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What a Man Wills

by Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey · English · Gutenberg #32935 · 434,077 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: What a Man Wills

Author: Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey

Illustrator: A. C. Michael


        
Release date: June 20, 2010 [eBook #32935]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/32935

Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHAT A MAN WILLS ***




Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




What a Man Wills, by Mrs George de Horne Vaizey.

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WHAT A MAN WILLS, BY MRS GEORGE DE HORNE VAIZEY.



CHAPTER ONE.

AT THE DYING OF THE YEAR.

The New Year festivities were over; in the hall of the old country Manor
the guests had danced and sung, had stood hand in hand in a widening
circle, listening to the clanging of bells in the church-tower near by.
Now, with much hooting and snorting of motors, the visitors from afar
had departed to their homes, and the members of the house-party had
settled themselves by the log fire for the enjoyment of a last chat.

There were eleven people left around the fire, counting the host and
hostess, four men, and five girls, all young, as youth is counted in
these days, the women averaging about twenty-four or five, the men a few
years older, and in the mellow light of the fire, and of the massed
candles in the old brass sconces on the walls, they looked a goodly
company.  They belonged, it was easy to see, to the cultured classes;
whatever might be their means or present position, these people had been
born of gentlefolks, had been educated according to the traditions of
their kind, and were equipped with the weapons of courtesy and
self-control, which had descended to them as a heritage from those
passed and gone.  Mentally, they might be guilty of anger and
impatience; mentally, they might rage and storm--that was their own
business, and concerned no one but themselves; in the presence of their
fellow-creatures they could be trusted to present a smiling front.

There are occasions, however, when the most reserved natures are tempted
to unclose, and of these the opening of the New Year is surely the most
seductive.  When the guests have departed, and the laughter is stilled,
when for a last half-hour men and women sit quietly over the fire, there
arises in the mind a consciousness of severance with the past, a sense
of newness, which is not untouched with awe.

A new year has opened--what will it bring?  What gifts, what losses, lie
awaiting in its lap?  When its last hour trembles away on the striking
of a deep twelfth chime, what will happen to me?  Where shall I be?  In
the language, the consciousness of earth--_shall I be at all_?

The tall dark girl, who had borne herself so proudly during the dance,
shivered and bent forward to warm her hands at the fire.

"Whew!  It's eerie!" she cried.  "How I hate new years, and birthdays,
and anniversaries that make one think!  What's the use of them, anyway?
One ambles along quite contentedly in the daily rut--it's only when
one's eyes are opened to see that it is a rut..."

"And that there are a solid three hundred and sixty-five days of it
ahead!" chimed in the man with the firm chin and the tired eyes.
"Exactly!  Then one pants to get out."

"And bowl triumphantly along the road in a C-spring carriage, or the
very latest divinity in motor-cars!" laughed the beauty who sat in the
corner of the oak settle, agreeably conscious that the background was
all that could be desired as a foil to her red-gold hair, and that the
dim light shed a kindly illusion over a well-worn frock.  "I object to
ruts of every kind and persuasion.  They disagree with me, and make me
cross, and I'm so nice when I'm pleased!  The parsons say that
prosperity makes people hard and selfish, but it is just the other way
about with me.  When there's not enough to go round--well, naturally, I
keep it all for myself; but so long as I have everything I want, I
_like_ other people to be happy.  I really do!  I'd give them everything
that was over."

She looked around with a challenging smile, and the others obediently
laughed and applauded.  It was fashionable to have a new role, and it
was Claudia's role to be honest, and quite blatantly selfish.  She was
pretty enough to carry it off, and clever enough to realise that her
plain speaking served as a blind.  No one believed for a moment that she
was speaking the truth, whereas, if she had not distracted attention by
waving this red flag, they must certainly have discovered the truth for
themselves.  Claudia's god was self; she would have seen her best friend
cut up into mincemeat, to provide herself with a needed _hors d'oeuvre_.

The tall man with the large head and the sharp, hawklike features,
sprang to his feet, and stood in the centre of the circle, aflush with
excitement.

"Ruts!" he repeated loudly.  "What's the matter with us all is we're
_content_ with ruts!  The thing which depresses me most at the beginning
of a year is to look back and realise the futility, the weakness, the
lack of progress.  Great heavens! how much longer are we to be content
with ruts?  Our youth is passing; in a short time it will have gone.
What have we done with our years?  If we had been worthy the name, we
should have been done with ruts by now, they would have been paved over
with a smooth white path--the path to fortune!  We should have walked
along it--our own road, a private road, forbidden to trespassers!"

A girl seated on an oak stool, in the shadow of the settle, raised her
quiet eyes, and watched him while he spoke.  She was a slim, frail
thing, with hair parted in the centre and coiled flatly round her head.
She had taken the lowest seat, and had drawn it into the shadow, but now
she leaned forward, and the firelight searched her face.  She was not
beautiful, she was not even pretty, she was small and insignificant, she
had made no effort to join in the conversation, and now, as John Malham
finished speaking, she shrank back into her corner, and became once more
a frail, shadowy shape; nevertheless, a beholder who had been vouchsafed
that one glimpse would have found himself turning once and again to that
shaded corner.  He would have wanted to see that girl again; he would
have been conscious of a strange attraction towards her; he would have
asked himself curiously was it liking, or--hate?

The girl said nothing, but a man by her side punctuated the pause by a
laugh.  He was a handsome fellow, with a bright, quizzical face and a
pair of audacious blue eyes.

"Oh, be hanged to fortune!" he cried loudly.  "Be hanged to flagged
paths!  They're the deepest ruts of all, if you could but see it.
What's wrong with us all is lethargy, slackness, the inability to move
of our own accord.  What we get matters nothing, it's the _getting_ that
counts!  Why, when I think of the whole wide world lying open, waiting,
beckoning, and of fellows like myself pacing every day of our lives in a
square mile cage in the City, I--I--" (he snapped his fingers in a
frenzy of impatience) "I wonder how long I can carry my chains!  They'll
snap some day, and I'll be off, and it will be a long good-bye to the
civilised world."

The girl in the blue dress looked at him with wistful eyes, but she
laughed more gaily than ever, and cried:

"Wait, please, till after the dance on the tenth, and when you _do_ go,
send home things to us, won't you?  Shawls and cashmeres, and
embroideries.  And pearls!  I've always longed to know a real live
pearl-fisher.  He ought to remember us, oughtn't he, everybody--because
we've been so kind and patient with his vagaries?  We all deserve
something, but bags Me the pearls!"

"Oh, you shall have your pearls right enough," said the handsome man,
but there was a careless tone in his voice which made the promise seem
worthless as sand, and he never glanced in the direction of the girl in
the blue dress.

Pretty, wistful little Norah Boyce looked up quickly as if she were
about to speak; thought better of it, and turned back to stare into the
fire.

The girl seated on the oak stool leaned forward once again, and looked
straight into the face of the handsome man.  One white hand rested
against her throat, a slim column of a throat, bare of ornament.  Her
fingers moved as though in imagination they were fingering a rope of
pearls.

Buried in the depth of a great arm-chair lay the form of a giant of a
man who had listened to the conversation with a sleepy smile.  At this
point a yawn overcame him; he struggled with it, only to find himself
entangled in a second.

"I say," he drawled lazily, "what about bed?  Doesn't that strike you as
about the most sensible proposition for the moment?  I know this
dissatisfied feeling.  No New Year's gathering is complete without it.
Best thing to get to sleep as soon as possible, and start afresh next
day.  Things look better after coffee and bacon.  What's the use of
grizzling?  If we can't have what we want, let us like what we can get.
Eh?  It's pretty certain we'll never get what we want."

"Are you so sure of that?" asked a quiet voice.  The hostess sat erect
in her seat, her graceful head with its silvering hair silhouetted
against the wall.  She looked round the circle of her guests, and
smiled, a fine, delicate smile.  "When you make that statement, Frank,
you are contradicting flatly all the premises of modern thought.  The
time has passed for sitting still and lamenting the impossible.  The
time is past for calling anything impossible.  The thing that a man
strives for--deeply, strongly, persistently--_that thing he can hovel_
That is the theory held by many great thinkers of to-day.  And it is
_true_."

There was silence for a moment, while everyone looked questioningly at
the figure of the speaker.  The man with the tired eyes asked a
question:

"I suppose that applies to women as well as to men!  Have _you_ proved
it, Mrs Ingram?"

"I have proved it," answered the quiet voice.  The host leaned forward,
and knocked the ash of his cigarette into the grate.  His face was
hidden from view.  Mrs Ingram looked round with a sudden, challenging
smile.  "_Why don't you all prove it_?" she cried.  "Why don't you all
start forth on this year with an aim in view?  I don't say you will gain
it in one year, or in two, or possibly in a dozen; but if you care
enough to go on trying, it _will_ be gained!  It's a question of one big
aim instead of a dozen.  The lesser things must go; you must become a
man, a woman, of one idea.  There are other things which are good and
pleasant and alluring, but they must be set aside as weights which would
hamper the chase.  You cannot have the one big thing--and everything
else!  Therefore it is well to ask oneself seriously at the
beginning--_Is it worth while_?"

Once more the guests were silent, staring into the heart of the fire.
That last question, uttered in a deep, grave tone, had called to the bar
those inner voices which had so long breathed envy and discontent.  Each
listener examined his own motives, and knew a chill of doubt, but the
chill passed, and the conviction remained.  Each one felt convinced that
life held no good outside the coveted goal.

The silence gave assent, as Mrs Ingram realised without need of further
words.

"Suppose," she said gently, "you make me your father confessor to-night,
and confess your various aims and ambitions?  It is the sort of
confession appropriate to a New Year's dawn, and perhaps the very
putting into words will vitalise your dreams and take them the first
step towards becoming realities.  You must _all_ confess, remember!
There must be no holding back; if one begins the rest must follow, and
after the confessions have been made, we must pledge ourselves to help
each other towards our separate goals, if not by material aids, by
reinforcing his will with our own!"

The girl in blue laughed lightly, and cried: "Oh, let's!  Let's all
confess, and then, years afterwards, when we are old, and wear
transformations, we'll meet again, at the dying of the year, and sit
round the Yule log, and tell the stories of our lives.  And if we have
failed, we will weep salt tears of disappointment; and if we have
succeeded, we'll weep more, because it's all hollow and stuffed with
bran, and we'll make pious reflections, and sigh: `Oh, me!  Oh, my!' and
preach sermons to the youngsters, and they won't believe a word.  And so
it will all begin over again.  Juliet, you set the ball rolling, by
speaking of ruts.  You ought to be the first to confess.  What is the
secret longing of your heart?"

The dark girl showed no sign of embarrassment at being chosen to lead
the way.  There was no sign of shrinking or hesitation upon her face; on
the contrary, at the sound of that penetrating question, the careless
smile died away, and her features seemed suddenly to glow with life.

"_Adventure_!" she cried quickly.  "Give me that, and, for good or ill,
I shall be satisfied.  Fate made me with a vagrant's heart shut up in a
woman's body, and for twenty-four years it's been fed on monotony in a
country parish.  Since I left the schoolroom I've never had a real
experience of my own.  I've had trivial pleasures, never one real big
joy; never"--she looked slowly, thoughtfully, from face to face--"_never
a grief_!  There's something here"--she laid her hand on her
heart--"fighting to get out!  The ordinary, quiet, comfortable life
would not content it.  It wants more.  It wants happenings, changes,
excitement--it wants the big world, and I am a prisoner in the castle of
convention.  Mrs Ingram, how does your prophecy apply to me?  How am I
to get out?"

"No prison is so strong that it cannot be pulled down, Juliet.  The
walls of Jericho fell at the sound of the trumpet.  But you must
discover your own trumpet, and the walls won't fall at the first
flourish," said Mrs Ingram, and then suddenly and incontinently she
added: "Poor child!"

"Just so!  Miss Juliet will certainly be one of those who will sigh:
`Woe's me!' at our future merry meeting," cried the tall man with the
hawklike features, "and it's rough on her, too, for she's so touchingly
modest in her desire.  Doesn't care a pin apparently whether she comes
out better or worse!  Now, for my own part, that's all I do care for.
Success!  Success! that's my mania: forging ahead, gaining on my
opponents, winning the lead.  Adventure doesn't count.  I'd sit at an
office desk for fourteen hours out of the twenty-four, for fourteen
years at a stretch, if it ensured success at the end--a big success, a
success which left me head and shoulders above the ruck.  I'd walk the
world barefooted from one end to the other to gain a secret that was
worth while.  Success is my god.  To gain it I would sacrifice
everything else."

"Then, of a certainty, it can be yours," said Mrs Ingram quietly, and
she looked at him with such a gentle glance that he asked her a laughing
question: "Are you going to call me `poor child!' too?"

"Not yet," she said quietly.  Then she turned to the big man, and laid a
hand on his arm.  "You next, Frank?"

"Oh, well!" he laughed good-humouredly yet with a tinge of
embarrassment.  "I didn't bargain for this confession business, but
since it's the rule, I must follow suit, I suppose.  I'm a commonplace
beggar!  I'm pretty well content with things as they come.  I'm not keen
on any adventures that I know of; if I can have enough to be
comfortable, that's all I want.  I'd like a nice wife, and a house with
a bit of garden; and a youngster or two, and a runabout car, don't you
know, and the usual accessories!  That's about all I fancy.  `Man wants
but little here below.'"

"Frank plumps for comfort," said Mrs Ingram, smiling.  "His programme
sounds distinctly restful, for a change.  Take care of your figure,
Frank!  I should suggest mowing the garden as a helpful recreation.
Next, please!  Claudia!"

"Oh, money, please!" cried Claudia eagerly.  "_Lots_ of money, and a
safe full of jewels.  Do you know, I dress on forty pounds a year all
told, and a rich cousin sends me cast-offs!  I take them hungrily, but I
hate her for it, and when I'm a millionaire I'll cut her dead.  A German
Jew stock-broker, dear, or a Maharajah of `something-core,' or a
soap-boiler without h's--anyone will do if he has enough money!  I'd
rather not, of course, but it's the only way!  Dear people, will you
_all_ come to my wedding?"

"Claudia, you are impossible!  You ought to be ashamed!"

"Yes, I should, but I'm not!  Isn't it horrid of me?  If I blow _very_
loudly, do you think I shall go off this season?"

"Claudia speaks in her usual highly coloured fashion, but there's no
doubt about her aim.  She wants money, and, incidentally, all that it
can buy.--Adventure.  Success.  Comfort.  Money.  We are getting plenty
of variety!  Rupert, what are you going to give us?"

The man with the tired eyes and the firm chin leaned forward in his
seat, with his elbows resting on his knees and his chin supported in the
hollow of his hands.  The firelight showed the delicate network of lines
round eyes and mouth, the modelling of the long curved lips.

"I--want--Love!" he said quietly, and a stir of amazement passed round
the circle of listeners.  He looked round and smiled, a slow, amused
smile.  "Surprised, aren't you?  Didn't expect that from me; but it
isn't as simple as it sounds.  I'm not thinking of Frank's `nice' wife,
and a house in the suburbs, the usual midsummer madness followed by
settling down to live--stodgily!--ever after.  I'm speaking of something
big, primal, overwhelming; something that _lasts_.  Love comes to most
men in the course of their lives, a modicum of love.  The dullest dog
has his day, a day uplifted, glorified, when he walks like a god.
Afterwards he looks back upon it from his padded arm-chair, and smiles--
a smug smile.  It was a moment of madness; now he is sane, that's _his_
point of view; but mine happens to be precisely the opposite!  To me
those moments are life, the only life worth living.  The rest is a
sleep.  If I could have what I wish, I'd choose to love, to _be_ loved,
like the great masters in the art, the lovers _par excellence_ of the
ages.  I'd be willing, if needs be, to sacrifice everything else, and
count the world well lost.  It would be a love not only of the senses,
but of the mind, of the soul, and so it would live on, undimmed by the
passing of youth.  That is my dream, you understand!  As regards
expectation, I don't share Mrs Ingram's optimism.  It's not only myself
who is involved, you see.  It is another person, and my desires are so
absurdly in excess of my deserts.  Who am I that I should expect the
extraordinary?"

He ceased, and again the silence fell.  The girl in blue bit hard on her
under lip and shrank back into the shadow; the girl who had wished for
adventure drew a quick gasp of excitement; the woman who had lived, and
gained her desire, drew a quivering sigh.  Silent, immovable, in the
shadow of the settle, sat the girl in white.

"Oh, dear!" cried Claudia suddenly.  "If he _only_ had money!  I'd adore
beyond all things to be worshipped on a pedestal!  Rupert, if an old
aunt dies, and leaves you her millions,--would I do?"

That was the best of Claudia, her prattle bridged so many awkward gaps!
In an instant the tension had eased, and a general laugh broke the
silence.  Rupert laughed with the rest, no whit embarrassed by the
question.

"Not at all, Beauty," he said calmly.  "I need a great passion in
return, and you are incapable of it.  Most women are!  I doubt if in the
whole course of my life I have met one who could rise to it," and he
cast a quick glance round the group until his eyes met those of his
hostess.

"Very few men would understand what you are talking about, or, if they
did, would desire so demanding a romance," Mrs Ingram told him.  "The
man who _does_ will find his mate, but--he must pay the price!  So we
have come to Love at last!  I thought it would have taken an earlier
place."

"Mrs Ingram," cried Claudia boldly, "was _that_ what you wished for
yourself?  You told us you had proved your own theories.  Did _you_ wish
for love?"

"No!" said the hostess quietly.  "It was not love."  She glanced across
the hearth as she spoke, and her eyes and her husband's met, and
exchanged a message.

The man with the magnetic eyes burst hastily into the conversation, as
if anxious to divert attention to himself.

"I suppose I come next?  I've been questioning myself while you've all
been talking.  It's difficult to condense one's ambitions into just one
word, but I've got it at last--or the one which most nearly expresses
what I mean.  _Danger_!  That's it.  That's what I want.  I'm fed up
with monotony, and convention, and civilisation, but I go a step farther
than Miss Juliet, for I demand, so to speak, the superlative of
adventure.  Risk, uncertainty, the thrill, the fear!  I want to take my
life in my hands, to get out into the open of life, and come face to
face with the unknown.  Put me down as `Danger,' Mrs Ingram, and when
you think over all the wishes, mine really seems the easiest of
fulfilment.  There's plenty of trouble knocking around, and a man need
not have far to search.  I think, on the whole, I'll absolve my friends
from that promise to help!  It might land them in disagreeable
consequences!"

"But are we expected to wish you good luck?  It really _is_ an invidious
position!" cried the girl in blue.  She sighed, and twisted her fingers
together in her lap.

"It's coming to my turn," she continued, "and I'm so horribly
embarrassed, for my confession sounds the most selfish of all: I want
just to be happy!  That's all!  But it means so much, and it's such a
difficult thing to accomplish.  Don't anyone _dare_ to tell me that it's
in my own power, and must be manufactured inside, because I've heard it
so often, and it's not true!  I need _outside_ things, and I can't be
happy till I get them.  But I only want them so that I can be happy, and
I'd give them up in a minute if _other_ things would have the same
effect.  Don't I express myself lucidly and well?  I'm a sweet,
tender-hearted little girl, dear friends, and I ask for so little!  Kind
contributions gratefully received.  Mrs Ingram dear, you won't preach,
will you?"

"Not for the world," cried Mrs Ingram laughing.  "Why shouldn't you be
happy, Meriel dear?  I am sure we all wish you a short quest, and a rich
harvest!  And what does Norah want?"

Mrs Ingram's voice was a trifle apologetic as she looked towards where
Norah Boyce sat, turning her head from side to side to listen to the
pronouncements of her fellow guests, sometimes serious, sometimes
smiling, but always with that little wistful pucker of the brows which
of late had become a settled expression.  It seemed at the moment as if
it would be more sensible to inquire what Norah did _not_ want, for a
very harvest of last straws had combined to break her back within the
last two years.  She was an orphan, but having been possessed of a
moderate, but comfortable income (five hundred a year to wit), had
contrived to lead a sufficiently full and agreeable life during the
half-dozen years which had elapsed since she had left school.  She paid
visits, she travelled abroad with congenial friends, she had a room at a
ladies' club, and stayed frequently as paying guest with such of her
friends as were not overburdened with this world's wealth.  Everyone was
pleased to entertain a pretty, particularly sweet-tempered girl, and to
receive five pounds a week for the privilege, for there was no meanness
about Norah, she looked upon money simply as a means to an end, spent
lavishly, and was as ignorant as a doll as to the investments from which
her income arose.  She knew by reference to her bank-book that a cheque
for about a hundred pounds was due in December, and was convenient for
Christmas gifts, and that another--about fifty--arrived in time for the
July sales.  She knew that her receipts varied, but that, of course, was
the result of a Liberal Government, and would come right with its fall
from power!  On one occasion a cheque never came at all, and it appeared
that something had gone wrong in America, and that it never would come
any more.  Norah felt very indignant with her trustee, and was convinced
that the loss was entirely his fault.  She asked pathetically what was
the _use_ of having a trustee, and felt very Christian and forbearing,
because she was quite civil to him when they next met,--from all which
it will be gathered that Norah Boyce was a survival of the
old-fashioned, unworldly, more or less helpless young women of a past
generation.  She had not been trained either to work, or to think for
herself; her education had not specialised on any one subject; her value
in the wage-earning market was exactly nil, and before the end of her
twenty-fifth year her income had fallen to nearly the same point.

It had been a year of calamity.  Everything went wrong.  A European war
sent down the prices of stocks and shares.  A railway strike at home
swallowed up dividends; a bank failed; water leaked into an oil well,
and dried up on a rubber plantation.  Norah had no time to recover from
one disaster before another burst upon her; while she was still
sorrowfully digesting the fact that a summer remittance was not to hand,
intelligence arrived that as regarded autumn payments, the trustee
regretfully pronounced no dividends.  In short, Fortune, having smiled
upon the young woman for twenty-five years, had now turned her back with
a vengeance, until eventually she was face to face with the fact that in
future her work must be to earn, rather than to spend.

Mrs Ingram had played her usual part of confidante and consoler during
the year of upheaval, and the invitation had been given with the
intention of allowing "the poor little dear time to think."  It would
not be tactful to exclude her from the general questioning that had
sprung out of New Year confidences, but in her heart the hostess shrank
from putting the question.

"And what do _you_ want, Norah?  I think it's your turn!"

Contrary to expectation Norah did not look at all perturbed.  She
shrugged her shoulders, and cried instantly, "Oh, Work, of course!
Plenty of work.  At once.  With a handsome remuneration, paid quarterly
in advance!  It sounds very moral and praiseworthy, but it isn't a bit.
I'm not fond of work; I'd a great deal sooner go on amusing myself in my
own way.  I've never had one scrap of longing to be a bachelor girl, and
live on my own, and cook sketchy meals on a greasy stove.  I detest food
in the raw, and should never be able to eat it, after contending with it
in its earliest stages.  I'd live on tea and nuts.  But it's a got-to!
I _must_ earn money, so I must work.  The trouble is to discover what I
can do...  I can think of thousands of things that I _can't_...  I can--
with care--make five shillings go about as far as an ordinary person's
half-crown, so I'm not exactly suited to be a housekeeper.  I couldn't
trim a hat to save my life, but I can alter one quite well.  I'm clever
at it.  It's generally accomplished by first sitting on it, and then
putting it on in the dark.  You wouldn't believe how smart it can look!
Do you think there'd be any chance of selling the patent?  Or could I
advertise in a fashion paper--`Lady remodels hats to latest mode.  Send
orders for two and six to N.B.'? ...  I can't write a book, or paint a
picture, or teach a child over three, or nurse, or massage, or type, or
keep a beauty parlour--or--or--or anything that working women _do_ do!
I might offer myself to the Educational Society, as a horrible example
of how a girl ought _not_ to be brought up, and be exhibited on the
platform at lectures.  The work would be light, and I could wear pretty
clothes, but I don't think it would be respectful to my parents.  I
think I must be a `nice old-fashioned girl,' but there's no demand for
old-fashioned girls to-day.  Nobody wants them!"

"I don't agree with you there, Norah.  I think there's a big demand,"
Mrs Ingram said quickly, and from the men present came a deep murmur of
agreement.  No one present was in love with Norah Boyce herself, but all
were in love with her type.  She would make a charming wife, a
delightful mother.  To the end of her life she would probably have
difficulties with cheques, and remain hopelessly mixed on political
questions, but she would be a genius in the making of a home!

"You'll find your right niche, dear, I've no doubt of that.  You mustn't
allow yourself to despair before you begin your search."  Mrs Ingram
continued smiling.  "Your ambition, at any rate, is a thing in which we
can all help.  Please everybody remember Norah, and let her know at once
if you hear of a suitable post!  I think we must make a strong point of
her disposition.  Such a very sweet temper ought to be priced above
rubies."

"I'll sell it cheap at three pounds a week!" said Norah ruefully, and
there was a merry outburst of laughter.  It died quickly, however, and a
general expectation made itself felt, the echo of which sounded in Mrs
Ingram's voice.

"Only one more confession, and we have gone through our list.  Lilith is
hiding, as usual, but she shall not escape.  Come out of your corner,
you silent sprite, and tell us what gift you would ask of the Fates
to-night!"

"A white moss rose!" drawled Claudia mockingly, but the ripple of
laughter which usually followed her words was this time feeble and
unreal.

Every eye was turned towards that darkened corner; the very fire, as
though following the general example, threw up a long blue flame which
flickered strangely over Lilith's face.

She moved forward with a noiseless deliberation; first, two tiny,
white-shod feet gleamed upon the oak floor, then two small hands clasped
on folds of satin; last of all, the small head with the tightly swathed
hair, the small, straight features, and the curious light-rimmed eyes.
For a long, silent moment she sat gazing before her.  Her voice when she
spoke had an unexpected depth and richness.

"I want," said Lilith slowly--"Power!"

Mrs Ingram disapproved of anachronisms, and set her face sternly
against electric lighting in her ancestral home.  To-night, as every
night, the retiring guests helped themselves to one of a row of silver
candlesticks on a table near the staircase, and lit it with a match
before beginning the ascent.  Lilith was the last of the ladies to
receive her candle; the last to receive the salutations of the four men.
She raised her face to each in turn, and gazed deep in his eyes, while
their hands met and parted, and to three men out of the four came, at
that moment, a vision and a dream.  The man who had wished for love,
thrilled at the thought of a woman's eyes looking out of an unknown
face, which yet would share some magical quality with those now looking
into his own.  John Malham saw in a vision an icy peak, sharp and white,
and beautiful with a deadly beauty.  The touch of her hand in his was
cold and light as a snowflake.  Val Lessing looked at the white column
of her throat, and beheld round it ropes of pearls--lustrous, shimmering
pearls for which a man might venture his life; but Francis, the giant,
had no illusions--he was sleepy, and he thought of bed.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Alone in the great hall, husband and wife stood over the dying logs.

"Well, wonderful woman!" he said, "you have given us a wonderful
evening, and now we must stand by, and watch those nine strugglers in
the maelstrom.  It will be interesting; it will be awful.  How many of
them do you suppose will win through to their goal?"

Mrs Ingram did not answer his question; she asked another of her own
accord:

"Did you notice," she said softly, "that no one, not one of them--"

"Wished your wish?" he finished for her.  "Yes!  I noticed!"

He laid his hands on her shoulders, and they stood together, gazing
deeply into each other's eyes.

"But," she sighed softly, "it is the best!"



CHAPTER TWO.

THE GIRL WHO WISHED FOR MONEY.

Claudia Berrington prided herself that if she had many faults, she had
at least one supreme virtue--she was honest!  She condescended to no
subterfuges, no half-truths, no beatings about the bush.  The truth, the
whole truth, and nothing but the truth fell from her coral lips with a
nakedness which astonished her hearers, and this despite the fact that
few people had less consideration for honesty for honesty's sake.  There
was no "I can, because I ought" in Claudia Berrington's composition; her
outspokenness was simply a means to an end.  Very early in life her
sharp wits had mastered the fact that honesty was the best policy, and
that to speak the truth was at once to disarm criticism and to avoid the
danger of pitfalls.

To Claudia's supreme delight, she discovered that her adopted virtue was
quite an asset in society.  It was so uncommon, so arresting to meet a
girl who _really_ said what she meant, that it made quite a sensation,
when found.  People said to one another: "Have you heard Claudia's
latest?" and hung upon her lips in delighted anticipation of shocks.
And Claudia duly shocked them, and enjoyed the process.

Openly, at the New Year's party, Claudia had confessed that the one
overwhelming ambition of her heart was to be rich, and as there seemed
only one way in which a helpless young woman could obtain a limitless
command of money, had declared herself ready to marry the highest bidder
in the market.  "A German Jew stock-broker, or a Maharajah of
`something-core,' or a soap-boiler bereft of h's.  Anyone will do!" she
had cried, "if he can only give me enough."  And in a _tete-a-tete_ with
a girl friend over her bedroom fire the same night, she had repeated and
defended the same statement.

"Ashamed?" she cried, "why should I be ashamed?  I'm not a bit!  How can
I help my own nature?  Most girls put love before everything else.
Well, so do I; but it's love for _myself_.  I love myself better than
any stupid young man, and I mean to make myself happy.  I couldn't be
happy without money, therefore money I must have, and if I find a man
who is ready and willing to give it to me, why on earth should I
refuse?"

The friend looked at the fair, delicately cut face with a pang of envy.

"You are so lovely, Claudia; you'll find him fast enough, and he'll
worship you, and think you a paragon of virtue.  It _is_ unfair!  A
plain-looking girl who would have loved him back, and been amiable and
devoted, would have no chance, whereas you will carry all before you.
It _is_ unfair!"

"Oh, I'll be quite sweet to him.  I'll have to be, to keep him in a good
temper.  I'll be wickedly extravagant, you see, like all _nouveaux
riches_, and I detest rows!  Don't you worry about the man, dear.  He'll
be happy enough.  So long as I get all I want, I'm quite easy to live
with!"

"No one gets all one wants in life, Claudia," said the friend tritely.
"All the money in the world can't protect you from the troubles which
enter every life!"

"Perhaps not; but it can gild them!  If I'm bound to have troubles, let
me have them _de luxe_.  A million or two can make anything picturesque.
All the difference between sables and bombazine.  Shouldn't I look
sweet, Meriel, as a widow, with a Marie Stuart bonnet and a cloak of
priceless sables?  He might die, you know!  You never can tell!"

Then Meriel had arisen and swept scornfully from the room, and Claudia
had laughed, and yawned, and gone to bed.

Several men proposed to Claudia during the next two years, only to be
rejected with a finality which left no ground for appeal, and then, soon
after the celebration of her twenty-fifth birthday, John Biggs appeared
upon the scene.  He was neither a Maharajah nor a German Jew, and he
knew nothing whatever about soap-boiling.  Probably in early years he
had hardly been better acquainted with soap itself!  He was an
Australian by birth; a man of the people, who by a series of lucky
chances had first discovered a gold reef, and then secured it for his
own.  A born fighter, he had experienced a delight in every step on the
road to success, which was strangely lacking when the summit was
reached.  He was a multi-millionaire; he owned more money than he could
spend.  The battle had been fought and won, and henceforth life
stretched before him barren of interest.  He made his way to London, as
millionaires have a habit of doing, was eagerly welcomed by a certain
section of society, and in the course of a few weeks met Miss Berrington
at a musical "At Home."

"Who's the Ogre?" asked Claudia of her companion as she watched the
entrance of the big, lumbering man, who still carried his dress clothes
with an air of discomfort.  She shuddered daintily.  "He looks like,
`The better to eat you, my dear.'  Such teeth oughtn't to be _allowed_!
_Has_ he any eyes?  They are so buried in fat that one can't see.  It's
very inconsiderate of Lady Rollo to give us such shocks!  If he comes
over here, I shall scream!"

"That's Biggs, the Australian millionaire, the third richest man in the
world, so they say.  He _is_ an ugly beggar, and as glum as he's ugly.
Doesn't appear to get much fun out of his pile!  There's no need to be
introduced to him, Miss Berrington, if you'd rather not.  Shall we go
and hide in the conservatory?"

The speaker was a recent acquaintance, sufficiently under the spell of
Claudia's dimples to believe her everything that was disinterested and
simple.  Her reply gave him a shock.

"A millionaire, is he?  That covers a multitude of--teeth!  I shan't
scream, after all.  No; I don't want to hide.  I've a penchant for
millionaires!  I'll sit here and look pretty!  How long do you give him,
Mr Bruce, before he asks for an introduction?"

Mr Bruce gave him ten minutes, but, as a matter of fact, it was only
seven and a half by the clock before the Ogre was bowing before the
Beauty's sofa, and being smilingly welcomed to a seat by her side.  He
was portentously ugly!  Claudia, regarding him with her long green eyes,
thought she had never before beheld so unattractive a man.  "Flabby
dabby" was her not inappropriate mental definition, but the small grey
eyes looking out of the vast mass of flesh were disconcertingly keen and
alert.  Claudia realised that her description did not apply to the man's
_mind_, however aptly it might fit his body.

As for John Biggs, no words could describe his admiration of this
wonderful new specimen of womanhood.  Never in all his life had he
beheld anyone so fair, so exquisite, so ethereal.  Her hair was like
threads of gold.  The exquisite fineness and beauty of her complexion
was like that of a child.  It seemed a miracle in the eyes of the big,
rough man that a grown-up woman should preserve such delicacy of charm.
Yet as they exchanged the first commonplaces of conversation there was
something in the expression of those sunken eyes which was not wholly
approving.  They seemed to Claudia like small steel gimlets, piercing
into her soul!  As he bade her good-bye that evening, John Biggs
announced coolly:

"I shall see you again on Thursday, as arranged!" and when Claudia
exclaimed, he waved aside her protests with a sarcastic laugh.

"You have been at pains to tell me exactly what you are to be doing
every day of this week!  Didn't you _intend_ me to meet you?"

Claudia shrugged her shoulders, and took refuge in her usual honesty.

"Well--I _did_!  But you might have pretended that I didn't.  It's
rather unkind to show that you see through my poor little machinations
with such ease."

"I never pretend," said John Biggs.  His eyes rested on the string of
imitation pearls encircling the slender neck, and he spoke again,
roughly, insolently: "Why do you deck yourself with sham beads?"

"Because I have nothing better, of course.  What a stupid question to
ask!"

"You ought to wear emeralds," he said.  "They are the stones for you,
with your complexion and eyes.  You ought to wear emeralds.  Ropes of
emeralds."

"I intend to!" answered Claudia calmly.

Their eyes met, and they stared at one another; a cold and challenging
stare.

During the next fortnight Society watched with interest the progress of
the affair between "Beauty and the Beast," and speculation was rife as
to its outcome.  Would he propose; and, if so, would she--_could_ she
accept?  It seemed impossible to her friends that even Claudia, the
mercenary, could sell herself to this ogre-like man.  But Claudia
herself had no hesitation.

On the fifteenth day after their introduction, the couple sat together
under a tree at one of the outdoor functions of the year, and John Biggs
asked a sudden question:

"What did you think of me," he asked, "when you first saw me that
evening at the Rollos'?"

Claudia smiled at him with the sweetness of an angel.

"I thought," she said, "you were the ugliest man I had ever seen!"

"And yet," he said sneering, "you made eyes at me across the room.  You
willed me to come and be introduced!"

"Yes, I did.  But that," said Claudia serenely, "was because you were
rich."

The gimlet-like eyes stared long and straight at the lovely face,
beneath the rose-crowned hat.

"I think," John Biggs said deliberately, "you are the most soulless
human creature on earth!  That lovely body of yours is a shell--a
beautiful shell with nothing inside.  You have no soul!"

"I don't want one, thank you.  They're such a bother.  Why are you so
cross with me all of a sudden?" cried Claudia, making a delightful
little _moue_ of childlike injury and distress.  "I've been so nice to
you all this time, and it's mean to ask questions, and then get cross
when I tell you the truth."

"You are false!" he replied coldly.  "Your honesty is a blind to hide
the falseness beneath.  There is nothing true, nor straight, nor honest
about you."  And then bending nearer, so that his huge brown face almost
touched her own, he hissed a question into her ear: "Claudia--will you
marry me?"

Claudia gave a trill of birdlike laughter.

"Yes, please!" she cried gaily.  "But what a funny proposal!  You don't
`lead up' a bit well.  They are generally so flattering and nice, and
you were horrible.  Why do you want to marry me, if you disapprove of me
so much?"

"Why do you want to marry _me_?" he asked in return.  There was no
lover-like ardour in his voice; the sunken eyes gleamed with a mocking
light; every tooth in his head seemed to show as he bent over her.  "Is
it because you love me, Claudia?"

"N-ot exactly," said Claudia, with a gulp.  His nearness gave her a
momentary feeling of suffocation, but she braced herself to bear it
without shrinking.  "N-ot exactly; but I love the things you can give
me!  It's a fair exchange, isn't it?  You want a hostess; I want a home.
You don't pretend to love me, either!"

Then suddenly his eyes blazed upon her.

"Not you, perhaps, but your beauty!  I worship your beauty," he cried.
"Your beauty has driven me mad!  Make no mistake, my girl, you don't
deceive me--you are not worth loving, not even worth buying, though you
are so ready to sell your dainty pink and white self, but I am going to
buy you all the same.  I've worked hard for my money, and I can afford
to indulge myself in worthless trifles if it suits my fancy.  It is, as
you say, a fair exchange.  You want my money, I want your beauty.  I
have worked among grim sights; now, for a change, I shall look upon--
You!"  He stretched out his great hand, and laid it beside hers.  "Hide
and satin!  Who would believe that we belonged to the same species!
You're a dainty morsel, my dear.  We shall make a pretty pair."

Claudia looked at him, and felt a shrinking of heart.

"You'll be good to me?" she asked him.  "You'll promise not to quarrel,
or be stingy?  You won't make me marry you, and then put me on an
allowance, or fuss about bills?  You'll promise faithfully!"

"You shall have as much money as you can spend.  You're an object _de
luxe_, my dear, and shall be shielded carefully in your glass case.  I'm
not a fool to buy a curio, and not look after its preservation.  Take
care of your beauty!  Deck it up!  It's mine!  I've bought it--_see that
I get my price_!"

He lifted his hand and stroked the exquisite cheek.  Seen close at hand,
the fineness and smoothness of the skin was even more wonderful than
from afar.  He gripped the chin between finger and thumb, and turned her
face to his, staring greedily at each curve and line.  In appearance, as
in manner, Claudia went in for honesty.  There was no artificiality
about her beauty, not even a brush of powder upon the skin.  The man who
had just settled his terms regarded his purchase with kindling eyes.

"I'll buy you your emeralds, my beauty, the finest emeralds I can find,"
he cried.  "Everyone shall talk of you; everyone shall envy you.  The
Queen of Beauty, Mrs John Biggs!"

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Claudia Biggs had been married for two years, and had flourished like
the proverbial bay-tree.  Her wedding had been one of the smartest
functions of the season, her honeymoon had been spent in a lordly castle
"lent for the occasion" by its titled owner.  As Mrs John Biggs, she
had made her presentation curtsey to her sovereign in a gown whose
magnificence was the talk of the town; every house that was worth
visiting threw open its doors to the millionaire and his wife, and
Society flocked to the entertainments given by them in their turn.
There had been those who had prophesied disaster from the marriage, who
had felt convinced that Claudia would not be able to endure so close a
companionship with her Ogre, but as time passed on they were obliged to
confess their mistake, for Claudia bloomed into an amazing, an almost
incredible, beauty.  She had always been lovely, but the loveliness of
Claudia the maid was as nothing compared with that of Claudia the wife.
What had been, as it were, a flower of the wayside, had become the most
rare and costly of exotics, tended with every extravagance of care.  The
most exquisite garments, the most costly gems, were showered upon her by
a husband who took no account of money spent on the adornment of the
beauty for which he had paid so high a price; but if he were generous in
the fulfilment of his promise, he insisted that Claudia should do her
own share.  She must be sparing in food and drink, she must take regular
exercise; she must keep early hours, and retire to the country for
specified periods of rest.  John commanded, and, after one memorable
attempt at rebellion, Claudia had silently obeyed.  She never
voluntarily recalled that occasion, but from time to time it visited her
in dreams, and then she awoke screaming, as from a nightmare.

At the end of two years, the girl friend who had lectured Claudia on the
night of her confession that she wanted money came to pay a visit to the
Mayfair mansion, afire with eagerness to see with her own eyes this
strangely matched pair.  Claudia was lazy about correspondence, and on
the rare occasions when she did exert herself to write, her letters were
stiff and artificial.  She was aware of her own lack of epistolary
skill, and was in the habit of referring her friends to the Society
papers for news of her doings.  "They'll tell you all about my dresses,"
she would say serenely, and following her advice her friends read
accounts of wonderful brocades embroidered with real jewels, of trains
composed of cloth of gold, and cobweb creations of lace, whose value ran
high in four figures, and they laughed to themselves as they read,
recalling the old days and the rich cousin's "cast-offs."

Certainly Claudia could now claim to be one of the most gorgeously
dressed women in society, but--was she happy?  Meriel, who was of a
romantic and sensitive temperament, recalled the appearance of John
Biggs as he had appeared at the wedding ceremony: the gross bulk of the
man, the projecting teeth, the small eyes glowing like points of light,
the large coarse face; remembering, she shuddered at the remembrance,
and for the hundredth time repeated the question--was it possible that
Claudia could know happiness with such a mate?

Meriel arrived at the Mayfair mansion late one March afternoon, and was
escorted up a magnificent staircase into an equally magnificent
drawing-room on the first floor.  Everything on which the eyes rested
was costly and beautiful, but, looking around with dazzled eyes, Meriel
realised that this was but a show-room, an enlarged curio case, in which
were exhibited isolated objects of value.  There was no harmony about
the whole, no skilful blending of effect; the loving touch which turns a
house into a home was missing here.  The perfect specimens stood stiffly
in their places, there was no sign of occupation, not so much as a book
lying upon a chair.

The first impression was undoubtedly disappointing, but presently the
door opened, and Claudia herself appeared on the threshold, and ran
forward, impulsive, loving, and unaffected as in the days of her
obscurity.

"Meriel!  Oh, Meriel!  It _is_ ripping to see you again, you dear, nice
old thing!  I'm ever so pleased you could come.  I don't often have
visitors.  I'm bored with visitors, but I wanted you.  And you look just
the same; not a bit older.  I always did say you had the sweetest eyes
in the world--_and_ the ugliest hats!  Meriel darling, I shall take you
at once to my milliner's."

"No good, my dear, I've no money to spend.  Besides, what's the use of
worrying about clothes while I'm with you?  I'm bound to look the
veriest frump in comparison, so why worry any more?  We are not all the
wives of millionaires."

"No!  Isn't it a pity?  I do wish you were.  Sit down, dear, and we'll
have tea."

Claudia touched the electric bell and seated herself on a sofa a little
to the left of her friend's chair, looking towards her with a smile in
which complacency was tinged with a touch of anxiety.

"How do I look?"

Meriel looked, laughed, and waved her hands in the air with a gesture
meant to convey the inadequacy of words.

"A vision!  A dream.  Snow white.  Rose red.  A fairy princess.  A
diamond queen.  Quite unnecessarily and selfishly beautiful, my dear,
and as sleek as a well-stroked cat!  Really, Claudia, you've eclipsed
yourself!"

"Oh, have I?  You think so really?  Honestly, you think so?  Meriel, you
_are_ a dear; I do love you!" cried Claudia, and Meriel noticed with
amazement that there was unfeigned relief in her voice.  It was a new
development for Claudia to show any uncertainty concerning her own
charms!

Throughout the meal which followed Meriel was absorbed in admiration of
the beautiful creature who sat beside her; her unaccustomed eyes dwelt
with something like awe upon the costly intricacies of her attire, the
limpid purity of the gems which glittered on the white hands.  Claudia's
clothing expressed the last word in smartness, but she had not been
infected by the modern craze for powder and rouge.  The beauty of her
face and hair were due to nature alone, but, despite the warmth, of her
friend's admiration, she herself seemed to feel some uncertainty as to
their effect.  From time to time she craned her head to study herself in
a mirror which hung upon the wall, and at each glance her forehead
wrinkled.  Meriel pushed her chair slightly to the left so that she also
might see that reflection, and discovered with amusement that the cause
of this perturbation was a slight pink flush which rose above the lace
collar, and touched the base of the cheek; she bit her lips to restrain
a smile, realising with increased amusement that ever since she had
entered the room Claudia had skilfully manoeuvred to hide this trifling
disfigurement from observation.  What a bore to be a society belle who
was obliged to worry seriously about a trifle which would probably
disappear in the course of a few hours!

The two friends were talking merrily together when the door opened, and
John Biggs entered the room.  He was slightly thinner, a thought more
presentable than of yore, but the small eyes had lost none of their
sunken gleam.  Meriel had to keep a strong control over herself to hide
her shuddering dislike as his hand touched hers, but she acknowledged
that he was a gracious host, and that she had no cause to find fault
with the manner in which he gave her welcome.  The greetings over, she
discovered that Claudia had taken advantage of the breathing space to
move her chair to the opposite side of the small tea-table, so that her
husband from his arm-chair should see her to the best advantage, and the
disfigurement of that slight rash should be inflicted upon the guest
rather than upon himself.  It struck Meriel as a pretty, almost a
touching action, and she watched eagerly to discover if it were possible
that the miracle of love had united this husband and wife.

First for the husband--his conversation was addressed as in duty bound
mainly to his guest, but ever and anon his eyes returned to his wife,
and dwelt upon her, fascinated, absorbed, as though of all the treasures
which the room contained she was in his sight the most priceless of all.
Then for the wife--a slight but very perceptible change had come over
Claudia's manner since the moment of his entrance.  Her affectation of
candour disappeared, an air of caution and reserve enveloped her like a
mist.  She gave the altogether new impression of considering her words,
of shaping them continually to please the ears of her audience.  Yet she
had shown her old outspokenness during the first few minutes of the
interview, had for instance had no hesitation in condemning the ugliness
of Mend's hat.  Obviously then it was her husband whom she was
considering, not her guest.  Once more Meriel commended the attitude;
once more hope raised her head.  She addressed herself to her host in
quite a cordial and friendly manner.

"I have been telling Claudia that she has eclipsed all her former
records!  She is looking younger, and more brilliant than I have ever
seen her."

John Biggs looked at his wife, and his eyes gleamed.  What did that
gleam mean?  Did it mean love, the love which a man might naturally be
supposed to cherish for a wife so young and lovely?

It was Meriel's nature to believe in her fellow creatures, and she told
herself that of course it meant love.  What else could it be?  It was
imagination only which had read into that glance something cold and
cruel, a triumph of possession more malignant than tender.  When Claudia
rose to escort her friend to her room, there came the first note of
discord, for her husband rose too, and as she would have passed by
stretched out one great hand to detain her, while with the other he held
her chin, turning her face so that the pink rash was deliberately
exposed to his gaze.  A moment before it had been hardly noticeable, but
at that touch the pink flush faded from Claudia's cheek, leaving her so
pallid that the disfigurement was increased by contrast.

"Still there, I notice!" he said shortly, and then with a certain
brutality of emphasis: "Get rid of that!" he cried deeply.  "Get rid of
it.  _And quickly_.  Do you hear?"

"Yes, John," Claudia said, and there was a breathless catch in her
voice, as though his words filled her with fear.

Meriel marvelled still more!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Later on that evening, Meriel repaired to her friend's room to indulge
in one of those hair-brushing _tete-a-tetes_ dear to the feminine soul.

"Well, Claudia," she began, a touch of something approaching envy
sounding in her voice, "you at least have gained what you wished for!
You plumped for money, and you have more than you can spend.  Do you
find the experience as satisfactory as you expected?"

Claudia smiled, and leaned back luxuriously against her cushions.

"Oh, _quite_!" she cried emphatically.  "After two years' experience, I
am still of the opinion that it is the only thing that matters.  It's
wonderful what money can do, Meriel; it's magical!  Good people talk of
greater gifts that you may get if you are good and self-denying, and
have a dull time, but they are all in the clouds, and money is so
delightfully, so tangibly real!"  She glanced round the beautiful room,
then down to the little ringed hand stretched out to the fire; she moved
her fingers to and fro, so that the flames might wake the sparkle of
gems, and heaved a sigh of luxurious content.  "I used to long for
things that I could not have; now I never need to long, for they are
mine as soon as I think of them!  How can one help being happy, when one
has everything one wants?"

"There are some things that money cannot buy."  Once more Meriel could
not resist echoing the truism of centuries, but Claudia shook her head
with laughing contradiction.

"Rubbish!  Don't you believe it!  Anyway, money can buy such good
imitations that you can't tell them from real!  It can do more than
that.  It--" She paused, with a sudden intake of breath, and her voice
sank to a deeper note: "_It can cover things up_!"

Meriel's eyes shot a curious glance.  Through the evening she had
studied the husband and wife with a puzzled scrutiny, and now, at the
end of it, she felt as far as ever from solving the mystery which she
sensed as lying beneath the surface.  Claudia's manner to her husband
was gay and charming, but in the midst of her lightest badinage the
friend of her youth had discerned an effort, a strain, an almost painful
endeavour to win his approval.

And he?  Nothing could be more marked than the man's care for his
beautiful wife.  Why was it that through all his elaborate attentions
there lurked a cold, a sinister effect?

"But what can you have that you wish to cover, Claudia?"  Meriel
inquired.  "By your own confession, you have only to wish and it is
yours, and you have a devoted husband who looks after you as if you were
the most fragile of hothouse flowers.  It's absurd, you know, for you
were always as strong as a horse!  That transparent look of yours is a
delusion; but how upset he seemed, poor man, because your cheek was just
a little inflamed to-night."

Claudia straightened herself; an involuntary shiver shook her slight
form.  Her voice had a nervous ring:

"It's nothing--it's nothing!" she cried.  "Just spring, and these horrid
east winds.  But it won't go!  I've tried a dozen things; and he hates
it--he hates any fuss or illness!  I must never be ill, or have anything
that spoils.  There's this ball coming on next week, and I am to be the
Ice Queen.  I _must_ get my face better before then!  I've got the most
wonderful dress.  He planned it for me.  He is determined there shall be
nothing to touch it in the room.  Goodness knows the amount he has spent
upon it!  I simply daren't look anything but my best!"

"My dear Claudia!"  Meriel's voice was full of protest.  "What nonsense
you talk!  You are very beautiful, my dear, but you can't expect an
eternal perfection!  You must have your ups and downs like other people,
and grow old in your turn, and lose your hair and complexion, and grow
withered and toothless!"

Claudia leaped to her feet with a gesture which was almost fierce in its
intensity.

"Be quiet!" she cried.  "Be quiet!  Don't dare to speak of it.  I'm
young still; not twenty-seven.  I've ages and ages ahead before I need
think of growing old.  And women don't lose their beauty nowadays.  They
know how to keep it.  They _have_ to keep it!  And I--I more than
anyone!"

She crossed the room to her dressing-table, and, switching on an extra
electric light, bent low to examine her face in the glass.

"It's only a slight rash, Meriel; _but it won't go_!  I--I don't know
what to do about it.  I'm worried to death.  Do help me.  Do advise.  Do
tell me what to do."

It was the first time that Claudia's friend had ever heard her appeal
for help, and there was a thrill in her voice which could not be denied.

"My dear girl," she said quickly, "I'm no good at cosmetics.  My
complexion has to take its chance, and nobody cares whether it's good or
bad.  But if you are specially anxious to look your best at this ball,
why waste time in experiments?  A few guineas more or less is nothing to
you.  Go to-morrow to consult the first skin specialist in London."

Claudia looked at her, a long, thoughtful look.  She began to speak and
checked herself, subduing as it were a bidden fear.  Then she nodded
slowly, once and again.

"I will!" she said firmly.  "I will.  It's folly putting it off.  I'll
telephone at once, and make an appointment."

The examination was over.  A longer and more exhaustive examination than
seemed necessary for so slight a cause.  The specialist stood
hesitating, his face puckered in thought.

Claudia smiled at him with her most dazzling smile.

"You think you can make me quite better for the ball?"

He looked at her swiftly, and as swiftly looked away.

"That is a very short time.  I am afraid I can hardly promise that."

"How soon can you make me better?"

"These skin troubles are sometimes lengthy affairs.  It will be
necessary for you to have a course of treatment.  I should like to see
Mr--er--your husband, and talk the matter over with him."

But at that Claudia swept forward with a commanding air.

"It is impossible!  I forbid it!  He does not know that I am here
to-day.  He must not know!  If there is anything to be done, I must do
it without his knowledge!  I cannot tell him.  I dare not tell him: What
is it that is wrong with my face?  It is only a little rash.  _Why do
you look at me like that_?  For God's sake say that it won't take long,
that it won't get worse; that I shall be able to--_to hide_ it from him;
to keep my beauty!  _What is the matter_?  Why don't you speak?  You
must tell me.  If you know!  Whatever it is I _must_ bear it alone!  I
daren't tell him--he must never know!"

The great doctor turned away his face.  His lips moved, once and again,
before at last the dread word echoed through the room:

"_Lupus_!"



CHAPTER THREE.

THE GIRL WHO WISHED FOR ADVENTURE.

The girl who had wished for adventure journeyed back to her native
village two days after the New Year's party, and spent the following
eighteen months in tramping monotonously along a well-worn rut.  The
only difference made by that oft-remembered conference was in her point
of view.  Before that date she had sighed for the unattainable; after
it, the unattainable became the possible.  Some day, if she but waited,
opportunity would come; some day the end of a thread would float
downward towards her hand, and grasping it, she would be led into a new
world!  To the best of her power, she cultivated this attitude, and each
monotonous month, as it dragged past, added strength to her
determination to snatch the first opportunity that came her way.

At the end of eighteen months the girl packed up her trunk, and left
home to pay a dull visit to a great-aunt.

"Don't expect me to write letters," she said to her family at parting,
and the family groaned in chorus, and cried: "Please, don't!  It's quite
enough for one of us to be victimised.  Spare us the echoes of Aunt
Eliza!  Just send a postcard when you're coming back."

Great-aunt Eliza was a daunting old lady who prided herself upon
speaking the truth.

"Goodness!  How you have gone off," was the first remark which she
hurled at her great-niece's head, after the conventional greetings had
been exchanged.  She poured out a cup of strong, stewed tea, and offered
a slice of leathery muffin.  "And you used to be quite nice looking!"

Juliet smiled with the laboured brightness of a wallflower in a
ballroom, and said, but did not for a moment mean:

"I'm growing old, Aunt Eliza."

"You are, my dear," agreed Aunt Eliza.  "Twenty-eight, is it, or
twenty-nine?  And three other girls at home.  Pity you haven't married!
Your father will have precious little to leave."

Juliet, who was twenty-six, and had never had a real definite proposal,
smiled more laboriously than before, but the muffin tasted bitter as
gall.

On the third day of the visit, Aunt Eliza read a letter at the
breakfast-table, and said suavely:

"I shall have to curtail your visit, my dear!  Cousin Maria Phillips
writes that she is in the neighbourhood, and wishes to come over to see
me.  I can't refuse to receive Maria, but two guests would upset the
servants.  You must come again later on.  Perhaps there are some other
friends you would like to visit?"

Juliet replied haughtily that there were many other friends.  When would
Aunt Eliza wish--

"Oh, there's no hurry.  Perhaps to-morrow," said the old lady calmly.
"This afternoon, my dear, I want you to go to the hospital for me.  I
distribute flowers in the Mary Wright Ward every Thursday, but I have a
slight cold to-day, and daren't venture out.  Be ready by three, and the
brougham will take you there.  You can walk home."

At half-past three o'clock, therefore, Juliet entered the long bare
stretch of the Mary Wright Ward, dedicated to female surgical cases, and
passed from bed to bed, distributing little bunches of drooping flowers
affixed to little white cards inscribed with texts.  The patients
accorded but a lukewarm welcome to these offerings, but were
unaffectedly pleased to welcome the handsome girl whose coming made a
break in the monotonous day.  Some of the patients were sitting upright
against their pillows, progressed so far towards convalescence as to be
able to enjoy a chat; others could only give a wan smile of
acknowledgment; at the extreme end of the ward the sight of a
screened-off bed told its own sad tale.

The woman in the nearest occupied bed related the story in a stage
aside.

"Accident case, brought in this morning.  Dying, they think!  Run over
by a motor in the street.  And only a bit of a girl like yourself!
Mumbles a bit at times, delirious-like--nothing you can understand.
There! she's beginning again!"

The sound of the thin, strained voice sent a shiver down Juliet's spine,
for there was in it a note which even her unaccustomed ears recognised.
She turned to depart, with the natural shrinking of the young and
healthy, but her haste made her careless, and the remaining bunches of
flowers tilted out of her basket and rolled along the polished floor.
Those that had fallen the farthest were almost touching the screen, and
as Juliet bent to pick them up the mumbled voice seemed suddenly to grow
into distinctness.

It was a number that the voice was mumbling; number whispered over and
over.

"Eighty-one! ...  Eighty-one! ...  Grosvenor.  Are you there? ...
Eighty-one, are--you--there?"

The mumbling died away, rose again, was lost in groans.  Despite the
weakness and the haste, the listener realised a quality in the voice
which differentiated it from those of the other occupants of the ward.
It was the voice of a woman of education and refinement, a woman
belonging to her own class.

Juliet shivered, and, clutching her flowers, walked quickly down the
ward.  Half-way down its length she met the Sister, and put a tentative
question, to which was vouchsafed a cool, professional reply:

"Yes.  Very sad!  Internal injuries.  Sinking rapidly.  Evidently a girl
in good circumstances."

"Do you know her name--anything about her?"

The Sister shrugged slightly.

"Her clothes are marked `Alice White,' and she had some American
addresses and steamship tickets in her purse.  The _Lusitania_ landed
her passengers this morning.  She has said nothing coherent, and, of
course, cannot be questioned.  The matron is making inquiries--"

At that moment the quiet of the ward was broken by a sound of a cry of
terrible import.  Juliet quailed before it, and the Sister, darting
forward, disappeared behind the screen.

Alas for Alice White, who but a few hours ago had been young and strong,
and heedless of disaster!  Juliet descended the staircase of the
hospital thrilling with horror at the remembrance of that cry, her mind
seething with agitated questions.  Who was Alice, and who--a thrill of
excitement ran through her veins--who was Eighty-one, Grosvenor, with
whom the dying girl's thoughts had sought communion?

Grosvenor?  That meant London.  Alice White, then, had friends in
London.  Would it not be better to communicate with them, rather than
with mere officials in an office?

At the door of the great building, Juliet hesitated and turned from the
street as if to retrace her steps.  Should she go back to the Mary
Wright Ward, tell the Sister what she had overheard, and suggest
telephoning forthwith?  For a moment the suggestion found favour, then,
with her foot outstretched to remount the first step, she drew back and
walked rapidly away.  In the flash of a moment it had darted into her
brain as a crystallised resolution to give her information into no
second hand, but to go herself to the nearest call office and ring up
Eighty-one Grosvenor.  The woman in the nearest bed had spoken of
mutterings.  The sister had caught no coherent words.  If death had
immediately followed her own interview, it seemed probable that no one
but herself had overheard the number.

Juliet's eyes brightened, and a flush of colour showed in her cheeks.
The information received might be of the driest; the sequel of reporting
it to the hospital authorities promised but small excitement;
nevertheless, in her uneventful life, small things counted as great, and
the touch of uncertainty fired her blood.

She seated herself in the little boxed-off room, and at the end of ten
minutes' wait received an affirmative answer to the oft-repeated
question.

"Yes.  This is Eighty-one, Grosvenor.  Who is speaking?"

Though she had waited so long, Juliet was still pondering how to word
her inquiries.  It seemed useless to mention an unknown name, so on the
impulse of the moment she decided to give a simple account of the
accident.

"Alice White--" She was about to add--"has been mortally injured," or
some such statement, when, cutting swiftly across her words, came a cry
of relief from the other end of the wire:

"Alice White!  _At last_!  We've been expecting to hear from you all
day.  It's urgent.  Why didn't you wire?"

"I--I--" Juliet stammered in confusion, and the voice, a woman's voice,
interrupted again, in a sharp, businesslike accent:

"Never mind now.  You can explain later.  Are you alone?"

"Yes."

"That's right!  Then listen to me, and give your answers in
monosyllables.  I will spell any names you miss, if you ask me to
repeat.  Don't attempt to pronounce them yourself, but write them down
in a note-book.  There must be no mistake.  Are you ready?"

"One moment."  Juliet had no note-book, but a search in her bag found a
pencil and the blank page of a letter.  "Ready!"

"You are ready to write instructions?  I have been keeping over a case
until your arrival, as it seemed in your line.  It is urgent.  Nice
people.  Comfortable surroundings.  You would stay in the house as a
guest.  Can you go on first thing to-morrow?"

For one second, barely a second, Juliet hesitated; then the answer came,
short and sharp:

"I can!"

"That's good!  Go to the station to-day, and look up your route.  There
will be several changes.  Have you your pencil?  Write down
`Maplestone--Antony Maplestone.'  Have you got it?  `The Low House.'
L-o-w.  `Nunkton.'  N-u-n-k-t-o-n.  `Great Morley.'  `Maplestone, The
Low House, Nunkton, Great Morley.'  Have you got that?  Go on to-morrow
by the first train.  I will wire to Mr Maplestone to expect you.  He
will explain the case.  Are you all right for money?  Take your best
clothes, as for a country visit.  Report to me in the course of a week.
Do your best.  Good chance for you.  (Yes, I've nearly finished.  I've
not had my three minutes.)  You understand, Miss White?  You quite
understand?"

"I quite understand," said Juliet, and sat down heavily on the chair
beside the receiver.

How had it happened?  How much was she to blame?  From the moment of
that first interruption it seemed as if she had had no chance to
explain.  Without any preconceived intention of taking the injured
girl's place, she had done so, as it were, without volition of her own.
The spirit of adventure, so long nourished, had grasped at the
opportunity, before the slower brain had had time to decide on its
action.

Juliet drew a deep breath, and stared with dilated eyes at the opposite
wall.  "How _could_ I?" she asked herself, breathlessly.  "How _dared_
I?  How _can_ I?"  And then, with a bursting laugh, "_But I will_!" she
cried, and leaped nimbly to her feet.

"Urgent!  Nice people!  Good chance!  A guest in the house!"  Her lips
moved in repetition of the different phrases as she walked rapidly back
in the direction of the hospital.  She knitted her brows in the effort
to understand, to reconcile contradictions.  What was this Alice White,
and on what mission had she crossed the ocean?  And who was Eighty-one,
Grosvenor, who issued orders as to a subordinate, and gave instructions
as to reports?

Only one thing seemed certain, and that was that it would be many a long
day, if ever, before poor Alice White was fit to take up any work,
however interesting.  Remembering that last choking cry, it seemed
probable that even now--Juliet resolutely stifled further questionings
until once more she stood within the portals of the hospital, and made
her inquiries of the porter.  He retired, and returned, after a few
minutes' absence, with a face appropriately lengthened.

"Gone, miss!  Directly you left.  Went off in a moment."

Juliet nodded, and turned back to the street.  What exactly had she
intended to do had Alice White still been alive?  Honestly, she did not
know!  It seemed as though she would never be able to answer that
question.  She waved it impatiently aside.  Why trouble about
might-have-beens?  The girl was dead!  The only question of importance
which now remained was, _what was she herself going to do_?

Juliet thought of the long years of boredom and waiting which had made
up her life; she thought of her dull, comfortable home; of her dull,
comfortable visits, and longingly, daringly, she thought of the
interesting "case" which was "urgent," and a "good chance."  She
recalled with a tingling of excitement her aunt's morning announcement,
which necessitated her own departure on the morrow.

"I could go over to Nunkton, and see what it meant.  If there was
anything I didn't like I could move on at once to the Blakes.  No one
need know; no one need guess.  Even if I stayed for a few days, it could
be arranged!"  She stopped short in the middle of the pavement, and drew
a deep breath of excitement.

"It's my chance!" she cried to herself.  "The chance I've been waiting
for!  Whatever happens, whatever comes of it--_I shall go_!"

The next day Juliet set forth on her voyage of adventure, with the
mingling of elation and nervousness inevitable under the circumstances.
Remindful of telephone instructions, she attired herself with especial
care, and was agreeably conscious that she looked her best.  A
travelling costume as smart as it was simple, a trig little hat, with
just one dash of colour at the side to give the needed _cachet_ and
emphasise the tints of the face beneath.  "Really quite a creditable
face!" she told herself, smiling back at a reflection of grey eyes
thickly fringed with black lashes, curling, humorous lips, and the
prettiest flush of pink--genuine, washable pink--upon the cheeks.  "If I
were happy, if I were interested, I might be almost--beautiful," she
told herself with a sigh.  "Every woman grows plain when she is
superfluous and alone."

Seated in the train, drawing near to her destination, Juliet found
herself repeating the words over and over, like a child rehearsing a
lesson.  "Alice White," cried the mental voice, "Alice White," and
again, "Alice White.  It's my name!  I must answer to it.  I must give
it when asked.  I am Alice White, professional _something_--I don't know
what.  I am obeying a telephone summons meant for someone else, and, if
I don't want to be discovered within five minutes of my arrival, I must
keep my wits about me, and think seventeen times at least before I utter
a word.  I'm to be met at the station and treated as one of the family,
and to remember that appearance is a strong point, and wear my best
clothes..."  She knitted her brows, and for the hundredth time
endeavoured to reach a solution of the mystery.  "I can't be a
sick-nurse; the clothes settle that.  If it had been that, I should have
had to confess at once.  But in other capacities I'm intelligent, I'm
experienced, I'm willing.  I'm _more_ than willing--I'm _eager_!
There's no reason why I should not do as well as the real Alice.  After
all, it's quite a usual thing to take up work under a professional name.
Writers do it, artists, actors; there can be no harm in using the poor
girl's name, if I do my best with her work."

The train drew up at the station, a small, flowery country station, and,
opening the door, Juliet stepped lightly to the ground.  Her carriage
had been at the end of the train, and the length of platform stretched
before her.  A glance showed a solitary porter approaching the luggage
van; one commanding figure of an unusually big man, in a tweed
knickerbocker suit; and, farther off still, by the door of the
booking-office, two ladies in navy-blue costumes, apparently awaiting
the arrival of friends.  At the extreme end of the train another door
opened, and an elderly man carrying a bag made a heavy descent to the
platform.  The ladies stood motionless; the man in tweeds hurried
towards where Juliet stood.  She looked at him anxiously, met the glance
of a pair of level brown eyes, and was instantly conscious of two things
concerning his state of mind.  He was embarrassed; he was also agreeably
relieved.  The next moment he was facing her, and was holding out his
hand.

"Miss White?"

"Yes."

"I am Antony Maplestone."

"Oh!"

Juliet was conscious that her own sensations exactly duplicated those of
her companion.  She was embarrassed; she was also agreeably relieved,
for if adventure were to be her portion, no girl could have wished for a
more attractive stage manager to initiate her into her part.  She stood
blushing and smiling, wondering what to say next, subconsciously aware
the while that, by placing his tall form between her and the end of the
platform, Maplestone was designedly screening her from the scrutiny of
the blue-robed dames.

"I have a dog-cart waiting," he said hastily.  "I'm going to drive you
home, and explain things _en route_; my man will look after your boxes.
Er--there's just one thing--" The air of embarrassment grew more marked;
a flush showed in his cheeks.  "It's a nuisance; there are two women
over there--neighbours; I'm afraid I'll be obliged to introduce you.  Do
you think, for a few minutes, until we can escape, you could manage to
look a little--_intimate_?"  His voice, his look, were so full of
apology at the suggestion, that Juliet's surprise gave way to amusement.
She laughed, a bright girlish laugh, and said, "Certainly!" in crisp,
matter-of-fact tones which were evidently a vast relief to her
companion.  He stepped quickly to one side, as if anxious that her
smiling face should be seen by others besides himself, and led the way
down the platform, inclining his head towards her with an air of deepest
solicitude.  "You have had a comfortable journey?"

"Oh, yes," Juliet nodded gaily, responding readily to his cue.  He
wished her to talk, he wished the watching women to believe that this
was no first meeting, but a reunion of friends.  For some unknown reason
it was necessary to his interests that they should receive this
impression.  Very well, then, it should be done.  "Alice White" was not
going to fail in the first call upon her.

"Oh, yes, quite comfy.  I had a tea basket.  _China_ tea.  Did you know
you could get _China_ tea in baskets?  And a ducky little pot of jam,
all to myself.  Isn't this station pretty?  Such sweet flowers!"

They were close to the ticket office by this time.  The man's eyes
flashed a look of gratitude and appreciation.  He laid a light touch on
her arm, and brought her to a stand before the waiting women.

"Here she is!  I'm not disappointed, you see.  I want to introduce you
to each other while I have a chance.  Miss Clare Lawson, Lady Lorrima,
Miss Bridges."

Juliet bowed and smiled, her senses momentarily stunned by the
responsibility of yet another cognomen.  Now she would have to begin all
over again and train herself to be "Clare."

The eyes of the two women were keenly critical; their words were
cordial, if somewhat mysterious.

"_So_ pleased to meet you!  Quite an honour to be the first to welcome
you.  The Squire _will_ be delighted!"

"I shall be delighted to see him," Juliet declared smiling.  She
disliked the attitude of these women as much as she was attracted by
that of the man by her side.  Despite their assurances, she had a
conviction that they were _not_ pleased at her arrival; that it was a
disappointment to them to find her appearance beyond criticism.  The big
man stood silent by her side; she divined also that he was nervous and
troubled, momentarily dreading a slip on her part.  She was determined
to make no slip.  Already she had ranked herself on his side, and felt
the stirring of the true actor's joy in making the best of his part.

The younger of the two women gave a difficult, unmirthful laugh.  She
was a thin, elegant-looking creature, rather over thirty, whose good
looks were marred by an expression of discontent.

"Really, you know," she cried in affected tones, "we were beginning to
think that your name was Harris, and that Antony had invented you for
his own convenience.  It seemed so strange that he had never spoken of
you before."

Juliet's little laugh of response was quite sweet and unruffled.  "Oh,
I'm very real, I assure you.  A most substantial person.  I'm so glad he
didn't bore you with descriptions; they lead to so much disappointment."
She held out her hand with a charming assurance.  "Good-bye!  Perhaps
we may meet again."

The next moment they were passing through the office, out of view of the
curious eyes, and a low-toned "Bravo!" acclaimed the success of her
effort.  Juliet laughed in involuntary self-congratulation, and
Maplestone laughed in sympathy.  The two women, catching a sight of the
dog-cart as it wheeled down the lane, saw the two laughing faces turned
towards each other in mutual enjoyment, and the sight was not good in
their eyes.

"It's true, then; an absolute fact.  And quite presentable, too.  Well,
Honoria, I'm sorry!"

Meanwhile Juliet was putting her first question to her companion.

"Please--why am I Clare Lawson?"

His face fell.  Amusement gave place to embarrassment.  "Do you object?
I'm sorry to have sprung it upon you so suddenly, but--well, you had to
have some name, hadn't you?  I suppose one is as good as another."

"Perhaps so, but it's just a trifle confusing, because--" Juliet drew
herself up on the verge of an incriminating confession.  "As you say, it
doesn't really matter, but I am naturally interested.  Who _is_ Clare
Lawson?"

"Er--as a matter of fact, there is no such person.  I invented a
fictitious girl, then, suddenly, was called upon for her name, so had to
christen her on the spur of the moment.  Clare happened to be the name
of the heroine in a novel I'd just finished reading, and Lawson was the
first surname which came to my mind.  It's not such a _bad_ name, is
it?"

Juliet made an expressive little grimace.

"Considered as an artistic effort, I can't say much for it.  You might
have done so much better.  Clare!  I'm not a bit like a Clare.  And who
is Clare _supposed_ to be?"

He looked at her with a keen, comprehensive glance.  Juliet had an
impression that what he saw increased his embarrassment, from the very
reason of his admiration.  What he had to say would evidently have been
easier if she had been less attractive, had not so obviously belonged to
his own class.  The flush mounted once more to his cheeks.

"Miss Lawson, I should like to begin with a word of self-defence.  I
have the reputation of being straight in my dealings and I think I may
say that it is deserved, yet at this moment, owing to an--impulse, to--
er--the folly of a moment, I find myself stranded, implicated--how shall
I express it?  I'm in the dickens of a hole, anyway, and for the moment
can't imagine how I am ever to get out."

"And if you only knew it, _so am I_!" was Juliet's mental
reflection.  Aloud, she said sententiously, "Such things _do_ happen.
I've heard of them.  Please tell me about it.  Perhaps I can help."

"That's ripping of you!  You see, obviously, there _had_ to be a girl,
and, obviously also, I couldn't ask a friend.  There was nothing for it
but to get someone from outside.  I searched the newspapers and spotted
your office.  They said they employed ladies, and being trained to
detec--to inquiry work, I thought it would come easy to act a part."

In after years Juliet never quite understood how she retained her
balance at that moment, and did not topple sideways, fall out of the
high cart, and find a solution of her troubles.  The sudden realisation
that she was masquerading as nothing more or less than a lady detective,
was so stunning in its unexpectedness and chagrin, that even the tactful
softening of the term to that of inquiry agent failed to restore her
equanimity.  Now, indeed, there was nothing before her but confession,
for her whole nature revolted from the position of a "spy" in the
household.  It required a strong effort to speak in a natural voice.

"Wouldn't it be better if you began at the beginning and told me the
whole story?"

"That's what I am trying to do, but it's so difficult...  The Squire,
Mr Maplestone, is my uncle.  He and his wife have been like parents to
me.  I am in the army--Indian regiment--home on a year's leave.  They
have no children, and I am their heir.  Naturally, under the
circumstances, they are anxious that I should--er--"

"Marry!"

"Quite so.  Well!" in a tone of aggrieved self-vindication, "I _mean_ to
marry.  Every fellow does when he gets past thirty.  I came home this
time with the determination to get engaged at the first opportunity,
but--er--the time has passed by, and--it hasn't come off.  I've met lots
of girls, charming girls.  I can't honestly say that I haven't had the
_opportunity_, but when it came to the point"--he shrugged again--"I
simply didn't want them, and that was the end of the matter.  The
dickens of it is, my leave is up in two months from now, and the old man
is at the end of his patience.  Last week he had an attack of gout, a
bad one too, and that brought matters to a crisis.  He declared he'd cut
me off there and then if I did not get engaged at once.  I was sorry for
the old fellow; he was in horrible pain; the doctor said he must be
soothed at all costs, so--er--er--on the spur of the moment I invented
Clare.  I said I was engaged to Clare, but that Clare was afraid of the
Indian climate, and refused to marry me till the regiment returned home,
two years from now.  I hardly realised what I was saying.  I was between
the devil and the deep sea.  But he swallowed it whole, went off to
sleep, and woke up as bright as a button.  I was inclined to
congratulate myself on having done a clever thing, for as I told you, I
_intend_ to marry.  I am only waiting for the right girl to turn up.  I
may very likely meet her on the voyage out.  Many men do.  But,
retribution fell upon me.  He demanded to see Clare.  I prevaricated.
He grew suspicious.  There was another scene, another relapse; it was a
case of confessing all, at goodness knows what risk, or of finding
Clare, and producing her for inspection.  So--you see--"

Juliet sat silent; petrified, aflame.  While he had been speaking,
Maplestone had kept his eyes rigorously averted from her face; he
continued to do so now, and they drove along the quiet lane in a silence
which could be _felt_--a throbbing, palpitating, scorching silence,
which grew momentarily more unendurable.  Juliet told herself fiercely
that she was a fool to feel embarrassed.  Alice White would not have
been embarrassed.  Alice White would have accepted the position as a
pure matter of business.  As Alice White's substitute, she must pull
herself together and discuss the matter in a cool, rational fashion.  If
only her cheeks were not quite so hot!

"It's--er--rather an unusual proposition, isn't it?  It is, as you say,
somewhat difficult to discuss.  Suppose," she cried desperately, "we
treat it with a sense of humour!  _Don't_ let us be serious.  Let us
laugh over it, and then it will become quite easy."

"Oh, thank you, yes.  How ripping of you!"  His eyes flashed relief.  "I
can promise you that it won't be nearly as trying as it sounds.  The old
people will be all that is kind, and--er--you understand that he is an
invalid, and his wife is his nurse.  They are engrossed with their own
affairs, and won't worry you with questions.  It is only in your
supposed connection with me that you will--er--enter into their lives.
As to myself, I have the reputation of being reserved to a fault.  They
won't expect me to--er--er--"

Juliet forced a determined smile.  "Precisely so!  We'll be a model of
all that an engaged couple--ought to be.  But I had better not make
myself too agreeable, in case the subsequent breaking off should
prejudice the old people against you.  I conclude I am to break it off?"

"Yes, please, if you don't mind--when I meet the real girl.  But please
do me credit _pro tem_.  The great thing is to demonstrate to the old
man that I seriously think of marriage, and those two years give plenty
of time.  You understand that you have an insuperable objection to the
Indian climate?"

"Certainly; that's easy.  I've always longed to go, so I shall just turn
my arguments upside down.  And--er--where did we meet?"

"Oh, yes, of course, we must have some mutual coaching.  There's not
much time now, but after tea they'll expect us to have a _tete-a-tete_;
we'll go over it then.  I was introduced to you at Henley.  You're the
sister of Phil Lawson, an old school friend.  It--er--it was a case at
first sight.  We got engaged on the third day."

"Most unwise!" said Juliet primly, and they laughed together with the
heartiness born of relief from a painful situation.  Really, this
sense-of-humour attitude was an admirable solution.

Antony slackened the reins and, fumbling in a pocket, drew out a small
box.

"May I--just for the next few days--beg your acceptance of this bauble?"

"Oh, thank you."  Juliet drew off her gloves and held up a well-shaped
hand, on the third finger of which sparkled a row of diamonds.  "It's
not necessary.  I can put this one on my left hand.  It has quite an
engagementy look about it, and I'd rather--"

"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid it won't do.  This is a family heirloom.  The
old man would consider it a slight if it were not used.  Just for one
week."

He opened the box, and showed a great square-cut emerald set in a border
of diamonds--an antique jewel, evidently of considerable value--lifted
it between finger and thumb, and held it out with calm expectancy.
Quite calmly also, Juliet extended her left hand; but at the mutual
touch, it was impossible to resist a thrill of embarrassment, a
lightning realisation of what the moment might have meant had the action
been real instead of masquerade.  Juliet hastily drew on her gloves;
Antony became engrossed in driving.  They drove in silence up a long
drive, and saw before them an old stone mansion, covered with clustering
ivy.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The butler stared, the footman stared.  Raising her eyes as she passed
under the great well of the staircase, Juliet caught the flash of a
white cap hurriedly withdrawn.  A baize door, obviously leading into the
servants' quarters, creaked eloquently upon its hinges.  The back of
Antony's neck grew ever redder and redder as he led the way onwards;
finally the drawing-room door was flung open, and across a space of
chintz, and tapestry, and massed-up roses, Juliet beheld two figures
rise hurriedly in welcome.

The aunt's thin locks were parted in the middle, and surmounted by a
lace cap with a lavender bow.  She wore a douce black silk dress, with a
douce lace collar.  She looked Victorian, and downtrodden, and meek, and
Juliet dismissed her in half a dozen words.

"She'll swallow anything!"

The Squire had a short neck, a red face, steel blue eyes, and a white
waistcoat.  He stood about five feet four in his boots and bore himself
with the air of a giant.

"He'll swallow _nothing_!" was Juliet's second diagnosis, and she braced
herself for the fray.  The introduction was simple in the extreme.

"This is Clare!" said Antony, whereupon Mrs Maplestone said hurriedly:
"How d'you do.  So pleased!  You must have tea!" and the Squire said
nothing at all, but cleared his throat, and pulled forward a chair.
Then they all sat down, and Mrs Maplestone busied herself over the
tea-tray, while her husband took his turn to stare.

He began at Juliet's feet, and considered them judiciously.  Large, but
well shaped, wore a good boot.  Next he studied her hands, cocking a
jealous eye at the emerald ring.  Large again, but white; good fingers;
manicured nails.  Thirdly he considered her figure, and was pleased to
approve.  Pine girl, some flesh on her bones, none of your modern
skeletons.  Last of all he looked at her face.  "Humph! not so bad.
Points; distinctly points!  Antony was not such a fool as he looked!"
In five minutes' time the Squire could have passed an examination on the
subject of Juliet's appearance, and she realised as much, and felt
correspondingly elated when the hard eyes softened, and an offer of hot
scones was prefaced by, "My dear."  My dear had been examined and found
correct.  My dear was approved.  By the time that cups were filled for
the second time, the Squire had thawed to the point of jocularity.

"Well, Miss Clare, and what tales has this fine fellow been telling you
about me?  Wicked uncle, eh?  Cruel ogre.  Gouty old tartar, who insists
upon having his own way, and bullies his unfortunate nephew till he is
obliged to give in for the sake of peace?  That's it, eh?  That's what
he told you."

Juliet looked across at Antony, discovered him flushed, frowning,
supremely uncomfortable, and tilted her head with a charming audacity.

"Does that mean that he was bullied into having Me?  It wouldn't be
exactly `peaceful' for him, if I believed that!  He certainly would not
dare to tell me anything so unflattering."

The Squire hastened to eat his words.  The girl was a nice girl; frank,
friendly, with a touch of the devil which was entirely to his taste.
Not for the world would he prejudice her against the boy.

"No, no; not at all, not at all.  Precious little notice he took of my
wishes, until it suited himself to follow my advice.  Obstinate fellow,
you know; obstinate as a mule.  Wouldn't think it to see him sitting
there, looking as if he couldn't say boo to a goose; but it's a fact.
You'll find it out another day!"

"I like a man to have a strong will," Juliet said with the air of a
meek, gentle, little fiancee, and the Squire laughed loudly, and made a
characteristic change of front.

"Glad to hear it!  Glad you don't go in for any of this fashionable
nonsense about independence and equality.  You obey your husband, my
dear, and stay quietly in your home, and content yourself with your
house duties, as your mother did before you.  What has _she_ got to say
about this precious engagement?"

"Mother thinks of me.  She is glad of anything that makes me happy,"
Juliet said, and flattered herself that she had rounded the corner
rather neatly.  Antony looked at her quickly, and as quickly looked
away.  Little Mrs Maplestone gave a soft murmur of approval.

"She must be, dear!  I am sure she must be and I'm sure she'll like
Antony when she knows him better.  I hope we shall soon meet your
parents.  It was through your brother that you met, was it not?  An old
school friend.  At Henley?"

"Yes, Henley.  Yes, Phil!  Please don't ask me about it!  The whole
thing was such a rush.  Only three days!  It seems like a dream.  I--I
forget everything but the one great fact!" cried Juliet, taking refuge
in truth, and thereby winning smiles of approval from her old-fashioned
hearers, who considered such confusion suitable and becoming.  They
beamed upon her, and Juliet began to feel the dawnings of pride in her
own diplomacy.  She was getting on well; surprisingly well!  She allowed
herself to believe that Alice White could have done no better.

"Three days, eh?" repeated the Squire complacently.  "Bowled him over in
three days, did you, after being bullet-proof all these years!  How in
the world did you manage to do it?"

"I can't think!" declared Juliet, truthfully again, but she smiled as
she spoke, and showed a dimple, and dropped her eyelids, so that the
dark lashes rested on the pink of her cheeks, whereat the young man
looked more embarrassed than ever, and the old one laughed till he
choked, and offered her more cake, and called her "my dear" twice over
in a single sentence, and delivered himself of the opinion that Antony
was a lucky dog.

"Doesn't deserve it, after all his slackness and procrastination!  Let's
hope he'll appreciate his good luck.  But what's this nonsense about
waiting two years?  What's this nonsense about not going back with him
at once?"

Juliet looked as she felt, flustered, and taken aback.

"It's so--sudden!" she pleaded, and blushed as she said the word.  "I--I
don't approve of marrying in a rush.  Only two months before he sails.
Suppose he regretted it?  S-suppose he changed his mind?"

"It's for him to answer that question!  Speak up, Antony!  Are you
likely to change your mind?  Do you feel any inclination to give up Miss
Clare now that you have got her to promise to take you for better for
worse?"

"I'm not given to changing my mind, sir," Antony said, discreetly
answering the last question but one.  He rose hastily as he spoke,
evidently afraid lest his turn of cross-questioning was about to begin,
and said hurriedly: "Clare is tired, Uncle.  She'll answer all your
questions later on.  I'm going to take her into the garden for a little
fresh air, and then send her upstairs to rest."

So for the next half-hour Antony Maplestone and Juliet, alias Alice,
Clare, sat in a rose-shaded arbour, and discussed the plan of attack.
There was so much to be settled.  It was like making up a play, and
coaching each other in the leading parts.  Juliet was inclined to give
herself airs on the success of her first scene, and discovered with
surprise that her companion vouchsafed only a mitigated admiration.

"You must be very _used_ to it!" he said grudgingly whereupon Juliet
bridled, and declared:

"I'm not!  It's the very first case I've had, when--All my experiences
so far, have been strictly business-like.  I think you might give me
_some_ encouragement.  I thought I was so clever!"

"You were, you were!  Uncommonly clever, and I felt all sorts of a fool.
I'm not used to playing a part, and it comes harder than I expected.
It's a comfort to escape and feel that we can talk openly together!"  He
stretched his arms, and drew a big sigh of relief.  Juliet sighed too,
but not for the same reason.

"I think it might be a wise precaution," she said presently, "if I sent
my parents abroad to travel for several months!  Mrs Maplestone spoke
of wishing to see them, and it would be awkward to produce a suitable
pair at a moment's notice.  And dangerous!  Think of the pitfalls that
would yawn before us over reminiscences of childhood?  Perhaps they'd
better go for health!  That would explain their leaving home just at
this time.  We must send them to a foreign spa for a six-weeks' course.
Where shall they go?"

"Marienbad," Antony said promptly, whereon Juliet drew herself up
haughtily, and put on an air of offence.

"No aspersions, if you please.  _My_ parents are thin!  It shall be
rheumatism, I think.  That's quite ordinary and eminently respectable.
They might _both_ have it, if it comes to that."

But Antony objected.

"No.  Not both!  That's too drastic.  My uncle would certainly object
that you would inherit a tendency.  Only your father!  A recent
attack..."

"Just so; and they are anxious to take it in time.  Mother goes with
him, as they are a devoted couple and couldn't endure to be parted for
six weeks.  Mud baths, I think.  There's such a sound of verisimilitude
about mud baths!  I think we must really decide on mud baths."

"Poor beggar, yes!  I'm afraid there's no help for him.  Where are they,
by the way?  I've no idea.  Have you?"

"Oh, yes.  They are in Germany somewhere.  Or is it Italy?  Somewhere
about that part of the world," Juliet said vaguely, whereupon Antony
took out his pocket-book and wrote down a memorandum.

"A dutiful daughter ought to have her parents' address!  I'll find that
out before dinner.  As a matter of fact, I don't think my uncle will
trouble his head about your relations.  There would have been the
dickens to pay if he had not approved of you, but he was quite unusually
amiable, took to you at first sight, and the aunt too.  It went off far
better than I expected."

"Just let me be quite clear on one point," Juliet demanded.  "Am I nice,
and amiable, and meek, or am I dashing and sportive?"

"Neither one nor the other, a useful blend.  Don't worry about that.
You are perfectly all right as you are."

"And--just as a guide for moments of expansion--_might_ it be `Tony'?"

"Tony it must be.  Most decidedly Tony."  His voice was brisk with
decision.  The brown eyes brightened in anticipation.  "Perhaps even
occasionally, `Dear.'"

"Oh, no!"  Juliet shook her head obstinately.  "No `dears'!  I've been
strictly brought up.  I'm shy.  _No_ demonstrations in public.  I've no
brothers, you see, and have led a secluded life."

"Yes, yes, there's Phil; you must remember Phil.  It was your brother
Phil who introduced us at Henley.  You were staying with friends."

"I _have_ friends near Henley.  Their name is Jones.  Can you remember
Jones?  Mr Jones, solicitor; Mrs Jones; Miss Jones; Miss Florence
Jones; Mr Reginald Jones, son, junior partner."

"Just so.  Reginald, of course, is Philip's friend.  Phil is, like
myself, home on leave.  That simplifies things for you.  By the by, he
is in China, in the Customs."

"Poor dear Philip; with all these horrid riots.  I _do_ feel anxious
about him!" sighed naughty Juliet in response; then, suddenly, "I
wonder," she had cried soberly, "if I _ought_!  I hate to deceive
people, even for their own good.  I wonder if I ought to go on."

"But surely"--he stared at her in amazement--"it's your _profession_!
It would be impossible to do inquiry work if people knew from the
beginning what you were about.  Why did you--excuse me--choose such a
profession if your conscience is so tender?"

"I--I didn't realise.  It was arranged in a hurry.  I don't think I
shall take any more cases."

"No, don't!"  Antony cried eagerly.  "It's all right this time, for you
have fallen among people who will treat you properly, but it might be so
different.  Haven't you a home where you can live safely and
comfortably?"

"Very comfortably indeed, but I happen to be one of the horde of
superfluous women who need something more than comfort."

Antony looked at her curiously at that, but he had asked no questions.
Juliet was thankful for his silence; for the absence of obvious
compliments.  The situation would be intolerable with a man of another
type.  With Maplestone one had a comfortable feeling of security--a very
comfortable feeling.  Juliet fell asleep that night with a smile on her
lips.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

For three days all went well, the Squire approving, his wife motherly,
Antony chivalrous and attentive.  Whatever the real experience might be,
Juliet was satisfied that pretending to be engaged was an agreeable
sensation.  Morning and afternoon Antony drove her abroad, sat with her
in the rose garden, or escorted her on long walks over the countryside,
and soon, wonderfully soon, there was no further need of coaching
between them, for the lives of each, and the experiences thereof, the
hopes, aspirations, and rebuffs, had been spread as in an opened book
before the eyes of the other, with just one reservation on Juliet's
side, the disclosure of her own identity!

"I have had an adventurous life.  The one thing I have not had to
complain of is monotony," said Antony.

"And I have had nothing else.  Until recently I have gone on, year after
year, existing, not living, in the same little rut."

"No wonder you broke loose.  A girl like you was never made for
stagnation.  You ought to travel: to see the world.  I never met a woman
with so keen an appreciation of beauty.  Gad! how you would enjoy India,
and the scenery we have over there.  Last year we were stationed in the
north, above Darjeeling.  I'd like to blindfold you, and take you to a
spot I know, and then take off the bandage, and show you--the snows!
That would be a moment worth living for."

"Ah, yes.  Unfortunately, however, the climate of India is prejudicial
to my health," Juliet reminded him primly.

"Oh, hang the climate of India!" cried Antony Maplestone.

The Squire also was inclined to "hang" the Indian climate in its bearing
upon the health of his guest.  He cross-questioned his prospective niece
upon the subject with increasing irritability.

"What's the matter with your health?  You look strong enough.  Can't
have a liver with that complexion.  Can't have a heart, rushing about
all day long.  Given it away, eh, what?  Antony, what's wrong with her
heart?"

"Nothing, sir.  It's a tip-top heart; in first-class working condition."

"What's wrong, then--what's wrong?  Nothing but nerves and nonsense.  If
I were a young man and my fiancee didn't care enough about me to face a
bit of discomfort, I'd--I'd comfort myself with the first nice girl that
_would_!  If you let him go off to India alone, young lady, you'll have
yourself to thank if you are left in the lurch."

Juliet took out her handkerchief and pretended to cry.  It was a comfort
to be able to hide one's face, and besides, just between herself and the
handkerchief there _was_ a tear.  She _would_ be left in the lurch, and,
oh, my goodness, how dull it would be!

From the end of the room sounded three separate gasps of consternation.

"Leave heroine, uncle!  It's my affair.  Clare, _don't_ cry!"

"He doesn't mean it, dear; he doesn't mean it.  Antony never would."

"Kiss her, you stupid fellow, kiss her!  What's the use of glowering
there?"

Then, in the midst of a thrilling silence, Juliet felt strong arms
enfold her, felt the sweep of a moustache against her cheek.  It was the
first, the very first time in the course of her twenty-six years that
any man but a blood relation had offered her a caress, and--she liked
the sensation!  She felt a horrible, horrible inclination to abandon
herself to that strong support; to lift her own lips to meet his.  The
rebound from the temptation gave energy to the gesture with which she
pushed him away and leaped, flaming, to her feet.

"It's my own heart, and I know best what it can stand!  And--and--there
are snakes--and rats--and insects, crawly-creepy things dropping from
the ceilings!  He can have anyone he likes...  I don't care...  I don't
want him.  I'll stay at home!"  She dashed wildly from the room.

Antony and his aunt stared blankly at each other.  The Squire chuckled
complacently and rubbed his hands.

"_That's_ all right," he cried cheerily.  "That's done it.  She'll go
with you, my boy.  She'll go all right.  Book a second passage
to-morrow, and I'll stand the risk."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

At dinner that night there was an air of festival.  The feast was
sumptuous, the table was decorated with exquisite hothouse flowers,
purely, spotlessly white--a bridal white, unmistakable in its
significance.  Juliet blushed as she beheld that table, and blushed
again looking down on her own white robe.  Upstairs in her own room she
had cried, and stormed, and blushed, and trembled, and vowed fiercely to
leave the house by the first train on the following morning, and sobbed
again at the thought of departure.  Also, she had vowed with fervour to
be cold as ice to Antony Maplestone, and to prove to him by the
haughtiness of her demeanour that his caress was unpardonable, without
excuse.  And then, being a woman, and a particularly feminine one at
that, she had naturally selected her very best dress, and had arrayed
herself therein for his delectation.

Now what bad luck that the dress happened to be white!

The Squire over-ate himself recklessly.  "Hang it all, my dear," he
informed his protesting wife, "a man can't always be thinking of diet.
There _are_ occasions--" He nodded meaningly towards his guest, and
quaffed a bumper of champagne.

After dinner, when the pseudo-lovers were left alone for the nightly
_tete-a-tete_, the subject of the Squire's indiscretion was eagerly
seized upon as a subject for conversation, to lessen the embarrassment
from which both were suffering.

Said Antony, "It's madness.  He has not yet recovered from the last
attack.  One would think that a man who has suffered such agonies would
have learned wisdom!"

Said Juliet gloomily, "Who does?  Nobody does!  It certainly doesn't
become _us_ to--er--"

"Oh, well," he interrupted quickly, "let's hope he escapes this time.
It's hard on a man to be everlastingly prudent.  I'm not at all sure
that the greatest wisdom does not exist in occasionally breaking loose!"

Juliet faced him, erect and dignified.  She had scented a personal
application in his words, and was determined to stand no nonsense.

"Mr Maplestone, I have been here four days; it seems to me inadvisable
to stay any longer.  To-morrow morning I propose to receive a telegram
summoning me home.  I should be obliged if you could make it convenient
to be out after eleven o'clock.  It would make it easier for me to get
away."

There was consternation in his glance; more than consternation--dismay.

"Go!  Why on earth should you go?  Is it the office!  Do they want you
back at the office?  Let _me_ write.  Surely if I write and say--"

"As a matter of fact there is _no_ office.  It's a mistake.  I--I am not
what I seem!" cried Juliet, with a touch of melodrama, born of
desperation.  Not another moment could she stand the deception; not
another moment could she masquerade under another woman's name.  "I am
_not_ an inquiry agent.  Never was.  Never will be.  It was just--
just--"

"Sit down.  Sit down.  Take your own time.  Tell me all about it."
Antony pushed a deep-cushioned chair towards her, seated himself near at
hand, leaned forward, gazing into her eyes.  There was no consternation
on his face this time; no dismay; nothing but happiest relief.  "If you
only knew how _thankful_ I am!  I hated the thought of such work for
you.  Now--tell me!"

And Juliet told him.  Told him how, among a party of friends, she had
avowed her yearning for adventure, and had been bidden to hold fast to
the thought, and await an opportunity.  All things, she was told, come
in good time to those who wait.  And she had waited; through long,
monotonous, uneventful months she had waited, and waited in vain.  And
then, suddenly, a chance, an opening--a possibility which must be taken,
or left, while a moment ticked away its course!  She told of the dead
girl whose place she had taken, honestly determining to do her best, and
allow no one to suffer through the exchange.

"If it had been work of which I was incapable I should have left at
once.  You believe it, don't you?  You _do_ believe it?"

Antony seemed to ignore the question as beneath his notice.  Something
infinitely more important was occupying his mind.

"Then, what is your real name?"

"Juliet!  All that I have told you of my people is true.  Everything is
true, but the name and the work.  Perhaps, in time to come, you might
explain to your uncle that Clare Lawson was just a professional name
which I adopted when I tried to take up work.  It is quite usual.  Many
women do it."

"_Juliet_!" he repeated softly.  From his manner he appeared to have
heard only her name.  "_Juliet_!  It's perfect.  A name that suits you
above all others.  Of course you are Juliet.  I was a fool not to know
that before.  Juliet, I am so glad you are not Clare!"

"I'm not Clare, and I'm not Alice.  It's a--a joke in two moves, but it
is time it should come to an end.  To-morrow I must go."

"You must not go.  It's madness!  Is it because of--of what happened
to-day?  It need never happen again.  I was dreadfully sorry.  I would
not for the world--"

"Of course, of course.  I _quite_ understand.  You were driven to it.
It was as disagreeable to you as to me," Juliet said sourly.  _She felt_
sour; more ruffled by the explanation than she had been by the offence
itself.

What would have happened next there is no saying, but at that moment the
door opened, and Mrs Maplestone appeared on the threshold.  Uncle
Godfrey was in pain.  He wished to go to bed.  Would Tony come and give
him an arm?

Retribution sure and swift fell upon the Squire.  All night long he
tossed in pain, and in the early morn the doctor was summoned, who
delivered himself of a gloomy verdict: Serious.  One bad attack
following hard on the top of another.  The patient had been warned, and
the patient had transgressed.  The patient's heart was not in a
condition to stand these repeated strains.  The patient must have a
nurse.  Must be kept quiet.  The patient must be safeguarded against
irritation and strain.  Excitement at this juncture might have serious
effects.

Then the doctor drove away, and the patient, who was to be kept quiet,
proceeded to work himself into a condition of fuss and antagonism
against every separate member of the household, and in especial against
Antony, his heir.  It was Antony's fault that he was laid low; the
contrariety of Antony which had ruined his health; and now he lay at
death's door (he was at death's door; he _chose_ to lie at death's door!
It was his own business, he supposed, at whose door he should lie?);
now, even at this last moment, Antony delayed, prevaricated,
shilly-shallied, talked calmly of waiting a couple of years!  It was not
the girl's fault.  The girl was willing enough.  She was making a
pretence of unwillingness.  All girls made a pretence.  Let Antony stand
up to her like a man, and she would give in; be glad to give in.  Summon
Antony!  Summon the girl!  Let them be brought before him.  Let this
matter be settled once for all!

Trembling, Mrs Maplestone obeyed his orders.  Trembling, Juliet obeyed,
and stood beside the patient's bed.  Antony was not trembling, but his
cheek was pale.  Crimson cheeked, bright of eye, the patient made his
pronouncement: He had waited long enough; he could wait no longer;
within the next few days he intended to die--probably to-morrow, or the
day after; but before he died he wished to see his heir married to the
woman of his choice.  Send instantly for a priest!

"My dear uncle," Antony protested, "the thing's impossible.  Even if--
even if--There are preliminaries.  Banns.  Licences.  It is a case of
weeks; of _several_ weeks--"

But the Squire knew better.  There were such things as special licences.
When money was no object, when life and death hung in the balance,
mountains had been, mountains could again be, removed.  With a shaking
hand he beckoned Juliet to his side, and levied a shocking question:

"Girl, do you wish to kill me?"

"You don't understand, you don't understand!" wailed the unhappy girl.
"Dear Mr Maplestone, try to be quiet; try not to worry about us.  Only
get better, and then--then--"

"I shall never get better," reiterated the Squire.  His small bright
eyes glittered with a sudden suspicion.  "Is he playing with you?
Playing fast and loose, to suit his own convenience?  Has he been unkind
to you, cold, disappointing?  Are you tired already of the fellow?"

"Oh, no, oh, no, you _don't_ understand!  Dear Mr Maplestone, do leave
it until you are stronger."

The crimson of the Squire's cheeks turned to a deeper hue, a spasm of
pain contorted his lips, his eyes rolled, closed, opened again, and
turned with a dreadful intensity upon his nephew.

"I'm dying!" he cried.  "You are killing me between you.  _Antony_!"

Then Antony stepped forward and took Juliet by the hands.  White to the
lips was he, but there was no flinching in his eyes, no tremor in the
tone of his strong voice.

"_My darling_," said Antony, "_will you marry me this week_?  As God is
my witness, it is my dearest wish.  As God is my witness, I will make
you happy."

At the opposite side of the bed Mrs Maplestone subsided helplessly into
tears.  Writhing, gasping in pain, the Squire muttered to himself, "What
a fuss to make!  What a fuss about nothing!"

To Juliet, as to Antony, they might have been at the other side of the
world.  They had ceased to exist.  He stood, drawn up to his full
height, gazing down into her face.  She looked up, looked deep, deep
into the steady brown eyes, and read therein what she most longed to
see.

"Yes, Tony, I will.  The sooner the better," answered Juliet.  And, so
saying, started trustfully upon life's greatest adventure.



CHAPTER FOUR.

THE MAN WHO WAITED FOR LOVE.

Behind his tired eyes and general affectation of indifference Rupert
Dempster hid an overwhelming ambition.  He longed for love--not for the
ordinary springtide passion experienced by ninety-nine men out of a
hundred; nor for the ordinary "living-prosaically-ever-after" which is
the ultimate sequel to such affairs.  The desire of his heart was for
the experience of the hundredth man,--an experience as far distinguished
from the amours of the ninety-nine, as is the romance of the suburban
Algernon and Angelina, from the historic passion of a Dante and
Beatrice.  Rupert searched not so much for a wife as for a mate, a woman
who should be so completely the complement of himself that to meet would
be to recognise, and after recognition life apart would become an
impossibility and a farce.  In his own mind the conviction remained
unshaken that the day _would_ dawn when he should meet this dearer self,
and enter into a completeness of joy which would end but with life
itself.  Yet the years passed by, and his thirty-fifth birthday came and
went, and found him no nearer his goal.  Once and again as the years
passed by, Rupert awoke, breathless and panting, from a dream, the same
dream, wherein he had met his love, and they had spoken together.  The
details of the dream seemed instantly to fade from his mind, leaving
behind an impression of mingled joy and pain.  She had been beautiful
and sweet; he had been proud and glad, yet there had been a shadow.  It
had not been all joy that he had felt as he had welcomed the
well-beloved; his emotion on awaking had been tinged with something
strangely resembling fear.  But the dream-face had been fair.  His
longing to meet it was but whetted by the consciousness of mystery.

He met her at last at a garden-party and gained an introduction by
accident.  "Do find Lady Belcher, and bring her to have some tea," his
hostess bade him, and supplemented her request with a brief description:
"A tall, dark woman, dressed in yellow.  She was on that bench a few
minutes ago.  Anyone will tell you..."

Rupert crossed the lawn in the direction indicated; he was in the mood
of resigned boredom which possesses most men at a garden-party, and for
the moment the Dream Woman had no place in his thoughts.  Lady Belcher
was plainly a guest of importance, for whose refreshment the hostess
felt herself responsible.  She was probably elderly, and, as such,
uninteresting from a young man's standpoint.  He looked for the gleam of
a yellow dress, caught it defined sharply among the surrounding blues
and pinks, and drew up in front of the seat.

"Lady Belcher, I think?  Mrs Melhuish has sent me to ask you if you
will have some tea?"

Lady Belcher was talking volubly to an acquaintance on the subject of
the shortcomings of her friends, and was much bored by the interruption.
She lifted a face like an elderly rocking-horse, and made short work of
the invitation.

"Thanks!  Couldn't possibly.  I abhor tea," she said curtly, and
immediately resumed the interrupted conversation.

Dempster turned, faintly smiling.  He was accustomed to the rudeness of
the modern society woman, and it had no power to hurt him.  On the
contrary, he congratulated himself on having escaped an unwelcome task.
He turned aside with a sigh of relief, and even as he turned, the
ordered beating of his heart seemed for a moment to cease, and leave his
being suspended in space.  Cut sharply in twain, as by the sweep of a
scythe, the old life fell from him and the new life began, for there,
but a couple of yards away, stood the Dream Woman, her eyes gazing
steadily into his!

She was a tall, slim woman, no longer in her first youth, but her face
had a strange, arresting beauty.  Hair and eyes were dark, and there was
something curiously un-English in the modelling of the features,
something subtly suggestive of a fiercer, more primal race.  So might a
woman have looked whose far-off ancestor had been an Indian brave,
bequeathing to future generations some spark of his own wild vigour.
The lips were scarlet, a thin, curved line in the pallor of her face;
her eyes were fringed with black, straight lashes.  She wore a gown of
cloudy black, and there came to Rupert, with a cramping of the heart,
the swift conviction that she was unhappy.

She was looking at him, half frowning, half smiling, having, it would
appear, overheard his invitation and its rebuff; but as his face came
more clearly into view a look of bewilderment overspread her features.
She started, and involuntarily bent her head in salutation.

The next moment Rupert was by her side, and her hand lay in his.  He had
extended his own, and hers had come to meet it without hesitation.  For
a long moment they looked at one another in silence, then he spoke in
commonplace greeting:

"Good afternoon.  Can I get _you_ some tea?"

She shook her head, but at the same time took a slow step forward, which
had the effect of turning the refusal into an invitation.

"I'm so tired; I don't want anything, but a seat; away from that band!"

"Come this way.  There's a summer-house at the end of the shrubbery that
is probably empty.  No one knows of it but the intimates.  You can rest
there quietly."

He spoke eagerly, walking beside her, eager to lead her away from the
crowd, and have her to himself.  The group of visitors among whom she
had been standing stared after them curiously, and one elderly, stout
woman took a tentative step forward, as if about to follow, thought
better of it, and stood aside.  Dempster had a fleeting suspicion of
sharp eyes scanning his face; then he forgot everything but his
companion.  He was conscious of every movement, of every curve of the
slim, graceful figure, but no word was spoken until they seated
themselves within the shelter of the arbour, and faced each other across
its narrow span.  Was it the shadow of the trailing branches which made
her face so white?  She narrowed her eyes, as if searching in the
store-room of memory, and a faint smile curved her lips.  Once again the
pain cramped Rupert's heart as he realised that smiles came but hardly
to her lips.  A note of interrogation quickened her voice:

"I know you so well...  We have met before?"

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, chin cupped between finger and
thumb, tired eyes aglow with life.

"Yes!"

"When?  Where?"

"Always!" he told her.  "In our dreams."

She shrank at that, edging back into her corner, holding out a quick,
protesting hand.  "No!  Please!  Don't make fun...  We have met on more
substantial ground.  I know your face.  I knew it the moment you turned.
We have met years ago, and have forgotten--"

Rupert sat motionless, his eyes riveted upon her face.  "Think!" he
urged softly.  "Think!  Ask your own heart, and let it answer.  It spoke
clearly enough a minute ago.  You have _always_ known me!  You have been
waiting, as I have been waiting.  It has been long, and we are both
tired, but now it is over, and we can forget.  Our summer has begun!"
He stretched out his hand towards her.

"I've been keeping myself for you.  From this moment I am yours, and all
that I have.  The world would call me crazy to make such a vow to a
woman I have known in the flesh for only a few minutes, but _you_
understand!  _You_ know that it is the simple, absolute truth.  Give me
your hand!"

Like a homing-bird the small hand fluttered and fell, nestling softly
against his own.  He pressed his lips to it in a long, sacramental kiss,
then raised himself to look into her eyes.  "What is your name?"

"Eve.  And yours?"

"Rupert.  I am glad that you are Eve.  The first woman; the only woman.
No other name could have fitted you so well.  Eve! look in my eyes, and
answer what I ask.  Do you trust me, Eve?  Do you believe that I am
speaking the truth?"

White as a dead woman, she faced him across the shadow; the scarlet of
her lips was like a stain of blood, but as she gazed her face quivered
into an inexpressible tenderness, for on Rupert Dempster's features
nature had printed the hall-mark of truth, and no one had yet looked
into his eyes and doubted his word.  The Dream Woman accepted it so
simply that she did not trouble to answer his question.  "I am not worth
it," she said instead; "I am too old; too sad.  It ought to have been a
lovely, radiant girl who could have given you her youth."

"I have thought of her like that," he answered simply, "but I see now
that it could not have been.  I needed more.  She could not have
satisfied me, if she had not suffered.  I should have missed the
greatest joy of all, if she had not needed my comfort."

"I wish I were beautiful!" she sighed again.  "She should have been
beautiful to be worthy of you.  I wish I were beautiful!"

"Are you not beautiful?" he asked her.  "It is strange; I had thought so
much of how you would look, but when our eyes met I forgot all that.  We
belong; that is everything.  The beginning and the end.  You are Eve."

"Ah, you are good!" she sighed.  "You are good!  I did not know there
were such men in the world...  It is true, Rupert.  You must have been
with me in my dreams, for there is nothing new about you, nothing
strange.  I know your face as I know my own, and it is rest to be with
you--rest and peace.  It must have been meant that we should meet
to-day, for it is the first time for--oh, so long, that I have been to
any public place!"  She cast a quick glance at her black dress, and an
involuntary shudder shook her frame.  "But to-day I felt better, and it
was so bright, and they persuaded me.  I have dreaded meeting people,
but to-day I didn't mind.  I think I _wanted_ to come.  And then I saw
you, and your face was so familiar that I thought I had met you long ago
and had forgotten."

"You had not forgotten.  You had never remembered anything so well.  In
that first moment you _knew_ that I was different from the rest.  It was
written on your face, dear; there was no need for words!  There is
something else written there which hurts me to see.  I think you have
needed me, Eve!"

She drew her hand from his and pressed it to her head with a gesture
more eloquent than words.  Rupert's presentiment of trouble had been
true; it now remained to discover the nature of her grief.

He was conscious of steadying himself mentally and morally, before he
possessed himself of the disengaged left hand, which lay on her lap.
Deftly, tenderly, his fingers felt hers, moving tentatively upwards over
the joints, feeling with trembling anxiety for the presence of rings, of
_the_ ring!  The shock at finding the tell-tale third finger bare was
almost as largely compounded of surprise as of joy, so strong had been
the presentiment of a husband in the background.  The eyes which he
raised to hers were radiant with joy, but there was no answering gleam
in the depths into which he gazed.  Their sombre gloom chilled him in
the midst of his ecstasy.

"Eve," he cried softly, "smile at me!  I was wrong to conjure up dead
ghosts to-day when we ought to think of nothing but the happiness of
meeting.  Eve!  I have been preparing for you all these years; now I am
free to do as you will.  It is for you to order, and I shall obey.  We
will go where you will, live where you choose--"

"You will take me away?"  She bent forward, her eyes peering into his,
so that he saw more closely than he had done before the beautiful,
ravaged face, with its slumbering passion, its deep, overmastering
gloom.  There shrilled through her voice an almost incredible joy.
"_You_--_will_--_take_--_me away_?"

Dempster laughed happily.  Ay, indeed, he would take her away.  She was
free, there was no barrier between them; openly, honourably, before all
the world he could claim her as his own--could make her his wife with
all the stately ritual of the Church.

"Of course I will take you away!  Do you imagine, after all these years,
I will wait a day longer than I can help?  Now that I have found you, I
shan't easily let you go."  And, with his whole being thrilling in
answer to her appeal, "You _want_ to come to me, Eve?" he asked her.

"Yes," she sighed softly, "yes!"  Her lips parted in a long-drawn sigh
of content.  "You are so good.  Your goodness rests me.  That's what I
need more than anything else--rest!"  With the same tragic gesture she
pressed her fingers against her brow, then, with a sudden impulse,
sweet, and girlish, and unexpected, clasped his hand in hers, and
repeated the gesture, bending her head to meet the healing touch.

There was no need of words to explain the meaning of the action, the
message flashed from eye to eye with silent eloquence.  For the moment
the shadow lifted, and Dempster gazed into a face illumined by love and
tenderness.  Only for a moment; then suddenly came the sound of
unwelcome footsteps, and peering through the trailing branches Rupert
beheld a middle-aged couple pacing slowly by, glancing curiously to
right and left, yet remaining happily unconscious of the arbour behind
the trees.  He recognised the woman as the one who had been standing by
Eve's side in the garden, and wondered with a passing amusement if
curiosity had sent her to see what had become of her companion.  How far
she was from guessing the high happenings of those short moments!

In the midst of his amusement he felt Eve grasp his arm, and draw him
back into the shadow.  It was joy to feel that her dread of interruption
was as keen as his own, and he turned to her a look of glad
understanding, but the tragic misery on her face chilled him once more.

It was inconceivable that the annoyance of a temporary interruption
could call forth such intensity of feeling, and Dempster, regarding her,
felt his own nerves thrill with a kindred fear.  For one glad moment he
had believed that his happiness was assured; now he realised that he had
rejoiced too soon.  There _were_ barriers to be overcome--mysterious
barriers which loomed before him, dark and lowering.  He caught the
slight form in his arms, cradling it with pitiful tenderness.

"My darling!  My darling!  You are afraid.  Of _what_ are you afraid?  I
am here--no one can harm you.  Give me your dear hands!  Lean against
me!  The whole world cannot separate us, Eve, if we choose to be
together.  Why are you afraid?"

He felt the shudder that ran through her limbs.  Close against his ear
her lips trembled over the words:

"I am afraid of losing you; of being left alone!  They will try to
separate us.  If they knew what we had been planning, they would plot
together so that we might not meet.  You are strong, but they are
stronger, and I am in their power...  Take me away, Rupert, take me now,
or it will be too late!"

He took her hand, and raised it solemnly to his lips.

"I swear to you," he said, "that I will take you.  I swear that I will
be the truest and most faithful of husbands so long as God gives me
life!"

"I swear to you," she cried in response, "that I will be a true wife.
Whatever has happened, whatever may come, I swear that you shall never
regret it.  I will love you; I will be your slave.  Nothing, nothing can
be too much!"

They clung together in silence.  The nearness, the stillness, the deep
welling of joy in the sweet human contact, were all-engrossing.  Rupert
would fain have banished all difficulties into the future, and given
himself up to untrammelled enjoyment of the hour, but the urgency of
Eve's appeal forbade postponement.

He raised himself, supporting her in his arms.

"Eve! from this moment you and I are one.  What belongs to one, belongs
to the other; we can have no secrets, no concealments.  If there are
difficulties in our way, I must be prepared to meet them.  Who is this
woman?  What right has she or anyone else to dictate what you should or
should not do?"

Her eyes gazed back into his with a deep, unseeing gaze, the delicate
eyebrows creased as if in an effort of thought; then once again she
lifted her hand and pressed it against her brow.  Poignantly beautiful,
poignantly sad, she sat and gave him her answer.

"I live with them," she said quietly.  "They take care of me.  I think--
I think I am mad!"

Rupert Dempster lost no time in questioning his hostess as to the
history of the Dream Woman who had come to fill such a real place in his
life.  As soon as the guests had departed he put in a plea for a private
conversation, whereupon Mrs Melhuish seated herself on a chair at the
farther side of the lawn, and drew a long breath of mingled fatigue, and
relief.

"That's over, thank goodness!  This annual garden-party to the
neighbourhood looms over me like a nightmare.  I feel ten years younger
when the last carriage has driven away from the door.  Now! what can I
do for you?  But I know, of course.  You've fallen a victim to Eve
Bisdee and her _beaux yeux_.  They _are_ beautiful!  It's about once in
a lifetime that one meets an Englishwoman with such eyes as hers.  It
seems superfluous to have a tongue, when all that one feels can be
expressed so eloquently in a glance.  Even now her eyes are wonderful;
but if you'd seen her as a girl, before--"

"Before what?  That's what I am waiting to hear.  What happened to her?
Some tragedy, of course.  Tell me about it."

Mrs Melhuish gave him a searching glance.

"You realised that--that she is not--like other people?"

Rupert's smile was half sad, half triumphant.

"Not in the least like other people.  But we can discuss that later on.
I am waiting for your story."

Mrs Melhuish leaned her head on her hand and her face fell into
thoughtful lines.

"I've known Eve since she was a girl of eighteen--the loveliest thing!--
and as gay and sweet as she was lovely.  She was an only child, and her
parents adored her, and--what is by no means so usual!--she adored them
in return.  They were not rich--quite poor, in fact; but the family was
exceptional, and everyone visited them.  When Eve came out, Mrs Bisdee
used to give charming little evenings, so simple and unpretentious, but
so well done.  Eve was so different, too, from the ordinary fair, placid
English girl that she made quite a sensation in the county.  We expected
her to make a great match.  Then one day they were all travelling
together to Burnham to attend a hunt ball, and the train they were in--"
Mrs Melhuish shuddered, as at a terrible remembrance.  "You will
remember it--the Tunford accident--a terrible affair!  Over sixty
passengers killed in the most appalling circumstances.  Eve escaped.
She was travelling with a friend in the rear part of the train.  They
were pulled out and carried up the bank, and there that poor child stood
and looked on, helpless, maddened, while her parents and the other poor
wretches in the wrecked carriages lay pinned down, devoured by the
names.  Oh, my dear man, we read of such things, we agonise over them,
or we _think_ we agonise, but imagine the real thing!  Seeing, hearing,
within a few yards, yet as powerless to help as though one were at the
other side of the world...  Well!  Eve went through that torture, and it
wrecked her life.  She had brain fever, and when that passed, her mind
remained--what shall I say?--_clouded_.  Yes, that's the right word.  It
expresses exactly the truth.  There is a cloud hanging over her,
shutting out the sun.  Her memory is impaired, so that she does not
remember any actual event; but there is an impression of horror and
dread.  It is ten years since the accident, and the cloud has not
lifted.  She lives with our doctor and his wife; they are good, honest
people, and do their best; but I wish sometimes she could have a change.
At the best of times they are not her type, and after ten years
together--"

"You say that the cloud has not lifted.  Is she _no_ better than at the
beginning of the time?"

"Oh, yes!  When one looks back over the years one can see that there is
improvement.  Her health is better, and she has lost her dread of
society.  At times, as you saw her to-day, one would hardly realise that
she was not normal.  But the cloud falls.  She is always sweet, always
gentle, but terrible, terribly sad."

"But she _is_ better," Rupert insisted.  "She is going to get quite
well.  I am going to make her well...  Mrs Melhuish"--he leaned
forward, his hand on the arm of her chair--"you are my very kind friend.
It is only right that I should tell you at once.--I am going to marry
Eve Bisdee!"

"My _dear_ Rupert!" cried Mrs Melhuish deeply.  Her face flushed, her
mild eye showed a flash of anger.  She was shocked--more than shocked,
outraged.  Her voice took an edge of coldness.  "Really, this is too
much.  Eve is a most appealing creature, and it is natural that a man
should feel chivalrous and protective when he hears her history.  But
marriage!  That's unthinkable!  It offends me.  Please think of what you
are saying!"

Rupert lifted his hand and laid it gently on hers.  They were old
friends, these two, and for years back had been able to speak together
frankly without fear of offence.

"Wait!" he said.  "Listen to what I have to say before you give your
verdict.  What I propose to do may be unusual, but it is eminently sane.
I propose to change places with that doctor, and to see what I can do
towards removing that cloud.  There is only one way in which I can gain
the right, and that is by going through a form of marriage.  Therefore a
form of marriage it must be.  Don't look at me in that commiserating
manner, dear lady!  This is not philanthropy, it's not pity.  I am going
to undertake this thing because I want to do it more than anything on
earth!  Now do you understand?  You know my ideas about love.  We have
talked of them together, and you know for what I have been waiting.  It
came to me this afternoon, at the moment when Eve's eyes looked into
mine.  From that moment there was no going back."

"My dear Rupert!" cried Mrs Melhuish again.  The anger had faded from
her face, but she looked infinitely distressed.  With all her heart she
wished that this meeting had never taken place.  "My dear Rupert, to
have waited so long, and then to rush into folly like this!  I do know
your ideas, and very beautiful they are; all the more reason why you
should make no mistake.  There is always the reverse side of the
picture, and as you can love more keenly than other men, so of a
certainty can you suffer more.  You may feel powerfully attracted to
poor Eve, but you have no idea of the strain and weariness of battling
with a mind diseased.  It's hard enough when such a task comes to one as
an obvious duty, but to _choose_ it!"

"I did not choose it," Rupert said quietly.  "There is no question of
choice.  It has to be.  Don't make it harder for me by misunderstanding.
For a moment I thought my kingdom had come, but that was a mistake.  I
have met my Queen, but I shall have to serve for her before she is
really mine.  Seven years I may have to serve--perhaps for twice seven
years.  Do you think a man would deliberately _choose_ such a fate?
It's something stronger than choice between Eve and me.  The simple
truth is that I have no object in life but to help her to get back to
the light.  I'll tell you something else, too--_I'm the only man who can
do ill_.  I possess a power over her which no doctor or nurse could
obtain.  Good heavens!  Haven't they had ten years for their
experiments?  How much longer would you have me content to stand by and
wait?  If she has any relations, they must be thankful to give her a
chance of being cared for, for love instead of money.  I'll find her a
nurse, the best nurse that can be had.  We'll take her abroad to live in
the sun, away from all her old associations.  She is afraid of those
people--did you know that?  She is not afraid of me.  She _wants_ to
come.  My dear lady, this thing is going to _be_!  The question is--am I
to have your help?"  Mrs Melhuish was not easily convinced, but she was
conquered in the end, as were, in turns, the few relatives whom Eve
possessed.  All had been conscious that the time had come to make a
change, and no more promising change could be imagined than the one
proposed.  From Eve's own point of view, that was to say!  For Dempster
it was a different matter.  The relations felt it their duty to argue
with him, to point out that he was recklessly shattering his life.  But
Dempster smiled, and persisted.

Very well, then! let him have his way.  So Rupert and Eve were married,
and immediately after set sail for Egypt.

One midsummer afternoon two years later, Rupert Dempster walked along an
exquisite stretch of road in North Wales which divides the rocky course
of the river Dee from a sleepy canal with fern-covered banks, and an
overhanging arch of green.  After the blazing Eastern lands in which the
past years had been spent, the dewy loveliness of the scene was a
delight to the senses.  On every side rose the crests of green, smiling
hills; the river broke into ripples of foam round the scattered rocks
which strewed its bed.  Along the still stream to the left floated a
miniature barge, carrying a gay awning overhead.  This was the omnibus
of the neighbourhood, plying up and down the stream several times a day,
and even as Rupert watched, its slow course was stayed, and one of the
passengers alighted and walked slowly towards him.

She was a slightly-made girl with a noticeable daintiness of movement.
Under her wide-brimmed hat her face showed small and pale, and her hair
was of a light flaxen hue.  Rupert knitted his brow, and his pace
quickened instinctively.  The girl walked with her eyes on the ground,
oblivious of his approach.  Another moment and they were side by side,
and Rupert gave a cry of recognition.

"Lilith!  It is Lilith!  What an extraordinary chance, to meet you here!
My dear Lilith, I am so pleased to see you."

And indeed there was unmistakable pleasure in his voice; the somewhat
worn face lightened with animation.  He gripped the girl's hand with
eager fingers, and she smiled back at him, a calm, unperturbed smile, as
though she had parted from him but an hour before.

"How do you do, Rupert?  Are you staying down here?  Is Mrs Dempster
with you?"

"Yes.  We have taken the house just behind those trees.  Do you know it?
You cross the next bridge, and follow the lane to the left."

"Yes, I know it.  I'm staying at the Inn."

Lilith walked by his side, her eyes quietly searching his face, but
having vouchsafed these bare words of information, she added nothing
more.  The silence lasted for several minutes, nevertheless it was with
an overwhelming impression of answering a question, that Rupert spoke
again, saying slowly:

"She is better, but she is not cured.  The attacks of depression come on
less frequently, but they still come.  We are tring to ward off another
at this moment.  She grew tired of the East.  For a time she delighted
in it, and the novelty took her out of herself; but it became
wearisome--the eternal glare, the absence of green, the medley of
tongues.  She wanted to come home.  We've been wandering about for the
last four months, and landed here last week.  It's a charming spot, and
_peaceful_.  It ought to do her good!"

There was an appeal in his voice which a woman's ear should have been
quick to read, but Lilith made no response.  She turned her strange,
expressionless eyes first on the silent, shaded canal, then on the
river, sparkling in the sun, its waters beating against the jagged
rocks.  Until that moment Rupert had regarded the two streams from an
artistic standpoint only, now of a sudden they seemed charged with a
spiritual meaning.  Peace and storm, stagnation and action, life and
death,--he saw them all in the contrast between those two streams, and
for the first time a doubt crept into his mind whether he had done well
for Eve in shielding her from the great current of life, and lapping her
round with eternal calm.  He turned abruptly to the girl and put another
question:

"Will you come with me now and see her?  I think perhaps you might do
her good."

"Yes, I will come," Lilith answered, with a courteous indifference at
which Rupert smiled with grim amusement.  For two long years he had
guarded his treasure with never-ceasing vigilance, finding for her the
most secluded retreats, where no alien eye should disturb her repose;
avoiding the society of his fellow-creatures as if it had been the
plague.  And now at last he had invited an outsider to disturb that
calm, and she had received the honour with the indifference accorded to
the most ordinary of invitations!  But, after all, what had he expected?
Who had ever yet seen Lilith moved out of her colossal calm!

Rupert led the way towards his temporary home, opened the gate, and
escorted Lilith through a brilliant tangle of garden to the front of the
house, where several long chairs were ranged along a shaded veranda.  On
one of these lay Eve, in a reverie so deep that the new-comers had time
to take in the details of her appearance before she was aware of their
approach.

She wore a white dress, the skirt of which was scattered with the petals
of crimson roses, which her restless hands had pulled asunder.  Her head
was tilted back on the cushion, showing the beautiful line of the
throat; her face was ivory white, and the curved bow of her lips showed
vividly, startlingly red.  Even that first glance brought an impression
of strain and unrest; and as her ear at last caught the sound of the
approaching footsteps, she leaped upward with a gesture of alarm.  Her
eyes fell upon Lilith's figure and distended in wild distress, but the
next moment she beheld Rupert, and in a flash the fear disappeared and
was replaced by the most melting tenderness.  She came forward with the
shy grace of a child, slipped her hand into his, and stood passively
waiting for what it should please him to do next.  Anyone who doubted if
Rupert Dempster's love had stood the strain of those two long years of
waiting would have found his answer in one glimpse at the man's face as
he stood holding that little hand in his.

"Eve! this is an old friend.  I met her walking by the river, and asked
her to come and see you.  Her name is Lilith Wastneys.  You remember it,
don't you?  I have spoken to you about her."

"Yes, I remember," Eve said.  She took her hand from her husband's, and
held it out towards Lilith with a graceful gesture of greeting.  Her
eyes dwelt on the small, composed face with an expression of incredulous
surprise.  "You wished for Power!  That seemed strange to me when I
heard it, and now that I have seen you it seems stranger still.  You
look so small and gentle.  I wonder what made you wish for Power!"

Lilith's smile was as inscrutable as her eyes.  She answered simply by
making another statement:

"And Rupert wished for love."

"He has got it!" said Eve deeply.  She gave one glance at her husband--a
wonderful, liquid glance, then turned back to her guest.  "Won't you sit
down?  I sit in the veranda to be out of the sun.  I am so tired of the
sun.  In the East it is cruel, blazing down day after day, mocking at
the shadows.  But the shadows are there--it cannot chase them away."
She leaned back on her cushions.  "Here all is so cool and calm, and the
rain falls.  That feels like nature weeping with us.  I like to watch
the rain.  Have _you_ a pretty garden to sit in?"

"I am staying at the Inn.  I don't want a garden.  I can have that at
home.  When I want to rest I walk over the stepping-stones into the
middle of the river.  There is a big rock there which forms a kind of
natural arm-chair.  I can sit on it, looking down the stream, and no one
can see me from the bank, for the rock rises up like a wall nearly all
the way round.  To sit there is like a peep into another life; a
mermaid's life, all grey rock, and splashing foam, and soft, ceaseless
roar.  When you listen to that roar from the bank it sounds harsh and
monotonous.  You are on another element, you see, so it is alien to you,
and has no meaning, but on the rock you are part of the river itself.
It tells you its secrets.  You can understand!"

As she finished speaking, Lilith's heavy lids lifted, and her eyes
flashed with a sudden light.  There was a moment's silence; then Eve
bent forward on her seat, while a wave of colour flamed into her pale
cheeks.

"_Will you take me with you_?" she cried breathlessly.  "Will you take
me _now_?  There is something I am always trying to hear--a secret which
I am always trying to find out, and no one can help me.  Perhaps the
river will tell me my secret...  Take me with you, and let me try!"

Eve was fascinated with the rocky seat, and spent hours of each day
ensconced thereon.  The river was so low that it was easy to step from
one rock to another, and Rupert would see her comfortably settled, and
then leave her to take the brisk walk over the hills which was his usual
exercise.  Eve preferred to be alone for part of the day, and he had no
fear of leaving her.  There had never been any suicidal tendency in her
derangement; rather did she cling to life, and shrink from the thought
of death.  And the river soothed her, she said; the murmuring voice
seemed to whisper of happiness and peace, but as yet it was only a
murmur.  In vain she strained her ears; the message eluded her, and
floated vaguely into space.  "Louder!" she would cry.  "Louder!"  But
the river floated sleepily on its course, and refused to be aroused.

A week passed by, and Rupert grew restless and uneasy.  Eve was still
obsessed with love of her river seat, but the strain of listening for
the message which never came added to her depression, and it irked him
to feel that she was deliberately courting a disappointment which he was
powerless to relieve.

"It can do no good," he told Lilith impatiently, "and it may do great
harm.  I have been so careful to screen her from every kind of
excitement or strain, so that the brain should have time to rest."

"Or stagnate?" suggested Lilith coldly.  "She has had--how many years is
it--ten or twelve?--of this wrapping in cotton wool, and she has
progressed--how far should you call it--one inch, or two?  How much
longer shall you be content with inches?  If she were in my charge--"

Rupert stopped and faced her in the narrow path.  There was a hint of
roughness in his manner.  When a man is strung to the finest point of
tension it is not always easy to preserve the conventions.  "It is easy
to boast when one has had no experience!  _What_ would you do if she
were in your charge?"

"Neglect her, ignore her, leave her to fend for herself!  You and that
drudge of a nurse imagine that you are helping by waiting on her hand
and foot.  What if instead you are sapping her vitality, and stealing
her chance of life?  What do you leave for her to do, except to breathe?
If you could breathe for her, you would relieve her of that also!  You
make her into a doll, and expect the doll to live!  She is asleep, and
you feed her with drugs.  Better a thousand times to waken her out of
her sleep, even if it be to suffer.  It was a shock which deadened the
brain; it may be that only a shock can rouse it to life again!"

"Ah!" cried Rupert bitterly.  "I have heard that theory before.  It's a
devilish theory!  My poor Eve!  She has been tortured enough; she shall
be tortured no more.  It was the horror of what she saw and heard which
caused the mischief in the beginning.  The one thing I am thankful for
in this loss of memory is that that honour has faded."

Lilith looked at him with her steady eyes.

"Have you ever been delirious?" she asked him.  "Not for an odd hour
here and there, but for days together, stretching out into weeks?  I
_have_; and I know.  Nothing real can approach the horror of the
unknown.  There is no beginning to it, and no end.  It's a great cloud
darkening the sky; it presses lower, lower, strangling the breath.
There is no hope in it, no appeal.  Your wife saw her parents killed
before her eyes.  I tell you the memory of the truth would be peaceful,
compared with this struggle in the darkness.  She would realise that it
was over, that they were at rest; that it would pain them if she went
mourning all her life.  I tell you, Rupert, the only chance of Eve's
recovery is to shock her into remembrance!"

"And if it were, if it were?"--he turned upon her fiercely as though
battling against an inner conviction.  "A shock strong enough to
revolutionise the brain lies in the hands of Providence, to give or to
retain.  What man dare meddle with such a cure?  I love my wife; she is
my world.  Am I to risk her life for a possible relief?  To deliberately
court danger that she--she--" He threw out his arms with a gesture of
intolerable impatience.  "Oh, it is unthinkable!  You don't know what
you are talking about.  It is easy for you to talk.  You have no heart.
You cannot feel--"

He strode away up the road leading to the hills, and Lilith stood and
watched him go, and picked a leaf of sorrel from the bank by her side
and rubbed it daintily between her small teeth, enjoying the sharp,
pungent taste.  Rupert's anger had no power to ruffle her calm.

By and by she also started on her morning promenade, passing by the gate
of Dempster's house, and catching a glimpse of Eve upon the veranda.
There had been thunder-storms in the neighbourhood during the last few
days, and though the actual storms had not yet reached their little
retreat, the atmosphere was heavy and breathless.  That morning Eve had
complained of a headache, and had seemed content to remain in the
garden.  As she passed by, Lilith saw the nurse come out of the gate,
basket in hand, and turn in the direction of the canal bank.  Evidently
she was bound for the barge-omnibus, which should convey her to the
nearest township.  Lilith repaired to her own room in the Inn, and set
about the task of answering a pile of letters.

Two hours passed quickly.  Then gradually into her preoccupation stole
the sense of something unusual and disturbing.  She raised her head, and
sat quietly considering its cause.  The little room seemed filled with a
rushing noise; it was not a new noise, but rather an exaggeration of the
one to which she had been accustomed for weeks past--the swirling of the
river.

Lilith rose, and crossed the room to the latticed window.  The Inn stood
on the bisecting road between canal and river, within but a few yards'
distance of each; but this morning a strange transformation had passed
over the accustomed scene.  The waters of the river were no longer
crystal clear, but of a thick muddy brown; their course was no longer
smiling and leisurely, but rapid and threatening.  Upon the surface
floated broken branches and boughs of trees.

Lilith turned instantly and descended the stairs.  A sense of happenings
was upon her; there was no time to waste.

At the door of the Inn stood the landlord, his broad face lit by a smile
of satisfaction.  Life was sleepy in this quiet vale; he welcomed a
passing excitement.

"The river is in flood, miss!" he cried genially.  "Yes, indeed, we
shall have a big flood!  There were bad thunder-storms this last week up
in the hills in Merioneth, where the river rises, and all the streams
will be swollen, and pouring down into the lake.  It was the same in the
spring five years ago, when my Willie was born.  Yes, indeed, the roar
of it woke us in the middle of the night.  Look at the colour of it now,
miss, and the speed!  Soon there will not be a rock to be seen.  Yes,
indeed, it will be a fine sight, the river, when it will be in flood!"

He was beaming with innocent enjoyment.  His face fell like that of a
thwarted child when the visitor turned, without as much as a word, and
walked down the path; he stared after her blankly, then shrugged his
shoulders, and ambled heavily back inside the Inn.

Lilith walked with rapid footsteps; her lips were set, but her eyes
roamed.  They turned upward towards the house among the trees where she
had left Eve seated on the veranda.  Assuredly Eve was there still; she
had a headache, and had announced her decision to remain at home.  This
morning, for once, the river seat had lost its allure.  Of a certainty
Eve was still on her veranda.  Nevertheless Lilith's footsteps grew
quicker; straight as a die she made for the point on the bank opposite
to the chain of stepping-stones.

No trace of an occupant was to be seen on the central islet, but a
stronger sense than that of sight was at work in Lilith's brain.  All
the arguments in the world were powerless to deceive her.  Eve was on
the rock!  She knew it.  It was the truth.

On the edge of the road stood the stump of an old tree, the nearest fork
of which stood four or five feet from the ground.  Lilith grasped it
with both hands, and with an agile movement drew her knees up to the
level.  The rest was easy; she took another grasp of the trunk, drew up
her feet and stood, supporting herself on either side, gazing over the
stream.

Yes! the inner certitude had been correct.  Against the dull grey of the
rock lay the folds of a white dress, the gleam of scarlet from a folded
parasol, a dark head lay tilted backward towards the sky.  Eve was
there, asleep, or wrapped in one of her trance-like reveries in which
she was unconscious of passing events.  She would see nothing, hear
nothing, until the mood passed and she became conscious of a desire for
movement.  For half an hour to come, perhaps for an hour, she would
remain oblivious, and, meanwhile, with every moment the stream was
rising and gaining more deadly swiftness.

Lilith crooked one arm round the bough of the tree and raised bent hands
to her mouth.  The stepping-stones were still well above water.  She
would send her piercing "coo-ee" across the stream and continue to send
it, until the unusual character of the sound attracted Eve's attention,
then she would go to meet her, and help her to the bank.  There would be
no danger, only a spice of excitement; a thrilling realisation of what
might have been.  No more.

Lilith pursed her lips to give the signal, but the signal did not come.
Poised in the very attitude of preparation, a sudden change of
expression showed in her still eyes, or rather an arrestment of
expression; the features remained fixed and immovable, while the brain
worked.

For one long minute she stood motionless, then, slowly, her hands fell
to her sides; she bent downwards until once more her knees rested on the
fork of the tree, from hence she let herself gently to the ground.  No
one had seen her.  The Innkeeper was busy; the road stretched ahead bare
and empty.  No one would interfere.

Lilith walked to the nearest bridge, crossed it and seated herself on a
sloping bank.  The ground was raised above the level of the canal, and
by raising her head she could see the chain of stepping-stones leading
to the rocky islet.  She folded her hands in her lap and watched.  The
sun shone out from behind a leaden bank of clouds, and beat on her face.
What was the expression of Lilith's face?  There was strength on it, an
immense, all-conquering strength; there was the mark of strain, in
deepened line and close-set lip; but there was something else--something
dominating, overriding.  It shone in the eyes; the pose of the head
showed it, the beating pulse in the throat.  It was joy--primitive,
triumphant joy!

The stepping-stones grew small and smaller; above the dark swirl of the
river their grey surfaces caught the sun and gleamed into silver.  Once
and anon branches of a tree borne down by the flood were caught by one
of these islets and for a moment held bound, then the swirl and the rush
overcame, and they were swept relentlessly onward.  Lilith's lips
tightened as she watched them pass.

Ten minutes passed; twenty minutes; the silver gleams made but tiny
spaces above the flood.  Lilith rose to her feet and stood poised for
flight.

Another five minutes and the waters lapped over the surface of the
smallest stone.  Like an arrow from the bow, Lilith flew across the
bridge, down the path to the little Inn.

"Help!  Help!  The ropes! ...  A lady is on one of the rocks.  The lady
from Plas Glynn.  The ropes!  Quick!  Quick!"

The ropes hung coiled in the entrance of the Inn.  It was not the river
which was the danger, but the shaded, sleeping canal.  Many a pedestrian
had taken a false step off that fern-bordered bank, and had had a sore
struggle for his life.  The Innkeeper's own son had had this struggle.
The ropes were ready, noosed at the end--long, stout ropes, for use, not
play.  The Innkeeper seized them from their pegs and followed Lilith
down the path.  Afterwards he recalled that it was she who issued
orders, and he who obeyed.  He lashed the end of the ropes round the
stump of the old tree.  One noose was put round his own waist, the other
he carried in his hand.  The young lady stood by to let out their
length, but before he could start, a cry sounded from behind, a terrible
cry from the depths of a tortured heart, and Rupert Dempster fell upon
him, and wrenched the ropes from his hand.

They lifted their voices, the two men and the girl, and sent forth a
ringing cry of alarm; once, twice, they sent it forth, while Rupert felt
his way to the first wave-lashed stone, and at the third cry Eve's white
figure appeared in the aperture between the rocks.

The sight on which she looked was enough to turn the strongest head--the
waste of waters where there had been a bubbling stream, the swirling
current covering the way of retreat; yet to the onlookers there appeared
no sign of distress in Eve's attitude.  The lurid sun still shown down,
shaftlike through the clouds, and showed her white figure in vivid
distinctness.  She was bending forward, gazing, not at the shore, but
upward across the flood.  Her ear was bent low, as though listening to
its voice...

Rupert turned back from the first stone, threw off his shoes, and
started afresh.  Once and again his foot slipped, and he swayed
perilously to right and left, but always he recovered himself, and
pressed on steadfastly towards the rock where stood his wife,
motionless, bending forward towards the stream.

He was by her side, standing on the same foothold, before she was
conscious of his presence; then he spoke her name, and she turned her
eyes upon him.  Oh, God in heaven, they were _sane_ eyes!  Clear,
straight-glancing eyes.  _Sane_ eyes, full of thankfulness and peace!

"I remember!" she cried loudly.  "I remember!  The river has told me.
Oh, Rupert I am free--"

"Come!" he said simply, and took her hand.  There was no time to waste,
for the flood was rushing on its way, and the perilous passage had still
to be made; but there was no fear in either heart.  Nothing on earth or
sea could mar the rapture of that moment.  After long waiting and
heart-sickness the cloud had lifted, and the shadows had taken wing.  He
read the change in her eyes, the very touch of her hand within his told
the same tale.  It was no longer weak and helpless; her fingers clasped
his with a strong, resolute grasp, giving help as well as receiving.
The Dream Woman had come to life!

From the bank the stepping-stones had disappeared from sight, and to the
dazzled eyes of the onlookers it seemed as though two disembodied
spirits came walking towards them across the waters, their faces lit
with an unearthly radiance.

When the bank was reached, they turned, and made their way towards the
house, unconscious of the existence of the watchers.  Hand in hand they
crossed the bridge and mounted the sloping path...

The Innkeeper hitched his shoulders and drew a trembling breath.

"It was a near thing, look you!  As near a shave as ever I seen...  That
was a good thing, missy, that you caught sight of her just at the right
moment!"

Lilith's heavy eyelids drooped over her eyes.

"Yes," she said sleepily, "the very right moment!"



CHAPTER FIVE.

THE GIRL WHO WISHED FOR POWER.

Two men proposed to Lilith Wastneys at the same ball and in the same
palm-shaded retreat.  She was not surprised, because she had willed that
they should speak, and people had a habit of doing as Lilith willed.
Very early in her life she had discovered that if she said nothing, and
thought hard, that thought had a power to mould others to her will.

It was not often that she put forth her power, for her attitude towards
her fellows was one of lofty detachment.  They were commonplace
creatures--weak, vacillating creatures, swayed to and fro by the
emotions of the hour.  Lilith had never in her life been swayed; never
for the fraction of a second had she been uncertain of her own mind; all
the temptations in the world could not lure her a step from a
premeditated path, but because Nature had cast her in a fragile mould,
and given her flaxen hair and a baby skin, and minute morsels of hands
and feet, the world adopted protective airs towards her and spoke of her
approvingly as "sweet and gentle."

Francis Manning, the first of the two men to make a declaration of love,
was a big giant of a man with a handsome face, an amiable disposition,
and a supreme concern for his own well-being.  He had reached the age
and position when it seemed desirable to marry, and, that being the
case, there was no doubt upon whom his choice would fall.

For years past Lilith Wastneys had stood to Francis as a type of all
that was sweet and desirable in women.  In his eyes she was beautiful,
though in reality she had no claim to the title.  The love-light in his
eyes transformed her pale locks into gold, her colourless eyes into
deepest blue; her height was to him "just as high as my heart"; her low
voice, her drooping lids, her noiseless movements--each and all appeared
to him the perfection of their kind.

Francis was whole-heartedly in love, but it was not in his nature to be
otherwise than leisurely.  While a more impetuous lover would have
hastened to put his fate to the test, he was content to continue the
even tenor of his way, indulge in confident dreams of the future, and
leave it to fate to decide the moment of avowal.  Nothing on earth was
farther from his suspicions than the fact that it was Lilith herself,
who, in the ultimate moment, played the part of fate.

She wore a white dress.  Lilith invariably wore white in the evening,--
simple, little white satin frocks devoid of ornament, save for a soft
swathing of tulle, from which her shoulders arose, fair and rounded.
Whatever might be the fashion of the day, that soft swathe of tulle was
in its place; however puffed and waved might be the coiffure of the
other women in the room, Lilith's flaxen locks were always smooth and
demure.  There was a distinction in such simplicity.  People looked at
her and questioned.  They watched her with puzzled eyes.  Was she
pretty?  Certainly not pretty.  Did they admire her?  They were not at
all sure that they did.  _But there was something about her_!

It was Lilith who led the way into the palm-shaded retreat, and chose
the most secluded corner.  She and Francis were engaged to dance the
next number together, but she pleaded fatigue, and they sat alone in the
dimness.

"Who was that dissipated-looking fellow who took you in to supper?  I
wanted to take you myself, but he was too quick for me.  Rather a
striking-looking head, if he were not such a terrible waster!"

"His name is Lowther."

Francis straightened himself, startled into vivid attention.

"_Lowther_!  Hereward Lowther--_that's_ how I knew his face!  I've seen
it in caricatures.  The idea of meeting Lowther here!  I should not have
thought dances were in his line."

"He does not dance."

"Then why on earth does he trouble to come?"

Lilith did not answer.  She knew; but had no intention of sharing her
knowledge, and Francis was too much engrossed in his own reflections to
pursue the question.

"So that is Lowther!  Good heavens, how excited I should have been two
or three years ago at the idea of meeting him in the same room!  Sad how
that man has fizzled out!  He promised such big things, bigger things
than any other man of his day.  I've heard him singled out a score of
times as the man who was going to save England, and now"--he shrugged,
and flicked his large fingers--"it's all over; nothing left but the
wreck of a man.  Drugs, they say.  Something of the sort evidently; he
carries it in his face.  Not the sort of man for you to have anything to
do with, little girl!"

Francis's voice dropped to a tender note as he spoke the last words, and
Lilith lifted her heavy lids and smiled at him with gentle sweetness.
It was seldom that he had obtained more than a glimpse of those downcast
eyes, but now they met his and held them in a lingering look which sent
the blood racing through his veins.  Suddenly, imperatively, the
patience of years was broken, and hot words flowed from his lips.  He
loved her; she was the sweetest, the dearest of women.  For years he had
loved her; he would love her all his life; would live only to serve her.
It was his own feelings on which he enlarged; his own feelings, which
were obviously of the first importance.  In his ardour there was no hint
of anxiety.  He was in love, but confidently in love.  He had but to
speak, and she would come fluttering to his arms.

But he wooed her well, denying her no tittle of her woman's kingdom.  He
held her hands in his, and his big voice softened tenderly as he made
his vows.

"I will take care of you,--such care as was never taken of a woman
before!  You are not fit to stand alone; you are too gentle and fragile.
You want a big fellow like me to stand between you and the world.  It
shall be my work in life to shield you, and keep you sheltered and safe.
Only trust yourself to me, and you will see.  You _will_ trust
yourself, won't you, darling?  I'm not rich, but we should be
comfortable enough.  You are not the sort of girl to be ambitious, and,
you _do_ love me, Lilith!"

Lilith smiled, but she left her hand in his, and a tinge of colour
showed in the pale cheeks.

"I think I _do_ love you, Francis!" she said slowly.

Francis pressed her hand in acknowledgment.  Unbroken confidence had
deprived him of the great thrill which comes to most men at the
knowledge that they are beloved; but one cannot have everything in this
world, and if the choice had been his, he would unhesitatingly have
plumped for the greater ease.  He pressed her hand, and bent over her
tenderly.

"My darling girl!  You make me very happy.  You shall never regret it,
I'll promise you that...  Look at your little mite of a hand lying in
mine!--I could crush it to pieces with one clutch from my big paw.  They
are a type of the difference between us--those two hands--I so big, and
strong, and you such a little slip of a weak, helpless thing."

Lilith bent her head on one side, and looked down with a smile.  She
lifted her tiny fingers and softly stroked the giant hand.

"Why do you love me, Francis?"

"Because I can't help it!" returned Francis promptly.  "Good heavens,
Lilith, if you knew how thankful a fellow is to meet a good
old-fashioned girl!  I'm fed up with these modern specimens, who set
themselves up to be equal with men, and push and drive to force
themselves to the front, instead of being content with the place which
Nature has given them.  I couldn't stick a modern woman.  I want a wife
who will let me judge for her, and be thankful to have my protection--
like you, you little darling!  You are everything that a woman ought to
be...  And why do you love me?"

"Because you are so big, and so handsome, and so"--Lilith laughed, a
tinkling, girlish laugh, which took the sting from the word--"_stupid_!"
She bent nearer to him, with a caressing gesture, and Francis slipped
his arm round her waist, and laughed in sympathy.  The dear, wee mite!
What nonsense she did talk!

"I don't care what is your reason, so long as you _do_ love me.  And how
soon will you be ready to marry your stupid man?"

"Do people always marry the people they love?"  Lilith asked innocently;
and Francis said they did; of course they did.  What else was there for
them to do?

He remembered afterwards that though the conversation which followed was
entirely agreeable to his feelings, Lilith had persistently avoided a
definite promise.

The next morning a letter was handed in at the door of his chambers.  It
was in Lilith's writing, and ran as follows:

  "Dear Francis--

  "I want you to know that I am engaged to be married to Hereward
  Lowther.  He asked me last night, just after you, and I said `Yes.'
  Thank you so much for all your kindness.  It would have been very
  nice, but I feel sure that we should not have suited.

  "Yours affectionately,

  "Lilith Wastneys."

The engagement of Hereward Lowther caused some excitement in the
political world, across which he had made so meteoric a flight.  Of no
one of the younger men in the House had so much been hoped.  His first
speech was still quoted as the most brilliant effort of the kind within
the memory of the present generation, while his tact and his charm had
seemed little inferior to his ability.  Poor, brilliant, unhappy
Lowther, his was but another name added to the list of the men of genius
who have been their own worst enemies!  So rapid had been his downfall,
so flagrant his avoidance of duty, that his friends were convinced that
his constituency would not return him a second time.

And now, with the shock of the unexpected, came the news of his
matrimonial engagement.  The chorus of disapproval was loud, but the
Chief frowned thoughtfully, and reserved his opinion.

"If she is the right woman, it may be the saving of him yet.  Who is
she?  Does anyone know?"

"Her name is Wastneys; daughter of a country squire down in Cornwall.
Good enough family, so far as that goes."

"And the girl herself?"

"Oh, a doll!  Insignificant creature, with washed-out colouring.  Not
even good looking.  Heavy and dull; not a word to say."

The Chief sighed.

"That," he said slowly, "is the end of Lowther!  The man is doomed."

During the weeks of the honeymoon Hereward Lowther's thoughts were
exercised with a problem which, it is to be hoped, presents no
difficulty to the average bridegroom.

"_Why had he married his wife_?"

During the few months which had elapsed since his introduction to Lilith
Wastneys, Lowther had been conscious of a reluctant admiration, which
was strangely akin to antipathy.  There had been occasions when he had
definitely decided that he disliked the girl, yet the decision had no
mitigating effect on his desire to see her again at the earliest
possible moment.  But he was certain, looking back over the time from
the first meeting on the golf links, to that last evening in the
palm-shaded retreat at the ball, he was definitely, absolutely, certain
that the idea of marriage had never entered his head.

How, then, had he become engaged?  How had it happened that he left that
ball pledged to live side by side with this strange, silent girl, till
death did them part?  Honestly, Hereward did not know.  There had been a
flirtation, of course, if such a demure, well-conducted affair could be
called a flirtation.  The girl had looked unusually feminine and
attractive in the dim light, and, this was the crux!--_she had seemed to
expect it_.  Some power of expectancy had driven him on until he had
spoken the fateful words, for in these days of languor and depression,
Lowther had lost the power of resistance, and the easiest course seemed
invariably the best.  He was conscious of his own demoralisation, but
the misery of the consciousness had no vivifying effect; it rather drove
him back to his drugs.  So in this instance he had drifted on, and in a
moment's weakness had sacrificed his freedom.

Yes! that was what it came to; that was the disgraceful fact.  He had
married this girl because she had desired it, and he was too lazy to
resist.  Lowther acknowledged the fact with a shrug, but immediately
afterwards arose a second problem, hardly less incomprehensible than the
first.

_Why had Lilith married him_?

She did not love him.  The man had soon recognised that fact, and it had
brought an unexpected stab of pain.  If she had loved him, as some women
can love, she might have--helped!  But she was cold as ice.  Even his
own lukewarm endearments had proved unacceptable; there was evidently no
personal attraction to explain the mystery of her marriage with a man
who was an historic failure.

They had been married a week, and were sitting in the garden of a
foreign hotel, discussing a possible excursion, when Lilith startled her
husband by a sudden question.  Her voice, as she spoke, was low and
unperturbed; her face showed a gentle smile, nevertheless that question
smote upon Lowther's ears like the crack of a whip.

"At what time," asked Lilith calmly, "do you next take your morphia?"

He turned upon her, furious, ashamed, stammering the inevitable pitiful
denial.

"Wh-at do you mean?  Morphia--I!  Who says I take morphia?"

"Everybody says it.  Everybody knows.  Don't distress yourself,
Hereward.  I only wished to know your hours.  It is better, isn't it,
that we should plan our expeditions for the times when you are most--
most--"

"_Most what_?"

"Normal!  The morphia naturally is soothing, but while it is working
would it not be better if you were--alone?"

"You are talking nonsense.  You don't know what you are talking about.
If you understood anything about the working of morphia, you would
realise that after a dose one feels stimulated, refreshed.  I am never
so well as immediately after--"

"I'm sorry.  I am ignorant, as you say.  Then we had better start our
excursion immediately after an injection.  That is, if we can manage to
do it in the time.  How long is it before the--er--other stage comes
on?"

"_What_ other stage?"

"The--drunken stage!"  Lilith answered.

He hated her at that moment.  A fury of anger rushed through his veins.
He leaped from his seat and paced the path with impetuous steps.  With
the cane in his hand he smote fiercely at the encircling shrubs.  All
the lethargy of the past months disappeared; he was alive again,
smartingly alive, face to face with his shame.

"Who dares to say that I am drunk?  It is a lie!  When have you seen me
drunk?"

"Should I have said `drugged'?  I'm sorry.  I'm so ignorant, you see.  I
didn't know.  Of course, if you say so, there _is_ a difference."

He swung away from her, and entering the hotel mounted the stairs to his
own room.  In his present condition of mind he dared not--literally
dared not--trust himself within sight of his fellows.  Up and down the
quiet room he paced, like a wild animal in its cage, his mind seething
with rage and indignation against his wife, against the world, against
himself.  It was as though a bandage had fallen, and his sleep-ridden
eyes were suddenly galvanised into life.  He looked back along the
sloping path and perceived how far he had fallen...

It was nearing the time for his next injection.  Automatically he took
the tabloids from the bottle, and carried them across the room to
dissolve them in a glass of water.  As he did so, he passed the window
and caught sight of his wife's figure seated in the same position as
that in which he had left her ten minutes before.  How young she looked!
Almost a child in her simple white frock.  The sun shone down on her
flaxen locks, on one tiny hand extended on the seat by her side.
Something gripped at the man's heart at the sight of that hand; it
looked so small, so helpless, so appealing.  The poor girl!  _On her
honeymoon_!  What a bitter disillusionment must be hers!  With a sudden
sweeping movement his hand flew outward, and the tabloids hurled through
the air and buried themselves in the grass below.  The next moment
Lowther himself descended to the garden, and seated himself by his
wife's side.

"Lilith," he said humbly, "I'm sorry!  I was a beast to speak to you as
I did, but you know a man doesn't like interference.  Forgive me, like a
good girl, and--I'll tell you something in return!  It _was_ time for my
morphia, but I've not taken it.  I'm going out with you instead...
Shall we start?"

She lifted her eyes and looked at him.  It seemed to him that he looked
upon a new woman.  Her eyes were no longer light, but dark and shining.
They were bent upon him with an expression which sent the blood rushing
through his veins.  There was triumph in that look, and an immense,
unutterable relief, but there was tenderness also, the tenderness of a
mother towards a struggling child.  The remembrance of that look
remained with Lowther and helped him through the inevitable discomforts
of the next hours.  Lilith spoke but little; he was thankful to her for
her silence, but once and again when his restlessness grew acute, she
slipped her hand through his arm and pushed it forward, so that her
fingers clasped his wrist.  The little hand was warm to the touch.  It
was as though some vital force passed from her veins to his, calming,
invigorating.

Only once did Lilith touch on the subject of politics.  She asked her
husband what was likely to be the predominant question of the next
session.  He told her that it would be the Land Bill, long deferred, but
inevitable: a Bill on which the House was sharply divided, which would
call forth a heat of argument.  He answered curtly, with an evident
distaste, and she never renewed the subject.  Lowther thanked Providence
for a wife with tact.

They roamed about, from one country to another--Belgium, Holland,
France, Germany, Italy, the Tyrol, taking by preference untrodden paths,
putting up at quiet country inns, enjoying the study of peasant life.
Lilith declared that she was tired of cities, had seen enough show
places to last her life; now she needed a rest.  How badly Lowther
himself had needed a rest was proved by his altered appearance after a
few weeks of a leisurely life passed in fresh, pure air.  Never again
had the subject of morphia been mentioned between himself and his wife,
but the doses were steadily diminishing.  There had been one whole day
when he had taken no injection at all!  He wondered at the coincidence
which had made Lilith so tender on that day!  If it had not been for her
tenderness, for the clasp of that small, warm hand, he doubted if he
could have lasted out.  He was no longer so sure that he did not love
his wife.  He was grateful to her for her tact and forbearance.  He was
beginning to look forward to her rare tenderness; as a reward for which
it were worth while to endure.

Both Lowther and his wife were clever linguists, and he was amused to
discover that, quiet as was her nature, she possessed the rare gift of
making friends with the humble folk of the different countries through
which they passed, and of drawing forth their confidence.  Many an
evening was spent in conversation with "mine host" as he enjoyed his
leisurely smoke at the end of the day's work, and "mine host" was an
interesting talker, with his tales of the country side, from the lordly
baron in his rock-bound castle, to the humblest tenant upon his land.
Many talks were held also during the day-time, with the labourers in the
fields, with the farmers who supplied milk and bread, and who beamed in
appreciation of the largesse bestowed by the English milord and his
wife.  There were charming stories to be told--stories of affection and
kindliness between the tenants and the lord of the soil, of a simple,
feudal loyalty which sounded like a page from a fairytale of old, but
there were tragedies also--stories of injustice and tyranny, of
suffering and want.  They were simple people, and they told their tales
simply and well, delivering themselves in conclusion, of a pathetic
apology.  "It was a pity...  Things were not as bad as they had been.
In England, of course, it was different.  The peasants in England had no
such trials to endure!"

Lilith sat listening while her husband explained that England had her
own land troubles.  Her sleepy eyes expressed but little interest; but
now and again she would put a searching question which cut to the very
heart of the matter, and set him talking afresh.  Wherever they went the
same subject recurred, and fresh differences were discussed; but these
conversations were but incidents in the day's doings.  From private
conversation politics were banished.

At the end of the honeymoon Mr and Mrs Hereward Lowther returned to
town and took up their abode in a small flat in Westminster.  The choice
was made by Lilith, as indeed was every choice in those days of
Lowther's weakness.  She confessed to an affection for Westminster, for
the quaint, old-fashioned nooks and corners which still remain, tucked
behind the busy thoroughfares; for the picturesque precincts of the
Abbey.  Westminster was at once central, convenient, and old-world.  She
was eloquent on the subject of its advantages as a dwelling-place, but
she never alluded to the vicinity of Saint Stephen's.

After his return to town Lowther passed through a somewhat severe
relapse.  Pace to face with the old conditions he grew nervous and
despondent, and had more frequent recourse to his drug, but there was
this great difference between his present condition and the past, that
whereas he had been indifferent, now he was penitent, remorseful,
utterly ashamed.  Lilith never reproached him for his lapses, she nursed
him assiduously through the subsequent weakness; she checked him when he
would have made faltering apologies.

"We won't talk about it.  It is not worth while.  It will pass!" she
said quietly, and as she spoke, her strange, expressionless eyes gazed
into his, and he found himself murmuring in agreement.  "Yes, it will
pass!"  Never once, so far as he could discover, did any doubt
concerning the future enter his wife's head.  She must certainly have
heard that when a man takes to drugs it is almost a miracle if he is
enabled to break the habit, yet her confidence remained unshaken.
Throughout the darkest day, throughout the bitterest disappointment, she
remained serenely unmoved.  Always, in speaking of the future, she
envisaged Lowther as strong, confident, successful, until by degrees the
image printed itself on his own brain, and the old distrust began to
disappear.

The House opened, a week passed by, and Lowther made no sign of taking
his seat.  Lilith remained silent; it seemed the result of accident that
engagements lessened more and more, so that he found himself unoccupied,
sitting in the little flat, listening to the chimes of Big Ben,
following in imagination the doings within the Second Chamber, while
hour by hour, day by day, a mysterious power seemed forcing him onward,
urging him to arouse himself from his stupor, and go forth once more
into the arena.

One evening husband and wife sat alone together in the little
drawing-room of the flat.  Lowther was smoking, and making a pretence of
reading a review, Lilith sat by the open window, her hands folded on her
lap.  She had none of the nervous, fidgety movements to which most women
are subject in moments of idleness, but could remain motionless as a
statue for half an hour on end, her lids drooped over her quiet eyes.
It was no interruption on his wife's part which caused Lowther's
increasing restlessness; even when the book was thrown down, and he took
to pacing hurriedly up and down, she remained passive and immovable.

Suddenly Lowther drew up by her side, laid a hand on her shoulder.

"Lilith!  I'm going...  To the House.  Would you come?  I think it would
help me if you would come too."

It was the first time that he had acknowledged in words the mysterious
truth that in his wife's presence he felt stronger, freer from
temptation.  His hand lingered on her shoulder with a caressing touch,
and Lilith turned her head so that for a fleeting moment her cheek
rested against his fingers.  Her assent was a matter of course; she
wasted no breath on that, but, as she rose to her feet, she spoke a few
words, which to Lowther's bruised spirit, were as water to a fainting
man: "I am so _proud_ of you, Hereward!"

The session had begun, and the Land Bill was occupying the attention of
the House.  The two leaders had delivered themselves of strong opposing
speeches, and the Bill was open for discussion.  One member after
another rose from the crowded benches.  A few of the number spoke well
and to the point, and were acclaimed with applause; but the greater
number repeated old arguments, and failed to throw fresh light on the
vexed problem.  The House listened with resigned impatience.

In a corner of the Ladies' Gallery sat a small figure with an aureole of
flaxen hair.  She leaned forward on her seat, her hands clasped
together, her eyes fixed in a deep, unblinking gaze at a man on the
opposite benches.  He was a striking-looking man, still young, yet with
an air of delicacy and strain.  An onlooker observing him at this moment
would have noticed that from time to time he stirred uneasily, and cast
a glance upwards at the grille of the Ladies' Gallery.  As each speaker
in succession finished his speech and sat down, this man stirred more
forcibly, as though combating an impulse which increased in violence,
and eventually he was on his feet; had caught the Speaker's eyes.

There was a momentary silence throughout the House.  _Lowther_!  How
long was it, how many years since Lowther had essayed a speech?  What
had happened to spur him to such an effort?  This was his first
appearance since the beginning of the session, and though he was
obviously improved in health he had avoided private conversation, and
kept shrinkingly to himself.  And now--a speech!  With characteristic
loyalty to a man who has done good work in past days, the House prayed
that Lowther knew what he was about, and was not going to make an
exhibition of himself.

But now he was speaking, and the old charm was at work.  The members
listened with surprise to the old well-turned sentences, the old
masterly style; felt again the charm of the old ingenuous manner.  And
he was speaking to the point, with an expert's width of knowledge which
held the House.  "On this point of tenure might it not be well to take a
hint from Italy?--In Italy, etc., etc."

"In Holland there was a special exemption which was worthy of note..."
"In the province of Lombardy the tenants retained the right..."  The
land problems of Europe seemed at his finger-ends; he handled them not
as a politician informed by dry, written statements, but as living
things, seen through living eyes.  He had apt illustrations to present
with the readiness of first-hand knowledge; he had, as a sum total, one
illuminating suggestion, and the House cheered him with a ringing cheer.

That cheer sounded in Lowther's ears like the opening of a great gate, a
gate which his own hands had closed.  Through its portals he beheld once
more the castles of his dreams, and took heart to walk forward.

Lilith greeted him with a smile of congratulation, but the drive home
was accomplished in silence.  It was late when they arrived at their
modest flat.  The servants had retired to bed, leaving a table of
refreshments drawn up before the drawing-room fire.  Lilith took off her
cloak and sat down, but Lowther went straight to his own room.  A few
minutes later he returned, and, closing the door behind him, stood
silently behind her chair.  She could hear the quick intake of his
breath, but she waited motionless until he should speak.

At last it came.

"Lilith!  I have something I want to give you.  Something for you--to
keep!  Put out your hand."

Still silent, still with eyes averted, she held out her hand towards
him.  Something cold clicked against the palm, something long and thin.
She opened her fingers, and beheld a morphia syringe.

"I--I shan't need it any more," stammered the voice.  A hand, Lowther's
hand, came over her shoulder, mutely making appeal.  Lilith dropped the
syringe, and caught the hand to her breast.

The next minute he was kneeling at her feet, and the two were gazing
deep into each other's eyes.

"Lilith," cried Lowther brokenly, "it--it will be hard...  I shall have
a hard fight.  Do you think you could _love_ me a little, Lilith?"

"I must love you," answered Lilith deeply, "a great deal, or it will be
no use!"

It was five years later when the Opposition came into power, and it
surprised nobody when Hereward Lowther was given a seat in the Cabinet.
During those five years husband and wife had lived quietly in their
little flat, going but little into society, affecting few of the
amusements of the day.  When Parliament was sitting, Lilith was a
constant visitor to the Ladies' Gallery, and it was noted that her
husband never spoke when she was absent.  In holiday time her chief
interest lay in the study of the problems of modern life; but, as on
that first tour abroad, she studied first-hand, and not through the
medium of books.  Lowther felt it an extraordinary coincidence that her
inquiries so often proved of value to himself, and always, under every
circumstance, Lilith's immovable serenity was as a rock, against which
his weaker, more excitable nature found support.  Lowther questioned
himself sometimes as to the explanation of his wife's unshaken calm, and
came to the conclusion that it sprang from a certain obtuseness or
stupidity of brain, but he smiled as he mentally voiced the thought, and
his smile was tender.  He loved his wife; she was a dear girl, tactful,
unassuming.  He was thankful that she was not clever.

Five years spread a kindly veil over the public memory, and there were
few people who troubled to recall Lowther's temporary lapse.  That was
an affair of the past.  What mattered now was that he was one of the
most brilliant and valuable men in the House, and that the country
needed his services.  As a politician he was able and statesmanlike, but
he was a politician second and a patriot first.  The glory of office
counted for nothing with him in comparison with the glory of his native
land, and the country recognised his honesty and loved him for it.  He
was a member of the Cabinet now, but as certainly as he lived he would
be Prime Minister another day.  As he walked through the streets the
people pointed him out to each other.

"That's Lowther.  Our best man.  He'll be Prime Minister before he's
done.  The sooner the better.  A straight, fair man.  The man we want.
What a position for a man to gain by sheer personal force--the virtual
ruler over a fifth part of the world!  What power, my dear fellow--what
power!"

"You may say so, indeed; extraordinary power!"



CHAPTER SIX.

THE MAN WHO WISHED FOR COMFORT.

It seemed hard to Francis Manning that he, who had asked of fate nothing
more exorbitant than an easy, comfortable existence, should have been
called on to endure one of the most uncomfortable of experiences--that
of being jilted by the girl to whom he had believed himself engaged to
be married!  For years past he had intended to marry Lilith Wastneys,
and when he told his love she had been everything that was sweet and
complaisant, had said, in so many words, that she loved him in return.
He had gone home feeling the happiest man in the world, had lain awake
for a solid hour by the clock, rejoicing in his happiness, and the very
next morning, behold a letter to tell him that she was engaged to
another man!

Francis could not endure to recall the shock, the misery, the
discomfort, of that hour.  If the news had come from another source he
would have refused to believe it; but it was Lilith herself who wrote,
so there was no loophole of escape.

During the following days he felt stunned and wretched.  His heart was
wounded, but he was not sentimental by nature, and it seemed to him that
he could have schooled his heart into subjection if it had not been
for--for the other things!  There did not seem a single interest in life
which this wretched disillusionment had left untouched.  To begin with,
there was his work.  He had worked for a home in which Lilith should
live as his wife.  Work seemed suddenly dull and purposeless now that
the proposed home had crumbled into ruins.  Then, as regards amusement--
he had grown into the habit of arranging his engagements to fit in with
Lilith's own.  A dinner meant the chance of Lilith for a partner; a
ball, a dance or two with Lilith, and a _tete-a-tete_ in a conservatory;
a reception, the chance of edging his way towards a little white figure
and keeping beside it for the rest of the evening.  Amusement lost its
savour, now that Lilith no more entered into the scheme.  Life was dull,
stale, and unprofitable.  The days dragged past on leaden feet; he fell
asleep with a sigh, and woke to a pang of remembrance.

For a whole month Francis was a prey to grief, and then, as he himself
would have expressed it, he "bucked up."  There came an historic
Saturday evening, when, in the company of a particularly fine cigar he
came to the conclusion that "it was not good enough," and that he could
not "stick" it any more.  He had had a whole month of being miserable,
and it was the dullest time he had ever known!  In self-defence he must
pull himself together and face the music.

It was astonishing how many saws Francis quoted over that cigar; but he
was as good as his vow, and from that hour he wasted no more regrets on
Lilith Wastneys.  So serene and cheerful became his demeanour that his
one confidante congratulated him on having set a pattern to suffering

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