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'\-'- .•'■•'

THE WING OF AZRAEL

? •■

LOVELL'S

CANADIAN COPYRIGHT SERIES

OF CHOICE FICTION.

Every book In this series is publislied by arrangement
witli the Author, to whom a Royalty is paid.

THE WING OF AZRAEL. By Mona
Caird, . . . . . 30

Will issue, May 95.

THE FATAL PHRYNE. BV F. C

Philips, Author of "as in a Looking

Glass," 6^c , and "C.J. Wills." 30
Will issue, May 31.

THE SEARCH FOR BASIL LYND-
HURST. By Rosa NoucHiiTTE
Carey, . . . . . . , . 30

Will issue, June 5.
DERRICK VAUGHAN, NOVELIST,

10.

II.

By Edna Lyall,

Will issue, June 8.

THE LUCK OF THE HOUSE.
Adeline Sergeant, . .

Win issqe, June 14.

JEZEBEL'S FRIENDS. By
Russell, . .

Will issue, about June ^1.

THE PENNYCOMEQUICKS. By
Baring Gould,

Will issue, about June 28.

HEDRI. By Helen Mathers,
Will issue, about July 5.

COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE
By Julian Sturgis, .. .. 30
Will issue, about July 19.

THE CURSE OF CARNE HOLD.
By G. A. Henty, .. .. 30
Will issue, about July 10.

AN I. D. B. IN SOUTH AFRICA.
Printed on coated paper and beautifully
Illustrated. By Louise Vescelius
Sheldon, 50

Will Issue, July 2B.

By
30

Dora
30

S.
30

Cents.

Cents .

Cents.

Cents.
Cents.

Cents.

JOHN LOVELL & SON, Publishers,

98 and 25 Bt. Nloholaa St.. Montreal.

-r

TheW

ING OF

RAEL

MONA CAIRD

Author of " Whom Naturb Lbadbth," "Oh« That Wini," Etc.

"Amidst the sunehlno of a cloudless day
A shadow falls— the Wing of Azrael ;
Though utterly the shadow pass away.
The doom must come that therewith earthward fell."

Wmiatn Sharp,

MONTREAL

JOHN LOVELL & SON.

23 AND 25 St. Nicholas Street.

^"^-^ii

%;■

Entered according to Act of Parliament in the year 1889, by
John Lovell ♦S^' Son. in the office of Minister of Agriculture and
Statistics at Ottawa,

iS^^^^aMJ^^

The present issue of '* The Wing of Azrael "
[under the imprint of Messrs. John Lovell & Son,
[is the sole issue authorized by me in the Dominion
)f Canada,

-•—*». -*i-i.

i^ucxi'' V

'■'*«/»»•-. .' r.'v-

■' .i

••"*«i«r

'■*" ' "• H a ^ g''^

PREFACE.

MtrcH has been said for and against the writing of "novels with A
purpose. "

As well might one argue for and against the finding of the Phi-
losopher's Stone.

The work of fiction whose motive is not the faithful description of
an impression from without, but the illustration of a thesis — though
that thesis he th« corner-stone of Trutii itself— has adopted the form
of the novel for the purposes of an essay, and has no real right to the
name. So long as there is true consistency in the actions and thoughts
of the characters, so long as they act and think because circumstances
and innate impulse leave them no alternative, they cannot be fitted into
exact correspondence with any view, or made into the advocate of
any cause. If the author preserves his literary fidelity, rebellion
among the actors inevitably springs up. Far from being puppets, as
they are so often erroneously called, they are creatures with a will
and a stubborn personality, who often drive the stage-manager to the
brink of despair; and as for being ready to "point a moral and adorn
a tale " at his bidding, they would sooner throw up their parts and
leave him alone on the deserted stage, to lament his own obstinacy
and their insubordination I

Human aflfairs are too complex, motives too many and too subtle,
to allow a small group of persons to become the exponents of a general
principle, however true. An argument founded upon this narrow:
basis would be without value though it were urged with the elo*
quence of a Demostiienes.

Certain selected aspects of a truth may be — indeed must be — pre-
sented to the reader with insistence, for the impressions made upon a
mind by the facts of life depend upon the nature of that mind, which
urges emotionally upon ths neutral vision one fact rather than an-
other, and thus ends in producing a more or less selective composition
and not a photograph.

But this process— entirely purposeless— takes place in the mind of

' Ik

X ' PTtEFACE, . , ;•

every one though he be as innocent as a babe of any tendency to weak
romances, the most strictly matter-of-fact person being indeed the arck
offender, as regards deviation from the centre of general truth.

His own faculties and prejudice, in this case, play the artist, select-
ing images of reality which group the-nselves after a certain inevitable
fashion; and these represent for him what he is pleased to call " real
life," with its " morals " and its " lessons," precisely corresponding,
not to existence itself, but to the judgment and the temper of the un-
conscious dramatist.

" The eye only sees that which brings with it the power of seeing,''
whether "the eye" belong to one who describes his impression, or to
him who allows it to be written secretly on his heart.

For in the heart of every man lies a recorded drama, sternly with-
out purpose, yet more impressive and inevitable in its teachings than
the most purposeful novel ever written.

To transcribe this invisible work so that the impress becomes re-
vealed is to write a novel, good, bad, or indifEerent, as the case may
be, but a novel par excellence and not an essay.

The writer of fiction has to present, as best he may, a real impression
made upon him, incJ idiug the effect of such impulse to the imagina-
tion as it may have ^-iven, and of all the art — if art there be — or ex-
ercise of fancy by v/hich the record is faithfully conveyed to the
minds of others.

To reveal the image with so much skill that the vividness of the-
representation is hardly less than that of the original, is to write a novel
well, though even yet the image itself may not be of sulflcient in-
terest to make its revelation of extreme value.

These are— according to ray view — the conditions of the novel:
first, of its claim to the title at all; secondly, of its merits, end
thirdly, of its greatness, which implies the fulfilment of the other two
requirements, while demanding also that the impression recorded shall
be fine enough and striking enough to appeal to those sympathies in
human nature which are most noble and most generous, as well as
to that mysterious sense of proportion and beauty which holds rela-
tion to the suppressed and ill-treated but ever-present poetic instincts
of mankind.

I have described these unattained ideals of the art of fiction, in or-
der to show as convincingly as possible that, however nuich this book
may be thought to deal with the question which has been recently so
much discussed, there is no intention on the writer's part to make it
serve a polemical purpose, or to advocate a cause.

Its object is not to convert or to convince, but to represerkt,^ How-
ever much it fails, that is its aim.

V \

PREFACE.

If anywhere temptation is yielded to and tlie pction is dragged out
of its course in order to serve an opinion of my own; if anywhere, for
for that object, a character is made to tliink or to speak inconsistently
with himself and his surroundings, tluToiii must he recognized my
want of skill, not my deliberate intention; the failure of my design,
not its fulfilment.

MoNA Cairi?.

HAifP«tTBAD, March 3, 1889.

. ^

k %

„*^

THE WING OP^ AZRASL.

CHAPTER I.

MIST.

TiiK great stable yard clock was slowly atrikinp: the hour—
midnight. Over the park huiiK a white and t;t©althy mist,
touchetl by white ana atealthy nioonli^i^ht. (Jnvit elm-ti*ee8
loomed through it heavy an<i still: tliey seemed to be waiting
for something that never came.

The mist was tluck, but one could see through it a large
white house with imuunerable nrijestic windows, very bnNid
and very high. Biven in this dim light it was evident that
everythmg was falUng into decay. Grass grew in tin* shrub-
beries, and wee<ls in the gravel-paths; it was a melancholy,
forsaken old place, cIosikI in, and silent tvs the grave. The
hou8(» stooil hushed in the moonlight, with blinds drawn, win-
dows closed, —all but one blind and one window on the first
flooi', on that sido of the house which faced the gixrden, aiid
beyond it a st<»ep avenue of elni-tnH;*s.

At thut open window a small figure was kneeling- a dark-
haired little girl, who leant her (»U)ows on the sill and gaztd
up the mystic avenue. The lin(» of tnn^s UhI the eve to the
top of the hill, and there etiding, crt»ated an tmsatisned long-
ing to see over the other side. The child ikh^hhI forth eagerly
into the still, paswionless mysteiy of the night. Throngs df
bewildering thoughts were stuTing t he little soul to its depths :
— what was it, and whence this strange world that dm«4 not
come to an end at the top of the avenue, at the lHiundar\' of
the park ?- -this world that go<^s on and on. Held after Acid,
till it comes to the sen, an.l then ^o(»s on and on «tfain, wave

after wavt», till it comes once more to the land, ana then ?

then the realms of the air, and th(» gnwt cloud regions, and
beyond tlu^se -Nothing, a great all embracing Nothing that
«•/// not stop, that goos on and «ni, and still on, till the bmin
^(M»1.^ at the thought of it- but it d(K'f» not stop then; it never
«topH, or would stop, or could stop, even when God sounded

TUE WING OF AZRAEL

the last tnimpet^aud the worlds shrivelled up in the flames
on the Judgment Day— how, even then, could it stoj)?

Could God Himself order that there should not be tijat great
thought-confounding Emptiness ? The child shuddered at
the impious doubt, hut her perplexed little mind staggered
under the weight of the questions that came tumbling over
one another in their haste.

The mystery of her own existence ;— that was a terrible per-
plexity to the little metaphysician. Was this being, this self
a reality in the strange, cold region of Nothingness ? Was
anything real and actual, or was it all a mistake, a shadow, a
mist which would presently melt again into the void ?

Yet if there were no reality, whence these thoughts ? The
child touched herself tentatively. Yes, she was, she must be
real; a separate being called Viola Sedley,— with thoughts of
her own, entirely her own, whom nobody in all this big world
quite knew. Viola Sedley ; — she repeated the name over and
over to hei'solf, as if to gain some clearer concei)tion of her
position in relation to the universe, but the arbitrary name
only deepened the sense of mystery. Am J, this thought and
feeling, viola Sedley ? Will the thought that I shall think,
and the feeling that I ehall feel to-morrow, be Viola Sedley
too ? It seemed awful to the child to be walking in the midst
of " eternal verities" without knowing them; to be plunged
in Infinite Nothingness and not understand if it would some
day swallow us up, or if we should be rescued by the living
Thought that seemed to have so true an existence. How had
Thought prevailed against that Nothingness, risen out of its
heart, if it were not some real thing stronger than all ?

Viola could not have expressed these Questions in words ;
but her ideas, preceding language (though so intimately re-
lated to it), stretched out into regions where she could find no
answer, and where no answer was to be found.

Conceptions of God, Nature, DGstin.y, were running riot in
the chilli's consciousness, her strict religious training raising
quesiiions without giving solutions, and torturing her with a
sense of inconsistency aemanding double-faced belief. The
doctrine of eternal punisyiincnt had already begun to haunt
this lonely child witn its teiTors. From long association, the
gloom of the great park and the giant trees seemed to her to
speak vvMiningly of what was to come. The place was full
of voices ajid of symbols. The elm avenue that led to the
outer world bcwond the park, the world where there was sim-
shine and a wide horizon, strong winds and liberty. Here at
home a belt of dark trees shut out the far-away skies, here
one seldom felt the open winds ; it was stagnant and event-
less. To ^0 up that avenue and away into the world had been
one of Viola's most passionate longings from her earliest
childhood. From the summit one could catch a glimpse of
the sea, the wonderful sea thnt sp(^ke and sang all the year
long, in winter and summer, through the warm days and

l^■

A TO UNO 3fAN CALLED M0MU8. 3

tlirough all the long dark nights- etemally Bpeaking and
pror)]ic»sying and lamenting, viola thought that if only she
could reach the sea she would not bo lonely any more. She
would throw hersplf down beside it, and it would know every-
thing: all the fear and the longing, the love and pity that was
in her; and then the pain wcild go, and the waters would
creep up to her softly and tell her not to grieve, and she

would ning herself into the beautiful waves, and then

Suddenly tlie child stretched out her arms and sank against
the window passionately sobbing.

Very white and very still was the m.ist to-night. Even in
high midsummer it might often be seen hanging about that
damp old park, and this was early in the spring, before the
bursting of the leaf.

One niight fancy that the mist \&y as a curse upon the place,
shrouding all things, chilling all things, bringing to all things
rottenness and decay.

Was there some influence in the atmosphere of that old
house that was like the still, penetrating mist without? —
something that worked its stealthy way into the hearty shroud-
ing all tilings, chilUng all things, bringing to all things rot-
tenness and decay?

CHAPTER II.

A YOUNO MAN CALLED MOHUS.

Viola Sedley, the youngest and the only girl among a
family of boys, was a pale, dark-haired little creature, with
large grey eyes and delicately cut features. People said that
she exactly resembled her mother, but the resemblance was
only superficial. Mrs. Sedley's hair was smooth and shining,
while Viola's fell about her massively, for it was heavy and
thick. Mi's. Sedley's eyes were brown and quiet; Viola s had
the grey, shifting tint that marks the nervous temperament,
and the yearning look of a sensitive, bewildered soul. Her j
father saw only tne likeness between mother and daughter,
and he called the child, in impatient displeasure, "a little
Puritan." He would have preferred to see her a robust,
coarse-fibred creature of his own kind; a girl who would
have no reserve or sensitiveness or suhtletief^ of feeling. Mrs.
Sedley, with her still, dutiful ways and religious principles,
had irrit-^ited him from the first day of her meek reign at the
Manor-House, and he was highly displeased to find l^at Viola
promised to follow in her mother's footsteps.

Mr. Sedley, by natui*e, was blustering and self-indulgent,
but on the whole well-meaning, with the fatal habit of lo

|fTT<i«in" -,".iri

TBE WING OF AZRAEL.

many people who mean well, of getting into debt. His wife's
tendencies, on the other hand, were ascecic. Her conscience
never let her rest until she had made things as unpleasant for
herself as circumstances would pei*mit, and by long practice
in these arts she had now achieved a ghastly power of self-
suppression. Her reward had been the approval of her
own conscience and the half-contemptuous approbation of
her lord. He regarded her, in the most literal and simple-
minded manner, as his possession, and Mrs. Sedley piously
encouraged him in an idea which she thought was amply con-
firmed by the Scriptures.

Happy the religion and happy the society that can secure
beings of Marian Sedley's type for its worshippers, for the
faith of such people remains as steady under "conspiracies
of tempest from without, and tempest from within," as it
stands beaming with uplifted eyes on days of halcyon calui.
Rooted beyond the farthest wanderings of the Reason, it hes
securely out of reach of any attack tliat may be directed
against it through that ungracious faculty.

Mrs. Sedley, following tlie dictates of her creed, had spent
her life in the performance of what she called her wifely diity,
and this unfailing submissivencss, this meek and samt-like
endurance, had now succeeded in turning a man originally
good-hearted into a creature so selfish, so thick headed, and
often so brutal, that even his all-end aring wife used to won-
der, at times, if Heaven would give her grace to bear her
heavy cross patiently to the end !

Nature, regardless, as usual, of motives, was taking her
stern revenge upon the woman who had spent her whole vir-
tuous life in drawing out her husband's evil nature, and in
stunting what little good there was in him by her perpetual
encouragement of his caprices and her perpetual self-efface-
ment. Morbidly apt at self-reproach on all other points, she
never even suspected that the wreck of this man's life was
partly her own doing. She accepted the consequences of her
acts not as their natural punishment, but as another Heaven-
sent trial to be borne witiiout murmuring.

Among her numerous *' Heaven-sent trials" was the behav-
iour of her three eldest sons, the fii*st of whom had been
oblig'jd to leave the country after a detected attempt to cheat
at cards. The other two were in the army, living royally
beyond their means, and appearing toderivie no benefit what-
ever from the heartrending prayers ofl'ered up daily, almost
hourly, by their anxious mother for their welfare, temporal
and spiritual. There had been many painful scenes at the
Manor-House of late between Mr. Sedley and his sons; the
fhthor refusing to pay their ever recurring debts, while the
mother prayerfully interceded on their behalf. T))e times
were very bad just now; rents were falling, farms being given
up; if things went on hke this miich longer, Mr. In^tdley de-
clared, they would all be in the workhouse ! His own debts

A TOUNQ MAN CALLED M0MU8.

wore steadily accumulating, but of this he said nothing to hi;i
wife. Viola was not of marriageable age, and therefore un
able as yet to retrieve the family fortunes. Retrenchments
became necessary, but the burden of these Mrs. Sedley took
first upon her own shoulders, and then laid small haraships
on her daughter, Mr. Sedley being shielded till he could be
shielded no longer.

Miss Gripper, a severe maiden, who lived and did needle-
work in the village, used to remark upon the shabbiness of
Mrs. Sedley's garments when she appeared, with Viola and
her yoimgest son Geoffrey, in church every Sunday morning.
Miss" Gripper added that when Providence placed people in a
certain position, it expected certain things of them ; and, in
her humble oi)inion, it showed a thankless, not to say an
irreverent spirit to appear in the Lord's house Sunday after
Sunday in a turned black silk, — and not such very good
quality, to begin with !

Miss Gripper's feelings were threatened, as time went on,
with greater and greater outrage, for the young men were
going from bad to worse ; yet Mrs. Sedley lovod and hoped
on. It was still her sons who made the most irresistible ap-
peal to her motherly affections: the girl, beloved as she was,
must always be prepared to make sacrifices for her brothers.
In order that they should have a college education and every
social advantage, Viola had to go almost without education
at all ; to afford them means to asnuse themselves stylishly,
their sister must be stinted of every opportunity and every

Eleasure. The child of course accepted this without question :
er whole training dictated subordination of self to the wel-
fare of her fellow-creatures, above all to that of her father
and her brothers. She had absorbed this congenial doctrine
readily, for she was her mother's ardent worshipper, and
promised to be a credit to that exemplary lady. She seemed
nideed less bright and happy than a child ought to be, but
then Mi's. Sedley laid more stress on religious and moral qual-
ities than on mere happiness. Possibly Viola's sex made
happiness seem unessential ; for the mother would certainly
have been much concerned had she seen one of her boys
wandering about with that wistful look in his eyes, that
strange accustomed sadness which she scarcely noticed in her
little girl. Yet Mrs. Sedley anticipated the troubles of her
daughter's future v:ith unspeakable dread. What had a
woman to look for— a dutiful woman such as Viola must be —
but sorrow and pain, increasing as her life's shadow length-
ened on the dial? If not quite so heiirt-brenking as ner
mother's life had been, Viola's could not escape the doom
that lurks in the air of this world for all women of her type.
Indeed, for all kinds and conditions what sorrow and lamen-
tation 1 For each type its peculiar miseries, but the cup for
all I
There were times when Mrs. Sedley, forgetting for a

THE WINO OF AZRAEK,

moment the steadiness of her fait h, felt that it might be better
if the child were to pass away to another world before she
had tasted the sori'oWs of this one. jiut already the childish
heart had swelled with sorrowful emotion: already a dim
threatening consciousness of the awful solitude of a human
soul drowned in the deeps of life and eternity had raised a
panic within her. She was cursed with that melancholy
metaphjrsical consciousness of the Infinite and the Unknown
with which the British mind is usually so entirely untroubled.
Viola, however, was not a persistently gloomy child. When
her brother Geoffrey (a boy a couple of years her senior)
came home for the hoUdays, she plunged heart and soul into
his occupations, and was as happy as only children (and pos-
sibly angels) know how to be. Geoffrey was a long-legged,
good-hearted schoolboy, with rosy cheeks, brown eyes, and a
mop-like head of fair hair. He was at Eton, acquiring a
mystic thing called "tone," which evinced itself when he
came home in lively practical jokes of a most harassing
character, played upon everybody within reach, without re-
spect for age, sex, or dignity; chiefly, however, upon the
maids and gardeners, who mi^ht at such times have answered
Mr. Mallock's question, whether life is worth living, with a
unanimous and gloomy negative.

The head gardener, Tliomas, whose mowing-machine had
been put out of order, whose tools had been lost bevond re-
call, whose watering-pots leaked consistently, was heard to
threaten to speak to Mr. Sedley if this sort of thing went on
much longer. The second gardener, "Old Willum," as his
chief called him, was made of softer stuff, showing lenience
towards the little escapades of youth, even when Geoffrey
took occasion to substitute charlock for cabbage-seed as soon
as the old man's back was turned, causing the long-suffering
one to sow a fine crop of that pestiferous weed in the kitchen-
^rden. "Old Willum," witn his rheumatism, his patient
industry, his tender old heart, was incapable of resentment.

Viola had a passionate love and pity lor this old man ; her
eyes used to soften at the sound oi his voice, at the sight of
his bent figure trundling a wheelbarrow, or digging up the
everlasting weeds in the gravel terrace before the house.
"Old Willum," her mother, and Geoffrey were the beings on
whom she expended the treasures of her affection ; on these,
and on Bill Dawkins, a handsome undipped poodle named in
affectionate memory of a departed under-gardener, who had
been a great favourite with the children. Bill Dawkins was
indeed an enchanting animal, ridiculously intelligent for such
a world as this ; a creature full of life and enterprise, true to
the core, and devotedly attached to his Uttle mistress.

He and Gteoffrey used to treat her with a certain chivalrous
condescension as "a weaker vessel." Bill Dawkins, in his
'moments c f wildest excitement, would turn and inin back en-
couragingly to see that Viola was following.

A TOXTNG MAK CALLED M0MTT8, 7

What adventures those th/ee used to have together in the
woods and fields, in the beautiful rambling old gardens of the
Manor House ! And what intoxication there was in this new-
found libertj'^ for the closely-watcned, closely guarded child !

The mere sight of the sunshine pouring down upon the open
midsummer fields, the mere thrill of a bird's note, as the
three companions set off together upon some wild ramble,
would stir the little heart almost to bursting.

Only now and then in poetry would she find relief for this
pent-up painful rapture, but books of poetry were not very
plentiruT at the Manor-House ; besides, Mrs. Sedley did not
think any poet, except Cowper, safe reading for her daugh-
ter.

So there was nothing for it as regards expression but to run
riot with Bill Dawkins over the fields, and to join in his wild,
consciously fruitless chases after starlings, skylarks, or some
old rook, who flapped his glossy wings in dignified retreat
from the presumptuous assailant.

The child's whole heart went out in love towards the living
creatuijs around her; and the sight of suffering among the
least of these would bring hot tears of anguish to her eyes.
Things that she saw in the fields— the preying- of creature
upon creature, the torture suffered and inflicted in the every
day game of life— caused her many a bitter pang, and induced
her to ask questions when she went home which Mi's. Sedley
found very difficult to answer. She generally told Viola that
all thin^ were wisely ordered, and that we must not permit
a questioning spirit to grow up in us, as that would lead to
doubt and sin.

So Viola was silent; but when next she saw the piteous
terror of a mouse, as it awaits, horror-stricken, the spring of
its captor; when next she heard the almost human scream of
the hare when its doom overtakes it, she wondered as pain-
fully as ever at the strange conflict and struggle of Nature,
though she closed her lips and let the problem eat deeper and
deeper into ner bewildered soul.

A lake on the park boundary was the favourite haunt of
this happy trio. Here in spring they would watch the frog-
spawn developing into masses of wriggling tadpoles, finding
never-ending iateiest in watching those Protean reptiles, who
shed their frivolous tails and appeared suddenly as sedate and
decorous young reptiles, wanting only size to give them that
expression of unfathomable profundity which in the full-
grown frog seems to hint at wisdom greater than all the wia-
dom of the Egyptians.

Viola used to keep some tadpoles in a water butt behind one
of the sheds in the garden, giving them romantic names, and
secretly hoping that in coui^se of time they would come to an-
swer to them. She consulted Thomas on the subject, but he
shook his head with a knowing wink, and said he oidn't think

TEE WING OF AZEAEL,

ii '

tadpoles took, as one might say, much notice,— not tadpoles
in a ordinary way, he didn't think.

Viola urged that Marmion, the biggest of the tadpoles, used
to swim to meet her when she appeared, but she observed that
he did the same at the approach of Thomas, who hnd abso-
hitoly no sympathy witn tadpole nature. To "V/Illum,"
who showed fondness for the creatures (as was only natural),
t hey paid no special regard : they w^agced their tails at every-
body, and showed a great lack of discriminating powei- in their
eenseless exultation.

On the whole, one could enter into closer and more personal
relations with their elder brothers down at the lake, only that
here their vast numbers made strictly selective friendship a
matter of difficulty. On one occasion, when the children were
deeply engrossed in trying to persuade a green and juicy
young frog to eat Albert biscuits, they looked up and beheld
a young man standing beside them laughing, and a little be-
hind him a tall lady, also laughinp'.

The children started up in shy alann.

*' So this is the wav you two wild young people amuse
yourself," said the lady, who was no stranger, but the chil-
dren's aunt Augusta, one of Mr. Sedley's sisters, who had
married and settled at Upton, a village about twelve miles
from the Manor-House.

She was an important, self possessed-looking woman, tall
and thin, with dark eyes, hair, and complexion, a loi>g face,
rather thin lips, and a neat compact brow.

Her face expresried her character pretty accurately.

Harry Lancaster, her present companion, used to say of her,
that she had enough will-power to drive a steam-engine, an
unassailable self-confidence, and opinions of cast-iron.

She was an ambitious woman, whose ambitions had been
gratified by her marriage with Lord Clevedon, a courtly per-
son of the old school, with whom she had really fallen in love
after a fashion, perhaps because he satisfied her innate desire
for all that is dignified and grandiose.

Harry Lancaster was a slim, boj^ish -looking, brown-haired
fellow, with a frank, humorous face, whose charm lay chiefly
in its expression. His dark, bluish-grey eyes were brimming
over witn amusement and sympathy, as he stood with foldea
arms looking down upon the two shame-faced children.

" It seems ages since I saw you, my dears." said Aunt
Augusta, in her clear, self-confident accents. '* Are you nevef
coming to see me and your cousins again ? Percy was asking
after you only this morning, and little Augusta too. I think
I must carry you oflE with me to-day after lunch, no matter
what your mother says. My good sister-in-law thinks me too
frivolous a person to tnin* hor chicks to," she added to Harry,
^ith a laugn.

f*An<i m ypu are/- said Harry. "I have had perious

A TOUNG MAN CALLED MOMUS,

thoughts of leaving your hospitable roof because I find your
.liiluence morally deleterious."

" Impertinent boy ! And before these children too I My
dears, you must always put cotton-wool in your eare when
this wicked cousin of mine sjjeaks. He is a verjr dreadful
young man, I must tell you— the most dreadful thing under
the sun: a Radical !"

** What is a Radical ?" asked GeoflFrey. looking up into the
face of the " drev^dful thing," which smiled amiably.

** A creature in the form of a human being, but with the
soul of a demon, "answered Lady Clevedon. I don't know
if he feeds upon little children, but he certainly devours
•widows' houses."

The children stared.

*' After dark," pursued her Ladyship, "he becomes phos-
phorescent, and 3mits from his moutn and nostrils green
fire."

Gkjoffrey laughed at this in a sceptical manner.

" It's all very well to laugh," said his aunt, " but you don't
know what a aangerous youn^ man it is ! Let us stroll back
together to the hou3e, and I will try to get your mother's per-
mission to take you home with me."

A visit to Clevedon was like a visit to a fairy palace, and
the children followed their aunt and her talkative companion
across the park, with hearts beating high for pleasure.

Mrs. Sedley was inclined, as usual, to find some reason
against their going, but her husband interposed. Through
his sister he hoped some day to find a wealthy husband for
his daughter.

"Take them, my dear, take them," he said graciously.

The neighbouring estate to that of Lord Clevedon had just
been inherited by a distant relation of the late owner, who
was without sons or nephews, and this new Sir Phihp Den-
draith had a young son who would be just the right age for
Viola when they both grew up, and who would also be one of
the most eligible young men in the county.

" It will do the children a world of good to have a little out-
ing," said Mr. Sedley cheerfully.

He was a big thick-set man, with a ruddy face, reddish hair,
and rather bleared light blue eyes. There was a certain jaunti-
ness about his manner, and he was a notorious flirt ; though,
as his sister very frankly remarked, ' ' no clever woman could
ever be got to flirt with him; he was not amusing enough."
In point of fact, to a woman of sensitive type his gallantry
geemed little short of insulting.

"Have you seen anything of your new neighbours?" Mr.
Sedlmr inquired, as the little party sat down to lunch in the
big, dull, old fashioned dining-room of the Manor-House.

^' Sir Philip Dendraith and his family ? No ; at least I have
seen Sir Phihp and his son at a meet o£ the Upton hounds,
but I have not yet called on his wife. He is an appalling

Limaatttim

THE WING OF AZRASL.

creature; loud, pushing, altogether obnoxious. It is a sad
pity that the main branch of the family died out ; this man is
not fit for th'" position."

" And the son ?" inquired Mr. Sedley.

'* Ah ! he is of quite a different stamp ; a time Dendraith ; hand-
some, polished, keen-witted. He reminds me of that portrait
of Andrew pendraith at the old castle on the cliff, the man in
the last century who was said to have killed his wife because
he discovered she was in love with another man."

"Handsome, then ?" said Mr. Sedley.

* * Wonderfully handsome, " Lady C levedon answered. ' * Of
course his parents are crazily fond of him." ,

" Ah 1 I suppose you will call at once at Upton Court."

Lady Clevedon shrugged her shoulders.

"My instinct iS to put off the evil day."

"Bad habit, putting off I" said Mr. Sedley, sagelj'^, at which
his sister gave a sardonic chuckle. Perhaps she was thinking
of Mr. Sealey*s debts i

After luncheon the two children were taken off to the
"Palace of Delight." Harry Lancaster entertained them
during the twelve miles' dnve with a running stream of fan-
tastic talk. Lady Clevedon sat back in the carriage and
quietly laughed at him, while Harry, on his side, seemed to
be amusing himself in a sort of secret sub-fashion with the
rest of the company, and with the entire situation.

He was one of those happy people to whom life is always
more or less amusing, ana this pleasant sensation became
particularly keen when he was visiting his " baronial cousin,"
as he called her.

Most people were frightened of Lady Clevedon, who was
noted for her powers of satire, but Harry bared his head to
the storm, and its lightnings played about him harmlessly.
She liked his audacity, even when he attacked her most cher-
ished convictions.

With all his boldness and freedom, he was what she was
pleased to call a "gentleman," a title which she bestowed or
withheld with a discrimination sometimes a little arbitrary.

"I wish I knew what you mean by 'gentleman.' " Harry
said, after some unoffending person had been consigned to
the region of outer darkness, where there are no gentlemen,
but only weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. "I
think you are inclined (perhaps wo all are) to make the word
stand for a certain sublime something which we mix up in a
glow of excitement with qualities purely social."

" My dear boy, we are not all etymological dictionaries; we
use words in their ordinary accepted seiise, and leave defini-
tions to—* the Unemployed.' "

"But," persisted Harry. "I want to know what is meant
in common parlance by a 'gentleman.' "

" Ask me to express one of the ' ultimate elements ' (which

.,Jf

A TOUNQ MAN CALLED M0MU8.

you are always prosily talking about) in terms of something
else," retuj-ned her Ladyship.

" Ah I that's an idea !" Harry exclaimed joyously.

ntleman is a social element; lie can't be reduced t(

to any

; he is among the original bricks of which the

built; he is fundamental, indestructible, incon-
1 '»

gentleman
lower terms
imiverse is
ceivable, and-

" Harry, is nothing sacred to you ? Does this horrible
Radicalism sweep away all the traditions that you learnt at
your mother's knee ?"

*' Far from it," said Harry. ** Although I have no respect
for class, and no reverence for rank, I still realise that the
house of Lancaster stands apart from and above all prin-
cipalities and powers, and that it is more glorious in its fall
than ever it was in the palmiest days of its prosperity."

''You don't deserve to belong to it!" exclaimed Lady
Clevedon. "This virus of democracy has poisoned your
whole system."

•'Democracy —what is democracy?" questioned Harry,
pensively.

" The misgovernment of fools by madmen!" she returned.

He smiled. " You murder with a definition !''
"I am sick of the nonsense that people talk now-a-days,
calling themselves 'advanced,'" Lady Clevedon pursued; —
'* advanced in folly^ let me tell them! Every shallow idiot
with a clapper in his head thinks himself entitled to get up
and make a jangle like any chapel-bell that whitens one's
hair on Sunday mornings !"

"Use Mrs. Allen's hair-restorer," suggested KaiTy frivol-
ously.

Lady Clevedon's face changed.

" Ha,rry," she cried impressively, " there was a young man
in ancient mythology of very good position, but he succeeded
in rendering himseli so obnoxious to the gods by his inveter-
ate habit of making fun of them, that he at last got turned
out of heaven. That young man's name was Momus."

'* Unhappy Momus!" said Harry. "Do you chance to
know any of the fatal jokes by which he lost his place among
the Olynipians ?"

Lady CI«vedon laughed.

"Much use it is to point a moral for your benefit, young

man.

Perhaps he chaifed Jupiter about his love-affairs, by
Jove !"

"I dare say; he was a vulgar god. But be good enough to
suit your conversation to these children."

" I am sure they are interested in Momus," said Harry.
"The question you raise is one of extreme significance,— is it
not so, Viola ? I am sure you feel with me that the first in-
stance of vulgarity on record is a subject of rQfloQtiQQ tQV ft
philosopher,^'

m niMWi

777^ WmO OF AZUAEL.

W ■

''Harry, Hcarry!"

" One of the profoundest mysteries of the universe, my
dear cousin ; the bane of philosophy, the der-pair of rehgion,
the insuperable obstacle to the doctrine of the soul's immor-
tality, and the"

" Harrv, if you talk any more nonsense I shall stop the car-
ringe and leave you ip^nomiuiously on the road."

' ' Well, well ;— perhaps the day will yet come when I shall
be taken at my true worth."

" Heaven forbid 1" exclaimed Lady Clevedon as they drove
through the gates of her domain ; " that would be a punish-
ment greater than you could bear !"

He made a grimace,

*' To a woman I must not grudge the last word," he said.

His cousin laughed.

"When a man begins to give points to his adversary on
account of her sex, the adversary may hoist the flag of vic-
tory."

"Take it," he said, " take it and be thankful!"

Clevedon was a large udy block of building standing upon
a raised plateau, whence the land sloped majestically towards
iJie park.

The faces of the two children grew eager as the great white
house appeared in sight.

The carriage havnig been dismissed, Aunt Augusta pro-
posed a stroll till Percy and his sister should return frorii
their ride. Meanwhile the children might gather some hot-
house flowers to take back to their mother.

"What a fine old place this is, in its own wayl" Harry-
observed, as they wended their steps to the garden; "it is
so gentlemanly, so"

" Harry ! There was a young man in ancient mythology
called "

"Nay, so statelv, so calm, so well bred; so smooth and
blandly expansive, pursued Harry, in language which would
have pleased Qui tilian, who alwajrs regarded as hopeful
those pupils whose literary productions required pruning,
rather than the young proficients whose style at tne begin-
ning showed the delicate reticence of maturity.

"1 like the place; I am not going to have it scoffed at,"
said Aunt Augusta.

" Scoffed atl I am admiring it! Scoffed at! Why, I have
a friendly feeling towards every nook and comer of it. I like
it, I love it; but — it amuses me!"

" An incorrigible Momus !" cried Lady Clevedon.

"It is perfect," he broke out again. "I am sure Geoffrey
and Viola agree with me that it is perfect."

" You be wilder these poor children, Harry."

" Just run your eye round the four quarters of the heavens.
Could anythmg be more dignified? 1 repeat my question,
Viola— could anything be more dignified?"

, tl'Jf

A roXTNa MAN CALLED MOMUS.

She shyly shook her head.

" No ; nothing could be more dignified I Look how the land
spreads out round the mansion, in a sort of liberal manner,
as if it would say: I am at your entire disposal; pray tak..^ as
much of mo as you please, there is no stint ; be expansive ; the
more so the better; you have only to mention the quantity
and it is yours !

"Then observe what a benign and courteous sweep leads
the eye from the terrace-level to the park. No abrupt lines
there; your very curves are baronial! And your cattle!
Wliat an air of conscious worth! what spl(Midour of outline
and richness of colour ! what harmony of action ! what a High-
land fling of movement ! what "

"If you make fun of my husband's Highland cattle, he'll
never forgive yout better make fun of me than that. Come,
don't dawdle so; you are getting too garrulous."

But change of scene proved no check to his eloquence.

" There is nothing in the world to beat an old English gar-
don," he exclaimed, rhetorically. " What sweet and lazy in-
fluences linger in the air by fern fringed walls! what indok?nt
joys exhale from flower-borders where violets and jirecocious
primroses offer themselves to be cherished -it is as if one had
found a new world 1"

Viola looked up at him wondeiingly, while Geoffrey, for-

f letting his shyness, suddenly began to talk — chiefly about
abbits and pistols and repealing»-rifles. Then they all went
into the hothouses, and came out laden with delicate sweetly-
scented flowers, which Viola touched with ecstatic and rever-
ent fingers.

The children were allowed to amuse themselves as they
pleased, while Aunt Augusta and her talkative cousin strolled
on together.

" Harry," she said, after a few minutes of desultory con-
versation, " have you ^ven up that mad idea of yours yet?"

" About music?'' His face changed and saddened.

"I cannot cure myself of the mad idea. Meanwhile, of
course, I retain my commission," he added, rather bitterly.

"The sooner yon cure yourself the better. As a musician
you would starve. Besides, how do you know you have
enough talent to"

"I know nothing at all about my talents— (pardon me for
interrupting) ; I only know that failure in that pursuit would
be sweeter to me than success in any other."

"Foolish boy!"

" Now, Augusta, what do you mean? How often have you

E reached ro me against doing things by halves; how often
ave you pierced with ridicule men who ' took up ' a thing,
and tmkled amiably upon some instrument, or made smudges
on clean paper, — any one, in short, who tried to imitate the
last stage of an art without laying the foundations. You said

THE WINQ OF AZRAEL.

!! ' I

li ! I'
i I

it was like the attempt of a builder to roof a house that wasn't
built."

*'Well?"

*' Well; why not build the house from the foundation?"

"Why not go and starve?" she inquired. •"Go and starve
to slow music?'

Harrv paused for a moment, looking at her ; and then, with
0119 of bis sudden inconsistent actions, he lifted his stick on
to the tip of his first finger, balanced it there for a moment
skilfully, »nd shot it up far and swift towards the sky. It
rose, like a rocket, and came down again at a little distance
into a gooseberry -bed.

" Take care that is not your fate," said Jjxdy Clevedon.

** It must have been splendid going up" Harry returned:
** and what a ' fine rapture' when it had risen to its utmost
and felt the heavens above, and the earth widen beneath
it"

" And how exhilarating when it felt itself in the gooseberry-
bed !"

" There are many sticks rotting in the gooseberry -bed that
have never known the upper air at all, Harry observed;
"they have secured themselves against all risk of downfall
by prudently taking the lowest place."

"Like the Unjust Steward,'^ suggested Lady Clevedon,
whose Scripture was weak. ,

^'Or the rebellious angehs," added Harry, with a lar.gh.

He picked up a mouldering apple-twig and held it out to
his cousin to consider.

"Observe, it is damp and brittle; I can snap it anywhere,
for it has not the toughness of life in it. Lichen grows upon
it, and unwholesome moss, and it is teeming with crawling
and creeping thin^s,~shall 1 show you?"

"Be good enough to keep away, "cried the lady hubtily.

"They are skurrying about in great agitation; they can't
imagir«e what has nappened. They are telling one another
that they knew how it would be all along, and that if only
their advice had been listened to"

"D — a-m!" exclaiined Lady Clevedon, spelling thv'^ word
(after her own fashion) as a concession to public sentiment,
"hero are Sir Philip Dendraith and his incomparable son!
What effrontery to come here before we have called at Upton
Coui*t! I shall make him pay for this!"

Sir Philip Dendraith was a tall, broad-shouldered man,
with a hooked nose, high cheek-bones, sharp little blue eyes,
and a grey beard, which retained signs of urging once been
reddish in tint. Tlie yoimger 'Philip resembled his father
scarcely at all; he was a slim, dark -haired youth, with lace
and figure almost faultless. Harry Tjanenster, flinping away
the decayed anple-twig, stootl wati^hing him with sudden in-
tentnesB, while Lady Cleveilon, donning her stiffrgt air,
l^wait^ the approach of the visitors. They raised the^r hati9*

.,^

A tOlTNO MAN GALLED M0MV8.

Ifi

** Pardon our intrusion,' Sir Philip called otit in a loud
voice; " we were taking a walk across country and lost our

way "

" So I observe," said her Ladyship.

" Got into your park through the bit of woodland by the
roadside down yonder, and found ourselves m the ga»xlen3
before we knew where we were. Lady Clevedon, I pre-
sume?"

She bowed.

*' Not r' with an interrogative glance at Harry.

** Not," she repeated conclusively.

"Ah!" obsei'ved Sir Philip, throwing himself back and
looking round, " charming garden you have here."

" I am. glad it pleases vou."

"Oh, vastly, vastly; nne old place altogether."

Lady Olevedon stood waiting.

"Ahl" cried Sir Philip, descrying Viola and GJeoffrey in
the distance, " your children no doubt ?"

" No," she said, " not my children."

" Perhaps Lady Clevedon would be so kind as to mention
which is the shortest way out of her domain," inte jjo^ed
Philip Dendraith the younger; "we have intruded long
enough."

" Allow me to come vvith you ; it is not easy to find the road
unassisted," said Harry.

Sir Philip, apparently much against his will, was thon hur-
ried off by his son under Harry's escort.

"I trust we shall shortly r;»new our acquaintance," he said
in parting; " near neighboui*s, like ourselves, should make a
pomt of beinft' friendly."

Again Lady Clevedon frigidly bowt^l.

As the three arrived at the end of the i>ath they came upon
Geoffrey and Viola peering curiously into soii» hot Iwds.

^^ Not Lady Clevedons children ?" r-^peatpd Sir Philip.

"No; her nephew and nieco," said Harry.

"Nice little girl!" observed Philip the younger. "Fine
eyes."

She flushed up, and took a step backwards.

" Let me see what colour they are."

She shut the lids tightly and cjovered her face.

"Oh! unkind little girl! I shall tell your mamma," said
Philip tea singly.

"Oh! no. no. noT she cried, with unexpected terror;
**pleaae don't tell her."

" Is the mamma so formidable ? Well then, let me bcxj
your pretty eyes, and I promise not to tell how unkind you
were."

But at this Viola again fell back, with a look of strange
distress, whereupon Harry took her hand and Mid soot^iingly,
"Never mind, Viola; this gentleman was only joking; he
won't tell your mother, if you don't wish it."

THE WING OF AZRAEL.

He was holding open the garden-door as he spoke.
~ On the threshold Philip stopped, looked over his shoulder,
and kissed the tips of his finp;ers gallantly.

" Nut-brown maid, farewell I" he said, and passed through
with a laugh.

"Come on, Viola; let's go with them," cried GeoflErey, tak-
ing her hand ; " he's rather a lark, that fellow."

But Viola passionately flung him off, and before he realised
what had happened the child had run to the farther end of
the garden.

"Rum things, girls 1" was Geoffrey's comment as he pur-
sued his new-round hero and philosophically left the eternal
riddle to solve itself among the gooseberry -bushes,

When Harry returned after conducting the trespassers into
the Upton Road, he found his cousin in a very bad temper.

"Intolerable creature!" she broke out. "Where can he
have sprung from, with his voice and his manners ? ' Fine
place ' indeed 1 Impertinent iipstart ! You were asking what
a gentleman is, Harry; well, I can tell you what a gentleman
is no^;— Sir Philip Dendraith."

"Tactless person, certainly; and rather uncouth. The
father and son are a curious contrast, are they not ?"

" Most extraordinary I That boy is a Dendraith all over.
Fine-looking lad."

" A gentleman, I suppose ?" said Harry.

"Every inch!"

"I thought so. Well, as a mere man, give me that 'lum-
bering wain,' his father; more qualities to rely upon there;
more humanitv, in short. Thore is something polished and
coldblooded about that young Adonis, with his white teeth,
that gives me a shiver all up my spine. It is astonishing how
insolent polished people can be. "

" The Dend»ittis always were a little cold-blooded," said
Lady Clevedon, "and a little over clever. It is not human to
be very clever; one cannot disguise that fact."

CHAPTER III.

PHIUP DENDRAITH.

Sir Philip Dendraith, by a sudden turn of fortune's wheel,
had been hoisted out of obscure and somewhat Bp«culntive
spheres into the pure white light of what Harry LancOBter
had called in his haste ** landed propriety."

He was related to the last owner of the Dendraith estate
through his mother's family a fact which he had enjoyed and

rEILIP DENDRAITH,

made much use of his former existence, having a highly
developed instinct of adoi-ation for social pre-eminence, and a
feri'et's keenness in routing out unwilling reliitives, lofty and
far-removed, but profitable.

" My cousiUj Sir John Dendraith," might have fallen front
his dying lips m those prehistoric days when he owned to the
solid and simple name of Thompson, and used to wander with
his wife and son from small furnished house to smaller fur-
nished house, where crochet antima-cassars and crystal lus-
tres gave the keynote to existence. In those dark ages Mr.
Thompson used to be always launching ideas which required
capital and a company—brilliant ideas that only wanted
carrying out, such as a method of blacking boots by machi-
nery ; patent umbrellas that opened automatically on being
held upright, and folded up agam when their position was re-
versed (facetious friends used to sajr that they even buttoned
and unbuttoned themselves as occasion required). There were
ingenious hooks and eyes that never came undone until their
owner desired it, and then yielded without a struggle; coal-
scuttles which made the putting or of coal a positive luxury
to a sensitive invalid, — and other wonderful mventions, not
to speak of the celebrated millennium double-action roller-
blina, whose tassel could under no circumstances come off in
the hand, and which never acquired the habit of rolhn^ up
askew and remaining blocked in a slinting and crazy position
haJf-way up the window. As for his mowing-machmo, and
his instrument for putting out fires in their most advanced
stages, a child might use t hem.

Philip Thompson was endeavouring to increase his small in-
come by bringmg some of tiieso valuable ideas into notice,
when one raoniing, to his infinite surprise, he awoke and
found himself Sir Philip Dendraith; that is to say, he was in-
formed that, by a most extraordinary series of events, he had
become the next heir to the Dendraith estates, ana it was
hoped that he would assume the family name.

Thii^ he lost no time in doing, and with the name of Thomp-
son he put away also things Thorn psonian: his patent um-
brellas und coal-scuttles ; and now only his plump and simple-
minded \vife took any pride or interest in these onco absorb-
ing themes.

The social world was to this fortune-favoured man the only
and the best of all possible worlds; to y'vaq in it his sole ambi-
tion. With this object the family had always consciontiously
kept something beyond their means, whether (said Lady
Clevedon) it were a phaeton or a footman, or merely a titled
relative, stuffed and cured, to stiuid picturosciuely in the mid-
dle distance and be alluded to. This, she added profanely,
was of more value than many footmen.

Her incUnation had been to remain unaware of the exist-
ence of the new baronet, but this idea was more easily con-
ceived than carried out.

THE WING OF AZUAEL.

When a church-bell clangs loudly every Sunday morning
close to your ears, philosophy counsels that you take no
notice of the barbarism, but human frailty may nevertheless
succumb.

Sir Philip had entered upon his new sphere in high good
spirits, determined to enioy all that it oifered to the full, and
to take his place among his peers with a dash and style that
would make him known and respected throughout the coun-
try.

There was no escaping him. Like a teasing east wind that
blows low, he met one round every corner, blustered against
one at (jvcry turn, let one face noith, south, east, or west in
fi-uitless attempt at evasion. Perhaps Lady Clevedon, who
could turn things social into ridicule cleverly enough, but to
whom social laws were nevertheless indisputable, felt all
along that iherc was no escaping the acquaintance of Philip
Dendraith, be he mad, drunk, or a fiend in human shape; and
she finfdly, in no very alfablc mood, drove over and called at
Upton Court.

Ijady Dendraith's plump good-nature much amused her
visitor, and the latter came back disposed to be friendly to-
wards? the simple old person who was full of innocent pride
in her husband and son, as well as biimming over with naive
astonishment at the suaden change in their fortunes.

*' After lodgings and furnished houses, a place like this does
seem wonderfully palatial ; but my husband and son take to
it as if they had been here all their lives, bless their hearts 1"

"Bless your heart, old lady I" thought the visitor, who was
forgiving to any one who amused her. " If ever there was a
good old soul you are that person, my dear 1"

As for Lord Clevedon, he regarded his new neighbours with
the highest disfavour, thou^^h he too recogniseu tha duty of
knowing a Dendraith, in whatever stage of mental or moral
decomposition he might chnnce to be.

*'Thp fellow has none of the real Dendraith blood in him,"
he said ; "it was a sad pity that the old stock died out."

"Have you seen the son ?" asked Lady Clevedon.

Her husband straig:htened his thin figiue, and drawing his
head out of his necktie and collar, gave it a twist as if he had
half a mind to unscrew the thing and take it down for closer
examination— perhaps under the impression that the ma-
chinery wanted oiling.

" Yes, i have seen the son."

"Not like either of his parents, I think. Did he not strika
you as being v^^rv like that portrait of Andrew Dendraith at
the old house on the cliff ?— tne man who had such an extra-
ordinary story, you know. I think he used to take opium
among other things, and was suspected of having muraered
his wife— though nobody could ever prove it. He was a man
of considerable power, but I don't fancy ho minded the pre-

Pff^LTP DENDBAITH.

:.^--^*

eepts he used to write in his copy-books as he irJght have
dono."

" The fellow was no credit to his i-elalivcr;," said Lord Cleve-
don, screwing his head on again as a hopeless case (the works
required a thorough cleaning, and ho didn't see his way to
getting it done).

*' Andrew Dendraith," he continued, " was one of the bad
charactei-s that seem to crop up in the family now and again,
as if there were some evil strain in it not to be overcome."

''It is curious that this young Pnilip should be so like An-
drew," tzaid Lady Clevedon; "the relationship is not very
close, but the resemblance, to my mind, is striking. In figure
they are alike ; this boy is tall and slim and well put together,
as Andrew was, and he has the same cold, keen, handsome
face, with clean-cut features, and already there is plenty of
control over the muscles. His manners are polisned — too
polished for his ajge, almost ; though perhaps one fancies that,
thr(jugh seeing liim beside his awful father, who really"

" Wh->, upon my honour" assisted Lord Clevedon.

*' Is hk<}ly to give the county a severe fit of social indiges-
tion," concluded his wife.

However, the county gulped him down; and though it suf-
fered from a pain in the che.-t, it did its duty to the new rep-
resentative of the Dendraiths, calling upon his wife with
I exemplary punctuality.

I Mrs. ti^dley, among the rest, wearily set out to perform her
task. She put on her best bonnet, provided hei*self with a
i card-case, and ordered the carriage.

No one ever quite knew if that old veliicle would hold to-
gether for another drive, but the family seemingly meant to
fo on paying its calls in it, till the faithful servant "died in
, amess," as Harry Lancaster used to say, with characteristio
enjoyment of incongruous metaphore.

I Geoffrey saw the old chariot at the door, and rushed in to
ask if he and Viola might accompany their mother.

" And Bill Dawkins,'" added Viola.

"What larks if we break down on the roadl" cried
Geoffrey.

However, no suwh lively calamity occurred ; they rumbled
respectably along the high-road and through the little villages,
Bill Dawkin» behaving with the utmost deconim on the back-
seat beside Gteoffrey; so much so, in fact, that Viola was
afraid ho would get tired— whereat her brother jeered.

"Bill Dawkins isn't a girir he cried sconifuUy. "Are
you, Bill ?" at which compliment the poodle thumped his tail
upon the carriage-cushion and cast down his eyes.

Sir Philip, coming down the avenue of Upton Court, met
I the carriage driving up. Viola and Geoffrey recognised him
and looked nt one another.

If Lady Clevedon or Harry Lancaster had been present.

THIS WINQ OF AZRABL.

they would hava derived much gratification from the sight of
the meeting between Mrs. Sedley and her new neighbour.

Sir Philip raiseil hm bat gallantly and gave a loud shout of
welcome.

"How do you do, Mrs. Sedley ? Going to call on the old
lady ? That's rip:ht ; she's just having a nap,— rather a weak-
ness of Lady Dendraith's— atternoon naps. '

"I fe^ir we shall disturb her," said Mrs. Sedley in her
steady, shy, withdrawn tones.

" Dear me, no, not at all; she will be delighted, I assure
you. We were wondering we hadn't seen anything of you
before. However, better late than never. Family cares. I
daresay. These your chicks ? Halloa ! why, these are tne
two children I saw at Clevedon ! Lady Clevedoh's nephew
and niece, of course. Well, my boy, can you conjugate your
TVTTro, or do you spend all your time and brains on old Father
Thames ? You must make friends of my boy, though he is
some years older than you; he can conjugate you anything
you like, I can tell you. The young people are getting so
clever nowadays, there's no holding them. I see the httle
girl has had the good taste to copy her mother," Sir Philip
continued, chucking Viola under the chin. ' Oouldi^'t have
had a better model, my dear. Will you give me a kiss ?" he
asked, bending down without waitinoj for permission.

"No, I won't," said the child, shrinking away from him
and sqiiwzing Bill Dawkins uncomfortably close to the fai'ther
side ot the carriage.

Sir Philip laughed.

" Ah r you don't care to kiss an old i m Uke me 1"

"No, I don't ^\ant to kiss you 1" said Viola irately. Bill
Dawkins barked.

" Viola, dear 1" remonstrated Mrs. Sedley, at which a look
of intense trouble came into the child's face. If her mother's
sacred wishes and her own feelings sliould come into open
conflict, there would blaze up a small Hell in that childish
breast ; for, trivial as the occasion seemed to grown-up con-
sciousness, the intensity of feeling that it called out is impos-
sible to represent, much more to exaggerate.

" Come now. I must have a kiss," said Sir Philip in a play-
ful manner, and going round to the other side of the carnage.
" If you give me a kiss, I'll give you a sweetmeat when we
get up to tne house ; there's a nargain now I"

" I don't want sweetmeats— I don't want sweetmeats," cried
Viola, darting away again in increased dislike as Sir Philip's
bearded face "appeared beside her.

" She does not need any reward for behaving politely, I am
sure, " said Mrs. Sedley. "Viola, dearest, you will give this
gentleman a kies when he asks you to do so."

The child's eyes fixed themselves in silent desperation on
the ground. Her face became white and set.

" ThafB a good little ^1," said Sir Philip. " I am sure we

.-**

PHILIP DENDltAlTII.

shall sooii be excellent friends, for T am very fond of chil-
dren. Now for my kiss. " -.» „

He bent forward to take it, when Viola, with a suppressed
cry, wildly plunged off the seat to the bottom of the carriage
and hid her face m the rug. Upon this Bill Dawkins becanio
violently excited, alternately jumping down to thrust his nose
against Viola's haii', and springing on to the seat to bark per-
sistently in Sir Philip's face, getting more and more enraged
as tliat gentleman threw ba«k his head and laughed heartilv,
with the remark that he had never been treated so unkindly
by a lady before.

Well, I suppose I must give it up for the present," ho
Said. *' If you will drive on to the house, Mrs. Sedley, I will
I return with you."

\ *' Oh! please don't let us bring you in," began the visitor,
[but Sir rhilip drowned her remonstrance, and directed the
I coachman to drive on.

He met the carriage at the door, and helped Mrs. Sedley to
[ahglit.

Bill Dawkins sprang out with a yelp of ^joy, followed by
jGeoffrey. On the steps stood Philip Dendraith the younger.
" Now then, little woman," said Sir Philip kindly enough,
} Viola held back, with defiant eyes. "Come along."
"Come on, you young silly 1" urged her brother. "He
loesn't want to kiss you now."
Sir Philip leant across the carriage with a laugh, upon
[which the chUd, making a violent effort to escape, flung her-
3lf against the door at the farther side, and fell, hui*ting her
Jhead and arm. In falling she had moved the handle oi the
[door, which suddenly burst open.

" Good heavens I save her 1" cried Sir Philip.
Befoi'e the words were out of his mouth, his son, with mar-
Kellous rapidity, had darted round iust in time to rescue the
[child from a dangerous fall. Her body was half out of the
[carriage when he caught her in liis arms and carried her
[quickly into the house, where he laid her on a sofa and sum-
Imoned his mother to the rescue. Mrs. Sedley bad, fortu-

lately, not seen the accident.
[ ' ' Poor dear little creature 1" cried the good Lady Dendraith,
[who had just been roused from her **nap," "are you much ^
mrt, my dear? I think not, for she doesn't cry at all."
"She never cries," said her mother, shaking her head;
[** she is hke a little woman when niie hurts herself."

"Dear, dear 1— what would she like, I wonder ?— some
)randy and water to revive her, and perhaps she ou^ht to see
the doctor."

But Mrs. Sedley thought that she coull easily manage with
the help of a few simple remedies. Viola appeared to have
' aen rather startled than really hurt.
She lay quite quiet, but witlx an anxious, watchful look ia

'■■! -v..

mmm

TiiE wma OF azrael

I I

hiii

her eyes, which changed to something approaching teiTOr
when Sir Philip's loud voice was heard in tne hall.

She started up.

" Don't let that man come in; don't let him come in 1" she
cried wildly.

Lachr Dendraith looked surprised, and Mrs. Sedley natu-
rally felt uncomfortable.

"Hush, Viola dear, nobody will disturb you; you should
not speak so, you know; it is not like a little lady."

"I don't want to be like a little lady!" cried Viola, who
seerued to be in a strange state of excitement.

"I think," said Mrs. Sedley, "that I ought to take her
home at once, though I am sorry to cut short my visit to you.
Lady Dendraith : and I am most grateful for your kindness
to mv little girl.''

When Mrs. Sedley said she would go she always went witli-
out delay, an^ Viola having shaken hands with her hostess
(she refused to kiss her, though without impolite remarks),
retiu-ned to the carriage on tootj looking behind her in a
frightened manner lest her bete noire ehould be present.

He was standing in the entrance when they went out, and
expressed much concern at the shortneps of the visit. Viola
shiankaway to the other side of her mother.

" Well, young lady, I am glad to see you are all right again.
Upon my honour, you sent my heart into my mouth when you
burst that door Open ! What a tierce little maiden it is 1 I
hope you won't treat your lovers in this fashion m the time
to come, or you will have much to answer for."

Mrs. Sedley, objecting to have Viola spoken to about lovers,
cut the convei'sation short by shaking hands with her host
once more and entering the carriage.

"No, I am not going to ask for a kiss now," said Sir Philip,
as Viola shrank away hastily, "but I think my son, who
saved you from a severe accident, deserves one; and you
won't mind kissing him^ though you are so unkind to his
poor old father."

"I don't want to kiss anybody as long as I livel" cried I

Viola. " I hate everybody ; I" she broke down with sheer |

passion.

Father and son burst out laughing, and Philip, bending i
down, lifted her swiftly in his arms, quietly kissed her in
spite of her violent resistance, and placed her in the carriage!
beside the poodle who received her with acclamation. She
struck her laughing enemy with her clenched fist, and theul
flinging herseli against the cushions, she hid her face, drawl
ing up the rug over her head, and burst into low heart-Drokenl
sobs. I

"Viola, Viola 1" in tones of surprised remonstrance froral
Mrs. Sedley. I

The carriage rolled away down the avenue and emei-gedl
into the bare down country, but the child did not stir. Mrs,!

BELIGI0U8 DIFFICULTIB8,

Sedley was afraid that this unwonted excitement might be
the precursor of some ilhiess, and thought it wiser not to in-
terfere except by a few soothing words.

Geffrey showed a boyish inchnation to laugh at his sister
for making such a fuss about nothing, but his mother re-
jproved him, as it seemed to make her more excited.
I Bill Dawkins was greatly concerned about her. He searched
Iher out among the rugs, as if he were hunting for rats, and ex-
ipressed his sympathy with wistful eloquence. Once she put
Iner arm round his neck and drew him to her passionately,
md if it had not been for his thick coat, the good poodle might
lave felt some hot tears falling on his shaggy head.

Viola did not recover her spirits all that day. MJrs. Sedley
,/atched her anxiously, and sent her to bed early, with com-
)re8ses on her arm and a bandage on her head.

When all was quiet, and Viola found herself alone, she
srept out of bed, went to the window and drew up the blind.
There stood the avenue, stately and beautiful in the moon-
ight, wreathed with mists.

The yision brought the tears Welling up again from the
lepths of the child's wounded soul. Her grief was all the bit-
'jrer because she could not express it in words even to herself;
be could only feel over and over again, with all a child's in-
3nsity, that she had been treated with insolence, as a being
rhose will was of no moment, whose very person was not
ler own ; who might be kissed or struck or played with ex-

)tly C3 peoplep|eased, as if she were a thing without life or

jrsonahty. Her sense of individual dignity— singularly

brong in this child — was outraged, and she felt as if she could

jtever forgive or forget the insult as long as she lived. The

KJular good-naturea way in which it had been offered made

only the more unbearable.

" I nate you; I ftafe," cried Viola, mentally apostrophising
ler enemies, *' I hate everybody in the world— except mother

id Bill Dawkins."

CHAPTER IV.

REUaiOUS DIFFIOULTIES.

[As soon as her children had acquired enough cohesion to
upon a pew-seat, Mrs. Sedley had taken them to church.

^metimas, indeed, she had been too hasty and taken them
lost before that epoch, so that the hapless little beings used
crumple up and slip to the ground, keeping their mother
^upied in gathering and replacing them during the service.
\mong Viola's earliest remembrances were these miniature

'*»;,

H '

THE WINO OF AZRAEL.

declines and falls, which had generally been occasioned by
her being painfully tired during the early part of the service
through the dire necessitv of sitting still, and by the sleep-^
exhaustion produced at last by an infinite number of %m'^
pressed desires; among them a very vivid lon^ng to stroke
the sealskin jacket of the former L^dy Dendraith, who used
to sit in the pew just in front of her. Once, in fact, watchine
her opportunity with beating heart, she had actually realized
her souFs ambition by drawing her little hand timidly down
from Lady Dendraith's shoulders to her waist, and then leav-
ing off in a panic on hearing a smothered chuckle from one of
her too wide-awake brothers.

These delinquents took a special deh'ght in leading her into
mischief during service. The pew was large, and ran in two
directions at right angles to one another, so that there was
one part of it quite out of Mrs. Sedley's range of vision, where
imholy deeds might be wrought. Here they would pelt one
another with dried peas and paper pellets, or build a Tower
of Babel out of prayer-books ; the stately edifice almost reach-
ing to the top 0? the pew. (It was one of Harry Lancaster's
wicked sayings, that Mrs. Sedley was going to mount into
heaven upon a staircase of these volumes, and it must be ad-
mitted that the number of her books of devotion was exciting
to the profane imagination.)

Viola characteristically took all matters connected with
reUgion in grim earnest. Her after-pangs of remorse if she
had taken too much interest in the Tower of ipabel were very
keen, and she often suffered indescribable terrors from the
conviction that her sins would be punished in the fires of hell.
Sometimes she experienced strange emotional upUftings
when she believed that she felt the very presence of Christ, and
a passionate inspiration for a hfe devoted only to his service.
And then would follow days of fruitless effort to keep up to
the level of these ecstatic moments.

On Sunday afternoons it was Mrs. Sedley's custom to read
the Bible with the two children, taking them into her own
special sitting-room {boudoir is a term inconsistent with this
lady), and closing the door after her with a quiet solemnity
which to Viola had something of awful sacrediiess.

Geoffrey, alas 1 had been known to whistle a secular melody
after that ceremony of initiation, and it was a cotnmon
amusement with him to secretly alter all the markers in his
mother's Bible and "Daily Meditations;" or to place them
against chapters in the Old Testament that consisted chiefly
01 proper names, because his mother found some difficulty in
pronouncing them.

After the reading, the children were allowed to express
their ideas upon what they had heard, and to ask a few ques- 1
tions. Geofirey always took a morbid interest in Satan, and j
(Satan being a biblical character) Mrs, Sedley could not con-

RELIGIOUS DIFFICULTIES,

sistently refuse to gratify it. His questions were of a nature
to whiten the hair of an orthodox mother.

Viola's difficulties were of another kind. She could not un-
derstand the stories of holy treachery and slaughter related
of the children of Israel, in whose war ''erings she and her
brother always took the keenest interesi. It was an actual
grief to her when her heroes suddenly broke away from a
most well-ordered and respectable career to go forth, like a
swarm of hornets, to injure and destroy. That "the Lord
commanded them" only made the matter darker. Mrs.
Sedley could not enter into these difficulties. She herself
would not have hurt the poor fly, which appears to be re-
garded as the last creature entitled to human mercy (unless,
Serhaps, it interrupted her prayers or distracted her atten-
on from holy thmgs); but she entirely approved of the
wholesale massacres perpetrated by the cnosen people in the
name of the Lord, and considered that His name was greatly
glorified thereby.

Viola was also disturbed by the strange story about Balaam
when he was sent for by Balak to corae and *' curse him" the
Israehtes. *' Gk>d came unto Balaam at night, and said unto
him : If the men come to call thee, rise up and go with them :
but yet the word which I shall say unto thee, that shalt
thou do."

So Balaam naturally ^oes.

Then, to Viola's infinite bewilderment, "God's anger was
kindled because he went, and the angel of the Lord stood in
the way for an adversary against him."

The child's face of dusmay at this apparent instance of
Divine inconsistency would have been comic had it not been
pitoous.

But why was God angry when He had told Balaam the
night before to go with the men if they came to call him?"

Mrs. Sediey first said that "the ways of Providence were

past finding out," but remembering that her sister-in-law had

once biu^t mto a fit of immoderate laughter at this reply, she

[suggested that the Lord had possibly meant to try Balaam's

: faithfulness.

She never noticed in her younger pupil the hungry desire

I to find some real loveliness that she could worship; she never

saw the piteous efforts of the tender-hearted child to adore

the God who sent forth the Israelites to smite whole races

Iwith the edge of the sword, and to leave not one remaining of

[the people.

Fortunately the New Testament was read on alternate
Sundays, and if to love Christ be the one thing needful for
lalvation, Viola certainly fulfilled the condition. She was an
enthusiastic little Christian, though there were yet many

aws in her orthodoxy which her mother had to patch up as

Bst she might.

Being made sound on one dde, she was apt to give way on

i. !:

,.,i||

THE WllfO OF AZRAEL.

the other, causing poor Mrs. Sedley much trouble, and de-
manding more mental agility than she possessed. How God
could be willing to accept the pain and §rief of one divine
being as a substitute for the pain and grief of other guilty
beings was what Viola could not understand. If the guilt
could pass away from the guilty at all, how should Gk)d let
the burden of it rest on some one else, as if God were greedy
of pain for His creatures and could not forgive generously
and entirely? It was like the story of the young prince who,
when he was naughtj, had a little slave beaten in his stead,
quite to the satisfaction of the royal father. ReUgious diffi-
culties began early in Viola's experience, as probably they do
in most essentially religious natures. Doctrine and dogma
and commentary were provided for her so liberally, that, as
Wilkins, the coachman, technically remarked, "it was
enough to give the poor child a surfeit." Thomas, with his
practical instincts, didn't see no sense in cramming a lot o'
religion into a young lady with Miss Viola's prospects, he
didn't— not a lot o' fancy stuff of Mrs. Sedley's makin' up, as
drawed down the face till it was as long as a 'olly'ock: and
never a smile or a 'good day' to a soul about the place— he
didn't see what good come of such reUgion, he didn't." And
Thomas shoved his spade into the earth with a vigour cor-
responding to the vigour of his conviction that if he could see |
no use in a thing, use in it there could not possibly be.

When Geoffrey was away (and this, of course, was during I
the greater part of the year) Viola led a strange, lonely life. I
She had no companions, Mrs. Sedley being afraid to let herl
associate much with her cousins at Clevedon, because their|
training was, in her opinion, so godless.
. Viola's education was of ihe simplest character. Herl
mother gave her lessons in history, geography, and arithmeticl
every morning after the usual Bible- reading and prayer, and!
as she grew older Viola had to practise her music for an hourl
every afternoon. Music being one of her passions, the hour,!
in npite of its drudgery, had its charms. The piano was in thel
drawing-room, a large dreary, dimly lighted dungeon, which!
chiilled the veiy marrow of one's bones. The furniture wasl
set stiffly against the colourless walls, while the dreary omaj
ments under their glass shades seemefa— as Harry Lancaster!
fantastically remarked — like lost souls that had migrated into|
glass and china bodies, and there petrified, entranced, wer
forced to stand in the musty silence till the crack of Doom.

Just for one hour daily that musty silence was broken. H
was an enchanted hour, especially in autumn and winterj
when the fire-light made the shadows dance on the walls ana
ceiling, and threw a rosy glow over the whole colourless scene
And then the spirit of music arose and went forth, weavint
spells, and callm|r from the shadows a thousand other spiriu
who seemed to fiil the dull old room with tumultuous life and
the air ¥dth strange sweet thriOs and whifiipero from a world

ii ii

BSLJQI0U8 DTFFIGVLTIB8,

unknown. Then the lost souls would cast off the curse that
held them, and become half human again, though they were
very sad, indeed quite heart-broken^ for they knew they were
imprisoned in these ridiculous bodies till time should be no
more, and then what awaited them but the torments of the
damned? Viola woidd be seized sometimes with a panic as
she thought of it.

There were two glass lustres on the marble mantelpiece,
which caught the fire-light brilliantly, and in the centre an '
ormolu clock with a pale blue face of Sevres china, a clock i
whose design must have been conceived during a vivid opium
dream of its author, so wild and unexpected were its outunes,
to distracted and fantastic its whole being.

"A drunken beast," Harry Lancaster nad once called the
thing after a state call at the Manor-House. As it had coat
fifty pounds, Mrs. Sedley fondly hoped and concluded that it
was exquisitely beautiful, and she would have been very
much amazed, though but slightly offended, had any one pre-
sumed to doubt its loveliness.

If the imprisoned soul had a sensitive nature, how it must
have suffered from the impertinent quirks and affected
wrigglings of its domicile ! now it must have hated being
misrepresented to the world by so florid and undignified a
body I

Perhaps Viola enjoyed her hour of practising so much
partly because she was then certain to be alone. At no other
time in the day could she count upon this. She would often
remain in the drawing-rooih long after the practising was
over, much to the astonishment of her mother.

There was something indescribably fascinating to the child
in the silence that followed the music ; it was quite unlike the
silence that preceded it— unlike every other silence that one
knew.

In autumn, when it grew dusk early in the afternoon, she

could hear, between the pauses of the music, the sound of old

" Willum's" broom sweeping the dead leaves from the path

[before the window. This too fascinated her. The notes

would pour out at times as if they were inspired by the roar

'of the wind outside, which was stripping tne great trees of

their fohage,— and suddenly they would cease— a pause —

[then always again, through the wind's tumult, the steady

[swish-swish upon the gravel, and the old man's bent, patient

[form moving slowly forwards along his path of toil.

j The wild freedom of the wind, the wild sweetness of the

remembered music— the dim room, the lost souls— what was

lit in the scene that stirred the childish heart to its depths ?

[Nature, human toil, human possibilities^ joys unutterable,

~ id unutterable dooms, -even here, in this sheltered, monot-

lous home, those spectres stood upon the threshold of a
roung life, to announce their presence to the soul. *

fUhl Wli\a OF A7AIAKL

OlIArTKU V.

BlJEAKlNd HOUNDS.

iHon,

lUiKAKiyO m)UM)R

139

\ho stNiHon.

ansNviMXHl to the moR> thoughtful niui melancholy side of her
|charaoU»r,

Tho l)ow(>r was HiUMvd Jo Life and Tiilunty; tho drawing-
frooin to siTvitvuio juul death, in all tho forms in which thoy
lattiick humanity.

Across tho lawn, with Hill Dawkins i\t hor Ium^Is. along a
lowor-hroiiioivd w;\lk ln>hind tho gjirdtni-wall. Viola hastened;
iluMi out l>y a wioket >;;tte into tlu» |Kirk. iind aoross the open,
In tlu^ fai'oof staring eows, to a littU* eopse. the saerod ij;i\)vo
wluM'oin till* temple stood. Sin* i>lnngod in and pursued her
way along the p;ith wliioh she iuui worn for h(»rsi>lf in strug-
pling through tho underwood. JSlio paus«\l for a n»on»ent,
thinking she eauji:ht an unusual sound in tlu» solitudt*. Tlu»m
seemed to 1h* a slight rustling and shaking .Mmong the leaves,
IS if the n«M*ves of (he little wotnl were thrilling. Viola's
lie,irt h«..t fasi. What if her templo wore tliseoveind and
leseerated / She hurried on hn>athlossly ; the mysterious
tremor eoutimiing. or rather inciivising, as she eanie near.
Hot lol^4)odings W(MV only too true !

Thert\ in tlu^ holy of holit»s, stool Thomas, pruning knife
tn hand (ho hao alwnys hoon a m;miaeMl pnuu>r). t<»aring and
♦uttingdown t'no mMgnilit'iMit shoots of oloniatis, just then
in the luMLjht of its fj;lory, erushii\g tin* horrios of \\\o hrionv
i>en(»ath his heavy hoot*>, and '"unniMvr his rut'.doss knih*
round the truidcs of (ho tivos when* ihe ivy olinduMl too high.

**() Thomas, Thomas. wii;»( /nrro you done.'"" t»xel;unu»d
riola piloously. Hill Pawkms ltark(»d .Mggr(«s<iv» ly at the
jos(royer wiv' his tail ervH'l, e.\.'je(Iy as if he weix» s;iving,
'*()n l)ehalf, su*, of this voung l;ulv. 1 donumd an expl.uuv-
lion."

Tho (»ld ieonoelas( tnrni »{ slowly round and looked at Violii
md her poodU*, not in (he l(\is( undorsfanding.

** r.n Ji (akin' tho ivy o(T somt> ol' th(v«!«» 'ere (nvs.'Mieoh-
MM'vod, dragi^ing tlown a giwit n«'twoikof inreonery and tliug-
|ng it on the ^ro\m«l.

'* Why do you take down (he ]>rolly ivy f MHki>d the ehild
wrfully.

" Kxplain youi*self, sir," harked Hill l>;iwkinH.

''Why, heeauso it'll kill tho trees if I loaves itj^row," Kaid

homas.

" Hnt why do you pull down tho elojuatis and tho hriony ?
[)h, why (hi you. Thom.Ms r

"Why, Miss," wiid Thomas, pu/./ltMl. "I thou^rht as it
looked untidy sprawling all over {\\o pl.ioe; I ilidn't know as
•on liko«l toseeil, or I wouldn't h.ivo louehod i( ; not «>n no
leeount."

Violji ijavo (he old man a litllo i<iu\ for^;iving snuleand tho
»o( (oMis foil as shc» moved dosolaloly away, lik<» Honu» lost
jlpiritilrivon from its homo.

\Vhat maniae was it who said (h.-i( sorrow is tho nin*H(M>C
^irtuol l^urely it is the inspii-erof all n»l>i«lliouH Hinti. it m

THE WING OF AZRAEL.

like fi storm, destroying old landmarks. How petty, how un-
noticeable to the great tempest must seem the httle walks
and fences marking the " mme " and " thine " of men ! And
great sorrow, whatever its occasion, has in it all the bUndness
and the passion of a tempest.

It was not merely the defilement of the consecrated spot
that filled the chilclish heart with grief. In its destruction
I Viola dimly saw a type of the degrading of all loveliness, the
crushing of all exquisite and delicate things. A lonely life
had fostered in her this i)oetic tendency to read figurative
meanings into outward objects; and these types were to her
not mere shadows, but solid links that bound together all the
world, material and spiritual, in an intimately related whole.

It had always been one of Viola's dearest ambitions to reach
the sea, the vision of whose sparkling immensity had strongly
moved her when she and Geofillrey used to go up to the top of
the great avenue and look down upon it.

But she was strictly forbidden to wander beyond the garden
when her nurse was not with her, and the sea was not only
beyond the garden, but beyond the park ! Yet the sight of
the avenue, vqth the long afternoor t;hadows lying across it,
its tempting perspective leading vlu kj . upwards towards the
forbidden country, filled Viola with an overpowering desii*e
to be on the verge of the great waters, to feel the sea-wind in
her face and hear the boom of the waves upon the beach.

Her griv3i; made ordinary rules seem petty, and she turned
her steps towards the avenue, without pausing to consider con-
sequences, causing Bill Dawkins to give a yelp of ioy, and to
run gaily after the cattle, who were staring with all their
might at the intruders. And now the spirit of adventure be-
gan to stir in the child's breast, and she instinctively quick-
ened her footsteps, thrilled with the sensation oi her freedom
and ready to buy it at almost any price.

Arrived at the top of the avenue, she stood breathless— Bill
Dawkins by her side— and gazed at the bri^V' mt scene before
her. Wood and field and farmstead lay pV : A ! v dozing in the
benedictory sunshine j these mergin^j gr u? *ully into bare
downs, and these agam abruptly endmg m h cliffs which
reared their stately ramparts to the sea. The fjoa ! Ah ! there
it lay stretched in a long gloaming line from farthest east to
fartnest west, liiding its mystery and its passion with a lovely
smile.

Viola, climbing the looked park -gate, found herself upon the
public road. She felt a taint thrill of awe as she saw it stretch-
mg l>eforo her, white and lonely between th(» clippcxl hedges.

It was poor upland country ; quite different from the land
about the Manor-house, which lay in the valley of a little
stream. But so much tiie more wild and delightful!

How far away the sea might Ik», Viola did not know: she
made straight for it, as if she had been a pilgrim bouna fpr
her shrine,

HR^AKma BOtTNM.

It was very lonely. For half an hour she had walked
I without meeting any one, and then the road ran through a
iUttle village where some children were playing and an old
[woman crept along with a bundl'3 under her arm.

She stared at Viola, and the children stared. Bill Dawkins

_ielt at the bundle, and would have sniffed at the children,

)ut they fled shrieking to their mothers. Viola quickened

ier pace, vaguely feeling that human beings were menacinp
) her liberty. A turn of the road took her again into soli-
ide, and with it came r strange intoxication. How marvel-

jus was this sunshine pouring down over the wide cornfields !

\t seemed to confuse all reflection and to wrap the mind in an
jstatic trance. How madly the larks were singing this
Etemoon I The fields were athrill with the flutter of wings
id the air quivered with song. Once Viola was tempted to

javo the road and take a short cut by the side of a little
)pse, where Bill Dawkins went wild after game, and caused
is mistress some delay by his misdeeds. The shadows were
erceptibly longer when she and the dishevelled poodle (now

fotinguished by a mud-covered nose) emerged again upon

'le high-road.
Here the sea came clearly into sight, acting upon the heart

ff the little pilgrim as a trumpet-call. The country became
lore and more bare and bleak as it rose towards the cliffs;

_ie crops grew thinner, and gradually cultivation fell off into

[ttle patches here and there, till at last it ceased altog^ether,
id there was nothing but tne wild down grass shivering in
10 soa-wind.

If inland, the sunshine had seemed brilliant and all-pervad-
ig, here on the open dovrns, with the gleaming of the sea all
)und, its glory was almost blinding.
Would they never reach the cliff side ?
Viola started into a run, and Bill Dawkins bounded madly
front of her, looking back now and then to make sure that
10 was following.
iThe saltness of the ocean was in the air; the fresh wind

Jung the child's cheeks to crimson. At last the end of the

Himoy was reached ; a little coastguard station niurked the

[ghost point, and then the land slopod with difterent degrees

abruptness towaixis the edge of the great cliff, which rose

a vast height above the sea, so that a boat ro<'king on the

[aves beneatli had to bo carefully sought for by the eye, and

ppeared as a tiny black si)eck upon the water.

[There wore a few streaks of smoke h^ft far away on the

)rizon, in the wake of vanished steamers, and one or two

^hing-l>oats lay heoalmed ; the sky line was lost in Imze, a

le-wtvvther haze, bc*^)kening hont. Viola sat down on tlie

ass to rest, with her arm round Bill Dawkins. Oh the mar-

^1 of that sunshine I How the air thrilled and trembled with

e snlendour of it ! The e irth soonied nii, if it were swimming

, a nood of light. Burely ono could feol it reeling through

!ll!i

III! 'i': ih

1
i

: 'i

1 ,'

77//? lV/iV(? Oi^^ AZllAEL.

tho repfions of Bpaco, fi ,i<iy- intoxicated cnv'ituro I Viola looj^od
round, lialf in fear, hail: in raptiiro, at tlio tlioimht <»f tlio
world's mad dancothrou^li cndlesH Holitiidcs, and slio actually
believed that she felt Uu3 whirl of its inolion as the breeze
went by, and tho wide horizon seemed to swim round her
dizzily.

The swervinp; sensation was perhaps incrcnse<l by watchinp;|
the sea-jj^ulls poisint;: and whcMMinp: in the nir al<»n^ the giddy
cliff-side, and the jackdaws swarming and chattering about]
its clefts and crevices.

Sometimes the gulls would rise above the summit of the!
headland and come so clos<' to Viola that she could hear th(J
strange creaking of their wings as they swooped and swunKj
and swept in a thousand graceful ca])rices ot movement, toj
finish dramatically with a sudden dive or turn in tlu? air, ut-f
tering then* melfuicholy cry. Viola f(»lt hen-self thrill fronil
head to foot. These birds fascinatinl her, but she di<l not likrt
them. They seemed cold, able, linished creatures, hut the}]
had no feeluig, they were utterly ])itiless- like Philip I>eiij
draith, she thought. The little jiickdaws were not so gracefiij
or so perfect, but they were pleasanter and more human
They were like his kind old mother.

AIiI how sweet was the scent of the earth I how sweet tlid
breath of the sea ! Viola envied the family of the coastguardsi
man who dneltin tho little whitewashed cottage, with its tai
blackened waterbutt outside the door, and the flag placidlj
curving over the roof in tiie faint Seabreeze. Two sea-gullj
with Hashing j)lumage were sweeping round it, grandly \iii|
dulnting, while on the bank outsuh^ the house lay a youniT
child with round limbs bare to the sun and winds, a beina
almost as free as the wild sea birds themselves.

Vi(^la wished (bat she too bad been a child of the const!
guardsman, so that she might live always upon this clilfl
side, in the fresh winds; always- sleejimg and waking-f
have that sea nnn*mur in her ears, and the cry of tho gullj
thrilling her witli sw( et fancies. 8he was too excited to sil
fitill. Slio rose presently and began to walk farthi>r along il(
cliff, going near enough to the (HJgc* to see the scatten^d reel;
at its foot, and to watch the gidls as they circled and swoope
and settled in bu. y comjianies, inti^it upon their fishing.

At some distance fartiuT along tho coast anotlun* headliuij
ran out into the sea, and upon it Viola could discern wlij
looked like a ruined castle, standing desolate above tij
waves. Had slu* known tho part which that castle was
play in her life she would have turn^'d and fled back to lij
nome instead of pursuing her adventure. She had heard li|
father speak of some old ruin on the coast: how once it sfiJ
far inland; but the himgry sea had gnawcMl at the cliffs tiij
crept up close to the castle, which now stood defiant to t[
Inst, refusing to yield to tjie besieger. As she drew n«'i
Viola that toore was u bolt of wind stonii troes oncirci

BUEAKINa HOUNDS.

tho niin at sorao diRtai^co inland, an<l that in a hollow of tho
downs lay what soemod to bo tho sardons and Kurron.ndings
of a human liabitation. A p^ato lod into a short avonue, at
the end of which stood a lar^^o gloomy-looking house, built
of Ki'cy stone.

The ])laee appeared deserted and was falling into decay.
On the step:-} moss was fj;rnwinjj; luxuriantly, the front door
ffjive the inn)ression that it was never oi)ened, and the win-
dows had evidently not been cleaned for y(vu"S.

Viola's curiosity was aroused, but with it an undefined
sense of f(»ar; th(? place was so strangely lonely, ;uid had
such a dea<lly look of glot>ni. it recalled to the cliild her own
lonely position, and suggc^stod vague and awesome thoughts
which had not assaik-d her out in the FUMshin<'. Hut she
could not lea v(» the vault-like old house without further ex-
plorations. It liad for her a niysteiious fasciniition.

She found that it })03sessed gi-eat half-ruined stables and
a large yard at the back,- t lie weeds growing apace between
the paving-stones. She ventured to try if siie (to'dd enter tho
liouse by th.e back-door, but it was locked; so was the door
of the stable.

The gardens, which lay sheltered from tho wind in tho hol-
low, were beautiful in their ne^dected state. There was a ter-
race on the hi.Hher ground with a stately stone palisade, and
at either end an urn, round which climbing plants were
wreathed in the wildcat abanlonment. Below, among tho
liLtle pillars of the parapet, a f ly growth of flowers rushed
uj), llauie-like, amid grasses and self-sown vegetation of all
kmds. The houst* wa^- joined to tlie ruin, which ran out upon
the headland, and appeared to be almost surrounded bv the
sea. Part of tlui castie had been repaired and convertcfl into
a dwelling, and tliis hud then been added to till the habitable
portion of the building attained its present gaunt appearance
and great sizt».

Viola's next step was to explore the castle which stood peri-
lously balancing itself on the extreme verge of the land, strik-
ing roots, as it seemed, into the rock, and clinging on to the
naii\>vv wave-fretted headland for dear lif(\ Tlie limestone
clilf had been worn to a men; splinter, which ran out into tiui
sea, the neighbouring land being reft into narrow gorg(»s, into
which the waves rushed searchingly with dee[) reverberations.
The ruin was wonderfully ])reserved considering its exi)Osed
sitifntion. The walls were of inunense thickness, and it s<H3med
as if the rock on which they stood must itself crumble before
they yicldcMi to the long-continued assault of tinuuuid weather.
Apj)arently the castle had once beiai a Norman stronghold,
though now only a very Hinall jiortion of it remained to toll
ithe tale.

By this time the brilliancy of the day had begun to decline;
land with the aftei*noon had <'ome that i>ensive look that set-
tleJi upon a landscape when the li^^ht ceases to pour down upon

BBH

riMM

THE WING OF AZRAEL.

it directly from above. The voice of the wind, too, had grown
melancholv ag it wandered through the great mined windows
and stirred the sea-plants that had managed to establish them-
selves in the inhospitable soil.

Bill Dawk ins of course had run wild, scampering hither
and thither in breathless astonishment, poking his muddy
nose into dark passages, scrambling helter-skelter to the top
of a ruined staircase, where he would be seen standing with
his comical alert-looking figure marked against the sky, tail
high in the air, head well raised, and in his whole attitude an
air of intelligent inquiry which would have convulsed with
laughter anybody to whom animal life was a less serious
affair than it was to Viola. The dog looked as if he ought to
be scanning the horizon with a telescope to one eye.

Viola was just .ibout to follow him up the steps, when she
was startled, ar x for the moment terror-stricken, by a loud
peal of lau^ht^er which rose above the ceaseless pulse-beat of
the waves in the rock-chasms round about. She gave a low
gasp and clutched a little tamarisk bush beside the staircase,
for she had almost fallen. She listened breathlessly. The
laughter was renewed, and Viola now heard several men's
voices, apparently coming from the farthest part of the ruin.
If she were discovered here, these men might be angry with
her for trespassing. Her ideas were vague and full of fear;
the romantic strangeness of the place, with its hollow subter-
ranean sounds, excited her imagination. Though prepared
for almost anything however, it did not occur to her that Bill
Dawkins' scamper to the top of the ruined staircase, at that
particular moment, was to determine the whole course of her
future life ; but so it proved.

CHAPTER VI.

I '■'

THE CUSTODIAN OP THE OASTLE.

Viola crouched lower and lower in her hiding-place, for
she fancied the voices were coming nearer. The tones some-
what reassured her, for they were quiet and pleasant.

" I should like to know wnero the little beast comes from,"
one of the invisible beings remarked ; '' I never saw anything
to beat that attitude. It's not only human, it's classical."

"Classical?" echoed a second voice, which Viola thought
not quite so pleasant as the former.

"Our friend moans that it possesses the attributes of a
class," said a third voice, this one quite different in tone and
quality from the other two ; there was a slight touch of cock-

THE CUSTODIAN OF THE GA8TLE.

ney accent, and an evident slruggle with the temptation to
say Attributes.

** Quite so; you always know what I mean, Foster," said

the first voice; "that poodle has the manners of the highest

[circles; quite clear that he mingles in good society. I must

really introduce him to my cousin ; she would be charmed

[with him."

"Lady Clevedon is not without class prejudices," the man
called Foster remarked in a judicial manner. "Women of
[the upper ranks have much to contend with ; we must look
leniently upon their follies; it is the part of the philosopher
K) sn^e, not to rail, at human weakness."

Viola thought this sounded promising for her. This toler-
int person, at any rate, would be on her side, if she were
found guilty of the human weakness of trespassing.

"We must not forgetj" the philosopher pursued, "that
mly a hmited responsibility can be attached to tho human
)eing in his present relations with the universe. Without
)lunging into the vexed question of Free Will, which has set
30 many thinkers by the ears, we must admit that our free-
[dora can only exist, if at all, in a certain very modified de-
cree. We are conscious of an ability to choose, but our choice
l*s, after all. an affair of temperament, and our temperament
la matte: 01 inherited inclinations, and so forth, modified from
nnfancy by outward conditions."

I " We are not compelled to do things, only we must," some
[one interposed a little impatiently.
The philosopher laughed.

" Quite so, Mr. Dendraith; we are compelled by ourselves;
[the 'Ego ' constrains itself, and I don't see how we can logi-
cally retreat from that position."
"Well, I for one am quite prepared to do it fflogically !"
This idea seemed to stun the philosopher, who made no
[reply.

At the mention of the word Dendraith Viola's heart
[stopped beating. The memory of that visit to Upton Court
still rankled, and her hands clenched themselves fiercely at
the remembrance. Presently, to her horror and surprise,
the enemy came in sight, followed by his companions. They
could not see her, for she was hidden behind the fiight of
(Steps.

They had strolled on till they came to one of the great win-

[dows, and here they established themselves in a group, Philip

Dendraith sitting in the deep embrasure, digging out weeds

from between the stones with the end of his stick; Harry

Lancaster leaning against the masonry with his head thrown

back; while the philosopher, a small fair man with a little

face and big forehead, sat huddled together on a lar^e stone,

lamidst a tanj^le of weedy vej^etation, the tips of his fingera

Ijoined, and nis head meditatively on one side. His hands^

[showed that be had been engaged in manual work. He was

THE WINQ OF AZRAEL.

pale, and spare ; and he wore a small, very fair beard and
moustache. His eyes were light blue and exceedingly int^i-
gent.

Against the background of gleaming sea the figure of
Phiup Dendraith, framed by the rough Norman window,
stood out veiy strikingly. Every line was strong and flow-
ing, and the face laid equal claims to admiration.

Yet, perfect as it was, it by no means lacked strength or
individuality, as handsome faces often do. There was only
too much strength in the thin delicate lips, and in the square
jaw which gave vigour to the face, without heaviness. The
eyes were rather small and close-set; keen in expression.
Dark, sleek hair, closely cropped, harmonised with a smooth,
brown and colourless skin ; a laugh or smile displayed a set of
miraculously white teeth, e\ en and perfect as if they had
been artificial. As often happens, this last perfection gave a
singularly cold expression to the race ; after the first shock of
admiration (for it was nothing less), this became chillingly
aj)parent, but the eye still ling'^red on the chiselled outlines
with a sort of fascination. Philip Dendraith seldom smiled,
but when he did the smile had always the same character.
It was steely and brillicnt, with a lurking mockery not pleas-
ant to encounter. His manners, young man as he was, were
very polished ; he was by instinct a courtier.

" If the fellow were going to murder you," Harry Lancaster
used to say, "he would bow you into an easy-chair, so that
you might have it done comfortablj'^."

It would have been hard to find two men more unlike than
Philip Dendraith and Harry Lancaster.

Cold, keen, self-reliant, fascinating, Philip compelled ad-
miration, and to certain natures his pereonality was abso-
lutely dazzling. Power of all kinds is full of attraction, and
power this young man possessed in no common degree.
Already ho was beginning to exercise an almost boundless
influence over women, whose education — the potent, uncon-
scious education of their dafly lives— tends to exaggerate in
them the universal instinct to woi*ship what is strong.

Harry Lancaster's charm, curiously enough, lay partly in
the absence of certain qualities that made the other man so
attractive. He had none of those subtle flatteries which were
so pleasant even when they could not be STipposed to proceed
from real feeling, but he was genial, ready to help, quick to
foresee and avoid what might wound another's feehn^; dar-
ing, nevertheless, in the expression of unpopular opmion to
the last extreme.

In Philip's suavities there often lurked a hidden sting— so
well hidden that it could not be openly resented, yet full of
the bitter poison of a sneer.

It was in his nature to despise men and women, and to rule
them through their weakness for his own ends.

** As we were saying, then, before our friend's Inordinate

Tms ctfsTomAN of the oastlh.

mlike than

laughter interrupted our cogitations," the philosopher re-
marked, taking up the lost thread of conversation with hia
usual pertinacity— " as we were saying, Realism as opposed
to Nominalism is doomed to extinction under the power-
ful"—

' ' Paw, " suggested Philip.

"Paw of Science? "said Caleb Foster dubiously. "The
melTiphor seems crude."

" i^ut powerful, like the Paw," said Philip, sending a pebble
spinnmgover the window-ledge into the sea.

** Science," pursued Caleb, weighing his words, "is the en-
emy of poetry and nwsticism "

" I doubt that," said Harry, "I think it has a poetry and
mysticism of its own."

"That point we must lay aside for after-discussion," re-
turned the clear-headed Caleb quietly.

"Better put that aside, certamly," observed Philip.

" Science views Nature as a vast concourse of atoms con-
strained only by certain eternal vetos (if one may so speak),
and out of the general co-ordination of these vetoed units
arise the multiplex phenomena that we see around us."

Viola leant forward eagerly^ trying hard to understand.

" The vetos may be of the simplest character, but however
simple and however few, a complex result must arise from
their grouping under the conditions. Given the alphabet,
we get a literature. There you have the doctrine of Necessity
in a nutshell."

Philip turned his small eyes languidly on the speaker.

" And — what then ?" he asked.

" What then ?" echoed the philosopher. " Having got rid
of misleading conceptions, philosophy migrates to new pas-
tures. We no longer speak of life as if it were some outside
mysterious influence that pours into dead matter and trans-
forms it; we believe that there ia no such independent im-
pond(prable, but onlv different states of matter arising from
forces within itself."

" And ant^thiner that goes on outside the pale of our cogni-
tion ?" asked t'hilip, shghtly raising his ejrebrows.

"Such things," said Harry, "are, philosophically speaking,
not * in Society ; ' one doesn t hear about tnem ; one doesrrt
call upon them; they are not in our set."

The philosopher soeined a little puzzled. He smiled a mel-
ancholy smile and looked pensively out to sea.

Philip was still engaged in sending small stones spinning
into the void, and he had gradually worked himseli so far
towards the outer edge that half his body appeared to bo
overhanging the sea, which lay immeaiately below the
window.

" I say, you'll very soon be ' not in our set ' yourself if you
don't look out," said Harry.

Philip laughed, and swung himself round, so that now he

TttW Wma OF AZRAKL.

\m 1

was sitting with both logB over tho farther edge of the ei'i-
brasui*e. He seemed to i-evel in the d{mg(?r. Viola turncx]!
cold 08 she sjiw hiin lean half out of the window, in the cA'ort
to descry a ship on the horizon.

"Instantjineous death is not, strictly speaking, a calamity,"
observed the irrepressible philosopher; "tho mind has no
time to dwell Uj)on the ide[i of its own destruction Pain,
mental or physical, is the sole misfortune that can befall a
man, and this is incompatible with unconsciousness,"

"Well, then, Foster, sui>pose you give Tue the pleasure of
treating you as I tixjat these pebbles ; lei me flick you dexter-
ously into the ocojm. "

But the philosopher laughed kno^^ngly, and shook his
head.

*' Reason is not our ruUug atinbute," he said ; " sentiment
is the most powei'ful principle in the human breast."

*'Come out, will you f cried rhilin, apostrophising an ob-
stinate jicbble which had weclgctl itsi it tightly m between two
blocks of stone. " I u'ill have you out; tlie thing imagines it
is going to beat me 1"

*' Have you never been beaten ?" inquired Harry.

"No; nor do I intend to 1)0, by man, woman, or child,"
Philip answered, with a scn^w of the lips as he at last forced
out and flung away the refractory pebble.

His manner gave one the impression that so he would treat
whomsoever should resist him. The mixture of indolence and
invincible determination that he displayed was very singular.

of control— lessons of life artificially withheld— result, a
Nero."

" Are you calling me a Nero ?" asked Philip, with a laugh.
" Nothing like philosophy for fiunkness. What's my sin ?"

** Askyour conscience," returned Caleb. " /know of none."

" My conscience has struck M'ork," said Philip ; " I gave it
so much to do that I tired it out." •

Caleb §ave a thoughtful nod.

"Ibeheve that it may indeed become obscured bjr over-
exercise," he said. "The simple human imjjulses of truth
and justice are, after all, our surest guides. Too subtle
thinlong on moral questions makes egoists and straw-splittei*s
of us, and hands us over to the mercies of our fidlible judg-
ments."

" And why not ?" asked Harry. He insisted— much to
Viola's consternation — that goodness and intelligence are
really identical, and that one of them could never lag far
behind the other.

" Granted their close affinity," said Caleb, " but it does not
follow that the most reasonable man is also the most moral.
Morality is not evolved afresh in each human being by a

THE OUsrODLiN OF TITK OASTLS,

,ical exercise. It is tho result of a long nntocedent process
_ experiment which has cmbodded itnolf, so to speak, in th(i
uinan constitution, so that morality is, as it were, reason
rcBcirved "

" Apt to have a bad flavour, and to be sometimes poisonous

om the action of tho tins," added Harry.

The philosopher thought over this for some seconds, with

8 head very much on one side.

Philip Dendraith had another definition of morality.

"I speak from obsoi*vation," he said, "and from that I

ither that it is immoral to be found out. I can conceive no

her immorality."
'Halloa I here's our friend tho gentlemanly Poodle I" ex-

imed Hany, as that intelligent animal api)eared in sight.

Bill Dawkins paused in his headlong career, and stood star-

tg at the group.

^'I wonder who your master is," Harry continued, re-

ubling his blandishments; ''perhaps the name is on the

liar. Hi, lEjood dog, rats IT

Bill DawkmB pricked up his ears and boro down upon tho

dicated spot.

The philosopher found that his highly developed forehead

1 become tne destination of a lively shower of earth and

aii stones, which the dog was gi'ulibing up, sniffing and

orting excitedly. Caleb quietly removed lus forehead out

range and stood looking on.

" If the beast hasn't almost upset tho Philosopher's Stone T*

claimed Harry.

Caleb opened nis mouth to speak.

"We might find in these efforts a type of tho Bealist^s

niggle to lay hold of the abstraction m his own mind, an

docon which he translates into obiective existence," he ob-

rved, calmly and persistently philosophic. But the young

en were too much occupied m cheering on the deluded
e to heed him.

" No name on the collar," said Harry; " but he's clearly a
rghly connected animal -well bred too; and he's be^nnmg

see it's a hoax ; he's giving it up in despair and registering

nical vows not to the credit of mankind."

" Come here, animal," said Philip.

Bill Dawkins' nostrils moved inquiringly.

" I want some amusement, and I think you can give it me."

As Bill Dawkins did not obey, Philip laid hold of him by

e ear and compelled him to come ; much to the creature^s

dignation.

Bringing a piece of string from his pocket, the young man

en proceeded to tie the dog's legs together diagonally ; his

;ht front paw to his left hind paw, and the other two in the

me way.

The result, when he was set down again, was a series of
tated stumbles and a state of mind simply frantic. Tho

TBI! WING OF AZRAKL.

''If

Mlliij
i

\ V

sight Reemed to afford Philip much joy ; he looked on and
]aughod at tlio creature's struggles.

" Tills i;} a subtle and penetrating form of wit," Hariy re-
marked, vvitli a frown; but Caleb Foster seemed amused ati
the animal's embarrassment, good natured man though he j
was.

" He'd make a good target," remarked Philip, taking aim at I
the poodle with a FniuU stone, and following up with a second]
and a tliird in rapid succession. The last one hurt; for tho|
dog gave a loud .y( Ip, and Harry, flusbinK up, was springing
to tlie rescue, when an fingry oy rang through the air, am
almost at the same instant the dog was encircled by a pair ofj
small arms, and hugged and caressed as even that well-
appreciated iX)odle had n(n^er been caressed in his life befbre.l

'*By the Lord Harry, it's the little Sedley girll"

CHAPTER VII.

MUR' '.

Frantically Viola tore off the string that bound th^
creature's legs, and then turning fiercely to Philip, she said]
with quivering lips, white with passion, "How dare you ill]
treat my dog ? Hov/ dare you ? You are acruel wicked manj
and I hate you!"

"Well done, little vim go," said Philip, laughing. "No\
tell one who has your welfare sincereiy at heart, how did yon
get here all by > ourself ?"

"Why did you throw stones at Bill Dawkins ? You ar
cruel—you are wicked; I think you are Satan."

There was a shout of laughter at this.

"Well, I h(we had two good compliments this afternoon I
Philip exclaimed, still laughing; "to be called Nero ad
Satan within hal^n-hour is something to remember onesel
by !"

"Poor, good dog! poor, poor dog!" cried the child, almosj
in tears, and stooping again to caress him. I

" Your dog is not much hurt, little girl," said Harry, kindj
ly. " See, he is wagging his tail quite cheerfully; he ls.no^
it is all right."

" Ho always forgnlves verv easily," said Viola. " /wouldn"|
forgive that man if I were he."

" Now, do you know, little lady, I believe you are mistaken,
said Philip, with one of his brilliant smiles; " I wouldn't minj
betting that the time will come when you would forgive "

MURDER.

3 child, almosj

(hv greater offences than this one against your poodle. You
[belong to the forgiving sex. you know."
"No, I don't," cried Viola, fiercely.

" Do you mean to say, for instance, that you haven't for-
Lven me for k'lsing you that aitcrnoon at our house ? You
rere very angry at the time, but you are not angry aboui
lat now— are you ?"
Viola's face was a study.

Philip threw back his head and laughed at the look of help-
less passion which made the child almost spccchkris.

"There is some mettle here,"' ho said, adtlressing tha
>thers; "a highly spirited young animal who would he wortli
)reaking in when she grows up. Women of this type love
bheir masters."

"1 wouldn't be too sure of that." said Harry, as he bent
lown and tried to soothe the excited Uttle girl, and to find
)ut how she came to be hero alone.
"Life," said the philosopher, witli amiable intent, "is be-
3t with inevitable disturbancfs of tiio mental equilibrium
(perhaps the child does not UTulersland the word cqiiilibrium
-let us therefore substitute Udancc). Those, however, it ig
)ossible to reduce to a minimuui by a habit of mind which

)ut I fear I fail to imj^ress our little friend. No niiUtor. In
?arly years the hrii^n being is the creature of impulse; rea-
son has not yet abceiide 1 the tiirono. We must be content
bo be the sport of circumstances. Are you content to be the
sport of circumstances, my good child ^"

Viola looked shy and shook her head.

" The little woman' is a treasure !' exclaimed Philip, laugh-
ing. "Now I .^vant to make you say you forgive me," ho
vent on, I'^^ri/pectedly stooping down and lifting her into the
rind^iir/embi/asure, where he established himself in his old

jrilous posiulon with Viola struggling in lii.s arms.

" I say, dojlook out," cried Harry. " A mere breath would
send you int^) the sea."

Philip treaied these warnings with contempt.

" Now, liaten to me," ho said quietly, as he

lild's struggles with a clever rm)vement; "

Jhild

he quelled the
. .^., ," it is of no

ise fightin*, for I am stronger than you; but I don't want to
nake you/stay here against your w\ll ; I want you to stay
rillmgly/and to say tliat you forgive me, and tliat you like
ne very /much."

"I hutje you," said Viola.
"Oh! irio you don't," cri

.- ^ — , ^.ied Pliilip in a low, soft voice;

you caii't nate a poor man who thinkf. you a nice, dear
little girl, fijnd wants you to be fond ol: him. That wouldn't
B fair, would it ?"

Viola was Itilent: he had struck the right chord.
• A l-^ l*'^^^ l^^Wwn the dog b(>loniJ:ed to you, I wouldn't have
led his legs t(%ether or thrown s.unew at him;- (though they

tfHSMKi

If"

if ^1

il :':;

;U t

y'li

l! .

J!H2? WliV^t? OF AZBAEL.

were very litv^le stones, you know). Now won't you forgive

me if I say I am very sorry ?"
" No," said Viola. "Let mo go."
Pliilip eave a deep sigh. _ .,,„,.

'' You pain rae very much," he said. " What can a man

do when he has offended but say he is sorry and wiU never

do it again f'"
" Let me go," repeated Viola. , .,^ „ i. 4. ^

**I say, Philip, you are teasing the child," remonstrated

"1^, I'm not; I want to make amends to her, and see if
she has a nice disposition." ,. , ,. 1 ^ i»

" You want to experiment with your diahohcal power,
muttered Harry. . . .,

"Now, Viola," Philip continued (his voice was very sooth-
ing and caressiii?-), "you s(3e how repentant I am, and how
anxious I am to be forgiveti^ I want you just to say these
words after me, find to give iwe a kiss of pardon when you
have said them. These are the*- words: 'Philip Dendraith,
though you have behaved very badly, vet because you are
fond of me, and repent, I forgive you, and I kiss you in sign
of pardon.' When you have said that ^ will release you.

" I won't say it," said Viola. < ., ^ -^ i^ i

" Oh ! but I am sure you will. You ki low that it would be
right and just to say it. I know your paother teaches you to
be forgiving, and that you will forgive. See, I am so sure 01
it that I open my arms and leave you av't liberty. , . v.

He released her, and waited with a si.nile to see what she
would do. She stared at him in a dazed iIT^anner. His argu-
ments had bewildered her; she felt that she hl?d been trusted
and that it would be dishonourable to betray ^'^•:-''^ i.^^
yet— and yet the man h.ad no right to interfere wjtn nei" ho
ert>. Tliere was a vague sense that his seemii^^y ?®^?^^"?]
confidence had sometning fraudulent in it, tho*8»^ " piacea
him in a becoming light. . . .1

A look of pain crossed the child's faee, from t®**^®"^!?:^
of this, and nor utter inability to put it ii^^^^ fy,-a iJ
people know how cruelly children often suffer fri^™.*'*^!" *"j
equality in their powers of apprehension and expr^^.*9J?* , ,

' It's not fair, " was all she could say. However, x ""*R *?^"|
so far gained his point that she did not take advantaf® ^^ ^!®'
freedom to leave ner tormentor ; she only shrank aw^^ ^
as she could, and sat with her head pressed against t^® Bton«
work of the window. , ..

The partial victory made Philip's eyes glisten ; \!l»^]?^^ii
cious to him to use his power, and he already regC ?" ** '
as an adversary worthy of his mettle, child thour'J.®"®

waa.l

Harry, thinking she was reconciled to the Bit;^a"Oii? o^^a
doned thoughts of interference, and PhiHp, witJJ,^^^^^^'^^
forebore
personal

to preHR his advanta^. He began to tf "^ f^*^^^ "
rnatters, cleverly spinniag stories on t*^^ Sienucni

MURDER,

" remonstrated

read of suggestion, and so much did he interest the child
t she forgot who was speaking, and forgetting that, forgot
be angry.
Philip smiled, and glanced over his shoulder at his com-

mions.

*' The forgiving sex !"

** Tell me some more, please," said Viola, in a dreamy tone.

' Once upon a time," Philip went on obediently, " this old

tie stood six miles inland, before the sea bit its way up to

nd bombarded it as it is doing now. At that time it was

of the finest castles in England, and the barons who

ned it were very powerful. I fear they were rather a

Isome lot ; we hear of them having endless rows with

Qv nobles, and one of them, not content with his own wife,

st needs taJke away the wire of one of his neighbours; and

neighbour was annoyed about it, and challenged him to

gle combat, and they hacked at one another for a whole

oon in plate armour (electro-plate, you know, not real

ver). It was a dreadful scene."

** And what happened ?" asked Viola breathlessly.

*' Well, the other baron ran his lance through Lord Den-

l^ith's arm, and he said, ' A hit, a very palpable hit ;' but

baron, putting his lance in his left hand, came on again,

earing diabolically, and this time he unhorsed my ancestor

id smashed in his helmet, and then he gave him a deep

und in the leg, and soon the tilting ring was swimming in

, for the two men were both wounded. The bystanders

iced that it was very blue in colour, the barons being both

loble blood. But in spite of their wounds they swore they

uldn't give in, and up sprang Lord Dendraith onto his

and up sprang Lora Burleigh onto his, and the clang

their armour when the lances came down upon it could be

fard within a radius of fifteen miles. The people at that

tance txx>k it for the sound of threshing flails in the vicin-

r , and were not interested."

*^ And then?" said Viola.

"Then," continued Philip, **the battle raged so fiercely
,t even the fierce members of the Dendraith family were
n to tremble; the plumes of their helmets actually quiv-
', and a murmur of rustling feathers i-an round the crowded
g when for a second there was a pause in the combat,
e blows were falling so fast now thai there was nothing to
seen but a sort of blurr in the air i)i the path of the flaish-
lances."

'Ohl" exclaimed Viola, horror-stricken.
By heaven! I swear I will fight thee to the death!"*
)d Lord Burleigh.

'The devil be my witness, I will follow thee to hell!'"
owed Lord Dendraith.

And BO they fell to with fresh vigour. The two men were
equally matched, and when one inflicted a wound, tlie

It t

THE WING OF AZRAEL.

other retaliated with an exactly corresponding injury ; whonj
one chopped off a particular portion of his enemy, the othcij
choHG the same portion and lopped it off likewise ; so that theyj
worked each other gradually down, and it seemed as if thej]
wc.Te going to finish the fight with the mere fragmentary r(
mains of what were once exceedingly fine men.

'*' When at last each had driven his laneo into the other'l
right lung and unhorsed him, the bystanders interfered, and
suggested that the noble barons having already lost sevenil
limbs, besides cracking their skulls, and mutually causing^
their teeth (with a few not-worth-mentioning exceptions) td
strew the ground, they might consider their honour satisfied]
espe<;ially as their present plight rendered further fighting
highly unsuitable

"But the furious barons would not bear of it; they dc
clared they had never felt better in their lives, and with
violent effort they dragged themselves to their feet (they hac
now only two between them), and each with his dying breatl
dealt the other a death-blow. And that was the famoiil
combat b(»tween Lord Dendraith and the Lord of Burleigh,]
concluded Philip.

*' Is tJiat the end ? ' asked Viola.

*'Yes; though I may mention that the widows shortlj
afterwards married agam."

Viola remained silent and thoughtful ; the tragic ending
the tale weighed upon her.

"One can see where you get your absurd obstinacy from,
said Harrv.

"I dont own to being obstinate," returned Philip; "olJ
stinacy is the drllard's quality. I have tiied to avoid it, q
I fancy it is in the Dendraith race."

"Who were anything but dull; ids," Caleb threw in.

Philij) bowed.

"They improved towards later times," he said. "Sonij
foreign mood came into the family, and, rather curiously, ij
developed on a substratum of the old stubborn, stupid si)irij
a subtlety almost Italian. Andrew, who repaired part or thi
castle and built the house, combined these qualities vcrji
strikingly. He murdered his swcH^tl'onrt, you know, littl^
lady," Philip went on, seeing that A^iolu was' interested, "b?
cause ho found that she liked another man better than slij
liked him, and no Dendraith could stand that. He offerrJ
her his love, and she coquetted a little with him for a tinicj
and then "

"What is coquetted ?" asked Viola.

" Well, she wouldn't say plainly \vh(»ther she liked him oi
not; but he swore that she shouM b(^ his or no other mni
should have her. Unluckily, he found she had a more fa^]
cured lover, and then and there, without foresight or cor
sidcM'ation, he stabbed her. The oth(^r moro cumiing sido
his character showed itself aftcrwaids in hw clever nianne

MUBDEIL

jf eliuling detection for years. The tmith never came out till

Jhe told it himself on his deathbed. It is said, of course, that

the ghost of the murdered lady haunts the castle to this day."

"Is this your castle?" asked Viola, after a long and
loughtful pause.

''No, it is my father's at present; but he is going to give it

le as sofjn as I many. It used to be a fine place, and it can

made so again. So you see, Viola, I am worth making

b'iends with. Perhaps wlien you grow up, if you are good, I

^ ill marry you ! What do you say to thjit V

" I don't want to marry you," said Viola, her old resisting
spirit roused again.

*' What 1 not after all the nice stories I have told you ?"

"No," said Viola curtly.

"Not to become mistress of the castle, and to have that big
lOuse and garden for your own, and some beautiful diamonds
that I would give you ?"

She shook her head.

"This is not like the sex," Philip observed, with a laugh.

J" Think ho^ nice it would be to have a big house all to your-

3lf, and diamonds and a husband who will tell you stories

whenever you asked him 1 The luxury of that can scarcely

)e overrated. You had better think seriously of this matter

jforo you refuse me; there will be a gi'eat many othei*s only

10 delighted to have a chance of all these good Uiings."

" Husbands with a turn for narrative being proverbially
)opular," Harry tliiew in.

'And husbands with a turn for diamonds still more so,"
[Philip added. "I am sure that Viola will see these things
lore wisely as she grows older. So confid(uit am I of it, in
[fact, that I intend to regard her from this time forth as my
[little betrothi d "

Philip laughed at the dash that come into the child's eyes.

'Presently he went on in a coaxing tone: "Now, Viola, you

I are going to be nice and kind, ana siiy you are fond of me,

I and giv^ me a kiss, aren't you ? llemember, I let you go free

when 1 might easily have kept you prisoner all this time.'*

" I think your arms would have ached by now if you /md,"
i observed Caleb, with a chuckle.

Viola liad drawn herself together as if preparing to snring
to the ground and escape, but Philip (piickly frustratea her
j desigtj. She was still untmmmelled, but a strong arm across
th(» window barred the egrc^ss.

She tried to push it away, but she might as well have tried
I to break down the Norman stonework against which the
[large well-formed hand was resting. She beat it angrily with
1 her clenched fists.

" Oh I that's naughty I" cried Philip, much amused. *' Sup-
I posing you were to hurt me ?"

''Iwauttor

TUB WIKG OF AZltAEL.

Viola continued to strike the hand and arm with all her
might.

''Now, you know, there is out one cure for this sort of
thine," said Philip, with a brilliant smile.

Relaxing the tension of the obnoxious arm, he placed it
round the child, and drew her towards him, saying that he
must give her a mixed kiss, combining the ideas of punish-
ment and betrothal.

"Upon my word, you will be over that precipice if you
don't look out I" warned Harry again. .

"Pooh I I'm all right," said Philip impatiently.

Expecting Viola to struggle away from his clutches, he had
adjusted his attitude accordingly, but instead of this she
flung herself wildly upon him with rage-begotten strength,
and before he could recover from the shock, in his dangerous
I)osition, he had completely lost his balance. The whole thing
was over in an instant.

"Good God ! he's gone !" exclaimed Hurry, springing into
the embrasure with one bound, followed by Caleb.

The two men looked in each other's white faces tor a second
of awful silence.

Harry leant back against the stonework with a breathless
groan, drawing his h^nd across his brow.

He was on the very spot where, a second ago, Philip had
been lolling in his indolent way, defying the danger that lay
within an inch of him, the danger that Harry had warned hira
against in vain.

The unceasing lapping of the waves on the chff below made
the moment absolutoly ghastly. It was like the Ucking of the
lips of some animal that has just devoured his victim.

"What's to be done ? He can't be killed 1" cried Harry at
last. It seemed incredible. Caleb laid his arm round the
young man's shouldere, and together they peered over the
vei^o.

White and pitiless the cUff dropped dizzily to the sea.
Philip was an athlete and a splendid climber, but who could
keen footing on such a palace s this ?

The only hopeful sign was, that they saw nothing of the
body. The cliff was not perpendicular; that gave another
faint consolation.

They had forgotten all about Viola in the horror of the mo-
ment, but the sound of low, passionate sobbing recalled her
presence to thtnr minds.

" I have killetl him ; I have killed him," she moaned in ac-
cents so utterly heart broken, that they sent a horrified thriU
through the hearts of her companions. There was something
so gi'ief-exi)eriencoil in the despair of the child; almost ic
seemed as if she were bewailing the inevitable accomphsh-
mont of a foreknown doom. She might have been the heroine
of some Gi'oek triigedy crying "a^* af" at the fulfilment of
her fata

MURDER.

Harry tried to soothe her.

"Oh! find him, find him: he is not killed; he cannot be
killed," she wailed. "Come and find him; come and find

him."

Feverishly she took Harry's hand to lead him away.

" It was my fault ; I have killed him. Come— come !"

In pursuit of a most forlorn hope the three set out together,
under Caleb's guidance, he being familiar with the cliffs, and
able to lead them by comparatively easy descents to the foot
of the rock.

Viola was most anxious to go all the way, but Harry told
her that she would delay him and Caleb in their search, and
this alone induced her to stay and watch from above.

Rough steps had been hewn out of the rock in places, to
enable people living in the castle to get down easily to the sea,
and these now proved of immense value, though at best
it was dangerous work, and very exciting. Tlie slightest slip
would have been jjunished with death. Now and then they
had to take little jumps from ledge to ledge, or to crawl on
their hands and knees, clinging for dear life. They stood still
now and then to rest, and to shout at the top of their voices
in case Philip, by some miracle, had been saved and might
answer them. But no answer came.

"It does not seem to me quite impossible that he should
have broken his fall by means of some of these inequalities in
the side of the cliff. The absolute smoothness vanishes on
closer acquaintance."

It Avas Caleb who si)oke.

"And there is an inclined plane here, Harry observed;
"steep, indeed, but one's momentum would be checked in
j striking it."

' ' Certainly ; and Philip is the man to have that good fortun ;,
[if any man could have it; and to take advantiige of it."

Cheering themselves with these suppositions, they slowly
I continued their journey.

The sun was smking, and sent a fiery line of gold across the
water, dazzling them with its brilliancy, and making their
(liffloult task more difficult still. The gulls were wheeling
overhead, congregating and settling on the waters with
[beautiful airy movements. It made the two men feel giddy
to look at them. Glancing towards the fatal window, whither

'^iola had returned to sit tremulously watching, it struck
[Harry that if he and Caleb were both to be kiU^, the child
Iwoula be without a protector.

Standing on a narrow ledge of rock, he shouted up to her,
rTlirow down a small stone if you hear me."

A ]:)ebb1e en me straight as a plummet-line from the window,
striking the inclined i)lane, bounding up and taking a curved
k^ath thence into the sea, which it entt^rod with aiaint little
)lump.

'*Ii w© should not return, go at once to the coastguard sta*

^ *• *

.«w»

THE WING OF AZRAEL.

iii'

li|!

tion — it's not two hundred yards off ; toll them who you are ;
ask lihera to take care of you for the night, and senci a mes-
sage to your home that you are eafe. Another stone if you
hear; two stones if only partly."

Two stones came down and behaved in the same manner as
before. The advice was repeated, and then a single stone fell
in token of understanding.

With an encouraging wave of the hand, Harry pursued his
perilous journey.

From above, the cliff had appeared smooth and uneventful,
but now a thousand secrets betrayed themselves.

Caleb was working his way towards a part of the rock that
lay at present out or sight below the inclined piano. Struck
by the action of the pebble, it had occurred to him thpt Philip's
body might have followed the samo route, but being heavier j
in comparison with its momentum, would not hove described |
a parabola (as the philosoplier put it to himself), but would]
have fallen or slipped onto the surface immediately below.
If here, by some good luck, there were a resting-place, hope]
still remained.

This idea Caleb communicated to Harry, who f;hecked aril
impulse to pass on the encouraging view to "Vicla. It was a
pity, he thought, to rouse her hope on such slerder grounds.

The search had by this time insensibly clinnged its characterl
in Harry's eyes. He now regarded it partly as it affected!
the mina of the little girl whose passionate action had causedl
the mishap. Her remorse and horror had been terrible tol
witness, and Harry felt that if Philip proved to be really'
killed the shock to her might prove to bo very dangerous in-
deed. Her conduct that afternoon had showed him of whati
sort of stuff she was made.

This was a nature, like a deep sea, capable of profound dis-
tiu'bances.

At that time Harrj'^ had not learnt that the nature witlil
material for such storms has generally within it also a strange)
cohesion and power of endurance which enable it to stand to-
gether through crises that would seem more than enough to|
shatter the most firmly knit intellect.

" Look out," Caleb called back to his componicn, as a stonol
rolled down the slope; *' you are coming to an awkward p7ace|
now."

Harry found that he siood on a projecting ledge of rock,]
where below him for {\bout twenty reet there was no furthcif
resting-place; to the left rose a buttress of rock; to the right
the ledge shelved away to ni^thing, the shght foothold dwinJj
ling till it disappeared altogether.

" How in the name of wonder did you got past here ?" h(
called to Caleb.

"I climbed up a little, and got round the piojection on Did
oth^r side; but tho bit of stone I ^ot up by gave way undd

MURDER.

ly feet, and T fear you will have to stay wbore you aro for
the present."

As this fact was borne in upon liim, Harry cursed his ill
luck. He looked about and around in every direction for a
leans of escape, but there was absolutely none. The loos-
led flint that had enabled Caleb to climb the escarpraetit lay
38ting on the slope of rock below him twenty feet. Now
lothing but a rope from above could enable a man to scale
lie acclivity. The prisoner looked anxiously at the sun.
Tothing could be done when the darkne?!s came on, and il" it
jlliould overtake him he would have to stay here all nifiht,
mable to lie down, scarcely able to turn,— it was not a ])leas-
it prospect.

"I can't possibly get out of this position without help," he
died out; "how are you getting on ?"

"I am working my way to the place I told you of; T shall
)on be there. If I find him, I will shout to you; and we can
msult as to what is to be done. Perhaps the little girl could
fnd you a rope somewhere about the house. There is one in
ly kitchen, — do what you ran as to that; meanwhile I will
lot forget you. The sun won't be down for another two houi*s
ret."
With these words Caleb passed entirelv out of sight, and
[arry was left to solitude and his own reflections.
He shouted up to Viola above, and was answered by a tlViy
3bble.

" We want a rope." he called u}\ " Will you go to Caleb's
[ouse and bring one that you will find there in the kitchen ?
Lis house is in the castle keep; it has been repaired and made
ito a dwelling for him; it stands a'* the end of the castle,
pght out to sea— vou can't mir,take it."
"I understand,^' was signalled bade in pebble language.
Hari'v knew that the child's anxious misery would be re-
eved bv action, and, besides, her help might be very valu-
,ble. The thought of her strange and ternble situation at
lis moment recurred to him with increasing insistence.
Miilip Dendraith had been to Harry only a newly made ac
[uaintance, and his accident affe('te<l him little more tiuin if
had befallen a total stranger. Th(»re was no personal gi ioi"
his heart, and he was therefore free to speculate on ti?e
jelings of one more tragically interested. He was beginning
feel anxious about her, for he doubted if she could l)e per-
laded to leave the spot until Philip had be(»n found, and
lere was the sun racing towards the horizon, an<l still Caleb
we no sign.

Everything depended upon him.
I Viola found the rope, and as soon as she returned Harry
lireeted her to go to the cofistguard station for help. She was
ask to have the news forwarded to the Manor House and
Fpton Court, and also to bring some brandy.
I Pebbles camo down iu token of understanding, and the little

TBE mm OP AZBAEL.

figure di3api)eared from the window. Harry found himself
alone in the hushful twilight.

It seemed as if Nature were doing her utmost to soothe his
anxieties and whisper messiiges of peace in his ears. Long I
lines of cloud and sea swept i^renely from coast to distant I
coast ; the sunset lights were lich and glowing, promising a i
glorious morrow ; while at the cliff's foot the glassy waters
lapped with a soft sea-sound that might have lulled the frenzy |
of a madman's dream.

Harry felt the influences steal into his heart, and as the]
glow grew fainter in the sky, and the cold evening Ught-
almost electric in its still lustre — crept over the waters, he I
realised with a start that the last quarter of an hour had
been one qf the happiest of his life. Full of emotions, of de-
licious insights and longings, it had brought to him, upon the
inflowing tide of heightened consciousness, a thrilling sense
of the glory and the sweetness of existence.

Then for the first time he fully realised the tragedy that]
had occurred that afternoon ; a strong fresh life hurried per-
haps into dark unconsciousness, with all its infinite possibili-
ties blotted out.

Away "pale Philosophv," which would persuade the lifel
intoxicated soul that death is no calamity ! I

Peath is the great calamity towards which our oins andl
our errors are for ever thrusting us. Life full, rich, wide '
spreading life— the one great universal Good, in whose delil
cious ocean all right and healthy things in heaven and eartbl
are steeped till the sweet waters steal in and fill them throughj
and through. Such was Harry Lancaster's j resent creed.

A shout broke the stillness.

** I have found him 1"

"Alive?"

"Don't know; he does not move;— I am trying experi-]
ments."

It was maddening to be imprisoned ..here , when help was
so much needed I Harrv, for the hundredth thiie, tried tc
persuade himself that he cduld escape by some deed o|
daring, but had to own that none but suicidal attenapts wei
possible.

He told Caleb that Viola must shortly return with help.

" That's lucky !" shouted the philosopher. " I believe he :
alive, though he has been severely knocked about; he
stunned, but he seems to me to breathe still faint^. It is an
absolute miracle ! I wish I bad some brandy. When the lit
tie girl returns with help "

"Ah 1 well dona well done ! Here she is 1— and the
guardsman himself to the rescue."

"Thank Heaven !" exclaimed Caleb. " Come to me a 30oi|
as you can. No time to be lost."

Harry shouted up to the man to let down the brandy and t^
attarnh the rope firmly somewhere above. In a few seoonc

MURDER,

ring expera

;omea sooa

he had the joy of seeing a quaint-looking flask sliding down
the cUflE towards him. (Juickly detaching the flask, he put it
in his pocket, and seizing the rope, swung himself down
ohUquely, the coastguardsman moving it from time to time
along the castle wall. Hariy had to guide himself by Caleb's
voice, and it was not long before he had scrambled almost
to the foot of the cliff, where he found Caleb beside the body
of Philip, trying by every means in bis power to restore him
to life.

Harry sprang to his side and handed him the brandy with-
out a word.

" This may save him," said Caleb, as he raised the body in
his armfcj ana administered the lile-draught. " Now, there is
no time to lose ; he must be moved to my house at once, while
he is unconscious ; after he revives the pain would retard us.
His left leg is broken, I fear, and I dare say that is not the
only injury, poor fellow 1 You take his feet, I'll take his
head, and forward."

Caleb, giving the word of command, led the way to the
beach, the two men carrying the burden for about a quarter
of a mile over the shingle, and then up by a rough but
moderatelv easy ascent, at a point where the cliffs werevlH^ss
steep and less lofty. They had perforce to pause for breath
now and again, and then the dose of brandy was repeated.
At the second pause a faint movement, showing that Philip
was still alive, was the signal for moving on at a £ ill more
rapid rate.

The distance seemed very great, for Philip was no Ught
burden, and their wishes so far outstripped their powers that
progress appeared slow indeed.

''What's that?" said Harry, peering through the dusk.
" I think I see two figm'es coming towards us."

He was right. A few minutes brought them face to face
with Viola and the cood-natured coastguardsman, who had
guessed what the others had done, and came on to lend a
Hand. He turned Harry off altogether, and insisted on tak-
ing his place till he had "got the wind into his sails again,"

I after which Caleb was subjected to a similar process of nauti-

I cal recuperation.

Before Viola's w lite lips lu,d time to frame the question,
" Is ^e alive V" Harry had c^imunicated the fact of Philip's

! almost miraculous escape.

The blood ebbed away from her face for a moment, and

I then came rushing back again in a great tumuH. She said
not a word, but kept close beside Philip, watching his still face

! intently.

" Did you get a message sent to your mother ?" Harry

I inquired.

Tes; I said I was quite safe, and that you had told me
what to do, and were taking care of me. Also I asked her to

send on the news, as you told me."

; .1

%■ 'r

'ij'

THJH WlJSrO OF AZPiAEL.

Caleb's liormitago at the far end of the castle was a strange,
romantic IHIle dwelling: patched tofi;ether by his own hands
out of the ruined keep; the arrow-holes having been widened
into windows, while the old spiral staircase still served the
ingenious philosopher as a means of reaching his little bed-
room, whore every nif2;ht he was lulled to sleep by the cease-
less music of the waves. From this haven of repose the
mattress and blankets were broutrht down to the kitchen,
whei'e a good tire was burning: Philip was laid upon the bed
close to the hearth, and then Caleb proceeded to apply all his
wide and accurate knowledge to the task before him.

While engaged in nrduous efforts to restore the lost anima-
tion, lie was giving ex]:)licit directions to his colleagues to as-
sist him, and to collect vnrious things that he required in order
to set the broken leg and bind up the wounds.

" He is badly hurt,' said Caleb; *' but if he lives he will bo I
none the worse for this, if I am not much mistaken."

"Oh, he'll live all right," said the constguardsman, seeing
with sing'ilar quickness, thdt Viola turned white at the phi
osopher's ** d/." " There ! I sjiw a quiver of the eyelid. You I
are breathing your own life into him, Mr. Foster: — he mMsi
come round. Don't you never be afraid, little 'un," he added,

Eatting Viola on the' head; "the young gentleman'll live to
e a sorrow to his parents for many a long day yet ! Youl
mark my words."

The coastguardsman's prophecy proved true. Caleb, withl
the assistance of his companions, did, after mu(;h effort, sue-
ceefl in fanning the dim little spark of life to a feeble but cer'
tain flame.

Philip opened his eyes, gave a sigh, and sank heavily back]
on the pillows.

" Now, the leg must be set," said Caleb. "Happily I know]
how to do it. Now I want you all to be very inteJligent," h(
said, as he bent down to perform the operation of setting the
broken leg; "upon my skill and the general good managej
ment of the affair hangs the issue of a life-time. If I do nor
set it with perfect accuracy one leg will be shorter than the
other."

There was an anxious silence in the Uttle room as tht
philosopher, with skilful, deoidj^d movements set about th^
momentous task. I

Philip was by this time vaguely conscious of his surround]
ings, but too weak to ask any questions. Perhaps his rapic
mind had taken in the facts without assistance. He verj
much surprised the bystanders by saying in a weak but cleai|
voice, "Are you goin^ to set my' leg, Foster ?"

" Yes; we can't wait for a doctor. I have done it before-
trust to me.'*

Almost as he spoke he wrenched the parts into position, an(j
Philip gave a groan.

MURDER.

* * The worst is over, " Caleb said cheer fuUv ; * * brace yourself
for another wrench, and then the deed is done."

This time there was only a laboured drawing of the breath
from the patient, and then the limb was bound to a bar of
wood by means of bands made, on the spur of the moment,
out of cloths and towels, and the patient was told that for the
present he would be left in peace.

Very quietly and rapidly Caleb made arrangements for
the night. The coastguardsman was thanked for his sei-vices
and assured that no further help was needed. Caleb and
Harry would take turns in the night-watch, while Viola could

fo to bed in the room sanctified by philosophic slumbers, and
ream that she was a mermaid playing with ber own tail in
depth of the green ocean.

So said Harry, recovering already from the afternoon's
strain of anxiety and fatigue.

Caleb silenced at once Viola's pleading to be allowed to sit
up and watch the patient. Not to-night, he said, or she would
be another patient on his hands by the morrow, and then how
I could Phihp be properly nursed ?

I "Say good-night to him, little one," said Caleb kindly,
"and then I'll take you upstairs."

The child went up to the bed and knelt down by Philip's
[side. In spite of manful efforts the teal's welled up into her
[ejres, but sne made no sound. She seemed to be struggling
[with hereelf ; her lips moved. Then suddenly she bent for-
[ward, uttering Philip's name, and as she bade him good-night
she kissed him on the brow.
" I am so sorry; I am so very sorrv !"
Philip, weak as he wag, gave a slight laugh. The after-
loon's event, nearly fatal though it had been, amused him.

You ahnost did for me, little one," he said, "^but it's all
^ight, and you didn't mean to do it, you know."

viola turned abruptly awjiy from' the bedside, and Caleb,
taking her in his arms, carried her tenderly up the daik
rinding staircase to the strange little room, through "*whosc
[ozenge-paned windows a faint moon was tracing diamond
ittems on the bare floor.

"You won't be frightened here, will you ?" Caleb asked.
I' Mr. Lkincaster and I are in the room below, and should hear
rou in a minute if you called."
"I shall not be frightened," said Viola.
Yet a thrill of terror went through her when Caleb, having
lone all he could think of for her comfort, shut the door and
3ft her alone.

The excitement of the day had unstrung her nerves, and

Ihe strangeness of the place filled her with alarm.

But it was not this that most distui-bed her. There was a

Trible something ift h(^r consciousness that filled all things

nth horror- something that had made the vei-y sunshine

iQva. hateful, and now haunted the darkness with faces m

XiM

THE WINQ OF AZBAEL.

' : 'ii

hideous in their mockery that the child grow well-nigh dis-
traught.

" We see; we know," said the faces, and then they laughed,
till Viola, falling on her knees beside the window, pniyed as
she had never prayed in her Ufe before. But the face of the ,
earth was changed to her since that afternoon ; no prayer, no
forgiveness, could restore to the sea and sky their friendly
benignity. That was all gone, and in its stead were terrible
accusations and sinister smiles and laughter. That she herself
had afltei*od did not occur to her; she was the same Viola,
capable always of the crime that she had this day committed ;
capable always of— she shrank frantically from the horrible
word. I

As a man fighting with some wild beast for dear Ufe, thisi
child wrestled, in the loneliness of that Uttle sea hauntedl
chamber, with a demon bom within her own consciousness,!
who assiiiled her without pause or mercy through all the!
waking hours of that dreadful night. It seemea as if thisI
Creature— for hving form the unspeakable Idea took in herl
distraught imagination — were devouring her inch by inch,!
her and all that she possessed. Her childhood shrivelled up inl
the blast of his hot breath; her innocence, her chilaishl
dreams, her ignorance of the deepest gulfs of human misery.l
The gates of the great Darkness were opened, and She couldl
already see stretching far away the dim, woeful plains and!
midnight mountains in whose black chasms human souls lay!
rent and bleeding. The air was heavy with sighing audi
lamentation.

Upon how many scenes of hiunan agony had those oW
grey stones looked down, while the sea sung its eternal re
quien^ !» hope and sweet desires ? Yet never, perhapp had
they witnessed a struj^gle more terrible than the succourlea
Boul-travail of this solitary child— a soul battling in the darkj
ness with the image of a great crime, warding off with vaid
and desperate efforts the memory of a moment's flrish of inj
sane fury, — that moment, which had blazed out upon the
very sunshine in hues of flame, fierce and crimsoned with the
wild image ot— Murder!

CHAPTER Vin .

A SYMPOSIUM.

The news of Philip's accident brought, as Harry said, "'
large and fashionable circle" to Caleb's little Hermitage
Mrs. Sedley drove over early in her solemn old carriage "
fetch her daughter and inquire for Philip. The Clevedon p<
pie also trundled across country in their more lively vehicle
out delayed their visit philosophicaUy till the Afternoon.

A SYMPOSIUM.

ff5

Far from philosophic were the fond parents of Philip, who
arnved breathless with a captive doctor at an unearthly hour
in the morning; and rushed to their son's bedside with athou-
(sand exclamatory questions. The thought that he mi^ht have
been killed thoroughly overcame poor Lady Dendraith, who
')roke into sobs and cries, and had to be removed bodily by
Ualeb, who was confirmed by the doctor when he said that if
ihe behaved in that way she would soon succeed in coniplet-
ig what the accident had failed by a hair's-breadth to effect.
The examination of the injured leg by the doctor was fol-
lowed by the cheering announcement that it had been perfectly
rell set, and that with proper precautions there was no rea-
)n to fear any permanent injury.

Viola looked on and listened in the deepest anidety. She
^hrank guiltily away from Piiilip's parents, and answered
)nly by a deep flush when Sir Philip said to her, in rather a
fevere tone, '* I hope this will be a lesson to you not to give
yay to temper, my child ; if it hadn't been for my son's mar-
rellous strength and presence of mind, he would have cer-
linlybeen killed."

"Indeed, yes," said Lady Dendraith, shaking her head;
passion is a dreadful thint?, and always leads to trouble.'*
There was something ludicrous, if Viola could have soon it,
1 this plump, well-to-do lady moralising about the evil results
[f passion ; out the child was inaccessible to all ideas of the
idicrous just now ; indeed at no time was she very keenly
live to the humorous side of things.

Reluctantly she had to leave the Hermitage and go home
rith her mother, who promised that she should come and see
ie invalid as often as the doctor would permit.
Mrs. Sedley did not say a word of reproach to her daughter
)r her disobedience ; she felt that the child had been already
jverely punished, though she little guessed how severely.
The next time that Viola saw Philip he was looking quite
frong, and complaining bitterly of the restraint still imposed
[)onhim.

''The doctor says I shall walk again as well as ever, for

[hich all praise to ' mon cher philosophe,^ and the rest of you.

mcaster here behaved like a Troitm. As to the coast-

lardsman, he behaved like a true Bnton. And Viola— what

kail I say of her ? Well, she did her very best to make up

|r pitching me over the cliff in that spirited manner I I

p't get over the idea of this mite having actually brought

} to death's door 1 It is really splendid. She will be a las-

lating woman when she grows up. It isn't the quiet non-

Bcript women that tjlke one's heart by storm ; what men

re is life and passion."

'Yes, until tney marry," said Harry; "and then if your
;h-steppers don't calm down into a domestic jog-trot, they
» indignant. I once heard a fellow make a curious remark
)ut two sisters: the elder, he said, was the girl to fall in

'■'U

■It

1,1^

i!f

ii I

iiii

:, t

'I'i

fit

T527 irarGf OF AZRAEL.

love with, the younger the one to marry. I expect the
woman of the nineteenth century is going to moke hay of our
cherished institutions."

"We have another great power to deal with besides the
nineteenth century woman," said Caleb; "ourgi-eat immova-
ble middle class."

"True," assented Han*y; "and that badly dressed old I
sheet-anchor won't stand any nonsense about its cherished
institutions. A sense of being tied hand and foot like a Gul-
liver, gives us a feeling of moral safeness, and is wonderfully
conducive to the serenity of the average conscience."

"The 'badly dressed sheet-anchor' fa singular fig^ure, by
the way) is a trifle thick-headed ; we must calculate on that."!

Of such convei-sations was Viola now often the puzzled)
hearer, for where Caleb was, there, to a dead certainty, disf
cussion would be also.

His manner towards Viola was a source of perpetuall
amusement to Philip and Harry. Do what he would, poorl
man ! he found it impossible to project himself into the conf
sciousness of a being who did not understand the nature of a
syllogism, and—if Ilarry was to be believed— he always ad]
dressed Viola with deep respect in the language of "pui
reason." That young man used to return to Clevedon aftei|
a visit to the Hermitage, and amuse his cousin by describini
how Caleb in abstract moments of close-knit argument hn3
turned to Viola with some such remark as: "To this you will
at once reply that Kant regards our religious bc^liefs as citliei
statutory, that is, arbitrarily revealed, or vioral, that is. cor
nected with the consciousness of theii necessity ind knowi
ble a priwi.''*

This, no doubt, was one of Hnriy's exaggerations, but tM
stoiy was not witliout some ^ imdation.

Viola was interested in Kant; why, Harry never coulj
understand. Ho did not realize the natural" avidity witj
which a starved intelligence absorbs any fresh idea. howev6
seemingly unattractive. Mrs. SedloyV careful selection
books for her daughters reading had the result of making ti|
child eager foi' mental food of some other flavour: it mattrn
little what, so long only as it was <|uite unliko the severel
wholesome diet on which she was being monotonous! v rearej

Besides being intrf.duced to Kant, whom she founr a plejj
ant and ii^telligtmt iM'i*son, Viola made the arqnnintance \
Bocrates. or Mr. Socrates, as Phih'p trravt»ly insisted he miij
be called, on the ground that " fnmiliarity breeds cont-empj

Harry shocked her greatly by saying, "Well, after all,
know, he is distinctly th(^ gl•('at^'s^ bore on record,
should never endure such an old proser now ! Tliink of tl
way he naj^ged at those lonK-sulfcnng people in the ^(
logiies ! I don't wond(»r that the Athenians resf)rteel in (|
spair to hemUxk. Ah for XaTitipTw, poor woman ! I hn]
^ways had the dee^iR'st sympathy Vjr her. I am certain t(

A SYMPOSIUM.

man deranged a naturally fine intellect and destroyed the
tempt • of an angel."

Poor Viola I she scarcely kriew what to believe ! The mix-
ture of jest and earnest which ran like tangled threads
through the whole conversation was most confusing to her.
She wft,s utterly unaccustomed to lights and shades of thought,
or to quick changes of mental attitude. The three men into
whose society she was now thrown oj)ened up a new world
I of idoaSj delightful but bewildering. Caleb's position in the
[group did not puzzle her as it would have puzzled an older
person, but she was interested to leani that he had bee^ dis-
covered by Harry Liincaster in London in a state of terrible
[privation i^ that a friendship had sprung up l)etwern the two
[men; and that, finally, Coleb had been insta led by Sir Philip
[at the ruin, of which he was now custodian, iceping it from
falling into utter decay, while he took charge )i the huioles,
)utbinldings, and gardens belonging to the empty house.

Sometimes Caleb would propose to make the meeting into
^ genuine symposium, setting glasses on tlie table ann bring-
ing out a bottle ^ home mado wine with which Ltidy Den-
Iraith always kept him well supplied.

It was an incongruous group, with an incongruous back-
ground, of which Phili]) on his couch in Caleb's picturesque
:it('hen formed tlie central figure.

The shadows and sonibie colouring threw the four faces into
belief. The splendidly handsome features of tlie invalid
lornied a fine nucleus lo the picture, and Viola's pale, ques-
poning facte, with its strange melancholy, seemed to corre-
lond to that note of sadness which can be caught in all
lings human, if we listen foi* a moment, ever so carelessly.
The eagerness with which she waited on Philip was toilch-
ig, even to those who did not know what lay on her heart;
an onlooker who had guesK<Ml that secret the whole scerie
rould have b(3en no less than tragic. Had her sense of guilt
>en able to overcome her old dislike to Philip, one source of
Hifiict would hav(i dis^ipix^arcd; but it was not so. After
10 first rush of j)itiful remorse, which had drowned for the
m<^ every other sentiment, Viola was again assailed by the
|(1 antipathy. With this she had eontinufdly t«> struggl",
1(1 those who have r«Ndised th«^ strange int<'nsity of the child's
iture will understand what such a struggl(» iinplies.
[Philip's l>ttnterfi;'<. familiarly alfecHnnaie nianiuM' was stir-
ig up tlie old angry f<'elinj:;s, A Kudd(>n Hash of her dark
r«»s would make him laugh and pretcud to cower away as if
fear.

I" I'll be good; I'll l)e good! Don't murder mo outright,
[ore's n good child!"

nd then the light would die oiit of her eyes, an<l she would
rn away, perhaps going t^) the »vindow or to the oiien door,
lero she would sUmd looking out upon the sea.
'Irs. Sodloy had ()orinittcd, and oven encouraged tho child

■*r

> M

. t-.

fl'h H

Mil,!

iiiil'

!rJ

1,'^;'

!.;"

' i:

Tir/ET WING OF AZRAEL.

in these visits to the bedside of the invalid, because she re-
garded them as acts of atonement. The horror of causing a
feUow-creature's death had come so near to the child that she
could not fail to be deeply impressed by it.

Phihp's recovery was very rapid. As soon as he was able
to be moved, his mother bore him off in triumph to Upton
Court. That broke up " the symposium," as Ciileb called it.
and finished one of the most excitmpj chapters in Viola's short
life. Her visits to Philip were still contmued, but at longer
intervals, and under conditions entirely changed. She used
to bring nim flowers as votive offerings, and sometimps she
would shyly offer him some worm or beetle which slie imag-
ined must be as valuable in his eyes as in hers.

She tried to discover what his soul most yearned for,
whether tadpoles or purple emperors or piping bullfinches, oil
it might be a retriever puppv! Then she would spend her
days trving to gratify his ambition. On one of her visits a
round duffy scjueaking objci't witii a damp pink nose was

S laced in Philip's arms, with the words, " You said the other |
ay that you wouldn't care to live without a retriever puppy;
I have brought you one, and you can have four more if you|
like."

Philip kept the puppy, and said that now he was reoonciledl
to life. By the time he had quite recovered, the small brownl
creature had lost a good deal of its pulpiness, and might im
seen floundering happily about the gardcni ; a charming, Ianky,l
boneless individual, amiable to the point of weakness, play I
ful and destructive beyond all teliuig. To Viola's deRghtJ
Bouncer, as he was called, had the honour of being taken up
Oxford when his master returmul thither at the commenccH
ment of the term.

After that, things rolled back to their old course; Viola
seldom saw the outside of the gates of the Manor, and she had
ample opportunity in the stagnant solitude of her home td
brood upon the secret that clouded her colourless life. 11
helped to exjiggerate many qualities in her that were ali'eadj
too pronounced, while hastening unduly the maturity of In
character.

She made no further attem])ts to wander out of Ik amdi
and Miss Qrip^>er now s(»l(lom caught her climbing ti-ees d
engagiHl in any other unlady-like (H'cupatuui. She d('liver(
herself over to the influence of her mother, and about eig^
teen months after Philip's accident she passed through a pha^
of fervent rolijj^ous feehng. during which she rivalled in dev(
tion and self -mortification many a canonise<l iiaint. lU
mother had «nm«» trouble in k<H»|)ing her from doing lierscj
bodily harm, for in her zeal she j)r<^fHrrcd tjisks that gave hi
pain, and nevi»r thouglit she was well employed unless \ii
occupation wan aevRn^ly <listHSteful.

She used now rath«r to enjoy her father's fits of angierr
they gave her an opportunity of showing a saint-like

A SYMPOSIUM.

rtesd under persecution. At this time her hehaviour was a
f^tesque caricature of her mother's, but Mrs. Sedley did not
rocogmse the portrait. She rejoiced in her daughter's piety,
and half -believed, T)erhaps, that in the service of Heaven one
niicht fly in the face of natural laws with impunity.

'Days and weeks passed on ; the drily routine was never al-
tered; the only change that marked the course of time at the
Manor-House was the presence of a lady who came daily from
I tlio town of Upton to carry on Viola's education.

Miss Bowles was a worthy, conscientious, washed-out per-
son who had long said good-bye to joy, and lived a dim
[stniggling, dreary life with lady-like propriety.
I She scarcely seemed a real human being; she was the in-
loarnated emblem of sound religious principles, arithmetic for
(sohools, French (with Parisian accent), German (Hanove-
Irian), English Grammar, Composition, and History— all these
Jtliingfl and many othei*8 Miss Bowles represented ;— but try to
mpoimd out of them a personality and miserable was your
ilure! It lay so deeply bui-ied, so thickly incrusted — like
|F<>me \)oov bird's nest petrified in the Derbyshire springs—
that you searched for it in vain. Perhaps a genial sympa-
tlietic person might have warmed it into life once more, but
My?. Sedley was neither genial nor sympathetic.

Violn aj)]i]ied herself conscientiously to the dry tasks which
this lady imposed upon her, associating all that was dull and
uniiilore-Mng in tbepe daily tables of facts and figures with
th(» neat but certainly not gaudy drab bonnet and pinched-
|(>oking jnelcet of }u;r governess.

Viola w'lvA growin..? now into a slini girl, graceful and swift
In lier movxMuonl;-.. with a resei'ved, melancholy expression
ni(i a rich, sweet v(,i"e. Pliilip Dtndraith had prophesied
ihat Kuie would turn out a f;i;;cinaiing woman, but, according
|o lioi* father, she threntened to be a dead failure.

"How are we going to marry a pide faced fright(»ned
irenture like thatr lu* demnnded m his coai'se way. "She's
July fit -a cloister; and 1, for my part, think iVs a great
^ily we iven't got rnn)n«*ries to send our plain girls to.
Vnat's the use of keeping them idling alxiut at home, every
ne laughing at Miem because they cui't get husbands/"
At such remarks Mrs. Sedley, meek as she was, would
rinc»

In Mrs, Swlley's Him]>le creed, marriacre, no matter under

[hat conditions, wn^ intrinsicnlly s,acred. but she would not

buuHel h<»rdaughtei- to marry for money; that swMned to her

Wy sinful. Yet sin* knew well that Mr. J-kxtley would never

^lerak> for Vi<»l»» rt |M)or marri-ige; he had long l)een renting

s hoix-^ of (!ir - Htitiitio!) of tie family fortuncH upon his

nghu r A\n\ v.ijhout rf»s<»r\<^ le had told his wife what he

pefM.fl. tud what she mir t ••xert fierself to bring nlK>nt.

rn Hi'filey watched her child's devel()|)ment with dread;

ovtwy day tlwit jmiswhI over lior was bringing her iioaror

;;|,1

,< i:

';'!

THE WING OP AZHAEL.

to the crisis of her life, tlie terrible crisis which seemed so
far more likely to bring disaster than happiness. And what
was the mother's part to be in that fateful moment? Her
influence over the girl was supreme: upon her action all
would depend.

The responsibility] seemed unendurable, the problems <5f
conscience pitiless in the Loiriblo alternatives which they
offered to the tortured will.

Suffering, which Mrs. S( Jley had borne herself without a
murmur, made her tremble when it threatened her child.
Yet her teaching to that child was pcrfcctlv consistent with
the whole tenor of her life: " Endure bravely, and in silence;
that is the woman's part, my daughter."

She was ready, with hands that trembled and quailing
heart (but she was ready), to give that nei've-thrilled being
to the flames— for Duty's sake— and quickly that insatiate
woman's Idol was advancing to demand his victim.

Year by year, the state of Mr. Sedley'smoney-mattorsgrew
more hopeless, and a possibility which had long been thought
of in secret was at last acknowledged openly between hus-
band and wife. Mrs. Sedley had never seen "her husband so
deeply moved as when he < onfessed that they might have to
leave the Manor Iloiise, the home where he had lived as a boy,
where his father had lived and died, and his ancestors for
many a generation. The man was moved almost to tears at
the prospect of banishment from the home of his race.
Sentiment— like a suddou flame in seemingly dead embers—
sprang up on this one subject, though it answered to no other |
cnarming.

" If it be in any way possibl ^ to avoid it, we will not, wej
must not leave the o\A ]ila(e,'' &aid Mrs. Sedley earnestly.

"Tnereis only one way to avoid it," he replied; *' viola |
must make a rich marriage."

"Yes; if she loves the man," Mrs. Sedley ventured to|
suggest.

" Loves- fiddle de-dee !" cried Mr. Sedley angrily; "don'tl
talk schoolgirl twaddle to me, madam. What has a well-l
brought-up > oung wciman to do with love, I should like tO|
know? I nave no i)atience with this Hi)oony nonsense. I call
it downiight improper. I^et a young woman take what's
given her and be tnankful. Confound it I it's not every
woman can gi^t a husband at all !"

With these words ringing in Ikt ears. Mrs. Sedley would
look with something af)i)roaching terroi* on the sensitive!
face of her daughter, who, as she grew more womanly in|
appearance, seemed to become more than ever shrinkin
and resei*ved.

Her father shrugged his shoulders angrily.

** Who's going to marry a girl lik(i that?" he tvould ael
contemptuously; *' she looks ha!f ash»ep."

With her cu»tomury wont of tuct in appreciating cha

ALTERNATIVES.

acter, Mrs. Sedley used to confide some of her anxieties to
Lady Clevedon. who scoffed long and loudly, not at Mrs.
Sedfey, but at Viola.

"Dear me; it's very interesting to bo so sensitive I— quite
a fashionable complaint among girls nowadays. Too sensitive
to marry, too sensitive to be mothers I Is there anything that
they are not too sensitive to be?"

" You know that I cannot answer you if you speak in this
vein, Augusta ; but Viola gives me great anxiety.^'

"My dear, something ought to oe done; the machinery
of the univei'se must bo stopped ; it is too coarse and noisy
for these highly-strung bein^ ; they can't stand it. Clearly
' gravitation ought to cease when they pass by.' "

' •' J

''I

CHAPTER IX.

ALTERNATIVES.

In" silence, day by day and month by month, the clouds

swept over the Manor-House, and silently the scroll of the

veal's unfolded, revealing little, but hinting many things.

Nino times the leaves had fallen since Philip's accident, and

Geoffrey had now shot up into a gawky, good-natured youth,

I and his parents began to cast about anxiously in their minds

to find him a profossi(^n. His hearty loathing of the drudgery

of office-work made the choice difficult. Geoffrey would have

preferred the army, but his fat'ior swore a great many oaths,

and declared that he was not going to be bled to death by a

[lot of idle sons who couldn't livc< upon their pay. 1\q had

[had enough of that. Manitoba was biiiited (for no congenial

[work nearer home could be heard of), and this, as an alter-

piative in case nothing better offered. Geoffrey had come to

regard as his destiny. Meanwhile he remnined at home, and

Wiis understood to bo " looking out for something." The in-

torvals between the times of " looking out " he used to six^nd

in fishing his father's trout-stream, for this was the delight

)f his soul.

G(H)ff rey's presence made a great change in Viola's life, and
lor father Ixjgan to feel more hopeful about her future achieve-
lents after tne boy had driven away the dreary depressed
look, and summoned in its ])laee an expression of brightness
that entirely transfigured the j^irl's face. Her rich dark skin
iiid black hair, the nn(» ryes kindling with youthful delights,
7ive her genuine pretcnsionH to Inmiity.

It was a sombre InMUity ; still Ix'auty it waw, and of a subtle
md haunting kind. During the nine uneventful years which

■' ^1

. n

•ii.

If .
f

■ i

IS MlU i

I i .■ !
I ( i

i ■!

ill

ft:

mid

C ' if.

TEE WINO OF AZliAKL.

hnd usluMvd in bor pirlhootl Viola had only now and again
in.»t either Philip DiMulraith or Harry Lancviaior. Calob slio
ot'CM.Miini;, lly saw. Ho wus ytili living with his beloved books
in his little llennitaKo.

Harry bad Rone to India v.ith his regiment, and Clevedoiij
mourned his exile, and looked forward to his snortly oxi)ecte(l i
ivturn with ni'U'h joy. Tlie hopeful Philip was rej)orted to
be leading a di.ssipated life in London. His good looks, his
brilliant })r<)speets, and his undoubted social talents carried
all before him. Whenever Philip was at Upton Court ho
nuule an elfoi't; to renew his old acipuuntanee with Viohi,
being emious to see how s)io had turned out. But this wiw
no easy t.uk. Shyness, partly hereditary, jxirtly induced
by a solitary life, liad become almost a disease with her.l
and she used t.o lleo from her lellow-(n*ei\tures whenevorl
they appioacived.

t\)r the third time during a three weeks' visit Philip an-ivedl
one afUM'uoon at the Manor-House, and asked for Viola, but)
she was not to bo found. She had seen the visitor arrive, and]
instantly set off at lu»r iitniost speed to the farthest confim
of the park, where, shivering with excitement, she lingerd
for hours and houi*s, not ventiu'ing to go ba<'k to the housej
in case IMiilip should still be there. Unfortunately for her, he
father happened to bo in, and he waw so angry when at lantl
she did cautiously return, that she thought he would hava
btruck her. She had never seen him so enraged, although
outbui*sts of this sort after his drinking-bouts were not unj
conmion. Fury carried the man out of himself, and ho snif
things which even he after wards owned were " rather strong.
Viola listened in silence. She was learning lessons never
be forgotten to her dying day, lessons which perhans everj|
woman luis to learn in some form or another, but wnich tii\
ava fated to be taught in so many words by their own fathe

In the name of Heaven and common sense, how did 8he<'.
pect to get a husband if she behaved in this addle headci
manner ? Half the women in London wtTo ready to throi
themselves into Philip Dendraith'sarms, and yei Viola woul
not condescend to the conniion politeness oi coming to ho
him when ho called ! She had run away en jiurpose, of cours^
it >Nas an old trick of hei*s, very girl-like and engaging,
doubt, but mi^ht one make a polite request that these grac
ful little exhibitions of coyness might not occur again i Col
uess before a man had made any advances at all, was wbj
one might call d:mgorouBly premature.

" You are not a queen of neauty, let me tell you, that yc
can afford to indulge in theso womanish devices. My doo^
are not besiegeil with suitors for your hand."

"Not want to marry i Not want to marry ?" Mr. Scdl^
yelled, with a bui*st of fury. "You -you -miserable litl
tool 1 Do you know what you are Siiying ? Can't you spea
Can't you say something instead of standing there boforu

AlTEnNATlVES.

And pray, what do yoii think would
I didn/t nuuTy 'i What can you do but

Hko a block of wood ?

JO t!»o U80 of yoti if you aiun. i nuu-ry i w naican yoi

loaf diHuially abotit tlio pL'Wo and Hcrv(^ -is a w«l blanket to

jvory on(?'8 enioynient ? What'H t1i(3 j^ood of a woman but to

narfy and look alter h<^r huHband and child r«ui ? What can

jho do (5lso ? Tell mo tliat, if you i)lea8o. Do you hear njo,

^iola ?"

" I would try and earn my own living," Baid Viola at last
a low, trembling voice.

'' Earn mm own lininfjr echoed her father, with a Bhout

>f laughter. " You earn your own living! And pray, in what

JrolVBRion woidd you propose to beeoTuo a shining li^ht? Tho

rniy, tho navy, the Chunih, tho law? Or would you ptT-

>ap8 enter upon tho field of politics ? Everything iH open to

^ou; you have only to ehooao. And you know Huch a lot,

joii't you ? You are 8o learn(!d and capable, bo well al)lo to

)rco your way in tho world. Oh I pray don't think of iiiarry-

ig: afar more brilliant and congenial career lieH before you."

Viola auBwcred nothing: sho waH Buffering too keenly,

liBerabiy rojUizing that in nor father's mockery lay a d(»adly

utii; that sho had, in fact, nothing to reply biit, *' Thou

mt said it."

What was she ? What did Bho know ! What had Bhe

^en if What could bIk^ do ? To all this there was only one

iHWor: Nothing. Books had been forbidden her, human

fcioty had been cut off from her; scarcely had she be(!n be-

md the gates of her hom(?, except once or twice when sho

id gone for cliango of air to Wales or Yorkshire, or for a

ly now and then to London to roo " tlie sights" !

1**0 mother, it was cruel!" From tho depths of her heart

|at bitt-er cry went up, the first word or thought of reproach

(at had over arisen tliero for that mueli-adoi ed and devoted

)ther. And this was tho result of all thosr? anxious days,

(os8 fervent prayers, that coasoloss self-denial ! l*y her own

ther, sho wastaimted with her helplessness, and' reminded

ft only that tho solo career open to her was marriage, but

it sho must make deliberate efforts to secure it for herself,

at any rate must aid and abet in schemes which others

Idertook on her behalf. She nuist bestir hen^elf in tho mat-

for it was h?r appointed business,
fn after-life Viola learnt about the outcast of her sex— facts
iich at this thno were unknown to her; but that revelation
p not more painful, nor did it oven strike her as very dif-
fent from what sho had loamt to-day about tho lot of
|mon who wore not outcast, but who took upon themselves
past out others.

[•he girl's stunned silence irritated her father beyond on-
B'ance.

I* In the name of Heaven, why can't you speak, girl?" he
mdored; *' it's your confounded obstinacy; and you get it
^ your mother. But we havo to see yot who is master.

'■ 'I

THE WING OF AZItAEL.

Understand that I mean to endure no more of this nonsense,
and the next time you are asked to a[)pear in the drawing-
roomj you will please to do so, and make youi*solf pleasant to
the visitor into the bargain. Too much oi this accureed non-
sense would land you high and dry, a burden to me for life."

Viola drew a quick breath.

*' Yes, a burden, a dead weight, hanging like a millstone
round my neck." Do you know what a woman is who does
not marry ? I will tell you : she is a cumber or of the ground,
a devourer of others' substance, a failure, a wheel that won't
tmn ; she is in the way ; it were better she had never been
bom. She is neglected, despised, left out ; and who cares
whether she is alive or dead!^? She is alone, without office,
without object, without the right to exist. If you are minded
to choose such a lot, at least you shall do it with your eyes
open. A woman who is not performing her natural duties,
serving her husband and her children is an absurdity,— an
anomaly, a ramrod without a gun, a key without a lock, a—
a— ship without a sail— she's— she's a damned nuisance I"
roared Mr. Sedley, with a final burst of fury, as he turned I
on his heel and stamped out of the room, banging the door so|
ferociously that it shook the old house from cellar to roof.

*' The master's been drinking again," announced the butler]
to the inmates of the servants' hall.

It was in the drawing-room that this stormy interview took!
place ; the chill, ghostly old room where the lost souls dwelt!
and the Spirit of Music held her court. It was a dreary day;!
Philip had chosen it for his call, thinking that Viola was!
likely to be home. Outside, old William was weeding the!
gravel in his usual steady, patient way ; the ceaseless chop-l
chop of his hoe, regular as the dropping of water, sounded|
strangely forlorn in the silence.

Viola stood for full five minutes exactly where her fathoi^
left her, with her eyes fixed upon the dull forms of the mist
dimmed trees, upon the melancholy avenue whose few rej
maining leaves awaited the first breath of wind to fall shiverj
ing to the sodden .ground. The girl flung herself into the near
est chair and buried her face in the cushions. She was shakoil
from head to foot, but not a sound escaped her. Grief whiclj
finds its easiest expression in tears was reserved for souls k
passionate.

There was something frantic in her present distress; si
was like a hunted creatm'o at bay. Her position, as repn
sen ted by her father's words, seemed utteny unbearable, iit|
terly humiliating. Why had her parents forced existeno
upon her if it was to be one long depiradation ? Better indctj
that she had never been bornl " Better, ah! better a thoj
sand times," old WilUam's patient hoe seemed to say. as
beat its rhythm on the gravel without ; "better, a thousai
times, a thousand times !"

With a strange desperate pleasure in self-torturo, the

ALTERNATIVES.

placed the whole picture clearly before her mind; showing

herself exactly how she stood, how h^li^less she was, how

closely the two alternatives of the womnn's lot encompassed

her. On the next occasion that Philip called, it would beseem

her to put on her best frock and her best smile, and try all

she knew to charm him. Were not her future prospects de-

)endcnt on his (or on some man's) favour ? Had she not

)een informed, and in most expUcit terms, that her father

lad no mind to keep her always in his house, and that he

expected her to betake herself without delay to her ''natural

duties ?"

The chop-choppine: of the hoe had ceased now, but only to
be succeeded by the swish-swish of the broom sweeping away
the withered leaves.

'*I could sweep away withered leaves, or hoe out weeds;
I could dust or cook, or wash, or— or anything that requires
only health and strength. I might even be like Miss Bowles
ana teach, but it would have to be very young children,— I
know so little, so little !"

She gave a shiver.

"Until today,— O mother, dear mother, I did not even
knov; what it meant to be a girl !"

Like a pulse, the broom went beating on the gravel out-
side, and upon the window panes struck the first drops of
coming rain. A sound of wind among the trees heralded its
approach, and presently it arrtved ; a gush of tears from the
sorrow-laden heavens. Old William worked on as if he did
not notice it, patiently bonding his head to windward, with-
out so much as looking up to see where the rain came from.
Viola could bear the sight no longer. She rose, drew up the
heavy ill-fitting window, and stood with the rain diifting in
upon her face and hair.

" William," she said, " why do you go on working ? You
will get cold : you will get rheumatism ; it is so bad for you.
Why don't you go in ?"

Old William paused for a moment, and raised himself
slightly (only slightly) from his bent attitude, leaning on the
handle of his broom.

*' The rain don't do me no harm. Miss," he said, with a slight
smile; *' I'm used to it. Thomas says I'm to get this gravel
do.ie to night, and Mr. Sedley he wants to see it done; and
I'm -just a-doin' of it."

"Oh, what does it matter?" cried Viola. ** Rheumatism
must be so hard to bear."

Poor William gave a sadly knowing shake of the head.

'* Ay, that it be. Miss," he said. "I has it so bad at times
as I can't scarcely move— the rheumatis' is very bad, very
bad indeed. My father, 'e 'ad it dreadful, 'e did ; his ioints
was all gone stiff, and his fingers was all crumpled up luce."

" Thea it is madness in you to stay out in the rain," urged
Viola,

■ m

-if I

1.:'"%

W '.

THE WING OF AZBAEL.

But the old man had not arrived at that highly advanced
stage of mental development when things immediate can be
balanced against things future. As he had done for years,
he went on working in the rain, and endured his rheumatism
when it arrived with his usual patience. The act of mind
and will necessary to alter his habitual conduct in dv^ference
to experience was beyond him.

All he would do was to put on his coat at Viola's urgentgi
entreaty. m

There was something in the dim, forlorn lot of this old manW
that had always filled Viola with sadness, but to-night she|
could have taken his hard old hand and kissed it and wepJ
over it in an ecstasy of pity and fellow-feeling.

Had she spoken aloud the words that came welling up int
her heart, she would have made old William open his eyes ai
he had never opened them in his life before.

*'Let me come to you and comfort you; let me be
daughter to you; let me work for you and for myself; an
then perhaps your lot might be brighter, and then I should n
need to seek the favour of any man for the sake of house am
home, or to avoid remaining here to be a burd-ju to my fatbei
and to the world I"

Seldom does the civilized human being speak according t
his imp e. He is too well drilled. Most lives are guided i
their courses by far other than th* stronfjest feelings of th
actors. Often they are guided by the wishes of those witl
whom the lot has become associated ; often mere force
habit will hold people in an old and painful groove for la
pathetic years, merely because they consistently subordina
the ^(*at to the little, matters of life and death to some pr
ent, iuiportunate, but perfectly trivial claim. Broken hear
oftener than we think, are the handiwork of feeble heai
As Harry Lancaster had once snid, with his usual extra
gance, ''Give me the making of the peoi)le's brains, and li
who will make their hearts !"

When the rain and wind became so violent that old W|
liam could not continue his work, he yielded to the logic
events and took shelter in the potting-shed.

The ram was driving in great hissing sheets across ti
country; the windows streamed, and shook with ani
clamour.

Throwing on a cloak and drawing the hood over her he;
Viola went out into the storm. She could scarcely make
against it, the wind and rain beat so furiously against h
But she pressed on, seoming to find relief from the tempes
her own feeling in the tunuilt of the elements. One of
most painful features in her trouble was, that there was
one to be angry with ; her whole nature rose in fury agar
what she felt to be the alternative indignities forced u
her, and yet her anger could not pour itself upon any i

thj

odl

Mil

ALTERNArrVBS.

«7

vidual; she couH not fliug back the insult in his face and be
free of it.

It thing to her defilingly, as home slimy sea-weed clings
when it loses the sustaining of the water. The consciousness
of it was fast siiturating her whole being, so that the very
texture of her soul was changed.

Struggling blindly on, harbouring a thousand wild thoughts,
her attention was ariested by a low whine, and turning, she
saw coming towards her the faithful Bill Dawkins, — a de-
crepid old dog now, how different from the sprightly poodle
of bygone days, "who looked as if the speed of thoiight were
in 1 '^ limbs !" Quietly and with how sedate a mien Bill Daw-
kins dragged his slow limbs across the lawn, his ears adroop,
his tail no longer quivering (as a compass-needle) with elec-
trical intelligence I '

He and old William might have mingled their tears over
their rheumatism, for poor Bill also suffered from this cruel
malady ; and had he been capable of mounting the hill of hu-
man thought and overlooking thence the plain of universal
destiny, he might, in his pain and discouragei lent, have made
an adaptation of thj Japanese proverb and cried gloomily,
"If you hate a dog, let him live."

Viola went to meet the limping creature with sorrowfnl
heart.

Such was the end of life, and the beginning ? the rosy,

riotous beginning? Of that was Viola herself a shining ex-
ample !

" Ai"e you coming with me in all this rain?" she asked, as
she stooped to stroke the dog, who sat down at her feet and
raised his expressive brown eyes to her face.

He looked up at her ph^adingly, wistfully, as if he were
trying with all his might to speak.

44 TXTKo* \a 1+9 «rV.Qf \q if 9" gjjg askcd

..^v^v., pitifully. "Are you
lonely? Does no one care

What is it? what is it?'
in pain? Are you miserable and

whether you are alive or dead? But, indeed, one person does
care, and one heart sickens at these dumb tragedies that
nobody heeds."

She bent down and took him tenderly in her arms— great
creature as he was— and carried him into one of the many
tumble-down old outhouses where the ai)ples and pears, ana
the watering-machines and rollers, and a thousand and one
odds and ends were stowed away.

The place had a fresh earthy scent, redolent to Viola of
Mibtle memories of childhood, bringing back in sweet over-
powering rushes feelings of the bygone days. How many a
joyous hour had she and GeofiErej^ and Bill Dawkins si>ent in
this old shed, potting cuttings, trying experiments (and such
experiments!) with the watering machine — growing instan-
taneous mustard and cress, eating apples, and indulging in a
[thousand other pastimes, in all of which the poodle had more
i or less taken part t There was some straw and a piece of old

■m
it'-'

I J

iOI

THE WING OF AZRAEL.

sacking on the floor, and urion this Viola laid him. covering
him up as much as he would allow her, for ho wns shivering
all over and looked most wretched. He s<^cmed verj' weak,
but he wagged Liy tail now and again, and he had a heart-
breaking waj[ of offering to shake hands at intervals in a
feeble, affectionate fashion. There was eomething in his
demeanour besides gratitude ; he seemed to have divined that
his mistress was in trouble, and was doing his best to comfort
her.

Love is one of those lawless emotions that cares nothing I
for what is " natural" or expected; and Viola's love for this!
faithful creature did not pause to moderate itpelf on the re-
flection that to expend po much time and devotion upon an!
animal argued an ill-regulatod mind.

The good poodle had a personality as distinct as that of
any human being, and a more lovable one human being never
hail!

Viola was down on her knees beside him, caressing, sooth-
ing, speaking loving words, with a desperate feeling in her|
heart all the time that the poor creature wns dying.

*'It would not bo kind to keep you if I could," she saidl
tenderly; ''but oh! how sad, how sad I shall bo withouti
you!"

Almost as it he understood, the dog half turned and laidl
his paw, in tho old pleading, caressing way, upon her arni.I
The next moment he sank down again panting; his bodyl
gave a spasmodic twitch, and then lajr very still. With a|
low cry, Viola flung her arms rourid him passionately, anc
kissed hir shaggy head again and again.

"Good-lr-e, good-bye, hiy dear one; my noblest, kindest,|
faithfulest friend! Good-bye for ever! and oh that I could
tell how I have loved you !"

Tlie dim, b*^autiful eyes opened slowly; the dying creatui.
looked up with an almost human expression of love an^
gi'atitudr; then he feebly licked Viola's hand for the lasj
time, and died.

Viola, lying down beside him on the rough straw, sobbe^
her heart out.

CHAPTER X.

* ADRIENNE.

Not many days after Bill Dawkins' death Harrv Lancast
arrived in England. He went first to see his mother and hj
sister, who lived at Upton, in a tiny house belonging to Lor
Clevedon, about a mile from tlie home where they hadpassc
their prosperous days before Mr Iiancnster's death. Mn
Dixie, who had married a second time, and lost her secoi

ADRIKNNE.

husband almost immediately after her marriage, had a bland
ioxpansiveness about her manner winch referred directly to
[jier fonner glories, just as her old lace and miniatures and
[sundry valuable pieces of plate were eloquent relics of that
[past which threw so much effulgence upon her and her only
[daughter, Adrienne. Adrienne, however, was a cultivated,
I keen-witted young woman, dainty in ideas as in her person,
[and she made her allusions to the past with delicacy, and in-
deed very seldom made them at all. She did not follow her
(mother's example of wearing at her throat a gigantic ancestor,
[with pink cheeKS and a light blue coat. Her own son used
[to say of Mrs. Dixie that slio was like a j^orgeous sunset after
[a hot midsummer dav; the sun and its glories had gone
[down, but the glow still remamed.

"Well, mother, still the lady of the Castle," he said. "I

[declare you wear your vanished crown more royally than

}ver you did its antitype. It makes me feel like an involun-

ary Prince of Wales merely to look at you !"

As Mrs. Dixie liked to think that she pos.sesscd the " grand

ir," and as her sense of the ridiculous had its own very ex-

lusive walks in life, she was able to draw up her portly

gure with a peculiar wave of the spine presumably cnarac-

ristic of royalty, while she smiled giviciously down her not

erfectly straight nose, remarking, with a sway of the head

ike that of a poplar in the wind—

" My dear boy, I trust that I am as well able to fill a humble

osition with dignity as one more elevated. It is not wealth

nd prosperity that make the lady" (this with an air that

jars description).

arry gave a queer smile, expressive of so many things

hat it would bo hard to name them all without making an

xhaustive analysis of his character, and that would be a

ard task indeed. A few characteristics may, however, be

iven. He was contemplative, critical, with an abiding en-

yniont of the comedy of life, and a continual consciousness

f the great deeps that lay beneath the feet of the players.

It was this eternal mystery that gave such a wild zest to

e never-ending game, such a ring to the laughter echoing

mly through those dark gulfs,— such wings to the jest and

le fancy !

Harry was regarded at the Cottage as a joke personified ;
's mother used to treasure up his sayings, and repeat them
terwards, minus the point, to her friends, with great prido
id pomp.

It was almost impossible to annoy Harrjr Lancaster, al-

oush ho was capable on rare occasions of furious anger.

le little mortifications of life that irritate most people

H;ved only as a fresh subject for some ridiculous pseudo-

nilosophy, on his part; so that ho was a very pleasant in-

ite 01 any houso, for be had the alchemist's gift of turning

I' i

mn wiNa OF azrael.

baae little tronbles into golden opportmiiLies for laughter.
His sister Adncnne, who bore the whole burden of the iKJMse-
hold and family affaii-s upon her wise slioulders, used to
declare that Harry's presence acted upon her health as a
change to the seaside, and that he wtis the only infallible
cure she knew of for headaches.

For the rest, he was more or less of a mystery ; nobody
seemed to know what ho thought in his serious moments, or
if he had any serious momentf^ at all.

His manner was genial, even gaily pffectionate; but the
li^ht, nonsensical vein always ran thiough everything ho
said, and cropping out unexpectedly in his gravest moments,
and constHuted a wall of roderve far more imper ctrable than
mere silence.

Brother and sister had been confidants as boy and girl in
the early days at " the Palace" be lore the '" Sunstt."as Harry
called respectively their old home and their change of fortune.
Together, in the dusk, they used to talk of the mvsteries of
life and death, of immortality, oi Irae-will, of good ana evil,
of the formation of character, and the service of God.
A.drienne used otten to wonder what her brother thought of
these things now after his man's experience of life. She her-
self had adopted a niv^/e or less conventional view of things in
an unconventional way. She was too clever to bo a mere
passive echo; she thought for herself within limits, and had
now become a refined, elevated, intelligent expositor of cur-
rent views.

She responded to ideas of great moral elevation, while her
admiration also ran towards a certain French finesse and
sparkle, all of which qualities were shadowed forth in the
diaintiness of her dress and the delicate nvaricrs of her maimer.

The swift phancy of fancy which wa^ one < f Harry's most
attractive peculiarities Adrienno shared with him, but there
was a singular difference in the manifestation of the same
quality in the two characters.

In Harry it kiuggested a certain largeness and freedom of
nature; wnilo in the sister it expressed fineness, brilliancy,
cultivation; but so far from giving the idea of liberty, it im-
plied that of indefinable limitation. It f uggested a iiature
close-sot, concise, with crisp outlines, guiltiess of expansive
wandering into the untried. Adrienne DnKaster never
wandered carelessly into any region. She must be (juite sure
first if she approved of a region befoie she entered it. Thoi"e
was no reckless touch in her disposition, and in no circum-
stances could one imagine the quality developing in her. In
her brother it was very marked, though, so far, it biid shown
itself in a mere riot of fancy and humour. Ho idien to Adri-
enne's consciousness was the attribute that she even failed to
notice it in Harry, closely as she studied him.

It may be suppost»d that a good-looking young officer, of

ABRIENNS.

genial temperamont nnd pleasant manners, became very dear
to the village of Upton: and *'HOfiety" (consistinp: of the
vicar's family, the doctor's family, Mr. and Mi's. Pellett, and
one or two others) r'lain^od liim passionately for it« own. The
vicar's family was inordinately large, and the prevailing im-
pression left upon the mind after an introduction was "eter-
nally feminine," a circumstance which the villaf^e thoutcht
most unfortunate, for how were all those girls to get married?

How indeed ? for though HaiTy mig]it do his duty as Eng-
land expected of him, ho could not maiTv the whole (contin-
gent of uniablo sistprs. England would have shown liorself
ungrateful if ho had !

And then, was ho in a position to marry even onf of them ?
The village feared not, much as it desired to see a break made
in the firm ranks of the vicar's charming family. Dick
Evans, the eldest son, a pl(\'\sant, clever young fellow, a
former friend at Oxford, became Harry's frequent compan-
ion, and the lat'or also showed a predilection for Dorothy, the
youngest sister, still little more than a child, a fresh, robust,
joyous creature, with bright cheeks and imtidy aubuni hair,
and an incurable love for climbing trees and other unladylike
pastimes, in which Harry wickedly encouraged her. She
was an amusing proof of the inalecjuateness of common-sense
for achieving reasonable views of life; for Dorothy had, as
Harry said, enoui^:;h of this quahty to supply the deficiency of
the House of Commons (he could not siiy more), yet her ideas
on men, women, and thinw were the most Ian cjhtcr moving
that it had ever been his good fortune to meet with.

She was one of those rai-e l):»in^3 who are predestined to bo
happy, to whom " whatever is, is light,' in the social world
as in nature.

Upton w.os twelve miles from the Manor House, sc that
Viola, unfortunately, could not enjoy the enormous advan-
tage of knowing intimately a girl so difFerent fi*om herself as
Dorothy Evans. Once or twice Viola had Ik^cii to Upton, and
remembered it as a little cluster of thatched cottages with
pretty gardens, and one or two old-fashioned housi^, which
looked so calm and beautiful that it seemed as if the current
of life must have been arrestcMl, i\s if some satisfied Faust had
at last said to the nassing moment, "Stay; thou art so fair,'*
and the command nad be<»n obeyed by Destiny.

It was on a balmy summer's day that Viola fii-st saw the

glace, and the picture remained very vividly in her memory,
he wondered afterwards if some premonition of what was to
come had made hov regard it with sj>ecial interest.
Do wo not all feel driven at times to believe that certain

{)lnces. just as certain people, are fateful for us?- -that there
8 some subtle link betwwn th«»m and us, which we cannot
break if we would?
Beautiful as it was, Viohi had a faint, unaceountablo dislike

! i

i } .

Vi:F

i nm

\ ,\

If
il

fUE WING OF AZIiAWL,

to the villapo; it seemed like a lovely grave, it was so " hide*
ously Hurene."

" No swellings toll tlmt wiiuIh niiiy be
Upon some fur oil, hHpi)ier sou,"

though the sea lay so near, out of sight beyond the undulat-
ing downs.

The second time that Viola saw this place was on the rare
occasion of a two days" visit to her aunt at (Jlevedon. By this
time the " demon boy/' as Harry calhd the heir, had gi'own
up and gone to Oxford, while tlie fi;irl, \vho was some years
older than Viola, had married and lived in town, — "prosper-
ous '\nd miserable," according to tlie same authority.

I'or a wonder^ "Aunt Augusta" had just now only one
friend staying with lun*, a supcrnnturnlly stylish lady c,"»lled
Mr.3. Russell Courlenav, who lad so much "mjinner" that
she thoroughly alarmecf Viola, that young woman little guess-
ing that this small-waistcd being, with her -^^ast assortment of
turns and twists and wripgl s, her b< wildering pranks and
gestures, was in leality a prey to shyness, greater if possible
than Viola's owi,.

Lady Clevedon drove her t\ 'o ?;uests over +0 call on Mra,
Dixie and Adrienne.

" I hope that Harry will be in, but I don't think it's likely,"
she siiid; "he is the most en'atic ])ei'Son I know; and I fear
he is eitlier walking v^ >r old Mr. Pellttt off his legs, undoing
Dorothy Evans's careful euucation, or talking nonfenne to
that ridiculous creature who poses as a pliilosopher, Caleb —
Caleb what's-his-name ^"

" WiUiams," 8ugg<'sted Mi*s. "Russell Courtenay, who knew
something about literature, but whose meniory'her unfortu-
nate shyness sonietinies confused.

I^idy (1eve<lon treated her su^'g(^stion with fiiendly deri-
sion, and Mrs. Courtenay snITered as keenly as if she had had
on a shabby dress, or there had been a want of Htyle about
her bonnet. Ellect was the idol of her soul. She posed, even
to herself.

The neat little cottag<'. cov(>red with wistaria in full bloom,
looked radiant this afternoon.

Adri(»nn(\ in a dainty but serviceable holland apron, was
gni*d(»ning when the visitors drove up.

Poor Viola I this young wourm, too, had " nmnner,"

though it was less artiih;ial
therefore less alarming.

than Mrs. Courtenay's, and

"O Augusta ! I am so glad ! And Mr-s. Courtenay too,"
she cri(Ml, ruiuung to the gate to let theiu in. "This is lH>np-
ir . coals of fiiv upon my head; for 1 ought to ha\o called
on you long ago. You niusl forgiv(» a busy person v<rh(» has
cai'es of sUite upon her shouldeis. Do come in; my molher
will 1k' delighted."

*• Adrienne," said Lady Clevedon, " this is my iiieoe, Viola,

ADRIENNE. 73

whose acquaintance you ought to have made long ago. How-
ever, better late than never !"

"Better, indeed," said Miss Lancaster, with a pleasant
smile. "I scarcely feel like a stranger to you. Miss Sedley,
for your name has so long bivn faniihar to me. Alas ! those
horrid twelve miles between Upton and your place have much
to answer for, have they not C

" A punishment for flying in the face of Providence and
living in the country," observed Mi*s. Courtenay, with u
stylish undulation.

This proposition led to a gay dispute, during which
Adrienne conducted the visitors indoors, wliere they found
Mrs. Dixie indulging in a regal nap, front whith, however,
she woke with creditable rapidity, and recreived her guests in
what Harry called her best "sunset" manner.

He came in in the midst of the interview, looking very
warm and travel-stained. Adrienne said that ii clever geolo-
gist might tell exactly where he had been walking by a study
of his garments.

"I have been exploring the cliffs with Dick Evans," siiid
Harry.

"Would he not come back with you to tea as usual?"
asked Mrs. Dixie.

Harry pniiled.

"No; he preferred rctm'ning to the Rectory bj^ the back
entrance, 'for reasons' (as Mr. Carlyle says) ■ whu'h it may
be interesting not to state.' "

Beiii;; pressed for explanations. ITarry said that Dick had
unhappily rolled down a soft chalky meline, and that the
general tone of his colouring had been so materially altenid
thereby as to make him feel a delicacy about appearing in
refinerl society.

Dorothy had met him in the back avenue, and had been
driven for the expression of her feelings to roll over and over
on the lawn, regardless of th(» fact that h»'r mother had never
encouraged her in such (^motional excesb(»s.

After a burst of laughter, whi<!h the mere name of Dorothy
was usually ennugli to call fortii tit the Cottage, Ijfuly Oleve-
don laid her hand on Violii's arm.

" Now, Harry," she wiid, " t(»ll me if you know who this is ?"

Harry roused himself, uncrossed his arms, and looked
inquiringly from his cousin to Viola. She blushed and smiled
a little, and as she smiled a faint nuMnory like a whifT of
s<*ent came to him. and fado<l away a;i;ain. He struggled
to recall it in vain, and then a thought bcemed to strike
him.

" N(>t Miss S»>dley ?"

Ho i*ose with a pleased smile, and went over to her in the
corner.

"I am very glad I caujc in Ihi.i aft 'rnoon," he s;iid, " for I
am most interested to renew an old acquaintiince. I have

i i\k

5 Vr

I I

I 'A

: i"

(

■J

ilp

!i?"

ii'

.Ml

^'M

THE WING or A7MAEL.

often laugTied over that day at the ruin when you were .«o
angry with Philip Deiidraith ; do you remember ? It was
splendid the way vou fouglit him. Do you know I can still
see a likeness to what you were at tliat time, though you don't
look quite so like fighting as you did then," he added, with a
smile.

*'0h, I hope I am not so bad tempered now," she said,
blushing. "I was always very angry if any one behaved
unkindly to my dog, and you know Mr. Dendraith teas
unkind to him."

There was a I'aint, very faint gleam in her eyes even now
as she said it.

"The old spirit has not died out," Harry said to himself,
with a smile; " she thinks it is dead and f-one, but some day,
when least expected, it will break out again, and in the woman
it will mean a good deal more than in the child."

" I suppose vou sometimes see your old enemy, now that
he is at Upton Court V Harry continued. •' Being a rider, he
could get over to you without much trouble across country."

Harry wondercil why Viola blushed again so deeply and so
painfully. He was not fooliali enough to jump to tfie usual
conclusion in such cases, but he di<l neverthclt^ss think it
' possible that the girl h?i(l followed in the footsteps of so many
of her sex and lost her heart to Philif) Dendraith. In making
up their old quarrel, it would be so easy for them to overdo
it. A mere hair's- breadth woidd take them across the hne of
mere reconciliation, and Piiilip was " fearfully and wonder-
fully" handsome.

Ilarry felt regretful, almost indignant, at the notion of this
possibility. From a worldly point of view Philip would, of
course, be a brilliant match; but he was cold, self indulgent,
cynical, with the siuno mibending will that lie had shown
when a nicrcs youth, further strengthened by the easy con-
quests which it had since brought hini. Besides, Harry knew
that Philip had lived a life of low and selfish j)loa8ure, only
moi*e prudently than others, so that, while many of his com-
p(uii«»ns had gone to wrack and ruin altogether, he was still
prospering.

But this cold prudence which h;id sav^d him was no orna-
ment to his <'hnraeter in his critic's eyes. Viola married to
such a ni(ui was almost unthinkable, and yet (Harry said to
himself) Society is every day bringing about thob.' incon-
ceivable things. The woman marries and givLS no sign ; no
one knows how the unthinkable is worked out in daily detail.

He studied the face besid(» him with great interest. It
attracted Isim far more than many a girlish face which he
would hav(Mrall(»d T>r(^tty and ha v<» forgotten again the next
minute. Was Vioia pretty i He did not <juite know. The
appeal that her face made was 1m/.\ ia 'and, and had to be
considered. iSho had a very <in.'k ;ikir», i .'d her colouring
>vben she bhished wius rich and <• » • V-'' * »';e gauicd upon

wit

chr

ADRIENNB.

one rapidly; it was a haunting face— yes; certainly it was
pretty ;— very pretty. What had come to hira ? It was
beautiful!

Harry drew his hand across his eyes, as if he thought they
had deceived him, but no; in a little over twenty minutes,
during which the couvej^iJion had been upon quite trivial
topics, these changes of impresBion liad tuken place in him,
and the face whi(.'h he had hesitated at first to call pretty had
acquired in his eyes an \)na('c«)iuitable charm.

'' I suppose not very much has ha|)|x>ned at your home since
I left," he said, musingly. 'It is just the samo here. I go
away, for yeai's; a thousand tilings hai>pen to me; I see hun-
dre(is of new faces, new scenes: I have many experiences
great and small, —and 1 come back to imd precisely the same
life going on as when I went away. I ask what has l)a\)-
pened, and I am told that old Sally is dead, and so-and-so la
married; that a new window has been put in the church, and
that Lady Clevedon has built a wing to the schoolhouse !
But I suppose these are very important matters after all,''
Harry added, remembering that such interests were ail that
Viola possessed.

' ' I know very little of what goes on outside my own home,"
she said. *'I visit the people in our village wit^i my mother
sometimes, but I don't hke it; 1 never know what to say, and
I feel intnisive and uncomfortable. The people always talk
to mother about their Heuvenly BMther" -Viola hesitated a
little, for a sudden suppressed smile had flitted across HaiTv's
face, a smile not to be hidden by the moustache which Anri-
cnno used to say endeared him to his fellow -c^reatures so in-
expressibly.

He looked very grave the next minute, and expressed great
interest in VioUvs account of her district-visiting,

'*My mother gives the cottagers soup and blankets, and she
reads the Bible to them," Viola continued, drawn out of her
reserve by something simple and geniid in Harrys manner
which no one ht^d yet been able to resist. His dratnatic d< > wer
of entering into the feelings of others placed him in relation
with a vast number of types of human nfdure and gjivo him a
power over them, different from, but perhaps not less remark-
able than, Philip Dendraith's. Tt w{is irksome to him to have
to retire into the limits of his own personality; he prt^ferred
to explore that of others. The simple, firm outlines of Viola's
character, and its intense concentration, formed an attractive
study to a mind so entirely different in type.

"And do you think the villagers like to nave the Bible read
to th( m V he inquii*ed gravely.

" Of course," siiid Ljuoy Clevedon, overhearing the qu(?stion ;
"there has been €>stablished an intimate relation, of the nature
of cause and effect, lx)tweim the Bible and port wine, which is
very favourable to the propagation of tho Gospel among the
labouring clas«os in tliia country,"

.1 ri

I :.

" ' ■■* '-I;
if i«l

mmJM

THE WING OF AZRAEL.

I : <

*'Lady Clevedon, you are really very naughty!" cried Mrs.
Russell Courtenay, with one of her favourite wripjgles. "This
fresh innocent mmd will Iohg its ' 'oom if her young ears are
assailed with such sentiments."

" Oh I she had much better listen i»> me than to Harry," said
Lady Clevedon; " 1 think he really must be 'The Ambassador
Extraordinary' (you know the book ?)"— (Mrs. Courtenay
murnmrcd, "Oh, yes.")— "He hns all the plausible exterior
of tliat Satanic emissary, and I can vouch for the Satanic
character of his sentiments. I thought India woidd have
cooled him down"—

(" Not a usual result of the climate," mumiured Adrienne.)

— "but instead of that he is worse than ever!"

^^You seem to have been able to draw him out," said Mrs.
Dixie, a little annoyed; "he never tells us what he thinks. I
suppose he doesn't consider us <'jvj)able of undci*sta.iding him."

''Oh! nonsense," cried Lady (Jlevedon; "he wisely shrinks
from your criticism."

*'This is crushinir," said Harry, lazily. "I wonder why it
is that a peaceable fellow like me should always be attacked.
* Can you fight ? ' 'No.' 'Then come on.' That is how the
world treats me! And yet I smile forgivingly upon it.

' She was inoro tlian usuul. tuhn;
She did not give u single diinm,"

he murmured, softly .[noting.

"Mr. Lancaster, Mr. Lancaster!" cried Mrs, Courtenayj
*Wespectez V innocence.'^''

"I beg your pardon ?" said Harry, bonding towards her in
courteous inquiry.

'"Respcctcz I'innoccnce,^^ r{*i)eat(?d the lady, with increased
emphasis.

" Might I ask you to repent the phraso once more ?"

Mi's. C )urt{.uay lost her presence of riind.

"I siiid you should respect innocence, Mr. Lancaster."

"Oh! 1 always do," said Harry, with an air a little shocked
that the lady should h.ave thought it necessju'v to recommend
so obvious n (lut^\ " Lives there a soul so bhu k"

"Now Harrv lo more of your nonsense." said his cousin;
"Mrs. Courtenay isn't used to you yet, and she nnist not be
badjjered. When are you coming over to see us i And you,
Adrienne? Now don't say you are busy; people needn t be
busy unless they like. Jiusiness is the nlark of ji feeble mind.
Come over soon, while Viola is with me; you must get to
know each other. I am going to make hor stay longer.— No.
my dear, you needn't talk about your manuna, your mam
ma will have to do as she is told. I tell her it's exceedingly
bad for a girl to be shut up mn\ never see a living creature.
Harrjr, I give you rnrfr blanche to imdcer hrr a» mu(!h as you
like ; it is just what she wants. Viola, then, will stay with
JKQ for the next week ^^be 4iiict, my dear!) and you will all

TBE SPIDER AND TBS PLT.

come over and have some temiis, or anything you like — ^let
me see -the Featherstones are coming to-morrow— say on
Wednesday, then. So that's settled. No, Adrienne, excuse
me, you have nothing whatever to do. Australian letters ?
Nonfiense. Haven't got a dress ? Borrow one of your
mother's."

" Or," suggested Harry, " adopt the idea of the poor woman
whom a narrow-minded world condemned to a madhouse be-
cause she insisted on wearing costunies made out of advertise-
ment sheets of the Times on week-days, and brown-paper on
Sundays."

*' If they were well made, I am sui*e they would look very
stylish," said Mi*s. Courtenay.

"But, alas! they would have a fault quite fatal in this age
of the v/orship of the Golden Calf," said Adrienne in a tone
which only to Harry betrayed its latent bitterness. " No one
could stfind before tliem and exclaim—like Mrs. Carlyle's
maid before the pictures at the National Gallery— "How
expensive 1"

CHAPTER XI.

THE SPIDER AND THE FLY.

When brother and sister arrived at Clevedon Castle on the
Wednesday as arranged, Harry fdt a pang of disappointment
at seeing only his cousins and Miu Russell Courtenay on the
tennis ground.

" Your niece gone after all?" he asked.

" Oh, no; she is coming nresently: she is so absurdly shv
that I could not persuade licr to be hero when you arrived.
Most ridiculous; she is going to slip in presently when you are
all engaged in tennis, and tnusescai)e observation, lex] wet
Dick Evans juid Dorothy this afternoon, and perhaps Philip
Dendraith. Entre non.% I fancy ho rather adrau'es viola, so I
thought tliey might as well have an opportunity of meeting."

"Augusta," cried Adrienne, ''you condescend to the role
of matclmiaker!"

' ' Nonsense, " she replied : ' ' but Viola really needs to be dra w n
out of herself. She couldn't flirt if she tried, so I am not afraid
of star! ing a sill}'' affair of that sort. I simply want to give
her a little experientre and saimr faire, and a jjolished man
of the world like Philip Dendraith is exactly the instrument
for mv i)urpose. He is certain to t«'ach her somf'thing at any
rate, but wliat that will bo is another matter. Do you think
his admiration is at all serious {•"

Lady Clevedon raised her eyebrows. ' ' How coa one possi-

I '

ii ;

.1 i i

«7l.

mE WING OF AZRAEL.

bly tell that in a man like Philip? What do you think of my
niece, by the way?" Harry hesitated. " Just so," said Lady
Clevedon, *' but she will improve ; her bringing up has been so ,
much agninst her. Her devoted mother has been the ruin of
all that family. Poor Munon! what a life she has had of it;
more than half her own fault, too. She is really never con-
Dent unless she is in trouble ; I assure you it's a fact. Now
it's money matters, now^ it's household tragedies, now it's her
Imsband's health, now it's those graceless sons. At present
Viola, is the source of woe."

" Why, what does she do to cause anxiety?"

*' My dear Harry, she lives; that is enough for Marion. Of
course, the results of the girl's training are beginning to show,
and her mother is quite surprised. Really, the foolishness of
women is something quite amazing. Talk about female suf-
frage! I'd ratlier enfranchise the idiot asylums; yes, and I
would go so far as to ad d the clerical profession !"

*' Do( s Mrs. Sedley regret her daughter's shyness ?" in-
quinHl Adrienne.

" Slio sees that she is too sensitive, as she calls it. The girl
shows a singular preference for her own society, which I
should say was anytliing but entertaining. Her mother de-
clares that she thinks!''' Lady Clevedon laughed. "The
motherly in^^enuity of the idea quite charms me. When I
am not angi y with Marion she amuses me mightily. Poor
woman, she came to me almost in tears the other day, because
she saicl Viola had got into her head that she wanted to earn
her ov/n living. It was really too funny; I laughed till I
could laugh no longer, and poor Marion looked on without a
smile, and when I had finished she repeated the thing over
again, m (xactly the same tone of extivme concern; and if
Arabella hadn't come meandering in at the moment I don't
know v/liat would have happened to me."

"Why does Viola want to earn her own living?" asked
Adrienn^.

Ladv Clevedon shrugged her shoulders. "My dear, why
does she hlush if you speak to her suddenly ? Why does she
allow her mother to dress her in pale lavender sprigs on a
white ground ?"

"She ought to make a stand for brown paper," said Harry.

"Infinitely preferable I" cried his cousin.

"Well. Dorothy, ko you have managed to come: that's
right. How bonny you lfx)k! Whotn are you going to anni-
hiJ ite thJM time with tliat vindictive-looking racket of yours?'*

A tcnni;-! set having been arrangefl betwf»f»n Dorotny and
Harry Lancaster on the one side, and Dick Evans and Adri-
enne on the other, the playej-g took their j>laces, Dorothy
pantinj? for the fray. Dick w^n a stoutly-made reddi«h-
naircd young fellovv-, witliaiU^nded, intelligent mann^-r, and a
pleasjmt smile. His cijwiciors head with wjuare brow indi
cated the direction of his powers. He had Uiat subiuoated

THE SPIDER AND THE FLY.

common-sense, that power of drawing accurate deductions
from closely observed data, which when rightly cultivated
marks, according to Professor Huxley, the scientific intellect.
His tennis-playing was eminently scientific, " screws" being
very plentiful in his "service," as was evident from Doro-
thys trequent exclamations of rage.

During the game Pliilip Dendraith arrived in tennis cos-
tume ' d joined. Lady Clevedon and Mi*s. Courtenay in the
shade of a beech-tree where they were sitting, watching tlio
battle.

He was even handsomer now than ho was in the old days
w^hen Viola first knew him. llis figure had filled out, giving
him a more manly look ; hi.s nuuiner, always pohshed, was
now as perfect as any maiuu>r (;an be that does not take its
rise in warmth of heart and vv(>alth of sympathy. He was a
man whom Sir Roger do Oov(m ley would have c^-nsured very
severely, for "pretervuig the n»putation of wit and sense to
that of honesty and virtue." Ue would have counted among
those who, acct^r^hng to thai moraUs^t alone deserved hang-
ing; those m<M\ who aixj continually offendmg against such
(juiek admouiti<MH as thrir own souls pive tin m, and blunt-
ing the fine ev\u>^ of their minds, in Kuch a manner that they
ixw no mo\\> shocked at vice and folly than men of slower
eanaeiticH."

I'hilip Dendraith had certainly never been shocked at vice
in his hie. and at foil v he lautrhed. He could listen to a tale
of cruelty without the shghtest tlirill of anger againnt the
perpetrator of the deed, or of pity for the sufferer. It never
seemed to strike him to ima^^ne himself 'in the place of the
victim. H> took his ^tand among the powerful, and had no
fellow fLK3ling for tlui weak— whether weak by circumstance
or by natiu'c.

"Allow me to congratulate you on your pictures(|ue appear-
ance," he said, as he rais< d his cap t/> the two ladies; " I feel
as if I were about to take an u-i worthy part in a 'Watte.au.*
The blue green foliage iH^hind you makes a most character-
istic backgnmnd."

" Oh, its only the lack-ground,''' cried Jlrs. Courtenay, gaily
aggrieved; "and we were (lattcring oui*selvcs that tt-e fonned
the attmctive part of tlie picture. "

'* Nor were you deceived," said Philip; *' there could be no
doubt of your efficiency, but the background might have
faUcxJ."

"Mr. Dendraith always manages to wriggle out of a diflS-
culty somehow," said Mrs. CourU nay.

"lie more generally walks out of it, I think. Arabella. Well
playetl I Adrienno, you must bestir yc^urKelf. Did you ever
seeanything like the energy of that child ; her whole soul Ih
in the game."

Dorothy certainly was worth watching as she sprang now

K 'S

•4'-

^ i

THE WINQ OF AZRAEL.

tcrthis side, now to that, her auburn hair flying behind her,
her cheeks flushed, her eyes sjjarkhng.

" I wish I could see Viola losing hcrsolf like that in a game, "
said Lady Clevedon.

*' I thought your niece was to be here to-day," said Philip.

" So she is; I don't know whv she doesn't come out."

" I wiU go and lead the lamb to the slaughter," said Mrs.
Courtenay.

" Only once have I had the pleasure of seeing Miss Sedley
since I met her at Upton," Philij^ obsoiTed, when Arabella
was gone. "I have called three or four times at the Manor
House, but till Saturday last she never appeared, and when
she did 1 could only get a few monosyllables out of her. She
has nevertheless the makings of a very chaiining woman;
there is a peculiar quality about her, not easy to describe, a
particular kind of coldness that suggests hidden fire, and
women of that type are always attractive. I want to make
way in your niece's good graces; she quite takes my fancy,
upon my word." Something in Ijady Clevedon 's movement
of the eyebrows made Pbflip hasten to add, " Not that there
is anything astonishing in that. I have no doubt Miss Sedley
is universally admired."

A half -satirical bow was followed by an amused exclama-
tion, for crossing the lawn came arm in arm, as if on the
closest terms of confidence, Viola and Arabella, Viola walking
as straight as a monument, sufl'ering the sprightly Ai'abclla
to wreath hei*self about her— obviously because she was un-
able to prevent it.

"You have chosen your co- visitors with infiintc discre-
tion," observed Philip, with a thin smile.

'* Yes, they are a delicious pair, and would you believe it,
one is almost as shy as the other. Well, Viola, my dear,
weazled out of your hole at last- ; you have lost the best half
of the afternoon over your headache."

**Have you a headache ?" said Philip, in a tone full of con-
cern. " I think it is very good of you to give us a glimpse of
you at all in that case." He spoke in the low, flattering tones
that most women found so fascinating, and of which none
could fail to feel the chainn. Viola looked u]v, it sounded so
exactly as if he were sincere. His dark eyes, fixed admir-
ingly upon her, offered no further clue to his meaning. If
ever eyes were given to conceal the thoughts, Philip Den-
draith's were bestowed on him for that purpose."

" Mr. Lancaster, what are you about ?" Dorothy's voice
rang out in dismay; " that ball would have been out a long
way, if you hadn't taken it."

"Pm awfully sorry," said Harry; "I'm afraid it has lost
us the sot."

And it had. The playei*s came up from the tennis ground
(Dorothy disconsolate), and joined tlie Watteau group, und^r
the beech-tree.

THE SPIDSn AND THE FLT.

"You seemed rather to lose your head at the last," Phi^-n
said, addressing; Harry, with a keen look in those inscrutiible
eyes of his.

" Impossible," returned Harry, flinpring himself on a scarlet
nig at Mrs. Courtenay's feut; "I haven't such a thing to
lose."

" Our dear Mr. Lnncastor, if we are to take his word for ii,
has run all to heart," said Arabella.

'*He had better look out and not lose it then," said Dieh,
" or he'll have nothing left to steer by."

*' Except the advice of my friends, and that is always to bo
had. A man minus both head and lioart is such a mrity, that
he might possibly also distinguish himself from the common
herd by consenting to take it," said Philip.

*'Not he," threw in Harry; "it requires the full power of
both those organs to persuade a man that the rest of the
world are not all bigger fools than himself."

'* A strange use to put one's head and heart to," observed
Dick: "self-dethronement."

"The highest human achievement, I assure you," said
Harry, whether from conviction oi*, as Philip declared, out of
pure " cussedness " no one could determine.

Adrienne looked at him inquiringly in vain.

" That is the ever-beautifu i doctrine of Renunciation in a
new form," she said seriously.

"Yes," Mrs. Courfenay chimed in, " always sacrificing our-
selves for others, don't you know ? Of course tliat is so Chris-
tian—isn't it?''

" Well, no, I don't think it t.s," said Harry; "and I think,
moreover, that it is a method of procedure extremely incon-
venient for *othei*s.' If people, instead of indulging in useless
moral austerities, would be so kind as to acquaint tliemselvos,
for instance, with the simplest laws of hum&n well being,
they would be doing more good to the ill-used bodies and
souls of their feUow-men than if they had themselves flat-
tened out by steam-rollers, or sent through the most painful
of sausage-making machines. The human being becomes
comparatively valueless as mince-meat."

"O Mr. I^ncaster!" cried Arabella, "but; I do so think
we ought to try to be unselfish, don't you know ?"

" I think we ought fii-st to try not to be blockheads," said
Harry. " I know it is a hard saying— far harder than ' Re-
nounce ' or ' Surrender ;' but it is the message of the age for
all firm and upright souls, better than all the self-effacing
doctrines which condemn the individual (and therefore the
race) to the ridicidous position of the egg-and-breadci-umbed
whiting, whose energies, arguing in a cuxile, are employed in
industriously devouring his own tail."

" Listen to him!" cried Arabella.

*' Almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian," murmured

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mt: WING OF AZRAEL

Philip; at whicb there was a chueklo from Harry and a laugh
from the otbtrs, Viola and Dorothy excepted.

''Now, Mr. Dendraitb," cried Arabella, "do tell us what
you think about it. I confess I cling to the old idea in this
matter, and prefer the humble oflSce of the v«? biting (though it
may be rather foolish) to the enhghteaed selfishness that Mr.
Lancaster so ably advocates."

Philip shiiigged his shoulders. " I fear I shall shock the
company when I say that my idea of life is to make oneself as
comfortable as possible, and' only to injure one's neighbours
as much as is necessary to secure that important end. I may
add, that I dilfer from most people in this matter merely in
regard to frankness."

^* Instead of some robust, well-founded principle which might
hold its ov/n against this Philosophy or selfishness, we have
nothing but a sickly pseudo Christian morality addressed to
the little personal righteousness or desire for righteousness of
each candidate for Heaven, so that in the midst of a predatory
society we possess little or nothing to counteract the univer-
sal scramble but a few of these absurd and heroic whitings
painfully eating their own tails. Ab well try to cure the
world's evils with a set of dancing dervishes 1"

"I say, Dorothy, what do you think of all this heresy?"
asked her brother.

"Oh, Mr. Lancaster is always saying some extraordinary
thing that nobody else ever dreamt of; it doesn't matter,"
returned Dorothy cheerfully, at which there was a shout of
laughter at Harry's expense.

"I fear it does matter, though," cried Adrienne, seeing
Viola's look of hon-or and dismay. "You are working
against the noblest spirit of the age; you pluck the high-
est motive out of the hearts of our most devoted men and
women."

*' I deny it," said Harry ; " I say to them only, in the name
of humanity, don't mistake mere self-mutilation for the s^^r-
vice of man. The chain is only as strong as its weakest link.
You are a link in the chain of the general life, and your busi-
ness :s to see that it is a good one. In the name of Heaven,
not the whiting-trick !"

Adrienne shook her head. " A dangerous doctrine," she
said, "too flattering to our innato self-love."

"That is a pereonal viow of Ihe matter," returned Harry,
" and shows tne moral flaw in the doctrine of pure altruism.
You care, after all. chi(^lly for your virtue and its future pros-
pects. A personal righteousness istomymipd a mere toy;
a doll stuffed with sawdust, which one hugs to one's mistaken
heart. Wo shall have to throw away our dolls, for they are
all fetiches J yes, even our new, ingenious, flaxen-haired, olue-
eyed doll with the sweet expression, who says, * Papa, Mamma^
no jam for me» jam for Tommy.* "

she

THE SPIDER AND THE FLY.

The idea of this ingenious creature amused Dorothy, and
her comments on the subject shortly reduced the assembly to
a frame of mind entirely unsuited to discussing ethical ques-
tions. TTieir thoughts returned to tennis, and several sets
were i)layed, in one of which Viola was induced to take part.
After it was over, Philip suggested a stroll round the garaens,
and Viola, too shy to dissent, made a sign of acquiescence.
Every detail of that miserable interview with her father re-
turned to her memory, as Philip with flattering deference led
her round the beautiful old gardens, where the sun was
drawing the rich scent from the roses, and filling the air with
a glow that only can l>e compared among thitigs human to
that happiness which is said to visit none but the loftiest
souls, ana these it only brushes lightly with its wings, as if
an angel were passing on his heavenward way.

" I ought to smile and flatter and try to charm this man,"
the girl was saying bitterly to herself; "that is my business
as a woman : otherwise—" But Viola did not smile, except un-
designedly sometimes when Philip's talk entertained her
against her will. She maintained a politely coli demeanour,
appearing a little to lose her shyness in the yet stronger feel-
ing of womanly pride. The old childish dislike to Philip had
of course lost its venom, but those memories were not with-
out their influence on her present feelings, and these were
further complicated by the knowledge of the momentarv
murderous impulse which had so nearly caused her enemy^s
death. The remorse and the desire of atonement were still

Sotent. Philip, who, according to his habit, led the way and
ecided details, disco\ered a sequestered spot among the
windings of the shrubberies, where thei'e was a seat, and
here he suggested that they should rest and meditate.

The spot seemed consecrated to the Goddess of Indolence,
so warm and still was the air, so sleepy were the sounds of
humming bees and droning insects.

Viola sat down, while Philip, finding his position on the seat
too cramped, asked permission to lie upon the grass at her
feet.

** Now this is what I call true philosophy,'* he said lazily;
'* the man who knows not how to be idlo, does not know how
to live."

" Most people know how to bo idle, I think." said Viola.

"Pardon me. but I think there aro very fow," stiid Philip.
"Italians understand the art, but the Teutonic races are
burnt up with a fire of action that makes our country the
most glorious and the most uncomfortabl(> in Europe."

" Only just now Mr. Lanrast^^r was saying that ours is the
only language that has the word 'comfort' in it at all," said
Viola, falling into the trap that her companion had set for
her.

" Oh yes, we have comfort in our chairs and tables.

per-

haps, and that is no small matter; still it is not everything.

-i^:

*.f^

■It

. I

THE WING OF AZIlAEt.

We eat well and sleep softly, but how dearly we pay for
these thmgs! Is there not something a little incongruous in
the idea ofa man toiling hard all his life to enable him at last
to buy an easy-chair ?"

Viola smiled, and Philip smiled too, but after g^uite a differ-
ent fashion. He saw cleaily enough that the girl had no in-
tention of paying the usual tribute to his fascinations, but the
omission oidy attracted him. He was tired of girls who could
be had for the asking, and less.

It would be a deligntful task to kindle those beautiful eyes
with an unknown emotion, and to make the proud heart beat
more quickly in its owner's despite. That would be a victory
worth having; a genuine tribute to his power and skill.

Phihp had scarcely believed in the existence of a girl able
to resist the temptation of wealth and position, but he was
half disposed to foi'swear his customary cynicism in Viola's
favour. He was too keen to be uncompromisingly cynical.
He also saw that, in order to arouse in her the feelings he de-
sired, her idea?* must first be led to impersonal subjects, so
that her present hostility might be lulled. His studies of human
nature made him calculate that hostility was a better ground
to work upon than indifference. Hostility implied feeling
and feeling was always fruitful of event.

Again, women's hostility was of a passionate unfounded
order, that might just as reasonably be amity ; therefor© it was
capable of transformation.

Fhilip did not think all this out in so many words : the ideas
floated through hia mir.d as idly as the flics drifted through
the atmoR{)here ; while all the time he went on talking, wait-
ing at intervals for Viola's answers, and treating them, when
they half -unwillingly came, with a deference that was very
flattering in a man or his experience and acknowledged power.

Her expression had begun to change ; already she was for-

fetting herself in what her companion was saying, and
•hilip now found a now subtle chaim in the face : so much so
that he began to wonder if he should be able to keep up the
judicial spirit of the experiment while he sought to summon
expressions yet more beautiful to the deep eyes and the
proud lips.

The doubt did not all detract from the interest of the pas-
time. After a while he ventured to leave the impersonal top-
ics which had served their purpose so well, and to broach the
subject of the past and its memories.

" How you used to hate me in those days!" he said with a
sigh; " it was i^ally rather strange, I think, for I used to be
miite fond of you ; and one imagines that love begets love,
does one not ?'^

*' I have never forgivf n myself for what I did," said Viola,
** and the memory of it haunts me to this day."

*' My dear Miss Sedley, you distress me," cried Philip, rais-

THE SPIDER AND TEE FLT,

bi.

ing himself on one elbow ; " I had no idea you took the mat^
ter so seriously."

*' I have reason to," she said, shaking her head.

" But why should you reproach yourself ? Here I am safe
and sound, and uncommonly jolly (especially at this mo-
ment), into the bargain."

" No tbaiiks to me," said Viola.

'* Yes, for present mercies thanks to you particularly," he
returned.

She looked at him with a puzzled air. Could he really
care, however sUghtly. for her society,— he who had travelled
all over the world, and mingled with the brilliant and beauti-
ful of all countries ?

She gave a faint movement of the shoulders, as if she
abandoned the problem in despair. But the conversation,
the mere presence of an intelligent human being to one in
her monotonous circumstances, was sufficiently intoxicating
without the aid of flattery.

" K you still reproach yourself for that old offence," Philip
continued, " I think it is high time that it should be expunged
from the list of your sins. I forgive you ; there's my hand
on it; and now you have no excuse for tliinking of it any

more.

''Oh, but you don't know, you don't know," cried Viola,
drawing away the hand he had endeavoured to take. ' ' I can't
let you forgive me in ignorance of my real offence."

Philip looked up.

"Do tell me what you mean; I thought I did know your
offence, such as it was ; I suppose you didn't attempt to put
prussic acid in my medicine, or resort to perfume poisons after
the manner of the Borgias? If you did, upon my honour, you
would be an entrancingly interesting person !"

" Interesting because I was criminal 1" cried Viola.

'* In this a^c of mediocrity even crime becomes interesting^;
not because it is crime, but because it is dramatic. Tliero is
in us all an intense craving for the dramatic, because wo are
doomed to lives of such monotonous respectability, such deadly
dulness. The poor man takes to drinKin^ because his home
is detesttible; the rich man plunges into dissipation and goes
to the devil because irritating 8(X3ial laws make every other
course utibearable. I fear I startle you. Miss Sedley; but if
you think over what I have said I believe you ^ill come some
day to admit that there is truth in this view. Th(» Philistines
and the great middle-class -backbone of tno county— have
much to answer for 1"

"Every other course unbearable!"— had she heai-d aright?

The world was seized with an attack of vertigo; Goodf had
flung its arm round the waist of Evil, and the two were waltz-
ing together as if they ha<i Ikhju pirtners in the dance from
time immemorial. She scarcely undorstood what Philip meant
by social laws ; ' * she could not see the town for houses. " Her

-f

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mv^

THE WINQ OF AZBAEL.

whole life had heen passed under the shadow of these laws,
and she was unable to conceive a state of things where they
were absent or different. In any case she felt it her duty to
struggle against the thoughts that PhiUp had suggested. She
did not believe that he was a good man, and therefore it was
necessary to be on her guardfagainst his cleverness.
"A truce to these neresies," said Philip, with a smile,

fiessing her state of mind ; *' I want to hear your confession,
assure you of my forgiveness beforehand, if that is of any
value in your eyes. Now, tell me, what was the secret
enormity of which you were guilty at the time of my acci-
dent ?"

'* You talk lightly of the matter, because you don't believe
I could be guilty or "

She hesitated and coloured painfully.

" Let me help you," said Philip, more and more interested;
" you really did put poison in my medicine ?— is that it ?"

"Oh, no, no! not so deliberate as that," cried the f?irl,
thrusting away the idea as if it were something tangible;
"but when you were sitting at the edge of that window in
the ruin, you remember, and you made me so angry ; well, for
a moment, as I flung myself upon you, I actually meant to
push you over if I could. It was a moment of insanity, but a
thousand lifetimes could not blot it out ; it is with me, now
and for all eternity."
I Philip looked at her, deeply pondering.

By some instinct that comes at the right moment to born
rulers of men, he felt that he ought not to make too light of
this matter. Viola's sense of guilt gave him a valuable handle
by which he could work upon her feehngs. He looked away
without speaking, and allowed the silence to prolong itself
painfully.

"You don't think me interesting for committing a crime
when it comes to the point," said Viola at length, nxing her
eyes straight before her.

Philip heaved a long sigh.

" Behove me, I admire the force of character that prompts
to vigorous actions, but I confess I am sorry and surprised
to learn this of you."

Smarting under the implied reproach, Viola was j^et almost
relieved to find that he did not take a light view of the
matter.

Philip's instinct had been faultless.

" At the same time you must not forget that you were a
mere child at the time, and therefore not quite responsible.
Such an impulse would be impossible to you now."

" Oh, yes, of course— at least I trust and hope so; but that
memory makes me frightened of myself. I don't know what
may be in me."

" It would be interesting to find out," muttered Philip,
ttipr^ tp himself than to her,

A WORKING nTPOTHESIS.

As he spoke, the sound of footsteps disturbed the Serenity
of the scene, and Philip made an impatient gesture.

It was only Mrs. Russell Courteuay and Harry, who were
taking a stroll round the garden together.

** On, here you are again 1" cried the lady. " How comfort-
able you look !— Mr. Dendraith, I do think you are the laziest
person I ever met."

" Do you not know the wisdom of the Persians, Mrs. Courte-
nay, who say that you should never walk if you can ride,
never ride if you can sit, and never sit if you can lie."

" And never live if you can die, they ought to add," said
Harry, "if they want to be consistent."

"I expect tney don't," said Philip. "Miss Sedley and I
have been talking over old times," he went on, "and we have
come to the conclusion that the past is a mistake, and that
there is no time like the present."

As this was a sheer invention on the spur of the moment,
Viola looked at him in astonishment.

" Miss Sedley, you make a very bad conspirator," he said,
laughing; ''you don't enter into the spirit of the creative
genius at all; you sho'^ld never stare in a thunderstruck
manner at such a simple jeu d'esprit. I assiu^ you it is dis-
concerting in the highest degree. "

" Don't spoil that beautiful innocence," cried Mrs. Courte-
nay. " Well, Mr. Lancaster, I think our motto is ' Excelsior,'
is It not ?"

"Are you not coming for a stroU too ?" asked Harry, ad-
dressing the others.

"I abominate that motto," said Philip.

" Well, good-bye; and I do hope you won't propound any
more heresies to Miss Sedley. I don't know what her
mamma would say," cried Mrs. Courtenay.

" Wouldn't it be pleasant to go for a short stroll too?" Viola
suggested ; " the gi*eat heat is over now."

" w hat, you too tormented with this disease of energy 1 So
be it then : let us away ; your will, of course, is my law."

Harry heard their footsteps following, and rejoiced.

CHAPTER XII.

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A WORKING HYPOTHESIS.

Pmup Dendraith had never been troubled with shyness.
He did not hesitate to present himself every day at the (^Jastle,
openly telling Ijady Clevedon that her house had so many
attractions to offer an idle man that she must take the con-
sequences. He mode no seci-et of his preference for Viola's

THE WING OF AZRAEL.

society, singling her out with flattering persistence, and put-
ting forth all his powers of fascination. She had be^un to
exert a very potent spell over him, rather to his own dismay.

As for Viola, her manner was already improving under the
influence of the new experience. The firet coat of paint had
been laid on, as her aunt said.

When Harry called one afternoon he found, to his annoy-
ance, that Philip was as usual among the groups under the
heech-tree on the tennis-ground. Ho and Viola were standing
a little apaii), Viola playing nervously with a bunch of June
roses which slie had in her hand.

" Do you remember," Harry overheard him saying to her,
*' do you remember yesterday afternoon that you dropped a
rose you were wearing, and you v/alked back along the way
you had come, in hopes of finding it ?"

Viola gave a gesture of assent. •

*' I had not the courage then to confess my sin (let us repeat
our stroll of yesterday, by the bye) ; but it lies heavily on my
conscience, and I am come to-day to ask for absolution.
Here is the lost treasure."

Harry saw him bring out of his pocket a witliered rose,
just as the two figures turned a corner and disappeared into
the shrubberies. He would have given worlds to hear what
followed.

When they presently returned the rose was still in Philip's
hand. What did that mean ? Had he obtained absolution
and leave to keep the rose as his own ? Or had she treated
the whole incident as too trivial to notice ? For the first sug-
gestion. Viola seemed too re^^ellent ; for the second, too shy.

As often htippens in life, nrcumstances must have obliged
her to do violence to one side or other of her nature.

Harry pondered very deeply upon the state of matters at
the Castle. He suspected that Lady Clevcdon had been urged
by her brother to bring about a marriage between Viola
and the heir of Upton Court. No marriage could be more
unsuitable. For Viola it could not fail to prove disastrous;
she was as a bird in the hands of the fowler ; Philip's power
was of a cold and watchful order, not to be gainsaid.

Perhaps in the long-run her force of character might be no
less than his, but it was of a different kind. She was open to
pain, while he was insensible. He was a man, she was a
woman; he, a man more than usually callous, more than
usually overbearing; she a woman more than usually sensi-
tive, more than usually disposed to prefer the claims of others
to her own.

" Will nobody play the part of Perseus to this Androm-
eda?" thought Henry. "Ah! Row powerless a man is to
help a woman, however much he may wish to do sol — espe-
cially if"— Harry pulled himsolf up abnintly. ''Thiscomen
of idleness," he said to himself im]>atipntly ; '* the sooner you
return to your duties the better, my friend ! Have you steered

A nvoRKiNO nrpoTiiEsm

your course so far prosperously, with philosophy for your
compass and hope lor your lodestar, only to fall mto this pit-
fall after all ? It won't do; it is folly, accursed folly, and will
only lead to neart ache ! You can't do thinp:s by halves, so if
you are wise you will escape while there is yet time. But is
there yet time ? Don't ask yourself that question, you fool,
or you are lost ; and don't flatter youi-self you can do anything
to help her. As for the appealing look that you see in her
eyes, that is simply the effect of your own imagination, the
result of 'expectant attention,' as Dick Evans would say.
Philip is too much for her powers of resistance; her will
flutters helplessly at the call of his. Ah ! it is an iniquitous
piece of work altogether."

On the next occasion that Harry went to Clevedon, Mr.
Sedley was there, making himself agi*eeable to Arabella, and
behaving in his best and sweetest manner. This was an evil
portent. He had proposed a walk to the sea, and Harry was
asked to join the expedition.

As Viola and Philip were of the party he assented, and ho
had the pleasure of listening for two long miles to the not
very interesting conversation of Mr. Sedley while the other
couple walked ahead. Mr. Sedley was inclined to hang back
to examine the crops, about which he had much to say.
These were now in their freshest and greenest stage, gleaming
and glistening under the blandishments of the sun, which
seemed to be enticing the young life to new and ever now
development, to end, as Harry moodily thought, in the final
massacre of narvest.

The parable was painfully obvious. Seldom had he felt
more sad and depressed than he did to-day amidst these sunny
lands, where peace and plenty beamed with rosy midsummer
faces, while the sea sang its eternal slumber song a few hun-
dred feet below.

In another month or less he would be in another country,
taking his part in a new drama, and alas I in that new drama
-♦he felt not the faintest interest.

Life seemed a miserable tantalizing, disappointing failure,
full of heart-ache and tragedy ; the sunniest temperament in
the world could not save one from the universal doom.

So little would suffice for happiness, thought Harry I Free-
dom, work, leisure, music, friendship, and— love. He did not
demand fame or fortune, luxury or power ; only those essen-
tially human requirements, without which no life is happy
or complete.

In consequence of Mr. Sedley's delays the other two had
now gone a long way ahead, and Harry watched them near-
ing the cliff's edge, and the point where the pathway of de-
scent began. A superstitious feeling possessed him that if
they went down that descent together, Viola's fate was sealed.
It would symbolize the future. He tried to urge his com-
panion foi*ward, but Mr. Sedley was relating an anecdote, and

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THE WINQ OF AZRAEL.

would not be hurried. In fact he found it necessary to pause
now and then for greater emphasis.

Muttering an unintelhgible ai)ologj', Harry broke away
and set off at a run. But he was too late. He saw Phihp
hold out his hand, Viola place hers in it, and then the two
went down together.

Harry felt as if sometliing were tightening about his heart,
as he stood there facing the breezes that came freshly up
from the sea.

The sunshine was beating upon the sweet down grass and
flowers just as before, and the sea murmured mournfully in
the bright lovehness of the scene; "the gladness is taken
away, and the joy out of the plentiful field." Oh! the folly,
the madness, of staking one's whole life upon one human
being among the milUon&, so that the very heavens and earth
might be blotted out, or left dark and ruined in their places !

The folly and the inevitableness of it !

"I wonder what is the matter with Harrj%" Adrienne said
to Dick Evans, whose friendship for her brother made him a
suitable confidant on this topic. '* I never saw him so moody
and distracted ; I can't think what's come lo him."

*' I suppose he hasn't got a rash anywhere?" inquired the
Bcientifig Dick, thoughtfully. But Adrienne laughed at this
suggestion.

*' Liver maybe out of order," said Dick. "Does he eat
well?"

"Like a cormorant. No, it isn't his liver. I think (if he
is to be out of sorts, poor boy !) it would be more convenient
if it were from a housekeeping point of view."

" He must be in love," said Dick, stooping at last from the
pinnacle of science.

"Nonsense!" cried Adrienne, startled. "Oh, dear? I hope
not: it would besuch a serious matter with him, and I don't
see how it could be otherwise than unfortunate. You know
that he has only a couple of himdi'eds a year besides his

p-y."

* '^^ Don't distress yourself in this anticipatory manner,
Adrienne," advised Dick; "I put forth the suggestion merely
as a working hypothesis."

That working hypothesis haunted Adrienne all night. She
longed to speak to her brother and comfort him if she could,
for her nature was essentially sympathetic ; but Harry made
some nonsensical reply to every tentative remark, and she
had, as usual, to give in.

Mrs. Dixie, unaccustomed to her son's new mood, laughed
inappropriately when he was remarking to the effect tliat all
is vanitv ; and when she discovered that Harry actually meant
that all was vanity, she had a whispered consultation with
Adrienne about camomile pills, and wondered if lie would be
▼eiy angry if she sent for the doctor.

A WOBKINO BTP0TBBSI8.

In spite of his wise reflections, the young man went the
next aay to Clevedon. Apparently some arrangement for
prolonging Viola's visit had been cc ne to on the occasion of
her father's call, for Harry found with distress that she was
not, after aU, to leave at the end of the week. This looked
very like a conspiracy between brother and sister, of which
the girl was to be the victim. Sorely she needed a champion,
but who was to take that difficult post? Harry did what he
could: he tried to prevent too many solitary wandering
with Philip, regardless of the latter's frowns ; and he did his
best to turn Viola's attention from her admirer, or to rivet it,
if that were possible^ upon himself.

There was very little to be done, and Harry feared that
Lady Clevedon would be annoyed at his interference, care-
fully as he tried to veil it.

Philip at this period was in his happiest mood, — not at all a
good sign, thought Harry, especially as he seldom mentioned
Viola's name. He was loud in his praises of the host and
hostess. As for Lady Clevedon, she was one of the most
agreeable women Philip had ever met ; and, ye gods, wasn't
she sharp I

If Harry seemed moody and out of sorts in the bosom of
his family, he took care not to let that accusation be made
against him elsewhere. Philip, above all, must not suspect
his secret.

" I will say this for Lady Clevedon," said Philip, expan-
sively, — " she knows how to make her house attractive better
than any one I ever met ; and what women she picks up !
Arabella is simply bewildering 1"

*' So her host seems to think— a man who would ' rather face
a crocodile than meet a ladies' school!' I believe that when
all secrets are made known, that poor fellow will be found to
have undergone excruciating agony on account of Arabella."

" Hail Arabella !" exclaimed Philip, raising an imaginary
bumper to his lips; "tricksy, wicksy Arabella, sweet and
stylish Arabella, who would not love thee, Arabella !"

" Poor woman ! lam sure she does her best to please you,
you ungrateful fellow!"

" I am tired of women who try to please me," said Philip,
stretching himself lazily ; " it's quite extraordinary how they
will run after a man, in these days of universal competition!
The marriag^market is overstocked: a woman has to get
married at all hazards, and she will stick at nothing in the
way of business. A man must be circumspect indeed to escape
the dangers that beset him in the highways of society. ' He
that fleeth from the worse of the fear shall mil into the pit ; and
he that getteth up out of the pit shall be taken in the snare.' "

" Well done 1" exclaimed Harry. " I didn't know you could
quote Scripturo."

" My dear fellow, I was brought up on it; perhaps that may
account for my cynicism regarding the adorable sex. How-

TUE WINO OH' AZRAKL.

ever, I need no excuse ; if you had run the gauntlet with .is
many mothers of daughters as I have, you wcjuld ho a blas-
phemer too. Tlioy are simply pirates on the higli soas."

" It must he hard lines on a girl who doesn't want to be
flung at a man's head to have a predatory mother."

" Show me that girl, and I will wear her in my heart of
hearts."

" Well, without aspiring for that honourable post for my
sister, I may point to her, — and then there is Miss Sedley."

Philip smiled. " Miss Sedley is inexperienced, and she has
been seriously brought up."

"I doubt if all the mothers in Christendom would have
made her into a fisher of men !" Philip shook his head.

*' Lives there a woman who is not Fortune's slave? Upon
my soul, I believe (with the exception of one or two who
don't know anything about life) that such a being does not
exist !"

"She must be a considerable heroine, I admit," said Harry;
" for Fortune is hard upon women who refuse her obeisance,
and in point of fact I suppose even a woman must live 1 My
sister, at least, goes so far as to hint it."

"Well, I suppose she must, in spite of Talleyrand 1" said
Philip, with a shrug of the shoulders. " Henrv VIII. when
he cleared away the monasteries might hav left the con-
vents, I think."

" Do you? Ask my sister and Mrs. Lincoln what they think
on that subject."

"Oh! Mrs. Lincoln's eccentricity puts her out of court,"
said Philip.

The appearance of Viola at this juncture interrupted the
colloquy. Philip sprang up and waved her to his place on the
se?t, and Harry rose also.

"Please don't move: my mother is here — she came about
two hours ago ; and Aunt Augusta says will you come in and
see her, Mr. Dendraith?"

" With the greatest pleasure; but how cruel of her to send
such a messenger !" cried Philip, allowing his meaning to be
guessed by tlie ingenious. "Lancaster, try and be enter-
taining enough to keep Miss Sedley till I return;" and he
strolled off with his easy swinging walk across the grass.

" Philip has set me a task I don't feel at all ej^^iafto," said
Harry, piercing a plantain through the heart with his stick.

"Never mind;" Viola returned, " you are always entertain-
ing."

*' A man can take no heavier burden upon himself than the
reputation of a buffoon," said Harry; "never more— though
the rdle of chief mourner would better become him— may he
lay it down."

" Are you a chief mourner ?" asked Viola, her voice soften-
ing at the call for sympathy. -

1 (

A WOUKINQ JIYP0TI1E8I8.

"I am indeed," said Harry, "and sole mourner too, if that
is not paradoxical."

There was a pause ; and then the very atmosphere around
seemed to throo, as Harry heard his own word** escape him :
" My trouble is on your account."

" On my account !"

Her surprise made him add hastily,

*'I ought not to have said this much, as I can't say more;
—in fact, I fear I am very impertinent to speak at all : it was
not premeditated."

She looked bewildered.

"I wish you would tell me frar»kly what you mean," she
said. "You don't know of any imi>onding misfortune for me
or mine, do you ? No; if you did, you could scarcely take it
so much to heart."

" There you mistake," said Harrv ; " but — " he pressed his
hand to his brow, — "I ou(?ht really not to have spoken in
this way. Forget and forgive it."

It was impossible to speak out, it seemed so underhand, so
mean, especially since he had a new and selfish motive to pre-
vent the marriage.

If Philip had now won the giii's heart and was trying to
win her hand, what right had any one to interfere? It was not
as if she were actually bein^ forced into the marriage. On
the other hand, coula this inexperienced creature, brought
up to submit her own will in all things, be regarded as a free
agent, when people like Lady Clevedon, Philip Dendraith,
Mrs. Sedley, and even Arabella were conspiring against her ?

"If you can warn me about something and will not. Mr.
Lancaster, I think you are unkind," said viola, reproachfully.

"Oh! don't say that; if you know how it hurts me to hear
it, "you would not," he exclaimed. "What can I do?" He
paused in deep and painful thought. "This much I think I
may say, and I trust to you to take it in good part: It is my
earnest advice to you to leave this place as soon as possible,
no matter on what pretext, and if possible to leave the
neighbourhood also for a time ; at any rate, refuse to see, or
avoid seeing, all callers. I know it* sounds ridiculously like
an advertisement in the Agony Column, but I can't help that.
If you would only take what I say on trust, and not demand
further explanation, you would do me a very gi*eat favom*.
My desire to serve you is most heartfelt, believe me."

His manner and the thrill in his voice amply confirmed
his words.

Viola's reply was cut short by the arrival of Philip and
Arabella, and Harry had no means of finding out for the rest
of that day how she had taken his strange advice, or
whether she intended to act on it.

With increased seriousness Mi-s. Dixie on his return to the
cottage began to talk of sending for the doctor, and Adnenne
to ponder ov^r Pick Evans's ' working hypotho^i^f ' '*

''i . f

THE WJNQ OF AZBAEL,

CHAPTER XIII.

A CRISIS.

' ** Well, Marion, what now ? Has Richard been forgetting
he is a gentleman again ? Drinking, swearing, or both ?"

In liis sister Mr. Sedley always found one of his severest
critics.

"I did not come here to complain of my husband, Au-
gusta."

" I wish to Heaven you hnd ! You really ought not to allow
him to trample on you as he does. Remember, a man will
always bo as much of a brute as you will let him."

Mi's. Sodley was silent.

" Woll, Marion, what is the trouble ?" agafa asked Lady
Clevodon with a shrug of the shoulders.

*' It is about my poor daughter; iu^r father has been speak-
ing to me very peremptorily on the subject of her mar-
riage."

*' He spoke to me about itj too," said Lady Clevedon, **not
peremptorily," she added with a laugh.

" He has so much respect for your judgment," said Mrs.
Sedley.

'* He has such a wholesome dread of my agile tongue," said
Lady Clevedon. " Well, Marion ?"

*' Mr. Dendraith has spoken to Richard on the subject, and
asked his consent to an engagement between him and Viola,
but ho has not yet spoken definitely to Viola herself."

**I thoujjht it was coming to that," said Lady Clevedon,
"and I think it is a matter for much rejoicing. The girl
could not make a better marriage, and I UL'od not remind you
o^ the important bearing that it will liavo upon the affairs of
the family in general— tlie boys, and so on."
- Mrs. Sodley sighed. "Yes, I do not overlook all that, but
—will this marriage be for Viola's hap]>iness ? I fear greatly
that Mr. Dendraith is a man of no religious principle."

"Perhaps ho may havo what is bettorj" said Lady Cleve-
don, with Pa^an calmness: *' moral principle."

** I fear ho is not even all one might wish as to that, if one
is to believe rumours."

" He has his enemies. I dare say ho is not immaculate, but
I think he is just the man for Viola; hi» iR born to rule, and
has the deviVs own temper; women are all the bt)ttorfora
little friglitening."

It had. however, never o<'cun'otl to Lady Clevedon to look
out for tne 1*>rriflc creature who could frighten her !

**5efQro Viola came to stay with you," continued Mrs.

A CRiaiA

Aft

Sedley, ** she made her father very angry by avoiding Mr.
Dendraith when he called ; Richard spoke to me about it, and
insisted on my using my influence to bring her to a different
frame of mind. It was very painful to mo, for tlie poor child
took it so much to heart, tmd cried out that even I had for-
saken her."

''So you told me at the time," said Lady Clevedon, "and
very miserable you were about it !"

"Now, however, by all accounts," Mi-^. Sedley went on,
"she seems to be changing in her feelings towards Mr. Den-
draith ; is that really the case ?"

" He has certainly made an impression."

" Ah, that troubles me!" cried Mrs. Sedley, " that troubles
me greatly. "

*'0h, was there ever such a determined miserable!" ex-
clairned Liidy Clevedon inipatiently. " To-day she comes to
me hke Niobe, all tears, because her daughter is not favour-
able to the marriage proposed for her by her parents; she
comes to me once more— the identical drops still wet upon her
cheeks, ready to do duty over again ; but this time oecause
the daughter is favourable to the mai'riage. My dear Marion,
what would you have ?"

"I would have my child both good and happy, and I am
sadly afraid that no womoa can hope for such a combinatioii
in this sad world."

" Depends on what you mean by good, and wliat you mean
by happy."

" My iwsition," continued Mrs. Sedley, "is the more trying,
because dear Viola woidd do anything that I asked her to do.
She makes me her guide and almost her conscience. How can
I pei"Suado her into this marriage, which I fear may not be for
lier happiness, and how. on the other hand, can I urge her to
oppose her father's will ? Can the blossii^g of Heaven descend
upon the rebellious child, or upon the mother who encourages
her rebellion ?"

" If the woman h.isn't ingeniously got herself impaled upon
anotlier two-legged dilenmia !" exclaimed Didy Clevedon.
" How dfo you manage to fall in with all these monstrosities ?
You can't oe content rvith a sound, able-bodied trouble like
nny other Christian, you must needs pick up crt>atures with
more heftds and limbs than they ouglit to have— a sort of
Briqrean woe dreadful to contempUit^e ! If you had betMi a
general, Marion, the Caudine Forks is tht» oattle that you
would nave fought, and straightway you wtnild have gone
and got yourself inextricably wed.i:ea between tl e prongs !"

" I think life is made up of these many-sided difficultieSv*'
Siiid Mrs. Sedley sadly. "Augusta," she went on, laying her
hand on her sister inlaw's ann, "you have influence with
Richard; should the poor child itviUy show an invincible
repu^iance to the morriiige, you will not refuse to use it on
her Bide t"

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141 H'^ I

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flTEI WING OF AZnAEL

Lady Clevedon shook her head.

*' I can't promise anything. The marriage seems to me so
rational, that I hope Viola will be wiser than to show any re-
pugnance to it. I don't think, mind you, that a girl should
marry a rich man whom she dislikes, but there is no reason
to dislike a man simply because he i6 rich and well-born.
Many romantic girls make a point of doing that as in duty
bound."

No help was to be had from Lady Clevedon in this matter,
and Mrs. Sedley had then to come to the second object of her
visit, namely, to take Viola back to the Manor-Houso. Her
sister-in-law scoffed and sconied and insisted that her niece
must stay, but Mrs. Sedley was quietlv determined.

She did not mention that the girl had herself written ear-
nestly entreating her mother to recall her.

Strangely still and lifeless seemed the old home when Viola
saw it again after her ten days' absence. With all its famili-
arity, it was to her as if she had never seen the place before.
And the routine of the days without change, without move-
ment ; they weie like a stagnant, overshadowed pool, where
there was never a glimpse Of the blue heaven, never a ripple
or a sparkle from dawn to dark. Viola thought the life at
Cle'/'^don empty and flippant, but at least it had some flash
and brilliancy.

She felt restless and unhappy. She could not settle to her
old life; memories of the past ten days haunted her, and filled
her with vague longing for excitement.

Some new chord in her being had been touched ; she was
angry with herself, angry with her surroundings, ashamed
at her own inability to resume her former simple life. She
felt she had lost ground ; new feelings made havoc with her
self-control; she was like a rudderless ship at the mercy of
contrary winds.

Gardening was the best sedative for this restlessness,
though that occupation had the disadvantage of allowing her
thoughts to work as well as her hands.

Contrary to Mr. Sedley's hopes, Philip Dendraith did not at
once follow up his preliminary overtures. He was reported
to have gone up to town, a proceeding which caused much
suffering to the family of the Lord of the Manor. Mr. Sedley
suspected that Viola had rebuffed her lover, and she had to
listen to some parental plain-speakinp on the subject.

"If it were not for my mother, I would not remain here
another moment !" Viola had once cried out, i)assionately,
bringing down upon her head such a torrent of rage and
scorn that she left her father fully meaning to do even as she
had said. Such taunts »vere more than slie could endure.
But at the sight of h(5r j >ther h(^r resolution broke down ; she
could not malce yet saduor that sad pale face, and bring tears
to the eyes that had shed so many bitter ones already.

On one balmy afternoon, Viola, hoe and basket in hand, be-

A CRI8T8.

took herself to the garden, a narrow grass-plot beside the
Lover's Walk, as it was called ; a dark pathway of yew-trees,
wiuch formed a tragic background to the beas of roses and
summer flowei*s among which Viola was moving, busy with
her scissors and her hoe.

She was dressed in white, and her sunlit figure stood out in
strong contrast to the shadows behind her. A fanciful per-
son might have seen symbols in the picture.

A tame jackdaw hopped nimbly around, amusing himself
with pecking at pieces of stick, and hauling weeds out of
Viola's basket on tlie sly.

"Charming!" cried a voice breaking the sunny silence.
*' Would that I were an artist !'\

Viola turned, and the admired picture was by no means
marred by the addition of Philip Dendraith's handsonoe fig-
ure as he raised his hat and advanced towards her.

She coloured, and smiled in a manner that pleased him well.
"So it is to you that the Manor House owes it wonderful
roses ! Vart d'etre belle ! What better teacher could they
have ?"

Viola sighed. She wished she could understand this man,
but not being able to do so, she resigned herself to her igno-
rance.

" I find they best learn how to be beautiful by being
happy," she said; "so I try to make them so."

She was going on with her hoeing in a desultory way.

"And you make them happy by bestowing upon them the
light of your presence 1" Sfiid Phihp in a low voice.

" And bv introducing to them ray most agreeable friends,"
added Viola with a quick glance.

Philip almost started; the speech was so unlike one of
Viola's. He had expected blushes and downcast looks, and
he encountered instead something distantly approaching
mockery.

It was one of those excursions from her normal character
which had sometimes surprised herself of late. The rhythm
and ring of the talk at Clevedon seemed to be ringing in her
eare, as the characteristic cadence of an author wiU haunt
one after reading, creating mental echoes which may escape
in sneech.

"Now. dear Miss Sedley, I think you have worked long
enough,' said Philip, taking the hoe from her with gentle in-
sistance. " Your roses have had you all to themselves too
long; it is my turn now to bo mode happy, and if possible,
beautiful."

" I make my roses happy by watering them."

" Miss Sedley I" exclamied Philip^ looking round at her. *'I
am afraid you have become rather flippant since I bad the
pleasure of seeing you 1"

"Ohnoiohnol"

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THE WINQ OF AZRAEL.

** Don't deny it; it is quit« charming, I assure you. Only
please don't be too hard upon J»e."

Without ueply, she allowed herself to be led to the rustic
seat opposite the sundial whereon the jackdaw sat, alter-
nately preening his feathers and pecking at the shadow with
bis beak.

The bird seemed agitated when Philip took his place beside
Viola.

"Your jackdaw is apparently jealous" he said. *'No
doubt you are very fond!^ of him. I should imagine you had
a large power of loving."

" And of hating," said the girl.

"Yes; I can answer for that !" exclaimed Philip with a
laugh. "Don't you think now that you owe me some rep-
aration for having hated me so fiercely in the days of yore?"

She looked troubled.

"Don't you think," Philip went on, drawing nearer to her,
" that if the possession of your love had become the supreme
desire and object of my existence, that you ought at least to
try to give it me ?"

viola breathed very quickly, but answered nothing;.

" You must know, dear Viola, that such* is my desire; you
have entered and possessed my heart as I thought no ^roman
ever could have possessed it; you have enslaved my thoughts,
my dreams, my very will ! This last week has been a blank
to me, because you were absent. I am telUng you the abso-
lute truth when I say that I have never felt before what I
feel now, and that I shall never be happy till you promise to
love me and be my wife."

He was so much in earnest that he had thrown off his usual
calm mannerj and his measured periods had given place to
the rough, quick utterance of strong feeling.

There is something peculiarly moving in the emotion of a

person generally selt-possessed.
»tA7;«i« don't turn away from

me; tell me, do you not

Viola,
love me ?"

" Kiaw I" said the inconvenient jackdaw in a loud voice.

This was merely a displeased comment upon the arrival of
Thomas with a watering-pot, Thomas not being in the habit
of showing that deference towards Jack which Jack thought
was his due.

"Unwelcome old man 1" exclaimed Philip; "and you most
obstructive fowl, I anathematize you both 1 Who was it
that said that a woman can forjdve everything in her
lover, except that he should appear ridiculous 'i Have I com-
mitted the unpardonable offence ?"

"Oh 1— don't talk to me like this !" cried Viola with a dcs-
I>erate gesture. " I am not a clever lady of society who can
understand and answer you."

She looked round in search of Thomas, but that discreet
person having (after a certain lapse of time) seen what was

A CRISIS.

going oft, took bis watering pot, and trudged off to pastures
new, with an expression about his left eye absolutely beyond
human power to describe.

Geoffrey finding him in this sublimated state of knowing-
ness, and receiving from him sundry oracular hints, was pre-
]pared for the worst, as he said, especially as he found his
father in a seraphic temper pacing the terrace with Mrs.
Sedley, and calling her attention to the exceeding fineness of
the immemorial elms. Those elms were in process of being
secured to the family perhaps for centuries.

" I fear you think that because I am sometimes flippant, I
can never be serious," said Philip earnestly, " but you never
were more mistaken in your lite. I own that I think very
few things of much consequence, but for that very reason I
have the more ardour to throw into those that I do care
about. Ah 1 Viola, don't tell me that I have set my heart on
the unattainable."

The conflict that was going on in her mind at this moment
was entirely unsuspected by Philip; he supposed that her
efforts to silence him proceeded from mere girliHh bashful-
ness, and that he had only to persevere in order to complete
his triumph.

He leant forward and took her hand.

*' Dearest," he began, and then stopped, for at his touch
Viola had drawn her hand away with a sharp movement any-
thing but suggestive of a triumph for her lover.

"I wish you would not speak in this way— you distress

me.

»>

'* Viola, I think you are really very unkind," cried Philip,
" when you know now devoted I am to you I"

" I am very sorrv," was all that she would say in reply to
this and to other pleading of the same kind.

Philip was astonished, piqued, but all the more determined
to achieve his object. He knew that practically it was
achieved already, for he had her father on his side, and
through him Mrs. Sedley also; that was enough: only he
longed to make the girl come to him willingly and gladly.
As a last resource alone would he employ the parental influ-
ence, but he had no intention of giving up the girl, let come
what would.

Did he not love her as he had never loved before, and was
he not ready to lavish upon her every indulgence that money
and influence could command? If an unwilling bride, she
should become a loving and a happy wife ; and what more
could the heart of woman desire? Besides, a woman of
Viola'r type was the slave of her consoi(>nce. Duty, religion,
convenience, all came trooping to the front aftei the wedding-
ring was once fairly on ; a man ran no risk in choosing a bride
of this kind, however unwilling she might be at the time. He
could sar^ly calculate on that. Triuy mothers like Mrs.
Sedley ought to be encouraged.

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THE WINQ OF AZBAEL.

*' Viola, am I then entirely indifferent to you|" acked
Philip. "Would you not care if I were to go away and
never come and see you anv more?"

Her truthfulness obliged her to confess that she would care,
and Philip pressing his advantage made her own that ho
sometimes had a sort of fascination for her.

** Then why do you repel me as you do? Why will you not
accept my love?"

"Oh! don't ask me, for pity's sake,— don't speak of this
any more."

Philip was fairly puzzled, and not a little annoyed.

He was silent for a moment, and then said witn an abrupt
energy startlingly different from his ordinary manner: "You
are surely not engaged secretly to some one else?"

" Oh no, not" she said quiclily.

The expression of relief that came into his face was as
astonishing as the anxiety that preceded it.

"Your affections are not engaged elsewhere?"

"No."

"Then I shall prevail 1 Think of your parents, Viola— if
you will not think of me- think how happy you would make
them. I have already spoken to your father, and he gives
his consent freely."

"I have no doubt of it," she said with some bitterness.

A smile fhttered across Philip's face.

"And your good mother; she too has set her heart upon
our marriage, though she may not tell you so, because she
wishes your own heart to decide the question."

" My mother!" exclaimed Viola; "does she wish it?"

"She wishes it, undoubtedly; why not talk the matter
over with her? I don't want to hurry you for an answer^
impatient as I am to hear my fate. Will you do that? I wiii
come to-morrow, net for your answer, unless you like, but
merely to see you again. Do try and think of me as kindly
as you can. Ah ! dearest, it is hard to leave you in this state
of suspense, but I suppose there is no help for it. Au revoir;
and be merciful ; my happiness is in your hands. Gk>od-bye
till to-morrow." .

" Kiaw 1" said the Jackdaw derisively.

DECtDJOD.

101

CHAPTER XIV.

DECIDED.

S.'. i

Mrs. Sedley was generally to be found in the morning-
room, which she had chosen for her special domain. It faced
north, was severely furnished, colour apparently not having '
heen invented at the time of its upholstering. She was
dressed in black, with dead-vvliite folds of muslin at the throat
and wrists.

When Viola entered, her mother was sitting working in a
low chair; a quiet, grave figure, with smooth shining hair
severely brushed down over the temples, the busy fingers
alone giving signs of animation.

She looked up and greeted her daughter with a sad, loving
smile.

" What is it, dearest ?" she asked, laying her thin hand on
the table.

Viola struggled with her habitual reserve for a moment:
then she said : " Mother, Mr. Dendraith has just left me; and
—I want to speak to you 1"

Mrs. Sedley dropped her work ; her hands trembled.

Viola had placed herself beside her mother with her back
to the light. She leant her head on her hand and spoke in a
quick low tone.

"Mr. Dendraith wants me to marry him; he says he will
never be happy till I consent ; he says that my father wishes
it (which I knew) and that you wish it ; is that the case ?"

Mrs. Sedley took her daughter's hand in hers and silently
caressed it for a few seconds. Then she bent her head and
laid the little hand upon her brow with a movement more
emotional than Viola had ever seen her give way to before.

"I will tell you all that your father and I have been think-
ing about the matter, dearest. You know that of late your
father has had many business difficulties, so great that we
shall not be able to live hero much longer unless some relief
comes. In proposing for you, Mr. Dendraith made most
generous offers to your father, and as Mr. Dendraith is a man
of good family and fortune, handsome, clever, and of agree-
able manners, your father thinks that you can have no pos-
sible objection to the marriage. He is naturally anxious for
it, as you may suppose, and lie cannot understand that you
may not care for Mr. Dendraith enough to marry him. Seeing
your father so bent upon it. I entreated him to let you have
ample opportunity* to judge for yourself, and I think your
visit to your aunt has given you some insight into Mr. Den-
draith's character and your own feelings towards him. Your

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THE WING OF AZRABL.

aunt seemed to think that you were beginning to care for
him." Viola looked Btartled, '•Question your own heart
searchingly, dear child, and consider too what is yoin* duty
in this matter. Pray for guidance where alone you can ob-
tain it. I have thought and thought till my head and heait
ache, and I have prayed ; and I fear that I can see only one
path of duty for you, my child. Earnestly do I trust that
you may be given strengtn to tread it. ""

"Then you do desire this marriage ?" said Viola.

"I desire only that my child should do what is right and
dutiful, leaving the rest to God — her father, her brothers,
all are depending on her decision "

" And her mother 1" added Viola, growing vciy white.

"Oh. do not think of her, my child! She suffers only
througn the sufferings of her dear ones. But your father s
state of health gives me great anxiety, and if we should have
to leave the Manor-House "

" It would kill him," said Viola, "and you too I" Her face
■was hard and desperate.

"On the other hand," said Mrs. Scdley, "I do not wish you
to enter upon this union if it is really I'cpugnant to your feel-
ings. That I cannot countenance. Consider the cjuestioii
from every side, and do not forget that this ofjportumty may
have been given to you for the saving of this young man's
soul."

" O mother 1 it is no more possible to talk to Mr. Dendraith
about these matters than to Aunt Augusta! And who am I
of little faith to move such a man ?"

"We know not what instruments it may please the Lord
to use," said Mid. Sedley.

"Well, Viola, your mother tells me that you have been
speaking to her about Philip Dendraith's proposal. I hope
you appreciate your wonderful good-fortune I" She was
silent. " The affair had better l^ brought to a head at once;
I can't understand why you didn't acce]>t him on the spot,
without girlish shilly-shallying. I am going over now to
Upton Court, and will take your answer and settle the matter
out of hand."

A moment of terrible inward conflict; Viola stood with
bowed head and clasped hands, her mother's words burning
into her brain: "duty— right— leave the rest to God— your
father and your brothers— to leave the Manor-House might
kill himl" And then above all rose the thought of that
mother herself, racked and tortured in the impending mis-
fortune of her family, the real weight of which would fall on
her shoulders. Viola raised her head. The garden seemed to
spin round her, the air became thick and black.

" I'll tell him you say ' yes,' of course." said her father,

*' Tell him I say ' yes ' !" repeated Viola.

BBTBOmBA

103

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CHAPTER X7.

BETROTHED.

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Sir Philip, noted throughout the ccunty for his dashing
equipages, drove over to the Manor-House in the very
sprightiiest and jauntiest vehicle which it could enter the
heart of man to conceive.

A brilliant pair of chestnut horses, high-stepping, spirited,
alwavs stylishly on the point of running away, came spank-
ing aown the avenue, "youth at the helm," and Ladv Den-
draith at the prow. Nothing would persua "e the old lady to
trust herself on the box-seat on her husband's chariots; she al-
ways took the post allotted to *' Pleasure " in Etty's famous
picture.

Philip, on the wings of love, had already arrived at the
Manor-House where he and Viola with the radiant proprietor
and his wife were assembled on the door-step to welcome the
expected visitors. Sir Philip waved his whip in gala fashion,
drew up the prancing chestnuts, sprang down, helped "the old
ladv " to alight, and broke forth into loud expressions of joy
ana satisfaction. The two fathers shook hands with the ut-
most effusion, exchanging boisterous jocularities, and between
them making so much noise that the dashing steeds very
nearly took fright and ran away down the avenue. Only
Philip's dexterity prevented the calamity.

"Well, my dear, I sujjpose you won't refuse to kiss me
»ow," said Sir Philip, patting Viola on the shoulder.

She made no resistance to the sounding salute of her father-
in-^law elect, but she did not receive it over-graciously. She
was q[uiet and cold, and treated Philip with extreme polite-
ness in return for his graceful and flattering homage.

However, the others were too preoccupied to notice this,
especially as Viola received Lady Dendraith's hearty expres-
sions of pleasure with answering warmth.

" My dear, there is no one I would rather have foradaugh- ^
ter-in-law than yourself, and I assure you this is to me ttie
best news I have heard for many a long day 1"

The Dendraiths stayed to luncheon, and heartily enjoyed
themselves. Sir Philip undertaking to " chaff " the betrothed
couple in his usual graceful fashion, to Viola*s utter bewilder-
ment and dismay.

Philip took it coolly ; he owned to having got up an hour
earlier than usual that morning in order to arrive in time for
breakfast at the Manor-House, admitted with a "What would
you ?" air and a shrug of the shoulders that he had stolen Viola's
portrait from her aunt with all the audacity of a thorough-

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The wing of Azrael

going house-breaker, and generally disarmed his adversaries
by making more severe jests against liimself than any one else
was able to perpcti-ate against him.

He eat a most hearty meal, and betook largely of the cham-
pagne that Mr. Sed lev brought out in honour ot the occasion;
altogether he was in his hapjiiest mood, and appeared to brill-
iant advantage. His Viappiness was obviouSj but this was
clearly because ho chose to take the company into his confi-
dence. He even paraded it in a half-serious, half -jocular man-
ner.

Fortunately for Viola, even arter the departure of Sir
Philip and llady Dendraith, she managed to avoid a Ute-db-
teti with her betrothed.

Her bewildered, unwUlinp-, almost somnambulistic repetition
of her father's words on the night before, had suddenly — as a
whisper may start an avalanche— brought down upon her a
series cf consequences for which she was totally unprepared,
and which she had not even realised.

The congratulatory visit of Philip's father and mother had
startled her into the consciousness that a great step had been
taken, and she now dreaded inexpressibly to be alone with
Philip. How she was to meet him on the new footing she
could not even imagine.

The position threatened to become very difficult, especially
as Philip was far from pliable, and as Viola felt a certain un-
defined awe of him, partly on account of her sense that she
did not understand him, partly because she felt the merciless
grip of his powerful nature underneath the smoothness of his
manner. In dancing, the most perfect lightness and grace is
the outcome of strength, and this was what Philip's suavity
also suggested.

He. on his part, had not found the day unsatisfactory in
spite of Viola's rather repellant manner. After all, shrewd
as he was, he failed — where so many shrewd men fail — in his
interpretation of female character. He thought that Viola
was simply a little shy. Perhaps a man's views about women
are the crucial test of his own character: certainly if there is
in him the slightest taint of vulgarity, there will it inevitably
betray itself.

Whether through the educating influence of his sister's
society, or by the help of some innate sense denied to average
men, Harry Lancaster had always escaped the shallow but
popular dogmas which are repeated so often and with so
much aplomb that thejr come to be recognised in literature
and life almost as axioms. Harry refused to accept these
unexamined. " Tlie superstitions of dogmatic religion," he
once told his indignant sister, "are rejected Fcornfully by
many who still bring their ofleiings to their social fetich
with the simple faith of little children."

He had often laughed at Philip's cynicism, not because it was

BETROTHED.

105

' i

•cynicism, but because it was merely the echoes of other
men's sneers.

Philip denied this. If ever a man was -justified in being a
cynic— esi)ecially about women— he was tnat man.

He admired Viola Sedley (as he frankly admitted) because
she was so entirely unUke the women of society who had im-
bued him with a rooted contempt for the sex.

*' In proportion as they are clever they are bad," he said:
*' safety lies in dulness: talent is agreeable to amuse oneself
with, but stupidity is the thing to marry 1 That is the conclu-
sion which my experience has led me to— though one does
not always put one's tneories into practice, mind yon. Come
now. you agree with me at heart, though that sister of yours
won*t allow you to say so. If you had a few thousands a
year, my dear fellow, your ideas of human natiu'e would
marvellously alter— sister or no sister. By the bye, I have a
piece of news for you— no, not about myself just at present-
there is a chance of a friend of yours coming to settle in this
neighbourhood ; can you guess who it is?"

'' Mrs. Lmcoln?"

"Right. The divine Sibellal I wonder how you guessed?
You know my father has a small house not far from Upton,
and he has offere'd it to Mrs. Lincoln at a low rent— being
glad to get it kept in repair. The mother is opposed to the
arrangement; she doesn't think the 'Divina Commedia,' as I
call her, a proper person. I tell her that the separation was
his fault, but of course without effect. My father is dazzled
with the Commedia's beaux yeux (though he denies it), and de-
clares she is an injured anof immaculate creature, deserving
all sympathy. You know there was some scandal about a
fellow— 1 don't remember his name?"

"Mrs. Lincoln shrugs her shoulders at the scandal I" said
Harry.

" But my mother shakes her head. You seem ready to be
her champion as of old I Well, she wants backing. Upton
will not have her at any price."

" Tant pis pour Upton.

"Well, she's certainly more attractive than her critics.
How do you suppose Lady Clevedon will act in the matter?"

" I doubt if she will call," said Harry. * Mrs. Sedley her-
self is not more strict in her notions of propriety. My cousin
always speaks of Mrs. Lincoln as ' that woman,' which does
not look encouraging."

"The feminine anathema," exclaimed Philip, laughing.
" How hard women are on one another !"

" Who is it says that a woman in the pillory restores the
original bark to mankind?"

" Good," cried Philip; " the feminine ' yap, yap,' how sweet
it must sound in the ears of the condemned !"

" Mrs. Lincoln once said to ifte that where a woman blames,

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THE WING OF AZRAEL.

a man simpler laughs disrespectfully, and gets credit for more
tolerance while committing the greater cruelty."

"She is very keen," observed Philip.

' * She also says that, take it altogether, there is perhaps noth-
ing that a proud woman has more to dread than the approval
of society.

" One of her many paradoxes. The * divine ' one is clever,
but unbalanced. If she had played her cards well she might
at this moment be held up as a model of all the virtues."

"Yes, but she objects to such bubble reputation," said
Harry. " Upton need not imagine she is waiting in her best
frock, with beating heart, for it to call upon her. Ten to one
she won't notice whether she's called upon or not. She comes
here to be quiet, not to be called upon.''

"To 'wait till the clouds roll by,'" said Philip. "Well,
that's piece of news number one ; now for piece of news num-
ber two. Can you guess it also?"

H!arry gave a visible start.

"Anything important?" he aaked.

" Not, perhaps, as regards universal history, but as regards
local celebrities, very much so."

" Local celebrities?— Mrs. Pellett has dismissed the pupil-
teacher for wearing pink ribbons on Sunday."

"No: tr;^ again."

* * Something very surprising ?"

" Nothing ever surprised me more, I can assure you," said
Philip with a laugh.

" Mrs. Pellett has been wearing pink ribbons herself?'*

"No; something more astonishing than that."

" Mr. Pellett recognised her when he met her unexpectedly
out walking?"

"No; worse than that."

" Arabella has joined the Salvation Army !"

" Good heavens, no I What next?"

"I am exhausted. Caleb Foster has ceased to allude to
Kant, and has nothing to say about Socratn; Mrs. Pellett
has attempted the life of the queen, and has been discovered
with an infernal machine concealed about her person; Mr.
'^vans has given up trying to get subscriptions for a spread-
^agle lectern (that 'abommablo idol' condemned by our an-
cestors), and Mrs. Evans ceases to take an interest in the
school-children's plain needle work. Now I will sit down
and rest ; human ingenuity can go no further."

"This is embarrassing." said Philip. "I hoped you would
have relieved me of the duty of making the annoimcement of
my own engagement."

^^ Engagement ! You I the despiser of women, the *old
bird ' not to be caught with chaff,— you who have kept a firm
front against battalions of seasoned veterans 1 Philip Den-
draith, I blush for you I"

*'J rather blush lot myself, I admit," said Philip with a

BETROTHED,

107

Bhnig. " * He that getteth up out of the pit shaD be taken in
the snare,' you know. Well, it can't be helped: a man in
my position has to marry some day, and I don't think Viola
will make the bondage unbearable— nice disposition, you
know."

"Very," said Harry drily. "Accept my congratulations.
Is the eng^ement" — he stopped abruptly and cleared his
throat — *' is the engagement publicly announced yet ?"

"Scarcely: we do not consider anything public till Mrs.
Pellett has been confided in under pledge of secrecy. The
matter was only settled last night; this morning the four

Earents have been congratulating one another, and I imagine
y to-morrow ' Society ' will be in possession of the facts."

"To-morrow 'Society' will enjoy itself," said Harry.

When he returned to the Cottage, Mrs. Dixie, who had
been holding a levee during the afternoon, had the remains of
her royalty still cUnging to her. Upon her person were
crowded massive mementos of those "palatial times" to
which her son was always disrespectfully alluding.

"Well, mother, "he said, kissing her, "tired out with pomps
and ceremonies ? ' Uneasy is the head that wears a crown.^

" My son," returned Mrs. Dixie, who might have made her
mark in provincial melodrama nad she not been called to
higher thmgs, " my son, your mother wears no crown but
that of sorrow."

" Poor mother," he said, stroking the white hair affection-
ately; "there are many kings and queens so crowned."

Mrs. Dixie did not appear quite to relish the idea of a
multiplicity of rival sovereigns. " Not many have been tried
as I have been tried, Harry," she murmured. " I am sure it
is all ordered for the best, but when I think of it !"— she sighed
heavily,—" every luxury, a position in the county, always a
private chaplain; and oh, what a man your father wasl"
exclaimed the widow ecstatically.

" Quite a luxury, I am sure," said Harry.

"upright and honourable, respected whereve^ he went —
and such religious principle 1 Connected with Lord Rivers-
dale."

"That DOBS tend to make a man religious," said Harry
gravely. " Common gratitude "

" Your father used always to thank Heaven whatever be-
fell him," said Mrs. Dixie proudly.

" Even the Sunset?" inquired Harry.

" It was a great blow to him, of course," said Mrs. Dixie;
" but as every one remarked, * he seemed even more of a gen-
tleman in his downfall than he had been in the time of his
prosperity.'"

"They always are," said Harry, "and v>f course nothing
but death could sever the Riversdale connection."

" Nothing but death," repeated Mrs. Dixie with solemnity.

Adrienne coming into the room at the moment, smiled and

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108

THE WING OF AZRAEL.

nodded to Harry £is she took up her work and established
herself in an easy-ehair, quietly listening and observing ac-
cording to her custom.

"We were talking about death, Adrienne," said Harry.
"No, not at all in a depressed manner— were we, mother?
Quite the contrary."

Adrienne looked up keenly.

" V7ere vou ringing his praises ?" she asked. "You remem-
ber the fable of the man w ho invoked Death, aiid when he
came did not receive him coidially."

*' No one ought to call up()u a mm i.i his bare bones," said
Harry ; " it's not decent. The proprieties of life should be ob-
servecl in all circumstances."

" Ah 1 .your poor fathor used to be so particular about that,"
Mrs. Dixie put in piously. "lie alwnys said that if a man
couldn't take the trouble to dress himself carefully when he
came to see his friends, he had better stay away."

" That's exactly what I imagine the man said to Death when
ho arrived with the wind wliistUng through his ribs, and half
his teeth out !" observed Harry.

"I never saw your father with his tooth out in my life,"
said Mrb. Dixie. " He was an example to us all, was your
father."

lo you often used to say to our poor etepf
J, mother," said Harrv, with a laugh and
1 as he rr cje and loft tne room.

tepfather in the old
an affectionate

poor father."

♦So
times
touch

Adrienne watched liim narrowly, and after he was gone she
answered her talkative mother entirely at random, though
long habit had made her skilful in carrying on a train of
thought while conversing with the old ladv.

When the little party of throe assombled for the evening
meal Adri nno thought that Harry was locking ill, and ho
seemed more 'ibsont-minded than usual, thoi:gh talking spas-
modically in his accustomed v< in.

'* Harry, you are not well," slie said, when they were alcnn
togethe' il the garden, Mrs. Dixie being left to her ovening
nap 1 1 e little parlour.

'^ Am I not 'i What makes you think so ?"

*'Yok appearance, your maimer "

** On, this accursed reputation f<»r buffoonery !" he exclaimed
imnationtly ; " if one is not perpetu.dly standini|? on one's head,
anu stealing strings of sausages, a la pantomime clown, one
must be ill or de}»ressed. Is there any more awful fate im-
aginable than that of the man who must always be in good
spirits ?"

'• My dear boy, I don't want to bother you ; only it distresses
me to see you look as y^ou do."

*• Oh, the ease and joy of the mourner with the broad hat-
band t" exclaimed Harry.

"If you are unhappy, dear Harry, can no one help you?'
Uq w^ sileut. '* Can you not conilde in mo oa you used to

BnmoTffEiD.

lOd

do in the old childish days ? Do not I know how hitter is the
sorrow tliat is borne alouv? ? Harry, there is nothing on earth
I would not gladly do for you ; don't you believe it ?"

He pressed her hand, but turned away with a man's dislike
to the expression of feeling, especially in the presence of a near
relative.

" Nothing more has happened to me than has happened to
hundreds of better fellows than I am," he said at last after a
long pause.

A thrush was warbling from an old elm-tree behind the
garden ; a song sweet, clear, and plaintive, bringing the tears
into Adrienne's eyes as she watched the set face of her brother.
His profile was towards her, and he leant upon the little gate
leadmg fi*om the garden into the meadow where a cow was
still contentedly grazinj^ in the twilight.

"I am afraid the grief of other 'better fellows ' does not
make yours easier to bear,'' said Adrienne in a low voice.

" You don't think the eels get accustomed to skinning."

She shook her head.

'*You show real intellectual acumen," he said, fantastically;
" very few people understand that grief can be neither more
nor less than one person can endure; that twenty sorrowing
people represent really no more sorrow than is running riot in
the soul of the chief mourner."

" O Harry, you are talking at random."

** No, I am quite serioua. I have been thinking this out to-
day. You cannot add paiii to nain, your pain to my pain,
and ours to the pain of Mra. Fellett. One nuist begin afresh
each time; the events of one organism cannot be mingled with
the events of other organisms, as if they wore all continuous.
This truth carries with it many issues quite contrarv to our
ordinary wfiys of thinking, as a little rellection will show.
Continuous sorrow is an impossibility."

Adrienne looked at him as he leant calmly on the gate, and
sighed. She wished that he would confess and bewail his grief
instead of philosophizing about " continuous sorrow." Did
ever any human soul get real consolation out of ]ihiloflophy
when the real pincli came? Adrienne thought not. On the
contrajy, this k» en. clear habit of mind nmst heighten the pain
and enlarge its horizon. It was a misfortune to see too clear-
ly and too far.

If only Harrv would be less reserved I But the habit of
treating overi^i^iing in a light, half-hmnorous spint had be-
come so ingrained tnat he was unable to throw it off. *' Few
things in life are more tyrannous," he used oft(m to say
*• thau the r6le that gradually comes to bo allotte<l to us. Only
among strangers can wo at last fling oH the incubus and
move our limbs in fre<?dom."

** Adiiennc," said Harry at last, "perhaps Mrs. Lincoln is
coming to this neighbourhood shortly. Philip Dendraith told

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110

TBE Wma OF AZRAEL

me that his father had offered her ' Fir Dell ' at a nominal
rent, and I think in all probabihty she will take it."

Adrienne's face fell.

" Then it is as I feared, you still correspond with her.'*

"Certainly." "

" Why is she coming here ?" asked Adrienne.

Harry faced her.

" What do you mean ? You think Mrs. Lincoln is coming
on m V account, perhaps ? Well, since I am one of her few
friends, it might not beanunnatural proceeding, but as I hap-
pen t/O be here only at long intervals I don't think I can flatter
myself to that extent. I am very ^lad, however, that she is
coming, and I wish, but of course in vain, that you might
make her acquaintance."

Adrienne gave a Uttle shrinking movement. *' O Harry,
I covtd not do that."

"Exactly; I knew you would say so: it is just for that
reason that Sibella would do you so much good."

" But, Harry, did she not run away v/ith some man or other
after her nuirriage ?"

" You know her story," said Harry; " it is a very common
one, only it does not octen end as hers does: The early en-
gagement to suit her parental ideas; the waking of the girl
to her fate ; the roughness and brutality of the husband driv-
ing her to desperation ; then the crowning sorrow of loving
some other man. Sibella did not run away with this fellow,—
a noble-liearted fellow he was too ; he was my friend, so I
ought to know,— but she Toved him as few human beings are
capable of loving; and, unlike most women, she did not con-
eider herself boiiiid by the iniquitous tie into which she had
been morally forced before she ^ is able to judge for herself
or able to resist the will of those w hom she was trained from
her infancy to respect and obey. Thejr betraved her accord-
ing to the time-honoured custon., trusting to her ' principles'
to carry her through her ordeal— also according to the time-
honoured custom. Her 'principles,' however, were not so ac-
commodating; she left her husband after some wretched
years of married life, during which her views of things had
gradually chanijed ; and at once ' the world' began to wag its
head like a Chinese mandarin, and her parents now regard
tlieni8olvos as disgraced."

" She (lid not cease to see her lover," said Adrienne. "That
wns surely unwise—to put it as chaiitably as lean."

"Well, that is a mnttei of opinion," returned Harry. "Si-
belln thought it less terrible to be condemned by people rfie
cared nothing for, than to be eternally denied the presence of
one in whom her whole happiness was bound up. She had to
choose, and that was how 3he chose, I am not justifying
Sibella, understand; Hhe does not wish to be Justified; fOio
could not be justified to the world— her ataDdaroBand motiveB

sbe
36 of
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BETROTBED,

111

are quite dififerent from theirB. You have to know her to see
what I mean."

*' I have heard that Mrs. Lincobi is very eccentric," said
Adrienne, coldly.

" She is not in the least like Mrs. Pellett or Mrs. Evans; nor,
on the other hand, is she like Augusta or Arabella. 1 can
find no one to compare her to; so clearly she must be eccen-
tric."

"You know, Harry, that I don't; care for people to be en-
tirely conventional, but I do think that some respect ought to
be paid to social ordinances; otherwise we should soon faU
into a most chaotic and iniquitous state."

"I should describe our present condition in those terms,"
said Harry. " Have we not reo*^ectable and legalised iniquity
for which there is no redresr'"

" I think Mrs. Lincoln ie wrong, "said Adrienne; " but I am
willing to admit that she may have much good in her."

*' That is very kind of you, my dear I"

"O Harry, don't be angry with me; T have always felt
so strongly tnat a woman should never permit the faintest
breath of slander to approach her, that I don't feel as if I
could ever like this Mrs. Lincoln. I can pity her."

Harry burst out laughing.

"You can't approach her in that spirit, my dear. She is
like a wind from the sea; all your little prudences would be
blown out of you in her presence before you knew what had
happened."

" She must be a dangerous person."

" Prom your point of view, she is, very ; from another
point of view, she is one of the safeguards of society ; one of
the small band of people that keep it from going respectably
to the devil altogether."

" Do you intend to call upon your ' safeguard' if she comes
here?"

"Do I intend to call upon her?- Oh ! dear, no; I am going to
bow circumspectly from the other side of the road and pass
on."

Adrienne sighed.

"Harry, forgive me for saying so; but I used to fear that
you loved this woman at one time."

He turned and looked at her ; then he said calmly :

" Well, so I did, and so I do. "

" O Harry, my poor boj 1"

" Don't pity me," he said ; " my life would have been much
emptier if it nnd not been for her."

"But the hopelessness of it, and—"

"And the impropriety of it, you were going to say."
Harry looked out Ix^yond the little garden to the stiwr-
Hprinkled heavens and smiled. "Dont distress yourself,
Adrienne," he said presently, laying his hand on her shoulder
affectionately; "and don't jump too rapidly to conclusioiw.

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112

THE WING OF AZBAEL.

Human nature is not quite so uniform or eo easily understood
as you apnear to think. Rise to the achievement of the really
gi'eat thmKers and realize that your theories and experience
may not comprehend all, or nearly all, the wonderful facts of
life and of the human soul."

CHAPTER XVI.

WITHOUT MERCY.

No SLEEP did Viola have on that first nipht of her engage-
ment. Her dismay at the thought of it increased with every
black lingering hour as she lay tossing on her pillow, wonder-
ing at times if she were under the thrall of a horrible dream.
It was all impossible; she could not go on with the engage-
ment; surely Philip himself could not be in earnest about so
preposterous an idea. He had said that he would ride over
m the morning, about ter o'clock, and when the time drew
near, Viola was seized with a panic, and flinging on her hat
and cloak she rushed out across the garden and into the
park, plunging into the deepest recesses of the underwood in
order to escape detection in case of pursuit. She began to
have an actual terror of the man to whom she was betrothed.

As she drew near to the park boundary, not far from the
unused grass avenue — the great elm avenue which had never
lost its fascination for her — she heard angi'y voices on the
road outside: one of them was immistakeably Philip's.

Through an opening in the trees she presently saw him
standing with his le^t Imnd on the bridle of his horse, while
with his right he thrashed the animal with all his enormous
strength. The creature was flinching and tried to escape
from the heavy blows; his glossy sides were bleeding and
foam-flecked, and with every savage stroke of the whip he
gave a desperate plunge.

Harry Lancaster, who had just come up, stootl angrily re-
monstrating.

"How much longer are you going to keep up this?" ho
asked. *' Can't you see the creature is half dead with pain?"

"One would think the hoi*se was y^urs from tiie interest
you take in his welfare," said Philip) with a sneer, and using
with renewed violence the cruel whip.

"Are you a man or a fiend?" ex<'laimRd Harry. "Iwill
look on at this devilry no longer. You are lit<^rally s1i(>ing
the miserable beast with that whip of yours. Will you leave
off, or must I interfere?"

** Interfere at your peril."

VriTBOUT MERGT.

lis

Harry*s answer was to lay hold of Ibo handle of the whip,
aud try to wrench it from the other's grasp.

Philip was forced to let go the bridle, and the horse started
off at a gallop down the road, followed by a curse from his
master.

" Meddlesome fool !" Philip muttered as the two st niggled
together by the roadside for several minutes, silent from
very furv.

Viola looked on in hoiTor, too dismayed to speak. This
was the man whose honied phrases had been whispered so
softlj; in her ear 1 This was Her future husband 1 Well had
that instinctive fear been justified! And yet with its justifi-
cation it seemed to vanish. Viola could not feel frightened
of a man who might be capable of physical violence towards
her; that thought roused all her owu latent fierceness and
her instincts of revenge; her timidity was exorcised. It was
the cool, suppressed, self-mastering power which had awed
her in Philip Dendraith. Now she actually longed to do bat-
tle with him herself on behalf of the ill-used animal. Intense
indignation deprived her of all fear.

Thrusting aside the boughs of the trees, she forced her way
through a gap in the oak paling and stood with flaming
cheeks before the combatants.

"Mr. Dendraith," she gasped, "you are a cruel, wicked
man — I knevr you were cruel, I felt it, and now I know, and
I won't marry y ou, I t*7on'^,— and I hope I shall never see your
face again as long as I live 1"

She was trembling with passion, and her voice shook and
gave way at che last word as if she were going to burst into
tears. But her eyes were quitch dry.

Even Philip had been a little disturbed by this sudden ap-
parition and outburst. But he quickly recovered his self-
possession and adroitly managed to put Harry in the wix)ng
as he handed him courteously the disputed riding-whip.

*' Allow me to confess myself vanquished — by the presence
of a lady ; the whip is yours I"

Harry laid it across his knee and snapped it viciourV: in
two. The pieces he flung over the hedge into a turnip field.
Philip laugned.

"Although the whip was a favourite one," he said, *' I don't
grudge it, seeing the inttuise enjoyment that you appear to
derive from its destruction !"

" The next time you wish to chastise your horse, you can
procure a more effective instrumeut; the Russian knout, for
instance, does double the work with half the efToii;; however,
I wron^ you in supposing for a moment that you grudge
trouble m the good cause 1"

"Surely this is sarcasm or something very hke it I" cried
Phihp. " Wrong me in supy)08ing that I grudpe any trouble,
—very good ; irony all through ; quite a Kussian knout sort
of busmess: good aeal of lead in it, don't you know!'*

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114

THE mufQ OF AznAEL.

** I thought something heavy was quite in keeping," Harry
retorted.

"Good again' But alas I while I linger here, listening to
these lightsome sallies, our bone of contention is rapidly
emi^ating."

*' Perhaps you had better go and gather up his scattei'ed
fragments, ' said Harry.

'"Perhaps I had, and I can explain matters to you, Viola
my love, when I return."

*' I don't want an explanation," she answered ;•" everything
has explained itself"

*'So much the better; it is a pity to start with a misimder-
Rtanding. Au revoir /"

With these words he smilingly raised his hat and strode off
at a gradually quickening pace down the road. Harry looked
at "Viola, and their eyeS met.

"I hope you are not angry with me for my part in this
affair!" he said at length.

"Angry ! I am most grateful." Her voice was still trem-
bling with excitement, and had an ominous break in it. They
turned instinctively, and walked on towards the elm avenue.

Just as they were entering it, on the summit of the little
hill, Viola suddenly stopped. At this point the sea was
visible.

" Listen," she said ; " do you hear how the waves are break-
ing to-day ? When I was a child I used to fear that sound,
— my nurse used to tell me that it bodes misfortune. Don't
you near how it moans ?"

There was a startled look in her eyes, and as she spoke she
stretched out her arm seawards, and then raised it aoove her
head, standing so, like a pro{)hetess.

*' The waves bear you no ill-will, I am sure," said Harry,
in a tone that he used only to Viola, "you who are almost a
daughter of the sea."

'* Yes, "she said, still with deep excitement in her voice,
*' from my childhood it has sung to me and drawn me to-
wards it so that the longing for it became a pain. I was for-
bidden to go to it, and that made i he longing worse. Day
bnd night, summer and winter, t have heard it, sometimes
sif^hin^ very softly and sometimes full of lamentation; I
think its great sweetness comes from its great strength. But
oh ! when it is stirred to its depths, its song is full of misery,
so awful, that no words can possibly tell of it,— no words
that ever human being spoke !"

Harry looked at her in amazement. What did this girl
know of such misery? She must have terrible capacity for
suffering or she could not interpret the voices of nature after
80 mournful a fashion.

And this was the promised wife of PhiUp Dendraith, a
man who knew not what the word "pain" meant, who
was capable of no feeling much keener than discomfort or

wiTBovT Mmtor.

lift

chagrin, except the feeling which prompted him to such ac-
tions as had led to the quarrel of the morning ! Hai ry thrilled
with indignation.

It was cruel, shameful 1— the iniquitous work of a dissi-
pated old spendthrift, who wanted to save himsplf from the
consequences of his own sins, and of a narrow-minded woman
who for all her maternal professions was ready to wreck her
daughter's whole life for the sake of her own miserable piety I
Before to-day Harry had fancied that Viola was a wilhng
victim, but the scene of the morning dissipated that idea.
Fate seemed to thrust him into the position of champion to
this friendless girl,— worse than friendless indeed, he thought,
for who is so lost and alone as a woman under the protec-
tion of those who betray her trust ?

"Poor child with the mournful prophetic eyes, what can I
do to save you ? I who cannot face the thought of the future
without you?"

"I am afraid you have been unhappy," he said aloud, re-
ferring to her last strange words about the sea; "perfectly
happy people do not hear such thiners in the sound of the
waves !"

She was silent.

"I ftrJir,"he raid presently^ "that you did not take my
somewhat oracular advice which I gave you at Clevedon the
other day."

"Would to Heaven I had!" she exclaimed; "I tried hard,
but what could I do ?— and besides "

That "besides" meant more than Harry could fathom or
than she would explain.

"If there is any way— no matter how— that I can help you,
you will give me the chance," he said earnestly. " If I may
presume to speak on the matter of your engagement, I must
tell you that I think you have a perfect right to break it off
after what you saw this mommg. Such an exhibitioi^ of
brutality is unpardonable !"

" Oh, I can't marry him— I can't, I can't 1" exclaimed Viola
with a desperate gesture.

"Then for Heaven's sake don't!" he exclaimed; "it is
horrible to think of 1"

"If you knew how I am placec' !"

" I do know— forgive me— and that is what emboldens me
to speak. However important may be the considerations
which urge you to this marriage, they sink into nothing in
comparison with those which ought to decide you against it.
You don't know what you are doing! Your whole ufo is at
stake, and my happiness !— forgive me; what can I do?"

"Have it boiled for supper with parsley sauce," rang a
voice through the trees, and at the same instant aupeared the
stalwart form of Geoffrey with his tishing-roa over his
shoulder^ shouting dirsctions to the gamekeeper to take to

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TBE WISO OF AZnAEL

the cook on the subject of a trout that he had caught, weigh-
ing twelve pounds.

" Boiled happiness with parsley sauce I" echoed Hanywith
a rueful laugh.

" Holloa, yt>u there !" Greoflfre^ called out ; " bet you havem^t
had as good sport as I have this morning. Look here 1" and
he swung his oag round and displayed the spoil. '* That fel-
low with the knowing eye i^ave me a lot of trouble ; artful
old dodger, but I hooked hun at last— my twelve-pounder
I have sent in to be cooked for dinner. Holloa, Viola 1" ex-
claimed Geoffrey suddenly, lookiui" from her to Harry.
" Why, you have got the wrong man I"

His look of bewilderment was so comic, that Harry, heavy-
hearted as he was, burst into a shout of laughter.

*' But why is this?" persisted Geoffrey.

" 'Cos t'other man's sick," quoted Harry.

"Well, to tell you the honest truth," said the tactless youth
"I wish yoM were the man I" Harry coloured and turned,
away.

"No such luck," he said jestingly.

" If t'other man, being sick, were to die," suggested Geof-

graceless youth. "Hal Hist! The enemy approaches.'*

Philip was coming down the avenue towards them at full
speed.

" I've captured my Bellerophon," he said as he came up,
"and taken him to the stables, where he is now enjoying a
wash down and a feed of com. His frame of mind is envi-
able, I assure you !"

With the want of insight of even the keenest men where a
woman is concerned, Pnilip treated Viola as if nothing had
happened ; and as she behaved, as far as he could see, much
the same as usual, he thought her anger had blown over.

Harry and Geoffrey had to walk on ahead and leave the
other two to follow; for Philip managed in such a way as to
give them no choice.

"At last we are alone, dearest," he said, stopping and fac-
ing his companion, "and before we go a step farther we must
ratify our betrothal in due form !" He put his arm round
her waist and bent forward to kiss her. But she sprang
back.

" Whatl still angry about that affair of the horse? What
can I do to earn forgiveness? How shall I sue for my dear
lady's pardon? I am all submission and repentance. Surely
she will not refuse me one little kiss, if I ask for it, very
humbly."

"I want you to release me from mjr engagement!"

" Violar His cheek flushed and his lips set themselves in
a thin hard line. "Do you know what you are saying?"

WITBOUT MEBOT,

117

'^y I

"Only too weU."

"This is a blow for' which I was totally unprepared," said
Philip. "I hoped that you returned in some measure my
boundless love tor you ; but if so small a thing can turn you
— ohl Viola, this is bitter I Can 1 not win your love by any
means? It looks as if— if I thought that fellow Lancaster
had succeeded where I have failed !"

A certain expi'essive tightening of the lips indicated his
meaning.

" Violk you are mine," he said, taking her hands in his
firmly; "you have no right to withdraw from our engage-
ment."

*'You would not marry an unwilling bride!" she ex-
claimed.

" I would have you, Viola !"

She tried to loosen the grasp of his hands, but in vain.

" You have given me the power; you camiot take it back,"
he said.

'* I entreat, I implore you," she criad passionately.

He flung away her hands.

" Plead so for any other thing in the world, and see how I
will respond; but this— Viola, you try me too much."

" Put yourself in my place !"

"Do you so hate me, then?" he asked bitterly.

"Yes, at times."

He winced. " Blow after blow you inflict without mercy 1"

" I had a lesson in that this morning," she said.

"That accursed horse again I viola! be merciful and
be just. At present you are neither. You fling me away
for one fault, accepting no apology." He stood looking at
her for some seconds gloomily.

Then a light came into his eyes, and a fixed look about
his mouth. "Why do I woo my betrothed?" he exclaimed.
" She is mine, and she shall not escape me. Some day you
vrill live to thank me for itj you shall be the happiest woman
in England against your will!"

" And if I did become so, you would remain unjustified,"
she said.

"But not unrewarded!" he returned, with a smile that
haunted her long afterwards.

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THE Wma OF AZRAEL.

CHAPTER XVII.

ADRIFT.

When Viola, trembling and excited, related the events of
the morning to her mother, Mrs. Sedley appeared much dis-
mayed; not indeed at the conduct of her son-in-law elect,
but at ner daughter's way of taking it.

" Dearest, you must not judge a man's character by his
behaviour towards animals ; the most tender-hearted of men,
after all, find their greatest pleasure in slaying those dumb
creatures over whom God has given us dominion. Men are
all like that; and though I agree with you that Mr. Dendraith
was wrong to lose his temper as he did, I cannot think that it
would justify you in withdrawing from your engagement.
The family would regard it as a mere pretext or a deliberate
slight.— and think of your poor father r

Viola turned very pale, and sank powerlessly upon a
chair.

" The engagement is bv this time made public," Mrs. Sedley
continued. *'The whole neighbourhood is discussing it;
really, it is not possible, dearest, to draw back now. If your
huslmnd never does anything worse than beat his horse rather
overhard, I shall not fear for your happiness. Surely you are
not afraid of him ?"

" Not nowT said Viola, with a gleam in her eyes.

** You can use your influence to induce him to treat his ani-
mals more humanely ; he is devoted to you, and I have no
doubt he will do that for your sake. Gentleness, patience,
and obedience in a wife can work wonders."

O marvellous faith, that remains unshaken after a life-
time spent in proving its futility I

Philip did net leave Viola much time for considering mat-
ters, or for maturing her opposition. Although much piqued
by her conduct, he put it down to mere girush caprice. At
the idea of givmg her up, he laughed. When had he given
up anything on which he had set his heart and his will ? He
had yet to learn that he could be beaten by a timid, ignorant,
parent-ridden girl.

He came again to the Manor-House next morning, and
behaved as if nothing had happened. Viola seemed tongue-
tied. She treated Philip with a cold ceremony, which not
even Mr. Sedley could mistake for a satisfactory bashful-
ness.

When Sir Philip) patted her on the back and attributed her
demeanour to this cause, she looked at him with steady,
widely-opened eyes, and then ^ave a sad little flickering smile

ADRIFT,

119

She made no attempt to repudiate the accusation. Old men
had their own hereaitary notions about girls and their ways,
and it would take an enterprising girl indeed who should
undertake to uproot ^hem I

Lady Clevedon's . ick eye saw that something was wrong.

"Harry," she said, "what's the matter here ? Is there a
lovers' quarrel going on, or what ?"

" Do vou want to know what is going on ?" said Harry. ** I
will tell you. Andromeda has been chained to the rock, for
the gods are angry and must be appeased by sacrifice ; the
monster is about to devour her,— so that Andromeda is having
a rather bad time of it just now— that's all !"

" My dear boy, she's in love with Philip; you are talking
nonsense."

" She may have been so at one time, but she does not wish
to marry him now. Some one ought to interfere. A man
has no right to marry a woman against her will, it is mon-
strous I"

" Pooh ! What is a woman's will ?" asked Lady Clevedon.

" That you ought to know."

*' Oh I I was meant to be a man !"

"You are all making a great mistake about your niece,"
said Harry with renewed energy. " Every fresh event will
strike the hidden springy of her character, and I am con-
vinced she will devftlop into something that her family will
not like if this moral coercion is persisted in. For my part I
hope she will. She tries to tread in her mother's footsteps ; but
her nature is too passionate, she cannot do it, — for which
Heaven be praised. Once she is fully aroused, the artificial
imitative self which she shows at present will burn away like
so much tinder."

"You are either very imaginative or very penetrating,"
said Ijady Clevedon.

" Time alone will show which," he returned.

Perhaps it was the strange look in Viola's eyes which had
suggested the prediction. The weather being stormy, the
sound of the waves was more than usually distmct, and Viola
seemed to be listening restlessly to that ominous moan, which
had haunted her childhood with presage of misfortune.

Having promised to go with his mother on a round of
calls, Harry had to return to the Cottage early, and Philip
followed his example. He found Viola very unresponsive,
and thought it prudent not to force his society upon her
till her fit of ill-temper— as he called it— had passed off.

In the afternoon, when his servitude was over, Harry an-
nounced that he was goin^ for a walk, and could not say when
he might be back. He said that he panted for a breath of the
sea. Verv fresh and delicious the sea-breath was when he
, reached the shore, and stood watching the waves rolling in,
and the foam sweeping to his feet. The wide freedom of the
place, and the wonderful sea-freshness gave new audacity

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120

THE WINQ OF AZRAEL.

to his impulses. Hesitations were overwhelmed as children's
sand castles by the sweeping of a wave.

It was scarcely a surprise, onljr a great joy, on looking
round at some instinctive suggestion, tp discern the white
fluttering garments of a figure which he could not mistake,
even at this distance.

Viola was talking to Caleb Foster and pointing to a boat
that lay on the beach. So intent and eager was she, that
HaiTy's approach remained unnoticed till he stood be&ido her;
then she started and coloured vividly.

"Ah, you are much wanted here !" said Caleb. **I have
been explaining to this young lady that she can't manage a
craft of that size— with an opinion of her own, too— on such a
day. The waves are strong, and it may come on to blow
harder any minute."

"I have often been out with Geoffrey and understand all
about it," Viola said hastily, and colouring once more.

" Were you really going to attempt it alone !" cried Harry
in dismay. " What can you have been thinking of I Pre-
sentiments do come true' sometimes. I felt I should be
wanted here to-night. Let me come with you if you wish to
go; soldier as I am, I consider myself no bad seaman."

He held out his hand, and Viola, seeming half stunned by
the frustration of her own design, allowed herself to be led
into the boat.

** The centre of gravity is improperly adjusted," said Caleb.
"A little more to the right. Miss Sedley, if you please.
You will find the ' Viola' (as I call her in compliment to your-
self) a brave little craft, but she wants humouring, like the rest
of her sex."

*' Like them, she answers to the touch of intelligence, and
rebels against coercion. Isn't that it, Miss Sedley?" asked
Harry, with a smile.

She shook her head. "I don't know," she answered; "I
don't know anything !"

" Give a shove, I'oster," said the youn^ man.

Together they laid their weight against the boat and
laimched her; and as she grated off th) beach, Harry sprang
in, and the Viola darted eageily forward through the surt
into deep water. Harry gave an exulting wave of the hand
towards the shore.

"Goodbye, old shore!" he cried, " good bye to etiquette,
and formality, and all the^ ags and muzzles of our crazy life,
—good-bye to everything but the wind and the deep sea.
There's an exordium for you," he added with a smile, as he
sat down and took the sculls. "I won't ask were we shall
go," he went on; "I will just go on at haphazard. This
movement is glorious, isn't it? Look at those waves! how
they curl, and how they are grr(^n, as the French would say.
Now I am going to forget that you are Miss Sedley, and think
of you as some sea-spirit, conspUdated— like a nebulous young

le
ill
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Adrift.

121

world -out of sea-spray and ovmciw winds. Then I may say
what I please to you, may I notiT"

Viola smiled. She did not seem surprised at his buoyant,
fantastic talk ; the poetry of the scene had attuned her mind
to his. Her pulses beat faster as the boat ssvun^ out to sea;
she too thrilled at the sight of those heaving mdes of green
water. She 3ant over the boat-side to watch the sculls dip-
ping with even recurrence into the deep; and her face seemed
to grow every moment more beautiful as the bondage was
unloosed and the half-released spirit fluttered out— as a pant-
ing bird from its cage— into the sweet bewilderment oi sud-
den freedom. Her bat, which threatened to be blown off,
had been discarded, and she had no covering for her head
but her own thick hair, which was fluttering in the wind.

" I need no help now to believe you are a spirit of the sea 1"
exclaimed Harry. '' You only want a crown of sea weed to
make the resemblance perfect."

He caught a spray as it floated by and handed it to her,
and she smiled and blushed, and laid it dripj^ing among the
coils of her hair. A wild, poetic beauty was in her face ; all
trace of the ' young lady' had disappeared ; her womanhood
was uppermost now. She was like some dark-eyed sea-
aueen, daughter of the twilight; some mystic, ima^nary
ngure, with all the loveliness of ocean and of evening in her
eyes.

Once past the current that swept round the head-land 6n
which stood the lonely ruins of Upton Castle, Harry slackened
speed, and, after a time, he let the boat drift out to sea with
the wind, which was blowing off shore.

He felt that this would be one of the memorable days of
his life, one of the few moments of almost unearthly joy that
come, ho believed, as pledges of a possible Paradise realisable
even in this bewildered world, when self-tormenting mortals
shall at last have groped their way thither through the error,
and the suffering, and the wrongs of weary ages.

"I said that I was going to speak openly to you to-day,"
Harry began; *' and I feel that anything else would be ludi-
crous, and even unfair to you and to myself. This ife no time i
for hesitation; our whole lives are at stake, and I must speak |
out."

Viola did not look startled— nothing would have startled her '
to-night; she was in a waking dream.

" When you came down to the beach this evening, I knew
that you wera very miserable. It was a desperate impulse
that made you long to be afloat on the waters ; and with it
lurked a secret hope— secret from yourself —that they would
swallow you and your troubles for ever 1"

She flinched from his earnest gaze, and coloured, while a
look of pain came into her face.

" I do not say this in detection or reproach, but in syin-
pathy," Harry went on liastily. " I knoY that you are being

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122

TEE WING OF ASRAEL.

Wt'V

driven to despaii-, and it is no wonder such thoughts come to
you."

" I know it is very wrong " Viola began.

"The Devil has been quoting Scripture to you— you must
resist this marriage."

" It is too late, and besides "

"If is not too late, and there is no * besides,' " ci/h^ Harry.

" My father and my mother "

Harry gave a fierce gesture and exclamation. '* Do they
not know that the slave-trade is illegal in England?"

"I don't imderstnnd— I "

"No; you are brought up not to understand; the thing
couldn't be done otherwise. O Viola, let me save you;
there is nothing I would shrink from doing, there is noth-
ing that you should shrink fiom doing. If you only real-
ised "

" What am I to do?"

"Ask him to release you."

"I have done so."

"And he refases?"

"Yes."

Harry was silent for a moment. " You have not the cour-
age to go to your father and »ay that you will not be forced
into this marriage."

" I could face my father, but not the consequences for my
mother. He punishes her for my misdeeds."

Harry set his lips.

"How securely they bind you through your own pity and
tenderness ! It is quite masterly. Loyala himself had not a
more subtle method of playing the potter with human na-
ture."

" My mother thinks it impossible for me to draw back
now " said Viola. " I told her about the beating of the horse."

"Strange beings these good women arel" he eyclaimod.
"We shall never get any help from ihenx.- that is certain!
O Viola ! it is unonaurable ! i, who love you so that literally
ray whole soul is bound up in you, — not simply my happiness,
but my whole being,- I would rather that you should die
than marry that man !"

Even this absolutely unexpected announcement, made as it
was with almost startling passion, did not appear very greatly
to surprise Viola. Perha, 4 in her distraught state, exhausted
physically and mentally bv the emotions she had gone
through she si^arcely unaerstoi^d wh;it was said, or, if she did,
was unablr to grasp its relation to the facts of her previous
life, whose thread seemed to have slipped from her fingers
when she left the land behind her.

" I have told you that I am ready to do anything in my

J)0wer to save you; but without your a^isistiuic* I nm help-
ess. Will you come with nie now, or perhaps to-morrow, to
niy friend Mrs. Lincoln?" Viola started. *'*Ah! you have

ADRITT.

123

been prejudiced against her, I see; but I know she could ad-
visor an J "help us both as no on^^ else could. She will sympa-
thi,;<» deeply with you, for hor marriage was arranged very
much as yours has been arranged ; her inexperience, her re-
spect for duty, and her fear of giving pain were plaj'^^d upon,
as youi-s are being plaved upon. She could speak to you
more eloquently than 1 about tne miseries of such a marriage;
for she has suffered them. Already she knows about you,
and I may say almost she loves you, and she is most eager to
see and help you in your present troubles. I cannot teU you
how generous and lovable she is— I should like you to find
out for yourself. Dear Viola, will you let me take you to
her?"

** Oh, no, no," she said in a strange, dreamy tone, almost bs
if the answer were automatic. *' My mother and my aunt
tell me that one must not kno^* her."

Hai*ry sighed. "But couldn't you judge for yourself, for
once ?" he urged. "Mrs. Lincoln has done what most people
think wrong, no doubt ; but most people are doing with the
upmost self-congratulation what Mrs. Lincoln on her side
thinks base and degrading. There are different ideas of right
and wrong in the world, you must remember 1"

"There can surt^ly ho only one right and one wrong," said
Viola. Her inother's teaching was doing its work thoroughly
at the criticr'.l niamont.

" If you won't go to her then, will you let her come to you f
Not at your home, of course, but at some appointed place
outaido."

"That v/ould be deceiving my parents," said Viola. "I
could not do tl.at."

" And wliat ro;'?oiirco do thoy leave you but deception ?" he
asked hotly. "You and they am not no equal terms: they
can coerce you ; their power over you is despotic. And to re-
sist such power, all methods are justifiable.'^

" Oh ! you cannot mean what you say ! I have always
been taught that the will of parents is sacred, and that no
blessing can como to a child who acts in opposition to their
wishes."

" Taught by whom?" Harry enquired. " By your parents?"

" Everyone would say the same thing," Viola replied.

" Everyone has l>een taught by iiarcnts," retorted Harry.

"Ohl take me home, take me nome!"she cried suddenly.
"It is wicrked to listen oo such thh'gs."

"Ah, do stav with me a little longer!" he pleaded. " Such
moments as these como but once in a lifetime, and besides,
even at the risk of your displeasure, I nmst speak plainly on
a matter of such deep mom(^nt to us both. Yv)U seem to for-
get that I love you, Viola. Have I i»o hope of winning your
love in n^turn?'*

She looked disturl)cd and bcwildere<l, as if her notions of

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124

THE WING OF AZRAEL.

right and wrong, in spite of her teaching, were becoming con-
fused.

''Anyhow, I mean to try with all my might and main to
win it,^' Harry continued; "nothing can daunt me, and I
shall never despair. The strength and depth of my own feel-
ing justify my obstinacy in hoping."

" Oh ! take me home, I will not listen 1"

"Is that fair to me?' Harry asked eagerly. *' Why will
you not listen ? Because you fear my pleading might move
you? O, Viola, if that is so, you have no right to forbid it;
tor your heart is half won 1"

"It is not half won, it is not half won!" she protested.
"Why are you talking like this and making me feel so
wicked? What would my mother say to it? It must be hor-
ribly wrong, for I dare not face the thought of what she
would say! Mr. Lancaster, please take me home."

" Only tell me that I have some hope— just a faint gleam."

" Take me home," she repeated.

Slowly, regretfully, he turned the boat's head and rowed
back towards the shore. He saw that to say any more just
now would be to injure his cause ; Viola was becoming fright-
ened of her own feelings.

The return journey — how different from the exultant lif.;f
hour when they were outward bound l—was made almost in
silenCvJ. As they touched the shore Viola sprang out so
eagerly that she almost fell. Harry's arm was only just in
time to save her.

" Let this be symbolical," he said, retaining the hand, which
she gave him. "Farew^ell, and remember that you can al-
ways appeal to me fi^r help, and never be afraid that I siiiill
misinterpret your appeal if you make it. My advice to you
is, to announce firmly and simnly that you will not carry out
your engagement, since, to all intents and puiposes, it was
forced upon you. In any case, do let me know how things
go on, and remember that I am entirely at your command-
always." He raised her hand and kissed it.

"You are too good to me," she said; "and I am very, very
miserable. Thank you, and good-bye!" Her voice broke.

She drew her hand from his and hurried away. He would
have followed, but she waved him back, quickening her pace,
and presently vanished behind the first small headmnd.

Harrj' stood gazing at tlio spot where she had disappeared,
till a voice behind him made him start round.

" Love," said the philosopher," is a temporary madness.
Under its influence the himian being "

"Oh! what do you know about it?" cried Harry, fero-
ciously.

"An! a bad paroxysm," remarked Caleb, " very loworinj? i
to the general tone, and apt to disturb the intellectual btu- j
ance if lonj^ persistinl in 1"

" I abommato intellectual balance," said Harry, irascibly.

*.'

AN ENCOUNTER,

1^5

"Naturally, naturally," returned the philosopher. **My

Sungtrieno, if energetic movement relieves your feelings, do
me walk rapidly up and down the beach with you; I nave
time at my disposal."

"Oh, hang you!" Harry exclaimed, " can't you leave a fel-
low alone ?"

" Vet^y disturbing to the intellectual balance," murmured
Caleb.

" Perhaps you never had the heavens falling about your
ears— the sun darkened and the moon put out?"

"On my recovery from a severe illness on one occasion "

"Oh, this is more than I can beai'I" Harry exclaimed,
"I had far better pour out my woes to the stony rocks!"

"I assure you tdeeply feel for you," said CaJeb.

"Yes, because of tne disturbance of my intellectual bal-
ance," retorted Harry, with a snort, "Caleb, you are the
most rediculous man 1 ever met ; you know everything and
understand nothing; all is revealed to you, and you are blind
as a bat. Free as air, you never move beyond the radius of
a five-foot tether, and in the midst of life you are in death.
Good-bye, and pray fervently for the disturbance of your in-
-^Mectual balance.

With this parting advice, Harry strode off and left the
philosopher cnuckling.

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CHAFrER xvm.

AN ENCOUNTER.

"And so Miss Sedley\: wndding is fixed for the seventh,"
said Attrionne, cheei-fully uiu^onscious tbat she was inflicting
tortu;; >• m the being for whom she would willingly have
sacrUi n-^ppiness. "I do hope the marriage will prove a

SUCCGHS.'

" That we phnll n'^vor know," observed Dick Evans. "Mar-
riages arc always made to look well outside."

"Yea, unless one of the couple drinks," stiid Adrienne, "and
even then it doesn't often come out till they give a garden
pai-ty."

(This allusion to a recent scandal was received with smiles.)

"For my i)art," Adrienne continued, "I think Philip Den-
draith has misconceived his vocation. He ought to have gone
on liking ladies in to dinner nil his life; I would choose nim

out of a multitude for that ofllco: but for marrying 1"

- ., . _ She shook lier dainty little heatl expressively.
•aeciDiy. ■ "Young men always settle down aJfter they are married,**

126

TEN WING OF AZBAEL.

said Mrs. Dixie; "I am sure he is a most agreeable youne
/ellow."

" I'm glad it's not one of the girks ." Dick Evans said, reck-
lessly disregarding the fact of their l:\rge numbers and limited
opportunities, "and I am glad not to have to congratulate
your sister, Harry."

" Tiiank you," said Harry (!urtly.

"They seem to be hurrying it on," Dick continued; "tiie
seventh -scarcely three weeks from now."

" I wonder how her trousseau can be got ready," said Mrs.
Dixie. " I know that mine took six months to prepare; but
then of course I had four dozen of everything, and the most
exquisite work, and all real lace~-I was one mass of insertion
(Valenciennes) —my poor mother would have everything of
the best, and- "

It suddf'nly struck Mrs. Dixie that she was committing an
impropriety in alluding to underclothing in a mixed company,
and she rela])sed into a decorous but unexplained silence, pre-
luded by a little cough which would have amply atoned for
the grossest of improprieties.

Dorothy Evans, Dick's scapegrace sister, also took a hostile
view of t'le marriage.

Philijp's good looks and fascinating manner had not suc-
ceeded in blinding the girl's instinct for what is straightfor-
ward and gehuinely chivalrous in man.

" He's all talk and bows," said Dorothy, "and you always
feel he is laughing at you to himself, though you would
think, to hear nim, that you were the loveliest and the most
fascinating of your sex. He is a horrid man, and I hate his
eyes"

Dorothy had hit upon the one traitorous feature in his face.
Perhaps no such man ever had eyes entirely trustworthy.
Not that Philip's had the proverbial difficulty of looking one
in the face ; he could stare most people out of countenance ;
but his native subtlety and the coldness which lay at the
root of his character revealed themselves unmistakably in his
glance.

Harry had received the news without betraying himself,
but it was more than he could endure to stay and hear it
talked over. The discussion was in full swin^ when he left
the room, quietly whistling an air from a cowuc opera.

Ho ruefully admired his own acting, though it stru ^k him
how very easy it was to deceive the people who think they
know you bc^st. He set off at once for the Manor-House, de-
termining, rashly enough, to make an attempt to see Viola.

llvt thought that probably a violent reatJtion had set in after
the heretical teaching of tliat afti^nioon on the water; that in
the extiltation of rejuMiUuice and the ivturn to duty she had
out off her own possible ieti*eat by at once fixing the day for
ber marriage. It woa an act of utoucment. I'robably, now-

A2f Mcorrnffin.

127

ever, a second reaction had taken place since then, and upon
this Harry built his hopes.

Having searched the garden in vain, there was nothing
for it but to go to the house and ask for Mrs. Sedley m the
usual way.

Mrs. Sedley appeared and entertained her visitor solemnly
in the drawing-room among the " lost souls'' and the grand
piano.

Harry thought he had never, in his life, found conversa-
tion so difficult. His mind became a blank every time he
looked at the dull, grey face of his hostess, whose voice alone
was sufficient to check the imagination of a Shelley.

*' Is— is your daughter at home?" he asked at length, feel-
ing, if not looking, very guilty.

'* Yes, she is at home, but she has a headache I Of course
we are aU very busy preparing for the wedding."

** Naturally — I am sorry she has a headache.^'

** Thank you; I have no doubt it will not last very long."

" I suppose I — may I see her?" asked Harry, with sudden
boldness.

Mi*s. Sedley looked rather surprised, but she said, "Cer-
tainly," and led the way to her own sitting-room, where Viola,
in the cold northern light, among colourless cushions, was
lyino; upon a severe-lo()kiug sofa. It seemed symbolical ot-
her life.

She sprang up to greet the visitor, whose presence appenod
greatly to astonish her. She was pale and thin. The Siiine
constrained conversation went on as before, until the advent
of tea afforded a merciful rehef to the inventive powers of tho
unhappy trio.

Harry was at his wit's end, yet determined to make some
attempt towards tha attainment of his object, though he had
to prolong his call till the curfew hour. A diversion, he hoped,
might sooner or later occur, though Mi*s. Sedley sat there with
a polite and patient air of waiting till he should go that was
most disconcerting. She looked, as usual, uncomplaining, but
very suffering. Harry, however, was resolved. He went to
the window on the pretext of looking at the vifiw, and to his
joy, he sixw Geoffrey crossing tho lawn. He at once shouted
to him.

" Holloa 1 you here?" said Geoffry, changing his direction.
" Don't know if the mother will let me in with my dirty boots.
Well, Ha, how's tho headache ? Look herel" and beheld up
a trout by the tail.

" Eight -pounder ! -there you are, mother; I lay it at your
feet. I say, Harry, you might Uike the other two to your
mother, with my conlplimonts."

"Thanks; she will be delighted."

Mrs. ae<lloy brightenetl a little as if expecting that he would
take the trout and go; but on tho contmry, ho established him-
self solidly in au easy chuir-and engngr>d in a dialogue with

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TBB WTNG OF AZBAEl.

Qeoftry upon the subject of fiBhing, which contained a vital
principle so vigorous as to promise for it little short of immor
tality. Mrs. Sedley sighed She had a great deal to do, and
very little time to do it in ; IlaiTy knew thai;, and glued him
self more firmly to his seat. He had propounded a theory
about flies that Geoff ry would not hear of for a moment;
and as Harry stuck to it obstinately, a long argument was
the result. As Geoffry said, it was distressing to see a sensi-
ble fellow making a fool of himself.

i At last Mrs. Sedley rose. *' Would Mr. Lancaster kindly
excuse her ? she had some important letters "

Harry sprang up, indescribably polite. Mrs. Sedley must
not for a moment think of letting him detain her. In the
cause of science, he felt it his duty to root out a commou
error from Geoffry's usually clear mind, but

This created a clamour ; and in the mir' o of it, Mrs. Sedley ;
retired. After that, Geoffry found his oj ^jonent singularly im-
proved in mental grasp. His arguments grew milder ; and be-
lore long, he was brought to confess that lie saw and retracted |
his error.

Geoffry then became restless, as he usually did between I
four walls, and proposed to go out. Won't Harry come too i

But Harry's politeness would not allow him to desert Viola. |

"Oh, she won't mind," said Geoffry,

In spite of her assent, however, he could not bring hiniself|
to commit this breach of manners.

*' Well, then, you'd better stay and entertain her while I gol
and have a wash and bruph up. I feel more picturescnie than!
beautiful, more beautiful than clean !" and he went off by the]
open window.

Harry watched him out of sight. Then he turned rapidlyl

f lanced at the door, and went over to where Viola was sitting./
[e took her hand in his, and said quietly :
'* Viola, you have finally consented to this marriage in
fit of self-sacrificing ardour, and you are even now fright
ened of your deed. I have come to tell you again that you
are wrong, and that you are doing what you will repenl]
all your life. I have also come to tell you once more tha
I love you with all my heart and soul, and that I want yoii
to promise to let me take you away from here to-morrowJ
If tne pressure upon you Is irresistible, as it seems to bej
you must take my name— don't start take my name
that you cannot take his. You will return to your home
or do whatever else you please, without feeling that
have in any way or at any time a claim on you. I kno^vtha
my proposal would receive hard names from'most experience
people^ out I re^rd all things as of less importance than yoiu
salvatic .1. Wait one minute-let me speak— we may he iff
temipted at any moment. I must not disguise from ym
that there is some risk in this plan. It woula create a wan
dal i your good name might bo attacked. But, darling, is m

'AN ENCOUNTER.

129

worth considering in comparison with what is proposed for
vou -the one mere talk of silly people, the other "

She winced and turned away with a gesture of passionate
despair.

" I can't balance things; I am bewildered and terrified."

"Upon my soul, I believe mine is the only way to save you !"
he exclaimed. ** I entreat, I beseech, you to consent to it."

"Oh, it is impossible— it is so deceitful, and how could I
accept such a sacrifice ?"

' ' To have saved you would be my reward. I have thought
it all out ; this is no hasty idea of mine, Viola. Have pity on
voui-self and nie. If you had consented to take refu^ with
Mrs. Lincoln, it mi^ht have been managed without this more
borious step, from which you shrink ; but since you will not —
What's that?"

Viola gave a little half -suppressed cry; for at the open
window witli his hand playing with the tassel of the blind,
Htood Philip Dendraith, blandly smiling. When he smiled so,
Viola always felt a nameless terror.

"I hope I do not intrude," he said, advancing into the room
with slow, firm footsteps, as if he were enjoying something
leisurely.

" Viola, my love, I am sorry to hear you are not well to-
day." He went up and kissed her on the mouth with an air
of familiarity.

Hariy set \\m lips.

" You must excuse these little demonstrations, "said Philip,
with a wave of his hand. "We haven't met for a whole day,
you know."

" Pray don't apologise to me," said Harry, keeping guard
over his voice. "Any apology you might think necessary
would be due to Miss Sedley."

Philip glanced at him keenly out of the comer of his eyes
and gave a cold smile.

"I do hope I wasn't interrupting something interesting,"
he said. "I know what you can beat your best— ,quitea
Sheridan, upon my honour I"

"Shall I go on for your benefit ?" ^aid Harry, looking at
his rival witli steady eyes.

"Pray do," urged Philip, while Viola gave a frightened
gesture. " Kindly allow mo to find a comfortable chair first,
that I may tlie more enjoy the treat in store for me. So —
this is most luxurious. I didn't know your mother would
have tolerated such a lounge in her house, Viola— tmc chaise
dc Sybarite /"

He leant back luxuriously, moving a little closer to Viola,
so that he could lay his hand on the arm of her chair or touch
hora now and agtiin when it so pleased him.

From such a man it would be impossible to conceal that
something of a secret nature had l)een taking place when he
entered ; v tola's cry of dismay hud betrayed them.

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130

THE WING OF AZRAEL

\MJ,

Seeing how matters stood and knowing what sort of enemy-
he had to deal with, Harry took a characteristic resolution.

*' Your suspicions are just," he said. " You did surprise a
conversation between Miss Sedley and myself which we did
not wish to be overheard."

" Candide,'''' murmured Philip, taking that work from the
book-shelves and turning over tne leaves carelessly. " There
is an interesting proverb of George Herbert's which you may
perhaps be familiar with : — 'When the tree is fallen all go
with tneir hatchet.' "

"Not yet is the tree fallen," said Harry. "But I think it
is better that it should fall. You must know that I have be-
come acquainted with all the circumstances of your engage-
ment."

Philip bowed. " Your interest in our affairs is most flatter-
ing."

"I will not mince matters," Harry continued; "T know
that Miss Sedley is being forced into the marriage,"— Philip
looked round^ — " that you have taken advantage of her help-
less position m the hands of parents who are wiUing to sell
her to you — that's the long and short of it — in order to extri-
cate themselves from their financial difficulties."

Viola started up. "I cannot hear such things," she cried.

" I beg your pardon," said HaiTy. "I was wrong— forgive
me ; but I am at liberty to say that Mr. Dendraith is to all
intents and purposes intending to marry you against your
will, that you have asked him to release you, and that he re-
fuses. I consider myself also at liberty strenuously to advise
you to refuse to carry out your engagement an(^ to dai'e
everything rather than fulfil it."

"There is an audacity about you," said Philip, looking up
at him from his reclining attitude, that really carries one
away. A degree less anda.*ity — were it but a hair's-breadth —
and one would not tolerate you for a moment. I hope you are

going to increase the dramatic effect by telling me that you
ave been proposing to Miss Sedley to elope with you. By
the way, hei-e is another proverb I might appropriately cite:
* Where there is no honour there is no grief. '^'
Harrv flushed deeply.

" Asl hold it quite unjustifiable to marry a woman who is
not really free to refuse you, I hold it justifiable to rescue
her by anv means in one's power. She is not to be sacrificed
to an artificial code of honour."

"Rather more moraUty than honour about that view, me-
thmks," said Phihp. " Do you know, sir, that some men in
my place would treat you in a manner that might be some-
what compromising to your dignity."

" It matters not to me what some men in your place might
attempt," said Harry; "I have to deal witn you, and I am
quite prepared to do so in any manner that may seem neces-
sary.'*^

IK VAIN.

131

"Perhaps we had better continue our little chat outside,"
suggested Philip, rising. "It is useless to trouble Miss Sed-
ley with these trifles."

"Certainly, but I have very Uttle more to saj^. It is well,
perhaps, that you should know that it is my design to oppose
vour marriage, and that I consider I have the right to do so
by every means in my power."

" The lady to the victor," remarked Philip coolly as he led
the way to the garden.

CHAPTER XIX.

IN VAIN.

To the consternation of every one, and the indignation of
Mr. Sedley, Viola fell ill. The doctor said her nerves were
unstrung, and that she must see nobody who might excite
her, for at least a week. He regi'etted to have to be so bar-
barous, but Mr. Dendraith must certainly not be admitted.

Mr. Dendraith consigned the doctor to perdition, and tried
to prevail upon Mrs. Sedley to allow him to see Viola not%vith-
standing. Little did he know that meek and mild lady. She
was immovable. He began to fear that the marriage would
be put off, in which case Harry Ijancaster might give trouble,
though Philip trusted to his own powerful influence and to
that of Viola's conscience to overcome all opposition.

The doctor said the invalid only needed a little treatment,
combined with perfect quiet, and there v^as no reason to post-
pone the marriage, though a very long and fatiguing wedding
tour was not to be advised.

On the whole, perhaps Viola's illness proved a safegiiard for.
Philip, as Harry was unable to ha^e any communication with
her, and the appointed day was drawing always nearer.

The prescribed week of auiet spread into ten days, and
these to a fortnight— terrible days both for Viola and for
Harry. Nor was Mrs. Sedley much happier. Anxious as
only she knew how to be, she spent her strength in praying
for a-^ impossible faith, and found her only relief in a severe
self -blame that she had it not without praying for.

As for Viola she did not know whether to wish these drag-
ging days longer or shorter.

At nightfall, relief that the strain of the day was over,
and terror at the thought that another had passed, fought a
pitched battle, which went on till exhaustion drew her into
a restless sleep. There were times when she was cruelly
tempted to write to Harry, and tell him she was ready to adopt
his plan ; but the thought was thrust aside as inconceivably

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182

THE WmO OF AZRAEL.

wicked. She was ashamed to tell her mother how hard she
found it to do her du' '. She would fall on her knees at night
before the open window, and ^^ray with all the passion of her
soul for strength and guida.je— pray that she might, forget
the words that Harry had f pr'ken to her out on the soa, words
which echoed in her brain and haunted her with their subtle
and tempting sophistiy.

And now the house began to fill. Large numbers of re-
joicini^ aunts and cousins and gleeful old friends came
crowding in for the happy event, (as they would insist on call-
ing it). Upton Court opened its disused chambers for the
joyful members of the Dendraith connexion, who were so
pleased that dear Philip was going to settle down and become
a sedate and respectable married man after his wild career in
early life.

Viola was now convalescent, and very busy helping her
mother to entertain their guests.

Once Harry hod written to her, saying that up to the very
last moment he was always there ready and eager to carry
out his proposed plan, if only she would make an appoint-
ment ; but Viola wrote back entreating him not to write to her
— her mother would wonder about the letter, and it could do
no good. She thanked 1dm warmly for his desire to befriend
her, and said that she would never cease to remember his
kindness. She took this opportunity of wishing him all good
wishes, and remained his " very gratefully, Viola."

He called after this, and found her in the drawing-room,
among a roomful of people, pouring out tea. He fancied
there was a new dignity m her manner — bom, thought the
onlookers, of the honours of coming wifehood ; really called
forth, as Harry sadly divined, by the stimulus of great suf-
fering.

Once or twice he caught her glance, and made another
mute appeal ; but she shook her head sadly, and turned away,
and the miserable game went on.

Two days before the wedding there was a dance at the
Manor-House, to which all the country-side was invited.

Philip expressed a desire that Viola should dance with no
one but himself that night, unless she first asked his permis-
sion. It seemed to her to be taking airs of possession rather
soon ; but she said nothing, being too sick at heart, and too
accustomed to follow her mother's ideal of womanly submis-
sion, to offer any resistance. Her recent illness would make
a good excuse for refusing.

The drawing-room was roused out of its long doze ; the lost
souls, to their great amazement, had their glass cases taken off,
and candles stuck into them ; the silken chairs were revealed
in all their faded glory, and placed round the walls to make
space for the dancers. The dim old room was unrecognisable.

The dancing went merrily, thanks to Mr. Sedley's undenia-
ble social talents and to Sir Philip's energy. Mrs. Sedley was

IN VAIN.

133

unable to depress her guests, though she did her unconscious
best in that direction.

A boisterous country-dance was just over; the couples
were hurrying into tho hall, leaving cnly Lady Dendraith in
a stiff-backed chair, with her chubby hands crossed on her
lap, and her head drooping on her breast. According to es-
taolished habit, the old lady was taking the opportunity for
a quiet doze. Her son was out of the room, and there was
nothing to k§ep her awake.

Viola, who had not been dancing, remained behind when
the crowd passed out, hoping for a little rest and quiet.

Her white dress, soft and flowing, was very becoming to
her. Philip had told her so to-night, and several others, not
perhaps quite so competent to judge.

She had a bunch of white roses in her hair and at her
breast; and on her neck a small diamond crescent sparkled.

Thinking she was alone except for the sleeping Ladv Den-
draith, she had leant her tired noad back upon the red cush-
ions of the sofa, and rcdsed her hands to her forehead, cover-
ing for a moment her eyes.

When she removed her hands, Harry Lancaster was stand-
ing looking down upon her.

She started up.

"Oh, why do you con^o to me? It is not kind; you weaken
me: for pity's sake, go.'

"Do you grudge me these farewell moments— I who love
you so?"

" Hush, it is wicked ! "

"That I don't for a moment believe: the real wickedness
is that "

"You are mad !'' she exclaimed. " We shall be overheard."

" Who can overhear V he asked, lowering his voice. " Lady
Dendraith is asleep."

" Her son would hear you if you were ten miles away."

"Viola," said a voice, at which she started, trembling
violently, " I've been seeking you everywhere,"

"Except here, apparently," said Harry.

Philip looked his enemy up and down, and down and up,
and then passed him by without comment. The whole thing
was done with such quiet and exquisite insolence that Harry
coloured to his temples, and Viola breathed quickly.

With a -sudden impulse he bent towards her.

"Will you give me this next dance?" he asked. He had
chosen his time well.

Philip took a step forward: " Miss Sedley is engaged to me
for it!"

" No," said Viola, with sudden spirit, "I did not promise it
to you !" and she rose and laid her hand on Harry's arm.

Philip's shrug of the shoulders and smile were not pleasant
as the two went off together. He had hidden his amazement

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134

THE WING OF AZUAEL.

and anger as he hid, or could hide, almost any emotion, how«
ever violent.

But Jiot for a moment did he lose sight of the couple as
they whirled together among the dancei*s. He thought thr.c
Viola danced with more appearance of pleasure than she h&d
danced before that eveniiig, though previously he had been
her partner. When had she vouchsafed to him such loikw
and tones ? Her face to his jealous eyes seemed softened and
glorified. Never before had her imprisoi^ed beauty made sd
triumphant an escape.

Could it be possible that some other man had succeeded in

Quickening the throbs of that steadily beating heart, when he,
•hdip, had failed ? It seemed incredible, yet Viola's coWness
towards himself required some explanation.

"When the dance was over, and ttie couple left the ball-roon\
Philip rose and followed them at a distance. He was too
prudent to openly display his Jealousy, too jealous to let them
out of his sight. A crowd m the doorway, howiever, pre-
vented him from leaving the room for a few seconds, and
■when he reached the hall the rebellious pair were nowhere to
be seen. They had been tempted by the brilliant starlight
onto the terrace, where the gentlest and mildest of jiight airs
was moving now and again a breathless leaf, murmuring here
and there among the ivy. The great avenue looked very sol-
emn and. dark under the stars; the vast old trees showing
against the sky, like silent sphinxes full of a secret knowl-
edge never to be revealed. The human element was absent:
the heart ached with the penetrating coldness of that awful
omniscience, wherem there was no love and no pity.

From the open windows of the ball-room stole presently
the sad sweet notes of a waltz ; that was the missing human
note, full of longing and of sadness, of melancholy almost
rising to despair.

The mnsic seemed to rush forth, flood-like, assailing as a
sea in tumult the fastness of that all-knowing silence. It was
like the human heart, revolting against its narrow destiny,
yearning imceasingly towards the larger, the lovelier, and the
better, which haunt it forever, like the refrain of a sweet
song, heard and half forgotten in by-gone days.

'•Heaven help us!" exclaimed Harry, after another vain
effort to persuade Viola to consent to his plan. '* What were
we sent for into this vast bhnd machine of a world, that goes
grinding on century after century, and with it ^rindin^ human
nerves and hearts to powder? What fiend was it that mvented
consciousness^ that made torturable nerves, and hearts that are
mere insignincant atoms of the universe, and yet capable,
each poor atom, of such infinite woe ? Surely we must be a
mistake, an unlucky accident, that occurred during the chem-
ical experiments of some meddlesome God, and which he has
not taken the trouble to rectify or eicpunge."

"I fear it is very wrong," said Viola with a deep sighj

jtif VAM

136

"but I have wondered inystlf, of late, why we were given
such power to feel pain, and at the same time placed in a
world whore duty always seems to lead to it."

" Yes, and not<luty ino,''- taid ITariy. ''You can't dodge it,
trv as you will. I think the world is divided between people
who are dull and don't Uve at all— people who call themselves
happy, but don't know what the word means— and those who
suffer mortal anguish, but who might know the ioys of Para-
dise here on earth, whose life is turned into a fiery torrent,
which scorches instead of warming. That troublesome young
God had a magnificent idea when he thought of us ; but he
failed in the execution, and the result is a wreck and ruin as
terrific as the ci-eation might have been splendid. We are
brothel's of the gods, but we are broken into a thousand frag-
ments."

*' Perhaps some day we shall be able to glue ourselves to-
gether again," said Viola, with a sad little smile.

** We want the glue," he returned, "and that glue is happi-
ness and love, the two things that good people and bad aliKe
deny us. The world resists its own salvation !"

Viola was silent. -

"Duty is better than happiness," she said presently; "and
better than love."

"Yet St. Augustine said: 'Love, and do what you will!'
What else have we to save us from the Ic aeliness of life, what
else can protect us from its awful coldness and silence ?"

He ^ave a movement towards the dark still avenue, and the
glittering mystery of the heavens.

"The more clearly one realises how we stand in this wilder-
ness of a universe, the more one feels the need of close feUow-
ship and love. It is not so much immortaUty as the eternity
of love that our hearts imperiously demand. Now you see
why I am so persistent, why I allow nothing to overcome me
till hope is absolutely lost. We can piece together some of
our broken fragments, Viola; and I feel that you could and
would love me if only 1 had a fair chance to make you under-
stand your own latent self I"

She trembled and turned away.

" If I am right, consider what you are doing in turning from
me; to what outer darkness you condemn yourself (putting [
me out of the question)."

"If my life proves unbearable, perhaps I shall die. God
can't let one live and suffer always !"

" I don't remember many cases in which * God ' has shown
himself so considerate," siid Harry bitterly.

" Oh, don't say such things, I implore you 1" she cried.

"You are buoying yourself up with false ideas, false hopes,
false pieties, forgive me for saying so; but they are ^se,
because they flatly and openly contradict the facts of life; and
in so far they war against truth, which is our one hope."

**I can't argue with you. You contuse my ideas. I

can

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136

THE WINQ OF AZRAEL.

I-

lis:

only cling to yhni I have been taught, and try to do my duty
"...cordin,': ly. What else is possible to me ? You may oe able
to do right in yoiir own way,— I don't know,— but how can I ?"

It was said so jiathetically that Harry impulsively put out liis
anns, and folded Hkmu round her with protective tenderness.

" Viola 1 Viola ! it wringH my heart to see vou fluttering like
this in the meshes of a worn-out, liiieless old error. It is as if
you were drowning in some deep sea, dragged down and
smothered by a mass of tangled weeds, which yua would uot
let niG pull away. Some day you will see it all yourself; a
rough, rude hand, instead of a gentle atid loving one, will
open your eyes, and then how bitter will be your regret, with
no human being to comfort or to help yon "

"Except an insignificant creature called a husband," ob-
served a cool, polite voice through the darkness. *' He, how-
ever, having not yet assumed that extinguishing title, ventures
vto claim the fulfilment of a promise to dance the next waltx
with him—if it is not asking too much. Perhaps the fact of
being a husband minus only tv»'o days depreciates him in an-
ticipation."

viola laid her hand in his proffered arm, murmuring some-
thing about not knowing the dance had bepim.

" Pray don't apoloj^ize," said Philip: " it is for me to apolo-
gize for my tactless nitrusion."

They walked iin the terrace together in silence.

At tne end PMlip paused, leaning against one of the stone
pillai-s of the terrace. "You seem to find Mr. Lancastcrg
co-iversation spiritually nourishing," he remarked.

Viola looked up, Jnit made no reply.

" He is a very mU.resting young man," said Philip.

A^ain no answer, only a steady paze.

"His or}^ fault is an unfortunate prejudice against myself;
and as my exi^erietico somewhat confirms his opinion, I have
of coui-se but few objectioiis to make to it."

A pause.

" i pride myself upon my tolerant spirit," Philip continued
urbanely. "I consider it uncouth to be intolerant, or oven
fractious. I don't dissipate my forces in guerilla warfare."

In his insolent attitucte, with his arm upon the pillar of the
parai)et, ho looked down at his companion steadily, telling oil
nis sentences one by one, and leaving a pause between each,
so that they seemed to fall like stones into silent water.

Viola's ej'-es at last sank before his, and a tremor passed
through her.

"You art' cold " said Phihp. " Would you like to go in ?"
Tarn not cola."

lie bent forward and drew her white shawl closer round
her. She shrank under his touch.

" Why, you are shiveri'igl" he cried. " It is dangerous to!
Bt'^y out hei-e in your thin dress. I don't want to nave yeu
laid up again. Delays are dangerous, especially with sucl: a

IN VAIN.

i:^

verv interesting young man coasting round. Flowing mous-
taches and blue eyes, even in the absence of regular features,
are not to be ti*usted. Don't imagine for a minute that I bear
him any ill-will; I, in fact, symi)athize heartily with his ad-
miration for yourself."

He offered her his arm with a bland smile, and led her into
the house.

'•I think, by the way," ho said, as they crossed the hall,
"that I asked you not to dance with anybody but myself to-
night. It is perhaps a little freak of mine, but do you muid
gratifying it ? '

"I am not anxious to dance any more to-night," said Viola;
"lam too tired."

Philip laughed. "You are no diplomatist, my love," he
said. "You might have pleased yourself and mo at the same
time had you been less imcompromisingly honest. How do
you expect to govern your husband at that rate ?"

" I don't expect it. my place is to obey."

"Yes, ostensibly; but you know there are circuitom? routes
as well as straight ones to the same spot. A wile can gener-
ally al'ain her object if she knows how to manage cleverly,
and I >hall be charmed to be managed cleverly, I assure you,
and promise to keep one eye peimanently shut, so that you
will nave no difficulty in finding my blind side."

She remained silent.

" On one or two points, I admit, I nm apt to show my teeth ;
and I am afraid such is the infirmity of human nature— that
Mr. Lancnst<T might cause me to snarl if h(^ i;6 not careful.
But once out of range of these few reefs, there is nothing to
expect but smooth sailing. You see I have been wenk enough
to fall in love, and that makes me very manageable. I am
waiting, pining lo be managed! Two short days morio to
wss, and then, my love, you will come and manage me I
What prospect could be sweeter ?"

How did it happen that, after all this profession of submis-
sion on the part of hei* futu'^e husband. Viola left him that
niRht with a more vivid sense of his dominating will than
ovor she had before ?

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138

ill

THE WING OF AZBAEL,

CHAI>TER XX.

A BAD BEGINNING.

Great anxiety prevailed at the Manor-House that the wed-
ding day should prove fine. The bride alone did not share
the anxiety, though she said " 1 hope so" without flagging
when the guests expressed their feelings with regard to the
desirable omen.

Lady Clevedon had come over the night before the wed-
ding, with the intention of preventing Mrs. Sedley, as much
as possible, from dwelling on the sadder aspects of the event.

she brought with her Arabella, whose unremitting spright-
liness might be expected to have a cheering effect.

But Arabella was only an accessory ; Lady Clevedon dis-
creetly chartered Geoff i*ey for her enlivening purpose, Geof-
frey bleing the only person who had ever been known to make
his mother laugh.'

He reminded his aunt that this had been done at an enor-
mous expenditure of vitiil force, by means of a terribly ener-
getic imitation of an Irish reel, and only in the last wild par-
oxysm had his mother displayed the slightest amusement.
Geoffrey appealed to Lady Clevedon's sense of propriety to
convince her that the experiment could not be repeated in the
present conditions.

*' My dear boy, be as foolish as you know how; regard the
occasion as a sort of carnival, and no one will say you nay 1"

'* A most cheering invitation," said Geoffrey, "but how is
one to get up a caniival in a roomful of stuck-up wedding
guests?"

**They are only stuck-up because they are not amused; go
and amuse them."

Gteoffrey gave a rueful whistle !

'* Well, I call this simply cruelty to animals! What would
you have mo do? Go up to ray mother with my hands in my
pockets, and ask her how she feels to-morrow?"

"Graceless boyl To-morrow your mother will want all
the consolation wo can offer her.''

"Well, that's the sort of thing I never can understand I"
said Geoffrey, with a shrug of the shouldei'S. " Mothers
brinfj: up their dnughtere on i)in*pose to get married, and then
require more pocket-handkerchiefs than can be afforded by
any family of moderate means, whcm the huppy event comes

" You have much to loam before you understand women
and their ways, my dear," said the lady, with a laugh.

Oh, I've watched 'em," said Gcoili'ey, "and it sceras to

v--"--

A BAD BEOINNINQ.

189

me very much like watching a lot of young tadpoles in a
pond. You see them wriggling and scuttling about, but you
can't for the life of you make out what they're doing it for;
and it's my beUef they don't know, themselves."

"Which, tadpoles or womfen?"

*' Both, but of the two commend me to the tadpoles for
method.''

"You young heretic 1 Wait till you enter the woman*s
empire, and then tremble! Luckily wo have our reven,?es!
Ah ! Viola, my dear, let mo look at you ; very nice, indeed.
I'm glad to see the old lace again, and I hope you will wear it
oftener than your mother did ; I call it wasting good lace to
save it. Ahl and the nice old Dendraith diamonds too.
Harry, doesn't our bride look beautiful? It is good for a
woman to bo admired; it makes her admirable. Phihp has
worked wonders already."

Viola was trembling and colouring, either at the praise or
at Lady Clevedon's appeal to her cousin to confirm it.

" And this is the bnde^oom's gift, is it not? Very lovely
and most becoming! Did I not tell you," Lady Clevedon
added aside, *' that ners was a face to improve? The change
came about sooner and more startlingly tlian I expected."

"I think your niece is very lovely," said Harry, simply.

Lady Clevedon at the moment darted off to tne assistance
of Mrs. Sedley, to whom social duties were always arduous,
and Harry Lancaster approached the bride.

She stood with bcr hands clasped before her, not looking
up. He saw that she was breathing quickly.

" I hope you won't be angry with me if I ask you to accept
a small wedding gift?" ho said in a not very steady voice.
''It is a little antique knife I got in Italy, of little use; but I
thought its chasing finely done. It is said to have liolongcd
: ) the Colonna family; but it is now put to the peaceful pur-
poses of a paper-knife or a mere ornament."

He handed her as ho spoke an instrument of finely tem-
pered steel, with an elaborate handle exquisitely chaRed.

"The blade is rusty; the man in the shop I bought it at
assured me as a recommendation that the mark is really an
old blood-stain. He looked ready to stick it into me when I
laughed."

" How beautiful ! and how good of you !" she said. " I shall
value this very much."

She hesitated for a moment and then thrust it through the
coils of her hair.

"How perfectly charmine!'* exclaimed the watchful
Arabella, rapturously'. * ' Really, of all your wtnlding presents
I oiivy you this the inost. There is something most lascinat-
inK about it 1 It looks as if it might havo done many a secret
tleod of darkness before it was promoted to these gayer
offlros! I am sure it nmst havo pome sinister history. It
makes you look quite dangerous, Miss iSedley, but so interest-

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140

THE WING OF AZBAEL.

ingl Doesn't it, Mr. Lancastoi'? Quite a Lucrezia Borgia.
We sliall be hearing dreadful things of you, I am sure,— it
will be quite kind of you to give a new sensation ; do let it be
something striking, won't you? Paper-knife or mere orna-
ment afe it is, I must confesa I shouldn't like to have it raised
against me ! But it won't be me, I am sure ; I never made
anybody jealous— much more likely this Mrs. Lincoln, who
is coming to live here and shock us nil. Mr. Lancaster, you
don't know what responsibility may rest on your shoulders ;
it is really a dangerous^ ift— why, it would make one long to
commit a murder for the more pleasure of using it."

" It would really be a sin to waste it," said Geoffrey.

" Flying in the face of Providence," added Harry, " which
has provided all things for our use."

" Now then, Viola my dear, wc must be off," said Aunt
Augusta. " Mi*s. Courtenay, Mr. Lanca^ster, be good enough to
go in the next carriage, and the bride and I will follow in the
last."

In a moment the room was cleared, and the carriage drove
off.

"What has become of that girl's shyness !" exclaimed Lady
Clevedon, straining ^or eyes to catch the last glimpse of the
white still figure of tue bride, as she stood, bouquet in hand,
upon the doorstep.

Harrjr made no reply, but the thought crossed his mind that
great misery and great shyness were perhaps likely to coun-
teract one another.

" I am so glad the day is so fine," said Lady Clevedon pres-
ently; "it will put theni all in good spirits."

" Yes," Harry answered.

The weather was fine certainly, but it: was not one of those
languorous days of summer that suggest nothing but rest and
peace.

The sunshine had indeed a singular brilliance, but there
was a blusterous wind careering over the land, swaying the
rii)ening com, and making the trees rustle and complain of
the rough treatment.

Overhead, too, the cloud masses had been scattered by the
wild wind: no form had been left them; tliey were strewn in
ragged streamers across the sky, gleaming with captured
li^t.

But there was no suggestion of pain or pansicm in the as-
pect of the roughly handled clouds ; rather a groat jov in the
infinite breadth of the heavens and the ecstasy of perfect
freedom.

The groy old church, roused out of its habitual calm, was
the centre of a scene of subdued ex(;itement. Society in the
villago was stirred to its depths: only the bodndden remained
at home to day ; the tiniest infants were nipt from their cra-
dles and carried by eager mothei*s to the lych gate, whore
one by one tb© oarriages drew up and the gay wodding-guests

A BAD BKOINNiNG

141

alighted, sweeping or tripping or hurrying into the church,
according to habit and character.

Lady Clevedon was among those who did her alighting de-
hberately, giving directions to the coachman in decisive
tones, and then waliring coolly along the paved pathway be-
tween the graves, to the grey old doorway in the ivy-covered
tower.

This was the last arrival before the centre of all interest—
the bride.

The old Manor-House coachman, with a backbone that any
steeple might be proud of, whipped up his horses on entering
the village, and the carriage dasbeu up to the l^^ch gate
amidst an amount of dust and flourish and prancing that
made one or two of the younger children cry.

Mr. Sedley alighted ni*st, and was greeted with a cheer;
then came a cloud of something soft and white, like the foam
of the breakers, whose moan even here, in the moment's ex-
cited pause that followed her appearance, the bride could just
catch above the rustling of the wind.

There was a deafening shout, and then a shower of roses,
honeysuckle, and cottage flowers fell at her feet.

Many a "God bless you!" "Long life and happiness to
vou!" followed her as she walked between the tombstones on
her father's arm ; while suddenly the old tower started into
life, and sent out a peal of wedding-bells which was heard for
miles along the qinet country,- tliose eternal wedding-bells
ushering in the sorrows of the ceaseless generations! The
sunshine was pourinc down upon the pathway, but the wind
seemed as if it would prevent the bride from entering the
church, so angnly did it bluster round her, and press agains
her slight form as she bent forward to resist it.

As the wind among sea-foam, that western blast made her
garments shiver and flutter together, as if in fear.

"She looks like a angel!" exclaimed one enthusiastic
woman among the crowd, holding up her indifferent infant
for a last look as the white figure disappeared through the
church-door.

"They'll make a lovely pair!" asserted another admirer.
"And clon't the old gentleman look proud about it all 1"

" The poor lady don't seem quite pleased, though ; she's that
white and thin. I'm thinking the poor thing's got something
wrong with her liver. As I was a saying to George only the
other day"— and so on; the oracular rcMiiark made to George
being to the effwt that onlv a box of Parr's Lif » Pills stood
between Mrs. Sedley and the grave.

Several people recalled memories of the wedding of Mr. and
Mrs. Sedley at this very church : among them "old WiUum."
He however, with patient humility was ready at once to with-
draw his reminiscences in favor of those of any person who
might think his own su^)orior. Several did wo, and Willum
faded quietly into obBcunty.*

:'l.

\
! 1

f •;

,1*

fBB WING OF AZUABL

There was a dim, wistful look in his eyes as they followed
the young bride up the pathway to the church: only yester-
day, it seemed, she had chattered to him in her childisn way,
taken him into her confidence about her tadpoles and her
pets; or entreated him, with tears in her eyes, not to go on
working in the rain. The lonely old man loved her faithfully,
and his heart ached as he thought of the Manor-House hence-
forth without her.

Within the church, when the bells ceased, was a solenm
hush. The wedding-giiests were ranged along the church,
looking like a set of gaily dressed and very properly disposed
dolls.

At the altar stood the bridegroom.

"How distractingly handsome he looks!" exclaimed Ara-
bella in a whisper to her neighbour. " If he weren't so neai-ly
a married man I should really fall in love with him."

" You have still a few seconds to indulge in a transient pas-
sion," said Lady Clevedon contemptuously,

'• Alas, he is already claimed !" cried Arabella with a sigh.
" Look with what grace he greets the bride ! It is charming!
And those few sweet words that he whispers in her ear."

The bride's reply, had it been overheard, would have scan-
dalized the spectators not a little.

" Please do not forget that I am here against my own wish,
and can have no response in my heart for sucn speeches!
And one thing more : Please do not forget that what I say
to-day is said with my lips only !"

There was no time to answer, for the ceremony was about
to begin. Philip had counted on the effect of the solemn
service upon one of Viola's scrupulous temperament. He
thought that she would feel the sacredness or the oaths she
was taking, and that victory for him would be half won by
the strokes of her own vigorous conscience. He was quite
unpi*epai*ed for hor repudiation of the whole service, and this
continued opposition, meek and quiet as it was, roused the
very worst side ot his character. His bride, he reflected, had
got to learn the difference between a lover and a husband.

Over the altar was a stained ^lass window of meUow tint-
ing, through which the sunshuie streamed. Every colour
and shade of colour was there, blending, softening, gleaming,
growing deeper or paler with the changing hght and the oc-
casuuil shade >v;ing of a tree outside blown back and forwards
by the wind. Viola was standing in the line of the sun's
rays, find the colours stained her di*ess, passing across her in
a broad band of radiance, and falling on the cold stone floor
behind her and on the half effaced brasses at her feet. Upon
hor bosom a deep blood-red stain glowed in fiery brilliance,
like the symbol of some master passion in her heart — or,
perhaps a death wound ! She stirred not until the time came
wh§u the hands of bride and bridegroom were joined| and

A BAD BEOINNJNa

143

then she gave a slight, scarcely perceptible shiver, which,
however, was not not lost upon Harry or upon Philip.

"27iose whom God hath joined together let no man put
asunder. ^^

To tha triumphant strains of th? wedding-march, bride and
bride-groom walked back along the aisle to thoir can*iage.

Was it only Viola who heard in that wonderful outburst
the ring of something infinitely sad and hopeless?

'* You look cold, my love," said Philip, when he and his
bride were on their way back to the Manor-House, the sound
of the bells still pursuing them in noisy and rather foolish
rejoicing.

" Can I put a shawl round you ?"

" OhI I am not cold, thanks," said Viola.

"Excitement a little too much for you, perhaps. Well,
that will soon be over now. They can't amuse themselves at
our expense much longer, let us be thankful. Soon I shall
have you all to myself." He put his arm round her and was
about to draw her closer, when his eye caught the glitter of
the Sicilian ornament in her hair.

' ' What's this ?" he asked. ' * Another wedding gift ? Un-
common fine work, this — antique, and of the best Renaissance
Scriod. But what a murderous looking thing to wear in your
air !"

" It is meant to be used for a paper knife, or merely to be
regarded as a curiosity," said Viola.

" It is a real work of art, there's no doubt of that. Who is
the i)ossessor of so much artistic-

'»

" Harrv Lancaster gave it to m 9.

Philip looked round.

"luoeedl It is very obliging of Harry Lancaster; but I
object to your receiving present from him, especially of this
character. If one believed in omens, it might make one un-
comfortable. You'll excuse me, but I must take possession
of this sinister-looking hair-pin. I can't allow you to keep it."

Viola flushed up. "It was given to me, not to you,^' she
naid, " and I cannot surrender it."

" Cannot is not exactly the word to use to me, my dear."

" Will not, then," she said hastily.

Philip looked at her in astoniyliment. "I am unable to
congratulate you on your wisdom, Viola. To begin your
married life by dolibevalo opposition and disobedience is not
the act of a sensible woman, out of a pettish child."

" I cannot part with my gift," Viola persisted.

" i.Iy dear, I have told you that I cannot allow you to keep
it. What is to happen in such a case ? You know quite well
that Lancaster behaved in a way that is unforgivable. I
consider that the conduct has been throughout ungentle-
matily^. We stand to one another in a hostil** attitude. He
di«l his utmost to supersede mo in your affections; we meet on
ktms of enmity. Such being the case, I consider it a piece

iia

*'-^

144' ^

THE WING OF AZRAEL.

of infernal cheek on his i)art to give you a present; and I must
insist' on your returning it at once. "

*'No, no, I cannot, I cannot 1" she cried with rising excite-
ment as Philip bent forward to take the object of dispute
from her.

"Now, don't be foolish," he said; "can't you understand
the situation and be reasonable ? It is impossible for my
wife, in existing circumstances, to wear the gift of Ht.rry
Lancaster.

" I won't wear it, then," said Viola. " Only don't take it
away from me."

"You must give it back; there is no alternative; and if
you won't, I must. Will you give it back?"

"I have already accepted it ; I can't give it back."

"Then you leave me no choice."

She had the knife clasped in her right hand. Philip began
gently enough b; it resolutely to open the fingers. Stnving to
close them again, she unclasped from her neck the diamond
ornament, Philip's gift, with her free hand.

"Will you give back that dagger?"

"I would rather give back these," she answered, holding
out the glittering trinket.

Philip's face darkened. "Infatuated woman! Do you
want to ruin our chance of peace at the very outset?''

"I will obey you in all other things. I accepted this gift
not as your wife, but as myself. I was not your wile then,
in fact. Will you not leave me even a little remnant of in-
dividuality ? Am I always to be your wife, never myself ?
I have not q^uestioned your authority, but you ask for more
than authority. You ask me to surrender my personality.
The greatest despot only commands, he does not altogether
extinguish, his suojcets. You go too far even for a husband."

" You talk too much nonsense even for a wife," said Philip.
" The world regards and criticises you now as my wife and
nothing else. What else are you ? You have no other stand-
ing or acknowledged existence. Therefore, naturally I have
a deep interest in your conduct. I am sorry to have to be-
gin our married life with a disagreement; but you really
must understand from the outset, once for all, what our rela-
tions are to be. I desira nothing bf-tter than to be a kind and
indulgent husband ; but on such points as this, I ca^ brook
no dispute. Now, pray, let's have no more of it. Give me
that bauble without further fuss. We are near home and
must have no scones."

But Viola's fingers only tightened their grasp as the car-
riage approached the avenue of the Manor-Honse.

"Very well then, I must use a little muscular persuiision;
there is no time to lose !"

As he did so, Viola held the diamonds, which she had in
b?r lefti band, out of the window. "On this one point I too

UPTon CASTLB.

145^

am determined," she said: **if you take ray gift I drop the
necklace."

With a muttered oath, Philip relaxed his hold.

" Obstinate woman ! You don't know when the last pay-
ment will be made for this !"

CHAPTER XXI.

UPTON CASTLE.

««'

Now, Marion, if you are not content you ought to be, and
I will listen to no plaints. Viola writes regularly and cheer-
fully (her style is really rather stately and good) ; her hus-
band appears to be kind to her. and I cannot see what you
have left to make yourself miserable about."

**OhI I am not miserable, Augusta; only anxious, a little
anxious."

*' Now pray, Marion, what for ?" demanded Lady Clevodon
brusquely. "Do you suppose that avalanches are lying in
wait for your daughter, and pi^ecipices defying the laws of
nature at every turn?"

Mrs. Sedley was silent. She did not dare to tell her sister-
in-law that it was the very cheerfulness of Viola's lettere that
caused her anxiety. She could gather nothing from those
clear, unemotional epistles, couched in language whicli had a
certain quiet force, and vaguely suggested that the writer held
^nany unsaid things in reserve.

"I must wait till she comes home," thought the mother,
"and then I shall easily be able to judge."

The wedding-tour was now neaj'ly over, and tho happy
pair were expected to arrive at their home at the end of the
week.

Lady Dendraith drove ov?r daily to Upton Cnstle, endeav-
ouring to brighten up the tumbledown old place, and give it,
as far as possible, a bridal appearance. Her task wtis indeed
a hard one. Of all gloomy oil houses that ever a well intou-
tioned niot^er attempted tr make look bridal, surely Upton
Castle was the most hopeless. The noor lady gazed at its
gaunt rooms, and listened to the ?oaseloss moaning of the
waves below its win lows, in despair. Her one idea for effecting
a bridal apj^arance was white sjitin; but after the introduc-
tion of an inordinate number of fire-screens, sofa-cushions,
photograph-frames, album-covers, and other ornaments made
of this festive material, the sole resource became exhausted,
and still the shadows lingered gloomily in the corners, ana
hung like a canopy about the ceiRngs of the vast old rooms.

Lady Denu.aith, sitting gazing at her unsuccessful distri-

.t.

' CI

) jjif

.!«

i ''1^

I4d

TRW Wim OP AZRAEt.

bution of white satin in the preat dmwing-room, -her bonnet,
from sheer perturbedness of spirit, edged to one 8ide,~was a
sight piteous to behold. The dreariness of the place, now in
the throes of a thorough cleaning, was enough to discourage
the most hopeful.

It seemed as if the efifort to make the long-disused house
once more a human habitation had disclosed a host of dismal
secrets. After a lapse of nearly a hundred years, daylight
streamed into musty rooms and corridors, where ancient
spiders had established themselves in forgotten comers,—
spiders with long pedi^ees, and a goodly array of corpses to
attest their title to distinction; and alasl these respectable
creatures now found themselves suddenly swept away, by a
democratic Turk's-head, and wondered irefully what things
were coming to 1 *

The care-taker of ten years' standing— a i)erson of such in-
tense and awful respectability that Lady Dendraith felt
frightened of her— was tall and strangely thin, with a face
tapering at each end to a nice point, a pair of small eyes, and
a long, pale-yellow nose. Smooth, iron-grey hair, hrushed
down over her brow, and severely plaited at the back of the
head, seemed a rebuke to all formfc of frivolous hairdressing.

But if Mrs. Barber's appearance was awe-inspiring, her lan-
guage was something that might turn one to stone. Poor
Lady Dendraith felt like a lisping child in the pi'esence of
this living dictionary.

" Well, Mrs. Barber," she would say with humility on her
arrival at the Castle, *'how are you getting on?"

With a stately inclination of the head Mra. Barber would
reply: "I am gratified to be able to inform your Ladyship
that the preparations are progressing with as much celebrity"
(the good woman's copiousness and accuracy were not exactly
on a par) " as the circumstances will admit 1"

**0h! I am glad of that; the time is getting short, you
know, and we seem rather behindhand. You see, my son
will bring home his youn^ wife on Tuesday, and I am. anxious
to have everything looking nice and bright for their recep-
tion."

"I can enter into your Ladyship's sentiments," returned
the august one with a stately bend or the head ; " but as to the

Slace looking bright^ I don't anticipate that it is ever likely to
o that. I have resided here now for ten years, and I cannot
remember that I ever saw it look, as one might say, cheerful.
Them waves"— Mrs. Barber did relax a httle from the aus-
terity of her language under stress of emotion—" them waves
are tnat mournful, beating, day in, day out, against the cliff
side, that at times I do assure your Ladyship I have felt as if
I must give a month's notice to ^o on the spot. At night,
when the place is shut up, it's as still as a churchyard, barring
the rats in the garret, wnich worrits about among the lumber
like creatures taken leave of their senses. And the size of

TTPTON OASTLff.

147

'em! Your Ladyship wouldn't believe it!" said Mrs. Barber
with much feeling, "but the tramp and scamper of them
nasty beasts over my head is more hke a man's footsteps than
a vermin's."

**Dear me I Why don't you let the cat into the garret,
Mrs. Barber?"

The bonv form of the housekeeper turned straight round
and faced her alarmed employer.

*'Did I understand your Ladyship aright? Give my poor
Maria to be worried by them great animals?"

"Ohl very well, Mrs. Barber," said Lady Dendraith meek-
ly; ** if your Maria is afraid of the rats " ,

" What cat can do, Maria for many years 'era done," said
Mrs. Barber, "and for no other family would she have done
as much; I say it with respect." Giving a slight sniff a8 a
delicate finish to her remarks, Mrs. Barber turned again, and
led the way to the dining-room.

*'OhI this seems more forward," said Lady Dendraith:
'*but those old portraits look sadly gloomy, and I should
much like to give them a little cleanmg up, but Mr. Philip
laughs at me. Still, for a young bride one feels that every-
thing ought to be as cheering as possible."

Wnen Lady Dendraith visited the drawing-room her heart
sank.

It was enormously large and lofty ; the light from the win-
dows which faced on the sea and a bleak foreground of rocks,
was powerless to drive the shadows from the farther end of
the room, or to rise to the high ceiling. The furniture, of a
vast and st tely character, stood in severe symmetry along
the walls; not a footstool remained unbalanced by a brother
footstool staring at it from the opposite side of the vast fire-
place, or from a corresponding sofa. It was difficult to im-
agine this gloomy saloon the kingdom of a young bride.

*' Poor young thing; I wish tne place had been a little less
lonesome for her. I dare say she will be able to make a snug
corner for herself out of the ant«-drawing-room, though, do
what it will, it looks unhomelike. I did think the red carpet
and blue curtains would have cheered it up !"

In a somewhat depressed mood, Lady Dendraith returned
to her own cosy home, leaving the housekeeper to her Maria
and the redoubtable rats.

The eventful day proved wet. Before sunrise a mist lay
across the sea, and crept inland, spreading over hill and val-
ley, and soon obliteratmg every object of the landscape. It
was to a world without form, a void, a blank, expressionless
world, that the young wife was to be welcomed. Five
months had passed since she left her home on that brilUant
July morning, and the summer meantime had given place to
the dreariness of a spiritless November.

As the sound of carriage-wlieels at length announced the
arrival of the expected travellers, the hall-door was thrown

I 1

I f *>•

-; 1

1 '. i- P

148

THE WINO OF AZRABL.

open, and Mrs. Sedley stood revealed on the doorstep, her
figure defined against the fireglow of the great hall behind.
A littie in her rear was Mrs. Uarber and the portly butler,
while on the stone ledge which flanked the flight of cold grey
steps stood Maria, with tail erect and glittering eyes, in an
attitude of excited expectancy.

The next moment the occupants of the carriage had
mounted the steps, and the bride was folded in her mother's
arms.

The embrace was long and silent. Philip then shook
hands with Mrs. Sedley, cordially inquiring about her
health, and thanking her for having come to welcome them.
*"You see I have brought back your daughter safe and
sound," he said, cheerfully. *'Sho is rather pale to-night
after all our joumeyings, but I hope the rest will soon make
her look like herselt* again. What a magnificent fire! None
of your ordering, Mrs. Barber, I am sure. You know what
sworn enemies you and I used to be in old times about your
fires. " (" It's my belief the respectable person's chilling appear-
ance put them out," he added aside, with a laugh.) " Upon
my word," he went en, looking round the shadowy hall, now i
filled with the fitful light of blazing lo^, " the place looks |
really comfortable. What do you say, Viola ?"

** Most comfortable," she assented.

Mrs. Sedley had lea her to a large chair by the fire-place, i
removed her wraps, and made her warm her cold feet and j
hands before the blaze. Maria, all curiosity, was circling
round mother and daughter, with curving back and agitated
tail. Finally she rubbed herself against Viola's knee, and|
then jumpea onto her lap.

'"''Wellr exclaimed the astonished Mrs. Barber in amaze- 1
ment ; " I never see Maria do such d thing in her life before. (
I couldn't have believed it !"

With a gesture that was almosc passionate, Viola had wel-
comed the animal and folded it in ner arms. Her head was I
bent down for the instant, and when she raised her face again
it was very white. Mrs. Sedley looked anxiously at her.f
What was the undefinable change that she saw in her daugh-
ter's manner and expression? A change too subtle to be de-l
scribed, yet distinct enough to make Mrs. Sedley feel morel
than doubtful whether she could now discover her daughter's!
frame of mind. Viola seemed to have wandered away to aj
great distance. There was something a little careless, a littlel
indifferent, in the carriage of the head, in the voice and ges-I
tures; and it struck Mrs. Sedley that she took but a sUght in-|
terest in her new home.

Mrs. Barber, who had secretly resented the idea of a mis|
tress, came to the conclusion that she and the lady might get
on well enough together if the lady were careful. »

Mrs. Sedley, Mrs. Barber, and Maria presently conducted
the newcomer to her bedroom—a vast, dim space over the

XTPTON CASTLE.

149

i ^wing-room, with the same large, unsuccessful windows,
and the same symmetrical arrangement of Brobdignag f umi-
Iture.

Below, a repast awaited the travellers ; and Viola was exhort-
|ed to come down as soon as possible, as she looked worn out
land must be hungry.

" Yes, hungry I am !" she said ; " I feel at present as if food
laod rest ought to content any human bein^, and yet curiosity
lis not Quite chased away." She drew aside the curtains as
[ghe spoke, and peered out into the night. '* Pitch darkness I"
I she said with rather a singular intonation.

"The window looks out to the sea," remarked Mrs. Sedley,
I "but come, dearest; that you can admire at your leisure to-
Imorrow."

An involuntary sigh escaped the young mistress of the
house at the wora " to-morrow;" but it was checked midway
as she added with a smile: "Absurd curiosity indeed, since
|I shall have my whole lifetime in which to indulge itl"

Mother and daughter descended the stairs together, fol-
lowed in a zigzag course by the singular and devoted cat.
[Viola took her up and place! heron her shoulder, entering
Itiie dining room with the creature curling itself affectionately
labout her neck and face.

"I wish I were an artist!" exclaimed Philip, rising and
Icoraing over to his wife. " You have no idea what a charm-
ling picture you and Maria make."

An undefinable change of expression passed across her face,
las she altered the admired attitude, taking the cat in her
jarms and folding her close against hei breast.

'The credit of it rests with Maria," she said, moving away
Itowards the fireplace.

Tho butler— a portlv person hke an overgrown Cupid —
presently announced that the meal was on the table, and the
hree forthwith sat down in a rather constrained and uncom-
|fortable manner to their repast. Their voices seemed to wake

thousand hollow whispers in the vast room, and had a
mge, ominous sound mingling with the eternal boom of
|he waves. To Viola, it seemea as if each of the portraits
ras gazing at her in the cold, omniscient manner pecuhar to
Ihose works of art. Everything about the place was weird,

ttd hushedj and mysterious; there was something blood-
chilling at tunes Rven about Maria, who had a way of appcar-
Tig suddenly in unexpected places or springing without
earning onto the back of one's chair.

" It's my belief that cat's bewitched," Philip said ; " see the
»ay she glares at me with her green eyes !"

"I read somewhere that green eyes are the truest of all

res," said Viola.

" Perhaps that's why they are so rare." Philip observed.

*Oet away, you ^-een-eyed mons|«i\ I know I shall dr^m

\r\i%

• : i

Si-y

■*^' ^M

' ".;)

¥'m

160

TBE WIN0 OF AZBAEL.

Ir I'

II I

of you to-night; and that'll not he a night-mare exactly, hut
something worse."

" Well," said Mrs. Sedley, after some time had passed in
desultory talk, "I think the hest thing this tired child can do
is to go to bed, and pit off seeing her new domain till morn-
ing, when I hope the weather will have changed and every-
thing be at its brightest and best. Then she will have to in-
stal herself as mistress of the house, and make Mrs. Barber
understand that she no longer has supreme authority!"

Philip laughed. *' I expect the good Barber will grievously
resent her dethronement, and we shall hear some maiestic
EngUsh on the head of it ! 1 hope she won't take umbrage
and go. She is honest as the day, and devoted to the family."

" She shall not go because of me, I promise you," said Viola,
with something in her manner that was new to it. " It would
be better I should go myself. I can perhaps equal her in hon-
esty, but I cannot claim to have served the family for so many
demoted years."

She spoke jestingly, and Philip laughed a little, bub he
glanced at her in a manner not exactly amused.

'* Dearest," said Mrs. Sedlejr again, " you must really go to
bed now, you are looking so tired."

Viola rose, and mothci and daughter left the room together.
Philip springing up to open the door for them. He returned
to his place oy the fire, with a changed expression. The polite
cheerful nesp and even gaiety of his demeanour during the
evening suddenly fell from him like a mask. His brow
clouded, and his thin lips set themselves in a hard, disagree-
able line.

Much to her chagrin, Maria had been left behind in the
dining-room, olone with her master. A faint "miaw" dis-
turibed his sinister meditations. He looked u^? with a frown,
saw the cat, and, following a quick savage m'pulre. he put
out hi?* foot and kicked her to the other side of the room,
hearing, not without satisfaction, a dull thud as the creature
struck against the panelling. Piieous cries followed, as
Philip rose, lifted the cat in his arras, and, walking across the
room, quietly put her outHide the door. There on the hard
stone floor, with her leg broken, the poor creature nassed the
night, and there she was found hy her distractea mistress
next morning, the animnl trying, in her joy, to limp towards
her as she heai'd the familiar footstep.

EXILED,

im.

CHAPTER XXII.

EXILED.

Maria's broken leg was at once bound up, and she found
herself in a position of even irrcater importance than usual.

Viola begged to have the wounded creatui'e iKJside her in
her sitting-room, where she could tend her and give her her
food. This, and her evident concern for the animal, won the
housekeeper's heart. No war was declared between the new
mistress and her commandcM'-in chief. Mrs. Barber was even
ready to indulge her well-conducted lady with a semblance of
authority.

*' If there is anything that you would like altered, ma'am,"
said the housekeeper, p-aciously, " I hope you won't hesitate
to say so. Her laciyship aiTanf;ed the furniture as she thought
l)est, but of course you ai*e (juito at liberty to make any little
(changes as you might prefer; everybody ''as their owntai^te,
which of course it's no blamo to them, bu. only what is natu-
r.Ml."

" I think I have no taste of my own," said Viola ; " it seems
to me impossible that any of the furniture could stand in any
other position, and I do not wish it altered."

And from that moment it soetned as if a spoil had been cast
over the place, ns over the palace of the Sleepinfi Beauty ; not
p chair or a table, or so much as a footstoc>l, budgecf bv a
iiair's breadth from, its accustomed spot. Viola'.s decree had
petrified the house in its pn^sent form, and there it remained,
solemn, solid, and eternal. It seemed as if its dignity must
confouT^d even the thunders of the Day of Doom, and might
be expected to live through thfit crisis, calm and undi.sturbed.

Mrs. Barber never ceased to marvel at Maria's stnmge acci-
dent.

•*I left her with you and Mr. Philip in the dining room, as
safe and sound as she could Ik»; and in the morning ! Per-
haps she left the room with you and Mrs. Sedley," the house-
keeper suggested.

Viola was never very explicit on ihU point. She could not,
or would not, state whether the cat c.iriH' r>ut of the room or
remaine 1 lH»hind with Philip, and tw Mrs l'^irl>erhada wholo-
Boine drt^ad of that polite gentleman. sJ»c <l m-d not que.Hti(m
him, as she longed to do. So th<» afTan rMu hjm^I a niystery.

Mrs. StHlloy had to leave on the following niorninir, ns Mr.
Sodley was not very well ; hut if ha<l Imhmi ananged that Viola
was tK[) drive with her to the Manor Houho f<ir lunch, return-
ing home to dinner in »he evening.

'*Itapj)oars to me, ma'am, that Mn». Bedley'n own indispo-

1 '

I I

f* i' -ij

I6f!

THE WING OF AZRAEL.

sition is not what it should be," said tihe housekeeper. "I
never see anvbodjr look so like death — never !"

This speech, which was intended in the most friendly and
complimentary spirit, made Viola turn pale. Her eyes wan-
dered mournfully out to the sea, whose grey waters could this
morning be dimly discerned through sheets of driving rain.
Mrs. Sedley's white face and the deep, dark circles under the
eyes told a tale she would vain have C(3ncealcd. Last night,
when for a short half -hour mother and daughter had been
alone together, Viola had entreated to bo allowed to return
home for a little while, just to look after the invalid, and take
some of her old duties again ; but Mrs. Sedley, with tears in
her eyes, had firmly refused.

" Your duty now is to your husband," she said, " and I will
never let you neglect that for my sake, "

When the housekeeper left her, Viola remained in precisely
the same attitude, gazing out to sea. The waves were tossing
restlessly, forming for ever in new vigour, like endless gene
rations, to culminate, and then roll over and lose their indi-
viduality in the waste of waters. How fresh and eager they
looked as they climbed up to the breaking-point, wearing
their crown of surf for a moment, and then, witn what a peace-
ful sweep, they sank to the level of the waters, and lost the
fever of tlieir short lives in a gentle annihilation !

Viola's thoughts were breaking the bounds of her teaching.
She rose, shook her head angi'ily, trying to banish them, but
they streamed out triumphantly beyond all the limits that
she set to their flowing. What had come to her ? Viola re
membered, with a sense of n^lief, that the rest of the day
would be passed in her mother's society and in the old scenes.
Surely these evil spirits would be exorcised there. Philin
was to be out all day; he had business to attend to. Not till
evening would he return : and then husband and wife were
to have their first teto-a tPfe meal in their own home. If
only she could ask Mrs. Barber to come in and take it with
them !

With this unholy aspiration in her henrt, Viola set out
through the driving rain for the Manor House. TheanxiouH
questions which she asked about her niotlior's health were put
aside by Mrs. Sedley: she had never been quitch well for the
last thirty years; never sinc«? the birth of her first (-hild; but
she was no worse now than usual. Perhaps k)-day and yester
day her head had n«'hed a good deal, but she had nothing to
comnlain of.

•' On the rack," Viola wondered, " would she find anything
to complain of C

Tlir<ni{jh the rain tlu^ familiar outlines^ of the Manor TTousp
loomed into sight. As hIu» alighteil ut the hall door. k!i<'
thought she could realize what a H|»irit n»u^» ivv\ v;ii(» rfvisitfd
the w^enes of its earthly life afk^r pabsii^g into the nt^xtphast'
of existence beyond the grave. ^

EXILED.

153

and

^an-

this

•ain.

r the

ight,

been

>tum

take

ira in

I will

cisely
issing
gene-
r indi-
r they
3aring
peace-
)8t the

.ching.
m, but
B that
ola re
day
(M^eH.
rhilip
ot till
^ were
If
it with

;et o\it
nxious
?re put
for the
d; but
y ester-
ling to

^ythinp

HOUH'

i)(»r. hIh'
l'visii»'<l
It ^>baBt'

After the mid day meal, at which were assembled exacoly
tlie same group as of yore, —father, mother, Geolfrey, and
Viola, — the rain cleared, and Geoffrey', not wishing to allow
his brotherly affection to clash with his hatred of lieing in-
doors, proposed that the assembly should adjourn to the gar-
den.

Here Viola was greeted by a rapturous company of dogs,
and behind them came, hopping and flapping excitedly, her
jackdaw whose evident delight to see her again was more
eloquently expressed, as Viola said, than that of her relations.

'*Well, I do call that ungrateful !" cried Geoffrey, "after
all my fomight's practice of the enthusiastic welcome ! Geof-
frey's embrace had been of the vigorous serio-comic order, by
which alone he permitted his British emotions to find expres-
sion.

"I say, Viola, I wish you hadn't gone and got married."
the brother confide* I to her when they were marching arm in
arm along one of the 'Straight walks of the old f laiit-garden.
"Life won't be wortli ving here all by oneself!"

" I am sorry to leave you; but you can come over and seo
me, of course, whenever you like. And then, you will be very
soon leaving home. When do you expect to get your appoint-
ment?"

" Oh, Sir Philip is seeing about that for me," said Geoffrey.
*' Your marriage has its conveniences, Ila.'

She winced.

**1 say, what do you think of your husband after five
months of his society?" the boy asked, so naively, that even
Viola, whose sense of humour was certainly not keener than
the average, buret out laughing.

*' Well, out what do you thuik of him?" pei'sistM Geoffrey.

*' I think him very clever, for one thing, she answered.

"And what else ^''^ •

" Very determined."

-?"

♦'An

*' Very handsome."

tt — -

Then I suppose you are V( , fond of himl"
"One is often fond of people nossessing not one of these
qualities," returned Viola. I aarosay. in course of tinu*,
some foolish jn>i*8on may become fond even of you. for in
stance— that it, if you cur»^ yourself of the habit ol asking '
(piestions.

Geoffrey made a grimace. "But, my dear, the subject to
a brotherly heiirt is so interesting."

She smiled siully. How this old familiar nonsense made
her heart ache ! Ah I if only she cnuirl wipe out the memory*
of th»)se awful five moiithH, aivi tak»- up the thread of her
life at the point she had left t, I Even her mother could no
lonjj;er protect her against ttw promptings t>f her enl nature.
In Philip's presewe all thnt was bad and bold and

came to the surtiAce

reckless
she ciiuiid not believe as she ought tu

t-«t*.

"mm

.... m

154

TBB WINQ OF A7AIAEL.

believe, she could not feel os she ought to feelj she could not
even pray as she used to pray. Her lite was like some awful
dream, anti her husband the presence from which her whole
being sought to escape in the rrantic horror-stricken helpless-
ness of a nightmaiM?.

Never had she felt this helplessness more terribljr than she
felt it to-day amid the scenes of her former life in the old
home, whence a d(K;ree of (eternal banishment had been spoken.
" Your duty now is with your hu»l>ami, and I will nerer let
you neglect fJmtfor my saJce,^'

The old talismans were useless ; theii* virtue had gone out
of then.

Vhe futures must be faced alone and unbefriended.

CHAPTER XXin.

A SELECT CIRCLE.

Unhappily for hei*self, Viola wns not a pereon to whom
one could remain indiffertMit. Philip, in spite of his exasper-
ation was still in love with his wife, after his own fashion.
It was impossible for Mm to acquiesce in the cold and distant
relations that she wished to cHtablish between them; her con-
duct aninzed and ninddencd hin>. Tn all his wide experience
of life he had never heard or di'eamt of such a woman. Her
character wps to him utterly incomi)rehensible. He could
neitl^er frigliteii her nor soften her; threats, insults, sneers
(and ho was not sparing of all theho), left her as meek and as
cold as before.

If she had been a haughty, rebellious woman, giving him
insult for insult, snecT for sn<HM-, he might have understood
it; but she i^rofessed the most complete wifely submission,
obeyed him in every detail, and w
answ(»iiHi not again. Yet behind al
he knew that there lay something

jvi\\ woman, who withdrew hei*sell from him, inexorably and
forever. A stujuder man might have hovn content when ho
had so far succeeded in his object as to make her his wife, but
Philip knew that this seeming sucf'esH was after all a humili-
^iting failure; that she had evaded him -him of all men in
the world, despite his utmost efforts!"

It was this exasperating conviction that made his manner
towards her— with tdl its polish at times absolutely insult-
ing. H(»r invariable meekness under extrenje provocation
w^rved rather to increase than to appt^ase him. It left him
uothiiig to attack ; be liad no handle even for complaint.

K^n h(» reviled her slu'
this anparent yielding
le coulu not touch- the

A ^mMf cmtjLHi,

\t&

Accustomed for so long to absolute dominion, he was driven
alnio;?t to frenzy by the consciousness of being quietly held at
bay l)> ono of tho gentlest and most submissive women he
hail (ivor mot. She had none of the usual little ways of
women: ono could manaj^ a woman who had little ways;
little fits of temper, and little fits of repentance ; women who
coaxed and pouted altcniately. There was something to work
upon in all this. But Viola 1— when did she lose her temper,
or repent, or weep, or ask to be forgiven? When did she

§ lead for a new gown, or coax him for a new bonnet? When
id she condescend to be jealous? Had he not pursued Ai*a-
bella with attentions and compliments till he was sick of the
Bight of her and her wrigglings? And what notice had Viola
tasen of his conduct, what remonstrance had she offered?
His doings seemed to tx) perfectly indifferent to her, so long as
he kept out of her sight.

It was a scarcely credible situation.

The first few weeks after the retui'n home were very trou-
bled and wretched. Philip seemed to take a delight in hum-
bling and humiliating his wife by every means in his power,
and his power in thnit direction was unlimited. Kis conduct
towards her Wiis of a kind that no woman of her type could
forgive, even if she tried.

Slie know now the reason of Harry Lancaster's passionate
warning!; she know now why ho had said that he would
rather see lior lying dead before him than married to Philip
Driidraith.

Ho was npjht.

*' Ah! mother, yoii will never know what I suffer for you;
you novoi' shall know, for it would break your heart as it has
broken miu'?."

The s(»ns'j of duty, desperately as it had been assailed, in
this hurricane of horror and disaster still held firm as a r<K'k,
and still the poor miim?ni('d religion which had been given to
this passionate heart tor a guide hold up a withered finger of
exhortation.

With these motives and thepo faiths Viola struggled on,
fighting the desperate fight against herself and her own na-
ture, wliich fills tho lives of so many women with inward
storm and wreckage. Her faith now was her sole anchor.
Without the belief that it was right to suffer without com-
plaining, it would have been literally impoKsible for her to
endure Tier life for another day. Not long after the retura of
tiie bride and bridegroom to their home the neighboui's begim
to call upon them,— Mr. and Mrs. Evnns, with their eldest
(laughter; Mr and Mrs. Pellett (an absent-minded old student
and his wife) ; Mrs, and Miss F(»atherstone. a fashionable
foUnty lady and her daughter, tho latUT a great huntress ; Mi*s.
Dixie in magnifi'ent sunset off uln;onco; and finally A ral»ella,
who lived twelve milos away, but who was stiiying with Lady

■>'*'

v.*

f A

^\\\

-r^'

\i*^

. i- I

I 5-

I f

1:1

mis WINQ OF AZRA^L

Clevedon, and begged to be driven over to call upon her
charming niece.

ArabeUa made a great many awkward though proper as-
sumptions about Viola's supposed state of distraction, if Phil-
ip left her for a day or two, and her joy at his return. She
was disposed to talk a little archly about "somebody," and
to indulge in gentle raillery on the subject of honeymoons,
which lasted a srood deal longer than on*? poor month. Viola,
unhappily, coufd not extract the cream of the situation and
enjoy it, such as it was, in spite of its grim satire on hef real
position; it hurt without amusing her.

*' Whom the gods intend to destroy," Harry Lancaster once
remarked, *'they send mto the world with a sensitive spirit,
mintia the sense of humour. Whom the gods intend to tor-
ture, but to keep alive for further sport, they endow also with
a sensitive spirit, but add to it a sense of humour abnormally
strong."

The neighbours discussed the new mistress of Upton Castle
with perfect freedom, but upon the whole not unfavourably.

The Evans family were even enthusiastically favoui*able;
perhaps because Dick, the family oracle, haa pronounced,
when he met her at Clevedon Castle before her marriage,
that she was a nice, unaffected sort of girl, and "very good
form."

Gteoffrey, who was a frequent visitor at his sister's house,
used often to hear at second-hand the criticisms of her neigh-
bours, and sometimes he would report them to her.

"I say, Ila, my dear," he announced one day, "Mrs. Pellett
thinks that you are sinking into a decline."

"She has been comparing notes with Mrs. Barber, then,"
said Viola, " tliat is also hor opinion."

" You must have found your way to Mrs. Barber's heart,"
observed Philip; "it is her highest form of compliment. If
she loves you, she represents vou with one foot in the grave."

"A good attitude to be photographed in," G^eoffrey sug-
gested with extravagant loolishness. "A new idea! we
could arrange you artistically, with cross-bones, you know,
and an extensive churchyard for a backgi'ound."

Viola smileil, and drew her hand across her eyes as if to
erase the heavy lines beneath them.

Geoffrey wanted to know how she liked her new neigh
hours.

Her judgments were indolently charitable. The only per
son she actively objected to was Mi's. Pellett, the lady who
originated the " decline " theory. The others were all " very
pleasant."

"You'll have to go and call on them, you know," said
Gteoffrey. *' You tvould go and get married, and you must
take the consequences. Does a woman promise to pay callr.
in the marriage-service? Rather rougn on you, isn't it?
Osdling doesn't seem in your line."

," said
|[i must

n't »tt

A SELECT GIBCLE.

157

" That is probably the reason it is given to me to do," said
Viola, in all seriousness. " It is a discipline."

Philip had gone to town for a fortmght. Viola managed
to cajole her brother into sharing the discipline with her.

'' Only two calls toniay," she said; "and it will be such a
relief to me !"

Sh( , was a little over-hasty in this last conclusion, as she
afterwards found to her cost.

The first call was on Mrs. Pellett, "to get it over," Viola
said. That exemplary lady lived in a small red brick house
on the outskirts of Upton, smothered among trees, and look-
ing very damp and dark.

Ushered into a mustv drawing-room, where the blinds were
down, the visitors had an opportunity of inhaling the heavy
atmosphere, and of surveying the beauties of the room, before
the owner appeared. The table was in the exact centre, and
in its own centre it wore, like a weight on its heart, a
heavy china bowl standing on its head, and supporting (as a
father-acrobat, upon the soles of his feet, his little son) a sec-
ond E^naller bowl, this one in its normal attitude.

The glacial severities of the marble mantelpiece were sof-
tened by pastoral groups in pink china— gallant swains, and
bashful shepherdesses, with dispositions of marvellous sweet-
ness. Let the world ^owl and jumble as it might, these
delightful creatures smiled on untiringly. On the wall beamed
the portrait of a lady with pale, glossy hair, and a pink face
smooth as a pebble : small blue eyes and attenuated eyebrows,
high up out of reach of the eyes, as if they were intended by
nature to break the interminable expanse of the forehead
which rose majestically above them. In spite of that fore-
head, no one would have had the temerity to suggest that
this lady was a person of intellect. Anything more blandly
and virtuously reeble than that face, with its thin, nerveless
lips, would be hard to picture.

" I believe she had the front of her head shaved and thrown
into that forehead," Geoffrey declared, "and 1 believe Mrs.
Pellett follows her example. Hers is just as fine ; its quite
grand— like looking up at Mount Olympus."

"O Geoffrey!"

" It ought to look well in a sunset, but wants ruggedness.
I wonder "

Mi*s. Pellett, who came in at this iuncture, was a good xleal
like the lady with the Olympian brow, whose portrait, she
Sfiid, repi*osented her dear mother. The daughter appeared
to have more force of character than her pule, pink parent,
though she assured the visitors, with pardonable priue, that
she could not travel alone for however short a distance, and
never left home without her husband.

When Viola saw that kindly, but absent minded old hus-
band, she wondered how his presence could inspire any sense
of security. He might have seen his wife run over by tb^

, i

r«

■Pi"

158

THE WING OF AZRAEL.

11
!!

slowest of waggons, and never have awakened to the melan-
ci'oly fact till all was over. ,

He spent his days buried among his books, whence he
cuicrgod with eyes still turned inwards and an unconquer-
able* tendency to answer the frivolities of visitors and of his
own family entirely at random.

"My dear, this is Mrs. Philip Dendraith,*' explained Mrs.
Pellett for the second time, in a louder tone, as her husband,
though extremely polite and cordial, in a blind-fold sort of
fashion, was evidently settling into a contented state of ig-
norance as to the name and condition of his guests.

"Yes, my dear, so you said—so you said. It is strange,*'
turning to Geoffrey, " that one can live for years in a place
and yet remain (luito ignorant of one's neighbours. Mr.
Philip Dendraith is a name upon everybody's lips, and yet
never before have I had the pleasure of meetmg him."

Geoffrey's face was a study.

"My dear, you make a mistake," began his wife; " this is
not Mr. Dendraith, it is "

But the old man was at that moment asking Viola if she
liked the neighbourhood, whether her father and mother
wci*e in good health, and how were all her sisters.

^^ Brothers, dear," remonstrated Mrs. Pellett.

"And brotners," added her husband, blandly. " Your hus-
band looks younger than I expected."

'' Charles r

"Well, my dear, I looked for some one rather more ma-
ture—not quite so boyish."

"No, I don't look tiy age, I know," the audacious Geoffrey
broke m, seeing Mrs. Pellett had given up her husband in
despair and turned to Viola. "My wife often complains
about it, but I tell her it's a fault that will mend."

" Yes, yes," said the old scholar, nodding his head, "quite
soon enough, quite soon enough. Very interesting old place,
that of yours— fine example of later Norman work; out I
fear the sea is fast undennining it. My friend Foster there
tells me that the water is working its way under the Keep,
and that he doesn't think it will last for many years longer."

Geoffrey sadly shook his head.

" I fear it is too true," he said. " I thought of building a
breakwater to receive the brunt of the battle just at the pomt,
but I am told that the plan is not feasible. The tide runs too
strong."

"A sad pity," said Mr. Pellett in a musing tone; "we are
losing all our fine old monuments, betwwn the ferocity of
the elements and the ferocity of V.'indalic man. But I nuist
not get upon tliis subject, it is a sore point with me."

"Ah! then we shall sympathise," cded the unprincipled
youth, with much feeling. " I too wage deadly war againet
Iphe destroyers of history, the devourt'r^ of the Past,"

— ^'n..

8BL1SCT CIRGLIE.

tJpon this, Mr. Pellett, all unsuspicious, took the serpent
into his bosom.

*' Greoffrey ! O Geoffrey 1" cried Viola as soon as they were
outside the door.

"Yes, ves! I know!" said the youth with a frown and a
blush, " let's say no more about it!"

"But how could you? It was really too bad. I don't
know what I was saying to Mrs. Pellett, I quite lost my head
in my dismay at your behaviour. What possessed you ?"

"Don't know, I'm sure!"' said Geoffrey, scratching Lis
head uncomfortably. " Thought it would be a lark— once in
the mess, couldn't back out—worst of it is Mr. Pellett asked
me to go and see him— dashed if I know what name to go
under.'

" Your own, of course," said Viola, rather severely.

He promised to behave like an archangel durinsj the call at
the Rectory, and he followed his sister, nat in band, into the

Eresence of the Evans family, with an expression that would
ave done credit to St. Sebastian.

Mrs. Evans was a tall indefinite sort of woman, in non-
descript attire; each year of her busy, carefid, rather wear-
ing life had left its stamp upon her, not so much in signs of
age, as in a certain dim and colourless quality often to be ob-
served among women who have passed their whole lives in a
small country village. Married very young, she had missed
her girlhood altogether, and began to taate the petty troubles
of a woman's life before she had had time to realise any of
its possibilities.

Two and two generally make four. Mrs. Evans at fifty
was as narrow and dim and petty in thought as she was
patient and irreproachable in action. Her opinions had not
grown ; they had settled upon her like dust from the sur-
rounding atmosphere. A sort of dull tragedy (though her
neighbours knew it not) was being acted before their eyes in
the picturesque old Rectory with its red-tiled roof and warm
lichen-covered walls.

Never from year's end to year's end did Mrs. Evans know
what it meant to feel well. Head-ache, backache, weakness,
weariness, and a thousand nameless oppressions were her
constant and merciless companions. Her husband, though
lie acknowledged in words that his wife "enjoyed weak
health," was as blandly ignorant of the actual meaning of
those words as thougli he had spoken in an unknown tongue.

It was in hia service that she had surrendered so much,
and he did hot even know it! She was excellent, admirable,
but she was quite without charm. Her fellow-croatures. at
whose behest she had thus despoiled herself, now turneti
away from their obedient servant, rewarding her obedience
with neglect, veiled under words of cold approbation.

Society has no rewards for the faithful; only curses and
stoning for the heretics.

,',<: (I

. {

^ ^'

in.

I t A

'if.*
'V. 1

mjs mm of azrawl.

The daughters of the Rectory were pleasant, large-limbed,
fresh-looking girls, apparently unlimited in number, ana
somewhat wanting in variety.

Dorothy, the wild, aubum-haircfl youngest daughter, was
the only one of the family who did not give promise of fol-
lowing in her mother's footsteps. She tore more frocks in
one summer than any of her sisters had torn in their lives ;
she resented gloves, and would not keep her hair tidy.
Sometimes she was disobedient, even when her father had
commanded, and finally (most ominous sign of all of a law-
less disposition) she hated and loathed the admirable Mrs.
Pellett with all the force of her young soul. To hate Mrs.
Pellett was to hate law and order, to hate respectability, to
hate Virtue personified.

According to Dorothv, it was also to hate primness, pro-
priety, and dunderheadedness, not to me ition ugly caps and
norrible Sunday bonnots, and all the subtle forms of ugliness
which a woman of her type can collect around her.

During the call Geoffrey sat uttering meek monosyllables
and looKing like a chorister. Mrs. Evans remarked after
he was gone what a very beautiful expression that young
man had, and one of the daughters feared he was going to die
young.

Dorothy regarded him with little interest, but she was full
of wild enthusiasm about Viola.

She was not a bit like a married i^idy, Dorothy thought.
She had no little airs of importance, no accustomed litt].

Ehrases, no proper sentiments. The girl's heart went out t(;
er straightway. What unusual quality was there in he
voice that made her seem miles apart from every one around
her?

There is no feeling more intense and romantic in its own
way, than the devotion of a girl to a woman a little older and
more experienced than herself. No lover ever admired more
enthusiastically; or worshipped more devoutly.

Dorothy had already entered upon the first stage of such
an experience. She begged to be taken to call at Upton Cas-
tle, much to the surprise of her brethren, for the scapegrace
of the family would usually undergo any ponance rather
than submit to this vexatious social usage, When Viola
came to the Rectory Dorothy hung upon her words, and treas
ured her every glance.

As for Geoffrey, he established himself on almost brotherly
terms with the whole family , and the family quickly had to
reconsider their views about him i!i the capacity of chorister
and tho probability of his coming to nn early grave.

" He is one of those people who live to be a discipline to
their friends, to an aggravating old age," said Dick.

Dick was the member of the family with whom Viola found
that she had most in common. lie began, after a time, to

A SELECT CIRCLE.

161

confide his hopes and his troubles to her, and to turn to her
for syn?pathy. The friendship that sprang up between them
was th(^ one wholesome and natural cl ruent in her life.

Chilled, stunted as her nature had been, it be;j;an now to
put forth pale little shoots towards tlie light, a piece of au-
dacity which «ocie03*in alarm set to work at once to punish
and to chock. Mns. Pellett, to do her justice, had been the
first to notice the growing intimacy betwc( n Dick and Viola,
and she had thougtit it her duty (never had human being so
many and such vs^rious dii< ies as Mrs. Pellett !) to give a hint
to the rector's wife on the , -ibject.

"Mr. Dendrailn is a good d(\'il away," said Mrs. Pellett,
"and aUliough I am sure your son is all that he should be, and
dear Mrs. Dendraith is a ahem a most highly principled
young woman, it does not do to set people ttiUdng. There is
nothing more unpleasant."

And so on.

Thus it happened that on Saturday afternoons, when Dick
came to the Rectory from his work in town, Viola was seldom
or never there.

Mrs. Evans would have been wiser to have let matters
alone, for Dick now used often to walk over to Upton Castle
on Sunday afternoons; and as Philip was seldom in, Viola and
her visitor would take a walk by themselves, as it Mrs. Pel-
lett had never been born. They used someti^ties to spend a
quiet hour in the ruins, enjoying the sea air and the wonder-
ful changes in the lines of ocean and sky which could be so
well seen from this romantic spot.

Always they would knock at Caleb Foster's door in the old
keep, to enquire for his well-being, and to lure him from his
stronghold for a talk. Mrs. Pellett, however, soon found out
what was going on.

"My dear," she said, on one memorable occasion when she
had interrupted Dick in some confidence about a love affair,
"my dear, excuse the frankness of a sincere well-wisher, but
don't you think it would be wise to give that young man a
hint not to come here quite so often?"

" Not so often?" repeated Viola, in a dazed manner.

Mrs. Pellett took her hand.

"You are inexperienced, dear Mrs. Dendraith; you don't
know how careful one ought to be not to give rise to talk."

Viola gazed at her vis ' or in stony silence.

"So very little will du it,'* pursued the monitross, sooth-
ingly.

" So it appears !"

" Of course I say this out of a friendly desire for your wel-
fare."

" You are very good P'

" I daresay," pursued the lady, with delicate tact, " I dare-
say you are glad to w(^icome even unsuitable visitors to your
house because you lead rather a lonely life and uo doubt fed

.1*

• i 1 ■;

i;
i

'IPS

162

THE WING OF AZRAEL.

dull now and then ; but you know we must not allow our
little trials to turn us from the strict path of duty and pru-
dence—I am sure you agree with me."
Viola bowed.

be dull.

"Nor said Viola.

** It is right that we should all do some work, whatever bo
our station."

*' I think most people would be glad to work, if only they
do the work they can do best."

*' Ah I but it is not for us to choose,^'' said Mrs. Pellett; " we
have to take what is appointed for us, and simply do our
duty."

Viola followed an audacious impulse.

'* What is duty?" she enquired.

Mrs. Pellett looked startled and uneasy. Wherein lay the
advantage of platitude if one was to bo mentally knocked
about in this manner?

*'Our duty," said the lady, majestically, "is the — well, in
fact, the duty that has been given to us to perform by a
Higher Power."

Viola gazed at her in silence.

*'0f course," pursued Mrs. Pellett, waving aside the sub-
ject as now worked out, " of course, dear Mrs. Dendraith, wo
all feel that your Ufe at present is a little quiet and dull,—
your husband being so much away, — but some day we hope
that there will be quite a different state of things. No doubt
we shall hear the patter of little feet about the house; and
then there will be no time to be dull, will there?"

Mrs. Pellett 's manner was archly encouraging.

Viola seemed turned to stone. She neither moved nor
spoke. She only looked at her visitor with an expression of
mingled loathing and defiance which must have pierced any
shell of self-complacency less adamantine than Mrs. Pellett's.
Viola knew what was expected of her; a pleased embarrass-
ment at the mention of that which she was taught in the
same breath to regard as the most blessed and desirable of
contingencies. Mrs. Pellett's manner and expression excited
in her a sickening fury, and sent the waves of colour surg-
ing to her cheeks, so that she had the misery of knowing
herself to be apparently responding with the utmost propriety
exactly as custom required. The painful flush deepened, and
spread over neck and brow, while Mrs. Pellett smiled ap-
provingly, and finalljr made some remark that filled the cup
of disgust to overflowing.

tike frantic prisoners, shaking their prison -bars, the words
came clambermg for egress to the, closely set lips. "You
are a fool, you aro an idiot, you are intolerable.''

A SELECT CIRCLE.

163

"Well, my dear," said the unconscious Mrc. Pellett, smil-
ing, "we won't anticipate these joys if you would rather
not;^ — "

Viola drew a sharp breath.

"But I thought you wouldn't mind it with me, you know —
and of course it would be such a happiness and a comfort to
you all— you must pray, my dear. Where there is a property,
it is so especially desirable."

Still no answer. How could she speak to such a woman
without making a more than ever detestable hotch-potch of
misunderstanding ?

Viola had not philosophy enough to thrust aside her dis-
gust and forget the incident Mrs. Pellett s plain, pompous
face, with its look of irreproachable vacuity, haunted her
long afterwards.

But Mrs. Pellett was not the only offender, nor was hers
the only kind of otfence. Viola had to learn that as a mar-
ried woman she was expected to listen with amusement to
anecdotes and allusions which were considered sullying to
the innocence of a girl. She sickened with anger and miseiy,
and dreaded inexpressibly to meet the neighbours, because
aniong them— as sne considered— she was always liable to in-
sult. Marriage seemed to her nothing less than an initiation
into things base and unlovely, infringing the dignity of
womanhood. -'*^

The blackness of her sohtude made these wounded feelings
doubly hard to bear, and the sense of humiliation became so
terrible, that even suicide— which her mother had taught her
to place on the same level as murder— grew less heinous in
her imagination, as the impulse to fling away the horrors and
the indignities of life became more and more frantically im-
portunate.

Not long after Mrs. Pellett's waraing on the subject of Dick
Evans, Philip happened to find him with Viola in the ruins.
The look of suffering had gone, for the time, from her eyes,
for Dick was talking to her about the sea, and its silent cease-
less work of building and destruction; about the crumbling
of the land along the coast, and the erection during long c?n-
turies of great beds of chalk, formed from the shells of
myriad of tiny creatures,— little throbs of momentary sensa-
tion in the bosom of the ages.

The sea-breeze was blowing up fresh and blue ; the clouds
overhead thronged across the pale sky as if inspired by some
joyous passion.

Philip met Dick Evans with seeming pleasure, and the
three stood talking together for a few minutes.

Presently Dick went off to speak to Caleb Foster, who was
at the door of the keep, sharpening a carpenter's axe upon a
grindstone, and then Philip turned to his wife.

" My dear," he said, "do you know that this is the third
time this week that Dick Evans has been here?"

•!?

'^,

t ii

' t

' i;

164

THE WINa OF AZBAEL.

♦'Yos,"6aid Viola.

''Though the very last man in the world to be jealous, I
fim also the last man in" the world to allow my wife to be
talked about. You will be good enough in future not to go
out walking with Dick Evans. Of course he can call when
be likes, but there must be nothing more."

"Ahl I enioyed those walks," said Viola in a low voice,
almost as if sne were speaking to herself.

Her husband gave a slight amused smile, — the remark
seemed to him so naif.

*' You can pit one of his sisters to go with you; that will
do just as we/1, and better, from a social point of view."

An expression of utter despair came into her eyes, but she
said nothing. Philip looked at her fixedly, and his lips gave
a curious twist as he turned away with a muttered remark
that he was going to walk over to Upton Court and would

n(.t be back to luncheon.

Dick presently returned with Caleb Foster, who proceeded
to give an instructive dissertation upon ontology, with copi-
ous illustrations from Kant and Hegel, till the solid earth
seemed to Viola to swim from beneath their feet, the wind
and sea and the steep white cliffs to grow alike imponderable.
Dick's robust animal consciousness and his absence of meta-
physical instinct finally rousc^ him to Vxjlent rebellion.

" In the name of common-sense, my dear Foster "

Caleb gave a sigh. "Common-sense!' he cried dejectedly;
"if you are going to appeal to common-sense, sir, I have
nothmg more to sajr; we nmst at once drop the chain of
logic." He opened his thin fingers, as if actually letting go
that ponderous object.

* But I deny that the two things are incompatible," object-
ed Dick. The other shrugged his shoulders.

'Common-sense nay be a crude sort of wisdom; but logi-
cal it is not, or I think this globe of ours would be rather less
distracted than we find it."

"Saved bj-^ a syllogism!" observed Dick musingly.

Caleb shortly after this returned to his work, and then Dick
proi)oscd to Viola that they shoidd go for a walk.

" T want to show you those Saxon oarrows upon the Downs
that I spoke to you about. You said you would like to see
thc»n."

\'iola coloured. Philip had forbidden her to go again f«jr
walks with Dick. Her only strong pleasure, her one source
of fresh and wholcsonio ideas, was to be given up; and at the
thought an impiuse of rebellion sprang up within her, fierce
and desperate.

" Do they all want to drive me mad or wicked?"

"Will you come." asked Dick casually, expecting her as-
S(mt ns n matter of course.

" Yes, I will conu!" she said, with set hps. But all ple^vi
uiv in Dick's society had ceased. The sense of wr()n,^-doi?jg

iv^l

A SELECT CinCLE.

165

>ject-

Dick

stalked like a spectre beside lier, dogging her footsteps, go
where she might.

In vain the sweet wind blustered round her, in vain the
untamed monster at the chtf's foot flung its vast bulk upon
the complaining Htones, muttering the secrets of the ages. A
httle trettmg chain^ holding her to tlie small and local ele-
ments of hyr lift', pinioned her joyous impulses, and sounded
its familiar "chink, (,*hink," in her ears.

"You seem tirtHl," said the young man, checking his im-
petuous speed. •

Had she answeviMl as T^ature dicta !;ed, she would have *
brought dismay into his manly bosom by bursting into teai*s.
The wildness of the scene, tiic appeal of the lark s song over-
head, and of the old. old song of the sea were almost more
than she could bear. Slie felt like an outcast from all these
elemental things, an exiie f i om the world of reality and ioy.

But thougli her heart spoke strongly, her training was loud-
voiced also. Habit triumphed ov^^' impulse.

"I am a little tired," she said; ''the wind is pushing hard
against us."

" Let us rest tlien," Dick proposed ; " the wind has long ago
swept up all moisture; we can safely sit upon the gni8s;'' and
he nun^ himself at full length on the slope, ^. hile Viola, tired
rather m mind than in body, sank down wearily bt^side him.

Her big retriever, Triton, like an embodied Riipture, was
racing across the Do.vns. Viola called to him in her sweet
vibrating voice, but ho did not hear till Dick's shout joined
issue witli the gale. Then the dog turned, and came tearing
hack, his .brown body scorning tlie earth in its passage. He
bounded up, happy aud atlc^ctionate, to his mistress. "If I
must part with every other friend, at least T shall always
hiivo you till you die," she said with a pathetic little caress.
"But you will desert mc, and go away into the Silent Lund,
and then "

" You will get another Triton," said Dick, with a good-
natured laugh.

" But these beautiful brown e^es will not be forgotten.
Where can you find a human spirit like this/" •

*' You are always a litth? hard on us poor humans " said
Dick; "after all, most of us mean well enough, though per-
haps we make rather a mess of the doing."

"In UKm and women," Viola n^turned. "I miss the gen-
erouu, faithful soul of a I'leaturo like this. If I could meet
any one-man, woman, or cliild one half as noble, I would
set him on a p«»dest;d ami worship him to my life's end,"

" Not a bit o" it," said J)ick. laughing; "you would long for
a little amiai)lo human wtvikui'ss in your (h'ity, and haul him
down auaiii,— or worse still, po«;r fellow, leave him there in
cold and solitary glory, like another Simon Stylites."

Viola shot^k her head.

:t^

•V'

?,*■

« i

166

THE WTNO OF AZRAEL.

*' Look at these eyes. Where can you find human eyes as
beautiful?"

" Well, I know, at any rate, one man and one woman who
surpass old Triton in that point; and curiously enough, they
possess just those qualities that you admire so much m him!"

" Do I know the people?"

" You know one of them—Harry Lancaster."

" Oh !" said Viola, abruptly.

"The other is his friend Mrs. Lincoln. No doubt you have
heard of her^ as she has taken that little house belongingto
your father-in-law, on the coast— what is it called? Fir
Lodge, or Fir Dell, or something of that sort."

"Fir Dell," said Viola. " Yes, I know about her !"

" People here won't call upon her because she is separated
from her husband; but I must say slie seems to me a very
refined, ladv-like sort of woman, and I know Harry Lancas
ter thinks her little short of an angel ; in fact, I sometimes
fancy he is a little bit in love with her."

" But— but she is married !" said Viola.

Dick smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "H? is just the
sort of fellow to cherish a ' grmuie ; assion^ for the unattaina-
ble."

Viola threw her arms round her dog's neck, and laid her
cheek against his head, so that her face was turned from her
companion. "I think la
"shall we go on?"

Till) pause seemed to have imbued her with amazing
strength, for her pace now rivalled Triton's, and Dick laugh-
ingly asked her if she were training for a race.

"Am I walking fast?" she enquired i*bruptly, slackening
speed. On sea and sky, on the grass at her feei, a face wilh
pleading eyes was gazing at her sorrowluUy.

"You look pale," said Dick, in his kind, chivalrous way ;
" have I taken you too far?"

"No, no."

" It seems to me you might take the prize in a two-mile
race across-country."

They paced on m silence for some moments; then Dick
sniil. "You have never seen Miu Lincoln, I suppose?"
' Never 1"

"She is a very curious woman— dreadfully clever, but I
rather like her. As for her opinions~I fear tllt^y would sluxk
you, Mrs. Dendraith."

" Does she dissent from the Church?"

Dick stopped, and broke uito a loud shout of laughter.
"Mrs. liincoln cares as much about the (^hunh as she cares
about the Ui)ton ladi"^. There are niinors afloat that she is
a follower of Zoronstci', or a Ihiddhist."

Viola looked agluvst.

''Aud ihuttihu worships those very ugly little flgures that

am rested now," she said presently

A SELECT CIRCLE.

167

you see in Oriental shops. They say she buys them by the
dozen."

"Impossible!"

" It IS also said," Dijk piii*sued, '* that she is building her-
self a little temple off her drawing-room, like a conservatory,
and that she means to found a Buddhist monastic system,
and make Harrjr Lancaster hipli-priestl"

"And he admires such a woman!"

*' You would forgive him if yo'i saw her!"

" Never!" said viola.

Dick held out his hand to help h^ up the last few feet of
the barrow which stood beside two or three other hillocks on
the highest point of the downs, commanding a view of the
usual incredible number of counties.

Dick then began to discourse upon the probable history of
these old relics of our forefathers, upon the different races
that had peopled Britain, with round heads, long heads, or
coffin-shaped heads, each race having buried its dead in bar-
rows of distinctive form, so that these burial-places told part
of their storj- to the archaeologist at the first glance. Dick
went on to relate some legends, full of the wild poetry of
northern sea-girt, melancholy lands, haunted by mist and
storm.

Viola leant back, and listened dreamily. With her head
pillowed upon the soft grass, she could watch the clouds drift-
ing, and melting, and streaming, wind-intoxicated, across the
heavens; scarrcly was tlio rarth visible at all. She grew con-
scious of a brilliant circle of blue hills and a shimmer of uni-
versal light. The sense of trouble faded away. Fate had
granted her a moment's? amnesty.

Viola heaved a long, deep sigh. The vividness of her per-
sonality was dimmed, its edge;i lost tlunr sharpness, and her
consciousness fieemetl to spread out jmd extend into the out-
lying world of air and sunshine, and the limitless ether that
lay above.

The voice of the story-teller ceased, and the windj silence
of the downs closed softly iHiund and about. Dick, after a
few minutes, looked at his comfMinion. " Are you asloepf"

"Yes, and drraniing."

She did not move, but lay with closed eyes, peacefully.

*' May 1 know your (li*eam?"

" It was of wind and waves of a world when* there is no
romance, and happiness, and rest; where " Viola suddenly

fac(^ " and where there are no Mrs. rellotts!"

raisi'd her head an<l w\t upright, th<» i>eace all gone from lier
" Pel

Dick lauirhod.

"Why, Mrs. Dendrnith. you are not so good, after all, as
T though you ! Mrs. Lincoln might rebel against Mrs. Pellett,
but you and apropos of that, I fear we shall have to be
going. I B(H< we liavo been out three hours! Remember, you

.<i

i .'

V. Ill '

\4i

TBB WING OF AZBAEL

have public opinion to consider, a position to keep up, and
Mi's. Pellctt to confront !"
* " If I committed a murder," exclaimed Viola, as she si>rang
to her feet, " I should not think it necessary to apologise to
Mrs. PellettI"

CHAPTER XXIV.

GUIDE, PHILOSOPHER, AND FRIEND.

As Philip was not home to lun(^heonon that day of iniquity,
he did not discover his wife's act of inauboidination till she
took it upon herself to inform him. Though vorv ancry at
the moment of confession, he was disarmed by her frank-
ness.

"Don't let this happen again, however," he said. " I sel-
dom lay commands upon you, but when I do, I mean them to
be obeyed."

The walks thenceforth were given up. and Dirk had now to
content himself with paying Lormal calls at Upton Castle,
when he found Viola nervous and constrained, looking paler
and more lifeless each time he came.

" I begin to half believe in Mrs. Pellett's theory about ' the
decUne,'" he said anxiously to his mother, who shook her
head and feared that the poor young thing had not long to
live.

On one occasion Viola called at the Rectory immediately
after Mrs. Pellett's departure, and found her devoted admirer.
Dorothy, fuming with indignation. It seemed that Mrs
Pellett, with Iier usual enlarged views about duty, had jnsi
returned from an incursion upon the Manor House, where she*
had been kindly mentioning to Mrs. Sedley what she, and
many others at Upton, thought about dear Viola's sad ap
pearance.

The Bulwark (as Harry Lancaster used to call her) had
dropped in on her way back to explain to her friends at tie
Rectory how nuu^h trouble nhe had Iwen taking in the cau^c
of virtue. Dorothy stamped her foot.

*'Iwas burning to throw an antimacassar at her head!
exclaimed that impulsive young jH^rson. "The way she rnt
there, swelling witii importance and propriety! Ugn! I wisli
she had bui^st like the frog in the fable- and then we should
have heard no mor(» about her!"

*'0h, consummation devoutly to l)e wished!" cried Dirk.
"Fancy having the trouble to go all that way first t-osii. Li .
Sedley and frighten her out of her wits the old idk>jr'

), and

j>rang
^ to

iquitv.

aU me

icry at

truiik-

"I scl-
hem to

now to
Castle,
g paler

ut ' the
K)k her
long to

diately
Imirer.
t MrP.
ad jnst
lere shn
le, aiid
sad ap

^r) ha<l
at tl.(>
e eaiiM

head ! '

she I :'
7 wirIi

BhC)Ul«l

\ Dick.

OITIDE, PHILOSOPHER, AND FRIEND.

169

This last epithet appeai-ed so pointedly to apply to Mre.
Sedley, that Dorothy 8ti\mra3red and explained. " I suppose
I ought to he grateful to Mrs. Pellett," said Viola, " but 1 am
not: I^feMi-fc. Pellett I"

Dorothy stared for a moment, and then broke out into
laughter and embraces.

"Hurray!" she called out at the top of her voicu "I
thought yo.. couldn't hate any one !"

Viola gave a little " Oh" that was very exi)iessi\e.

'* Can you hate with all your mind, and wi^h all your soul,
and with all your heart ?" inquired Dorothy.

"I fear I can."

"So much the better," said Dorothy after an afitonished
pause; "people who can love can always hate."

" But they oughtn't to!" said Viola.

Theologically Dorothy agreed, but humanly she didn't see
it.

" If people are nasty," she argued, "they were made to be
hated. ^

Viola rather demurred at this; but Dorothy urged that (for
instance) sheep and cattle, being good to eat, are meant by a
considerate Providence to be eaten (her father had explained
that in his sermon last Sunday): therefore, by analogy, peo-
ple who are suitable for b( imr hated are meant to be hated.
No one could love a black-beetle, and no one could love Mi-s.
Pellett (except her hu.sband). Dorothy, in an awed whisper,
even went so far as to say that she didn't think God himself
could love Mrs. Pellett 1

The girl's expressions of devotion to Viola were as enegetic
as her denouncement' of her Mte noire.

"I do love you so! there is nothing in the A'orld that I
wouldn't do for you. I wish you would try me."

" Supposing I did something very wicked "

"You couldn't!" cried Dorothy.

" But suppose it for a moment."

" Still I should love you, and stick to you through thick
and thin. It is impossible for you to bo you and lor mo not
to love vou."

* Then I am not quite alone in the world I" said Viola.

"Alone in the world! Why, every one that knows you
thinks you are an angel. Dick, for int^ance, -oh ! he loves
you 8-^ ! Do you love Dick ?"

" Almost," said Viola: and Dorothy thenceforth went about
imparting the interesting inforniation that Dick and Viola
lovtHi each other to distnietion.

Mrs. Pellett'a interposition (interfereneo, Dorothy called it)
was, of course, effectual in rousing Mi's. Bedley's fears. Her
daughter found it very difficult t<» lull hrr suspicions thnt
something: wns vvronpc, howcvgr carefiil uhe luighl be to si^ni
in good health and spirits.

'\i '

170

THE WING OF AZRAEL.

** I assure you I am quite well," Viola used to say again and
again, but her looks belied her words.

Mrs. Barber's compliments fell thick and fast. The two
never met, but the housekeeper would exclaim in s( ulchral
tones: "Well, M'am, you do look ill-disposed, that ^ « do!"

Though Dorothy's assertion that every one m Upton
thought Viola an angel was not quite accurate, her auiet, un-
assuming manner and gentle expression had partly disarmed
the criticism of the village, severely just.

"The present topic of conversation here," Adrienne Lan-
caster wrote to her brother, who was now with his regiment
in Ireland, " is Mrs. Philip Dendraith. I feel sure there is
something in her a little out of the ordinary. I am determined
to know her better; it will not be difficult, as she is so often at
the Rectory. I doubt if she is quite happy ; if she is not, it is
probably her own faull: some people lack the right temper-
ament for happiness. Perhaps you will say that she lacks
the right huaoand; but I fancy happiness is a thing which a
husband can neither give nor take away."

Adrienne carried out her intention of becoming more inti-
mate with Mrs. Dendraith, but the manner in which the
friendship was cemented differed materially from her own
forecasts.

Matters had been going rather slowly, for Viola's reserve
seemed invincible, wlien something happened which shook
thin^ out of their course.

"Since my last letter, dear Harry," wrote Adrienne, "a
most astonisning event has happened : I have had a proposal!
And from whom do you think, of all people in the world ?
From — I wish I could see your face when you read this
— from Bob Hunter ! Think of it ! Bob with all Iuh jokes and
his acres at my feet! Perha[)c I oughtn't to tell you, but it
was too comic an episode to keep to myself. Augusta says it
would scarcely be Christian."

Bob Hunter was a wealthy young man, with a property nt
about ei^ht miles from Upton. Mont people said lie was mad ;
a few said he was clever, perhaps because he had attained so
much celebrity as a skilful baffler of designing mothers.
These doomed ones he so overwh- uied with qiiips and quirks
and mad sayings, so confused witii and ir.terlare'* with pun.
meaning hooked into meaning, that they lost all hope and
presence of mind.

At one of the licctory tennis parties Viola found her men-
tal horizon enlarged by an intro<luction to this incredibly
eccentric creature. Tuere is nothing to equal nn abnormal
human being for putting to rout one's nan'ow preconceptions.
Bob was a lank and wtndy yov ng maUj with a long pan ugly
fat^e, colon rh;Hs hair an<l v} clashes. Life to him was one long
fnrco. Vi(»lH felt as if she had come in contact with a beirif
from another sphoiT. Hhe had an opportu.iity of watchinK
him **coufo;uKhui; th<; kiiiivish tnckb ' ot Mr: . Foathcrstoue,

OUWE, PmLOSOPUEB^ AND FRIEND, 171

a county lady with a hunting daughter to marry, both veter-
ans retiring trom the field utterly routed and crestfallen.

"She that captures Bob Hunter," that agile person re-
marked after a little caper of jubilation on the tennis-court,
"must be swifter than Atalanta."

" Ahl Mr. Hunter," said Adrienne, " if some aspirant were
only wise enough to avoid pursuing you, you would come and
tamely lay yourself down at her feet !"

Bob looked at her gravely, pirouetted slightly according to
his custom, and danced off to the other end of the lawn.

Later in the afternoon Adrienne and Viola were strolling
together in a retired part of the garden. Adrienne had been
trying to draw Viola out, and Viola was showing a perverse
inclination to give her new acquaintance the benefit of her
ideas about the. difference betyreen the temperature of to-day
and the temperature of the day before yesterday.

They were not too much engrossed in their meteorological
discussion to become aware of the approach of Bob Hunter.
He came forward, dancing in little triplets, and hailing the two
ladies as they established themselves on a inistic seat at the
end of the path^ with an appropriate quotation from the poets.

This was all m his usual manner and caused Adrienne no
surprise, but what followed fairly took her breath away, and
made Viola grow hot and cold from sheer amazement.

"Wise and lovely one," said Bob, addressing Adrienne,
" your words are full of the wisdom of the Egyptians I She
tliat pursueth not arriveth at the goal ; she tnat hunteth is
taken in the snare of the fowler, and the birds of the air laugh
her to scorn. Julia Featherstone, that accursed damsel, shall
be humbled ; Adrienne Lancaster, because that she hath passed
by on the other side, verily she shall be exalted. Not she, but
her adorer, taketh the lowest place. Even according to his
word he layeth himself (irrespective of a clay soil) at her feet."

And before a word could be uttered, Bob Hunter was sprawl-
ing at full length on the ground.

^'Mr. Hunter, for Heaven's sake, get up I" exclaimed Adri-
enne. "You are really too ridiculous !"

"Nay, ci-uol one, but I love you," remarked Bob in an ex-
planatory manner. (No, please don't go, Mrs. Dendraith, I
prefer to have an umpire on these oct'asions.) Adrienne, at
your feet I lay rayseli and all that I possess. Will you have
me?"

"Do get up, Mr. Hunter I"

" Give mo your hand, then !"

"Suppose some of the tennis playei-s were to come and see
you in tliis ridiculous attitude!"

"I thought it was grac^eful," said Bob. "O you who
abound in grace, yet liave no grace for me, 1 will arise and go
to my Featlio Hto'ne !"

"Pmy, do!"

"What! a woman, and not jealous!" Ho sprang ardently

.1*

172

THE WINO OF AZRAEL,

to his feet. " Sti^l more am I yours, still more must I worship
this rare and ('haniiing bird I" He began to skip about and
execute elaborate steps, talking all the time, and showering
puns, quotations, allusions upon his astoni^iied audience.

He kissed Adrienno's hand, he called hci "adamantine,"
he became like Irving in Hnralet

" Heavens 1' exclaimed Adiienne, "was there ever such a
proposal before in history ?"

By this time she was laughing helplessly, and the more she
laughed the more extravagantly Boo Hunter behaved. Yet
he managed to make her undci^umd that he meant his pro-
posal seriously, and intended to persevere with bis ec centric
suit till she gave in.

"Of course it is a ' splendid chance ' for me," said Adrienne
rather bitterly, when her w**cer had, at last, consented to
pirouette back to the tv^nnis-gi'ound ; "Miss Feathorstone
and her mother have been angling foj* him for jeare, and
Miss Feathorstone has a dozen ' chances ' (as they are flatter-
ingly called) to my— none! Mother would be wild if she
knew I had refused him! and all my counseUoi*s, male and
female, would hold up hands of dininjiy at my ioWx. I
wonder whether they are light or I. If I don't marry, I
shall live on in this dead, foolish, gossiping little villnge,
trying to make two ends meet, and talking empty nonsense
with iny neighbours! I h.'ive no i)iaee in life, no interest; my
time is sw^allowed uj) in a mere struggle with petty household
details, a sti'uggleto keep up appearances and livp as becomes
'our station.' Mv mother's whole existence has become a b-

If I married-

sorbed in that effort, and mine too !

She ]mused and sighed.

'*If I manied, I suppose details of another kind would
take up my time; I should have to gossip and talk nonsense,
perhaps, on a larger scale, and then "

"And then you would have to letirn to smile when people
insulted you," Viola put in, "and to smile again when they
took you by the arm and whispered loathsomo things in your
ear, and again to smile when-" her voice broke — "when
you realised that you had given up all right to resent what
they said, for in accepting your position, you had accepted
these things, and as many 'more- tliLs side of madness— as
might happen to offer themselves."

Viola was almost breathless when she stopped speaking.

"Mrs. DendrithI" exrlai.med Adri^'une.

"Miss Lancast**r!' said Viola, and the two wom^^n stood
facing one another in the pathway.

"IdoTi't think you take things in quite tlv*' right spirit,"
observed Adrienne at h^ngth, her theories getting the oett^^'
of afli*8t sympathetic imnulse ; "a W"nianean mak*» marriage
into a Holy oi holies, llrink how sacred an ofticp it may be:
how a woman may serve and minister, and make her life one
Jpn^, lovelj^ self-sacriJicc,"

dxTtBE, PSiLOsopnEn, and pnmM.

Viola was shivering from head to foot, so that she could not
answer.

"Believe mc, there is no position in which opportunities for
heroism do not exist, but the positior of wite and mother has
always been, and surely always will be, the best, noblest, and
holiest that a woman can fill."

Viola shuddered. "I am very wicked, I know," she said.
" I can't be pati(?nt under i^ ult, and to be married seems to
lay one open to insult and to rob one of the very right to re-
sent it."

"I don't understand," cried Adrienno. "I daresay people
are vulgar and impertinent, but what does that matter after
all?"

Viola turned away. She could not Hju»ak of it further, and
Adrienne's succeeding remarks wei*e receiviMl withuut opposi-
tion and without response. This conversalivm. however, was
the beginning of a cloHer acquaintan»'e. A*U icnnr Htudied her
new friend, and noon formed a neat, compat't litUo jud^mrnt
about her, which satisfied hi»i*Holt', m\\\ whm ver\ nerviceaMe
for every-day use, since ViiUa never ahowtHl enough of hcrnelf
to invalidate the theory.

Miss Lancaster thought that h\\\^ uuuht have influence for
good over her new friend, and l^^^ng always zealous iu well-
doing, she tore herH(»lf oecasionally from her inimorous hoine-
duties to spend a day or two at Upton Castle. The mentor
noticed with approval Viola's contmual self Huppression. her
cheerfulness in her mother's presence, her disregard of head-
aches and other signs of ill-health, and her evident determina-
tion to do her duty.

But this was niere stoicism and power of will; not the
smiling acceptance of one's troubles, the sweet welcoming of
tribulation wliich delighted Adrienne's dutiful soul.

"It is a great comfort," said tlit.\t adviser judiciously — "it
is a great comfort that, however we may be placed, duty is
never far to seek. Life is full of bitter diKuppoi^itraents"
(the speaker sighed heavily), "and there is nmch pain and
anxiety to bear; but if we keep up a bravo heart and do well
what lies to our hand, we shall assuredly feel a quiet joy and
satisfaction which nothing else in this world can give. Do
you not find it so?"

"A quiet joy and satisfaction?" enquired Viola, turning
her hungry, melancholy eyes upon her companion.

That look seemed to be answer enough, for Adrienne took
her hand and said earnestly: "I fear, dear Viola, that you
are not so happy as you might be. I see tliere are sad things
in your lot, as there are in most lots, yet I think there are
elementH of happiness too, if you would take advantage of
them. Your husband is fond of you "

The 8p»^er paused, in ease Viola should have anything to
say on this head, but she answered nothing, and Adrienne
cuiitinued: "He is ready to give you anytniug you desire;

r-"!

nn.

''J

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f>i

174

Tiiti wim OP AznASL

you have a comfortable, even luxurious home, and no anxiety
about money mattters I No one knows what that means ex-
cept those who have such anxiety. Viola, sometimes, in my
weak moments, I feel inclined to ask if it is worth while
struggling on, with these never-ceasing little economies, these
never-ceasing efforts to make one shilling play the part of
two. But then come little solaces and pleasures, and after the
fit of depression you pluck up a brave heart again and go on.
Alter all, it is duty, and that makes it possible and right/'

Viola assented.

"1 don't tell you about my own petty griefs, except to let
you see that you have companions in trouble all around you — "

" I never doubted it for a moment."

"—and that you are spared a very great deal of ceaseless
worry, by having no anxiety with regard to those odious
pounds, shillings, and pence 1"

There was a long jjause. Then Viola made a remark, not
at all in the spirit which Adrienne had intended to call forth.

" I really don't see what is the use of our all coming into
the world to struggle and battle in this way ; it is so very"— -
she paused—" ridiculous."

*' I don't think so," Adrienne returned hastily. "There is
not one of us but can do some little good in the world if he
will only use his opportunities."

"If we all can, we all don't — I mean, we don't all " said
Viola; " and the few that do do a little good are overbalanced
by the many that do a little harm. Of course one must do
ono's duty, but I feel sometimes as if it were altogether hope-
less and useless."

Adiienne's orthodox views on this point had ferreted out
of their hiding-places Viola's new and secret heresies. She
was alarmed at tnem hereelf as soon as the words were uttered,
and meekly accepted Adrienne's next argument withouli a
word.

" It is not a hopeless struggle, dear Viola, if once we realise
the beauty and the bUvsedness of sacrifice. That is the key
to all the terrible problems of life ; that alone makes us under-
sti\nfl, if but dimly, that the highest good U to bo got out of
pain, and that the most blessed life is the life of sorrow."

Viola had it on her
upon one another

lips to say: "Then we ou^ht to inflict
as much sorrow as we can, m order that
we may all quickly attain blessedness," but she changed her
mind, and gave a hurried murmur of acquiescence.

Adrienne little guessed what demons she had raised by her
"judicious" influence.

All this time. Bob Hunter, in the most persevering manner,
was puimiin^ his eccentric suit. Before long, Mrs. Dixie be-
came joyfullv aware of what had happened, and was now
making her daughter's life a burden to lier by urgent entreat-
ies to accept the advantageous pi'oposal. The old lady sought
and obtained the sympathy of the rector's wife in her biUer

GUIDE, PmLOSOPnER, AND FRIEND.

175

Hi I

Pellett, she thought Adrienne's

disappomtinent,and as for Mrs. P<

conauct was wanting in principle. If her poor dear mother's
death were to be hastened by this ridiculous refusal, Mrs.
Pellett hoped that Adrienne would not be overwhelmed with
lifelong remorse— alie sincerely hoped that she would not suf-
fer in that excruciating manner. Adrienne was deeply trou-
bled. Her mother had really worried herself ill, and Bob
kept coming to open up the sore afresh.

'* Very likely it is your last chance," said^i-s. Dixie, tear-
fully. " We see so few people in tliis retired village, and
what is to become of you after I am gone if you do not make
a home for yourself now ? O Adiienne! you know the fate
of an unmarried woman who has to make her own living.
Don't sadden my declining yeai-s by the thought that I liave
to leave you alone in the world, and penniless."

Adrienne shivered. All that her mother said was so ghastly
true.

Marriage without love, or- — !

"Viola, under anv conceivable circumstances would you
have married Bob Hunter ?"

"Yes, under some conceivable circumstances," Viola re-

1)lied, "and so I expect would you and most women. My
lusband says that every woman has her price !"

"But you don't believe that, surely 1" exclaimed Miss Lan-
caster, much shocked.

" I'm afraid I do," said Viola.

Her companion gazed at her searchingly.

" You mean that every woman would marry for money or
position, if only she were offered nioney and position enough ?"

"Oh I no; different women sell themselves for different
things; some for money and position, some for money and
position for their relations, some for the happiness of another
person— yes, I think that every woman has her price," she
repeated.

" It seems almost a crime to marry without iove," said
Adrienne gravely.

Viola paused.

" It may sometimes be a crime to refuse to marry without
love, may it not ?" she suggested.

"Never; unless perhaps some one's life were at stake,—
and even then —well, it is a difficult question. If it is a crime
to marry for money, the punishment must be awful."

There was a lonp, significant pause.

"How difficult it sometimes is to clearly see one's duty!"
exclaimed Adrienne. (Only a few weeks a^o she had talked
so glibly and so comfortably about duty.) "Is it purity of
motive or is it egotism that makes a woman shrmk from
marrying to please her relations ?"

" Well mav she shrink!" cried Viola.

" Yet I do believe firmly," sjiid Adrienne, " that t^he domes-

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176

THE WING OF AZRAEL.

tic life and its interests call out a woman's best qualities; that
before she marries she has scarcely Uved."

Viola was silent.

"If one could only be mamed withoilt a husband!" ex-
claimed Adrienne, laughing ; " ^c is the drawback ! Poor Bob 1
He would keep me in jokes, wouldn't he? But oh! the awful-
ness of having that creature perpetually about one 1 I like to
be able to look up to a man."

"Yes, but it is so difficult," said Viola naively, at which
her comp;mion laughed.

Time went on, and Bob continued to press his suit.

Mi*8. Pellett, the indefatigable, one day electrified Upton by
the information that she had seen Mr. Hunter going up the
avenue of Fir Dell to call on " th:it Mr.g. Lincoln."

" That comes of not saying ' Yes ' when ?he had a chance,"
said Mrs. Pellett. " Perhaps she'll see how silly she was, now
that it may be too late."

'* Viola, the necessity for decision has been removed from
me!" said Adrienne. '* Bob Hunter has deserted me forMiu
Lincoln."

Viola turned pale.

"I wish that woman had never come here !" she tpxclaimed.

"So do I !" assented Adrienne, "for more reasons than—
Bob Hunter. It is strange how unprincipled women seem to
have a hold over men, which good women seldom achieve."

Adrienne ran over the list of good wonien— Mrs. Evans,
Mrs. Dixie, Mrs. Sedley, Mrs. Pellett— and shook her head

"You wouldn't suspect my brother Harry of being led
astray by a bad woman ; and yet he sits at ]\lrs. Lincoln's feet
—indeed, I sadly fear ho is deeply attached to her —of course,
this is bet veen ouiT-;elves. It nas long been a great trouble
to me. Poor Harry ! He is such a fine, generous, passionate
creature that, when he once loves, it is liRe tearing the heart
out to deprive him of his ideal. I, like you, wish to Heaven
the woman had never come here !"

" She must be very wicked," said Viola.

" Very wanting in womanly feeling, at any rate." Adrienne
amended. 'I <'annot understand a self re8])ecting womjui
allowing herself to be talked about in the way Mrs. Lincoln
is talked about. I would undergo tortuies rather than
that i"

"You would r?»ther submit to be talked to, as a won.an is
talked to (and about) after she is niarrie<l," suggested Viola,
"with a vivid flushi "I can't say hat I think, as far as talk
ing is concerned, that one gains r<i much by remaining
respectable."

" Oh, my dear Viola, for Iloaven's s^dce, don't say such
things; it grieves me t-o hear you."

As Adri(»ime herself had not been guiltless of little vulgjiri-
ties, which Viola dislikeil and resented, no answer was fortli-
Comin^ to this reraonstranco,

GUIDE, PniLOSOPriER, AND FRIEND.

Things were going very badly at tha Castle just at present.
Philip was always at home, and t his for Viola meant a greater
amount of suffering. There was no respite. Tlie day was
dull and weary and filled with a thousand trials and annoy-
ances great and small ; but the night— the time for stillness,
solitude, and repose, the time to built up strength i?,nd diaw
in new hope and peace — the night was a living hell !

She mignt never be alono, never feci that she possessed her-
self ; her very thoughts were scarcely free. ' ' Freedom" was u a
unknown v^ord; the only words tJiat ruled in that red-h(.t
purgatory were "right, ' "duty," ''submission."

What mraate of the harem, she used to wonder, ever en-
dured slavery more absolute than this ? If she could but tear
out heart and soul, so that she might remain a mere shell,
animate but not sentient, and let that stay and be wife, house
keeper, mother,— whatever was wanted, it would do its ])art
better than she did it, and there would be none of this
hatred and loathing, this sinful, iiivincible shrinking from her
accepted duty. What heaven could be worth such a price !

She was now utterly alone, cut off from human heh); for
even Harry's interest had been led elsewhere. Theprotwtihg
hand whose finger-tips had been slowly slipping away was
now quite withdrawn.

A nunishmont this, thought Viola, for daring to let her mind
dwell among the memories of those scenes before her mar-
riage, when Harry had tried so hard to save her.

The longing for unconsciousnras, for death, became unap-
peasable—to be mercifully wafted fiway to some quiet r; gion
where there was no heart-ache, no indignity, no altar wlhM'o
the souls and bodies of women wovo otFored up iu sacritict^.
while the honourable and respected of the earth danccnl round
singing songs of triumph. What though that gentle world
were canopied with clouds shutting out the sunHhin(i of the
earth ? What though vapours still and sullen liov(»rvd there,
lullinff the spirit in a dreamless rest ? The sweetness (»f life,
the glory ot the world was n 't for her; welcome then tlie
land of silence and of shadows, where sorrow was laid to
sleep and the throb of misery ceased. Not eveji the fear that
it was wicked to long so for wiiat Heaven had not willel,
could overcome the yeiuiiing.

It seemed as if things could not go on much longer in their
present state, and yet it was evident that there would Ix; no
sudden break. Mrs. Sedley liad dime her work tcx) well.

There was at this time many small difllculties of the i>etty
and worryinf^ order to cont^>nd with. Mrs. IJarber was per-
)etuany commg to Viola with discomposing stories al>'*ut the
lousehohl affairs — stories always given in the most maiestic
onguage, which, like all other luxuries, had to Ixi paia for;
ami Mrs. Barber's language was [)aid for ruinously in that
commo<lity of undetermined value that we call " tim(»."

Instead of trying to set matters right, she talked about how

TBE WtNG oP AmAEt.

they went wrong; and the domestic ma jbinery began to groan
and creak unpleasantly. This did not tend to improve mat-
ters between husband and wife. Philip was not used to lying
upon "crumpled rose-loaves;" and he frankly told his wife
that if she could make herself neither agreeable nor useful, he
really failed to see what she was there tor.

" Not for my own pleasure, assuredly I" Viola had oncebuen
goaded into replying.

" I'll be damned if it's for mine, thenl" cried Philip, with a
snarl.

"Then let me go."

"Where to, may I ask ?" Philip ^ave a loud laugh. He
had a newspaper in his hand, and with insolent coolness he
was reading at intervals.

"That does that matter, so long as I may but go."

He gave a contemptuous shrug of the shouldei*s.

" How difficult it IS to make you realize your position," he
said. Do you think that you have only yourself to consult ?
Let me remind you that you bear my name; that (to speak so
that you can understand) it is branded upon you, and oy that
brand I can claim you and restrain you wherever you may
be so long as you live. Now are matters clear to you ?"

She turned very white, but answered, seemingly without
emotion : " Quite clear; you hold over mea power of more than
Ufe and death. You (^an treat me as you choose; for open
resistance (even if I could resort to it) would mean for, me
sirap]y ruin. I am at your mercy. I think, however, that.
in common fairness, all this ought to have been explained t<
me before I marriea."

" My dear," said Philip, " a man can get a woman to marry
him on any terms. It is her own look-out if she doesn't know
what marriage involves. She ought to find out ; but do you
suppose finding out would stop a woman from marrying?
Not a bit of it; not if she found out that she would have to
throw herself on her husband's funeral pyre, like an Indian
widow. These are plain facts, my dear, and any woman of
the world will tell you the same tning. Besides, who, pray,
are you, to be discontented with what satisfies other women i
I am tired of the suhjet^t. Be good enough to give a little
attention to your household duties for the future, and spare
me further mysteries."

Philip turned away and buried himself in the paper. For
a moment Viola stood before him, hesitating as if she intended
to say something more; but apparently changing her mind,
she walked slowly away.

If Philip had brought all the powers of his mind i;obear upon
the subject for the next year, he would nev(»r have guessed
the feeling that at once nuide his wife seek Ulrs. Barber and
consult with her seriously as to the moans of effecting an im-
provement in the state of the domestic affairs.

Jt was the first time that the mistress of the house had

GVWE, pmLosoptiBR, AND mtBm.

I7d

actively used her authority, and it greatly startled Mrs.
Barber.

That high functionary of course thought that any suggested
change was impossible ; but in course of time she became con-
vinced that it had to be made, and reluctantly set about effect-
ing the task.

Philip some time later, noticing that his- wishes had been
carried out minutely, gave an approving nod to his wife^ and
remarked that he was glad to see that she had taken his ad-
vice to heart and turned over a new leaf.

•*How shall I reward you for this sensible conduct, my
dear!"

*'I want no reward, thank you; I am glad you are
pleased."

"What do you want, then?'' demanded Philip, with a
frown.

"Nothing."

" So be it. I had a little present I was going to give you —
a present that would make the eyes of most wives glisten;
but since you want nothing, you shall have nothing."

He put back the red leather case, which he had brought out
of his pocket, and went on with his breakfast.

"If you would condescend to ask me for this confounded
trinket, and take a little interest in it, I would give it j'^ou even
now," said Philip, after a long silence. " I am not a boar or a
tyrant, whatever you may say."

" I never said you were either."

" Well, will you ask me for this thing?"

" J cannot accept it as a reward for anything I may have
done that pleases you," said Viola, flushing.

" What a mad- woman you are! And, pray, why not?"

"I have only done what I thought myself bound in duty
to do."

" But if I choose to show that I am X)leased with you "

Viola shook her head.

" As a reward, I cannot accept it !" she repeated.

" Idiot 1"

Philip took the case again out of his pocket, open»9d it and
laid it on the table. It contained a star of ma^ificent bril-
liants, gleaming and scintillating upon their bed of sapphire
velvet. He watched her face.

"Do you like it?"

"It is lovely!"

" Do you wish to have it?"

She shook her head.

" And what if I say that you munt have it?"

" You have already clearly explained to me that I have no
choice but to obey yon ; moreover, it has always been my
desire to obey you to the iK^st of my abilitv."

"Very well; then take it and wear it, if you please."

He handed her the case, which she took.

;■ e

i '".i

.»^..i;

180

THE WING OF AZRAEL,

" I am tired of this sort of thing, let me tell you, Viola,"
he went on. " It is time that you should clearly understand
your position as my wife; and then perhaps you will see
that your best policy is conciliation, not defiance."

" I have never been defiant.''

*' You have certainly never been conciliating !" he exclaimed.
" A woman can generally get her own way with a man
(within limits), if she knows how to manage. You are not
half clever."

Viola gave a wintry little smile and a faint shrug of the
shoulders.

"Now, you understand that I want you to wear that star.
I don't give it you to bo locked away in some old drawer
and never seen. It would look well in your hair."

** I will do what you wish," she said.

PhUip made an impatient movement.

*'/ don't understand you," he exclaimed. "You are as
pig-headed "

Viola looked up.

" You talk about making me understand my position," she
said, " but it seems to me that I understand it very well. I
am (in your own words) branded with your name. It gives
you a claim over me so long as I live. I understand that
(juite clearly. If I were to leave you, you could make life
impossible to me. I have no more illusions. I see and un-
deratand. It is just because I do see and understand that I
offend you. You would have me act two parterat the same
time. That cannot be. oven at your command. You are my
husband — vou married me in the face of my repeated assur-
ance that i. did not wish to marry you— you have thus become
my master, and, if you choose, my tyrant. I am at your
mercy. In these circumstances how can you expect from me
any tiling except deference and obedience? If you are my
master, now and for ever, you cannot hope to establish any
other relation between us. You take your stand on your
authority, Liid there you must remain."

Philip rose slowly and went to the fireplace. "It may sur-

Erise you to learn that j^ou talk damned nonsense, my dear,"
e naid in his suavest tones.

"Then perhaps I had better hold my tongue," she an-
swered quietly.

Philip shrugged bis shoulders.

"It is to bo h» ped that you will have children," he said
with an intonation that made her shrink as if she had been
touched with a hot u*on. " They would soon bring you to
your senses "

"Do you find you are generally able to foretell how cir-
cumstances will affect me?" she asked coldly.

"I have some knowledge of human nature," he replied;
"and I have kept my eves open. A married woman who has
ao c>uldren may give her husband a little trouble; but the

THE WEST YTINe,

181

)U are as

first baby infallibly drives the nonsense out of her After
that, Mie game is in his hands. She has got to behave ration-
ally lor the child's sake."

Philip gave a slfrht smile as he said it, which was subtly,
profoundly wounding.

"If you are determined to deprive me of every grain of
self-esteem, if you are resolved to humiiiat 3 me to tne very
dust," said Viola, in a low voice full of suppressed passion,
"it may please you to know that I recognise my utter help-
lessness to resist you even in that. While my mother is
alive " She stopped abruptly.

"While your mother is alive, you are afraid to make a
scandal in her respectable family I" said Philip. ' • Very
right and very wise, my dear. I drink to your respected
mother's very good health, and may her days Ije long m the
landl"

CHAPTER XXV.

THE WEST WING.

A LARGE portion of Upton Castle had remained uninhabited.
Sir Philip made various jocular allusions to the size of the
family which might find accommodation in the great de-
serted rooms of the west wing. Upton generally made one
ioke last a long time, and the prudent village also took care
that it should not be of a recondite or impersonal character:
that might cause an epidemic of headache. A pleasantry that
required one to think, was as bad as a play that maae de-
mands on one's pocket-handkerchief.

Of courae Viola was not allowed to miss the sweet savour
of the Upton ioke. I'hilip repeated it to her with an insolent
laugh, and adfded one or two apposite remarks^ which Viola
would willingly have burnt out of her brain with hot irons,
so that their imprint might be eternally erased.

That vast deserted wing over which Unton made merry had
become Viola's favourite haunt, in tlie winter afternoons,
when the closing in of the light made work or reading im-
possible, and the stillness of tne dusk creeping over the sea
Drought a tired lull to the sense of unappeasable misery.

The left wing was nearest to the ruin, and from the win-
dows of its vast old rooms one could look almost into the
keep, where Viola often used to see Caleb working? before hi:*
doorstep, until the darkness crept un and forcml him to desist.

Sometimes she would go out ana have a talk with him,
which she always found a great relief, for Caleb could arrest
her own painful thoughts and carry her away into his cold^

[;,

182

THE WINQ OF AZliAEL.

■ i

clear, sorrowless world of "pure reason." But often Viola
was too wretched to seek this respite; the solitude which was
driving her troubles deeper and deeper into hor soul became
daily more and more of a necessity. She shrank at the ap-
proach of her fellow-creatures, from whom something hurtful,
loolish, detestable, might, it seemed, always be ejmected.
Like some animal accustomed to rough handling, she mnched
even when no blow was intended.

The old rooms of the west wing were dark and dim^ as if
with the shadows of many years. They seemed to Viola to
conceal a haunting danger, an unknown mysterious danger,
hanging like a curse over the house. No one knew of ner
visits to this region of silence and shadows; she was sup-
posed by tlie household to have gone out with Triton, or per-
haps with Dorothy Evans, who sometimes accompanied her
on her interminable rambles.

She kept her secret jealously, stealing in unobserved by
the door leading onto the terrace, and up the great staircase,
till she found herself safe and alone in the long corridors, out
of which opened the innumerable musty -smelling rooms.

She scarcely dared to breathe as she moved with careful
footsteps over the oaken floors, half expecting to see some
form emerge from the gathering shadows, or rise up as she
passed from the great four-post bedsteads, whose dark cano-
pies must be embellished, as she fancied, with phantasma-
goria of human dreams.

Among the old rooms was one called the death-chamber,
which especially fascinated her. Here, generation after gen-
eration, the Dendraiths had died— sometimes calmly in the
shadows of the great blac'*-' bedstead, occasionally by violence.

In examining a fantastically carved cabinet which stood
near the mantelpiece Vioia discovered a number of old
letters written in the last century, by the unhappy lady whose
story Philip had told on that fatal day long a^i^o. Many other
musty treasures came to light, — ^a bit of faded ribbon ; a silver
thimble; and a piece of dim silken embroidery, with one of
its miraculous flowers of unknown genus hair finished, the
threaded needle stuck into the silk, as if the work had been
just laid down.

What were the fifty or a hundred years that had passed
since the sldlful finders touched that dainty piece of em-
broidery ? A mere fiction^ an unreality.

The two imlities— the hfe of that by-gone lady and that
of her not less unhappy successor— seemed to annihilate be-
tween them the empty phantom time, and to touch each other
closely. The little relics of everyday occupations which had
lain here undisturbed since their owner passed away spoke
of her so loudly that Viola felt as if. she had known the
woman who had slept and dreamt and, alas I wept in this old
room, wbQ had woven her sorrows into silken devices, and

- •

I Viola
ch ^as
)ecame
ihe ap-
Lurtfiu,
pected.
Cinched

1, as if
^lola to
danger,
of ner
as sup-
, or per-
illed her

pved by
taircaso,
lors, out
>ms.

1 careful
iee some
p as she
trk cano-
antasma-

•hamber,
ifter gen-
ly in the
violence,
ch stood
r of old
iy whose
ny other
i; a silver
;h one of
ihed. the
lad been

passed
of ero-

md that
filate be-
lch other
fhich had
ly spoke
own the
, this old
ices, and

THE WE8T WINO.

183

died with the grief still in her soul— the embroidered flower of
Paradise utill uncompleted.

Viola took possession of the key of this cabinet, and mas-
tered the secret of the hiding-place of the treasures.

On one windy afternoon in the twilight she stole up to the
old room, taking with her a small narrow packet. She wont
first to the wiiiaow and looked out. The waves were rolling
one after the other over the expanse of grey waters, ocean's
battalions making fierce onslaught against the shore. How
calm, how beneficent, these same waters had looked on a cer-
tain summer afternoon, — that afternoon when she might have
averted her fate had she been willing to fling off the claims of
conscience ! Could it be that she regretted having done her
duty ? She leant her head desolateljy' agcainst the window-
sill. Adrienne had spoken of the quiet joy and satisfaction
that follows duty performed, but Viola felt nothing but a pas-
sionate misery, to which she saw no possible end. Even if
release came to-morrow, she felt that her soul was seared and
branded for life, and that there was nothing left for her but
to die. Never had she since her childhood been hopeful or
light-hearted ; now it was impossible to expect relief.

There were no stores of garnered joy to fall back upon in
her trouble. This was like a sudden savage tightening of a
cord that for years had been cutting into the foFh, wearing
away the powers of rebound and the powers of enjoyment,
just at the time when these should have been growing and
accumulating.

Mrs. Sedley's long life of persistent self-neglect and self-
deterioration was Dearing its fruit, twenty and a hundred
fold; the punishment, when it came, was heavy, and it fell
on innocent shoulders.

Viola remained at the window watching the waves as they
rolled over, melancholy, drcary, unceasmg, Such were th'o
movements of human destiny; the restless labour without
aim or hope ; a weary response to the perpetual stimulus of a
blind necessity.

What did these everlasting waves achieve, as they rose and
sank and rose again, expending their force merely upon their
own birth element, effecting nothing ? Caleb Foster said that
in the course of ages they wore a^'ay the land by their cease-
loss fretting, and added thus a few miles to the dominion of
the ocean.

Perhaps the human waves were also wearing something
away with their repeated onslaughts, adding thus to the
doramion of— what ? That was the awful question. And in
any case, was it worth while ?

Another dangerous thought came: what if all that we are
told about Pr.)vidence he the offspring of human imagination,
part of our blind response to the goad that drives us all to
livo and think and feel and strive till the breath goes from ns
and thg life-fever is stilled? Oh 1 what would her mother say

I "

( !

-I 'I

•■■■ hfw

184

THE WING OF AZBAEL,

life.

to such wild questions? What would even Adrienne say?
Viola felt as if she had been sinking deeper and deeper into
some black nightmare gulf, whence there was no resuming:
an antechamber leading by a long, narrowing passage to the
regions of the damned.

She looked round her at the sinister dusk gathering and
thickening in the corners of the silent room, at the vast oak
bedstead and the carved cabinet with its gi'inning faces. She
touched the packet she held in her hand with a singular
gesture, and stood looking down at it steadilv. A wave of
colour spread over her face, and her eyes lighted up. She
drew away the paper wrappings and disclosed the knife
which HaiTy Lancaster had given her on her wedding-day,
and her husband had forbidden her to keep. Evidently in
this one particular she had failed in obedience. She looked
at the ornament attentively, examined it this side and that,
and ran her finger along the steel.

• Viola thought of Harry's impassioned words of warning
before her marriage, and it occurred to her, swiftly in nass-
ing, that he might have given her the thing not quite without
a purpose ! But the idea was dismissed as preposterous.

Harry I How suddenly he had vanished into the great
silence which engulfs so many who seem to have made them-
selves part and parcel of our lives! Where was he? What
was he doingand thinking? Scarcely a word of his had been
forgotten. He had succeeded in weaving himself into Viola's
memories, as the by-gone Lady Dendraith had woven her
troubles into her silken impossible flowers. And he, too, had
left the threaded needle sticking in the silk, and gone away
and left the work unfinished.

Did he ever think of her now? Did he still ? Viola

frowned and hurried away from the window, trying to banish
that question from her mind. Did he love her still? Of
course not; of course not— she was no longer free; he had
ceased loving her as soon as she became Philip's wife. Harrj
would not be so wicked as to let his passion cross the ada-
mantine marriage boundary. No: she must go through the j
world without his love, as she had elected to do ; it was the
ir.addest folly to permit her thousjhts to wa.ider back to the
old times which could never be recalled. She wondered how
she would feel if Harry were to walk into the room at this
moment.

Her heart beat fast at the thought, and then faster as she
discovered how much it had moved her. She was alarmed.
Of all forms of sin, that of loving one man while married to
another had seemed to Viola the farthest removed from the
sphere of possibility ; she had always tr.riied from the ideal

with disgust and horror. And now ! Now she could atl

least guess how such dreadful things might occur, and whatl
a weight of guilt and misery the wietched woman must carryl

I I!

THE WEST WING.

3ime say?
jeper into
•e^uming:
ige to the

ering and
e vast oak
aces. She
a singulai
A wave of
I up. She
the knife
dding-day,
vidently in
She looked
) and that,

jf warning
bly in pass-
lite without
;erous.
> the great
made tnem-
he? What
iis had been
into Viola's
1 woven her
he, too, had
gone away

? Viola

ag to banish
T still? Of
•ee ; he had
ife. Harry I
fss the ada-i
;h rough the
it was the
^ack to the
[ndered how
lom at this

lister as she
IS alarmed.

married to
^d from thel
bm the ideal
[he could atl
|r, and what

must carry

at her heart until the sin was expiated by some frightful
suffering, or cast out by the grace of Heaven.

Restlessly the lonely figure began to i>ace the room up and
down, up and down ; the knife still in her hand.

" Surely he will not find it here," she muttered half aloud,
going over to the cabinet, and opening the drawer containing
the letters and embroidery. Taking the knife in both hands,
she laid its point for a moment against her breast, pressing
the handle a little. She let it rest tnere for a moment, as if
questioning her ability to press it still further, should con-
science permit. She was about to place it beside the other
treasures, when a sound through the dusk made all the blood
rush to her heart.

She looked round in terror, but could see nothing. Her im-
pulse was to get out of the room as quickly as she could, but
the dared not move. Some terrible shape, she felt sure, would
meet her from every darkened corner ; and as she passed the
bed, a figure would rise up out of its shadows and clutch her.
Oil, to be out of this awfiu room !

She braced herself for a great effort. The whole width of
the room had to be crossed ; the door was at the farthest cor-
ner; the bed occupied the middle of the wall, opposite the
window, and must be passed in order to reach the door.

She set her teeth and moved forward, approaching the
great bedstead, and instinctively quickening hei* footsteps.
Thank Heaven ! In another second the ordeal would be over.
But oh 1 if the door did not open quickly, she thought she
would go mad 1 Now for it ! Her eyes were fixed in fasci-
nated horror on the bed as she prepared to make a rush. She
had taken two steps forward, when suddenly she staggered
back with a sick gasp; for out of the shadows of that bed-
stead, as she approached— merciful Heaven ! it was no fancy,
but a ghostly fact !— a figure did rise up, and a pair of arms
did stretch out to clutch her ! Viola uttered a shriek of teiTor.

She saw something dark standing above her, a white face,
and two white hands approaching. She tottered back, strug-
gling blindly towards the window, ready to tear it open and
fling herselt out ; then her power of movement failed hor as
in a nightmare, and the room swam round. She felt the white
I hands on her neck, the dark arms close round her, and then
I something within her brain seemed to give way; she know
no more.

When she awoke to consciousness, the canopy of the carved
I bedstead was above her head and she was on it, weak and
helpess.

She could see the demon faces of its carvings by the light
I of a flickering candle which stood on the cabinet.

" Do you feel better now ?"

Viola started and trembled. It was Philip's voice.

"Yes."

" Hold your tongue then and take this." He gave her some

■\\

ivi

.>!.

It. , .,

186

THE WING OF AZIiAFX,

• h

1 1

■J:

brandy, then let her lie quiet for ten minutes. At the end of
that time ho came to the bedside. ' ' You are easier to frighten
than I thouaht," he said, moistening her forehead with eau-
de-cologne. I think you m'ght have stopped to think for a
moment, before you fainted. You surely don't suppose that
I didn't know of your frequent visits to this Bluebeard
Chamber."

*' You knew?" repeated Viola.

*' Naturally I knew. I thought you were coming too often,
and began to suspect something was up— secret assignations,
for all I knew ; so I concluded it was time to reconnoitre. I
reconnoitred from the convenient depths of my great-grand-
mother's four-poster. I didn't moan to give you such a fright,
though — how you did shriek !" Philip laughed at the remem-
brance. "But I confess I thought a little start might be
salutary. It's uncanny to have a wife who spends hours in
disused rooms, looking as if she were going to commit suicide
from an upper window. Not that I am afraid of her ending
her days in that fashion. It pleases young minds of a certain
order to dally with such ideas, but they seldom come to busi-
ness. I don't expect to be a widower yet awhile, my dear."

Philip smiled urbanely as ho bent over the figure of his
wife, whose closed eyelids and exhausted attitude pleaded
vaimy for a moment's respite from his sneers.

He thought she was shamming, or nt least " ielding unneces-
sarily to the effects of the shock.

*' You would like to know, perhaps, ho ;7 I became ac-
quainted with your visits here. In a very simple way.
Caleb Foster had seen you at the window, and without know-
ing that he was betraymg a secret, happened to mention the
fact to me. As there is a staircase leading from this room to
the terrace, I thought perhaps you were making ingenious
use of it, for romantic purposes of your own. Women with a
Puritanical training are generally the most enterprising
when they get the chance."

Viola raised herself for a moment, but her strength failed
her, and she sank back exhausted, the angry tears, to her
intense disgust, welling up into her eyes. She hid away her
face that Philip might not see them. But he was not to be
deceived.

" Oh ! if you are going to resort to weeping I have no more
to say. You had better let me tnke you to your own room,
and I can send Mrs. Barber or the maid to you. I daresay
women know better the etiquette in such matters than I do."

** I can walk," said Viola, as he began to lift her from the
bed.

"Try," he said.

She managed to totter a few steps towards the door. Philip
lifted her in his arms. " You can leave me here and send
Mrs. Barber to me " she said; "put me down."

" Nonsense 1 I snail take you to your room."

^IBELLA.

187

) end of
righten
th eau-
k for a
)se that
uebeard

)0 often,
[nations,

oitre. I
it-crand-
a fright,
3 remem-
might be
hours in
it suicide
er ending
■ a certain
le to busi-
y dear."
ire of his
e pleaded

p; unneces-

pcame ac-
Qple way.
out know-
ention the
is room to
ingenious
aen with a
iterprising

igth failed

»rs, to her

away her

not to he

re no more
3^ n room,
[l daresay
ban I do.'^
from the

)r. Philip
and send

** I would much prefer to stay here. Philip, put me down,"
she repeated sharply, struggling to get free. But he paid not
the slighest attention.

She was carried down the long empty corridors to her
room. As he laid her on her bed, he bent down over her, his
arms still round her, as if enjoying the sense of her helpless-
ness and his power. He was smiling into her face.

"Now," he said, " fc/ the ministering angelc and sal vola-
tile. I think this afternoon may be an instructive one for
you, my dear. You may observe that your doings are not
secret from me. I have ways and means of finding out every-
thing I want to know. It would take a much subtler person
than you are to baffle me, and one who is rather more of an
adept at telling lies. Let me advise you, for your good, to be
open with me. It is your best policy. You have plenty of
opportunities if you would only use them to your own advan-
tage. I am quite open to woman's wiles, my dear, if you did
but know it." He ^ave her a little careless insolent caress,
and walked off smiling.

"If you only knew how I hate you!" Viola exclaimed, with
a sob of passion.

" My dear, I know it quite well. People generally hate
their master, i, if thoy are mad enough to oppose them. Again
I say, in all good fellowship, try the other policy I"

CHAPTER XXVI.

SIBELLA.

Viola was seriously shaken by the shock which she had
sustained on that afternoon in the West Wing. She shrank
from going about alone, especially after dusk, and merely to
look at the window of that dreadful room from outside would
make her turn cold in full noontide.

"Dorothy, I wish you would introduce me to some of your
villagers ; my life is so utterly useless that I think I am reap-
ing the punishment of all cumberers of the ground : my own
society is becoming unbearable to me."

Dorothy, though much surprised, gladly did as she was
asked, but added that really there were not enough poor
people at Upton to supply the needs of the already existing
district- visitore.

In spite of disappointments and difficulties Viola made a de-
termined effort to lay the energies of her wounded soul at ttie
feet of foUow-sufPerers.

She was coming back from a round of visits nt Upton one
afternoon, feeling sad and disheartened; it was late, and sl^

■^ 'J..

r%*

186

TffE Wim OF AZRAEt.

felt a nervous dread of being alone in that house for two houm
at dusk. She decided to take a round so as to make the time
of solitude shorter. Home was becoming almost intolerable
to her, and the strain of mind and nerve had begun to show-
only too clearly in her face.

Viola bent her footsteps towards the sea. Arrived at the
cliff 's edge, she paused and peered over.

A man was standing at the beach, throwing gtones into the
water. If only it were Caleb ! A good wholesome talk with
that amiable encyclopasdia would be like a tonic to the over-
wrought brain.

It must bo Caleb ; who else would be on the shore at this
time ?

Viola determined to descend. The way was steep, but not
difficult to one who knew the windings of the path. She lost
sight of the figure on the beach, and when she arrived there,
somewhat breathless, he was faraway in the distance, looking
very small and very dim. She broke into a run, but on
coming closer, she began to feel doubtful whether it ivere
Caleb after all.

The sea ran heavily and hun^*ily upon the beach, dragging
the stones back and forward with each pulse-beat. Viola con-
tinued her reasonless pursuit. The power that drew her on
eeemed irresistible.

S-nddenly the man, who had been walking at a brisk pace,
came to a standstill, and looked up towards a pathway that
led from the beach to a little wina shorn wood nestling in a
hollow of the downs. From the heart of the wood a tiny
column of blue smoke rose out of slielter to be buffeted by a
boisterous sea-breoze, and driven inland.

Viola paused with beating heart, still instinctively keeping
out of sight. A strange id( a had taken possession of her that
this man was Harry Lancaster!

She started violently, and shrank back into the fissure
where she had concealea herself; for her suspicion was con-
firmed. Hfr heart gave a.i excited bound and then seemed
to stand still altogether. She watched his movements breath-
lessly. After looking up to the little wood for some seconds
Haiiy turned away and walked to the verge of the sea. Viola
couhl hear the great stones <'runching under his footsteps as
he plunged across them.

He stoml and watched the waves rolling up, and the hissing
back-rush of the water over the small i)cl)bles. Occasionally
he would turn and take another expectant look at the path-
way, but ten minutes passed, and nobody nppeoi-ed.

For whom was he waiting^

The tide had just turned, and every seventh wave brought
the line of wotted pebbles further towards the cliff, causmg
Harry to step back gradually in the same direction. Ho
came at lapt within a dozen yards of Viola's hiding-place.
Yes; there was no misWiking that uprighli soldier-like n^re,

8IBELLA,

189

i IP

that peculiar pose of the head. There was a very sombre ex-
pression in his face ; the lips were set and hard, as if their
owner suffered pain.

The temptation to reveal her presence was very strong, but
Yiola, resisting it, held her breatn lest she should betray her-
self. Interest, yearning for sympathy, dramatic curiosity,
all battled with the nervous horror of being discovered.

Finally, conscience, as usual, turned the scale.

Then came a scorching thought ! Fir Dell lav among the
trees just up herej could Harry be waiting for Mrs. Lincoln ?
It seemed impossible— Mrs. Lmcoln— a married woman, and
not a good one I No ; Harry was not that kind of man. His
character was too deep for auch mockery of true love. Then
came a chilling consciousness that what was unforgiveable in
a woman, a man might do without ceasing to respect himself
or to command the respect of others. Whatever he might
do or feel, however, Viola was sure that she ought D avoid
him. Since the line where sin begins and innocenc ds did
not coincide in the two cases, her own rdle in the event of a
meeting might prove beyond her powera. It would be like a
game where one player was bound by the rules and the other
was not.

Again Harry turned to look at the pathway from the wood,
and this time ne hurried forward, raising his hat with a re-
lieved smile.

"I feared you were not coming!" he said.

''I very nearly did not come," n, voice singularly soft and
rich returned, a woman's voice implying many things, as
voices do.

Viola drew in her breath, too excited and bewildered to
realise that she had now assumed the part of eavesdropper.

"Max Hoffmann and his followei*s have just left me," the
voice continued, "or I should have been here before. Not
been waiting long, I hope?' She gave him another hearty
shake of the hand. '*How nice it is to meet agn,in after all
this time 1 I can see you have a great deal to tell me if you
choose." She looked anxiously and nffectionately in his face.

"You are right," he said; "you always know, Sibella."

By this time the ^-wo figures had moved a little and were
walking forward siJe by side along the shore.

Viola saw a graceful form clad from head to foot in rich
dark red. Against the grey of the sea and sky and the white
cliffs that touch of v/ann colour was most cheering. In-
stinctively Viola glanced at her own lady-like gown of nonde-
script tint, and wr.s dimly conscious tnat the difference of
attire indicated some radical difference of terr. n«'nunent.

Firm and fearless was this woman's gait, and'th(» same spirit
showed in the unright pose of the head. It was scarcely pos-
sible in the dusk to diH<;ern the features, Imt they ap)>eared
to be regular. The hair and eyes were dark, and with tho
red oloak and little cloth cap gave tho wearer a rather ^poy-

■a

190

TEE WINQ OF AZBAEL,

il! !!

lii;

like appearance. Her vivacity of manner supported this
effect.

During the few seconds in which all this had passed, Viola
stood perfectly motionless in her hiding-place. She was
scarcely capable of movement, for there was a strong; para-
lysing pain at her heart. It was not figurative or poetical; it
was an actual physical pain, as if the stream of life, being
blocked up, were strugghng in vain for outlet.

'' Harry, you don't look well! What is troubling you?"

•'More things than one; but I want to hear about you.
Tell me everything. You have haunted my thoughts as
usuaL Sibclla. I don't like these long parting !"

" Nor I," she said ; "but life is full of partmgs— perhaps in
preparation for the last and the longest one of all. What
was that?" She piiused suddenly. "Did you not hear a
sound of footsteps over the stones?"

Harry shook Iiis head.

" Surely. Ah I yes, I see a figure running along by the foot
of the cliff! There, like a moving shadow against the
white !"

HniTy also could see something that might be a figure.

*' We must have been seen ana overheard," he said.

• The good people of Upton take a more than Christian in-
terest in their neighbours," observed Sibella with a laugh.

"Confound them!" Harrv exclaimed. "Well, I hope our
eavesdropper was interested."

"/hope that she may catch cold," said Sibella.

CHAPTER XXVII.

CONSPIRACY.

As the afternoon went on tho wind began to rise, and the
sea became perturbed as if with premonition of storm.

Sibella shivered.

" It is going to be a wild night," she said. " Do you hear
that ominous muttering in the nound of the sea, not loud,
but deep and malignant? The wind is very keen and angry,"
she continued, as Ilany did not answer; " let us go home. I
sliould like to show you my little houHo in the wood ; it is so
pretty and cosv."

They walken on q' ickly together.

"Harry, I have < en wished that your sister would come
and see me; but of t ourse she won't. '^

" I fear not," said llarry^, with a shake of the head. " ' A
mad world, Horatio I' Adrienne," he continued, " is a wonnin

1 this

, Viola
le was
J para-
ical; it
, being

>u?"
it you.
;hts as

haps in

What

hear a

the foot
nst the

are.

•

stian in-
LURh.
lope our

and the

lou hear

lot loud,

1 angry;

lome. I

it is 80

lid come

wgniiin

(jONSPIRACf,

101

to go through fire and water at the call of duty? She has a
theory ready-made to fit anything that happens, so that she
and Fate stand obstinately conri'onted: tiioy devour each
other, tails and all ; while Adrienne, graduiiTly diminishing,
still cries out. ' Uncomfortable, but for the best.' "

Sibella smiled.

" What hope have I of indulgence from such a woman? Or
what hope has she." said Harry, "of evading her own theo-
ries? She belongs to that vast band who suffer from what
I call the disease of words; who are eaten up by words, as
some wretched animal is devoured by parasites. Adrienne
pronounces to herself (for instance) the word ' duty ' or
' right ' and lets it fasten upon her soul and feed there as a
leech."

" Is it curable?" asked Sibella.

" Not when it is far gone."

" Your sister?"

*' Half her substance is already gone. Speak to her out of
the fulness of the heart, and she oaulks you with a word.
Try to vault over it, and you leave her far behind on the other
side; she sits upon the partition and shakes her head, and
peihaps sighs. And that ends everything."

Sibella laughed a little sadly.

"And the word that partitions us, she and I, is — respecta-
hility. And I used to ue so lespectable !— there was reaUv
something extra superfino about my respoctability if she only
knew it; it was a respectability as of the Modes and Per-
sians !"

"Foreign virtue," said Harry, "is unsatisfactory to the
truly British mind."

"Say instinct," she suggested. *' British mind is a phrase
that seems to me too enterprising."

"I think you are pretty well," ho observed; "you don't
run amuck in this way unlesis you have some surplus energy;
you are only Quixotic when in good health."

" I haven't been laughed at since I saw you last, except
behind my back. It is quite refreshing! No, I am not well,
however, m spite of my energy; and I have been very ill
indeed in the summer."

" And you never told me!" Harry exclaimed reproachfully.
"It was cruel to keep me in ignorance."

"Well, well, perhaps I won't next time. No, I would
rather not, talk about it now; it's a miserable subject. I
thought I was going to die quite alone, without a word of fare-
well to any one, and "

"Sibella!"

"Don't look so horrified; it is over; peace be to the past.
Come back and see my home. Why tlo I keep you shivering
here? And we can talk out our arrears by my study fire;
such a dear little room, Harry, looking onto the sea, with a
group of sighing pine-trees for the foreground.*'

"' I

TBE WtNG OF AZRASL.

She led the way up the path by which she had descended
to the beach, ana the talk drifted on till Wiey reached the
house. A brown dog ran out to meet them, welcoming his
mistress with a yelp of ioy.

"You see I have the dear old fellow yet," said Sibella; "but
ho is getting very infirm. What a sad cruel world it is I"

Sibella led the way into a pleasant little room, where tea
and toast and a friendly kettle awaited their coming.

Books and work lay about, and there were sundry antique
vases and glass bottles of strange shapes. .

"I see you still have your prehistoric things in bronze,"
said Harry, standing by the fii-eplace while Sibella made the
tea.

" What should I be without my mementi mori f I think
of the fellow-raian who fashioned these images, and i know
that all is vanity."

"Tea is not vanity," said Harry ; " tea is an eternal verity.
I am sure Carlyle would admit that."

" In one of his paroxysms of silence," added Sibella fantas-
tically.

" Sugar?" she inquired.

"You have forgotten 1"

" Sugar it roust be, and many lumps," she said; "he that
takes no sugar, secure in the consciousness of innocence, says
so boldly and at once."

" You have not asked me yet to do so, but I thiuk I will sit
down," said Harry.

Sibella laughed and pushed up a low chair before the fire.

" Now, are the conditions of masculine amiability fulfilled?
Stay I Buttered toast 1 Some men become fascinating af tor
buttered toast, though it is moi*e generally indicated in the
case of maiden ladies not without cats."

"Oh, pleas(} don't do that !" Harry exclaimed, bending down
to take the slice of bread which she was toasting. "You will
be roasted alive. I want no buttered toast."

"But I want you to be amiable— go away, let me alone; I
am happier than I have been for ninny a long day. It is the
old instmct sprouting up again, of the woman to wait upon
the man. That happens— a i*ev<?r8ion to some hereditary
instinct— to all of us. Hence our inconsistencies, whicli
people throw in our teeth. Ah, the bread begins to steam,
and to emit sweet odours. This, let me remark suggestivelv,
is the stage at which the fliioh of dawning amiability usually
begins to appefir— in an average ])atient."

Sibella's was one of those faces which indicate the high-
water mark of human development. Thus far has man gone
upon the path of progress ; tlius far is he removed from th(}
animal. Still, it was not the face of a saint ; for that, the
smile was too brilliant and sometimes too mocking.

"Why do you talk of everything but yourself, Sibella^"

CONSPmACT,

193

asked Harry. *' I want to know how you like Upton, what
you are doing, and whether you know anyone here."

'*I like Upton exceedingly?' she said; "the neighbourhood
is charming, and the sea— ah, the sea that ^oes to my very
heart! But it is very tragic; there is something tragic in the
air of this place. 1 never telt anything before to equal it. It
quite depresses me sometimes."

"You are as impressionable as ever," said HaiTy. He
seemed about to say more, but hesitated.

"Do you ever see Philip Dendraith now?" ho asked at
length.

" Oh ! yes, ho comes pretty often."

"I want to interest you about his wife," said Harry. *' I
told you how I tried to save her from th^ mamage, and how
I failed. She knows nothing of the world, she is extremely
sensitive; judge for yourselt whether she is happy."

Sibella had risen and walked to the window.

" It seems almost as if this deadly oppression in the air of
this place had not been without meamng. I wonder if the
trouble of this girl could in any way have communicated it-
self to me."

"I think it is more thnn probnble," Harry returned.
"Sibella, I have roused your sympathy; but I want more— I
want your help."

" My help! what can I do ?

" I don't kno.v, but I want you to watch your opportunity.
What you mean to do, you can do."

She gave a dissenting gesture.

"How one must pay for one's victories!"

"Yes, we must pay for being stronger than one's neigh-
bours," said Harry.

She gnve a long sigh. "One beats one's way against wind
and tide ; not for a momont during to relax lest the current
sweep back upon the hard-won way. At last, after a hard
fight, a little temporary shelter oflc^rs itself for a moment's
breathhig spaco Then come the friends crowding round,
congratiuating: ' How well you are placed! what a charminii;
and oouvenieht spot! the shade, how grateful! the sun, how
warm ! truly, Fortune smiles upon you !' What you win with
your heart's blood is counted to the gods."

" If you are tired out, I have no more to say," Harry re-
joined, rising and going to the fii*e.

"Go on," she said ;^' I speak one way and act another.
You know me."

" I know that when t)eople have had to fight and to suffer,
they do one of two things— either they develop the instinct
to push others back as they have been pushed back themselves,
or they become eager to rescue and to warn. I thought that

you would belong to the second class."

" You always think over highly of me; and at one time -
well, 1 was nearer to deserving it than 1 am now. I fear 1

1 %

194

THE WING OF AZUAKL.

have lost hope. The misery of people overwhelms me, sickens
me. How can one rescue individuals who expiate the sins,
against reason, of the forefathers of the race? It is all written
in the book of Doom."

" Tiiat is fatalism," said Harry.

Sibella paused and her eyes wandered out to the mournful
fir-trees, themselves like Fates standing dominant over the
fast-fading scene.

" A woman brought up in such a way as to make her at
once intensely sensitive and intensely conscientious is a ready-
made martyr; nothing can save her. She is predestined."

Harry bent down and stirred the fire with vicious vehem-
ence.

"I think women like Mrs. Sedley ought to be " He

smashed a large piece of coal into splinters by way of finish
to the sentence.

'* You ask me to help this girl?" Sibella continued; " why
not suggest that I should forbid to-morrow's dawn? The
whole machinery of doom is in motion; can I stop it?

Harry felt himself grow cold.

" She is a woman ; she is human," he said.

"She is the child of her generation," returned Sibella.
Conscience is the most tenacious of human attributes, pro-
vided it has its root in prejudice. You can deliver a prisoner
who will run when the gates are open, but what can you do
with one who draws the holts and turns the locks against his
would-be saviour?"

"If you will not help her, she has no helper upon this
earth !" Harry exclaimed.

" I thought vour sister was her friend?"

" My sister I" he cried impatiently. "She only cheers on
xhe victim ; feeds her on a soft, warm, spongy sort of doctrine
perfectly ruinous to one of hor temperament."

" Are you unable to help her yourself, since you believe in
the possibility of rescue?"

Harry passed his hands through his hair, with a gesture of
desperation.

" Her husband hates me and suspects me; I could not go
to his house. Before their marriage 1 was his rival, his de-
termined and obstinate rival. I thought on that day of tho
wedding, when I saw her standing there by his side, as if I
must eitner break in between them and tear her away or go
jiiad on the spot. I did neither, of course. 1 am capabi •
of killing that man if I saw him ill-treat her." He bent hi;,
iioad, buried in his hands, upon the table. " I would die fc
her; T would commit a crime for her;— what do I care?" lio
went on excitedly. "Her eyes haunt me day and night. I am
tie8pei*atel If only she would listen to me — if only she wouM
leave him and come with me ! Wo could do it if only sht
would !"

Sil>olla looked at him with pity in he/ eyes.

fy {^lit

CONISPIRAOT,

195

"I know what you are thinking, though you don't say it,'*
he cried, " that still her fate would pursue har, making hap-
piness impossible, because of the eternal visitations of re-
morse. Yes, and I know it is damnably true. The cui"se is
upon us to the end."

Sibella laid her hand tenderly on his arm, but made no
immediate reply.

A strong gust of wind that went sobbing round the house
seemed Uke the wild and gri mly sincere answer of the elements.

She had said that she believed in Fate, and her belief was
strengthened as she stood mournfully by the side of the man
who had been to her for the best years of her life a devoted
and unswerving friend. What could she do to um'avel this
Gordian knot, tied and drawn tight by the force of genera
tions and the weight of centuries?

Perhaps the wild melancholy in the sound of wind and
wave, the dark loneliness of the swaying pine-ti-ees, uttered
gloomy prophecies, and forbade the rising of the star of hope.
Her knowledge of the force of emoion in this man made her
tremble the more.

" To have the capacity for extreme suffering in this best
of all possible worlds," she said bitterly to herself, "is to
attract it. " She paused, deeply considering ; then she touched
him on the shoulder quietly: '' Harry, I will do what I can."

He stretched out his hand and pressed hers without
speaking.

The silence continued for some minutes; the wind cannon-
ading outside, and tearing and snarling in savage temper at
every victim branch exposed by ill-luck to its fury.

Sibella gave an excdted shiver. From familiar association
some favourite Unes ran in fragmentary snatches athwart
her hastening thoughts.

"Pain, ah! eternal Pain !
I hear ^olian liarpin/^s wail and d'r
Down forest glades, and through the hearts of men,

Pain, pain, eternal pain I"

She i-ose and walked restlessly to the window, and then
back to the fire.

"O Harry 1 why are you not a man of faint desires or
half-developed nerves? Why are you not wise with the wis-
dom of the world, taking things as you find them?"

"I suppose our nature is on Fate, and can't be evaded,"
said Harry.

' ' Then pray for a new nature, " cried Sibella . * ' The gods are
cheats! What is the use of {giving us a commanding watch-
word, an 'open sesame,' at which all doors fly back, if tho
eternal hunger is to be awakened by tho splendour of our
visions? Every human possibility is flimg recklessly at our
feet— just to show us that there is a green land nnd fair cities
beyond the desert— tho desert which we can never cross I"

K.'»

; 4

196

THE WING OF AZRAEL,

There was a loud ring at the bell. Harry sprang up.

' ' A visitor on such a night ! I will go. "

* * No, " said Sibella hastily. " 1^ ou may get indirect help or
information ; one must not neglect such chances. Stay, and
keep your ears open."

The door was thrown back, and the maid announced: "Mr,
Dendraith."

One glance passed between Sibella and Harry, and then
she went quickly forward.

" How good of you to come on this wild evening, Mr. Den-
draith ! You are indeed a chevalier sanspeur ■"

"Don't stop abruptly, Mrs. Lincoln!" exclaimed Philip.

" Oh 1 no man wants to be sans reproche in the present day
. — it is not good form. Do sit down and warm yourself. You
know Mr. Lancaster, of course? He too has come against
wind and tide to break my solitude,"

" Whatl Lancaster! — didn't recognise you for the moment
—a thousand pardons. When did you return to these deliri-
ous parts? I don't wonder you act the moth; our local lights
are dangerously brilliant."

"Of course Mr. Lancaster has filial duties to perform at
Upton."

' ' True," said Philip. "I hoi)e you have found your mother
and sister well."

" Pretty well," said Hariy laconically.

" Making a long stay?" inquired Philip.

**That is undecided."

" I fear," said Philip, "that you are rather a rolling stone
— no stability. There is nothing that gives more weight to
the character than a permanent address."

"Weight, but not charm," put in Sibella; "for that one
does not need the more solid virtues. Who ever loved a man
for his punctuality, or his forethought, or his patience and
pei'severance ?"

She had a bright flush on her cheeks, and Harry saw that
she was talking at random, to keep the conversation going.

" I believe that Lord Chesterfield completely alienated the
affections of his son, and that Madame de Sevign6 made an
enemy for life of her daughter."

"You seem to have made a judicious choice," she observed,
smoothing out the folds of her dress.

Philip shrugged his shoulders.

"A wife who doesn't resent interference with her reading]
is a real treasure," said Sibella.

"She may resent it; but she has been well brought up."
Philip gave a laugh. "In point of fact, I fancv slie felt sho
was aovouring forbidden fruit, for she gave such a start when i
I caught her at it." i

" I should suppose she would require some sort of occupa-
tion," said Sibella. " Life can scarcely i*un on greased whcelo
anywhere in tliis parish,"

tfOmPTBACf.

107

"She has the house to look after," said Philip, "and she is
fond of her garden ; and then there's calling and tennis, and
don't women spend a lot of time in fancy needlework ? She
can have people to stay with her if she likes ; but she is not
sociable; she seems to prefer to be alone; and of course I
don't want to insist in a matter of that kind. I am inclined
to be easy-going, perhaps father too much so."

"Perhaps," said Sibeila, with downcast eyes.

"I must be going," said Harry abruptly. He would not be
persuaded to wait tor the rain to cease.

Sibeila went with him to the front door.

" Come and see me to-morrow, if you can. I want to thrash
the matter out with you. Keep a firm hold over yourself
with—" she threw back her head towards the study; "don't
let him guess that you are otherwise than indifferent. I can
see he enjoys your suffering; this is an enen that must be
warily fought— he is keen and strong. Good-night, and good
speed."

She hastened back to her guest.

"At lastl" cried Philip.

"At last ?" she repeated.

" At last I have you to myself!"

"As far as talldng was concerned, I think you had that
privilege from the beginning."

Philip smiled.

"Our friend was not so talkative as usual; he didn't quite
appreciate my intrusion, I fancy."

She had established herself comfortably, with her feet on the
fender, looking the picture of idleness. Now and then a little
secret smile flitted across her face, as she listened to her com-
panion's compliments. Philip drew his own chair closer to
tlie fire, as he was bidden, keeping a pair of searching and ad-
miring eyes fixed upon Sibella's face. He wished to find out
whether he had maae any serious imj)res8ion upon her, of any
sort or kind ; whether he sulHciently interested her to remain
in her thoughts after he left. This was always the unsolved
question in his mind.

"I wonder sometimes," Philip said, drawing his chair a
little closer-—" I wonder what Upton would be like if you were
to leave it ?"

Sibella's head bent lower for a moment, and Philip saw a
smile spreading over her face.

" I really don't think it would be endurable!" he added in a
low voice.

"The value of property would go down," she remarked.

"Oh! but I mean seriously."

"So do I— very seriously."

" Mrs. Lincoln, you know well how dependent I am upon
you for "

* ' Amusement. '* she said. * * Yes, I know it well ; I study up
old Punches so that you may not come to me in vain/'

'■■l:

:,-"!

' . ■» ^' I

198

THE WING OF AZBAEt,

((

I come to you for something more than this-

He watched her face keenlv for something that might en-
courage him to go on, but the motionless attitude^ lowered
eyes, and the slight smiles —like wandering fires, playmgrounO
her hps, — told him nothing.

He was too wary to venture more. He knew that he had
expressed his meaning, but not so definitely that she could
openly resent it, if her mind lay toward resentment.

There was a long pause.

"The elements are conspiring in ray favour," said Philij;*.
when presently a heav^y gust shook the window. " My visit
is long beyonn all hope of indulgence, but of course there is
the storm. Were it between instead of around us, I should
treat it with little respect."

*' You seem to confound me and the storm in your imagina-
tion," said Sibella, looking up for a minute.

*'Ahl how can you say that? Have i not waited long
enough ? Have 1 not obeyed your merest hint and wish ?
Have I not again and again been silent when I longed to
speak ?"

She gave a Uttle shudder.

"We will not pursue this subject," she said. "There are
things which appear to us under aspects so different that wo
have no common language in which to discuss them. In so
far as you mean and feel disrespect, I bitterly resent every
word you have uttered. Don't protest. You are a man of
the world, and think of these things as men of the world
think of them. That is enough for me. You don't under-
stand ? No, and you can't."

PhiUp frowned.

" I must have further explanation ; it is my right."

She shook her head. He came towards her eagerly. Tlio
excitement of the experiment was near to carrying him away,
cool-headed as he was.

She broke out into a laugh.

She too had been trying an experiment, and the result
entertained her.

Philip looked angry. He felt that he had made a miscalcu-
lation; the affair had drifted on to a wrong footing— drifted ?
Had it not been skilfully guided by Sibella, whose will quietly
and subtly opposed his, deliberately blunting the point of the
episode to which he had been leading up ?

He was puzzlf»d and amazed.

" It's that fool Lancaster I"

He felt too angi*y to stay longer, especially as Sibella was
looking exasperatingly amiable.

" I fear I have outstayed my welcome," he said, taking her
hand; "perhaps some other day, when you have not had a
more attractive visitor, you may treat my poor feelings with
less disdain."

She laughed a little and said politely that she never treated

i!BE HTTMAN COMEBt.

anybody's feelings with disdain, least of all Mr. Dendraith's.
"' Oh, that's mere arabesque !" cried Philip ; " I

would prefer
frank impoliteness."

"Only a bear could bo impolite to a Lord Chesterfield 1"
was her parting remark.

!-^^

OH/ PTER XXVin.

THE HUMAN COMEDY.

The elements had stonned themselves tired. With the
dawn came a slowly growing peace, and the sun rose over a
sea still perturbed, but with the niovements of a past agita-
tion, no longer withjbhe riot of present passion.

All the changes of the night Viola could have described,
detail by detail. She lay in the great carved bed listening to
the roar of wind and wave, following with terrible wide-
awake intentness every rise and fall m their voices, every
shift from boom to shriek, from blasphemy to lamentation,
as with a baffled drop the sea-gusts swerved from the Castle
W.J1, and went searching and blustering among the trembling
battlements. Ao the storm grew less violent, the wind seemed
to be playing hide-and-seek through the windows— through
that window where Philip had fallen so many years ago. It
was always on these wild nights that the memory returned
to haunt her most persistently, and to remind her of the
wickedness that lay at the bottom of her heart, ready at any
time to rise in volcanic rebellion against principle, against
conscience, against all the faithful teachings of her child-
hood.

The discovery that she had made on the beach this after-
noon was creating intolerable pain. Yet, what business had
she to care about Harry Lancaster's love affairs?

But the pain throbbed on none the less, corroding with
ruthless appetite. It seemed as if by morning her very heart '
must be eaten away ; and then, thank Heaven ! there would be
nothing more to suffer 1

In the bewilderment of stormy night- thoughts, she half be-
lieved that the dawn would really find her calm and insensi- .
ble.

When the first si^s of it crept about the room, she rose
and looked out, leaving Philip safely asleep.

The sea was bleak and wan.

" By the lone shore
Mournfully beat the waves.

Wi. .Si.

I '-;■■■! I

k .M

500

*'J?:& WING OP AZRAEL

It was Sunday momiDg, promising well for a day of rest
ani a day of duiness.

Kneeling by the half -open window, her dark hair flowing
about her with an abandonment that she never permitted to
her own heart.Viola leant her head upon her hands and prayed.
As her eyes fixed themselves upon the point in the grey eky
where the flush of dawn had just appeared, there rose an im-
concious worship in her soul for that coming sun, at whose
glance the dead waters awoke rejoicing, crying aloud at the
glory of their resurrection.

The scene was one of deep religious significance to "Viola:
her soul wrestled in prayer, soared in adoration to the God of
Natui'e, whose works, so ^eat and fraught with terror, were
yet so marvellously beautiful.

Her own grief appeared not less bitter, but more bearable,
since they were imposed by the hand of the All-powerful,
who had promised to lead His obedient children safely through
the darkest places, would they only have faith in Him. It
was but for a little while, and then rest. Yiola had been so
often tempted to cry out in her misery, "Why this trial, '
all others?" but to-day she thought she understood that it
had been inflicfcad just because it alone seemed quite intolera-
ble to her, because through it alone could her soul be purified
in the agonising passage through fiery gulfs of humiliation.
The shame of conscious sin was not spared her; she was
doomed to look into her own soul and see there— struggle as
she might— a guilty love for one who was not her husband, a
man who had done his utmost to lead her away from the

Eath of obedience, and who— God forgive him I— had made
er waver in secret with the awful force of the temptation.

Perhaps the tempest that had raged within her all through
the night had left her exhausted in mind and body, and there-
fore tne more ready to be touched by the optimistic influ-
ences of sunrise over a calming sea. It seemed to her as a
distinct message ; the gentle yet spirited little waves, foam-
crowned and tinged with the splendour of the morning,
brought tidings of peace as they rolled in, .'ach with a little
sigh, upon the shore.

When at last Viola turned from the window, prepared to
take up the burdens of the day, there was a look on her face
such as is seen sometimes on the faces of the dying— very
calm, beautiful, and unearthly.

Philip was in one of his most biting moods this morning:
everything seemed to annoy him; every incident was the
signal for a sneer, or for some remark that to Viola was
worse than any sneer.

Cold-hearted people, with little ideality, are almost invari-
ably coarse; and Philip's coarseness— though he knew how to
conceal it when convenient— had attained a high stage of de-
velopment. This morning, after various remarks that Viola
fdt on their way, and dreaded as if they were blows, Philip

TEE HUMAN COMEDT

201

fell to talking about Harry Lancaster. He alluded to his
former conduct in no measured terms, and informed his wife
that he had now turned \x\i again and was philandering at the
heels of Mrs. Lincoln, the improper but agreeable young per-
son who had become tenant ot Fir Dell.

It was well he had transferred his attentions to this lady,
as Philip had no notion of having the fellow loafing about
f^is place on any pretext.

"We shall probably be meeting him now and then at peo-
ple's houses, and I wish you to let him see clearly that my
wife is a different person I'rom Richard Bedley's daughter.''

" I hope that I know what is fitting for your wife," said
Viola, who was all the more ready in her present humour to
allow her individuality as a woman to be swallowed up in
her wifehood and daughter hood.

When she Went upstairs to dress for church, the thought
that Harry might be there filled her with unrest.

Would he see her? Would he speak to her? and if so, in
what manner? Would it be distant? or with the old ring in
his voice which meant so much?

When Philip and his wife entered, the school-children and
Labourers were in their places, and a few of the farmers, a0
well as Mrs. Evans, and the party from the Rectory.

The brilliant morning light fell' in slanting beams across the
building, and througli the Norman window.^ inattentive wor-
shippers might watch the trees waving in the wind, or white
clouds sailing across the skv.

The pew belonging to itpton Court was in the chancel:
thither with echoing foot stores inarched Sir Philip, following
in the humble wake of Lady Dendraith in purple silk ana
bonnet tilted to one side in a rollicking fashion, of which the
innocent wearer was quite unconscious.

To Viola's surprise, Geoffrey -now returned from his year
at Sandhurst— appeared, and made for his sister's pow.

**Have you walked?" she whispered.

"Across country ! -dead beat — couldn't stand Sunday ai>
home— the Mother's I'lying it on hotter than ever— the Gov^
ernor simply intolerable ! Look at my boots !" They betrayed
recent contact with mother-earth. " Came through all that
to get away — wouldn't have let me go if I hadn't said I was
coming to church.''

*'I'm glad you have come," said Viofe.

Geoffrey kept up a running commentary on the people as
they came in : " Caleb Foster 1 What does he come to church
for?"

*' For the same reason as every one else here present," said
Philip: *♦ to propitiate Mrs. Grundy."

*' i come to propitiate my mother," said Geoffrey in a stage
whisper.

"iMr?;. Grundy masquerading, "said Philip; *'a man novet

"I'f

W:M

202

THE WINQ OF AZllAEL.

pays her so much attention as when she speaks through his
mother, or his sister, or his cousin, or his aunt !"

''Mr. and Mi's. Pellett! Hurrah!" exclaimed the excitable
youth, hoai*se from speaking sotto voce

Mrs, Pellett wore a bonnet wliicli alone might have been a
passport into heaven, it* proved indifference to the pomps and
vanities will take one there. But clearly Mrs. Pellett had no
notion of trusting to her head gear alone for a chance of ad-
mission ; her expression, as she walked up the aisle, was un-
surpassable, to say nothing of her books of devotion, whose
size wiis prodigious. Her white -headed husband slowly fol-
lowed. Among his books the old schc lur was happy and at
hoiiie, but out in the light of day, among a host of staring
fellow-creatures, he felt oevvilderc^d. The smallest boy in the
school might have burned Mr. Pellett outside the walls of his
study. Ills wife's sigiis to get out the books confused him,
and made him shift his hat from one place to another, knock
down the umbnllas, and hnally propel the entire body of vol-
umes full tilt against his wife when she was kneeling for pro
liminary prayer. There were few hearts in that church which
did not leap with joy at th*^ sight I

Doi*othy Evans was visibly enraptured.

The Cievedoii ]>arty arrived next, with several visitors—
among them Arabella and finally Mrs. Dixie appeared, fol-
loweil by Ad rienne Viola held her breath- but, not Harry!

Why did he stay a way ^ Had he gone to Mrs. Lincoln's?
Was she keeping him Irom chun h?

The whole place stHMiicd to have grown suddenly dark and
bleak; how cold the pillars looked, how hard an(i rough the
stone-work; how repellently uninteresting the faces of the
pi^ople, hew horribly ugly Jli*s. Pellett 's Sunday bonnet!

Hi*s. Dixie and Adrienhe caught Viola's eye, and Adrienne
smiled across at her.

The congrej;iti()n rose, and the servieo began.

Viola heard the familiar words rolling out, and heaved a
sigh of something between relief and despernti(»n. She looked
round at the bent heads of the laboui*ers, dull, patient crea-
tures, bowing undor the yoke of toil all through tlie week, and
trooping on Sundays to nraise the God who so ordered their
soul-destroyir.g lives. Yet it was with a sense of envy that
Viola studied th(» vacatit, bucolic fa<H»8.

She tried to follnv the 8(Mvi('e as usual, but her thoughts
were too quick, her heart too disturbed. She found herself
absently tui-ninj; over the l<»aves of the great Bible. The first
words that attracted her attention were:

"So I returned an«l considered all the oppressions that are
done und(n* the 8U»i ; and behold, the tears of sueh as are op-
pressed and th<\y had no i'omfort<'r, and on the side of the
oi>press(»iH there was p«>wer, but they had no coiiiforter."

Always the tiny white clouds lliited merrily acritss the

Tim HUMAN COMEDY.

203

L'nne

little sta^e formed by the arch of the window opposite, and
through it dunce<i the light of the spring morninpr.

"I will sing of mercy and judgment; unto Thee, O Lord,
will I sing !"

The people, in a slow, toiling manner, beat, out the words of
the Psalm. Viola felt heart-sickened and bewildei-ed. Things
spoke with miiny voices ; there was a confusion of tongues ;
life was hedged round with mysteries, black as midnight; yet
out of every gulf came some lightning-flash, quivering for a
moment through the rolling vapours of darkness.

"TheLoixi executeth righteousness and judgment for all
that are oppressed," sang the industrious people. Geoff i*ey,
who was not musical, wandered about tentatively among tho
lower notes; but came out enjoy ingly witli the verses:

" I am like a pelican in tho wilderness; I am like an ow! of
the desert :

" I watch, and am as a sparrow alone upon the house-tops."'

The picture of the forlorn sparrow seemed to attract nim
irresistibly.

What a medley it all was of the comic, the pathetic, tho
dull, the commonplace, and the tragic— a world in miniature 1

Bv this time Lady Dendraith's bonnet had slipped so ho|>o-
lossly out of position that Sir Philip rashly intertered, causing
her to lose her bearings altogether, and reach a state of con-
fusion in which ho was powerless to help. There seeme<l to
be no method in the madness of that oonnet, no apparent
clnim in any part of it to he more to the front or to tne back
than in any other part— a fatal difficulty in a headgear with
whose geography one is not familiar.

Lady Dendraith spoke piteously of an aigrette as a land-
mark, but Sir Philip refused to investigate, with tho usual
iinnatience of husbands. The bonnet kept the schoolboys
ana Gheoffrey happy for the rest of the service, and gave tho
old lady a severe qualm of dismay when she went home and
consulted the glass. She looked like an elderly Bacchnnte

Just home from a revel! Meanwhile, she settled hei'seU in a
lurk corner, and went decently to sleep.

The text of the sermon wns from the Book of Job (Lady
Dendraith gave a peaceful sigh whc3n it wjw given out). The
weary, piissionato words thrilled through the shadows of the
church, and every heart that knew Luiffering stirred resncm-
fiively. Job, cursing the day of his birth, longs to be " where
tho wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest."

"Wherefore is light given to nim that is in misery, and life
unto the bitter in soul, which long for death, but it comoth
not, ^nd dig for it more than for hid treasures, which rejoice
exceedingly, and are glad, when they c-iin find tho grave?''

Mr. Evans undertook to sho\v that Job's sentiments were
reprehensible; that in no circumstance is the human creature
of God justified in desiring to evade the trials that He has
appointed. "Wo must bow to the will of Heaven without

204

TEE WING OF AZRAEL.

repinipg; we muRt accept, we must even welcome the trials
that come to us, thoup^h we may be stricken by disease, and
lonely and deserted as Job was. Resignation is the lospr n of
life and religion."

*'It may be, my brethren, that we fancy ourselves Lottr
able to understand whnt is good for us than our HeavLiilj
Father who tt^mpers the wind to the shorn lamb."

Sevend shepherds in tlio cone:i'e^ation here felt the fat,'.]
opposition between religion and scdence; boisterous wca the:-
having set in immediately after the shearing on more occa-
eions than one that they could mention. "We know that I
more will not bo given to us than we can bear," Mr. Evansl
pursued, and his robust and prosperous ajiper.rance seemed tol
justify the opinion, though a glat^ce at his worn, grey -looking!
wife might nave bid him pauFO before making so sure oi liisj
doctrine.

Mr. Evans preached for about twenty minutes, and in thntl
time he had succeeded in reducing to commonplace the iji!er[
ances that have come ringing down to us through so m?m\
ages, fresh and hot from the soul of One who cried in anguis^|
OI body and anguish of soul.

As soon as the sermon was over, the organ began to fill thg
church with triumphant strains; the old clerk set open thcj
doors, disclosing a view of the sunlit church-yard.

As the worm eaten side-<loor was flung back Viola canghl|
sight of two figures among the graves— those of Harry
caster and Mi*s. Lincoln.

Mrs. Lincoln had on a blue cloak and hat of the same coloirj
on which wac twined a wreath of real ivy. She was sittiii
on the .'jide of a flat tomb, and Harry stood beside her, loolviii
down. They were en "-aged in eam(^flt conversation. Viol;
thought she had ncvei . ucn so attractive a face. How coiilil
a bad woman look lik(» that ? There was something in he
expression that filhnl "^^iola with an astonished belief tbatthij
wonaan might be implicitly trusted.

As the notes of the organ poured through the open door
Sibella rose, and she and PlaiTv strolled away together, q&\
to avoid encoimtering th(^ pc^oplo when they came out.

The church-door was th(» scene of many greetinsrs.

Every one except Lady Clevedon sai<l. What a lovely mor
ingT unless he remarked, "What a gale there was
niglit !"

Dorothy and Mrs. Pellett waylaid Viola.

" Good- morning, Mrs. Dendraith; I hope you are feeiii!|
better than you look ?"

'*0h, much !" Geoflfivy answered for her. "Your de
mother is feeling verjr anxious about you, my dear."

*' Thanks to your kind inton»st in my sisti^r," said the ir
prossiblo one. ** My mother has scann'ly had a wink of sie
tor three weeks."

Xh9 rector came forward aud t hook bunds all round.

mS JltTMAir C0MSD7.

205

" Mr. Evans, I mtiat congi-atulate you on your sermon,"
cried Mrs. Pellett. *' It was excellent— so sound.''^

Mr. Evans smiled and bowed deprecatingly. " Well, well,
I trust that that it was sound ; I nave always endeavoured
to— to~in short, be sound. There is so much that is to bo
regretted in these days as regards— in fact, soundness.
Charming morning, Mi*s. Dixie, and what a gale we had last
night 1 By the way, I hear I have to congratulate you on
the unexpected return of your son."

*' Yes, we are indeed glad to have the dear fellow back
again."

Viola was greeted effusively by Arabella. How long it was
since they had met I She really must try and get over to see
Mrs. Dendraith ; but so much always went on at Clevedon.
There was to be a large gathering there on the 12th— every-
body invited. And so that dear Mr. Lancaster, whom
Augusta was so fond of, had come back 1 Had Mrs. Dendraith
heard of it?

Mrs. Courtenay's sharp little brown eyes, fixed upon Viola's
face, were like two ^imblets.

Yes, Mrs. Dendraith had heard of it from her husband.

" You have not seen him yet, I suppose?"

The moment was a crucial one for Viola, to whom an un-
truth seemed almost impossible. Perhaps Arabella saw that
she was perturbed, and scenting a mystery, perhaps an im-
proper mystery (Oh, joy of the proper 1), she pinned her dear
Mrs. Dendraith unwarrantably to the point.

"You have seen Mr. Lancaster, perhaps? I hope he is
looking well ?"

*' I hear that he i«," sai 1 Viola.

" Oh, then you have not seen him ?" "

This was cruel. " Yes, I have seen him," said Viola at last,
in desperation, not perceiving any loophole of escape. Bui
nothing could induce her to continue the convei*sation. She
plunged after husband and brother in the hojje of per-
suadmg them to leave. But when she appealed to GeoflErey,
Arabella bore down upon Philip.

" Charmed to meet your wire again, Mr. Dendraith," said
Arabella, with one of lier most irnisistiblo wriggles. "I am
always accusing Fate for her unkindness in putting fourteen
miles between our houses."

" Nobody can regret that more than I do," returned Philip.

" O Mr. Dendraith! you are as bad as ever 1"

" I fear that in your society I shall become considerably
worse," he replied.

"Dear, dear, what will your wife say if I let you go on
like this ? Is she a jealous person ? I really hope not, for
she would have much to suffer. You don't know what it is
to be jealous, I am sure. How nice that must be I"

" It is," said Philip.

"You are a spoilt child of Nature, Mr. Dendraith— all the

»■ I

-V
1 'I

'^iM^HyBt

206

TiW WINO OF AZHAtSL

V '•

gilt without the gingerbread— no, I don't mean that quite— all
the pluins without the cake I No, that won't do eitner- but
you know how excellent are my intentions I Now, haven't
you some Upton news to tell me— somebody has surely died,
or got married since I left? I hear that charming creature,
Mr. Ijancastcr, has returned— quite the pet of the village,
isn't he?"

''Oh quite!" said Philip.

" Your wife tells me he is looking so well "

Philip gave a slight movement of the eyebrows. "Nobody
heard of his amvai till last night, " he observed.

"Renllyl And yet I thought she told me that she had
met him— a mistake, no doubt, on my part."

" If you noT'^er made a mistake of graver importance, Mrs.
Courtenay, you have my sincere congratulations."

"Now, Arabella," interposed Lady Clevedon, "you have
chattered long enough ; Philip, I want you and viola to dine
with as on the 12th; will you?"

"Charmed," said Philip; "let me see — the 12th. No, I
have nothing on the 12th. '^

" We have somo people coming— a good many of the neigh -
boui's; and there are one or two staj^ing in the house who
can sing and play, so we shall have some music. If you can
perf«>nn, bring your instrument."

" The big drum," said Philip,—" it shall accompany me."

Gooffroy returned with his sister and her husband for
luncheon. On the way, they fell to discussing Harry Lancas-
ter's sudden return.

" It must be just over two years since you saw him, Viola,"
said her husband. She did not answer.

" Or is it longer? The last time was at our marriage—"

"Ohl if you're going in for dates," cried Geoffrey, "I
shoU put cotton wool in my eare. I know no subject moi c
dendly uninteresting. Let us not recall the past."

"It has been said that no man would willingly react his
part in it," Philip observed.

"Certainly ilo n'oman v/ould 1" Viola said under her breath.

" ArnboUa seems in good foriii, tricky as everl Adorable
Arabella!"

" Grinning idiot!" exclaimed the irreverent Geoffrey.

"She has a graci^ful habit of putting her foot in it, which I
cannot enough admire," pursued Philip, with one of his short,
sudden, voiceless laughs. "She cheerfully informed me to-
day that VioLi had already seen Harry Lancaster, and thought
him looking well. As Viola had heard of his arrival only
this morning from my own lips, I was obliged to reprove
Arabella for inaccuracy."

" What on earth put it into her head that Viola had Been
him?" cried Geoffrey.

" Arabella's is not a bend that I should like to have to ac-
count for," returned PhiUp, watching his wife's face furtively.

THE HUMAN COMEDY,

207

She was very pale.

'* Wliat liadyou been telling her, Viola?" cried her brother.
"You know it won't do to let a woman like Mrs. Courtenay
go about saying that you have seen Harry Lancaster before
anyone else had heard of his arrival. It doesn't soi'nd well."

Philip's cat-like instinct found full indulgence this after-
noon through Arabella's communication. Nearly, bul not
auite, Viola found herself a hundred times confronted with
tne alternative necessities of telling a falsehood and confess-
ing where and how she had seen Harry. To admit it thus,
late in the day, implying the previous concealment was dis-
tasteful. On the other nand, Viola thought it probable that
Philip had m>f really believed Mre Courtenay to be inaccu-
rate, and that he now amused himself by this slow torture of
his wife, whose secret was no longer here to keep.

"Upon mv word, Viola," said Geoffrey, with an air of
worldly wisaom worthy of his promised moustache, '*I must
take an opportunity skilfully to put Mrs. Courtenay right
about that matter. Lancaster used rather to dandle after
you before your marriage, and there's nothing too ridiculous
for people to say."

They had just anived at the house, and were standing at
the front door, when Viola was seizjd with a frantic impulse
to turn from that gjeat iron-bound portjil, and rim away, no
matter whither, so only that she need never again cross the
threshold. A strong excitement held her— it seemed that her
one chance of averting some hideous catastrophe lay in the
desperate act of immediate flight; it was hers to decide upon
it now, or to follow the fatal path to the end.

A wild i Jea that she might go to Harry even flashed across
her.

The hot sun pouring down upon the gravel and on the grey
stone steps darted madness into her brain (or was it supreme
wisdom?).

Why, she asked herself wildly, did God forbid His forsaken
children, whom he had permitted to be degraded, to wash
out stains and memories unendurable, in the waters of Death?
Why did he force them to return to be tortured anew with
indignity heaped on indignity?

The sunshine was blinding. Viola put out her hand to
steady herself against the stone balustrade, for she was
faint and slightlv swaying. She gave a terrified start!

** Ahl pitiful God I" she dared not cross that threshold, for
there was blood upon it! Yos, blo<>d\ a stream which seemed
to be coming from the house, oozing slowly under the door,
stealthily moving forward to the steeps till it dripped,di*ipped —

"Bjr Jove, Philip! look out quick! lend us a hand; Viola
luis fainted !"

And so across the threshold, over the phantom blood stream
which she alone had seen upon the dm)rstt^p, the unconscious
burden was carried into the house,

t; •■'W

r: i't*-

!•:' ■'■< *

208

TUE WIJ^Q OF AZJUEL,

CHAPTER XXIX.

A DANGEROUS ACQUAINTANCE.

When Viola regained consciousness she was lying in bed.
Mi's. Barber, with a portentous array of eau-de-^olocne and
sal-volatile bottles, stood over lier, looking unutterable woo.
She fell to rubbing Viola's hands, and to applying vast quan-
tities of eau-de-cologne to her forehead.

'* Well, I am glad to see you restored, nia'anil I thought
you was dead and gone, that I did 1 Permit me to apply some
more eau-de-cologne just above the temples."

*' Thank you, Mrs. Barber; not any more at present," said
Viola, who wa^ already sopping just above the temples, in
consequence of the housekeeper's amiable enthusiasm. " If I
might have a dry handkercliief— the eau-de-cologne is run-
ning into my eyes."

'*! expect the walk was too long for you," Mrs. Baibor
continued; ''on a hot day like this, tool I never did think
these long walks was quite conducive."

Viola longed to lie back and rest and be silent, but Mrs.
Barber talked on till at last Philip and Geoffrey came up, and
the housekeeper retired. " All right now, Viola?"

" Yes, I am better," she said.

" Harr^^ Lancaster has been calling," said Grcoffrey. "but
thought It better not to let you come down to see nim.
was sorry to hear of your not being quite well to-day."

" Oh 1" She seemed but little interested.

*' And he was sorry to miss seeing you— and other things
polite. I don't think he looks well."

*' Are you going to get up again to-day?"

*' Yes, I am all right now."

Viola dreaded that as soon as Geoffrey left, Philip would
speak to her about her meeting v iih Harry. But he did not
mention the subject. Perhaps he despised the power of tie-
ception in Harry and herself too much to care to inquire
further. But his watchfulness was incessant.

The house seemed to stifle her ; she hurried out and away
across the gardens to the cliff-side pathway leading to tliV
beach. The sea was just j^rowing calm with the sinking of
the wind, and gleamit^ with the mellow tints of the after-
noon. There was a whisper of spring in the air; little whiti'
ch>iids overhead were carrying tne sweet message from land
to land.

In a few minutes Viola was on the lonely shore, the watoi* ;
fiiweepin^ to her feet. She lay against a long wave-like ridge

we
lie

A DANGEROir ACQUAINTANCE.

200

ae 18 rim-

of pebbles, which the tide had flung up to etem their own ad-
vance upon the land.

At times of Btroiig excitement the stream of fetlirg is not
simple, but infimitely comi)lex.

Viola lay watching the overlapping curves of the little
waves that raced one another to the strand, watching tUo
fret-wrork of foam spreading between ridge and ridge, and
the brilliant reds and browud whii li the touch of water r(>-
vealed in the "so seeming virtuous" pebbles, like tbeunsui;
pected things that teai-s will summon forth iii human hearts.

"Wave after wave for ten thuusaiid yearn
Ha» furrowed the brown sand here;
"Wave after wave under elouds and stars
Has cried in the (U'ud shore's ear."

Thus, for centuries l)efore, tlio sea had beaten just as to-
day on the crumbling coiist, aii<l i>robably for cc nturies after
would beat so, while the joy and the anguish of hum'ui soul:^
came and passed away, as the shadow of a cloud over tiie
sea, or as a tremor in some salt pool left by the i-esilient
waves.

When the human being fully i*ealises how utterly it is swal-
lowed and lost in the world's Infinities, the moment isalw^y^5
vital and terrible, though it has been felt ')nd described so
many times befoio. True realiwation seldom comes until,
seeking in vain for help, the outterer finds hima<3lf shouting
to a deaf Universe, and hears his owii voice dismally echoing
through the unending spaces.

Viola, who had hitherto been shielded by religious teaching
from this conception, felt the horror of it come upon her a;;
she lay on the shore to dav. overpoweringly. There was pain.
..^k which way she woula: pain in her own little world of
being— exquisite, unheanible; pain in the thought of the vast
soulless, indifferent Universe, a giant machine grinding on
without haste and without rest. Where were the pre(;ioiis
morning's faith and pence? All gone; and in their place,
doubts, natredj disgust, wounded dignity, wounded affection,
devouring anxiety; and over all a consciousness that this hot
emotion mattered nothing and availed nothing; that pi( s-
ently the waves would be beating and retreating with on<y
the cliff and the gulls for audience. Religion spoke vrarn-
ingly, but the familiar voice was not heeded. Viola, tumin|»
her face to the hard stones, broke into deep, silent, teiriblo
sobbing. Some heart string seemed to break with each sob.

So still had she lain there, that che sea-gulls, cold-hearted
birds, camels weeping close to her, and over her head.

At length''the crisis of passion arrived; the wave broke, and
passed on. There was one tight, stifled cry, and then Viola,
changing her attitude, fell into a sort of lethargy. She was
dimly conscious of the stirring wind and the uni-esting sea-
souna ; dimly conscious of the golden glow that began to light

TBH WINQ OP AZnAEL

up the sky. The waves sounded hoarse and desperate.
Deeper and deeper grew the blood-red stain upon the waters;
and the land seemed to have caught fire. The swiftest cloud-
streaks were overtaken, and their cool white turned to gold.
At the wet wave-line upon the sands a figure clad in red was
slowly stroUing, stooping now and again with swift move-
ment to snatQh some feathery sea- weed from the tide.

A large brown dog accompanied her, barking as she flung
pebbles into the sea.

Viola, lying exhausted against the ridge of pebbles, opened
her eyes and oeheld the animal standing beside her, dripping
from tail, legs, and ears. "

But a voice recalled him. Viola started up. She felt that
she ought to rise and flee from it , it was the voice of a siren
luring irom the ways of righteousness.

Sibella, turning to pick up a stone for her tyrannical dog,
found herself face to face with Viola.

Both women coloured deeply, and for a moment there was
a silence. *' I beg your pardon for unknowingly disturbing
you; I thought myself alone." Sibella hesitated, coloured
again, and then saia, almost shyly : " I have been very anxious
for this meeting, Mi*s. Dendraith (you observe this is not the
first time I have seen you)." Viola, too excited and bewil-
dered to know what she thought or felt, feat gazing at her com-
panion in silence.

Perhaps Sibella saw or divined her frame of mind, for she
aat quietly down on the shingle by her side, and began to
talk.

She spoke simply, but with a subtle implication of com-
radeship which touched Viola's loneliness, as the glow of the
fireside is welcome to one shivering and belated. Then, more
fancifully, she spoke of the sea, of its perpetual variety, its
endless range of expression and meaning.

She went on to speak about the down country inland, con-
trasting it with the tame fields and pastures among which
she had spent her childhood and her maiTied life. Viola grew
interested, and the more Sibella told her the more breathlessly
interested she became. There was a strange resemblance to
her own experience in the story that Sibella told. She, too,
had been strictly brought up; she, too, had begun life with a
store of "principles."

Before half an hour had passed, Viola was speaking as she
had never spoken to human being before ; lier cheeks were
flushed ; her eyes bunit with excitement. The unwonted ut-
terance had thrown a confused light upon her own emotions;
while the comments of her companion, flinging brilliant cress-
flashes, frightened and allured at the same time. She could
not turn her eyes away from the baleful glare, accounting it
infernal as so short a time ago she would have done. She
had gone through too much ; reality and passion had touched

A J>AS0BROV8 ACqUAtNTAirCB.

Sll

her, and left no choice but to turn and listen to one in whom
reality and passion were free and toresisted agents.

"But what do you mean? I don't understand; it turns
things topsy-turvy to think so !" Viola cried with a sort of
terror-stricken excitement. She stretched out her arm as if
trying to grasp a^in the bulwarks of her creed.

A firm, gentle hand was laid in hers: " Don't be frightened
to open your eyes and to use your reason. If the creeds of
our youth are true, they can bear the light. We have both
been taught (as we imagined) to worship God ; I fear that we
have really been taught to worship the Devil! We were
trained to submission, to accept things as they are, to serve
Gk)d by resignation— yes, even the resignation of our human
dignity ; whereas the Devil laughs In his sleeve, and carries
off the fruits of miserable lives to add to the riches of his
kingdom."

"Oh I I can never believe so,'' cried Viola.

"No, we were both well-grounded," said Sibella, " but you
are naturally more conscientious than I. The better the soil,
the richer harvest for the Devil. I always questioned and
doubted, though from force of circumstances I obeyed. But
there came a crisis in my life, and then I broke loose. I don't
say it is a success ; a woman's life can never be a real success :
but in refusing to submit to what was degrading, I have at least

rescued myself from the unbearable self-loathing " The

speaker paused as Viola drew in her breath sharply. Sibella
laid her hand upon her arm. "It is better to face things,"
she said quietly. "I told you in what circumstances my
marriage took place; you have not suffered quite alone.
A mere child, brought up without knowledge of Mfe, of my
fellow-creatures, of the very laws and customs w^iich were
to rule my destiny, I shared, the fate of thousands of our sis-
ters, who are kept in a like iterance. Everything in my
surrounding was untrue, unscientific, grroundless, fabricated:.
In my cramped, painful little world there were a thousand in-
vented crimes, a thousand invented tortui*es; and in the close
motionless atmosphere these things grew more monstrous
and unwholesome every day. This process of education and
subsequent maiTiage through which so many girls are made
to go always reminds me of the torture that the Romans in-
flicted upon one of their generals who had offended them :
they cut off his eyelids, ana then compelled him to sit in the
blpzing sun ! I was asked to give my hand in marriage to a
man whom I scarcely knew and for whom I cared nothing —
a man who regarded women as his lawful prey. In a wife he
simply looked for a creature who would become his posses-
sion, and the mother of his children. The family was ea^r
for an heir. To provide one, and afterwards to devote to him
my whole life and energies, was to be my sacred duty and
pnvilege."

■ i

■ 71"''

■i\-

219

THE WING OF AZRAEL.

Viola gave a slight movopient, and Sibella tightened the
grasp of nor hand.

*' I, of course, did not understand all this : but could I? My
pastors and masters had twined garlands or poetry round the
Drow of the skull that they called ^ woman's destiny,* they had
exhausted the dictionary for terms to express its blessedness."

" You must think wrongly of it!" Viola broke out. " It is
GkKi-ordained. Don't take that belief from me, or I shall go
mad."

*' You have lost that belief already ; J am not taking it from
you."

Viola turned away, not denying. After a moment of silence
she said. " Please go on; tUis has a terrible interest for me."

" Well, I consented," said Sibella. " My parents must have
known that the marriage was unsuitable; but they had
brought up their daughter to be 'high principled,' and they
trusted to that to keep things ' straignt,' and the ' family
honour' (as they humorously called it) intact. As a rule
the method answei-s: society is founded upon the success of
such arrangements, but in my case it failed.

*' I ought not to listen," Viola umrniured.

*' You ought to listen and then to judge," said Sibella. " The
story is so pitifully obvious, and yet nobody sees it, or at
any rate says it; and so the hoary old hypocrisies are kept up,
the threadbare cant of which yet holds bravely together, and
is thick enough to hide the truth from our crops of fresh
young victims as they spring up year after year."

Viola pushed back the hair from her brow in a sort of des-
peration.

" The average woman," Sibella pursued, ** spends her ener-
gies in making all these time honoured social iniquities possi-
ble and successful, encouraging the repetition of these profit-
able old crimes. The fortitude and goodness of the victims
are counted upon to ward off the natural punishment. It is
for the victims to pay the price. Tliey must do this, and
keep silence, on pain of excommunication. If the fortitude
breaks down, then what a hue-and-cry I The wretched wom-
an is hunted, scorned, ruined; there is no mercy." Sibella
turned to her companion: *' Are you going to make success-
ful another of these villanies? Are all women who come
after you to be heavier hearted because of you?"

Viola half rose, as if to leave her dangerous companion;
but she did not go. As she was hesitating, there came a
sound of footsteps on the shingle.

She raised herself to look over the pebble-ridge*

" Is any one coming?" asked Sibella.

** My husband," she said.

"Oh!" Sibella's expression had changed. "He will be
angry at finding us together— I quite understand it was my
fault, if fault there be. Eemain passive. Say as little as you
can, and keep as much as possible your usual manner."

A DANQEBOUa AOqUAINTANCE.

213

He lifted his eyebrows slightly en seeing who his wife^s
companiOii was.

**Mr6. Lincoln! what fortunate star directed my steps
towards this spot?"

"Then you are glad to find me here!" Sibella observed,
looking up int' ''lis face with a singular smile.

*'Do you caot a doubt upon my good taste?" he inquired.

*' I cannot be guilty of that nustake, since meetmg your
wife."

** I bow for us both," returned Philip ; " I never can get my
wife to bow for herself."

*' She has an admirable model always before her eyes. I
am lost in admiration of your bows. I wish you had lived
in the last century."

** Thanks," said Philip; ** you would have been perfect in a
minuette. Stateliness and grace has died out nowadays.
Pardon me "

"Oh! this is too much!" laughed Sibella. "My worst
enemies have never yet called me stately! Graceful?"— she
puroed up her lips and raised her eyebrows — "perhaps; I
HAVE studied that a Uttle— but stately ! I should die in the
attempt !"

" You do not leave a bewildered creature time to catalogue
your attributes, Mi's. Lincoln" said Philip; "he can only
think of you as a delightful and dazzlinp: whole."

"I am glad you don't think me unfinished," said Sibella.
" I am so delighted to have made Mrs. Dendraith's accjuaint-
ance; one never really knows a man till one knows his wife.
Mrs. Dendraith throws unconsciously a flood of light on your
character. Most becoming," she added.

PhiUp's lips looked rather tight about the comers, but he
smiled, and said suavely : " It is very kind of you to take my
wife in hand, Mrs. Lincoln. To know you is a liberal educa-
tiok.."

" As usual, you overwhelm me."

" If you stay much longer in this position I fear the sea
will do that," Philip returned. "Viola, my love, do you
contemplate restoring the grace of your presence to my
humble abode before nightfall?"

" I am ready to come now."

"Then my house will be a home once more!" he said,
drawing Viola away to the side farthest from Sibella.

"Mrs. Lincoln, you will permit me to walk back with
you?"

"Thank you, no; I do not require an escort."

" Once more then, let me express my deep gratitude to you
for having interested yourself so kindly m my wife." He
looked Sibella full in the face as he said this, holding out
his hand. Laying hers in it, she returned the look point-
blank, and replied with a little smile and bendof the nead,

• * Please dgn t thank me ; I feel myself so unworthy. Though

''I

'"Wr!" ■ -1

L*i

5^14

THE WING OF AZBAEL,

I am interested in all that concerns vou, my interest in Mrs.
Dendraith has arisen quite independently of any such senti-
ment, and your thanks weigh heavily on my soul, as ill-gotten
treasure. Onco more, Good-bye !"

She turned with a last significant bow and smile, called her
dog. and walked quickly away.

' ' Was this prearranged ?" Philip asked.

"No; accidental."

" Perhaps you had other fish to fry?" he suggested.

She did not answer.

'' I need not observe that our fascinating friend is not fit
society for you, my dear."

Although this had been Viola's own opinion until this
afternoon, she flushed painfully.

**You must intimate politely but firmly that you feel
obliged to forego the pleasure of her further acquaintance.
Better avoid the shore in the afternoons, as she seems inclined
to make it a promenade.

'* What is sho accused of?" asked Viola.

"A mere f riskiness," returned Philip, "culminating in a
trifling elopement, scarcely worth mentioning— Lancaster's
bosom friend Elliott was the happy man."

"Did she go away with him?"

" Well, no, she went away alone, but it is supposed that he
followed her afterwards. Anyhow she did not break with
him as a woman would have done in her slippery position.
There was no divorce, of course; but her character is gone
No woman can associate with her and keep her own in good
feather. I wonder a young person of respectable instincts like
you would be seen speaking to her. It must not happen
again !"

* ' What has become of the m^n Elliott ?"

"Elliott? That is a delicate question, my dear. What
does happen to men who run after other men's wives? Scrip-
ture is mute upon the subject. Elliott is now expiating his
misdeeds in another, but, alas ! I dare not affirm with con-
fidence a better, world. Perchance he is doomed to a cycle
of never ending flirtation under climatic conditions ex-
tremely oppressive."

" Is he dead?" asked Viola.

"You are a trifle bald, my love, in your expression; say
rather, 'he has departed,' 'he has gone to another sphere,'
' he is at rest.' Of course the last is rather euphonious than
instructive."

"Has any one a right to condemn Mrs. Lincoln when her
sin is only a matter or conjecture?" asked Viola.

Phihp shrugged his shoulders.

" Possibly not. I merely explain to you that to associate
with her is to take the bloom off your own reputation^ and
I have no notion of a wife in that bloomless condition.
Jiow J hope X have explained mvBclf clca'Iy, my dear-

lli J

A TOUOH BATTLE.

215

in Mrs.
1 senti-
l-gotten

Uedher

Not a breatb, not a whisper, shall go forth against the woman
to whom I have given my name. Take care that you do
nothing to give rise to it. You will see nobody, man or
woman, without my knowledge; you will make no new
acquaintance, man or woman, without my knowledge; you
win receive no letter that is unseen by me; and now"—
Philip held open the gate into the garden gallantly, — '* now to
the home of which you are the Sunbeam."

I not fit

ntil this

you feel
lintance.
\ inclined

l)ing in a
ncaster's

d that he

Bak with

position.

is gone

. in good

acts like

happen

What
t? Scrip-
fating his
rith con-
a cycle
lions ex-

^ion; say

sphere,'

)us than

rhen her

issociatc

tion, and

)nditioii.

\^ dofir-

CHAPTER XXX.

A TOUOH BATTLE.

SiBELLA sat in a low chair before the fire, with a blotting-
pad and writing-materials on her knee.

She had abandoned her ruddy-tinted gown, and wore a
fashionably made dress of dark cloth neatly braided. Mrs.
Russel Courtenay herself would not have felt unhappy in the
attire.

Several sheets of writing-paper lay on the table, each with
the commencement of a letter abruptly abandoned. Sibella
was now stru^gUng wdth another letter, writing a few words
between long intervals of gazing into the fire. She wrote to
the end of the first page, then with an impatient movement
tore off the half sheet, crumpled it in her hand and threw it
into the flames.

The next few minutes were spent in pensively sketching
fabulous creatures on the edge of the blotting-pad, and writ-
ing under them the names of common domestic animals.
Sioella appeared to devote herself heart and soul to this
occupation, looking at her sketch from this side and from
that, adding brightness to the eye, and spirit to the tail, by
means of deeply considered toucnes.

The being under which she traced the letters DOG had a
strange, square-loDking jaw and an appalling grin; his tail
when unfurled must nave been available as a weapon at a
distance of several yards, ond along his backbone the hair
stood up in a ridge, indicating a spirit sorely aggrieved.
Facing tnis work of art was a creature of the panther order,
thin and strong and agile, with a watchful eye, and a look of
stealthy swiftness.

• Under this image the artist wrote, somewhat inconsequent-
ly, "PhUipDendraith."

"Dear mrs. Dendraith: It* will surprise and I fear dis-
please jou to receive-

' i

'M-

<\v

216

THE WINQ OF AZUAKL,

"Dear Mrs. Dendrajth: Please believe that lam actiiat4?(l

by n friendly spirit "

*" Dear Mrs. Dkndraitti: C<mld voii meet me to-morrow
aftt^noou on tlie shoiv at thive o'ofock ? 1 wont very much
to "

Sibella puahtnl away the |Xi]H»r in despair.

She ]>laced her elb\nvs on lier knet^s, and Bunporting her
chin on her hands, twit lookiiif; steadily into the hre.

The fi*ont door Ix^ll ran;?.

"Ah! if it were only that noor piill"

Sibella gatheitnl togvther her papfM's and awaited the en
trance of the visitor. A maid bnnight a card.

"The lady wislies to know if you could sec her."

The shadow of a train i^f thou>»ht seemed to pass througli
Sil>ella's e> es in the sei'ond ol Bilcnce that foUowtnl.

*' 1 sliali ho glad to scv Miss lijmcaster."

Adrieime, looking ratlier piUe but very composeil, was
ushered inU> the room.

Sibella ha<i risen and bowed.

" I have to anologize for tins intrusion," l>egan Adrienne.

"Please dtmt apologize. Will you tjike a chair near tlio
Ihv?"

"Thank you ; I would pivfer to avoid it ; the wind is stix>ii):
outside ^'

Adrienne sat down, wondering if then* wasanything in h(T
manner to show that her lu»art was beating so hard tliat she
could scai*ct»ly dniw her bivath.

" I think it well to plunge into \uy business at once." ^lic
said when Siln^la had di*awn her chnir facing her visitor and
placcil hei'self in a calm attitude t)f attention.

" PUvise do so."

" I conu> on belialf of my friend Mi*s. l>endraith."

"She has s(»nt you r

"Not exactly. * Yest^Mxlay aftiM'noon 1 called at her house,
and foinul that she had jtist n^turnetl from a U>ng interview
with you on the lH>acli. Mrs. Pcndraith told me all that yen
had SMid to her."

Adrienne h>olved her hostess full in the fa«'e. as if she (v\-
lH»<'t<Hl her tn flinch fn>n> her right<M>ns gaze.

"She io]x\ you all that ! had snid to her," Sihclla iviM»ateti.
with the gleam of a smile in her eyes; "and what did vou
think of It r

Adrienne HusIkmI with indignation.

I' Since you ask uk Mrs. liincoln, T must confess that !
thiiik ii is the most (»xtraonlinary, the most nnprincipl(M!
advice that I ever heanl in n>y life! I listen»^l to Mrs. I>rn
draith in incivdulous nmazcm(*nt. T knt»w that yoti Waw
long Imhmi niy bi-other's friend, and then»fon'I have hitlu'rto
felt iv.idy to !)( licvc well of ytai '

SilN>11a gave a little how.

" But wlien I hear that you tiot only hold such views yoin^

A TOUOn BATTLK.

917

sk»lf, but actually try to poihou with them the tnnoceut mind
of a young w jfe, then I Uh'\ — *'

"Tliat th<* innocont iniiui calls for your proUH^tion. I ad-
miiv voiir olianipionship and ao^f-sacVitiee. This int^rN'iew
must ho painful to you."

" I should have iniivgfineti that yon might have felt it pain-
ful," si\id Adrienne with a gJisp.

"Oh no," w'tunuMl SiMla, politely, " not at all."

The visitt^r was silent for a moment, eolleeting her energies.
" I eame hert> to day to nuike an apiH»al to yi>u. ti> rouse your
sense of justice and nierey, toivpresent to you whata terrible
iujury you may do to that young wif»\ Slie is not happy, as
a poi'son of your j>enetratio!i would quickly see. But she is
8u^>porttMi by high principle; she is noble, she is self-sacri-
ficmg, she is pui*o: faith is her sluH»t anchor; I consider tliat
any one who robs her of it, or shakes it by so much as a pass-
ing doubt, is guilty of a cruel, of an accursed detxi."

Adrienne [wusiMt. bivathU»ss w'*h disgust and anger.

Mrs. Lincoln's steady look was full of judicial attention, yet
hor expivssiim W{\s almost sympathetic.

"I have iK'lieviHi," Adrieiir.e went (^n, curbing her indigna-
tion— " I have always Ix^lioved that no human lK»ing is
wholly devoid of good."

" Not even such as I, Miss F^incaster ?"

" Not if you will give the InMter impulses fair nlay," Adri-
enne n»turned severely, at which the other smilM.

"O Mi's, liini'oln. if y»>u had simmi tliat poor girl yesterday
as I sjiw her, ymi would not smile! Jt was temble. She
ciune to mo ontivating and imploring that I woida make her
b(>li»H'»M»gain ! that 1 winild rtvonviux ^ her of her tnvn nrin
cipltN^ and of the love of G«hI. Everything S(»etned to nave
p>ne fi*om her and it is //oi/. Mi's. Lincoln, whom she has io
thank for this ! I wish you had schmi her fling htivelf upon
tlkc sofa crying tliatKlu* cvudd not endun»to live; that she was
loweitvi and hmniliated foivver; that it was intolerable to /><•
hcriH'lf! Of coui-so it is a very morbid idea, but I cannot get
it out of her head."

" Ah !" SilH»lla si\id quietly, *' to fetJ so is to endui'e the tor-
tint's of the d.'Unned."

"Alt' you quitt* heartU^ss^' Adrienne cvclainunl, bringing
down her little clenched hand ujum hi^rknee; "have you ?h»
pify and no forlnvniinee i If you tutist have discipU>s,' if yo;i
cont n»st s.atislied with flinging over every law of (lo<l and that
on your own account, why. in the name «.f nvison, nuist you
pick out sensitive cit^tiu'cs \o suflfer i«» this dn^adfid wav?"

" You care for this girl very sinceivly, [ think," siiid SiUtlla.

"1 would do alnu)st anything for her."

•* It will surprise you when 1 wiy that /t(M> would do almost
anything forluM'."

"No, it d»Mv-»not Murpiise mt»; nothing that you might wiy
or do could aurpriso mo any further. A woman who daroti

.yri

1^' rn^i I

TBtS Wim OF AZllABL.

advise repudiation of her most sacred duty, to one so pure
and sweet as Viola Dendraith, would hesitate at nothing/'

There was a pause.

" You do not even defend yourself," Adrienne exclaimed.

" Because, Miss Lancaster (to follow your excellent example
of limpid sincerity), I do not see my way to making you
understand."

Adrienne bowed. "It ig then owing to my inferior intel-
ligence that I differ fron you," she said. "I never before
felt occasion to bless my stupidity."

"Then your experiem'e has not at all resembled mine,"
Sibella answered. "I have blessed ww stupidity again and
again. When I am dead there will be found written on my
heart, ^Blessed are the stupid, for they shall never he con-
founded ! ' "

Her eyes were sparkhng wickedly in spite of her cool man-
ner; her words, quiet, pointed, swift to the point as hail
stones, stung as they fell.

'* Alas! you are not stupid, Miss Lancaster, if you will ex-
cuse my saying so."

" A compliment from you " murmured Adrienne.

Sibella gave a shrug. "A compliment from me is never
theless worth having," she said.

" I can bear your good opinion of mv intellect, but for
heaven's sake don't tell me vou approve of my principles I"

" I am not going to," Sibella answered, " for I don't."

They sat looking at one another, for a second, in silence.

" Am I to undei*stand that you intend to pursue Mrs. Den-
draith's acquaintance if" Adrienne at length asked.

'*A question I scarcely feel called upon to answer," said
Sibella; " but this I will say, that whatever seems to me to be
best for your friend, that I shall do."

*' Perhaps you are not very well acquainted with her hus-
band?" Adrienne suggested.

*• I have had some opportunity of studying his character."

" If so, you know wiiat it means to oppose him."

Sibella bent hor head.

** And that he has absolutely forbidden his wife to meet
you or any one without his knowledge. '

" Having appealed in vain to my better feelings, you now
appeal to my fears," said yil)ella. " Yes, I know all that."

^* And you intend to measure your strength with his?"

"He having on his side nine tenths of the law, to say
nothing of his wife's own conscience, and the powerful alli-
ance 01 high-principled friendn, it is madness, is it not?"

Adrienne looked at the speaker from head to foot.

She was slight, graceful, soft in outline and in attitudo.
Her pose was rather indolotit, though thon» l.iy in it a subtle,
hint of large reserve force. Tlie face at this moment wore a
peculiarly soft expression.

In spite of her strong feelings of disapproval, Adrienne felt

A TOUGH BAftLEl.

2id

5 pure

med.
tample
ig you

>r iutel-
before

mine,"

\\n and

on my

he con-

to\ man-
as hail

will ex-

B nevei

, but for

iplesr

ft."

lence.
1-8. Don-
er," Baid
me to be

ler huB-
racter."

to meet

^ou now
that."
lis?"
r, to say
rful aUi-

ittitudo.
a subtle
wore a

jnne felt

interested; she was va^ely conscious of something incom-

Erehenflible in this unprincipled woman. Sibella must be in-
erently bad ; if a character failed to catalo^ie itself under
one's own familiar headings, there was nothing but badness
to account for it,— unless indeed it were mxidness.

"Miss Lancasterj" said Sibella suddenly, turning her eyes
from the sea, '* it is childish for you and for me to sit here
bandying words. That will not avail either of us, and we
forget our sisterhood in foolish opposition."

Adrienne did not appear to care to acknowleged the sister-
hood.

"But we are sisters," Sibella pursued, answering the un-
spoken thought; "we are separated^ only because we can't
pee clearly into one another's mind ;' that is all. It is only
dimness of sight that holds us back. You think of opinions,
things social and things of rule, of names and shadows, and
you turn coldly away and deny the common nature which
makes us sistore agninst our will. We are one; we are
human." Sibella again turned her eyes seawards. "We
stand shivering between two eternities; we came out of the
darkness, and we see the darkness waiting for us a little
way ahead siioh a littlo way! and we have to pick our steps,
among rough stonos, and our feet bleed ; and we try to roll
some of the Htones away, and they are too heavy for us, and
we arc lonely, ajid the Place of Stones where tread is very
bleak, and we cry out that we must have love and hope or we
die. Au'l Love comes, and our hearts leap up, and every
stone at our foot breaks into colour, and every wave and
every dew drop gK'ann. And then a cloud comes into the
sky,*and Lovo ^(>o> away shivorin{<, and with him go Joy and
Sympathy, autl Broth(»rlu)od haml in hand. But we yearn
after him still, and we sock loi* him all our days. That is
your story and mine, ther<» is no real difference between
them. Opinions, things of rule, haunt us like phantoms, and
we bend the knee to them and let the incense that they
swing before our facesi mount to the brain and deaden it.
And when, in our wanderingH, we (;ome across a fellow-strug-
jrl I. the phantoms crowd around us and hold him off, saying:
' cr-'S ireature is a( cursed ; do not commune with him; us he
Vi ! V (.V to acknowled^^e; touch hiin not, accost him not; he is
no •»' cher of yours.' and we pass on, thinking *he is no
bmtherof mine' while our hearts cry out for ttie brothc^r-
hood that we turn from. We want it, wo droop and pine for
it; but the Phantoms assure us that ail is well, and we try to
crush down our longings and march on obediently, phantom-
led into the darkness."

Sibella [miuwhI for a moment and th«n went on in a totie
still sadder: " And each one Ins his life struji^le to po through,
and death to face; each, with his attendant phantoms, nuist
pass from mystery to mystery. Relieve me, only the phan-
ioins hold apart soul from Boui."

;•!-
U

■ \ I

THE WIM OF AZRAEL.

,*rhtere was a long silence. At last, Adrienne said with
Changed expression, "I suppose you will say that /am under
the government of my phantoms." ,

"As more or less we all are."

" Dou you acknowledf!:e to that?"

" I ? I am under the influence of all things !" Sibella replied ;
"no one more so."

Adrienne looked thoughtful, and after a moment she drew
herself together.

" I think, Mi*s. Lincoln, that the differences between us have
little to do with what you call phantoms. They are very real
indeed. Our ideas seem to me to represent black and white,
positive and negative, good and evil.^'

Sibella made no reply. She took up, in evident absence of
mind, the pen that lay beside her on the table, and began to
trace outlines on a scrap of paper. A procession of grim but
shadowy forms followed close upon the heels of a more sub-
stantial figure, and from every side troops of shadows crowded
up out of the dimness, in attitudes of command, or exhorta-
tion, or entreaty;, or sadness. Far away was a range of high,
peaked mountains; but the shadows were very near and
loomed large, so that only now and then, for a brief moment,
could the human being, so close beset, catch a glimpse of the
eternal hills ; and when he did so, the vision was so strange, and
new, and startling that he felt afraid or thought that he had
gone mad. Then the shadows bent down comforting, and
closed up their lanks till the vision was forgotten.

Sibella looked up at last.

" Tell me," she said, " the doctrine that you hold, wherewith
alone we can be saved."

" I am sorry that I can't put my ideas of what is pure and
right into a nutshell," said Adrienne; "all I can say is that
they are very unlike yours."

"Am I to understand, Mrs. Lincoln, that you intend to
seriously attempt to lead Mrs. Dendraith to throw aside her
duty and repudiate the ties that she has formed ?"

"That have been formed /o?' her, let us 'say for the sake of
accuracy."

"Excuse me," said Adrienne, "but in this country no
woman can be forced to marry against her will."

"Wide is the infernal kingdom, and perfect its govern-
ment! You do not know the story of Mi-s. Dendraith 's girl-
hood and marriage."

" Whatever her story may be, I cannot see that auy hard-
ships, or any other person's fjuilts, can justify her in evading
the' simple laws of right and wrong, merely because they
hapnen to press her rather closely."

"Nor do I see," returned Sibella, "that the daily unpun-
ished sins of society a^inst its womc^n should continue to be
expiated by their victuns instead of their perpetrators I This
^1 has sunered more in a couple of years than her amiable

A TOUGH BATTLE.

221

father could suffer in a lifetime. Let him suffer now ; it is
his turn."

*' Then j ou would advise her to leave her husband and dis-
grace her family,"

Sibella drew a long breath. Adrienne watched her in-
tently.

"And her good devoted mother 1— is she not worth to be
considered ?"

" Her good devoted mother sacrificed the girl, open-eyed, in
the name of all that is sacred. It is interesting to i-emember
that Druid priestp u^ed to cram great wicker images with
Toung girls and children, and then set fire to them— also in
ttie name of all that is sacred. "

" What has this to do with what we are speaking of ?"

" History repeats itself," said Sibella; " no doubt any intelr-
ference with those sacrificial rights would have greatly
pained a sincere and 'conscientious' Druid, but I confess
that I should quite cheerfully inflict upon him that pain if I
could thereby save the imageful or victims, even if he re-
garded his honour and the honour of his whole family as for
ever sullied. "

" You scoff, then, at family honour."

"I confess," said Sibella, "that I am not very tender
about the honour that nourishes itself on the fortitude and suf-
ferings of others."

*• I fear appeal to you will be in vain. You fling over, with
a light heart, the creeds and the traditions of centuries, all
that our forefathers have taught ws, all that our mothers
have prayed and suffered for. For my part, I am old iiish-
ioned enough to believe that our anccstore may have been as
wise as ourselves."

" That I never disputed," Sibella threw in.

" And I do not feel competent to decide for myself every
question under the sun."

"A very creditable humility," said Sibella; "but if you
regard it as presumptuous to reject the doctrines of your fore-
fathers, you must possess a vast and varied store of opinions;
for you are very much to bo envied -especially if you suc-
ceed in keeping the peace among them."

Adrienne grew impatient.

" Of course I don't mean that I take every idea without ex-
ception "

"You take only those that suit yvm; then after all, Miss
Lancaster, I do not see that your humihty so very much
transcends mine."

Adrienne, who was accustomed to rule the conversational
world of Upton, felt angrv and bewildered.

She had a complete ana dignifiiMl confidence in her " princi-
ples;" an underlying s'ltiwraction in ii<»r powers of insight, of
langiiago, and of judgment. T( )-(iay nil these 8<H>med at fault.

^ipelia was of course profoundly mistaken^ but it was npt*

^rr.

1^1

:, --f

'^^1

'J9

.-^fl

'V-f

222

THE WING OF AZHAEL.

very easy to make the fact appear. Adrienne's cause, al-
tiiongb that of Heaven, did not tnumphas so righteous a cause
ou*»hl to have triumphed.

iiie usual comfort of the baffled advocate of Heaven was
denied her; for Adrienne did not regard herself as weak in
argument or retort— quite the reverse. If, under her guar-
dianshipj Heaven lost ground, the look out for Heaven was
verv serious.

No one sooner than Adrienne would have laughed at the
position had it been boldly presented, but so mysterious are
the workings of the mind that all are capable of taking men-
tal attit'ulcs which the sense of humour would alone forbid
were it I roup:ht to bear upon the case.

" I fear I have not won you over to my views," said Adri-
enne; " and therefore it seems useless for us to continue the
interview, though 1 shall leave you with a heavy heart, as I
feel that my poor friend has an insidious and nowerful enemv
just when she has most need of allies. I, c any rate, shall
spare no effort to counteract your influenc .*

" A declaration of war," said Sibella, rising and going over
to the fire.

"You leave me no alternative. I cannot stand by and see
that girl disprace herself and evervone connected with her.
I consider not only the girl herself, but her people— especially
her mother and father.''

" Ah ! she must save his elms and his honour," said Sibella.
" She has not frizzled in her wicker cage long enough to sat-
isfy her friends."

" I entirely dispute the analogy between Viola's case and
Druidical sacrifices," said Adrienne.

" Therein also history repeats itself," returned Sibella.

Adrienne, who had half risen, paused undecidedly.

Something in Mrs. Lincoln's race made her go up to her, as
she stood leaning against the mantelpiece, her head upon her
hand in a dejected attitude.

"I ask you to have pity, Mrs. Lincoln," said Adrienne; "I
ask you, a woman, to help me to save this sister from the
worst fate which the world nas to otfer. Never mind whether
or not the world is justified in so punishing her; all you need
consider is that it does so punish her, and that the punish-
ment means absolute ruin. Tliink of itl— a girl sheltered as
Viola has been sheltered, accustomed to refined society-

'* Her father's, for instance," Mrs. Lincoln suggested.
'• Accustomed to be protected from all slight or insult-
"Her husband's, for examphv

*'To be careil for and saved from all offensiveness and
vulgarity "

"Mrs. Pellett's and Mrs. Russel Courtenay's."

Adrienne paused reproachfully. "Think of the fate of thii;
girl, cut off 'rem all her friends."

** "VVoi^4 t^n ber friends desert her then ?"

ise, al-
i cause

en was
'eak in
p guar-
en was

. at the
ous are
ig men-
3 forbid

id Adri-
inue the
art, as I
1 enemy
,te, shall

ing over

r and see
nth her.
specially

I Sibella.
;h to sat-

case and

ilia.

o her, as
upon her

jnne; "I
Tom the
whether
fou need
3 punish-
tered as

k "

3uit "

1888 and

of thii;

TBE 8BTRT OF NESSTTS.

Adrienne coloured. ** A woman's good name would suffer
if she remained her friend."

"Oh!" said Sibella, shortly; "go on."

" Then, to be practical, what could she do ? where could
she go to ? what would she live upon ?— it makes me shiver
to think of it ! She could not go into a family and teach.
Who would take a governess who had run away from her
Imsband?— and what else offers itself to a woman of Viola's
training. Have you considered all this ? Have you really
thought what you are doing ?"

" Miss Lancaster, I can only reply that I have your friend's
welfare at heart fully as much as you have, and that I have
thought of everything. I, and all that I possess, will be at
her service. We have each to act as we think best, since we
fail to convince one another. As long as I live, Mrs. Dendraith
has at least one devoted friend who will never desert her."

And with that assurance, Adrienne had to be content. She
left Mrs. Lincoln, with an uncomfortable sense of failure, and
walked home vividly tliinking.

CHAPTER XXXI.

THE SHIRT OF NESSUS.

To die, to be unconscious! the longing for it was like a
gnawing hunjrer in the soul.

To be mercifully wafted away into a great silence, where
there was no hoart-ache, no passions to struggle against, no
indignity! Whatever Viola's lips uttered as she knelt in
prayer, that was the cry of her heart.

Tne dav arrived for dining at Cleveland; a day to which
Viola ha^ looked forward with uneasy joy, mingled with
dread. Harry would be there ! Her nerves qui veered ; she felt
as if she were visibly trembling. The c vening found her worn
out and haggard with excitement.

" Viola, you have been out so little since our marriage that
your wedding-diTss must be quite fresh still, especially as you
never put it on— in consequence, it would seem, of me having
once admired it. I should like you to wear it to-night, and
also the diamonds I gave you, which you also appear to
despise."

white gown and diamonds were awaiting her when the
hour for dressing arrived. The dress lay gleaming on the
fiofa; the diamonds on the toilet-table. Anything that sym-
bolised her marriage she shrank from touching ns if it liad
been fire. And to-night she must array herself in that glisten-

I fl

I ■ . ; t !

'1 *

:..M

2!^

TUE WING OF AZRA^L.

ing ^rment, feel it like a shirt of Nessus, close and firm,

burning, biirainK

"You look well!" said Philip, critically, when his wife ap-
peared ill her glistening satin and soft lace ; " and the diamonds
are very becoming. But you are p'>?.e, — however, that is

Sardonable with dark hair. You wear no flowers ; is that from
esign?"

She looked down at herself.

** You want that finishing touch."

He went and brought some azaleas from the conservatory.

*' Here is the very thing— a spray for the dress and a spray
for the hair."

He advanced to arrange them for her, but she drew back,
scarcely perceptibly, and held out her hands for the fiowers.

** Thank you."

Philip turned on his heel, walked over to the other end of
the room, and laid them quietly on the fire.

*'If you won't take your adornments from me, you can go
without. You certainly liave a habit of straining at a gnat,
my love, having swallowed the caiiiel. You can't bear me to
touch you while I fasten in a bunch of flowers." He laughed,
looking her in the face with an expression that made her sick
with fury. The delicate azalea-petals were shidvelUng as he
spoke, helpless in the savnge hunger of the flames.

The sight was full of parables.

The eyes of husband and wife met.

**Have you not learnt wisdom?" he asked. "Are you al-
ways going t<^ play the role of obstinate child?"

"I am as I was'made, and as I was taught," she exclaimed.
"I can't adapt myself- I can't alter myself— I am helpless.
Things are too much (or me; I cannot bear it."

She walked to the v.indow repressing the blinding tears that
welled into her ej es.

" My dear, you choose your time for a scene admirably. I
hear the carriage just coming round."

Viola was struggling for composure, and dare not trust her-
self to speak.

'• Sulky I" he said, with a sln-ug of the shoulders. " That. I
hope, will give way before you join your aunt and her guests.
Come, I hear Cupid on his way to announce the carriage. In
hi8pi*esence, at least, don't l)e omotionnl, I pray."

The butler (or Cupid, as Philip called him) entered at the
auspicious moment, and found the husband helping his wife
on with her cloak. Cupid thought his air was most devoted,
but to Viola the acts seemed like an assertion of right, the
signal of victory, a careless victory, as if he had overcome the
"will of n tiresome child.

Viola's eyes were quite dry as she took her place beside her
husband. Ho glanced at her, and, seeing that she was calin,
aettled himself m his corner \Nilh a patisned air.

The irreproachable little brougham trun'llod aloi^f^ over tho

THE SHIRT OF NE88U8.

225

m.'

bleak downs, its lamps sending in advance a flying shaft of
light chasing the darkness, which closed up behind it as waters
close behind a moving ship. Heine might have written a
bitter little poem on that well-appointed equippa^ with its
sleek coachman, sleek horses, smart footmenj moving daintily-
through the darkness discreetly across the wide solitudes with
the eternal sea-chant beating through the salt winds of the
downs. The mysteries of nature, the mysteries of the human,
confronted one another cynically.

Perhaps, after all, a we:l appomted brougham and a credit-
able coachman are mattei'fc as deeply mysterious in their way
as any we find to ponder upon within the range of nature.

When presently Clevedon came in sight, Viola's heart gave
a throb. Harry's face rose up before her and his voice sounded
in her ear. The shuttles of her fate were moving fast ard
furious. Would she have strength to get through the evening;,
with this iron band clutching her heart, and stopping its beat-
ing? She could hardly breathe.

*'Mr. and Mrs. Philip Dendraith."

The assembled guests in the drawing-room at Clevedon
watched with interest the entry of the newcomers.

" Well, Viola dear! How are you?" said her aunt, cordially.
'*Cold, I suppose, after your (irive; take that chair by the fire.
Mi's. Featherstone, I thmk you know my niece. On 1 yes, of
course, you have exchanged calls. This other lady I need not
introduce. "

The "other lady" was Mrs. Sedley, who had greeted her
daughter and given an anxious glance at her pale cheeks.

"Mr. and Mrs. Russel Courtney!"

Arabella was resplendent to-night. She entered with some
vivacious remark on her lips, slightly inapropos perhaps, but
very sparkling. She then serpentined round the room with
arching neck, recognizing her friends and emitting exclama-
tions 01 joy and suiprise.

"And Mrs. Sedley! I am so glad to see you again! It
seemed as if we were never to meet ! I am deeply interested
in your daughter, you know. I have quite made myself a
nuisance in calling on her so often."

Mrs. Sedley gravely felt sure to the contrary. " Ask Mrs.
Dendraith, ana she will tell you how I ha'^e pestered her,"
said Arabella. "She is looking rather pale to night, but the
white dress— her wedding gown, I see, so prettily altisred to
the fashion— becomes her admirably 1" (It clasped her close,
burning, burning )

" What a lot of people there are here to-night; Augusta told
me she was going to ask the whole County. I see that
delicious Bob Hunter in the other room ; and the Pelletts and
the Evans p£u1;y."

Arabella looked all round curiously.

*'0f course Sir Philip and Lady Dendraith will be here.
Ah! yes, there they come. Oh I do look bow Mr. Sedley is

r .

■i"

'*:. m

'~^* ^i!A

226

THE WTNG OF AZBAEL.

devoting himself to Mrs. Featherstone; / should be quite
jealous if I were you ! I always keep a watchful eye on my
husband ; it is quiL necessary. Men are all alike in that way.
Arabella laughed— "I dr 't think we should care for them
much if they weren't a dttle— just a little bit— don't you
know?"

*' Mrs. Dixie, Miss Lancaster, and Mr. Lancaster!"

** Then jou don't care for hunting, Mrs. Dendraith?"
' ** Huntmg, no— I~not hunting— I don't care for hunting-
very much."

Mrs. Dixie, entering the room, looked like a schooner in full
sail, with her healthy-looking ancestor still at her throat.

Viola presently found herself being shaken by the hand and
talked to about something that ahe did not comprehend ; and
then she became aware that Adrienne was speaking to her,
and then — there was a sort of wliirl in the air and a flicker of
the candle-light, — and the next moment her hand was in
Harry Lancaster's.

And she felt nothing, except this whirl in the air, and this
ebb and flow of light. Her hand might have been a block of
wood. He was looking at her fixedly,— was it for a second or
was it for many seconds? Presently she became conscious
that he held it no longer.

She did feel something then ! Something hot and despei-ato
—a leaping up of the heart, a wild yearning to feel that touch
again. What was righteousness duty, heaven, or hell? Noth-
ing, nothing. Be it right or wrong, she cared only for one
thing in the whole world, and for that she cared madly, — only
for !"

"Mrs. Dendraith. ahoy!"

From one end oi the long room to the other Bob Hunter
had half skipped, half skated, across the floor, pulling up
opposite to Viola, and bowing low. He then proceeded witn
perfect gravity to perform a few steps, fixing her intently
with his eve, and keeping his body steady, while his legs
moved with extreme nimbleness. He seemed to expect her
to break into steps likewise, and she even began to fear that
he would take her by the hand and insist upon her dancing,

Serhaps as a substitute for conversation. He knew that she
id not understand that difficult art.

She saw Geoffrey on the broad grin, watching the httle
scene from the fire-place: Mrs. Dixie putting up her eye-
glass to observe the conduct of her woula-be son-in-law.

Adrienne with flushed cheeks stood beside her, trying to talk
to an imwilling neighbour, who wanted to watch Bob Hunter.

That athlete came suddenly to rest, remarking that exer-
cise was better than any tonic.

** Charmed to see you here to night, Mrs. Dendraith— I ad-
dress you without ceremony, you see. Ceremony is the bane
of gemus."

THE SHIRT OF NE88U8.

227

< ' til

((

little
' eye-

to talk

unter.

exer-

ingljr.

You ought to know Mr. Hunter," said Arabella encliant-

Job Hunter swung round and made her a bow.

Then he swung back again to Viola, and asked her what
was the difference between a windmill and a Dutch cheese.
Poor Viola blushed distractedly, and said she really had not
the slightest idea. There lurked an uneasy fear that he
thought of Arabella as the windmill.

*' OhI come now— this is weak," remonstrated young Hunt-
er; " try and think."

" I can*t guess riddles," cried Viola; *' I never could."

*'Use your intellect," urged the tonnentor.

"I haven't got one!" exclaimed Viola in desperation, at
which Bob gave a chuckle.

"This is becoming serious; I must have that riddle an-
swered ;" and to Viola's intense relief he danced off to the
other side of the room, going from group to group, asking
what was the difference between a windmill and a Dutcn
cheese.

" My court fool," said Lady Clevedon, with a shrug of the
shoulders.

Adrienne gave a curious little movement and a spasmodic
smile. The vision of a warmly lighted room with a view of
sea through its long windows vas before her at that moment;
of a dainty figure and a face with curving lips : she seemed
to hear in turn quiet words of scorn and irony, words of sym-
pathy, words of defiance. What would Sibelia Lincoln think
of a woman marrying Bob Hunter in order to be settled in
hfe?

Adrienne frowned, and tried to shake off the recollec-
tion. Had the woman whose character could, not bear in-
vestigation actually been able to make Adrienne Lancaster
feel her attitude towards Bob Hunter degrading ? The idea
of accepting his offer had not been regarded as quite out of
the question. To sell herself was therefore not quite out of
the question.

"Ah! Mr. Lancaster at last!" exclaimed Arabella; "the
hero of the evening! I thought T was never to have a word
with you; every one has been crowding round you so. Tell
me, 18 it really nice to be a universal favourite?

"I thought that you would have known all about that,
Mrs. Courtenay."

"I?* Oh dear, no ! quite an obscure person. I want to know
whether you enjoy being a cynosure— don't you know?"

"A -?"

" A cynosure of every eye."

" Depends painfully upon the eye, Mrs. Courtenay."

" Oh, you are horrid! You won't give a plain answer to a
plain question."

" No, I give a plain answer to a beautiful person."

Mrs. Courtenay wriggled, and Adrienne looked at her

■ ■■■■!'. ■ ■> V,

-ilfi

228

THE WING OF AZRAEL.

brother iu amazement. As Geoffrey said, Arabella would
squeeze compliments out of a boot- jack !

*' And now, Mr. Lancaster, come and sit down on the sofa,
and tell me everything you have 1been doing since you left us
all lamenting. You can't think how dead and auve Upton
has been without you !"

"Indeed, Mrs. Courtenay, I can."

"Come, 1 can't have you conceited; that would be to spoil
perfection."

"Am I to regard myself as perfection?'

" Oh nol for then you would no longer be perfect."

"As long as I continue to believe I have faults, I shall
know that 1 remain faultless. It is worth crossing the Irish
Channel to discover this !"

" Now, no more badinage. I want to hear the serious truth
about you. You don't seem in the least ill, Mr. Lancaster; I
beheve vou are a fraud, and just got up a little scare to secure
sympathy. Well, you have succeeded in your wicked design,
and all the Upton ladies are prepared to mako a pet of you,
and to insist upon your taking their medicines and going to
their doctors. Won't that be nice?"

" Delicious," said Harry.

" That sweet Mrs. Dendraith seemed quite concerned about
you. By the way, do you know I have been envying her for

getting the first sight of you after your return. She was
ighly favoured"

" £ don't know exactly^ what you mean," said Harry ot
without a feeling of suspicion and uneasiness. " I see h
night for the fii*st time.

"Oh I come, Mr. Lancaster, that won't do!" cried Arabella,
laughin^^. " Why I had it from her own lips ! If you wantea
to keep it dark, you ought to have engaged her not to tell."

" Still T don't understand," said Harry.

" Well, let's go and ask her about it; she will explain."

"I don't think it's worth explaining; questions of date do
not interest me."

"Oh! but this is more than a question of .date," said Ara-
bella, meaningly.

But as Harrj would not follow her to Viola, she had to con-
tent hei*self with asking how he thought her looking.

" Pretty well," he said.

"She is so very quiet, is she not? I sometimes feel she is
not happy. Yet her husband is very nice, and handsome be-
yond expression."

The announcement of dinner sent people hunting for their
appointed partners. Viola was allotted to Dick Evans ; nearly
opposite to her sat Geoffrey radiantly happy by the side of
Adrienne Lancaster. Adremne had been conducted by Bob
Hunter in his maddest humour. Viola saw that he was pro-
posing to her at intervals during dinner; poor GteOffrey'3

TBE SHIRT OF NE8SIT8.

22d

piness fearfully diminishing as he became aware of these
uiiQOward circiinistances.

Harry Laiicastor and his Fate Arabella were also on the
opposite side; of the table. Mrs. Dixie had been introduced
to an old gentleman called Bavage whose name she caught
Imperfectly, but whom she at once claimed to have met ijwenty
years before, and so worked upon thv feelings of Mr. Bavage
that he too bad recollections or that far-cff divine event.

"The name of Savage revives many old memories," said
Mi's. Dixie, pensively; whereupon Mr. Bavage mentioned
that Pixie was a name almost as familiar as his own, and so
they went on mistaking one anotlier in the most Complicated
manner for two other people whom they had not met for
years.

Now and then Viola caught sight of Harry in animated
conversation with Miss Featherstone.

Miss Featherstone was cold and calm and fashionable, and
Viola found herself growing more and more antipathetic
toAvards the hard handsome face.

Loneliness was not a iiew sensation to Viola, but as she
glanced round the table a t the rows of polite faces, she thought
that never in her life before had she felt so friendless.

Harry was there, yes, but it might have been his ghbst ; he
had neither look nor word for her now 1 Well, no matter I

Nothing could matter any more. That was one comfort.
Tilings had come to a climax ; old fait) s had been shaken,
cherished principle*^ held from childhood were growing dim;
in thought she could sink no lower; heaven had drifted out
of sight. She loved guiltily— it had come to that! — and she
loved in vain.

Viola caught the admiring eyes of her adorer Dorothy fixed
upon her, and turned away her own with a sickening sense
of shame and misery.

''O Dorothy, if you knew!"

Dick Evans was talkative. He told Viola all about some
interesting excavations that were being made upon the bar-
rows in the downs, and he wanted to know if she really would
not bo persuaded to go for walks with him again. What was
the objection? Did her husband think Dick would run away
with her?

"Heavens knows !" said Viola.

"You look as if you wanted exercise," pursued Dick. "I
don't mean that you had better run away with me on that
account. You s«^em paler than you used to be."

"Do you think I am going to die?" she asked with a little
laugh.

" Oh no, no; only you ought to be careful of yourself."

"What have I to be careful of?"

Dick looked at her, "What is the matter with you to-
night? You are not like yourself."

That evening's conversation brought Dick to the condusiou

r ;

■■'■' , (.:

230

THE WING OF AZBAEL.

that women are flighty sort of creatures, not to be counted
upon as unde stood ; tinat they don't quite know what tliey
want or if they do, by some strange pervei-F.ity of nature,
they refuse to take it when they get the chance. There is
something not quite sane, he thought, about evtn the best
of women. A httle further down the table, subhinely igno-
rant of the many httl*; dramas that were being acted around
him, sat old Mr/Pellett, who had been rapt still warm from
his studies, and brought, much against his will, to join the fes-
tive gathering. He was iu a state of absent-minded amia-
bility, listening very humbly and a little bashfully to the
remarks of a young lady of seventeen who was tiilkiug to him
about lawn-teimis. Mr. Pellett in Upton society was a truly
pathetic figure.

On her left, Viola had a gjey-headed person who appreciated
a pood dinner, and a yoinig woman who foreboie to nag him
with trivial chatter during the sacred hour. She was there-
fore often at Uberty to watch the others and to busy herself
with htr own excited thoughts. Once or twice, looking up
suddenly, she would find Harry's eyes fixed upon her as if
he had bet^n exerting over her some subtle magnetic power.

There was an expression in his face that set her heart beat-
ing furiously ; he used to look so in the old days.

The next moment he was relating some anecdote to his
neighbour which created a shout of laughter; Philip capped
it with a second and Mr. 8edley with a third. Bob Hunter
bringing the series to a climax and setting the whole table in
a roar.

Mrs. Sedley sat in her black dress gravely looking on, and
wondei ing why every ore was laughing. Her face was deadly
white, ana there were deep black lines under the eyes. She
had told hci husband before starting that she felt almost too
unwell to ac(!ompany him to night, but ho had insisted on her
coming, and as the painfulness of the ordeal induced her to
regard it as a duty, she gave 1^. Once an intervening head
was moved aside, and Viola caught sight of her motlicr's sut
fering fice. In an instant there was a rush of fear and shame
at 'icr own unholy thoughts. What unspeakable grief there
y ould be, if the mother Knew how the daughter had changed
ii those two short j^'enrsl Was there notning in this world
fo. her but sorrow and disappointment? Her eons had caiu;cd
hor shame and grief, and her daughter—? Scarcely half an
hour ago that dimghter had been ready to fling over evcrj'-
thing on earth, for the sake of a lawless passion which Marian
Sedi(\v'c child ought not even to know the meaning of.

Roars of laughter awakened the echoes of the old dinin,'^-
room i^xcopt Mrs. Sodley's, there was not a single grave inco
ut t!ie taiile. Her husband was talicing about the pecmliar
attractioiis of widows, and their extreme fondness for the
**dear dej>iu*ted." *'A man Dovor knowa how devoted \m

iM airiBi' of i/xsscs.

231

wife is to him till he dies," said Philip ; " it must be sweet to
die."

"Death is undoubtedly the great white washer," Harry
asserted.

"Or the great endearer," suggested Adrienne.

" He that would be loved, let him make haste to die," said
Harry.

"We shall all be loved some day I Let us be thankful!"
cried Bob Hunter.

Dorothy Evans shook her head vigorously. Her brother
saw that she had Mi-s. Pellett in her mind's eye.

" 1 am sure there are some people that one couldn't love
even after they were dead!" announced the young woman.

"My dear!" remonstrated Mrs. Pellett.

"Not if they died ten times over," said Dorothy, with in-
creasing conviction.

" My dear child, so unchristian !"

"Not if they didn't wake uji at the sound of the last
trump!" she added, doggedly piling up the agony. "You
would feel everlastingly grateful to them for dying, but you
could never love them— tierer/"

"Perhaps you don't know how to love, Dorothy," said
Dii k with a half- warning F?nile.

"Oh! don't I?" said Dorothy with a glance at Viola.

"Do you love me. Miss Dorothy?" enquired Philip indo-
lently. " Man and wife are one, you know, so you ought to
do 80."

" No, no, I don't," sjiid Dorothy briefly.

"Would you love me if I were dead?"

"No."

"Can you imagine any circumstances in which you would
entertain that f<H»ling towards mo?"

"Nobody ever loved anybody who asked questions," Doro-

thv retorted.

feel crushed," said Philip; "it is evidently time for me
to die."

" Then why don't you do it?" asked the ruthless one beneath
her breath.

He caught the words and laughed.

" All in gcKjd time, cruel but fair one," he said. \

Mrs. Scdley, who was leaning back in her chair, saying
nothing, matlo a slight Bpasmodic movement, but no one
noticed it.

"Don't talk of dying in that flippant manner," said Lady
Clevedon; "it is uncanny."

Whcji she gave the signal to the l/idies, Mrs. Sedley rose
with an effort, and moved from 1 he table giddily. She recov-
ered heixelf, howover, and passed into the drawmg-room with
the othei-s. Viola characteristically lingered behind, allowing
more self-con fldent ladies to precede ner, and alas! by the
tactics foiling into the clutches of the over-watchful Jiiaik

I i

4 .«,-

•

232

TllE WINO OV AZRAEL.

Pellett, who took her by the arm encouragingly, and led hei*
out with the faintly rustling procession.

In the di-awing-room every one drew round the fire, and be-
gan to talk, chiefly of l(;cal ma 1101*8 and domestic details.

"You are not well to*ught, Marian," said Lady Clevedon,
leading her sister-in law Uj a low chair.

"Not quite well," Mrs. Sedlev confessed.

Viola had deserted Mrs. Pellctt, and was standing by her
mother's side.

"It is nothing," said Mrs. Sedley, catching sight of her
daughter's face. " I often feel so -very often."

Viola tried to pereuade her to ga honie at once.

"Oh I dear, no, your father would he annoyed; I shall soon
be all right — if you will hand me that bottle of smelling salts."

Viola gfive it and repeated her persuasions, saying that she
would return with her mother to the Manor.

But it was of no avail. Mis. Sedley was determined to re-
main and sutler to the end.

"Only another hour and a half," she said with a faint smile.

The other ladi«'S, having discussed all loc*a! matters, weie
now engaged upon a reci-nt scandal which had been making a
stir in the fashionnble world.

Viola was sitting apart, pale and exhausted with excite-
ment.

"OMrs. Dendraith," cried Arabella, "you lost that anec-
dote; it is for your private ear— quite too shocking to relate
in public."

"I fear it will be wasted on me," said Viola, shrinking
back.

"Ohl you can't fail to enjoy it; it is really too good, isn't
it, Miss Featherstone?"

Viola drew away quickly. "Please don't I rouble, Mrs. Courtc-
nay; I hate such stories." She said it witli such a'^erce vig-
our that there was an awkward silence among the ladies, the
silence that always falls v.heu any strong expression of opin-
ion is given in society. Viola si^t lu^r lips, as she played with,
the blade of a paper-knilV, and felt a wild impulse to hurt
]>hysically these well-dres^jed complacent beings who seemed
nicapable of being hurt in any other way. It was incredible
to Viola that women could 1 e so vulgar and so ignoble.
l*ies<uitly Bob Hunter appeared as foi'enmner of his col
luai;:nes, who wer<^ lingering over their wine.

Viola's heart be^juu to throh. At last Harry Lancn^tor
came into the* room and was imnie<liately waylaid by Sir
Philip and by Mrs. Featherstone. He seemed to be in a lively
vein to night, for wherever lie went there was a stir and n
burst of laughter. Viola had to (^lutch her najjcr knife very
tightly to prevent herself f. om visibly trembling.

" O Mr. Lancaster," ]\lis. Courtenay was saying. "I ha^'e
heard such shocking things about yoii! I hopo they oicn't
true."

THE SHIRT OF NE88V8.

383

*' I hope not, I am sure,*' said Harry.

*' I hear that you call upon this dreadlVil Mrs. Lincoln who
has come to live here. I tell Sir Philip it is encouraging im-
morality to let her rent his house."

"Clearly," said Harry, "any one who lets his house con-
nives at the misdeeds of his tenant, past, present, and
future."

"No, but reallv," urged Mrs. Featherstone, " I think it is so
bad for the neighbourhood. I hope you haven't been weak
enough to call upon her."

" It is very kmd of you to take so much interest in me,"
said Harry. ''You can't imagine me frequentinp: any but
the most irrepfoachable society, I hope. Are not your severe
doors open to me?"

"Oh, I'm not so particular about my mew," retorted Mrs.
Featherstone, with a laugh. " I used to know Miu Lincoln
a little before the scandal. I can't imagine what she comes
here for. The man she ran away with is dead, isn't he ?"

At this moment, Viola, who had been receiving the homage
of Dorothy Evans, was sitting alone on a sofa, D:)rothy being
summoned by her mother to have her sash rearranged, it
having characteristically worked round from the bock to the
front without interfei'ence from the wearer.

Harry managed to break away from Arabella and went
straight to the vacated seat.

" I thought I was never to have a word with you," he said
in a low hurried voice. " There seems a fate against it."

Philip's eyes were resting on them.

"I w^ant to give you a letter presently; don't start: look as
if I were telling you that the weather m Ireland for the last
month has been exti'emely changeable. TIk? letter is from
Mrs. Lincoln, not from me. You never in your life had a
more sincere friend than she is. Tlu shock headed little girl
who has just left you is eaually sincere, perhaps, but not more
so. I met them both, and oh ! Viola, do as Mi*s. Lincoln asks
you."

She raised her eyes to his for a moment. Suddenly her
head swam; she grasped the back of the sofa, breathing

quickly
"What is in the letter?"
" There is no opportunity to tell you now;

I shall be sus-
pected. Viola, one word or sign "—Harry bent towards her
with his elbow on his knee, his hand half hiding his face.
"Drop your handkerchief for 'yes,' touch the lace on your
dress tor 'no.'"

There was a rustle, of silk close beside them. Violji gave a
littlegasp.

" However, we had plenty of gaiety," wiid Harry in a con-
versational tone; "the Irish are a vciv hospitabli' jwoplo."

3y this tiuie Mrs. PeUQtt hod pussaed 041^

|(#' ',

t : 'I

• 'MP'!'!*?'

' ■ 'I

1 .'lit

THE WINQ OF AZUAEL.

234

"Now for my (question, Viola. T^^u trust me, and will
you do as Mrs. Liftcoln asks in this letter ?"

She dropped her handkerchief, and Harry stooped to pick
it lip.

Mrs. Russel Courtenay was approaching.

"And Mr. Evans really is thinkip*? of restoring this
church ? I hope they won't make a gaudy monstrosity of
the old place, I don't like restorations."

Harry rose to give up his place to Mrs. Courtenay.

" Oh ! please don't rise; jou two looked so comfortahle and
happy there, I wouldn't disturb you for the world."

"Thank you. Well, we icere veiy comfortable and happy,
as you say," said Harry, who had become rather white, "out
our happiness would be still greater if Mrs. LJourtenay would
bestow upon us the light of her countenance."

"Flatterer, a vaunt!" with a cursory gaze at Viola's pale
cheeks.

"Mr. Lancaster," she said impressively, "I don't believe
your polite speeches."

The two looked for a second in one another's eyes.

"Scepticism, Mrs. Courtenay, is the curee of the century."

" Oh ! there are other curses besides scepticism," said Mrs.
Courtenay ; " thinps, for instance,are coming to a dreadful pass
in society — people i unning away from their husbands, ana all
that sort of thing. You know this case that's in all the papei*s I
Really it makes one wonder who is to be trusted, as if one might
expect one's nearest and dearest to be in the divorce court
to-morrow. I am quite unhappy about it, I really am."

" That's very good of you," said Harry,

"You speak in riddles, Mr. Lancaster. Do you know"—
Arabella lowered her voice —" Mrs. Dendraith got quite angry
when we were discussing this divorce. Well, it is very horrid
— she is so good and sweet, is she not?" a pause—" don't you
think so, Mr. Lancaster?" Arabella repeated.

"That follows from her set," he said with a sort of jaded
politeness.

"Oh, will you never cease these flatienes?"

"England expects every man to do his duty "

"Mr. Lancaster, I don^t think I like you to-night. I be-
lieve you are tired of me, and want Mi's. Dendraith to your-
self. Well, I will not dotain you." She looked into his eyes
as she said it, and then swept away, leaving Harry watching
her with an absorbed expression.

" She guesses, " he said to himself. " Well. I have to play a

gome against the world— an AraMla more or less makes
ut little diffen^nce. One can't cheat these carrion crows of
tlu'ir natural food." He returned to Viola, keeping a watch-
ful eye on Philip and Arabella. He began to talk about dif-
ferent matters, and then, without change of attitude or man-
ner, he said, " Will you take the letter?"
Siie looked at her mother. Harry bent closer.

X>AUGHTEB OF THE ENDLESS mOHT,

236

soon as you
it is cool and

** Viola!" he repeated in a pleading tone. She gave a sign
of assent. *' I will put it into your hand as we say 'good-
night.' It is very small ; be careful not to drop it. There are
many suspicious eyes around us. Burn the letter as soon as
you nave read it."

"We are being watched," said Viola, nervously.

'* I will leave you," returned Harry; "but as &
' get ah opportunity, go into the conservatory "
pleasant; you are looking very tired."

He left her without further hint.

After a few minutes of conflict with herself, she rose and
entered the conservatory. The cool green of the leaves and
the sound of dripping water were grateful indeed to her tired
nerves. She sank into a low chair, and a sensation of lan-
guor crept over her; a longing to give herself up to her fate, to
resist and strive no longer. Soft music crept in from the
drawing-room : Adrienne was singing a gondolier's song, rhyth-
mic and indolent. Viola heaved a deep, long sigh and lay
back among the cushions. The tears of pleasure and relief
welled up under her closed eyelids.

■J J

CHAPTER XXXn.
"daughter of the endless night."

The music mercifully did not cease, and Viola lay there
like a tired child resting.

It was no surprise to her when presently a figure stood by
her side and a voice sounded in her ear. She did make one
desperate effort to escape the danger of this interview, but
Harry laid a hand upon her arm ana she was helpless.

" Tliere is no time to lose," he said; " let me give you the
letter while I have the chance. It is to ask you to meet Mrs.
Lincoln at Caleb Foster's to-morrow. Caleb is a friend of
Mrs. Lincoln, and he is absolutely trustworthy. Gossip is
impossible to him. And now I want you to think deeply
over our position. Everything depends on you. "Wo— Sibel-
1.1 and I— are ready to take all risks. But we can do nothing
unless you help us."

" Wny was I ever bom !" she exclaimed.

"DonT despair," he said cently, taking her hand. "No
one need despair who is loved as you are loved."

She turned away.

" Viola, be reasonable. My love for you ia now, as it has
always been, the homap;e of my whole being; it is of the real
nnd tasting kind, and it is ready- it has shown itself ready- -
for sacriflce. why should you ehrink from it?"

236

THE WINO OF AZBAEL,

She was pressing her hands*© ver her eyes to force back tlo
tears of jov. He loved her still — her fears were unfounded -
the horrible loneliness was gone. The sense of wrong, for the
BaOttieut, was drowned in the flood of joy and relief.

" I am not pleading now for myself; I want you to under-
stand that you have at your service one who is ready to risk
anything for you, but who would despise himself if he.tned to
build up a claim upon you through that service."

(If she might only tell him I)

"But I do want you to ask yourself if such a love as
mine can be a wrong to any woman? if mere external eircum- 1
stances can turn right into wrong in a breath? Is it reasona-
ble that a man who has wounded and insulted you should
be able to claim your allegiance for ever, while a wor4 of love I
from mo must be repulsed as if it were a deadly sin?"

He was kneeUng beside her, clasping her hands, though she I
made a spell-bound effort at resistauv'^e. Fomo instinct seemed I
instinct to hint to him that his words no longer fell on stony j
ground.

She shivered at his touch.

"Love is its own justification. Everyone capable of real]
love knows that it is. ''

"If all thought that— ah! don't touch me, I can't thinki
when you touch me — if all believed that, everything would lall|
into confusion."

He leant forward eagerly.

" And do you really thiiik that society rests safe and sound
upon its foundations of misery and martyred atlection?"

"I don't know what to think or say. If your ideas ar
right, what becomes of loyalty and truth ?"

Harrv looked at her for a moment in mournful silence.

Sibella's words still rang in his ears: "Such a woman ia
foredoomed. We cannot save her." Was it true? He felt i
gloomy foreboding that it was. The past seemed to bete
strong for her, the attitude of feelirg to be changelessly fixe
in spite of aU the sufl!enng she had endured.

"Adrienne stiys I ought to obey the call of duty, to regan
myself as placea and dedicated for life. I am Philip's wife;
can't get out of that, can I? I can't get out of the ooligation
which it implies, however terrible they may be — except bj
shirking." i

"Listen to me, Viola; if there is such a thing as justice.]
say that no woman is morally bound to a man when she
married to him as you were married to your husband. Yoj
do iio good to anyone by submission. You only add to th
anguish of other women m your own position, and of mcnf

mine.

>»

To her, the words seemed full of the sophistry of passic
they made her heart beat, temptinc? and at the same tin
repelling. Emotion and the in^ainod results pf long tra

JOAVGHTBn OP THE ENDLESS NIQET. 237

ing were in deadly conflict. The heart stiiTed beneath its
crust of acquired sentiment.

Harry b'igan to wonder whether after all it would not have
been wiser to leave Viola with her convictions undisturbed.
It seemed a hopeless task to free her from them so entirely
that she would be ready for action. And without action, it
was worse than useless— so far as her own fate was concerned
—to see clearly. Just in proportion to the additional knowl-
edge would the suffering increase.

" Viola," he said, " you make me fear that after all I have
only added to your misfortunes, instead of serving you."

" You have saved me from suffering quite alone. Adrienno
is good and kind and a true friend, but, oh ! she does not
know, she does not understand."

** if only I could take you away from all this misery, and
comfort you and heal you as only the ministries of love can
heall Will you not come with me? I plead for something
more than life."

"And I," said Viola, "have something more than life to
defend."

" And how will you defend it? By remaining the wife of a
man you do not love?"

" You torture me 1"

He took her hand and kissed it.

" Viola, do you love me?"

She hesitated.

In a moment he had drawn her to him and laid her head
upon his shoulder. She could not move without a strong
effort, and she did not make the effort. She seemed half stu-

Eified. He stooped and kissed her on her hps, and Viola
new that her fate, whatever it might be, was sealed.

" I was certain this would come some day, but it seems too
wonderful to be ti*ue."

Two or three never-forgotten moments of silence passed,
and then Viola said, with a sigh: " But this can only bring
unbappiness." She tried to rise, but he hold her tightly.

" Don't talk to me of unhanpiness when I hold you for the
first time in my arms, and know that you love me I You
will come with me, Viola," he pleaded, " you will hesitate no
longer."

" Oh, let met go! let me go! You mesmerise me— you be-
witch me; I did not mean to give way like this; I am light-
headed ; life is too hard for me -I cant cope with it— it's tem-
tations are terrible."

" Thank heaven that you feel them 1 Now it all seems plain
to mo. You will not sacrifice everything to mere prejudice
any longer. You care for the thing, not the name ; you care
for the honor that the heart recognizes, not the honor of the
world. It may be good to suffer martyi*doin, but your cause
must be worth the sacrifice. What you are asked to suffer

' \ '■•-

l,-l

ims.

■IP".

fas Wim OF AZMASL.

for— though it counts its martyrs by the thousand -is not
worthy of the sacrifice."

"But I have fears, so many fears," said Viola. "You
want me to leave my husband. That means to disgrace my
family."

** Who have deUberately sacrificed you to their worldly in-
terests-

»»

" My mother beUeved she was acting for the best; as for
my father, he only did what hundreds of parents 'ire doing
every day."

"I think it is high time the other hundreds had their eyes
opened a little," muttered Harry.

" It would break m^"- mother's heart," said Viola. ** I can-
not do it~it is impossible ! And my father— my brothers."
~ " Viola 1" he pleaded, taking her band and drawing her to-
wards him, "you think of evei-ybody except the one person
who loves you more than all the rest put together— a thou-
sand times more. It would break my heart to lose you, and
to know of your wretchedness ; but you never think of that.
Perhaps if 1 had destroyed the happiness of your childhood
and handed you over to misery for life, you might be careful
about mw heart too. As it is, 1 suppose I must expect always
to come last."

"O HaiTyl you ktiow I am strugjE^ling with temptation,
struggUng to do right— but all these ideas are so new to me,
so appalling !"

"I suppose it would surprise you to hear that to me that
the old ideas are appalling. "Why will you not act ? Sibella
and I are pledged to support you and protect you through
thick and thin."

" I understand that ; you are both far too generous and too
good to me. Why should you trouble to rescue a foolish
woman who has not the strength of mind either to submit
silently to her fate or to break tree from it bodily ?"

"We do it because we love her," said Harry. "Will she
not make us happy l)y consenting to put herself in our faith-
ful hands ?"

Viola shook her head.

" I dcire not— I dare not— for my mother*s sake. I don^t
fear anything for myself, but for her; no, I dare not."

" Is that your solo reason ?"

" I only know that while she lives, I must endure it as best
I may. I cannot deal her such a crushing blow ! She would
die — indeed she would !"

As the last words were uttered, Adrienne entered the con-
servatory hastily.

"Viola, dear," she said, "will you come with me? Your
mother is going home ; she feels unwell and wishes you to
know."

" Unwelll" Viola turned pale and hastened away.

lon't

best
kuld

con-

DAUGHTEB OF THE ENDLESS NIGHT.

239

'* I am afraid it's serious, '' Adrienne said in a low voice to
her brother as she passed out.
Mrs. Sedley was lying on a sofa in her sister-in-law's hou-
' ' "" every one but

doir^ whence Lady Clevedon had banished
Adnenne and her own maid.

'' What is it ? what is it ?" cried Viola.

**I think it is a bad faint," said her aunt;
better now."

she is much

Mrs. Sedley was struggling for breath,

** Take jne home, Viola " she gasped.

" I don't think you ought to be moved till you are better,
Marion," said Lady Clevedon. -

Mrs. Sedley's brows contracted painfully.

" Take me home," she repeated.

'* Very well, you should go if vou wish it. Gibson, wil' you
go and ask Mrs. Sedley's coachman to get his horses in as
soon as he possibly can, and tell James to ride over and ask
the doctor to go at once to the Manor House ?"

Before the carriage arrived, Mrs. Sedley seemed a little
better, so that, when her husband came in to know what was
the matter, she was just able to answer cheerfully that it
was only a fainting fit, and that she was almost well again
now.

'*! am sorry to hurry you away, but I am so afraid of be-
ing laid up away from home. If Philip will allow her, Viola
is coming back with me."

Adrienne had gone to tell Phihp what had happened, and
she returned with a gracious message of ]3ermission to his
wifvj to accompany her mother home. Adrienne laid an ac-
cent on the word permission, as implying a right and dutiful
spirit on the part of Viola, and commendable relations be-
tween husband and wife.

Ihe stars were all ablaze as the ramshackle old vehicle
trundled homewards across the downs. Mrs. Sedley lay back
with closed eyes, Viola beside her, while Mr. Sedley and
Geoffrey sat opposite, occasionally speaking in undertones.
Mr. Sedley had begun with his usual bawl; but on Viola's re-
monstrance, he had reduced himself to a hoarse whisper,
scarcely less trying to the nerves. One of the windows was
open, admitting breaths of soft air imbued with the sweet-
ness of early spring. Holding her mother's hand, Viola sat
looking out mto the night.

Creeas, doctrines, social laws— all seem d to lose form and
substance in that wild darkness; they trembled and waned
when brought thus fact to face with nnture— face to face with
the inexorable facts and the unutterable sadness of life.

Harry was right— these stars, this dai'kness, that unappeas-
able sea confirmerl him ; this pain, this failure and disappoint-
ment, confirmed him. He pinnecl his faith to realities, to the
great Facts and Passions of our T^ife, and he flung conventions
lotb© winds, He would have thingsy not names; only people

M i
I

i
1

'-n

240

THE WINO OF AZBAEL.

renowned for common-sense are mad enough to lay down
their lives for the sake of words and i)hrases, to bid farewell
to lovCj happiness, all the sweetest things of lite, at the bid-
ding of a shadow.

Viola shivered witli foreboding. In the dim starhght all
the occupants of the carriage looked strange and white, but
her mother's face was ghagtly. Death seemed to be ah eady
of the party. They could fcoi his presence among them. The
pain-stricken; toilsome, joyless existence was nearing its end.
It might be a matter of months, or of weeks, but the end was
in sight. The brutal, pitilosa demon of human destiny was
about to put his last touch' to the ugly^ work. And now to
Viola, for the first time since her earnest childhood, Death
seemed awful, instead of beneficient.

For the first time, almost in his very presence, her heart
rose in passionate anger against him and nis clumsy solution
of the human problem— destruction in default of cure. A
vision of the glory and splendour of life was in her heart.
She felt desperate for verv pity as she gazed at the white
face of the woman who had never known that glory even for
a moment. To have Uved for all these years and tasted so
few joys ! To have known nothing but care, anxiety, self-
denial, cruel suffering and disappointment ; and nothing but
ill-treatment from the man for wnom all had been endured:
to lose one's life thus, and at last to die and leave no passion-
ate regret in any heai*t, to be forgotten just because of the
meek dutiful ness which left no room for the more vivid qual-
ities which gave colour to the personality and attract the
love of others, even though they be more like faults than
virtues! Would she find m Heaven the love that she had
missed on earth ? If not, she had missed love for all eter-
nity; she had missed everything — life itself; she was like a
blind person in a world of colour, one deaf in a realm of
music. And to complete the irony of it all, the moral that the
child was drawing now fi'om her mother's waning life stood
in direct opposition to every principle for which that painful
life had been given wholesale, as a willing sacrifice to God
and Duty.

There was a solitary oil-lamp burning in the hall when they
ai'rived at the Manor House. The place struck chill as one
entered, and had the musty scent of old rooms seldom visited
by the sunlight.

After Mrs. Sedley had been carried upstaii*s and laid in the
^reat four-post bedstead, the watchers began to look anx-
iously for tne arrival of the doctor. When lie did come, hone
seemed for the moment to revive. He had att-ended the
familv since Mrs. Sedley came to the Manor-Houst^ a bride,
and they all looked to him for help in time of trouble. He
was a ^rave man, with iron-grey ban* and beard. With much
solemnity, he felt the patient's pulse, asked a few questions,
f^nd th^n sat down to write a prescriptioii.

J>A HOOTBR of tee ENDLE8S NIOBT.

S41

■f'i

When he left, Viola followed him from the rooro.

" Tell me the truth, doctor," she siiid.

He looked at her doubtfully.

**I want to know if there is any hope."

'•Well, then, there is not," he answered quietly. ''There
has been no hope for the last yeai* and a half; the disease
that your mother is sufforiufr from has been coming on for a
long time, but with her UoUa' sloicism she said nothing about
it until it was too late. She begged me so urgently not to re-
veal the truth to any of her family that I yielded, not seeing
what good it would do you to know."

Viola had turned aside, sick at heart. Life was one long
tragedy. " Then my mother h:is known for a year and a lialf
that she was dying ?"

"Yes; and she susf)ected the truth some time before that.
She has had trouble in lior day, and that lias hastened the
mischief: in fact, I believe has induced it. But your mother
has no tear of death -she is a sincere Christian, and can
face it without flinching."

"And nothing can be done ?" asked Viola, ignoring the con-
solation.

"Nothing can be done, I am sorry to say, except to relieve
some of the suffering."

Viola turned hastily away.

"Thank you," she said, "thank you for telling mo the
truth."

Two anxious days passed. Lady Clevc3(lon drove over to
help in the nursing, but Mrs. Sedle^ would not hear of it. A.
tramed nunae was procured to rehev^e Viola; and then com-
menced long da^ s of anguished watching. The suffering be-
came more and more acute, till, at last, day and night there
was no rest, scarcely a monienc's respite from pain.

"Oh I can't you ^ve something to relieve it?" Viola used
to ask the doctor, with desperate ( yes.

"I have done what I can. There is one other strong
remedy, but that would hasten the end. "'Ve must not do
anything to anticipate by a second that appointed moment.
It would not be rigl-t."

The same answer was given each time that Viola renewed
her appeal. She felt at last a passionate hatred of that stolid
word ''right."

"I detest people who think more of doing right than of
being merciful !" she exclaimed in exasperation, unconscious
what a mental resolution the words re^'ealod. She had been
Bitting for eight houn^ by her mothers bed side, watching the
paroxysms of anguish, helploss to relieve them.

Tlie doctor took her outburst quite calmly, merely giving
orders that Mrs. Scdley should be tended more constantly by
the nurse for the future, and that Mrs. Dendraith should be
with her mother only for two or three houi*s at a time.

:h\

fe:

-u

H> ;

24!^

THE WING OF AZUAEL.

"You will make yourself ill if you are not careful," he fiaid.

" What does that matter?"

" One patient in a house is quite enough ; besides, you could
not then nurse your mother at all."

Viola gave in.

Visitoi*s now began to come from far and near to enquire
for Mrs. Sedley Adrienne. always to be found where tnere
was trouble and her help might be needed, often managed to
drive over to the Manor-House to relieve Viola, and to cheer
her.

Mrs. Evans lent her a pony carriage, which sometimes
Hany, sometimes Dorotliy, used to drive. On several occa-
sions, when Adrienne had gone upstairs to see Mra. Sedley.
Viola and Harry found themselves alone. But not a word
I)assed between them about their interview at Clevedon, not
a word about Sibella, except on Harry's part when he de-
livered a letter from her expressing regret and sympathy.

Once Viola came down, looking white and almost desperate.

"Your mother's suffering is worse!" Harrj'^ exclaimed,
coming over to her and laying his hand on her shoulder.

" Oh, it is too horrible ! How can she live through it? The
power of human endurance is ghastly 1 Why can't people die
before it comes to this ? The doctor says there is a stiiiggle
between a strong constitution and a determined disease. Tlie
disease has got the upper hand, but they are fighting it out—
and we can do nothing— nothing, but wait for the certain
victory of the disease ! She sank upon the nearest chair,
with a gesture of exhaustion, lying back for a moment with
closed eyes.

Harry bent down and kissed the thin little hand as it lay
passively upon her knee. It trembled, and she drew it away.

"When they know there's no hope," she said presently,
" when they know it is merely an affair of days or weeks,
why don't they give the sufferer everything and anything
that will put an end to the torturr though it does shorten the
life by a few days? What cah it matter?"

"What, indeed !"

" If I knew what that medicine was, I would give it my-
self," Viola said, rising excitedly. " Why not, why not ? If
only the doctor would consent to give it, and mother to take
it !" But she shook her head with a hopeless sigh.

"I fear it is impossible," said Harry. "The doctor would
Dever consent I He is like all the rest of us, very respectful
of the last few laboured breaths when exis':ence is onlv a tor-
ture, but careless how the life -stream is poisoned— while there
is yet the precious gift of health to save ! That is just our
characteristic way of doing things !— Viola, you are worn out
— you are killing yourself!" Harry exclaimed, hastening to
her side, for she looked as if she were about to faint.

"Not I," she said, " I wish to Heaven I were! That would
solve the whole problem ; I know no other solution"

DAW^m OP THE ENDLESS NtOHf, 24^

"J do I" said Harry, in a low voice.

*' Don't!" she exclaimed, turning away with an eiroression
almost approaching to dislike. **Iam inconsistent, I know;
but in this house such words seem to bum and brand my very
soul— even to see you, makes me feel— oh!— if you only knew
how hateful it all is to me I— to think of my mother upstairs,
dying", trusting me absolutely, believing in me absolutelv—
and to meet you like this— under her roof, in this room, after
— after what has passed ; I must not do it-— if I could tell you
the anguish of selt-contempt that I feel when I think of it all !'*

She was standing by the window, with her arm raised to her
head in very desperation.

"You still feel my love— our love— to be guilty, then ?" he
said, not daring to approach.

*'0h yesi— no— I aon't know what I feel— but I can't talk
of it now ! Oh 1 why did you disturb the certainty of my be-
lief ? Why did you throw me into horrible conflict like this?
I have nothing lio w to cling to ! "When I follow the old faith,
I no longer feel calmly certain that I am right. I seem to be
like the doctor and the rest of them -sacrificing others to my

frejudice, to the good of my foolish soul ; but if for a moment
dare to adopt your ideas, then the old feeling comes rush-
ing back torrent-like ; xny mother's spirit seems to stand be-
fore me, pleading, exhorting, reproaching, and then — then I
fling the sweet, hideous temptation from me, as I would
hurl away some venomous serpent."

It struck Harry, as he watched her and listened to her
with bleeding heart, that she was a symbol of the troublous
age in which she lived, a creature with weakened, uprooted
faith, yet with feelings and instincts still belonging to the past,
still responding to the old dead and-gone dogmas. Harry felt
appalled at the conflict he had raised. Sibeila with her keen
insight had partly foreseen it.

Not without I. severe struggle with himself Harry prom-
ised Viola that he would not come here again, since his pres-
ence caused her so much pain ; and he was rewarded by seeing
a shade cross her face.

*' Yes, it '8 better," she said, shaking her head angrily, to
throw off the inconsistent feeling of disappointment; "it
will be much better."

*' Then this is to be pur last meeting for some time." He
paused irresolutely. "Come out with me into the garden.
We will drop all difficult and painful topics. I will not dis-
tress you ia any way if I can help it. Whatever else we
may be to one another, we are at any rate two human beings
in a mysterious and disastrous world— ignorant of our fate-
ignorant of pretty nearly everything, except 'that grief
stalks the earth and sits down at the feet of each by turns,'
as some Greek poet says. On that ground, at any rate, we
may moot without a sense of guilt, whatever be our creeds!"
He opened the low window, and together they passed from the

i ^

1 ,'»

, 'f.!;'

mm-

1^44

TffB WmO OF AZnABL.

1 1

musty smells and dimneBs of the damp old drawing-room into
the i-adianee of a sweet spring morning.

The May hlossom was not yet out, but every tree and bush
was spi'inkled with tender green; the tangled shrubberies
were alive with tiny leaves. Overhead, the windows of Mrs,
Sedley's IxKl-room i?tood open to admit the sunshine and
the bnlmy air.

Hearing footsteps on the gravel, Adrienne came to the win-
dow and looked out.

' ' What a perfect morning ! Viola, you look like the genius
of the spiing in your white dress."

*' Oh, if you only knew, what would you think ?" Viola in-
waixiiy exclaimed.

" And what do /look like ?" inquired Hany.

"Oh, you look like a prosaic sort of summer," said Adri
enne; " one can't expect to look symbolic in tweeds. Harr^^
I wii^h you would go and got me some cowshps— I see myriads
of thpm in the park."

*' All right; will you come too, Mrs. Dendraith ?" She as-
sented.

The cowslips mow, as Adrienne had said, in myriads.
Viola found herself taking more plonsure in the simple occu-
pation of heaping them into her basket than rhe could have
DPlieved possible, considering the burdens that lay on her
heart. Kow often iii tne old days had she and Geonrey and
Bill Dawkins gonr wild over the coAvslips, and the wonders
of the spring! How sweet they were ! how their ver}' scent
spoke or simple and innocent delight and the wonder of child-
hood! The throb of bewildered misery ceased under the
gentle ministry of sunshine and flowers, and the unspeakable
fi*eshne68 of the rejoicing meadows!

When a vast bunch of cowslips had been amassed, the clean
yellow trunk of a f<^lled tree was chosen for a resting-place,
where tlie chequered shadoof young limes tempered the sun-
shine. It was the site of Violn's little Fylvar. te^ iple of the
days of yore: h(»re the ruthless Thomas had stood with h-n
pruning knife to desecrate and destroy; and now the little
wornl, once more in festivnl arrajy. was chanting its song of
spring, forgt^f ul of the freight ot' the years, Harry saw tnnt
a more ixjaceful look hj\d come into Viola's face, as her eyes
v.«»nderc>d over the meadows and follovi^ed the movements of
the white hurried clouds

She lay bav^k resting, with a look in h.^r eves as if they
were sc^eing something l)eyond the <'louds nnd the blue of the
heavens. The look w.'is not one gf joy, but there was neither
fear nor grief in it. It was calm aiul penet»Titing. She and
Fate seemed to be hxikinar into one another's eyes steadfastly.
Motionless and silent she lay thus, apparently unconscious of
the flight of time. The biras began \o come close to the two
§till fingers, and a couple of squirrels bounded after one
another up the nearest ti^ee, chattering and crying excitedly,

DAUQHTEB OF THE ENDLESS NIGHT.

246

'yes
of

hey
the
her

and

two
one

Idlyr

"When I was a httle gii*!," Viola eaid at length, scarcely
moving from her position, "I had a temple here ; the walls
were made of briony and tho pillars i^f eglantine. The high
altar was an ivy bush, )?nd for incense I had the breath of
flowers. I did not know it then, but it was the Temple of
Life. There were symbols for everything, and I think 1 was
dimly conscious of it even then. Roses I carried in bandfuls
to my shrine, and as the seasons went by, all the sweetest
flowers of the field— honey buckle and wild briar and violets;
and then for splendour, sciirlet poppies j and for love and
constancy^ forget-me-nots; and for happmess. the big wide-
eyed daisies of the cornfields. I had also the enchanter's
mght-shade, which meant withcraft or fascination. And
then there were dead leaves in shoals for melancholy, and the
harebell for grief, and for faith the passion-flower. She
paused for a moment and then went on with a still more
dreamy look in her eyes, a still more dreamy calmness in her
voice :

"And I worshipped in that temple: at church on Sundays
I prayed ; but before my own little woodland altar, I adored.
It is nard to explain in words what it was I woi'shipped: I
worshipped the earth and all that If in it; I worshipped the
loveliness of Life.

" One day when I came to my shrine the beautiful temple
was in the dust. I found Thomas with his knife cutting the
ivy and laving lov the walls of eglantine. Tho high altar
was flung down.

"After that I had to live without a temple or an alta.'.
Once thrown down, they can never be sot up ac^ain ; the deea
is done forever; tho sticrednoss has gone, and all new tem-
ples aro half shams. And all that, item by item, happened
to me a iter wards in life. It was a prophecy. Now I have no
temple."

A squirrel on a branch above peered curiously and timidly
at the sptuiker and then darted up the tree in lu)t haste.

"I think that i knew, child as I was, what was coming.
It seems as if the sliadow of Fate had lK?en always upon
me."

•'The wing of Azrael," Harry muttered Ixmeath his breath
with a cruel sinking of the heai't. Then he roused himself.

"But that is faUilism. Viola: you must not let th«» fancv
paralvse yoy. Make your will into a circumstance dominat-
ing ail the rest."

"There are big powers at w</rk. nhf iwid. still in the same
dreamy tone. " I can see the wave <>i f>«^tiny rolling in cen-
turies old, high, resistless. unbrok<n, my willand your^moro
lobbies on the Hhore IiuhIi 1 Do you hear that?"

She raised herself and sat listening. Ffarry knew what she
meant. It was the deep woful sound in the breaking of the
waves.

He tried to persuade bor tlmt it was icevit«ble io certain

']i

f 1

I'll*

246

THE WING OF AZRAEL.

states of the weather, and that he had heard it often when
no disaster bad followed.

^'Disaster will folld»# this" said Viola; "I feel it. I don't
mean about mother. What has to come soon to her will be
no disaster, but a release. Tl^sre is something else coming.^'

Harrv felt with an inward shudder that this was only too
probable. Matters could not continue long as they were, but
what turn were they to take? That was the dreadful ques-
tion. With a woman of Viola's temperament, there was
much to be feared. She had not the habit of good-fortune.

Viola presently rose abruptly.

"It is time to go."

"And must I not come again?" he asked wistfully, taking
her hand and looking at her with pleading eyes. As they
stood thus they became aware of a stealthy footstep behind
them. Their hands parted and Pbihp stood before them
smiling.

Viola turned very white, but she did not move.

Harry's attitude was quietly defiant.

" I have been to the house expecting to find you with your
mother, my dear" said Philip; "Miss Lancaster, however,

' ' " Miss Lancaster."

first saw you, that it
would turn out that you were just going in. I have come to
propose to stay a day or two hore. 1 thought you would
miss me if we were parted so long." This with a brilliant
smile. "Shall we stroll back top:rther?"

Philip did not allow the conversation to flag for a moment,
and when Harry and Adrienne were sitting, ready to start,
in the pony-carriagi», he said affably that he hoped they would
soon drive over again and see them.

i(-

You may be sure I shall come whenever I can," said
Adrienne as they went off.

Philip and Viola stood watching them down the carriage
drive.

"Pious occupation, nursing one's mother," said Philip,
twirling his stick.

Viola did not answer.

" You are a dwper young person than T thought, my dear,"
continued Philip; "flirtation and filial i>iety form a remark-
ably judicious combination. Who could object to a youn^
wife's going home to nurse her mother? No one but a mon-
ster, ofcoiu*8e; and if a young man happens to hover about
the place at the same tim€» — even though lie t.s a former lover
— wno can object? Only the monster i>ase enough to suspect
unjustly his high-principled sj»oiih*». (>>WHlipH what could
be more innocent? Viola," said Philip, coming cloHi»r to her,
"do you really flunk that you can t^rry on a flirtation witli
this man under mj[ noso without my Hup^^cting it?"

" No, I dp not think so for a moment, *" ittie replied.

Idear,'
Imark-

DAUQHTEn OF THE BNDLE88 NIGHT.

247

((I

Then, may I ask, why make the attempt?"
'^ I did not make the attempt. I came here to nurse my
mother, certainly without a thought^flf Mr. Iiancaster's com-
ing here."
*' Injured innocence," sneered Philip.
** Not 80," said Viola ; " I do not calT myself innocent !"
** Oh, really —a pretty confession. Then are you allowing
this mrn to make open love to you, and you actually have
the audacity to tell this to vief^

*'I have tried hard to remain true to my old principles, but
I do not feel that I have succeeded. I tell you frankly that
my sense of duty and allcgianco to you is no longer what it
was. I have not entirely cast it off — it is too much part of
my being for that —but certainly I have ceased to feel as I
used to feel about it, f>o I suppose there must be war between
us. You need not trust ine; I don't ask to be trusted, for I
no longer regard it as a point of honour to follow your wishes
in all things, or to make my wifehood the sole pivot of my
existence. I iee\ that it is a false relationship into which!
ought never to hav "ntered, and I do not now regard it as
binding in the sense i uit I used to consider it binding, hold-
ing sway over my ev*'ry deed and thought. I i*epeat, do not
trust me now. Yon must watch over me, frustrate me. I
am no longer yours— body and soul. I belono: partly to my-
self at last. Half of my soul, if not the whole, is liberated.
Do you understand?"

"Understand that jargon' Certainly not ! I only under-
stand that if this sort of thing goes on much longer, there
will bo nothing for it but t(3 keep you a prisoner with a hired
attendant to watch you everj' liour of the day. You know
that I should stick at nothing if necessity prompted. By
heaven! I would swenr you were mnd u don't think I should
have to jHsHuiT myself either), and have you kept under lock
and key, if it came to that. You evidently don't know me
yet. \Ieet this man again and I promise you that will be
your fate. Don't im gine I am using idle threats. That sort
of thing doeHUL muswiT with n mule-headed womanlike you.
I speak without hyperbole. 'ou shall not put my honour
ana my name ui jeo|)!n*dy, thijgh you die for it. Now goto

your mother- I wish to lleTven you had never left herl"

♦ -♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Mrs. Sedley was in great pain during all that night ; Viola
and the nursr took turrifc m watching by the Ixniside. The
invalid had b -en asking anxiously for her sons, and a tele-
CTam luid Ix'en despatehwl Humnu/tiing tJie eldest and Geof-
frey, the only ones within n*a<'li. The second was with his
regiment in India.

TIk' two arrived next mnniinp. and it was strange to see
the KM)k on Mrs. 8<'dley's £»<*>■ when shi* heanl their footsteps.
Viola was a well iM'loved <!.iiU. hut n«'v«»r had her presence
evokcii such a li|^bt of joy m hur mother's face as shone on it

1..

248

THE WING OF AZRAEL.

now at the siglit of the young scapegrace whose extravagance
had helped to bring the family to the brink of ruin, and
through whom the Bif^^r had been doomed to the most teni-
ble form of sacrifice w mch a woman ot her type can endure.

Viola felt that after all the yeai*sof companionship between
mother and daughter, this stranger son was more to her
mother than she was. She who had watched by the bedside,
feeling the anguish of every pang to her heart's core, knew
that the last look of love would be turned not on her but on
him.

And so it proved.

The exaltation of feeling caused by her son's return caused
a rally in the invalid, but before evening the watchers saw
that sne was weaker, and that the alarming symptoms were
.'ncreasing.

The doctor was sent for, for the second time that day; and
every one waited in suspense for his coming. There was a
hush all through the house, which seemed the deeper from
the heavy mist that hung about the park, the white, tamiliar
mist which peemed so cnaractv nstic of the shut in, gloomy,
unhealthy eld house, over which the hand of death was rest-
ing. Wliat could be more appropriate than death in that
atmosphere of fog and stagnation ? Not the faintest stir was
in the fiir; the movement and tumult of life had no place
here. It was a epc4 where the most vigorous, if for! idden to
return speedily to the outer world of hope and effuj t, might
feel reaay to he down and die.

The sound of the doctor's phaeton broke through the still-
ness.

His verdict was decisive; the patient had not many hours
to live, and, seeing what she sunered, her family were to be
congratulated.

A terrible five hours passed before the end came, hours
which seemed to Viola like so many yeai-s of cruel experience.

Mr. Sedley, whi^n he was at I ist made to understand that
the end was so near, became almost diFtrnught. He knelt at
the bedside Kobhing likc^ a eliild. entreating his wife to stay
with him. declaring that he would bt» lost without her, that
he had always adored her, even at his worst, and imploring
her to forgive him for hiH past ilt conduct.

"Myhusbimd. if I have anything to forgive, I-forgive it
freely. I would have Ix^rne from you whatever you might
choose to inflict was I not your wife ?"

" I have bo<ni a bnite," he groaned.

She laid her thin, long hand tm his head, and said a few
words in his ear.

" I will try," he said, sobbing; " I will try."

Her voice was growing very weak; the last moments were
evidentlj' drawing near.

•'Ah! you have ever lK»en a g(KMl and dutiful child." she
said, as Viola with quivering lips bent down and kissed her.

DUST TO DUST.

249

;:p^

''Ood has been very good to me. Touwill be faithful to
your lifers end."

At the last, a great peace eeemedUo fall upon the dyiixz
woman ; she murmured texts fronrnRie Bible, interspersed
vith words of exhortation to follow Christy to walk with Him
to the end, to seek Him, and lose all for Eiis sake.

** He has giyen me rest and peace; He has saved my soul
with His precious Blood."

A woman of one mood, of one motive, one thought, she
died as she had lived, with her eyes fixed on the same Image,
the aspect and perspective of all things still unchanged. »he
spoke in gasps:

" Viola, you will be faithful to the end— My husband, God
will forgive — We shall meet again— God be with you, dear
ones. To Him I commend you, till our blessed reunion in
Christ— Christ, ray God, save and forgive 1"

A last long kiaSj whose memory remained to Viola's dying
day, the final pitiful farewells in the fading light of that
dreary, fate-laden afternoon, and then all was over.

Viola felt herself being drawn away by a firm, kindly hand,
as the dying agony drew to its crisis.

" Do not grieve— I am thankful— so thankful."

The last look was for the son, the last prayer for his salva-
tion.

The lonp martyrdom was over. As far as earthly prescience
could decide, the tired woman was at rest.

The agonising wheel of life had ceased to whirl, and where
there had been pain and striving, there was a black uncon-
sciousness. Oh 1 to pierce for one moment that veil of mys-
tery I To follow the departed soul through those gates of
darkness 1

11'

CHAPTER XXXin.

DUST TO DUST.

Those were ghastly days at the Manor-House which suc-
ceeded Mrs. Sedley's dertth.

The dull fog still clung about the park and shrouded the
avenue, and on the second day a solemn rain began to fall,
making everything sodden and unspeakably dreary. Mr.
Sedley app»eared to oe stunned by his loss. He had never be-
Heved in illness, unless it were a case of scarlet or typhoid
fever. That any woman could f|[o about with a mortal aip-
ease gnawing at her life, performing her ordinary duties, was
an idea <^uite out of his range, and it seemed almost impossi-
ble for him to realise that tlie old order of things whicn his

IBB"^^

£J0

TSaS! WINO OF AZRAEL.

wife had for so long maintained at the Manor-House was
over and done with forever.

Mr. Sedley very soon jet up a fiction that he had been a de-
voted husband, and th3l4ri& loss had utterly broken him.

His bewilderment, discomfort, and the profound disturb-
ance of long established habits, were all placed to the account
of his giief.

Viola never knew how those drtadful days were lived
through. 8he and Geoffrey drew ne^r together dunng that
funereal experience. He was strongly affected by his moth-
er's loss, not so much because he deeply felt it, as because he
found himself, for the first time, in the presence of death. He
began to confide some of his difficulties to Viola, when they
sat alone by the fire in the evenings, perhaps after passing
together the door of that closed room where the dead woman
lay so calm and peaceful.

'* Viola, they say in another fifty years nobody will believe
in the immortality of the soul."

They were sitting in the drawing-room towards evening,
the curtains not yet drawn. Outside was the same greyness
and mist that had hung about the place since Mrs. Sedley's
deaths

'* I hadn't thought much about these things, to tell you the
truth ; I imagined that I beheved in immortality, and God
and rehgion, but now — " He paused, with a look of awe on
his face. " What do you think, Viola ? I suppose you think
we were all taught to think in our childhood."

"O Geoffrey, I don't know," Viola exclaimed, thrusting
her hand through her hair and crouching lower over the fire.
** I have been so much shaken lately, I begin to feel that our
own beliefs will have to be learned ana believed all over
again if they are to be of any use to us. They don't answer
to one's call when one is in dire extremity. Thev leave you —
I believe they leave you more lonely and hopeless than pro-
fessed unbelievers are left in the i)resence of their dead. J.
can't tell you what a sense of despair comes to me when I
look at our mother's face, peaceful as it is. I can't help
thinking of her life, and the utter niin of it, and the mistake
of it— and nobody understands I Whon people will console
me and talk about heaven and all that, I feel as if I would
rather they told me brutally that there iano hope; that there
is no ground for our faiths, no pity for our love, no answer to
our yearnings,— anything would be better than this silly, hol-
low consolation that they offer you."

Q«oflErey looked amazed. '' I had no idea "

**No, or course you hadn't," she interposed hastily. **I
aiQ frigfhtened of it myself, and yet I feel as if there were
Borne faith more i*eal than the faith of our childhood,— only I
can't find it."

The conversation was an epoch in Geoffrey's life, and the
Btrengthening of a new impetus in Viola's. It was also the

DvsT TO nmr.

dSl

rere
.lyl

beginniDg of a friendship on fresh foundations between
brother and sister, which entirely altered the direction of de-
velopment of Geoffrey's character.

Tlie day of the funeral was cold.jyid damp. Brother and
sister, standing together at the window of the old schoolroom,
watched the gloorav procession draw up to the door, the silent
decorous bustle of black-coated mutes, and then the lifting of
the cofSn into the hearse.

Some feeling which Viola could not have explained induced
her to witness every ghastly detail.

Among the rows oi mist-shrouded trees, the black proces-
sion mo^ed solemnly to the park gates. AUghting from the
coach at the churchyard, Viola was carried back in memory
to her wedding-day when shje had passed between rows of
villagers and over garlands of fresh flowers to the clanging
of the noisy beUs.

In another few minutes they were all in their places, Mr.
Sedley and his two sons, PhiUp and Viola, side by side in the
chancel.

Every family in the neighbourhood, and all the Upton peo-

Sle, were represented, and among the congregation were the
la^'orHouso coachmen, Thomas the gai*dener, and **old
Willum," a little more bent, but otherwise just the same as
of yore. At the sight of him, for the first time, Viola had to
foi*ce back threatening tears. '

But the trial wns yet to come.

The first part of the corcir.or.v over, the procession moved
out to the fH'ey churchyard, ana wended its way through the
tombstones to the open grave. Viola's heart gave a sick
throb.

Cold, gloomy, gruesome ! There was not a gleam of hope,
not'a ray of sunsliine oi' of triumph in the wliole depressing
scene 1 It seemed as if, in life and in death, Mrs. Sedley were
alike incapable of evoking such a passionate note. Her Chris-
tian's faith and her Ciiristian's tnist were equally destitute of
inspiring force. *' Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust—" Never
in her life had Viola doubted so profoundly, never had she
plunged into such an abyss of despair, of religion, of God, as
when she stood by her mother's grave and watched the coffin
with its white wreaths being lowered into the earth. How
gi-eedy it seemed ; yearning to close up over its prey ! The
by standers wore flmgi^ig flowers onto the coffin: primroses
and violets, and the fir.t-fruits of the garden. As through the
mist=i of a dream, Viola saw familiar faces round the grave:
Mrs. Evans was theie, and Dick, and Sir Philip and I-iady
Dendraith, and Thomas and " old Willum " and Mr. Pellett
(how kind of him to come!), and ihcre was Caleb looking sol-
enm and nrgumentative in the baHtground. At first sight of
his face, Viola was seized with a nitid impulse to laugh. As
her eyes turned away from the countenance of the philoao-

,¥?

', r

.t:\\

■ » V

1 -^--1

THE WINO OP AZ^ABt.

pher ttiQv lighted unexpectedly upon another and only too
lamilMr face!

She had heen told by IjfeB. Evans that Harry Lancaster was
not to be at the funeral, wt Mrs. Evans must have been mis-
informed, for there he stood, half hidden by Sir Philip's stal-
wart form, and partially eclipsed, at intei*vals, by Mrs. Pel-
lett's new funeral bonnet. Viola gave a visible start, and at
the same instant, as if in grira comment on the nature of all
human affection, the first clod of earth fell with a dull thud
upon the coffin.

The sweet flowers lay crushed and stained beneath it.

"Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

Viola's eyes contracted with a look of terror.

"In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal
life — -"

She looked up piteously, as if she were asking whether that
hope were trust woi-thy or utterly hollow, as it seemed to her
to-day in this grey churchyard, amidst the black-gloved
respectability that hung its head decorously round the grave.

*' Sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life."

"Eternal life!" Harry was not more hope-inspired than
Viola at that moment.

For that dim defrauded unresponsive spirit, what would
life eternal have to oflPer? Growth, discovery, creation? a
tapestried experience making richer the possibilities of all
human existence? Not this, but only a stagnant gazing at the
same monotonous group of images, a repetition ad infinitum
of the same dull idea ! Tliat surely was not life.

With all her sanctity, with all her religious enthusiasm, the
dead woman had no breadth of spiritual outlook; it was to lit-
tle local things that her mind held relation ; to changing tem-
poral institutions that she <jlung. flinging over them the
threadbare mantle of religion. A life entirely composed of
spiritual experience, an etenial life in which no small ob-
servances, or earthly things had part was inconceivable for
such a nature.

Less reasoned but none the less profound was Viola's doubt
of the promises of the burial service. Oh I for a moment cf
unquestioning belief —anything to still the horrible fear that

Ciessed her as she peered down into the black abyss of
th, and felt the spirit departing from her for ever.

Harry divined that she was passing through a great mental
crisis.

What might the new wave of emotion sweep away in itfl
course? These thoughts of death had touched her closely in-
deed. What if some day she had to stand beside another grave
and hear that dull thud upon the coffin-lid as the greedy
earth closed round it? What would she feel then if she had
allowed the beloved and loving soul to go fi-om her, perhaps
for ever, into the great darkness, still thinking that his love
was but half returned, still gineving and sore at heart because

m GRIM EARNEST.

263

of her? Would any one of the motives for which she had
done this thing seem worth a tboiutht at such a moment?
Ahl no; desperate and heart-stiiiSmi, ^e would feel only
that she had Doen false to the one divine thing in Ufe, and
that her sorrow and hopeless remorse had come too late !

In the presence of Death she was conscious of the unutter-
able pathos of all affection, the tragedy that comes sooner or
later in the train of every intense human emotion.

Harry, watching her as she stood with her eyes fixed iipon
the grave, felt a growing conviction that the battle with Fate
which he and Sibella were waging for the possession of this
woman's soul, had entered upon a new phase.

She looked up, and their eyes met.

He drew a long breath. Viola was awake at last; loving to
her utmost, hating to her utmost; reckless and well-nigh des-
perate. She was ready now for anything.

They were on their way to the crucial moment. Had she
sufficient force to hold on to the end? Once resolved, would
she fling behind her all weak remorse, free herself from the
climbing remnants of abandoned motives? Would she eschew
fatal hesitations and prove herself to be made of the stuff
which produces great deeds of heroism or of crime? would
she act boldly and consistently as she had resolved, or would
she show herself the child ot her circumstances, stumbling
fatally under the burden of her sad woman's heritage of inde-
cision, fear, vain remorse, untimelv scruples? No marvel if
she did so, but woe to her and to all concerned if she failed at
the critical moment ! A short time now would decide every-
thing!

t !

! I

- \

■.'»

f'>^^

CHAPTER XXXIV.

[ntal

IN GRIM EARNEST.

Yes, she was ready for anything!

She moved as one m a dream ; the people around her seemed
like shadows. She spoke, and smiled, and played her
part among them ; but even as she spoke that grey church-
yard, with its open grave, was before her mind's eye; she
heard the thud ot earth upon the coffin-Ud ; while the clammy
mist seemed to be clinging round her, and the words went out
mournfully over the tombs, *' Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

Sad, hopeless, terrible, seemed the game of life; the thought
of it created a recklessness that Viola had never known be-
fore. Scruples, hesitations, seemed ridiculous in the gaunt
presence of Death, who mocks at human effort, and cuts short
the base and the noble at their work with grim ini partiality,
y^t as soon ns she left the Manor-House to it'lurn lo ' er ^?li«f"

254

THE WING OF AZRAEL.

pidu home the daring_ spirit suddenly departed fTOmber, afl
if by inaf^ie. On the iiiraant that she crossed the threshold
ohe fe't the fitrange, gloom v, will destroying influence of the
place descend upon hei-, pafl-like.

Philip's dominant spirit seemed to pervade the whole house,
even in his absence.

Though he was often away from home he used to appear at
uncertain hours duruig the day, and Viola never knew when
she was likely to be alone.

Her husband seemed to take a delight in haunting her, and
in turning up when and where she least expected him.

He used to come in stealthily and appear at her elbow before
she know of his approach. This custom had the efiEect of mak-
ing her intensely, miserably nervous.

After that experience in the west wing she had been very
easily startled, and now she lived in a perpetual state of
strain and dread, and had contracted a iiaoit of perpetually
lookiTig up in expectation of her husband's panther-like ap-
proach.

Her power of resistance and initiative seemed to bo charmed
cut of ner by th(» more atmosphere of the place; it was almost
as if Philip possessed some mysterious magnetic newer, so
overwhelming was the influence which he assertea over all
within liis reach, especially over those of nervous tempera-
ment. In spite of the associations of the room in the west
wing, Viola was still attracted to it ; id she felt, moreover,
that she could not rest until she had lound and put back in.
its place, the precious knife which she had let fall in her terror.
But she dreaded that Philip might surprise her there a^in,
and for that reason put off day after day her intended visit to
that haunt of shadows.

When she had almost given up hope of finding an oppor-
tunity, Philip announced that ho was going out for the
■whole afternoon, and Viola at once resolved to choose that
day for her quest. It would not take more. than a few min-
utes to replace the weapon in the oak cabinet; if she went
immediately after her husband left the house, surely even he
could not discover her.

She watched him out of sight, and then looking nervously
round, she crossed the dark ball, avoiding the smihng eyes of
the portraits, andpassed through the locked door leading to
the west wing. Trie stillness of so many empty rooms was
oppressive. Stepping as quietly as she could, viola passed
the closed doors until she came to the Death-chamber, whose
lock she turned with boating heart. After a moment's pause
she entered.

There was the great black bedstead, sombre and solemn ;
there stof)d the oak cabinet with its carved door h;i If oi)en,
just as it liad been left on that dreadful aftemoim.

Viola sickened with reasonless terror.

^he felt as if she must turn and leave her errand unaccom-

iy QBIM EAUN^ST.

plished. But she resisted the impulse, and went forward with
her eyes fixed on the floor, seeking tki|.fnllen knife.

I3 there some Fate that guides the" footsteps of men, an\'
maps out their path for them from birth to death?

Viola had always been convinced that she was thus guided ;
she had j^i^iven up all expectation of rescue, and looked mtothe
eyes of Destiny mournfully and hopelessly.

Every raoveraent, every act, every thought, was foreordained
to lead up to misfortune.

She stooped suddenly and picked up the knife from the
floor, where it lay just as she had dropped it. She was
thankful to hold it agoir in her hands, to know that it was
safe.

When last she held it thus, she was battling fiercely against
herself— against the supreme passion of her life; and now-
now the faith had been lost, conscience defeated, hope
abandoned. She laid the little dagger passionately to her
lips, looking round with her quick nervous glance, as if dread-
in;:: every moment to see the form of her husband looming
through the dusk.

She laid the weapon carefuUv in its hiding-place beside the
other treasures, locked the cabinet, and with a sigh of relief
turned away.

A qualm of fear passed through her as she approached the
bed, but this time no figure emerged from its shadows. She
reached the door safely, went out, and locked it.

Thank Hea,ven the ordeal was over ! On turning, her
heart gave a great bound, for she found herself standing face
to face with Mrs. Barber! She uttered a little cry of dismay,
and put out her hand to steady hereelf against the hntel of
the door.

'*Mrs. Barber," she said at last, " what are you doing up
here?"

Mrs. Barber set her lips.

" I am here, ma'am," she replied with dignity, "in the per-
formance of my duty. I came to see that the rooms are kept
in order."

"Oh!" said Viola.

"Your tea is waiting for you," added Mrs. Barber, who felt
that she had the best of the situation; " it was taken in half
an hour ago."

" I will go and have it," said Viola hurriedly.

She hastened down the echoing corridor, ciossed the hall,
and shut hei-self into the i 'tie ante-room, where, as ^Irs. Bar-
ber had reproachfully announced, the tea was stancting un-
touched. But the tea had yet longer to wait.

Viola went down on her knees on the hearth-rug, absently
taking the poker and goading the already willing little tire
into a brighter blaze.

Maria, who was basking in the warmth, set up a loud piir-
JiBg, and rubbed herself against the arm of her mistress.

I r

\ \'-

*•

' c I

A fi*''

THE WINO OF AZBAt!L.

,(,,,

Viola knew now for^ertain "\yhat she had often beford
vaguely suspected : thalln Philip^s absence she was watched
by the housekeeper I

Again and again she had found reason to fear it, and to-
day's instance confirmed the suspicion. There remained not
the shadow of doubt in her mind that Mrs. Barber had fol-
lowed her this afternoon to the West Wing; that in fact M-
Barber was her gaoler. Whom would Pnilip employ ne_j?
Possibly the kitchen-maid 1

) The walls of her piison seemed to be coming nearer and
nearer. Viola was reminded of the gruesome old story of
the prisoner shut up in a tower whose walls encroached a
foot each day, till at last they closed in and crushed him to
death.

When would the catastrophe arrive? She would rather it
came at once than keep her thus perpetually on the rack of
expectation and dread.

She gave a nervous shudder and looked round the room
suspiciously, as if fearing that she was not alone even now.

How did she know that she was free from espionage? The
whole household might be spies for aught that she knew I
There was no escaping Philip's vigilance. It seemed as if her
most secret thoughts were at his mercy.

PeeUng nervous and overwrought, Viola was just moving
into a low chair before the fire, when a faint sound caught
her ear.

She started and looked round, expecting to see her hus-
band, but there was no one in the room. The sound came
.again: a faint tapping on the window-pane.

Viola's heart began to beat. She listened anxiously. In
another second again came the stealthy tap upon the glass.

It was raining, and there was a slight beating of rain-drops
on the panes, which Viola tried to think might have been
mistaken for the other sound ; but when this was repeated a
third time, she rose, summoning all her courage, and went
towards the window. There, out in the dusk, she saw a
man's face looking in.

She clutched the nearest chair, turning very white. The
man signed to her to open the window. She hesitated for
a moment, and then with a sort of blind courage she went up
close to it and peered out.

•'Whoisit?'^

" Don't be afraid: it is Caleb Foster. Open the window.''

In an instant the roar of the sea smote loudl}^ on the ear,
and the soft west wind, and rain were blowing into the fire-
lit room.

*' What is it? Will you come in, or—?" She hesitated, look-
ing back nervously over her shoulder.

''^'Come out to me," said Caleb. "I won't detain you a
moment. Oh I it is raining; you will get wet."

IN GhiM EARNEST.

257

look-
lyou 8

The waves were dragging the stones savagely hack and for-
ward just below.

" I was directed to give you this," said Caleb calmly, bring-
ing a letter from his pocket, where it had evidently not gain^
in cleanliness or smootliness, "and I was told to bid you bo
of good cheer, and bmve and determined, for you have faith-
ful friends."

" Are you in their confidence?" asked Viola, flushing.

" I know nothing," said Caleb ; '* private affairs are not my
business. I am (?alled to deliver a note and a ridiculous mes-
sage, and 1 deliver them. If other people take pleasui-e in
emotional excesses, I regret it ; but on the principle that the
individual is at liberty to do what he pleases, on condition
that he does not encroach upon the liberty of others, I offer
no obstruction to the errors of our friends. They employ me
as a messenger— I am willing to oblige; I ask no quesiions.
Should you consult me, I might be ready to give mj opinion ;
otherwise I abstain from interference. Good-evening. The
sooner I am off the better. One word of unasked advice,
however: don't acton impulse; think everything out calmly
from all sides; count the cost before you take any decided
step, and don't flv in the face of the world if you can avoid

it. Socrates '' But Caleb thought better of it, and retired

without mentioning what Socrates had to say on this point.
Viola hastened into the house to read her letter. It was
from Harry, asking her to meet him at a spot on the downs
about a quarter of a mile from the coast-guard station, on
the following afternoon at four o'clock. Sioella was expect-
ing a visit from Philip at that time, so there would be no dif-
ficulty. Harry would be at the appointed spot in any case;
if Viola did not come, he would understand that something
had happened to prevent her or that she refused to accede to
his request. Viola pressed her hands to her brow distractedly.
The time for decision had indeed come !

Every fear, prejudice, faith, principle, superstition which
she had ever Known seemed to rush back upon her in . a
mighty flood, forbidding a response to the appeal of this let-
ter. The secrecy was i-evolting to her instmcts; the deceit
and underhand plotting seemed intolerable.

She realised tnat she had nevertheless to choose between
that and life-long endurance of her present circumstances.
These left her no alternative. She was startled out of her
cogitations by the sound of a soft footstep in the corridor.

She flung the letter into the fire, and stiOod awaiting her
husband's approach. He had returned very soon. Maria
got up and slunk away.

"Well, my dear,'* he said with his wonted smile. ** What
have you been doing this afternoon ? You are flushed."

She put her hands to her cheeks.

:!.;!

i '

, ■£;■ T

'■

J4.3|

S5ti

riW WJNU Of AZUAKL

"I 800 t(v> Mmi you hftvo not. fnkow vour t^^a." Ho IooIccmI
ni lu^r k<H»iily. Hlio fort tlmt ho wouhl ihmuI ovory Hoorot in
hor <iy<^.

'* I luu n«>t n gnvit toa drinkor," hIu R«i«l.

"Still, yon (io KonoriiUy Uiko it. Iluvo you had viHitofs?'*

" No -.>n*o him Imvu in il\o houwv"

"()l» 1 Ivivo yoii nu>t Honioono out of Mjo houHo/"

*' I Hnw CiilVh," h\w answonni, Kt rnguIinK nptiuHt tho Im-
ninnhinfj: Honwilion of j>o\vorlof<Hm»HH wliioh IMiiUp'H pivwuico
ahvavH onv^t-tni in hor.

" Yt»n md Cii\ob wmmu to havo a ^ifivat «h>al in common/' ho
roniarkoii. ' Woir you out, thou, m all thin rain?"

*' Yos, for A 8Jjort tiino."

"TalkiuKtoailobr'

"Yos."

** Wtnihi it fwvm imnortinont if I woro to onquiiv tho 8ub-
joot of your oolloquy r

k-^ho liosiiat^Hi.

"1 think you may just as woll toll nio/'said Philip. **I
shall Ihul out if 1 wish t«> kn»>w.''

** \\v you p>ing to oross qutvlion Calohf

"Tiiat is a mattor of dotail. " siiid Philin. *'T only romark
tlijjt if 1 wish to know I shalf kaow. How havo you boon
s|H»ndinM. (ho ivst of tho aflornooiW"

" 1 am ti!HMi of answorinf? ipirstions," sho siiid with a suddon
Has)) of roluMlion.

*' Oh ! somothin>; up, ovidonlly. ihis /.ft<M'noon. That, too, T
shall find out. Your atTaii*s so<mo io Ih» p>ttin^: into a vory
oiunplii at<Mi ooudition. niy doar: 1 oan't say I think you havo
tho luwd to v'arry thnaifili an olaborato systom of |)lotH. It
soiMUfl mIso a littlo ii.oonsistont with your iqibringinK and
yiMir * prinoiplos.' 1 su]moso. howovor, it is tho natunil
wo;uH>n of tho wonkor vi^shoI. Wouumi tiikolo it by instinot."

"My luvtMfwity, you mi^ht say."

"From ptx^foivlioo, my doar* I know your adorablo sex."

rhilij> ostablishod lums(>lf in th;* oasy ohair aiul strotchod
himsolf loisuivly.

" An tumsuailv pootl fliv." ho si\id. loaning baok nnd cross-
ing his lop*. ** Vtuihavo Iwhmi burning somothin^. 1 soo."

Viola lookrti round with a stnrt, and Philip sinilod.

"Thor»» is a littlo bit of oharivd jwipor sticking to tho side
of tho gmto."

Ho took tho ]>okor and turnod it down, »md as tho boat
caught it. ouo lould s<h» tho linos of handwriting in little
glowing si>>t« across tho noto-]>ajH»r.

"Put two and two togother H'm! Did Caleb bring a
noter

"I havo already oxplainod that T would rather not answer
any mon» quostions." siiid Viola. "If you an* so certain of
finding out all that you witi^b to know, why catechise me?

TN OJilM KAHNKHT.

2r*o

Fiml out wbnt yoti nlonw^; T doti^t i||ink T Hlionld mm vory
nuioh wluit V'>u <li«l.

Hho wiiH tfiinkitiu of n ffi'<\v flnircliyn»'(l ntid at) omui khivm
and ih(« thotiiiCiit of il, Ix-on^ht u (it'licioim hmmm) oi n'mi. If
tho woi'Ht rniuo to the worHi

" M,y d<»nt'," Hai<I IMiilip, "oxnuHo my fwiyin^^ «o, hut yrni
aro loHJng your lookH."

lAho rnlwMl hrroynhrowH HligliMy, but did not, nriHWor. '* All
thin pldittiriK k(M<nH you atixiouH it. \h ti<»t fxToiiiinK.**

Hho Hiuilod. biiu wiw nut Horry to Ihj Ujhh \)\vi\H\\\fi; In hlH
Higlit.

"You do not HooMi t(» t/iko iini< h intcn-Ht in y«»ur (irom
oitlH^p," h(^ wont on. " Now Mu^rc Ih r.o /j^rn/itcr folly a wifo
can Im> guilty of ilian to noglrct her fipiK^urancu. Qor hj«-
band in apt W follow aftor sinujfro god-4."

"Tho Htrr.ng(!r tlio b(»ttiM'," viola nniitcrnd l)otwoon hor
t(Mitb.

"You may treat all tboHo fnn'»,(»rH witli diKdnin, my doar,
but lean aHHiu'o you yoiu' conduct iw nioHt fooliHii. A m.m
oj:j»cctH !iiH wif<^ to niakd Homo ofTort to attra(!t bini."

Viola wjiH Hilont.

"To bo frank, my doar, you bavo in ovc^ry way turntMl out
unHatiHfaciory ; aH an invoHtuH'nt (ho to i»ut it) I may Hay
that you aro! in |M)int of f<iot. inonw>r Ij'hh of a fraud jKir-
d(m my orud(«noHH. I bargaininl lor a wifo wbo would 1k»-
havo as otbor wives bobavo, an<l alHo I naturally ox|KHrt<j<l
tliat hIio would do wbat you bav(5 bitborto failed tto do pro-
vide tbe family witb an lioir."

*' A duty and a privilege indee<l 1" Viola obK(M*vod.

*' Wby you Hueer I know nt)t," naid IMiilio. " 1 could have
had women by the dozen wbo would have neon only too de-
ligbted to fill yom* ponition, at any price . PorlmpH you will
undeixtimd tblit I feel a little ' Hold ' imdertbocinMniiHtancM'H.''

" I underntand only too well everytbing tbat b.iH U) do
witb our fatal marriage. W'ly wont yoii let me go^"

"And bave a scandal atta<rli»«l to my nam(»! No. tbank
you, tbat won't suit m(» at all. It will miit me bett<'r to brmg
you to r<»aHon. T bave tried fair mejuiH, and tb<«y have faiUnl ;
now I Rheli try foul. I am tire<l of all tbese c^bildiKb con-
Kpiraci(>H witb your former lover and bis chi^rc amir, wbo, you
may not be awan\ is carrying on a tlirt^ition with tbat gay
Lotliario at the same time that hIu; makes love to mr*."

"To you."'

"Yes, my innocent one, to me."

Viola KxJked at him coldly. "You are very cb»vor," sho
said, "but there are some women whom you (rouM not un-
dei-stand if you studied them for a thousand yeai*H. Mrs.
Lincoln i8 one of them."

" Then you undorst^uid this Hibyllin«» crt»atur<»?"

" No; hut I am not so hop<'loHHly at fiiult as you aro, for at
least I am aware that I do not understiind her.^'

''A

'il »l

1^:

it,

45 I

260

THE WING OF AZJRAEL.

" Well, if a man of t|g^ world doesn't know when a woman
wants to flirt with hinTne ought to bo ashamed of himself."

Viola could only look at her husband in bewilderment.
Why was he telling her this? Did he really believe what he
said, or was it to arouse in her mind distrust of Sibella?
Surely Philip could not l>e attempting to excite her jealousy !

He was too clever for that, yet what could be his motive
for such assertions? If Sibella had given any reason for
them, it was certainly for some object connected with Violn's
own fate. Sibella m love with Philip was unthinkable.
Harry's letter said that Philip was cxjM?ctcd to call at Fir
Dell to-morrow afternoon. Wnat did this mean? Viola was
puzzling over these complications, when Philip broke the
silence once more.

"Now, my dear, I should like you to understand things a
little. I have stood a gi eat deal of nonsense from you, know-
ing how absurdly you were brought up. and how ignorant
you were of the ways of the world. But it ' really time that
you knew a Uttle more. Perhaps you are not aware that be-
fore our marriage my father advanced a large sum of money
to your father to enable him to pav his debts and to stay on
at the Manor-House, which otherw.be he would have had to
leave. Liberal settlements were made on you, and. in fact,
your father — knowing my infatuation — availed himself of
the opportunity to make a gtxid haul. I, of course, thought
so charming a bride ample indemnification. I believe that
your father did pay some of his debts, and he continued to
live at the Manor-House, but he also began to contract fresh
debts, on the strength of his alliance with our family, and it
is morally certain that we shall never see a penny of that
n)oney again. You will pardon my remarking that, all things
consiaoi-ed, your father got decidedly the Iwtter of us."

"It would be more reasonable to complain of these matters
to him, then," said Viola. " I, leaving been, not the seller, but
the thing sold, can scarcely be called to account for its own-
er's deMn(iuenoios. If you allowed yourself to be impoHed
upon, you have no one but yourself to blame. Such acci-
dents will happen oven to the cleveres*^ of piu*chasei*s."

"Still, I think that the matter concerns you more closely
than you are disposed to allow." said Philip. " If a man buys
a pointer who will not point, he has either to send him back
towhei^ became from, or to train him into bettor ways—
with the help of the whip if necessary."

Viola's eyes flashed.

"You can go too far with mf," she said.

" Possibly ; but up to now it soenm I have not gone far
enough."

" I don't see what i oiains for you to do as regards insult
and insolence."

"Oh! I asBUi*e you we are only beginning. I have been

A PBRILOm PROSECf.

playing hitherto, and playing very b^d^y-
ue in grun earnest. I shal! exact wlmt it
most farthing."

In future it shall
is due to the utter-

CHAPTER XXXV.

A PERILOUS PROJECT.

Adrienne Lancaster disturbe<i husband and wife at their
Ute-^-Ute.

She was in preat anxiety, for she had just learned that her
mother stood in imminent danger of losing the little pittance
on which they had hithort-o been strugp;Iing to live and to
keep up appearances. What was to become of them if the
blow aid fall, Adrienno dared scarcely conjecture. Her
mother had been urging her to accept Bob Hunter's proposal,
resorting to tears, commands, reproaches, and finally to
" wi-estlmgs in prayer" even in ner daughter's presence.
Adrienno was looking alanmingly ill and worried.

" Evei'vthing seems to come at once," she said; " not only
have I all these burdens to bear, but Harry also is a great
anxiety." She explained that her brotlu;r had been going
perpetually to Mrs. Lincoln's, who of course had a very evu
influpnce upon him: and wliat appeared so alarming was that
he seemeti perfectly infatuated and would hear no word
against her.

" At this very moment," said Adrionne, despairingly, " he
is sitting? in her library at Fir Dell, listening to one knows not
what wickedness and folly."

Had Adrioimc been present at Fir Doll, she wo\dd have
been astonished indeed. It was woi-se even than she thought.

** I wish to Heaven we could do this without so much plot-
tine and concealment," Harry was saying. " Viola hates it,
and I fear at any moment she may do something dt^pemto
which will u])Ket all oui* plans.

*' The sooner we make our attempt, the better," said Sibella;
"but for my part I have no scruple about using th(> only
weapons left us by the enemy. A prisoner has to om])loy
what means hec;m get. if he wants lo escai>e. If he t'lkes his
gaoler honestly into his confidence, his chances of regaining
hia freedom are, to say the least of it, inconsidtM able. Picture
to yourself a man bound hand and foot, and at the same time
cunningly persua<led by those who have bound him that he
must make no diveitful or underhand attemi>t to liberate
himself. That man is an idiot if he listons to such toac;hing;
he must try anything that offers itsc^lf subterfugt^, strata-
gem, what you will in oi'der to overcome the bruto-force

"2^2

THE Wim} or AZRAEL.

which has been used nMindt him. I vv\h\\ you could porauaclo
Viola of thiH." ^

" 1 can never peiwuado her," SibeUa answered. *' The Rriin
necessities of lier position may force her to use dist;\stcful
tools, but she will never lose herscruples. Slie will i^ever set;
that these hesitations, this half-heartedne^s, in the stnipglo
for freedom tend as nmch as tin? dir^«ct force of the enemy to
make it unattainable. But this is the work of centunes; it
is in the bkH>d ; ar^^uments are unavailinc. We miu^t ti-ust
to the force of the personal iinnetus in Viola's case. She will
never change her feeling rapidly enough through the suapion
of ideas. What are ideas, in tlie face of jirejudices? Stars at
midday 1"

*' Do you think she will keep the ai)pointnient to-morrow
afternoon?" asked Harry.

" I would not count too surely upon it. ITer notions nro at
present elastic. She may at any nionunit have ;•. relapse and
determine to do hi r duty, as sli(» calls it, to the end. If you
have any news to tell me, ( ome lo the heach heiow my houf^o
tomorrow morning. Come in an> case, as I may have some
thing to say to you. Try and keep your sister away from
Viola if you can. She is a dangerous foe to us. We could
scarcely have one more formidable."

Harry shook his head gloomily.

Everything seemtHl going wrong. The pending family mis-
fortune was not only most unh cky in itself, hui it happened
at a most unlucky time. Adrienne seemed at her wits' end
to know what to do. She said she would try and lii.d em-
plovment in teaching if the worst came to the worst..

if it did come to the woi'st, llariy felt that he conkl not
desert them: and then, what was to become ol Viola?

It was nevertheless decided between him and Sibella that
plans for the llight should be made on the following after-
noon, as if nothiiig had occurred. They could be altered if
necessiirv, but might as well be arranged. Sibella was to be
informed at once if Vioki agreed. Viola and Harry were to
leave the country as quickly jvh possible, making up their
minds to face all possihilities, beginning life over agam, and
takitig their fate m their own hands."

*' Dt>u't forget at any time that you did decide to take the
risk, " said Sd)ella. "Viola risks more than vou do; and
whatever troubles you may have to weather, they must in-
evitably fiill harder upon her. She gives up everything i"or
jiuu'sake. Always remember that, for the time for feeling
what you have sacrifleeii lM»gins. I need scarcely tell you
this; 6ut even the best of men are sometimes forgetfid."

•' I hope I shall not be forgetful in this matter," said Harry,
gravely ; *' though 1 mn not among the bt^st of men."

Siliella undertook to do all she could to detain Philip next
dav as long as j>ossib1e, though she h»lt it dillJcut to c 'Tiit
upon his mo vemeutM with certainty. She harboured < sM^pl-

A pjsNJwira ruojsvf.

^03

cion that he had ^icsaed their whole plan, and was qiiietlv
watching then\ ready at the np:ht moment to frustrnto it.
Thei*e was so'nethiug about liis expi*<5HHi()n and nwinner that
was not roaasurinp:. Ih^ nevc»r brouthtMl a word hinting at
suspicion, but SilH?11a fcareci that hi» did HiiHpc'ct; tbouffh now
nearly his guessoH fitted tho fads, she could not toll. On thnt
day when they had in<^t on the Ixjach, a chal''*ng(^ had been
tacitly given and accept(«l In'twoon them. Fliihp Dendraith
was not tl... man to forget tiiat (ihailcnge, a/id he knew tliat
Silielia's memory was at least as long as Ids.

They were thus in a state of swi'ct war, raeoting always
with compliments and smiles, fencing with one another with
amazing skill.

" We nev( r tire," Sibella used to say (cheerfully. •* He ii
resolved and I am resolved. I am not like Viola. I fight
such an adversiiry with th(5 fii-st best weapon. I will oftpose
force with fraud till justice has deliy(M'ed us. What do I
care? Injury and insult to a suffering sister shall not be
allowed to 8U(.'('eod for want of u little frank transgression. I
will fool hiui to the top of his bent if I can, as he would fool
me. What man can stand flattery? I flatter him. 8ome
times I think I have made way, but possibly his submission
is only a ruf<e to dec«'iv(^ me; one can never toll. Still, the
man is vain; the heel of A<;hille8l He is used to the homage
of women: that gives m(» a handle. If he thought I was
falling a victim to his fascinations, I believe even his astute-
ness would fall him. W *ll, we shall see. Everything hangs
on the next f<m' days, and m\ich on to-morrow's interview
being safely a('hiev(«l and the arrangem'.Mits well made. Give
Viola written directions in case of mistakes, and make sure
she undoi-stands them thoroughly. And don't be so excited
at seeing \wv again, that you forget all pruden< e. Philip may-
have discovered Oa1(?b's visit, for aught we know. You can t
be too careful. IMay your part biavely and cautiously.
Everything depends on tiittes in such mattt'rs. I shall oe
anxiously thinking of you, while 1 and my visitor will enter-
tain one an<»th(»r with our usual flow of badinage and com-
pliment. There are few things I would not do in order to de-
feat this man." Sibella clasped her hands, and her eyes
sparklixl. ** A fl<'rce struggle lies before us now. See if (as i
Pope says) "you don't find me equivocating pretty genteelly I"

TEE WINQ OF AZRABL.

4^.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE WHIRLPOOL OF PATE.

The force of circunistances prevailed.

Mrs. Dixie, overpowered bv anxiety and vexation, became
sufficient! jr ill to work upon her daughter's fears; and when
next morning the dreaded blow fell, Adrienne was not only-
crushed by the misfortune, but thoroughly alarmed at her
mother's condition.

The old lafly was now perpetually alluding to the work-
house as the final destination of the Lancaster family, and
she gave Adrienne to understand that tliis declension of their
fortunes was entirely due to her undutiful obstinacy about
Bob Hunter.

Mrs. Dixie even des('« nded to jarticulars regarding their
future existence in that last refuge for the destitute.

Adrienne, knowing that in truth they were quite penni-
less, and that her mother's life depended upon careful nurs-
ing, was almost in despair. At tlus crisis Fate decreed that
Bol) Hunter should appear apaiu at the cottnpic to repeat his
periodic proposal. Adrienne, tired out v\ ith trouble and per-
plexity, end^l by accepting it. As Harry said bitterlj-, it
was a foregone conclusion.

From that moment Mis. Dixie began to recover, and Bob
Hunter pirouetted in triumph

It was far from being the happiest time of Adrienne's life.
She thought of Sibclla, and wondered what she would say
when she heard of the ongfjgement.

" But what is that woman to nic?" she angrily asked her-
self.

On that same eventful morning Adrienne went over to
Upton Castle to announce the news. She was anxious not to
allow it to reach her friend through village gostzip.

Viola's congratulations were not effusive.

*' Adnenne," she exclaimed, on first '•ealizing the nature of
the announcement, "oh! how could \, u be so mad?"

Adrienne had not at this time ntentioned the misfortune
that had befallen them. She coloured painfully.

'* Bob is a good fellow at heart, arl I do think it is all for
the best, and I mean to do my utmost to make him happy.
And then, —well, you know, there is my mother ill, ana re
quiring all sorts of things we can't ^ive her, and she fr- Is .so
t*>rribly our position. You know it is as we feared. Wo got
a letter frr>m the lawyer this morning; well, in short, tilings
could not be woi-so."

*'0 Adrienne! 1 am grieved; what a curse the want oi

TBE WHIRLPOOL OF FATE.

266

money seems to bel And you have to sacrifice yourself be-
cause of this." "**

" Am I to watch my mother dyinpf, nnd know that there is
nothing before us in the future but jrentoel starvation ?— in-
deed, I don't see how it can be oveu genteel T

"I think,'' said Viola, growing vcrv white, "that it is bet-
ter to be in your giavo than aUve and—a woman."

Adrienne looked shocked.

**0h no, dear Viola; a woman always has a noble and a
happy sphere in her home, wherever it may be; wc must not
take despairing views of hfe, even in the darkest houiu"

'* This ought not to be," cried Vioia. "Can't your brother

help you? can't you work? can't you "

And my mother ill, our homo broken up, and not a penny
to call our own? After all, I am going to do my duty to Bob.
and I always think it is a woman's fault if her home isn't
happy."

Adrienne did not meet with much more encouragement
wlien she told her brother of her engagement.

" I believe it to be my duty,'' she said a|X)logetically.

•* Oh, in that case — '-' he shrugged his shoulders. "I have
sometimes wondered how these things come about: now I
see: the prwess seems very simple." Presently he laid his
hand on her shoulder, softening. " So the burden is laid upon
you,^' he said, with a sigh; *' why can't I bear it instead?"

She shook her head.

••That is impossible, as you know. Don't grieve, dear
Harry ; 1 am not unhappy. I feel that I am doing right, and
that 1 shall have strength to perform my task."

Harry thought that his sister had had' enough tasks to per-
form already. What she needed was the radiance of a great
joy to warm and expand her wliole being. Always in the
shade, she was becoming ^\\\e and poor, liko a flower grown
in a cellar. In course of time she would perhap» become a
second Mrs. Evans, busily adding to the depression of an al-
ready low-spirited world.

*'I am satisfied that it is my duty," said Adrienne.

** Oh, confound this everlasting ' duty ' ! " Harry exclaimed
irritably. Adrienne did not at once reply. She had notiecd
that her brother had be<'ome quick-ti'nipered, not to say mo-
rose, of late, and she wondered if Mrs. Lincoln had anything
to do with this change for the woi-se.

••You may say ' confound duty !' dear Harry," said Adri-
enne; "but you know that you feel its sacred call in your
heart, and dare not disobey it any more than I dare U) do

80."

*'Ohl don'il 1?" cried Harry, who in his present mood re-
garded "duty" with unmitigattnl acrimony and ill-will. t
would dare to do nnything. No good coniea of prudenco, or
duty either, that I can see."

Adrienne was much coi\oev^^ at her brother's frame of

■X0\
■ i ■'•;■

TEE WINQ OF AZRAKL.

\..,

mind, and again put it down to the evil influence of Mrs.
Linc(4D.

" I wish I could get you to look upon my engagement in a
different light, dear Harry." she pleaded.

" Pray mention the light," said Harry affably, "and I will
see it in that at once. "

t^he shook her head.

•' Don't you recognise that Duty "

*'Look here, if you mention that word again," he said, ** I
shall emigrate."

"No, no," interposed Adrienne hastily. "You must see
that for a woman "

"Timbuctoo or the Wild West," Harry mimnured threat-
eningly.

"A woman's lot in life is different from a man's," Adri-
enne persisted.

"Very," said Harry; "she can't go off at a moment's no-
tice to Timbuctoo."

" Upon her shoulders are laid the beautiful and sacred cares
of married life," pureued Adrienne. "I believe that upon
these rest the vorjr foundations of society."

"Once upon a time," said Harry grimly, ' it was the cus
torn to buila a living creature into the walls of every city, for
otherwise it was tnoup^hfc the city would not stand. This
premature interment, with such unpleasantness as might en
sue to the chosen victims, was intended to make firm and
solid the foundations of society. Perhaps it did. The foun-
dations, at any rate, seem to do exceedm^ly solid and firm.
When is the marriage to be?"

"As soon as possible. Bob wants it at once, and mother
too. We should not po away for more than a few days, and
mother would come to us almost immediately. Wo thought
the wpdding might bo in ten days. Of course you will give
nieaway."

" I should have thought a grown-up woman might be con-
sidered able to give herself away; but if you wish it — in ten
days," he repeated, thouf:httnlly, to himself. After that he
fell into a reverie, from which nothing could permanently
rou^^e him. Even when Adrienne recurred to the topic of
" duty.' he let it pass unchallenged.

That this mildness was the result of preoccupation was
proved a little later in the day, when he and Adri**nne strolled
together to the beach. Harry fiinging himself at fiM length
against the pebble ridge lielow Fir DeJl and throwing stones
into the water. Deceived by his previous calmness, Adrienn*-
had been trying to show him how mistaken he wa« in hi&
views of life, and especially in his intei*pretation of the natu-
ral destiny of woman.

"Her most sacred duty dear Harry "

''Damn .'"

The monc^yilablo was breathed sotto voce, b«t with sup-

THE WHIRLPOOL OF FATE.

267

pressed ferocity, into the shingles. The culprit then hastily

gulled his hat over his eyes, and rolled' over several times tiU
e was out of earshot.

Adrienne had not caught the smothered " language of im-
precation " but she was none the less alarmed at her brother's
eccentric behaviour, He continued to lie at full length on the
stones with his cap p' Hed over his ejres in a manner that
seemed to Adrienne tt) denote a shocking state of self-aban-
donment. What had come to him? She looked up to the
distant castle for inspiration, but the long rows of high win-
dows only reminded her of another strange and perturbed
spirit imprisoned therein.

Suddenly HaiTy sat bolt upnght, his cap Rlill very much
awry and his hair extravagantly ruffliKl. Adrienne followed
the direction in which he was gazing.

A figure was seen descending the pathway through the pine
woods from Fir Dell.

Harry shaded his eyes, and stiNuixod thorn anxiously.

*'Whoisitr

**Mr8. Lincoln."

"Oh, let me go!" exclainvnl Avh'ienne, hastily jumping up.

Harry gave a grim snulo. It amused him that his sister
shrank from meeting a woman who had dared the enmity of
the world rat\\er than remain in the ^xwition which Adrienne
was about to accept deli'oerately, with her eyes open.

'*You had better con>e and speak to her," said Harry.
" She will enlarge your mind."

*' I will never vviuingly enter that woman's presence again,"
Adrienne cried. "Good-bye, I am going home; won't you
come too? Do come."

" I want to see Mrs. Lincoln," Harry answered.

Adrienne sorrowfully left him, and when she was alone,
she gave way to a fit of quiet lady-like weeping in a neat
methodical manner, drying her eyes and putting aside her
handkerchief in good time before reaching the village.

Meanwhile Harry and Sibella had met amd were movinj^^
together closer to the sea.

"It is as we feared," said Harry. " The blow haa fallen:
my mother and sister are penniless."

Sibella drew a lon^ deep breath. After a pause she said :

*' And your sister is engaged to be marriea to Bob Hunter;
you need not tell me. I am grieved. Fortunately your sister
lias an obedient soul. The marriage-service, strange to say,
will reassure her. For her own sake this is devoutly to bo
wished. But how does all this bear on your own affairs ?
Must you wait till after the wedding ?"

Harry explained that it wns to tnke place in ten days, and
that he must of course be prcHent. He felt that he ought also
to stay with his mother for the few days till the coiiple re-
iuraeo to their homo. After that Mrs. Dixie would go to

'!■',:;

J' -I

268

THE WINO OF AZRAEL.

them. Bob happily ||g^ accepted hm mother-in-law with a
li^t heart

It was accordingly arranged that Harry should go to
town as soon as the bride and biidegroom cnme to their
home; that he should icturii next day, not to Uj ton, but to a
little place further along the coast called Shepherd's Nook.
Thence he could easily walk along the shf>re to tlie castle,
reaching it after dark, at the time appointed. Sibella was to
obtain from Caleb the loan of his boat, the very boat in which
"Viola and Harry had made that other less momentous jour-
ney before her marriage, and in that they were to put off
imder cover of the darkness, and evade pursuit if any should
be offered.

They would land and take the train to Southampton, and
thence got over to France if possible on tlie same night.

The details of this ])rojcct were furihc r discussod, and all
things arranged subject to Viola's consent, even to the day
and hour.

*' This unexpected delay worries me," said Harry ; " it seems
ill-omened."

" It is not very long," Sibella answered cbeerinly. " Time
will soon pass,- sixteen days: why, it is nothing."

*' One does not know wha^may happen in sixteen days."

The twilight was creeping around them tiie wTtVcs beating
monotonously on the patient shore. A belated gull flashed
overhead, uttei'ing its shrill cry.

There was an expression of feveiish anxiety in Harry's face,
aa he raised his eyes towards the dim outlines of the Castle,
which the darkness was gradually obliteriiting.

"Caleb said this morning that though it may b<* good to
resist evil laws end conventions for tie sake or others, the
rebel himself inevitably gets trampled on, and generally by
those whom he is trying to rescue. Are we preparing mar-
tyrdom for Violn ?"

** Eemember what she suffers now," e;iid Sibella.

" If I but knew what these slow endless days would bring
about!"

"If we knew all that was coming in cur life, how many of
us would consent to live it out ? You will tee her this after-
noon, remember."

" If she is not there "

"I think she will be there," said Sibella.

The big stable-yard clock struck four. The appointment
was at half- past four.

Philip sat in the library writing letters ; he had said nothing
alx>ut his intention of calling at Fir Dell, and looked as if he
had settled down for the afternnon. Viola, like an uneasy
spirit, wandered from room to )*ocm. and from window to
window ; unable to keep still for a moment. It was a grey
Ctfternoon, m^ thQ miei wa3 streaming inland from the sea.

THE WHIRLPOOL OF FATE.

Maria, purring before the ante-room Are, bade placid defiance
to the gloom, and looked the emblem pf contentment.

"O Maria, why can't I take tiling as you do, you sensi-
ble animal?" Maria blinked. ' He has hurt tis both, but you
purr before the fire and make the best of things, while t let
the thought of it eat into me and drive me mad. Foolish,
isn't it, dear? You are a model of what a reputable cat— or
wife— should be, and the more there are who follow in your
footsteps, the fewer tlio broken hearts. Wise Maria 1"

Viola was down before the hearth with her arm round the
sleepy animal, who purred a soft acknowledgment of the at-
tention. But a sudden step on the carpet made the ca*; dart
deftly away to hide behind the sofa, wide awiike nov/, and
wary.

"I am going out for a short time this afternoon, " said Philip.
** I hope you won't feel lonely in my absence." This was said
with an abundant display of white teeth.

" No, thank you; not at all."

"You had better fill up the tedious interval till my return
with a round of calls."

*'I don't think I have any calls to pay."

"Excuse me: Mrs. Russel Courtenay reproaches you every
time we meet for not having been to see her; and I am sure
there is a long-standing debt to Mi's. Pellett. I will order the
carriage for vou."

"Oh no, please don't," said Viola. "I can get on another
day or two without seeing Mrs. Courtenay or Mi*s, Pellett.'*

"If you don't care to do it for your own sake, you might
remember that your neglect of social duties is a great handi-
cap to me."

" Some other day I will call." she said.

"Well, I warn you not to be up to any mischief; you will
regret it if you ao." And with that he left her. Did he
know ?

Viola hastened upstairs for her hat, and on the threshold
of her room she encountered Mrs. Barber.

"What do you want ?" Viola asked sharply.

" Excuse me, Ma'am; only to know if Maria was with you."

"Yes, of course she was with me: you know she always is
at this time. Be kind enough not to intrude on such trifling
pretexts another time."

The mistress of the house was evidently not to he allowed to
leave without the housekeeper's knowledge. Would it be wise
to go at all ? Viola weighed the matter in her mind carefully,
and came first to one decision and then to another. Inclina-
tion insisted clamorously that the appointment should be kept.
She trembled with happiness at the thought of it. But a
thousand fears and scruples still pulled the otlier way. At
last she flung them all aside in desperation, and made a blind
resolve that, follow what might, she would go. There was
danger and misery in each direction ; that fact must be faced.

fi=-:

■(!>:

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-S)

1.0

I.I

^1^ lli£

■^ Ki 112.2

U; lift

1.8

1.25 1.4

1.6

-^ 6"

►

<■/ ^^ Ji

Photographic

Sciences
Corporation

23 WIST MAIN STRUT

WHSTIR.N.Y. 14510

(71ft) 173-4503

■

THE mNG OS' AZUAEL

Boldness niij^ht best solve the problem after all. Yes; come
weal or woe, she woii^ keep the appointment. She deter-
mined to leave the \\m^ by the door of the West Wing, as
that led into the terrace and was more socluded thnn the front
entrance. She might in that way escape the vigilance of her
gaoler.

She glided down the stairs in her black cloak, ghostly and
white with excitement. At the foot stood once more the
sentinel of Pate, -Mrs. Barber! Viola gave a start and an
angry exclamation.

"Going out, Ma'am ? On such an afternoon? Do you really
think. Ma'am —excusing tlie liberty— as it's quite conducive ?"

" Be good enough to let me judge for myself without inter-
ference," said Viola, too excited to smile at the housekeeper's
Enghsh.

"You will at least take an umbrella, then," urged Mrs.
Barber.

Viola accepted the suggf^stion and hurried out.

Either she must have lost lier head in her excitement or she
had in good earnest resolved to dare everything and take the
consoquenoes ; for without finding out wnether or not Mrs.
Barber were watching her still, she walked straight towards
the appointed spot in the direction of the coast-guard station.
It seemed to Viola as she moved rapidly across the wet grass,
with the rain in her face, that she was being driven by some
extomal power to her fate, and that she had nothing to do
witli her ov.n act or its conseq^uences. The downs stretched
far away, with their veil of lam drifting with the wind, the
eea-sound mourning on for ever. Tliese wild bleak stretches
wore like 1 he Eternity into which the wanderer felt that she
was hastcnir.g; tlie sense of personal identity half swallowed
up in, some lai jiicr sense whicn made her despairingly resigned
to whatever might be on its way to her through the mist.
Excitement ran so high that it haa risen to a sort of unnatural
calm; she was in the centre of a moral cyclone; everything
was unreal, vision-like; the whole scone and action appearea
as a dream from which she munt awake to regain the power
of wih. As she cime in night of the appointed spot in a hol-
low of the down^i behind the shelter of a group of furze bushes,
she strainer! her eyes, in hope of discerning the expected figure.
Expwted as it was, however, she felt a thrill of joyful ana un-
reasonable surprise when Fihe discerneil what sne looked for.

From motives of j)]'udence, Harry did not advance to meet
her, but when she came drifting up to hi n, shadow-like through
the now driving rain, he held out his aruiS without a word op
a moment's hesitation and drew her into his embrace. At his
t^uch. something in her heart seemed to snap, the strain
yielded and she brok(» into deep convulsive sobs, shaking her
from head to foot, but ])erfoctly silent.

Ho soothed her very quietly, very tenderly; saying little
for he saw how ovei'sti'ained she was. He drew her head

THE WHIRLPOOL OF FATS.

271

down on his shoulder protectinglyj and made her rest there;
Viola absolutely passive as if Rhe had lost all power of will.
The sobs gradually ceased, and she lay resting quietly exactly
as he hela her, listening still in a dream to his words of com-
fort and love and hope. He told her that in a very little while
the misery would be over; that for her sake he was ready to
face anything ; the whole world was before them, and hard as
it was, and cruel as it was, so long as they loved one another
they might defy it. He explained the plan which he and
Sibella had made, and finally he suggested in a quiet matter-
of-fact tone the day and the hour for the flight.

She lay quite still listening to him, the tumult and feehng
of guilt all gone, and in their place a sense of peace and of
deep, almost fathomless joy.

All around them across the downs the rain was sweeping,
the wind rising each moment and lashing the sea into angrier
storm. The gloom and passion of the day seemed like an echo
of their own tate.

" Come what may. these moments have been ours," he said,
looking down into ner eyes, which were dark and soft with
the ecstasy of self-abandonment. ''You will hesitate no
longer."

" No longer," she answered ; "^hen I am with you it seems
right and simple: the sin of it vanishes. I feel that nothing
is of any value without you. I leave behind me now no lov-
ing heart to be crushed ; with you I fear nothing. For you I
would do or risk anything. Are you satisfied now ?"

His arms tightened round her, and their lips met in a long,
never-satisfiea Idss.

At that instant, as if in sympathy, the wind leapt up with a
fresh gust and swept furiously over the downs. One could
bear, the next minute, the breaking of a gigantic wave against
the cliff's foot, the sc itteiing of the spray, and then the hoarse
resurgance into the deep. To Viola it all spoke in parables.

*' It anything happens to |mrt us "' she said dreamily.

*' Don't talk of such a possibility."

*' Still, there will always be the memory of to-night; it will
be enough for me even — even if we see each other for the lost
time. It seems to me that now I have known the supremest
earthly joy, and what more can one ask for ?"

She spoke dreamily, peacefully.

"You must not talk about seeing each other for the last
time " cried Harry. "I can't face such a thought. I am
greedy for happiness. Am for you, you need it as a flower
needs simshine, and 1 mean that you shall have it."

Suddenly, as if to oispuv* the statement, a human voire
rang above the sounds of wind and rain; the dream abniptly
ended, and Viola and Harry found thenuielyes confrontod by
a pair of startled, bewihlei-ed blue eyes.

Dorothy!

TbQ girl turned alternately very red and very white, and

272

THE WING OF AZRAEL*

began to stammer soroe confused remarks about coming to call
at the Castle— Mrs. B^rl^r had directed her here— sne was
very sorry— didn't know— couldn't imapne,— and then fairly
broke down. Neither Hany nor Viola looked in the least de-
gree like a surprised culprit.

"You know our secret," aaid Harry, after a significa:»t
pause; " what do you mean to do with it ?"

Dorothy burst into tears.

Viola stood beside her, looking troubled, but scarcely realis-
ing yet what had happened. Strangely enough, the idea of
the secret being disclosed did not distress her much. She had
been so deeply nurt and wounded, so miserable and desperate,
that a public scandal and even Philip's vengeance did not fill
her with extreme terror. It was just another misery that
had to be home, that was all. But when it became clear that
she had lost Dorothy's fi iendship, the familiar pain bcf^an to
creep to its old restinp-nlace in her heart. To lose the girl's
love and respect, to fall from the giddy pinnacle where the
little hero- worshipper hnd placed her, down, down to the low-
est depths of infamy and shame— this was to Viola beyond all
comparison more painful than the prospect of the scorn of all
the world put together.

As for poor Dorothy, she Vas weeping as if her heart, would
break.

If every human creature, man, woman, and child, had ac-
cused her idol of this sin, Dorotliy would have contemptu-
ously denied the accusation.

Viola could do no wrong— and now !

It was unbearable, unbelievable. The storm of tears broke
out afi-esh.

" Have I not warned you, Dorothy ? Have I not told you
that I was capable of wickedness-

** This is no wickedness," interposed Harry.
*' —And you would not believe me."

"But I never thought of such a thing as— as this!" she
cried tearfully. " Oh, how could you, how could you!"

" If you knew our story and unaerstood things a little bet-
ter," said Harry, "you would perhaps come to see that your
friend is true to herself in acting in defiance of the world.
Anyhow, it is not for you to reproach or to judge her. Have
you called yourself a Christian from your oradle without
learning that ?"

Dorothy swung round upon him like n tigress.

"It is you, it is you, you wicked, deceitful man I How
dare you tempt her to do wrong? 1 think men are ail fiends."
Dorothy was almost choked with pnssion. "It is all your
fault, every bit of it— you are a villain, a black-hearted vil-
lain. I always hated you 1 I believe^ you are tlie Devil I"

"Whether or not I am the Dcvil,^' said Harry, smilinr;
slightly, " I certainly nm the i>erHan to blame in this matter,
ii wMne tbei^ be. X should like to know how you intend to

THE WHIRLPOOL OF FATE.

273

Use your knowledge of our secret. If you mean to diviilge it,
it is only fair to prepare us."

"Oh, let her tell everything!" Viola exclaimed. "What
does it matter? There is no real hope for the future. Let the
end come quickly."

For the first time Dorothy allowed her eyes to rest on her
friend's face.

" Do you i^pent, are you Borry?" she asked plaintively.

"No," Viola answered with decision. "I am glad. You
will soon forget me, Dorothy; jou will find that, after all,
Mrs. Pellett is a safer person to have to do with, and you will
cease to grieve for me."

**I hate Mrs. Pellett!" cried Dorothy ferociously, "and I
never was so miserable in all my life— nerer. I wish you were
dead and good -rather than this! Why didn't you aie whilo
you were good?"

"Rather, why was 1 ever born?" cried Viola impetuously.
"What does God want with creatures foredoomed to mis-
fortune, foredoomed to sin, lor9doomed to be torn in pieces
between faith and doubt, impulse and tyranny, duty and pas-
sion? Why does He plant feelings strong as death in our
hearts, and then call it sin when we yield to them? Why does
He fling wretched, struggling, bewildered creatures Into an
ocean in full storm, and then punish them fiercely because
they don't make way against it ? It is cruel, it is araurd, it is
unreasonable! He clrives his ci-eatures to despair; He asks
what is impossible, and He punishes like a fiend. God can
never have suffered Himself or He would not be so hard and
unmerciful! No one is fit to be God who lias not suffered."

She stopped breathless.

Dorothy, with the tears still glistening m her eyes, was
gazin)^ at her fallen idol in alarmed bewilaennent.

A vicar's daughter might well tremble at such an outburst I
She began, however, to perceive the desperation in Viola's
mood, and to recognise that there were secrets in her life
which had brought her to her present sin and disobedience.
She had been sorely beset and tempted. What right had any
one to judge ? She would repent and return to her duty ; she
was too sweet and noble to forget it for long. Dorothy felt
her heart beginning to overflow again towards the beloved
of her soul.

"Oh, tel^ me you repent," she said imploringly, "only
tell me you repent."

" T do not repent," said Viola, with a sad little head-shake.

"Well, I can't help it!" exclaimed Dorothy, going un to
her and ^flinging her arms round her nock: "good or oad,
right or wrong, I love you, and I cr.n't stop loving you. You
are always my dear l>(Bautiful on'3, and I will never desert
you, let them say what they will. I will defy them all. Tf
you have done wrong you will bo very miserable, and you

|i.,

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274

THE WING OF AZRAEL

may want a friend when he dnserts you ; then you will send
for me and I will come to you. I don't care I"

Dorothy went on apostrophising an imaginary audience
who were remonstrating: '*I don't care; she is more worth
loving, sinning or not sinning, than all the rest of you, with
your virtues put together! If Mrs. Pellett says nasty things
I will— I will trample upon her," pursued Dorothy, grinding
her teeth. ^

*' O my de.ar faithful little friend," Viola interposed sadly,
"you don't know what you are saying. We can never see
one another again after people begin to speak ill of me. They
would speak ill of vou too it we were ever to meet."

Her voice trembled, and her kiss was long and tender and
sad as a kiss of farewell in which there is no hope.

Dorothy returned it passionately.

*' It is not the last, it shall not be the last 1 You will repent
and everything will blow over. But if you don't, I shall stick
to you and love you always, whatever you may do. Remem-
ber that if all the world deserts you, if Mr. Lancaster deserts
you, 7 shall never desert you. You don't know me; you
don't know how I love you. To-day when I found this out I
was so miserable only oecause I loved you. But whatever
you may do, I shall always love you and be true to you. And
this is not Good-bye; I won't consent to say that hateful
word till we die, and even then I won't believe it is parting
for ever. Heaven would be no heaven for me if you wcro
not there 1— not with all the harps and the psalms tnat they
could anyway get together. If it's wicked, it's the truth— and
1 can't help it.'^

It was some time before Dorothy calmed down sufficiently
to yield to Harry's suggestion that the hour was late, and
that it would be well for her to return home before it became
too dark.

The lateness of the hour made Viola give a little start of
alarm. She too ought to have been home before now. If
Philip had returned, the danger of discovery would be in-
creased by the delay. Viola laid her hand in Harry's in fare-
well. He bent down and kissed her, disregarding the pres-
ence of Dorothy.

"It is all settled, then," he said, under his breath. "You
will make no mistake. Wednesday 24th, at eight o'clock, at
the door of the West Wing, unless we send a message through
Caleb to announce any alterations of plan. If you shoiud
wish to communicate with roe, do so also through Caleb. Be
brave; almost evervthing de))endK u[v)n you. My whole life
is now in your hands, as well as your own future." *

He looked white and hnggard as he bade her a lingering
farewell, and watched the two figures hurrying side by side
across the uplands. Ho saw them part at about a hundred
yards from the Castle. Dorothy trending oft to the right
towards the village, Viola leftwards to her \oxne. She looked

TBB WmtLPOOL OP' FATB.

375

1)ack just before entering tbe house ; and Harry know that her
eyes were straining through the dusk to where he stood ; then

she tiLined and passed across the threshold out of sight.

* ^ * * * <*,*/' ♦ * ♦

Viola found tea awaiting her in the ante-room as usual.
Haria welcomed her with much purring and arching of the
back.

On her way downstairs, after removing her wet cloak, she
saw the library door open, and concluded that PhiUp had not
returned. So far, so good. But when he did return he would
question her. What answer could she give? She had once
made a declaration of war to Philip, and warned him not to
trust her. Why might she not say boldly : ''Yes, I have met
Harry Lancaster." Then came a qualm of fear. Philip had
told her that if he found it necessary he would not snrink
from placing her under lock and key. He would swear she
was mad; he would place her in charge of a keeper; he would
do anything, in short, which her conduct made necessary : so
he had plainly told her. Dangerous work indeed to openly
defy Philip Dendraith, and not less difficult to defy him in
secret.

Half an hour later the front door opened and closed ; Philip
entered, and Maria left the room. Viola felt a thrill go through
her from head to foot.

Philip seemed preoccupied. He sat down beside the table,
and poured himself out cup after cup of tea. It had been stand-
ing so lon^ that it was black and bitter, but he did not seem
to notice it, connoisseur though, he was. He roused himself
presently, and asked what Viola had been doing all the after-
noon.

** I have been out," she said.

** Calling?" he enquired.

" No ; it was settled that I was not to call to-day."

"Oh! was it?"

** You Have been longer than you expected, have you not?"
said Viola, with a glance at his preoccupied face, over which
now and then a pleased smile flitted.

" Perhaps I have — what's the time ? Dear me, six o'clock.
I had no idea it was so late."

He poured out another cup of tea and drank it oflf. TliPn
he rose. " I shall be in the library till dinner-time," he said.

Viola could scarcely believe that the dangerous interview
had passed off so easily.

At dinner, to her relief, the perilous subject was not re-
sumed. Husband and wife 8p(»nt together another of the
long gloomy evenings which Viola had always dreaded, day
after day as it came. How many more of them were to
come ? Exactly fifteen if— Ah, that terrible *' if " I She paled
at the thought of all that it implied.

Facing one another at their solemn dinner-table, waited on
by the ever-faitbful Cupid, exchanging now and then a few

■m I

•i-i

If;

^76

THE WINQ OF AZJiAML

indifferent remarks, they pursued their own thoughts and
lived their divided lives, while the eves of fading portraits
watched them, always with their look of cold and cynical
amusement.

After the meal, "Viola passed across the echoing hall to the
vast drawing-room, Maria, as usual, gliding in alter her.

The window was open and let in the salt wind from the sea.
Viola, gazing out into the darkness, struggled to i-ealise that
her fate was now actually decided ; that the crisis of her lite
was close at hand, that every detail of conduct and circum-
stance might at any moment change the course of the whole
future.

Memories of the afternoon jostled one another in her brain.
Her heart-beats quickened at the remembrance of the inter-
view with all its dream-like joy and bewilderment.

Harry could not complain now of a want of return to his
devotion. Viola did nothing by halves. Once fully roused,
her love was strong, passionate, and unchanging.

A transitory alfection was not in her nature. Whosoever
had been taken once into her heart was taken into it for ever.
The same elements of character which made her capable on
occasion of a fury absolutely blind in its vehemence, gave
her also the capacity for an infinite devotion.

Harry had reason to rejoice. Viola was shaken completely
out of herself, the magic chord had been struck and her
whole being was in vibration. Doubts, hesitations were
swept away: feebler currents daring to approach the edges of
the tempest were caught and overpowered and utterly de-
stroyed.

There was something in th«^ strength and untameableness of
her emotions when once roused, that strangely resembled the
ocean in its gloomier moods.

Her intense love of the sea, whose voice was in her ears
day and night, whose eve rj^ aspect was familiar, could not
have played so large a part in her life without leaving an in-
delible mark upon her character.

Her instinctive fatalism might have been the lesson of un-
resting tides, of the waves for ever advancing and retreating,
bUndly obedient in spite of their resistlessness and their vast
dominion.

Viola lean tout into the darkness and stretched out her arms
as she used to do in childhood, longingly towards the ocean.
She was a child again in spirit, in spite of all she had passed
through since that midnight, years ago, when she sat by
the open window peering into the mysteries, and yeaminp
to throw herself down by the water's edge, and let the waves
come up to her and comfort her.

Now she had just the same wild longing to fling herself
upon the bo om of the great sea, the same childish oelief in
the heeding power of that tameless giant in whom might and
gentleness were so strangely blended. ^

TSB WHIHLPOOI OF FATE.

And now she was to leave this life-long friend; the hoarse
voices of the waves would haunt her dreams no more. Tears
of re^t came into her eyes. Even this vault-like old house
with its cavernous echoes, its gaunt passages, its unutterable
melancholy, had become strangely, alinostun wholesomely, at-
tractive, as such places will to the spirit which they destroy.

The mere fact tnat it had been the scene of so much torture,
80 much struggle and conflict, endowed it with a sort of sinis-
ter fascination. Every nook and comer of the house, and out-
side, every cleft and cranny where the little sea-plants nestled
out of the wind's pathway, had burnt its image into her brain,
etching itself therein with marvellous fidelity through the
corrodmg action of pain. The simplest objects and harmonies
became poems and pictures: the curves of the ivy tendrils
that climbed over the palings of the garden, the movement of
the sea-birds, the quivering of a certain slender little weed
that grew high up among the weathcr-bwaten stone-work in a
sheltered crevice of its own, solitary, pathetic, a deserted deli-
cate spirit, shivering sensitively when the giant winds came
sweeping across the entrance of its tiny sanctuary.

If some day the shelter should crumble or be destroved, if
some day the fragile, exquisite little plant felt upon it tne fuU
blast from the west, would it strengthen in resistance, or
would the slender stem snap and the flower be whirled away
on the breast of the storm?

Viola's thoughts wandered strangely this evening. The
afternoon's event was vividly in her consciousness, while a
thousand thoughts and memories danced in will-o'-the-wisp
fashion, hither and thither, across that constant background.

Then suddenly, with awful and startlinji; completeness, she
revised her own position, its peril and its possibilities. A
cloud of terror hung above her head : would the plan fail or
succeed? If it failed, what then? and if it succeeded, still what
then? Everything was dark and mysterious as tnis windy
night! What lay hidden in the future, divided from her now
by only fifteen dfawns and sunsets, yet almost as mystically
unknown as the realms beyond the grave?

A strange vision-like image came drifting into her mind,
and she clasped her hands as she gazed with a thrill of dread
and horror. A great stir seemed to alter the face of the grey
tossing waters, which appeared to be moving from west to
east in volumes indescribably vast, as if the great sea itself
were being sucked in by some distant whirlpool; and it wont
sweeping on and on, with dreadful steady swiftness, till of a
sudden it caine to the edge of a bottomless abyss into which
the torrent rushed headlong with a wild and savage loar,
dragging after it the waters from all the seas and cdl the
rivers in the world.

And as it fell down and down into the black Infinite, the

water fell and (ell in
-for ever I

awful roar graduajly died away and the
perfect darkness and perfect silence— foi

tL:

278

TH£! WJNa OF AZBAEL.

•^Ah^-'

CHAPTER XXXVn.

LAST DAYS.

"Love not pleasure; love Gk)d. This is the Everlasting
Yea, wherein all contradiction is sowed; wherein who so
walks, it is well with him."

Through what a fretful freak of memory had these words
been stirred up in the mind where they were resting appar-
ently harmless and inactive 1

This is the Everlasting Yea.

It was as if a prophet stood in the pathway, warning back.
No matter, she would go on; Harry was tnere beckoning,
there was a desjperate delight in riskmg all for him. If she
was to be punished for choosing in defiance of law, the su-
preme earthly happiness, well, she must look her fate in the
face and accept the inevitable.

A woman stands always between the devil and the deep sea.
She must make her choice.

" I myself am Heav'n and Hell.
Heav'n but the vision of fulfilled Desire and Hell the shadow
Of a soul on tire. "

Viola's belief in hell was far more absolute than that of
many who fancy that they hold the doctrine in all firmness
of orthodoxy. She who had known the atrocious torment of a
soul bound close and fast to the Intolerable, had no diflScdltv
in believing in eternal punishment. Had she not herself
known the pains of hell in that long torture whose memory
clung rouna her, burning and blazing, only to be quenched
with the consciousness of personal identity?

The dreadful sixteen days were slowly creeping on, but, oh I
how slowly. It rained incessantly; steady drifting rain,
sweeping over the grey sea, and b<Bating a perpetual sum-
mons on the westward window-panes. The only break to the
feverish monotony was a visit from Dorothy, who came to
assure Viola once more of her unalterable devotion.

" I warn you again not to believe in me," said Viola; ** even
your faithfulness will falter at what I am capable of."

Dorothy shook her head.

**I hope you will do nothing dreadful; but if you did^ it
would make no difference. Not even if you - murdered a few
people," she added, laughing, '* I should know that they de*
servea it."

Once Adrienne and Bob Himter called, when those deliber-
ate aispteen days had marched paat to abouf tialf their number ;

LAST DAYS.

279

eight behind and eight yet to como Adrienne was absorbed
in the wedding preparations, or seemed to be so; lk)b evi-
dently proud ana happy, and more than ever liable to athletic
sports, though he now sometimes stopped abruptly and apolo-
gised. Adrienne had apparently been cruel enough to dis-
courage his pirouettes.

*' And you won't be late on Fridav^ will you?" she paid in
parting, *' and, Viola dear, I am looKmg forward to having
you for a long, long visit as soon as we return home. You
will be sure and come, won't you?"

*' Oh, you won't care to have me so soon," said Viola, pilling
a little.

"Nonsense; that's just what I long for. For one thing, I
don't want Bob to get tired of me."

Bob pirouetted in a manner which expressed remonstrance.

"One of adamant, you fail to appreciate the good taste of
him who adores you to distraction.

"Come away. Bob," said Adrienne. "You are beginning
to be tiresome again. Now, don't stand on one toe ; you ai-e
really too dreadfully like a. premiere dansevse.^^

Bob, unable to resist the temptation, tripped Hghtly across
the drawing-room, and arrived at the fire-place on tip-toe with
one foot in the air and a most enga^ng smile irradiating his
pale, primrose countenance. For this offence he was turned
away, amid some laughter by his betrothed.

A couple of days later Bob and Adrienne were standing to«
gether before the altar of Upton Church. The bride was calm
and quiet, and rather pale; Bob cheery and affable. Viola
looked paler than the bride, and her pallor was the more re-
markable from the fact that her next neighbour happened to
be Dorothy, with her rosy face beaming — like a harvest
moon, as her brothers said.

Mrs. Dixie, magnificent and gracious, her ancestor still at
her throat, presented another extraordinary contrast to Viola,
whose white face, framed by the carving or the old oak stalls,
had a look of sad aloofness almost unearthly. Harry, whose
eyes were lifted to hers for a moment, read, with a pang of
bitter pain, the story that was written in the face. It was a
momentary glimpse into the depths of a soul— a glimpse such
as is vouchsafed to us, fortunately perhaps, only at rare in-
tervals.

He felt that he had never really understood her grief, her
conflict, and all the darkness andf lonely honor of her life,
until this moment. The attitude and expression told the
whole history in a flash. He felt a fierce aesire to do some
bodily injury to Viola's father, who stood a serene and com-
fortable wedding-guest, between Mrs. Pellett and Mrs. Bussel
Courtenay, occasionally whispering pleasant nothings into
the ear of Mrs. Courtenay.

Philip, handsotne and exquisite, excited in Harry an even
greater yearning to inflict a summary punishment. Philip

-J Mil '

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280

TUE WmO OF AZRAEL.

looked deliberately round on one occasion, as if ho felt the
venj^eful impulse directed againHt him; ho gave a cool stare,
and a just at the end, singular little gleam of a smile, wliich
made his adversary feel vmcomfortable.

'"Till death do us part."

Philip looked across at his wife. She felt the look, but
would not meet it. She knew that it was a taunt, a reminder
that she was his till death ; that no plots or efforts she could
make were sufficient to release her. She knew his delight in
making her feel the power and the fniitlessness of resistance.
The instinct to torture was strong in the man. He belonged
to a type that was only brought to perfection at the time of
the Italian Renaissance. Possibly it was part of his policy to
frighten Viola into a belief in liis ability to frustrate an^
design she might form. He know how paralysing to effort is
such a belief, and how far more easily his wife would betray
her secrets if she were overwhelmed ^vith a baffling convic-
tion that it was useless to try to conceal them.

After the service Mr. Evans mercilessly gave the bride and
bridegroom a homily at the altar, in which he enlarged on the
wife's mission, the duty of suboixiination to her husband, and
devotion to the sacred cares of home.

He spoke of the duty of the husband to cherish r nd love his
wife, to guide, direct, and strengthen her, supplying the qual-
ities which she lacked, and making of married life a duet of
perfect harmony. Then came the signing of names, the usual
congratulations, and the return to the Cottage before the de-
parture of the wedded pair. Tlie little drawing-room was
crowded with guests. Mi's. Dixie doing the honours with inde-
scribable pride and delight Viola looked round at the famil-
iar faces, feeling that she stood among the actors of her little
world for the last time. In the future they would know her
no more. Their part in her destiny was over forever.

Before another week had ended she would be on the other
side of an impassable gulf, deep and dark as life itself.

She sat leaning back, watching the.crowd with a strange
interest. It was incredible that what had been planned should
come to pass ! These wedding-guests reduced the whole scheme
to dreamland; they banished into the vast realms of Impos-
sibility all things which wandered out of the line of their
daily pathways. One could scarcely look at them and con-
tinue to believe. Arabella was there, stylish and writhing;
Mr. Pellett— dragged to the festivitv against his will— still
looked in the glare of publicity as unhappy as an owl at raid-
day. Mrs. Evans was present, and supremely uncomfortable
in that strange assortment of garments wherewith she did
heroic honour to the weddings and garden-parties of the Upton
world; her husband indulged in clerical jocularities with
some of the livelier members of the party ; while Dick and
GteoflErey (who was just home on leave) talked about trout-
fishing in a comer.

LAHT DAYS.

TiiH last time, the last time!

i)ick came up for a talk (the last talk), friendly and frank
as iiHual.

I Dorothy was watching Viola with j?r<?}it anxiety. Harry,
from motivf« of prudence, had held aloof, but Dorothy was
evidently afraid that he would sooner or later speak to her,
and that somebody would guess their dreadfid secret.

There was no doubt that Arabella still had her suspicions.
She was talking a great deal to Harry, and very often about
Viola. But Harry might have been disuussing tne attractions
of the Queen of the Cannibal Islands, for all that Arabella
could gaxher from his replies.

She presently transferred her notice to Philip.

" I always think a wedding is so depressing, don't you, Mr.
Dendroith ? I am sure your sweet wife agrees with me."

*'My wife, I am convinced, agrees with you in everything."

"On now, Mr. Dendraith, you are too bad; I am sure she
regards mo as very frivolous, but about weddings I do think
she would support my view."

" I am sorry to see you so cynical," said Philip.

*' Oh, I am not so much cynical as observant," Arabella re-
torted; "when I look round among my friends and acquaint
ances, I cannot find more than one or two happy marriages
in the whole circle. I believe it is because men will smoko
so much."

"The whole secret," said Philip. " My wife won't let me
smoke more than two cigars a day."

" Really, how wise of her, and how nice of you to be so
obedient I Men are generally so very wilful, you know. I
shall i-eally have to consult Mrs. Dendraith about her system
of management. You seem to be in perfect order, and yet
not crushed."

" Not at all crushed, " said Philip ; " my wife says she doesn't
like to see a man's spirit broken."

Arabella laughed. ("He rules her with a rod of iron," she
said to herself, " and she lives in deadly fear of him.") "Oh,
Mr. Dendraith, I want you and Mi*s. Dendraith to come over
to tea with me next Tuesday. There are one or two people
coming whom I should like you to meet."

" Thank you," Philip answered, " I should have enjoyed it
immensely; but on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday I
shall be in town. I have nad important engagements for
some time."

*' Now I am certain they are of mushroom growth " cried
Arabella; "it is very unkind. You and Mrs. Dendraith never
will come and see me."

"I assure you the engagement is a genuine one; how can
you be so suspicious ? Cynical again I Viola, my dear, Mrs.
Courtenay decUires that I am manufacturing engagements;
can't you testify to the antiquity of my appointment^ for
^Tuesday and Wednesday of next week ?"

;*'<!!

If:

TBH WIKQ OF AZRABL

Viola confirmed her husband's atatement.

*' Well, I suppose i must forgive you if that's the ca«e, but
it's very tiresome of yous . I am glad to find you teU your
wife of ail your engagements ; without, as you say^ breaking
your spirit, I can see that she is very firm with you."

" She is," said Philip, " but I know it is for my good."

The bride now began to bid farewell to her friends, before
departing in her lady-like grey dress, which every one said
was so becoming. She behaved with creat self-possession,
though one could see that she was movea. Mrs. Dixie folded
her in a vast embrace, from which Adrienne emerged rather
less exquisitely smooth than before, leaving her mother weep-
ing witii great assiduity and much lace pocket-handkerchief.
They were genuine tears that she shed, although this was one
of the happiest days of her hfe.

When the bride came to Viola she (mve her a long, heart-
felt kiss. " Be brave and true to yourself, dear," she whispered,

"GkKKibye, good-bye," Viola returned.

** We shall soon meet again," said Adrienne, with a cheer-
ful nod, passing on to Dorothy.

'* Good-bye," repeated Viola.

In how short a time was Adrienne to look back at that
parting with a shudder of disgust ; in how shoili a time was
the memory that once she had called Viola Dendraith friend
to be thrust aside, whenever it intruded, with horror and dis-
may. A life of smooth nrosperity and domestic contentment
was the reward of Adfiienne's action at this crisis of her
career; and every day of her well-appointed existence sent
her drifting further in spirit from tlie tortured, desners te,
bewildered creature whose straying footsteps she had so
earnestly sought to guide in straightcr pathways, whose faults
she had so conscientiously striven to correct. Adrienne had
the consoling thought that she had at any rate done her best
to save her erring friend from the abyss of guilt and ruin to-
wards which she had been drifting.

The bride and bridegroom once departed, the guests began
to leave. Dorothy came up to Viola and folaed her in a
Herculean embrace. "You are worth all the rest of them
put together," she exclaimed. " I have been watching them,
and their airs and graces, beside you." Dorothy gave a ges-
ture of contempt. '* Tliey k)ok so silly,' she said with severe
energy; "they mince and wriggle, and snip and sniggle, and
go on like marionettes, who have cot wires where their souls
ought to be ! And you— you seem like a beautiful, calm statue
amonp all these fldgetting dolls."

"0 Dorothy! you are extravagant," Viola exclaimed with
a sad little smile.

" No, I am only telling the exact truth," said Dorothy.

"Are you coming, dear?" her mother called to her; "we
are going."

Mrs. Evans shook bands with Viola, and said she hoped she

LA8T DAYS.

283

I'we
I she

would come and see them soon at the Bectory ; it was so long
since she had been there. Then she passed on to collect the
rest of her daughters.

" GkxMi-bve," said Dorothy with auother fervent embrace.
** You won't do a ay thing di'eadful, will you?'' she whispered
pleadingly. " Please, please don't ; but if you do, it will make
no difference. I shall love you alwsiys."

"Ah! good-bye, and go," cried Viola with a break in her
voi'^e, kissing the girl and thrusting her hastily away, as she
felt tier self-command beginning to fail.

Dorothy gave a parting look and smile, and followed her
mother from the room. And in a few days even that loving and
faithful heart had turaed against the miserable woman who
watched her depart, knowing that they had met for the last
time. The day was at hand when Dorothy would tear the
memory of her idol from her heart with horror and anguish-
when she would catch her breath at the mention of v iola's
name, turning aside in miserable silence as it was tossed about
from mouth to mouth with insult and execration.

Suddenly, as Viola remained witli her eyes fixed on the spot
where she had seen Dorothy pass from the room, that strange
image of hastening waters appeared again before her mind^s
eye almost as vividly as when sl»o had stood at the window
looking out to sea. Again there was the mysterious etir;
again the whole ocean seemed to bo drawn away and away,
from west to east, towards a bottomless gulf, which was
drinking up all the seas and rivers, sucking in, attracting,
constraming, forever insatiable and forever empty. With
awful tumult find distraction the waters rushed to their doom,
boiling, seething, rebelling in vain against the power thai
drew them, with ever-accelerating speed, onwards to the
inevitable ver^e. And then once more, with a bound like
that of some wild c»*eature hunted to his death, they leapt over
the brink, pouring down, and down, and down, in one smooth
mighty stream, into the infinite darkness and infinite silence
forever.

Viola awoke with a sudden bewildered start to find Geoflfrey*
standing before her laughing.

" What's the matter, Ila?" he asked, " Are you walking in
your sleep? I have asked you a question three times, and
you only stared at me. with no speculation in your eye,
suppose a wedding is a thought-provoking sort of affair to the
married I"

*' You will come and see me, Geoffrey," aiid Viola, when
after some further conversation he. said he must be going.

"Oh yes, TU come of course," said Geoffrey, "in a day or
two. The uncle has offered me one or two days' fishing at
Clevedon. so I shan't be able to came till Tuesday or Wednes-
day. Wnen I do come I should like to stay the night."

^' Do come on Tuesday, then. I want very muoh to 9e9
you,"

■'H; i

rj,, 1

If I' ,

284

^EE WINO OF AZRABL.

" Why, my dear, of coturse I shall cottie aS soon m I can.
I Ibougbt I, might perhaps'Kave an invitation to spend pait of
my leave Avith you. I don't wish to push myself— always was
retiring. I've got a lot of things I want to talk to you about,"
he went on, more seriously. "I have been reading Carlvle,
and by Jove — Well, we'll talk it over later on. Gtood-oye
just now. The Governor's going. I shall probably come to
you Wednesday. Tuesday *s rather busy."

"Oh, do come on Tuesday," said Viola, glancing swiftly
round, to make sure that Philip was out of ear-shot.

"Why do you want me so particularly to come on Tues-
day?" askod Geoffrey.

" I would still rather you came to-morrow or on Monday."

" Well, if you are so set upon it, I will try and turn up on
one day or other. Mustn't come on Wednesday in any con-
sideration evidently. Something up on Wednesday : well, I
hope it will go off well, and bo a grand success. My blessing
on you; good-bye."

Viola wished that Geoffrey's voice were not so exceedingly
sonorous and hearty. Yet surely Philip could not have
heaid what he said from the other end of the room, through
the hiiVfj ab of talk and laughter. The incident nevertheless
made her feel uneasy.

" Now, Tlola," said her aunt, coming up and touching her
on t.he shoulder, "why have you never said a word to me all
day? Well, how are you, and what have you been doing, and
what are you going to do? You look pale, my dear. You
shut yourself up in that old house and get dull. Now you
must really come and see me. I have a friend I want you to
know — Arabella's sister, M.?.bcl Turner, but not so foolish as
Arabella- one family can't be expected to produce two
masterpieces. She is coming on Wednesday evening, and
you must drive over to dinner and stay the night."

"I fear, Aunt Augusta, I can't do that,' cried Viola,

**Now, my dear, I take no refusal," said Lady Clevedon;
"you are getting into stay-at-home ways that are exceed-
ingly bad for you. I simply insist upon your coming to me
on Wednesday; so say no more about it."

" But, Aunt Augusta, it is impossible."

" Oh, stuff and nonsense ! you have nothing in the world to
do. Why can't you come?"

Viola snook her head and tried to turn tho subject.

"Now, no more nonsense; you have jgot to do as you are
told. Women are nothinr if not obedient. I shall expect
you on Wednesday not In r than five (^)'clock. Now, good-
bye, dear."

' ' Good-bye, Aunt Augusta " VioTa said with a slight uninten-
tional stress on the word. Every parting to-day nad for her
the sad solemnity of a last farewell

t AST VATS.

i»

Lady Cievedon laughed. "One would fancy Viola was go-
ine to mount tbe scafiold to-morrow," she snid.

Before leaving. Lady Cievedon, gpoke to Philip about his
wife's growing dislike to mingling with her fellow -creatures.

' It IS really very bad for her. and you ought to check it.
I wanted her to come to tea witli me next weekj but she says
it is impossible, which — like a problem in Euclid— is absurd.
What can be her reason?"

*'She may have Dorothy Evans with her, perhaps, next
week, as I am to be away," said Philip.

"As if she couldn't bring the girl. Tell Viola that I shall
expect them both."

Philip delivered the message when he and his wife were
driving home across the downs.

" I suppose you will go?" he said indifferently.

" I decided not to do so," Viola replied.

"Do you intend never to go anywhere again? Why will
you not go to your aunt's?"

" Why, after all, should I go? I am not meant for society."

" I wonder what you are meant for."

"A target for other people's wit and otlier people's cru-
elty," said Viola.

" A target that answers back is a novelty, " said Philip. " A
target has the Christian's virtue : it tumeth the othey cheek
also."

They drove for the rest of the way homo in almost complete
silence. The evening closed in with recurring rain, wliich
beat upon the windows of the house with mournful persistence
for many stormv hours.

Viola sat by the big fireplace, a book, for appearance' sake,
in her lap, looking»into the fire and thinking, thinking. And
outside the grey sea beat for ever upon the beach. Tliero was
no escaping from its voice. It was like a full-toned chorus
to the drama of life, mournful and prophetic.

Viola's thoughts wandered to her friend.

Poor Adrienn(»l what were the waves foretelling for her?
Would she settle quietly down to her lot and foi'get how all
her new ease and rest from anxiety had been purchased?
Would the knowledge that she had done it console her?
"Every woman has her price," PhiUp had said. Adrienne's
price had been found and puid.

On Sunday morning Goeffrey appeared. " You see I have
come to day," he said, "since you are having high jinks on
Wednesday to wliich only the very select are invited. Philip
says you aren't going to church ; so let us have a talk. " Bring-
ing out a tattered volume of Carlyle, he opened it on his knee,
drawinjj up his chair before the fire. He wanted to know
what Viola thought of a celebrated passage in " Bartor Resar-
tus " which he re^ul aloud : " Foolish soul, what act of legisla-
ture was there that thou shouldst be happy? A little while-
ngo thou hadst no right to be at all. What if thou wert bom

*,i

i<.r

■n

!tffE WING OF AZRASL

and predestined not tabe happy, but to be unhappy : art thoii
nothing other than a vul||p'& then, that fleest tnrongti the
Univei*8e seeking after somewhat to eat, and shrieking dole-
fully because carrion enough is not given thee? There is in
Man a higher than love of HappinesB; he can do without
Happiness, and instead thereby find Blessedness."

"fe that all true, do you think?" the young man asked wist-
fully. "This," said Viola, "is really our mother's teaching
in other words : that we ought to submit to what is sent us to
bear, and to aim at something higher than happiness."

" What is blessedness, do you suppose?" Goeffrt'y enquired.
" Can't remember that I ever came across it. Don't know
what to make of the whole passage. Ought we to try to be
blessed and never mind about being happy all our lives? And,
Viola, how do you suppose one can set about being blessed?
I don't know, for the life of me, and yet it seems as if that
doctrine led one on to a high mountain and gave one a grand-
er view of things. I don't know how to express it, of course,
but you know what I mean."

Viola looked very tliouKhtful as she sat gazing into the
fire.

Was it Fate that had sent her this second message from
the great apostle of endurance and heroism?

" LoVe not pleasure, love God."

That was the first message. And now came this second
one: " Why shouldst thou be happy?"

Were Harry and Sibella mistaken after all? Was it nobler
to cast happiness to the winds— accepting the fact that there
is indeed no reason why one should be happy— than to rebel
axainst circumstances divinelv ordered, against the teaching
01 one's childhood, against tue laws of society and of the
mighty past?

Viola was always open to teaching of this character; long
years had worn a groove in her mind where such thoughts
flowed smoothly and familiarly. She was haunted and
troubled long after Geolfi'ey had j^one. The ideas on which
she had resolved to act were not originally her own ; she had
not evoWed them for herself, built them up from observation
and thought, from the thoughts of others that were readjr to
mix with and fructify her own. The ideas were in her mind
still as things separate and distinct; they hnd no lon^-tried
supports to uphold them ; they were isolated and unnourished.
Sucn are not the strong buttressed ideas to inspire bold and
consistent action. They may dissipate at any moment, and
leave the actor without light or motive, the slave of every
impulse, of every turn of events.

The turn of events which heli^cl to decide Viola's fate to-day
was the behaviour of her husband. Every day the rack was
being screwed tighter till human endurance could withstand no
more Viola, wnose power of projecting herself into another
mind was liniited strictly to coses where the mind somewhat

DAHKNESS.

287.

i»3sembted tier own, had never reeled how intensely annoy
iiig to Philip her conduct had been ; she failed to unaerstand
that any conduct on her part could seriously affect one so
cold and strong and self-sufficient as lier husband. His con-
temptuous manner, his apparent determination to humiliate
her by every device, caused her to imag^ino that she was power-
ess to make him wince in return. It is possible that had she
inown how ho was smarting under the repeated evidences of
ler aversion, the history of her life misfht have had a different
ending. But eho did not know, and the drama played itsel£
out inexorably.

Philip's studied insolence and insults after Gteoffrey left, in-
deed before he left, put to flight all effects of reading "Sartor
Resartus. '' There might be something higher than happiness,
but it was not to be attained im Jer the same roof witn Philip
Dendraith, it was not to be obtained by a woman who for the
sake of food and house-room and social consideration remained
his wife; imhappiness one could endure, but degradation and
indignity never.

Women in the past had thought it no crime to take ^eir
own lives rather than submit to that. Perhaps they were
wrong, but Viola's heart leapt up in sympathy towards them.
They were her true sisters, in spite of all the years that raised
a host of shadows between them. She understood their
desperation : she knew how their hearts had burnt and blazed
within them, how death to them had seemed the sweetest
thinff in all the world.

"Why shouldst thou be happy ?" Perhaps there was no
good reason. But " why shouldst thou live to be tortured
and insulted?" Was there any better reason for that?

CHAPTER XXXVra.

DARKNESS,

■t,r

DuRiwo these last slowly-moving days Mant» followed her
mistress everywhere. She would scarcely allow her out of
her sight. Perhaps Viola's restlessness may have warned
this terribly intelligent animal that something unusual was in
the ail'.

The creature seemed to be striving in her own eloquent
fashion to comfort her mistress, and to assure her that, under
all vicissiiudes of fortune, she might confidently count upon
tbe support of her dumb and faithful friend.

** Ah! what shall I do without you, my dear?" Viola used to
ask sorrowfully, " If I could but take you with me— I"

,; .»'

1 la

:■■ »

. 388

THE WMO OF AZIiAEL.

Still the wild weather cojatinued, rMti and wind beatinff up
from the south-weat. There were rumours of wrecks along
the coast, and at Shej>herd'8 Nook the life-boat had gone out
to save the crew of a sinking vessel.

If on Wednesday it were still so stormy, how would they be
able to effect their escape by sea? Well, no doubt Harry nad
thought of that, and would have some other plan. It was
useless for Viola to trouble about detads.

Monday was still stormyj though there were gleams of
tearful sunshine lighting up m patches an agitated sea.

* ' If this rain lasts, " said Phihp, * * !• think I shall give up my
visit to London."

Viola's face was half turned from him, but he saw the colour
rush into her cheeks.

" I can postpone it till next week if necessary. It will de-
pend on the weather."

Bright sunshine c>n Tuesday morning decided the question.
Viola stood on the doorstep, watching the phaeton which took
Philip to the station Rowing smaller and smaller, till at last
it disappeared in the distance of the sunlit downs. If all went
accoraing to their plan, she had seen her husband for the last
time ! There was not one niemoiy in the whole of her married
life to make her think of that with compunction or regret I
She stood there in the sunshine, with the wind playing round
her, long after Philip was out of sight. When she did move,
it was not to return to the house, but to wander out into the
sunlit parden by the beautiful terraces where the tendrils of
the creepers were nodding and swaying, and the rain -sprinkled
cobwebs fringed the pathway with brilliants. Maria was
following, daintily picking her steps along the wet paths,
nimbly springing on and off the parapets as her mistnss
strolled slowly, thoughtfully among the flowers. Only for
short intervals during the whole of this day did Viola remain
within doors. In the morning she drove to the Manor-House,
to pay the old place "and its inhabitants a farewell visit. It
was looking its serenest and sweetest. Terrible was the ache
at her heart, as she strolled once more round the familiar
p^rdens, passed once more through the old rooms where every
nook ana comer had vivid associations, where evervthing
(poke of the dead woman who had home so much and
f ncriticed so much, and all in vain What would the mother
thmk of her daughter now if she knew? Well, if she knew in
good earnest,— not as a hmited creature knows, who has only
one or two little strings in his nature that vibmte respcnsively
but as a liberated spirit might be supposed to know, wlic
overlooks the whole field of human emotion,— then Viola
thought that her mother would not blame her.

No nook or comer was left unvisited. Viola bid farewell
to all her old friends- Thomas and the 'mder^gardener, and
— moet heart-breaking of all— to old William, whoise eyes

DAHKNE88.

289

..*^

filled witb tears at her words, and perhaps still more at the
tone iu; which they were tittered,

" It always does me good to see yOu, Miss— Mum, as I shculd
say 1 There, I don't believe as there's many like you, more's
the pity : the old place ain't been itself since you left, and
never will be. God bless you !"

Viola turned away. In a few short days would he recall
his blessing? Would be be against her also? Would he take
the usual simple course, and condemn because he could not
understand? Perhaps not. There was something large and
generous in the tender old heart : though he might grieve and
marvel and shake his head, yet perhaps he would not jud^ ;
he would simply leave the matter alone, and go his own quiet
way, reviling not, but trusting.

Another trying farewell was with Geoffrey, though, like so
many pitiful things, it had its comic side. The young fellow
was in one of his wildest moods— jovial, hearty, full of Ufe,
hope, and spirit. His "good-bye" was naturally of the most
casual and common-place desci iption. He said he was com-
ing over to see his sister on Thursdav,— not to-morrow, oh !
no ; he remembered the mysterious high jinks" appertain-
ing to Wednesday, and tactfully forbore to intrude. But on
Thui*sday when the excitement of the " high jinks " had died
away, he should claim a little sisterly attention while he a
tale unfolded. Geoffrey handed her into the phaeton with a
fraternal nod ot farewell, but Viola put her arms round bis
neck and kissed him.

" Geoffrey dear," she said, ** we have always been good
friends, haven't we?"

**Why, yes, of course we have," Geoffrey returned in
astonishment ; * ' who said-we haven't ? Because if you'll show
me the fellow I'll knock him down."

"Oh! I don't want you to knock any one down," said
Viola with a sad little laugh. "I want you always to remem-
ber what good friends we have been, and how fond I was of
you, and always shall be. And— and think^as kindly of mo
as you can. Good-bye." She kissed him again, and then bo-
fore Gkoffrey recovered from his astonishment the phaeton
was half-way down the avenue.

Towards evening the weather showed ominous signs of a
change for the worse. Black clouds were gathering over tho
sea, and the wind had a sound which the coast-guard people
knew so well betokened storm.

All promises were fulfilled.

This last sleepless ni^ht in the glooming home was wildly
tempestuous. Viola, with every nerve on the stretch, shiver-
ing rrom head to foot, lay counting the hours as they were
deliberately tolled out by the great courtyard clock. She
paced up and down her room when it became impossible any
longer to remain stiUi listening to the familiar sounds of the
0tona»

290

TEE WIKG OF AZRAEL.

The night wore itself out, but the rain and wind had only
slightly abated by the^morning.

Perhaps it was Viola's tareited fancy that made mv think
that Mrs. Barber was more watchful than usual to-day.

There was no evading her — or so it seemed. The talent
which the respectable person displayed in finding excuses for
her presence was as astounding as her admirable acting— if
acting it were.

Viola was anxiously on the alert all the morning in case
any message should come from Harry. Begardless of Mrs.
Barber, she braved rain and wind, and went to the ruin, so
that in case Caleb had any note for her he might deliver it
without diflasulty. But Caleb was purely and freezingly
philosophise this morning. He was absorbed in the Absolute,
and had nothing to say on any other subject, unless it were a
word or two on the Infinite.

A stranger go-between in a secret correspondence can
scarcely be imagined. He appeared to have no curiosity on
the subject whatever. For all that one could tell, the philoso-
pher may have thought that he was carrying letters on the
subject of the differential calculus. The day wore on, but no
message came; the plan was evidently to be carried out as
arranged.

The hours were like so many grievous burdens, heavy to
endure: but they stole gradually away, the clocks announcing,
with wnat seemed unusual emphasis, the passing of ihemone
by one into Eternity. Viola had decided to make herself
ready to start, having hat and cloak downstairs, so that in a
second she could f ing them on and go. It would be well not to
leave a moment too soon, because of Mrs. Barber. The moon
was rising, but there was fear that the clouds might obscure
its light at the critical moment. One thing must oe done be-
fore leaving: and that was, to take her treasures from the oak
cabinet in the west wing— Harry's gift and his letters. She
had not dai'ed to take these things before, for fear of Philip's
discovering and confiscating them. Once possessed of these,
she would hastien downstairs to the door of the west wing
leading onto the terrace, where Harry would be awaiting her.

Again and again, Viola found herself overwhelmed with
unbelief in the reality of the ev( nts which wore passing,
panorama-like, before ner. It could not be true ; it must be a
gigantic and terrible dream. Presently she would awake and
find herself going through the daily routine exactly as oefoi-e,
without hope of release. The hours were drifting on, the
throbbing moments passing— passing, till the appointed time
began to draw near. Maria was on the hearth-rug, purring
softly. Viola stooped down and lifted the creature in her
arms.

" Good-bye, you dear and faithful one; good-bye," she said,
burying her face in the soft fur and laying her cheek agamst
it caressingly. As she stood thus with the animal lying in hor

DARKNESS,

S91

drms, the door opened behind. Jier very softly, and then closed
again as softly. No one entered, aiid Viola remained unaware
of what had occurred. She glanced at the cloch.

** I must go," she said, givmg the cat a last caress and lay-
ing her down again before the nro. Putting on her bat and
cloak, she opened the door carefully, looked up and down
the passage, and then hurried along past the cynical portraits
in the hall to the door leading to the west wing. Olice on the
other side of that, she breathed more freely. She hesitated
for a moment, and then taking the key from the hall side of
the door, she locked it on the western side and put the key in
her pocket. At least she would be secure from Mrs. BarlJer's
espionage. She had exactly five minutes to get her treasures
and be at the terrace-door to meet Harry ai appointed.

A gust of air greeted her as she entered ihe room. The
storm apparently had blown in one of the lozenged window-
panes. Viola telt a superstitious thrill of fear, as if the
fjst had been a warning to her not to cross the threshold,
ut at the same moment she knew that no warning could
retard her now — not even that too familiar moan in the soimd
of the sea prophesying woe. She advanced towards the
cabinet, opened it, and took out the packet of letters and
Harry's wedding gift with trembling fingers. The light of
the rising moon was sufficient to enable her to see what she
was doing. She consulted her watch ; longing feverishly for
the end of this lonely suspenf=;e, longing to get once for all
beyond the spell-like influence of this house, where she seemed
to feel Philip's presence in the very air.

She put the letters in her pocket, and took the knife from
its hiding place. How to carry it ? She thought for a
moment, and then thrust it into the coils of her hair, so that
the weapon was almost ('oncealod. She was hurryii»g towards
the door when she became aware of a tall form emerging out
of the darkness, and then witliotit apparent interval her
wrist was gripped by a human hand, powerful and merciless.
She uttered a stifled shriek, and then a low moan of despair.

" Very well planned for a beginnei, niy dear; shows a real
bent in thatfdirection, which if followed might lead to supe-
rior results. One would never suspect you of such things ;
therein lies your advantage."

Philip still held her wrist between his fingers, which were
closed upon it as a vice. The two stood confronting one
another thus— Viola white as death, with the hard-set look of
a desperate and a determined woman ; Philip with a smile
on his face, prepared to enjoy himself.

*' Pardon my detaining you," he said, " especially as you
are keeping Mr. Lancaster waiting out in the cold ; on a stormy
night like ttiis it seems especially inconsiderate. But you can
lay the blame on me : say it was entirely my fault, and that I
humbly apologise for any inconvenience I may have cairaed

THE WING OF AZRAE.

T
'ilJUt

Viola made an effort to free her wrist, but thf» hard fingers
closed round it more tightly.

" Not just yet, if you please; I have bO much to talk about.
This Httle plan of yours— I must really repeat my congi-atu-
lations— I have watched it through all its incipient stages with
unbounded interest. A plan like that is born, not made."

He released her hand, but placed himself with his back to
the door, so that she still remained his prisoner.

Viola's eyes were wild and desperate.

"What are you going to do ?' she asked; ** what punish-
ment have you in store for me ?"

"Punishment! How can you talk of punishment ?— one
who adores you "

The smile of mockery, triumph, and conscious possession
made the blood mount impetuously to her very temples.

She looked round wildly for a menns oi escape. Tlie
window ?

"Fifty feet from the ground, my love; and although, no
doubt, adoring anns would be ready to receive you when you
reached terra fii*ma, still I should not advise the attempt,
even in the course of virtue."

"Can't you say what you mean to do, at once, without al'.
these taunts ? Surely the fact of your victory is enough fo:
you."

"Certainly; but your cuiiosity as regards the future seems
a little morbid. During my visit to town I have secured the
services of a most superior person who will henceforth be
always your cheerful and instructive companion. 1 hope
sincerely that you will agree with her, as the arrangomont is
permanent. All preUminaries are now settled, and the su-
perior person will enter upon her duties to-morrow. You ask
perhaps why I returned to-day instead of to-morrow, as ar
ranged. Simply because I had my reasons for thinking that
something was going on. I really am not in a position to
afford to lose you thus prematurely. You see, my dear, you
are an article of ' vertu ' which cannot be easily renewed, a
luxury that a man can't afford to repeat too frecjuently. In
point of fact, if you will excuse my mentioning it, you come
rather expensive. The original consideration was heavy,
but that would have been nothing had it stopped there. The
truth 13, however, that your amiable father still applies to mo
for money to get him out of disgraceful difficulties, and for
the sake of avoiding family scandal I allow myself to be thus
bled with a sweetness of temper which I fear sometimes
borders on weakness. The outlay appears especially ruinous
from the fact that still I am disappomted of an heir ; a matter
to me of serious moment. All things considered, therefore,
my love, you will admit that you have been somewhat of the
nature or a sell, and you will pardon my endeavoring to
prevent your bringing the matter to a climax by disgracing
yourself and me in this spirited manner. It will not do, be^

DABKNESS,

■.f

Heve me, and you must really oblige me Iby 'banishing the
idea from your mind as an impossibility. I think you will
have no dimculty in accomplishing this when yon receive the
able help of my Superior re j son. After her advent I shaU
be able to leave you with every confidence, and perfect peace
of mind. This f*illar of Strength has been accustomed to the
care of what are pleasingly termed mental cases, and she is
therefore as keen and (juick as a detective. Channing and
most clever is my superior person. I long to introduce her
to you. I know you w'M love her."

"Is your cruelty not satikted yet?" asked Viola at length.
"Will you not end this interview and let me go out of your
sight ? If I am to be a prisoner, show me my dungeon and
leave me in peace. Only let me go. I can bear no more."

Philip took a cat-like step nearer to her. "You wiU not

go out of my si^ht this night, my dear," he said, looking into
er face witn a keen enjoyment of her torture. Her shrink-
ing movement and low cry seemed to rouse his worst in-
stincts.

"Ahl you may shrink, but shrinking will not help you.
What does it matter to me ? You have got to learn, once for
all, to whom you belong. I am not a man to be trifled with,
believe me. What is mine is mine. You were about to
make a vast mistake in that interesting pomt, which I am
happily in time to rectify. Now is the moment for an im-
pressive lesson, for there must really be no uncertainty in
these matters. I am deeply grieved to keep your friena put
in the rain all this time, but really, considering the circum-
stances, I think he cr.n hardly be sui-prised, A fond husband
parted for two days from his wife — " He smiled in a way that
always maidened her, as he advanced quickly, and took her
in his arms, bending down to kiss her as she struggled vio-
lently to free herseli. " It's no use struggling," he said, "for
I am considerably stronger than you are^ and I intend to
stand no nonsense. If it pleases me to kiss you I shall kiss
you. It is my right, gainsay it if you can. I am resolved
that you shall imderstand. You arc behaving as a fool or a
spoilt child, and must be treated as such."

Overcoming her frantic resistance he kissed her long and
steadily on the Ups, partly because it pleased him to do so, i
partly, it seemed, because it tortured her. Then he let her
go She stood before him mad with fury, and for the mo-
ment literally speechless.

"Oh, I could tear myself to pieces I" she said wildly.
Philip looked at her and smiled. It was a game of cat and

mouse.

"Avery pretty and becoming little passion, my dear,
which I must quench with kisses. You really can't call me a
i^yrant, when that is my only fonuof chastisemeiit: kissea till
you are subdued.*'

ti; :

394

"^i. TEE wina ov AznAMt.

He laughed at hei* desperation as he adrnnccd once mord
to inflict the * ' tender punMhment, " as he called il ^ *

She darted away from him to the window and tried to
tear it open, hut ne followed her, laying his hand upon her
arm.

*' Couldn't have a suicide in the family on any account, nor
can I permit you to summon your lover to the rescue. Really,
your impetuosity is becoming dangerous. My Superior Per-
son must hasten. Meanwhile I will cherish you under my
own wing, enjoying all the lovfly changes of your Apni
moods. What, not subdued yet ? more kisses reauired ?"

" Oh 1 do you want to drive me mad?" cried Viola hoarsely,
standing at bay, with her hand on the casement, leaning
backwards away from Philip's arms.

" I am inconsiderate," he said, " to keep you parleying hero
at this time of the night. I will take you to your loom. Oh
no, I can't trust you to go alone. Come with me; I am too
affectionately anxiou. . about you to let you out of my eight.
And then m v mood is tender, in spite of a slight coldness on
your part which I am always in hopes that my pcTrsistent de-
votion will be able to overcome. Allow me."

He put his arm round her to lead her away.

"Don't touch me I Don't touch me, I tell you, or I shall go
raving mad 1"

*' I fear that I should bo unable to detect th? moment of
transition," said Philip, calmly pei*severin^.

Ho stopped abruptly to examme something.

* * Ah 1 w hat's this glittering bauble in y our nair ? This must
come out, and at once."

* 'Don't touch itr' cried Viola, and her hand was on the
hilt of the knife ahnost at the same instant tliat Philip's
words were uttered. She drew it out and held it behind her
defiantly.

" Is the toy so precious? A dangerous plaything, and most
unsuitable in the hands of a reiractory pupU undergoing
much needed insti'uction in the nature and duties of wifenood.

my /rror of ' bad form.' "

Hu held out his hand for the weapon.

*' Don't obligB me to take it from you by force. You must
try to realize the situation. If I could make you understand
that somehow or another, by &ir means or by foul, I intend
to reduce you to submission, and that immediately, you would
save yourself a lot of fruitless trouble. Tour conduct
throunibut our married life has been intolerable, and we
must nave an end of it. Women can't be reasoned with;
they can only be governed autocratically. Ton have con-
fiirmed my opinion on that subject. Sheer will-force is the
only argumei^ %^t^^ home to them. Now, then, we under-

•oaV**.*

•B-issarasp,

sas

She kept her evoc fl ^ ""^ ^'P a wife agalnsfc

corner ofTe^^?'i„^d''andngtil/The wZi P""'- ^"^ PWlio
«s^£e, he toSS"^:r^'* ""ere was n?^?i5;^*",aBauist the

force boi^^feTiS^f,''^^ ^««^hed thi^S^h^^^^^ ^^«^
a backward sSL^il « i"^-*Jiere wm a oi^^*^ *^^ ^r with ^
wounded p-S?^®'^' ^^^ Philip W^ hS. S acui^se, agroaiL

s^-^-0-^sun.ei^^i^g^,^'

! ,'

THE WING OF AZRAEL,

I . '

296

indignity; may you be 6|jtciws|r honKtesfe, i»«ying for death;
may the pride of yoiii^soul be withered and wwrly rooted
out: may you die in shame and misery; may your soul be
damned for everlasting - murderers /"

His voice gave way, and ho sank back panting.

Almost at the same instant a man's ste]> ^\ as heard in the
passage outside. With a look of fury the wounded man
Btniggled up for the last time, tried to utter Fome words—
evidently oi unspeakabln passion -and fell back never to stir
again.

The footsteps stopped outside the door, which was thrown
open, and Harry Lancaster entered the room.

He paused abruptly, and there was a moment of dead
silence. Viola was standing wath head held high, the
knife still in her hand, and in her eyes a look that made the
very heart stop beating. • At her feet lay a human form, per-
fectly still, the white face upturned, one hand with thethumh
pressed inward, conspicuous in the moonlight, which was trac-
mg the outline cf the lozenge panes delicately upon the
polished floor. Beside the prostrate figure was something
glistenin^;, something

" Good God ! what is it ? What have you done ?"

" Come and see," she answered, with a wild sort of exulta-
tion. She went to him, put her arm in his, and drew him
eagerly forward. It was a ghaplly moment for him !

"You see I Lave killtd him with this knife;'' she held it
aloft and then threw it < ii the floor.

"Oh, you are mndl" ho exclaimed. *' You have not done
this! Let me look at you."

He tumed her face m the full moonlight, and scanned the
haggard features with an awful dread in his heart — yet al-
most a hope, po desperate was the crisis.

"Ai'e you mad? Oh! tell me, are you mad, you poor tor-
tured oliiild ?" he groaned.

"Mad? Oh no! I meant to do \t. I knew it would kill

him. I would do it again— I would do it again !" she cried in

wild excitement. " T leave a li!o behind me so loathsome, so

^ intolerable— Yes," she broke off fiercely, '* I would do it

again"

*'0h, spare yourself —have mercy on yourself!"

" But it is tnie; it is the only thing tiiat I can bear to let I
my thoughts rest vi^wn, the only spot in my black life that isj
not black tome."

She held out her right hand and looked at it in the moon- 1
light.

''Call mo guUty: it is swoot to me — sweet and clean and I
wholesome! I ain guilty; I have murdered him." Shedrev'l
an ecstatic hreoth.

Harry looked at hor aghast. Say what she might, she won]
mad.

** Hie blood seems %o wash away some of tb<^ blacknew?, V>'4

DABKNES8. ^ 307

hid^ousni^of tfie past^if that could be— but oh, no, no !"~
(she thrust out her hands, shrinking back)— "nothing can do
that; there are no words for it j— the horror is in mj heart,
and it burns thei*e; it bums— it will never cease biuning —
never, never !"

She flung her arms over her head, and then sank cowering
to the floor, leaning a^inst the wall beneath the window, and
always shrinking, shrmking, as if in a helpless effort to eecapa
from herself. Harry gave a gesture of despair. The horror
of the situation became more and more appalling the longer
he thought of it. What was to be done ? Viola's guilt must
be discovered with daybreak, and meanwhile where was she
to go ? what was she to do ? The blood-stained knife lay at
his feet; his own thrice-nccursed gift 1 He picked it up and
flung it out of the window, whence it flew m a long curving
line, quivering with the intense force of the impulse, away
over the cliff -side and down down to the greedy waves below.

" WUl you come with me instantly ?" he said. " There is
no time to lose, and I must save you."

" Save me ?— save me f

For an instant— a horrible instant— a flicker of repulsion
passeil across his face 1 The scene, the circumstancej the
ghastliness of the doom, seemed to have overwhelmed him.

Suddenly, as if she had been struck, Viola shrank away
with a hsuf-articulate cry which rang echoing through the
room and made the very nedrt stop beating, and a sickening
chill run through the frame from head to foot. It was the
cry of a spirit hurled from its last refuge, cut off from human

Eity and fellowship, cast out from the last sanctuary of
uman love.

With that momentary flash of repulsion and horror, a
fathomless abyss seemed to open its jaws, bLick as the grave,
but infinitely aee]>er than that resting-place of the weary who
have lived and died uncursed. For those lay waiting a haven
quiet and reposeful; but for her whose every breath had been
cursed, who was st.imed and tainted through and througli
with shame and crime— for her was only a bottomless grave'
where she would fall and fall, woightea with her crime and
her curse, through the darkness for over and ever 1

The words of passionate entreaty which Harry was now
pouring out seemed to strike on deaf ears. The conviction
that the curse was to be fulfilled had already taken root, and
it was fast becoming immovable.

"Vioia, listen to me," cried Harry, grasping her hand;
** rouse yourself and try to understiuid. Don't you realise
that we must go away from hero ? I have just been explain-
ing—only you did not seem to hear what I said— that we can
put off m Cileb's boat, which lies n?> >ut two miles on the
farther side of the headland. Tlie eliil is supposed to be in-
accessible in that part, and so it was till a few days ago, when
OeUeb— but I will tell you about that afterwards*, I want you

'<k

■ ^i

2dd

N^ ^^^ ^^^^^ ^^ AZRAEL.

***-M^Wifcf»i*'

to come away now, without mcrre loss of time. ^Sota, Viola,
do you hear me ? I must save you."

"But I can't be saved," she said calmly, "don't you seel
I am lost and cast out forever; his curse is upon me; the
hand of Fate is upon me. What earthly thing can save me 2"

" Love can save you," he said.

"Love 1 — forme/ Oh ! you are speaking falsely; you are
playing with me. I am not alive any longer. I have nothing
to do any longer with human feelings anl passions: I am
dead. It is ghastly work playing with a dead woman 1"

" O Viola, how can you torture me like this ?"

"What do you mean? You shrink from me youi*self. I
saw the look m your eyes, and I know what has happened."

" You are horiibly deceiving youreelf ; but I have no time
now to trv to convince you- don't you understand that we
must go? he repeated hoai-sely, "and that I would die for
you ?" ■■

She gave a heart broken cry, pressing his hand hard and
close to her lips. Then she thrust it aside and turned away.

He darted after her.

"I must go alone," she said, without looking at him.

" You are quite mad ! Where will you go to ? What will
you do ? 1 must, I will go with you. "

Bhe shook her head, "That cannot be," she said. " You
would see it yourself to-morrow. You think me mad, but I
understand bettor than you d(5 how things are. We stand
facing one another to night; but there is a deep gult between
us, and it will widen and widen, so that your voice cannot
reach me— even now I heor it a' a whisper; you will be cut
off from me utterly and forever, it is quite just and it is un-
alterable. We must bid one another farewell." She moved
away, covering her face as she parsed the motionless figure on
the floor.

Harry let her close the door behind her ; but after waiting
for a few seconds, to avoid her opposition, he followed her.

She had gone out by the side-door on to the terrace, and
was hurrying, in the glimpses of the moon, along the narrow

Sathway that ran in and out by the winding cliffside, and
nally up to the distant headland an<t the ridge or hill on the
highest point of the downs which marked from here the west-
ern horizon.

Though she moved swiftly, he overtook her almost at once.
Hearing his step, she looked back and waved him peremp-
torily away. But he disobeyed her. "You must not come
with me ; indeed you must not. Do not let your life entangle
itself fuither with mine. 1 implore— I entreat you to go
back. Let me think, hope, believe that you aie not involved
in this fate and this curse."

"Viola, you don't know what love means. You dont un-
derstand that it can save and atone and luolect frrm the
dirQ0t Qurse that ever fell on huuian soul. In this black hour

bARKNBSa.

—which in truth i[ have brought upon yo»— am I to desert
vou? • Cari'^fBOu asK it ? It Wjws all -my fault, and you must
let me save you."

/' You would do this out of pity," said Viola, ''out of self-
ift6cusation; you would niin yourself to atone for all the love
%hat you have showered upon me, all the risks that you have
run for me, all the opportunities that you have sacrificed for
me. O Harry 1 do you not see that my one remaining hope
and desire is to turn away from you the shadow of this
doom?" •

"But, my darling, we can turn away the shadow together.
Whatever you think you ought to do in expiation, I will try
and help you to do."

* ' Ah ! but if you were with me I could not expiate my crime ;
I should Uve enjoying the fruits of it— no, no, nothing can
undo, nothing, nothing— and if we had eternity to work in !
Go back to your own life ; we are parted now ; no power can
prevent it. My punishment is sure, whether it come from
man or from God. Love itself cannot help me now: I am
beyond salvation. lam a lost soul, and every effort at
rescue only makes my punishment the harder. Your love,
in spite of all, has been the best and sweetest thing in my
life. Don't you see how it will be its crowning misery,
if you force me to drag you down with me— if I have to thiiidk
of myself to the last as your evil genius, who from beginning
to end has brought you sorrow and pain and misfortune ? I
have no faith and no hope ; if ever a soid was lost, mine is
that soul. Something within me seems to have frozen ; I don't
hope— I don't fear— and I don't repent.'' There was a strange
lignt in her eyes as she recalled the terrible scene in the deutn-
cnamber. Repentance seemed to be as far from her thoughts
as hope itself.

"Whatever happens, I must come with you," said Harry
doggedly.

"You might just as well take some creature out of her
grave," said v iola. "I am dead ; I am quite dead. The onl^
thing that makes me alive again— through sheer anguish — is
the terror that you will not leave me, that I shall yet bring
some crowning misery upon you. If you have any pity for
me, let me go !"

" But what will you do ? Where will you tak;e refuge ?"

"No matter, no matter; only let me go I" and she moved
on, signing to him not to follow.

Harry stood grief stricken and despemte. His face was
drawn and haggard almost beyond recognition. It was all
his fault, all his fault ! What in Heaven's name ought be
to do ? Should he let her go, and retui*n to take the punish-
ment of her deed upon himself? If he did that, she would
come back and give herself up; if he did not

He saw her hastening away from him towards the distant
headland, across the stretches of the downs, and his heart

' H

•ft

^00

Tim WING of AZliAM.

leapt up in witcNnbellion against ^0p decree of banishment.
It was more than man oould eiKhire. He Wbuldnpl endure it.

Swiftly as she was moving, he soon gained upon her, the
sound or the sea and rising wind preventing her from hearing
him until he stood before her and uttered her name. Then,
she gave a miserable cry and stopped abruptly.

" Viola, your command is unbearable. 1 cannot leave you.
It is not pity, it is not remorse that moves me; it is love —
sheer desperate undying love. I will share your fate, what-
ever it may be,»and glory in it."

A quiver passed across her face, as if she were verging
towards the realms of the living once more. But she shook
her bead.

"You think only of the moment; you don't foresee as I
do."

" I do foresee, and I foresee a means of easy escape to-ni^ht,
if only you will be reasonable, if only yeu will be merciful.
Beyond that headland, beyond the ridge of the downs, thei-e
on the honzon, Caleb's boat- aa I told you— is lying moored
and ready for our flight."

" It is of no use; it is of no use," said Viola.

"Itisof use," cried Han\y, thinking she meant that the
proposed means of escape were hopeless. "Listen. Sibella
and Caleb have arranged that the boat shall be waiting for
us in that little inaccessible beach in order to avoid the ride
of being seen or our means of flight suspected. Beyond that
ridge you come abruptly— 'if you keep near the sea— to the
western wall of the promontory, the place where the man
rode over in the dusK and broke his neck. If'we skirt the
cliff clo&o by that spot, and don't mind keeping pretty near
the edge lor (mother two miles-it ig considered dangerous,
for the cliff is breaking away in places, so we shall be a'oso-
lutoly secui-e from meeting anybody- if we take this ^ight
risk we shall reach the boat in aoout twenty minutes, whereas
we might take an hour to go round by the safer way. I am
not a bit afraid if you trust yourself absolutely to my guid-
ance. But this is not all (Viola, you must let me show you
what our chances are before you reject them). Two miles
along the coast, beyond the headland, Caleb discovered a

Eai*t of the cliff which would have offered an easy descent
ad it not been for one steep little bit about midway, which
was unscalable. It struck fiim that a few artiflcial steps cut
in the rock would mike it continuous ^Ath the slopes above
and below, where one could scramble down without much
difficulty. He made those few steps (Viola, hear me to the
(^nd), and now we can descend by this way to the beach and
put off to sea. Do you see how many advantages that gives
us ? Nobody but ourselves, Caleb and Sibella know of the
possibility of getting to that beach from inland; the cliff is
thought unscalable for miles in that direction ; our means of
escape, therefore, will never be suspected until some chanoe

DABKNE88.

301

lent,
re it.
•, the
iring
ThS

'i
*-. ■

>you.
Dve —
ivhat-

rging
}kook

3 as I

night,

pciful.

thei-e

Loored

at the
Sihella
ng for
tie risk
id that
to the
e man
irtthe

adventurer discoyei| Caleb's steps. The 9(mr8e that we shall
take wiU^be quite difllerent from^anT that their calculations
could lead them to expect. Lon^ before morning we shall be
/ out of sight, and we shall have landed on French shores be-
fore they think of pursuing us by sea. Sibella and I had
formed careful plans for our guidance after we reached the
opposite coast (you know that she was to help us and stand
by us wherever we went), and these— but I must tell you
about them afterwards— I have no doubt whatever that I
could save you, if you would only trust yourself to me and
do as I ask you. Every moment is of value; I do not feel
safe till I have left the land behind me. Come, darling,
come."

He put his arms round her to draw her away, but she re-
sisted him.

"Viola, Viola, for my sake come." His voice shook with
the passion of his pleading. " Remember how madly I love
rou !" His lips were white and trembling, his eyes filled with

She held her breath, wrestling with the might of the tempta-
tion to yield to his pleading, to seek rest and refuge in the
ea^er arms encircling her, to lay her head on his breast and
drift back to life once more, love-bostowed and tended. After
the long conflict and self-suppression, after the gloom and grief
and pam of h jr life, the thought of such surrender and pro-
tection was like heaven ! The longing became so intense that
she had to cJench her hands and stand still and rigid in order
to resist it. She must not, she would not yiela to it; she
must not, she would not inflict upon him this deadly injury.
Murderess as she was, she had not the baseness to accept a
joy, to seek to avert a punishment at his expense. There
was no room for self-deception ; it was as clear as noonday.
It must not be. If she had to face the torture of wounding
him now, when she must bid him farewell for ever, still the
torture must be faced— even hia torture, in order that he
might be saved.

Harry was still desperately pleading, Viola with her hands
clasped tightly, her eyes flxea on the clouds, resisting, re-
fusing, entreating him to leave her.

"Don't look away from me like that, Viola!" he cried
wildly. "What have I done that you should treat me so?
It will drive me mad I"

He fell at her knees sobbing. She steeled herself for the
terrible moment.

" Good bye ! good-bye !"

In a moment she had darted from him, swift as an arrow.
He sprang up and followed her along the cliff-side pathway.
She was running with desperate haste, on and on towards the
distant promontory. He was determined to keep her insigbt
whatever befell, though he thought it wise to seem to yield
to her wish iu the mt^autime, Thg moon was not yet hi^b ia

S02

THE WmO OF AZRAEL.

the heAvens, and %» undulations aunl^lioUows of the downs
cast gre^t stretches of shadow, ratide yet more sdhifere By the
groups of gorse-bushes» and here and thei-e, farther inland
where tha slopes were more sheltered, by patches of wood an<|
little wind-beaten copses.

What did Viola mean to do? "Which direction would she
choose? At present she was keeping along the edge of the
cliff where the moonlight fell, as if bound for the distant
ridge on the headland. She was in sight, and so far safe.
But presently she must come to one of the great patches of
shadow, and then a serious danger threatened. The shadows
ran into one another, some spreading inland, some towards
the ridge, some back to the castle and the country about Up-
ton.

When once she left the moonlit spaces, Harrv would lose
sight and knowledge of her unless he kept close beside her at
the moment of her disappearing into the darkness. That
peril must be avoided at all hazards.

His heart stood still at the thought of what might happen
if he let her out of his sight. If she did not fling herself over
the cliff, she might wander about the downs till morning, to
be then hunted as a murderess and brought back for the nid-
eous ordeal. She had no thought of evasion or self -protec-
tion.

He quickened his i)ace, till he was close enough to the fugi-
tive to overtake her if necessjiry in a few seconds.

She seemed to become aware of his presence, for she turned
and waved him frantically away. At a short distance ahead
of them, crossing their path, lay the broad mass of shadow
which Hany regarded with so much dread. He dared not
obey her gesture ; the risk was too great. When he came up
to her she looked absolutely distraught.

*'Now, Viola, I am coming with you," he said firmly;
^^yoM shall not keep me back. Realise that it is useless to
attempt it."

In an instant she had gone up closo to the cliff-side.

*' If you advance a step beyond where you now stand," she
said, " I throve myself over."

He stopped appalled.

They stood facing one another, between them the imagi-
nary line upon the grass, stronger to oppose him, as Harry
bitterly reahsed, than any fortress-wall. She stood on the
very veree of the precipice, well out of his reach. His heart
stood still for fear.

" Viola, you are pitiless as death I"

Ho heara her give a low sob as she moved swiftly away,
keeping always close to the cliff.

His voice called despairingly after her, ** Viola, have mercy
on mo— let me come 1"

** I cannot, I cannot— it is because I love you.**

*^\vmai^ QOmoI" he cried wildly.

countr

All wa

^ure

the vil

plored.

futile.

copses

dozen f

Harr,

and wa!

of a lea

.Time

sionally

movem<

the sea.

search, j

quite ck

wood, w

had hear

down til

this side

that he r

her hand

heard th

Dahkness.

she

[heart

iway»
lercy

She pointed silently over the cHff without looking hack.
In another second she had plunged into the shadow, and he
could see her no more.

The blackness did not fall upon the edge of the cUff, and
therefore Harry knew that she had left the perilous verge,
and that he might pursue her. But which way had she gone ?
What did she intend to do? She seemed to be possessed with
a feverish haste to cut herself ndrift, to escape from the scene
of so much misery. Hope sank within him as he ran on in
desperate, clueless pursuit. The memory of her face and of
her deed, her immovable firmness in spite of all his pleading,
killed every vestige of it in liis heart. It was almost worse
than if she were mad. Sh3 was not mad~h? had convinced
himself of that; on the contrary, she was miserably sane,
clear in her forecasts, in her grasp of the situation, in the
certainty which she felt of hastening punishment. The no-
tion of escape seemed to have no hold up m her; she would
probably not deny her guilt if accused. Her one desire or
necessity was to cut hei*self off from her fellow-creature 3,
even from those who would face all risks for her. She seemed
to be thirsting for punishment, yet unrepentant.

Knowiug that bl e had left the clitf s edge, Harry followed
as swiftly as he could one band of shaaow after another,*
faintly hoping to find the right one before Viola had time to
evade him. But he could discover no traces of her. Thi»
shadows led away into the trackless downs and far into the
country; it seemed hopeless to follow them at haphazard.
All was dead and bleak and silent.

•^urely she could not have gone back towards the castle or
the village I That was the only shadowed route still unex-
plored. In the inland direction the auest seemed absolutolv
futile. There were belts of trees ana hedgerows, and thick
copses offering shelter,— besidcvi that of the darkness,— for a
dozen fugitives.

Harrr went hopelessly on, looking on every side, listening
and watchinc intently. The breaking of a twig, the stirring
of a leaf, made his heart beat feverishly.

Time passed, and he saw no living creature, except occa-
sionally a bird startled from its rest; heard no sound but the
movement of the tree tops and the never-ending murmur of
the sea.

More than an hour had gone by in vhis heart- wearing
search, and all in vain. Once, had he but ki?own it, he passed
quite close to Viola as she lay hiding in the outskirts of a large
wood, well out of sight among the thick undergrowth. She
had heard her pursuer's footsteps along the road, and crouehed
down till he should pass by. She heard him come up, look
this side and that, pause and listen intently. She thought
that he must hear the wild beating of her heart. She clenched
her hands to prevent herself from crying out to him. Then she
heard the footsteps pass on, and a voipe tbrough tbo tree,

-I

THE Wing of azraeL

■\ I

I-

■ X

; 1

came floating back to her in heart-broken entreaty, calling
hername.

Her plan had succeeded admirably —absolutely; but dh,
how mournful was the victory !

The sound of the footsteps, pausing at intervals and then \,
going on again, was dying away now in the distance. She
could just hear herself being called by the beloved voice for
the last time.

"Viola, Viola 1"

Then only the winds could be heard lamenting, and the
trees whispering in sheltered tumult.

Viola flung herself on the carpet of dead leaves and broke
into a passion of sobbing. The paroxysm, long and terriule,
passed over at length, and left ner lying still and exhausted
at the foot of the old beech-tree where she had fallen. The
wind, passing on its way through the wood, mourned over
her. She rose at last, and pushed her way out. With one
long, last look .in the direction which Harry had taken, she
turned again se\^ wards, retracing her steps and hurrying back
to the shelterless downs. She directed her steps— sometimes
walking very quickly, sometimes breaking into a run—
towards the neadland and the ridge on the western horizon.
A grf it sweep of moonlit down led up to it. Here were no
shadows, for the land rose in a long series of gentle undula-
tibns to the height.

Across this wide space Viola was hastening when Harry,
hopeless witlK the failure of his inland quest, retimied once
_more to seei^ her by the sea. He knew ner love for it, and
"the fascination of its voice, and he thought that in this des-
perate hour it would perhaps lure her back to the chff-side
and the shore.

His conjecture proved true. When he descried the dim
flgure in tne distance hurrying towards the headland, he gave
a wild cry and raced madly after her, dazed with new hone
and frantic with fear. Over the brow of that hill lay the
western wall of the promontory, sheer and pitiless ; would she
remember and avoid it? Could he overtaKe and shield her
from the peril? . One thought brought relief to him: though
the fatal cliff lay beyond the ridge, the boat lay beyond it also,
and Viola knew or it. It seemed not improbable,— it was
even likely that she would set herself adrift upon the waters,
giving herself to the sea, and accepting without question its
final inexorable verdict;. Harry raced on.

A lost spirit indeed she looked, moving, unconscious of pur-
suit, across those bleak spaces, swiftly as if the west wind
were driving her before it in scorn. Harry's speed was mar-
vellous; the ground seemed to devour itself lieneath his feet.
And as he ran the stem, terrible words which Sibella had so .
often quoted were rhythmically ringing, clear and hard as a
peal of bells, in his memory: "But the goat on which the lot
for Asazel lell shall be presented alive before Jehovah, to

DARKNESS.

d05

make atonement with him, to let him go to Azazel in the wil-
derness." Beaching the brow of the hill, the figure turned to
look for the last time on the scene which held so many mem-
pries.

The dark outline was revealed against the sky, motionless,
alone.

What feelings were in her heart as her eyes rested upon
that stretch of shadowed, wind-haunted country?

The old familiar moan came up on the gale from the sea.
How did it strike upon her ear to-night? Did she remember
that by to-morrow her name would be in everybody's mouth,
scorned and execrated ? Did she realise that the hand of every
man— except one— would be against her; that she was home-
less, well-mgh friendless, with a hideous ordeal threatening^
and a terrible death?

" What have I done? Oh 1 what have I done?"

The lafi'o flicker of hope died out; not a spark remained;
there was no possible redemption. Harry saw that she was
indeed doomed by fate, by circumstance, by temperament:
that she was beyond the reach of salvation, even as she baa
said. Love itself stretched out faithful drms in vain. She
could not even itepent.

•ii the sky a phalanx of black clouds had been marching up
stealthily from the west, so thick and heavy that the moon-
light was threatened with extinction. Becoming suddenly
aware of this danger, Harry darted forward in a panic. If
the moon were covered before he saw which direction Viola
had taken he would lose her again, and this time assuredly
he would lose her for ever. He had to race the clouds. But
he had no chance against them : he saw that clearly, with an
awful pang of renewed despair, as he nevertheless put forth
his utmost strength, and tore and strained, and struggled
madly up the hill. The terrible effort seemed to rend him ; he
could not breathe; he was unable even to gasp; he felt rigid,
paralysed. But he struggled on" as one possessed. In a
miraculously short time he had covered half of that inexor-
able spacCj but it was not witliin the power of man to reach
the summit in the time. The btrain was too much for him ;
he faltered, staggered, and half fell against the hillside ; trying
to arag himself up even then with his hands, his head spin-
ning, a rush of blood filling his mouth. At that instant the
solitary figure, with one last look over the moonlit country
and the sea, with one glance upwards at the sky, passed over
the brow of the hill and out of sight, while a second later the
sombre procession swept over the face of the moon and
plunged the whole landscane in darkness.

The scene was obliteratea r, darkness everywhere; over the
interminable uplands, in tlieir profound solitude, in the
shrouded heavens, ana over the sea: pitch-black, raylees, im-
penetrable darkness.

THE END.