppose I am madly in love with?" + +"Don't talk to me like that, Joyce. Do you think I have anything at +heart except your interests? As to Mr. Dysart, if you like _him_, I +confess I should be glad of it. He is only a cousin of the Baltimores, +and of such moderate means that they would scarcely object to his +marrying a penniless girl." + +"You rate me highly," says Joyce, with a sudden rather sharp little +laugh. "I am good enough for the cousin--I am _not_ good enough for the +brother, who may reasonably look higher." + +"Not higher," haughtily. "He can only marry a girl of good birth. _You_ +are that, but he, in his position, will look for money, or else his +people will look for it for him. Whereas, Mr. Dysart----" + +"Yes, you needn't go over it all. Mr. Dysart is about on a level with +me, he will _never_ have any money, neither shall I." Suddenly she looks +round at her sister, her eyes very bright. "Tell me then," says she, +"what does it all come to? That I am bound to refuse to marry a man +because he has money, and because I have none." + +"That is not the argument," says Barbara anxiously. + +"I think it is." + +"It is not. I advise you strongly not to think of Mr. Beauclerk, yet +_he_ has no money to speak of." + +"He has more than Freddy." + +"But he is a different man from Freddy--with different tastes, different +aspirations, different----He's different," emphatically, "in _every_ +way!" + +"To be different from the person one loves is not to be a bad man," says +Joyce slowly, her eyes on the ground. + +"My dear girl, who has called Mr. Beauclerk a bad man?" + +"You don't like him," says Miss Kavanagh, still more slowly, still with +thoughtful eyes downcast. + +"I like Mr. Dysart better if you mean that." + +"No, I don't mean that. And, besides, that is no answer." + +"Was there a question?" + +"Yes. Why don't you like Mr. Beauclerk?" + +"Have I said I didn't like him?" + +"Not in so many words, but----Well, why don't you?" + +"I don't know," rather lamely. + +Miss Kavanagh laughs a little satirically, and Mrs. Monkton, objecting +to mirth of that description, takes fire. + +"Why do you _like_ him?" asks she defiantly. + +"I don't know either," returns Joyce, with a rueful smile. "And after +all I'm not sure that I like him so _very_ much. You evidently imagine +me to be head over ears in love with him, yet I, myself, scarcely know +whether I like him or not." + +"You always look at him so kindly, and you always pull your skirts aside +to give him a place by your side." + +"I should do that for Tommy." + +"Would you? That would be _too_ kind," says Tommy's mother, laughing. +"It would mean ruin to your skirts in two minutes." + +"But, consider the gain. The priceless scraps, of wisdom I should hear, +even whilst my clothes were being demolished." + +This has been a mere interlude, unintentional on the part of either, +and, once over, neither knows how to go on. The question _must_ be +settled one way or the other. + +"There is one thing," says Mrs. Monkton, at length, "You certainly +prefer Mr. Beauclerk to Mr. Dysart." + +"Do I? I wish I knew as much about myself as you know about me. And, +after all, it is of no consequence whom I like. The real thing +is----Come, Barbara, you who know so much can tell me this----" + +"Well?" says Mrs. Monkton, seeing she has grown very red, and is +evidently hesitating. + +"No. This absurd conversation has gone far enough. I was going to ask +you to solve a riddle, but----" + +"But what?" + +"You are too serious about it." + +"Not _too_ serious. It is very important." + +"Oh, Barbara, do you _know_ what you are saying?" cries the girl with an +angry little stamp, turning to her a face pale and indignant. "You have +been telling me in so many words that I am in love with either Mr. +Beauclerk or Mr. Dysart. Pray now, for a change, tell me which of them +is in love with _me_." + +"Mr. Dysart," says Barbara quietly. + +Her sister laughs angrily. + +"You think everybody who looks at me is in love with me." + +"Not _every_one!" + +"Meaning Mr. Beauclerk." + +"No," slowly. "I think he likes you, too, but he is a man who will +always _think_. You know he has come in for that property in Hampshire +through his uncle's death, but he got no money with it. It is a large +place, impossible to keep up without a large income, and his uncle left +every penny away from him. It is in great disrepair, the house +especially. I hear it is falling to pieces. Mr. Beauclerk is an +ambitious man, he will seek means to rebuild his house." + +"Well what of that? It is an interesting bit of history, but how does it +concern me? Take that troubled look out of your eyes, Barbara. I assure +you Mr. Beauclerk is as little to me as I am to him." + +She speaks with such evident sincerity, with such an undeniable belief +in the truth of her own words, that Mrs. Monkton, looking at her and +reading her soul through her clear eyes, feels a weight lifted from her +heart. + +"That is all right then," says she simply. She turns as if to go away, +but Miss Kavanagh has still a word or two to say. + +"I may go to the Court?" says she. + +"Yes; I suppose so." + +"But you won't be vexed if I go, Barbie?" + +"No; not now." + +"Well," slipping her arm through hers, with an audible sigh of delight. +"_That's_ settled." + +"Things generally _do_ get settled the way you want them to be," says +Mrs. Monkton, laughing. "Come, what about your frocks, eh?" + +From this out they spend a most enjoyable hour or two. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + "Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer, + That leaves look pale, thinking the winter's near." + + +The visit to the Court being decided on, Miss Kavanagh undertakes life +afresh, with a joyous heart. Lord and Lady Baltimore are the best host +and hostess in the world, and a visit to them means unmixed pleasure +while it lasts. The Court is, indeed, the pleasantest house in the +county, the most desirable in all respects, and the gayest. Yet, strange +and sad to add, happiness has found no bed within its walls. + +This is the more remarkable in that the marriage of Lord and Lady +Baltimore had been an almost idealistic one. They had been very much in +love with each other. All the hosts of friends and relations that +belonged to either side had been delighted with the engagement. So many +imprudent marriages were made, so many disastrous ones; but _here_ was a +marriage where birth and money went together, and left no guardians or +parents lamenting. All Belgravia stood still and stared at the young +couple with genuine admiration. It wasn't often that love, pure and +simple, fell into their midst, and such a _satisfactory_ love too! None +of your erratic darts that struck the wrong breasts, and created +confusion for miles round, but a thoroughly proper, respectable winged +arrow that pierced the bosoms of those who might safely be congratulated +on the reception of it. + +They had, indeed, been very much in love with each other. Few people +have known such extreme happiness as fell to their lot for two whole +years. They were wrapt up in each other, and when the little son came at +the end of that time, _nothing_ seemed wanted. They grew so strong in +their belief in the immutability of their own relations, one to the +other, that when the blow fell that separated them, it proved a very +lightning-stroke, dividing soul from body. + +Lady Baltimore could be at no time called a beautiful woman. But there +is always a charm in her face, a strength, an attractiveness that might +well defy the more material charms of a lovelier woman than herself. +With a soul as pure as her face, and a mind entirely innocent of the +world's evil ways--and the sad and foolish secrets she is compelled to +bear upon her tired bosom from century to century--she took with a +bitter hardness the revelations of her husband's former life before he +married her, related to her by--of course--a devoted friend. + +Unfortunately the authority was an undeniable one. It was impossible for +Lady Baltimore to refuse to believe. The past, too, she might have +condoned; though, believing in her husband as she did, it would always +have been bitter to her, but the devoted friend--may all such meet their +just reward!--had not stopped there; she had gone a step further, a +fatal step; she had told her something that had _not_ occurred since +their marriage. + +Perhaps the devoted friend believed in her lie, perhaps she did not. +Anyway, the mischief was done. Indeed, from the beginning seeds of +distrust had been laid, and, buried in so young and unlearned a bosom, +had taken a fatal grip. + +The more fatal in that there was truth in them. As a fact, Lord +Baltimore had been the hero of several ugly passages in his life. His +early life, certainly; but a young wife who has begun by thinking him +immaculate, would hardly be the one to lay stress upon _that_. And when +her friend, who had tried unsuccessfully to marry Lord Baltimore and had +failed, had in the kindliest spirit, _of course_, opened her eyes to his +misdoings, she had at first passionately refused to listen, then _had_ +listened, and after that was ready to listen to anything. + +One episode in his past history had been made much of. The sorry heroine +of it had been an actress. This was bad enough, but when the +disinterested friend went on to say that Lord Baltimore had been seen in +her company only so long ago as last week, matters came to a climax. +That was a long time ago from to-day, but the shock when it came +shattered all the sacred feelings in Lady Baltimore's heart. She grew +cold, callous, indifferent. Her mouth, a really beautiful feature, that +used to be a picture of serenity and charity personified, hardened. She +became austere, cold. Not difficult, so much as unsympathetic. She was +still a good hostess, and those who had known her _before_ her +misfortune still loved her. But she made no new friends, and she sat +down within herself, as it were, and gave herself up to her fate, and +would probably have died or grown reckless but for her little son. + +And it was _after_ the birth of this beloved child that she had been +told that _her_ husband had again been seen in company with Madame +Istray; _that_ seemed to add fuel to the fire already kindled. She could +not forgive that. It was proof positive of his baseness. + +To the young wife it was all a revelation, a horrible one. She had been +so stunned by it, that she, accepted it as it stood, and learning that +the stories of his life _before_ marriage were true, had decided that +the stories told of his life _after_ marriage were true also. She was +young, and youth is always hard. + +To her no doubt remained of his infidelity. She had come of a brave old +stock, who, if they could not fight, could at least endure in silence, +and knew well the necessity of keeping her name out of the public mouth. +She kept herself well in hand, therefore, and betrayed nothing of all +she had been feeling. She dismissed her friend with a gentle air, +dignified, yet of sufficient haughtiness to let that astute and now +decidedly repentant lady know that never again would she enter the doors +of the Court, or any other of Lady Baltimore's houses; yet she +restrained herself all through so well that, even until the very end +came, her own husband never knew how horribly she suffered through her +disbelief in him. + +He thought her heartless. There was no scandal, no public separation. +She said a word or two to him that told him what she had heard, and when +he tried to explain the truths of that last libel that had declared him +unfaithful to her since her marriage, she had silenced him with so cold, +so scornful, so contemptuous a glance and word, that, chilled and +angered in his turn, he had left her. + +Twice afterwards he had sought to explain matters, but it was useless. +She would not listen; the treacherous friend, whom she never betrayed, +had done her work well. Lady Baltimore, though she never forgave _her_, +would not forgive her husband either; she would make no formal attempt +at a separation. Before the world she and he lived together, seemingly +on the best terms; at all events on quite as good terms as most of their +acquaintances; yet all the world knew how it was with them. So long as +there are servants, so long will it be impossible to effectually conceal +our most sacred secrets. + +Her friends, when the Baltimores went to visit them, made arrangements +to suit them. It was a pity, everybody said, that such complications +should have arisen, and one would not have expected it from Isabel, but +then she seemed so cold, that probably a climax like that did not affect +her as much as it might another. She was so entirely wrapped up in her +boy--some women were like that--a child sufficed them. And as for Lord +Baltimore--Cyril--why----Judgment was divided here; the women taking his +part, the men hers. The latter finding an attraction hardly to be +defined in her pure, calm, rather impenetrable face, that had yet a +smile so lovely that it could warm the seemingly cold face into a +something that was more effective than mere beauty. It was a wonderful +smile, and, in spite of all her troubles, was by no means rare. Lady +Baltimore, they all acknowledged, was a delightful guest and hostess. + +As for Lord Baltimore, he--well, he would know how to console himself. +Society, the crudest organization on earth, laughed to itself about him. +He had known how to live before his marriage; now that the marriage had +proved a failure, he would still know how to make life bearable. + +In this they wronged him. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + "Ils n'employent les paroles qué pour déguiser leurs + pensées."--VOLTAIRE. + + +Even the most dyspeptic of the guests had acknowledged at breakfast, +some hours ago now, that a lovelier day could hardly be imagined. Lady +Baltimore, with a smile, had agreed with him. It was, indeed, impossible +not to agree with him. The sun was shining high in the heavens, and a +soft, velvetty air blew through the open windows right on to the table. + +"What shall we do to-day?" Lady Swansdown, one of the guests, had asked, +addressing her question to Lord Baltimore, who just then was helping his +little son to porridge. + +Whatever she liked. + +"Then _nothing_!" says she, in that soft drawl of hers, and that little +familiar imploring, glance of hers at her hostess, who sat behind the +urn, and glanced back at her ever so kindly. + +"Yes, it was too warm to dream of exertion; would Lady Swansdown like, +to remain at home then, and dream away the afternoon in a hammock?" + +"Dreams were delightful; but to dream _alone_----" + +"Oh, no; they would all, or at least most of them, stay with her." It +was Lady Baltimore who had said this, after waiting in vain for her +husband to speak--to whom, indeed, Lady Swansdown's question had been +rather pointedly addressed. + +So at home they all had stayed. No one being very keen about doing +anything on a day so sultry. + +Yet now, when luncheon is at an end, and the day still heavy with heat, +the desire for action that lies in every breast takes fire. They are all +tired of doing nothing. The Tennis-courts lie invitingly empty, and +rackets thrust themselves into notice at every turn; as for the balls, +worn out from _ennui_, they insert themselves under each arched instep, +threatening to bring the owners to the ground unless picked up and made +use of. + +"Who wants a beating?" demands Mr. Browne at last, unable to pretend +lassitude any longer. Taking up a racket he brandishes it wildly, +presumably to attract attention. This is necessary. As a rule nobody +pays any attention to Dicky Browne. + +He is a nondescript sort of young man, of the negative order; with no +features to speak of, and a capital opinion of himself. Income vague. +Age unknown. + +"Well! That's _one_ way of putting it," says Miss Kavanagh, with a +little tilt of her pretty chin. + +"Is it a riddle?" asks Dysart. "If so I know it. The answer is--Dicky +Browne." + +"Oh, I _like_ that!" says Mr. Browne unabashed. "See here, I'll give you +plus fifteen, and a bisque, and start myself at minus thirty, and beat +you in a canter." + +"Dear Mr. Browne, consider the day! I believe there are such things as +sunstrokes," says Lady Swansdown, in her sweet treble. + +"There are. But Dicky's all right," says Lord Baltimore, drawing up a +garden chair close to hers, and seating himself upon it. "His head is +safe. The sun makes no impression upon granite!" + +"Ah, _granite_! that applies to a heart not a head," says Lady +Swansdown, resting her blue eyes on Baltimore's for just a swift second. + +It is wonderful, however, what her eyes can do in a second. Baltimore +laughs lightly, returns her glance four-fold, and draws his chair a +quarter of an inch closer to hers. To move it more than that would have +been an impossibility. Lady Swansdown makes a slight movement. With a +smile seraphic as an angel's, she pulls her lace skirts a little to one +side, as if to prove to Baltimore that he has encroached beyond his +privileges upon her domain. "People should not _crush_ people. And _why_ +do you want to get so very close to me?" This question lies within the +serene eyes she once more raises to his. + +She is a lovely woman, blonde, serene, dangerous! In each glance she +turns upon the man who happens at any moment to be next to her, lies an +entire chapter on the "Whole Art of Flirtation." Were she reduced to +penury, and the world a little more advanced in its fashionable ways, +she might readily make a small fortune in teaching young ladies "How to +Marry Well." No man could resist her pupils, once properly finished by +her and turned out to prey upon the stronger sex. "The Complete Angler" +would be a title they might filch with perfect honor and call their own. + +She is a tall beauty, with soft limbs, graceful as a panther, or a cat. +Her eyes are like the skies in summer time, her lips sweet and full. The +silken hair that falls in soft masses on her Grecian brow is light as +corn in harvest, and she has hands and feet that are absolutely +faultless. She has even more than all these--a most convenient husband, +who is not only now but apparently always in a position of trust abroad. +Very _much_ abroad. The Fiji, or the Sandwich Islands for choice. One +can't hear from those centres of worldly dissipation in a hurry. And +after all, it really doesn't very much matter _where_ he is! + +There had been a whisper or two in the County about her and Lord +Baltimore. Everybody knew the latter had been a little wild since his +estrangement with his wife, but nothing to signify very much--nothing +that one could lay one's finger on, until Lady Swansdown had come down +last year to the Court. Whether Baltimore was in love with her was +uncertain, but all were agreed that she was in love with him. Not that +she made an _esclandre_ of any sort, but _one could see_! And still! she +was such a friend of _Lady_ Baltimore's--an old friend. They had been +girls together--that was what was so wonderful! And Lady Baltimore made +very much of her, and treated her with the kindliest observances, +and----But one had often heard of the serpent that one nourished in +one's bosom only that it might come to life and sting one! The County +grew wise over this complication; and perhaps when Mrs. Monkton had +hinted to Joyce of the "odd people" the Baltimores asked to the Court, +she had had Lady Swansdown in her mind. + +"Whose heart?" asks Baltimore, _à propos_ of her last remark. "Yours?" + +It is a leading remark, and something in the way it is uttered strikes +unpleasantly on the ears of Dysart. Baltimore is bending over his lovely +guest, and looking at her with an admiration too open to be quite +respectful. But she betrays no resentment. She smiles back at him indeed +in that little slow, seductive way of hers, and makes him an answer in a +tone too low for even those nearest to her to hear. It is a sort of +challenge, a tacit acknowledgment that they two are alone even in the +midst of all these tiresome people. + +Baltimore accepts it. Of late he has grown a little reckless. The +battling against circumstances has been too much for him. He has gone +under. The persistent coldness of his wife, her refusal to hear, or +believe in him, has had its effect. A man of a naturally warm and kindly +disposition, thrown thus back upon himself, he has now given a loose +rein to the carelessness that has been a part of his nature since his +mother gave him to the world, and allows himself to swim or go down with +the tide that carries his present life upon its bosom. + +Lady Swansdown is lovely and kind. Always with that sense of injury full +upon him, that half-concealed but ever-present desire for revenge upon +the wife who has so coldly condemned and cast him aside, he flings +himself willingly into a flirtation, ready made to his hand, and as +dangerous as it seems light. + +His life, he tells himself, is hopelessly embittered. The best things in +it are denied him; he gives therefore the more heed to the honeyed words +of the pretty creature near him, who in truth likes him too well for her +own soul's good. + +That detested husband of hers, out there _somewhere_, the only thought +she ever gives him is when she remembers with horror how as a young girl +she was sold to him. For years she had believed herself heartless--of +all her numerous love affairs not one had really touched her until now, +and _now_ he is the husband of her oldest friend; of the one woman whom +perhaps in all the world she really respects. + +At times her heart smites her, and a terrible longing to go away--to +die--to make an end of it--takes possession of her at other times. She +leans towards Baltimore, her lovely eyes alight, her soft mouth smiling. +Her whispered words, her only half-averted glances, all tell their tale. +Presently it is clear to everyone that a very fully developed flirtation +is well in hand. + +Lady Baltimore coming across the grass with a basket in one hand and her +little son held fondly by the other, sees and grasps the situation. +Baltimore, leaning over Lady Swansdown, the latter lying back in her +lounging chair in her usual indolent fashion, swaying her feather fan +from side to side, and with white lids lying on the azure eyes. + +Seeing it all, Lady Baltimore's mouth hardens, and a contemptuous +expression destroys the calm dignity of her face. For the moment _only_. +Another moment, and it is gone: she has recovered herself. The one sign +of emotion she has betrayed is swallowed up by her stern determination +to conceal all pain at all costs, and if her fingers tighten somewhat +convulsively on those of her boy's, why, who can be the wiser of _that_? +No one can see it. + +Dysart, however, who is honestly fond of his cousin, has mastered that +first swift involuntary contraction of the calm brow, and a sense of +indignant anger against Baltimore and his somewhat reckless companion +fires his blood. He springs quickly to his feet. + +Lady Baltimore, noting the action, though not understanding the motive +for it, turns and smiles at him--so controlled a smile that it quiets +him at once. + +"I am going to the gardens to try and cajole McIntyre out of some +roses," says she, in her sweet, slow way, stopping near the first group +she reaches on the lawn--the group that contains, amongst others, her +husband, and----her friend. She would not willingly have stayed where +they were, but she is too proud to pass them by without a word. "Who +will come with me? Oh! _no_," as several rise to join her, laughing, +though rather faintly. "It is not compulsory--even though I go alone, I +shall feel that I am equal to McIntyre." + +Lord Baltimore had started as her first words fell upon his ears. He had +been so preoccupied that her light footfalls coming over the grass had +not reached him, and her voice, when it fell upon the air, gave him a +shock. He half rises from his seat: + +"Shall I?" he is beginning, and then stops short, something in her face +checking him. + +"_You!_" she conquers herself a second later; all the scorn and contempt +is crushed, by sheer force of will, out of look and tone, and she goes +on as clearly, and as entirely without emotion, as though she were a +mere machine--a thing she has taught herself to be. "Not you," she says +gaily, waving him lightly from her. "You are too useful here"--as she +says this she gives him the softest if fleetest smile. It is a +masterpiece. "You can amuse one here and there, whilst I--I--I want a +girl, I think," looking round. "Bertie,"--with a fond, an almost +passionate glance at her little son--"always likes one of his +sweethearts (and they are many) to accompany him when he takes his walks +abroad." + +"Like father, like son, I daresay. Ha, ha!" laughs a fatuous youth--a +Mr. Courtenay--who lives about five miles from the Court, and has +dropped in this afternoon, very unfortunately, it must be confessed, to +pay his respects to Lady Baltimore. Fools always hit on the truth! +_Why_, nobody knows, except the heavens above us--but so it is. Young +Courtenay, who has heard nothing of the unpleasant relations existing +between his host and hostess, and who would be quite incapable of +understanding them if he _had_ heard, now springs a remark upon the +assembled five or six people present that almost reduces them to powder. + +Dysart casts a murderous glance at him. + +"A clever old proverb," says Lady Baltimore lightly. She is apparently +the one unconcerned person amongst them. "I always like those old +sayings. There is so much truth in them." + +She has forced herself to say this; but as the words pass her lips she +blanches perceptibly. As if unable to control herself she draws her +little son towards her; her arms tighten round him. The boy responds +gladly to the embrace, and to those present who know nothing, it seems +the simplest thing in the world. The mother,--the child; naturally they +would caress each other on each and every occasion. The agony of the +mother is unknown to them; the fear that her boy, her treasure, may +inherit something of his father, and in his turn prove unfaithful to the +heart that trusts him. + +It is a very little scene, scarcely worth recording, yet the anguish of +a strong heart lies embodied in it. + +"If you are going to the gardens, Lady Baltimore, let me go with you," +says Miss Maliphant, rising quickly and going toward her. She is a big, +loud girl, with money written all over her in capital letters, but Dicky +Browne watching her, tells himself she has a good heart. "I should +_love_ to go there with you and Bertie." + +"Come, then," says Lady Baltimore graciously. She makes a step forward; +little Bertie, as though he likes and believes in her, thrusts his small +fist into the hand of the Birmingham heiress, and thus united, all three +pass out of sight. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + "I have no other but a woman's reason: I think him so, because I + think him so." + + +When a corner near the rhododendrons has concealed them from view, +Dysart rises from his seat and goes deliberately over to where Lady +Swansdown is sitting. She is an old friend of his, and he has therefore +no qualms about being a little brusque with her where occasion demands +it. + +"Have a game?" says he. His suggestion is full of playfulness, his tone, +however, is stern. + +"Dear Felix, why?" says she, smiling up at him beautifully. There is +even a suspicion of amusement in her smile. + +"A change!" says he. His words this time might mean something, his tone +anything. She can read either as she pleases. + +"True!" says she laughing. "There is nothing like change. You have +wakened me to a delightful fact. Lord Baltimore," turning languidly to +her companion, who has been a little _distrait_ since his wife and son +passed by him. "What do you say to trying a change for just we two. +Variety they _say_ is charming, shall we try if shade and coolness and +comfort are to be found in that enchanting glade down there?" She points +as she speaks to an opening in the wood where perpetual twilight seems +to reign, as seen from where they now are sitting. + +"If you will," says Baltimore, still a little vaguely. He gets up, +however, and stretches his arms indolently above his head as one might +who is flinging from him the remembrance of an unpleasant dream. + +"The sun here is intolerable," says Lady Swansdown, rising too. "More +than one can endure. Thanks, dear Felix, for your suggestion. I should +never have thought of the glade if you hadn't asked me to play that +impossible game." + +She smiles a little maliciously at Dysart, and, accompanied by Lord +Baltimore, moves away from the assembled groups upon the lawn to the dim +recesses of the leafy glade. + +"_Sold!_" says Mr. Browne to Dysart. It is always impossible to Dicky to +hold his tongue. "But you needn't look so cut up about it. 'Tisn't good +enough, my dear fellow. I know 'em both by heart. Baltimore is as much +in love with her as he is with his Irish tenants, but his imagination is +his strong point, and it pleases him to think he has found at last for +the twentieth time a solace for all his woes in the disinterested love +of somebody, it really never much matters who." + +"There is more in it than _you_ think," says Dysart gloomily. + +"Not a fraction!" airily. + +"And what of her? Lady Swansdown?" + +"Of her! Her heart has been in such constant use for years that by this +time it must be in tatters. Give up thinking about that. Ah! here is my +beloved girl again!" He makes an elaborate gesture of delight as he sees +Joyce advancing in his direction. "_Dear_ Joyce!" beaming on her, "who +shall say there is nothing in animal magnetism. Here I have been just +talking about you to Dysart, and telling him what a lost soul I feel +when you're away, and instantly, as if in answer to my keen desire, you +appear before me." + +"Why aren't you playing tennis?" demands Miss Kavanagh, with a cruel +disregard of this flowery speech. + +"Because I was waiting for you." + +"Well, I'll beat you," says she, "I always do." + +"Not if you play on my side," reproachfully. + +"What! Have you for a _partner_! Nonsense, Dicky, you know I shouldn't +dream of that. Why it is as much as ever you can do to put the ball over +the net." + +"'Twas ever thus,'" quotes Mr. Browne mournfully. "The sincerest worship +gains only scorn and contumely. But never mind! the day will come!----" + +"To an end," says Miss Kavanagh, giving a finish to his sentence never +meant. "That," cheerfully, "is just what I think. If we don't have a +game now, the shades of night will be on us before we can look round +us." + +"Will you play with me?" says Dysart. + +"With pleasure. Keep your eye on this near court, and when this game is +at an end, call it ours;" she sinks into a chair as she speaks, and +Dysart, who is in a silent mood, flings himself on the grass at her feet +and falls into a reverie. To be conversational is unnecessary, Dicky +Browne is on the spot. + + * * * * * + +Hotter and hotter grows the sun; the evening comes on apace; a few +people from the neighboring houses have dropped in; Mrs. Monkton amongst +others, with Tommy in tow. The latter, who is supposed to entertain a +strong affection for Lady Baltimore's little son, no sooner, however, +sees Dicky Browne than he gives himself up to his keeping. What the +attraction is that Mr. Browne has for children has never yet been +clearly defined. It is the more difficult to arrive at a satisfactory +conclusion about it, in that no child was ever yet left in his sole care +for ten minutes without coming to blows, or tears, or a determined +attempt at murder or suicide. + +His mother, seeing Tommy veering towards this uncertain friend, turns a +doubtful eye on Mr. Browne. + +"Better come with me, Tommy," says she, "I am going to the gardens to +find Lady Baltimore. She will have Bertie with her." + +"I'll stay with Dicky," says Tommy, flinging himself broadcast on Mr. +Brown's reluctant chest, that gives forth a compulsory "Wough" as he +does so. "He'll tell me a story." + +"Don't be unhappy, Mrs. Monkton," says the latter, when he has recovered +a little from the shock--Tommy is a well-grown boy, with a sufficient +amount of adipose matter about him to make his descent felt. "I'll +promise to be careful. Nothing French I assure you. Nothing that could +shock the young mind, or teach it how to shoot in the wrong direction. +My tales are always strictly moral." + +"Well, Tommy, be _good_!" says Mrs. Monkton with a last imploring glance +at her son, who has already forgotten her existence, being lost in a +wild wrestling match with his new friend. With deep forebodings his +mother leaves him and goes upon her way. Passing Joyce, she says in a +low whisper: + +"Keep an eye on Tommy." + +"Both eyes if you like," laughing. "But Dicky, in spite of his evil +reputation, seldom goes to extremes." + +"Tommy does, however," says Mrs. Monkton tritely. + +"Well--I'll look after him." + +And so perhaps she might have done, had not a light step sounding just +behind her chair at this moment caused her to start--to look round--to +forget all but what she now sees. + +He is a very aristocratic-looking man, tall, with large limbs, and big +indeed, in every way. His eyes are light, his nose a handsome Roman, his +forehead massive, and if not grand in the distinctly intellectual way, +still a fine forehead and impressive. His hands are of a goodly size, +but exquisitely proportioned, and very white, the skin almost delicate. +He is rather like his sister, Lady Baltimore, and yet so different from +her in every way that the distinct resemblance that is surely there +torments the observer. + +"_Why!_" says Joyce. It is the most foolish exclamation and means +nothing, but she finds herself a little taken off her guard. "I didn't +know you were here!" She has half risen. + +"Neither did I--how d'ye do, Dysart?--until half an hour ago. Won't you +shake hands?" + +He holds out his own hand to her as he speaks. There is a quizzical +light in his eyes as he speaks, nothing to offend, but one can see that +he finds amusement in the fact that the girl has been so much impressed +by his unexpected appearance that she has even forgotten the small usual +act of courtesy with which we greet our friends. She had, indeed, been +dead to everything but his coming. + +"You came----" falters she, stammering a little, as she notes her +mistake. + +"By the mid-day train; I gave myself just time to snatch a sandwich from +Purdon (the butler), say a word or two to my sister, whom I found in the +garden, and then came on here to ask you to play this next game with +me." + +"Oh! I am so sorry, but I have promised it to----" + +The words are out of her mouth before she has realized the fact that +Dysart is listening--Dysart, who is lying at her feet, watching every +expression in her mobile face. She colors hotly, and looks down at him +confused, lovely. + +"I didn't mean--_that_!" says she, trying to smile indifferently, +"Only----" + +"_Don't!_" says Dysart, not loudly, not curtly, yet in so strange and +decided a way that it renders her silent. "You mustn't mind me," says +he, a second later, in his usual calm tone. "I know you and Beauclerk +are wonderful players. You can give me a game later on." + +"A capital arrangement," says Beauclerk, comfortably sinking into a +chair beside her, with all the lazy manner of a man at peace with +himself and his world, "especially as I shall have to go in presently to +write some letters for the evening post." + +He places his elbows on the arms of the chair, brings the ends of his +fingers together, and beams admiringly at Joyce over the tops of them. + +"How busy you always are," says she, slowly. + +"Well you see, this appointment, or, rather, the promise of it, keeps me +going. Tremendous lot of interest to work up. Good deal of bother, you +know, but then, beggars--eh?--can't be choosers, can they? And I should +like to go to the East; that is, if----" + +He pauses, beams again, and looks boldly into Miss Kavanagh's eyes. She +blushes hotly, and, dropping her fan, makes a little attempt to pick it +up again. Mr. Beauclerk makes another little attempt, and so manages +that his hand meets hers. There is a slight, an almost benevolent +pressure. + +Had they looked at Dysart as they both resumed their places, they could +have seen that his face is white as death. Miss Kavanagh, too, looks a +little pale, a little uncertain, but as a whole nervously happy. + +"I've been down at that old place of mine," goes on Mr. Beauclerk. +"Terrible disrepair--take thousands to put it in any sort of order. And +where's one to get them? That's the one question that has got no answer +now-a-days. Eh, Dysart?" + +"There is an answer, however," says Dysart, curtly, not looking at him. + +"Ah, well, I suppose so. But I haven't heard it yet." + +"Oh, yes, I think you have," says Dysart, quite politely, but grimly, +nevertheless. + +"Dear fellow, how? where? unless one discovers a _mine_ or an African +diamond-field?" + +"Or an heiress," says Dysart, incidentally. + +"Hah! lucky dog, that comes home to _you_," says Beauclerk, giving him a +playful pat on his shoulder, and stooping from his chair to do it, as +Dysart still sits upon the grass. + +"Not to me." + +"No? You _will_ be modest? Well, well! But talking of that old place, I +assure you, Miss Kavanagh, it worries me--it does, indeed. It sounds +like one's _duty_ to restore it, and still----" + +"There are better things than even an old place," says Dysart. + +"Ah! you haven't one you see," cries Beauclerk, with the utmost +geniality. "If you had----I really think if you had you would understand +that it requires a sacrifice to give it up to moths and rust and ruin." + +"I said there were better things than old places," says Dysart doggedly, +never looking in his direction. "And if there are, _make_ a sacrifice." + +"Pouf! Lucky fellows like you--gay soldier lads--with hearts as light as +sunbeams, can easily preach; but sacrifices are not so easily made. +There is that horrid word, Duty! And a man must sometimes _think_!" + +Joyce, as though the last word has struck some answering chord that +wounds her as it strikes, looks suddenly at him. _What_ was it Barbara +had said? "He was a man who would always _think_,"--is he thinking +now--even now--at this moment?--is he weighing matters in his mind? + +"Hah!" says Beauclerk rising and pointing to the court nearest them; +"_that_ game is over. Come on, Miss Kavanagh, let us go and get our +scalps. I say, Dysart, will you fight it out with us?" + +"No thanks." + +"Afraid?" gaily. + +"Of you--no," smiling; the smile is admirably done, and would be taken +as the genuine article anywhere. + +"Of Miss Kavanagh; then?" + +For a brief instant, and evidently against his wish, Dysart's eyes meet +those of Joyce. + +"Perhaps," says he. + +"A poor compliment to me," says Beauclerk, with his pleasant laugh that +always rings _so_ softly. "Well, never mind; I forgive you. Get a good +partner, my dear fellow, and _she_ may pull you through. You see I +depend entirely upon mine," with a glance at Joyce, full of expression. +"There's Miss Maliphant now--she'd make a good partner if you like." + +"I shouldn't," says Dysart, immovably. + +"She plays a good game, I can tell you." + +"So do you," says Dysart. + +"Oh, now, Dysart, don't be sarcastic," says Beauclerk laughing. "I +believe you are afraid of me, not of Miss Kavanagh, and that's why you +won't play. But if you were to put yourself in Miss Maliphant's hands, I +don't say but that you would have a chance of beating me." + +"I shall beat you by myself or not at all," says Dysart suddenly, and +for the first time looking fair at him. + +"A single, you mean?" + +"Yes, a single." + +"Well--we shall see," says Beauclerk. "Hah, there is Courtenay. Come +along, Miss Kavanagh, we must make up a set as best we may, as Dysart is +too lazy to face us." + +"The next game is ours, Mr. Dysart, remember," says she, glancing at +Dysart over her shoulder. There is a touch of anxiety in her eyes. + +"I _always_ remember," says he, with a rather ambiguous smile. What is +he remembering now? Joyce's mouth takes a grave curve as she follows +Beauclerk down the marble steps that lead to the tennis-ground below. + +The evening has grown very still. The light wind that all day long has +sung among the leaves has gone to sleep. Only the monotonous countings +of the tennis players can be heard. Suddenly above these, another sound +arises. It is _not_ the voice of the charmer. It is the voice of Tommy +in full cry, and mad with a desire to gain the better of the argument +now going on between him and Mr. Browne. Mr. Browne is still, however, +holding his own. He generally does. His voice grows eloquent. _All_ can +hear. + +"I shall tell my story, Tommy, in my own way, or I shall not tell it at +all!" The dignity that Mr. Browne throws into this threat is hardly to +be surpassed. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + + "Sweet food of sweetly uttered knowledge." + + +"Tisn't right," says Tommy. + +"_I_ think it is. If you kindly listen to it once again, and give your +entire attention to it, you will see how faulty is the ignorant +conclusion to which you have come." + +"I'm not one bit ignorant," says Tommy indignantly. "Nurse says I'm the +dickens an' all at my Bible, and that I know Genesis better'n _she_ +does." + +"And a very engaging book it is too," says Mr. Browne, "but it isn't +everything. What _you_ want to study, my good boy, is natural history. +You are very ignorant about that, at all events." + +"A cow _couldn't_ do it," says Tommy. + +"History says she can. Now, listen again. It is a grand old poem, and I +am grieved and distressed, Thomas, to find that you refuse to accept it +as one of the gems of truth thrown up to us out of the Dark Ages. Are +you ready? + + "'Diddle-dee, diddle-dee dumpty, + The cow ran up the plum-tree. + Half-a-crown to fetch her----'" + +"She _didn't_--'twas the _cat_," cries Tommy. + +"Not in _my_ story," says Mr. Browne, mildly but firmly. + +"A cow _couldn't_ go up a plum-tree," indignantly. + +"She could in _my_ story," persists Mr. Browne, with all the air of one +who, even to avoid unpleasantness, would not consent to go against the +dictates of his conscience. + +"She _couldn't_, I tell you," roars Tommy, now thoroughly incensed. "She +couldn't _climb_. Her horns would stick in the branches. She'd be too +_heavy_!" + +"I admit, Thomas," says Mr. Browne gravely, "that your argument sounds +as though there were some sense in it. But who am I that I should dare +to disbelieve ancient history? It is unsafe to throw down old landmarks, +to blow up the bulwarks of our noble constitution. Beware, Tommy! never +tread on the tail of Truth. It may turn and rend you." + +"Her name isn't Truth," says Tommy. "Our cow's name is Biddy, and she +never ran up a tree in her life." + +"She's young," says Mr. Browne. "She'll learn. So are _you_--_you'll_ +learn. And remember this, my boy, always respect old legends. A +disregard for them will so unsettle you that finally you will find +yourself--at the foot of the gallows in all human probability. I +suppose," sadly, "that you are even so far gone in scepticism as to +doubt the glorious truth of the moon's being made of green cheese?" + +"Father says that's nonsense," says Tommy promptly, and with an air of +triumph, "and father always knows." + +"I blush for your father," says Mr. Browne with increasing melancholy. +"Both he and you are apparently sunk in heathen darkness. Well, well; we +will let the question of the moon go by, though I suppose you know, +Tommy, that the real and original moon first rose in Cheshire." + +"No, I don't," says Tommy, with a militant glare. "There was once a +Cheshire cat; there never was a Cheshire moon." + +"I suppose you will tell me next there never was a Cheshire cheese," +says Mr. Browne severely. "Don't you see the connection? But never mind. +Talking of cats brings us back to our mutton, and from thence to our +cow. I do hope, Tommy, that for the future you will, at all events, +_try_ to believe in that faithful old animal who skipped so gaily up and +down, and hither and thither, and in and out, and all about, that +long-suffering old plum-tree." + +"She never did it," says Tommy stamping with rage and now nearly in +tears. "I've books--I've books, and 'tisn't in _any_ of them." + +"It is in _my_ book," says Mr. Browne, who ought to be ashamed of +himself. + +"I don't believe you ever _read_ a book," screams Tommy furiously. +"'Twas the cat--the cat--the cat!" + +"No; 'twas the horned cow," says Mr. Browne, in a sepulchral tone, +whereat Tommy goes for him. + +There is a wild and desperate conflict. Tooth and nail Tommy attacks, +the foe, fists and legs doing very gallant service. There would indeed +have been a serious case of assault and battery for the next Court day, +had not Providence sent Mrs. Monkton on the scene. + +"Oh, Tommy!" cries she, aghast. It is presumably Tommy, though, as he +has his head thrust between Mr. Browne's legs, and his feet in mid air, +kicking with all their might, there isn't much of him by which to prove +identification. And--"Oh, Dicky," says, she again, "how _could_ you +torment him so, when you know how easy it is to excite him. See what a +state he is in!" + +"And what about me?" demands Mr. Browne, who is weak with laughter. "Is +no sympathy to be shown me? See what a state _I'm_ in. I'm black and +blue from head to heel. I'm at the point of death!" + +"Nonsense! you are all right, but look at _him_! Oh! Tommy, what a +terrible boy you are. And you promised me if I brought you, that +you----Just look at his clothes!" + +"Look at _mine_!" says Mr. Browne. "My best hat is done for, and I'm +afraid to examine my trousers. _You_ might tell me if there is a big +rent anywhere. No? Eh? Well--if you won't I must only risk it. But I +feel tattered and torn. By-the-bye, Tommy, that's part of another old +story. I'll tell you about it some day." + +"Come with me, Tommy," says his mother, with awful severity. She holds +out her hand to her son, who is still glaring at Dicky with an undying +ferocity. "You are a naughty boy, and I'm sure your father will be angry +with you when he hears of this." + +"Oh, but he must not hear of it, must he, Tommy?" says Mr. Browne, with +decision, appealing to his late antagonist as airily, as utterly without +_arrière pensée_ as though no unpleasant passages have occurred between +them. "It's awfully good of you to desire our company, Mrs. Monkton, but +really on the whole I think----" + +"It is Tommy I want," says Mrs. Monkton still with a meaning eye. + +"Where Tommy goes, I go," says Mr. Browne, firmly. "We are wedded to +each other for the day. Nothing shall part us! Neither law nor order. +Just now we are going down to the lake to feed the swans with the +succulent bun. Will you come with us?" + +"You are very uncertain, Dicky," says Mrs. Monkton, regarding Mr. Browne +with a gravity that savors of disapproval. "How shall I be sure that if +you take him to the lake you will not let him drown himself?" + +"He is far more likely to drown me," says Mr. Browne. "Come along, +Tommy, the biscuits are in the hall, and the lake a quarter of a mile +away. The day waneth; let us haste--let us haste!" + +"Where has Dicky gone?" asks Joyce, who has just returned victorious +from her game. + +"To the lake with Tommy. I have been imploring him not to drown my son," +says Mrs. Monkton with a rather rueful smile. + +"Oh, he won't do that. Dicky is erratic, but pretty safe, for all that. +And he is fond of Tommy." + +"He teases him, however, beyond endurance." + +"That is because he _does_ like him." + +"A strange conclusion to arrive at, surely," says Dysart, looking at +her. + +"No. If he didn't like him, he wouldn't take the trouble," says she, +nonchalantly. She is evidently a little _distrait_. She looks as though +she wanted something. + +"You won your game?" says her sister, smiling at her. + +"Yes, quite a glorious victory. They had only two games out of the six; +and you know Miss Connor plays very well." + +"Where is Mr. Beauclerk?" + +"Gone into the house to write some letters and telegrams." + +"Norman, do you mean?" asks Lady Baltimore, coming up at this moment, +her basket full of flowers, and minus the little son and the heiress; +"he has just gone into the house to hear Miss Maliphant sing. You know +she sings remarkably well, and that last song of Milton Wettings suits +her so entirely. Norman is very fond of music. Have you had a game, +Joyce?" + +"Yes, and won it," says Joyce, smiling back at her, though her face has +paled a little. _Had_ she won it? + +"Well, I must take these into the house before they fade. Righton wants +them for the dinner-table," says Lady Baltimore. A little hurried note +has crept into her voice. She turns away somewhat abruptly. Lord +Baltimore and Lady Swansdown have just appeared in view, Lady Swansdown +with a huge bunch of honeysuckle in her hand, looking very picturesque. + +Baltimore, seeing his wife move towards the house, and Lady Swansdown +displaying the spoils of her walk to Dysart, darts quickly after her. + +"Let me carry that burden for you," says he, laying his hand upon the +basket of flowers. + +"No, oh! no, thank you," says Lady Baltimore, glancing up at him for +just a moment, with a little curious expression in her eyes. "I have +carried it quite a long time. I hardly feel it now. No; go back to the +lawn to Lady Swansdown--see; she is quite alone at this moment. You will +be doing me a real service if you will look after our guests." + +"As you will," says Baltimore, coldly. + +He turns back with a frown, and rejoins those he had left. + +Joyce is talking to Lady Swansdown in her prettiest way--she seems, +indeed, exceptionally gay even for her, who, as a rule, is the life of +every party. Her spirits seem to have risen to quite an abnormal height, +and her charming laugh, soft as it is sweet, rings gaily. With the +advent of Baltimore, however, Lady Swansdown's attention veers aside, +and Joyce, feeling Dysart at her elbow, turns to him. + +"We postponed _one_ game, I think," says she. "Well--shall we play the +next?" + +"I am sorry," says he, deliberately, "but I think not." His eyes are on +the ground. + +"No?" says she, coloring warmly. There is open surprise in her glance. +That he should refuse to accept an advance from her seems truly beyond +belief. + +"You must forgive me," says he, deliberately still. He had sworn to +himself that he would not play second fiddle on _this_ occasion at all +events, and he holds himself to his word. "But I feel as if I could not +play to-day. I should disgrace you. Let me get you another partner. +Captain Grant is out there, he----" + +"Thank you. I shall be able to provide myself with a partner when I want +one," interrupts she, haughtily, turning abruptly away. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + + "Nature has sometimes made a fool." + + +The fiddles are squeaking, the 'cellos are groaning, the man with the +cornet is making a most ungodly row. As yet, the band have the ballroom +all to themselves, and are certainly making the most of their time. Such +unearthly noises rarely, if ever, have been heard in it before. Why they +couldn't have tuned their instruments before coming is a question that +fills the butler's mind with wrath, but perhaps the long journey down +from Dublin would have untuned them all again, and left the players of +them disconsolate. + +The dismal sounds penetrate into the rooms right and left of the +ballroom, but fail to kill the melancholy sweetness of the dripping +fountains or the perfume of the hundred flowers that gave their sleeping +draughts to all those who chose to come and inhale them. Mild draughts +that please the senses without stealing them. + +The sounds even penetrate to the library, where Joyce is standing before +the low fire, that even in this July evening burns upon the hearth, +fastening her long gloves. She had got down before the others, and now, +finding the room empty, half wishes herself back again upstairs. But she +is so young, so full of a fresh delight in all the gaiety around her, +that she had hurried over her dressing, and, with the first dismal +sounds of the toning, had turned her steps its way. + +The library seems cold to her, bare, unfriendly. Had she expected to +meet somebody there before her--somebody who had promised to get a fresh +tie in a hurry, but who had possibly forgotten all about it in the joy +of an after-dinner cigar? + +It seems a long time since that first day when she had been startled by +his sudden reappearance at the Court. A long, _long_ time. Soon this +last visit of hers to the Court must come to an end. The Baltimores will +be going abroad in a fortnight or so--and he with them. The summer is +waning--dreary autumn coming. He will go--and---- + +A sense of dissatisfaction sits heavily on her, toning down to rather a +too cruel a degree the bright expectancy of her face. He had _said_ he +would come, and now----She drums in a heavy-hearted listless fashion on +the table with the tips of her pale gloves, and noticing, half +consciously in so doing, that they have not been sufficiently drawn up +her arm, mechanically fits them closer to the taper fingers. + +Certainly he had said he would be here. "Early you know. Before the +others can get down." A quick frown grows upon her forehead, and now +that the fingers are quiet, the little foot begins to beat a tattoo upon +the ground. Leaning against the table in a graceful attitude, with the +lamplight streaming on her pretty white frock, she gives a loose rein to +her thoughts. + +They are a little angry, a little frightened perhaps. During the past +week had he not said many things that in the end proved void of meaning. +He had haunted her in a degree, at certain hours, certain times, had +loitered through gardens, lingered in conservatories by her side, +whispered many things--looked so very many more. But---- + +There were other times, other opportunities for philandering (_she_ does +not give it this unpleasant name); how has he spent them?--A vague +thought of Miss Maliphant crosses her mind. That he laughs at the plain, +good-natured heiress to her (Joyce), had not prevented the fact that he +is very attentive to her at times. Principally such times as when Joyce +may reasonably be supposed to be elsewhere. Human reason, however, often +falls short of the mark, and there have been unsuspected moments during +the past week when Miss Kavanagh has by chance appeared upon the scene +of Mr. Beauclerk's amusements, and has found that Miss Maliphant has had +a good deal to do with them. But then--"That poor, good girl you know!" +Here, Beauclerk's joyous laugh would ring forth for Joyce's benefit. +"_Such_ a good girl; and so--er--_don't_ you know!" He was certainly +always a little vague. He didn't explain himself. Miss Kavanagh, looking +back on all he had ever said against the heiress, is obliged to confess +to herself that the great "er" had had to express everything. Contempt, +dislike, kindly disdain--he was always _kindly_--he made quite a point +of _that_. Truly, thinks Miss Kavanagh to herself after this +retrospective glance, "er" is the greatest word in the English language! + +And so it is. It declares. It conceals. It conveys a laugh. It suggests +a frown. It helps a sorrowful confession. It adorns a lame one. It is +kindly, as giving time. It is cruel, as being full of sarcasm. It----In +fact what is it it _cannot_ do? + +Joyce's feet have grown quite steady now. She has placed her hands on +the table behind her, and thus compelled to lean a little forward, +stands studying the carpet without seeing it. A sense of anger, of +_shame_ against herself is troubling her. If he should _not_ be in +earnest! If he should not--like her as she likes him! + +She rouses herself suddenly as if stung by some thought. "Like" _is_ the +word. It has gone no deeper yet. It _shall_ not. He is handsome, he has +his charm, but if she is not all the world to him, why, he shall not be +all the world to _her_. If it is money he craves, for the restoration of +that old home of his, why money let it be. But there, shall not be the +two things, the desire of one for filthy lucre, the desire of the other +for love. He shall decide. + +She has grown very pale. She has drawn herself up to her full height, +and her lips are pressed together. And now a strange thought comes to +her. If--_if_ she loved him, could she bear thus to analyze him. To take +him to pieces, to dissect him as it were? Once again that feeling of +fear oppresses her. Is she so cold, so deliberate in herself that she +suspects others of coldness. After all--if he does love her--if he only +hesitates because---- + +_A step outside the door!_ + +Instinctively she glances at one of the long mirrors that line the walls +from floor to ceiling. Involuntarily her hands rush to her head. She +gives a little touch to her gown. And now is sitting in a +lounging-chair, a little pale still perhaps, but in all other respects +the very picture of unconsciousness. It is--it must be---- + +It isn't, however. + +Mr. Browne, opening the door in his own delightfully breezy fashion that +generally plays old Harry with the hinges and blows the ornaments off +the nearest tables, advances towards her with arms outspread, and the +liveliest admiration writ upon his features, which, to say the truth, +are of goodly proportions. + +"Oh! Thou wonder of the world!" cries he in accents ecstatic. He has +been reading "Cleopatra" (that most charming of books) assiduously for +the past few days, during which time he has made himself an emphatic +nuisance to his friends: perpetual quotations, however apt or salutary, +proving as a rule a bore. + +"That will do, Dicky! We _all_ know about that," says Miss Kavanagh, who +is a little unnerved, a little impatient perhaps. Mr. Browne, however, +is above being snubbed by anyone. He continues on his way rejoicing. + +"Thou living flame!" cries he, making what he fondly supposes to be a +stage attitude. "Thou thing of beauty. Though _fleshpot of Egypt_!" + +He has at last surpassed himself! He stands silent waiting for the +plaudits of the crowd. The crowd, however, is unappreciative. + +"Nonsense!" says Miss Kavanagh shortly. "I wonder you aren't tired of +_making_ people tired. Your eternal quotations would destroy the +patience of an anchorite. And as for that last sentence of yours, you +know very well it isn't in Rider Haggard's book. He'd have been ashamed +of it." + +"_Would_ he? Bet you he wouldn't! And if it isn't in his book, all I can +say is it ought to have been. Mere oversight leaving it out. He _will_ +be sorry if I drop him a line about it. Shouldn't wonder if it produced +a new edition. But for my part, I believe it _is_ in the book. +Fleshpots, Egypt, you know; hardly possible to separate 'em now from the +public mind." + +"Well; he could separate them any way. There isn't a single word about +them in the book from start to finish." + +"No? D'ye say so?" Here Mr. Browne grows lost in thought. +"Fleshpots--pots--hot pots; hot _potting_! Hah!" He draws himself +together with all the manner of one who has gone down deep into a thing, +and comes up from it full of knowledge. "I've 'mixed those babies up,'" +says he mildly. "But still I can hardly believe that that last valuable +addition to Mr. Haggard's work is all my own." + +"Distinctly your own," with a suggestion of scorn, completely thrown +away upon the receiver of it. + +"D'ye say so! By Jove! And very neat too! Didn't think I had it in me. +After all to write a book is an easy matter; here am I, who never +thought about it, was able to form an entire sentence full of the most +exquisite wit and humor without so much as knowing I was doing it. Tell +you what, Joyce, I'll send it to the author with a card and my +compliments you know. Horrid thing to be _mean_ about anything, and if I +can help him out with a 999th edition or so, I'll be doing him a good +turn. Eh?" + +"I suppose you think you are amusing," says Miss Kavanagh, regarding him +with a critical eye. + +"My good child, I _know_ that expression," says Mr. Browne, amiably. "I +know it by heart. It means that you think I'm a fool. It's politer +now-a-days to look things than to say them, but wait awhile and you'll +_see_. Come; I'll bet you a shilling to a sovereign that he'll be +delighted with my suggestion, and put it into his next edition without +delay. No charge! Given away! The lot for a penny-three-farthings. In +fact, I make it a present to him. Noble, eh? Give it to him for +_nothing_!" + +"About its price," says Miss Kavanagh thoughtfully. + +"Think you so? You are dull to-night, Jocelyne. Flashes of wit pass you +by without warming you. Yet I tell you this idea that has flowed from my +brain is a priceless one. Never mind the door--he's not coming yet. +Attend to me." + +"_Who's_ not coming?" demands she, the more angrily in that she is +growing miserably aware of the brilliant color that is slowly but surely +bedecking her cheeks. + +"Never mind! It's a mere detail; attend to _me_ and I entreat you," says +Mr. Browne, who is now quite in his element, having made sure of the +fact that she is expecting somebody. It doesn't matter in the least who +to Mr. Browne, expectation is the thing wherein to catch the +embarrassment of Miss Kavanagh, and forthwith he sets himself gaily to +the teazing of her. + +"Attend to _what_?" says she with a little frown. + +"If you had studied your Bible, Jocelyne, with that care that I should +have expected from you, you would have remembered that forty odd years +the Israelites hankered after those very fleshpots of Egypt to which I +have been alluding. Now I appeal to you, as a sensible girl, would +anybody hanker after anything for forty odd years (_very_ odd years as +it happens), unless it was to their advantage to get it; unless, indeed, +the object pursued was _priceless_!" + +"You ask too much of _this_ sensible girl," says Miss Kavanagh, with a +carefully manufactured yawn. "Really, dear Dicky, you must forgive me if +I say I haven't gone into it as yet, and that I don't suppose I shall +ever _see_ the necessity for going into it." + +"But, my good child, you must see that those respectable people, the +Israelites, wouldn't have pursued a mere shadow for forty years." + +"That's just what I _don't_ see. There are such a number of fools +everywhere, in every age, that one couldn't tell." + +"This is evasion," says Mr. Browne sternly. "To bring you face to face +with facts must be my very unpleasant if distinct duty. Joyce, do you +dare to doubt for one moment that I speak aught but the truth? Will you +deny that Cleopatra, that old serpent of the----" + +"Ha--ha--ha," laughs Joyce ironically. "I wish she could hear you. Your +life wouldn't be worth a moment's purchase." + +"Mere slip. Serpent of _old_ Nile. Doesn't matter in the least," says +Mr. Browne airily, "because she couldn't hear me as it happens. My dear +girl, follow out the argument. Cleopatra, metaphorically speaking, was a +fleshpot, because the world hankered after her. And--you're another." + +"Really, Dicky, I must protest against your talking slang to me." + +"Where does the slang come in? You're another fleshpot. I meant to +say--or convey--because _we_ all hanker after you." + +"Do you?" with rising wrath. "May I ask what hankering means?" + +"You had better not," says Mr. Browne mysteriously. "It was one of the +rites of Ancient Kem!" + +"Now there is _one_ thing, Dicky," says Miss Kavanagh, her wrath boiling +over. "I won't be called names. I won't be called a _fleshpot_. You'll +draw the line there if you please." + +"My dear girl, why not? Those delectable pots must have been +_bric-à-brac_ of the most _recherché_ description. Of a most delicate +shape, no doubt. Of a pattern, tint, formation, general get up--not to +be hoped for in these prosaic days." + +"Nonsense," indignantly. She is fairly roused now, and Mr. Browne +regarding her with a proud eye, tells himself he is about to have his +reward at last. "You know very well that the term 'fleshpots' referred +to what was _in_ the pots, not to the pots themselves." + +"That's all you know about it. That's where your fatal ignorance comes +in, my poor Joyce," says he, with immense compassion. "Search your Bible +from cover to cover, and I defy you to find a single mention of the +contents of those valuable bits of _bric-à-brac_. Of flesh_pots_--heavy +emphasis on the _pots_--and ten fingers down at once if you please--we +read continually as being hankered after by the Israelites, who then, as +now, were evidently avid collectors." + +"You've been having champagne, Dicky," says Miss Kavanagh, regarding him +with a judicial eye. + +"So have you. But I can't see what that excellent beverage has got to do +with the ancient Jews. Keep to the point. Did you ever hear that they +expressed a longing for the _flesh_ of Egypt? No. So far so good. The +pots themselves were the objects of their admiration. During that +remarkable run of theirs through the howling wilderness they, one and +all, to a _man_, betrayed the true æsthetic tendency. They raved +incessantly for the girl--I beg pardon--the _land_ they had left behind +them. The land that contained those priceless jars." + +"I wonder how you can be so silly," says Miss Kavanagh disdainfully. +Will he _never_ go away! If he stays, and if--the other--comes---- + +"Silly! my good child. _How_ silly! Why everything goes to prove the +probability of my statement. The taste for articles of _vertu_--for +antiquities--for fossils of all descriptions that characterized them +then, has lived to the present day. _Then_ they worried after old china, +and who shall deny that now they have an overwhelming affection for old +clo'." + +"Well; your folly doesn't concern me," says Miss Kavanagh, gathering up +her skirts with an evident intention of shaking off the dust of his +presence from her feet and quitting him. + +"I am sorry that you should consider it folly," says Mr. Browne +sorrowfully. "I should not have said so much about it perhaps but that I +wanted to prove to you that in calling _you_ a fleshpot I only meant +to----" + +"I won't be called that," interrupts Miss Kavanagh angrily. "It's +_horrid_! It makes me feel quite _fat_! Now, once for all, Dicky, I +forbid it. I won't have it." + +"I don't see how you are to get out of it," says Mr. Browne, shaking his +head and hands in wild deprecation. "Fleshpots were desirable +articles--you're another--ergo--you're a fleshpot. See the argument?" + +"No I don't," indignantly. "I see only you--and--I wish I _didn't_." + +"Very rude; _very_!" says Mr. Browne, regretfully. "Yet I entreat thee +not to leave me without one other word. Follow up the argument--_do_. +Give me an answer to it." + +"Not one," walking to the door. + +"That's because it is unanswerable," says Mr. Browne complacently. "You +are beaten, you----" + +There is a sound outside the door; Joyce with her hand on the handle of +it, steps back and looks round nervously at Dicky. A quick color has +dyed her cheeks; instinctively she moves a little to one side and gives +a rapid glance into a long mirror. + +"I don't think really he could find a fault," says Mr. Browne +mischievously. "I should think there will be a good deal of hankering +going on to-night." + +Miss Kavanagh has only just barely time to wither him, when Beauclerk +comes hurriedly in. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + + "Thinkest thou there are no serpents in the world + But those who slide along the grassy sod, + And sting the luckless foot that presses them? + There are, who in the path of social life + Do bask their spotted skins in fortune's son, + And sting the soul." + + +"Oh, there you are," cries he jovially. "Been looking for you +everywhere. The music has begun; first dance just forming. Gay and +lively quadrille, you know--country ball wouldn't know itself without a +beginning like that. Come; come on." + +Nothing can exceed his _bonhomie_. He tucks her hand in the most +delightfully genial, appropriative fashion under his arm, and with a +beaming nod to Mr. Browne (he never forgets to be civil to anybody) +hurries Joyce out of the room, leaving the astute Dicky gazing after him +with mingled feelings in his eye. + +"Deuce and all of a smart chap," says Mr. Browne to himself slowly. "But +he'll fall through some day for all that, I shouldn't wonder." + +Meantime Mr. Beauclerk is still carrying on a charming recitative. + +"_Such a bore!_" he is saying, with heartfelt disgust in his tone. It is +really wonderful how he can _always_ do it. There is never a moment when +he flags. He is for ever up to time as it were, and equal to the +occasion. "I'm afraid you rather misunderstood me just now, when I said +I'd been looking for you--but the fact is, Browne's such an ass, if he +knew we had made an appointment to meet in the library, he'd have brayed +the whole affair to any and every one." + +"Was there an appointment?" says Miss Kavanagh, who is feeling a little +unsettled--a little angry with herself perhaps. + +"No--no," with a delightful acceptation of her rebuke. "You are right as +ever. I was wrong. But then, you see, it gave me a sort of joy to +believe that our light allusion to a possible happy half-hour before the +turmoil of the dance began might mean something _more_--something----Ah! +well never mind! Men are vain creatures; and after all it would have +been a happy half-hour to me _only_!" + +"Would it?" says she with a curious glance at him. + +"_You_ know that!" says he, with the full and earnest glance he can turn +on at a second's notice without the slightest injury to heart or mind. + +"I don't indeed." + +"Oh well, you haven't time to think about it perhaps. I found you very +fully occupied when--at last--I was able to get to the library. Browne +we all know is a very--er--lively companion--if rather wanting in the +higher virtues." + +"'_At last_,'" says she quoting his words. She turns suddenly and looks +at him, a world of inquiry in her dark eyes. "I hate pretence," says she +curtly, throwing up her young head with a haughty movement. "You said +you would be in the library at such an hour, and though I did not +_promise_ to meet you there, still, as I happened to be dressed earlier +than I believed possible, I came down, and you----? Where were you?" + +There is a touch of imperiousness in that last question that augurs +badly for a false wooer; but the imperiousness suits her. With her +pretty chin uptilted, and that little scornful curve upon her lips, and +her lovely eyes ablaze, she looks indeed "a thing of beauty." Beauclerk +regards her with distinct approbation. After all--had she even _half_ +the money that the heiress possesses, _what_ a wife she would make. And +it isn't decided yet one way or the other; sometimes Fate is kind. The +day may come when this delectable creature may fall to his portion. + +"I can see you are thinking hard things of me," says he reproachfully; +"but you little know how I have been passing the time I had so been +looking forward to. Time to be passed with _you_. That old Lady +Blake--she _would_ keep me maundering to her about that son of hers in +the Mauritius; _you_ know he and I were at St. Petersburg together. I +couldn't get away. You blame me--but what was I to do? An old +woman--unhappy----" + +"Oh no. You were _right_," says Joyce quickly. How good he is after all, +and how unjustly she had been thinking of him. So kind, so careful of +the feelings of a tiresome old woman. How few men are like him. How few +would so far sacrifice themselves. + +"Ah, you see it like that!" says, Mr. Beauclerk, not triumphantly, but +so modestly that the girl's heart goes out to him even more. How +_generous_ he is! Not a word of rebuke to her for her vile suspicion of +him. + +"Why you put me into good spirits again," says he laughing gaily. "We +must make haste, I fear, if we would save the first dance." + +"Oh yes--come," says Joyce going quickly forward. Evidently he is going +to ask her for the first dance! That _shows_ that he prefers her to---- + +"I'm so glad you have been able to sympathize with me about my last +disappointment," says Beauclerk. "If you hadn't--if you had had even one +hard thought of me, I don't know _how_ I should have been able to endure +what still lies before me. I am almost raging with anger, but when one's +sister is in question----" + +"You mean?" say Joyce a little faintly. + +"Oh, you haven't heard. I am so annoyed myself about it, that I fancied +everybody knew. You know I hoped that you would have been good enough to +give me the first dance, but when Isabel asked me to dance it with that +dreadful daughter of Lady Dunscombe's, what _could_ I do, now I ask +you?" appealing to her with hands and eyes. "What _could_ I do?" + +"Obey, of course," says she with an effort, but a successful one. "You +must hurry too, if you want to secure Miss Dunscombe." + +"Ah; what a misfortune it is to be the brother of one's hostess," says +he, with a sort of comic despair. His eyes are centred on her face, +reading her carefully, and with much secret satisfaction;--rapid as that +slight change upon her face had been, he had seen and noted it. + +"It couldn't possibly be a misfortune to be Lady Baltimore's brother," +says she smiling. "On the contrary, you are to be congratulated." + +"Not just at this moment surely!" + +"At this or any other moment. Ah!"--as they enter the ballroom. "The +room is already fuller than I thought. Engaged, Mr. Blake?" to Lord +Blake's eldest son. "No, not for this. Yes, with pleasure." + +She makes a little charming inclination of her head to Beauclerk, and +laying her hand on Mr. Blake's arm, moves away with him to where a set +is already forming at the end of the room. It is without enthusiasm she +takes her place with Dysart and one of the O'Donovan girls as +_vis-à-vis_, and prepares to march, retreat, twist and turn with the +best of them. + +"A dull old game," she is irreverently terming the quadrilles--that +massing together of inelegant movements so dear to the bucolic +mind--that saving clause for the old maids and the wall-flowers; when a +little change of position shows her the double quartette on the right +hand side of the magnificent ballroom. + +She had been half through an unimportant remark to Mr. Blake, but she +stops short now and forgets to finish it. Her color comes and goes. The +sides are now prancing through _their_ performance, and she and her +partner are standing still. Perhaps--_perhaps_ she was mistaken; with +all these swaying idiots on every side of her she might well have mixed +up one man's partner with another; and Miss Dunscombe (she had caught a +glimpse of her awhile ago) was surely in that set on the right hand +side. + +She stoops forward, regardless--_oblivious_--of her partner's surprised +glance, who has just been making a very witty remark, and being a rather +smart young man, accustomed to be listened to, is rather taken aback by +her open indifference. + +A little more forward she leans; yes, _now_--the couples part--for one +moment the coast lies clear. She can see distinctly. Miss Dunscombe is +indeed dancing in that set but _not_ as Mr. Beauclerk's partner. Miss +Maliphant has secured that enviable _rôle_. + +Even as Joyce gazes, Beauclerk, turning his head, meets her earnest +regard. He returns it with a beaming smile. Miss Maliphant, whose duty +it is at this instant to advance and retire and receive without the +support of a chaperone the attacks of the bold, bad man opposite, having +moved out of Beauclerk's sight, the latter, with an expressive glance +directed at Joyce, lifts his shoulders forlornly, and gives a +serio-comic shrug of his shoulders. All to show now bored a being he is +at finding himself thus the partner of the ugly heiress! It is all done +in a second. An inimitable bit of acting--but unpleasant. + +Joyce draws herself up. Her eyes fall away from his; unless the distance +is too far, the touch of disdain that lies in them should have +disconcerted even Mr. Beauclerk. Perhaps it has! + +"Our turn?" says she, giving her partner a sudden beautiful glance full +of fire--of life--of something that he fails to understand, but does +_not_ fail to consider charming. She smiles; she grows radiant. She is a +different being from a moment ago. How could he--Blake--have thought her +stupid. How she takes up every word--and throws new meaning into it--and +_what_ a laugh she has! Low-sweet--merry--music to its core! + +Beauclerk in his turn finds a loop-hole through which to look at her, +and is conscious of a faint feeling of chagrin. She oughtn't to have +taken it like that. To be a little pensive--a little sad--that would +have shewn a right spirit. Well--the night is long. He can play his game +here and there. There is plenty of time in which to regain lost ground +with one--to gain fresh ground with the other. Joyce will forgive +him--when she hears _his_ version of it. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + + "If thou canst see not, hast thou ears to hear?--Or + is thy soul too as a leaf that dies?" + + +"Well, after all, life has its compensations," says Mr. Beauclerk, +sinking upon the satin lounge beside Miss Kavanagh, and giving way to a +rapturous sigh. He is looking very big and very handsome. His +close-cropped eminently aristocratic head is thrown a little back, to +give full play to the ecstatic smile he is directing at Joyce. + +She bears it wonderfully. She receives it indeed with all the amiable +imbecility of a person who doesn't understand what on earth you are +talking about. Whether this reception of his little opening speech--so +carefully prepared--puzzles or nettles Mr. Beauclerk there is no way of +learning. He makes no sign. + +"I thought I should never be able to get a dance with you; you +see,"--smiling--"when one is the belle of the evening, one grows +difficult. But you _might_ have kept a fifth or sixth for a poor +outsider like me. An old friend too." + +"Old friends don't count at a dance, I'm afraid," says she, with a smile +as genial as his own; "though for the matter of that you could have had +the first; _no one_--hard as it may be to make you believe it--had asked +the belle of the evening for that." + +This is not quite true. Many had asked for it, Dysart amongst others; +but she had kept it open for--the one who didn't want it. However, fibs +of this sort one blinks at where pretty girls are the criminals. Her +tone is delicately sarcastic. She would willingly suppress the sarcasm +altogether as beneath her, but she is very angry; and when a woman is +angry there is generally somebody to pay. + +"Oh! that _first_!" says he, with a gesture of impatience. "I shan't +forgive Isabel in a hurry about that; she ruined my evening--up to +_this_. However," throwing off as it were unpleasant memories by a shake +of his head, "don't let me spoil my one good time by dwelling upon a bad +one. Here I am now, at all events; here is comfort, here is peace. The +hour I have been longing for is mine at last." + +"It might have been yours considerably earlier," says Miss Kavanagh with +very noteworthy deliberation, unmoved by his lover-like glances, which +after all have more truth in them than most of his declarations. She +sits playing with her fan, and with a face expressionless as any sphinx. + +"Oh! my _dear_ girl!" says Mr. Beauclerk reproachfully, "how can you say +that! You know in one's sister's house one must--eh? And she laid +positive commands on me----" + +"To dance the first dance with Miss Maliphant?" + +"Now, that's not like you," says Mr. Beauclerk very gently. "It's not +just. When I found Miss Dunscombe engaged for that ridiculous quadrille, +what could I do? _You_ were engaged to Blake. I was looking aimlessly +round me, cursing my luck in that I had not thrown up even my sister's +wishes and secured before it was too late the only girl in the room I +cared to dance with when Isabel came again. 'Not dancing,' says she; +'and there's Miss Maliphant over there, partnerless!'" + +He tells all this with as genuine an air as if it was not false from +start to finish. + +"You _know_ Isabel," says he, laughing airily; "she takes the oddest +fancies at times. Miss Maliphant is her latest craze. Though what she +can see in her----A _nice_ girl. Thoroughly nice--essentially _real_--a +little _too_ real perhaps," with a laugh so irresistible that even Miss +Kavanagh against her will is compelled to join in it. + +"Honest all through, I admit; but as a _waltzer_! Well, well, we +shouldn't be too severe--but really, there you know, she leaves +_everything_ to be desired. And I've been victimized not once, but +twice--_three_ times." + +"It is nothing remarkable," says Miss Kavanagh, coldly. "Many very +charming girls do not dance well. It is a gift." + +"A very precious one. When a charming girl can't waltz, she ought to +learn how to sit down charmingly, and not oppress innocent people. As +for Miss Maliphant!" throwing out his large handsome hands expressively, +"_she_ certainly should not dance. Her complexion doesn't stand it. Did +you notice her?" + +"No," icily. + +"Ah, you wouldn't, you know. I could see how thoroughly well occupied +_you_ were! Not a thought for even an old friend; and besides you're a +girl in ten thousand. Nothing petty or small about you. Now, another +woman would not have failed to notice the fatal tendency towards +rubicundity that marks Miss Maliphant's nose whenever----" + +"I do so dislike discussing people behind their backs," says Miss +Kavanagh, slowly. "I always think it is so _unfair_. They can't defend +themselves. It is like maligning the dead." + +"Miss Maliphant isn't dead at all events. She is dreadfully alive," says +Mr. Beauclerk, totally unabashed. He laughs gaily. To refuse to be +lectured was a rule he had laid down for his own guidance early in life. +Those people who will not see when they ought to be offended have +generally the best of the game. + +"Would you have her dead?" asks Joyce, with calm interrogation. + +"I don't remember saying I would have her _any_ way," says he, still +evidently clinging to the frivolous mood. "And at all events I wouldn't +have her _dancing_. It disagrees with her nose. It makes her suggestive; +it betrays one into the making of bad parodies. One I made to-night when +looking at her; I couldn't resist it. For once in her life you see she +was irresistible. Hear it. 'Oh! my love's got a red, red nose!' Ha! ha! +Not half bad, eh? It kept repeating itself in my brain all the time I +was looking at her." + +"I thought you liked her," says Joyce, lifting her large dark eyes for +the first time to his. Beautiful eyes! a little shocked now--a little +cold--almost entreating. Surely, surely, he will not destroy her ideal +of him. + +"You think I am censorious," says he readily, "cruel almost; but to +_you_"--with delicate flattery--"surely I may speak to _you_ as I would +speak to no other. May I not?" He leans a little forward, and compelling +the girl's reluctant gaze, goes on speaking. It chafes him that she +should put him on his defence; but some _one_ divine instinct within him +warns him not to break with her entirely. "Still," says he, in a low +tone, always with his eyes on hers, "I see that you condemn me." + +"Condemn you! No! Why should _I_ be your judge?" + +"You _are_, however--and my judge and jury too. I cannot bear to think +that you should despise me. And all because of that wretched girl." + +"I don't despise you," says the girl, quickly. "If you were really +despicable I should not like you as well as I do; I am only sorry that +you should say little unkind things of a girl like Miss Maliphant, who, +if not beautiful, is surely to be regarded in a very kindly light." + +"Do you know," says Mr. Beauclerk, gently, "I think you are the one +sweet character in the world." There is a great amount of belief in his +tone, perhaps half of it is honest. "I never met any one like you. Women +as a rule are willing to tear each other to pieces but you--you condone +all faults; that is why I----" + +A pause. He leans forward. His eyes are eloquent; his tongue alone +refrains from finishing the declaration that he had begun. To the girl +beside him, however, ignorant of subterfuge, unknowing of the wiles that +run in and out of society like a thread, his words sound sweet--the +sweeter for the very hesitation that accompanies them. + +"I am not so perfect as you think me," says she, rather sadly--her voice +a little faint. + +"That is true," says he quickly, as though compelled against his will to +find fault with her. "A while ago you were angry with me because I was +driven to waste my time with people uncongenial to me. _That_ was unfair +if you like." He throws her own accusation back at her in the gentlest +fashion. "I danced with this, that, and the other person it is true, but +do you not know where my heart was all this time?" + +He pauses for a moment, just long enough to make more real his question, +but hardly long enough to let her reply to it. To bring matters to a +climax, would not suit him at all. + +"Yes, you _do_ know," says he, seeing her about to speak. "And _yet_ you +misjudge me. If--if I were to tell you that I would rather be with you +than with any other woman in the world, you would believe me, wouldn't +you?" + +He stoops over her, and taking her hand presses it fondly, lingeringly. +"Answer me." + +"Yes," says Joyce in a low tone. It has not occurred to her that his +words are a question rather than an asseveration. That he loves her, +seems to her certain. A soft glow illumines her cheeks; her eyes sink +beneath his; the idea that she is happy, or at all events _ought_ to be +happy, fills her with a curious wonderment. Do people always feel so +strange, so surprised, so _unsure_, when love comes to them? + +"Yet you _did_ doubt," says Beauclerk, giving her hand a last pressure, +and now nestling back amongst his cushions with all the air of a man who +has fought and conquered and has been given his reward. "Well, don't let +us throw an unpleasant memory into this happy hour. As I have said," +taking up her fan and idly, if gracefully, waving it to and fro, "after +all the turmoil of the fight it is sweet to find oneself at last in the +haven where one would be." + +He is smiling at Joyce--the gayest, the most candid smile in the world. +Smiles become him. He is looking really handsome and _happy_ at finding +himself thus alone with her. Sincerity declares itself in every line of +his face. Perhaps he _is_ as sincere as he has ever yet been in his +life. The one thing that he unquestionably does regard with interest +beyond his own poor precious bones, is the exquisite bit of nature's +workmanship now sitting beside him. + +At this present moment, in spite of his flattering words, his smiles and +telling glances, she is still a little cold, a little uncertain, a phase +of manner that renders her indescribably charming to the one watching +her. + +Beauclerk indeed is enjoying himself immensely. To a man of his +temperament to be able to play upon a nature as fine, as honest, as pure +as Joyce's is to know a keen delight. That the girl is dissatisfied, +vaguely, nervously dissatisfied, he can read as easily as though the +workings of her soul lay before him in broad type, and to assuage those +half-defined misgivings of hers is a task that suits him. He attacks it +_con amore_. + +"How silent you are," says he, very gently, when he has let quite a long +pause occur. + +"I am tired, I think." + +"Of me?" + +"No." + +"Of what then?" He has found that as a rule there is nothing a woman +likes better than to be asked to define her own feelings, Joyce, +however, disappoints him. + +"I don't know. Sitting up so late I suppose." + +"Look here!" says he, in a voice so full of earnest emotion that Joyce +involuntarily stares at him; "_I_ know what is the matter with you. You +are fighting against your better nature. You are _trying_ to be +ungenerous. You are trying to believe what you know is not true. Tell +me--_honestly_ mind--are you not forcing yourself to regard me as a +monster of insincerity?" + +"You are wrong," says she, slowly. "I am forcing myself, on the +contrary, to believe you a very giant of sincerity." + +"And you find that difficult?" + +"Yes." + +An intense feeling of admiration for her sways Beauclerk. How new a +thing to find a girl so beautiful, with so much intelligence. Surely +instinct is the great lever that moves humanity. Why has not this girl +the thousands that render Miss Maliphant so very desirable? What a +_bêtise_ on the part of Mother Nature. Alas! it would be too much to +expect from that niggardly Dame. Beauty, intelligence, wealth! All +rolled into one personality. Impossible! + +"You are candid,'" says he, his tone sorrowful. + +"That is what one should always be," says she in turn. + +"You are _too_ stern a judge. How shall I convince you," exclaims +he--"of _what_ he leaves open? If I were to swear----" + +"_Do_ not," says she quickly. + +"Well, I won't. But Joyce!" He pauses, purposely. It is the first time +he has ever called her by her Christian name, and a little soft color +springs into the girl's cheeks as she hears him. "You know," says he, +"you _do_ know?" + +It is a question; but _again_ what? _What_ does she know? He had +accredited her with remarkable intelligence a moment ago, but as a fact +the girl's knowledge of life is but a poor thing in comparison with that +of the man of the world. She belies her intelligence on the spot. + +"Yes, I think I do," says she shyly. In fact she is longing to believe, +to be sure of this thing, that to her is so plain that she has omitted +to notice that he has never put it into words. + +"You will trust in me?" says he. + +"Yes, I trust you," says she simply. + +Her pretty gloved hand is lying on her lap. Raising it, he presses it +passionately to his lips. Joyce, with a little nervous movement, +withdraws it quickly. The color dies from her lips. Even at this supreme +moment does Doubt hold her in thrall! + +Her face is marvelously bright and happy, however, as she rises +precipitately to her feet, much to Beauclerk's relief. It has gone quite +far enough he tells himself--five minutes more and he would have found +himself in a rather embarrassing position. Really these pretty girls are +very dangerous. + +"Come, we must go back to the ballroom," says she gaily. "We have been +here an unconscionable time. I am afraid my partner for this dance has +been looking for me, and will scarcely forgive my treating him so badly. +If I had only told him I _wouldn't_ dance with him he might have got +another partner and enjoyed himself." + +"Better to have loved and lost," quotes Beauclerk in his airiest manner. +It is _so_ airy that it strikes Joyce unpleasantly. Surely after +all--after----She pulls herself together angrily. Is she _always_ to +find fault with him? Must she have his whole nature altered to suit her +taste? + +"Ah, there is Dicky Browne," says she, glancing from where she is now +standing at the door of the conservatory to where Mr. Browne may be seen +leaning against a curtain with his lips curved in a truly benevolent +smile. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + + "Now the nights are all past over + Of our dreaming, dreams that hover + In a mist of fair false things: + Night's afloat on wide wan wings." + + +"Why, so it is! Our _own_ Dicky, in the flesh and an admirable temper +apparently," says Mr. Beauclerk. "Shall we come and interview him?" + +They move forward and presently find themselves at Mr. Browne's elbow; +he is, however, so far lost in his kindly ridicule of the poor silly +revolving atoms before him, that it is not until Miss Kavanagh gives his +arm a highly suggestive pinch that he learns that she is beside him. + +"_Wough!_" says he, shouting out this unclassic if highly expressive +word without the slightest regard for decency. "_What_ fingers you've +got! I really think you might reserve that kind of thing for Mr. Dysart. +_He'd_ like it." + +This is a most infelicitous speech, and Miss Kavanagh might have +resented it, but for the strange fact that Beauclerk, on hearing it, +laughs heartily. Well, if _he_ doesn't mind, it can't matter, but how +silly Dicky can be! Mr. Beauclerk continues to laugh with much +enjoyment. + +"Try him!" says he to Miss Kavanagh, with the liveliest encouragement in +his tone. If it occurs to her that, perhaps, lovers, as a rule, do not +advise their sweethearts to play fast and loose with other men, she +refuses to give heed to the warning. He is not like other men. He is not +basely jealous. He knows her. He trusts her. He had hinted to her but +just now, so very, very kindly that _she_ was suspicious, that she must +try to conquer that fault--if it is hers. And it is. There can be no +doubt of that. She had even distrusted _him_! + +"Is that your advice?" asks Mr. Browne, regarding him with a rather +piercing eye. "Capital, _under the circumstances_, but rather, +eh?----Has it ever occurred to you that Dysart is capable of a good deal +of feeling?" + +"So few things occur to me, I'm ashamed to say," says Beauclerk, +genially. "I take the present moment. It is all-sufficing, so far as I'm +concerned. Well; and so you tell me Dysart has feeling?" + +"Yes; I shouldn't advise Miss Kavanagh to play pranks with him," says +Dicky, with a pretentiously rueful glance at the arm she has just +pinched so very delicately. + +"You're a poor soldier!" says she, with a little scornful uptilting of +her chin. "You wrong Mr. Dysart if you think he would feel so slight an +injury. What! A mere touch from _me_!" + +"Your touch is deadlier than you know, perhaps," says Mr. Browne, +lightly. + +"What a slander!" says Miss Kavanagh, who, in spite of herself, is +growing a little conscious. + +"Yes; isn't it?" says Beauclerk, to whom she has appealed. "As for +me----" He breaks off suddenly and fastens his gaze severely on the +other side of the room. "By Jove! I had forgotten! There is my partner +for this dance looking daggers at me. Dear Miss Kavanagh, you will +excuse me, won't you? Shall I take you to your chaperone, or will you +let Browne have the remainder of this waltz?" + +"I'll look after Miss Kavanagh, if she will allow me," says Dicky, +rather drily. "Will you?" with a quizzical glance at Joyce. + +She makes a little affirmative sign to him, returns Beauclerk's parting +bow, and, still with a heart as light as a feather, stands by Mr. +Browne's side, watching in silence the form of Beauclerk as it moves +here and there amongst the crowd. What a handsome man he is! How +distinguished! How tall! How big! Every other man looks dwarfed beside +him. Presently he disappears into an anteroom, and she turns to find Mr. +Browne, for a wonder, as silent as herself, and evidently lost in +thought. + +"What are you thinking of?" asks she. + +"Of you!" + +"Nonsense! What were you doing just then when I spoke to you?" + +"I have told you." + +"No, you haven't. What _were_ you doing?" + +"_Hankering!_" says Mr. Browne, heavily. + +"_Dicky!_" says she indignantly. + +"Well; what? Do you suppose a fellow gets rid of a disease of that sort +all in a minute? It generally lasts a good month, I can tell you. But +come; that 'Beautiful Star' of yours, that 'shines in your heaven so +bright,' has given you into my charge. What can I do for you?" + +"Deliver me from the wrath of that man over there," says Miss Kavanagh, +indicating Mr. Blake, who, with a thunderous brow, is making his way +towards her. "The last was his. I forgot all about it. Take me away, +Dicky; somewhere, anywhere; I know he's got a horrid temper, and he is +going to say uncivil things. Where" (here she meanly tries to get behind +Mr. Browne) "_shall_ we go." + +"Right through this door," says Mr. Browne, who, as a rule, is equal to +all emergencies. He pushes her gently towards the conservatory she has +just quitted, that has steps leading from it to the illuminated gardens +below, and just barely gets her safely ensconced behind a respectable +barricade of greenery before Mr. Blake arrives on the spot they have +just vacated. + +They have indeed the satisfaction of seeing him look vaguely round, +murmur a gentle anathema or two, and then resign himself to the +inevitable. + +"He's gone!" says Miss Kavanagh, with a sigh of relief. + +"To perdition!" says Mr. Browne in an awesome tone. + +"I really wish you wouldn't, Dicky," says Joyce. + +"Why not? You seem to think men's hearts are made of adamant! A moment +ago you sneered at _mine_, and now----By Jove! Here's Baltimore--and +alone, for a wonder." + +"Well! _His_ heart is adamant!" says she softly. + +"Or hers--which?" + +"Of course--manlike--you condemn our sex. That's why I'm glad I'm not a +man." + +"Why? Because, if you were, you would condemn your present sex?" + +"_Certainly_ not! Because I wouldn't be of an unfair, mean, ungenerous +disposition for the world." + +"Good old Jo!" says Mr. Browne, giving her a tender pat upon the back. + +By this time Baltimore has reached them. + +"Have you seen Lady Baltimore anywhere?" asks he. + +"Not quite lately," says Dicky; "last tune I saw her she was dancing +with Farnham." + +"Oh--after that she went to the library," says Joyce quickly. "I fancy +she may be there still, because she looked a little tired." + +"Well, she had been dancing a good deal," says Dicky. + +"Thanks. I dare say I'll find her," says Baltimore, with an air of +indifference, hurrying on. + +"I hope he will," says Joyce, looking after him. + +"I hope so too--and in a favorable temper." + +"You're a cynic, Dicky, under all that airy manner of yours," says Miss +Kavanagh severely. "Come out to the gardens, the air may cool your +brain, and reduce you to milder judgments." + +"Of Lady Baltimore?" + +"Yes." + +"Truly I do seem to be sitting in judgment on her and her family." + +"Her _family_! What has Bertie done?" + +"Oh, there is more family than Bertie," says Mr. Browne. "She has a +brother, hasn't she?" + + * * * * * + +Meantime Lord Baltimore, taking Joyce's hint, makes his way to the +library, to find his wife there lying back in a huge arm-chair. She is +looking a little pale. A little _ennuyée_; it is plain that she has +sought this room--one too public to be in much request--with a view to +getting away for a little while from the noise and heat of the ballroom. + +"Not dancing?" says her husband, standing well away from her. She had +sprung into a sitting posture the moment she saw him, an action that has +angered Baltimore. His tone is uncivil; his remark, it must be +confessed, superfluous. _Why_ does she persist in treating him as a +stranger? Surely, on whatever bad terms they may be, she need not feel +it necessary to make herself uncomfortable on his appearance. She has +evidently been enjoying that stolen lounge, and _now_---- + +The lamplight is streaming full upon her face. A faint color has crept +into it. The white velvet gown she is wearing is hardly whiter than her +neck and arms, and her eyes are as bright as her diamonds; yet there is +no feature in her face that could be called strictly handsome. This, +Baltimore tells himself, staring at her as he is, in a sort of insolent +defiance of the cold glance she has directed at him. No; there is no +beauty about that face; distinctly bred, calm and pure, it might +possibly be called charming by those who liked her, but nothing more. +She is not half so handsome as--as--any amount of other women he knows, +and yet---- + +It increases his anger towards her tenfold to know that in her secret +soul she has the one face that to _him_ is beautiful, and ever _will_ be +beautiful. + +"You see," says she gently, and with an expressive gesture, "I longed +for a moment's pause, so I came here. Do they want me?" She rises from +her seat, looking very tall and graceful. If her face is not strictly +lovely, there is, at all events, no lack of loveliness in her form. + +"I can't answer for 'they,'" says Baltimore, "but"----he stops dead +short here. If he _had_ been going to say anything, the desire to carry +out his intention dies upon the spot. "No, I am not aware that 'they' or +anybody wants you particularly at this moment. Pray sit down again." + +"I have had quite a long rest already." + +"You look tired, however. _Are_ you?" + +"Not in the least." + +"Give me this dance," then says he, half mockingly, yet with a terrible +earnestness in his voice. + +"Give it to _you_! Thank you. No." + +"Fearful of contamination?" with a smiling sneer. + +"Pray spare me your jibes," says she very coldly, her face whitening. + +"Pray spare me your presence, you should rather say. Let us have the +truth at all hazards. A saint like you should be careful." + +To this she makes him no answer. + +"What!" cries he, sardonically; "and will you miss this splendid +opportunity of giving a sop to your Cerberus? Of conciliating your +bugbear? your _bête noire_? your _fear of gossip_?" + +"I fear nothing"--icily. + +"You do, however. Forgive the contradiction," with a sarcastic +inclination of the head. "But for this fear of yours you would have cast +me off long ago, and bade me go to the devil as soon as--nay, the sooner +the better. And indeed if it were not for the child----By the bye, do +you forget I have a hold on _him_--a stronger than yours?" + +"I _forget_ nothing either," returns she as icily as before; but now a +tremor, barely perceptible, but terrible in its intensity, shakes her +voice. + +"Hah! You need not tell me _that_. You are relentless as--well, 'Fate' +comes in handy," with a reckless laugh. "Let us be conventional by all +means, and it is a good old simile, well worn! You decline my proposal +then? It is a sensible one, and should suit you. Dance with me to-night, +when all the County is present, and Mother Grundy goes to bed with a +sore heart. Scandal lies slain. All will cry aloud: '_There they go!_ +Fast friends in spite of all the lies we have heard about them.' Is it +possible you can deliberately forego so great a chance of puzzling our +neighbors?" + +"I can." + +"Why, where is your sense of humor? One trembles for it! To be able to +deceive them all so deliriously; to send them home believing us on good +terms, a veritable loving couple"--he breaks into a curious laugh. + +"This is too much," says she, her face now like death. "You would insult +me! Believe me, that not to spare myself all the gossip with which the +whole world could hurt me would I endure your arm around my waist!" + +His short-lived, most unmirthful mirth has died from him, he has laid a +hand upon the table near him to steady himself. + +"You are candid, on my soul," says he slowly. + +She moves quickly towards the door, her velvet skirt sweeping over his +feet as she goes by--the perfume of the violets lying in her bosom +reaches him. + +Hardly knowing his own meaning, he puts out his hand and catches her by +her naked arm, just where the long glove ceases above the elbow. + +"Isabel, give me this dance," says he a little wildly. + +"_No!_" + +She shakes herself free of him. A moment her eyes blaze into his. "No!" +she says again, trembling from head to foot. Another moment, and the +door has closed behind her. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + + "The old, old pain of earth." + + +It is now close upon midnight--that midnight of the warmer months when +day sets its light finger on the fringes of it. There is a sighing +through the woods, a murmur from the everlasting sea, and though Diana +still rides high in heaven with her handmaiden Venus by her side, yet in +a little while her glory will be departed, and her one rival, the sun, +will push her from her throne. + +The gleaming lamps among the trees-are scarcely so bright as they were +an hour ago, the faint sighing of the wind that heralds the morning is +shaking them to and fro. A silly bird has waked, and is chirping in a +foolish fashion among the rhododendrons, where, in a secluded path, +Joyce and Dicky Browne are wandering somewhat aimlessly. Before them +lies a turn in the path that leads presumably into the dark wood, +darkest of all at this hour, and where presumably, too, no one has +ventured, though one should never presume about hidden corners. + +"I can't think what you see in him," says Mr. Browne, after a big pause. +"I'd say nothing if his face wasn't so fat, but if I were you, that +would condemn him in my eyes." + +"I can't see that his face is fatter than yours," says Miss Kavanagh, +with what she fondly believes perfect indifference. + +"Neither is it," says Mr. Browne meekly, "but my dear girl, there lies +the gist of my argument. You have condemned me. All my devotion has been +scouted by you. I don't pretend to be the wreck still that once by your +cruelty you made me, but----" + +"Oh, that will do," says Joyce, unfeelingly. "As for Mr. Beauclerk, I +don't know why you should imagine I see anything in him." + +"Well, I confess I can't quite understand it myself. He couldn't hold a +candle to--er--well, several other fellows I could name, myself not +included, Miss Kavanagh, so that supercilious smile is thrown away. He +may be good to look at, there is certainly plenty of him on which to +feast the eye, but to fall in love with----" + +"What do you mean, Dicky? What are you speaking about--do you know? +You," with a deadly desire to insult him, "must be in love yourself +to--to maunder as you are doing?" + +"I'm not," says Mr. Browne, "that's the queer part of it. I don't know +what's the matter with me. Ever since you blighted me, I have lain +fallow, as it were. I," dejectedly, "haven't been in love for quite a +long, long time now. I miss it--I can't explain it. I can't be well, can +I? I," anxiously, "I don't look well, do I?" + +"I never saw you looking better," with unkind force. + +"Ah!" sadly, "that's because you don't give your attention to me. It's +my opinion that I'm fading away to the land o' the leal, like old +What-you-may-call-'em." + +"If that's the way he did it, it must have taken him some time. In fact, +he must be still at it," says Miss Kavanagh, heartlessly. + +By this time they had come to the end of the walk, and have turned the +corner. Before them lies a small grass plot surrounded by evergreens, a +cosy nook not to be suspected by any one until quite close upon it. It +bursts upon the casual pedestrian, indeed, as a charming surprise. There +is something warm, friendly, confidential about it--something safe. +Beyond lies the gloomy wood, embedded in night, but here the moonbeams +play. Some one with a thoughtful care for loving souls has placed in +this excellent spot for flirtation a comfortable garden seat, just +barely large enough for two, sternly indicative of being far too small +far the leanest three. + +Upon this delightful seat four eyes now concentrate themselves. As if by +one consent, although unconsciously, Mr. Browne and his companion come +to a dead stop. The unoffending seat holds them in thrall. + +Upon it, evidently on the best of terms with each other, are two people. +One is Miss Maliphant, the other Mr. Beauclerk. They are whispering +"soft and low." Miss Maliphant is looking, perhaps, a little +confused--for her--and the cause of the small confusion is transparent. +Beauclerk's hand is tightly closed over hers, and even as Dicky and Miss +Kavanagh gaze spellbound at them, he lifts the massive hand of the +heiress and imprints a lingering kiss upon it. + +"Come away," says Dicky, touching Joyce's arm. "Run for your life, but +softly." + +He and she have been standing in shadow, protected from the view of the +other two by a crimson rhododendron. Joyce starts as he touches her, as +one might who is roused from an ugly dream, and then follows him +swiftly, but lightly, back to the path they had forsaken. + +She is trembling in a nervous fashion, that angers herself cruelly, and +something of her suppressed emotion becomes known to Mr. Browne. +Perhaps, being a friend of hers, it angers him, too. + +"What strange freaks moonbeams play," says he, with a truly delightful +air of saying nothing in particular. "I could have sworn that just then +I saw Beauclerk kissing Miss Maliphant's hand." + +No answer. There is a little silence, fraught with what angry grief who +can tell? Dicky, who is not all froth, and is capable of a liking here +and there, is conscious of, and is sorry for, the nervous tremor that +shakes the small hand he has drawn within his arm; but he is so far a +philosopher that he tells himself it is but a little thing in her life; +she can bear it; she will recover from it; "and in time forget that she +had been ever ill," says this good-natured skeptic to himself. + +Joyce, who has evidently been struggling with herself, and has now +conquered her first feeling, turns to him. + +"You should not condemn the moonbeams unheard," says she, bravely, with +the ghost of a little smile. "The evidence of two impartial witnesses +should count in their favor." + +"But, my dear girl, consider," says Mr. Browne, mildly. "If it had been +anyone else's hand! I could then accuse the moonbeams of a secondary +offense, and say that their influence alone, which we all know has a +maddening effect, had driven him to so bold a deed. But not madness +itself could inspire me with a longing to kiss her hand." + +"She is a very good girl, and I like her," says Joyce, with a suspicious +vehemence. + +"So do I; so much, indeed, that I should shrink from calling her a good +girl. It is very damnatory, you know. You could hardly say anything more +prejudicial. It at once precludes the idea of her having any such minor +virtues as grace, beauty, wit, etc. Well, granted she is 'a good girl,' +that doesn't give her pretty hands, does it? As a rule, I think that all +good girls have gigantic points. I don't think I would care to kiss Miss +Maliphant's hands, even if she would let me." + +"She is a very honest, kind-hearted girl," says Miss Kavanagh a little +heavily. It suggests itself to Mr. Browne that she has not been +listening to him. + +"And a very rich one." + +"I never think about that when I am with her. I couldn't." + +"Beauclerk could," says Mr. Browne, tersely. + +There is another rather long silence, and Dicky is beginning to think he +has gone a trifle too far, and that Miss Kavanagh will cut him +to-morrow, when she speaks again. Her tone is composed, but icy enough +to freeze him. + +"It is a mistake," says she, "to discuss people towards whom one feels a +natural antagonism. It leads, one, perhaps, to say more than one +actually means. One is apt to grow unjust. I would never discuss Mr. +Beauclerk if I were you. You don't like him." + +"Well," says Mr. Browne, thoughtfully, "since you put it to me, I +confess I think he is the most rubbishy person I ever met!" + +After this sweeping opinion, conversation comes to a deadlock. It is not +resumed. Reaching the stone steps leading to the conservatory, they +ascend them in silence, and reach that perfumed retreat to find Dysart +on the threshold. + +"Oh, there you are!" cries he to Miss Kavanagh. "I thought you lost for +good and all!" His face has lighted up. Perhaps he feels a sense of +relief at finding her with Dicky, who is warranted harmless. He looks +almost handsome, better than handsome! The very soul of honesty shines, +in his kind eyes. + +"Oh! it is hard to lose what nobody wants," says Joyce in a would-be +playful tone, but something in the drawn, pained lines about her mouth +belies her mirth. Dysart, after a swift examination of her face, takes +her hand and draws it within his arm. + +"The last was our dance," says he. + +"Speak kindly of the dead," says Mr. Browne, as he beats a hasty +retreat. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + + "Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly; + Most friendship is feigning, most loving is folly." + + +"Did you forget?" asks Dysart, looking at her. + +"Forget?" + +"That the last dance was mine?" + +"Oh, was it? I'm so sorry. You must forgive me," with a feverish attempt +at gayety, "I will try to make amends. You shall have this one instead, +no matter to whom it may belong. Come. It is only just begun, I think." + +"Never mind," says Dysart, gently. "We won't dance this, I think. It is +cool and quiet here, and you are tired." + +"Oh, so tired," returns she with a little sudden pathetic cry, so +impulsive, so inexpressible that it goes to his heart. + +"Joyce! what is it?" says he, quickly. "Here, come and sit down. No, I +don't want an answer. It was an absurd question. You have overdone it a +little, that is all." + +"Yes, that is all!" She sinks heavily into the seat he has pointed out +to her, and lets her head fall back against the cushions. "However, when +you come to think of it, that means a great deal," says she, smiling +languidly. + +"There, don't talk," says he. "What is the good of having a friend if +you can't be silent with him when it so pleases you. That," laughing, +and arranging the cushions behind her head, "is one for you and two for +myself. I, too, pine for a moment when even the meagre 'yes' and 'no' +will not be required of me." + +"Oh, no," shaking her head. "It is all for me and nothing for yourself!" +she pauses, and putting out her hand lays it on his sleeve. "I think, +Felix," says she, softly, "you are the kindest man I ever met." + +"I told you you felt overdone," says he, laughing as if to hide the +sudden emotion that is gleaming in his eyes. He presses the hand resting +on his arm very gently, and then replaces it in her lap. To take +advantage of any little kindness she may show him now, when it is plain +that she is suffering from some mental excitement, grief or anger, or +both, would seem base to him. + +She has evidently accepted his offer of silence, and lying back in her +soft couch stares with unseeing eyes at the bank of flowers before her. +Behind her tall, fragrant shrubs rear themselves, and somewhere behind +her, too, a tiny fountain is making musical tinklings. The faint, tender +glow of a colored lamp gleams from the branches of a tropical tree close +by, and round it pale, downy moths are flitting, the sound of their +wings, as every now and then they approach too near the tempting glow +and beat them against the Japanese shade, mingling with the silvery fall +of the scented water. + +The atmosphere is warm, drowsy, a little melancholy. It seems to seize +upon the two sitting within its seductive influence, and threatens to +waft them from day dreams into dreams born of idle slumber. The rustle +of a coming skirt, however, a low voice, a voice still lower whispering +a reply, recalls them both to the fact that rest, complete and perfect, +is impossible under the circumstances. + +A little opening among the tall evergreens upon their right shows them +Lord Baltimore once more, but this time not alone. Lady Swansdown is +with him. + +She is looking rather lovelier than usual, with that soft tinge of red +upon her cheeks born of her last waltz, and her lips parted in a happy +smile. The subdued lights of the many lamps falling on her satin gown +rest there as if in love with its beauty. It is an old shade made new, a +yellow that is almost white, and has yet a tinge of green in it. A +curious shade, difficult, perhaps, to wear with good effect; but on Lady +Swansdown it seems to reign alone as queen of all the toilets in the +rooms to-night. She looks, indeed, like a perfect picture stepped down +from its canvas, "a thing of beauty," a very vision of delight. + +She seems, indeed, to Joyce watching her--Joyce who likes her--that she +has grown beyond herself (or rather into her own real self) to-night. +There is a touch of life, of passionate joy, of abandonment, of hope +that has yet a sting in it, in all her air, that, though not understood +of the girl, is still apparent. + +The radiant smile that illumines her beautiful face as she glances up at +Baltimore--who is bending over her in more lover-like fashion than +should be--is still making all her face a lovely fire as she passes out +of sight down the steps that lead to the lighted gardens--the steps that +Joyce had but just now ascended. + +The latter is still a little wrapt in wonder and admiration, and some +other thought that is akin to trouble, when Dysart breaks in upon her +fancies. + +"I am sorry about that," says he, bluntly, indicating with a nod of his +head the departing shadows of the two who have just passed out. There +are no fancies about Dysart. Nothing vague. + +"Yes; it is a pity," says Joyce, hurriedly. + +"More than that, I think." + +"Something ought to be done," nervously. + +"Yes," flushing hotly; "I know--I know what you mean"--she had meant +nothing--"but it is so difficult to know what to do, and--I am only a +cousin." + +"Oh, I wasn't thinking of you. I wasn't, really," says she, a good deal +shocked. "As you say, why should you speak, when----" + +"There is Beauclerk," says Dysart, quickly, as if a little angry with +somebody, but certainly not with her. "How can he stand by and see it?" + +"Perhaps he doesn't see it," says she in a strange tone, her eyes on the +marble flooring. It seems to herself that the words are forced from her. +"Because--because he has----" + +She brings her hands tightly together, so tightly that she reduces the +feathers on the fan she is holding to their last gasp. Because she is +now disappointed in him; because he has proved himself, perhaps, +unstable, deceptive to the heart's core, is she to vilify, him? A +thousand times no! That would be, indeed, to be base herself. + +"Perhaps not," says Dysart, drily. In his secret heart this defence of +his rival is detestable to him. Something in her whole manner when she +came in from the garden had suggested to him the possibility that she +had at last found him out. Dysart would have been puzzled to explain how +Beauclerk was supposed to be "found out" or for what, but that he was +liable to discovery at any moment on some count or counts unknown, was +one of his Christian beliefs. "Perhaps not," says he. "And yet I cannot +help thinking that a matter so open to all must be patent to him." + +"But," anxiously, "is it so open?" + +"I leave that to your own judgment," a little warmly. "You," with rather +sharp question, "are a friend of Isabel's?" + +"Yes, yes," quickly. "You know that. But----" + +"But?" sternly. + +"I like Lady Swansdown, too," says she, with some determination. "I find +it hard to believe that she can--can----" + +"Be false to her friend," supplements he. "Have you yet to learn that +friendship ends where love begins?" + +"You think----?" + +"That she is in love with Baltimore." + +"And he?" + +"Oh!" contemptuously; "who shall gauge the depth of his heart? What can +he mean?" he has risen and is now pacing angrily up and down the small +space before her. "He used to be such a good fellow, and now----Is he +dead to all sense of honor, of honesty?" + +"He is a man," says Joyce, coldly. + +"No. I deny that. Not a true man, surely." + +"Is there a true man?" says she. "Is there any truth, any honesty to be +found in the whole wide world?" + +She too has risen now, and is standing with her large dark eyes fixed +almost defiantly on his. There is something so strange, so wild, so +unlike her usual joyous, happy self in this outburst, in her whole +attitude, that Dysart regards her with an astonishment that is largely +tinctured with fear. + +"I don't know what is in your mind," says he, calmly; "something out of +the common has occurred to disturb you so much, I can guess, but," +looking at her earnestly, "whatever it maybe, I entreat you to beat it +under. Conquer it; do not let it conquer you. There must be evil in the +world, but never lose sight of the good; that must be there, just as +surely. Truth, honor, honesty, are no fables; they are to be found +everywhere. If not in this one, then in that. Do not lose faith in +them." + +"You think me evidently in a bad way," says she, smiling faintly. She +has recovered herself in part, but though she tries to turn his earnest +words into a jest, one can see that she is perilously near to tears. + +"You mean that I am preaching to you," says he, smiling too. "Well, so I +am. What right has a girl like you to disbelieve in anything? Why," +laughing, "it can't be so very long ago since you believed in fairies, +in pixies, and the fierce dragons of our childhood." + +"I don't know that I am not a believer in them still," says she. "In the +dragons, at all events. Evil seems to rule the world." + +"Tut!" says he. "I have preached in vain." + +"You would have me believe in good only," says she. "You assure me very +positively that all the best virtues are still riding to and fro, +redeeming the world, with lances couched and hearts on fire. But where +to find them? In you?" + +It is a very gentle smile she gives him as she says this. + +"Yes: so far, at least, as you are concerned," says he, stoutly. "I +shall be true and honest to you so long as my breath lives in my body. +So much I can swear to." + +"Well," says she, with a rather meagre attempt at light-heartedness, +"you almost persuade me with that truculent manner of yours into +believing in you at all events, or is it," a little sadly, "that the +ways of others drive me to that belief? Well," with a sigh, "never mind +how it is, you benefit by it, any way." + +"I don't want to force your confidence," says Dysart; "but you have been +made unhappy by somebody, have you not?" + +"I have not been made happy," says she, her eyes on the ground. "I don't +know why I tell you that. You asked a hard question." + +"I know. I should have been silent, perhaps, and yet----" + +At this moment the sound of approaching footsteps coming up the steps +startles them. + +"Joyce!" says he, "grant me one request." + +"One! You rise to tragedy!" says she, as if a little amused in spite of +the depression under which she is so evidently laboring. "Is it to be +your last, your dying prayer?" + +"I hope not. Nevertheless I would have it granted." + +"You have only to speak," says she, with a slight gesture that is half +mocking, half kindly. + +"Come with me after luncheon, to-morrow, up to St. Bridget's Hill?" + +"Is that all? And to throw such force into it. Yes, yes; I shall enjoy a +long walk like that." + +"It is not because of the walk that I ask you to go there with me," says +Dysart, the innate honesty that distinguishes him compelling him to lay +bare to her his secret meaning. "I have something to say to you. You +will listen?" + +"Why should I not?" returns she, a little pale. He might, perhaps, have +said something further, but that now the footsteps sound close at hand. +A glance towards the door that leads from the fragrant night into the +still more perfumed air within reveals to them two figures. + +Mr. Beauclerk and Miss Maliphant come leisurely forward. The blood +receding to Joyce's heart leaves her cold and singularly calm. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + + "Out of the day and night + A joy has taken flight." + + "Life, I know not what thou art." + + +"You two," cries Miss Maliphant pleasantly, in her loud, good-natured +voice. She addresses them as though it has been borne in upon her by +constant reminding that Joyce and Dysart are for the best of all reasons +generally to be found together. There is something not only genial, but +sympathetic in her tones, something that embarrasses Dysart, and angers +Joyce to the last degree. "Well, I'm glad to have met you for one moment +out of the hurly-burly," goes on the massive heiress to Joyce, with the +friendliest of smiles. "I'm off at cock-crow, you know, and so mightn't +have had the opportunity of saying good-bye to you, but for this +fortunate meeting." + +"To-morrow?" says Joyce, more with the manner of one who feels she must +say something than from any desire to say it. + +"Yes, and so early that I shall not have it in my power to bid farewell +to any one. Unless, indeed," with a glance at Beauclerk, meant, perhaps, +to be coquettish, but so elephantine in its proportions as to be almost +anything in the world but that, "some of my friends may wish to see the +sun rise." + +"We shall miss you," says Joyce, gracefully, though with an effort. + +"Just what I've been saying," breaks in Beauclerk at this juncture, who +hitherto has been looking on, with an altogether delightful smile upon +his handsome face. "We shall all miss Miss Maliphant. It is not often +that one meets with an entirely genial companion. My sister is to be +congratulated on securing such an acquisition, if only for a short +time." + +Joyce, lifting her eyes, stares straight at him. "For a short time!" +What does that mean? If Miss Maliphant is to be Lady Baltimore's +sister-in-law, she will undoubtedly secure her for a lifetime! + +"Oh, you are too good," says Miss Maliphant, giving him a playful flick +with her fan. + +"Well, what would you have me say?" persists Beauclerk still lightly, +with wonderful lightness, in fact, considering the weight of that +playful tap upon his bent knuckles. "That we shall not be sorry? Would +you have me lie, then? Fie, fie, Miss Maliphant! The truth, the truth, +and nothing but the truth! At all risks and hazards!" here he almost +imperceptibly sends flying a shaft from his eyes at Joyce, who receives +it with a blank stare. "We shall, I assure you, be desolated when you +go, specially Isabel." + +This last pretty little speech strikes Dysart as being specially neat: +This putting the onus of the regret on to Isabel's shoulders. All +through, Beauclerk has been careful to express himself as one who is an +appreciative friend of Miss Maliphant, but nothing more; yet so guarded +are these expressions, and the looks that accompany them, that Miss +Maliphant might be pardoned if she should read a warmer feeling in them. + +A sensation of disgust darkens his brow. + +"I must say you are all very nice to me," says the heiress complacently. +Poor soul! No doubt, she believes in every bit of it, and a large course +of kow-towing from the world has taught her the value of her pile. +"However," with true Manchester grace, "there's no need for howling over +it. We'll all meet again, I dare say, some time or other. For one thing, +Lady Baltimore has asked me to come here again after Christmas; +February, I dare say." + +"So glad!" murmurs Joyce rather vaguely. + +"So you see," said Miss Maliphant with ponderous gayety, "that we are +all bound to put in a second good time together; you're coming, I know, +Mr. Dysart, and Miss Kavanagh is always here, and Mr. Beauclerk "--with +a languishing glance at that charming person, who returns it in the most +open manner--"has promised me that he will be here to meet me." + +"Well, if I can, you know," says he, now beaming at her. + +"How's that?" says the heiress, turning promptly upon him. It is strange +how undesirable the very richest heiress can be at times. "Why, it's +only just this instant that you told me nothing would keep you away from +the Court next spring. What d'ye mean?" + +She brings him to book in a most uncompromising fashion; a fashion that +betrays unmistakably her plebeian origin. Dysart, listening, admires her +for it. Her rough and ready honesty seems to him preferable to the best +bred shuffling in the world. + +"Did I say all that?" says Beauclerk lightly, coloring a little, +nevertheless, as he marks the fine smile that is curling Joyce's lips. +"Why, then," gayly, "if I said it, I meant it. If I hesitated about +indorsing my intentions publicly, it is because one is never sure of +happiness beforehand; believe me, Miss Maliphant," with a little bow-to +her, but with a direct glance at Joyce, "every desire I have is centered +in the hope that next spring may see me here again." + +"Well, I expect we all have the same wish," says Miss Maliphant +cheerfully, who has not caught that swift glance at Joyce. "I'm sure I +hope that nothing will interfere with my coming here in February." + +"It is agreed, then," says Beauclerk, with a delightfully comprehensive +smile that seems to take in every one, even the plants and the dripping +fountain and the little marble god in the corner, who is evidently +listening with all his might. "We all meet here again early next year if +the fates be propitious. You, Dysart, you pledge yourself to join our +circle then?" + +"I pledge myself," says Dysart, fixing a cold gaze on him. It is so +cold, so distinctly hostile, that Beauclerk grows uncomfortable beneath +it. When uncomfortable his natural bias leads him towards a display of +bonhomie. + +"Here we have before us a prospect to cheer the soul of any man," +declares he, shifting his eyes from Dysart to Miss Maliphant. + +"It cheers me certainly," responds that heavy maiden with alacrity. "I +like to think we shall all meet again." + +"Like the witches in Macbeth," says Joyce, indifferently. + +"But not so malignantly, I hope," says the heiress brilliantly, who, +like most worthy people, can never see beyond her own nose. "For my part +I like old friends much better than new." She looks round for the +appreciation that should attend this sound remark, and is gratified to +find Dysart is smiling at her. Perhaps the core of that smile might not +have been altogether to her taste--most cores are difficult of +digestion. To her, to whom all things are new, where does the flavor of +the old come in? + +Beauclerk is looking at Joyce. + +"I hope the prospect cheers you too," says he a little sharply, as if +nettled by her determined silence and bent on making her declare +herself. "You, I trust, will be here next February." + +"Sure to be!" says she with an enigmatical smile. "Not a jot or tittle +of your enjoyments will be lost to you in the coming year. Both your +friends--Miss Maliphant and I--will be here to welcome you when you +return." + +Something in her manner, in the half-defiant light in her eyes, puzzles +Beauclerk. What has happened to her since they last were together? Not +more than an hour ago she had seemed--er--well. Inwardly he smiles +complacently. But now. Could she? Is it possible? Was there a chance +that---- + +"Miss Kavanagh," begins he, moving toward her. But she makes short work +of his advance. + +"I repent," says she, turning a lovely, smiling face on Dysart. "A while +ago I said I was too tired to dance. I did myself injustice. That +waltz--listen to it"--lifting up an eager finger--"would it not wake an +anchorite from his ascetic dreams? Come. There is time.". + +She has sprung to her feet--life is in every movement. She slips her arm +into Dysart's. Not understanding--yet half understanding, moves with +her--his heart on fire for her, his puzzlement rendering him miserable. + +Beauclerk, with that doubt of what she really knows full upon him, is +wiser. Without hesitation he offers his arm to Miss Maliphant; and, so +swift is his desire to quit the scene, he passes Dysart and Joyce, the +latter having paused for a moment to recover her fan. + +"You see!" says Beauclerk, bending over the heiress, when a turn in the +conservatory has hidden him from the view of those behind. "I told you!" +He says nothing more. It is the veriest whisper, spoken with an +assumption of merriment very well achieved. Yet, if she would have +looked at him, she could have seen that his very lips are white. But as +I have said, Miss Maliphant's mind has not been trained to the higher +courses. + +"Yes. One can see!" laughs she happily. "And it is charming, isn't it? +To find two people thoroughly in love with each other now-a-days, is to +believe in that mad old world of romance of which we read. They're very +nice too, both of them. I do like Joyce. She's one in a thousand, and +Mr. Dysart is just suited to her. They are both thorough! There's no +nonsense about them. Now that you have pointed it out to me, I think I +never saw two people so much in love with each other as they." + +Providentially, she is looking away from him to where a quadrille is +forming in the ballroom, so that the deadly look of hatred that adorns +his handsome face is unknown to her. + + * * * * * + +Meantime, Joyce, with that convenient fan recovered, is looking with sad +eyes at Dysart. + +"Come; the music will soon cease," says she. + +"Why do you speak to me like that?" cries he vehemently. "If you don't +want to dance, why not say so to me? Why not trust me? Good heavens! if +I were your bitterest enemy you could not treat me more distantly. And +yet--I would die to make you happy." + +"Don't!" says she in a little choking sort of way, turning her face from +him. She struggles with herself for a moment, and then, still with her +face averted, says meekly: "Thank you, then. If you don't mind, I should +rather not dance any more to-night." + +"Why didn't you say that at first?" says he, with a last remnant of +reproach. "No; there shall be no more dancing to-night for either you or +me. A word, Joyce!" turning eagerly toward her, "you won't forget your +promise about that walk to-morrow?" + +"No. No, indeed." + +"Thank you!" + +They are sitting very close together, and almost insensibly his hand +seeks and finds hers. It was lying idle on her lap, and lifting it, he +would have raised it to his lips, but with a sharp, violent action she +wrests it from him, and, as a child might, hides it behind her. + +"If you would have me believe in you----No, no, not that," says she, a +little incoherently, her voice rendering her meaning with difficulty. +Dysart, astonished, stands back from her, waiting for something more; +but nothing comes, except two large tears, that steal heavily, +painfully, down her cheeks. + +She brushes them impatiently away. + +"Forgive me," she says, somewhat brokenly. "To you, who are so good to +me, I am unkind, while to those who are unkind to me I----" She is +trying to rally. "It was a mere whim, believe me. I have always hated +demonstrations of any sort, and why should you want to kiss my hand?" + +"I shouldn't," says he. "If----" His eyes have fallen from her eyes to +her lips. + +"Never mind," says she; "I didn't understand, perhaps. But why can't you +be content with things as they are?" + +"Are you content with them?" + +"I think so. I have been examining myself, and honestly I think so," +says she a little feverishly. + +"Well, I'm not," returns he with decision. "You must give me credit for +a great private store of amiability, if you imagine that I am satisfied +to take things as they now exist--between you and me!" + +"You have your faults, you see, as well as another," says she with a +frown. "You are persistent! And the worst of it is that you are +generally right." She frowns again, but even while frowning glances +sideways from under her long lashes with an expression hardly uncivil. +"That is the worst crime in the calendar. Be wrong sometimes, an' you +love me, it will gain you a world of friends." + +"If it could gain me your love in return, I might risk it," says he +boldly. "But that is hopeless I'm afraid," shaking his head. "I am too +often in the wrong not to know that neither my many frailties nor my few +virtues can ever purchase for me the only good thing on which my soul is +set." + +"I have told you of one fault, now hear another," says she capriciously. +"You are too earnest! What," turning upon him passionately, as if a +little ashamed of her treatment of him, "is the use of being earnest? +Who cares? Who looks on, who gives one moment to the guessing of the +meaning that lies beneath? To be in earnest in this life is merely to be +mad. Pretend, laugh, jest, do anything, but be what you really are, and +you will probably get through the world in a manner, if not satisfactory +to yourself, at all events to '_les autres_.'" + +"You preach a crusade against yourself," says he gently. "You preach +against your own conscience. You are the least deceptive person I know. +Were you to follow in the track you lay out for others, the cruelty of +it would kill you. + + "To your own self be true, + And----" + +"Yes, yes; I know it all," says she, interrupting him with some +irritation. "I wish you knew how--how unpleasant you can be. As I tell +you, you are always right. That last dance--it is true--I didn't want to +have anything to do with it; but for all that I didn't wish to be told +so. I merely suggested it as a means of getting rid of----" + +"Miss Maliphant," says Dysart, who is feeling a little sore. The +disingenuousness of this remark is patent to her. + +"No; Mr. Beauclerk," corrects she, coldly. + +"Forgive me," says Dysart quickly, "I shouldn't have said that. Well," +drawing a long breath, "we have got rid of them, and may I give you a +word of advice? It is disinterested because it is to my own +disadvantage. Go to your room--to your bed. You are tired, exhausted. +Why wait to be more so. Say you will do as I suggest." + +"You want to get rid of me," says she with a little weary smile. + +"That is unworthy of an answer," gravely; "but if a 'yes' to it will +help you to follow my advice, why, I will say it. Come," rising, "let +me take you to the hall." + +"You shall have your way," says she, rising too, and following him. + +A side door leading to the anteroom on their left, and thus skirting the +ballroom without entering it, brings them to the foot of the central +staircase. + +"Good-night," says Dysart in a low tone, retaining her hand for a +moment. All round them is a crowd separated into twos and threes, so +that it is impossible to say more than the mere commonplace. + +"Good night," returns she in a soft tone. She has turned away from him, +but something in the intense longing and melancholy of his eyes compels +her to look back again. "Oh, you have been kind! I am not ungrateful," +says she with sharp contrition. + +"Joyce, Joyce! Let me be the grateful one," returns he. His voice is a +mere whisper, but so fraught is it with passionate appeal that it rings +in her brain for long hours afterward. + +Her eyes fall beneath his. She moves silently away. What can she say to +him? + +It is with a sense of almost violent relief that she closes the door of +her own room behind her, and knows herself to be at last alone. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + + "And vain desires, and hopes dismayed, + And fears that cast the earth in shade, + My heart did fret." + + +Night is waning! Dies pater, Father of Day, is making rapid strides +across the heavens, creating havoc as he goes. Diana faints! the stars +grow pale, flinging, as they die, a last soft glimmer across the sky. + +Now and again a first call from the birds startles the drowsy air. The +wood dove's coo, melancholy sweet--the cheep-cheep of the robin--the +hoarse cry of the sturdy crow. + + "A faint dawn breaks on yonder sedge, + And broadens in that bed of weeds; + A bright disk shows its radiant edge, + All things bespeak the coming morn, + Yet still it lingers." + +As Lady Swansdown and Baltimore descend the stone steps that lead to the +gardens beneath, only the swift rush of the tremulous breeze that stirs +the branches betrays to them the fact that a new life is at hand. + +"You are cold?" says Baltimore, noticing the quick shiver that runs +through her. + +"No: not cold. It was mere nervousness." + +"I shouldn't have thought you nervous." + +"Or fanciful?" adds she. "You judged me rightly, and yet--coming all at +once from the garish lights within into this cool sweet darkness here, +makes one feel in spite of oneself." + +"In spite! Would you never willingly feel?" + +"Would you?" demands she very slowly. + +"Not willingly, I confess. But I have been made to feel, as you know. +And you?" + +"Would you have a woman confess?" says she, half playfully. "That is +taking an unfair advantage, is it not? See," pointing to a seat, "what a +charming resting place! I will make one confession to you. I am tired." + +"A meagre one! Beatrice," says he suddenly, "tell me this: are all women +alike? Do none really feel? Is it all fancy--the mere idle emotion of a +moment--the evanescent desire for sensation of one sort or another--of +anger, love, grief, pain, that stirs you now and then? Are none of these +things lasting with you, are they the mere strings on which you play +from time to time, because the hours lie heavy on your hands? It seems +to me----" + +"It seems to me that you hardly know what you are saying," said Lady +Swansdown quickly. "Do you think then that women do not feel, do not +suffer as men never do? What wild thoughts torment your brain that you +should put forward so senseless a question?--one that has been answered +satisfactorily thousands of years ago. All the pain, the suffering of +earth lies on the woman's shoulders; it has been so from the +beginning--it shall be so to the end. On being thrust forth from their +Eden, which suffered most do you suppose, Adam or Eve?" + +"It is an old story," says he gloomily, "and why should you, of all +people, back it up? You--who----" + +"Better leave me out of the question." + +"You!" + +"I am outside your life, Baltimore," says she, laying her hand on the +back of the seat beside her, and sinking into it. "Leave me there!" + +"Would you bereave me of all things," says he, "even my friends? I +thought--I believed, that you at least--understood me." + +"Too well!" says she in a low tone. Her hands have met each other and +are now clasped together in her lap in a grip that is almost hurtful. +Great heavens! if he only knew--could he then probe, and wound, and +tempt! + +"If you do----" begins he--then stops short, and passing her, paces to +and fro before her in the dying light of the moon. Lady Swansdown +leaning back gazes at him with eyes too sad for tears--eyes "wild with +all regret." Oh! if they two might but have met earlier. If this +man--this man in all the world, had been given to her, as her allotment. + +"Beatrice!" says he, stopping short before her, "were you ever in love?" + +There is a dead silence. Lady Swansdown sinking still deeper into the +arm of the chair, looks up at him with strange curious eyes. What does +he mean? To her--to put such a question to her of all women! Is he deaf, +blind, mad--or only cruel? + +A sort of recklessness seizes upon her. Well, if he doesn't know, he +shall know, though it be to the loss of her self-respect forever! + +"Never," says she, leaning a little forward until the moonbeams gleam +upon her snowy neck and arms. "Never--never--until----" + +The pause is premeditated. It is eloquence itself! The light of heaven +playing on her beautiful face betrays the passion of it--the rich +pallor! One hand resting on the back of the seat taps upon the iron +work, the other is now in Baltimore's possession. + +"Until now----?" suggests he boldly. He is leaning over her. She shakes +her head. But in this negative there is only affirmation. + +His hand tightens more closely upon hers. The long slender fingers yield +to his pressure--nay more--return it; they twine round his. + +"If I thought----" begins he in a low, stammering tone--he moves nearer +to her, nearer still. Does she move toward him? There is a second's +hesitation on his part, and then, his lips meet hers! + +It is but a momentary touch, a thing of an instant, but it includes a +whole world of meaning. Lady Swansdown has sprung to her feet, and is +looking at him with eyes that seem to burn through the mystic darkness. +She is trembling in every limb. Her nostrils are dilated. Her haughty +mouth is quivering, and there--are there honest, real tears in those +mocking eyes? + +Baltimore, too, has risen. His face is very white, very full of +contrition. That he regrets his action toward her is unmistakable, but +that there is a deeper contrition behind--a sense of self-loathing not +to be appeased betrays itself in the anguish of his eyes. She had +accused him of falsity, most falsely up to this, but now--now----His +mind has wandered far away. + +There is something so wild in his expression that Lady Swansdown loses +sight of herself in the contemplation of it. + +"What is it, Baltimore?" asks she, in a low, frightened tone. It rouses +him. + +"I have offended you beyond pardon," begins he, but more like one +seeking for words to say than one afraid of using them. "I have angered +you----" + +"Do not mistake me," interrupts she quickly, almost fiercely. "I am not +angry. I feel no anger--nothing--but that I am a traitor." + +"And what am I?" + +"Work out your own condemnation for yourself," says she, still with that +feverish self-disdain upon her. "Don't ask me to help you. She was my +friend, whatever she is now. She trusted me, believed in me. And after +all----And you," turning passionately, "you are doubly a traitor, you +are a husband." + +"In name!" doggedly. He has quite recovered himself now. Whatever +torture his secret soul may impress upon him in the future, no one but +he shall know. + +"It doesn't matter. You belong to her, and she to you." + +"That is what she doesn't think," bitterly. + +"There is one thing only to be said, Baltimore," says she, after a +slight pause. "This must never occur again. I like you, you know that. +I----" she breaks off abruptly, and suddenly gives way to a sort of +mirthless laughter. "It is a farce!" she says. "Consider my feeling +anything. And so virtuous a thing, too, as remorse! Well, as one lives, +one learns. If I had seen the light for the first time in the middle of +the dark ages, I should probably have ended my days as the prioress of a +convent. As it is, I shouldn't wonder if I went in for hospital nursing +presently. Pshaw!" angrily, "it is useless lamenting. Let me face the +truth. I have acted abominably toward her so far, and the worst of it +is"--with a candor that seems to scorch her--"I know if the chance be +given me, I shall behave abominably toward her again. I shall leave +to-morrow--the day after. One must invent a decent excuse." + +"Pray don't leave on Lady Baltimore's account," says he slowly, "she +would be the last to care about this. I am nothing to her." + +"Is your wish father to that thought?" regarding him keenly. + +"No. I assure you. The failing I mention is plain to all the world I +should have thought." + +"It is not plain to me," still watching him. + +"Then learn it," says he. "If ever she loved me, which I now disbelieve +(I would that I had let the doubt creep in earlier), it was in a past +that now is irretrievably dead. I suppose I wearied her--I confess," +with a meagre smile, "I once loved her with all my soul, and heart, and +strength--or else she is incapable of knowing an honest affection." + +"That is not true," says Lady Swansdown, some generous impulse forcing +the words unwillingly through her white lips. "She can love! you must +see that for yourself. The child is proof of it." + +"Some women are like that," says he gloomily. "They can open wide their +hearts to their children, yet close it against the fathers of them. +Isabel's whole life is given up to her child: she regards it as hers +entirely; she allows me no share in him. Not," eagerly, "that I grudge +him one inch the affection she gives him. He has a father worthless +enough. Let his mother make it up to him." + +"Yet he loves the father best," says Lady Swansdown quickly. + +"I hope not," with a suspicion of violence. + +"He does, believe me. One can see it. That saintly mother of his has not +half the attraction for him that you have. Why, look you, it is the way +of the world, why dispute it? Well, well," her triumphant voice +deepening to a weary whisper. "When one thinks of it all, she is not too +happy." She draws her hand in a little bewildered way across her white +brow. + +"You don't understand her," says Baltimore frigidly. "She lives in a +world of her own. No one would dare penetrate it. Even I--her husband, +as you call me in mockery--am outside it. I don't believe she ever cared +for me. If she had, do you think she would have given a thought to that +infamous story?" + +"About Madame Istray?" + +"Yes. You, too, heard of it then?" + +"Who hasn't heard. Violet Walden was not the one to spare you." She +pauses and looks at him, with all her heart in her eyes. "Was there no +truth in that story?" asks she at last, her words coming with a little +rush. + +"None. I swear it! You believe me!" He has come nearer to her and taken +her hand in the extremity of this desire to be believed in by somebody. + +"I believe you," says she, gently. Her voice is so low that he can catch +the words only; the grief and misery in them is unknown to him. +Mercifully, too, the moon has gone behind a cloud, a tender preparation +for an abdication presently, so that he cannot see the two heartbroken +tears that steal slowly down her cheeks. + +"That is more than Isabel does," says he, with a laugh that has +something of despair in it. + +"You tell me, then," says Lady Swansdown, "that you never saw Mme. +Istray after your marriage?" + +"Never, willingly." + +"Oh, willingly!" + +"Don't misjudge me. Hear the whole story then--if you must," cries he +passionately--"though if you do, you will be the first to hear it. I am +tired of being thought a liar!" + +"Go on," says she, in a low shocked tone. His singular vehemence has +compelled her to understand how severe have been his sufferings. If ever +she had doubted the truth of the old story that has wrecked the +happiness of his married life she doubts no longer. + +"I tell you, you will be the first to hear it," says he, advancing +toward her. "Sit down there," pressing her into the garden seat. "I can +see you are looking overdone, even by this light. Well----" drawing a +long breath and stepping back from her--"I never opened my lips upon +this subject except once before. That was to Isabel. And she"--he +pauses--"she would not listen. She believed, then, all things base of +me. She has so believed ever since." + +"She must be a fool!" says Lady Swansdown impetuously, "she could +not----" + +"She did, however. She," coldly, "even believed that I could lie to +her!" + +His face has become ashen; his eyes, fixed upon the ground, seemed to +grow there with the intensity of his regard. His breath seems to come +with difficulty through his lips. + +"Well," says he at last, with a long sigh, "it's all over! The one +merciful thing belonging to our life is that there must come, sooner or +later, an end to everything. The worst grief has its termination. She +has been unjust to me. But you," he lifts his haggard face, "you, +perhaps, will grant me a kindlier hearing." + +"Tell it all to me, if it will make you happier," says she, very gently. +Her heart is bleeding for him. Oh, if she might only comfort him in some +way! If--if that other fails him, why should not she, with the passion +of love that lies in her bosom, restore him to the warmth, the sweetness +of life. That kiss, half developed as it only was, already begins to +bear fatal fruit. Unconsciously she permits herself a license in her +thoughts of Baltimore hitherto strenuously suppressed. + +"There is absurdly little to tell. At that time we lived almost entirely +at our place in Hampshire, and as there were business matters connected +with the outlying farms found there, that had been grossly neglected +during my grandfather's time, I was compelled to run up to town, almost +daily. As a rule I returned by the evening train, in time for dinner, +but once or twice I was so far delayed that it was out of my power to do +it. I laugh at myself now," he looks very far from laughter as he says +it, "but I assure you the occasions on which I was compulsorily kept +away from my home were----" He pauses, "oh, well, there is no use in +being more tragic than one need be. They were, at least, a trouble to +me." + +"Naturally," says she, coldly. + +"I loved her, you see," says Baltimore, in a strange jerky sort of way, +as if ashamed of that old sentiment. "She----" + +"I quite understand. I have heard all about it once or twice," says Lady +Swansdown, with a kind of slow haste, if such a contradiction may be +allowed. That he has forgotten her is evident. That she has forgotten +nothing is more evident still. + +"Well, one day, one of the many days during which I went up to town, +after a long afternoon with Goodman and Smale, in the course of which +they had told me they would probably require me to call at their office +to meet one of the most influential tenants at nine the next morning, I +met, on leaving their office, Marchmont--Marchmont of the Tenth, you +know." + +"Yes, I know." + +"He and a couple of other fellows belonging to his regiment were going +down to Richmond to dine. Would I come? It was dull in town, toward the +close of the season, and I was glad of any invitation that promised a +change of programme--anything that would take me away from a dull +evening at my club. I made no inquiries; I accepted the invitation, got +down in time for dinner, and found Mme. Istray was one of the guests. +I----" + +He hesitates. + +"Go on." + +"You are a woman of the world, Beatrice; you will let me confess to you +that there had been old passages between me and Mme. Istray--well, I +swear to you I had never so much as thought of her since my +marriage--nay, since my engagement to Isabel. From that hour my life had +been clear as a sheet of blank paper. I had forgotten her; I verily +believe she had forgotten me, too. At that dinner I don't think she +exchanged a dozen words with me. On my soul," pushing back his hair with +a slow, troubled gesture from his brow, "this is the truth." + +"And yet----" + +"And yet," interrupting her with now a touch of vehement excitement, "a +garbled, a most cursedly false account of that dinner was given her. It +came round to her ears. She listened to it--believed in it--condemned +without a hearing. She, who has sworn, not only at the altar, but to me +alone, that she loved me." + +"She wronged you terribly," says Lady Swansdown in a low tone. + +"Thank you," cried he, a passion of gratitude in his tone. "To be +believed in by someone so thoroughly as you believe in me, is to know +happiness indeed. Whatever happens, I can count on you as my friend." + +"Your friend, always," says she, in a very low voice--a voice somewhat +broken. "Come," she says, rising suddenly and walking toward the distant +lights in the house. + +He accompanies her silently. + +Very suddenly she turns to him, and lays her hand upon his arm. + +"Be my friend," says she, with a quick access of terrible emotion. + +Entreaty and despair mingle in her tone. + +"Forever!" returns he, fervently, tightening his grasp on her hand. + +"Well," sighing, "it hardly matters. We shall not meet again for a long, +long time." + +"How is that? Isabel, the last time she condescended to speak to me of +her own accord," with an unpleasant laugh, "told me that she had asked +you to come here again next February, and that you had accepted the +invitation. She, indeed, made quite a point of it." + +"Ah! that was a long time ago." + +"Weeks do not make a long time." + +"Some weeks hold more than years. Yes, you are right; she made quite a +point about my coming. Well, she is always very civil." + +"She has always perfect manners. She is, as you say, very civil." + +"She is proud," coldly. + +"You will come?" + +"I think not. By that time you will in all probability have made it up +with her." + +"The very essence of improbability." + +"While I--shall not have made it up with my husband." + +"One seems quite as possible as the other." + +"Oh, no. Isabel is a good woman. You would do well to go back to her. +Swansdown is as bad a man as I know, and that," with a mirthless laugh, +"is saying a great deal. I should gain nothing by a reconciliation with +him. For one thing, an important matter, I have a great deal more money +than he has, and, for another, there are no children." Her voice changes +here; an indescribable alteration not only hardens, but desolates it. "I +have been fortunate there," she says, "if in nothing else in my +unsatisfactory life. There is no smallest bond between me and Swansdown. +If I could be seriously glad of anything it would be of that. I have +nothing belonging to him." + +"His name." + +"Oh, as for that--does it belong to him? Has he not forfeited a decent +right to it a thousand times? No; there is nothing. If there had been a +child he would have made a persecution of it--and so I am better off as +it is. And yet, there are moments when I envy you that little child of +yours. However----" + +"Yet if Swansdown were to make an overture----" + +"Do not go on. It is of all speculations the most useless. Do not pursue +the subject of Swansdown, I entreat you. Let"--with bitter +meaning--"'sleeping dogs lie.'" + +Baltimore laughs shortly. + +"That is severe," says he. + +"It is how I feel toward him; the light in which I regard him. If," +turning a face to his that is hardly recognizable, so pale it is with +ill-suppressed loathing, "he were lying on his deathbed and sent for me, +it would give me pleasure to refuse to go to him." + +She takes her hand from his arm and motions him to ascend the steps +leading into the conservatory. + +"But you?" says he, surprised. + +"Let me remain here a little while. I am tired. My head aches, I----" + +"Let me stay with you." + +"No," smiling faintly. "What I want is to be alone. To feel the silence. +Go. Do not be uneasy about me. Believe me you will be kind if you do as +I ask you." + +"It is a command," says he slowly. And slowly, too, he turns away from +her. + +Seeing him so uncertain about leaving her, she steps abruptly into a +dark side path, and finding a chair sinks into it. + +The soft breaking of the dawn over the tree tops far away seems to add +another pang to the anguish that is consuming her. She covers her face +with her hands. + +Oh! if it had all been different. Two lives sacrificed! nay, three! For +surety Isabel cannot care for him. Oh! if it had been she, she +herself--what is there she could not have forgiven him? Nay, she must +have forgiven him, because life without him would have been +insupportable. If only she might have loved him honorably. If only she +might ever love him--successfully--dishonorably! + +The thought seems to sting her. Involuntarily she throws up her head and +courts the chill winds of dawn that sweep with a cool touch her burning +forehead. + +She had called her proud. Would she herself, then, be less proud? That +Isabel dreads her, half scorns her of late, is well known to her, and +yet, with a very passion of pride, would dare her to prove it. She, +Isabel, has gone even so far as to ask her rival to visit her again in +the early part of the coming year to meet her present friends. So far +that pride had carried her. But pride--was pride love? If she herself +loved Baltimore, would she, even for pride's sake, entreat the woman he +singled out for his attentions to spend another long visit in her +country house? And if Isabel does not honestly love him, why then--is he +not lawful prey for one who can, who does not love him? + +One--who loves him. But he--whom does he love? + +Torn by some last terrible thought she starts to her feet, and, as +though inaction has become impossible to her, draws her white silken +wrap around her, and sweeps rapidly out of all view of the waning +Chinese lamps into the gray obscurity of the coming day that lies in the +far gardens. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + + "Song have thy day, and take thy fill of light + Before the night be fallen across thy way; + Sing while he may, man hath no long delight." + + +"What a delicious day!" says Joyce, stopping short on the hill to take a +look round her. It is the next day, and indeed far into it. Luncheon is +a thing of the past, and both she and Dysart know that it will take them +all their time to reach St. Bridget's Hill and be back again for +afternoon tea. They had started on their expedition in defiance of many +bribes held out to them. For one thing, there was to be a reception at +the Court at five; many of those who had danced through last night +having been asked to come over late in the afternoon of to-day to talk +over the dance itself and the little etceteras belonging to it. + +The young members of the Monkton family had been specially invited, too, +as a sort of make up to Bertie, the little son of the house, who had +been somewhat aggrieved at being sent to bed without his share of the +festivities on hand. He had retired to his little cot, indeed, with his +arms stuffed full of crackers, but how could crackers and cakes and +sweets console any one for the loss of being out at an ungodly hour and +seeing a real live dance! The one thing that finally helped him to +endure his hard lot was a promise on his mother's part that Tommy and +Mabel Monkton should come down next day and revel with him among the +glorious ruins of the supper table. The little Monktons had not come, +however, when Joyce left for her walk. + +"Going out?" Lady Swansdown had said to her, meeting her in the hall, +fully equipped for her excursion. "But why, my dear girl? We expect +those amusing Burkes in an hour or so, and the Delaneys, and----" + +"Yes, why go?" repeats Beauclerk, who has just come up. His manner is +friendly in the extreme, yet a very careful observer might notice a +strain about it, a determination to be friendly that rather spoils the +effect. Her manner toward him last night after his interview with Miss +Maliphant in the garden and her growing coldness ever since, has +somewhat disconcerted, him mentally. Could she have heard, or seen, or +been told of anything? There might, of course, have been a little +_contretemps_ of some sort. People, as a rule, are so beastly +treacherous! "You will make us wretched if you desert us," says he with +_empressement_. As he speaks he goes up to her and lets his eyes as well +as his lips implore her. Miss Maliphant had left by the early train, so +that he is quite unattached, and able to employ his whole battery of +fascinations on the subjugation of this refractory person. + +"I am sorry. Don't be more wretched than you can help!" says Joyce, with +a smile wonderfully unconcerned. "After a dance I want to walk to clear +my brain, and Mr. Dysart has been good enough to say he will accompany +me." + +"Is he accompanying you?" says Beauclerk, with an unpardonable +supercilious glance around him as if in search of the absent Dysart. + +"You mustn't think him a laggard at his post," says Miss Kavanagh, still +smiling, but now in a little provoking way that seems to jest at his +pretended suspicion of Dysart's constancy and dissolve it into the +thinnest of thin air. "He was here just now, but I sent him to loose the +dogs. I like to have them with me, and Lady Baltimore is pleased when +they get a run." + +"Isabel is always so sympathetic," says he, with a quite new and +delightful rush of sympathy toward Isabel. "I suppose," glancing at +Joyce keenly, "you would not care for an additional escort? The +dogs--and Dysart--will be sufficient?" + +"Mr. Dysart and the dogs will be," says she. "Ah! Here he comes," as +Dysart appears at the open doorway, a little pack of terriers at his +heels. "What a time you've been!" cries she, moving quickly to him. "I +thought you would never come. Good-bye, Lady Swansdown; good-bye," +glancing casually at Beauclerk. "Keep one teapot for us if you can!" + +She trips lightly up the avenue at Dysart's side, leaving Beauclerk in a +rather curious frame of mind. + +"Yes, she has heard something!" That is his first thought. How to +counteract the probable influence of that "something" is the second. A +little dwelling upon causes and effects shows him the way. For an effect +there is often an antidote! + + * * * * * + +"Delicious indeed!" says Dysart, in answer to her remark. His answer is, +however, a little _distrait_. His determination of last night to bring +her here, and compel her to listen to the honest promptings of his heart +is still strong within him. + +They have now ascended the hill, and, standing on its summit, can look +down on the wild deep sea beneath them that lies, to all possible +seeming, as calm and passive at their feet as might a thing inanimate. + +Yet within its depths what terrible--what mournful tragedies lie! And, +as if in contrast, what ecstatic joys! To one it speaks like death +itself--to another: + + "The bridegroom sea + Is toying with the shore, his wedded bride, + And in the fullness of his marriage joy + He decorates her tawny brow with shells, + Retires a pace to see how fair she looks, + Then, proud, runs up to kiss her." + +"Shall we sit here?" says Dysart, indicating a soft mound of grass that +overlooks the bay. "You must be tired after last night's dancing." + +"I _am_ tired," says she, sinking upon the soft cushion that Nature has +provided with a little sigh of satisfaction. + +"Perhaps I should not have asked--have extracted--a promise from you to +come here," says Dysart, with contrition in his tone. "I should have +remembered you would be overdone, and that a long walk like this----" + +"Would be the very thing to restore me to a proper state of health," she +interrupts him, with the prettiest smile. "No, don't pretend you are +sorry you brought me here. You know it is the sheerest hypocrisy on your +part. You are glad, that you brought me here, I hope, and +I"--deliberately--"am glad that you did." + +"Do you mean that?" says Dysart, gravely. He had not seated himself +beside her, and is now looking down her from a goodly height. "Do you +know why I brought you?" + +"To bring me back again as fresh as a daisy," suggests she, with a laugh +that is spoiled in its birth by a glance from him. + +"No, I did not think of you at all. I thought only of myself," says +Dysart, speaking a little quickly now. "Call that selfish if you +will--and yet----" + +He stops short, and comes closer to her. "To think in that way was to +think of you too. Joyce, there is at all events one thing you do +know--that I love you." + +Miss Kavanagh nods her head silently. + +"There is one thing, too, that I know," says Dysart now with a little +tremble in his voice, "that you do not love me!" + +She is silent. + +"You are honest," says he, after a pause. "Still"--looking at her--"if +there wasn't hope one would know. Though the present is empty for me, I +cannot help dwelling on the thought that the future may +contain--something!" + +"The future is so untranslatable," says she, with a little evasion. + +"Tell me this at least," says Dysart, very earnestly, bending over her +with the air of one determined to sift his chances to the last grain, +"you like me?" + +"Oh, yes." + +"Better than Courtenay, for example?" with a fleeting smile that fails +to disguise the real anxiety he is enduring. + +"What an absurd question!" + +"Than Dicky Brown?" + +"Yes." + +But here she lifts her head and gazes at him in a startled way that +speaks of quick suspicion. There is something of entreaty, too, in her +dark eyes, a desire that he will go no further. + +But Dysart deliberately disregards it. + +"Than Beauclerk?" asks he in a clear, almost cruel tone. + +A horrible red rushes up to dye her pretty cheeks, in spite of all her +efforts to subdue it. Great tears of shame and confusion suffuse her +eyes. One little reproachful glance she casts at him, and then: + +"Of course," says she, almost vehemently, if a little faintly, her eyes +sinking to the ground. + +Dysart stands before her as if stricken into stone. Then the knowledge +that he has hurt her pierces him with a terrible certainty, overcomes +all other thoughts, and drives him to repentance. + +"I shouldn't have asked you that," says he bluntly. + +"No, no!" says she, acquiescing quickly, "and yet," raising an eager, +lovely face to his, "I hardly know anything about--about myself. +Sometimes I think I like him, sometimes----" She stops abruptly and +looks at him with a pained and frightened gaze. "Do you despise me for +betraying myself like this?" + +"No--I want to hear all about it." + +"Ah! That is what I want to hear myself. But who is to tell me? Nature +won't. Sometimes I hate him. Last night----" + +"Yes, I know. You hated him last night. I don't wish to know why. I am +quite satisfied in that you did so." + +"But shall I hate him to-morrow? Oh, yes, I think so--I hope so," cries +she suddenly. "I am tired of it all. He is not a real person, not one +possible to class. He is false--naturally treacherous, and yet----" + +She breaks off again very abruptly, and turns to Dysart as if for help. + +"Let us forget him," she says, and then in a little frightened way, "Oh, +I wish I could be sure I could forget him!" + +"Why can't you?" says Dysart, in his downright way. "It means only a +strong effort after all. If you feel honestly," with an earnest glance +at her, "like that toward him, you must be mad to give him even a corner +in your heart." + +"That is it," says she, "there the puzzle begins. I don't know if he +ever has a corner in my heart. He attracts me, but attraction is not +affection, and the heart holds only love and hatred. Indifference is +nothing." + +"You can get rid of him finally," says Dysart, boldly, "by giving +yourself to me. That will kill all----" + +All he may be going to say is killed on his lips at this moment by two +little wild shrieks of joy that sound right behind his head. Both he and +Joyce turn abruptly in its direction--he with a sense of angry +astonishment, she with a fell knowledge of its meaning. It is, indeed, +no surprise to her when Tommy and Mabel appear suddenly from behind the +rock just close to them, that hides the path in part, and precipitates +themselves into her arms. + +"We saw you, we saw you!" gasps Tommy, breathless from his run up the +hill: "we saw you far away down there on the road, and we told Bridgie" +(the maid) "that we'd run up, and she said 'cut along,' so here we are." + +"You are, indeed," says Dysart, with feeling. + +"We knew you'd be glad to see us," goes on Tommy to Joyce in the +beautiful roar he always adopts when excited; "you haven't been home for +years, and Bridgie says that's because you are going to be married +to----" + +"Get up, Tommy, you are too heavy, and, besides, I want to kiss Mabel," +says Tommy's aunt with prodigious haste and a hot cheek. + +"But mammy says you're a silly Billy," says Mabel in her shrill treble, +"an' that----" + +"Mammy is a shockingly rude person," says Mr. Dysart, hurrying to break +into the dangerous confidence, no matter at what cost, even at the +expense of the adored mammy. His remark is taken very badly. + +"She's not," says Tommy, glowering at him. "Father says she's an angel, +and he knows. I heard him say it, and angels are never rude!" + +"'Twas after he made her cry about something," says Mabel, lifting her +little flower-like face to Dysart's in a miniature imitation of her +brother's indignation. "She was boo-booing like anything, and then +father got sorry--oh!--dreadful sorry--and he said she was an angel, and +she said----" + +"Oh, Mabel!" says Joyce, weakly, "you know you oughtn't to say such----" + +"Well, 'twas your fault, 'twas all about you," says Tommy, defiantly. +"Why don't you come home? Father says you ought to come, and mammy says +she doesn't know which of 'em it'll be; and father says it won't be any +of them, and--what's it all about?" turning a frankly inquisitive little +face up to hers. "They wouldn't tell us, and we want to know which of +'em it will be." + +"Yes, an' is it jints?" demands Mabel, who probably means giants, and +not cold meats. + +"I don't know what she means," says Miss Kavanagh, coldly. + +"I say, you two," says Mr. Dysart, brilliantly, "wouldn't you like to +run a race? Bridget must be tired of waiting for you down there at the +end of the hill, and----" + +"She isn't waiting, she's talking to Mickey Daly," says Tommy. + +"Oh, I see. Well, look here. I bet you, Tommy, strong as you look, Mabel +can outrun you down the hill." + +"She! she!" cries Tommy, indignantly; "I could beat her in a minute." + +"You can't," cries Mabel in turn. "Nurse says I'm twice the child that +you are." + +"Your legs are as short as a pin," roars Tommy; "you couldn't run." + +"I can. I can. I can," says Mabel, on the verge of a violent flood of +tears. + +"Well, we'll see," says Mr. Dysart, who now begins to think he has +thrown himself away on a silly Hussar regiment, when he ought to have +taken rank as a distinguished diplomat. "Come, I'll start you both down +the hill, and whichever reaches Bridget first wins the day." + +Instantly both children spring to the front of the path. + +"You're standing before me, Tommy." + +"No, I'm not." + +"You're cheating--you are!" + +"Cheat yourself! Mr. Dysart, ain't I all right?" + +"I think you should give her a start; she's the girl, you know," says +Dysart. "There now, go. That's very good. Five yards, Tommy, is a small +allowance for a little thing like Mabel. Steady now, you two! One--Good +gracious, they're off," says he, turning to Miss Kavanagh with a sigh of +relief mingled with amusement. "They had no idea of waiting for more +than one signal. I hope they will meet this Bridget, and get back to +their mother." + +"They are not going to her just now. They are going on to the Court to +spend the afternoon with Bertie," says Joyce; "Barbara told me so last +night. Dear things! How sweet they looked!" + +"They are the prettiest children I know," says Dysart--a little absent +perhaps. He falls into silence for a moment or two, and then suddenly +looks at her. He advances a step. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + + "A continual battle goes on in a child's mind between what it knows + and what it comprehends." + + +"Well?" says he. + +He advances even nearer, and dropping on a stone close to her, takes +possession of one of her hands. + +"As you can't make up your mind to him; and, as you say, you like me, +say something more." + +"More?" + +"Yes. A great deal more. Take the next move. Say--boldly--that you will +marry me!" + +Joyce grows a little pale. She had certainly been prepared for this +speech, had been preparing herself for it all the long weary wakeful +night, yet now that she hears it, it seems as strange, as terrible, as +though it had never suggested itself to her in its vaguest form. + +"Why should I say that?" says she at last, stammering a little, and +feeling somewhat disingenuous. She had known, yet now she is trying to +pretend that she did not know. + +"Because I ask you. You see I put the poorest reason at first, and +because you say I am not hateful to you, and because----" + +"Well?" + +"Because, when a man's last chance of happiness lies in the balance, he +will throw his very soul into the weighing of it--and knowing this, you +may have pity on me." + +As though pressed down by some insupportable weight, the girl rises and +makes a little curious gesture as if to free herself from it. Her face, +still pale, betrays an inward struggle. After all, why cannot she give +herself to him? Why can't she love him? He loves her; love, as some poor +fool says, begets love. + +And he is honest. Yes, honest! A pang shoots through her breast. +That, when all is told, is the principal thing. He is not +uncertain--untrustworthy--double-faced, as _some_ men are. Again that +cruel pain contracts her heart. To be able to believe in a person, to be +able to trust implicitly in each lightest word, to read the real meaning +in every sentence, to see the truth shining in the clear eyes, this is +to know peace and happiness; and yet-- + +"You know all," says she, looking up at him, her eyes compressed, her +brow frowning; "I am uncertain of myself, nothing seems sure to me, but +if you wish it----" + +"Wish it!" clasping her hands closer. + +"There is this to be said, then. I will promise to answer you this day +twelve-month." + +"Twelve months," says he, with consternation; his grasp on her hands +loosens. + +"If the prospect frightens or displeases you, there is nothing more to +be said," rejoins she coldly. It is she who is calm and composed, he is +nervous and anxious. + +"But a whole year!" + +"That is nothing," says she, releasing her hands, with a little +determined show of strength, from his. "It is for you to decide. I don't +care!" + +Perhaps she hardly grasps the cruelty that lies in this half-impatient +speech, until she sees Dysart's face flush painfully. + +"You need not have said that," says he. "I know it. I am nothing to you +really." He pauses, and then says again in a low tone, "Nothing." + +"Oh, you mustn't feel so much!" cries she, as if tortured. "It is folly +to feel at all in this world. What's the good of it. And to feel about +me, I am not worth it. If you would only bear that in mind, it might +help you." + +"If I bore that in mind I should not want to make you my wife!" returns +he steadily, gravely. "Think as you will yourself, you do not shake my +faith in you. Well," with a deep breath, "I accept your terms. For a +year I shall feel myself bound to you (though that is a farce, for I +shall always be bound to you, soul and body) while you shall hold +yourself free, and try to----" + +"No, no. We must both be equal--both free, while I--" she stops short, +coloring warmly, and laughing, "what is it I am to try to do?" + +"To love me!" replies he, with infinite sadness in look and tone. + +"Yes," says Joyce slowly, and then again meditatively, "yes." She lifts +her eyes presently and regards him strangely. "And if all my trying +should not succeed? If I never learn to love you?" + +"Why, then it is all over. This hope of mine is at an end," say he, so +calmly, yet with such deep melancholy, such sad foreboding, that her +heart is touched. + +"Oh! it is a hope of mine too," says she quickly. "If it were not would +I listen to you to-day? But you must not be so downhearted; let the +worst come to the worst, you will be as well off as you are at this +instant." + +He shakes his head. + +"Does hope count for nothing, then?" + +"You would compel me to love you," says she, growing the more vexed as +she grows the more sorry for him. "Would you have me marry you even if I +did not love you?" Her soft eyes have filled with tears, there is a +suspicion of reproach in her voice. + +"No. I suppose not." + +He half turns away from her. At this moment a sense of despair falls on +him. She will never care for him, never, never. This proposed probation +is but a mournful farce, a sorry clinging to a hope that is built on +sand. When in the future she marries, as so surely she will, he will not +be her husband. Why not give in at once? Why fight with the impossible? +Why not break all links (frail as they are sweet), and let her go her +way, and he his, while yet there is time? To falter is to court +destruction. + +Then all at once a passionate reaction sets in. Joyce, looking at him, +sees the light of battle, the warmth of love the unconquerable, spring +into his eyes. No, he will not cave in! He will resist to the last! +dispute every inch of the ground, and if finally only defeat is to crown +his efforts still----And why should defeat be his? Be it Beauclerk or +another, whoever declares himself his rival shall find him a formidable +enemy to overcome. + +"Joyce," says he quickly, turning to her and grasping her hands, "give +me my chance. Give me those twelve months; give me your thoughts now and +then while they last. I brought you here to-day to say all this knowing +we should be alone, and without----" + +"Tommy?" says she, with a little laugh. + +"Oh, well! You must confess I got rid of him," says he, smiling too, and +glad in his heart to find her so cheerful. "I think if you look into it, +that my stratagem, the inciting him to the overcoming of his sister in +that race, was the work of a diplomatist of the first water. I quite +felt that----" + +A war whoop behind him dissolves his self-gratulations into nothing. +Here comes Tommy the valiant, triumphant, puffed beyond all description +with pride and want of breath. + +"I beat her, I beat her," shrieks he, with the last note left in his +tuneful pipe. He staggers the last yard or two and falls into Joyce's +arms, that are opened wide to receive him. Who shall say he is not a +happy interlude? Evidently Joyce regards him as such. + +"I came back to tell you," says Tommy, recovering himself a little. "I +knew," with the fearless confidence of childhood, "that you'd be longing +to know if I beat her, and I did. She's down there how with Bridgie," +pointing to the valley beneath, "and she's mad with me because I didn't +let her win." + +"You ought to go back to her," says Dysart, "she'll be madder if you +don't." + +"She won't. She's picking daisies now." + +"But Bridget will want you." + +"No," shaking his lovely little head. "Bridgie said: 'ye may go, sir, +an' ye needn't be in a hurry back, me an' Mickey Daily have a lot to say +about me mother's daughter.'" + +It would be impossible to describe the accuracy with which Tommy +describes Bridget's tone and manner. + +"Oh! I daresay," says Mr. Dysart. "Me mother's daughter must be a truly +enthralling person." + +"I think Tommy ought to be educated for the stage," says Joyce in a +little whisper. + +"He'll certainly make his mark wherever he goes," says Dysart, laughing. +"Tommy," after a careful examination of Monkton, Junior's, seraphic +countenance, "don't you think you ought to take your sister on to the +Court?" + +"So I will," says Tommy, "in a minute or two." He has climbed into +Joyce's lap, and is now sitting on her with his arms round her neck. To +make love to a young woman and to induce her to marry you with a +barnacle of this sort hanging round her suggests difficulties. Mr. +Dysart waits. "All things come to those who wait," says a wily old +proverb. But Dysart proves this proverb a swindle. + +"Now, Tommy," says he, "the two minutes are up." + +"I don't care," says Tommy. "I'm tired, and Bridgie said I needn't +hurry." + +"The charms of Mr. Mickey Daly are no doubt great," says Dysart, mildly, +"yet I think Bridget must by this time be aware that she wasn't sent out +by your mother to tattle to him, but to take you and your sister to play +with Bertie. Here, Tommy," decisively, "get off your aunt's lap and run +away." + +"But why?" demands Tommy, aggressively. "What harm am I doing?" + +"You are tiring your aunt, for one thing." + +"I'm not! She likes to have me here," defiantly. "I ride a 'cock horse' +every night when she's at home, don't I, Joyce? I wish you'd go away," +wrathfully, "because then Joyce would come home and play with us again. +'Tis you," glaring at him with deep-seated anger in his eyes, "who are +keeping her here!" + +"Oh, no; you are wrong there," says Dysart with a sad smile. "I could +not keep her anywhere, she would not stay with me. But really, Tommy, +you know you ought to go on to the Court. Poor little Bertie is looking +out for you eagerly. See," plunging his hand into his pocket, "here is +half a crown for you to spend on lollipops. I'll give it to you if +you'll go back to Bridget." + +Tommy's eyes brighten. But as quickly the charming blue in them darkens +again. There is no tuck shop between this and the Court. + +"'Tisn't any good," says he mournfully, "the shop's away down there," +pointing vaguely backward on the journey he has come. + +"You look strong in wind and limb; there is no reason to believe that +the morrow's sun may not dawn on you," says Mr. Dysart. "And then think, +Tommy, think what a joy you will be to old Molly Brien." + +"Molly gives me four bull's-eyes for a penny," says Tommy reflectively. +"That's two to Mabel and two to me, because mammy says baby mustn't have +any for fear she'd choke. If there's four for a penny, how many is there +for this?" holding out the half crown that lies upon his little brown +shapely palm. + +"That's a sum," says Mr. Dysart. "Tommy, you're a cruel boy;" and having +struggled with it for a moment, he says "one hundred and twenty." + +"No!" says Tommy in a voice faint with hopeful unbelief. "Joyce, 'tisn't +true, is it?" + +"Quite true," says Joyce. "Just fancy, Tommy, one hundred and twenty +bull's-eyes, all in one day!" + +There is such a genuine support of his desire to get rid of Tommy in her +tone that Dysart's heart rises within him. + +"Tie it into my hankercher," says Tommy, without another second's +hesitation. "Tie it tight, or it'll slip out and I'll lose it. Good-bye, +and thank you, Mr. Dysart," thrusting a hot little fist into his. "I'll +keep some of the hundred and twenty ones for you and Joyce." + +He rushes away down the hill, eager to tell his grand news to Mabel, and +presently Joyce and Dysart are alone again. + +"You see you were not so clever a diplomatist as you thought yourself," +says Joyce, smiling faintly; "Tommy came back." + +"Tommy and I have one desire in common; we both want to be with you." + +"Could you be bought off like Tommy?" says she, half playfully. "Oh, no! +Half a crown would not be good enough." + +"Would all the riches the world contains be good enough?" says he in a +voice very low, but full of emotion. "You know it would not. But you, +Joyce--twelve months is a long time. You may see others--if not +Beauclerk--others--and----" + +"Money would not tempt me," says the girl slowly. "If money were your +rival, you would indeed be safe. You ought to know that." + +"Still--Joyce----" He stops suddenly. "May I think of you as Joyce? I +have called you so once or twice, but----" + +"You may always call me so," says she gently, if indifferently. "All my +friends call me so, and you--are my friend, surely!" + +The very sweetness of her manner, cold as ice as it is, drives him to +desperation. + +"Not your friend--your lover!" says he with sudden passion. "Joyce, +think of all that I have said--all you nave promised. A small matter to +you perhaps--the whole world to me. You will wait for me for twelve +months. You will try to love me. You----" + +"Yes, but there is something more to be said," cries the girl, springing +to her feet as if in violent protest, and confronting him with a curious +look--set--determined--a little frightened perhaps. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + + "'I thought love had been a joyous thing,' quoth my uncle Toby." + + "He hath a heart as sound as a bell, and his tongue is the clapper. + For what his heart thinks his tongue speaks." + + +"More?" says Dysart startled by her expression, and puzzled as well. + +"Yes!" hurriedly. "This!" The very nervousness that is consuming her +throws fire into her eyes and speech. "During all these long twelve +months I shall be free. Quite free. You forgot to put that in! You must +remember that! If--if I should, after all this thinking, decide on not +having anything to do with you--you," vehemently, "will have no right to +reproach me. Remember," says she going up to him and laying her hand +upon his arm while the blood receding from her face leaves her very +white; "remember should such a thing occur--and it is very likely," +slowly, "I warn you of that--you are not to consider yourself wronged or +aggrieved in any way." + +"Why should you talk to me in this way?" begins he, aggrieved now at all +events. + +"You must recollect," feverishly, "that I have made you no promise. Not +one. I refuse even to look upon this matter as a serious thing. I tell +you honestly," her dark eyes gleaming with nervous excitement, "I don't +believe I ever shall so look at it. After all," pausing, "you will do +well if you now put an end to this farce between us; and tell me to take +myself and my dull life out of yours forever." + +"I shall never tell you that," in a low tone. + +"Well, well," impatiently; "I have warned you. It will not be my fault +if----O! it is foolish of you!" she blurts out suddenly. "I have told +you I don't understand myself: and still you waste yourself--you throw +yourself away. In the end you will be disappointed in me, if not in one +way, then in another. It hurts me to think of that. There is time still; +let us be friends--friends----" Her hands are tightly clasped, she looks +at him with a world of entreaty in her beautiful eyes. "Friends, Felix!" +breathes she softly. + +"Let things rest as they are, I beseech you," says he, taking her hand +and holding it in a tight grasp. "The future--who can ever say what that +great void will bring us. I will trust to it; and if only loss and +sorrow be my portion, still----As for friendship, Joyce; whatever +happens I shall be your friend and lover." + +"Well--you quite know," says the girl, almost sullenly. + +"Quite. And I accept the risk. Do not be angry with me, my beloved." He +lifts the hand he holds and presses it to his lips, wondering always at +the coldness of it. "You are free, Joyce; you desire it so, and I desire +it, too. I would not hamper you in any way." + +"I should not be able to endure it, if--afterward--I thought you were +reproaching me," says she, with a little weary smile. + +"Be happy about that," says he: "I shall never reproach you." He is +silent for a moment; her last speech has filled him with thoughts that +presently grow into extremely happy ones: unless--unless she liked +him--cared for him, in some decided, if vague manner, would his future +misery be of so much importance to her? Oh! surely not! A small flood of +joy flows over him. A radiant smile parts his lips. The light of a +coming triumph that shall gird and glorify his whole life illumines his +eyes. + +She regarding him grows suddenly uneasy. + +"You--you fully understand," says she, drawing back from him. + +"Oh, you have made me do that," says he, but his radiant smile still +lingers. + +"Then why," mistrustfully, "do you look so happy?" She draws even +further away from him. It is plain she resents that happiness. + +"Is there not reason?" says he. "Have you not let me speak, and having +spoken, do you not still let me linger near you? It is more than I dared +hope for! Therefore, poor as is my chance, I rejoice now. Do not forbid +me. I may have no reason to rejoice in the future. Let me, then, have my +day." + +"It grows very late," says Miss Kavanagh abruptly. "Let us go home." + +Silently they turn and descend the hill. Halfway down he pauses and +looks backward. + +"Whatever comes of it," says he, "I shall always love this spot. Though, +if the year's end leave me desolate, I hope I shall never see it again." + +"It is unlucky to rejoice too soon," says she, in a low whisper. + +"Oh! don't say that word 'Rejoice.' How it reminds me of you. It ought +to belong to you. It does. You should have been called 'Rejoice' instead +of 'Joyce'; they have cut off half your name. To see you is to feel new +life within one's veins." + +"Ah! I said you didn't know me," returns she sadly. + + * * * * * + +Meantime the hours have flown; evening is descending. It is all very +well for those who, traveling up and down romantic hills, can find +engrossing matters for conversation in their idle imaginings of love, or +their earnest belief therein, but to the ordinary ones of the earth, +mundane comforts are still of some worth. + +Tea, the all powerful, is now holding high revelry in the library at the +Court. Round the cosy tables, growing genial beneath the steam of the +many old Queen Anne "pots," the guests are sitting singly or in groups. + +"What delicious little cakes!" says Lady Swansdown, taking up a smoking +morsel of cooked butter and flour from the glowing tripod beside her. + +"You like them?" says Lady Baltimore in her slow, earnest way. "So does +Joyce. She thinks they are the nicest cakes in the world. By the by, +where is Joyce?" + +"She went out for a walk at twenty minutes after two," says Beauclerk. +He has pulled out his watch and is steadily consulting it. + +"And it is now twenty minutes after five," says Lady Swansdown, +maliciously, who detests Beauclerk and who has read his relations with +Joyce as clear as a book. "How she must have enjoyed herself!" + +"Yes; but where?" says Lady Baltimore anxiously. Joyce has been left in +her charge, and, apart from that, she likes the girl well enough, to be +uneasy about her when occasion arises. + +"With whom would be a more appropriate question," says Dicky Browne, +who, as usual, is just where he ought not to be. + +"Oh, I know where she is," cries a little, shrill voice from the +background. It comes from Tommy, and from that part of the room where +Tommy and Mabel and little Bertie are having a game behind the window +curtains. Blocks, dolls, kitchens, farm yards, ninepins--all have been +given to them as a means of keeping them quiet. One thing only has been +forgotten: the fact that the human voice divine is more attractive to +them, more replete with delightful mystery, fuller of enthralling +possibilities than all the toys that ever yet were made. + +"Thomas, are you fully alive to the responsibilities to which you pledge +yourself?" demands Mr. Browne severely. + +"What?" says Tommy. + +"Do you pledge yourself to declare where Miss Kavanagh is now?" + +"Is it Joyce?" says Tommy, coming forward and standing undaunted in his +knickerbockers and an immaculate collar that defies suspicion. + +"Yes--Joyce," says Mr. Browne, who never can hold his tongue. + +"Well, I know." Tommy pauses, and an unearthly silence falls on the +assembled company. Half the county is present, and as Tommy, in the +character of _reconteur_, is widely known and deservedly dreaded, +expectation spreads itself among his audience. + +Lady Baltimore moves uneasily, and for once Dicky Browne feels as if he +should like to sink into his boot. + +"She's up on the top of the hill with Mr. Dysart," says Tommy, and no +more. Lady Baltimore sighs with relief, and Mr. Browne feels now as if +he should like to give Tommy something. + +"How do you know?" asks Beauclerk, as though he finds it impossible to +repress the question. + +"Because I saw her there," says Tommy, "when Mabel and me was coming +here. I like Mr. Dysart, don't you?" addressing Beauclerk specially. "He +is a very kind sort of man. He gave me half a crown." + +"For what, Tommy?" asks Baltimore, idly, to whom Tommy is an unfailing +joy. + +"To go away and leave him alone with Joyce," says Tommy, with awful +distinctness. + +Tableau! + +Lady Baltimore lets her spoon fall into her saucer, making a little +quick clatter. Everybody tries to think of something to say; nobody +succeeds. + +Mr. Browne, who is evidently choking, is mercifully delivered by +beneficent nature from a sudden death. He gives way to a loud and +sonorous sneeze. + +"Oh, Dicky! How funny you do sneeze," says Lady Swansdown. It is a +safety valve. Everybody at once affects to agree with her, and universal +laughter makes the room ring. + +"Tommy, I think it is time for you and Mabel to go home," says Lady +Baltimore. "I promised your mother to send you back early. Give her my +love, and tell her I am so sorry she couldn't come to me to-day, but I +suppose last night's fatigue was too much for her." + +"'Twasn't that," says Tommy; "'twas because cook----" + +"Yes, yes; of course. I know," says Lady Baltimore, hurriedly, afraid of +further revelations. "Now, say good-bye, and, Bertie, you can go as far +as the first gate with them." + +The children make their adieus, Tommy reserving Dicky Browne for a last +fond embrace. + +"Good-bye, old man! So-long!" + +"What's that?" says Tommy, appealing to Beauclerk for information. + +"What's what?" says Beauclerk, who isn't in his usual amiable mood. + +"What's the meaning of that thing Dicky said to me?" + +"'So-long?' Oh that's Browne's charming way of saying good-bye." + +"Oh!" says Tommy, thoughtfully. He runs it through his busy brain, and +brings it out at the other end satisfactorily translated. "I know," says +he: "Go long! That's what he meant! But I think," indignantly, "he +needn't be rude, anyway." + +The children have hardly gone when Joyce and Dysart enter the room. + +"I hope I'm not dreadfully late," cries Joyce, carelessly, taking off +her cap, and giving her head a little light shake, as if to make her +pretty soft hair fall into its usual charming order. "I have no idea +what the time is." + +"Broken your watch, Dysart?" says Beauclerk, in a rather nasty tone. + +"Come and sit here, dearest, and have your tea," says Lady Baltimore, +making room on the lounge beside her for Joyce, who has grown a little +red. + +"It is so warm here," says she, nervously, that one remark of +Beauclerk's having, somehow, disconcerted her. "If--if I might----" + +"No, no; you mustn't go upstairs for a little while," says Lady +Baltimore, with kindly decision. "But you may go into the conservatory +if you like," pointing to an open door off the library, that leads into +a bower of sweets. "It is cooler there." + +"Far cooler," says Beauclerk, who has followed Joyce with a sort of +determination in his genial air. "Let me take you there, Miss Kavanagh." + +It is impossible to refuse. Joyce, coldly, almost disdainfully and with +her head held higher than usual, skirts the groups that line the walls +on the western side of the room and disappears with him into the +conservatory. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + + "Who dares think one thing and another tell, + My heart detests him as the gates of hell." + + +"A little foolish going for that walk, wasn't it?" says he, leading her +to a low cushioned chair over which a gay magnolia bends its white +blossoms. His manner is innocence itself; ignorance itself would perhaps +better express it. He has decided on ignoring everything; though a +shrewd guess that she saw something of his passages with Miss Maliphant +last night has now become almost a certainty. "I thought you seemed +rather played out last night--fatigued--done to death. I assure you I +noticed it. I could hardly," with deep and affectionate concern, "fail +to notice anything that affected you." + +"You are very good!" says Miss Kavanagh icily. Mr. Beauclerk lets a full +minute go by, and then---- + +"What have I done to merit that tone from you?" asks he, not angrily; +only sorrowfully. He has turned his handsome face full on hers, and is +regarding her with proud, reproachful eyes. "It is idle to deny," says +he, with some emotion, half of which, to do him justice, is real, "that +you are changed to me; something has happened to alter the feelings +of--of--friendship--that I dared to hope you entertained for me. I had +hoped still more, Joyce--but----What has happened?" demands he suddenly, +with all the righteous strength of one who, free from guilt, resents +accusation of it. + +"Have I accused you?" says she, coldly. + +"Yes, a thousand times, yes. Do you think your voice alone can condemn? +Your eyes are even crueller judges." + +"Well I am sorry," says she, faintly smiling. "My eyes must be deceivers +then. I bear you no malice, believe me." + +"So be it," says he, with an assumption of relief that is very well +done. "After all, I have worried myself, I daresay, very unnecessarily. +Let us talk of something else, Miss Maliphant, for example," with a +glance at her, and a pleasant smile. "Nice girl eh? I miss her." + +"She went early this morning, did she?" says Joyce, scarcely knowing +what to say. Her lips feel a little dry; an agonized certainty that she +is slowly growing crimson beneath his steady gaze brings the tears to +her eyes. + +"Too early. I quite hoped to be up to see her off, but sleep had made +its own of me and I failed to wake. Such a good, genuine girl! Universal +favorite, don't you think? Very honest, and very," breaking into an +apparently irrepressible laugh, "ugly! Ah! well now," with smiling self +condemnation, "that's really a little too bad; isn't it?" + +"A great deal too bad," says Joyce, gravely. "I shouldn't speak of her +if I were you." + +"But why, my dear girl?" with arched brows and a little gesture of his +handsome hands. "I allow her everything but beauty, and surely it would +be hypocrisy to mention that in the same breath with her." + +"It isn't fair--it isn't sincere," says the girl almost passionately. +"Do you think I am ignorant of everything, that I did not see you with +her last night in the garden? Oh!" with a touch of scorn that is yet +full of pain, "you should not. You should not, indeed!" + +In an instant he grows confused. Something in the lovely horror of her +eyes undoes him. Only for an instant--after that he turns the momentary +confusion to good account. + +"Ah! you did see her, then, poor girl!" says he. "Well, I'm sorry about +that for her sake." + +"Why for her sake?" still regarding him with that charming disdain. "For +your own, perhaps, but why for hers?" + +Beauclerk pauses: then rising suddenly, stands before her. Grief and +gentle indignation sit upon his massive brow. He looks the very +incarnation of injured rectitude. + +"Do you know, Joyce, you have always been ready to condemn, to misjudge +me," says he in a low, hurt tone. "I have often noticed it, yet have +failed to understand why it is. I was right, you see, when I told myself +last night and this morning that you were harboring unkindly thoughts +toward me. You have not been open with me, you have been willfully +secretive, and, believe me, that is a mistake. Candor, complete and +perfect, is the only great virtue that will steer one clear through all +the shoals and rocks of life. Be honest, above board, and, I can assure +you, you will never regret it. You accused me just now of insincerity. +Have you been sincere?" + +There is a dead pause. He allows it to last long enough to make it +dramatic, and to convince himself he has impressed her, and then, with a +very perceptible increase of dignified pain in his voice, he goes on. + +"I feel I ought not to explain under the circumstances, but as it is to +you"--heavy emphasis, and a second affected silence. "You have heard, +perhaps, of Miss Maliphant's cousin in India?" + +"No," says Joyce, after racking her brain in vain for some memory of the +cousin question. And, indeed, it would have been nothing short of a +miracle if she could have remembered anything about that apocryphal +person. + +"You will understand that I speak to you in the strictest confidence," +says Beauclerk, earnestly: "I wouldn't for anything you could offer me, +that it should get back to that poor girl's ears that I had been +discussing her and the most sacred feelings of her heart. Well, there is +a cousin, and she--you may have noticed that she and I were great +friends?" + +"Yes," says Joyce, whose heart is beating now to suffocation. Oh! has +she wronged him? Does she still wrong him? Is this vile, suspicious +feeling within her one to be encouraged? Is all this story of his, this +simple explanation--false--false? + +"I was, indeed, a sort of confidant of hers. Poor dear girl! it was a +relief to her to talk to somebody." + +"There were others." + +"But none here who knew him." + +"You knew him then? Is his name Maliphant, too?" asks Joyce, ashamed of +her cross-examination, yet driven to it by some power beyond her +control. + +"You mustn't ask me that," says Beauclerk playfully. "There are some +things I must keep even from you. Though you see I go very far to +satisfy your unjust suspicions of me. You can, however, guess a good +deal; you--saw her crying?" + +"She was not crying," says Joyce slowly, a little puzzled. Miss +Maliphant had seemed at the moment in question well pleased. + +"No! Not when you saw her? Ah! that must have been later then," with a +sigh, "you see now I am betraying more than I should. However, I can +depend upon your silence. It will be a small secret between you and me." + +"And Miss Maliphant," says Joyce, coldly. "As for me, what is the +secret?" + +"You haven't understood? Not really? Well, between you and me and the +wall," with delightful gaiety, "I think she gives a thought or two to +that cousin. I fancy," whispering, "she is even in--eh? you know." + +"I don't," says Joyce slowly, who is now longing to believe in him, and +yet is held steadily backward by some strong feeling. + +"I believe she is in love with him," says Beauclerk, still in a +mysterious whisper. "But it is a sore subject," with an expressive +frown. "Not best pleased when it is mentioned to her. Mauvais sujet, you +understand. But girls are often foolish in that way. Better say nothing +about it." + +"I shall say nothing, of course," says Joyce. "Why should I? It is +nothing to me, though I am sorry for her." + +Yet as she says this, a doubt arises in her mind as to whether she need +be sorry. Is there a cousin in India? Could that big, jolly, lively +girl, who had come into the conservatory with Beauclerk last night, with +the light of triumph in her eyes, be the victim of an unhappy love +affair? Should she write and ask her if there is a cousin in India? Oh, +no, no! She could not do that! How horrible, how hateful to distrust him +like this! What a detestable mind must be hers. And besides, why dwell +so much upon it. Why not accept him as a pleasing acquaintance. One with +whom to pass a pleasant hour now and then. Why ever again regard him as +a possible lover! + +A little shudder runs through her. At this moment it seems to her that +she could never really have so regarded him. And yet only last night---- + +And now. What is it? Does she still doubt? Will that strange, curious, +tormenting feeling that once she felt for him return no more. Is it gone +forever? Oh! that it might be so! + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + + "So over violent, or over civil!" + "A man so various." + + +"Dull looking day," says Dicky Browne, looking up from his broiled +kidney to glare indignantly through the window at the gray sky. + +"It can't be always May," says Beauclerk cheerfully, whose point it is +to take ever a lenient view of things. Even to heaven itself he is kind, +and holds out a helping hand. + +"I expect it is we ourselves who are dull," says Lady Baltimore, looking +round the breakfast table, where now many vacant seats make the edges +bare. Yesterday morning Miss Maliphant left. To-day the Clontarfs, and +one or two strange men from the barracks in the next town. Desertion +indeed seems to be the order of the day. "We grow very small," says she. +"How I miss people when they go away." + +"Do you mean that as a liberal bribe for the getting rid of the rest of +us," says Dicky, who is now devoting himself to the hot scones. "If so, +let me tell you it isn't good enough. I shall stay here until you choose +to cross the channel. I don't want to be missed." + +"That will be next week," says Lady Baltimore. "I do beseech all here +present not to forsake me until then." + +"I must deny your prayer," says Lady Swansdown. "These tiresome lawyers +of mine say they must see me on Thursday at the latest." + +"I shall meet you in town at Christmas, however," says Lady Baltimore, +making the remark a question. + +"I hardly think so. I have promised the Barings to join them in Italy +about then." + +"Well, here then in February." + +Lady Swansdown smiles at her hostess, but makes no audible reply. + +"I suppose we ought to do something to-day," says Lady Baltimore +presently, in a listless tone. It is plain to everybody, however, that +in reality she wants to do nothing. "Suggest something, Dicky." + +"Skittles," says that youth, without hesitation. Very properly, however, +no one takes any notice of him. + +"I was thinking that if we went to 'Connor's Cross,' it would be a nice +drive," says Lady Baltimore, still struggling with her duties as a +hostess. "What do you say, Beatrice?" + +"I pray you excuse me," says Lady Swansdown. "As I leave to-morrow, I +must give the afternoon to the answering of several letters, and to +other things besides." + +"Connor's Cross," says Joyce, idly. "I've so often heard of it. Yet, +oddly enough, I have never seen it; it is always the way, isn't it, +whenever one lives very close to some celebrated spot." + +"Celebrated or not, it is at least lovely," says Lady Baltimore. "You +really ought to see it." + +"I'll drive you there this afternoon, Miss Kavanagh," says Beauclerk, in +his friendly way, that in public has never a tincture of tenderness +about it. "We might start after luncheon. It is only about ten miles +off. Eh?" to Baltimore. + +"Ten," briefly. + +"I am right then," equably; "we might easily do it in a little over an +hour." + +"Hour and a half with best horse in the stables. Bad road," says +Baltimore. + +"Even so we shall get there and back in excellent time," says Beauclerk, +deaf to his brother-in-law's gruffness. "Will you come, Miss Kavanagh?" + +"I should like it," says Joyce, in a hesitating sort of way; "but----" + +"Then why not go, dear?" says Lady Baltimore kindly. "The Morroghs of +Creaghstown live not half a mile from it, and they will give you tea if +you feel tired; Norman is a very good whip, and will be sure to have you +back here in proper time." + +Dysart lifting his head looks full at Joyce. + +"At that rate----" says she, smiling at Beauclerk. + +"It is settled then," says Beauclerk pleasantly. "Thank you ever so much +for helping me to get rid of my afternoon in so delightful a fashion." + +"It is going to rain. It will be a wet evening," says Dysart abruptly. + +"Oh, my dear fellow! You can hardly be called a weather prophet," says +Beauclerk banteringly. "You ought to know that a settled gray sky like +that seldom means rain." + +No more is said about it then, and no mention is made of it at luncheon. +At half-past two precisely, however, a dog cart comes round to the hall +door. Joyce running lightly down stairs, habited for a drive, meets +Dysart at the foot of the staircase. + +"Do not go," says he abruptly. + +"Not go--now," with a glance at her costume. + +"I didn't believe you would go," says he vehemently. "I didn't believe +it possible--or I should have spoken sooner. Nevertheless, at this last +moment, I entreat you to give it up." + +"Impossible," says she curtly, annoyed by his tone, which is perhaps, +unconsciously, a little dictatorial. + +"You refuse me?" + +"It is not the question. I have said I would go. I see no reason for not +going. I decline to make myself foolish in the eyes of everybody by +drawing back at the last moment." + +"You have forgotten everything then." + +"I don't know," coldly, "that there is anything to remember." + +"Oh!" bitterly, "not so far as I am concerned. I count for nothing. I +allow that. But he--I fancied you had at least read him." + +"I think, perhaps, there was nothing to read," says she, lowering her +eyes. + +"If you can think that, it is useless my saying anything further." + +He moves to one side as if to let her pass, but she hesitates. Perhaps +she would have said something to soften her decision--but--a rare thing +with him, he loses his temper. Seeing her standing there before him, so +sweet, so lovely, so indifferent, as he tells himself, his despair +overcomes him. + +"I have a voice in this matter," says he, frowning heavily. "I forbid +you to go with that fellow." + +A sharp change crosses Miss Kavanagh's face. All the sudden softness +dies out of it. She stoops leisurely, and disengaging the end of the +black lace round her throat from an envious banister that would have +detained her, without further glance or word for Dysart, she goes up the +hall and through the open doorway. Beauclerk, who has been waiting for +her outside, comes forward. A little spring seats her in the cart. +Beauclerk jumps in beside her. Another moment sees them out of sight. + + * * * * * + +The vagrant sun, that all day long had been coming and going in fitful +fashion, has suddenly sunk behind the thunderous gray cloud that, rising +from the sea, now spreads itself o'er hill and vale. The light has died +out of the sky; dull muttering sounds come rumbling down from the +distant mountains. The vast expanse of barren bog upon the left has +become almost obscure. Here and there a glint of its watery wastes may +be seen, but indistinctly, giving the eye a mournful impression of +"lands forlorn." + +A strange hot quiet seems to have fallen upon the trembling earth. + + "We often see, against some storm. + A silence in the heavens, the rack stand still, + The bold wind speechless, and the orb below + Is hushed as death." + +Just now that "boding silence reigns." A sense of fear falls on Joyce, +she scarcely knows why, as her companion, with a quick lash of the whip, +urges the horse up the steep hill. They are still several miles from +their destination, and, though it is only four o'clock, it is no longer +day. The heavens are black as ink, the trees are shivering in expectant +misery. + +"What is it?" says Joyce, and even as she asks the question it is +answered. The storm is upon them in all its fury. All at once, without +an instant's warning, a violent downpour of rain comes from the bursting +clouds, threatening to deluge them. + +"We are in for it," says Beauclerk in a sharp, short tone, so unlike his +usual dulcet accents that even now, in her sudden discomfort, it +startles her. The rain is descending in torrents, a wild wind has +arisen. The light has faded, and now the day resembles nothing so much +as the dull beginning of a winter's night. + +"Have you any idea where we are?" asks Beauclerk presently. + +"None. You know I told you I had never been here before. But you--you +must have some knowledge of it." + +"How should I? These detestable Irish isolations are as yet unknown +paths to me." + +"But I thought you said--you gave me the impression that you knew +Connor's Cross." + +"I regret it if I did," shortly. The rain is running down his neck by +this time, leaving a cold, drenched collar to add zest to his rising ill +temper. "I had heard of Connor's Cross. I never saw it. I devoutly +hope," with a snarl, "I never shall." + +"I don't think you are likely to," says Joyce, whose own temper is +beginning to be ruffled. + +"Well, this is a sell," says Beauclerk. He is buttoning up a heavy +ulster round his handsome form. He is very particular about the +fastening of the last button--that one that goes under the chin--and +having satisfactorily accomplished it, and found, by a careful moving +backward and forward of his head, that it is comfortably adjusted, it +occurs to him to see if his companion is weather-proof. + +"Got wraps enough?" asks he. "No, by Jove! Here, put on this," dragging +a warm cloak of her own from under the seat and offering it to her with +all the air of one making a gift. "What is it? Coat--cloak--ulster? One +never knows what women's clothes are meant for." + +"To cover them," says Joyce calmly. + +"Well, put it on. By Jove, how it pours! All right now?" having +carelessly flung it round her, without regard for where her arms ought +to go through the sleeves. "Think you can manage the rest by yourself? +So beastly difficult to do anything in a storm like this, with this +brute tugging at the reins and the rain running up one's sleeve." + +"I can manage it very well myself, thank you," says Joyce, giving up the +finding of the sleeves as a bad job; after a futile effort to discover +their whereabouts she buttons the cloak across her chest and sits beside +him, silent but shivering. A little swift, wandering thought of Dysart +makes her feel even colder. If he had been there! Would she be thus +roughly entreated? Nay, rather would she not have been a mark for +tenderest care, a precious charge entrusted to his keeping. A thing +beloved and therefore to be cherished. + +"Look there," says she, suddenly lifting her head and pointing a little +to the right. "Surely, even through this denseness, I see lights. Is it +a village?" + +"Yes--a village, I should say," grimly. "A hamlet rather. Would you," +ungraciously, "suggest our seeking shelter there?" + +"I think it must be the village called 'Falling,'" says she, too pleased +at her discovery to care about his gruffness, "and if so, the owner of +the inn there was an old servant of my father's. She often comes over to +see Barbara and the children, and though I have never come here to see +her, I know she lives somewhere in this part of the world. A good +creature she is. The kindest of women." + +"An inn," says Beauclerk, deaf to the virtues of the old servant, the +innkeeper, but altogether alive to the fact that she keeps an inn. "What +a blessed oasis in our wilderness! And it can't be more than half a mile +away. Why," recovering his usual delightful manner, "we shall find +ourselves housed in no time. I do hope, my dear girl, you are +comfortable! Wrapped up to the chin, eh? Quite right--quite right. After +all, the poor driver has the worst of it. He must face the elements, +whatever happens. Now you, with your dear little chin so cosily hidden +from the wind and rain, and with hardly a suspicion of the blast I am +fighting, make a charming picture--really charming! Ah, you girls! you +have the best of it beyond doubt! And why not? It is the law of +nature--weak woman and strong man! You know those exquisite lines----" + +"Can't that horse go faster?" said Miss Kavanagh, breaking in on this +little speech in a rather ruthless manner. "Lapped in luxury, as you +evidently believe me, I still assure you I should gladly exchange my +present condition for a good wholesome kitchen fire." + +"Always practical. Your charm--one of them," says Mr. Beauclerk. But he +takes the hint, nevertheless, and presently they draw up before a small, +dingy place of shelter. + +Not a man is to be seen. The village, a collection of fifty houses, when +all is told, is swept and garnished. A few geese are stalking up the +street, uttering creaking noises. Some ducks are swimming in a glad +astonishment down the muddy streams running by the edges of the +curbstones. Such a delicious wealth of filthy water has not been seen in +Falling for the past three dry months. + +"The deserted village with a vengeance," says Beauclerk. He has risen in +his seat and placed his whip in the stand with a view of descending and +arousing the inhabitants of this Sleepy Hollow, when a shock head is +thrust out of the inn ("hotel," rather, as is painted on a huge sign +over the door) and being instantly withdrawn again with a muttered +"Och-a-yea," is followed by a shriek for: + +"Mrs. Connolly--Mrs. Connolly, ma'am! Sure, 'tis yourself that's wanted! +Come down, I tell ye! There's ginthry at the door, an' the rain peltin' +on em like the divil. Come down, I'm tellin' ye! Or fegs they'll go on +to Paddy Sheehan's, an' thin where'll ye be? Och, murdher! Where are ye, +at all, at all? 'Tis ruined ye'll be intirely wid the stayin' of ye!" + +"Arrah, hould yer whisht, y'omadhaun o' the world," says another voice, +and in a second a big, buxom, jolly, hearty-looking woman appears on the +threshold, peering a little suspiciously through the gathering gloom at +the dog cart outside. First she catches sight of the crest and coronet, +and a gleam of pleased intelligence brightens her face. Then, lifting +her eyes, she meets those of Joyce, and the sudden pleasure gives way to +actual and honest joy. + +"It is Mrs. Connolly," says Joyce, in a voice that is supposed to +accompany a smile, but has in reality something of tears in it. + +Mrs. Connolly, regardless of the pelting rain and her best cap, takes a +step forward. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + + "All is not golde that outward shewith bright." + + "I love everything that's old--old friends, old times, old manners, + old books, old wine." + + +"An' is it you, Miss Joyce? Glory be! What a day to be out! 'Tis +drenched y'are, intirely! Oh! come in, me dear--come in, me darlin'! +Here, Mikey, Paddy, Jerry!--come here, ivery mother's son o' ye, an' +take Mr. Beauclerk's horse from him. Oh! by the laws!--but y'are soaked! +Arrah, what misfortune dhrove y'out to-day, of all days, Miss Joyce? Was +there niver a man to tell ye that 'twould be a peltin' storm before +nightfall?" + +There had been one. How earnestly Miss Kavanagh now wishes she had +listened to his warning. + +"It looked so fine two hours ago," says she, clambering down from the +dog cart with such misguided help from the ardent Mrs. Connolly as +almost lands her with the ducks in the muddy stream below. + +"Och! there's no more depindince to be placed upon the weather than +there is upon a man. However, 'tis welcome y'are, any way. Your father's +daughter is dear to me--yes, come this way--up these stairs. 'Tis Anne +Connolly is proud to be enthertainin' one o' yer blood inside her door." + +"Oh! I'm so glad I found you," says Joyce, turning when she has reached +Mrs. Connolly's bedroom to imprint upon that buxom widow's cheek a warm +kiss. "It was a long way here--long, and so cold and wet." + +"An' where were ye goin' at all, if I may ax?" says Mrs. Connolly, +taking off the girl's dripping outer garments. + +"To see Connor's Cross----" + +"Faith, 'twas little ye had to do! A musty ould tomb like that, wid +nothin but broken stones around it. Wouldn't the brand-new graveyard +below there do ye? Musha! but 'tis quare the ginthry is! Och! me dear, +'tis wet y'are; there isn't a dhry stitch on ye." + +"I don't think I'm wet once my coats are off," says Joyce; and indeed, +when those invaluable wraps are removed; it is proved beyond doubt--even +Mrs. Connolly's doubt, which is strong--that her gown is quite dry. + +"You see, it was such a sudden rain," says Joyce, "and fortunately we +saw the lights in this village almost immediately after it began." + +"Fegs, too suddint to be pleasant," says Mrs. Connolly. "'Twas well the +early darkness made us light up so quickly, or ye might have missed us, +not knowin' yer road. An' how's all wid ye, me dear--Miss Barbara, an' +the masther, an' the darling childher? I've a Brammy cock and a hen that +I'm thinkin' of takin' down to Masther Tommy this two weeks, but the +ould mare is mighty quare on her legs o' late. Are ye all well?" + +"Quite well, thank you, Mrs. Connolly." + +"Wisha--God keep ye so." + +"And how are all of you? When did you hear from America?" + +"Last month thin--divil a less; an' the greatest news of all! A letther +from Johnny--me eldest boy--wid a five-pound note in it, an' a picther +of the girl he's goin' to marry. I declare to ye when that letther came +I just fell into a chair an' tuk to laughin' an' cryin' till that +ounchal of a girl in the kitchen began to bate me on the back, thinkin' +I was bad in a fit. To think, me dear, of little Johnneen I used to +nurse on me knee thinkin' of takin' a partner. An' a sthrappin' fine +girl too, fegs, wid cheeks like turnips. But there, now, I'll show her +to ye by-and-by. She's a raal beauty if them porthraits be thrue, but +there's a lot o' lies comes from over the wather. An' what'll ye be +takin' now, Miss Joyce dear?"--with a return to her hospitable mood--"a +dhrop o' hot punch, now? Whiskey is the finest thing out for givin' the +good-bye to the cowld." + +"Oh, no, thank you, Mrs. Connolly"--hastily--"if I might have a cup of +tea, I----" + +"Arrah, bad cess to that tay! What's the good of it at all at all to a +frozen stomach? Cowld pison, I calls it. Well, there! Have it yer own +way! An' come along down wid me, now, an' give yerself to the +enthertainin' of Misther Beauclerk, whilst I wet the pot. Glory! what a +man he is!--the size o' the house! A fine man, in airnest. Tell me now," +with a shrewd glance at Joyce, "is there anything betwixt you and him?" + +"Nothing!" says Joyce, surprised even herself by the amount of vehement +denial she throws into this word. + +"Oh, well, there's others! An' Mr. Dysart would be more to my fancy. +There's a nate man, if ye like, be me fegs!" with a second half sly, +wholly kindly, glance at the girl. "If 'twas he, now, I'd give ye me +blessin' wid a heart and a half. An' indeed, now, Miss Joyce, 'tis time +ye were thinkin' o' settlin'." + +"Well, I'm not thinking of it this time," says Joyce, laughing, though a +little catch in her throat warns her she is not far from tears. Perhaps +Mrs. Connolly hears that little catch, too, for she instantly changes +her tactics. + +"Faith, an' 'tis right y'are, me dear. There's a deal o' trouble in +marriage, an' 'tis too young y'are intirely to undertake the likes of +it," says she, veering round with a scandalous disregard for +appearances. "My, what hair ye have, Miss Joyce! 'Tis improved, it is; +even since last I saw ye. I'm a great admirer of a good head o' hair." + +"I wonder when will the rain be over?" asks Joyce, wistfully gazing +through the small window at the threatening heavens. + +"If it's my opinion y'are askin'," says Mrs. Connolly, "I'd say not till +to-morrow morning." + +"Oh! Mrs. Connolly!" turning a distressed face to that good creature. + +"Well, me dear, what can I say but what I think?" flinging out her ample +arms in self-justification. "Would ye have me lie to ye? Why, a sky like +that always----" + +Here a loud crash of thunder almost shakes the small inn to its +foundations. + +"The heavens be good to us!" says Mrs. Connolly, crossing herself +devoutly. "Did ye iver hear the like o' that?" + +"But--it can't last--it is impossible," says Joyce, vehemently. "Is +there no covered car in the town? Couldn't a man be persuaded to drive +me home if I promised him to----" + +"If ye promised him a king's ransom ye couldn't get a covered car +to-night," says Mrs. Connolly. "There's only one in the place, an' that +belongs to Mike Murphy, an' 'tis off now miles beyant Skibbereen, +attindin' the funeral o' Father John Maguire. 'Twon't be home till +to-morrow any way, an'-faix, I wouldn't wondher if it wasn't here then, +for every mother's son at that wake will be as dhrunk as fiddlers +to-night. Father John, ye know, me dear, was greatly respected." + +"Are you sure there isn't another car?" + +"Quite positive. But why need ye be so unaisy, Miss Joyce, dear? Sure, +'tis safe an' sure y'are wid me." + +"But what will they think at home and at the Court?" says Joyce, +faltering. + +"Arrah! what can they think, miss, but that the rain was altogether too +mastherful for ye? Ye know, me dear, we can't (even the best of us) +conthrol the illimints!" This incontrovertible fact Mrs. Connolly gives +forth with a truly noble air of resignation. "Come down now, and let me +get ye that palthry cup o' tay y'are cravin' for." + +She leads Joyce downstairs and into a snug little parlor with a roaring +fire that is not altogether unacceptable this dreary evening. The smell +of stale tobacco smoke that pervades it is a drawback, but, if you think +of it, we can't have everything in this world. + +Perhaps Joyce has more than she wants. It occurs to her, as Beauclerk +turns round from the solitary window, that she could well have dispensed +with his society. That lurking distrust of him she had known vaguely, +but kept under during all their acquaintance, has taken a permanent +place in her mind during her drive with him this afternoon. + +"Oh! here you are. Beastly, smoky hole!" he says, taking no notice of +Mrs. Connolly, who is doing her best curtsey in the doorway. + +"I think it looks very comfortable," says Joyce, with a gracious smile +at her hostess, and a certain sore feeling at her heart. Once again her +thoughts fly to Dysart. Would that have been his first remark when she +appeared after so severe a wetting? + +"'Tis just what I've been sayin' to Miss Kavanagh, sir," says Mrs. +Connolly, with unabated good humor. "The heavens above is always too +much for us. We can't turn off the wather up there as we can the cock in +the kitchen sink. Still, there's compinsations always, glory be! An' +what will ye plaze have wid yer tay, Miss?" turning to Joyce with great +respect in look and tone. In spite of all her familiarity with her +upstairs, she now, with a looker-on, proceeds to treat "her young lady" +as though she were a stranger and of blood royal. + +"Anything you have, Mrs. Connolly," says Joyce; "only don't be long!" +There is undoubted entreaty in the request. Mrs. Connolly, glancing at +her, concludes it is not so much a desire for what will be brought, as +for the bringer that animates the speaker. + +"Give me five minutes, Miss, an' I'll be back again," says she +pleasantly. Leaving the room, she stands in the passage outside for a +moment, and solemnly moves her kindly head from side to side. It takes +her but a little time to make up her shrewd Irish mind on several +points. + +"While this worthy person is getting you your tea I think I'll take a +look at the weather from the outside," says Mr. Beauclerk, turning to +Joyce. It is evident he is eager to avoid a tête-à-tête, but this does +not occur to her. + +"Yes--do--do," says she, nevertheless with such a liberal encouragement +as puzzles him. Women are kittle cattle, however, he tells himself; +better not to question their motives too closely or you will find +yourself in queer street. He gets to the door with a cheerful assumption +of going to study the heavens that conceals his desire for a cigar and a +brandy and soda, but on the threshold Joyce speaks again. + +"Is there no chance--would it not be possible to get home?" says she, in +a tone that trembles with nervous longing. + +"I'm afraid not. I'm just going to see. It is impossible weather for you +to be out in." + +"But you----? It is clearing a little, isn't it?" with a despairing +glance out of the window. "If you could manage to get back and tell them +that----" + +She is made thoroughly ashamed of her selfishness a moment later. + +"But my dear girl, consider! Why should I tempt a severe attack of +inflammation of the lungs by driving ten or twelve miles through this +unrelenting torrent? We are very well out of it here. This +Mrs.--er--Connor--Connolly seems a very respectable person, and is known +to you. I shall tell her to make you as comfortable as her 'limited +liabilities,'" with quite a laugh at his own wit, "will allow." + +"Pray tell her nothing. Do not give yourself so much trouble," says +Joyce calmly. "She will do the best she can for me without the +intervention of any one." + +"As you will, au revoir!" says he, waving her a graceful farewell for +the moment. + +He is not entirely happy in his mind, as he crosses the tiny hall and +makes his way first to the bar and afterward to the open doorway. Like a +cat, he hates rain! To drive back through this turmoil of wind and wet +for twelve long miles to the Court is more than his pleasure-loving +nature can bear to look upon. Yet to remain has its drawbacks, too. + +If Miss Maliphant, for example, were to hear of this escapade there +might be trouble there. He has not as yet finally made up his mind to +give inclination the go by and surrender himself to sordid +considerations, but there can be no doubt that the sordid things of this +life have, with some natures, a charm hardly to be rivaled successfully +by mere beauty. + +The heiress is attractive in one sense; Joyce equally so in another. +Miss Maliphant's charms are golden--are not Joyce's more golden still? +And yet, to give up Miss Maliphant--to break with her finally--to throw +away deliberately a good £10,000 a year! + +He lights his cigar with an untrembling hand, and, having found it +satisfactory, permits his mind to continue its investigations. + +Ten thousand pounds a year! A great help to a man; yet he is glad at +this moment that he is free to accept or reject it. Nothing definite has +been said to the heiress--nothing definite to Joyce either. It strikes +him at this moment, as he stands in the dingy doorway of the inn and +stares out at the descending rain, that he has shown distinct cleverness +in the way in which he has manoeuvred these two girls, without either of +them feeling the least suspicion of the other. Last night Joyce had been +on the point of a discovery, but he had smoothed away all that. +Evidently he was born to be a successful diplomatist, and if that +appointment he has been looking for ever comes his way, he will be able +to show the world a thing or two. + +How charming that little girl in there can look! And never more so than +when she allows her temper to overcome her. She had been angry just now. +Yes. But he can read between the lines; angry--naturally that he has not +come to the point--declared himself--proposed as the saying is. Well, +puffing complacently at his cigar, she must wait--she must wait--if the +appointment comes off, if Sir Alexander stands to him, she has a very +good chance, but if that falls through, why then---- + +And it won't do to encourage her too much, by Jove! If Miss Maliphant +were to hear of this evening's adventure, she is headstrong, stolid +enough, to mark out a line for herself and fling him aside without +waiting for judge or jury. Much as it might cost her, she would not +hesitate to break all ties with him, and any that existed were very +slight. He, himself, had kept them so. Perhaps, after all, he had better +order the trap round, leave Miss Kavanagh here, and---- + +And yet to go out in that rain; to feel it beating against his face for +two or three intolerable hours. Was anything, even £10,000 a year, worth +that? He would be a drowned rat by the time he reached the Court. + +And, after all, couldn't it be arranged without all this bother? He +might easily explain it all away to Miss Maliphant, even should some +kind friend tell her of it. That was his role. He had quite a talent for +explaining away. But he must also make Joyce thoroughly understand. She +was a sensible girl. A word to her would be sufficient. Just a word to +show that marriage at present was out of the question. Nothing +unpleasant; nothing finite; but just some little thing to waken her to +the true state of the case. Girls, as a rule, were sentimental, and +would expect much of an adventure such as this. But Joyce was proud--he +liked that in her. There would be no trouble; she would quite +understand. + +"Tea is just comin' up, sorr!" says a rough voice behind him. "The +misthress tould me to tell ye so!" + +The red-headed Abigail who attends on Mrs. Connolly beckons him, with a +grimy forefinger, to the repast within. He accepts the invitation. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + + "It is the mynd that maketh good or ill, + That maketh wretch or happy, rich or poore." + + +As he enters the inn parlor he finds Joyce sitting by the fire, +listening to Mrs. Connolly, who, armed with a large tray, is advancing +up the room toward the table. Nobody but the "misthress" herself is +allowed to wait upon "the young lady." + +"An' I hope, Miss Joyce, 'twill be to your liking. An' sorry I am, sir," +with a courteous recognition of Beauclerk's entrance, "that 'tis only +one poor fowl I can give ye. But thim commercial thravellers are the +divil. They'd lave nothing behind 'em if they could help it. Still, +Miss," with a loving smile at Joyce, "I do think ye'll like the ham. +'Tis me own curing, an' I brought ye just a taste o' this year's honey; +ye'd always a sweet tooth from the time ye were born." + +"I could hardly have had a tooth before that," says Joyce, laughing. +"Oh, thank you, Mrs. Connolly; it is a lovely tea, and it is very good +of you to take all this trouble." + +"Who'd be welcome to any trouble if 'twasn't yerself, Miss?" says Mrs. +Connolly, bowing and retreating toward the door. + +A movement on the part of Joyce checks her. The girl has made an +impulsive step as if to follow her, and now, seeing Mrs. Connolly stop +short, holds out to her one hand. + +"But, Mrs. Connolly," says she, trying to speak naturally, and +succeeding very well, so far as careless ears are in question, but the +"misthress" marks the false note, "you will stay and pour out tea for +us; you will?" + +There is an extreme treaty in her tone; the stronger in that it has to +be suppressed. Mrs. Connolly, halting midway between the table and the +door with the tray in her hands, hears it, and a sudden light comes, not +only into her eyes, but her mind. + +"Why, if you wish it, Miss," says she directly. She lays down the tray, +standing it up against the wall, and coming back to the table lifts the +teapot and begins to fill the cups. + +"Ye take sugar, sir?" asks she of Beauclerk, who is a little puzzled, +but not altogether displeased at the turn affairs have taken. After all, +as he has told himself a thousand times, Joyce is a clever girl. She is +determined not to betray the anxiety for his society that beyond +question she is feeling. And this prudence on her part will relieve him +of many small embarrassments. Truly, she is a girl not to be found every +day. + +He is accordingly most gracious to Mrs. Connolly; praises her ham, +extols her tea, says wonderful things about the chicken. + +When tea is at an end, he rises gracefully, and expresses his desire to +smoke one more cigar and have a last look at the weather. + +"You will be able to put us up?" says he. + +"Oh yes, sir, sure." + +He smiles beautifully, and with a benevolent request to Joyce to take +care of herself in his absence, leaves the room. + +"He's a dale o' talk," says Mrs. Connolly, the moment his back is +turned. She is now sure that Joyce has some private grudge against him, +or at all events is not what she herself would call "partial to him." + +"Yes," says Joyce. "He is very conversational. How it rains, still." + +"Yes, it does," says Mrs. Connolly, comfortably. She is not at all put +out by the girl's reserved manner, having lived among the "ginthry" for +many years, and being well up to their "quare ways." A thought, however, +that had been formulating in her mind for a long time past--ever since, +indeed, she found her young lady could not return home until +morning--now compels her to give the conversation a fresh turn. + +"I've got to apologize to ye, Miss, but since ye must stay the night wid +me, I'm bound to tell ye I have no room for ye but a little one leadin' +out o' me own." + +"Are you so very full, then, Mrs. Connolly? I'm glad to hear that for +your sake." + +"Full to the chin, me dear. Thim commercials always dhrop down upon one +just whin laste wanted." + +"Then I suppose I ought to be thankful that you can give me a room at +all," says Joyce, laughing. "I'm afraid I shall be a great trouble to +you." + +"Ne'er a scrap in life, me dear. 'Tis proud I am to be of any sarvice to +ye. An' perhaps 'twill make ye aisier in yer mind to know as your undher +my protection, and that no gossip can come nigh ye." + +The good woman means well, but she has flown rather above Joyce's head, +or rather under her feet. + +"I'm delighted to be with you," says Miss Kavanagh, with a pretty smile. +"But as for protection--well, the Land Leaguers round here are not so +bad as that one should fear for one's life in a quiet village like +this." + +"There's worse than Land Leaguers," says Mrs. Connolly. "There's thim +who talk." + +"Talk--of what?" asks Joyce, a little vaguely. + +"Well now, me dear, sure ye haven't lived so long widout knowin' there's +cruel people in the world," says Mrs. Connolly, anxiously. "An' the fact +o' you goin' out dhrivin' wid Mr. Beauclerk, an' stayin' out the night +wid him, might give rise to the talk I'm fightin' agin. Don't be angry +wid me now, Miss Joyce, an' don't fret, but 'tis as well to prepare ye." + +Joyce's heart, as she listens, seems to die within her. A kind of sick +feeling renders her speechless; she had never thought of that--of--of +the idea of impropriety being suggested as part of this most unlucky +escapade. Mrs. Connolly, noting the girl's white face, feels as though +she ought to have cut her tongue out, rather than have spoken, yet she +had done all for the best. + +"Miss Joyce, don't think about it," says she, hurriedly. "I'm sorry I +said a word, but--An', afther all, I am right, me dear. 'Tis betther for +ye when evil tongues are waggin' to have a raal friend like me to yer +back to say the needful word. Ye'll sleep wid me to-night, an' I'll take +ye back to her ladyship in the morning, an' never leave ye till I see ye +in safe hands once more. If ye liked him," pointing to the door through +which Beauclerk had gone, "I'd say nothing, for thin all would come +right enough. But as it is, I'll take it on meself to be the nurse to ye +now that I was when ye were a little creature creeping along the floor." + +Joyce smiles at her, but rather faintly. A sense of terror is oppressing +her. Lady Baltimore, what will she think? And Freddy and Barbara! They +will all be angry with her! Oh! more than angry--they will think she has +done something that other girls would not have done. How is she to face +them again? The entire party at the Court seems to spread itself before +her. Lady Swansdown and Lord Baltimore, they will laugh about it; and +the others will laugh and whisper, and---- + +Felix--Felix Dysart. What will he think? What is he thinking now? To +follow out this thought is intolerable to her; she rises abruptly. + +"What o'clock is it, Mrs. Connolly?" says she in a hard, strained voice. +"I am tired, I should like to go to bed now." + +"Just eight, Miss. An' if you are tired there's nothing like the bed. Ye +will like to say good-night to Mr. Beauclerk?" + +"Oh, no, no!" with frowning sharpness. Then recovering herself. "I need +not disturb him. You will tell him that I was chilled--tired." + +"I'll tell him all that he ought to know," says Mrs. Connolly. "Come, +Miss Joyce, everything, is ready for ye. An' a lie down and a good sleep +will be the makin' of ye before morning." + +Joyce, to her surprise, is led through a very well-appointed chamber, +evidently unused, to a smaller but scarcely less carefully arranged +apartment beyond. The first is so plainly a room not in daily use, that +she turns involuntarily to her companion. + +"Is this your room, Mrs. Connolly?" + +"For the night, me dear," says that excellent woman mysteriously. + +"You have changed your room to suit me. You mean something," says the +girl, growing crimson, and feeling as if her heart were going to burst. +"What is it?" + +"No, no, Miss! No, indeed!" confusedly. "But, Miss Joyce, I'll say this, +that 'tis eight year now since Misther Monkton came here, an' many's the +good turn he's done me since he's been me lord's agint. An' that's +nothing at all, Miss, to the gratitude I bear toward yer poor father, +the ould head o' the house. An' d'ye think when occasion comes I +wouldn't stand up an' do the best I could for one o' yer blood? Fegs, +I'll take care that it won't be in the power of any one to say a word +agin you." + +"Against me?" + +"You're young, Miss. But there's people ould enough to have sinse an' +charity as haven't it. I can see ye couldn't get home to-night through +that rain, though I'm not sayin'"--a little spitefully--"but that he +might have managed it. Still, faith, 'twas bad thravellin' for man or +baste," with a view to softening down her real opinion of Beauclerk's +behavior. How can she condemn him safely? Is he not my lady's own +brother? Is not my lord the owner of the very ground on which the inn is +built, of the farm a mile away, where her cows are chewing the cud by +this time in peace and safety? + +"You have changed your room to oblige me," says Joyce, still with that +strange, miserable look in her eyes. + +"Don't think about that, Miss Joyce, now. An' don't fret yerself about +anything else, ayther; sure ye can remimber that I'm to yer back +always." + +She bridles, and draws up her ample figure to its fullest height. +Indeed, looking at her, it might suggest itself to any reasonable being +that even the forlornest damsel with any such noble support might well +defy the world. + +But Joyce is not to be so easily consoled. What is support to her? Who +can console a torn heart? The day has been too eventful! It has overcome +her courage. Not only has she lost faith in her own power to face the +angry authorities at home, she has lost faith, too, in one to whom, +against her judgment, she had given more of her thoughts than was wise. +The fact that she had recovered from that folly does not render the +memory of the recovery less painful. The awakening from a troubled dream +is full of anguish. + +Rising from a sleepless bed, she goes down next morning to find Mrs. +Connolly standing on the lowest step of the stairs, as if awaiting her, +booted and spurred for the journey. + +"I tould him to order the thrap early, me dear, for I knew ye'd be +anxious," says the kind woman, squeezing her hand. "An' now," with an +anxious glance at her, "I hope ye ate yer breakfast. I guessed ye'd like +it in yer room, so I sint it up to ye. Well--come on, dear. Mr. +Beauclerk is outside waitin'. I explained it all to him. Said ye were +tired, ye know, an' eager to get back. And so all's ready an' the horse +impatient." + +In spite of the storm yesterday, that seemed to shake earth and heaven, +to-day is beautiful. Soft glistening steams are rising from every hill +and bog and valley, as the hot sun's rays beat upon them. The world +seems wrapped in one vast vaporous mist, most lovely to behold. All the +woodland flowers are holding up their heads again, after their past +smiting from the cruel rain; the trees are swaying to and fro in the +fresh morning breeze, thousands of glittering drops brightening the air, +as they swing themselves from side to side. All things speak of a new +birth, a resurrection, a joyful waking from a terrifying past. The grass +looks greener for its bath, all dust is laid quite low, the very lichens +on the walls as they drive past them look washed and glorified. + +The sun is flooding the sky with gorgeous light; there are "sweete smels +al arownd." The birds in the woods on either side of the roadway are +singing high carols in praise of this glorious day. All nature seems +joyous. Joyce alone is silent, unappreciative, unhappy. + +The nearer she gets to the Court the more perturbed she grows in mind. +How will they receive her there? Barbara had said that Lady Baltimore +would not be likely to encourage an attachment between her and +Beauclerk, and now, though the attachment is impossible, what will she +think of this unfortunate adventure? She is so depressed that speech +seems impossible to her, and to all Mr. Beauclerk's sallies she scarcely +returns an answer. + +His sallies are many. Never has he appeared in gayer spirits. The fact +that the girl beside him is in unmistakably low spirits has either +escaped him, or he has decided on taking no notice of it. Last night, +over that final cigar, he had made up his mind that it would be wise to +say to her some little thing that would unmistakably awaken her to the +fact that there was nothing between him and her of any serious +importance. Now, having covered half the distance that lies between them +and the Court, he feels will be a good time to say that little thing. +She is too distrait to please him. She is evidently brooding over +something. If she thinks----Better crush all such hopes at once. + +"I wonder what they are thinking about us at home?" he says presently, +with quite a cheerful laugh, suggestive of amusement. + +No answer. + +"I daresay," with a second edition of the laugh, full now of a wider +amusement, as though the comical fancy that has caught hold of him has +grown to completion, "I shouldn't wonder, indeed, if they were thinking +we had eloped." This graceful speech he makes with the easiest air in +the world. + +"They may be thinking you have eloped, certainly," says Miss Kavanagh +calmly. "One's own people, as a rule, know one very thoroughly, and are +quite alive to one's little failings; but that they should think it of +me is quite out of the question." + +"Well, after all, I daresay you are right. I don't suppose it lies in +the possibilities. They could hardly think it of me either," says +Beauclerk, with a careless yawn, so extraordinarily careless indeed as +to be worthy of note. "I'm too poor for amusement of that kind." + +"One couldn't be too poor for that kind of amusement, surely. Romance +and history have both taught us that it is only the impecunious who ever +indulge in that folly." + +"I am not so learned as you are, but----Well, I'm an 'impecunious one,' +in all conscience. I couldn't carry it out. I only wish," tenderly, "I +could." + +"With whom?" icily. As she asks the question she turns deliberately and +looks him steadily in the eyes. Something in her regard disconcerts him, +and compels him to think that the following up of the "little thing" is +likely to prove difficult. + +"How can you ask me?" demands he with an assumption of reproachful +fondness that is rather overdone. + +"I do, nevertheless." + +"With you, then--if I must put it in words," says he, lowering his tone +to the softest whisper. It is an eminently lover-like whisper; it is a +distinctly careful one, too. It is quite impossible for Mrs. Connolly, +sitting behind, to hear it, however carefully she may be attending. + +"It is well you cannot put your fortune to the touch," says Joyce +quietly; "if you could, disappointment alone would await you." + +"You mean----?" ask he, somewhat sharply. + +"That were it possible for me to commit such a vulgarity as to run away +with any one, you, certainly, would not be that one. You are the very +last man on earth I should choose for so mistaken an adventure. Let me +also add," says she, turning upon him with flashing eyes, though still +her voice is determinately low and calm, "that you forget yourself +strangely when you talk in this fashion to me." The scorn and +indignation in her charming face is so apparent that it is now +impossible to ignore it. Being thus compelled to acknowledge it he grows +angry. Beauclerk angry is not nice. + +"To do myself justice, I seldom do that!" says he, with a rather nasty +laugh. "To forget myself is not part of my calculations. I can generally +remember No. One." + +"You will remember me, too, if you please, so long as I am with you," +says Joyce, with a grave and very gentle dignity, but with a certain +determination that makes itself felt. Beauclerk, conscious of being +somewhat cowed, is bully enough to make one more thrust. + +"After all, Dysart was right," says he. "He prophesied there would be +rain. He advised you not to undertake our ill-starred journey +of--yesterday." There is distinct and very malicious meaning in the +emphasis he throws into the last word. + +"I begin to think Mr. Dysart is always right," says Joyce, bravely, +though her heart has begun to beat furiously. That terrible fear of what +they will say to her when she gets back--of their anger--their courteous +anger--their condemnation--has been suddenly presented to her again and +her courage dies within her. Dysart, what will he say? It strikes even +herself as strange that his view of her conduct is the one that most +disturbs her. + +"Only, beginning to think it? Why, I always understood Dysart was +immaculate--the 'couldn't err' sort of person one reads of but never +sees. You have been slow, surely, to gauge his merits. I confess I have +been even slower. I haven't gauged them yet. But then--Dysart and I were +never much in sympathy with each other." + +"No. One can understand that," says she. + +"One can, naturally," with the utmost self-complaisance. "I confess, +indeed," with a sudden slight burst of vindictiveness, "that I never +liked Dysart; idiotic sort of fool in my estimation, self-opinionated +like all fools, and deucedly impertinent in that silent way of his. I +believe," with a contemptuous laugh, "he has given it as his opinion +that there is very little to like in me either." + +"Has he? We were saying just now he is always right," says Miss +Kavanagh, absently, and in a tone so low that Beauclerk may be excused +for scarcely believing his ears. + +"Eh?" says he. But there is no answer, and presently both fall into a +silent mood--Joyce because conversation is terrible to her, and he +because anger is consuming him. + +He had kept up a lively converse all through the earlier part of their +drive, ignoring the depression that only too plainly was crushing upon +his companion, with a view to putting an end to sentimentality of any +sort. Her discomfort, her unhappiness, was as nothing to him--he thought +only of himself. Few men, under the circumstances, would have so acted, +for most men, in spite of all the old maids who so generously abuse +them, are chivalrous and have kindly hearts; and indeed it is only a +melancholy specimen here and there who will fail to feel pity for a +woman in distress. Beauclerk is a "melancholy specimen." + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + + "Man, false man, smiling, destructive man." + + "Who breathes, must suffer, and who thinks, most mourn; + And he alone is bless'd who ne'er was born." + + +"Oh! my dear girl, is it you at last?" cries Lady Baltimore, running out +into the hall as Joyce enters it. "We have been so frightened! Such a +storm, and Baltimore says that mare you had is very uncertain. Where did +you get shelter?" + +The very warmth and kindliness of her welcome, the utter absence of +disapproval in it of any sort, so unnerves Joyce that she can make no +reply; can only cling to her kindly hostess, and hide her face on her +shoulder. + +"Is that you, Mrs. Connolly?" says Lady Baltimore, smiling at mine +hostess of the Baltimore Arms, over the girl's shoulder. + +"Yes, my lady," with a curtsey so low that one wonders how she ever +comes up again. "I made so bould, my lady, as to bring ye home Miss +Joyce myself. I know Misther Beauclerk to be a good support in himself, +but I thought it would be a raisonable thing to give her the company of +one of her own women folk besides." + +"Quite right. Quite," says Lady Baltimore. + +"Oh! she has been so kind to me," says Joyce, raising now a pale face to +turn a glance of gratitude on Mrs. Connolly. + +"Why, indeed, my lady, I wish I might ha' bin able to do more for her; +an' I'm sorry to say I'd to put her up in a small, most inconvenient +room, just inside o' me own." + +"How was that?" asks Lady Baltimore, kindly. "The inn so full then?" + +"Fegs 'twas that was the matther wid it," says Mrs. Connolly, with a +beaming smile. "Crammed from cellar to garret." + +"Ah! the wet night, I suppose." + +"Just so, my lady," composedly, and with another deep curtsey. + +Lady Baltimore having given Mrs. Connolly into the care of the +housekeeper, who is an old friend of hers, leads Joyce upstairs. + +"You are not angry with me?" says Joyce, turning on the threshold of her +room. + +"With you, my dear child? No, indeed. With Norman, very! He should have +turned back the moment he saw the first symptom of a storm. A short +wetting would have done neither of you any harm." + +"There was no warning; the storm was on us almost immediately, and we +were then very close to Falling." + +"Then, having placed you once safely in Mrs. Connolly's care, he should +have returned himself, at all hazards." + +"It rained very hard," says Joyce in a cold, clear tone. Her eyes are on +the ground. She is compelling herself to be strictly just to Beauclerk, +but the effort is too much for her. She fails to do it naturally, and so +gives a false impression to her listener. Lady Baltimore casts a quick +glance at her. + +"Rain, what is rain?" says she. + +"There was storm, too, a violent storm; you must have felt it here." + +"No storm should have prevented his return. He should have thought only +of you." + +A little bitter smile curls the girl's lips: it seems a farce to suggest +that he should have thought of her. He! Now with her eyes effectually +opened, a certain scorn of herself, in that he should have been able so +easily to close them, takes possession of her. Is his sister blind still +to his defects, that she expects so much from him; has she not read him +rightly yet? Has she yet to learn that he will never consider any one, +where his own interests, comforts, position, clash with theirs? + +"You look distressed, tired. I believe you are fretting about this," +says Lady Baltimore, with a little kindly bantering laugh. "Don't be a +silly child. Nobody has said or thought anything that has not been +kindly of you. Did you sleep last night? No. I can see you didn't. +There, lie down, and get a little rest before luncheon. I shall send you +up a glass of champagne and a biscuit; don't refuse it." + +She pulls down the blinds, and goes softly out of the room to her +boudoir, where she finds Beauclerk awaiting her. + +He is lounging comfortably on a satin fauteuil, looking the very _beau +ideal_ of pleasant, careless life. He makes his sister a present of a +beaming smile as she enters. + +"Ah! good morning, Isabel. I am afraid we gave you rather a fright; but +you see it couldn't be helped. What an evening and night it turned out! +By Jove! I thought the water works above were turned on for good at last +and for ever. We felt like the Babes in the Wood--abandoned, lost. Poor, +dear Miss Kavanagh! I felt so sorry for her! You have seen her, I hope," +his face has now taken the correct lines of decorous concern. "She is +not over fatigued?" + +"She looks tired! depressed!" says Lady Baltimore, regarding him +seriously. "I wish, Norman, you had come home last evening." + +"What! and bring Miss Kavanagh through all that storm!" + +"No, you could have left her at Falling. I wish you had come home." + +"Why?" with an amused laugh. "Are you afraid I have compromised myself?" + +"I was not thinking of you. I am more afraid," with a touch of cold +displeasure, "of your having compromised Miss Kavanagh. There are such +things as gossips in this curious world. You should have left Joyce in +Mrs. Connolly's safe keeping, and come straight back here." + +"To be laid up with rheumatism during the whole of the coming winter! +Oh! most unnatural sister, what is it you would have desired of me?" + +"You showed her great attention all this summer," says Lady Baltimore. + +"I hope I showed a proper attention to all your guests." + +"You were very specially attentive to her." + +"To Miss Kavanagh, do you mean?" with a puzzled air. "Ah! well, yes. +Perhaps I did give more of my time to her and to Miss Maliphant than to +the others." + +"Ah! Miss Maliphant! one can understand that," says his sister, with an +intonation that is not entirely complimentary. + +"Can one? Here is one who can't, at all events. I confess I tried very +hard to bring myself to the point there, but I failed. Nature was too +strong for me. Good girl, you know, but--er--awful!" + +"We were not discussing Miss Maliphant, we were talking of Joyce," +icily. + +"Ah, true!" as if just awakening to a delightful fact. "And a far more +charming subject for discussion, it must be allowed. Well, and what of +Joyce--you call her Joyce?" + +"Be human, Norman!" says Lady Baltimore, with a sudden suspicion of fire +in her tone. "Forget to pose once in a way. And this time it is +important. Let me hear the truth from you. She seems unhappy, uncertain, +nervous. I like her. There is something real, genuine, about her. I +would gladly think, that----Do you know," she leans towards him, "I have +sometimes thought you were in love with her." + +"Have you? Do you know, so have I," with a frankness very admirable. +"She is one of the most agreeable girls of my acquaintance. There is +something very special about her. I'm not surprised that both you and I +fell into a conclusion of that sort." + +"Am I to understand by that----?" + +"Just one thing. I am too poor to marry." + +"With that knowledge in your mind, you should not have acted towards her +as you did yesterday. It was a mistake, believe me. You should have come +home alone, or else brought her back as your promised wife." + +"Ah! what a delightful vista you open up before me, but what an unkind +one, too," says Mr. Beauclerk, with a little reproachful uplifting of +his hands and brows. "Have you no bowels of compassion? You know how the +charms of domestic life have always attracted me. And to be able to +enjoy them with such an admirable companion as Miss Kavanagh! Are you +soulless, utterly without mercy, Isabel, that you open up to me a +glorious vision such as that merely to taunt and disappoint me?" + +"I am neither Joyce nor Miss Maliphant," says Lady Baltimore, with +ill-suppressed contempt. "I wish you would try to remember that, Norman; +it would spare time and trouble. You speak of Joyce as if she were the +woman you love, and yet--would you subject the woman you love to unkind +comment? If you cared you would not have treated her as----" + +"Ah, if I did care for her," interrupts he. + +"Well, don't you?" sternly. + +She has risen, and is looking down at him from the full height of her +tall, slender figure, that now looks taller than usual. + +"Oh, immensely!" declares Mr. Beauclerk, airily. "My dear girl, you +can't have studied me not to know that; as I have told you, I think her +charming. Quite out of the common--quite." + +"That will do," shortly. + +"You condemn me," says he, in an aggrieved tone that has got something +of amused surprise in it. "Yet you know--you of all others--how poor a +devil I am! So poor, that I do not even permit the idea of marriage in +my head." + +"Perhaps, however, you have permitted it to enter into hers!" says Lady +Baltimore. + +"Oh, my dear Isabel!" with a light laugh and a protesting glance. "Do +you think she would thank you for that suggestion?" + +"You should think. You should think," says Lady Baltimore, with some +agitation. "She is a very young girl. She has lived entirely in the +country. She knows nothing--nothing," throwing out her hand. "She is not +awake to all the intriguing, lying, falsity," with a rush of bitter +disgust, "that belongs to the bigger world beyond--the terrible world +outside her own quiet one here." + +"She is quiet here, isn't she?" says Beauclerk, with admirable +appreciation. "Pity to take her out of it. Eh? And yet, so far as I can +see, that is the cruel task you would impose on me." + +"Norman," says his sister, turning suddenly and for the first time +directly toward him. + +"Well, my dear. What?" throwing one leg negligently over the other. "It +really comes to this, doesn't it? That you want me to marry a certain +somebody, and that I think I cannot afford to marry her. Then it lies in +the proverbial nutshell." + +"The man who cannot afford to marry should not afford himself the +pleasures of flirtations," says Lady Baltimore, with decision. + +"No? Is that your final opinion? Good heavens! Isabel, what a brow! What +a terrible glance! If," smiling, "you favor Baltimore with this style of +thing whenever you disapprove of his smallest action I don't wonder he +jibs so often at the matrimonial collar. You advised me to think just +now; think yourself, my good Isabel, now and then, and probably you will +find life easier." + +He is still smiling delightfully. He flings out this cruel gibe indeed +in the most careless manner possible. + +"Ah! forget me," says she in a manner as careless as his own. If she has +quivered beneath that thrust of his, at all events she has had strength +enough to suppress all signs of it. "Think--not of her--I daresay she +will outlive it--but of yourself." + +"What would you have me do then?" demands he, rising here and +confronting her. There is a good deal of venom in his handsome face, but +Lady Baltimore braves it. + +"I would have you act as an honorable man," says she, in a clear, if icy +tone. + +"You go pretty far, Isabel, very far, even for a sister," says he +presently, his face now white with rage. "A moment ago I gave you some +sound advice. I give you more now. Attend to your own affairs, which by +all account require looking after, and let mine alone." + +He is evidently furious. His sister makes a little gesture towards the +door. + +"Your taking it like this does not mend matters," she says calmly, "it +only makes them, if possible, worse. Leave me!" + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + +"AT SIXES AND SEVENS." + + Pol.--"What do you read, my lord?" + + Ham.--"Words, words, words." + + +She sighs heavily, as the door closes on her brother. A sense of +weakness, of powerlessness oppresses her. She has fought so long, and +for what? Is there nothing to be gained; no truth to be defended +anywhere, no standard of right and wrong. Are all men--all--base, +selfish, cowardly, dishonorable? Her whole being seems aflame with the +indignation that is consuming her, when a knock sounds at the door. +There is only one person in the house who knocks at her boudoir door. To +every one, servants, guests, child, it is a free land; to her husband +alone it is forbidden ground. + +"Come in," says she, in a cold, reluctant tone. + +"I know I shall be terribly in your way," says Baltimore, entering, "but +I must beg you to give me five minutes. I hear Beauclerk has returned, +and that you have seen him. What kept him?" + +Now Lady Baltimore--who a moment ago had condemned her brother heartily +to his face--feels, as her husband addresses her, a perverse desire to +openly contradict all that her honest judgment had led her to say to +Beauclerk. That sense of indignation that was burning so hotly in her +breast as Baltimore knocked at her door still stirs within her, but now +its fire is directed against this latest comer. Who is he, that he +should dare to question the honor of any man; and that there is +annoyance and condemnation now in Baltimore's eyes is not to be denied. + +"The weather," returns she shortly. + +"By your tone I judge you deem that an adequate excuse for keeping Miss +Kavanagh from her home for half a day and a night." + +"There was a terrible storm," says. Lady Baltimore calmly; "the worst we +have had for months." + +"If it had been ten times as bad he should, in my opinion, have come +home." + +The words seem a mere repetition to Lady Baltimore. She had, indeed, +used them to Beauclerk herself, or some such, a few minutes ago. Yet she +seems to repudiate all sympathy with them now. + +"On such a night as that? I hardly see why. Joyce was with an old +friend. Mrs. Connolly was once a servant of her father's, and he----" + +"Should have left her with the old friend and come home." + +Again her own argument, and again perversity drives her to take the +opposite side--the side against her conscience. + +"Society must be in a very bad state if a man must perforce encounter +thunder, rain, lightning; in fact, a chance of death from cold and +exposure, all because he dare not spend one night beneath the roof of a +respectable woman like Mrs. Connolly, with a girl friend, without +bringing down on him the censures of his entire world." + +"You can, it appears, be a most eloquent advocate for the supposed +follies of any one but your husband. Nevertheless, I must persist in my +opinion that it was, to put it very charitably indeed, inconsiderate of +your brother to study his own comfort at the expense of his--girl +friend. I believe that is your way of putting it, isn't it?" + +"Yes," immovably. She has so far given way to movement, however, that +she has taken up a feather fan lying near, and now so holds it between +her and Baltimore that he cannot distinctly see her face. + +"As for the world you speak of--it will not judge him as leniently as +you do. It can talk. No one," bitterly, "is as good a witness of that as +I am." + +"But seldom," coldly, "without reason." + +"And no one is a better witness of that than you are! That is what you +would say, isn't it? Put down that fan, can't you?" with a touch of +savage impatience. "Are you ashamed to carry out your argument with me +face to face?" + +"Ashamed!" Lady Baltimore has sprung suddenly to her feet, and sent the +fan with a little crash to the ground. "Oh! shame on you to mention such +a word." + +"Am I to be forever your one scapegoat? Now take another one, I beseech +you," says Baltimore with that old, queer, devilish mockery on his face +that was never seen there until gossiping tongues divided him from his +wife. "Here is your brother, actually thrown to you, as it were. Surely +he will be a proof that I am not the only vile one among all the herd. +If nothing else, acknowledge him selfish. A man who thought more of a +dry coat than a young, a very young, girl's reputation. Is that nothing? +Oh! consider, I beseech you!" his bantering manner, in which there is so +much misery that it should have reached her but does not, grows stronger +every instant "Even a big chill from the heavens above would not have +killed him, whereas we all know how a little breath from the world below +can kill many a----" + +"Oh I you can talk, talk, talk," says she, that late unusual burst of +passion showing some hot embers still. "But can words alter facts?" She +pauses; a sudden chill seems to enwrap her. As if horrified by her late +descent into passion she gathers herself together, and defies him once +again with a cold look. "Why say anything more about it?" she says. "We +do not agree." + +"On this subject, at least, we should," says he hotly. "I think your +brother should not have left us in ignorance of Miss Kavanagh's safety +for so many hours. And you," with a sneer, "who are such a martinet for +propriety, should certainly be prepared to acknowledge that he should +not have so regulated his conduct as to make her a subject for unkind +comment to the County. Badly," looking at her deliberately, "as you +think of me, I should not have done it." + +"No?" says she. It is a cruel--an unmistakable insulting monosyllable. +And, bearing no other word with it--is the more detestable to the +hearer. + +"No," says he loudly. "Sneer as you will--my conscience is at rest +there, so I can defy your suspicions." + +"Ah! there!" says she. + +"My dear creature," says he, "we all know there is but one villain in +the world, and you are the proud possessor of him--as a husband. Permit +me to observe, however, that a man of your code of honor, and of mine +for the matter of that--but I forget that honor and I have no cousinship +in your estimation--would have chosen to be wet to the skin rather than +imperil the fair name of the girl he loved." + +"Has he told you he loved her?" + +"Not in so many words." + +"Then from what do you argue?" + +"My dear, I have told you that you are too much for me in argument! I, a +simple on-looker, have judged merely from an every-day observance of +little unobtrusive facts. If your brother is not in love with Miss +Kavanagh, I think he ought to be. I speak ignorantly, I allow. I am not, +like you, a deep student of human nature. If, too, he did not feel it +his duty to bring her home last night, or else to leave her at Falling +and return here himself, I fail to sympathize with him. I should not +have so failed her." + +"Oh but you!" says his wife, with a little contemptuous smile. "You who +are such a paragon of virtue. It would not be expected of you that you +should make such a mistake!" + +She has sent forth her dart impulsively, sharply, out of the overflowing +fullness of her angry heart--and when too late, when it has sped past +recall--perhaps repents the speeding! + +Such repentances, when felt too late, bring vices in their train; the +desire for good, when chilled, turns to evil. The mind, never idle, if +debarred from the best, leans inevitably toward the worst. Angry with +herself, her very soul embittered within her, Lady Baltimore feels more +and more a sense of passionate wrong against the man who had wooed and +won her, and sown the seeds of gnawing distrust within her bosom. + +Baltimore's face has whitened. His brow contracts. + +"What a devilish unforgiving thing is a good woman," says he, with a +reckless laugh. "That's a compliment, my lady--take it as you will. +What! are your sneers to outlast life itself? Is that old supposed sin +of mine never to be condoned? Why--say it was a real thing, instead of +being the myth it is. Even so, a woman all prayers, all holiness, such +as you are, might manage to pardon it!" + +Lady Baltimore, rising, walks deliberately toward the door. It is her, +usual method of putting an end to all discussions of this sort between +them--of terminating any allusions to what she believes to be his +unfaithful past--that past that has wrecked her life. + +As a rule, Baltimore makes no attempt to prolong the argument. He has +always let her go, with a sneering word, perhaps, or a muttered +exclamation; but to-day he follows her, and stepping between her and the +door, bars her departure. + +"By heavens! you shall hear me," says he, his face dark with anger. "I +will not submit any longer, in silence, to your insolent treatment of +me. You condemn me, but I tell you it is I who should condemn. Do you +think I believe in your present attitude toward me? Pretend as you will, +even to yourself, in your soul it is impossible that you should give +credence to that old story, false as it is old. No! you cling to it to +mask the feet you have tired of me." + +"Let me pass." + +"Not until you have heard me!" With a light, but determined grasp of her +arm, he presses her back into the chair she has just quitted. + +"That story was a lie, I tell you. Before our marriage, I confess, there +were some things--not creditable--to which I plead guilty, but----" + +"Oh! be silent!" cries she, putting up her hand impulsively to check +him. There is open disgust and horror on her pale, severe face. + +"Before, before our marriage," persists he passionately. + +"What! do you think there is no temptation--no sin--no falling away from +the stern path of virtue in this life? Are you so mad or so ignorant as +to believe that every man you meet could show a perfectly clean record +of----" + +"I cannot--I will not listen," interposes she, springing to her feet, +white and indignant. + +"There is nothing to hear. I am not going to pollute your ears," says +he, with a curl of his lip. "Pray be reassured. What I only wish to say +is that if you condemn me for a few past sins you should condemn also +half your acquaintances. That, however, you do not do. For me alone, for +your husband, you reserve all your resentment." + +"What are the others to me?" + +"What am I to you, for the matter of that?" with a bitter laugh, "if +they are nothing I am less than nothing. You deliberately flung me aside +all because----Why, look here!" moving toward her in uncontrollable +agitation, "say I had sinned above the Galileans--say that lie was +true--say I had out-Heroded Herod in evil courses, still am I past the +pale of forgiveness? Saint as you are, have you no pity for me? In +all your histories of love and peace and perfection is there never +a case of a poor devil of a sinner like me being taken back into +grace--absolved--pardoned?" + +"To rave like this is useless. There is no good to be got from it. You +know what I think, what I believe. You deceived--wronged----Let me go, +Cecil!" + +"Before--before," repeats he, obstinately. "What that woman told you +since, I swear to you, was a most damned lie." + +"I refuse to go into it again." + +She is deadly pale now. Her bloodless lips almost refuse to let the +words go through them. + +"You mean by that, that in spite of my oath you still cling to your +belief that I am lying to you?" + +His face is livid. There is something almost dangerous about it, but +Lady Baltimore has come of too old and good a race to be frightened into +submission. Raising one small, slender hand, she lays it upon his +breast, and, with a little haughty upturning of her shapely head, pushes +him from her. + +"I have told you I refuse to go into it," says she, with superb +self-control. "How long do you intend to keep me here? When may I be +allowed to leave the room?" + +There is distinct defiance in the clear glance she casts at him. + +Baltimore draws a long breath, and then bursts into a strange laugh. + +"Why, when you will," says he, shrugging his shoulders. He makes a +graceful motion of his hand toward the door. "Shall I open it for you? +But a word still let me say--if you are not in too great a hurry! +Christianity, now, my fair saint, so far as ever I could hear or read, +has been made up of mercy. Now, you are merciless! Would you mind +letting me know how you reconcile one----" + +"You perversely mistake me--I am no saint. I do not"--coldly--"profess +to be one. I am no such earnest seeker after righteousness as you +maliciously represent me. All I desire is honesty of purpose, and a +decent sense of honor--honor that makes decency. That is all. For the +rest, I am only a poor woman who loved once, and was--how many times +deceived? That probably I shall never know." + +Her sad, sad eyes, looking at him, grow suddenly full of tears. + +"Isabel! My meeting with that woman--that time"--vehemently--"in town +was accidental! I----It was the merest chance----" + +"Don't!" says she, raising her hand, with such a painful repression of +her voice as to render it almost a whisper; "I have told you it is +useless. I have heard too much to believe anything now. I shall never, I +think," very sadly, "believe in any one again. You have murdered faith +in me. Tell this tale of yours to some one else--some one willing to +believe--to"--with a terrible touch of scorn--"Lady Swansdown, for +example." + +"Why do you bring her into the discussion?" asks he, turning quickly to +her. Has she heard anything? That scene in the garden that now seems to +fill him with self-contempt. What a _bêtise_ it was! And what did it +amount to? Nothing! Lady Swansdown, he is honestly convinced, cares as +little for him as he for her. And at this moment it is borne in upon him +that he would give the embraces of a thousand such as she for one kind +glance from the woman before him. + +"I merely mentioned her as a possible person who might listen to you," +with a slight lifting of her shoulders. "A mere idle suggestion. You +will pardon me saying that this has been an idle discussion altogether. +You began by denouncing my brother to me, and now----" + +"You have ended by denouncing your husband to me! As idle a beginning as +an end, surely. Still, to go back to Beauclerk. I persist in saying he +has behaved scandalously in this affair. He has imperilled that poor +child's good name." + +"You can imperil names, too!" says she, turning almost fiercely on him. + +"Lady Swansdown again, I suppose," says he, with a bored uplifting of +his brows. "The old grievance is not sufficient, then; you must have a +new one. I am afraid I must disappoint you. Lady Swansdown, I assure +you, cares nothing at all for me, and I care just the same amount for +her." + +"Since when?" + +"Since the world began--if you want a long date!" + +"What a liar you are, Baltimore!" says his wife, turning to him with a +sudden breaking out of all the pent-up passion within her. Involuntarily +her hands clench themselves. She is pale no longer. A swift, hot flush +has dyed her cheeks. Like an outraged, insulted queen, she holds him a +moment with her eyes, then sweeps out of the room. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. + + 'Since thou art not as these are, go thy ways; + Thou hast no part in all my nights and days. + Lie still--sleep on--be glad. As such things be + Thou couldst not watch with me." + + +Luncheon has gone off very pleasantly. Joyce, persuaded by Lady +Baltimore, had gone down to it, feeling a little shy, and conscious of a +growing headache. But everybody had been charming to her, and Baltimore, +in especial, had been very careful in his manner of treating her, saying +little nice things to her, and insisting on her sitting next to him, a +seat hitherto Lady Swansdown's own. + +The latter had taken this so perfectly, that one might be pardoned for +thinking it had been arranged beforehand between her and her host. At +all events Lady Swansdown was very sympathetic, and indeed everybody +seemed bent on treating her as a heroine of the highest order. + +Joyce herself felt dull--nerveless. Words did not seem to come easily to +her. She was tired, she thought, and of course she was, having spent a +sleepless night. One little matter gave her cause for thankfulness. +Dysart was absent from luncheon. He had gone on a long walking +expedition, Lady Baltimore said, that would prevent his returning home +until dinner hour--until quite 8 o'clock. Joyce told herself she was +glad of this--though why she did not tell herself. At all events the +news left her very silent. + +But her silence was not noticed. It could not be, indeed, so great and +so animated was the flow of Beauclerk's eloquence. Without addressing +anybody in particular, he seemed to address everybody. He kept the whole +table alive. He treated yesterday's adventure as a tremendously amusing +affair, and invited everyone to look upon it as he did. He insisted on +describing Miss Kavanagh and himself in the same light as he had +described them earlier to his sister, as the modern Babes in the Wood, +Mrs. Connolly being the Robin. He made several of the people who had +dropped in to luncheon roar with laughter over his description of that +excellent inn keeper. Her sayings--her appearance--her stern notions of +morality that induced her to bring them home, "personally +conducted"--the size of her waist--and her heart--and many other things. +He was extremely funny. The fact that his sister smiled only when she +felt she must to avoid comment, and that his host refused to smile at +all, and that Miss Kavanagh was evidently on thorns all the time did not +for an instant damp his overflowing spirits. + + * * * * * + +It is now seven, o'clock; Miss Kavanagh, on her way upstairs to dress +for dinner, suddenly remembering that there is a book in the library, +left by her early in the afternoon on the central table, turns aside to +fetch it. + +She forgets, however, what she has come for when, having entered the +room, she sees Dysart standing before the fire, staring apparently at +nothing. To her chagrin, she is conscious that the unmistakable start +she had made on seeing him is known to him. + +"I didn't know you had returned," says she awkwardly, yet made a +courageous effort to appear as natural as usual. + +"No? I knew you had returned," says he slowly. + +"It is very late to say good-morning," says she with a poor little +attempt at a laugh, but still advancing toward him and holding out her +hand. + +"Too late!" replied he, ignoring the hand. Joyce, as if struck by some +cruel blow, draws back a step or two. + +"You are not tired, I hope?" asks Dysart courteously. + +"Oh, no." She feels stifled; choked. A desire to get to the door, and +escape--lose sight of him forever--is the one strong longing that +possesses her; but to move requires strength, and she feels that her +limbs are trembling beneath her. + +"It was a long drive, however. And the storm was severe. I fear you must +have suffered in some way." + +"I have not suffered," says she, in a dull, emotionless way. Indeed, she +hardly knows what she says, a repetition of his own words seems the +easiest thing to bar, so she adopts it. + +"No?" + +There is a considerable pause, and then---- + +"No! It is true! It is I only who have suffered," says Dysart with an +uncontrollable abandonment to the misery that is destroying him. "I +alone." + +"You mean something," says Joyce. It is by a terrible effort that she +speaks. She feels thoroughly unnerved--unstrung. Conscious that the +nervous shaking of her hands will betray her, she clasps them behind her +tightly. "You meant something just now when you refused to take my hand. +But what? What?" + +"You said it was too late," replies he. "And I--agreed with you." + +"That was not it!" says she feverishly. "There was more--much more! Tell +me"--passionately--"what you meant. Why would you not touch me? What am +I to understand----" + +"That from henceforth you are free from the persecution of my love," +says Dysart deliberately. "I was mad ever to hope that you could care +for me--still--I did hope. That has been my undoing. But now----" + +"Well?" demands she faintly. Her whole being seems stunned. Something of +all this she had anticipated, but the reality is far worse than any +anticipation had been. She had seen him in her thoughts, angry, +indignant, miserable, but that he should thus coldly set her aside--bid +her an everlasting adieu--be able to make up his mind deliberately to +forget her--this--had never occurred to her as being even probable. + +"Now you are to understand that the idiotic farce played between us two +the day before yesterday is at an end? The curtain is down. It is over. +It was a failure--neither you, nor I, nor the public will ever hear of +it again." + +"Is this--because I did not come home last evening in the rain and +storm?" Some small spark of courage has come back to her now. She lifts +her head and looks at him. + +"Oh! be honest with me here, in our last hour together," cries he +vehemently. "You have cheated me all through--be true to yourself for +once. Why pretend it is my fault that we part? Yesterday I implored you +not to go for that drive with him, and yet--you went. What was I--or my +love for you in comparison with a few hours' drive with that lying +scoundrel?" + +"It was only the drive I thought of," says she piteously. "I--there was +nothing else, indeed. And you; if"--raising her hand to her throat as if +suffocating--"if you had not spoken so roughly--so----" + +"Pshaw!" says Dysart, turning from her as if disgusted. To him, in his +present furious mood, her grief, her fear, her shrinkings, are all so +many movements in the game of coquette, at which she is a past mistress. +"Will you think me a fool to the end?" says he. "See here," turning his +angry eyes to hers. "I don't care what you say, I know you now. Too +late, indeed--but still I know you! To the very core of your heart you +are one mass of deceit." + +A little spasm crosses her face. She leans back heavily against the +table behind her. "Oh, no, no," she says in a voice so low as to be +almost unheard. + +"You will deny, of course," says he mercilessly. "You would even have me +believe that you regret the past--but you, and such as you never regret. +Man is your prey! So many scalps to your belt is all you think about. +Why," with an accent of passion, "what am I to you? Just the filling up +of so many hours' amusement--no more! Do you think all my eloquence +would have any chance against one of his cursed words? I might kneel at +your feet from morning until night, and still I should be to you a thing +of naught in comparison with him." + +She holds out her hands to him in a little dumb fashion. Her tongue +seems frozen. But he repulses this last attempt at reconciliation. + +"It is no good. None! I have no belief in you left, so you can no longer +cajole me. I know that I am nothing to you. Nothing! If," drawing a deep +breath through his closed teeth, "if a thousand years were to go by I +should still be nothing to you if he were near. I give it up. The battle +was too strong for me. I am defeated, lost, ruined." + +"You have so arranged it," says she in a low tone, singularly clear. The +violence of his agitation had subdued hers, and rendered her +comparatively calm. + +"You must permit me to contradict you. The arrangement is all your own." + +"Was it so great a crime to stay last night at Falling?" "There is no +crime anywhere. That you should have made a decision between two men is +not a crime." + +"No! I acknowledge I made a decision--but----" + +"When did you make it?" + +"Last evening--and though you----" + +"Oh! no excuses," says he with a frown. "Do you think I desire them?" + +He hesitates for a minute or so, and now turns to her abruptly. "Are you +engaged to him finally?" + +"No." + +"No!" In accents suggestive of surprise so intense as to almost enlarge +into disbelief. "You refused him then?" + +"No," says she again. Her heart seems to die within her. Oh, the sense +of shame that overpowers her. A sudden wild, terrible hatred of +Beauclerk takes her into possession. Why, why, had he not given her the +choice of saying yes, instead of no, to that last searching question? + +"You mean--that he----" He stops dead short as if not knowing how to +proceed. Then, suddenly, his wrath breaks forth. "And for that +scoundrel, that fellow without a heart, you have sacrificed the best of +you--your own heart! For him, whose word is as light as his oath, you +have flung behind you a love that would have surrounded you to your +dying day. Good heavens! What are women made of? But----" He sobers +himself at once, as if smitten by some sharp remembrance, and, pale with +shame and remorse, looks at her. "Of course," says he, "it is only one +heartbroken, as I am, who would have dared thus to address you. And it +is plain to me now that there are reasons why he should not have spoken +before this. For one thing, you were alone with him; for another, you +are tired, exhausted. No doubt to-morrow he----" + +"How dare you?" says she in a voice that startles him, a very low voice, +but vibrating with outraged pride. "How dare you thus insult me? You +seem to think--to think--that because--last night--he and I were kept +from our home by the storm----" She pauses; that old, first odd +sensation of choking now again oppresses her. She lays her hand upon the +back of a chair near her, and presses heavily upon it. "You think I have +disgraced myself," says she, the words coming in a little gasp from her +parched lips. "That is why you speak of things being at an end between +us. Oh----" + +"You wrong me there," says the young man, who has grown ghastly. +"Whatever I may have said, I----" + +"You meant it!" says she. She draws herself up to the full height of her +young, slender figure, and, turning abruptly, moves toward the door. As +she reaches it, she looks back at him. "You are a coward!" she says, in +a low, distinct tone alive with scorn. "A coward!" + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. + + "I have seen the desire of mine eyes, + The beginning of love, + The season of kisses and sighs, + And the end thereof." + + +Miss Kavanagh put in no appearance at dinner. "A chill," whispered Lady +Baltimore to everybody, in her kindly, sympathetic way, caught during +that miserable drive yesterday. She hoped it would be nothing, but +thought it better to induce Joyce to remain quiet in her own room for +the rest of the evening, safe from draughts and the dangers attendant on +the baring of her neck and arms. She told her small story beautifully, +but omitted to add that Joyce had refused to come downstairs, and that +she had seemed so wretchedly low-spirited that at last her hostess had +ceased to urge her. + +She had, however, spent a good deal of time arguing with her on another +subject--the girl's fixed determination to go home--"to go back to +Barbara"--next day. Lady Baltimore had striven very diligently to turn +her from this purpose, but all to no avail. She had even gone so far as +to point out to Joyce that the fact of her thus leaving the Court before +the expiration of her visit might suggest itself to some people in a +very unpleasant light. They might say she had come to the end of her +welcome there--been given her congé, in fact--on account of that +luckless adventure with her hostess' brother. + +Joyce was deaf to all such open hints. She remained obstinately +determined not to stay a moment longer there than could be helped. Was +it because of Norman she was going? No; she shook her head with such a +look of contemptuous indifference that Lady Baltimore found it +impossible to doubt her, and felt her heart thereby lightened. Was it +Felix? + +Miss Kavanagh had evidently resented that question at first, but finally +had broken into a passionate fit of tears, and when Lady Baltimore +placed her arms round her had not repulsed her. + +"But, dear Joyce, he himself is leaving to-morrow." + +"Oh, let me go home. Do not ask me to stay. I am more unhappy than I can +tell you," said the girl brokenly. + +"You have had a quarrel with him?" + +Joyce bowed her head in a little quick, impatient way. + +"It is Felix then, Joyce; not Norman? Let me say I am glad--for your +sake; though that is a hard thing for a sister to say of her brother. +But Norman is selfish. It is his worst fault, perhaps, but a bad one. As +for this little misunderstanding with Felix, it will not last. He loves +you, dearest, most honestly. You will make up this tiny----" + +"Never!" said Joyce, interrupting her and releasing herself from her +embrace. Her young face looked hard and unforgiving, and Lady Baltimore, +with a sigh, decided on saying no more just then. So she went downstairs +and told her little tale about Joyce's indisposition, and was believed +by nobody. They all said they were sorry, as in duty bound, and perhaps +they were, taking their own view of her absence; but dinner went off +extremely well, nevertheless, and was considered quite a success. + +Dysart was present, and was apparently in very high spirits; so high, +indeed, that at odd moments his hostess, knowing a good deal, stared at +him. He, who was usually so silent a member, to-night outshone even the +versatile Beauclerk in the lightness and persistency of his +conversation. + +This sudden burst of animation lasted him throughout the evening, +carrying him triumphantly across the hour and a half of drawing-room +small talk, and even lasting till the more careless hours in the +smoking-room have come to an end, and one by one the men have yawned +themselves off to bed. + +Then it died. So entirely, so forlornly as to prove it had been only a +mere passing and enforced exhilaration after all. They were all gone: +there was no need now to keep up the miserable farce--to seek to prevent +their coupling her name with his, and therefore discovering the secret +of her sad seclusion. + +As Dysart found himself almost the last man in the room, he too rose, +reluctantly, as though unwilling to give himself up to the solitary +musings that he knew lay before him; the self-upbraidings, the vague +remorse, the terrible dread lest he had been too severe, that he knows +will be his all through the silent darkness. For what have sleep and he +to do with each other to-night? + +He bade his host good-night and, with a pretense of going upstairs, +turned aside into the deserted library, and, choosing a book, flung +himself into a chair, determined, if possible, to read his brain into a +state of coma. + + * * * * * + +Twelve o'clock has struck, slowly, painfully, as if the old timekeeper +is sleepy, too, and is nodding over his work. And now one--as slowly, +truly, but with the startling brevity that prevents one's dwelling on +its drowsy note. Dysart, with a tired groan, flings down his book, and, +rising to his feet, stretches his arms above his head in an utter +abandonment to sleepless fatigue that is even more mental than bodily. +Once the subject of that book had been of an enthralling interest to +him. To-night it bores him. He has found himself unequal to the solving +of the abstruse arguments it contains. One thought seems to have dulled +all others. He is leaving to-morrow! He is leaving her to-morrow! Oh! +surely it is more than that curt pronoun can contain. He is leaving, in +a few short hours, his life, his hope, his one small chance of heaven +upon earth. How much she had been to him, how strong his hoping even +against hope had been, he never knew till now, when all is swept out of +his path forever. + +The increasing stillness of the house seems to weigh upon him, rendering +even gloomier his melancholy thoughts. How intolerably quiet the night +is, not even a breath of wind is playing in the trees outside. On such a +night as this ghosts might walk and demons work their will. There is +something ghastly in this unnatural cessation of all sound, all +movement. + +"What a strange power," says Emerson, "there is in silence." An old +idea, yet always new. Who is there who has not been affected by it--has +not known that curious, senseless dread of spirits present from some +unknown world that very young children often feel? "Fear came upon me +and trembling, which made all my bones to shake," says Job in one of his +most dismal moments; and now to Dysart this strange, unaccountable chill +feeling comes. Insensibly, born of the hour and the silence only, and +with no smallest dread of things intangible. + +The small clock on the mantel-piece sends forth a tiny chime, so +delicate that in broad daylight, with broader views in the listeners, it +might have gone unheard. Now it strikes upon the motionless air as +loudly as though it were the crack of doom. Poor little clock! +struggling to be acknowledged for twelve long years of nights and days, +now is your revenge--the fruition of all your small ambitious desires. + +Dysart starts violently at the sound of it. It is of importance, this +little clock. It has wakened him to real life again. He has taken a step +toward the door and the bed, the very idea of which up to this has been +treated by him with ignominy, when--a sound in the hall outside stays +him. + +An unmistakable step, but so light as to suggest the idea of burglars. +Dysart's spirits rise. The melancholy of a moment since deserts him. He +looks round for the poker--that national, universal mode of defence when +our castles are invaded by the "masked man." + +He has not time, however, to reach it before the handle of the door is +slowly turned--before the door is as slowly opened, and---- + +"What is this?" + +For a second Dysart's heart seems to stop beating. He can only gaze +spellbound at this figure, clad all in white, that walks deliberately +into the room, and seemingly directly toward him. It is Joyce! Joyce! + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. + + "Sleep; and if life was bitter to thee, pardon, + If sweet, give thanks; thou hast no more to live; + And to give thanks is good, and to forgive." + + +Is she dead or still living? Dysart, calmed now, indeed, gazes at her +with a heart contracted. Great heaven! how like death she looks, and +yet--he knows she is still in the flesh. How strangely her eyes gleam. A +dull gleam and so passionless. Her brown hair--not altogether fallen +down her back, but loosened from its hairpins, and hanging in a soft +heavy knot behind her head--gives an additional pallor to her already +too white face. The open eyes are looking straight before them, +unseeing. Her step is slow, mechanical, unearthly. It is only indeed +when she lays the candle she holds upon the edge of the table, the +extreme edge, that he knows she is asleep, and walking in a dreamland +that to waking mortals is inaccessible. + +Silently, and always with that methodical step, she moves toward the +fireplace, and still a little further, until she stands on that eventful +spot where he had given up all claim to her, and thrown her back upon +herself. There is the very square on the carpet where she stood some +hours ago. There she stands now. To her right is the chair on which she +had leaned in great bitterness of spirit, trying to evoke help and +strength from the dead oak. Now, in her dreams, as if remembering that +past scene, she puts out her hands a little vaguely, a little blindly, +and, the chair not being where in her vision she believes it to be, she +gropes vaguely for it in a troubled fashion, the little trembling hands +moving nervously from side to side. It is a very, sad sight, the sadder +for, the mournful change that crosses the face of the sleeping girl. The +lips take a melancholy curve: the long lashes droop over the sightless +eyes, a long, sad sigh escapes her. + +Dysart, his heart beating wildly, makes a movement toward her. Whether +the sound of his impetuous footstep disturbs her dream, or whether the +coming of her fingers in sudden contact with the edge of the table does +it, who can tell; she starts and wakens. + +At first she stands as if not understanding, and then, with a terrified +expression in her now sentient eyes, looks hurriedly around her. Her +eyes meet Dysart's. + +"Don't be frightened," begins he quickly. + +"How did I come here?" interrupts she, in a voice panic-stricken. "I was +upstairs; I remember nothing. It was only a moment since that I----Was I +asleep?" + +She gives a hasty furtive glance at the pretty loose white garment that +enfolds her. + +"I suppose so," says Dysart. "You must have had some disturbing dream, +and it drove you down here. It is nothing. Many people walk in their +sleep." + +"But I never. Oh! what is it?" says she, as if appealing to him to +explain herself to herself. "Was," faintly flushing, "any one else here? +Did any one see me?" + +"No one. They are in bed; all asleep." + +"And you?" doubtfully. + +"I couldn't sleep," returns he slowly, gazing fixedly at her. + +"I must go," says she feverishly. She moves rapidly toward the door; her +one thought seems to be to get back to her own room. She looks ill, +unstrung, frightened. This new phase in her has alarmed her. What if, +for the future, she cannot even depend upon herself?--cannot know where +her mind will carry her when deadly sleep has fallen upon her? It is a +hateful thought. And to bring her here. Where he was. What power has he +over her? Oh! the sense of relief in thinking that she will be at home +to-morrow--safe with Barbara. + +Her hand is on the door. She is going. + +"Joyce," says Dysart suddenly, sharply. All his soul is in his voice. So +keenly it rings, that involuntarily she turns to him. Great agony must +make itself felt, and to Dysart, seeing her on the point of leaving him +forever, it seems as though his life is being torn from him. In truth +she is his life, the entire happiness of it--if she goes through that +door unforgiving, she will carry with her all that makes it bearable. + +She is looking at him. Her eyes are brilliant with nervous excitement; +her face pale. Her very lips have lost their color. + +"Yes?" says she interrogatively, impatiently. + +"I am going away to-morrow--I shall not----" + +"Yes, yes--I know. I am going, too." + +"I shall not see you again?" + +"I hope not--I think not." + +She makes another step forward. Opening the door with a little light +touch, she places one hand before the candle and peers timidly into the +dark hall outside. + +"Don't let that be your last word to me," says the young man, +passionately. "Joyce, hear me! There must be some excuse for me." + +"Excuse?" says she, looking back at him over her shoulder, her lovely +face full of curious wonder. + +"Yes--yes! I was mad! I didn't mean a word I said--I swear it! +I----Joyce, forgive me!" + +The words, though whispered, burst from him with a despairing vehemence. +He would have caught her hand but that she lifts her eyes to his--such +eyes! + +There is a little pause, and then: + +"Oh, no! Never--never!" says she. + +Her tone is very low and clear--not angry, not even hasty or +reproachful. Only very sad and certain. It kills all hope. + +She goes quickly through the open doorway, closing it behind her. The +faint, ghostly sound of her footfalls can be heard as she crosses the +hall. After a moment even this light sound ceases. She is indeed gone! +It is all over! + + * * * * * + +With a kind of desire to hide herself, Joyce has crept into her bed, +sore at heart, angry, miserable. No hope that sleep will again visit her +has led her to this step, and, indeed, would sleep be desirable? What a +treacherous part it had played when last it fell on her! + +How grieved he looked--how white! He was evidently most honestly sorry +for all the unkind things he had said to her. Not that he had said many, +indeed, only--he had looked them. And she, she had been very hard--oh! +too hard. However, there was an end to it. To-morrow would place more +miles between them, in every way, than would ever be recrossed. He would +not come here again until he had forgotten her--married, probably. They +would not meet. There should have been comfort in that certainty, but, +alas! when she sought for it, it eluded her--it was not there. + +In spite of the trick Somnus had just played her, she would now gladly +have courted him again, if only to escape from ever growing regret. But +though she turns from side to side in a vain endeavor to secure him, +that cruel god persistently denies her, and with mournful memories and +tired eyes, she lies, watching, waiting for the tender breaking of the +dawn upon the purple hills. + +Slowly, slowly comes up the sun. Coldly, and with a tremulous lingering, +the light shines on land and sea. Then sounds the bursting chants of +birds, the rush of streams, the gentle sighings of the winds through +herb and foliage. + +Joyce, thankful for the blessed daylight, flings the clothes aside, and +with languid step, and eyes, sad always, but grown weary, too, with +sleeplessness and thoughts unkind, moves lightly to the window. + +Throwing wide the casement, she lets the cool morning air flow in. + +A new day has arisen. What will it bring her? What can it bring, save +disappointment only and a vain regret? Oh! why must she, of all people, +be thus unblessed upon this blessed morn? Never has the sun seemed +brighter--the whole earth a greater glow of glory. + + "Welcome, the lord of light and lamp of day: + Welcome, fosterer of tender herbis green; + Welcome, quickener of flourish'd flowers' sheen. + Welcome depainter of the bloomit meads; + Welcome, the life of everything that spreads!" + +Yet to Joyce welcome to the rising sun seems impossible. What is the +good of day when hope is dead? In another hour or two she must rise, go +downstairs, talk, laugh, and appear interested in all that is being +said--and with a heart at variance with joy--a poor heart, heavy as +lead. + +A kind of despairing rage against her crooked fortune moves her. Why has +she been thus unlucky? Why at first should a foolish, vagrant feeling +have led her to think so strongly of one unworthy and now hateful to her +as to prejudice her in the mind of the one really worthy. What madness +possessed her? Surely she is the most unfortunate girl alive? A sense of +injustice bring the tears into her eyes, and blots out the slowly +widening landscape from her view. + + "How happy some o'er other some can be!" + +Her thoughts run to Barbara and Monkton. They are happy in spite of many +frowns from fortune. They are poor--as society counts poverty--but the +want of money is not a cardinal evil. They love each other; and the +children are things to be loved as well--darling children! well grown, +and strong, and healthy, though terrible little Turks at times--God +bless them! Oh! that she could count herself as blessed as Barbara, +whose greatest trouble is to deny herself this and that, to be able to +pay for the other thing. No! to be poor is not to be unhappy. "Our +happiness in this world," says a writer, "depends on the affections we +are able to inspire." Truly she--Joyce--has not been successful in her +quest. For if he had loved her, would he ever have doubted her? "Perfect +love," says the oldest, grandest testimony of all, "casteth out fear." +And he had feared. Sitting here in the dawning daylight, the tears ran +softly down her cheeks. + +It is a strange thing, but true, that never once during this whole +night's dreary vigil do her thoughts once turn to Beauclerk. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. + + "Oh, there's stony a leaf in Atholl wood, + And mony a bird in its breast, + And mony a pain may the heart sustain + Ere it sab itsel' to rest." + + +Barbara meets her on the threshold and draws her with loving arms into +the dining-room. + +"I knew you would be here at this hour. Lady Baltimore wrote me word +about it. And I have sent the chicks away to play in the garden, as I +thought you would like to have a comfortable chat just at first." + +"Lady Baltimore wrote?" + +"Yes, dear. Just to say you were distressed about that unfortunate +affair--that drive, you know--and that you felt you wanted to come back +to me. I was glad you wanted that, darling." + +"You are not angry with me, Barbara?" asks the girl, loosening her +sister's arms the better to see her face. + +"Angry! No, how could I be angry?" says Mrs. Monkton, the more +vehemently in that she knows she _had_ been very angry just at first. +"It was the merest chance. It might have happened to anybody. One can't +control storms!" + +"No--that's what Mrs. Connolly said, only she called it 'the ilimints,'" +says Joyce, with quite a little ghost of a smile. + +"Well, now you are home again, and it's all behind you. And there is +really nothing in it. And you must not think so much about it," says +Barbara, fondling her hand. "Lady Baltimore said you were too unhappy +about it." + +"Did she say that? What else did she say?" asks the girl, regarding her +sister with searching, eyes. What had Lady Baltimore told her? That +impulsive admission to the latter last night had been troubling Joyce +ever since, and now to have to lay bare her heart again, to acknowledge +her seeming fickleness, to receive Barbara's congratulation on it, only +to declare that this second lover has, too, been placed by Fate outside +her life, seems too bitter to her. Oh, no--she cannot tell Barbara. + +"Why nothing," says Mrs. Monkton, who is now busying herself removing +the girl's hat and furs. "What was there to tell, after all?" She is +plainly determined to treat the matter lightly. + +"Oh--there is a good deal," says Joyce, bitterly. "Why don't you tell +me," turning suddenly upon her sister, "that you knew how it would be +all along? That you distrusted that Mr. Beauclerk from the very first, +and that Felix Dysart was always worth a thousand of him?" There is +something that is almost defiant in her manner. + +"Because, for one thing, I very seldom call him Felix," says Mrs. +Monkton, with a smile, alluding to the last accusation. "And because, +too, I can't bear the 'I told you so' persons.--You mustn't class me +with them, Joyce, whatever you do." + +"I shan't be able to do much more, at all events," says Joyce presently. +"That's one comfort, not only for myself but for my family. I expect I +have excelled myself this time. Well," with a dull little laugh, "it +will have to last, so----" + +"Joyce," says her sister, quickly, "tell me one small thing. Mr. +Beauclerk--he----" + +"Yes?" stonily, as Barbara goes on a rock. + +"You--you are not engaged to him?" + +Joyce breaks into an angry laugh. + +"That is what you all ask," says she. "There is no variety; none. No, +no, no; I am engaged to nobody. Nobody wants me, and I----'I care for +nobody, not I, for nobody cares for me.' Mark the heavy emphasis on the +'for,' I beg you, Barbara!" + +She breaks entirely from her sister's hold and springs to her feet. + +"You are tired," says Mrs. Monkton, anxiously, rising too. + +"Why don't you say what you really mean?" says Joyce, turning almost +fiercely to her. "Why pretend you think I am fatigued when you honestly +think I am miserable, because Mr. Beauclerk has not asked me to marry +him. No! I don't care what you think. I am miserable! And though I were +to tell you over and over again it was not because of him, you would not +believe me, so I will say nothing." + +"Here is Freddy," says Mrs. Monkton, nervously, who has just seen her +husband's head pass the window. He enters the room almost as she speaks. + +"Well, Joyce, back again," says he, affectionately. He kisses the girl +warmly. "Horrid drive you must have had through that storm." + +"You, too, blame the storm, then, and not me," says Joyce, with a smile. +"Everybody doesn't take your view of it. It appears I should have +returned, in all that rain and wind and----" + +"Pshaw! Never listen to extremists," says Mr. Monkton, sinking lazily +into a chair. "They will land you on all sorts of barren coasts if you +give ear to them. For my part I never could see why two people of +opposite sexes, if overcome by nature's artillery, should not spend a +night under a wayside inn without calling down upon them the social +artillery of gossip. There is only one thing in the whole affair," says +Mr. Monkton, seriously, "that has given me a moment's uneasiness." + +"And that?" says Joyce, nervously. + +"Is how I can possibly be second to both of them. Dysart, I confess, has +my sympathies, but if Beauclerk were to appear first upon the field and +implore my assistance I feel I should have a delicacy about refusing +him." + +"Freddy," says his wife, reprovingly. + +"Oh, as for that," says Joyce, with a frown, "I do think men are the +most troublesome things on earth." She burst out presently. "When one +isn't loving them, one is hating them." + +"How many of them at a time?" asks her brother-in-law with deep +interest. "Not more than two, Joyce, please. I couldn't grasp any more. +My intellect is of a very limited order." + +"So is mine, I think," says Joyce, with a tired little sigh. + +Monkton, although determined to treat the matter lightly, looks very +sorry for her. Evidently she is out of joint with the whole world at +present. + +"How did Lady Baltimore take it?" asks he, with all the careless air of +one asking a question on some unimportant subject. + +"She was angry with Mr. Beauclerk for not leaving me at the inn, and +coming home himself." + +"Unsisterly woman!" + +"She was quite right, after all," says Mrs. Monkton, who had defended +Beauclerk herself, but cannot bear to hear another take his part. + +"And, Dysart--how did he take it?" asks Monkton, smiling. + +"I don't see how he should take it, anyway," says Joyce, coldly. + +"Not even with soda water?" says her brother-in-law. "Of course, it +would be too much to expect him to take it neat. You broke it gently to +him I hope." + +"Ah, you don't understand Mr. Dysart," says the girl, rising abruptly. +"I did not understand him until yesterday." + +"Is he so very abstruse?" + +"He is very insolent," says Miss Kavanagh, with a sudden touch of fire, +that makes her sister look at her with some uneasiness. + +"I see," says Mr. Monkton, slowly. He still, unfortunately, looks +amused. "One never does know anybody until he or she gives way to a +towering passion. So he gave you a right good scolding for being caught +in the rain with Beauclerk. A little unreasonable, surely; but lovers +never yet were famous for their common sense. That little ingredient was +forgotten in their composition. And so he gave you a lecture?" + +"Well, he is not likely to do it again," says she slowly. + +"No? Then it is more than likely that I shall be the one to be scolded +presently. He won't be able to content himself with silence. He will +want to air his grievances, to revenge them on some one, and if you +refuse to see him, I shall be that one. There is really only one small +remark to be made about this whole matter," says Mr. Monkton, with a +rueful smile, "and it remains for me to make it. If you will encourage +two suitors at the same time, my good child, the least you may expect is +trouble. You are bound to look out for 'breakers ahead,' but (and this +is the remark) it is very hard lines for a fourth and most innocent +person to have those suitors dropped straight on him without a second's +notice. I'm not a born warrior; the brunt of the battle is a sort of +gayety that I confess myself unsuited for. I haven't been educated up to +it. I----" + +"There will be no battle," says Joyce, in a strange tone, "because there +will be no combatants. For a battle there must be something to fight +for, and here there is nothing. You are all wrong, Freddy. You will find +out that after awhile. I have a headache, Barbara. I think," raising her +lovely but pained eyes to her sister, "I should like to go into the +garden for a little bit. The air there is always so sweet." + +"Go, darling," says Barbara, whose own eyes have filled with tears. "Oh, +Freddy," turning reproachfully to her husband as the door closes on +Joyce, "how could you so have taken her? You must have seen how unhappy +she was. And all about that horrid Beauclerk." + +Monkton stares at her. + +"So that is how you read it," says he at last. + +"There is no difficulty about the reading. Could it be in larger print?" + +"Large enough, certainly, as to the unhappiness, but for 'Beauclerk' I +should advise the printer to insert Dysart.'" + +"Dysart? Felix?" + +"Unless, indeed, you could suggest a third." + +"Nonsense!" says Mrs. Monkton, contemptuously. "She has never cared for +poor Felix. How I wish she had. He is worth a thousand of the other; but +girls are so perverse." + +"They are. That is just my point," says her husband. "Joyce is so +perverse that she won't allow herself to see that it is Dysart she +preferred. However, there is one comfort, she is paying for her +perversity." + +"Freddy," says his wife, after a long pause, "do you really think that?" + +"What? That girls are perverse?" + +"No, no! That she likes Felix best?" + +"That is indeed my fixed belief." + +"Oh, Freddy!" cries his wife, throwing herself into his arms. "How +beautiful of you, I've always wanted to think that, but never could +until now--now that----" + +"My clear judgment has been brought to bear upon it. Quite right, my +dear, always regard your husband as a sort of demi-god, who----" + +"Pouf!" says she. "Do you think I was born without a grain of sense? But +really, Freddy----Oh! if it might be! Poor, poor darling! how sad she +looked. If they have had a serious quarrel over her drive with that +detestable Beauclerk--why--I----" Here she bursts into tears, and with +her face buried on Monkton's waistcoat, makes little wild dabs at the +air with a right hand that is only to be appeased by having Monkton's +handkerchief thrust into it. + +"What a baby you are!" says he, giving her a loving little shake. "I +declare, you were well named. The swift transitions from the tremendous +'Barbara' to the inconsequent 'Baby' takes but an instant, and exactly +expresses you. A moment ago you were bent on withering me: now, I am +going to wither you." + +"Oh, no! don't," says she, half laughing, half crying. "And besides, it +is you who are inconsequent. You never keep to one point for a second." + +"Why should I?" says he, "when it is such a disagreeable one. There let +us give up for the day. We can write 'To be continued' after it, and +begin a fresh chapter to-morrow." + + * * * * * + +Meantime, Joyce, making her way to the garden with a hope of finding +there, at all events, silence, and opportunity for thought, seats +herself upon a garden chair, and gives herself up a willing prey to +melancholy. She had desired to struggle against this evil, but it had +conquered her, and tears rising beneath her lids are falling on her +cheeks, when two small creatures emerging from the summer house on her +left catch sight of her. + +They had been preparing for a rush, a real Redshank, painted and +feathered, descent upon her, when something in her sorrowful attitude +becomes known to them. + +Fun dies within their kind little hearts. Their Joyce has come home to +them--that is a matter for joy, but their Joyce has come home +unhappy--that is a matter for grief. Step by step, hand in hand, they +approach her, and even at the very last, with their little breasts +overflowing with the delight of getting her back, it is with a very +gentle precipitation that they throw themselves upon her. + +And it never occurs to them, either, to trouble her for an explanation; +no probing questions issue from their lips. She is sorry, that is all. +It is enough for their sympathies. Too much. + +Joyce herself is hardly aware of the advent of the little comforters, +until two small arms steal around her neck, and she finds Mabel's face +pressed close against her own. + +"Let me kiss her, too," says Tommy, trying to push his sister away, and +resenting openly the fact of her having secured the first attempt at +consolation. + +"You mustn't tease her, she's sorry. She's very sorry about something," +says Mabel, turning up Joyce's face with her pink palm. "Aren't you, +Joyce? There's droppies in your eyes?" + +"A little, darling," says Joyce, brokenly. + +"Then I'll be sorry with you," says the child, with all childhood's +divine intuition that to sorrow alone is to know a double sorrow. She +hugs Joyce more closely with her tender arms, and Joyce, after a battle +with her braver self, gives way, and breaks into bitter tears. + +"There now! you've made her cry right out! You're a naughty girl," says +Tommy, to his sister in a raging tone, meant to hide the fact that he +too, himself is on the point of giving way; in fact, another moment sees +him dissolved in tears. + +"Never mind, Joycie. Never mind. We love you!" sobs he, getting up on +the back of the seat behind her, and making a very excellent attempt at +strangulation. + +"Do you? There doesn't seem to be any one else, then, but you!" says +poor Joyce, dropping Mabel into her lap, and Tommy more to the front, +and clasping them both to her with a little convulsive movement. + +Perhaps the good cry she has on top of those two loving little heads +does her more good than anything else could possibly have done. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. + + "A bitter and perplexed 'What shall I do?' + Is worse to man than worse necessity." + + +Three months have come and gone, and winter is upon us. It is close on +Christmastide indeed. All the trees lie bare and desolate, the leaves +have fallen from them, and their sweet denizens, the birds, flown or +dead. + +Evening has fallen. The children are in the nursery, having a last romp +before bed hour. Their usual happy hunting ground for that final fling +is the drawing-room, but finding the atmosphere there, to-night, +distinctly cloudy, they had beaten a simultaneous retreat to Bridget and +the battered old toys upstairs. Children, like rats, dislike discomfort. + +Mrs. Monkton, sitting before the fire, that keeps up a continuous sound +as musical as the rippling of a small stream, is leaning back in her +chair, her pretty forehead puckered into a thousand doubts. Joyce, near +her, is as silent as she is; while Mr. Monkton, after a vain pretence at +being absorbed in the morning paper (diligently digested at 11 this +morning), flings it impatiently on the floor. + +"What's the good of your looking like that, Barbara? If you were +compelled to accept this invitation from my mother, I could see some +reason for your dismal glances, but when you know I am as far from +wishing you to accept it as you are yourself, why should----?" + +"Ah! but are you?" says his wife with a swift, dissatisfied glance at +him. The dissatisfaction is a good deal directed toward herself. + +"If you could make her sure of that," says Joyce, softly. "I have tried +to explain it to her, but----" + +"I suppose I am unreasonable," says Barbara, rising, with a little laugh +that has a good deal of grief in it. "I suppose I ought to believe," +turning to her husband, "that you are dying for me to refuse this +invitation from the people who have covered me with insult for eight +years, when I know well that you are dying for me to accept it." + +"Oh! if you know that," says Monkton rather feebly, it must be +confessed. This fatally late desire on the part of his people to become +acquainted with his wife and children has taken hold of him, has lived +with him through the day, not for anything he personally could possibly +gain by it, but because of a deep desire he has that they, his father +and mother, should see and know his wife, and learn to admire her and +love her. + +"Of course I know it," says Barbara, almost fiercely. "Do you think I +have lived with you all these years and cannot read your heart? Don't +think I blame you, Freddy. If the cases were reversed I should feel just +like you. I should go to any lengths to be at one with my own people." + +"I don't want to go to even the shortest length," says Mr. Monkton. As +if a little nettled he takes up the dull old local paper again and +begins a third severe examination of it. But Mrs. Monkton, feeling that +she cannot survive another silence, lays her hand upon it and captures +it. + +"Let us talk about it, Freddy," says she. + +"It will only make you more unhappy." + +"Oh, no. I think not. It will do her good," says Joyce, anxiously. + +"Where is the letter? I hardly saw it. Who is asked?" demands Barbara +feverishly. + +"Nobody in particular, except you. My father has expressed a wish that +we should occupy that house of his in Harley street for the winter +months, and my mother puts in, accidentally as it were, that she would +like to see the children. But you are the one specially alluded to." + +"They are too kind!" says Barbara rather unkindly to herself. + +"I quite see it in your light. It is an absolute impertinence," says +Monkton, with a suppressed sigh. "I allow all that. In fact, I am with +you, Barbara, all through: why keep me thinking about it? Put it out of +your head. It requires nothing more than a polite refusal." + +"I shall hate to make it polite," says Barbara. And then, recurring to +her first and sure knowledge of his secret desires, "you want to go to +them?" + +"I shall never go without you," returns he gravely. + +"Ah! that is almost a challenge," says she, flushing. + +"Barbara! perhaps he is right," says Joyce, gently; as she speaks she +gets up from the fire and makes her way to the door, and from that to +her own room. + +"Will you go without me?" says Barbara, when she has gone, looking at +her husband with large, earnest eyes. + +"Never. You say you know me thoroughly, Barbara; why then ask that +question?" + +"Well, you will never go then," says she, "for I--I will never enter +those people's doors. I couldn't, Freddy. It would kill me!" She has +kept up her defiant attitude so successfully and for so long that Mr. +Monkton is now electrified when she suddenly bursts into tears and +throws herself into his arms. + +"You think me a beast!" says she, clinging to him. + +"You are tired; you are bothered. Give it up, darling," says he, patting +her on the back, the most approved modern plan of reducing people to a +stale of common sense. + +"But you do think it, don't you?" + +"No. Barbara. There now, be a good sensible girl, and try to realize +that I don't want you to accept this invitation, and that I am going to +write to my mother in the morning to say it is impossible for us to +leave home just now--as--as--eh?" + +"Oh, anything will do." + +"As baby is not very well? That's the usual polite thing, eh?" + +"Oh! no, don't say that," says Mrs. Monkton in a little, frightened +tone. "It--it's unlucky! It might--I'm not a bit superstitious, Freddy, +but it might affect baby in some way--do him some harm." + +"Very well, we'll tell another lie," says Mr. Monkton cheerfully. "We'll +say you've got the neuralgia badly, and that the doctor says it would be +as much as your life Is worth to cross the Channel at this time of +year." + +"That will do very well," says Mrs. Monkton readily. + +"But--I'm not a bit superstitious," says he solemnly. "But it might +affect you in some way, do you some harm, and--" + +"If you are going to make a jest of it, Freddy----" + +"It is you who have made the jest. Well; never mind, I accept the +responsibility, and will create even another taradiddle. If I say we are +disinclined to leave home just now, will that do?" + +"Yes," says she, after a second's struggle with her better self, in +which it comes off the loser. + +"That's settled, then," says Mr. Monkton. "Peace with honor is assured. +Let us forget that unfortunate letter, and all the appurtenances +thereof." + +"Yes: do let us, Freddy," says she, as if with all her heart. + + * * * * * + +But the morning convinces Monkton that the question of the letter still +remains unsettled. Barbara, for one thing, has come down to breakfast +gowned in her very best morning frock, one reserved for those rare +occasions when people drop in over night and sleep with them. She has, +indeed, all the festive appearance of a person who expects to be called +away at a second's notice into a very vertex of dissipation. + +Joyce, who is quite as impressed as Monkton with her appearance, gazes +at her with a furtive amazement, and both she and Monkton wait in a sort +of studied silence to know the meaning of it. They aren't given long to +possess their souls in patience. + +"Freddy, I don't think Mabel ought to have any more jam," says Mrs. +Monkton, presently, "or Tommy either." She looks at the children as she +speaks, and sighs softly. "It will cost a great deal," says she. + +"The jam!" says her husband. "Well, really, at the rate they are +consuming it--I----" + +"Oh, no. The railway--the boat--the fare--the whole journey," says she. + +"The journey?" says Joyce. + +"Why, to England, to take them over there to see their grandmother," +says Mrs. Monkton calmly. + +"But, Barbara----" + +"Well, dear?" + +"I thought----" + +"Barbara! I really consider that question decided," says her husband, +not severely, however. Is the dearest wish of his heart to be +accomplished at last? "I thought you had finally made up your mind to +refuse my mother's invitation?" + +"I shall not refuse it," says she, slowly, "whatever you may do." + +"I?" + +"You said you didn't want to go," says his wife severely. "But I have +been thinking it over, and----" Her tone has changed, and a slight touch +of pink has come into her pretty cheeks. "After all, Freddy, why should +I be the one to keep you from your people?" + +"You aren't keeping me. Don't go on that." + +"Well, then, will you go by yourself and see them?" + +"Certainly not." + +"Not even if I give you the children to take over?". + +"Not even then." + +"You see," says she, with a sort of sad triumph, "I am keeping you from +them. What I mean is, that if you had never met me you would now be +friends with them." + +"I'd a great deal rather be friends with you," says he struggling wildly +but firmly with a mutton chop that has been done to death by a bad cook. + +"I know that," in a low and troubled tone, "but I know, too, that there +is always unhappiness where one is on bad terms with one's father and +mother." + +"My dear girl, I can't say what bee you have got in your bonnet now, but +I beg you to believe, I am perfectly happy at this present moment, in +spite of this confounded chop that has been done to a chip. 'God sends +meat, the devil sends cooks.' That's not a prayer, Tommy, you needn't +commit it to memory." + +"But there's 'God' and the 'devil' in it," says Tommy, skeptically: +"that always means prayers." + +"Not this time. And you can't pray to both; your mother has taught you +that; you should teach her something in return. That's only fair, isn't +it?" + +"She knows everything," says Tommy, dejectedly. It is quite plain to his +hearers that he regrets his mother's universal knowledge--that he would +have dearly liked to give her a lesson or two. + +"Not everything," says his father. "For example, she cannot understand +that I am the happiest man in the world; she imagines I should be better +off if she was somebody else's wife and somebody else's mother." + +"Whose mother?" demands Tommy, his eyes growing round. + +"Ah, that's just it. You must ask her. She has evidently some _arrière +pensée_." + +"Freddy," says his wife in a low tone. + +"Well! What am I to think? You see," to Tommy, who is now deeply +interested, "if she wasn't your mother, she'd be somebody else's." + +"No, she wouldn't," breaks in Tommy, indignantly. "I wouldn't let her, +I'd hold on to her. I--" with his mouth full of strawberry jam, yet +striving nobly to overcome his difficulties of expression, "I'd beat +her!" + +"You shouldn't usurp my privileges," says his father, mildly. + +"Barbara!" says Joyce, at this moment. "If you have decided on going to +London, I think you have decided wisely; and it may not be such an +expense after all. You and Freddy can manage the two eldest children +very well on the journey, and I can look after baby until you return. Or +else take nurse, and leave baby entirely to me." + +Mrs. Monkton makes a quick movement. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. + + "And I go to brave a world I hate, + And woo it o'er and o'er; + And tempt a wave and try a fate + Upon a stranger shore." + + +"I shall take the three children and you, too, or I shall not go at +all," says she, addressing her sister with an air of decision. + +"If you have really made up your mind about it," says Mr. Monkton, "I +agree with you. The house in Harley street is big enough for a regiment, +and my mother says the servants will be in it on our arrival, if we +accept the invitation. Joyce will be a great comfort to us, and a help +on the journey over, the children are so fond of her." + +Joyce turns her face to her brother-in-law and smiles in a little +pleased way. She has been so grave of late that they welcome a smile +from her now at any time, and even court k. The pretty lips, erstwhile +so prone to laughter, are now too serious by far. When, therefore, +Monkton or his wife go out of their way to gain a pleased glance from +her and succeed, both feel as if they had achieved a victory. + +"Why have they offered us a separate establishment? Was there no room +for us in their own house?" asks Mrs. Monkton presently. + +"I dare say they thought we should be happier, so--in a place of our +own." + +"Well, I dare say we shall." She pauses for a moment. "Why are they in +town now--at this time of year? Why are they not in their country +house?" + +"Ah! that is a last thorn in their flesh," says Monkton, with a quick +sigh. "They have had to let the old place to pay my brother's debts. He +is always a trouble to them. This last letter points to greater trouble +still." + +"And in their trouble they have turned to you--to the little +grandchildren," says Joyce, softly. "One can understand it." + +"Oh, yes. Oh, you should have told me," says Barbara, flushing as if +with pain. "I am the hardest person alive, I think. You think it?" +looking directly at her husband. + +"I think only one thing of you," says Mr. Monkton, rising from the +breakfast table with a slight laugh. "It is what I have always thought, +that you are the dearest and loveliest thing on earth." The bantering +air he throws into this speech does not entirely deprive it of the +truthful tenderness that formed it. "There," says he, "that ought to +take the gloom off the brow of any well-regulated woman, coming as it +does from an eight-year-old husband." + +"Oh, you must be older than that," says she, at which they all laugh +together. + +"You are wise to go, Barbara," says Joyce, now in a livelier way, as if +that last quick, unexpected feeling of amusement has roused her to a +sharper sense of life. "If once they see you!--No, you mustn't put up +your shoulder like that--I tell you, if once they looked at you, they +would feel the measure of their folly." + +"I shall end by fancying myself," says Mrs. Monkton, impatiently, "and +then you will all have fresh work cut out for you; the bringing of me +back to my proper senses. Well," with a sigh, "as I have to see them, I +wish----" + +"What?" + +"That I could be a heartier believer in your and Joyce's flattery, or +else, that they, your people, were not so prejudiced against me. It will +be an ordeal." + +"When you are about it wish them a few grains of common sense," says her +husband wrathfully. "Just fancy the folly of an impertinence that +condemned a fellow being on no evidence whatsoever; neither eye nor ear +were brought in as witnesses." + +"Oh, well," says she, considerably mollified by his defamation of his +people, "I dare say they are not so much to be blamed after all. And," +with a little, quick laugh at her sister, "as Joyce says, my beauties +are still unknown to them; they will be delighted when they see me." + +"They will, indeed," returns Joyce stolidly. "And so you are really +going to take me with you. Oh, I am glad. I haven't spent any of my +money this winter, Barbara; I have some, therefore, and I have always +wanted to see London." + +"It will be a change for the children, too," says Barbara, with a +troubled sigh. "I suppose," to her husband, "they will think them very +countrified." + +"Who?" + +"Your mother--" + +"What do you think of them?" + +"Oh, that has got nothing to do with it." + +"Everything rather. You are analyzing them. You are exalting an old +woman who has been unkind to you at the expense of the children who love +you!" + +"Ah, she analyzes them because she too loves them," says Joyce. "It is +easy to pick faults in those who have a real hold upon our hearts. For +the rest--it doesn't concern us how the world regards them." + +"It sounds as if it ought to read the other way round," says Monkton. + +"No, no. To love is to see faults, not to be blind to them. The old +reading is wrong," says Joyce. + +"You are unfair, Freddy," declares his wife with dignity; "I would not +decry the children. I am only a little nervous as to their reception. +When I know that your father and mother are prepared to receive them as +my children, I know they will get but little mercy at their hands." + +"That speech isn't like you," says Monkton, "but it is impossible to +blame you for it." + +"They are the dearest children in the world," says Joyce. "Don't think +of them. They must succeed. Let them alone to fight their own battles." + +"You may certainly depend upon Tommy," says his father. "For any +emergency that calls for fists and heels, where battle, murder and +sudden death are to be looked for, Tommy will be all there." + +"Oh! I do hope he will be good," says his mother, half amused, but +plainly half terrified as well. + + * * * * * + +Two weeks later sees them settled in town, in the Harley street house, +that seems enormous and unfriendly to Mrs. Monkton, but delightful to +Joyce and the children, who wander from room to room and, under her +guidance, pretend to find bears and lions and bogies in every corner. + +The meeting between Barbara and Lady Monkton had not been satisfactory. +There had been very little said on either side, but the chill that lay +on the whole interview had never thawed for a moment. + +Barbara had been stiff and cold, if entirely polite, but not at all the +Barbara to whom her husband had been up to this accustomed. He did not +blame her for the change of front under the circumstances, but he could +hardly fail to regret it, and it puzzled him a great deal to know how +she did it. + +He was dreadfully sorry about it secretly, and would have given very +much more than the whole thing was worth to let his father and mother +see his wife as she really is--the true Barbara. + +Lady Monkton had been stiff, too; unpardonably so--as it was certainly +her place to make amends--to soften and smooth down the preliminary +embarrassment. But then she had never been framed for suavity of any +sort; and an old aunt of Monkton's, a sister of hers, had been present +during the interview, and had helped considerably to keep up the +frigidity of the atmosphere. + +She was not a bad old woman at heart, this aunt. She had indeed from +time to time given up all her own small patrimony to help her sister to +get the eldest son out of his many disreputable difficulties. She had +done this, partly for the sake of the good old family names on both +sides, and partly because the younger George Monkton was very dear to +her. + +From his early boyhood the scapegrace of the family had been her +admiration, and still remained so, in imagination. For years she had not +seen him, and perhaps this (that she considered a grievance) was a +kindness vouchsafed to her by Providence. Had she seen the pretty boy of +twenty years ago as he now is she would not have recognized him. The +change from the merry, blue-eyed, daring lad of the past to the bloated, +blear-eyed, reckless-looking man of to-day would have been a shock too +cruel for her to bear. But this she was not allowed to realize, and so +remained true to her belief in him, as she remembered him. + +In spite of her many good qualities, she was, nevertheless, a dreadful +woman; the more dreadful to the ordinary visitor because of the false +front she wore, and the flashing purchased teeth that shone in her upper +jaw. She lived entirely with Sir George and Lady Monkton, having indeed +given them every penny that would have enabled her to live elsewhere. +Perhaps of all the many spites they owed their elder son, the fact that +his iniquities had inflicted upon them his maternal aunt for the rest of +her natural days, was the one that rankled keenest. + +She disliked Frederic, not only intensely, but with an openness that had +its disadvantages--not for any greater reason than that he had behaved +himself so far in his journey through life more creditably than his +brother. She had always made a point against him of his undutiful +marriage, and never failed, to add fuel to the fire of his father's and +mother's resentment about it, whenever that fire seemed to burn low. + +Altogether, she was by no means an amiable old lady, and, being very +hideous into the bargain, was not much run after by society generally. +She wasn't of the least consequence in any way, being not only old but +very poor; yet people dreaded her, and would slip away round doors and +corners to avoid her tongue. She succeeded, in spite of all drawbacks, +in making herself felt; and it was only one or two impervious beings, +such is Dicky Browne for example (who knew the Monktons well, and was +indeed distantly connected with them through his mother), who could +endure her manners with any attempt at equanimity. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII. + + "Strength wanting judgment and policy to rule overturneth itself." + + +It was quite impossible, of course, that a first visit to Lady Monkton +should be a last from Barbara. Lady Monkton had called on her the very +day after her arrival in town, but Barbara had been out then. On the +occasion of the latter's return visit the old woman had explained that +going out was a trial to her, and Barbara, in spite of her unconquerable +dislike to her, had felt it to be her duty to go and see her now and +then. The children, too, had been a great resource. Sir George, +especially, had taken to Tommy, who was quite unabashed by the grandeur +of the stately, if faded, old rooms in the Belgravian mansion, but was +full of curiosity, and spent his visits to his grandfather +cross-examining him about divers matters--questionable and +otherwise--that tickled the old man and kept him laughing. + +It had struck Barbara that Sir George had left off laughing for some +time. He looked haggard--uneasy--miserably expectant. She liked him +better than she liked Lady Monkton, and, though reserved with both, +relaxed more to him than to her mother-in-law. For one thing, Sir George +had been unmistakably appreciative of her beauty, and her soft voice and +pretty manners. He liked them all. Lady Monkton had probably noticed +them quite as keenly, but they had not pleased her. They were indeed an +offence. They had placed her in the wrong. As for old Miss L'Estrange, +the aunt, she regarded the young wife from the first with a dislike she +took no pains to conceal. + +This afternoon, one of many that Barbara has given up to duty, finds her +as usual in Lady Monkton's drawing room listening to her mother-in-law's +comments on this and that, and trying to keep up her temper, for +Frederic's sake, when the old lady finds fault with her management of +the children. + +The latter (that is, Tommy and Mabel) have been sent to the pantomime by +Sir George, and Barbara with her husband have dropped in towards the +close of the day to see Lady Monkton, with a view to recovering the +children there, and taking them home with them, Sir George having +expressed a wish to see the little ones after the play, and hear Tommy's +criticisms on it, which he promised himself would be lively. He had +already a great belief in the powers of Tommy's descriptions. + +In the meantime the children have not returned, and conversation, it +must be confessed, languishes. Miss L'Estrange, who is present in a cap +of enormous dimensions and a temper calculated to make life hideous to +her neighbors, scarcely helps to render more bearable the dullness of +everything. Sir George in a corner is buttonholing Frederic and +saddening him with last accounts of the Scapegrace. + +Barbara has come to her final pretty speech--silence seems +imminent--when suddenly Lady Monkton flings into it a bombshell that +explodes, and carries away with it all fear of commonplace dullness at +all events. + +"You have a sister, I believe," says she to Barbara in a tone she fondly +but erroneously imagines gracious. + +"Yes," says Barbara, softly but curtly. The fact that Joyce's existence +has never hitherto been alluded to by Lady Monkton renders her manner +even colder than usual, which is saying everything. + +"She lives with you?" + +"Yes," says Barbara again. + +Lady Monkton, as if a little put out by the determined taciturnity of +her manner, moves forward on her seat, and pulls the lace lappets of her +dove-gray cap more over to the front impatiently. Long, soft lappets +they are, falling from a gem of a little cap, made of priceless lace, +and with a beautiful old face beneath to frame. A face like an old +miniature; and as stern as most of them, but charming for all that and +perfect in every line. + +"Makes herself useful, no doubt," growls Miss L'Estrange from the +opposite lounge, her evil old countenance glowing with the desire to +offend. "That's why one harbors one's poor relations--to get something +out of them." + +This is a double-barrelled explosion. One barrel for the detested wife +of the good Frederic, one for the sister she has befriended--to that +sister's cost. + +"True," says Lady Monkton, with an uncivil little upward glance at +Barbara. For once--because it suits her--she has accepted her sister's +argument, and determined to take no heed of her scarcely veiled insult. +"She helps you, no doubt. Is useful with the children, I hope. Moneyless +girls should remember that they are born into the world to work, not to +idle." + +"I am afraid she is not as much help to me as you evidently think +necessary," says Barbara smiling, but not pleasantly. "She is very +seldom at home; in the summer at all events." It is abominable to her to +think that these hateful old people should regard Joyce, her pretty +Joyce, as a mere servant, a sisterly maid-of-all-work. + +"And if not with you--where then?" asks Lady Monkton, indifferently, and +as if more with a desire to keep up the dying conversation than from any +acute thirst for knowledge. + +"She stays a good deal with Lady Baltimore," says Barbara, feeling +weary, and rather disgusted. + +"Ah! indeed! Sort of companion--a governess, I suppose?" + +A long pause. Mrs. Monkton's dark eyes grow dangerously bright, and a +quick color springs into her cheeks. + +"No!" begins she, in a low but indignant tone, and then suppresses +herself. She can't, she mustn't quarrel with Freddy's people! "My sister +is neither companion nor governess to Lady Baltimore," says she icily. +"She is only her friend." + +"Friend?" repeats the old lady, as if not quite understanding. + +"A great friend," repeats Barbara calmly. Lady Monkton's astonishment is +even more insulting than her first question. But Barbara has made up her +mind to bear all things. + +"There are friends and friends," puts in Miss L'Estrange with her most +offensive air. + +A very embarrassing silence falls on this, Barbara would say nothing +more, an inborn sense of dignity forbidding her. But this does not +prevent a very natural desire on her part to look at her husband, not so +much to claim his support as to know if he has heard. + +One glance assures her that he has. A pause in the conversation with his +father has enabled him to hear everything. Barbara has just time to note +that his brow is black and his lips ominously compressed before she sees +him advance toward his mother. + +"You seem to, be very singularly ignorant of my wife's status in +society----" he is beginning is a rather terrible tone, when Barbara, +with a little graceful gesture, checks him. She puts out her hand and +smiles up at him, a wonderful smile under the circumstances. + +"Ah! that is just it," she says, sweetly, but with determination. "She +is ignorant where we are concerned--Joyce and I. If she had only spared +time to ask a little question or two! But as it is----" The whole speech +is purposely vague, but full of contemptuous rebuke, delicately veiled. +"It is nothing, I assure you, Freddy. Your mother is not to be blamed. +She has not understood. That is all." + +"I fail even now to understand," says the old lady, with a somewhat +tremulous attempt at self-assertion. + +"So do I," says the antique upon the lounge near her, bristling with a +wrath so warm that it has unsettled the noble structure on her head, and +placed it in quite an artful situation, right over her left ear. "I see +nothing to create wrath in the mind of any one, in the idea of a +young--er----" She comes to a dead pause; she had plainly been going to +say young person--but Frederic's glare had been too much for her. It has +frightened her into good behavior, and she changes the obnoxious word +into one more complaisant. + +"A young what?" demands he imperiously, freezing his aunt with a stony +stare. + +"Young girl!" returns she, toning down a little, but still betraying +malevolence of a very advanced order in her voice and expression. "I see +nothing derogatory in the idea of a young girl devoid of fortune taking +a----" + +Again she would have said something insulting. The word "situation" is +on her lips; but the venom in her is suppressed a second time by her +nephew. + +"Go on," says he, sternly. + +"Taking a--er--position in a nice family," says she, almost spitting out +the words like a bad old cat. + +"She has a position in a very nice family," says Monkton readily. "In +mine! As companion, friend, playfellow, in fact anything you like of the +light order of servitude. We all serve, my dear aunt, though that idea +doesn't seem to have come home to you. We must all be in bondage to each +other in this world--the only real freedom is to be gained in the world +to come. You have never thought of that? Well, think of it now. To be +kind, to be sympathetic, to be even Commonly civil to people is to +fulfil the law's demands." + +"You go too far; she is old, Freddy," Barbara has scarcely time to +whisper, when the door is thrown open, and Dicky Browne, followed by +Felix Dysart, enters the room. + +It is a relief to everybody. Lady Monkton rises to receive them with a +smile: Miss L'Estrange looks into the teapot. Plainly she can still see +some tea leaves there. Rising, she inclines the little silver kettle +over them, and creates a second deluge. She has again made tea. May she +be forgiven! + +"Going to give us some tea, Miss L'Estrange?" says Dicky, bearing down +upon her with a beaming face. She has given him some before this. "One +can always depend upon you for a good cup. Ah, thanks. Dysart, I can +recommend this. Have a cup; do." + +"No, thank you," says Dysart, who has secured a seat next to Barbara, +and is regarding her anxiously, while replying to her questions of +surprise at seeing him in town at this time of year. She is surprised +too, and a little shocked to see him look so ill. + +Dicky is still holding a brilliant conversation with Miss L'Estrange, +who, to him, is a joy for ever. + +"Didn't expect to see me here again so soon, eh?" says he, with a +cheerful smile. + +"There you are wrong," returns that spinster, in the hoarse croak that +distinguishes her. "The fact that you were here yesterday and couldn't +reasonably be supposed to come again for a week, made it at once a +certainty that you would turn up immediately. The unexpected is what +always happens where you are concerned." + +"One of my many charms," says Mr. Browne gayly, hiding his untasted cup +by a skillful movement behind the sugar bowl. "Variety, you know, is +ever charming. I'm a various person, therefore I'm charming." + +"Are you?" says Miss L'Estrange, grimly. + +"Can you look at me and doubt it?" demands Mr. Browne, deep reproach in +his eyes. + +"I can," returns Miss L'Estrange, presenting an uncompromising front. "I +can also suggest to you that those lumps of sugar are meant to put in +the cups with the tea, not to be consumed wholesale. Sugar, plain, is +ruinous to the stomach and disastrous to the teeth." + +"True, true," says Mr. Browne, absently, "and both mine are so pretty." + +Miss L'Estrange rises to her feet and confronts him with a stony glare. + +"Both what?" demands she. + +"Eh? Why, both of them," persists Mr. Browne. + +"I think, Richard, that the sooner you return to your hotel, or whatever +low haunt you have chosen as your present abode, the better it will be +for all present." + +"Why so?" demands Mr. Browne, indignantly. "What have I done now?" + +"You know very well, sir," says Miss L'estrange. "Your language is +disgraceful. You take an opportunity of turning an innocent remark of +mine, a kindly warning, into a ribald----" + +"Good heavens!" says he, uplifting brows and hands. "I never yet knew it +was ribaldry to talk about one's teeth." + +"You were not talking about your teeth," says Miss L'Estrange sternly. +"You said distinctly 'both of them.'" + +"Just so," says Dicky. "I've only got two." + +"Is that the truth, Richard?" with increasing majesty. + +"Honest Injun," says Mr. Browne, unabashed. "And they are out of sight. +All you can see have been purchased, and I assure you, dear Miss +L'Estrange," with anxious earnestness, "paid for. One guinea the entire +set; a single tooth, two-and-six. Who'd be without 'em?" + +"Well, I'm sorry to hear it," says Miss L'Estrange reseating herself and +regarding him still with manifest distrust. "To lose one's teeth so +early in life speaks badly for one's moral conduct. Anyhow, I shan't +allow you to destroy your guinea's worth. I shall remove temptation from +your path." + +Lifting the sugar bowl she removes it to her right side, thus laying +bare the fact that Mr. Browne's cup of tea is still full to the brim. + +It is the last stroke. + +"Drink your tea," says she to the stricken Dicky in a tone that admits +of no delay. He drinks it. + +Meantime, Barbara has been very kind to Felix Dysart, answering his +roundabout questions that always have Joyce as their central meaning. +One leading remark of his is to the effect that he is covered with +astonishment to find her and Monkton in London. Is he surprised. Well, +no doubt, yes. Joyce is in town, too, but she has not come out with her +to-day. Have they been to the theatre? Very often; Joyce, especially, is +quite devoted to it. Do they go much to the picture galleries? Well, to +one or two. There is so much to be done, and the children are rather +exigeant, and demand all the afternoon. But she had heard Joyce say that +she was going to-morrow to Doré's Gallery. She thought Tommy ought to be +shown something more improving than clowns and wild animals and toy +shops. + +Mr. Dysart, at this point, said he thought Miss Kavanagh was more +reflective than one taking a careless view of her might believe. + +Barbara laughed. + +"Do you take the reflective view?" says she. + +"Do you recommend me to take the careless one?" demands he, now looking +fully at her. There is a good deal of meaning in his question, but +Barbara declines to recognize it. She feels she has gone far enough in +that little betrayal about Doré's Gallery. She refuses to take another +step; she is already, indeed, a little frightened by what she has done +If Joyce should hear of it--oh----And yet how could she refrain from +giving that small push to so deserving a cause? + +"No, no; I recommend nothing," says she, still laughing. "Where are you +staying?" + +"With my cousins, the Seaton Dysarts. They had to come up to town about +a tooth, or a headache, or neuralgia, or something; we shall never quite +know what, as it has disappeared, whatever it is. Give me London smoke +as a perfect cure for most ailments. It is astonishing what remarkable +recoveries it can boast. Vera and her husband are like a couple of +children. Even the pantomime isn't too much for them." + +"That reminds me the children ought to be here by this time," says Mrs. +Monkton, drawing out her watch. "They went to the afternoon performance. +I really think," anxiously, "they are very late----" + +She has hardly spoken when a sound of little running feet up the stairs +outside sets her maternal fears at rest. Nearer and nearer they sound; +they stop, there is a distant scuffle, the door is thrown violently +open, and Tommy and Mabel literally fall into the room. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV. + + "Then seemed to me this world far less in size, + Likewise it seemed to me less wicked far; + Like points in heaven I saw the stars arise, + And longed for wings that I might catch a star." + + +Least said, soonest mended! Tommy is on his feet again in no time, and +has picked up Mabel before you could say Jack Robinson, and once again, +nothing daunted by their ignominious entry, they rush up the room and +precipitate themselves upon their mother. This pious act being +performed, Tommy sees fit to show some small attention to the other +people present. + +"Thomas," says Mr. Browne, when he has shaken hands with him, "if you +wait much longer without declaring yourself you will infallibly burst, +and that is always a rude thing to do in a friend's drawing-room. Speak, +Thomas, or die--you are evidently full of information!" + +"Well, I won't tell you!" says Tommy, naturally indignant at this +address. He throws a resentful look at him over his shoulder while +making his way to his grandfather. There is a queer sort of +sympathy--understanding--what you will--between the child and the stern +old man. + +"Come here," says Sir George, drawing Tommy to him. "Well, and did you +enjoy yourself? Was it all your fancy painted it?" + +Sir George has sunk into a chair with all the heaviness of an old man, +and the boy has crept between his knees and is looking up at him with +his beautiful little face all aglow. + +"Oh! 'twas lovely!" says he. "'Twas splendid! There was lights all over +the house. 'Twas like night--only 'twasn't night, and that was grand! +And there were heaps of people. A whole town was there. And there +were----Grandpa! why did they have lamps there when it was daytime?" + +"Because they have no windows in a theatre," says Sir George, patting +the little hot, fat hand that is lying on his arm, with a strange +sensation of pleasure in the touch of it. + +"No windows?" with big eyes opened wide. + +"Not one." + +"Then why have we windows?" asks Tommy, with an involuntary glance round +him. "Why are there windows anywhere? It's ever so much nicer without +them. Why can't we have lamps always, like the theatre people?" + +"Why, indeed?" says Mr. Browne, sympathetically. "Sir George, I hope you +will take your grandson's advice to heart, and block up all these absurd +windows, and let a proper ray of light descend upon us from the honest +burner. Who cares for strikes? Not I!" + +"Well, Tommy, we'll think about it," says Sir George. "And now go on. +You saw----" + +"Bluebeard!" says Tommy, almost roaring in the excitement of his +delight. "A big Bluebeard, and he was just like the pictures of him at +home, with his toes curled up and a red towel round his head and a blue +night-gown and a smiter in his hand." + +"A cimeter, Tommy?" suggests his mother, gently. + +"Eh?" says Tommy. "Well, it's all the same," says he, after a pause, +replete with deep research and with a truly noble impartiality. + +"It is, indeed!" says Mr. Browne, open encouragement in his eye. "And so +you saw Mr. Bluebeard! And did he see you?" + +"Oh! he saw me!" cries Mabel, in a little whimpering' tone. "He looked +straight into the little house where we were, and I saw his eye--his +horrid eye!" shaking her small head vigorously--"and it ran right into +mine, and he began to walk up to me, and I----" + +She stops, her pretty red lips quivering, her blue eyes full of tears. + +"Oh, Mabel was so frightened!" says Tommy, the Bold. "She stuck her nose +into nurse's fur cape and roared!" + +"I didn't!" says Mabel promptly. + +"You did!" says Tommy, indignant at being contradicted, "and she said it +would never be worth a farthing ever after, and----Well, any way, you +know, Mabel, you didn't like the heads." + +"Oh, no; I didn't--I hated them! They were all hanging to one side; and +there was nasty blood, and they looked as if they was going to waggle," +concludes Mabel, with a terrified sob, burying her own head in her +mother's lap. + +"Oh! she is too young," says Barbara, nervously clasping her little +woman close to her in a quiet, undemonstrative way, but so as to make +the child herself feel the protection of her arms. + +"Too young for so dismal a sight," says Dysart, stooping over and +patting Mabel's sunny curls with a kindly touch. He is very fond of +children, as are all men, good and bad. + +"I should not have let her go," says Mrs. Monkton, with self-reproach. +"Such exhibitions are painful for young minds, however harmless." + +"When she is older----" begins Dysart, still caressing the little head. + +"Yes, yes--she is too young--far too young," says Mrs. Monkton, giving +the child a second imperceptible hug. + +"One is never too young to learn the miseries of the world," says Miss +L'Estrange, in her most terrible tone. "Why should a child be pampered +and petted, and shielded from all thoughts of harm and wrong, as though +they never existed? It is false treatment. It is a wilful deceiving of +the growing mind. One day they must wake to all the horrors of the +world. They should therefore be prepared for it, steadily, sternly, +unyieldingly!" + +"What a grand--what a strong nature!" says Mr. Browne, uplifting his +hands in admiration. "You would, then, advocate the cause of the +pantomime?" says he, knowing well that the very name of theatre stinks +in the nostrils of Miss L'Estrange. + +"Far be it from me!" says she, with a violent shake of her head. "May +all such disreputable performances come to a bad end, and a speedy one, +is my devout prayer. But," with a vicious glance at Barbara, "I would +condemn the parents who would bring their children up in a dark +ignorance of the woes and vices of the world in which they must pass +their lives. I think, as Mabel has been permitted to look at the +pernicious exhibition of this afternoon, she should also be encouraged +to look with calmness upon it, if only to teach her what to expect from +life." + +"Good heavens!" says Mr. Browne, in a voice of horror. "Is that what she +has to expect? Rows of decapitated heads! Have you had private +information, Miss L'Estrange? Is a rehearsal of the French Revolution to +be performed in London? Do you really believe the poor child is doomed +to behold your head carried past the windows on a pike? Was there +meaning in the artless prattle of our Thomas just now when he condemned +windows as a social nuisance, or----" + +"I suppose you think you are amusing!" interrupts the spinster, +malignantly. It is plain that she objects to the idea of her head being +on a pike. "At all events, if you must jest on serious subjects, I +desire you, Richard, to leave me out of your silly maunderings." + +"Your will is my law," says Dicky, rising. "I leave you!" + +He makes a tragic, retreat, and finding an empty chair near Monkton +takes possession of it. + +"I must protest against your opinion," says Dysart, addressing Miss +L'Estrange with a smile. "Children should be regarded as something +better than mere lumps of clay to be experimentalized upon!" + +"Oh, yes," says Barbara, regarding the spinster gently but with +ill-concealed aversion. "You cannot expect any one to agree with you +there. I, for one, could not." + +"I don't know that I ever asked you to," says Miss L'Estrange with such +open impertinence that Barbara flushes up to the roots of her hair. + +Silence falls on the room, except for a light conversation being carried +on between Dicky and Monkton, both of whom have heard nothing. Lady +Monkton looks uncomfortable. Sir George hastens to the rescue. + +"Surely you haven't told us everything, Tommy?" says he giving his +grandson a pull toward him. "Besides Mr. Bluebeard, what else was +there?" + +"Lots of things," says Tommy, vaguely, coming back from an eager +attention to Miss L'Estrange's evil suggestion to a fresh remembrance of +his past delights. "There was a band and it shouted. Nurse said it took +the roof off her head, but I looked, and her bonnet didn't stir. And +there was the harlequin, he was beautiful. He shined like anything. He +was all over scales, like a trout." + +"A queer fish," says his grandfather. + +"He jumped about and beat things with a little stick he had. And he +danced, and there was a window and he sprang right through it, and he +came up again and wasn't a bit hurt, not a bit. Oh! he was lovely, +grandpapa, and so was his concubine----" + +"His what?" says Sir George. + +"His concubine. His sweetheart. That was her name," says Tommy +confidently. + +There is a ghastly silence. Lady Monkton's pale old cheeks color +faintly. Miss L'Estrange glares. As for Barbara, she feels the world has +at last come to an end. They will be angry with the boy. Her mission to +London will have failed--that vague hope of a reconciliation through the +children that she had yet scarcely allowed to herself. + +Need it be said that Mr. Browne has succumbed to secret but disgraceful +mirth. A good three-quarters of a full-sized handkerchief is already in +his mouth--a little more of the cambric and "death through suffocation" +will adorn the columns of the _Times_ in the morning. Sir George, too, +what is the matter with him? He is speechless--from indignation one must +hope. + +"What ails you, grandpa?" demands Tommy, after a full minute's strict +examination of him. + +"Oh, nothing, nothing," says Sir George, choking; "it is only--that I'm +glad you have so thoroughly enjoyed yourself and your harlequin, +and--ha, ha, ha, your Columbine. Columbine, now mind. And here's this +for you, Tommy, because you are such a good boy." + +He opens the little grandson's hand and presses into the pink palm of it +a sovereign. + +"Thank you," says Tommy, in the polite regulation tone he has been +taught, without a glance at his gift--a touch of etiquette he has been +taught, too. Then the curious eyes of childhood wander to the palm, and, +seeing the unexpected pretty gold thing lying there, he colors up to the +tips of his ears with surprise and pleasure. Then sudden compunction +seizes on the kindly little heart. The world is strange to him. He knows +but one or two here and there. His father is poor. A sovereign--that is, +a gold piece--would be rare with him, why not rare with another? Though +filled with admiration and gratitude for the giver of so big a gift, the +child's heart commands him not to accept it. + +"Oh, it is too much," says he, throwing his arms round Sir George's neck +and trying to press the sovereign back into his hand. "A shilling I'd +like, but that's such a lot of shillings, and maybe you'd be wanting +it." This is all whispered in the softest, tenderest way. + +"No, no, my boy," says Sir George, whispering back, and glad that he +must whisper. His voice, even so, sounds a little queer to himself. How +often he might have gladdened this child with a present, a small one, +and until now----"Keep it," says he; he has passed his hand round the +little head and is pressing it against his breast. + +"May I? Really?" says Tommy, emancipating his head with a little jerk, +and looking at Sir George with searching eyes. + +"You may indeed!" + +"God bless you!" says Tommy, solemnly. + +It is a startling remark to Sir George, but not so to Tommy. It is +exactly what nurse had said to her daughter the day before she left +Ireland with Tommy and Mabel in charge, when her daughter had brought +her the half of her wages. Therefore it must be correct. To supplement +this blessing Tommy flings his arms around Sir George's neck and gives +him a resounding kiss. Nurse had done that, too, to her daughter. + +"God bless you too, my dear," says Sir George, if not quite as solemnly, +with considerably more tenderness. Tommy's mother, catching the words +and the tone, cheers up. All is not lost yet! The situation is saved. +Tommy has won the day. The inconsequent Tommy of all people! Insult to +herself she had endured, but to have the children disliked would have +been more than she could bear; bur Tommy, apparently, is not +disliked--by the old man at all events. That fact will be sweet to +Freddy. After all, who could resist Tommy? Tears rise to the mother's +eyes. Darling boy! Where is his like upon the whole wide earth? Nowhere. + +She is disturbed in her reverie by the fact that the originator of it is +running toward her with one little closed fist outstretched. How he +runs! His fat calves come twinkling across the carpet. + +"See, mammy, what I've got. Grandpa gave it to me. Isn't he nice? Now +I'll buy a watch like pappy's." + +"You have made him very happy," says Barbara, smiling at Sir George over +her boy's head. She rises as she speaks, and goes to where Lady Monkton +is sitting to bid her good-bye. + +"I hope you will come soon again," says Lady Monkton, not cordially, but +as if compelled to it; "and I hope, too," pausing as if to gather +herself together, "that when you do come you will bring your sister with +you. It will give me--us--pleasure to see her." There is such a dearth +of pleasure in the tone of the invitation that Barbara feels her wrath +rising within her. + +"I thank you," she manages to say very calmly, not committing herself, +either way, and presently finds herself in the street with her husband +and her children. They had declined Lady Monkton's offer of the brougham +to take them home. + +"It was a bad time," says Monkton while waiting at a crossing for a cab +to come to them. "But you must try and not mind them. If the fact that I +am always with you counts for anything, it may help you to endure it." + +"What help could be like it?" says she, tightening her hand on his arm. + +"That old woman, my aunt. She offended you, but you must remember that +she offends everybody. You thought her abominable?" + +"Oh no. I only thought her vulgar," says Mrs. Monkton. It is the one +revenge she permits herself. Monkton breaks into an irresistible laugh. + +"It isn't perfect; it couldn't be unless she heard you," says he. The +cab has come up now, and he puts in the children and then his wife, +finally himself. + +"Tommy crowns all!" says he with a retrospective smile. + +"Eh?" says Tommy, who has the ears of a Midas. + +"Your father says you are a social success, and so does your mother," +says Barbara, smiling at the child's puzzled face, and then giving him a +loving little embrace. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV. + + "Why should two hearts in one breast lie + And yet not lodge together? + Oh, love! where is thy sympathy + If thus our breasts you sever?" + + +"Well, did you like the gallery?" asks Mrs. Monkton, throwing aside her +book to greet Joyce as she returns from Doré's. It is next day, and +Barbara had let the girl go to see the pictures without telling her of +her meeting with Felix the evening before; she had been afraid to say +anything about him lest that guilty secret of hers might transpire--that +deliberate betrayal of Joyce's intended visit to Bond street on the +morrow. If Joyce had heard that, she would, in all probability, have +deferred her going there for ever--and--it was such a chance. Mrs. +Monkton, who, in her time, had said so many hard words about match +makers, as most women have, and who would have scorned to be classed +with them, had promoted and desired this meeting of Felix and Joyce with +all the energy and enthusiasm of which she was capable But that Joyce +should suspect her of the truth is a fear that terrifies her. + +"Very much. So did Tommy. He is very graphic in his remarks," says +Joyce, sinking listlessly into a chair, and taking off her hat. She +looks vexed and preoccupied. "I think he gave several very original +ideas on the subjects of the pictures to those around. They seemed +impressed. You know how far above the foolish feeling, _mauvaise honte_, +he is; his voice 'like a silver clarion rung.' Excelsior was outdone. +Everybody turned and looked at him with----" + +"I hope he wasn't noisy," says Mrs. Monkton, nervously. + +"With admiration, I was going to say, but you wouldn't let me finish my +sentence. Oh, yes, he was quite a success. One old gentleman wanted to +know if he would accept the part of art critic on his paper. It was very +exciting." She leans back in her chair, the troubled look on her face +growing intensified. She seems glad to be silent, and with downcast eyes +plays with the gloves lying in her lap. + +"Something has happened, Joyce," says her sister, going over to her. + +"Something is happening always," returned Joyce, with a rather impatient +smile. + +"Yes, but to you just now." + +"You are sure to make me tell you sooner or later," says Miss Kavanagh, +"and even if I didn't, Tommy would. I met Mr. Dysart at that gallery +to-day." + +"Felix?" says Mrs. Monkton, feeling herself an abominable hypocrite; yet +afraid to confess the truth. Something in the girl's whole attitude +forbids a confession, at this moment at all events. + +"Yes." + +"Well?" + +"Well?" + +"He was glad to see you, darling?" very tenderly. + +"Was he? I don't know. He looked very ill. He said he had had a bad +cough. He is coming to see you." + +"You were kind to him, Joyce?" + +"I didn't personally insult him, if you mean that." + +"Oh, no, I don't mean that, you know what I mean. He was ill, unhappy; +you did not make him more unhappy?" + +"It is always for him!" cries the girl, with jealous anger. "Is there +never to be a thought for me? Am I nothing to you? Am I never unhappy? +Why don't you ask if he was kind to me?" + +"Was he ever unkind?" + +"Well, you can forget! He said dreadful things to me--dreadful. I am not +likely to forget them if you are. After all, they did not hurt you." + +"Joyce!" + +"Yes, I know--I know everything you would say. I am ungrateful, +abominable, but----He was unkind to me! He said what no girl would ever +forgive, and yet you have not one angry word for him." + +"Never mind all that," says Mrs. Monkton, soothingly. "Tell me what you +did to-day--what you said." + +"As little as possible," defiantly. "I tell you I don't want ever to see +him again, or hear of him; I think I hate him. And he looked dying." She +stops here, as if finding a difficulty about saying another word. She +coughs nervously; then, recovering herself, and as if determined to +assert herself anew and show how real is the coldness that she has +declared--"Yes, dying, I think," she says, stubbornly. + +"Oh, I don't think he looked as bad as that!" says Barbara, hastily, +unthinkingly filled with grief, not only at this summary dismissal of +poor Felix from our earthly sphere, but for her sister's unhappiness, +which is as plain to her as though no little comedy had been performed +for the concealment of it. + +"You don't!" repeats Joyce, lifting her head and directing a piercing +glance at her. "You! What do you know about him?" + +"Why--you just said----" stammers Mrs. Monkton, and then breaks down +ignominiously. + +"You knew he was in town," says Joyce, advancing to her, and looking +down on her with clasped-hands and a pale face. "Barbara, speak. You +knew he was here, and never told me; you," with a sudden, fresh burst of +inspiration, "sent him to that place to-day to meet me." + +"Oh, no, dearest. No, indeed. He himself can tell you. It was only that +he----" + +"Asked where I was going to, at such and such an hour, and you told +him." She is still standing over poor Mrs. Monkton in an attitude that +might almost be termed menacing. + +"I didn't. I assure you, Joyce, you are taking it all quite wrongly. It +was only----" + +"Oh! only--only," says the girl, contemptuously. "Do you think I can't +read between the lines? I am sure you believe you are sticking to the +honest truth, Barbara, but still----Well," bitterly, "I don't think he +profited much by the information you gave him. Your deception has given +him small satisfaction." + +"I don't think you should speak to me like that," says Mrs. Monkton, in +a voice that trembles perceptibly. + +"I don't care what I say," cries Joyce, with a sudden burst of passion. +"You betray me; he betrays me; all the world seem arrayed against me. +And what have I done to anybody?" She throws out her hands protestingly. + +"Joyce, darling, if you would only listen." + +"Listen! I am always listening, it seems to me. To him, to you, to every +one. I am tired of being silent; I must speak now. I trusted you, +Barbara, and you have been bad to me. Do you want to force him to make +love to me, that you tell him on the very first opportunity where to +find me, and in a place where I am without you, or any one to----" + +"Will you try to understand?" says Mrs. Monkton, with a light stamp of +her foot, her patience going as her grief increases. "He cross-examined +me as to where you were, and would be, and I--I told him. I wasn't going +to make a mystery of it, or you, was I? I told him that you were going +to the Doré Gallery to-day with Tommy. How could I know he would go +there to meet you? He never said he was going. You are unjust, Joyce, +both to him and to me." + +"Do you mean to tell me that for all that you didn't know he would be at +that place to-day?" turning flashing eyes upon her sister. + +"How could I know? Unless a person says a thing right out, how is one to +be sure what he is going to do?" + +"Oh! that is unlike you. It is unworthy of you," says Joyce, turning +from her scornfully. "You did know. And it is not," turning back again +and confronting the now thoroughly frightened Barbara with a glance full +of pathos, "it is not that--your insincerity that hurt me so much, it +is----" + +"I didn't mean to be insincere; you are very cruel--you do not measure +your words." + +"You will tell me next that you meant it all for the best," with a +bitter smile. "That is the usual formula, isn't it? Well, never mind; +perhaps you did. What I object to is you didn't tell me. That I was kept +designedly in the dark both by him and you. Am I," with sudden fire, "a +child or a fool, that you should seek to guide me so blindly? Well," +drawing a long breath, "I won't keep you in the dark. When I left the +gallery, and your protégé, I met--Mr. Beauclerk!" + +Mrs. Monkton, stunned by this intelligence, remains silent for a full +minute. It is death to her hopes. If she has met that man again, it is +impossible to know how things have gone. His fatal influence--her +unfortunate infatuation for him--all will be ruinous to poor Felix's +hopes. + +"You spoke to him?" asks she at last, in an emotionless tone. + +"Yes." + +"Was Felix with you?" + +"When?" + +"When you met that odious man?" + +"Mr. Beauclerk? No; I dismissed Mr. Dysart as soon as ever I could." + +"No doubt. And Mr. Beauclerk, did you dismiss him as promptly." + +"Certainly not. There was no occasion." + +"No inclination, either. You were kind to him at all events. It is only +to the man who is honest and sincere that you are deliberately uncivil." + +"I hope I was uncivil to neither of them." + +"There is no use giving yourself that air with me, Joyce. You are angry +with me; but why? Only because I am anxious for your happiness. Oh! that +hateful man, how I detest him! He has made you unhappy once--he will +certainly make you unhappy again." + +"I don't think so," says Joyce, taking up her hat and furs with the +evident intention of leaving the room, and thus putting an end to the +discussion. + +"You will never think so until it is too late. You haven't the strength +of mind to throw him over, once and for all, and give your thoughts to +one who is really worthy of you. On the contrary, you spend your time +comparing him favorably with the good and faithful Felix." + +"You should put that down. It will do for his tombstone," says Miss +Kavanagh, with a rather uncertain little laugh. + +"At all events, it would not do for Mr. Beauclerk's tombstone--though I +wish it would--and that I could put it there at once." + +"I shall tell Freddy to read the commandments to you," says Joyce, with +a dreary attempt at mirth--"you have forgotten your duty to your +neighbor." + +"It is all true, however. You can't deny it, Joyce. You are +deliberately--willfully--throwing away the good for the bad. I can't +bear to see it. I can't look on in silence and see you thus miserably +destroying your life. How can you be so blind, darling?" appealing to +her with hands, and voice, and eyes. "Such determined folly would be +strange in any one; stranger far in a girl like you, whose sense has +always been above suspicion." + +"Did it ever occur to you," asks Joyce, in a slightly bantering tone, +that but ill conceals the nervousness that is consuming her, "that you +might be taking a wrong view of the situation? That I was not so blind +after all. That I--What was it you said? that I spent my nights and days +comparing the merits of Mr. Beauclerk with those of your friend, Felix +Dysart--to your friend's discomfiture? Now, suppose that I did thus +waste my time, and gave my veto in favor of Mr. Dysart? How would it be +then? It might be so, you know, for all that he, or you, or any one +could say." + +"It is not so light a matter that you should trifle with it," says Mrs. +Monkton, with a faint suspicion of severity in her soft voice. + +"No, of course not. You are right." Miss Kavanagh moves towards the +door. "After all, Barbara," looking back at her, "that applies to most +things in this sad old world. What matter under heaven can we poor +mortals dare to trifle with? Not one, I think. All bear within them the +seeds of grief or joy. Sacred seeds, both carrying in their bosoms the +germs of eternity. Even when this life is gone from us we still face +weal or woe." + +"Still--we need not make our own woe," says Barbara, who is a sturdy +enemy to all pessimistic thoughts. "Wait a moment, Joyce." She hurries +after her and lays her hand on the girl's shoulder. "Will you come with +me next Wednesday to see Lady Monkton?" + +"Lady Monkton! Why I thought----" + +"Yes, I know. I would not take you there before, because she had not +expressly asked to see you. But to-day she made a--she sent you a formal +message--at all events she said she hoped I would bring you when I came +again." + +"Is that all of it?" asks Joyce, gazing at her sister with a curious +smile, that is troubled, but has still some growing sense of amusement +in it. "What an involved statement! Surely you have forgotten something. +That Mr. Dysart was standing near you, for example, and will probably +find that it is absolutely imperative that he should call on Lady +Monkton next Wednesday, too. Don't set your heart on that, Barbara. I +think, after my interview with him to-day, he will not want to see Lady +Monkton next Wednesday." + +"I know nothing about whether he is to be there or not," says Barbara +steadily. "But as Sir George likes to see the children very often, I +thought of taking them there on that day. It is Lady Monkton's day. And +Dicky Browne, at all events, will be there, and I dare say a good many +of your old friends. Do say you will come." + +"I hate old friends!" says the girl fractiously. "I don't believe I have +any. I don't believe anybody has. I----" + +She pauses as the door is thrown open, and Tommy comes prancing into the +room accompanied by his father. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI. + + "Children know very little; but their capacity of comprehension is + great." + + +"I've just been interviewing Tommy on the subject of the pictures," says +Mr. Monkton. "So far as I can make out he disapproves of Doré." + +"Oh! Tommy! and all such beautiful pictures out of the Bible," says his +mother. + +"I did like them," says Tommy. "Only some of them were queer. I wanted +to know about them, but nobody would tell me--and----" + +"Why, Tommy, I explained them all to you," says Joyce, reproachfully. + +"You did in the first two little rooms and in the big room afterward, +where the velvet seats were. They," looking at his father and raising +his voice to an indignant note, "wouldn't let me run round on the top of +them!" + +"Good heavens!" says Mr. Monkton. "Can that be true? Truly this country +is going to the dogs." + +"Where do the dogs live?" asks Tommy, "What dogs? Why does the country +want to go to them?" + +"It doesn't want to go," explains his father. "But it will have to go, +and the dogs will punish them for not letting you reduce its velvet +seats to powder. Never mind, go on with your story; so that unnatural +aunt of yours wouldn't tell you about the pictures, eh?" + +"She did in the beginning, and when we got into the big room too, a +little while. She told me about the great large one at the end, 'Christ +and the Historian,' though I couldn't see the Historian anywhere, +and----" + +"She herself must be a most successful one," says Mr. Monkton, sotto +voce. + +"And then we came to the Innocents, and I perfectly hated that," says +Tommy. "'Twas frightful! Everybody was as large as that," stretching out +his arms and puffing out his cheeks, "and the babies were all so fat and +so horrid. And then Felix came, and Joyce had to talk to him, so I +didn't know any more." + +"I think you forget," says Joyce. "There was that picture with lions in +it. Mr. Dysart himself explained that to you." + +"Oh, that one!" says Tommy, as if dimly remembering, "the circus one! +The one with the round house. I didn't like that either." + +"It is rather ghastly for a child," says his mother. + +"That's not the one with the gas," puts in Tommy. "The one with the gas +is just close to it, and has got Pilate's wife in it. She's very nice." + +"But why didn't you like the other?" asks his father. "I think it one of +the best there." + +"Well, I don't," says Tommy, evidently grieved at having to differ from +his father; but filled with a virtuous determination to stick to the +truth through thick and thin. + +"No?" + +"'Tis unfair," says Tommy. + +"That has been allowed for centuries," says his father. + +"Then why don't they change it?" + +"Change what?" asks Mr. Monkton, feeling a little puzzled. "How can one +change now the detestable cruelties--or the abominable habits of the +dark ages?" + +"But why were they dark?" asks Tommy. "Mammy says they had gas then." + +"I didn't mean that, I----" his mother is beginning, but Monkton stops +her with a despairing gesture. + +"Don't," says he. "It would take a good hour by the slowest clock. Let +him believe there was electric light then if he chooses." + +"Well, but why can't they change it?" persists Tommy, who is evidently +full of the picture in question. + +"I have told you." + +"But the painter man could change it." + +"I am afraid not, Tommy. He is dead." + +"Why didn't he do it before he died then? Why didn't somebody show him +what to do?" + +"I don't fancy he wanted any hints. And besides, he had to be true to +his ideal. It was a terrible time. They did really throw the Christians +to the lions, you know." + +"Of course I know that," says Tommy with a superior air. "But why didn't +they cast another one?" + +"Eh?" says Mr. Monkton. + +"That's why it's unfair!" says Tommy. "There is one poor lion there, and +he hasn't got any Christian! Why didn't Mr. Dory give him one?" + +Tableau! + +"Barbara!" says Mr. Monkton faintly, after a long pause. "Is there any +brandy in the house?" + +But Barbara is looking horrified. + +"It is shocking," she says. "Why should he take such a twisted view of +it. He has always been a kind-hearted child; and now----" + +"Well. He has been kind-hearted to the lions," says Mr. Monkton. "No one +can deny that." + +"Oh! if you persist in encouraging him. Freddy!" says his wife with +tears in her eyes. + +"Believe me, Barbara," breaks in Joyce at this moment, "it is a mistake +to be soft-hearted in this world." There is something bright but +uncomfortable in the steady gaze she directs at her sister. "One should +be hard, if one means to live comfortably." + +"Will you take me soon again to see pictures?" asks Tommy, running to +Joyce and scrambling upon the seat she is occupying. "Do!" + +"But if you dislike them so much." + +"Only some. And other places may be funnier. What day will you take me?" + +"I don't think I shall again make an arrangement beforehand," says +Joyce, rising, and placing Tommy on the ground very gently. "Some +morning just before we start, you and I, we will make our plans." + +She does not look at Barbara this time, but her tone is eloquent. + +Barbara looks at her, however, with eyes full of reproach. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII. + + "Love is its own great loveliness always, + And takes new beauties from the touch of time; + Its bough owns no December and no May, + But bears its blossoms into winter's clime." + + "I have often thought what a melancholy world this would be without + children." + + +"Oh, Felix--is it you!" says Mrs. Monkton in a dismayed tone. Her hansom +is at the door and, arrayed in her best bib and tucker, she is hurrying +through the hall when Dysart, who has just come, presents himself. He +was just coming in, in fact, as she was going out. + +"Don't mind me," says he; "there is always to-morrow." + +"Oh, yes,--but----" + +"And Miss Kavanagh?" + +"It is to recover her I am going out this afternoon." It is the next +day, so soon after her rupture with Joyce, that she is afraid to even +hint at further complications. A strong desire to let him know that he +might wait and try his fortune once again on her return with Joyce is +oppressing her mind, but she puts it firmly behind her, or thinks she +does. "She is lunching at the Brabazons'," she says; "old friends of +ours. I promised to lunch there, too, so as to be able to bring Joyce +home again." + +"She will be back, then." + +"In an hour and a half at latest," says Mrs. Monkton, who after all is +not strong enough to be quite genuine to her better judgments. "But," +with a start and a fresh determination to be cruel in the cause of +right, "that would be much too long for you to wait for us." + +"I shouldn't think it long," says he. + +Mrs. Monkton smiles suddenly at him. How charming--how satisfactory he +is. Could any lover be more devoted! + +"Well, it would be for all that," says she. "But"--hesitating in a last +vain effort to dismiss, and then losing herself--, "suppose you do not +abandon your visit altogether; that you go away, now, and get your lunch +at your club--I feel," contritely, "how inhospitable I am--and then come +back again here about four o'clock. She--I--will have returned by that +time." + +"An excellent plan," says he, his face lighting up. Then it clouds +again. "If she knows I am to be here?" + +"Ah! that is a difficulty," says Mrs. Monkton, her own pretty face +showing signs of distress. "But anyhow, risk it." + +"I would rather she knew, however," says he steadily. The idea of +entrapping her into a meeting with him is abhorrent to him. He had had +enough of that at the Doré Gallery; though he had been innocent of any +intentional deception there. + +"I will tell her then," says Mrs. Monkton; "and in the meantime go and +get your----" + +At this moment the door on the right is thrown open, and Tommy, with a +warhoop, descends upon them, followed by Mabel. + +"Oh! it's Felix!" cries he joyfully. "Will you stay with us, Felix? +We've no one to have dinner with us to-day. Because mammy is going away, +and Joyce is gone, and pappy is nowhere; and nurse isn't a bit of +good--she only says, 'Take care you don't choke yourselves, me +dearies!'" He imitates nurse to the life. "And dinner will be here in a +minute. Mary says she's just going to bring it upstairs." + +"Oh, do--do stay with us," supplements little Mabel, thrusting her small +hand imploringly into his. It is plain that he is in high favor with the +children, however out of it with a certain other member of the +family--and feeling grateful to them, Dysart hesitates to say the "No" +that is on his lips. How hard it is to refuse the entreaties of these +little clinging fingers--these eager, lovely, upturned faces! + +"If I may----?" says he at last, addressing Mrs. Monkton, and thereby +giving in. + +"Oh! as for that! You know you may," says she. "But you will perfectly +hate it. It is too bad to allow you to accept their invitation. You will +be bored to death, and you will detest the boiled mutton. There is only +that and--rice, I think. I won't even be sure of the rice. It may be +tapioca--and that is worse still." + +"It's rice," says Tommy, who is great friends with the cook, and knows +till her secrets. + +"That decides the question," says Felix gravely. "Every one knows that I +adore rice. It is my one weakness." + +At this, Mrs. Monkton gives way to an irrepressible laugh, and he, +catching the meaning of it, laughs, too. + +"You are wrong, however," says he; "that other is my one strength. I +could not live without it. Well, Tommy, I accept your invitation. I +shall stay and lunch--dine with you." In truth, it seems sweet in his +eyes to remain in the house that she (Joyce) occupies; it will be easier +to wait, to hope for her return there than elsewhere. + +"Your blood be on your own head," says Barbara, solemnly. "If, however, +it goes too far, I warn you there are remedies. When it occurs to you +that life is no longer worth living, go to the library; you will find +there a revolver. It is three hundred years old, I'm told, and it is +hung very high on the wall to keep it out of Freddy's reach. Blow your +brains out with it--if you can." + +"You're awfully good, awfully thoughtful," says Mr. Dysart, "but I don't +think, when the final catastrophe arrives, it will be suicide. If I must +murder somebody, it will certainly not be myself; it will be either the +children or the mutton." + +Mrs. Monkton laughs, then turns a serious eye on Tommy. + +"Now, Tommy," says she, addressing him with a gravity that should have +overwhelmed him, "I am going away from you for an hour or so, and Mr. +Dysart has kindly accepted your invitation to lunch with him. I do +hope," with increasing impressiveness, "you will be good." + +"I hope so, too," returns Tommy, genially. + +There is an astonished pause, confined to the elders only, and then, Mr. +Dysart, unable to restrain himself any longer, bursts but laughing. + +"Could anything be more candid?" says he; "more full of trust in +himself, and yet with a certain modesty withal! There! you can go, Mrs. +Monkton, with a clear conscience. I am not afraid to give myself up to +the open-handed dealing of your son." Then his tone changes--he follows +her quickly as she turns from him to the children to bid them good-bye. + +"Miss Kavanagh," says he, "is she well--happy?" + +"She is well," says Barbara, stopping to look back at him with her hand +on Mabel's shoulder--there is reservation in her answer. + +"Had she any idea that I would call to-day?" This question is absolutely +forced from him. + +"How should she? Even I--did I know it? Certainly I thought you would +come some day, and soon, and she may have thought so, too, but--you +should have told me. You called too soon. Impatience is a vice," says +Mrs. Monkton, shaking her head in a very kindly fashion, however. + +"I suppose when she knows--when," with a rather sad smile, "you tell +her--I am to be here on her return this afternoon she will not come with +you." + +"Oh, yes, she will. I think so--I am sure of it. But you must +understand, Felix, that she is very peculiar, difficult is what they +call it now-a-days. And," pausing and glancing at him, "she is angry, +too, about something that happened before you left last autumn. I hardly +know what; I have imagined only, and," rapidly, "don't let us go into +it, but you will know that there was something." + +"Something, yes," says he. + +"Well, a trifle, probably. I have said she is difficult. But you failed +somewhere, and she is slow to pardon--where----" + +"Where! What does that mean?" demands the young man, a great spring of +hope taking life within his eyes. + +"Ah, that hardly matters. But she is not forgiving. She is the very +dearest girl I know, but that is one of her faults." + +"She has no faults," says he, doggedly. And then: "Well, she knows I am +to be here this afternoon?" + +"Yes. I told her." + +"I am glad of that. If she returns with you from the Brabazons," with a +quick but heavy sigh, "there will be no hope in that." + +"Don't be too hard," says Mrs. Monkton, who in truth is feeling a little +frightened. To come back without Joyce, and encounter an irate young +man, with Freddy goodness knows where--"She may have other engagements," +she says. She waves him an airy adieu as she makes this cruel +suggestion, and with a kiss more hurried than usual to the children, and +a good deal of nervousness in her whole manner, runs down the steps to +her hansom and disappears. + +Felix, thus abandoned, yields himself to the enemy. He gives his right +hand to Freddy and his left to Mabel, and lets them lead him captive +into the dining-room. + +"I expect dinner is cold," says Tommy cheerfully, seating himself +without more ado, and watching the nurse, who is always in attendance at +this meal, as she raises the cover from the boiled leg of mutton. + +"Oh! no, not yet," says Mr. Dysart, quite as cheerfully, raising the +carving knife and fork. + +Something, however, ominous in the silence, that has fallen on both +children makes itself felt, and without being able exactly to realize it +he suspends operation for a moment to look at them. + +He finds four eyes staring in his direction with astonishment, +generously mingled with pious horror shining in their clear depths. + +"Eh?" says he, involuntarily. + +"Aren't you going to say it?" asks Mabel, in a severe tone. + +"Say what?" says he. + +"Grace," returns Tommy with distinct disapprobation. + +"Oh--er--yes, of course. How could I have forgotten it?" says Dysart +spasmodically, laying down the carvers at once, and preparing to +distinguish himself. He succeeds admirably. + +The children are leaning on the table cloth in devout expectation, that +has something, however, sinister about it. Nurse is looking on, also +expectant. Mr. Dysart makes a wild struggle with his memory, but all to +no effect. The beginning of various prayers come with malignant +readiness to his mind, the ends of several psalms, the middles of a +verse or two, but the graces shamelessly desert him in his hour of need. + +Good gracious! What is the usual one, the one they use at home--the--er? +He becomes miserably conscious that Tommy's left eye is cocked sideways, +and is regarding him with fatal understanding. In a state of desperation +he bends forward as low as he well can, wondering vaguely where on earth +is his hat, and mumbles something into his plate, that might be a bit of +a prayer, but certainly it is not a grace. Perhaps it is a last cry for +help. + +"What's that?" demands Tommy promptly. + +"I didn't hear one word of it," says Mabel with indignation. + +Mr. Dysart is too stricken to be able to frame a reply. + +"I don't believe you know one," continues Tommy, still fixing him with +an uncompromising eye. "I don't believe you were saying anything. Do +you, nurse?" + +"Oh, fie, now, Master Tommy, and I heard your ma telling you you were to +be good." + +"Well, so I am good. 'Tis he isn't good. He won't say his prayers. Do +you know one?" turning again to Dysart, who is covered with confusion. +What the deuce did he stay here for? Why didn't he go to his club? He +could have been back in plenty of time. If that confounded grinning +woman of a nurse would only go away, it wouldn't be so bad; but---- + +"Never mind," says Mabel, with calm resignation. "I'll say one for you." + +"No, you shan't," cries Tommy; "it's my turn." + +"No, it isn't." + +"It is, Mabel. You said it yesterday. And you know you said 'relieve' +instead of 'received,' and mother laughed, and----" + +"I don't care. It is Mr. Dysart's turn to-day, and he'll give his to me; +won't you, Mr. Dysart?" + +"You're a greedy thing," cries Tommy, wrathfully, "and you shan't say +it. I'll tell Mr. Dysart what you did this morning if you do." + +"I don't care," with disgraceful callousness. "I will say it." + +"Then, I'll say it, too," says Tommy, with sudden inspiration born of a +determination to die rather than give in, and instantly four fat hands +are joined in pairs, and two seraphic countenances are upraised, and two +shrill voices at screaming-pitch are giving thanks for the boiled +mutton, at a racing speed, that censorious people might probably connect +with a desire on the part of each to be first in at the finish. + +Manfully they fight it out to the bitter end, without a break or a +comma, and with defiant eyes glaring at each other across the table. +There is a good deal of the grace; it is quite a long one when usually +said, and yet very little grace in it to-day, when all is told. + +"You may go now, nurse," says Mabel, presently, when the mutton had been +removed and nurse had placed the rice and jam on the table. "Mr. Dysart +will attend to us." It is impossible to describe the grown-up air with +which this command is given. It is so like Mrs. Monkton's own voice and +manner that Felix, with a start, turns his eyes on the author of it, and +nurse, with an ill-suppressed smile, leaves the room. + +"That's what mammy always says when-there's only her and me and Tommy," +explains Mabel, confidentially. Then. "You," with a doubtful glance, +"you will attend to us, won't you?" + +"I'll do my best," says Felix, in a depressed tone, whose spirits are +growing low. After all, there was safety in nurse! + +"I think I'll come up and sit nearer to you," says Tommy, affably. + +He gets down from his chair and pushes it, creaking hideously, up to Mr. +Dysart's elbow--right under it, in fact. + +"So will I," says Mabel, fired with joy at the prospect of getting away +from her proper place, and eating her rice in a forbidden spot. + +"But," begins Felix, vaguely, "do you think your mother would----" + +"We always do it when we are alone with mammy," says Tommy. + +"She says it keeps us warm to get under her wing when the weather is +cold," says Mabel, lifting a lovely little face to his and bringing her +chair down on the top of his toe. "She says it keeps her warm, too. Are +you warm now?" anxiously. + +"Yes, yes--burning!" says Mr. Dysart, whose toe is not unconscious of a +corn. + +"Ah! I knew you'd like it," says. Tommy. "Now go on; give us our +rice--a little rice and a lot of jam." + +"Is that what your mother does, too?" asks Mr. Dysart, meanly it must be +confessed, but his toe is very bad still. The silence that follows his +question and the look of the two downcast little faces is, however, +punishment enough. + +"Well, so be it," says he. "But even if we do finish the jam--I'm +awfully fond of it myself--we must promise faithfully not to be +disagreeable about it; not to be ill, that is----" + +"Ill! We're never ill," says Tommy, valiantly, whereupon they make an +end of the jam in no time. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII. + + "'Tis said the rose is Love's own flower, + Its blush so bright--its thorns so many." + + +There is no mistake in the joy with which Felix parts from his +companions after luncheon. He breathes afresh as he sees them tearing up +the staircase to get ready for their afternoon walk, nurse puffing and +panting behind them. + +The drawing-room seems a bower of repose after the turmoil of the late +feast, and besides, it cannot be long now before she--they--return. That +is if they--she--return at all! He has, indeed, ample time given him to +imagine this last horrible possibility as not only a probability, but a +certainty, before the sound of coming footsteps up the stairs and the +frou-frou of pretty frocks tells him his doubts were harmless. +Involuntarily he rises from his chair and straightens himself, out of +the rather forlorn position into which he has fallen, and fixes his eyes +immovably upon the door. Are there two of them? + +That is beyond doubt. It is only mad people who chatter to themselves, +and certainly Mrs. Monkton is not mad. + +Barbara has indeed raised her voice a little more than ordinary, and has +addressed Joyce by her name on her hurried way up the staircase and +across the cushioned recess outside the door. Now she throws open the +door and enters, radiant, if a little nervous. + +"Here we are," she says, very pleasantly, and with all the put-on manner +of one who has made up her mind to be extremely joyous under distinct +difficulties. "You are still here, then, and alone. They didn't murder +you. Joyce and I had our misgivings all along. Ah, I forgot, you haven't +seen Joyce until now." + +"How d'ye do?" says Miss Kavanagh, holding out her hand to him, with a +calm as perfect as her smile. + +"I do hope they were good," goes on Mrs. Monkton, her nervousness rather +increasing. + +"You know I have always said they were the best children in the world." + +"Ah! said, said," repeats Mrs. Monkton, who now seems grateful for the +chance of saying anything. What is the meaning of Joyce's sudden +amiability--and is it amiability, or---- + +"It is true one can say almost anything," says Joyce, quite pleasantly. +She nods her head prettily at Dysart. "There is no law to prevent them. +Barbara thinks you are not sincere. She is not fair to you. You always +do mean what you say, don't you?" + +But for the smile that accompanies these words Dysart would have felt +his doom sealed. But could she mean a stab so cruel, so direct, and +still look kind? + +"Oh! he is always sincere," says Barbara, quickly; "only people say +things about one's children, you know, that----" She stops. + +"They are the dearest children. You are a bad mother; you wrong them," +says Joyce, laughing lightly, plainly at the idea of Barbara's affection +for her children being impugned. "She told me," turning her lovely eyes +full on Dysart, with no special expression in them whatever, "that I +should find only your remains after spending an hour with them." Her +smile was brilliant. + +"She was wrong, you see, I am still here," says Felix, hardly knowing +what he says in his desire to read her face, which is strictly +impassive. + +"Yes, still here," says Miss Kavanagh, smiling, always, and apparently +meaning nothing at all; yet to Felix, watching her, there seems to be +something treacherous in her manner. + +"Still here?" Had she hoped he would be gone? Was that the cause of her +delay? Had she purposely put off coming home to give him time to grow +tired and go away? And yet she is looking at him with a smile! + +"I am afraid you had a bad luncheon and a bad time generally," says Mrs. +Monkton, quickly, who seemed hurried in every way. "But we came home as +soon as ever we could. Didn't we, Joyce?" Her appeal to her sister is +suggestive of fear as to the answer, but she need not have been nervous +about that. + +"We flew!" declares Miss Kavanagh, with delightful zeal. "We thought we +should never get here soon enough. Didn't we, Barbara?" There is the +very barest, faintest imitation of her sister's voice in this last +question; a subtle touch of mockery, so slight, so evanescent as to +leave one doubtful as to its ever having existed. + +"Yes, yes, indeed," says Barbara, coloring. + +"We flew so fast indeed that I am sure you are thoroughly fatigued," +says Miss Kavanagh, addressing her. "Why don't you run away now, and +take off your bonnet and lay down for an hour or so?" + +"But," begins Barbara, and then stops short. What does it all mean? this +new departure of her sister's puzzles her. To so deliberately ask for a +_tête-a-tête_ with Felix! To what end? The girl's manner, so bright, +filled with such a glittering geniality--so unlike the usual +listlessness that has characterized it for so long--both confuses and +alarms her. Why is she so amiable now? There has been a little +difficulty about getting her back at all, quite enough to make Mrs. +Monkton shiver for Dysart's reception by her, and here, now, half an +hour later, she is beaming upon him and being more than ordinarily +civil. What is she going to do? + +"Oh! no 'buts,'" says Joyce gaily. "You know you said your head was +aching, and Mr. Dysart will excuse you. He will not be so badly off even +without you. He will have me!" She turns a full glance on Felix as she +says this, and looks at him with lustrous eyes and white teeth showing +through her parted lips. The _soupçon_ of mockery in her whole air, of +which all through he has been faintly but uncomfortably aware, has +deepened. "I shall take care he is not dull." + +"But," says Barbara, again, rather helplessly. + +"No, no. You must rest yourself. Remember we are going to that 'at +home,' at the Thesigers' to-night, and I would not miss it for anything. +Don't dwell with such sad looks on Mr. Dysart, I have promised to look +after him. You will let me take care of you for a little while, Mr. +Dysart, will you not?" turning another brilliant smile upon Felix, who +responds to it very gravely. + +He is regarding her with a searching air. How is it with her? Some old +words recur to him: + + "There is treachery, O Ahaziah!" + +Why does she look at him like that? He mistrusts her present attitude. +Even that aggressive mood of hers at the Doré gallery on that last day +when they met was preferable to this agreeable but detestable +indifference. + +"It is always a pleasure to be with you," says he steadily, perhaps a +little doggedly. + +"There! you see!" says Joyce, with a pretty little nod at her sister. + +"Well, I shall take half an hour's rest," says Mrs. Monkton, +reluctantly, who is, in truth, feeling as fresh as a daisy, but who is +afraid to stay. "But I shall be back for tea." She gives a little kindly +glance to Felix, and, with a heart filled with forebodings, leaves the +room. + +"What a glorious day it has been!" says Joyce, continuing the +conversation with Dysart in that new manner of hers, quite as if +Barbara's going was a matter of small importance, and the fact that she +has left them for the first time for all these months alone together of +less importance still. + +She is standing on the hearthrug, and is slowly taking the pins out of +her bonnet. She seems utterly unconcerned. He might be the veriest +stranger, or else the oldest, the most uninteresting friend in the +world. + +She has taken out all the pins now, and has thrown her bonnet on to the +lounge nearest to her, and is standing before the glass in the +overmantel patting and pushing into order the soft locks that lie upon +her forehead. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX. + + "Ah, were she pitiful as she is fair." + "Life's a varied, bright illusion, + Joy and sorrow--light and shade." + + +"It was almost warm," says she, turning round to him. She seems to be +talking all the time, so vivid is her face, so intense her vitality. "I +was so glad to see the Brabazons again. You know them, don't you? Kit +looked perfect. So lovely, so good in every way--voice, face, manners. I +felt I envied her. It would be delightful to feel that every one must be +admiring one, as she does." She glances at him, and he leans a little +toward her. "No, no, not a compliment, please. I know I am as much +behind Kit as the moon is behind the sun." + +"I wasn't going to pay you a compliment," says he, slowly. + +"No?" she laughs. It was unlike her to have made that remark, and just +as unlike her to have taken his rather discourteous reply so +good-naturedly. + +"It was a charming visit," she goes on, not in haste, but idly as it +were, and as if words are easy to her. "I quite enjoyed it. Barbara +didn't. I think she wanted to get home--she is always thinking of the +babies--or----Well, I did. I am not ungrateful. I take the goods the +gods provide, and find honest pleasure in them. I do not think, indeed, +I laughed so much for quite a century as to-day with Kit." + +"She is sympathetic," says Felix, with the smallest thought of the +person in question in his mind. + +"More than that, surely. Though that is a hymn of praise in itself. +After all it is a relief to meet Irish people when one has spent a week +or two in stolid England. You agree with me?" + +"I am English," returns he. + +"Oh! Of course! How rude of me! I didn't mean it, however. I had +entirely forgotten, our acquaintance having been confined entirely to +Irish soil until this luckless moment. You do forgive me?" + +She is leaning a little forward and looking at him with a careless +expression. + +"No," returns he briefly. + +"Well, you should," says she, taking no notice of his cold rejoinder, +and treating it, indeed, as if it is of no moment. If there was a deeper +meaning in his refusal to grant her absolution she declines to +acknowledge it. "Still, even that _bêtise_ of mine need not prevent you +from seeing some truth in my argument. We have our charms, we Irish, +eh?" + +"Your charm?" + +"Well, mine, if you like, as a type, and"--recklessly and with a shrug +of her shoulders--"if you wish to be personal." + +She has gone a little too far. + +"I think I have acknowledged that," says he, coldly. He rises abruptly +and goes over to where she is standing on the hearthrug--shading her +face from the fire with a huge Japanese fan. "Have I ever denied your +charm?" His tone has been growing in intensity, and now becomes stern. +"Why do you talk to me like this? What is the meaning of it all--your +altered manner--everything? Why did you grant me this interview?" + +"Perhaps because"--still with that radiant smile, bright and cold as +early frost--"like that little soapy boy, I thought you would 'not be +happy till you got it.'" + +She laughs lightly. The laugh is the outcome of the smile, and its close +imitation. It is perfectly successful, but on the surface only. There is +no heart in it. + +"You think I arranged it?" + +"Oh, no; how could I? You have just said I arranged it." She shuts up +her fan with a little click. "You want to say something, don't you?" +says she, "well, say it!" + +"You give me permission, then?" asks he, gravely, despair knocking at +his heart. + +"Why not--would I have you unhappy always?" Her tone is jesting +throughout. + +"You think," taking the hand that holds the fan and restraining its +motion for a moment, "that if I do speak I shall be happier?" + +"Ah! that is beyond me," says she. "And yet--yes; to get a thing over is +to get rid of fatigue. I have argued it all out for myself, and have +come to the conclusion----" + +"For yourself!" + +"Well, for you too," a little impatiently. "After all, it is you who +want to speak. Silence, to me, is golden. But it occurred to me in the +silent watches of the night," with another, now rather forced, little +laugh, "that if you once said to me all you had to say, you would be +contented, and go away and not trouble me any more." + +"I can do that now, without saying anything," says he slowly. He has +dropped her hand; he is evidently deeply wounded. + +"Can you?" + +Her eyes are resting relentlessly on his. Is there magic in them? Her +mouth has taken a strange expression. + +"I might have known how it would be," says Dysart, throwing up his head. +"You will not forgive! It was but a moment--a few words, idle, +hardly-considered, and----" + +"Oh, yes, considered," says she slowly. + +"They were unmeant!" persists he, fiercely. "I defy you to think +otherwise. One great mistake--a second's madness--and you have ordained +that it shall wreck my whole life! You!--That evening in the library at +the court. I had not thought of----" + +"Ah!" she interrupts him, even more by her gesture--which betrays the +first touch of passion she has shown--than by her voice, that is still +mocking. "I knew you would have to say it!" + +"You know me, indeed!" says he, with an enforced calmness that leaves +him very white. "My whole heart and soul lies bare to you, to ruin it as +you will. It is the merest waste of time, I know; but still I have felt +all along that I must tell you again that I love you, though I fully +understand I shall receive nothing in return but scorn and contempt. +Still, to be able even to say it is a relief to me." + +"And what is it to me?" asks the girl, as pale now as he is. "Is it a +relief--a comfort to me to have to listen to you?" + +She clenches her hands involuntarily. The fan falls with a little crash +to the ground. + +"No." He is silent a moment, "No--it is unfair--unjust! You shall not be +made uncomfortable again. It is the last time.... I shall not trouble +you again in this way. I don't say we shall never meet again. +You"--pausing and looking at her--"you do not desire that?" + +"Oh, no," coldly, politely. + +"If you do, say so at once," with a rather peremptory ring in his tone. + +"I should," calmly. + +"I am glad of that. As my cousin is a great friend of mine, and as I +shall get a fortnight's leave soon, I shall probably run over to +Ireland, and spend it with her. After all"--bitterly--"why should I +suppose it would be disagreeable to you?" + +"It was quite a natural idea," says she, immovably. + +"However," says he, steadily, "you need not be afraid that, even if we +do meet, I shall ever annoy you in this way again----" + +"Oh, I am never afraid," says she, with that terrible smile that seems +to freeze him. + +"Well, good-bye," holding out his hand. He is quite as composed as she +is now, and is even able to return her smile in kind. + +"So soon? But Barbara will be down to tea in a few minutes. You will +surely wait for her?" + +"I think not." + +"But really do! I am going to see after the children, and give them some +chocolate I bought for them." + +"It will probably make them ill," says he, smiling still. "No, thank +you. I must go now, indeed. You will make my excuses to Mrs. Monkton, +please. Good-bye." + +"Good-bye," says she, laying her hand in his for a second. She has grown +suddenly very cold, shivering: it seems almost as if an icy blast from +some open portal has been blown in upon her. He is still looking at her. +There is something wild--strange--in his expression. + +"You cannot realize it, but I can," says he, unsteadily. "It is good-bye +forever, so far as life for me is concerned." + +He has turned away from her. He is gone. The sharp closing of the door +wakens her to the fact that she is alone. Mechanically, quite calmly, +she looks around the empty room. There is a little Persian chair cover +over there all awry. She rearranges it with a critical eye to its proper +appearance, and afterward pushes a small chair into its place. She pats +a cushion or two, and, finally taking up her bonnet and the pins she had +laid upon the chimney-piece, goes up to her own room. + +Once there---- + +With a rush the whole thing comes back to her. The entire meaning of +it--what she has done. That word--forever. The bonnet has fallen from +her fingers. Sinking upon her knees beside the bed, she buries her face +out of sight. Presently her slender frame is torn by those cruel, yet +merciful sobs! + + + + +CHAPTER XL. + + "The sense of death is most in apprehension." + + "Thus grief still treads upon the heels of pleasure." + + +It is destined to be a day of grief! Monkton who had been out all the +morning, having gone to see the old people, a usual habit of his, had +not returned to dinner--a very unusual habit with him. It had occurred, +however, once or twice, that he had stayed to dine with them on such +occasions, as when Sir George had had a troublesome letter from his +elder son, and had looked to the younger to give him some comfort--some +of his time to help him to bear it, by talking it all over. Barbara, +therefore, while dressing for Mrs. Thesiger's "At Home," had scarcely +felt anxiety, and, indeed, it is only now when she has come down to the +drawing-room to find Joyce awaiting her, also in gala garb, so far as a +gown goes, that a suspicion of coming trouble takes possession of her. + +"He is late, isn't he?" she says, looking at Joyce with something +nervous in her expression. "What can have kept him? I know he wanted to +meet the General, and now----What can it be?" + +"His mother, probably," says Joyce, indifferently. "From your +description of her, I should say she must be a most thoroughly +uncomfortable old person." + +"Yes. Not pleasant, certainly. A little of her, as George Ingram used to +say, goes a long way. But still----And these Thesiger people are friends +of his, and----" + +"You are working yourself up into a thorough belief in the sensational +street accident," says Joyce, who has seated herself well out of the +glare of the chandelier. "You want to be tragic. It is a mistake, +believe me." + +Something in the bitterness of the girl's tone strikes on her sister's +ear. Joyce had not come down to dinner, had pleaded a headache as an +excuse for her non-appearance, and Mrs. Monkton and Tommy (she could not +bear to dine alone) had devoured that meal _à deux_. Tommy had certainly +been anything but dull company. + +"Has anything happened, Joyce?" asks her sister quickly. She has had her +suspicions, of course, but they were of the vaguest order. + +Joyce laughs. + +"I told you your nerves were out of order," says she. "What should +happen? Are you still dwelling on the running over business? I assure +you you wrong Freddy. He can take care of himself at a crossing as well +as another man, and better. Even a hansom, I am convinced, could do no +harm to Freddy." + +"I wasn't thinking of him," says Barbara, a little reproachfully, +perhaps. "I----" + +"No. Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself! Here he is," cries she +suddenly, springing to her feet as the sound of Monkton's footsteps +ascending the stairs can now be distinctly heard. "I hope you will +explain yourself to him." She laughs again, and disappears through the +doorway that leads to the second hall outside, as Monkton enters. + +"How late you are, Freddy," says his wife, the reproach in her voice +heightened because of the anxiety she had been enduring. "I thought you +would never----What is it? What has happened? Freddy! there is bad +news." + +"Yes, very bad," says Monkton, sinking into a chair. + +"Your brother----" breathlessly. Of late, she has always known that +trouble is to be expected from him. + +"He is dead," says Monkton in a low tone. + +Barbara, flinging her opera cloak aside, comes quickly to him. She leans +over him and slips her arms round his neck. + +"Dead!" says she in an awestruck tone. + +"Yes. Killed himself! Shot himself! the telegram came this morning when +I was with them. I could not come home sooner; it was impossible to +leave them." + +"Oh, Freddy, I am sorry you left them even now; a line to me would have +done. Oh, what a horrible thing, and to die like that." + +"Yes." He presses one of her hands, and then, rising, begins to move +hurriedly up and down the room. "It was misfortune upon misfortune," he +says presently. "When I went over there this morning they had just +received a letter filled with----" + +"From him!" + +"Yes. That is what seemed to make it so much worse later on. Life in the +morning, death in the afternoon!" His voice grows choked. "And such a +letter as it was, filled with nothing but a most scandalous account of +his----Oh!"----he breaks off suddenly as if shocked. "Oh, he is dead, +poor fellow." + +"Don't take it like that," says Barbara, following him and clinging to +him. "You know you could not be unkind. There were debts then?" + +"Debts! It is difficult to explain just now, my head is aching so; and +those poor old people? Well, it means ruin for them, Barbara. Of course +his debts must be paid, his honor kept intact, for the sake of the old +name, but--they will let all the houses, the two in town, this one, and +their own, and--and the old place down in Warwickshire, the home, all +must go out of their hands." + +"Oh, Freddy, surely--surely there must be some way----" + +"Not one. I spoke about breaking the entail. You know I--his death, poor +fellow. I----" + +"Yes, yes, dear." + +"But they wouldn't hear of it. My mother was very angry, even in her +grief, when I proposed it. They hope that by strict retrenchment, the +property will be itself again; and they spoke about Tommy. They said it +would be unjust to him----" + +"And to you," quickly. She would not have him ignored any longer. + +"Oh, as for me, I'm not a boy, you know. Tommy is safe to inherit as +life goes." + +"Well, so are you," said she, with a sharp pang at her heart. + +"Yes, of course. I am only making out a case. I think it was kind of +them to remember Tommy's claim in the midst of their own grief." + +"It was, indeed," says she remorsefully. "Oh, it was. But if they give +up everything where will they go?" + +"They talk of taking a cottage--a small house somewhere. They want to +give up everything to pay his infamous----There!" sharply, "I am +forgetting again! But to see them makes one forget everything else." He +begins his walk up and down the room again, as if inaction is impossible +to him. "My mother, who has been accustomed to a certain luxury all her +life, to be now, at the very close of it, condemned to----It would break +your heart to see her. And she will let nothing be said of him." + +"Oh, no." + +"Still, there should be justice. I can't help feeling that. Her +blameless life, and his----and she is the one to suffer." + +"It is so often so," says his wife in a low tone. "It is an old story, +dearest, but I know that when the old stories come home to us +individually they always sound so terribly new. But what do they mean by +a small house?" asks she presently in a distressed tone. + +"Well, I suppose a small house," said he, with just a passing gleam of +his old jesting manner. "You know my mother cannot bear the country, so +I think the cottage idea will fall through." + +"Freddy," says his wife suddenly. "She can't go into a small house, a +London small house. It is out of the question. Could they not come and +live with us?" + +She is suggesting a martyrdom for herself, yet she does it +unflinchingly. + +"What! My aunt and all?" asks he, regarding her earnestly. + +"Oh, of course, of course, poor old thing," says she, unable this time, +however, to hide the quaver that desolates her voice. + +"No," says her husband with a suspicion of vehemence. He takes her +suddenly in his arms and kisses her. "Because two or three people are +unhappy is no reason why a fourth should be made so, and I don't want +your life spoiled, so far as I can prevent it. I suppose you have +guessed that I must go over to Nice--where he is--my father could not +possibly go alone in his present state." + +"When, must you go?" + +"To-morrow. As for you----" + +"If we could go home," says she uncertainly. + +"That is what I would suggest, but how will you manage without me? The +children are so troublesome when taken out of their usual beat, and +their nurse--I often wonder which would require the most looking after, +they or she? It occurred to me to ask Dysart to see you across." + +"He is so kind, such a friend," says Mrs. Monkton. "But----" + +She might have said more, but at this instant Joyce appears in the +doorway. + +"We shall be late," cries she, "and Freddy not even dressed, why----Oh, +has anything really happened?" + +"Yes, yes," says Barbara hurriedly--a few words explains all. "We must +go home to-morrow, you see; and Freddy thinks that Felix would look +after us until we reached Kensington or North Wall." + +"Felix--Mr. Dysart?" The girl's face had grown pale during the recital +of the suicide, but now it looks ghastly. "Why should he come?" cries +she in a ringing tone, that has actual fear in it. "Do you suppose that +we two cannot manage the children between us? Oh, nonsense, Barbara; why +Tommy is as sensible as he can be, and if nurse does prove incapable, +and a prey to seasickness, well--I can take baby, and you can look after +Mabel. It will be all right! We are not going to America, really. +Freddy, please say you will not trouble Mr. Dysart about this matter." + +"Yes, I really think we shall not require him," says Barbara. Something +in the glittering brightness of her sister's eye warns her to give in at +once, and indeed she has been unconsciously a little half-hearted about +having Felix or any stranger as a travelling companion. "There, run +away, Joyce, and go to your bed, darling; you look very tired. I must +still arrange some few things with Freddy." + +"What is the matter with her?" asks Monkton, when Joyce has gone away. +"She looks as if she had been crying, and her manner is so excitable." + +"She has been strange all day, almost repellant. Felix called--and--I +don't know what happened; she insisted upon my leaving her alone with +him; but I am afraid there was a scene of some sort. I know she had been +crying, because her eyes were so red, but she would say nothing, and I +was afraid to ask her." + +"Better not. I hope she is not still thinking of that fellow Beauclerk. +However----" he stops short and sighs heavily. + +"You must not think of her now," says Barbara quickly; "your own trouble +is enough for you. Were your brother's affairs so very bad that they +necessitate the giving up of everything?" + +"It has been going on for years. My father has had to economize, to cut +down everything. You know the old place was let to a Mr.--Mr.--I quite +forget the name now," pressing his hand to his brow; "a Manchester man, +at all events, but we always hoped my father would have been able to +take it back from him next year, but now----" + +"But you say they think in time that the property will----" + +"They think so. I don't. But it would be a pity to undeceive them. I am +afraid, Barbara," with a sad look at her, "you made a bad match. Even +when the chance comes in your way to rise out of poverty, it proves a +thoroughly useless one." + +"It isn't like you to talk like that," says she quickly. "There, you are +overwrought, and no wonder, too. Come upstairs and let us see what you +will want for your journey." Her tone had grown purposely brisk; surely, +on an occasion such as this she is a wife, a companion in a thousand. +"There must be many things to be considered, both for you and for me. +And the thing is, to take nothing unnecessary. Those foreign places, I +hear, are so----" + +"It hardly matters what I take," says he wearily. + +"Well, it matters what I take," says she briskly. "Come and give me a +help, Freddy. You know how I hate to have servants standing over me. +Other people stand over their servants, but they are poor rich people. I +like to see how the clothes are packed." She is speaking not quite +truthfully. Few people like to be spared trouble so much as she does, +but it seems good in her eyes now to rouse him from the melancholy that +is fast growing on him. "Come," she says, tucking her arm into his. + + + + +CHAPTER XLI. + + "It is not to-morrow; ah, were it to-day! + There are two that I know that would be gay. + Good-by! Good-by! Good-by! + Ah I parting wounds so bitterly!" + + +It is six weeks later, "spring has come up this way," and all the earth +is glad with a fresh birth. + + "Tantarara! the joyous Book of Spring + Lies open, writ in blossoms; not a bird + Of evil augury is seen or heard! + Come now, like Pan's old crew we'll dance and sing, + Or Oberon's, for hill and valley ring + To March's bugle horn--earth's blood is stirred." + +March has indeed come; boisterous, wild, terrible, in many ways, but +lovely in others. There is a freshness in the air that rouses glad +thoughts within the breast, vague thoughts, sweet, as undefinable, and +that yet mean life. The whole land seems to have sprung up from a long +slumber, and to be looking with wide happy eyes upon the fresh marvels +Nature is preparing for it. Rather naked she stands as yet, rubbing her +sleepy lids, having just cast from her her coat of snow, and feeling +somewhat bare in the frail garment of bursting leaves and timid grass +growths, that as yet is all she can find wherein to hide her charms; but +half clothed as she is, she is still beautiful. + +Everything seems full of eager triumph. Hills, trees, valleys, lawns, +and bursting streams, all are overflowing with a wild enjoyment. All the +dull, dingy drapery in which winter had shrouded them has now been cast +aside, and the resplendent furniture with which each spring delights to +deck her home stands revealed. + +All these past dead months her house has lain desolate, enfolded in +death's cerements, but now uprising in her vigorous youth, she flings +aside the dull coverings, and lets the sweet, brilliant hues that lie +beneath, shine forth in all their beauty to meet the eye of day. + +Earth and sky are in bridal array, and from the rich recesses of the +woods, and from each shrub and branch the soft glad pæans of the mating +birds sound like a wedding chant. + +Monkton had come back from that sad journey to Nice some weeks ago. He +had had very little to tell on his return, and that of the saddest. It +had all been only too true about those iniquitous debts, and the old +people were in great distress. The two town houses should be let at +once, and the old place in Warwickshire--the home, as he called +it--well! there was no hope now that it would ever be redeemed from the +hands of the Manchester people who held it; and Sir George had been so +sure that this spring he would have been in a position to get back his +own, and have the old place once more in his possession. It was all very +sad. + +"There is no hope now. He will have to let the place to Barton for the +next ten years," said Monkton to his wife when he got home. Barton was +the Manchester man. "He is still holding off about doing it, but he +knows it must be done, and at all events the reality won't be a bit +worse than the thinking about it. Poor old Governor! You wouldn't know +him, Barbara. He has gone to skin and bone, and such a frightened sort +of look in his eyes." + +"Oh! poor, poor old man!" cried Barbara, who could forget everything in +the way of past unkindness where her sympathies were enlisted. + +Toward the end of February the guests had begun to arrive at the Court. +Lady Baltimore had returned there during January with her little son, +but Baltimore had not put in an appearance for some weeks later. A good +many new people unknown to the Monktons had arrived there with others +whom they did know, and after awhile Dicky Browne had come and Miss +Maliphant and the Brabazons and some others with whom Joyce was on +friendly terms, but even though Lady Baltimore had made rather a point +of the girls being with her, Joyce had gone to her but sparingly, and +always in fear and trembling. It was so impossible to know who might not +have arrived last night, or was going to arrive this night! + +Besides, Barbara and Freddy were so saddened, so upset by the late death +and its consequences, that it seemed unkind even to pretend to enjoy +oneself. Joyce grasped at this excuse to say "no" very often to Lady +Baltimore's kindly longings to have her with her. That, up to this, +neither Dysart nor Beauclerk had come to the Court, had been a comfort +to her; but that they might come at any moment kept her watchful and +uneasy. Indeed, only yesterday she had heard from Lady Baltimore that +both were expected during the ensuing week. + +That news leaves her rather unstrung and nervous to-day. After luncheon, +having successfully eluded Tommy, the lynx-eyed, she decides upon going +for a long walk, with a view to working off the depression to which she +has become prey. This is how she happens to be out of the way when the +letter comes for Barbara that changes altogether the tenor of their +lives. + +The afternoon post brings it. The delicious spring day has worn itself +almost to a close when Monkton, entering his wife's room, where she is +busy at a sewing machine altering a frock for Mabel, drops a letter over +her shoulder into her lap. + +"What a queer looking letter," says she, staring in amazement at the big +official blue envelope. + +"Ah--ha, I thought it would make you shiver," says he, lounging over to +the fire, and nestling his back comfortably against the mantle-piece. +"What have you been up to I should like to know. No wonder you are +turning a lively purple." + +"But what can it be?" says she. + +"That's just it," says he teazingly. "I hope they aren't going to arrest +you, that's all. Five years' penal servitude is not a thing to hanker +after." + +Mrs. Monkton, however, is not listening to this tirade. She has broken +open the envelope and is now scanning hurriedly the contents of the +important-looking document within. There is a pause--a lengthened one. +Presently Barbara rises from her seat, mechanically, as it were, always +with her eyes fixed on the letter in her hand. She has grown a little +pale--a little puzzled frown is contracting her forehead. + +"Freddy!" says she in a rather strange tone. + +"What?" says he quickly. "No more bad news I hope." + +"Oh, no! Oh, yes! I can't quite make it out--but--I'm afraid my poor +uncle is dead." + +"Your uncle?" + +"Yes, yes. My father's brother. I think I told you about him. He went +abroad years ago, and we--Joyce and I, believed him dead a long time +ago, long before I married you even--but now----Come here and read it. +It is worded so oddly that it puzzles me." + +"Let me see it," says Monkton. + +He sinks into an easy-chair, and drags her down on to his knee, the +better to see over her shoulder. Thus satisfactorily arranged, he begins +to read rapidly the letter she holds up before his eyes. + +"Yes, dead indeed," says he sotto voce. "Go on, turn over; you mustn't +fret about that, you know. Barbara--er--er--" reading. "What's this? By +Jove!" + +"What?" says his wife anxiously. "What is the meaning of this horrid +letter, Freddy?" + +"There are a few people who might not call it horrid," says Monkton, +placing his arm round her and rising from the chair. He is looking very +grave. "Even though it brings you news of your poor uncle's death, still +it brings you too the information that you are heiress to about a +quarter of a million!" + +"What!" says Barbara faintly. And then, "Oh no. Oh! nonsense! there must +be some mistake!" + +"Well, it sounds like it at all events. 'Sad occurrence,' +h'm--h'm----" reading. "'Co-heiresses. Very considerable fortune.'" He +looks to the signature of the letter. "Hodgson & Fair. Very respectable +firm! My father has had dealings with them. They say your uncle died in +Sydney, and has left behind him an immense sum of money. Half a million, +in fact, to which you and Joyce are co-heiresses." + +"There must be a mistake," repeats Barbara, in a low tone. "It seems too +like a fairy tale." + +"It does. And yet, lawyers like Hodgson & Fair are not likely to be led +into a cul-de-sac. If----" he pauses, and looks earnestly at his wife. +"If it does prove true, Barbara, you will be a very rich woman." + +"And you will be rich with me," she says, quickly, in an agitated tone. +"But, but----" + +"Yes; it does seem difficult to believe," interrupts he, slowly. "What a +letter!" His eyes fall on it again, and she, drawing close to him, reads +it once more, carefully. + +"I think there is truth in it," says she, at last. "It sounds more like +being all right, more reasonable, when read a second time. Freddy----" + +She steps a little bit away from him, and rests her beautiful eyes full +on his. + +"Have you thought," says she, slowly, "that if there is truth in this +story, how much we shall be able to do for your father and mother!" + +Monkton starts as if stung. For them. To do anything for them. For the +two who had so wantonly offended and insulted her during all her married +life: Is her first thought to be for them? + +"Yes, yes," says she, eagerly. "We shall be able to help them out of all +their difficulties. Oh! I didn't say much to you, but in their grief, +their troubles have gone to my very heart. I couldn't bear to think of +their being obliged to give up their houses, their comforts, and in +their old age, too! Now we shall be able to smooth matters for them!" + + + + +CHAPTER XLII. + + "It's we two, it's we two, it's we two for aye, + All the world and we two, and Heaven be our stay, + Like a laverock in the lift, sing, O bonny bride! + All the world was Adam once, with Eve by his side." + + +The light in her eyes is angelic. She has laid her hands upon both her +husband's arms, as if expecting him to take her into them, as he always +does only too gladly on the smallest provocation. Just now, however, he +fails her, for the moment only, however. + +"Barbara," says he, in a choked voice: he holds her from him, examining +her face critically. His thoughts are painful, yet proud--proud beyond +telling. His examination does not last long: there is nothing but good +to be read in that fair, sweet, lovable face. He gathers her to him with +a force that is almost hurtful. + +"Are you a woman at all, or just an angel?" says he, with a deep sigh. + +"What is it, Freddy?" + +"After all they have done to you. Their insults, coldness, abominable +conduct, to think that your first thought should be for them. Why, look +here, Barbara," vehemently, "they are not worthy that you should----" + +"Tut!" interrupts she, lightly, yet with a little sob in her throat. His +praise is so sweet to her. "You overrate me. Is it for them I would do +it or for you? There, take all the thought for yourself. And, besides, +are not you and I one, and shall not your people be my people? Come, if +you think of it, there is no such great merit after all." + +"You forget----" + +"No; not a word against them. I won't listen," thrusting her fingers +into her ears. "It is all over and done with long ago. And it is our +turn now, and let us do things decently and in order, and create no +heart-burnings." + +"But when I think----" + +"If thinking makes you look like that, don't think." + +"But I must. I must remember how they scorned and slighted you. It never +seems to have come home to me so vividly as now--now when you seem to +have forgotten it. Oh, Barbara!" He presses back her head and looks long +and tenderly into her eyes. "I was not mistaken, indeed, when I gave you +my heart. Surely you are one among ten thousand." + +"Silly boy," says she, with a little tremulous laugh, glad to her very +soul's centre, however, because of his words. "What is there to praise +me for? Have I not warned you that I am purely selfish? What is there I +would not do for very love of you? Come, Freddy," shaking herself loose +from him, and laughing now with honest delight. "Let us be reasonable. +Oh! poor old uncle, it seems hateful to rejoice thus over his death, but +his memory is really only a shadow after all, and I suppose he meant to +make us happy by his gift, eh, Freddy?" + +"Yes, how well he remembered during all these years. He could have +formed no other ties." + +"None, naturally." Short pause. "There is that black mare of Mike +Donovan's, Freddy, that you so fancied. You can buy it now." + +Monkton laughs involuntarily. Something of the child has always lingered +about Barbara. + +"And I should like to get a black velvet gown," says she, her face +brightening, "and to buy Joyce a----Oh! but Joyce will be rich herself." + +"Yes. I'm really afraid you will be done out of the joy of overloading +Joyce with gifts. She'll be able to give you something. That will be a +change, at all events. As for the velvet gown, if this," touching the +letter, "bears any meaning, I should think you need not confine yourself +to one velvet gown." + +"And there's Tommy," says she quickly, her thoughts running so fast that +she scarcely hears him. "You have always said you wanted to put him in +the army. Now you can do it." + +"Yes," says Monkton, with sudden interest. "I should like that. But +you--you shrank from the thought, didn't you?" + +"Well, he might have to go to India," says she, nervously. + +"And what of that?" + +"Oh, nothing--that is, nothing really--only there are lions and tigers +there, Freddy; aren't there, now?" + +"One or two," says Mr. Monkton, "if we are to believe travelers' tales. +But they are all proverbially false. I don't believe in lions at all +myself. I'm sure they are myths. Well, let him go into the navy, then. +Lions and tigers don't as a rule inhabit the great deep." + +"Oh, no; but sharks do," says she, with a visible shudder. "No, no, on +the whole I had rather trust him to the beasts of the field. He could +run away from them, but you can't run in the sea." + +"True," says Mr. Monkton, with exemplary gravity. "I couldn't, at all +events." + + * * * * * + +Monkton had to run across to London about the extraordinary legacy left +to his wife and Joyce. But further investigation proved the story true. +The money was, indeed, there, and they were the only heirs. From being +distinctly poor they rose to the height of a very respectable income, +and Monkton being in town, where the old Monktons still were, also was +commanded by his wife to go to them and pay off their largest +liabilities--debts contracted by the dead son, and to so arrange that +they should not be at the necessity of leaving themselves houseless. + +The Manchester people who had taken the old place in Warwickshire were +now informed that they could not have it beyond the term agreed on; but +about this the old people had something to say, too. They would not take +back the family place. They had but one son now, and the sooner he went +to live there the better. Lady Monkton, completely, broken down and +melted by Barbara's generosity, went so far as to send her a long +letter, telling her it would be the dearest wish of her and Sir George's +hearts that she should preside as mistress over the beautiful old +homestead, and that it would give them great happiness to imagine, the +children--the grandchildren--running riot through the big wainscoted +rooms. Barbara was not to wait for her--Lady Monkton's--death to take up +her position as head of the house. She was to go to Warwickshire at +once, the moment those detestable Manchester people were out of it; and +Lady Monkton, if Barbara would be so good as to make her welcome, would +like to come to her for three months every year, to see the children, +and her son, and her daughter! The last was the crowning touch. For the +rest, Barbara was not to hesitate about accepting the Warwickshire +place, as Lady Monkton and Sir George were devoted to town life, and +never felt quite well when away from smoky London. + +This last was true. As a fact, the old people were thoroughly imbued +with the desire for the turmoil of city life, and the three months of +country Lady Monkton had stipulated for were quite as much as they +desired of rustic felicity. + +Barbara accepted the gift of the old home. Eventually, of course, it +would be hers, but she knew the old people meant the present giving of +it as a sort of return for her liberality--for the generosity that had +enabled them to once more lift their heads among their equals. + + * * * * * + +The great news meanwhile had spread like wildfire through the Irish +country where the Frederic Monktons lived. Lady Baltimore was +unfeignedly glad about it, and came down at once to embrace Barbara, and +say all sorts of delightful things about it. The excitement of the whole +affair seemed to dissipate all the sadness and depression that had +followed on the death of the elder son, and nothing now was talked of +but the great good luck that had fallen into the paths of Barbara and +Joyce. The poor old uncle had been considered dead for so many years +previously, and was indeed such a dim memory to his nieces, that it +would have been the purest affectation to pretend to feel any deep grief +for his demise. + +Perhaps what grieved Barbara most of all, though she said very little +about it, was the idea of having to leave the old house in which they +were now living. It did not not cheer her to think of the place in +Warwickshire, which, of course, was beautiful, and full of +possibilities. + +This foolish old Irish home--rich in discomforts--was home. It seemed +hard to abandon it. It was not a palatial mansion, certainly; it was +even dismal in many ways, but it contained more love in its little space +than many a noble mansion could boast. It seemed cruel--ungrateful--to +cast it behind her, once it was possible to mount a few steps on the +rungs of the worldly ladder. + +How happy they had all been here together, in this foolish old house, +that every severe storm seemed to threaten with final dissolution. It +gave her many a secret pang to think that she must part from it for ever +before another year should dawn. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIII. + + "Looks the heart alone discover, + If the tongue its thoughts can tell, + 'Tis in vain you play the lover, + You have never felt the spell." + + +Joyce, who had been dreading, with a silent but terrible fear, her first +meeting with Dysart, had found it no such great matter after all when +they were at last face to face. Dysart had met her as coolly, with +apparently as little concern as though no former passages had ever taken +place between them. + +His manner was perfectly calm, and as devoid of feeling as any one could +desire, and it was open to her comprehension that he avoided her +whenever he possibly could. She told herself this was all she could, or +did, desire; yet, nevertheless, she writhed beneath the certainty of it. + +Beauclerk had not arrived until a week later than Dysart; until, indeed, +the news of the marvelous fortune that had come to her was well +authenticated, and then had been all that could possibly be expected of +him. His manner was perfect. He sat still And gazed with delightfully +friendly eyes into Miss Maliphant's pleased countenance, and anon +skipped across room or lawn to whisper beautiful nothings to Miss +Kavanagh. The latter's change of fortune did not, apparently, seem to +affect him in the least. After all, even now she was not as good a +_parti_ as Miss Maliphant, where money was concerned, but then there +were other things. Whatever his outward manner might lead one to +suspect, beyond doubt he thought a great deal at this time, and finally +came to a conclusion. + +Joyce's fortune had helped her in many ways. It had helped many of the +poor around her, too; but it did even more than that. It helped Mr. +Beauclerk to make up his mind with regard to his matrimonial prospects. + +Sitting in his chambers in town with Lady Baltimore's letter before him +that told him of the change in Joyce's fortune--of the fortune that had +changed her, in fact, from a pretty penniless girl to a pretty rich one, +he told himself that, after all, she had certainly been the girl for him +since the commencement of their acquaintance. + +She was charming--not a whit more now than then. He would not belie his +own taste so far as so admit that she was more desirable in any way now, +in her prosperity, than when first he saw her, and paid her the immense +compliment of admiring her. + +He permitted himself to grow a little enthusiastic, however, to say out +loud to himself, as it were, all that he had hardly allowed himself to +think up to this. She was, beyond question, the most charming girl in +the world! Such grace--such finish! A girl worthy of the love of the +best of men--presumably himself! + +He had always loved her--always! He had never felt so sure of that +delightful fact as now. He had had a kind of knowledge, even when afraid +to give ear to it, that she was the wife best suited to him to be found +anywhere. She understood him! They were thoroughly _en rapport_ with +each other. Their marriage would be a success in the deepest, sincerest +meaning of that word. + +He leant luxuriously among the cushions of his chair, lit a fragrant +cigarette, and ran his mind backward over many things. Well! Perhaps so! +But yet if he had refrained from proposing to her until now--now when +fate smiles upon her--it was simply because he dreaded dragging her into +a marriage where she could not have had all those little best things of +life that so peerless a creature had every right to demand. + +Yes! it was for her sake alone he had hesitated. He feels sure of that +now. He has thoroughly persuaded himself the purity of the motives that +kept him tongue tied when honor called aloud to him for speech. He feels +himself so exalted that he metaphorically pats himself upon the back and +tells himself he is a righteous being--a very Brutus where honor is +concerned; any other man might have hurried that exquisite creature into +a squalid marriage for the mere sake of gratifying an overpowering +affection, but he had been above all that! He had considered her! The +man's duty is ever to protect the woman! He had protected her--even from +herself; for that she would have been only too willing to link her sweet +fate with his at any price-was patent to all the world. Few people have +felt as virtuous as Mr. Beauclerk as he comes to the end of this thread +of his imaginings. + +Well! he will make it up to her! He smiles benignly through the smoke +that rises round his nose. She shall never have reason to remember that +he had not fallen on his knees to her--as a less considerate man might +have done--when he was without the means to make her life as bright as +it should be. + +The most eager of lovers must live, and eating is the first move toward +that conclusion. Yet if he had given way to selfish desires they would +scarcely, he and she, have had sufficient bread (of any delectable kind) +to fill their mouths. But now all would be different. She, clever girl! +had supplied the blank; she had squared the difficulty. Having provided +the wherewithal to keep body and soul together in a nice, respectable, +fashionable, modern sort of way, her constancy shall certainly be +rewarded. He will go straight down to the Court, and declare to her the +sentiments that have been warming his breast (silently!) all these past +months. What a dear girl she is, and so fond of him! That in itself is +an extra charm in her very delightful character. And those fortunate +thousands! Quite a quarter of a million, isn't it? Well, of course, no +use saying they won't come in handy--no use being hypocritical over +it--horrid thing a hypocrite!--well, those thousands naturally have +their charm, too. + +He rose, flung his cigarette aside (it was finished as far as careful +enjoyment would permit), and rang for his servant to pack his +portmanteaux. He was going to the Court by the morning train. + + * * * * * + +Now that he is here, however, he restrains the ardor, that no doubt is +consuming him, with altogether admirable patience, and waits for the +chance that may permit him to lay his valuable affections at Joyce's +feet. A dinner to be followed by an impromptu dance at the Court +suggests itself as a very fitting opportunity. He grasps it. Yes, +to-morrow evening will be an excellent and artistic opening for a thing +of this sort. All through luncheon, even while conversing with Joyce and +Miss Maliphant on various outside topics, his versatile mind is +arranging a picturesque spot in the garden enclosures wherein to make +Joyce a happy woman! + +Lady Swansdown, glancing across the table at him, laughs lightly. Always +disliking him, she has still been able to read him very clearly, and his +determination to now propose to Joyce amuses her nearly as much as it +annoys her. Frivolous to the last degree as she is, an honest regard for +Joyce has taken hold within her breast. Lord Baltimore, too, is +disturbed by his brother's present. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIV. + + "Love took up the harp of life and smote on all the chords with + might; + Smote the chord of self, that, trembling, passed in music out of + sight." + + +Lady Swansdown is startled into a remembrance of the present by the +entrance of somebody. After all Dicky, the troublesome, was right--this +is no spot in which to sleep or dream. Turning her head with an indolent +impatience to see who has come to disturb her, she meets Lady +Baltimore's clear eyes. + +Some sharp pang of remorse, of fear, perhaps, compels her to spring to +her feet, and gaze at her hostess with an expression that is almost +defiant. Dicky's words had so far taken effect that she now dreads and +hates to meet the woman who once had been her stanch friend. + +Lady Baltimore, unable to ignore the look in her rival's eyes, still +advances toward her with unfaltering step. Perhaps a touch of disdain, +of contempt, is perceptible in her own gaze, because Lady Swansdown, +paling, moves toward her. She seems to have lost all self-control--she +is trembling violently. It is a crisis. + +"What is it?" says Lady Swansdown, harshly. "Why do you look at me like +that? Has it come to a close between us, Isabel? Oh! if +so"--vehemently--"it is better so." + +"I don't think I understand you," says Lady Baltimore, who has grown +very white. Her tone is haughty; she has drawn back a little as if to +escape from contact with the other. + +"Ah! That is so like you," says Lady Swansdown with a rather fierce +little laugh. "You pretend, pretend, pretend, from morning till night. +You intrench yourself behind your pride, and----" + +"You know what you are doing, Beatrice," says Lady Baltimore, ignoring +this outburst completely, and speaking in a calm, level tone, yet with a +face like marble. + +"Yes, and you know, too," says Lady Swansdown. Then, with an +overwhelming vehemence: "Why don't you do something? Why don't you +assert yourself?" + +"I shall never assert myself," says Lady Baltimore slowly. + +"You mean that whatever comes you will not interfere." + +"That, exactly!" turning her eyes full on to the other's face with a +terrible disdain. "I shall never interfere in this--or any other of his +flirtations." + +It is a sharp stab! Lady Swansdown winces visibly. + +"What a woman you are!" cries she. "Have you ever thought of it, Isabel? +You are unjust to him--unfair. You"--passionately--"treat him as though +he were the dust beneath your feet, and yet you expect him to remain +immaculate, for your sake--pure as any acolyte--a thing of ice----" + +"No," coldly. "You mistake me. I know too much of him to expect +perfection--nay, common decency from him. But you--it was you whom I +hoped to find immaculate." + +"You expected too much, then. One iceberg in your midst is enough, and +that you have kindly suggested in your own person. Put me out of the +discussion altogether." + +"Ah I You have made that impossible! I cannot do that. I have known you +too long, I have liked you too well. I have," with a swift, but terrible +glance at her, "loved you!" + +"Isabel!" + +"No, no! Not a word. It is too late now." + +"True," says Lady. Swansdown, bringing back the arms she had extended +and letting them fall into a sudden, dull vehemence to her sides. Her +agitation is uncontrolled. "That was so long ago that, no doubt, you +have forgotten all about it. You," bitterly, "have forgotten a good +deal." + +"And you," says Lady Baltimore, very calmly, "what have you not +forgotten--your self-respect," deliberately, "among other things." + +"Take care; take care!" says Lady Swansdown in a low tone. She has +turned furiously upon her. + +"Why should I take care?" She throws up her small bead scornfully. "Have +I said one word too much?"? + +"Too much indeed," says Lady Swansdown distinctly, but faintly. She +turns her head, but not her eyes in Isabel's direction. "I'm afraid you +will have to endure for one day longer," she says in a low voice; "after +that you shall bid me a farewell that shall last forever!" + +"You have come to a wise decision," says Lady Baltimore, immovably. + +There is something so contemptuous in her whole bearing that it maddens +the other. + +"How dare you speak to me like that," cries she with sudden violence not +to be repressed. "You of all others! Do you think you are not in fault +at all--that you stand blameless before the world?" + +The blood has flamed into her pale cheeks, her eyes are on fire. She +advances toward Lady Baltimore with such a passion of angry despair in +look and tone, that involuntarily the latter retreats before her. + +"Who shall blame me?" demands Lady Baltimore haughtily. + +"I--I for one! Icicle that you are, how can you know what love means? +You have no heart to feel, no longing to forgive. And what has he done +to you? Nothing--nothing that any other woman would not gladly condone." + +"You are a partisan," says Lady Baltimore coldly. "You would plead his +cause, and to me! You are violent, but that does not put you in the +right. What do you know of Baltimore that I do not know? By what right +do you defend him?" + +"There is such a thing as friendship!" + +"Is there?" says the other with deep meaning. "Is there, Beatrice? Oh! +think--think!" A little bitter smile curls the corners of her lips. +"That you should advocate the cause of friendship to me," says she, her +words falling with cruel scorn one by one slowly from her lips. + +"You think me false," says Lady Swansdown. She is terribly agitated. +"There was an old friendship between us--I know that--I feel it. You +think me altogether false to it?" + +"I think of you as little as I can help," says Isabel, contemptuously. +"Why should I waste a thought on you?" + +"True! Why indeed! One so capable of controlling her emotions as you are +need never give way to superfluous or useless thoughts. Still, give one +to Baltimore. It is our last conversation together, therefore bear with +me--hear me. All his sins lie in the past. He----" + +"You must be mad to talk to me like this," interrupts Isabel, flushing +crimson. "Has he asked you to intercede for him? Could even he go so far +as that? Is it a last insult? What are you to him that you thus adopt +his cause. Answer me!" cries she imperiously; all her coldness, her +stern determination to suppress herself, seems broken up. + +"Nothing!" returns Lady Swansdown, becoming calmer as she notes the +other's growing vehemence. "I never shall be anything. I have but one +excuse for my interference"--She pauses. + +"And that!" + +"I love him!" steadily, but faintly. Her eyes have sought the ground. + +"Ah!" says Lady Baltimore. + +"It is true"--slowly. "It is equally true--that he--does not love me. +Let me then speak. All his sins, believe me, lie behind him. That woman, +that friend of yours who told you of his renewed acquaintance with +Madame Istray, lied to you! There was no truth in what she said!" + +"I can quite understand your not wishing to believe in that story," says +Lady Baltimore with an undisguised sneer. + +"Like all good women, you can take pleasure in inflicting a wound," says +Lady Swansdown, controlling herself admirably. "But do not let your +detestation of me blind you to the fact that my words contain truth. If +you will listen I can----" + +"Not a word," says Lady Baltimore, making a movement with her hands as +if to efface the other. "I will have none of your confidences." + +"It seems to me"--quickly--"you are determined not to believe." + +"You are at liberty to think as you will." + +"The time may come," says Lady Swansdown, "when you will regret you did +not listen to me to-day." + +"Is that a threat?" + +"No; but I am going. There will be no further opportunity for you to +hear me." + +"You must pardon me if I say that I am glad of that," says Lady +Baltimore, her lips very white. "I Could have borne little more. Do what +you will--go where you will--with whom you will" (with deliberate +insult), "but at least spare me a repetition of such a scene as this." + +She turns, and with an indescribably haughty gesture leaves the room. + + + + +CHAPTER XLV. + + "The name of the slough was Despond." + + +Dancing is going on in the small drawing-room. A few night broughams are +still arriving, and young girls, accompanied by their brothers only, are +making the room look lovely. It is quite an impromptu affair, quite +informal. Dicky Browne, altogether in his element, is flitting from +flower to flower, saying beautiful nothings to any of the girls who are +kind enough or silly enough to waste a moment on so irreclaimable a +butterfly. + +He is not so entirely engrossed by his pleasing occupations, however, as +to be lost to the more serious matters that are going on around him. He +is specially struck by the fact that Lady Swansdown, who had been in +charming spirits all through the afternoon, and afterward at dinner, is +now dancing a great deal with Beauclerk, of all people, and making +herself apparently very delightful to him. His own personal belief up to +this had been that she detested Beauclerk, and now to see her smiling +upon him and favoring him with waltz after waltz upsets Dicky's power of +penetration to an almost fatal extent. + +"I wonder what the deuce she's up to now," says he to himself, leaning +against the wall behind him, and giving voice unconsciously to the +thoughts within him. + +"Eh?" says somebody at his ear. + +He looks round hastily to find Miss Maliphant has come to anchor on his +left, and that her eyes, too, are directed on Beauclerk, who with Lady +Swansdown is standing at the lower end of the room. + +"Eh, to you," says he brilliantly. + +"I always rather fancied that Mr. Beauclerk and Lady Swansdown were +antipathetic," says Miss Maliphant in her usual heavy, downright way. + +"There was room for it," says Mr. Browne gloomily. + +"For it?" + +"Your fancy." + +"Yes, so I think. Lady Swansdown has always seemed to me to be +rather--raiher--eh?" + +"Decidedly so," agrees Mr. Browne. "And as for Beauclerk, he is quite +too dreadfully 'rather,' don't you think?" + +"I don't know, I'm sure. He has often seemed to me a little light, but +only on the surface." + +"You've read him," says Mr. Browne with a confidential nod. "Light on +the surface, but deep, deep as a draw well?" + +"I don't think I mean what you do," says Miss Maliphant quickly. +"However, we are not discussing Mr. Beauclerk, beyond the fact that we +wonder to see him so genial with Lady Swansdown. They used to be +thoroughly antagonistic, and now--why they seem quite good friends, +don't they? Quite thick, eh?" with her usual graceful phraseology. + +"Thick as thieves in Vallambrosa," says Mr. Browne with increasing +gloom. Miss Maliphant turns to regard him doubtfully. + +"Leaves?" suggests she. + +"Thieves," persists he immovably. + +"Oh! Ah! It's a joke perhaps," says she, the doubt growing. Mr. Browne +fixes a stern eye upon her. + +"Is thy servant a dog?" says he, and stalks indignantly away, leaving +Miss Maliphant in the throes of uncertainty. + +"Yet I'm sure it wasn't the right word," says she to herself with a +wonderful frown of perplexity. "However, I may be wrong. I often am. +And, after all, Spain we're told is full of 'em." + +Whether "thieves" or "leaves" she doesn't explain, and presently her +mind wanders entirely away from Mr. Browne's maundering to the subject +that so much more nearly interests her. Beauclerk has not been quite so +empressé in his manner to her to-night--not so altogether delightful. He +has, indeed, it seems to her, shirked her society a good deal, and has +not been so assiduous about the scribbling of his name upon her card as +usual. And then this sudden friendship with Lady Swansdown--what does he +mean by that? What does she mean? + +If she had only known. If the answer to her latter question had been +given to her, her mind would have grown easier, and the idea of Lady +Swansdown in the form of a rival would have been laid at rest forever. + +As a fact, Lady Swansdown hardly understands herself to-night. That +scene with her hostess has upset her mentally and bodily, and created in +her a wild desire to get away from herself and from Baltimore at any +cost. Some idle freak has induced her to use Beauclerk (who is +detestable to her) as a safeguard from both, and he, unsettled in his +own mind, and eager to come to conclusions with Joyce and her fortune, +has lent himself to the wiles of his whilom foe, and is permiting +himself to be charmed by her fascinating, if vagrant, mood. + +Perhaps in all her life Lady Swansdown has never looked so lovely as +to-night. Excitement and mental disturbance have lent a dangerous +brilliancy to her eyes, a touch of color to her cheek. There is +something electric about her that touches those who gaze, on her, and +warns herself that a crisis is at hand. + +Up to this she has been able to elude all Baltimore's attempts at +conversation--has refused all his demands for a dance, yet this same +knowledge that the night will not go by without a denouement of some +kind between her and him is terribly present to her. To-night! The last +night she will ever see him, in all human probability! The exaltation +that enables her to endure this thought is fraught with such agony that, +brave and determined as she is, it is almost too much for her. + +Yet she--Isabel--she should learn that that old friendship between them +was no fable. To-night it would bear fruit. False, she believed +her--well, she should see. + +In a way, she clung to Beauclerk as a means of escaping +Baltimore--throwing out a thousand wiles to charm him to her side, and +succeeding. Three times she had given a smiling "No" to Lord Baltimore's +demand for a dance, and, regardless of opinion, had flung herself into a +wild and open flirtation with Beauclerk. + +But it is growing toward midnight, and her strength is failing her. +These people, will they never go, will she never be able to seek her own +room, and solitude, and despair without calling down comment on her +head, and giving Isabel--that cold woman--the chance of sneering at her +weakness? + +A sudden sense of the uselessness of it all has taken possession of her; +her heart sinks. It is at this moment that Baltimore once more comes up +to her. + +"This dance?" says he. "It is half way through. You are not engaged, I +suppose, as you are sitting down? May I have what remains of it?" + +She makes a little gesture of acquiescence, and, rising, places her hand +upon his arm. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVI. + + "O life! thou art a galling load + Along a rough, a weary road, + To wretches such as I." + + +The crisis has come, she tells herself, with a rather grim smile. Well, +better have it and get it over. + +That there had been a violent scene between Baltimore and his wife after +dinner had somehow become known to her, and the marks of it still +betrayed themselves in the former's frowning brow and sombre eyes. + +It had been more of a scene than usual. Lady Baltimore, generally so +calm, had for once lost herself, and given way to a passion of +indignation that had shaken her to her very heart's core. Though so +apparently unmoved and almost insolent in her demeanor toward Lady +Swansdown during their interview, she had been, nevertheless, cruelly +wounded by it, and could not forgive Baltimore in that he had been its +cause. + +As for him, he could not forgive her all she had said and looked. With a +heart on fire he had sought Lady Swansdown, the one woman whom he knew +understood and believed in him. It was a perilous moment, and Beatrice +knew it. She knew, too, that angry despair was driving him into her +arms, not honest affection. She was strong enough to face this and +refused to deceive herself about it. + +"I didn't think you and Beauclerk had anything in common," says +Baltimore, seating himself beside her on the low lounge that is half +hidden from the public gaze by the Indian curtains that fall at each +side of it. He had made no pretence of finishing the dance. He had led +the way and she had suffered herself to be led into the small anteroom +that, half smothered in early spring flowers, lay off the dancing room. + +"Ah! you see you have yet much to learn about me," says she, with an +attempt at gayety--that fails, however. + +"About you? No!" says he, almost defiantly. "Don't tell me I have +deceived myself about you, Beatrice; you are all I have left to fall +back upon now." His tone is reckless to the last degree. + +"A forlorn pis-aller," she says, steadily, with a forced smile. "What is +it, Cyril?" looking at him with sudden intentness. "Something has +happened. What?" + +"The old story," returns he, "and I am sick of it. I have thrown up my +hand. I would have been faithful to her, Beatrice. I swear that, but she +does not care for my devotion. And as for me, now----" He throws out his +arms as if tired to death, and draws in his breath heavily. + +"Now?" says she, leaning forward. + +"Am I worth your acceptance?" says he, turning sharply to her. "I hardly +dare to think it, and yet you have been kind to me, and your own lot is +not altogether a happy one, and----" + +He pauses. + +"Do you hesitate?" asks she very bitterly, although her pale lips are +smiling. + +"Will you risk it all?" says he, sadly. "Will you come away with me? I +feel I have no friend on earth but you. Will you take pity on me? I +shall not stay here, whatever happens; I have striven against fate too +long--it has overcome me. Another land--a different life--complete +forgetfulness----" + +"Do you know what you are saying?" asks Lady Swansdown, who has grown +deadly white. + +"Yes; I have thought it all out. It is for you now to decide. I have +sometimes thought I was not entirely indifferent to you, and at all +events we are friends in the best sense of the term. If you were a happy +married woman, Beatrice, I should not speak to you like this, but as it +is--in another land--if you will come with me--we----" + +"Think, think!" says she, putting up her hand to stay him from further +speech. "All this is said in a moment of angry excitement. You have +called me your friend--and truly. I am so far in touch with you that I +can see you are very unhappy. You have had--forgive me if I probe +you--but you have had some--some words with your wife?" + +"Final words! I hope--I think." + +"I do not, however. All this will blow over, and--come Cyril, face it! +Are you really prepared to deliberately break the last link that holds +you to her?" + +"There is no link. She has cut herself adrift long since. She will be +glad to be rid of me." + +"And you--will you be glad to be rid of her?" + +"It will be better," says he, shortly. + +"And--the boy!" + +"Don't let us go into it," says he, a little wildly. + +"Oh! but we must--we must," says she. "The boy--you will----?" + +"I shall leave him to her. It is all she has. I am nothing to her. I +cannot leave her desolate." + +"How you consider her!" says she, in a choking voice. She could have +burst into tears! "What a heart! and that woman to treat him +so--whilst--oh! it is hard--hard!" + +"I tell you," says she presently, "that you have not gone into this +thing. To-morrow you will regret all that you have now said." + +"If you refuse me--yes. It lies in your hands now. Are you going to +refuse me?" + +"Give me a moment," says she faintly. She has risen to her feet, and is +so standing that he cannot watch her. Her whole soul is convulsed. Shall +she? Shall she not? The scales are trembling. + +That woman's face! How it rises before her now, pale, cold, +contemptuous. With what an insolent air she had almost ordered her from +her sight. And yet--and yet---- + +She can remember that disdainful face, kind and tender and loving! A +face she had once delighted to dwell upon! And Isabel had been very good +to her once--when others had not been kind, and when Swansdown, her +natural protector, had been scandalously untrue to his trust. Isabel had +loved her then; and now, how was she about to requite her? Was she to +let her know her to be false--not only in thought but in reality! Could +she live and see that pale face in imagination filled with scorn for the +desecrated friendship that once had been a real bond between them? + +Oh! A groan that is almost a sob breaks from her. The scale has gone +down to one side. It is all over, hope and love and joy. Isabel has won. + +She has been leaning against the arm of the lounge, now she once more +sinks back upon the seat as though standing is impossible to her. + +"Well?" says Baltimore, laying his hand gently upon hers. His touch +seems to burn her, she flings his hand from her and shrinks back. + +"You have decided," says he quickly. "You will not come with me?" + +"Oh! no, no, no!" cries she. "It is impossible!" A little curious laugh +breaks from her that is cruelly akin to a cry. "There is too much to +remember," says she, suddenly. + +"You think you would be wronging her," says Baltimore, reading her +correctly. "I have told you you are at fault there. She would bless the +chance that swept me out of her life. And as for me, I should have no +regrets. You need not fear that." + +"Ah, that is what I do fear," says she in a low tone. + +"Well, you have decided," says he, after a pause. "After all why should +I feel either disappointment or surprise? What is there about me that +should tempt any woman to cast in her lot with mine?" + +"Much!" says Lady Swansdown, deliberately. "But the one great essential +is wanting--you have no love to give. It is all given." She leans toward +him and regards him earnestly. "Do you really think you are in love with +me? Shall I tell you who you are in love with?" She lets her soft cheek +fall into her hand and looks up at him from under her long lashes. + +"You can tell me what you will," says he, a little impatiently. + +"Listen, then," says she, with a rather broken attempt at gayety, "you +are in love with that good, charming, irritating, impossible, but most +lovable person in the world--your own wife!" + +"Pshaw!" says Baltimore, with an irritated gesture. "We will not discuss +her, if you please." + +"As you will. To discuss her or leave her name out of it altogether will +not, however, alter matters." + +"You have quite made up your mind," says he, presently, looking at her +searchingly. "You will let me go alone into evil?" + +"You will not go," returns she, trying to speak with conviction, but +looking very anxious. + +"I certainly shall. There is nothing else left for me to do. Life here +is intolerable." + +"There is one thing," says she, her voice trembling. "You might make it +up with her." + +"Do you think I haven't tried," says he, with a harsh laugh "I'm tired +of making advances. I have done all that man can do. No, I shall not try +again. My one regret in leaving England will be that I shall not see you +again!" + +"Don't!" says she, hoarsely. + +"I believe on my soul," says he, hurriedly, "that you do care for me. +That it is only because of her that you will not listen to me." + +"You are right!" (in a low tone)--"I--" Her voice fails her, she presses +her hands together. "I confess," says she, with terrible abandonment, +"that I might have listened to you--had I not liked her so well." + +"Better than me, apparently," says he, bitterly. "She has had the best +of it all through." + +"There we are quits, then," says she, quite as bitterly. "Because you +like her better than me." + +"If so--do you think I would speak to you as I have spoken?" + +"Yes. I think that. A man is always more or less of a baby. Years of +discretion he seldom reaches. You are angry with your wife, and would be +revenged upon her, and your way to revenge yourself is to make a second +woman hate you." + +"A second?" + +"I should probably hate you in six months," says she, with a touch of +passion. "I am not sure that I do not hate you now." + +Her nerve is fast failing her. If she had a doubt about it before, the +certainty now that Baltimore's feeling for her is merely friendship--the +desire of a lonely man for some sympathetic companion--anything but +love, has entered into her and crushed her. He would devote the rest of +his life to her. She is sure of that--but always it would be a life +filled with an unavailing regret. A horror of the whole situation has +seized upon her. She will never be any more to him than a pleasant +memory, while he to her must be an ever-growing pain. Oh! to be able to +wrench herself free, to be able to forget him to blot him out of her +mind forever. + +"A second woman!" repeats he, as if struck by this thought to the +exclusion of all others. + +"Yes!" + +"You think, then," gazing at her, "that she--hates me?" + +Lady Swansdown breaks into a low but mirthless laugh. The most poignant +anguish rings through it. + +"She! she!" cries she, as if unable to control herself, and then stops +suddenly placing her hand to her forehead. "Oh, no, she doesn't hate +you," she says. "But how you betray yourself! Do you wonder I laugh? Did +ever any man so give himself away? You have been declaring to me for +months that she hates you, yet when I put it into words, or you think I +do, it seems as though some fresh new evil had befallen you. Ah! give up +this role of Don Juan, Baltimore. It doesn't suit you." + +"I have had no desire to play the part," says he, with a frown. + +"No? And yet you ask a woman for whom you scarcely bear a passing +affection to run away with you, to defy public opinion for your sake, +and so forth. You should advise her to count the world well lost for +love--such love as yours! You pour every bit of the old rubbish into +one's ears, and yet--" She stops abruptly. A very storm of anger and +grief and despair is shaking her to her heart's core. + +"Well?" says he, still frowning. + +"What have you to offer me in exchange for all you ask me to give? A +heart filled with thoughts of another! No more!----" + +"If you persist in thinking----" + +"Why should I not think it? When I tell you there is danger of my hating +you, as your wife might--perhaps--hate you--your first thought is for +her! 'You think then that she hates me'?" (She imitates the anxiety of +his tone with angry truthfulness.) "Not one word of horror at the +thought that I might hate you six months hence." + +"Perhaps I did not believe you would," says he, with some embarrassment. + +"Ah! That is so like a man! You think, don't you, that you were made to +be loved? There, go! Leave me!" + +He would have spoken to her again, but she rejects the idea with such +bitterness that he is necessarily silent. She has covered her face with +her hands. Presently she is alone. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVII. + + "But there are griefs, ay, griefs as deep; + The friendship turned to hate. + And deeper still, and deeper still + Repentance come too late, too late!" + + +Joyce, on the whole, had not enjoyed last night's dance at the Court. +Barbara had been there, and she had gone home with her and Monkton after +it, and on waking this morning a sense of unreality, of dissatisfaction, +is all that comes to her. No pleasant flavor is on her mental palate; +there is only a vague feeling of failure and a dislike to looking into +things--to analyze matters as they stand. + +Yet where the failure came in she would have found it difficult to +explain even to herself. Everybody, so far as she was concerned, had +behaved perfectly; that is, as she, if she had been compelled to say it +out loud, would have desired them to behave. Mr. Beauclerk had been +polite enough; not too polite; and Lady Baltimore had made a great deal +of her, and Barbara had said she looked lovely, and Freddy had said +something, oh! absurd of course, and not worth repeating, but still +flattering; and those men from the barracks at Clonbree had been a +perfect nuisance, they were so pressing with their horrid attentions, +and so eager to get a dance. And Mr. Dysart---- + +Well? That fault could not be laid to his charge, therefore, of course, +he was all that could be desired. He was circumspect to the last degree. +He had not been pressing with his attentions; he had, indeed, been so +kind and nice that he had only asked her for one dance, and during the +short quarter of an hour that that took to get through he had been so +admirably conducted as to restrain his conversation to the most +commonplace, and had not suggested that the conservatory was a capital +place to get cool in between the dances. + +The comb she was doing her hair with at the time caught in her hair as +she came to this point, and she flung it angrily from her, and assured +herself that the tears that had suddenly come into her eyes arose from +the pain that that hateful instrument of torture had caused her. + +Yes, Felix had taken the right course; he had at least learned that she +could never be anything to him--could never--forgive him. It showed +great dignity in him, great strength of mind. She had told him, at least +given him to understand when in London, that he should forget her, +and--he had forgotten. He had obeyed her. The comb must have hurt her +again, and worse this time, because now the tears are running down her +cheeks. How horrible it is to be unforgiving! People who don't forgive +never go to heaven. There seems to be some sort of vicious consolation +in this thought. + +In truth, Dysart's behavior to her since his return has been all she had +led him to understand it ought to be. He it so changed toward her in +every way that sometimes she has wondered if he has forgotten all the +strange, unhappy past, and is now entirely emancipated from the torture +of love unrequited that once had been his. + +It is a train of thought she has up to this shrank from pursuing, yet +which, she being strong in certain ways, should have been pursued by her +to the bitter end. One small fact, however, had rendered her doubtful. +She could not fail to notice that whenever he and she are together in +the morning room, ballroom, or at luncheon or dinner, or breakfast, +though he will not approach or voluntarily address her unless she first +makes an advance toward him, a rare occurrence; still, if she raises her +eyes to his, anywhere, at any moment, it is to find his on her! + +And what sad eyes! Searching, longing, despairing, angry, but always +full of an indescribable tenderness. + +Last night she had specially noticed this--but then last night he had +specially held aloof from her. No, no! It was no use dwelling upon it. +He would not forgive. That chapter in her life was closed. To attempt to +open it again would be to court defeat. + +Joyce, however, had not been the only one to whom last night had been a +disappointment. Beauclerk's determination to propose to her--to put his +fortune to the touch and to gain hers--failed. Either the fates were +against him, or else she herself was in a willful mood. She had refused +to leave the dancing room with him on any pretext whatever, unless to +gain the coolness of the crowded hall outside, or the still more +inhabited supper room. + +He was not dismayed, however, and there was no need to do things +precipitately. There was plenty of time. There could be no doubt about +the fact that she preferred him to any of the other men of her +acquaintance; he had discovered that she had refused Dysart not only +once, but twice. This he had drawn out of Isabel by a mild and +apparently meaningless but nevertheless incessant and abstruse +cross-examination. Naturally! He could see at once the reason for that. +No girl who had been once honored by his attentions could possibly give +her heart to another. No girl ever yet refused an honest offer unless +her mind was filled with the image of another fellow. Mr. Beauclerk +found no difficulty about placing "the other fellow" in this case. +Norman Beauclerk was his name! What woman in her senses would prefer +that tiresome Dysart with his "downright honesty" business so gloomily +developed, to him, Beauclerk? Answer? Not one. + +Well, she shall be rewarded now, dear little girl! He will make her +happy for life by laying his name and prospective fortune at her feet. +To-day he will end his happy bachelor state and sacrifice himself on the +altar of love. + +Thus resolved, he walks up through the lands of the Court, through the +valley filled with opening fronds of ferns, and through the spinney +beyond that again, until he comes to where the Monktons live. The house +seems very silent. Knocking at the door, the maid comes to tell him that +Mr. and Mrs. Monkton and the children are out, but that Miss Kavanagh is +within. + +Happy circumstance! Surely the fates favor him. They always have, by the +by--sure sign that he is deserving of good luck. + +Thanks. Miss Kavanagh, then. His compliments, and hopes that she is not +too fatigued to receive him. + +The maid, having shown him into the drawing-room, retires with the +message, and presently the sound of little high-heeled shoes crossing +the hall tells him that Joyce is approaching. His heart beats high--not +immoderately high. To be uncertain is to be none the less unnerved--but +there is no uncertainty about his wooing. Still it pleases him to know +that in spite of her fatigue she could not bring herself to deny herself +to him. + +"Ah! How good of you!" says he as she enters, meeting her with both +hands outstretched. "I feared the visit was too early! A very _bêtise_ +on my part--but you are the soul of kindness always." + +"Early!" says Joyce, with a little laugh. "Why you might have found me +chasing the children round the garden three hours ago. Providentially," +giving him one hand, the ordinary one, and ignoring his other, "their +father and mother were bound to go to Tisdown this morning or I should +have been dead long before this." + +"Ah!" says Beauclerk. And then with increasing tenderness. "So glad they +were removed; it would have been too much for you, wouldn't it?" + +"Yes--I dare say--on the whole, I believe I don't mind them," says Miss +Kavanagh. "Well--and what about last night? It was delightful, wasn't +it?" Secretly she sighs heavily, as she makes this most untruthful +assertion. + +"Ah! Was it?" asks he. "I did not find it so. How could I when you were +so unkind to me?" + +"I! Oh, no. Oh, surely not!" says she anxiously. There is no touch of +the coquetry that might be about this answer had it been given to a man +better liked. A slow soft color has crept into her cheeks, born of the +knowledge that she had got out of several dances with him. But he, +seeing it, gives it another, a more flattering meaning to his own self +love. + +"Can you deny it?" asks he, changing his seat so as to get nearer to +her. "Joyce!" He leans toward her. "May I speak at last? Last night I +was foiled in my purpose. It is difficult to say all that is in one's +heart at a public affair of that kind, but now--now----" + +Miss Kavanagh has sprung to her feet. + +"No! Don't, don't!" she says earnestly. "I tell you--I beg you--I warn +you----" She pauses, as if not knowing what else to say, and raises her +pretty hands as if to enforce her words. + +"Shy, delightfully shy!" says Beauclerk to himself. He goes quickly up +to her with all the noble air of the conqueror, and seizing one of her +trembling hands holds it in his own. + +"Hear me!" he says with an amused toleration for her girlish _mauvaise +honte_. "It is only such a little thing I have to say to you, but yet it +means a great deal to me--and to you, I hope. I love you, Joyce. I have +come here to-day to ask you to be my wife." + +"I told you not to speak," says she. She has grown very white now. "I +warned you! It is no use--no use, indeed." + +"I have startled you," says Beauclerk, still disbelieving, yet somehow +loosening the clasp on her hand. "You did not expect, perhaps, that I +should have spoken to-day, and yet----" + +"No. It was not that," says Miss Kavanagh, slowly. "I knew you would +speak--I thought last night would have been the time, but I managed to +avoid it then, and now----" + +"Well?" + +"I thought it better to get it over," says she, gently. She stops as if +struck by something, and heavy tears rush to her eyes. Ah! she had told +another very much the same as that. But she had not meant it then--and +yet had been believed--and now, when she does mean it, she is not +believed. Oh! if the cases might be reversed! + +Beauclerk, however, mistakes the cause of the tears. + +"It--get what over?" demands he, smiling. + +"This misunderstanding." + +"Ah, yes--that! I am afraid,"--he leans more closely toward her,--"I +have often been afraid that you have not quite read me as I ought to be +read." + +"Oh, I have read you," says she, with a little gesture of her head, half +confused, half mournful. + +"But not rightly, perhaps. There have been moments when I fear you may +have misjudged me----" + +"Not one," says she quickly. "Mr. Beauclerk, if I might implore you not +to say another word----" + +"Only one more," pleads he, coming up smiling as usual. "Just one, +Joyce--let me say my last word; it may make all the difference in the +world between you and me now. I love you--nay, hear me!" + +She has risen, and he, rising too, takes possession of both her hands. +"I have come here to-day to ask you to be my wife; you know that +already--but you do not know how I have worshiped you all these dreary +months, and how I have kept silent--for your sake." + +"And for 'my sake' why do you speak now?" asks she. She has withdrawn +her hands from his. "What have you to offer me now that you had not a +year ago?" + +After all, it is a great thing to be an accomplished liar. It sticks to +Beauclerk now. + +"Why! Haven't you heard?" asks he, lifting astonished brows. + +"I have heard nothing!" + +"Not of my coming appointment? At least"--modestly--"of my chance of +it?" + +"No. Nothing, nothing. And even if I had, it would make no difference. I +beg you to understand once for all, Mr. Beauclerk, that I cannot listen +to you." + +"Not now, perhaps. I have been very sudden----" + +"No, never, never." + +"Are you telling me that you refuse me?" asks he, looking at her with a +rather strange expression in his eyes. + +"I am sorry you put it that way," returns she, faintly. + +"I don't believe you know what you are doing," cries he, losing his +self-control for once in his life. "You will regret this. For a moment +of spite, of ill-temper, you----" + +"Why should I be ill-tempered about anything that concerns you and me?" +says she, very gently still. She has grown even whiter, however, and has +lifted her head so that her large eyes are directed straight to his. +Something in the calm severity of her look chills him. + +"Ah! you know best!" says he, viciously. The game is up--is thoroughly +played out. This he acknowledges to himself, and the knowledge does not +help to sweeten his temper. It helps him, however, to direct a last +shaft at her. Taking up his hat, he makes a movement to depart, and then +looks back at her. His overweening vanity is still alive. + +"When you do regret it," says he--"and I believe that will be soon--it +will be too late. You had the goodness to give me a warning a few +minutes ago--I give you one now." + +"I shall not regret it," says she, coolly. + +"Not even when Dysart has sailed for India, and then 'the girl he left +behind him' is disconsolate?" asks he, with an insolent laugh. "Ha! that +touches you!" + +It had touched her. She looks like a living thing stricken suddenly into +marble, as she stands gazing back at him, with her hands tightly +clenched before her. India! To India! And she had never heard. + +Extreme anger, however, fights with her grief, and, overcoming it, +enables her to answer her adversary. + +"I think you, too, will feel regret," says she, gravely, "when you look +back upon your conduct to me to-day." + +There is such gentleness, such dignity, in her rebuke, and her beautiful +face is so full of a mute reproach, that all the good there is in +Beauclerk rises to the surface. He flings his hat upon a table near, and +himself at her feet. + +"Forgive me!" cries he, in a stifled tone. "Have mercy on me, Joyce!--I +love you--I swear it! Do not cast me adrift! All I have said or done I +regret now! You said I should regret, and I do." + +Something in his abasement disgusts the girl, instead of creating pity +in her breast. She shakes herself free of him by a sharp and horrified +movement. + +"You must go home," she says calmly, yet with a frowning brow, "and you +must not come here again. I told, you it was all useless, but you would +not listen. No, no; not a word!" He has risen to his feet, and would +have advanced toward her, but she waves him from her with a sort of +troubled hatred in her face. + +"You mean----" begins he, hoarsely. + +"One thing--one thing only," feverishly--"that I hope I shall never see +you again!" + + + + +CHAPTER XLVIII. + + "When a man hath once forfeited the reputation of his sincerity he + is set fast, and nothing will then serve his turn, neither truth + nor falsehood." + + +When he is gone Joyce draws a deep breath. For a moment it seems to her +that it is all over--a disagreeable task performed, and then suddenly a +reaction sets in. The scene gone through has tried her more than she +knows, and without warning now she finds she is crying bitterly. + +How horrible it all had been. How detestable he had looked--not so much +when offering her his hand (as for his heart--pah!) as when he had given +way to his weak exhibition of feeling and had knelt at her feet, +throwing himself on her mercy. She placed her hands over her eyes when +she thought of that. Oh! she wished he hadn't done it! + +She is still crying softly--not now for Beauclerk's behavior, but for +certain past beliefs--when a knock at the door warns her that another +visitor is coming. She has not had time or sufficient presence of mind +to tell a servant that she is not at home, when Miss Maliphant is +ushered in by the parlor maid. + +"I thought I'd come down and have a chat with you about last night," she +begins in her usual loud tones, and with an assumption of easiness that +is belied by the keen and searching glance she directs at Joyce. + +"I'm so glad," says Joyce, telling her little lie as bravely as she can, +while trying to conceal her red eyelids from Miss Maliphant's astute +gaze by pretending to rearrange a cushion that has fallen from one of +the lounges. + +"Are you?" says her visitor, drily. "Seems to me I've come at the wrong +moment. Shall I go away?" + +"Go! No," says Joyce, reddening, and frowning a little. "Why should +you?" + +"Well, you've been crying," says Miss Maliphant, in her terribly +downright way. "I hate people when I've been crying; but then it makes +me a fright, and it only makes you a little less pretty. I suppose I +mustn't ask what it is all about?" + +"If you did I don't believe I could tell you," says Joyce, laughing +rather unsteadily. "I was merely thinking, and it is the simplest thing +in the world to feel silly now and then." + +"Thinking? Of Mr. Beauclerk?" asks Miss Maliphant, promptly, and without +the slightest idea of hesitation. "I saw him leaving this as I came by +the upper road! Was it he who made you cry?" + +"Certainly not," says Joyce, indignantly. + +"It looks like it, however," says the other, her masculine voice growing +even sterner. "What was he saying to you?" + +"I really do think----" Joyce is beginning, coldly, when Miss Maliphant +stops her by an imperative gesture. + +"Oh, I know. I know all about that," says she, contemptuously. "One +shouldn't ask questions about other people's affairs; I've learned my +manners, though I seldom make any use of my knowledge, I admit. After +all, I see no reason why I shouldn't ask you that question. I want to +know, and there is no one to tell me but you. Was he proposing to you, +eh?" + +"Why should you think that?" says Joyce, subdued by the masterful manner +of the other, and by something honest and above board about her that is +her chief characteristic. There is no suspicion, either, about her of +her questions being prompted by mere idle curiosity. She has said she +wanted to know, and there was meaning in her tone. + +"Why shouldn't I?" says she now. "He came down here early this +afternoon. He goes away in haste--and I find you in tears. Everything +points one way." + +"I don't see why it should point in that direction." + +"Come, be open with me," says the heiress, brusquely, in an abrupt +fashion that still fails to offend. "Did he propose to you?" + +Joyce hesitates. She raises her head and looks at Miss Maliphant +earnestly. What a good face she has, if plain. Too good to be made +unhappy. After all, why not tell her the truth? It would be a warning. +It was impossible to be blind to the fact that Miss Maliphant had been +glad to receive the dishonest attentions paid to her every now and then +by Beauclerk. Those attentions would probably be increased now, and +would end but one way. He would get Miss Maliphant's money, and +she--that good, kind-hearted girl--what would she get? It seems cruel to +be silent, and yet to speak is difficult. Would it be fair or honorable +to divulge his secret? + +Would it be fair or honorable to let her imagine what is not true? He +had been false to her--Joyce (she could not blind herself to the +knowledge that with all his affected desire for her he would never have +made her an offer of his hand but for her having come in for that +money)--he would therefore be false to Miss Maliphant; he would marry +her undoubtedly, but as a husband he would break her heart. Is she, for +the sake of a word or two, to see her fall a prey to a mere passionless +fortune-hunter? A thousand times no! Better inflict a little pain now +rather than let this girl endure endless pain in the future. + +With a shrinking at her heart, born of the fear that the word will be +very bitter to her guest, she says, "Yes;" very distinctly. + +"Ha!" says Miss Maliphant, and that is all. Joyce, regarding her +anxiously, is as relieved as astonished to see no trace of grief or +chagrin upon her face. There is no change at all, indeed, except she +looks deeply reflective. Her mind seems to be traveling backward, +picking up loose threads of memory, no doubt, and joining them together. +A sense of intense comfort fills Joyce's soul. After all; the wound had +not gone deep; she had been right to speak. + +"He is not worth thinking about," says she, tremulously, _apropos_ of +nothing, as it seems. + +"No?" says Miss Maliphant; "then what were you crying about?" + +"I hardly know. I felt nervous--and once I did like him--not very +much--but still I liked him--and he was a disappointment." + +"Tell you what," says Miss Maliphant, "you've hit upon a big truth. He +is not worth thinking about. Once, perhaps, I, too, liked him, and I was +an idiot for my pains; but I shan't like him again in a hurry. I expect +I've got to let him know that, one way or another. And as for you----" + +"I tell you I never liked him much," says Joyce, with a touch of +displeasure. "He was handsome, suave, agreeable--but----" + +"He was, and is, a hypocrite!" interrupts Miss Maliphant, with truly +beautiful conciseness. She has never learned to mince matters. "And, +when all is told, perhaps nothing better than a fool! You are well out +of it, in my opinion." + +"I don't think I had much to do with it," says Joyce, unable to refrain +from a smile. "I fancy my poor uncle was responsible for the honor done +me to-day." Then a sort of vague feeling that she is being ungenerous +distresses her. "Perhaps, after all, I misjudge him too far," she says. + +"Could you?" with a bitter little laugh. + +"I don't know," doubtfully. "One often forms an opinion of a person, +and, though the groundwork of it may be just, still one is too inclined +to build upon it and to rear stories upon it that get a little beyond +the actual truth when the structure is completed." + +"Oh! I think it is he who tells all the stories," said Miss Maliphant, +who is singularly dull in little unnecessary ways, and has failed to +follow Joyce in her upstairs flight. "In my opinion he's a liar; I was +going to say '_pur et simple_,' but he is neither pure nor simple." + +"A liar!" says Joyce, as if shocked. Some old thought recurs to her. She +turns quickly to Miss Maliphant. The thought grows into words almost +before she is aware of it. "Have you a cousin in India?" asks she. + +"In India?" Miss Maliphant regards her with some surprise. Why this +sudden absurd question in an interesting conversation about that +"Judas"? I regret to say this is what Miss Maliphant has now decided +upon naming Mr. Beauclerk when talking to herself. + +"Yes, India." + +"Not one. Plenty in Manchester and Birmingham, but not one in India." + +Joyce leans back in her chair, and a strange laugh breaks from her. She +gets up suddenly and goes to the other and leans over her, as though the +better to see her. + +"Oh, think--think," says she. "Not a cousin you loved? Dearly loved? A +cousin for whom you were breaking your heart, who was not as steady as +he ought to be, but who----" + +"You must be going out of your mind," says Miss Maliphant, drawing back +from her. "If you saw my Birmingham cousins, or even the Manchester +ones, you wouldn't ask that question twice. They think of nothing but +money, money, money, from morning till night, and are essentially +shoppy. I don't mind saying it, you know. It is as good to give up, and +acknowledge things--and certainly they----" + +"Never mind them. It is the Indian cousin in whom I am interested," says +Joyce, impatiently. "You are sure, sure that you haven't one out there? +One whom Mr. Beauclerk knew about? And who was in love with you, and you +with him. The cousin he told me of----" + +"Mr. Beauclerk?" + +"Yes--yes. The night of the ball at the Court, last autumn. I saw you +with Mr. Beauclerk in the garden then, and he told me afterward you had +been confiding in him about your cousin. The one in India. That you were +going to be married to him. Oh! there must be truth--some truth in it. +Do try to think!" + +"If," says Miss Maliphant, slowly, "I were to think until I was black in +the face, as black as any Indian of 'em all, I couldn't even by so +severe a process conjure up a cousin in Hindostan! And so he told you +that?" + +"Yes," says Joyce faintly. She feels almost physically ill. + +"He's positively unique," says Miss Maliphant, after a slight pause. "I +told you just now that he was a liar, but I didn't throw sufficient +enthusiasm into the assertion. He is a liar of distinction very far +above his fellows! I suppose it would be superfluous now to ask if that +night you speak of you were engaged to Mr. Dysart?" + +"Oh, no," says Joyce quickly, as if struck. "There never has been, there +never will be aught of that sort between me and Mr. Dysart Surely--Mr. +Beauclerk did not----" + +"Oh, yes, he did. He assured me--not in so many words (let me be +perfectly just to him)--but he positively gave me to understand that you +were going to marry Felix Dysart. There! Don't mind that," seeing the +girl's pained face. "He was bound to say something, you know. Though it +must be confessed the Indian cousin story was the more ingenious. Why +didn't you tell me of that before?" + +"Because he told it to me in the strictest confidence." + +"Of course. Bound you on your honor not to speak of it, lest my feelings +should be hurt. Really, do you know, I think he was almost clever enough +to make one sorry he didn't succeed. Well, good-by." She rises abruptly, +and, taking Joyce's hand, looks at her for a moment. "Felix Dysart has a +good heart," says she, suddenly. As suddenly she kisses Joyce, and, +crossing the room with a quick stride, leaves it. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIX. + + "Shall we not laugh, shall we not weep?" + + +It is quite four o'clock, and therefore two hours later. Barbara has +returned, and has learned the secret of Joyce's pale looks and sad eyes, +and is now standing on the hearthrug looking as one might who has been +suddenly wakened from a dream that had seemed only too real. + +"And you mean to say--you really mean, Joyce, that you refused him?" + +"Yes. I actually had that much common-sense," with a laugh that has +something of bitterness in it. + +"But I thought--I was sure----" + +"I know you thought he was my ideal of all things admirable. And you +thought wrong." + +"But if not he----" + +"Barbara!" says Joyce sharply. "Was it not enough that you should have +made one mistake? Must you insist on making another?" + +"Well, never mind," says Mrs. Monkton hastily. "I'm glad I made that +one, at all events; and I'm only sorry you have felt it your duty to +make your pretty eyes wet about it Good gracious!" looking put of the +window, "who is coming now? Dicky Browne and Mr. Courtenay and those +detestable Blakes. Tommy," turning sharply to her first-born. "If you +and Mabel stay here you must be good. Do you hear now, good! You are not +to ask a single question or touch a thing in the room, and you are to +keep Mabel quiet. I am not going to have Mrs. Blake go home and say you +are the worst behaved children she ever met in her life. You will stay, +Joyce?" anxiously to her sister. + +"Oh, I suppose so. I couldn't leave you to endure their tender mercies +alone." + +"That's a darling girl! You know I never can get on with that odious +woman. Ah! how d'ye do, Mrs. Blake? How sweet of you to come after last +night's fatigue." + +"Well, I think a drive a capital thing after being up all night," says +the new-comer, a fat, little, ill-natured woman, nestling herself into +the cosiest chair in the room. "I hadn't quite meant to come here, but I +met Mr. Browne and Mr. Courtenay, so I thought we might as well join +forces, and storm you in good earnest. Mr. Browne has just been telling +me that Lady Swansdown left the Court this morning. Got a telegram, she +said, summoning her to Gloucestershire. Never do believe in these sudden +telegrams myself. Stayed rather long in that anteroom with Lord +Baltimore last night." + +"Didn't know she had been in any anteroom," says Mrs. Monkton, coldly. +"I daresay her mother-in-law is ill again. She has always been attentive +to her." + +"Not on terms with her son, you know; so Lady Swansdown hopes, by the +attention you speak of, to come in for the old lady's private fortune. +Very considerable fortune, I've heard." + +"Who told you?" asks Mr. Browne, with a cruelly lively curiosity. "Lady +Swansdown?" + +"Oh, dear no!" + +Pause! Dicky still looking expectant and Mrs. Blake uncomfortable. She +is racking her brain to try and find some person who might have told +her, but her brain fails her. + +The pause threatens to be ghastly, when Tommy comes to the rescue. + +He had been told off as we know to keep Mabel in a proper frame of mind, +but being in a militant mood has resented the task appointed him. He has +indeed so far given in to the powers that be that he has consented to +accept a picture book, and to show it to Mabel, who is looking at it +with him, lost in admiration of his remarkable powers of description. +Each picture indeed, is graphically explained by Tommy at the top of his +lungs, and in extreme bad humor. + +He is lying on the rug, on his fat stomach, and is becoming quite a +martinet. + +"Look at this!" he is saying now. "Look! do you hear, or I won't stay +and keep you good any longer. Here's a picture about a boat that's going +to be drowned down in the sea in one minnit. The name on it is"--reading +laboriously--"'All hands to the pump.' And" with considerable vicious +enjoyment--"it isn't a bit of good for them, either. Here"--pointing to +the picture again with a stout forefinger--"here they're 'all-handsing' +at the pump. See?" + +"No, I don't, and I don't want to," says Mabel, whimpering and hiding +her eyes. "Oh, I don't like it; it's a horrid picture! What's that man +doing there in the corner?" peeping through her fingers at a dead man in +the foreground. "He is dead! I know he is!" + +"Of course he is," says Tommy. "And"--valiantly--"I don't care a bit, I +don't." + +"Oh, but I do," says Mabel. "And there's a lot of water, isn't there?" + +"There always is in the sea," says Tommy. + +"They'll all be drowned, I know they will," says Mabel, pushing away the +book. "Oh, I hate 'handsing'; turn over, Tommy, do! It's a nasty cruel, +wicked picture!" + +"Tommy, don't frighten Mabel," says his mother anxiously. + +"I'm not frightening her. I'm only keeping her quiet," says Tommy +defiantly. + +"Hah-hah!" says Mr. Courtenay vacuously. + +"How wonderfully unpleasant children can make themselves," says Mrs. +Blake, making herself 'wonderfully unpleasant' on the spot. "Your little +boy so reminds me of my Reginald. He pulls his sister's hair merely for +the fun of hearing her squeal!" + +"Tommy does not pull Mabel's hair," says Barbara a little stiffly. +"Tommy, come here to Mr. Browne; he wants to speak to you." + +"I want to know if you would like a cat?" says Mr. Browne, drawing Tommy +to him. + +"I don't want a cat like our cat," says Tommy, promptly. "Ours is so +small, and her tail is too thin. Lady Baltimore has a nice cat, with a +tail like mamma's furry for her neck." + +"Well, that's the very sort of a cat I can get you if you wish." + +"But is the cat as big as her tail?" asks Tommy, still careful not to +commit himself. + +"Well, perhaps not quite," says Mr. Browne gravely. "Must it be quite as +big?" + +"I hate small cats," says Tommy. "I want a big one! I want--" pausing to +find a suitable simile, and happily remembering the kennel outside--"a +regular setter of a cat!" + +"Ah," says Mr. Browne, "I expect I shall have to telegraph to India for +a tiger for you." + +"A real live tiger?" asks Tommy, with distended eyes and a flutter of +wild joy at his heart, the keener that some fear is mingled with it. "A +tiger that eats people up?" + +"A man-eater," says Mr. Browne, solemnly. "It would be the nearest +approach I know to the animal you have described. As you won't have the +cat that Lady Baltimore will give you, you must only try to put up with +mine." + +"Poor Lady Baltimore!" lisps Mrs. Blake. "What a great deal she has to +endure." + +"Oh, she's all right to-day," returns Mr. Browne, cheerfully. "Toothache +any amount better this morning." + +Mrs. Blake laughs in a little mincing way. + +"How droll you are," says she. "Ah! if it were only toothache that was +the matter But--" silence very effective, and a profound sigh. + +"Toothache's good enough for me," says Dicky. "I should never dream of +asking for more." He glances here at Joyce, and continues sotto voce, +"You look as if you had it." + +"No," returns she innocently. "Mine is neuralgia. A rather worse thing, +after all." + +"Yes. You can get the tooth out," says he. + +"Have you heard," asks Mrs. Blake, "that Mr. Beauclerk is going to marry +that hideous Miss Maliphant. Horrid Manchester person, don't you know! +Can't think what Lady Baltimore sees in her"--with a giggle--"her want +of beauty. Got rather too much of pretty women I should say." + +"I'm really afraid," says Dicky, "that somebody has been hoaxing you +this time, Mrs. Blake;" genially. "I happen to know for a fact that Miss +Maliphant is not going to marry Beauclerk." + +"Indeed!" snappishly. "Ah, well really he is to be congratulated, I +think. Perhaps," with a sharp glance at Joyce, "I mistook the name of +the young lady; I certainly heard he was going to be married." + +"So am I,"' says Mr. Browne, "some time or other; we are all going to +get married one day or another. One day, indeed, is as good as another. +You have set us such a capital example that we're safe to follow it." + +Mr. and Mrs. Blake being a notoriously unhappy couple, the latter grows +rather red here; and Joyce gives Dicky a reproachful glance, which he +returns with one of the wildest bewilderment. What can she mean? + +"Mr. Dysart will be a distinct loss when he goes to India," continues +Mrs. Blake quickly. "Won't be back for years, I hear, and leaving so +soon, too. A disappointment, I'm told! Some obdurate fair one! Sort of +chest affection, don't you know, ha-ha! India's place for that sort of +thing. Knock it out of him in no time. Thought he looked rather down in +the mouth last night. Not up to much lately, it has struck me. Seen much +of him this time, Miss Kavanagh?" + +"Yes. A good deal," says Joyce, who has, however, paled perceptibly. + +"Thought him rather gone to seed, eh? Rather the worse for wear." + +"I think him always very agreeable," says Joyce, icily. + +A second most uncomfortable silence ensues. Barbara tries to get up a +conversation with Mr. Courtenay, but that person, never brilliant at any +time, seems now stricken with dumbness. Into this awkward abyss Mabel +plunges this time. Evidently she has been dwelling secretly on Tommy's +comments on their own cat, and is therefore full of thought about that +interesting animal. + +"Our cat is going to have chickens!" says she, with all the air of one +who is imparting exciting intelligence. + +This astounding piece of natural history is received with varied +emotions by the listeners. Mr. Browne, however, is unfeignedly charmed +with it, and grows as enthusiastic about it as even Mabel can desire. + +"You don't say so! When? Where?" demands he with breathless eagerness. + +"Don't know," says Mabel seriously. "Last time 'twas in nurse's best +bonnet; but," raising her sweet face to his, "she says she'll be blowed +if she has them there this time!" + +"Mabel!" cries her mother, crimson with mortification. + +"Yes?" asked Mabel, sweetly. + +But it is too much for every one. Even Mrs. Blake gives way for once to +honest mirth, and under cover of the laughter rises and takes her +departure, rather glad of the excuse to get away. She carries off Mr. +Courtenay. + +Dicky having lingered a little while to see that Mabel isn't scolded, +goes too; and Barbara, with a sense of relief, turns to Joyce. + +"You look so awful tired," says she. "Why don't you go and lie down?" + +"I thought, on the contrary, I should like to go out for a walk," says +Joyce indifferently. "I confess my head is aching horribly. And that +woman only made me worse." + +"What a woman! I wonder she told so many lies. I wonder if----" + +"If Mr. Dysart is going to India," supplies Joyce calmly. "Very likely. +Why not. Most men in the army go to India." + +"True," say Mrs. Monkton with a sigh. Then in a low tone: "I shall be +sorry for him." + +"Why? If he goes"--coldly--"it is by his own desire. I see nothing to be +sorry about." + +"Oh, I do," says Barbara. And then, "Well, go out, dearest. The air will +do you good." + + + + +CHAPTER L. + + "'Tis with our judgment as our watches, none + Go just alike, yet each believes his own." + + +Lord Baltimore had not spoken in a mere fit or pique when he told Lady +Swansdown of his fixed intention of putting a term to his present life. +His last interview with his wife had quite decided him to throw up +everything and seek forgetfulness in travel. Inclination had pointed +toward such countries as Africa, or the northern parts of America, as, +being a keen sportsman, he believed there he might find an occupation +that would distract his mind from the thoughts that now jarred upon him +incessantly. + +His asking Lady Swansdown to accompany him therefore had been a sudden +determination. To go on a lengthened shooting expedition by one's self +is one thing, to go with a woman delicately nurtured is another. Of +course, had she agreed to his proposal, all his plans must necessarily +have been altered, and perhaps his second feeling, after her refusal to +go with him, was one of unmistakable relief. His proposal to her at +least had been born of pique! + +The next morning found him, however, still strong in his desire for +change. The desire was even so far stronger that he now burned to put it +into execution; to get away to some fresh sphere of action, and +deliberately set himself to obliterate from his memory all past ties and +recollections. + +There was, too, perhaps a touch of revenge that bordered upon pleasure +as he thought of what his wife would say when she heard of his decision. +She who shrank so delicately from gossip of all kinds could not fail to +be distressed by news that must inevitably leave her and her private +affairs open to public criticism. Though everybody was perpetually +guessing about her domestic relations with her husband, no one as a +matter of fact knew (except, indeed, two) quite the real truth about +them. This would effectually open the eyes of society, and proclaim to +everybody that, though she had refused to demand a separation, still she +had been obliged to accept it. This would touch her. If in no other way +could he get at her proud spirit, here now he would triumph. She had +been anxious to get rid of him in a respectable way, of course, but +death as usual had declined to step in when most wanted, and now, well! +She must accept her release, in however disreputable a guise it comes. + +It is just at the moment when Mrs. Blake is holding forth on Lady +Baltimore's affairs to Mrs. Monkton that Baltimore enters the smaller +drawing-room, where he knows he will be sure to meet his wife at this +hour. + +It is far in the afternoon, still the spring sunshine is streaming +through the windows. Lady Baltimore, in a heavy tea gown of pale green +plush, is sitting by the fire reading a book, her little son upon the +hearth rug beside her. The place is strewn with bricks, and the boy, as +his father enters, looks up at him and calls to him eagerly to come and +help him. At the sound of the child's quick, glad voice a pang contracts +Baltimore's heart. The child----He had forgotten him. + +"I can't make this castle," says Bertie, "and mother isn't a bit of +good. Hers always fall down; come you and make me one." + +"Not now," says Baltimore. "Not to-day. Run away to your nurse. I want +to speak to your mother." + +There is something abrupt and jerky in his manner--something strained, +and with sufficient temper in it to make the child cease from entreaty. +The very pain Baltimore, is feeling has made his manner harsher to the +child. Yet, as the latter passes him obediently, he seizes the small +figure in his arms and presses him convulsively to his breast. Then, +putting him down, he points silently but peremptorily to the door. + +"Well?" says Lady Baltimore. She has risen, startled by his abrupt +entrance, his tone, and more than all, by that last brief but passionate +burst of affection toward the child. "You, wish to speak to me--again?" + +"There won't be many more opportunities," says he, grimly. "You may +safely give me a few moments to-day. I bring you good news. I am going +abroad. At once. Forever." + +In spite of the self-control she has taught herself, Lady Baltimore's +self-possession gives way. Her brain seems to reel. Instinctively she +grasps hold of the back of a tall _prie-dieu_ next to her. + +"Hah! I thought so--I have touched her at last, through her pride," +thinks Baltimore, watching her with a savage satisfaction, which, +however, hurts him horribly. And after all he was wrong, too. He had +touched her, indeed; but it was her heart, not her pride, he had +wounded. + +"Abroad?" echoes she, faintly. + +"Yes; why not? I am sick of this sort of life. I have decided on +flinging it up." + +"Since when have you come to this decision?" asks she presently, having +conquered her sudden weakness by a supreme effort. + +"If you want day and date I'm afraid I shan't be able to supply you. It +has been growing upon me for some time--the idea of it, I mean--and last +night you brought it to perfection." + +"I?" + +"Have you already forgotten all the complimentary speeches you made me? +They"--with a sardonic smile--"are so sweet to me that I shall keep them +ripe in my memory until death overtakes me--and after it, I think! You +told me, among many other wifely things--if my mind does not deceive +me--that you wished me well out of your life, and Lady Swansdown with +me." + +"That is a direct and most malicious misapplication of my words," says +she, emphatically. + +"Is it? I confess that was my reading of them. I accepted that version, +and thinking to do you a good turn, and relieve you of both your _bêtes +noire_ at once, I proposed to Lady Swansdown last night that she should +accompany me upon my endless travels." + +There is a long, long pause, during which Lady Baltimore's face seems to +have grown into marble. She takes a step forward now. Through the stern +pallor of her skin her large eyes seem to gleam like fire. + +"How dare you!" she says in a voice very low but so intense that it +rings through the room. "How dare you tell me of this! Are you lost to +all shame? You and she to go--to go away together! It is only what I +have been anticipating for months. I could see how it was with you. But +that you should have the insolence to stand before me--" she grows +almost magnificent in her wrath--"and declare your infamy aloud! Such a +thought was beyond me. There was a time when I would have thought it +beyond you!" + +"Was there?" says he. He laughs aloud. + +"There, there, there!" says she, with a rather wild sort of sigh. "Why +should I waste a single emotion upon you. Let me take you calmly, +casually. Come--come now." It is the saddest thing in the world to see +how she treads down the passionate, most natural uprisings within her +against the injustice of life: "Make me at least _au courant_ with your +movements, you and she will go--where?" + +"To the devil, you thought, didn't you?" says he. "Well, you will be +disappointed as far as she is concerned. I maybe going. It appears she +doesn't think it worth while to accompany me there or anywhere else." + +"You mean that she refused to go with you?" + +"In the very baldest language, I assure you. It left nothing to be +desired, believe me, in the matter of lucidity. 'No,' she would not go +with me. You see there is not only one, but two women in the world who +regard me as being utterly without charm." + +"I commiserate you!" says she, with a bitter sneer. "If, after all your +attention to her, your friend has proved faithless, I----" + +"Don't waste your pity," says he, interrupting her rather rudely. "On +the whole, the decision of my 'friend,' as you call her, was rather a +relief to me than otherwise. I felt it my duty to deprive you of her +society"--with an unpleasant laugh--"and so I asked her to come with me. +When she declined to accompany me she left me free to devote myself to +sport." + +"Ah! you refuse to be corrupted?" says she, contemptuously. + +"Think what you will," says he, restraining himself with determination. +"It doesn't matter in the least to me now. Your opinion I consider +worthless, because prejudiced--as worthless as you consider me. I came +here simply to tell you of my determination to go abroad." + +"You have told me of that already. Lady Swansdown having failed you, may +I ask"--with studied contempt--"who you are going to take with you now?" + +"What do you mean?" says he, wheeling round to her. "What do you mean by +that? By heavens!" laying his hands upon her shoulders, and looking with +fierce eyes into her pale face. "A man might well kill you!" + +"And why?" demands she, undauntedly. "You would have taken her--you have +confessed so much--you had the coarse courage to put it into words. If +not her, why"--with a shrug--"then another!" + +"There! think as you will," says he, releasing her roughly. "Nothing I +could say would convince or move you. And yet, I know it is no use, but +I am determined I will leave nothing unsaid. I will give you no +loop-hole. I asked her to go with me in a moment of irritation, of +loneliness, if you will; it is hard for a man to be forever outside the +pale of affection, and I thought--well, it is no matter what I thought. +I was wrong it seems. As for caring for her, I care so little that I now +feel actually glad she had the sense to refuse my senseless proposal. +She would have bored me, I think, and I should undoubtedly have bored +her. The proposition was made to her in a moment of folly." + +"Oh, folly?" says she with a curious laugh. + +"Well, give it any other name you like. And after all," in a low tone, +"you are right. It was not the word. If I had said despair I should have +been nearer the mark." + +"There might even be another word," said she slowly. + +"Even if there were," says he, "the occasion for it is of your making. +You have thrown me; you must be prepared, therefore, to accept the +consequences." + +"You have prepared me for anything," says she calmly, but with bitter +meaning. + +"See here," says he furiously. "There may still be one thing left for +you which I have not prepared. You have just asked me who I am going to +take with me when I leave this place forever. Shall I answer you?" + +Something in his manner terrifies her; she feels her face blanching. +Words are denied her, but she makes a faint movement to assent with her +hand. What is he going to say! + +"What if I should decide, then, on taking my son with me?" says he +violently. "Who is there to prevent me? Not you, or another. Thus I +could cut all ties and put you out of my life at once and forever!" + +He had certainly not calculated on the force of his words or his manner. +It had been a mere angry suggestion. There was no crudity in Baltimore's +nature. He had never once permitted himself to dwell upon the +possibility of separating the boy from his mother. Such terrible revenge +as that was beyond him, his whole nature would have revolted against it. +He had spoken with passion, urged by her contempt into a desire to show +her where his power lay, without any intention of actually using it. He +meant perhaps to weaken her intolerable defiance, and show her where a +hole in her armor lay. He was not prepared for the effect of his words. + +An ashen shade has overspread her face; her expression has become +ghostly. As though her limbs have suddenly given way under her, she +falls against the mantel-piece and clings to it with trembling fingers. +Her eyes, wild and anguished, seek his. + +"The child!" gasps she in a voice of mortal terror. "The child! Not the +child! Oh! Baltimore, you have taken all from me except that. Leave me +my child!" + +"Good heavens! Don't look at me like that," exclaims he, inexpressibly +shocked--this sudden and complete abandonment of herself to her fear has +horrified him. "I never meant it. I but suggested a possibility. The +child shall stay with you. Do you hear me, Isabel! The child is yours! +When I go, I go alone!" + +There is a moment's silence, and then she bursts into tears. It is a +sharp reaction, and it shakes her bodily and mentally. A wild return of +her love for him--that first, sweet, and only love of her life, returns +to her, born of intense gratitude. But sadly, slowly, it dies away +again. It seems to her too late to dream of that again. Yet perhaps her +tears have as much to do with that lost love as with her gratitude. + +Slowly her color returns. She checks her sobs. She raises her head and +looks at him still with her handkerchief pressed to her tremulous lips. + +"It is a promise," says she. + +"Yes. A promise." + +"You will not change again--" nervously. "You----" + +"Ah! doubt to the last," says he. "It is a promise from me to you, and +of course the word of such a reprobate as you consider me can scarcely +be of any avail." + +"But you could not break this promise?" says she in a low voice, and +with a long, long sigh. + +"What trust you place in me!" said he, with an open sneer--"Well, so be +it. I give you home and child. You give me----Not worth while going into +the magnificence of your gifts, is it?" + +"I gave you once a whole heart--an unbroken faith," says she. + +"And took them back again! Child's play!" says he. "Child's promises. +Well, if you will have it so, you have got a promise from me now, and I +think you might say 'thank you' for it as the children do." + +"I do thank you!" says she vehemently. "Does not my whole manner speak +for me?" Once again her eyes filled with tears. + +"So much love for the child," cries he in a stinging tone, "and not one +thought for the father. Truly your professions of love were light as +thistledown. There! you are not worth a thought yourself. Expend any +affection you have upon your son, and forget me as soon as ever you can. +It will not take you long, once I am out of your sight!" + +He strides towards the door, and then looks back at her. + +"You understand about my going?" he says; "that it is decided, I mean?" + +"As you will," says she, her glance on the ground. There is such a total +lack of emotion in her whole air that it might suggest itself to an +acute student of human nature that she is doing her very utmost to +suppress even the smallest sign of it. But, alas! Baltimore is not that +student. + +"Be just:" says he sternly. "It is as you will--not as I. It is you who +are driving me into exile." + +He has turned his back, and has his hand on the handle of the door in +the act of opening it. At this instant she makes a move toward him, +holding out her hands, but as suddenly suppresses herself. When he turns +again to say a last word she is standing where he last saw her, pale and +impassive as a statue. + +"There will be some matters to arrange," says he, "before my going. I +have telegraphed to Hansard" (his lawyer), "he will be down in the +morning. There will be a few papers for you to sign to-morrow----" + +"Papers?" + +"My will and your maintenance whilst I am away; and matters that will +concern the child's future." + +"His future. That means----" + +"That in all probability when I have started I shall never see his face +again--or yours." + +He opens the door abruptly, and is gone. + + + + +CHAPTER LI. + + "While bloomed the magic flowers we scarcely knew + The gold was there. But now their petals strew + Life's pathway." + "And yet the flowers were fair, + Fed by youth's dew and love's enchanted air." + + +The cool evening air breathing on Joyce's flushed cheeks calms her as +she sets out for the walk that Barbara had encouraged her to take. + +It is an evening of great beauty. Earth, sea, and sky seem blended in +one great soft mist, that rising from the ocean down below floats up to +heaven, its heart a pale, vague pink. + +The day is almost done, and already shadows are growing around trees and +corners. There is something mystical and strange in the deep murmurs +that come from the nestling woods, the sweet wild coo of the pigeons, +the chirping of innumerable songsters, and now and then the dull hooting +of some blinking owl. Through all, the sad tolling of a chapel bell +away, away in the distance, where the tiny village hangs over the brow +of the rocks that gird the sea. + + "While yet the woods were hardly more than brown, + Filled with the stillness of the dying day, + The folds and farms, and faint-green pastures lay, + And bells chimed softly from the gray-walled town; + The dark fields with the corn and poppies sown, + The dull, delicious, dreamy forest way, + The hope of April for the soul of May-- + On all of these night's wide, soft wings swept down." + +Well, it isn't night yet, however. She can see to tread her way along +the short young grasses down to a favorite nook of hers, where musical +sounds of running streams may be heard, and the rustling of growing +leaves make songs above one's head. Here and there she goes through +brambly ways, where amorous arms from blackberry bushes strive to catch +and hold her, and where star-eyed daisies and buttercups and delicate +faint-hearted primroses peep out to laugh at her discomfiture. + +But she escapes from all their snares and goes on her way, her heart so +full of troublous fancies that their many wiles gain from her not so +much as one passing thought. + +The pretty, lovely May is just bursting into bloom; its pink blossoms +here and its white blossoms there mingle gloriously, and the perfume of +it fills the silent air. + +Joyce picks a branch or two as she goes on her way, and thrusts them +into the bosom of her gown. + +And now she has reached the outskirts of the wood, where the river runs, +crossed by a rustic bridge, on which she has ever loved to rest and +dream, leaning rounded arms upon the wooden railings and seeing strange +but sweet things in the bright, hurrying water beneath her eyes. + +She has gained the bridge now, and leaning languidly upon its frail +ramparts lets her gaze wander a-field. The little stream, full of +conversation as ever, flows on unnoticed by her. Its charms seem dead. +That belonged to the old life--the life she will never know again. It +seems to her quite a long time since she felt young. And yet only a few +short months have flown since she was young as the best of them--when +even Tommy did not seem altogether despicable as a companion, and she +had often been guilty of finding pleasure in running a race with him, +and of covering him not only with confusion, but with armfuls of scented +hay, when at last she had gained the victory over him, and had turned +from the appointed goal to overwhelm the enemy with merry sarcasms. + +Oh, yes, that was all over. All done! An end must come to everything, +and to her light-heartedness an end had come very soon. Too soon, she +was inclined to believe, in an excess of self, until she remembered that +life was always to be taken seriously, and that she had deliberately +trifled with it, seeking only the very heart of it--the gaiety, the +carelessness, the ease. + +Well, her punishment has come! She has learned that life is a failure +after all. It takes some people a lifetime to discover that great fact; +it has taken her quite a short time. Nothing is of much consequence. And +yet---- + +She sighs and looks round her. Her eyes fall upon a distant bank of +cloud overhanging a pretty farmstead, and throwing into bold relief the +ricks of hay that stand at the western side of it. A huge, black crow +standing on the top of this is napping his wings and calling loudly to +his mate. Presently he spreads his wings, and, with a creaking of them +like the noise of a sail in a light wind, disappears over her head. She +has followed his movements with a sort of lazy curiosity, and now she +knows that he will return in an hour or so with thousands of his +brethren, darkening the heavens as they pass to their night lodgings in +the tall elm trees. + +It is good to be a bird. No care, no trouble. No pain! A short life and +a merry one. Better than a long life and a sorry one. Yes, the world is +all sorry. + +She turns her eyes impatiently away from the fast vanishing crow; and +now they fall upon a perfect wilderness of daffodils that are growing +upon the edge of the bank a little way down. How beautiful they are. +Their soft, delicate heads nod lazily this way and that way. They seem +the very embodiment of graceful drowsiness. Some lines lately read recur +to her, and awake within her memory; + + "I wandered lonely as a cloud, + That floats on high o'er vales and hills, + When all at once I saw a crowd, + A crowd of golden daffodils + Beside the lake, beneath the trees, + Fluttering and dancing in the breeze." + +They seem so full of lazy joy, or unutterable rapture, that they belie +her belief in the falseness of all things. There must surely be some +good in a world that grows such charming things--things almost sentient. +And the trees swaying about her head, and dropping their branches into +the stream, is there no delight to be got out of them? The tenderness of +this soft, sweet mood, in which perpetual twilight reigns, enters into +her, and soothes the sad demon that is torturing her breast. Tears rise +to her eyes; she leans still further over the parapet, and drawing the +pink and white hawthorn blossoms from her bosom, drops them one by one +into the hasty little river, and lets it bear them away upon its bosom +to tiny bays unknown. Tears follow them, falling from her drooping lids. +Can neither daffodils, nor birds, nor trees, give her some little of +their joy to chase the sorrow from her heart? + +Her soul seems to fling itself outward in an appeal to nature; and +nature, that kind mother of us all, responds to the unspoken cry. + +A step upon the bridge behind her! She starts into a more upright +position and looks round her without much interest. + +A dark figure is advancing toward her. Through the growing twilight it +seems abnormally large and black, and Joyce stares at it anxiously. Not +Freddy--not one of the laborers--they would be all clad in flannel +jackets of a light color. + +"Oh, is it you?" says Dysart, coming closer to her. He had, however, +known it was she from the first moment his eyes rested upon her. No +mist, no twilight could have deceived him, for-- + + Lovers' eyes are sharp to see + And lovers' ears in hearing." + +"Yes," says she, advancing a little toward him and giving him her hand. +A cold little hand, and reluctant. + +"I was coming down to Mrs. Monkton with a message--a letter--from Lady +Baltimore." + +"This is a very long way round from the Court, isn't it?" says she. + +"Yes. But I like this calm little corner. I have come often to it +lately." + +Miss Kavanagh lets her eyes wander to the stream down below. To this +little spot of all places! Her favorite nook! Had he hoped to meet her +there? Oh, no; impossible! And besides she had given it up for a long, +long time until this evening. It seems weeks to her now since last she +was here. + +"You will find Barbara at home," says she gently. + +"I don't suppose it is of very much consequence," says he, alluding to +the message. He is looking at her, though her averted face leaves him +little to study. + +"You are cold," says he abruptly. + +"Am I?" turning to him with a little smile. "I don't feel cold. I feel +dull, perhaps, but nothing else." + +And in truth if she had used the word "unhappy" instead of "dull" she +would have been nearer the mark. The coming of Dysart thus suddenly into +the midst of her mournful reverie has but served to accentuate the +reality of it. A terrible sense of loneliness is oppressing her. All +things have their place in this world, yet where is hers? Of what +account is she to anyone? Barbara loves, her; yes, but not so well as +Freddy and the children! Oh, to be first with someone! + + "I find no spring, while spring is well-nigh blown; + I find no nest, while nests are in the grove; + Woe's me for mine own heart that dwells alone-- + My heart that breaketh for a little love." + +Christina Rosetti's mournful words seem to suit her. Involuntarily she +lifts her heavy eyes, tired of the day's weeping, and looks at Dysart. + +"You have been crying," says he abruptly. + + + + +CHAPTER LII. + + "My love has sworn with sealing kiss + With me to live--to die; + I have at last my nameless bliss-- + As I love, loved am I." + + +There is a pause: it threatens to be an everlasting one, as Miss +Kavanagh plainly doesn't know what to say. He can see this; what he +cannot see is that she is afraid of her own voice. Those troublesome +tears that all day have been so close to her seem closer than ever now. + +"Beauclerk came down to see you to-day," says he presently. This remark +is so unexpected that it steadies her. + +"Yes," she says, calmly enough, but without raising the tell-tale eyes. + +"You expected him?" + +"No." Monosyllables alone seem possible to her. So great is her fear +that she will give way and finally disgrace herself, that she forgets to +resent the magisterial tone be has adopted. + +"He asked you to marry him, however?" There is something almost +threatening in his tone now, as if he is defying her to deny his +assertion. It overwhelms her. + +"Yes," she says again, and for the first time is struck by the wretched +meagreness of her replies. + +"Well?" says Dysart, roughly. But this time not even the desolate +monosyllable rewards the keenness of his examination. + +"Well?" says he again, going closer to her and resting his hand on the +wooden rail against which she, too, was leaning. He is So close to her +now that it is impossible to escape his scrutiny. "What am I to +understand by that? Tell me how you have decided." Getting no answer to +this either, he says, impatiently, "Tell me, Joyce." + +"I refused him," says she at last in a low tone, and in a dull sort of +way, as if the matter is one of indifference to her. + +"Ah!" He draws a long breath. "It is true?" he says, laying his hand on +hers as it lies on the top of the woodwork. + +"Quite true." + +"And yet--you have been crying?" + +"You can see that," says she, petulantly. "You have taken pains to see +and to tell me of it. Do you think it is a pleasant thing to be told? +Most people," glancing angrily toward him--"everyone, I think--makes it +a point now-a-days not to see when one has been making a fool of +oneself; but you seem to take a delight in torturing me." + +"Did it," says he bitterly, ignoring--perhaps not even hearing--her +outburst. "Did it cost you so much to refuse him?" + +"It cost me nothing!" with a sudden effort, and a flash from her +beautiful eyes. + +"Nothing?" + +"I have said so! Nothing at all. It was mere nervousness, and +because--it reminded me of other things." + +"Did he see you cry?" asks Dysart, tightening unconsciously his grasp +upon her hand. + +"No. He was gone a long time, quite a long time, before it occurred to +me that I should like to cry. I," with a frugal smile, "indulged myself +very freely then, as you have seen." + +Dysart draws a long breath of relief. It would have been intolerable to +him that Beauclerk should have known of her tears. He would not have +understood them. He would have taken possession of them, as it were. +They would have merely helped to pamper his self-conceit and smooth down +his ruffled pride. He would inevitably have placed such and such a +construction on them, one entirely to his own glorification. + +"I shall leave you now with a lighter heart," says Felix presently--"now +that I know you are not going to marry that fellow." + +"You are going, then?" says she, sharply, checking the monotonous little +tattoo she has been playing on the bridge rail, as though suddenly +smitten into stone. She had heard he was going, she had been told of it +by several people, but somehow she had never believed it. It had never, +come home to her until now. + +"Yes. We are under orders for India. We sail in about a month. I shall +have to leave here almost immediately." + +"So soon?" says she, vaguely. She has begun that absurd tattoo again, +but bridge, and restless little fingers, and sky and earth, and all +things seem blotted out. He is going, really going, and for ever! How +far is India away? + +"It is always rather hurried at last. For my part I am glad I am going." + +"Yes?" + +"Mrs. Monkton will--at least I am sure she will--let me have a line now +and then to let me know how you--how you are all getting on. I was going +to ask her about it this evening. You think she will be good enough?" + +"Barbara is always kind." + +"I suppose"--he hesitates, and then goes on with an effort--"I suppose +it would be too much to ask of you----" + +"What?" + +"That you would sometimes write me a letter--however short." + +"I am a bad correspondent," says she, feeling as if she were choking. + +"Ah! I see. I should not have asked, of course. Yes, you are right. It +was absurd my hoping for it." + +"When people choose to go away so far as that----" she is compelling +herself to speak, but her voice sounds to herself a long way off. + +"They must hope to be forgotten. 'Out of sight out of mind,' I know. It +is such an old proverb. Well----You are cold," says he suddenly, noting +the pallor of the girl's face. "Whatever you were before, you are +certainly chilled to the bone now. You look it. Come, this is no time of +year to be lingering out of doors without a coat or hat." + +"I have this shawl," says she, pointing to the soft white, fleecy thing +that covers her. + +"I distrust it. Come." + +"No," says she, faintly. "Go on; you give your message to Barbara. As +for me, I shall be happier here." + +"Where I am not," says he, with a bitter laugh. "I suppose I ought to be +accustomed to that thought now, but such is my conceit that it seems +ever a fresh shock to me. Well, for all that," persuadingly, "come in. +The evening is very cold. I shan't like to go away, leaving you behind +me suffering from a bad cough or something of that kind. We have been +friends, Joyce," with a rather sorry smile. "For the sake of the old +friendship, don't send me adrift with such an anxiety upon my mind." + +"Would you really care?" says she. + +"Ah! That is the humor of it," says he. "In spite of all I should still +really care. Come." He makes an effort to unclasp the small, pretty +fingers that are grasping the rails so rigidly. At first they seem to +resist his gentle pressure, and then they give way to him. She turns +suddenly. + +"Felix,"--her voice is somewhat strained, somewhat harsh, not at all her +own voice,--"do you still love me?" + +"You know that," returns he, sadly. If he has felt any surprise at the +question he has not shown it. + +"No, no," says she, feverishly. "That you like me, that you are fond of +me, perhaps, I can still believe. But is it the same with you that it +used to be? Do you," with a little sob, "love me as well now as in those +old days? Just the same! Not," going nearer to him, and laying her hand +upon his breast, and raising agonized eyes of inquiry to his--"not one +bit less?" + +"I love you a thousand times more," says he, very quietly, but with such +intensity that it enters into her very soul. "Why?" He has laid his own +hand over the small nervous one lying on his breast, and his face has +grown very white. + +"Because I love you too!" + +She stops short here, and begins to tremble violently. With a little +shamed, heartbroken gesture she tears her hand out of his and covers her +face from his sight. + +"Say that again!" says he, hoarsely. He waits a moment, but when no word +comes from her he deliberately drags away the sheltering hands and +compels her to look at him. + +"Say it!" says he, in a tone that is now almost a command. + +"Oh! it is true--true!" cries she, vehemently. "I love you; I have loved +you a long time, I think, but I didn't know it. Oh, Felix! Dear, dear +Felix, forgive me!" + +"Forgive you!" says he, brokenly. + +"Ah! yes. And don't leave me. If you go away from me I shall die. There +has been so much of it--a little more--and----" She breaks down. + +"My beloved!" says he in a faint, quick way. He is holding her to him +now with all his might. She can feel the quick pulsations of his heart. +Suddenly she slips her soft arms around his neck, and now with her head +pressed against his shoulder, bursts into a storm of tears. It is a last +shower. + +They are both silent for a long time, and then he, raising one of her +hands, presses the palm against his lips. Looking up at him, she smiles, +uncertainly but happily, a very rainbow of a smile, born of sunshine, +and, raindrops gone, it seems to beautify her lips. But Felix, while +acknowledging its charm, cannot smile back at her. It is all too +strange, too new. He is afraid to believe. As yet there is something +terrible to him in this happiness that has fallen into his life. + +"You mean it?" he asks, bending over her. "If to-morrow I were to wake +and find all this an idle dream, how would it be with me then? Say you +mean it!" + +"Am I not here?" says she, tremulously, making a slight but eloquent +pressure on one of the arms that are round her. He bends his face to +hers, and as he feels that first glad eager kiss returned--he knows! + + + + +CHAPTER LIII. + + "True love's the gift which God has given + To man alone beneath the heaven: + + It is the secret sympathy, + The silver link, the silken tie, + Which heart to heart and mind to mind + In body and in soul can bind." + + +Of course Barbara is delighted. She proves charming as a confidante. +Nothing can exceed the depth of her sympathy. + +When Joyce and Felix came in together in the darkening twilight, +entering the house in a burglarious fashion through the dining-room +window, it so happens that Barbara is there, and is at once struck by a +sense of guilt that seems to surround and envelop them. They had not, +indeed, anticipated meeting Barbara in that room of all others, and are +rather taken aback when they come face to face with her. + +"I assure you we have not come after the spoons," says Felix, in a +would-be careless tone that could not have deceived an infant, and with +a laugh, so frightfully careless that it would have terrified the life +out of you. + +"You certainly don't look like it," says Mrs. Monkton, whose heart has +begun to beat high with hope. She hardly knows whether it is better to +fall upon their necks forthwith and declare she knows all about it, or +else to pretend ignorance. She decides upon the latter as being the +easier; after all they mightn't like the neck process. Most people have +a fancy for telling their own tales, to have them told for one is +annoying. "You haven't the requisite murderous expression," she says, +unable to resist a touch of satire. "You look rather frightened you two. +What have you been doing?" She is too good natured not to give them an +opening for their confession. + +"Not much, and yet a great deal," says Felix. He has advanced a little, +while Joyce, on the contrary, has meanly receded farther into the +background. She has rather the appearance, indeed, of one who, if the +wall could have been induced to give way, would gladly have followed it +into the garden. The wall, however, declines to budge. "As for +burglary," goes on Felix, trying to be gay, and succeeding villainously. +"You must exonerate your sister at all events. But I--I confess I have +stolen something belonging to you." + +"Oh, no; not stolen," says Joyce, in a rather faint tone. "Barbara, I +know what you will think, but----" + +"I know what I do think!" cries Barbara, joyously. "Oh, is it, can it be +true?" + +It never occurs to her that Felix now is not altogether a brilliant +match for a sister with a fortune--she remembers only in that lovely +mind of hers that he had loved Joyce when she was without a penny, and +that he is now what he had always seemed to her, the one man that could +make Joyce happy. + +"Yes; it is true!" says Dysart. He has given up that unsuccessful gayety +now and has grown very grave; there is even a slight tremble in his +voice. He comes up to Mrs. Monkton and takes both her hands. "She has +given herself to me. You are really glad! You are not angry about it? I +know I am not good enough for her, but----" + +Here Joyce gives way to a little outburst of mirth that is rather +tremulous, and coming away from the unfriendly wall, that has not been +of the least use to her, brings herself somewhat shamefacedly into the +only light the room receives through the western window. The twilight at +all events is kind to her. It is difficult to see her face. + +"I really can't stay here," says she, "and listen to my own praises +being sung. And besides," turning to Felix a lovely but embarrassed +face, "Barbara will not regard it as you do; she will, on the contrary, +say you are a great deal too good for me, and that I ought to be +pilloried for all the trouble I have given through not being able to +make up my own mind for so long a time." + +"Indeed, I shall say nothing but that you are the dearest girl in the +world, and that I'm delighted things have turned out so well. I always +said it would be like this," cries Barbara exultantly, who certainly +never had said it, and had always indeed been distinctly doubtful about +it. + +"Is Mr. Monkton in?" says Felix, in a way that leads Monkton's wife to +imagine that if she should chance to say he was out, the news would be +hailed with rapture. + +"Oh, never mind him," says she, beaming upon the happy but awkward +couple before her. "I'll tell him all about it. He will be just as glad +as I am. There, go away you two; you will find the small parlor empty, +and I dare say you have a great deal to say to each other still. Of +course you will dine with us, Felix, and give Freddy an opportunity of +saying something ridiculous to you." + +"Thank you," says Dysart warmly. "I suppose I can write a line to my +cousin explaining matters." + +"Of course. Joyce, take some writing things into the small parlor, and +call for a lamp as you go." + +She is smiling at Joyce as she speaks, and now, going up to her, kisses +her impulsively. Joyce returns the caress with fervor. It is natural +that she should never have felt the sweetness, the content of Barbara so +entirely as she does now, when her heart is open and full of ecstasy, +and when sympathy seems so necessary. Darling Barbara! But then she must +love Felix now just as much as she loves her. She rather electrifies +Barbara and Felix by saying anxiously to the former: + +"Kiss Felix, too." + +It is impossible not to laugh. Mrs. Monkton gives way to immediate and +unrestrained mirth, and Dysart follows suit. + +"It is a command," says he, and Barbara thereupon kisses him +affectionately. + +"Well, now I have got a brother at last," says she. It is indeed her +first knowledge of one, for that poor suicide in Nice had never been +anything to her--or to any one else in the world for the matter of +that--except a great trouble. "There, go," says she. "I think I hear +Freddy coming." + +They fly. They both feel that further explanations are beyond them just +as present; and as for Barbara, she is quite determined that no one but +she shall let Freddy into the all-important secret. She is now fully +convinced in her own mind that she had always had special prescience of +this affair, and the devouring desire we all have to say "I told you how +'twould be" to our unfortunate fellow-travellers through this vale of +tears, whether the cause for the hateful reminder be for weal or woe, is +strong upon her now. + +She goes to the window, and seeing Monkton some way off, flings up the +sash and waves to him in a frenzied fashion to come to her at once. +There is something that almost approaches tragedy in her air and +gesture. Monkton hastens to obey. + +"Now, what--what--what do you think has happened?" cries she, when he +has vaulted the window sill and is standing beside her, somewhat +breathless and distinctly uneasy. Nothing short of an accident to the +children could, in his opinion, have warranted so vehement a call. Yet +Barbara, as he examines her features carefully, seems all joyous +excitement. After a short contemplation of her beaming face he tell +himself that he was an ass to give up that pilgrimage of his to the +lower field, where he had been going to inspect a new-born calf. + +"The skys are all right," says he, with an upward glance at them through +the window. "And--you hadn't another uncle, had you?" + +"Oh, Freddy," says she, very justly disgusted. + +"Well, my good child, what then? I'm all curiosity." + +"Guess," says she, too happy to be able to give him the round scolding +he deserves. + +"Oh! if it's a riddle," says he, "you might remember I am only a little +one, and unequal to the great things of life." + +"Ah! but, Freddy, I've something delicious to tell you. There sit down +there, you look quite queer, while I----" + +"No wonder I do," says he, at last rather wrathfully. "To judge by your +wild gesticulations at the window just now, any one might have imagined +that the house was on fire and a hostile race tearing en masse into the +back yard. And now--why, it appears you are quite pleased about +something or other. Really such disappointments are enough to age any +man--or make him look 'queer,' that was the word you used, I think?" + +"Listen," says she, seating herself beside him, and flipping her arm +around his neck. "Joyce is going to marry Felix--after all. There!" +Still with her arm holding him, she leans back a little to mark the +effect of this astonishing disclosure. + + + + +CHAPTER LIV. + + "Well said; that was laid on with a trowel." + + "Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in + all Venice." + + +"After all, indeed; you may well say that," says Mr. Monkton, with +indignation. "If those two idiots meant matrimony all along, why on +earth didn't they do it all before. See what a lot of time they've lost, +and what a disgraceful amount of trouble they have given all round." + +"Yes, yes, of course. But then you see, Freddy, it takes some time to +make up one's mind about such an important matter as that." + +"It didn't take you long," says Mr. Monkton most unwisely. + +"It took me a great deal longer than it took you," replies his wife with +dignity. "You have always said that it was the very first day you ever +saw me--and I'm sure it took me quite a week!" + +This lucid speech she delivers with some severity. + +"More shame for you," says Monkton promptly. + +"Well, never mind," says she, too happy and too engrossed with her news +to enjoy even a skirmish with her husband. "Isn't it all charming, +Freddy?" + +"It has certainly turned out very well, all things considered." + +"I think it is the happiest thing. And when two people who love each +other are quite young----" + +"Really, my dear, you are too flattering," says Monkton. "Considering +the gray hairs that are beginning to make themselves so unpleasantly at +home in my head, I, at all events, can hardly lay claim to extreme +youth." + +"Good gracious! I'm not talking of us; I'm talking of them," cries she, +giving him a shake. "Wake up, Freddy. Bring your mind to bear upon this +big news of mine, and you will see how enchanting it is. Don't you think +Felix has behaved beautifully--so faithful, so constant, and against +such terrible odds? You know Joyce is a little difficult sometimes. Now +hasn't he been perfect all through?" + +"He is a genuine hero of romance," says Mr. Monkton with conviction. +"None of your cheap articles--a regular bonafide thirteenth century +knight. The country ought to contribute its stray half-pennies and buy +him a pedestal and put him on the top of it, whether he likes it or not. +Once there Simon Stylites would be forgotten in half an hour. Was there +ever before heard of such an heroic case! Did ever yet living man have +the prowess to propose to the girl he loved! It is an entirely new +departure, and should be noticed. It is quite unique!" + +"Don't be horrid," says his wife. "You know exactly what I mean--that it +is a delightful ending to what promised to be a miserable muddle. And he +is so charming; isn't he, now, Freddy?" + +"Is he?" asks Mr. Monkton, regarding her with a thoughtful eye. + +"You can see for yourself. He is so satisfactory. I always said he was +the very husband for Joyce. He is so kind, so earnest, so sweet in every +way." + +"Nearly as sweet as I am, eh?" There is stern inquiry now in his regard. + +"Pouf! I know what you are, of course. Who would, if I didn't? But +really, Freddy, don't you think he will make her an ideal husband? So +open. So frank. So free from everything--everything--oh, well, +everything--you know!" + +"I don't," says Monkton, uncompromisingly. + +"Well--everything hateful, I mean. Oh! she is a lucky girl!" + +"Nearly as lucky as her sister," says Monkton, growing momentarily more +stern in his determination to uphold his own cause. + +"Don't be absurd. I declare," with a little burst of amusement, "when +he--they--told me about it, I never felt so happy in my life." + +"Except when you married me." He throws quite a tragical expression into +his face, that is, however, lost upon her. + +"Of course, with her present fortune, she might have made what the world +would call a more distinguished match. But his family are +unexceptionable, and he has some money--not much, I know, but still, +some. And even if he hadn't she has now enough for both. After +all"--with noble disregard of the necessaries of life--"what is money?" + +"Dross--mere dross!" says Mr. Monkton. + +"And he is just the sort of man not to give a thought to it." + +"He couldn't, my dear. Heroes of romance are quite above all that sort +of thing." + +"Well, he is, certainly," says Mrs. Monkton, a little offended. "You may +go on pretending as much as you like, Freddy, but I know you think about +him just as I do. He is exactly the sort of charming character to make +Joyce happy." + +"Nearly as happy as I have made you!" says her husband, severely. + +"Dear me, Freddy--I really do wish you would try and forget yourself for +one moment!" + +"I might be able to do that, my dear, if I were quite sure that you were +not forgetting me, too." + +"Oh, as to that! I declare you are a perfect baby! You love teasing. +Well--there then!" The "there" represents a kiss, and Mr. Monkton, +having graciously accepted this tribute to his charms, condescends to +come down from his mental elevation and discuss the new engagement with +considerable affability. Once, indeed, there is a dangerous lapse back +into his old style, but this time there seems to be occasion for it. + +"When they stood there stammering and stuttering, Freddy, and looking so +awfully silly, I declare I was so glad about it that I actually kissed +him!'" + +"What!" says Mr. Monkton. "And you have lived to tell the tale! You +have, therefore; lived too long. Perfidious woman, prepare for death." + +"I declare I think you'd have done it," says Barbara, eloquently. +Whereupon, having reconsidered her speech, they both give way to mirth. + +"I'll try it when I see him," says Monkton. "Even a hero of romance +couldn't object to a chaste salute from me." + +"He is coming to dinner. I hope when you do see him. Freddy,"--anxiously +this--"you will be very sober about it." + +"Barbara! You know I never get--er--that is--not before dinner at all +events." + +"Well, but promise me now, you will be very serious about it. They are +taking it seriously, and they won't like it if you persist in treating +it as a jest." + +"I'll be a perfect judge." + +"I know what that means"--indignantly--"that you are going to be as +frivolous as possible." + +"My dear girl! If the bench could only hear you. Well, there then! Yes, +really! I'll be everything of the most desirable. A regular funeral +mute. And," seeing she is still offended, "I am glad about it, Barbara. +Honestly I think him as good a fellow as I know--and Joyce another." + +Having convinced her of his good faith in the matter, and argued with +her on every single point, and so far perjured himself as to remember +perfectly and accurately the very day and hour on which, three months +ago, she had said that she knew Joyce preferred Felix to Beauclerk, he +is forgiven, and presently allowed to depart in peace with another +"there," even warmer than the first. + +But it is unquestionable that she keeps a severe eye on him all through +dinner, and so forbids any trifling with the sacred topic. "It would +have put the poor things out so!" She had said to herself; and, indeed, +it must be confessed that the lovers are very shy and uncomfortable, and +that conversation drifts a good deal, and is only carried on irregularly +by fits and starts. But later, when Felix has unburdened his mind to +Monkton during the quarter of an hour over their wine--when Barbara has +been compelled, in fear and trembling, to leave Freddy to his own +devices--things grow more genial, and the extreme happiness that dwells +in the lovers' hearts is given full play. There is even a delightful +half hour granted them upon the balcony, Barbara having--like the good +angel she is--declared that the night is almost warm enough for June. + + + + +CHAPTER LV. + + "Great discontents there are, and many murmurs." + + "There is a kind of mournful eloquence + In thy dumb grief." + + +Lady Baltimore, too, had been very pleased by the news when Felix told +her next morning of his good luck. In all her own great unhappiness she +had still a kindly word and thought for her cousin and his fiancée. + +"One of the nicest girls," she says, pressing his hands warmly. "I often +think, indeed, the nicest girl I know. You are fortunate, Felix, +but"--very kindly--"she is fortunate, too." + +"Oh, no, the luck is all on my side," says he. + +"It will be a blow to Norman," she says, presently. + +"I think not," with an irrepressible touch of scorn. "There is Miss +Maliphant." + +"You mean that he can decline upon her. Of course I can quite understand +that you do not like him," says she with a quick sigh. "But, believe me, +any heart he has was really given to Joyce. Well, he must devote himself +to ambition now." + +"Miss Maliphant can help him to that." + +"No, no. That is all knocked on the head. It appears--this is in strict +confidence, Felix--but it appears he asked her to marry him last +evening, and she refused." + +Felix turns to her as if to give utterance to some vehement words, and +then checks himself. After all, why add to her unhappiness? Why tell her +of that cur's baseness? Her own brother, too! It would be but another +grief to her. + +To think he should have gone from her to Miss Maliphant! What a pitiful +creature! Beneath contempt! Well, if his pride survives those two +downfalls--both in one day--it must be made of leather. It does Felix +good to think of how Miss Maliphant must have worded her refusal. She is +not famous for grace of speech. He must have had a real bad time of it. +Of course, Joyce had told him of her interview with the sturdy heiress. + +"Ah, she refused?" says he hardly knowing what to say. + +"Yes; and not very graciously, I'm afraid. He gave me the mere fact of +the refusal--no more, and only that because he had to give a reason for +his abrupt departure. You know he is going this evening?" + +"No, I did not know it. Of course, under the circumstances----" + +"Yes, he could hardly stay here. Margaret came to me and said she would +go, but I would not allow that. After all, every woman has a right to +refuse or accept as she will." + +"True." His heart gives an exultant leap as he remembers how his love +had willed. + +"I only wish she had not hurt him in the refusal. But I could see he was +wounded. He was not in his usual careless spirits. He struck me as being +a little--well, you know, a little----" She hesitates. + +"Out of temper," suggests Felix involuntarily. + +"Well, yes. Disappointment takes that course with some people. After +all, it might have been worse if he had set his heart on Joyce and been +refused." + +"Much worse," says Felix, his eyes on the ground. + +"She would have been a severe loss." + +"Severe, indeed." By this time Felix is beginning to feel like an +advanced hypocrite. + +"As for Margaret Maliphant, I am afraid he was more concerned about the +loss of her bonds and scrips than of herself. It is a terrible world, +Felix, when all is told," says she, suddenly crossing her beautiful long +white hands over her knees, and leaning toward him. There is a touch of +misery so sharp in her voice that he starts as he looks at her. It is a +momentary fit of emotion, however, and passes before he dare comment on +it. With a heart nigh to breaking she still retains her composure and +talks calmly to Felix, and lets him talk to her, as though the fact that +she is soon to lose forever the man who once had gained her heart--that +fatal "once" that means for always, in spite of everything that has come +and gone--is as little or nothing to her. Seeing her sitting there, +strangely pale indeed, but so collected, it would be impossible to guess +at the tempest of passion and grief and terror that reigns within her +breast. Women are not so strong to bear as men, and therefore in the +world's storms suffer most. + +"It is a lovely world," says he smiling, thinking of Joyce, and then, +remembering her sad lot, his smile fades. "One might make--perhaps--a +bad world--better," he says, stammering. + +"Ah! teach me how," says she with a melancholy glance. + +"There is such a thing as forgiveness. Forgive him!" blurts he out in a +frightened sort of way. He is horrified, at himself--at his own +temerity--a second later, and rises to his feet as if to meet the +indignation he has certainly courted. But to his surprise no such +indignation betrays itself. + +"Is that your advice?" says she, still with the thin white hands clasped +over the knee, and the earnest gaze on him. "Well, well, well!" + +Her eyes droop. She seems to be thinking, and he, gazing at her, +refrains from speech with his heart sad with pity. Presently she lifts +her head and looks at him. + +"There! Go back to your love," she says with a glance that thrills him. +"Tell her from me that if you had the whole world to choose from, I +should still select her as your wife. I like her; I love her! There, +go!" She seems to grow all at once very tired. Are those tears that are +rising in her eyes? She holds out to him her hand. + +Felix, taking it, holds it closely for a moment, and presently, as if +moved to do it, he stoops and presses a warm kiss upon it. + +She is so unhappy, and so kind, and so true. God deliver her out of her +sorrow! + + + + +CHAPTER LVI. + + "I would that I were low laid in my grave." + + +She is still sitting silent, lost in thought, after Felix's departure, +when the door opens once again to admit her husband. His hands are full +of papers. + +"Are you at liberty?" says he. "Have you a moment? These," pointing to +the papers, "want signing. Can you give your attention to them now?" + +"What are they?" asks she, rising. + +"Mere law papers. You need not look so terrified." His tone is bitter. +"There are certain matters that must be arranged before my +departure--matters that concern your welfare and the boy's. Here," +laying the papers upon the davenport and spreading them out. "You sign +your name here." + +"But," recoiling, "what is it? What does it all mean?" + +"It is not your death warrant, I assure you," says he, with a sneer. +"Come, sign!" Seeing her still hesitate, he turns upon her savagely. Who +shall say what hidden storms of grief and regret lie within that burst +of anger? + +"Do you want your son to live and die a poor man?" says he. "Come! there +is yourself to be considered, too! Once I am out of your way, you will +be able to begin life again with a light heart; and this," tapping the +paper heavily, "will enable you to do it. I make over to you and the boy +everything--at least, as nearly everything as will enable me to live." + +"It should be the other way," says she. "Take everything, and leave us +enough on which to live." + +"Why?" says he, facing round, something in her voice that resembles +remorse striking him. + +"We--shall have each other," says she, faintly. + +"Having happily got rid of such useless lumber as the father and +husband. Well, you will be the happier so," rejoins he with a laugh that +hurts him more than it hurts her, though she cannot know that. "'Two is +company,' you know, according to the good old proverb, 'three trumpery.' +You and he will get on very well without me, no doubt." + +"It is your arrangement," says she. + +"If that thought is a salve to your conscience, pray think so," rejoins +he. "It isn't worth an argument. We are only wasting time." He hands her +the pen; she takes it mechanically, but makes no use of it. + +"You will at least tell me where you are going?" says she. + +"Certainly I should, if I only knew myself. To America first, but that +is a big direction, and I am afraid the tenderest love letter would not +reach me through it. When your friends ask you, say I have gone to the +North Pole; it is as likely a destination as another." + +"But not to know!" says she, lifting her dark eyes to his--dark eyes +that seem to glow like fire in her white face. "That would be terrible. +It is unfair. You should think--think--" Her voice grows husky and +uncertain. She stops abruptly. + +"Don't be uneasy about that," says he. "I shall take care that my death, +when it occurs, is made known to you as soon as possible. Your mind +shall be relieved on that score with as little delay as I can manage. +The welcome news shall be conveyed to you by a swift messenger." + +She flings the pen upon the writing table, and turns away. + +"Insult me to the last if you will!" she says; "but consider your son. +He loves you. He will desire news of you from time to time. It is +impossible that you can put him out of your life as you have put me." + +"It appears you can be unjust to the last," says he, flinging her own +accusation back at her. "Have I put you out of my life?" + +"Ah! was I ever in it?" says she. "But--you will write?" + +"No. Not a line. Once for all I break with you. Should my death occur +you will hear of it. And I have arranged so, that now and after that +event you and the boy will have your positions clearly defined. That is +all you can possibly require of me. Even if you marry again your +jointure will be secured to you." + +"Baltimore!" exclaims she, turning upon him passionately. She seems to +struggle with herself for words. "Has marriage proved so sweet a thing?" +cries she presently, "that I should care to try it again? There! Go! I +shall sign none of these things." She makes a disdainful gesture towards +the loose papers lying on the table, and moves angrily away. + +"You have your son to consider." + +"Your son will inherit the title and the property without those papers." + +"There are complications, however, that perhaps you do not understand." + +"Let them lie there. I shall sign nothing." + +"In that case you will probably find yourself immersed in troubles of +the meaner kinds after my departure. The child cannot inherit until +after my death and----" + +"I don't care," says she, sullenly. "Go, if you will. I refuse to +benefit by it." + +"What a stubborn woman you are," cries he, in great wrath. "You have for +years declined to acknowledge me as your husband. You have by your +manner almost commanded my absence from your side; yet now when I bring +you the joyful news that in a short time you will actually be rid of me, +you throw a thousand difficulties in my path. Is it that you desire to +keep me near you for the purposes of torture? It is too late for that. +You have gone a trifle too far. The hope you have so clearly expressed +in many ways that time would take me out of your path is at last about +to be fulfilled." + +"I have had no such hope." + +"No! You can look me in the face and say that! Saintly lips never lie, +however, do they? Well, I'm sick of this life; you are not. I have borne +a good deal from you, as I told you before. I'll bear no more. I give +in. Fate has been too strong for me." + +"You have created your own fate." + +"You are my fate! You are inexorable! There is no reason why I should +stay." + +Here the sound of running, childish, pattering footsteps can be heard +outside the door, and a merry little shout of laughter. The door is +suddenly burst open in rather unconventional style, and Bertie rushes +into the room, a fox terrier at his heels. The dog is evidently quite as +much up to the game as the boy, and both race tempestuously up the room +and precipitate themselves against Lady Baltimore's skirts. Round and +round her the chase continues, until the boy, bursting away from his +mother, dashes toward his father, the terrier after him. + +There isn't so much scope for talent in a pair of trousers as in a mass +of dainty petticoats, and presently Bertie grows tired, flings himself +down upon the ground, and lets the dog tumble over him there. The joust +is virtually at an end. + +Lady Baltimore, who has stood immoveable during the attack upon her, +always with that cold, white, beautiful look upon her face, now points +to the stricken child lying panting, laughing, and playing with the dog +at his father's feet. + +"There is a reason!" says she, almost inaudibly. + +Baltimore shakes his head. "I have thought all that out. It is not +enough," says he. + +"Bertie!" says his mother, turning to the child. "Do you know this, that +your father is going to leave you?" + +"Going?" says the boy vaguely, forgetting the dog for a moment and +glancing upward. "Where?" + +"Away. Forever." + +"Where?" says the boy again. He rises to his feet now, and looks +anxiously at his father; then he smiles and flings himself into his +arms. "Oh, no!" says he, in a little soft, happy, sure sort of a way. + +"Forever! Forever!" repeals Isabel in a curious monotone. + +"Take me up," says the child, tugging at his father's arms. "What does +mamma mean? Where are you going?" + +"To America, to shoot bears," returns Baltimore with an embarrassed +laugh. How near to tears it is. + +"Real live bears?" + +"Yes." + +"Take me with you"? says the child, excitedly. + +"And leave mamma?" + +"Oh, she'll come, too," says Bertie, confidently. "She'll come where I +go." Where he would go--the child! But would she go where the father +went? Baltimore's brow darkens. + +"I am afraid it is out of the question," he says, putting Bertie back +again upon the carpet where the fox terrier is barking furiously and +jumping up and down in a frenzied fashion as if desirous of devouring +the child's legs. "The bears might eat you. When you are big and +strong----" + +"You will come back for me?" cries Bertie, eagerly. + +"Perhaps." + +"He will not," breaks in Lady Baltimore violently. "He will come back no +more. When he goes you will never see him again. He has said so. He is +going forever!" These last two terrible words seem to have sunk into +her soul. She cannot cease from repeating them. + +"Let the boy alone," says Baltimore angrily. + +The child is looking from one parent to the other. He seems puzzled, +expectant, but scarcely unhappy. Childhood can grasp a great deal, but +not all. The more unhappy the childhood, the more it can understand of +the sudden and larger ways of life. But children delicately brought up +and clothed in love from their cradle find it hard to realize that an +end to their happiness can ever come. + +"Tell me, papa!" says he at last in a vague, sweet little way. + +"What is there to tell?" replies his father with a most meagre laugh, +"except that I saw Beecher bringing in some fresh oranges half an hour +ago. Perhaps he hasn't eaten them all yet. If you were to ask him for +one----" + +"I'll find him," cries Bertie brightly, forgetting everything but the +present moment. "Come, Trixy, come," to his dog, "you shall have some, +too." + +"You see there' won't be much trouble with him," says Baltimore, when +the boy has run out of the room in pursuit of oranges. "It will take him +a day, perhaps, and after that he will be quite your own. If you won't +sign these papers to-day you will perhaps to-morrow. I had better go and +tell Hansard that you would like to have a little time to look them +over." + +He walks quickly down the room, opens the door, and closes it after him. + + + + +CHAPTER LVII. + + "This is that happy morn-- + That day, long-wished day + Of all my life so dark + (If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn + And fates my hopes betray) + Which, purely white, deserves + An everlasting diamond should it mark." + + +He has not, however, gone three yards down the corridor when the door is +again opened, and Lady Baltimore's voice calls after him: + +"Baltimore!" Her tone is sharp, high-agonized--the tone of one strung to +the highest pitch of despair. It startles him. He turns to look at her. +She is standing, framed in by the doorway, and one hand is grasping the +woodwork with a hold so firm that the knuckles are showing white. With +the other hand she beckons him to approach her. He obeys her. He is even +so frightened at the strange gray look in her face that he draws her +bodily into the room again, shutting the door with a pressure of the +hand he can best spare. + +"What is it?" says he, looking down at her. + +She has managed to so far overcome the faintness that has been +threatening her as to shake him off and stand free, leaning against a +chair behind her. + +"Don't go," says she, hoarsely. + +It is impossible to misunderstand her meaning. It has nothing whatever +to do with his interview with the lawyer waiting so patiently down +below, but with that final wandering of his into regions unknown. She is +as white as death. + +"How is this, Isabel?" asks he. He is as white as she is now. "Do you +know what you are saying? This is a moment of excitement; you do not +comprehend what your words mean." + +"Stay! Stay for his sake." + +"Is that all?" says he, his eyes searching hers. + +"For mine, then." + +The words seem to scorch her. She covers her face with her hands and +stands before him, stricken dumb, miserable--confessed. + +"For yours!" + +He goes closer to her, and ventures to take her hand. It is cold--cold +as death. His is burning. + +"You have given a reason for my staying, indeed," says he. "But what is +the meaning of it?" + +"This!" cried she, throwing up her head, and showing him her shamed and +grief-stricken face. "I am a coward! In spite of everything I would not +have you go--so far!" + +"I see. I understand," he sighs, heavily. "And yet that story was a foul +lie! It is all that stands between us, Isabel. Is it not so? But you +will not believe." + +There, is a long silence, during which neither of them stirs. They seem +wrapt in thought--in silence--he still holding her hand. + +"If it was a lie," says she at last, breaking the quiet around them by +an effort, "would you so far forgive my distrust of you as to be holding +my hand like this?" + +"Yes. What is there I would not forgive you?" says he. "And it was a +lie!" + +"Cyril," cries she in great agitation, "take care! It is a last moment! +Do you dare to tell me that still? Supposing your story to be true, and +mine--that woman's--false, how would it be between us then?" + +"As it was in the first good old time when we were married." + +"You, could forgive the wrong I have done you all these years, +supposing----" + +"Everything--all." + +"Ah!" This sound seems crushed out of her. She steps backward, and a dry +sob breaks from her. + +"What is it?" asks he, quickly. + +"Oh, that I could--that I dared--believe," says she. + +"You would have proofs," says he, coldly, resigning her hand. "My word +is not enough. You might love me did I prove worthy; your love is not +strong enough to endure the pang of distrust. Was ever real love so poor +a thing as that? However, you shall have them." + +"What?" asks she, raising her head. + +"The proofs you desire," responds he, icily. "That woman--your +friend--the immaculate one--died the the day before yesterday. What? You +never heard? And you and she----" + +"She was nothing to me," says Lady Baltimore. "Nothing since." + +"The day she reviled me! And yet"--with a most joyless laugh--"for the +sake of a woman you cared so little about, that even her death has not +caused you a pang, you severed the tie that should have been the closest +to you on earth? Well, she is dead. 'Heaven rest her sowl!' as the +peasants say. She wrote me a letter on her bed of death." + +"Yes?" Eagerly. + +"You still doubt?" says he, with a stern glance at her. "So be it; you +shall see the letter, though how will that satisfy you? For you can +always gratify your desire for suspicion by regarding it as a forgery. +The woman herself is dead, so, of course, there is no one to contradict. +Do think this all out," says he, with a contemptuous laugh, "before you +commit yourself to a fresh belief in me. You see I give you every +chance. To such a veritable 'Thomas' in petticoats every road should be +laid open. Now"--tauntingly--"will you wait here whilst I bring the +proof?" + +He is gazing at her in a heartbroken sort of way. Is it the end? Is it +all really over? There had been a faint flicker of the dying candle--a +tiny glare--and now for all time is it to be darkness? + +As for her. Ever since he had let her hand go, she had stood with bent +head looking at it. He had taken it, he had let it go; there seemed to +be a promise of heaven--was it a false one? + +She is silent, and Baltimore, who had hoped for one word of trust, of +belief, makes a gesture of despair. + +"I will bring you the letter," he says, moving toward the door. When he +does bring it--when she had read it and satisfied herself of the loyalty +so long doubted, where, he asks himself, will they two be then? Further +apart than ever? He has forgiven a great deal--much more than this--and +yet, strange human nature, he knows if he once leaves the room and her +presence now, he will never return again. The letter she will see--but +him--never! + +The door is open. He has almost crossed the threshold. Once again her +voice recalls him, once again he looks back, she is holding out her arms +to him. + +"Cyril! Cyril!" she cried. "I believe you." + +She staggers toward him. Mercifully the fountain of her tears breaks +loose, she flings herself into his willing arms, and sobs out a whole +world of grief upon his bosom. + +It is a cruel moment, yet one fraught with joy as keen as the sorrow--a +fire of anguish out of which both emerge purified, calmed--gladdened. + + + + +CHAPTER LVIII. + + "Lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers + appear on the earth; the time of the singing of the birds has + come." + + +The vague suspicion of rain that had filled their thoughts at breakfast +has proved idle. The sun is shining forth again with redoubled vigor, as +if laughing their silly doubts to scorn. Never was there so fair a day. +One can almost see the plants growing in the garden, and from every +bough the nesting birds are singing loud songs of joy. + +The meadows are showing a lovely green, and in the glades and uplands +the + + "Daffodils + That come before the swallow dares," + +are uprearing their lovely heads. The air is full of sweet scents and +sounds, and Joyce, jumping down from the drawing-room window, that lies +close to the ground, looks gladly round her. Perhaps it is not so much +the beauty of the scene as the warmth of happiness in her own heart that +brings the smile to her lips and eyes. + +He will be here to-day! Involuntarily she raises one hand and looks at +the ring that encircles her engaged finger. A charming ring of pearls +and sapphires. It evidently brings her happy thoughts, as, after gazing +at it for a moment or two, she stoops and presses her lips eagerly to +it. It is his first gift (though not his last), and therefore the most +precious. What girl does not like receiving a present from her lover? +The least mercenary woman on earth must feel a glow at her heart and a +fonder recognition of her sweetheart's worth when he lays a +love-offering at her feet. + +Joyce, after her one act of devotion to her sweetheart, runs down the +garden path and toward the summer house. She is not expecting Dysart +until the day has well grown into its afternoon; but, book in hand, she +has escaped from all possible visitors to spend a quiet hour in the old +earwiggy shanty at the end of the garden, sure of finding herself safe +there from interruptions. + +The sequel proves the futility of all human belief. + +Inside the summer house; book in hand likewise, sits Mr. Browne, a +picture of studious virtue. + +Miss Kavanagh, seeing him, stops dead short, so great is her surprise, +and Mr. Browne, raising his eyes, as if with difficulty, from the book +on his knee, surveys her with a calmly judicial eye. + +"Not here. Not here, my child," quotes he, incorrectly. "You had better +try next door." + +"Try for what?" demands she, indignantly. + +"For whom? You mean----" + +"No, I don't," with increasing anger. + +"Jocelyne!" says Mr. Browne, severely. "When one forsakes the path of +truth it is only to tread in----" + +"Nonsense!" says Miss Kavanagh, irreverently. + +"As you will!" says he, meekly. "But I assure you he is not here." + +"I could have told you that," says she, coloring, however, very warmly. +"I must say, Dicky, you are the most ingeniously stupid person I ever +met in my life." + +"To shine in even the smallest line in life is to achieve something," +says Mr. Browne, complacently. "And so you knew he wouldn't be here just +now?" + +This is uttered in an insinuating tone. Miss Kavanagh feels she has made +a false move. To give Dicky an inch is, indeed, to give him an ell. + +"He? Who?" says she, weakly. + +"Don't descend to dissimulation, Jocelyne," advises he, severely. "It's +the surest road to ruin, if one is to believe the good old copy books. +By he--you see I scorn subterfuge--I mean Dysart, the person to whom in +a mistaken moment you have affianced yourself, as though I--I were not +ready at any time to espouse you." + +"I'm not going to be espoused," says Miss Kavanagh, half laughing. + +"No? I quite understood----" + +"I won't have that word," petulantly. "It sounds like something out of +the dark ages." + +"So does he," says Mr. Browne. "'Felix,' you know. So Latin! Quite like +one of the old monks. I shouldn't wonder if he turned out a----" + +"I wish you wouldn't tease me, Dicky," says she. "You think you are +amusing, you know, but I think you are one of the rudest people I ever +met. I wish you would let me alone." + +"Ah! Why didn't you leave me alone?" says he, with a sigh that would +have set a furnace ablaze. "However!" with a noble determination to +overcome his grief. "Let the past lie. You want to go and meet Dysart, +isn't that it? And I'll go and meet him with you. Could self-sacrifice +further go? 'Jim along Josy,' no doubt he is at the upper gate by this +time, flying on the wings of love." + +"He is not," says Joyce; "and I wish once for all, Dicky, that you +wouldn't call me 'Josy.' 'Jocelyne' is bad enough, but 'Josy!' And I'm +not going to 'jim' anywhere, and certainly"--with strong +determination--"not with you." She looks at him with sudden curiosity. +"What brought you here to-day?" asks she, most inhospitably it must be +confessed. + +"What brings me here every day? To see the unkindest girl in the world." + +"She doesn't live here," says Miss Kavanagh. "Dicky"--changing her tone +suddenly and looking at him with earnest eyes. "What is this I hear +about Lady Baltimore and her husband? Be sensible now, do, and tell me." + +"They're going abroad together--with Bertie. They've made it up," says +he, growing as sensible as even she can desire. "It is such a complete +make up all round that they didn't even ask me to go with them. However, +I'm determined to join them at Nice on their return from Egypt. Too much +billing and cooing is bad for people." + +"I'm so glad," says Joyce, her eyes filling with tears. "They are two +such dear people, and if it hadn't been for Lady--By the by, where is +Lady Swansdown?" + +"Russia, I think." + +"Well, I liked her, too," says Joyce, with a sigh; "but she wasn't good +for Baltimore, was she?" + +"Not very!" says Mr. Browne, dryly. "I should say, on the whole, that +she disagreed with him. Tonics are sometimes dangerous." + +"I'm so delighted," says Joyce, still thinking of Lady Baltimore. +"Well," smiling at him, "why don't you go in and see Barbara?" + +"I have seen her, talked with her a long while, and bid her adieu. I was +on my way back to the Court, having failed in my hope of seeing you, +when I found this delightful nest of earwigs, and thought I'd stay and +confabulate with them a while in default of better companions." + +"Poor Dicky!" says she. "Come with me, then, and I'll talk to you for +half an hour." + +"Too late!" says he, looking at his watch. "There is only one thing left +me now to, say to you, and that is, 'Good-by.'" + +"Why this mad haste?" + +"Ah, ha! I Can have my little secrets, too," says he. "A whisper in your +ear," leaning toward her. + +"No, thank you," says she, waving him off with determination. "I +remember your last whisper. There! if you can't stay, Dicky, good by +indeed. I'm going for a walk." + +She turns away resolutely, leaving Mr. Browne to sink back upon the seat +and continue his reading, or else to go and meet that secret he spoke +of. + +"I say," calls he, running after her. "You may as well see me as far as +the gate, any way." It is evident the book at least has lost its charms. +Miss Kavanagh not being stony hearted so far gives in as to walk with +him to a side gate, and having finally bidden him adieu, goes back to +the summer house he has quitted, and, opening her book, prepares to +enjoy herself. + +Vain preparation! It is plain that the fates are against her to-day. She +is no sooner seated, with her book of poetry open on her knee, than a +little flying form turns the corner and Tommy precipitates himself upon +her. + +"What are you doing?" asks he. + + + + +CHAPTER LIX. + + "Lips are so like flowers + I might snatch at those + Redder than the rose leaves, + Sweeter than the rose." + + "Love is a great master." + + +"I am reading," says she. "Can't you see that?" + +"Read to me, then," says Tommy, scrambling up on the bench beside her +and snuggling himself under her arm. "I love to hear people." + +"Well, not this, at all events," says Miss Kavanagh, placing the dainty +copy of "The Muses of Mayfair," she has been reading on the rustic table +in front of her. + +"Why not that one? What is it?" asks Tommy, staring at the book. + +"Nothing you would like. Horrid stuff. Only poetry." + +"What's poetry?" + +"Oh, nonsense, Tommy, you know very well what poetry is. Your hymns are +poetry." This she considers will put an end to all desire for the book +in question. It is a clever and skilful move, but it fails signally. +There is silence for a moment while Tommy cogitates, and then---- + +"Are those hymns?" demands he, pointing at the discarded volume. + +"N-o, not exactly." This is scarcely disingenuous, and Miss Kavanagh has +the grace to blush a little. She is the further discomposed in that she +becomes aware presently that Tommy sees through her perfectly. + +"Well, what are they?" asks he. + +"Oh--er--well--just poetry, you know." + +"I don't," says Tommy, flatly, who is nothing if not painfully truthful. +"Let me hear them." He pauses here and regards her with a searching eye. +"They"--with careful forethought--"they aren't lessons, are they?" + +"No; they are not lessons," says his aunt, laughing. "But you won't like +them for all that. If you are athirst for literature, get me one of your +own books, and I will read 'Jack the Giant Killer' to you." + +"I'm sick of him," says Tommy, most ungratefully. That tremendous hero +having filled up many an idle hour of his during his short lifetime. +"No," nestling closer to her. "Go on with your poetry one!" + +"You would hate it. It is worse than 'Jack,'" says she. + +"Let me hear it," says Tommy, persistently. + +"Well," says Miss Kavanagh, with a sigh, "if you will have it, at least, +don't interrupt." She has tried very hard to get rid of him, but, having +failed in so signal a fashion, she gives herself up with an admirable +resignation to the inevitable. + +"What would I do that for?" asks Tommy, rather indignantly. + +"I don't know, I'm sure. But I thought I'd warn you," says she, wisely +precautious. "Now, sit down there," pointing to the seat beside her; +"and when you feel you have had enough of it, say so at once." + +"That would be interrupting," says Tommy, the Conscientious. + +"Well, I give you leave to interrupt so far," says Joyce, glad to leave +him a loop-hole that may insure his departure before Felix comes. "But +no further--mind that." + +"Oh, I'm minding!" says Tommy, impatiently. "Go on. Why don't you +begin?" + +Miss Kavanagh, taking up her book once more, opens it at random. All its +contents are sweetmeats of the prettiest, so she is not driven to a +choice. She commences to read in a firm, soft voice:-- + + "The wind and the beam loved the rose, + And the roses loved one: + For who recks the----" + +"What's that?" says Tommy. + +"What's what?" + +"You aren't reading it right, are you?" + +"Certainly I am. Why?" + +"I don't believe a beam of wood could love anything," says Tommy; "it's +too heavy." + +"It doesn't mean a beam of wood." + +"Doesn't it?" staring up into her face. "What's it mean, then--'The beam +that is in thine own eye?'" + +He is now examining her own eye with great interest. As usual, Tommy is +strong in Bible lore. + +"I have no beam in my eye, I hope," says Joyce, laughing; "and, at all +events, it doesn't mean that either. The poet who wrote this meant a +sunbeam." + +"Well, why couldn't he say so?" says Tommy, gruffly. + +"I really think you had better bring me one of your own books," says +Joyce. "I told you this would----" + +"No," obstinately, "I like this. It sounds so nice and smoothly. Go on," +says Tommy, giving her a nudge. + +Joyce, with a sigh, reopens the volume, and gives herself up for lost. +To argue with Tommy is always to know fatigue, and nothing else. One +never gains anything by it. + +"Well, do be quiet now, and listen," says she, protesting faintly. + +"I'm listening like anything," says Tommy. And, indeed, now at last it +seems as if he were. + +So silent does he grow as his aunt reads on that you might have heard a +mouse squeak. But for the low, soft tones of Joyce no smallest sound +breaks the sweet silence of the day. Miss Kavanagh is beginning to feel +distinctly flattered. If one can captivate the flitting fancies of a +child by one's eloquent rendering of charming verse, what may one not +aspire to? There must be something in her style if it can reduce a boy +of seven to such a state of ecstatic attention, considering the subject +is hardly such a one as would suit his tender years. + +But Tommy was always thoughtful beyond his age. A dear, clever little +fellow! So appreciative! Far, far beyond the average! He---- + +The mild sweetness of the spring evening and her own thoughts are broken +in upon at this instant by the "dear, clever little fellow." + +"He has just got to your waist now," says he, with an air of wild if +subdued excitement. + +"He! Who! What!" shrieks Joyce, springing to her feet. A long +acquaintance with Tommy has taught her to dread the worst. + +"Oh, there! Of course you've knocked him down, and I did want to see how +high he would go. I was tickling his tail to make him hurry up," says +Tommy, in an aggrieved tone. "I can't see him anywhere now," peering +about on the ground at her feet. + +"Oh! What was it, Tommy? Do speak!" cries Joyce, in a frenzy of fear and +disgust. + +"'Twas an earwig!" says Tommy, lifting a seraphic face to hers. "And +such a big one! He was racing up your dress most beautifully, and now +you've upset him. Poor thing--I don't believe he'll ever find his way +back to you again." + +"I should hope not, indeed!" says Miss Kavanagh, hastily. + +"He began at the very end of your frock," goes on Tommy, still searching +diligently on the ground, as if to find the earwig, with a view to +restoring it to its lost hunting ground; "and it wriggled up so nicely. +I don't know where he is now"--sorrowfully--"unless," with a sudden +brightening of his expressive face, "he is up your petticoats." + +"Tommy! What a horrid, bad boy you are!" cries poor Joyce, wildly. She +gives a frantic shake to the petticoats in question. "Find him at once, +sir! He must be somewhere down there. I shan't have an instant's peace +until I know where he is." + +"I can't see him anywhere," says Tommy. "Maybe you'll feel him +presently, and then we'll know. He isn't on your leg now, is he?" + +"Oh! don't!" cries Joyce, who looks as if she is going, to cry. She +gives herself another vigorous shake, and stands away from the spot +where Tommy evidently thinks the noxious beast in question may be, with +her petticoats held carefully up in both hands. "Oh, Tommy, darling! Do +find him. He can't be up my petticoats, can he?" + +"He can. There's, nothing they can't do," says Tommy, who is plainly +revelling in the storm he has raised. Her open fright is beer and +skittles to him. "Why did you stir? He was as good as gold, until then; +and there wasn't anything to be afraid of. I was watching him. When he +got to your ear I'd have told you. I wouldn't like him to make you deaf, +but I wanted to see if he would go to your ear. But you spoiled all my +fun, and now--where is he now?" asks Tommy, with an awful suggestion in +his tone. + +"On the grass, perhaps," says Joyce, miserably, looking round her +everywhere, and even on her shoulder. "I don't feel him anywhere." + +"Sometimes they stay quite a long time, and then they crawl!" says +Tommy, the most horrible anticipation in his tone. + +"Really, Tommy," cries his aunt, indignantly, "I do think you are the +most abominable boy I ever met in my life. There, go away! I certainly +shan't read another line to you--either now--or--ever!" + +"What is the matter?" asks a voice at this moment, that sounds close to +her elbow. She turns round with a start. + +"It is you, Felix!" says she, coloring warmly. "Oh--oh, it's nothing. +Only Tommy. And he said I had an earwig on me. And I was just a little +unnerved, you know." + +"And no wonder," says her lover, with delightful sympathy. "I can't bear +that sort of wild animal myself. Tommy, you ought to be ashamed of +yourself. When you saw him why didn't you rise up and slay the destroyer +of your aunt's peace? There; run away into the hall. You will find on +one of the tables a box of chocolate. I told Mabel it was there; perhaps +she----" + +Like an arrow from the bow, Tommy departs. + +"He has evidently his doubts of Mabel," says Joyce, laughing rather +nervously. She is still a little shy with Felix. "He doesn't trust her." + +"No." He has seated himself and now draws her down beside him. "You were +reading?" he says. + +"Yes." + +"To Tommy?" + +"Yes," laughing more naturally this time. + +"Tommy is a more learned person than one would have supposed. Is this +the sort of thing he likes?" pointing to Nydia's exquisite song. + +"I am afraid not, though he would insist upon my reading it. The earwig +was evidently far more engrossing as a subject than either the wind or +the rose." + +"And yet--" he has his arm round her now, and is reading the poem over +her shoulder. + +"You are my Rose," says he, softly. "And you--do you love but one?" + +She makes a little mute gesture that might signify anything or nothing +to the uninitiated, but to him is instinct with a most happy meaning. + +"Am I that one, darling?" + +She makes the same little silent movement again, but this time she adds +to it by casting a swift glance upward at him from under her lowered +lids. + +"Make me sure of it," entreated he almost in a whisper. He leans over +her, lower, lower still. With a little tremulous laugh, dangerously akin +to tears, she raises her soft palm to his cheek and tries to press +him--from her. But he holds her fast. + +"Make me sure!" he says again. There is a last faint hesitation on her +part, and then--their lips meet. + +"I have doubted always--always a little--ever since that night down by +the river," says he, "but now----" + +"Oh, no! You must not doubt me again!" says she with tears in her eyes. + + +THE END. + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's April's Lady, by Margaret Wolfe Hungerford + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK APRIL'S LADY *** + +***** This file should be named 21641-8.txt or 21641-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/1/6/4/21641/ + +Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by the Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions +(www.canadiana.org)) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: April's Lady + A Novel + +Author: Margaret Wolfe Hungerford + +Release Date: May 29, 2007 [EBook #21641] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK APRIL'S LADY *** + + + + +Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by the Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions +(www.canadiana.org)) + + + + + + +</pre> + + + + + + + + +<h1>APRIL'S LADY.</h1> + +<h3>A NOVEL.</h3> + +<h2>BY "THE DUCHESS"</h2> + +<h3><i>Author of "Molly Bawn," "Phyllis," "Lady Branksmere," "Beauty's +Daughters," etc., etc.</i></h3> + +<h4><span class="smcap">Montreal</span>:<br /> +JOHN LOVELL & SON,<br /> +23 <span class="smcap">St. Nicholas Street</span>.</h4> + + +<h4>Entered according to Act of Parliament in the year 1890, by John Lovell +& Son, in the office of the Minister of Agriculture and Statistics at +Ottawa.</h4> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<!-- Autogenerated TOC. Modify or delete as required. --> +<p> +<a href="#CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">CHAPTER XVII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">CHAPTER XVIII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">CHAPTER XIX.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XX">CHAPTER XX.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">CHAPTER XXI.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">CHAPTER XXII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">CHAPTER XXIII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">CHAPTER XXIV.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">CHAPTER XXV.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI">CHAPTER XXVI.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII">CHAPTER XXVII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII">CHAPTER XXVIII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX">CHAPTER XXIX.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXX">CHAPTER XXX.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXI">CHAPTER XXXI.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXII">CHAPTER XXXII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIII">CHAPTER XXXIII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIV">CHAPTER XXXIV.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXV">CHAPTER XXXV.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVI">CHAPTER XXXVI.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVII">CHAPTER XXXVII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVIII">CHAPTER XXXVIII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIX">CHAPTER XXXIX.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XL">CHAPTER XL.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XLI">CHAPTER XLI.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XLII">CHAPTER XLII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XLIII">CHAPTER XLIII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XLIV">CHAPTER XLIV.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XLV">CHAPTER XLV.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XLVI">CHAPTER XLVI.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XLVII">CHAPTER XLVII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XLVIII">CHAPTER XLVIII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XLIX">CHAPTER XLIX.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_L">CHAPTER L.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_LI">CHAPTER LI.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_LII">CHAPTER LII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_LIII">CHAPTER LIII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_LIV">CHAPTER LIV.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_LV">CHAPTER LV.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_LVI">CHAPTER LVI.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_LVII">CHAPTER LVII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_LVIII">CHAPTER LVIII.</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_LIX">CHAPTER LIX.</a><br /> +</p> +<!-- End Autogenerated TOC. --> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>APRIL'S LADY.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Must we part? or may I linger?</span> +<span class="i2">Wax the shadows, wanes the day."</span> +<span class="i0">Then, with voice of sweetest singer,</span> +<span class="i2">That hath all but died away,</span> +<span class="i0">"Go," she said, but tightened finger</span> +<span class="i2">Said articulately, "Stay!"</span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I.</h2> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"Philosophy triumphs easily over past and over future evils, but +present evils triumph over philosophy."</p></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>"A letter from my father," says Mr. Monkton, flinging the letter in +question across the breakfast-table to his wife.</p> + +<p>"A letter from Sir George!" Her dark, pretty face flushes crimson.</p> + +<p>"And <i>such</i> a letter after eight years of obstinate silence. There! read +it," says her husband, contemptuously. The contempt is all for the +writer of the letter.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Monkton taking it up, with a most honest curiosity, that might +almost be termed anxiety, reads it through, and in turn flings it from +her as though it had been a scorpion.</p> + +<p>"Never mind, Jack!" says she with a great assumption of indifference +that does not hide from her husband the fact that her eyes are full of +tears. "Butter that bit of toast for me before it is <i>quite</i> cold, and +give Joyce some ham. Ham, darling? or an egg?" to Joyce, with a forced +smile that makes her charming face quite sad.</p> + +<p>"Have you two been married eight whole years?" asks Joyce laying her +elbows on the table, and staring at her sister with an astonished gaze. +"It seems like yesterday! What a swindler old Time is. To look at +Barbara, one would not believe she could have been <i>born</i> eight years +ago."</p> + +<p>"Nonsense!" says Mrs. Monkton laughing, and looking as pleased as +married women—even the happiest—always do, when they are told they +look <i>un</i>married. "Why Tommy is seven years old."</p> + +<p>"Oh! That's nothing!" says Joyce airily, turning her dark eyes, that are +lovelier, if possible, than her sister's, upon the sturdy child who is +sitting at his father's right hand. "Tommy, we all know, is much older +than his mother. Much more advanced; more learned in the wisdom of +<i>this</i> world; aren't you, Tommy?"</p> + +<p>But Tommy, at this present moment, is deaf to the charms of +conversation, his young mind being nobly bent on proving to his sister +(a priceless treasure of six) that the salt-cellar planted between them +belongs <i>not</i> to her, but to him! This sounds reasonable, but the +difficulty lies in making Mabel believe it. There comes the pause +eloquent at last, and then, I regret to say, the free fight!</p> + +<p>It might perhaps have been even freer, but for the swift intervention of +the paternal relative, who, swooping down upon the two belligerents with +a promptitude worthy of all praise, seizes upon his daughter, and in +spite of her kicks, which are noble, removes her to the seat on his left +hand.</p> + +<p>Thus separated hope springs within the breasts of the lookers-on that +peace may soon be restored; and indeed, after a sob or two from Mabel, +and a few passes of the most reprehensible sort from Tommy (entirely of +the facial order), a great calm falls upon the breakfast-room.</p> + +<p>"When I was your age, Tommy," says Mr. Monkton addressing his son, and +striving to be all that the orthodox parent ought to be, "I should have +been soundly whipped if I had behaved to my sister as you have just now +behaved to yours!"</p> + +<p>"You <i>haven't</i> a sister," says Tommy, after which the argument falls +flat. It is true, Mr. Monkton is innocent of a sister, but how did the +little demon remember that so <i>apropos</i>.</p> + +<p>"Nevertheless," said Mr. Monkton, "if I <i>had</i> had a sister, I <i>know</i> I +should not have been unkind to her."</p> + +<p>"Then she'd have been unkind to you," says Tommy, who is evidently not +afraid to enter upon a discussion of the rights and wrongs of mankind +with his paternal relative. "Look at Mabel! And I don't care <i>what</i> she +says," with a vindictive glance at the angelic featured Mabel, who +glares back at him with infinite promise of a future settlement of all +their disputes in her ethereal eyes. "'Twas <i>my</i> salt-cellar, not hers!"</p> + +<p>"Ladies first—pleasure afterwards," says his father somewhat idly.</p> + +<p>"Oh <i>Freddy</i>!" says his wife.</p> + +<p>"Seditious language <i>I</i> call it," says Jocelyne with a laugh.</p> + +<p>"Eh?" says Mr. Monkton. "Why what on earth have I been saying now. I +quite believed I was doing the heavy father to perfection and teaching +Tommy his duty."</p> + +<p>"Nice duty," says Jocelyne, with a pretence of indignation, that makes +her charming face a perfect picture. "Teaching him to regard us as +second best! I like that."</p> + +<p>"Good heavens! did I give that impression? I must have swooned," says +Mr. Monkton penitently. "When last in my senses I thought I had been +telling Tommy that he deserved a good whipping; and that if good old +Time could so manage as to make me my own father, he would assuredly +have got it."</p> + +<p>"Oh! <i>your</i> father!" says Mrs. Monkton in a low tone; there is enough +expression in it, however, to convey the idea to everyone present that +in her opinion her husband's father would be guilty of any atrocity at a +moment's notice.</p> + +<p>"Well, <i>'twas</i> my salt-cellar," says Tommy again stoutly, and as if +totally undismayed by the vision of the grand-fatherly scourge held out +to him. After all we none of us feel things much, unless they come +personally home to us.</p> + +<p>"Was it?" says Mr. Monkton mildly. "Do you know, I really quite fancied +it was mine."</p> + +<p>"What?" says Tommy, cocking his ear. He, like his sister, is in a +certain sense a fraud. For Tommy has the face of a seraph with the heart +of a hardy Norseman. There is nothing indeed that Tommy would not dare.</p> + +<p>"Mine, you know," says his father, even more mildly still.</p> + +<p>"No, it wasn't," says Tommy with decision, "it was at <i>my</i> side of the +table. <i>Yours</i> is over there."</p> + +<p>"Thomas!" says his father, with a rueful shake of the head that +signifies his resignation of the argument; "it is indeed a pity that I +am <i>not</i> like my father!"</p> + +<p>"Like him! Oh <i>no</i>," says Mrs. Monkton emphatically, impulsively; the +latent dislike to the family who had refused to recognize her on her +marriage with their son taking fire at this speech.</p> + +<p>Her voice sounds almost hard—the gentle voice, that in truth was only +meant by Mother Nature to give expression to all things kind and loving.</p> + +<p>She has leant a little forward and a swift flush is dyeing her cheek. +She is of all women the youngest looking, for her years; as a matron +indeed she seems absurd. The delicate bloom of girlhood seems never to +have left her, but—as though in love of her beauty—has clung to her +day by day. So that now, when she has known eight years of married life +(and some of them deeply tinctured with care—the cruel care that want +of money brings), she still looks as though the morning of womanhood was +as yet but dawning for her.</p> + +<p>And this is because love the beautifier went with her all the way! Hand +in hand he has traveled with her on the stony paths that those who marry +must undoubtedly pursue. Never once had he let go his hold, and so it +is, that her lovely face has defied Time (though after all that +obnoxious Ancient has not had yet much opportunity given him to spoil +it), and at twenty-five she looks but a little older than her sister, +who is just eighteen, and seven years younger than she is.</p> + +<p>Her pretty soft grey Irish eyes, that are as nearly <i>not</i> black as it is +possible for them to be, are still filled with the dews of youth. Her +mouth is red and happy. Her hair—so distinctly chestnut as to be almost +guilty of a shade of red in it here and there—covers her dainty head in +rippling masses, that fall lightly forward, and rest upon a brow, +snow-white, and low and broad as any Greek's might be.</p> + +<p>She had spoken a little hurriedly, with some touch of anger. But quick +as the anger was born, so quickly does it die.</p> + +<p>"I shouldn't have said that, perhaps," says she, sending a little +tremulous glance at her husband from behind the urn. "But I couldn't +help it. I can't <i>bear</i> to hear you say you would like to be like him."</p> + +<p>She smiles (a little, gentle, "don't-be-angry-with-me" smile, scarcely +to be resisted by any man, and certainly not by her husband, who adores +her). It is scarcely necessary to record this last fact, as all who run +may read it for themselves, but it saves time to put it in black and +white.</p> + +<p>"But why not, my dear?" says Mr. Monkton, magisterially. "Surely, +considering all things, you have reason to be deeply grateful to Sir +George. Why, then, abuse him?"</p> + +<p>"Grateful! To Sir George! To your father!" cries his wife, hotly and +quick, and——</p> + +<p>"Freddy!" from his sister-in-law brings him to a full stop for a moment.</p> + +<p>"Do you mean to tell me," says he, thus brought to bay, "that you have +nothing to thank Sir George for?" He is addressing his wife.</p> + +<p>"Nothing, nothing!" declares she, vehemently, the remembrance of that +last letter from her husband's father, that still lies within reach of +her view, lending a suspicion of passion to her voice.</p> + +<p>"Oh, my dear girl, <i>consider</i>!" says Mr. Monkton, lively reproach in his +tone. "Has he not given you <i>me</i>, the best husband in Europe?"</p> + +<p>"Ah, what it is to be modest," says Joyce, with her little quick +brilliant laugh.</p> + +<p>"Well, it's not true," says Mrs. Monkton, who has laughed also, in spite +of herself and the soreness at her heart. "He did <i>not</i> give you to me. +You made me that gift of your own free will. I have, as I said before, +nothing to thank him for."</p> + +<p>"I always think he must be a silly old man," says Joyce, which seems to +put a fitting termination to the conversation.</p> + +<p>The silence that ensues annoys Tommy, who dearly loves to hear the human +voice divine. As expressed by himself first, but if that be +impracticable, well, then by somebody else. <i>Anything</i> is better than +dull silence.</p> + +<p>"Is he that?" asks he, eagerly, of his aunt.</p> + +<p>Though I speak of her as his aunt, I hope it will not be misunderstood +for a moment that Tommy totally declines to regard her in any +reverential light whatsoever. A playmate, a close friend, a confidante, +a useful sort of person, if you will, but certainly not an <i>aunt</i>, in +the general acceptation of that term. From the very first year that +speech fell on them, both Mabel and he had refused to regard Miss +Kavanagh as anything but a confederate in all their scrapes, a friend to +rejoice with in all their triumphs; she had never been aunt, never, +indeed, even so much as the milder "auntie" to them; she had been +"Joyce," only, from the very commencement of their acquaintance. The +united commands of both father and mother (feebly enforced) had been +insufficient to compel them to address this most charming specimen of +girlhood by any grown up title. To them their aunt was just such an one +as themselves—only, perhaps, a little <i>more</i> so.</p> + +<p>A lovely creature, at all events, and lovable as lovely. A little +inconsequent, perhaps at times, but always amenable to reason, when put +into a corner, and full of the glad, laughter of youth.</p> + +<p>"Is he what?" says she, now returning Tommy's eager gaze.</p> + +<p>"The best husband in Europe. He <i>says</i> he's that," with a doubtful stare +at his father.</p> + +<p>"Why, the <i>very</i> best, of course," says Joyce, nodding emphatically. +"Always remember that, Tommy. It's a good thing to <i>be</i>, you know. +<i>You'll</i> want to be that, won't you?"</p> + +<p>But if she has hoped to make a successful appeal to Tommy's noble +qualities (hitherto, it must be confessed, carefully kept hidden), she +finds herself greatly mistaken.</p> + +<p>"No, I won't," says that truculent person distinctly. "I want to be a +big general with a cocked hat, and to kill people. I don't want to be a +husband <i>at all</i>. What's the good of that?"</p> + +<p>"To pursue the object would be to court defeat," says Mr. Monkton +meekly. He rises from the table, and, seeing him move, his wife rises +too.</p> + +<p>"You are going to your study?" asks she, a little anxiously. He is about +to say "no" to this, but a glance at her face checks him.</p> + +<p>"Yes, come with me," says he instead, answering the lovely silent appeal +in her eyes. That letter has no doubt distressed her. She will be +happier when she has talked it over with him—they two alone. "As for +you, Thomas," says his father, "I'm quite aware that you ought to be +consigned to the Donjon keep after your late behavior, but as we don't +keep one on the premises, I let you off this time. Meanwhile I haste to +my study to pen, with the assistance of your enraged mother, a letter to +our landlord that will induce him to add one on at once to this +building. After which we shall be able to incarcerate you at our +pleasure (but <i>not</i> at yours) on any and every hour of the day."</p> + +<p>"Who's Don John?" asks Tommy, totally unimpressed, but filled with +lively memories of those Spaniards and other foreign powers who have +unkindly made more difficult his hateful lessons off and on.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II.</h2> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"No love lost between us."</p></div> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>"Well," says Mr. Monkton, turning to his wife as the study (a rather +nondescript place) is reached. He has closed the door, and is now +looking at her with a distinctly quizzical light in his eyes and in the +smile that parts his lips. "Now for it. Have no qualms. I've been +preparing myself all through breakfast and I think I shall survive it. +You are going to have it out with me, aren't you?"</p> + +<p>"Not with <i>you</i>," says she, returning his smile indeed, but faintly, and +without heart, "that horrid letter! I felt I <i>must</i> talk of it to +someone, and——"</p> + +<p>"<i>I</i> was that mythical person. I quite understand. I take it as a +special compliment."</p> + +<p>"I know it is hard on you, but when I am really vexed about anything, +you know, I always want to tell you about it."</p> + +<p>"I should feel it a great deal harder if you <i>didn't</i> want to tell me +about it," says he. He has come nearer to her and has pressed her into a +chair—a dilapidated affair that if ever it <i>had</i> a best day has +forgotten it by now—and yet for all that is full of comfort. "I am only +sorry"—moving away again and leaning against the chimney piece—"that +you should be so foolish as to let my father's absurd prejudices annoy +you at this time of day."</p> + +<p>"He will always have it in his power to annoy me," says she quickly. +"That perhaps," with a little burst of feeling, "is why I can't forgive +him. If I could forget, or grow indifferent to it all, I should not have +this <i>hurt</i> feeling in my heart. But he is your father, and though he is +the most unjust, the cruellest man on earth, I still hate to think he +should regard me as he does."</p> + +<p>"There is one thing, however, you do forget," says Mr. Monkton gravely. +"I don't want to apologize for him, but I would remind you that he has +never seen you."</p> + +<p>"That's only an aggravation of his offence," her color heightening; "the +very fact that he should condemn me unseen, unheard, adds to the wrong +he has done me instead of taking from it." She rises abruptly and begins +to pace up and down the room, the hot Irish blood in her veins afire. +"No"—with a little impatient gesture of her small hand—"I <i>can't</i> sit +still. Every pulse seems throbbing. He has opened up all the old wounds, +and——" She pauses and then turns upon her husband two lovely flashing +eyes. "Why, <i>why</i> should he suppose that I am vulgar, lowly born, unfit +to be your wife?"</p> + +<p>"My darling girl, what can it matter what he thinks? A ridiculous +headstrong old man in one scale, and——"</p> + +<p>"But it does matter. I want to <i>convince</i> him that I am not—not—what +he believes me to be."</p> + +<p>"Then come over to England and see him."</p> + +<p>"No—never! I shall never go to England. I shall stay in Ireland always. +My own land; the land whose people he detests because he knows nothing +about them. It was one of his chief objections to your marriage with me, +that I was an Irish girl!"</p> + +<p>She stops short, as though her wrath and indignation and contempt is too +much for her.</p> + +<p>"Barbara," says Monkton, very gently, but with a certain reproach, "do +you know you almost make me think that you regret our marriage."</p> + +<p>"No, I don't," quickly. "If I talked for ever I shouldn't be able to +make you think <i>that</i>. But——" She turns to him suddenly, and gazes at +him through large eyes that are heavy with tears. "I shall always be +sorry for one thing, and that is—that you first met me where you did."</p> + +<p>"At your aunt's? Mrs. Burke's?"</p> + +<p>"She is <i>not</i> my aunt," with a little frown of distaste; "she is nothing +to me so far as blood is concerned. Oh! Freddy." She stops close to him, +and gives him a grief-stricken glance. "I wish my poor father had been +alive when first you saw me. That we could have met for the first time +in the old home. It was shabby—faded"—her face paling now with intense +emotion. "But you would have known at once that it <i>had been</i> a fine old +place, and that the owner of it——" She breaks down, very slightly, +almost imperceptibly, but Monkton understands that even one more word is +beyond her.</p> + +<p>"That the owner of it, like St. Patrick, came of decent people," quotes +he with an assumption of gaiety he is far from feeling. "My good child, +I don't want to see <i>anyone</i> to know that of you. You carry the sign +manual. It is written in large characters all over you."</p> + +<p>"Yet I wish you had known me before my father died," says she, her grief +and pride still unassuaged. "He was so unlike anybody else. His manners +were so lovely. He was offered a baronetcy at the end of that Whiteboy +business on account of his loyalty—that nearly cost him his life—but +he refused it, thinking the old name good enough without a handle to +it."</p> + +<p>"Kavanagh, we all know, is a good name."</p> + +<p>"If he had accepted that title he would have been as—the same—as your +father!" There is defiance in this sentence.</p> + +<p>"<i>Quite</i> the same!"</p> + +<p>"No, no, he would not," her defiance now changes into, sorrowful +honesty. "Your father has been a baronet for <i>centuries</i>, my father +would have only been a baronet for a few years."</p> + +<p>"For centuries!" repeats Mr. Monkton with an alarmed air. There is a +latent sense of humor (or rather an appreciation of humor) about him +that hardly endears him to the opposite sex. His wife, being Irish, +condones it, because she happens to understand it, but there are +moments, we all know, when even the very best and most appreciative +women refuse to understand <i>anything</i>. This is one of them. "Condemn my +father if you will," says Mr. Monkton, "accuse him of all the crimes in +the calendar, but for <i>my</i> sake give up the belief that he is the real +and original Wandering Jew. Debrett—Burke—either of those immaculate +people will prove to you that my father ascended his throne in——"</p> + +<p>"You can laugh at me if you like, Freddy," says Mrs. Monkton with +severity tempered with dignity; "but if you laughed until this day month +you couldn't make me forget the things that make me unhappy."</p> + +<p>"I don't want to," says Mr. Monkton, still disgracefully frivolous. +"<i>I'm</i> one of the things, and yet——"</p> + +<p>"Don't!" says his wife, so abruptly, and with such an evident +determination to give way to mirth, coupled with an equally strong +determination to give way to tears, that he at once lays down his arms.</p> + +<p>"Go on then," says he, seating himself beside her. She is not in the +arm-chair now, but on an ancient and respectable sofa that gives ample +room for the accommodation of two; a luxury denied by that old +curmudgeon the arm-chair.</p> + +<p>"Well, it is this, Freddy. When I think of that dreadful old woman, Mrs. +Burke, I feel as though you thought she was a fair sample of the rest of +my family. But she is <i>not</i> a sample, she has nothing to do with us. An +uncle of my mother married her because she was rich, and there her +relationship to us began and ended."</p> + +<p>"Still——"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I know, you needn't remind me, it seems burnt into my brain, I +know she took us in after my father's death, and covered me and Joyce +with benefits when we hadn't a penny in the world we could call our own. +I quite understand, indeed, that we should have starved but for her, and +yet—yet—" passionately, "I cannot forgive her for perpetually +reminding us that we had <i>not</i> that penny!"</p> + +<p>"It must have been a bad time," says Monkton slowly. He takes her hand +and smoothes it lovingly between both of his.</p> + +<p>"She was vulgar. That was not her fault; I forgive her that. What I +can't forgive her, is the fact that you should have met me in her +house."</p> + +<p>"A little unfair, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>"Is it? You will always now associate me with her!"</p> + +<p>"I shan't indeed. Do you think I have up to this? Nonsense! A more +absurd amalgamation I couldn't fancy."</p> + +<p>"She was not one of us," feverishly. "I have never spoken to you about +this, Freddy, since that first letter your father wrote to you just +after our marriage. You remember it? And then, I couldn't explain +somehow—but now—this last letter has upset me dreadfully; I feel as if +it was all different, and that it was my duty to make you aware of the +<i>real</i> truth. Sir George thinks of me as one beneath him; that is not +true. He may have heard that I lived with Mrs. Burke, and that she was +my aunt; but if my mother's brother chose to marry a woman of no family +because she had money,"—contemptuously, "that might disgrace <i>him</i>, but +would not make her kin to <i>us</i>. You saw her, you—" lifting distressed +eyes to his—"you thought her dreadful, didn't you?"</p> + +<p>"I have only had one thought about her. That she was good to you in your +trouble, and that but for her I should never have met you."</p> + +<p>"That is like you," says she gratefully, yet impatiently. "But it isn't +enough. I want you to understand that she is quite unlike my own <i>real</i> +people—my father, who was like a prince," throwing up her head, "and my +uncle, his brother."</p> + +<p>"You have an uncle, then?" with some surprise.</p> + +<p>"Oh no, <i>had</i>," sadly.</p> + +<p>"He is dead then?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. I suppose so. You are wondering," says she quickly, "that I have +never spoken to you of him or my father before. But I <i>could</i> not. The +thought that your family objected to me, despised me, seemed to compel +me to silence. And you—you asked me very little."</p> + +<p>"How could I, Barbara? Any attempt I made was repulsed. I thought it +kinder to——"</p> + +<p>"Yes—I was wrong. I see it now. But I couldn't bear to explain myself. +I told you what I could about my father, and that seemed to me +sufficient. Your people's determination to regard me as impossible tied +my tongue."</p> + +<p>"I don't believe it was that," says he laughing. "I believe we were so +happy that we didn't care to discuss anything but each other. Delightful +subjects full of infinite variety! We have sat so lightly to the world +all these years, that if my father's letter had not come this morning I +honestly think we should never have thought about him again."</p> + +<p>This is scarcely true, but he is bent on giving her mind a happier turn +if possible.</p> + +<p>"What's the good of talking to me like that, Freddy," says she +reproachfully. "You know one never forgets anything of that sort. A +slight I mean; and from one's own family. You are always thinking of it; +you know you are."</p> + +<p>"Well, not always, my dear, certainly—" says Mr. Monkton temporizing. +"And if even I <i>do</i> give way to retrospection, it is to feel indignant +with both my parents."</p> + +<p>"Yes; and I don't want you to feel like that. It must be dreadful, and +it is my fault. When I think how I felt towards my dear old dad, and my +uncle—I——"</p> + +<p>"Well, never mind that. I've got you, and without meaning any gross +flattery, I consider you worth a dozen dads. Tell me about your uncle. +He died?"</p> + +<p>"We don't know. He went abroad fifteen years ago. He must be dead I +think, because if he were alive he would certainly have written to us. +He was very fond of Joyce and me; but no letter from him has reached us +for years. He was charming. I wish you could have known him."</p> + +<p>"So do I—if you wish it. But—" coming over and sitting down beside +her, "don't you think it is a little absurd, Barbara, after all these +years, to think it necessary to tell me that you have good blood in your +veins? Is it not a self-evident fact; and—one more word dearest—surely +you might do me the credit to understand that I could never have fallen +in love with anyone who hadn't an ancestor or two."</p> + +<p>"And yet your father——"</p> + +<p>"I know," rising to his feet, his brow darkening. "Do you think I don't +suffer doubly on your account? That I don't feel the insolence of his +behavior toward you <i>four-fold</i>? There is but one excuse for him and my +mother, and that lies in their terrible disappointment about my +brother—their eldest son."</p> + +<p>"I know; you have told me," begins she quickly, but he interrupts her.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I have been more open with you than you with me. <i>I</i> feel no pride +where you are concerned. Of course my brother's conduct towards them is +no excuse for their conduct towards you, but when one has a sore heart +one is apt to be unjust, and many other things. You know what a +heart-break he has been to the old people, <i>and is</i>! A gambler, a +dishonorable gambler!" He turns away from her, and his nostrils dilate a +little; his right hand grows clenched. "Every spare penny they possess +has been paid over to him of his creditors, and they are not +over-burdened with riches. They had set their hearts on him, and all +their hopes, and when he failed them they fell back on me. The name is +an old one; money was wanted. They had arranged a marriage for me, that +would have been worldly wise. I <i>too</i> disappointed them!"</p> + +<p>"Oh!" she has sprung to her feet, and is staring at him with horrified +eyes. "A marriage! There was someone else! You accuse me of want of +candor, and now, you—did you ever mention this before?"</p> + +<p>"Now, Barbara, don't be the baby your name implies," says he, placing +her firmly back in her seat. "I <i>didn't</i> marry that heiress, you know, +which is proof positive that I loved you, not her."</p> + +<p>"But she—she—" she stammers and ceases suddenly, looking at him with a +glance full of question. Womanlike, everything has given way to the +awful thought, that this unknown had not been unknown to him, and that +perhaps he had admired—loved——</p> + +<p>"Couldn't hold a candle to you," says he, laughing in spite of himself +at her expression which, indeed, is nearly tragic. "You needn't +suffocate yourself with charcoal because of her. She had made her pile, +or rather her father had, at Birmingham or elsewhere, I never took the +trouble to inquire, and she was undoubtedly solid in <i>every way</i>, but I +don't care for the female giant, and so I—you know the rest, I met +<i>you</i>; I tell you this only to soften your heart, if possible, towards +these lonely, embittered old people of mine."</p> + +<p>"Do you mean that when your brother disappointed them that they——" she +pauses.</p> + +<p>"No. They couldn't make me their heir. The property is strictly entailed +(what is left of it); you need not make yourself miserable imagining you +have done me out of anything more than their good-will. George will +inherit whatever he has left them to leave."</p> + +<p>"It is sad," says she, with downcast eyes.</p> + +<p>"Yes. He has been a constant source of annoyance to them ever since he +left Eton."</p> + +<p>"Where is he now?"</p> + +<p>"Abroad, I believe. In Italy, somewhere, or France—not far from a +gaming table, you may be sure. But I know nothing very exactly, as he +does not correspond with me, and that letter of this morning is the +first I have received from my father for four years."</p> + +<p>"He must, indeed, hate me," says she, in a low tone. "His elder son such +a failure, and you—he considers you a failure, too."</p> + +<p>"Well, <i>I</i> don't consider myself so," says he, gaily.</p> + +<p>"They were in want of money, and you—you married a girl without a +penny."</p> + +<p>"I married a girl who was in herself a mine of gold," returns he, laying +his hands on her shoulders and giving her a little shake. "Come, never +mind that letter, darling; what does it matter when all is said and +done?"</p> + +<p>"The first after all these years; and the, <i>last</i>—you remember it? It +was terrible. Am I unreasonable if I remember it?"</p> + +<p>"It was a cruel letter," says he slowly; "to forget it would be +impossible, either for you or me. But, as I said just now, how does it +affect us? You have me, and I have you; and they, those foolish old +people, they have——" He pauses abruptly, and then goes on in a changed +tone, "their memories."</p> + +<p>"Oh! and sad ones!" cries she, sharply, as if hurt. "It is a terrible +picture you have conjured up. You and I so happy, and they—Oh! <i>poor</i> +old people!"</p> + +<p>"They have wronged you—slighted you—ill-treated you," says he, looking +at her.</p> + +<p>"But they are unhappy; they must be wretched always about your brother, +their <i>first</i> child. Oh! what a grief is theirs!"</p> + +<p>"What a heart is <i>yours</i>!" says he, drawing her to him. "Barbara! surely +I shall not die until they have met you, and learned why I love you."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"It was a lover and his lass</span> +<span class="i2">With a hey and a ho, and a hey-nonino!</span> +<span class="i0">That o'er the green cornfield did pass</span> +<span class="i0">In the Spring-time, the only pretty ring-time,</span> +<span class="i2">When birds do sing hey-ding-a-ding,</span> +<span class="i2">Sweet lovers love the Spring."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>Joyce is running through the garden, all the sweet wild winds of heaven +playing round her. They are a little wild still. It is the end of lovely +May, but though languid Summer is almost with us, a suspicion of her +more sparkling sister Spring fills all the air.</p> + +<p>Miss Kavanagh has caught up the tail of her gown, and is flying as if +for dear life. Behind her come the foe, fast and furious. Tommy, indeed, +is now dangerously close at her heels, armed with a ferocious-looking +garden fork, his face crimson, his eyes glowing with the ardor of the +chase; Mabel, much in the background, is making a bad third.</p> + +<p>Miss Kavanagh is growing distinctly out of breath. In another moment +Tommy will have her. By this time he has fully worked himself into the +belief that he is a Red Indian, and she his lawful prey, and is prepared +to make a tomahawk of his fork, and having felled her, to scalp her +<i>somehow</i>, when Providence shows her a corner round a rhododendron bush +that may save her for the moment. She makes for it, gains it, turns it, +dashes round it, and <i>all but</i> precipitates herself into the arms of a +young man who has been walking leisurely towards her.</p> + +<p>He is a tall young man, not strictly handsome, but decidedly good to +look at, with honest hazel eyes, and a shapely head, and altogether very +well set up. As a rule he is one of the most cheerful people alive, and +a tremendous favorite in his regiment, the —— Hussars, though just now +it might suggest itself to the intelligent observer that he considers he +has been hardly used. A very little more haste, and that precipitation +<i>must</i> have taken place. He had made an instinctive movement towards her +with protective arms outstretched; but though a little cry had escaped +her, she had maintained her balance, and now stands looking at him with +laughing eyes, and panting breath, and two pretty hands pressed against +her bosom.</p> + +<p>Mr. Dysart lets his disappointed arms fall to his sides, and assumes the +aggrieved air of one who has been done out of a good thing.</p> + +<p>"You!" says she, when at last she can speak.</p> + +<p>"I suppose so," returns he discontentedly. He might just as well have +been anyone else, or anywhere else—such a chance—and <i>gone</i>!</p> + +<p>"Never were you so welcome!" cries she, dodging behind him as Tommy, +fully armed, and all alive, comes tearing round the corner. "Ah, ha, +Tommy, <i>sold</i>! I've got a champion now. I'm no longer shivering in my +shoes. Mr. Dysart will protect me—<i>won't</i> you, Mr. Dysart?" to the +young man, who says "yes" without stirring a muscle. The heaviest bribe +would not have induced him to move, because, standing behind him, she +has laid her dainty fingers on his shoulders, from which safe position +she mocks at Tommy with security. Were the owners of the shoulders to +stir, the owners of the fingers might remove the delightful members. +Need it be said that, with this awful possibility before him, Mr. Dysart +is prepared to die at his post rather than budge an inch.</p> + +<p>And, indeed, death seems imminent. Tommy charging round the +rhododendron, finding himself robbed of his expected scalp, grows +frantic, and makes desperate passes at Mr. Dysart's legs, which that +hero, being determined, as I have said, not to stir under any +provocation, circumvents with a considerable display of policy, such as:</p> + +<p>"I say, Tommy, old boy, is that you? How d'ye do? Glad to see me, aren't +you?" This last very artfully with a view to softening the attacks. "You +don't know what I've brought you!" This is more artful still, and +distinctly a swindle, as he has brought him nothing, but on the spot he +determines to redeem himself with the help of the small toy-shops and +sweety shops down in the village. "Put down that fork like a good boy, +and let me tell you how——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, <i>bother</i> you!" says Tommy, indignantly. "I'd have had her only for +you! What brought you here now? Couldn't you have waited a bit?"</p> + +<p>"Yes! what brought you?" says Miss Kavanagh, most disgracefully going +over to the other side, now that danger is at an end, and Tommy has +planted his impromptu tomahawk in a bed close by.</p> + +<p>"Do you want to know?" says he quickly.</p> + +<p>The fingers have been removed from his shoulders, and he is now at +liberty to turn round and look at the charming face beside him.</p> + +<p>"No, no!" says she, shaking her head. "I've been rude, I suppose. But it +is such a wonderful thing to see you here so soon again."</p> + +<p>"Why should I not be here?"</p> + +<p>"Of course! That is the one unanswerable question. But you must confess +it is puzzling to those who thought of you as being elsewhere."</p> + +<p>"If you are one of 'those' you fill me with gratitude. That you should +think of me even for a moment——"</p> + +<p>"Well, I haven't been thinking much," says she, frankly, and with the +most delightful if scarcely satisfactory little smile: "I don't believe +I was thinking of you at all, until I turned the corner just now, and +then, I confess, I was startled, because I believed you at the +Antipodes."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps your belief was mother to your thought."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no. Don't make me out so nasty. Well, but <i>were</i> you there?"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps so. Where are they?" asks he gloomily. "One hears a good deal +about them, but they comprise so many places that now-a-days one is +hardly sure where they exactly lie. At all events no one has made them +clear to me."</p> + +<p>"Does it rest with me to enlighten you?" asks she, with a little +aggravating half glance from under her long lashes; "well—the North +Pole, Kamtschatka, Smyrna, Timbuctoo, Maoriland, Margate——"</p> + +<p>"We'll stop there, I think," says he, with a faint grimace.</p> + +<p>"There! At Margate? No, thanks. <i>You</i> can, if you like, but as for +me——"</p> + +<p>"I don't suppose you would stop anywhere with me," says he. "I have +occasional glimmerings that I hope mean common sense. No, I have not +been so adventurous as to wander towards Margate. I have only been to +town and back again."</p> + +<p>"What town?"</p> + +<p>"Eh? What town?" says he astonished. "<i>London</i>, you know."</p> + +<p>"No, I don't know," says Miss Kavanagh, a little petulantly. "One would +think there was only one town in the world, and that all you English +people had the monopoly of it. There are other towns, I suppose. Even we +poor Irish insignificants have a town or two. Dublin comes under that +head, I suppose?"</p> + +<p>"Undoubtedly. Of <i>course</i>," making great haste to abase himself. "It is +mere snobbery our making so much of London. A kind of despicable cant, +you know."</p> + +<p>"Well, after all, I expect it is a big place in every way," says Miss +Kavanagh, so far mollified by his submission as to be able to allow him +something.</p> + +<p>"It's a desert," says Tommy, turning to his aunt, with all the air of +one who is about to impart to her useful information. "It's raging with +wild beasts. They roam to and fro and are at their wits' ends——" here +Tommy, who is great on Bible history, but who occasionally gets mixed, +stops short. "Father says they're there," he winds up defiantly.</p> + +<p>"Wild beasts!" echoes Mr. Dysart, bewildered. "Is <i>this</i> the teaching +about their Saxon neighbors that the Irish children receive at the hands +of their parents and guardians. Oh, well, come now, Tommy, really, you +know——"</p> + +<p>"Yes; they are there," says Tommy, rebelliously. "<i>Frightful</i> beasts! +<i>Bears!</i> They'd tear you in bits if they could get at you. They have no +reason in them, father says. And they climb up posts, and roar at +people."</p> + +<p>"Oh, nonsense!" says Mr. Dysart. "One would think we were having a +French Revolution all over again in England. Don't you think," glancing +severely at Joyce, who is giving way to unrestrained mirth, "that it is +not only wrong, but dangerous, to implant such ideas about the English +in the breasts of Irish children? There isn't a word of truth in it, +Tommy."</p> + +<p>"There <i>is</i>!" says Monkton, junior, wagging his head indignantly. +"Father <i>told</i> me."</p> + +<p>"Father told us," repeats the small Mabel, who has just come up.</p> + +<p>"And father says, too, that the reason that they are so wicked is +because they want their freedom!" says Tommy, as though this is an +unanswerable argument.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I see! The socialists!" says Mr. Dysart. "Yes; a troublesome pack! +But still, to call them wild beasts——"</p> + +<p>"They <i>are</i> wild beasts," says Tommy, prepared to defend his position to +the last. "They've got <i>manes</i>, and <i>horns</i>, and <i>tails</i>!"</p> + +<p>"He's romancing," says Mr. Dysart looking at Joyce.</p> + +<p>"He's not," says she demurely. "He is only trying to describe to you the +Zoological Gardens. His father gives him a graphic description of them +every evening, and—the result you see."</p> + +<p>Here both she and he, after a glance at each other, burst out laughing.</p> + +<p>"No wonder you were amused," says he, "but you might have given me a +hint. You were unkind to me—as usual."</p> + +<p>"Now that you have been to London," says she, a little hurriedly, as if +to cover his last words and pretend she hasn't heard them, "you will +find our poor Ireland duller than ever. At Christmas it is not so bad, +but just <i>now</i>, and in the height of your season, too,——"</p> + +<p>"Do you call this place dull?" interrupts he. "Then let me tell you you +misjudge your native land; this little bit of it, at all events. I think +it not only the loveliest, but the liveliest place on earth."</p> + +<p>"You are easily pleased," says she, with a rather embarrassed smile.</p> + +<p>"He isn't!" says Tommy, breaking into the conversation with great +aplomb. He has been holding on vigorously to Mr. Dysart's right hand for +the last five minutes, after a brief but brilliant skirmish with Mabel +as to the possession of it—a skirmish brought to a bloodless conclusion +by the surrender, on Mr. Dysart's part, of his left hand to the weaker +belligerent. "He hates Miss Maliphant, nurse says, though Lady Baltimore +wants him to marry her, and she's a fine girl, nurse says, an' raal +smart, and with the gift o' the gab, an' lots o' tin——"</p> + +<p>"<i>Tommy!</i>" says his aunt frantically. It is indeed plain to everybody +that Tommy is now quoting nurse, <i>au naturel</i>, and that he is betraying +confidences in a perfectly reckless manner.</p> + +<p>"Don't stop him," says Mr. Dysart, glancing at Joyce's crimson cheeks +with something of disfavor. "'What's Hecuba to me, or I to Hecuba?' I +<i>defy</i> you," a little stormily, "to think I care a farthing for Miss +Maliphant or for any other woman on earth—<i>save one</i>!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, you mustn't press your confidences on me," says she, smiling and +dissembling rather finely; "I know nothing. I accuse you of nothing. +Only, Tommy, you were a little rude, weren't you?"</p> + +<p>"I wasn't," says Tommy, promptly, in whom the inborn instinct of +self-defence has been largely developed. "It's true. Nurse says she has +a voice like a cow. Is <i>that</i> true?" turning, unabashed to Dysart.</p> + +<p>"She's expected at the Castle, next week. You shall come up and judge +for yourself," says he, laughing. "And," turning to Joyce, "you will +come, too, I hope."</p> + +<p>"It is manners to wait to be asked," returns she, smiling.</p> + +<p>"Oh, as for that," says he, "Lady Baltimore crossed last night with me +and her husband. And here is a letter for you." He pulls a note of the +cocked hat order out of one of his pockets.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Tell me where is fancy bred,</span> +<span class="i0">Or in the heart, or in the head?</span> +<span class="i0">How begot, how nourished?</span> +<span class="i2">Reply, reply."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>"An invitation from Lady Baltimore," says Joyce, looking at the big red +crest, and coloring slightly.</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"How do you know?" asks she, rather suspiciously.</p> + +<p>The young man raises his hands and eyes.</p> + +<p>"I <i>swear</i> I had nothing to do with it," says he, "I didn't so much as +hint at it. Lady Baltimore spent her time crossing the Channel in +declaring to all who were well enough to hear her, that she lived only +in the expectation of soon seeing you again."</p> + +<p>"Nonsense!" scornfully; "it is only a month ago since I was staying +there, just before they went to London. By the bye, what brings them +home now? In the very beginning of their season?"</p> + +<p>"<i>I</i> don't know. And it is as well not to inquire perhaps. Baltimore and +my cousin, as all the world knows, have not hit it off together. Yet +when Isabel married him, we all thought it was quite an ideal marriage, +they were so much in love with each other."</p> + +<p>"Hot love soon cools," says Miss Kavanagh in a general sort of way.</p> + +<p>"I don't believe it," sturdily, "if it's the right sort of love. +However, to go back to your letter—which you haven't even deigned to +open—you <i>will</i> accept the invitation, won't you?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know," hesitating.</p> + +<p>"Oh! I say, <i>do</i> come! It is only for a week, and even if it does bore +you, still, as a Christian, you ought to consider how much, even in that +short time, you will be able to add to the happiness of your fellow +creatures."</p> + +<p>"Flattery means insincerity," says she, tilting her chin, "keep all that +sort of thing for your Miss Maliphant; it is thrown away upon me."</p> + +<p>"<i>My</i> Miss Maliphant! Really I must protest against your accrediting me +with such a possession. But look here, <i>don't</i> disappoint us all; and +you won't be dull either, there are lots of people coming. Dicky Brown, +for one."</p> + +<p>"Oh! will he be there?" brightening visibly.</p> + +<p>"Yes," rather gloomily, and perhaps a little sorry that he has said +anything about Mr. Browne's possible arrival—though to feel jealousy +about that social butterfly is indeed to sound the depths of folly; "you +like him?"</p> + +<p>"I <i>love</i> him," says Miss Kavanagh promptly and with sufficient +enthusiasm to restore hope in the bosom of any man except a lover.</p> + +<p>"He is blessed indeed," says he stiffly. "Beyond his deserts I can't +help thinking. I really think he is the biggest fool I ever met."</p> + +<p>"Oh! not the biggest, surely," says she, so saucily, and with such a +reprehensible tendency towards laughter, that he gives way and laughs +too, though unwillingly.</p> + +<p>"True. I'm a bigger," says he, "but as that is <i>your</i> fault, you should +be the last to taunt me with it."</p> + +<p>"Foolish people always talk folly," says she with an assumption of +indifference that does not hide her red cheeks. "Well, go on, who is to +be at the Court besides Dicky?"</p> + +<p>"Lady Swansdown."</p> + +<p>"I like her too."</p> + +<p>"But not so well as you like Dicky, <i>you</i> love him according to your own +statement."</p> + +<p>"Don't be matter-of-fact!" says Miss Kavanagh, giving him a +well-deserved snub. "Do you always say exactly what you mean?"</p> + +<p>"Always—to <i>you</i>."</p> + +<p>"I daresay you would be more interesting if you didn't," says she, with +a little, lovely smile, that quite spoils the harshness of her words. Of +her few faults, perhaps the greatest is, that she seldom knows her own +mind, where her lovers are concerned, and will blow hot and cold, and +merry and sad, and cheerful, and petulant all in one breath as it were. +Poor lovers! they have a hard time of it with her as a rule. But youth +is often so, and the cold, still years, as they creep on us, with dull +common sense and deadly reason in their train, cure us all too soon of +our pretty idle follies.</p> + +<p>Just now she was bent on rebuffing him, but you see her strength failed +her, and she spoiled her effect by the smile she mingled with the +rebuff. The smile indeed was so charming that he remembers nothing but +it, and so she not only gains nothing, but loses something to the other +side.</p> + +<p>"Well, I'll try to mend all that," says he, but so lovingly, and with +such unaffected tenderness, that she quails beneath his glance. Coquette +as undoubtedly Nature has made her, she has still so gentle a soul +within her bosom that she shrinks from inflicting <i>actual</i> pain. A pang +or two, a passing regret to be forgotten the next hour—or at all events +in the next change of scene—she is not above imparting, but when people +grow earnest like—like Mr. Dysart for example—they grow troublesome. +And she hasn't made up her mind to marry, and there are other people——</p> + +<p>"The Clontarfs are to be there too," goes on Dysart, who is a cousin of +Lady Baltimore's, and knows all about her arrangements; "and the +Brownings, and Norman Beauclerk."</p> + +<p>"The—Clontarfs," says Joyce, in a hurried way, that might almost be +called confused; to the man who loves her, and who is watching her, it +is quite plain that she is not thinking of Lord and Lady Clontarf, who +are quite an ordinary couple and devoted to each other, but of that last +name spoken—Norman Beauclerk; Lady Baltimore's brother, a man, +handsome, agreeable, aristocratic—the man whose attentions to her a +month ago had made a little topic for conversation amongst the country +people. Dull country people who never go anywhere or see anything beyond +their stupid selves, and who are therefore driven to do something or +other to avoid suicide or the murdering of each other; gossip unlimited +is their safety valve.</p> + +<p>"Yes, and Beauclerk," persists Dysart, a touch of despair at his heart; +"you and he were good friends when last he was over, eh?"</p> + +<p>"I am generally very good friends with everybody; not an altogether +desirable character, not a strong one," says she smiling, and still +openly parrying the question.</p> + +<p>"You liked Beauclerk," says he, a little doggedly perhaps.</p> + +<p>"Ye—es—very well."</p> + +<p>"Very <i>much</i>! Why can't you be <i>honest</i>!" says he flashing out at her.</p> + +<p>"I don't know what you mean," coldly. "If, however, you persist on my +looking into it, I—" defiantly—"yes, I <i>do</i> like Mr. Beauclerk very +much."</p> + +<p>"Well, I don't know what you see in that fellow."</p> + +<p>"Nothing," airily, having now recovered herself, "that's his charm."</p> + +<p>"If," gravely, "you gave that as your opinion of Dicky Browne I could +believe you."</p> + +<p>She laughs.</p> + +<p>"Poor Dicky," says she, "what a cruel judgment; and yet you are right;" +she has changed her whole manner, and is now evidently bent on restoring +him to good humor, and compelling him to forget all about Mr. Beauclerk. +"I must give in to you about Dicky. There isn't even the vaguest +suggestion of meaning about <i>him</i>. I—" with a deliberate friendly +glance flung straight into his eyes—"don't often give in to you, do I?"</p> + +<p>On this occasion, however, her coquetry—so generally successful—is +completely thrown away. Dysart, with his dark eyes fixed +uncompromisingly upon hers, makes the next move—an antagonistic one.</p> + +<p>"You have a very high opinion of Beauclerk," says he.</p> + +<p>"Have I?" laughing uneasily, and refusing to let her rising temper give +way. "We all have our opinions on every subject that comes under our +notice. You have one on this subject evidently."</p> + +<p>"Yes, but it is not a high one," says he unpleasantly.</p> + +<p>"After all, what does that matter? I don't pretend to understand you. I +will only suggest to you that our opinions are but weak things—mere +prejudices—no more."</p> + +<p>"I am not prejudiced against Beauclerk, if you mean that," a little +hotly.</p> + +<p>"I didn't," with a light shrug. "Believe me, you think a great deal more +about him than I do."</p> + +<p>"Are you sure of that?"</p> + +<p>"I am at all events sure of one thing," says she quickly darting at him +a frowning glance, "that you have no right to ask me that question."</p> + +<p>"I have not indeed," acknowledges he stiffly still, but with so open an +apology in his whole air that she forgives him. "Many conflicting +thoughts led me astray. I must ask your pardon."</p> + +<p>"Why, granted!" says she. "And—I was cross, wasn't I? After all an old +friend like you might be allowed a little laxity. There, never mind," +holding out her hand. "Let us make it up."</p> + +<p>Dysart grasps the little extended hand with avidity, and peace seems +restored when Tommy puts an end to all things. To anyone acquainted with +children I need hardly remark that he has been listening to the +foregoing conversation with all his ears and all his eyes and every bit +of his puzzled intelligence.</p> + +<p>"Well, go on," says he, giving his aunt a push when the friendly +hand-shake has come to an end.</p> + +<p>"Go on? Where?" asks she, with apparent unconcern but a deadly +foreboding at her breast. She knows her Tommy.</p> + +<p>"You <i>said</i> you were going to make it up with him!" says that hero, +regarding her with disapproving eyes.</p> + +<p>"Well, I have made it up."</p> + +<p>"No, you haven't! When you make it up with me you always kiss me! Why +don't you kiss him?"</p> + +<p>Consternation on the part of the principal actors. Dysart, strange to +say, is the first to recover.</p> + +<p>"Why indeed?" says he, giving way all at once to a fatal desire for +laughter. This, Miss Kavanagh, being vexed with herself for her late +confusion, resents strongly.</p> + +<p>"I am sure, Tommy," says she, with a mildness that would not have +imposed upon an infant, "that your lesson hour has arrived. Come, say +good-bye to Mr. Dysart, and let us begin at once. You know I am going to +teach you to-day. Good-bye, Mr. Dysart—if you want to see Barbara, you +will find her very probably in the study."</p> + +<p>"Don't go like this," says he anxiously. "Or if you <i>will</i> go, at least +tell me that you will accept Lady Baltimore's invitation."</p> + +<p>"I don't know," smiling coldly. "I think not. You see I was there for +such a <i>long</i> time in the beginning of the year, and Barbara always +wants me, and one should not be selfish you know."</p> + +<p>"One should not indeed!" says he, with slow meaning. "What answer, then, +must I give my cousin? You know," in a low tone, "that she is not +altogether happy. You can lighten her burden a little. She is fond of +you."</p> + +<p>"I can lighten Barbara's burden also. Think me the very incarnation of +selfishness if you will," says she rather unjustly, "but still, if +Barbara says 'don't go,' I shall stay here."</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Monkton won't say that."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps not," toying idly with a rose, in such a careless fashion as +drives him to despair. Brushing it to and fro across her lips she seems +to have lost all interest in the question in hand.</p> + +<p>"If she says to you 'go,' how then?"</p> + +<p>"Why then—I may still remain here."</p> + +<p>"Well stay then, of course, if you so desire it!" cries he angrily. "If +to make all your world <i>un</i>happy is to make you happy, why be so by all +means."</p> + +<p>"<i>All</i> my world! Do you suppose then that it will make Barbara and +Freddy unhappy to have my company? What a gallant speech!" says she, +with a provoking little laugh and a swift lifting of her eyes to his.</p> + +<p>"No, but it will make other people (more than <i>twice</i> two) miserable to +be deprived of it."</p> + +<p>"Are you one of that quartette?" asks she, so saucily, yet withal so +merrily that the hardest-hearted lover might forgive her. A little +irresistible laugh breaks from her lips. Rather ruefully he joins in it.</p> + +<p>"I don't think I need answer that question," says he. "To you at all +events."</p> + +<p>"To me of all people rather," says she still laughing, "seeing I am the +interested party."</p> + +<p>"No, that character belongs to me. You have no interest in it. To me it +is life or death—to—you——"</p> + +<p>"No, no, you mustn't talk to me like that. You know I forbid you last +time we met, and you promised me to be good."</p> + +<p>"I promised then the most difficult thing in the world. But never mind +me; the principal thing is, your acceptance or rejection of that note. +Joyce!" in a low tone, "<i>say</i> you will accept it."</p> + +<p>"Well," relenting visibly, and now refusing to meet his eyes, "I'll ask +Barbara, and if she says I may go I——" pause.</p> + +<p>"You will then accept?" eagerly.</p> + +<p>"I shall then—think about it."</p> + +<p>"You look like an angel," says he, "and you have the heart of a flint."</p> + +<p>This remark, that might have presumably annoyed another girl, seems to +fill Miss Kavanagh with mirth.</p> + +<p>"Am I so bad as that?" cries she, gaily. "Why I shall make amends then. +I shall change my evil ways. As a beginning, see here. If Barbara says +go to the Court, go I will. Now, stern moralist! where are you?"</p> + +<p>"In the seventh heaven," says he, promptly. "Be it a Fool's Paradise or +otherwise, I shall take up my abode there for the present. And now you +will go and ask Mrs. Monkton?"</p> + +<p>"In what a hurry to get rid of me!" says this coquette of all coquettes. +"Well, good-bye then——"</p> + +<p>"Oh no, don't go."</p> + +<p>"To the Court? Was ever man so unreasonable? In one breath 'do' and +'don't'!"</p> + +<p>"Was ever woman so tormenting?"</p> + +<p>"Tormenting? No, so discerning if you will, or else so——"</p> + +<p>"Adorable! You can't find fault with <i>that</i> at all events."</p> + +<p>"And therefore my mission is at an end! Good-bye, again."</p> + +<p>"Good-bye." He is holding her hand as though he never means to let her +have it again. "That rose," says he, pointing to the flower that had +kissed her lips so often. "It is nothing to you, you can pick yourself +another, give it to me."</p> + +<p>"I can pick you another too, a nice fresh one," says she. "Here," moving +towards a glowing bush; "here is a bud worth having."</p> + +<p>"Not that one," hastily. "Not one this garden, or any other garden +holds, save the one in your hand. It is the only one in the world of +roses worth having."</p> + +<p>"I hate to give a faded gift," says she, looking at the rose she holds +with apparent disfavor.</p> + +<p>"Then I shall take it," returns he, with decision. He opens her pretty +pink palm, releases the dying rosebud from it and places it triumphantly +in his coat.</p> + +<p>"You haven't got any manners," says she, but she laughs again as she +says it.</p> + +<p>"Except bad ones you should add."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I forgot that. A point lost. Good-bye now, good-bye indeed."</p> + +<p>She waves her hand lightly to him and calling to the children runs +towards the house. It seems as if she has carried all the beauty and +brightness and sweetness of the day with her.</p> + +<p>As Dysart turns back again, the afternoon appears grey and gloomy.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Look ere thou leap, see ere thou go."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>"Well, Barbara, can I go?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know"—doubtfully. There is a cloud on Mrs. Monkton's brow, she +is staring out of the window instead of into her sister's face, and she +is evidently a little distressed or uncertain. "You have been there so +lately, and——"</p> + +<p>"You want to say something," says the younger sister, seating herself on +the sofa, and drawing Mrs. Monkton down beside her. "Why don't you do +it?"</p> + +<p>"You can't want to go so very much, can you now?" asks the latter, +anxiously, almost entreatingly.</p> + +<p>"It is I who don't know this time!" says Joyce, with a smile. "And +yet——"</p> + +<p>"It seems only like yesterday that you came back after spending a month +there."</p> + +<p>"A yesterday that dates from six weeks ago," a little reproachfully.</p> + +<p>"I know. You like being there. It is a very amusing house to be at. I +don't blame you in any way. Lord and Lady Baltimore are both charming in +their ways, and very kind, and yet——"</p> + +<p>"There, don't stop; you are coming to it now, the very heart of the +meaning. Go on," authoritatively, and seizing her sister in her arms, +"or I'll <i>shake</i> it out of you."</p> + +<p>"It is this then," says Mrs. Monkton slowly. "I don't think it is a +<i>wise</i> thing for you to go there so often."</p> + +<p>"Oh Barbara! Owl of Wisdom as thou art, why not?" The girl is laughing, +yet a deep flush of color has crept into each cheek.</p> + +<p>"Never mind the why not. Perhaps it is unwise to go <i>anywhere</i> too +often; and you must acknowledge that you spent almost the entire spring +there."</p> + +<p>"Well, I hinted all that to Mr. Dysart."</p> + +<p>"Was he here?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. He came down from the Court with the note."</p> + +<p>"And—who else is to be there?"</p> + +<p>"Oh! the Clontarfs, and Dicky Browne, and Lady Swansdown and a great +many others."</p> + +<p>"Mr. Beauclerk?" she does not look at Joyce as she asks this question.</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>A little silence follows, broken at last by Joyce.</p> + +<p>"<i>May</i> I go?"</p> + +<p>"Do you think it is the best thing for you to do?" says Mrs. Monkton, +flushing delicately. "<i>Think</i>, darling! You know—you <i>must</i> know, +because you have it always before you," flushing even deeper, "that to +marry into a family where you are not welcomed with open heart is to +know much private discomfiture."</p> + +<p>"I know this too," says the girl, petulantly, "that to be married to a +man like Freddy, who consults your lightest wish, and is your lover +always, is worth the enduring of anything."</p> + +<p>"I think that too," says Mrs. Monkton, who has now grown rather pale. +"But there is still one more thing to know—that in making such a +marriage as we have described, a woman lays out a thorny path for her +husband. She separates him from his family, and as all good men have +strong home ties, she naturally compels him to feel many a secret pang."</p> + +<p>"But he has his compensations. Do you think if Freddy got the chance, he +would give you up and go back to his family?"</p> + +<p>"No—not that. But to rejoice in that thought is to be selfish. Why +should he not have my love and the love of his people too? There is a +want somewhere. What I wish to impress upon you, Joyce, is this, that a +woman who marries a man against his parents' wishes has much to regret, +much to endure."</p> + +<p>"I think you are ungrateful," says the girl a little vehemently. "Freddy +has made you endure nothing. You are the happiest married woman I know."</p> + +<p>"Yes, but I have made <i>him</i> endure a great deal," says Mrs. Monkton in a +low tone. She rises, and going to the window, stands there looking out +upon the sunny landscape, but seeing nothing.</p> + +<p>"Barbara! you are crying," says Joyce, going up to her abruptly, and +folding her arms round her.</p> + +<p>"It is nothing, dear. Nothing at all, darling. Only—I wish he and his +father were friends again. Freddy is too good a man not to regret the +estrangement."</p> + +<p>"I believe you think Freddy is a little god!" says Joyce laughing.</p> + +<p>"O! not a <i>little</i> one," says Mrs. Monkton, and as Freddy stands six +foot one in his socks, they both laugh at this.</p> + +<p>"Still you don't answer me," says the girl presently. "You don't say +'you may' or 'you shan't'—which is it to be, Barbara?"</p> + +<p>Her tone is distinctly coaxing now, and as she speaks she gives her +sister a little squeeze that is plainly meant to press the desired +permission out of her.</p> + +<p>Still Mrs. Monkton hesitates.</p> + +<p>"You see," says she temporizing, "there are so many reasons. The Court," +pausing and flushing, "is not <i>quite</i> the house for so young a girl as +you."</p> + +<p>"Oh Barbara!"</p> + +<p>"You can't misunderstand me," says her sister with agitation. "You know +how I like, <i>love</i> Lady Baltimore, and how good Lord Baltimore has been +to Freddy. When his father cast him off there was very little left to us +for beginning housekeeping with, and when Lord Baltimore gave him his +agency—Oh, <i>well</i>! it isn't likely we shall either of us forget to be +grateful for <i>that</i>. If it was only for ourselves I should say nothing, +but it is for you, dear; and—this unfortunate affair—this determined +hostility that exists between Lord and Lady Baltimore, makes it +unpleasant for the guests. You know," nervously, "I hate gossip of any +sort, but one must defend one's own."</p> + +<p>"But there is nothing unpleasant; one sees nothing. They are charming to +each other. I have been staying there and I know."</p> + +<p>"Have I not stayed there too? It is impossible Joyce to fight against +facts. All the world knows they are not on good terms."</p> + +<p>"Well, a great many other people aren't perhaps."</p> + +<p>"When they aren't the tone of the house gets lowered. And I have noticed +of late that they have people there, who——"</p> + +<p>"Who what, Barbara?"</p> + +<p>"Oh yes, I <i>know</i> they are all right; they are received everywhere, but +are they good companions for a girl of your years? It is not a healthy +atmosphere for you. They are rich people who think less of a hundred +guineas than you do of five. Is it wise, I ask you again to accustom +yourself to their ways?"</p> + +<p>"Nonsense, Barbara!" says her sister, looking at her with a growing +surprise. "That is not like you. Why should we despise the rich, why +should we seek to emulate them? Surely both you and I have too good +blood in our veins to give way to such follies." She leans towards Mrs. +Monkton, and with a swift gesture, gentle as firm, turns her face to her +own.</p> + +<p>"Now for the real reason," says she.</p> + +<p>Unthinkingly she has brought confusion on herself. Barbara, as though +stung to cruel candor, gives her the real reason in a sentence.</p> + +<p>"Tell me this," says she, "which do you like best, Mr. Dysart, or Mr. +Beauclerk?"</p> + +<p>Joyce, taking her arm from round her sister's neck, moves back from her. +A deep color has flamed into her cheeks, then died away again. She looks +quite calm now.</p> + +<p>"What a question," says she.</p> + +<p>"Well," feverishly, "answer it."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no," says the girl quickly.</p> + +<p>"Why not? Why not answer it to me, your chief friend? You think the +question indelicate, but why should I shrink from asking a question on +which, perhaps, the happiness of your life depends? If—if you have set +your heart on Mr. Beauclerk——" She stops, checked by something in Miss +Kavanagh's face.</p> + +<p>"Well, what then?" asks the latter coldly.</p> + +<p>"It will bring you unhappiness. He is Lady Baltimore's brother. She +already plans for him. The Beauclerks are poor—he is bound to marry +money."</p> + +<p>"That is a good deal about Mr. Beauclerk, but what about the other +possible suitor whom you suppose I am madly in love with?"</p> + +<p>"Don't talk to me like that, Joyce. Do you think I have anything at +heart except your interests? As to Mr. Dysart, if you like <i>him</i>, I +confess I should be glad of it. He is only a cousin of the Baltimores, +and of such moderate means that they would scarcely object to his +marrying a penniless girl."</p> + +<p>"You rate me highly," says Joyce, with a sudden rather sharp little +laugh. "I am good enough for the cousin—I am <i>not</i> good enough for the +brother, who may reasonably look higher."</p> + +<p>"Not higher," haughtily. "He can only marry a girl of good birth. <i>You</i> +are that, but he, in his position, will look for money, or else his +people will look for it for him. Whereas, Mr. Dysart——"</p> + +<p>"Yes, you needn't go over it all. Mr. Dysart is about on a level with +me, he will <i>never</i> have any money, neither shall I." Suddenly she looks +round at her sister, her eyes very bright. "Tell me then," says she, +"what does it all come to? That I am bound to refuse to marry a man +because he has money, and because I have none."</p> + +<p>"That is not the argument," says Barbara anxiously.</p> + +<p>"I think it is."</p> + +<p>"It is not. I advise you strongly not to think of Mr. Beauclerk, yet +<i>he</i> has no money to speak of."</p> + +<p>"He has more than Freddy."</p> + +<p>"But he is a different man from Freddy—with different tastes, different +aspirations, different——He's different," emphatically, "in <i>every</i> +way!"</p> + +<p>"To be different from the person one loves is not to be a bad man," says +Joyce slowly, her eyes on the ground.</p> + +<p>"My dear girl, who has called Mr. Beauclerk a bad man?"</p> + +<p>"You don't like him," says Miss Kavanagh, still more slowly, still with +thoughtful eyes downcast.</p> + +<p>"I like Mr. Dysart better if you mean that."</p> + +<p>"No, I don't mean that. And, besides, that is no answer."</p> + +<p>"Was there a question?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. Why don't you like Mr. Beauclerk?"</p> + +<p>"Have I said I didn't like him?"</p> + +<p>"Not in so many words, but——Well, why don't you?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know," rather lamely.</p> + +<p>Miss Kavanagh laughs a little satirically, and Mrs. Monkton, objecting +to mirth of that description, takes fire.</p> + +<p>"Why do you <i>like</i> him?" asks she defiantly.</p> + +<p>"I don't know either," returns Joyce, with a rueful smile. "And after +all I'm not sure that I like him so <i>very</i> much. You evidently imagine +me to be head over ears in love with him, yet I, myself, scarcely know +whether I like him or not."</p> + +<p>"You always look at him so kindly, and you always pull your skirts aside +to give him a place by your side."</p> + +<p>"I should do that for Tommy."</p> + +<p>"Would you? That would be <i>too</i> kind," says Tommy's mother, laughing. +"It would mean ruin to your skirts in two minutes."</p> + +<p>"But, consider the gain. The priceless scraps, of wisdom I should hear, +even whilst my clothes were being demolished."</p> + +<p>This has been a mere interlude, unintentional on the part of either, +and, once over, neither knows how to go on. The question <i>must</i> be +settled one way or the other.</p> + +<p>"There is one thing," says Mrs. Monkton, at length, "You certainly +prefer Mr. Beauclerk to Mr. Dysart."</p> + +<p>"Do I? I wish I knew as much about myself as you know about me. And, +after all, it is of no consequence whom I like. The real thing +is——Come, Barbara, you who know so much can tell me this——"</p> + +<p>"Well?" says Mrs. Monkton, seeing she has grown very red, and is +evidently hesitating.</p> + +<p>"No. This absurd conversation has gone far enough. I was going to ask +you to solve a riddle, but——"</p> + +<p>"But what?"</p> + +<p>"You are too serious about it."</p> + +<p>"Not <i>too</i> serious. It is very important."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Barbara, do you <i>know</i> what you are saying?" cries the girl with an +angry little stamp, turning to her a face pale and indignant. "You have +been telling me in so many words that I am in love with either Mr. +Beauclerk or Mr. Dysart. Pray now, for a change, tell me which of them +is in love with <i>me</i>."</p> + +<p>"Mr. Dysart," says Barbara quietly.</p> + +<p>Her sister laughs angrily.</p> + +<p>"You think everybody who looks at me is in love with me."</p> + +<p>"Not <i>every</i>one!"</p> + +<p>"Meaning Mr. Beauclerk."</p> + +<p>"No," slowly. "I think he likes you, too, but he is a man who will +always <i>think</i>. You know he has come in for that property in Hampshire +through his uncle's death, but he got no money with it. It is a large +place, impossible to keep up without a large income, and his uncle left +every penny away from him. It is in great disrepair, the house +especially. I hear it is falling to pieces. Mr. Beauclerk is an +ambitious man, he will seek means to rebuild his house."</p> + +<p>"Well what of that? It is an interesting bit of history, but how does it +concern me? Take that troubled look out of your eyes, Barbara. I assure +you Mr. Beauclerk is as little to me as I am to him."</p> + +<p>She speaks with such evident sincerity, with such an undeniable belief +in the truth of her own words, that Mrs. Monkton, looking at her and +reading her soul through her clear eyes, feels a weight lifted from her +heart.</p> + +<p>"That is all right then," says she simply. She turns as if to go away, +but Miss Kavanagh has still a word or two to say.</p> + +<p>"I may go to the Court?" says she.</p> + +<p>"Yes; I suppose so."</p> + +<p>"But you won't be vexed if I go, Barbie?"</p> + +<p>"No; not now."</p> + +<p>"Well," slipping her arm through hers, with an audible sigh of delight. +"<i>That's</i> settled."</p> + +<p>"Things generally <i>do</i> get settled the way you want them to be," says +Mrs. Monkton, laughing. "Come, what about your frocks, eh?"</p> + +<p>From this out they spend a most enjoyable hour or two.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer,</span> +<span class="i0">That leaves look pale, thinking the winter's near."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>The visit to the Court being decided on, Miss Kavanagh undertakes life +afresh, with a joyous heart. Lord and Lady Baltimore are the best host +and hostess in the world, and a visit to them means unmixed pleasure +while it lasts. The Court is, indeed, the pleasantest house in the +county, the most desirable in all respects, and the gayest. Yet, strange +and sad to add, happiness has found no bed within its walls.</p> + +<p>This is the more remarkable in that the marriage of Lord and Lady +Baltimore had been an almost idealistic one. They had been very much in +love with each other. All the hosts of friends and relations that +belonged to either side had been delighted with the engagement. So many +imprudent marriages were made, so many disastrous ones; but <i>here</i> was a +marriage where birth and money went together, and left no guardians or +parents lamenting. All Belgravia stood still and stared at the young +couple with genuine admiration. It wasn't often that love, pure and +simple, fell into their midst, and such a <i>satisfactory</i> love too! None +of your erratic darts that struck the wrong breasts, and created +confusion for miles round, but a thoroughly proper, respectable winged +arrow that pierced the bosoms of those who might safely be congratulated +on the reception of it.</p> + +<p>They had, indeed, been very much in love with each other. Few people +have known such extreme happiness as fell to their lot for two whole +years. They were wrapt up in each other, and when the little son came at +the end of that time, <i>nothing</i> seemed wanted. They grew so strong in +their belief in the immutability of their own relations, one to the +other, that when the blow fell that separated them, it proved a very +lightning-stroke, dividing soul from body.</p> + +<p>Lady Baltimore could be at no time called a beautiful woman. But there +is always a charm in her face, a strength, an attractiveness that might +well defy the more material charms of a lovelier woman than herself. +With a soul as pure as her face, and a mind entirely innocent of the +world's evil ways—and the sad and foolish secrets she is compelled to +bear upon her tired bosom from century to century—she took with a +bitter hardness the revelations of her husband's former life before he +married her, related to her by—of course—a devoted friend.</p> + +<p>Unfortunately the authority was an undeniable one. It was impossible for +Lady Baltimore to refuse to believe. The past, too, she might have +condoned; though, believing in her husband as she did, it would always +have been bitter to her, but the devoted friend—may all such meet their +just reward!—had not stopped there; she had gone a step further, a +fatal step; she had told her something that had <i>not</i> occurred since +their marriage.</p> + +<p>Perhaps the devoted friend believed in her lie, perhaps she did not. +Anyway, the mischief was done. Indeed, from the beginning seeds of +distrust had been laid, and, buried in so young and unlearned a bosom, +had taken a fatal grip.</p> + +<p>The more fatal in that there was truth in them. As a fact, Lord +Baltimore had been the hero of several ugly passages in his life. His +early life, certainly; but a young wife who has begun by thinking him +immaculate, would hardly be the one to lay stress upon <i>that</i>. And when +her friend, who had tried unsuccessfully to marry Lord Baltimore and had +failed, had in the kindliest spirit, <i>of course</i>, opened her eyes to his +misdoings, she had at first passionately refused to listen, then <i>had</i> +listened, and after that was ready to listen to anything.</p> + +<p>One episode in his past history had been made much of. The sorry heroine +of it had been an actress. This was bad enough, but when the +disinterested friend went on to say that Lord Baltimore had been seen in +her company only so long ago as last week, matters came to a climax. +That was a long time ago from to-day, but the shock when it came +shattered all the sacred feelings in Lady Baltimore's heart. She grew +cold, callous, indifferent. Her mouth, a really beautiful feature, that +used to be a picture of serenity and charity personified, hardened. She +became austere, cold. Not difficult, so much as unsympathetic. She was +still a good hostess, and those who had known her <i>before</i> her +misfortune still loved her. But she made no new friends, and she sat +down within herself, as it were, and gave herself up to her fate, and +would probably have died or grown reckless but for her little son.</p> + +<p>And it was <i>after</i> the birth of this beloved child that she had been +told that <i>her</i> husband had again been seen in company with Madame +Istray; <i>that</i> seemed to add fuel to the fire already kindled. She could +not forgive that. It was proof positive of his baseness.</p> + +<p>To the young wife it was all a revelation, a horrible one. She had been +so stunned by it, that she, accepted it as it stood, and learning that +the stories of his life <i>before</i> marriage were true, had decided that +the stories told of his life <i>after</i> marriage were true also. She was +young, and youth is always hard.</p> + +<p>To her no doubt remained of his infidelity. She had come of a brave old +stock, who, if they could not fight, could at least endure in silence, +and knew well the necessity of keeping her name out of the public mouth. +She kept herself well in hand, therefore, and betrayed nothing of all +she had been feeling. She dismissed her friend with a gentle air, +dignified, yet of sufficient haughtiness to let that astute and now +decidedly repentant lady know that never again would she enter the doors +of the Court, or any other of Lady Baltimore's houses; yet she +restrained herself all through so well that, even until the very end +came, her own husband never knew how horribly she suffered through her +disbelief in him.</p> + +<p>He thought her heartless. There was no scandal, no public separation. +She said a word or two to him that told him what she had heard, and when +he tried to explain the truths of that last libel that had declared him +unfaithful to her since her marriage, she had silenced him with so cold, +so scornful, so contemptuous a glance and word, that, chilled and +angered in his turn, he had left her.</p> + +<p>Twice afterwards he had sought to explain matters, but it was useless. +She would not listen; the treacherous friend, whom she never betrayed, +had done her work well. Lady Baltimore, though she never forgave <i>her</i>, +would not forgive her husband either; she would make no formal attempt +at a separation. Before the world she and he lived together, seemingly +on the best terms; at all events on quite as good terms as most of their +acquaintances; yet all the world knew how it was with them. So long as +there are servants, so long will it be impossible to effectually conceal +our most sacred secrets.</p> + +<p>Her friends, when the Baltimores went to visit them, made arrangements +to suit them. It was a pity, everybody said, that such complications +should have arisen, and one would not have expected it from Isabel, but +then she seemed so cold, that probably a climax like that did not affect +her as much as it might another. She was so entirely wrapped up in her +boy—some women were like that—a child sufficed them. And as for Lord +Baltimore—Cyril—why——Judgment was divided here; the women taking his +part, the men hers. The latter finding an attraction hardly to be +defined in her pure, calm, rather impenetrable face, that had yet a +smile so lovely that it could warm the seemingly cold face into a +something that was more effective than mere beauty. It was a wonderful +smile, and, in spite of all her troubles, was by no means rare. Lady +Baltimore, they all acknowledged, was a delightful guest and hostess.</p> + +<p>As for Lord Baltimore, he—well, he would know how to console himself. +Society, the crudest organization on earth, laughed to itself about him. +He had known how to live before his marriage; now that the marriage had +proved a failure, he would still know how to make life bearable.</p> + +<p>In this they wronged him.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.</h2> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"Ils n'employent les paroles qué pour déguiser leurs +pensées."—<span class="smcap">Voltaire.</span></p></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>Even the most dyspeptic of the guests had acknowledged at breakfast, +some hours ago now, that a lovelier day could hardly be imagined. Lady +Baltimore, with a smile, had agreed with him. It was, indeed, impossible +not to agree with him. The sun was shining high in the heavens, and a +soft, velvetty air blew through the open windows right on to the table.</p> + +<p>"What shall we do to-day?" Lady Swansdown, one of the guests, had asked, +addressing her question to Lord Baltimore, who just then was helping his +little son to porridge.</p> + +<p>Whatever she liked.</p> + +<p>"Then <i>nothing</i>!" says she, in that soft drawl of hers, and that little +familiar imploring, glance of hers at her hostess, who sat behind the +urn, and glanced back at her ever so kindly.</p> + +<p>"Yes, it was too warm to dream of exertion; would Lady Swansdown like, +to remain at home then, and dream away the afternoon in a hammock?"</p> + +<p>"Dreams were delightful; but to dream <i>alone</i>——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no; they would all, or at least most of them, stay with her." It +was Lady Baltimore who had said this, after waiting in vain for her +husband to speak—to whom, indeed, Lady Swansdown's question had been +rather pointedly addressed.</p> + +<p>So at home they all had stayed. No one being very keen about doing +anything on a day so sultry.</p> + +<p>Yet now, when luncheon is at an end, and the day still heavy with heat, +the desire for action that lies in every breast takes fire. They are all +tired of doing nothing. The Tennis-courts lie invitingly empty, and +rackets thrust themselves into notice at every turn; as for the balls, +worn out from <i>ennui</i>, they insert themselves under each arched instep, +threatening to bring the owners to the ground unless picked up and made +use of.</p> + +<p>"Who wants a beating?" demands Mr. Browne at last, unable to pretend +lassitude any longer. Taking up a racket he brandishes it wildly, +presumably to attract attention. This is necessary. As a rule nobody +pays any attention to Dicky Browne.</p> + +<p>He is a nondescript sort of young man, of the negative order; with no +features to speak of, and a capital opinion of himself. Income vague. +Age unknown.</p> + +<p>"Well! That's <i>one</i> way of putting it," says Miss Kavanagh, with a +little tilt of her pretty chin.</p> + +<p>"Is it a riddle?" asks Dysart. "If so I know it. The answer is—Dicky +Browne."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I <i>like</i> that!" says Mr. Browne unabashed. "See here, I'll give you +plus fifteen, and a bisque, and start myself at minus thirty, and beat +you in a canter."</p> + +<p>"Dear Mr. Browne, consider the day! I believe there are such things as +sunstrokes," says Lady Swansdown, in her sweet treble.</p> + +<p>"There are. But Dicky's all right," says Lord Baltimore, drawing up a +garden chair close to hers, and seating himself upon it. "His head is +safe. The sun makes no impression upon granite!"</p> + +<p>"Ah, <i>granite</i>! that applies to a heart not a head," says Lady +Swansdown, resting her blue eyes on Baltimore's for just a swift second.</p> + +<p>It is wonderful, however, what her eyes can do in a second. Baltimore +laughs lightly, returns her glance four-fold, and draws his chair a +quarter of an inch closer to hers. To move it more than that would have +been an impossibility. Lady Swansdown makes a slight movement. With a +smile seraphic as an angel's, she pulls her lace skirts a little to one +side, as if to prove to Baltimore that he has encroached beyond his +privileges upon her domain. "People should not <i>crush</i> people. And <i>why</i> +do you want to get so very close to me?" This question lies within the +serene eyes she once more raises to his.</p> + +<p>She is a lovely woman, blonde, serene, dangerous! In each glance she +turns upon the man who happens at any moment to be next to her, lies an +entire chapter on the "Whole Art of Flirtation." Were she reduced to +penury, and the world a little more advanced in its fashionable ways, +she might readily make a small fortune in teaching young ladies "How to +Marry Well." No man could resist her pupils, once properly finished by +her and turned out to prey upon the stronger sex. "The Complete Angler" +would be a title they might filch with perfect honor and call their own.</p> + +<p>She is a tall beauty, with soft limbs, graceful as a panther, or a cat. +Her eyes are like the skies in summer time, her lips sweet and full. The +silken hair that falls in soft masses on her Grecian brow is light as +corn in harvest, and she has hands and feet that are absolutely +faultless. She has even more than all these—a most convenient husband, +who is not only now but apparently always in a position of trust abroad. +Very <i>much</i> abroad. The Fiji, or the Sandwich Islands for choice. One +can't hear from those centres of worldly dissipation in a hurry. And +after all, it really doesn't very much matter <i>where</i> he is!</p> + +<p>There had been a whisper or two in the County about her and Lord +Baltimore. Everybody knew the latter had been a little wild since his +estrangement with his wife, but nothing to signify very much—nothing +that one could lay one's finger on, until Lady Swansdown had come down +last year to the Court. Whether Baltimore was in love with her was +uncertain, but all were agreed that she was in love with him. Not that +she made an <i>esclandre</i> of any sort, but <i>one could see</i>! And still! she +was such a friend of <i>Lady</i> Baltimore's—an old friend. They had been +girls together—that was what was so wonderful! And Lady Baltimore made +very much of her, and treated her with the kindliest observances, +and——But one had often heard of the serpent that one nourished in +one's bosom only that it might come to life and sting one! The County +grew wise over this complication; and perhaps when Mrs. Monkton had +hinted to Joyce of the "odd people" the Baltimores asked to the Court, +she had had Lady Swansdown in her mind.</p> + +<p>"Whose heart?" asks Baltimore, <i>à propos</i> of her last remark. "Yours?"</p> + +<p>It is a leading remark, and something in the way it is uttered strikes +unpleasantly on the ears of Dysart. Baltimore is bending over his lovely +guest, and looking at her with an admiration too open to be quite +respectful. But she betrays no resentment. She smiles back at him indeed +in that little slow, seductive way of hers, and makes him an answer in a +tone too low for even those nearest to her to hear. It is a sort of +challenge, a tacit acknowledgment that they two are alone even in the +midst of all these tiresome people.</p> + +<p>Baltimore accepts it. Of late he has grown a little reckless. The +battling against circumstances has been too much for him. He has gone +under. The persistent coldness of his wife, her refusal to hear, or +believe in him, has had its effect. A man of a naturally warm and kindly +disposition, thrown thus back upon himself, he has now given a loose +rein to the carelessness that has been a part of his nature since his +mother gave him to the world, and allows himself to swim or go down with +the tide that carries his present life upon its bosom.</p> + +<p>Lady Swansdown is lovely and kind. Always with that sense of injury full +upon him, that half-concealed but ever-present desire for revenge upon +the wife who has so coldly condemned and cast him aside, he flings +himself willingly into a flirtation, ready made to his hand, and as +dangerous as it seems light.</p> + +<p>His life, he tells himself, is hopelessly embittered. The best things in +it are denied him; he gives therefore the more heed to the honeyed words +of the pretty creature near him, who in truth likes him too well for her +own soul's good.</p> + +<p>That detested husband of hers, out there <i>somewhere</i>, the only thought +she ever gives him is when she remembers with horror how as a young girl +she was sold to him. For years she had believed herself heartless—of +all her numerous love affairs not one had really touched her until now, +and <i>now</i> he is the husband of her oldest friend; of the one woman whom +perhaps in all the world she really respects.</p> + +<p>At times her heart smites her, and a terrible longing to go away—to +die—to make an end of it—takes possession of her at other times. She +leans towards Baltimore, her lovely eyes alight, her soft mouth smiling. +Her whispered words, her only half-averted glances, all tell their tale. +Presently it is clear to everyone that a very fully developed flirtation +is well in hand.</p> + +<p>Lady Baltimore coming across the grass with a basket in one hand and her +little son held fondly by the other, sees and grasps the situation. +Baltimore, leaning over Lady Swansdown, the latter lying back in her +lounging chair in her usual indolent fashion, swaying her feather fan +from side to side, and with white lids lying on the azure eyes.</p> + +<p>Seeing it all, Lady Baltimore's mouth hardens, and a contemptuous +expression destroys the calm dignity of her face. For the moment <i>only</i>. +Another moment, and it is gone: she has recovered herself. The one sign +of emotion she has betrayed is swallowed up by her stern determination +to conceal all pain at all costs, and if her fingers tighten somewhat +convulsively on those of her boy's, why, who can be the wiser of <i>that</i>? +No one can see it.</p> + +<p>Dysart, however, who is honestly fond of his cousin, has mastered that +first swift involuntary contraction of the calm brow, and a sense of +indignant anger against Baltimore and his somewhat reckless companion +fires his blood. He springs quickly to his feet.</p> + +<p>Lady Baltimore, noting the action, though not understanding the motive +for it, turns and smiles at him—so controlled a smile that it quiets +him at once.</p> + +<p>"I am going to the gardens to try and cajole McIntyre out of some +roses," says she, in her sweet, slow way, stopping near the first group +she reaches on the lawn—the group that contains, amongst others, her +husband, and——her friend. She would not willingly have stayed where +they were, but she is too proud to pass them by without a word. "Who +will come with me? Oh! <i>no</i>," as several rise to join her, laughing, +though rather faintly. "It is not compulsory—even though I go alone, I +shall feel that I am equal to McIntyre."</p> + +<p>Lord Baltimore had started as her first words fell upon his ears. He had +been so preoccupied that her light footfalls coming over the grass had +not reached him, and her voice, when it fell upon the air, gave him a +shock. He half rises from his seat:</p> + +<p>"Shall I?" he is beginning, and then stops short, something in her face +checking him.</p> + +<p>"<i>You!</i>" she conquers herself a second later; all the scorn and contempt +is crushed, by sheer force of will, out of look and tone, and she goes +on as clearly, and as entirely without emotion, as though she were a +mere machine—a thing she has taught herself to be. "Not you," she says +gaily, waving him lightly from her. "You are too useful here"—as she +says this she gives him the softest if fleetest smile. It is a +masterpiece. "You can amuse one here and there, whilst I—I—I want a +girl, I think," looking round. "Bertie,"—with a fond, an almost +passionate glance at her little son—"always likes one of his +sweethearts (and they are many) to accompany him when he takes his walks +abroad."</p> + +<p>"Like father, like son, I daresay. Ha, ha!" laughs a fatuous youth—a +Mr. Courtenay—who lives about five miles from the Court, and has +dropped in this afternoon, very unfortunately, it must be confessed, to +pay his respects to Lady Baltimore. Fools always hit on the truth! +<i>Why</i>, nobody knows, except the heavens above us—but so it is. Young +Courtenay, who has heard nothing of the unpleasant relations existing +between his host and hostess, and who would be quite incapable of +understanding them if he <i>had</i> heard, now springs a remark upon the +assembled five or six people present that almost reduces them to powder.</p> + +<p>Dysart casts a murderous glance at him.</p> + +<p>"A clever old proverb," says Lady Baltimore lightly. She is apparently +the one unconcerned person amongst them. "I always like those old +sayings. There is so much truth in them."</p> + +<p>She has forced herself to say this; but as the words pass her lips she +blanches perceptibly. As if unable to control herself she draws her +little son towards her; her arms tighten round him. The boy responds +gladly to the embrace, and to those present who know nothing, it seems +the simplest thing in the world. The mother,—the child; naturally they +would caress each other on each and every occasion. The agony of the +mother is unknown to them; the fear that her boy, her treasure, may +inherit something of his father, and in his turn prove unfaithful to the +heart that trusts him.</p> + +<p>It is a very little scene, scarcely worth recording, yet the anguish of +a strong heart lies embodied in it.</p> + +<p>"If you are going to the gardens, Lady Baltimore, let me go with you," +says Miss Maliphant, rising quickly and going toward her. She is a big, +loud girl, with money written all over her in capital letters, but Dicky +Browne watching her, tells himself she has a good heart. "I should +<i>love</i> to go there with you and Bertie."</p> + +<p>"Come, then," says Lady Baltimore graciously. She makes a step forward; +little Bertie, as though he likes and believes in her, thrusts his small +fist into the hand of the Birmingham heiress, and thus united, all three +pass out of sight.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"I have no other but a woman's reason: I think him so, because I +think him so."</p></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>When a corner near the rhododendrons has concealed them from view, +Dysart rises from his seat and goes deliberately over to where Lady +Swansdown is sitting. She is an old friend of his, and he has therefore +no qualms about being a little brusque with her where occasion demands +it.</p> + +<p>"Have a game?" says he. His suggestion is full of playfulness, his tone, +however, is stern.</p> + +<p>"Dear Felix, why?" says she, smiling up at him beautifully. There is +even a suspicion of amusement in her smile.</p> + +<p>"A change!" says he. His words this time might mean something, his tone +anything. She can read either as she pleases.</p> + +<p>"True!" says she laughing. "There is nothing like change. You have +wakened me to a delightful fact. Lord Baltimore," turning languidly to +her companion, who has been a little <i>distrait</i> since his wife and son +passed by him. "What do you say to trying a change for just we two. +Variety they <i>say</i> is charming, shall we try if shade and coolness and +comfort are to be found in that enchanting glade down there?" She points +as she speaks to an opening in the wood where perpetual twilight seems +to reign, as seen from where they now are sitting.</p> + +<p>"If you will," says Baltimore, still a little vaguely. He gets up, +however, and stretches his arms indolently above his head as one might +who is flinging from him the remembrance of an unpleasant dream.</p> + +<p>"The sun here is intolerable," says Lady Swansdown, rising too. "More +than one can endure. Thanks, dear Felix, for your suggestion. I should +never have thought of the glade if you hadn't asked me to play that +impossible game."</p> + +<p>She smiles a little maliciously at Dysart, and, accompanied by Lord +Baltimore, moves away from the assembled groups upon the lawn to the dim +recesses of the leafy glade.</p> + +<p>"<i>Sold!</i>" says Mr. Browne to Dysart. It is always impossible to Dicky to +hold his tongue. "But you needn't look so cut up about it. 'Tisn't good +enough, my dear fellow. I know 'em both by heart. Baltimore is as much +in love with her as he is with his Irish tenants, but his imagination is +his strong point, and it pleases him to think he has found at last for +the twentieth time a solace for all his woes in the disinterested love +of somebody, it really never much matters who."</p> + +<p>"There is more in it than <i>you</i> think," says Dysart gloomily.</p> + +<p>"Not a fraction!" airily.</p> + +<p>"And what of her? Lady Swansdown?"</p> + +<p>"Of her! Her heart has been in such constant use for years that by this +time it must be in tatters. Give up thinking about that. Ah! here is my +beloved girl again!" He makes an elaborate gesture of delight as he sees +Joyce advancing in his direction. "<i>Dear</i> Joyce!" beaming on her, "who +shall say there is nothing in animal magnetism. Here I have been just +talking about you to Dysart, and telling him what a lost soul I feel +when you're away, and instantly, as if in answer to my keen desire, you +appear before me."</p> + +<p>"Why aren't you playing tennis?" demands Miss Kavanagh, with a cruel +disregard of this flowery speech.</p> + +<p>"Because I was waiting for you."</p> + +<p>"Well, I'll beat you," says she, "I always do."</p> + +<p>"Not if you play on my side," reproachfully.</p> + +<p>"What! Have you for a <i>partner</i>! Nonsense, Dicky, you know I shouldn't +dream of that. Why it is as much as ever you can do to put the ball over +the net."</p> + +<p>"'Twas ever thus,'" quotes Mr. Browne mournfully. "The sincerest worship +gains only scorn and contumely. But never mind! the day will come!—--"</p> + +<p>"To an end," says Miss Kavanagh, giving a finish to his sentence never +meant. "That," cheerfully, "is just what I think. If we don't have a +game now, the shades of night will be on us before we can look round +us."</p> + +<p>"Will you play with me?" says Dysart.</p> + +<p>"With pleasure. Keep your eye on this near court, and when this game is +at an end, call it ours;" she sinks into a chair as she speaks, and +Dysart, who is in a silent mood, flings himself on the grass at her feet +and falls into a reverie. To be conversational is unnecessary, Dicky +Browne is on the spot.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Hotter and hotter grows the sun; the evening comes on apace; a few +people from the neighboring houses have dropped in; Mrs. Monkton amongst +others, with Tommy in tow. The latter, who is supposed to entertain a +strong affection for Lady Baltimore's little son, no sooner, however, +sees Dicky Browne than he gives himself up to his keeping. What the +attraction is that Mr. Browne has for children has never yet been +clearly defined. It is the more difficult to arrive at a satisfactory +conclusion about it, in that no child was ever yet left in his sole care +for ten minutes without coming to blows, or tears, or a determined +attempt at murder or suicide.</p> + +<p>His mother, seeing Tommy veering towards this uncertain friend, turns a +doubtful eye on Mr. Browne.</p> + +<p>"Better come with me, Tommy," says she, "I am going to the gardens to +find Lady Baltimore. She will have Bertie with her."</p> + +<p>"I'll stay with Dicky," says Tommy, flinging himself broadcast on Mr. +Brown's reluctant chest, that gives forth a compulsory "Wough" as he +does so. "He'll tell me a story."</p> + +<p>"Don't be unhappy, Mrs. Monkton," says the latter, when he has recovered +a little from the shock—Tommy is a well-grown boy, with a sufficient +amount of adipose matter about him to make his descent felt. "I'll +promise to be careful. Nothing French I assure you. Nothing that could +shock the young mind, or teach it how to shoot in the wrong direction. +My tales are always strictly moral."</p> + +<p>"Well, Tommy, be <i>good</i>!" says Mrs. Monkton with a last imploring glance +at her son, who has already forgotten her existence, being lost in a +wild wrestling match with his new friend. With deep forebodings his +mother leaves him and goes upon her way. Passing Joyce, she says in a +low whisper:</p> + +<p>"Keep an eye on Tommy."</p> + +<p>"Both eyes if you like," laughing. "But Dicky, in spite of his evil +reputation, seldom goes to extremes."</p> + +<p>"Tommy does, however," says Mrs. Monkton tritely.</p> + +<p>"Well—I'll look after him."</p> + +<p>And so perhaps she might have done, had not a light step sounding just +behind her chair at this moment caused her to start—to look round—to +forget all but what she now sees.</p> + +<p>He is a very aristocratic-looking man, tall, with large limbs, and big +indeed, in every way. His eyes are light, his nose a handsome Roman, his +forehead massive, and if not grand in the distinctly intellectual way, +still a fine forehead and impressive. His hands are of a goodly size, +but exquisitely proportioned, and very white, the skin almost delicate. +He is rather like his sister, Lady Baltimore, and yet so different from +her in every way that the distinct resemblance that is surely there +torments the observer.</p> + +<p>"<i>Why!</i>" says Joyce. It is the most foolish exclamation and means +nothing, but she finds herself a little taken off her guard. "I didn't +know you were here!" She has half risen.</p> + +<p>"Neither did I—how d'ye do, Dysart?—until half an hour ago. Won't you +shake hands?"</p> + +<p>He holds out his own hand to her as he speaks. There is a quizzical +light in his eyes as he speaks, nothing to offend, but one can see that +he finds amusement in the fact that the girl has been so much impressed +by his unexpected appearance that she has even forgotten the small usual +act of courtesy with which we greet our friends. She had, indeed, been +dead to everything but his coming.</p> + +<p>"You came——" falters she, stammering a little, as she notes her +mistake.</p> + +<p>"By the mid-day train; I gave myself just time to snatch a sandwich from +Purdon (the butler), say a word or two to my sister, whom I found in the +garden, and then came on here to ask you to play this next game with +me."</p> + +<p>"Oh! I am so sorry, but I have promised it to——"</p> + +<p>The words are out of her mouth before she has realized the fact that +Dysart is listening—Dysart, who is lying at her feet, watching every +expression in her mobile face. She colors hotly, and looks down at him +confused, lovely.</p> + +<p>"I didn't mean—<i>that</i>!" says she, trying to smile indifferently, +"Only——"</p> + +<p>"<i>Don't!</i>" says Dysart, not loudly, not curtly, yet in so strange and +decided a way that it renders her silent. "You mustn't mind me," says +he, a second later, in his usual calm tone. "I know you and Beauclerk +are wonderful players. You can give me a game later on."</p> + +<p>"A capital arrangement," says Beauclerk, comfortably sinking into a +chair beside her, with all the lazy manner of a man at peace with +himself and his world, "especially as I shall have to go in presently to +write some letters for the evening post."</p> + +<p>He places his elbows on the arms of the chair, brings the ends of his +fingers together, and beams admiringly at Joyce over the tops of them.</p> + +<p>"How busy you always are," says she, slowly.</p> + +<p>"Well you see, this appointment, or, rather, the promise of it, keeps me +going. Tremendous lot of interest to work up. Good deal of bother, you +know, but then, beggars—eh?—can't be choosers, can they? And I should +like to go to the East; that is, if——"</p> + +<p>He pauses, beams again, and looks boldly into Miss Kavanagh's eyes. She +blushes hotly, and, dropping her fan, makes a little attempt to pick it +up again. Mr. Beauclerk makes another little attempt, and so manages +that his hand meets hers. There is a slight, an almost benevolent +pressure.</p> + +<p>Had they looked at Dysart as they both resumed their places, they could +have seen that his face is white as death. Miss Kavanagh, too, looks a +little pale, a little uncertain, but as a whole nervously happy.</p> + +<p>"I've been down at that old place of mine," goes on Mr. Beauclerk. +"Terrible disrepair—take thousands to put it in any sort of order. And +where's one to get them? That's the one question that has got no answer +now-a-days. Eh, Dysart?"</p> + +<p>"There is an answer, however," says Dysart, curtly, not looking at him.</p> + +<p>"Ah, well, I suppose so. But I haven't heard it yet."</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, I think you have," says Dysart, quite politely, but grimly, +nevertheless.</p> + +<p>"Dear fellow, how? where? unless one discovers a <i>mine</i> or an African +diamond-field?"</p> + +<p>"Or an heiress," says Dysart, incidentally.</p> + +<p>"Hah! lucky dog, that comes home to <i>you</i>," says Beauclerk, giving him a +playful pat on his shoulder, and stooping from his chair to do it, as +Dysart still sits upon the grass.</p> + +<p>"Not to me."</p> + +<p>"No? You <i>will</i> be modest? Well, well! But talking of that old place, I +assure you, Miss Kavanagh, it worries me—it does, indeed. It sounds +like one's <i>duty</i> to restore it, and still——"</p> + +<p>"There are better things than even an old place," says Dysart.</p> + +<p>"Ah! you haven't one you see," cries Beauclerk, with the utmost +geniality. "If you had——I really think if you had you would understand +that it requires a sacrifice to give it up to moths and rust and ruin."</p> + +<p>"I said there were better things than old places," says Dysart doggedly, +never looking in his direction. "And if there are, <i>make</i> a sacrifice."</p> + +<p>"Pouf! Lucky fellows like you—gay soldier lads—with hearts as light as +sunbeams, can easily preach; but sacrifices are not so easily made. +There is that horrid word, Duty! And a man must sometimes <i>think</i>!"</p> + +<p>Joyce, as though the last word has struck some answering chord that +wounds her as it strikes, looks suddenly at him. <i>What</i> was it Barbara +had said? "He was a man who would always <i>think</i>,"—is he thinking +now—even now—at this moment?—is he weighing matters in his mind?</p> + +<p>"Hah!" says Beauclerk rising and pointing to the court nearest them; +"<i>that</i> game is over. Come on, Miss Kavanagh, let us go and get our +scalps. I say, Dysart, will you fight it out with us?"</p> + +<p>"No thanks."</p> + +<p>"Afraid?" gaily.</p> + +<p>"Of you—no," smiling; the smile is admirably done, and would be taken +as the genuine article anywhere.</p> + +<p>"Of Miss Kavanagh; then?"</p> + +<p>For a brief instant, and evidently against his wish, Dysart's eyes meet +those of Joyce.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps," says he.</p> + +<p>"A poor compliment to me," says Beauclerk, with his pleasant laugh that +always rings <i>so</i> softly. "Well, never mind; I forgive you. Get a good +partner, my dear fellow, and <i>she</i> may pull you through. You see I +depend entirely upon mine," with a glance at Joyce, full of expression. +"There's Miss Maliphant now—she'd make a good partner if you like."</p> + +<p>"I shouldn't," says Dysart, immovably.</p> + +<p>"She plays a good game, I can tell you."</p> + +<p>"So do you," says Dysart.</p> + +<p>"Oh, now, Dysart, don't be sarcastic," says Beauclerk laughing. "I +believe you are afraid of me, not of Miss Kavanagh, and that's why you +won't play. But if you were to put yourself in Miss Maliphant's hands, I +don't say but that you would have a chance of beating me."</p> + +<p>"I shall beat you by myself or not at all," says Dysart suddenly, and +for the first time looking fair at him.</p> + +<p>"A single, you mean?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, a single."</p> + +<p>"Well—we shall see," says Beauclerk. "Hah, there is Courtenay. Come +along, Miss Kavanagh, we must make up a set as best we may, as Dysart is +too lazy to face us."</p> + +<p>"The next game is ours, Mr. Dysart, remember," says she, glancing at +Dysart over her shoulder. There is a touch of anxiety in her eyes.</p> + +<p>"I <i>always</i> remember," says he, with a rather ambiguous smile. What is +he remembering now? Joyce's mouth takes a grave curve as she follows +Beauclerk down the marble steps that lead to the tennis-ground below.</p> + +<p>The evening has grown very still. The light wind that all day long has +sung among the leaves has gone to sleep. Only the monotonous countings +of the tennis players can be heard. Suddenly above these, another sound +arises. It is <i>not</i> the voice of the charmer. It is the voice of Tommy +in full cry, and mad with a desire to gain the better of the argument +now going on between him and Mr. Browne. Mr. Browne is still, however, +holding his own. He generally does. His voice grows eloquent. <i>All</i> can +hear.</p> + +<p>"I shall tell my story, Tommy, in my own way, or I shall not tell it at +all!" The dignity that Mr. Browne throws into this threat is hardly to +be surpassed.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Sweet food of sweetly uttered knowledge."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>"Tisn't right," says Tommy.</p> + +<p>"<i>I</i> think it is. If you kindly listen to it once again, and give your +entire attention to it, you will see how faulty is the ignorant +conclusion to which you have come."</p> + +<p>"I'm not one bit ignorant," says Tommy indignantly. "Nurse says I'm the +dickens an' all at my Bible, and that I know Genesis better'n <i>she</i> +does."</p> + +<p>"And a very engaging book it is too," says Mr. Browne, "but it isn't +everything. What <i>you</i> want to study, my good boy, is natural history. +You are very ignorant about that, at all events."</p> + +<p>"A cow <i>couldn't</i> do it," says Tommy.</p> + +<p>"History says she can. Now, listen again. It is a grand old poem, and I +am grieved and distressed, Thomas, to find that you refuse to accept it +as one of the gems of truth thrown up to us out of the Dark Ages. Are +you ready?</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"'Diddle-dee, diddle-dee dumpty,</span> +<span class="i0">The cow ran up the plum-tree.</span> +<span class="i0">Half-a-crown to fetch her——'"</span> +</div></div> + +<p>"She <i>didn't</i>—'twas the <i>cat</i>," cries Tommy.</p> + +<p>"Not in <i>my</i> story," says Mr. Browne, mildly but firmly.</p> + +<p>"A cow <i>couldn't</i> go up a plum-tree," indignantly.</p> + +<p>"She could in <i>my</i> story," persists Mr. Browne, with all the air of one +who, even to avoid unpleasantness, would not consent to go against the +dictates of his conscience.</p> + +<p>"She <i>couldn't</i>, I tell you," roars Tommy, now thoroughly incensed. "She +couldn't <i>climb</i>. Her horns would stick in the branches. She'd be too +<i>heavy</i>!"</p> + +<p>"I admit, Thomas," says Mr. Browne gravely, "that your argument sounds +as though there were some sense in it. But who am I that I should dare +to disbelieve ancient history? It is unsafe to throw down old landmarks, +to blow up the bulwarks of our noble constitution. Beware, Tommy! never +tread on the tail of Truth. It may turn and rend you."</p> + +<p>"Her name isn't Truth," says Tommy. "Our cow's name is Biddy, and she +never ran up a tree in her life."</p> + +<p>"She's young," says Mr. Browne. "She'll learn. So are <i>you</i>—<i>you'll</i> +learn. And remember this, my boy, always respect old legends. A +disregard for them will so unsettle you that finally you will find +yourself—at the foot of the gallows in all human probability. I +suppose," sadly, "that you are even so far gone in scepticism as to +doubt the glorious truth of the moon's being made of green cheese?"</p> + +<p>"Father says that's nonsense," says Tommy promptly, and with an air of +triumph, "and father always knows."</p> + +<p>"I blush for your father," says Mr. Browne with increasing melancholy. +"Both he and you are apparently sunk in heathen darkness. Well, well; we +will let the question of the moon go by, though I suppose you know, +Tommy, that the real and original moon first rose in Cheshire."</p> + +<p>"No, I don't," says Tommy, with a militant glare. "There was once a +Cheshire cat; there never was a Cheshire moon."</p> + +<p>"I suppose you will tell me next there never was a Cheshire cheese," +says Mr. Browne severely. "Don't you see the connection? But never mind. +Talking of cats brings us back to our mutton, and from thence to our +cow. I do hope, Tommy, that for the future you will, at all events, +<i>try</i> to believe in that faithful old animal who skipped so gaily up and +down, and hither and thither, and in and out, and all about, that +long-suffering old plum-tree."</p> + +<p>"She never did it," says Tommy stamping with rage and now nearly in +tears. "I've books—I've books, and 'tisn't in <i>any</i> of them."</p> + +<p>"It is in <i>my</i> book," says Mr. Browne, who ought to be ashamed of +himself.</p> + +<p>"I don't believe you ever <i>read</i> a book," screams Tommy furiously. +"'Twas the cat—the cat—the cat!"</p> + +<p>"No; 'twas the horned cow," says Mr. Browne, in a sepulchral tone, +whereat Tommy goes for him.</p> + +<p>There is a wild and desperate conflict. Tooth and nail Tommy attacks, +the foe, fists and legs doing very gallant service. There would indeed +have been a serious case of assault and battery for the next Court day, +had not Providence sent Mrs. Monkton on the scene.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Tommy!" cries she, aghast. It is presumably Tommy, though, as he +has his head thrust between Mr. Browne's legs, and his feet in mid air, +kicking with all their might, there isn't much of him by which to prove +identification. And—"Oh, Dicky," says, she again, "how <i>could</i> you +torment him so, when you know how easy it is to excite him. See what a +state he is in!"</p> + +<p>"And what about me?" demands Mr. Browne, who is weak with laughter. "Is +no sympathy to be shown me? See what a state <i>I'm</i> in. I'm black and +blue from head to heel. I'm at the point of death!"</p> + +<p>"Nonsense! you are all right, but look at <i>him</i>! Oh! Tommy, what a +terrible boy you are. And you promised me if I brought you, that +you——Just look at his clothes!"</p> + +<p>"Look at <i>mine</i>!" says Mr. Browne. "My best hat is done for, and I'm +afraid to examine my trousers. <i>You</i> might tell me if there is a big +rent anywhere. No? Eh? Well—if you won't I must only risk it. But I +feel tattered and torn. By-the-bye, Tommy, that's part of another old +story. I'll tell you about it some day."</p> + +<p>"Come with me, Tommy," says his mother, with awful severity. She holds +out her hand to her son, who is still glaring at Dicky with an undying +ferocity. "You are a naughty boy, and I'm sure your father will be angry +with you when he hears of this."</p> + +<p>"Oh, but he must not hear of it, must he, Tommy?" says Mr. Browne, with +decision, appealing to his late antagonist as airily, as utterly without +<i>arrière pensée</i> as though no unpleasant passages have occurred between +them. "It's awfully good of you to desire our company, Mrs. Monkton, but +really on the whole I think——"</p> + +<p>"It is Tommy I want," says Mrs. Monkton still with a meaning eye.</p> + +<p>"Where Tommy goes, I go," says Mr. Browne, firmly. "We are wedded to +each other for the day. Nothing shall part us! Neither law nor order. +Just now we are going down to the lake to feed the swans with the +succulent bun. Will you come with us?"</p> + +<p>"You are very uncertain, Dicky," says Mrs. Monkton, regarding Mr. Browne +with a gravity that savors of disapproval. "How shall I be sure that if +you take him to the lake you will not let him drown himself?"</p> + +<p>"He is far more likely to drown me," says Mr. Browne. "Come along, +Tommy, the biscuits are in the hall, and the lake a quarter of a mile +away. The day waneth; let us haste—let us haste!"</p> + +<p>"Where has Dicky gone?" asks Joyce, who has just returned victorious +from her game.</p> + +<p>"To the lake with Tommy. I have been imploring him not to drown my son," +says Mrs. Monkton with a rather rueful smile.</p> + +<p>"Oh, he won't do that. Dicky is erratic, but pretty safe, for all that. +And he is fond of Tommy."</p> + +<p>"He teases him, however, beyond endurance."</p> + +<p>"That is because he <i>does</i> like him."</p> + +<p>"A strange conclusion to arrive at, surely," says Dysart, looking at +her.</p> + +<p>"No. If he didn't like him, he wouldn't take the trouble," says she, +nonchalantly. She is evidently a little <i>distrait</i>. She looks as though +she wanted something.</p> + +<p>"You won your game?" says her sister, smiling at her.</p> + +<p>"Yes, quite a glorious victory. They had only two games out of the six; +and you know Miss Connor plays very well."</p> + +<p>"Where is Mr. Beauclerk?"</p> + +<p>"Gone into the house to write some letters and telegrams."</p> + +<p>"Norman, do you mean?" asks Lady Baltimore, coming up at this moment, +her basket full of flowers, and minus the little son and the heiress; +"he has just gone into the house to hear Miss Maliphant sing. You know +she sings remarkably well, and that last song of Milton Wettings suits +her so entirely. Norman is very fond of music. Have you had a game, +Joyce?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, and won it," says Joyce, smiling back at her, though her face has +paled a little. <i>Had</i> she won it?</p> + +<p>"Well, I must take these into the house before they fade. Righton wants +them for the dinner-table," says Lady Baltimore. A little hurried note +has crept into her voice. She turns away somewhat abruptly. Lord +Baltimore and Lady Swansdown have just appeared in view, Lady Swansdown +with a huge bunch of honeysuckle in her hand, looking very picturesque.</p> + +<p>Baltimore, seeing his wife move towards the house, and Lady Swansdown +displaying the spoils of her walk to Dysart, darts quickly after her.</p> + +<p>"Let me carry that burden for you," says he, laying his hand upon the +basket of flowers.</p> + +<p>"No, oh! no, thank you," says Lady Baltimore, glancing up at him for +just a moment, with a little curious expression in her eyes. "I have +carried it quite a long time. I hardly feel it now. No; go back to the +lawn to Lady Swansdown—see; she is quite alone at this moment. You will +be doing me a real service if you will look after our guests."</p> + +<p>"As you will," says Baltimore, coldly.</p> + +<p>He turns back with a frown, and rejoins those he had left.</p> + +<p>Joyce is talking to Lady Swansdown in her prettiest way—she seems, +indeed, exceptionally gay even for her, who, as a rule, is the life of +every party. Her spirits seem to have risen to quite an abnormal height, +and her charming laugh, soft as it is sweet, rings gaily. With the +advent of Baltimore, however, Lady Swansdown's attention veers aside, +and Joyce, feeling Dysart at her elbow, turns to him.</p> + +<p>"We postponed <i>one</i> game, I think," says she. "Well—shall we play the +next?"</p> + +<p>"I am sorry," says he, deliberately, "but I think not." His eyes are on +the ground.</p> + +<p>"No?" says she, coloring warmly. There is open surprise in her glance. +That he should refuse to accept an advance from her seems truly beyond +belief.</p> + +<p>"You must forgive me," says he, deliberately still. He had sworn to +himself that he would not play second fiddle on <i>this</i> occasion at all +events, and he holds himself to his word. "But I feel as if I could not +play to-day. I should disgrace you. Let me get you another partner. +Captain Grant is out there, he——"</p> + +<p>"Thank you. I shall be able to provide myself with a partner when I want +one," interrupts she, haughtily, turning abruptly away.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Nature has sometimes made a fool."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>The fiddles are squeaking, the 'cellos are groaning, the man with the +cornet is making a most ungodly row. As yet, the band have the ballroom +all to themselves, and are certainly making the most of their time. Such +unearthly noises rarely, if ever, have been heard in it before. Why they +couldn't have tuned their instruments before coming is a question that +fills the butler's mind with wrath, but perhaps the long journey down +from Dublin would have untuned them all again, and left the players of +them disconsolate.</p> + +<p>The dismal sounds penetrate into the rooms right and left of the +ballroom, but fail to kill the melancholy sweetness of the dripping +fountains or the perfume of the hundred flowers that gave their sleeping +draughts to all those who chose to come and inhale them. Mild draughts +that please the senses without stealing them.</p> + +<p>The sounds even penetrate to the library, where Joyce is standing before +the low fire, that even in this July evening burns upon the hearth, +fastening her long gloves. She had got down before the others, and now, +finding the room empty, half wishes herself back again upstairs. But she +is so young, so full of a fresh delight in all the gaiety around her, +that she had hurried over her dressing, and, with the first dismal +sounds of the toning, had turned her steps its way.</p> + +<p>The library seems cold to her, bare, unfriendly. Had she expected to +meet somebody there before her—somebody who had promised to get a fresh +tie in a hurry, but who had possibly forgotten all about it in the joy +of an after-dinner cigar?</p> + +<p>It seems a long time since that first day when she had been startled by +his sudden reappearance at the Court. A long, <i>long</i> time. Soon this +last visit of hers to the Court must come to an end. The Baltimores will +be going abroad in a fortnight or so—and he with them. The summer is +waning—dreary autumn coming. He will go—and——</p> + +<p>A sense of dissatisfaction sits heavily on her, toning down to rather a +too cruel a degree the bright expectancy of her face. He had <i>said</i> he +would come, and now——She drums in a heavy-hearted listless fashion on +the table with the tips of her pale gloves, and noticing, half +consciously in so doing, that they have not been sufficiently drawn up +her arm, mechanically fits them closer to the taper fingers.</p> + +<p>Certainly he had said he would be here. "Early you know. Before the +others can get down." A quick frown grows upon her forehead, and now +that the fingers are quiet, the little foot begins to beat a tattoo upon +the ground. Leaning against the table in a graceful attitude, with the +lamplight streaming on her pretty white frock, she gives a loose rein to +her thoughts.</p> + +<p>They are a little angry, a little frightened perhaps. During the past +week had he not said many things that in the end proved void of meaning. +He had haunted her in a degree, at certain hours, certain times, had +loitered through gardens, lingered in conservatories by her side, +whispered many things—looked so very many more. But——</p> + +<p>There were other times, other opportunities for philandering (<i>she</i> does +not give it this unpleasant name); how has he spent them?—A vague +thought of Miss Maliphant crosses her mind. That he laughs at the plain, +good-natured heiress to her (Joyce), had not prevented the fact that he +is very attentive to her at times. Principally such times as when Joyce +may reasonably be supposed to be elsewhere. Human reason, however, often +falls short of the mark, and there have been unsuspected moments during +the past week when Miss Kavanagh has by chance appeared upon the scene +of Mr. Beauclerk's amusements, and has found that Miss Maliphant has had +a good deal to do with them. But then—"That poor, good girl you know!" +Here, Beauclerk's joyous laugh would ring forth for Joyce's benefit. +"<i>Such</i> a good girl; and so—er—<i>don't</i> you know!" He was certainly +always a little vague. He didn't explain himself. Miss Kavanagh, looking +back on all he had ever said against the heiress, is obliged to confess +to herself that the great "er" had had to express everything. Contempt, +dislike, kindly disdain—he was always <i>kindly</i>—he made quite a point +of <i>that</i>. Truly, thinks Miss Kavanagh to herself after this +retrospective glance, "er" is the greatest word in the English language!</p> + +<p>And so it is. It declares. It conceals. It conveys a laugh. It suggests +a frown. It helps a sorrowful confession. It adorns a lame one. It is +kindly, as giving time. It is cruel, as being full of sarcasm. It——In +fact what is it it <i>cannot</i> do?</p> + +<p>Joyce's feet have grown quite steady now. She has placed her hands on +the table behind her, and thus compelled to lean a little forward, +stands studying the carpet without seeing it. A sense of anger, of +<i>shame</i> against herself is troubling her. If he should <i>not</i> be in +earnest! If he should not—like her as she likes him!</p> + +<p>She rouses herself suddenly as if stung by some thought. "Like" <i>is</i> the +word. It has gone no deeper yet. It <i>shall</i> not. He is handsome, he has +his charm, but if she is not all the world to him, why, he shall not be +all the world to <i>her</i>. If it is money he craves, for the restoration of +that old home of his, why money let it be. But there, shall not be the +two things, the desire of one for filthy lucre, the desire of the other +for love. He shall decide.</p> + +<p>She has grown very pale. She has drawn herself up to her full height, +and her lips are pressed together. And now a strange thought comes to +her. If—<i>if</i> she loved him, could she bear thus to analyze him. To take +him to pieces, to dissect him as it were? Once again that feeling of +fear oppresses her. Is she so cold, so deliberate in herself that she +suspects others of coldness. After all—if he does love her—if he only +hesitates because——</p> + +<p><i>A step outside the door!</i></p> + +<p>Instinctively she glances at one of the long mirrors that line the walls +from floor to ceiling. Involuntarily her hands rush to her head. She +gives a little touch to her gown. And now is sitting in a +lounging-chair, a little pale still perhaps, but in all other respects +the very picture of unconsciousness. It is—it must be——</p> + +<p>It isn't, however.</p> + +<p>Mr. Browne, opening the door in his own delightfully breezy fashion that +generally plays old Harry with the hinges and blows the ornaments off +the nearest tables, advances towards her with arms outspread, and the +liveliest admiration writ upon his features, which, to say the truth, +are of goodly proportions.</p> + +<p>"Oh! Thou wonder of the world!" cries he in accents ecstatic. He has +been reading "Cleopatra" (that most charming of books) assiduously for +the past few days, during which time he has made himself an emphatic +nuisance to his friends: perpetual quotations, however apt or salutary, +proving as a rule a bore.</p> + +<p>"That will do, Dicky! We <i>all</i> know about that," says Miss Kavanagh, who +is a little unnerved, a little impatient perhaps. Mr. Browne, however, +is above being snubbed by anyone. He continues on his way rejoicing.</p> + +<p>"Thou living flame!" cries he, making what he fondly supposes to be a +stage attitude. "Thou thing of beauty. Though <i>fleshpot of Egypt</i>!"</p> + +<p>He has at last surpassed himself! He stands silent waiting for the +plaudits of the crowd. The crowd, however, is unappreciative.</p> + +<p>"Nonsense!" says Miss Kavanagh shortly. "I wonder you aren't tired of +<i>making</i> people tired. Your eternal quotations would destroy the +patience of an anchorite. And as for that last sentence of yours, you +know very well it isn't in Rider Haggard's book. He'd have been ashamed +of it."</p> + +<p>"<i>Would</i> he? Bet you he wouldn't! And if it isn't in his book, all I can +say is it ought to have been. Mere oversight leaving it out. He <i>will</i> +be sorry if I drop him a line about it. Shouldn't wonder if it produced +a new edition. But for my part, I believe it <i>is</i> in the book. +Fleshpots, Egypt, you know; hardly possible to separate 'em now from the +public mind."</p> + +<p>"Well; he could separate them any way. There isn't a single word about +them in the book from start to finish."</p> + +<p>"No? D'ye say so?" Here Mr. Browne grows lost in thought. +"Fleshpots—pots—hot pots; hot <i>potting</i>! Hah!" He draws himself +together with all the manner of one who has gone down deep into a thing, +and comes up from it full of knowledge. "I've 'mixed those babies up,'" +says he mildly. "But still I can hardly believe that that last valuable +addition to Mr. Haggard's work is all my own."</p> + +<p>"Distinctly your own," with a suggestion of scorn, completely thrown +away upon the receiver of it.</p> + +<p>"D'ye say so! By Jove! And very neat too! Didn't think I had it in me. +After all to write a book is an easy matter; here am I, who never +thought about it, was able to form an entire sentence full of the most +exquisite wit and humor without so much as knowing I was doing it. Tell +you what, Joyce, I'll send it to the author with a card and my +compliments you know. Horrid thing to be <i>mean</i> about anything, and if I +can help him out with a 999th edition or so, I'll be doing him a good +turn. Eh?"</p> + +<p>"I suppose you think you are amusing," says Miss Kavanagh, regarding him +with a critical eye.</p> + +<p>"My good child, I <i>know</i> that expression," says Mr. Browne, amiably. "I +know it by heart. It means that you think I'm a fool. It's politer +now-a-days to look things than to say them, but wait awhile and you'll +<i>see</i>. Come; I'll bet you a shilling to a sovereign that he'll be +delighted with my suggestion, and put it into his next edition without +delay. No charge! Given away! The lot for a penny-three-farthings. In +fact, I make it a present to him. Noble, eh? Give it to him for +<i>nothing</i>!"</p> + +<p>"About its price," says Miss Kavanagh thoughtfully.</p> + +<p>"Think you so? You are dull to-night, Jocelyne. Flashes of wit pass you +by without warming you. Yet I tell you this idea that has flowed from my +brain is a priceless one. Never mind the door—he's not coming yet. +Attend to me."</p> + +<p>"<i>Who's</i> not coming?" demands she, the more angrily in that she is +growing miserably aware of the brilliant color that is slowly but surely +bedecking her cheeks.</p> + +<p>"Never mind! It's a mere detail; attend to <i>me</i> and I entreat you," says +Mr. Browne, who is now quite in his element, having made sure of the +fact that she is expecting somebody. It doesn't matter in the least who +to Mr. Browne, expectation is the thing wherein to catch the +embarrassment of Miss Kavanagh, and forthwith he sets himself gaily to +the teazing of her.</p> + +<p>"Attend to <i>what</i>?" says she with a little frown.</p> + +<p>"If you had studied your Bible, Jocelyne, with that care that I should +have expected from you, you would have remembered that forty odd years +the Israelites hankered after those very fleshpots of Egypt to which I +have been alluding. Now I appeal to you, as a sensible girl, would +anybody hanker after anything for forty odd years (<i>very</i> odd years as +it happens), unless it was to their advantage to get it; unless, indeed, +the object pursued was <i>priceless</i>!"</p> + +<p>"You ask too much of <i>this</i> sensible girl," says Miss Kavanagh, with a +carefully manufactured yawn. "Really, dear Dicky, you must forgive me if +I say I haven't gone into it as yet, and that I don't suppose I shall +ever <i>see</i> the necessity for going into it."</p> + +<p>"But, my good child, you must see that those respectable people, the +Israelites, wouldn't have pursued a mere shadow for forty years."</p> + +<p>"That's just what I <i>don't</i> see. There are such a number of fools +everywhere, in every age, that one couldn't tell."</p> + +<p>"This is evasion," says Mr. Browne sternly. "To bring you face to face +with facts must be my very unpleasant if distinct duty. Joyce, do you +dare to doubt for one moment that I speak aught but the truth? Will you +deny that Cleopatra, that old serpent of the——"</p> + +<p>"Ha—ha—ha," laughs Joyce ironically. "I wish she could hear you. Your +life wouldn't be worth a moment's purchase."</p> + +<p>"Mere slip. Serpent of <i>old</i> Nile. Doesn't matter in the least," says +Mr. Browne airily, "because she couldn't hear me as it happens. My dear +girl, follow out the argument. Cleopatra, metaphorically speaking, was a +fleshpot, because the world hankered after her. And—you're another."</p> + +<p>"Really, Dicky, I must protest against your talking slang to me."</p> + +<p>"Where does the slang come in? You're another fleshpot. I meant to +say—or convey—because <i>we</i> all hanker after you."</p> + +<p>"Do you?" with rising wrath. "May I ask what hankering means?"</p> + +<p>"You had better not," says Mr. Browne mysteriously. "It was one of the +rites of Ancient Kem!"</p> + +<p>"Now there is <i>one</i> thing, Dicky," says Miss Kavanagh, her wrath boiling +over. "I won't be called names. I won't be called a <i>fleshpot</i>. You'll +draw the line there if you please."</p> + +<p>"My dear girl, why not? Those delectable pots must have been +<i>bric-à-brac</i> of the most <i>recherché</i> description. Of a most delicate +shape, no doubt. Of a pattern, tint, formation, general get up—not to +be hoped for in these prosaic days."</p> + +<p>"Nonsense," indignantly. She is fairly roused now, and Mr. Browne +regarding her with a proud eye, tells himself he is about to have his +reward at last. "You know very well that the term 'fleshpots' referred +to what was <i>in</i> the pots, not to the pots themselves."</p> + +<p>"That's all you know about it. That's where your fatal ignorance comes +in, my poor Joyce," says he, with immense compassion. "Search your Bible +from cover to cover, and I defy you to find a single mention of the +contents of those valuable bits of <i>bric-à-brac</i>. Of flesh<i>pots</i>—heavy +emphasis on the <i>pots</i>—and ten fingers down at once if you please—we +read continually as being hankered after by the Israelites, who then, as +now, were evidently avid collectors."</p> + +<p>"You've been having champagne, Dicky," says Miss Kavanagh, regarding him +with a judicial eye.</p> + +<p>"So have you. But I can't see what that excellent beverage has got to do +with the ancient Jews. Keep to the point. Did you ever hear that they +expressed a longing for the <i>flesh</i> of Egypt? No. So far so good. The +pots themselves were the objects of their admiration. During that +remarkable run of theirs through the howling wilderness they, one and +all, to a <i>man</i>, betrayed the true æsthetic tendency. They raved +incessantly for the girl—I beg pardon—the <i>land</i> they had left behind +them. The land that contained those priceless jars."</p> + +<p>"I wonder how you can be so silly," says Miss Kavanagh disdainfully. +Will he <i>never</i> go away! If he stays, and if—the other—comes——</p> + +<p>"Silly! my good child. <i>How</i> silly! Why everything goes to prove the +probability of my statement. The taste for articles of <i>vertu</i>—for +antiquities—for fossils of all descriptions that characterized them +then, has lived to the present day. <i>Then</i> they worried after old china, +and who shall deny that now they have an overwhelming affection for old +clo'."</p> + +<p>"Well; your folly doesn't concern me," says Miss Kavanagh, gathering up +her skirts with an evident intention of shaking off the dust of his +presence from her feet and quitting him.</p> + +<p>"I am sorry that you should consider it folly," says Mr. Browne +sorrowfully. "I should not have said so much about it perhaps but that I +wanted to prove to you that in calling <i>you</i> a fleshpot I only meant +to——"</p> + +<p>"I won't be called that," interrupts Miss Kavanagh angrily. "It's +<i>horrid</i>! It makes me feel quite <i>fat</i>! Now, once for all, Dicky, I +forbid it. I won't have it."</p> + +<p>"I don't see how you are to get out of it," says Mr. Browne, shaking his +head and hands in wild deprecation. "Fleshpots were desirable +articles—you're another—ergo—you're a fleshpot. See the argument?"</p> + +<p>"No I don't," indignantly. "I see only you—and—I wish I <i>didn't</i>."</p> + +<p>"Very rude; <i>very</i>!" says Mr. Browne, regretfully. "Yet I entreat thee +not to leave me without one other word. Follow up the argument—<i>do</i>. +Give me an answer to it."</p> + +<p>"Not one," walking to the door.</p> + +<p>"That's because it is unanswerable," says Mr. Browne complacently. "You +are beaten, you——"</p> + +<p>There is a sound outside the door; Joyce with her hand on the handle of +it, steps back and looks round nervously at Dicky. A quick color has +dyed her cheeks; instinctively she moves a little to one side and gives +a rapid glance into a long mirror.</p> + +<p>"I don't think really he could find a fault," says Mr. Browne +mischievously. "I should think there will be a good deal of hankering +going on to-night."</p> + +<p>Miss Kavanagh has only just barely time to wither him, when Beauclerk +comes hurriedly in.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Thinkest thou there are no serpents in the world</span> +<span class="i0">But those who slide along the grassy sod,</span> +<span class="i0">And sting the luckless foot that presses them?</span> +<span class="i0">There are, who in the path of social life</span> +<span class="i0">Do bask their spotted skins in fortune's son,</span> +<span class="i0">And sting the soul."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>"Oh, there you are," cries he jovially. "Been looking for you +everywhere. The music has begun; first dance just forming. Gay and +lively quadrille, you know—country ball wouldn't know itself without a +beginning like that. Come; come on."</p> + +<p>Nothing can exceed his <i>bonhomie</i>. He tucks her hand in the most +delightfully genial, appropriative fashion under his arm, and with a +beaming nod to Mr. Browne (he never forgets to be civil to anybody) +hurries Joyce out of the room, leaving the astute Dicky gazing after him +with mingled feelings in his eye.</p> + +<p>"Deuce and all of a smart chap," says Mr. Browne to himself slowly. "But +he'll fall through some day for all that, I shouldn't wonder."</p> + +<p>Meantime Mr. Beauclerk is still carrying on a charming recitative.</p> + +<p>"<i>Such a bore!</i>" he is saying, with heartfelt disgust in his tone. It is +really wonderful how he can <i>always</i> do it. There is never a moment when +he flags. He is for ever up to time as it were, and equal to the +occasion. "I'm afraid you rather misunderstood me just now, when I said +I'd been looking for you—but the fact is, Browne's such an ass, if he +knew we had made an appointment to meet in the library, he'd have brayed +the whole affair to any and every one."</p> + +<p>"Was there an appointment?" says Miss Kavanagh, who is feeling a little +unsettled—a little angry with herself perhaps.</p> + +<p>"No—no," with a delightful acceptation of her rebuke. "You are right as +ever. I was wrong. But then, you see, it gave me a sort of joy to +believe that our light allusion to a possible happy half-hour before the +turmoil of the dance began might mean something <i>more</i>—something——Ah! +well never mind! Men are vain creatures; and after all it would have +been a happy half-hour to me <i>only</i>!"</p> + +<p>"Would it?" says she with a curious glance at him.</p> + +<p>"<i>You</i> know that!" says he, with the full and earnest glance he can turn +on at a second's notice without the slightest injury to heart or mind.</p> + +<p>"I don't indeed."</p> + +<p>"Oh well, you haven't time to think about it perhaps. I found you very +fully occupied when—at last—I was able to get to the library. Browne +we all know is a very—er—lively companion—if rather wanting in the +higher virtues."</p> + +<p>"'<i>At last</i>,'" says she quoting his words. She turns suddenly and looks +at him, a world of inquiry in her dark eyes. "I hate pretence," says she +curtly, throwing up her young head with a haughty movement. "You said +you would be in the library at such an hour, and though I did not +<i>promise</i> to meet you there, still, as I happened to be dressed earlier +than I believed possible, I came down, and you——? Where were you?"</p> + +<p>There is a touch of imperiousness in that last question that augurs +badly for a false wooer; but the imperiousness suits her. With her +pretty chin uptilted, and that little scornful curve upon her lips, and +her lovely eyes ablaze, she looks indeed "a thing of beauty." Beauclerk +regards her with distinct approbation. After all—had she even <i>half</i> +the money that the heiress possesses, <i>what</i> a wife she would make. And +it isn't decided yet one way or the other; sometimes Fate is kind. The +day may come when this delectable creature may fall to his portion.</p> + +<p>"I can see you are thinking hard things of me," says he reproachfully; +"but you little know how I have been passing the time I had so been +looking forward to. Time to be passed with <i>you</i>. That old Lady +Blake—she <i>would</i> keep me maundering to her about that son of hers in +the Mauritius; <i>you</i> know he and I were at St. Petersburg together. I +couldn't get away. You blame me—but what was I to do? An old +woman—unhappy——"</p> + +<p>"Oh no. You were <i>right</i>," says Joyce quickly. How good he is after all, +and how unjustly she had been thinking of him. So kind, so careful of +the feelings of a tiresome old woman. How few men are like him. How few +would so far sacrifice themselves.</p> + +<p>"Ah, you see it like that!" says, Mr. Beauclerk, not triumphantly, but +so modestly that the girl's heart goes out to him even more. How +<i>generous</i> he is! Not a word of rebuke to her for her vile suspicion of +him.</p> + +<p>"Why you put me into good spirits again," says he laughing gaily. "We +must make haste, I fear, if we would save the first dance."</p> + +<p>"Oh yes—come," says Joyce going quickly forward. Evidently he is going +to ask her for the first dance! That <i>shows</i> that he prefers her to——</p> + +<p>"I'm so glad you have been able to sympathize with me about my last +disappointment," says Beauclerk. "If you hadn't—if you had had even one +hard thought of me, I don't know <i>how</i> I should have been able to endure +what still lies before me. I am almost raging with anger, but when one's +sister is in question——"</p> + +<p>"You mean?" say Joyce a little faintly.</p> + +<p>"Oh, you haven't heard. I am so annoyed myself about it, that I fancied +everybody knew. You know I hoped that you would have been good enough to +give me the first dance, but when Isabel asked me to dance it with that +dreadful daughter of Lady Dunscombe's, what <i>could</i> I do, now I ask +you?" appealing to her with hands and eyes. "What <i>could</i> I do?"</p> + +<p>"Obey, of course," says she with an effort, but a successful one. "You +must hurry too, if you want to secure Miss Dunscombe."</p> + +<p>"Ah; what a misfortune it is to be the brother of one's hostess," says +he, with a sort of comic despair. His eyes are centred on her face, +reading her carefully, and with much secret satisfaction;—rapid as that +slight change upon her face had been, he had seen and noted it.</p> + +<p>"It couldn't possibly be a misfortune to be Lady Baltimore's brother," +says she smiling. "On the contrary, you are to be congratulated."</p> + +<p>"Not just at this moment surely!"</p> + +<p>"At this or any other moment. Ah!"—as they enter the ballroom. "The +room is already fuller than I thought. Engaged, Mr. Blake?" to Lord +Blake's eldest son. "No, not for this. Yes, with pleasure."</p> + +<p>She makes a little charming inclination of her head to Beauclerk, and +laying her hand on Mr. Blake's arm, moves away with him to where a set +is already forming at the end of the room. It is without enthusiasm she +takes her place with Dysart and one of the O'Donovan girls as +<i>vis-à-vis</i>, and prepares to march, retreat, twist and turn with the +best of them.</p> + +<p>"A dull old game," she is irreverently terming the quadrilles—that +massing together of inelegant movements so dear to the bucolic +mind—that saving clause for the old maids and the wall-flowers; when a +little change of position shows her the double quartette on the right +hand side of the magnificent ballroom.</p> + +<p>She had been half through an unimportant remark to Mr. Blake, but she +stops short now and forgets to finish it. Her color comes and goes. The +sides are now prancing through <i>their</i> performance, and she and her +partner are standing still. Perhaps—<i>perhaps</i> she was mistaken; with +all these swaying idiots on every side of her she might well have mixed +up one man's partner with another; and Miss Dunscombe (she had caught a +glimpse of her awhile ago) was surely in that set on the right hand +side.</p> + +<p>She stoops forward, regardless—<i>oblivious</i>—of her partner's surprised +glance, who has just been making a very witty remark, and being a rather +smart young man, accustomed to be listened to, is rather taken aback by +her open indifference.</p> + +<p>A little more forward she leans; yes, <i>now</i>—the couples part—for one +moment the coast lies clear. She can see distinctly. Miss Dunscombe is +indeed dancing in that set but <i>not</i> as Mr. Beauclerk's partner. Miss +Maliphant has secured that enviable <i>rôle</i>.</p> + +<p>Even as Joyce gazes, Beauclerk, turning his head, meets her earnest +regard. He returns it with a beaming smile. Miss Maliphant, whose duty +it is at this instant to advance and retire and receive without the +support of a chaperone the attacks of the bold, bad man opposite, having +moved out of Beauclerk's sight, the latter, with an expressive glance +directed at Joyce, lifts his shoulders forlornly, and gives a +serio-comic shrug of his shoulders. All to show now bored a being he is +at finding himself thus the partner of the ugly heiress! It is all done +in a second. An inimitable bit of acting—but unpleasant.</p> + +<p>Joyce draws herself up. Her eyes fall away from his; unless the distance +is too far, the touch of disdain that lies in them should have +disconcerted even Mr. Beauclerk. Perhaps it has!</p> + +<p>"Our turn?" says she, giving her partner a sudden beautiful glance full +of fire—of life—of something that he fails to understand, but does +<i>not</i> fail to consider charming. She smiles; she grows radiant. She is a +different being from a moment ago. How could he—Blake—have thought her +stupid. How she takes up every word—and throws new meaning into it—and +<i>what</i> a laugh she has! Low-sweet—merry—music to its core!</p> + +<p>Beauclerk in his turn finds a loop-hole through which to look at her, +and is conscious of a faint feeling of chagrin. She oughtn't to have +taken it like that. To be a little pensive—a little sad—that would +have shewn a right spirit. Well—the night is long. He can play his game +here and there. There is plenty of time in which to regain lost ground +with one—to gain fresh ground with the other. Joyce will forgive +him—when she hears <i>his</i> version of it.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"If thou canst see not, hast thou ears to hear?—Or</span> +<span class="i0">is thy soul too as a leaf that dies?"</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>"Well, after all, life has its compensations," says Mr. Beauclerk, +sinking upon the satin lounge beside Miss Kavanagh, and giving way to a +rapturous sigh. He is looking very big and very handsome. His +close-cropped eminently aristocratic head is thrown a little back, to +give full play to the ecstatic smile he is directing at Joyce.</p> + +<p>She bears it wonderfully. She receives it indeed with all the amiable +imbecility of a person who doesn't understand what on earth you are +talking about. Whether this reception of his little opening speech—so +carefully prepared—puzzles or nettles Mr. Beauclerk there is no way of +learning. He makes no sign.</p> + +<p>"I thought I should never be able to get a dance with you; you +see,"—smiling—"when one is the belle of the evening, one grows +difficult. But you <i>might</i> have kept a fifth or sixth for a poor +outsider like me. An old friend too."</p> + +<p>"Old friends don't count at a dance, I'm afraid," says she, with a smile +as genial as his own; "though for the matter of that you could have had +the first; <i>no one</i>—hard as it may be to make you believe it—had asked +the belle of the evening for that."</p> + +<p>This is not quite true. Many had asked for it, Dysart amongst others; +but she had kept it open for—the one who didn't want it. However, fibs +of this sort one blinks at where pretty girls are the criminals. Her +tone is delicately sarcastic. She would willingly suppress the sarcasm +altogether as beneath her, but she is very angry; and when a woman is +angry there is generally somebody to pay.</p> + +<p>"Oh! that <i>first</i>!" says he, with a gesture of impatience. "I shan't +forgive Isabel in a hurry about that; she ruined my evening—up to +<i>this</i>. However," throwing off as it were unpleasant memories by a shake +of his head, "don't let me spoil my one good time by dwelling upon a bad +one. Here I am now, at all events; here is comfort, here is peace. The +hour I have been longing for is mine at last."</p> + +<p>"It might have been yours considerably earlier," says Miss Kavanagh with +very noteworthy deliberation, unmoved by his lover-like glances, which +after all have more truth in them than most of his declarations. She +sits playing with her fan, and with a face expressionless as any sphinx.</p> + +<p>"Oh! my <i>dear</i> girl!" says Mr. Beauclerk reproachfully, "how can you say +that! You know in one's sister's house one must—eh? And she laid +positive commands on me——"</p> + +<p>"To dance the first dance with Miss Maliphant?"</p> + +<p>"Now, that's not like you," says Mr. Beauclerk very gently. "It's not +just. When I found Miss Dunscombe engaged for that ridiculous quadrille, +what could I do? <i>You</i> were engaged to Blake. I was looking aimlessly +round me, cursing my luck in that I had not thrown up even my sister's +wishes and secured before it was too late the only girl in the room I +cared to dance with when Isabel came again. 'Not dancing,' says she; +'and there's Miss Maliphant over there, partnerless!'"</p> + +<p>He tells all this with as genuine an air as if it was not false from +start to finish.</p> + +<p>"You <i>know</i> Isabel," says he, laughing airily; "she takes the oddest +fancies at times. Miss Maliphant is her latest craze. Though what she +can see in her——A <i>nice</i> girl. Thoroughly nice—essentially <i>real</i>—a +little <i>too</i> real perhaps," with a laugh so irresistible that even Miss +Kavanagh against her will is compelled to join in it.</p> + +<p>"Honest all through, I admit; but as a <i>waltzer</i>! Well, well, we +shouldn't be too severe—but really, there you know, she leaves +<i>everything</i> to be desired. And I've been victimized not once, but +twice—<i>three</i> times."</p> + +<p>"It is nothing remarkable," says Miss Kavanagh, coldly. "Many very +charming girls do not dance well. It is a gift."</p> + +<p>"A very precious one. When a charming girl can't waltz, she ought to +learn how to sit down charmingly, and not oppress innocent people. As +for Miss Maliphant!" throwing out his large handsome hands expressively, +"<i>she</i> certainly should not dance. Her complexion doesn't stand it. Did +you notice her?"</p> + +<p>"No," icily.</p> + +<p>"Ah, you wouldn't, you know. I could see how thoroughly well occupied +<i>you</i> were! Not a thought for even an old friend; and besides you're a +girl in ten thousand. Nothing petty or small about you. Now, another +woman would not have failed to notice the fatal tendency towards +rubicundity that marks Miss Maliphant's nose whenever——"</p> + +<p>"I do so dislike discussing people behind their backs," says Miss +Kavanagh, slowly. "I always think it is so <i>unfair</i>. They can't defend +themselves. It is like maligning the dead."</p> + +<p>"Miss Maliphant isn't dead at all events. She is dreadfully alive," says +Mr. Beauclerk, totally unabashed. He laughs gaily. To refuse to be +lectured was a rule he had laid down for his own guidance early in life. +Those people who will not see when they ought to be offended have +generally the best of the game.</p> + +<p>"Would you have her dead?" asks Joyce, with calm interrogation.</p> + +<p>"I don't remember saying I would have her <i>any</i> way," says he, still +evidently clinging to the frivolous mood. "And at all events I wouldn't +have her <i>dancing</i>. It disagrees with her nose. It makes her suggestive; +it betrays one into the making of bad parodies. One I made to-night when +looking at her; I couldn't resist it. For once in her life you see she +was irresistible. Hear it. 'Oh! my love's got a red, red nose!' Ha! ha! +Not half bad, eh? It kept repeating itself in my brain all the time I +was looking at her."</p> + +<p>"I thought you liked her," says Joyce, lifting her large dark eyes for +the first time to his. Beautiful eyes! a little shocked now—a little +cold—almost entreating. Surely, surely, he will not destroy her ideal +of him.</p> + +<p>"You think I am censorious," says he readily, "cruel almost; but to +<i>you</i>"—with delicate flattery—"surely I may speak to <i>you</i> as I would +speak to no other. May I not?" He leans a little forward, and compelling +the girl's reluctant gaze, goes on speaking. It chafes him that she +should put him on his defence; but some <i>one</i> divine instinct within him +warns him not to break with her entirely. "Still," says he, in a low +tone, always with his eyes on hers, "I see that you condemn me."</p> + +<p>"Condemn you! No! Why should <i>I</i> be your judge?"</p> + +<p>"You <i>are</i>, however—and my judge and jury too. I cannot bear to think +that you should despise me. And all because of that wretched girl."</p> + +<p>"I don't despise you," says the girl, quickly. "If you were really +despicable I should not like you as well as I do; I am only sorry that +you should say little unkind things of a girl like Miss Maliphant, who, +if not beautiful, is surely to be regarded in a very kindly light."</p> + +<p>"Do you know," says Mr. Beauclerk, gently, "I think you are the one +sweet character in the world." There is a great amount of belief in his +tone, perhaps half of it is honest. "I never met any one like you. Women +as a rule are willing to tear each other to pieces but you—you condone +all faults; that is why I——"</p> + +<p>A pause. He leans forward. His eyes are eloquent; his tongue alone +refrains from finishing the declaration that he had begun. To the girl +beside him, however, ignorant of subterfuge, unknowing of the wiles that +run in and out of society like a thread, his words sound sweet—the +sweeter for the very hesitation that accompanies them.</p> + +<p>"I am not so perfect as you think me," says she, rather sadly—her voice +a little faint.</p> + +<p>"That is true," says he quickly, as though compelled against his will to +find fault with her. "A while ago you were angry with me because I was +driven to waste my time with people uncongenial to me. <i>That</i> was unfair +if you like." He throws her own accusation back at her in the gentlest +fashion. "I danced with this, that, and the other person it is true, but +do you not know where my heart was all this time?"</p> + +<p>He pauses for a moment, just long enough to make more real his question, +but hardly long enough to let her reply to it. To bring matters to a +climax, would not suit him at all.</p> + +<p>"Yes, you <i>do</i> know," says he, seeing her about to speak. "And <i>yet</i> you +misjudge me. If—if I were to tell you that I would rather be with you +than with any other woman in the world, you would believe me, wouldn't +you?"</p> + +<p>He stoops over her, and taking her hand presses it fondly, lingeringly. +"Answer me."</p> + +<p>"Yes," says Joyce in a low tone. It has not occurred to her that his +words are a question rather than an asseveration. That he loves her, +seems to her certain. A soft glow illumines her cheeks; her eyes sink +beneath his; the idea that she is happy, or at all events <i>ought</i> to be +happy, fills her with a curious wonderment. Do people always feel so +strange, so surprised, so <i>unsure</i>, when love comes to them?</p> + +<p>"Yet you <i>did</i> doubt," says Beauclerk, giving her hand a last pressure, +and now nestling back amongst his cushions with all the air of a man who +has fought and conquered and has been given his reward. "Well, don't let +us throw an unpleasant memory into this happy hour. As I have said," +taking up her fan and idly, if gracefully, waving it to and fro, "after +all the turmoil of the fight it is sweet to find oneself at last in the +haven where one would be."</p> + +<p>He is smiling at Joyce—the gayest, the most candid smile in the world. +Smiles become him. He is looking really handsome and <i>happy</i> at finding +himself thus alone with her. Sincerity declares itself in every line of +his face. Perhaps he <i>is</i> as sincere as he has ever yet been in his +life. The one thing that he unquestionably does regard with interest +beyond his own poor precious bones, is the exquisite bit of nature's +workmanship now sitting beside him.</p> + +<p>At this present moment, in spite of his flattering words, his smiles and +telling glances, she is still a little cold, a little uncertain, a phase +of manner that renders her indescribably charming to the one watching +her.</p> + +<p>Beauclerk indeed is enjoying himself immensely. To a man of his +temperament to be able to play upon a nature as fine, as honest, as pure +as Joyce's is to know a keen delight. That the girl is dissatisfied, +vaguely, nervously dissatisfied, he can read as easily as though the +workings of her soul lay before him in broad type, and to assuage those +half-defined misgivings of hers is a task that suits him. He attacks it +<i>con amore</i>.</p> + +<p>"How silent you are," says he, very gently, when he has let quite a long +pause occur.</p> + +<p>"I am tired, I think."</p> + +<p>"Of me?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"Of what then?" He has found that as a rule there is nothing a woman +likes better than to be asked to define her own feelings, Joyce, +however, disappoints him.</p> + +<p>"I don't know. Sitting up so late I suppose."</p> + +<p>"Look here!" says he, in a voice so full of earnest emotion that Joyce +involuntarily stares at him; "<i>I</i> know what is the matter with you. You +are fighting against your better nature. You are <i>trying</i> to be +ungenerous. You are trying to believe what you know is not true. Tell +me—<i>honestly</i> mind—are you not forcing yourself to regard me as a +monster of insincerity?"</p> + +<p>"You are wrong," says she, slowly. "I am forcing myself, on the +contrary, to believe you a very giant of sincerity."</p> + +<p>"And you find that difficult?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>An intense feeling of admiration for her sways Beauclerk. How new a +thing to find a girl so beautiful, with so much intelligence. Surely +instinct is the great lever that moves humanity. Why has not this girl +the thousands that render Miss Maliphant so very desirable? What a +<i>bêtise</i> on the part of Mother Nature. Alas! it would be too much to +expect from that niggardly Dame. Beauty, intelligence, wealth! All +rolled into one personality. Impossible!</p> + +<p>"You are candid,'" says he, his tone sorrowful.</p> + +<p>"That is what one should always be," says she in turn.</p> + +<p>"You are <i>too</i> stern a judge. How shall I convince you," exclaims +he—"of <i>what</i> he leaves open? If I were to swear——"</p> + +<p>"<i>Do</i> not," says she quickly.</p> + +<p>"Well, I won't. But Joyce!" He pauses, purposely. It is the first time +he has ever called her by her Christian name, and a little soft color +springs into the girl's cheeks as she hears him. "You know," says he, +"you <i>do</i> know?"</p> + +<p>It is a question; but <i>again</i> what? <i>What</i> does she know? He had +accredited her with remarkable intelligence a moment ago, but as a fact +the girl's knowledge of life is but a poor thing in comparison with that +of the man of the world. She belies her intelligence on the spot.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I think I do," says she shyly. In fact she is longing to believe, +to be sure of this thing, that to her is so plain that she has omitted +to notice that he has never put it into words.</p> + +<p>"You will trust in me?" says he.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I trust you," says she simply.</p> + +<p>Her pretty gloved hand is lying on her lap. Raising it, he presses it +passionately to his lips. Joyce, with a little nervous movement, +withdraws it quickly. The color dies from her lips. Even at this supreme +moment does Doubt hold her in thrall!</p> + +<p>Her face is marvelously bright and happy, however, as she rises +precipitately to her feet, much to Beauclerk's relief. It has gone quite +far enough he tells himself—five minutes more and he would have found +himself in a rather embarrassing position. Really these pretty girls are +very dangerous.</p> + +<p>"Come, we must go back to the ballroom," says she gaily. "We have been +here an unconscionable time. I am afraid my partner for this dance has +been looking for me, and will scarcely forgive my treating him so badly. +If I had only told him I <i>wouldn't</i> dance with him he might have got +another partner and enjoyed himself."</p> + +<p>"Better to have loved and lost," quotes Beauclerk in his airiest manner. +It is <i>so</i> airy that it strikes Joyce unpleasantly. Surely after +all—after——She pulls herself together angrily. Is she <i>always</i> to +find fault with him? Must she have his whole nature altered to suit her +taste?</p> + +<p>"Ah, there is Dicky Browne," says she, glancing from where she is now +standing at the door of the conservatory to where Mr. Browne may be seen +leaning against a curtain with his lips curved in a truly benevolent +smile.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Now the nights are all past over</span> +<span class="i0">Of our dreaming, dreams that hover</span> +<span class="i0">In a mist of fair false things:</span> +<span class="i0">Night's afloat on wide wan wings."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>"Why, so it is! Our <i>own</i> Dicky, in the flesh and an admirable temper +apparently," says Mr. Beauclerk. "Shall we come and interview him?"</p> + +<p>They move forward and presently find themselves at Mr. Browne's elbow; +he is, however, so far lost in his kindly ridicule of the poor silly +revolving atoms before him, that it is not until Miss Kavanagh gives his +arm a highly suggestive pinch that he learns that she is beside him.</p> + +<p>"<i>Wough!</i>" says he, shouting out this unclassic if highly expressive +word without the slightest regard for decency. "<i>What</i> fingers you've +got! I really think you might reserve that kind of thing for Mr. Dysart. +<i>He'd</i> like it."</p> + +<p>This is a most infelicitous speech, and Miss Kavanagh might have +resented it, but for the strange fact that Beauclerk, on hearing it, +laughs heartily. Well, if <i>he</i> doesn't mind, it can't matter, but how +silly Dicky can be! Mr. Beauclerk continues to laugh with much +enjoyment.</p> + +<p>"Try him!" says he to Miss Kavanagh, with the liveliest encouragement in +his tone. If it occurs to her that, perhaps, lovers, as a rule, do not +advise their sweethearts to play fast and loose with other men, she +refuses to give heed to the warning. He is not like other men. He is not +basely jealous. He knows her. He trusts her. He had hinted to her but +just now, so very, very kindly that <i>she</i> was suspicious, that she must +try to conquer that fault—if it is hers. And it is. There can be no +doubt of that. She had even distrusted <i>him</i>!</p> + +<p>"Is that your advice?" asks Mr. Browne, regarding him with a rather +piercing eye. "Capital, <i>under the circumstances</i>, but rather, +eh?——Has it ever occurred to you that Dysart is capable of a good deal +of feeling?"</p> + +<p>"So few things occur to me, I'm ashamed to say," says Beauclerk, +genially. "I take the present moment. It is all-sufficing, so far as I'm +concerned. Well; and so you tell me Dysart has feeling?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; I shouldn't advise Miss Kavanagh to play pranks with him," says +Dicky, with a pretentiously rueful glance at the arm she has just +pinched so very delicately.</p> + +<p>"You're a poor soldier!" says she, with a little scornful uptilting of +her chin. "You wrong Mr. Dysart if you think he would feel so slight an +injury. What! A mere touch from <i>me</i>!"</p> + +<p>"Your touch is deadlier than you know, perhaps," says Mr. Browne, +lightly.</p> + +<p>"What a slander!" says Miss Kavanagh, who, in spite of herself, is +growing a little conscious.</p> + +<p>"Yes; isn't it?" says Beauclerk, to whom she has appealed. "As for +me——" He breaks off suddenly and fastens his gaze severely on the +other side of the room. "By Jove! I had forgotten! There is my partner +for this dance looking daggers at me. Dear Miss Kavanagh, you will +excuse me, won't you? Shall I take you to your chaperone, or will you +let Browne have the remainder of this waltz?"</p> + +<p>"I'll look after Miss Kavanagh, if she will allow me," says Dicky, +rather drily. "Will you?" with a quizzical glance at Joyce.</p> + +<p>She makes a little affirmative sign to him, returns Beauclerk's parting +bow, and, still with a heart as light as a feather, stands by Mr. +Browne's side, watching in silence the form of Beauclerk as it moves +here and there amongst the crowd. What a handsome man he is! How +distinguished! How tall! How big! Every other man looks dwarfed beside +him. Presently he disappears into an anteroom, and she turns to find Mr. +Browne, for a wonder, as silent as herself, and evidently lost in +thought.</p> + +<p>"What are you thinking of?" asks she.</p> + +<p>"Of you!"</p> + +<p>"Nonsense! What were you doing just then when I spoke to you?"</p> + +<p>"I have told you."</p> + +<p>"No, you haven't. What <i>were</i> you doing?"</p> + +<p>"<i>Hankering!</i>" says Mr. Browne, heavily.</p> + +<p>"<i>Dicky!</i>" says she indignantly.</p> + +<p>"Well; what? Do you suppose a fellow gets rid of a disease of that sort +all in a minute? It generally lasts a good month, I can tell you. But +come; that 'Beautiful Star' of yours, that 'shines in your heaven so +bright,' has given you into my charge. What can I do for you?"</p> + +<p>"Deliver me from the wrath of that man over there," says Miss Kavanagh, +indicating Mr. Blake, who, with a thunderous brow, is making his way +towards her. "The last was his. I forgot all about it. Take me away, +Dicky; somewhere, anywhere; I know he's got a horrid temper, and he is +going to say uncivil things. Where" (here she meanly tries to get behind +Mr. Browne) "<i>shall</i> we go."</p> + +<p>"Right through this door," says Mr. Browne, who, as a rule, is equal to +all emergencies. He pushes her gently towards the conservatory she has +just quitted, that has steps leading from it to the illuminated gardens +below, and just barely gets her safely ensconced behind a respectable +barricade of greenery before Mr. Blake arrives on the spot they have +just vacated.</p> + +<p>They have indeed the satisfaction of seeing him look vaguely round, +murmur a gentle anathema or two, and then resign himself to the +inevitable.</p> + +<p>"He's gone!" says Miss Kavanagh, with a sigh of relief.</p> + +<p>"To perdition!" says Mr. Browne in an awesome tone.</p> + +<p>"I really wish you wouldn't, Dicky," says Joyce.</p> + +<p>"Why not? You seem to think men's hearts are made of adamant! A moment +ago you sneered at <i>mine</i>, and now——By Jove! Here's Baltimore—and +alone, for a wonder."</p> + +<p>"Well! <i>His</i> heart is adamant!" says she softly.</p> + +<p>"Or hers—which?"</p> + +<p>"Of course—manlike—you condemn our sex. That's why I'm glad I'm not a +man."</p> + +<p>"Why? Because, if you were, you would condemn your present sex?"</p> + +<p>"<i>Certainly</i> not! Because I wouldn't be of an unfair, mean, ungenerous +disposition for the world."</p> + +<p>"Good old Jo!" says Mr. Browne, giving her a tender pat upon the back.</p> + +<p>By this time Baltimore has reached them.</p> + +<p>"Have you seen Lady Baltimore anywhere?" asks he.</p> + +<p>"Not quite lately," says Dicky; "last tune I saw her she was dancing +with Farnham."</p> + +<p>"Oh—after that she went to the library," says Joyce quickly. "I fancy +she may be there still, because she looked a little tired."</p> + +<p>"Well, she had been dancing a good deal," says Dicky.</p> + +<p>"Thanks. I dare say I'll find her," says Baltimore, with an air of +indifference, hurrying on.</p> + +<p>"I hope he will," says Joyce, looking after him.</p> + +<p>"I hope so too—and in a favorable temper."</p> + +<p>"You're a cynic, Dicky, under all that airy manner of yours," says Miss +Kavanagh severely. "Come out to the gardens, the air may cool your +brain, and reduce you to milder judgments."</p> + +<p>"Of Lady Baltimore?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Truly I do seem to be sitting in judgment on her and her family."</p> + +<p>"Her <i>family</i>! What has Bertie done?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, there is more family than Bertie," says Mr. Browne. "She has a +brother, hasn't she?"</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Meantime Lord Baltimore, taking Joyce's hint, makes his way to the +library, to find his wife there lying back in a huge arm-chair. She is +looking a little pale. A little <i>ennuyée</i>; it is plain that she has +sought this room—one too public to be in much request—with a view to +getting away for a little while from the noise and heat of the ballroom.</p> + +<p>"Not dancing?" says her husband, standing well away from her. She had +sprung into a sitting posture the moment she saw him, an action that has +angered Baltimore. His tone is uncivil; his remark, it must be +confessed, superfluous. <i>Why</i> does she persist in treating him as a +stranger? Surely, on whatever bad terms they may be, she need not feel +it necessary to make herself uncomfortable on his appearance. She has +evidently been enjoying that stolen lounge, and <i>now</i>——</p> + +<p>The lamplight is streaming full upon her face. A faint color has crept +into it. The white velvet gown she is wearing is hardly whiter than her +neck and arms, and her eyes are as bright as her diamonds; yet there is +no feature in her face that could be called strictly handsome. This, +Baltimore tells himself, staring at her as he is, in a sort of insolent +defiance of the cold glance she has directed at him. No; there is no +beauty about that face; distinctly bred, calm and pure, it might +possibly be called charming by those who liked her, but nothing more. +She is not half so handsome as—as—any amount of other women he knows, +and yet——</p> + +<p>It increases his anger towards her tenfold to know that in her secret +soul she has the one face that to <i>him</i> is beautiful, and ever <i>will</i> be +beautiful.</p> + +<p>"You see," says she gently, and with an expressive gesture, "I longed +for a moment's pause, so I came here. Do they want me?" She rises from +her seat, looking very tall and graceful. If her face is not strictly +lovely, there is, at all events, no lack of loveliness in her form.</p> + +<p>"I can't answer for 'they,'" says Baltimore, "but"——he stops dead +short here. If he <i>had</i> been going to say anything, the desire to carry +out his intention dies upon the spot. "No, I am not aware that 'they' or +anybody wants you particularly at this moment. Pray sit down again."</p> + +<p>"I have had quite a long rest already."</p> + +<p>"You look tired, however. <i>Are</i> you?"</p> + +<p>"Not in the least."</p> + +<p>"Give me this dance," then says he, half mockingly, yet with a terrible +earnestness in his voice.</p> + +<p>"Give it to <i>you</i>! Thank you. No."</p> + +<p>"Fearful of contamination?" with a smiling sneer.</p> + +<p>"Pray spare me your jibes," says she very coldly, her face whitening.</p> + +<p>"Pray spare me your presence, you should rather say. Let us have the +truth at all hazards. A saint like you should be careful."</p> + +<p>To this she makes him no answer.</p> + +<p>"What!" cries he, sardonically; "and will you miss this splendid +opportunity of giving a sop to your Cerberus? Of conciliating your +bugbear? your <i>bête noire</i>? your <i>fear of gossip</i>?"</p> + +<p>"I fear nothing"—icily.</p> + +<p>"You do, however. Forgive the contradiction," with a sarcastic +inclination of the head. "But for this fear of yours you would have cast +me off long ago, and bade me go to the devil as soon as—nay, the sooner +the better. And indeed if it were not for the child——By the bye, do +you forget I have a hold on <i>him</i>—a stronger than yours?"</p> + +<p>"I <i>forget</i> nothing either," returns she as icily as before; but now a +tremor, barely perceptible, but terrible in its intensity, shakes her +voice.</p> + +<p>"Hah! You need not tell me <i>that</i>. You are relentless as—well, 'Fate' +comes in handy," with a reckless laugh. "Let us be conventional by all +means, and it is a good old simile, well worn! You decline my proposal +then? It is a sensible one, and should suit you. Dance with me to-night, +when all the County is present, and Mother Grundy goes to bed with a +sore heart. Scandal lies slain. All will cry aloud: '<i>There they go!</i> +Fast friends in spite of all the lies we have heard about them.' Is it +possible you can deliberately forego so great a chance of puzzling our +neighbors?"</p> + +<p>"I can."</p> + +<p>"Why, where is your sense of humor? One trembles for it! To be able to +deceive them all so deliriously; to send them home believing us on good +terms, a veritable loving couple"—he breaks into a curious laugh.</p> + +<p>"This is too much," says she, her face now like death. "You would insult +me! Believe me, that not to spare myself all the gossip with which the +whole world could hurt me would I endure your arm around my waist!"</p> + +<p>His short-lived, most unmirthful mirth has died from him, he has laid a +hand upon the table near him to steady himself.</p> + +<p>"You are candid, on my soul," says he slowly.</p> + +<p>She moves quickly towards the door, her velvet skirt sweeping over his +feet as she goes by—the perfume of the violets lying in her bosom +reaches him.</p> + +<p>Hardly knowing his own meaning, he puts out his hand and catches her by +her naked arm, just where the long glove ceases above the elbow.</p> + +<p>"Isabel, give me this dance," says he a little wildly.</p> + +<p>"<i>No!</i>"</p> + +<p>She shakes herself free of him. A moment her eyes blaze into his. "No!" +she says again, trembling from head to foot. Another moment, and the +door has closed behind her.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The old, old pain of earth."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>It is now close upon midnight—that midnight of the warmer months when +day sets its light finger on the fringes of it. There is a sighing +through the woods, a murmur from the everlasting sea, and though Diana +still rides high in heaven with her handmaiden Venus by her side, yet in +a little while her glory will be departed, and her one rival, the sun, +will push her from her throne.</p> + +<p>The gleaming lamps among the trees-are scarcely so bright as they were +an hour ago, the faint sighing of the wind that heralds the morning is +shaking them to and fro. A silly bird has waked, and is chirping in a +foolish fashion among the rhododendrons, where, in a secluded path, +Joyce and Dicky Browne are wandering somewhat aimlessly. Before them +lies a turn in the path that leads presumably into the dark wood, +darkest of all at this hour, and where presumably, too, no one has +ventured, though one should never presume about hidden corners.</p> + +<p>"I can't think what you see in him," says Mr. Browne, after a big pause. +"I'd say nothing if his face wasn't so fat, but if I were you, that +would condemn him in my eyes."</p> + +<p>"I can't see that his face is fatter than yours," says Miss Kavanagh, +with what she fondly believes perfect indifference.</p> + +<p>"Neither is it," says Mr. Browne meekly, "but my dear girl, there lies +the gist of my argument. You have condemned me. All my devotion has been +scouted by you. I don't pretend to be the wreck still that once by your +cruelty you made me, but——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, that will do," says Joyce, unfeelingly. "As for Mr. Beauclerk, I +don't know why you should imagine I see anything in him."</p> + +<p>"Well, I confess I can't quite understand it myself. He couldn't hold a +candle to—er—well, several other fellows I could name, myself not +included, Miss Kavanagh, so that supercilious smile is thrown away. He +may be good to look at, there is certainly plenty of him on which to +feast the eye, but to fall in love with——"</p> + +<p>"What do you mean, Dicky? What are you speaking about—do you know? +You," with a deadly desire to insult him, "must be in love yourself +to—to maunder as you are doing?"</p> + +<p>"I'm not," says Mr. Browne, "that's the queer part of it. I don't know +what's the matter with me. Ever since you blighted me, I have lain +fallow, as it were. I," dejectedly, "haven't been in love for quite a +long, long time now. I miss it—I can't explain it. I can't be well, can +I? I," anxiously, "I don't look well, do I?"</p> + +<p>"I never saw you looking better," with unkind force.</p> + +<p>"Ah!" sadly, "that's because you don't give your attention to me. It's +my opinion that I'm fading away to the land o' the leal, like old +What-you-may-call-'em."</p> + +<p>"If that's the way he did it, it must have taken him some time. In fact, +he must be still at it," says Miss Kavanagh, heartlessly.</p> + +<p>By this time they had come to the end of the walk, and have turned the +corner. Before them lies a small grass plot surrounded by evergreens, a +cosy nook not to be suspected by any one until quite close upon it. It +bursts upon the casual pedestrian, indeed, as a charming surprise. There +is something warm, friendly, confidential about it—something safe. +Beyond lies the gloomy wood, embedded in night, but here the moonbeams +play. Some one with a thoughtful care for loving souls has placed in +this excellent spot for flirtation a comfortable garden seat, just +barely large enough for two, sternly indicative of being far too small +far the leanest three.</p> + +<p>Upon this delightful seat four eyes now concentrate themselves. As if by +one consent, although unconsciously, Mr. Browne and his companion come +to a dead stop. The unoffending seat holds them in thrall.</p> + +<p>Upon it, evidently on the best of terms with each other, are two people. +One is Miss Maliphant, the other Mr. Beauclerk. They are whispering +"soft and low." Miss Maliphant is looking, perhaps, a little +confused—for her—and the cause of the small confusion is transparent. +Beauclerk's hand is tightly closed over hers, and even as Dicky and Miss +Kavanagh gaze spellbound at them, he lifts the massive hand of the +heiress and imprints a lingering kiss upon it.</p> + +<p>"Come away," says Dicky, touching Joyce's arm. "Run for your life, but +softly."</p> + +<p>He and she have been standing in shadow, protected from the view of the +other two by a crimson rhododendron. Joyce starts as he touches her, as +one might who is roused from an ugly dream, and then follows him +swiftly, but lightly, back to the path they had forsaken.</p> + +<p>She is trembling in a nervous fashion, that angers herself cruelly, and +something of her suppressed emotion becomes known to Mr. Browne. +Perhaps, being a friend of hers, it angers him, too.</p> + +<p>"What strange freaks moonbeams play," says he, with a truly delightful +air of saying nothing in particular. "I could have sworn that just then +I saw Beauclerk kissing Miss Maliphant's hand."</p> + +<p>No answer. There is a little silence, fraught with what angry grief who +can tell? Dicky, who is not all froth, and is capable of a liking here +and there, is conscious of, and is sorry for, the nervous tremor that +shakes the small hand he has drawn within his arm; but he is so far a +philosopher that he tells himself it is but a little thing in her life; +she can bear it; she will recover from it; "and in time forget that she +had been ever ill," says this good-natured skeptic to himself.</p> + +<p>Joyce, who has evidently been struggling with herself, and has now +conquered her first feeling, turns to him.</p> + +<p>"You should not condemn the moonbeams unheard," says she, bravely, with +the ghost of a little smile. "The evidence of two impartial witnesses +should count in their favor."</p> + +<p>"But, my dear girl, consider," says Mr. Browne, mildly. "If it had been +anyone else's hand! I could then accuse the moonbeams of a secondary +offense, and say that their influence alone, which we all know has a +maddening effect, had driven him to so bold a deed. But not madness +itself could inspire me with a longing to kiss her hand."</p> + +<p>"She is a very good girl, and I like her," says Joyce, with a suspicious +vehemence.</p> + +<p>"So do I; so much, indeed, that I should shrink from calling her a good +girl. It is very damnatory, you know. You could hardly say anything more +prejudicial. It at once precludes the idea of her having any such minor +virtues as grace, beauty, wit, etc. Well, granted she is 'a good girl,' +that doesn't give her pretty hands, does it? As a rule, I think that all +good girls have gigantic points. I don't think I would care to kiss Miss +Maliphant's hands, even if she would let me."</p> + +<p>"She is a very honest, kind-hearted girl," says Miss Kavanagh a little +heavily. It suggests itself to Mr. Browne that she has not been +listening to him.</p> + +<p>"And a very rich one."</p> + +<p>"I never think about that when I am with her. I couldn't."</p> + +<p>"Beauclerk could," says Mr. Browne, tersely.</p> + +<p>There is another rather long silence, and Dicky is beginning to think he +has gone a trifle too far, and that Miss Kavanagh will cut him +to-morrow, when she speaks again. Her tone is composed, but icy enough +to freeze him.</p> + +<p>"It is a mistake," says she, "to discuss people towards whom one feels a +natural antagonism. It leads, one, perhaps, to say more than one +actually means. One is apt to grow unjust. I would never discuss Mr. +Beauclerk if I were you. You don't like him."</p> + +<p>"Well," says Mr. Browne, thoughtfully, "since you put it to me, I +confess I think he is the most rubbishy person I ever met!"</p> + +<p>After this sweeping opinion, conversation comes to a deadlock. It is not +resumed. Reaching the stone steps leading to the conservatory, they +ascend them in silence, and reach that perfumed retreat to find Dysart +on the threshold.</p> + +<p>"Oh, there you are!" cries he to Miss Kavanagh. "I thought you lost for +good and all!" His face has lighted up. Perhaps he feels a sense of +relief at finding her with Dicky, who is warranted harmless. He looks +almost handsome, better than handsome! The very soul of honesty shines, +in his kind eyes.</p> + +<p>"Oh! it is hard to lose what nobody wants," says Joyce in a would-be +playful tone, but something in the drawn, pained lines about her mouth +belies her mirth. Dysart, after a swift examination of her face, takes +her hand and draws it within his arm.</p> + +<p>"The last was our dance," says he.</p> + +<p>"Speak kindly of the dead," says Mr. Browne, as he beats a hasty +retreat.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly;</span> +<span class="i0">Most friendship is feigning, most loving is folly."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>"Did you forget?" asks Dysart, looking at her.</p> + +<p>"Forget?"</p> + +<p>"That the last dance was mine?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, was it? I'm so sorry. You must forgive me," with a feverish attempt +at gayety, "I will try to make amends. You shall have this one instead, +no matter to whom it may belong. Come. It is only just begun, I think."</p> + +<p>"Never mind," says Dysart, gently. "We won't dance this, I think. It is +cool and quiet here, and you are tired."</p> + +<p>"Oh, so tired," returns she with a little sudden pathetic cry, so +impulsive, so inexpressible that it goes to his heart.</p> + +<p>"Joyce! what is it?" says he, quickly. "Here, come and sit down. No, I +don't want an answer. It was an absurd question. You have overdone it a +little, that is all."</p> + +<p>"Yes, that is all!" She sinks heavily into the seat he has pointed out +to her, and lets her head fall back against the cushions. "However, when +you come to think of it, that means a great deal," says she, smiling +languidly.</p> + +<p>"There, don't talk," says he. "What is the good of having a friend if +you can't be silent with him when it so pleases you. That," laughing, +and arranging the cushions behind her head, "is one for you and two for +myself. I, too, pine for a moment when even the meagre 'yes' and 'no' +will not be required of me."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no," shaking her head. "It is all for me and nothing for yourself!" +she pauses, and putting out her hand lays it on his sleeve. "I think, +Felix," says she, softly, "you are the kindest man I ever met."</p> + +<p>"I told you you felt overdone," says he, laughing as if to hide the +sudden emotion that is gleaming in his eyes. He presses the hand resting +on his arm very gently, and then replaces it in her lap. To take +advantage of any little kindness she may show him now, when it is plain +that she is suffering from some mental excitement, grief or anger, or +both, would seem base to him.</p> + +<p>She has evidently accepted his offer of silence, and lying back in her +soft couch stares with unseeing eyes at the bank of flowers before her. +Behind her tall, fragrant shrubs rear themselves, and somewhere behind +her, too, a tiny fountain is making musical tinklings. The faint, tender +glow of a colored lamp gleams from the branches of a tropical tree close +by, and round it pale, downy moths are flitting, the sound of their +wings, as every now and then they approach too near the tempting glow +and beat them against the Japanese shade, mingling with the silvery fall +of the scented water.</p> + +<p>The atmosphere is warm, drowsy, a little melancholy. It seems to seize +upon the two sitting within its seductive influence, and threatens to +waft them from day dreams into dreams born of idle slumber. The rustle +of a coming skirt, however, a low voice, a voice still lower whispering +a reply, recalls them both to the fact that rest, complete and perfect, +is impossible under the circumstances.</p> + +<p>A little opening among the tall evergreens upon their right shows them +Lord Baltimore once more, but this time not alone. Lady Swansdown is +with him.</p> + +<p>She is looking rather lovelier than usual, with that soft tinge of red +upon her cheeks born of her last waltz, and her lips parted in a happy +smile. The subdued lights of the many lamps falling on her satin gown +rest there as if in love with its beauty. It is an old shade made new, a +yellow that is almost white, and has yet a tinge of green in it. A +curious shade, difficult, perhaps, to wear with good effect; but on Lady +Swansdown it seems to reign alone as queen of all the toilets in the +rooms to-night. She looks, indeed, like a perfect picture stepped down +from its canvas, "a thing of beauty," a very vision of delight.</p> + +<p>She seems, indeed, to Joyce watching her—Joyce who likes her—that she +has grown beyond herself (or rather into her own real self) to-night. +There is a touch of life, of passionate joy, of abandonment, of hope +that has yet a sting in it, in all her air, that, though not understood +of the girl, is still apparent.</p> + +<p>The radiant smile that illumines her beautiful face as she glances up at +Baltimore—who is bending over her in more lover-like fashion than +should be—is still making all her face a lovely fire as she passes out +of sight down the steps that lead to the lighted gardens—the steps that +Joyce had but just now ascended.</p> + +<p>The latter is still a little wrapt in wonder and admiration, and some +other thought that is akin to trouble, when Dysart breaks in upon her +fancies.</p> + +<p>"I am sorry about that," says he, bluntly, indicating with a nod of his +head the departing shadows of the two who have just passed out. There +are no fancies about Dysart. Nothing vague.</p> + +<p>"Yes; it is a pity," says Joyce, hurriedly.</p> + +<p>"More than that, I think."</p> + +<p>"Something ought to be done," nervously.</p> + +<p>"Yes," flushing hotly; "I know—I know what you mean"—she had meant +nothing—"but it is so difficult to know what to do, and—I am only a +cousin."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I wasn't thinking of you. I wasn't, really," says she, a good deal +shocked. "As you say, why should you speak, when——"</p> + +<p>"There is Beauclerk," says Dysart, quickly, as if a little angry with +somebody, but certainly not with her. "How can he stand by and see it?"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps he doesn't see it," says she in a strange tone, her eyes on the +marble flooring. It seems to herself that the words are forced from her. +"Because—because he has——"</p> + +<p>She brings her hands tightly together, so tightly that she reduces the +feathers on the fan she is holding to their last gasp. Because she is +now disappointed in him; because he has proved himself, perhaps, +unstable, deceptive to the heart's core, is she to vilify, him? A +thousand times no! That would be, indeed, to be base herself.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps not," says Dysart, drily. In his secret heart this defence of +his rival is detestable to him. Something in her whole manner when she +came in from the garden had suggested to him the possibility that she +had at last found him out. Dysart would have been puzzled to explain how +Beauclerk was supposed to be "found out" or for what, but that he was +liable to discovery at any moment on some count or counts unknown, was +one of his Christian beliefs. "Perhaps not," says he. "And yet I cannot +help thinking that a matter so open to all must be patent to him."</p> + +<p>"But," anxiously, "is it so open?"</p> + +<p>"I leave that to your own judgment," a little warmly. "You," with rather +sharp question, "are a friend of Isabel's?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes," quickly. "You know that. But——"</p> + +<p>"But?" sternly.</p> + +<p>"I like Lady Swansdown, too," says she, with some determination. "I find +it hard to believe that she can—can——"</p> + +<p>"Be false to her friend," supplements he. "Have you yet to learn that +friendship ends where love begins?"</p> + +<p>"You think——?"</p> + +<p>"That she is in love with Baltimore."</p> + +<p>"And he?"</p> + +<p>"Oh!" contemptuously; "who shall gauge the depth of his heart? What can +he mean?" he has risen and is now pacing angrily up and down the small +space before her. "He used to be such a good fellow, and now——Is he +dead to all sense of honor, of honesty?"</p> + +<p>"He is a man," says Joyce, coldly.</p> + +<p>"No. I deny that. Not a true man, surely."</p> + +<p>"Is there a true man?" says she. "Is there any truth, any honesty to be +found in the whole wide world?"</p> + +<p>She too has risen now, and is standing with her large dark eyes fixed +almost defiantly on his. There is something so strange, so wild, so +unlike her usual joyous, happy self in this outburst, in her whole +attitude, that Dysart regards her with an astonishment that is largely +tinctured with fear.</p> + +<p>"I don't know what is in your mind," says he, calmly; "something out of +the common has occurred to disturb you so much, I can guess, but," +looking at her earnestly, "whatever it maybe, I entreat you to beat it +under. Conquer it; do not let it conquer you. There must be evil in the +world, but never lose sight of the good; that must be there, just as +surely. Truth, honor, honesty, are no fables; they are to be found +everywhere. If not in this one, then in that. Do not lose faith in +them."</p> + +<p>"You think me evidently in a bad way," says she, smiling faintly. She +has recovered herself in part, but though she tries to turn his earnest +words into a jest, one can see that she is perilously near to tears.</p> + +<p>"You mean that I am preaching to you," says he, smiling too. "Well, so I +am. What right has a girl like you to disbelieve in anything? Why," +laughing, "it can't be so very long ago since you believed in fairies, +in pixies, and the fierce dragons of our childhood."</p> + +<p>"I don't know that I am not a believer in them still," says she. "In the +dragons, at all events. Evil seems to rule the world."</p> + +<p>"Tut!" says he. "I have preached in vain."</p> + +<p>"You would have me believe in good only," says she. "You assure me very +positively that all the best virtues are still riding to and fro, +redeeming the world, with lances couched and hearts on fire. But where +to find them? In you?"</p> + +<p>It is a very gentle smile she gives him as she says this.</p> + +<p>"Yes: so far, at least, as you are concerned," says he, stoutly. "I +shall be true and honest to you so long as my breath lives in my body. +So much I can swear to."</p> + +<p>"Well," says she, with a rather meagre attempt at light-heartedness, +"you almost persuade me with that truculent manner of yours into +believing in you at all events, or is it," a little sadly, "that the +ways of others drive me to that belief? Well," with a sigh, "never mind +how it is, you benefit by it, any way."</p> + +<p>"I don't want to force your confidence," says Dysart; "but you have been +made unhappy by somebody, have you not?"</p> + +<p>"I have not been made happy," says she, her eyes on the ground. "I don't +know why I tell you that. You asked a hard question."</p> + +<p>"I know. I should have been silent, perhaps, and yet——"</p> + +<p>At this moment the sound of approaching footsteps coming up the steps +startles them.</p> + +<p>"Joyce!" says he, "grant me one request."</p> + +<p>"One! You rise to tragedy!" says she, as if a little amused in spite of +the depression under which she is so evidently laboring. "Is it to be +your last, your dying prayer?"</p> + +<p>"I hope not. Nevertheless I would have it granted."</p> + +<p>"You have only to speak," says she, with a slight gesture that is half +mocking, half kindly.</p> + +<p>"Come with me after luncheon, to-morrow, up to St. Bridget's Hill?"</p> + +<p>"Is that all? And to throw such force into it. Yes, yes; I shall enjoy a +long walk like that."</p> + +<p>"It is not because of the walk that I ask you to go there with me," says +Dysart, the innate honesty that distinguishes him compelling him to lay +bare to her his secret meaning. "I have something to say to you. You +will listen?"</p> + +<p>"Why should I not?" returns she, a little pale. He might, perhaps, have +said something further, but that now the footsteps sound close at hand. +A glance towards the door that leads from the fragrant night into the +still more perfumed air within reveals to them two figures.</p> + +<p>Mr. Beauclerk and Miss Maliphant come leisurely forward. The blood +receding to Joyce's heart leaves her cold and singularly calm.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Out of the day and night</span> +<span class="i0">A joy has taken flight."</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Life, I know not what thou art."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>"You two," cries Miss Maliphant pleasantly, in her loud, good-natured +voice. She addresses them as though it has been borne in upon her by +constant reminding that Joyce and Dysart are for the best of all reasons +generally to be found together. There is something not only genial, but +sympathetic in her tones, something that embarrasses Dysart, and angers +Joyce to the last degree. "Well, I'm glad to have met you for one moment +out of the hurly-burly," goes on the massive heiress to Joyce, with the +friendliest of smiles. "I'm off at cock-crow, you know, and so mightn't +have had the opportunity of saying good-bye to you, but for this +fortunate meeting."</p> + +<p>"To-morrow?" says Joyce, more with the manner of one who feels she must +say something than from any desire to say it.</p> + +<p>"Yes, and so early that I shall not have it in my power to bid farewell +to any one. Unless, indeed," with a glance at Beauclerk, meant, perhaps, +to be coquettish, but so elephantine in its proportions as to be almost +anything in the world but that, "some of my friends may wish to see the +sun rise."</p> + +<p>"We shall miss you," says Joyce, gracefully, though with an effort.</p> + +<p>"Just what I've been saying," breaks in Beauclerk at this juncture, who +hitherto has been looking on, with an altogether delightful smile upon +his handsome face. "We shall all miss Miss Maliphant. It is not often +that one meets with an entirely genial companion. My sister is to be +congratulated on securing such an acquisition, if only for a short +time."</p> + +<p>Joyce, lifting her eyes, stares straight at him. "For a short time!" +What does that mean? If Miss Maliphant is to be Lady Baltimore's +sister-in-law, she will undoubtedly secure her for a lifetime!</p> + +<p>"Oh, you are too good," says Miss Maliphant, giving him a playful flick +with her fan.</p> + +<p>"Well, what would you have me say?" persists Beauclerk still lightly, +with wonderful lightness, in fact, considering the weight of that +playful tap upon his bent knuckles. "That we shall not be sorry? Would +you have me lie, then? Fie, fie, Miss Maliphant! The truth, the truth, +and nothing but the truth! At all risks and hazards!" here he almost +imperceptibly sends flying a shaft from his eyes at Joyce, who receives +it with a blank stare. "We shall, I assure you, be desolated when you +go, specially Isabel."</p> + +<p>This last pretty little speech strikes Dysart as being specially neat: +This putting the onus of the regret on to Isabel's shoulders. All +through, Beauclerk has been careful to express himself as one who is an +appreciative friend of Miss Maliphant, but nothing more; yet so guarded +are these expressions, and the looks that accompany them, that Miss +Maliphant might be pardoned if she should read a warmer feeling in them.</p> + +<p>A sensation of disgust darkens his brow.</p> + +<p>"I must say you are all very nice to me," says the heiress complacently. +Poor soul! No doubt, she believes in every bit of it, and a large course +of kow-towing from the world has taught her the value of her pile. +"However," with true Manchester grace, "there's no need for howling over +it. We'll all meet again, I dare say, some time or other. For one thing, +Lady Baltimore has asked me to come here again after Christmas; +February, I dare say."</p> + +<p>"So glad!" murmurs Joyce rather vaguely.</p> + +<p>"So you see," said Miss Maliphant with ponderous gayety, "that we are +all bound to put in a second good time together; you're coming, I know, +Mr. Dysart, and Miss Kavanagh is always here, and Mr. Beauclerk "—with +a languishing glance at that charming person, who returns it in the most +open manner—"has promised me that he will be here to meet me."</p> + +<p>"Well, if I can, you know," says he, now beaming at her.</p> + +<p>"How's that?" says the heiress, turning promptly upon him. It is strange +how undesirable the very richest heiress can be at times. "Why, it's +only just this instant that you told me nothing would keep you away from +the Court next spring. What d'ye mean?"</p> + +<p>She brings him to book in a most uncompromising fashion; a fashion that +betrays unmistakably her plebeian origin. Dysart, listening, admires her +for it. Her rough and ready honesty seems to him preferable to the best +bred shuffling in the world.</p> + +<p>"Did I say all that?" says Beauclerk lightly, coloring a little, +nevertheless, as he marks the fine smile that is curling Joyce's lips. +"Why, then," gayly, "if I said it, I meant it. If I hesitated about +indorsing my intentions publicly, it is because one is never sure of +happiness beforehand; believe me, Miss Maliphant," with a little bow-to +her, but with a direct glance at Joyce, "every desire I have is centered +in the hope that next spring may see me here again."</p> + +<p>"Well, I expect we all have the same wish," says Miss Maliphant +cheerfully, who has not caught that swift glance at Joyce. "I'm sure I +hope that nothing will interfere with my coming here in February."</p> + +<p>"It is agreed, then," says Beauclerk, with a delightfully comprehensive +smile that seems to take in every one, even the plants and the dripping +fountain and the little marble god in the corner, who is evidently +listening with all his might. "We all meet here again early next year if +the fates be propitious. You, Dysart, you pledge yourself to join our +circle then?"</p> + +<p>"I pledge myself," says Dysart, fixing a cold gaze on him. It is so +cold, so distinctly hostile, that Beauclerk grows uncomfortable beneath +it. When uncomfortable his natural bias leads him towards a display of +bonhomie.</p> + +<p>"Here we have before us a prospect to cheer the soul of any man," +declares he, shifting his eyes from Dysart to Miss Maliphant.</p> + +<p>"It cheers me certainly," responds that heavy maiden with alacrity. "I +like to think we shall all meet again."</p> + +<p>"Like the witches in Macbeth," says Joyce, indifferently.</p> + +<p>"But not so malignantly, I hope," says the heiress brilliantly, who, +like most worthy people, can never see beyond her own nose. "For my part +I like old friends much better than new." She looks round for the +appreciation that should attend this sound remark, and is gratified to +find Dysart is smiling at her. Perhaps the core of that smile might not +have been altogether to her taste—most cores are difficult of +digestion. To her, to whom all things are new, where does the flavor of +the old come in?</p> + +<p>Beauclerk is looking at Joyce.</p> + +<p>"I hope the prospect cheers you too," says he a little sharply, as if +nettled by her determined silence and bent on making her declare +herself. "You, I trust, will be here next February."</p> + +<p>"Sure to be!" says she with an enigmatical smile. "Not a jot or tittle +of your enjoyments will be lost to you in the coming year. Both your +friends—Miss Maliphant and I—will be here to welcome you when you +return."</p> + +<p>Something in her manner, in the half-defiant light in her eyes, puzzles +Beauclerk. What has happened to her since they last were together? Not +more than an hour ago she had seemed—er—well. Inwardly he smiles +complacently. But now. Could she? Is it possible? Was there a chance +that——</p> + +<p>"Miss Kavanagh," begins he, moving toward her. But she makes short work +of his advance.</p> + +<p>"I repent," says she, turning a lovely, smiling face on Dysart. "A while +ago I said I was too tired to dance. I did myself injustice. That +waltz—listen to it"—lifting up an eager finger—"would it not wake an +anchorite from his ascetic dreams? Come. There is time.".</p> + +<p>She has sprung to her feet—life is in every movement. She slips her arm +into Dysart's. Not understanding—yet half understanding, moves with +her—his heart on fire for her, his puzzlement rendering him miserable.</p> + +<p>Beauclerk, with that doubt of what she really knows full upon him, is +wiser. Without hesitation he offers his arm to Miss Maliphant; and, so +swift is his desire to quit the scene, he passes Dysart and Joyce, the +latter having paused for a moment to recover her fan.</p> + +<p>"You see!" says Beauclerk, bending over the heiress, when a turn in the +conservatory has hidden him from the view of those behind. "I told you!" +He says nothing more. It is the veriest whisper, spoken with an +assumption of merriment very well achieved. Yet, if she would have +looked at him, she could have seen that his very lips are white. But as +I have said, Miss Maliphant's mind has not been trained to the higher +courses.</p> + +<p>"Yes. One can see!" laughs she happily. "And it is charming, isn't it? +To find two people thoroughly in love with each other now-a-days, is to +believe in that mad old world of romance of which we read. They're very +nice too, both of them. I do like Joyce. She's one in a thousand, and +Mr. Dysart is just suited to her. They are both thorough! There's no +nonsense about them. Now that you have pointed it out to me, I think I +never saw two people so much in love with each other as they."</p> + +<p>Providentially, she is looking away from him to where a quadrille is +forming in the ballroom, so that the deadly look of hatred that adorns +his handsome face is unknown to her.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Meantime, Joyce, with that convenient fan recovered, is looking with sad +eyes at Dysart.</p> + +<p>"Come; the music will soon cease," says she.</p> + +<p>"Why do you speak to me like that?" cries he vehemently. "If you don't +want to dance, why not say so to me? Why not trust me? Good heavens! if +I were your bitterest enemy you could not treat me more distantly. And +yet—I would die to make you happy."</p> + +<p>"Don't!" says she in a little choking sort of way, turning her face from +him. She struggles with herself for a moment, and then, still with her +face averted, says meekly: "Thank you, then. If you don't mind, I should +rather not dance any more to-night."</p> + +<p>"Why didn't you say that at first?" says he, with a last remnant of +reproach. "No; there shall be no more dancing to-night for either you or +me. A word, Joyce!" turning eagerly toward her, "you won't forget your +promise about that walk to-morrow?"</p> + +<p>"No. No, indeed."</p> + +<p>"Thank you!"</p> + +<p>They are sitting very close together, and almost insensibly his hand +seeks and finds hers. It was lying idle on her lap, and lifting it, he +would have raised it to his lips, but with a sharp, violent action she +wrests it from him, and, as a child might, hides it behind her.</p> + +<p>"If you would have me believe in you——No, no, not that," says she, a +little incoherently, her voice rendering her meaning with difficulty. +Dysart, astonished, stands back from her, waiting for something more; +but nothing comes, except two large tears, that steal heavily, +painfully, down her cheeks.</p> + +<p>She brushes them impatiently away.</p> + +<p>"Forgive me," she says, somewhat brokenly. "To you, who are so good to +me, I am unkind, while to those who are unkind to me I——" She is +trying to rally. "It was a mere whim, believe me. I have always hated +demonstrations of any sort, and why should you want to kiss my hand?"</p> + +<p>"I shouldn't," says he. "If——" His eyes have fallen from her eyes to +her lips.</p> + +<p>"Never mind," says she; "I didn't understand, perhaps. But why can't you +be content with things as they are?"</p> + +<p>"Are you content with them?"</p> + +<p>"I think so. I have been examining myself, and honestly I think so," +says she a little feverishly.</p> + +<p>"Well, I'm not," returns he with decision. "You must give me credit for +a great private store of amiability, if you imagine that I am satisfied +to take things as they now exist—between you and me!"</p> + +<p>"You have your faults, you see, as well as another," says she with a +frown. "You are persistent! And the worst of it is that you are +generally right." She frowns again, but even while frowning glances +sideways from under her long lashes with an expression hardly uncivil. +"That is the worst crime in the calendar. Be wrong sometimes, an' you +love me, it will gain you a world of friends."</p> + +<p>"If it could gain me your love in return, I might risk it," says he +boldly. "But that is hopeless I'm afraid," shaking his head. "I am too +often in the wrong not to know that neither my many frailties nor my few +virtues can ever purchase for me the only good thing on which my soul is +set."</p> + +<p>"I have told you of one fault, now hear another," says she capriciously. +"You are too earnest! What," turning upon him passionately, as if a +little ashamed of her treatment of him, "is the use of being earnest? +Who cares? Who looks on, who gives one moment to the guessing of the +meaning that lies beneath? To be in earnest in this life is merely to be +mad. Pretend, laugh, jest, do anything, but be what you really are, and +you will probably get through the world in a manner, if not satisfactory +to yourself, at all events to '<i>les autres</i>.'"</p> + +<p>"You preach a crusade against yourself," says he gently. "You preach +against your own conscience. You are the least deceptive person I know. +Were you to follow in the track you lay out for others, the cruelty of +it would kill you.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"To your own self be true,</span> +<span class="i0">And——"</span> +</div></div> + +<p>"Yes, yes; I know it all," says she, interrupting him with some +irritation. "I wish you knew how—how unpleasant you can be. As I tell +you, you are always right. That last dance—it is true—I didn't want to +have anything to do with it; but for all that I didn't wish to be told +so. I merely suggested it as a means of getting rid of——"</p> + +<p>"Miss Maliphant," says Dysart, who is feeling a little sore. The +disingenuousness of this remark is patent to her.</p> + +<p>"No; Mr. Beauclerk," corrects she, coldly.</p> + +<p>"Forgive me," says Dysart quickly, "I shouldn't have said that. Well," +drawing a long breath, "we have got rid of them, and may I give you a +word of advice? It is disinterested because it is to my own +disadvantage. Go to your room—to your bed. You are tired, exhausted. +Why wait to be more so. Say you will do as I suggest."</p> + +<p>"You want to get rid of me," says she with a little weary smile.</p> + +<p>"That is unworthy of an answer," gravely; "but if a 'yes' to it will +help you to follow my advice, why, I will say it. Come," rising, "let +me take you to the hall."</p> + +<p>"You shall have your way," says she, rising too, and following him.</p> + +<p>A side door leading to the anteroom on their left, and thus skirting the +ballroom without entering it, brings them to the foot of the central +staircase.</p> + +<p>"Good-night," says Dysart in a low tone, retaining her hand for a +moment. All round them is a crowd separated into twos and threes, so +that it is impossible to say more than the mere commonplace.</p> + +<p>"Good night," returns she in a soft tone. She has turned away from him, +but something in the intense longing and melancholy of his eyes compels +her to look back again. "Oh, you have been kind! I am not ungrateful," +says she with sharp contrition.</p> + +<p>"Joyce, Joyce! Let me be the grateful one," returns he. His voice is a +mere whisper, but so fraught is it with passionate appeal that it rings +in her brain for long hours afterward.</p> + +<p>Her eyes fall beneath his. She moves silently away. What can she say to +him?</p> + +<p>It is with a sense of almost violent relief that she closes the door of +her own room behind her, and knows herself to be at last alone.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"And vain desires, and hopes dismayed,</span> +<span class="i0">And fears that cast the earth in shade,</span> +<span class="i2">My heart did fret."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>Night is waning! Dies pater, Father of Day, is making rapid strides +across the heavens, creating havoc as he goes. Diana faints! the stars +grow pale, flinging, as they die, a last soft glimmer across the sky.</p> + +<p>Now and again a first call from the birds startles the drowsy air. The +wood dove's coo, melancholy sweet—the cheep-cheep of the robin—the +hoarse cry of the sturdy crow.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"A faint dawn breaks on yonder sedge,</span> +<span class="i2">And broadens in that bed of weeds;</span> +<span class="i0">A bright disk shows its radiant edge,</span> +<span class="i4">All things bespeak the coming morn,</span> +<span class="i6">Yet still it lingers."</span> +</div></div> + +<p>As Lady Swansdown and Baltimore descend the stone steps that lead to the +gardens beneath, only the swift rush of the tremulous breeze that stirs +the branches betrays to them the fact that a new life is at hand.</p> + +<p>"You are cold?" says Baltimore, noticing the quick shiver that runs +through her.</p> + +<p>"No: not cold. It was mere nervousness."</p> + +<p>"I shouldn't have thought you nervous."</p> + +<p>"Or fanciful?" adds she. "You judged me rightly, and yet—coming all at +once from the garish lights within into this cool sweet darkness here, +makes one feel in spite of oneself."</p> + +<p>"In spite! Would you never willingly feel?"</p> + +<p>"Would you?" demands she very slowly.</p> + +<p>"Not willingly, I confess. But I have been made to feel, as you know. +And you?"</p> + +<p>"Would you have a woman confess?" says she, half playfully. "That is +taking an unfair advantage, is it not? See," pointing to a seat, "what a +charming resting place! I will make one confession to you. I am tired."</p> + +<p>"A meagre one! Beatrice," says he suddenly, "tell me this: are all women +alike? Do none really feel? Is it all fancy—the mere idle emotion of a +moment—the evanescent desire for sensation of one sort or another—of +anger, love, grief, pain, that stirs you now and then? Are none of these +things lasting with you, are they the mere strings on which you play +from time to time, because the hours lie heavy on your hands? It seems +to me——"</p> + +<p>"It seems to me that you hardly know what you are saying," said Lady +Swansdown quickly. "Do you think then that women do not feel, do not +suffer as men never do? What wild thoughts torment your brain that you +should put forward so senseless a question?—one that has been answered +satisfactorily thousands of years ago. All the pain, the suffering of +earth lies on the woman's shoulders; it has been so from the +beginning—it shall be so to the end. On being thrust forth from their +Eden, which suffered most do you suppose, Adam or Eve?"</p> + +<p>"It is an old story," says he gloomily, "and why should you, of all +people, back it up? You—who——"</p> + +<p>"Better leave me out of the question."</p> + +<p>"You!"</p> + +<p>"I am outside your life, Baltimore," says she, laying her hand on the +back of the seat beside her, and sinking into it. "Leave me there!"</p> + +<p>"Would you bereave me of all things," says he, "even my friends? I +thought—I believed, that you at least—understood me."</p> + +<p>"Too well!" says she in a low tone. Her hands have met each other and +are now clasped together in her lap in a grip that is almost hurtful. +Great heavens! if he only knew—could he then probe, and wound, and +tempt!</p> + +<p>"If you do——" begins he—then stops short, and passing her, paces to +and fro before her in the dying light of the moon. Lady Swansdown +leaning back gazes at him with eyes too sad for tears—eyes "wild with +all regret." Oh! if they two might but have met earlier. If this +man—this man in all the world, had been given to her, as her allotment.</p> + +<p>"Beatrice!" says he, stopping short before her, "were you ever in love?"</p> + +<p>There is a dead silence. Lady Swansdown sinking still deeper into the +arm of the chair, looks up at him with strange curious eyes. What does +he mean? To her—to put such a question to her of all women! Is he deaf, +blind, mad—or only cruel?</p> + +<p>A sort of recklessness seizes upon her. Well, if he doesn't know, he +shall know, though it be to the loss of her self-respect forever!</p> + +<p>"Never," says she, leaning a little forward until the moonbeams gleam +upon her snowy neck and arms. "Never—never—until——"</p> + +<p>The pause is premeditated. It is eloquence itself! The light of heaven +playing on her beautiful face betrays the passion of it—the rich +pallor! One hand resting on the back of the seat taps upon the iron +work, the other is now in Baltimore's possession.</p> + +<p>"Until now——?" suggests he boldly. He is leaning over her. She shakes +her head. But in this negative there is only affirmation.</p> + +<p>His hand tightens more closely upon hers. The long slender fingers yield +to his pressure—nay more—return it; they twine round his.</p> + +<p>"If I thought——" begins he in a low, stammering tone—he moves nearer +to her, nearer still. Does she move toward him? There is a second's +hesitation on his part, and then, his lips meet hers!</p> + +<p>It is but a momentary touch, a thing of an instant, but it includes a +whole world of meaning. Lady Swansdown has sprung to her feet, and is +looking at him with eyes that seem to burn through the mystic darkness. +She is trembling in every limb. Her nostrils are dilated. Her haughty +mouth is quivering, and there—are there honest, real tears in those +mocking eyes?</p> + +<p>Baltimore, too, has risen. His face is very white, very full of +contrition. That he regrets his action toward her is unmistakable, but +that there is a deeper contrition behind—a sense of self-loathing not +to be appeased betrays itself in the anguish of his eyes. She had +accused him of falsity, most falsely up to this, but now—now——His +mind has wandered far away.</p> + +<p>There is something so wild in his expression that Lady Swansdown loses +sight of herself in the contemplation of it.</p> + +<p>"What is it, Baltimore?" asks she, in a low, frightened tone. It rouses +him.</p> + +<p>"I have offended you beyond pardon," begins he, but more like one +seeking for words to say than one afraid of using them. "I have angered +you——"</p> + +<p>"Do not mistake me," interrupts she quickly, almost fiercely. "I am not +angry. I feel no anger—nothing—but that I am a traitor."</p> + +<p>"And what am I?"</p> + +<p>"Work out your own condemnation for yourself," says she, still with that +feverish self-disdain upon her. "Don't ask me to help you. She was my +friend, whatever she is now. She trusted me, believed in me. And after +all——And you," turning passionately, "you are doubly a traitor, you +are a husband."</p> + +<p>"In name!" doggedly. He has quite recovered himself now. Whatever +torture his secret soul may impress upon him in the future, no one but +he shall know.</p> + +<p>"It doesn't matter. You belong to her, and she to you."</p> + +<p>"That is what she doesn't think," bitterly.</p> + +<p>"There is one thing only to be said, Baltimore," says she, after a +slight pause. "This must never occur again. I like you, you know that. +I——" she breaks off abruptly, and suddenly gives way to a sort of +mirthless laughter. "It is a farce!" she says. "Consider my feeling +anything. And so virtuous a thing, too, as remorse! Well, as one lives, +one learns. If I had seen the light for the first time in the middle of +the dark ages, I should probably have ended my days as the prioress of a +convent. As it is, I shouldn't wonder if I went in for hospital nursing +presently. Pshaw!" angrily, "it is useless lamenting. Let me face the +truth. I have acted abominably toward her so far, and the worst of it +is"—with a candor that seems to scorch her—"I know if the chance be +given me, I shall behave abominably toward her again. I shall leave +to-morrow—the day after. One must invent a decent excuse."</p> + +<p>"Pray don't leave on Lady Baltimore's account," says he slowly, "she +would be the last to care about this. I am nothing to her."</p> + +<p>"Is your wish father to that thought?" regarding him keenly.</p> + +<p>"No. I assure you. The failing I mention is plain to all the world I +should have thought."</p> + +<p>"It is not plain to me," still watching him.</p> + +<p>"Then learn it," says he. "If ever she loved me, which I now disbelieve +(I would that I had let the doubt creep in earlier), it was in a past +that now is irretrievably dead. I suppose I wearied her—I confess," +with a meagre smile, "I once loved her with all my soul, and heart, and +strength—or else she is incapable of knowing an honest affection."</p> + +<p>"That is not true," says Lady Swansdown, some generous impulse forcing +the words unwillingly through her white lips. "She can love! you must +see that for yourself. The child is proof of it."</p> + +<p>"Some women are like that," says he gloomily. "They can open wide their +hearts to their children, yet close it against the fathers of them. +Isabel's whole life is given up to her child: she regards it as hers +entirely; she allows me no share in him. Not," eagerly, "that I grudge +him one inch the affection she gives him. He has a father worthless +enough. Let his mother make it up to him."</p> + +<p>"Yet he loves the father best," says Lady Swansdown quickly.</p> + +<p>"I hope not," with a suspicion of violence.</p> + +<p>"He does, believe me. One can see it. That saintly mother of his has not +half the attraction for him that you have. Why, look you, it is the way +of the world, why dispute it? Well, well," her triumphant voice +deepening to a weary whisper. "When one thinks of it all, she is not too +happy." She draws her hand in a little bewildered way across her white +brow.</p> + +<p>"You don't understand her," says Baltimore frigidly. "She lives in a +world of her own. No one would dare penetrate it. Even I—her husband, +as you call me in mockery—am outside it. I don't believe she ever cared +for me. If she had, do you think she would have given a thought to that +infamous story?"</p> + +<p>"About Madame Istray?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. You, too, heard of it then?"</p> + +<p>"Who hasn't heard. Violet Walden was not the one to spare you." She +pauses and looks at him, with all her heart in her eyes. "Was there no +truth in that story?" asks she at last, her words coming with a little +rush.</p> + +<p>"None. I swear it! You believe me!" He has come nearer to her and taken +her hand in the extremity of this desire to be believed in by somebody.</p> + +<p>"I believe you," says she, gently. Her voice is so low that he can catch +the words only; the grief and misery in them is unknown to him. +Mercifully, too, the moon has gone behind a cloud, a tender preparation +for an abdication presently, so that he cannot see the two heartbroken +tears that steal slowly down her cheeks.</p> + +<p>"That is more than Isabel does," says he, with a laugh that has +something of despair in it.</p> + +<p>"You tell me, then," says Lady Swansdown, "that you never saw Mme. +Istray after your marriage?"</p> + +<p>"Never, willingly."</p> + +<p>"Oh, willingly!"</p> + +<p>"Don't misjudge me. Hear the whole story then—if you must," cries he +passionately—"though if you do, you will be the first to hear it. I am +tired of being thought a liar!"</p> + +<p>"Go on," says she, in a low shocked tone. His singular vehemence has +compelled her to understand how severe have been his sufferings. If ever +she had doubted the truth of the old story that has wrecked the +happiness of his married life she doubts no longer.</p> + +<p>"I tell you, you will be the first to hear it," says he, advancing +toward her. "Sit down there," pressing her into the garden seat. "I can +see you are looking overdone, even by this light. Well——" drawing a +long breath and stepping back from her—"I never opened my lips upon +this subject except once before. That was to Isabel. And she"—he +pauses—"she would not listen. She believed, then, all things base of +me. She has so believed ever since."</p> + +<p>"She must be a fool!" says Lady Swansdown impetuously, "she could +not——"</p> + +<p>"She did, however. She," coldly, "even believed that I could lie to +her!"</p> + +<p>His face has become ashen; his eyes, fixed upon the ground, seemed to +grow there with the intensity of his regard. His breath seems to come +with difficulty through his lips.</p> + +<p>"Well," says he at last, with a long sigh, "it's all over! The one +merciful thing belonging to our life is that there must come, sooner or +later, an end to everything. The worst grief has its termination. She +has been unjust to me. But you," he lifts his haggard face, "you, +perhaps, will grant me a kindlier hearing."</p> + +<p>"Tell it all to me, if it will make you happier," says she, very gently. +Her heart is bleeding for him. Oh, if she might only comfort him in some +way! If—if that other fails him, why should not she, with the passion +of love that lies in her bosom, restore him to the warmth, the sweetness +of life. That kiss, half developed as it only was, already begins to +bear fatal fruit. Unconsciously she permits herself a license in her +thoughts of Baltimore hitherto strenuously suppressed.</p> + +<p>"There is absurdly little to tell. At that time we lived almost entirely +at our place in Hampshire, and as there were business matters connected +with the outlying farms found there, that had been grossly neglected +during my grandfather's time, I was compelled to run up to town, almost +daily. As a rule I returned by the evening train, in time for dinner, +but once or twice I was so far delayed that it was out of my power to do +it. I laugh at myself now," he looks very far from laughter as he says +it, "but I assure you the occasions on which I was compulsorily kept +away from my home were——" He pauses, "oh, well, there is no use in +being more tragic than one need be. They were, at least, a trouble to +me."</p> + +<p>"Naturally," says she, coldly.</p> + +<p>"I loved her, you see," says Baltimore, in a strange jerky sort of way, +as if ashamed of that old sentiment. "She——"</p> + +<p>"I quite understand. I have heard all about it once or twice," says Lady +Swansdown, with a kind of slow haste, if such a contradiction may be +allowed. That he has forgotten her is evident. That she has forgotten +nothing is more evident still.</p> + +<p>"Well, one day, one of the many days during which I went up to town, +after a long afternoon with Goodman and Smale, in the course of which +they had told me they would probably require me to call at their office +to meet one of the most influential tenants at nine the next morning, I +met, on leaving their office, Marchmont—Marchmont of the Tenth, you +know."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I know."</p> + +<p>"He and a couple of other fellows belonging to his regiment were going +down to Richmond to dine. Would I come? It was dull in town, toward the +close of the season, and I was glad of any invitation that promised a +change of programme—anything that would take me away from a dull +evening at my club. I made no inquiries; I accepted the invitation, got +down in time for dinner, and found Mme. Istray was one of the guests. +I——"</p> + +<p>He hesitates.</p> + +<p>"Go on."</p> + +<p>"You are a woman of the world, Beatrice; you will let me confess to you +that there had been old passages between me and Mme. Istray—well, I +swear to you I had never so much as thought of her since my +marriage—nay, since my engagement to Isabel. From that hour my life had +been clear as a sheet of blank paper. I had forgotten her; I verily +believe she had forgotten me, too. At that dinner I don't think she +exchanged a dozen words with me. On my soul," pushing back his hair with +a slow, troubled gesture from his brow, "this is the truth."</p> + +<p>"And yet——"</p> + +<p>"And yet," interrupting her with now a touch of vehement excitement, "a +garbled, a most cursedly false account of that dinner was given her. It +came round to her ears. She listened to it—believed in it—condemned +without a hearing. She, who has sworn, not only at the altar, but to me +alone, that she loved me."</p> + +<p>"She wronged you terribly," says Lady Swansdown in a low tone.</p> + +<p>"Thank you," cried he, a passion of gratitude in his tone. "To be +believed in by someone so thoroughly as you believe in me, is to know +happiness indeed. Whatever happens, I can count on you as my friend."</p> + +<p>"Your friend, always," says she, in a very low voice—a voice somewhat +broken. "Come," she says, rising suddenly and walking toward the distant +lights in the house.</p> + +<p>He accompanies her silently.</p> + +<p>Very suddenly she turns to him, and lays her hand upon his arm.</p> + +<p>"Be my friend," says she, with a quick access of terrible emotion.</p> + +<p>Entreaty and despair mingle in her tone.</p> + +<p>"Forever!" returns he, fervently, tightening his grasp on her hand.</p> + +<p>"Well," sighing, "it hardly matters. We shall not meet again for a long, +long time."</p> + +<p>"How is that? Isabel, the last time she condescended to speak to me of +her own accord," with an unpleasant laugh, "told me that she had asked +you to come here again next February, and that you had accepted the +invitation. She, indeed, made quite a point of it."</p> + +<p>"Ah! that was a long time ago."</p> + +<p>"Weeks do not make a long time."</p> + +<p>"Some weeks hold more than years. Yes, you are right; she made quite a +point about my coming. Well, she is always very civil."</p> + +<p>"She has always perfect manners. She is, as you say, very civil."</p> + +<p>"She is proud," coldly.</p> + +<p>"You will come?"</p> + +<p>"I think not. By that time you will in all probability have made it up +with her."</p> + +<p>"The very essence of improbability."</p> + +<p>"While I—shall not have made it up with my husband."</p> + +<p>"One seems quite as possible as the other."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no. Isabel is a good woman. You would do well to go back to her. +Swansdown is as bad a man as I know, and that," with a mirthless laugh, +"is saying a great deal. I should gain nothing by a reconciliation with +him. For one thing, an important matter, I have a great deal more money +than he has, and, for another, there are no children." Her voice changes +here; an indescribable alteration not only hardens, but desolates it. "I +have been fortunate there," she says, "if in nothing else in my +unsatisfactory life. There is no smallest bond between me and Swansdown. +If I could be seriously glad of anything it would be of that. I have +nothing belonging to him."</p> + +<p>"His name."</p> + +<p>"Oh, as for that—does it belong to him? Has he not forfeited a decent +right to it a thousand times? No; there is nothing. If there had been a +child he would have made a persecution of it—and so I am better off as +it is. And yet, there are moments when I envy you that little child of +yours. However——"</p> + +<p>"Yet if Swansdown were to make an overture——"</p> + +<p>"Do not go on. It is of all speculations the most useless. Do not pursue +the subject of Swansdown, I entreat you. Let"—with bitter +meaning—"'sleeping dogs lie.'"</p> + +<p>Baltimore laughs shortly.</p> + +<p>"That is severe," says he.</p> + +<p>"It is how I feel toward him; the light in which I regard him. If," +turning a face to his that is hardly recognizable, so pale it is with +ill-suppressed loathing, "he were lying on his deathbed and sent for me, +it would give me pleasure to refuse to go to him."</p> + +<p>She takes her hand from his arm and motions him to ascend the steps +leading into the conservatory.</p> + +<p>"But you?" says he, surprised.</p> + +<p>"Let me remain here a little while. I am tired. My head aches, I——"</p> + +<p>"Let me stay with you."</p> + +<p>"No," smiling faintly. "What I want is to be alone. To feel the silence. +Go. Do not be uneasy about me. Believe me you will be kind if you do as +I ask you."</p> + +<p>"It is a command," says he slowly. And slowly, too, he turns away from +her.</p> + +<p>Seeing him so uncertain about leaving her, she steps abruptly into a +dark side path, and finding a chair sinks into it.</p> + +<p>The soft breaking of the dawn over the tree tops far away seems to add +another pang to the anguish that is consuming her. She covers her face +with her hands.</p> + +<p>Oh! if it had all been different. Two lives sacrificed! nay, three! For +surety Isabel cannot care for him. Oh! if it had been she, she +herself—what is there she could not have forgiven him? Nay, she must +have forgiven him, because life without him would have been +insupportable. If only she might have loved him honorably. If only she +might ever love him—successfully—dishonorably!</p> + +<p>The thought seems to sting her. Involuntarily she throws up her head and +courts the chill winds of dawn that sweep with a cool touch her burning +forehead.</p> + +<p>She had called her proud. Would she herself, then, be less proud? That +Isabel dreads her, half scorns her of late, is well known to her, and +yet, with a very passion of pride, would dare her to prove it. She, +Isabel, has gone even so far as to ask her rival to visit her again in +the early part of the coming year to meet her present friends. So far +that pride had carried her. But pride—was pride love? If she herself +loved Baltimore, would she, even for pride's sake, entreat the woman he +singled out for his attentions to spend another long visit in her +country house? And if Isabel does not honestly love him, why then—is he +not lawful prey for one who can, who does not love him?</p> + +<p>One—who loves him. But he—whom does he love?</p> + +<p>Torn by some last terrible thought she starts to her feet, and, as +though inaction has become impossible to her, draws her white silken +wrap around her, and sweeps rapidly out of all view of the waning +Chinese lamps into the gray obscurity of the coming day that lies in the +far gardens.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Song have thy day, and take thy fill of light</span> +<span class="i4">Before the night be fallen across thy way;</span> +<span class="i2">Sing while he may, man hath no long delight."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>"What a delicious day!" says Joyce, stopping short on the hill to take a +look round her. It is the next day, and indeed far into it. Luncheon is +a thing of the past, and both she and Dysart know that it will take them +all their time to reach St. Bridget's Hill and be back again for +afternoon tea. They had started on their expedition in defiance of many +bribes held out to them. For one thing, there was to be a reception at +the Court at five; many of those who had danced through last night +having been asked to come over late in the afternoon of to-day to talk +over the dance itself and the little etceteras belonging to it.</p> + +<p>The young members of the Monkton family had been specially invited, too, +as a sort of make up to Bertie, the little son of the house, who had +been somewhat aggrieved at being sent to bed without his share of the +festivities on hand. He had retired to his little cot, indeed, with his +arms stuffed full of crackers, but how could crackers and cakes and +sweets console any one for the loss of being out at an ungodly hour and +seeing a real live dance! The one thing that finally helped him to +endure his hard lot was a promise on his mother's part that Tommy and +Mabel Monkton should come down next day and revel with him among the +glorious ruins of the supper table. The little Monktons had not come, +however, when Joyce left for her walk.</p> + +<p>"Going out?" Lady Swansdown had said to her, meeting her in the hall, +fully equipped for her excursion. "But why, my dear girl? We expect +those amusing Burkes in an hour or so, and the Delaneys, and——"</p> + +<p>"Yes, why go?" repeats Beauclerk, who has just come up. His manner is +friendly in the extreme, yet a very careful observer might notice a +strain about it, a determination to be friendly that rather spoils the +effect. Her manner toward him last night after his interview with Miss +Maliphant in the garden and her growing coldness ever since, has +somewhat disconcerted, him mentally. Could she have heard, or seen, or +been told of anything? There might, of course, have been a little +<i>contretemps</i> of some sort. People, as a rule, are so beastly +treacherous! "You will make us wretched if you desert us," says he with +<i>empressement</i>. As he speaks he goes up to her and lets his eyes as well +as his lips implore her. Miss Maliphant had left by the early train, so +that he is quite unattached, and able to employ his whole battery of +fascinations on the subjugation of this refractory person.</p> + +<p>"I am sorry. Don't be more wretched than you can help!" says Joyce, with +a smile wonderfully unconcerned. "After a dance I want to walk to clear +my brain, and Mr. Dysart has been good enough to say he will accompany +me."</p> + +<p>"Is he accompanying you?" says Beauclerk, with an unpardonable +supercilious glance around him as if in search of the absent Dysart.</p> + +<p>"You mustn't think him a laggard at his post," says Miss Kavanagh, still +smiling, but now in a little provoking way that seems to jest at his +pretended suspicion of Dysart's constancy and dissolve it into the +thinnest of thin air. "He was here just now, but I sent him to loose the +dogs. I like to have them with me, and Lady Baltimore is pleased when +they get a run."</p> + +<p>"Isabel is always so sympathetic," says he, with a quite new and +delightful rush of sympathy toward Isabel. "I suppose," glancing at +Joyce keenly, "you would not care for an additional escort? The +dogs—and Dysart—will be sufficient?"</p> + +<p>"Mr. Dysart and the dogs will be," says she. "Ah! Here he comes," as +Dysart appears at the open doorway, a little pack of terriers at his +heels. "What a time you've been!" cries she, moving quickly to him. "I +thought you would never come. Good-bye, Lady Swansdown; good-bye," +glancing casually at Beauclerk. "Keep one teapot for us if you can!"</p> + +<p>She trips lightly up the avenue at Dysart's side, leaving Beauclerk in a +rather curious frame of mind.</p> + +<p>"Yes, she has heard something!" That is his first thought. How to +counteract the probable influence of that "something" is the second. A +little dwelling upon causes and effects shows him the way. For an effect +there is often an antidote!</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>"Delicious indeed!" says Dysart, in answer to her remark. His answer is, +however, a little <i>distrait</i>. His determination of last night to bring +her here, and compel her to listen to the honest promptings of his heart +is still strong within him.</p> + +<p>They have now ascended the hill, and, standing on its summit, can look +down on the wild deep sea beneath them that lies, to all possible +seeming, as calm and passive at their feet as might a thing inanimate.</p> + +<p>Yet within its depths what terrible—what mournful tragedies lie! And, +as if in contrast, what ecstatic joys! To one it speaks like death +itself—to another:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i8">"The bridegroom sea</span> +<span class="i0">Is toying with the shore, his wedded bride,</span> +<span class="i0">And in the fullness of his marriage joy</span> +<span class="i0">He decorates her tawny brow with shells,</span> +<span class="i0">Retires a pace to see how fair she looks,</span> +<span class="i0">Then, proud, runs up to kiss her."</span> +</div></div> + +<p>"Shall we sit here?" says Dysart, indicating a soft mound of grass that +overlooks the bay. "You must be tired after last night's dancing."</p> + +<p>"I <i>am</i> tired," says she, sinking upon the soft cushion that Nature has +provided with a little sigh of satisfaction.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps I should not have asked—have extracted—a promise from you to +come here," says Dysart, with contrition in his tone. "I should have +remembered you would be overdone, and that a long walk like this——"</p> + +<p>"Would be the very thing to restore me to a proper state of health," she +interrupts him, with the prettiest smile. "No, don't pretend you are +sorry you brought me here. You know it is the sheerest hypocrisy on your +part. You are glad, that you brought me here, I hope, and +I"—deliberately—"am glad that you did."</p> + +<p>"Do you mean that?" says Dysart, gravely. He had not seated himself +beside her, and is now looking down her from a goodly height. "Do you +know why I brought you?"</p> + +<p>"To bring me back again as fresh as a daisy," suggests she, with a laugh +that is spoiled in its birth by a glance from him.</p> + +<p>"No, I did not think of you at all. I thought only of myself," says +Dysart, speaking a little quickly now. "Call that selfish if you +will—and yet——"</p> + +<p>He stops short, and comes closer to her. "To think in that way was to +think of you too. Joyce, there is at all events one thing you do +know—that I love you."</p> + +<p>Miss Kavanagh nods her head silently.</p> + +<p>"There is one thing, too, that I know," says Dysart now with a little +tremble in his voice, "that you do not love me!"</p> + +<p>She is silent.</p> + +<p>"You are honest," says he, after a pause. "Still"—looking at her—"if +there wasn't hope one would know. Though the present is empty for me, I +cannot help dwelling on the thought that the future may +contain—something!"</p> + +<p>"The future is so untranslatable," says she, with a little evasion.</p> + +<p>"Tell me this at least," says Dysart, very earnestly, bending over her +with the air of one determined to sift his chances to the last grain, +"you like me?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes."</p> + +<p>"Better than Courtenay, for example?" with a fleeting smile that fails +to disguise the real anxiety he is enduring.</p> + +<p>"What an absurd question!"</p> + +<p>"Than Dicky Brown?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>But here she lifts her head and gazes at him in a startled way that +speaks of quick suspicion. There is something of entreaty, too, in her +dark eyes, a desire that he will go no further.</p> + +<p>But Dysart deliberately disregards it.</p> + +<p>"Than Beauclerk?" asks he in a clear, almost cruel tone.</p> + +<p>A horrible red rushes up to dye her pretty cheeks, in spite of all her +efforts to subdue it. Great tears of shame and confusion suffuse her +eyes. One little reproachful glance she casts at him, and then:</p> + +<p>"Of course," says she, almost vehemently, if a little faintly, her eyes +sinking to the ground.</p> + +<p>Dysart stands before her as if stricken into stone. Then the knowledge +that he has hurt her pierces him with a terrible certainty, overcomes +all other thoughts, and drives him to repentance.</p> + +<p>"I shouldn't have asked you that," says he bluntly.</p> + +<p>"No, no!" says she, acquiescing quickly, "and yet," raising an eager, +lovely face to his, "I hardly know anything about—about myself. +Sometimes I think I like him, sometimes——" She stops abruptly and +looks at him with a pained and frightened gaze. "Do you despise me for +betraying myself like this?"</p> + +<p>"No—I want to hear all about it."</p> + +<p>"Ah! That is what I want to hear myself. But who is to tell me? Nature +won't. Sometimes I hate him. Last night——"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I know. You hated him last night. I don't wish to know why. I am +quite satisfied in that you did so."</p> + +<p>"But shall I hate him to-morrow? Oh, yes, I think so—I hope so," cries +she suddenly. "I am tired of it all. He is not a real person, not one +possible to class. He is false—naturally treacherous, and yet——"</p> + +<p>She breaks off again very abruptly, and turns to Dysart as if for help.</p> + +<p>"Let us forget him," she says, and then in a little frightened way, "Oh, +I wish I could be sure I could forget him!"</p> + +<p>"Why can't you?" says Dysart, in his downright way. "It means only a +strong effort after all. If you feel honestly," with an earnest glance +at her, "like that toward him, you must be mad to give him even a corner +in your heart."</p> + +<p>"That is it," says she, "there the puzzle begins. I don't know if he +ever has a corner in my heart. He attracts me, but attraction is not +affection, and the heart holds only love and hatred. Indifference is +nothing."</p> + +<p>"You can get rid of him finally," says Dysart, boldly, "by giving +yourself to me. That will kill all——"</p> + +<p>All he may be going to say is killed on his lips at this moment by two +little wild shrieks of joy that sound right behind his head. Both he and +Joyce turn abruptly in its direction—he with a sense of angry +astonishment, she with a fell knowledge of its meaning. It is, indeed, +no surprise to her when Tommy and Mabel appear suddenly from behind the +rock just close to them, that hides the path in part, and precipitates +themselves into her arms.</p> + +<p>"We saw you, we saw you!" gasps Tommy, breathless from his run up the +hill: "we saw you far away down there on the road, and we told Bridgie" +(the maid) "that we'd run up, and she said 'cut along,' so here we are."</p> + +<p>"You are, indeed," says Dysart, with feeling.</p> + +<p>"We knew you'd be glad to see us," goes on Tommy to Joyce in the +beautiful roar he always adopts when excited; "you haven't been home for +years, and Bridgie says that's because you are going to be married +to——"</p> + +<p>"Get up, Tommy, you are too heavy, and, besides, I want to kiss Mabel," +says Tommy's aunt with prodigious haste and a hot cheek.</p> + +<p>"But mammy says you're a silly Billy," says Mabel in her shrill treble, +"an' that——"</p> + +<p>"Mammy is a shockingly rude person," says Mr. Dysart, hurrying to break +into the dangerous confidence, no matter at what cost, even at the +expense of the adored mammy. His remark is taken very badly.</p> + +<p>"She's not," says Tommy, glowering at him. "Father says she's an angel, +and he knows. I heard him say it, and angels are never rude!"</p> + +<p>"'Twas after he made her cry about something," says Mabel, lifting her +little flower-like face to Dysart's in a miniature imitation of her +brother's indignation. "She was boo-booing like anything, and then +father got sorry—oh!—dreadful sorry—and he said she was an angel, and +she said——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, Mabel!" says Joyce, weakly, "you know you oughtn't to say such——"</p> + +<p>"Well, 'twas your fault, 'twas all about you," says Tommy, defiantly. +"Why don't you come home? Father says you ought to come, and mammy says +she doesn't know which of 'em it'll be; and father says it won't be any +of them, and—what's it all about?" turning a frankly inquisitive little +face up to hers. "They wouldn't tell us, and we want to know which of +'em it will be."</p> + +<p>"Yes, an' is it jints?" demands Mabel, who probably means giants, and +not cold meats.</p> + +<p>"I don't know what she means," says Miss Kavanagh, coldly.</p> + +<p>"I say, you two," says Mr. Dysart, brilliantly, "wouldn't you like to +run a race? Bridget must be tired of waiting for you down there at the +end of the hill, and——"</p> + +<p>"She isn't waiting, she's talking to Mickey Daly," says Tommy.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I see. Well, look here. I bet you, Tommy, strong as you look, Mabel +can outrun you down the hill."</p> + +<p>"She! she!" cries Tommy, indignantly; "I could beat her in a minute."</p> + +<p>"You can't," cries Mabel in turn. "Nurse says I'm twice the child that +you are."</p> + +<p>"Your legs are as short as a pin," roars Tommy; "you couldn't run."</p> + +<p>"I can. I can. I can," says Mabel, on the verge of a violent flood of +tears.</p> + +<p>"Well, we'll see," says Mr. Dysart, who now begins to think he has +thrown himself away on a silly Hussar regiment, when he ought to have +taken rank as a distinguished diplomat. "Come, I'll start you both down +the hill, and whichever reaches Bridget first wins the day."</p> + +<p>Instantly both children spring to the front of the path.</p> + +<p>"You're standing before me, Tommy."</p> + +<p>"No, I'm not."</p> + +<p>"You're cheating—you are!"</p> + +<p>"Cheat yourself! Mr. Dysart, ain't I all right?"</p> + +<p>"I think you should give her a start; she's the girl, you know," says +Dysart. "There now, go. That's very good. Five yards, Tommy, is a small +allowance for a little thing like Mabel. Steady now, you two! One—Good +gracious, they're off," says he, turning to Miss Kavanagh with a sigh of +relief mingled with amusement. "They had no idea of waiting for more +than one signal. I hope they will meet this Bridget, and get back to +their mother."</p> + +<p>"They are not going to her just now. They are going on to the Court to +spend the afternoon with Bertie," says Joyce; "Barbara told me so last +night. Dear things! How sweet they looked!"</p> + +<p>"They are the prettiest children I know," says Dysart—a little absent +perhaps. He falls into silence for a moment or two, and then suddenly +looks at her. He advances a step.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX.</h2> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"A continual battle goes on in a child's mind between what it knows +and what it comprehends."</p></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>"Well?" says he.</p> + +<p>He advances even nearer, and dropping on a stone close to her, takes +possession of one of her hands.</p> + +<p>"As you can't make up your mind to him; and, as you say, you like me, +say something more."</p> + +<p>"More?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. A great deal more. Take the next move. Say—boldly—that you will +marry me!"</p> + +<p>Joyce grows a little pale. She had certainly been prepared for this +speech, had been preparing herself for it all the long weary wakeful +night, yet now that she hears it, it seems as strange, as terrible, as +though it had never suggested itself to her in its vaguest form.</p> + +<p>"Why should I say that?" says she at last, stammering a little, and +feeling somewhat disingenuous. She had known, yet now she is trying to +pretend that she did not know.</p> + +<p>"Because I ask you. You see I put the poorest reason at first, and +because you say I am not hateful to you, and because——"</p> + +<p>"Well?"</p> + +<p>"Because, when a man's last chance of happiness lies in the balance, he +will throw his very soul into the weighing of it—and knowing this, you +may have pity on me."</p> + +<p>As though pressed down by some insupportable weight, the girl rises and +makes a little curious gesture as if to free herself from it. Her face, +still pale, betrays an inward struggle. After all, why cannot she give +herself to him? Why can't she love him? He loves her; love, as some poor +fool says, begets love.</p> + +<p>And he is honest. Yes, honest! A pang shoots through her breast. +That, when all is told, is the principal thing. He is not +uncertain—untrustworthy—double-faced, as <i>some</i> men are. Again that +cruel pain contracts her heart. To be able to believe in a person, to be +able to trust implicitly in each lightest word, to read the real meaning +in every sentence, to see the truth shining in the clear eyes, this is +to know peace and happiness; and yet—</p> + +<p>"You know all," says she, looking up at him, her eyes compressed, her +brow frowning; "I am uncertain of myself, nothing seems sure to me, but +if you wish it——"</p> + +<p>"Wish it!" clasping her hands closer.</p> + +<p>"There is this to be said, then. I will promise to answer you this day +twelve-month."</p> + +<p>"Twelve months," says he, with consternation; his grasp on her hands +loosens.</p> + +<p>"If the prospect frightens or displeases you, there is nothing more to +be said," rejoins she coldly. It is she who is calm and composed, he is +nervous and anxious.</p> + +<p>"But a whole year!"</p> + +<p>"That is nothing," says she, releasing her hands, with a little +determined show of strength, from his. "It is for you to decide. I don't +care!"</p> + +<p>Perhaps she hardly grasps the cruelty that lies in this half-impatient +speech, until she sees Dysart's face flush painfully.</p> + +<p>"You need not have said that," says he. "I know it. I am nothing to you +really." He pauses, and then says again in a low tone, "Nothing."</p> + +<p>"Oh, you mustn't feel so much!" cries she, as if tortured. "It is folly +to feel at all in this world. What's the good of it. And to feel about +me, I am not worth it. If you would only bear that in mind, it might +help you."</p> + +<p>"If I bore that in mind I should not want to make you my wife!" returns +he steadily, gravely. "Think as you will yourself, you do not shake my +faith in you. Well," with a deep breath, "I accept your terms. For a +year I shall feel myself bound to you (though that is a farce, for I +shall always be bound to you, soul and body) while you shall hold +yourself free, and try to——"</p> + +<p>"No, no. We must both be equal—both free, while I—" she stops short, +coloring warmly, and laughing, "what is it I am to try to do?"</p> + +<p>"To love me!" replies he, with infinite sadness in look and tone.</p> + +<p>"Yes," says Joyce slowly, and then again meditatively, "yes." She lifts +her eyes presently and regards him strangely. "And if all my trying +should not succeed? If I never learn to love you?"</p> + +<p>"Why, then it is all over. This hope of mine is at an end," say he, so +calmly, yet with such deep melancholy, such sad foreboding, that her +heart is touched.</p> + +<p>"Oh! it is a hope of mine too," says she quickly. "If it were not would +I listen to you to-day? But you must not be so downhearted; let the +worst come to the worst, you will be as well off as you are at this +instant."</p> + +<p>He shakes his head.</p> + +<p>"Does hope count for nothing, then?"</p> + +<p>"You would compel me to love you," says she, growing the more vexed as +she grows the more sorry for him. "Would you have me marry you even if I +did not love you?" Her soft eyes have filled with tears, there is a +suspicion of reproach in her voice.</p> + +<p>"No. I suppose not."</p> + +<p>He half turns away from her. At this moment a sense of despair falls on +him. She will never care for him, never, never. This proposed probation +is but a mournful farce, a sorry clinging to a hope that is built on +sand. When in the future she marries, as so surely she will, he will not +be her husband. Why not give in at once? Why fight with the impossible? +Why not break all links (frail as they are sweet), and let her go her +way, and he his, while yet there is time? To falter is to court +destruction.</p> + +<p>Then all at once a passionate reaction sets in. Joyce, looking at him, +sees the light of battle, the warmth of love the unconquerable, spring +into his eyes. No, he will not cave in! He will resist to the last! +dispute every inch of the ground, and if finally only defeat is to crown +his efforts still——And why should defeat be his? Be it Beauclerk or +another, whoever declares himself his rival shall find him a formidable +enemy to overcome.</p> + +<p>"Joyce," says he quickly, turning to her and grasping her hands, "give +me my chance. Give me those twelve months; give me your thoughts now and +then while they last. I brought you here to-day to say all this knowing +we should be alone, and without——"</p> + +<p>"Tommy?" says she, with a little laugh.</p> + +<p>"Oh, well! You must confess I got rid of him," says he, smiling too, and +glad in his heart to find her so cheerful. "I think if you look into it, +that my stratagem, the inciting him to the overcoming of his sister in +that race, was the work of a diplomatist of the first water. I quite +felt that——"</p> + +<p>A war whoop behind him dissolves his self-gratulations into nothing. +Here comes Tommy the valiant, triumphant, puffed beyond all description +with pride and want of breath.</p> + +<p>"I beat her, I beat her," shrieks he, with the last note left in his +tuneful pipe. He staggers the last yard or two and falls into Joyce's +arms, that are opened wide to receive him. Who shall say he is not a +happy interlude? Evidently Joyce regards him as such.</p> + +<p>"I came back to tell you," says Tommy, recovering himself a little. "I +knew," with the fearless confidence of childhood, "that you'd be longing +to know if I beat her, and I did. She's down there how with Bridgie," +pointing to the valley beneath, "and she's mad with me because I didn't +let her win."</p> + +<p>"You ought to go back to her," says Dysart, "she'll be madder if you +don't."</p> + +<p>"She won't. She's picking daisies now."</p> + +<p>"But Bridget will want you."</p> + +<p>"No," shaking his lovely little head. "Bridgie said: 'ye may go, sir, +an' ye needn't be in a hurry back, me an' Mickey Daily have a lot to say +about me mother's daughter.'"</p> + +<p>It would be impossible to describe the accuracy with which Tommy +describes Bridget's tone and manner.</p> + +<p>"Oh! I daresay," says Mr. Dysart. "Me mother's daughter must be a truly +enthralling person."</p> + +<p>"I think Tommy ought to be educated for the stage," says Joyce in a +little whisper.</p> + +<p>"He'll certainly make his mark wherever he goes," says Dysart, laughing. +"Tommy," after a careful examination of Monkton, Junior's, seraphic +countenance, "don't you think you ought to take your sister on to the +Court?"</p> + +<p>"So I will," says Tommy, "in a minute or two." He has climbed into +Joyce's lap, and is now sitting on her with his arms round her neck. To +make love to a young woman and to induce her to marry you with a +barnacle of this sort hanging round her suggests difficulties. Mr. +Dysart waits. "All things come to those who wait," says a wily old +proverb. But Dysart proves this proverb a swindle.</p> + +<p>"Now, Tommy," says he, "the two minutes are up."</p> + +<p>"I don't care," says Tommy. "I'm tired, and Bridgie said I needn't +hurry."</p> + +<p>"The charms of Mr. Mickey Daly are no doubt great," says Dysart, mildly, +"yet I think Bridget must by this time be aware that she wasn't sent out +by your mother to tattle to him, but to take you and your sister to play +with Bertie. Here, Tommy," decisively, "get off your aunt's lap and run +away."</p> + +<p>"But why?" demands Tommy, aggressively. "What harm am I doing?"</p> + +<p>"You are tiring your aunt, for one thing."</p> + +<p>"I'm not! She likes to have me here," defiantly. "I ride a 'cock horse' +every night when she's at home, don't I, Joyce? I wish you'd go away," +wrathfully, "because then Joyce would come home and play with us again. +'Tis you," glaring at him with deep-seated anger in his eyes, "who are +keeping her here!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no; you are wrong there," says Dysart with a sad smile. "I could +not keep her anywhere, she would not stay with me. But really, Tommy, +you know you ought to go on to the Court. Poor little Bertie is looking +out for you eagerly. See," plunging his hand into his pocket, "here is +half a crown for you to spend on lollipops. I'll give it to you if +you'll go back to Bridget."</p> + +<p>Tommy's eyes brighten. But as quickly the charming blue in them darkens +again. There is no tuck shop between this and the Court.</p> + +<p>"'Tisn't any good," says he mournfully, "the shop's away down there," +pointing vaguely backward on the journey he has come.</p> + +<p>"You look strong in wind and limb; there is no reason to believe that +the morrow's sun may not dawn on you," says Mr. Dysart. "And then think, +Tommy, think what a joy you will be to old Molly Brien."</p> + +<p>"Molly gives me four bull's-eyes for a penny," says Tommy reflectively. +"That's two to Mabel and two to me, because mammy says baby mustn't have +any for fear she'd choke. If there's four for a penny, how many is there +for this?" holding out the half crown that lies upon his little brown +shapely palm.</p> + +<p>"That's a sum," says Mr. Dysart. "Tommy, you're a cruel boy;" and having +struggled with it for a moment, he says "one hundred and twenty."</p> + +<p>"No!" says Tommy in a voice faint with hopeful unbelief. "Joyce, 'tisn't +true, is it?"</p> + +<p>"Quite true," says Joyce. "Just fancy, Tommy, one hundred and twenty +bull's-eyes, all in one day!"</p> + +<p>There is such a genuine support of his desire to get rid of Tommy in her +tone that Dysart's heart rises within him.</p> + +<p>"Tie it into my hankercher," says Tommy, without another second's +hesitation. "Tie it tight, or it'll slip out and I'll lose it. Good-bye, +and thank you, Mr. Dysart," thrusting a hot little fist into his. "I'll +keep some of the hundred and twenty ones for you and Joyce."</p> + +<p>He rushes away down the hill, eager to tell his grand news to Mabel, and +presently Joyce and Dysart are alone again.</p> + +<p>"You see you were not so clever a diplomatist as you thought yourself," +says Joyce, smiling faintly; "Tommy came back."</p> + +<p>"Tommy and I have one desire in common; we both want to be with you."</p> + +<p>"Could you be bought off like Tommy?" says she, half playfully. "Oh, no! +Half a crown would not be good enough."</p> + +<p>"Would all the riches the world contains be good enough?" says he in a +voice very low, but full of emotion. "You know it would not. But you, +Joyce—twelve months is a long time. You may see others—if not +Beauclerk—others—and——"</p> + +<p>"Money would not tempt me," says the girl slowly. "If money were your +rival, you would indeed be safe. You ought to know that."</p> + +<p>"Still—Joyce——" He stops suddenly. "May I think of you as Joyce? I +have called you so once or twice, but——"</p> + +<p>"You may always call me so," says she gently, if indifferently. "All my +friends call me so, and you—are my friend, surely!"</p> + +<p>The very sweetness of her manner, cold as ice as it is, drives him to +desperation.</p> + +<p>"Not your friend—your lover!" says he with sudden passion. "Joyce, +think of all that I have said—all you nave promised. A small matter to +you perhaps—the whole world to me. You will wait for me for twelve +months. You will try to love me. You——"</p> + +<p>"Yes, but there is something more to be said," cries the girl, springing +to her feet as if in violent protest, and confronting him with a curious +look—set—determined—a little frightened perhaps.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"'I thought love had been a joyous thing,' quoth my uncle Toby.'"</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"He hath a heart as sound as a bell, and his tongue is the clapper.</span> +<span class="i0">For what his heart thinks his tongue speaks."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>"More?" says Dysart startled by her expression, and puzzled as well.</p> + +<p>"Yes!" hurriedly. "This!" The very nervousness that is consuming her +throws fire into her eyes and speech. "During all these long twelve +months I shall be free. Quite free. You forgot to put that in! You must +remember that! If—if I should, after all this thinking, decide on not +having anything to do with you—you," vehemently, "will have no right to +reproach me. Remember," says she going up to him and laying her hand +upon his arm while the blood receding from her face leaves her very +white; "remember should such a thing occur—and it is very likely," +slowly, "I warn you of that—you are not to consider yourself wronged or +aggrieved in any way."</p> + +<p>"Why should you talk to me in this way?" begins he, aggrieved now at all +events.</p> + +<p>"You must recollect," feverishly, "that I have made you no promise. Not +one. I refuse even to look upon this matter as a serious thing. I tell +you honestly," her dark eyes gleaming with nervous excitement, "I don't +believe I ever shall so look at it. After all," pausing, "you will do +well if you now put an end to this farce between us; and tell me to take +myself and my dull life out of yours forever."</p> + +<p>"I shall never tell you that," in a low tone.</p> + +<p>"Well, well," impatiently; "I have warned you. It will not be my fault +if——O! it is foolish of you!" she blurts out suddenly. "I have told +you I don't understand myself: and still you waste yourself—you throw +yourself away. In the end you will be disappointed in me, if not in one +way, then in another. It hurts me to think of that. There is time still; +let us be friends—friends——" Her hands are tightly clasped, she looks +at him with a world of entreaty in her beautiful eyes. "Friends, Felix!" +breathes she softly.</p> + +<p>"Let things rest as they are, I beseech you," says he, taking her hand +and holding it in a tight grasp. "The future—who can ever say what that +great void will bring us. I will trust to it; and if only loss and +sorrow be my portion, still——As for friendship, Joyce; whatever +happens I shall be your friend and lover."</p> + +<p>"Well—you quite know," says the girl, almost sullenly.</p> + +<p>"Quite. And I accept the risk. Do not be angry with me, my beloved." He +lifts the hand he holds and presses it to his lips, wondering always at +the coldness of it. "You are free, Joyce; you desire it so, and I desire +it, too. I would not hamper you in any way."</p> + +<p>"I should not be able to endure it, if—afterward—I thought you were +reproaching me," says she, with a little weary smile.</p> + +<p>"Be happy about that," says he: "I shall never reproach you." He is +silent for a moment; her last speech has filled him with thoughts that +presently grow into extremely happy ones: unless—unless she liked +him—cared for him, in some decided, if vague manner, would his future +misery be of so much importance to her? Oh! surely not! A small flood of +joy flows over him. A radiant smile parts his lips. The light of a +coming triumph that shall gird and glorify his whole life illumines his +eyes.</p> + +<p>She regarding him grows suddenly uneasy.</p> + +<p>"You—you fully understand," says she, drawing back from him.</p> + +<p>"Oh, you have made me do that," says he, but his radiant smile still +lingers.</p> + +<p>"Then why," mistrustfully, "do you look so happy?" She draws even +further away from him. It is plain she resents that happiness.</p> + +<p>"Is there not reason?" says he. "Have you not let me speak, and having +spoken, do you not still let me linger near you? It is more than I dared +hope for! Therefore, poor as is my chance, I rejoice now. Do not forbid +me. I may have no reason to rejoice in the future. Let me, then, have my +day."</p> + +<p>"It grows very late," says Miss Kavanagh abruptly. "Let us go home."</p> + +<p>Silently they turn and descend the hill. Halfway down he pauses and +looks backward.</p> + +<p>"Whatever comes of it," says he, "I shall always love this spot. Though, +if the year's end leave me desolate, I hope I shall never see it again."</p> + +<p>"It is unlucky to rejoice too soon," says she, in a low whisper.</p> + +<p>"Oh! don't say that word 'Rejoice.' How it reminds me of you. It ought +to belong to you. It does. You should have been called 'Rejoice' instead +of 'Joyce'; they have cut off half your name. To see you is to feel new +life within one's veins."</p> + +<p>"Ah! I said you didn't know me," returns she sadly.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Meantime the hours have flown; evening is descending. It is all very +well for those who, traveling up and down romantic hills, can find +engrossing matters for conversation in their idle imaginings of love, or +their earnest belief therein, but to the ordinary ones of the earth, +mundane comforts are still of some worth.</p> + +<p>Tea, the all powerful, is now holding high revelry in the library at the +Court. Round the cosy tables, growing genial beneath the steam of the +many old Queen Anne "pots," the guests are sitting singly or in groups.</p> + +<p>"What delicious little cakes!" says Lady Swansdown, taking up a smoking +morsel of cooked butter and flour from the glowing tripod beside her.</p> + +<p>"You like them?" says Lady Baltimore in her slow, earnest way. "So does +Joyce. She thinks they are the nicest cakes in the world. By the by, +where is Joyce?"</p> + +<p>"She went out for a walk at twenty minutes after two," says Beauclerk. +He has pulled out his watch and is steadily consulting it.</p> + +<p>"And it is now twenty minutes after five," says Lady Swansdown, +maliciously, who detests Beauclerk and who has read his relations with +Joyce as clear as a book. "How she must have enjoyed herself!"</p> + +<p>"Yes; but where?" says Lady Baltimore anxiously. Joyce has been left in +her charge, and, apart from that, she likes the girl well enough, to be +uneasy about her when occasion arises.</p> + +<p>"With whom would be a more appropriate question," says Dicky Browne, +who, as usual, is just where he ought not to be.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I know where she is," cries a little, shrill voice from the +background. It comes from Tommy, and from that part of the room where +Tommy and Mabel and little Bertie are having a game behind the window +curtains. Blocks, dolls, kitchens, farm yards, ninepins—all have been +given to them as a means of keeping them quiet. One thing only has been +forgotten: the fact that the human voice divine is more attractive to +them, more replete with delightful mystery, fuller of enthralling +possibilities than all the toys that ever yet were made.</p> + +<p>"Thomas, are you fully alive to the responsibilities to which you pledge +yourself?" demands Mr. Browne severely.</p> + +<p>"What?" says Tommy.</p> + +<p>"Do you pledge yourself to declare where Miss Kavanagh is now?"</p> + +<p>"Is it Joyce?" says Tommy, coming forward and standing undaunted in his +knickerbockers and an immaculate collar that defies suspicion.</p> + +<p>"Yes—Joyce," says Mr. Browne, who never can hold his tongue.</p> + +<p>"Well, I know." Tommy pauses, and an unearthly silence falls on the +assembled company. Half the county is present, and as Tommy, in the +character of <i>reconteur</i>, is widely known and deservedly dreaded, +expectation spreads itself among his audience.</p> + +<p>Lady Baltimore moves uneasily, and for once Dicky Browne feels as if he +should like to sink into his boot.</p> + +<p>"She's up on the top of the hill with Mr. Dysart," says Tommy, and no +more. Lady Baltimore sighs with relief, and Mr. Browne feels now as if +he should like to give Tommy something.</p> + +<p>"How do you know?" asks Beauclerk, as though he finds it impossible to +repress the question.</p> + +<p>"Because I saw her there," says Tommy, "when Mabel and me was coming +here. I like Mr. Dysart, don't you?" addressing Beauclerk specially. "He +is a very kind sort of man. He gave me half a crown."</p> + +<p>"For what, Tommy?" asks Baltimore, idly, to whom Tommy is an unfailing +joy.</p> + +<p>"To go away and leave him alone with Joyce," says Tommy, with awful +distinctness.</p> + +<p>Tableau!</p> + +<p>Lady Baltimore lets her spoon fall into her saucer, making a little +quick clatter. Everybody tries to think of something to say; nobody +succeeds.</p> + +<p>Mr. Browne, who is evidently choking, is mercifully delivered by +beneficent nature from a sudden death. He gives way to a loud and +sonorous sneeze.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Dicky! How funny you do sneeze," says Lady Swansdown. It is a +safety valve. Everybody at once affects to agree with her, and universal +laughter makes the room ring.</p> + +<p>"Tommy, I think it is time for you and Mabel to go home," says Lady +Baltimore. "I promised your mother to send you back early. Give her my +love, and tell her I am so sorry she couldn't come to me to-day, but I +suppose last night's fatigue was too much for her."</p> + +<p>"'Twasn't that," says Tommy; "'twas because cook——"</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes; of course. I know," says Lady Baltimore, hurriedly, afraid of +further revelations. "Now, say good-bye, and, Bertie, you can go as far +as the first gate with them."</p> + +<p>The children make their adieus, Tommy reserving Dicky Browne for a last +fond embrace.</p> + +<p>"Good-bye, old man! So-long!"</p> + +<p>"What's that?" says Tommy, appealing to Beauclerk for information.</p> + +<p>"What's what?" says Beauclerk, who isn't in his usual amiable mood.</p> + +<p>"What's the meaning of that thing Dicky said to me?"</p> + +<p>"'So-long?' Oh that's Browne's charming way of saying good-bye."</p> + +<p>"Oh!" says Tommy, thoughtfully. He runs it through his busy brain, and +brings it out at the other end satisfactorily translated. "I know," says +he: "Go long! That's what he meant! But I think," indignantly, "he +needn't be rude, anyway."</p> + +<p>The children have hardly gone when Joyce and Dysart enter the room.</p> + +<p>"I hope I'm not dreadfully late," cries Joyce, carelessly, taking off +her cap, and giving her head a little light shake, as if to make her +pretty soft hair fall into its usual charming order. "I have no idea +what the time is."</p> + +<p>"Broken your watch, Dysart?" says Beauclerk, in a rather nasty tone.</p> + +<p>"Come and sit here, dearest, and have your tea," says Lady Baltimore, +making room on the lounge beside her for Joyce, who has grown a little +red.</p> + +<p>"It is so warm here," says she, nervously, that one remark of +Beauclerk's having, somehow, disconcerted her. "If—if I might——"</p> + +<p>"No, no; you mustn't go upstairs for a little while," says Lady +Baltimore, with kindly decision. "But you may go into the conservatory +if you like," pointing to an open door off the library, that leads into +a bower of sweets. "It is cooler there."</p> + +<p>"Far cooler," says Beauclerk, who has followed Joyce with a sort of +determination in his genial air. "Let me take you there, Miss Kavanagh."</p> + +<p>It is impossible to refuse. Joyce, coldly, almost disdainfully and with +her head held higher than usual, skirts the groups that line the walls +on the western side of the room and disappears with him into the +conservatory.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Who dares think one thing and another tell,</span> +<span class="i0">My heart detests him as the gates of hell."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>"A little foolish going for that walk, wasn't it?" says he, leading her +to a low cushioned chair over which a gay magnolia bends its white +blossoms. His manner is innocence itself; ignorance itself would perhaps +better express it. He has decided on ignoring everything; though a +shrewd guess that she saw something of his passages with Miss Maliphant +last night has now become almost a certainty. "I thought you seemed +rather played out last night—fatigued—done to death. I assure you I +noticed it. I could hardly," with deep and affectionate concern, "fail +to notice anything that affected you."</p> + +<p>"You are very good!" says Miss Kavanagh icily. Mr. Beauclerk lets a full +minute go by, and then——</p> + +<p>"What have I done to merit that tone from you?" asks he, not angrily; +only sorrowfully. He has turned his handsome face full on hers, and is +regarding her with proud, reproachful eyes. "It is idle to deny," says +he, with some emotion, half of which, to do him justice, is real, "that +you are changed to me; something has happened to alter the feelings +of—of—friendship—that I dared to hope you entertained for me. I had +hoped still more, Joyce—but——What has happened?" demands he suddenly, +with all the righteous strength of one who, free from guilt, resents +accusation of it.</p> + +<p>"Have I accused you?" says she, coldly.</p> + +<p>"Yes, a thousand times, yes. Do you think your voice alone can condemn? +Your eyes are even crueller judges."</p> + +<p>"Well I am sorry," says she, faintly smiling. "My eyes must be deceivers +then. I bear you no malice, believe me."</p> + +<p>"So be it," says he, with an assumption of relief that is very well +done. "After all, I have worried myself, I daresay, very unnecessarily. +Let us talk of something else, Miss Maliphant, for example," with a +glance at her, and a pleasant smile. "Nice girl eh? I miss her."</p> + +<p>"She went early this morning, did she?" says Joyce, scarcely knowing +what to say. Her lips feel a little dry; an agonized certainty that she +is slowly growing crimson beneath his steady gaze brings the tears to +her eyes.</p> + +<p>"Too early. I quite hoped to be up to see her off, but sleep had made +its own of me and I failed to wake. Such a good, genuine girl! Universal +favorite, don't you think? Very honest, and very," breaking into an +apparently irrepressible laugh, "ugly! Ah! well now," with smiling self +condemnation, "that's really a little too bad; isn't it?"</p> + +<p>"A great deal too bad," says Joyce, gravely. "I shouldn't speak of her +if I were you."</p> + +<p>"But why, my dear girl?" with arched brows and a little gesture of his +handsome hands. "I allow her everything but beauty, and surely it would +be hypocrisy to mention that in the same breath with her."</p> + +<p>"It isn't fair—it isn't sincere," says the girl almost passionately. +"Do you think I am ignorant of everything, that I did not see you with +her last night in the garden? Oh!" with a touch of scorn that is yet +full of pain, "you should not. You should not, indeed!"</p> + +<p>In an instant he grows confused. Something in the lovely horror of her +eyes undoes him. Only for an instant—after that he turns the momentary +confusion to good account.</p> + +<p>"Ah! you did see her, then, poor girl!" says he. "Well, I'm sorry about +that for her sake."</p> + +<p>"Why for her sake?" still regarding him with that charming disdain. "For +your own, perhaps, but why for hers?"</p> + +<p>Beauclerk pauses: then rising suddenly, stands before her. Grief and +gentle indignation sit upon his massive brow. He looks the very +incarnation of injured rectitude.</p> + +<p>"Do you know, Joyce, you have always been ready to condemn, to misjudge +me," says he in a low, hurt tone. "I have often noticed it, yet have +failed to understand why it is. I was right, you see, when I told myself +last night and this morning that you were harboring unkindly thoughts +toward me. You have not been open with me, you have been willfully +secretive, and, believe me, that is a mistake. Candor, complete and +perfect, is the only great virtue that will steer one clear through all +the shoals and rocks of life. Be honest, above board, and, I can assure +you, you will never regret it. You accused me just now of insincerity. +Have you been sincere?"</p> + +<p>There is a dead pause. He allows it to last long enough to make it +dramatic, and to convince himself he has impressed her, and then, with a +very perceptible increase of dignified pain in his voice, he goes on.</p> + +<p>"I feel I ought not to explain under the circumstances, but as it is to +you"—heavy emphasis, and a second affected silence. "You have heard, +perhaps, of Miss Maliphant's cousin in India?"</p> + +<p>"No," says Joyce, after racking her brain in vain for some memory of the +cousin question. And, indeed, it would have been nothing short of a +miracle if she could have remembered anything about that apocryphal +person.</p> + +<p>"You will understand that I speak to you in the strictest confidence," +says Beauclerk, earnestly: "I wouldn't for anything you could offer me, +that it should get back to that poor girl's ears that I had been +discussing her and the most sacred feelings of her heart. Well, there is +a cousin, and she—you may have noticed that she and I were great +friends?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," says Joyce, whose heart is beating now to suffocation. Oh! has +she wronged him? Does she still wrong him? Is this vile, suspicious +feeling within her one to be encouraged? Is all this story of his, this +simple explanation—false—false?</p> + +<p>"I was, indeed, a sort of confidant of hers. Poor dear girl! it was a +relief to her to talk to somebody."</p> + +<p>"There were others."</p> + +<p>"But none here who knew him."</p> + +<p>"You knew him then? Is his name Maliphant, too?" asks Joyce, ashamed of +her cross-examination, yet driven to it by some power beyond her +control.</p> + +<p>"You mustn't ask me that," says Beauclerk playfully. "There are some +things I must keep even from you. Though you see I go very far to +satisfy your unjust suspicions of me. You can, however, guess a good +deal; you—saw her crying?"</p> + +<p>"She was not crying," says Joyce slowly, a little puzzled. Miss +Maliphant had seemed at the moment in question well pleased.</p> + +<p>"No! Not when you saw her? Ah! that must have been later then," with a +sigh, "you see now I am betraying more than I should. However, I can +depend upon your silence. It will be a small secret between you and me."</p> + +<p>"And Miss Maliphant," says Joyce, coldly. "As for me, what is the +secret?"</p> + +<p>"You haven't understood? Not really? Well, between you and me and the +wall," with delightful gaiety, "I think she gives a thought or two to +that cousin. I fancy," whispering, "she is even in—eh? you know."</p> + +<p>"I don't," says Joyce slowly, who is now longing to believe in him, and +yet is held steadily backward by some strong feeling.</p> + +<p>"I believe she is in love with him," says Beauclerk, still in a +mysterious whisper. "But it is a sore subject," with an expressive +frown. "Not best pleased when it is mentioned to her. Mauvais sujet, you +understand. But girls are often foolish in that way. Better say nothing +about it."</p> + +<p>"I shall say nothing, of course," says Joyce. "Why should I? It is +nothing to me, though I am sorry for her."</p> + +<p>Yet as she says this, a doubt arises in her mind as to whether she need +be sorry. Is there a cousin in India? Could that big, jolly, lively +girl, who had come into the conservatory with Beauclerk last night, with +the light of triumph in her eyes, be the victim of an unhappy love +affair? Should she write and ask her if there is a cousin in India? Oh, +no, no! She could not do that! How horrible, how hateful to distrust him +like this! What a detestable mind must be hers. And besides, why dwell +so much upon it. Why not accept him as a pleasing acquaintance. One with +whom to pass a pleasant hour now and then. Why ever again regard him as +a possible lover!</p> + +<p>A little shudder runs through her. At this moment it seems to her that +she could never really have so regarded him. And yet only last night——</p> + +<p>And now. What is it? Does she still doubt? Will that strange, curious, +tormenting feeling that once she felt for him return no more. Is it gone +forever? Oh! that it might be so!</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII" id="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"So over violent, or over civil!"</span> +<span class="i0">"A man so various."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>"Dull looking day," says Dicky Browne, looking up from his broiled +kidney to glare indignantly through the window at the gray sky.</p> + +<p>"It can't be always May," says Beauclerk cheerfully, whose point it is +to take ever a lenient view of things. Even to heaven itself he is kind, +and holds out a helping hand.</p> + +<p>"I expect it is we ourselves who are dull," says Lady Baltimore, looking +round the breakfast table, where now many vacant seats make the edges +bare. Yesterday morning Miss Maliphant left. To-day the Clontarfs, and +one or two strange men from the barracks in the next town. Desertion +indeed seems to be the order of the day. "We grow very small," says she. +"How I miss people when they go away."</p> + +<p>"Do you mean that as a liberal bribe for the getting rid of the rest of +us," says Dicky, who is now devoting himself to the hot scones. "If so, +let me tell you it isn't good enough. I shall stay here until you choose +to cross the channel. I don't want to be missed."</p> + +<p>"That will be next week," says Lady Baltimore. "I do beseech all here +present not to forsake me until then."</p> + +<p>"I must deny your prayer," says Lady Swansdown. "These tiresome lawyers +of mine say they must see me on Thursday at the latest."</p> + +<p>"I shall meet you in town at Christmas, however," says Lady Baltimore, +making the remark a question.</p> + +<p>"I hardly think so. I have promised the Barings to join them in Italy +about then."</p> + +<p>"Well, here then in February."</p> + +<p>Lady Swansdown smiles at her hostess, but makes no audible reply.</p> + +<p>"I suppose we ought to do something to-day," says Lady Baltimore +presently, in a listless tone. It is plain to everybody, however, that +in reality she wants to do nothing. "Suggest something, Dicky."</p> + +<p>"Skittles," says that youth, without hesitation. Very properly, however, +no one takes any notice of him.</p> + +<p>"I was thinking that if we went to 'Connor's Cross,' it would be a nice +drive," says Lady Baltimore, still struggling with her duties as a +hostess. "What do you say, Beatrice?"</p> + +<p>"I pray you excuse me," says Lady Swansdown. "As I leave to-morrow, I +must give the afternoon to the answering of several letters, and to +other things besides."</p> + +<p>"Connor's Cross," says Joyce, idly. "I've so often heard of it. Yet, +oddly enough, I have never seen it; it is always the way, isn't it, +whenever one lives very close to some celebrated spot."</p> + +<p>"Celebrated or not, it is at least lovely," says Lady Baltimore. "You +really ought to see it."</p> + +<p>"I'll drive you there this afternoon, Miss Kavanagh," says Beauclerk, in +his friendly way, that in public has never a tincture of tenderness +about it. "We might start after luncheon. It is only about ten miles +off. Eh?" to Baltimore.</p> + +<p>"Ten," briefly.</p> + +<p>"I am right then," equably; "we might easily do it in a little over an +hour."</p> + +<p>"Hour and a half with best horse in the stables. Bad road," says +Baltimore.</p> + +<p>"Even so we shall get there and back in excellent time," says Beauclerk, +deaf to his brother-in-law's gruffness. "Will you come, Miss Kavanagh?"</p> + +<p>"I should like it," says Joyce, in a hesitating sort of way; "but——"</p> + +<p>"Then why not go, dear?" says Lady Baltimore kindly. "The Morroghs of +Creaghstown live not half a mile from it, and they will give you tea if +you feel tired; Norman is a very good whip, and will be sure to have you +back here in proper time."</p> + +<p>Dysart lifting his head looks full at Joyce.</p> + +<p>"At that rate——" says she, smiling at Beauclerk.</p> + +<p>"It is settled then," says Beauclerk pleasantly. "Thank you ever so much +for helping me to get rid of my afternoon in so delightful a fashion."</p> + +<p>"It is going to rain. It will be a wet evening," says Dysart abruptly.</p> + +<p>"Oh, my dear fellow! You can hardly be called a weather prophet," says +Beauclerk banteringly. "You ought to know that a settled gray sky like +that seldom means rain."</p> + +<p>No more is said about it then, and no mention is made of it at luncheon. +At half-past two precisely, however, a dog cart comes round to the hall +door. Joyce running lightly down stairs, habited for a drive, meets +Dysart at the foot of the staircase.</p> + +<p>"Do not go," says he abruptly.</p> + +<p>"Not go—now," with a glance at her costume.</p> + +<p>"I didn't believe you would go," says he vehemently. "I didn't believe +it possible—or I should have spoken sooner. Nevertheless, at this last +moment, I entreat you to give it up."</p> + +<p>"Impossible," says she curtly, annoyed by his tone, which is perhaps, +unconsciously, a little dictatorial.</p> + +<p>"You refuse me?"</p> + +<p>"It is not the question. I have said I would go. I see no reason for not +going. I decline to make myself foolish in the eyes of everybody by +drawing back at the last moment."</p> + +<p>"You have forgotten everything then."</p> + +<p>"I don't know," coldly, "that there is anything to remember."</p> + +<p>"Oh!" bitterly, "not so far as I am concerned. I count for nothing. I +allow that. But he—I fancied you had at least read him."</p> + +<p>"I think, perhaps, there was nothing to read," says she, lowering her +eyes.</p> + +<p>"If you can think that, it is useless my saying anything further."</p> + +<p>He moves to one side as if to let her pass, but she hesitates. Perhaps +she would have said something to soften her decision—but—a rare thing +with him, he loses his temper. Seeing her standing there before him, so +sweet, so lovely, so indifferent, as he tells himself, his despair +overcomes him.</p> + +<p>"I have a voice in this matter," says he, frowning heavily. "I forbid +you to go with that fellow."</p> + +<p>A sharp change crosses Miss Kavanagh's face. All the sudden softness +dies out of it. She stoops leisurely, and disengaging the end of the +black lace round her throat from an envious banister that would have +detained her, without further glance or word for Dysart, she goes up the +hall and through the open doorway. Beauclerk, who has been waiting for +her outside, comes forward. A little spring seats her in the cart. +Beauclerk jumps in beside her. Another moment sees them out of sight.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The vagrant sun, that all day long had been coming and going in fitful +fashion, has suddenly sunk behind the thunderous gray cloud that, rising +from the sea, now spreads itself o'er hill and vale. The light has died +out of the sky; dull muttering sounds come rumbling down from the +distant mountains. The vast expanse of barren bog upon the left has +become almost obscure. Here and there a glint of its watery wastes may +be seen, but indistinctly, giving the eye a mournful impression of +"lands forlorn."</p> + +<p>A strange hot quiet seems to have fallen upon the trembling earth.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"We often see, against some storm.</span> +<span class="i0">A silence in the heavens, the rack stand still,</span> +<span class="i0">The bold wind speechless, and the orb below</span> +<span class="i0">Is hushed as death."</span> +</div></div> + +<p>Just now that "boding silence reigns." A sense of fear falls on Joyce, +she scarcely knows why, as her companion, with a quick lash of the whip, +urges the horse up the steep hill. They are still several miles from +their destination, and, though it is only four o'clock, it is no longer +day. The heavens are black as ink, the trees are shivering in expectant +misery.</p> + +<p>"What is it?" says Joyce, and even as she asks the question it is +answered. The storm is upon them in all its fury. All at once, without +an instant's warning, a violent downpour of rain comes from the bursting +clouds, threatening to deluge them.</p> + +<p>"We are in for it," says Beauclerk in a sharp, short tone, so unlike his +usual dulcet accents that even now, in her sudden discomfort, it +startles her. The rain is descending in torrents, a wild wind has +arisen. The light has faded, and now the day resembles nothing so much +as the dull beginning of a winter's night.</p> + +<p>"Have you any idea where we are?" asks Beauclerk presently.</p> + +<p>"None. You know I told you I had never been here before. But you—you +must have some knowledge of it."</p> + +<p>"How should I? These detestable Irish isolations are as yet unknown +paths to me."</p> + +<p>"But I thought you said—you gave me the impression that you knew +Connor's Cross."</p> + +<p>"I regret it if I did," shortly. The rain is running down his neck by +this time, leaving a cold, drenched collar to add zest to his rising ill +temper. "I had heard of Connor's Cross. I never saw it. I devoutly +hope," with a snarl, "I never shall."</p> + +<p>"I don't think you are likely to," says Joyce, whose own temper is +beginning to be ruffled.</p> + +<p>"Well, this is a sell," says Beauclerk. He is buttoning up a heavy +ulster round his handsome form. He is very particular about the +fastening of the last button—that one that goes under the chin—and +having satisfactorily accomplished it, and found, by a careful moving +backward and forward of his head, that it is comfortably adjusted, it +occurs to him to see if his companion is weather-proof.</p> + +<p>"Got wraps enough?" asks he. "No, by Jove! Here, put on this," dragging +a warm cloak of her own from under the seat and offering it to her with +all the air of one making a gift. "What is it? Coat—cloak—ulster? One +never knows what women's clothes are meant for."</p> + +<p>"To cover them," says Joyce calmly.</p> + +<p>"Well, put it on. By Jove, how it pours! All right now?" having +carelessly flung it round her, without regard for where her arms ought +to go through the sleeves. "Think you can manage the rest by yourself? +So beastly difficult to do anything in a storm like this, with this +brute tugging at the reins and the rain running up one's sleeve."</p> + +<p>"I can manage it very well myself, thank you," says Joyce, giving up the +finding of the sleeves as a bad job; after a futile effort to discover +their whereabouts she buttons the cloak across her chest and sits beside +him, silent but shivering. A little swift, wandering thought of Dysart +makes her feel even colder. If he had been there! Would she be thus +roughly entreated? Nay, rather would she not have been a mark for +tenderest care, a precious charge entrusted to his keeping. A thing +beloved and therefore to be cherished.</p> + +<p>"Look there," says she, suddenly lifting her head and pointing a little +to the right. "Surely, even through this denseness, I see lights. Is it +a village?"</p> + +<p>"Yes—a village, I should say," grimly. "A hamlet rather. Would you," +ungraciously, "suggest our seeking shelter there?"</p> + +<p>"I think it must be the village called 'Falling,'" says she, too pleased +at her discovery to care about his gruffness, "and if so, the owner of +the inn there was an old servant of my father's. She often comes over to +see Barbara and the children, and though I have never come here to see +her, I know she lives somewhere in this part of the world. A good +creature she is. The kindest of women."</p> + +<p>"An inn," says Beauclerk, deaf to the virtues of the old servant, the +innkeeper, but altogether alive to the fact that she keeps an inn. "What +a blessed oasis in our wilderness! And it can't be more than half a mile +away. Why," recovering his usual delightful manner, "we shall find +ourselves housed in no time. I do hope, my dear girl, you are +comfortable! Wrapped up to the chin, eh? Quite right—quite right. After +all, the poor driver has the worst of it. He must face the elements, +whatever happens. Now you, with your dear little chin so cosily hidden +from the wind and rain, and with hardly a suspicion of the blast I am +fighting, make a charming picture—really charming! Ah, you girls! you +have the best of it beyond doubt! And why not? It is the law of +nature—weak woman and strong man! You know those exquisite lines——"</p> + +<p>"Can't that horse go faster?" said Miss Kavanagh, breaking in on this +little speech in a rather ruthless manner. "Lapped in luxury, as you +evidently believe me, I still assure you I should gladly exchange my +present condition for a good wholesome kitchen fire."</p> + +<p>"Always practical. Your charm—one of them," says Mr. Beauclerk. But he +takes the hint, nevertheless, and presently they draw up before a small, +dingy place of shelter.</p> + +<p>Not a man is to be seen. The village, a collection of fifty houses, when +all is told, is swept and garnished. A few geese are stalking up the +street, uttering creaking noises. Some ducks are swimming in a glad +astonishment down the muddy streams running by the edges of the +curbstones. Such a delicious wealth of filthy water has not been seen in +Falling for the past three dry months.</p> + +<p>"The deserted village with a vengeance," says Beauclerk. He has risen in +his seat and placed his whip in the stand with a view of descending and +arousing the inhabitants of this Sleepy Hollow, when a shock head is +thrust out of the inn ("hotel," rather, as is painted on a huge sign +over the door) and being instantly withdrawn again with a muttered +"Och-a-yea," is followed by a shriek for:</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Connolly—Mrs. Connolly, ma'am! Sure, 'tis yourself that's wanted! +Come down, I tell ye! There's ginthry at the door, an' the rain peltin' +on em like the divil. Come down, I'm tellin' ye! Or fegs they'll go on +to Paddy Sheehan's, an' thin where'll ye be? Och, murdher! Where are ye, +at all, at all? 'Tis ruined ye'll be intirely wid the stayin' of ye!"</p> + +<p>"Arrah, hould yer whisht, y'omadhaun o' the world," says another voice, +and in a second a big, buxom, jolly, hearty-looking woman appears on the +threshold, peering a little suspiciously through the gathering gloom at +the dog cart outside. First she catches sight of the crest and coronet, +and a gleam of pleased intelligence brightens her face. Then, lifting +her eyes, she meets those of Joyce, and the sudden pleasure gives way to +actual and honest joy.</p> + +<p>"It is Mrs. Connolly," says Joyce, in a voice that is supposed to +accompany a smile, but has in reality something of tears in it.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Connolly, regardless of the pelting rain and her best cap, takes a +step forward.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.</h2> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"All is not golde that outward shewith bright."</p> + + +<p>"I love everything that's old—old friends, old times, old manners, +old books, old wine."</p></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>"An' is it you, Miss Joyce? Glory be! What a day to be out! 'Tis +drenched y'are, intirely! Oh! come in, me dear—come in, me darlin'! +Here, Mikey, Paddy, Jerry!—come here, ivery mother's son o' ye, an' +take Mr. Beauclerk's horse from him. Oh! by the laws!—but y'are soaked! +Arrah, what misfortune dhrove y'out to-day, of all days, Miss Joyce? Was +there niver a man to tell ye that 'twould be a peltin' storm before +nightfall?"</p> + +<p>There had been one. How earnestly Miss Kavanagh now wishes she had +listened to his warning.</p> + +<p>"It looked so fine two hours ago," says she, clambering down from the +dog cart with such misguided help from the ardent Mrs. Connolly as +almost lands her with the ducks in the muddy stream below.</p> + +<p>"Och! there's no more depindince to be placed upon the weather than +there is upon a man. However, 'tis welcome y'are, any way. Your father's +daughter is dear to me—yes, come this way—up these stairs. 'Tis Anne +Connolly is proud to be enthertainin' one o' yer blood inside her door."</p> + +<p>"Oh! I'm so glad I found you," says Joyce, turning when she has reached +Mrs. Connolly's bedroom to imprint upon that buxom widow's cheek a warm +kiss. "It was a long way here—long, and so cold and wet."</p> + +<p>"An' where were ye goin' at all, if I may ax?" says Mrs. Connolly, +taking off the girl's dripping outer garments.</p> + +<p>"To see Connor's Cross——"</p> + +<p>"Faith, 'twas little ye had to do! A musty ould tomb like that, wid +nothin but broken stones around it. Wouldn't the brand-new graveyard +below there do ye? Musha! but 'tis quare the ginthry is! Och! me dear, +'tis wet y'are; there isn't a dhry stitch on ye."</p> + +<p>"I don't think I'm wet once my coats are off," says Joyce; and indeed, +when those invaluable wraps are removed; it is proved beyond doubt—even +Mrs. Connolly's doubt, which is strong—that her gown is quite dry.</p> + +<p>"You see, it was such a sudden rain," says Joyce, "and fortunately we +saw the lights in this village almost immediately after it began."</p> + +<p>"Fegs, too suddint to be pleasant," says Mrs. Connolly. "'Twas well the +early darkness made us light up so quickly, or ye might have missed us, +not knowin' yer road. An' how's all wid ye, me dear—Miss Barbara, an' +the masther, an' the darling childher? I've a Brammy cock and a hen that +I'm thinkin' of takin' down to Masther Tommy this two weeks, but the +ould mare is mighty quare on her legs o' late. Are ye all well?"</p> + +<p>"Quite well, thank you, Mrs. Connolly."</p> + +<p>"Wisha—God keep ye so."</p> + +<p>"And how are all of you? When did you hear from America?"</p> + +<p>"Last month thin—divil a less; an' the greatest news of all! A letther +from Johnny—me eldest boy—wid a five-pound note in it, an' a picther +of the girl he's goin' to marry. I declare to ye when that letther came +I just fell into a chair an' tuk to laughin' an' cryin' till that +ounchal of a girl in the kitchen began to bate me on the back, thinkin' +I was bad in a fit. To think, me dear, of little Johnneen I used to +nurse on me knee thinkin' of takin' a partner. An' a sthrappin' fine +girl too, fegs, wid cheeks like turnips. But there, now, I'll show her +to ye by-and-by. She's a raal beauty if them porthraits be thrue, but +there's a lot o' lies comes from over the wather. An' what'll ye be +takin' now, Miss Joyce dear?"—with a return to her hospitable mood—"a +dhrop o' hot punch, now? Whiskey is the finest thing out for givin' the +good-bye to the cowld."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, thank you, Mrs. Connolly"—hastily—"if I might have a cup of +tea, I——"</p> + +<p>"Arrah, bad cess to that tay! What's the good of it at all at all to a +frozen stomach? Cowld pison, I calls it. Well, there! Have it yer own +way! An' come along down wid me, now, an' give yerself to the +enthertainin' of Misther Beauclerk, whilst I wet the pot. Glory! what a +man he is!—the size o' the house! A fine man, in airnest. Tell me now," +with a shrewd glance at Joyce, "is there anything betwixt you and him?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing!" says Joyce, surprised even herself by the amount of vehement +denial she throws into this word.</p> + +<p>"Oh, well, there's others! An' Mr. Dysart would be more to my fancy. +There's a nate man, if ye like, be me fegs!" with a second half sly, +wholly kindly, glance at the girl. "If 'twas he, now, I'd give ye me +blessin' wid a heart and a half. An' indeed, now, Miss Joyce, 'tis time +ye were thinkin' o' settlin'."</p> + +<p>"Well, I'm not thinking of it this time," says Joyce, laughing, though a +little catch in her throat warns her she is not far from tears. Perhaps +Mrs. Connolly hears that little catch, too, for she instantly changes +her tactics.</p> + +<p>"Faith, an' 'tis right y'are, me dear. There's a deal o' trouble in +marriage, an' 'tis too young y'are intirely to undertake the likes of +it," says she, veering round with a scandalous disregard for +appearances. "My, what hair ye have, Miss Joyce! 'Tis improved, it is; +even since last I saw ye. I'm a great admirer of a good head o' hair."</p> + +<p>"I wonder when will the rain be over?" asks Joyce, wistfully gazing +through the small window at the threatening heavens.</p> + +<p>"If it's my opinion y'are askin'," says Mrs. Connolly, "I'd say not till +to-morrow morning."</p> + +<p>"Oh! Mrs. Connolly!" turning a distressed face to that good creature.</p> + +<p>"Well, me dear, what can I say but what I think?" flinging out her ample +arms in self-justification. "Would ye have me lie to ye? Why, a sky like +that always——"</p> + +<p>Here a loud crash of thunder almost shakes the small inn to its +foundations.</p> + +<p>"The heavens be good to us!" says Mrs. Connolly, crossing herself +devoutly. "Did ye iver hear the like o' that?"</p> + +<p>"But—it can't last—it is impossible," says Joyce, vehemently. "Is +there no covered car in the town? Couldn't a man be persuaded to drive +me home if I promised him to——"</p> + +<p>"If ye promised him a king's ransom ye couldn't get a covered car +to-night," says Mrs. Connolly. "There's only one in the place, an' that +belongs to Mike Murphy, an' 'tis off now miles beyant Skibbereen, +attindin' the funeral o' Father John Maguire. 'Twon't be home till +to-morrow any way, an'-faix, I wouldn't wondher if it wasn't here then, +for every mother's son at that wake will be as dhrunk as fiddlers +to-night. Father John, ye know, me dear, was greatly respected."</p> + +<p>"Are you sure there isn't another car?"</p> + +<p>"Quite positive. But why need ye be so unaisy, Miss Joyce, dear? Sure, +'tis safe an' sure y'are wid me."</p> + +<p>"But what will they think at home and at the Court?" says Joyce, +faltering.</p> + +<p>"Arrah! what can they think, miss, but that the rain was altogether too +mastherful for ye? Ye know, me dear, we can't (even the best of us) +conthrol the illimints!" This incontrovertible fact Mrs. Connolly gives +forth with a truly noble air of resignation. "Come down now, and let me +get ye that palthry cup o' tay y'are cravin' for."</p> + +<p>She leads Joyce downstairs and into a snug little parlor with a roaring +fire that is not altogether unacceptable this dreary evening. The smell +of stale tobacco smoke that pervades it is a drawback, but, if you think +of it, we can't have everything in this world.</p> + +<p>Perhaps Joyce has more than she wants. It occurs to her, as Beauclerk +turns round from the solitary window, that she could well have dispensed +with his society. That lurking distrust of him she had known vaguely, +but kept under during all their acquaintance, has taken a permanent +place in her mind during her drive with him this afternoon.</p> + +<p>"Oh! here you are. Beastly, smoky hole!" he says, taking no notice of +Mrs. Connolly, who is doing her best curtsey in the doorway.</p> + +<p>"I think it looks very comfortable," says Joyce, with a gracious smile +at her hostess, and a certain sore feeling at her heart. Once again her +thoughts fly to Dysart. Would that have been his first remark when she +appeared after so severe a wetting?</p> + +<p>"'Tis just what I've been sayin' to Miss Kavanagh, sir," says Mrs. +Connolly, with unabated good humor. "The heavens above is always too +much for us. We can't turn off the wather up there as we can the cock in +the kitchen sink. Still, there's compinsations always, glory be! An' +what will ye plaze have wid yer tay, Miss?" turning to Joyce with great +respect in look and tone. In spite of all her familiarity with her +upstairs, she now, with a looker-on, proceeds to treat "her young lady" +as though she were a stranger and of blood royal.</p> + +<p>"Anything you have, Mrs. Connolly," says Joyce; "only don't be long!" +There is undoubted entreaty in the request. Mrs. Connolly, glancing at +her, concludes it is not so much a desire for what will be brought, as +for the bringer that animates the speaker.</p> + +<p>"Give me five minutes, Miss, an' I'll be back again," says she +pleasantly. Leaving the room, she stands in the passage outside for a +moment, and solemnly moves her kindly head from side to side. It takes +her but a little time to make up her shrewd Irish mind on several +points.</p> + +<p>"While this worthy person is getting you your tea I think I'll take a +look at the weather from the outside," says Mr. Beauclerk, turning to +Joyce. It is evident he is eager to avoid a tête-à-tête, but this does +not occur to her.</p> + +<p>"Yes—do—do," says she, nevertheless with such a liberal encouragement +as puzzles him. Women are kittle cattle, however, he tells himself; +better not to question their motives too closely or you will find +yourself in queer street. He gets to the door with a cheerful assumption +of going to study the heavens that conceals his desire for a cigar and a +brandy and soda, but on the threshold Joyce speaks again.</p> + +<p>"Is there no chance—would it not be possible to get home?" says she, in +a tone that trembles with nervous longing.</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid not. I'm just going to see. It is impossible weather for you +to be out in."</p> + +<p>"But you——? It is clearing a little, isn't it?" with a despairing +glance out of the window. "If you could manage to get back and tell them +that——"</p> + +<p>She is made thoroughly ashamed of her selfishness a moment later.</p> + +<p>"But my dear girl, consider! Why should I tempt a severe attack of +inflammation of the lungs by driving ten or twelve miles through this +unrelenting torrent? We are very well out of it here. This +Mrs.—er—Connor—Connolly seems a very respectable person, and is known +to you. I shall tell her to make you as comfortable as her 'limited +liabilities,'" with quite a laugh at his own wit, "will allow."</p> + +<p>"Pray tell her nothing. Do not give yourself so much trouble," says +Joyce calmly. "She will do the best she can for me without the +intervention of any one."</p> + +<p>"As you will, au revoir!" says he, waving her a graceful farewell for +the moment.</p> + +<p>He is not entirely happy in his mind, as he crosses the tiny hall and +makes his way first to the bar and afterward to the open doorway. Like a +cat, he hates rain! To drive back through this turmoil of wind and wet +for twelve long miles to the Court is more than his pleasure-loving +nature can bear to look upon. Yet to remain has its drawbacks, too.</p> + +<p>If Miss Maliphant, for example, were to hear of this escapade there +might be trouble there. He has not as yet finally made up his mind to +give inclination the go by and surrender himself to sordid +considerations, but there can be no doubt that the sordid things of this +life have, with some natures, a charm hardly to be rivaled successfully +by mere beauty.</p> + +<p>The heiress is attractive in one sense; Joyce equally so in another. +Miss Maliphant's charms are golden—are not Joyce's more golden still? +And yet, to give up Miss Maliphant—to break with her finally—to throw +away deliberately a good £10,000 a year!</p> + +<p>He lights his cigar with an untrembling hand, and, having found it +satisfactory, permits his mind to continue its investigations.</p> + +<p>Ten thousand pounds a year! A great help to a man; yet he is glad at +this moment that he is free to accept or reject it. Nothing definite has +been said to the heiress—nothing definite to Joyce either. It strikes +him at this moment, as he stands in the dingy doorway of the inn and +stares out at the descending rain, that he has shown distinct cleverness +in the way in which he has manoeuvred these two girls, without either of +them feeling the least suspicion of the other. Last night Joyce had been +on the point of a discovery, but he had smoothed away all that. +Evidently he was born to be a successful diplomatist, and if that +appointment he has been looking for ever comes his way, he will be able +to show the world a thing or two.</p> + +<p>How charming that little girl in there can look! And never more so than +when she allows her temper to overcome her. She had been angry just now. +Yes. But he can read between the lines; angry—naturally that he has not +come to the point—declared himself—proposed as the saying is. Well, +puffing complacently at his cigar, she must wait—she must wait—if the +appointment comes off, if Sir Alexander stands to him, she has a very +good chance, but if that falls through, why then——</p> + +<p>And it won't do to encourage her too much, by Jove! If Miss Maliphant +were to hear of this evening's adventure, she is headstrong, stolid +enough, to mark out a line for herself and fling him aside without +waiting for judge or jury. Much as it might cost her, she would not +hesitate to break all ties with him, and any that existed were very +slight. He, himself, had kept them so. Perhaps, after all, he had better +order the trap round, leave Miss Kavanagh here, and——</p> + +<p>And yet to go out in that rain; to feel it beating against his face for +two or three intolerable hours. Was anything, even £10,000 a year, worth +that? He would be a drowned rat by the time he reached the Court.</p> + +<p>And, after all, couldn't it be arranged without all this bother? He +might easily explain it all away to Miss Maliphant, even should some +kind friend tell her of it. That was his role. He had quite a talent for +explaining away. But he must also make Joyce thoroughly understand. She +was a sensible girl. A word to her would be sufficient. Just a word to +show that marriage at present was out of the question. Nothing +unpleasant; nothing finite; but just some little thing to waken her to +the true state of the case. Girls, as a rule, were sentimental, and +would expect much of an adventure such as this. But Joyce was proud—he +liked that in her. There would be no trouble; she would quite +understand.</p> + +<p>"Tea is just comin' up, sorr!" says a rough voice behind him. "The +misthress tould me to tell ye so!"</p> + +<p>The red-headed Abigail who attends on Mrs. Connolly beckons him, with a +grimy forefinger, to the repast within. He accepts the invitation.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"It is the mynd that maketh good or ill,</span> +<span class="i0">That maketh wretch or happy, rich or poore."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>As he enters the inn parlor he finds Joyce sitting by the fire, +listening to Mrs. Connolly, who, armed with a large tray, is advancing +up the room toward the table. Nobody but the "misthress" herself is +allowed to wait upon "the young lady."</p> + +<p>"An' I hope, Miss Joyce, 'twill be to your liking. An' sorry I am, sir," +with a courteous recognition of Beauclerk's entrance, "that 'tis only +one poor fowl I can give ye. But thim commercial thravellers are the +divil. They'd lave nothing behind 'em if they could help it. Still, +Miss," with a loving smile at Joyce, "I do think ye'll like the ham. +'Tis me own curing, an' I brought ye just a taste o' this year's honey; +ye'd always a sweet tooth from the time ye were born."</p> + +<p>"I could hardly have had a tooth before that," says Joyce, laughing. +"Oh, thank you, Mrs. Connolly; it is a lovely tea, and it is very good +of you to take all this trouble."</p> + +<p>"Who'd be welcome to any trouble if 'twasn't yerself, Miss?" says Mrs. +Connolly, bowing and retreating toward the door.</p> + +<p>A movement on the part of Joyce checks her. The girl has made an +impulsive step as if to follow her, and now, seeing Mrs. Connolly stop +short, holds out to her one hand.</p> + +<p>"But, Mrs. Connolly," says she, trying to speak naturally, and +succeeding very well, so far as careless ears are in question, but the +"misthress" marks the false note, "you will stay and pour out tea for +us; you will?"</p> + +<p>There is an extreme treaty in her tone; the stronger in that it has to +be suppressed. Mrs. Connolly, halting midway between the table and the +door with the tray in her hands, hears it, and a sudden light comes, not +only into her eyes, but her mind.</p> + +<p>"Why, if you wish it, Miss," says she directly. She lays down the tray, +standing it up against the wall, and coming back to the table lifts the +teapot and begins to fill the cups.</p> + +<p>"Ye take sugar, sir?" asks she of Beauclerk, who is a little puzzled, +but not altogether displeased at the turn affairs have taken. After all, +as he has told himself a thousand times, Joyce is a clever girl. She is +determined not to betray the anxiety for his society that beyond +question she is feeling. And this prudence on her part will relieve him +of many small embarrassments. Truly, she is a girl not to be found every +day.</p> + +<p>He is accordingly most gracious to Mrs. Connolly; praises her ham, +extols her tea, says wonderful things about the chicken.</p> + +<p>When tea is at an end, he rises gracefully, and expresses his desire to +smoke one more cigar and have a last look at the weather.</p> + +<p>"You will be able to put us up?" says he.</p> + +<p>"Oh yes, sir, sure."</p> + +<p>He smiles beautifully, and with a benevolent request to Joyce to take +care of herself in his absence, leaves the room.</p> + +<p>"He's a dale o' talk," says Mrs. Connolly, the moment his back is +turned. She is now sure that Joyce has some private grudge against him, +or at all events is not what she herself would call "partial to him."</p> + +<p>"Yes," says Joyce. "He is very conversational. How it rains, still."</p> + +<p>"Yes, it does," says Mrs. Connolly, comfortably. She is not at all put +out by the girl's reserved manner, having lived among the "ginthry" for +many years, and being well up to their "quare ways." A thought, however, +that had been formulating in her mind for a long time past—ever since, +indeed, she found her young lady could not return home until +morning—now compels her to give the conversation a fresh turn.</p> + +<p>"I've got to apologize to ye, Miss, but since ye must stay the night wid +me, I'm bound to tell ye I have no room for ye but a little one leadin' +out o' me own."</p> + +<p>"Are you so very full, then, Mrs. Connolly? I'm glad to hear that for +your sake."</p> + +<p>"Full to the chin, me dear. Thim commercials always dhrop down upon one +just whin laste wanted."</p> + +<p>"Then I suppose I ought to be thankful that you can give me a room at +all," says Joyce, laughing. "I'm afraid I shall be a great trouble to +you."</p> + +<p>"Ne'er a scrap in life, me dear. 'Tis proud I am to be of any sarvice to +ye. An' perhaps 'twill make ye aisier in yer mind to know as your undher +my protection, and that no gossip can come nigh ye."</p> + +<p>The good woman means well, but she has flown rather above Joyce's head, +or rather under her feet.</p> + +<p>"I'm delighted to be with you," says Miss Kavanagh, with a pretty smile. +"But as for protection—well, the Land Leaguers round here are not so +bad as that one should fear for one's life in a quiet village like +this."</p> + +<p>"There's worse than Land Leaguers," says Mrs. Connolly. "There's thim +who talk."</p> + +<p>"Talk—of what?" asks Joyce, a little vaguely.</p> + +<p>"Well now, me dear, sure ye haven't lived so long widout knowin' there's +cruel people in the world," says Mrs. Connolly, anxiously. "An' the fact +o' you goin' out dhrivin' wid Mr. Beauclerk, an' stayin' out the night +wid him, might give rise to the talk I'm fightin' agin. Don't be angry +wid me now, Miss Joyce, an' don't fret, but 'tis as well to prepare ye."</p> + +<p>Joyce's heart, as she listens, seems to die within her. A kind of sick +feeling renders her speechless; she had never thought of that—of—of +the idea of impropriety being suggested as part of this most unlucky +escapade. Mrs. Connolly, noting the girl's white face, feels as though +she ought to have cut her tongue out, rather than have spoken, yet she +had done all for the best.</p> + +<p>"Miss Joyce, don't think about it," says she, hurriedly. "I'm sorry I +said a word, but—An', afther all, I am right, me dear. 'Tis betther for +ye when evil tongues are waggin' to have a raal friend like me to yer +back to say the needful word. Ye'll sleep wid me to-night, an' I'll take +ye back to her ladyship in the morning, an' never leave ye till I see ye +in safe hands once more. If ye liked him," pointing to the door through +which Beauclerk had gone, "I'd say nothing, for thin all would come +right enough. But as it is, I'll take it on meself to be the nurse to ye +now that I was when ye were a little creature creeping along the floor."</p> + +<p>Joyce smiles at her, but rather faintly. A sense of terror is oppressing +her. Lady Baltimore, what will she think? And Freddy and Barbara! They +will all be angry with her! Oh! more than angry—they will think she has +done something that other girls would not have done. How is she to face +them again? The entire party at the Court seems to spread itself before +her. Lady Swansdown and Lord Baltimore, they will laugh about it; and +the others will laugh and whisper, and——</p> + +<p>Felix—Felix Dysart. What will he think? What is he thinking now? To +follow out this thought is intolerable to her; she rises abruptly.</p> + +<p>"What o'clock is it, Mrs. Connolly?" says she in a hard, strained voice. +"I am tired, I should like to go to bed now."</p> + +<p>"Just eight, Miss. An' if you are tired there's nothing like the bed. Ye +will like to say good-night to Mr. Beauclerk?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, no!" with frowning sharpness. Then recovering herself. "I need +not disturb him. You will tell him that I was chilled—tired."</p> + +<p>"I'll tell him all that he ought to know," says Mrs. Connolly. "Come, +Miss Joyce, everything, is ready for ye. An' a lie down and a good sleep +will be the makin' of ye before morning."</p> + +<p>Joyce, to her surprise, is led through a very well-appointed chamber, +evidently unused, to a smaller but scarcely less carefully arranged +apartment beyond. The first is so plainly a room not in daily use, that +she turns involuntarily to her companion.</p> + +<p>"Is this your room, Mrs. Connolly?"</p> + +<p>"For the night, me dear," says that excellent woman mysteriously.</p> + +<p>"You have changed your room to suit me. You mean something," says the +girl, growing crimson, and feeling as if her heart were going to burst. +"What is it?"</p> + +<p>"No, no, Miss! No, indeed!" confusedly. "But, Miss Joyce, I'll say this, +that 'tis eight year now since Misther Monkton came here, an' many's the +good turn he's done me since he's been me lord's agint. An' that's +nothing at all, Miss, to the gratitude I bear toward yer poor father, +the ould head o' the house. An' d'ye think when occasion comes I +wouldn't stand up an' do the best I could for one o' yer blood? Fegs, +I'll take care that it won't be in the power of any one to say a word +agin you."</p> + +<p>"Against me?"</p> + +<p>"You're young, Miss. But there's people ould enough to have sinse an' +charity as haven't it. I can see ye couldn't get home to-night through +that rain, though I'm not sayin'"—a little spitefully—"but that he +might have managed it. Still, faith, 'twas bad thravellin' for man or +baste," with a view to softening down her real opinion of Beauclerk's +behavior. How can she condemn him safely? Is he not my lady's own +brother? Is not my lord the owner of the very ground on which the inn is +built, of the farm a mile away, where her cows are chewing the cud by +this time in peace and safety?</p> + +<p>"You have changed your room to oblige me," says Joyce, still with that +strange, miserable look in her eyes.</p> + +<p>"Don't think about that, Miss Joyce, now. An' don't fret yerself about +anything else, ayther; sure ye can remimber that I'm to yer back +always."</p> + +<p>She bridles, and draws up her ample figure to its fullest height. +Indeed, looking at her, it might suggest itself to any reasonable being +that even the forlornest damsel with any such noble support might well +defy the world.</p> + +<p>But Joyce is not to be so easily consoled. What is support to her? Who +can console a torn heart? The day has been too eventful! It has overcome +her courage. Not only has she lost faith in her own power to face the +angry authorities at home, she has lost faith, too, in one to whom, +against her judgment, she had given more of her thoughts than was wise. +The fact that she had recovered from that folly does not render the +memory of the recovery less painful. The awakening from a troubled dream +is full of anguish.</p> + +<p>Rising from a sleepless bed, she goes down next morning to find Mrs. +Connolly standing on the lowest step of the stairs, as if awaiting her, +booted and spurred for the journey.</p> + +<p>"I tould him to order the thrap early, me dear, for I knew ye'd be +anxious," says the kind woman, squeezing her hand. "An' now," with an +anxious glance at her, "I hope ye ate yer breakfast. I guessed ye'd like +it in yer room, so I sint it up to ye. Well—come on, dear. Mr. +Beauclerk is outside waitin'. I explained it all to him. Said ye were +tired, ye know, an' eager to get back. And so all's ready an' the horse +impatient."</p> + +<p>In spite of the storm yesterday, that seemed to shake earth and heaven, +to-day is beautiful. Soft glistening steams are rising from every hill +and bog and valley, as the hot sun's rays beat upon them. The world +seems wrapped in one vast vaporous mist, most lovely to behold. All the +woodland flowers are holding up their heads again, after their past +smiting from the cruel rain; the trees are swaying to and fro in the +fresh morning breeze, thousands of glittering drops brightening the air, +as they swing themselves from side to side. All things speak of a new +birth, a resurrection, a joyful waking from a terrifying past. The grass +looks greener for its bath, all dust is laid quite low, the very lichens +on the walls as they drive past them look washed and glorified.</p> + +<p>The sun is flooding the sky with gorgeous light; there are "sweete smels +al arownd." The birds in the woods on either side of the roadway are +singing high carols in praise of this glorious day. All nature seems +joyous. Joyce alone is silent, unappreciative, unhappy.</p> + +<p>The nearer she gets to the Court the more perturbed she grows in mind. +How will they receive her there? Barbara had said that Lady Baltimore +would not be likely to encourage an attachment between her and +Beauclerk, and now, though the attachment is impossible, what will she +think of this unfortunate adventure? She is so depressed that speech +seems impossible to her, and to all Mr. Beauclerk's sallies she scarcely +returns an answer.</p> + +<p>His sallies are many. Never has he appeared in gayer spirits. The fact +that the girl beside him is in unmistakably low spirits has either +escaped him, or he has decided on taking no notice of it. Last night, +over that final cigar, he had made up his mind that it would be wise to +say to her some little thing that would unmistakably awaken her to the +fact that there was nothing between him and her of any serious +importance. Now, having covered half the distance that lies between them +and the Court, he feels will be a good time to say that little thing. +She is too distrait to please him. She is evidently brooding over +something. If she thinks——Better crush all such hopes at once.</p> + +<p>"I wonder what they are thinking about us at home?" he says presently, +with quite a cheerful laugh, suggestive of amusement.</p> + +<p>No answer.</p> + +<p>"I daresay," with a second edition of the laugh, full now of a wider +amusement, as though the comical fancy that has caught hold of him has +grown to completion, "I shouldn't wonder, indeed, if they were thinking +we had eloped." This graceful speech he makes with the easiest air in +the world.</p> + +<p>"They may be thinking you have eloped, certainly," says Miss Kavanagh +calmly. "One's own people, as a rule, know one very thoroughly, and are +quite alive to one's little failings; but that they should think it of +me is quite out of the question."</p> + +<p>"Well, after all, I daresay you are right. I don't suppose it lies in +the possibilities. They could hardly think it of me either," says +Beauclerk, with a careless yawn, so extraordinarily careless indeed as +to be worthy of note. "I'm too poor for amusement of that kind."</p> + +<p>"One couldn't be too poor for that kind of amusement, surely. Romance +and history have both taught us that it is only the impecunious who ever +indulge in that folly."</p> + +<p>"I am not so learned as you are, but——Well, I'm an 'impecunious one,' +in all conscience. I couldn't carry it out. I only wish," tenderly, "I +could."</p> + +<p>"With whom?" icily. As she asks the question she turns deliberately and +looks him steadily in the eyes. Something in her regard disconcerts him, +and compels him to think that the following up of the "little thing" is +likely to prove difficult.</p> + +<p>"How can you ask me?" demands he with an assumption of reproachful +fondness that is rather overdone.</p> + +<p>"I do, nevertheless."</p> + +<p>"With you, then—if I must put it in words," says he, lowering his tone +to the softest whisper. It is an eminently lover-like whisper; it is a +distinctly careful one, too. It is quite impossible for Mrs. Connolly, +sitting behind, to hear it, however carefully she may be attending.</p> + +<p>"It is well you cannot put your fortune to the touch," says Joyce +quietly; "if you could, disappointment alone would await you."</p> + +<p>"You mean——?" ask he, somewhat sharply.</p> + +<p>"That were it possible for me to commit such a vulgarity as to run away +with any one, you, certainly, would not be that one. You are the very +last man on earth I should choose for so mistaken an adventure. Let me +also add," says she, turning upon him with flashing eyes, though still +her voice is determinately low and calm, "that you forget yourself +strangely when you talk in this fashion to me." The scorn and +indignation in her charming face is so apparent that it is now +impossible to ignore it. Being thus compelled to acknowledge it he grows +angry. Beauclerk angry is not nice.</p> + +<p>"To do myself justice, I seldom do that!" says he, with a rather nasty +laugh. "To forget myself is not part of my calculations. I can generally +remember No. One."</p> + +<p>"You will remember me, too, if you please, so long as I am with you," +says Joyce, with a grave and very gentle dignity, but with a certain +determination that makes itself felt. Beauclerk, conscious of being +somewhat cowed, is bully enough to make one more thrust.</p> + +<p>"After all, Dysart was right," says he. "He prophesied there would be +rain. He advised you not to undertake our ill-starred journey +of—yesterday." There is distinct and very malicious meaning in the +emphasis he throws into the last word.</p> + +<p>"I begin to think Mr. Dysart is always right," says Joyce, bravely, +though her heart has begun to beat furiously. That terrible fear of what +they will say to her when she gets back—of their anger—their courteous +anger—their condemnation—has been suddenly presented to her again and +her courage dies within her. Dysart, what will he say? It strikes even +herself as strange that his view of her conduct is the one that most +disturbs her.</p> + +<p>"Only, beginning to think it? Why, I always understood Dysart was +immaculate—the 'couldn't err' sort of person one reads of but never +sees. You have been slow, surely, to gauge his merits. I confess I have +been even slower. I haven't gauged them yet. But then—Dysart and I were +never much in sympathy with each other."</p> + +<p>"No. One can understand that," says she.</p> + +<p>"One can, naturally," with the utmost self-complaisance. "I confess, +indeed," with a sudden slight burst of vindictiveness, "that I never +liked Dysart; idiotic sort of fool in my estimation, self-opinionated +like all fools, and deucedly impertinent in that silent way of his. I +believe," with a contemptuous laugh, "he has given it as his opinion +that there is very little to like in me either."</p> + +<p>"Has he? We were saying just now he is always right," says Miss +Kavanagh, absently, and in a tone so low that Beauclerk may be excused +for scarcely believing his ears.</p> + +<p>"Eh?" says he. But there is no answer, and presently both fall into a +silent mood—Joyce because conversation is terrible to her, and he +because anger is consuming him.</p> + +<p>He had kept up a lively converse all through the earlier part of their +drive, ignoring the depression that only too plainly was crushing upon +his companion, with a view to putting an end to sentimentality of any +sort. Her discomfort, her unhappiness, was as nothing to him—he thought +only of himself. Few men, under the circumstances, would have so acted, +for most men, in spite of all the old maids who so generously abuse +them, are chivalrous and have kindly hearts; and indeed it is only a +melancholy specimen here and there who will fail to feel pity for a +woman in distress. Beauclerk is a "melancholy specimen."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXV" id="CHAPTER_XXV"></a>CHAPTER XXV.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Man, false man, smiling, destructive man."</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Who breathes, must suffer, and who thinks, most mourn;</span> +<span class="i0">And he alone is bless'd who ne'er was born."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>"Oh! my dear girl, is it you at last?" cries Lady Baltimore, running out +into the hall as Joyce enters it. "We have been so frightened! Such a +storm, and Baltimore says that mare you had is very uncertain. Where did +you get shelter?"</p> + +<p>The very warmth and kindliness of her welcome, the utter absence of +disapproval in it of any sort, so unnerves Joyce that she can make no +reply; can only cling to her kindly hostess, and hide her face on her +shoulder.</p> + +<p>"Is that you, Mrs. Connolly?" says Lady Baltimore, smiling at mine +hostess of the Baltimore Arms, over the girl's shoulder.</p> + +<p>"Yes, my lady," with a curtsey so low that one wonders how she ever +comes up again. "I made so bould, my lady, as to bring ye home Miss +Joyce myself. I know Misther Beauclerk to be a good support in himself, +but I thought it would be a raisonable thing to give her the company of +one of her own women folk besides."</p> + +<p>"Quite right. Quite," says Lady Baltimore.</p> + +<p>"Oh! she has been so kind to me," says Joyce, raising now a pale face to +turn a glance of gratitude on Mrs. Connolly.</p> + +<p>"Why, indeed, my lady, I wish I might ha' bin able to do more for her; +an' I'm sorry to say I'd to put her up in a small, most inconvenient +room, just inside o' me own."</p> + +<p>"How was that?" asks Lady Baltimore, kindly. "The inn so full then?"</p> + +<p>"Fegs 'twas that was the matther wid it," says Mrs. Connolly, with a +beaming smile. "Crammed from cellar to garret."</p> + +<p>"Ah! the wet night, I suppose."</p> + +<p>"Just so, my lady," composedly, and with another deep curtsey.</p> + +<p>Lady Baltimore having given Mrs. Connolly into the care of the +housekeeper, who is an old friend of hers, leads Joyce upstairs.</p> + +<p>"You are not angry with me?" says Joyce, turning on the threshold of her +room.</p> + +<p>"With you, my dear child? No, indeed. With Norman, very! He should have +turned back the moment he saw the first symptom of a storm. A short +wetting would have done neither of you any harm."</p> + +<p>"There was no warning; the storm was on us almost immediately, and we +were then very close to Falling."</p> + +<p>"Then, having placed you once safely in Mrs. Connolly's care, he should +have returned himself, at all hazards."</p> + +<p>"It rained very hard," says Joyce in a cold, clear tone. Her eyes are on +the ground. She is compelling herself to be strictly just to Beauclerk, +but the effort is too much for her. She fails to do it naturally, and so +gives a false impression to her listener. Lady Baltimore casts a quick +glance at her.</p> + +<p>"Rain, what is rain?" says she.</p> + +<p>"There was storm, too, a violent storm; you must have felt it here."</p> + +<p>"No storm should have prevented his return. He should have thought only +of you."</p> + +<p>A little bitter smile curls the girl's lips: it seems a farce to suggest +that he should have thought of her. He! Now with her eyes effectually +opened, a certain scorn of herself, in that he should have been able so +easily to close them, takes possession of her. Is his sister blind still +to his defects, that she expects so much from him; has she not read him +rightly yet? Has she yet to learn that he will never consider any one, +where his own interests, comforts, position, clash with theirs?</p> + +<p>"You look distressed, tired. I believe you are fretting about this," +says Lady Baltimore, with a little kindly bantering laugh. "Don't be a +silly child. Nobody has said or thought anything that has not been +kindly of you. Did you sleep last night? No. I can see you didn't. +There, lie down, and get a little rest before luncheon. I shall send you +up a glass of champagne and a biscuit; don't refuse it."</p> + +<p>She pulls down the blinds, and goes softly out of the room to her +boudoir, where she finds Beauclerk awaiting her.</p> + +<p>He is lounging comfortably on a satin fauteuil, looking the very <i>beau +ideal</i> of pleasant, careless life. He makes his sister a present of a +beaming smile as she enters.</p> + +<p>"Ah! good morning, Isabel. I am afraid we gave you rather a fright; but +you see it couldn't be helped. What an evening and night it turned out! +By Jove! I thought the water works above were turned on for good at last +and for ever. We felt like the Babes in the Wood—abandoned, lost. Poor, +dear Miss Kavanagh! I felt so sorry for her! You have seen her, I hope," +his face has now taken the correct lines of decorous concern. "She is +not over fatigued?"</p> + +<p>"She looks tired! depressed!" says Lady Baltimore, regarding him +seriously. "I wish, Norman, you had come home last evening."</p> + +<p>"What! and bring Miss Kavanagh through all that storm!"</p> + +<p>"No, you could have left her at Falling. I wish you had come home."</p> + +<p>"Why?" with an amused laugh. "Are you afraid I have compromised myself?"</p> + +<p>"I was not thinking of you. I am more afraid," with a touch of cold +displeasure, "of your having compromised Miss Kavanagh. There are such +things as gossips in this curious world. You should have left Joyce in +Mrs. Connolly's safe keeping, and come straight back here."</p> + +<p>"To be laid up with rheumatism during the whole of the coming winter! +Oh! most unnatural sister, what is it you would have desired of me?"</p> + +<p>"You showed her great attention all this summer," says Lady Baltimore.</p> + +<p>"I hope I showed a proper attention to all your guests."</p> + +<p>"You were very specially attentive to her."</p> + +<p>"To Miss Kavanagh, do you mean?" with a puzzled air. "Ah! well, yes. +Perhaps I did give more of my time to her and to Miss Maliphant than to +the others."</p> + +<p>"Ah! Miss Maliphant! one can understand that," says his sister, with an +intonation that is not entirely complimentary.</p> + +<p>"Can one? Here is one who can't, at all events. I confess I tried very +hard to bring myself to the point there, but I failed. Nature was too +strong for me. Good girl, you know, but—er—awful!"</p> + +<p>"We were not discussing Miss Maliphant, we were talking of Joyce," +icily.</p> + +<p>"Ah, true!" as if just awakening to a delightful fact. "And a far more +charming subject for discussion, it must be allowed. Well, and what of +Joyce—you call her Joyce?"</p> + +<p>"Be human, Norman!" says Lady Baltimore, with a sudden suspicion of fire +in her tone. "Forget to pose once in a way. And this time it is +important. Let me hear the truth from you. She seems unhappy, uncertain, +nervous. I like her. There is something real, genuine, about her. I +would gladly think, that——Do you know," she leans towards him, "I have +sometimes thought you were in love with her."</p> + +<p>"Have you? Do you know, so have I," with a frankness very admirable. +"She is one of the most agreeable girls of my acquaintance. There is +something very special about her. I'm not surprised that both you and I +fell into a conclusion of that sort."</p> + +<p>"Am I to understand by that——?"</p> + +<p>"Just one thing. I am too poor to marry."</p> + +<p>"With that knowledge in your mind, you should not have acted towards her +as you did yesterday. It was a mistake, believe me. You should have come +home alone, or else brought her back as your promised wife."</p> + +<p>"Ah! what a delightful vista you open up before me, but what an unkind +one, too," says Mr. Beauclerk, with a little reproachful uplifting of +his hands and brows. "Have you no bowels of compassion? You know how the +charms of domestic life have always attracted me. And to be able to +enjoy them with such an admirable companion as Miss Kavanagh! Are you +soulless, utterly without mercy, Isabel, that you open up to me a +glorious vision such as that merely to taunt and disappoint me?"</p> + +<p>"I am neither Joyce nor Miss Maliphant," says Lady Baltimore, with +ill-suppressed contempt. "I wish you would try to remember that, Norman; +it would spare time and trouble. You speak of Joyce as if she were the +woman you love, and yet—would you subject the woman you love to unkind +comment? If you cared you would not have treated her as——"</p> + +<p>"Ah, if I did care for her," interrupts he.</p> + +<p>"Well, don't you?" sternly.</p> + +<p>She has risen, and is looking down at him from the full height of her +tall, slender figure, that now looks taller than usual.</p> + +<p>"Oh, immensely!" declares Mr. Beauclerk, airily. "My dear girl, you +can't have studied me not to know that; as I have told you, I think her +charming. Quite out of the common—quite."</p> + +<p>"That will do," shortly.</p> + +<p>"You condemn me," says he, in an aggrieved tone that has got something +of amused surprise in it. "Yet you know—you of all others—how poor a +devil I am! So poor, that I do not even permit the idea of marriage in +my head."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps, however, you have permitted it to enter into hers!" says Lady +Baltimore.</p> + +<p>"Oh, my dear Isabel!" with a light laugh and a protesting glance. "Do +you think she would thank you for that suggestion?"</p> + +<p>"You should think. You should think," says Lady Baltimore, with some +agitation. "She is a very young girl. She has lived entirely in the +country. She knows nothing—nothing," throwing out her hand. "She is not +awake to all the intriguing, lying, falsity," with a rush of bitter +disgust, "that belongs to the bigger world beyond—the terrible world +outside her own quiet one here."</p> + +<p>"She is quiet here, isn't she?" says Beauclerk, with admirable +appreciation. "Pity to take her out of it. Eh? And yet, so far as I can +see, that is the cruel task you would impose on me."</p> + +<p>"Norman," says his sister, turning suddenly and for the first time +directly toward him.</p> + +<p>"Well, my dear. What?" throwing one leg negligently over the other. "It +really comes to this, doesn't it? That you want me to marry a certain +somebody, and that I think I cannot afford to marry her. Then it lies in +the proverbial nutshell."</p> + +<p>"The man who cannot afford to marry should not afford himself the +pleasures of flirtations," says Lady Baltimore, with decision.</p> + +<p>"No? Is that your final opinion? Good heavens! Isabel, what a brow! What +a terrible glance! If," smiling, "you favor Baltimore with this style of +thing whenever you disapprove of his smallest action I don't wonder he +jibs so often at the matrimonial collar. You advised me to think just +now; think yourself, my good Isabel, now and then, and probably you will +find life easier."</p> + +<p>He is still smiling delightfully. He flings out this cruel gibe indeed +in the most careless manner possible.</p> + +<p>"Ah! forget me," says she in a manner as careless as his own. If she has +quivered beneath that thrust of his, at all events she has had strength +enough to suppress all signs of it. "Think—not of her—I daresay she +will outlive it—but of yourself."</p> + +<p>"What would you have me do then?" demands he, rising here and +confronting her. There is a good deal of venom in his handsome face, but +Lady Baltimore braves it.</p> + +<p>"I would have you act as an honorable man," says she, in a clear, if icy +tone.</p> + +<p>"You go pretty far, Isabel, very far, even for a sister," says he +presently, his face now white with rage. "A moment ago I gave you some +sound advice. I give you more now. Attend to your own affairs, which by +all account require looking after, and let mine alone."</p> + +<p>He is evidently furious. His sister makes a little gesture towards the +door.</p> + +<p>"Your taking it like this does not mend matters," she says calmly, "it +only makes them, if possible, worse. Leave me!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXVI.</h2> + +<h3>"AT SIXES AND SEVENS."</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Pol.—"What do you read, my lord?"</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ham.—"Words, words, words."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>She sighs heavily, as the door closes on her brother. A sense of +weakness, of powerlessness oppresses her. She has fought so long, and +for what? Is there nothing to be gained; no truth to be defended +anywhere, no standard of right and wrong. Are all men—all—base, +selfish, cowardly, dishonorable? Her whole being seems aflame with the +indignation that is consuming her, when a knock sounds at the door. +There is only one person in the house who knocks at her boudoir door. To +every one, servants, guests, child, it is a free land; to her husband +alone it is forbidden ground.</p> + +<p>"Come in," says she, in a cold, reluctant tone.</p> + +<p>"I know I shall be terribly in your way," says Baltimore, entering, "but +I must beg you to give me five minutes. I hear Beauclerk has returned, +and that you have seen him. What kept him?"</p> + +<p>Now Lady Baltimore—who a moment ago had condemned her brother heartily +to his face—feels, as her husband addresses her, a perverse desire to +openly contradict all that her honest judgment had led her to say to +Beauclerk. That sense of indignation that was burning so hotly in her +breast as Baltimore knocked at her door still stirs within her, but now +its fire is directed against this latest comer. Who is he, that he +should dare to question the honor of any man; and that there is +annoyance and condemnation now in Baltimore's eyes is not to be denied.</p> + +<p>"The weather," returns she shortly.</p> + +<p>"By your tone I judge you deem that an adequate excuse for keeping Miss +Kavanagh from her home for half a day and a night."</p> + +<p>"There was a terrible storm," says. Lady Baltimore calmly; "the worst we +have had for months."</p> + +<p>"If it had been ten times as bad he should, in my opinion, have come +home."</p> + +<p>The words seem a mere repetition to Lady Baltimore. She had, indeed, +used them to Beauclerk herself, or some such, a few minutes ago. Yet she +seems to repudiate all sympathy with them now.</p> + +<p>"On such a night as that? I hardly see why. Joyce was with an old +friend. Mrs. Connolly was once a servant of her father's, and he——"</p> + +<p>"Should have left her with the old friend and come home."</p> + +<p>Again her own argument, and again perversity drives her to take the +opposite side—the side against her conscience.</p> + +<p>"Society must be in a very bad state if a man must perforce encounter +thunder, rain, lightning; in fact, a chance of death from cold and +exposure, all because he dare not spend one night beneath the roof of a +respectable woman like Mrs. Connolly, with a girl friend, without +bringing down on him the censures of his entire world."</p> + +<p>"You can, it appears, be a most eloquent advocate for the supposed +follies of any one but your husband. Nevertheless, I must persist in my +opinion that it was, to put it very charitably indeed, inconsiderate of +your brother to study his own comfort at the expense of his—girl +friend. I believe that is your way of putting it, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," immovably. She has so far given way to movement, however, that +she has taken up a feather fan lying near, and now so holds it between +her and Baltimore that he cannot distinctly see her face.</p> + +<p>"As for the world you speak of—it will not judge him as leniently as +you do. It can talk. No one," bitterly, "is as good a witness of that as +I am."</p> + +<p>"But seldom," coldly, "without reason."</p> + +<p>"And no one is a better witness of that than you are! That is what you +would say, isn't it? Put down that fan, can't you?" with a touch of +savage impatience. "Are you ashamed to carry out your argument with me +face to face?"</p> + +<p>"Ashamed!" Lady Baltimore has sprung suddenly to her feet, and sent the +fan with a little crash to the ground. "Oh! shame on you to mention such +a word."</p> + +<p>"Am I to be forever your one scapegoat? Now take another one, I beseech +you," says Baltimore with that old, queer, devilish mockery on his face +that was never seen there until gossiping tongues divided him from his +wife. "Here is your brother, actually thrown to you, as it were. Surely +he will be a proof that I am not the only vile one among all the herd. +If nothing else, acknowledge him selfish. A man who thought more of a +dry coat than a young, a very young, girl's reputation. Is that nothing? +Oh! consider, I beseech you!" his bantering manner, in which there is so +much misery that it should have reached her but does not, grows stronger +every instant "Even a big chill from the heavens above would not have +killed him, whereas we all know how a little breath from the world below +can kill many a——"</p> + +<p>"Oh I you can talk, talk, talk," says she, that late unusual burst of +passion showing some hot embers still. "But can words alter facts?" She +pauses; a sudden chill seems to enwrap her. As if horrified by her late +descent into passion she gathers herself together, and defies him once +again with a cold look. "Why say anything more about it?" she says. "We +do not agree."</p> + +<p>"On this subject, at least, we should," says he hotly. "I think your +brother should not have left us in ignorance of Miss Kavanagh's safety +for so many hours. And you," with a sneer, "who are such a martinet for +propriety, should certainly be prepared to acknowledge that he should +not have so regulated his conduct as to make her a subject for unkind +comment to the County. Badly," looking at her deliberately, "as you +think of me, I should not have done it."</p> + +<p>"No?" says she. It is a cruel—an unmistakable insulting monosyllable. +And, bearing no other word with it—is the more detestable to the +hearer.</p> + +<p>"No," says he loudly. "Sneer as you will—my conscience is at rest +there, so I can defy your suspicions."</p> + +<p>"Ah! there!" says she.</p> + +<p>"My dear creature," says he, "we all know there is but one villain in +the world, and you are the proud possessor of him—as a husband. Permit +me to observe, however, that a man of your code of honor, and of mine +for the matter of that—but I forget that honor and I have no cousinship +in your estimation—would have chosen to be wet to the skin rather than +imperil the fair name of the girl he loved."</p> + +<p>"Has he told you he loved her?"</p> + +<p>"Not in so many words."</p> + +<p>"Then from what do you argue?"</p> + +<p>"My dear, I have told you that you are too much for me in argument! I, a +simple on-looker, have judged merely from an every-day observance of +little unobtrusive facts. If your brother is not in love with Miss +Kavanagh, I think he ought to be. I speak ignorantly, I allow. I am not, +like you, a deep student of human nature. If, too, he did not feel it +his duty to bring her home last night, or else to leave her at Falling +and return here himself, I fail to sympathize with him. I should not +have so failed her."</p> + +<p>"Oh but you!" says his wife, with a little contemptuous smile. "You who +are such a paragon of virtue. It would not be expected of you that you +should make such a mistake!"</p> + +<p>She has sent forth her dart impulsively, sharply, out of the overflowing +fullness of her angry heart—and when too late, when it has sped past +recall—perhaps repents the speeding!</p> + +<p>Such repentances, when felt too late, bring vices in their train; the +desire for good, when chilled, turns to evil. The mind, never idle, if +debarred from the best, leans inevitably toward the worst. Angry with +herself, her very soul embittered within her, Lady Baltimore feels more +and more a sense of passionate wrong against the man who had wooed and +won her, and sown the seeds of gnawing distrust within her bosom.</p> + +<p>Baltimore's face has whitened. His brow contracts.</p> + +<p>"What a devilish unforgiving thing is a good woman," says he, with a +reckless laugh. "That's a compliment, my lady—take it as you will. +What! are your sneers to outlast life itself? Is that old supposed sin +of mine never to be condoned? Why—say it was a real thing, instead of +being the myth it is. Even so, a woman all prayers, all holiness, such +as you are, might manage to pardon it!"</p> + +<p>Lady Baltimore, rising, walks deliberately toward the door. It is her, +usual method of putting an end to all discussions of this sort between +them—of terminating any allusions to what she believes to be his +unfaithful past—that past that has wrecked her life.</p> + +<p>As a rule, Baltimore makes no attempt to prolong the argument. He has +always let her go, with a sneering word, perhaps, or a muttered +exclamation; but to-day he follows her, and stepping between her and the +door, bars her departure.</p> + +<p>"By heavens! you shall hear me," says he, his face dark with anger. "I +will not submit any longer, in silence, to your insolent treatment of +me. You condemn me, but I tell you it is I who should condemn. Do you +think I believe in your present attitude toward me? Pretend as you will, +even to yourself, in your soul it is impossible that you should give +credence to that old story, false as it is old. No! you cling to it to +mask the feet you have tired of me."</p> + +<p>"Let me pass."</p> + +<p>"Not until you have heard me!" With a light, but determined grasp of her +arm, he presses her back into the chair she has just quitted.</p> + +<p>"That story was a lie, I tell you. Before our marriage, I confess, there +were some things—not creditable—to which I plead guilty, but——"</p> + +<p>"Oh! be silent!" cries she, putting up her hand impulsively to check +him. There is open disgust and horror on her pale, severe face.</p> + +<p>"Before, before our marriage," persists he passionately.</p> + +<p>"What! do you think there is no temptation—no sin—no falling away from +the stern path of virtue in this life? Are you so mad or so ignorant as +to believe that every man you meet could show a perfectly clean record +of——"</p> + +<p>"I cannot—I will not listen," interposes she, springing to her feet, +white and indignant.</p> + +<p>"There is nothing to hear. I am not going to pollute your ears," says +he, with a curl of his lip. "Pray be reassured. What I only wish to say +is that if you condemn me for a few past sins you should condemn also +half your acquaintances. That, however, you do not do. For me alone, for +your husband, you reserve all your resentment."</p> + +<p>"What are the others to me?"</p> + +<p>"What am I to you, for the matter of that?" with a bitter laugh, "if +they are nothing I am less than nothing. You deliberately flung me aside +all because——Why, look here!" moving toward her in uncontrollable +agitation, "say I had sinned above the Galileans—say that lie was +true—say I had out-Heroded Herod in evil courses, still am I past the +pale of forgiveness? Saint as you are, have you no pity for me? In +all your histories of love and peace and perfection is there never +a case of a poor devil of a sinner like me being taken back into +grace—absolved—pardoned?"</p> + +<p>"To rave like this is useless. There is no good to be got from it. You +know what I think, what I believe. You deceived—wronged——Let me go, +Cecil!"</p> + +<p>"Before—before," repeats he, obstinately. "What that woman told you +since, I swear to you, was a most damned lie."</p> + +<p>"I refuse to go into it again."</p> + +<p>She is deadly pale now. Her bloodless lips almost refuse to let the +words go through them.</p> + +<p>"You mean by that, that in spite of my oath you still cling to your +belief that I am lying to you?"</p> + +<p>His face is livid. There is something almost dangerous about it, but +Lady Baltimore has come of too old and good a race to be frightened into +submission. Raising one small, slender hand, she lays it upon his +breast, and, with a little haughty upturning of her shapely head, pushes +him from her.</p> + +<p>"I have told you I refuse to go into it," says she, with superb +self-control. "How long do you intend to keep me here? When may I be +allowed to leave the room?"</p> + +<p>There is distinct defiance in the clear glance she casts at him.</p> + +<p>Baltimore draws a long breath, and then bursts into a strange laugh.</p> + +<p>"Why, when you will," says he, shrugging his shoulders. He makes a +graceful motion of his hand toward the door. "Shall I open it for you? +But a word still let me say—if you are not in too great a hurry! +Christianity, now, my fair saint, so far as ever I could hear or read, +has been made up of mercy. Now, you are merciless! Would you mind +letting me know how you reconcile one——"</p> + +<p>"You perversely mistake me—I am no saint. I do not"—coldly—"profess +to be one. I am no such earnest seeker after righteousness as you +maliciously represent me. All I desire is honesty of purpose, and a +decent sense of honor—honor that makes decency. That is all. For the +rest, I am only a poor woman who loved once, and was—how many times +deceived? That probably I shall never know."</p> + +<p>Her sad, sad eyes, looking at him, grow suddenly full of tears.</p> + +<p>"Isabel! My meeting with that woman—that time"—vehemently—"in town +was accidental! I——It was the merest chance——"</p> + +<p>"Don't!" says she, raising her hand, with such a painful repression of +her voice as to render it almost a whisper; "I have told you it is +useless. I have heard too much to believe anything now. I shall never, I +think," very sadly, "believe in any one again. You have murdered faith +in me. Tell this tale of yours to some one else—some one willing to +believe—to"—with a terrible touch of scorn—"Lady Swansdown, for +example."</p> + +<p>"Why do you bring her into the discussion?" asks he, turning quickly to +her. Has she heard anything? That scene in the garden that now seems to +fill him with self-contempt. What a <i>bêtise</i> it was! And what did it +amount to? Nothing! Lady Swansdown, he is honestly convinced, cares as +little for him as he for her. And at this moment it is borne in upon him +that he would give the embraces of a thousand such as she for one kind +glance from the woman before him.</p> + +<p>"I merely mentioned her as a possible person who might listen to you," +with a slight lifting of her shoulders. "A mere idle suggestion. You +will pardon me saying that this has been an idle discussion altogether. +You began by denouncing my brother to me, and now——"</p> + +<p>"You have ended by denouncing your husband to me! As idle a beginning as +an end, surely. Still, to go back to Beauclerk. I persist in saying he +has behaved scandalously in this affair. He has imperilled that poor +child's good name."</p> + +<p>"You can imperil names, too!" says she, turning almost fiercely on him.</p> + +<p>"Lady Swansdown again, I suppose," says he, with a bored uplifting of +his brows. "The old grievance is not sufficient, then; you must have a +new one. I am afraid I must disappoint you. Lady Swansdown, I assure +you, cares nothing at all for me, and I care just the same amount for +her."</p> + +<p>"Since when?"</p> + +<p>"Since the world began—if you want a long date!"</p> + +<p>"What a liar you are, Baltimore!" says his wife, turning to him with a +sudden breaking out of all the pent-up passion within her. Involuntarily +her hands clench themselves. She is pale no longer. A swift, hot flush +has dyed her cheeks. Like an outraged, insulted queen, she holds him a +moment with her eyes, then sweeps out of the room.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXVII.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Since thou art not as these are, go thy ways;</span> +<span class="i0">Thou hast no part in all my nights and days.</span> +<span class="i0">Lie still—sleep on—be glad. As such things be</span> +<span class="i0">Thou couldst not watch with me."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>Luncheon has gone off very pleasantly. Joyce, persuaded by Lady +Baltimore, had gone down to it, feeling a little shy, and conscious of a +growing headache. But everybody had been charming to her, and Baltimore, +in especial, had been very careful in his manner of treating her, saying +little nice things to her, and insisting on her sitting next to him, a +seat hitherto Lady Swansdown's own.</p> + +<p>The latter had taken this so perfectly, that one might be pardoned for +thinking it had been arranged beforehand between her and her host. At +all events Lady Swansdown was very sympathetic, and indeed everybody +seemed bent on treating her as a heroine of the highest order.</p> + +<p>Joyce herself felt dull—nerveless. Words did not seem to come easily to +her. She was tired, she thought, and of course she was, having spent a +sleepless night. One little matter gave her cause for thankfulness. +Dysart was absent from luncheon. He had gone on a long walking +expedition, Lady Baltimore said, that would prevent his returning home +until dinner hour—until quite 8 o'clock. Joyce told herself she was +glad of this—though why she did not tell herself. At all events the +news left her very silent.</p> + +<p>But her silence was not noticed. It could not be, indeed, so great and +so animated was the flow of Beauclerk's eloquence. Without addressing +anybody in particular, he seemed to address everybody. He kept the whole +table alive. He treated yesterday's adventure as a tremendously amusing +affair, and invited everyone to look upon it as he did. He insisted on +describing Miss Kavanagh and himself in the same light as he had +described them earlier to his sister, as the modern Babes in the Wood, +Mrs. Connolly being the Robin. He made several of the people who had +dropped in to luncheon roar with laughter over his description of that +excellent inn keeper. Her sayings—her appearance—her stern notions of +morality that induced her to bring them home, "personally +conducted"—the size of her waist—and her heart—and many other things. +He was extremely funny. The fact that his sister smiled only when she +felt she must to avoid comment, and that his host refused to smile at +all, and that Miss Kavanagh was evidently on thorns all the time did not +for an instant damp his overflowing spirits.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>It is now seven, o'clock; Miss Kavanagh, on her way upstairs to dress +for dinner, suddenly remembering that there is a book in the library, +left by her early in the afternoon on the central table, turns aside to +fetch it.</p> + +<p>She forgets, however, what she has come for when, having entered the +room, she sees Dysart standing before the fire, staring apparently at +nothing. To her chagrin, she is conscious that the unmistakable start +she had made on seeing him is known to him.</p> + +<p>"I didn't know you had returned," says she awkwardly, yet made a +courageous effort to appear as natural as usual.</p> + +<p>"No? I knew you had returned," says he slowly.</p> + +<p>"It is very late to say good-morning," says she with a poor little +attempt at a laugh, but still advancing toward him and holding out her +hand.</p> + +<p>"Too late!" replied he, ignoring the hand. Joyce, as if struck by some +cruel blow, draws back a step or two.</p> + +<p>"You are not tired, I hope?" asks Dysart courteously.</p> + +<p>"Oh, no." She feels stifled; choked. A desire to get to the door, and +escape—lose sight of him forever—is the one strong longing that +possesses her; but to move requires strength, and she feels that her +limbs are trembling beneath her.</p> + +<p>"It was a long drive, however. And the storm was severe. I fear you must +have suffered in some way."</p> + +<p>"I have not suffered," says she, in a dull, emotionless way. Indeed, she +hardly knows what she says, a repetition of his own words seems the +easiest thing to bar, so she adopts it.</p> + +<p>"No?"</p> + +<p>There is a considerable pause, and then——</p> + +<p>"No! It is true! It is I only who have suffered," says Dysart with an +uncontrollable abandonment to the misery that is destroying him. "I +alone."</p> + +<p>"You mean something," says Joyce. It is by a terrible effort that she +speaks. She feels thoroughly unnerved—unstrung. Conscious that the +nervous shaking of her hands will betray her, she clasps them behind her +tightly. "You meant something just now when you refused to take my hand. +But what? What?"</p> + +<p>"You said it was too late," replies he. "And I—agreed with you."</p> + +<p>"That was not it!" says she feverishly. "There was more—much more! Tell +me"—passionately—"what you meant. Why would you not touch me? What am +I to understand——"</p> + +<p>"That from henceforth you are free from the persecution of my love," +says Dysart deliberately. "I was mad ever to hope that you could care +for me—still—I did hope. That has been my undoing. But now——"</p> + +<p>"Well?" demands she faintly. Her whole being seems stunned. Something of +all this she had anticipated, but the reality is far worse than any +anticipation had been. She had seen him in her thoughts, angry, +indignant, miserable, but that he should thus coldly set her aside—bid +her an everlasting adieu—be able to make up his mind deliberately to +forget her—this—had never occurred to her as being even probable.</p> + +<p>"Now you are to understand that the idiotic farce played between us two +the day before yesterday is at an end? The curtain is down. It is over. +It was a failure—neither you, nor I, nor the public will ever hear of +it again."</p> + +<p>"Is this—because I did not come home last evening in the rain and +storm?" Some small spark of courage has come back to her now. She lifts +her head and looks at him.</p> + +<p>"Oh! be honest with me here, in our last hour together," cries he +vehemently. "You have cheated me all through—be true to yourself for +once. Why pretend it is my fault that we part? Yesterday I implored you +not to go for that drive with him, and yet—you went. What was I—or my +love for you in comparison with a few hours' drive with that lying +scoundrel?"</p> + +<p>"It was only the drive I thought of," says she piteously. "I—there was +nothing else, indeed. And you; if"—raising her hand to her throat as if +suffocating—"if you had not spoken so roughly—so——"</p> + +<p>"Pshaw!" says Dysart, turning from her as if disgusted. To him, in his +present furious mood, her grief, her fear, her shrinkings, are all so +many movements in the game of coquette, at which she is a past mistress. +"Will you think me a fool to the end?" says he. "See here," turning his +angry eyes to hers. "I don't care what you say, I know you now. Too +late, indeed—but still I know you! To the very core of your heart you +are one mass of deceit."</p> + +<p>A little spasm crosses her face. She leans back heavily against the +table behind her. "Oh, no, no," she says in a voice so low as to be +almost unheard.</p> + +<p>"You will deny, of course," says he mercilessly. "You would even have me +believe that you regret the past—but you, and such as you never regret. +Man is your prey! So many scalps to your belt is all you think about. +Why," with an accent of passion, "what am I to you? Just the filling up +of so many hours' amusement—no more! Do you think all my eloquence +would have any chance against one of his cursed words? I might kneel at +your feet from morning until night, and still I should be to you a thing +of naught in comparison with him."</p> + +<p>She holds out her hands to him in a little dumb fashion. Her tongue +seems frozen. But he repulses this last attempt at reconciliation.</p> + +<p>"It is no good. None! I have no belief in you left, so you can no longer +cajole me. I know that I am nothing to you. Nothing! If," drawing a deep +breath through his closed teeth, "if a thousand years were to go by I +should still be nothing to you if he were near. I give it up. The battle +was too strong for me. I am defeated, lost, ruined."</p> + +<p>"You have so arranged it," says she in a low tone, singularly clear. The +violence of his agitation had subdued hers, and rendered her +comparatively calm.</p> + +<p>"You must permit me to contradict you. The arrangement is all your own."</p> + +<p>"Was it so great a crime to stay last night at Falling?" "There is no +crime anywhere. That you should have made a decision between two men is +not a crime."</p> + +<p>"No! I acknowledge I made a decision—but——"</p> + +<p>"When did you make it?"</p> + +<p>"Last evening—and though you——"</p> + +<p>"Oh! no excuses," says he with a frown. "Do you think I desire them?"</p> + +<p>He hesitates for a minute or so, and now turns to her abruptly. "Are you +engaged to him finally?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"No!" In accents suggestive of surprise so intense as to almost enlarge +into disbelief. "You refused him then?"</p> + +<p>"No," says she again. Her heart seems to die within her. Oh, the sense +of shame that overpowers her. A sudden wild, terrible hatred of +Beauclerk takes her into possession. Why, why, had he not given her the +choice of saying yes, instead of no, to that last searching question?</p> + +<p>"You mean—that he——" He stops dead short as if not knowing how to +proceed. Then, suddenly, his wrath breaks forth. "And for that +scoundrel, that fellow without a heart, you have sacrificed the best of +you—your own heart! For him, whose word is as light as his oath, you +have flung behind you a love that would have surrounded you to your +dying day. Good heavens! What are women made of? But——" He sobers +himself at once, as if smitten by some sharp remembrance, and, pale with +shame and remorse, looks at her. "Of course," says he, "it is only one +heartbroken, as I am, who would have dared thus to address you. And it +is plain to me now that there are reasons why he should not have spoken +before this. For one thing, you were alone with him; for another, you +are tired, exhausted. No doubt to-morrow he——"</p> + +<p>"How dare you?" says she in a voice that startles him, a very low voice, +but vibrating with outraged pride. "How dare you thus insult me? You +seem to think—to think—that because—last night—he and I were kept +from our home by the storm——" She pauses; that old, first odd +sensation of choking now again oppresses her. She lays her hand upon the +back of a chair near her, and presses heavily upon it. "You think I have +disgraced myself," says she, the words coming in a little gasp from her +parched lips. "That is why you speak of things being at an end between +us. Oh——"</p> + +<p>"You wrong me there," says the young man, who has grown ghastly. +"Whatever I may have said, I——"</p> + +<p>"You meant it!" says she. She draws herself up to the full height of her +young, slender figure, and, turning abruptly, moves toward the door. As +she reaches it, she looks back at him. "You are a coward!" she says, in +a low, distinct tone alive with scorn. "A coward!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII.</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I have seen the desire of mine eyes,</span> +<span class="i0">The beginning of love,</span> +<span class="i0">The season of kisses and sighs,</span> +<span class="i0">And the end thereof."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>Miss Kavanagh put in no appearance at dinner. "A chill," whispered Lady +Baltimore to everybody, in her kindly, sympathetic way, caught during +that miserable drive yesterday. She hoped it would be nothing, but +thought it better to induce Joyce to remain quiet in her own room for +the rest of the evening, safe from draughts and the dangers attendant on +the baring of her neck and arms. She told her small story beautifully, +but omitted to add that Joyce had refused to come downstairs, and that +she had seemed so wretchedly low-spirited that at last her hostess had +ceased to urge her.</p> + +<p>She had, however, spent a good deal of time arguing with her on another +subject—the girl's fixed determination to go home—"to go back to +Barbara"—next day. Lady Baltimore had striven very diligently to turn +her from this purpose, but all to no avail. She had even gone so far as +to point out to Joyce that the fact of her thus leaving the Court before +the expiration of her visit might suggest itself to some people in a +very unpleasant light. They might say she had come to the end of her +welcome there—been given her congé, in fact—on account of that +luckless adventure with her hostess' brother.</p> + +<p>Joyce was deaf to all such open hints. She remained obstinately +determined not to stay a moment longer there than could be helped. Was +it because of Norman she was going? No; she shook her head with such a +look of contemptuous indifference that Lady Baltimore found it +impossible to doubt her, and felt her heart thereby lightened. Was it +Felix?</p> + +<p>Miss Kavanagh had evidently resented that question at first, but finally +had broken into a passionate fit of tears, and when Lady Baltimore +placed her arms round her had not repulsed her.</p> + +<p>"But, dear Joyce, he himself is leaving to-morrow."</p> + +<p>"Oh, let me go home. Do not ask me to stay. I am more unhappy than I can +tell you," said the girl brokenly.</p> + +<p>"You have had a quarrel with him?"</p> + +<p>Joyce bowed her head in a little quick, impatient way.</p> + +<p>"It is Felix then, Joyce; not Norman? Let me say I am glad—for your +sake; though that is a hard thing for a sister to say of her brother. +But Norman is selfish. It is his worst fault, perhaps, but a bad one. As +for this little misunderstanding with Felix, it will not last. He loves +you, dearest, most honestly. You will make up this tiny——"</p> + +<p>"Never!" said Joyce, interrupting her and releasing herself from her +embrace. Her young face looked hard and unforgiving, and Lady Baltimore, +with a sigh, decided on saying no more just then. So she went downstairs +and told her little tale about Joyce's indisposition, and was believed +by nobody. They all said they were sorry, as in duty bound, and perhaps +they were, taking their own view of her absence; but dinner went off +extremely well, nevertheless, and was considered quite a success.</p> + +<p>Dysart was present, and was apparently in very high spirits; so high, +indeed, that at odd moments his hostess, knowing a good deal, stared at +him. He, who was usually so silent a member, to-night outshone even the +versatile Beauclerk in the lightness and persistency of his +conversation.</p> + +<p>This sudden burst of animation lasted him throughout the evening, +carrying him triumphantly across the hour and a half of drawing-room +small talk, and even lasting till the more careless hours in the +smoking-room have come to an end, and one by one the men have yawned +themselves off to bed.</p> + +<p>Then it died. So entirely, so forlornly as to prove it had been only a +mere passing and enforced exhilaration after all. They were all gone: +there was no need now to keep up the miserable farce—to seek to prevent +their coupling her name with his, and therefore discovering the secret +of her sad seclusion.</p> + +<p>As Dysart found himself almost the last man in the room, he too rose, +reluctantly, as though unwilling to give himself up to the solitary +musings that he knew lay before him; the self-upbraidings, the vague +remorse, the terrible dread lest he had been too severe, that he knows +will be his all through the silent darkness. For what have sleep and he +to do with each other to-night?</p> + +<p>He bade his host good-night and, with a pretense of going upstairs, +turned aside into the deserted library, and, choosing a book, flung +himself into a chair, determined, if possible, to read his brain into a +state of coma.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Twelve o'clock has struck, slowly, painfully, as if the old timekeeper +is sleepy, too, and is nodding over his work. And now one—as slowly, +truly, but with the startling brevity that prevents one's dwelling on +its drowsy note. Dysart, with a tired groan, flings down his book, and, +rising to his feet, stretches his arms above his head in an utter +abandonment to sleepless fatigue that is even more mental than bodily. +Once the subject of that book had been of an enthralling interest to +him. To-night it bores him. He has found himself unequal to the solving +of the abstruse arguments it contains. One thought seems to have dulled +all others. He is leaving to-morrow! He is leaving her to-morrow! Oh! +surely it is more than that curt pronoun can contain. He is leaving, in +a few short hours, his life, his hope, his one small chance of heaven +upon earth. How much she had been to him, how strong his hoping even +against hope had been, he never knew till now, when all is swept out of +his path forever.</p> + +<p>The increasing stillness of the house seems to weigh upon him, rendering +even gloomier his melancholy thoughts. How intolerably quiet the night +is, not even a breath of wind is playing in the trees outside. On such a +night as this ghosts might walk and demons work their will. There is +something ghastly in this unnatural cessation of all sound, all +movement.</p> + +<p>"What a strange power," says Emerson, "there is in silence." An old +idea, yet always new. Who is there who has not been affected by it—has +not known that curious, senseless dread of spirits present from some +unknown world that very young children often feel? "Fear came upon me +and trembling, which made all my bones to shake," says Job in one of his +most dismal moments; and now to Dysart this strange, unaccountable chill +feeling comes. Insensibly, born of the hour and the silence only, and +with no smallest dread of things intangible.</p> + +<p>The small clock on the mantel-piece sends forth a tiny chime, so +delicate that in broad daylight, with broader views in the listeners, it +might have gone unheard. Now it strikes upon the motionless air as +loudly as though it were the crack of doom. Poor little clock! +struggling to be acknowledged for twelve long years of nights and days, +now is your revenge—the fruition of all your small ambitious desires.</p> + +<p>Dysart starts violently at the sound of it. It is of importance, this +little clock. It has wakened him to real life again. He has taken a step +toward the door and the bed, the very idea of which up to this has been +treated by him with ignominy, when—a sound in the hall outside stays +him.</p> + +<p>An unmistakable step, but so light as to suggest the idea of burglars. +Dysart's spirits rise. The melancholy of a moment since deserts him. He +looks round for the poker—that national, universal mode of defence when +our castles are invaded by the "masked man."</p> + +<p>He has not time, however, to reach it before the handle of the door is +slowly turned—before the door is as slowly opened, and——</p> + +<p>"What is this?"</p> + +<p>For a second Dysart's heart seems to stop beating. He can only gaze +spellbound at this figure, clad all in white, that walks deliberately +into the room, and seemingly directly toward him. It is Joyce! Joyce!</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXIX.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Sleep; and if life was bitter to thee, pardon,</span> +<span class="i0">If sweet, give thanks; thou hast no more to live;</span> +<span class="i0">And to give thanks is good, and to forgive."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>Is she dead or still living? Dysart, calmed now, indeed, gazes at her +with a heart contracted. Great heaven! how like death she looks, and +yet—he knows she is still in the flesh. How strangely her eyes gleam. A +dull gleam and so passionless. Her brown hair—not altogether fallen +down her back, but loosened from its hairpins, and hanging in a soft +heavy knot behind her head—gives an additional pallor to her already +too white face. The open eyes are looking straight before them, +unseeing. Her step is slow, mechanical, unearthly. It is only indeed +when she lays the candle she holds upon the edge of the table, the +extreme edge, that he knows she is asleep, and walking in a dreamland +that to waking mortals is inaccessible.</p> + +<p>Silently, and always with that methodical step, she moves toward the +fireplace, and still a little further, until she stands on that eventful +spot where he had given up all claim to her, and thrown her back upon +herself. There is the very square on the carpet where she stood some +hours ago. There she stands now. To her right is the chair on which she +had leaned in great bitterness of spirit, trying to evoke help and +strength from the dead oak. Now, in her dreams, as if remembering that +past scene, she puts out her hands a little vaguely, a little blindly, +and, the chair not being where in her vision she believes it to be, she +gropes vaguely for it in a troubled fashion, the little trembling hands +moving nervously from side to side. It is a very, sad sight, the sadder +for, the mournful change that crosses the face of the sleeping girl. The +lips take a melancholy curve: the long lashes droop over the sightless +eyes, a long, sad sigh escapes her.</p> + +<p>Dysart, his heart beating wildly, makes a movement toward her. Whether +the sound of his impetuous footstep disturbs her dream, or whether the +coming of her fingers in sudden contact with the edge of the table does +it, who can tell; she starts and wakens.</p> + +<p>At first she stands as if not understanding, and then, with a terrified +expression in her now sentient eyes, looks hurriedly around her. Her +eyes meet Dysart's.</p> + +<p>"Don't be frightened," begins he quickly.</p> + +<p>"How did I come here?" interrupts she, in a voice panic-stricken. "I was +upstairs; I remember nothing. It was only a moment since that I——Was I +asleep?"</p> + +<p>She gives a hasty furtive glance at the pretty loose white garment that +enfolds her.</p> + +<p>"I suppose so," says Dysart. "You must have had some disturbing dream, +and it drove you down here. It is nothing. Many people walk in their +sleep."</p> + +<p>"But I never. Oh! what is it?" says she, as if appealing to him to +explain herself to herself. "Was," faintly flushing, "any one else here? +Did any one see me?"</p> + +<p>"No one. They are in bed; all asleep."</p> + +<p>"And you?" doubtfully.</p> + +<p>"I couldn't sleep," returns he slowly, gazing fixedly at her.</p> + +<p>"I must go," says she feverishly. She moves rapidly toward the door; her +one thought seems to be to get back to her own room. She looks ill, +unstrung, frightened. This new phase in her has alarmed her. What if, +for the future, she cannot even depend upon herself?—cannot know where +her mind will carry her when deadly sleep has fallen upon her? It is a +hateful thought. And to bring her here. Where he was. What power has he +over her? Oh! the sense of relief in thinking that she will be at home +to-morrow—safe with Barbara.</p> + +<p>Her hand is on the door. She is going.</p> + +<p>"Joyce," says Dysart suddenly, sharply. All his soul is in his voice. So +keenly it rings, that involuntarily she turns to him. Great agony must +make itself felt, and to Dysart, seeing her on the point of leaving him +forever, it seems as though his life is being torn from him. In truth +she is his life, the entire happiness of it—if she goes through that +door unforgiving, she will carry with her all that makes it bearable.</p> + +<p>She is looking at him. Her eyes are brilliant with nervous excitement; +her face pale. Her very lips have lost their color.</p> + +<p>"Yes?" says she interrogatively, impatiently.</p> + +<p>"I am going away to-morrow—I shall not——"</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes—I know. I am going, too."</p> + +<p>"I shall not see you again?"</p> + +<p>"I hope not—I think not."</p> + +<p>She makes another step forward. Opening the door with a little light +touch, she places one hand before the candle and peers timidly into the +dark hall outside.</p> + +<p>"Don't let that be your last word to me," says the young man, +passionately. "Joyce, hear me! There must be some excuse for me."</p> + +<p>"Excuse?" says she, looking back at him over her shoulder, her lovely +face full of curious wonder.</p> + +<p>"Yes—yes! I was mad! I didn't mean a word I said—I swear it! +I——Joyce, forgive me!"</p> + +<p>The words, though whispered, burst from him with a despairing vehemence. +He would have caught her hand but that she lifts her eyes to his—such +eyes!</p> + +<p>There is a little pause, and then:</p> + +<p>"Oh, no! Never—never!" says she.</p> + +<p>Her tone is very low and clear—not angry, not even hasty or +reproachful. Only very sad and certain. It kills all hope.</p> + +<p>She goes quickly through the open doorway, closing it behind her. The +faint, ghostly sound of her footfalls can be heard as she crosses the +hall. After a moment even this light sound ceases. She is indeed gone! +It is all over!</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>With a kind of desire to hide herself, Joyce has crept into her bed, +sore at heart, angry, miserable. No hope that sleep will again visit her +has led her to this step, and, indeed, would sleep be desirable? What a +treacherous part it had played when last it fell on her!</p> + +<p>How grieved he looked—how white! He was evidently most honestly sorry +for all the unkind things he had said to her. Not that he had said many, +indeed, only—he had looked them. And she, she had been very hard—oh! +too hard. However, there was an end to it. To-morrow would place more +miles between them, in every way, than would ever be recrossed. He would +not come here again until he had forgotten her—married, probably. They +would not meet. There should have been comfort in that certainty, but, +alas! when she sought for it, it eluded her—it was not there.</p> + +<p>In spite of the trick Somnus had just played her, she would now gladly +have courted him again, if only to escape from ever growing regret. But +though she turns from side to side in a vain endeavor to secure him, +that cruel god persistently denies her, and with mournful memories and +tired eyes, she lies, watching, waiting for the tender breaking of the +dawn upon the purple hills.</p> + +<p>Slowly, slowly comes up the sun. Coldly, and with a tremulous lingering, +the light shines on land and sea. Then sounds the bursting chants of +birds, the rush of streams, the gentle sighings of the winds through +herb and foliage.</p> + +<p>Joyce, thankful for the blessed daylight, flings the clothes aside, and +with languid step, and eyes, sad always, but grown weary, too, with +sleeplessness and thoughts unkind, moves lightly to the window.</p> + +<p>Throwing wide the casement, she lets the cool morning air flow in.</p> + +<p>A new day has arisen. What will it bring her? What can it bring, save +disappointment only and a vain regret? Oh! why must she, of all people, +be thus unblessed upon this blessed morn? Never has the sun seemed +brighter—the whole earth a greater glow of glory.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Welcome, the lord of light and lamp of day:</span> +<span class="i0">Welcome, fosterer of tender herbis green;</span> +<span class="i0">Welcome, quickener of flourish'd flowers' sheen.</span> +<span class="i0">Welcome depainter of the bloomit meads;</span> +<span class="i0">Welcome, the life of everything that spreads!"</span> +</div></div> + +<p>Yet to Joyce welcome to the rising sun seems impossible. What is the +good of day when hope is dead? In another hour or two she must rise, go +downstairs, talk, laugh, and appear interested in all that is being +said—and with a heart at variance with joy—a poor heart, heavy as +lead.</p> + +<p>A kind of despairing rage against her crooked fortune moves her. Why has +she been thus unlucky? Why at first should a foolish, vagrant feeling +have led her to think so strongly of one unworthy and now hateful to her +as to prejudice her in the mind of the one really worthy. What madness +possessed her? Surely she is the most unfortunate girl alive? A sense of +injustice bring the tears into her eyes, and blots out the slowly +widening landscape from her view.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"How happy some o'er other some can be!"</span> +</div></div> + +<p>Her thoughts run to Barbara and Monkton. They are happy in spite of many +frowns from fortune. They are poor—as society counts poverty—but the +want of money is not a cardinal evil. They love each other; and the +children are things to be loved as well—darling children! well grown, +and strong, and healthy, though terrible little Turks at times—God +bless them! Oh! that she could count herself as blessed as Barbara, +whose greatest trouble is to deny herself this and that, to be able to +pay for the other thing. No! to be poor is not to be unhappy. "Our +happiness in this world," says a writer, "depends on the affections we +are able to inspire." Truly she—Joyce—has not been successful in her +quest. For if he had loved her, would he ever have doubted her? "Perfect +love," says the oldest, grandest testimony of all, "casteth out fear." +And he had feared. Sitting here in the dawning daylight, the tears ran +softly down her cheeks.</p> + +<p>It is a strange thing, but true, that never once during this whole +night's dreary vigil do her thoughts once turn to Beauclerk.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXX" id="CHAPTER_XXX"></a>CHAPTER XXX.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Oh, there's stony a leaf in Atholl wood,</span> +<span class="i0">And mony a bird in its breast,</span> +<span class="i0">And mony a pain may the heart sustain</span> +<span class="i0">Ere it sab itsel' to rest."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>Barbara meets her on the threshold and draws her with loving arms into +the dining-room.</p> + +<p>"I knew you would be here at this hour. Lady Baltimore wrote me word +about it. And I have sent the chicks away to play in the garden, as I +thought you would like to have a comfortable chat just at first."</p> + +<p>"Lady Baltimore wrote?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, dear. Just to say you were distressed about that unfortunate +affair—that drive, you know—and that you felt you wanted to come back +to me. I was glad you wanted that, darling."</p> + +<p>"You are not angry with me, Barbara?" asks the girl, loosening her +sister's arms the better to see her face.</p> + +<p>"Angry! No, how could I be angry?" says Mrs. Monkton, the more +vehemently in that she knows she <i>had</i> been very angry just at first. +"It was the merest chance. It might have happened to anybody. One can't +control storms!"</p> + +<p>"No—that's what Mrs. Connolly said, only she called it 'the ilimints,'" +says Joyce, with quite a little ghost of a smile.</p> + +<p>"Well, now you are home again, and it's all behind you. And there is +really nothing in it. And you must not think so much about it," says +Barbara, fondling her hand. "Lady Baltimore said you were too unhappy +about it."</p> + +<p>"Did she say that? What else did she say?" asks the girl, regarding her +sister with searching, eyes. What had Lady Baltimore told her? That +impulsive admission to the latter last night had been troubling Joyce +ever since, and now to have to lay bare her heart again, to acknowledge +her seeming fickleness, to receive Barbara's congratulation on it, only +to declare that this second lover has, too, been placed by Fate outside +her life, seems too bitter to her. Oh, no—she cannot tell Barbara.</p> + +<p>"Why nothing," says Mrs. Monkton, who is now busying herself removing +the girl's hat and furs. "What was there to tell, after all?" She is +plainly determined to treat the matter lightly.</p> + +<p>"Oh—there is a good deal," says Joyce, bitterly. "Why don't you tell +me," turning suddenly upon her sister, "that you knew how it would be +all along? That you distrusted that Mr. Beauclerk from the very first, +and that Felix Dysart was always worth a thousand of him?" There is +something that is almost defiant in her manner.</p> + +<p>"Because, for one thing, I very seldom call him Felix," says Mrs. +Monkton, with a smile, alluding to the last accusation. "And because, +too, I can't bear the 'I told you so' persons.—You mustn't class me +with them, Joyce, whatever you do."</p> + +<p>"I shan't be able to do much more, at all events," says Joyce presently. +"That's one comfort, not only for myself but for my family. I expect I +have excelled myself this time. Well," with a dull little laugh, "it +will have to last, so——"</p> + +<p>"Joyce," says her sister, quickly, "tell me one small thing. Mr. +Beauclerk—he——"</p> + +<p>"Yes?" stonily, as Barbara goes on a rock.</p> + +<p>"You—you are not engaged to him?"</p> + +<p>Joyce breaks into an angry laugh.</p> + +<p>"That is what you all ask," says she. "There is no variety; none. No, +no, no; I am engaged to nobody. Nobody wants me, and I——'I care for +nobody, not I, for nobody cares for me.' Mark the heavy emphasis on the +'for,' I beg you, Barbara!"</p> + +<p>She breaks entirely from her sister's hold and springs to her feet.</p> + +<p>"You are tired," says Mrs. Monkton, anxiously, rising too.</p> + +<p>"Why don't you say what you really mean?" says Joyce, turning almost +fiercely to her. "Why pretend you think I am fatigued when you honestly +think I am miserable, because Mr. Beauclerk has not asked me to marry +him. No! I don't care what you think. I am miserable! And though I were +to tell you over and over again it was not because of him, you would not +believe me, so I will say nothing."</p> + +<p>"Here is Freddy," says Mrs. Monkton, nervously, who has just seen her +husband's head pass the window. He enters the room almost as she speaks.</p> + +<p>"Well, Joyce, back again," says he, affectionately. He kisses the girl +warmly. "Horrid drive you must have had through that storm."</p> + +<p>"You, too, blame the storm, then, and not me," says Joyce, with a smile. +"Everybody doesn't take your view of it. It appears I should have +returned, in all that rain and wind and——"</p> + +<p>"Pshaw! Never listen to extremists," says Mr. Monkton, sinking lazily +into a chair. "They will land you on all sorts of barren coasts if you +give ear to them. For my part I never could see why two people of +opposite sexes, if overcome by nature's artillery, should not spend a +night under a wayside inn without calling down upon them the social +artillery of gossip. There is only one thing in the whole affair," says +Mr. Monkton, seriously, "that has given me a moment's uneasiness."</p> + +<p>"And that?" says Joyce, nervously.</p> + +<p>"Is how I can possibly be second to both of them. Dysart, I confess, has +my sympathies, but if Beauclerk were to appear first upon the field and +implore my assistance I feel I should have a delicacy about refusing +him."</p> + +<p>"Freddy," says his wife, reprovingly.</p> + +<p>"Oh, as for that," says Joyce, with a frown, "I do think men are the +most troublesome things on earth." She burst out presently. "When one +isn't loving them, one is hating them."</p> + +<p>"How many of them at a time?" asks her brother-in-law with deep +interest. "Not more than two, Joyce, please. I couldn't grasp any more. +My intellect is of a very limited order."</p> + +<p>"So is mine, I think," says Joyce, with a tired little sigh.</p> + +<p>Monkton, although determined to treat the matter lightly, looks very +sorry for her. Evidently she is out of joint with the whole world at +present.</p> + +<p>"How did Lady Baltimore take it?" asks he, with all the careless air of +one asking a question on some unimportant subject.</p> + +<p>"She was angry with Mr. Beauclerk for not leaving me at the inn, and +coming home himself."</p> + +<p>"Unsisterly woman!"</p> + +<p>"She was quite right, after all," says Mrs. Monkton, who had defended +Beauclerk herself, but cannot bear to hear another take his part.</p> + +<p>"And, Dysart—how did he take it?" asks Monkton, smiling.</p> + +<p>"I don't see how he should take it, anyway," says Joyce, coldly.</p> + +<p>"Not even with soda water?" says her brother-in-law. "Of course, it +would be too much to expect him to take it neat. You broke it gently to +him I hope."</p> + +<p>"Ah, you don't understand Mr. Dysart," says the girl, rising abruptly. +"I did not understand him until yesterday."</p> + +<p>"Is he so very abstruse?"</p> + +<p>"He is very insolent," says Miss Kavanagh, with a sudden touch of fire, +that makes her sister look at her with some uneasiness.</p> + +<p>"I see," says Mr. Monkton, slowly. He still, unfortunately, looks +amused. "One never does know anybody until he or she gives way to a +towering passion. So he gave you a right good scolding for being caught +in the rain with Beauclerk. A little unreasonable, surely; but lovers +never yet were famous for their common sense. That little ingredient was +forgotten in their composition. And so he gave you a lecture?"</p> + +<p>"Well, he is not likely to do it again," says she slowly.</p> + +<p>"No? Then it is more than likely that I shall be the one to be scolded +presently. He won't be able to content himself with silence. He will +want to air his grievances, to revenge them on some one, and if you +refuse to see him, I shall be that one. There is really only one small +remark to be made about this whole matter," says Mr. Monkton, with a +rueful smile, "and it remains for me to make it. If you will encourage +two suitors at the same time, my good child, the least you may expect is +trouble. You are bound to look out for 'breakers ahead,' but (and this +is the remark) it is very hard lines for a fourth and most innocent +person to have those suitors dropped straight on him without a second's +notice. I'm not a born warrior; the brunt of the battle is a sort of +gayety that I confess myself unsuited for. I haven't been educated up to +it. I——"</p> + +<p>"There will be no battle," says Joyce, in a strange tone, "because there +will be no combatants. For a battle there must be something to fight +for, and here there is nothing. You are all wrong, Freddy. You will find +out that after awhile. I have a headache, Barbara. I think," raising her +lovely but pained eyes to her sister, "I should like to go into the +garden for a little bit. The air there is always so sweet."</p> + +<p>"Go, darling," says Barbara, whose own eyes have filled with tears. "Oh, +Freddy," turning reproachfully to her husband as the door closes on +Joyce, "how could you so have taken her? You must have seen how unhappy +she was. And all about that horrid Beauclerk."</p> + +<p>Monkton stares at her.</p> + +<p>"So that is how you read it," says he at last.</p> + +<p>"There is no difficulty about the reading. Could it be in larger print?"</p> + +<p>"Large enough, certainly, as to the unhappiness, but for 'Beauclerk' I +should advise the printer to insert Dysart.'"</p> + +<p>"Dysart? Felix?"</p> + +<p>"Unless, indeed, you could suggest a third."</p> + +<p>"Nonsense!" says Mrs. Monkton, contemptuously. "She has never cared for +poor Felix. How I wish she had. He is worth a thousand of the other; but +girls are so perverse."</p> + +<p>"They are. That is just my point," says her husband. "Joyce is so +perverse that she won't allow herself to see that it is Dysart she +preferred. However, there is one comfort, she is paying for her +perversity."</p> + +<p>"Freddy," says his wife, after a long pause, "do you really think that?"</p> + +<p>"What? That girls are perverse?"</p> + +<p>"No, no! That she likes Felix best?"</p> + +<p>"That is indeed my fixed belief."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Freddy!" cries his wife, throwing herself into his arms. "How +beautiful of you, I've always wanted to think that, but never could +until now—now that——"</p> + +<p>"My clear judgment has been brought to bear upon it. Quite right, my +dear, always regard your husband as a sort of demi-god, who——"</p> + +<p>"Pouf!" says she. "Do you think I was born without a grain of sense? But +really, Freddy——Oh! if it might be! Poor, poor darling! how sad she +looked. If they have had a serious quarrel over her drive with that +detestable Beauclerk—why—I——" Here she bursts into tears, and with +her face buried on Monkton's waistcoat, makes little wild dabs at the +air with a right hand that is only to be appeased by having Monkton's +handkerchief thrust into it.</p> + +<p>"What a baby you are!" says he, giving her a loving little shake. "I +declare, you were well named. The swift transitions from the tremendous +'Barbara' to the inconsequent 'Baby' takes but an instant, and exactly +expresses you. A moment ago you were bent on withering me: now, I am +going to wither you."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no! don't," says she, half laughing, half crying. "And besides, it +is you who are inconsequent. You never keep to one point for a second."</p> + +<p>"Why should I?" says he, "when it is such a disagreeable one. There let +us give up for the day. We can write 'To be continued' after it, and +begin a fresh chapter to-morrow."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Meantime, Joyce, making her way to the garden with a hope of finding +there, at all events, silence, and opportunity for thought, seats +herself upon a garden chair, and gives herself up a willing prey to +melancholy. She had desired to struggle against this evil, but it had +conquered her, and tears rising beneath her lids are falling on her +cheeks, when two small creatures emerging from the summer house on her +left catch sight of her.</p> + +<p>They had been preparing for a rush, a real Redshank, painted and +feathered, descent upon her, when something in her sorrowful attitude +becomes known to them.</p> + +<p>Fun dies within their kind little hearts. Their Joyce has come home to +them—that is a matter for joy, but their Joyce has come home +unhappy—that is a matter for grief. Step by step, hand in hand, they +approach her, and even at the very last, with their little breasts +overflowing with the delight of getting her back, it is with a very +gentle precipitation that they throw themselves upon her.</p> + +<p>And it never occurs to them, either, to trouble her for an explanation; +no probing questions issue from their lips. She is sorry, that is all. +It is enough for their sympathies. Too much.</p> + +<p>Joyce herself is hardly aware of the advent of the little comforters, +until two small arms steal around her neck, and she finds Mabel's face +pressed close against her own.</p> + +<p>"Let me kiss her, too," says Tommy, trying to push his sister away, and +resenting openly the fact of her having secured the first attempt at +consolation.</p> + +<p>"You mustn't tease her, she's sorry. She's very sorry about something," +says Mabel, turning up Joyce's face with her pink palm. "Aren't you, +Joyce? There's droppies in your eyes?"</p> + +<p>"A little, darling," says Joyce, brokenly.</p> + +<p>"Then I'll be sorry with you," says the child, with all childhood's +divine intuition that to sorrow alone is to know a double sorrow. She +hugs Joyce more closely with her tender arms, and Joyce, after a battle +with her braver self, gives way, and breaks into bitter tears.</p> + +<p>"There now! you've made her cry right out! You're a naughty girl," says +Tommy, to his sister in a raging tone, meant to hide the fact that he +too, himself is on the point of giving way; in fact, another moment sees +him dissolved in tears.</p> + +<p>"Never mind, Joycie. Never mind. We love you!" sobs he, getting up on +the back of the seat behind her, and making a very excellent attempt at +strangulation.</p> + +<p>"Do you? There doesn't seem to be any one else, then, but you!" says +poor Joyce, dropping Mabel into her lap, and Tommy more to the front, +and clasping them both to her with a little convulsive movement.</p> + +<p>Perhaps the good cry she has on top of those two loving little heads +does her more good than anything else could possibly have done.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXI" id="CHAPTER_XXXI"></a>CHAPTER XXXI.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"A bitter and perplexed 'What shall I do?'</span> +<span class="i0">Is worse to man than worse necessity."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>Three months have come and gone, and winter is upon us. It is close on +Christmastide indeed. All the trees lie bare and desolate, the leaves +have fallen from them, and their sweet denizens, the birds, flown or +dead.</p> + +<p>Evening has fallen. The children are in the nursery, having a last romp +before bed hour. Their usual happy hunting ground for that final fling +is the drawing-room, but finding the atmosphere there, to-night, +distinctly cloudy, they had beaten a simultaneous retreat to Bridget and +the battered old toys upstairs. Children, like rats, dislike discomfort.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Monkton, sitting before the fire, that keeps up a continuous sound +as musical as the rippling of a small stream, is leaning back in her +chair, her pretty forehead puckered into a thousand doubts. Joyce, near +her, is as silent as she is; while Mr. Monkton, after a vain pretence at +being absorbed in the morning paper (diligently digested at 11 this +morning), flings it impatiently on the floor.</p> + +<p>"What's the good of your looking like that, Barbara? If you were +compelled to accept this invitation from my mother, I could see some +reason for your dismal glances, but when you know I am as far from +wishing you to accept it as you are yourself, why should——?"</p> + +<p>"Ah! but are you?" says his wife with a swift, dissatisfied glance at +him. The dissatisfaction is a good deal directed toward herself.</p> + +<p>"If you could make her sure of that," says Joyce, softly. "I have tried +to explain it to her, but——"</p> + +<p>"I suppose I am unreasonable," says Barbara, rising, with a little laugh +that has a good deal of grief in it. "I suppose I ought to believe," +turning to her husband, "that you are dying for me to refuse this +invitation from the people who have covered me with insult for eight +years, when I know well that you are dying for me to accept it."</p> + +<p>"Oh! if you know that," says Monkton rather feebly, it must be +confessed. This fatally late desire on the part of his people to become +acquainted with his wife and children has taken hold of him, has lived +with him through the day, not for anything he personally could possibly +gain by it, but because of a deep desire he has that they, his father +and mother, should see and know his wife, and learn to admire her and +love her.</p> + +<p>"Of course I know it," says Barbara, almost fiercely. "Do you think I +have lived with you all these years and cannot read your heart? Don't +think I blame you, Freddy. If the cases were reversed I should feel just +like you. I should go to any lengths to be at one with my own people."</p> + +<p>"I don't want to go to even the shortest length," says Mr. Monkton. As +if a little nettled he takes up the dull old local paper again and +begins a third severe examination of it. But Mrs. Monkton, feeling that +she cannot survive another silence, lays her hand upon it and captures +it.</p> + +<p>"Let us talk about it, Freddy," says she.</p> + +<p>"It will only make you more unhappy."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no. I think not. It will do her good," says Joyce, anxiously.</p> + +<p>"Where is the letter? I hardly saw it. Who is asked?" demands Barbara +feverishly.</p> + +<p>"Nobody in particular, except you. My father has expressed a wish that +we should occupy that house of his in Harley street for the winter +months, and my mother puts in, accidentally as it were, that she would +like to see the children. But you are the one specially alluded to."</p> + +<p>"They are too kind!" says Barbara rather unkindly to herself.</p> + +<p>"I quite see it in your light. It is an absolute impertinence," says +Monkton, with a suppressed sigh. "I allow all that. In fact, I am with +you, Barbara, all through: why keep me thinking about it? Put it out of +your head. It requires nothing more than a polite refusal."</p> + +<p>"I shall hate to make it polite," says Barbara. And then, recurring to +her first and sure knowledge of his secret desires, "you want to go to +them?"</p> + +<p>"I shall never go without you," returns he gravely.</p> + +<p>"Ah! that is almost a challenge," says she, flushing.</p> + +<p>"Barbara! perhaps he is right," says Joyce, gently; as she speaks she +gets up from the fire and makes her way to the door, and from that to +her own room.</p> + +<p>"Will you go without me?" says Barbara, when she has gone, looking at +her husband with large, earnest eyes.</p> + +<p>"Never. You say you know me thoroughly, Barbara; why then ask that +question?"</p> + +<p>"Well, you will never go then," says she, "for I—I will never enter +those people's doors. I couldn't, Freddy. It would kill me!" She has +kept up her defiant attitude so successfully and for so long that Mr. +Monkton is now electrified when she suddenly bursts into tears and +throws herself into his arms.</p> + +<p>"You think me a beast!" says she, clinging to him.</p> + +<p>"You are tired; you are bothered. Give it up, darling," says he, patting +her on the back, the most approved modern plan of reducing people to a +stale of common sense.</p> + +<p>"But you do think it, don't you?"</p> + +<p>"No. Barbara. There now, be a good sensible girl, and try to realize +that I don't want you to accept this invitation, and that I am going to +write to my mother in the morning to say it is impossible for us to +leave home just now—as—as—eh?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, anything will do."</p> + +<p>"As baby is not very well? That's the usual polite thing, eh?"</p> + +<p>"Oh! no, don't say that," says Mrs. Monkton in a little, frightened +tone. "It—it's unlucky! It might—I'm not a bit superstitious, Freddy, +but it might affect baby in some way—do him some harm."</p> + +<p>"Very well, we'll tell another lie," says Mr. Monkton cheerfully. "We'll +say you've got the neuralgia badly, and that the doctor says it would be +as much as your life Is worth to cross the Channel at this time of +year."</p> + +<p>"That will do very well," says Mrs. Monkton readily.</p> + +<p>"But—I'm not a bit superstitious," says he solemnly. "But it might +affect you in some way, do you some harm, and—"</p> + +<p>"If you are going to make a jest of it, Freddy——"</p> + +<p>"It is you who have made the jest. Well; never mind, I accept the +responsibility, and will create even another taradiddle. If I say we are +disinclined to leave home just now, will that do?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," says she, after a second's struggle with her better self, in +which it comes off the loser.</p> + +<p>"That's settled, then," says Mr. Monkton. "Peace with honor is assured. +Let us forget that unfortunate letter, and all the appurtenances +thereof."</p> + +<p>"Yes: do let us, Freddy," says she, as if with all her heart.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>But the morning convinces Monkton that the question of the letter still +remains unsettled. Barbara, for one thing, has come down to breakfast +gowned in her very best morning frock, one reserved for those rare +occasions when people drop in over night and sleep with them. She has, +indeed, all the festive appearance of a person who expects to be called +away at a second's notice into a very vertex of dissipation.</p> + +<p>Joyce, who is quite as impressed as Monkton with her appearance, gazes +at her with a furtive amazement, and both she and Monkton wait in a sort +of studied silence to know the meaning of it. They aren't given long to +possess their souls in patience.</p> + +<p>"Freddy, I don't think Mabel ought to have any more jam," says Mrs. +Monkton, presently, "or Tommy either." She looks at the children as she +speaks, and sighs softly. "It will cost a great deal," says she.</p> + +<p>"The jam!" says her husband. "Well, really, at the rate they are +consuming it—I——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no. The railway—the boat—the fare—the whole journey," says she.</p> + +<p>"The journey?" says Joyce.</p> + +<p>"Why, to England, to take them over there to see their grandmother," +says Mrs. Monkton calmly.</p> + +<p>"But, Barbara——"</p> + +<p>"Well, dear?"</p> + +<p>"I thought——"</p> + +<p>"Barbara! I really consider that question decided," says her husband, +not severely, however. Is the dearest wish of his heart to be +accomplished at last? "I thought you had finally made up your mind to +refuse my mother's invitation?"</p> + +<p>"I shall not refuse it," says she, slowly, "whatever you may do."</p> + +<p>"I?"</p> + +<p>"You said you didn't want to go," says his wife severely. "But I have +been thinking it over, and——" Her tone has changed, and a slight touch +of pink has come into her pretty cheeks. "After all, Freddy, why should +I be the one to keep you from your people?"</p> + +<p>"You aren't keeping me. Don't go on that."</p> + +<p>"Well, then, will you go by yourself and see them?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly not."</p> + +<p>"Not even if I give you the children to take over?".</p> + +<p>"Not even then."</p> + +<p>"You see," says she, with a sort of sad triumph, "I am keeping you from +them. What I mean is, that if you had never met me you would now be +friends with them."</p> + +<p>"I'd a great deal rather be friends with you," says he struggling wildly +but firmly with a mutton chop that has been done to death by a bad cook.</p> + +<p>"I know that," in a low and troubled tone, "but I know, too, that there +is always unhappiness where one is on bad terms with one's father and +mother."</p> + +<p>"My dear girl, I can't say what bee you have got in your bonnet now, but +I beg you to believe, I am perfectly happy at this present moment, in +spite of this confounded chop that has been done to a chip. 'God sends +meat, the devil sends cooks.' That's not a prayer, Tommy, you needn't +commit it to memory."</p> + +<p>"But there's 'God' and the 'devil' in it," says Tommy, skeptically: +"that always means prayers."</p> + +<p>"Not this time. And you can't pray to both; your mother has taught you +that; you should teach her something in return. That's only fair, isn't +it?"</p> + +<p>"She knows everything," says Tommy, dejectedly. It is quite plain to his +hearers that he regrets his mother's universal knowledge—that he would +have dearly liked to give her a lesson or two.</p> + +<p>"Not everything," says his father. "For example, she cannot understand +that I am the happiest man in the world; she imagines I should be better +off if she was somebody else's wife and somebody else's mother."</p> + +<p>"Whose mother?" demands Tommy, his eyes growing round.</p> + +<p>"Ah, that's just it. You must ask her. She has evidently some <i>arrière +pensée</i>."</p> + +<p>"Freddy," says his wife in a low tone.</p> + +<p>"Well! What am I to think? You see," to Tommy, who is now deeply +interested, "if she wasn't your mother, she'd be somebody else's."</p> + +<p>"No, she wouldn't," breaks in Tommy, indignantly. "I wouldn't let her, +I'd hold on to her. I—" with his mouth full of strawberry jam, yet +striving nobly to overcome his difficulties of expression, "I'd beat +her!"</p> + +<p>"You shouldn't usurp my privileges," says his father, mildly.</p> + +<p>"Barbara!" says Joyce, at this moment. "If you have decided on going to +London, I think you have decided wisely; and it may not be such an +expense after all. You and Freddy can manage the two eldest children +very well on the journey, and I can look after baby until you return. Or +else take nurse, and leave baby entirely to me."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Monkton makes a quick movement.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXII" id="CHAPTER_XXXII"></a>CHAPTER XXXII.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"And I go to brave a world I hate,</span> +<span class="i2">And woo it o'er and o'er;</span> +<span class="i0">And tempt a wave and try a fate</span> +<span class="i2">Upon a stranger shore."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>"I shall take the three children and you, too, or I shall not go at +all," says she, addressing her sister with an air of decision.</p> + +<p>"If you have really made up your mind about it," says Mr. Monkton, "I +agree with you. The house in Harley street is big enough for a regiment, +and my mother says the servants will be in it on our arrival, if we +accept the invitation. Joyce will be a great comfort to us, and a help +on the journey over, the children are so fond of her."</p> + +<p>Joyce turns her face to her brother-in-law and smiles in a little +pleased way. She has been so grave of late that they welcome a smile +from her now at any time, and even court k. The pretty lips, erstwhile +so prone to laughter, are now too serious by far. When, therefore, +Monkton or his wife go out of their way to gain a pleased glance from +her and succeed, both feel as if they had achieved a victory.</p> + +<p>"Why have they offered us a separate establishment? Was there no room +for us in their own house?" asks Mrs. Monkton presently.</p> + +<p>"I dare say they thought we should be happier, so—in a place of our +own."</p> + +<p>"Well, I dare say we shall." She pauses for a moment. "Why are they in +town now—at this time of year? Why are they not in their country +house?"</p> + +<p>"Ah! that is a last thorn in their flesh," says Monkton, with a quick +sigh. "They have had to let the old place to pay my brother's debts. He +is always a trouble to them. This last letter points to greater trouble +still."</p> + +<p>"And in their trouble they have turned to you—to the little +grandchildren," says Joyce, softly. "One can understand it."</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes. Oh, you should have told me," says Barbara, flushing as if +with pain. "I am the hardest person alive, I think. You think it?" +looking directly at her husband.</p> + +<p>"I think only one thing of you," says Mr. Monkton, rising from the +breakfast table with a slight laugh. "It is what I have always thought, +that you are the dearest and loveliest thing on earth." The bantering +air he throws into this speech does not entirely deprive it of the +truthful tenderness that formed it. "There," says he, "that ought to +take the gloom off the brow of any well-regulated woman, coming as it +does from an eight-year-old husband."</p> + +<p>"Oh, you must be older than that," says she, at which they all laugh +together.</p> + +<p>"You are wise to go, Barbara," says Joyce, now in a livelier way, as if +that last quick, unexpected feeling of amusement has roused her to a +sharper sense of life. "If once they see you!—No, you mustn't put up +your shoulder like that—I tell you, if once they looked at you, they +would feel the measure of their folly."</p> + +<p>"I shall end by fancying myself," says Mrs. Monkton, impatiently, "and +then you will all have fresh work cut out for you; the bringing of me +back to my proper senses. Well," with a sigh, "as I have to see them, I +wish——"</p> + +<p>"What?"</p> + +<p>"That I could be a heartier believer in your and Joyce's flattery, or +else, that they, your people, were not so prejudiced against me. It will +be an ordeal."</p> + +<p>"When you are about it wish them a few grains of common sense," says her +husband wrathfully. "Just fancy the folly of an impertinence that +condemned a fellow being on no evidence whatsoever; neither eye nor ear +were brought in as witnesses."</p> + +<p>"Oh, well," says she, considerably mollified by his defamation of his +people, "I dare say they are not so much to be blamed after all. And," +with a little, quick laugh at her sister, "as Joyce says, my beauties +are still unknown to them; they will be delighted when they see me."</p> + +<p>"They will, indeed," returns Joyce stolidly. "And so you are really +going to take me with you. Oh, I am glad. I haven't spent any of my +money this winter, Barbara; I have some, therefore, and I have always +wanted to see London."</p> + +<p>"It will be a change for the children, too," says Barbara, with a +troubled sigh. "I suppose," to her husband, "they will think them very +countrified."</p> + +<p>"Who?"</p> + +<p>"Your mother—"</p> + +<p>"What do you think of them?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, that has got nothing to do with it."</p> + +<p>"Everything rather. You are analyzing them. You are exalting an old +woman who has been unkind to you at the expense of the children who love +you!"</p> + +<p>"Ah, she analyzes them because she too loves them," says Joyce. "It is +easy to pick faults in those who have a real hold upon our hearts. For +the rest—it doesn't concern us how the world regards them."</p> + +<p>"It sounds as if it ought to read the other way round," says Monkton.</p> + +<p>"No, no. To love is to see faults, not to be blind to them. The old +reading is wrong," says Joyce.</p> + +<p>"You are unfair, Freddy," declares his wife with dignity; "I would not +decry the children. I am only a little nervous as to their reception. +When I know that your father and mother are prepared to receive them as +my children, I know they will get but little mercy at their hands."</p> + +<p>"That speech isn't like you," says Monkton, "but it is impossible to +blame you for it."</p> + +<p>"They are the dearest children in the world," says Joyce. "Don't think +of them. They must succeed. Let them alone to fight their own battles."</p> + +<p>"You may certainly depend upon Tommy," says his father. "For any +emergency that calls for fists and heels, where battle, murder and +sudden death are to be looked for, Tommy will be all there."</p> + +<p>"Oh! I do hope he will be good," says his mother, half amused, but +plainly half terrified as well.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Two weeks later sees them settled in town, in the Harley street house, +that seems enormous and unfriendly to Mrs. Monkton, but delightful to +Joyce and the children, who wander from room to room and, under her +guidance, pretend to find bears and lions and bogies in every corner.</p> + +<p>The meeting between Barbara and Lady Monkton had not been satisfactory. +There had been very little said on either side, but the chill that lay +on the whole interview had never thawed for a moment.</p> + +<p>Barbara had been stiff and cold, if entirely polite, but not at all the +Barbara to whom her husband had been up to this accustomed. He did not +blame her for the change of front under the circumstances, but he could +hardly fail to regret it, and it puzzled him a great deal to know how +she did it.</p> + +<p>He was dreadfully sorry about it secretly, and would have given very +much more than the whole thing was worth to let his father and mother +see his wife as she really is—the true Barbara.</p> + +<p>Lady Monkton had been stiff, too; unpardonably so—as it was certainly +her place to make amends—to soften and smooth down the preliminary +embarrassment. But then she had never been framed for suavity of any +sort; and an old aunt of Monkton's, a sister of hers, had been present +during the interview, and had helped considerably to keep up the +frigidity of the atmosphere.</p> + +<p>She was not a bad old woman at heart, this aunt. She had indeed from +time to time given up all her own small patrimony to help her sister to +get the eldest son out of his many disreputable difficulties. She had +done this, partly for the sake of the good old family names on both +sides, and partly because the younger George Monkton was very dear to +her.</p> + +<p>From his early boyhood the scapegrace of the family had been her +admiration, and still remained so, in imagination. For years she had not +seen him, and perhaps this (that she considered a grievance) was a +kindness vouchsafed to her by Providence. Had she seen the pretty boy of +twenty years ago as he now is she would not have recognized him. The +change from the merry, blue-eyed, daring lad of the past to the bloated, +blear-eyed, reckless-looking man of to-day would have been a shock too +cruel for her to bear. But this she was not allowed to realize, and so +remained true to her belief in him, as she remembered him.</p> + +<p>In spite of her many good qualities, she was, nevertheless, a dreadful +woman; the more dreadful to the ordinary visitor because of the false +front she wore, and the flashing purchased teeth that shone in her upper +jaw. She lived entirely with Sir George and Lady Monkton, having indeed +given them every penny that would have enabled her to live elsewhere. +Perhaps of all the many spites they owed their elder son, the fact that +his iniquities had inflicted upon them his maternal aunt for the rest of +her natural days, was the one that rankled keenest.</p> + +<p>She disliked Frederic, not only intensely, but with an openness that had +its disadvantages—not for any greater reason than that he had behaved +himself so far in his journey through life more creditably than his +brother. She had always made a point against him of his undutiful +marriage, and never failed, to add fuel to the fire of his father's and +mother's resentment about it, whenever that fire seemed to burn low.</p> + +<p>Altogether, she was by no means an amiable old lady, and, being very +hideous into the bargain, was not much run after by society generally. +She wasn't of the least consequence in any way, being not only old but +very poor; yet people dreaded her, and would slip away round doors and +corners to avoid her tongue. She succeeded, in spite of all drawbacks, +in making herself felt; and it was only one or two impervious beings, +such is Dicky Browne for example (who knew the Monktons well, and was +indeed distantly connected with them through his mother), who could +endure her manners with any attempt at equanimity.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Strength wanting judgment and policy to rule overturneth itself."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>It was quite impossible, of course, that a first visit to Lady Monkton +should be a last from Barbara. Lady Monkton had called on her the very +day after her arrival in town, but Barbara had been out then. On the +occasion of the latter's return visit the old woman had explained that +going out was a trial to her, and Barbara, in spite of her unconquerable +dislike to her, had felt it to be her duty to go and see her now and +then. The children, too, had been a great resource. Sir George, +especially, had taken to Tommy, who was quite unabashed by the grandeur +of the stately, if faded, old rooms in the Belgravian mansion, but was +full of curiosity, and spent his visits to his grandfather +cross-examining him about divers matters—questionable and +otherwise—that tickled the old man and kept him laughing.</p> + +<p>It had struck Barbara that Sir George had left off laughing for some +time. He looked haggard—uneasy—miserably expectant. She liked him +better than she liked Lady Monkton, and, though reserved with both, +relaxed more to him than to her mother-in-law. For one thing, Sir George +had been unmistakably appreciative of her beauty, and her soft voice and +pretty manners. He liked them all. Lady Monkton had probably noticed +them quite as keenly, but they had not pleased her. They were indeed an +offence. They had placed her in the wrong. As for old Miss L'Estrange, +the aunt, she regarded the young wife from the first with a dislike she +took no pains to conceal.</p> + +<p>This afternoon, one of many that Barbara has given up to duty, finds her +as usual in Lady Monkton's drawing room listening to her mother-in-law's +comments on this and that, and trying to keep up her temper, for +Frederic's sake, when the old lady finds fault with her management of +the children.</p> + +<p>The latter (that is, Tommy and Mabel) have been sent to the pantomime by +Sir George, and Barbara with her husband have dropped in towards the +close of the day to see Lady Monkton, with a view to recovering the +children there, and taking them home with them, Sir George having +expressed a wish to see the little ones after the play, and hear Tommy's +criticisms on it, which he promised himself would be lively. He had +already a great belief in the powers of Tommy's descriptions.</p> + +<p>In the meantime the children have not returned, and conversation, it +must be confessed, languishes. Miss L'Estrange, who is present in a cap +of enormous dimensions and a temper calculated to make life hideous to +her neighbors, scarcely helps to render more bearable the dullness of +everything. Sir George in a corner is buttonholing Frederic and +saddening him with last accounts of the Scapegrace.</p> + +<p>Barbara has come to her final pretty speech—silence seems +imminent—when suddenly Lady Monkton flings into it a bombshell that +explodes, and carries away with it all fear of commonplace dullness at +all events.</p> + +<p>"You have a sister, I believe," says she to Barbara in a tone she fondly +but erroneously imagines gracious.</p> + +<p>"Yes," says Barbara, softly but curtly. The fact that Joyce's existence +has never hitherto been alluded to by Lady Monkton renders her manner +even colder than usual, which is saying everything.</p> + +<p>"She lives with you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," says Barbara again.</p> + +<p>Lady Monkton, as if a little put out by the determined taciturnity of +her manner, moves forward on her seat, and pulls the lace lappets of her +dove-gray cap more over to the front impatiently. Long, soft lappets +they are, falling from a gem of a little cap, made of priceless lace, +and with a beautiful old face beneath to frame. A face like an old +miniature; and as stern as most of them, but charming for all that and +perfect in every line.</p> + +<p>"Makes herself useful, no doubt," growls Miss L'Estrange from the +opposite lounge, her evil old countenance glowing with the desire to +offend. "That's why one harbors one's poor relations—to get something +out of them."</p> + +<p>This is a double-barrelled explosion. One barrel for the detested wife +of the good Frederic, one for the sister she has befriended—to that +sister's cost.</p> + +<p>"True," says Lady Monkton, with an uncivil little upward glance at +Barbara. For once—because it suits her—she has accepted her sister's +argument, and determined to take no heed of her scarcely veiled insult. +"She helps you, no doubt. Is useful with the children, I hope. Moneyless +girls should remember that they are born into the world to work, not to +idle."</p> + +<p>"I am afraid she is not as much help to me as you evidently think +necessary," says Barbara smiling, but not pleasantly. "She is very +seldom at home; in the summer at all events." It is abominable to her to +think that these hateful old people should regard Joyce, her pretty +Joyce, as a mere servant, a sisterly maid-of-all-work.</p> + +<p>"And if not with you—where then?" asks Lady Monkton, indifferently, and +as if more with a desire to keep up the dying conversation than from any +acute thirst for knowledge.</p> + +<p>"She stays a good deal with Lady Baltimore," says Barbara, feeling +weary, and rather disgusted.</p> + +<p>"Ah! indeed! Sort of companion—a governess, I suppose?"</p> + +<p>A long pause. Mrs. Monkton's dark eyes grow dangerously bright, and a +quick color springs into her cheeks.</p> + +<p>"No!" begins she, in a low but indignant tone, and then suppresses +herself. She can't, she mustn't quarrel with Freddy's people! "My sister +is neither companion nor governess to Lady Baltimore," says she icily. +"She is only her friend."</p> + +<p>"Friend?" repeats the old lady, as if not quite understanding.</p> + +<p>"A great friend," repeats Barbara calmly. Lady Monkton's astonishment is +even more insulting than her first question. But Barbara has made up her +mind to bear all things.</p> + +<p>"There are friends and friends," puts in Miss L'Estrange with her most +offensive air.</p> + +<p>A very embarrassing silence falls on this, Barbara would say nothing +more, an inborn sense of dignity forbidding her. But this does not +prevent a very natural desire on her part to look at her husband, not so +much to claim his support as to know if he has heard.</p> + +<p>One glance assures her that he has. A pause in the conversation with his +father has enabled him to hear everything. Barbara has just time to note +that his brow is black and his lips ominously compressed before she sees +him advance toward his mother.</p> + +<p>"You seem to, be very singularly ignorant of my wife's status in +society——" he is beginning is a rather terrible tone, when Barbara, +with a little graceful gesture, checks him. She puts out her hand and +smiles up at him, a wonderful smile under the circumstances.</p> + +<p>"Ah! that is just it," she says, sweetly, but with determination. "She +is ignorant where we are concerned—Joyce and I. If she had only spared +time to ask a little question or two! But as it is——" The whole speech +is purposely vague, but full of contemptuous rebuke, delicately veiled. +"It is nothing, I assure you, Freddy. Your mother is not to be blamed. +She has not understood. That is all."</p> + +<p>"I fail even now to understand," says the old lady, with a somewhat +tremulous attempt at self-assertion.</p> + +<p>"So do I," says the antique upon the lounge near her, bristling with a +wrath so warm that it has unsettled the noble structure on her head, and +placed it in quite an artful situation, right over her left ear. "I see +nothing to create wrath in the mind of any one, in the idea of a +young—er——" She comes to a dead pause; she had plainly been going to +say young person—but Frederic's glare had been too much for her. It has +frightened her into good behavior, and she changes the obnoxious word +into one more complaisant.</p> + +<p>"A young what?" demands he imperiously, freezing his aunt with a stony +stare.</p> + +<p>"Young girl!" returns she, toning down a little, but still betraying +malevolence of a very advanced order in her voice and expression. "I see +nothing derogatory in the idea of a young girl devoid of fortune taking +a——"</p> + +<p>Again she would have said something insulting. The word "situation" is +on her lips; but the venom in her is suppressed a second time by her +nephew.</p> + +<p>"Go on," says he, sternly.</p> + +<p>"Taking a—er—position in a nice family," says she, almost spitting out +the words like a bad old cat.</p> + +<p>"She has a position in a very nice family," says Monkton readily. "In +mine! As companion, friend, playfellow, in fact anything you like of the +light order of servitude. We all serve, my dear aunt, though that idea +doesn't seem to have come home to you. We must all be in bondage to each +other in this world—the only real freedom is to be gained in the world +to come. You have never thought of that? Well, think of it now. To be +kind, to be sympathetic, to be even Commonly civil to people is to +fulfil the law's demands."</p> + +<p>"You go too far; she is old, Freddy," Barbara has scarcely time to +whisper, when the door is thrown open, and Dicky Browne, followed by +Felix Dysart, enters the room.</p> + +<p>It is a relief to everybody. Lady Monkton rises to receive them with a +smile: Miss L'Estrange looks into the teapot. Plainly she can still see +some tea leaves there. Rising, she inclines the little silver kettle +over them, and creates a second deluge. She has again made tea. May she +be forgiven!</p> + +<p>"Going to give us some tea, Miss L'Estrange?" says Dicky, bearing down +upon her with a beaming face. She has given him some before this. "One +can always depend upon you for a good cup. Ah, thanks. Dysart, I can +recommend this. Have a cup; do."</p> + +<p>"No, thank you," says Dysart, who has secured a seat next to Barbara, +and is regarding her anxiously, while replying to her questions of +surprise at seeing him in town at this time of year. She is surprised +too, and a little shocked to see him look so ill.</p> + +<p>Dicky is still holding a brilliant conversation with Miss L'Estrange, +who, to him, is a joy for ever.</p> + +<p>"Didn't expect to see me here again so soon, eh?" says he, with a +cheerful smile.</p> + +<p>"There you are wrong," returns that spinster, in the hoarse croak that +distinguishes her. "The fact that you were here yesterday and couldn't +reasonably be supposed to come again for a week, made it at once a +certainty that you would turn up immediately. The unexpected is what +always happens where you are concerned."</p> + +<p>"One of my many charms," says Mr. Browne gayly, hiding his untasted cup +by a skillful movement behind the sugar bowl. "Variety, you know, is +ever charming. I'm a various person, therefore I'm charming."</p> + +<p>"Are you?" says Miss L'Estrange, grimly.</p> + +<p>"Can you look at me and doubt it?" demands Mr. Browne, deep reproach in +his eyes.</p> + +<p>"I can," returns Miss L'Estrange, presenting an uncompromising front. "I +can also suggest to you that those lumps of sugar are meant to put in +the cups with the tea, not to be consumed wholesale. Sugar, plain, is +ruinous to the stomach and disastrous to the teeth."</p> + +<p>"True, true," says Mr. Browne, absently, "and both mine are so pretty."</p> + +<p>Miss L'Estrange rises to her feet and confronts him with a stony glare.</p> + +<p>"Both what?" demands she.</p> + +<p>"Eh? Why, both of them," persists Mr. Browne.</p> + +<p>"I think, Richard, that the sooner you return to your hotel, or whatever +low haunt you have chosen as your present abode, the better it will be +for all present."</p> + +<p>"Why so?" demands Mr. Browne, indignantly. "What have I done now?"</p> + +<p>"You know very well, sir," says Miss L'estrange. "Your language is +disgraceful. You take an opportunity of turning an innocent remark of +mine, a kindly warning, into a ribald——"</p> + +<p>"Good heavens!" says he, uplifting brows and hands. "I never yet knew it +was ribaldry to talk about one's teeth."</p> + +<p>"You were not talking about your teeth," says Miss L'Estrange sternly. +"You said distinctly 'both of them.'"</p> + +<p>"Just so," says Dicky. "I've only got two."</p> + +<p>"Is that the truth, Richard?" with increasing majesty.</p> + +<p>"Honest Injun," says Mr. Browne, unabashed. "And they are out of sight. +All you can see have been purchased, and I assure you, dear Miss +L'Estrange," with anxious earnestness, "paid for. One guinea the entire +set; a single tooth, two-and-six. Who'd be without 'em?"</p> + +<p>"Well, I'm sorry to hear it," says Miss L'Estrange reseating herself and +regarding him still with manifest distrust. "To lose one's teeth so +early in life speaks badly for one's moral conduct. Anyhow, I shan't +allow you to destroy your guinea's worth. I shall remove temptation from +your path."</p> + +<p>Lifting the sugar bowl she removes it to her right side, thus laying +bare the fact that Mr. Browne's cup of tea is still full to the brim.</p> + +<p>It is the last stroke.</p> + +<p>"Drink your tea," says she to the stricken Dicky in a tone that admits +of no delay. He drinks it.</p> + +<p>Meantime, Barbara has been very kind to Felix Dysart, answering his +roundabout questions that always have Joyce as their central meaning. +One leading remark of his is to the effect that he is covered with +astonishment to find her and Monkton in London. Is he surprised. Well, +no doubt, yes. Joyce is in town, too, but she has not come out with her +to-day. Have they been to the theatre? Very often; Joyce, especially, is +quite devoted to it. Do they go much to the picture galleries? Well, to +one or two. There is so much to be done, and the children are rather +exigeant, and demand all the afternoon. But she had heard Joyce say that +she was going to-morrow to Doré's Gallery. She thought Tommy ought to be +shown something more improving than clowns and wild animals and toy +shops.</p> + +<p>Mr. Dysart, at this point, said he thought Miss Kavanagh was more +reflective than one taking a careless view of her might believe.</p> + +<p>Barbara laughed.</p> + +<p>"Do you take the reflective view?" says she.</p> + +<p>"Do you recommend me to take the careless one?" demands he, now looking +fully at her. There is a good deal of meaning in his question, but +Barbara declines to recognize it. She feels she has gone far enough in +that little betrayal about Doré's Gallery. She refuses to take another +step; she is already, indeed, a little frightened by what she has done +If Joyce should hear of it—oh——And yet how could she refrain from +giving that small push to so deserving a cause?</p> + +<p>"No, no; I recommend nothing," says she, still laughing. "Where are you +staying?"</p> + +<p>"With my cousins, the Seaton Dysarts. They had to come up to town about +a tooth, or a headache, or neuralgia, or something; we shall never quite +know what, as it has disappeared, whatever it is. Give me London smoke +as a perfect cure for most ailments. It is astonishing what remarkable +recoveries it can boast. Vera and her husband are like a couple of +children. Even the pantomime isn't too much for them."</p> + +<p>"That reminds me the children ought to be here by this time," says Mrs. +Monkton, drawing out her watch. "They went to the afternoon performance. +I really think," anxiously, "they are very late——"</p> + +<p>She has hardly spoken when a sound of little running feet up the stairs +outside sets her maternal fears at rest. Nearer and nearer they sound; +they stop, there is a distant scuffle, the door is thrown violently +open, and Tommy and Mabel literally fall into the room.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Then seemed to me this world far less in size,</span> +<span class="i2">Likewise it seemed to me less wicked far;</span> +<span class="i0">Like points in heaven I saw the stars arise,</span> +<span class="i2">And longed for wings that I might catch a star."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>Least said, soonest mended! Tommy is on his feet again in no time, and +has picked up Mabel before you could say Jack Robinson, and once again, +nothing daunted by their ignominious entry, they rush up the room and +precipitate themselves upon their mother. This pious act being +performed, Tommy sees fit to show some small attention to the other +people present.</p> + +<p>"Thomas," says Mr. Browne, when he has shaken hands with him, "if you +wait much longer without declaring yourself you will infallibly burst, +and that is always a rude thing to do in a friend's drawing-room. Speak, +Thomas, or die—you are evidently full of information!"</p> + +<p>"Well, I won't tell you!" says Tommy, naturally indignant at this +address. He throws a resentful look at him over his shoulder while +making his way to his grandfather. There is a queer sort of +sympathy—understanding—what you will—between the child and the stern +old man.</p> + +<p>"Come here," says Sir George, drawing Tommy to him. "Well, and did you +enjoy yourself? Was it all your fancy painted it?"</p> + +<p>Sir George has sunk into a chair with all the heaviness of an old man, +and the boy has crept between his knees and is looking up at him with +his beautiful little face all aglow.</p> + +<p>"Oh! 'twas lovely!" says he. "'Twas splendid! There was lights all over +the house. 'Twas like night—only 'twasn't night, and that was grand! +And there were heaps of people. A whole town was there. And there +were——Grandpa! why did they have lamps there when it was daytime?"</p> + +<p>"Because they have no windows in a theatre," says Sir George, patting +the little hot, fat hand that is lying on his arm, with a strange +sensation of pleasure in the touch of it.</p> + +<p>"No windows?" with big eyes opened wide.</p> + +<p>"Not one."</p> + +<p>"Then why have we windows?" asks Tommy, with an involuntary glance round +him. "Why are there windows anywhere? It's ever so much nicer without +them. Why can't we have lamps always, like the theatre people?"</p> + +<p>"Why, indeed?" says Mr. Browne, sympathetically. "Sir George, I hope you +will take your grandson's advice to heart, and block up all these absurd +windows, and let a proper ray of light descend upon us from the honest +burner. Who cares for strikes? Not I!"</p> + +<p>"Well, Tommy, we'll think about it," says Sir George. "And now go on. +You saw——"</p> + +<p>"Bluebeard!" says Tommy, almost roaring in the excitement of his +delight. "A big Bluebeard, and he was just like the pictures of him at +home, with his toes curled up and a red towel round his head and a blue +night-gown and a smiter in his hand."</p> + +<p>"A cimeter, Tommy?" suggests his mother, gently.</p> + +<p>"Eh?" says Tommy. "Well, it's all the same," says he, after a pause, +replete with deep research and with a truly noble impartiality.</p> + +<p>"It is, indeed!" says Mr. Browne, open encouragement in his eye. "And so +you saw Mr. Bluebeard! And did he see you?"</p> + +<p>"Oh! he saw me!" cries Mabel, in a little whimpering' tone. "He looked +straight into the little house where we were, and I saw his eye—his +horrid eye!" shaking her small head vigorously—"and it ran right into +mine, and he began to walk up to me, and I——"</p> + +<p>She stops, her pretty red lips quivering, her blue eyes full of tears.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Mabel was so frightened!" says Tommy, the Bold. "She stuck her nose +into nurse's fur cape and roared!"</p> + +<p>"I didn't!" says Mabel promptly.</p> + +<p>"You did!" says Tommy, indignant at being contradicted, "and she said it +would never be worth a farthing ever after, and——Well, any way, you +know, Mabel, you didn't like the heads."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no; I didn't—I hated them! They were all hanging to one side; and +there was nasty blood, and they looked as if they was going to waggle," +concludes Mabel, with a terrified sob, burying her own head in her +mother's lap.</p> + +<p>"Oh! she is too young," says Barbara, nervously clasping her little +woman close to her in a quiet, undemonstrative way, but so as to make +the child herself feel the protection of her arms.</p> + +<p>"Too young for so dismal a sight," says Dysart, stooping over and +patting Mabel's sunny curls with a kindly touch. He is very fond of +children, as are all men, good and bad.</p> + +<p>"I should not have let her go," says Mrs. Monkton, with self-reproach. +"Such exhibitions are painful for young minds, however harmless."</p> + +<p>"When she is older——" begins Dysart, still caressing the little head.</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes—she is too young—far too young," says Mrs. Monkton, giving +the child a second imperceptible hug.</p> + +<p>"One is never too young to learn the miseries of the world," says Miss +L'Estrange, in her most terrible tone. "Why should a child be pampered +and petted, and shielded from all thoughts of harm and wrong, as though +they never existed? It is false treatment. It is a wilful deceiving of +the growing mind. One day they must wake to all the horrors of the +world. They should therefore be prepared for it, steadily, sternly, +unyieldingly!"</p> + +<p>"What a grand—what a strong nature!" says Mr. Browne, uplifting his +hands in admiration. "You would, then, advocate the cause of the +pantomime?" says he, knowing well that the very name of theatre stinks +in the nostrils of Miss L'Estrange.</p> + +<p>"Far be it from me!" says she, with a violent shake of her head. "May +all such disreputable performances come to a bad end, and a speedy one, +is my devout prayer. But," with a vicious glance at Barbara, "I would +condemn the parents who would bring their children up in a dark +ignorance of the woes and vices of the world in which they must pass +their lives. I think, as Mabel has been permitted to look at the +pernicious exhibition of this afternoon, she should also be encouraged +to look with calmness upon it, if only to teach her what to expect from +life."</p> + +<p>"Good heavens!" says Mr. Browne, in a voice of horror. "Is that what she +has to expect? Rows of decapitated heads! Have you had private +information, Miss L'Estrange? Is a rehearsal of the French Revolution to +be performed in London? Do you really believe the poor child is doomed +to behold your head carried past the windows on a pike? Was there +meaning in the artless prattle of our Thomas just now when he condemned +windows as a social nuisance, or——"</p> + +<p>"I suppose you think you are amusing!" interrupts the spinster, +malignantly. It is plain that she objects to the idea of her head being +on a pike. "At all events, if you must jest on serious subjects, I +desire you, Richard, to leave me out of your silly maunderings."</p> + +<p>"Your will is my law," says Dicky, rising. "I leave you!"</p> + +<p>He makes a tragic, retreat, and finding an empty chair near Monkton +takes possession of it.</p> + +<p>"I must protest against your opinion," says Dysart, addressing Miss +L'Estrange with a smile. "Children should be regarded as something +better than mere lumps of clay to be experimentalized upon!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes," says Barbara, regarding the spinster gently but with +ill-concealed aversion. "You cannot expect any one to agree with you +there. I, for one, could not."</p> + +<p>"I don't know that I ever asked you to," says Miss L'Estrange with such +open impertinence that Barbara flushes up to the roots of her hair.</p> + +<p>Silence falls on the room, except for a light conversation being carried +on between Dicky and Monkton, both of whom have heard nothing. Lady +Monkton looks uncomfortable. Sir George hastens to the rescue.</p> + +<p>"Surely you haven't told us everything, Tommy?" says he giving his +grandson a pull toward him. "Besides Mr. Bluebeard, what else was +there?"</p> + +<p>"Lots of things," says Tommy, vaguely, coming back from an eager +attention to Miss L'Estrange's evil suggestion to a fresh remembrance of +his past delights. "There was a band and it shouted. Nurse said it took +the roof off her head, but I looked, and her bonnet didn't stir. And +there was the harlequin, he was beautiful. He shined like anything. He +was all over scales, like a trout."</p> + +<p>"A queer fish," says his grandfather.</p> + +<p>"He jumped about and beat things with a little stick he had. And he +danced, and there was a window and he sprang right through it, and he +came up again and wasn't a bit hurt, not a bit. Oh! he was lovely, +grandpapa, and so was his concubine——"</p> + +<p>"His what?" says Sir George.</p> + +<p>"His concubine. His sweetheart. That was her name," says Tommy +confidently.</p> + +<p>There is a ghastly silence. Lady Monkton's pale old cheeks color +faintly. Miss L'Estrange glares. As for Barbara, she feels the world has +at last come to an end. They will be angry with the boy. Her mission to +London will have failed—that vague hope of a reconciliation through the +children that she had yet scarcely allowed to herself.</p> + +<p>Need it be said that Mr. Browne has succumbed to secret but disgraceful +mirth. A good three-quarters of a full-sized handkerchief is already in +his mouth—a little more of the cambric and "death through suffocation" +will adorn the columns of the <i>Times</i> in the morning. Sir George, too, +what is the matter with him? He is speechless—from indignation one must +hope.</p> + +<p>"What ails you, grandpa?" demands Tommy, after a full minute's strict +examination of him.</p> + +<p>"Oh, nothing, nothing," says Sir George, choking; "it is only—that I'm +glad you have so thoroughly enjoyed yourself and your harlequin, +and—ha, ha, ha, your Columbine. Columbine, now mind. And here's this +for you, Tommy, because you are such a good boy."</p> + +<p>He opens the little grandson's hand and presses into the pink palm of it +a sovereign.</p> + +<p>"Thank you," says Tommy, in the polite regulation tone he has been +taught, without a glance at his gift—a touch of etiquette he has been +taught, too. Then the curious eyes of childhood wander to the palm, and, +seeing the unexpected pretty gold thing lying there, he colors up to the +tips of his ears with surprise and pleasure. Then sudden compunction +seizes on the kindly little heart. The world is strange to him. He knows +but one or two here and there. His father is poor. A sovereign—that is, +a gold piece—would be rare with him, why not rare with another? Though +filled with admiration and gratitude for the giver of so big a gift, the +child's heart commands him not to accept it.</p> + +<p>"Oh, it is too much," says he, throwing his arms round Sir George's neck +and trying to press the sovereign back into his hand. "A shilling I'd +like, but that's such a lot of shillings, and maybe you'd be wanting +it." This is all whispered in the softest, tenderest way.</p> + +<p>"No, no, my boy," says Sir George, whispering back, and glad that he +must whisper. His voice, even so, sounds a little queer to himself. How +often he might have gladdened this child with a present, a small one, +and until now——"Keep it," says he; he has passed his hand round the +little head and is pressing it against his breast.</p> + +<p>"May I? Really?" says Tommy, emancipating his head with a little jerk, +and looking at Sir George with searching eyes.</p> + +<p>"You may indeed!"</p> + +<p>"God bless you!" says Tommy, solemnly.</p> + +<p>It is a startling remark to Sir George, but not so to Tommy. It is +exactly what nurse had said to her daughter the day before she left +Ireland with Tommy and Mabel in charge, when her daughter had brought +her the half of her wages. Therefore it must be correct. To supplement +this blessing Tommy flings his arms around Sir George's neck and gives +him a resounding kiss. Nurse had done that, too, to her daughter.</p> + +<p>"God bless you too, my dear," says Sir George, if not quite as solemnly, +with considerably more tenderness. Tommy's mother, catching the words +and the tone, cheers up. All is not lost yet! The situation is saved. +Tommy has won the day. The inconsequent Tommy of all people! Insult to +herself she had endured, but to have the children disliked would have +been more than she could bear; bur Tommy, apparently, is not +disliked—by the old man at all events. That fact will be sweet to +Freddy. After all, who could resist Tommy? Tears rise to the mother's +eyes. Darling boy! Where is his like upon the whole wide earth? Nowhere.</p> + +<p>She is disturbed in her reverie by the fact that the originator of it is +running toward her with one little closed fist outstretched. How he +runs! His fat calves come twinkling across the carpet.</p> + +<p>"See, mammy, what I've got. Grandpa gave it to me. Isn't he nice? Now +I'll buy a watch like pappy's."</p> + +<p>"You have made him very happy," says Barbara, smiling at Sir George over +her boy's head. She rises as she speaks, and goes to where Lady Monkton +is sitting to bid her good-bye.</p> + +<p>"I hope you will come soon again," says Lady Monkton, not cordially, but +as if compelled to it; "and I hope, too," pausing as if to gather +herself together, "that when you do come you will bring your sister with +you. It will give me—us—pleasure to see her." There is such a dearth +of pleasure in the tone of the invitation that Barbara feels her wrath +rising within her.</p> + +<p>"I thank you," she manages to say very calmly, not committing herself, +either way, and presently finds herself in the street with her husband +and her children. They had declined Lady Monkton's offer of the brougham +to take them home.</p> + +<p>"It was a bad time," says Monkton while waiting at a crossing for a cab +to come to them. "But you must try and not mind them. If the fact that I +am always with you counts for anything, it may help you to endure it."</p> + +<p>"What help could be like it?" says she, tightening her hand on his arm.</p> + +<p>"That old woman, my aunt. She offended you, but you must remember that +she offends everybody. You thought her abominable?"</p> + +<p>"Oh no. I only thought her vulgar," says Mrs. Monkton. It is the one +revenge she permits herself. Monkton breaks into an irresistible laugh.</p> + +<p>"It isn't perfect; it couldn't be unless she heard you," says he. The +cab has come up now, and he puts in the children and then his wife, +finally himself.</p> + +<p>"Tommy crowns all!" says he with a retrospective smile.</p> + +<p>"Eh?" says Tommy, who has the ears of a Midas.</p> + +<p>"Your father says you are a social success, and so does your mother," +says Barbara, smiling at the child's puzzled face, and then giving him a +loving little embrace.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXV" id="CHAPTER_XXXV"></a>CHAPTER XXXV.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Why should two hearts in one breast lie</span> +<span class="i2">And yet not lodge together?</span> +<span class="i0">Oh, love! where is thy sympathy</span> +<span class="i2">If thus our breasts you sever?"</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>"Well, did you like the gallery?" asks Mrs. Monkton, throwing aside her +book to greet Joyce as she returns from Doré's. It is next day, and +Barbara had let the girl go to see the pictures without telling her of +her meeting with Felix the evening before; she had been afraid to say +anything about him lest that guilty secret of hers might transpire—that +deliberate betrayal of Joyce's intended visit to Bond street on the +morrow. If Joyce had heard that, she would, in all probability, have +deferred her going there for ever—and—it was such a chance. Mrs. +Monkton, who, in her time, had said so many hard words about match +makers, as most women have, and who would have scorned to be classed +with them, had promoted and desired this meeting of Felix and Joyce with +all the energy and enthusiasm of which she was capable But that Joyce +should suspect her of the truth is a fear that terrifies her.</p> + +<p>"Very much. So did Tommy. He is very graphic in his remarks," says +Joyce, sinking listlessly into a chair, and taking off her hat. She +looks vexed and preoccupied. "I think he gave several very original +ideas on the subjects of the pictures to those around. They seemed +impressed. You know how far above the foolish feeling, <i>mauvaise honte</i>, +he is; his voice 'like a silver clarion rung.' Excelsior was outdone. +Everybody turned and looked at him with——"</p> + +<p>"I hope he wasn't noisy," says Mrs. Monkton, nervously.</p> + +<p>"With admiration, I was going to say, but you wouldn't let me finish my +sentence. Oh, yes, he was quite a success. One old gentleman wanted to +know if he would accept the part of art critic on his paper. It was very +exciting." She leans back in her chair, the troubled look on her face +growing intensified. She seems glad to be silent, and with downcast eyes +plays with the gloves lying in her lap.</p> + +<p>"Something has happened, Joyce," says her sister, going over to her.</p> + +<p>"Something is happening always," returned Joyce, with a rather impatient +smile.</p> + +<p>"Yes, but to you just now."</p> + +<p>"You are sure to make me tell you sooner or later," says Miss Kavanagh, +"and even if I didn't, Tommy would. I met Mr. Dysart at that gallery +to-day."</p> + +<p>"Felix?" says Mrs. Monkton, feeling herself an abominable hypocrite; yet +afraid to confess the truth. Something in the girl's whole attitude +forbids a confession, at this moment at all events.</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Well?"</p> + +<p>"Well?"</p> + +<p>"He was glad to see you, darling?" very tenderly.</p> + +<p>"Was he? I don't know. He looked very ill. He said he had had a bad +cough. He is coming to see you."</p> + +<p>"You were kind to him, Joyce?"</p> + +<p>"I didn't personally insult him, if you mean that."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, I don't mean that, you know what I mean. He was ill, unhappy; +you did not make him more unhappy?"</p> + +<p>"It is always for him!" cries the girl, with jealous anger. "Is there +never to be a thought for me? Am I nothing to you? Am I never unhappy? +Why don't you ask if he was kind to me?"</p> + +<p>"Was he ever unkind?"</p> + +<p>"Well, you can forget! He said dreadful things to me—dreadful. I am not +likely to forget them if you are. After all, they did not hurt you."</p> + +<p>"Joyce!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I know—I know everything you would say. I am ungrateful, +abominable, but——He was unkind to me! He said what no girl would ever +forgive, and yet you have not one angry word for him."</p> + +<p>"Never mind all that," says Mrs. Monkton, soothingly. "Tell me what you +did to-day—what you said."</p> + +<p>"As little as possible," defiantly. "I tell you I don't want ever to see +him again, or hear of him; I think I hate him. And he looked dying." She +stops here, as if finding a difficulty about saying another word. She +coughs nervously; then, recovering herself, and as if determined to +assert herself anew and show how real is the coldness that she has +declared—"Yes, dying, I think," she says, stubbornly.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I don't think he looked as bad as that!" says Barbara, hastily, +unthinkingly filled with grief, not only at this summary dismissal of +poor Felix from our earthly sphere, but for her sister's unhappiness, +which is as plain to her as though no little comedy had been performed +for the concealment of it.</p> + +<p>"You don't!" repeats Joyce, lifting her head and directing a piercing +glance at her. "You! What do you know about him?"</p> + +<p>"Why—you just said——" stammers Mrs. Monkton, and then breaks down +ignominiously.</p> + +<p>"You knew he was in town," says Joyce, advancing to her, and looking +down on her with clasped-hands and a pale face. "Barbara, speak. You +knew he was here, and never told me; you," with a sudden, fresh burst of +inspiration, "sent him to that place to-day to meet me."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, dearest. No, indeed. He himself can tell you. It was only that +he——"</p> + +<p>"Asked where I was going to, at such and such an hour, and you told +him." She is still standing over poor Mrs. Monkton in an attitude that +might almost be termed menacing.</p> + +<p>"I didn't. I assure you, Joyce, you are taking it all quite wrongly. It +was only——"</p> + +<p>"Oh! only—only," says the girl, contemptuously. "Do you think I can't +read between the lines? I am sure you believe you are sticking to the +honest truth, Barbara, but still——Well," bitterly, "I don't think he +profited much by the information you gave him. Your deception has given +him small satisfaction."</p> + +<p>"I don't think you should speak to me like that," says Mrs. Monkton, in +a voice that trembles perceptibly.</p> + +<p>"I don't care what I say," cries Joyce, with a sudden burst of passion. +"You betray me; he betrays me; all the world seem arrayed against me. +And what have I done to anybody?" She throws out her hands protestingly.</p> + +<p>"Joyce, darling, if you would only listen."</p> + +<p>"Listen! I am always listening, it seems to me. To him, to you, to every +one. I am tired of being silent; I must speak now. I trusted you, +Barbara, and you have been bad to me. Do you want to force him to make +love to me, that you tell him on the very first opportunity where to +find me, and in a place where I am without you, or any one to——"</p> + +<p>"Will you try to understand?" says Mrs. Monkton, with a light stamp of +her foot, her patience going as her grief increases. "He cross-examined +me as to where you were, and would be, and I—I told him. I wasn't going +to make a mystery of it, or you, was I? I told him that you were going +to the Doré Gallery to-day with Tommy. How could I know he would go +there to meet you? He never said he was going. You are unjust, Joyce, +both to him and to me."</p> + +<p>"Do you mean to tell me that for all that you didn't know he would be at +that place to-day?" turning flashing eyes upon her sister.</p> + +<p>"How could I know? Unless a person says a thing right out, how is one to +be sure what he is going to do?"</p> + +<p>"Oh! that is unlike you. It is unworthy of you," says Joyce, turning +from her scornfully. "You did know. And it is not," turning back again +and confronting the now thoroughly frightened Barbara with a glance full +of pathos, "it is not that—your insincerity that hurt me so much, it +is——"</p> + +<p>"I didn't mean to be insincere; you are very cruel—you do not measure +your words."</p> + +<p>"You will tell me next that you meant it all for the best," with a +bitter smile. "That is the usual formula, isn't it? Well, never mind; +perhaps you did. What I object to is you didn't tell me. That I was kept +designedly in the dark both by him and you. Am I," with sudden fire, "a +child or a fool, that you should seek to guide me so blindly? Well," +drawing a long breath, "I won't keep you in the dark. When I left the +gallery, and your protégé, I met—Mr. Beauclerk!"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Monkton, stunned by this intelligence, remains silent for a full +minute. It is death to her hopes. If she has met that man again, it is +impossible to know how things have gone. His fatal influence—her +unfortunate infatuation for him—all will be ruinous to poor Felix's +hopes.</p> + +<p>"You spoke to him?" asks she at last, in an emotionless tone.</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Was Felix with you?"</p> + +<p>"When?"</p> + +<p>"When you met that odious man?"</p> + +<p>"Mr. Beauclerk? No; I dismissed Mr. Dysart as soon as ever I could."</p> + +<p>"No doubt. And Mr. Beauclerk, did you dismiss him as promptly."</p> + +<p>"Certainly not. There was no occasion."</p> + +<p>"No inclination, either. You were kind to him at all events. It is only +to the man who is honest and sincere that you are deliberately uncivil."</p> + +<p>"I hope I was uncivil to neither of them."</p> + +<p>"There is no use giving yourself that air with me, Joyce. You are angry +with me; but why? Only because I am anxious for your happiness. Oh! that +hateful man, how I detest him! He has made you unhappy once—he will +certainly make you unhappy again."</p> + +<p>"I don't think so," says Joyce, taking up her hat and furs with the +evident intention of leaving the room, and thus putting an end to the +discussion.</p> + +<p>"You will never think so until it is too late. You haven't the strength +of mind to throw him over, once and for all, and give your thoughts to +one who is really worthy of you. On the contrary, you spend your time +comparing him favorably with the good and faithful Felix."</p> + +<p>"You should put that down. It will do for his tombstone," says Miss +Kavanagh, with a rather uncertain little laugh.</p> + +<p>"At all events, it would not do for Mr. Beauclerk's tombstone—though I +wish it would—and that I could put it there at once."</p> + +<p>"I shall tell Freddy to read the commandments to you," says Joyce, with +a dreary attempt at mirth—"you have forgotten your duty to your +neighbor."</p> + +<p>"It is all true, however. You can't deny it, Joyce. You are +deliberately—willfully—throwing away the good for the bad. I can't +bear to see it. I can't look on in silence and see you thus miserably +destroying your life. How can you be so blind, darling?" appealing to +her with hands, and voice, and eyes. "Such determined folly would be +strange in any one; stranger far in a girl like you, whose sense has +always been above suspicion."</p> + +<p>"Did it ever occur to you," asks Joyce, in a slightly bantering tone, +that but ill conceals the nervousness that is consuming her, "that you +might be taking a wrong view of the situation? That I was not so blind +after all. That I—What was it you said? that I spent my nights and days +comparing the merits of Mr. Beauclerk with those of your friend, Felix +Dysart—to your friend's discomfiture? Now, suppose that I did thus +waste my time, and gave my veto in favor of Mr. Dysart? How would it be +then? It might be so, you know, for all that he, or you, or any one +could say."</p> + +<p>"It is not so light a matter that you should trifle with it," says Mrs. +Monkton, with a faint suspicion of severity in her soft voice.</p> + +<p>"No, of course not. You are right." Miss Kavanagh moves towards the +door. "After all, Barbara," looking back at her, "that applies to most +things in this sad old world. What matter under heaven can we poor +mortals dare to trifle with? Not one, I think. All bear within them the +seeds of grief or joy. Sacred seeds, both carrying in their bosoms the +germs of eternity. Even when this life is gone from us we still face +weal or woe."</p> + +<p>"Still—we need not make our own woe," says Barbara, who is a sturdy +enemy to all pessimistic thoughts. "Wait a moment, Joyce." She hurries +after her and lays her hand on the girl's shoulder. "Will you come with +me next Wednesday to see Lady Monkton?"</p> + +<p>"Lady Monkton! Why I thought——"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I know. I would not take you there before, because she had not +expressly asked to see you. But to-day she made a—she sent you a formal +message—at all events she said she hoped I would bring you when I came +again."</p> + +<p>"Is that all of it?" asks Joyce, gazing at her sister with a curious +smile, that is troubled, but has still some growing sense of amusement +in it. "What an involved statement! Surely you have forgotten something. +That Mr. Dysart was standing near you, for example, and will probably +find that it is absolutely imperative that he should call on Lady +Monkton next Wednesday, too. Don't set your heart on that, Barbara. I +think, after my interview with him to-day, he will not want to see Lady +Monkton next Wednesday."</p> + +<p>"I know nothing about whether he is to be there or not," says Barbara +steadily. "But as Sir George likes to see the children very often, I +thought of taking them there on that day. It is Lady Monkton's day. And +Dicky Browne, at all events, will be there, and I dare say a good many +of your old friends. Do say you will come."</p> + +<p>"I hate old friends!" says the girl fractiously. "I don't believe I have +any. I don't believe anybody has. I——"</p> + +<p>She pauses as the door is thrown open, and Tommy comes prancing into the +room accompanied by his father.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXXVI.</h2> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"Children know very little; but their capacity of comprehension is +great."</p></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>"I've just been interviewing Tommy on the subject of the pictures," says +Mr. Monkton. "So far as I can make out he disapproves of Doré."</p> + +<p>"Oh! Tommy! and all such beautiful pictures out of the Bible," says his +mother.</p> + +<p>"I did like them," says Tommy. "Only some of them were queer. I wanted +to know about them, but nobody would tell me—and——"</p> + +<p>"Why, Tommy, I explained them all to you," says Joyce, reproachfully.</p> + +<p>"You did in the first two little rooms and in the big room afterward, +where the velvet seats were. They," looking at his father and raising +his voice to an indignant note, "wouldn't let me run round on the top of +them!"</p> + +<p>"Good heavens!" says Mr. Monkton. "Can that be true? Truly this country +is going to the dogs."</p> + +<p>"Where do the dogs live?" asks Tommy, "What dogs? Why does the country +want to go to them?"</p> + +<p>"It doesn't want to go," explains his father. "But it will have to go, +and the dogs will punish them for not letting you reduce its velvet +seats to powder. Never mind, go on with your story; so that unnatural +aunt of yours wouldn't tell you about the pictures, eh?"</p> + +<p>"She did in the beginning, and when we got into the big room too, a +little while. She told me about the great large one at the end, 'Christ +and the Historian,' though I couldn't see the Historian anywhere, +and——"</p> + +<p>"She herself must be a most successful one," says Mr. Monkton, sotto +voce.</p> + +<p>"And then we came to the Innocents, and I perfectly hated that," says +Tommy. "'Twas frightful! Everybody was as large as that," stretching out +his arms and puffing out his cheeks, "and the babies were all so fat and +so horrid. And then Felix came, and Joyce had to talk to him, so I +didn't know any more."</p> + +<p>"I think you forget," says Joyce. "There was that picture with lions in +it. Mr. Dysart himself explained that to you."</p> + +<p>"Oh, that one!" says Tommy, as if dimly remembering, "the circus one! +The one with the round house. I didn't like that either."</p> + +<p>"It is rather ghastly for a child," says his mother.</p> + +<p>"That's not the one with the gas," puts in Tommy. "The one with the gas +is just close to it, and has got Pilate's wife in it. She's very nice."</p> + +<p>"But why didn't you like the other?" asks his father. "I think it one of +the best there."</p> + +<p>"Well, I don't," says Tommy, evidently grieved at having to differ from +his father; but filled with a virtuous determination to stick to the +truth through thick and thin.</p> + +<p>"No?"</p> + +<p>"'Tis unfair," says Tommy.</p> + +<p>"That has been allowed for centuries," says his father.</p> + +<p>"Then why don't they change it?"</p> + +<p>"Change what?" asks Mr. Monkton, feeling a little puzzled. "How can one +change now the detestable cruelties—or the abominable habits of the +dark ages?"</p> + +<p>"But why were they dark?" asks Tommy. "Mammy says they had gas then."</p> + +<p>"I didn't mean that, I——" his mother is beginning, but Monkton stops +her with a despairing gesture.</p> + +<p>"Don't," says he. "It would take a good hour by the slowest clock. Let +him believe there was electric light then if he chooses."</p> + +<p>"Well, but why can't they change it?" persists Tommy, who is evidently +full of the picture in question.</p> + +<p>"I have told you."</p> + +<p>"But the painter man could change it."</p> + +<p>"I am afraid not, Tommy. He is dead."</p> + +<p>"Why didn't he do it before he died then? Why didn't somebody show him +what to do?"</p> + +<p>"I don't fancy he wanted any hints. And besides, he had to be true to +his ideal. It was a terrible time. They did really throw the Christians +to the lions, you know."</p> + +<p>"Of course I know that," says Tommy with a superior air. "But why didn't +they cast another one?"</p> + +<p>"Eh?" says Mr. Monkton.</p> + +<p>"That's why it's unfair!" says Tommy. "There is one poor lion there, and +he hasn't got any Christian! Why didn't Mr. Dory give him one?"</p> + +<p>Tableau!</p> + +<p>"Barbara!" says Mr. Monkton faintly, after a long pause. "Is there any +brandy in the house?"</p> + +<p>But Barbara is looking horrified.</p> + +<p>"It is shocking," she says. "Why should he take such a twisted view of +it. He has always been a kind-hearted child; and now——"</p> + +<p>"Well. He has been kind-hearted to the lions," says Mr. Monkton. "No one +can deny that."</p> + +<p>"Oh! if you persist in encouraging him. Freddy!" says his wife with +tears in her eyes.</p> + +<p>"Believe me, Barbara," breaks in Joyce at this moment, "it is a mistake +to be soft-hearted in this world." There is something bright but +uncomfortable in the steady gaze she directs at her sister. "One should +be hard, if one means to live comfortably."</p> + +<p>"Will you take me soon again to see pictures?" asks Tommy, running to +Joyce and scrambling upon the seat she is occupying. "Do!"</p> + +<p>"But if you dislike them so much."</p> + +<p>"Only some. And other places may be funnier. What day will you take me?"</p> + +<p>"I don't think I shall again make an arrangement beforehand," says +Joyce, rising, and placing Tommy on the ground very gently. "Some +morning just before we start, you and I, we will make our plans."</p> + +<p>She does not look at Barbara this time, but her tone is eloquent.</p> + +<p>Barbara looks at her, however, with eyes full of reproach.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXXVII.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Love is its own great loveliness always,</span> +<span class="i2">And takes new beauties from the touch of time;</span> +<span class="i0">Its bough owns no December and no May,</span> +<span class="i2">But bears its blossoms into winter's clime."</span> +</div></div> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"I have often thought what a melancholy world this would be without +children."</p></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>"Oh, Felix—is it you!" says Mrs. Monkton in a dismayed tone. Her hansom +is at the door and, arrayed in her best bib and tucker, she is hurrying +through the hall when Dysart, who has just come, presents himself. He +was just coming in, in fact, as she was going out.</p> + +<p>"Don't mind me," says he; "there is always to-morrow."</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes,—but——"</p> + +<p>"And Miss Kavanagh?"</p> + +<p>"It is to recover her I am going out this afternoon." It is the next +day, so soon after her rupture with Joyce, that she is afraid to even +hint at further complications. A strong desire to let him know that he +might wait and try his fortune once again on her return with Joyce is +oppressing her mind, but she puts it firmly behind her, or thinks she +does. "She is lunching at the Brabazons'," she says; "old friends of +ours. I promised to lunch there, too, so as to be able to bring Joyce +home again."</p> + +<p>"She will be back, then."</p> + +<p>"In an hour and a half at latest," says Mrs. Monkton, who after all is +not strong enough to be quite genuine to her better judgments. "But," +with a start and a fresh determination to be cruel in the cause of +right, "that would be much too long for you to wait for us."</p> + +<p>"I shouldn't think it long," says he.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Monkton smiles suddenly at him. How charming—how satisfactory he +is. Could any lover be more devoted!</p> + +<p>"Well, it would be for all that," says she. "But"—hesitating in a last +vain effort to dismiss, and then losing herself—, "suppose you do not +abandon your visit altogether; that you go away, now, and get your lunch +at your club—I feel," contritely, "how inhospitable I am—and then come +back again here about four o'clock. She—I—will have returned by that +time."</p> + +<p>"An excellent plan," says he, his face lighting up. Then it clouds +again. "If she knows I am to be here?"</p> + +<p>"Ah! that is a difficulty," says Mrs. Monkton, her own pretty face +showing signs of distress. "But anyhow, risk it."</p> + +<p>"I would rather she knew, however," says he steadily. The idea of +entrapping her into a meeting with him is abhorrent to him. He had had +enough of that at the Doré Gallery; though he had been innocent of any +intentional deception there.</p> + +<p>"I will tell her then," says Mrs. Monkton; "and in the meantime go and +get your——"</p> + +<p>At this moment the door on the right is thrown open, and Tommy, with a +warhoop, descends upon them, followed by Mabel.</p> + +<p>"Oh! it's Felix!" cries he joyfully. "Will you stay with us, Felix? +We've no one to have dinner with us to-day. Because mammy is going away, +and Joyce is gone, and pappy is nowhere; and nurse isn't a bit of +good—she only says, 'Take care you don't choke yourselves, me +dearies!'" He imitates nurse to the life. "And dinner will be here in a +minute. Mary says she's just going to bring it upstairs."</p> + +<p>"Oh, do—do stay with us," supplements little Mabel, thrusting her small +hand imploringly into his. It is plain that he is in high favor with the +children, however out of it with a certain other member of the +family—and feeling grateful to them, Dysart hesitates to say the "No" +that is on his lips. How hard it is to refuse the entreaties of these +little clinging fingers—these eager, lovely, upturned faces!</p> + +<p>"If I may——?" says he at last, addressing Mrs. Monkton, and thereby +giving in.</p> + +<p>"Oh! as for that! You know you may," says she. "But you will perfectly +hate it. It is too bad to allow you to accept their invitation. You will +be bored to death, and you will detest the boiled mutton. There is only +that and—rice, I think. I won't even be sure of the rice. It may be +tapioca—and that is worse still."</p> + +<p>"It's rice," says Tommy, who is great friends with the cook, and knows +till her secrets.</p> + +<p>"That decides the question," says Felix gravely. "Every one knows that I +adore rice. It is my one weakness."</p> + +<p>At this, Mrs. Monkton gives way to an irrepressible laugh, and he, +catching the meaning of it, laughs, too.</p> + +<p>"You are wrong, however," says he; "that other is my one strength. I +could not live without it. Well, Tommy, I accept your invitation. I +shall stay and lunch—dine with you." In truth, it seems sweet in his +eyes to remain in the house that she (Joyce) occupies; it will be easier +to wait, to hope for her return there than elsewhere.</p> + +<p>"Your blood be on your own head," says Barbara, solemnly. "If, however, +it goes too far, I warn you there are remedies. When it occurs to you +that life is no longer worth living, go to the library; you will find +there a revolver. It is three hundred years old, I'm told, and it is +hung very high on the wall to keep it out of Freddy's reach. Blow your +brains out with it—if you can."</p> + +<p>"You're awfully good, awfully thoughtful," says Mr. Dysart, "but I don't +think, when the final catastrophe arrives, it will be suicide. If I must +murder somebody, it will certainly not be myself; it will be either the +children or the mutton."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Monkton laughs, then turns a serious eye on Tommy.</p> + +<p>"Now, Tommy," says she, addressing him with a gravity that should have +overwhelmed him, "I am going away from you for an hour or so, and Mr. +Dysart has kindly accepted your invitation to lunch with him. I do +hope," with increasing impressiveness, "you will be good."</p> + +<p>"I hope so, too," returns Tommy, genially.</p> + +<p>There is an astonished pause, confined to the elders only, and then, Mr. +Dysart, unable to restrain himself any longer, bursts but laughing.</p> + +<p>"Could anything be more candid?" says he; "more full of trust in +himself, and yet with a certain modesty withal! There! you can go, Mrs. +Monkton, with a clear conscience. I am not afraid to give myself up to +the open-handed dealing of your son." Then his tone changes—he follows +her quickly as she turns from him to the children to bid them good-bye.</p> + +<p>"Miss Kavanagh," says he, "is she well—happy?"</p> + +<p>"She is well," says Barbara, stopping to look back at him with her hand +on Mabel's shoulder—there is reservation in her answer.</p> + +<p>"Had she any idea that I would call to-day?" This question is absolutely +forced from him.</p> + +<p>"How should she? Even I—did I know it? Certainly I thought you would +come some day, and soon, and she may have thought so, too, but—you +should have told me. You called too soon. Impatience is a vice," says +Mrs. Monkton, shaking her head in a very kindly fashion, however.</p> + +<p>"I suppose when she knows—when," with a rather sad smile, "you tell +her—I am to be here on her return this afternoon she will not come with +you."</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, she will. I think so—I am sure of it. But you must +understand, Felix, that she is very peculiar, difficult is what they +call it now-a-days. And," pausing and glancing at him, "she is angry, +too, about something that happened before you left last autumn. I hardly +know what; I have imagined only, and," rapidly, "don't let us go into +it, but you will know that there was something."</p> + +<p>"Something, yes," says he.</p> + +<p>"Well, a trifle, probably. I have said she is difficult. But you failed +somewhere, and she is slow to pardon—where——"</p> + +<p>"Where! What does that mean?" demands the young man, a great spring of +hope taking life within his eyes.</p> + +<p>"Ah, that hardly matters. But she is not forgiving. She is the very +dearest girl I know, but that is one of her faults."</p> + +<p>"She has no faults," says he, doggedly. And then: "Well, she knows I am +to be here this afternoon?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. I told her."</p> + +<p>"I am glad of that. If she returns with you from the Brabazons," with a +quick but heavy sigh, "there will be no hope in that."</p> + +<p>"Don't be too hard," says Mrs. Monkton, who in truth is feeling a little +frightened. To come back without Joyce, and encounter an irate young +man, with Freddy goodness knows where—"She may have other engagements," +she says. She waves him an airy adieu as she makes this cruel +suggestion, and with a kiss more hurried than usual to the children, and +a good deal of nervousness in her whole manner, runs down the steps to +her hansom and disappears.</p> + +<p>Felix, thus abandoned, yields himself to the enemy. He gives his right +hand to Freddy and his left to Mabel, and lets them lead him captive +into the dining-room.</p> + +<p>"I expect dinner is cold," says Tommy cheerfully, seating himself +without more ado, and watching the nurse, who is always in attendance at +this meal, as she raises the cover from the boiled leg of mutton.</p> + +<p>"Oh! no, not yet," says Mr. Dysart, quite as cheerfully, raising the +carving knife and fork.</p> + +<p>Something, however, ominous in the silence, that has fallen on both +children makes itself felt, and without being able exactly to realize it +he suspends operation for a moment to look at them.</p> + +<p>He finds four eyes staring in his direction with astonishment, +generously mingled with pious horror shining in their clear depths.</p> + +<p>"Eh?" says he, involuntarily.</p> + +<p>"Aren't you going to say it?" asks Mabel, in a severe tone.</p> + +<p>"Say what?" says he.</p> + +<p>"Grace," returns Tommy with distinct disapprobation.</p> + +<p>"Oh—er—yes, of course. How could I have forgotten it?" says Dysart +spasmodically, laying down the carvers at once, and preparing to +distinguish himself. He succeeds admirably.</p> + +<p>The children are leaning on the table cloth in devout expectation, that +has something, however, sinister about it. Nurse is looking on, also +expectant. Mr. Dysart makes a wild struggle with his memory, but all to +no effect. The beginning of various prayers come with malignant +readiness to his mind, the ends of several psalms, the middles of a +verse or two, but the graces shamelessly desert him in his hour of need.</p> + +<p>Good gracious! What is the usual one, the one they use at home—the—er? +He becomes miserably conscious that Tommy's left eye is cocked sideways, +and is regarding him with fatal understanding. In a state of desperation +he bends forward as low as he well can, wondering vaguely where on earth +is his hat, and mumbles something into his plate, that might be a bit of +a prayer, but certainly it is not a grace. Perhaps it is a last cry for +help.</p> + +<p>"What's that?" demands Tommy promptly.</p> + +<p>"I didn't hear one word of it," says Mabel with indignation.</p> + +<p>Mr. Dysart is too stricken to be able to frame a reply.</p> + +<p>"I don't believe you know one," continues Tommy, still fixing him with +an uncompromising eye. "I don't believe you were saying anything. Do +you, nurse?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, fie, now, Master Tommy, and I heard your ma telling you you were to +be good."</p> + +<p>"Well, so I am good. 'Tis he isn't good. He won't say his prayers. Do +you know one?" turning again to Dysart, who is covered with confusion. +What the deuce did he stay here for? Why didn't he go to his club? He +could have been back in plenty of time. If that confounded grinning +woman of a nurse would only go away, it wouldn't be so bad; but——</p> + +<p>"Never mind," says Mabel, with calm resignation. "I'll say one for you."</p> + +<p>"No, you shan't," cries Tommy; "it's my turn."</p> + +<p>"No, it isn't."</p> + +<p>"It is, Mabel. You said it yesterday. And you know you said 'relieve' +instead of 'received,' and mother laughed, and——"</p> + +<p>"I don't care. It is Mr. Dysart's turn to-day, and he'll give his to me; +won't you, Mr. Dysart?"</p> + +<p>"You're a greedy thing," cries Tommy, wrathfully, "and you shan't say +it. I'll tell Mr. Dysart what you did this morning if you do."</p> + +<p>"I don't care," with disgraceful callousness. "I will say it."</p> + +<p>"Then, I'll say it, too," says Tommy, with sudden inspiration born of a +determination to die rather than give in, and instantly four fat hands +are joined in pairs, and two seraphic countenances are upraised, and two +shrill voices at screaming-pitch are giving thanks for the boiled +mutton, at a racing speed, that censorious people might probably connect +with a desire on the part of each to be first in at the finish.</p> + +<p>Manfully they fight it out to the bitter end, without a break or a +comma, and with defiant eyes glaring at each other across the table. +There is a good deal of the grace; it is quite a long one when usually +said, and yet very little grace in it to-day, when all is told.</p> + +<p>"You may go now, nurse," says Mabel, presently, when the mutton had been +removed and nurse had placed the rice and jam on the table. "Mr. Dysart +will attend to us." It is impossible to describe the grown-up air with +which this command is given. It is so like Mrs. Monkton's own voice and +manner that Felix, with a start, turns his eyes on the author of it, and +nurse, with an ill-suppressed smile, leaves the room.</p> + +<p>"That's what mammy always says when-there's only her and me and Tommy," +explains Mabel, confidentially. Then. "You," with a doubtful glance, +"you will attend to us, won't you?"</p> + +<p>"I'll do my best," says Felix, in a depressed tone, whose spirits are +growing low. After all, there was safety in nurse!</p> + +<p>"I think I'll come up and sit nearer to you," says Tommy, affably.</p> + +<p>He gets down from his chair and pushes it, creaking hideously, up to Mr. +Dysart's elbow—right under it, in fact.</p> + +<p>"So will I," says Mabel, fired with joy at the prospect of getting away +from her proper place, and eating her rice in a forbidden spot.</p> + +<p>"But," begins Felix, vaguely, "do you think your mother would——"</p> + +<p>"We always do it when we are alone with mammy," says Tommy.</p> + +<p>"She says it keeps us warm to get under her wing when the weather is +cold," says Mabel, lifting a lovely little face to his and bringing her +chair down on the top of his toe. "She says it keeps her warm, too. Are +you warm now?" anxiously.</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes—burning!" says Mr. Dysart, whose toe is not unconscious of a +corn.</p> + +<p>"Ah! I knew you'd like it," says. Tommy. "Now go on; give us our +rice—a little rice and a lot of jam."</p> + +<p>"Is that what your mother does, too?" asks Mr. Dysart, meanly it must be +confessed, but his toe is very bad still. The silence that follows his +question and the look of the two downcast little faces is, however, +punishment enough.</p> + +<p>"Well, so be it," says he. "But even if we do finish the jam—I'm +awfully fond of it myself—we must promise faithfully not to be +disagreeable about it; not to be ill, that is——"</p> + +<p>"Ill! We're never ill," says Tommy, valiantly, whereupon they make an +end of the jam in no time.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXVIII.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"'Tis said the rose is Love's own flower,</span> +<span class="i0">Its blush so bright—its thorns so many."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>There is no mistake in the joy with which Felix parts from his +companions after luncheon. He breathes afresh as he sees them tearing up +the staircase to get ready for their afternoon walk, nurse puffing and +panting behind them.</p> + +<p>The drawing-room seems a bower of repose after the turmoil of the late +feast, and besides, it cannot be long now before she—they—return. That +is if they—she—return at all! He has, indeed, ample time given him to +imagine this last horrible possibility as not only a probability, but a +certainty, before the sound of coming footsteps up the stairs and the +frou-frou of pretty frocks tells him his doubts were harmless. +Involuntarily he rises from his chair and straightens himself, out of +the rather forlorn position into which he has fallen, and fixes his eyes +immovably upon the door. Are there two of them?</p> + +<p>That is beyond doubt. It is only mad people who chatter to themselves, +and certainly Mrs. Monkton is not mad.</p> + +<p>Barbara has indeed raised her voice a little more than ordinary, and has +addressed Joyce by her name on her hurried way up the staircase and +across the cushioned recess outside the door. Now she throws open the +door and enters, radiant, if a little nervous.</p> + +<p>"Here we are," she says, very pleasantly, and with all the put-on manner +of one who has made up her mind to be extremely joyous under distinct +difficulties. "You are still here, then, and alone. They didn't murder +you. Joyce and I had our misgivings all along. Ah, I forgot, you haven't +seen Joyce until now."</p> + +<p>"How d'ye do?" says Miss Kavanagh, holding out her hand to him, with a +calm as perfect as her smile.</p> + +<p>"I do hope they were good," goes on Mrs. Monkton, her nervousness rather +increasing.</p> + +<p>"You know I have always said they were the best children in the world."</p> + +<p>"Ah! said, said," repeats Mrs. Monkton, who now seems grateful for the +chance of saying anything. What is the meaning of Joyce's sudden +amiability—and is it amiability, or——</p> + +<p>"It is true one can say almost anything," says Joyce, quite pleasantly. +She nods her head prettily at Dysart. "There is no law to prevent them. +Barbara thinks you are not sincere. She is not fair to you. You always +do mean what you say, don't you?"</p> + +<p>But for the smile that accompanies these words Dysart would have felt +his doom sealed. But could she mean a stab so cruel, so direct, and +still look kind?</p> + +<p>"Oh! he is always sincere," says Barbara, quickly; "only people say +things about one's children, you know, that——" She stops.</p> + +<p>"They are the dearest children. You are a bad mother; you wrong them," +says Joyce, laughing lightly, plainly at the idea of Barbara's affection +for her children being impugned. "She told me," turning her lovely eyes +full on Dysart, with no special expression in them whatever, "that I +should find only your remains after spending an hour with them." Her +smile was brilliant.</p> + +<p>"She was wrong, you see, I am still here," says Felix, hardly knowing +what he says in his desire to read her face, which is strictly +impassive.</p> + +<p>"Yes, still here," says Miss Kavanagh, smiling, always, and apparently +meaning nothing at all; yet to Felix, watching her, there seems to be +something treacherous in her manner.</p> + +<p>"Still here?" Had she hoped he would be gone? Was that the cause of her +delay? Had she purposely put off coming home to give him time to grow +tired and go away? And yet she is looking at him with a smile!</p> + +<p>"I am afraid you had a bad luncheon and a bad time generally," says Mrs. +Monkton, quickly, who seemed hurried in every way. "But we came home as +soon as ever we could. Didn't we, Joyce?" Her appeal to her sister is +suggestive of fear as to the answer, but she need not have been nervous +about that.</p> + +<p>"We flew!" declares Miss Kavanagh, with delightful zeal. "We thought we +should never get here soon enough. Didn't we, Barbara?" There is the +very barest, faintest imitation of her sister's voice in this last +question; a subtle touch of mockery, so slight, so evanescent as to +leave one doubtful as to its ever having existed.</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes, indeed," says Barbara, coloring.</p> + +<p>"We flew so fast indeed that I am sure you are thoroughly fatigued," +says Miss Kavanagh, addressing her. "Why don't you run away now, and +take off your bonnet and lay down for an hour or so?"</p> + +<p>"But," begins Barbara, and then stops short. What does it all mean? this +new departure of her sister's puzzles her. To so deliberately ask for a +<i>tête-a-tête</i> with Felix! To what end? The girl's manner, so bright, +filled with such a glittering geniality—so unlike the usual +listlessness that has characterized it for so long—both confuses and +alarms her. Why is she so amiable now? There has been a little +difficulty about getting her back at all, quite enough to make Mrs. +Monkton shiver for Dysart's reception by her, and here, now, half an +hour later, she is beaming upon him and being more than ordinarily +civil. What is she going to do?</p> + +<p>"Oh! no 'buts,'" says Joyce gaily. "You know you said your head was +aching, and Mr. Dysart will excuse you. He will not be so badly off even +without you. He will have me!" She turns a full glance on Felix as she +says this, and looks at him with lustrous eyes and white teeth showing +through her parted lips. The <i>soupçon</i> of mockery in her whole air, of +which all through he has been faintly but uncomfortably aware, has +deepened. "I shall take care he is not dull."</p> + +<p>"But," says Barbara, again, rather helplessly.</p> + +<p>"No, no. You must rest yourself. Remember we are going to that 'at +home,' at the Thesigers' to-night, and I would not miss it for anything. +Don't dwell with such sad looks on Mr. Dysart, I have promised to look +after him. You will let me take care of you for a little while, Mr. +Dysart, will you not?" turning another brilliant smile upon Felix, who +responds to it very gravely.</p> + +<p>He is regarding her with a searching air. How is it with her? Some old +words recur to him:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"There is treachery, O Ahaziah!"</span> +</div></div> + +<p>Why does she look at him like that? He mistrusts her present attitude. +Even that aggressive mood of hers at the Doré gallery on that last day +when they met was preferable to this agreeable but detestable +indifference.</p> + +<p>"It is always a pleasure to be with you," says he steadily, perhaps a +little doggedly.</p> + +<p>"There! you see!" says Joyce, with a pretty little nod at her sister.</p> + +<p>"Well, I shall take half an hour's rest," says Mrs. Monkton, +reluctantly, who is, in truth, feeling as fresh as a daisy, but who is +afraid to stay. "But I shall be back for tea." She gives a little kindly +glance to Felix, and, with a heart filled with forebodings, leaves the +room.</p> + +<p>"What a glorious day it has been!" says Joyce, continuing the +conversation with Dysart in that new manner of hers, quite as if +Barbara's going was a matter of small importance, and the fact that she +has left them for the first time for all these months alone together of +less importance still.</p> + +<p>She is standing on the hearthrug, and is slowly taking the pins out of +her bonnet. She seems utterly unconcerned. He might be the veriest +stranger, or else the oldest, the most uninteresting friend in the +world.</p> + +<p>She has taken out all the pins now, and has thrown her bonnet on to the +lounge nearest to her, and is standing before the glass in the +overmantel patting and pushing into order the soft locks that lie upon +her forehead.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXXIX.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Ah, were she pitiful as she is fair."</span> +<span class="i0">"Life's a varied, bright illusion,</span> +<span class="i0">Joy and sorrow—light and shade."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>"It was almost warm," says she, turning round to him. She seems to be +talking all the time, so vivid is her face, so intense her vitality. "I +was so glad to see the Brabazons again. You know them, don't you? Kit +looked perfect. So lovely, so good in every way—voice, face, manners. I +felt I envied her. It would be delightful to feel that every one must be +admiring one, as she does." She glances at him, and he leans a little +toward her. "No, no, not a compliment, please. I know I am as much +behind Kit as the moon is behind the sun."</p> + +<p>"I wasn't going to pay you a compliment," says he, slowly.</p> + +<p>"No?" she laughs. It was unlike her to have made that remark, and just +as unlike her to have taken his rather discourteous reply so +good-naturedly.</p> + +<p>"It was a charming visit," she goes on, not in haste, but idly as it +were, and as if words are easy to her. "I quite enjoyed it. Barbara +didn't. I think she wanted to get home—she is always thinking of the +babies—or——Well, I did. I am not ungrateful. I take the goods the +gods provide, and find honest pleasure in them. I do not think, indeed, +I laughed so much for quite a century as to-day with Kit."</p> + +<p>"She is sympathetic," says Felix, with the smallest thought of the +person in question in his mind.</p> + +<p>"More than that, surely. Though that is a hymn of praise in itself. +After all it is a relief to meet Irish people when one has spent a week +or two in stolid England. You agree with me?"</p> + +<p>"I am English," returns he.</p> + +<p>"Oh! Of course! How rude of me! I didn't mean it, however. I had +entirely forgotten, our acquaintance having been confined entirely to +Irish soil until this luckless moment. You do forgive me?"</p> + +<p>She is leaning a little forward and looking at him with a careless +expression.</p> + +<p>"No," returns he briefly.</p> + +<p>"Well, you should," says she, taking no notice of his cold rejoinder, +and treating it, indeed, as if it is of no moment. If there was a deeper +meaning in his refusal to grant her absolution she declines to +acknowledge it. "Still, even that <i>bêtise</i> of mine need not prevent you +from seeing some truth in my argument. We have our charms, we Irish, +eh?"</p> + +<p>"Your charm?"</p> + +<p>"Well, mine, if you like, as a type, and"—recklessly and with a shrug +of her shoulders—"if you wish to be personal."</p> + +<p>She has gone a little too far.</p> + +<p>"I think I have acknowledged that," says he, coldly. He rises abruptly +and goes over to where she is standing on the hearthrug—shading her +face from the fire with a huge Japanese fan. "Have I ever denied your +charm?" His tone has been growing in intensity, and now becomes stern. +"Why do you talk to me like this? What is the meaning of it all—your +altered manner—everything? Why did you grant me this interview?"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps because"—still with that radiant smile, bright and cold as +early frost—"like that little soapy boy, I thought you would 'not be +happy till you got it.'"</p> + +<p>She laughs lightly. The laugh is the outcome of the smile, and its close +imitation. It is perfectly successful, but on the surface only. There is +no heart in it.</p> + +<p>"You think I arranged it?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no; how could I? You have just said I arranged it." She shuts up +her fan with a little click. "You want to say something, don't you?" +says she, "well, say it!"</p> + +<p>"You give me permission, then?" asks he, gravely, despair knocking at +his heart.</p> + +<p>"Why not—would I have you unhappy always?" Her tone is jesting +throughout.</p> + +<p>"You think," taking the hand that holds the fan and restraining its +motion for a moment, "that if I do speak I shall be happier?"</p> + +<p>"Ah! that is beyond me," says she. "And yet—yes; to get a thing over is +to get rid of fatigue. I have argued it all out for myself, and have +come to the conclusion——"</p> + +<p>"For yourself!"</p> + +<p>"Well, for you too," a little impatiently. "After all, it is you who +want to speak. Silence, to me, is golden. But it occurred to me in the +silent watches of the night," with another, now rather forced, little +laugh, "that if you once said to me all you had to say, you would be +contented, and go away and not trouble me any more."</p> + +<p>"I can do that now, without saying anything," says he slowly. He has +dropped her hand; he is evidently deeply wounded.</p> + +<p>"Can you?"</p> + +<p>Her eyes are resting relentlessly on his. Is there magic in them? Her +mouth has taken a strange expression.</p> + +<p>"I might have known how it would be," says Dysart, throwing up his head. +"You will not forgive! It was but a moment—a few words, idle, +hardly-considered, and——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, considered," says she slowly.</p> + +<p>"They were unmeant!" persists he, fiercely. "I defy you to think +otherwise. One great mistake—a second's madness—and you have ordained +that it shall wreck my whole life! You!—That evening in the library at +the court. I had not thought of——"</p> + +<p>"Ah!" she interrupts him, even more by her gesture—which betrays the +first touch of passion she has shown—than by her voice, that is still +mocking. "I knew you would have to say it!"</p> + +<p>"You know me, indeed!" says he, with an enforced calmness that leaves +him very white. "My whole heart and soul lies bare to you, to ruin it as +you will. It is the merest waste of time, I know; but still I have felt +all along that I must tell you again that I love you, though I fully +understand I shall receive nothing in return but scorn and contempt. +Still, to be able even to say it is a relief to me."</p> + +<p>"And what is it to me?" asks the girl, as pale now as he is. "Is it a +relief—a comfort to me to have to listen to you?"</p> + +<p>She clenches her hands involuntarily. The fan falls with a little crash +to the ground.</p> + +<p>"No." He is silent a moment, "No—it is unfair—unjust! You shall not be +made uncomfortable again. It is the last time.... I shall not trouble +you again in this way. I don't say we shall never meet again. +You"—pausing and looking at her—"you do not desire that?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no," coldly, politely.</p> + +<p>"If you do, say so at once," with a rather peremptory ring in his tone.</p> + +<p>"I should," calmly.</p> + +<p>"I am glad of that. As my cousin is a great friend of mine, and as I +shall get a fortnight's leave soon, I shall probably run over to +Ireland, and spend it with her. After all"—bitterly—"why should I +suppose it would be disagreeable to you?"</p> + +<p>"It was quite a natural idea," says she, immovably.</p> + +<p>"However," says he, steadily, "you need not be afraid that, even if we +do meet, I shall ever annoy you in this way again——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I am never afraid," says she, with that terrible smile that seems +to freeze him.</p> + +<p>"Well, good-bye," holding out his hand. He is quite as composed as she +is now, and is even able to return her smile in kind.</p> + +<p>"So soon? But Barbara will be down to tea in a few minutes. You will +surely wait for her?"</p> + +<p>"I think not."</p> + +<p>"But really do! I am going to see after the children, and give them some +chocolate I bought for them."</p> + +<p>"It will probably make them ill," says he, smiling still. "No, thank +you. I must go now, indeed. You will make my excuses to Mrs. Monkton, +please. Good-bye."</p> + +<p>"Good-bye," says she, laying her hand in his for a second. She has grown +suddenly very cold, shivering: it seems almost as if an icy blast from +some open portal has been blown in upon her. He is still looking at her. +There is something wild—strange—in his expression.</p> + +<p>"You cannot realize it, but I can," says he, unsteadily. "It is good-bye +forever, so far as life for me is concerned."</p> + +<p>He has turned away from her. He is gone. The sharp closing of the door +wakens her to the fact that she is alone. Mechanically, quite calmly, +she looks around the empty room. There is a little Persian chair cover +over there all awry. She rearranges it with a critical eye to its proper +appearance, and afterward pushes a small chair into its place. She pats +a cushion or two, and, finally taking up her bonnet and the pins she had +laid upon the chimney-piece, goes up to her own room.</p> + +<p>Once there——</p> + +<p>With a rush the whole thing comes back to her. The entire meaning of +it—what she has done. That word—forever. The bonnet has fallen from +her fingers. Sinking upon her knees beside the bed, she buries her face +out of sight. Presently her slender frame is torn by those cruel, yet +merciful sobs!</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XL" id="CHAPTER_XL"></a>CHAPTER XL.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The sense of death is most in apprehension."</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Thus grief still treads upon the heels of pleasure."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>It is destined to be a day of grief! Monkton who had been out all the +morning, having gone to see the old people, a usual habit of his, had +not returned to dinner—a very unusual habit with him. It had occurred, +however, once or twice, that he had stayed to dine with them on such +occasions, as when Sir George had had a troublesome letter from his +elder son, and had looked to the younger to give him some comfort—some +of his time to help him to bear it, by talking it all over. Barbara, +therefore, while dressing for Mrs. Thesiger's "At Home," had scarcely +felt anxiety, and, indeed, it is only now when she has come down to the +drawing-room to find Joyce awaiting her, also in gala garb, so far as a +gown goes, that a suspicion of coming trouble takes possession of her.</p> + +<p>"He is late, isn't he?" she says, looking at Joyce with something +nervous in her expression. "What can have kept him? I know he wanted to +meet the General, and now——What can it be?"</p> + +<p>"His mother, probably," says Joyce, indifferently. "From your +description of her, I should say she must be a most thoroughly +uncomfortable old person."</p> + +<p>"Yes. Not pleasant, certainly. A little of her, as George Ingram used to +say, goes a long way. But still——And these Thesiger people are friends +of his, and——"</p> + +<p>"You are working yourself up into a thorough belief in the sensational +street accident," says Joyce, who has seated herself well out of the +glare of the chandelier. "You want to be tragic. It is a mistake, +believe me."</p> + +<p>Something in the bitterness of the girl's tone strikes on her sister's +ear. Joyce had not come down to dinner, had pleaded a headache as an +excuse for her non-appearance, and Mrs. Monkton and Tommy (she could not +bear to dine alone) had devoured that meal <i>à deux</i>. Tommy had certainly +been anything but dull company.</p> + +<p>"Has anything happened, Joyce?" asks her sister quickly. She has had her +suspicions, of course, but they were of the vaguest order.</p> + +<p>Joyce laughs.</p> + +<p>"I told you your nerves were out of order," says she. "What should +happen? Are you still dwelling on the running over business? I assure +you you wrong Freddy. He can take care of himself at a crossing as well +as another man, and better. Even a hansom, I am convinced, could do no +harm to Freddy."</p> + +<p>"I wasn't thinking of him," says Barbara, a little reproachfully, +perhaps. "I——"</p> + +<p>"No. Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself! Here he is," cries she +suddenly, springing to her feet as the sound of Monkton's footsteps +ascending the stairs can now be distinctly heard. "I hope you will +explain yourself to him." She laughs again, and disappears through the +doorway that leads to the second hall outside, as Monkton enters.</p> + +<p>"How late you are, Freddy," says his wife, the reproach in her voice +heightened because of the anxiety she had been enduring. "I thought you +would never——What is it? What has happened? Freddy! there is bad +news."</p> + +<p>"Yes, very bad," says Monkton, sinking into a chair.</p> + +<p>"Your brother——" breathlessly. Of late, she has always known that +trouble is to be expected from him.</p> + +<p>"He is dead," says Monkton in a low tone.</p> + +<p>Barbara, flinging her opera cloak aside, comes quickly to him. She leans +over him and slips her arms round his neck.</p> + +<p>"Dead!" says she in an awestruck tone.</p> + +<p>"Yes. Killed himself! Shot himself! the telegram came this morning when +I was with them. I could not come home sooner; it was impossible to +leave them."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Freddy, I am sorry you left them even now; a line to me would have +done. Oh, what a horrible thing, and to die like that."</p> + +<p>"Yes." He presses one of her hands, and then, rising, begins to move +hurriedly up and down the room. "It was misfortune upon misfortune," he +says presently. "When I went over there this morning they had just +received a letter filled with——"</p> + +<p>"From him!"</p> + +<p>"Yes. That is what seemed to make it so much worse later on. Life in the +morning, death in the afternoon!" His voice grows choked. "And such a +letter as it was, filled with nothing but a most scandalous account of +his——Oh!"——he breaks off suddenly as if shocked. "Oh, he is dead, +poor fellow."</p> + +<p>"Don't take it like that," says Barbara, following him and clinging to +him. "You know you could not be unkind. There were debts then?"</p> + +<p>"Debts! It is difficult to explain just now, my head is aching so; and +those poor old people? Well, it means ruin for them, Barbara. Of course +his debts must be paid, his honor kept intact, for the sake of the old +name, but—they will let all the houses, the two in town, this one, and +their own, and—and the old place down in Warwickshire, the home, all +must go out of their hands."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Freddy, surely—surely there must be some way——"</p> + +<p>"Not one. I spoke about breaking the entail. You know I—his death, poor +fellow. I——"</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes, dear."</p> + +<p>"But they wouldn't hear of it. My mother was very angry, even in her +grief, when I proposed it. They hope that by strict retrenchment, the +property will be itself again; and they spoke about Tommy. They said it +would be unjust to him——"</p> + +<p>"And to you," quickly. She would not have him ignored any longer.</p> + +<p>"Oh, as for me, I'm not a boy, you know. Tommy is safe to inherit as +life goes."</p> + +<p>"Well, so are you," said she, with a sharp pang at her heart.</p> + +<p>"Yes, of course. I am only making out a case. I think it was kind of +them to remember Tommy's claim in the midst of their own grief."</p> + +<p>"It was, indeed," says she remorsefully. "Oh, it was. But if they give +up everything where will they go?"</p> + +<p>"They talk of taking a cottage—a small house somewhere. They want to +give up everything to pay his infamous——There!" sharply, "I am +forgetting again! But to see them makes one forget everything else." He +begins his walk up and down the room again, as if inaction is impossible +to him. "My mother, who has been accustomed to a certain luxury all her +life, to be now, at the very close of it, condemned to——It would break +your heart to see her. And she will let nothing be said of him."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no."</p> + +<p>"Still, there should be justice. I can't help feeling that. Her +blameless life, and his——and she is the one to suffer."</p> + +<p>"It is so often so," says his wife in a low tone. "It is an old story, +dearest, but I know that when the old stories come home to us +individually they always sound so terribly new. But what do they mean by +a small house?" asks she presently in a distressed tone.</p> + +<p>"Well, I suppose a small house," said he, with just a passing gleam of +his old jesting manner. "You know my mother cannot bear the country, so +I think the cottage idea will fall through."</p> + +<p>"Freddy," says his wife suddenly. "She can't go into a small house, a +London small house. It is out of the question. Could they not come and +live with us?"</p> + +<p>She is suggesting a martyrdom for herself, yet she does it +unflinchingly.</p> + +<p>"What! My aunt and all?" asks he, regarding her earnestly.</p> + +<p>"Oh, of course, of course, poor old thing," says she, unable this time, +however, to hide the quaver that desolates her voice.</p> + +<p>"No," says her husband with a suspicion of vehemence. He takes her +suddenly in his arms and kisses her. "Because two or three people are +unhappy is no reason why a fourth should be made so, and I don't want +your life spoiled, so far as I can prevent it. I suppose you have +guessed that I must go over to Nice—where he is—my father could not +possibly go alone in his present state."</p> + +<p>"When, must you go?"</p> + +<p>"To-morrow. As for you——"</p> + +<p>"If we could go home," says she uncertainly.</p> + +<p>"That is what I would suggest, but how will you manage without me? The +children are so troublesome when taken out of their usual beat, and +their nurse—I often wonder which would require the most looking after, +they or she? It occurred to me to ask Dysart to see you across."</p> + +<p>"He is so kind, such a friend," says Mrs. Monkton. "But——"</p> + +<p>She might have said more, but at this instant Joyce appears in the +doorway.</p> + +<p>"We shall be late," cries she, "and Freddy not even dressed, why——Oh, +has anything really happened?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes," says Barbara hurriedly—a few words explains all. "We must +go home to-morrow, you see; and Freddy thinks that Felix would look +after us until we reached Kensington or North Wall."</p> + +<p>"Felix—Mr. Dysart?" The girl's face had grown pale during the recital +of the suicide, but now it looks ghastly. "Why should he come?" cries +she in a ringing tone, that has actual fear in it. "Do you suppose that +we two cannot manage the children between us? Oh, nonsense, Barbara; why +Tommy is as sensible as he can be, and if nurse does prove incapable, +and a prey to seasickness, well—I can take baby, and you can look after +Mabel. It will be all right! We are not going to America, really. +Freddy, please say you will not trouble Mr. Dysart about this matter."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I really think we shall not require him," says Barbara. Something +in the glittering brightness of her sister's eye warns her to give in at +once, and indeed she has been unconsciously a little half-hearted about +having Felix or any stranger as a travelling companion. "There, run +away, Joyce, and go to your bed, darling; you look very tired. I must +still arrange some few things with Freddy."</p> + +<p>"What is the matter with her?" asks Monkton, when Joyce has gone away. +"She looks as if she had been crying, and her manner is so excitable."</p> + +<p>"She has been strange all day, almost repellant. Felix called—and—I +don't know what happened; she insisted upon my leaving her alone with +him; but I am afraid there was a scene of some sort. I know she had been +crying, because her eyes were so red, but she would say nothing, and I +was afraid to ask her."</p> + +<p>"Better not. I hope she is not still thinking of that fellow Beauclerk. +However——" he stops short and sighs heavily.</p> + +<p>"You must not think of her now," says Barbara quickly; "your own trouble +is enough for you. Were your brother's affairs so very bad that they +necessitate the giving up of everything?"</p> + +<p>"It has been going on for years. My father has had to economize, to cut +down everything. You know the old place was let to a Mr.—Mr.—I quite +forget the name now," pressing his hand to his brow; "a Manchester man, +at all events, but we always hoped my father would have been able to +take it back from him next year, but now——"</p> + +<p>"But you say they think in time that the property will——"</p> + +<p>"They think so. I don't. But it would be a pity to undeceive them. I am +afraid, Barbara," with a sad look at her, "you made a bad match. Even +when the chance comes in your way to rise out of poverty, it proves a +thoroughly useless one."</p> + +<p>"It isn't like you to talk like that," says she quickly. "There, you are +overwrought, and no wonder, too. Come upstairs and let us see what you +will want for your journey." Her tone had grown purposely brisk; surely, +on an occasion such as this she is a wife, a companion in a thousand. +"There must be many things to be considered, both for you and for me. +And the thing is, to take nothing unnecessary. Those foreign places, I +hear, are so——"</p> + +<p>"It hardly matters what I take," says he wearily.</p> + +<p>"Well, it matters what I take," says she briskly. "Come and give me a +help, Freddy. You know how I hate to have servants standing over me. +Other people stand over their servants, but they are poor rich people. I +like to see how the clothes are packed." She is speaking not quite +truthfully. Few people like to be spared trouble so much as she does, +but it seems good in her eyes now to rouse him from the melancholy that +is fast growing on him. "Come," she says, tucking her arm into his.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLI" id="CHAPTER_XLI"></a>CHAPTER XLI.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"It is not to-morrow; ah, were it to-day!</span> +<span class="i0">There are two that I know that would be gay.</span> +<span class="i0">Good-by! Good-by! Good-by!</span> +<span class="i0">Ah I parting wounds so bitterly!"</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>It is six weeks later, "spring has come up this way," and all the earth +is glad with a fresh birth.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Tantarara! the joyous Book of Spring</span> +<span class="i2">Lies open, writ in blossoms; not a bird</span> +<span class="i2">Of evil augury is seen or heard!</span> +<span class="i0">Come now, like Pan's old crew we'll dance and sing,</span> +<span class="i0">Or Oberon's, for hill and valley ring</span> +<span class="i2">To March's bugle horn—earth's blood is stirred."</span> +</div></div> + + +<p>March has indeed come; boisterous, wild, terrible, in many ways, but +lovely in others. There is a freshness in the air that rouses glad +thoughts within the breast, vague thoughts, sweet, as undefinable, and +that yet mean life. The whole land seems to have sprung up from a long +slumber, and to be looking with wide happy eyes upon the fresh marvels +Nature is preparing for it. Rather naked she stands as yet, rubbing her +sleepy lids, having just cast from her her coat of snow, and feeling +somewhat bare in the frail garment of bursting leaves and timid grass +growths, that as yet is all she can find wherein to hide her charms; but +half clothed as she is, she is still beautiful.</p> + +<p>Everything seems full of eager triumph. Hills, trees, valleys, lawns, +and bursting streams, all are overflowing with a wild enjoyment. All the +dull, dingy drapery in which winter had shrouded them has now been cast +aside, and the resplendent furniture with which each spring delights to +deck her home stands revealed.</p> + +<p>All these past dead months her house has lain desolate, enfolded in +death's cerements, but now uprising in her vigorous youth, she flings +aside the dull coverings, and lets the sweet, brilliant hues that lie +beneath, shine forth in all their beauty to meet the eye of day.</p> + +<p>Earth and sky are in bridal array, and from the rich recesses of the +woods, and from each shrub and branch the soft glad pæans of the mating +birds sound like a wedding chant.</p> + +<p>Monkton had come back from that sad journey to Nice some weeks ago. He +had had very little to tell on his return, and that of the saddest. It +had all been only too true about those iniquitous debts, and the old +people were in great distress. The two town houses should be let at +once, and the old place in Warwickshire—the home, as he called +it—well! there was no hope now that it would ever be redeemed from the +hands of the Manchester people who held it; and Sir George had been so +sure that this spring he would have been in a position to get back his +own, and have the old place once more in his possession. It was all very +sad.</p> + +<p>"There is no hope now. He will have to let the place to Barton for the +next ten years," said Monkton to his wife when he got home. Barton was +the Manchester man. "He is still holding off about doing it, but he +knows it must be done, and at all events the reality won't be a bit +worse than the thinking about it. Poor old Governor! You wouldn't know +him, Barbara. He has gone to skin and bone, and such a frightened sort +of look in his eyes."</p> + +<p>"Oh! poor, poor old man!" cried Barbara, who could forget everything in +the way of past unkindness where her sympathies were enlisted.</p> + +<p>Toward the end of February the guests had begun to arrive at the Court. +Lady Baltimore had returned there during January with her little son, +but Baltimore had not put in an appearance for some weeks later. A good +many new people unknown to the Monktons had arrived there with others +whom they did know, and after awhile Dicky Browne had come and Miss +Maliphant and the Brabazons and some others with whom Joyce was on +friendly terms, but even though Lady Baltimore had made rather a point +of the girls being with her, Joyce had gone to her but sparingly, and +always in fear and trembling. It was so impossible to know who might not +have arrived last night, or was going to arrive this night!</p> + +<p>Besides, Barbara and Freddy were so saddened, so upset by the late death +and its consequences, that it seemed unkind even to pretend to enjoy +oneself. Joyce grasped at this excuse to say "no" very often to Lady +Baltimore's kindly longings to have her with her. That, up to this, +neither Dysart nor Beauclerk had come to the Court, had been a comfort +to her; but that they might come at any moment kept her watchful and +uneasy. Indeed, only yesterday she had heard from Lady Baltimore that +both were expected during the ensuing week.</p> + +<p>That news leaves her rather unstrung and nervous to-day. After luncheon, +having successfully eluded Tommy, the lynx-eyed, she decides upon going +for a long walk, with a view to working off the depression to which she +has become prey. This is how she happens to be out of the way when the +letter comes for Barbara that changes altogether the tenor of their +lives.</p> + +<p>The afternoon post brings it. The delicious spring day has worn itself +almost to a close when Monkton, entering his wife's room, where she is +busy at a sewing machine altering a frock for Mabel, drops a letter over +her shoulder into her lap.</p> + +<p>"What a queer looking letter," says she, staring in amazement at the big +official blue envelope.</p> + +<p>"Ah—ha, I thought it would make you shiver," says he, lounging over to +the fire, and nestling his back comfortably against the mantle-piece. +"What have you been up to I should like to know. No wonder you are +turning a lively purple."</p> + +<p>"But what can it be?" says she.</p> + +<p>"That's just it," says he teazingly. "I hope they aren't going to arrest +you, that's all. Five years' penal servitude is not a thing to hanker +after."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Monkton, however, is not listening to this tirade. She has broken +open the envelope and is now scanning hurriedly the contents of the +important-looking document within. There is a pause—a lengthened one. +Presently Barbara rises from her seat, mechanically, as it were, always +with her eyes fixed on the letter in her hand. She has grown a little +pale—a little puzzled frown is contracting her forehead.</p> + +<p>"Freddy!" says she in a rather strange tone.</p> + +<p>"What?" says he quickly. "No more bad news I hope."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no! Oh, yes! I can't quite make it out—but—I'm afraid my poor +uncle is dead."</p> + +<p>"Your uncle?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes. My father's brother. I think I told you about him. He went +abroad years ago, and we—Joyce and I, believed him dead a long time +ago, long before I married you even—but now——Come here and read it. +It is worded so oddly that it puzzles me."</p> + +<p>"Let me see it," says Monkton.</p> + +<p>He sinks into an easy-chair, and drags her down on to his knee, the +better to see over her shoulder. Thus satisfactorily arranged, he begins +to read rapidly the letter she holds up before his eyes.</p> + +<p>"Yes, dead indeed," says he sotto voce. "Go on, turn over; you mustn't +fret about that, you know. Barbara—er—er—" reading. "What's this? By +Jove!"</p> + +<p>"What?" says his wife anxiously. "What is the meaning of this horrid +letter, Freddy?"</p> + +<p>"There are a few people who might not call it horrid," says Monkton, +placing his arm round her and rising from the chair. He is looking very +grave. "Even though it brings you news of your poor uncle's death, still +it brings you too the information that you are heiress to about a +quarter of a million!"</p> + +<p>"What!" says Barbara faintly. And then, "Oh no. Oh! nonsense! there must +be some mistake!"</p> + +<p>"Well, it sounds like it at all events. 'Sad occurrence,' +h'm—h'm——" reading. "'Co-heiresses. Very considerable fortune.'" He +looks to the signature of the letter. "Hodgson & Fair. Very respectable +firm! My father has had dealings with them. They say your uncle died in +Sydney, and has left behind him an immense sum of money. Half a million, +in fact, to which you and Joyce are co-heiresses."</p> + +<p>"There must be a mistake," repeats Barbara, in a low tone. "It seems too +like a fairy tale."</p> + +<p>"It does. And yet, lawyers like Hodgson & Fair are not likely to be led +into a cul-de-sac. If——" he pauses, and looks earnestly at his wife. +"If it does prove true, Barbara, you will be a very rich woman."</p> + +<p>"And you will be rich with me," she says, quickly, in an agitated tone. +"But, but——"</p> + +<p>"Yes; it does seem difficult to believe," interrupts he, slowly. "What a +letter!" His eyes fall on it again, and she, drawing close to him, reads +it once more, carefully.</p> + +<p>"I think there is truth in it," says she, at last. "It sounds more like +being all right, more reasonable, when read a second time. Freddy——"</p> + +<p>She steps a little bit away from him, and rests her beautiful eyes full +on his.</p> + +<p>"Have you thought," says she, slowly, "that if there is truth in this +story, how much we shall be able to do for your father and mother!"</p> + +<p>Monkton starts as if stung. For them. To do anything for them. For the +two who had so wantonly offended and insulted her during all her married +life: Is her first thought to be for them?</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes," says she, eagerly. "We shall be able to help them out of all +their difficulties. Oh! I didn't say much to you, but in their grief, +their troubles have gone to my very heart. I couldn't bear to think of +their being obliged to give up their houses, their comforts, and in +their old age, too! Now we shall be able to smooth matters for them!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLII" id="CHAPTER_XLII"></a>CHAPTER XLII.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"It's we two, it's we two, it's we two for aye,</span> +<span class="i0">All the world and we two, and Heaven be our stay,</span> +<span class="i0">Like a laverock in the lift, sing, O bonny bride!</span> +<span class="i0">All the world was Adam once, with Eve by his side."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>The light in her eyes is angelic. She has laid her hands upon both her +husband's arms, as if expecting him to take her into them, as he always +does only too gladly on the smallest provocation. Just now, however, he +fails her, for the moment only, however.</p> + +<p>"Barbara," says he, in a choked voice: he holds her from him, examining +her face critically. His thoughts are painful, yet proud—proud beyond +telling. His examination does not last long: there is nothing but good +to be read in that fair, sweet, lovable face. He gathers her to him with +a force that is almost hurtful.</p> + +<p>"Are you a woman at all, or just an angel?" says he, with a deep sigh.</p> + +<p>"What is it, Freddy?"</p> + +<p>"After all they have done to you. Their insults, coldness, abominable +conduct, to think that your first thought should be for them. Why, look +here, Barbara," vehemently, "they are not worthy that you should——"</p> + +<p>"Tut!" interrupts she, lightly, yet with a little sob in her throat. His +praise is so sweet to her. "You overrate me. Is it for them I would do +it or for you? There, take all the thought for yourself. And, besides, +are not you and I one, and shall not your people be my people? Come, if +you think of it, there is no such great merit after all."</p> + +<p>"You forget——"</p> + +<p>"No; not a word against them. I won't listen," thrusting her fingers +into her ears. "It is all over and done with long ago. And it is our +turn now, and let us do things decently and in order, and create no +heart-burnings."</p> + +<p>"But when I think——"</p> + +<p>"If thinking makes you look like that, don't think."</p> + +<p>"But I must. I must remember how they scorned and slighted you. It never +seems to have come home to me so vividly as now—now when you seem to +have forgotten it. Oh, Barbara!" He presses back her head and looks long +and tenderly into her eyes. "I was not mistaken, indeed, when I gave you +my heart. Surely you are one among ten thousand."</p> + +<p>"Silly boy," says she, with a little tremulous laugh, glad to her very +soul's centre, however, because of his words. "What is there to praise +me for? Have I not warned you that I am purely selfish? What is there I +would not do for very love of you? Come, Freddy," shaking herself loose +from him, and laughing now with honest delight. "Let us be reasonable. +Oh! poor old uncle, it seems hateful to rejoice thus over his death, but +his memory is really only a shadow after all, and I suppose he meant to +make us happy by his gift, eh, Freddy?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, how well he remembered during all these years. He could have +formed no other ties."</p> + +<p>"None, naturally." Short pause. "There is that black mare of Mike +Donovan's, Freddy, that you so fancied. You can buy it now."</p> + +<p>Monkton laughs involuntarily. Something of the child has always lingered +about Barbara.</p> + +<p>"And I should like to get a black velvet gown," says she, her face +brightening, "and to buy Joyce a——Oh! but Joyce will be rich herself."</p> + +<p>"Yes. I'm really afraid you will be done out of the joy of overloading +Joyce with gifts. She'll be able to give you something. That will be a +change, at all events. As for the velvet gown, if this," touching the +letter, "bears any meaning, I should think you need not confine yourself +to one velvet gown."</p> + +<p>"And there's Tommy," says she quickly, her thoughts running so fast that +she scarcely hears him. "You have always said you wanted to put him in +the army. Now you can do it."</p> + +<p>"Yes," says Monkton, with sudden interest. "I should like that. But +you—you shrank from the thought, didn't you?"</p> + +<p>"Well, he might have to go to India," says she, nervously.</p> + +<p>"And what of that?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, nothing—that is, nothing really—only there are lions and tigers +there, Freddy; aren't there, now?"</p> + +<p>"One or two," says Mr. Monkton, "if we are to believe travelers' tales. +But they are all proverbially false. I don't believe in lions at all +myself. I'm sure they are myths. Well, let him go into the navy, then. +Lions and tigers don't as a rule inhabit the great deep."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no; but sharks do," says she, with a visible shudder. "No, no, on +the whole I had rather trust him to the beasts of the field. He could +run away from them, but you can't run in the sea."</p> + +<p>"True," says Mr. Monkton, with exemplary gravity. "I couldn't, at all +events."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Monkton had to run across to London about the extraordinary legacy left +to his wife and Joyce. But further investigation proved the story true. +The money was, indeed, there, and they were the only heirs. From being +distinctly poor they rose to the height of a very respectable income, +and Monkton being in town, where the old Monktons still were, also was +commanded by his wife to go to them and pay off their largest +liabilities—debts contracted by the dead son, and to so arrange that +they should not be at the necessity of leaving themselves houseless.</p> + +<p>The Manchester people who had taken the old place in Warwickshire were +now informed that they could not have it beyond the term agreed on; but +about this the old people had something to say, too. They would not take +back the family place. They had but one son now, and the sooner he went +to live there the better. Lady Monkton, completely, broken down and +melted by Barbara's generosity, went so far as to send her a long +letter, telling her it would be the dearest wish of her and Sir George's +hearts that she should preside as mistress over the beautiful old +homestead, and that it would give them great happiness to imagine, the +children—the grandchildren—running riot through the big wainscoted +rooms. Barbara was not to wait for her—Lady Monkton's—death to take up +her position as head of the house. She was to go to Warwickshire at +once, the moment those detestable Manchester people were out of it; and +Lady Monkton, if Barbara would be so good as to make her welcome, would +like to come to her for three months every year, to see the children, +and her son, and her daughter! The last was the crowning touch. For the +rest, Barbara was not to hesitate about accepting the Warwickshire +place, as Lady Monkton and Sir George were devoted to town life, and +never felt quite well when away from smoky London.</p> + +<p>This last was true. As a fact, the old people were thoroughly imbued +with the desire for the turmoil of city life, and the three months of +country Lady Monkton had stipulated for were quite as much as they +desired of rustic felicity.</p> + +<p>Barbara accepted the gift of the old home. Eventually, of course, it +would be hers, but she knew the old people meant the present giving of +it as a sort of return for her liberality—for the generosity that had +enabled them to once more lift their heads among their equals.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The great news meanwhile had spread like wildfire through the Irish +country where the Frederic Monktons lived. Lady Baltimore was +unfeignedly glad about it, and came down at once to embrace Barbara, and +say all sorts of delightful things about it. The excitement of the whole +affair seemed to dissipate all the sadness and depression that had +followed on the death of the elder son, and nothing now was talked of +but the great good luck that had fallen into the paths of Barbara and +Joyce. The poor old uncle had been considered dead for so many years +previously, and was indeed such a dim memory to his nieces, that it +would have been the purest affectation to pretend to feel any deep grief +for his demise.</p> + +<p>Perhaps what grieved Barbara most of all, though she said very little +about it, was the idea of having to leave the old house in which they +were now living. It did not not cheer her to think of the place in +Warwickshire, which, of course, was beautiful, and full of +possibilities.</p> + +<p>This foolish old Irish home—rich in discomforts—was home. It seemed +hard to abandon it. It was not a palatial mansion, certainly; it was +even dismal in many ways, but it contained more love in its little space +than many a noble mansion could boast. It seemed cruel—ungrateful—to +cast it behind her, once it was possible to mount a few steps on the +rungs of the worldly ladder.</p> + +<p>How happy they had all been here together, in this foolish old house, +that every severe storm seemed to threaten with final dissolution. It +gave her many a secret pang to think that she must part from it for ever +before another year should dawn.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLIII" id="CHAPTER_XLIII"></a>CHAPTER XLIII.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Looks the heart alone discover,</span> +<span class="i2">If the tongue its thoughts can tell,</span> +<span class="i0">'Tis in vain you play the lover,</span> +<span class="i2">You have never felt the spell."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>Joyce, who had been dreading, with a silent but terrible fear, her first +meeting with Dysart, had found it no such great matter after all when +they were at last face to face. Dysart had met her as coolly, with +apparently as little concern as though no former passages had ever taken +place between them.</p> + +<p>His manner was perfectly calm, and as devoid of feeling as any one could +desire, and it was open to her comprehension that he avoided her +whenever he possibly could. She told herself this was all she could, or +did, desire; yet, nevertheless, she writhed beneath the certainty of it.</p> + +<p>Beauclerk had not arrived until a week later than Dysart; until, indeed, +the news of the marvelous fortune that had come to her was well +authenticated, and then had been all that could possibly be expected of +him. His manner was perfect. He sat still And gazed with delightfully +friendly eyes into Miss Maliphant's pleased countenance, and anon +skipped across room or lawn to whisper beautiful nothings to Miss +Kavanagh. The latter's change of fortune did not, apparently, seem to +affect him in the least. After all, even now she was not as good a +<i>parti</i> as Miss Maliphant, where money was concerned, but then there +were other things. Whatever his outward manner might lead one to +suspect, beyond doubt he thought a great deal at this time, and finally +came to a conclusion.</p> + +<p>Joyce's fortune had helped her in many ways. It had helped many of the +poor around her, too; but it did even more than that. It helped Mr. +Beauclerk to make up his mind with regard to his matrimonial prospects.</p> + +<p>Sitting in his chambers in town with Lady Baltimore's letter before him +that told him of the change in Joyce's fortune—of the fortune that had +changed her, in fact, from a pretty penniless girl to a pretty rich one, +he told himself that, after all, she had certainly been the girl for him +since the commencement of their acquaintance.</p> + +<p>She was charming—not a whit more now than then. He would not belie his +own taste so far as so admit that she was more desirable in any way now, +in her prosperity, than when first he saw her, and paid her the immense +compliment of admiring her.</p> + +<p>He permitted himself to grow a little enthusiastic, however, to say out +loud to himself, as it were, all that he had hardly allowed himself to +think up to this. She was, beyond question, the most charming girl in +the world! Such grace—such finish! A girl worthy of the love of the +best of men—presumably himself!</p> + +<p>He had always loved her—always! He had never felt so sure of that +delightful fact as now. He had had a kind of knowledge, even when afraid +to give ear to it, that she was the wife best suited to him to be found +anywhere. She understood him! They were thoroughly <i>en rapport</i> with +each other. Their marriage would be a success in the deepest, sincerest +meaning of that word.</p> + +<p>He leant luxuriously among the cushions of his chair, lit a fragrant +cigarette, and ran his mind backward over many things. Well! Perhaps so! +But yet if he had refrained from proposing to her until now—now when +fate smiles upon her—it was simply because he dreaded dragging her into +a marriage where she could not have had all those little best things of +life that so peerless a creature had every right to demand.</p> + +<p>Yes! it was for her sake alone he had hesitated. He feels sure of that +now. He has thoroughly persuaded himself the purity of the motives that +kept him tongue tied when honor called aloud to him for speech. He feels +himself so exalted that he metaphorically pats himself upon the back and +tells himself he is a righteous being—a very Brutus where honor is +concerned; any other man might have hurried that exquisite creature into +a squalid marriage for the mere sake of gratifying an overpowering +affection, but he had been above all that! He had considered her! The +man's duty is ever to protect the woman! He had protected her—even from +herself; for that she would have been only too willing to link her sweet +fate with his at any price-was patent to all the world. Few people have +felt as virtuous as Mr. Beauclerk as he comes to the end of this thread +of his imaginings.</p> + +<p>Well! he will make it up to her! He smiles benignly through the smoke +that rises round his nose. She shall never have reason to remember that +he had not fallen on his knees to her—as a less considerate man might +have done—when he was without the means to make her life as bright as +it should be.</p> + +<p>The most eager of lovers must live, and eating is the first move toward +that conclusion. Yet if he had given way to selfish desires they would +scarcely, he and she, have had sufficient bread (of any delectable kind) +to fill their mouths. But now all would be different. She, clever girl! +had supplied the blank; she had squared the difficulty. Having provided +the wherewithal to keep body and soul together in a nice, respectable, +fashionable, modern sort of way, her constancy shall certainly be +rewarded. He will go straight down to the Court, and declare to her the +sentiments that have been warming his breast (silently!) all these past +months. What a dear girl she is, and so fond of him! That in itself is +an extra charm in her very delightful character. And those fortunate +thousands! Quite a quarter of a million, isn't it? Well, of course, no +use saying they won't come in handy—no use being hypocritical over +it—horrid thing a hypocrite!—well, those thousands naturally have +their charm, too.</p> + +<p>He rose, flung his cigarette aside (it was finished as far as careful +enjoyment would permit), and rang for his servant to pack his +portmanteaux. He was going to the Court by the morning train.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Now that he is here, however, he restrains the ardor, that no doubt is +consuming him, with altogether admirable patience, and waits for the +chance that may permit him to lay his valuable affections at Joyce's +feet. A dinner to be followed by an impromptu dance at the Court +suggests itself as a very fitting opportunity. He grasps it. Yes, +to-morrow evening will be an excellent and artistic opening for a thing +of this sort. All through luncheon, even while conversing with Joyce and +Miss Maliphant on various outside topics, his versatile mind is +arranging a picturesque spot in the garden enclosures wherein to make +Joyce a happy woman!</p> + +<p>Lady Swansdown, glancing across the table at him, laughs lightly. Always +disliking him, she has still been able to read him very clearly, and his +determination to now propose to Joyce amuses her nearly as much as it +annoys her. Frivolous to the last degree as she is, an honest regard for +Joyce has taken hold within her breast. Lord Baltimore, too, is +disturbed by his brother's present.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLIV" id="CHAPTER_XLIV"></a>CHAPTER XLIV.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Love took up the harp of life and smote on all the chords with might;</span> +<span class="i0">Smote the chord of self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>Lady Swansdown is startled into a remembrance of the present by the +entrance of somebody. After all Dicky, the troublesome, was right—this +is no spot in which to sleep or dream. Turning her head with an indolent +impatience to see who has come to disturb her, she meets Lady +Baltimore's clear eyes.</p> + +<p>Some sharp pang of remorse, of fear, perhaps, compels her to spring to +her feet, and gaze at her hostess with an expression that is almost +defiant. Dicky's words had so far taken effect that she now dreads and +hates to meet the woman who once had been her stanch friend.</p> + +<p>Lady Baltimore, unable to ignore the look in her rival's eyes, still +advances toward her with unfaltering step. Perhaps a touch of disdain, +of contempt, is perceptible in her own gaze, because Lady Swansdown, +paling, moves toward her. She seems to have lost all self-control—she +is trembling violently. It is a crisis.</p> + +<p>"What is it?" says Lady Swansdown, harshly. "Why do you look at me like +that? Has it come to a close between us, Isabel? Oh! if +so"—vehemently—"it is better so."</p> + +<p>"I don't think I understand you," says Lady Baltimore, who has grown +very white. Her tone is haughty; she has drawn back a little as if to +escape from contact with the other.</p> + +<p>"Ah! That is so like you," says Lady Swansdown with a rather fierce +little laugh. "You pretend, pretend, pretend, from morning till night. +You intrench yourself behind your pride, and——"</p> + +<p>"You know what you are doing, Beatrice," says Lady Baltimore, ignoring +this outburst completely, and speaking in a calm, level tone, yet with a +face like marble.</p> + +<p>"Yes, and you know, too," says Lady Swansdown. Then, with an +overwhelming vehemence: "Why don't you do something? Why don't you +assert yourself?"</p> + +<p>"I shall never assert myself," says Lady Baltimore slowly.</p> + +<p>"You mean that whatever comes you will not interfere."</p> + +<p>"That, exactly!" turning her eyes full on to the other's face with a +terrible disdain. "I shall never interfere in this—or any other of his +flirtations."</p> + +<p>It is a sharp stab! Lady Swansdown winces visibly.</p> + +<p>"What a woman you are!" cries she. "Have you ever thought of it, Isabel? +You are unjust to him—unfair. You"—passionately—"treat him as though +he were the dust beneath your feet, and yet you expect him to remain +immaculate, for your sake—pure as any acolyte—a thing of ice——"</p> + +<p>"No," coldly. "You mistake me. I know too much of him to expect +perfection—nay, common decency from him. But you—it was you whom I +hoped to find immaculate."</p> + +<p>"You expected too much, then. One iceberg in your midst is enough, and +that you have kindly suggested in your own person. Put me out of the +discussion altogether."</p> + +<p>"Ah I You have made that impossible! I cannot do that. I have known you +too long, I have liked you too well. I have," with a swift, but terrible +glance at her, "loved you!"</p> + +<p>"Isabel!"</p> + +<p>"No, no! Not a word. It is too late now."</p> + +<p>"True," says Lady. Swansdown, bringing back the arms she had extended +and letting them fall into a sudden, dull vehemence to her sides. Her +agitation is uncontrolled. "That was so long ago that, no doubt, you +have forgotten all about it. You," bitterly, "have forgotten a good +deal."</p> + +<p>"And you," says Lady Baltimore, very calmly, "what have you not +forgotten—your self-respect," deliberately, "among other things."</p> + +<p>"Take care; take care!" says Lady Swansdown in a low tone. She has +turned furiously upon her.</p> + +<p>"Why should I take care?" She throws up her small bead scornfully. "Have +I said one word too much?"?</p> + +<p>"Too much indeed," says Lady Swansdown distinctly, but faintly. She +turns her head, but not her eyes in Isabel's direction. "I'm afraid you +will have to endure for one day longer," she says in a low voice; "after +that you shall bid me a farewell that shall last forever!"</p> + +<p>"You have come to a wise decision," says Lady Baltimore, immovably.</p> + +<p>There is something so contemptuous in her whole bearing that it maddens +the other.</p> + +<p>"How dare you speak to me like that," cries she with sudden violence not +to be repressed. "You of all others! Do you think you are not in fault +at all—that you stand blameless before the world?"</p> + +<p>The blood has flamed into her pale cheeks, her eyes are on fire. She +advances toward Lady Baltimore with such a passion of angry despair in +look and tone, that involuntarily the latter retreats before her.</p> + +<p>"Who shall blame me?" demands Lady Baltimore haughtily.</p> + +<p>"I—I for one! Icicle that you are, how can you know what love means? +You have no heart to feel, no longing to forgive. And what has he done +to you? Nothing—nothing that any other woman would not gladly condone."</p> + +<p>"You are a partisan," says Lady Baltimore coldly. "You would plead his +cause, and to me! You are violent, but that does not put you in the +right. What do you know of Baltimore that I do not know? By what right +do you defend him?"</p> + +<p>"There is such a thing as friendship!"</p> + +<p>"Is there?" says the other with deep meaning. "Is there, Beatrice? Oh! +think—think!" A little bitter smile curls the corners of her lips. +"That you should advocate the cause of friendship to me," says she, her +words falling with cruel scorn one by one slowly from her lips.</p> + +<p>"You think me false," says Lady Swansdown. She is terribly agitated. +"There was an old friendship between us—I know that—I feel it. You +think me altogether false to it?"</p> + +<p>"I think of you as little as I can help," says Isabel, contemptuously. +"Why should I waste a thought on you?"</p> + +<p>"True! Why indeed! One so capable of controlling her emotions as you are +need never give way to superfluous or useless thoughts. Still, give one +to Baltimore. It is our last conversation together, therefore bear with +me—hear me. All his sins lie in the past. He——"</p> + +<p>"You must be mad to talk to me like this," interrupts Isabel, flushing +crimson. "Has he asked you to intercede for him? Could even he go so far +as that? Is it a last insult? What are you to him that you thus adopt +his cause. Answer me!" cries she imperiously; all her coldness, her +stern determination to suppress herself, seems broken up.</p> + +<p>"Nothing!" returns Lady Swansdown, becoming calmer as she notes the +other's growing vehemence. "I never shall be anything. I have but one +excuse for my interference"—She pauses.</p> + +<p>"And that!"</p> + +<p>"I love him!" steadily, but faintly. Her eyes have sought the ground.</p> + +<p>"Ah!" says Lady Baltimore.</p> + +<p>"It is true"—slowly. "It is equally true—that he—does not love me. +Let me then speak. All his sins, believe me, lie behind him. That woman, +that friend of yours who told you of his renewed acquaintance with +Madame Istray, lied to you! There was no truth in what she said!"</p> + +<p>"I can quite understand your not wishing to believe in that story," says +Lady Baltimore with an undisguised sneer.</p> + +<p>"Like all good women, you can take pleasure in inflicting a wound," says +Lady Swansdown, controlling herself admirably. "But do not let your +detestation of me blind you to the fact that my words contain truth. If +you will listen I can——"</p> + +<p>"Not a word," says Lady Baltimore, making a movement with her hands as +if to efface the other. "I will have none of your confidences."</p> + +<p>"It seems to me"—quickly—"you are determined not to believe."</p> + +<p>"You are at liberty to think as you will."</p> + +<p>"The time may come," says Lady Swansdown, "when you will regret you did +not listen to me to-day."</p> + +<p>"Is that a threat?"</p> + +<p>"No; but I am going. There will be no further opportunity for you to +hear me."</p> + +<p>"You must pardon me if I say that I am glad of that," says Lady +Baltimore, her lips very white. "I Could have borne little more. Do what +you will—go where you will—with whom you will" (with deliberate +insult), "but at least spare me a repetition of such a scene as this."</p> + +<p>She turns, and with an indescribably haughty gesture leaves the room.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLV" id="CHAPTER_XLV"></a>CHAPTER XLV.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The name of the slough was Despond."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>Dancing is going on in the small drawing-room. A few night broughams are +still arriving, and young girls, accompanied by their brothers only, are +making the room look lovely. It is quite an impromptu affair, quite +informal. Dicky Browne, altogether in his element, is flitting from +flower to flower, saying beautiful nothings to any of the girls who are +kind enough or silly enough to waste a moment on so irreclaimable a +butterfly.</p> + +<p>He is not so entirely engrossed by his pleasing occupations, however, as +to be lost to the more serious matters that are going on around him. He +is specially struck by the fact that Lady Swansdown, who had been in +charming spirits all through the afternoon, and afterward at dinner, is +now dancing a great deal with Beauclerk, of all people, and making +herself apparently very delightful to him. His own personal belief up to +this had been that she detested Beauclerk, and now to see her smiling +upon him and favoring him with waltz after waltz upsets Dicky's power of +penetration to an almost fatal extent.</p> + +<p>"I wonder what the deuce she's up to now," says he to himself, leaning +against the wall behind him, and giving voice unconsciously to the +thoughts within him.</p> + +<p>"Eh?" says somebody at his ear.</p> + +<p>He looks round hastily to find Miss Maliphant has come to anchor on his +left, and that her eyes, too, are directed on Beauclerk, who with Lady +Swansdown is standing at the lower end of the room.</p> + +<p>"Eh, to you," says he brilliantly.</p> + +<p>"I always rather fancied that Mr. Beauclerk and Lady Swansdown were +antipathetic," says Miss Maliphant in her usual heavy, downright way.</p> + +<p>"There was room for it," says Mr. Browne gloomily.</p> + +<p>"For it?"</p> + +<p>"Your fancy."</p> + +<p>"Yes, so I think. Lady Swansdown has always seemed to me to be +rather—raiher—eh?"</p> + +<p>"Decidedly so," agrees Mr. Browne. "And as for Beauclerk, he is quite +too dreadfully 'rather,' don't you think?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know, I'm sure. He has often seemed to me a little light, but +only on the surface."</p> + +<p>"You've read him," says Mr. Browne with a confidential nod. "Light on +the surface, but deep, deep as a draw well?"</p> + +<p>"I don't think I mean what you do," says Miss Maliphant quickly. +"However, we are not discussing Mr. Beauclerk, beyond the fact that we +wonder to see him so genial with Lady Swansdown. They used to be +thoroughly antagonistic, and now—why they seem quite good friends, +don't they? Quite thick, eh?" with her usual graceful phraseology.</p> + +<p>"Thick as thieves in Vallambrosa," says Mr. Browne with increasing +gloom. Miss Maliphant turns to regard him doubtfully.</p> + +<p>"Leaves?" suggests she.</p> + +<p>"Thieves," persists he immovably.</p> + +<p>"Oh! Ah! It's a joke perhaps," says she, the doubt growing. Mr. Browne +fixes a stern eye upon her.</p> + +<p>"Is thy servant a dog?" says he, and stalks indignantly away, leaving +Miss Maliphant in the throes of uncertainty.</p> + +<p>"Yet I'm sure it wasn't the right word," says she to herself with a +wonderful frown of perplexity. "However, I may be wrong. I often am. +And, after all, Spain we're told is full of 'em."</p> + +<p>Whether "thieves" or "leaves" she doesn't explain, and presently her +mind wanders entirely away from Mr. Browne's maundering to the subject +that so much more nearly interests her. Beauclerk has not been quite so +empressé in his manner to her to-night—not so altogether delightful. He +has, indeed, it seems to her, shirked her society a good deal, and has +not been so assiduous about the scribbling of his name upon her card as +usual. And then this sudden friendship with Lady Swansdown—what does he +mean by that? What does she mean?</p> + +<p>If she had only known. If the answer to her latter question had been +given to her, her mind would have grown easier, and the idea of Lady +Swansdown in the form of a rival would have been laid at rest forever.</p> + +<p>As a fact, Lady Swansdown hardly understands herself to-night. That +scene with her hostess has upset her mentally and bodily, and created in +her a wild desire to get away from herself and from Baltimore at any +cost. Some idle freak has induced her to use Beauclerk (who is +detestable to her) as a safeguard from both, and he, unsettled in his +own mind, and eager to come to conclusions with Joyce and her fortune, +has lent himself to the wiles of his whilom foe, and is permiting +himself to be charmed by her fascinating, if vagrant, mood.</p> + +<p>Perhaps in all her life Lady Swansdown has never looked so lovely as +to-night. Excitement and mental disturbance have lent a dangerous +brilliancy to her eyes, a touch of color to her cheek. There is +something electric about her that touches those who gaze, on her, and +warns herself that a crisis is at hand.</p> + +<p>Up to this she has been able to elude all Baltimore's attempts at +conversation—has refused all his demands for a dance, yet this same +knowledge that the night will not go by without a denouement of some +kind between her and him is terribly present to her. To-night! The last +night she will ever see him, in all human probability! The exaltation +that enables her to endure this thought is fraught with such agony that, +brave and determined as she is, it is almost too much for her.</p> + +<p>Yet she—Isabel—she should learn that that old friendship between them +was no fable. To-night it would bear fruit. False, she believed +her—well, she should see.</p> + +<p>In a way, she clung to Beauclerk as a means of escaping +Baltimore—throwing out a thousand wiles to charm him to her side, and +succeeding. Three times she had given a smiling "No" to Lord Baltimore's +demand for a dance, and, regardless of opinion, had flung herself into a +wild and open flirtation with Beauclerk.</p> + +<p>But it is growing toward midnight, and her strength is failing her. +These people, will they never go, will she never be able to seek her own +room, and solitude, and despair without calling down comment on her +head, and giving Isabel—that cold woman—the chance of sneering at her +weakness?</p> + +<p>A sudden sense of the uselessness of it all has taken possession of her; +her heart sinks. It is at this moment that Baltimore once more comes up +to her.</p> + +<p>"This dance?" says he. "It is half way through. You are not engaged, I +suppose, as you are sitting down? May I have what remains of it?"</p> + +<p>She makes a little gesture of acquiescence, and, rising, places her hand +upon his arm.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLVI" id="CHAPTER_XLVI"></a>CHAPTER XLVI.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"O life! thou art a galling load</span> +<span class="i0">Along a rough, a weary road,</span> +<span class="i2">To wretches such as I."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>The crisis has come, she tells herself, with a rather grim smile. Well, +better have it and get it over.</p> + +<p>That there had been a violent scene between Baltimore and his wife after +dinner had somehow become known to her, and the marks of it still +betrayed themselves in the former's frowning brow and sombre eyes.</p> + +<p>It had been more of a scene than usual. Lady Baltimore, generally so +calm, had for once lost herself, and given way to a passion of +indignation that had shaken her to her very heart's core. Though so +apparently unmoved and almost insolent in her demeanor toward Lady +Swansdown during their interview, she had been, nevertheless, cruelly +wounded by it, and could not forgive Baltimore in that he had been its +cause.</p> + +<p>As for him, he could not forgive her all she had said and looked. With a +heart on fire he had sought Lady Swansdown, the one woman whom he knew +understood and believed in him. It was a perilous moment, and Beatrice +knew it. She knew, too, that angry despair was driving him into her +arms, not honest affection. She was strong enough to face this and +refused to deceive herself about it.</p> + +<p>"I didn't think you and Beauclerk had anything in common," says +Baltimore, seating himself beside her on the low lounge that is half +hidden from the public gaze by the Indian curtains that fall at each +side of it. He had made no pretence of finishing the dance. He had led +the way and she had suffered herself to be led into the small anteroom +that, half smothered in early spring flowers, lay off the dancing room.</p> + +<p>"Ah! you see you have yet much to learn about me," says she, with an +attempt at gayety—that fails, however.</p> + +<p>"About you? No!" says he, almost defiantly. "Don't tell me I have +deceived myself about you, Beatrice; you are all I have left to fall +back upon now." His tone is reckless to the last degree.</p> + +<p>"A forlorn pis-aller," she says, steadily, with a forced smile. "What is +it, Cyril?" looking at him with sudden intentness. "Something has +happened. What?"</p> + +<p>"The old story," returns he, "and I am sick of it. I have thrown up my +hand. I would have been faithful to her, Beatrice. I swear that, but she +does not care for my devotion. And as for me, now——" He throws out his +arms as if tired to death, and draws in his breath heavily.</p> + +<p>"Now?" says she, leaning forward.</p> + +<p>"Am I worth your acceptance?" says he, turning sharply to her. "I hardly +dare to think it, and yet you have been kind to me, and your own lot is +not altogether a happy one, and——"</p> + +<p>He pauses.</p> + +<p>"Do you hesitate?" asks she very bitterly, although her pale lips are +smiling.</p> + +<p>"Will you risk it all?" says he, sadly. "Will you come away with me? I +feel I have no friend on earth but you. Will you take pity on me? I +shall not stay here, whatever happens; I have striven against fate too +long—it has overcome me. Another land—a different life—complete +forgetfulness——"</p> + +<p>"Do you know what you are saying?" asks Lady Swansdown, who has grown +deadly white.</p> + +<p>"Yes; I have thought it all out. It is for you now to decide. I have +sometimes thought I was not entirely indifferent to you, and at all +events we are friends in the best sense of the term. If you were a happy +married woman, Beatrice, I should not speak to you like this, but as it +is—in another land—if you will come with me—we——"</p> + +<p>"Think, think!" says she, putting up her hand to stay him from further +speech. "All this is said in a moment of angry excitement. You have +called me your friend—and truly. I am so far in touch with you that I +can see you are very unhappy. You have had—forgive me if I probe +you—but you have had some—some words with your wife?"</p> + +<p>"Final words! I hope—I think."</p> + +<p>"I do not, however. All this will blow over, and—come Cyril, face it! +Are you really prepared to deliberately break the last link that holds +you to her?"</p> + +<p>"There is no link. She has cut herself adrift long since. She will be +glad to be rid of me."</p> + +<p>"And you—will you be glad to be rid of her?"</p> + +<p>"It will be better," says he, shortly.</p> + +<p>"And—the boy!"</p> + +<p>"Don't let us go into it," says he, a little wildly.</p> + +<p>"Oh! but we must—we must," says she. "The boy—you will——?"</p> + +<p>"I shall leave him to her. It is all she has. I am nothing to her. I +cannot leave her desolate."</p> + +<p>"How you consider her!" says she, in a choking voice. She could have +burst into tears! "What a heart! and that woman to treat him +so—whilst—oh! it is hard—hard!"</p> + +<p>"I tell you," says she presently, "that you have not gone into this +thing. To-morrow you will regret all that you have now said."</p> + +<p>"If you refuse me—yes. It lies in your hands now. Are you going to +refuse me?"</p> + +<p>"Give me a moment," says she faintly. She has risen to her feet, and is +so standing that he cannot watch her. Her whole soul is convulsed. Shall +she? Shall she not? The scales are trembling.</p> + +<p>That woman's face! How it rises before her now, pale, cold, +contemptuous. With what an insolent air she had almost ordered her from +her sight. And yet—and yet——</p> + +<p>She can remember that disdainful face, kind and tender and loving! A +face she had once delighted to dwell upon! And Isabel had been very good +to her once—when others had not been kind, and when Swansdown, her +natural protector, had been scandalously untrue to his trust. Isabel had +loved her then; and now, how was she about to requite her? Was she to +let her know her to be false—not only in thought but in reality! Could +she live and see that pale face in imagination filled with scorn for the +desecrated friendship that once had been a real bond between them?</p> + +<p>Oh! A groan that is almost a sob breaks from her. The scale has gone +down to one side. It is all over, hope and love and joy. Isabel has won.</p> + +<p>She has been leaning against the arm of the lounge, now she once more +sinks back upon the seat as though standing is impossible to her.</p> + +<p>"Well?" says Baltimore, laying his hand gently upon hers. His touch +seems to burn her, she flings his hand from her and shrinks back.</p> + +<p>"You have decided," says he quickly. "You will not come with me?"</p> + +<p>"Oh! no, no, no!" cries she. "It is impossible!" A little curious laugh +breaks from her that is cruelly akin to a cry. "There is too much to +remember," says she, suddenly.</p> + +<p>"You think you would be wronging her," says Baltimore, reading her +correctly. "I have told you you are at fault there. She would bless the +chance that swept me out of her life. And as for me, I should have no +regrets. You need not fear that."</p> + +<p>"Ah, that is what I do fear," says she in a low tone.</p> + +<p>"Well, you have decided," says he, after a pause. "After all why should +I feel either disappointment or surprise? What is there about me that +should tempt any woman to cast in her lot with mine?"</p> + +<p>"Much!" says Lady Swansdown, deliberately. "But the one great essential +is wanting—you have no love to give. It is all given." She leans toward +him and regards him earnestly. "Do you really think you are in love with +me? Shall I tell you who you are in love with?" She lets her soft cheek +fall into her hand and looks up at him from under her long lashes.</p> + +<p>"You can tell me what you will," says he, a little impatiently.</p> + +<p>"Listen, then," says she, with a rather broken attempt at gayety, "you +are in love with that good, charming, irritating, impossible, but most +lovable person in the world—your own wife!"</p> + +<p>"Pshaw!" says Baltimore, with an irritated gesture. "We will not discuss +her, if you please."</p> + +<p>"As you will. To discuss her or leave her name out of it altogether will +not, however, alter matters."</p> + +<p>"You have quite made up your mind," says he, presently, looking at her +searchingly. "You will let me go alone into evil?"</p> + +<p>"You will not go," returns she, trying to speak with conviction, but +looking very anxious.</p> + +<p>"I certainly shall. There is nothing else left for me to do. Life here +is intolerable."</p> + +<p>"There is one thing," says she, her voice trembling. "You might make it +up with her."</p> + +<p>"Do you think I haven't tried," says he, with a harsh laugh "I'm tired +of making advances. I have done all that man can do. No, I shall not try +again. My one regret in leaving England will be that I shall not see you +again!"</p> + +<p>"Don't!" says she, hoarsely.</p> + +<p>"I believe on my soul," says he, hurriedly, "that you do care for me. +That it is only because of her that you will not listen to me."</p> + +<p>"You are right!" (in a low tone)—"I—" Her voice fails her, she presses +her hands together. "I confess," says she, with terrible abandonment, +"that I might have listened to you—had I not liked her so well."</p> + +<p>"Better than me, apparently," says he, bitterly. "She has had the best +of it all through."</p> + +<p>"There we are quits, then," says she, quite as bitterly. "Because you +like her better than me."</p> + +<p>"If so—do you think I would speak to you as I have spoken?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. I think that. A man is always more or less of a baby. Years of +discretion he seldom reaches. You are angry with your wife, and would be +revenged upon her, and your way to revenge yourself is to make a second +woman hate you."</p> + +<p>"A second?"</p> + +<p>"I should probably hate you in six months," says she, with a touch of +passion. "I am not sure that I do not hate you now."</p> + +<p>Her nerve is fast failing her. If she had a doubt about it before, the +certainty now that Baltimore's feeling for her is merely friendship—the +desire of a lonely man for some sympathetic companion—anything but +love, has entered into her and crushed her. He would devote the rest of +his life to her. She is sure of that—but always it would be a life +filled with an unavailing regret. A horror of the whole situation has +seized upon her. She will never be any more to him than a pleasant +memory, while he to her must be an ever-growing pain. Oh! to be able to +wrench herself free, to be able to forget him to blot him out of her +mind forever.</p> + +<p>"A second woman!" repeats he, as if struck by this thought to the +exclusion of all others.</p> + +<p>"Yes!"</p> + +<p>"You think, then," gazing at her, "that she—hates me?"</p> + +<p>Lady Swansdown breaks into a low but mirthless laugh. The most poignant +anguish rings through it.</p> + +<p>"She! she!" cries she, as if unable to control herself, and then stops +suddenly placing her hand to her forehead. "Oh, no, she doesn't hate +you," she says. "But how you betray yourself! Do you wonder I laugh? Did +ever any man so give himself away? You have been declaring to me for +months that she hates you, yet when I put it into words, or you think I +do, it seems as though some fresh new evil had befallen you. Ah! give up +this role of Don Juan, Baltimore. It doesn't suit you."</p> + +<p>"I have had no desire to play the part," says he, with a frown.</p> + +<p>"No? And yet you ask a woman for whom you scarcely bear a passing +affection to run away with you, to defy public opinion for your sake, +and so forth. You should advise her to count the world well lost for +love—such love as yours! You pour every bit of the old rubbish into +one's ears, and yet—" She stops abruptly. A very storm of anger and +grief and despair is shaking her to her heart's core.</p> + +<p>"Well?" says he, still frowning.</p> + +<p>"What have you to offer me in exchange for all you ask me to give? A +heart filled with thoughts of another! No more!—--"</p> + +<p>"If you persist in thinking——"</p> + +<p>"Why should I not think it? When I tell you there is danger of my hating +you, as your wife might—perhaps—hate you—your first thought is for +her! 'You think then that she hates me'?" (She imitates the anxiety of +his tone with angry truthfulness.) "Not one word of horror at the +thought that I might hate you six months hence."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps I did not believe you would," says he, with some embarrassment.</p> + +<p>"Ah! That is so like a man! You think, don't you, that you were made to +be loved? There, go! Leave me!"</p> + +<p>He would have spoken to her again, but she rejects the idea with such +bitterness that he is necessarily silent. She has covered her face with +her hands. Presently she is alone.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLVII" id="CHAPTER_XLVII"></a>CHAPTER XLVII.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"But there are griefs, ay, griefs as deep;</span> +<span class="i2">The friendship turned to hate.</span> +<span class="i0">And deeper still, and deeper still</span> +<span class="i2">Repentance come too late, too late!"</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>Joyce, on the whole, had not enjoyed last night's dance at the Court. +Barbara had been there, and she had gone home with her and Monkton after +it, and on waking this morning a sense of unreality, of dissatisfaction, +is all that comes to her. No pleasant flavor is on her mental palate; +there is only a vague feeling of failure and a dislike to looking into +things—to analyze matters as they stand.</p> + +<p>Yet where the failure came in she would have found it difficult to +explain even to herself. Everybody, so far as she was concerned, had +behaved perfectly; that is, as she, if she had been compelled to say it +out loud, would have desired them to behave. Mr. Beauclerk had been +polite enough; not too polite; and Lady Baltimore had made a great deal +of her, and Barbara had said she looked lovely, and Freddy had said +something, oh! absurd of course, and not worth repeating, but still +flattering; and those men from the barracks at Clonbree had been a +perfect nuisance, they were so pressing with their horrid attentions, +and so eager to get a dance. And Mr. Dysart——</p> + +<p>Well? That fault could not be laid to his charge, therefore, of course, +he was all that could be desired. He was circumspect to the last degree. +He had not been pressing with his attentions; he had, indeed, been so +kind and nice that he had only asked her for one dance, and during the +short quarter of an hour that that took to get through he had been so +admirably conducted as to restrain his conversation to the most +commonplace, and had not suggested that the conservatory was a capital +place to get cool in between the dances.</p> + +<p>The comb she was doing her hair with at the time caught in her hair as +she came to this point, and she flung it angrily from her, and assured +herself that the tears that had suddenly come into her eyes arose from +the pain that that hateful instrument of torture had caused her.</p> + +<p>Yes, Felix had taken the right course; he had at least learned that she +could never be anything to him—could never—forgive him. It showed +great dignity in him, great strength of mind. She had told him, at least +given him to understand when in London, that he should forget her, +and—he had forgotten. He had obeyed her. The comb must have hurt her +again, and worse this time, because now the tears are running down her +cheeks. How horrible it is to be unforgiving! People who don't forgive +never go to heaven. There seems to be some sort of vicious consolation +in this thought.</p> + +<p>In truth, Dysart's behavior to her since his return has been all she had +led him to understand it ought to be. He it so changed toward her in +every way that sometimes she has wondered if he has forgotten all the +strange, unhappy past, and is now entirely emancipated from the torture +of love unrequited that once had been his.</p> + +<p>It is a train of thought she has up to this shrank from pursuing, yet +which, she being strong in certain ways, should have been pursued by her +to the bitter end. One small fact, however, had rendered her doubtful. +She could not fail to notice that whenever he and she are together in +the morning room, ballroom, or at luncheon or dinner, or breakfast, +though he will not approach or voluntarily address her unless she first +makes an advance toward him, a rare occurrence; still, if she raises her +eyes to his, anywhere, at any moment, it is to find his on her!</p> + +<p>And what sad eyes! Searching, longing, despairing, angry, but always +full of an indescribable tenderness.</p> + +<p>Last night she had specially noticed this—but then last night he had +specially held aloof from her. No, no! It was no use dwelling upon it. +He would not forgive. That chapter in her life was closed. To attempt to +open it again would be to court defeat.</p> + +<p>Joyce, however, had not been the only one to whom last night had been a +disappointment. Beauclerk's determination to propose to her—to put his +fortune to the touch and to gain hers—failed. Either the fates were +against him, or else she herself was in a willful mood. She had refused +to leave the dancing room with him on any pretext whatever, unless to +gain the coolness of the crowded hall outside, or the still more +inhabited supper room.</p> + +<p>He was not dismayed, however, and there was no need to do things +precipitately. There was plenty of time. There could be no doubt about +the fact that she preferred him to any of the other men of her +acquaintance; he had discovered that she had refused Dysart not only +once, but twice. This he had drawn out of Isabel by a mild and +apparently meaningless but nevertheless incessant and abstruse +cross-examination. Naturally! He could see at once the reason for that. +No girl who had been once honored by his attentions could possibly give +her heart to another. No girl ever yet refused an honest offer unless +her mind was filled with the image of another fellow. Mr. Beauclerk +found no difficulty about placing "the other fellow" in this case. +Norman Beauclerk was his name! What woman in her senses would prefer +that tiresome Dysart with his "downright honesty" business so gloomily +developed, to him, Beauclerk? Answer? Not one.</p> + +<p>Well, she shall be rewarded now, dear little girl! He will make her +happy for life by laying his name and prospective fortune at her feet. +To-day he will end his happy bachelor state and sacrifice himself on the +altar of love.</p> + +<p>Thus resolved, he walks up through the lands of the Court, through the +valley filled with opening fronds of ferns, and through the spinney +beyond that again, until he comes to where the Monktons live. The house +seems very silent. Knocking at the door, the maid comes to tell him that +Mr. and Mrs. Monkton and the children are out, but that Miss Kavanagh is +within.</p> + +<p>Happy circumstance! Surely the fates favor him. They always have, by the +by—sure sign that he is deserving of good luck.</p> + +<p>Thanks. Miss Kavanagh, then. His compliments, and hopes that she is not +too fatigued to receive him.</p> + +<p>The maid, having shown him into the drawing-room, retires with the +message, and presently the sound of little high-heeled shoes crossing +the hall tells him that Joyce is approaching. His heart beats high—not +immoderately high. To be uncertain is to be none the less unnerved—but +there is no uncertainty about his wooing. Still it pleases him to know +that in spite of her fatigue she could not bring herself to deny herself +to him.</p> + +<p>"Ah! How good of you!" says he as she enters, meeting her with both +hands outstretched. "I feared the visit was too early! A very <i>bêtise</i> +on my part—but you are the soul of kindness always."</p> + +<p>"Early!" says Joyce, with a little laugh. "Why you might have found me +chasing the children round the garden three hours ago. Providentially," +giving him one hand, the ordinary one, and ignoring his other, "their +father and mother were bound to go to Tisdown this morning or I should +have been dead long before this."</p> + +<p>"Ah!" says Beauclerk. And then with increasing tenderness. "So glad they +were removed; it would have been too much for you, wouldn't it?"</p> + +<p>"Yes—I dare say—on the whole, I believe I don't mind them," says Miss +Kavanagh. "Well—and what about last night? It was delightful, wasn't +it?" Secretly she sighs heavily, as she makes this most untruthful +assertion.</p> + +<p>"Ah! Was it?" asks he. "I did not find it so. How could I when you were +so unkind to me?"</p> + +<p>"I! Oh, no. Oh, surely not!" says she anxiously. There is no touch of +the coquetry that might be about this answer had it been given to a man +better liked. A slow soft color has crept into her cheeks, born of the +knowledge that she had got out of several dances with him. But he, +seeing it, gives it another, a more flattering meaning to his own self +love.</p> + +<p>"Can you deny it?" asks he, changing his seat so as to get nearer to +her. "Joyce!" He leans toward her. "May I speak at last? Last night I +was foiled in my purpose. It is difficult to say all that is in one's +heart at a public affair of that kind, but now—now——"</p> + +<p>Miss Kavanagh has sprung to her feet.</p> + +<p>"No! Don't, don't!" she says earnestly. "I tell you—I beg you—I warn +you——" She pauses, as if not knowing what else to say, and raises her +pretty hands as if to enforce her words.</p> + +<p>"Shy, delightfully shy!" says Beauclerk to himself. He goes quickly up +to her with all the noble air of the conqueror, and seizing one of her +trembling hands holds it in his own.</p> + +<p>"Hear me!" he says with an amused toleration for her girlish <i>mauvaise +honte</i>. "It is only such a little thing I have to say to you, but yet it +means a great deal to me—and to you, I hope. I love you, Joyce. I have +come here to-day to ask you to be my wife."</p> + +<p>"I told you not to speak," says she. She has grown very white now. "I +warned you! It is no use—no use, indeed."</p> + +<p>"I have startled you," says Beauclerk, still disbelieving, yet somehow +loosening the clasp on her hand. "You did not expect, perhaps, that I +should have spoken to-day, and yet——"</p> + +<p>"No. It was not that," says Miss Kavanagh, slowly. "I knew you would +speak—I thought last night would have been the time, but I managed to +avoid it then, and now——"</p> + +<p>"Well?"</p> + +<p>"I thought it better to get it over," says she, gently. She stops as if +struck by something, and heavy tears rush to her eyes. Ah! she had told +another very much the same as that. But she had not meant it then—and +yet had been believed—and now, when she does mean it, she is not +believed. Oh! if the cases might be reversed!</p> + +<p>Beauclerk, however, mistakes the cause of the tears.</p> + +<p>"It—get what over?" demands he, smiling.</p> + +<p>"This misunderstanding."</p> + +<p>"Ah, yes—that! I am afraid,"—he leans more closely toward her,—"I +have often been afraid that you have not quite read me as I ought to be +read."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I have read you," says she, with a little gesture of her head, half +confused, half mournful.</p> + +<p>"But not rightly, perhaps. There have been moments when I fear you may +have misjudged me——"</p> + +<p>"Not one," says she quickly. "Mr. Beauclerk, if I might implore you not +to say another word——"</p> + +<p>"Only one more," pleads he, coming up smiling as usual. "Just one, +Joyce—let me say my last word; it may make all the difference in the +world between you and me now. I love you—nay, hear me!"</p> + +<p>She has risen, and he, rising too, takes possession of both her hands. +"I have come here to-day to ask you to be my wife; you know that +already—but you do not know how I have worshiped you all these dreary +months, and how I have kept silent—for your sake."</p> + +<p>"And for 'my sake' why do you speak now?" asks she. She has withdrawn +her hands from his. "What have you to offer me now that you had not a +year ago?"</p> + +<p>After all, it is a great thing to be an accomplished liar. It sticks to +Beauclerk now.</p> + +<p>"Why! Haven't you heard?" asks he, lifting astonished brows.</p> + +<p>"I have heard nothing!"</p> + +<p>"Not of my coming appointment? At least"—modestly—"of my chance of +it?"</p> + +<p>"No. Nothing, nothing. And even if I had, it would make no difference. I +beg you to understand once for all, Mr. Beauclerk, that I cannot listen +to you."</p> + +<p>"Not now, perhaps. I have been very sudden——"</p> + +<p>"No, never, never."</p> + +<p>"Are you telling me that you refuse me?" asks he, looking at her with a +rather strange expression in his eyes.</p> + +<p>"I am sorry you put it that way," returns she, faintly.</p> + +<p>"I don't believe you know what you are doing," cries he, losing his +self-control for once in his life. "You will regret this. For a moment +of spite, of ill-temper, you——"</p> + +<p>"Why should I be ill-tempered about anything that concerns you and me?" +says she, very gently still. She has grown even whiter, however, and has +lifted her head so that her large eyes are directed straight to his. +Something in the calm severity of her look chills him.</p> + +<p>"Ah! you know best!" says he, viciously. The game is up—is thoroughly +played out. This he acknowledges to himself, and the knowledge does not +help to sweeten his temper. It helps him, however, to direct a last +shaft at her. Taking up his hat, he makes a movement to depart, and then +looks back at her. His overweening vanity is still alive.</p> + +<p>"When you do regret it," says he—"and I believe that will be soon—it +will be too late. You had the goodness to give me a warning a few +minutes ago—I give you one now."</p> + +<p>"I shall not regret it," says she, coolly.</p> + +<p>"Not even when Dysart has sailed for India, and then 'the girl he left +behind him' is disconsolate?" asks he, with an insolent laugh. "Ha! that +touches you!"</p> + +<p>It had touched her. She looks like a living thing stricken suddenly into +marble, as she stands gazing back at him, with her hands tightly +clenched before her. India! To India! And she had never heard.</p> + +<p>Extreme anger, however, fights with her grief, and, overcoming it, +enables her to answer her adversary.</p> + +<p>"I think you, too, will feel regret," says she, gravely, "when you look +back upon your conduct to me to-day."</p> + +<p>There is such gentleness, such dignity, in her rebuke, and her beautiful +face is so full of a mute reproach, that all the good there is in +Beauclerk rises to the surface. He flings his hat upon a table near, and +himself at her feet.</p> + +<p>"Forgive me!" cries he, in a stifled tone. "Have mercy on me, Joyce!—I +love you—I swear it! Do not cast me adrift! All I have said or done I +regret now! You said I should regret, and I do."</p> + +<p>Something in his abasement disgusts the girl, instead of creating pity +in her breast. She shakes herself free of him by a sharp and horrified +movement.</p> + +<p>"You must go home," she says calmly, yet with a frowning brow, "and you +must not come here again. I told, you it was all useless, but you would +not listen. No, no; not a word!" He has risen to his feet, and would +have advanced toward her, but she waves him from her with a sort of +troubled hatred in her face.</p> + +<p>"You mean——" begins he, hoarsely.</p> + +<p>"One thing—one thing only," feverishly—"that I hope I shall never see +you again!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLVIII" id="CHAPTER_XLVIII"></a>CHAPTER XLVIII.</h2> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"When a man hath once forfeited the reputation of his sincerity he +is set fast, and nothing will then serve his turn, neither truth +nor falsehood."</p></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>When he is gone Joyce draws a deep breath. For a moment it seems to her +that it is all over—a disagreeable task performed, and then suddenly a +reaction sets in. The scene gone through has tried her more than she +knows, and without warning now she finds she is crying bitterly.</p> + +<p>How horrible it all had been. How detestable he had looked—not so much +when offering her his hand (as for his heart—pah!) as when he had given +way to his weak exhibition of feeling and had knelt at her feet, +throwing himself on her mercy. She placed her hands over her eyes when +she thought of that. Oh! she wished he hadn't done it!</p> + +<p>She is still crying softly—not now for Beauclerk's behavior, but for +certain past beliefs—when a knock at the door warns her that another +visitor is coming. She has not had time or sufficient presence of mind +to tell a servant that she is not at home, when Miss Maliphant is +ushered in by the parlor maid.</p> + +<p>"I thought I'd come down and have a chat with you about last night," she +begins in her usual loud tones, and with an assumption of easiness that +is belied by the keen and searching glance she directs at Joyce.</p> + +<p>"I'm so glad," says Joyce, telling her little lie as bravely as she can, +while trying to conceal her red eyelids from Miss Maliphant's astute +gaze by pretending to rearrange a cushion that has fallen from one of +the lounges.</p> + +<p>"Are you?" says her visitor, drily. "Seems to me I've come at the wrong +moment. Shall I go away?"</p> + +<p>"Go! No," says Joyce, reddening, and frowning a little. "Why should +you?"</p> + +<p>"Well, you've been crying," says Miss Maliphant, in her terribly +downright way. "I hate people when I've been crying; but then it makes +me a fright, and it only makes you a little less pretty. I suppose I +mustn't ask what it is all about?"</p> + +<p>"If you did I don't believe I could tell you," says Joyce, laughing +rather unsteadily. "I was merely thinking, and it is the simplest thing +in the world to feel silly now and then."</p> + +<p>"Thinking? Of Mr. Beauclerk?" asks Miss Maliphant, promptly, and without +the slightest idea of hesitation. "I saw him leaving this as I came by +the upper road! Was it he who made you cry?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly not," says Joyce, indignantly.</p> + +<p>"It looks like it, however," says the other, her masculine voice growing +even sterner. "What was he saying to you?"</p> + +<p>"I really do think——" Joyce is beginning, coldly, when Miss Maliphant +stops her by an imperative gesture.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I know. I know all about that," says she, contemptuously. "One +shouldn't ask questions about other people's affairs; I've learned my +manners, though I seldom make any use of my knowledge, I admit. After +all, I see no reason why I shouldn't ask you that question. I want to +know, and there is no one to tell me but you. Was he proposing to you, +eh?"</p> + +<p>"Why should you think that?" says Joyce, subdued by the masterful manner +of the other, and by something honest and above board about her that is +her chief characteristic. There is no suspicion, either, about her of +her questions being prompted by mere idle curiosity. She has said she +wanted to know, and there was meaning in her tone.</p> + +<p>"Why shouldn't I?" says she now. "He came down here early this +afternoon. He goes away in haste—and I find you in tears. Everything +points one way."</p> + +<p>"I don't see why it should point in that direction."</p> + +<p>"Come, be open with me," says the heiress, brusquely, in an abrupt +fashion that still fails to offend. "Did he propose to you?"</p> + +<p>Joyce hesitates. She raises her head and looks at Miss Maliphant +earnestly. What a good face she has, if plain. Too good to be made +unhappy. After all, why not tell her the truth? It would be a warning. +It was impossible to be blind to the fact that Miss Maliphant had been +glad to receive the dishonest attentions paid to her every now and then +by Beauclerk. Those attentions would probably be increased now, and +would end but one way. He would get Miss Maliphant's money, and +she—that good, kind-hearted girl—what would she get? It seems cruel to +be silent, and yet to speak is difficult. Would it be fair or honorable +to divulge his secret?</p> + +<p>Would it be fair or honorable to let her imagine what is not true? He +had been false to her—Joyce (she could not blind herself to the +knowledge that with all his affected desire for her he would never have +made her an offer of his hand but for her having come in for that +money)—he would therefore be false to Miss Maliphant; he would marry +her undoubtedly, but as a husband he would break her heart. Is she, for +the sake of a word or two, to see her fall a prey to a mere passionless +fortune-hunter? A thousand times no! Better inflict a little pain now +rather than let this girl endure endless pain in the future.</p> + +<p>With a shrinking at her heart, born of the fear that the word will be +very bitter to her guest, she says, "Yes;" very distinctly.</p> + +<p>"Ha!" says Miss Maliphant, and that is all. Joyce, regarding her +anxiously, is as relieved as astonished to see no trace of grief or +chagrin upon her face. There is no change at all, indeed, except she +looks deeply reflective. Her mind seems to be traveling backward, +picking up loose threads of memory, no doubt, and joining them together. +A sense of intense comfort fills Joyce's soul. After all; the wound had +not gone deep; she had been right to speak.</p> + +<p>"He is not worth thinking about," says she, tremulously, <i>apropos</i> of +nothing, as it seems.</p> + +<p>"No?" says Miss Maliphant; "then what were you crying about?"</p> + +<p>"I hardly know. I felt nervous—and once I did like him—not very +much—but still I liked him—and he was a disappointment."</p> + +<p>"Tell you what," says Miss Maliphant, "you've hit upon a big truth. He +is not worth thinking about. Once, perhaps, I, too, liked him, and I was +an idiot for my pains; but I shan't like him again in a hurry. I expect +I've got to let him know that, one way or another. And as for you——"</p> + +<p>"I tell you I never liked him much," says Joyce, with a touch of +displeasure. "He was handsome, suave, agreeable—but——"</p> + +<p>"He was, and is, a hypocrite!" interrupts Miss Maliphant, with truly +beautiful conciseness. She has never learned to mince matters. "And, +when all is told, perhaps nothing better than a fool! You are well out +of it, in my opinion."</p> + +<p>"I don't think I had much to do with it," says Joyce, unable to refrain +from a smile. "I fancy my poor uncle was responsible for the honor done +me to-day." Then a sort of vague feeling that she is being ungenerous +distresses her. "Perhaps, after all, I misjudge him too far," she says.</p> + +<p>"Could you?" with a bitter little laugh.</p> + +<p>"I don't know," doubtfully. "One often forms an opinion of a person, +and, though the groundwork of it may be just, still one is too inclined +to build upon it and to rear stories upon it that get a little beyond +the actual truth when the structure is completed."</p> + +<p>"Oh! I think it is he who tells all the stories," said Miss Maliphant, +who is singularly dull in little unnecessary ways, and has failed to +follow Joyce in her upstairs flight. "In my opinion he's a liar; I was +going to say '<i>pur et simple</i>,' but he is neither pure nor simple."</p> + +<p>"A liar!" says Joyce, as if shocked. Some old thought recurs to her. She +turns quickly to Miss Maliphant. The thought grows into words almost +before she is aware of it. "Have you a cousin in India?" asks she.</p> + +<p>"In India?" Miss Maliphant regards her with some surprise. Why this +sudden absurd question in an interesting conversation about that +"Judas"? I regret to say this is what Miss Maliphant has now decided +upon naming Mr. Beauclerk when talking to herself.</p> + +<p>"Yes, India."</p> + +<p>"Not one. Plenty in Manchester and Birmingham, but not one in India."</p> + +<p>Joyce leans back in her chair, and a strange laugh breaks from her. She +gets up suddenly and goes to the other and leans over her, as though the +better to see her.</p> + +<p>"Oh, think—think," says she. "Not a cousin you loved? Dearly loved? A +cousin for whom you were breaking your heart, who was not as steady as +he ought to be, but who——"</p> + +<p>"You must be going out of your mind," says Miss Maliphant, drawing back +from her. "If you saw my Birmingham cousins, or even the Manchester +ones, you wouldn't ask that question twice. They think of nothing but +money, money, money, from morning till night, and are essentially +shoppy. I don't mind saying it, you know. It is as good to give up, and +acknowledge things—and certainly they——"</p> + +<p>"Never mind them. It is the Indian cousin in whom I am interested," says +Joyce, impatiently. "You are sure, sure that you haven't one out there? +One whom Mr. Beauclerk knew about? And who was in love with you, and you +with him. The cousin he told me of——"</p> + +<p>"Mr. Beauclerk?"</p> + +<p>"Yes—yes. The night of the ball at the Court, last autumn. I saw you +with Mr. Beauclerk in the garden then, and he told me afterward you had +been confiding in him about your cousin. The one in India. That you were +going to be married to him. Oh! there must be truth—some truth in it. +Do try to think!"</p> + +<p>"If," says Miss Maliphant, slowly, "I were to think until I was black in +the face, as black as any Indian of 'em all, I couldn't even by so +severe a process conjure up a cousin in Hindostan! And so he told you +that?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," says Joyce faintly. She feels almost physically ill.</p> + +<p>"He's positively unique," says Miss Maliphant, after a slight pause. "I +told you just now that he was a liar, but I didn't throw sufficient +enthusiasm into the assertion. He is a liar of distinction very far +above his fellows! I suppose it would be superfluous now to ask if that +night you speak of you were engaged to Mr. Dysart?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no," says Joyce quickly, as if struck. "There never has been, there +never will be aught of that sort between me and Mr. Dysart Surely—Mr. +Beauclerk did not——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, he did. He assured me—not in so many words (let me be +perfectly just to him)—but he positively gave me to understand that you +were going to marry Felix Dysart. There! Don't mind that," seeing the +girl's pained face. "He was bound to say something, you know. Though it +must be confessed the Indian cousin story was the more ingenious. Why +didn't you tell me of that before?"</p> + +<p>"Because he told it to me in the strictest confidence."</p> + +<p>"Of course. Bound you on your honor not to speak of it, lest my feelings +should be hurt. Really, do you know, I think he was almost clever enough +to make one sorry he didn't succeed. Well, good-by." She rises abruptly, +and, taking Joyce's hand, looks at her for a moment. "Felix Dysart has a +good heart," says she, suddenly. As suddenly she kisses Joyce, and, +crossing the room with a quick stride, leaves it.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLIX" id="CHAPTER_XLIX"></a>CHAPTER XLIX.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Shall we not laugh, shall we not weep?"</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>It is quite four o'clock, and therefore two hours later. Barbara has +returned, and has learned the secret of Joyce's pale looks and sad eyes, +and is now standing on the hearthrug looking as one might who has been +suddenly wakened from a dream that had seemed only too real.</p> + +<p>"And you mean to say—you really mean, Joyce, that you refused him?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. I actually had that much common-sense," with a laugh that has +something of bitterness in it.</p> + +<p>"But I thought—I was sure——"</p> + +<p>"I know you thought he was my ideal of all things admirable. And you +thought wrong."</p> + +<p>"But if not he——"</p> + +<p>"Barbara!" says Joyce sharply. "Was it not enough that you should have +made one mistake? Must you insist on making another?"</p> + +<p>"Well, never mind," says Mrs. Monkton hastily. "I'm glad I made that +one, at all events; and I'm only sorry you have felt it your duty to +make your pretty eyes wet about it Good gracious!" looking put of the +window, "who is coming now? Dicky Browne and Mr. Courtenay and those +detestable Blakes. Tommy," turning sharply to her first-born. "If you +and Mabel stay here you must be good. Do you hear now, good! You are not +to ask a single question or touch a thing in the room, and you are to +keep Mabel quiet. I am not going to have Mrs. Blake go home and say you +are the worst behaved children she ever met in her life. You will stay, +Joyce?" anxiously to her sister.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I suppose so. I couldn't leave you to endure their tender mercies +alone."</p> + +<p>"That's a darling girl! You know I never can get on with that odious +woman. Ah! how d'ye do, Mrs. Blake? How sweet of you to come after last +night's fatigue."</p> + +<p>"Well, I think a drive a capital thing after being up all night," says +the new-comer, a fat, little, ill-natured woman, nestling herself into +the cosiest chair in the room. "I hadn't quite meant to come here, but I +met Mr. Browne and Mr. Courtenay, so I thought we might as well join +forces, and storm you in good earnest. Mr. Browne has just been telling +me that Lady Swansdown left the Court this morning. Got a telegram, she +said, summoning her to Gloucestershire. Never do believe in these sudden +telegrams myself. Stayed rather long in that anteroom with Lord +Baltimore last night."</p> + +<p>"Didn't know she had been in any anteroom," says Mrs. Monkton, coldly. +"I daresay her mother-in-law is ill again. She has always been attentive +to her."</p> + +<p>"Not on terms with her son, you know; so Lady Swansdown hopes, by the +attention you speak of, to come in for the old lady's private fortune. +Very considerable fortune, I've heard."</p> + +<p>"Who told you?" asks Mr. Browne, with a cruelly lively curiosity. "Lady +Swansdown?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, dear no!"</p> + +<p>Pause! Dicky still looking expectant and Mrs. Blake uncomfortable. She +is racking her brain to try and find some person who might have told +her, but her brain fails her.</p> + +<p>The pause threatens to be ghastly, when Tommy comes to the rescue.</p> + +<p>He had been told off as we know to keep Mabel in a proper frame of mind, +but being in a militant mood has resented the task appointed him. He has +indeed so far given in to the powers that be that he has consented to +accept a picture book, and to show it to Mabel, who is looking at it +with him, lost in admiration of his remarkable powers of description. +Each picture indeed, is graphically explained by Tommy at the top of his +lungs, and in extreme bad humor.</p> + +<p>He is lying on the rug, on his fat stomach, and is becoming quite a +martinet.</p> + +<p>"Look at this!" he is saying now. "Look! do you hear, or I won't stay +and keep you good any longer. Here's a picture about a boat that's going +to be drowned down in the sea in one minnit. The name on it is"—reading +laboriously—"'All hands to the pump.' And" with considerable vicious +enjoyment—"it isn't a bit of good for them, either. Here"—pointing to +the picture again with a stout forefinger—"here they're 'all-handsing' +at the pump. See?"</p> + +<p>"No, I don't, and I don't want to," says Mabel, whimpering and hiding +her eyes. "Oh, I don't like it; it's a horrid picture! What's that man +doing there in the corner?" peeping through her fingers at a dead man in +the foreground. "He is dead! I know he is!"</p> + +<p>"Of course he is," says Tommy. "And"—valiantly—"I don't care a bit, I +don't."</p> + +<p>"Oh, but I do," says Mabel. "And there's a lot of water, isn't there?"</p> + +<p>"There always is in the sea," says Tommy.</p> + +<p>"They'll all be drowned, I know they will," says Mabel, pushing away the +book. "Oh, I hate 'handsing'; turn over, Tommy, do! It's a nasty cruel, +wicked picture!"</p> + +<p>"Tommy, don't frighten Mabel," says his mother anxiously.</p> + +<p>"I'm not frightening her. I'm only keeping her quiet," says Tommy +defiantly.</p> + +<p>"Hah-hah!" says Mr. Courtenay vacuously.</p> + +<p>"How wonderfully unpleasant children can make themselves," says Mrs. +Blake, making herself 'wonderfully unpleasant' on the spot. "Your little +boy so reminds me of my Reginald. He pulls his sister's hair merely for +the fun of hearing her squeal!"</p> + +<p>"Tommy does not pull Mabel's hair," says Barbara a little stiffly. +"Tommy, come here to Mr. Browne; he wants to speak to you."</p> + +<p>"I want to know if you would like a cat?" says Mr. Browne, drawing Tommy +to him.</p> + +<p>"I don't want a cat like our cat," says Tommy, promptly. "Ours is so +small, and her tail is too thin. Lady Baltimore has a nice cat, with a +tail like mamma's furry for her neck."</p> + +<p>"Well, that's the very sort of a cat I can get you if you wish."</p> + +<p>"But is the cat as big as her tail?" asks Tommy, still careful not to +commit himself.</p> + +<p>"Well, perhaps not quite," says Mr. Browne gravely. "Must it be quite as +big?"</p> + +<p>"I hate small cats," says Tommy. "I want a big one! I want—" pausing to +find a suitable simile, and happily remembering the kennel outside—"a +regular setter of a cat!"</p> + +<p>"Ah," says Mr. Browne, "I expect I shall have to telegraph to India for +a tiger for you."</p> + +<p>"A real live tiger?" asks Tommy, with distended eyes and a flutter of +wild joy at his heart, the keener that some fear is mingled with it. "A +tiger that eats people up?"</p> + +<p>"A man-eater," says Mr. Browne, solemnly. "It would be the nearest +approach I know to the animal you have described. As you won't have the +cat that Lady Baltimore will give you, you must only try to put up with +mine."</p> + +<p>"Poor Lady Baltimore!" lisps Mrs. Blake. "What a great deal she has to +endure."</p> + +<p>"Oh, she's all right to-day," returns Mr. Browne, cheerfully. "Toothache +any amount better this morning."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Blake laughs in a little mincing way.</p> + +<p>"How droll you are," says she. "Ah! if it were only toothache that was +the matter But—" silence very effective, and a profound sigh.</p> + +<p>"Toothache's good enough for me," says Dicky. "I should never dream of +asking for more." He glances here at Joyce, and continues sotto voce, +"You look as if you had it."</p> + +<p>"No," returns she innocently. "Mine is neuralgia. A rather worse thing, +after all."</p> + +<p>"Yes. You can get the tooth out," says he.</p> + +<p>"Have you heard," asks Mrs. Blake, "that Mr. Beauclerk is going to marry +that hideous Miss Maliphant. Horrid Manchester person, don't you know! +Can't think what Lady Baltimore sees in her"—with a giggle—"her want +of beauty. Got rather too much of pretty women I should say."</p> + +<p>"I'm really afraid," says Dicky, "that somebody has been hoaxing you +this time, Mrs. Blake;" genially. "I happen to know for a fact that Miss +Maliphant is not going to marry Beauclerk."</p> + +<p>"Indeed!" snappishly. "Ah, well really he is to be congratulated, I +think. Perhaps," with a sharp glance at Joyce, "I mistook the name of +the young lady; I certainly heard he was going to be married."</p> + +<p>"So am I,"' says Mr. Browne, "some time or other; we are all going to +get married one day or another. One day, indeed, is as good as another. +You have set us such a capital example that we're safe to follow it."</p> + +<p>Mr. and Mrs. Blake being a notoriously unhappy couple, the latter grows +rather red here; and Joyce gives Dicky a reproachful glance, which he +returns with one of the wildest bewilderment. What can she mean?</p> + +<p>"Mr. Dysart will be a distinct loss when he goes to India," continues +Mrs. Blake quickly. "Won't be back for years, I hear, and leaving so +soon, too. A disappointment, I'm told! Some obdurate fair one! Sort of +chest affection, don't you know, ha-ha! India's place for that sort of +thing. Knock it out of him in no time. Thought he looked rather down in +the mouth last night. Not up to much lately, it has struck me. Seen much +of him this time, Miss Kavanagh?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. A good deal," says Joyce, who has, however, paled perceptibly.</p> + +<p>"Thought him rather gone to seed, eh? Rather the worse for wear."</p> + +<p>"I think him always very agreeable," says Joyce, icily.</p> + +<p>A second most uncomfortable silence ensues. Barbara tries to get up a +conversation with Mr. Courtenay, but that person, never brilliant at any +time, seems now stricken with dumbness. Into this awkward abyss Mabel +plunges this time. Evidently she has been dwelling secretly on Tommy's +comments on their own cat, and is therefore full of thought about that +interesting animal.</p> + +<p>"Our cat is going to have chickens!" says she, with all the air of one +who is imparting exciting intelligence.</p> + +<p>This astounding piece of natural history is received with varied +emotions by the listeners. Mr. Browne, however, is unfeignedly charmed +with it, and grows as enthusiastic about it as even Mabel can desire.</p> + +<p>"You don't say so! When? Where?" demands he with breathless eagerness.</p> + +<p>"Don't know," says Mabel seriously. "Last time 'twas in nurse's best +bonnet; but," raising her sweet face to his, "she says she'll be blowed +if she has them there this time!"</p> + +<p>"Mabel!" cries her mother, crimson with mortification.</p> + +<p>"Yes?" asked Mabel, sweetly.</p> + +<p>But it is too much for every one. Even Mrs. Blake gives way for once to +honest mirth, and under cover of the laughter rises and takes her +departure, rather glad of the excuse to get away. She carries off Mr. +Courtenay.</p> + +<p>Dicky having lingered a little while to see that Mabel isn't scolded, +goes too; and Barbara, with a sense of relief, turns to Joyce.</p> + +<p>"You look so awful tired," says she. "Why don't you go and lie down?"</p> + +<p>"I thought, on the contrary, I should like to go out for a walk," says +Joyce indifferently. "I confess my head is aching horribly. And that +woman only made me worse."</p> + +<p>"What a woman! I wonder she told so many lies. I wonder if——"</p> + +<p>"If Mr. Dysart is going to India," supplies Joyce calmly. "Very likely. +Why not. Most men in the army go to India."</p> + +<p>"True," say Mrs. Monkton with a sigh. Then in a low tone: "I shall be +sorry for him."</p> + +<p>"Why? If he goes"—coldly—"it is by his own desire. I see nothing to be +sorry about."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I do," says Barbara. And then, "Well, go out, dearest. The air will +do you good."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_L" id="CHAPTER_L"></a>CHAPTER L.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"'Tis with our judgment as our watches, none</span> +<span class="i0">Go just alike, yet each believes his own."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>Lord Baltimore had not spoken in a mere fit or pique when he told Lady +Swansdown of his fixed intention of putting a term to his present life. +His last interview with his wife had quite decided him to throw up +everything and seek forgetfulness in travel. Inclination had pointed +toward such countries as Africa, or the northern parts of America, as, +being a keen sportsman, he believed there he might find an occupation +that would distract his mind from the thoughts that now jarred upon him +incessantly.</p> + +<p>His asking Lady Swansdown to accompany him therefore had been a sudden +determination. To go on a lengthened shooting expedition by one's self +is one thing, to go with a woman delicately nurtured is another. Of +course, had she agreed to his proposal, all his plans must necessarily +have been altered, and perhaps his second feeling, after her refusal to +go with him, was one of unmistakable relief. His proposal to her at +least had been born of pique!</p> + +<p>The next morning found him, however, still strong in his desire for +change. The desire was even so far stronger that he now burned to put it +into execution; to get away to some fresh sphere of action, and +deliberately set himself to obliterate from his memory all past ties and +recollections.</p> + +<p>There was, too, perhaps a touch of revenge that bordered upon pleasure +as he thought of what his wife would say when she heard of his decision. +She who shrank so delicately from gossip of all kinds could not fail to +be distressed by news that must inevitably leave her and her private +affairs open to public criticism. Though everybody was perpetually +guessing about her domestic relations with her husband, no one as a +matter of fact knew (except, indeed, two) quite the real truth about +them. This would effectually open the eyes of society, and proclaim to +everybody that, though she had refused to demand a separation, still she +had been obliged to accept it. This would touch her. If in no other way +could he get at her proud spirit, here now he would triumph. She had +been anxious to get rid of him in a respectable way, of course, but +death as usual had declined to step in when most wanted, and now, well! +She must accept her release, in however disreputable a guise it comes.</p> + +<p>It is just at the moment when Mrs. Blake is holding forth on Lady +Baltimore's affairs to Mrs. Monkton that Baltimore enters the smaller +drawing-room, where he knows he will be sure to meet his wife at this +hour.</p> + +<p>It is far in the afternoon, still the spring sunshine is streaming +through the windows. Lady Baltimore, in a heavy tea gown of pale green +plush, is sitting by the fire reading a book, her little son upon the +hearth rug beside her. The place is strewn with bricks, and the boy, as +his father enters, looks up at him and calls to him eagerly to come and +help him. At the sound of the child's quick, glad voice a pang contracts +Baltimore's heart. The child——He had forgotten him.</p> + +<p>"I can't make this castle," says Bertie, "and mother isn't a bit of +good. Hers always fall down; come you and make me one."</p> + +<p>"Not now," says Baltimore. "Not to-day. Run away to your nurse. I want +to speak to your mother."</p> + +<p>There is something abrupt and jerky in his manner—something strained, +and with sufficient temper in it to make the child cease from entreaty. +The very pain Baltimore, is feeling has made his manner harsher to the +child. Yet, as the latter passes him obediently, he seizes the small +figure in his arms and presses him convulsively to his breast. Then, +putting him down, he points silently but peremptorily to the door.</p> + +<p>"Well?" says Lady Baltimore. She has risen, startled by his abrupt +entrance, his tone, and more than all, by that last brief but passionate +burst of affection toward the child. "You, wish to speak to me—again?"</p> + +<p>"There won't be many more opportunities," says he, grimly. "You may +safely give me a few moments to-day. I bring you good news. I am going +abroad. At once. Forever."</p> + +<p>In spite of the self-control she has taught herself, Lady Baltimore's +self-possession gives way. Her brain seems to reel. Instinctively she +grasps hold of the back of a tall <i>prie-dieu</i> next to her.</p> + +<p>"Hah! I thought so—I have touched her at last, through her pride," +thinks Baltimore, watching her with a savage satisfaction, which, +however, hurts him horribly. And after all he was wrong, too. He had +touched her, indeed; but it was her heart, not her pride, he had +wounded.</p> + +<p>"Abroad?" echoes she, faintly.</p> + +<p>"Yes; why not? I am sick of this sort of life. I have decided on +flinging it up."</p> + +<p>"Since when have you come to this decision?" asks she presently, having +conquered her sudden weakness by a supreme effort.</p> + +<p>"If you want day and date I'm afraid I shan't be able to supply you. It +has been growing upon me for some time—the idea of it, I mean—and last +night you brought it to perfection."</p> + +<p>"I?"</p> + +<p>"Have you already forgotten all the complimentary speeches you made me? +They"—with a sardonic smile—"are so sweet to me that I shall keep them +ripe in my memory until death overtakes me—and after it, I think! You +told me, among many other wifely things—if my mind does not deceive +me—that you wished me well out of your life, and Lady Swansdown with +me."</p> + +<p>"That is a direct and most malicious misapplication of my words," says +she, emphatically.</p> + +<p>"Is it? I confess that was my reading of them. I accepted that version, +and thinking to do you a good turn, and relieve you of both your <i>bêtes +noire</i> at once, I proposed to Lady Swansdown last night that she should +accompany me upon my endless travels."</p> + +<p>There is a long, long pause, during which Lady Baltimore's face seems to +have grown into marble. She takes a step forward now. Through the stern +pallor of her skin her large eyes seem to gleam like fire.</p> + +<p>"How dare you!" she says in a voice very low but so intense that it +rings through the room. "How dare you tell me of this! Are you lost to +all shame? You and she to go—to go away together! It is only what I +have been anticipating for months. I could see how it was with you. But +that you should have the insolence to stand before me—" she grows +almost magnificent in her wrath—"and declare your infamy aloud! Such a +thought was beyond me. There was a time when I would have thought it +beyond you!"</p> + +<p>"Was there?" says he. He laughs aloud.</p> + +<p>"There, there, there!" says she, with a rather wild sort of sigh. "Why +should I waste a single emotion upon you. Let me take you calmly, +casually. Come—come now." It is the saddest thing in the world to see +how she treads down the passionate, most natural uprisings within her +against the injustice of life: "Make me at least <i>au courant</i> with your +movements, you and she will go—where?"</p> + +<p>"To the devil, you thought, didn't you?" says he. "Well, you will be +disappointed as far as she is concerned. I maybe going. It appears she +doesn't think it worth while to accompany me there or anywhere else."</p> + +<p>"You mean that she refused to go with you?"</p> + +<p>"In the very baldest language, I assure you. It left nothing to be +desired, believe me, in the matter of lucidity. 'No,' she would not go +with me. You see there is not only one, but two women in the world who +regard me as being utterly without charm."</p> + +<p>"I commiserate you!" says she, with a bitter sneer. "If, after all your +attention to her, your friend has proved faithless, I——"</p> + +<p>"Don't waste your pity," says he, interrupting her rather rudely. "On +the whole, the decision of my 'friend,' as you call her, was rather a +relief to me than otherwise. I felt it my duty to deprive you of her +society"—with an unpleasant laugh—"and so I asked her to come with me. +When she declined to accompany me she left me free to devote myself to +sport."</p> + +<p>"Ah! you refuse to be corrupted?" says she, contemptuously.</p> + +<p>"Think what you will," says he, restraining himself with determination. +"It doesn't matter in the least to me now. Your opinion I consider +worthless, because prejudiced—as worthless as you consider me. I came +here simply to tell you of my determination to go abroad."</p> + +<p>"You have told me of that already. Lady Swansdown having failed you, may +I ask"—with studied contempt—"who you are going to take with you now?"</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?" says he, wheeling round to her. "What do you mean by +that? By heavens!" laying his hands upon her shoulders, and looking with +fierce eyes into her pale face. "A man might well kill you!"</p> + +<p>"And why?" demands she, undauntedly. "You would have taken her—you have +confessed so much—you had the coarse courage to put it into words. If +not her, why"—with a shrug—"then another!"</p> + +<p>"There! think as you will," says he, releasing her roughly. "Nothing I +could say would convince or move you. And yet, I know it is no use, but +I am determined I will leave nothing unsaid. I will give you no +loop-hole. I asked her to go with me in a moment of irritation, of +loneliness, if you will; it is hard for a man to be forever outside the +pale of affection, and I thought—well, it is no matter what I thought. +I was wrong it seems. As for caring for her, I care so little that I now +feel actually glad she had the sense to refuse my senseless proposal. +She would have bored me, I think, and I should undoubtedly have bored +her. The proposition was made to her in a moment of folly."</p> + +<p>"Oh, folly?" says she with a curious laugh.</p> + +<p>"Well, give it any other name you like. And after all," in a low tone, +"you are right. It was not the word. If I had said despair I should have +been nearer the mark."</p> + +<p>"There might even be another word," said she slowly.</p> + +<p>"Even if there were," says he, "the occasion for it is of your making. +You have thrown me; you must be prepared, therefore, to accept the +consequences."</p> + +<p>"You have prepared me for anything," says she calmly, but with bitter +meaning.</p> + +<p>"See here," says he furiously. "There may still be one thing left for +you which I have not prepared. You have just asked me who I am going to +take with me when I leave this place forever. Shall I answer you?"</p> + +<p>Something in his manner terrifies her; she feels her face blanching. +Words are denied her, but she makes a faint movement to assent with her +hand. What is he going to say!</p> + +<p>"What if I should decide, then, on taking my son with me?" says he +violently. "Who is there to prevent me? Not you, or another. Thus I +could cut all ties and put you out of my life at once and forever!"</p> + +<p>He had certainly not calculated on the force of his words or his manner. +It had been a mere angry suggestion. There was no crudity in Baltimore's +nature. He had never once permitted himself to dwell upon the +possibility of separating the boy from his mother. Such terrible revenge +as that was beyond him, his whole nature would have revolted against it. +He had spoken with passion, urged by her contempt into a desire to show +her where his power lay, without any intention of actually using it. He +meant perhaps to weaken her intolerable defiance, and show her where a +hole in her armor lay. He was not prepared for the effect of his words.</p> + +<p>An ashen shade has overspread her face; her expression has become +ghostly. As though her limbs have suddenly given way under her, she +falls against the mantel-piece and clings to it with trembling fingers. +Her eyes, wild and anguished, seek his.</p> + +<p>"The child!" gasps she in a voice of mortal terror. "The child! Not the +child! Oh! Baltimore, you have taken all from me except that. Leave me +my child!"</p> + +<p>"Good heavens! Don't look at me like that," exclaims he, inexpressibly +shocked—this sudden and complete abandonment of herself to her fear has +horrified him. "I never meant it. I but suggested a possibility. The +child shall stay with you. Do you hear me, Isabel! The child is yours! +When I go, I go alone!"</p> + +<p>There is a moment's silence, and then she bursts into tears. It is a +sharp reaction, and it shakes her bodily and mentally. A wild return of +her love for him—that first, sweet, and only love of her life, returns +to her, born of intense gratitude. But sadly, slowly, it dies away +again. It seems to her too late to dream of that again. Yet perhaps her +tears have as much to do with that lost love as with her gratitude.</p> + +<p>Slowly her color returns. She checks her sobs. She raises her head and +looks at him still with her handkerchief pressed to her tremulous lips.</p> + +<p>"It is a promise," says she.</p> + +<p>"Yes. A promise."</p> + +<p>"You will not change again—" nervously. "You——"</p> + +<p>"Ah! doubt to the last," says he. "It is a promise from me to you, and +of course the word of such a reprobate as you consider me can scarcely +be of any avail."</p> + +<p>"But you could not break this promise?" says she in a low voice, and +with a long, long sigh.</p> + +<p>"What trust you place in me!" said he, with an open sneer—"Well, so be +it. I give you home and child. You give me——Not worth while going into +the magnificence of your gifts, is it?"</p> + +<p>"I gave you once a whole heart—an unbroken faith," says she.</p> + +<p>"And took them back again! Child's play!" says he. "Child's promises. +Well, if you will have it so, you have got a promise from me now, and I +think you might say 'thank you' for it as the children do."</p> + +<p>"I do thank you!" says she vehemently. "Does not my whole manner speak +for me?" Once again her eyes filled with tears.</p> + +<p>"So much love for the child," cries he in a stinging tone, "and not one +thought for the father. Truly your professions of love were light as +thistledown. There! you are not worth a thought yourself. Expend any +affection you have upon your son, and forget me as soon as ever you can. +It will not take you long, once I am out of your sight!"</p> + +<p>He strides towards the door, and then looks back at her.</p> + +<p>"You understand about my going?" he says; "that it is decided, I mean?"</p> + +<p>"As you will," says she, her glance on the ground. There is such a total +lack of emotion in her whole air that it might suggest itself to an +acute student of human nature that she is doing her very utmost to +suppress even the smallest sign of it. But, alas! Baltimore is not that +student.</p> + +<p>"Be just:" says he sternly. "It is as you will—not as I. It is you who +are driving me into exile."</p> + +<p>He has turned his back, and has his hand on the handle of the door in +the act of opening it. At this instant she makes a move toward him, +holding out her hands, but as suddenly suppresses herself. When he turns +again to say a last word she is standing where he last saw her, pale and +impassive as a statue.</p> + +<p>"There will be some matters to arrange," says he, "before my going. I +have telegraphed to Hansard" (his lawyer), "he will be down in the +morning. There will be a few papers for you to sign to-morrow——"</p> + +<p>"Papers?"</p> + +<p>"My will and your maintenance whilst I am away; and matters that will +concern the child's future."</p> + +<p>"His future. That means——"</p> + +<p>"That in all probability when I have started I shall never see his face +again—or yours."</p> + +<p>He opens the door abruptly, and is gone.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LI" id="CHAPTER_LI"></a>CHAPTER LI.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"While bloomed the magic flowers we scarcely knew</span> +<span class="i0">The gold was there. But now their petals strew</span> +<span class="i0">Life's pathway."</span> +<span class="i6">"And yet the flowers were fair,</span> +<span class="i0">Fed by youth's dew and love's enchanted air."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>The cool evening air breathing on Joyce's flushed cheeks calms her as +she sets out for the walk that Barbara had encouraged her to take.</p> + +<p>It is an evening of great beauty. Earth, sea, and sky seem blended in +one great soft mist, that rising from the ocean down below floats up to +heaven, its heart a pale, vague pink.</p> + +<p>The day is almost done, and already shadows are growing around trees and +corners. There is something mystical and strange in the deep murmurs +that come from the nestling woods, the sweet wild coo of the pigeons, +the chirping of innumerable songsters, and now and then the dull hooting +of some blinking owl. Through all, the sad tolling of a chapel bell +away, away in the distance, where the tiny village hangs over the brow +of the rocks that gird the sea.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"While yet the woods were hardly more than brown,</span> +<span class="i3">Filled with the stillness of the dying day,</span> +<span class="i3">The folds and farms, and faint-green pastures lay,</span> +<span class="i1">And bells chimed softly from the gray-walled town;</span> +<span class="i1">The dark fields with the corn and poppies sown,</span> +<span class="i3">The dull, delicious, dreamy forest way,</span> +<span class="i3">The hope of April for the soul of May—</span> +<span class="i1">On all of these night's wide, soft wings swept down."</span> +</div></div> + +<p>Well, it isn't night yet, however. She can see to tread her way along +the short young grasses down to a favorite nook of hers, where musical +sounds of running streams may be heard, and the rustling of growing +leaves make songs above one's head. Here and there she goes through +brambly ways, where amorous arms from blackberry bushes strive to catch +and hold her, and where star-eyed daisies and buttercups and delicate +faint-hearted primroses peep out to laugh at her discomfiture.</p> + +<p>But she escapes from all their snares and goes on her way, her heart so +full of troublous fancies that their many wiles gain from her not so +much as one passing thought.</p> + +<p>The pretty, lovely May is just bursting into bloom; its pink blossoms +here and its white blossoms there mingle gloriously, and the perfume of +it fills the silent air.</p> + +<p>Joyce picks a branch or two as she goes on her way, and thrusts them +into the bosom of her gown.</p> + +<p>And now she has reached the outskirts of the wood, where the river runs, +crossed by a rustic bridge, on which she has ever loved to rest and +dream, leaning rounded arms upon the wooden railings and seeing strange +but sweet things in the bright, hurrying water beneath her eyes.</p> + +<p>She has gained the bridge now, and leaning languidly upon its frail +ramparts lets her gaze wander a-field. The little stream, full of +conversation as ever, flows on unnoticed by her. Its charms seem dead. +That belonged to the old life—the life she will never know again. It +seems to her quite a long time since she felt young. And yet only a few +short months have flown since she was young as the best of them—when +even Tommy did not seem altogether despicable as a companion, and she +had often been guilty of finding pleasure in running a race with him, +and of covering him not only with confusion, but with armfuls of scented +hay, when at last she had gained the victory over him, and had turned +from the appointed goal to overwhelm the enemy with merry sarcasms.</p> + +<p>Oh, yes, that was all over. All done! An end must come to everything, +and to her light-heartedness an end had come very soon. Too soon, she +was inclined to believe, in an excess of self, until she remembered that +life was always to be taken seriously, and that she had deliberately +trifled with it, seeking only the very heart of it—the gaiety, the +carelessness, the ease.</p> + +<p>Well, her punishment has come! She has learned that life is a failure +after all. It takes some people a lifetime to discover that great fact; +it has taken her quite a short time. Nothing is of much consequence. And +yet——</p> + +<p>She sighs and looks round her. Her eyes fall upon a distant bank of +cloud overhanging a pretty farmstead, and throwing into bold relief the +ricks of hay that stand at the western side of it. A huge, black crow +standing on the top of this is napping his wings and calling loudly to +his mate. Presently he spreads his wings, and, with a creaking of them +like the noise of a sail in a light wind, disappears over her head. She +has followed his movements with a sort of lazy curiosity, and now she +knows that he will return in an hour or so with thousands of his +brethren, darkening the heavens as they pass to their night lodgings in +the tall elm trees.</p> + +<p>It is good to be a bird. No care, no trouble. No pain! A short life and +a merry one. Better than a long life and a sorry one. Yes, the world is +all sorry.</p> + +<p>She turns her eyes impatiently away from the fast vanishing crow; and +now they fall upon a perfect wilderness of daffodils that are growing +upon the edge of the bank a little way down. How beautiful they are. +Their soft, delicate heads nod lazily this way and that way. They seem +the very embodiment of graceful drowsiness. Some lines lately read recur +to her, and awake within her memory;</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I wandered lonely as a cloud,</span> +<span class="i2">That floats on high o'er vales and hills,</span> +<span class="i0">When all at once I saw a crowd,</span> +<span class="i2">A crowd of golden daffodils</span> +<span class="i0">Beside the lake, beneath the trees,</span> +<span class="i0">Fluttering and dancing in the breeze."</span> +</div></div> + +<p>They seem so full of lazy joy, or unutterable rapture, that they belie +her belief in the falseness of all things. There must surely be some +good in a world that grows such charming things—things almost sentient. +And the trees swaying about her head, and dropping their branches into +the stream, is there no delight to be got out of them? The tenderness of +this soft, sweet mood, in which perpetual twilight reigns, enters into +her, and soothes the sad demon that is torturing her breast. Tears rise +to her eyes; she leans still further over the parapet, and drawing the +pink and white hawthorn blossoms from her bosom, drops them one by one +into the hasty little river, and lets it bear them away upon its bosom +to tiny bays unknown. Tears follow them, falling from her drooping lids. +Can neither daffodils, nor birds, nor trees, give her some little of +their joy to chase the sorrow from her heart?</p> + +<p>Her soul seems to fling itself outward in an appeal to nature; and +nature, that kind mother of us all, responds to the unspoken cry.</p> + +<p>A step upon the bridge behind her! She starts into a more upright +position and looks round her without much interest.</p> + +<p>A dark figure is advancing toward her. Through the growing twilight it +seems abnormally large and black, and Joyce stares at it anxiously. Not +Freddy—not one of the laborers—they would be all clad in flannel +jackets of a light color.</p> + +<p>"Oh, is it you?" says Dysart, coming closer to her. He had, however, +known it was she from the first moment his eyes rested upon her. No +mist, no twilight could have deceived him, for—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Lovers' eyes are sharp to see</span> +<span class="i0">And lovers' ears in hearing."</span> +</div></div> + +<p>"Yes," says she, advancing a little toward him and giving him her hand. +A cold little hand, and reluctant.</p> + +<p>"I was coming down to Mrs. Monkton with a message—a letter—from Lady +Baltimore."</p> + +<p>"This is a very long way round from the Court, isn't it?" says she.</p> + +<p>"Yes. But I like this calm little corner. I have come often to it +lately."</p> + +<p>Miss Kavanagh lets her eyes wander to the stream down below. To this +little spot of all places! Her favorite nook! Had he hoped to meet her +there? Oh, no; impossible! And besides she had given it up for a long, +long time until this evening. It seems weeks to her now since last she +was here.</p> + +<p>"You will find Barbara at home," says she gently.</p> + +<p>"I don't suppose it is of very much consequence," says he, alluding to +the message. He is looking at her, though her averted face leaves him +little to study.</p> + +<p>"You are cold," says he abruptly.</p> + +<p>"Am I?" turning to him with a little smile. "I don't feel cold. I feel +dull, perhaps, but nothing else."</p> + +<p>And in truth if she had used the word "unhappy" instead of "dull" she +would have been nearer the mark. The coming of Dysart thus suddenly into +the midst of her mournful reverie has but served to accentuate the +reality of it. A terrible sense of loneliness is oppressing her. All +things have their place in this world, yet where is hers? Of what +account is she to anyone? Barbara loves, her; yes, but not so well as +Freddy and the children! Oh, to be first with someone!</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I find no spring, while spring is well-nigh blown;</span> +<span class="i2">I find no nest, while nests are in the grove;</span> +<span class="i0">Woe's me for mine own heart that dwells alone—</span> +<span class="i2">My heart that breaketh for a little love."</span> +</div></div> + +<p>Christina Rosetti's mournful words seem to suit her. Involuntarily she +lifts her heavy eyes, tired of the day's weeping, and looks at Dysart.</p> + +<p>"You have been crying," says he abruptly.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LII" id="CHAPTER_LII"></a>CHAPTER LII.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"My love has sworn with sealing kiss</span> +<span class="i2">With me to live—to die;</span> +<span class="i0">I have at last my nameless bliss—</span> +<span class="i2">As I love, loved am I."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>There is a pause: it threatens to be an everlasting one, as Miss +Kavanagh plainly doesn't know what to say. He can see this; what he +cannot see is that she is afraid of her own voice. Those troublesome +tears that all day have been so close to her seem closer than ever now.</p> + +<p>"Beauclerk came down to see you to-day," says he presently. This remark +is so unexpected that it steadies her.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she says, calmly enough, but without raising the tell-tale eyes.</p> + +<p>"You expected him?"</p> + +<p>"No." Monosyllables alone seem possible to her. So great is her fear +that she will give way and finally disgrace herself, that she forgets to +resent the magisterial tone be has adopted.</p> + +<p>"He asked you to marry him, however?" There is something almost +threatening in his tone now, as if he is defying her to deny his +assertion. It overwhelms her.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she says again, and for the first time is struck by the wretched +meagreness of her replies.</p> + +<p>"Well?" says Dysart, roughly. But this time not even the desolate +monosyllable rewards the keenness of his examination.</p> + +<p>"Well?" says he again, going closer to her and resting his hand on the +wooden rail against which she, too, was leaning. He is So close to her +now that it is impossible to escape his scrutiny. "What am I to +understand by that? Tell me how you have decided." Getting no answer to +this either, he says, impatiently, "Tell me, Joyce."</p> + +<p>"I refused him," says she at last in a low tone, and in a dull sort of +way, as if the matter is one of indifference to her.</p> + +<p>"Ah!" He draws a long breath. "It is true?" he says, laying his hand on +hers as it lies on the top of the woodwork.</p> + +<p>"Quite true."</p> + +<p>"And yet—you have been crying?"</p> + +<p>"You can see that," says she, petulantly. "You have taken pains to see +and to tell me of it. Do you think it is a pleasant thing to be told? +Most people," glancing angrily toward him—"everyone, I think—makes it +a point now-a-days not to see when one has been making a fool of +oneself; but you seem to take a delight in torturing me."</p> + +<p>"Did it," says he bitterly, ignoring—perhaps not even hearing—her +outburst. "Did it cost you so much to refuse him?"</p> + +<p>"It cost me nothing!" with a sudden effort, and a flash from her +beautiful eyes.</p> + +<p>"Nothing?"</p> + +<p>"I have said so! Nothing at all. It was mere nervousness, and +because—it reminded me of other things."</p> + +<p>"Did he see you cry?" asks Dysart, tightening unconsciously his grasp +upon her hand.</p> + +<p>"No. He was gone a long time, quite a long time, before it occurred to +me that I should like to cry. I," with a frugal smile, "indulged myself +very freely then, as you have seen."</p> + +<p>Dysart draws a long breath of relief. It would have been intolerable to +him that Beauclerk should have known of her tears. He would not have +understood them. He would have taken possession of them, as it were. +They would have merely helped to pamper his self-conceit and smooth down +his ruffled pride. He would inevitably have placed such and such a +construction on them, one entirely to his own glorification.</p> + +<p>"I shall leave you now with a lighter heart," says Felix presently—"now +that I know you are not going to marry that fellow."</p> + +<p>"You are going, then?" says she, sharply, checking the monotonous little +tattoo she has been playing on the bridge rail, as though suddenly +smitten into stone. She had heard he was going, she had been told of it +by several people, but somehow she had never believed it. It had never, +come home to her until now.</p> + +<p>"Yes. We are under orders for India. We sail in about a month. I shall +have to leave here almost immediately."</p> + +<p>"So soon?" says she, vaguely. She has begun that absurd tattoo again, +but bridge, and restless little fingers, and sky and earth, and all +things seem blotted out. He is going, really going, and for ever! How +far is India away?</p> + +<p>"It is always rather hurried at last. For my part I am glad I am going."</p> + +<p>"Yes?"</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Monkton will—at least I am sure she will—let me have a line now +and then to let me know how you—how you are all getting on. I was going +to ask her about it this evening. You think she will be good enough?"</p> + +<p>"Barbara is always kind."</p> + +<p>"I suppose"—he hesitates, and then goes on with an effort—"I suppose +it would be too much to ask of you——"</p> + +<p>"What?"</p> + +<p>"That you would sometimes write me a letter—however short."</p> + +<p>"I am a bad correspondent," says she, feeling as if she were choking.</p> + +<p>"Ah! I see. I should not have asked, of course. Yes, you are right. It +was absurd my hoping for it."</p> + +<p>"When people choose to go away so far as that——" she is compelling +herself to speak, but her voice sounds to herself a long way off.</p> + +<p>"They must hope to be forgotten. 'Out of sight out of mind,' I know. It +is such an old proverb. Well——You are cold," says he suddenly, noting +the pallor of the girl's face. "Whatever you were before, you are +certainly chilled to the bone now. You look it. Come, this is no time of +year to be lingering out of doors without a coat or hat."</p> + +<p>"I have this shawl," says she, pointing to the soft white, fleecy thing +that covers her.</p> + +<p>"I distrust it. Come."</p> + +<p>"No," says she, faintly. "Go on; you give your message to Barbara. As +for me, I shall be happier here."</p> + +<p>"Where I am not," says he, with a bitter laugh. "I suppose I ought to be +accustomed to that thought now, but such is my conceit that it seems +ever a fresh shock to me. Well, for all that," persuadingly, "come in. +The evening is very cold. I shan't like to go away, leaving you behind +me suffering from a bad cough or something of that kind. We have been +friends, Joyce," with a rather sorry smile. "For the sake of the old +friendship, don't send me adrift with such an anxiety upon my mind."</p> + +<p>"Would you really care?" says she.</p> + +<p>"Ah! That is the humor of it," says he. "In spite of all I should still +really care. Come." He makes an effort to unclasp the small, pretty +fingers that are grasping the rails so rigidly. At first they seem to +resist his gentle pressure, and then they give way to him. She turns +suddenly.</p> + +<p>"Felix,"—her voice is somewhat strained, somewhat harsh, not at all her +own voice,—"do you still love me?"</p> + +<p>"You know that," returns he, sadly. If he has felt any surprise at the +question he has not shown it.</p> + +<p>"No, no," says she, feverishly. "That you like me, that you are fond of +me, perhaps, I can still believe. But is it the same with you that it +used to be? Do you," with a little sob, "love me as well now as in those +old days? Just the same! Not," going nearer to him, and laying her hand +upon his breast, and raising agonized eyes of inquiry to his—"not one +bit less?"</p> + +<p>"I love you a thousand times more," says he, very quietly, but with such +intensity that it enters into her very soul. "Why?" He has laid his own +hand over the small nervous one lying on his breast, and his face has +grown very white.</p> + +<p>"Because I love you too!"</p> + +<p>She stops short here, and begins to tremble violently. With a little +shamed, heartbroken gesture she tears her hand out of his and covers her +face from his sight.</p> + +<p>"Say that again!" says he, hoarsely. He waits a moment, but when no word +comes from her he deliberately drags away the sheltering hands and +compels her to look at him.</p> + +<p>"Say it!" says he, in a tone that is now almost a command.</p> + +<p>"Oh! it is true—true!" cries she, vehemently. "I love you; I have loved +you a long time, I think, but I didn't know it. Oh, Felix! Dear, dear +Felix, forgive me!"</p> + +<p>"Forgive you!" says he, brokenly.</p> + +<p>"Ah! yes. And don't leave me. If you go away from me I shall die. There +has been so much of it—a little more—and——" She breaks down.</p> + +<p>"My beloved!" says he in a faint, quick way. He is holding her to him +now with all his might. She can feel the quick pulsations of his heart. +Suddenly she slips her soft arms around his neck, and now with her head +pressed against his shoulder, bursts into a storm of tears. It is a last +shower.</p> + +<p>They are both silent for a long time, and then he, raising one of her +hands, presses the palm against his lips. Looking up at him, she smiles, +uncertainly but happily, a very rainbow of a smile, born of sunshine, +and, raindrops gone, it seems to beautify her lips. But Felix, while +acknowledging its charm, cannot smile back at her. It is all too +strange, too new. He is afraid to believe. As yet there is something +terrible to him in this happiness that has fallen into his life.</p> + +<p>"You mean it?" he asks, bending over her. "If to-morrow I were to wake +and find all this an idle dream, how would it be with me then? Say you +mean it!"</p> + +<p>"Am I not here?" says she, tremulously, making a slight but eloquent +pressure on one of the arms that are round her. He bends his face to +hers, and as he feels that first glad eager kiss returned—he knows!</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LIII" id="CHAPTER_LIII"></a>CHAPTER LIII.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"True love's the gift which God has given</span> +<span class="i0">To man alone beneath the heaven:</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It is the secret sympathy,</span> +<span class="i0">The silver link, the silken tie,</span> +<span class="i0">Which heart to heart and mind to mind</span> +<span class="i0">In body and in soul can bind."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>Of course Barbara is delighted. She proves charming as a confidante. +Nothing can exceed the depth of her sympathy.</p> + +<p>When Joyce and Felix came in together in the darkening twilight, +entering the house in a burglarious fashion through the dining-room +window, it so happens that Barbara is there, and is at once struck by a +sense of guilt that seems to surround and envelop them. They had not, +indeed, anticipated meeting Barbara in that room of all others, and are +rather taken aback when they come face to face with her.</p> + +<p>"I assure you we have not come after the spoons," says Felix, in a +would-be careless tone that could not have deceived an infant, and with +a laugh, so frightfully careless that it would have terrified the life +out of you.</p> + +<p>"You certainly don't look like it," says Mrs. Monkton, whose heart has +begun to beat high with hope. She hardly knows whether it is better to +fall upon their necks forthwith and declare she knows all about it, or +else to pretend ignorance. She decides upon the latter as being the +easier; after all they mightn't like the neck process. Most people have +a fancy for telling their own tales, to have them told for one is +annoying. "You haven't the requisite murderous expression," she says, +unable to resist a touch of satire. "You look rather frightened you two. +What have you been doing?" She is too good natured not to give them an +opening for their confession.</p> + +<p>"Not much, and yet a great deal," says Felix. He has advanced a little, +while Joyce, on the contrary, has meanly receded farther into the +background. She has rather the appearance, indeed, of one who, if the +wall could have been induced to give way, would gladly have followed it +into the garden. The wall, however, declines to budge. "As for +burglary," goes on Felix, trying to be gay, and succeeding villainously. +"You must exonerate your sister at all events. But I—I confess I have +stolen something belonging to you."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no; not stolen," says Joyce, in a rather faint tone. "Barbara, I +know what you will think, but——"</p> + +<p>"I know what I do think!" cries Barbara, joyously. "Oh, is it, can it be +true?"</p> + +<p>It never occurs to her that Felix now is not altogether a brilliant +match for a sister with a fortune—she remembers only in that lovely +mind of hers that he had loved Joyce when she was without a penny, and +that he is now what he had always seemed to her, the one man that could +make Joyce happy.</p> + +<p>"Yes; it is true!" says Dysart. He has given up that unsuccessful gayety +now and has grown very grave; there is even a slight tremble in his +voice. He comes up to Mrs. Monkton and takes both her hands. "She has +given herself to me. You are really glad! You are not angry about it? I +know I am not good enough for her, but——"</p> + +<p>Here Joyce gives way to a little outburst of mirth that is rather +tremulous, and coming away from the unfriendly wall, that has not been +of the least use to her, brings herself somewhat shamefacedly into the +only light the room receives through the western window. The twilight at +all events is kind to her. It is difficult to see her face.</p> + +<p>"I really can't stay here," says she, "and listen to my own praises +being sung. And besides," turning to Felix a lovely but embarrassed +face, "Barbara will not regard it as you do; she will, on the contrary, +say you are a great deal too good for me, and that I ought to be +pilloried for all the trouble I have given through not being able to +make up my own mind for so long a time."</p> + +<p>"Indeed, I shall say nothing but that you are the dearest girl in the +world, and that I'm delighted things have turned out so well. I always +said it would be like this," cries Barbara exultantly, who certainly +never had said it, and had always indeed been distinctly doubtful about +it.</p> + +<p>"Is Mr. Monkton in?" says Felix, in a way that leads Monkton's wife to +imagine that if she should chance to say he was out, the news would be +hailed with rapture.</p> + +<p>"Oh, never mind him," says she, beaming upon the happy but awkward +couple before her. "I'll tell him all about it. He will be just as glad +as I am. There, go away you two; you will find the small parlor empty, +and I dare say you have a great deal to say to each other still. Of +course you will dine with us, Felix, and give Freddy an opportunity of +saying something ridiculous to you."</p> + +<p>"Thank you," says Dysart warmly. "I suppose I can write a line to my +cousin explaining matters."</p> + +<p>"Of course. Joyce, take some writing things into the small parlor, and +call for a lamp as you go."</p> + +<p>She is smiling at Joyce as she speaks, and now, going up to her, kisses +her impulsively. Joyce returns the caress with fervor. It is natural +that she should never have felt the sweetness, the content of Barbara so +entirely as she does now, when her heart is open and full of ecstasy, +and when sympathy seems so necessary. Darling Barbara! But then she must +love Felix now just as much as she loves her. She rather electrifies +Barbara and Felix by saying anxiously to the former:</p> + +<p>"Kiss Felix, too."</p> + +<p>It is impossible not to laugh. Mrs. Monkton gives way to immediate and +unrestrained mirth, and Dysart follows suit.</p> + +<p>"It is a command," says he, and Barbara thereupon kisses him +affectionately.</p> + +<p>"Well, now I have got a brother at last," says she. It is indeed her +first knowledge of one, for that poor suicide in Nice had never been +anything to her—or to any one else in the world for the matter of +that—except a great trouble. "There, go," says she. "I think I hear +Freddy coming."</p> + +<p>They fly. They both feel that further explanations are beyond them just +as present; and as for Barbara, she is quite determined that no one but +she shall let Freddy into the all-important secret. She is now fully +convinced in her own mind that she had always had special prescience of +this affair, and the devouring desire we all have to say "I told you how +'twould be" to our unfortunate fellow-travellers through this vale of +tears, whether the cause for the hateful reminder be for weal or woe, is +strong upon her now.</p> + +<p>She goes to the window, and seeing Monkton some way off, flings up the +sash and waves to him in a frenzied fashion to come to her at once. +There is something that almost approaches tragedy in her air and +gesture. Monkton hastens to obey.</p> + +<p>"Now, what—what—what do you think has happened?" cries she, when he +has vaulted the window sill and is standing beside her, somewhat +breathless and distinctly uneasy. Nothing short of an accident to the +children could, in his opinion, have warranted so vehement a call. Yet +Barbara, as he examines her features carefully, seems all joyous +excitement. After a short contemplation of her beaming face he tell +himself that he was an ass to give up that pilgrimage of his to the +lower field, where he had been going to inspect a new-born calf.</p> + +<p>"The skys are all right," says he, with an upward glance at them through +the window. "And—you hadn't another uncle, had you?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, Freddy," says she, very justly disgusted.</p> + +<p>"Well, my good child, what then? I'm all curiosity."</p> + +<p>"Guess," says she, too happy to be able to give him the round scolding +he deserves.</p> + +<p>"Oh! if it's a riddle," says he, "you might remember I am only a little +one, and unequal to the great things of life."</p> + +<p>"Ah! but, Freddy, I've something delicious to tell you. There sit down +there, you look quite queer, while I——"</p> + +<p>"No wonder I do," says he, at last rather wrathfully. "To judge by your +wild gesticulations at the window just now, any one might have imagined +that the house was on fire and a hostile race tearing en masse into the +back yard. And now—why, it appears you are quite pleased about +something or other. Really such disappointments are enough to age any +man—or make him look 'queer,' that was the word you used, I think?"</p> + +<p>"Listen," says she, seating herself beside him, and flipping her arm +around his neck. "Joyce is going to marry Felix—after all. There!" +Still with her arm holding him, she leans back a little to mark the +effect of this astonishing disclosure.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LIV" id="CHAPTER_LIV"></a>CHAPTER LIV.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Well said; that was laid on with a trowel."</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in</span> +<span class="i0">all Venice."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>"After all, indeed; you may well say that," says Mr. Monkton, with +indignation. "If those two idiots meant matrimony all along, why on +earth didn't they do it all before. See what a lot of time they've lost, +and what a disgraceful amount of trouble they have given all round."</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes, of course. But then you see, Freddy, it takes some time to +make up one's mind about such an important matter as that."</p> + +<p>"It didn't take you long," says Mr. Monkton most unwisely.</p> + +<p>"It took me a great deal longer than it took you," replies his wife with +dignity. "You have always said that it was the very first day you ever +saw me—and I'm sure it took me quite a week!"</p> + +<p>This lucid speech she delivers with some severity.</p> + +<p>"More shame for you," says Monkton promptly.</p> + +<p>"Well, never mind," says she, too happy and too engrossed with her news +to enjoy even a skirmish with her husband. "Isn't it all charming, +Freddy?"</p> + +<p>"It has certainly turned out very well, all things considered."</p> + +<p>"I think it is the happiest thing. And when two people who love each +other are quite young——"</p> + +<p>"Really, my dear, you are too flattering," says Monkton. "Considering +the gray hairs that are beginning to make themselves so unpleasantly at +home in my head, I, at all events, can hardly lay claim to extreme +youth."</p> + +<p>"Good gracious! I'm not talking of us; I'm talking of them," cries she, +giving him a shake. "Wake up, Freddy. Bring your mind to bear upon this +big news of mine, and you will see how enchanting it is. Don't you think +Felix has behaved beautifully—so faithful, so constant, and against +such terrible odds? You know Joyce is a little difficult sometimes. Now +hasn't he been perfect all through?"</p> + +<p>"He is a genuine hero of romance," says Mr. Monkton with conviction. +"None of your cheap articles—a regular bonafide thirteenth century +knight. The country ought to contribute its stray half-pennies and buy +him a pedestal and put him on the top of it, whether he likes it or not. +Once there Simon Stylites would be forgotten in half an hour. Was there +ever before heard of such an heroic case! Did ever yet living man have +the prowess to propose to the girl he loved! It is an entirely new +departure, and should be noticed. It is quite unique!"</p> + +<p>"Don't be horrid," says his wife. "You know exactly what I mean—that it +is a delightful ending to what promised to be a miserable muddle. And he +is so charming; isn't he, now, Freddy?"</p> + +<p>"Is he?" asks Mr. Monkton, regarding her with a thoughtful eye.</p> + +<p>"You can see for yourself. He is so satisfactory. I always said he was +the very husband for Joyce. He is so kind, so earnest, so sweet in every +way."</p> + +<p>"Nearly as sweet as I am, eh?" There is stern inquiry now in his regard.</p> + +<p>"Pouf! I know what you are, of course. Who would, if I didn't? But +really, Freddy, don't you think he will make her an ideal husband? So +open. So frank. So free from everything—everything—oh, well, +everything—you know!"</p> + +<p>"I don't," says Monkton, uncompromisingly.</p> + +<p>"Well—everything hateful, I mean. Oh! she is a lucky girl!"</p> + +<p>"Nearly as lucky as her sister," says Monkton, growing momentarily more +stern in his determination to uphold his own cause.</p> + +<p>"Don't be absurd. I declare," with a little burst of amusement, "when +he—they—told me about it, I never felt so happy in my life."</p> + +<p>"Except when you married me." He throws quite a tragical expression into +his face, that is, however, lost upon her.</p> + +<p>"Of course, with her present fortune, she might have made what the world +would call a more distinguished match. But his family are +unexceptionable, and he has some money—not much, I know, but still, +some. And even if he hadn't she has now enough for both. After +all"—with noble disregard of the necessaries of life—"what is money?"</p> + +<p>"Dross—mere dross!" says Mr. Monkton.</p> + +<p>"And he is just the sort of man not to give a thought to it."</p> + +<p>"He couldn't, my dear. Heroes of romance are quite above all that sort +of thing."</p> + +<p>"Well, he is, certainly," says Mrs. Monkton, a little offended. "You may +go on pretending as much as you like, Freddy, but I know you think about +him just as I do. He is exactly the sort of charming character to make +Joyce happy."</p> + +<p>"Nearly as happy as I have made you!" says her husband, severely.</p> + +<p>"Dear me, Freddy—I really do wish you would try and forget yourself for +one moment!"</p> + +<p>"I might be able to do that, my dear, if I were quite sure that you were +not forgetting me, too."</p> + +<p>"Oh, as to that! I declare you are a perfect baby! You love teasing. +Well—there then!" The "there" represents a kiss, and Mr. Monkton, +having graciously accepted this tribute to his charms, condescends to +come down from his mental elevation and discuss the new engagement with +considerable affability. Once, indeed, there is a dangerous lapse back +into his old style, but this time there seems to be occasion for it.</p> + +<p>"When they stood there stammering and stuttering, Freddy, and looking so +awfully silly, I declare I was so glad about it that I actually kissed +him!'"</p> + +<p>"What!" says Mr. Monkton. "And you have lived to tell the tale! You +have, therefore; lived too long. Perfidious woman, prepare for death."</p> + +<p>"I declare I think you'd have done it," says Barbara, eloquently. +Whereupon, having reconsidered her speech, they both give way to mirth.</p> + +<p>"I'll try it when I see him," says Monkton. "Even a hero of romance +couldn't object to a chaste salute from me."</p> + +<p>"He is coming to dinner. I hope when you do see him. Freddy,"—anxiously +this—"you will be very sober about it."</p> + +<p>"Barbara! You know I never get—er—that is—not before dinner at all +events."</p> + +<p>"Well, but promise me now, you will be very serious about it. They are +taking it seriously, and they won't like it if you persist in treating +it as a jest."</p> + +<p>"I'll be a perfect judge."</p> + +<p>"I know what that means"—indignantly—"that you are going to be as +frivolous as possible."</p> + +<p>"My dear girl! If the bench could only hear you. Well, there then! Yes, +really! I'll be everything of the most desirable. A regular funeral +mute. And," seeing she is still offended, "I am glad about it, Barbara. +Honestly I think him as good a fellow as I know—and Joyce another."</p> + +<p>Having convinced her of his good faith in the matter, and argued with +her on every single point, and so far perjured himself as to remember +perfectly and accurately the very day and hour on which, three months +ago, she had said that she knew Joyce preferred Felix to Beauclerk, he +is forgiven, and presently allowed to depart in peace with another +"there," even warmer than the first.</p> + +<p>But it is unquestionable that she keeps a severe eye on him all through +dinner, and so forbids any trifling with the sacred topic. "It would +have put the poor things out so!" She had said to herself; and, indeed, +it must be confessed that the lovers are very shy and uncomfortable, and +that conversation drifts a good deal, and is only carried on irregularly +by fits and starts. But later, when Felix has unburdened his mind to +Monkton during the quarter of an hour over their wine—when Barbara has +been compelled, in fear and trembling, to leave Freddy to his own +devices—things grow more genial, and the extreme happiness that dwells +in the lovers' hearts is given full play. There is even a delightful +half hour granted them upon the balcony, Barbara having—like the good +angel she is—declared that the night is almost warm enough for June.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LV" id="CHAPTER_LV"></a>CHAPTER LV.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Great discontents there are, and many murmurs."</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"There is a kind of mournful eloquence</span> +<span class="i0">In thy dumb grief."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>Lady Baltimore, too, had been very pleased by the news when Felix told +her next morning of his good luck. In all her own great unhappiness she +had still a kindly word and thought for her cousin and his fiancée.</p> + +<p>"One of the nicest girls," she says, pressing his hands warmly. "I often +think, indeed, the nicest girl I know. You are fortunate, Felix, +but"—very kindly—"she is fortunate, too."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, the luck is all on my side," says he.</p> + +<p>"It will be a blow to Norman," she says, presently.</p> + +<p>"I think not," with an irrepressible touch of scorn. "There is Miss +Maliphant."</p> + +<p>"You mean that he can decline upon her. Of course I can quite understand +that you do not like him," says she with a quick sigh. "But, believe me, +any heart he has was really given to Joyce. Well, he must devote himself +to ambition now."</p> + +<p>"Miss Maliphant can help him to that."</p> + +<p>"No, no. That is all knocked on the head. It appears—this is in strict +confidence, Felix—but it appears he asked her to marry him last +evening, and she refused."</p> + +<p>Felix turns to her as if to give utterance to some vehement words, and +then checks himself. After all, why add to her unhappiness? Why tell her +of that cur's baseness? Her own brother, too! It would be but another +grief to her.</p> + +<p>To think he should have gone from her to Miss Maliphant! What a pitiful +creature! Beneath contempt! Well, if his pride survives those two +downfalls—both in one day—it must be made of leather. It does Felix +good to think of how Miss Maliphant must have worded her refusal. She is +not famous for grace of speech. He must have had a real bad time of it. +Of course, Joyce had told him of her interview with the sturdy heiress.</p> + +<p>"Ah, she refused?" says he hardly knowing what to say.</p> + +<p>"Yes; and not very graciously, I'm afraid. He gave me the mere fact of +the refusal—no more, and only that because he had to give a reason for +his abrupt departure. You know he is going this evening?"</p> + +<p>"No, I did not know it. Of course, under the circumstances——"</p> + +<p>"Yes, he could hardly stay here. Margaret came to me and said she would +go, but I would not allow that. After all, every woman has a right to +refuse or accept as she will."</p> + +<p>"True." His heart gives an exultant leap as he remembers how his love +had willed.</p> + +<p>"I only wish she had not hurt him in the refusal. But I could see he was +wounded. He was not in his usual careless spirits. He struck me as being +a little—well, you know, a little——" She hesitates.</p> + +<p>"Out of temper," suggests Felix involuntarily.</p> + +<p>"Well, yes. Disappointment takes that course with some people. After +all, it might have been worse if he had set his heart on Joyce and been +refused."</p> + +<p>"Much worse," says Felix, his eyes on the ground.</p> + +<p>"She would have been a severe loss."</p> + +<p>"Severe, indeed." By this time Felix is beginning to feel like an +advanced hypocrite.</p> + +<p>"As for Margaret Maliphant, I am afraid he was more concerned about the +loss of her bonds and scrips than of herself. It is a terrible world, +Felix, when all is told," says she, suddenly crossing her beautiful long +white hands over her knees, and leaning toward him. There is a touch of +misery so sharp in her voice that he starts as he looks at her. It is a +momentary fit of emotion, however, and passes before he dare comment on +it. With a heart nigh to breaking she still retains her composure and +talks calmly to Felix, and lets him talk to her, as though the fact that +she is soon to lose forever the man who once had gained her heart—that +fatal "once" that means for always, in spite of everything that has come +and gone—is as little or nothing to her. Seeing her sitting there, +strangely pale indeed, but so collected, it would be impossible to guess +at the tempest of passion and grief and terror that reigns within her +breast. Women are not so strong to bear as men, and therefore in the +world's storms suffer most.</p> + +<p>"It is a lovely world," says he smiling, thinking of Joyce, and then, +remembering her sad lot, his smile fades. "One might make—perhaps—a +bad world—better," he says, stammering.</p> + +<p>"Ah! teach me how," says she with a melancholy glance.</p> + +<p>"There is such a thing as forgiveness. Forgive him!" blurts he out in a +frightened sort of way. He is horrified, at himself—at his own +temerity—a second later, and rises to his feet as if to meet the +indignation he has certainly courted. But to his surprise no such +indignation betrays itself.</p> + +<p>"Is that your advice?" says she, still with the thin white hands clasped +over the knee, and the earnest gaze on him. "Well, well, well!"</p> + +<p>Her eyes droop. She seems to be thinking, and he, gazing at her, +refrains from speech with his heart sad with pity. Presently she lifts +her head and looks at him.</p> + +<p>"There! Go back to your love," she says with a glance that thrills him. +"Tell her from me that if you had the whole world to choose from, I +should still select her as your wife. I like her; I love her! There, +go!" She seems to grow all at once very tired. Are those tears that are +rising in her eyes? She holds out to him her hand.</p> + +<p>Felix, taking it, holds it closely for a moment, and presently, as if +moved to do it, he stoops and presses a warm kiss upon it.</p> + +<p>She is so unhappy, and so kind, and so true. God deliver her out of her +sorrow!</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LVI" id="CHAPTER_LVI"></a>CHAPTER LVI.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I would that I were low laid in my grave."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>She is still sitting silent, lost in thought, after Felix's departure, +when the door opens once again to admit her husband. His hands are full +of papers.</p> + +<p>"Are you at liberty?" says he. "Have you a moment? These," pointing to +the papers, "want signing. Can you give your attention to them now?"</p> + +<p>"What are they?" asks she, rising.</p> + +<p>"Mere law papers. You need not look so terrified." His tone is bitter. +"There are certain matters that must be arranged before my +departure—matters that concern your welfare and the boy's. Here," +laying the papers upon the davenport and spreading them out. "You sign +your name here."</p> + +<p>"But," recoiling, "what is it? What does it all mean?"</p> + +<p>"It is not your death warrant, I assure you," says he, with a sneer. +"Come, sign!" Seeing her still hesitate, he turns upon her savagely. Who +shall say what hidden storms of grief and regret lie within that burst +of anger?</p> + +<p>"Do you want your son to live and die a poor man?" says he. "Come! there +is yourself to be considered, too! Once I am out of your way, you will +be able to begin life again with a light heart; and this," tapping the +paper heavily, "will enable you to do it. I make over to you and the boy +everything—at least, as nearly everything as will enable me to live."</p> + +<p>"It should be the other way," says she. "Take everything, and leave us +enough on which to live."</p> + +<p>"Why?" says he, facing round, something in her voice that resembles +remorse striking him.</p> + +<p>"We—shall have each other," says she, faintly.</p> + +<p>"Having happily got rid of such useless lumber as the father and +husband. Well, you will be the happier so," rejoins he with a laugh that +hurts him more than it hurts her, though she cannot know that. "'Two is +company,' you know, according to the good old proverb, 'three trumpery.' +You and he will get on very well without me, no doubt."</p> + +<p>"It is your arrangement," says she.</p> + +<p>"If that thought is a salve to your conscience, pray think so," rejoins +he. "It isn't worth an argument. We are only wasting time." He hands her +the pen; she takes it mechanically, but makes no use of it.</p> + +<p>"You will at least tell me where you are going?" says she.</p> + +<p>"Certainly I should, if I only knew myself. To America first, but that +is a big direction, and I am afraid the tenderest love letter would not +reach me through it. When your friends ask you, say I have gone to the +North Pole; it is as likely a destination as another."</p> + +<p>"But not to know!" says she, lifting her dark eyes to his—dark eyes +that seem to glow like fire in her white face. "That would be terrible. +It is unfair. You should think—think—" Her voice grows husky and +uncertain. She stops abruptly.</p> + +<p>"Don't be uneasy about that," says he. "I shall take care that my death, +when it occurs, is made known to you as soon as possible. Your mind +shall be relieved on that score with as little delay as I can manage. +The welcome news shall be conveyed to you by a swift messenger."</p> + +<p>She flings the pen upon the writing table, and turns away.</p> + +<p>"Insult me to the last if you will!" she says; "but consider your son. +He loves you. He will desire news of you from time to time. It is +impossible that you can put him out of your life as you have put me."</p> + +<p>"It appears you can be unjust to the last," says he, flinging her own +accusation back at her. "Have I put you out of my life?"</p> + +<p>"Ah! was I ever in it?" says she. "But—you will write?"</p> + +<p>"No. Not a line. Once for all I break with you. Should my death occur +you will hear of it. And I have arranged so, that now and after that +event you and the boy will have your positions clearly defined. That is +all you can possibly require of me. Even if you marry again your +jointure will be secured to you."</p> + +<p>"Baltimore!" exclaims she, turning upon him passionately. She seems to +struggle with herself for words. "Has marriage proved so sweet a thing?" +cries she presently, "that I should care to try it again? There! Go! I +shall sign none of these things." She makes a disdainful gesture towards +the loose papers lying on the table, and moves angrily away.</p> + +<p>"You have your son to consider."</p> + +<p>"Your son will inherit the title and the property without those papers."</p> + +<p>"There are complications, however, that perhaps you do not understand."</p> + +<p>"Let them lie there. I shall sign nothing."</p> + +<p>"In that case you will probably find yourself immersed in troubles of +the meaner kinds after my departure. The child cannot inherit until +after my death and——"</p> + +<p>"I don't care," says she, sullenly. "Go, if you will. I refuse to +benefit by it."</p> + +<p>"What a stubborn woman you are," cries he, in great wrath. "You have for +years declined to acknowledge me as your husband. You have by your +manner almost commanded my absence from your side; yet now when I bring +you the joyful news that in a short time you will actually be rid of me, +you throw a thousand difficulties in my path. Is it that you desire to +keep me near you for the purposes of torture? It is too late for that. +You have gone a trifle too far. The hope you have so clearly expressed +in many ways that time would take me out of your path is at last about +to be fulfilled."</p> + +<p>"I have had no such hope."</p> + +<p>"No! You can look me in the face and say that! Saintly lips never lie, +however, do they? Well, I'm sick of this life; you are not. I have borne +a good deal from you, as I told you before. I'll bear no more. I give +in. Fate has been too strong for me."</p> + +<p>"You have created your own fate."</p> + +<p>"You are my fate! You are inexorable! There is no reason why I should +stay."</p> + +<p>Here the sound of running, childish, pattering footsteps can be heard +outside the door, and a merry little shout of laughter. The door is +suddenly burst open in rather unconventional style, and Bertie rushes +into the room, a fox terrier at his heels. The dog is evidently quite as +much up to the game as the boy, and both race tempestuously up the room +and precipitate themselves against Lady Baltimore's skirts. Round and +round her the chase continues, until the boy, bursting away from his +mother, dashes toward his father, the terrier after him.</p> + +<p>There isn't so much scope for talent in a pair of trousers as in a mass +of dainty petticoats, and presently Bertie grows tired, flings himself +down upon the ground, and lets the dog tumble over him there. The joust +is virtually at an end.</p> + +<p>Lady Baltimore, who has stood immoveable during the attack upon her, +always with that cold, white, beautiful look upon her face, now points +to the stricken child lying panting, laughing, and playing with the dog +at his father's feet.</p> + +<p>"There is a reason!" says she, almost inaudibly.</p> + +<p>Baltimore shakes his head. "I have thought all that out. It is not +enough," says he.</p> + +<p>"Bertie!" says his mother, turning to the child. "Do you know this, that +your father is going to leave you?"</p> + +<p>"Going?" says the boy vaguely, forgetting the dog for a moment and +glancing upward. "Where?"</p> + +<p>"Away. Forever."</p> + +<p>"Where?" says the boy again. He rises to his feet now, and looks +anxiously at his father; then he smiles and flings himself into his +arms. "Oh, no!" says he, in a little soft, happy, sure sort of a way.</p> + +<p>"Forever! Forever!" repeals Isabel in a curious monotone.</p> + +<p>"Take me up," says the child, tugging at his father's arms. "What does +mamma mean? Where are you going?"</p> + +<p>"To America, to shoot bears," returns Baltimore with an embarrassed +laugh. How near to tears it is.</p> + +<p>"Real live bears?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Take me with you"? says the child, excitedly.</p> + +<p>"And leave mamma?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, she'll come, too," says Bertie, confidently. "She'll come where I +go." Where he would go—the child! But would she go where the father +went? Baltimore's brow darkens.</p> + +<p>"I am afraid it is out of the question," he says, putting Bertie back +again upon the carpet where the fox terrier is barking furiously and +jumping up and down in a frenzied fashion as if desirous of devouring +the child's legs. "The bears might eat you. When you are big and +strong——"</p> + +<p>"You will come back for me?" cries Bertie, eagerly.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps."</p> + +<p>"He will not," breaks in Lady Baltimore violently. "He will come back no +more. When he goes you will never see him again. He has said so. He is +going forever!" These last two terrible words seem to have sunk into +her soul. She cannot cease from repeating them.</p> + +<p>"Let the boy alone," says Baltimore angrily.</p> + +<p>The child is looking from one parent to the other. He seems puzzled, +expectant, but scarcely unhappy. Childhood can grasp a great deal, but +not all. The more unhappy the childhood, the more it can understand of +the sudden and larger ways of life. But children delicately brought up +and clothed in love from their cradle find it hard to realize that an +end to their happiness can ever come.</p> + +<p>"Tell me, papa!" says he at last in a vague, sweet little way.</p> + +<p>"What is there to tell?" replies his father with a most meagre laugh, +"except that I saw Beecher bringing in some fresh oranges half an hour +ago. Perhaps he hasn't eaten them all yet. If you were to ask him for +one——"</p> + +<p>"I'll find him," cries Bertie brightly, forgetting everything but the +present moment. "Come, Trixy, come," to his dog, "you shall have some, +too."</p> + +<p>"You see there' won't be much trouble with him," says Baltimore, when +the boy has run out of the room in pursuit of oranges. "It will take him +a day, perhaps, and after that he will be quite your own. If you won't +sign these papers to-day you will perhaps to-morrow. I had better go and +tell Hansard that you would like to have a little time to look them +over."</p> + +<p>He walks quickly down the room, opens the door, and closes it after him.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LVII" id="CHAPTER_LVII"></a>CHAPTER LVII.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"This is that happy morn—</span> +<span class="i0">That day, long-wished day</span> +<span class="i2">Of all my life so dark</span> +<span class="i0">(If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn</span> +<span class="i0">And fates my hopes betray)</span> +<span class="i0">Which, purely white, deserves</span> +<span class="i2">An everlasting diamond should it mark."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>He has not, however, gone three yards down the corridor when the door is +again opened, and Lady Baltimore's voice calls after him:</p> + +<p>"Baltimore!" Her tone is sharp, high-agonized—the tone of one strung to +the highest pitch of despair. It startles him. He turns to look at her. +She is standing, framed in by the doorway, and one hand is grasping the +woodwork with a hold so firm that the knuckles are showing white. With +the other hand she beckons him to approach her. He obeys her. He is even +so frightened at the strange gray look in her face that he draws her +bodily into the room again, shutting the door with a pressure of the +hand he can best spare.</p> + +<p>"What is it?" says he, looking down at her.</p> + +<p>She has managed to so far overcome the faintness that has been +threatening her as to shake him off and stand free, leaning against a +chair behind her.</p> + +<p>"Don't go," says she, hoarsely.</p> + +<p>It is impossible to misunderstand her meaning. It has nothing whatever +to do with his interview with the lawyer waiting so patiently down +below, but with that final wandering of his into regions unknown. She is +as white as death.</p> + +<p>"How is this, Isabel?" asks he. He is as white as she is now. "Do you +know what you are saying? This is a moment of excitement; you do not +comprehend what your words mean."</p> + +<p>"Stay! Stay for his sake."</p> + +<p>"Is that all?" says he, his eyes searching hers.</p> + +<p>"For mine, then."</p> + +<p>The words seem to scorch her. She covers her face with her hands and +stands before him, stricken dumb, miserable—confessed.</p> + +<p>"For yours!"</p> + +<p>He goes closer to her, and ventures to take her hand. It is cold—cold +as death. His is burning.</p> + +<p>"You have given a reason for my staying, indeed," says he. "But what is +the meaning of it?"</p> + +<p>"This!" cried she, throwing up her head, and showing him her shamed and +grief-stricken face. "I am a coward! In spite of everything I would not +have you go—so far!"</p> + +<p>"I see. I understand," he sighs, heavily. "And yet that story was a foul +lie! It is all that stands between us, Isabel. Is it not so? But you +will not believe."</p> + +<p>There, is a long silence, during which neither of them stirs. They seem +wrapt in thought—in silence—he still holding her hand.</p> + +<p>"If it was a lie," says she at last, breaking the quiet around them by +an effort, "would you so far forgive my distrust of you as to be holding +my hand like this?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. What is there I would not forgive you?" says he. "And it was a +lie!"</p> + +<p>"Cyril," cries she in great agitation, "take care! It is a last moment! +Do you dare to tell me that still? Supposing your story to be true, and +mine—that woman's—false, how would it be between us then?"</p> + +<p>"As it was in the first good old time when we were married."</p> + +<p>"You, could forgive the wrong I have done you all these years, +supposing——"</p> + +<p>"Everything—all."</p> + +<p>"Ah!" This sound seems crushed out of her. She steps backward, and a dry +sob breaks from her.</p> + +<p>"What is it?" asks he, quickly.</p> + +<p>"Oh, that I could—that I dared—believe," says she.</p> + +<p>"You would have proofs," says he, coldly, resigning her hand. "My word +is not enough. You might love me did I prove worthy; your love is not +strong enough to endure the pang of distrust. Was ever real love so poor +a thing as that? However, you shall have them."</p> + +<p>"What?" asks she, raising her head.</p> + +<p>"The proofs you desire," responds he, icily. "That woman—your +friend—the immaculate one—died the the day before yesterday. What? You +never heard? And you and she——"</p> + +<p>"She was nothing to me," says Lady Baltimore. "Nothing since."</p> + +<p>"The day she reviled me! And yet"—with a most joyless laugh—"for the +sake of a woman you cared so little about, that even her death has not +caused you a pang, you severed the tie that should have been the closest +to you on earth? Well, she is dead. 'Heaven rest her sowl!' as the +peasants say. She wrote me a letter on her bed of death."</p> + +<p>"Yes?" Eagerly.</p> + +<p>"You still doubt?" says he, with a stern glance at her. "So be it; you +shall see the letter, though how will that satisfy you? For you can +always gratify your desire for suspicion by regarding it as a forgery. +The woman herself is dead, so, of course, there is no one to contradict. +Do think this all out," says he, with a contemptuous laugh, "before you +commit yourself to a fresh belief in me. You see I give you every +chance. To such a veritable 'Thomas' in petticoats every road should be +laid open. Now"—tauntingly—"will you wait here whilst I bring the +proof?"</p> + +<p>He is gazing at her in a heartbroken sort of way. Is it the end? Is it +all really over? There had been a faint flicker of the dying candle—a +tiny glare—and now for all time is it to be darkness?</p> + +<p>As for her. Ever since he had let her hand go, she had stood with bent +head looking at it. He had taken it, he had let it go; there seemed to +be a promise of heaven—was it a false one?</p> + +<p>She is silent, and Baltimore, who had hoped for one word of trust, of +belief, makes a gesture of despair.</p> + +<p>"I will bring you the letter," he says, moving toward the door. When he +does bring it—when she had read it and satisfied herself of the loyalty +so long doubted, where, he asks himself, will they two be then? Further +apart than ever? He has forgiven a great deal—much more than this—and +yet, strange human nature, he knows if he once leaves the room and her +presence now, he will never return again. The letter she will see—but +him—never!</p> + +<p>The door is open. He has almost crossed the threshold. Once again her +voice recalls him, once again he looks back, she is holding out her arms +to him.</p> + +<p>"Cyril! Cyril!" she cried. "I believe you."</p> + +<p>She staggers toward him. Mercifully the fountain of her tears breaks +loose, she flings herself into his willing arms, and sobs out a whole +world of grief upon his bosom.</p> + +<p>It is a cruel moment, yet one fraught with joy as keen as the sorrow—a +fire of anguish out of which both emerge purified, calmed—gladdened.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LVIII" id="CHAPTER_LVIII"></a>CHAPTER LVIII.</h2> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"Lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers +appear on the earth; the time of the singing of the birds has +come."</p></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>The vague suspicion of rain that had filled their thoughts at breakfast +has proved idle. The sun is shining forth again with redoubled vigor, as +if laughing their silly doubts to scorn. Never was there so fair a day. +One can almost see the plants growing in the garden, and from every +bough the nesting birds are singing loud songs of joy.</p> + +<p>The meadows are showing a lovely green, and in the glades and uplands +the</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">"Daffodils</span> +<span class="i0">That come before the swallow dares,"</span> +</div></div> + +<p>are uprearing their lovely heads. The air is full of sweet scents and +sounds, and Joyce, jumping down from the drawing-room window, that lies +close to the ground, looks gladly round her. Perhaps it is not so much +the beauty of the scene as the warmth of happiness in her own heart that +brings the smile to her lips and eyes.</p> + +<p>He will be here to-day! Involuntarily she raises one hand and looks at +the ring that encircles her engaged finger. A charming ring of pearls +and sapphires. It evidently brings her happy thoughts, as, after gazing +at it for a moment or two, she stoops and presses her lips eagerly to +it. It is his first gift (though not his last), and therefore the most +precious. What girl does not like receiving a present from her lover? +The least mercenary woman on earth must feel a glow at her heart and a +fonder recognition of her sweetheart's worth when he lays a +love-offering at her feet.</p> + +<p>Joyce, after her one act of devotion to her sweetheart, runs down the +garden path and toward the summer house. She is not expecting Dysart +until the day has well grown into its afternoon; but, book in hand, she +has escaped from all possible visitors to spend a quiet hour in the old +earwiggy shanty at the end of the garden, sure of finding herself safe +there from interruptions.</p> + +<p>The sequel proves the futility of all human belief.</p> + +<p>Inside the summer house; book in hand likewise, sits Mr. Browne, a +picture of studious virtue.</p> + +<p>Miss Kavanagh, seeing him, stops dead short, so great is her surprise, +and Mr. Browne, raising his eyes, as if with difficulty, from the book +on his knee, surveys her with a calmly judicial eye.</p> + +<p>"Not here. Not here, my child," quotes he, incorrectly. "You had better +try next door."</p> + +<p>"Try for what?" demands she, indignantly.</p> + +<p>"For whom? You mean——"</p> + +<p>"No, I don't," with increasing anger.</p> + +<p>"Jocelyne!" says Mr. Browne, severely. "When one forsakes the path of +truth it is only to tread in——"</p> + +<p>"Nonsense!" says Miss Kavanagh, irreverently.</p> + +<p>"As you will!" says he, meekly. "But I assure you he is not here."</p> + +<p>"I could have told you that," says she, coloring, however, very warmly. +"I must say, Dicky, you are the most ingeniously stupid person I ever +met in my life."</p> + +<p>"To shine in even the smallest line in life is to achieve something," +says Mr. Browne, complacently. "And so you knew he wouldn't be here just +now?"</p> + +<p>This is uttered in an insinuating tone. Miss Kavanagh feels she has made +a false move. To give Dicky an inch is, indeed, to give him an ell.</p> + +<p>"He? Who?" says she, weakly.</p> + +<p>"Don't descend to dissimulation, Jocelyne," advises he, severely. "It's +the surest road to ruin, if one is to believe the good old copy books. +By he—you see I scorn subterfuge—I mean Dysart, the person to whom in +a mistaken moment you have affianced yourself, as though I—I were not +ready at any time to espouse you."</p> + +<p>"I'm not going to be espoused," says Miss Kavanagh, half laughing.</p> + +<p>"No? I quite understood——"</p> + +<p>"I won't have that word," petulantly. "It sounds like something out of +the dark ages."</p> + +<p>"So does he," says Mr. Browne. "'Felix,' you know. So Latin! Quite like +one of the old monks. I shouldn't wonder if he turned out a——"</p> + +<p>"I wish you wouldn't tease me, Dicky," says she. "You think you are +amusing, you know, but I think you are one of the rudest people I ever +met. I wish you would let me alone."</p> + +<p>"Ah! Why didn't you leave me alone?" says he, with a sigh that would +have set a furnace ablaze. "However!" with a noble determination to +overcome his grief. "Let the past lie. You want to go and meet Dysart, +isn't that it? And I'll go and meet him with you. Could self-sacrifice +further go? 'Jim along Josy,' no doubt he is at the upper gate by this +time, flying on the wings of love."</p> + +<p>"He is not," says Joyce; "and I wish once for all, Dicky, that you +wouldn't call me 'Josy.' 'Jocelyne' is bad enough, but 'Josy!' And I'm +not going to 'jim' anywhere, and certainly"—with strong +determination—"not with you." She looks at him with sudden curiosity. +"What brought you here to-day?" asks she, most inhospitably it must be +confessed.</p> + +<p>"What brings me here every day? To see the unkindest girl in the world."</p> + +<p>"She doesn't live here," says Miss Kavanagh. "Dicky"—changing her tone +suddenly and looking at him with earnest eyes. "What is this I hear +about Lady Baltimore and her husband? Be sensible now, do, and tell me."</p> + +<p>"They're going abroad together—with Bertie. They've made it up," says +he, growing as sensible as even she can desire. "It is such a complete +make up all round that they didn't even ask me to go with them. However, +I'm determined to join them at Nice on their return from Egypt. Too much +billing and cooing is bad for people."</p> + +<p>"I'm so glad," says Joyce, her eyes filling with tears. "They are two +such dear people, and if it hadn't been for Lady—By the by, where is +Lady Swansdown?"</p> + +<p>"Russia, I think."</p> + +<p>"Well, I liked her, too," says Joyce, with a sigh; "but she wasn't good +for Baltimore, was she?"</p> + +<p>"Not very!" says Mr. Browne, dryly. "I should say, on the whole, that +she disagreed with him. Tonics are sometimes dangerous."</p> + +<p>"I'm so delighted," says Joyce, still thinking of Lady Baltimore. +"Well," smiling at him, "why don't you go in and see Barbara?"</p> + +<p>"I have seen her, talked with her a long while, and bid her adieu. I was +on my way back to the Court, having failed in my hope of seeing you, +when I found this delightful nest of earwigs, and thought I'd stay and +confabulate with them a while in default of better companions."</p> + +<p>"Poor Dicky!" says she. "Come with me, then, and I'll talk to you for +half an hour."</p> + +<p>"Too late!" says he, looking at his watch. "There is only one thing left +me now to, say to you, and that is, 'Good-by.'"</p> + +<p>"Why this mad haste?"</p> + +<p>"Ah, ha! I Can have my little secrets, too," says he. "A whisper in your +ear," leaning toward her.</p> + +<p>"No, thank you," says she, waving him off with determination. "I +remember your last whisper. There! if you can't stay, Dicky, good by +indeed. I'm going for a walk."</p> + +<p>She turns away resolutely, leaving Mr. Browne to sink back upon the seat +and continue his reading, or else to go and meet that secret he spoke +of.</p> + +<p>"I say," calls he, running after her. "You may as well see me as far as +the gate, any way." It is evident the book at least has lost its charms. +Miss Kavanagh not being stony hearted so far gives in as to walk with +him to a side gate, and having finally bidden him adieu, goes back to +the summer house he has quitted, and, opening her book, prepares to +enjoy herself.</p> + +<p>Vain preparation! It is plain that the fates are against her to-day. She +is no sooner seated, with her book of poetry open on her knee, than a +little flying form turns the corner and Tommy precipitates himself upon +her.</p> + +<p>"What are you doing?" asks he.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LIX" id="CHAPTER_LIX"></a>CHAPTER LIX.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Lips are so like flowers</span> +<span class="i0">I might snatch at those</span> +<span class="i0">Redder than the rose leaves,</span> +<span class="i0">Sweeter than the rose."</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Love is a great master."</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>"I am reading," says she. "Can't you see that?"</p> + +<p>"Read to me, then," says Tommy, scrambling up on the bench beside her +and snuggling himself under her arm. "I love to hear people."</p> + +<p>"Well, not this, at all events," says Miss Kavanagh, placing the dainty +copy of "The Muses of Mayfair," she has been reading on the rustic table +in front of her.</p> + +<p>"Why not that one? What is it?" asks Tommy, staring at the book.</p> + +<p>"Nothing you would like. Horrid stuff. Only poetry."</p> + +<p>"What's poetry?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, nonsense, Tommy, you know very well what poetry is. Your hymns are +poetry." This she considers will put an end to all desire for the book +in question. It is a clever and skilful move, but it fails signally. +There is silence for a moment while Tommy cogitates, and then——</p> + +<p>"Are those hymns?" demands he, pointing at the discarded volume.</p> + +<p>"N-o, not exactly." This is scarcely disingenuous, and Miss Kavanagh has +the grace to blush a little. She is the further discomposed in that she +becomes aware presently that Tommy sees through her perfectly.</p> + +<p>"Well, what are they?" asks he.</p> + +<p>"Oh—er—well—just poetry, you know."</p> + +<p>"I don't," says Tommy, flatly, who is nothing if not painfully truthful. +"Let me hear them." He pauses here and regards her with a searching eye. +"They"—with careful forethought—"they aren't lessons, are they?"</p> + +<p>"No; they are not lessons," says his aunt, laughing. "But you won't like +them for all that. If you are athirst for literature, get me one of your +own books, and I will read 'Jack the Giant Killer' to you."</p> + +<p>"I'm sick of him," says Tommy, most ungratefully. That tremendous hero +having filled up many an idle hour of his during his short lifetime. +"No," nestling closer to her. "Go on with your poetry one!"</p> + +<p>"You would hate it. It is worse than 'Jack,'" says she.</p> + +<p>"Let me hear it," says Tommy, persistently.</p> + +<p>"Well," says Miss Kavanagh, with a sigh, "if you will have it, at least, +don't interrupt." She has tried very hard to get rid of him, but, having +failed in so signal a fashion, she gives herself up with an admirable +resignation to the inevitable.</p> + +<p>"What would I do that for?" asks Tommy, rather indignantly.</p> + +<p>"I don't know, I'm sure. But I thought I'd warn you," says she, wisely +precautious. "Now, sit down there," pointing to the seat beside her; +"and when you feel you have had enough of it, say so at once."</p> + +<p>"That would be interrupting," says Tommy, the Conscientious.</p> + +<p>"Well, I give you leave to interrupt so far," says Joyce, glad to leave +him a loop-hole that may insure his departure before Felix comes. "But +no further—mind that."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I'm minding!" says Tommy, impatiently. "Go on. Why don't you +begin?"</p> + +<p>Miss Kavanagh, taking up her book once more, opens it at random. All its +contents are sweetmeats of the prettiest, so she is not driven to a +choice. She commences to read in a firm, soft voice:—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The wind and the beam loved the rose,</span> +<span class="i2">And the roses loved one:</span> +<span class="i0">For who recks the——"</span> +</div></div> + +<p>"What's that?" says Tommy.</p> + +<p>"What's what?"</p> + +<p>"You aren't reading it right, are you?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly I am. Why?"</p> + +<p>"I don't believe a beam of wood could love anything," says Tommy; "it's +too heavy."</p> + +<p>"It doesn't mean a beam of wood."</p> + +<p>"Doesn't it?" staring up into her face. "What's it mean, then—'The beam +that is in thine own eye?'"</p> + +<p>He is now examining her own eye with great interest. As usual, Tommy is +strong in Bible lore.</p> + +<p>"I have no beam in my eye, I hope," says Joyce, laughing; "and, at all +events, it doesn't mean that either. The poet who wrote this meant a +sunbeam."</p> + +<p>"Well, why couldn't he say so?" says Tommy, gruffly.</p> + +<p>"I really think you had better bring me one of your own books," says +Joyce. "I told you this would——"</p> + +<p>"No," obstinately, "I like this. It sounds so nice and smoothly. Go on," +says Tommy, giving her a nudge.</p> + +<p>Joyce, with a sigh, reopens the volume, and gives herself up for lost. +To argue with Tommy is always to know fatigue, and nothing else. One +never gains anything by it.</p> + +<p>"Well, do be quiet now, and listen," says she, protesting faintly.</p> + +<p>"I'm listening like anything," says Tommy. And, indeed, now at last it +seems as if he were.</p> + +<p>So silent does he grow as his aunt reads on that you might have heard a +mouse squeak. But for the low, soft tones of Joyce no smallest sound +breaks the sweet silence of the day. Miss Kavanagh is beginning to feel +distinctly flattered. If one can captivate the flitting fancies of a +child by one's eloquent rendering of charming verse, what may one not +aspire to? There must be something in her style if it can reduce a boy +of seven to such a state of ecstatic attention, considering the subject +is hardly such a one as would suit his tender years.</p> + +<p>But Tommy was always thoughtful beyond his age. A dear, clever little +fellow! So appreciative! Far, far beyond the average! He——</p> + +<p>The mild sweetness of the spring evening and her own thoughts are broken +in upon at this instant by the "dear, clever little fellow."</p> + +<p>"He has just got to your waist now," says he, with an air of wild if +subdued excitement.</p> + +<p>"He! Who! What!" shrieks Joyce, springing to her feet. A long +acquaintance with Tommy has taught her to dread the worst.</p> + +<p>"Oh, there! Of course you've knocked him down, and I did want to see how +high he would go. I was tickling his tail to make him hurry up," says +Tommy, in an aggrieved tone. "I can't see him anywhere now," peering +about on the ground at her feet.</p> + +<p>"Oh! What was it, Tommy? Do speak!" cries Joyce, in a frenzy of fear and +disgust.</p> + +<p>"'Twas an earwig!" says Tommy, lifting a seraphic face to hers. "And +such a big one! He was racing up your dress most beautifully, and now +you've upset him. Poor thing—I don't believe he'll ever find his way +back to you again."</p> + +<p>"I should hope not, indeed!" says Miss Kavanagh, hastily.</p> + +<p>"He began at the very end of your frock," goes on Tommy, still searching +diligently on the ground, as if to find the earwig, with a view to +restoring it to its lost hunting ground; "and it wriggled up so nicely. +I don't know where he is now"—sorrowfully—"unless," with a sudden +brightening of his expressive face, "he is up your petticoats."</p> + +<p>"Tommy! What a horrid, bad boy you are!" cries poor Joyce, wildly. She +gives a frantic shake to the petticoats in question. "Find him at once, +sir! He must be somewhere down there. I shan't have an instant's peace +until I know where he is."</p> + +<p>"I can't see him anywhere," says Tommy. "Maybe you'll feel him +presently, and then we'll know. He isn't on your leg now, is he?"</p> + +<p>"Oh! don't!" cries Joyce, who looks as if she is going, to cry. She +gives herself another vigorous shake, and stands away from the spot +where Tommy evidently thinks the noxious beast in question may be, with +her petticoats held carefully up in both hands. "Oh, Tommy, darling! Do +find him. He can't be up my petticoats, can he?"</p> + +<p>"He can. There's, nothing they can't do," says Tommy, who is plainly +revelling in the storm he has raised. Her open fright is beer and +skittles to him. "Why did you stir? He was as good as gold, until then; +and there wasn't anything to be afraid of. I was watching him. When he +got to your ear I'd have told you. I wouldn't like him to make you deaf, +but I wanted to see if he would go to your ear. But you spoiled all my +fun, and now—where is he now?" asks Tommy, with an awful suggestion in +his tone.</p> + +<p>"On the grass, perhaps," says Joyce, miserably, looking round her +everywhere, and even on her shoulder. "I don't feel him anywhere."</p> + +<p>"Sometimes they stay quite a long time, and then they crawl!" says +Tommy, the most horrible anticipation in his tone.</p> + +<p>"Really, Tommy," cries his aunt, indignantly, "I do think you are the +most abominable boy I ever met in my life. There, go away! I certainly +shan't read another line to you—either now—or—ever!"</p> + +<p>"What is the matter?" asks a voice at this moment, that sounds close to +her elbow. She turns round with a start.</p> + +<p>"It is you, Felix!" says she, coloring warmly. "Oh—oh, it's nothing. +Only Tommy. And he said I had an earwig on me. And I was just a little +unnerved, you know."</p> + +<p>"And no wonder," says her lover, with delightful sympathy. "I can't bear +that sort of wild animal myself. Tommy, you ought to be ashamed of +yourself. When you saw him why didn't you rise up and slay the destroyer +of your aunt's peace? There; run away into the hall. You will find on +one of the tables a box of chocolate. I told Mabel it was there; perhaps +she——"</p> + +<p>Like an arrow from the bow, Tommy departs.</p> + +<p>"He has evidently his doubts of Mabel," says Joyce, laughing rather +nervously. She is still a little shy with Felix. "He doesn't trust her."</p> + +<p>"No." He has seated himself and now draws her down beside him. "You were +reading?" he says.</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"To Tommy?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," laughing more naturally this time.</p> + +<p>"Tommy is a more learned person than one would have supposed. Is this +the sort of thing he likes?" pointing to Nydia's exquisite song.</p> + +<p>"I am afraid not, though he would insist upon my reading it. The earwig +was evidently far more engrossing as a subject than either the wind or +the rose."</p> + +<p>"And yet—" he has his arm round her now, and is reading the poem over +her shoulder.</p> + +<p>"You are my Rose," says he, softly. "And you—do you love but one?"</p> + +<p>She makes a little mute gesture that might signify anything or nothing +to the uninitiated, but to him is instinct with a most happy meaning.</p> + +<p>"Am I that one, darling?"</p> + +<p>She makes the same little silent movement again, but this time she adds +to it by casting a swift glance upward at him from under her lowered +lids.</p> + +<p>"Make me sure of it," entreated he almost in a whisper. He leans over +her, lower, lower still. With a little tremulous laugh, dangerously akin +to tears, she raises her soft palm to his cheek and tries to press +him—from her. But he holds her fast.</p> + +<p>"Make me sure!" he says again. There is a last faint hesitation on her +part, and then—their lips meet.</p> + +<p>"I have doubted always—always a little—ever since that night down by +the river," says he, "but now——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no! You must not doubt me again!" says she with tears in her eyes.</p> + + +<p>THE END.</p> + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's April's Lady, by Margaret Wolfe Hungerford + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK APRIL'S LADY *** + +***** This file should be named 21641-h.htm or 21641-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/1/6/4/21641/ + +Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by the Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions +(www.canadiana.org)) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: April's Lady + A Novel + +Author: Margaret Wolfe Hungerford + +Release Date: May 29, 2007 [EBook #21641] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK APRIL'S LADY *** + + + + +Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by the Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions +(www.canadiana.org)) + + + + + + + + + + APRIL'S LADY. + + A NOVEL. + + BY "THE DUCHESS" + +_Author of "Molly Bawn," "Phyllis," "Lady Branksmere," "Beauty's +Daughters," etc., etc._ + + + + +Montreal: +JOHN LOVELL & SON, +23 St. Nicholas Street. + + +Entered according to Act of Parliament in the year 1890, by John Lovell +& Son, in the office of the Minister of Agriculture and Statistics at +Ottawa. + + + + +APRIL'S LADY. + + "Must we part? or may I linger? + Wax the shadows, wanes the day." + Then, with voice of sweetest singer, + That hath all but died away, + "Go," she said, but tightened finger + Said articulately, "Stay!" + + + + +CHAPTER I. + + "Philosophy triumphs easily over past and over future evils, but + present evils triumph over philosophy." + + +"A letter from my father," says Mr. Monkton, flinging the letter in +question across the breakfast-table to his wife. + +"A letter from Sir George!" Her dark, pretty face flushes crimson. + +"And _such_ a letter after eight years of obstinate silence. There! read +it," says her husband, contemptuously. The contempt is all for the +writer of the letter. + +Mrs. Monkton taking it up, with a most honest curiosity, that might +almost be termed anxiety, reads it through, and in turn flings it from +her as though it had been a scorpion. + +"Never mind, Jack!" says she with a great assumption of indifference +that does not hide from her husband the fact that her eyes are full of +tears. "Butter that bit of toast for me before it is _quite_ cold, and +give Joyce some ham. Ham, darling? or an egg?" to Joyce, with a forced +smile that makes her charming face quite sad. + +"Have you two been married eight whole years?" asks Joyce laying her +elbows on the table, and staring at her sister with an astonished gaze. +"It seems like yesterday! What a swindler old Time is. To look at +Barbara, one would not believe she could have been _born_ eight years +ago." + +"Nonsense!" says Mrs. Monkton laughing, and looking as pleased as +married women--even the happiest--always do, when they are told they +look _un_married. "Why Tommy is seven years old." + +"Oh! That's nothing!" says Joyce airily, turning her dark eyes, that are +lovelier, if possible, than her sister's, upon the sturdy child who is +sitting at his father's right hand. "Tommy, we all know, is much older +than his mother. Much more advanced; more learned in the wisdom of +_this_ world; aren't you, Tommy?" + +But Tommy, at this present moment, is deaf to the charms of +conversation, his young mind being nobly bent on proving to his sister +(a priceless treasure of six) that the salt-cellar planted between them +belongs _not_ to her, but to him! This sounds reasonable, but the +difficulty lies in making Mabel believe it. There comes the pause +eloquent at last, and then, I regret to say, the free fight! + +It might perhaps have been even freer, but for the swift intervention of +the paternal relative, who, swooping down upon the two belligerents with +a promptitude worthy of all praise, seizes upon his daughter, and in +spite of her kicks, which are noble, removes her to the seat on his left +hand. + +Thus separated hope springs within the breasts of the lookers-on that +peace may soon be restored; and indeed, after a sob or two from Mabel, +and a few passes of the most reprehensible sort from Tommy (entirely of +the facial order), a great calm falls upon the breakfast-room. + +"When I was your age, Tommy," says Mr. Monkton addressing his son, and +striving to be all that the orthodox parent ought to be, "I should have +been soundly whipped if I had behaved to my sister as you have just now +behaved to yours!" + +"You _haven't_ a sister," says Tommy, after which the argument falls +flat. It is true, Mr. Monkton is innocent of a sister, but how did the +little demon remember that so _apropos_. + +"Nevertheless," said Mr. Monkton, "if I _had_ had a sister, I _know_ I +should not have been unkind to her." + +"Then she'd have been unkind to you," says Tommy, who is evidently not +afraid to enter upon a discussion of the rights and wrongs of mankind +with his paternal relative. "Look at Mabel! And I don't care _what_ she +says," with a vindictive glance at the angelic featured Mabel, who +glares back at him with infinite promise of a future settlement of all +their disputes in her ethereal eyes. "'Twas _my_ salt-cellar, not hers!" + +"Ladies first--pleasure afterwards," says his father somewhat idly. + +"Oh _Freddy_!" says his wife. + +"Seditious language _I_ call it," says Jocelyne with a laugh. + +"Eh?" says Mr. Monkton. "Why what on earth have I been saying now. I +quite believed I was doing the heavy father to perfection and teaching +Tommy his duty." + +"Nice duty," says Jocelyne, with a pretence of indignation, that makes +her charming face a perfect picture. "Teaching him to regard us as +second best! I like that." + +"Good heavens! did I give that impression? I must have swooned," says +Mr. Monkton penitently. "When last in my senses I thought I had been +telling Tommy that he deserved a good whipping; and that if good old +Time could so manage as to make me my own father, he would assuredly +have got it." + +"Oh! _your_ father!" says Mrs. Monkton in a low tone; there is enough +expression in it, however, to convey the idea to everyone present that +in her opinion her husband's father would be guilty of any atrocity at a +moment's notice. + +"Well, _'twas_ my salt-cellar," says Tommy again stoutly, and as if +totally undismayed by the vision of the grand-fatherly scourge held out +to him. After all we none of us feel things much, unless they come +personally home to us. + +"Was it?" says Mr. Monkton mildly. "Do you know, I really quite fancied +it was mine." + +"What?" says Tommy, cocking his ear. He, like his sister, is in a +certain sense a fraud. For Tommy has the face of a seraph with the heart +of a hardy Norseman. There is nothing indeed that Tommy would not dare. + +"Mine, you know," says his father, even more mildly still. + +"No, it wasn't," says Tommy with decision, "it was at _my_ side of the +table. _Yours_ is over there." + +"Thomas!" says his father, with a rueful shake of the head that +signifies his resignation of the argument; "it is indeed a pity that I +am _not_ like my father!" + +"Like him! Oh _no_," says Mrs. Monkton emphatically, impulsively; the +latent dislike to the family who had refused to recognize her on her +marriage with their son taking fire at this speech. + +Her voice sounds almost hard--the gentle voice, that in truth was only +meant by Mother Nature to give expression to all things kind and loving. + +She has leant a little forward and a swift flush is dyeing her cheek. +She is of all women the youngest looking, for her years; as a matron +indeed she seems absurd. The delicate bloom of girlhood seems never to +have left her, but--as though in love of her beauty--has clung to her +day by day. So that now, when she has known eight years of married life +(and some of them deeply tinctured with care--the cruel care that want +of money brings), she still looks as though the morning of womanhood was +as yet but dawning for her. + +And this is because love the beautifier went with her all the way! Hand +in hand he has traveled with her on the stony paths that those who marry +must undoubtedly pursue. Never once had he let go his hold, and so it +is, that her lovely face has defied Time (though after all that +obnoxious Ancient has not had yet much opportunity given him to spoil +it), and at twenty-five she looks but a little older than her sister, +who is just eighteen, and seven years younger than she is. + +Her pretty soft grey Irish eyes, that are as nearly _not_ black as it is +possible for them to be, are still filled with the dews of youth. Her +mouth is red and happy. Her hair--so distinctly chestnut as to be almost +guilty of a shade of red in it here and there--covers her dainty head in +rippling masses, that fall lightly forward, and rest upon a brow, +snow-white, and low and broad as any Greek's might be. + +She had spoken a little hurriedly, with some touch of anger. But quick +as the anger was born, so quickly does it die. + +"I shouldn't have said that, perhaps," says she, sending a little +tremulous glance at her husband from behind the urn. "But I couldn't +help it. I can't _bear_ to hear you say you would like to be like him." + +She smiles (a little, gentle, "don't-be-angry-with-me" smile, scarcely +to be resisted by any man, and certainly not by her husband, who adores +her). It is scarcely necessary to record this last fact, as all who run +may read it for themselves, but it saves time to put it in black and +white. + +"But why not, my dear?" says Mr. Monkton, magisterially. "Surely, +considering all things, you have reason to be deeply grateful to Sir +George. Why, then, abuse him?" + +"Grateful! To Sir George! To your father!" cries his wife, hotly and +quick, and---- + +"Freddy!" from his sister-in-law brings him to a full stop for a moment. + +"Do you mean to tell me," says he, thus brought to bay, "that you have +nothing to thank Sir George for?" He is addressing his wife. + +"Nothing, nothing!" declares she, vehemently, the remembrance of that +last letter from her husband's father, that still lies within reach of +her view, lending a suspicion of passion to her voice. + +"Oh, my dear girl, _consider_!" says Mr. Monkton, lively reproach in his +tone. "Has he not given you _me_, the best husband in Europe?" + +"Ah, what it is to be modest," says Joyce, with her little quick +brilliant laugh. + +"Well, it's not true," says Mrs. Monkton, who has laughed also, in spite +of herself and the soreness at her heart. "He did _not_ give you to me. +You made me that gift of your own free will. I have, as I said before, +nothing to thank him for." + +"I always think he must be a silly old man," says Joyce, which seems to +put a fitting termination to the conversation. + +The silence that ensues annoys Tommy, who dearly loves to hear the human +voice divine. As expressed by himself first, but if that be +impracticable, well, then by somebody else. _Anything_ is better than +dull silence. + +"Is he that?" asks he, eagerly, of his aunt. + +Though I speak of her as his aunt, I hope it will not be misunderstood +for a moment that Tommy totally declines to regard her in any +reverential light whatsoever. A playmate, a close friend, a confidante, +a useful sort of person, if you will, but certainly not an _aunt_, in +the general acceptation of that term. From the very first year that +speech fell on them, both Mabel and he had refused to regard Miss +Kavanagh as anything but a confederate in all their scrapes, a friend to +rejoice with in all their triumphs; she had never been aunt, never, +indeed, even so much as the milder "auntie" to them; she had been +"Joyce," only, from the very commencement of their acquaintance. The +united commands of both father and mother (feebly enforced) had been +insufficient to compel them to address this most charming specimen of +girlhood by any grown up title. To them their aunt was just such an one +as themselves--only, perhaps, a little _more_ so. + +A lovely creature, at all events, and lovable as lovely. A little +inconsequent, perhaps at times, but always amenable to reason, when put +into a corner, and full of the glad, laughter of youth. + +"Is he what?" says she, now returning Tommy's eager gaze. + +"The best husband in Europe. He _says_ he's that," with a doubtful stare +at his father. + +"Why, the _very_ best, of course," says Joyce, nodding emphatically. +"Always remember that, Tommy. It's a good thing to _be_, you know. +_You'll_ want to be that, won't you?" + +But if she has hoped to make a successful appeal to Tommy's noble +qualities (hitherto, it must be confessed, carefully kept hidden), she +finds herself greatly mistaken. + +"No, I won't," says that truculent person distinctly. "I want to be a +big general with a cocked hat, and to kill people. I don't want to be a +husband _at all_. What's the good of that?" + +"To pursue the object would be to court defeat," says Mr. Monkton +meekly. He rises from the table, and, seeing him move, his wife rises +too. + +"You are going to your study?" asks she, a little anxiously. He is about +to say "no" to this, but a glance at her face checks him. + +"Yes, come with me," says he instead, answering the lovely silent appeal +in her eyes. That letter has no doubt distressed her. She will be +happier when she has talked it over with him--they two alone. "As for +you, Thomas," says his father, "I'm quite aware that you ought to be +consigned to the Donjon keep after your late behavior, but as we don't +keep one on the premises, I let you off this time. Meanwhile I haste to +my study to pen, with the assistance of your enraged mother, a letter to +our landlord that will induce him to add one on at once to this +building. After which we shall be able to incarcerate you at our +pleasure (but _not_ at yours) on any and every hour of the day." + +"Who's Don John?" asks Tommy, totally unimpressed, but filled with +lively memories of those Spaniards and other foreign powers who have +unkindly made more difficult his hateful lessons off and on. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + "No love lost between us." + + +"Well," says Mr. Monkton, turning to his wife as the study (a rather +nondescript place) is reached. He has closed the door, and is now +looking at her with a distinctly quizzical light in his eyes and in the +smile that parts his lips. "Now for it. Have no qualms. I've been +preparing myself all through breakfast and I think I shall survive it. +You are going to have it out with me, aren't you?" + +"Not with _you_," says she, returning his smile indeed, but faintly, and +without heart, "that horrid letter! I felt I _must_ talk of it to +someone, and----" + +"_I_ was that mythical person. I quite understand. I take it as a +special compliment." + +"I know it is hard on you, but when I am really vexed about anything, +you know, I always want to tell you about it." + +"I should feel it a great deal harder if you _didn't_ want to tell me +about it," says he. He has come nearer to her and has pressed her into a +chair--a dilapidated affair that if ever it _had_ a best day has +forgotten it by now--and yet for all that is full of comfort. "I am only +sorry"--moving away again and leaning against the chimney piece--"that +you should be so foolish as to let my father's absurd prejudices annoy +you at this time of day." + +"He will always have it in his power to annoy me," says she quickly. +"That perhaps," with a little burst of feeling, "is why I can't forgive +him. If I could forget, or grow indifferent to it all, I should not have +this _hurt_ feeling in my heart. But he is your father, and though he is +the most unjust, the cruellest man on earth, I still hate to think he +should regard me as he does." + +"There is one thing, however, you do forget," says Mr. Monkton gravely. +"I don't want to apologize for him, but I would remind you that he has +never seen you." + +"That's only an aggravation of his offence," her color heightening; "the +very fact that he should condemn me unseen, unheard, adds to the wrong +he has done me instead of taking from it." She rises abruptly and begins +to pace up and down the room, the hot Irish blood in her veins afire. +"No"--with a little impatient gesture of her small hand--"I _can't_ sit +still. Every pulse seems throbbing. He has opened up all the old wounds, +and----" She pauses and then turns upon her husband two lovely flashing +eyes. "Why, _why_ should he suppose that I am vulgar, lowly born, unfit +to be your wife?" + +"My darling girl, what can it matter what he thinks? A ridiculous +headstrong old man in one scale, and----" + +"But it does matter. I want to _convince_ him that I am not--not--what +he believes me to be." + +"Then come over to England and see him." + +"No--never! I shall never go to England. I shall stay in Ireland always. +My own land; the land whose people he detests because he knows nothing +about them. It was one of his chief objections to your marriage with me, +that I was an Irish girl!" + +She stops short, as though her wrath and indignation and contempt is too +much for her. + +"Barbara," says Monkton, very gently, but with a certain reproach, "do +you know you almost make me think that you regret our marriage." + +"No, I don't," quickly. "If I talked for ever I shouldn't be able to +make you think _that_. But----" She turns to him suddenly, and gazes at +him through large eyes that are heavy with tears. "I shall always be +sorry for one thing, and that is--that you first met me where you did." + +"At your aunt's? Mrs. Burke's?" + +"She is _not_ my aunt," with a little frown of distaste; "she is nothing +to me so far as blood is concerned. Oh! Freddy." She stops close to him, +and gives him a grief-stricken glance. "I wish my poor father had been +alive when first you saw me. That we could have met for the first time +in the old home. It was shabby--faded"--her face paling now with intense +emotion. "But you would have known at once that it _had been_ a fine old +place, and that the owner of it----" She breaks down, very slightly, +almost imperceptibly, but Monkton understands that even one more word is +beyond her. + +"That the owner of it, like St. Patrick, came of decent people," quotes +he with an assumption of gaiety he is far from feeling. "My good child, +I don't want to see _anyone_ to know that of you. You carry the sign +manual. It is written in large characters all over you." + +"Yet I wish you had known me before my father died," says she, her grief +and pride still unassuaged. "He was so unlike anybody else. His manners +were so lovely. He was offered a baronetcy at the end of that Whiteboy +business on account of his loyalty--that nearly cost him his life--but +he refused it, thinking the old name good enough without a handle to +it." + +"Kavanagh, we all know, is a good name." + +"If he had accepted that title he would have been as--the same--as your +father!" There is defiance in this sentence. + +"_Quite_ the same!" + +"No, no, he would not," her defiance now changes into, sorrowful +honesty. "Your father has been a baronet for _centuries_, my father +would have only been a baronet for a few years." + +"For centuries!" repeats Mr. Monkton with an alarmed air. There is a +latent sense of humor (or rather an appreciation of humor) about him +that hardly endears him to the opposite sex. His wife, being Irish, +condones it, because she happens to understand it, but there are +moments, we all know, when even the very best and most appreciative +women refuse to understand _anything_. This is one of them. "Condemn my +father if you will," says Mr. Monkton, "accuse him of all the crimes in +the calendar, but for _my_ sake give up the belief that he is the real +and original Wandering Jew. Debrett--Burke--either of those immaculate +people will prove to you that my father ascended his throne in----" + +"You can laugh at me if you like, Freddy," says Mrs. Monkton with +severity tempered with dignity; "but if you laughed until this day month +you couldn't make me forget the things that make me unhappy." + +"I don't want to," says Mr. Monkton, still disgracefully frivolous. +"_I'm_ one of the things, and yet----" + +"Don't!" says his wife, so abruptly, and with such an evident +determination to give way to mirth, coupled with an equally strong +determination to give way to tears, that he at once lays down his arms. + +"Go on then," says he, seating himself beside her. She is not in the +arm-chair now, but on an ancient and respectable sofa that gives ample +room for the accommodation of two; a luxury denied by that old +curmudgeon the arm-chair. + +"Well, it is this, Freddy. When I think of that dreadful old woman, Mrs. +Burke, I feel as though you thought she was a fair sample of the rest of +my family. But she is _not_ a sample, she has nothing to do with us. An +uncle of my mother married her because she was rich, and there her +relationship to us began and ended." + +"Still----" + +"Yes, I know, you needn't remind me, it seems burnt into my brain, I +know she took us in after my father's death, and covered me and Joyce +with benefits when we hadn't a penny in the world we could call our own. +I quite understand, indeed, that we should have starved but for her, and +yet--yet--" passionately, "I cannot forgive her for perpetually +reminding us that we had _not_ that penny!" + +"It must have been a bad time," says Monkton slowly. He takes her hand +and smoothes it lovingly between both of his. + +"She was vulgar. That was not her fault; I forgive her that. What I +can't forgive her, is the fact that you should have met me in her +house." + +"A little unfair, isn't it?" + +"Is it? You will always now associate me with her!" + +"I shan't indeed. Do you think I have up to this? Nonsense! A more +absurd amalgamation I couldn't fancy." + +"She was not one of us," feverishly. "I have never spoken to you about +this, Freddy, since that first letter your father wrote to you just +after our marriage. You remember it? And then, I couldn't explain +somehow--but now--this last letter has upset me dreadfully; I feel as if +it was all different, and that it was my duty to make you aware of the +_real_ truth. Sir George thinks of me as one beneath him; that is not +true. He may have heard that I lived with Mrs. Burke, and that she was +my aunt; but if my mother's brother chose to marry a woman of no family +because she had money,"--contemptuously, "that might disgrace _him_, but +would not make her kin to _us_. You saw her, you--" lifting distressed +eyes to his--"you thought her dreadful, didn't you?" + +"I have only had one thought about her. That she was good to you in your +trouble, and that but for her I should never have met you." + +"That is like you," says she gratefully, yet impatiently. "But it isn't +enough. I want you to understand that she is quite unlike my own _real_ +people--my father, who was like a prince," throwing up her head, "and my +uncle, his brother." + +"You have an uncle, then?" with some surprise. + +"Oh no, _had_," sadly. + +"He is dead then?" + +"Yes. I suppose so. You are wondering," says she quickly, "that I have +never spoken to you of him or my father before. But I _could_ not. The +thought that your family objected to me, despised me, seemed to compel +me to silence. And you--you asked me very little." + +"How could I, Barbara? Any attempt I made was repulsed. I thought it +kinder to----" + +"Yes--I was wrong. I see it now. But I couldn't bear to explain myself. +I told you what I could about my father, and that seemed to me +sufficient. Your people's determination to regard me as impossible tied +my tongue." + +"I don't believe it was that," says he laughing. "I believe we were so +happy that we didn't care to discuss anything but each other. Delightful +subjects full of infinite variety! We have sat so lightly to the world +all these years, that if my father's letter had not come this morning I +honestly think we should never have thought about him again." + +This is scarcely true, but he is bent on giving her mind a happier turn +if possible. + +"What's the good of talking to me like that, Freddy," says she +reproachfully. "You know one never forgets anything of that sort. A +slight I mean; and from one's own family. You are always thinking of it; +you know you are." + +"Well, not always, my dear, certainly--" says Mr. Monkton temporizing. +"And if even I _do_ give way to retrospection, it is to feel indignant +with both my parents." + +"Yes; and I don't want you to feel like that. It must be dreadful, and +it is my fault. When I think how I felt towards my dear old dad, and my +uncle--I----" + +"Well, never mind that. I've got you, and without meaning any gross +flattery, I consider you worth a dozen dads. Tell me about your uncle. +He died?" + +"We don't know. He went abroad fifteen years ago. He must be dead I +think, because if he were alive he would certainly have written to us. +He was very fond of Joyce and me; but no letter from him has reached us +for years. He was charming. I wish you could have known him." + +"So do I--if you wish it. But--" coming over and sitting down beside +her, "don't you think it is a little absurd, Barbara, after all these +years, to think it necessary to tell me that you have good blood in your +veins? Is it not a self-evident fact; and--one more word dearest--surely +you might do me the credit to understand that I could never have fallen +in love with anyone who hadn't an ancestor or two." + +"And yet your father----" + +"I know," rising to his feet, his brow darkening. "Do you think I don't +suffer doubly on your account? That I don't feel the insolence of his +behavior toward you _four-fold_? There is but one excuse for him and my +mother, and that lies in their terrible disappointment about my +brother--their eldest son." + +"I know; you have told me," begins she quickly, but he interrupts her. + +"Yes, I have been more open with you than you with me. _I_ feel no pride +where you are concerned. Of course my brother's conduct towards them is +no excuse for their conduct towards you, but when one has a sore heart +one is apt to be unjust, and many other things. You know what a +heart-break he has been to the old people, _and is_! A gambler, a +dishonorable gambler!" He turns away from her, and his nostrils dilate a +little; his right hand grows clenched. "Every spare penny they possess +has been paid over to him of his creditors, and they are not +over-burdened with riches. They had set their hearts on him, and all +their hopes, and when he failed them they fell back on me. The name is +an old one; money was wanted. They had arranged a marriage for me, that +would have been worldly wise. I _too_ disappointed them!" + +"Oh!" she has sprung to her feet, and is staring at him with horrified +eyes. "A marriage! There was someone else! You accuse me of want of +candor, and now, you--did you ever mention this before?" + +"Now, Barbara, don't be the baby your name implies," says he, placing +her firmly back in her seat. "I _didn't_ marry that heiress, you know, +which is proof positive that I loved you, not her." + +"But she--she--" she stammers and ceases suddenly, looking at him with a +glance full of question. Womanlike, everything has given way to the +awful thought, that this unknown had not been unknown to him, and that +perhaps he had admired--loved---- + +"Couldn't hold a candle to you," says he, laughing in spite of himself +at her expression which, indeed, is nearly tragic. "You needn't +suffocate yourself with charcoal because of her. She had made her pile, +or rather her father had, at Birmingham or elsewhere, I never took the +trouble to inquire, and she was undoubtedly solid in _every way_, but I +don't care for the female giant, and so I--you know the rest, I met +_you_; I tell you this only to soften your heart, if possible, towards +these lonely, embittered old people of mine." + +"Do you mean that when your brother disappointed them that they----" she +pauses. + +"No. They couldn't make me their heir. The property is strictly entailed +(what is left of it); you need not make yourself miserable imagining you +have done me out of anything more than their good-will. George will +inherit whatever he has left them to leave." + +"It is sad," says she, with downcast eyes. + +"Yes. He has been a constant source of annoyance to them ever since he +left Eton." + +"Where is he now?" + +"Abroad, I believe. In Italy, somewhere, or France--not far from a +gaming table, you may be sure. But I know nothing very exactly, as he +does not correspond with me, and that letter of this morning is the +first I have received from my father for four years." + +"He must, indeed, hate me," says she, in a low tone. "His elder son such +a failure, and you--he considers you a failure, too." + +"Well, _I_ don't consider myself so," says he, gaily. + +"They were in want of money, and you--you married a girl without a +penny." + +"I married a girl who was in herself a mine of gold," returns he, laying +his hands on her shoulders and giving her a little shake. "Come, never +mind that letter, darling; what does it matter when all is said and +done?" + +"The first after all these years; and the, _last_--you remember it? It +was terrible. Am I unreasonable if I remember it?" + +"It was a cruel letter," says he slowly; "to forget it would be +impossible, either for you or me. But, as I said just now, how does it +affect us? You have me, and I have you; and they, those foolish old +people, they have----" He pauses abruptly, and then goes on in a changed +tone, "their memories." + +"Oh! and sad ones!" cries she, sharply, as if hurt. "It is a terrible +picture you have conjured up. You and I so happy, and they--Oh! _poor_ +old people!" + +"They have wronged you--slighted you--ill-treated you," says he, looking +at her. + +"But they are unhappy; they must be wretched always about your brother, +their _first_ child. Oh! what a grief is theirs!" + +"What a heart is _yours_!" says he, drawing her to him. "Barbara! surely +I shall not die until they have met you, and learned why I love you." + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + "It was a lover and his lass + With a hey and a ho, and a hey-nonino! + That o'er the green cornfield did pass + In the Spring-time, the only pretty ring-time, + When birds do sing hey-ding-a-ding, + Sweet lovers love the Spring." + + +Joyce is running through the garden, all the sweet wild winds of heaven +playing round her. They are a little wild still. It is the end of lovely +May, but though languid Summer is almost with us, a suspicion of her +more sparkling sister Spring fills all the air. + +Miss Kavanagh has caught up the tail of her gown, and is flying as if +for dear life. Behind her come the foe, fast and furious. Tommy, indeed, +is now dangerously close at her heels, armed with a ferocious-looking +garden fork, his face crimson, his eyes glowing with the ardor of the +chase; Mabel, much in the background, is making a bad third. + +Miss Kavanagh is growing distinctly out of breath. In another moment +Tommy will have her. By this time he has fully worked himself into the +belief that he is a Red Indian, and she his lawful prey, and is prepared +to make a tomahawk of his fork, and having felled her, to scalp her +_somehow_, when Providence shows her a corner round a rhododendron bush +that may save her for the moment. She makes for it, gains it, turns it, +dashes round it, and _all but_ precipitates herself into the arms of a +young man who has been walking leisurely towards her. + +He is a tall young man, not strictly handsome, but decidedly good to +look at, with honest hazel eyes, and a shapely head, and altogether very +well set up. As a rule he is one of the most cheerful people alive, and +a tremendous favorite in his regiment, the ---- Hussars, though just now +it might suggest itself to the intelligent observer that he considers he +has been hardly used. A very little more haste, and that precipitation +_must_ have taken place. He had made an instinctive movement towards her +with protective arms outstretched; but though a little cry had escaped +her, she had maintained her balance, and now stands looking at him with +laughing eyes, and panting breath, and two pretty hands pressed against +her bosom. + +Mr. Dysart lets his disappointed arms fall to his sides, and assumes the +aggrieved air of one who has been done out of a good thing. + +"You!" says she, when at last she can speak. + +"I suppose so," returns he discontentedly. He might just as well have +been anyone else, or anywhere else--such a chance--and _gone_! + +"Never were you so welcome!" cries she, dodging behind him as Tommy, +fully armed, and all alive, comes tearing round the corner. "Ah, ha, +Tommy, _sold_! I've got a champion now. I'm no longer shivering in my +shoes. Mr. Dysart will protect me--_won't_ you, Mr. Dysart?" to the +young man, who says "yes" without stirring a muscle. The heaviest bribe +would not have induced him to move, because, standing behind him, she +has laid her dainty fingers on his shoulders, from which safe position +she mocks at Tommy with security. Were the owners of the shoulders to +stir, the owners of the fingers might remove the delightful members. +Need it be said that, with this awful possibility before him, Mr. Dysart +is prepared to die at his post rather than budge an inch. + +And, indeed, death seems imminent. Tommy charging round the +rhododendron, finding himself robbed of his expected scalp, grows +frantic, and makes desperate passes at Mr. Dysart's legs, which that +hero, being determined, as I have said, not to stir under any +provocation, circumvents with a considerable display of policy, such as: + +"I say, Tommy, old boy, is that you? How d'ye do? Glad to see me, aren't +you?" This last very artfully with a view to softening the attacks. "You +don't know what I've brought you!" This is more artful still, and +distinctly a swindle, as he has brought him nothing, but on the spot he +determines to redeem himself with the help of the small toy-shops and +sweety shops down in the village. "Put down that fork like a good boy, +and let me tell you how----" + +"Oh, _bother_ you!" says Tommy, indignantly. "I'd have had her only for +you! What brought you here now? Couldn't you have waited a bit?" + +"Yes! what brought you?" says Miss Kavanagh, most disgracefully going +over to the other side, now that danger is at an end, and Tommy has +planted his impromptu tomahawk in a bed close by. + +"Do you want to know?" says he quickly. + +The fingers have been removed from his shoulders, and he is now at +liberty to turn round and look at the charming face beside him. + +"No, no!" says she, shaking her head. "I've been rude, I suppose. But it +is such a wonderful thing to see you here so soon again." + +"Why should I not be here?" + +"Of course! That is the one unanswerable question. But you must confess +it is puzzling to those who thought of you as being elsewhere." + +"If you are one of 'those' you fill me with gratitude. That you should +think of me even for a moment----" + +"Well, I haven't been thinking much," says she, frankly, and with the +most delightful if scarcely satisfactory little smile: "I don't believe +I was thinking of you at all, until I turned the corner just now, and +then, I confess, I was startled, because I believed you at the +Antipodes." + +"Perhaps your belief was mother to your thought." + +"Oh, no. Don't make me out so nasty. Well, but _were_ you there?" + +"Perhaps so. Where are they?" asks he gloomily. "One hears a good deal +about them, but they comprise so many places that now-a-days one is +hardly sure where they exactly lie. At all events no one has made them +clear to me." + +"Does it rest with me to enlighten you?" asks she, with a little +aggravating half glance from under her long lashes; "well--the North +Pole, Kamtschatka, Smyrna, Timbuctoo, Maoriland, Margate----" + +"We'll stop there, I think," says he, with a faint grimace. + +"There! At Margate? No, thanks. _You_ can, if you like, but as for +me----" + +"I don't suppose you would stop anywhere with me," says he. "I have +occasional glimmerings that I hope mean common sense. No, I have not +been so adventurous as to wander towards Margate. I have only been to +town and back again." + +"What town?" + +"Eh? What town?" says he astonished. "_London_, you know." + +"No, I don't know," says Miss Kavanagh, a little petulantly. "One would +think there was only one town in the world, and that all you English +people had the monopoly of it. There are other towns, I suppose. Even we +poor Irish insignificants have a town or two. Dublin comes under that +head, I suppose?" + +"Undoubtedly. Of _course_," making great haste to abase himself. "It is +mere snobbery our making so much of London. A kind of despicable cant, +you know." + +"Well, after all, I expect it is a big place in every way," says Miss +Kavanagh, so far mollified by his submission as to be able to allow him +something. + +"It's a desert," says Tommy, turning to his aunt, with all the air of +one who is about to impart to her useful information. "It's raging with +wild beasts. They roam to and fro and are at their wits' ends----" here +Tommy, who is great on Bible history, but who occasionally gets mixed, +stops short. "Father says they're there," he winds up defiantly. + +"Wild beasts!" echoes Mr. Dysart, bewildered. "Is _this_ the teaching +about their Saxon neighbors that the Irish children receive at the hands +of their parents and guardians. Oh, well, come now, Tommy, really, you +know----" + +"Yes; they are there," says Tommy, rebelliously. "_Frightful_ beasts! +_Bears!_ They'd tear you in bits if they could get at you. They have no +reason in them, father says. And they climb up posts, and roar at +people." + +"Oh, nonsense!" says Mr. Dysart. "One would think we were having a +French Revolution all over again in England. Don't you think," glancing +severely at Joyce, who is giving way to unrestrained mirth, "that it is +not only wrong, but dangerous, to implant such ideas about the English +in the breasts of Irish children? There isn't a word of truth in it, +Tommy." + +"There _is_!" says Monkton, junior, wagging his head indignantly. +"Father _told_ me." + +"Father told us," repeats the small Mabel, who has just come up. + +"And father says, too, that the reason that they are so wicked is +because they want their freedom!" says Tommy, as though this is an +unanswerable argument. + +"Oh, I see! The socialists!" says Mr. Dysart. "Yes; a troublesome pack! +But still, to call them wild beasts----" + +"They _are_ wild beasts," says Tommy, prepared to defend his position to +the last. "They've got _manes_, and _horns_, and _tails_!" + +"He's romancing," says Mr. Dysart looking at Joyce. + +"He's not," says she demurely. "He is only trying to describe to you the +Zoological Gardens. His father gives him a graphic description of them +every evening, and--the result you see." + +Here both she and he, after a glance at each other, burst out laughing. + +"No wonder you were amused," says he, "but you might have given me a +hint. You were unkind to me--as usual." + +"Now that you have been to London," says she, a little hurriedly, as if +to cover his last words and pretend she hasn't heard them, "you will +find our poor Ireland duller than ever. At Christmas it is not so bad, +but just _now_, and in the height of your season, too,----" + +"Do you call this place dull?" interrupts he. "Then let me tell you you +misjudge your native land; this little bit of it, at all events. I think +it not only the loveliest, but the liveliest place on earth." + +"You are easily pleased," says she, with a rather embarrassed smile. + +"He isn't!" says Tommy, breaking into the conversation with great +aplomb. He has been holding on vigorously to Mr. Dysart's right hand for +the last five minutes, after a brief but brilliant skirmish with Mabel +as to the possession of it--a skirmish brought to a bloodless conclusion +by the surrender, on Mr. Dysart's part, of his left hand to the weaker +belligerent. "He hates Miss Maliphant, nurse says, though Lady Baltimore +wants him to marry her, and she's a fine girl, nurse says, an' raal +smart, and with the gift o' the gab, an' lots o' tin----" + +"_Tommy!_" says his aunt frantically. It is indeed plain to everybody +that Tommy is now quoting nurse, _au naturel_, and that he is betraying +confidences in a perfectly reckless manner. + +"Don't stop him," says Mr. Dysart, glancing at Joyce's crimson cheeks +with something of disfavor. "'What's Hecuba to me, or I to Hecuba?' I +_defy_ you," a little stormily, "to think I care a farthing for Miss +Maliphant or for any other woman on earth--_save one_!" + +"Oh, you mustn't press your confidences on me," says she, smiling and +dissembling rather finely; "I know nothing. I accuse you of nothing. +Only, Tommy, you were a little rude, weren't you?" + +"I wasn't," says Tommy, promptly, in whom the inborn instinct of +self-defence has been largely developed. "It's true. Nurse says she has +a voice like a cow. Is _that_ true?" turning, unabashed to Dysart. + +"She's expected at the Castle, next week. You shall come up and judge +for yourself," says he, laughing. "And," turning to Joyce, "you will +come, too, I hope." + +"It is manners to wait to be asked," returns she, smiling. + +"Oh, as for that," says he, "Lady Baltimore crossed last night with me +and her husband. And here is a letter for you." He pulls a note of the +cocked hat order out of one of his pockets. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + "Tell me where is fancy bred, + Or in the heart, or in the head? + How begot, how nourished? + Reply, reply." + + +"An invitation from Lady Baltimore," says Joyce, looking at the big red +crest, and coloring slightly. + +"Yes." + +"How do you know?" asks she, rather suspiciously. + +The young man raises his hands and eyes. + +"I _swear_ I had nothing to do with it," says he, "I didn't so much as +hint at it. Lady Baltimore spent her time crossing the Channel in +declaring to all who were well enough to hear her, that she lived only +in the expectation of soon seeing you again." + +"Nonsense!" scornfully; "it is only a month ago since I was staying +there, just before they went to London. By the bye, what brings them +home now? In the very beginning of their season?" + +"_I_ don't know. And it is as well not to inquire perhaps. Baltimore and +my cousin, as all the world knows, have not hit it off together. Yet +when Isabel married him, we all thought it was quite an ideal marriage, +they were so much in love with each other." + +"Hot love soon cools," says Miss Kavanagh in a general sort of way. + +"I don't believe it," sturdily, "if it's the right sort of love. +However, to go back to your letter--which you haven't even deigned to +open--you _will_ accept the invitation, won't you?" + +"I don't know," hesitating. + +"Oh! I say, _do_ come! It is only for a week, and even if it does bore +you, still, as a Christian, you ought to consider how much, even in that +short time, you will be able to add to the happiness of your fellow +creatures." + +"Flattery means insincerity," says she, tilting her chin, "keep all that +sort of thing for your Miss Maliphant; it is thrown away upon me." + +"_My_ Miss Maliphant! Really I must protest against your accrediting me +with such a possession. But look here, _don't_ disappoint us all; and +you won't be dull either, there are lots of people coming. Dicky Brown, +for one." + +"Oh! will he be there?" brightening visibly. + +"Yes," rather gloomily, and perhaps a little sorry that he has said +anything about Mr. Browne's possible arrival--though to feel jealousy +about that social butterfly is indeed to sound the depths of folly; "you +like him?" + +"I _love_ him," says Miss Kavanagh promptly and with sufficient +enthusiasm to restore hope in the bosom of any man except a lover. + +"He is blessed indeed," says he stiffly. "Beyond his deserts I can't +help thinking. I really think he is the biggest fool I ever met." + +"Oh! not the biggest, surely," says she, so saucily, and with such a +reprehensible tendency towards laughter, that he gives way and laughs +too, though unwillingly. + +"True. I'm a bigger," says he, "but as that is _your_ fault, you should +be the last to taunt me with it." + +"Foolish people always talk folly," says she with an assumption of +indifference that does not hide her red cheeks. "Well, go on, who is to +be at the Court besides Dicky?" + +"Lady Swansdown." + +"I like her too." + +"But not so well as you like Dicky, _you_ love him according to your own +statement." + +"Don't be matter-of-fact!" says Miss Kavanagh, giving him a +well-deserved snub. "Do you always say exactly what you mean?" + +"Always--to _you_." + +"I daresay you would be more interesting if you didn't," says she, with +a little, lovely smile, that quite spoils the harshness of her words. Of +her few faults, perhaps the greatest is, that she seldom knows her own +mind, where her lovers are concerned, and will blow hot and cold, and +merry and sad, and cheerful, and petulant all in one breath as it were. +Poor lovers! they have a hard time of it with her as a rule. But youth +is often so, and the cold, still years, as they creep on us, with dull +common sense and deadly reason in their train, cure us all too soon of +our pretty idle follies. + +Just now she was bent on rebuffing him, but you see her strength failed +her, and she spoiled her effect by the smile she mingled with the +rebuff. The smile indeed was so charming that he remembers nothing but +it, and so she not only gains nothing, but loses something to the other +side. + +"Well, I'll try to mend all that," says he, but so lovingly, and with +such unaffected tenderness, that she quails beneath his glance. Coquette +as undoubtedly Nature has made her, she has still so gentle a soul +within her bosom that she shrinks from inflicting _actual_ pain. A pang +or two, a passing regret to be forgotten the next hour--or at all events +in the next change of scene--she is not above imparting, but when people +grow earnest like--like Mr. Dysart for example--they grow troublesome. +And she hasn't made up her mind to marry, and there are other people---- + +"The Clontarfs are to be there too," goes on Dysart, who is a cousin of +Lady Baltimore's, and knows all about her arrangements; "and the +Brownings, and Norman Beauclerk." + +"The--Clontarfs," says Joyce, in a hurried way, that might almost be +called confused; to the man who loves her, and who is watching her, it +is quite plain that she is not thinking of Lord and Lady Clontarf, who +are quite an ordinary couple and devoted to each other, but of that last +name spoken--Norman Beauclerk; Lady Baltimore's brother, a man, +handsome, agreeable, aristocratic--the man whose attentions to her a +month ago had made a little topic for conversation amongst the country +people. Dull country people who never go anywhere or see anything beyond +their stupid selves, and who are therefore driven to do something or +other to avoid suicide or the murdering of each other; gossip unlimited +is their safety valve. + +"Yes, and Beauclerk," persists Dysart, a touch of despair at his heart; +"you and he were good friends when last he was over, eh?" + +"I am generally very good friends with everybody; not an altogether +desirable character, not a strong one," says she smiling, and still +openly parrying the question. + +"You liked Beauclerk," says he, a little doggedly perhaps. + +"Ye--es--very well." + +"Very _much_! Why can't you be _honest_!" says he flashing out at her. + +"I don't know what you mean," coldly. "If, however, you persist on my +looking into it, I--" defiantly--"yes, I _do_ like Mr. Beauclerk very +much." + +"Well, I don't know what you see in that fellow." + +"Nothing," airily, having now recovered herself, "that's his charm." + +"If," gravely, "you gave that as your opinion of Dicky Browne I could +believe you." + +She laughs. + +"Poor Dicky," says she, "what a cruel judgment; and yet you are right;" +she has changed her whole manner, and is now evidently bent on restoring +him to good humor, and compelling him to forget all about Mr. Beauclerk. +"I must give in to you about Dicky. There isn't even the vaguest +suggestion of meaning about _him_. I--" with a deliberate friendly +glance flung straight into his eyes--"don't often give in to you, do I?" + +On this occasion, however, her coquetry--so generally successful--is +completely thrown away. Dysart, with his dark eyes fixed +uncompromisingly upon hers, makes the next move--an antagonistic one. + +"You have a very high opinion of Beauclerk," says he. + +"Have I?" laughing uneasily, and refusing to let her rising temper give +way. "We all have our opinions on every subject that comes under our +notice. You have one on this subject evidently." + +"Yes, but it is not a high one," says he unpleasantly. + +"After all, what does that matter? I don't pretend to understand you. I +will only suggest to you that our opinions are but weak things--mere +prejudices--no more." + +"I am not prejudiced against Beauclerk, if you mean that," a little +hotly. + +"I didn't," with a light shrug. "Believe me, you think a great deal more +about him than I do." + +"Are you sure of that?" + +"I am at all events sure of one thing," says she quickly darting at him +a frowning glance, "that you have no right to ask me that question." + +"I have not indeed," acknowledges he stiffly still, but with so open an +apology in his whole air that she forgives him. "Many conflicting +thoughts led me astray. I must ask your pardon." + +"Why, granted!" says she. "And--I was cross, wasn't I? After all an old +friend like you might be allowed a little laxity. There, never mind," +holding out her hand. "Let us make it up." + +Dysart grasps the little extended hand with avidity, and peace seems +restored when Tommy puts an end to all things. To anyone acquainted with +children I need hardly remark that he has been listening to the +foregoing conversation with all his ears and all his eyes and every bit +of his puzzled intelligence. + +"Well, go on," says he, giving his aunt a push when the friendly +hand-shake has come to an end. + +"Go on? Where?" asks she, with apparent unconcern but a deadly +foreboding at her breast. She knows her Tommy. + +"You _said_ you were going to make it up with him!" says that hero, +regarding her with disapproving eyes. + +"Well, I have made it up." + +"No, you haven't! When you make it up with me you always kiss me! Why +don't you kiss him?" + +Consternation on the part of the principal actors. Dysart, strange to +say, is the first to recover. + +"Why indeed?" says he, giving way all at once to a fatal desire for +laughter. This, Miss Kavanagh, being vexed with herself for her late +confusion, resents strongly. + +"I am sure, Tommy," says she, with a mildness that would not have +imposed upon an infant, "that your lesson hour has arrived. Come, say +good-bye to Mr. Dysart, and let us begin at once. You know I am going to +teach you to-day. Good-bye, Mr. Dysart--if you want to see Barbara, you +will find her very probably in the study." + +"Don't go like this," says he anxiously. "Or if you _will_ go, at least +tell me that you will accept Lady Baltimore's invitation." + +"I don't know," smiling coldly. "I think not. You see I was there for +such a _long_ time in the beginning of the year, and Barbara always +wants me, and one should not be selfish you know." + +"One should not indeed!" says he, with slow meaning. "What answer, then, +must I give my cousin? You know," in a low tone, "that she is not +altogether happy. You can lighten her burden a little. She is fond of +you." + +"I can lighten Barbara's burden also. Think me the very incarnation of +selfishness if you will," says she rather unjustly, "but still, if +Barbara says 'don't go,' I shall stay here." + +"Mrs. Monkton won't say that." + +"Perhaps not," toying idly with a rose, in such a careless fashion as +drives him to despair. Brushing it to and fro across her lips she seems +to have lost all interest in the question in hand. + +"If she says to you 'go,' how then?" + +"Why then--I may still remain here." + +"Well stay then, of course, if you so desire it!" cries he angrily. "If +to make all your world _un_happy is to make you happy, why be so by all +means." + +"_All_ my world! Do you suppose then that it will make Barbara and +Freddy unhappy to have my company? What a gallant speech!" says she, +with a provoking little laugh and a swift lifting of her eyes to his. + +"No, but it will make other people (more than _twice_ two) miserable to +be deprived of it." + +"Are you one of that quartette?" asks she, so saucily, yet withal so +merrily that the hardest-hearted lover might forgive her. A little +irresistible laugh breaks from her lips. Rather ruefully he joins in it. + +"I don't think I need answer that question," says he. "To you at all +events." + +"To me of all people rather," says she still laughing, "seeing I am the +interested party." + +"No, that character belongs to me. You have no interest in it. To me it +is life or death--to--you----" + +"No, no, you mustn't talk to me like that. You know I forbid you last +time we met, and you promised me to be good." + +"I promised then the most difficult thing in the world. But never mind +me; the principal thing is, your acceptance or rejection of that note. +Joyce!" in a low tone, "_say_ you will accept it." + +"Well," relenting visibly, and now refusing to meet his eyes, "I'll ask +Barbara, and if she says I may go I----" pause. + +"You will then accept?" eagerly. + +"I shall then--think about it." + +"You look like an angel," says he, "and you have the heart of a flint." + +This remark, that might have presumably annoyed another girl, seems to +fill Miss Kavanagh with mirth. + +"Am I so bad as that?" cries she, gaily. "Why I shall make amends then. +I shall change my evil ways. As a beginning, see here. If Barbara says +go to the Court, go I will. Now, stern moralist! where are you?" + +"In the seventh heaven," says he, promptly. "Be it a Fool's Paradise or +otherwise, I shall take up my abode there for the present. And now you +will go and ask Mrs. Monkton?" + +"In what a hurry to get rid of me!" says this coquette of all coquettes. +"Well, good-bye then----" + +"Oh no, don't go." + +"To the Court? Was ever man so unreasonable? In one breath 'do' and +'don't'!" + +"Was ever woman so tormenting?" + +"Tormenting? No, so discerning if you will, or else so----" + +"Adorable! You can't find fault with _that_ at all events." + +"And therefore my mission is at an end! Good-bye, again." + +"Good-bye." He is holding her hand as though he never means to let her +have it again. "That rose," says he, pointing to the flower that had +kissed her lips so often. "It is nothing to you, you can pick yourself +another, give it to me." + +"I can pick you another too, a nice fresh one," says she. "Here," moving +towards a glowing bush; "here is a bud worth having." + +"Not that one," hastily. "Not one this garden, or any other garden +holds, save the one in your hand. It is the only one in the world of +roses worth having." + +"I hate to give a faded gift," says she, looking at the rose she holds +with apparent disfavor. + +"Then I shall take it," returns he, with decision. He opens her pretty +pink palm, releases the dying rosebud from it and places it triumphantly +in his coat. + +"You haven't got any manners," says she, but she laughs again as she +says it. + +"Except bad ones you should add." + +"Yes, I forgot that. A point lost. Good-bye now, good-bye indeed." + +She waves her hand lightly to him and calling to the children runs +towards the house. It seems as if she has carried all the beauty and +brightness and sweetness of the day with her. + +As Dysart turns back again, the afternoon appears grey and gloomy. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + "Look ere thou leap, see ere thou go." + + +"Well, Barbara, can I go?" + +"I don't know"--doubtfully. There is a cloud on Mrs. Monkton's brow, she +is staring out of the window instead of into her sister's face, and she +is evidently a little distressed or uncertain. "You have been there so +lately, and----" + +"You want to say something," says the younger sister, seating herself on +the sofa, and drawing Mrs. Monkton down beside her. "Why don't you do +it?" + +"You can't want to go so very much, can you now?" asks the latter, +anxiously, almost entreatingly. + +"It is I who don't know this time!" says Joyce, with a smile. "And +yet----" + +"It seems only like yesterday that you came back after spending a month +there." + +"A yesterday that dates from six weeks ago," a little reproachfully. + +"I know. You like being there. It is a very amusing house to be at. I +don't blame you in any way. Lord and Lady Baltimore are both charming in +their ways, and very kind, and yet----" + +"There, don't stop; you are coming to it now, the very heart of the +meaning. Go on," authoritatively, and seizing her sister in her arms, +"or I'll _shake_ it out of you." + +"It is this then," says Mrs. Monkton slowly. "I don't think it is a +_wise_ thing for you to go there so often." + +"Oh Barbara! Owl of Wisdom as thou art, why not?" The girl is laughing, +yet a deep flush of color has crept into each cheek. + +"Never mind the why not. Perhaps it is unwise to go _anywhere_ too +often; and you must acknowledge that you spent almost the entire spring +there." + +"Well, I hinted all that to Mr. Dysart." + +"Was he here?" + +"Yes. He came down from the Court with the note." + +"And--who else is to be there?" + +"Oh! the Clontarfs, and Dicky Browne, and Lady Swansdown and a great +many others." + +"Mr. Beauclerk?" she does not look at Joyce as she asks this question. + +"Yes." + +A little silence follows, broken at last by Joyce. + +"_May_ I go?" + +"Do you think it is the best thing for you to do?" says Mrs. Monkton, +flushing delicately. "_Think_, darling! You know--you _must_ know, +because you have it always before you," flushing even deeper, "that to +marry into a family where you are not welcomed with open heart is to +know much private discomfiture." + +"I know this too," says the girl, petulantly, "that to be married to a +man like Freddy, who consults your lightest wish, and is your lover +always, is worth the enduring of anything." + +"I think that too," says Mrs. Monkton, who has now grown rather pale. +"But there is still one more thing to know--that in making such a +marriage as we have described, a woman lays out a thorny path for her +husband. She separates him from his family, and as all good men have +strong home ties, she naturally compels him to feel many a secret pang." + +"But he has his compensations. Do you think if Freddy got the chance, he +would give you up and go back to his family?" + +"No--not that. But to rejoice in that thought is to be selfish. Why +should he not have my love and the love of his people too? There is a +want somewhere. What I wish to impress upon you, Joyce, is this, that a +woman who marries a man against his parents' wishes has much to regret, +much to endure." + +"I think you are ungrateful," says the girl a little vehemently. "Freddy +has made you endure nothing. You are the happiest married woman I know." + +"Yes, but I have made _him_ endure a great deal," says Mrs. Monkton in a +low tone. She rises, and going to the window, stands there looking out +upon the sunny landscape, but seeing nothing. + +"Barbara! you are crying," says Joyce, going up to her abruptly, and +folding her arms round her. + +"It is nothing, dear. Nothing at all, darling. Only--I wish he and his +father were friends again. Freddy is too good a man not to regret the +estrangement." + +"I believe you think Freddy is a little god!" says Joyce laughing. + +"O! not a _little_ one," says Mrs. Monkton, and as Freddy stands six +foot one in his socks, they both laugh at this. + +"Still you don't answer me," says the girl presently. "You don't say +'you may' or 'you shan't'--which is it to be, Barbara?" + +Her tone is distinctly coaxing now, and as she speaks she gives her +sister a little squeeze that is plainly meant to press the desired +permission out of her. + +Still Mrs. Monkton hesitates. + +"You see," says she temporizing, "there are so many reasons. The Court," +pausing and flushing, "is not _quite_ the house for so young a girl as +you." + +"Oh Barbara!" + +"You can't misunderstand me," says her sister with agitation. "You know +how I like, _love_ Lady Baltimore, and how good Lord Baltimore has been +to Freddy. When his father cast him off there was very little left to us +for beginning housekeeping with, and when Lord Baltimore gave him his +agency--Oh, _well_! it isn't likely we shall either of us forget to be +grateful for _that_. If it was only for ourselves I should say nothing, +but it is for you, dear; and--this unfortunate affair--this determined +hostility that exists between Lord and Lady Baltimore, makes it +unpleasant for the guests. You know," nervously, "I hate gossip of any +sort, but one must defend one's own." + +"But there is nothing unpleasant; one sees nothing. They are charming to +each other. I have been staying there and I know." + +"Have I not stayed there too? It is impossible Joyce to fight against +facts. All the world knows they are not on good terms." + +"Well, a great many other people aren't perhaps." + +"When they aren't the tone of the house gets lowered. And I have noticed +of late that they have people there, who----" + +"Who what, Barbara?" + +"Oh yes, I _know_ they are all right; they are received everywhere, but +are they good companions for a girl of your years? It is not a healthy +atmosphere for you. They are rich people who think less of a hundred +guineas than you do of five. Is it wise, I ask you again to accustom +yourself to their ways?" + +"Nonsense, Barbara!" says her sister, looking at her with a growing +surprise. "That is not like you. Why should we despise the rich, why +should we seek to emulate them? Surely both you and I have too good +blood in our veins to give way to such follies." She leans towards Mrs. +Monkton, and with a swift gesture, gentle as firm, turns her face to her +own. + +"Now for the real reason," says she. + +Unthinkingly she has brought confusion on herself. Barbara, as though +stung to cruel candor, gives her the real reason in a sentence. + +"Tell me this," says she, "which do you like best, Mr. Dysart, or Mr. +Beauclerk?" + +Joyce, taking her arm from round her sister's neck, moves back from her. +A deep color has flamed into her cheeks, then died away again. She looks +quite calm now. + +"What a question," says she. + +"Well," feverishly, "answer it." + +"Oh, no," says the girl quickly. + +"Why not? Why not answer it to me, your chief friend? You think the +question indelicate, but why should I shrink from asking a question on +which, perhaps, the happiness of your life depends? If--if you have set +your heart on Mr. Beauclerk----" She stops, checked by something in Miss +Kavanagh's face. + +"Well, what then?" asks the latter coldly. + +"It will bring you unhappiness. He is Lady Baltimore's brother. She +already plans for him. The Beauclerks are poor--he is bound to marry +money." + +"That is a good deal about Mr. Beauclerk, but what about the other +possible suitor whom you suppose I am madly in love with?" + +"Don't talk to me like that, Joyce. Do you think I have anything at +heart except your interests? As to Mr. Dysart, if you like _him_, I +confess I should be glad of it. He is only a cousin of the Baltimores, +and of such moderate means that they would scarcely object to his +marrying a penniless girl." + +"You rate me highly," says Joyce, with a sudden rather sharp little +laugh. "I am good enough for the cousin--I am _not_ good enough for the +brother, who may reasonably look higher." + +"Not higher," haughtily. "He can only marry a girl of good birth. _You_ +are that, but he, in his position, will look for money, or else his +people will look for it for him. Whereas, Mr. Dysart----" + +"Yes, you needn't go over it all. Mr. Dysart is about on a level with +me, he will _never_ have any money, neither shall I." Suddenly she looks +round at her sister, her eyes very bright. "Tell me then," says she, +"what does it all come to? That I am bound to refuse to marry a man +because he has money, and because I have none." + +"That is not the argument," says Barbara anxiously. + +"I think it is." + +"It is not. I advise you strongly not to think of Mr. Beauclerk, yet +_he_ has no money to speak of." + +"He has more than Freddy." + +"But he is a different man from Freddy--with different tastes, different +aspirations, different----He's different," emphatically, "in _every_ +way!" + +"To be different from the person one loves is not to be a bad man," says +Joyce slowly, her eyes on the ground. + +"My dear girl, who has called Mr. Beauclerk a bad man?" + +"You don't like him," says Miss Kavanagh, still more slowly, still with +thoughtful eyes downcast. + +"I like Mr. Dysart better if you mean that." + +"No, I don't mean that. And, besides, that is no answer." + +"Was there a question?" + +"Yes. Why don't you like Mr. Beauclerk?" + +"Have I said I didn't like him?" + +"Not in so many words, but----Well, why don't you?" + +"I don't know," rather lamely. + +Miss Kavanagh laughs a little satirically, and Mrs. Monkton, objecting +to mirth of that description, takes fire. + +"Why do you _like_ him?" asks she defiantly. + +"I don't know either," returns Joyce, with a rueful smile. "And after +all I'm not sure that I like him so _very_ much. You evidently imagine +me to be head over ears in love with him, yet I, myself, scarcely know +whether I like him or not." + +"You always look at him so kindly, and you always pull your skirts aside +to give him a place by your side." + +"I should do that for Tommy." + +"Would you? That would be _too_ kind," says Tommy's mother, laughing. +"It would mean ruin to your skirts in two minutes." + +"But, consider the gain. The priceless scraps, of wisdom I should hear, +even whilst my clothes were being demolished." + +This has been a mere interlude, unintentional on the part of either, +and, once over, neither knows how to go on. The question _must_ be +settled one way or the other. + +"There is one thing," says Mrs. Monkton, at length, "You certainly +prefer Mr. Beauclerk to Mr. Dysart." + +"Do I? I wish I knew as much about myself as you know about me. And, +after all, it is of no consequence whom I like. The real thing +is----Come, Barbara, you who know so much can tell me this----" + +"Well?" says Mrs. Monkton, seeing she has grown very red, and is +evidently hesitating. + +"No. This absurd conversation has gone far enough. I was going to ask +you to solve a riddle, but----" + +"But what?" + +"You are too serious about it." + +"Not _too_ serious. It is very important." + +"Oh, Barbara, do you _know_ what you are saying?" cries the girl with an +angry little stamp, turning to her a face pale and indignant. "You have +been telling me in so many words that I am in love with either Mr. +Beauclerk or Mr. Dysart. Pray now, for a change, tell me which of them +is in love with _me_." + +"Mr. Dysart," says Barbara quietly. + +Her sister laughs angrily. + +"You think everybody who looks at me is in love with me." + +"Not _every_one!" + +"Meaning Mr. Beauclerk." + +"No," slowly. "I think he likes you, too, but he is a man who will +always _think_. You know he has come in for that property in Hampshire +through his uncle's death, but he got no money with it. It is a large +place, impossible to keep up without a large income, and his uncle left +every penny away from him. It is in great disrepair, the house +especially. I hear it is falling to pieces. Mr. Beauclerk is an +ambitious man, he will seek means to rebuild his house." + +"Well what of that? It is an interesting bit of history, but how does it +concern me? Take that troubled look out of your eyes, Barbara. I assure +you Mr. Beauclerk is as little to me as I am to him." + +She speaks with such evident sincerity, with such an undeniable belief +in the truth of her own words, that Mrs. Monkton, looking at her and +reading her soul through her clear eyes, feels a weight lifted from her +heart. + +"That is all right then," says she simply. She turns as if to go away, +but Miss Kavanagh has still a word or two to say. + +"I may go to the Court?" says she. + +"Yes; I suppose so." + +"But you won't be vexed if I go, Barbie?" + +"No; not now." + +"Well," slipping her arm through hers, with an audible sigh of delight. +"_That's_ settled." + +"Things generally _do_ get settled the way you want them to be," says +Mrs. Monkton, laughing. "Come, what about your frocks, eh?" + +From this out they spend a most enjoyable hour or two. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + "Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer, + That leaves look pale, thinking the winter's near." + + +The visit to the Court being decided on, Miss Kavanagh undertakes life +afresh, with a joyous heart. Lord and Lady Baltimore are the best host +and hostess in the world, and a visit to them means unmixed pleasure +while it lasts. The Court is, indeed, the pleasantest house in the +county, the most desirable in all respects, and the gayest. Yet, strange +and sad to add, happiness has found no bed within its walls. + +This is the more remarkable in that the marriage of Lord and Lady +Baltimore had been an almost idealistic one. They had been very much in +love with each other. All the hosts of friends and relations that +belonged to either side had been delighted with the engagement. So many +imprudent marriages were made, so many disastrous ones; but _here_ was a +marriage where birth and money went together, and left no guardians or +parents lamenting. All Belgravia stood still and stared at the young +couple with genuine admiration. It wasn't often that love, pure and +simple, fell into their midst, and such a _satisfactory_ love too! None +of your erratic darts that struck the wrong breasts, and created +confusion for miles round, but a thoroughly proper, respectable winged +arrow that pierced the bosoms of those who might safely be congratulated +on the reception of it. + +They had, indeed, been very much in love with each other. Few people +have known such extreme happiness as fell to their lot for two whole +years. They were wrapt up in each other, and when the little son came at +the end of that time, _nothing_ seemed wanted. They grew so strong in +their belief in the immutability of their own relations, one to the +other, that when the blow fell that separated them, it proved a very +lightning-stroke, dividing soul from body. + +Lady Baltimore could be at no time called a beautiful woman. But there +is always a charm in her face, a strength, an attractiveness that might +well defy the more material charms of a lovelier woman than herself. +With a soul as pure as her face, and a mind entirely innocent of the +world's evil ways--and the sad and foolish secrets she is compelled to +bear upon her tired bosom from century to century--she took with a +bitter hardness the revelations of her husband's former life before he +married her, related to her by--of course--a devoted friend. + +Unfortunately the authority was an undeniable one. It was impossible for +Lady Baltimore to refuse to believe. The past, too, she might have +condoned; though, believing in her husband as she did, it would always +have been bitter to her, but the devoted friend--may all such meet their +just reward!--had not stopped there; she had gone a step further, a +fatal step; she had told her something that had _not_ occurred since +their marriage. + +Perhaps the devoted friend believed in her lie, perhaps she did not. +Anyway, the mischief was done. Indeed, from the beginning seeds of +distrust had been laid, and, buried in so young and unlearned a bosom, +had taken a fatal grip. + +The more fatal in that there was truth in them. As a fact, Lord +Baltimore had been the hero of several ugly passages in his life. His +early life, certainly; but a young wife who has begun by thinking him +immaculate, would hardly be the one to lay stress upon _that_. And when +her friend, who had tried unsuccessfully to marry Lord Baltimore and had +failed, had in the kindliest spirit, _of course_, opened her eyes to his +misdoings, she had at first passionately refused to listen, then _had_ +listened, and after that was ready to listen to anything. + +One episode in his past history had been made much of. The sorry heroine +of it had been an actress. This was bad enough, but when the +disinterested friend went on to say that Lord Baltimore had been seen in +her company only so long ago as last week, matters came to a climax. +That was a long time ago from to-day, but the shock when it came +shattered all the sacred feelings in Lady Baltimore's heart. She grew +cold, callous, indifferent. Her mouth, a really beautiful feature, that +used to be a picture of serenity and charity personified, hardened. She +became austere, cold. Not difficult, so much as unsympathetic. She was +still a good hostess, and those who had known her _before_ her +misfortune still loved her. But she made no new friends, and she sat +down within herself, as it were, and gave herself up to her fate, and +would probably have died or grown reckless but for her little son. + +And it was _after_ the birth of this beloved child that she had been +told that _her_ husband had again been seen in company with Madame +Istray; _that_ seemed to add fuel to the fire already kindled. She could +not forgive that. It was proof positive of his baseness. + +To the young wife it was all a revelation, a horrible one. She had been +so stunned by it, that she, accepted it as it stood, and learning that +the stories of his life _before_ marriage were true, had decided that +the stories told of his life _after_ marriage were true also. She was +young, and youth is always hard. + +To her no doubt remained of his infidelity. She had come of a brave old +stock, who, if they could not fight, could at least endure in silence, +and knew well the necessity of keeping her name out of the public mouth. +She kept herself well in hand, therefore, and betrayed nothing of all +she had been feeling. She dismissed her friend with a gentle air, +dignified, yet of sufficient haughtiness to let that astute and now +decidedly repentant lady know that never again would she enter the doors +of the Court, or any other of Lady Baltimore's houses; yet she +restrained herself all through so well that, even until the very end +came, her own husband never knew how horribly she suffered through her +disbelief in him. + +He thought her heartless. There was no scandal, no public separation. +She said a word or two to him that told him what she had heard, and when +he tried to explain the truths of that last libel that had declared him +unfaithful to her since her marriage, she had silenced him with so cold, +so scornful, so contemptuous a glance and word, that, chilled and +angered in his turn, he had left her. + +Twice afterwards he had sought to explain matters, but it was useless. +She would not listen; the treacherous friend, whom she never betrayed, +had done her work well. Lady Baltimore, though she never forgave _her_, +would not forgive her husband either; she would make no formal attempt +at a separation. Before the world she and he lived together, seemingly +on the best terms; at all events on quite as good terms as most of their +acquaintances; yet all the world knew how it was with them. So long as +there are servants, so long will it be impossible to effectually conceal +our most sacred secrets. + +Her friends, when the Baltimores went to visit them, made arrangements +to suit them. It was a pity, everybody said, that such complications +should have arisen, and one would not have expected it from Isabel, but +then she seemed so cold, that probably a climax like that did not affect +her as much as it might another. She was so entirely wrapped up in her +boy--some women were like that--a child sufficed them. And as for Lord +Baltimore--Cyril--why----Judgment was divided here; the women taking his +part, the men hers. The latter finding an attraction hardly to be +defined in her pure, calm, rather impenetrable face, that had yet a +smile so lovely that it could warm the seemingly cold face into a +something that was more effective than mere beauty. It was a wonderful +smile, and, in spite of all her troubles, was by no means rare. Lady +Baltimore, they all acknowledged, was a delightful guest and hostess. + +As for Lord Baltimore, he--well, he would know how to console himself. +Society, the crudest organization on earth, laughed to itself about him. +He had known how to live before his marriage; now that the marriage had +proved a failure, he would still know how to make life bearable. + +In this they wronged him. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + "Ils n'employent les paroles que pour deguiser leurs + pensees."--VOLTAIRE. + + +Even the most dyspeptic of the guests had acknowledged at breakfast, +some hours ago now, that a lovelier day could hardly be imagined. Lady +Baltimore, with a smile, had agreed with him. It was, indeed, impossible +not to agree with him. The sun was shining high in the heavens, and a +soft, velvetty air blew through the open windows right on to the table. + +"What shall we do to-day?" Lady Swansdown, one of the guests, had asked, +addressing her question to Lord Baltimore, who just then was helping his +little son to porridge. + +Whatever she liked. + +"Then _nothing_!" says she, in that soft drawl of hers, and that little +familiar imploring, glance of hers at her hostess, who sat behind the +urn, and glanced back at her ever so kindly. + +"Yes, it was too warm to dream of exertion; would Lady Swansdown like, +to remain at home then, and dream away the afternoon in a hammock?" + +"Dreams were delightful; but to dream _alone_----" + +"Oh, no; they would all, or at least most of them, stay with her." It +was Lady Baltimore who had said this, after waiting in vain for her +husband to speak--to whom, indeed, Lady Swansdown's question had been +rather pointedly addressed. + +So at home they all had stayed. No one being very keen about doing +anything on a day so sultry. + +Yet now, when luncheon is at an end, and the day still heavy with heat, +the desire for action that lies in every breast takes fire. They are all +tired of doing nothing. The Tennis-courts lie invitingly empty, and +rackets thrust themselves into notice at every turn; as for the balls, +worn out from _ennui_, they insert themselves under each arched instep, +threatening to bring the owners to the ground unless picked up and made +use of. + +"Who wants a beating?" demands Mr. Browne at last, unable to pretend +lassitude any longer. Taking up a racket he brandishes it wildly, +presumably to attract attention. This is necessary. As a rule nobody +pays any attention to Dicky Browne. + +He is a nondescript sort of young man, of the negative order; with no +features to speak of, and a capital opinion of himself. Income vague. +Age unknown. + +"Well! That's _one_ way of putting it," says Miss Kavanagh, with a +little tilt of her pretty chin. + +"Is it a riddle?" asks Dysart. "If so I know it. The answer is--Dicky +Browne." + +"Oh, I _like_ that!" says Mr. Browne unabashed. "See here, I'll give you +plus fifteen, and a bisque, and start myself at minus thirty, and beat +you in a canter." + +"Dear Mr. Browne, consider the day! I believe there are such things as +sunstrokes," says Lady Swansdown, in her sweet treble. + +"There are. But Dicky's all right," says Lord Baltimore, drawing up a +garden chair close to hers, and seating himself upon it. "His head is +safe. The sun makes no impression upon granite!" + +"Ah, _granite_! that applies to a heart not a head," says Lady +Swansdown, resting her blue eyes on Baltimore's for just a swift second. + +It is wonderful, however, what her eyes can do in a second. Baltimore +laughs lightly, returns her glance four-fold, and draws his chair a +quarter of an inch closer to hers. To move it more than that would have +been an impossibility. Lady Swansdown makes a slight movement. With a +smile seraphic as an angel's, she pulls her lace skirts a little to one +side, as if to prove to Baltimore that he has encroached beyond his +privileges upon her domain. "People should not _crush_ people. And _why_ +do you want to get so very close to me?" This question lies within the +serene eyes she once more raises to his. + +She is a lovely woman, blonde, serene, dangerous! In each glance she +turns upon the man who happens at any moment to be next to her, lies an +entire chapter on the "Whole Art of Flirtation." Were she reduced to +penury, and the world a little more advanced in its fashionable ways, +she might readily make a small fortune in teaching young ladies "How to +Marry Well." No man could resist her pupils, once properly finished by +her and turned out to prey upon the stronger sex. "The Complete Angler" +would be a title they might filch with perfect honor and call their own. + +She is a tall beauty, with soft limbs, graceful as a panther, or a cat. +Her eyes are like the skies in summer time, her lips sweet and full. The +silken hair that falls in soft masses on her Grecian brow is light as +corn in harvest, and she has hands and feet that are absolutely +faultless. She has even more than all these--a most convenient husband, +who is not only now but apparently always in a position of trust abroad. +Very _much_ abroad. The Fiji, or the Sandwich Islands for choice. One +can't hear from those centres of worldly dissipation in a hurry. And +after all, it really doesn't very much matter _where_ he is! + +There had been a whisper or two in the County about her and Lord +Baltimore. Everybody knew the latter had been a little wild since his +estrangement with his wife, but nothing to signify very much--nothing +that one could lay one's finger on, until Lady Swansdown had come down +last year to the Court. Whether Baltimore was in love with her was +uncertain, but all were agreed that she was in love with him. Not that +she made an _esclandre_ of any sort, but _one could see_! And still! she +was such a friend of _Lady_ Baltimore's--an old friend. They had been +girls together--that was what was so wonderful! And Lady Baltimore made +very much of her, and treated her with the kindliest observances, +and----But one had often heard of the serpent that one nourished in +one's bosom only that it might come to life and sting one! The County +grew wise over this complication; and perhaps when Mrs. Monkton had +hinted to Joyce of the "odd people" the Baltimores asked to the Court, +she had had Lady Swansdown in her mind. + +"Whose heart?" asks Baltimore, _a propos_ of her last remark. "Yours?" + +It is a leading remark, and something in the way it is uttered strikes +unpleasantly on the ears of Dysart. Baltimore is bending over his lovely +guest, and looking at her with an admiration too open to be quite +respectful. But she betrays no resentment. She smiles back at him indeed +in that little slow, seductive way of hers, and makes him an answer in a +tone too low for even those nearest to her to hear. It is a sort of +challenge, a tacit acknowledgment that they two are alone even in the +midst of all these tiresome people. + +Baltimore accepts it. Of late he has grown a little reckless. The +battling against circumstances has been too much for him. He has gone +under. The persistent coldness of his wife, her refusal to hear, or +believe in him, has had its effect. A man of a naturally warm and kindly +disposition, thrown thus back upon himself, he has now given a loose +rein to the carelessness that has been a part of his nature since his +mother gave him to the world, and allows himself to swim or go down with +the tide that carries his present life upon its bosom. + +Lady Swansdown is lovely and kind. Always with that sense of injury full +upon him, that half-concealed but ever-present desire for revenge upon +the wife who has so coldly condemned and cast him aside, he flings +himself willingly into a flirtation, ready made to his hand, and as +dangerous as it seems light. + +His life, he tells himself, is hopelessly embittered. The best things in +it are denied him; he gives therefore the more heed to the honeyed words +of the pretty creature near him, who in truth likes him too well for her +own soul's good. + +That detested husband of hers, out there _somewhere_, the only thought +she ever gives him is when she remembers with horror how as a young girl +she was sold to him. For years she had believed herself heartless--of +all her numerous love affairs not one had really touched her until now, +and _now_ he is the husband of her oldest friend; of the one woman whom +perhaps in all the world she really respects. + +At times her heart smites her, and a terrible longing to go away--to +die--to make an end of it--takes possession of her at other times. She +leans towards Baltimore, her lovely eyes alight, her soft mouth smiling. +Her whispered words, her only half-averted glances, all tell their tale. +Presently it is clear to everyone that a very fully developed flirtation +is well in hand. + +Lady Baltimore coming across the grass with a basket in one hand and her +little son held fondly by the other, sees and grasps the situation. +Baltimore, leaning over Lady Swansdown, the latter lying back in her +lounging chair in her usual indolent fashion, swaying her feather fan +from side to side, and with white lids lying on the azure eyes. + +Seeing it all, Lady Baltimore's mouth hardens, and a contemptuous +expression destroys the calm dignity of her face. For the moment _only_. +Another moment, and it is gone: she has recovered herself. The one sign +of emotion she has betrayed is swallowed up by her stern determination +to conceal all pain at all costs, and if her fingers tighten somewhat +convulsively on those of her boy's, why, who can be the wiser of _that_? +No one can see it. + +Dysart, however, who is honestly fond of his cousin, has mastered that +first swift involuntary contraction of the calm brow, and a sense of +indignant anger against Baltimore and his somewhat reckless companion +fires his blood. He springs quickly to his feet. + +Lady Baltimore, noting the action, though not understanding the motive +for it, turns and smiles at him--so controlled a smile that it quiets +him at once. + +"I am going to the gardens to try and cajole McIntyre out of some +roses," says she, in her sweet, slow way, stopping near the first group +she reaches on the lawn--the group that contains, amongst others, her +husband, and----her friend. She would not willingly have stayed where +they were, but she is too proud to pass them by without a word. "Who +will come with me? Oh! _no_," as several rise to join her, laughing, +though rather faintly. "It is not compulsory--even though I go alone, I +shall feel that I am equal to McIntyre." + +Lord Baltimore had started as her first words fell upon his ears. He had +been so preoccupied that her light footfalls coming over the grass had +not reached him, and her voice, when it fell upon the air, gave him a +shock. He half rises from his seat: + +"Shall I?" he is beginning, and then stops short, something in her face +checking him. + +"_You!_" she conquers herself a second later; all the scorn and contempt +is crushed, by sheer force of will, out of look and tone, and she goes +on as clearly, and as entirely without emotion, as though she were a +mere machine--a thing she has taught herself to be. "Not you," she says +gaily, waving him lightly from her. "You are too useful here"--as she +says this she gives him the softest if fleetest smile. It is a +masterpiece. "You can amuse one here and there, whilst I--I--I want a +girl, I think," looking round. "Bertie,"--with a fond, an almost +passionate glance at her little son--"always likes one of his +sweethearts (and they are many) to accompany him when he takes his walks +abroad." + +"Like father, like son, I daresay. Ha, ha!" laughs a fatuous youth--a +Mr. Courtenay--who lives about five miles from the Court, and has +dropped in this afternoon, very unfortunately, it must be confessed, to +pay his respects to Lady Baltimore. Fools always hit on the truth! +_Why_, nobody knows, except the heavens above us--but so it is. Young +Courtenay, who has heard nothing of the unpleasant relations existing +between his host and hostess, and who would be quite incapable of +understanding them if he _had_ heard, now springs a remark upon the +assembled five or six people present that almost reduces them to powder. + +Dysart casts a murderous glance at him. + +"A clever old proverb," says Lady Baltimore lightly. She is apparently +the one unconcerned person amongst them. "I always like those old +sayings. There is so much truth in them." + +She has forced herself to say this; but as the words pass her lips she +blanches perceptibly. As if unable to control herself she draws her +little son towards her; her arms tighten round him. The boy responds +gladly to the embrace, and to those present who know nothing, it seems +the simplest thing in the world. The mother,--the child; naturally they +would caress each other on each and every occasion. The agony of the +mother is unknown to them; the fear that her boy, her treasure, may +inherit something of his father, and in his turn prove unfaithful to the +heart that trusts him. + +It is a very little scene, scarcely worth recording, yet the anguish of +a strong heart lies embodied in it. + +"If you are going to the gardens, Lady Baltimore, let me go with you," +says Miss Maliphant, rising quickly and going toward her. She is a big, +loud girl, with money written all over her in capital letters, but Dicky +Browne watching her, tells himself she has a good heart. "I should +_love_ to go there with you and Bertie." + +"Come, then," says Lady Baltimore graciously. She makes a step forward; +little Bertie, as though he likes and believes in her, thrusts his small +fist into the hand of the Birmingham heiress, and thus united, all three +pass out of sight. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + "I have no other but a woman's reason: I think him so, because I + think him so." + + +When a corner near the rhododendrons has concealed them from view, +Dysart rises from his seat and goes deliberately over to where Lady +Swansdown is sitting. She is an old friend of his, and he has therefore +no qualms about being a little brusque with her where occasion demands +it. + +"Have a game?" says he. His suggestion is full of playfulness, his tone, +however, is stern. + +"Dear Felix, why?" says she, smiling up at him beautifully. There is +even a suspicion of amusement in her smile. + +"A change!" says he. His words this time might mean something, his tone +anything. She can read either as she pleases. + +"True!" says she laughing. "There is nothing like change. You have +wakened me to a delightful fact. Lord Baltimore," turning languidly to +her companion, who has been a little _distrait_ since his wife and son +passed by him. "What do you say to trying a change for just we two. +Variety they _say_ is charming, shall we try if shade and coolness and +comfort are to be found in that enchanting glade down there?" She points +as she speaks to an opening in the wood where perpetual twilight seems +to reign, as seen from where they now are sitting. + +"If you will," says Baltimore, still a little vaguely. He gets up, +however, and stretches his arms indolently above his head as one might +who is flinging from him the remembrance of an unpleasant dream. + +"The sun here is intolerable," says Lady Swansdown, rising too. "More +than one can endure. Thanks, dear Felix, for your suggestion. I should +never have thought of the glade if you hadn't asked me to play that +impossible game." + +She smiles a little maliciously at Dysart, and, accompanied by Lord +Baltimore, moves away from the assembled groups upon the lawn to the dim +recesses of the leafy glade. + +"_Sold!_" says Mr. Browne to Dysart. It is always impossible to Dicky to +hold his tongue. "But you needn't look so cut up about it. 'Tisn't good +enough, my dear fellow. I know 'em both by heart. Baltimore is as much +in love with her as he is with his Irish tenants, but his imagination is +his strong point, and it pleases him to think he has found at last for +the twentieth time a solace for all his woes in the disinterested love +of somebody, it really never much matters who." + +"There is more in it than _you_ think," says Dysart gloomily. + +"Not a fraction!" airily. + +"And what of her? Lady Swansdown?" + +"Of her! Her heart has been in such constant use for years that by this +time it must be in tatters. Give up thinking about that. Ah! here is my +beloved girl again!" He makes an elaborate gesture of delight as he sees +Joyce advancing in his direction. "_Dear_ Joyce!" beaming on her, "who +shall say there is nothing in animal magnetism. Here I have been just +talking about you to Dysart, and telling him what a lost soul I feel +when you're away, and instantly, as if in answer to my keen desire, you +appear before me." + +"Why aren't you playing tennis?" demands Miss Kavanagh, with a cruel +disregard of this flowery speech. + +"Because I was waiting for you." + +"Well, I'll beat you," says she, "I always do." + +"Not if you play on my side," reproachfully. + +"What! Have you for a _partner_! Nonsense, Dicky, you know I shouldn't +dream of that. Why it is as much as ever you can do to put the ball over +the net." + +"'Twas ever thus,'" quotes Mr. Browne mournfully. "The sincerest worship +gains only scorn and contumely. But never mind! the day will come!----" + +"To an end," says Miss Kavanagh, giving a finish to his sentence never +meant. "That," cheerfully, "is just what I think. If we don't have a +game now, the shades of night will be on us before we can look round +us." + +"Will you play with me?" says Dysart. + +"With pleasure. Keep your eye on this near court, and when this game is +at an end, call it ours;" she sinks into a chair as she speaks, and +Dysart, who is in a silent mood, flings himself on the grass at her feet +and falls into a reverie. To be conversational is unnecessary, Dicky +Browne is on the spot. + + * * * * * + +Hotter and hotter grows the sun; the evening comes on apace; a few +people from the neighboring houses have dropped in; Mrs. Monkton amongst +others, with Tommy in tow. The latter, who is supposed to entertain a +strong affection for Lady Baltimore's little son, no sooner, however, +sees Dicky Browne than he gives himself up to his keeping. What the +attraction is that Mr. Browne has for children has never yet been +clearly defined. It is the more difficult to arrive at a satisfactory +conclusion about it, in that no child was ever yet left in his sole care +for ten minutes without coming to blows, or tears, or a determined +attempt at murder or suicide. + +His mother, seeing Tommy veering towards this uncertain friend, turns a +doubtful eye on Mr. Browne. + +"Better come with me, Tommy," says she, "I am going to the gardens to +find Lady Baltimore. She will have Bertie with her." + +"I'll stay with Dicky," says Tommy, flinging himself broadcast on Mr. +Brown's reluctant chest, that gives forth a compulsory "Wough" as he +does so. "He'll tell me a story." + +"Don't be unhappy, Mrs. Monkton," says the latter, when he has recovered +a little from the shock--Tommy is a well-grown boy, with a sufficient +amount of adipose matter about him to make his descent felt. "I'll +promise to be careful. Nothing French I assure you. Nothing that could +shock the young mind, or teach it how to shoot in the wrong direction. +My tales are always strictly moral." + +"Well, Tommy, be _good_!" says Mrs. Monkton with a last imploring glance +at her son, who has already forgotten her existence, being lost in a +wild wrestling match with his new friend. With deep forebodings his +mother leaves him and goes upon her way. Passing Joyce, she says in a +low whisper: + +"Keep an eye on Tommy." + +"Both eyes if you like," laughing. "But Dicky, in spite of his evil +reputation, seldom goes to extremes." + +"Tommy does, however," says Mrs. Monkton tritely. + +"Well--I'll look after him." + +And so perhaps she might have done, had not a light step sounding just +behind her chair at this moment caused her to start--to look round--to +forget all but what she now sees. + +He is a very aristocratic-looking man, tall, with large limbs, and big +indeed, in every way. His eyes are light, his nose a handsome Roman, his +forehead massive, and if not grand in the distinctly intellectual way, +still a fine forehead and impressive. His hands are of a goodly size, +but exquisitely proportioned, and very white, the skin almost delicate. +He is rather like his sister, Lady Baltimore, and yet so different from +her in every way that the distinct resemblance that is surely there +torments the observer. + +"_Why!_" says Joyce. It is the most foolish exclamation and means +nothing, but she finds herself a little taken off her guard. "I didn't +know you were here!" She has half risen. + +"Neither did I--how d'ye do, Dysart?--until half an hour ago. Won't you +shake hands?" + +He holds out his own hand to her as he speaks. There is a quizzical +light in his eyes as he speaks, nothing to offend, but one can see that +he finds amusement in the fact that the girl has been so much impressed +by his unexpected appearance that she has even forgotten the small usual +act of courtesy with which we greet our friends. She had, indeed, been +dead to everything but his coming. + +"You came----" falters she, stammering a little, as she notes her +mistake. + +"By the mid-day train; I gave myself just time to snatch a sandwich from +Purdon (the butler), say a word or two to my sister, whom I found in the +garden, and then came on here to ask you to play this next game with +me." + +"Oh! I am so sorry, but I have promised it to----" + +The words are out of her mouth before she has realized the fact that +Dysart is listening--Dysart, who is lying at her feet, watching every +expression in her mobile face. She colors hotly, and looks down at him +confused, lovely. + +"I didn't mean--_that_!" says she, trying to smile indifferently, +"Only----" + +"_Don't!_" says Dysart, not loudly, not curtly, yet in so strange and +decided a way that it renders her silent. "You mustn't mind me," says +he, a second later, in his usual calm tone. "I know you and Beauclerk +are wonderful players. You can give me a game later on." + +"A capital arrangement," says Beauclerk, comfortably sinking into a +chair beside her, with all the lazy manner of a man at peace with +himself and his world, "especially as I shall have to go in presently to +write some letters for the evening post." + +He places his elbows on the arms of the chair, brings the ends of his +fingers together, and beams admiringly at Joyce over the tops of them. + +"How busy you always are," says she, slowly. + +"Well you see, this appointment, or, rather, the promise of it, keeps me +going. Tremendous lot of interest to work up. Good deal of bother, you +know, but then, beggars--eh?--can't be choosers, can they? And I should +like to go to the East; that is, if----" + +He pauses, beams again, and looks boldly into Miss Kavanagh's eyes. She +blushes hotly, and, dropping her fan, makes a little attempt to pick it +up again. Mr. Beauclerk makes another little attempt, and so manages +that his hand meets hers. There is a slight, an almost benevolent +pressure. + +Had they looked at Dysart as they both resumed their places, they could +have seen that his face is white as death. Miss Kavanagh, too, looks a +little pale, a little uncertain, but as a whole nervously happy. + +"I've been down at that old place of mine," goes on Mr. Beauclerk. +"Terrible disrepair--take thousands to put it in any sort of order. And +where's one to get them? That's the one question that has got no answer +now-a-days. Eh, Dysart?" + +"There is an answer, however," says Dysart, curtly, not looking at him. + +"Ah, well, I suppose so. But I haven't heard it yet." + +"Oh, yes, I think you have," says Dysart, quite politely, but grimly, +nevertheless. + +"Dear fellow, how? where? unless one discovers a _mine_ or an African +diamond-field?" + +"Or an heiress," says Dysart, incidentally. + +"Hah! lucky dog, that comes home to _you_," says Beauclerk, giving him a +playful pat on his shoulder, and stooping from his chair to do it, as +Dysart still sits upon the grass. + +"Not to me." + +"No? You _will_ be modest? Well, well! But talking of that old place, I +assure you, Miss Kavanagh, it worries me--it does, indeed. It sounds +like one's _duty_ to restore it, and still----" + +"There are better things than even an old place," says Dysart. + +"Ah! you haven't one you see," cries Beauclerk, with the utmost +geniality. "If you had----I really think if you had you would understand +that it requires a sacrifice to give it up to moths and rust and ruin." + +"I said there were better things than old places," says Dysart doggedly, +never looking in his direction. "And if there are, _make_ a sacrifice." + +"Pouf! Lucky fellows like you--gay soldier lads--with hearts as light as +sunbeams, can easily preach; but sacrifices are not so easily made. +There is that horrid word, Duty! And a man must sometimes _think_!" + +Joyce, as though the last word has struck some answering chord that +wounds her as it strikes, looks suddenly at him. _What_ was it Barbara +had said? "He was a man who would always _think_,"--is he thinking +now--even now--at this moment?--is he weighing matters in his mind? + +"Hah!" says Beauclerk rising and pointing to the court nearest them; +"_that_ game is over. Come on, Miss Kavanagh, let us go and get our +scalps. I say, Dysart, will you fight it out with us?" + +"No thanks." + +"Afraid?" gaily. + +"Of you--no," smiling; the smile is admirably done, and would be taken +as the genuine article anywhere. + +"Of Miss Kavanagh; then?" + +For a brief instant, and evidently against his wish, Dysart's eyes meet +those of Joyce. + +"Perhaps," says he. + +"A poor compliment to me," says Beauclerk, with his pleasant laugh that +always rings _so_ softly. "Well, never mind; I forgive you. Get a good +partner, my dear fellow, and _she_ may pull you through. You see I +depend entirely upon mine," with a glance at Joyce, full of expression. +"There's Miss Maliphant now--she'd make a good partner if you like." + +"I shouldn't," says Dysart, immovably. + +"She plays a good game, I can tell you." + +"So do you," says Dysart. + +"Oh, now, Dysart, don't be sarcastic," says Beauclerk laughing. "I +believe you are afraid of me, not of Miss Kavanagh, and that's why you +won't play. But if you were to put yourself in Miss Maliphant's hands, I +don't say but that you would have a chance of beating me." + +"I shall beat you by myself or not at all," says Dysart suddenly, and +for the first time looking fair at him. + +"A single, you mean?" + +"Yes, a single." + +"Well--we shall see," says Beauclerk. "Hah, there is Courtenay. Come +along, Miss Kavanagh, we must make up a set as best we may, as Dysart is +too lazy to face us." + +"The next game is ours, Mr. Dysart, remember," says she, glancing at +Dysart over her shoulder. There is a touch of anxiety in her eyes. + +"I _always_ remember," says he, with a rather ambiguous smile. What is +he remembering now? Joyce's mouth takes a grave curve as she follows +Beauclerk down the marble steps that lead to the tennis-ground below. + +The evening has grown very still. The light wind that all day long has +sung among the leaves has gone to sleep. Only the monotonous countings +of the tennis players can be heard. Suddenly above these, another sound +arises. It is _not_ the voice of the charmer. It is the voice of Tommy +in full cry, and mad with a desire to gain the better of the argument +now going on between him and Mr. Browne. Mr. Browne is still, however, +holding his own. He generally does. His voice grows eloquent. _All_ can +hear. + +"I shall tell my story, Tommy, in my own way, or I shall not tell it at +all!" The dignity that Mr. Browne throws into this threat is hardly to +be surpassed. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + + "Sweet food of sweetly uttered knowledge." + + +"Tisn't right," says Tommy. + +"_I_ think it is. If you kindly listen to it once again, and give your +entire attention to it, you will see how faulty is the ignorant +conclusion to which you have come." + +"I'm not one bit ignorant," says Tommy indignantly. "Nurse says I'm the +dickens an' all at my Bible, and that I know Genesis better'n _she_ +does." + +"And a very engaging book it is too," says Mr. Browne, "but it isn't +everything. What _you_ want to study, my good boy, is natural history. +You are very ignorant about that, at all events." + +"A cow _couldn't_ do it," says Tommy. + +"History says she can. Now, listen again. It is a grand old poem, and I +am grieved and distressed, Thomas, to find that you refuse to accept it +as one of the gems of truth thrown up to us out of the Dark Ages. Are +you ready? + + "'Diddle-dee, diddle-dee dumpty, + The cow ran up the plum-tree. + Half-a-crown to fetch her----'" + +"She _didn't_--'twas the _cat_," cries Tommy. + +"Not in _my_ story," says Mr. Browne, mildly but firmly. + +"A cow _couldn't_ go up a plum-tree," indignantly. + +"She could in _my_ story," persists Mr. Browne, with all the air of one +who, even to avoid unpleasantness, would not consent to go against the +dictates of his conscience. + +"She _couldn't_, I tell you," roars Tommy, now thoroughly incensed. "She +couldn't _climb_. Her horns would stick in the branches. She'd be too +_heavy_!" + +"I admit, Thomas," says Mr. Browne gravely, "that your argument sounds +as though there were some sense in it. But who am I that I should dare +to disbelieve ancient history? It is unsafe to throw down old landmarks, +to blow up the bulwarks of our noble constitution. Beware, Tommy! never +tread on the tail of Truth. It may turn and rend you." + +"Her name isn't Truth," says Tommy. "Our cow's name is Biddy, and she +never ran up a tree in her life." + +"She's young," says Mr. Browne. "She'll learn. So are _you_--_you'll_ +learn. And remember this, my boy, always respect old legends. A +disregard for them will so unsettle you that finally you will find +yourself--at the foot of the gallows in all human probability. I +suppose," sadly, "that you are even so far gone in scepticism as to +doubt the glorious truth of the moon's being made of green cheese?" + +"Father says that's nonsense," says Tommy promptly, and with an air of +triumph, "and father always knows." + +"I blush for your father," says Mr. Browne with increasing melancholy. +"Both he and you are apparently sunk in heathen darkness. Well, well; we +will let the question of the moon go by, though I suppose you know, +Tommy, that the real and original moon first rose in Cheshire." + +"No, I don't," says Tommy, with a militant glare. "There was once a +Cheshire cat; there never was a Cheshire moon." + +"I suppose you will tell me next there never was a Cheshire cheese," +says Mr. Browne severely. "Don't you see the connection? But never mind. +Talking of cats brings us back to our mutton, and from thence to our +cow. I do hope, Tommy, that for the future you will, at all events, +_try_ to believe in that faithful old animal who skipped so gaily up and +down, and hither and thither, and in and out, and all about, that +long-suffering old plum-tree." + +"She never did it," says Tommy stamping with rage and now nearly in +tears. "I've books--I've books, and 'tisn't in _any_ of them." + +"It is in _my_ book," says Mr. Browne, who ought to be ashamed of +himself. + +"I don't believe you ever _read_ a book," screams Tommy furiously. +"'Twas the cat--the cat--the cat!" + +"No; 'twas the horned cow," says Mr. Browne, in a sepulchral tone, +whereat Tommy goes for him. + +There is a wild and desperate conflict. Tooth and nail Tommy attacks, +the foe, fists and legs doing very gallant service. There would indeed +have been a serious case of assault and battery for the next Court day, +had not Providence sent Mrs. Monkton on the scene. + +"Oh, Tommy!" cries she, aghast. It is presumably Tommy, though, as he +has his head thrust between Mr. Browne's legs, and his feet in mid air, +kicking with all their might, there isn't much of him by which to prove +identification. And--"Oh, Dicky," says, she again, "how _could_ you +torment him so, when you know how easy it is to excite him. See what a +state he is in!" + +"And what about me?" demands Mr. Browne, who is weak with laughter. "Is +no sympathy to be shown me? See what a state _I'm_ in. I'm black and +blue from head to heel. I'm at the point of death!" + +"Nonsense! you are all right, but look at _him_! Oh! Tommy, what a +terrible boy you are. And you promised me if I brought you, that +you----Just look at his clothes!" + +"Look at _mine_!" says Mr. Browne. "My best hat is done for, and I'm +afraid to examine my trousers. _You_ might tell me if there is a big +rent anywhere. No? Eh? Well--if you won't I must only risk it. But I +feel tattered and torn. By-the-bye, Tommy, that's part of another old +story. I'll tell you about it some day." + +"Come with me, Tommy," says his mother, with awful severity. She holds +out her hand to her son, who is still glaring at Dicky with an undying +ferocity. "You are a naughty boy, and I'm sure your father will be angry +with you when he hears of this." + +"Oh, but he must not hear of it, must he, Tommy?" says Mr. Browne, with +decision, appealing to his late antagonist as airily, as utterly without +_arriere pensee_ as though no unpleasant passages have occurred between +them. "It's awfully good of you to desire our company, Mrs. Monkton, but +really on the whole I think----" + +"It is Tommy I want," says Mrs. Monkton still with a meaning eye. + +"Where Tommy goes, I go," says Mr. Browne, firmly. "We are wedded to +each other for the day. Nothing shall part us! Neither law nor order. +Just now we are going down to the lake to feed the swans with the +succulent bun. Will you come with us?" + +"You are very uncertain, Dicky," says Mrs. Monkton, regarding Mr. Browne +with a gravity that savors of disapproval. "How shall I be sure that if +you take him to the lake you will not let him drown himself?" + +"He is far more likely to drown me," says Mr. Browne. "Come along, +Tommy, the biscuits are in the hall, and the lake a quarter of a mile +away. The day waneth; let us haste--let us haste!" + +"Where has Dicky gone?" asks Joyce, who has just returned victorious +from her game. + +"To the lake with Tommy. I have been imploring him not to drown my son," +says Mrs. Monkton with a rather rueful smile. + +"Oh, he won't do that. Dicky is erratic, but pretty safe, for all that. +And he is fond of Tommy." + +"He teases him, however, beyond endurance." + +"That is because he _does_ like him." + +"A strange conclusion to arrive at, surely," says Dysart, looking at +her. + +"No. If he didn't like him, he wouldn't take the trouble," says she, +nonchalantly. She is evidently a little _distrait_. She looks as though +she wanted something. + +"You won your game?" says her sister, smiling at her. + +"Yes, quite a glorious victory. They had only two games out of the six; +and you know Miss Connor plays very well." + +"Where is Mr. Beauclerk?" + +"Gone into the house to write some letters and telegrams." + +"Norman, do you mean?" asks Lady Baltimore, coming up at this moment, +her basket full of flowers, and minus the little son and the heiress; +"he has just gone into the house to hear Miss Maliphant sing. You know +she sings remarkably well, and that last song of Milton Wettings suits +her so entirely. Norman is very fond of music. Have you had a game, +Joyce?" + +"Yes, and won it," says Joyce, smiling back at her, though her face has +paled a little. _Had_ she won it? + +"Well, I must take these into the house before they fade. Righton wants +them for the dinner-table," says Lady Baltimore. A little hurried note +has crept into her voice. She turns away somewhat abruptly. Lord +Baltimore and Lady Swansdown have just appeared in view, Lady Swansdown +with a huge bunch of honeysuckle in her hand, looking very picturesque. + +Baltimore, seeing his wife move towards the house, and Lady Swansdown +displaying the spoils of her walk to Dysart, darts quickly after her. + +"Let me carry that burden for you," says he, laying his hand upon the +basket of flowers. + +"No, oh! no, thank you," says Lady Baltimore, glancing up at him for +just a moment, with a little curious expression in her eyes. "I have +carried it quite a long time. I hardly feel it now. No; go back to the +lawn to Lady Swansdown--see; she is quite alone at this moment. You will +be doing me a real service if you will look after our guests." + +"As you will," says Baltimore, coldly. + +He turns back with a frown, and rejoins those he had left. + +Joyce is talking to Lady Swansdown in her prettiest way--she seems, +indeed, exceptionally gay even for her, who, as a rule, is the life of +every party. Her spirits seem to have risen to quite an abnormal height, +and her charming laugh, soft as it is sweet, rings gaily. With the +advent of Baltimore, however, Lady Swansdown's attention veers aside, +and Joyce, feeling Dysart at her elbow, turns to him. + +"We postponed _one_ game, I think," says she. "Well--shall we play the +next?" + +"I am sorry," says he, deliberately, "but I think not." His eyes are on +the ground. + +"No?" says she, coloring warmly. There is open surprise in her glance. +That he should refuse to accept an advance from her seems truly beyond +belief. + +"You must forgive me," says he, deliberately still. He had sworn to +himself that he would not play second fiddle on _this_ occasion at all +events, and he holds himself to his word. "But I feel as if I could not +play to-day. I should disgrace you. Let me get you another partner. +Captain Grant is out there, he----" + +"Thank you. I shall be able to provide myself with a partner when I want +one," interrupts she, haughtily, turning abruptly away. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + + "Nature has sometimes made a fool." + + +The fiddles are squeaking, the 'cellos are groaning, the man with the +cornet is making a most ungodly row. As yet, the band have the ballroom +all to themselves, and are certainly making the most of their time. Such +unearthly noises rarely, if ever, have been heard in it before. Why they +couldn't have tuned their instruments before coming is a question that +fills the butler's mind with wrath, but perhaps the long journey down +from Dublin would have untuned them all again, and left the players of +them disconsolate. + +The dismal sounds penetrate into the rooms right and left of the +ballroom, but fail to kill the melancholy sweetness of the dripping +fountains or the perfume of the hundred flowers that gave their sleeping +draughts to all those who chose to come and inhale them. Mild draughts +that please the senses without stealing them. + +The sounds even penetrate to the library, where Joyce is standing before +the low fire, that even in this July evening burns upon the hearth, +fastening her long gloves. She had got down before the others, and now, +finding the room empty, half wishes herself back again upstairs. But she +is so young, so full of a fresh delight in all the gaiety around her, +that she had hurried over her dressing, and, with the first dismal +sounds of the toning, had turned her steps its way. + +The library seems cold to her, bare, unfriendly. Had she expected to +meet somebody there before her--somebody who had promised to get a fresh +tie in a hurry, but who had possibly forgotten all about it in the joy +of an after-dinner cigar? + +It seems a long time since that first day when she had been startled by +his sudden reappearance at the Court. A long, _long_ time. Soon this +last visit of hers to the Court must come to an end. The Baltimores will +be going abroad in a fortnight or so--and he with them. The summer is +waning--dreary autumn coming. He will go--and---- + +A sense of dissatisfaction sits heavily on her, toning down to rather a +too cruel a degree the bright expectancy of her face. He had _said_ he +would come, and now----She drums in a heavy-hearted listless fashion on +the table with the tips of her pale gloves, and noticing, half +consciously in so doing, that they have not been sufficiently drawn up +her arm, mechanically fits them closer to the taper fingers. + +Certainly he had said he would be here. "Early you know. Before the +others can get down." A quick frown grows upon her forehead, and now +that the fingers are quiet, the little foot begins to beat a tattoo upon +the ground. Leaning against the table in a graceful attitude, with the +lamplight streaming on her pretty white frock, she gives a loose rein to +her thoughts. + +They are a little angry, a little frightened perhaps. During the past +week had he not said many things that in the end proved void of meaning. +He had haunted her in a degree, at certain hours, certain times, had +loitered through gardens, lingered in conservatories by her side, +whispered many things--looked so very many more. But---- + +There were other times, other opportunities for philandering (_she_ does +not give it this unpleasant name); how has he spent them?--A vague +thought of Miss Maliphant crosses her mind. That he laughs at the plain, +good-natured heiress to her (Joyce), had not prevented the fact that he +is very attentive to her at times. Principally such times as when Joyce +may reasonably be supposed to be elsewhere. Human reason, however, often +falls short of the mark, and there have been unsuspected moments during +the past week when Miss Kavanagh has by chance appeared upon the scene +of Mr. Beauclerk's amusements, and has found that Miss Maliphant has had +a good deal to do with them. But then--"That poor, good girl you know!" +Here, Beauclerk's joyous laugh would ring forth for Joyce's benefit. +"_Such_ a good girl; and so--er--_don't_ you know!" He was certainly +always a little vague. He didn't explain himself. Miss Kavanagh, looking +back on all he had ever said against the heiress, is obliged to confess +to herself that the great "er" had had to express everything. Contempt, +dislike, kindly disdain--he was always _kindly_--he made quite a point +of _that_. Truly, thinks Miss Kavanagh to herself after this +retrospective glance, "er" is the greatest word in the English language! + +And so it is. It declares. It conceals. It conveys a laugh. It suggests +a frown. It helps a sorrowful confession. It adorns a lame one. It is +kindly, as giving time. It is cruel, as being full of sarcasm. It----In +fact what is it it _cannot_ do? + +Joyce's feet have grown quite steady now. She has placed her hands on +the table behind her, and thus compelled to lean a little forward, +stands studying the carpet without seeing it. A sense of anger, of +_shame_ against herself is troubling her. If he should _not_ be in +earnest! If he should not--like her as she likes him! + +She rouses herself suddenly as if stung by some thought. "Like" _is_ the +word. It has gone no deeper yet. It _shall_ not. He is handsome, he has +his charm, but if she is not all the world to him, why, he shall not be +all the world to _her_. If it is money he craves, for the restoration of +that old home of his, why money let it be. But there, shall not be the +two things, the desire of one for filthy lucre, the desire of the other +for love. He shall decide. + +She has grown very pale. She has drawn herself up to her full height, +and her lips are pressed together. And now a strange thought comes to +her. If--_if_ she loved him, could she bear thus to analyze him. To take +him to pieces, to dissect him as it were? Once again that feeling of +fear oppresses her. Is she so cold, so deliberate in herself that she +suspects others of coldness. After all--if he does love her--if he only +hesitates because---- + +_A step outside the door!_ + +Instinctively she glances at one of the long mirrors that line the walls +from floor to ceiling. Involuntarily her hands rush to her head. She +gives a little touch to her gown. And now is sitting in a +lounging-chair, a little pale still perhaps, but in all other respects +the very picture of unconsciousness. It is--it must be---- + +It isn't, however. + +Mr. Browne, opening the door in his own delightfully breezy fashion that +generally plays old Harry with the hinges and blows the ornaments off +the nearest tables, advances towards her with arms outspread, and the +liveliest admiration writ upon his features, which, to say the truth, +are of goodly proportions. + +"Oh! Thou wonder of the world!" cries he in accents ecstatic. He has +been reading "Cleopatra" (that most charming of books) assiduously for +the past few days, during which time he has made himself an emphatic +nuisance to his friends: perpetual quotations, however apt or salutary, +proving as a rule a bore. + +"That will do, Dicky! We _all_ know about that," says Miss Kavanagh, who +is a little unnerved, a little impatient perhaps. Mr. Browne, however, +is above being snubbed by anyone. He continues on his way rejoicing. + +"Thou living flame!" cries he, making what he fondly supposes to be a +stage attitude. "Thou thing of beauty. Though _fleshpot of Egypt_!" + +He has at last surpassed himself! He stands silent waiting for the +plaudits of the crowd. The crowd, however, is unappreciative. + +"Nonsense!" says Miss Kavanagh shortly. "I wonder you aren't tired of +_making_ people tired. Your eternal quotations would destroy the +patience of an anchorite. And as for that last sentence of yours, you +know very well it isn't in Rider Haggard's book. He'd have been ashamed +of it." + +"_Would_ he? Bet you he wouldn't! And if it isn't in his book, all I can +say is it ought to have been. Mere oversight leaving it out. He _will_ +be sorry if I drop him a line about it. Shouldn't wonder if it produced +a new edition. But for my part, I believe it _is_ in the book. +Fleshpots, Egypt, you know; hardly possible to separate 'em now from the +public mind." + +"Well; he could separate them any way. There isn't a single word about +them in the book from start to finish." + +"No? D'ye say so?" Here Mr. Browne grows lost in thought. +"Fleshpots--pots--hot pots; hot _potting_! Hah!" He draws himself +together with all the manner of one who has gone down deep into a thing, +and comes up from it full of knowledge. "I've 'mixed those babies up,'" +says he mildly. "But still I can hardly believe that that last valuable +addition to Mr. Haggard's work is all my own." + +"Distinctly your own," with a suggestion of scorn, completely thrown +away upon the receiver of it. + +"D'ye say so! By Jove! And very neat too! Didn't think I had it in me. +After all to write a book is an easy matter; here am I, who never +thought about it, was able to form an entire sentence full of the most +exquisite wit and humor without so much as knowing I was doing it. Tell +you what, Joyce, I'll send it to the author with a card and my +compliments you know. Horrid thing to be _mean_ about anything, and if I +can help him out with a 999th edition or so, I'll be doing him a good +turn. Eh?" + +"I suppose you think you are amusing," says Miss Kavanagh, regarding him +with a critical eye. + +"My good child, I _know_ that expression," says Mr. Browne, amiably. "I +know it by heart. It means that you think I'm a fool. It's politer +now-a-days to look things than to say them, but wait awhile and you'll +_see_. Come; I'll bet you a shilling to a sovereign that he'll be +delighted with my suggestion, and put it into his next edition without +delay. No charge! Given away! The lot for a penny-three-farthings. In +fact, I make it a present to him. Noble, eh? Give it to him for +_nothing_!" + +"About its price," says Miss Kavanagh thoughtfully. + +"Think you so? You are dull to-night, Jocelyne. Flashes of wit pass you +by without warming you. Yet I tell you this idea that has flowed from my +brain is a priceless one. Never mind the door--he's not coming yet. +Attend to me." + +"_Who's_ not coming?" demands she, the more angrily in that she is +growing miserably aware of the brilliant color that is slowly but surely +bedecking her cheeks. + +"Never mind! It's a mere detail; attend to _me_ and I entreat you," says +Mr. Browne, who is now quite in his element, having made sure of the +fact that she is expecting somebody. It doesn't matter in the least who +to Mr. Browne, expectation is the thing wherein to catch the +embarrassment of Miss Kavanagh, and forthwith he sets himself gaily to +the teazing of her. + +"Attend to _what_?" says she with a little frown. + +"If you had studied your Bible, Jocelyne, with that care that I should +have expected from you, you would have remembered that forty odd years +the Israelites hankered after those very fleshpots of Egypt to which I +have been alluding. Now I appeal to you, as a sensible girl, would +anybody hanker after anything for forty odd years (_very_ odd years as +it happens), unless it was to their advantage to get it; unless, indeed, +the object pursued was _priceless_!" + +"You ask too much of _this_ sensible girl," says Miss Kavanagh, with a +carefully manufactured yawn. "Really, dear Dicky, you must forgive me if +I say I haven't gone into it as yet, and that I don't suppose I shall +ever _see_ the necessity for going into it." + +"But, my good child, you must see that those respectable people, the +Israelites, wouldn't have pursued a mere shadow for forty years." + +"That's just what I _don't_ see. There are such a number of fools +everywhere, in every age, that one couldn't tell." + +"This is evasion," says Mr. Browne sternly. "To bring you face to face +with facts must be my very unpleasant if distinct duty. Joyce, do you +dare to doubt for one moment that I speak aught but the truth? Will you +deny that Cleopatra, that old serpent of the----" + +"Ha--ha--ha," laughs Joyce ironically. "I wish she could hear you. Your +life wouldn't be worth a moment's purchase." + +"Mere slip. Serpent of _old_ Nile. Doesn't matter in the least," says +Mr. Browne airily, "because she couldn't hear me as it happens. My dear +girl, follow out the argument. Cleopatra, metaphorically speaking, was a +fleshpot, because the world hankered after her. And--you're another." + +"Really, Dicky, I must protest against your talking slang to me." + +"Where does the slang come in? You're another fleshpot. I meant to +say--or convey--because _we_ all hanker after you." + +"Do you?" with rising wrath. "May I ask what hankering means?" + +"You had better not," says Mr. Browne mysteriously. "It was one of the +rites of Ancient Kem!" + +"Now there is _one_ thing, Dicky," says Miss Kavanagh, her wrath boiling +over. "I won't be called names. I won't be called a _fleshpot_. You'll +draw the line there if you please." + +"My dear girl, why not? Those delectable pots must have been +_bric-a-brac_ of the most _recherche_ description. Of a most delicate +shape, no doubt. Of a pattern, tint, formation, general get up--not to +be hoped for in these prosaic days." + +"Nonsense," indignantly. She is fairly roused now, and Mr. Browne +regarding her with a proud eye, tells himself he is about to have his +reward at last. "You know very well that the term 'fleshpots' referred +to what was _in_ the pots, not to the pots themselves." + +"That's all you know about it. That's where your fatal ignorance comes +in, my poor Joyce," says he, with immense compassion. "Search your Bible +from cover to cover, and I defy you to find a single mention of the +contents of those valuable bits of _bric-a-brac_. Of flesh_pots_--heavy +emphasis on the _pots_--and ten fingers down at once if you please--we +read continually as being hankered after by the Israelites, who then, as +now, were evidently avid collectors." + +"You've been having champagne, Dicky," says Miss Kavanagh, regarding him +with a judicial eye. + +"So have you. But I can't see what that excellent beverage has got to do +with the ancient Jews. Keep to the point. Did you ever hear that they +expressed a longing for the _flesh_ of Egypt? No. So far so good. The +pots themselves were the objects of their admiration. During that +remarkable run of theirs through the howling wilderness they, one and +all, to a _man_, betrayed the true aesthetic tendency. They raved +incessantly for the girl--I beg pardon--the _land_ they had left behind +them. The land that contained those priceless jars." + +"I wonder how you can be so silly," says Miss Kavanagh disdainfully. +Will he _never_ go away! If he stays, and if--the other--comes---- + +"Silly! my good child. _How_ silly! Why everything goes to prove the +probability of my statement. The taste for articles of _vertu_--for +antiquities--for fossils of all descriptions that characterized them +then, has lived to the present day. _Then_ they worried after old china, +and who shall deny that now they have an overwhelming affection for old +clo'." + +"Well; your folly doesn't concern me," says Miss Kavanagh, gathering up +her skirts with an evident intention of shaking off the dust of his +presence from her feet and quitting him. + +"I am sorry that you should consider it folly," says Mr. Browne +sorrowfully. "I should not have said so much about it perhaps but that I +wanted to prove to you that in calling _you_ a fleshpot I only meant +to----" + +"I won't be called that," interrupts Miss Kavanagh angrily. "It's +_horrid_! It makes me feel quite _fat_! Now, once for all, Dicky, I +forbid it. I won't have it." + +"I don't see how you are to get out of it," says Mr. Browne, shaking his +head and hands in wild deprecation. "Fleshpots were desirable +articles--you're another--ergo--you're a fleshpot. See the argument?" + +"No I don't," indignantly. "I see only you--and--I wish I _didn't_." + +"Very rude; _very_!" says Mr. Browne, regretfully. "Yet I entreat thee +not to leave me without one other word. Follow up the argument--_do_. +Give me an answer to it." + +"Not one," walking to the door. + +"That's because it is unanswerable," says Mr. Browne complacently. "You +are beaten, you----" + +There is a sound outside the door; Joyce with her hand on the handle of +it, steps back and looks round nervously at Dicky. A quick color has +dyed her cheeks; instinctively she moves a little to one side and gives +a rapid glance into a long mirror. + +"I don't think really he could find a fault," says Mr. Browne +mischievously. "I should think there will be a good deal of hankering +going on to-night." + +Miss Kavanagh has only just barely time to wither him, when Beauclerk +comes hurriedly in. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + + "Thinkest thou there are no serpents in the world + But those who slide along the grassy sod, + And sting the luckless foot that presses them? + There are, who in the path of social life + Do bask their spotted skins in fortune's son, + And sting the soul." + + +"Oh, there you are," cries he jovially. "Been looking for you +everywhere. The music has begun; first dance just forming. Gay and +lively quadrille, you know--country ball wouldn't know itself without a +beginning like that. Come; come on." + +Nothing can exceed his _bonhomie_. He tucks her hand in the most +delightfully genial, appropriative fashion under his arm, and with a +beaming nod to Mr. Browne (he never forgets to be civil to anybody) +hurries Joyce out of the room, leaving the astute Dicky gazing after him +with mingled feelings in his eye. + +"Deuce and all of a smart chap," says Mr. Browne to himself slowly. "But +he'll fall through some day for all that, I shouldn't wonder." + +Meantime Mr. Beauclerk is still carrying on a charming recitative. + +"_Such a bore!_" he is saying, with heartfelt disgust in his tone. It is +really wonderful how he can _always_ do it. There is never a moment when +he flags. He is for ever up to time as it were, and equal to the +occasion. "I'm afraid you rather misunderstood me just now, when I said +I'd been looking for you--but the fact is, Browne's such an ass, if he +knew we had made an appointment to meet in the library, he'd have brayed +the whole affair to any and every one." + +"Was there an appointment?" says Miss Kavanagh, who is feeling a little +unsettled--a little angry with herself perhaps. + +"No--no," with a delightful acceptation of her rebuke. "You are right as +ever. I was wrong. But then, you see, it gave me a sort of joy to +believe that our light allusion to a possible happy half-hour before the +turmoil of the dance began might mean something _more_--something----Ah! +well never mind! Men are vain creatures; and after all it would have +been a happy half-hour to me _only_!" + +"Would it?" says she with a curious glance at him. + +"_You_ know that!" says he, with the full and earnest glance he can turn +on at a second's notice without the slightest injury to heart or mind. + +"I don't indeed." + +"Oh well, you haven't time to think about it perhaps. I found you very +fully occupied when--at last--I was able to get to the library. Browne +we all know is a very--er--lively companion--if rather wanting in the +higher virtues." + +"'_At last_,'" says she quoting his words. She turns suddenly and looks +at him, a world of inquiry in her dark eyes. "I hate pretence," says she +curtly, throwing up her young head with a haughty movement. "You said +you would be in the library at such an hour, and though I did not +_promise_ to meet you there, still, as I happened to be dressed earlier +than I believed possible, I came down, and you----? Where were you?" + +There is a touch of imperiousness in that last question that augurs +badly for a false wooer; but the imperiousness suits her. With her +pretty chin uptilted, and that little scornful curve upon her lips, and +her lovely eyes ablaze, she looks indeed "a thing of beauty." Beauclerk +regards her with distinct approbation. After all--had she even _half_ +the money that the heiress possesses, _what_ a wife she would make. And +it isn't decided yet one way or the other; sometimes Fate is kind. The +day may come when this delectable creature may fall to his portion. + +"I can see you are thinking hard things of me," says he reproachfully; +"but you little know how I have been passing the time I had so been +looking forward to. Time to be passed with _you_. That old Lady +Blake--she _would_ keep me maundering to her about that son of hers in +the Mauritius; _you_ know he and I were at St. Petersburg together. I +couldn't get away. You blame me--but what was I to do? An old +woman--unhappy----" + +"Oh no. You were _right_," says Joyce quickly. How good he is after all, +and how unjustly she had been thinking of him. So kind, so careful of +the feelings of a tiresome old woman. How few men are like him. How few +would so far sacrifice themselves. + +"Ah, you see it like that!" says, Mr. Beauclerk, not triumphantly, but +so modestly that the girl's heart goes out to him even more. How +_generous_ he is! Not a word of rebuke to her for her vile suspicion of +him. + +"Why you put me into good spirits again," says he laughing gaily. "We +must make haste, I fear, if we would save the first dance." + +"Oh yes--come," says Joyce going quickly forward. Evidently he is going +to ask her for the first dance! That _shows_ that he prefers her to---- + +"I'm so glad you have been able to sympathize with me about my last +disappointment," says Beauclerk. "If you hadn't--if you had had even one +hard thought of me, I don't know _how_ I should have been able to endure +what still lies before me. I am almost raging with anger, but when one's +sister is in question----" + +"You mean?" say Joyce a little faintly. + +"Oh, you haven't heard. I am so annoyed myself about it, that I fancied +everybody knew. You know I hoped that you would have been good enough to +give me the first dance, but when Isabel asked me to dance it with that +dreadful daughter of Lady Dunscombe's, what _could_ I do, now I ask +you?" appealing to her with hands and eyes. "What _could_ I do?" + +"Obey, of course," says she with an effort, but a successful one. "You +must hurry too, if you want to secure Miss Dunscombe." + +"Ah; what a misfortune it is to be the brother of one's hostess," says +he, with a sort of comic despair. His eyes are centred on her face, +reading her carefully, and with much secret satisfaction;--rapid as that +slight change upon her face had been, he had seen and noted it. + +"It couldn't possibly be a misfortune to be Lady Baltimore's brother," +says she smiling. "On the contrary, you are to be congratulated." + +"Not just at this moment surely!" + +"At this or any other moment. Ah!"--as they enter the ballroom. "The +room is already fuller than I thought. Engaged, Mr. Blake?" to Lord +Blake's eldest son. "No, not for this. Yes, with pleasure." + +She makes a little charming inclination of her head to Beauclerk, and +laying her hand on Mr. Blake's arm, moves away with him to where a set +is already forming at the end of the room. It is without enthusiasm she +takes her place with Dysart and one of the O'Donovan girls as +_vis-a-vis_, and prepares to march, retreat, twist and turn with the +best of them. + +"A dull old game," she is irreverently terming the quadrilles--that +massing together of inelegant movements so dear to the bucolic +mind--that saving clause for the old maids and the wall-flowers; when a +little change of position shows her the double quartette on the right +hand side of the magnificent ballroom. + +She had been half through an unimportant remark to Mr. Blake, but she +stops short now and forgets to finish it. Her color comes and goes. The +sides are now prancing through _their_ performance, and she and her +partner are standing still. Perhaps--_perhaps_ she was mistaken; with +all these swaying idiots on every side of her she might well have mixed +up one man's partner with another; and Miss Dunscombe (she had caught a +glimpse of her awhile ago) was surely in that set on the right hand +side. + +She stoops forward, regardless--_oblivious_--of her partner's surprised +glance, who has just been making a very witty remark, and being a rather +smart young man, accustomed to be listened to, is rather taken aback by +her open indifference. + +A little more forward she leans; yes, _now_--the couples part--for one +moment the coast lies clear. She can see distinctly. Miss Dunscombe is +indeed dancing in that set but _not_ as Mr. Beauclerk's partner. Miss +Maliphant has secured that enviable _role_. + +Even as Joyce gazes, Beauclerk, turning his head, meets her earnest +regard. He returns it with a beaming smile. Miss Maliphant, whose duty +it is at this instant to advance and retire and receive without the +support of a chaperone the attacks of the bold, bad man opposite, having +moved out of Beauclerk's sight, the latter, with an expressive glance +directed at Joyce, lifts his shoulders forlornly, and gives a +serio-comic shrug of his shoulders. All to show now bored a being he is +at finding himself thus the partner of the ugly heiress! It is all done +in a second. An inimitable bit of acting--but unpleasant. + +Joyce draws herself up. Her eyes fall away from his; unless the distance +is too far, the touch of disdain that lies in them should have +disconcerted even Mr. Beauclerk. Perhaps it has! + +"Our turn?" says she, giving her partner a sudden beautiful glance full +of fire--of life--of something that he fails to understand, but does +_not_ fail to consider charming. She smiles; she grows radiant. She is a +different being from a moment ago. How could he--Blake--have thought her +stupid. How she takes up every word--and throws new meaning into it--and +_what_ a laugh she has! Low-sweet--merry--music to its core! + +Beauclerk in his turn finds a loop-hole through which to look at her, +and is conscious of a faint feeling of chagrin. She oughtn't to have +taken it like that. To be a little pensive--a little sad--that would +have shewn a right spirit. Well--the night is long. He can play his game +here and there. There is plenty of time in which to regain lost ground +with one--to gain fresh ground with the other. Joyce will forgive +him--when she hears _his_ version of it. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + + "If thou canst see not, hast thou ears to hear?--Or + is thy soul too as a leaf that dies?" + + +"Well, after all, life has its compensations," says Mr. Beauclerk, +sinking upon the satin lounge beside Miss Kavanagh, and giving way to a +rapturous sigh. He is looking very big and very handsome. His +close-cropped eminently aristocratic head is thrown a little back, to +give full play to the ecstatic smile he is directing at Joyce. + +She bears it wonderfully. She receives it indeed with all the amiable +imbecility of a person who doesn't understand what on earth you are +talking about. Whether this reception of his little opening speech--so +carefully prepared--puzzles or nettles Mr. Beauclerk there is no way of +learning. He makes no sign. + +"I thought I should never be able to get a dance with you; you +see,"--smiling--"when one is the belle of the evening, one grows +difficult. But you _might_ have kept a fifth or sixth for a poor +outsider like me. An old friend too." + +"Old friends don't count at a dance, I'm afraid," says she, with a smile +as genial as his own; "though for the matter of that you could have had +the first; _no one_--hard as it may be to make you believe it--had asked +the belle of the evening for that." + +This is not quite true. Many had asked for it, Dysart amongst others; +but she had kept it open for--the one who didn't want it. However, fibs +of this sort one blinks at where pretty girls are the criminals. Her +tone is delicately sarcastic. She would willingly suppress the sarcasm +altogether as beneath her, but she is very angry; and when a woman is +angry there is generally somebody to pay. + +"Oh! that _first_!" says he, with a gesture of impatience. "I shan't +forgive Isabel in a hurry about that; she ruined my evening--up to +_this_. However," throwing off as it were unpleasant memories by a shake +of his head, "don't let me spoil my one good time by dwelling upon a bad +one. Here I am now, at all events; here is comfort, here is peace. The +hour I have been longing for is mine at last." + +"It might have been yours considerably earlier," says Miss Kavanagh with +very noteworthy deliberation, unmoved by his lover-like glances, which +after all have more truth in them than most of his declarations. She +sits playing with her fan, and with a face expressionless as any sphinx. + +"Oh! my _dear_ girl!" says Mr. Beauclerk reproachfully, "how can you say +that! You know in one's sister's house one must--eh? And she laid +positive commands on me----" + +"To dance the first dance with Miss Maliphant?" + +"Now, that's not like you," says Mr. Beauclerk very gently. "It's not +just. When I found Miss Dunscombe engaged for that ridiculous quadrille, +what could I do? _You_ were engaged to Blake. I was looking aimlessly +round me, cursing my luck in that I had not thrown up even my sister's +wishes and secured before it was too late the only girl in the room I +cared to dance with when Isabel came again. 'Not dancing,' says she; +'and there's Miss Maliphant over there, partnerless!'" + +He tells all this with as genuine an air as if it was not false from +start to finish. + +"You _know_ Isabel," says he, laughing airily; "she takes the oddest +fancies at times. Miss Maliphant is her latest craze. Though what she +can see in her----A _nice_ girl. Thoroughly nice--essentially _real_--a +little _too_ real perhaps," with a laugh so irresistible that even Miss +Kavanagh against her will is compelled to join in it. + +"Honest all through, I admit; but as a _waltzer_! Well, well, we +shouldn't be too severe--but really, there you know, she leaves +_everything_ to be desired. And I've been victimized not once, but +twice--_three_ times." + +"It is nothing remarkable," says Miss Kavanagh, coldly. "Many very +charming girls do not dance well. It is a gift." + +"A very precious one. When a charming girl can't waltz, she ought to +learn how to sit down charmingly, and not oppress innocent people. As +for Miss Maliphant!" throwing out his large handsome hands expressively, +"_she_ certainly should not dance. Her complexion doesn't stand it. Did +you notice her?" + +"No," icily. + +"Ah, you wouldn't, you know. I could see how thoroughly well occupied +_you_ were! Not a thought for even an old friend; and besides you're a +girl in ten thousand. Nothing petty or small about you. Now, another +woman would not have failed to notice the fatal tendency towards +rubicundity that marks Miss Maliphant's nose whenever----" + +"I do so dislike discussing people behind their backs," says Miss +Kavanagh, slowly. "I always think it is so _unfair_. They can't defend +themselves. It is like maligning the dead." + +"Miss Maliphant isn't dead at all events. She is dreadfully alive," says +Mr. Beauclerk, totally unabashed. He laughs gaily. To refuse to be +lectured was a rule he had laid down for his own guidance early in life. +Those people who will not see when they ought to be offended have +generally the best of the game. + +"Would you have her dead?" asks Joyce, with calm interrogation. + +"I don't remember saying I would have her _any_ way," says he, still +evidently clinging to the frivolous mood. "And at all events I wouldn't +have her _dancing_. It disagrees with her nose. It makes her suggestive; +it betrays one into the making of bad parodies. One I made to-night when +looking at her; I couldn't resist it. For once in her life you see she +was irresistible. Hear it. 'Oh! my love's got a red, red nose!' Ha! ha! +Not half bad, eh? It kept repeating itself in my brain all the time I +was looking at her." + +"I thought you liked her," says Joyce, lifting her large dark eyes for +the first time to his. Beautiful eyes! a little shocked now--a little +cold--almost entreating. Surely, surely, he will not destroy her ideal +of him. + +"You think I am censorious," says he readily, "cruel almost; but to +_you_"--with delicate flattery--"surely I may speak to _you_ as I would +speak to no other. May I not?" He leans a little forward, and compelling +the girl's reluctant gaze, goes on speaking. It chafes him that she +should put him on his defence; but some _one_ divine instinct within him +warns him not to break with her entirely. "Still," says he, in a low +tone, always with his eyes on hers, "I see that you condemn me." + +"Condemn you! No! Why should _I_ be your judge?" + +"You _are_, however--and my judge and jury too. I cannot bear to think +that you should despise me. And all because of that wretched girl." + +"I don't despise you," says the girl, quickly. "If you were really +despicable I should not like you as well as I do; I am only sorry that +you should say little unkind things of a girl like Miss Maliphant, who, +if not beautiful, is surely to be regarded in a very kindly light." + +"Do you know," says Mr. Beauclerk, gently, "I think you are the one +sweet character in the world." There is a great amount of belief in his +tone, perhaps half of it is honest. "I never met any one like you. Women +as a rule are willing to tear each other to pieces but you--you condone +all faults; that is why I----" + +A pause. He leans forward. His eyes are eloquent; his tongue alone +refrains from finishing the declaration that he had begun. To the girl +beside him, however, ignorant of subterfuge, unknowing of the wiles that +run in and out of society like a thread, his words sound sweet--the +sweeter for the very hesitation that accompanies them. + +"I am not so perfect as you think me," says she, rather sadly--her voice +a little faint. + +"That is true," says he quickly, as though compelled against his will to +find fault with her. "A while ago you were angry with me because I was +driven to waste my time with people uncongenial to me. _That_ was unfair +if you like." He throws her own accusation back at her in the gentlest +fashion. "I danced with this, that, and the other person it is true, but +do you not know where my heart was all this time?" + +He pauses for a moment, just long enough to make more real his question, +but hardly long enough to let her reply to it. To bring matters to a +climax, would not suit him at all. + +"Yes, you _do_ know," says he, seeing her about to speak. "And _yet_ you +misjudge me. If--if I were to tell you that I would rather be with you +than with any other woman in the world, you would believe me, wouldn't +you?" + +He stoops over her, and taking her hand presses it fondly, lingeringly. +"Answer me." + +"Yes," says Joyce in a low tone. It has not occurred to her that his +words are a question rather than an asseveration. That he loves her, +seems to her certain. A soft glow illumines her cheeks; her eyes sink +beneath his; the idea that she is happy, or at all events _ought_ to be +happy, fills her with a curious wonderment. Do people always feel so +strange, so surprised, so _unsure_, when love comes to them? + +"Yet you _did_ doubt," says Beauclerk, giving her hand a last pressure, +and now nestling back amongst his cushions with all the air of a man who +has fought and conquered and has been given his reward. "Well, don't let +us throw an unpleasant memory into this happy hour. As I have said," +taking up her fan and idly, if gracefully, waving it to and fro, "after +all the turmoil of the fight it is sweet to find oneself at last in the +haven where one would be." + +He is smiling at Joyce--the gayest, the most candid smile in the world. +Smiles become him. He is looking really handsome and _happy_ at finding +himself thus alone with her. Sincerity declares itself in every line of +his face. Perhaps he _is_ as sincere as he has ever yet been in his +life. The one thing that he unquestionably does regard with interest +beyond his own poor precious bones, is the exquisite bit of nature's +workmanship now sitting beside him. + +At this present moment, in spite of his flattering words, his smiles and +telling glances, she is still a little cold, a little uncertain, a phase +of manner that renders her indescribably charming to the one watching +her. + +Beauclerk indeed is enjoying himself immensely. To a man of his +temperament to be able to play upon a nature as fine, as honest, as pure +as Joyce's is to know a keen delight. That the girl is dissatisfied, +vaguely, nervously dissatisfied, he can read as easily as though the +workings of her soul lay before him in broad type, and to assuage those +half-defined misgivings of hers is a task that suits him. He attacks it +_con amore_. + +"How silent you are," says he, very gently, when he has let quite a long +pause occur. + +"I am tired, I think." + +"Of me?" + +"No." + +"Of what then?" He has found that as a rule there is nothing a woman +likes better than to be asked to define her own feelings, Joyce, +however, disappoints him. + +"I don't know. Sitting up so late I suppose." + +"Look here!" says he, in a voice so full of earnest emotion that Joyce +involuntarily stares at him; "_I_ know what is the matter with you. You +are fighting against your better nature. You are _trying_ to be +ungenerous. You are trying to believe what you know is not true. Tell +me--_honestly_ mind--are you not forcing yourself to regard me as a +monster of insincerity?" + +"You are wrong," says she, slowly. "I am forcing myself, on the +contrary, to believe you a very giant of sincerity." + +"And you find that difficult?" + +"Yes." + +An intense feeling of admiration for her sways Beauclerk. How new a +thing to find a girl so beautiful, with so much intelligence. Surely +instinct is the great lever that moves humanity. Why has not this girl +the thousands that render Miss Maliphant so very desirable? What a +_betise_ on the part of Mother Nature. Alas! it would be too much to +expect from that niggardly Dame. Beauty, intelligence, wealth! All +rolled into one personality. Impossible! + +"You are candid,'" says he, his tone sorrowful. + +"That is what one should always be," says she in turn. + +"You are _too_ stern a judge. How shall I convince you," exclaims +he--"of _what_ he leaves open? If I were to swear----" + +"_Do_ not," says she quickly. + +"Well, I won't. But Joyce!" He pauses, purposely. It is the first time +he has ever called her by her Christian name, and a little soft color +springs into the girl's cheeks as she hears him. "You know," says he, +"you _do_ know?" + +It is a question; but _again_ what? _What_ does she know? He had +accredited her with remarkable intelligence a moment ago, but as a fact +the girl's knowledge of life is but a poor thing in comparison with that +of the man of the world. She belies her intelligence on the spot. + +"Yes, I think I do," says she shyly. In fact she is longing to believe, +to be sure of this thing, that to her is so plain that she has omitted +to notice that he has never put it into words. + +"You will trust in me?" says he. + +"Yes, I trust you," says she simply. + +Her pretty gloved hand is lying on her lap. Raising it, he presses it +passionately to his lips. Joyce, with a little nervous movement, +withdraws it quickly. The color dies from her lips. Even at this supreme +moment does Doubt hold her in thrall! + +Her face is marvelously bright and happy, however, as she rises +precipitately to her feet, much to Beauclerk's relief. It has gone quite +far enough he tells himself--five minutes more and he would have found +himself in a rather embarrassing position. Really these pretty girls are +very dangerous. + +"Come, we must go back to the ballroom," says she gaily. "We have been +here an unconscionable time. I am afraid my partner for this dance has +been looking for me, and will scarcely forgive my treating him so badly. +If I had only told him I _wouldn't_ dance with him he might have got +another partner and enjoyed himself." + +"Better to have loved and lost," quotes Beauclerk in his airiest manner. +It is _so_ airy that it strikes Joyce unpleasantly. Surely after +all--after----She pulls herself together angrily. Is she _always_ to +find fault with him? Must she have his whole nature altered to suit her +taste? + +"Ah, there is Dicky Browne," says she, glancing from where she is now +standing at the door of the conservatory to where Mr. Browne may be seen +leaning against a curtain with his lips curved in a truly benevolent +smile. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + + "Now the nights are all past over + Of our dreaming, dreams that hover + In a mist of fair false things: + Night's afloat on wide wan wings." + + +"Why, so it is! Our _own_ Dicky, in the flesh and an admirable temper +apparently," says Mr. Beauclerk. "Shall we come and interview him?" + +They move forward and presently find themselves at Mr. Browne's elbow; +he is, however, so far lost in his kindly ridicule of the poor silly +revolving atoms before him, that it is not until Miss Kavanagh gives his +arm a highly suggestive pinch that he learns that she is beside him. + +"_Wough!_" says he, shouting out this unclassic if highly expressive +word without the slightest regard for decency. "_What_ fingers you've +got! I really think you might reserve that kind of thing for Mr. Dysart. +_He'd_ like it." + +This is a most infelicitous speech, and Miss Kavanagh might have +resented it, but for the strange fact that Beauclerk, on hearing it, +laughs heartily. Well, if _he_ doesn't mind, it can't matter, but how +silly Dicky can be! Mr. Beauclerk continues to laugh with much +enjoyment. + +"Try him!" says he to Miss Kavanagh, with the liveliest encouragement in +his tone. If it occurs to her that, perhaps, lovers, as a rule, do not +advise their sweethearts to play fast and loose with other men, she +refuses to give heed to the warning. He is not like other men. He is not +basely jealous. He knows her. He trusts her. He had hinted to her but +just now, so very, very kindly that _she_ was suspicious, that she must +try to conquer that fault--if it is hers. And it is. There can be no +doubt of that. She had even distrusted _him_! + +"Is that your advice?" asks Mr. Browne, regarding him with a rather +piercing eye. "Capital, _under the circumstances_, but rather, +eh?----Has it ever occurred to you that Dysart is capable of a good deal +of feeling?" + +"So few things occur to me, I'm ashamed to say," says Beauclerk, +genially. "I take the present moment. It is all-sufficing, so far as I'm +concerned. Well; and so you tell me Dysart has feeling?" + +"Yes; I shouldn't advise Miss Kavanagh to play pranks with him," says +Dicky, with a pretentiously rueful glance at the arm she has just +pinched so very delicately. + +"You're a poor soldier!" says she, with a little scornful uptilting of +her chin. "You wrong Mr. Dysart if you think he would feel so slight an +injury. What! A mere touch from _me_!" + +"Your touch is deadlier than you know, perhaps," says Mr. Browne, +lightly. + +"What a slander!" says Miss Kavanagh, who, in spite of herself, is +growing a little conscious. + +"Yes; isn't it?" says Beauclerk, to whom she has appealed. "As for +me----" He breaks off suddenly and fastens his gaze severely on the +other side of the room. "By Jove! I had forgotten! There is my partner +for this dance looking daggers at me. Dear Miss Kavanagh, you will +excuse me, won't you? Shall I take you to your chaperone, or will you +let Browne have the remainder of this waltz?" + +"I'll look after Miss Kavanagh, if she will allow me," says Dicky, +rather drily. "Will you?" with a quizzical glance at Joyce. + +She makes a little affirmative sign to him, returns Beauclerk's parting +bow, and, still with a heart as light as a feather, stands by Mr. +Browne's side, watching in silence the form of Beauclerk as it moves +here and there amongst the crowd. What a handsome man he is! How +distinguished! How tall! How big! Every other man looks dwarfed beside +him. Presently he disappears into an anteroom, and she turns to find Mr. +Browne, for a wonder, as silent as herself, and evidently lost in +thought. + +"What are you thinking of?" asks she. + +"Of you!" + +"Nonsense! What were you doing just then when I spoke to you?" + +"I have told you." + +"No, you haven't. What _were_ you doing?" + +"_Hankering!_" says Mr. Browne, heavily. + +"_Dicky!_" says she indignantly. + +"Well; what? Do you suppose a fellow gets rid of a disease of that sort +all in a minute? It generally lasts a good month, I can tell you. But +come; that 'Beautiful Star' of yours, that 'shines in your heaven so +bright,' has given you into my charge. What can I do for you?" + +"Deliver me from the wrath of that man over there," says Miss Kavanagh, +indicating Mr. Blake, who, with a thunderous brow, is making his way +towards her. "The last was his. I forgot all about it. Take me away, +Dicky; somewhere, anywhere; I know he's got a horrid temper, and he is +going to say uncivil things. Where" (here she meanly tries to get behind +Mr. Browne) "_shall_ we go." + +"Right through this door," says Mr. Browne, who, as a rule, is equal to +all emergencies. He pushes her gently towards the conservatory she has +just quitted, that has steps leading from it to the illuminated gardens +below, and just barely gets her safely ensconced behind a respectable +barricade of greenery before Mr. Blake arrives on the spot they have +just vacated. + +They have indeed the satisfaction of seeing him look vaguely round, +murmur a gentle anathema or two, and then resign himself to the +inevitable. + +"He's gone!" says Miss Kavanagh, with a sigh of relief. + +"To perdition!" says Mr. Browne in an awesome tone. + +"I really wish you wouldn't, Dicky," says Joyce. + +"Why not? You seem to think men's hearts are made of adamant! A moment +ago you sneered at _mine_, and now----By Jove! Here's Baltimore--and +alone, for a wonder." + +"Well! _His_ heart is adamant!" says she softly. + +"Or hers--which?" + +"Of course--manlike--you condemn our sex. That's why I'm glad I'm not a +man." + +"Why? Because, if you were, you would condemn your present sex?" + +"_Certainly_ not! Because I wouldn't be of an unfair, mean, ungenerous +disposition for the world." + +"Good old Jo!" says Mr. Browne, giving her a tender pat upon the back. + +By this time Baltimore has reached them. + +"Have you seen Lady Baltimore anywhere?" asks he. + +"Not quite lately," says Dicky; "last tune I saw her she was dancing +with Farnham." + +"Oh--after that she went to the library," says Joyce quickly. "I fancy +she may be there still, because she looked a little tired." + +"Well, she had been dancing a good deal," says Dicky. + +"Thanks. I dare say I'll find her," says Baltimore, with an air of +indifference, hurrying on. + +"I hope he will," says Joyce, looking after him. + +"I hope so too--and in a favorable temper." + +"You're a cynic, Dicky, under all that airy manner of yours," says Miss +Kavanagh severely. "Come out to the gardens, the air may cool your +brain, and reduce you to milder judgments." + +"Of Lady Baltimore?" + +"Yes." + +"Truly I do seem to be sitting in judgment on her and her family." + +"Her _family_! What has Bertie done?" + +"Oh, there is more family than Bertie," says Mr. Browne. "She has a +brother, hasn't she?" + + * * * * * + +Meantime Lord Baltimore, taking Joyce's hint, makes his way to the +library, to find his wife there lying back in a huge arm-chair. She is +looking a little pale. A little _ennuyee_; it is plain that she has +sought this room--one too public to be in much request--with a view to +getting away for a little while from the noise and heat of the ballroom. + +"Not dancing?" says her husband, standing well away from her. She had +sprung into a sitting posture the moment she saw him, an action that has +angered Baltimore. His tone is uncivil; his remark, it must be +confessed, superfluous. _Why_ does she persist in treating him as a +stranger? Surely, on whatever bad terms they may be, she need not feel +it necessary to make herself uncomfortable on his appearance. She has +evidently been enjoying that stolen lounge, and _now_---- + +The lamplight is streaming full upon her face. A faint color has crept +into it. The white velvet gown she is wearing is hardly whiter than her +neck and arms, and her eyes are as bright as her diamonds; yet there is +no feature in her face that could be called strictly handsome. This, +Baltimore tells himself, staring at her as he is, in a sort of insolent +defiance of the cold glance she has directed at him. No; there is no +beauty about that face; distinctly bred, calm and pure, it might +possibly be called charming by those who liked her, but nothing more. +She is not half so handsome as--as--any amount of other women he knows, +and yet---- + +It increases his anger towards her tenfold to know that in her secret +soul she has the one face that to _him_ is beautiful, and ever _will_ be +beautiful. + +"You see," says she gently, and with an expressive gesture, "I longed +for a moment's pause, so I came here. Do they want me?" She rises from +her seat, looking very tall and graceful. If her face is not strictly +lovely, there is, at all events, no lack of loveliness in her form. + +"I can't answer for 'they,'" says Baltimore, "but"----he stops dead +short here. If he _had_ been going to say anything, the desire to carry +out his intention dies upon the spot. "No, I am not aware that 'they' or +anybody wants you particularly at this moment. Pray sit down again." + +"I have had quite a long rest already." + +"You look tired, however. _Are_ you?" + +"Not in the least." + +"Give me this dance," then says he, half mockingly, yet with a terrible +earnestness in his voice. + +"Give it to _you_! Thank you. No." + +"Fearful of contamination?" with a smiling sneer. + +"Pray spare me your jibes," says she very coldly, her face whitening. + +"Pray spare me your presence, you should rather say. Let us have the +truth at all hazards. A saint like you should be careful." + +To this she makes him no answer. + +"What!" cries he, sardonically; "and will you miss this splendid +opportunity of giving a sop to your Cerberus? Of conciliating your +bugbear? your _bete noire_? your _fear of gossip_?" + +"I fear nothing"--icily. + +"You do, however. Forgive the contradiction," with a sarcastic +inclination of the head. "But for this fear of yours you would have cast +me off long ago, and bade me go to the devil as soon as--nay, the sooner +the better. And indeed if it were not for the child----By the bye, do +you forget I have a hold on _him_--a stronger than yours?" + +"I _forget_ nothing either," returns she as icily as before; but now a +tremor, barely perceptible, but terrible in its intensity, shakes her +voice. + +"Hah! You need not tell me _that_. You are relentless as--well, 'Fate' +comes in handy," with a reckless laugh. "Let us be conventional by all +means, and it is a good old simile, well worn! You decline my proposal +then? It is a sensible one, and should suit you. Dance with me to-night, +when all the County is present, and Mother Grundy goes to bed with a +sore heart. Scandal lies slain. All will cry aloud: '_There they go!_ +Fast friends in spite of all the lies we have heard about them.' Is it +possible you can deliberately forego so great a chance of puzzling our +neighbors?" + +"I can." + +"Why, where is your sense of humor? One trembles for it! To be able to +deceive them all so deliriously; to send them home believing us on good +terms, a veritable loving couple"--he breaks into a curious laugh. + +"This is too much," says she, her face now like death. "You would insult +me! Believe me, that not to spare myself all the gossip with which the +whole world could hurt me would I endure your arm around my waist!" + +His short-lived, most unmirthful mirth has died from him, he has laid a +hand upon the table near him to steady himself. + +"You are candid, on my soul," says he slowly. + +She moves quickly towards the door, her velvet skirt sweeping over his +feet as she goes by--the perfume of the violets lying in her bosom +reaches him. + +Hardly knowing his own meaning, he puts out his hand and catches her by +her naked arm, just where the long glove ceases above the elbow. + +"Isabel, give me this dance," says he a little wildly. + +"_No!_" + +She shakes herself free of him. A moment her eyes blaze into his. "No!" +she says again, trembling from head to foot. Another moment, and the +door has closed behind her. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + + "The old, old pain of earth." + + +It is now close upon midnight--that midnight of the warmer months when +day sets its light finger on the fringes of it. There is a sighing +through the woods, a murmur from the everlasting sea, and though Diana +still rides high in heaven with her handmaiden Venus by her side, yet in +a little while her glory will be departed, and her one rival, the sun, +will push her from her throne. + +The gleaming lamps among the trees-are scarcely so bright as they were +an hour ago, the faint sighing of the wind that heralds the morning is +shaking them to and fro. A silly bird has waked, and is chirping in a +foolish fashion among the rhododendrons, where, in a secluded path, +Joyce and Dicky Browne are wandering somewhat aimlessly. Before them +lies a turn in the path that leads presumably into the dark wood, +darkest of all at this hour, and where presumably, too, no one has +ventured, though one should never presume about hidden corners. + +"I can't think what you see in him," says Mr. Browne, after a big pause. +"I'd say nothing if his face wasn't so fat, but if I were you, that +would condemn him in my eyes." + +"I can't see that his face is fatter than yours," says Miss Kavanagh, +with what she fondly believes perfect indifference. + +"Neither is it," says Mr. Browne meekly, "but my dear girl, there lies +the gist of my argument. You have condemned me. All my devotion has been +scouted by you. I don't pretend to be the wreck still that once by your +cruelty you made me, but----" + +"Oh, that will do," says Joyce, unfeelingly. "As for Mr. Beauclerk, I +don't know why you should imagine I see anything in him." + +"Well, I confess I can't quite understand it myself. He couldn't hold a +candle to--er--well, several other fellows I could name, myself not +included, Miss Kavanagh, so that supercilious smile is thrown away. He +may be good to look at, there is certainly plenty of him on which to +feast the eye, but to fall in love with----" + +"What do you mean, Dicky? What are you speaking about--do you know? +You," with a deadly desire to insult him, "must be in love yourself +to--to maunder as you are doing?" + +"I'm not," says Mr. Browne, "that's the queer part of it. I don't know +what's the matter with me. Ever since you blighted me, I have lain +fallow, as it were. I," dejectedly, "haven't been in love for quite a +long, long time now. I miss it--I can't explain it. I can't be well, can +I? I," anxiously, "I don't look well, do I?" + +"I never saw you looking better," with unkind force. + +"Ah!" sadly, "that's because you don't give your attention to me. It's +my opinion that I'm fading away to the land o' the leal, like old +What-you-may-call-'em." + +"If that's the way he did it, it must have taken him some time. In fact, +he must be still at it," says Miss Kavanagh, heartlessly. + +By this time they had come to the end of the walk, and have turned the +corner. Before them lies a small grass plot surrounded by evergreens, a +cosy nook not to be suspected by any one until quite close upon it. It +bursts upon the casual pedestrian, indeed, as a charming surprise. There +is something warm, friendly, confidential about it--something safe. +Beyond lies the gloomy wood, embedded in night, but here the moonbeams +play. Some one with a thoughtful care for loving souls has placed in +this excellent spot for flirtation a comfortable garden seat, just +barely large enough for two, sternly indicative of being far too small +far the leanest three. + +Upon this delightful seat four eyes now concentrate themselves. As if by +one consent, although unconsciously, Mr. Browne and his companion come +to a dead stop. The unoffending seat holds them in thrall. + +Upon it, evidently on the best of terms with each other, are two people. +One is Miss Maliphant, the other Mr. Beauclerk. They are whispering +"soft and low." Miss Maliphant is looking, perhaps, a little +confused--for her--and the cause of the small confusion is transparent. +Beauclerk's hand is tightly closed over hers, and even as Dicky and Miss +Kavanagh gaze spellbound at them, he lifts the massive hand of the +heiress and imprints a lingering kiss upon it. + +"Come away," says Dicky, touching Joyce's arm. "Run for your life, but +softly." + +He and she have been standing in shadow, protected from the view of the +other two by a crimson rhododendron. Joyce starts as he touches her, as +one might who is roused from an ugly dream, and then follows him +swiftly, but lightly, back to the path they had forsaken. + +She is trembling in a nervous fashion, that angers herself cruelly, and +something of her suppressed emotion becomes known to Mr. Browne. +Perhaps, being a friend of hers, it angers him, too. + +"What strange freaks moonbeams play," says he, with a truly delightful +air of saying nothing in particular. "I could have sworn that just then +I saw Beauclerk kissing Miss Maliphant's hand." + +No answer. There is a little silence, fraught with what angry grief who +can tell? Dicky, who is not all froth, and is capable of a liking here +and there, is conscious of, and is sorry for, the nervous tremor that +shakes the small hand he has drawn within his arm; but he is so far a +philosopher that he tells himself it is but a little thing in her life; +she can bear it; she will recover from it; "and in time forget that she +had been ever ill," says this good-natured skeptic to himself. + +Joyce, who has evidently been struggling with herself, and has now +conquered her first feeling, turns to him. + +"You should not condemn the moonbeams unheard," says she, bravely, with +the ghost of a little smile. "The evidence of two impartial witnesses +should count in their favor." + +"But, my dear girl, consider," says Mr. Browne, mildly. "If it had been +anyone else's hand! I could then accuse the moonbeams of a secondary +offense, and say that their influence alone, which we all know has a +maddening effect, had driven him to so bold a deed. But not madness +itself could inspire me with a longing to kiss her hand." + +"She is a very good girl, and I like her," says Joyce, with a suspicious +vehemence. + +"So do I; so much, indeed, that I should shrink from calling her a good +girl. It is very damnatory, you know. You could hardly say anything more +prejudicial. It at once precludes the idea of her having any such minor +virtues as grace, beauty, wit, etc. Well, granted she is 'a good girl,' +that doesn't give her pretty hands, does it? As a rule, I think that all +good girls have gigantic points. I don't think I would care to kiss Miss +Maliphant's hands, even if she would let me." + +"She is a very honest, kind-hearted girl," says Miss Kavanagh a little +heavily. It suggests itself to Mr. Browne that she has not been +listening to him. + +"And a very rich one." + +"I never think about that when I am with her. I couldn't." + +"Beauclerk could," says Mr. Browne, tersely. + +There is another rather long silence, and Dicky is beginning to think he +has gone a trifle too far, and that Miss Kavanagh will cut him +to-morrow, when she speaks again. Her tone is composed, but icy enough +to freeze him. + +"It is a mistake," says she, "to discuss people towards whom one feels a +natural antagonism. It leads, one, perhaps, to say more than one +actually means. One is apt to grow unjust. I would never discuss Mr. +Beauclerk if I were you. You don't like him." + +"Well," says Mr. Browne, thoughtfully, "since you put it to me, I +confess I think he is the most rubbishy person I ever met!" + +After this sweeping opinion, conversation comes to a deadlock. It is not +resumed. Reaching the stone steps leading to the conservatory, they +ascend them in silence, and reach that perfumed retreat to find Dysart +on the threshold. + +"Oh, there you are!" cries he to Miss Kavanagh. "I thought you lost for +good and all!" His face has lighted up. Perhaps he feels a sense of +relief at finding her with Dicky, who is warranted harmless. He looks +almost handsome, better than handsome! The very soul of honesty shines, +in his kind eyes. + +"Oh! it is hard to lose what nobody wants," says Joyce in a would-be +playful tone, but something in the drawn, pained lines about her mouth +belies her mirth. Dysart, after a swift examination of her face, takes +her hand and draws it within his arm. + +"The last was our dance," says he. + +"Speak kindly of the dead," says Mr. Browne, as he beats a hasty +retreat. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + + "Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly; + Most friendship is feigning, most loving is folly." + + +"Did you forget?" asks Dysart, looking at her. + +"Forget?" + +"That the last dance was mine?" + +"Oh, was it? I'm so sorry. You must forgive me," with a feverish attempt +at gayety, "I will try to make amends. You shall have this one instead, +no matter to whom it may belong. Come. It is only just begun, I think." + +"Never mind," says Dysart, gently. "We won't dance this, I think. It is +cool and quiet here, and you are tired." + +"Oh, so tired," returns she with a little sudden pathetic cry, so +impulsive, so inexpressible that it goes to his heart. + +"Joyce! what is it?" says he, quickly. "Here, come and sit down. No, I +don't want an answer. It was an absurd question. You have overdone it a +little, that is all." + +"Yes, that is all!" She sinks heavily into the seat he has pointed out +to her, and lets her head fall back against the cushions. "However, when +you come to think of it, that means a great deal," says she, smiling +languidly. + +"There, don't talk," says he. "What is the good of having a friend if +you can't be silent with him when it so pleases you. That," laughing, +and arranging the cushions behind her head, "is one for you and two for +myself. I, too, pine for a moment when even the meagre 'yes' and 'no' +will not be required of me." + +"Oh, no," shaking her head. "It is all for me and nothing for yourself!" +she pauses, and putting out her hand lays it on his sleeve. "I think, +Felix," says she, softly, "you are the kindest man I ever met." + +"I told you you felt overdone," says he, laughing as if to hide the +sudden emotion that is gleaming in his eyes. He presses the hand resting +on his arm very gently, and then replaces it in her lap. To take +advantage of any little kindness she may show him now, when it is plain +that she is suffering from some mental excitement, grief or anger, or +both, would seem base to him. + +She has evidently accepted his offer of silence, and lying back in her +soft couch stares with unseeing eyes at the bank of flowers before her. +Behind her tall, fragrant shrubs rear themselves, and somewhere behind +her, too, a tiny fountain is making musical tinklings. The faint, tender +glow of a colored lamp gleams from the branches of a tropical tree close +by, and round it pale, downy moths are flitting, the sound of their +wings, as every now and then they approach too near the tempting glow +and beat them against the Japanese shade, mingling with the silvery fall +of the scented water. + +The atmosphere is warm, drowsy, a little melancholy. It seems to seize +upon the two sitting within its seductive influence, and threatens to +waft them from day dreams into dreams born of idle slumber. The rustle +of a coming skirt, however, a low voice, a voice still lower whispering +a reply, recalls them both to the fact that rest, complete and perfect, +is impossible under the circumstances. + +A little opening among the tall evergreens upon their right shows them +Lord Baltimore once more, but this time not alone. Lady Swansdown is +with him. + +She is looking rather lovelier than usual, with that soft tinge of red +upon her cheeks born of her last waltz, and her lips parted in a happy +smile. The subdued lights of the many lamps falling on her satin gown +rest there as if in love with its beauty. It is an old shade made new, a +yellow that is almost white, and has yet a tinge of green in it. A +curious shade, difficult, perhaps, to wear with good effect; but on Lady +Swansdown it seems to reign alone as queen of all the toilets in the +rooms to-night. She looks, indeed, like a perfect picture stepped down +from its canvas, "a thing of beauty," a very vision of delight. + +She seems, indeed, to Joyce watching her--Joyce who likes her--that she +has grown beyond herself (or rather into her own real self) to-night. +There is a touch of life, of passionate joy, of abandonment, of hope +that has yet a sting in it, in all her air, that, though not understood +of the girl, is still apparent. + +The radiant smile that illumines her beautiful face as she glances up at +Baltimore--who is bending over her in more lover-like fashion than +should be--is still making all her face a lovely fire as she passes out +of sight down the steps that lead to the lighted gardens--the steps that +Joyce had but just now ascended. + +The latter is still a little wrapt in wonder and admiration, and some +other thought that is akin to trouble, when Dysart breaks in upon her +fancies. + +"I am sorry about that," says he, bluntly, indicating with a nod of his +head the departing shadows of the two who have just passed out. There +are no fancies about Dysart. Nothing vague. + +"Yes; it is a pity," says Joyce, hurriedly. + +"More than that, I think." + +"Something ought to be done," nervously. + +"Yes," flushing hotly; "I know--I know what you mean"--she had meant +nothing--"but it is so difficult to know what to do, and--I am only a +cousin." + +"Oh, I wasn't thinking of you. I wasn't, really," says she, a good deal +shocked. "As you say, why should you speak, when----" + +"There is Beauclerk," says Dysart, quickly, as if a little angry with +somebody, but certainly not with her. "How can he stand by and see it?" + +"Perhaps he doesn't see it," says she in a strange tone, her eyes on the +marble flooring. It seems to herself that the words are forced from her. +"Because--because he has----" + +She brings her hands tightly together, so tightly that she reduces the +feathers on the fan she is holding to their last gasp. Because she is +now disappointed in him; because he has proved himself, perhaps, +unstable, deceptive to the heart's core, is she to vilify, him? A +thousand times no! That would be, indeed, to be base herself. + +"Perhaps not," says Dysart, drily. In his secret heart this defence of +his rival is detestable to him. Something in her whole manner when she +came in from the garden had suggested to him the possibility that she +had at last found him out. Dysart would have been puzzled to explain how +Beauclerk was supposed to be "found out" or for what, but that he was +liable to discovery at any moment on some count or counts unknown, was +one of his Christian beliefs. "Perhaps not," says he. "And yet I cannot +help thinking that a matter so open to all must be patent to him." + +"But," anxiously, "is it so open?" + +"I leave that to your own judgment," a little warmly. "You," with rather +sharp question, "are a friend of Isabel's?" + +"Yes, yes," quickly. "You know that. But----" + +"But?" sternly. + +"I like Lady Swansdown, too," says she, with some determination. "I find +it hard to believe that she can--can----" + +"Be false to her friend," supplements he. "Have you yet to learn that +friendship ends where love begins?" + +"You think----?" + +"That she is in love with Baltimore." + +"And he?" + +"Oh!" contemptuously; "who shall gauge the depth of his heart? What can +he mean?" he has risen and is now pacing angrily up and down the small +space before her. "He used to be such a good fellow, and now----Is he +dead to all sense of honor, of honesty?" + +"He is a man," says Joyce, coldly. + +"No. I deny that. Not a true man, surely." + +"Is there a true man?" says she. "Is there any truth, any honesty to be +found in the whole wide world?" + +She too has risen now, and is standing with her large dark eyes fixed +almost defiantly on his. There is something so strange, so wild, so +unlike her usual joyous, happy self in this outburst, in her whole +attitude, that Dysart regards her with an astonishment that is largely +tinctured with fear. + +"I don't know what is in your mind," says he, calmly; "something out of +the common has occurred to disturb you so much, I can guess, but," +looking at her earnestly, "whatever it maybe, I entreat you to beat it +under. Conquer it; do not let it conquer you. There must be evil in the +world, but never lose sight of the good; that must be there, just as +surely. Truth, honor, honesty, are no fables; they are to be found +everywhere. If not in this one, then in that. Do not lose faith in +them." + +"You think me evidently in a bad way," says she, smiling faintly. She +has recovered herself in part, but though she tries to turn his earnest +words into a jest, one can see that she is perilously near to tears. + +"You mean that I am preaching to you," says he, smiling too. "Well, so I +am. What right has a girl like you to disbelieve in anything? Why," +laughing, "it can't be so very long ago since you believed in fairies, +in pixies, and the fierce dragons of our childhood." + +"I don't know that I am not a believer in them still," says she. "In the +dragons, at all events. Evil seems to rule the world." + +"Tut!" says he. "I have preached in vain." + +"You would have me believe in good only," says she. "You assure me very +positively that all the best virtues are still riding to and fro, +redeeming the world, with lances couched and hearts on fire. But where +to find them? In you?" + +It is a very gentle smile she gives him as she says this. + +"Yes: so far, at least, as you are concerned," says he, stoutly. "I +shall be true and honest to you so long as my breath lives in my body. +So much I can swear to." + +"Well," says she, with a rather meagre attempt at light-heartedness, +"you almost persuade me with that truculent manner of yours into +believing in you at all events, or is it," a little sadly, "that the +ways of others drive me to that belief? Well," with a sigh, "never mind +how it is, you benefit by it, any way." + +"I don't want to force your confidence," says Dysart; "but you have been +made unhappy by somebody, have you not?" + +"I have not been made happy," says she, her eyes on the ground. "I don't +know why I tell you that. You asked a hard question." + +"I know. I should have been silent, perhaps, and yet----" + +At this moment the sound of approaching footsteps coming up the steps +startles them. + +"Joyce!" says he, "grant me one request." + +"One! You rise to tragedy!" says she, as if a little amused in spite of +the depression under which she is so evidently laboring. "Is it to be +your last, your dying prayer?" + +"I hope not. Nevertheless I would have it granted." + +"You have only to speak," says she, with a slight gesture that is half +mocking, half kindly. + +"Come with me after luncheon, to-morrow, up to St. Bridget's Hill?" + +"Is that all? And to throw such force into it. Yes, yes; I shall enjoy a +long walk like that." + +"It is not because of the walk that I ask you to go there with me," says +Dysart, the innate honesty that distinguishes him compelling him to lay +bare to her his secret meaning. "I have something to say to you. You +will listen?" + +"Why should I not?" returns she, a little pale. He might, perhaps, have +said something further, but that now the footsteps sound close at hand. +A glance towards the door that leads from the fragrant night into the +still more perfumed air within reveals to them two figures. + +Mr. Beauclerk and Miss Maliphant come leisurely forward. The blood +receding to Joyce's heart leaves her cold and singularly calm. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + + "Out of the day and night + A joy has taken flight." + + "Life, I know not what thou art." + + +"You two," cries Miss Maliphant pleasantly, in her loud, good-natured +voice. She addresses them as though it has been borne in upon her by +constant reminding that Joyce and Dysart are for the best of all reasons +generally to be found together. There is something not only genial, but +sympathetic in her tones, something that embarrasses Dysart, and angers +Joyce to the last degree. "Well, I'm glad to have met you for one moment +out of the hurly-burly," goes on the massive heiress to Joyce, with the +friendliest of smiles. "I'm off at cock-crow, you know, and so mightn't +have had the opportunity of saying good-bye to you, but for this +fortunate meeting." + +"To-morrow?" says Joyce, more with the manner of one who feels she must +say something than from any desire to say it. + +"Yes, and so early that I shall not have it in my power to bid farewell +to any one. Unless, indeed," with a glance at Beauclerk, meant, perhaps, +to be coquettish, but so elephantine in its proportions as to be almost +anything in the world but that, "some of my friends may wish to see the +sun rise." + +"We shall miss you," says Joyce, gracefully, though with an effort. + +"Just what I've been saying," breaks in Beauclerk at this juncture, who +hitherto has been looking on, with an altogether delightful smile upon +his handsome face. "We shall all miss Miss Maliphant. It is not often +that one meets with an entirely genial companion. My sister is to be +congratulated on securing such an acquisition, if only for a short +time." + +Joyce, lifting her eyes, stares straight at him. "For a short time!" +What does that mean? If Miss Maliphant is to be Lady Baltimore's +sister-in-law, she will undoubtedly secure her for a lifetime! + +"Oh, you are too good," says Miss Maliphant, giving him a playful flick +with her fan. + +"Well, what would you have me say?" persists Beauclerk still lightly, +with wonderful lightness, in fact, considering the weight of that +playful tap upon his bent knuckles. "That we shall not be sorry? Would +you have me lie, then? Fie, fie, Miss Maliphant! The truth, the truth, +and nothing but the truth! At all risks and hazards!" here he almost +imperceptibly sends flying a shaft from his eyes at Joyce, who receives +it with a blank stare. "We shall, I assure you, be desolated when you +go, specially Isabel." + +This last pretty little speech strikes Dysart as being specially neat: +This putting the onus of the regret on to Isabel's shoulders. All +through, Beauclerk has been careful to express himself as one who is an +appreciative friend of Miss Maliphant, but nothing more; yet so guarded +are these expressions, and the looks that accompany them, that Miss +Maliphant might be pardoned if she should read a warmer feeling in them. + +A sensation of disgust darkens his brow. + +"I must say you are all very nice to me," says the heiress complacently. +Poor soul! No doubt, she believes in every bit of it, and a large course +of kow-towing from the world has taught her the value of her pile. +"However," with true Manchester grace, "there's no need for howling over +it. We'll all meet again, I dare say, some time or other. For one thing, +Lady Baltimore has asked me to come here again after Christmas; +February, I dare say." + +"So glad!" murmurs Joyce rather vaguely. + +"So you see," said Miss Maliphant with ponderous gayety, "that we are +all bound to put in a second good time together; you're coming, I know, +Mr. Dysart, and Miss Kavanagh is always here, and Mr. Beauclerk "--with +a languishing glance at that charming person, who returns it in the most +open manner--"has promised me that he will be here to meet me." + +"Well, if I can, you know," says he, now beaming at her. + +"How's that?" says the heiress, turning promptly upon him. It is strange +how undesirable the very richest heiress can be at times. "Why, it's +only just this instant that you told me nothing would keep you away from +the Court next spring. What d'ye mean?" + +She brings him to book in a most uncompromising fashion; a fashion that +betrays unmistakably her plebeian origin. Dysart, listening, admires her +for it. Her rough and ready honesty seems to him preferable to the best +bred shuffling in the world. + +"Did I say all that?" says Beauclerk lightly, coloring a little, +nevertheless, as he marks the fine smile that is curling Joyce's lips. +"Why, then," gayly, "if I said it, I meant it. If I hesitated about +indorsing my intentions publicly, it is because one is never sure of +happiness beforehand; believe me, Miss Maliphant," with a little bow-to +her, but with a direct glance at Joyce, "every desire I have is centered +in the hope that next spring may see me here again." + +"Well, I expect we all have the same wish," says Miss Maliphant +cheerfully, who has not caught that swift glance at Joyce. "I'm sure I +hope that nothing will interfere with my coming here in February." + +"It is agreed, then," says Beauclerk, with a delightfully comprehensive +smile that seems to take in every one, even the plants and the dripping +fountain and the little marble god in the corner, who is evidently +listening with all his might. "We all meet here again early next year if +the fates be propitious. You, Dysart, you pledge yourself to join our +circle then?" + +"I pledge myself," says Dysart, fixing a cold gaze on him. It is so +cold, so distinctly hostile, that Beauclerk grows uncomfortable beneath +it. When uncomfortable his natural bias leads him towards a display of +bonhomie. + +"Here we have before us a prospect to cheer the soul of any man," +declares he, shifting his eyes from Dysart to Miss Maliphant. + +"It cheers me certainly," responds that heavy maiden with alacrity. "I +like to think we shall all meet again." + +"Like the witches in Macbeth," says Joyce, indifferently. + +"But not so malignantly, I hope," says the heiress brilliantly, who, +like most worthy people, can never see beyond her own nose. "For my part +I like old friends much better than new." She looks round for the +appreciation that should attend this sound remark, and is gratified to +find Dysart is smiling at her. Perhaps the core of that smile might not +have been altogether to her taste--most cores are difficult of +digestion. To her, to whom all things are new, where does the flavor of +the old come in? + +Beauclerk is looking at Joyce. + +"I hope the prospect cheers you too," says he a little sharply, as if +nettled by her determined silence and bent on making her declare +herself. "You, I trust, will be here next February." + +"Sure to be!" says she with an enigmatical smile. "Not a jot or tittle +of your enjoyments will be lost to you in the coming year. Both your +friends--Miss Maliphant and I--will be here to welcome you when you +return." + +Something in her manner, in the half-defiant light in her eyes, puzzles +Beauclerk. What has happened to her since they last were together? Not +more than an hour ago she had seemed--er--well. Inwardly he smiles +complacently. But now. Could she? Is it possible? Was there a chance +that---- + +"Miss Kavanagh," begins he, moving toward her. But she makes short work +of his advance. + +"I repent," says she, turning a lovely, smiling face on Dysart. "A while +ago I said I was too tired to dance. I did myself injustice. That +waltz--listen to it"--lifting up an eager finger--"would it not wake an +anchorite from his ascetic dreams? Come. There is time.". + +She has sprung to her feet--life is in every movement. She slips her arm +into Dysart's. Not understanding--yet half understanding, moves with +her--his heart on fire for her, his puzzlement rendering him miserable. + +Beauclerk, with that doubt of what she really knows full upon him, is +wiser. Without hesitation he offers his arm to Miss Maliphant; and, so +swift is his desire to quit the scene, he passes Dysart and Joyce, the +latter having paused for a moment to recover her fan. + +"You see!" says Beauclerk, bending over the heiress, when a turn in the +conservatory has hidden him from the view of those behind. "I told you!" +He says nothing more. It is the veriest whisper, spoken with an +assumption of merriment very well achieved. Yet, if she would have +looked at him, she could have seen that his very lips are white. But as +I have said, Miss Maliphant's mind has not been trained to the higher +courses. + +"Yes. One can see!" laughs she happily. "And it is charming, isn't it? +To find two people thoroughly in love with each other now-a-days, is to +believe in that mad old world of romance of which we read. They're very +nice too, both of them. I do like Joyce. She's one in a thousand, and +Mr. Dysart is just suited to her. They are both thorough! There's no +nonsense about them. Now that you have pointed it out to me, I think I +never saw two people so much in love with each other as they." + +Providentially, she is looking away from him to where a quadrille is +forming in the ballroom, so that the deadly look of hatred that adorns +his handsome face is unknown to her. + + * * * * * + +Meantime, Joyce, with that convenient fan recovered, is looking with sad +eyes at Dysart. + +"Come; the music will soon cease," says she. + +"Why do you speak to me like that?" cries he vehemently. "If you don't +want to dance, why not say so to me? Why not trust me? Good heavens! if +I were your bitterest enemy you could not treat me more distantly. And +yet--I would die to make you happy." + +"Don't!" says she in a little choking sort of way, turning her face from +him. She struggles with herself for a moment, and then, still with her +face averted, says meekly: "Thank you, then. If you don't mind, I should +rather not dance any more to-night." + +"Why didn't you say that at first?" says he, with a last remnant of +reproach. "No; there shall be no more dancing to-night for either you or +me. A word, Joyce!" turning eagerly toward her, "you won't forget your +promise about that walk to-morrow?" + +"No. No, indeed." + +"Thank you!" + +They are sitting very close together, and almost insensibly his hand +seeks and finds hers. It was lying idle on her lap, and lifting it, he +would have raised it to his lips, but with a sharp, violent action she +wrests it from him, and, as a child might, hides it behind her. + +"If you would have me believe in you----No, no, not that," says she, a +little incoherently, her voice rendering her meaning with difficulty. +Dysart, astonished, stands back from her, waiting for something more; +but nothing comes, except two large tears, that steal heavily, +painfully, down her cheeks. + +She brushes them impatiently away. + +"Forgive me," she says, somewhat brokenly. "To you, who are so good to +me, I am unkind, while to those who are unkind to me I----" She is +trying to rally. "It was a mere whim, believe me. I have always hated +demonstrations of any sort, and why should you want to kiss my hand?" + +"I shouldn't," says he. "If----" His eyes have fallen from her eyes to +her lips. + +"Never mind," says she; "I didn't understand, perhaps. But why can't you +be content with things as they are?" + +"Are you content with them?" + +"I think so. I have been examining myself, and honestly I think so," +says she a little feverishly. + +"Well, I'm not," returns he with decision. "You must give me credit for +a great private store of amiability, if you imagine that I am satisfied +to take things as they now exist--between you and me!" + +"You have your faults, you see, as well as another," says she with a +frown. "You are persistent! And the worst of it is that you are +generally right." She frowns again, but even while frowning glances +sideways from under her long lashes with an expression hardly uncivil. +"That is the worst crime in the calendar. Be wrong sometimes, an' you +love me, it will gain you a world of friends." + +"If it could gain me your love in return, I might risk it," says he +boldly. "But that is hopeless I'm afraid," shaking his head. "I am too +often in the wrong not to know that neither my many frailties nor my few +virtues can ever purchase for me the only good thing on which my soul is +set." + +"I have told you of one fault, now hear another," says she capriciously. +"You are too earnest! What," turning upon him passionately, as if a +little ashamed of her treatment of him, "is the use of being earnest? +Who cares? Who looks on, who gives one moment to the guessing of the +meaning that lies beneath? To be in earnest in this life is merely to be +mad. Pretend, laugh, jest, do anything, but be what you really are, and +you will probably get through the world in a manner, if not satisfactory +to yourself, at all events to '_les autres_.'" + +"You preach a crusade against yourself," says he gently. "You preach +against your own conscience. You are the least deceptive person I know. +Were you to follow in the track you lay out for others, the cruelty of +it would kill you. + + "To your own self be true, + And----" + +"Yes, yes; I know it all," says she, interrupting him with some +irritation. "I wish you knew how--how unpleasant you can be. As I tell +you, you are always right. That last dance--it is true--I didn't want to +have anything to do with it; but for all that I didn't wish to be told +so. I merely suggested it as a means of getting rid of----" + +"Miss Maliphant," says Dysart, who is feeling a little sore. The +disingenuousness of this remark is patent to her. + +"No; Mr. Beauclerk," corrects she, coldly. + +"Forgive me," says Dysart quickly, "I shouldn't have said that. Well," +drawing a long breath, "we have got rid of them, and may I give you a +word of advice? It is disinterested because it is to my own +disadvantage. Go to your room--to your bed. You are tired, exhausted. +Why wait to be more so. Say you will do as I suggest." + +"You want to get rid of me," says she with a little weary smile. + +"That is unworthy of an answer," gravely; "but if a 'yes' to it will +help you to follow my advice, why, I will say it. Come," rising, "let +me take you to the hall." + +"You shall have your way," says she, rising too, and following him. + +A side door leading to the anteroom on their left, and thus skirting the +ballroom without entering it, brings them to the foot of the central +staircase. + +"Good-night," says Dysart in a low tone, retaining her hand for a +moment. All round them is a crowd separated into twos and threes, so +that it is impossible to say more than the mere commonplace. + +"Good night," returns she in a soft tone. She has turned away from him, +but something in the intense longing and melancholy of his eyes compels +her to look back again. "Oh, you have been kind! I am not ungrateful," +says she with sharp contrition. + +"Joyce, Joyce! Let me be the grateful one," returns he. His voice is a +mere whisper, but so fraught is it with passionate appeal that it rings +in her brain for long hours afterward. + +Her eyes fall beneath his. She moves silently away. What can she say to +him? + +It is with a sense of almost violent relief that she closes the door of +her own room behind her, and knows herself to be at last alone. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + + "And vain desires, and hopes dismayed, + And fears that cast the earth in shade, + My heart did fret." + + +Night is waning! Dies pater, Father of Day, is making rapid strides +across the heavens, creating havoc as he goes. Diana faints! the stars +grow pale, flinging, as they die, a last soft glimmer across the sky. + +Now and again a first call from the birds startles the drowsy air. The +wood dove's coo, melancholy sweet--the cheep-cheep of the robin--the +hoarse cry of the sturdy crow. + + "A faint dawn breaks on yonder sedge, + And broadens in that bed of weeds; + A bright disk shows its radiant edge, + All things bespeak the coming morn, + Yet still it lingers." + +As Lady Swansdown and Baltimore descend the stone steps that lead to the +gardens beneath, only the swift rush of the tremulous breeze that stirs +the branches betrays to them the fact that a new life is at hand. + +"You are cold?" says Baltimore, noticing the quick shiver that runs +through her. + +"No: not cold. It was mere nervousness." + +"I shouldn't have thought you nervous." + +"Or fanciful?" adds she. "You judged me rightly, and yet--coming all at +once from the garish lights within into this cool sweet darkness here, +makes one feel in spite of oneself." + +"In spite! Would you never willingly feel?" + +"Would you?" demands she very slowly. + +"Not willingly, I confess. But I have been made to feel, as you know. +And you?" + +"Would you have a woman confess?" says she, half playfully. "That is +taking an unfair advantage, is it not? See," pointing to a seat, "what a +charming resting place! I will make one confession to you. I am tired." + +"A meagre one! Beatrice," says he suddenly, "tell me this: are all women +alike? Do none really feel? Is it all fancy--the mere idle emotion of a +moment--the evanescent desire for sensation of one sort or another--of +anger, love, grief, pain, that stirs you now and then? Are none of these +things lasting with you, are they the mere strings on which you play +from time to time, because the hours lie heavy on your hands? It seems +to me----" + +"It seems to me that you hardly know what you are saying," said Lady +Swansdown quickly. "Do you think then that women do not feel, do not +suffer as men never do? What wild thoughts torment your brain that you +should put forward so senseless a question?--one that has been answered +satisfactorily thousands of years ago. All the pain, the suffering of +earth lies on the woman's shoulders; it has been so from the +beginning--it shall be so to the end. On being thrust forth from their +Eden, which suffered most do you suppose, Adam or Eve?" + +"It is an old story," says he gloomily, "and why should you, of all +people, back it up? You--who----" + +"Better leave me out of the question." + +"You!" + +"I am outside your life, Baltimore," says she, laying her hand on the +back of the seat beside her, and sinking into it. "Leave me there!" + +"Would you bereave me of all things," says he, "even my friends? I +thought--I believed, that you at least--understood me." + +"Too well!" says she in a low tone. Her hands have met each other and +are now clasped together in her lap in a grip that is almost hurtful. +Great heavens! if he only knew--could he then probe, and wound, and +tempt! + +"If you do----" begins he--then stops short, and passing her, paces to +and fro before her in the dying light of the moon. Lady Swansdown +leaning back gazes at him with eyes too sad for tears--eyes "wild with +all regret." Oh! if they two might but have met earlier. If this +man--this man in all the world, had been given to her, as her allotment. + +"Beatrice!" says he, stopping short before her, "were you ever in love?" + +There is a dead silence. Lady Swansdown sinking still deeper into the +arm of the chair, looks up at him with strange curious eyes. What does +he mean? To her--to put such a question to her of all women! Is he deaf, +blind, mad--or only cruel? + +A sort of recklessness seizes upon her. Well, if he doesn't know, he +shall know, though it be to the loss of her self-respect forever! + +"Never," says she, leaning a little forward until the moonbeams gleam +upon her snowy neck and arms. "Never--never--until----" + +The pause is premeditated. It is eloquence itself! The light of heaven +playing on her beautiful face betrays the passion of it--the rich +pallor! One hand resting on the back of the seat taps upon the iron +work, the other is now in Baltimore's possession. + +"Until now----?" suggests he boldly. He is leaning over her. She shakes +her head. But in this negative there is only affirmation. + +His hand tightens more closely upon hers. The long slender fingers yield +to his pressure--nay more--return it; they twine round his. + +"If I thought----" begins he in a low, stammering tone--he moves nearer +to her, nearer still. Does she move toward him? There is a second's +hesitation on his part, and then, his lips meet hers! + +It is but a momentary touch, a thing of an instant, but it includes a +whole world of meaning. Lady Swansdown has sprung to her feet, and is +looking at him with eyes that seem to burn through the mystic darkness. +She is trembling in every limb. Her nostrils are dilated. Her haughty +mouth is quivering, and there--are there honest, real tears in those +mocking eyes? + +Baltimore, too, has risen. His face is very white, very full of +contrition. That he regrets his action toward her is unmistakable, but +that there is a deeper contrition behind--a sense of self-loathing not +to be appeased betrays itself in the anguish of his eyes. She had +accused him of falsity, most falsely up to this, but now--now----His +mind has wandered far away. + +There is something so wild in his expression that Lady Swansdown loses +sight of herself in the contemplation of it. + +"What is it, Baltimore?" asks she, in a low, frightened tone. It rouses +him. + +"I have offended you beyond pardon," begins he, but more like one +seeking for words to say than one afraid of using them. "I have angered +you----" + +"Do not mistake me," interrupts she quickly, almost fiercely. "I am not +angry. I feel no anger--nothing--but that I am a traitor." + +"And what am I?" + +"Work out your own condemnation for yourself," says she, still with that +feverish self-disdain upon her. "Don't ask me to help you. She was my +friend, whatever she is now. She trusted me, believed in me. And after +all----And you," turning passionately, "you are doubly a traitor, you +are a husband." + +"In name!" doggedly. He has quite recovered himself now. Whatever +torture his secret soul may impress upon him in the future, no one but +he shall know. + +"It doesn't matter. You belong to her, and she to you." + +"That is what she doesn't think," bitterly. + +"There is one thing only to be said, Baltimore," says she, after a +slight pause. "This must never occur again. I like you, you know that. +I----" she breaks off abruptly, and suddenly gives way to a sort of +mirthless laughter. "It is a farce!" she says. "Consider my feeling +anything. And so virtuous a thing, too, as remorse! Well, as one lives, +one learns. If I had seen the light for the first time in the middle of +the dark ages, I should probably have ended my days as the prioress of a +convent. As it is, I shouldn't wonder if I went in for hospital nursing +presently. Pshaw!" angrily, "it is useless lamenting. Let me face the +truth. I have acted abominably toward her so far, and the worst of it +is"--with a candor that seems to scorch her--"I know if the chance be +given me, I shall behave abominably toward her again. I shall leave +to-morrow--the day after. One must invent a decent excuse." + +"Pray don't leave on Lady Baltimore's account," says he slowly, "she +would be the last to care about this. I am nothing to her." + +"Is your wish father to that thought?" regarding him keenly. + +"No. I assure you. The failing I mention is plain to all the world I +should have thought." + +"It is not plain to me," still watching him. + +"Then learn it," says he. "If ever she loved me, which I now disbelieve +(I would that I had let the doubt creep in earlier), it was in a past +that now is irretrievably dead. I suppose I wearied her--I confess," +with a meagre smile, "I once loved her with all my soul, and heart, and +strength--or else she is incapable of knowing an honest affection." + +"That is not true," says Lady Swansdown, some generous impulse forcing +the words unwillingly through her white lips. "She can love! you must +see that for yourself. The child is proof of it." + +"Some women are like that," says he gloomily. "They can open wide their +hearts to their children, yet close it against the fathers of them. +Isabel's whole life is given up to her child: she regards it as hers +entirely; she allows me no share in him. Not," eagerly, "that I grudge +him one inch the affection she gives him. He has a father worthless +enough. Let his mother make it up to him." + +"Yet he loves the father best," says Lady Swansdown quickly. + +"I hope not," with a suspicion of violence. + +"He does, believe me. One can see it. That saintly mother of his has not +half the attraction for him that you have. Why, look you, it is the way +of the world, why dispute it? Well, well," her triumphant voice +deepening to a weary whisper. "When one thinks of it all, she is not too +happy." She draws her hand in a little bewildered way across her white +brow. + +"You don't understand her," says Baltimore frigidly. "She lives in a +world of her own. No one would dare penetrate it. Even I--her husband, +as you call me in mockery--am outside it. I don't believe she ever cared +for me. If she had, do you think she would have given a thought to that +infamous story?" + +"About Madame Istray?" + +"Yes. You, too, heard of it then?" + +"Who hasn't heard. Violet Walden was not the one to spare you." She +pauses and looks at him, with all her heart in her eyes. "Was there no +truth in that story?" asks she at last, her words coming with a little +rush. + +"None. I swear it! You believe me!" He has come nearer to her and taken +her hand in the extremity of this desire to be believed in by somebody. + +"I believe you," says she, gently. Her voice is so low that he can catch +the words only; the grief and misery in them is unknown to him. +Mercifully, too, the moon has gone behind a cloud, a tender preparation +for an abdication presently, so that he cannot see the two heartbroken +tears that steal slowly down her cheeks. + +"That is more than Isabel does," says he, with a laugh that has +something of despair in it. + +"You tell me, then," says Lady Swansdown, "that you never saw Mme. +Istray after your marriage?" + +"Never, willingly." + +"Oh, willingly!" + +"Don't misjudge me. Hear the whole story then--if you must," cries he +passionately--"though if you do, you will be the first to hear it. I am +tired of being thought a liar!" + +"Go on," says she, in a low shocked tone. His singular vehemence has +compelled her to understand how severe have been his sufferings. If ever +she had doubted the truth of the old story that has wrecked the +happiness of his married life she doubts no longer. + +"I tell you, you will be the first to hear it," says he, advancing +toward her. "Sit down there," pressing her into the garden seat. "I can +see you are looking overdone, even by this light. Well----" drawing a +long breath and stepping back from her--"I never opened my lips upon +this subject except once before. That was to Isabel. And she"--he +pauses--"she would not listen. She believed, then, all things base of +me. She has so believed ever since." + +"She must be a fool!" says Lady Swansdown impetuously, "she could +not----" + +"She did, however. She," coldly, "even believed that I could lie to +her!" + +His face has become ashen; his eyes, fixed upon the ground, seemed to +grow there with the intensity of his regard. His breath seems to come +with difficulty through his lips. + +"Well," says he at last, with a long sigh, "it's all over! The one +merciful thing belonging to our life is that there must come, sooner or +later, an end to everything. The worst grief has its termination. She +has been unjust to me. But you," he lifts his haggard face, "you, +perhaps, will grant me a kindlier hearing." + +"Tell it all to me, if it will make you happier," says she, very gently. +Her heart is bleeding for him. Oh, if she might only comfort him in some +way! If--if that other fails him, why should not she, with the passion +of love that lies in her bosom, restore him to the warmth, the sweetness +of life. That kiss, half developed as it only was, already begins to +bear fatal fruit. Unconsciously she permits herself a license in her +thoughts of Baltimore hitherto strenuously suppressed. + +"There is absurdly little to tell. At that time we lived almost entirely +at our place in Hampshire, and as there were business matters connected +with the outlying farms found there, that had been grossly neglected +during my grandfather's time, I was compelled to run up to town, almost +daily. As a rule I returned by the evening train, in time for dinner, +but once or twice I was so far delayed that it was out of my power to do +it. I laugh at myself now," he looks very far from laughter as he says +it, "but I assure you the occasions on which I was compulsorily kept +away from my home were----" He pauses, "oh, well, there is no use in +being more tragic than one need be. They were, at least, a trouble to +me." + +"Naturally," says she, coldly. + +"I loved her, you see," says Baltimore, in a strange jerky sort of way, +as if ashamed of that old sentiment. "She----" + +"I quite understand. I have heard all about it once or twice," says Lady +Swansdown, with a kind of slow haste, if such a contradiction may be +allowed. That he has forgotten her is evident. That she has forgotten +nothing is more evident still. + +"Well, one day, one of the many days during which I went up to town, +after a long afternoon with Goodman and Smale, in the course of which +they had told me they would probably require me to call at their office +to meet one of the most influential tenants at nine the next morning, I +met, on leaving their office, Marchmont--Marchmont of the Tenth, you +know." + +"Yes, I know." + +"He and a couple of other fellows belonging to his regiment were going +down to Richmond to dine. Would I come? It was dull in town, toward the +close of the season, and I was glad of any invitation that promised a +change of programme--anything that would take me away from a dull +evening at my club. I made no inquiries; I accepted the invitation, got +down in time for dinner, and found Mme. Istray was one of the guests. +I----" + +He hesitates. + +"Go on." + +"You are a woman of the world, Beatrice; you will let me confess to you +that there had been old passages between me and Mme. Istray--well, I +swear to you I had never so much as thought of her since my +marriage--nay, since my engagement to Isabel. From that hour my life had +been clear as a sheet of blank paper. I had forgotten her; I verily +believe she had forgotten me, too. At that dinner I don't think she +exchanged a dozen words with me. On my soul," pushing back his hair with +a slow, troubled gesture from his brow, "this is the truth." + +"And yet----" + +"And yet," interrupting her with now a touch of vehement excitement, "a +garbled, a most cursedly false account of that dinner was given her. It +came round to her ears. She listened to it--believed in it--condemned +without a hearing. She, who has sworn, not only at the altar, but to me +alone, that she loved me." + +"She wronged you terribly," says Lady Swansdown in a low tone. + +"Thank you," cried he, a passion of gratitude in his tone. "To be +believed in by someone so thoroughly as you believe in me, is to know +happiness indeed. Whatever happens, I can count on you as my friend." + +"Your friend, always," says she, in a very low voice--a voice somewhat +broken. "Come," she says, rising suddenly and walking toward the distant +lights in the house. + +He accompanies her silently. + +Very suddenly she turns to him, and lays her hand upon his arm. + +"Be my friend," says she, with a quick access of terrible emotion. + +Entreaty and despair mingle in her tone. + +"Forever!" returns he, fervently, tightening his grasp on her hand. + +"Well," sighing, "it hardly matters. We shall not meet again for a long, +long time." + +"How is that? Isabel, the last time she condescended to speak to me of +her own accord," with an unpleasant laugh, "told me that she had asked +you to come here again next February, and that you had accepted the +invitation. She, indeed, made quite a point of it." + +"Ah! that was a long time ago." + +"Weeks do not make a long time." + +"Some weeks hold more than years. Yes, you are right; she made quite a +point about my coming. Well, she is always very civil." + +"She has always perfect manners. She is, as you say, very civil." + +"She is proud," coldly. + +"You will come?" + +"I think not. By that time you will in all probability have made it up +with her." + +"The very essence of improbability." + +"While I--shall not have made it up with my husband." + +"One seems quite as possible as the other." + +"Oh, no. Isabel is a good woman. You would do well to go back to her. +Swansdown is as bad a man as I know, and that," with a mirthless laugh, +"is saying a great deal. I should gain nothing by a reconciliation with +him. For one thing, an important matter, I have a great deal more money +than he has, and, for another, there are no children." Her voice changes +here; an indescribable alteration not only hardens, but desolates it. "I +have been fortunate there," she says, "if in nothing else in my +unsatisfactory life. There is no smallest bond between me and Swansdown. +If I could be seriously glad of anything it would be of that. I have +nothing belonging to him." + +"His name." + +"Oh, as for that--does it belong to him? Has he not forfeited a decent +right to it a thousand times? No; there is nothing. If there had been a +child he would have made a persecution of it--and so I am better off as +it is. And yet, there are moments when I envy you that little child of +yours. However----" + +"Yet if Swansdown were to make an overture----" + +"Do not go on. It is of all speculations the most useless. Do not pursue +the subject of Swansdown, I entreat you. Let"--with bitter +meaning--"'sleeping dogs lie.'" + +Baltimore laughs shortly. + +"That is severe," says he. + +"It is how I feel toward him; the light in which I regard him. If," +turning a face to his that is hardly recognizable, so pale it is with +ill-suppressed loathing, "he were lying on his deathbed and sent for me, +it would give me pleasure to refuse to go to him." + +She takes her hand from his arm and motions him to ascend the steps +leading into the conservatory. + +"But you?" says he, surprised. + +"Let me remain here a little while. I am tired. My head aches, I----" + +"Let me stay with you." + +"No," smiling faintly. "What I want is to be alone. To feel the silence. +Go. Do not be uneasy about me. Believe me you will be kind if you do as +I ask you." + +"It is a command," says he slowly. And slowly, too, he turns away from +her. + +Seeing him so uncertain about leaving her, she steps abruptly into a +dark side path, and finding a chair sinks into it. + +The soft breaking of the dawn over the tree tops far away seems to add +another pang to the anguish that is consuming her. She covers her face +with her hands. + +Oh! if it had all been different. Two lives sacrificed! nay, three! For +surety Isabel cannot care for him. Oh! if it had been she, she +herself--what is there she could not have forgiven him? Nay, she must +have forgiven him, because life without him would have been +insupportable. If only she might have loved him honorably. If only she +might ever love him--successfully--dishonorably! + +The thought seems to sting her. Involuntarily she throws up her head and +courts the chill winds of dawn that sweep with a cool touch her burning +forehead. + +She had called her proud. Would she herself, then, be less proud? That +Isabel dreads her, half scorns her of late, is well known to her, and +yet, with a very passion of pride, would dare her to prove it. She, +Isabel, has gone even so far as to ask her rival to visit her again in +the early part of the coming year to meet her present friends. So far +that pride had carried her. But pride--was pride love? If she herself +loved Baltimore, would she, even for pride's sake, entreat the woman he +singled out for his attentions to spend another long visit in her +country house? And if Isabel does not honestly love him, why then--is he +not lawful prey for one who can, who does not love him? + +One--who loves him. But he--whom does he love? + +Torn by some last terrible thought she starts to her feet, and, as +though inaction has become impossible to her, draws her white silken +wrap around her, and sweeps rapidly out of all view of the waning +Chinese lamps into the gray obscurity of the coming day that lies in the +far gardens. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + + "Song have thy day, and take thy fill of light + Before the night be fallen across thy way; + Sing while he may, man hath no long delight." + + +"What a delicious day!" says Joyce, stopping short on the hill to take a +look round her. It is the next day, and indeed far into it. Luncheon is +a thing of the past, and both she and Dysart know that it will take them +all their time to reach St. Bridget's Hill and be back again for +afternoon tea. They had started on their expedition in defiance of many +bribes held out to them. For one thing, there was to be a reception at +the Court at five; many of those who had danced through last night +having been asked to come over late in the afternoon of to-day to talk +over the dance itself and the little etceteras belonging to it. + +The young members of the Monkton family had been specially invited, too, +as a sort of make up to Bertie, the little son of the house, who had +been somewhat aggrieved at being sent to bed without his share of the +festivities on hand. He had retired to his little cot, indeed, with his +arms stuffed full of crackers, but how could crackers and cakes and +sweets console any one for the loss of being out at an ungodly hour and +seeing a real live dance! The one thing that finally helped him to +endure his hard lot was a promise on his mother's part that Tommy and +Mabel Monkton should come down next day and revel with him among the +glorious ruins of the supper table. The little Monktons had not come, +however, when Joyce left for her walk. + +"Going out?" Lady Swansdown had said to her, meeting her in the hall, +fully equipped for her excursion. "But why, my dear girl? We expect +those amusing Burkes in an hour or so, and the Delaneys, and----" + +"Yes, why go?" repeats Beauclerk, who has just come up. His manner is +friendly in the extreme, yet a very careful observer might notice a +strain about it, a determination to be friendly that rather spoils the +effect. Her manner toward him last night after his interview with Miss +Maliphant in the garden and her growing coldness ever since, has +somewhat disconcerted, him mentally. Could she have heard, or seen, or +been told of anything? There might, of course, have been a little +_contretemps_ of some sort. People, as a rule, are so beastly +treacherous! "You will make us wretched if you desert us," says he with +_empressement_. As he speaks he goes up to her and lets his eyes as well +as his lips implore her. Miss Maliphant had left by the early train, so +that he is quite unattached, and able to employ his whole battery of +fascinations on the subjugation of this refractory person. + +"I am sorry. Don't be more wretched than you can help!" says Joyce, with +a smile wonderfully unconcerned. "After a dance I want to walk to clear +my brain, and Mr. Dysart has been good enough to say he will accompany +me." + +"Is he accompanying you?" says Beauclerk, with an unpardonable +supercilious glance around him as if in search of the absent Dysart. + +"You mustn't think him a laggard at his post," says Miss Kavanagh, still +smiling, but now in a little provoking way that seems to jest at his +pretended suspicion of Dysart's constancy and dissolve it into the +thinnest of thin air. "He was here just now, but I sent him to loose the +dogs. I like to have them with me, and Lady Baltimore is pleased when +they get a run." + +"Isabel is always so sympathetic," says he, with a quite new and +delightful rush of sympathy toward Isabel. "I suppose," glancing at +Joyce keenly, "you would not care for an additional escort? The +dogs--and Dysart--will be sufficient?" + +"Mr. Dysart and the dogs will be," says she. "Ah! Here he comes," as +Dysart appears at the open doorway, a little pack of terriers at his +heels. "What a time you've been!" cries she, moving quickly to him. "I +thought you would never come. Good-bye, Lady Swansdown; good-bye," +glancing casually at Beauclerk. "Keep one teapot for us if you can!" + +She trips lightly up the avenue at Dysart's side, leaving Beauclerk in a +rather curious frame of mind. + +"Yes, she has heard something!" That is his first thought. How to +counteract the probable influence of that "something" is the second. A +little dwelling upon causes and effects shows him the way. For an effect +there is often an antidote! + + * * * * * + +"Delicious indeed!" says Dysart, in answer to her remark. His answer is, +however, a little _distrait_. His determination of last night to bring +her here, and compel her to listen to the honest promptings of his heart +is still strong within him. + +They have now ascended the hill, and, standing on its summit, can look +down on the wild deep sea beneath them that lies, to all possible +seeming, as calm and passive at their feet as might a thing inanimate. + +Yet within its depths what terrible--what mournful tragedies lie! And, +as if in contrast, what ecstatic joys! To one it speaks like death +itself--to another: + + "The bridegroom sea + Is toying with the shore, his wedded bride, + And in the fullness of his marriage joy + He decorates her tawny brow with shells, + Retires a pace to see how fair she looks, + Then, proud, runs up to kiss her." + +"Shall we sit here?" says Dysart, indicating a soft mound of grass that +overlooks the bay. "You must be tired after last night's dancing." + +"I _am_ tired," says she, sinking upon the soft cushion that Nature has +provided with a little sigh of satisfaction. + +"Perhaps I should not have asked--have extracted--a promise from you to +come here," says Dysart, with contrition in his tone. "I should have +remembered you would be overdone, and that a long walk like this----" + +"Would be the very thing to restore me to a proper state of health," she +interrupts him, with the prettiest smile. "No, don't pretend you are +sorry you brought me here. You know it is the sheerest hypocrisy on your +part. You are glad, that you brought me here, I hope, and +I"--deliberately--"am glad that you did." + +"Do you mean that?" says Dysart, gravely. He had not seated himself +beside her, and is now looking down her from a goodly height. "Do you +know why I brought you?" + +"To bring me back again as fresh as a daisy," suggests she, with a laugh +that is spoiled in its birth by a glance from him. + +"No, I did not think of you at all. I thought only of myself," says +Dysart, speaking a little quickly now. "Call that selfish if you +will--and yet----" + +He stops short, and comes closer to her. "To think in that way was to +think of you too. Joyce, there is at all events one thing you do +know--that I love you." + +Miss Kavanagh nods her head silently. + +"There is one thing, too, that I know," says Dysart now with a little +tremble in his voice, "that you do not love me!" + +She is silent. + +"You are honest," says he, after a pause. "Still"--looking at her--"if +there wasn't hope one would know. Though the present is empty for me, I +cannot help dwelling on the thought that the future may +contain--something!" + +"The future is so untranslatable," says she, with a little evasion. + +"Tell me this at least," says Dysart, very earnestly, bending over her +with the air of one determined to sift his chances to the last grain, +"you like me?" + +"Oh, yes." + +"Better than Courtenay, for example?" with a fleeting smile that fails +to disguise the real anxiety he is enduring. + +"What an absurd question!" + +"Than Dicky Brown?" + +"Yes." + +But here she lifts her head and gazes at him in a startled way that +speaks of quick suspicion. There is something of entreaty, too, in her +dark eyes, a desire that he will go no further. + +But Dysart deliberately disregards it. + +"Than Beauclerk?" asks he in a clear, almost cruel tone. + +A horrible red rushes up to dye her pretty cheeks, in spite of all her +efforts to subdue it. Great tears of shame and confusion suffuse her +eyes. One little reproachful glance she casts at him, and then: + +"Of course," says she, almost vehemently, if a little faintly, her eyes +sinking to the ground. + +Dysart stands before her as if stricken into stone. Then the knowledge +that he has hurt her pierces him with a terrible certainty, overcomes +all other thoughts, and drives him to repentance. + +"I shouldn't have asked you that," says he bluntly. + +"No, no!" says she, acquiescing quickly, "and yet," raising an eager, +lovely face to his, "I hardly know anything about--about myself. +Sometimes I think I like him, sometimes----" She stops abruptly and +looks at him with a pained and frightened gaze. "Do you despise me for +betraying myself like this?" + +"No--I want to hear all about it." + +"Ah! That is what I want to hear myself. But who is to tell me? Nature +won't. Sometimes I hate him. Last night----" + +"Yes, I know. You hated him last night. I don't wish to know why. I am +quite satisfied in that you did so." + +"But shall I hate him to-morrow? Oh, yes, I think so--I hope so," cries +she suddenly. "I am tired of it all. He is not a real person, not one +possible to class. He is false--naturally treacherous, and yet----" + +She breaks off again very abruptly, and turns to Dysart as if for help. + +"Let us forget him," she says, and then in a little frightened way, "Oh, +I wish I could be sure I could forget him!" + +"Why can't you?" says Dysart, in his downright way. "It means only a +strong effort after all. If you feel honestly," with an earnest glance +at her, "like that toward him, you must be mad to give him even a corner +in your heart." + +"That is it," says she, "there the puzzle begins. I don't know if he +ever has a corner in my heart. He attracts me, but attraction is not +affection, and the heart holds only love and hatred. Indifference is +nothing." + +"You can get rid of him finally," says Dysart, boldly, "by giving +yourself to me. That will kill all----" + +All he may be going to say is killed on his lips at this moment by two +little wild shrieks of joy that sound right behind his head. Both he and +Joyce turn abruptly in its direction--he with a sense of angry +astonishment, she with a fell knowledge of its meaning. It is, indeed, +no surprise to her when Tommy and Mabel appear suddenly from behind the +rock just close to them, that hides the path in part, and precipitates +themselves into her arms. + +"We saw you, we saw you!" gasps Tommy, breathless from his run up the +hill: "we saw you far away down there on the road, and we told Bridgie" +(the maid) "that we'd run up, and she said 'cut along,' so here we are." + +"You are, indeed," says Dysart, with feeling. + +"We knew you'd be glad to see us," goes on Tommy to Joyce in the +beautiful roar he always adopts when excited; "you haven't been home for +years, and Bridgie says that's because you are going to be married +to----" + +"Get up, Tommy, you are too heavy, and, besides, I want to kiss Mabel," +says Tommy's aunt with prodigious haste and a hot cheek. + +"But mammy says you're a silly Billy," says Mabel in her shrill treble, +"an' that----" + +"Mammy is a shockingly rude person," says Mr. Dysart, hurrying to break +into the dangerous confidence, no matter at what cost, even at the +expense of the adored mammy. His remark is taken very badly. + +"She's not," says Tommy, glowering at him. "Father says she's an angel, +and he knows. I heard him say it, and angels are never rude!" + +"'Twas after he made her cry about something," says Mabel, lifting her +little flower-like face to Dysart's in a miniature imitation of her +brother's indignation. "She was boo-booing like anything, and then +father got sorry--oh!--dreadful sorry--and he said she was an angel, and +she said----" + +"Oh, Mabel!" says Joyce, weakly, "you know you oughtn't to say such----" + +"Well, 'twas your fault, 'twas all about you," says Tommy, defiantly. +"Why don't you come home? Father says you ought to come, and mammy says +she doesn't know which of 'em it'll be; and father says it won't be any +of them, and--what's it all about?" turning a frankly inquisitive little +face up to hers. "They wouldn't tell us, and we want to know which of +'em it will be." + +"Yes, an' is it jints?" demands Mabel, who probably means giants, and +not cold meats. + +"I don't know what she means," says Miss Kavanagh, coldly. + +"I say, you two," says Mr. Dysart, brilliantly, "wouldn't you like to +run a race? Bridget must be tired of waiting for you down there at the +end of the hill, and----" + +"She isn't waiting, she's talking to Mickey Daly," says Tommy. + +"Oh, I see. Well, look here. I bet you, Tommy, strong as you look, Mabel +can outrun you down the hill." + +"She! she!" cries Tommy, indignantly; "I could beat her in a minute." + +"You can't," cries Mabel in turn. "Nurse says I'm twice the child that +you are." + +"Your legs are as short as a pin," roars Tommy; "you couldn't run." + +"I can. I can. I can," says Mabel, on the verge of a violent flood of +tears. + +"Well, we'll see," says Mr. Dysart, who now begins to think he has +thrown himself away on a silly Hussar regiment, when he ought to have +taken rank as a distinguished diplomat. "Come, I'll start you both down +the hill, and whichever reaches Bridget first wins the day." + +Instantly both children spring to the front of the path. + +"You're standing before me, Tommy." + +"No, I'm not." + +"You're cheating--you are!" + +"Cheat yourself! Mr. Dysart, ain't I all right?" + +"I think you should give her a start; she's the girl, you know," says +Dysart. "There now, go. That's very good. Five yards, Tommy, is a small +allowance for a little thing like Mabel. Steady now, you two! One--Good +gracious, they're off," says he, turning to Miss Kavanagh with a sigh of +relief mingled with amusement. "They had no idea of waiting for more +than one signal. I hope they will meet this Bridget, and get back to +their mother." + +"They are not going to her just now. They are going on to the Court to +spend the afternoon with Bertie," says Joyce; "Barbara told me so last +night. Dear things! How sweet they looked!" + +"They are the prettiest children I know," says Dysart--a little absent +perhaps. He falls into silence for a moment or two, and then suddenly +looks at her. He advances a step. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + + "A continual battle goes on in a child's mind between what it knows + and what it comprehends." + + +"Well?" says he. + +He advances even nearer, and dropping on a stone close to her, takes +possession of one of her hands. + +"As you can't make up your mind to him; and, as you say, you like me, +say something more." + +"More?" + +"Yes. A great deal more. Take the next move. Say--boldly--that you will +marry me!" + +Joyce grows a little pale. She had certainly been prepared for this +speech, had been preparing herself for it all the long weary wakeful +night, yet now that she hears it, it seems as strange, as terrible, as +though it had never suggested itself to her in its vaguest form. + +"Why should I say that?" says she at last, stammering a little, and +feeling somewhat disingenuous. She had known, yet now she is trying to +pretend that she did not know. + +"Because I ask you. You see I put the poorest reason at first, and +because you say I am not hateful to you, and because----" + +"Well?" + +"Because, when a man's last chance of happiness lies in the balance, he +will throw his very soul into the weighing of it--and knowing this, you +may have pity on me." + +As though pressed down by some insupportable weight, the girl rises and +makes a little curious gesture as if to free herself from it. Her face, +still pale, betrays an inward struggle. After all, why cannot she give +herself to him? Why can't she love him? He loves her; love, as some poor +fool says, begets love. + +And he is honest. Yes, honest! A pang shoots through her breast. +That, when all is told, is the principal thing. He is not +uncertain--untrustworthy--double-faced, as _some_ men are. Again that +cruel pain contracts her heart. To be able to believe in a person, to be +able to trust implicitly in each lightest word, to read the real meaning +in every sentence, to see the truth shining in the clear eyes, this is +to know peace and happiness; and yet-- + +"You know all," says she, looking up at him, her eyes compressed, her +brow frowning; "I am uncertain of myself, nothing seems sure to me, but +if you wish it----" + +"Wish it!" clasping her hands closer. + +"There is this to be said, then. I will promise to answer you this day +twelve-month." + +"Twelve months," says he, with consternation; his grasp on her hands +loosens. + +"If the prospect frightens or displeases you, there is nothing more to +be said," rejoins she coldly. It is she who is calm and composed, he is +nervous and anxious. + +"But a whole year!" + +"That is nothing," says she, releasing her hands, with a little +determined show of strength, from his. "It is for you to decide. I don't +care!" + +Perhaps she hardly grasps the cruelty that lies in this half-impatient +speech, until she sees Dysart's face flush painfully. + +"You need not have said that," says he. "I know it. I am nothing to you +really." He pauses, and then says again in a low tone, "Nothing." + +"Oh, you mustn't feel so much!" cries she, as if tortured. "It is folly +to feel at all in this world. What's the good of it. And to feel about +me, I am not worth it. If you would only bear that in mind, it might +help you." + +"If I bore that in mind I should not want to make you my wife!" returns +he steadily, gravely. "Think as you will yourself, you do not shake my +faith in you. Well," with a deep breath, "I accept your terms. For a +year I shall feel myself bound to you (though that is a farce, for I +shall always be bound to you, soul and body) while you shall hold +yourself free, and try to----" + +"No, no. We must both be equal--both free, while I--" she stops short, +coloring warmly, and laughing, "what is it I am to try to do?" + +"To love me!" replies he, with infinite sadness in look and tone. + +"Yes," says Joyce slowly, and then again meditatively, "yes." She lifts +her eyes presently and regards him strangely. "And if all my trying +should not succeed? If I never learn to love you?" + +"Why, then it is all over. This hope of mine is at an end," say he, so +calmly, yet with such deep melancholy, such sad foreboding, that her +heart is touched. + +"Oh! it is a hope of mine too," says she quickly. "If it were not would +I listen to you to-day? But you must not be so downhearted; let the +worst come to the worst, you will be as well off as you are at this +instant." + +He shakes his head. + +"Does hope count for nothing, then?" + +"You would compel me to love you," says she, growing the more vexed as +she grows the more sorry for him. "Would you have me marry you even if I +did not love you?" Her soft eyes have filled with tears, there is a +suspicion of reproach in her voice. + +"No. I suppose not." + +He half turns away from her. At this moment a sense of despair falls on +him. She will never care for him, never, never. This proposed probation +is but a mournful farce, a sorry clinging to a hope that is built on +sand. When in the future she marries, as so surely she will, he will not +be her husband. Why not give in at once? Why fight with the impossible? +Why not break all links (frail as they are sweet), and let her go her +way, and he his, while yet there is time? To falter is to court +destruction. + +Then all at once a passionate reaction sets in. Joyce, looking at him, +sees the light of battle, the warmth of love the unconquerable, spring +into his eyes. No, he will not cave in! He will resist to the last! +dispute every inch of the ground, and if finally only defeat is to crown +his efforts still----And why should defeat be his? Be it Beauclerk or +another, whoever declares himself his rival shall find him a formidable +enemy to overcome. + +"Joyce," says he quickly, turning to her and grasping her hands, "give +me my chance. Give me those twelve months; give me your thoughts now and +then while they last. I brought you here to-day to say all this knowing +we should be alone, and without----" + +"Tommy?" says she, with a little laugh. + +"Oh, well! You must confess I got rid of him," says he, smiling too, and +glad in his heart to find her so cheerful. "I think if you look into it, +that my stratagem, the inciting him to the overcoming of his sister in +that race, was the work of a diplomatist of the first water. I quite +felt that----" + +A war whoop behind him dissolves his self-gratulations into nothing. +Here comes Tommy the valiant, triumphant, puffed beyond all description +with pride and want of breath. + +"I beat her, I beat her," shrieks he, with the last note left in his +tuneful pipe. He staggers the last yard or two and falls into Joyce's +arms, that are opened wide to receive him. Who shall say he is not a +happy interlude? Evidently Joyce regards him as such. + +"I came back to tell you," says Tommy, recovering himself a little. "I +knew," with the fearless confidence of childhood, "that you'd be longing +to know if I beat her, and I did. She's down there how with Bridgie," +pointing to the valley beneath, "and she's mad with me because I didn't +let her win." + +"You ought to go back to her," says Dysart, "she'll be madder if you +don't." + +"She won't. She's picking daisies now." + +"But Bridget will want you." + +"No," shaking his lovely little head. "Bridgie said: 'ye may go, sir, +an' ye needn't be in a hurry back, me an' Mickey Daily have a lot to say +about me mother's daughter.'" + +It would be impossible to describe the accuracy with which Tommy +describes Bridget's tone and manner. + +"Oh! I daresay," says Mr. Dysart. "Me mother's daughter must be a truly +enthralling person." + +"I think Tommy ought to be educated for the stage," says Joyce in a +little whisper. + +"He'll certainly make his mark wherever he goes," says Dysart, laughing. +"Tommy," after a careful examination of Monkton, Junior's, seraphic +countenance, "don't you think you ought to take your sister on to the +Court?" + +"So I will," says Tommy, "in a minute or two." He has climbed into +Joyce's lap, and is now sitting on her with his arms round her neck. To +make love to a young woman and to induce her to marry you with a +barnacle of this sort hanging round her suggests difficulties. Mr. +Dysart waits. "All things come to those who wait," says a wily old +proverb. But Dysart proves this proverb a swindle. + +"Now, Tommy," says he, "the two minutes are up." + +"I don't care," says Tommy. "I'm tired, and Bridgie said I needn't +hurry." + +"The charms of Mr. Mickey Daly are no doubt great," says Dysart, mildly, +"yet I think Bridget must by this time be aware that she wasn't sent out +by your mother to tattle to him, but to take you and your sister to play +with Bertie. Here, Tommy," decisively, "get off your aunt's lap and run +away." + +"But why?" demands Tommy, aggressively. "What harm am I doing?" + +"You are tiring your aunt, for one thing." + +"I'm not! She likes to have me here," defiantly. "I ride a 'cock horse' +every night when she's at home, don't I, Joyce? I wish you'd go away," +wrathfully, "because then Joyce would come home and play with us again. +'Tis you," glaring at him with deep-seated anger in his eyes, "who are +keeping her here!" + +"Oh, no; you are wrong there," says Dysart with a sad smile. "I could +not keep her anywhere, she would not stay with me. But really, Tommy, +you know you ought to go on to the Court. Poor little Bertie is looking +out for you eagerly. See," plunging his hand into his pocket, "here is +half a crown for you to spend on lollipops. I'll give it to you if +you'll go back to Bridget." + +Tommy's eyes brighten. But as quickly the charming blue in them darkens +again. There is no tuck shop between this and the Court. + +"'Tisn't any good," says he mournfully, "the shop's away down there," +pointing vaguely backward on the journey he has come. + +"You look strong in wind and limb; there is no reason to believe that +the morrow's sun may not dawn on you," says Mr. Dysart. "And then think, +Tommy, think what a joy you will be to old Molly Brien." + +"Molly gives me four bull's-eyes for a penny," says Tommy reflectively. +"That's two to Mabel and two to me, because mammy says baby mustn't have +any for fear she'd choke. If there's four for a penny, how many is there +for this?" holding out the half crown that lies upon his little brown +shapely palm. + +"That's a sum," says Mr. Dysart. "Tommy, you're a cruel boy;" and having +struggled with it for a moment, he says "one hundred and twenty." + +"No!" says Tommy in a voice faint with hopeful unbelief. "Joyce, 'tisn't +true, is it?" + +"Quite true," says Joyce. "Just fancy, Tommy, one hundred and twenty +bull's-eyes, all in one day!" + +There is such a genuine support of his desire to get rid of Tommy in her +tone that Dysart's heart rises within him. + +"Tie it into my hankercher," says Tommy, without another second's +hesitation. "Tie it tight, or it'll slip out and I'll lose it. Good-bye, +and thank you, Mr. Dysart," thrusting a hot little fist into his. "I'll +keep some of the hundred and twenty ones for you and Joyce." + +He rushes away down the hill, eager to tell his grand news to Mabel, and +presently Joyce and Dysart are alone again. + +"You see you were not so clever a diplomatist as you thought yourself," +says Joyce, smiling faintly; "Tommy came back." + +"Tommy and I have one desire in common; we both want to be with you." + +"Could you be bought off like Tommy?" says she, half playfully. "Oh, no! +Half a crown would not be good enough." + +"Would all the riches the world contains be good enough?" says he in a +voice very low, but full of emotion. "You know it would not. But you, +Joyce--twelve months is a long time. You may see others--if not +Beauclerk--others--and----" + +"Money would not tempt me," says the girl slowly. "If money were your +rival, you would indeed be safe. You ought to know that." + +"Still--Joyce----" He stops suddenly. "May I think of you as Joyce? I +have called you so once or twice, but----" + +"You may always call me so," says she gently, if indifferently. "All my +friends call me so, and you--are my friend, surely!" + +The very sweetness of her manner, cold as ice as it is, drives him to +desperation. + +"Not your friend--your lover!" says he with sudden passion. "Joyce, +think of all that I have said--all you nave promised. A small matter to +you perhaps--the whole world to me. You will wait for me for twelve +months. You will try to love me. You----" + +"Yes, but there is something more to be said," cries the girl, springing +to her feet as if in violent protest, and confronting him with a curious +look--set--determined--a little frightened perhaps. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + + "'I thought love had been a joyous thing,' quoth my uncle Toby." + + "He hath a heart as sound as a bell, and his tongue is the clapper. + For what his heart thinks his tongue speaks." + + +"More?" says Dysart startled by her expression, and puzzled as well. + +"Yes!" hurriedly. "This!" The very nervousness that is consuming her +throws fire into her eyes and speech. "During all these long twelve +months I shall be free. Quite free. You forgot to put that in! You must +remember that! If--if I should, after all this thinking, decide on not +having anything to do with you--you," vehemently, "will have no right to +reproach me. Remember," says she going up to him and laying her hand +upon his arm while the blood receding from her face leaves her very +white; "remember should such a thing occur--and it is very likely," +slowly, "I warn you of that--you are not to consider yourself wronged or +aggrieved in any way." + +"Why should you talk to me in this way?" begins he, aggrieved now at all +events. + +"You must recollect," feverishly, "that I have made you no promise. Not +one. I refuse even to look upon this matter as a serious thing. I tell +you honestly," her dark eyes gleaming with nervous excitement, "I don't +believe I ever shall so look at it. After all," pausing, "you will do +well if you now put an end to this farce between us; and tell me to take +myself and my dull life out of yours forever." + +"I shall never tell you that," in a low tone. + +"Well, well," impatiently; "I have warned you. It will not be my fault +if----O! it is foolish of you!" she blurts out suddenly. "I have told +you I don't understand myself: and still you waste yourself--you throw +yourself away. In the end you will be disappointed in me, if not in one +way, then in another. It hurts me to think of that. There is time still; +let us be friends--friends----" Her hands are tightly clasped, she looks +at him with a world of entreaty in her beautiful eyes. "Friends, Felix!" +breathes she softly. + +"Let things rest as they are, I beseech you," says he, taking her hand +and holding it in a tight grasp. "The future--who can ever say what that +great void will bring us. I will trust to it; and if only loss and +sorrow be my portion, still----As for friendship, Joyce; whatever +happens I shall be your friend and lover." + +"Well--you quite know," says the girl, almost sullenly. + +"Quite. And I accept the risk. Do not be angry with me, my beloved." He +lifts the hand he holds and presses it to his lips, wondering always at +the coldness of it. "You are free, Joyce; you desire it so, and I desire +it, too. I would not hamper you in any way." + +"I should not be able to endure it, if--afterward--I thought you were +reproaching me," says she, with a little weary smile. + +"Be happy about that," says he: "I shall never reproach you." He is +silent for a moment; her last speech has filled him with thoughts that +presently grow into extremely happy ones: unless--unless she liked +him--cared for him, in some decided, if vague manner, would his future +misery be of so much importance to her? Oh! surely not! A small flood of +joy flows over him. A radiant smile parts his lips. The light of a +coming triumph that shall gird and glorify his whole life illumines his +eyes. + +She regarding him grows suddenly uneasy. + +"You--you fully understand," says she, drawing back from him. + +"Oh, you have made me do that," says he, but his radiant smile still +lingers. + +"Then why," mistrustfully, "do you look so happy?" She draws even +further away from him. It is plain she resents that happiness. + +"Is there not reason?" says he. "Have you not let me speak, and having +spoken, do you not still let me linger near you? It is more than I dared +hope for! Therefore, poor as is my chance, I rejoice now. Do not forbid +me. I may have no reason to rejoice in the future. Let me, then, have my +day." + +"It grows very late," says Miss Kavanagh abruptly. "Let us go home." + +Silently they turn and descend the hill. Halfway down he pauses and +looks backward. + +"Whatever comes of it," says he, "I shall always love this spot. Though, +if the year's end leave me desolate, I hope I shall never see it again." + +"It is unlucky to rejoice too soon," says she, in a low whisper. + +"Oh! don't say that word 'Rejoice.' How it reminds me of you. It ought +to belong to you. It does. You should have been called 'Rejoice' instead +of 'Joyce'; they have cut off half your name. To see you is to feel new +life within one's veins." + +"Ah! I said you didn't know me," returns she sadly. + + * * * * * + +Meantime the hours have flown; evening is descending. It is all very +well for those who, traveling up and down romantic hills, can find +engrossing matters for conversation in their idle imaginings of love, or +their earnest belief therein, but to the ordinary ones of the earth, +mundane comforts are still of some worth. + +Tea, the all powerful, is now holding high revelry in the library at the +Court. Round the cosy tables, growing genial beneath the steam of the +many old Queen Anne "pots," the guests are sitting singly or in groups. + +"What delicious little cakes!" says Lady Swansdown, taking up a smoking +morsel of cooked butter and flour from the glowing tripod beside her. + +"You like them?" says Lady Baltimore in her slow, earnest way. "So does +Joyce. She thinks they are the nicest cakes in the world. By the by, +where is Joyce?" + +"She went out for a walk at twenty minutes after two," says Beauclerk. +He has pulled out his watch and is steadily consulting it. + +"And it is now twenty minutes after five," says Lady Swansdown, +maliciously, who detests Beauclerk and who has read his relations with +Joyce as clear as a book. "How she must have enjoyed herself!" + +"Yes; but where?" says Lady Baltimore anxiously. Joyce has been left in +her charge, and, apart from that, she likes the girl well enough, to be +uneasy about her when occasion arises. + +"With whom would be a more appropriate question," says Dicky Browne, +who, as usual, is just where he ought not to be. + +"Oh, I know where she is," cries a little, shrill voice from the +background. It comes from Tommy, and from that part of the room where +Tommy and Mabel and little Bertie are having a game behind the window +curtains. Blocks, dolls, kitchens, farm yards, ninepins--all have been +given to them as a means of keeping them quiet. One thing only has been +forgotten: the fact that the human voice divine is more attractive to +them, more replete with delightful mystery, fuller of enthralling +possibilities than all the toys that ever yet were made. + +"Thomas, are you fully alive to the responsibilities to which you pledge +yourself?" demands Mr. Browne severely. + +"What?" says Tommy. + +"Do you pledge yourself to declare where Miss Kavanagh is now?" + +"Is it Joyce?" says Tommy, coming forward and standing undaunted in his +knickerbockers and an immaculate collar that defies suspicion. + +"Yes--Joyce," says Mr. Browne, who never can hold his tongue. + +"Well, I know." Tommy pauses, and an unearthly silence falls on the +assembled company. Half the county is present, and as Tommy, in the +character of _reconteur_, is widely known and deservedly dreaded, +expectation spreads itself among his audience. + +Lady Baltimore moves uneasily, and for once Dicky Browne feels as if he +should like to sink into his boot. + +"She's up on the top of the hill with Mr. Dysart," says Tommy, and no +more. Lady Baltimore sighs with relief, and Mr. Browne feels now as if +he should like to give Tommy something. + +"How do you know?" asks Beauclerk, as though he finds it impossible to +repress the question. + +"Because I saw her there," says Tommy, "when Mabel and me was coming +here. I like Mr. Dysart, don't you?" addressing Beauclerk specially. "He +is a very kind sort of man. He gave me half a crown." + +"For what, Tommy?" asks Baltimore, idly, to whom Tommy is an unfailing +joy. + +"To go away and leave him alone with Joyce," says Tommy, with awful +distinctness. + +Tableau! + +Lady Baltimore lets her spoon fall into her saucer, making a little +quick clatter. Everybody tries to think of something to say; nobody +succeeds. + +Mr. Browne, who is evidently choking, is mercifully delivered by +beneficent nature from a sudden death. He gives way to a loud and +sonorous sneeze. + +"Oh, Dicky! How funny you do sneeze," says Lady Swansdown. It is a +safety valve. Everybody at once affects to agree with her, and universal +laughter makes the room ring. + +"Tommy, I think it is time for you and Mabel to go home," says Lady +Baltimore. "I promised your mother to send you back early. Give her my +love, and tell her I am so sorry she couldn't come to me to-day, but I +suppose last night's fatigue was too much for her." + +"'Twasn't that," says Tommy; "'twas because cook----" + +"Yes, yes; of course. I know," says Lady Baltimore, hurriedly, afraid of +further revelations. "Now, say good-bye, and, Bertie, you can go as far +as the first gate with them." + +The children make their adieus, Tommy reserving Dicky Browne for a last +fond embrace. + +"Good-bye, old man! So-long!" + +"What's that?" says Tommy, appealing to Beauclerk for information. + +"What's what?" says Beauclerk, who isn't in his usual amiable mood. + +"What's the meaning of that thing Dicky said to me?" + +"'So-long?' Oh that's Browne's charming way of saying good-bye." + +"Oh!" says Tommy, thoughtfully. He runs it through his busy brain, and +brings it out at the other end satisfactorily translated. "I know," says +he: "Go long! That's what he meant! But I think," indignantly, "he +needn't be rude, anyway." + +The children have hardly gone when Joyce and Dysart enter the room. + +"I hope I'm not dreadfully late," cries Joyce, carelessly, taking off +her cap, and giving her head a little light shake, as if to make her +pretty soft hair fall into its usual charming order. "I have no idea +what the time is." + +"Broken your watch, Dysart?" says Beauclerk, in a rather nasty tone. + +"Come and sit here, dearest, and have your tea," says Lady Baltimore, +making room on the lounge beside her for Joyce, who has grown a little +red. + +"It is so warm here," says she, nervously, that one remark of +Beauclerk's having, somehow, disconcerted her. "If--if I might----" + +"No, no; you mustn't go upstairs for a little while," says Lady +Baltimore, with kindly decision. "But you may go into the conservatory +if you like," pointing to an open door off the library, that leads into +a bower of sweets. "It is cooler there." + +"Far cooler," says Beauclerk, who has followed Joyce with a sort of +determination in his genial air. "Let me take you there, Miss Kavanagh." + +It is impossible to refuse. Joyce, coldly, almost disdainfully and with +her head held higher than usual, skirts the groups that line the walls +on the western side of the room and disappears with him into the +conservatory. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + + "Who dares think one thing and another tell, + My heart detests him as the gates of hell." + + +"A little foolish going for that walk, wasn't it?" says he, leading her +to a low cushioned chair over which a gay magnolia bends its white +blossoms. His manner is innocence itself; ignorance itself would perhaps +better express it. He has decided on ignoring everything; though a +shrewd guess that she saw something of his passages with Miss Maliphant +last night has now become almost a certainty. "I thought you seemed +rather played out last night--fatigued--done to death. I assure you I +noticed it. I could hardly," with deep and affectionate concern, "fail +to notice anything that affected you." + +"You are very good!" says Miss Kavanagh icily. Mr. Beauclerk lets a full +minute go by, and then---- + +"What have I done to merit that tone from you?" asks he, not angrily; +only sorrowfully. He has turned his handsome face full on hers, and is +regarding her with proud, reproachful eyes. "It is idle to deny," says +he, with some emotion, half of which, to do him justice, is real, "that +you are changed to me; something has happened to alter the feelings +of--of--friendship--that I dared to hope you entertained for me. I had +hoped still more, Joyce--but----What has happened?" demands he suddenly, +with all the righteous strength of one who, free from guilt, resents +accusation of it. + +"Have I accused you?" says she, coldly. + +"Yes, a thousand times, yes. Do you think your voice alone can condemn? +Your eyes are even crueller judges." + +"Well I am sorry," says she, faintly smiling. "My eyes must be deceivers +then. I bear you no malice, believe me." + +"So be it," says he, with an assumption of relief that is very well +done. "After all, I have worried myself, I daresay, very unnecessarily. +Let us talk of something else, Miss Maliphant, for example," with a +glance at her, and a pleasant smile. "Nice girl eh? I miss her." + +"She went early this morning, did she?" says Joyce, scarcely knowing +what to say. Her lips feel a little dry; an agonized certainty that she +is slowly growing crimson beneath his steady gaze brings the tears to +her eyes. + +"Too early. I quite hoped to be up to see her off, but sleep had made +its own of me and I failed to wake. Such a good, genuine girl! Universal +favorite, don't you think? Very honest, and very," breaking into an +apparently irrepressible laugh, "ugly! Ah! well now," with smiling self +condemnation, "that's really a little too bad; isn't it?" + +"A great deal too bad," says Joyce, gravely. "I shouldn't speak of her +if I were you." + +"But why, my dear girl?" with arched brows and a little gesture of his +handsome hands. "I allow her everything but beauty, and surely it would +be hypocrisy to mention that in the same breath with her." + +"It isn't fair--it isn't sincere," says the girl almost passionately. +"Do you think I am ignorant of everything, that I did not see you with +her last night in the garden? Oh!" with a touch of scorn that is yet +full of pain, "you should not. You should not, indeed!" + +In an instant he grows confused. Something in the lovely horror of her +eyes undoes him. Only for an instant--after that he turns the momentary +confusion to good account. + +"Ah! you did see her, then, poor girl!" says he. "Well, I'm sorry about +that for her sake." + +"Why for her sake?" still regarding him with that charming disdain. "For +your own, perhaps, but why for hers?" + +Beauclerk pauses: then rising suddenly, stands before her. Grief and +gentle indignation sit upon his massive brow. He looks the very +incarnation of injured rectitude. + +"Do you know, Joyce, you have always been ready to condemn, to misjudge +me," says he in a low, hurt tone. "I have often noticed it, yet have +failed to understand why it is. I was right, you see, when I told myself +last night and this morning that you were harboring unkindly thoughts +toward me. You have not been open with me, you have been willfully +secretive, and, believe me, that is a mistake. Candor, complete and +perfect, is the only great virtue that will steer one clear through all +the shoals and rocks of life. Be honest, above board, and, I can assure +you, you will never regret it. You accused me just now of insincerity. +Have you been sincere?" + +There is a dead pause. He allows it to last long enough to make it +dramatic, and to convince himself he has impressed her, and then, with a +very perceptible increase of dignified pain in his voice, he goes on. + +"I feel I ought not to explain under the circumstances, but as it is to +you"--heavy emphasis, and a second affected silence. "You have heard, +perhaps, of Miss Maliphant's cousin in India?" + +"No," says Joyce, after racking her brain in vain for some memory of the +cousin question. And, indeed, it would have been nothing short of a +miracle if she could have remembered anything about that apocryphal +person. + +"You will understand that I speak to you in the strictest confidence," +says Beauclerk, earnestly: "I wouldn't for anything you could offer me, +that it should get back to that poor girl's ears that I had been +discussing her and the most sacred feelings of her heart. Well, there is +a cousin, and she--you may have noticed that she and I were great +friends?" + +"Yes," says Joyce, whose heart is beating now to suffocation. Oh! has +she wronged him? Does she still wrong him? Is this vile, suspicious +feeling within her one to be encouraged? Is all this story of his, this +simple explanation--false--false? + +"I was, indeed, a sort of confidant of hers. Poor dear girl! it was a +relief to her to talk to somebody." + +"There were others." + +"But none here who knew him." + +"You knew him then? Is his name Maliphant, too?" asks Joyce, ashamed of +her cross-examination, yet driven to it by some power beyond her +control. + +"You mustn't ask me that," says Beauclerk playfully. "There are some +things I must keep even from you. Though you see I go very far to +satisfy your unjust suspicions of me. You can, however, guess a good +deal; you--saw her crying?" + +"She was not crying," says Joyce slowly, a little puzzled. Miss +Maliphant had seemed at the moment in question well pleased. + +"No! Not when you saw her? Ah! that must have been later then," with a +sigh, "you see now I am betraying more than I should. However, I can +depend upon your silence. It will be a small secret between you and me." + +"And Miss Maliphant," says Joyce, coldly. "As for me, what is the +secret?" + +"You haven't understood? Not really? Well, between you and me and the +wall," with delightful gaiety, "I think she gives a thought or two to +that cousin. I fancy," whispering, "she is even in--eh? you know." + +"I don't," says Joyce slowly, who is now longing to believe in him, and +yet is held steadily backward by some strong feeling. + +"I believe she is in love with him," says Beauclerk, still in a +mysterious whisper. "But it is a sore subject," with an expressive +frown. "Not best pleased when it is mentioned to her. Mauvais sujet, you +understand. But girls are often foolish in that way. Better say nothing +about it." + +"I shall say nothing, of course," says Joyce. "Why should I? It is +nothing to me, though I am sorry for her." + +Yet as she says this, a doubt arises in her mind as to whether she need +be sorry. Is there a cousin in India? Could that big, jolly, lively +girl, who had come into the conservatory with Beauclerk last night, with +the light of triumph in her eyes, be the victim of an unhappy love +affair? Should she write and ask her if there is a cousin in India? Oh, +no, no! She could not do that! How horrible, how hateful to distrust him +like this! What a detestable mind must be hers. And besides, why dwell +so much upon it. Why not accept him as a pleasing acquaintance. One with +whom to pass a pleasant hour now and then. Why ever again regard him as +a possible lover! + +A little shudder runs through her. At this moment it seems to her that +she could never really have so regarded him. And yet only last night---- + +And now. What is it? Does she still doubt? Will that strange, curious, +tormenting feeling that once she felt for him return no more. Is it gone +forever? Oh! that it might be so! + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + + "So over violent, or over civil!" + "A man so various." + + +"Dull looking day," says Dicky Browne, looking up from his broiled +kidney to glare indignantly through the window at the gray sky. + +"It can't be always May," says Beauclerk cheerfully, whose point it is +to take ever a lenient view of things. Even to heaven itself he is kind, +and holds out a helping hand. + +"I expect it is we ourselves who are dull," says Lady Baltimore, looking +round the breakfast table, where now many vacant seats make the edges +bare. Yesterday morning Miss Maliphant left. To-day the Clontarfs, and +one or two strange men from the barracks in the next town. Desertion +indeed seems to be the order of the day. "We grow very small," says she. +"How I miss people when they go away." + +"Do you mean that as a liberal bribe for the getting rid of the rest of +us," says Dicky, who is now devoting himself to the hot scones. "If so, +let me tell you it isn't good enough. I shall stay here until you choose +to cross the channel. I don't want to be missed." + +"That will be next week," says Lady Baltimore. "I do beseech all here +present not to forsake me until then." + +"I must deny your prayer," says Lady Swansdown. "These tiresome lawyers +of mine say they must see me on Thursday at the latest." + +"I shall meet you in town at Christmas, however," says Lady Baltimore, +making the remark a question. + +"I hardly think so. I have promised the Barings to join them in Italy +about then." + +"Well, here then in February." + +Lady Swansdown smiles at her hostess, but makes no audible reply. + +"I suppose we ought to do something to-day," says Lady Baltimore +presently, in a listless tone. It is plain to everybody, however, that +in reality she wants to do nothing. "Suggest something, Dicky." + +"Skittles," says that youth, without hesitation. Very properly, however, +no one takes any notice of him. + +"I was thinking that if we went to 'Connor's Cross,' it would be a nice +drive," says Lady Baltimore, still struggling with her duties as a +hostess. "What do you say, Beatrice?" + +"I pray you excuse me," says Lady Swansdown. "As I leave to-morrow, I +must give the afternoon to the answering of several letters, and to +other things besides." + +"Connor's Cross," says Joyce, idly. "I've so often heard of it. Yet, +oddly enough, I have never seen it; it is always the way, isn't it, +whenever one lives very close to some celebrated spot." + +"Celebrated or not, it is at least lovely," says Lady Baltimore. "You +really ought to see it." + +"I'll drive you there this afternoon, Miss Kavanagh," says Beauclerk, in +his friendly way, that in public has never a tincture of tenderness +about it. "We might start after luncheon. It is only about ten miles +off. Eh?" to Baltimore. + +"Ten," briefly. + +"I am right then," equably; "we might easily do it in a little over an +hour." + +"Hour and a half with best horse in the stables. Bad road," says +Baltimore. + +"Even so we shall get there and back in excellent time," says Beauclerk, +deaf to his brother-in-law's gruffness. "Will you come, Miss Kavanagh?" + +"I should like it," says Joyce, in a hesitating sort of way; "but----" + +"Then why not go, dear?" says Lady Baltimore kindly. "The Morroghs of +Creaghstown live not half a mile from it, and they will give you tea if +you feel tired; Norman is a very good whip, and will be sure to have you +back here in proper time." + +Dysart lifting his head looks full at Joyce. + +"At that rate----" says she, smiling at Beauclerk. + +"It is settled then," says Beauclerk pleasantly. "Thank you ever so much +for helping me to get rid of my afternoon in so delightful a fashion." + +"It is going to rain. It will be a wet evening," says Dysart abruptly. + +"Oh, my dear fellow! You can hardly be called a weather prophet," says +Beauclerk banteringly. "You ought to know that a settled gray sky like +that seldom means rain." + +No more is said about it then, and no mention is made of it at luncheon. +At half-past two precisely, however, a dog cart comes round to the hall +door. Joyce running lightly down stairs, habited for a drive, meets +Dysart at the foot of the staircase. + +"Do not go," says he abruptly. + +"Not go--now," with a glance at her costume. + +"I didn't believe you would go," says he vehemently. "I didn't believe +it possible--or I should have spoken sooner. Nevertheless, at this last +moment, I entreat you to give it up." + +"Impossible," says she curtly, annoyed by his tone, which is perhaps, +unconsciously, a little dictatorial. + +"You refuse me?" + +"It is not the question. I have said I would go. I see no reason for not +going. I decline to make myself foolish in the eyes of everybody by +drawing back at the last moment." + +"You have forgotten everything then." + +"I don't know," coldly, "that there is anything to remember." + +"Oh!" bitterly, "not so far as I am concerned. I count for nothing. I +allow that. But he--I fancied you had at least read him." + +"I think, perhaps, there was nothing to read," says she, lowering her +eyes. + +"If you can think that, it is useless my saying anything further." + +He moves to one side as if to let her pass, but she hesitates. Perhaps +she would have said something to soften her decision--but--a rare thing +with him, he loses his temper. Seeing her standing there before him, so +sweet, so lovely, so indifferent, as he tells himself, his despair +overcomes him. + +"I have a voice in this matter," says he, frowning heavily. "I forbid +you to go with that fellow." + +A sharp change crosses Miss Kavanagh's face. All the sudden softness +dies out of it. She stoops leisurely, and disengaging the end of the +black lace round her throat from an envious banister that would have +detained her, without further glance or word for Dysart, she goes up the +hall and through the open doorway. Beauclerk, who has been waiting for +her outside, comes forward. A little spring seats her in the cart. +Beauclerk jumps in beside her. Another moment sees them out of sight. + + * * * * * + +The vagrant sun, that all day long had been coming and going in fitful +fashion, has suddenly sunk behind the thunderous gray cloud that, rising +from the sea, now spreads itself o'er hill and vale. The light has died +out of the sky; dull muttering sounds come rumbling down from the +distant mountains. The vast expanse of barren bog upon the left has +become almost obscure. Here and there a glint of its watery wastes may +be seen, but indistinctly, giving the eye a mournful impression of +"lands forlorn." + +A strange hot quiet seems to have fallen upon the trembling earth. + + "We often see, against some storm. + A silence in the heavens, the rack stand still, + The bold wind speechless, and the orb below + Is hushed as death." + +Just now that "boding silence reigns." A sense of fear falls on Joyce, +she scarcely knows why, as her companion, with a quick lash of the whip, +urges the horse up the steep hill. They are still several miles from +their destination, and, though it is only four o'clock, it is no longer +day. The heavens are black as ink, the trees are shivering in expectant +misery. + +"What is it?" says Joyce, and even as she asks the question it is +answered. The storm is upon them in all its fury. All at once, without +an instant's warning, a violent downpour of rain comes from the bursting +clouds, threatening to deluge them. + +"We are in for it," says Beauclerk in a sharp, short tone, so unlike his +usual dulcet accents that even now, in her sudden discomfort, it +startles her. The rain is descending in torrents, a wild wind has +arisen. The light has faded, and now the day resembles nothing so much +as the dull beginning of a winter's night. + +"Have you any idea where we are?" asks Beauclerk presently. + +"None. You know I told you I had never been here before. But you--you +must have some knowledge of it." + +"How should I? These detestable Irish isolations are as yet unknown +paths to me." + +"But I thought you said--you gave me the impression that you knew +Connor's Cross." + +"I regret it if I did," shortly. The rain is running down his neck by +this time, leaving a cold, drenched collar to add zest to his rising ill +temper. "I had heard of Connor's Cross. I never saw it. I devoutly +hope," with a snarl, "I never shall." + +"I don't think you are likely to," says Joyce, whose own temper is +beginning to be ruffled. + +"Well, this is a sell," says Beauclerk. He is buttoning up a heavy +ulster round his handsome form. He is very particular about the +fastening of the last button--that one that goes under the chin--and +having satisfactorily accomplished it, and found, by a careful moving +backward and forward of his head, that it is comfortably adjusted, it +occurs to him to see if his companion is weather-proof. + +"Got wraps enough?" asks he. "No, by Jove! Here, put on this," dragging +a warm cloak of her own from under the seat and offering it to her with +all the air of one making a gift. "What is it? Coat--cloak--ulster? One +never knows what women's clothes are meant for." + +"To cover them," says Joyce calmly. + +"Well, put it on. By Jove, how it pours! All right now?" having +carelessly flung it round her, without regard for where her arms ought +to go through the sleeves. "Think you can manage the rest by yourself? +So beastly difficult to do anything in a storm like this, with this +brute tugging at the reins and the rain running up one's sleeve." + +"I can manage it very well myself, thank you," says Joyce, giving up the +finding of the sleeves as a bad job; after a futile effort to discover +their whereabouts she buttons the cloak across her chest and sits beside +him, silent but shivering. A little swift, wandering thought of Dysart +makes her feel even colder. If he had been there! Would she be thus +roughly entreated? Nay, rather would she not have been a mark for +tenderest care, a precious charge entrusted to his keeping. A thing +beloved and therefore to be cherished. + +"Look there," says she, suddenly lifting her head and pointing a little +to the right. "Surely, even through this denseness, I see lights. Is it +a village?" + +"Yes--a village, I should say," grimly. "A hamlet rather. Would you," +ungraciously, "suggest our seeking shelter there?" + +"I think it must be the village called 'Falling,'" says she, too pleased +at her discovery to care about his gruffness, "and if so, the owner of +the inn there was an old servant of my father's. She often comes over to +see Barbara and the children, and though I have never come here to see +her, I know she lives somewhere in this part of the world. A good +creature she is. The kindest of women." + +"An inn," says Beauclerk, deaf to the virtues of the old servant, the +innkeeper, but altogether alive to the fact that she keeps an inn. "What +a blessed oasis in our wilderness! And it can't be more than half a mile +away. Why," recovering his usual delightful manner, "we shall find +ourselves housed in no time. I do hope, my dear girl, you are +comfortable! Wrapped up to the chin, eh? Quite right--quite right. After +all, the poor driver has the worst of it. He must face the elements, +whatever happens. Now you, with your dear little chin so cosily hidden +from the wind and rain, and with hardly a suspicion of the blast I am +fighting, make a charming picture--really charming! Ah, you girls! you +have the best of it beyond doubt! And why not? It is the law of +nature--weak woman and strong man! You know those exquisite lines----" + +"Can't that horse go faster?" said Miss Kavanagh, breaking in on this +little speech in a rather ruthless manner. "Lapped in luxury, as you +evidently believe me, I still assure you I should gladly exchange my +present condition for a good wholesome kitchen fire." + +"Always practical. Your charm--one of them," says Mr. Beauclerk. But he +takes the hint, nevertheless, and presently they draw up before a small, +dingy place of shelter. + +Not a man is to be seen. The village, a collection of fifty houses, when +all is told, is swept and garnished. A few geese are stalking up the +street, uttering creaking noises. Some ducks are swimming in a glad +astonishment down the muddy streams running by the edges of the +curbstones. Such a delicious wealth of filthy water has not been seen in +Falling for the past three dry months. + +"The deserted village with a vengeance," says Beauclerk. He has risen in +his seat and placed his whip in the stand with a view of descending and +arousing the inhabitants of this Sleepy Hollow, when a shock head is +thrust out of the inn ("hotel," rather, as is painted on a huge sign +over the door) and being instantly withdrawn again with a muttered +"Och-a-yea," is followed by a shriek for: + +"Mrs. Connolly--Mrs. Connolly, ma'am! Sure, 'tis yourself that's wanted! +Come down, I tell ye! There's ginthry at the door, an' the rain peltin' +on em like the divil. Come down, I'm tellin' ye! Or fegs they'll go on +to Paddy Sheehan's, an' thin where'll ye be? Och, murdher! Where are ye, +at all, at all? 'Tis ruined ye'll be intirely wid the stayin' of ye!" + +"Arrah, hould yer whisht, y'omadhaun o' the world," says another voice, +and in a second a big, buxom, jolly, hearty-looking woman appears on the +threshold, peering a little suspiciously through the gathering gloom at +the dog cart outside. First she catches sight of the crest and coronet, +and a gleam of pleased intelligence brightens her face. Then, lifting +her eyes, she meets those of Joyce, and the sudden pleasure gives way to +actual and honest joy. + +"It is Mrs. Connolly," says Joyce, in a voice that is supposed to +accompany a smile, but has in reality something of tears in it. + +Mrs. Connolly, regardless of the pelting rain and her best cap, takes a +step forward. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + + "All is not golde that outward shewith bright." + + "I love everything that's old--old friends, old times, old manners, + old books, old wine." + + +"An' is it you, Miss Joyce? Glory be! What a day to be out! 'Tis +drenched y'are, intirely! Oh! come in, me dear--come in, me darlin'! +Here, Mikey, Paddy, Jerry!--come here, ivery mother's son o' ye, an' +take Mr. Beauclerk's horse from him. Oh! by the laws!--but y'are soaked! +Arrah, what misfortune dhrove y'out to-day, of all days, Miss Joyce? Was +there niver a man to tell ye that 'twould be a peltin' storm before +nightfall?" + +There had been one. How earnestly Miss Kavanagh now wishes she had +listened to his warning. + +"It looked so fine two hours ago," says she, clambering down from the +dog cart with such misguided help from the ardent Mrs. Connolly as +almost lands her with the ducks in the muddy stream below. + +"Och! there's no more depindince to be placed upon the weather than +there is upon a man. However, 'tis welcome y'are, any way. Your father's +daughter is dear to me--yes, come this way--up these stairs. 'Tis Anne +Connolly is proud to be enthertainin' one o' yer blood inside her door." + +"Oh! I'm so glad I found you," says Joyce, turning when she has reached +Mrs. Connolly's bedroom to imprint upon that buxom widow's cheek a warm +kiss. "It was a long way here--long, and so cold and wet." + +"An' where were ye goin' at all, if I may ax?" says Mrs. Connolly, +taking off the girl's dripping outer garments. + +"To see Connor's Cross----" + +"Faith, 'twas little ye had to do! A musty ould tomb like that, wid +nothin but broken stones around it. Wouldn't the brand-new graveyard +below there do ye? Musha! but 'tis quare the ginthry is! Och! me dear, +'tis wet y'are; there isn't a dhry stitch on ye." + +"I don't think I'm wet once my coats are off," says Joyce; and indeed, +when those invaluable wraps are removed; it is proved beyond doubt--even +Mrs. Connolly's doubt, which is strong--that her gown is quite dry. + +"You see, it was such a sudden rain," says Joyce, "and fortunately we +saw the lights in this village almost immediately after it began." + +"Fegs, too suddint to be pleasant," says Mrs. Connolly. "'Twas well the +early darkness made us light up so quickly, or ye might have missed us, +not knowin' yer road. An' how's all wid ye, me dear--Miss Barbara, an' +the masther, an' the darling childher? I've a Brammy cock and a hen that +I'm thinkin' of takin' down to Masther Tommy this two weeks, but the +ould mare is mighty quare on her legs o' late. Are ye all well?" + +"Quite well, thank you, Mrs. Connolly." + +"Wisha--God keep ye so." + +"And how are all of you? When did you hear from America?" + +"Last month thin--divil a less; an' the greatest news of all! A letther +from Johnny--me eldest boy--wid a five-pound note in it, an' a picther +of the girl he's goin' to marry. I declare to ye when that letther came +I just fell into a chair an' tuk to laughin' an' cryin' till that +ounchal of a girl in the kitchen began to bate me on the back, thinkin' +I was bad in a fit. To think, me dear, of little Johnneen I used to +nurse on me knee thinkin' of takin' a partner. An' a sthrappin' fine +girl too, fegs, wid cheeks like turnips. But there, now, I'll show her +to ye by-and-by. She's a raal beauty if them porthraits be thrue, but +there's a lot o' lies comes from over the wather. An' what'll ye be +takin' now, Miss Joyce dear?"--with a return to her hospitable mood--"a +dhrop o' hot punch, now? Whiskey is the finest thing out for givin' the +good-bye to the cowld." + +"Oh, no, thank you, Mrs. Connolly"--hastily--"if I might have a cup of +tea, I----" + +"Arrah, bad cess to that tay! What's the good of it at all at all to a +frozen stomach? Cowld pison, I calls it. Well, there! Have it yer own +way! An' come along down wid me, now, an' give yerself to the +enthertainin' of Misther Beauclerk, whilst I wet the pot. Glory! what a +man he is!--the size o' the house! A fine man, in airnest. Tell me now," +with a shrewd glance at Joyce, "is there anything betwixt you and him?" + +"Nothing!" says Joyce, surprised even herself by the amount of vehement +denial she throws into this word. + +"Oh, well, there's others! An' Mr. Dysart would be more to my fancy. +There's a nate man, if ye like, be me fegs!" with a second half sly, +wholly kindly, glance at the girl. "If 'twas he, now, I'd give ye me +blessin' wid a heart and a half. An' indeed, now, Miss Joyce, 'tis time +ye were thinkin' o' settlin'." + +"Well, I'm not thinking of it this time," says Joyce, laughing, though a +little catch in her throat warns her she is not far from tears. Perhaps +Mrs. Connolly hears that little catch, too, for she instantly changes +her tactics. + +"Faith, an' 'tis right y'are, me dear. There's a deal o' trouble in +marriage, an' 'tis too young y'are intirely to undertake the likes of +it," says she, veering round with a scandalous disregard for +appearances. "My, what hair ye have, Miss Joyce! 'Tis improved, it is; +even since last I saw ye. I'm a great admirer of a good head o' hair." + +"I wonder when will the rain be over?" asks Joyce, wistfully gazing +through the small window at the threatening heavens. + +"If it's my opinion y'are askin'," says Mrs. Connolly, "I'd say not till +to-morrow morning." + +"Oh! Mrs. Connolly!" turning a distressed face to that good creature. + +"Well, me dear, what can I say but what I think?" flinging out her ample +arms in self-justification. "Would ye have me lie to ye? Why, a sky like +that always----" + +Here a loud crash of thunder almost shakes the small inn to its +foundations. + +"The heavens be good to us!" says Mrs. Connolly, crossing herself +devoutly. "Did ye iver hear the like o' that?" + +"But--it can't last--it is impossible," says Joyce, vehemently. "Is +there no covered car in the town? Couldn't a man be persuaded to drive +me home if I promised him to----" + +"If ye promised him a king's ransom ye couldn't get a covered car +to-night," says Mrs. Connolly. "There's only one in the place, an' that +belongs to Mike Murphy, an' 'tis off now miles beyant Skibbereen, +attindin' the funeral o' Father John Maguire. 'Twon't be home till +to-morrow any way, an'-faix, I wouldn't wondher if it wasn't here then, +for every mother's son at that wake will be as dhrunk as fiddlers +to-night. Father John, ye know, me dear, was greatly respected." + +"Are you sure there isn't another car?" + +"Quite positive. But why need ye be so unaisy, Miss Joyce, dear? Sure, +'tis safe an' sure y'are wid me." + +"But what will they think at home and at the Court?" says Joyce, +faltering. + +"Arrah! what can they think, miss, but that the rain was altogether too +mastherful for ye? Ye know, me dear, we can't (even the best of us) +conthrol the illimints!" This incontrovertible fact Mrs. Connolly gives +forth with a truly noble air of resignation. "Come down now, and let me +get ye that palthry cup o' tay y'are cravin' for." + +She leads Joyce downstairs and into a snug little parlor with a roaring +fire that is not altogether unacceptable this dreary evening. The smell +of stale tobacco smoke that pervades it is a drawback, but, if you think +of it, we can't have everything in this world. + +Perhaps Joyce has more than she wants. It occurs to her, as Beauclerk +turns round from the solitary window, that she could well have dispensed +with his society. That lurking distrust of him she had known vaguely, +but kept under during all their acquaintance, has taken a permanent +place in her mind during her drive with him this afternoon. + +"Oh! here you are. Beastly, smoky hole!" he says, taking no notice of +Mrs. Connolly, who is doing her best curtsey in the doorway. + +"I think it looks very comfortable," says Joyce, with a gracious smile +at her hostess, and a certain sore feeling at her heart. Once again her +thoughts fly to Dysart. Would that have been his first remark when she +appeared after so severe a wetting? + +"'Tis just what I've been sayin' to Miss Kavanagh, sir," says Mrs. +Connolly, with unabated good humor. "The heavens above is always too +much for us. We can't turn off the wather up there as we can the cock in +the kitchen sink. Still, there's compinsations always, glory be! An' +what will ye plaze have wid yer tay, Miss?" turning to Joyce with great +respect in look and tone. In spite of all her familiarity with her +upstairs, she now, with a looker-on, proceeds to treat "her young lady" +as though she were a stranger and of blood royal. + +"Anything you have, Mrs. Connolly," says Joyce; "only don't be long!" +There is undoubted entreaty in the request. Mrs. Connolly, glancing at +her, concludes it is not so much a desire for what will be brought, as +for the bringer that animates the speaker. + +"Give me five minutes, Miss, an' I'll be back again," says she +pleasantly. Leaving the room, she stands in the passage outside for a +moment, and solemnly moves her kindly head from side to side. It takes +her but a little time to make up her shrewd Irish mind on several +points. + +"While this worthy person is getting you your tea I think I'll take a +look at the weather from the outside," says Mr. Beauclerk, turning to +Joyce. It is evident he is eager to avoid a tete-a-tete, but this does +not occur to her. + +"Yes--do--do," says she, nevertheless with such a liberal encouragement +as puzzles him. Women are kittle cattle, however, he tells himself; +better not to question their motives too closely or you will find +yourself in queer street. He gets to the door with a cheerful assumption +of going to study the heavens that conceals his desire for a cigar and a +brandy and soda, but on the threshold Joyce speaks again. + +"Is there no chance--would it not be possible to get home?" says she, in +a tone that trembles with nervous longing. + +"I'm afraid not. I'm just going to see. It is impossible weather for you +to be out in." + +"But you----? It is clearing a little, isn't it?" with a despairing +glance out of the window. "If you could manage to get back and tell them +that----" + +She is made thoroughly ashamed of her selfishness a moment later. + +"But my dear girl, consider! Why should I tempt a severe attack of +inflammation of the lungs by driving ten or twelve miles through this +unrelenting torrent? We are very well out of it here. This +Mrs.--er--Connor--Connolly seems a very respectable person, and is known +to you. I shall tell her to make you as comfortable as her 'limited +liabilities,'" with quite a laugh at his own wit, "will allow." + +"Pray tell her nothing. Do not give yourself so much trouble," says +Joyce calmly. "She will do the best she can for me without the +intervention of any one." + +"As you will, au revoir!" says he, waving her a graceful farewell for +the moment. + +He is not entirely happy in his mind, as he crosses the tiny hall and +makes his way first to the bar and afterward to the open doorway. Like a +cat, he hates rain! To drive back through this turmoil of wind and wet +for twelve long miles to the Court is more than his pleasure-loving +nature can bear to look upon. Yet to remain has its drawbacks, too. + +If Miss Maliphant, for example, were to hear of this escapade there +might be trouble there. He has not as yet finally made up his mind to +give inclination the go by and surrender himself to sordid +considerations, but there can be no doubt that the sordid things of this +life have, with some natures, a charm hardly to be rivaled successfully +by mere beauty. + +The heiress is attractive in one sense; Joyce equally so in another. +Miss Maliphant's charms are golden--are not Joyce's more golden still? +And yet, to give up Miss Maliphant--to break with her finally--to throw +away deliberately a good L10,000 a year! + +He lights his cigar with an untrembling hand, and, having found it +satisfactory, permits his mind to continue its investigations. + +Ten thousand pounds a year! A great help to a man; yet he is glad at +this moment that he is free to accept or reject it. Nothing definite has +been said to the heiress--nothing definite to Joyce either. It strikes +him at this moment, as he stands in the dingy doorway of the inn and +stares out at the descending rain, that he has shown distinct cleverness +in the way in which he has manoeuvred these two girls, without either of +them feeling the least suspicion of the other. Last night Joyce had been +on the point of a discovery, but he had smoothed away all that. +Evidently he was born to be a successful diplomatist, and if that +appointment he has been looking for ever comes his way, he will be able +to show the world a thing or two. + +How charming that little girl in there can look! And never more so than +when she allows her temper to overcome her. She had been angry just now. +Yes. But he can read between the lines; angry--naturally that he has not +come to the point--declared himself--proposed as the saying is. Well, +puffing complacently at his cigar, she must wait--she must wait--if the +appointment comes off, if Sir Alexander stands to him, she has a very +good chance, but if that falls through, why then---- + +And it won't do to encourage her too much, by Jove! If Miss Maliphant +were to hear of this evening's adventure, she is headstrong, stolid +enough, to mark out a line for herself and fling him aside without +waiting for judge or jury. Much as it might cost her, she would not +hesitate to break all ties with him, and any that existed were very +slight. He, himself, had kept them so. Perhaps, after all, he had better +order the trap round, leave Miss Kavanagh here, and---- + +And yet to go out in that rain; to feel it beating against his face for +two or three intolerable hours. Was anything, even L10,000 a year, worth +that? He would be a drowned rat by the time he reached the Court. + +And, after all, couldn't it be arranged without all this bother? He +might easily explain it all away to Miss Maliphant, even should some +kind friend tell her of it. That was his role. He had quite a talent for +explaining away. But he must also make Joyce thoroughly understand. She +was a sensible girl. A word to her would be sufficient. Just a word to +show that marriage at present was out of the question. Nothing +unpleasant; nothing finite; but just some little thing to waken her to +the true state of the case. Girls, as a rule, were sentimental, and +would expect much of an adventure such as this. But Joyce was proud--he +liked that in her. There would be no trouble; she would quite +understand. + +"Tea is just comin' up, sorr!" says a rough voice behind him. "The +misthress tould me to tell ye so!" + +The red-headed Abigail who attends on Mrs. Connolly beckons him, with a +grimy forefinger, to the repast within. He accepts the invitation. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + + "It is the mynd that maketh good or ill, + That maketh wretch or happy, rich or poore." + + +As he enters the inn parlor he finds Joyce sitting by the fire, +listening to Mrs. Connolly, who, armed with a large tray, is advancing +up the room toward the table. Nobody but the "misthress" herself is +allowed to wait upon "the young lady." + +"An' I hope, Miss Joyce, 'twill be to your liking. An' sorry I am, sir," +with a courteous recognition of Beauclerk's entrance, "that 'tis only +one poor fowl I can give ye. But thim commercial thravellers are the +divil. They'd lave nothing behind 'em if they could help it. Still, +Miss," with a loving smile at Joyce, "I do think ye'll like the ham. +'Tis me own curing, an' I brought ye just a taste o' this year's honey; +ye'd always a sweet tooth from the time ye were born." + +"I could hardly have had a tooth before that," says Joyce, laughing. +"Oh, thank you, Mrs. Connolly; it is a lovely tea, and it is very good +of you to take all this trouble." + +"Who'd be welcome to any trouble if 'twasn't yerself, Miss?" says Mrs. +Connolly, bowing and retreating toward the door. + +A movement on the part of Joyce checks her. The girl has made an +impulsive step as if to follow her, and now, seeing Mrs. Connolly stop +short, holds out to her one hand. + +"But, Mrs. Connolly," says she, trying to speak naturally, and +succeeding very well, so far as careless ears are in question, but the +"misthress" marks the false note, "you will stay and pour out tea for +us; you will?" + +There is an extreme treaty in her tone; the stronger in that it has to +be suppressed. Mrs. Connolly, halting midway between the table and the +door with the tray in her hands, hears it, and a sudden light comes, not +only into her eyes, but her mind. + +"Why, if you wish it, Miss," says she directly. She lays down the tray, +standing it up against the wall, and coming back to the table lifts the +teapot and begins to fill the cups. + +"Ye take sugar, sir?" asks she of Beauclerk, who is a little puzzled, +but not altogether displeased at the turn affairs have taken. After all, +as he has told himself a thousand times, Joyce is a clever girl. She is +determined not to betray the anxiety for his society that beyond +question she is feeling. And this prudence on her part will relieve him +of many small embarrassments. Truly, she is a girl not to be found every +day. + +He is accordingly most gracious to Mrs. Connolly; praises her ham, +extols her tea, says wonderful things about the chicken. + +When tea is at an end, he rises gracefully, and expresses his desire to +smoke one more cigar and have a last look at the weather. + +"You will be able to put us up?" says he. + +"Oh yes, sir, sure." + +He smiles beautifully, and with a benevolent request to Joyce to take +care of herself in his absence, leaves the room. + +"He's a dale o' talk," says Mrs. Connolly, the moment his back is +turned. She is now sure that Joyce has some private grudge against him, +or at all events is not what she herself would call "partial to him." + +"Yes," says Joyce. "He is very conversational. How it rains, still." + +"Yes, it does," says Mrs. Connolly, comfortably. She is not at all put +out by the girl's reserved manner, having lived among the "ginthry" for +many years, and being well up to their "quare ways." A thought, however, +that had been formulating in her mind for a long time past--ever since, +indeed, she found her young lady could not return home until +morning--now compels her to give the conversation a fresh turn. + +"I've got to apologize to ye, Miss, but since ye must stay the night wid +me, I'm bound to tell ye I have no room for ye but a little one leadin' +out o' me own." + +"Are you so very full, then, Mrs. Connolly? I'm glad to hear that for +your sake." + +"Full to the chin, me dear. Thim commercials always dhrop down upon one +just whin laste wanted." + +"Then I suppose I ought to be thankful that you can give me a room at +all," says Joyce, laughing. "I'm afraid I shall be a great trouble to +you." + +"Ne'er a scrap in life, me dear. 'Tis proud I am to be of any sarvice to +ye. An' perhaps 'twill make ye aisier in yer mind to know as your undher +my protection, and that no gossip can come nigh ye." + +The good woman means well, but she has flown rather above Joyce's head, +or rather under her feet. + +"I'm delighted to be with you," says Miss Kavanagh, with a pretty smile. +"But as for protection--well, the Land Leaguers round here are not so +bad as that one should fear for one's life in a quiet village like +this." + +"There's worse than Land Leaguers," says Mrs. Connolly. "There's thim +who talk." + +"Talk--of what?" asks Joyce, a little vaguely. + +"Well now, me dear, sure ye haven't lived so long widout knowin' there's +cruel people in the world," says Mrs. Connolly, anxiously. "An' the fact +o' you goin' out dhrivin' wid Mr. Beauclerk, an' stayin' out the night +wid him, might give rise to the talk I'm fightin' agin. Don't be angry +wid me now, Miss Joyce, an' don't fret, but 'tis as well to prepare ye." + +Joyce's heart, as she listens, seems to die within her. A kind of sick +feeling renders her speechless; she had never thought of that--of--of +the idea of impropriety being suggested as part of this most unlucky +escapade. Mrs. Connolly, noting the girl's white face, feels as though +she ought to have cut her tongue out, rather than have spoken, yet she +had done all for the best. + +"Miss Joyce, don't think about it," says she, hurriedly. "I'm sorry I +said a word, but--An', afther all, I am right, me dear. 'Tis betther for +ye when evil tongues are waggin' to have a raal friend like me to yer +back to say the needful word. Ye'll sleep wid me to-night, an' I'll take +ye back to her ladyship in the morning, an' never leave ye till I see ye +in safe hands once more. If ye liked him," pointing to the door through +which Beauclerk had gone, "I'd say nothing, for thin all would come +right enough. But as it is, I'll take it on meself to be the nurse to ye +now that I was when ye were a little creature creeping along the floor." + +Joyce smiles at her, but rather faintly. A sense of terror is oppressing +her. Lady Baltimore, what will she think? And Freddy and Barbara! They +will all be angry with her! Oh! more than angry--they will think she has +done something that other girls would not have done. How is she to face +them again? The entire party at the Court seems to spread itself before +her. Lady Swansdown and Lord Baltimore, they will laugh about it; and +the others will laugh and whisper, and---- + +Felix--Felix Dysart. What will he think? What is he thinking now? To +follow out this thought is intolerable to her; she rises abruptly. + +"What o'clock is it, Mrs. Connolly?" says she in a hard, strained voice. +"I am tired, I should like to go to bed now." + +"Just eight, Miss. An' if you are tired there's nothing like the bed. Ye +will like to say good-night to Mr. Beauclerk?" + +"Oh, no, no!" with frowning sharpness. Then recovering herself. "I need +not disturb him. You will tell him that I was chilled--tired." + +"I'll tell him all that he ought to know," says Mrs. Connolly. "Come, +Miss Joyce, everything, is ready for ye. An' a lie down and a good sleep +will be the makin' of ye before morning." + +Joyce, to her surprise, is led through a very well-appointed chamber, +evidently unused, to a smaller but scarcely less carefully arranged +apartment beyond. The first is so plainly a room not in daily use, that +she turns involuntarily to her companion. + +"Is this your room, Mrs. Connolly?" + +"For the night, me dear," says that excellent woman mysteriously. + +"You have changed your room to suit me. You mean something," says the +girl, growing crimson, and feeling as if her heart were going to burst. +"What is it?" + +"No, no, Miss! No, indeed!" confusedly. "But, Miss Joyce, I'll say this, +that 'tis eight year now since Misther Monkton came here, an' many's the +good turn he's done me since he's been me lord's agint. An' that's +nothing at all, Miss, to the gratitude I bear toward yer poor father, +the ould head o' the house. An' d'ye think when occasion comes I +wouldn't stand up an' do the best I could for one o' yer blood? Fegs, +I'll take care that it won't be in the power of any one to say a word +agin you." + +"Against me?" + +"You're young, Miss. But there's people ould enough to have sinse an' +charity as haven't it. I can see ye couldn't get home to-night through +that rain, though I'm not sayin'"--a little spitefully--"but that he +might have managed it. Still, faith, 'twas bad thravellin' for man or +baste," with a view to softening down her real opinion of Beauclerk's +behavior. How can she condemn him safely? Is he not my lady's own +brother? Is not my lord the owner of the very ground on which the inn is +built, of the farm a mile away, where her cows are chewing the cud by +this time in peace and safety? + +"You have changed your room to oblige me," says Joyce, still with that +strange, miserable look in her eyes. + +"Don't think about that, Miss Joyce, now. An' don't fret yerself about +anything else, ayther; sure ye can remimber that I'm to yer back +always." + +She bridles, and draws up her ample figure to its fullest height. +Indeed, looking at her, it might suggest itself to any reasonable being +that even the forlornest damsel with any such noble support might well +defy the world. + +But Joyce is not to be so easily consoled. What is support to her? Who +can console a torn heart? The day has been too eventful! It has overcome +her courage. Not only has she lost faith in her own power to face the +angry authorities at home, she has lost faith, too, in one to whom, +against her judgment, she had given more of her thoughts than was wise. +The fact that she had recovered from that folly does not render the +memory of the recovery less painful. The awakening from a troubled dream +is full of anguish. + +Rising from a sleepless bed, she goes down next morning to find Mrs. +Connolly standing on the lowest step of the stairs, as if awaiting her, +booted and spurred for the journey. + +"I tould him to order the thrap early, me dear, for I knew ye'd be +anxious," says the kind woman, squeezing her hand. "An' now," with an +anxious glance at her, "I hope ye ate yer breakfast. I guessed ye'd like +it in yer room, so I sint it up to ye. Well--come on, dear. Mr. +Beauclerk is outside waitin'. I explained it all to him. Said ye were +tired, ye know, an' eager to get back. And so all's ready an' the horse +impatient." + +In spite of the storm yesterday, that seemed to shake earth and heaven, +to-day is beautiful. Soft glistening steams are rising from every hill +and bog and valley, as the hot sun's rays beat upon them. The world +seems wrapped in one vast vaporous mist, most lovely to behold. All the +woodland flowers are holding up their heads again, after their past +smiting from the cruel rain; the trees are swaying to and fro in the +fresh morning breeze, thousands of glittering drops brightening the air, +as they swing themselves from side to side. All things speak of a new +birth, a resurrection, a joyful waking from a terrifying past. The grass +looks greener for its bath, all dust is laid quite low, the very lichens +on the walls as they drive past them look washed and glorified. + +The sun is flooding the sky with gorgeous light; there are "sweete smels +al arownd." The birds in the woods on either side of the roadway are +singing high carols in praise of this glorious day. All nature seems +joyous. Joyce alone is silent, unappreciative, unhappy. + +The nearer she gets to the Court the more perturbed she grows in mind. +How will they receive her there? Barbara had said that Lady Baltimore +would not be likely to encourage an attachment between her and +Beauclerk, and now, though the attachment is impossible, what will she +think of this unfortunate adventure? She is so depressed that speech +seems impossible to her, and to all Mr. Beauclerk's sallies she scarcely +returns an answer. + +His sallies are many. Never has he appeared in gayer spirits. The fact +that the girl beside him is in unmistakably low spirits has either +escaped him, or he has decided on taking no notice of it. Last night, +over that final cigar, he had made up his mind that it would be wise to +say to her some little thing that would unmistakably awaken her to the +fact that there was nothing between him and her of any serious +importance. Now, having covered half the distance that lies between them +and the Court, he feels will be a good time to say that little thing. +She is too distrait to please him. She is evidently brooding over +something. If she thinks----Better crush all such hopes at once. + +"I wonder what they are thinking about us at home?" he says presently, +with quite a cheerful laugh, suggestive of amusement. + +No answer. + +"I daresay," with a second edition of the laugh, full now of a wider +amusement, as though the comical fancy that has caught hold of him has +grown to completion, "I shouldn't wonder, indeed, if they were thinking +we had eloped." This graceful speech he makes with the easiest air in +the world. + +"They may be thinking you have eloped, certainly," says Miss Kavanagh +calmly. "One's own people, as a rule, know one very thoroughly, and are +quite alive to one's little failings; but that they should think it of +me is quite out of the question." + +"Well, after all, I daresay you are right. I don't suppose it lies in +the possibilities. They could hardly think it of me either," says +Beauclerk, with a careless yawn, so extraordinarily careless indeed as +to be worthy of note. "I'm too poor for amusement of that kind." + +"One couldn't be too poor for that kind of amusement, surely. Romance +and history have both taught us that it is only the impecunious who ever +indulge in that folly." + +"I am not so learned as you are, but----Well, I'm an 'impecunious one,' +in all conscience. I couldn't carry it out. I only wish," tenderly, "I +could." + +"With whom?" icily. As she asks the question she turns deliberately and +looks him steadily in the eyes. Something in her regard disconcerts him, +and compels him to think that the following up of the "little thing" is +likely to prove difficult. + +"How can you ask me?" demands he with an assumption of reproachful +fondness that is rather overdone. + +"I do, nevertheless." + +"With you, then--if I must put it in words," says he, lowering his tone +to the softest whisper. It is an eminently lover-like whisper; it is a +distinctly careful one, too. It is quite impossible for Mrs. Connolly, +sitting behind, to hear it, however carefully she may be attending. + +"It is well you cannot put your fortune to the touch," says Joyce +quietly; "if you could, disappointment alone would await you." + +"You mean----?" ask he, somewhat sharply. + +"That were it possible for me to commit such a vulgarity as to run away +with any one, you, certainly, would not be that one. You are the very +last man on earth I should choose for so mistaken an adventure. Let me +also add," says she, turning upon him with flashing eyes, though still +her voice is determinately low and calm, "that you forget yourself +strangely when you talk in this fashion to me." The scorn and +indignation in her charming face is so apparent that it is now +impossible to ignore it. Being thus compelled to acknowledge it he grows +angry. Beauclerk angry is not nice. + +"To do myself justice, I seldom do that!" says he, with a rather nasty +laugh. "To forget myself is not part of my calculations. I can generally +remember No. One." + +"You will remember me, too, if you please, so long as I am with you," +says Joyce, with a grave and very gentle dignity, but with a certain +determination that makes itself felt. Beauclerk, conscious of being +somewhat cowed, is bully enough to make one more thrust. + +"After all, Dysart was right," says he. "He prophesied there would be +rain. He advised you not to undertake our ill-starred journey +of--yesterday." There is distinct and very malicious meaning in the +emphasis he throws into the last word. + +"I begin to think Mr. Dysart is always right," says Joyce, bravely, +though her heart has begun to beat furiously. That terrible fear of what +they will say to her when she gets back--of their anger--their courteous +anger--their condemnation--has been suddenly presented to her again and +her courage dies within her. Dysart, what will he say? It strikes even +herself as strange that his view of her conduct is the one that most +disturbs her. + +"Only, beginning to think it? Why, I always understood Dysart was +immaculate--the 'couldn't err' sort of person one reads of but never +sees. You have been slow, surely, to gauge his merits. I confess I have +been even slower. I haven't gauged them yet. But then--Dysart and I were +never much in sympathy with each other." + +"No. One can understand that," says she. + +"One can, naturally," with the utmost self-complaisance. "I confess, +indeed," with a sudden slight burst of vindictiveness, "that I never +liked Dysart; idiotic sort of fool in my estimation, self-opinionated +like all fools, and deucedly impertinent in that silent way of his. I +believe," with a contemptuous laugh, "he has given it as his opinion +that there is very little to like in me either." + +"Has he? We were saying just now he is always right," says Miss +Kavanagh, absently, and in a tone so low that Beauclerk may be excused +for scarcely believing his ears. + +"Eh?" says he. But there is no answer, and presently both fall into a +silent mood--Joyce because conversation is terrible to her, and he +because anger is consuming him. + +He had kept up a lively converse all through the earlier part of their +drive, ignoring the depression that only too plainly was crushing upon +his companion, with a view to putting an end to sentimentality of any +sort. Her discomfort, her unhappiness, was as nothing to him--he thought +only of himself. Few men, under the circumstances, would have so acted, +for most men, in spite of all the old maids who so generously abuse +them, are chivalrous and have kindly hearts; and indeed it is only a +melancholy specimen here and there who will fail to feel pity for a +woman in distress. Beauclerk is a "melancholy specimen." + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + + "Man, false man, smiling, destructive man." + + "Who breathes, must suffer, and who thinks, most mourn; + And he alone is bless'd who ne'er was born." + + +"Oh! my dear girl, is it you at last?" cries Lady Baltimore, running out +into the hall as Joyce enters it. "We have been so frightened! Such a +storm, and Baltimore says that mare you had is very uncertain. Where did +you get shelter?" + +The very warmth and kindliness of her welcome, the utter absence of +disapproval in it of any sort, so unnerves Joyce that she can make no +reply; can only cling to her kindly hostess, and hide her face on her +shoulder. + +"Is that you, Mrs. Connolly?" says Lady Baltimore, smiling at mine +hostess of the Baltimore Arms, over the girl's shoulder. + +"Yes, my lady," with a curtsey so low that one wonders how she ever +comes up again. "I made so bould, my lady, as to bring ye home Miss +Joyce myself. I know Misther Beauclerk to be a good support in himself, +but I thought it would be a raisonable thing to give her the company of +one of her own women folk besides." + +"Quite right. Quite," says Lady Baltimore. + +"Oh! she has been so kind to me," says Joyce, raising now a pale face to +turn a glance of gratitude on Mrs. Connolly. + +"Why, indeed, my lady, I wish I might ha' bin able to do more for her; +an' I'm sorry to say I'd to put her up in a small, most inconvenient +room, just inside o' me own." + +"How was that?" asks Lady Baltimore, kindly. "The inn so full then?" + +"Fegs 'twas that was the matther wid it," says Mrs. Connolly, with a +beaming smile. "Crammed from cellar to garret." + +"Ah! the wet night, I suppose." + +"Just so, my lady," composedly, and with another deep curtsey. + +Lady Baltimore having given Mrs. Connolly into the care of the +housekeeper, who is an old friend of hers, leads Joyce upstairs. + +"You are not angry with me?" says Joyce, turning on the threshold of her +room. + +"With you, my dear child? No, indeed. With Norman, very! He should have +turned back the moment he saw the first symptom of a storm. A short +wetting would have done neither of you any harm." + +"There was no warning; the storm was on us almost immediately, and we +were then very close to Falling." + +"Then, having placed you once safely in Mrs. Connolly's care, he should +have returned himself, at all hazards." + +"It rained very hard," says Joyce in a cold, clear tone. Her eyes are on +the ground. She is compelling herself to be strictly just to Beauclerk, +but the effort is too much for her. She fails to do it naturally, and so +gives a false impression to her listener. Lady Baltimore casts a quick +glance at her. + +"Rain, what is rain?" says she. + +"There was storm, too, a violent storm; you must have felt it here." + +"No storm should have prevented his return. He should have thought only +of you." + +A little bitter smile curls the girl's lips: it seems a farce to suggest +that he should have thought of her. He! Now with her eyes effectually +opened, a certain scorn of herself, in that he should have been able so +easily to close them, takes possession of her. Is his sister blind still +to his defects, that she expects so much from him; has she not read him +rightly yet? Has she yet to learn that he will never consider any one, +where his own interests, comforts, position, clash with theirs? + +"You look distressed, tired. I believe you are fretting about this," +says Lady Baltimore, with a little kindly bantering laugh. "Don't be a +silly child. Nobody has said or thought anything that has not been +kindly of you. Did you sleep last night? No. I can see you didn't. +There, lie down, and get a little rest before luncheon. I shall send you +up a glass of champagne and a biscuit; don't refuse it." + +She pulls down the blinds, and goes softly out of the room to her +boudoir, where she finds Beauclerk awaiting her. + +He is lounging comfortably on a satin fauteuil, looking the very _beau +ideal_ of pleasant, careless life. He makes his sister a present of a +beaming smile as she enters. + +"Ah! good morning, Isabel. I am afraid we gave you rather a fright; but +you see it couldn't be helped. What an evening and night it turned out! +By Jove! I thought the water works above were turned on for good at last +and for ever. We felt like the Babes in the Wood--abandoned, lost. Poor, +dear Miss Kavanagh! I felt so sorry for her! You have seen her, I hope," +his face has now taken the correct lines of decorous concern. "She is +not over fatigued?" + +"She looks tired! depressed!" says Lady Baltimore, regarding him +seriously. "I wish, Norman, you had come home last evening." + +"What! and bring Miss Kavanagh through all that storm!" + +"No, you could have left her at Falling. I wish you had come home." + +"Why?" with an amused laugh. "Are you afraid I have compromised myself?" + +"I was not thinking of you. I am more afraid," with a touch of cold +displeasure, "of your having compromised Miss Kavanagh. There are such +things as gossips in this curious world. You should have left Joyce in +Mrs. Connolly's safe keeping, and come straight back here." + +"To be laid up with rheumatism during the whole of the coming winter! +Oh! most unnatural sister, what is it you would have desired of me?" + +"You showed her great attention all this summer," says Lady Baltimore. + +"I hope I showed a proper attention to all your guests." + +"You were very specially attentive to her." + +"To Miss Kavanagh, do you mean?" with a puzzled air. "Ah! well, yes. +Perhaps I did give more of my time to her and to Miss Maliphant than to +the others." + +"Ah! Miss Maliphant! one can understand that," says his sister, with an +intonation that is not entirely complimentary. + +"Can one? Here is one who can't, at all events. I confess I tried very +hard to bring myself to the point there, but I failed. Nature was too +strong for me. Good girl, you know, but--er--awful!" + +"We were not discussing Miss Maliphant, we were talking of Joyce," +icily. + +"Ah, true!" as if just awakening to a delightful fact. "And a far more +charming subject for discussion, it must be allowed. Well, and what of +Joyce--you call her Joyce?" + +"Be human, Norman!" says Lady Baltimore, with a sudden suspicion of fire +in her tone. "Forget to pose once in a way. And this time it is +important. Let me hear the truth from you. She seems unhappy, uncertain, +nervous. I like her. There is something real, genuine, about her. I +would gladly think, that----Do you know," she leans towards him, "I have +sometimes thought you were in love with her." + +"Have you? Do you know, so have I," with a frankness very admirable. +"She is one of the most agreeable girls of my acquaintance. There is +something very special about her. I'm not surprised that both you and I +fell into a conclusion of that sort." + +"Am I to understand by that----?" + +"Just one thing. I am too poor to marry." + +"With that knowledge in your mind, you should not have acted towards her +as you did yesterday. It was a mistake, believe me. You should have come +home alone, or else brought her back as your promised wife." + +"Ah! what a delightful vista you open up before me, but what an unkind +one, too," says Mr. Beauclerk, with a little reproachful uplifting of +his hands and brows. "Have you no bowels of compassion? You know how the +charms of domestic life have always attracted me. And to be able to +enjoy them with such an admirable companion as Miss Kavanagh! Are you +soulless, utterly without mercy, Isabel, that you open up to me a +glorious vision such as that merely to taunt and disappoint me?" + +"I am neither Joyce nor Miss Maliphant," says Lady Baltimore, with +ill-suppressed contempt. "I wish you would try to remember that, Norman; +it would spare time and trouble. You speak of Joyce as if she were the +woman you love, and yet--would you subject the woman you love to unkind +comment? If you cared you would not have treated her as----" + +"Ah, if I did care for her," interrupts he. + +"Well, don't you?" sternly. + +She has risen, and is looking down at him from the full height of her +tall, slender figure, that now looks taller than usual. + +"Oh, immensely!" declares Mr. Beauclerk, airily. "My dear girl, you +can't have studied me not to know that; as I have told you, I think her +charming. Quite out of the common--quite." + +"That will do," shortly. + +"You condemn me," says he, in an aggrieved tone that has got something +of amused surprise in it. "Yet you know--you of all others--how poor a +devil I am! So poor, that I do not even permit the idea of marriage in +my head." + +"Perhaps, however, you have permitted it to enter into hers!" says Lady +Baltimore. + +"Oh, my dear Isabel!" with a light laugh and a protesting glance. "Do +you think she would thank you for that suggestion?" + +"You should think. You should think," says Lady Baltimore, with some +agitation. "She is a very young girl. She has lived entirely in the +country. She knows nothing--nothing," throwing out her hand. "She is not +awake to all the intriguing, lying, falsity," with a rush of bitter +disgust, "that belongs to the bigger world beyond--the terrible world +outside her own quiet one here." + +"She is quiet here, isn't she?" says Beauclerk, with admirable +appreciation. "Pity to take her out of it. Eh? And yet, so far as I can +see, that is the cruel task you would impose on me." + +"Norman," says his sister, turning suddenly and for the first time +directly toward him. + +"Well, my dear. What?" throwing one leg negligently over the other. "It +really comes to this, doesn't it? That you want me to marry a certain +somebody, and that I think I cannot afford to marry her. Then it lies in +the proverbial nutshell." + +"The man who cannot afford to marry should not afford himself the +pleasures of flirtations," says Lady Baltimore, with decision. + +"No? Is that your final opinion? Good heavens! Isabel, what a brow! What +a terrible glance! If," smiling, "you favor Baltimore with this style of +thing whenever you disapprove of his smallest action I don't wonder he +jibs so often at the matrimonial collar. You advised me to think just +now; think yourself, my good Isabel, now and then, and probably you will +find life easier." + +He is still smiling delightfully. He flings out this cruel gibe indeed +in the most careless manner possible. + +"Ah! forget me," says she in a manner as careless as his own. If she has +quivered beneath that thrust of his, at all events she has had strength +enough to suppress all signs of it. "Think--not of her--I daresay she +will outlive it--but of yourself." + +"What would you have me do then?" demands he, rising here and +confronting her. There is a good deal of venom in his handsome face, but +Lady Baltimore braves it. + +"I would have you act as an honorable man," says she, in a clear, if icy +tone. + +"You go pretty far, Isabel, very far, even for a sister," says he +presently, his face now white with rage. "A moment ago I gave you some +sound advice. I give you more now. Attend to your own affairs, which by +all account require looking after, and let mine alone." + +He is evidently furious. His sister makes a little gesture towards the +door. + +"Your taking it like this does not mend matters," she says calmly, "it +only makes them, if possible, worse. Leave me!" + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + +"AT SIXES AND SEVENS." + + Pol.--"What do you read, my lord?" + + Ham.--"Words, words, words." + + +She sighs heavily, as the door closes on her brother. A sense of +weakness, of powerlessness oppresses her. She has fought so long, and +for what? Is there nothing to be gained; no truth to be defended +anywhere, no standard of right and wrong. Are all men--all--base, +selfish, cowardly, dishonorable? Her whole being seems aflame with the +indignation that is consuming her, when a knock sounds at the door. +There is only one person in the house who knocks at her boudoir door. To +every one, servants, guests, child, it is a free land; to her husband +alone it is forbidden ground. + +"Come in," says she, in a cold, reluctant tone. + +"I know I shall be terribly in your way," says Baltimore, entering, "but +I must beg you to give me five minutes. I hear Beauclerk has returned, +and that you have seen him. What kept him?" + +Now Lady Baltimore--who a moment ago had condemned her brother heartily +to his face--feels, as her husband addresses her, a perverse desire to +openly contradict all that her honest judgment had led her to say to +Beauclerk. That sense of indignation that was burning so hotly in her +breast as Baltimore knocked at her door still stirs within her, but now +its fire is directed against this latest comer. Who is he, that he +should dare to question the honor of any man; and that there is +annoyance and condemnation now in Baltimore's eyes is not to be denied. + +"The weather," returns she shortly. + +"By your tone I judge you deem that an adequate excuse for keeping Miss +Kavanagh from her home for half a day and a night." + +"There was a terrible storm," says. Lady Baltimore calmly; "the worst we +have had for months." + +"If it had been ten times as bad he should, in my opinion, have come +home." + +The words seem a mere repetition to Lady Baltimore. She had, indeed, +used them to Beauclerk herself, or some such, a few minutes ago. Yet she +seems to repudiate all sympathy with them now. + +"On such a night as that? I hardly see why. Joyce was with an old +friend. Mrs. Connolly was once a servant of her father's, and he----" + +"Should have left her with the old friend and come home." + +Again her own argument, and again perversity drives her to take the +opposite side--the side against her conscience. + +"Society must be in a very bad state if a man must perforce encounter +thunder, rain, lightning; in fact, a chance of death from cold and +exposure, all because he dare not spend one night beneath the roof of a +respectable woman like Mrs. Connolly, with a girl friend, without +bringing down on him the censures of his entire world." + +"You can, it appears, be a most eloquent advocate for the supposed +follies of any one but your husband. Nevertheless, I must persist in my +opinion that it was, to put it very charitably indeed, inconsiderate of +your brother to study his own comfort at the expense of his--girl +friend. I believe that is your way of putting it, isn't it?" + +"Yes," immovably. She has so far given way to movement, however, that +she has taken up a feather fan lying near, and now so holds it between +her and Baltimore that he cannot distinctly see her face. + +"As for the world you speak of--it will not judge him as leniently as +you do. It can talk. No one," bitterly, "is as good a witness of that as +I am." + +"But seldom," coldly, "without reason." + +"And no one is a better witness of that than you are! That is what you +would say, isn't it? Put down that fan, can't you?" with a touch of +savage impatience. "Are you ashamed to carry out your argument with me +face to face?" + +"Ashamed!" Lady Baltimore has sprung suddenly to her feet, and sent the +fan with a little crash to the ground. "Oh! shame on you to mention such +a word." + +"Am I to be forever your one scapegoat? Now take another one, I beseech +you," says Baltimore with that old, queer, devilish mockery on his face +that was never seen there until gossiping tongues divided him from his +wife. "Here is your brother, actually thrown to you, as it were. Surely +he will be a proof that I am not the only vile one among all the herd. +If nothing else, acknowledge him selfish. A man who thought more of a +dry coat than a young, a very young, girl's reputation. Is that nothing? +Oh! consider, I beseech you!" his bantering manner, in which there is so +much misery that it should have reached her but does not, grows stronger +every instant "Even a big chill from the heavens above would not have +killed him, whereas we all know how a little breath from the world below +can kill many a----" + +"Oh I you can talk, talk, talk," says she, that late unusual burst of +passion showing some hot embers still. "But can words alter facts?" She +pauses; a sudden chill seems to enwrap her. As if horrified by her late +descent into passion she gathers herself together, and defies him once +again with a cold look. "Why say anything more about it?" she says. "We +do not agree." + +"On this subject, at least, we should," says he hotly. "I think your +brother should not have left us in ignorance of Miss Kavanagh's safety +for so many hours. And you," with a sneer, "who are such a martinet for +propriety, should certainly be prepared to acknowledge that he should +not have so regulated his conduct as to make her a subject for unkind +comment to the County. Badly," looking at her deliberately, "as you +think of me, I should not have done it." + +"No?" says she. It is a cruel--an unmistakable insulting monosyllable. +And, bearing no other word with it--is the more detestable to the +hearer. + +"No," says he loudly. "Sneer as you will--my conscience is at rest +there, so I can defy your suspicions." + +"Ah! there!" says she. + +"My dear creature," says he, "we all know there is but one villain in +the world, and you are the proud possessor of him--as a husband. Permit +me to observe, however, that a man of your code of honor, and of mine +for the matter of that--but I forget that honor and I have no cousinship +in your estimation--would have chosen to be wet to the skin rather than +imperil the fair name of the girl he loved." + +"Has he told you he loved her?" + +"Not in so many words." + +"Then from what do you argue?" + +"My dear, I have told you that you are too much for me in argument! I, a +simple on-looker, have judged merely from an every-day observance of +little unobtrusive facts. If your brother is not in love with Miss +Kavanagh, I think he ought to be. I speak ignorantly, I allow. I am not, +like you, a deep student of human nature. If, too, he did not feel it +his duty to bring her home last night, or else to leave her at Falling +and return here himself, I fail to sympathize with him. I should not +have so failed her." + +"Oh but you!" says his wife, with a little contemptuous smile. "You who +are such a paragon of virtue. It would not be expected of you that you +should make such a mistake!" + +She has sent forth her dart impulsively, sharply, out of the overflowing +fullness of her angry heart--and when too late, when it has sped past +recall--perhaps repents the speeding! + +Such repentances, when felt too late, bring vices in their train; the +desire for good, when chilled, turns to evil. The mind, never idle, if +debarred from the best, leans inevitably toward the worst. Angry with +herself, her very soul embittered within her, Lady Baltimore feels more +and more a sense of passionate wrong against the man who had wooed and +won her, and sown the seeds of gnawing distrust within her bosom. + +Baltimore's face has whitened. His brow contracts. + +"What a devilish unforgiving thing is a good woman," says he, with a +reckless laugh. "That's a compliment, my lady--take it as you will. +What! are your sneers to outlast life itself? Is that old supposed sin +of mine never to be condoned? Why--say it was a real thing, instead of +being the myth it is. Even so, a woman all prayers, all holiness, such +as you are, might manage to pardon it!" + +Lady Baltimore, rising, walks deliberately toward the door. It is her, +usual method of putting an end to all discussions of this sort between +them--of terminating any allusions to what she believes to be his +unfaithful past--that past that has wrecked her life. + +As a rule, Baltimore makes no attempt to prolong the argument. He has +always let her go, with a sneering word, perhaps, or a muttered +exclamation; but to-day he follows her, and stepping between her and the +door, bars her departure. + +"By heavens! you shall hear me," says he, his face dark with anger. "I +will not submit any longer, in silence, to your insolent treatment of +me. You condemn me, but I tell you it is I who should condemn. Do you +think I believe in your present attitude toward me? Pretend as you will, +even to yourself, in your soul it is impossible that you should give +credence to that old story, false as it is old. No! you cling to it to +mask the feet you have tired of me." + +"Let me pass." + +"Not until you have heard me!" With a light, but determined grasp of her +arm, he presses her back into the chair she has just quitted. + +"That story was a lie, I tell you. Before our marriage, I confess, there +were some things--not creditable--to which I plead guilty, but----" + +"Oh! be silent!" cries she, putting up her hand impulsively to check +him. There is open disgust and horror on her pale, severe face. + +"Before, before our marriage," persists he passionately. + +"What! do you think there is no temptation--no sin--no falling away from +the stern path of virtue in this life? Are you so mad or so ignorant as +to believe that every man you meet could show a perfectly clean record +of----" + +"I cannot--I will not listen," interposes she, springing to her feet, +white and indignant. + +"There is nothing to hear. I am not going to pollute your ears," says +he, with a curl of his lip. "Pray be reassured. What I only wish to say +is that if you condemn me for a few past sins you should condemn also +half your acquaintances. That, however, you do not do. For me alone, for +your husband, you reserve all your resentment." + +"What are the others to me?" + +"What am I to you, for the matter of that?" with a bitter laugh, "if +they are nothing I am less than nothing. You deliberately flung me aside +all because----Why, look here!" moving toward her in uncontrollable +agitation, "say I had sinned above the Galileans--say that lie was +true--say I had out-Heroded Herod in evil courses, still am I past the +pale of forgiveness? Saint as you are, have you no pity for me? In +all your histories of love and peace and perfection is there never +a case of a poor devil of a sinner like me being taken back into +grace--absolved--pardoned?" + +"To rave like this is useless. There is no good to be got from it. You +know what I think, what I believe. You deceived--wronged----Let me go, +Cecil!" + +"Before--before," repeats he, obstinately. "What that woman told you +since, I swear to you, was a most damned lie." + +"I refuse to go into it again." + +She is deadly pale now. Her bloodless lips almost refuse to let the +words go through them. + +"You mean by that, that in spite of my oath you still cling to your +belief that I am lying to you?" + +His face is livid. There is something almost dangerous about it, but +Lady Baltimore has come of too old and good a race to be frightened into +submission. Raising one small, slender hand, she lays it upon his +breast, and, with a little haughty upturning of her shapely head, pushes +him from her. + +"I have told you I refuse to go into it," says she, with superb +self-control. "How long do you intend to keep me here? When may I be +allowed to leave the room?" + +There is distinct defiance in the clear glance she casts at him. + +Baltimore draws a long breath, and then bursts into a strange laugh. + +"Why, when you will," says he, shrugging his shoulders. He makes a +graceful motion of his hand toward the door. "Shall I open it for you? +But a word still let me say--if you are not in too great a hurry! +Christianity, now, my fair saint, so far as ever I could hear or read, +has been made up of mercy. Now, you are merciless! Would you mind +letting me know how you reconcile one----" + +"You perversely mistake me--I am no saint. I do not"--coldly--"profess +to be one. I am no such earnest seeker after righteousness as you +maliciously represent me. All I desire is honesty of purpose, and a +decent sense of honor--honor that makes decency. That is all. For the +rest, I am only a poor woman who loved once, and was--how many times +deceived? That probably I shall never know." + +Her sad, sad eyes, looking at him, grow suddenly full of tears. + +"Isabel! My meeting with that woman--that time"--vehemently--"in town +was accidental! I----It was the merest chance----" + +"Don't!" says she, raising her hand, with such a painful repression of +her voice as to render it almost a whisper; "I have told you it is +useless. I have heard too much to believe anything now. I shall never, I +think," very sadly, "believe in any one again. You have murdered faith +in me. Tell this tale of yours to some one else--some one willing to +believe--to"--with a terrible touch of scorn--"Lady Swansdown, for +example." + +"Why do you bring her into the discussion?" asks he, turning quickly to +her. Has she heard anything? That scene in the garden that now seems to +fill him with self-contempt. What a _betise_ it was! And what did it +amount to? Nothing! Lady Swansdown, he is honestly convinced, cares as +little for him as he for her. And at this moment it is borne in upon him +that he would give the embraces of a thousand such as she for one kind +glance from the woman before him. + +"I merely mentioned her as a possible person who might listen to you," +with a slight lifting of her shoulders. "A mere idle suggestion. You +will pardon me saying that this has been an idle discussion altogether. +You began by denouncing my brother to me, and now----" + +"You have ended by denouncing your husband to me! As idle a beginning as +an end, surely. Still, to go back to Beauclerk. I persist in saying he +has behaved scandalously in this affair. He has imperilled that poor +child's good name." + +"You can imperil names, too!" says she, turning almost fiercely on him. + +"Lady Swansdown again, I suppose," says he, with a bored uplifting of +his brows. "The old grievance is not sufficient, then; you must have a +new one. I am afraid I must disappoint you. Lady Swansdown, I assure +you, cares nothing at all for me, and I care just the same amount for +her." + +"Since when?" + +"Since the world began--if you want a long date!" + +"What a liar you are, Baltimore!" says his wife, turning to him with a +sudden breaking out of all the pent-up passion within her. Involuntarily +her hands clench themselves. She is pale no longer. A swift, hot flush +has dyed her cheeks. Like an outraged, insulted queen, she holds him a +moment with her eyes, then sweeps out of the room. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. + + 'Since thou art not as these are, go thy ways; + Thou hast no part in all my nights and days. + Lie still--sleep on--be glad. As such things be + Thou couldst not watch with me." + + +Luncheon has gone off very pleasantly. Joyce, persuaded by Lady +Baltimore, had gone down to it, feeling a little shy, and conscious of a +growing headache. But everybody had been charming to her, and Baltimore, +in especial, had been very careful in his manner of treating her, saying +little nice things to her, and insisting on her sitting next to him, a +seat hitherto Lady Swansdown's own. + +The latter had taken this so perfectly, that one might be pardoned for +thinking it had been arranged beforehand between her and her host. At +all events Lady Swansdown was very sympathetic, and indeed everybody +seemed bent on treating her as a heroine of the highest order. + +Joyce herself felt dull--nerveless. Words did not seem to come easily to +her. She was tired, she thought, and of course she was, having spent a +sleepless night. One little matter gave her cause for thankfulness. +Dysart was absent from luncheon. He had gone on a long walking +expedition, Lady Baltimore said, that would prevent his returning home +until dinner hour--until quite 8 o'clock. Joyce told herself she was +glad of this--though why she did not tell herself. At all events the +news left her very silent. + +But her silence was not noticed. It could not be, indeed, so great and +so animated was the flow of Beauclerk's eloquence. Without addressing +anybody in particular, he seemed to address everybody. He kept the whole +table alive. He treated yesterday's adventure as a tremendously amusing +affair, and invited everyone to look upon it as he did. He insisted on +describing Miss Kavanagh and himself in the same light as he had +described them earlier to his sister, as the modern Babes in the Wood, +Mrs. Connolly being the Robin. He made several of the people who had +dropped in to luncheon roar with laughter over his description of that +excellent inn keeper. Her sayings--her appearance--her stern notions of +morality that induced her to bring them home, "personally +conducted"--the size of her waist--and her heart--and many other things. +He was extremely funny. The fact that his sister smiled only when she +felt she must to avoid comment, and that his host refused to smile at +all, and that Miss Kavanagh was evidently on thorns all the time did not +for an instant damp his overflowing spirits. + + * * * * * + +It is now seven, o'clock; Miss Kavanagh, on her way upstairs to dress +for dinner, suddenly remembering that there is a book in the library, +left by her early in the afternoon on the central table, turns aside to +fetch it. + +She forgets, however, what she has come for when, having entered the +room, she sees Dysart standing before the fire, staring apparently at +nothing. To her chagrin, she is conscious that the unmistakable start +she had made on seeing him is known to him. + +"I didn't know you had returned," says she awkwardly, yet made a +courageous effort to appear as natural as usual. + +"No? I knew you had returned," says he slowly. + +"It is very late to say good-morning," says she with a poor little +attempt at a laugh, but still advancing toward him and holding out her +hand. + +"Too late!" replied he, ignoring the hand. Joyce, as if struck by some +cruel blow, draws back a step or two. + +"You are not tired, I hope?" asks Dysart courteously. + +"Oh, no." She feels stifled; choked. A desire to get to the door, and +escape--lose sight of him forever--is the one strong longing that +possesses her; but to move requires strength, and she feels that her +limbs are trembling beneath her. + +"It was a long drive, however. And the storm was severe. I fear you must +have suffered in some way." + +"I have not suffered," says she, in a dull, emotionless way. Indeed, she +hardly knows what she says, a repetition of his own words seems the +easiest thing to bar, so she adopts it. + +"No?" + +There is a considerable pause, and then---- + +"No! It is true! It is I only who have suffered," says Dysart with an +uncontrollable abandonment to the misery that is destroying him. "I +alone." + +"You mean something," says Joyce. It is by a terrible effort that she +speaks. She feels thoroughly unnerved--unstrung. Conscious that the +nervous shaking of her hands will betray her, she clasps them behind her +tightly. "You meant something just now when you refused to take my hand. +But what? What?" + +"You said it was too late," replies he. "And I--agreed with you." + +"That was not it!" says she feverishly. "There was more--much more! Tell +me"--passionately--"what you meant. Why would you not touch me? What am +I to understand----" + +"That from henceforth you are free from the persecution of my love," +says Dysart deliberately. "I was mad ever to hope that you could care +for me--still--I did hope. That has been my undoing. But now----" + +"Well?" demands she faintly. Her whole being seems stunned. Something of +all this she had anticipated, but the reality is far worse than any +anticipation had been. She had seen him in her thoughts, angry, +indignant, miserable, but that he should thus coldly set her aside--bid +her an everlasting adieu--be able to make up his mind deliberately to +forget her--this--had never occurred to her as being even probable. + +"Now you are to understand that the idiotic farce played between us two +the day before yesterday is at an end? The curtain is down. It is over. +It was a failure--neither you, nor I, nor the public will ever hear of +it again." + +"Is this--because I did not come home last evening in the rain and +storm?" Some small spark of courage has come back to her now. She lifts +her head and looks at him. + +"Oh! be honest with me here, in our last hour together," cries he +vehemently. "You have cheated me all through--be true to yourself for +once. Why pretend it is my fault that we part? Yesterday I implored you +not to go for that drive with him, and yet--you went. What was I--or my +love for you in comparison with a few hours' drive with that lying +scoundrel?" + +"It was only the drive I thought of," says she piteously. "I--there was +nothing else, indeed. And you; if"--raising her hand to her throat as if +suffocating--"if you had not spoken so roughly--so----" + +"Pshaw!" says Dysart, turning from her as if disgusted. To him, in his +present furious mood, her grief, her fear, her shrinkings, are all so +many movements in the game of coquette, at which she is a past mistress. +"Will you think me a fool to the end?" says he. "See here," turning his +angry eyes to hers. "I don't care what you say, I know you now. Too +late, indeed--but still I know you! To the very core of your heart you +are one mass of deceit." + +A little spasm crosses her face. She leans back heavily against the +table behind her. "Oh, no, no," she says in a voice so low as to be +almost unheard. + +"You will deny, of course," says he mercilessly. "You would even have me +believe that you regret the past--but you, and such as you never regret. +Man is your prey! So many scalps to your belt is all you think about. +Why," with an accent of passion, "what am I to you? Just the filling up +of so many hours' amusement--no more! Do you think all my eloquence +would have any chance against one of his cursed words? I might kneel at +your feet from morning until night, and still I should be to you a thing +of naught in comparison with him." + +She holds out her hands to him in a little dumb fashion. Her tongue +seems frozen. But he repulses this last attempt at reconciliation. + +"It is no good. None! I have no belief in you left, so you can no longer +cajole me. I know that I am nothing to you. Nothing! If," drawing a deep +breath through his closed teeth, "if a thousand years were to go by I +should still be nothing to you if he were near. I give it up. The battle +was too strong for me. I am defeated, lost, ruined." + +"You have so arranged it," says she in a low tone, singularly clear. The +violence of his agitation had subdued hers, and rendered her +comparatively calm. + +"You must permit me to contradict you. The arrangement is all your own." + +"Was it so great a crime to stay last night at Falling?" "There is no +crime anywhere. That you should have made a decision between two men is +not a crime." + +"No! I acknowledge I made a decision--but----" + +"When did you make it?" + +"Last evening--and though you----" + +"Oh! no excuses," says he with a frown. "Do you think I desire them?" + +He hesitates for a minute or so, and now turns to her abruptly. "Are you +engaged to him finally?" + +"No." + +"No!" In accents suggestive of surprise so intense as to almost enlarge +into disbelief. "You refused him then?" + +"No," says she again. Her heart seems to die within her. Oh, the sense +of shame that overpowers her. A sudden wild, terrible hatred of +Beauclerk takes her into possession. Why, why, had he not given her the +choice of saying yes, instead of no, to that last searching question? + +"You mean--that he----" He stops dead short as if not knowing how to +proceed. Then, suddenly, his wrath breaks forth. "And for that +scoundrel, that fellow without a heart, you have sacrificed the best of +you--your own heart! For him, whose word is as light as his oath, you +have flung behind you a love that would have surrounded you to your +dying day. Good heavens! What are women made of? But----" He sobers +himself at once, as if smitten by some sharp remembrance, and, pale with +shame and remorse, looks at her. "Of course," says he, "it is only one +heartbroken, as I am, who would have dared thus to address you. And it +is plain to me now that there are reasons why he should not have spoken +before this. For one thing, you were alone with him; for another, you +are tired, exhausted. No doubt to-morrow he----" + +"How dare you?" says she in a voice that startles him, a very low voice, +but vibrating with outraged pride. "How dare you thus insult me? You +seem to think--to think--that because--last night--he and I were kept +from our home by the storm----" She pauses; that old, first odd +sensation of choking now again oppresses her. She lays her hand upon the +back of a chair near her, and presses heavily upon it. "You think I have +disgraced myself," says she, the words coming in a little gasp from her +parched lips. "That is why you speak of things being at an end between +us. Oh----" + +"You wrong me there," says the young man, who has grown ghastly. +"Whatever I may have said, I----" + +"You meant it!" says she. She draws herself up to the full height of her +young, slender figure, and, turning abruptly, moves toward the door. As +she reaches it, she looks back at him. "You are a coward!" she says, in +a low, distinct tone alive with scorn. "A coward!" + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. + + "I have seen the desire of mine eyes, + The beginning of love, + The season of kisses and sighs, + And the end thereof." + + +Miss Kavanagh put in no appearance at dinner. "A chill," whispered Lady +Baltimore to everybody, in her kindly, sympathetic way, caught during +that miserable drive yesterday. She hoped it would be nothing, but +thought it better to induce Joyce to remain quiet in her own room for +the rest of the evening, safe from draughts and the dangers attendant on +the baring of her neck and arms. She told her small story beautifully, +but omitted to add that Joyce had refused to come downstairs, and that +she had seemed so wretchedly low-spirited that at last her hostess had +ceased to urge her. + +She had, however, spent a good deal of time arguing with her on another +subject--the girl's fixed determination to go home--"to go back to +Barbara"--next day. Lady Baltimore had striven very diligently to turn +her from this purpose, but all to no avail. She had even gone so far as +to point out to Joyce that the fact of her thus leaving the Court before +the expiration of her visit might suggest itself to some people in a +very unpleasant light. They might say she had come to the end of her +welcome there--been given her conge, in fact--on account of that +luckless adventure with her hostess' brother. + +Joyce was deaf to all such open hints. She remained obstinately +determined not to stay a moment longer there than could be helped. Was +it because of Norman she was going? No; she shook her head with such a +look of contemptuous indifference that Lady Baltimore found it +impossible to doubt her, and felt her heart thereby lightened. Was it +Felix? + +Miss Kavanagh had evidently resented that question at first, but finally +had broken into a passionate fit of tears, and when Lady Baltimore +placed her arms round her had not repulsed her. + +"But, dear Joyce, he himself is leaving to-morrow." + +"Oh, let me go home. Do not ask me to stay. I am more unhappy than I can +tell you," said the girl brokenly. + +"You have had a quarrel with him?" + +Joyce bowed her head in a little quick, impatient way. + +"It is Felix then, Joyce; not Norman? Let me say I am glad--for your +sake; though that is a hard thing for a sister to say of her brother. +But Norman is selfish. It is his worst fault, perhaps, but a bad one. As +for this little misunderstanding with Felix, it will not last. He loves +you, dearest, most honestly. You will make up this tiny----" + +"Never!" said Joyce, interrupting her and releasing herself from her +embrace. Her young face looked hard and unforgiving, and Lady Baltimore, +with a sigh, decided on saying no more just then. So she went downstairs +and told her little tale about Joyce's indisposition, and was believed +by nobody. They all said they were sorry, as in duty bound, and perhaps +they were, taking their own view of her absence; but dinner went off +extremely well, nevertheless, and was considered quite a success. + +Dysart was present, and was apparently in very high spirits; so high, +indeed, that at odd moments his hostess, knowing a good deal, stared at +him. He, who was usually so silent a member, to-night outshone even the +versatile Beauclerk in the lightness and persistency of his +conversation. + +This sudden burst of animation lasted him throughout the evening, +carrying him triumphantly across the hour and a half of drawing-room +small talk, and even lasting till the more careless hours in the +smoking-room have come to an end, and one by one the men have yawned +themselves off to bed. + +Then it died. So entirely, so forlornly as to prove it had been only a +mere passing and enforced exhilaration after all. They were all gone: +there was no need now to keep up the miserable farce--to seek to prevent +their coupling her name with his, and therefore discovering the secret +of her sad seclusion. + +As Dysart found himself almost the last man in the room, he too rose, +reluctantly, as though unwilling to give himself up to the solitary +musings that he knew lay before him; the self-upbraidings, the vague +remorse, the terrible dread lest he had been too severe, that he knows +will be his all through the silent darkness. For what have sleep and he +to do with each other to-night? + +He bade his host good-night and, with a pretense of going upstairs, +turned aside into the deserted library, and, choosing a book, flung +himself into a chair, determined, if possible, to read his brain into a +state of coma. + + * * * * * + +Twelve o'clock has struck, slowly, painfully, as if the old timekeeper +is sleepy, too, and is nodding over his work. And now one--as slowly, +truly, but with the startling brevity that prevents one's dwelling on +its drowsy note. Dysart, with a tired groan, flings down his book, and, +rising to his feet, stretches his arms above his head in an utter +abandonment to sleepless fatigue that is even more mental than bodily. +Once the subject of that book had been of an enthralling interest to +him. To-night it bores him. He has found himself unequal to the solving +of the abstruse arguments it contains. One thought seems to have dulled +all others. He is leaving to-morrow! He is leaving her to-morrow! Oh! +surely it is more than that curt pronoun can contain. He is leaving, in +a few short hours, his life, his hope, his one small chance of heaven +upon earth. How much she had been to him, how strong his hoping even +against hope had been, he never knew till now, when all is swept out of +his path forever. + +The increasing stillness of the house seems to weigh upon him, rendering +even gloomier his melancholy thoughts. How intolerably quiet the night +is, not even a breath of wind is playing in the trees outside. On such a +night as this ghosts might walk and demons work their will. There is +something ghastly in this unnatural cessation of all sound, all +movement. + +"What a strange power," says Emerson, "there is in silence." An old +idea, yet always new. Who is there who has not been affected by it--has +not known that curious, senseless dread of spirits present from some +unknown world that very young children often feel? "Fear came upon me +and trembling, which made all my bones to shake," says Job in one of his +most dismal moments; and now to Dysart this strange, unaccountable chill +feeling comes. Insensibly, born of the hour and the silence only, and +with no smallest dread of things intangible. + +The small clock on the mantel-piece sends forth a tiny chime, so +delicate that in broad daylight, with broader views in the listeners, it +might have gone unheard. Now it strikes upon the motionless air as +loudly as though it were the crack of doom. Poor little clock! +struggling to be acknowledged for twelve long years of nights and days, +now is your revenge--the fruition of all your small ambitious desires. + +Dysart starts violently at the sound of it. It is of importance, this +little clock. It has wakened him to real life again. He has taken a step +toward the door and the bed, the very idea of which up to this has been +treated by him with ignominy, when--a sound in the hall outside stays +him. + +An unmistakable step, but so light as to suggest the idea of burglars. +Dysart's spirits rise. The melancholy of a moment since deserts him. He +looks round for the poker--that national, universal mode of defence when +our castles are invaded by the "masked man." + +He has not time, however, to reach it before the handle of the door is +slowly turned--before the door is as slowly opened, and---- + +"What is this?" + +For a second Dysart's heart seems to stop beating. He can only gaze +spellbound at this figure, clad all in white, that walks deliberately +into the room, and seemingly directly toward him. It is Joyce! Joyce! + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. + + "Sleep; and if life was bitter to thee, pardon, + If sweet, give thanks; thou hast no more to live; + And to give thanks is good, and to forgive." + + +Is she dead or still living? Dysart, calmed now, indeed, gazes at her +with a heart contracted. Great heaven! how like death she looks, and +yet--he knows she is still in the flesh. How strangely her eyes gleam. A +dull gleam and so passionless. Her brown hair--not altogether fallen +down her back, but loosened from its hairpins, and hanging in a soft +heavy knot behind her head--gives an additional pallor to her already +too white face. The open eyes are looking straight before them, +unseeing. Her step is slow, mechanical, unearthly. It is only indeed +when she lays the candle she holds upon the edge of the table, the +extreme edge, that he knows she is asleep, and walking in a dreamland +that to waking mortals is inaccessible. + +Silently, and always with that methodical step, she moves toward the +fireplace, and still a little further, until she stands on that eventful +spot where he had given up all claim to her, and thrown her back upon +herself. There is the very square on the carpet where she stood some +hours ago. There she stands now. To her right is the chair on which she +had leaned in great bitterness of spirit, trying to evoke help and +strength from the dead oak. Now, in her dreams, as if remembering that +past scene, she puts out her hands a little vaguely, a little blindly, +and, the chair not being where in her vision she believes it to be, she +gropes vaguely for it in a troubled fashion, the little trembling hands +moving nervously from side to side. It is a very, sad sight, the sadder +for, the mournful change that crosses the face of the sleeping girl. The +lips take a melancholy curve: the long lashes droop over the sightless +eyes, a long, sad sigh escapes her. + +Dysart, his heart beating wildly, makes a movement toward her. Whether +the sound of his impetuous footstep disturbs her dream, or whether the +coming of her fingers in sudden contact with the edge of the table does +it, who can tell; she starts and wakens. + +At first she stands as if not understanding, and then, with a terrified +expression in her now sentient eyes, looks hurriedly around her. Her +eyes meet Dysart's. + +"Don't be frightened," begins he quickly. + +"How did I come here?" interrupts she, in a voice panic-stricken. "I was +upstairs; I remember nothing. It was only a moment since that I----Was I +asleep?" + +She gives a hasty furtive glance at the pretty loose white garment that +enfolds her. + +"I suppose so," says Dysart. "You must have had some disturbing dream, +and it drove you down here. It is nothing. Many people walk in their +sleep." + +"But I never. Oh! what is it?" says she, as if appealing to him to +explain herself to herself. "Was," faintly flushing, "any one else here? +Did any one see me?" + +"No one. They are in bed; all asleep." + +"And you?" doubtfully. + +"I couldn't sleep," returns he slowly, gazing fixedly at her. + +"I must go," says she feverishly. She moves rapidly toward the door; her +one thought seems to be to get back to her own room. She looks ill, +unstrung, frightened. This new phase in her has alarmed her. What if, +for the future, she cannot even depend upon herself?--cannot know where +her mind will carry her when deadly sleep has fallen upon her? It is a +hateful thought. And to bring her here. Where he was. What power has he +over her? Oh! the sense of relief in thinking that she will be at home +to-morrow--safe with Barbara. + +Her hand is on the door. She is going. + +"Joyce," says Dysart suddenly, sharply. All his soul is in his voice. So +keenly it rings, that involuntarily she turns to him. Great agony must +make itself felt, and to Dysart, seeing her on the point of leaving him +forever, it seems as though his life is being torn from him. In truth +she is his life, the entire happiness of it--if she goes through that +door unforgiving, she will carry with her all that makes it bearable. + +She is looking at him. Her eyes are brilliant with nervous excitement; +her face pale. Her very lips have lost their color. + +"Yes?" says she interrogatively, impatiently. + +"I am going away to-morrow--I shall not----" + +"Yes, yes--I know. I am going, too." + +"I shall not see you again?" + +"I hope not--I think not." + +She makes another step forward. Opening the door with a little light +touch, she places one hand before the candle and peers timidly into the +dark hall outside. + +"Don't let that be your last word to me," says the young man, +passionately. "Joyce, hear me! There must be some excuse for me." + +"Excuse?" says she, looking back at him over her shoulder, her lovely +face full of curious wonder. + +"Yes--yes! I was mad! I didn't mean a word I said--I swear it! +I----Joyce, forgive me!" + +The words, though whispered, burst from him with a despairing vehemence. +He would have caught her hand but that she lifts her eyes to his--such +eyes! + +There is a little pause, and then: + +"Oh, no! Never--never!" says she. + +Her tone is very low and clear--not angry, not even hasty or +reproachful. Only very sad and certain. It kills all hope. + +She goes quickly through the open doorway, closing it behind her. The +faint, ghostly sound of her footfalls can be heard as she crosses the +hall. After a moment even this light sound ceases. She is indeed gone! +It is all over! + + * * * * * + +With a kind of desire to hide herself, Joyce has crept into her bed, +sore at heart, angry, miserable. No hope that sleep will again visit her +has led her to this step, and, indeed, would sleep be desirable? What a +treacherous part it had played when last it fell on her! + +How grieved he looked--how white! He was evidently most honestly sorry +for all the unkind things he had said to her. Not that he had said many, +indeed, only--he had looked them. And she, she had been very hard--oh! +too hard. However, there was an end to it. To-morrow would place more +miles between them, in every way, than would ever be recrossed. He would +not come here again until he had forgotten her--married, probably. They +would not meet. There should have been comfort in that certainty, but, +alas! when she sought for it, it eluded her--it was not there. + +In spite of the trick Somnus had just played her, she would now gladly +have courted him again, if only to escape from ever growing regret. But +though she turns from side to side in a vain endeavor to secure him, +that cruel god persistently denies her, and with mournful memories and +tired eyes, she lies, watching, waiting for the tender breaking of the +dawn upon the purple hills. + +Slowly, slowly comes up the sun. Coldly, and with a tremulous lingering, +the light shines on land and sea. Then sounds the bursting chants of +birds, the rush of streams, the gentle sighings of the winds through +herb and foliage. + +Joyce, thankful for the blessed daylight, flings the clothes aside, and +with languid step, and eyes, sad always, but grown weary, too, with +sleeplessness and thoughts unkind, moves lightly to the window. + +Throwing wide the casement, she lets the cool morning air flow in. + +A new day has arisen. What will it bring her? What can it bring, save +disappointment only and a vain regret? Oh! why must she, of all people, +be thus unblessed upon this blessed morn? Never has the sun seemed +brighter--the whole earth a greater glow of glory. + + "Welcome, the lord of light and lamp of day: + Welcome, fosterer of tender herbis green; + Welcome, quickener of flourish'd flowers' sheen. + Welcome depainter of the bloomit meads; + Welcome, the life of everything that spreads!" + +Yet to Joyce welcome to the rising sun seems impossible. What is the +good of day when hope is dead? In another hour or two she must rise, go +downstairs, talk, laugh, and appear interested in all that is being +said--and with a heart at variance with joy--a poor heart, heavy as +lead. + +A kind of despairing rage against her crooked fortune moves her. Why has +she been thus unlucky? Why at first should a foolish, vagrant feeling +have led her to think so strongly of one unworthy and now hateful to her +as to prejudice her in the mind of the one really worthy. What madness +possessed her? Surely she is the most unfortunate girl alive? A sense of +injustice bring the tears into her eyes, and blots out the slowly +widening landscape from her view. + + "How happy some o'er other some can be!" + +Her thoughts run to Barbara and Monkton. They are happy in spite of many +frowns from fortune. They are poor--as society counts poverty--but the +want of money is not a cardinal evil. They love each other; and the +children are things to be loved as well--darling children! well grown, +and strong, and healthy, though terrible little Turks at times--God +bless them! Oh! that she could count herself as blessed as Barbara, +whose greatest trouble is to deny herself this and that, to be able to +pay for the other thing. No! to be poor is not to be unhappy. "Our +happiness in this world," says a writer, "depends on the affections we +are able to inspire." Truly she--Joyce--has not been successful in her +quest. For if he had loved her, would he ever have doubted her? "Perfect +love," says the oldest, grandest testimony of all, "casteth out fear." +And he had feared. Sitting here in the dawning daylight, the tears ran +softly down her cheeks. + +It is a strange thing, but true, that never once during this whole +night's dreary vigil do her thoughts once turn to Beauclerk. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. + + "Oh, there's stony a leaf in Atholl wood, + And mony a bird in its breast, + And mony a pain may the heart sustain + Ere it sab itsel' to rest." + + +Barbara meets her on the threshold and draws her with loving arms into +the dining-room. + +"I knew you would be here at this hour. Lady Baltimore wrote me word +about it. And I have sent the chicks away to play in the garden, as I +thought you would like to have a comfortable chat just at first." + +"Lady Baltimore wrote?" + +"Yes, dear. Just to say you were distressed about that unfortunate +affair--that drive, you know--and that you felt you wanted to come back +to me. I was glad you wanted that, darling." + +"You are not angry with me, Barbara?" asks the girl, loosening her +sister's arms the better to see her face. + +"Angry! No, how could I be angry?" says Mrs. Monkton, the more +vehemently in that she knows she _had_ been very angry just at first. +"It was the merest chance. It might have happened to anybody. One can't +control storms!" + +"No--that's what Mrs. Connolly said, only she called it 'the ilimints,'" +says Joyce, with quite a little ghost of a smile. + +"Well, now you are home again, and it's all behind you. And there is +really nothing in it. And you must not think so much about it," says +Barbara, fondling her hand. "Lady Baltimore said you were too unhappy +about it." + +"Did she say that? What else did she say?" asks the girl, regarding her +sister with searching, eyes. What had Lady Baltimore told her? That +impulsive admission to the latter last night had been troubling Joyce +ever since, and now to have to lay bare her heart again, to acknowledge +her seeming fickleness, to receive Barbara's congratulation on it, only +to declare that this second lover has, too, been placed by Fate outside +her life, seems too bitter to her. Oh, no--she cannot tell Barbara. + +"Why nothing," says Mrs. Monkton, who is now busying herself removing +the girl's hat and furs. "What was there to tell, after all?" She is +plainly determined to treat the matter lightly. + +"Oh--there is a good deal," says Joyce, bitterly. "Why don't you tell +me," turning suddenly upon her sister, "that you knew how it would be +all along? That you distrusted that Mr. Beauclerk from the very first, +and that Felix Dysart was always worth a thousand of him?" There is +something that is almost defiant in her manner. + +"Because, for one thing, I very seldom call him Felix," says Mrs. +Monkton, with a smile, alluding to the last accusation. "And because, +too, I can't bear the 'I told you so' persons.--You mustn't class me +with them, Joyce, whatever you do." + +"I shan't be able to do much more, at all events," says Joyce presently. +"That's one comfort, not only for myself but for my family. I expect I +have excelled myself this time. Well," with a dull little laugh, "it +will have to last, so----" + +"Joyce," says her sister, quickly, "tell me one small thing. Mr. +Beauclerk--he----" + +"Yes?" stonily, as Barbara goes on a rock. + +"You--you are not engaged to him?" + +Joyce breaks into an angry laugh. + +"That is what you all ask," says she. "There is no variety; none. No, +no, no; I am engaged to nobody. Nobody wants me, and I----'I care for +nobody, not I, for nobody cares for me.' Mark the heavy emphasis on the +'for,' I beg you, Barbara!" + +She breaks entirely from her sister's hold and springs to her feet. + +"You are tired," says Mrs. Monkton, anxiously, rising too. + +"Why don't you say what you really mean?" says Joyce, turning almost +fiercely to her. "Why pretend you think I am fatigued when you honestly +think I am miserable, because Mr. Beauclerk has not asked me to marry +him. No! I don't care what you think. I am miserable! And though I were +to tell you over and over again it was not because of him, you would not +believe me, so I will say nothing." + +"Here is Freddy," says Mrs. Monkton, nervously, who has just seen her +husband's head pass the window. He enters the room almost as she speaks. + +"Well, Joyce, back again," says he, affectionately. He kisses the girl +warmly. "Horrid drive you must have had through that storm." + +"You, too, blame the storm, then, and not me," says Joyce, with a smile. +"Everybody doesn't take your view of it. It appears I should have +returned, in all that rain and wind and----" + +"Pshaw! Never listen to extremists," says Mr. Monkton, sinking lazily +into a chair. "They will land you on all sorts of barren coasts if you +give ear to them. For my part I never could see why two people of +opposite sexes, if overcome by nature's artillery, should not spend a +night under a wayside inn without calling down upon them the social +artillery of gossip. There is only one thing in the whole affair," says +Mr. Monkton, seriously, "that has given me a moment's uneasiness." + +"And that?" says Joyce, nervously. + +"Is how I can possibly be second to both of them. Dysart, I confess, has +my sympathies, but if Beauclerk were to appear first upon the field and +implore my assistance I feel I should have a delicacy about refusing +him." + +"Freddy," says his wife, reprovingly. + +"Oh, as for that," says Joyce, with a frown, "I do think men are the +most troublesome things on earth." She burst out presently. "When one +isn't loving them, one is hating them." + +"How many of them at a time?" asks her brother-in-law with deep +interest. "Not more than two, Joyce, please. I couldn't grasp any more. +My intellect is of a very limited order." + +"So is mine, I think," says Joyce, with a tired little sigh. + +Monkton, although determined to treat the matter lightly, looks very +sorry for her. Evidently she is out of joint with the whole world at +present. + +"How did Lady Baltimore take it?" asks he, with all the careless air of +one asking a question on some unimportant subject. + +"She was angry with Mr. Beauclerk for not leaving me at the inn, and +coming home himself." + +"Unsisterly woman!" + +"She was quite right, after all," says Mrs. Monkton, who had defended +Beauclerk herself, but cannot bear to hear another take his part. + +"And, Dysart--how did he take it?" asks Monkton, smiling. + +"I don't see how he should take it, anyway," says Joyce, coldly. + +"Not even with soda water?" says her brother-in-law. "Of course, it +would be too much to expect him to take it neat. You broke it gently to +him I hope." + +"Ah, you don't understand Mr. Dysart," says the girl, rising abruptly. +"I did not understand him until yesterday." + +"Is he so very abstruse?" + +"He is very insolent," says Miss Kavanagh, with a sudden touch of fire, +that makes her sister look at her with some uneasiness. + +"I see," says Mr. Monkton, slowly. He still, unfortunately, looks +amused. "One never does know anybody until he or she gives way to a +towering passion. So he gave you a right good scolding for being caught +in the rain with Beauclerk. A little unreasonable, surely; but lovers +never yet were famous for their common sense. That little ingredient was +forgotten in their composition. And so he gave you a lecture?" + +"Well, he is not likely to do it again," says she slowly. + +"No? Then it is more than likely that I shall be the one to be scolded +presently. He won't be able to content himself with silence. He will +want to air his grievances, to revenge them on some one, and if you +refuse to see him, I shall be that one. There is really only one small +remark to be made about this whole matter," says Mr. Monkton, with a +rueful smile, "and it remains for me to make it. If you will encourage +two suitors at the same time, my good child, the least you may expect is +trouble. You are bound to look out for 'breakers ahead,' but (and this +is the remark) it is very hard lines for a fourth and most innocent +person to have those suitors dropped straight on him without a second's +notice. I'm not a born warrior; the brunt of the battle is a sort of +gayety that I confess myself unsuited for. I haven't been educated up to +it. I----" + +"There will be no battle," says Joyce, in a strange tone, "because there +will be no combatants. For a battle there must be something to fight +for, and here there is nothing. You are all wrong, Freddy. You will find +out that after awhile. I have a headache, Barbara. I think," raising her +lovely but pained eyes to her sister, "I should like to go into the +garden for a little bit. The air there is always so sweet." + +"Go, darling," says Barbara, whose own eyes have filled with tears. "Oh, +Freddy," turning reproachfully to her husband as the door closes on +Joyce, "how could you so have taken her? You must have seen how unhappy +she was. And all about that horrid Beauclerk." + +Monkton stares at her. + +"So that is how you read it," says he at last. + +"There is no difficulty about the reading. Could it be in larger print?" + +"Large enough, certainly, as to the unhappiness, but for 'Beauclerk' I +should advise the printer to insert Dysart.'" + +"Dysart? Felix?" + +"Unless, indeed, you could suggest a third." + +"Nonsense!" says Mrs. Monkton, contemptuously. "She has never cared for +poor Felix. How I wish she had. He is worth a thousand of the other; but +girls are so perverse." + +"They are. That is just my point," says her husband. "Joyce is so +perverse that she won't allow herself to see that it is Dysart she +preferred. However, there is one comfort, she is paying for her +perversity." + +"Freddy," says his wife, after a long pause, "do you really think that?" + +"What? That girls are perverse?" + +"No, no! That she likes Felix best?" + +"That is indeed my fixed belief." + +"Oh, Freddy!" cries his wife, throwing herself into his arms. "How +beautiful of you, I've always wanted to think that, but never could +until now--now that----" + +"My clear judgment has been brought to bear upon it. Quite right, my +dear, always regard your husband as a sort of demi-god, who----" + +"Pouf!" says she. "Do you think I was born without a grain of sense? But +really, Freddy----Oh! if it might be! Poor, poor darling! how sad she +looked. If they have had a serious quarrel over her drive with that +detestable Beauclerk--why--I----" Here she bursts into tears, and with +her face buried on Monkton's waistcoat, makes little wild dabs at the +air with a right hand that is only to be appeased by having Monkton's +handkerchief thrust into it. + +"What a baby you are!" says he, giving her a loving little shake. "I +declare, you were well named. The swift transitions from the tremendous +'Barbara' to the inconsequent 'Baby' takes but an instant, and exactly +expresses you. A moment ago you were bent on withering me: now, I am +going to wither you." + +"Oh, no! don't," says she, half laughing, half crying. "And besides, it +is you who are inconsequent. You never keep to one point for a second." + +"Why should I?" says he, "when it is such a disagreeable one. There let +us give up for the day. We can write 'To be continued' after it, and +begin a fresh chapter to-morrow." + + * * * * * + +Meantime, Joyce, making her way to the garden with a hope of finding +there, at all events, silence, and opportunity for thought, seats +herself upon a garden chair, and gives herself up a willing prey to +melancholy. She had desired to struggle against this evil, but it had +conquered her, and tears rising beneath her lids are falling on her +cheeks, when two small creatures emerging from the summer house on her +left catch sight of her. + +They had been preparing for a rush, a real Redshank, painted and +feathered, descent upon her, when something in her sorrowful attitude +becomes known to them. + +Fun dies within their kind little hearts. Their Joyce has come home to +them--that is a matter for joy, but their Joyce has come home +unhappy--that is a matter for grief. Step by step, hand in hand, they +approach her, and even at the very last, with their little breasts +overflowing with the delight of getting her back, it is with a very +gentle precipitation that they throw themselves upon her. + +And it never occurs to them, either, to trouble her for an explanation; +no probing questions issue from their lips. She is sorry, that is all. +It is enough for their sympathies. Too much. + +Joyce herself is hardly aware of the advent of the little comforters, +until two small arms steal around her neck, and she finds Mabel's face +pressed close against her own. + +"Let me kiss her, too," says Tommy, trying to push his sister away, and +resenting openly the fact of her having secured the first attempt at +consolation. + +"You mustn't tease her, she's sorry. She's very sorry about something," +says Mabel, turning up Joyce's face with her pink palm. "Aren't you, +Joyce? There's droppies in your eyes?" + +"A little, darling," says Joyce, brokenly. + +"Then I'll be sorry with you," says the child, with all childhood's +divine intuition that to sorrow alone is to know a double sorrow. She +hugs Joyce more closely with her tender arms, and Joyce, after a battle +with her braver self, gives way, and breaks into bitter tears. + +"There now! you've made her cry right out! You're a naughty girl," says +Tommy, to his sister in a raging tone, meant to hide the fact that he +too, himself is on the point of giving way; in fact, another moment sees +him dissolved in tears. + +"Never mind, Joycie. Never mind. We love you!" sobs he, getting up on +the back of the seat behind her, and making a very excellent attempt at +strangulation. + +"Do you? There doesn't seem to be any one else, then, but you!" says +poor Joyce, dropping Mabel into her lap, and Tommy more to the front, +and clasping them both to her with a little convulsive movement. + +Perhaps the good cry she has on top of those two loving little heads +does her more good than anything else could possibly have done. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. + + "A bitter and perplexed 'What shall I do?' + Is worse to man than worse necessity." + + +Three months have come and gone, and winter is upon us. It is close on +Christmastide indeed. All the trees lie bare and desolate, the leaves +have fallen from them, and their sweet denizens, the birds, flown or +dead. + +Evening has fallen. The children are in the nursery, having a last romp +before bed hour. Their usual happy hunting ground for that final fling +is the drawing-room, but finding the atmosphere there, to-night, +distinctly cloudy, they had beaten a simultaneous retreat to Bridget and +the battered old toys upstairs. Children, like rats, dislike discomfort. + +Mrs. Monkton, sitting before the fire, that keeps up a continuous sound +as musical as the rippling of a small stream, is leaning back in her +chair, her pretty forehead puckered into a thousand doubts. Joyce, near +her, is as silent as she is; while Mr. Monkton, after a vain pretence at +being absorbed in the morning paper (diligently digested at 11 this +morning), flings it impatiently on the floor. + +"What's the good of your looking like that, Barbara? If you were +compelled to accept this invitation from my mother, I could see some +reason for your dismal glances, but when you know I am as far from +wishing you to accept it as you are yourself, why should----?" + +"Ah! but are you?" says his wife with a swift, dissatisfied glance at +him. The dissatisfaction is a good deal directed toward herself. + +"If you could make her sure of that," says Joyce, softly. "I have tried +to explain it to her, but----" + +"I suppose I am unreasonable," says Barbara, rising, with a little laugh +that has a good deal of grief in it. "I suppose I ought to believe," +turning to her husband, "that you are dying for me to refuse this +invitation from the people who have covered me with insult for eight +years, when I know well that you are dying for me to accept it." + +"Oh! if you know that," says Monkton rather feebly, it must be +confessed. This fatally late desire on the part of his people to become +acquainted with his wife and children has taken hold of him, has lived +with him through the day, not for anything he personally could possibly +gain by it, but because of a deep desire he has that they, his father +and mother, should see and know his wife, and learn to admire her and +love her. + +"Of course I know it," says Barbara, almost fiercely. "Do you think I +have lived with you all these years and cannot read your heart? Don't +think I blame you, Freddy. If the cases were reversed I should feel just +like you. I should go to any lengths to be at one with my own people." + +"I don't want to go to even the shortest length," says Mr. Monkton. As +if a little nettled he takes up the dull old local paper again and +begins a third severe examination of it. But Mrs. Monkton, feeling that +she cannot survive another silence, lays her hand upon it and captures +it. + +"Let us talk about it, Freddy," says she. + +"It will only make you more unhappy." + +"Oh, no. I think not. It will do her good," says Joyce, anxiously. + +"Where is the letter? I hardly saw it. Who is asked?" demands Barbara +feverishly. + +"Nobody in particular, except you. My father has expressed a wish that +we should occupy that house of his in Harley street for the winter +months, and my mother puts in, accidentally as it were, that she would +like to see the children. But you are the one specially alluded to." + +"They are too kind!" says Barbara rather unkindly to herself. + +"I quite see it in your light. It is an absolute impertinence," says +Monkton, with a suppressed sigh. "I allow all that. In fact, I am with +you, Barbara, all through: why keep me thinking about it? Put it out of +your head. It requires nothing more than a polite refusal." + +"I shall hate to make it polite," says Barbara. And then, recurring to +her first and sure knowledge of his secret desires, "you want to go to +them?" + +"I shall never go without you," returns he gravely. + +"Ah! that is almost a challenge," says she, flushing. + +"Barbara! perhaps he is right," says Joyce, gently; as she speaks she +gets up from the fire and makes her way to the door, and from that to +her own room. + +"Will you go without me?" says Barbara, when she has gone, looking at +her husband with large, earnest eyes. + +"Never. You say you know me thoroughly, Barbara; why then ask that +question?" + +"Well, you will never go then," says she, "for I--I will never enter +those people's doors. I couldn't, Freddy. It would kill me!" She has +kept up her defiant attitude so successfully and for so long that Mr. +Monkton is now electrified when she suddenly bursts into tears and +throws herself into his arms. + +"You think me a beast!" says she, clinging to him. + +"You are tired; you are bothered. Give it up, darling," says he, patting +her on the back, the most approved modern plan of reducing people to a +stale of common sense. + +"But you do think it, don't you?" + +"No. Barbara. There now, be a good sensible girl, and try to realize +that I don't want you to accept this invitation, and that I am going to +write to my mother in the morning to say it is impossible for us to +leave home just now--as--as--eh?" + +"Oh, anything will do." + +"As baby is not very well? That's the usual polite thing, eh?" + +"Oh! no, don't say that," says Mrs. Monkton in a little, frightened +tone. "It--it's unlucky! It might--I'm not a bit superstitious, Freddy, +but it might affect baby in some way--do him some harm." + +"Very well, we'll tell another lie," says Mr. Monkton cheerfully. "We'll +say you've got the neuralgia badly, and that the doctor says it would be +as much as your life Is worth to cross the Channel at this time of +year." + +"That will do very well," says Mrs. Monkton readily. + +"But--I'm not a bit superstitious," says he solemnly. "But it might +affect you in some way, do you some harm, and--" + +"If you are going to make a jest of it, Freddy----" + +"It is you who have made the jest. Well; never mind, I accept the +responsibility, and will create even another taradiddle. If I say we are +disinclined to leave home just now, will that do?" + +"Yes," says she, after a second's struggle with her better self, in +which it comes off the loser. + +"That's settled, then," says Mr. Monkton. "Peace with honor is assured. +Let us forget that unfortunate letter, and all the appurtenances +thereof." + +"Yes: do let us, Freddy," says she, as if with all her heart. + + * * * * * + +But the morning convinces Monkton that the question of the letter still +remains unsettled. Barbara, for one thing, has come down to breakfast +gowned in her very best morning frock, one reserved for those rare +occasions when people drop in over night and sleep with them. She has, +indeed, all the festive appearance of a person who expects to be called +away at a second's notice into a very vertex of dissipation. + +Joyce, who is quite as impressed as Monkton with her appearance, gazes +at her with a furtive amazement, and both she and Monkton wait in a sort +of studied silence to know the meaning of it. They aren't given long to +possess their souls in patience. + +"Freddy, I don't think Mabel ought to have any more jam," says Mrs. +Monkton, presently, "or Tommy either." She looks at the children as she +speaks, and sighs softly. "It will cost a great deal," says she. + +"The jam!" says her husband. "Well, really, at the rate they are +consuming it--I----" + +"Oh, no. The railway--the boat--the fare--the whole journey," says she. + +"The journey?" says Joyce. + +"Why, to England, to take them over there to see their grandmother," +says Mrs. Monkton calmly. + +"But, Barbara----" + +"Well, dear?" + +"I thought----" + +"Barbara! I really consider that question decided," says her husband, +not severely, however. Is the dearest wish of his heart to be +accomplished at last? "I thought you had finally made up your mind to +refuse my mother's invitation?" + +"I shall not refuse it," says she, slowly, "whatever you may do." + +"I?" + +"You said you didn't want to go," says his wife severely. "But I have +been thinking it over, and----" Her tone has changed, and a slight touch +of pink has come into her pretty cheeks. "After all, Freddy, why should +I be the one to keep you from your people?" + +"You aren't keeping me. Don't go on that." + +"Well, then, will you go by yourself and see them?" + +"Certainly not." + +"Not even if I give you the children to take over?". + +"Not even then." + +"You see," says she, with a sort of sad triumph, "I am keeping you from +them. What I mean is, that if you had never met me you would now be +friends with them." + +"I'd a great deal rather be friends with you," says he struggling wildly +but firmly with a mutton chop that has been done to death by a bad cook. + +"I know that," in a low and troubled tone, "but I know, too, that there +is always unhappiness where one is on bad terms with one's father and +mother." + +"My dear girl, I can't say what bee you have got in your bonnet now, but +I beg you to believe, I am perfectly happy at this present moment, in +spite of this confounded chop that has been done to a chip. 'God sends +meat, the devil sends cooks.' That's not a prayer, Tommy, you needn't +commit it to memory." + +"But there's 'God' and the 'devil' in it," says Tommy, skeptically: +"that always means prayers." + +"Not this time. And you can't pray to both; your mother has taught you +that; you should teach her something in return. That's only fair, isn't +it?" + +"She knows everything," says Tommy, dejectedly. It is quite plain to his +hearers that he regrets his mother's universal knowledge--that he would +have dearly liked to give her a lesson or two. + +"Not everything," says his father. "For example, she cannot understand +that I am the happiest man in the world; she imagines I should be better +off if she was somebody else's wife and somebody else's mother." + +"Whose mother?" demands Tommy, his eyes growing round. + +"Ah, that's just it. You must ask her. She has evidently some _arriere +pensee_." + +"Freddy," says his wife in a low tone. + +"Well! What am I to think? You see," to Tommy, who is now deeply +interested, "if she wasn't your mother, she'd be somebody else's." + +"No, she wouldn't," breaks in Tommy, indignantly. "I wouldn't let her, +I'd hold on to her. I--" with his mouth full of strawberry jam, yet +striving nobly to overcome his difficulties of expression, "I'd beat +her!" + +"You shouldn't usurp my privileges," says his father, mildly. + +"Barbara!" says Joyce, at this moment. "If you have decided on going to +London, I think you have decided wisely; and it may not be such an +expense after all. You and Freddy can manage the two eldest children +very well on the journey, and I can look after baby until you return. Or +else take nurse, and leave baby entirely to me." + +Mrs. Monkton makes a quick movement. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. + + "And I go to brave a world I hate, + And woo it o'er and o'er; + And tempt a wave and try a fate + Upon a stranger shore." + + +"I shall take the three children and you, too, or I shall not go at +all," says she, addressing her sister with an air of decision. + +"If you have really made up your mind about it," says Mr. Monkton, "I +agree with you. The house in Harley street is big enough for a regiment, +and my mother says the servants will be in it on our arrival, if we +accept the invitation. Joyce will be a great comfort to us, and a help +on the journey over, the children are so fond of her." + +Joyce turns her face to her brother-in-law and smiles in a little +pleased way. She has been so grave of late that they welcome a smile +from her now at any time, and even court k. The pretty lips, erstwhile +so prone to laughter, are now too serious by far. When, therefore, +Monkton or his wife go out of their way to gain a pleased glance from +her and succeed, both feel as if they had achieved a victory. + +"Why have they offered us a separate establishment? Was there no room +for us in their own house?" asks Mrs. Monkton presently. + +"I dare say they thought we should be happier, so--in a place of our +own." + +"Well, I dare say we shall." She pauses for a moment. "Why are they in +town now--at this time of year? Why are they not in their country +house?" + +"Ah! that is a last thorn in their flesh," says Monkton, with a quick +sigh. "They have had to let the old place to pay my brother's debts. He +is always a trouble to them. This last letter points to greater trouble +still." + +"And in their trouble they have turned to you--to the little +grandchildren," says Joyce, softly. "One can understand it." + +"Oh, yes. Oh, you should have told me," says Barbara, flushing as if +with pain. "I am the hardest person alive, I think. You think it?" +looking directly at her husband. + +"I think only one thing of you," says Mr. Monkton, rising from the +breakfast table with a slight laugh. "It is what I have always thought, +that you are the dearest and loveliest thing on earth." The bantering +air he throws into this speech does not entirely deprive it of the +truthful tenderness that formed it. "There," says he, "that ought to +take the gloom off the brow of any well-regulated woman, coming as it +does from an eight-year-old husband." + +"Oh, you must be older than that," says she, at which they all laugh +together. + +"You are wise to go, Barbara," says Joyce, now in a livelier way, as if +that last quick, unexpected feeling of amusement has roused her to a +sharper sense of life. "If once they see you!--No, you mustn't put up +your shoulder like that--I tell you, if once they looked at you, they +would feel the measure of their folly." + +"I shall end by fancying myself," says Mrs. Monkton, impatiently, "and +then you will all have fresh work cut out for you; the bringing of me +back to my proper senses. Well," with a sigh, "as I have to see them, I +wish----" + +"What?" + +"That I could be a heartier believer in your and Joyce's flattery, or +else, that they, your people, were not so prejudiced against me. It will +be an ordeal." + +"When you are about it wish them a few grains of common sense," says her +husband wrathfully. "Just fancy the folly of an impertinence that +condemned a fellow being on no evidence whatsoever; neither eye nor ear +were brought in as witnesses." + +"Oh, well," says she, considerably mollified by his defamation of his +people, "I dare say they are not so much to be blamed after all. And," +with a little, quick laugh at her sister, "as Joyce says, my beauties +are still unknown to them; they will be delighted when they see me." + +"They will, indeed," returns Joyce stolidly. "And so you are really +going to take me with you. Oh, I am glad. I haven't spent any of my +money this winter, Barbara; I have some, therefore, and I have always +wanted to see London." + +"It will be a change for the children, too," says Barbara, with a +troubled sigh. "I suppose," to her husband, "they will think them very +countrified." + +"Who?" + +"Your mother--" + +"What do you think of them?" + +"Oh, that has got nothing to do with it." + +"Everything rather. You are analyzing them. You are exalting an old +woman who has been unkind to you at the expense of the children who love +you!" + +"Ah, she analyzes them because she too loves them," says Joyce. "It is +easy to pick faults in those who have a real hold upon our hearts. For +the rest--it doesn't concern us how the world regards them." + +"It sounds as if it ought to read the other way round," says Monkton. + +"No, no. To love is to see faults, not to be blind to them. The old +reading is wrong," says Joyce. + +"You are unfair, Freddy," declares his wife with dignity; "I would not +decry the children. I am only a little nervous as to their reception. +When I know that your father and mother are prepared to receive them as +my children, I know they will get but little mercy at their hands." + +"That speech isn't like you," says Monkton, "but it is impossible to +blame you for it." + +"They are the dearest children in the world," says Joyce. "Don't think +of them. They must succeed. Let them alone to fight their own battles." + +"You may certainly depend upon Tommy," says his father. "For any +emergency that calls for fists and heels, where battle, murder and +sudden death are to be looked for, Tommy will be all there." + +"Oh! I do hope he will be good," says his mother, half amused, but +plainly half terrified as well. + + * * * * * + +Two weeks later sees them settled in town, in the Harley street house, +that seems enormous and unfriendly to Mrs. Monkton, but delightful to +Joyce and the children, who wander from room to room and, under her +guidance, pretend to find bears and lions and bogies in every corner. + +The meeting between Barbara and Lady Monkton had not been satisfactory. +There had been very little said on either side, but the chill that lay +on the whole interview had never thawed for a moment. + +Barbara had been stiff and cold, if entirely polite, but not at all the +Barbara to whom her husband had been up to this accustomed. He did not +blame her for the change of front under the circumstances, but he could +hardly fail to regret it, and it puzzled him a great deal to know how +she did it. + +He was dreadfully sorry about it secretly, and would have given very +much more than the whole thing was worth to let his father and mother +see his wife as she really is--the true Barbara. + +Lady Monkton had been stiff, too; unpardonably so--as it was certainly +her place to make amends--to soften and smooth down the preliminary +embarrassment. But then she had never been framed for suavity of any +sort; and an old aunt of Monkton's, a sister of hers, had been present +during the interview, and had helped considerably to keep up the +frigidity of the atmosphere. + +She was not a bad old woman at heart, this aunt. She had indeed from +time to time given up all her own small patrimony to help her sister to +get the eldest son out of his many disreputable difficulties. She had +done this, partly for the sake of the good old family names on both +sides, and partly because the younger George Monkton was very dear to +her. + +From his early boyhood the scapegrace of the family had been her +admiration, and still remained so, in imagination. For years she had not +seen him, and perhaps this (that she considered a grievance) was a +kindness vouchsafed to her by Providence. Had she seen the pretty boy of +twenty years ago as he now is she would not have recognized him. The +change from the merry, blue-eyed, daring lad of the past to the bloated, +blear-eyed, reckless-looking man of to-day would have been a shock too +cruel for her to bear. But this she was not allowed to realize, and so +remained true to her belief in him, as she remembered him. + +In spite of her many good qualities, she was, nevertheless, a dreadful +woman; the more dreadful to the ordinary visitor because of the false +front she wore, and the flashing purchased teeth that shone in her upper +jaw. She lived entirely with Sir George and Lady Monkton, having indeed +given them every penny that would have enabled her to live elsewhere. +Perhaps of all the many spites they owed their elder son, the fact that +his iniquities had inflicted upon them his maternal aunt for the rest of +her natural days, was the one that rankled keenest. + +She disliked Frederic, not only intensely, but with an openness that had +its disadvantages--not for any greater reason than that he had behaved +himself so far in his journey through life more creditably than his +brother. She had always made a point against him of his undutiful +marriage, and never failed, to add fuel to the fire of his father's and +mother's resentment about it, whenever that fire seemed to burn low. + +Altogether, she was by no means an amiable old lady, and, being very +hideous into the bargain, was not much run after by society generally. +She wasn't of the least consequence in any way, being not only old but +very poor; yet people dreaded her, and would slip away round doors and +corners to avoid her tongue. She succeeded, in spite of all drawbacks, +in making herself felt; and it was only one or two impervious beings, +such is Dicky Browne for example (who knew the Monktons well, and was +indeed distantly connected with them through his mother), who could +endure her manners with any attempt at equanimity. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII. + + "Strength wanting judgment and policy to rule overturneth itself." + + +It was quite impossible, of course, that a first visit to Lady Monkton +should be a last from Barbara. Lady Monkton had called on her the very +day after her arrival in town, but Barbara had been out then. On the +occasion of the latter's return visit the old woman had explained that +going out was a trial to her, and Barbara, in spite of her unconquerable +dislike to her, had felt it to be her duty to go and see her now and +then. The children, too, had been a great resource. Sir George, +especially, had taken to Tommy, who was quite unabashed by the grandeur +of the stately, if faded, old rooms in the Belgravian mansion, but was +full of curiosity, and spent his visits to his grandfather +cross-examining him about divers matters--questionable and +otherwise--that tickled the old man and kept him laughing. + +It had struck Barbara that Sir George had left off laughing for some +time. He looked haggard--uneasy--miserably expectant. She liked him +better than she liked Lady Monkton, and, though reserved with both, +relaxed more to him than to her mother-in-law. For one thing, Sir George +had been unmistakably appreciative of her beauty, and her soft voice and +pretty manners. He liked them all. Lady Monkton had probably noticed +them quite as keenly, but they had not pleased her. They were indeed an +offence. They had placed her in the wrong. As for old Miss L'Estrange, +the aunt, she regarded the young wife from the first with a dislike she +took no pains to conceal. + +This afternoon, one of many that Barbara has given up to duty, finds her +as usual in Lady Monkton's drawing room listening to her mother-in-law's +comments on this and that, and trying to keep up her temper, for +Frederic's sake, when the old lady finds fault with her management of +the children. + +The latter (that is, Tommy and Mabel) have been sent to the pantomime by +Sir George, and Barbara with her husband have dropped in towards the +close of the day to see Lady Monkton, with a view to recovering the +children there, and taking them home with them, Sir George having +expressed a wish to see the little ones after the play, and hear Tommy's +criticisms on it, which he promised himself would be lively. He had +already a great belief in the powers of Tommy's descriptions. + +In the meantime the children have not returned, and conversation, it +must be confessed, languishes. Miss L'Estrange, who is present in a cap +of enormous dimensions and a temper calculated to make life hideous to +her neighbors, scarcely helps to render more bearable the dullness of +everything. Sir George in a corner is buttonholing Frederic and +saddening him with last accounts of the Scapegrace. + +Barbara has come to her final pretty speech--silence seems +imminent--when suddenly Lady Monkton flings into it a bombshell that +explodes, and carries away with it all fear of commonplace dullness at +all events. + +"You have a sister, I believe," says she to Barbara in a tone she fondly +but erroneously imagines gracious. + +"Yes," says Barbara, softly but curtly. The fact that Joyce's existence +has never hitherto been alluded to by Lady Monkton renders her manner +even colder than usual, which is saying everything. + +"She lives with you?" + +"Yes," says Barbara again. + +Lady Monkton, as if a little put out by the determined taciturnity of +her manner, moves forward on her seat, and pulls the lace lappets of her +dove-gray cap more over to the front impatiently. Long, soft lappets +they are, falling from a gem of a little cap, made of priceless lace, +and with a beautiful old face beneath to frame. A face like an old +miniature; and as stern as most of them, but charming for all that and +perfect in every line. + +"Makes herself useful, no doubt," growls Miss L'Estrange from the +opposite lounge, her evil old countenance glowing with the desire to +offend. "That's why one harbors one's poor relations--to get something +out of them." + +This is a double-barrelled explosion. One barrel for the detested wife +of the good Frederic, one for the sister she has befriended--to that +sister's cost. + +"True," says Lady Monkton, with an uncivil little upward glance at +Barbara. For once--because it suits her--she has accepted her sister's +argument, and determined to take no heed of her scarcely veiled insult. +"She helps you, no doubt. Is useful with the children, I hope. Moneyless +girls should remember that they are born into the world to work, not to +idle." + +"I am afraid she is not as much help to me as you evidently think +necessary," says Barbara smiling, but not pleasantly. "She is very +seldom at home; in the summer at all events." It is abominable to her to +think that these hateful old people should regard Joyce, her pretty +Joyce, as a mere servant, a sisterly maid-of-all-work. + +"And if not with you--where then?" asks Lady Monkton, indifferently, and +as if more with a desire to keep up the dying conversation than from any +acute thirst for knowledge. + +"She stays a good deal with Lady Baltimore," says Barbara, feeling +weary, and rather disgusted. + +"Ah! indeed! Sort of companion--a governess, I suppose?" + +A long pause. Mrs. Monkton's dark eyes grow dangerously bright, and a +quick color springs into her cheeks. + +"No!" begins she, in a low but indignant tone, and then suppresses +herself. She can't, she mustn't quarrel with Freddy's people! "My sister +is neither companion nor governess to Lady Baltimore," says she icily. +"She is only her friend." + +"Friend?" repeats the old lady, as if not quite understanding. + +"A great friend," repeats Barbara calmly. Lady Monkton's astonishment is +even more insulting than her first question. But Barbara has made up her +mind to bear all things. + +"There are friends and friends," puts in Miss L'Estrange with her most +offensive air. + +A very embarrassing silence falls on this, Barbara would say nothing +more, an inborn sense of dignity forbidding her. But this does not +prevent a very natural desire on her part to look at her husband, not so +much to claim his support as to know if he has heard. + +One glance assures her that he has. A pause in the conversation with his +father has enabled him to hear everything. Barbara has just time to note +that his brow is black and his lips ominously compressed before she sees +him advance toward his mother. + +"You seem to, be very singularly ignorant of my wife's status in +society----" he is beginning is a rather terrible tone, when Barbara, +with a little graceful gesture, checks him. She puts out her hand and +smiles up at him, a wonderful smile under the circumstances. + +"Ah! that is just it," she says, sweetly, but with determination. "She +is ignorant where we are concerned--Joyce and I. If she had only spared +time to ask a little question or two! But as it is----" The whole speech +is purposely vague, but full of contemptuous rebuke, delicately veiled. +"It is nothing, I assure you, Freddy. Your mother is not to be blamed. +She has not understood. That is all." + +"I fail even now to understand," says the old lady, with a somewhat +tremulous attempt at self-assertion. + +"So do I," says the antique upon the lounge near her, bristling with a +wrath so warm that it has unsettled the noble structure on her head, and +placed it in quite an artful situation, right over her left ear. "I see +nothing to create wrath in the mind of any one, in the idea of a +young--er----" She comes to a dead pause; she had plainly been going to +say young person--but Frederic's glare had been too much for her. It has +frightened her into good behavior, and she changes the obnoxious word +into one more complaisant. + +"A young what?" demands he imperiously, freezing his aunt with a stony +stare. + +"Young girl!" returns she, toning down a little, but still betraying +malevolence of a very advanced order in her voice and expression. "I see +nothing derogatory in the idea of a young girl devoid of fortune taking +a----" + +Again she would have said something insulting. The word "situation" is +on her lips; but the venom in her is suppressed a second time by her +nephew. + +"Go on," says he, sternly. + +"Taking a--er--position in a nice family," says she, almost spitting out +the words like a bad old cat. + +"She has a position in a very nice family," says Monkton readily. "In +mine! As companion, friend, playfellow, in fact anything you like of the +light order of servitude. We all serve, my dear aunt, though that idea +doesn't seem to have come home to you. We must all be in bondage to each +other in this world--the only real freedom is to be gained in the world +to come. You have never thought of that? Well, think of it now. To be +kind, to be sympathetic, to be even Commonly civil to people is to +fulfil the law's demands." + +"You go too far; she is old, Freddy," Barbara has scarcely time to +whisper, when the door is thrown open, and Dicky Browne, followed by +Felix Dysart, enters the room. + +It is a relief to everybody. Lady Monkton rises to receive them with a +smile: Miss L'Estrange looks into the teapot. Plainly she can still see +some tea leaves there. Rising, she inclines the little silver kettle +over them, and creates a second deluge. She has again made tea. May she +be forgiven! + +"Going to give us some tea, Miss L'Estrange?" says Dicky, bearing down +upon her with a beaming face. She has given him some before this. "One +can always depend upon you for a good cup. Ah, thanks. Dysart, I can +recommend this. Have a cup; do." + +"No, thank you," says Dysart, who has secured a seat next to Barbara, +and is regarding her anxiously, while replying to her questions of +surprise at seeing him in town at this time of year. She is surprised +too, and a little shocked to see him look so ill. + +Dicky is still holding a brilliant conversation with Miss L'Estrange, +who, to him, is a joy for ever. + +"Didn't expect to see me here again so soon, eh?" says he, with a +cheerful smile. + +"There you are wrong," returns that spinster, in the hoarse croak that +distinguishes her. "The fact that you were here yesterday and couldn't +reasonably be supposed to come again for a week, made it at once a +certainty that you would turn up immediately. The unexpected is what +always happens where you are concerned." + +"One of my many charms," says Mr. Browne gayly, hiding his untasted cup +by a skillful movement behind the sugar bowl. "Variety, you know, is +ever charming. I'm a various person, therefore I'm charming." + +"Are you?" says Miss L'Estrange, grimly. + +"Can you look at me and doubt it?" demands Mr. Browne, deep reproach in +his eyes. + +"I can," returns Miss L'Estrange, presenting an uncompromising front. "I +can also suggest to you that those lumps of sugar are meant to put in +the cups with the tea, not to be consumed wholesale. Sugar, plain, is +ruinous to the stomach and disastrous to the teeth." + +"True, true," says Mr. Browne, absently, "and both mine are so pretty." + +Miss L'Estrange rises to her feet and confronts him with a stony glare. + +"Both what?" demands she. + +"Eh? Why, both of them," persists Mr. Browne. + +"I think, Richard, that the sooner you return to your hotel, or whatever +low haunt you have chosen as your present abode, the better it will be +for all present." + +"Why so?" demands Mr. Browne, indignantly. "What have I done now?" + +"You know very well, sir," says Miss L'estrange. "Your language is +disgraceful. You take an opportunity of turning an innocent remark of +mine, a kindly warning, into a ribald----" + +"Good heavens!" says he, uplifting brows and hands. "I never yet knew it +was ribaldry to talk about one's teeth." + +"You were not talking about your teeth," says Miss L'Estrange sternly. +"You said distinctly 'both of them.'" + +"Just so," says Dicky. "I've only got two." + +"Is that the truth, Richard?" with increasing majesty. + +"Honest Injun," says Mr. Browne, unabashed. "And they are out of sight. +All you can see have been purchased, and I assure you, dear Miss +L'Estrange," with anxious earnestness, "paid for. One guinea the entire +set; a single tooth, two-and-six. Who'd be without 'em?" + +"Well, I'm sorry to hear it," says Miss L'Estrange reseating herself and +regarding him still with manifest distrust. "To lose one's teeth so +early in life speaks badly for one's moral conduct. Anyhow, I shan't +allow you to destroy your guinea's worth. I shall remove temptation from +your path." + +Lifting the sugar bowl she removes it to her right side, thus laying +bare the fact that Mr. Browne's cup of tea is still full to the brim. + +It is the last stroke. + +"Drink your tea," says she to the stricken Dicky in a tone that admits +of no delay. He drinks it. + +Meantime, Barbara has been very kind to Felix Dysart, answering his +roundabout questions that always have Joyce as their central meaning. +One leading remark of his is to the effect that he is covered with +astonishment to find her and Monkton in London. Is he surprised. Well, +no doubt, yes. Joyce is in town, too, but she has not come out with her +to-day. Have they been to the theatre? Very often; Joyce, especially, is +quite devoted to it. Do they go much to the picture galleries? Well, to +one or two. There is so much to be done, and the children are rather +exigeant, and demand all the afternoon. But she had heard Joyce say that +she was going to-morrow to Dore's Gallery. She thought Tommy ought to be +shown something more improving than clowns and wild animals and toy +shops. + +Mr. Dysart, at this point, said he thought Miss Kavanagh was more +reflective than one taking a careless view of her might believe. + +Barbara laughed. + +"Do you take the reflective view?" says she. + +"Do you recommend me to take the careless one?" demands he, now looking +fully at her. There is a good deal of meaning in his question, but +Barbara declines to recognize it. She feels she has gone far enough in +that little betrayal about Dore's Gallery. She refuses to take another +step; she is already, indeed, a little frightened by what she has done +If Joyce should hear of it--oh----And yet how could she refrain from +giving that small push to so deserving a cause? + +"No, no; I recommend nothing," says she, still laughing. "Where are you +staying?" + +"With my cousins, the Seaton Dysarts. They had to come up to town about +a tooth, or a headache, or neuralgia, or something; we shall never quite +know what, as it has disappeared, whatever it is. Give me London smoke +as a perfect cure for most ailments. It is astonishing what remarkable +recoveries it can boast. Vera and her husband are like a couple of +children. Even the pantomime isn't too much for them." + +"That reminds me the children ought to be here by this time," says Mrs. +Monkton, drawing out her watch. "They went to the afternoon performance. +I really think," anxiously, "they are very late----" + +She has hardly spoken when a sound of little running feet up the stairs +outside sets her maternal fears at rest. Nearer and nearer they sound; +they stop, there is a distant scuffle, the door is thrown violently +open, and Tommy and Mabel literally fall into the room. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV. + + "Then seemed to me this world far less in size, + Likewise it seemed to me less wicked far; + Like points in heaven I saw the stars arise, + And longed for wings that I might catch a star." + + +Least said, soonest mended! Tommy is on his feet again in no time, and +has picked up Mabel before you could say Jack Robinson, and once again, +nothing daunted by their ignominious entry, they rush up the room and +precipitate themselves upon their mother. This pious act being +performed, Tommy sees fit to show some small attention to the other +people present. + +"Thomas," says Mr. Browne, when he has shaken hands with him, "if you +wait much longer without declaring yourself you will infallibly burst, +and that is always a rude thing to do in a friend's drawing-room. Speak, +Thomas, or die--you are evidently full of information!" + +"Well, I won't tell you!" says Tommy, naturally indignant at this +address. He throws a resentful look at him over his shoulder while +making his way to his grandfather. There is a queer sort of +sympathy--understanding--what you will--between the child and the stern +old man. + +"Come here," says Sir George, drawing Tommy to him. "Well, and did you +enjoy yourself? Was it all your fancy painted it?" + +Sir George has sunk into a chair with all the heaviness of an old man, +and the boy has crept between his knees and is looking up at him with +his beautiful little face all aglow. + +"Oh! 'twas lovely!" says he. "'Twas splendid! There was lights all over +the house. 'Twas like night--only 'twasn't night, and that was grand! +And there were heaps of people. A whole town was there. And there +were----Grandpa! why did they have lamps there when it was daytime?" + +"Because they have no windows in a theatre," says Sir George, patting +the little hot, fat hand that is lying on his arm, with a strange +sensation of pleasure in the touch of it. + +"No windows?" with big eyes opened wide. + +"Not one." + +"Then why have we windows?" asks Tommy, with an involuntary glance round +him. "Why are there windows anywhere? It's ever so much nicer without +them. Why can't we have lamps always, like the theatre people?" + +"Why, indeed?" says Mr. Browne, sympathetically. "Sir George, I hope you +will take your grandson's advice to heart, and block up all these absurd +windows, and let a proper ray of light descend upon us from the honest +burner. Who cares for strikes? Not I!" + +"Well, Tommy, we'll think about it," says Sir George. "And now go on. +You saw----" + +"Bluebeard!" says Tommy, almost roaring in the excitement of his +delight. "A big Bluebeard, and he was just like the pictures of him at +home, with his toes curled up and a red towel round his head and a blue +night-gown and a smiter in his hand." + +"A cimeter, Tommy?" suggests his mother, gently. + +"Eh?" says Tommy. "Well, it's all the same," says he, after a pause, +replete with deep research and with a truly noble impartiality. + +"It is, indeed!" says Mr. Browne, open encouragement in his eye. "And so +you saw Mr. Bluebeard! And did he see you?" + +"Oh! he saw me!" cries Mabel, in a little whimpering' tone. "He looked +straight into the little house where we were, and I saw his eye--his +horrid eye!" shaking her small head vigorously--"and it ran right into +mine, and he began to walk up to me, and I----" + +She stops, her pretty red lips quivering, her blue eyes full of tears. + +"Oh, Mabel was so frightened!" says Tommy, the Bold. "She stuck her nose +into nurse's fur cape and roared!" + +"I didn't!" says Mabel promptly. + +"You did!" says Tommy, indignant at being contradicted, "and she said it +would never be worth a farthing ever after, and----Well, any way, you +know, Mabel, you didn't like the heads." + +"Oh, no; I didn't--I hated them! They were all hanging to one side; and +there was nasty blood, and they looked as if they was going to waggle," +concludes Mabel, with a terrified sob, burying her own head in her +mother's lap. + +"Oh! she is too young," says Barbara, nervously clasping her little +woman close to her in a quiet, undemonstrative way, but so as to make +the child herself feel the protection of her arms. + +"Too young for so dismal a sight," says Dysart, stooping over and +patting Mabel's sunny curls with a kindly touch. He is very fond of +children, as are all men, good and bad. + +"I should not have let her go," says Mrs. Monkton, with self-reproach. +"Such exhibitions are painful for young minds, however harmless." + +"When she is older----" begins Dysart, still caressing the little head. + +"Yes, yes--she is too young--far too young," says Mrs. Monkton, giving +the child a second imperceptible hug. + +"One is never too young to learn the miseries of the world," says Miss +L'Estrange, in her most terrible tone. "Why should a child be pampered +and petted, and shielded from all thoughts of harm and wrong, as though +they never existed? It is false treatment. It is a wilful deceiving of +the growing mind. One day they must wake to all the horrors of the +world. They should therefore be prepared for it, steadily, sternly, +unyieldingly!" + +"What a grand--what a strong nature!" says Mr. Browne, uplifting his +hands in admiration. "You would, then, advocate the cause of the +pantomime?" says he, knowing well that the very name of theatre stinks +in the nostrils of Miss L'Estrange. + +"Far be it from me!" says she, with a violent shake of her head. "May +all such disreputable performances come to a bad end, and a speedy one, +is my devout prayer. But," with a vicious glance at Barbara, "I would +condemn the parents who would bring their children up in a dark +ignorance of the woes and vices of the world in which they must pass +their lives. I think, as Mabel has been permitted to look at the +pernicious exhibition of this afternoon, she should also be encouraged +to look with calmness upon it, if only to teach her what to expect from +life." + +"Good heavens!" says Mr. Browne, in a voice of horror. "Is that what she +has to expect? Rows of decapitated heads! Have you had private +information, Miss L'Estrange? Is a rehearsal of the French Revolution to +be performed in London? Do you really believe the poor child is doomed +to behold your head carried past the windows on a pike? Was there +meaning in the artless prattle of our Thomas just now when he condemned +windows as a social nuisance, or----" + +"I suppose you think you are amusing!" interrupts the spinster, +malignantly. It is plain that she objects to the idea of her head being +on a pike. "At all events, if you must jest on serious subjects, I +desire you, Richard, to leave me out of your silly maunderings." + +"Your will is my law," says Dicky, rising. "I leave you!" + +He makes a tragic, retreat, and finding an empty chair near Monkton +takes possession of it. + +"I must protest against your opinion," says Dysart, addressing Miss +L'Estrange with a smile. "Children should be regarded as something +better than mere lumps of clay to be experimentalized upon!" + +"Oh, yes," says Barbara, regarding the spinster gently but with +ill-concealed aversion. "You cannot expect any one to agree with you +there. I, for one, could not." + +"I don't know that I ever asked you to," says Miss L'Estrange with such +open impertinence that Barbara flushes up to the roots of her hair. + +Silence falls on the room, except for a light conversation being carried +on between Dicky and Monkton, both of whom have heard nothing. Lady +Monkton looks uncomfortable. Sir George hastens to the rescue. + +"Surely you haven't told us everything, Tommy?" says he giving his +grandson a pull toward him. "Besides Mr. Bluebeard, what else was +there?" + +"Lots of things," says Tommy, vaguely, coming back from an eager +attention to Miss L'Estrange's evil suggestion to a fresh remembrance of +his past delights. "There was a band and it shouted. Nurse said it took +the roof off her head, but I looked, and her bonnet didn't stir. And +there was the harlequin, he was beautiful. He shined like anything. He +was all over scales, like a trout." + +"A queer fish," says his grandfather. + +"He jumped about and beat things with a little stick he had. And he +danced, and there was a window and he sprang right through it, and he +came up again and wasn't a bit hurt, not a bit. Oh! he was lovely, +grandpapa, and so was his concubine----" + +"His what?" says Sir George. + +"His concubine. His sweetheart. That was her name," says Tommy +confidently. + +There is a ghastly silence. Lady Monkton's pale old cheeks color +faintly. Miss L'Estrange glares. As for Barbara, she feels the world has +at last come to an end. They will be angry with the boy. Her mission to +London will have failed--that vague hope of a reconciliation through the +children that she had yet scarcely allowed to herself. + +Need it be said that Mr. Browne has succumbed to secret but disgraceful +mirth. A good three-quarters of a full-sized handkerchief is already in +his mouth--a little more of the cambric and "death through suffocation" +will adorn the columns of the _Times_ in the morning. Sir George, too, +what is the matter with him? He is speechless--from indignation one must +hope. + +"What ails you, grandpa?" demands Tommy, after a full minute's strict +examination of him. + +"Oh, nothing, nothing," says Sir George, choking; "it is only--that I'm +glad you have so thoroughly enjoyed yourself and your harlequin, +and--ha, ha, ha, your Columbine. Columbine, now mind. And here's this +for you, Tommy, because you are such a good boy." + +He opens the little grandson's hand and presses into the pink palm of it +a sovereign. + +"Thank you," says Tommy, in the polite regulation tone he has been +taught, without a glance at his gift--a touch of etiquette he has been +taught, too. Then the curious eyes of childhood wander to the palm, and, +seeing the unexpected pretty gold thing lying there, he colors up to the +tips of his ears with surprise and pleasure. Then sudden compunction +seizes on the kindly little heart. The world is strange to him. He knows +but one or two here and there. His father is poor. A sovereign--that is, +a gold piece--would be rare with him, why not rare with another? Though +filled with admiration and gratitude for the giver of so big a gift, the +child's heart commands him not to accept it. + +"Oh, it is too much," says he, throwing his arms round Sir George's neck +and trying to press the sovereign back into his hand. "A shilling I'd +like, but that's such a lot of shillings, and maybe you'd be wanting +it." This is all whispered in the softest, tenderest way. + +"No, no, my boy," says Sir George, whispering back, and glad that he +must whisper. His voice, even so, sounds a little queer to himself. How +often he might have gladdened this child with a present, a small one, +and until now----"Keep it," says he; he has passed his hand round the +little head and is pressing it against his breast. + +"May I? Really?" says Tommy, emancipating his head with a little jerk, +and looking at Sir George with searching eyes. + +"You may indeed!" + +"God bless you!" says Tommy, solemnly. + +It is a startling remark to Sir George, but not so to Tommy. It is +exactly what nurse had said to her daughter the day before she left +Ireland with Tommy and Mabel in charge, when her daughter had brought +her the half of her wages. Therefore it must be correct. To supplement +this blessing Tommy flings his arms around Sir George's neck and gives +him a resounding kiss. Nurse had done that, too, to her daughter. + +"God bless you too, my dear," says Sir George, if not quite as solemnly, +with considerably more tenderness. Tommy's mother, catching the words +and the tone, cheers up. All is not lost yet! The situation is saved. +Tommy has won the day. The inconsequent Tommy of all people! Insult to +herself she had endured, but to have the children disliked would have +been more than she could bear; bur Tommy, apparently, is not +disliked--by the old man at all events. That fact will be sweet to +Freddy. After all, who could resist Tommy? Tears rise to the mother's +eyes. Darling boy! Where is his like upon the whole wide earth? Nowhere. + +She is disturbed in her reverie by the fact that the originator of it is +running toward her with one little closed fist outstretched. How he +runs! His fat calves come twinkling across the carpet. + +"See, mammy, what I've got. Grandpa gave it to me. Isn't he nice? Now +I'll buy a watch like pappy's." + +"You have made him very happy," says Barbara, smiling at Sir George over +her boy's head. She rises as she speaks, and goes to where Lady Monkton +is sitting to bid her good-bye. + +"I hope you will come soon again," says Lady Monkton, not cordially, but +as if compelled to it; "and I hope, too," pausing as if to gather +herself together, "that when you do come you will bring your sister with +you. It will give me--us--pleasure to see her." There is such a dearth +of pleasure in the tone of the invitation that Barbara feels her wrath +rising within her. + +"I thank you," she manages to say very calmly, not committing herself, +either way, and presently finds herself in the street with her husband +and her children. They had declined Lady Monkton's offer of the brougham +to take them home. + +"It was a bad time," says Monkton while waiting at a crossing for a cab +to come to them. "But you must try and not mind them. If the fact that I +am always with you counts for anything, it may help you to endure it." + +"What help could be like it?" says she, tightening her hand on his arm. + +"That old woman, my aunt. She offended you, but you must remember that +she offends everybody. You thought her abominable?" + +"Oh no. I only thought her vulgar," says Mrs. Monkton. It is the one +revenge she permits herself. Monkton breaks into an irresistible laugh. + +"It isn't perfect; it couldn't be unless she heard you," says he. The +cab has come up now, and he puts in the children and then his wife, +finally himself. + +"Tommy crowns all!" says he with a retrospective smile. + +"Eh?" says Tommy, who has the ears of a Midas. + +"Your father says you are a social success, and so does your mother," +says Barbara, smiling at the child's puzzled face, and then giving him a +loving little embrace. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV. + + "Why should two hearts in one breast lie + And yet not lodge together? + Oh, love! where is thy sympathy + If thus our breasts you sever?" + + +"Well, did you like the gallery?" asks Mrs. Monkton, throwing aside her +book to greet Joyce as she returns from Dore's. It is next day, and +Barbara had let the girl go to see the pictures without telling her of +her meeting with Felix the evening before; she had been afraid to say +anything about him lest that guilty secret of hers might transpire--that +deliberate betrayal of Joyce's intended visit to Bond street on the +morrow. If Joyce had heard that, she would, in all probability, have +deferred her going there for ever--and--it was such a chance. Mrs. +Monkton, who, in her time, had said so many hard words about match +makers, as most women have, and who would have scorned to be classed +with them, had promoted and desired this meeting of Felix and Joyce with +all the energy and enthusiasm of which she was capable But that Joyce +should suspect her of the truth is a fear that terrifies her. + +"Very much. So did Tommy. He is very graphic in his remarks," says +Joyce, sinking listlessly into a chair, and taking off her hat. She +looks vexed and preoccupied. "I think he gave several very original +ideas on the subjects of the pictures to those around. They seemed +impressed. You know how far above the foolish feeling, _mauvaise honte_, +he is; his voice 'like a silver clarion rung.' Excelsior was outdone. +Everybody turned and looked at him with----" + +"I hope he wasn't noisy," says Mrs. Monkton, nervously. + +"With admiration, I was going to say, but you wouldn't let me finish my +sentence. Oh, yes, he was quite a success. One old gentleman wanted to +know if he would accept the part of art critic on his paper. It was very +exciting." She leans back in her chair, the troubled look on her face +growing intensified. She seems glad to be silent, and with downcast eyes +plays with the gloves lying in her lap. + +"Something has happened, Joyce," says her sister, going over to her. + +"Something is happening always," returned Joyce, with a rather impatient +smile. + +"Yes, but to you just now." + +"You are sure to make me tell you sooner or later," says Miss Kavanagh, +"and even if I didn't, Tommy would. I met Mr. Dysart at that gallery +to-day." + +"Felix?" says Mrs. Monkton, feeling herself an abominable hypocrite; yet +afraid to confess the truth. Something in the girl's whole attitude +forbids a confession, at this moment at all events. + +"Yes." + +"Well?" + +"Well?" + +"He was glad to see you, darling?" very tenderly. + +"Was he? I don't know. He looked very ill. He said he had had a bad +cough. He is coming to see you." + +"You were kind to him, Joyce?" + +"I didn't personally insult him, if you mean that." + +"Oh, no, I don't mean that, you know what I mean. He was ill, unhappy; +you did not make him more unhappy?" + +"It is always for him!" cries the girl, with jealous anger. "Is there +never to be a thought for me? Am I nothing to you? Am I never unhappy? +Why don't you ask if he was kind to me?" + +"Was he ever unkind?" + +"Well, you can forget! He said dreadful things to me--dreadful. I am not +likely to forget them if you are. After all, they did not hurt you." + +"Joyce!" + +"Yes, I know--I know everything you would say. I am ungrateful, +abominable, but----He was unkind to me! He said what no girl would ever +forgive, and yet you have not one angry word for him." + +"Never mind all that," says Mrs. Monkton, soothingly. "Tell me what you +did to-day--what you said." + +"As little as possible," defiantly. "I tell you I don't want ever to see +him again, or hear of him; I think I hate him. And he looked dying." She +stops here, as if finding a difficulty about saying another word. She +coughs nervously; then, recovering herself, and as if determined to +assert herself anew and show how real is the coldness that she has +declared--"Yes, dying, I think," she says, stubbornly. + +"Oh, I don't think he looked as bad as that!" says Barbara, hastily, +unthinkingly filled with grief, not only at this summary dismissal of +poor Felix from our earthly sphere, but for her sister's unhappiness, +which is as plain to her as though no little comedy had been performed +for the concealment of it. + +"You don't!" repeats Joyce, lifting her head and directing a piercing +glance at her. "You! What do you know about him?" + +"Why--you just said----" stammers Mrs. Monkton, and then breaks down +ignominiously. + +"You knew he was in town," says Joyce, advancing to her, and looking +down on her with clasped-hands and a pale face. "Barbara, speak. You +knew he was here, and never told me; you," with a sudden, fresh burst of +inspiration, "sent him to that place to-day to meet me." + +"Oh, no, dearest. No, indeed. He himself can tell you. It was only that +he----" + +"Asked where I was going to, at such and such an hour, and you told +him." She is still standing over poor Mrs. Monkton in an attitude that +might almost be termed menacing. + +"I didn't. I assure you, Joyce, you are taking it all quite wrongly. It +was only----" + +"Oh! only--only," says the girl, contemptuously. "Do you think I can't +read between the lines? I am sure you believe you are sticking to the +honest truth, Barbara, but still----Well," bitterly, "I don't think he +profited much by the information you gave him. Your deception has given +him small satisfaction." + +"I don't think you should speak to me like that," says Mrs. Monkton, in +a voice that trembles perceptibly. + +"I don't care what I say," cries Joyce, with a sudden burst of passion. +"You betray me; he betrays me; all the world seem arrayed against me. +And what have I done to anybody?" She throws out her hands protestingly. + +"Joyce, darling, if you would only listen." + +"Listen! I am always listening, it seems to me. To him, to you, to every +one. I am tired of being silent; I must speak now. I trusted you, +Barbara, and you have been bad to me. Do you want to force him to make +love to me, that you tell him on the very first opportunity where to +find me, and in a place where I am without you, or any one to----" + +"Will you try to understand?" says Mrs. Monkton, with a light stamp of +her foot, her patience going as her grief increases. "He cross-examined +me as to where you were, and would be, and I--I told him. I wasn't going +to make a mystery of it, or you, was I? I told him that you were going +to the Dore Gallery to-day with Tommy. How could I know he would go +there to meet you? He never said he was going. You are unjust, Joyce, +both to him and to me." + +"Do you mean to tell me that for all that you didn't know he would be at +that place to-day?" turning flashing eyes upon her sister. + +"How could I know? Unless a person says a thing right out, how is one to +be sure what he is going to do?" + +"Oh! that is unlike you. It is unworthy of you," says Joyce, turning +from her scornfully. "You did know. And it is not," turning back again +and confronting the now thoroughly frightened Barbara with a glance full +of pathos, "it is not that--your insincerity that hurt me so much, it +is----" + +"I didn't mean to be insincere; you are very cruel--you do not measure +your words." + +"You will tell me next that you meant it all for the best," with a +bitter smile. "That is the usual formula, isn't it? Well, never mind; +perhaps you did. What I object to is you didn't tell me. That I was kept +designedly in the dark both by him and you. Am I," with sudden fire, "a +child or a fool, that you should seek to guide me so blindly? Well," +drawing a long breath, "I won't keep you in the dark. When I left the +gallery, and your protege, I met--Mr. Beauclerk!" + +Mrs. Monkton, stunned by this intelligence, remains silent for a full +minute. It is death to her hopes. If she has met that man again, it is +impossible to know how things have gone. His fatal influence--her +unfortunate infatuation for him--all will be ruinous to poor Felix's +hopes. + +"You spoke to him?" asks she at last, in an emotionless tone. + +"Yes." + +"Was Felix with you?" + +"When?" + +"When you met that odious man?" + +"Mr. Beauclerk? No; I dismissed Mr. Dysart as soon as ever I could." + +"No doubt. And Mr. Beauclerk, did you dismiss him as promptly." + +"Certainly not. There was no occasion." + +"No inclination, either. You were kind to him at all events. It is only +to the man who is honest and sincere that you are deliberately uncivil." + +"I hope I was uncivil to neither of them." + +"There is no use giving yourself that air with me, Joyce. You are angry +with me; but why? Only because I am anxious for your happiness. Oh! that +hateful man, how I detest him! He has made you unhappy once--he will +certainly make you unhappy again." + +"I don't think so," says Joyce, taking up her hat and furs with the +evident intention of leaving the room, and thus putting an end to the +discussion. + +"You will never think so until it is too late. You haven't the strength +of mind to throw him over, once and for all, and give your thoughts to +one who is really worthy of you. On the contrary, you spend your time +comparing him favorably with the good and faithful Felix." + +"You should put that down. It will do for his tombstone," says Miss +Kavanagh, with a rather uncertain little laugh. + +"At all events, it would not do for Mr. Beauclerk's tombstone--though I +wish it would--and that I could put it there at once." + +"I shall tell Freddy to read the commandments to you," says Joyce, with +a dreary attempt at mirth--"you have forgotten your duty to your +neighbor." + +"It is all true, however. You can't deny it, Joyce. You are +deliberately--willfully--throwing away the good for the bad. I can't +bear to see it. I can't look on in silence and see you thus miserably +destroying your life. How can you be so blind, darling?" appealing to +her with hands, and voice, and eyes. "Such determined folly would be +strange in any one; stranger far in a girl like you, whose sense has +always been above suspicion." + +"Did it ever occur to you," asks Joyce, in a slightly bantering tone, +that but ill conceals the nervousness that is consuming her, "that you +might be taking a wrong view of the situation? That I was not so blind +after all. That I--What was it you said? that I spent my nights and days +comparing the merits of Mr. Beauclerk with those of your friend, Felix +Dysart--to your friend's discomfiture? Now, suppose that I did thus +waste my time, and gave my veto in favor of Mr. Dysart? How would it be +then? It might be so, you know, for all that he, or you, or any one +could say." + +"It is not so light a matter that you should trifle with it," says Mrs. +Monkton, with a faint suspicion of severity in her soft voice. + +"No, of course not. You are right." Miss Kavanagh moves towards the +door. "After all, Barbara," looking back at her, "that applies to most +things in this sad old world. What matter under heaven can we poor +mortals dare to trifle with? Not one, I think. All bear within them the +seeds of grief or joy. Sacred seeds, both carrying in their bosoms the +germs of eternity. Even when this life is gone from us we still face +weal or woe." + +"Still--we need not make our own woe," says Barbara, who is a sturdy +enemy to all pessimistic thoughts. "Wait a moment, Joyce." She hurries +after her and lays her hand on the girl's shoulder. "Will you come with +me next Wednesday to see Lady Monkton?" + +"Lady Monkton! Why I thought----" + +"Yes, I know. I would not take you there before, because she had not +expressly asked to see you. But to-day she made a--she sent you a formal +message--at all events she said she hoped I would bring you when I came +again." + +"Is that all of it?" asks Joyce, gazing at her sister with a curious +smile, that is troubled, but has still some growing sense of amusement +in it. "What an involved statement! Surely you have forgotten something. +That Mr. Dysart was standing near you, for example, and will probably +find that it is absolutely imperative that he should call on Lady +Monkton next Wednesday, too. Don't set your heart on that, Barbara. I +think, after my interview with him to-day, he will not want to see Lady +Monkton next Wednesday." + +"I know nothing about whether he is to be there or not," says Barbara +steadily. "But as Sir George likes to see the children very often, I +thought of taking them there on that day. It is Lady Monkton's day. And +Dicky Browne, at all events, will be there, and I dare say a good many +of your old friends. Do say you will come." + +"I hate old friends!" says the girl fractiously. "I don't believe I have +any. I don't believe anybody has. I----" + +She pauses as the door is thrown open, and Tommy comes prancing into the +room accompanied by his father. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI. + + "Children know very little; but their capacity of comprehension is + great." + + +"I've just been interviewing Tommy on the subject of the pictures," says +Mr. Monkton. "So far as I can make out he disapproves of Dore." + +"Oh! Tommy! and all such beautiful pictures out of the Bible," says his +mother. + +"I did like them," says Tommy. "Only some of them were queer. I wanted +to know about them, but nobody would tell me--and----" + +"Why, Tommy, I explained them all to you," says Joyce, reproachfully. + +"You did in the first two little rooms and in the big room afterward, +where the velvet seats were. They," looking at his father and raising +his voice to an indignant note, "wouldn't let me run round on the top of +them!" + +"Good heavens!" says Mr. Monkton. "Can that be true? Truly this country +is going to the dogs." + +"Where do the dogs live?" asks Tommy, "What dogs? Why does the country +want to go to them?" + +"It doesn't want to go," explains his father. "But it will have to go, +and the dogs will punish them for not letting you reduce its velvet +seats to powder. Never mind, go on with your story; so that unnatural +aunt of yours wouldn't tell you about the pictures, eh?" + +"She did in the beginning, and when we got into the big room too, a +little while. She told me about the great large one at the end, 'Christ +and the Historian,' though I couldn't see the Historian anywhere, +and----" + +"She herself must be a most successful one," says Mr. Monkton, sotto +voce. + +"And then we came to the Innocents, and I perfectly hated that," says +Tommy. "'Twas frightful! Everybody was as large as that," stretching out +his arms and puffing out his cheeks, "and the babies were all so fat and +so horrid. And then Felix came, and Joyce had to talk to him, so I +didn't know any more." + +"I think you forget," says Joyce. "There was that picture with lions in +it. Mr. Dysart himself explained that to you." + +"Oh, that one!" says Tommy, as if dimly remembering, "the circus one! +The one with the round house. I didn't like that either." + +"It is rather ghastly for a child," says his mother. + +"That's not the one with the gas," puts in Tommy. "The one with the gas +is just close to it, and has got Pilate's wife in it. She's very nice." + +"But why didn't you like the other?" asks his father. "I think it one of +the best there." + +"Well, I don't," says Tommy, evidently grieved at having to differ from +his father; but filled with a virtuous determination to stick to the +truth through thick and thin. + +"No?" + +"'Tis unfair," says Tommy. + +"That has been allowed for centuries," says his father. + +"Then why don't they change it?" + +"Change what?" asks Mr. Monkton, feeling a little puzzled. "How can one +change now the detestable cruelties--or the abominable habits of the +dark ages?" + +"But why were they dark?" asks Tommy. "Mammy says they had gas then." + +"I didn't mean that, I----" his mother is beginning, but Monkton stops +her with a despairing gesture. + +"Don't," says he. "It would take a good hour by the slowest clock. Let +him believe there was electric light then if he chooses." + +"Well, but why can't they change it?" persists Tommy, who is evidently +full of the picture in question. + +"I have told you." + +"But the painter man could change it." + +"I am afraid not, Tommy. He is dead." + +"Why didn't he do it before he died then? Why didn't somebody show him +what to do?" + +"I don't fancy he wanted any hints. And besides, he had to be true to +his ideal. It was a terrible time. They did really throw the Christians +to the lions, you know." + +"Of course I know that," says Tommy with a superior air. "But why didn't +they cast another one?" + +"Eh?" says Mr. Monkton. + +"That's why it's unfair!" says Tommy. "There is one poor lion there, and +he hasn't got any Christian! Why didn't Mr. Dory give him one?" + +Tableau! + +"Barbara!" says Mr. Monkton faintly, after a long pause. "Is there any +brandy in the house?" + +But Barbara is looking horrified. + +"It is shocking," she says. "Why should he take such a twisted view of +it. He has always been a kind-hearted child; and now----" + +"Well. He has been kind-hearted to the lions," says Mr. Monkton. "No one +can deny that." + +"Oh! if you persist in encouraging him. Freddy!" says his wife with +tears in her eyes. + +"Believe me, Barbara," breaks in Joyce at this moment, "it is a mistake +to be soft-hearted in this world." There is something bright but +uncomfortable in the steady gaze she directs at her sister. "One should +be hard, if one means to live comfortably." + +"Will you take me soon again to see pictures?" asks Tommy, running to +Joyce and scrambling upon the seat she is occupying. "Do!" + +"But if you dislike them so much." + +"Only some. And other places may be funnier. What day will you take me?" + +"I don't think I shall again make an arrangement beforehand," says +Joyce, rising, and placing Tommy on the ground very gently. "Some +morning just before we start, you and I, we will make our plans." + +She does not look at Barbara this time, but her tone is eloquent. + +Barbara looks at her, however, with eyes full of reproach. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII. + + "Love is its own great loveliness always, + And takes new beauties from the touch of time; + Its bough owns no December and no May, + But bears its blossoms into winter's clime." + + "I have often thought what a melancholy world this would be without + children." + + +"Oh, Felix--is it you!" says Mrs. Monkton in a dismayed tone. Her hansom +is at the door and, arrayed in her best bib and tucker, she is hurrying +through the hall when Dysart, who has just come, presents himself. He +was just coming in, in fact, as she was going out. + +"Don't mind me," says he; "there is always to-morrow." + +"Oh, yes,--but----" + +"And Miss Kavanagh?" + +"It is to recover her I am going out this afternoon." It is the next +day, so soon after her rupture with Joyce, that she is afraid to even +hint at further complications. A strong desire to let him know that he +might wait and try his fortune once again on her return with Joyce is +oppressing her mind, but she puts it firmly behind her, or thinks she +does. "She is lunching at the Brabazons'," she says; "old friends of +ours. I promised to lunch there, too, so as to be able to bring Joyce +home again." + +"She will be back, then." + +"In an hour and a half at latest," says Mrs. Monkton, who after all is +not strong enough to be quite genuine to her better judgments. "But," +with a start and a fresh determination to be cruel in the cause of +right, "that would be much too long for you to wait for us." + +"I shouldn't think it long," says he. + +Mrs. Monkton smiles suddenly at him. How charming--how satisfactory he +is. Could any lover be more devoted! + +"Well, it would be for all that," says she. "But"--hesitating in a last +vain effort to dismiss, and then losing herself--, "suppose you do not +abandon your visit altogether; that you go away, now, and get your lunch +at your club--I feel," contritely, "how inhospitable I am--and then come +back again here about four o'clock. She--I--will have returned by that +time." + +"An excellent plan," says he, his face lighting up. Then it clouds +again. "If she knows I am to be here?" + +"Ah! that is a difficulty," says Mrs. Monkton, her own pretty face +showing signs of distress. "But anyhow, risk it." + +"I would rather she knew, however," says he steadily. The idea of +entrapping her into a meeting with him is abhorrent to him. He had had +enough of that at the Dore Gallery; though he had been innocent of any +intentional deception there. + +"I will tell her then," says Mrs. Monkton; "and in the meantime go and +get your----" + +At this moment the door on the right is thrown open, and Tommy, with a +warhoop, descends upon them, followed by Mabel. + +"Oh! it's Felix!" cries he joyfully. "Will you stay with us, Felix? +We've no one to have dinner with us to-day. Because mammy is going away, +and Joyce is gone, and pappy is nowhere; and nurse isn't a bit of +good--she only says, 'Take care you don't choke yourselves, me +dearies!'" He imitates nurse to the life. "And dinner will be here in a +minute. Mary says she's just going to bring it upstairs." + +"Oh, do--do stay with us," supplements little Mabel, thrusting her small +hand imploringly into his. It is plain that he is in high favor with the +children, however out of it with a certain other member of the +family--and feeling grateful to them, Dysart hesitates to say the "No" +that is on his lips. How hard it is to refuse the entreaties of these +little clinging fingers--these eager, lovely, upturned faces! + +"If I may----?" says he at last, addressing Mrs. Monkton, and thereby +giving in. + +"Oh! as for that! You know you may," says she. "But you will perfectly +hate it. It is too bad to allow you to accept their invitation. You will +be bored to death, and you will detest the boiled mutton. There is only +that and--rice, I think. I won't even be sure of the rice. It may be +tapioca--and that is worse still." + +"It's rice," says Tommy, who is great friends with the cook, and knows +till her secrets. + +"That decides the question," says Felix gravely. "Every one knows that I +adore rice. It is my one weakness." + +At this, Mrs. Monkton gives way to an irrepressible laugh, and he, +catching the meaning of it, laughs, too. + +"You are wrong, however," says he; "that other is my one strength. I +could not live without it. Well, Tommy, I accept your invitation. I +shall stay and lunch--dine with you." In truth, it seems sweet in his +eyes to remain in the house that she (Joyce) occupies; it will be easier +to wait, to hope for her return there than elsewhere. + +"Your blood be on your own head," says Barbara, solemnly. "If, however, +it goes too far, I warn you there are remedies. When it occurs to you +that life is no longer worth living, go to the library; you will find +there a revolver. It is three hundred years old, I'm told, and it is +hung very high on the wall to keep it out of Freddy's reach. Blow your +brains out with it--if you can." + +"You're awfully good, awfully thoughtful," says Mr. Dysart, "but I don't +think, when the final catastrophe arrives, it will be suicide. If I must +murder somebody, it will certainly not be myself; it will be either the +children or the mutton." + +Mrs. Monkton laughs, then turns a serious eye on Tommy. + +"Now, Tommy," says she, addressing him with a gravity that should have +overwhelmed him, "I am going away from you for an hour or so, and Mr. +Dysart has kindly accepted your invitation to lunch with him. I do +hope," with increasing impressiveness, "you will be good." + +"I hope so, too," returns Tommy, genially. + +There is an astonished pause, confined to the elders only, and then, Mr. +Dysart, unable to restrain himself any longer, bursts but laughing. + +"Could anything be more candid?" says he; "more full of trust in +himself, and yet with a certain modesty withal! There! you can go, Mrs. +Monkton, with a clear conscience. I am not afraid to give myself up to +the open-handed dealing of your son." Then his tone changes--he follows +her quickly as she turns from him to the children to bid them good-bye. + +"Miss Kavanagh," says he, "is she well--happy?" + +"She is well," says Barbara, stopping to look back at him with her hand +on Mabel's shoulder--there is reservation in her answer. + +"Had she any idea that I would call to-day?" This question is absolutely +forced from him. + +"How should she? Even I--did I know it? Certainly I thought you would +come some day, and soon, and she may have thought so, too, but--you +should have told me. You called too soon. Impatience is a vice," says +Mrs. Monkton, shaking her head in a very kindly fashion, however. + +"I suppose when she knows--when," with a rather sad smile, "you tell +her--I am to be here on her return this afternoon she will not come with +you." + +"Oh, yes, she will. I think so--I am sure of it. But you must +understand, Felix, that she is very peculiar, difficult is what they +call it now-a-days. And," pausing and glancing at him, "she is angry, +too, about something that happened before you left last autumn. I hardly +know what; I have imagined only, and," rapidly, "don't let us go into +it, but you will know that there was something." + +"Something, yes," says he. + +"Well, a trifle, probably. I have said she is difficult. But you failed +somewhere, and she is slow to pardon--where----" + +"Where! What does that mean?" demands the young man, a great spring of +hope taking life within his eyes. + +"Ah, that hardly matters. But she is not forgiving. She is the very +dearest girl I know, but that is one of her faults." + +"She has no faults," says he, doggedly. And then: "Well, she knows I am +to be here this afternoon?" + +"Yes. I told her." + +"I am glad of that. If she returns with you from the Brabazons," with a +quick but heavy sigh, "there will be no hope in that." + +"Don't be too hard," says Mrs. Monkton, who in truth is feeling a little +frightened. To come back without Joyce, and encounter an irate young +man, with Freddy goodness knows where--"She may have other engagements," +she says. She waves him an airy adieu as she makes this cruel +suggestion, and with a kiss more hurried than usual to the children, and +a good deal of nervousness in her whole manner, runs down the steps to +her hansom and disappears. + +Felix, thus abandoned, yields himself to the enemy. He gives his right +hand to Freddy and his left to Mabel, and lets them lead him captive +into the dining-room. + +"I expect dinner is cold," says Tommy cheerfully, seating himself +without more ado, and watching the nurse, who is always in attendance at +this meal, as she raises the cover from the boiled leg of mutton. + +"Oh! no, not yet," says Mr. Dysart, quite as cheerfully, raising the +carving knife and fork. + +Something, however, ominous in the silence, that has fallen on both +children makes itself felt, and without being able exactly to realize it +he suspends operation for a moment to look at them. + +He finds four eyes staring in his direction with astonishment, +generously mingled with pious horror shining in their clear depths. + +"Eh?" says he, involuntarily. + +"Aren't you going to say it?" asks Mabel, in a severe tone. + +"Say what?" says he. + +"Grace," returns Tommy with distinct disapprobation. + +"Oh--er--yes, of course. How could I have forgotten it?" says Dysart +spasmodically, laying down the carvers at once, and preparing to +distinguish himself. He succeeds admirably. + +The children are leaning on the table cloth in devout expectation, that +has something, however, sinister about it. Nurse is looking on, also +expectant. Mr. Dysart makes a wild struggle with his memory, but all to +no effect. The beginning of various prayers come with malignant +readiness to his mind, the ends of several psalms, the middles of a +verse or two, but the graces shamelessly desert him in his hour of need. + +Good gracious! What is the usual one, the one they use at home--the--er? +He becomes miserably conscious that Tommy's left eye is cocked sideways, +and is regarding him with fatal understanding. In a state of desperation +he bends forward as low as he well can, wondering vaguely where on earth +is his hat, and mumbles something into his plate, that might be a bit of +a prayer, but certainly it is not a grace. Perhaps it is a last cry for +help. + +"What's that?" demands Tommy promptly. + +"I didn't hear one word of it," says Mabel with indignation. + +Mr. Dysart is too stricken to be able to frame a reply. + +"I don't believe you know one," continues Tommy, still fixing him with +an uncompromising eye. "I don't believe you were saying anything. Do +you, nurse?" + +"Oh, fie, now, Master Tommy, and I heard your ma telling you you were to +be good." + +"Well, so I am good. 'Tis he isn't good. He won't say his prayers. Do +you know one?" turning again to Dysart, who is covered with confusion. +What the deuce did he stay here for? Why didn't he go to his club? He +could have been back in plenty of time. If that confounded grinning +woman of a nurse would only go away, it wouldn't be so bad; but---- + +"Never mind," says Mabel, with calm resignation. "I'll say one for you." + +"No, you shan't," cries Tommy; "it's my turn." + +"No, it isn't." + +"It is, Mabel. You said it yesterday. And you know you said 'relieve' +instead of 'received,' and mother laughed, and----" + +"I don't care. It is Mr. Dysart's turn to-day, and he'll give his to me; +won't you, Mr. Dysart?" + +"You're a greedy thing," cries Tommy, wrathfully, "and you shan't say +it. I'll tell Mr. Dysart what you did this morning if you do." + +"I don't care," with disgraceful callousness. "I will say it." + +"Then, I'll say it, too," says Tommy, with sudden inspiration born of a +determination to die rather than give in, and instantly four fat hands +are joined in pairs, and two seraphic countenances are upraised, and two +shrill voices at screaming-pitch are giving thanks for the boiled +mutton, at a racing speed, that censorious people might probably connect +with a desire on the part of each to be first in at the finish. + +Manfully they fight it out to the bitter end, without a break or a +comma, and with defiant eyes glaring at each other across the table. +There is a good deal of the grace; it is quite a long one when usually +said, and yet very little grace in it to-day, when all is told. + +"You may go now, nurse," says Mabel, presently, when the mutton had been +removed and nurse had placed the rice and jam on the table. "Mr. Dysart +will attend to us." It is impossible to describe the grown-up air with +which this command is given. It is so like Mrs. Monkton's own voice and +manner that Felix, with a start, turns his eyes on the author of it, and +nurse, with an ill-suppressed smile, leaves the room. + +"That's what mammy always says when-there's only her and me and Tommy," +explains Mabel, confidentially. Then. "You," with a doubtful glance, +"you will attend to us, won't you?" + +"I'll do my best," says Felix, in a depressed tone, whose spirits are +growing low. After all, there was safety in nurse! + +"I think I'll come up and sit nearer to you," says Tommy, affably. + +He gets down from his chair and pushes it, creaking hideously, up to Mr. +Dysart's elbow--right under it, in fact. + +"So will I," says Mabel, fired with joy at the prospect of getting away +from her proper place, and eating her rice in a forbidden spot. + +"But," begins Felix, vaguely, "do you think your mother would----" + +"We always do it when we are alone with mammy," says Tommy. + +"She says it keeps us warm to get under her wing when the weather is +cold," says Mabel, lifting a lovely little face to his and bringing her +chair down on the top of his toe. "She says it keeps her warm, too. Are +you warm now?" anxiously. + +"Yes, yes--burning!" says Mr. Dysart, whose toe is not unconscious of a +corn. + +"Ah! I knew you'd like it," says. Tommy. "Now go on; give us our +rice--a little rice and a lot of jam." + +"Is that what your mother does, too?" asks Mr. Dysart, meanly it must be +confessed, but his toe is very bad still. The silence that follows his +question and the look of the two downcast little faces is, however, +punishment enough. + +"Well, so be it," says he. "But even if we do finish the jam--I'm +awfully fond of it myself--we must promise faithfully not to be +disagreeable about it; not to be ill, that is----" + +"Ill! We're never ill," says Tommy, valiantly, whereupon they make an +end of the jam in no time. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII. + + "'Tis said the rose is Love's own flower, + Its blush so bright--its thorns so many." + + +There is no mistake in the joy with which Felix parts from his +companions after luncheon. He breathes afresh as he sees them tearing up +the staircase to get ready for their afternoon walk, nurse puffing and +panting behind them. + +The drawing-room seems a bower of repose after the turmoil of the late +feast, and besides, it cannot be long now before she--they--return. That +is if they--she--return at all! He has, indeed, ample time given him to +imagine this last horrible possibility as not only a probability, but a +certainty, before the sound of coming footsteps up the stairs and the +frou-frou of pretty frocks tells him his doubts were harmless. +Involuntarily he rises from his chair and straightens himself, out of +the rather forlorn position into which he has fallen, and fixes his eyes +immovably upon the door. Are there two of them? + +That is beyond doubt. It is only mad people who chatter to themselves, +and certainly Mrs. Monkton is not mad. + +Barbara has indeed raised her voice a little more than ordinary, and has +addressed Joyce by her name on her hurried way up the staircase and +across the cushioned recess outside the door. Now she throws open the +door and enters, radiant, if a little nervous. + +"Here we are," she says, very pleasantly, and with all the put-on manner +of one who has made up her mind to be extremely joyous under distinct +difficulties. "You are still here, then, and alone. They didn't murder +you. Joyce and I had our misgivings all along. Ah, I forgot, you haven't +seen Joyce until now." + +"How d'ye do?" says Miss Kavanagh, holding out her hand to him, with a +calm as perfect as her smile. + +"I do hope they were good," goes on Mrs. Monkton, her nervousness rather +increasing. + +"You know I have always said they were the best children in the world." + +"Ah! said, said," repeats Mrs. Monkton, who now seems grateful for the +chance of saying anything. What is the meaning of Joyce's sudden +amiability--and is it amiability, or---- + +"It is true one can say almost anything," says Joyce, quite pleasantly. +She nods her head prettily at Dysart. "There is no law to prevent them. +Barbara thinks you are not sincere. She is not fair to you. You always +do mean what you say, don't you?" + +But for the smile that accompanies these words Dysart would have felt +his doom sealed. But could she mean a stab so cruel, so direct, and +still look kind? + +"Oh! he is always sincere," says Barbara, quickly; "only people say +things about one's children, you know, that----" She stops. + +"They are the dearest children. You are a bad mother; you wrong them," +says Joyce, laughing lightly, plainly at the idea of Barbara's affection +for her children being impugned. "She told me," turning her lovely eyes +full on Dysart, with no special expression in them whatever, "that I +should find only your remains after spending an hour with them." Her +smile was brilliant. + +"She was wrong, you see, I am still here," says Felix, hardly knowing +what he says in his desire to read her face, which is strictly +impassive. + +"Yes, still here," says Miss Kavanagh, smiling, always, and apparently +meaning nothing at all; yet to Felix, watching her, there seems to be +something treacherous in her manner. + +"Still here?" Had she hoped he would be gone? Was that the cause of her +delay? Had she purposely put off coming home to give him time to grow +tired and go away? And yet she is looking at him with a smile! + +"I am afraid you had a bad luncheon and a bad time generally," says Mrs. +Monkton, quickly, who seemed hurried in every way. "But we came home as +soon as ever we could. Didn't we, Joyce?" Her appeal to her sister is +suggestive of fear as to the answer, but she need not have been nervous +about that. + +"We flew!" declares Miss Kavanagh, with delightful zeal. "We thought we +should never get here soon enough. Didn't we, Barbara?" There is the +very barest, faintest imitation of her sister's voice in this last +question; a subtle touch of mockery, so slight, so evanescent as to +leave one doubtful as to its ever having existed. + +"Yes, yes, indeed," says Barbara, coloring. + +"We flew so fast indeed that I am sure you are thoroughly fatigued," +says Miss Kavanagh, addressing her. "Why don't you run away now, and +take off your bonnet and lay down for an hour or so?" + +"But," begins Barbara, and then stops short. What does it all mean? this +new departure of her sister's puzzles her. To so deliberately ask for a +_tete-a-tete_ with Felix! To what end? The girl's manner, so bright, +filled with such a glittering geniality--so unlike the usual +listlessness that has characterized it for so long--both confuses and +alarms her. Why is she so amiable now? There has been a little +difficulty about getting her back at all, quite enough to make Mrs. +Monkton shiver for Dysart's reception by her, and here, now, half an +hour later, she is beaming upon him and being more than ordinarily +civil. What is she going to do? + +"Oh! no 'buts,'" says Joyce gaily. "You know you said your head was +aching, and Mr. Dysart will excuse you. He will not be so badly off even +without you. He will have me!" She turns a full glance on Felix as she +says this, and looks at him with lustrous eyes and white teeth showing +through her parted lips. The _soupcon_ of mockery in her whole air, of +which all through he has been faintly but uncomfortably aware, has +deepened. "I shall take care he is not dull." + +"But," says Barbara, again, rather helplessly. + +"No, no. You must rest yourself. Remember we are going to that 'at +home,' at the Thesigers' to-night, and I would not miss it for anything. +Don't dwell with such sad looks on Mr. Dysart, I have promised to look +after him. You will let me take care of you for a little while, Mr. +Dysart, will you not?" turning another brilliant smile upon Felix, who +responds to it very gravely. + +He is regarding her with a searching air. How is it with her? Some old +words recur to him: + + "There is treachery, O Ahaziah!" + +Why does she look at him like that? He mistrusts her present attitude. +Even that aggressive mood of hers at the Dore gallery on that last day +when they met was preferable to this agreeable but detestable +indifference. + +"It is always a pleasure to be with you," says he steadily, perhaps a +little doggedly. + +"There! you see!" says Joyce, with a pretty little nod at her sister. + +"Well, I shall take half an hour's rest," says Mrs. Monkton, +reluctantly, who is, in truth, feeling as fresh as a daisy, but who is +afraid to stay. "But I shall be back for tea." She gives a little kindly +glance to Felix, and, with a heart filled with forebodings, leaves the +room. + +"What a glorious day it has been!" says Joyce, continuing the +conversation with Dysart in that new manner of hers, quite as if +Barbara's going was a matter of small importance, and the fact that she +has left them for the first time for all these months alone together of +less importance still. + +She is standing on the hearthrug, and is slowly taking the pins out of +her bonnet. She seems utterly unconcerned. He might be the veriest +stranger, or else the oldest, the most uninteresting friend in the +world. + +She has taken out all the pins now, and has thrown her bonnet on to the +lounge nearest to her, and is standing before the glass in the +overmantel patting and pushing into order the soft locks that lie upon +her forehead. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX. + + "Ah, were she pitiful as she is fair." + "Life's a varied, bright illusion, + Joy and sorrow--light and shade." + + +"It was almost warm," says she, turning round to him. She seems to be +talking all the time, so vivid is her face, so intense her vitality. "I +was so glad to see the Brabazons again. You know them, don't you? Kit +looked perfect. So lovely, so good in every way--voice, face, manners. I +felt I envied her. It would be delightful to feel that every one must be +admiring one, as she does." She glances at him, and he leans a little +toward her. "No, no, not a compliment, please. I know I am as much +behind Kit as the moon is behind the sun." + +"I wasn't going to pay you a compliment," says he, slowly. + +"No?" she laughs. It was unlike her to have made that remark, and just +as unlike her to have taken his rather discourteous reply so +good-naturedly. + +"It was a charming visit," she goes on, not in haste, but idly as it +were, and as if words are easy to her. "I quite enjoyed it. Barbara +didn't. I think she wanted to get home--she is always thinking of the +babies--or----Well, I did. I am not ungrateful. I take the goods the +gods provide, and find honest pleasure in them. I do not think, indeed, +I laughed so much for quite a century as to-day with Kit." + +"She is sympathetic," says Felix, with the smallest thought of the +person in question in his mind. + +"More than that, surely. Though that is a hymn of praise in itself. +After all it is a relief to meet Irish people when one has spent a week +or two in stolid England. You agree with me?" + +"I am English," returns he. + +"Oh! Of course! How rude of me! I didn't mean it, however. I had +entirely forgotten, our acquaintance having been confined entirely to +Irish soil until this luckless moment. You do forgive me?" + +She is leaning a little forward and looking at him with a careless +expression. + +"No," returns he briefly. + +"Well, you should," says she, taking no notice of his cold rejoinder, +and treating it, indeed, as if it is of no moment. If there was a deeper +meaning in his refusal to grant her absolution she declines to +acknowledge it. "Still, even that _betise_ of mine need not prevent you +from seeing some truth in my argument. We have our charms, we Irish, +eh?" + +"Your charm?" + +"Well, mine, if you like, as a type, and"--recklessly and with a shrug +of her shoulders--"if you wish to be personal." + +She has gone a little too far. + +"I think I have acknowledged that," says he, coldly. He rises abruptly +and goes over to where she is standing on the hearthrug--shading her +face from the fire with a huge Japanese fan. "Have I ever denied your +charm?" His tone has been growing in intensity, and now becomes stern. +"Why do you talk to me like this? What is the meaning of it all--your +altered manner--everything? Why did you grant me this interview?" + +"Perhaps because"--still with that radiant smile, bright and cold as +early frost--"like that little soapy boy, I thought you would 'not be +happy till you got it.'" + +She laughs lightly. The laugh is the outcome of the smile, and its close +imitation. It is perfectly successful, but on the surface only. There is +no heart in it. + +"You think I arranged it?" + +"Oh, no; how could I? You have just said I arranged it." She shuts up +her fan with a little click. "You want to say something, don't you?" +says she, "well, say it!" + +"You give me permission, then?" asks he, gravely, despair knocking at +his heart. + +"Why not--would I have you unhappy always?" Her tone is jesting +throughout. + +"You think," taking the hand that holds the fan and restraining its +motion for a moment, "that if I do speak I shall be happier?" + +"Ah! that is beyond me," says she. "And yet--yes; to get a thing over is +to get rid of fatigue. I have argued it all out for myself, and have +come to the conclusion----" + +"For yourself!" + +"Well, for you too," a little impatiently. "After all, it is you who +want to speak. Silence, to me, is golden. But it occurred to me in the +silent watches of the night," with another, now rather forced, little +laugh, "that if you once said to me all you had to say, you would be +contented, and go away and not trouble me any more." + +"I can do that now, without saying anything," says he slowly. He has +dropped her hand; he is evidently deeply wounded. + +"Can you?" + +Her eyes are resting relentlessly on his. Is there magic in them? Her +mouth has taken a strange expression. + +"I might have known how it would be," says Dysart, throwing up his head. +"You will not forgive! It was but a moment--a few words, idle, +hardly-considered, and----" + +"Oh, yes, considered," says she slowly. + +"They were unmeant!" persists he, fiercely. "I defy you to think +otherwise. One great mistake--a second's madness--and you have ordained +that it shall wreck my whole life! You!--That evening in the library at +the court. I had not thought of----" + +"Ah!" she interrupts him, even more by her gesture--which betrays the +first touch of passion she has shown--than by her voice, that is still +mocking. "I knew you would have to say it!" + +"You know me, indeed!" says he, with an enforced calmness that leaves +him very white. "My whole heart and soul lies bare to you, to ruin it as +you will. It is the merest waste of time, I know; but still I have felt +all along that I must tell you again that I love you, though I fully +understand I shall receive nothing in return but scorn and contempt. +Still, to be able even to say it is a relief to me." + +"And what is it to me?" asks the girl, as pale now as he is. "Is it a +relief--a comfort to me to have to listen to you?" + +She clenches her hands involuntarily. The fan falls with a little crash +to the ground. + +"No." He is silent a moment, "No--it is unfair--unjust! You shall not be +made uncomfortable again. It is the last time.... I shall not trouble +you again in this way. I don't say we shall never meet again. +You"--pausing and looking at her--"you do not desire that?" + +"Oh, no," coldly, politely. + +"If you do, say so at once," with a rather peremptory ring in his tone. + +"I should," calmly. + +"I am glad of that. As my cousin is a great friend of mine, and as I +shall get a fortnight's leave soon, I shall probably run over to +Ireland, and spend it with her. After all"--bitterly--"why should I +suppose it would be disagreeable to you?" + +"It was quite a natural idea," says she, immovably. + +"However," says he, steadily, "you need not be afraid that, even if we +do meet, I shall ever annoy you in this way again----" + +"Oh, I am never afraid," says she, with that terrible smile that seems +to freeze him. + +"Well, good-bye," holding out his hand. He is quite as composed as she +is now, and is even able to return her smile in kind. + +"So soon? But Barbara will be down to tea in a few minutes. You will +surely wait for her?" + +"I think not." + +"But really do! I am going to see after the children, and give them some +chocolate I bought for them." + +"It will probably make them ill," says he, smiling still. "No, thank +you. I must go now, indeed. You will make my excuses to Mrs. Monkton, +please. Good-bye." + +"Good-bye," says she, laying her hand in his for a second. She has grown +suddenly very cold, shivering: it seems almost as if an icy blast from +some open portal has been blown in upon her. He is still looking at her. +There is something wild--strange--in his expression. + +"You cannot realize it, but I can," says he, unsteadily. "It is good-bye +forever, so far as life for me is concerned." + +He has turned away from her. He is gone. The sharp closing of the door +wakens her to the fact that she is alone. Mechanically, quite calmly, +she looks around the empty room. There is a little Persian chair cover +over there all awry. She rearranges it with a critical eye to its proper +appearance, and afterward pushes a small chair into its place. She pats +a cushion or two, and, finally taking up her bonnet and the pins she had +laid upon the chimney-piece, goes up to her own room. + +Once there---- + +With a rush the whole thing comes back to her. The entire meaning of +it--what she has done. That word--forever. The bonnet has fallen from +her fingers. Sinking upon her knees beside the bed, she buries her face +out of sight. Presently her slender frame is torn by those cruel, yet +merciful sobs! + + + + +CHAPTER XL. + + "The sense of death is most in apprehension." + + "Thus grief still treads upon the heels of pleasure." + + +It is destined to be a day of grief! Monkton who had been out all the +morning, having gone to see the old people, a usual habit of his, had +not returned to dinner--a very unusual habit with him. It had occurred, +however, once or twice, that he had stayed to dine with them on such +occasions, as when Sir George had had a troublesome letter from his +elder son, and had looked to the younger to give him some comfort--some +of his time to help him to bear it, by talking it all over. Barbara, +therefore, while dressing for Mrs. Thesiger's "At Home," had scarcely +felt anxiety, and, indeed, it is only now when she has come down to the +drawing-room to find Joyce awaiting her, also in gala garb, so far as a +gown goes, that a suspicion of coming trouble takes possession of her. + +"He is late, isn't he?" she says, looking at Joyce with something +nervous in her expression. "What can have kept him? I know he wanted to +meet the General, and now----What can it be?" + +"His mother, probably," says Joyce, indifferently. "From your +description of her, I should say she must be a most thoroughly +uncomfortable old person." + +"Yes. Not pleasant, certainly. A little of her, as George Ingram used to +say, goes a long way. But still----And these Thesiger people are friends +of his, and----" + +"You are working yourself up into a thorough belief in the sensational +street accident," says Joyce, who has seated herself well out of the +glare of the chandelier. "You want to be tragic. It is a mistake, +believe me." + +Something in the bitterness of the girl's tone strikes on her sister's +ear. Joyce had not come down to dinner, had pleaded a headache as an +excuse for her non-appearance, and Mrs. Monkton and Tommy (she could not +bear to dine alone) had devoured that meal _a deux_. Tommy had certainly +been anything but dull company. + +"Has anything happened, Joyce?" asks her sister quickly. She has had her +suspicions, of course, but they were of the vaguest order. + +Joyce laughs. + +"I told you your nerves were out of order," says she. "What should +happen? Are you still dwelling on the running over business? I assure +you you wrong Freddy. He can take care of himself at a crossing as well +as another man, and better. Even a hansom, I am convinced, could do no +harm to Freddy." + +"I wasn't thinking of him," says Barbara, a little reproachfully, +perhaps. "I----" + +"No. Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself! Here he is," cries she +suddenly, springing to her feet as the sound of Monkton's footsteps +ascending the stairs can now be distinctly heard. "I hope you will +explain yourself to him." She laughs again, and disappears through the +doorway that leads to the second hall outside, as Monkton enters. + +"How late you are, Freddy," says his wife, the reproach in her voice +heightened because of the anxiety she had been enduring. "I thought you +would never----What is it? What has happened? Freddy! there is bad +news." + +"Yes, very bad," says Monkton, sinking into a chair. + +"Your brother----" breathlessly. Of late, she has always known that +trouble is to be expected from him. + +"He is dead," says Monkton in a low tone. + +Barbara, flinging her opera cloak aside, comes quickly to him. She leans +over him and slips her arms round his neck. + +"Dead!" says she in an awestruck tone. + +"Yes. Killed himself! Shot himself! the telegram came this morning when +I was with them. I could not come home sooner; it was impossible to +leave them." + +"Oh, Freddy, I am sorry you left them even now; a line to me would have +done. Oh, what a horrible thing, and to die like that." + +"Yes." He presses one of her hands, and then, rising, begins to move +hurriedly up and down the room. "It was misfortune upon misfortune," he +says presently. "When I went over there this morning they had just +received a letter filled with----" + +"From him!" + +"Yes. That is what seemed to make it so much worse later on. Life in the +morning, death in the afternoon!" His voice grows choked. "And such a +letter as it was, filled with nothing but a most scandalous account of +his----Oh!"----he breaks off suddenly as if shocked. "Oh, he is dead, +poor fellow." + +"Don't take it like that," says Barbara, following him and clinging to +him. "You know you could not be unkind. There were debts then?" + +"Debts! It is difficult to explain just now, my head is aching so; and +those poor old people? Well, it means ruin for them, Barbara. Of course +his debts must be paid, his honor kept intact, for the sake of the old +name, but--they will let all the houses, the two in town, this one, and +their own, and--and the old place down in Warwickshire, the home, all +must go out of their hands." + +"Oh, Freddy, surely--surely there must be some way----" + +"Not one. I spoke about breaking the entail. You know I--his death, poor +fellow. I----" + +"Yes, yes, dear." + +"But they wouldn't hear of it. My mother was very angry, even in her +grief, when I proposed it. They hope that by strict retrenchment, the +property will be itself again; and they spoke about Tommy. They said it +would be unjust to him----" + +"And to you," quickly. She would not have him ignored any longer. + +"Oh, as for me, I'm not a boy, you know. Tommy is safe to inherit as +life goes." + +"Well, so are you," said she, with a sharp pang at her heart. + +"Yes, of course. I am only making out a case. I think it was kind of +them to remember Tommy's claim in the midst of their own grief." + +"It was, indeed," says she remorsefully. "Oh, it was. But if they give +up everything where will they go?" + +"They talk of taking a cottage--a small house somewhere. They want to +give up everything to pay his infamous----There!" sharply, "I am +forgetting again! But to see them makes one forget everything else." He +begins his walk up and down the room again, as if inaction is impossible +to him. "My mother, who has been accustomed to a certain luxury all her +life, to be now, at the very close of it, condemned to----It would break +your heart to see her. And she will let nothing be said of him." + +"Oh, no." + +"Still, there should be justice. I can't help feeling that. Her +blameless life, and his----and she is the one to suffer." + +"It is so often so," says his wife in a low tone. "It is an old story, +dearest, but I know that when the old stories come home to us +individually they always sound so terribly new. But what do they mean by +a small house?" asks she presently in a distressed tone. + +"Well, I suppose a small house," said he, with just a passing gleam of +his old jesting manner. "You know my mother cannot bear the country, so +I think the cottage idea will fall through." + +"Freddy," says his wife suddenly. "She can't go into a small house, a +London small house. It is out of the question. Could they not come and +live with us?" + +She is suggesting a martyrdom for herself, yet she does it +unflinchingly. + +"What! My aunt and all?" asks he, regarding her earnestly. + +"Oh, of course, of course, poor old thing," says she, unable this time, +however, to hide the quaver that desolates her voice. + +"No," says her husband with a suspicion of vehemence. He takes her +suddenly in his arms and kisses her. "Because two or three people are +unhappy is no reason why a fourth should be made so, and I don't want +your life spoiled, so far as I can prevent it. I suppose you have +guessed that I must go over to Nice--where he is--my father could not +possibly go alone in his present state." + +"When, must you go?" + +"To-morrow. As for you----" + +"If we could go home," says she uncertainly. + +"That is what I would suggest, but how will you manage without me? The +children are so troublesome when taken out of their usual beat, and +their nurse--I often wonder which would require the most looking after, +they or she? It occurred to me to ask Dysart to see you across." + +"He is so kind, such a friend," says Mrs. Monkton. "But----" + +She might have said more, but at this instant Joyce appears in the +doorway. + +"We shall be late," cries she, "and Freddy not even dressed, why----Oh, +has anything really happened?" + +"Yes, yes," says Barbara hurriedly--a few words explains all. "We must +go home to-morrow, you see; and Freddy thinks that Felix would look +after us until we reached Kensington or North Wall." + +"Felix--Mr. Dysart?" The girl's face had grown pale during the recital +of the suicide, but now it looks ghastly. "Why should he come?" cries +she in a ringing tone, that has actual fear in it. "Do you suppose that +we two cannot manage the children between us? Oh, nonsense, Barbara; why +Tommy is as sensible as he can be, and if nurse does prove incapable, +and a prey to seasickness, well--I can take baby, and you can look after +Mabel. It will be all right! We are not going to America, really. +Freddy, please say you will not trouble Mr. Dysart about this matter." + +"Yes, I really think we shall not require him," says Barbara. Something +in the glittering brightness of her sister's eye warns her to give in at +once, and indeed she has been unconsciously a little half-hearted about +having Felix or any stranger as a travelling companion. "There, run +away, Joyce, and go to your bed, darling; you look very tired. I must +still arrange some few things with Freddy." + +"What is the matter with her?" asks Monkton, when Joyce has gone away. +"She looks as if she had been crying, and her manner is so excitable." + +"She has been strange all day, almost repellant. Felix called--and--I +don't know what happened; she insisted upon my leaving her alone with +him; but I am afraid there was a scene of some sort. I know she had been +crying, because her eyes were so red, but she would say nothing, and I +was afraid to ask her." + +"Better not. I hope she is not still thinking of that fellow Beauclerk. +However----" he stops short and sighs heavily. + +"You must not think of her now," says Barbara quickly; "your own trouble +is enough for you. Were your brother's affairs so very bad that they +necessitate the giving up of everything?" + +"It has been going on for years. My father has had to economize, to cut +down everything. You know the old place was let to a Mr.--Mr.--I quite +forget the name now," pressing his hand to his brow; "a Manchester man, +at all events, but we always hoped my father would have been able to +take it back from him next year, but now----" + +"But you say they think in time that the property will----" + +"They think so. I don't. But it would be a pity to undeceive them. I am +afraid, Barbara," with a sad look at her, "you made a bad match. Even +when the chance comes in your way to rise out of poverty, it proves a +thoroughly useless one." + +"It isn't like you to talk like that," says she quickly. "There, you are +overwrought, and no wonder, too. Come upstairs and let us see what you +will want for your journey." Her tone had grown purposely brisk; surely, +on an occasion such as this she is a wife, a companion in a thousand. +"There must be many things to be considered, both for you and for me. +And the thing is, to take nothing unnecessary. Those foreign places, I +hear, are so----" + +"It hardly matters what I take," says he wearily. + +"Well, it matters what I take," says she briskly. "Come and give me a +help, Freddy. You know how I hate to have servants standing over me. +Other people stand over their servants, but they are poor rich people. I +like to see how the clothes are packed." She is speaking not quite +truthfully. Few people like to be spared trouble so much as she does, +but it seems good in her eyes now to rouse him from the melancholy that +is fast growing on him. "Come," she says, tucking her arm into his. + + + + +CHAPTER XLI. + + "It is not to-morrow; ah, were it to-day! + There are two that I know that would be gay. + Good-by! Good-by! Good-by! + Ah I parting wounds so bitterly!" + + +It is six weeks later, "spring has come up this way," and all the earth +is glad with a fresh birth. + + "Tantarara! the joyous Book of Spring + Lies open, writ in blossoms; not a bird + Of evil augury is seen or heard! + Come now, like Pan's old crew we'll dance and sing, + Or Oberon's, for hill and valley ring + To March's bugle horn--earth's blood is stirred." + +March has indeed come; boisterous, wild, terrible, in many ways, but +lovely in others. There is a freshness in the air that rouses glad +thoughts within the breast, vague thoughts, sweet, as undefinable, and +that yet mean life. The whole land seems to have sprung up from a long +slumber, and to be looking with wide happy eyes upon the fresh marvels +Nature is preparing for it. Rather naked she stands as yet, rubbing her +sleepy lids, having just cast from her her coat of snow, and feeling +somewhat bare in the frail garment of bursting leaves and timid grass +growths, that as yet is all she can find wherein to hide her charms; but +half clothed as she is, she is still beautiful. + +Everything seems full of eager triumph. Hills, trees, valleys, lawns, +and bursting streams, all are overflowing with a wild enjoyment. All the +dull, dingy drapery in which winter had shrouded them has now been cast +aside, and the resplendent furniture with which each spring delights to +deck her home stands revealed. + +All these past dead months her house has lain desolate, enfolded in +death's cerements, but now uprising in her vigorous youth, she flings +aside the dull coverings, and lets the sweet, brilliant hues that lie +beneath, shine forth in all their beauty to meet the eye of day. + +Earth and sky are in bridal array, and from the rich recesses of the +woods, and from each shrub and branch the soft glad paeans of the mating +birds sound like a wedding chant. + +Monkton had come back from that sad journey to Nice some weeks ago. He +had had very little to tell on his return, and that of the saddest. It +had all been only too true about those iniquitous debts, and the old +people were in great distress. The two town houses should be let at +once, and the old place in Warwickshire--the home, as he called +it--well! there was no hope now that it would ever be redeemed from the +hands of the Manchester people who held it; and Sir George had been so +sure that this spring he would have been in a position to get back his +own, and have the old place once more in his possession. It was all very +sad. + +"There is no hope now. He will have to let the place to Barton for the +next ten years," said Monkton to his wife when he got home. Barton was +the Manchester man. "He is still holding off about doing it, but he +knows it must be done, and at all events the reality won't be a bit +worse than the thinking about it. Poor old Governor! You wouldn't know +him, Barbara. He has gone to skin and bone, and such a frightened sort +of look in his eyes." + +"Oh! poor, poor old man!" cried Barbara, who could forget everything in +the way of past unkindness where her sympathies were enlisted. + +Toward the end of February the guests had begun to arrive at the Court. +Lady Baltimore had returned there during January with her little son, +but Baltimore had not put in an appearance for some weeks later. A good +many new people unknown to the Monktons had arrived there with others +whom they did know, and after awhile Dicky Browne had come and Miss +Maliphant and the Brabazons and some others with whom Joyce was on +friendly terms, but even though Lady Baltimore had made rather a point +of the girls being with her, Joyce had gone to her but sparingly, and +always in fear and trembling. It was so impossible to know who might not +have arrived last night, or was going to arrive this night! + +Besides, Barbara and Freddy were so saddened, so upset by the late death +and its consequences, that it seemed unkind even to pretend to enjoy +oneself. Joyce grasped at this excuse to say "no" very often to Lady +Baltimore's kindly longings to have her with her. That, up to this, +neither Dysart nor Beauclerk had come to the Court, had been a comfort +to her; but that they might come at any moment kept her watchful and +uneasy. Indeed, only yesterday she had heard from Lady Baltimore that +both were expected during the ensuing week. + +That news leaves her rather unstrung and nervous to-day. After luncheon, +having successfully eluded Tommy, the lynx-eyed, she decides upon going +for a long walk, with a view to working off the depression to which she +has become prey. This is how she happens to be out of the way when the +letter comes for Barbara that changes altogether the tenor of their +lives. + +The afternoon post brings it. The delicious spring day has worn itself +almost to a close when Monkton, entering his wife's room, where she is +busy at a sewing machine altering a frock for Mabel, drops a letter over +her shoulder into her lap. + +"What a queer looking letter," says she, staring in amazement at the big +official blue envelope. + +"Ah--ha, I thought it would make you shiver," says he, lounging over to +the fire, and nestling his back comfortably against the mantle-piece. +"What have you been up to I should like to know. No wonder you are +turning a lively purple." + +"But what can it be?" says she. + +"That's just it," says he teazingly. "I hope they aren't going to arrest +you, that's all. Five years' penal servitude is not a thing to hanker +after." + +Mrs. Monkton, however, is not listening to this tirade. She has broken +open the envelope and is now scanning hurriedly the contents of the +important-looking document within. There is a pause--a lengthened one. +Presently Barbara rises from her seat, mechanically, as it were, always +with her eyes fixed on the letter in her hand. She has grown a little +pale--a little puzzled frown is contracting her forehead. + +"Freddy!" says she in a rather strange tone. + +"What?" says he quickly. "No more bad news I hope." + +"Oh, no! Oh, yes! I can't quite make it out--but--I'm afraid my poor +uncle is dead." + +"Your uncle?" + +"Yes, yes. My father's brother. I think I told you about him. He went +abroad years ago, and we--Joyce and I, believed him dead a long time +ago, long before I married you even--but now----Come here and read it. +It is worded so oddly that it puzzles me." + +"Let me see it," says Monkton. + +He sinks into an easy-chair, and drags her down on to his knee, the +better to see over her shoulder. Thus satisfactorily arranged, he begins +to read rapidly the letter she holds up before his eyes. + +"Yes, dead indeed," says he sotto voce. "Go on, turn over; you mustn't +fret about that, you know. Barbara--er--er--" reading. "What's this? By +Jove!" + +"What?" says his wife anxiously. "What is the meaning of this horrid +letter, Freddy?" + +"There are a few people who might not call it horrid," says Monkton, +placing his arm round her and rising from the chair. He is looking very +grave. "Even though it brings you news of your poor uncle's death, still +it brings you too the information that you are heiress to about a +quarter of a million!" + +"What!" says Barbara faintly. And then, "Oh no. Oh! nonsense! there must +be some mistake!" + +"Well, it sounds like it at all events. 'Sad occurrence,' +h'm--h'm----" reading. "'Co-heiresses. Very considerable fortune.'" He +looks to the signature of the letter. "Hodgson & Fair. Very respectable +firm! My father has had dealings with them. They say your uncle died in +Sydney, and has left behind him an immense sum of money. Half a million, +in fact, to which you and Joyce are co-heiresses." + +"There must be a mistake," repeats Barbara, in a low tone. "It seems too +like a fairy tale." + +"It does. And yet, lawyers like Hodgson & Fair are not likely to be led +into a cul-de-sac. If----" he pauses, and looks earnestly at his wife. +"If it does prove true, Barbara, you will be a very rich woman." + +"And you will be rich with me," she says, quickly, in an agitated tone. +"But, but----" + +"Yes; it does seem difficult to believe," interrupts he, slowly. "What a +letter!" His eyes fall on it again, and she, drawing close to him, reads +it once more, carefully. + +"I think there is truth in it," says she, at last. "It sounds more like +being all right, more reasonable, when read a second time. Freddy----" + +She steps a little bit away from him, and rests her beautiful eyes full +on his. + +"Have you thought," says she, slowly, "that if there is truth in this +story, how much we shall be able to do for your father and mother!" + +Monkton starts as if stung. For them. To do anything for them. For the +two who had so wantonly offended and insulted her during all her married +life: Is her first thought to be for them? + +"Yes, yes," says she, eagerly. "We shall be able to help them out of all +their difficulties. Oh! I didn't say much to you, but in their grief, +their troubles have gone to my very heart. I couldn't bear to think of +their being obliged to give up their houses, their comforts, and in +their old age, too! Now we shall be able to smooth matters for them!" + + + + +CHAPTER XLII. + + "It's we two, it's we two, it's we two for aye, + All the world and we two, and Heaven be our stay, + Like a laverock in the lift, sing, O bonny bride! + All the world was Adam once, with Eve by his side." + + +The light in her eyes is angelic. She has laid her hands upon both her +husband's arms, as if expecting him to take her into them, as he always +does only too gladly on the smallest provocation. Just now, however, he +fails her, for the moment only, however. + +"Barbara," says he, in a choked voice: he holds her from him, examining +her face critically. His thoughts are painful, yet proud--proud beyond +telling. His examination does not last long: there is nothing but good +to be read in that fair, sweet, lovable face. He gathers her to him with +a force that is almost hurtful. + +"Are you a woman at all, or just an angel?" says he, with a deep sigh. + +"What is it, Freddy?" + +"After all they have done to you. Their insults, coldness, abominable +conduct, to think that your first thought should be for them. Why, look +here, Barbara," vehemently, "they are not worthy that you should----" + +"Tut!" interrupts she, lightly, yet with a little sob in her throat. His +praise is so sweet to her. "You overrate me. Is it for them I would do +it or for you? There, take all the thought for yourself. And, besides, +are not you and I one, and shall not your people be my people? Come, if +you think of it, there is no such great merit after all." + +"You forget----" + +"No; not a word against them. I won't listen," thrusting her fingers +into her ears. "It is all over and done with long ago. And it is our +turn now, and let us do things decently and in order, and create no +heart-burnings." + +"But when I think----" + +"If thinking makes you look like that, don't think." + +"But I must. I must remember how they scorned and slighted you. It never +seems to have come home to me so vividly as now--now when you seem to +have forgotten it. Oh, Barbara!" He presses back her head and looks long +and tenderly into her eyes. "I was not mistaken, indeed, when I gave you +my heart. Surely you are one among ten thousand." + +"Silly boy," says she, with a little tremulous laugh, glad to her very +soul's centre, however, because of his words. "What is there to praise +me for? Have I not warned you that I am purely selfish? What is there I +would not do for very love of you? Come, Freddy," shaking herself loose +from him, and laughing now with honest delight. "Let us be reasonable. +Oh! poor old uncle, it seems hateful to rejoice thus over his death, but +his memory is really only a shadow after all, and I suppose he meant to +make us happy by his gift, eh, Freddy?" + +"Yes, how well he remembered during all these years. He could have +formed no other ties." + +"None, naturally." Short pause. "There is that black mare of Mike +Donovan's, Freddy, that you so fancied. You can buy it now." + +Monkton laughs involuntarily. Something of the child has always lingered +about Barbara. + +"And I should like to get a black velvet gown," says she, her face +brightening, "and to buy Joyce a----Oh! but Joyce will be rich herself." + +"Yes. I'm really afraid you will be done out of the joy of overloading +Joyce with gifts. She'll be able to give you something. That will be a +change, at all events. As for the velvet gown, if this," touching the +letter, "bears any meaning, I should think you need not confine yourself +to one velvet gown." + +"And there's Tommy," says she quickly, her thoughts running so fast that +she scarcely hears him. "You have always said you wanted to put him in +the army. Now you can do it." + +"Yes," says Monkton, with sudden interest. "I should like that. But +you--you shrank from the thought, didn't you?" + +"Well, he might have to go to India," says she, nervously. + +"And what of that?" + +"Oh, nothing--that is, nothing really--only there are lions and tigers +there, Freddy; aren't there, now?" + +"One or two," says Mr. Monkton, "if we are to believe travelers' tales. +But they are all proverbially false. I don't believe in lions at all +myself. I'm sure they are myths. Well, let him go into the navy, then. +Lions and tigers don't as a rule inhabit the great deep." + +"Oh, no; but sharks do," says she, with a visible shudder. "No, no, on +the whole I had rather trust him to the beasts of the field. He could +run away from them, but you can't run in the sea." + +"True," says Mr. Monkton, with exemplary gravity. "I couldn't, at all +events." + + * * * * * + +Monkton had to run across to London about the extraordinary legacy left +to his wife and Joyce. But further investigation proved the story true. +The money was, indeed, there, and they were the only heirs. From being +distinctly poor they rose to the height of a very respectable income, +and Monkton being in town, where the old Monktons still were, also was +commanded by his wife to go to them and pay off their largest +liabilities--debts contracted by the dead son, and to so arrange that +they should not be at the necessity of leaving themselves houseless. + +The Manchester people who had taken the old place in Warwickshire were +now informed that they could not have it beyond the term agreed on; but +about this the old people had something to say, too. They would not take +back the family place. They had but one son now, and the sooner he went +to live there the better. Lady Monkton, completely, broken down and +melted by Barbara's generosity, went so far as to send her a long +letter, telling her it would be the dearest wish of her and Sir George's +hearts that she should preside as mistress over the beautiful old +homestead, and that it would give them great happiness to imagine, the +children--the grandchildren--running riot through the big wainscoted +rooms. Barbara was not to wait for her--Lady Monkton's--death to take up +her position as head of the house. She was to go to Warwickshire at +once, the moment those detestable Manchester people were out of it; and +Lady Monkton, if Barbara would be so good as to make her welcome, would +like to come to her for three months every year, to see the children, +and her son, and her daughter! The last was the crowning touch. For the +rest, Barbara was not to hesitate about accepting the Warwickshire +place, as Lady Monkton and Sir George were devoted to town life, and +never felt quite well when away from smoky London. + +This last was true. As a fact, the old people were thoroughly imbued +with the desire for the turmoil of city life, and the three months of +country Lady Monkton had stipulated for were quite as much as they +desired of rustic felicity. + +Barbara accepted the gift of the old home. Eventually, of course, it +would be hers, but she knew the old people meant the present giving of +it as a sort of return for her liberality--for the generosity that had +enabled them to once more lift their heads among their equals. + + * * * * * + +The great news meanwhile had spread like wildfire through the Irish +country where the Frederic Monktons lived. Lady Baltimore was +unfeignedly glad about it, and came down at once to embrace Barbara, and +say all sorts of delightful things about it. The excitement of the whole +affair seemed to dissipate all the sadness and depression that had +followed on the death of the elder son, and nothing now was talked of +but the great good luck that had fallen into the paths of Barbara and +Joyce. The poor old uncle had been considered dead for so many years +previously, and was indeed such a dim memory to his nieces, that it +would have been the purest affectation to pretend to feel any deep grief +for his demise. + +Perhaps what grieved Barbara most of all, though she said very little +about it, was the idea of having to leave the old house in which they +were now living. It did not not cheer her to think of the place in +Warwickshire, which, of course, was beautiful, and full of +possibilities. + +This foolish old Irish home--rich in discomforts--was home. It seemed +hard to abandon it. It was not a palatial mansion, certainly; it was +even dismal in many ways, but it contained more love in its little space +than many a noble mansion could boast. It seemed cruel--ungrateful--to +cast it behind her, once it was possible to mount a few steps on the +rungs of the worldly ladder. + +How happy they had all been here together, in this foolish old house, +that every severe storm seemed to threaten with final dissolution. It +gave her many a secret pang to think that she must part from it for ever +before another year should dawn. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIII. + + "Looks the heart alone discover, + If the tongue its thoughts can tell, + 'Tis in vain you play the lover, + You have never felt the spell." + + +Joyce, who had been dreading, with a silent but terrible fear, her first +meeting with Dysart, had found it no such great matter after all when +they were at last face to face. Dysart had met her as coolly, with +apparently as little concern as though no former passages had ever taken +place between them. + +His manner was perfectly calm, and as devoid of feeling as any one could +desire, and it was open to her comprehension that he avoided her +whenever he possibly could. She told herself this was all she could, or +did, desire; yet, nevertheless, she writhed beneath the certainty of it. + +Beauclerk had not arrived until a week later than Dysart; until, indeed, +the news of the marvelous fortune that had come to her was well +authenticated, and then had been all that could possibly be expected of +him. His manner was perfect. He sat still And gazed with delightfully +friendly eyes into Miss Maliphant's pleased countenance, and anon +skipped across room or lawn to whisper beautiful nothings to Miss +Kavanagh. The latter's change of fortune did not, apparently, seem to +affect him in the least. After all, even now she was not as good a +_parti_ as Miss Maliphant, where money was concerned, but then there +were other things. Whatever his outward manner might lead one to +suspect, beyond doubt he thought a great deal at this time, and finally +came to a conclusion. + +Joyce's fortune had helped her in many ways. It had helped many of the +poor around her, too; but it did even more than that. It helped Mr. +Beauclerk to make up his mind with regard to his matrimonial prospects. + +Sitting in his chambers in town with Lady Baltimore's letter before him +that told him of the change in Joyce's fortune--of the fortune that had +changed her, in fact, from a pretty penniless girl to a pretty rich one, +he told himself that, after all, she had certainly been the girl for him +since the commencement of their acquaintance. + +She was charming--not a whit more now than then. He would not belie his +own taste so far as so admit that she was more desirable in any way now, +in her prosperity, than when first he saw her, and paid her the immense +compliment of admiring her. + +He permitted himself to grow a little enthusiastic, however, to say out +loud to himself, as it were, all that he had hardly allowed himself to +think up to this. She was, beyond question, the most charming girl in +the world! Such grace--such finish! A girl worthy of the love of the +best of men--presumably himself! + +He had always loved her--always! He had never felt so sure of that +delightful fact as now. He had had a kind of knowledge, even when afraid +to give ear to it, that she was the wife best suited to him to be found +anywhere. She understood him! They were thoroughly _en rapport_ with +each other. Their marriage would be a success in the deepest, sincerest +meaning of that word. + +He leant luxuriously among the cushions of his chair, lit a fragrant +cigarette, and ran his mind backward over many things. Well! Perhaps so! +But yet if he had refrained from proposing to her until now--now when +fate smiles upon her--it was simply because he dreaded dragging her into +a marriage where she could not have had all those little best things of +life that so peerless a creature had every right to demand. + +Yes! it was for her sake alone he had hesitated. He feels sure of that +now. He has thoroughly persuaded himself the purity of the motives that +kept him tongue tied when honor called aloud to him for speech. He feels +himself so exalted that he metaphorically pats himself upon the back and +tells himself he is a righteous being--a very Brutus where honor is +concerned; any other man might have hurried that exquisite creature into +a squalid marriage for the mere sake of gratifying an overpowering +affection, but he had been above all that! He had considered her! The +man's duty is ever to protect the woman! He had protected her--even from +herself; for that she would have been only too willing to link her sweet +fate with his at any price-was patent to all the world. Few people have +felt as virtuous as Mr. Beauclerk as he comes to the end of this thread +of his imaginings. + +Well! he will make it up to her! He smiles benignly through the smoke +that rises round his nose. She shall never have reason to remember that +he had not fallen on his knees to her--as a less considerate man might +have done--when he was without the means to make her life as bright as +it should be. + +The most eager of lovers must live, and eating is the first move toward +that conclusion. Yet if he had given way to selfish desires they would +scarcely, he and she, have had sufficient bread (of any delectable kind) +to fill their mouths. But now all would be different. She, clever girl! +had supplied the blank; she had squared the difficulty. Having provided +the wherewithal to keep body and soul together in a nice, respectable, +fashionable, modern sort of way, her constancy shall certainly be +rewarded. He will go straight down to the Court, and declare to her the +sentiments that have been warming his breast (silently!) all these past +months. What a dear girl she is, and so fond of him! That in itself is +an extra charm in her very delightful character. And those fortunate +thousands! Quite a quarter of a million, isn't it? Well, of course, no +use saying they won't come in handy--no use being hypocritical over +it--horrid thing a hypocrite!--well, those thousands naturally have +their charm, too. + +He rose, flung his cigarette aside (it was finished as far as careful +enjoyment would permit), and rang for his servant to pack his +portmanteaux. He was going to the Court by the morning train. + + * * * * * + +Now that he is here, however, he restrains the ardor, that no doubt is +consuming him, with altogether admirable patience, and waits for the +chance that may permit him to lay his valuable affections at Joyce's +feet. A dinner to be followed by an impromptu dance at the Court +suggests itself as a very fitting opportunity. He grasps it. Yes, +to-morrow evening will be an excellent and artistic opening for a thing +of this sort. All through luncheon, even while conversing with Joyce and +Miss Maliphant on various outside topics, his versatile mind is +arranging a picturesque spot in the garden enclosures wherein to make +Joyce a happy woman! + +Lady Swansdown, glancing across the table at him, laughs lightly. Always +disliking him, she has still been able to read him very clearly, and his +determination to now propose to Joyce amuses her nearly as much as it +annoys her. Frivolous to the last degree as she is, an honest regard for +Joyce has taken hold within her breast. Lord Baltimore, too, is +disturbed by his brother's present. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIV. + + "Love took up the harp of life and smote on all the chords with + might; + Smote the chord of self, that, trembling, passed in music out of + sight." + + +Lady Swansdown is startled into a remembrance of the present by the +entrance of somebody. After all Dicky, the troublesome, was right--this +is no spot in which to sleep or dream. Turning her head with an indolent +impatience to see who has come to disturb her, she meets Lady +Baltimore's clear eyes. + +Some sharp pang of remorse, of fear, perhaps, compels her to spring to +her feet, and gaze at her hostess with an expression that is almost +defiant. Dicky's words had so far taken effect that she now dreads and +hates to meet the woman who once had been her stanch friend. + +Lady Baltimore, unable to ignore the look in her rival's eyes, still +advances toward her with unfaltering step. Perhaps a touch of disdain, +of contempt, is perceptible in her own gaze, because Lady Swansdown, +paling, moves toward her. She seems to have lost all self-control--she +is trembling violently. It is a crisis. + +"What is it?" says Lady Swansdown, harshly. "Why do you look at me like +that? Has it come to a close between us, Isabel? Oh! if +so"--vehemently--"it is better so." + +"I don't think I understand you," says Lady Baltimore, who has grown +very white. Her tone is haughty; she has drawn back a little as if to +escape from contact with the other. + +"Ah! That is so like you," says Lady Swansdown with a rather fierce +little laugh. "You pretend, pretend, pretend, from morning till night. +You intrench yourself behind your pride, and----" + +"You know what you are doing, Beatrice," says Lady Baltimore, ignoring +this outburst completely, and speaking in a calm, level tone, yet with a +face like marble. + +"Yes, and you know, too," says Lady Swansdown. Then, with an +overwhelming vehemence: "Why don't you do something? Why don't you +assert yourself?" + +"I shall never assert myself," says Lady Baltimore slowly. + +"You mean that whatever comes you will not interfere." + +"That, exactly!" turning her eyes full on to the other's face with a +terrible disdain. "I shall never interfere in this--or any other of his +flirtations." + +It is a sharp stab! Lady Swansdown winces visibly. + +"What a woman you are!" cries she. "Have you ever thought of it, Isabel? +You are unjust to him--unfair. You"--passionately--"treat him as though +he were the dust beneath your feet, and yet you expect him to remain +immaculate, for your sake--pure as any acolyte--a thing of ice----" + +"No," coldly. "You mistake me. I know too much of him to expect +perfection--nay, common decency from him. But you--it was you whom I +hoped to find immaculate." + +"You expected too much, then. One iceberg in your midst is enough, and +that you have kindly suggested in your own person. Put me out of the +discussion altogether." + +"Ah I You have made that impossible! I cannot do that. I have known you +too long, I have liked you too well. I have," with a swift, but terrible +glance at her, "loved you!" + +"Isabel!" + +"No, no! Not a word. It is too late now." + +"True," says Lady. Swansdown, bringing back the arms she had extended +and letting them fall into a sudden, dull vehemence to her sides. Her +agitation is uncontrolled. "That was so long ago that, no doubt, you +have forgotten all about it. You," bitterly, "have forgotten a good +deal." + +"And you," says Lady Baltimore, very calmly, "what have you not +forgotten--your self-respect," deliberately, "among other things." + +"Take care; take care!" says Lady Swansdown in a low tone. She has +turned furiously upon her. + +"Why should I take care?" She throws up her small bead scornfully. "Have +I said one word too much?"? + +"Too much indeed," says Lady Swansdown distinctly, but faintly. She +turns her head, but not her eyes in Isabel's direction. "I'm afraid you +will have to endure for one day longer," she says in a low voice; "after +that you shall bid me a farewell that shall last forever!" + +"You have come to a wise decision," says Lady Baltimore, immovably. + +There is something so contemptuous in her whole bearing that it maddens +the other. + +"How dare you speak to me like that," cries she with sudden violence not +to be repressed. "You of all others! Do you think you are not in fault +at all--that you stand blameless before the world?" + +The blood has flamed into her pale cheeks, her eyes are on fire. She +advances toward Lady Baltimore with such a passion of angry despair in +look and tone, that involuntarily the latter retreats before her. + +"Who shall blame me?" demands Lady Baltimore haughtily. + +"I--I for one! Icicle that you are, how can you know what love means? +You have no heart to feel, no longing to forgive. And what has he done +to you? Nothing--nothing that any other woman would not gladly condone." + +"You are a partisan," says Lady Baltimore coldly. "You would plead his +cause, and to me! You are violent, but that does not put you in the +right. What do you know of Baltimore that I do not know? By what right +do you defend him?" + +"There is such a thing as friendship!" + +"Is there?" says the other with deep meaning. "Is there, Beatrice? Oh! +think--think!" A little bitter smile curls the corners of her lips. +"That you should advocate the cause of friendship to me," says she, her +words falling with cruel scorn one by one slowly from her lips. + +"You think me false," says Lady Swansdown. She is terribly agitated. +"There was an old friendship between us--I know that--I feel it. You +think me altogether false to it?" + +"I think of you as little as I can help," says Isabel, contemptuously. +"Why should I waste a thought on you?" + +"True! Why indeed! One so capable of controlling her emotions as you are +need never give way to superfluous or useless thoughts. Still, give one +to Baltimore. It is our last conversation together, therefore bear with +me--hear me. All his sins lie in the past. He----" + +"You must be mad to talk to me like this," interrupts Isabel, flushing +crimson. "Has he asked you to intercede for him? Could even he go so far +as that? Is it a last insult? What are you to him that you thus adopt +his cause. Answer me!" cries she imperiously; all her coldness, her +stern determination to suppress herself, seems broken up. + +"Nothing!" returns Lady Swansdown, becoming calmer as she notes the +other's growing vehemence. "I never shall be anything. I have but one +excuse for my interference"--She pauses. + +"And that!" + +"I love him!" steadily, but faintly. Her eyes have sought the ground. + +"Ah!" says Lady Baltimore. + +"It is true"--slowly. "It is equally true--that he--does not love me. +Let me then speak. All his sins, believe me, lie behind him. That woman, +that friend of yours who told you of his renewed acquaintance with +Madame Istray, lied to you! There was no truth in what she said!" + +"I can quite understand your not wishing to believe in that story," says +Lady Baltimore with an undisguised sneer. + +"Like all good women, you can take pleasure in inflicting a wound," says +Lady Swansdown, controlling herself admirably. "But do not let your +detestation of me blind you to the fact that my words contain truth. If +you will listen I can----" + +"Not a word," says Lady Baltimore, making a movement with her hands as +if to efface the other. "I will have none of your confidences." + +"It seems to me"--quickly--"you are determined not to believe." + +"You are at liberty to think as you will." + +"The time may come," says Lady Swansdown, "when you will regret you did +not listen to me to-day." + +"Is that a threat?" + +"No; but I am going. There will be no further opportunity for you to +hear me." + +"You must pardon me if I say that I am glad of that," says Lady +Baltimore, her lips very white. "I Could have borne little more. Do what +you will--go where you will--with whom you will" (with deliberate +insult), "but at least spare me a repetition of such a scene as this." + +She turns, and with an indescribably haughty gesture leaves the room. + + + + +CHAPTER XLV. + + "The name of the slough was Despond." + + +Dancing is going on in the small drawing-room. A few night broughams are +still arriving, and young girls, accompanied by their brothers only, are +making the room look lovely. It is quite an impromptu affair, quite +informal. Dicky Browne, altogether in his element, is flitting from +flower to flower, saying beautiful nothings to any of the girls who are +kind enough or silly enough to waste a moment on so irreclaimable a +butterfly. + +He is not so entirely engrossed by his pleasing occupations, however, as +to be lost to the more serious matters that are going on around him. He +is specially struck by the fact that Lady Swansdown, who had been in +charming spirits all through the afternoon, and afterward at dinner, is +now dancing a great deal with Beauclerk, of all people, and making +herself apparently very delightful to him. His own personal belief up to +this had been that she detested Beauclerk, and now to see her smiling +upon him and favoring him with waltz after waltz upsets Dicky's power of +penetration to an almost fatal extent. + +"I wonder what the deuce she's up to now," says he to himself, leaning +against the wall behind him, and giving voice unconsciously to the +thoughts within him. + +"Eh?" says somebody at his ear. + +He looks round hastily to find Miss Maliphant has come to anchor on his +left, and that her eyes, too, are directed on Beauclerk, who with Lady +Swansdown is standing at the lower end of the room. + +"Eh, to you," says he brilliantly. + +"I always rather fancied that Mr. Beauclerk and Lady Swansdown were +antipathetic," says Miss Maliphant in her usual heavy, downright way. + +"There was room for it," says Mr. Browne gloomily. + +"For it?" + +"Your fancy." + +"Yes, so I think. Lady Swansdown has always seemed to me to be +rather--raiher--eh?" + +"Decidedly so," agrees Mr. Browne. "And as for Beauclerk, he is quite +too dreadfully 'rather,' don't you think?" + +"I don't know, I'm sure. He has often seemed to me a little light, but +only on the surface." + +"You've read him," says Mr. Browne with a confidential nod. "Light on +the surface, but deep, deep as a draw well?" + +"I don't think I mean what you do," says Miss Maliphant quickly. +"However, we are not discussing Mr. Beauclerk, beyond the fact that we +wonder to see him so genial with Lady Swansdown. They used to be +thoroughly antagonistic, and now--why they seem quite good friends, +don't they? Quite thick, eh?" with her usual graceful phraseology. + +"Thick as thieves in Vallambrosa," says Mr. Browne with increasing +gloom. Miss Maliphant turns to regard him doubtfully. + +"Leaves?" suggests she. + +"Thieves," persists he immovably. + +"Oh! Ah! It's a joke perhaps," says she, the doubt growing. Mr. Browne +fixes a stern eye upon her. + +"Is thy servant a dog?" says he, and stalks indignantly away, leaving +Miss Maliphant in the throes of uncertainty. + +"Yet I'm sure it wasn't the right word," says she to herself with a +wonderful frown of perplexity. "However, I may be wrong. I often am. +And, after all, Spain we're told is full of 'em." + +Whether "thieves" or "leaves" she doesn't explain, and presently her +mind wanders entirely away from Mr. Browne's maundering to the subject +that so much more nearly interests her. Beauclerk has not been quite so +empresse in his manner to her to-night--not so altogether delightful. He +has, indeed, it seems to her, shirked her society a good deal, and has +not been so assiduous about the scribbling of his name upon her card as +usual. And then this sudden friendship with Lady Swansdown--what does he +mean by that? What does she mean? + +If she had only known. If the answer to her latter question had been +given to her, her mind would have grown easier, and the idea of Lady +Swansdown in the form of a rival would have been laid at rest forever. + +As a fact, Lady Swansdown hardly understands herself to-night. That +scene with her hostess has upset her mentally and bodily, and created in +her a wild desire to get away from herself and from Baltimore at any +cost. Some idle freak has induced her to use Beauclerk (who is +detestable to her) as a safeguard from both, and he, unsettled in his +own mind, and eager to come to conclusions with Joyce and her fortune, +has lent himself to the wiles of his whilom foe, and is permiting +himself to be charmed by her fascinating, if vagrant, mood. + +Perhaps in all her life Lady Swansdown has never looked so lovely as +to-night. Excitement and mental disturbance have lent a dangerous +brilliancy to her eyes, a touch of color to her cheek. There is +something electric about her that touches those who gaze, on her, and +warns herself that a crisis is at hand. + +Up to this she has been able to elude all Baltimore's attempts at +conversation--has refused all his demands for a dance, yet this same +knowledge that the night will not go by without a denouement of some +kind between her and him is terribly present to her. To-night! The last +night she will ever see him, in all human probability! The exaltation +that enables her to endure this thought is fraught with such agony that, +brave and determined as she is, it is almost too much for her. + +Yet she--Isabel--she should learn that that old friendship between them +was no fable. To-night it would bear fruit. False, she believed +her--well, she should see. + +In a way, she clung to Beauclerk as a means of escaping +Baltimore--throwing out a thousand wiles to charm him to her side, and +succeeding. Three times she had given a smiling "No" to Lord Baltimore's +demand for a dance, and, regardless of opinion, had flung herself into a +wild and open flirtation with Beauclerk. + +But it is growing toward midnight, and her strength is failing her. +These people, will they never go, will she never be able to seek her own +room, and solitude, and despair without calling down comment on her +head, and giving Isabel--that cold woman--the chance of sneering at her +weakness? + +A sudden sense of the uselessness of it all has taken possession of her; +her heart sinks. It is at this moment that Baltimore once more comes up +to her. + +"This dance?" says he. "It is half way through. You are not engaged, I +suppose, as you are sitting down? May I have what remains of it?" + +She makes a little gesture of acquiescence, and, rising, places her hand +upon his arm. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVI. + + "O life! thou art a galling load + Along a rough, a weary road, + To wretches such as I." + + +The crisis has come, she tells herself, with a rather grim smile. Well, +better have it and get it over. + +That there had been a violent scene between Baltimore and his wife after +dinner had somehow become known to her, and the marks of it still +betrayed themselves in the former's frowning brow and sombre eyes. + +It had been more of a scene than usual. Lady Baltimore, generally so +calm, had for once lost herself, and given way to a passion of +indignation that had shaken her to her very heart's core. Though so +apparently unmoved and almost insolent in her demeanor toward Lady +Swansdown during their interview, she had been, nevertheless, cruelly +wounded by it, and could not forgive Baltimore in that he had been its +cause. + +As for him, he could not forgive her all she had said and looked. With a +heart on fire he had sought Lady Swansdown, the one woman whom he knew +understood and believed in him. It was a perilous moment, and Beatrice +knew it. She knew, too, that angry despair was driving him into her +arms, not honest affection. She was strong enough to face this and +refused to deceive herself about it. + +"I didn't think you and Beauclerk had anything in common," says +Baltimore, seating himself beside her on the low lounge that is half +hidden from the public gaze by the Indian curtains that fall at each +side of it. He had made no pretence of finishing the dance. He had led +the way and she had suffered herself to be led into the small anteroom +that, half smothered in early spring flowers, lay off the dancing room. + +"Ah! you see you have yet much to learn about me," says she, with an +attempt at gayety--that fails, however. + +"About you? No!" says he, almost defiantly. "Don't tell me I have +deceived myself about you, Beatrice; you are all I have left to fall +back upon now." His tone is reckless to the last degree. + +"A forlorn pis-aller," she says, steadily, with a forced smile. "What is +it, Cyril?" looking at him with sudden intentness. "Something has +happened. What?" + +"The old story," returns he, "and I am sick of it. I have thrown up my +hand. I would have been faithful to her, Beatrice. I swear that, but she +does not care for my devotion. And as for me, now----" He throws out his +arms as if tired to death, and draws in his breath heavily. + +"Now?" says she, leaning forward. + +"Am I worth your acceptance?" says he, turning sharply to her. "I hardly +dare to think it, and yet you have been kind to me, and your own lot is +not altogether a happy one, and----" + +He pauses. + +"Do you hesitate?" asks she very bitterly, although her pale lips are +smiling. + +"Will you risk it all?" says he, sadly. "Will you come away with me? I +feel I have no friend on earth but you. Will you take pity on me? I +shall not stay here, whatever happens; I have striven against fate too +long--it has overcome me. Another land--a different life--complete +forgetfulness----" + +"Do you know what you are saying?" asks Lady Swansdown, who has grown +deadly white. + +"Yes; I have thought it all out. It is for you now to decide. I have +sometimes thought I was not entirely indifferent to you, and at all +events we are friends in the best sense of the term. If you were a happy +married woman, Beatrice, I should not speak to you like this, but as it +is--in another land--if you will come with me--we----" + +"Think, think!" says she, putting up her hand to stay him from further +speech. "All this is said in a moment of angry excitement. You have +called me your friend--and truly. I am so far in touch with you that I +can see you are very unhappy. You have had--forgive me if I probe +you--but you have had some--some words with your wife?" + +"Final words! I hope--I think." + +"I do not, however. All this will blow over, and--come Cyril, face it! +Are you really prepared to deliberately break the last link that holds +you to her?" + +"There is no link. She has cut herself adrift long since. She will be +glad to be rid of me." + +"And you--will you be glad to be rid of her?" + +"It will be better," says he, shortly. + +"And--the boy!" + +"Don't let us go into it," says he, a little wildly. + +"Oh! but we must--we must," says she. "The boy--you will----?" + +"I shall leave him to her. It is all she has. I am nothing to her. I +cannot leave her desolate." + +"How you consider her!" says she, in a choking voice. She could have +burst into tears! "What a heart! and that woman to treat him +so--whilst--oh! it is hard--hard!" + +"I tell you," says she presently, "that you have not gone into this +thing. To-morrow you will regret all that you have now said." + +"If you refuse me--yes. It lies in your hands now. Are you going to +refuse me?" + +"Give me a moment," says she faintly. She has risen to her feet, and is +so standing that he cannot watch her. Her whole soul is convulsed. Shall +she? Shall she not? The scales are trembling. + +That woman's face! How it rises before her now, pale, cold, +contemptuous. With what an insolent air she had almost ordered her from +her sight. And yet--and yet---- + +She can remember that disdainful face, kind and tender and loving! A +face she had once delighted to dwell upon! And Isabel had been very good +to her once--when others had not been kind, and when Swansdown, her +natural protector, had been scandalously untrue to his trust. Isabel had +loved her then; and now, how was she about to requite her? Was she to +let her know her to be false--not only in thought but in reality! Could +she live and see that pale face in imagination filled with scorn for the +desecrated friendship that once had been a real bond between them? + +Oh! A groan that is almost a sob breaks from her. The scale has gone +down to one side. It is all over, hope and love and joy. Isabel has won. + +She has been leaning against the arm of the lounge, now she once more +sinks back upon the seat as though standing is impossible to her. + +"Well?" says Baltimore, laying his hand gently upon hers. His touch +seems to burn her, she flings his hand from her and shrinks back. + +"You have decided," says he quickly. "You will not come with me?" + +"Oh! no, no, no!" cries she. "It is impossible!" A little curious laugh +breaks from her that is cruelly akin to a cry. "There is too much to +remember," says she, suddenly. + +"You think you would be wronging her," says Baltimore, reading her +correctly. "I have told you you are at fault there. She would bless the +chance that swept me out of her life. And as for me, I should have no +regrets. You need not fear that." + +"Ah, that is what I do fear," says she in a low tone. + +"Well, you have decided," says he, after a pause. "After all why should +I feel either disappointment or surprise? What is there about me that +should tempt any woman to cast in her lot with mine?" + +"Much!" says Lady Swansdown, deliberately. "But the one great essential +is wanting--you have no love to give. It is all given." She leans toward +him and regards him earnestly. "Do you really think you are in love with +me? Shall I tell you who you are in love with?" She lets her soft cheek +fall into her hand and looks up at him from under her long lashes. + +"You can tell me what you will," says he, a little impatiently. + +"Listen, then," says she, with a rather broken attempt at gayety, "you +are in love with that good, charming, irritating, impossible, but most +lovable person in the world--your own wife!" + +"Pshaw!" says Baltimore, with an irritated gesture. "We will not discuss +her, if you please." + +"As you will. To discuss her or leave her name out of it altogether will +not, however, alter matters." + +"You have quite made up your mind," says he, presently, looking at her +searchingly. "You will let me go alone into evil?" + +"You will not go," returns she, trying to speak with conviction, but +looking very anxious. + +"I certainly shall. There is nothing else left for me to do. Life here +is intolerable." + +"There is one thing," says she, her voice trembling. "You might make it +up with her." + +"Do you think I haven't tried," says he, with a harsh laugh "I'm tired +of making advances. I have done all that man can do. No, I shall not try +again. My one regret in leaving England will be that I shall not see you +again!" + +"Don't!" says she, hoarsely. + +"I believe on my soul," says he, hurriedly, "that you do care for me. +That it is only because of her that you will not listen to me." + +"You are right!" (in a low tone)--"I--" Her voice fails her, she presses +her hands together. "I confess," says she, with terrible abandonment, +"that I might have listened to you--had I not liked her so well." + +"Better than me, apparently," says he, bitterly. "She has had the best +of it all through." + +"There we are quits, then," says she, quite as bitterly. "Because you +like her better than me." + +"If so--do you think I would speak to you as I have spoken?" + +"Yes. I think that. A man is always more or less of a baby. Years of +discretion he seldom reaches. You are angry with your wife, and would be +revenged upon her, and your way to revenge yourself is to make a second +woman hate you." + +"A second?" + +"I should probably hate you in six months," says she, with a touch of +passion. "I am not sure that I do not hate you now." + +Her nerve is fast failing her. If she had a doubt about it before, the +certainty now that Baltimore's feeling for her is merely friendship--the +desire of a lonely man for some sympathetic companion--anything but +love, has entered into her and crushed her. He would devote the rest of +his life to her. She is sure of that--but always it would be a life +filled with an unavailing regret. A horror of the whole situation has +seized upon her. She will never be any more to him than a pleasant +memory, while he to her must be an ever-growing pain. Oh! to be able to +wrench herself free, to be able to forget him to blot him out of her +mind forever. + +"A second woman!" repeats he, as if struck by this thought to the +exclusion of all others. + +"Yes!" + +"You think, then," gazing at her, "that she--hates me?" + +Lady Swansdown breaks into a low but mirthless laugh. The most poignant +anguish rings through it. + +"She! she!" cries she, as if unable to control herself, and then stops +suddenly placing her hand to her forehead. "Oh, no, she doesn't hate +you," she says. "But how you betray yourself! Do you wonder I laugh? Did +ever any man so give himself away? You have been declaring to me for +months that she hates you, yet when I put it into words, or you think I +do, it seems as though some fresh new evil had befallen you. Ah! give up +this role of Don Juan, Baltimore. It doesn't suit you." + +"I have had no desire to play the part," says he, with a frown. + +"No? And yet you ask a woman for whom you scarcely bear a passing +affection to run away with you, to defy public opinion for your sake, +and so forth. You should advise her to count the world well lost for +love--such love as yours! You pour every bit of the old rubbish into +one's ears, and yet--" She stops abruptly. A very storm of anger and +grief and despair is shaking her to her heart's core. + +"Well?" says he, still frowning. + +"What have you to offer me in exchange for all you ask me to give? A +heart filled with thoughts of another! No more!----" + +"If you persist in thinking----" + +"Why should I not think it? When I tell you there is danger of my hating +you, as your wife might--perhaps--hate you--your first thought is for +her! 'You think then that she hates me'?" (She imitates the anxiety of +his tone with angry truthfulness.) "Not one word of horror at the +thought that I might hate you six months hence." + +"Perhaps I did not believe you would," says he, with some embarrassment. + +"Ah! That is so like a man! You think, don't you, that you were made to +be loved? There, go! Leave me!" + +He would have spoken to her again, but she rejects the idea with such +bitterness that he is necessarily silent. She has covered her face with +her hands. Presently she is alone. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVII. + + "But there are griefs, ay, griefs as deep; + The friendship turned to hate. + And deeper still, and deeper still + Repentance come too late, too late!" + + +Joyce, on the whole, had not enjoyed last night's dance at the Court. +Barbara had been there, and she had gone home with her and Monkton after +it, and on waking this morning a sense of unreality, of dissatisfaction, +is all that comes to her. No pleasant flavor is on her mental palate; +there is only a vague feeling of failure and a dislike to looking into +things--to analyze matters as they stand. + +Yet where the failure came in she would have found it difficult to +explain even to herself. Everybody, so far as she was concerned, had +behaved perfectly; that is, as she, if she had been compelled to say it +out loud, would have desired them to behave. Mr. Beauclerk had been +polite enough; not too polite; and Lady Baltimore had made a great deal +of her, and Barbara had said she looked lovely, and Freddy had said +something, oh! absurd of course, and not worth repeating, but still +flattering; and those men from the barracks at Clonbree had been a +perfect nuisance, they were so pressing with their horrid attentions, +and so eager to get a dance. And Mr. Dysart---- + +Well? That fault could not be laid to his charge, therefore, of course, +he was all that could be desired. He was circumspect to the last degree. +He had not been pressing with his attentions; he had, indeed, been so +kind and nice that he had only asked her for one dance, and during the +short quarter of an hour that that took to get through he had been so +admirably conducted as to restrain his conversation to the most +commonplace, and had not suggested that the conservatory was a capital +place to get cool in between the dances. + +The comb she was doing her hair with at the time caught in her hair as +she came to this point, and she flung it angrily from her, and assured +herself that the tears that had suddenly come into her eyes arose from +the pain that that hateful instrument of torture had caused her. + +Yes, Felix had taken the right course; he had at least learned that she +could never be anything to him--could never--forgive him. It showed +great dignity in him, great strength of mind. She had told him, at least +given him to understand when in London, that he should forget her, +and--he had forgotten. He had obeyed her. The comb must have hurt her +again, and worse this time, because now the tears are running down her +cheeks. How horrible it is to be unforgiving! People who don't forgive +never go to heaven. There seems to be some sort of vicious consolation +in this thought. + +In truth, Dysart's behavior to her since his return has been all she had +led him to understand it ought to be. He it so changed toward her in +every way that sometimes she has wondered if he has forgotten all the +strange, unhappy past, and is now entirely emancipated from the torture +of love unrequited that once had been his. + +It is a train of thought she has up to this shrank from pursuing, yet +which, she being strong in certain ways, should have been pursued by her +to the bitter end. One small fact, however, had rendered her doubtful. +She could not fail to notice that whenever he and she are together in +the morning room, ballroom, or at luncheon or dinner, or breakfast, +though he will not approach or voluntarily address her unless she first +makes an advance toward him, a rare occurrence; still, if she raises her +eyes to his, anywhere, at any moment, it is to find his on her! + +And what sad eyes! Searching, longing, despairing, angry, but always +full of an indescribable tenderness. + +Last night she had specially noticed this--but then last night he had +specially held aloof from her. No, no! It was no use dwelling upon it. +He would not forgive. That chapter in her life was closed. To attempt to +open it again would be to court defeat. + +Joyce, however, had not been the only one to whom last night had been a +disappointment. Beauclerk's determination to propose to her--to put his +fortune to the touch and to gain hers--failed. Either the fates were +against him, or else she herself was in a willful mood. She had refused +to leave the dancing room with him on any pretext whatever, unless to +gain the coolness of the crowded hall outside, or the still more +inhabited supper room. + +He was not dismayed, however, and there was no need to do things +precipitately. There was plenty of time. There could be no doubt about +the fact that she preferred him to any of the other men of her +acquaintance; he had discovered that she had refused Dysart not only +once, but twice. This he had drawn out of Isabel by a mild and +apparently meaningless but nevertheless incessant and abstruse +cross-examination. Naturally! He could see at once the reason for that. +No girl who had been once honored by his attentions could possibly give +her heart to another. No girl ever yet refused an honest offer unless +her mind was filled with the image of another fellow. Mr. Beauclerk +found no difficulty about placing "the other fellow" in this case. +Norman Beauclerk was his name! What woman in her senses would prefer +that tiresome Dysart with his "downright honesty" business so gloomily +developed, to him, Beauclerk? Answer? Not one. + +Well, she shall be rewarded now, dear little girl! He will make her +happy for life by laying his name and prospective fortune at her feet. +To-day he will end his happy bachelor state and sacrifice himself on the +altar of love. + +Thus resolved, he walks up through the lands of the Court, through the +valley filled with opening fronds of ferns, and through the spinney +beyond that again, until he comes to where the Monktons live. The house +seems very silent. Knocking at the door, the maid comes to tell him that +Mr. and Mrs. Monkton and the children are out, but that Miss Kavanagh is +within. + +Happy circumstance! Surely the fates favor him. They always have, by the +by--sure sign that he is deserving of good luck. + +Thanks. Miss Kavanagh, then. His compliments, and hopes that she is not +too fatigued to receive him. + +The maid, having shown him into the drawing-room, retires with the +message, and presently the sound of little high-heeled shoes crossing +the hall tells him that Joyce is approaching. His heart beats high--not +immoderately high. To be uncertain is to be none the less unnerved--but +there is no uncertainty about his wooing. Still it pleases him to know +that in spite of her fatigue she could not bring herself to deny herself +to him. + +"Ah! How good of you!" says he as she enters, meeting her with both +hands outstretched. "I feared the visit was too early! A very _betise_ +on my part--but you are the soul of kindness always." + +"Early!" says Joyce, with a little laugh. "Why you might have found me +chasing the children round the garden three hours ago. Providentially," +giving him one hand, the ordinary one, and ignoring his other, "their +father and mother were bound to go to Tisdown this morning or I should +have been dead long before this." + +"Ah!" says Beauclerk. And then with increasing tenderness. "So glad they +were removed; it would have been too much for you, wouldn't it?" + +"Yes--I dare say--on the whole, I believe I don't mind them," says Miss +Kavanagh. "Well--and what about last night? It was delightful, wasn't +it?" Secretly she sighs heavily, as she makes this most untruthful +assertion. + +"Ah! Was it?" asks he. "I did not find it so. How could I when you were +so unkind to me?" + +"I! Oh, no. Oh, surely not!" says she anxiously. There is no touch of +the coquetry that might be about this answer had it been given to a man +better liked. A slow soft color has crept into her cheeks, born of the +knowledge that she had got out of several dances with him. But he, +seeing it, gives it another, a more flattering meaning to his own self +love. + +"Can you deny it?" asks he, changing his seat so as to get nearer to +her. "Joyce!" He leans toward her. "May I speak at last? Last night I +was foiled in my purpose. It is difficult to say all that is in one's +heart at a public affair of that kind, but now--now----" + +Miss Kavanagh has sprung to her feet. + +"No! Don't, don't!" she says earnestly. "I tell you--I beg you--I warn +you----" She pauses, as if not knowing what else to say, and raises her +pretty hands as if to enforce her words. + +"Shy, delightfully shy!" says Beauclerk to himself. He goes quickly up +to her with all the noble air of the conqueror, and seizing one of her +trembling hands holds it in his own. + +"Hear me!" he says with an amused toleration for her girlish _mauvaise +honte_. "It is only such a little thing I have to say to you, but yet it +means a great deal to me--and to you, I hope. I love you, Joyce. I have +come here to-day to ask you to be my wife." + +"I told you not to speak," says she. She has grown very white now. "I +warned you! It is no use--no use, indeed." + +"I have startled you," says Beauclerk, still disbelieving, yet somehow +loosening the clasp on her hand. "You did not expect, perhaps, that I +should have spoken to-day, and yet----" + +"No. It was not that," says Miss Kavanagh, slowly. "I knew you would +speak--I thought last night would have been the time, but I managed to +avoid it then, and now----" + +"Well?" + +"I thought it better to get it over," says she, gently. She stops as if +struck by something, and heavy tears rush to her eyes. Ah! she had told +another very much the same as that. But she had not meant it then--and +yet had been believed--and now, when she does mean it, she is not +believed. Oh! if the cases might be reversed! + +Beauclerk, however, mistakes the cause of the tears. + +"It--get what over?" demands he, smiling. + +"This misunderstanding." + +"Ah, yes--that! I am afraid,"--he leans more closely toward her,--"I +have often been afraid that you have not quite read me as I ought to be +read." + +"Oh, I have read you," says she, with a little gesture of her head, half +confused, half mournful. + +"But not rightly, perhaps. There have been moments when I fear you may +have misjudged me----" + +"Not one," says she quickly. "Mr. Beauclerk, if I might implore you not +to say another word----" + +"Only one more," pleads he, coming up smiling as usual. "Just one, +Joyce--let me say my last word; it may make all the difference in the +world between you and me now. I love you--nay, hear me!" + +She has risen, and he, rising too, takes possession of both her hands. +"I have come here to-day to ask you to be my wife; you know that +already--but you do not know how I have worshiped you all these dreary +months, and how I have kept silent--for your sake." + +"And for 'my sake' why do you speak now?" asks she. She has withdrawn +her hands from his. "What have you to offer me now that you had not a +year ago?" + +After all, it is a great thing to be an accomplished liar. It sticks to +Beauclerk now. + +"Why! Haven't you heard?" asks he, lifting astonished brows. + +"I have heard nothing!" + +"Not of my coming appointment? At least"--modestly--"of my chance of +it?" + +"No. Nothing, nothing. And even if I had, it would make no difference. I +beg you to understand once for all, Mr. Beauclerk, that I cannot listen +to you." + +"Not now, perhaps. I have been very sudden----" + +"No, never, never." + +"Are you telling me that you refuse me?" asks he, looking at her with a +rather strange expression in his eyes. + +"I am sorry you put it that way," returns she, faintly. + +"I don't believe you know what you are doing," cries he, losing his +self-control for once in his life. "You will regret this. For a moment +of spite, of ill-temper, you----" + +"Why should I be ill-tempered about anything that concerns you and me?" +says she, very gently still. She has grown even whiter, however, and has +lifted her head so that her large eyes are directed straight to his. +Something in the calm severity of her look chills him. + +"Ah! you know best!" says he, viciously. The game is up--is thoroughly +played out. This he acknowledges to himself, and the knowledge does not +help to sweeten his temper. It helps him, however, to direct a last +shaft at her. Taking up his hat, he makes a movement to depart, and then +looks back at her. His overweening vanity is still alive. + +"When you do regret it," says he--"and I believe that will be soon--it +will be too late. You had the goodness to give me a warning a few +minutes ago--I give you one now." + +"I shall not regret it," says she, coolly. + +"Not even when Dysart has sailed for India, and then 'the girl he left +behind him' is disconsolate?" asks he, with an insolent laugh. "Ha! that +touches you!" + +It had touched her. She looks like a living thing stricken suddenly into +marble, as she stands gazing back at him, with her hands tightly +clenched before her. India! To India! And she had never heard. + +Extreme anger, however, fights with her grief, and, overcoming it, +enables her to answer her adversary. + +"I think you, too, will feel regret," says she, gravely, "when you look +back upon your conduct to me to-day." + +There is such gentleness, such dignity, in her rebuke, and her beautiful +face is so full of a mute reproach, that all the good there is in +Beauclerk rises to the surface. He flings his hat upon a table near, and +himself at her feet. + +"Forgive me!" cries he, in a stifled tone. "Have mercy on me, Joyce!--I +love you--I swear it! Do not cast me adrift! All I have said or done I +regret now! You said I should regret, and I do." + +Something in his abasement disgusts the girl, instead of creating pity +in her breast. She shakes herself free of him by a sharp and horrified +movement. + +"You must go home," she says calmly, yet with a frowning brow, "and you +must not come here again. I told, you it was all useless, but you would +not listen. No, no; not a word!" He has risen to his feet, and would +have advanced toward her, but she waves him from her with a sort of +troubled hatred in her face. + +"You mean----" begins he, hoarsely. + +"One thing--one thing only," feverishly--"that I hope I shall never see +you again!" + + + + +CHAPTER XLVIII. + + "When a man hath once forfeited the reputation of his sincerity he + is set fast, and nothing will then serve his turn, neither truth + nor falsehood." + + +When he is gone Joyce draws a deep breath. For a moment it seems to her +that it is all over--a disagreeable task performed, and then suddenly a +reaction sets in. The scene gone through has tried her more than she +knows, and without warning now she finds she is crying bitterly. + +How horrible it all had been. How detestable he had looked--not so much +when offering her his hand (as for his heart--pah!) as when he had given +way to his weak exhibition of feeling and had knelt at her feet, +throwing himself on her mercy. She placed her hands over her eyes when +she thought of that. Oh! she wished he hadn't done it! + +She is still crying softly--not now for Beauclerk's behavior, but for +certain past beliefs--when a knock at the door warns her that another +visitor is coming. She has not had time or sufficient presence of mind +to tell a servant that she is not at home, when Miss Maliphant is +ushered in by the parlor maid. + +"I thought I'd come down and have a chat with you about last night," she +begins in her usual loud tones, and with an assumption of easiness that +is belied by the keen and searching glance she directs at Joyce. + +"I'm so glad," says Joyce, telling her little lie as bravely as she can, +while trying to conceal her red eyelids from Miss Maliphant's astute +gaze by pretending to rearrange a cushion that has fallen from one of +the lounges. + +"Are you?" says her visitor, drily. "Seems to me I've come at the wrong +moment. Shall I go away?" + +"Go! No," says Joyce, reddening, and frowning a little. "Why should +you?" + +"Well, you've been crying," says Miss Maliphant, in her terribly +downright way. "I hate people when I've been crying; but then it makes +me a fright, and it only makes you a little less pretty. I suppose I +mustn't ask what it is all about?" + +"If you did I don't believe I could tell you," says Joyce, laughing +rather unsteadily. "I was merely thinking, and it is the simplest thing +in the world to feel silly now and then." + +"Thinking? Of Mr. Beauclerk?" asks Miss Maliphant, promptly, and without +the slightest idea of hesitation. "I saw him leaving this as I came by +the upper road! Was it he who made you cry?" + +"Certainly not," says Joyce, indignantly. + +"It looks like it, however," says the other, her masculine voice growing +even sterner. "What was he saying to you?" + +"I really do think----" Joyce is beginning, coldly, when Miss Maliphant +stops her by an imperative gesture. + +"Oh, I know. I know all about that," says she, contemptuously. "One +shouldn't ask questions about other people's affairs; I've learned my +manners, though I seldom make any use of my knowledge, I admit. After +all, I see no reason why I shouldn't ask you that question. I want to +know, and there is no one to tell me but you. Was he proposing to you, +eh?" + +"Why should you think that?" says Joyce, subdued by the masterful manner +of the other, and by something honest and above board about her that is +her chief characteristic. There is no suspicion, either, about her of +her questions being prompted by mere idle curiosity. She has said she +wanted to know, and there was meaning in her tone. + +"Why shouldn't I?" says she now. "He came down here early this +afternoon. He goes away in haste--and I find you in tears. Everything +points one way." + +"I don't see why it should point in that direction." + +"Come, be open with me," says the heiress, brusquely, in an abrupt +fashion that still fails to offend. "Did he propose to you?" + +Joyce hesitates. She raises her head and looks at Miss Maliphant +earnestly. What a good face she has, if plain. Too good to be made +unhappy. After all, why not tell her the truth? It would be a warning. +It was impossible to be blind to the fact that Miss Maliphant had been +glad to receive the dishonest attentions paid to her every now and then +by Beauclerk. Those attentions would probably be increased now, and +would end but one way. He would get Miss Maliphant's money, and +she--that good, kind-hearted girl--what would she get? It seems cruel to +be silent, and yet to speak is difficult. Would it be fair or honorable +to divulge his secret? + +Would it be fair or honorable to let her imagine what is not true? He +had been false to her--Joyce (she could not blind herself to the +knowledge that with all his affected desire for her he would never have +made her an offer of his hand but for her having come in for that +money)--he would therefore be false to Miss Maliphant; he would marry +her undoubtedly, but as a husband he would break her heart. Is she, for +the sake of a word or two, to see her fall a prey to a mere passionless +fortune-hunter? A thousand times no! Better inflict a little pain now +rather than let this girl endure endless pain in the future. + +With a shrinking at her heart, born of the fear that the word will be +very bitter to her guest, she says, "Yes;" very distinctly. + +"Ha!" says Miss Maliphant, and that is all. Joyce, regarding her +anxiously, is as relieved as astonished to see no trace of grief or +chagrin upon her face. There is no change at all, indeed, except she +looks deeply reflective. Her mind seems to be traveling backward, +picking up loose threads of memory, no doubt, and joining them together. +A sense of intense comfort fills Joyce's soul. After all; the wound had +not gone deep; she had been right to speak. + +"He is not worth thinking about," says she, tremulously, _apropos_ of +nothing, as it seems. + +"No?" says Miss Maliphant; "then what were you crying about?" + +"I hardly know. I felt nervous--and once I did like him--not very +much--but still I liked him--and he was a disappointment." + +"Tell you what," says Miss Maliphant, "you've hit upon a big truth. He +is not worth thinking about. Once, perhaps, I, too, liked him, and I was +an idiot for my pains; but I shan't like him again in a hurry. I expect +I've got to let him know that, one way or another. And as for you----" + +"I tell you I never liked him much," says Joyce, with a touch of +displeasure. "He was handsome, suave, agreeable--but----" + +"He was, and is, a hypocrite!" interrupts Miss Maliphant, with truly +beautiful conciseness. She has never learned to mince matters. "And, +when all is told, perhaps nothing better than a fool! You are well out +of it, in my opinion." + +"I don't think I had much to do with it," says Joyce, unable to refrain +from a smile. "I fancy my poor uncle was responsible for the honor done +me to-day." Then a sort of vague feeling that she is being ungenerous +distresses her. "Perhaps, after all, I misjudge him too far," she says. + +"Could you?" with a bitter little laugh. + +"I don't know," doubtfully. "One often forms an opinion of a person, +and, though the groundwork of it may be just, still one is too inclined +to build upon it and to rear stories upon it that get a little beyond +the actual truth when the structure is completed." + +"Oh! I think it is he who tells all the stories," said Miss Maliphant, +who is singularly dull in little unnecessary ways, and has failed to +follow Joyce in her upstairs flight. "In my opinion he's a liar; I was +going to say '_pur et simple_,' but he is neither pure nor simple." + +"A liar!" says Joyce, as if shocked. Some old thought recurs to her. She +turns quickly to Miss Maliphant. The thought grows into words almost +before she is aware of it. "Have you a cousin in India?" asks she. + +"In India?" Miss Maliphant regards her with some surprise. Why this +sudden absurd question in an interesting conversation about that +"Judas"? I regret to say this is what Miss Maliphant has now decided +upon naming Mr. Beauclerk when talking to herself. + +"Yes, India." + +"Not one. Plenty in Manchester and Birmingham, but not one in India." + +Joyce leans back in her chair, and a strange laugh breaks from her. She +gets up suddenly and goes to the other and leans over her, as though the +better to see her. + +"Oh, think--think," says she. "Not a cousin you loved? Dearly loved? A +cousin for whom you were breaking your heart, who was not as steady as +he ought to be, but who----" + +"You must be going out of your mind," says Miss Maliphant, drawing back +from her. "If you saw my Birmingham cousins, or even the Manchester +ones, you wouldn't ask that question twice. They think of nothing but +money, money, money, from morning till night, and are essentially +shoppy. I don't mind saying it, you know. It is as good to give up, and +acknowledge things--and certainly they----" + +"Never mind them. It is the Indian cousin in whom I am interested," says +Joyce, impatiently. "You are sure, sure that you haven't one out there? +One whom Mr. Beauclerk knew about? And who was in love with you, and you +with him. The cousin he told me of----" + +"Mr. Beauclerk?" + +"Yes--yes. The night of the ball at the Court, last autumn. I saw you +with Mr. Beauclerk in the garden then, and he told me afterward you had +been confiding in him about your cousin. The one in India. That you were +going to be married to him. Oh! there must be truth--some truth in it. +Do try to think!" + +"If," says Miss Maliphant, slowly, "I were to think until I was black in +the face, as black as any Indian of 'em all, I couldn't even by so +severe a process conjure up a cousin in Hindostan! And so he told you +that?" + +"Yes," says Joyce faintly. She feels almost physically ill. + +"He's positively unique," says Miss Maliphant, after a slight pause. "I +told you just now that he was a liar, but I didn't throw sufficient +enthusiasm into the assertion. He is a liar of distinction very far +above his fellows! I suppose it would be superfluous now to ask if that +night you speak of you were engaged to Mr. Dysart?" + +"Oh, no," says Joyce quickly, as if struck. "There never has been, there +never will be aught of that sort between me and Mr. Dysart Surely--Mr. +Beauclerk did not----" + +"Oh, yes, he did. He assured me--not in so many words (let me be +perfectly just to him)--but he positively gave me to understand that you +were going to marry Felix Dysart. There! Don't mind that," seeing the +girl's pained face. "He was bound to say something, you know. Though it +must be confessed the Indian cousin story was the more ingenious. Why +didn't you tell me of that before?" + +"Because he told it to me in the strictest confidence." + +"Of course. Bound you on your honor not to speak of it, lest my feelings +should be hurt. Really, do you know, I think he was almost clever enough +to make one sorry he didn't succeed. Well, good-by." She rises abruptly, +and, taking Joyce's hand, looks at her for a moment. "Felix Dysart has a +good heart," says she, suddenly. As suddenly she kisses Joyce, and, +crossing the room with a quick stride, leaves it. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIX. + + "Shall we not laugh, shall we not weep?" + + +It is quite four o'clock, and therefore two hours later. Barbara has +returned, and has learned the secret of Joyce's pale looks and sad eyes, +and is now standing on the hearthrug looking as one might who has been +suddenly wakened from a dream that had seemed only too real. + +"And you mean to say--you really mean, Joyce, that you refused him?" + +"Yes. I actually had that much common-sense," with a laugh that has +something of bitterness in it. + +"But I thought--I was sure----" + +"I know you thought he was my ideal of all things admirable. And you +thought wrong." + +"But if not he----" + +"Barbara!" says Joyce sharply. "Was it not enough that you should have +made one mistake? Must you insist on making another?" + +"Well, never mind," says Mrs. Monkton hastily. "I'm glad I made that +one, at all events; and I'm only sorry you have felt it your duty to +make your pretty eyes wet about it Good gracious!" looking put of the +window, "who is coming now? Dicky Browne and Mr. Courtenay and those +detestable Blakes. Tommy," turning sharply to her first-born. "If you +and Mabel stay here you must be good. Do you hear now, good! You are not +to ask a single question or touch a thing in the room, and you are to +keep Mabel quiet. I am not going to have Mrs. Blake go home and say you +are the worst behaved children she ever met in her life. You will stay, +Joyce?" anxiously to her sister. + +"Oh, I suppose so. I couldn't leave you to endure their tender mercies +alone." + +"That's a darling girl! You know I never can get on with that odious +woman. Ah! how d'ye do, Mrs. Blake? How sweet of you to come after last +night's fatigue." + +"Well, I think a drive a capital thing after being up all night," says +the new-comer, a fat, little, ill-natured woman, nestling herself into +the cosiest chair in the room. "I hadn't quite meant to come here, but I +met Mr. Browne and Mr. Courtenay, so I thought we might as well join +forces, and storm you in good earnest. Mr. Browne has just been telling +me that Lady Swansdown left the Court this morning. Got a telegram, she +said, summoning her to Gloucestershire. Never do believe in these sudden +telegrams myself. Stayed rather long in that anteroom with Lord +Baltimore last night." + +"Didn't know she had been in any anteroom," says Mrs. Monkton, coldly. +"I daresay her mother-in-law is ill again. She has always been attentive +to her." + +"Not on terms with her son, you know; so Lady Swansdown hopes, by the +attention you speak of, to come in for the old lady's private fortune. +Very considerable fortune, I've heard." + +"Who told you?" asks Mr. Browne, with a cruelly lively curiosity. "Lady +Swansdown?" + +"Oh, dear no!" + +Pause! Dicky still looking expectant and Mrs. Blake uncomfortable. She +is racking her brain to try and find some person who might have told +her, but her brain fails her. + +The pause threatens to be ghastly, when Tommy comes to the rescue. + +He had been told off as we know to keep Mabel in a proper frame of mind, +but being in a militant mood has resented the task appointed him. He has +indeed so far given in to the powers that be that he has consented to +accept a picture book, and to show it to Mabel, who is looking at it +with him, lost in admiration of his remarkable powers of description. +Each picture indeed, is graphically explained by Tommy at the top of his +lungs, and in extreme bad humor. + +He is lying on the rug, on his fat stomach, and is becoming quite a +martinet. + +"Look at this!" he is saying now. "Look! do you hear, or I won't stay +and keep you good any longer. Here's a picture about a boat that's going +to be drowned down in the sea in one minnit. The name on it is"--reading +laboriously--"'All hands to the pump.' And" with considerable vicious +enjoyment--"it isn't a bit of good for them, either. Here"--pointing to +the picture again with a stout forefinger--"here they're 'all-handsing' +at the pump. See?" + +"No, I don't, and I don't want to," says Mabel, whimpering and hiding +her eyes. "Oh, I don't like it; it's a horrid picture! What's that man +doing there in the corner?" peeping through her fingers at a dead man in +the foreground. "He is dead! I know he is!" + +"Of course he is," says Tommy. "And"--valiantly--"I don't care a bit, I +don't." + +"Oh, but I do," says Mabel. "And there's a lot of water, isn't there?" + +"There always is in the sea," says Tommy. + +"They'll all be drowned, I know they will," says Mabel, pushing away the +book. "Oh, I hate 'handsing'; turn over, Tommy, do! It's a nasty cruel, +wicked picture!" + +"Tommy, don't frighten Mabel," says his mother anxiously. + +"I'm not frightening her. I'm only keeping her quiet," says Tommy +defiantly. + +"Hah-hah!" says Mr. Courtenay vacuously. + +"How wonderfully unpleasant children can make themselves," says Mrs. +Blake, making herself 'wonderfully unpleasant' on the spot. "Your little +boy so reminds me of my Reginald. He pulls his sister's hair merely for +the fun of hearing her squeal!" + +"Tommy does not pull Mabel's hair," says Barbara a little stiffly. +"Tommy, come here to Mr. Browne; he wants to speak to you." + +"I want to know if you would like a cat?" says Mr. Browne, drawing Tommy +to him. + +"I don't want a cat like our cat," says Tommy, promptly. "Ours is so +small, and her tail is too thin. Lady Baltimore has a nice cat, with a +tail like mamma's furry for her neck." + +"Well, that's the very sort of a cat I can get you if you wish." + +"But is the cat as big as her tail?" asks Tommy, still careful not to +commit himself. + +"Well, perhaps not quite," says Mr. Browne gravely. "Must it be quite as +big?" + +"I hate small cats," says Tommy. "I want a big one! I want--" pausing to +find a suitable simile, and happily remembering the kennel outside--"a +regular setter of a cat!" + +"Ah," says Mr. Browne, "I expect I shall have to telegraph to India for +a tiger for you." + +"A real live tiger?" asks Tommy, with distended eyes and a flutter of +wild joy at his heart, the keener that some fear is mingled with it. "A +tiger that eats people up?" + +"A man-eater," says Mr. Browne, solemnly. "It would be the nearest +approach I know to the animal you have described. As you won't have the +cat that Lady Baltimore will give you, you must only try to put up with +mine." + +"Poor Lady Baltimore!" lisps Mrs. Blake. "What a great deal she has to +endure." + +"Oh, she's all right to-day," returns Mr. Browne, cheerfully. "Toothache +any amount better this morning." + +Mrs. Blake laughs in a little mincing way. + +"How droll you are," says she. "Ah! if it were only toothache that was +the matter But--" silence very effective, and a profound sigh. + +"Toothache's good enough for me," says Dicky. "I should never dream of +asking for more." He glances here at Joyce, and continues sotto voce, +"You look as if you had it." + +"No," returns she innocently. "Mine is neuralgia. A rather worse thing, +after all." + +"Yes. You can get the tooth out," says he. + +"Have you heard," asks Mrs. Blake, "that Mr. Beauclerk is going to marry +that hideous Miss Maliphant. Horrid Manchester person, don't you know! +Can't think what Lady Baltimore sees in her"--with a giggle--"her want +of beauty. Got rather too much of pretty women I should say." + +"I'm really afraid," says Dicky, "that somebody has been hoaxing you +this time, Mrs. Blake;" genially. "I happen to know for a fact that Miss +Maliphant is not going to marry Beauclerk." + +"Indeed!" snappishly. "Ah, well really he is to be congratulated, I +think. Perhaps," with a sharp glance at Joyce, "I mistook the name of +the young lady; I certainly heard he was going to be married." + +"So am I,"' says Mr. Browne, "some time or other; we are all going to +get married one day or another. One day, indeed, is as good as another. +You have set us such a capital example that we're safe to follow it." + +Mr. and Mrs. Blake being a notoriously unhappy couple, the latter grows +rather red here; and Joyce gives Dicky a reproachful glance, which he +returns with one of the wildest bewilderment. What can she mean? + +"Mr. Dysart will be a distinct loss when he goes to India," continues +Mrs. Blake quickly. "Won't be back for years, I hear, and leaving so +soon, too. A disappointment, I'm told! Some obdurate fair one! Sort of +chest affection, don't you know, ha-ha! India's place for that sort of +thing. Knock it out of him in no time. Thought he looked rather down in +the mouth last night. Not up to much lately, it has struck me. Seen much +of him this time, Miss Kavanagh?" + +"Yes. A good deal," says Joyce, who has, however, paled perceptibly. + +"Thought him rather gone to seed, eh? Rather the worse for wear." + +"I think him always very agreeable," says Joyce, icily. + +A second most uncomfortable silence ensues. Barbara tries to get up a +conversation with Mr. Courtenay, but that person, never brilliant at any +time, seems now stricken with dumbness. Into this awkward abyss Mabel +plunges this time. Evidently she has been dwelling secretly on Tommy's +comments on their own cat, and is therefore full of thought about that +interesting animal. + +"Our cat is going to have chickens!" says she, with all the air of one +who is imparting exciting intelligence. + +This astounding piece of natural history is received with varied +emotions by the listeners. Mr. Browne, however, is unfeignedly charmed +with it, and grows as enthusiastic about it as even Mabel can desire. + +"You don't say so! When? Where?" demands he with breathless eagerness. + +"Don't know," says Mabel seriously. "Last time 'twas in nurse's best +bonnet; but," raising her sweet face to his, "she says she'll be blowed +if she has them there this time!" + +"Mabel!" cries her mother, crimson with mortification. + +"Yes?" asked Mabel, sweetly. + +But it is too much for every one. Even Mrs. Blake gives way for once to +honest mirth, and under cover of the laughter rises and takes her +departure, rather glad of the excuse to get away. She carries off Mr. +Courtenay. + +Dicky having lingered a little while to see that Mabel isn't scolded, +goes too; and Barbara, with a sense of relief, turns to Joyce. + +"You look so awful tired," says she. "Why don't you go and lie down?" + +"I thought, on the contrary, I should like to go out for a walk," says +Joyce indifferently. "I confess my head is aching horribly. And that +woman only made me worse." + +"What a woman! I wonder she told so many lies. I wonder if----" + +"If Mr. Dysart is going to India," supplies Joyce calmly. "Very likely. +Why not. Most men in the army go to India." + +"True," say Mrs. Monkton with a sigh. Then in a low tone: "I shall be +sorry for him." + +"Why? If he goes"--coldly--"it is by his own desire. I see nothing to be +sorry about." + +"Oh, I do," says Barbara. And then, "Well, go out, dearest. The air will +do you good." + + + + +CHAPTER L. + + "'Tis with our judgment as our watches, none + Go just alike, yet each believes his own." + + +Lord Baltimore had not spoken in a mere fit or pique when he told Lady +Swansdown of his fixed intention of putting a term to his present life. +His last interview with his wife had quite decided him to throw up +everything and seek forgetfulness in travel. Inclination had pointed +toward such countries as Africa, or the northern parts of America, as, +being a keen sportsman, he believed there he might find an occupation +that would distract his mind from the thoughts that now jarred upon him +incessantly. + +His asking Lady Swansdown to accompany him therefore had been a sudden +determination. To go on a lengthened shooting expedition by one's self +is one thing, to go with a woman delicately nurtured is another. Of +course, had she agreed to his proposal, all his plans must necessarily +have been altered, and perhaps his second feeling, after her refusal to +go with him, was one of unmistakable relief. His proposal to her at +least had been born of pique! + +The next morning found him, however, still strong in his desire for +change. The desire was even so far stronger that he now burned to put it +into execution; to get away to some fresh sphere of action, and +deliberately set himself to obliterate from his memory all past ties and +recollections. + +There was, too, perhaps a touch of revenge that bordered upon pleasure +as he thought of what his wife would say when she heard of his decision. +She who shrank so delicately from gossip of all kinds could not fail to +be distressed by news that must inevitably leave her and her private +affairs open to public criticism. Though everybody was perpetually +guessing about her domestic relations with her husband, no one as a +matter of fact knew (except, indeed, two) quite the real truth about +them. This would effectually open the eyes of society, and proclaim to +everybody that, though she had refused to demand a separation, still she +had been obliged to accept it. This would touch her. If in no other way +could he get at her proud spirit, here now he would triumph. She had +been anxious to get rid of him in a respectable way, of course, but +death as usual had declined to step in when most wanted, and now, well! +She must accept her release, in however disreputable a guise it comes. + +It is just at the moment when Mrs. Blake is holding forth on Lady +Baltimore's affairs to Mrs. Monkton that Baltimore enters the smaller +drawing-room, where he knows he will be sure to meet his wife at this +hour. + +It is far in the afternoon, still the spring sunshine is streaming +through the windows. Lady Baltimore, in a heavy tea gown of pale green +plush, is sitting by the fire reading a book, her little son upon the +hearth rug beside her. The place is strewn with bricks, and the boy, as +his father enters, looks up at him and calls to him eagerly to come and +help him. At the sound of the child's quick, glad voice a pang contracts +Baltimore's heart. The child----He had forgotten him. + +"I can't make this castle," says Bertie, "and mother isn't a bit of +good. Hers always fall down; come you and make me one." + +"Not now," says Baltimore. "Not to-day. Run away to your nurse. I want +to speak to your mother." + +There is something abrupt and jerky in his manner--something strained, +and with sufficient temper in it to make the child cease from entreaty. +The very pain Baltimore, is feeling has made his manner harsher to the +child. Yet, as the latter passes him obediently, he seizes the small +figure in his arms and presses him convulsively to his breast. Then, +putting him down, he points silently but peremptorily to the door. + +"Well?" says Lady Baltimore. She has risen, startled by his abrupt +entrance, his tone, and more than all, by that last brief but passionate +burst of affection toward the child. "You, wish to speak to me--again?" + +"There won't be many more opportunities," says he, grimly. "You may +safely give me a few moments to-day. I bring you good news. I am going +abroad. At once. Forever." + +In spite of the self-control she has taught herself, Lady Baltimore's +self-possession gives way. Her brain seems to reel. Instinctively she +grasps hold of the back of a tall _prie-dieu_ next to her. + +"Hah! I thought so--I have touched her at last, through her pride," +thinks Baltimore, watching her with a savage satisfaction, which, +however, hurts him horribly. And after all he was wrong, too. He had +touched her, indeed; but it was her heart, not her pride, he had +wounded. + +"Abroad?" echoes she, faintly. + +"Yes; why not? I am sick of this sort of life. I have decided on +flinging it up." + +"Since when have you come to this decision?" asks she presently, having +conquered her sudden weakness by a supreme effort. + +"If you want day and date I'm afraid I shan't be able to supply you. It +has been growing upon me for some time--the idea of it, I mean--and last +night you brought it to perfection." + +"I?" + +"Have you already forgotten all the complimentary speeches you made me? +They"--with a sardonic smile--"are so sweet to me that I shall keep them +ripe in my memory until death overtakes me--and after it, I think! You +told me, among many other wifely things--if my mind does not deceive +me--that you wished me well out of your life, and Lady Swansdown with +me." + +"That is a direct and most malicious misapplication of my words," says +she, emphatically. + +"Is it? I confess that was my reading of them. I accepted that version, +and thinking to do you a good turn, and relieve you of both your _betes +noire_ at once, I proposed to Lady Swansdown last night that she should +accompany me upon my endless travels." + +There is a long, long pause, during which Lady Baltimore's face seems to +have grown into marble. She takes a step forward now. Through the stern +pallor of her skin her large eyes seem to gleam like fire. + +"How dare you!" she says in a voice very low but so intense that it +rings through the room. "How dare you tell me of this! Are you lost to +all shame? You and she to go--to go away together! It is only what I +have been anticipating for months. I could see how it was with you. But +that you should have the insolence to stand before me--" she grows +almost magnificent in her wrath--"and declare your infamy aloud! Such a +thought was beyond me. There was a time when I would have thought it +beyond you!" + +"Was there?" says he. He laughs aloud. + +"There, there, there!" says she, with a rather wild sort of sigh. "Why +should I waste a single emotion upon you. Let me take you calmly, +casually. Come--come now." It is the saddest thing in the world to see +how she treads down the passionate, most natural uprisings within her +against the injustice of life: "Make me at least _au courant_ with your +movements, you and she will go--where?" + +"To the devil, you thought, didn't you?" says he. "Well, you will be +disappointed as far as she is concerned. I maybe going. It appears she +doesn't think it worth while to accompany me there or anywhere else." + +"You mean that she refused to go with you?" + +"In the very baldest language, I assure you. It left nothing to be +desired, believe me, in the matter of lucidity. 'No,' she would not go +with me. You see there is not only one, but two women in the world who +regard me as being utterly without charm." + +"I commiserate you!" says she, with a bitter sneer. "If, after all your +attention to her, your friend has proved faithless, I----" + +"Don't waste your pity," says he, interrupting her rather rudely. "On +the whole, the decision of my 'friend,' as you call her, was rather a +relief to me than otherwise. I felt it my duty to deprive you of her +society"--with an unpleasant laugh--"and so I asked her to come with me. +When she declined to accompany me she left me free to devote myself to +sport." + +"Ah! you refuse to be corrupted?" says she, contemptuously. + +"Think what you will," says he, restraining himself with determination. +"It doesn't matter in the least to me now. Your opinion I consider +worthless, because prejudiced--as worthless as you consider me. I came +here simply to tell you of my determination to go abroad." + +"You have told me of that already. Lady Swansdown having failed you, may +I ask"--with studied contempt--"who you are going to take with you now?" + +"What do you mean?" says he, wheeling round to her. "What do you mean by +that? By heavens!" laying his hands upon her shoulders, and looking with +fierce eyes into her pale face. "A man might well kill you!" + +"And why?" demands she, undauntedly. "You would have taken her--you have +confessed so much--you had the coarse courage to put it into words. If +not her, why"--with a shrug--"then another!" + +"There! think as you will," says he, releasing her roughly. "Nothing I +could say would convince or move you. And yet, I know it is no use, but +I am determined I will leave nothing unsaid. I will give you no +loop-hole. I asked her to go with me in a moment of irritation, of +loneliness, if you will; it is hard for a man to be forever outside the +pale of affection, and I thought--well, it is no matter what I thought. +I was wrong it seems. As for caring for her, I care so little that I now +feel actually glad she had the sense to refuse my senseless proposal. +She would have bored me, I think, and I should undoubtedly have bored +her. The proposition was made to her in a moment of folly." + +"Oh, folly?" says she with a curious laugh. + +"Well, give it any other name you like. And after all," in a low tone, +"you are right. It was not the word. If I had said despair I should have +been nearer the mark." + +"There might even be another word," said she slowly. + +"Even if there were," says he, "the occasion for it is of your making. +You have thrown me; you must be prepared, therefore, to accept the +consequences." + +"You have prepared me for anything," says she calmly, but with bitter +meaning. + +"See here," says he furiously. "There may still be one thing left for +you which I have not prepared. You have just asked me who I am going to +take with me when I leave this place forever. Shall I answer you?" + +Something in his manner terrifies her; she feels her face blanching. +Words are denied her, but she makes a faint movement to assent with her +hand. What is he going to say! + +"What if I should decide, then, on taking my son with me?" says he +violently. "Who is there to prevent me? Not you, or another. Thus I +could cut all ties and put you out of my life at once and forever!" + +He had certainly not calculated on the force of his words or his manner. +It had been a mere angry suggestion. There was no crudity in Baltimore's +nature. He had never once permitted himself to dwell upon the +possibility of separating the boy from his mother. Such terrible revenge +as that was beyond him, his whole nature would have revolted against it. +He had spoken with passion, urged by her contempt into a desire to show +her where his power lay, without any intention of actually using it. He +meant perhaps to weaken her intolerable defiance, and show her where a +hole in her armor lay. He was not prepared for the effect of his words. + +An ashen shade has overspread her face; her expression has become +ghostly. As though her limbs have suddenly given way under her, she +falls against the mantel-piece and clings to it with trembling fingers. +Her eyes, wild and anguished, seek his. + +"The child!" gasps she in a voice of mortal terror. "The child! Not the +child! Oh! Baltimore, you have taken all from me except that. Leave me +my child!" + +"Good heavens! Don't look at me like that," exclaims he, inexpressibly +shocked--this sudden and complete abandonment of herself to her fear has +horrified him. "I never meant it. I but suggested a possibility. The +child shall stay with you. Do you hear me, Isabel! The child is yours! +When I go, I go alone!" + +There is a moment's silence, and then she bursts into tears. It is a +sharp reaction, and it shakes her bodily and mentally. A wild return of +her love for him--that first, sweet, and only love of her life, returns +to her, born of intense gratitude. But sadly, slowly, it dies away +again. It seems to her too late to dream of that again. Yet perhaps her +tears have as much to do with that lost love as with her gratitude. + +Slowly her color returns. She checks her sobs. She raises her head and +looks at him still with her handkerchief pressed to her tremulous lips. + +"It is a promise," says she. + +"Yes. A promise." + +"You will not change again--" nervously. "You----" + +"Ah! doubt to the last," says he. "It is a promise from me to you, and +of course the word of such a reprobate as you consider me can scarcely +be of any avail." + +"But you could not break this promise?" says she in a low voice, and +with a long, long sigh. + +"What trust you place in me!" said he, with an open sneer--"Well, so be +it. I give you home and child. You give me----Not worth while going into +the magnificence of your gifts, is it?" + +"I gave you once a whole heart--an unbroken faith," says she. + +"And took them back again! Child's play!" says he. "Child's promises. +Well, if you will have it so, you have got a promise from me now, and I +think you might say 'thank you' for it as the children do." + +"I do thank you!" says she vehemently. "Does not my whole manner speak +for me?" Once again her eyes filled with tears. + +"So much love for the child," cries he in a stinging tone, "and not one +thought for the father. Truly your professions of love were light as +thistledown. There! you are not worth a thought yourself. Expend any +affection you have upon your son, and forget me as soon as ever you can. +It will not take you long, once I am out of your sight!" + +He strides towards the door, and then looks back at her. + +"You understand about my going?" he says; "that it is decided, I mean?" + +"As you will," says she, her glance on the ground. There is such a total +lack of emotion in her whole air that it might suggest itself to an +acute student of human nature that she is doing her very utmost to +suppress even the smallest sign of it. But, alas! Baltimore is not that +student. + +"Be just:" says he sternly. "It is as you will--not as I. It is you who +are driving me into exile." + +He has turned his back, and has his hand on the handle of the door in +the act of opening it. At this instant she makes a move toward him, +holding out her hands, but as suddenly suppresses herself. When he turns +again to say a last word she is standing where he last saw her, pale and +impassive as a statue. + +"There will be some matters to arrange," says he, "before my going. I +have telegraphed to Hansard" (his lawyer), "he will be down in the +morning. There will be a few papers for you to sign to-morrow----" + +"Papers?" + +"My will and your maintenance whilst I am away; and matters that will +concern the child's future." + +"His future. That means----" + +"That in all probability when I have started I shall never see his face +again--or yours." + +He opens the door abruptly, and is gone. + + + + +CHAPTER LI. + + "While bloomed the magic flowers we scarcely knew + The gold was there. But now their petals strew + Life's pathway." + "And yet the flowers were fair, + Fed by youth's dew and love's enchanted air." + + +The cool evening air breathing on Joyce's flushed cheeks calms her as +she sets out for the walk that Barbara had encouraged her to take. + +It is an evening of great beauty. Earth, sea, and sky seem blended in +one great soft mist, that rising from the ocean down below floats up to +heaven, its heart a pale, vague pink. + +The day is almost done, and already shadows are growing around trees and +corners. There is something mystical and strange in the deep murmurs +that come from the nestling woods, the sweet wild coo of the pigeons, +the chirping of innumerable songsters, and now and then the dull hooting +of some blinking owl. Through all, the sad tolling of a chapel bell +away, away in the distance, where the tiny village hangs over the brow +of the rocks that gird the sea. + + "While yet the woods were hardly more than brown, + Filled with the stillness of the dying day, + The folds and farms, and faint-green pastures lay, + And bells chimed softly from the gray-walled town; + The dark fields with the corn and poppies sown, + The dull, delicious, dreamy forest way, + The hope of April for the soul of May-- + On all of these night's wide, soft wings swept down." + +Well, it isn't night yet, however. She can see to tread her way along +the short young grasses down to a favorite nook of hers, where musical +sounds of running streams may be heard, and the rustling of growing +leaves make songs above one's head. Here and there she goes through +brambly ways, where amorous arms from blackberry bushes strive to catch +and hold her, and where star-eyed daisies and buttercups and delicate +faint-hearted primroses peep out to laugh at her discomfiture. + +But she escapes from all their snares and goes on her way, her heart so +full of troublous fancies that their many wiles gain from her not so +much as one passing thought. + +The pretty, lovely May is just bursting into bloom; its pink blossoms +here and its white blossoms there mingle gloriously, and the perfume of +it fills the silent air. + +Joyce picks a branch or two as she goes on her way, and thrusts them +into the bosom of her gown. + +And now she has reached the outskirts of the wood, where the river runs, +crossed by a rustic bridge, on which she has ever loved to rest and +dream, leaning rounded arms upon the wooden railings and seeing strange +but sweet things in the bright, hurrying water beneath her eyes. + +She has gained the bridge now, and leaning languidly upon its frail +ramparts lets her gaze wander a-field. The little stream, full of +conversation as ever, flows on unnoticed by her. Its charms seem dead. +That belonged to the old life--the life she will never know again. It +seems to her quite a long time since she felt young. And yet only a few +short months have flown since she was young as the best of them--when +even Tommy did not seem altogether despicable as a companion, and she +had often been guilty of finding pleasure in running a race with him, +and of covering him not only with confusion, but with armfuls of scented +hay, when at last she had gained the victory over him, and had turned +from the appointed goal to overwhelm the enemy with merry sarcasms. + +Oh, yes, that was all over. All done! An end must come to everything, +and to her light-heartedness an end had come very soon. Too soon, she +was inclined to believe, in an excess of self, until she remembered that +life was always to be taken seriously, and that she had deliberately +trifled with it, seeking only the very heart of it--the gaiety, the +carelessness, the ease. + +Well, her punishment has come! She has learned that life is a failure +after all. It takes some people a lifetime to discover that great fact; +it has taken her quite a short time. Nothing is of much consequence. And +yet---- + +She sighs and looks round her. Her eyes fall upon a distant bank of +cloud overhanging a pretty farmstead, and throwing into bold relief the +ricks of hay that stand at the western side of it. A huge, black crow +standing on the top of this is napping his wings and calling loudly to +his mate. Presently he spreads his wings, and, with a creaking of them +like the noise of a sail in a light wind, disappears over her head. She +has followed his movements with a sort of lazy curiosity, and now she +knows that he will return in an hour or so with thousands of his +brethren, darkening the heavens as they pass to their night lodgings in +the tall elm trees. + +It is good to be a bird. No care, no trouble. No pain! A short life and +a merry one. Better than a long life and a sorry one. Yes, the world is +all sorry. + +She turns her eyes impatiently away from the fast vanishing crow; and +now they fall upon a perfect wilderness of daffodils that are growing +upon the edge of the bank a little way down. How beautiful they are. +Their soft, delicate heads nod lazily this way and that way. They seem +the very embodiment of graceful drowsiness. Some lines lately read recur +to her, and awake within her memory; + + "I wandered lonely as a cloud, + That floats on high o'er vales and hills, + When all at once I saw a crowd, + A crowd of golden daffodils + Beside the lake, beneath the trees, + Fluttering and dancing in the breeze." + +They seem so full of lazy joy, or unutterable rapture, that they belie +her belief in the falseness of all things. There must surely be some +good in a world that grows such charming things--things almost sentient. +And the trees swaying about her head, and dropping their branches into +the stream, is there no delight to be got out of them? The tenderness of +this soft, sweet mood, in which perpetual twilight reigns, enters into +her, and soothes the sad demon that is torturing her breast. Tears rise +to her eyes; she leans still further over the parapet, and drawing the +pink and white hawthorn blossoms from her bosom, drops them one by one +into the hasty little river, and lets it bear them away upon its bosom +to tiny bays unknown. Tears follow them, falling from her drooping lids. +Can neither daffodils, nor birds, nor trees, give her some little of +their joy to chase the sorrow from her heart? + +Her soul seems to fling itself outward in an appeal to nature; and +nature, that kind mother of us all, responds to the unspoken cry. + +A step upon the bridge behind her! She starts into a more upright +position and looks round her without much interest. + +A dark figure is advancing toward her. Through the growing twilight it +seems abnormally large and black, and Joyce stares at it anxiously. Not +Freddy--not one of the laborers--they would be all clad in flannel +jackets of a light color. + +"Oh, is it you?" says Dysart, coming closer to her. He had, however, +known it was she from the first moment his eyes rested upon her. No +mist, no twilight could have deceived him, for-- + + Lovers' eyes are sharp to see + And lovers' ears in hearing." + +"Yes," says she, advancing a little toward him and giving him her hand. +A cold little hand, and reluctant. + +"I was coming down to Mrs. Monkton with a message--a letter--from Lady +Baltimore." + +"This is a very long way round from the Court, isn't it?" says she. + +"Yes. But I like this calm little corner. I have come often to it +lately." + +Miss Kavanagh lets her eyes wander to the stream down below. To this +little spot of all places! Her favorite nook! Had he hoped to meet her +there? Oh, no; impossible! And besides she had given it up for a long, +long time until this evening. It seems weeks to her now since last she +was here. + +"You will find Barbara at home," says she gently. + +"I don't suppose it is of very much consequence," says he, alluding to +the message. He is looking at her, though her averted face leaves him +little to study. + +"You are cold," says he abruptly. + +"Am I?" turning to him with a little smile. "I don't feel cold. I feel +dull, perhaps, but nothing else." + +And in truth if she had used the word "unhappy" instead of "dull" she +would have been nearer the mark. The coming of Dysart thus suddenly into +the midst of her mournful reverie has but served to accentuate the +reality of it. A terrible sense of loneliness is oppressing her. All +things have their place in this world, yet where is hers? Of what +account is she to anyone? Barbara loves, her; yes, but not so well as +Freddy and the children! Oh, to be first with someone! + + "I find no spring, while spring is well-nigh blown; + I find no nest, while nests are in the grove; + Woe's me for mine own heart that dwells alone-- + My heart that breaketh for a little love." + +Christina Rosetti's mournful words seem to suit her. Involuntarily she +lifts her heavy eyes, tired of the day's weeping, and looks at Dysart. + +"You have been crying," says he abruptly. + + + + +CHAPTER LII. + + "My love has sworn with sealing kiss + With me to live--to die; + I have at last my nameless bliss-- + As I love, loved am I." + + +There is a pause: it threatens to be an everlasting one, as Miss +Kavanagh plainly doesn't know what to say. He can see this; what he +cannot see is that she is afraid of her own voice. Those troublesome +tears that all day have been so close to her seem closer than ever now. + +"Beauclerk came down to see you to-day," says he presently. This remark +is so unexpected that it steadies her. + +"Yes," she says, calmly enough, but without raising the tell-tale eyes. + +"You expected him?" + +"No." Monosyllables alone seem possible to her. So great is her fear +that she will give way and finally disgrace herself, that she forgets to +resent the magisterial tone be has adopted. + +"He asked you to marry him, however?" There is something almost +threatening in his tone now, as if he is defying her to deny his +assertion. It overwhelms her. + +"Yes," she says again, and for the first time is struck by the wretched +meagreness of her replies. + +"Well?" says Dysart, roughly. But this time not even the desolate +monosyllable rewards the keenness of his examination. + +"Well?" says he again, going closer to her and resting his hand on the +wooden rail against which she, too, was leaning. He is So close to her +now that it is impossible to escape his scrutiny. "What am I to +understand by that? Tell me how you have decided." Getting no answer to +this either, he says, impatiently, "Tell me, Joyce." + +"I refused him," says she at last in a low tone, and in a dull sort of +way, as if the matter is one of indifference to her. + +"Ah!" He draws a long breath. "It is true?" he says, laying his hand on +hers as it lies on the top of the woodwork. + +"Quite true." + +"And yet--you have been crying?" + +"You can see that," says she, petulantly. "You have taken pains to see +and to tell me of it. Do you think it is a pleasant thing to be told? +Most people," glancing angrily toward him--"everyone, I think--makes it +a point now-a-days not to see when one has been making a fool of +oneself; but you seem to take a delight in torturing me." + +"Did it," says he bitterly, ignoring--perhaps not even hearing--her +outburst. "Did it cost you so much to refuse him?" + +"It cost me nothing!" with a sudden effort, and a flash from her +beautiful eyes. + +"Nothing?" + +"I have said so! Nothing at all. It was mere nervousness, and +because--it reminded me of other things." + +"Did he see you cry?" asks Dysart, tightening unconsciously his grasp +upon her hand. + +"No. He was gone a long time, quite a long time, before it occurred to +me that I should like to cry. I," with a frugal smile, "indulged myself +very freely then, as you have seen." + +Dysart draws a long breath of relief. It would have been intolerable to +him that Beauclerk should have known of her tears. He would not have +understood them. He would have taken possession of them, as it were. +They would have merely helped to pamper his self-conceit and smooth down +his ruffled pride. He would inevitably have placed such and such a +construction on them, one entirely to his own glorification. + +"I shall leave you now with a lighter heart," says Felix presently--"now +that I know you are not going to marry that fellow." + +"You are going, then?" says she, sharply, checking the monotonous little +tattoo she has been playing on the bridge rail, as though suddenly +smitten into stone. She had heard he was going, she had been told of it +by several people, but somehow she had never believed it. It had never, +come home to her until now. + +"Yes. We are under orders for India. We sail in about a month. I shall +have to leave here almost immediately." + +"So soon?" says she, vaguely. She has begun that absurd tattoo again, +but bridge, and restless little fingers, and sky and earth, and all +things seem blotted out. He is going, really going, and for ever! How +far is India away? + +"It is always rather hurried at last. For my part I am glad I am going." + +"Yes?" + +"Mrs. Monkton will--at least I am sure she will--let me have a line now +and then to let me know how you--how you are all getting on. I was going +to ask her about it this evening. You think she will be good enough?" + +"Barbara is always kind." + +"I suppose"--he hesitates, and then goes on with an effort--"I suppose +it would be too much to ask of you----" + +"What?" + +"That you would sometimes write me a letter--however short." + +"I am a bad correspondent," says she, feeling as if she were choking. + +"Ah! I see. I should not have asked, of course. Yes, you are right. It +was absurd my hoping for it." + +"When people choose to go away so far as that----" she is compelling +herself to speak, but her voice sounds to herself a long way off. + +"They must hope to be forgotten. 'Out of sight out of mind,' I know. It +is such an old proverb. Well----You are cold," says he suddenly, noting +the pallor of the girl's face. "Whatever you were before, you are +certainly chilled to the bone now. You look it. Come, this is no time of +year to be lingering out of doors without a coat or hat." + +"I have this shawl," says she, pointing to the soft white, fleecy thing +that covers her. + +"I distrust it. Come." + +"No," says she, faintly. "Go on; you give your message to Barbara. As +for me, I shall be happier here." + +"Where I am not," says he, with a bitter laugh. "I suppose I ought to be +accustomed to that thought now, but such is my conceit that it seems +ever a fresh shock to me. Well, for all that," persuadingly, "come in. +The evening is very cold. I shan't like to go away, leaving you behind +me suffering from a bad cough or something of that kind. We have been +friends, Joyce," with a rather sorry smile. "For the sake of the old +friendship, don't send me adrift with such an anxiety upon my mind." + +"Would you really care?" says she. + +"Ah! That is the humor of it," says he. "In spite of all I should still +really care. Come." He makes an effort to unclasp the small, pretty +fingers that are grasping the rails so rigidly. At first they seem to +resist his gentle pressure, and then they give way to him. She turns +suddenly. + +"Felix,"--her voice is somewhat strained, somewhat harsh, not at all her +own voice,--"do you still love me?" + +"You know that," returns he, sadly. If he has felt any surprise at the +question he has not shown it. + +"No, no," says she, feverishly. "That you like me, that you are fond of +me, perhaps, I can still believe. But is it the same with you that it +used to be? Do you," with a little sob, "love me as well now as in those +old days? Just the same! Not," going nearer to him, and laying her hand +upon his breast, and raising agonized eyes of inquiry to his--"not one +bit less?" + +"I love you a thousand times more," says he, very quietly, but with such +intensity that it enters into her very soul. "Why?" He has laid his own +hand over the small nervous one lying on his breast, and his face has +grown very white. + +"Because I love you too!" + +She stops short here, and begins to tremble violently. With a little +shamed, heartbroken gesture she tears her hand out of his and covers her +face from his sight. + +"Say that again!" says he, hoarsely. He waits a moment, but when no word +comes from her he deliberately drags away the sheltering hands and +compels her to look at him. + +"Say it!" says he, in a tone that is now almost a command. + +"Oh! it is true--true!" cries she, vehemently. "I love you; I have loved +you a long time, I think, but I didn't know it. Oh, Felix! Dear, dear +Felix, forgive me!" + +"Forgive you!" says he, brokenly. + +"Ah! yes. And don't leave me. If you go away from me I shall die. There +has been so much of it--a little more--and----" She breaks down. + +"My beloved!" says he in a faint, quick way. He is holding her to him +now with all his might. She can feel the quick pulsations of his heart. +Suddenly she slips her soft arms around his neck, and now with her head +pressed against his shoulder, bursts into a storm of tears. It is a last +shower. + +They are both silent for a long time, and then he, raising one of her +hands, presses the palm against his lips. Looking up at him, she smiles, +uncertainly but happily, a very rainbow of a smile, born of sunshine, +and, raindrops gone, it seems to beautify her lips. But Felix, while +acknowledging its charm, cannot smile back at her. It is all too +strange, too new. He is afraid to believe. As yet there is something +terrible to him in this happiness that has fallen into his life. + +"You mean it?" he asks, bending over her. "If to-morrow I were to wake +and find all this an idle dream, how would it be with me then? Say you +mean it!" + +"Am I not here?" says she, tremulously, making a slight but eloquent +pressure on one of the arms that are round her. He bends his face to +hers, and as he feels that first glad eager kiss returned--he knows! + + + + +CHAPTER LIII. + + "True love's the gift which God has given + To man alone beneath the heaven: + + It is the secret sympathy, + The silver link, the silken tie, + Which heart to heart and mind to mind + In body and in soul can bind." + + +Of course Barbara is delighted. She proves charming as a confidante. +Nothing can exceed the depth of her sympathy. + +When Joyce and Felix came in together in the darkening twilight, +entering the house in a burglarious fashion through the dining-room +window, it so happens that Barbara is there, and is at once struck by a +sense of guilt that seems to surround and envelop them. They had not, +indeed, anticipated meeting Barbara in that room of all others, and are +rather taken aback when they come face to face with her. + +"I assure you we have not come after the spoons," says Felix, in a +would-be careless tone that could not have deceived an infant, and with +a laugh, so frightfully careless that it would have terrified the life +out of you. + +"You certainly don't look like it," says Mrs. Monkton, whose heart has +begun to beat high with hope. She hardly knows whether it is better to +fall upon their necks forthwith and declare she knows all about it, or +else to pretend ignorance. She decides upon the latter as being the +easier; after all they mightn't like the neck process. Most people have +a fancy for telling their own tales, to have them told for one is +annoying. "You haven't the requisite murderous expression," she says, +unable to resist a touch of satire. "You look rather frightened you two. +What have you been doing?" She is too good natured not to give them an +opening for their confession. + +"Not much, and yet a great deal," says Felix. He has advanced a little, +while Joyce, on the contrary, has meanly receded farther into the +background. She has rather the appearance, indeed, of one who, if the +wall could have been induced to give way, would gladly have followed it +into the garden. The wall, however, declines to budge. "As for +burglary," goes on Felix, trying to be gay, and succeeding villainously. +"You must exonerate your sister at all events. But I--I confess I have +stolen something belonging to you." + +"Oh, no; not stolen," says Joyce, in a rather faint tone. "Barbara, I +know what you will think, but----" + +"I know what I do think!" cries Barbara, joyously. "Oh, is it, can it be +true?" + +It never occurs to her that Felix now is not altogether a brilliant +match for a sister with a fortune--she remembers only in that lovely +mind of hers that he had loved Joyce when she was without a penny, and +that he is now what he had always seemed to her, the one man that could +make Joyce happy. + +"Yes; it is true!" says Dysart. He has given up that unsuccessful gayety +now and has grown very grave; there is even a slight tremble in his +voice. He comes up to Mrs. Monkton and takes both her hands. "She has +given herself to me. You are really glad! You are not angry about it? I +know I am not good enough for her, but----" + +Here Joyce gives way to a little outburst of mirth that is rather +tremulous, and coming away from the unfriendly wall, that has not been +of the least use to her, brings herself somewhat shamefacedly into the +only light the room receives through the western window. The twilight at +all events is kind to her. It is difficult to see her face. + +"I really can't stay here," says she, "and listen to my own praises +being sung. And besides," turning to Felix a lovely but embarrassed +face, "Barbara will not regard it as you do; she will, on the contrary, +say you are a great deal too good for me, and that I ought to be +pilloried for all the trouble I have given through not being able to +make up my own mind for so long a time." + +"Indeed, I shall say nothing but that you are the dearest girl in the +world, and that I'm delighted things have turned out so well. I always +said it would be like this," cries Barbara exultantly, who certainly +never had said it, and had always indeed been distinctly doubtful about +it. + +"Is Mr. Monkton in?" says Felix, in a way that leads Monkton's wife to +imagine that if she should chance to say he was out, the news would be +hailed with rapture. + +"Oh, never mind him," says she, beaming upon the happy but awkward +couple before her. "I'll tell him all about it. He will be just as glad +as I am. There, go away you two; you will find the small parlor empty, +and I dare say you have a great deal to say to each other still. Of +course you will dine with us, Felix, and give Freddy an opportunity of +saying something ridiculous to you." + +"Thank you," says Dysart warmly. "I suppose I can write a line to my +cousin explaining matters." + +"Of course. Joyce, take some writing things into the small parlor, and +call for a lamp as you go." + +She is smiling at Joyce as she speaks, and now, going up to her, kisses +her impulsively. Joyce returns the caress with fervor. It is natural +that she should never have felt the sweetness, the content of Barbara so +entirely as she does now, when her heart is open and full of ecstasy, +and when sympathy seems so necessary. Darling Barbara! But then she must +love Felix now just as much as she loves her. She rather electrifies +Barbara and Felix by saying anxiously to the former: + +"Kiss Felix, too." + +It is impossible not to laugh. Mrs. Monkton gives way to immediate and +unrestrained mirth, and Dysart follows suit. + +"It is a command," says he, and Barbara thereupon kisses him +affectionately. + +"Well, now I have got a brother at last," says she. It is indeed her +first knowledge of one, for that poor suicide in Nice had never been +anything to her--or to any one else in the world for the matter of +that--except a great trouble. "There, go," says she. "I think I hear +Freddy coming." + +They fly. They both feel that further explanations are beyond them just +as present; and as for Barbara, she is quite determined that no one but +she shall let Freddy into the all-important secret. She is now fully +convinced in her own mind that she had always had special prescience of +this affair, and the devouring desire we all have to say "I told you how +'twould be" to our unfortunate fellow-travellers through this vale of +tears, whether the cause for the hateful reminder be for weal or woe, is +strong upon her now. + +She goes to the window, and seeing Monkton some way off, flings up the +sash and waves to him in a frenzied fashion to come to her at once. +There is something that almost approaches tragedy in her air and +gesture. Monkton hastens to obey. + +"Now, what--what--what do you think has happened?" cries she, when he +has vaulted the window sill and is standing beside her, somewhat +breathless and distinctly uneasy. Nothing short of an accident to the +children could, in his opinion, have warranted so vehement a call. Yet +Barbara, as he examines her features carefully, seems all joyous +excitement. After a short contemplation of her beaming face he tell +himself that he was an ass to give up that pilgrimage of his to the +lower field, where he had been going to inspect a new-born calf. + +"The skys are all right," says he, with an upward glance at them through +the window. "And--you hadn't another uncle, had you?" + +"Oh, Freddy," says she, very justly disgusted. + +"Well, my good child, what then? I'm all curiosity." + +"Guess," says she, too happy to be able to give him the round scolding +he deserves. + +"Oh! if it's a riddle," says he, "you might remember I am only a little +one, and unequal to the great things of life." + +"Ah! but, Freddy, I've something delicious to tell you. There sit down +there, you look quite queer, while I----" + +"No wonder I do," says he, at last rather wrathfully. "To judge by your +wild gesticulations at the window just now, any one might have imagined +that the house was on fire and a hostile race tearing en masse into the +back yard. And now--why, it appears you are quite pleased about +something or other. Really such disappointments are enough to age any +man--or make him look 'queer,' that was the word you used, I think?" + +"Listen," says she, seating herself beside him, and flipping her arm +around his neck. "Joyce is going to marry Felix--after all. There!" +Still with her arm holding him, she leans back a little to mark the +effect of this astonishing disclosure. + + + + +CHAPTER LIV. + + "Well said; that was laid on with a trowel." + + "Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in + all Venice." + + +"After all, indeed; you may well say that," says Mr. Monkton, with +indignation. "If those two idiots meant matrimony all along, why on +earth didn't they do it all before. See what a lot of time they've lost, +and what a disgraceful amount of trouble they have given all round." + +"Yes, yes, of course. But then you see, Freddy, it takes some time to +make up one's mind about such an important matter as that." + +"It didn't take you long," says Mr. Monkton most unwisely. + +"It took me a great deal longer than it took you," replies his wife with +dignity. "You have always said that it was the very first day you ever +saw me--and I'm sure it took me quite a week!" + +This lucid speech she delivers with some severity. + +"More shame for you," says Monkton promptly. + +"Well, never mind," says she, too happy and too engrossed with her news +to enjoy even a skirmish with her husband. "Isn't it all charming, +Freddy?" + +"It has certainly turned out very well, all things considered." + +"I think it is the happiest thing. And when two people who love each +other are quite young----" + +"Really, my dear, you are too flattering," says Monkton. "Considering +the gray hairs that are beginning to make themselves so unpleasantly at +home in my head, I, at all events, can hardly lay claim to extreme +youth." + +"Good gracious! I'm not talking of us; I'm talking of them," cries she, +giving him a shake. "Wake up, Freddy. Bring your mind to bear upon this +big news of mine, and you will see how enchanting it is. Don't you think +Felix has behaved beautifully--so faithful, so constant, and against +such terrible odds? You know Joyce is a little difficult sometimes. Now +hasn't he been perfect all through?" + +"He is a genuine hero of romance," says Mr. Monkton with conviction. +"None of your cheap articles--a regular bonafide thirteenth century +knight. The country ought to contribute its stray half-pennies and buy +him a pedestal and put him on the top of it, whether he likes it or not. +Once there Simon Stylites would be forgotten in half an hour. Was there +ever before heard of such an heroic case! Did ever yet living man have +the prowess to propose to the girl he loved! It is an entirely new +departure, and should be noticed. It is quite unique!" + +"Don't be horrid," says his wife. "You know exactly what I mean--that it +is a delightful ending to what promised to be a miserable muddle. And he +is so charming; isn't he, now, Freddy?" + +"Is he?" asks Mr. Monkton, regarding her with a thoughtful eye. + +"You can see for yourself. He is so satisfactory. I always said he was +the very husband for Joyce. He is so kind, so earnest, so sweet in every +way." + +"Nearly as sweet as I am, eh?" There is stern inquiry now in his regard. + +"Pouf! I know what you are, of course. Who would, if I didn't? But +really, Freddy, don't you think he will make her an ideal husband? So +open. So frank. So free from everything--everything--oh, well, +everything--you know!" + +"I don't," says Monkton, uncompromisingly. + +"Well--everything hateful, I mean. Oh! she is a lucky girl!" + +"Nearly as lucky as her sister," says Monkton, growing momentarily more +stern in his determination to uphold his own cause. + +"Don't be absurd. I declare," with a little burst of amusement, "when +he--they--told me about it, I never felt so happy in my life." + +"Except when you married me." He throws quite a tragical expression into +his face, that is, however, lost upon her. + +"Of course, with her present fortune, she might have made what the world +would call a more distinguished match. But his family are +unexceptionable, and he has some money--not much, I know, but still, +some. And even if he hadn't she has now enough for both. After +all"--with noble disregard of the necessaries of life--"what is money?" + +"Dross--mere dross!" says Mr. Monkton. + +"And he is just the sort of man not to give a thought to it." + +"He couldn't, my dear. Heroes of romance are quite above all that sort +of thing." + +"Well, he is, certainly," says Mrs. Monkton, a little offended. "You may +go on pretending as much as you like, Freddy, but I know you think about +him just as I do. He is exactly the sort of charming character to make +Joyce happy." + +"Nearly as happy as I have made you!" says her husband, severely. + +"Dear me, Freddy--I really do wish you would try and forget yourself for +one moment!" + +"I might be able to do that, my dear, if I were quite sure that you were +not forgetting me, too." + +"Oh, as to that! I declare you are a perfect baby! You love teasing. +Well--there then!" The "there" represents a kiss, and Mr. Monkton, +having graciously accepted this tribute to his charms, condescends to +come down from his mental elevation and discuss the new engagement with +considerable affability. Once, indeed, there is a dangerous lapse back +into his old style, but this time there seems to be occasion for it. + +"When they stood there stammering and stuttering, Freddy, and looking so +awfully silly, I declare I was so glad about it that I actually kissed +him!'" + +"What!" says Mr. Monkton. "And you have lived to tell the tale! You +have, therefore; lived too long. Perfidious woman, prepare for death." + +"I declare I think you'd have done it," says Barbara, eloquently. +Whereupon, having reconsidered her speech, they both give way to mirth. + +"I'll try it when I see him," says Monkton. "Even a hero of romance +couldn't object to a chaste salute from me." + +"He is coming to dinner. I hope when you do see him. Freddy,"--anxiously +this--"you will be very sober about it." + +"Barbara! You know I never get--er--that is--not before dinner at all +events." + +"Well, but promise me now, you will be very serious about it. They are +taking it seriously, and they won't like it if you persist in treating +it as a jest." + +"I'll be a perfect judge." + +"I know what that means"--indignantly--"that you are going to be as +frivolous as possible." + +"My dear girl! If the bench could only hear you. Well, there then! Yes, +really! I'll be everything of the most desirable. A regular funeral +mute. And," seeing she is still offended, "I am glad about it, Barbara. +Honestly I think him as good a fellow as I know--and Joyce another." + +Having convinced her of his good faith in the matter, and argued with +her on every single point, and so far perjured himself as to remember +perfectly and accurately the very day and hour on which, three months +ago, she had said that she knew Joyce preferred Felix to Beauclerk, he +is forgiven, and presently allowed to depart in peace with another +"there," even warmer than the first. + +But it is unquestionable that she keeps a severe eye on him all through +dinner, and so forbids any trifling with the sacred topic. "It would +have put the poor things out so!" She had said to herself; and, indeed, +it must be confessed that the lovers are very shy and uncomfortable, and +that conversation drifts a good deal, and is only carried on irregularly +by fits and starts. But later, when Felix has unburdened his mind to +Monkton during the quarter of an hour over their wine--when Barbara has +been compelled, in fear and trembling, to leave Freddy to his own +devices--things grow more genial, and the extreme happiness that dwells +in the lovers' hearts is given full play. There is even a delightful +half hour granted them upon the balcony, Barbara having--like the good +angel she is--declared that the night is almost warm enough for June. + + + + +CHAPTER LV. + + "Great discontents there are, and many murmurs." + + "There is a kind of mournful eloquence + In thy dumb grief." + + +Lady Baltimore, too, had been very pleased by the news when Felix told +her next morning of his good luck. In all her own great unhappiness she +had still a kindly word and thought for her cousin and his fiancee. + +"One of the nicest girls," she says, pressing his hands warmly. "I often +think, indeed, the nicest girl I know. You are fortunate, Felix, +but"--very kindly--"she is fortunate, too." + +"Oh, no, the luck is all on my side," says he. + +"It will be a blow to Norman," she says, presently. + +"I think not," with an irrepressible touch of scorn. "There is Miss +Maliphant." + +"You mean that he can decline upon her. Of course I can quite understand +that you do not like him," says she with a quick sigh. "But, believe me, +any heart he has was really given to Joyce. Well, he must devote himself +to ambition now." + +"Miss Maliphant can help him to that." + +"No, no. That is all knocked on the head. It appears--this is in strict +confidence, Felix--but it appears he asked her to marry him last +evening, and she refused." + +Felix turns to her as if to give utterance to some vehement words, and +then checks himself. After all, why add to her unhappiness? Why tell her +of that cur's baseness? Her own brother, too! It would be but another +grief to her. + +To think he should have gone from her to Miss Maliphant! What a pitiful +creature! Beneath contempt! Well, if his pride survives those two +downfalls--both in one day--it must be made of leather. It does Felix +good to think of how Miss Maliphant must have worded her refusal. She is +not famous for grace of speech. He must have had a real bad time of it. +Of course, Joyce had told him of her interview with the sturdy heiress. + +"Ah, she refused?" says he hardly knowing what to say. + +"Yes; and not very graciously, I'm afraid. He gave me the mere fact of +the refusal--no more, and only that because he had to give a reason for +his abrupt departure. You know he is going this evening?" + +"No, I did not know it. Of course, under the circumstances----" + +"Yes, he could hardly stay here. Margaret came to me and said she would +go, but I would not allow that. After all, every woman has a right to +refuse or accept as she will." + +"True." His heart gives an exultant leap as he remembers how his love +had willed. + +"I only wish she had not hurt him in the refusal. But I could see he was +wounded. He was not in his usual careless spirits. He struck me as being +a little--well, you know, a little----" She hesitates. + +"Out of temper," suggests Felix involuntarily. + +"Well, yes. Disappointment takes that course with some people. After +all, it might have been worse if he had set his heart on Joyce and been +refused." + +"Much worse," says Felix, his eyes on the ground. + +"She would have been a severe loss." + +"Severe, indeed." By this time Felix is beginning to feel like an +advanced hypocrite. + +"As for Margaret Maliphant, I am afraid he was more concerned about the +loss of her bonds and scrips than of herself. It is a terrible world, +Felix, when all is told," says she, suddenly crossing her beautiful long +white hands over her knees, and leaning toward him. There is a touch of +misery so sharp in her voice that he starts as he looks at her. It is a +momentary fit of emotion, however, and passes before he dare comment on +it. With a heart nigh to breaking she still retains her composure and +talks calmly to Felix, and lets him talk to her, as though the fact that +she is soon to lose forever the man who once had gained her heart--that +fatal "once" that means for always, in spite of everything that has come +and gone--is as little or nothing to her. Seeing her sitting there, +strangely pale indeed, but so collected, it would be impossible to guess +at the tempest of passion and grief and terror that reigns within her +breast. Women are not so strong to bear as men, and therefore in the +world's storms suffer most. + +"It is a lovely world," says he smiling, thinking of Joyce, and then, +remembering her sad lot, his smile fades. "One might make--perhaps--a +bad world--better," he says, stammering. + +"Ah! teach me how," says she with a melancholy glance. + +"There is such a thing as forgiveness. Forgive him!" blurts he out in a +frightened sort of way. He is horrified, at himself--at his own +temerity--a second later, and rises to his feet as if to meet the +indignation he has certainly courted. But to his surprise no such +indignation betrays itself. + +"Is that your advice?" says she, still with the thin white hands clasped +over the knee, and the earnest gaze on him. "Well, well, well!" + +Her eyes droop. She seems to be thinking, and he, gazing at her, +refrains from speech with his heart sad with pity. Presently she lifts +her head and looks at him. + +"There! Go back to your love," she says with a glance that thrills him. +"Tell her from me that if you had the whole world to choose from, I +should still select her as your wife. I like her; I love her! There, +go!" She seems to grow all at once very tired. Are those tears that are +rising in her eyes? She holds out to him her hand. + +Felix, taking it, holds it closely for a moment, and presently, as if +moved to do it, he stoops and presses a warm kiss upon it. + +She is so unhappy, and so kind, and so true. God deliver her out of her +sorrow! + + + + +CHAPTER LVI. + + "I would that I were low laid in my grave." + + +She is still sitting silent, lost in thought, after Felix's departure, +when the door opens once again to admit her husband. His hands are full +of papers. + +"Are you at liberty?" says he. "Have you a moment? These," pointing to +the papers, "want signing. Can you give your attention to them now?" + +"What are they?" asks she, rising. + +"Mere law papers. You need not look so terrified." His tone is bitter. +"There are certain matters that must be arranged before my +departure--matters that concern your welfare and the boy's. Here," +laying the papers upon the davenport and spreading them out. "You sign +your name here." + +"But," recoiling, "what is it? What does it all mean?" + +"It is not your death warrant, I assure you," says he, with a sneer. +"Come, sign!" Seeing her still hesitate, he turns upon her savagely. Who +shall say what hidden storms of grief and regret lie within that burst +of anger? + +"Do you want your son to live and die a poor man?" says he. "Come! there +is yourself to be considered, too! Once I am out of your way, you will +be able to begin life again with a light heart; and this," tapping the +paper heavily, "will enable you to do it. I make over to you and the boy +everything--at least, as nearly everything as will enable me to live." + +"It should be the other way," says she. "Take everything, and leave us +enough on which to live." + +"Why?" says he, facing round, something in her voice that resembles +remorse striking him. + +"We--shall have each other," says she, faintly. + +"Having happily got rid of such useless lumber as the father and +husband. Well, you will be the happier so," rejoins he with a laugh that +hurts him more than it hurts her, though she cannot know that. "'Two is +company,' you know, according to the good old proverb, 'three trumpery.' +You and he will get on very well without me, no doubt." + +"It is your arrangement," says she. + +"If that thought is a salve to your conscience, pray think so," rejoins +he. "It isn't worth an argument. We are only wasting time." He hands her +the pen; she takes it mechanically, but makes no use of it. + +"You will at least tell me where you are going?" says she. + +"Certainly I should, if I only knew myself. To America first, but that +is a big direction, and I am afraid the tenderest love letter would not +reach me through it. When your friends ask you, say I have gone to the +North Pole; it is as likely a destination as another." + +"But not to know!" says she, lifting her dark eyes to his--dark eyes +that seem to glow like fire in her white face. "That would be terrible. +It is unfair. You should think--think--" Her voice grows husky and +uncertain. She stops abruptly. + +"Don't be uneasy about that," says he. "I shall take care that my death, +when it occurs, is made known to you as soon as possible. Your mind +shall be relieved on that score with as little delay as I can manage. +The welcome news shall be conveyed to you by a swift messenger." + +She flings the pen upon the writing table, and turns away. + +"Insult me to the last if you will!" she says; "but consider your son. +He loves you. He will desire news of you from time to time. It is +impossible that you can put him out of your life as you have put me." + +"It appears you can be unjust to the last," says he, flinging her own +accusation back at her. "Have I put you out of my life?" + +"Ah! was I ever in it?" says she. "But--you will write?" + +"No. Not a line. Once for all I break with you. Should my death occur +you will hear of it. And I have arranged so, that now and after that +event you and the boy will have your positions clearly defined. That is +all you can possibly require of me. Even if you marry again your +jointure will be secured to you." + +"Baltimore!" exclaims she, turning upon him passionately. She seems to +struggle with herself for words. "Has marriage proved so sweet a thing?" +cries she presently, "that I should care to try it again? There! Go! I +shall sign none of these things." She makes a disdainful gesture towards +the loose papers lying on the table, and moves angrily away. + +"You have your son to consider." + +"Your son will inherit the title and the property without those papers." + +"There are complications, however, that perhaps you do not understand." + +"Let them lie there. I shall sign nothing." + +"In that case you will probably find yourself immersed in troubles of +the meaner kinds after my departure. The child cannot inherit until +after my death and----" + +"I don't care," says she, sullenly. "Go, if you will. I refuse to +benefit by it." + +"What a stubborn woman you are," cries he, in great wrath. "You have for +years declined to acknowledge me as your husband. You have by your +manner almost commanded my absence from your side; yet now when I bring +you the joyful news that in a short time you will actually be rid of me, +you throw a thousand difficulties in my path. Is it that you desire to +keep me near you for the purposes of torture? It is too late for that. +You have gone a trifle too far. The hope you have so clearly expressed +in many ways that time would take me out of your path is at last about +to be fulfilled." + +"I have had no such hope." + +"No! You can look me in the face and say that! Saintly lips never lie, +however, do they? Well, I'm sick of this life; you are not. I have borne +a good deal from you, as I told you before. I'll bear no more. I give +in. Fate has been too strong for me." + +"You have created your own fate." + +"You are my fate! You are inexorable! There is no reason why I should +stay." + +Here the sound of running, childish, pattering footsteps can be heard +outside the door, and a merry little shout of laughter. The door is +suddenly burst open in rather unconventional style, and Bertie rushes +into the room, a fox terrier at his heels. The dog is evidently quite as +much up to the game as the boy, and both race tempestuously up the room +and precipitate themselves against Lady Baltimore's skirts. Round and +round her the chase continues, until the boy, bursting away from his +mother, dashes toward his father, the terrier after him. + +There isn't so much scope for talent in a pair of trousers as in a mass +of dainty petticoats, and presently Bertie grows tired, flings himself +down upon the ground, and lets the dog tumble over him there. The joust +is virtually at an end. + +Lady Baltimore, who has stood immoveable during the attack upon her, +always with that cold, white, beautiful look upon her face, now points +to the stricken child lying panting, laughing, and playing with the dog +at his father's feet. + +"There is a reason!" says she, almost inaudibly. + +Baltimore shakes his head. "I have thought all that out. It is not +enough," says he. + +"Bertie!" says his mother, turning to the child. "Do you know this, that +your father is going to leave you?" + +"Going?" says the boy vaguely, forgetting the dog for a moment and +glancing upward. "Where?" + +"Away. Forever." + +"Where?" says the boy again. He rises to his feet now, and looks +anxiously at his father; then he smiles and flings himself into his +arms. "Oh, no!" says he, in a little soft, happy, sure sort of a way. + +"Forever! Forever!" repeals Isabel in a curious monotone. + +"Take me up," says the child, tugging at his father's arms. "What does +mamma mean? Where are you going?" + +"To America, to shoot bears," returns Baltimore with an embarrassed +laugh. How near to tears it is. + +"Real live bears?" + +"Yes." + +"Take me with you"? says the child, excitedly. + +"And leave mamma?" + +"Oh, she'll come, too," says Bertie, confidently. "She'll come where I +go." Where he would go--the child! But would she go where the father +went? Baltimore's brow darkens. + +"I am afraid it is out of the question," he says, putting Bertie back +again upon the carpet where the fox terrier is barking furiously and +jumping up and down in a frenzied fashion as if desirous of devouring +the child's legs. "The bears might eat you. When you are big and +strong----" + +"You will come back for me?" cries Bertie, eagerly. + +"Perhaps." + +"He will not," breaks in Lady Baltimore violently. "He will come back no +more. When he goes you will never see him again. He has said so. He is +going forever!" These last two terrible words seem to have sunk into +her soul. She cannot cease from repeating them. + +"Let the boy alone," says Baltimore angrily. + +The child is looking from one parent to the other. He seems puzzled, +expectant, but scarcely unhappy. Childhood can grasp a great deal, but +not all. The more unhappy the childhood, the more it can understand of +the sudden and larger ways of life. But children delicately brought up +and clothed in love from their cradle find it hard to realize that an +end to their happiness can ever come. + +"Tell me, papa!" says he at last in a vague, sweet little way. + +"What is there to tell?" replies his father with a most meagre laugh, +"except that I saw Beecher bringing in some fresh oranges half an hour +ago. Perhaps he hasn't eaten them all yet. If you were to ask him for +one----" + +"I'll find him," cries Bertie brightly, forgetting everything but the +present moment. "Come, Trixy, come," to his dog, "you shall have some, +too." + +"You see there' won't be much trouble with him," says Baltimore, when +the boy has run out of the room in pursuit of oranges. "It will take him +a day, perhaps, and after that he will be quite your own. If you won't +sign these papers to-day you will perhaps to-morrow. I had better go and +tell Hansard that you would like to have a little time to look them +over." + +He walks quickly down the room, opens the door, and closes it after him. + + + + +CHAPTER LVII. + + "This is that happy morn-- + That day, long-wished day + Of all my life so dark + (If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn + And fates my hopes betray) + Which, purely white, deserves + An everlasting diamond should it mark." + + +He has not, however, gone three yards down the corridor when the door is +again opened, and Lady Baltimore's voice calls after him: + +"Baltimore!" Her tone is sharp, high-agonized--the tone of one strung to +the highest pitch of despair. It startles him. He turns to look at her. +She is standing, framed in by the doorway, and one hand is grasping the +woodwork with a hold so firm that the knuckles are showing white. With +the other hand she beckons him to approach her. He obeys her. He is even +so frightened at the strange gray look in her face that he draws her +bodily into the room again, shutting the door with a pressure of the +hand he can best spare. + +"What is it?" says he, looking down at her. + +She has managed to so far overcome the faintness that has been +threatening her as to shake him off and stand free, leaning against a +chair behind her. + +"Don't go," says she, hoarsely. + +It is impossible to misunderstand her meaning. It has nothing whatever +to do with his interview with the lawyer waiting so patiently down +below, but with that final wandering of his into regions unknown. She is +as white as death. + +"How is this, Isabel?" asks he. He is as white as she is now. "Do you +know what you are saying? This is a moment of excitement; you do not +comprehend what your words mean." + +"Stay! Stay for his sake." + +"Is that all?" says he, his eyes searching hers. + +"For mine, then." + +The words seem to scorch her. She covers her face with her hands and +stands before him, stricken dumb, miserable--confessed. + +"For yours!" + +He goes closer to her, and ventures to take her hand. It is cold--cold +as death. His is burning. + +"You have given a reason for my staying, indeed," says he. "But what is +the meaning of it?" + +"This!" cried she, throwing up her head, and showing him her shamed and +grief-stricken face. "I am a coward! In spite of everything I would not +have you go--so far!" + +"I see. I understand," he sighs, heavily. "And yet that story was a foul +lie! It is all that stands between us, Isabel. Is it not so? But you +will not believe." + +There, is a long silence, during which neither of them stirs. They seem +wrapt in thought--in silence--he still holding her hand. + +"If it was a lie," says she at last, breaking the quiet around them by +an effort, "would you so far forgive my distrust of you as to be holding +my hand like this?" + +"Yes. What is there I would not forgive you?" says he. "And it was a +lie!" + +"Cyril," cries she in great agitation, "take care! It is a last moment! +Do you dare to tell me that still? Supposing your story to be true, and +mine--that woman's--false, how would it be between us then?" + +"As it was in the first good old time when we were married." + +"You, could forgive the wrong I have done you all these years, +supposing----" + +"Everything--all." + +"Ah!" This sound seems crushed out of her. She steps backward, and a dry +sob breaks from her. + +"What is it?" asks he, quickly. + +"Oh, that I could--that I dared--believe," says she. + +"You would have proofs," says he, coldly, resigning her hand. "My word +is not enough. You might love me did I prove worthy; your love is not +strong enough to endure the pang of distrust. Was ever real love so poor +a thing as that? However, you shall have them." + +"What?" asks she, raising her head. + +"The proofs you desire," responds he, icily. "That woman--your +friend--the immaculate one--died the the day before yesterday. What? You +never heard? And you and she----" + +"She was nothing to me," says Lady Baltimore. "Nothing since." + +"The day she reviled me! And yet"--with a most joyless laugh--"for the +sake of a woman you cared so little about, that even her death has not +caused you a pang, you severed the tie that should have been the closest +to you on earth? Well, she is dead. 'Heaven rest her sowl!' as the +peasants say. She wrote me a letter on her bed of death." + +"Yes?" Eagerly. + +"You still doubt?" says he, with a stern glance at her. "So be it; you +shall see the letter, though how will that satisfy you? For you can +always gratify your desire for suspicion by regarding it as a forgery. +The woman herself is dead, so, of course, there is no one to contradict. +Do think this all out," says he, with a contemptuous laugh, "before you +commit yourself to a fresh belief in me. You see I give you every +chance. To such a veritable 'Thomas' in petticoats every road should be +laid open. Now"--tauntingly--"will you wait here whilst I bring the +proof?" + +He is gazing at her in a heartbroken sort of way. Is it the end? Is it +all really over? There had been a faint flicker of the dying candle--a +tiny glare--and now for all time is it to be darkness? + +As for her. Ever since he had let her hand go, she had stood with bent +head looking at it. He had taken it, he had let it go; there seemed to +be a promise of heaven--was it a false one? + +She is silent, and Baltimore, who had hoped for one word of trust, of +belief, makes a gesture of despair. + +"I will bring you the letter," he says, moving toward the door. When he +does bring it--when she had read it and satisfied herself of the loyalty +so long doubted, where, he asks himself, will they two be then? Further +apart than ever? He has forgiven a great deal--much more than this--and +yet, strange human nature, he knows if he once leaves the room and her +presence now, he will never return again. The letter she will see--but +him--never! + +The door is open. He has almost crossed the threshold. Once again her +voice recalls him, once again he looks back, she is holding out her arms +to him. + +"Cyril! Cyril!" she cried. "I believe you." + +She staggers toward him. Mercifully the fountain of her tears breaks +loose, she flings herself into his willing arms, and sobs out a whole +world of grief upon his bosom. + +It is a cruel moment, yet one fraught with joy as keen as the sorrow--a +fire of anguish out of which both emerge purified, calmed--gladdened. + + + + +CHAPTER LVIII. + + "Lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers + appear on the earth; the time of the singing of the birds has + come." + + +The vague suspicion of rain that had filled their thoughts at breakfast +has proved idle. The sun is shining forth again with redoubled vigor, as +if laughing their silly doubts to scorn. Never was there so fair a day. +One can almost see the plants growing in the garden, and from every +bough the nesting birds are singing loud songs of joy. + +The meadows are showing a lovely green, and in the glades and uplands +the + + "Daffodils + That come before the swallow dares," + +are uprearing their lovely heads. The air is full of sweet scents and +sounds, and Joyce, jumping down from the drawing-room window, that lies +close to the ground, looks gladly round her. Perhaps it is not so much +the beauty of the scene as the warmth of happiness in her own heart that +brings the smile to her lips and eyes. + +He will be here to-day! Involuntarily she raises one hand and looks at +the ring that encircles her engaged finger. A charming ring of pearls +and sapphires. It evidently brings her happy thoughts, as, after gazing +at it for a moment or two, she stoops and presses her lips eagerly to +it. It is his first gift (though not his last), and therefore the most +precious. What girl does not like receiving a present from her lover? +The least mercenary woman on earth must feel a glow at her heart and a +fonder recognition of her sweetheart's worth when he lays a +love-offering at her feet. + +Joyce, after her one act of devotion to her sweetheart, runs down the +garden path and toward the summer house. She is not expecting Dysart +until the day has well grown into its afternoon; but, book in hand, she +has escaped from all possible visitors to spend a quiet hour in the old +earwiggy shanty at the end of the garden, sure of finding herself safe +there from interruptions. + +The sequel proves the futility of all human belief. + +Inside the summer house; book in hand likewise, sits Mr. Browne, a +picture of studious virtue. + +Miss Kavanagh, seeing him, stops dead short, so great is her surprise, +and Mr. Browne, raising his eyes, as if with difficulty, from the book +on his knee, surveys her with a calmly judicial eye. + +"Not here. Not here, my child," quotes he, incorrectly. "You had better +try next door." + +"Try for what?" demands she, indignantly. + +"For whom? You mean----" + +"No, I don't," with increasing anger. + +"Jocelyne!" says Mr. Browne, severely. "When one forsakes the path of +truth it is only to tread in----" + +"Nonsense!" says Miss Kavanagh, irreverently. + +"As you will!" says he, meekly. "But I assure you he is not here." + +"I could have told you that," says she, coloring, however, very warmly. +"I must say, Dicky, you are the most ingeniously stupid person I ever +met in my life." + +"To shine in even the smallest line in life is to achieve something," +says Mr. Browne, complacently. "And so you knew he wouldn't be here just +now?" + +This is uttered in an insinuating tone. Miss Kavanagh feels she has made +a false move. To give Dicky an inch is, indeed, to give him an ell. + +"He? Who?" says she, weakly. + +"Don't descend to dissimulation, Jocelyne," advises he, severely. "It's +the surest road to ruin, if one is to believe the good old copy books. +By he--you see I scorn subterfuge--I mean Dysart, the person to whom in +a mistaken moment you have affianced yourself, as though I--I were not +ready at any time to espouse you." + +"I'm not going to be espoused," says Miss Kavanagh, half laughing. + +"No? I quite understood----" + +"I won't have that word," petulantly. "It sounds like something out of +the dark ages." + +"So does he," says Mr. Browne. "'Felix,' you know. So Latin! Quite like +one of the old monks. I shouldn't wonder if he turned out a----" + +"I wish you wouldn't tease me, Dicky," says she. "You think you are +amusing, you know, but I think you are one of the rudest people I ever +met. I wish you would let me alone." + +"Ah! Why didn't you leave me alone?" says he, with a sigh that would +have set a furnace ablaze. "However!" with a noble determination to +overcome his grief. "Let the past lie. You want to go and meet Dysart, +isn't that it? And I'll go and meet him with you. Could self-sacrifice +further go? 'Jim along Josy,' no doubt he is at the upper gate by this +time, flying on the wings of love." + +"He is not," says Joyce; "and I wish once for all, Dicky, that you +wouldn't call me 'Josy.' 'Jocelyne' is bad enough, but 'Josy!' And I'm +not going to 'jim' anywhere, and certainly"--with strong +determination--"not with you." She looks at him with sudden curiosity. +"What brought you here to-day?" asks she, most inhospitably it must be +confessed. + +"What brings me here every day? To see the unkindest girl in the world." + +"She doesn't live here," says Miss Kavanagh. "Dicky"--changing her tone +suddenly and looking at him with earnest eyes. "What is this I hear +about Lady Baltimore and her husband? Be sensible now, do, and tell me." + +"They're going abroad together--with Bertie. They've made it up," says +he, growing as sensible as even she can desire. "It is such a complete +make up all round that they didn't even ask me to go with them. However, +I'm determined to join them at Nice on their return from Egypt. Too much +billing and cooing is bad for people." + +"I'm so glad," says Joyce, her eyes filling with tears. "They are two +such dear people, and if it hadn't been for Lady--By the by, where is +Lady Swansdown?" + +"Russia, I think." + +"Well, I liked her, too," says Joyce, with a sigh; "but she wasn't good +for Baltimore, was she?" + +"Not very!" says Mr. Browne, dryly. "I should say, on the whole, that +she disagreed with him. Tonics are sometimes dangerous." + +"I'm so delighted," says Joyce, still thinking of Lady Baltimore. +"Well," smiling at him, "why don't you go in and see Barbara?" + +"I have seen her, talked with her a long while, and bid her adieu. I was +on my way back to the Court, having failed in my hope of seeing you, +when I found this delightful nest of earwigs, and thought I'd stay and +confabulate with them a while in default of better companions." + +"Poor Dicky!" says she. "Come with me, then, and I'll talk to you for +half an hour." + +"Too late!" says he, looking at his watch. "There is only one thing left +me now to, say to you, and that is, 'Good-by.'" + +"Why this mad haste?" + +"Ah, ha! I Can have my little secrets, too," says he. "A whisper in your +ear," leaning toward her. + +"No, thank you," says she, waving him off with determination. "I +remember your last whisper. There! if you can't stay, Dicky, good by +indeed. I'm going for a walk." + +She turns away resolutely, leaving Mr. Browne to sink back upon the seat +and continue his reading, or else to go and meet that secret he spoke +of. + +"I say," calls he, running after her. "You may as well see me as far as +the gate, any way." It is evident the book at least has lost its charms. +Miss Kavanagh not being stony hearted so far gives in as to walk with +him to a side gate, and having finally bidden him adieu, goes back to +the summer house he has quitted, and, opening her book, prepares to +enjoy herself. + +Vain preparation! It is plain that the fates are against her to-day. She +is no sooner seated, with her book of poetry open on her knee, than a +little flying form turns the corner and Tommy precipitates himself upon +her. + +"What are you doing?" asks he. + + + + +CHAPTER LIX. + + "Lips are so like flowers + I might snatch at those + Redder than the rose leaves, + Sweeter than the rose." + + "Love is a great master." + + +"I am reading," says she. "Can't you see that?" + +"Read to me, then," says Tommy, scrambling up on the bench beside her +and snuggling himself under her arm. "I love to hear people." + +"Well, not this, at all events," says Miss Kavanagh, placing the dainty +copy of "The Muses of Mayfair," she has been reading on the rustic table +in front of her. + +"Why not that one? What is it?" asks Tommy, staring at the book. + +"Nothing you would like. Horrid stuff. Only poetry." + +"What's poetry?" + +"Oh, nonsense, Tommy, you know very well what poetry is. Your hymns are +poetry." This she considers will put an end to all desire for the book +in question. It is a clever and skilful move, but it fails signally. +There is silence for a moment while Tommy cogitates, and then---- + +"Are those hymns?" demands he, pointing at the discarded volume. + +"N-o, not exactly." This is scarcely disingenuous, and Miss Kavanagh has +the grace to blush a little. She is the further discomposed in that she +becomes aware presently that Tommy sees through her perfectly. + +"Well, what are they?" asks he. + +"Oh--er--well--just poetry, you know." + +"I don't," says Tommy, flatly, who is nothing if not painfully truthful. +"Let me hear them." He pauses here and regards her with a searching eye. +"They"--with careful forethought--"they aren't lessons, are they?" + +"No; they are not lessons," says his aunt, laughing. "But you won't like +them for all that. If you are athirst for literature, get me one of your +own books, and I will read 'Jack the Giant Killer' to you." + +"I'm sick of him," says Tommy, most ungratefully. That tremendous hero +having filled up many an idle hour of his during his short lifetime. +"No," nestling closer to her. "Go on with your poetry one!" + +"You would hate it. It is worse than 'Jack,'" says she. + +"Let me hear it," says Tommy, persistently. + +"Well," says Miss Kavanagh, with a sigh, "if you will have it, at least, +don't interrupt." She has tried very hard to get rid of him, but, having +failed in so signal a fashion, she gives herself up with an admirable +resignation to the inevitable. + +"What would I do that for?" asks Tommy, rather indignantly. + +"I don't know, I'm sure. But I thought I'd warn you," says she, wisely +precautious. "Now, sit down there," pointing to the seat beside her; +"and when you feel you have had enough of it, say so at once." + +"That would be interrupting," says Tommy, the Conscientious. + +"Well, I give you leave to interrupt so far," says Joyce, glad to leave +him a loop-hole that may insure his departure before Felix comes. "But +no further--mind that." + +"Oh, I'm minding!" says Tommy, impatiently. "Go on. Why don't you +begin?" + +Miss Kavanagh, taking up her book once more, opens it at random. All its +contents are sweetmeats of the prettiest, so she is not driven to a +choice. She commences to read in a firm, soft voice:-- + + "The wind and the beam loved the rose, + And the roses loved one: + For who recks the----" + +"What's that?" says Tommy. + +"What's what?" + +"You aren't reading it right, are you?" + +"Certainly I am. Why?" + +"I don't believe a beam of wood could love anything," says Tommy; "it's +too heavy." + +"It doesn't mean a beam of wood." + +"Doesn't it?" staring up into her face. "What's it mean, then--'The beam +that is in thine own eye?'" + +He is now examining her own eye with great interest. As usual, Tommy is +strong in Bible lore. + +"I have no beam in my eye, I hope," says Joyce, laughing; "and, at all +events, it doesn't mean that either. The poet who wrote this meant a +sunbeam." + +"Well, why couldn't he say so?" says Tommy, gruffly. + +"I really think you had better bring me one of your own books," says +Joyce. "I told you this would----" + +"No," obstinately, "I like this. It sounds so nice and smoothly. Go on," +says Tommy, giving her a nudge. + +Joyce, with a sigh, reopens the volume, and gives herself up for lost. +To argue with Tommy is always to know fatigue, and nothing else. One +never gains anything by it. + +"Well, do be quiet now, and listen," says she, protesting faintly. + +"I'm listening like anything," says Tommy. And, indeed, now at last it +seems as if he were. + +So silent does he grow as his aunt reads on that you might have heard a +mouse squeak. But for the low, soft tones of Joyce no smallest sound +breaks the sweet silence of the day. Miss Kavanagh is beginning to feel +distinctly flattered. If one can captivate the flitting fancies of a +child by one's eloquent rendering of charming verse, what may one not +aspire to? There must be something in her style if it can reduce a boy +of seven to such a state of ecstatic attention, considering the subject +is hardly such a one as would suit his tender years. + +But Tommy was always thoughtful beyond his age. A dear, clever little +fellow! So appreciative! Far, far beyond the average! He---- + +The mild sweetness of the spring evening and her own thoughts are broken +in upon at this instant by the "dear, clever little fellow." + +"He has just got to your waist now," says he, with an air of wild if +subdued excitement. + +"He! Who! What!" shrieks Joyce, springing to her feet. A long +acquaintance with Tommy has taught her to dread the worst. + +"Oh, there! Of course you've knocked him down, and I did want to see how +high he would go. I was tickling his tail to make him hurry up," says +Tommy, in an aggrieved tone. "I can't see him anywhere now," peering +about on the ground at her feet. + +"Oh! What was it, Tommy? Do speak!" cries Joyce, in a frenzy of fear and +disgust. + +"'Twas an earwig!" says Tommy, lifting a seraphic face to hers. "And +such a big one! He was racing up your dress most beautifully, and now +you've upset him. Poor thing--I don't believe he'll ever find his way +back to you again." + +"I should hope not, indeed!" says Miss Kavanagh, hastily. + +"He began at the very end of your frock," goes on Tommy, still searching +diligently on the ground, as if to find the earwig, with a view to +restoring it to its lost hunting ground; "and it wriggled up so nicely. +I don't know where he is now"--sorrowfully--"unless," with a sudden +brightening of his expressive face, "he is up your petticoats." + +"Tommy! What a horrid, bad boy you are!" cries poor Joyce, wildly. She +gives a frantic shake to the petticoats in question. "Find him at once, +sir! He must be somewhere down there. I shan't have an instant's peace +until I know where he is." + +"I can't see him anywhere," says Tommy. "Maybe you'll feel him +presently, and then we'll know. He isn't on your leg now, is he?" + +"Oh! don't!" cries Joyce, who looks as if she is going, to cry. She +gives herself another vigorous shake, and stands away from the spot +where Tommy evidently thinks the noxious beast in question may be, with +her petticoats held carefully up in both hands. "Oh, Tommy, darling! Do +find him. He can't be up my petticoats, can he?" + +"He can. There's, nothing they can't do," says Tommy, who is plainly +revelling in the storm he has raised. Her open fright is beer and +skittles to him. "Why did you stir? He was as good as gold, until then; +and there wasn't anything to be afraid of. I was watching him. When he +got to your ear I'd have told you. I wouldn't like him to make you deaf, +but I wanted to see if he would go to your ear. But you spoiled all my +fun, and now--where is he now?" asks Tommy, with an awful suggestion in +his tone. + +"On the grass, perhaps," says Joyce, miserably, looking round her +everywhere, and even on her shoulder. "I don't feel him anywhere." + +"Sometimes they stay quite a long time, and then they crawl!" says +Tommy, the most horrible anticipation in his tone. + +"Really, Tommy," cries his aunt, indignantly, "I do think you are the +most abominable boy I ever met in my life. There, go away! I certainly +shan't read another line to you--either now--or--ever!" + +"What is the matter?" asks a voice at this moment, that sounds close to +her elbow. She turns round with a start. + +"It is you, Felix!" says she, coloring warmly. "Oh--oh, it's nothing. +Only Tommy. And he said I had an earwig on me. And I was just a little +unnerved, you know." + +"And no wonder," says her lover, with delightful sympathy. "I can't bear +that sort of wild animal myself. Tommy, you ought to be ashamed of +yourself. When you saw him why didn't you rise up and slay the destroyer +of your aunt's peace? There; run away into the hall. You will find on +one of the tables a box of chocolate. I told Mabel it was there; perhaps +she----" + +Like an arrow from the bow, Tommy departs. + +"He has evidently his doubts of Mabel," says Joyce, laughing rather +nervously. She is still a little shy with Felix. "He doesn't trust her." + +"No." He has seated himself and now draws her down beside him. "You were +reading?" he says. + +"Yes." + +"To Tommy?" + +"Yes," laughing more naturally this time. + +"Tommy is a more learned person than one would have supposed. Is this +the sort of thing he likes?" pointing to Nydia's exquisite song. + +"I am afraid not, though he would insist upon my reading it. The earwig +was evidently far more engrossing as a subject than either the wind or +the rose." + +"And yet--" he has his arm round her now, and is reading the poem over +her shoulder. + +"You are my Rose," says he, softly. "And you--do you love but one?" + +She makes a little mute gesture that might signify anything or nothing +to the uninitiated, but to him is instinct with a most happy meaning. + +"Am I that one, darling?" + +She makes the same little silent movement again, but this time she adds +to it by casting a swift glance upward at him from under her lowered +lids. + +"Make me sure of it," entreated he almost in a whisper. He leans over +her, lower, lower still. With a little tremulous laugh, dangerously akin +to tears, she raises her soft palm to his cheek and tries to press +him--from her. But he holds her fast. + +"Make me sure!" he says again. There is a last faint hesitation on her +part, and then--their lips meet. + +"I have doubted always--always a little--ever since that night down by +the river," says he, "but now----" + +"Oh, no! You must not doubt me again!" says she with tears in her eyes. + + +THE END. + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's April's Lady, by Margaret Wolfe Hungerford + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK APRIL'S LADY *** + +***** This file should be named 21641.txt or 21641.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/1/6/4/21641/ + +Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by the Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions +(www.canadiana.org)) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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