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■ . ■•

: 1

WHlf.^,

A LOST IDEAL

LOST IDEAL

ANNIE S. SWAN

(Mrs. BukNETT-SMiTH)
AUTHOR oi- "Ai.nFKsvDi " "maiti.and of laurieston"

"CARLOWKIE" ETC. ETC.

TORONTO, CANADA

VVILLIAM BRIGGS

EDINBURGH and LONDON
OLIPHANT. AXDER.SON 4 FERRIER

2eei)i5

Entered, according to the Act of the i-..liament o' nada, in the year one
thousand eight hundred and ninety-four. by /r;,:,. Brioos, Toronto, at
the Department of Agriculture, Ottawa.

A LOST IDEAL

CHAPTER I

I the j'ear one
38, Toronto, at

" \Vh('ii lutpo is without measure
And life a thrill of pleasure."

)WAH])S sill, down on a fine S«'j>toinl)or ovoiiin^,
it liorst'iiiiin roilc leisurely up the Iteautiful road
which fdllows the winding's of the Teviot from
Hallkirk to Broadrule. He might have been
taken for a gentleman-farmer or a country s([uire,
[his brown felt hat, tweed coat, and mud-bespattered gaiters
[having nothing professional alxnit them. Nevertheless, Brian
Laidlaw was a graduate of two universities, and at eight-and-
Jtwenty was proud to write M.D. ]'Alin. after his name.
I His appearance may best be described in the homely but
expressive phrase of his native dale as buifdhj. He was well
|built, tall, and manly ; his well-featured, honest face was tanned
by exposure to all weathers, and his tine blue eyes, though keen
ind piercing, had withal a kindly gleam which did not belie
the tender .side of the man's nature. The six -o'clock bells,
/Signal for the cessation of labour at the factories in Hallkirk,

fame pealing, not unmusically, up the valley, and tin; young
octor rather absently took out his watch. He had been out
of his bed since four o'clock that morning, called to attend a
ihepherd's wife among the hills up Rule Water, and after

A LOST J/)/..iL

goiii;^ liis l(ni^ iHimd liinl jmid her n second visit, and was now
^'oin^J homo, for the lirst time. Yet lie did not iipjM'ar to \w in
any hurry ; lie rode leisurely, and the reins huii;^ loosely on his
liorse'.s neck —a lieaiitifiil animal, strontj and tlei-t, with just
s\illi('ient hreediiii; to ;^'ive the lii^di-hnMl tnudi the yotin*,' doetoi
lovpil. lictween the t\v<) tliei'f \v;is n |»crft'(t uiidri'stundinii ;
hy the animals ua well as human heinus with whom he eame in
contaet, P.rian I.aidliw was deservedly lulnved. Kindinj^' his
master in a thoughtful mooil, IJoh j,'radiiidly relaxed his pacM',
anil proceeded in a very leisurely manner up the somewhat
hilly road. To one not pressed for time there was certainly
much to admire in that jileasant scene, and the hour, just after
sundown, was still iind lovely enou«,di to lay a hush upon the
spirit. The road fidlowed the course <»f the river, as limpid
and pellucid heie as if factories and their necessary ahomina
tions had no e.\ist(?nce ; in the little [mioIs the trout leaped
merrily, the music of the ripples sweetly hreakin^' the extreme
stillness of the air. The \\\\i}\ hut t^'railually slupin^' river hank>
were richly clothed with alder, hirch, and willow, relieved it
intervals by the heautiful rowan-tree, on which the dusters
hung rich and red.

Autumn hid laid her mellowing' lint^'cr on the land. Many
lieMs on the low i^round were idieady reaped ; those on the
higher slopes rii)e for the sickle. The ahundant woods were
many hued, and wheic the sunset ghiw fell .ithwait tlu^ hills
showed the purple glory of the heather still nndiiiimed. Although
lirian Laidlaw was hy no means unaj)preciative of the beauty
thus lavislily spread before him, his mind was Just then
occupied with other tlnaights. l^resently Ik rse and riiler
emerged from the shadow of a little belt of wood skirting the
road on either side, and then a smile, slight but very tender,
took away the graver lines from his mouth. Before him, crest-
ing the sloping bank of the river, a gn\y spire, not ungraceful,
rose up from the trees, standing out sharji and well-defined
against the amber clearness of the sky.

(^Miite close ti> it. only se|)arated from the churchyard by a
low mossy wall and a row of sombre yews, stood an old-fashioned,

/ /.( .S7 /

/ /

anil was now
jtpoiir to hv in

loost'ly <'i» lii^
jM't, with just
!• y(nm<i (loctni
nitlcrstandinii ;
oui lu' ciinu' sn
Finilin^' lii"-
axoil his pace,

th»' soniowliat

was certainly
hour, just after

husii upon tlu'
iver, as limpid
t'ssiiry ahoniina
«. tniut leaped
in^' the extrenx'
)in^' river V>ank>
low, relieved ;il
ill the olusttMN

land. Many
those on the
lit woods were
iwart the hill>
hmI. AlthoU;4li
(.f the beauty
was- just then
( rae and ri«lei
)od skirtinf,' tin-
(lit very tender,
efore him, crest -
not unj^raceful,
id well-ilefined

hm'chyard by a
n (.)ld-fashioned,

rnmhlint; eonntiv house, tin* paii>ii nian.^i' ol ilumdrulf. ririan
t white )i<>ath*r in his biitt<Miho|e wliieli lie had

iiad

a snriu o

found that afternoon on the face of Kubcrslaw, brhind tiic
slu'phenrs hut. H^ was not much k'^''" t" romancin;^' or
>entinu'ntalisin^S this stalwart, elear-lieaded eniintry doctor;
nevertheless tin* lindin;,' of tin- white heatlnr, cndilcm of his
ci'initry's luek, had c(»nveyed to him a messa;^'!', the blos.s«»min^
of the loveliest hope of his life. It hail told him that day that

d that h

llie tune hail now come, and thai he mi;;lil now a^K, in whai
words .seemed most titling' to him, for the woman in- wished l<>
make his wife, thr woman he had loved all his lite sinee tin-
days when tliey had played to^'i'ther boy and ^drl on ihr smooth
lawns of the mansr -arden. The va;4:ui' lonLjiiii^'s i>f his soni
took definite shapi' as he came within si<,'ht of the old white
house, and, forgetful of the dinnrr ^Mowinj,' rold for him at honir,
he turned his horse's head down the man^^e lane and aiij^hted
at the ulil stone i^ates. Hob, beini,' well accustomed to his
quarters, subniittetl to the loos(» throwing; of the reins over the
ronvenient bridle post, and conliMitedly bc^'an to mumh the
flesh leaves of the jiink hawthorn while his master opened thr
wicket-j,'ate and strodi' up the little avenue to the house. The
manse <.,Mrd en was a shady and woody place, the hij;li shrubberies
:;| shuttinj,' out the smooth lawn before the door ; had I'.rian lau^dit
I an earlier glimpse of the firiiiw, beinj; enacted there, it is probable
■ f. lie would somewhat hastily have beaten a retreat.

When he came within full view, a dark Hush overspread his
face, and his brow liastily clouded. The scene, pretty and
suggestive in its way, evidently did not comnu-nd itself to him.

On a low garden-chair, just by the old sundial, sat a young
lady in a close-fitting grey gown, her white hat on the grass
beside her, and a look of vivid and lovely interest on her fac(\

I use the word lovely because it is most expressive of lier

l(K)k at the moment. Usually her face was too passive and

uni.'Xi)ressive to be called lovely ; it was only when, as now,

something stirred her to quick emotion that it gained the

. necessary touch of life. It was, however, a beautiful face,

- regular in feature, faultless in tint, and striking too in its way,

A LOST inr.Ai.

Mi^^t'HtivL' to lIiu close ohscrvor of an unusual anmuiit of hiiMm
jiossibility. It was a strong and swiMft face ; strength, iifrhajw,
|iri'tloniinate(l. Many adniiicil and respected Helen Lockliart ;
those who aj)|)roached her near enough to love her, lavished
upon her a most passionate devotion. She was so unafl'ected,
so candid, so ahsulutely true. Some less candid and true felt
unct-mfortable in her presence, and l)lanied her prudishness ;
hut those were the few. Tiirough the length and hreadth of
her father's parish Helen Lockliart was adored, regardecl indeed
as a *' perfect woman, nobly itlanned." Vet she had her faults,
which will unfold themselves unconsciously as the story of her
life goes on. When liriau Laidlaw, her faithful lover of a life-
time, saw who had brought that sweet, loving light into her
face, a lierce agony smote him b* the heart.

At her feet, in the attitude and wearing the exj)ression of a
hn'er, kncrlt a man of sucli striking appearance, that if a woman
can bo won solely by external attributes, then I'.rian's chance
was small. He was, if less strong and manly, yet of infinitely
more grace, while liis head was of that noble; type with which
we are wont to associate intellect of the highest order; and
the face was the face of a poet, set in its frame of wavy dark
hair, the eyes liipiiil and dreamy, the nostrils tbdicab'iy cut, the
mouth nervously swet.'t. A womanish face, perhaps, yet not
without its latent strength, its i)romise of future development.
His attitude, being that of a lover, had something ])assionate and
pleading in it which appeared to awaken a tender responsive
chord in the .soul of the woman to whom it was addressed.

Upon this scene, then, came lirian, the rough and ready, like a
sudden chill rising from a cloud in a sunny sky. He purposely
trod tilt? gravel fiercely under foot; then Helen saw him, and rose
somewhat Inuriedly, her composure tlistinctly disturbed. Her
com})anion [ticked himself up in a most leisurely fashion, and ele-
vated his eyebrows as he gave the intruder a nod of recognition.

"Oh, Brian, good-evening," Helen said, rather tremblingly.
She was sensitive to a degree, and noted the ominous cloud
on Brian's brow. " Surely you came quietly. Are you
riding?"

/ /.O.Vr IDEAL

lint of liiildt'ii

I'll Ltjcklmrt ;
her, lavished
80 uniill't'i'teil,
luid true felt
pnulishneas ;
id lircudth <)1
"iirdctl iiidt'cd
tiad l»or fa\dts,
f story of luM"
Idvit of ii life-
li;,'ht into her

i>X])ro88ion of a
liat if a woman
r.rian's chance
ct of infinitely
/pe with which
'st order ; and
e of wavy dark
icately cut, the
rhajis, yet not
I' development.
; ])assionate and
ider responsive
addressed,
iid ready, like a
1I(^ purposely
w him, and rose
listurbed. Her
ash) on, and ele-
of reco|^nition.
er tremblingly,
ominous cloud
tly. Are you

Yes. I walketl up tlie avenue an usual," r»'i)lii'd Ihian

.'urtly,

How are vou, Wood-nite] I tli«ln't liear voii witp

C.X|

lec

ted.

I wasn't. I nt'ver am expertetl anvwlu-re, my dear hoy,"
replied W'oodgate carelessly, as they shook hands. " I'm a law
unto myst'll". And how is the world usini,' you?"

" I hav«' no complaint to make," said llrian, and for the life
of liim could say no more. Though these two had known each
other sinc«' hoyhooti, hail sat on the same hcnch, jtlayMl the
same ^'ames, and shai'ed every hnyish jmrsuit, they wj-n* more
antagonistic to each other than the merest strangers.

"The la.st 1 heard of yciu, you were going to Africa," said
lirian, striving for Helen's sake to throw oil' the restraint which
seemed to hind his tongue. " Have you come to make some
Btay in the oKl place, which, I suppose, seems slow enough to
you now '/ "

"That dejiends, 1 suppose, on — on Helen, shall 1 say?" said
"NVoodgate pointedly, and Helen Hushed all ovi-i.

"Then, if it depen«ls on Helen, your stay will he imietinitely
pr(»longed," saitl Urian, with a kind of snap. " She is lutthing
if not hospitable, as we both know."

For the first time Laidlaw became conscious that he was
mnghly attired, that his gaiters were mud-bespattered, and the
contrast between him and the artistically-attin d Londoner,
whose velvet coat and delicate necktie, arranged with a careless
though studious grace, proclaimed that he was not above
personal vanity, of which Laidlaw was singularly free. Vet he
always looked the true and honest gentleman he was.

"1 must ask you to excuse my attire, Helen," he said, with a
short laugh. " Ihit 1 was called up Rule Water before day-
break this morning, and have not been home since. Is your
father in the house ? "

"Yes, Brian; do come in ai I see him," said Helen, with
alacrity, glad of anything to relieve the tension of the
moment.

" No, thanks ; I must go on. My father will be out of all
patience for his dinner," said Brian. "Perhaps you would

, ■=-^*'l

• I

1 1

A LOST IDEAL

kindly tell the minister that Mrs. Watson at ('avoring is
seriously ill, an«l that I am ilouhtful of her recovery. They'd
like to see him, 1 know. Good-evening, AVoodgate. I suppose
you'll be giving us a look in at Broadrule before you go. Seen
Guy sin«'o you came ? ''

*' Xo ; I only arrived this afternoon," replied Woodcut c
"Give the doctor my kind regards; and tell him, in sjiite of
his gloomy forebodings, I'm not a complete wastrtd yet."

Helen gave a nervous little laugh. Jh'ian smiled a trifle
;M'indy, raise<l his hat, and walked away.

Tlie pair left on the lawn were (uiriously silent until they
heard the short, sharp click of the horse's foot sound on the
hard, dry road. Then Woodgate gave his shoulders an
expressive shrug.

*' Poor Laidlaw ! How true it is that a silken purse caiuiot
be made out of a sow's ear ! "

'* V/hat do you mean, Richard 1 " asked Helen quickly, and
witli a trace of irritation which rather surprised him.

" You understand me very well, dear Helen, though you
affect otherwise," he said lightly. " Laidlaw was always a boor,
and the boy was father to the man. But the poor fellow has had
but small opportunity for self-improvement — administering the
ti.-eful but homely drug to the natives of this primitive dale."

Helen's eyes flashed. She was not so completely carrieil
away by the more meretricious attractions of Woodgate as to be
\uial)le to resent such an aspersion cast upon her old and true
frit^nd Brian, whom she dearly loved.

" Brian is a splendid fellow, Richard, and y )U know it. He
may not be clever enough to write books, but he has already
attained a high reputation in his own profession ; and he does so
much good unostentatiously in the parish, never sparing himself
a moment's trouble or fatigue, that we can never be grateful
enough or admire him enough for it.''

Woodgate perceived that he had made a slight mistake, and
has Leu I '(1 to rep.iir i;.

*' 1 meant no dispaiagemeut to l^ii.ui. for whom I assure you
I have the highest respect, only 1 must hold to my contention

.'Y-

A LOST IDEAL

it Cavoring is
.very. They'd
ite. I suppose
you go. S(5Pu

iod Wood^iitc.
ini, ill s}>it(! of
rel y«'t."
smiled a trifle

lout until they
ft sound on the
< shoulders an

:en purse cannot

[on quickly, and
liim.

on, though you
IS always a boor,
or fellow has had
d ministering the
rimitive dale."
npletely carried
oodgate as to be
her old and true

)U know it. He
-, he has already
; and he does so
sparing himself
lover be grateful

ight mistake, and

KMU I assure yuu
to my contention

that ho is a diiunoud in the rough. I»iit don't lot our first
quarrol In- over this ostinialdo inutn;il friond. Vou should ho
iiiorr h'liifut to iiio to-uight, llolou, sooing F have holore me the
vory trying onloal of having to ask papa."

His t(»iio of gentle l)antor uuido Helen's colour (luiokly rise,
iind she avoitt'd her conscious eyes,

" 1 wonder if it will V»e a surprise to him, Richard."
" A surprise, possibly ; but a happy one, I trust," said Wood-
uato ('(.inpiaoontly ; and Helen could not repress a smile. He
\v;is iiinriUnatcly vain, and though indulgent to all his little
weaknesses, she was not unobservant of them, llt^ did not, indeed,
"p-rodit her with tin; actual keenness of vision and nicety of
''I porooption she possessed. She was an interesting study to the
man whoso business in life it was to dissect human cliaracter
^ and analyse human motive. The pure, wholesome life she had
lived for iive-and-twonty years in her native dale luul infused
its freshness into her being, and while close contact with many
:^ simple and e:!rnost souls had kejtt her alfections and sym]>athies
wide and warm, yet the comparative narrowness of her environ-
ment had nnt failo(l to give to her character a l^uritan touch in
i whioh Woodgate delighted. It was because she was in all
t respoc.'ts so different from the women of his world that he had
J chosen her to be his companion, asked her to bo his wife. It
I Avas a favourite pastime of his idle hours picturing his stately
I meadow lily transplanted to the more arid soil of London, and
|antioipating the gathering wonder with which the change would
A encompass her soul. He loved her in his way ; how much or
how little his way involved, this history may afterwards reveal.
^Meanwhile, if he was a little different from the ideal lover of
whom Helen in her girlhood had dreamed, that did not grieve
her, and vshe accounted herself honoured among women. For
Woodgate, the sometime charge and pupil of the minister of
Broadrule, had already made a name for himself in the world of
(letters, a volume of })oems winning for him the title of the New
I Poet, and a novel full of artistic ];eauty and literary grace made
I the world impa-ient for its successor. His reputation was in
I the freshness of its early promise, and his old-time friends —

/ r.OST IDEAL

\ '

J I. lull among them — were reverent in their worship of his
genius. She was very iiumble in those early days, tlie
gl'iry of lier liero-worsliip yet iindimmcd. That one s< gifted
and so souglit after should liave remembered lie)-, and oflered her
his love, filled her soul with a wonder of humility and gratitude.
He had certainly stirred lier heart and won her ])romise, though
she had never analysed her feelings towards liim. She was a
cultivated woman, Imt in her humility }»laced herself fai'
beneath him, not jtresuming to be his (#jual— tht; height of her
aml)ition to fill some niche in his life, and so aid him to the full
perfection of his work. She had a reverence for intellect, and
vegarded his )uessage as divine. In her simplicity she dw^lt
high upon the heights, looking u|»on the ideal, so dillicult always
to attain, with vision (piitc; undimmed. Hei simple, undisguised
v.'urship, her utter belief in him, was sweet to Woodgate, vanity
being his besetting sin. The subtle incense of the world's i)raise
had saturated his being, and there were some who, while
recognising his genius, shook their wise heads, knowing that
self-complacency kills the noVdest aim. A few sterner spirits
were not loth to declare that the new poet's best work was
done; but no such presentiment troubled the soul of AVoodgate.
His belief in himself was unassailal)le ; he felt assured that
his future held only achievement more brilliant than the past.

He did not believe what many wise men have proved, that
the growth of a fine soul can be stopped, its developnuMit choked
by the weeds of selfishness, of indolence, of vain-glorious ease.
Tho.'^.e lieavenly voices which resound clear and sweet and strong
in a [)ure atmosphere, have no divine cadence for the grosser
ear.

The groveller cannot live upon the heights, the rarity of the
atm 'Sphere is irksonu^ to him. The trouble is that it should be
so much easier to grovel than tK) soar.

fii

orship of liis
ly tlays, the
one SI gifted
lU'l oficred her
ami gratitude,
•ouiise, though
1. She was a
•d herself far
! height of her
liiui to the full
r intellect, and
city she dw<;lt
dillicult always
)le, undisguised
..(hlgate, vanity
ic world's })raise
lie who, while
;, knowing that

sterner spirits
hest work was
il of AVoodgate.
ilt assured that
than the past,
ve proved, that

lopnient choked
in-glorious ease.

weet and sti-ong

for the gvosser

he rarity of the
that it should oe

CHAPTER TI

** R(»t\v('pn two ways, two loves, two swift desires,
Tho human lieart is torn."

us su|»|M»s(' for a uionient, Helen, tiiat your
•p I'atlier .siiuuM not ))rovt' iiincnMhle. What would
ho tlie result?" inipur.'d Woodgatf, hy way of
'xpcriment.

He was fond of causing Helen to express an
opinion unexpectedly. He never tired of studying iiei' ex-
pressive face, of watching it> play of light and ?.jia<;i . It
clouded a little at the (juestion, and her large, ( lear grey eyes
became trouliled.

" I don't thiniv he will have any uhjeetion, Richard. Why
should he 1 You are the sou of the friend he loved hest in the
world, and you lived with us for seven years. Why, you aro
like one of us — or were once." She ended with a slight shy
hesitation. '* Of course it is a little diflerent now, since you
have become a famous man."

*• But supposing that, out of some contradictory spirit, he
should throw an obstacle in the way, my darling," persisted
AVoodgate ; " what then ? "

"I owe a very sacred duty to i»apa," said Helen quietly.
"Which means, I take it, that I should be bowled over, eh,
Helen 1 "Well, that seems rather cool."

Helen looked distressed, but said nothing. Woodgatc; did
not, however, for a moment believe that Helen would hesitate
l^^etween her father and himself. He was too certain of his

jr\^ J^

»4

A LOST IDEAL

II,

iuHiKiiice over lier. He knew in whut school she hud been
rrarcd, and tliat she believed the duty of the child to the
parent ahjiost absolute. lie smiled as he pictured her com-
jih'te disillusionment in the world to which her marriage
would introduce her; tlie many gentle shocks which would
evolve a new personality out of Helen Lockhart. He was a
very clever man, and a keen student of human nature, but it
did not strike him that nothing wouM eradicate her early train
ing, and that her personality was already built upon too sure
a foundation to be easily changed. He imagined her pliable ;
she was in reality, especially in matters of conscience, firm to
the verge (jf oltstinacy.

"Papa was very pleased when (lavin Douglas asked for
Annie," said Helen suddenly. " \ remember yet how his
voice shook when he said he could not, even if he would,
have chosen a better husband for her ; and, indeed, they aro
very happy."

"Are tliey?" inquired Woodgate, with \\\\ indifl'erence almost
rude, which (;:uised Helen to look at him in quick inquiry.

"Do you not think so?"

Woodgate shruggetl his shoulders.

"They may be. It de]>ends entirely on what constitutes
happiness; but you will admit that they stand on a slightly
dilferent platform from you and me."

"Gavin is not clever, of course, except in his own domain,
l)ut h(; is good," saitl Helen slowly ; and her lips parted in a
slight smile as she thought of her young sister's happy home,
where lavish hospitality was dispensed, and where laughter and
happy nonsense were never forbidden guests.

" You and your sister are opposite as the poles, Helen," saitl
Woodg.ate nieaninglv. " A soul which has awakened to tlu'
higher [>ossibilities of life can never again be satisfied witli
grosser surroundings. Let ^Ir. and Mrs. Gavin Douglas lie
ha|)py in their own way, we shall not grudge them such thinu-
as they have. 1 cannot promise you, ])erliaps, cjuite so easy m
luxurious a life, but we sliull have our compensations."

"Oh, 1 know, 1 know," cried Helen inqiulsively ; "i under-

Ik 1

A LOST IDEAL

. she luul been
le child to the
tured her com-
11 her marriage
:s which would
art. He was a
in nature, but it
; her early train-
t upon, too sure
ined her pliable ;
ut^cience, tirm td

lUglas asked for

er yet how his

en if he would,

indeed, they an*

iditterence almost
lick inquiry.

what constitutes
ind on a slightly

his own domain,
r lii)S parted in a
Ler's happy hom(>,
here laughter and

)oles, Helen,'" sai»l
awakened to the
be satisfied witli
;avin Douglas !•<■
them such thin,u>

>f*, (juite so easy ni

nsalions."

[sively ; " i under-

stand you quite, lint how dreadful if, after a time, you should
be disappointed in me ! "

Her voire .sank to a nervous whisjier, for she was giving
utterance, for tlie first time, to a fear which haunted her

perpetually.

" Now, my darling, after all I have said to prove to you that
your personality will give; the fini.shing touch to my life, your
influences the crown to my trndeavour, that is rather hr.rd," said
Woodgate, unrasily enough, for her humility touched him.
"You may trust me to make no error in judgment in such a
^crisis of my life, though it is just here, 1 know, that so many
men take a false steji, which they never can retrieve."

"But I am so unworthy. 1 know so Httle," repeated Helen,
with the sweet humbleness of a woman wlio loved. " Surely
among all the great ladies you know, there are many worthier
to be your wife than I."

"My dear Helen, I do know a great many charming, gifted,

and fascinating women ; but it is not to such a man turns when

he wants the rest of home. I knew very well what I was

doing, cheri.shing your image in my heart. You I have proved ;

and I know tliat you will make an ideal mistress of an ideal

home."

% It was the most delicate and subtle flattery, by which it was

impossible Helen could remain unmoved. She listened in

happy silence while he drew the glowing picture of the future,

of the loneliness which the sunshine of her presence was to

dispel for ever. And he believed honestly what he said ; he

had a very high and true regard for the sweet woman by his

tide, though she had not as yet awakened the passion of his

soul. He believed also that she would be a helpmeet to him in

.his literary course, a guiding star to keep him in the way of

rectitude ; and as regarded his power to make her hap})y, he

had no misgiving at all. He was too innately a selti-li man to

allow such a thought to trouble him.

j "I suppose," he said slowly, "since th'i unpleasant task has

|to be performed, it ^nay as well be done at once. You are quite

.leure your father has no suspicion of my errand % "

A LOST IDEAL

I !

< I
i \

" I am quite sure. I am afraid papa thinks I am not likely
to leave him in a hurry ; and, indeed, he will be very lonely
without me."

" 'For this cause,'" quoted Woodgate lightly. "If he gives
his consent, you will not refuse to come to me soon, Helen. I
have set my heart on spending the dark months of the year
abroad."

Helen started. It was all so new to her, and to hear him
speak of an early marriage gave her something of a shock.
Events in the quiet dale followed each other in so leisurely a
fashion that there was ample time always to grow familiar with
a new idea.

"Why should we wait?" urged Woodgate. "We are old
enough to make the experiment ; and if we love each other, th(>
waiting is bound to be tedious. Oh, I know what you would
say, Helen. I know the awful conventionalities of thi.'i delect-
able land. l)Ut as your new life will introduce you to an
entirely niiw order of things, why not begin a})propriately '
I intend to ask Mr. Lockhart to give you to me not later than
Christmas."

" Christmas, Richard ? Little more than three montli>
hence ! Why, (nivin and Annie were engaged two years."

Woodgate laughed outright, ft was so like one side of Helen
— that strict regard for the conventional sequence of events.

" Well, well, we shall see. But I shall not wait two years,
nor one, I tell you that, Helen," he said firndy. " And now 1
go to beard the lion in his den."

All unconscious of the momentous question about to be pro-
pounded to him, the minister of Broadrule was enjoying thr
quiet of the twilight hour in his study, smoking the pipe of
peace, r.nd leisurely developing his Sunday morning's discourse,
The Rev. Edward Lockhart was a student and a scholar, thougli
neither a bookworm nor a recluse. While htving with an
appreciative love the companionship of his liooks, he did not
neglei't the not less valuable and instructive stu<ly of his kind
His concern for the moral and temporal welfare <>t' his flock, hi<
practical interest in the details of common life, made hiir.

A LOST /DEAL

»7

J I am not likely
1 be very lonely

J. "If he gives
I soon, Helen. I
nths of the year

and to hear him

•xxn^ of a shock.

in so leisurely a

row familiar with

L\ "We are old
ve each other, tbo
r what you would
ties of this delect-
•oduce you to an
;in appropriately '.
me not later than

trusted and valued in the home, as much as the tondornesa,

depth, and wisdom of his spiritual teaching' niiulc him rover(Ml

in the pulpit. Such a combination is rare, and indicates gifts

of the highest kind. His brethren bemoaned tlie fact that ho

should be content to bury himself in a remote country parish,

nunisteriiig to the needs of a handful of simple folks, ])ut tliey

Ifailed to move him from the place he h)ved. It was liallowed

to him by many memories, as the scene of his too brief marrietl

llife, the birthplace of his children ; then he loved, and was

4oved by his peoidc, and they understood him. A wider sphere

otfercd him notliing to compensate for the loss of these things,

therefore he remained.

' Woodgate had a genuine respect for his old tutor, who,
tliough tender and kind, always had been also somewhat strict
fai his upbringing of his old friend's orphan boy. He ])elonged
in the older school, who exact implicit obedience, and who mingle
a rare gentleness with an authoritj wliich is absolute. His
daughters, though now women grown, one the mistress of her
own house, still regarded him with awe ond feared his dis-
approval. Knowing the character of the man with whom ho
Wl to deal, Woodgate wu-^ conscious of a slight embarrassment
f|B he sought admission at the study door.

f " Come in. Oh, it is you, Richard. Xo, you don't disturb
mc. This is an idle half-hour with me usually. Have you and
Helen tired of each other? "

His clean-shaven, clear-cut, and strikingly handsome face
brightened as Woodgate closed the door, and he })romiscd him-
aelf an agreeable break in the course of his study, knowing
what a brilliant talker the young man could be when tiio spirit
moved him. The minister had an absorbing interest in the
world of letters, and an intelligent knowledge of what was
a scholar, thougli transpiring therein, and he was undeniably proud of his dis-

loving with aii tinguished pupil.
)ooks, he did no' "Shall we have a light? Perhaps we had better. I like to
tudy of his kind gee the face of a speaker, and I hope you are going to entertain
re of his flock, hi< me, Richard, now you and Helen have fallen out. And how
life, made him ^o you think Helen is looking ? *

three months

two years."
one side of Helen
nee of events.

wait two years,
ly. " And now 1

n about to be pro
was enjoying thf
)king the pipe of
orninu's discourse

1 8 A LOST IDEAL

" Charming, as she always does," replied Woodgate sincerely.
Mr. Lockhart, busy with the reading-lamp on the table, was
not particularly struck by the remark.

'• And what isont you flying northwards just now, Richard ?
I saw from several papers that you are contemplating a trip to
Africa. Have you come to say good-bye 1 "

"No; the newspapers always know more of a fellow's inten-
tions than he does himself," said Woodgate V)luntly. *' I know
a party that starts for Mashonaland next month, and they asked
me to join them, but I declined. That sort of thing has no
attractions for me ; I have no sporting proclivities, and I don't
find native idiosyncrasies interesting. But I've come on a serious
enough errand this time, sir, as you will doubtless think."

" Ay, and what is that ? "

The minister turned up the lamp, and its soft white light fell
full on Woodgate's face. He looked his best at the moment.
Mr. Lockhart had the curious effect of forcing him to be
natural, and making him lay aside the mannerisms which had
become as second nature to him.

" Yes ? Out with it, lad ; confession is good for the soul," said
the minister, as he stretched his hand towards the mantelpiece
to lift his pipe ; but the motion was arrested by Woodgate'?
next words —

" I have come to ask you for Helen."

*' For Helen ? " repeated the minister, looking down on hiii
in evident bewilderment. " What for ? "

"To be my wife! Is it possible such a thing has neve
suggested itself to your mind ? "

Mr. Lockhart did not speak, but turned away to the windov
where the blind was still undrawn, and upon which the la^
grey shaft of light lay tenderly, and he there stood in absolut
silence for quite five minutes. He passed through a shar
experience in these five minutes, gained a victory over tli
selfishness of a devoted father's heart. When he turned agai
to Woodgate, who, though intensely nervous, did not dare t
break the silence, his voice had lost its happy cadence, his fa'
its unruffled peace.

fii
fai
an

mt
He
rea
a4a

■'■J

thrc

bes
we

max
it if
aU

you

■::'T
itw

iiil

A LOST IDEAL

odgate sincerely.
1 the table, was

it now, Richard 1
npLiting a trip to

' a fellow's inten-
untly. "I know
h, and they asked
t of thing has no
vities, and I don't
i come on a serious
)tless think."

oft white light fell
st at the moment.
[)rcing him to he
nerisms which had

d for the soul," saia
■ds the mantelpiece
ted by Woodgatc'^

king down on hin
a thing has neve;

way to the window
pon which the la>
re stood in absolut
d through a shar
a victory over tli
ten he turned agar
ms, did not dare t
>py cadence, his fn'

I suppose,'* ho said slowly, " you have already spoken to

'Icn?

;| " I liiivo, and she has .^^'ivcn me her promise — conditionally,

Ipi course, upon your approval."

■I "if that is so, then the matter is practically settled.

Jlolou is not a frivolous ix'rsoii who acts impulsively. Let us

<|it down and talk it over."

■' Considerably astonished as well as relieved, Woodgate sat

tack in his chair, while the minister took his own scat, and

even lifted his jiipe and began to 1111 it.

Woodgate s})oke lirst.

" It is right that I should satisfy you entirely regarding my
financial position," he began. " You are aware what means my
fath(!r left, and my income from my profession is considerable,
and likely "—

The minister interrupted him by a slightly impatient wave
of the hand.

** I don't wish to know these details, Richard ; they don't
much concern me. A moderate degree of poverty even, for
Helen, I should not greatly dread. She has been sim}>ly
reared, and she possesses, in a marked degree, the faculty of
adaptation ; but " —

He hesitated, and a slightly resentful expression appeared in
Woodgate's face.

" I must ask an ex})lanation of that 'but,' Mr. Lockhart. Is
it possible that you can have any jDersonal objection to ntel"

Mr. Lockhart faintly smiled and pushed his slender fingers
through his abundant grey hair.

_!^*You are a great man, Richard, in the estimation of many
besides yourself," he said, with a kind of gentle dryness, "and
we in the Dale here have our own pride in you ; but when a
man is asked, as I now am, to part with his dearest treasure,
it is natural that he should seek to strip the one who asks of
all superfluous trajipings and reach the heart of the man. Can
you make Helen happy, Richard, do you think ? "

The minister had a peculiarly keen and penetrating eye, and
it was fullv fixed on his listener's face as he spoke.

\ I

UtL.

I J

i I

:l 1. i

L||iii

^ /.OS 7' J DEAL

IT
OJ

Woo(1f,'atn (lid hifi bost not to flinch, hut l»n folt far from
comfortable, and (h'cidcdly a^'^'ricvod.

"1 can hnt do my host, and IIcUmi appears to trust me," li.
said, ratlier curtly.

Tho minister read the workiu",' of his mi' ike an open
hook, and .saw that this misj^'ivin*,' was wh. y nnpalataMr
Uut that mattered but little to the father, who had his be.-.t ^^
loved child's interest solely at heart. q,

" I cannot plead that you do not know each otlier sufficiently," y^
he said slowly. " Vou have had exceptional opportunities ni
studying each other. Ihit I will say this, and I sujjposc; I an
speaking to a man of the world, who will at once understand
me. lI(.'l(Mi has l)een (juietly brought u}), and lier liorizon i
naturally a trifle prescribed. Don't you think the risk (
trans[»]anting her to a soil so foreign, and in many respects ,-
uncongenial, a very great oneV

"I don't," rei»lied Wuodgate j)r(>mptly. "It will bo a fu!
life, rich in many things she does not now dream of."

" I do not for a moment doubt that, Kichard. The questin
is, would she consider them enrichers of life? I much doiil
it. You cannot misunderstand me. Your life, with its u
trammelled freedom, is in almost every respect antagonistic
what she has hitherto known ; and I confess I cannot regai
such a future for her without the gravest anxiety."

" You spoke a minute ago of Helen's adai)tability," put i
Woodgate eagerly. " Is this not a fine field for its exercJM
What is there in her position as my wife to occasion v
anxiety % She will at once take her own stand, and becdi:
the centre of an admiring and appreciative circle, in wlii
her own best gifts will have fullest scoj)e for development."

" I hope so, I hope so indeed," said the minister, but t:
shadow on his brow remained.

" I will be very frank with you, Richard, as I have the lij.
to be at such a time. The faults of your youth, when v
lived in this house, were not hid from me. The one wli:
concerned me most, and which does concern me still, ii
more seriously than ever, is your uaturfil dispositioa to I

■^

A LOS 7' IDEAL

t ho folt far from
■8 to trust ine," lu

in:

^If firsit alwiiy!^. Ymir success, T f«'ar, may liftvo IicIimmI to
i^stcr this hrscttiii;^' sin ; luit nli, Iml, rcincnil>cr that in tho
Himiiii^'c cstatr it is ulisoliitrly fatal to hai»|iiiu'ss. Thf hcst
flf woiin'ii arc a|)t, Cmd kiidws, out of tlic sweetness of lh(Mr
iko an open ^,,, ^4,),,!^^ to jiainh-r uneoiiseiously to nur scllishness. I cau

^h. ;y unpahitalih'. 0|))y inijdore yon to uproot, or at h-ast keep it lit check. Ami

wlio had his h(v>t f^p t|„, ,.,,st, since Helen has passed licr word, I can only say,

God hless and help yon hoth. May He deal witli you, Uichard

1 other sufficiently," Woodgatc, as you dual with liur."

ml o]»portunities ni -

md 1 suppose; I an

at oncu uudcrstaii'

and her hori/on i
thiidv the risk ^

in many respects >

" It will ho a fii,
dream of."

hard. Thequestio ;
.ife? I much doul v
Lir life, witli its iii .
spect antagonistic '
fess 1 cannot rcgm
nxiety."

adaptahility," put
leUl for its exerci>
,vifo to occasion v '^
\\ stan<l, and hecei. j;|
tivo circle, in wlii
for development." |
,he minister, but t.

d, as I have the iIl
3ur youth, when y
me. The one wli
)ucern me still, 11
{il disposition to I

|>I

t I

ll I

CITAPTRR TTI

"Yea, &\v my thou^'Iils of tlirc most vi^^'ilaiit;
The ciuisu is largely wiit upon my hoart."

',: NI) now, Richiird, vvci may discuss tlm details, if
you like," said the ministcn-, rcsuiniii^ hi
natural voico and sinking' l)a(dv in his chair
jj^ " Your homo, of courso, will ho in London?"

*'YvS, when we set it up," said \Vo()d^'!itf.
also more naturally, for the solemnity of tin; past remark-
was not agreeable to him. " lUit I shouM like to take a loiu
holiday first. I don't think lEclen would liave any o]>jectii)i
to trav(d, and we shall never have a better opportunity than a
first, wluMi we have no other tics."
"Ah!"

The monosyllable forced itself rather drily from the minister
lips, between two puffs of tol)acco smoke.

" You would go abroad — where, and for liow long 1 "
" Oh, six months, perhaps, supposing we married a
Christmas " —

"At Christmas? Bless my soul, Richard, I wonder you dar'
sit there and propose any such thing. Why, it will take a yea
at least to grow accustomed to the idea of her departure. YV
cannot pretend that you are absolutely indispensable to eat:
other ; at anyrate, you have taken a good while to find it out.'
Woodgate laughed, and looked yet more at his ease, findiii
this an easier mood to cope with.

d
a
n
li
I
h
o]
ai
li:
m
lii

gei
ev

■M

A LOST IDEAL

. vif^iliuit;
heart."

cusa tlio (lotiiils, if
t(!r, resuming' hi^
)iick ill liis <'l»;»ii
10 in Lontlon?"

" s;ii(l \V()(i(l<,'iitf,
i\w past reinaik-

liko to tako a Ion.

liave any obj-uitidi

()pl)oi'tunity than ;i

y from the minister

how long ? "

ig we married a

1, I wonder you dai

y, it will takii a yea

ler departure. Yt'

dispensable to eiu

hile to find it out.'

at his ease, findin

"You (iro nntitl«'d to your littl«! lu>nK'-thrust, sir," ho said.
["I hav«« always ndiuin-d and carrd for llflrn, but the inipulso
to marry, I think, must always come upon a man suii(h'idy. A

jliancc word or h»ok may suggest it to him, and tln-n h«'
lonih'rs wliy he has so stupidly ignorcil it so h>ng. I have
lo other exjihmatiitn to oiler of my tardiness in wooing; it is
i]w tme one."

Tlie minister aecepte(l it as su(

h. He. had no reason to
loubt the young man's veracity, and he was t(M) large-mindetl
in<l generous himself to subject him to petty cross-examination
regarding his past. He believed, indeed, that had Woodgate's
life not been l)lameless, Ik; would not have dared to approach
Helen, nor would she have had any attraction for him. lie
JUkd no anxiety whatever regarding the moral character of his
})Upil, and the traits in his chaiw.ter were such as time
id experience would mellow, and the influence of a woman
.like Helen smooth away. Such was the reasoning of a good
|||an, Avhose lot had been cast in the simple walks of country
life, wh(!re certainly evil walks with averted face.

"Do you mean to say, Richard, that Helen has even allowed
you to mention Christmas as a possible date?"
: " I did mention it to her."
"And what did she say?"

• "That Douglas and Annie had been engaged two years; but
|M think I could persuade her."

• "I see there is nothing left for me but to stand by meekly
tttld see these great changes accomplished," said the minister,
liith a touch of humour not far removed from })athos. " Well,
H'ijpan hardly picture the manse of Broadrule without Helen."

i':^ " But she will not be lost to you, sir," put in Woodgate, with
genuine earnestness. "I don't intend to take her away for
^er."

"I believe that your intentions are good," said Mr. Lockhart,
'•but a married daughter is a married daughter all the world
oyer. How often does Mrs. Douglas come here ? or what
interest has she without the walls of Broadyards ? Your wife
be just the same* j nor would I wish it otherwise. There

t Jll

^'i

) :■

I" 1 1

A LOST IDEAL

is one thing I should liko to say to yon about Helen, Richard,
and that is, that you must be gentle at first with her prejudices.
She knows absolutely nothing of the world, and it will be a
great revelation to her. If she should seem at first inclined to
rebel against what she does not understand, you must be very
gentle with her. She is one of the sweetest-tempered women,
but strong-willed to a degree."

Woodgate smiled. He thought he knew Helen well, and
that this advice, if not absolutely uncalled for, was at least
exaj,'gerated.

" I think Helen and I will * 'gree,' as they say here, very well.
I am not bad-tempered myself."

" Hasty, I think ; a trifle hasty. And you like your own way
as well as any of us," put in the minister quietly. " Well, I
will say no more on that head. I hope you have enough of
sense between you to make the best of everything. And now,
t-^.U me what you have been about lately. When is FirstfruiU
to have a successor 1"

" Faith, I don't know. I am afraid I am incorrigibly lazy.
You see, it is no joke writing up to a newly-acquired reputation.
The critics are confoundedly on the alert. It is a great tempta-
tion to a man to rest on the laurels he has won."

"^ot at nine-and-twenty, Richard, I think," said Mr.
Lockhart. " What you have already achieved shoidd be but
an earnest of better things to come. At least, your best friends
hope so, Helen among them. You will have an appreciative
wife, Richard, who will spur you on to the highest endeavour ;
anC that is much."

"I don't know," said Woodgate, a little doubtfully. "In
his home relations a man wants a rest — wants to get away
from all the bugbears that haunt him outside. I should not
relish a critic and a mentor always by my side. It would
inevitably become irksome."

" But you would not like a wife who took no interest in your
pursuits ? "

"Well, no; but I should like one who believed in nie
absolutely."

1 ''J

A LOST WEAL

, Helen, Richard,
th her prcjiulict's.
and it will be a
it first inclined to
^ou must be very
tempered women,

Helen well, and
for, was at least

ly here, very well.

ike your own way
lielly. " Well, I
L have enough of
rhing. And now,
■"hen is First/ruits

incorrigibly lazy,
quired reputation,
is a great tenipta-

link," said Mr.

}d should be but

your best friends

an appreciative

gliest endeavour;

doubtfully. " In

nts to get away

e. I should not

side. It would

o interest in your

believed in me

"Oh, well, Helen does, and will, unless you disillusion her.

iBut 1 warn you that she is 'cry clear-sighted, anil relentless

''in liev condemnation of humbug. And now, how long are

you going to stay 1 Brian and Ciuy will be anxious to

iee you

((

I saw Brian to-night, and he did not appear specially elated,"
said AVoodgate drily.

" r>rian 1 where 1 Has he been here 1 "

"He was in the garden about an hour ago, with some
message for you about a sick woman. I don't think Laidlaw
improves as he grows older. He has undeniable talent in
his own profession, and it is a pity he does not seek a
wider sphere."

"He never will; but what do you mean by saying he does
not improve? I see no room for improvement. He is one of
the finest fellows God ever made."

" Oh, I grant that he has a good heart, but the outward man
lacks polish. He was quite bearish this evening."

" Perhaps he liad reason. There is no doubt that Helen's
marriage, when it takes place, will be a fearful disap[)oiiit-
ment to him," said the minister, betrayed into an expression
of opinion he immediately regretted, thougli it was not a new
idea to Woodgate.

" Oranted ; but he might be genennis enough to rejoice over
a friend's good luck," said Woodgate. " I don't think I shall
stay, meantime. In fact, I can't. I have a dinner engagement
I must keep on Friday."

" And this is Wednesday. You must leave to-morrow, then ?
Hardly fair that to us."

"I'm very sorry, sir, but I shall return soon," said Woodgate,
not saying that he would only be too glad to escape the
conventional congratulations of sundry neighbours. " Have
I your consent, then, to press for an early marriage? I have
a piece of work in view which must be written abroad, and I
should not like to go this time without Helen."

" I suppose, if you have both made up your mind.s, there is
nothing left for me but to fall in," said the minister, as he rose.

ijiii

I'l

; If I

I !

A LOST IDEAL

" We can talk over this ngain after I have seen Helen. You
will not leave till to-morrow nij^^lit, at least. Send Helen to
me as you go out. I suppose she will not be far away."

Wootlgate felt himself a trifle peremptorily dismissed, and at
once left the room, a little disappointed at the manner of his
reception. He really helioved that he was conferring a gr-at
honour on the country manse. He did not feel in a mood even
for Helen's society, and, instead of seeking her, took his cap
from the hall-slund and jtasscd out into the garden by the front
door. Hearing the sound, Helen, who had been waiting in the
drawing-room, ran nervously downstairs, too late, however, td
see him. She was standing irresolute on the last step, when
the study door opened, and her father called her —

"Come here, Helen."

She obeyed him tremblingly, almost like a child convicted of
a fault. Demonstrations of feeling were not common in that
reserved and placid household, but it was no common moment
The minister drew her to him, laid his hands on her shoulders,
and looked into her face with a searching and peculiar tender-
ness. The resemblance between them was then seen to be
singu.arly striking.

" I thought my cares about my motherless girls were over
when I gave Annie to Gavin Douglas. Perhaps they are only
beginning, Helen."

" Oh, papa, why do you say so 1 " cried Helen, with a mingling
of apprehension and womanly shyness. " Do you — do you not
like Richard, whom we have known so long, and of whom we
have all grown so proud % "

The minister could not look into that pleading, upturned face
and give voice to the misgivings of his soul.

"My dear, my dear," he said unsteadily, "we may like a man
very well, and be very proud of him too ; but when it conu'.>
to giving him wlnt is our dearest on earth, it is a very ditfereiii
matter."

" Oh, if it is only that ! " she said, with evident relief. " You
have never called me that before, papa. Am I then so dear t'
you?"

'i !i

A LOST IDEAL

seen Helen. You
. Send Helen to
far away."
' dismissed, and at
the manner of his
conferring a gr"at
3el in a mood even
her, took his cap
;arden by the front
)een waiting in the
) late, however, id
be last step, when
her —

, child convicted of
>t common in that
) common moment.
,s on her shoulders,
,nd peculiar tender-
then seen to be

3SS girls were over
[■haps they are only

3n, with a mingliiiL'
you — do you not
g, and of whom \vt

ding, upturned face

we may like a man
but when it collK'^
t is a very diii'ereii:

dent relief. " Yoii
I then so dear t

" I did not know, my daughter, till I had to face the possi-
bility of giving you up, how my soul clave to you. If you be
to the man you have chosen a wife such as the daughter you
Jiave })cen to mc, he will be indeed blessed."
I "And Richard, dear papa — have you nothing to say about
iiim? Surely you are pleased! I only fear I may disappoint
him. I am such a plain, unintellectual person."

"Hush!" There was real sternness in the minister's tone
as he put his hand on her lips. "You are more than worthy,
and he very well knows it. You have chosen your lot in lift',
my dear, and it may be that the Lord has a great work for you
to do in another sphere. But we in this quiet spot will miss you,
Helen, 1: '.v sadly we shall not know till you have gone away."

There was more sadness than elation in his voice as he spoke,
and Helen's heart was too full to speak. She felt for the first
tiaie the bitterness of conflicting loves. Never had the father
she revenid seemed so dear, never had the simple harmony of
their placid life seemed so exquisite a thing. For the moment
the lover and the ideal life suffered by comparison. The one
she had proved, and loved because she had proved it, while
from the other the hand of experience alone would liii the
veil.

" The lights of Broadrule," said the minister, as he put his
hand on the blind to shut out the night. " If I mistake not,
there will be a sorer heart there than here when Helen Lockhart
bids good-bye to Teviotdale. But there is Richard in the garden,
waiting, I suppose, for you. Go to him, my darling, and take
my blessing with you."

He kissed her once, and gently put her from the room. He
was a man of deej) feeling, wdiich as a rule he kei)t under curb,
but he felt his composure leaving him, and did not wish to
sadden Helen by his distress. He locked the door after her,
and went down upon his knees, conscious of a load lying upon
his soul, and fain to lay it, as he had laid many a burden
through a long life, at the foot of the Cross. Helen, agitated
and far from happy, went to the fiont door, and Woodgate at
once caught sight of her.

llji

!iir

i. I

! I ii '!

/4 zasr IDEAL

"Where can I get you a shawl, Helen? Let us stay out (tf
doors."

She stepped back, took a wrap from the chiakroom, and joined
him, closing the door behind her. He drew her hand witiiiii
his arm, and they walked down the dark avenue in silence.

"Well, Helen, it was a pretty severe ordeal," he said pre-
sently. "I confess I was disappointed. What did he say to
your'

"Not much," replied TT(den tremulously. "It is natural, of
course, that he should be downcast a little at the idea of beiii;,'
left. I am all he has."

"There was something more than that," said Woodgate, a
trifle discontentedly. "Were the thing not too absurd to be
entertained, I should say he distrusted me. He certainly gavo
me that impression. I have a rival in Laidlaw, I know very
well. I wonder if he has been speaking disparagingly of nio
to your father 1 "

In the darkness Helen's colour rose. " Why will you be so
unjust to Brian, Richard? He is incapable of smdi a thing."

" He looked at me to-night, anyhow, as if he'd like to show
fight. But, poor beggar, I must not be too hard on him, seeing,'
he has lost what I have won."

" I think papa and you l)uth make a mistake. I am sure
Brian likes me as a friend only, just as he has always done."

"Oh, you will say that, of course," said Woodgate lightly;
" but you don't believe it. Well, I think, Helen, I shall gain
my point, even with your stern parent. Shall we fix the day
now 1 — twenty-fourth of December, or Christmas Day, if you
will. Did papa give his consent to that 1 "

" He did not refuse."

" I wish I could take you away now out of all the fuss ami
nonsense, and that we could be nuirried quietly where nobodv
knows us."

" But that is impossible. There are some friends we niii.-:
consider as well as ( irselves, Kichard."

" Oh yes, I know what I have to go through," said Woodgate,
with affected amusement. " I shall have to run the gauntlet oi

III

1 ■

[ill I
I 1 '

A LOST IDEAL

Let us stay out of

kroom, and joined
■ her hiind witliiii
lue in silence,
leal," he said pvf-
111 1 did l»e say to

" It is natural, of
the idea of being

said Wood<^ate, a

too ahsurd to he

He certainly gave

Haw, I know very

isparagingly of nu>

hy will you be so
if such a thing."
he'd like to show
lard on him, seeinj,'

stake. I am sun
IS always done."
Woodgate lightly ;
lelen, I shall gain
lall we fix the day
stmas Day, if you

mhe whole Pale's disapproval, hut old Madam Douglas is the

%hief Inigbcar. Heavens! what a tongue the old lady has, and

;how mortally she hates me !"

,^ "Oh, Richard, how can you?" said Hebn reprovingly. " Tt

^s because you contradict her so badly that she talks at you.

8I1C is very nice and amiable too if you take her the right

way "—

"Yes, but why should I?"(iueried Woodgate whimsically.
*'You conciliate everybody, Helen, and it doesn't pay. You'll
have to be a trifle more discriminating by and by, or I don't
know what will become of us. I think ^liidani Douglas an
iiisufrcrable old Avoman, and if your sister didn't calndy
ignore her, Broadyards would soon be a ])andenionium. Don't
look so distressed, my darling. I'll do anything to please you,
even consent to be presented at a family (iinner-party, if you
«iy the word."

• " I suppose there must be something of the kind. INIadam
Douglas gave one when Gavin and Annie were engaged," said
Helen; and again AVoodgate smiled. Her simple, unques-
tioning regard for all that was conventional and proper amused
bini more and more.

" Well, it can't be on this occasion, for I must leave to-
morrow, being engaged to dine at the Parthenon Club on
Friday night, but I shall come back as soon as I can to do
what is recpiired in the way of being trotted out."

The talk of such a speedy departure turned the conversation
iato other and more loverdike grooves, and for the time bein^r
iVerything disagreeable and unwelcome was forgotten.

of all the fuss and
tly where nobody

10 friends we uuin

rh," said Woodgate.
run the gauntlet oi

^ yn

1,11

CHAPTER IV

"The bond is sweet, my father,
It tastes of heaven."

LD ])octoT Laidluw, enjoying his after-dinner pij)L
on the doorstep of his liouse at Broadrulc,
was amazed to behold his son galloping up the
road as if a witch pursued him.

" Now, what on eartli does the rascal mean,
I wonder ? " he said half aloud. " There's been trouble ii]
Rule Water this day, and that's how he lays the thing t
heart."

He took a tremendous puff at his long churchwarden, aiii
sauntered round the end of the house to be ready for tlit
rascal when he should ride up to the stable gates.

" He's coming, Tom," he said to the groom cleaning harncs.
at the carriage-house door; "and I'U warrant ye Bob will h.
in a bonnie mess. Ye can get your pails ready."

Then he went out to the gate and there stood, a poiil
figure in the ruddy evening light, wearing a light grey twet'.
suit and a fine white waistcoat, across which dangled an oL!
fashioned chain and seals. His face was round and ruddy a
a winter apple, and his remnant of white hair made a uk P "
fringe under the edge of his gaudy smoking-cap, which li
wore jauntily, as if he thought it very becoming to him. Tl:
old doctor was a deal more dainty and fastidious about b;

(
1

tej

coi

abJ
nol

wc
vil
floi

dress thao the vouni? one. and he looked the very pictiu'e

SII

A LOST IDEAL

3r,

lis after-dinner pipt
Duse at Eroadrulc,
3n galloping up the

ps the rascal mean,
;'s been trouble \\\
5 lays the thing t

r churchwarden, anc
to be ready for tht
i gates.

3om cleaning harness
■rant ye Bob will V

eady."

here stood, a povil;
g a light grey twee.
Tich dangled an oli

round and ruddy a
be hair made a nci
oking-cap, which \
coming to him. Tl

fastidious about b;
I the very pictiue i

(ihe jolly old country gentlen^an he was. His whole face shone
is he watched the horse and rider rapidly covering the road ;
his pride in his gallant boy was very unatlected and uncon-
oeak'd. It showed itself in every look and tone and act, even
in the wholesome counsel and reproof which he thought lit
at times to administer when occasion required. He was the
one child of his old age, the only legacy left by the bright-
eyed Irish girl who had lived only twelve months after she had
come a bride from Erin to the quiet parish of Broadrule.
Burying his heart-sorrow as best he might, the old doctor
found his best consolation in the rearing of his boy ; and they
had been chums in the truest sense of the word, since the days
when the little Brian, sitting straight and proud on his
Shetland's back, rode by his father's side as he went liis
rounds. It was a sight both pretty and pathetic, which had
moved many a tender woman's heart to pity for the pair ; but
the old doctor sought no second mistress for the house of
Broadrule. The relationship between father and son was
almost perfect ; tiffs they had in plenty, both being hot-
tempered to a degree, but never a sting was left behind.
Biian's college career had been a long series of triumphs, and
when, crowned with honours, he came home to take the
bljffden off his father's shoulders, the old man felt that he
could say with Simeon, " Lord, now lettest thou Thy servant
depart in peace."

Many pitied the two lonely men, living with only servants
f£bdut them in that big old family house, but they wanted
nobody's pity, and did not know what loneliness meant.

The village of Broadrule was a quaint, picturesijue, old-
world spot, built in the English fashion squarely round the
village green. In the middle of the green grew sundry
flourishing beech-trees which afforded shade to the village
politicians who met of an evening to discuss the affairs of the
nation, and the homely gossip of the country-side. It was a
peaceable, sleepy, contented little place; almost ideal in its
simplicity of life. As was to be expected, the doctor's abode
W# the "big house" of the place, and the two doctors the

i|r

! m

m li

A LOST IDEAL

ai
w
B
cc
th
se
th

sei

ol)jiets of univorsiil rospo(!t and ostocMii. Porhaps it was r,
narrow sj)lu'r(\ as soiuo sai<l, but it had its rich coniponsation-
in tlio unswerving' lovo of many simple but r,'onuino hearts
It was none too narrow, anyhow, for Brian Laidlaw, who wa
pi'rfoctly contented witli his lot, and envied no man liis wide
sphere. AVlien ho cau<,'ht si^dit of liis father waiting' for bin
that niglit, he allowed the slightly aggrieved ]]ob to relaps>
into his favourite easy trot; but the somciwbat gloomy ex
])ression of his face did not relax, oven wlieri lio oncounteri\
the old gentleman's keenly inquiring gaze.

" Well, lad," said the old doctor, as ho laid his haiii
anxiously on the bridle, "was the j>oor body beyond your aid?

"Oh no," answered Brian, sull'-ring his face to clem
" She'll do if they take care of her. I thought this a ca,-
requiring our intervention, dad, so I stopped at Cavering an
telegraphed to Edinburgh for a nurse. It's a valuable lift
and we must do what we can to save it. Poor AVatson
gratitudii when I gave him some hope was quite touching."

" You're a clever chap, Brian, ami a good chap, which \>
maybe, l)ettcr," said the old man ; and Brian laughed as li ^^
swung himself from his saddle.

" Here, Tom, give him a wash down and a good feed ; li
deserves it," he said to the groom, and gave the animal
kindly pat as he turned away.

" AVhat were you flecin' u{) the road at sic a gait for?" askc
the old doctor. " For a' the world as if the deil pursued ye."

" Perhaps he did," replied Brian. " Aren't you famishe
for your dinner?"

" I've had it an hour ago and more. At my age, lad, a ma it
can't make a fool of his stomach with impunity, as you'll tin not
out yourself some fine day. But yours is waiting for you." troi

" I don't think I mind about it," said Brian absently.

" What for no ? Are ye by eating % Like enough you'v said
gone the whole day on an empty stomach."

" No, I had a plate of kail and a bit oatcake, with a nip c unci
whisky, at Cavering, and very good they were too. Anybou buil
would think rae a gomeril or a bairn, father, to hear ye," nan

to
bai
old
a 1

i I

A LOST J DEAL

Porhapa it was r,
rich coniponsatioii-
ut goiiiiino hearts
Laidlaw, who AVii
, no mail his widti
lor waitini^' for hiii.
ed Bob to relaps.
owhat gloomy ex
en ho eiicounterc'i

h.o laid his haiv
beyond your ai«ir
his face to ck^iii
,hought this a ciu
leu at Cavering an
It's a vahiahki \\l
it. Poor Watson
(piito touching."
'ood chap, which v
:>rian laughed as li

lid a good feed ; n
gave the animal

ic a gait for 1 " askc

deil pursued ye."

|ren't you famishe^

my age, lad, a ma
mnity, as you'll fin
waiting for you."

lian absently.

iLike enough you'v

^tcake, with a nip c
i^ere too. Anybotl;
k to hear ye,"

Ofton when alone they rclaiiscd into th(5 broad Scotch both
loved, tlioiigh bitth could, wiicn necessary, use the polished
Eiigli^li of th(! most cultivated soci(^ty.

, " Ve, lire nejtlier, lad, neither, only thrawn wliiles. But yci'll
«at yfMir dinner tliis niglit if 1 should feed you niysel'."

"Oil, rU eat it fast enough. Faith, I feel tired now. I've
had a long <lay. I hope there's no messages?"

" Nothing but what can wait," said the old man, as they ])assed
into the house. Brian hastily refreshed himself witli a wasli,
and took oil" his boots; then his father sat by him at th(! tabhj
wat.(;]ung him eat, and eager to h(!ar the dc^tails of the ojieration
Brian had that day ix-rformed, alone and unaided. li(! was a
cool and even daring surgeon, and the old man's interest in
these cases bordered on the keenest excitement. lie was
secretly amazed at his son's surgi(;al skill, though he sometimes
thought him rash..

*'l siiy, Woodgate is at the manse, father," said Brian pn;-
sently, breaking oil" in tln^ middle of their talk.

"Woodgate, is he? When did he come? llow did you
hear ? "

** I saw him. I looked in at the manse to tell the minister
to go up to INIrs. Watson."

*M)li, you saw him, did you? And how does our young
bantam look ? Does he crow as crouse as ever ? "

The tone — dry, keen, sarcastic — indicated in what light the
old doctor regarded the great m:in from London.

**I don't see much ditlerence in that way," said Ih'ian, with
a laugh. "lie's a good-looking chap, dad, only he knows
it too well. I say, just look wdio that is at the gate. I'm
not going out another foot this night, mind, unless it's mortal
trouble."

"It is not, though, only Guy ; the l)airn'll hac a sair wame,"
said the old doctor rather broadly. " Here he is."

^There came into the room at the moment, with all the
unceremonious freedom of a privileged friend, a sturdy, wadl-
bll^t, yeoman -looking fellow, with a pleasant, o\w\\ counte-
natiee and a twinkling eye, which betokened a merry heart ;

A LOST IDEAL

1 1

I I

;

I:'

': I Hi

lit

t ' 1

!M rl[

a
b
11

(I
tt

be
Br

and truly Gavin Douglas, Laird of Broadyarda, and heir t
Teviothead and his motlioi'a mon«'y-hag8, the husband of
charming wife, and tlie father of a strong heir, respected :
tlie Dah; alike for his substance and his personal worth, hi
but little to make him heavy of licart.

*' Good-evening, doctor," he said cheerily to the old man ;i
he laid his driving gloves unceremoniously on the Mhite cloti
"lUess me, JJrian, are you only at your dinner, and it's aft
seven ! I've come to take you back to IJroadyards, my ma:
Willy nilly, yo maun go." ..

"What for? I just said this moment to dad that on «'
mortal trouble would take me out of the house aijain this ni-'l
and it's not that at Ih-oadyarJs, I can see."

" Oh no ; neither mortal nor serious, thank Providen
Only the baby has a cough, and Annie would give me no pea
I say, doctor, it's no easy job being goodinan to a woman wi'
bairn. I'm for no good in this world this while back but j)g
fetch and carry for his wee lairdshi[) and his mother," he s; <
comically, yet with a certain air of pride, which showed tl ^jj^
he radier enjoyed it. <

" I suppose I'd better go," said Brian, as he took a biti jjj^
cheese to finish his repast. ^^

Ilis father looked at him a trifle reproachfully. Very ca- ^jj
could Brian have gone to the surgery and made up a coi ^q-
mixture for such a simple ailment; but Brian did not want
excuse. In his present frame of mind ho rather dreadc gg
long, quiet evening with his father ; tired though he was, «pj
would rather be out of doors. ^q

*' How have you come, Guy?" he asked. the

"In the dogcart, and I'll bring you back. But you'll -^^jt;
grudge us an hour or two of Brian, doctor ? It's not often <
can catch him now." ten

"Faith, that's true, my man ; but he's needin' his bcdbro'
night," said the old man. "He's little more than a h
here; but it's a providence that he has health and strength -befi
heart for his work, just as I had at his age." revel

" Hear him now I There's a good day's work in you awa

A LOST IDEAL

yards, and heir t Jp^tor, if yoii worn put to i^, and Brian would let you ; l)ut lie's
the husband of ^gjitiuhle for work."
r heir, r»'Si)ecte«l ^ "'J),.c(l is he," ^aid tin' old man, followin.i,' his son with
personal worth, hi ^Jniirin^' eyes as he ((uittcd the room. "I'm as rusty as a

btni-door liin^'e, (iuy," ho added conlideiitially, and toiichin«,'

^ to the old man;. ^^^ laird's arm with his hand— the wrinkled, tremhlinj,' hand

on the -white clot: y^jji,.jj q,,,.^. i,j„| i„.,.h -is skilfid and geiith; as Urian's own.

inner, and it's afl «ijj,.'j, .j^ mj,.^ ehield. lie's just been tellin' nu; what Ik^ did

koadyards, my nu: ^jjjg ,j.^y i,, ,^ j,,,,,,. i„,f]y „j, the hills. An', would you believe

it, (luy, 1 canna aye follow him. He's ^'ot that nmny new-
it to dad that oi, f^ngi,.,! lunncs for thin<,'s, let alone new-fangled notions, an' ho
Duse again this nigl fears naethin^'. die him a knife an' he'll cut if it should be
' bend leather."

5, thank Provident "Ay, but lu; knows what he is about. You never hear of
uld give me no pea Brian making a mistake," said the laird. "Come out and see
uvn to a woman wi' ^y new mare, doctor ; sIk^'s the nicest bit of horsetlesh in the
his while back but Y>bX% at this moment, I could bet a fiver."

[ his mother," he s « ATiother new one, Guy ? Where did you get her?" queried
e, which showed t! the doctor eagerly.

** Reared her myself. Yoiir man says she's a beauty. I
as he took a biti broke her mys(df too, and she's as (juiet as a lamb to ride and

drive. I meant her for my wif(;'s riding, but she won't look
achfuUy. Very ca- at her. Nothing in her head but babies; she can't look at
[ind made up a coi anything else."

Brian did not want ^e doctor laughed, and they passed out into the i)leasant

he rather dreadt September twilight and sauntered to the gate, where Tom the

red though he wa>, groom was admiringly regarding the smart dogcart and the

new mare. She was, indeed, a lovely piece of horsetlesh, and
,(J, the doctor, himself no mean judge, regarded her dainty points

back. B^it you'll -vvith silent ecstasy.

'Xoxl It's not oftfii "She's a beauty, and no mistake. Brian will break the

tenth commandment presently when he sees her. I say, what's
e's necdin' his binl brought Woodgate here just now ?"

,le more than a 1'" This sudden question took Guy entirely by surprise, but
ilth and strength befdre he could reply, Brian had joined them, and the talk
B.» reverted to the mare. The old doctor watched them drive

y's work in you away out of sight presently, and then went back to his study

'ii (,!

A LOST IDEAL

LI III [

i; i!

I :

I I

jiiid liis pip<^, thinking tenderly of the two lads, who wore liot}]
dt'iir to him, and whose warm friendship was a thing which had
always ph-ascd him mightily. 11(5 was somewhat trouhl**!,
however, and he could not tell why, ahout W(»(»dgate hcing a:
the manse. In some su))tle way Jh'ian's heaviness of soul lia:
communicated itself to him, and ho found less solace than usuii
in his pipe.

"Did you know Woodgate had come to the manse, Guy?
asked I»rian, as they ])owl('d swifUy along the road, the mar
keeping her lovely head well up and snilling the sweet eveniii.
air with keen delight.

** No, I didn't, till your father mentioned it just now," sai
liroadyards. "Helen was over this morning, hut slie nevt
mention(Ml it. Awfully close is Helen when she likes."

" Rather think he came unexpectedly."

" Um ! Unexpected and uninvited, like our snell east winiK
said the laird grullly. " I say, lirian," — he hesitated a mom( i
and then out with it, — "don't let that hookmaking chap t;.!
away Helen."

" I doubt that's his errand," Brian answered, with li;i
averted head.

" But dvuH let him," urged Broadyards, giving the maro
unexpected flick with the whip wlr-^h set her quiverin*;
every limb. "Don't you want to keep her herol I coi
have sworn you did."

" I do. Heaven knows I do ! " said Brian passionatt
"But I doubt he's in the running this time, not I."

" Well, I think you're a fool, Brian, upon my honour
do, if you let that whipper-snapper step in and lift Helen fi
before your nose. I thought you'd more pluck in you ti
that. Why, everybody knows he isn't fit for her, and that
was made for Broadrule."

Brian smiled a trifle drearily. This masterful style of :
was all very well for Guy, whose course of love had
smoothly from start to finish. But though Helen and Ai
were sisters, they were cast in a difl'erent mould.

"He's got the things women care for," he said, just at'

A LOST IDEAL

(!a, who woTO lK)ty,
a thing which hac
miowhat trouhbd
W(»(Ml^iito b<'in^ ;r
tvincHS of soul Iisk
^s HoUice than uhiiu,

the nianao, Oiiy \
tho roa«l, tho mar
tf the sweet eveiiin.

d it jiiat now," sai
ling, hut she neV'
u she Ukes."

our sncll east wintl
. hesitated a niomn
)okniaking chap t;.!

wereil, with lia

, giving the maro
set her quiverin*^
her hcrol 1 t^^''

1 Brian passionat.

le, not I."
, upon my honour
ill and Uft Helen fr
re phick in you ti
t for her, and that

masterful style of :
irse of love had
,ugh Helen and Ai
b mould.
c," he said, just a t:

•avagi'l}'. "Fine soft niann»'rs and flattering words; and,
Unlt'SM my eyps (h'ceived me to-night, the girl j)ut tlie odds on a
ehap like me, who has nothing to otlVr her hut an honest heart
And a pair of willing hands."

IJroadyards deliberately swore undisr his hreatli, though not
iddietcd to strong language, except under the severest
provo('ati(jn.

" I'd have her yet, Brian. You're on tho spot, and can
eonduct the siege. \i Helen chooses him in prefcrenee to you,
all I can say is, she richly deserves the hard bed she'll have to
lie oil ; but I won't believe it till I see them married. Helen
would never bo such a fool."

Brian remained silent, but quite unconvinced ; and his
silence irritated his friend, who had all that concerned him so
truly at heart.

"You won't let him have an easy walk over; i)romise mo
that," he jjursued eagerly. " I can't stand the fellow — never
could stand him, even when a boy, and now ho makes my
gorge rise."

"Let's talk of something else, Guy," said Brian (juickly.
**All the talk in the world will never mend that matter.
Though I'd give my right hand willingly to see Helen Lockhart
at Broadrule, the day'll never como— that I know, my lad,
right well."

\ jiiii"

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MdH

CHAPTER V

"A little rift witbin the lute."

^lOODGATE left the manse next morning. Nov
that the object of his visit was accomplished,
he seemed eager to be gone ; the engagemeii:
at the Parthenon was not important, seeing i'
was a weekly institution, at which eacl
member was bound to read something original, and Woodgat
had already twice fulfilled that obligation, and would m
be called on for some time. But he allowed Helen t
tliink the engagement imperative, and departed with man
apologies and many regrets. He was by no means ;i:
ardent lover, though he believed that he honestly cared i<
Helen above all women. Her answer had filled him with
calm satisfaction ; and as the train bore him southwaiv
through the rolling masses of the Cheviot Hills, he to!
himself that he had done well by himself and the Lockhart
They had been kind friends to him, giving him a home \
his orphan boyhood, and no man could now say he had ii
richly acknowledged that debt. In giving Helen a positi'
such as she would not otherwise have aspired to, he felt tli
he was also supplying himself with a kind of sheet-ancli
to steady himself before the shifting winds of a thorougli
Bohemian life. There were one or two pages in that life:
would not wish Helen ever to read ; she would never know
them; under her pure guidano<^ )ie would become a model. >

><8

A LOST IDEAL

•*

xt morning. Nov
was accomplished,
3; the engagemeii-
mportant, seeing r
, at which eiul
nal, and Woodgat
n, and would m

allowed Helen t
iparted with man;
by no means a:

honestly cared i
I filled him with
-e him southwari
viot Hills, he to!
and the Lockhari
ing him a home :
LOW say he had 11
g Helen a positi
>ired to, he felt tli
ind of sheet- an cli
ids of a thorougli
Dages in that life:
muld never kno^v
3ecome a model. '

ie lightly rumniated as he watched his cigarette smoke curling
ttirough the carriage window, and gave himself up to visions of
Ibarried life in which his l)eautiful wife, so perfectly natural
and sincerely trutlifnl, so womanly and so gracious, should
awaken wonder in the souls of the men and women of his
acquaintance. He told himself that he had never sliowed his
genius and his sense of artistic fitness more conspicuously than
in his choice of a wife. A man may have tender passages,
may whisper love-nonsense to many women, hut the wise man
vchen choosing a wife avoids such, and seeks the pearl of true
womanhood, somewhat rarer to find, perhaps, in these artificial
days than of yor(\ So Woodgate, in a truly complacent frame
of mind, returned to his London haunts, having made a great
upheaval in the quiet manse on the banks of the Teviot. Helen
was left wondering a little at the sadness of her own heart.
Her father had given his blessing ; yet she felt none of that
blissful elation which happy love, so crowned, is entitled to
feel.

Woodgate left at two o'clock, being driven to Hallkjrk Station
by the minister himself. When he returned, he at once sought
Helen, who was wandering about the house in a state of rest-
lessness as painful as it was unusual with her.

*' Put on your hat, Helen, and we'll walk over to Broadyards."

" To-day, papa % " she asked, with so evident a reluctance that
lie regarded her with surprise.

** Why, do you not wish your sister to know, my dear?"

" Yes, papa, of course ; but need there be any hurry % It is
best not to have such things too much talked of, and you know
Madam is at Broadyards this week, and before to-morrow it will
be through the Dale."

Somehow the speech irritated the good man, who, to tell the
iruth, had been somewhat put out already that morning by his
talk with his future son-in-law. He was indeed a great deal
more dissatisfied than he cared to own even to himself.

"And what although all the Dale should know by to-morrow?
If the marriage is to be in such haste, the sooner it is known
the better."

j^ /O

m\f:

jl|ili!l

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li.i

A LOST IDEAL

Helen's colour rose at this unusual tone, and her eyes becamp ey
suspiciously moist. he

"Papa, what can you mean^ You talk as if I wished tn he
marry someone who is not quite — quite respectable, instead of
Itich.ard, wlio it seems to me is honoured and appreciated every- toe
whore as he deserves to be, except here, where he might l)i enl
expected to have some true friends." rfg

Helen's distressed manner melted him at once. wh

" ]\ry dear, I would not hurt you for the world, and I dori't his
wish to cast any aspersions on Richard, who I am sure has mil
many good qualities, though less humility than one likes to sci and
in a young man. But you must remember that many in tin Ga""
Dale will bear him an everlasting grudge for taking you away, in
so you had best prepare yourself for it." haj

" You will not allow Madam to say stinging things to nic, Goc
papa ? " said Helen quickly. " If she does, I am afraid I slial! rud
])e rude to her. She does not like Richard, and 'her tongii the
spares nobody ; but I feel as if I could not bear very nuRl. kin(
to-day." to t]

" jNIy dear, I'll bridle the old lady's tongue at any cost," tli' mag
minister said good-humouredly. "Get your hat, and don't Lmli nati
so doleful as if we were discussing a burying instead of ;, imp
marrying." Mac

As they sauntered across the lovely autumn iields and wootb, houj
ft)llowing the winding course of the river to the house of Broad suffi
yards, Helen was so plair^y repressed and silent that her fathrlivec
had to make an effort to rouse her. Reflecting with a sigh thaand
it was after all the happiest policy to make the best of disdid
agreeable things (in that light did Mr. Lockhart regard liiBorf
daughter's engagement to the rising author of the day), lison
deliljerately set himself to look at the brighter side, and s^ear
began to talk with genial and ai)preciative criticism of the woiiof li<
Richard had done in the past — so full of promise that it justitit^^"©
the highest hopes for future achievement; and he managed t^i^'^*
point out delicately, yet with force, what would be Heleii^f "<
part in the future, to encourage, to stimulate, to spur on tP^iie
higher endeavour Listening to him, Helen's face cleared, ht^^wti

\:r'\'

1;!' 'i'

A LOST WEAL

1 her eyes becamp eyes became exquisitely briglit; it was a vision such as she

hersL'lf cuti-rtained, a destiny of which she prayed (lod to make
IS if I wished to her wortliy.

ectable, instead of
appreciated every-
here he might lie

•nee.

The discussion of this enchanting theme brought them, all
too (puckly it seemed to Helen, to the wicket gate giving
entrance to the park of liroadyards. The riverside path was a
right of way, and was always a pleasant walk ; even in winter,
when the snow lay thickly on tlie ground, the laird would send
world, and I don't his men to clear the way right to the manse. Well might the
ho I am sure ha? minister think that his cares were over concerning the younger
lan one likes to see and more wayward of his motherless girls when he gave her to
that many in tin Gavin Douglas. The name, one of the oldest and most honoured
T takin"- you away, in Scotland, was held in high esteem in the Dale, because it

hau been borne for many generations by an honest, manly,
o'in"' thing's to me, God-fearing race of men. Blunt of manner, and sometimes
I am afraid I shal! rude of si)eech, the Broadyards Douglases had ever been, and
rd and'her tongu the present laird was no exception to the rule. But he was
ot bear very mud. kind of heart and true as steel ; his word as good as his bond

to the meanest servitor on his lands ; generous to friends and

ue at any cost," tli' magnaninioub to foes, he was alike respected and beloved in his

hat and don't Indl native dale. Brc lyards was a large estate, and the mansion an

iryinf instead of ;. imposing pile, tit abode for any great lady in the land. Old

Madam, who at her son's marriage had retired to her dower

in fields and wood- house of Teviothead, had said that the new mistress had hardly

the house of Broiid sufficient dignity tv? gracefully supplant the old, but she had

ilent that her fatln lived to change her mind. Annie Lockhart was small in stature

.in" with a sigh tluvand uniniposing in api)earance, but she could hold her own, and

ike the best of di-did too, even against the proud old lady, who had haughty

;.ockhart regard liiBorder blood in her veins, and had secretly thought her one

lor of the day), Ir^on might Inive done better for himself. But she loved him

•i'diter side, and N'Jewly, and hated feuds; therefore, after one straight expression

Htieism of the wui'pf liw disapproval, one attempt to make him change his mind,

Dmisethatitjustitushe gave in, and abdicated in favour of the daughter of the

and he managed tnianse. This was rendered a somewhat easier task by reason

would be Hek'ipf h«r adoration of the minister, whom she regarded as the only

ilate, to spur on t perfect man that walked the earth. So on the whole the

m's face cleared, he^la^ions betwixt Teviothead and Broadyards were amicabie

i I

A LOST WEAL

i:l iiiiti

M I'i

.i!j iili.ii:li

enough, though there had been many passages at arms between
tlie old lady and the young one, especially regarding the rearing
of the heir, in whose welfare ^Nladam maintained her unassail-
able interest and concern. The old doctor was responsible fd:
the somewhat Frenchified title of Madam, which had stuck h
her after he had used it once or twice ; and it pleased licr
because it conferred the distinction she loved upon lu;
p6rf5onality.

Helen regarded her sister's lot as a happy one, but never fu
a moment envied her her great possessions. Annie's little air-
patronising and pretentious, though too graceful to be oft'ensivt
amused her infinitely, as did the skirmishes between her an^
Madam. Helen's ideal of married happiness did not centre i:
a fine house, a horde of servants, and other outward trappiiiL'
of worldly prosperity. She was cast in a different mould, h;i
inherited something of her father's dreamy, sensitive natun
and probed more deeply into the heart of things. She aske-
too much of life, and disappointment awaited her.

On that mild afternoon the hall door of Broadyards stoc
wide open, and the interior of the hall looked inviting and hospi
able indeed. It was large, square, and massive, panelled in bl;u'
oak, and adorned with rather a formidable array of armour an
warlike weapons. A rich crimson Turkey carpet covered tl:
floor, its soft pile deadening every foot. Privileged, of cour-
to enter unannounced, they passed in ; the minister hung i;
his hat, and Helen approached the staircase.

" Annie will be in the nurser}'-, likely. I suppose we sha
find you, })apa, in the library, when we come down ? "

" Right, my dear," he replied, and Helen slowly ascended tl
stairs. Half-way up she met Bethune, Madame Douglas's niai
without whom she scarcely stirred a foot. She was a Ion,
gaunt, elderly person, with a great deal of shrewd eh? ract
in her face, and a remarkable absence of grace in her maniit
and speech.

" Good-afternoon, Bethune ; I hope you are very well — ai
your mistress 1 "

" Yes, ma'am. Madam's lying down. The young mistrt

A LOST IDEAL

s at arras iDetween
arding the reariii:
lined her unassail-
/as responsible foi
liich had stuck ti
id it pleased licr
loved upon he:

one, but never fu:
Annie's little air>
ifnl to be oftensiv.
3 between her an
5 did not centre i:
• outward trappini.'
itferent mould, ha
/•, sensitive natmv
bhings. She aske
d her.

I Broadyards stoc
inviting and hospi
re, panelled in blai:
rray of armour an
carpet covered tl.
■ivileged, of cours
minister hung ii

I suppose we slia
e down?"
slowly ascended tl
ime Douglas's niai
She was a loi:
if shrewd ch? racl
ace in her manm

are very well — a:

The young mistrt

tting dressed. I heard nurse say she was going to the

jjianse.

" ( 111, then, she will be in her own rof»m," said Helen, and,
passing on, opened Annie's door without ceremony.

"' I'm saved another flight of stairs for once, Annie," she said,
with a smile. "IJethune told me you were here."

" ( )h, there you are, Ileien. Yes, I was coming over. la
pupa here too 1 "

*' Yes, downstairs," replied Helen, and sat down on a chair
near the bed, rather dreading, if 't must be told, the sharp
scrutiny, and perhaps sharper speech, of her young sister.

Mrs. Douglas had on her bonnet; she now carefully took
it ofi' again in a most unusual silence, which Helen did not seek
to break. Then she turned round, and, leaning her plump
white hand on the dressing-table, looked her sister very seriously
in the face. They presented quite a contrast to each other,
being totally unlike in jierson as they were in personality.
Helen was tall, slender, dignified ; Annie short, round, and
inclined to stoutness. Helen's face, though clear, was dark-
skinned, and her hair nearly as black as the raven's wing ; her
sister had a sweet, round, baby face, a mass of curly fair hair,
blue eyes, and a certain childish grace which had enchained
the heart of the big laird of Broadyards, and bound him with
silken cords. She was small, yet not insignificant ; there was
a good deal of character in her face when it came to be studied,
and she was by no means undecided either in her opinions or
her expression of the same, as Madam Douglas had very
abundantly proved.

"Helen, you look quite beautiful to-day> but ever so sad.
W|? had Brian here last night, and after he went away, Cuy
suggested a perfectly awful thing to me — that Dick had come
to take you away. I could not sleej) for quite an hour, think-
ing of it. By the bye, where is Dick ? Is he downstairs with
papa 1 "

*' No ; he has gone back to London, Annie, at three o'clock
this afternoon."

" Oh ! " The little lady pouted up her red lips, and gave

i hi if

'i. I't

ll'

f!.i;!l

.1 , i

is 'I

I i i!!

ill

• : !''

!!! s V, ,|!is

H-

^ /(95r IDEAL

the pink ribbons at her wrist a little petulant twist. ** Witlioii
as much as cominj^ to us even ? Well, I hope that will conviin
Guy of the absurdity of his imagination."

Helen's colour rose, and she slightly shook her head

"Don't keep me in suspense, Helen," said Annie, quit
sharply. " What did he come for, and why has he gone awa
so quickly ? I hate mysteries — we never have any here."

"There is no mystery," replied Helen quietly, and evf
a trifle haughtily. " Kichard came here to ask papa f
me, and he had to return immediately to fulfil an imperativ
engagement."

*' Helen, you do aggravate me. Are you going to marry hit
or are you not % "

"lam."

" And papa has given his consent % "

" Yes."

Annie turned away then, and her eyes were smarting wit
tears of genuine disappointment. Theiv) was a moment's pai;
f ul silence. " Let us go up and see baby, in case we behai
badly to each other," said Mrs. Douglas at length, in quite a
altered voice, which Helen keenly felt. " We have been >
anxious about him, the darling ; he had such a cough, and
was so angry with Madam for laughing at my anxiety, and Avit
Brian for making light of it before me. It is really a dreadfi
thing to have a baby ; it keeps one so very, very anxious, a
the time."

" You fret needlessly, dear," said Helen, rising in relie
" Dear baby is really a very healthy child, and Brian is rigl
not to encourage you to be morbid over him."

" Oh, you know nothing about it," said Annie, with the \\w
superior air, and, opening her dressing-room door, she motioiu
Helen to pass out before her and go upstairs.

Helen went, nothing loth. In the presence of the baby tl
baby's mother was not likely to talk of much else. The rooii
set apart for the heir befitted his lot in life, though they wci
spacious and handsome enough to have accommodated half
dozen of his kind.

A LOST IDEAL

, twist. "Withoii
3 that will convim

: her hea*^!
said Annie, quit
has he gone awa

Lve any here."
quietly, and eve

} to ask papa i

fulfil an imperativ

going to marry hie

were smarting wii

IS a moment's paii

, in case we behai

length, in quite a

' We have been ^

uch a cough, and

y anxiety, and ^vit

is really a dreadf

y, very anxious, a

tn, rising in relit
, and Brian is rig!
I."

Lunic, with the mo>
door, she motioiu
s.

ice of the baby tl
ch else. The rooii
e, though they wci
commodated half

„ The nurse, a capable, middle-aged person, selected after much
leliberation and counsel, was busy with her sewing, and the
baby slept soundly in his cot.

" He is asleep, I see, nurse. You can go down now and have
tea. :Miss Lockhart and I will stay by him," said the young
mother, and she hung in an adoring attitude over the beautiful
atom of humanity lying pink and plump among his delicate
cambric and lace, making a pretty picture for any mother's eyes.

" Isn't he a darling, Helen ? And isn't it wonderful that ho
shoiild belong to Guy and me ? " she said rapturously ; then,
quite suddenly, they being now quite alone, she laid her soft
hand on her sister's shoulder and looked wistfully into her face.

" Oh, Helen ! I had so set my heart on seeing you at Broad-
rule with a little baby of your own; and I am quite, quite
ceirtain, and so is Guy, that it will break poor Brian's heart."

*' Don't be silly, Annie," said Helen, very harshly for her.
"Everybody is sorry for Brian, except himself. He does 7iot
care for me in that way, and never did."

** Oh, Helen, how can you ! Everybody has known it for
years."

Helen turned impatiently away.

** I am going to marry Richard, Annie, and you must not
talk to me in this way again : do you hear, Annie ? never again.
I cannot understand you all. To-day papa has spoken almost
as if I wished to marry a quite undesirable person ; and now
you say nothing but Brian to me, when I might have looked
for a word of sisterly sympathy. It is very hard indeed to
bear."

Somehow Helen's tone and m..nner made her sister angry,
and she drew back with a slightly offended look.

" Oh, very well, marry Kichard, then ! and go away to that
great London, where nobodj knows what will become of you.
But I must say, I think you are standing in your own light.
Where could you find another husband like Brian 1 and then you
would be among all your own people, who adore you. Xothing
will ever make up to you for that, as you will prove ; and I
am sorry for Brian."

' r,

' f

11' i

m
lib

I'll ■•■••h;

A LOST IDEAL

" Will you be still, Annie ? " cried Helen passionately. " You
have no right to speak to me like that. Brian has never asked
me, has never even hinted that he desired any such thing, ami
1 am sure he would be as indignant as I if he could hear you."

Annie paused, half afraid. The awfulness of their demeanour
towards each other suddenly struck her, and with a sob she
clung to her sister's shoulder.

" Oh, forgive me, Helen dear ! I don't mean to hurt you,
but it is a disappointment, and I can't pretend it isn't. Ami
I'll never more forgive Richard for it if I live to bo a thousand
— no, I never willl"

lionately. " You
has never asked
y such thing, ami
could hear you."
[ their demeanour
I with a sob she

ican to hurt you,
ind it isn't. Ami
i to bo a thousand

CHAPTER VI

*' Blunt of iiiaiincr, i>l;un of speech,
Sharp tlio lessons she could teach."

ET'S go and sit down and talk things over," said
Mrs. I)(Uiglas at length. "Everything seems
easier when it is talked over."

She smoothed the baby's coverlet with a
tender hand, and walked over to the window,
Helen following her, and they sat a moment in silence.
The prospect from the high windows of Broadyards was
eilichanting, giving as much variety of hill and wood and
stiream as the most fastidious eye could desire. Helen loved
that prospect, every outstanding feature being a familiar land-
mirk since those early days when a wise father had directed
■ hi^ young daughter's vision towards all the beauty with which
a beneficent Creator has clothed the world.

" I wish I liked Kichard better for your sake," began Annie
plaintively. "I know he is fearfully clever, though I can't
read his books, neither can Guy. But it is not so much clever-
ness one wants in a husband as goodness."

"I wish you would give me some reason for thinking that
Richard will not make a good husband," said Helen stiffly.

" My dear Helen, I didn't say so, did I ?— that he wouldn't
make a good husband ; only sometimes when he was a boy, you
know, he was not kind to us, and he always wanted the best
things for himself. But, of course, he will be different now he
is a man, still" — She became quiet suddenly, conscious that she

I..!'

A LOST WEAL

liii'iiiii

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1 ]

ill !

1 ' . ;;

i 1
1

jliliS

'■,■ 1

in '

11; !i!

■ 1

M i

1 li,

wis]

|i|et

we .^

Btsi

shoii
((

atfii

to h;
to p(
addri
respc

«]

was adniinistoring very cold coiut'ort, uiul that her sister w,i
rosnnting it kocnly.

"I can't liclj) saying, anyliow, that ho ouglitn't to liavo ;,'(ti
away to-day witliout coming to us. llo had plenty of tin
before lunch; you and ho could hav(! walked over, and (Ii;
could havMulrivcn him instead of papa. You can't say it w.
resp(M!tful to us, Helen, for it wasn't."

"I don't l)lame him, Annie, not in the least. ![(? knoM
very well he is not much api)roved of here. I did not ui.
him to come. But ho will bo back soon, and then vou sli;,
see him."

" Uack soon? I should just think ho ought to. I expect 1
wi 1 be here a great many times before papa or wo give
c(msent to his taking you away."

Helen slightly smiled.

"You are quite mistaken, Annie. He may bo back oip Hek;
but that will be all. I think we shall be married befn: and
Christmas." iinkii

" Helen Lockhart ! " the w

" Don't excite yourself, Annie ; there is no need." Th

*' You are dreaming — i)ositively dreaming, Helen, to say m lipe^
a thing. ^larried before Christmas, and this the tenth espec
September! You don't know what you are saying. Nohix "^
would ever consent to such a hurried affair. It would po> Kicha
tively not be decent. I shall oppose it anyhow, and so v: give
Guy." had a

" Papa has given his consent, and he is the only one I 11c begin
to consider," Helen replied, with aggravating coolness. and fj

At this young IN Irs. Douglas became rather red, and 1. they f
small temper rose. She had a great idea of her own importai; is so
and standing in the famil}^ and to be thus contemptuously - fault,
aside was too much. humil

" Y''ou are not very polite to me to-day, Helen, and I can or, It js f
attribute it to Richard's influence," she said, with great digiii; ** Y
" As you have made all your arrangements without consider;: pniile.
me, there is no more to say. But I hope you won't regret At
It can never be a good beginning co go entirely against t '*M'

A LOST IDEAL

at Ikt sister w

In't to have ^'ni
(I i)lc,nty of til;
(I over, aiul <'•!

slips of one's family. I am very sorry to soo you so com-
pletely under liis intluenee, Helen; and I can't understand it."
*' r am not under liis influence, hut there is no reason wliy
we should wiiit ; wo are old enou^di to know our own mimls.
Besides, liichard wants to go ahroad for the winter, and why
u can't say it w ghould ho f;o alone?"

•'Ahrniid? Then, I suppose, you will not take a house just
least. He knov ai first."
I. I did not HI. '* Of course not.'*

id then you sli;, «*It is all of a piece, and I must say it is rather humiliatin-;

to have one's sister behave so ])adly. Why, what am I to say
it to. I expect), to peoi)l(s when they ask about your home? 1 slijiU have no
)a or wo give o address to give th(>m. It does not sound in the least nice or

respectable, and what Madam will say I tremble to think."
"Madam's opinion is absdlutidy no concern to me," said
uay be back oik Helen, with a slight curl of the lips. "I have tried to like
be married bcf( and respect her b(;cause she is Guy's mother, but she is an

unkind, uncdiaritablo old woman, who always thinks and says
the ^(U'st."
need." This was very strong language, indeed, to fall from Helen's

Helen, to say sm lipe, who was always so guarded in her expressions of opinion,
this the tenth especially if unfavourable.

sayiuf'. NobV; "Now you are showing more and more the influence of
ir. It would pi> Richard," said her sister; "and I have one piece of advice to

'y,

how and so v: give you, Helen, to which I think I am entitled, as I have

had a great deal more experience than you. It is this : don't

le only one I nc begin your married life by setting your husband on a pinnacle

coolness. ^^<i falling down to worship him. Men have many faults, and

ather red and 1. they always think a great deal of themselves. Fven Guy, who
ler own importai is 80 good, is not free from conceit ; but that is his mother's
contemptuously ^ faiilt. You see, so many idols are clay, and it is always
humiliating to have to bring one's worship to an abrupt end.
elen and I can or, I^ '* ^^"^ better to be sensible from the beginning."

with oreat di<nii; "You are very wise to-day, Annie," said Helen, with a sly
without consider: Pniile-

vou won't regret ^ t^is Mrs. Douglas jumped to her feet,
mtirelv against t '* ^^ had better go downstairs, I think, for we are going tO

. I .

ti:

A LOST IDEAL

I ij

quancl. I ft'cl it in the air. Will you stay t«'a? Mailair
will 1)0 ilown, of course — if, iiuleod, she has not ferreted ou;
piil)a already. She aoenia to know by instinct when ho is it
the house."

She was (luito correct. Madam had hardly lain down wher
she heard Helen sjjeak to lier maid on the stair. She ha
immediately rung the bell, and, havinj^ ascertained that tli
minister was downstairs, had risen at once. The minister liu
just comfortably settled himself with the current Fortnight^
when the door oi^cned and Madam appeared. She was a ver
stately, fine woman, preserving her orectness of figure at sixh
her keen black eyes requiring no spectacles, and her menti
powers as sharp as a needle. She was handsomely dressci!
always in rich black silk, with a little cap of real lace restiii.
on her iron-grey hair, and a collar of the same around her no(i:
She also always wore an old-fashioned silver chatelaine, whi^:
seemed to be part of herself. She was very Scotch, and priilt
herself upon it; using many out-of-the-way words, indeci
which she had often to explain to her listeners. A gentL
woman of the rigid old stock, sharp of tongue, and a trif
intolerant by nature, but good-hearted, and as loyal a friend i
one could wish to possess.

" I heard you'd come, so I got up, Mr. Lockhart," she sai
as she ofi'ered him her slender hand, which sparkled with mar
valuable rings. " Helen's here % I suppose the twasome a:
haverin' over the bairn up the stair."

" I think they'll have something else to haver over to-da
Madam," said the minister, with his genial smile. "I've
bit news for you, but perhaps you cqin guess it."

The minister purposely lost no time in communicating ti
matter to Madam, being anxious that her plain speaking shoe!
be over before Helen came down.

" Ay, what's that % Are the heritors agreed at last that l:
manse wants something done, eh ? "

" Oh, I don't think so ; at least, I have heard nothing
ihat. It is a family matter this time. I was asked last nij
to part with Helen."

■S,

Myin'
at a p
he
wasth
Troly,
own c
«Y

due, t
fine pa
effemii

Mad
Bweepi
lUK|h ill
th^ tor

A LOST J DEAL

not ferrfited oui
t when ho is i:

lain down whti

stair. She ha
itaincMl that tli
rhe minister li;i
rent Fortnightb.

She was a ver
if figure at sixt

and her ment,i
dsomcly dressc.

real lace restiii.
around her nei,
chatelaine, whit
cotch, and pride
y words, indet
oners. A gentle
igue, and a trif;

loyal a friend ^

(ckhart," she sai

ark led with mar

the twasome a

lavcr over to-da
smile. " I've

)mmunicating tl
a speaking shot

d at last that t:

heard nothing
asked last nii

Matlam sagaciouHly nodded, and a stnilc, wlndi made, her
M)Mi»'whiit harsh face for the niument beautit'ul, (hiwned on her
[)ng, til in lips.

I '• It's hut a stop to Th'oadrulc, ^Ir. Lockhart. Fow faithers
liai' tlioir bairns so near. It wad be an easy question to
tli-wcr."

A shade crossed the minister's face, and he did not imme-
4l|iately speak. Madam looked at him in surprise.
(j " Vou have mad(! a mistake, Madatn. I only wish you had
guessed right," he said quickly. *' It is Woodgate, not Brian,
who is to take away Helen."
, " Woodgate ? "

Madam, with one of her rathcu- sudden gestures, huqwd from
hUT cliair, and her chatelaine made a great jingling.
'•"A honnie impidence he had to seek Helen Lockhart. Lot
wale a wife among his ain kind. I hope you didna s[)are
11, sir."
We've all made a mistake, !Mailam, and the only thing wo
do now is to hold our peace. Helen is going to marry
"Vfoodgato almost immediately."

!Madam stared at him ; positively stared, paralysed into
•S|ence.

I** My certy, ye're no wise, Edward Lockhart, sittin' there
aiyin' sic a thing. Oh, ye're haverin'. Helen wad never look
aia puir, jimpy, empty thing like that."

iChe minister silently laughed. Li such estimation, then,
Wijk the name honoured in the world of letters ludd in the Dale.
Trily, it is true that a prophet hath but small honour in his
avA country.

# You're hard on him, Madam; but we must give him his
due, though ho does rob us of what we prize. Kicluird has
fine parts, and I'm very hopeful of him ; and if he is a trifle
eflfeminate, Helen will make a man of him."

pTadam took a slow turn across the room, her silk gown
sweeping majestically behind her, and her head held rather
higi in the air. Only her respect for the minister kept back
**'f torrent of her righteous wrath.

Hf:

Nli!

i i

'II

I
I

ii'rI'J

A LOST IDEAL

" Weel, I hope ye dinna expect my congratulations, Mr.
Lockhart, for ye'll no' get them. Bless me, where are Helen-
een? Brian Laidlaw's a braw man, more worth a woman';
while ; but Dickie Wooilgate ! An' what do you mean In
givin' your consent to pi" a marriage ? tell me that."

She spoke with extraordinary acidity, but the minister kn(,'\t
her well, and did not mind it.

" I could not refuse it. Helen hos a right to please hei
self, and I have nothing to bring against Woodgate's mora
character."

" He writes books. That wad be enough for me if he
sought my dochter. Did ye ever hear o' a man that writ'
books bein' fit to be man to any woman? Look at Tc:
Carlyle. I kent Jeanie Welsh when she was a bra
Haddington lass, an' I saw her last year in London — wai
me, sic a change ! She marriet for ambition, an' a bonnie pot
she's made it. Let me write to Mrs. Carlyle to send a warn;
to Helen. She's been through it. She kens what it is to li'
wi' a thrawn deil that writes books, and that thinks the war!
was made for him to write his books in — books his ain mitli
canna read."

The minister, in spite of his inward soreness of heart, we: ¥^"''''
off into a fit of silent laughter, which rather aggravated t:
old lady. She regarded it as no laughing matter.

" Oh, weel, if ye are sae little concerned, far be it frac r.
to tak' up my hcid about Helen," she said sourly. " I'm
auld woman, an' I've seen a heap ; and if Helen Lockhart tal;
a licht heart out of the Dale, she'll bring back a heavy o;
You tak' my word for it, Dickie Woodgate's one 0' the 11
that shouldna marry. Eh, sirs, my puir Helen ! "

This, of course, was extremely painful for ]\[r. Lockhart
hear, and he felt that he must put a stop to it.

" Well, Madam, you are entitled to your own opinion,
course, and I know you think little of Richard ; but may I i
you to be a little more guarded in your speech to Helen ? S-
talk cannot do any good, and may do a great deal of harm."

Madam stood by the table, her white, jewel-laden, and ;

lie

A LOST JDK A/.

ratulations, Mr,
.ere are Helen-
orth a woman'-
3 you mean !•}

hat."

,e minister knev

it to please hoi
k^oodgate's mom

for me if he
man that writ>
\ Look at T<ir
le was a hnv
\ London — "vvat
,n' a bonnie pnt'
to send a warni:
what it is to liv
u thinks the war.
cs his ain mitli'

iss of heart, wei-
or aggravated t:
tter. };

far be it frac i
sourly. " I'm
en Lockhart tal
back a heavy o:
s one o' the n
en ! "
■ Islx. Lockhart

it.

r own opinion.
,rd ; but may I
;h to Helen 1 B
deal of harm."
vvel-laden, and ^

ieantiful liand restiii.i.,' upon it lightly, and thus surveyed the

liuister witli a cer'iin air of .serious concern, as if she doubted
(lat he was not (piite right in his mind.
" What's cairriet you awa', Mr. Lockliart? I'm sure, if it's

Richard's ain s})eech, it's naethiiig but foolishness. He liasna
fveii respect for age. An' has he ony thing to keep Helen on?

Vill .slie get her meatT'
" Ah, ^ladani, you are reducing the thing to absurdity.

told you long ago Richard had an income from property left
ly his father, and he makes well by his literary work, I
l^licve, though I <lid not ask. 'J'ltai occasions me no anxiety

It all."

Li spite of himself, his inmor.t concern was betrayed in the

^st sentence. Madam caught at it triumphantly.

" Ell, my man, ye're nae better pleased than you should be,"

^e said quickly. " Ye are o' my way o' thinkin', if ye wad

m it. Your heart's no' at rest aboot the thing. Wairn

telen or it be jwer late."

It is too late. Madam. I will be so far fraidv with you,
jcause I know you to be a true friend to me and mine. If I
^uld, I would keep Helen nearer home ; but things in this
)rld do not always go as we would like them."
At that moment the girls' voices sounded in the corri(h)r, and
[ey entered presently, some tokens of their disturbing talk
imn. visible in their faces. There was a certain air of defiance
i>nnt the usually placid Helen wliich might have warned
||adani not to broach the subject. But the sight of Helen in
her winsomenes.s, Helen whom she so dearly loved, and was
)iit to hold up as an exami)le everywhere, roused her indigiui-
)n, and she held out hei hautl stillly.
^■1" Good-afternoon, Helen. I hope I see you well."
* " Tea is in the drawing-room, pajta," said Annie nervously,
dreading an encounter between her mother-in-law and her
siett r in her present mood. " Let us go in. I am so sorry
Guy has gone to a sale at Hallkirk, and will not be home
tafsix."
[The minister rose, a trifle nervously. He saw from Helen's

A LOST IDEAL

lll'i

\.\v\\

iM :$m

ii'ii

face that things had not gone sniootlily upstairs, and that slif
was in a highly strung condition of mind. But for the fac:
that he felt tired and fagged himself, and ready for his earlv
cup of tea, he would have hurried Helen away at once. IIi
glanced imploringly at Matlanij, but she preserved her s-tit:
demeanour, and sailed out of the room like a duchess.

Altogether, that little family party, who had so often hk'
under happy ciicunistances, united in loving interests, foiiiii
themselves in an entirely new at^^itude towards each otlic!
Madam preserved a rigid silence, an.^ wore her most forh'ddin.
aspect. The minister had in a manuer bound her to silenut,
but there is a silence a great deal more disturbing and exi)ri'>
sive than mere speech. Helen was unhappy, and answered a;
random the few commonplace remarks which accompanied tli-
tea-drinking. It was a miserable farce, and all were glad wIicl
it was over.

" We had better go now, papa. Perhaps you will come ovc
soon with bal)y, Annie ? It is nearly a week since you were a;
the manse."

"I'll come to-morrow, i)erhaps, if it is line, and baby li;i'
no cough."

" Very well." Helen nodded, and then went up to Madam,
"Good-bye, j\radain," she said. "Perhaps you may coii:
Avith Annie too ^ We have not seen you this long time at tL
manse."

" ril not promise," said jNIadam stiffly ; then, as she felt tl
grip of Helen's hand, she looked straight into the girl's eye
and one large bright drop rolled from under her eyelid do^v
her cheek. " Eh, my woman, ye're makin' mony a sair lica:
in the Dale ; but gang awa', gang awa'. The minister's glowoiii
at me, an' I daurna speak. Tlajig awa',"

Helen turned away with a spasm contracting her face, ai elffenttn
immediately she was without the door burst into tears, th|n h

01 lac
evin as
wllethe:
liitle c

I ■ 5

rs, ami that she
,ut for the fact
ly for his earH
y at once. IL-'
;ervecl her i-tit:
ichess.

id so often iiif
interests, fouiii
,rds each otlu!
most forhMldiii.
d her to sileno,
bing and exproN
and answered a;
accompanied tli'
. were glad whei

CHAPTER VII

"Farewell,
Lest of mine eyes thou sliouldst have less to tell
Than now thou hast."

u will come ovr
since you were a; fj

e, and hahy li.i

it up to Madam,
vou may cdiii

^|.ELEN began to prepare at once for her wedding,
feeling relieved that the engagement was to be
^jKl^ short. When the news spread, there was not
^'\' in the parish that buzz of happy excitement
so great an event as Miss Lockhart's marriage
ight have been expected to create. The parish, like
certain private individuals elected to be disappointed. It
had long ago settled the ultimate destiny of the minister's
daughter, and felt aggrieved to find itself so completely at
! long time at tl: fault. Perhaps the parish was not intellectual nor ambitious,
perhaps it had but a narrow and bigoted vision, but it was
n, as she felt tl siBccre and loving in its desire to keep Helen Lockhart in her
,0 the girl's eye olli home. 7is was natural, perhaj)S, it proceeded to glorify

in Brian Laidlaw into a hero. He found himself, to his
yreat astonishment and disgust, the recipient of a great
diiil of kindly and sympathetic attention, which he did not
wint, but resented savagely. During the last (juarter of that
eTiBiitt'ul year Brian was guilty of more acts of wilful iliscourtesy
than he had perpetrated during the whole course of his life.
DM ladies who had made an idol of the brave young doctor
etiin asked themselves and each other at their teadrinkings
whether they had not made a mistake in his character all along.
Ii|tle cared Brian. The only sympathy he brooked, and which

her eyelid 'dow:
lony a sair hoai
inister's glowcM'i:

ing her face, ai
;ito tears.

it i:

. 'i.i

' "T T"^

5^^

A LOST IDEAL

! 1'^

i
j

ili^ii'li

:ij.|

i ^1 ■

(lid liim any good; \vas tliat of honest Guy Doiiglus ; a sympathy
none the less genuine and suhstantial that it never said any-
thing at all. But Brian felt it in the glance of his frieinl'
fearbss eye — in the grip of his hand; and once lie so fa;
unburdened his mind to Guy in a manner which l de tlia;
honest man look at him in simple wonder. Guy was ;
thoroughly good fellow, 1 ut he could not conceive of a love whicl.
had in it so little alloy of self. It was of Helen he spolo
entirely of Helen, betraying in his very manner and look tli
intensity of his concern lest she in her married life should in
be so tenderly cherished as she deserved. It filled Broadyani
with such a flood of passionate regret that he could not hul'
his tongue.

" Brian, Helen is mad ! If only she knew what she i
throwing away. I could go down on my knees to her if :
would do any good. Heavens ! why are women, the best >
them, such born idiots 1 They think if a man can write quires,
infernal rubbish to them, can cram them with poetry, and siir
rot, they're going to live in paradise for ever, when, like as n ■
they'll find themselves in the other place."

" Gently, old boy, gently," said Brian.

" Well, it's true. You must let me speak this once, Bria:
I'll choke if it's bunged up any longer. You and I kin
Woodgate of old ; we haven't been boyo together for nothiu
We know the fellow's other side. Helen doesn't, and we cai.
be brutes enough, to tell her, even if there was any chance
her taking it in."

"Whislit, Guy! you and I had better let Woodgato a-l
He is faring badly enough in the Dale just now ! don't let:
throw any more stones at him, but hope for the best. Only
have made up my mind to this," he added, and his face fluslit
while his strong right hand involuntarily clenched. " If Ik-
bad to Helen he shall answer for it t me, only — it is i:
possible. She must make a good man of him, even if he ut
a bad one, which it would be unjust to call him."

" Oh, I grant that ! Nobody has ever said he was a 1
liver, or anything of that kind. He's just what my mot!

:.' i:,.:!

A LOST IDEAL

!i : n i I' i

f^if^lfn

siiys, fiisliionlcss ; but perhaps he may suit Helen better than
hvc tliink. 1 confess 1 don't understiind her, and when it comes
to tlie hit, r<l rather have a woman that sp<'aks her mind, like
iny v'ifi", — you know where you are with her, — and if she clouts
[your lugs, you know what it's for. IJut I say, Urian, you won't
wear the willow for one woman. There's other hisses in the
llJale besides Helen Lockhart."
Jh'ian shook his head.

"Not for me. I've never wanted anybody but Helen, and
[now I've lost her, I'll do without."

And Guy felt it was a hopeless case, and his soreness of
heart against his sister-in-law increased. They never spoke of
tlu! matter again ; and the days went by : ruddy October, with
its drops of blood in every hedgerow, gave place to c\;il
[November, with its di^nud rains and sodden skies ; then
Jccember leaped merrily upon the Dale with a sharp snow-
storm and a snap of frost, which turned the dreary earth into a
thing of bridal beauty. During all these weeks two things were
)bserved by those who were keeping eyes and ears open for
iverything concerning the inmates of IJroadrule manse. One
,'ap, that Brian Laidlaw had entirely discontinued his visits ,
the other, that the bridegroom- elect had never come l)ack
^(itters in plenty he wrote to Helen, always with a plausi])le
jxcuse ; and finally she knew that slu; need not ex])ect him till
iome days before the twenty-first of December, their wedding-
lay. Somehow, in spite of her personal desire for his presence,
was something of a relief that he did not come. She knew
hat he would resent the cold congratulation with which, he
muld be received ; and she had some ground, it will be ad-
litted, for thinking her relatives rather aggressive in their
jllish disappointment. She also felt Brian's absence and
larked avoidance very keenly, for she loved him dearly ; but
le never spoke his name. She went about her household
[uties perhaps more sih.'ntly than of yore, performing each with
lingering and tender care, because so soon she and they must
|nov/ each other no more. She was one of thos'^ women ^o
pom home and all its obligations are esseniially dear. !No

\-M\\

5«

A LOST IDEAL

tii

Ifii:

i'i

i! Ijii

\'A-\

(lopjirtmont of hoiisohold caro was ever irksome to her, and the
little attentions she lunl lavished on the father .she adored had
heen the wine of her life. She was born to minister ; take
from her tliat heritag(> of womanhood, and her occupation was
j^'one. She believed that in her new sphere that special faculty
would have fullest scope ; meanwhile, she keenly felt for the
old man who would miss all that she, and she alone, could give
him. For his absolute physical comfort she was not concerned;
the maids were tried and trustworthy, bound to the service of
the house by many ties ; but she knew that she would be missed
at every turn. It made her very tender, very considerate, very
watchful in these latt(;r days, and it wrung her heart to see in
him a restlessness and irritability he had never before exhibited.
She knew that the shadow of the ])arting lay heavy on his soul.
She was nnicli sustained by Woodgate's letters, which wciv
<'ertainly calculated to fill the heart of any woman with i\v
happiest anticipation of the future. Thf^y were masterpieces
in their way, wi.se, witty, and serious by turns, and conveying;
to her always — by delicate hint rather than dire(;t allusion-
his .surpassing need of her presence. ResigniuL,^ herself to the
inevitable at last, j\Irs. Gavin Douglas i)roceed»!d to i\o hor
duty to her family, and issued invitations for a dinnrr party in
honour of the event. At this great function it was desirable,
of course, that Richard should be }m'sent, and it was fixed for
the twentieth, the night before the wedding. Woodgate wroti
that he would be detained in London by press of work until
the nineteenth, and could therefore not accept for an eailii
date. He was to arrive early on the evenii.g of the nineteentli
everything was ready for the wedding, there would be no burn
or confusion at the end ; even Helen's trunks, containing al
but her gown, were packed, and she was quite ready for he
lover when he should come. On that afternoon, a Tuesday,
she went out of doors alone, with the unacknowledged desin
to take farewell of familiar scenes, and the conviction that slit
should not look upon them again for a long time. She took ..
long walk. It was a choice winter day, clear, crisp, ami
bracing, the frosty ground making pleasant footing, and tlit

;|ri(lg('^

Us liin
ibove
■ "OIJ
■; Sh.>
tlii'di
ihclpi

if wi.st
IB 1 1 wa
"\V
- "Kn
lie sai(
^ She :
te, but,

A LOST IDEAL

now lying in all IIk; clefts of llic liills I('ii(lin{? vc.riety to the
rt'intry scene. The (loud hciifher, hc'iiiiiL,' >' > }»roniis(! of the
lory it would ^dvc to the world in jinothcr year, made a soft
iiirpet for her feet as slu; skirted the lower slopes of Kuherslaw,
);iiisin<f often as she walked to note with her keen and loving'
V" each familiar and dear detail. A flamin^i,' shaft from the
fiery sunset fell athwart the rug^'ed face of Minto, setting all
lilie sonihre ])ines aglow, and far across the bare ex[)anse she
ijfiduld catch a glimpse of the twin hiesists of the Kildons,
^l;ii;>ling out roun»l and shajtely aj^'ainst the transparency of the
iky. Wiien her eyes, from roaming over that winter prospect,
estcd themselves at len.ifth on the grey spire of Broadrule
leliurch and the white j^ahles of the manse, a little sob choked
^n, and she Avas fain to dry from her eyes the unwonted tears.
Ill any fair scenes she might yet see, but none fairer or more
Ipear than that which her eyes had looked Ui)on for six-and-
itAventy yeiirs.

Tlic intense frost, which the })rilliant sun had scarcely

ollowed, made it possible for her to walk straight as the crow

ies across field and wood ; and as she knew where to find all

stepping-stones in the burns, there was no obstacle in her

ay. ^he was standing poised upon one of these natural

id^His which span the noisy little Kule, dreamily watching

s limpid tlow, when the click of hoofs on the bridle-path

bove made her look suddenly up.

'M)li, is it you, Jlrian?"

She lifted her feet daintily, stepped back to the bank,
hioli she climbed, Brian leaning from his saddle to give her
helping hand. lUit he never spoke.

"Won't you speak to me, Brian?" she asked, with a touch
wistfulness; but he only swung himself from liis saddle
d walked silently by her side.
" What are you doing here ? " he asked abruptly.
" Enjoying my walk, and saying good-bye to familiar things,"

'%%.

:• I

I,' I --^■■■pkii^Ulim0tmm

// LOST IDEAL

HI 31':! 'Hi

I |i

11
' jl III]

I ;|

11:

s:fl

"Surely you are very hui^y just now ; noljody ever sees you.
Wliere have you Ix'cii to-day?"

" Oh, pottering' about ; there isn't much (h)in<,'."

"Then you did not speak truly to Annio when you refused I
lier invitation for to-niglit?" said Helen quickly. "We ull|
feel your refusal, Brian, very niucli. I most of all."

"I can't help that. I had to say something to Mrs. Douglas;]
but she knows the reason I won't come, just as you know why]
I'm not coming on Thursday."

"Then you really are not coming, Brian?"

"No; I have something to do, five miles beyond ]>ranksoine,|
on Thursday. It'll take me all day."

Helen turned her face away, and her firm mouth trembled. {
Brian did not look at her. He knew she was vexed,
and he was glad of it, because he was suflering so acutely]
himself.

"We'll not see you in the Dale, then, Helen, for a loni;j
time," he saiil presently, switching the withered reeds with hi-
crop; "and you'll soon forget all about us."

"Do you think so?" Helen asked simply.

" But the worst of it for us poor devils is, that we sliaii
be able to forget you."

He stole a glance at her averted face, but could, not catcii
its expression, and so went on probing her sore heart moieP
deeply still.

"IS^o, that's the worst of it — we shan't be able to forget youl
— and I question if you'll ever get anybody to think more oil
you, or do half as much for you, as the honest folk in tlie
Dale. They haven't got gigantic intellects, maybe, but theiij
hearts are in the right place. There's nothing but weepiii.j
and wailing, the length and breadth of the parish, to-day,]
over Miss Helen's departure. It's a grand thing to be bonnit|
and weel liket."

" I think you are cruel, Brian, very cruel," cried Heltii
passionately; "and you have no right to say such horriblt
things to me. What have I done to deserve them] Tell iiin
that."

Th(
He le
s1h)u1(
"A^
his v(
than ]
have (
for ni(
anoth(
Is th.n
sweet
hypoc:
Vllel
and 1)1
sliiven
" Fc
I (lon'l
make i
I iK'pe
Hel
unusui
"Bi
and CO
and it
whicl
from
montl
say.

jit is t
concea
Brif
This V

light

"I
Whd

I gceing

vev sees yuu.

yirs. Douglas;
uu know win

:hat we slian'tl

A LOST IDEAL

Then Brian's self-control flow to tlie four win<ls of heaven.
He let Bob's bruUe slip through his lingers and grasped Helen's
shoulder.

"AVhy do I say such horrible things to you?" ho oehoo 1,
his voice hoarse with passion. " Because I'm suffering more
than I'm fit to bear. Helen, 1 love you as my own soul, always
have done, and I thought, God help me! that you cared a little
for me ; and now I have to stand by and see you married to
another man, less worthy — Heaven forgive my prido — than I.
Is that nothing? And yet you expect me to smile, and say
sweet words to you, and lisp my congratulations, like other
hypocrites. But I can't, and I won't."

Helen pulled her shoulder from his grip ; her face was pale,
and blue about the lips, her eyes full of a vague misery. 8he
sliivered as if with cold as she drew herself away.

" Forgive me, Helen. I'm beside myself with misery, and
T d(jn't know what I'm saying. How could you expect me to
make a guest at ti. M'odding which is the deathblow to every
hope of my life? and" —

Helen wheeled round suddenly and faced him, and a most
unusual wrath was visible on her face. •

" Brian," she said, and her voice trembled, clear, incisive,
and cold in the still air, " you have said a great deal to-day,
and it is all in the same tone, reproaching me for something of
which I am entirely innocent. I have suffered a great deal
from many peo^jle on your account during the last two
months, and I will speak to-day Ijocause I have something to
say. You say you have always cared for mo in that way. If
I it is true, I have only one question to ask. Why did you
conceal it from me so long % "

Brian looked at her bewildered, unable to utter a word.
This was an entirely new rendering of the case, and a sudden
light glowed in his face.

" Would it have made any diti'erence, Helen ? "

" I say nothing at all about that," she replied, quite cohlly.
"What I do say is, that I ought not to be blamed for not
[seeing what whs never shown to me,"

■Wifltll

'•\\-.i

ill

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:|j|ll

ill

,(, ;--r-f-

•*i

A LOST IDEAL

ii'i

"Bless my heart, Hcliin, I've always loved ycu! I thouglit
you knew it all along."

Helen shook her head.

"There is no use saying any more about it, Brian; only I
had to defend myself, and I think the least we can do now is
to part friends."

She offered him her hand, but he did not take it. He was
struck blind and dumb at his own stupidity, and regarded
Helen with such a mournful steadfastness that she felt she
must either laugh or cry. Finally, she said " Good-bye," and
walked away ; nor did ho seek to tletain or follow her. Look-
ing back when she had crossed Kule Water, she saw him still
standing with his arm across Bob's neck, and his eyes fixed on
the ground. And that picture, the solitary figures of horse and
rider standing out against the clear, sharp air, remained in hor
mind for a very long time

As for Brian, he deserved pity, and Helen's candour had by
no means mended matters, so far as his peace of mind was
concerned.

Jtt

1 H I

( Mill

CHAPTER VTII

*' All lovod her, yet tliere mingled with that love
A certain sad impatience."

,HEX Helen readied home, her father hatl
already gone off to Halkirk to meet Richard.
She felt glad to be alone in the house for a
little, having been somewhat disturbed by the
occurrence of the afternoon. 8ho couM have
wished, indeed, that Brian had less power to disturb her, but
tried to convince herself that it was because he was so
old a friend that she f'>lt his estrangement so much. She
felt no excitement at the prospect of seeing Richard, and
when she heard the roll of the returning carriage-wheels in
the avenue, she went out to the door. She had not changed
her attire, as they were to drive out, but still wore the
becoming gown of brown homespun in which she had walked
out. She coloured up, however, when she saw him alight, a
tall figure wearing a fur -lined and trimmed travelling coat,
which seemed to give both height and breadth to his some-
what slender figure. He threw his arm round her and drew
her indoors to the nearest room.

"My darling, at last!" he said, with a very real fervour; and,
holding back her fair face from him, looked into it earnestly,
and kissed it many times. She had never doubted him for a
moment, believing implicitly everything he had told her con-
cerning the press of work which kept him till the last moment

il»

!i . 1

A LOST IDEAL

i !

lilt

'm:^

Hiin;!^

:iii|iri

in Lftiiddii. Slic, w!is al)S(»liit((ly tnitlifiil herself, and never
tloiiUted others \iiil(^ss sho liiul al)S(>lute proof.

"You arj looking' well, Uehiii, vc^ry woU indeed," ho saiM,
with a solicitudu she felt to he very Hwojit. " So it 1ms coiik;
at last ; two days more anil we shall ho t().i,'ether. Tell nic
you ar(! happy at the prospect."

lie did not for a moment douht it, hut wanted the aasnrancf
from her lips.

"I am not rnhappy, you ran f,'Uosa, Kiehard," she said, Iki
hoautifid eyes aj^low ; "hut you — are you sure you will nevci
re<,a'et it?"

"Yes, I shall, if you do not have more faith in me," lie
made liasto to answer f?aily. " Well, dearest, I have ^mI
everythin;^ ])rop(!rly wound up. All my work is over, and
we shall have nothing' to do Itut enjoy ourselv(!s. AVe shall
make strai;^dit for Florence, and not come hack to En<,danil
till we can return to summer skies."

Helen smiled. Tiie prospect Avas fair. She had the
natural d(!sire of an intellij^'tjnt and in(|uiring mind to see tlii'
heautit^s of otluu' lands. It seemed to her at that moment
that the new life offered much to compensate for anything slir
might give up in the old.

"And what ahout this dreadful function to-night ?" ho said,
presently, as he took off his overcoat. " How many aiv
coming to regaril us with curiosity, and me with sus[)icion, all
set down under the category of a friendly interest*?"

Helen laughed, but shook her finger at him. "IS^ow,
Kiehard, that is too had, and you must promise not to ho
sarcastic to-night, hut ajjpeir in your most amiable mood. It
is not a Jarge party — only a dozen in all."

•'A djzen? — name them; or don't — I daresay I can make a
guess. And. how is the good Brian ? Has he put a decent
face on his disappointment, eh % "

Helen coloured, remembering the occurrence of the afternoon.

" We had better go down to tea now, Richard. It is six,
and we have to bo at Broadyards at half-past seven."

" Oh, I sliall be ready, I say, Helen, look here,"

'till aftoi
"Oil,
II wish
iinrtheri
At tl
|the hell
h'ini. T
igi'Moni s

A LOST IDEAL

(>S

! assiu'iincc

lie took a littlo niororro cjihv. from his porl<ot, touched thn
si>riii,i,'» 'iinl Hliowod licr it diaiiiond star lying in its vivid and
startling' hcauty on its hcd of whiU? velvet.

** Vdii must wear that toiii^dit; it is my we<ldiii<; gift.
What kind of a ^'owii have you 1 "

«'V(!lvet; the old velvet one you used to admire," she said
[sliylv. "I niust not ])ut on any of my new ones, you know,
itill alter to-morrow. It would not be lucky."

"Oh, well, r know the gown; this will go well with it.
1 1 wish it was nil over, Helen, and we wore away from those
Inerthern latitudes ; they don't suit mo at all."

At tliat moment, the minister, wearying for liis tea, gave

Itlie hell a little impatient tingle, which made Helen laugh ami

Irun. The little impromptu meal was a merry one ; the hride-

iLTiMtm seemed in a happy mood, and his manner towards the

liiiinister had just the right commingling of deference and

InlU'ctionato regard. Helen was quiet but happy too ; the

father's heart, never {juite at rest all these weeks, became

iioro roassured, telling himself that love for a pure, sweet

hvoinan like Helen had mellowed all Woodgate's faults away

jTliey lingered so long talking over the arrangenumts for the

Iniorrow that they had scarcely time to dress, and were the last

quests to arrive at Broadyards. Helen looked well, strikingly

landsome indeed, in her plain, elegant gown of rich brown

t'clvct, with its touch of real valuable lace to relieve it, and

lie diamond star nudcing a thousand dazzling points of light

)n her white stately breast.

]\rrs. Douglas came forward to receive them, a dainty vision
[n hluc silk and white lace, and she managed to throw into her
uanner just the right amount of cordiality, wishing to show
\Vco(lgate that he was tolerated rather than welcomed as a
iiiture member of the family. While politely replying to the
little lady's greetings, Richard managed to take in the occupants
j)f the room, recognising most of the people he expected to
lee, hut disappointed in one. Ihian was absent, Broadyards,
Itill 8ore about Brian, Avas a triile stiff in his manner, but
[poke out bluntly as was his wont.
5

1 ^

I '■ i

A LOST IDEAL

lu;'

" How are you, Dick 1 Wo can hardly say we're as glad to sec
you as we might be if you hadn't come to take away Helen."

"i\iid you've brought all these people here to tell me the
same thing, I suppose ; that's real Dale hospitality," In
answered, with a laugh, noticing at the same time that Helen I
had taken her seat by old Doctor Laidlaw's side, and that lie
was payiiig her special attention. Old Madam, a fine strikinj,']
looking figure in the richest of silk and most priceless of lace,
and wearing such of the Douglas diamonds as had not passed
to her son's wife, never suffered her eyes to light on Woodgate,!
and it amused him very much. He promised himself a littld
l)assage at arms with her before the evening was over. It wa;|
a goodly company — the best friends of both families in tlk
Dale, all substantial gentlefolks, without pretension or display;
but Woodgate regarded them all with a species of good
natured contempt. He was not of them \ and, though he hail
sojourned for years in their midst, had never become as oikl
of themselves. They had regarded him always, and did regari
him now, as an alien, and, without exception, resented hi;
marriage vvith Helen. In th(!se circumstances the giving of,i|
dinner to honour the occasion was an absurd mistake, aiiii
instead of improving matters, was calculated rather to wiik'tH
the breach. For Woodgate was not in the least conciliaton,
Helen went to dinner on her brother-in-law's arm, Wood^atel
taking Annie. It was on ihe whole a pretty sociable nu'a!,j
and passed off well till the toast of the evening came to bt
honoured, the pro[)Osal falling to '/he lot of old Doctor Laidlawj
as the oldest friend of both families. The old man, in s|iitp
of a natural Iniisqueness of manner, had plenty of tact, \\\.
could make a graceful after-dinner s[)eech. He did not si}
much, but managed to convey the o])inion of every one preseii;|
that Woodgate might consider himself a very lucky man indwl

When he rose to ie])ly, his cheeks were a trifle flushed, aiiJ
there was a rather i.iischievous gleam in his eve.

"My friends," he said, in that sweet, sua\ voice of liiij
" I thank you from my heart for the heartiness with wlii
you have honoured this toast. The manner in which it \\A

A LOST IDEAL

l)oon propnsod l)y my old fritMul consideralily siiiiidifirs my
roply. n<! considers mo a lucky man, and my ojiinion cntivdy
coincides with his. One thing I am certain of, and that is,
tluit whatever the future may be, lleltii Lockhart will never
ferret tlie Dale and her old associations, nor shall I ; and we
liope that our marriage will make a bond between the great
citv 'Uid this which nothing but death will break."

It was gracefully done, and touched S'jiue of the impression-
able ladies to tears. Ihit ^NFadam, when her daughter-in-law
('live tlie signal, bustled out of the r(Joni with a great deal of
uiuiecessary rustling, which might be taken as an expression
(if her disappioval.

"I canna bide the man, my dear," she said to ]\lrs.
Kilpatrick of Cavering, as she took her arm upstairs. "An'
there was a lump in Doctor Laidlaw's throat when he was
siicakin'. AVhat for is lirian uo' here the nicht? It's rpieer
a' thrniigh, I tell ye, an' it'll be (queerer afore it's dune,"
As was the custom in those parts, the gentlemen mnde
long sojourn in the dining-room, and when they did begin
|t(i siiunter u[)stairs, the ladies had their tea and the most
f their gossip past. IVIrs. Douglas was at the ])iano when
hey entered, Helen seeking a song to sing. AVoodgate, whom
ho generous wine had rendered more amiable, made straiglit
or Madam, where she sat in majesty, witli her stiff skirts
pread out on the ottoman, and her slender fingers playing
ftiih her double eyeglass.

"Ilulloa!" slie said brusquely; "you an' me are not that
ih, Richard Woodgate. There's your i»lace the nicht," she
(Med, pointing with her fan to the piano.
Woodgate smiled, deliberately swept her ample skirts aside,
nd sat down.

"By and by, Madam; I bear in mind that opportunities
01' talking to you will soon be few ; besides, I want to ask
"u Something. What have I done to mortally otteiid \^m1 I
ave been puzzling myself over it all the evening. You know
ou are an apostle of candour, so don't evadts my (piestion."
"Oh, I winna, my man, sin' ye've speer't," she replied in

I \

A LOST IDEAL

her very "broadest. " Are there nae women across the Border,
that ye maun needs tak' awa' the flower o' our flock ? "

"Women in plenty, but none like Helen," he answered,
sincerely enough.

Madam put on her eyeglass, and deliberately surveyed him
with all the keenness of which she was capable.

" I hae never liked ye, Richard, as callant or man," she
said. "An' maybe I have done ye wrang. It's Helen's sel'
you're seekin', surely, and ye'^i dae what a man can to mak'
her a contented wife ? "

" For what reason would I seek her, Madam ? She has no
money, that I am awai-e, even if I required money in a wife.
You do me an injustice. Madam ; and not you alone, but P
everybody else in this enlightened place. You are selfi^^ll
here in the Dale, grossly selfish, seeking to keep every godii
thing to yourselves."

Madam smiled slightly, and continued to regard him stead-
fiistly, only partially reassured.

*' I'm but an auld wife, Richard, and you are a great man,
so they say. Mind ye this, lad : a woman canna live on book-
writin', or the clatter o' folk praisin' her man. Happen ye to|
ken in London Mrs. Carlyle, Jane Welsh that was ? "

"I have never met her. Of course I know to whom yo
refer," replied Woodgate, not without interest.

" Weel, see ye to it that her fate be na Helen's. Ye mavl
never be as great as Carlyle, but I'm thinkin' ye micht hae liiij
faults, which arise out o' naetliing but an inordinate vanity,|
The crater thinks the Almichty made the universe for him,
nae ither body. Dinna ye forget that Helen has a corner icj
that universe set apa? ». for her just as ye have, an' maybe tlit|
Lord '11 hae a sicht mair interest in her bit than yours. That';
my advice to you, Richard, the nicht afore the marriagej
Helen Lockhart's nae common woman ; she has a heart o:j
gold, but there's depths there can seethe in a rigliteoiij
anger. She'll no' be sae saft where wrang is. See you tkj
ye dinna set that sea in commotion. Ye'll never rue it kl
^ince, and that'll be aye,"

A LOST IDEAL

There was a certain wtard poetry in the old lady's style of
talk which took the edge ott' her entirely uncomplimentary tone,
and tempted liichard to carry her on. He was always interestetl
in characters, just as Laidlaw pricked up his ears for cases.

" So you know Mrs. Carlyle ? There may be faults on both
sides. Madam ; you will admit that."

" I will ; and the woman's soured, soured oot 0' a' her lassie
sweetness as any woman in the flesh might be, leevin' wi' sic
a tlirawn deil o' a man. It wad break the temper o' the angel
Ga))riel ; an' Helen has a temper, mind, as she should hae, just
enough o' the deil to keep him oot. But gae 'wa' : she's goin'
to sing, an' she'll gar me greet likely, an' an auld wife's tears
are nae sicht for you ; so gang an' stand by her as ye should."

Woodgate did as he was bid. Helen sang well, without
affectation or the slightest self-consciousness. Her voice, very
sweet and clear and true, had been carefully trained and
conscientiously exercised, so that it conferred rare pleasure on
all who heard it. She felt keenly the eflbrt it was to go throiigli
with the ballad for which they had asked her, "The Auld
Iloose " ; but, exercising her rare self-control, she did not suffer
lier emotion to betray itself in her voice, and was the most
composed of all present. After the song, somehow, conversa-
tion did not flow so easily as before, and, as was the custom
among these simple country folks, the party broke up early.

AVootlgate remained overnight at Broadyards, and thought
it worth his while to make himself particularly agreeable to
Guy, as they smoked a late pipe together over the gunroom
tire. Guy, woke up his wife, when he went upstairs at two a.m.,
to inform her that Woodgate wasn't half a bad fellow after all,
and they had been jumping on him too much.

Xext day, soon after breakfast, Brian Laidlaw set out on
Bob's back for a remoce glen miles beyond Branksome Dene,
and his father saw him no more till the darkening, after the
festivities of the day were over.

"Ye didna miss much, lad," was the old man's sole comment
on the affair. "It was just as j\Iadam said as we came down
the stairs, *It's as dreich as a Liddesdale diow.'"

HilH '

; i

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iiir

Pi!':'

! !;;i;.f

CHAPTER IX

A cloud no hvf<'ev than ca nia.1%; liand."

r^^l ONEY^rOON trills, as a rule, are devoid of intc-

rest to all save those immediately concerned in

them ; nobody ' ants a minute aci;ount of tlic

^^^l^t "^vanderings of a newly-married ]iair. Nevertlic-

,C4

less, it is necessary for us to follow AVoodgatc
and Htden to Florence, which was tlieir first stopping-place,
and which was a revelation of l)eauty and of wonder tn
Helen, who liad seen but little beyond her native vale. Slu
was well-read and intelligent ; her lively and always correct
appreciation of what w%is genuinely beautiful and artistic Ma>
in some measure a surprise to her husband, whv enjoyeil
seeing the city witli wdiich he was so familiar through her
eyes.

They took up their abode in one of the best hotels in the
Lung'Arno, and there had their own rooms, dining sometimes, fm
their a^iusement, at the table d'hote, but mostly in their own
dining-room, which was on the second fioor, wich two windows tii
the river commanding a view of the lovely San Miniato and the
ever-beautiful hills of Fiesole. (Sometimes it grated on Helen's
sense of fitness to hear the jingle of the car-bells and the langhtc.
of the evening crowMls on the boulevards ; it seemed to her that a
city sacredly environed with so many priceless associations shoulil
be preserved from every modern element ; an idea at which Wool
gate laughed consumedly. He was intensely cosmopolit ui, and a

forrniga
— things
umlerstai
jier ever
to conim
tliose ear
a new lijj
ni»t live i
was the
always oi
as he ev
was some
of all cc
natured,
scarcely {
began to
of chang(

" Let's
over the
" Don't }
long enoi

" I doi
ready to

''I lia
Paris, in
hive nia(
wfiy. "

"Xot
a house ]
lost upon

" Alre(
l)egiimin<|
shall do '

H.i 1
by natui
attributes

A LOST IDF A L

lover of his kind, liappior amotif,' crowds tlmii in solitude, pro-
ferrnij<a crowded tiicatre of an evening to a stroll by moonlight

tilings which puzzled Helen not a little. She could not

understand how one who wrote so a])i)reciatively of nature in
her every mood, pensive, grave, and gay, should care so little
to commune with her in quiet. The close companionship of
those early days of married life showed Wuodgate to Helen in
a new light, and slie was forced to admit very soon that he did
not live in the exalted atmos[)here she had once imagined, hut
was the most ordinary of mortals, whose conversation was
always on a very mediocre i)lane, and who kept such fine ideas
as he evidently had for use in his literary work alone. She
was somewhat surprised, hut had nothing to complain of, since
of all companions he was the most entertaining, gay, good-
natured, debonair always ; anil so a month was wiled away with
scarcely a serious thought. By the end of that time Woodgate
hegau to exhibit signs of ennui ; he was by nature restless, fond
of change, and always on the wing.

" Let's go on, Hel(!n," he said one niglit, as they lingered
over their dessert by the open window of their dining room.
*' Don't you remember, we agreed that we shoukl never remain
long enough in one place to grow sick of it?"

" I don't remember that ; but it is all right, Richard. I am
ready to go with you when you wish."

" I have never stayed a month in a foreign city, except
Palis, in my life, so you may congratulate yourself that you
hive made it new for me, dearest," he said in his light, fond
\v:;y. " Where would you like to go next 1 "

"Not home, Richard — back to London, I mean, to seek for
a house?" she suggested, with a faint to ich of wistfulness not
lost ujion him.

"Already, Helen! Why, my love, our wanderings are only
beginning. H London sees us at the beginning of summer, we
shall do well.''

ILi'i jjokr ^ just a trifle dismayed. She was housewifely
by nature, a woman to whose happiness home and all its
iittributos were essential.

I I

•' \

A LOST IDEAL

ii'.i

ill'

'MB

" Summer, Richard 1 And shall you — we, I mean — be idle
all that tiuKil"

" 1 shall not binu *^^^ self — you can please your sweet self,"
said Woodgate, as he filled up her glass. " Well, could you be
ready for llight to-morrow 1 "

That was his way when an idea came to him, especially if
it involved a change of any kind ; he was in a fever to
carry it out.

" I daresay I could ; but hadn't we planned to go to Ferrani
to-morrow ? "

" Oh, Ferrara can wait till we come back. Whether shall it
be Venice or Rome to-morrow 1 Helen, it is a study to see the
shadow gathering in your eyes, and 1 can put into words what yon
are thinking, that I shall make you into a vagabond like myself."

" I ought to be pleased to follow you in everything, Richard,"
she replied, with a smile.

" You ought, but you won't be. You will assert yourself one
day, I am sure ; but this is mij holiday, Helen, my first real one
for years, and you won't spoil it for me, I am sure."

" Indeed I will not," she replied, with earnestness. " And
you know what a thing it is for me to see so much under your
guidance. Only remember that I have grown all my life in
one place, like a tree on Teviot banks, and it will take a little
time to unloose the tendrils and accustom them to strange soil.
There, have I not grown quite poetical 1 When will it be time
to go to London ? I have heard you say it is beautiful in early
summer."

" So it is, but we shall not go back till our souls are sick
for English soil, then our home will give us contentment. That
is the wisdom of life, Helen, to sip its sweets, and never drink
too deep to satiate. Well, Andrea, what now 1 "

The noiseless waiter glided into the room bearing a silver
salver in his hand. " A letter for the signer."

Woodgate took it, left a lire in its place, and with a lively
expression of interest amourting to consciousness broke the
seal. Helen had no thought of watching him. She was
entirely unsuspicious, and while he read it she leaned back in

t!it

A LOST IDEAL

her chixir and watcliuil tlio first faint beams of the rising,' moon,
cieepiug over the eity and falling,' tenderly on tlie rushing
waters of the turl)id stream. There was sometliing in the
lierce and rapid flow of the Arno which fascinated Helen, it
was so out of keeping with the ohl-worhl repose of old Florence,
and yet so suggestive of the past strife and turmoil which had
made its liistory. She was called back from a reverie by her
husband's voice, and it struck her that it sounded dillerently,
she could not tell why.

" How odd this should come to-night ! It is a letter from an
old and dear friend of mine who is at present at Genoa, but
coming here to-morrow."

" Oh, then we need not leave Florence to-morrow," cried
Helen, with interest. "You will wait to see him, of course."

" Yes, 1 should like to wait ; it would be uncourteous other-
wise. But my friend happens to be a lady this time, not a
gentleman."

•'A lady!"

Helen looked surprised, and just glanced at the large square
envelope in her husband's hand — a suggestive glance, which,
however, Woodgate ignored, though quite conscious of it.

"A lady," he continued impressively and deliberatc'ly, "whom
it will be both a pleasure and a privilege for you to meet."

" Tell me about her," said Helen, simply as a child, leaning
her arms, bare to the rounded elbow, on the white tablecloth,
to which they did no shame. " I want to know all about your
friends, Richard, and though you must have many, you do not
seem to talk very much about them."

"I know swarms of human beings, but I have few friends —
only a few fellows of the Parthenon who are as true as steel,
and this lady, the Countess von Reutensce, whom I am most
anxious for you to meet."

"An old lacy r' said Helen imj^uiringly. "I am waiting to
hear everything about her. How delightful to think that I
shall so soon meet one of your friends ! "

Woodgate felt and even looked a trifle embarrassed. The
history of his friendship with Hilda von Reutensee was a

kjii

ii^.

lil^i

A LOST. IDEAL

•

curioiia one,

one, moreover, which

Ilcden would

not at

present

1)0 likely

understand.

Platonic

- friendshi])s.

so dan<

.ferously

like love

ntli

li.'s, were not

acu'eptiid

or unilerstooi

I in the

Dah;.

" Well

you see, Helen,

it's u long story. To Ix^gin with, the

\:\

Countess is not old ; in fact, she can't be more than a year or
two your senior, if even that ; and she is very clever, a soit of
patron saint of all the struggling literary folk in London."

'* How won<l(!rful and how interesting ! I am so glad she is
comfr'g, Kichard ! How fo I'nn' ,/e had not gone on ! I shall
be a little afraid, I think, ' ' title first, and then of her
ability. Is she pleasant and ;^i.u In her manner?"

"She is charming, her manner i)Lii 'ct. You will say so
when you see her; and she is as beautiful as a dream."

The brightness on Helen's facr; clouded ever so slightly at
the warmth of her husbanil's t(Uio. 8ho was only a four-weeks'
wife, remember, and jealous of .lis affection. But she put the
momentary pang from her swiftly as unworthy, and asked yet
another question, with a slight touch of wistfulness in her
voice.

"She has read all you have written, I suppose, Richard?"

"Every line of it, and lailled it unmercifully to pieces," he
answered quickly. " She is a remorseless critic, and her taste
and judgment are unerring."

"Has she written books herself?"

" Not yet ; though she will. She must ; we all expect it of
her. ]^)Ut she has the courage of restraint, a rare virtue in our
world, Helen, and will wait till she can give the ])est that is
in her."

" What a woman she must l)e ! and how fortunate for you
to have such a friend ! " said Helen in her genuine sini]3licity.
" Will her' husband come with her to-morrow?"

"He will not," replied Woodgate, and he again looked em-
barrassed. Ho was about to try Helen, and somewhat feared
the consequences ; but since such shocks would await her on
every hand when they returned to London, it was well the
first ones should meet ^^er here. "She and her husband do
not agree — and they do not meet.^'

liide it

•

A LOST IDEAL

At iinolluT tiiiio \V(K)(l;^'ato inij^ht have enjoy*''! tlic look of
Itliink (lisniiiy wlii<'h iiistiiiitly overspread his wile's face, ])iit
sniiieliow it socukmI to irritate Iniii oddly.

"Thi'y «lo not agree, and they do not meet," she repeated
sliiwly. "That means, I sup[)ose, that they do not live
together. Why?"

" liecause the Count is a fool and a scoundrel. iShe was
iniirried to him against her will when she was a mere child,
Wiien she became a woman, and untlerstood things, .slit; left
liini. There was no alternative."

Helen sat in silence, but the look of lively interest had died
(lilt of her face.

'' I don't agree with you," she said coldly. " But perhaps I
oughtn't to judge, being ignorant of the circumstances. Has
she any children?"

"One, a son, whom she is comi)elled to leave in his grand-
niothev's care in a God-forgotten schloss somewhere among tl.'
wilds of Unter Francon. She is allowed to visit him there
once a year, and is on her way to him now. She has had a
hard life of it, Helen. I hoped you would give her the
womanly sympathy and tenderness such women as you know
so well how to give, though, Heaven knows ! you can steel
yunr hearts, too, like flint."

The ])assionate bitterness with which he spoke stirred a
strange new and painful chord in the heart of the woman who
listened to him. She could not say how or why, but in a
moment of time a shadow had fallen athwart her life, and she
felt a vague dread of the corning day.

"I hope I shall not be wanting in sympathy or tenderness
where they are required," she said (luietly ; "but of course it
was something of a shock to me to hear that she lived apart
from her husband. I have not been used to such things in
the Dale."

"No; in the Dale they hate each other like poison, and
hide it for the sake of respectability," he said grimly. "1
warn you, Helen, you will receive many such shocks in the
world to which you are going, in which there are a few brave

V:\

4f"

4.- ■■

A LOST IDEAL

souls, such as Hilda Reutciiisee, who have the courage of their
opinions, and I hope that the issue will bo that you will not
refuse them the honour and the respect they deserve."

Never had Helen seen him so earnest; he spoke with real
el()(|U('iice, and pushed hack the haii: from his brow with a
quick, nervous gesture, indicative of inward emotion. For the
moment she was ])ermitted a glinij)se of genuine enthusiasm,
and realised what Ik; might be capable of when so movcul. It
gave her faithful heart a dull l)ang that she had not yt^t becMi
able to kindle in him anything approaching to it. She had
never seen him aught but gay, careless, light of heart ; some-
times, indeed, she had thought he regarded life too much in
the light of a perpetual holiday.

" I shall do my best to be kind to this lady, keeping her
misfortunes in view, Richard, but above all because she is yom-
friend."

She said this with such dignity and sweetness that Wood-
gate, by no means hard of heart, was melted at once. He
came quickly to her side, and, twining his arm round her,
kissed her fondly.

"Now there spoke my own wife, my pearl of womanhood.
I have dreamed a dream, my Helen, of showing to my world,
in which there are many shams and only a few realities, a
perfect woman, with a pure eye and a large, serene, generous
heart, free from every prejudice, so peerless in her own absolute
purity and tenderness, that she coukl touch even the vilest
without taint, and by her contact make them clean."

Moved by the passion of his words, she leaned against him
trembling like a child.

"It is a great deal to ask of one frail woman, Richard," she
cried, with a sob. "I am so ignorant myself and so full of
faults ; but, God helping me, I shall try to be what you desire,
and you will help me too."

111'-'
1'^

lip'

CHAPTER X

" There is a si'u\<^ — peculiar, sad, and keen,
Known to a wonijin's heart."

JIAT lu'^ht Ilelon could not sleep. She spcnicd

to realiso for the first time the ^n'ciit and sharj)

contrast l)ctwL'on the old life and the new, and to

feel, with a vagno, strange restiessnoss, that i)eaci5

abode with the jjast, turmoil with tlie future.

She anticipated the morrow when she should meet the first

of her hus])and's friends as we anticipate a crisis in life. 8ho

tried to brace herself for it, to think of her meeting with this

gifted woman of whom Richard thought so highly, and even

jtrayed that all prejudice might leave her, and that she would

be able at once to recognise all that was noble in her, giving

to her the honour and respect she siircily deserved. Woodgate,

troubled by no such thoughts, slept soundly, but dreamed

towards morning of the same theme which occupied his wife's

thoughts — a troubled dream, haunted by a love-story of which

Helen had no knowledge. With the morning Helen's darker

thoughts vanished ; the sunshine glittering on the river seemed

to dispel the clouds from her imagination, and her face betrayed

her usual serenity of heart.

"When will the Countess arrive, Richard?" she asked, as

they sat at breakfast. " Did she say ? "

" Yes ; by the evening train, due somewhere about seven,

isn't it 1 Do you remember when we came ? "

A LOST IDEAL

'ili;:;

*' VcH ; if I ordor diniicr for ov^hi, will that dol"

Hiiilmrd lookccl tiji, j^'rciitly .surprised and j)l(!iis(>d,

" Vnii will ask li(!r to dine with us, thru? Thank you, niy
drar."

" Why, of course; ; could I do any less, Kichard, as she. is
(!ouiiu^' t(» this hot(d and you aro old friends? What did you
oxjuM^t WW to do? "

VVoodi^'atc lau,i;h(Ml.

" Faith, I don't know ; you frozo nio up, you know, last ni;^dit,
when I told you tho Countess's uidiappy stoiy, and I should
not have cared to liint ut such u thing us an invitation to
dinner."

Helen was a trifle hurt, l)ut coiu'caltMl it under a smile.

" I shall ^'row wiser hy experience, Kichard. You must not
ho too hiird on mo at first."

" Heaven forhid that I should ever be liard on you, first or
last," ho said, fervently enou^di, for her humility, her wifely
anxiety to please, touched Inm to the heart. Althouj^h he
would not have acknovvledgyd it, he felt se.;rctly a <,'reat deal
more nervous over the niee;inL' of the^^e two women than
lEelon couhl jiossibly be, she having the advantnge of uncon-
sciousness. "Now, what shall we do to-day ? Ferrara, as we
had arranged ? "

"Oh, I think not; it might make a pleasant outing for the
Countess when she is liere."

" It is all old ground to her, Helen, as you can understand
wlum I tell you that she has wintered in Florence or Rome
every year since she left Keutensoe."

"And the other part of the year?" said Helen inquiringly.
" Has she a home in Lonchjn ? "

"Yes; in Park Lane."

" In Park Lane 1 Is she then very rich ? "

" Keutensee allows her handsomely. She has always said
he is not mean with his money. I suppose she is comfortably
off; there is every evidence of it."

Helen gave an involuntary sigh.

"Do yon think," she asked, a tritlo wistfully, "that she

■ilfi

A LOST I HEAL

will (S'lro to talk to incl f ;mi not luiiiiant, Richard. T^'rluips
site will (It'spiso inc."

"She won't. Tlicro is ono ([Uiility yon ])os<pss f(»r which alio
has 11 reverential worship, and tliat is j^Modncss."

"She niMst he very j^'ood luMsclf, then," said Helen thotij^dit-
I'uUv. " Well, let ns have an idle day, Hiijiard. I shall want
a j^'reat many fnsh flowers for the eveninj^, and will ^'o to tho
niaiketplace. Let us (^'o for another hour or two to thc! LUhz/i
till lunch."

" \'ery well; arran<,'e th(> day as yon like. And will you
speak ahout the Countess's rooms, and tell them she; wl'l join
our tahle whi'-^ slie is here*?"

** J shall. It is almost like entertaining' visit(»rs, yet with
no house. How otld ! " said Helen hri^ditly, feeding' as if she
had a new interest in life.

All day Woo(l<.;ate was not himscdf, an<l his restlessmvss was
(piite evident to Hcdeii, hut she. did not resent it. She thou^dit
it natural enou^di that he should he; jdeasurahly excited at tho
tJKiught of nieetin*,' so old and distinguished a friend ; a'
she hopecl she would he ahle to play her i)art well, ami d(t
hiiti creilit. She was not a vain woman ; nor is it vanity in
any woman to desire to make tlm most of her atti'actions,
provided she does not make it the husim!.-s of her life. Helen
was not sur})riscd when her hushand went out after tea, and
supposed that he had gone to the rjr'^— ay station.

Such, however, was not the case. Hi; !iad simply taken
himself out of the way, in order to avoid tlu; meeting hetween
his wife and Hilda von Keutensec. WIkmi he returne(l t(j the
hotel at a quarter to eiglit he learned that the Countess had
arrived half an hour hefor*--, and when ho entered the dressing-
room Helen was not there. She dressed earlv and with extreme
care, selecting a handsome gown of rich, soft l)lack silk, made
with a sweei)ing train, and some tine lace, the gift of jMadame
l)onglas, in the bodice.

Just as her husband was inquiring in the hall whether tho
Countess had arrived, she went along the corridor and tapped
at tliat lady's door.

A LOST IDEAL

ii 'ij

li^'ii

■¥\

i; ''>

" Comn in," calloil out u clear, ringing, slightly imperious
voice, and immediately there was a swift st(?p across tlie
floor and the door was quickly opened.

For an instant those two women, whose destinies were to ho
so strangely intermingled, regarded each other with a critical,
questioning air.

" I am Mrs. Woodgate," said Helen, with her quiet, gracious
dignity, which she had never shown to greater advantage.
" And I come to hid you welcome, and to inquire wliether
you find everything as you desire it ? "

"You are Mrs. Woodgate?" repeated the Countess slowly,
and her eyes never for a moment left Helen's face. " Oh,
pray come in. I am not quite dressed ; you see, 1 never
bring a maid with me abroad, it completely demoralises them,
and when one has to unpack, it takes a little time."

" Let me help you," said Helen, with a rare, sweet smile,
whi h made the Countess regard her attentively again, and in
complete silence.

" You are very good. I have taken out the gown I want ;
the others can wait till I have time to attend to them," slie
said, and, with a curious expression on her face, she returned
to the dressing-tal)le. " ^Von't you sit down ? "

" I should much rather liang up your dresses in the wardrobe,
if you will allow me," said Helen pleasantly.

"Very well, thank you, you may."

Helen turned to the large dress-basket, which, stan ling open,
revea- ' its wealth of silks and laces, and the Countess
continued her hairdressing in a carious silence not common to
her.

There could be no doubt about her beauty, whi(di of its
kind — fair skin and bright gold hair — was perfect. She wore
a white loose dressing-gown, which concealed, but did not hide,
the extreme grace of her ligure. Helen admired her exceed-
ingly, but wondered a little at her silence.

" INIr. Woodgate met you. I suppose ? " she said inquiringly,
OS she hung up the last gown and closed the door of the
wardrobe.

A LOST WEAL

((

Xo, he (lid not," replied tlie Countess, taking up her hand
mirror to survey the shining coils of her hair. "Nor did I
expect it. I am used to arriving and departing unattended.
It has its advantages, I do assure you."

" Yes," said Helen. " I am surprised that Richard did not
meet you ; I was certain ho had gone for the purpose."

" 1 have not seen him, I assure you. Is this your first visit
to Florence ? " a

" Yes. I have never been out of Scotland before," replied
Helen simply.

" Xe\ er been out of Scotland before ? " repeated the Countess,
with a slight inexplicable smile. " I envy you, for you will
not be a stranger to new sensations. Been married a month,
liaven't you % "

"Yes ; a month to-morrow."

"Well, you have married a very clever man, ^Irs. AYoodgate,
and I know of a score of women who owe you a grudge for it.
He has stolen a march upon us all."

" Did he not even tell you, who are so old and valued a
friend."

The Countess was fastening the waistband of her daintv
lilac silk gown. She threw up her head suddenly and looked
at Helen with keen inquiry.

" Xow, what has he said to her, I wonder ? " she said to
herself. " How much, or how little does she know ? "

" My dear," she observed aloud, " my first knov/ledge of the
aifair was seeing the announcement of it in the Times a
fortnight old at Genoa. The same paper said you were here in
this very hotel, so I came out of my way to have a look at
you."

Helen blushed slightly. The woman puzzled her. The
familiarity of her speech, the candour of her words, while
they did not exactly offend, certainly " exercised " her, as they
say in the Dale.

" We are very glad to see you , my husband is, I know, and
I, to make the acquaintance of the friend he values so highly,"
Bhe said sincerely,
8

I r

> S 1'

A LOST IDEAL

-I

..it

Her words had a curious effect on Hilda von Reutensee,
Her face became crimson, and a visible tremble was on her lips.

"You are very kind — you are truthful, sincere. I thank
you. I trust I may be worthy of your kind thoughts of me."

That was sufficient to touch Helen to the quick. How mar-
vellous that so distinguished a woman should use such words to
her ! She accepted them as a proof that great souls are ever
humble in their estimate of self.

" You are not in the least like my expectation of you," said
the Countess presently, as she put the last touches to her elegant
toilet. "We talked of new sensations a minute ago — you have
given mc one."

Helen laughed, a musical, happy laugh, feeling herself more
at home with her new friend than she had yet done.

" You have given me one also. I have never met any one
like you."

"What do you mean % I should like an explanation of those
words. In what way am I different from other people ? "

*' You are much more beautiful, for one thing. I am quite
sure I have never seen anyone so beautiful as you in my whole
life."

" Oh, Mrs. Woodgate, you give me another new sensation !
Do you know, in the world I live in, there is not a woman who
would say such a thing to me. Y'ou are as refreshing as the
morning dew."

" I am but saying what I think. Why should I not say it,
if it does not give you offence % "

" I ought to pay you as sweet a compliment in return, but I
will not to-day, though I have it in my heart. I am quite
ready now. You have asked me to dine with you, I understand,
and I have never even thanked you for it."

" Why should you 1 Shall wo go now ? I hope and expect
my husband will be waiting for us in the saloon. I cannot
understand yet why he did not go to meet you. He must have
missed you in the crowd. Yes, I am sure that is the explana-

Ljon

She led the way from the room, the Countess followin

A LOST IDEAL

ailiuiring tho poise of her dark head, the straight, lissome lines
of her figure, the grace of her carriage. She was a beautiful
woman herself, and possessed of a fair share of personal vanity,
but she was generous in her appreciation of beauty in others.
8I1C admired Woodgate's wife ; and those few minutes had
shown to her that the attractive casket held a pure, bright,
womanly soul.

Woodgate awaited them in the saloon, looking animated, but
a trifle disturbed. No such consciousness troubled the Countess,
who possessed the consummate tact of a very clever woman.

" Your wife and I have already made acquaintance, Mr.
Woodgate," she said, with a smile which might be calhid
purely conventional ; " and I congratuiute you, thousand
times."

Helen took her place at the table, beaming upon them.
The ordeal was over : she had met Richard's greatest friend,
and found her wholly charming ; she now prepared herself for
a delightful hour. Siie was ready and willing to sit silent,
so that she might listen to the talk of these two, who were
such old friends and understood each other so well. Woodgate,
relieved of the momentary awkwardness, began to talk in a
strain which astonished his wife. It was of people and things
of which she of course knew nothing, and it seemed to her
tliat he had become another man. The Countess did not say
very much, a word or sentence now and again, perhaps only
an appreciative smile, which was enough to stimulate the
current of his thought. Once or twice, feeling how completely
Helen was left out, she turned to her gently, and tried to
engage her in conversation. But Woodgate, carried away by a
fascinntion old yet ever new to him, seemed impatient of it, and
once when the Countess ignored him completely to speok to
Helen, he said rather quickly —

" I am sure Helen does not mind. Do you, Helen 1 You
know I have told you how the Countess understands all my
work. Tust let me tell you this, and then I will be silent the
rest of the evening, if you like."

Then he went on again, speaking for the first time in Helen's

A LOST WEAL

hearing of his c.^nteniplateJ new work, laying it before Hilda
von Reiitensee in very minute detail.

It was impossible that the wife to whom such things were
sacred, and who had prayed that she might be made worthy to
share all his aspirations, should not feel the distinction made.
It cut her to the heart, hut she kept her face calm and brave,
and even smiled with eyes Avhich had a cloud of tears behind
them.

CHAPTER XT

Is there no debt to ]):iy,
No boon to grant? "

,HE cleruTiiian of the Scotch church called at thr
hotel at nine o'clock, asking to s-dc Mrs. Wood-
gate. She wont downstairs to the rooji where
he waited, leaving her husband and their gurnt
together. It was an opportunity hoth desired.
Hilda von Reutensee had several questions to ask ; questions
she could not give utterance to in the wife's proseuct. When
the door closed upon them, she leaned back in her chair
and regarded him with a curious mixture of wonder and
inquiry.

" I want to know, Richard, why you have married your wife,"
she said ; " can it be possible that you care for her 1 If so, I
have more hope of you than I have had for many a day."

It was an odd way to put it. He looked at her intently,
thinking she looked ten times more charming than ever. He
had loved her for years, and no other woman could influence
him as she had done and did. She could play upon his nature
as skilfully as her fingers could play upon the harp strings
He had amused and interested her; she had even allowed him
to make love to her after a certain harmless fashion, and she
had wondered a little over his marriage, feeling it perhaps
slightly as a disappointment. But she was perfectly heart-
whole where he was concerned, and, in spite of her many
coquetries, at heart a pure and good w^oman.

/J LOST' IDEAL

1; %:m

I i

:. \

" Faith, you ask what I can hardly answer," he replied
evasively. " What do you think of her ? "

" I do not yet understand how you liave won such a woman,"
she said, mistaking his avoidance of the question. " Those eyes
of hers are made to see through shams. She will see througli
you yet, Richard."

He laughed a trifle bitterly.

"You are as complimentary as ever, IIil(ia," he said. "In
other words, you regard me as a sham — is that it?"

" You imagine yourself to he a great man, which you are not,"
she replied calmly, " and never will be until you arc first
humbled witli yourself. It is old ground, Richard ; we need
not go OV'T it again; but I say again, with such a woman by
your side, there is more hope for you than I imagined, iShe
will stimulale you to the highest endeavour, and mo.ke you
ashamed of the idleness your friends have long deplored. ''

" You think very Iiighly of her," he said, secretly flattered —
as men are to hear praise of their wives, which, of course,
reflects credit on their own wisdom in selection.

" I do. She is a woman ,'^orth cultivating. I have known
you a long time, Richard, and I am privileged to be candid.
I have only known your wife one hour, but while listening to
your nonsense I have been watching her. She is not ordinary
or commonplace. Be carefui how you deal with her."

"I wish you would explain yourself," he eaid, a trifle im-
patiently. "I think her quite ordinary, and hor views of life
are puritanical in the extreme, which, of course, is inevitable,
considering what her (:".vironment has been for six-and-twenty
years."

"That is her age, is it? She looks it. I hardly expected
that you would understand hei, and T cannot comprehend, as I
said, how you vvon her. As to her views, they will expand,
but the process will hurt her. I trust I may be fortunato
enough to win ar;d keep her friendship."

He looked al her in amazement, scarcely crediting what he
heard. He had dreaded Hilda von Reutensee's verdict on hi^^
wife, and he could not understand the impression made. That

I -•'!

A LOST IDEAL

«7

the Countess was sincere he knew lier too Avell to douht. Slie
was one of the most candid and outspoken of living women,
and she had never spared him. She was very clever, and she
had been trained in a hard school, which had done something
to take the edge off her womanliness. She had a large acquaint-
ance among literary peo])le, and wheu AVoodgatc was first
introduced to her by a journalistic friend, she had become
deeply interested in his career. It was then full of promise,
which had as yet not been fulfilled. Sometimes she feared
he had reached the zenith of his powers, the period of idle
dalliance had been so mucli prolonged.

" I am sure Helen would be flattered if she knew the im-
pression she has made on you," he said, a trifle drily.

" I don't believe she would. She is a woman to whom s(df
is not specially interesting, and she is a fine foil to you. One
piece of advice to you, Eichard, before she returns. She loves
you ; do not starve that love. Don't disillusion unless you
cannot help it, and try to be worthy of her."

She rose with the air of a woman who had said the last word,
and, moving to the window, made some trivial reniarks al)Out
the oeauty of the night. Presently they heard Helen's feet on
the corridor ; then she turned to him.

" Henceforth I am Countess to you, ]\Ir. Woodgate. Please
do not forget."

It was her first act of absolute loyalty to the woman she had
known for one hour, but whose friendship she already desired
as something worth the winning. It said much for Helen,
because the Countess was not one of those molluscs who fasten
on evet^ new-comer, oflcring vows of eternal devotion. On
the contrary, among women her friends were few.

Helen entered the room, smiling, unconscious, animated.

'• Oh, Richard, I have had such a pleasant talk with Mr.
^lartin. He knew papa at college, and has been to Broadrule.
He says he remembers me a little girl, and thinks he also saw
you. I asked him to come up, but he says he will call again.
I hope I am excused. Countess, leaving you so long alone."

The Countess smiled and shook her head, but said nothing

W LOST J DEAL

r\\

Her heart was too much touched for speech. There was soiuo-
thing at once so childlike aj\d trusting alxjiit Woodgato's wife,
that the woman of tlie world, who had proved to tlie utmost its
liypocrisy and its cruelty, felt a great compassion in her soul.
Woodgate, feeling tliat in tluiir present mood conversation was
not likely to move freely, asked permission to smoke his cigar
outside, thus giving Hilda von Rcutensee another opportunity
she desired. She sat down near to Helen, looking at her in-
tently, her own face wearing a look of indescrihahh; tenderness,
which fasc' ited the woman who had called it forth.

" Will you tell me," she said gently, " what your husband
has said to you about me ? "

" He did not oay very mucl;,'' replied Helen, in some surprise.

" Only yestcrdiiy, when your letter came, he told me you were

his friend, and that you had hel})ed him greatly in his work.

Also," she added, with a faint flush and slight hesitation,

something of your sad history : that was all."

*' I am not so much to be commiserated," replied the Countess
lightly, " since my husband leaves me in peace."

" But," said Helen, still reluctantly, " you are parted from
your little son, Can anything compensate for thatl"

" I do not permit .Myself to dwell on it ; and the child is vei y
well off where he is, with his grandaunt. She's very Kind to
him, and is good enough not to bring him up to hate his
mother."

"Your husband's kinswoman?" said Helen inquiringly.

" Yes ; my own mother is dead, 1 do not remember lier.
Had she lived, I should not be as I am. It is a very remote
place where my little Gustav has to dwell, but good for the
child. Heavens ! what a place that God-forgotten Sehloss is !
and yet people live long lives there, and appear to be content.
Perhaps they are better off than such as we."

"You are on your way there now, my husband tells me."

"I am, but I do not hurry, till the snow is off the groand."

" And is your husband there ? Excuse these many questions ;
it is because I am so interested."

"Don't apologise; I like to answ- ? 'aem, because, odd as it

A LOST IDEAL 89

ma}' seoni, I should liko you to uiidcrstand luo. No, T.udwig
von Kt'utiMiscL' is iioi, at tlie Schloss, (dse tlicrc wouM rcMjuiro
to be anotlier arranj^'ciiieut uuidc for (lUstav and 1 to meet. It
is too i-'low a ])lace altooether for liini. I expect he is in Paris
now. Tin; Scldoss seUhDin sees him, — a luontli, jjerhaps, in
autumn, when there is anything to shoot, — and tliey are all glad
when he goes away."

"Except the old lady, who, perhaps, regards him as a son?"
.•^ULTtrested Helen.

"She doesn't; she can't endure him. It is the only })oint
on which we are agreed — detestation of Graf Linhvig. You see,
ht; reminds her of her own hroken hopes. She had a sjilciulid
husliand, who was killed gloriously, as they call it, at (Jiave-
lotto, and one son, Waldemar, who fell ignonnniously in a duel
about some peasant girl. It nearly killed his mother. Properly
speidving, she ought to have retired from Reutensee to her own
home in Thuringia, but she adores the place, and Ludwig, who
has some bowels of compassion in him, allows her to remain,
aiul she repays him by looking after Gustav, and training him
in the way he should go."

" If he had such bowels of compassion as you speak of, he
would give the boy to you," said Helen hotly.

" Ah ! but he must punish me somehow for my desertion,
and he chooses that way because I feel it most."

"Why did you desert him?" asked Helen inA»oluntarily.

"Because I could not live with him : he was too thoroughlv
1)11(1. Consider, I was married to liim at seventeen ; forced into
it hy my aunt, who reared me, and had but one desire — to get
rid of me. I bore it as long as I could, and because I had some
shreds of self-respect left, I left him at last, ten years ago,"

"And you now live in London?"

" I have a home there ; a little house in Park Lane, 1 made
Ludwig buy for me. He is not stingy with money, I will say
that for him ; he has some of the instincts of a gentleman left."

"He cannot be wholly bad, since he is so generous to you,"
said Helen, thinking the man to be pitied who had so charming
a wife who declined to live with him.

A LOST IDEAL

"He is not totally l)ail ; ho has his good qualities, liko tlio
best and worst of us, but the had is such as no self-resj)ectiii;^'
woman could tohirate. Oh, T thought it well over, I assure
you, before I made my (le(;ision, because I knew very well what
it involved for me ; and I have never regretted it."

Helen remained silent ; a great wonder of tliought awakeneil
in her mind. Suddenly the Countess changed the subject.

"Will you tell nie frankly, Mrs. Woodgate, what is your
opinion of your huslumd's work 1 "

Helen flushed all over. It was a delicate, almost a sacred
subject in her eyes. " I am his wife," she answered simply.
"I can have but one opinion regarding it."

The faint(!st shadow of an amused smile flickered momentarily
on the Countess's fair face, bat immediately passed, leaving it
grave as before.

" Only a very young man could have written that last book
of his, ]jut it had the true ring. Five years have passed since
it ap[)eared, ami no successor is forthcoming. Has he given us,
do you think, all that is in him 1 "

The flush on Helen's face deepened, but the Countess con-
tinued, never seeing that her listener was fiercely resenting
every word she uttered.

"H he ever writes another book, it will be something so
entirely different that men will not know it to be by the
same hand."

" Why do you say if he writes another book ? You heard
what he said to you to-niglit," cried Helen hotly.

*' I have heard all that before," replied the Countess calmly.
"My dear, you must rouse him from this indolence and self-
complacency, which is killing his soul. It is a pity — I have
said it a hundred times — that he has any money, that he has
not to earn his bread."

" I do not believe that," said Helen quickly. " I have heard
him say that sordid care eats the heart out of a man, and grinds
his aspirations to the dust."

"It is not true, and very well he knows it. Genius has ever
risen to its highest heights out of desperate straits. Suffering

A LOST IDEAL

is its Tiiij)tisni of fin', lie will iu'vcr suHcr, Ikcuuso h«' will not
nlldW himself to sutfcr. Ho dn-ails it."

" IJow (laro you sjx'ak so to iiif of my liushaiul ? " crit'd
Ilcli'ii, r4iin.L,' boyond cndnrancc.

Hilda von Rtnitensuo loaned forward slifjhtly and laid lier
hands, with a touch of infinites ^'ontleness, on Hel n's kneo.
" Hush, ehild ! I am yctur true friend, and his."

"Do not call nn^ child ; lam older than you," said Helen,
still with some of the ))etulance of a <'hild.

"No; I am thirty-oni;. Hesides, 1 have had a loiif,', hard
exjtericMu^o of life. You are only he^finnin*,' it. When you
C(»nio to London, 1 sliall show you one 1 have in my mind's eycj
at this moment; a pour hoy, to whom circumstances have been
relentless, hut who is slowly conquering them all. He comes
to me sometimes, finding in me something which inspires his
confidence, though Heaven knows I am hut litth; worthy ; and I
help him with words and symi)athy always, and sometimes with
iii(iii(»y, though not often, because the tight will make him strong."

Helen's resentment vanished, and her face shone. " 1 was
rude to you a moment ago; ])ray forgive me. You are very
good; you must be, to do such things."

"Oh no. It pleases me to think that some portion of
Ludwig von Reutensee's money should be not nnworthily spent.
Just let me say what I wish to say about your husband, for tlie
first and last time. You are a noble and good woman ; that I
know from your face ; but in some respects I am wiser than
you, with the wisdom born of experience of the. world. Wood-
gate has a great gift, which he is sinfully neglecting, he is so
indolent." She continued, in her voice of relentless calm, " I
have long told him that if the divine S{)ark had lied from him
for ever, he had deserved it well. His future now rests with
you. Y^ou must be very wise, so wise that for any one but you
I should say it was impossible. Y^ou must not pamper and
worship and spoil him, as half the men who might achieve
something are spoiled by the women who love them. Forgive
my plain speech ; when you know me better, perhaps you will
not resent it, as you must now."

.^^>

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,),'

A LOST IDEAL

'•I ilon't," saitl ITden ; "Imt you IxnviMer and sadden mo,
jiiid find I tliink tlicrc is truth in wliatyou say.

1 1 lid., von Koutensw; j,'uossed wliat it cost Helen to make,
t'nat admission, l)ut she niaih; no comment upon it.

" I tliink 1 shall go to bed. Will you make my apologies to
your husband, please? We shall meet to-morrow."

She stood straiglit in front of Helen and held out her hand,
witli a look of winning api)eal,

"J have never met anyl)ody in the least like you," she said
hurriedly. "I do not pray mucli, only that my son may not
grow uj) like his father; but I will pray to-night for your
friendship. Good-niglit ! "

Helen was not quick to respond, because the woman suri)ris(Ml
and jnizzled her on every hand. While she still waited, slow,
like all of the northern clime, to respond to any unexpecte(l
demonstration of feeling, the Countess glideti away and left
her alono.

" 1;

ii;

CHAPTER XII

"Whate'cr hvVuk,
To thee I will be true."

\\\m-

OW long arc you goin^j to rcnmin at Rputonsoo?"
id' asked AVoodgate, as tliey bi-i'iiklasted logctluT next

morning.

" I am promised a month. Do you not re-
member ? " said the Countess.

" And when are you going 1 "

"Soon, I think. The old lady writes that thoy have sjtring
already, and that the flowers are coming up. I was once there
in March, and the cold was intense. Often they have a mild
February, so I think I shall go straight on."

" And at the end of the month, what then 1 "

The Countess shi-ugged her shoulders. "I don't know. I do
not make many plans now, Mr. Woodgate," she said, turning to
Helen, who looked her best in the clear morning liglit, as most
healthy persons do. She wore a tailnr-gown o( light grey
tweed, faultless linen, and no jewellery. The Countess was all
rutUcs and lace, as becoming as the set simplicity of Helen's
attire was to her.

" We must plan a little," rejdied Helen, with a smile. " I
wish I knew where we were going, and when we are likely to
have a home."

"My wife has not acquired the vagabond habit yet," said
Woodgate, with a smile, " She thinks hap|)mess is bounde-d

A LOST IDEAL

I !

by tlio four Wiills of a Imuse, wlicic tlicy too ofton only shut,
it out."

"Don't say that, Riolianl ; you know you <lo not hcliove it,'
said Ht'Icn (juirkly.

"London will he your pcrnianont home, I suppose," rcmarkc"!
the Countess.

"Probably. ]5ut there is nothinjij settled. Like you, I don't
believe in planniufr; thin<^'s left to tlienisdves arran^'c somehow."

Helen shook her liead. " I can't accept that doetriiir.
T have an orderly mind, which likes to see its way clearly
l)efnre it."

"Then you miss all the pleasure of })erpetual surprises, my
love," said Woo(l<^Mle lightly. "I say. Countess, is there any
aci'oniniodation for stran<.^ers in your villaj.;e of Keutensee?"

"There is the usual village gasthaus, where coffee and
sauerkraut can be obtained," replied the Countess, looking ;it
him rather questioningly. "1 have never been at it, but I know
such a place exists, because I have heard the (Iriitin speak of
the worthy couple who manage it. ]»ut why do you ask*?"

"Is the jdace interesting, and the scenery good"?"

"The place is dead; the scenery, of its kind, good. There are
miles upon miles of pine woods, and the village itself is set, not
unpictures(]uely, on the edge of the lake which lies before
the Schloss."

"Do you think we could support existence there for some
weeks, while I make a bold attempt to put Brunp.hilde into
shape?"

Helen listened intently, her soul in her eyes.

"There is no reason why you should not support existence
there as well as anywhere, if you intend to work. It would he
very slow for ^Irs. AVoodgate, though my kinswoman would,
of course, pay her the common courtesies of the place. It
might be the very place in which to write your Brvmiliildi'.
The air is heav}'^ with legends, the peo})le simple and guileless
as babes."

" Let us go there, Richard," cried Helen, and all the hidden
anxiety of her wish to see her husband once more put his hand

.•/ LOST IDEAL

t(! some worthy work Let rayed itself to Hilda von Rontenseo,
though it was lost on him.

" WouM it not he possihio for us to travel together?" sug-
gested Woodgate; "and while you an^ at the Scliloss, my wife
would not be ahsolutely without society."

" I would advise you to wait, at least, two months in the
south first," replied the Countess in a tone which Woodgate
knew to he decisive. " In A[)ril Reutonsee is enchanting, quite
ciuhanting. There is a great deal for Mrs. Woodgate to see
tiist. Surely yoa do not mean to be so near Rome and not
visit it?"

Woodgate was disapi)ointed, and showe«l it in his face as
he rose.

"Oh, well, we can leave things as they were, Helen, and go
whither the spirit moves us," he said carelessly. "The
("ounte.ss shows quite i)lainly that however much we may desire
the pleasure of her society, she does not share it."

It was an entirely characteristic speech. He could not brook
disappointment or contradiction. Helen could not help regard-
ing him in pained surprise. That he should speak so discourt-
eously to a lady amazed and wounded her. It had no eilect on
the Countess but to make her smile. She had seen him in
every mood.

"Men are not philosophers, Mr.s. Woodgate," she said, her
voice takincr the caressing tone which Helen .seemed to call
forth. " Your husband takes it into his head he would like
to go to Reutensee forthwith, and because I, who know what
I am talking about in this instance, do not advise it, then he
is savage with me. You must teach him your own sweet
reasonableness, a quality in which he is sadly lacking."

The whole tone of the conversation jarred upon Helen, and
she showed it in her face. It hurt her tliat another woman
should lay her finger relentlessly on the flaw in her idol. She
hiul the instinct of every true wife, to cover up every slight
deficiency from the world.

" How long are you going to stay here ? " inquired Woodgate,
changing the subject.

IHI'

:ii

tt!j,|

A 10 ST IDE.tr.

filli

"Till tomorrow. I liavo a visit to pay at Spczia, aii'l
anothr" in Munich, so I shall ^M-t to KeiitcMisoo hy dcj^'roos."

" IL. 'Ion, you and I liad hctter go on to Kohh^ ti)-niorro\v,''
lie said then, tpiito decisively for liini. "I must go and attend
to my letters."

Helen was silent when he left the room, and on her brow
a eloud nMuained.

" You are vexed, Mrs. Woodgate ; and, lielieve me, T under-
stand it a great deal better than you imagine. You will liavc
innumi'rable such trials of temper and patience; try and accept
them as tlio portion of the woman who of her own choice weds
a man of genius."

Helen turned her face awav. Two thoughts filled her heart
with bitt(^rness hard to be borne : one, that her husband should
fall so far short of the ideal she had raised ; th(^ oth(;r, tliat
another woman should dare to speak so frankly of the faults
his wift»- would scarcely admit.

" I cannot bear it ; indeed I cannot," she said at length,
hotly and passionately.

Quick-witted though she was, Hilda von Reutensee this time
entirely misunderstood her.

" You will get used to it, my dear, as we all do to what i?
disagreeable, after wo admit that it is inevitable," sho said
st)othingl)'.

Then Helen turned, and her face was deeply flushed, her
eyes flashing a most unusual fire.

" It is not that. It is intolerable to me to discuss my
husband with you or any stranger. I will not do it. If wo
are to be friendly at all, we must not talk of him."

The Countess took a step backward with an altered face, and
in her soul a sincere respect for the woman before her.

" I ask your pardon," she said, with humility, which was all
grace. " I spoke in sincerity, but I understand and will oboy
you, because I do desire your friendship. It is worth the
winning and keeping ; we shall meet, I suppose, in London
before the year is out. I generally drift back to my own
house about September, aiid remuiu till as ueiir Christmas as

it ". ■ !

A LOST irEAf, 97

tlio fo^'s will jicniiit. If you iiic to sctth; in I.oiulon at all, I
-ilioiild think it will be by then. Have I vmir jM-rniission to
• all upon youl Voii will be true with mo, I know, and I
shall not take oll'cncc."

"I do trust you will call. I*ray for^'ct my hasty words.
Kvcrythin^ is new to nio. I'crhaps when wo niret in London
I shall bu more of a philosopher ; and one thing 1 am almost
certain of, that I may need your friendship."

"Thank you for that, at least. I shall <,'o on to my friend.s
at Sjiezia, I think, this afternoon. There is nothing to keep
ine in Florence; and I have seen you."

Tile Countess kept her own njom for the remainder of the
morning, and left the liot(d without saying good-bye to Wood-
gate. Helen and she parted like friends, with a regret on
cither side, though Helen was conscious also of a certain sense
of relief. There was no manner of doubt that her coming had
unsettled Woodgate, and made him curiously cross and hasty
of speech. Jealousy had as yet no part in ][elen's nature ; she
simply imagined that a talk with his old friend had made him
crave for the excitement of the circles he had left. When ho
joined lier at tea, and learned that she had just been to the
station to bid their guest hon voinKje, ho seemed at once
astonished and chagrined. "Ah, well, Helen, let her go; we
are better without her. She came into our little Kden just
like a serpent, didn't she? She used to bo a good sort,
interested in a fellow's welfare and all that but, of course,
marriage makes a difference to the women of one's actpiaintance,
only I was not quite prepared for so marked a diliVrence."

Helen felt tempted to inquire what her demeanour had been
l)ef()re, that he should be able to detect in a manner wholly
interested and friendly a marked diflerence. But she Avisely
refrained, simply remarking, " I thought she could not well
be more interested in your welfare and your work than she
seemed."

"Ah, well, she allowed me to talk. She will not flatter,
you see, Helen ; she is a true friend as far as that goes."

" Kichard, she is afraid for your future. If it is true what
7

111

wjirmi^r

J /.OS I' IDEAL

•' i

'ih

frp I

slio s.'iys, y»»u ]i;iv<> done vt'ry littlo for a Icii^' tinio. You will
work I'V aixl l)y, (l»'ar, will you not?"

In her earnestness .slie leaned forwunl, laying' lier hand on
his knee. Her attitude and expression lou«'lie(l him, tlKUi^'li
luM" wordvS carried u stab to a eonscieneo not yot (luite
dead.

"Now, dearest, you must not de;,'enerate into a taskmistress,
like llihla sow Keuti'usee, who is )n»ver happy uidess drilling'
somebody. Don't you know that such work as mine cannot
bo foiced, that spontaneity is its hall-mark? I trust I shall
never de<,'enerate into a hack."

" r>ut, Richard, if you were a poiu' man, what then?"

"I should work with my hands and Ix^ content," ho replied
lij^'htly. "I will be^'in this work by and by. Jt is taking,'
shape ; but you must j^'ivo mo my own time. Nobody really
understands literary work except those who do it. I have tho
greatest possible contenii)t, as all admirers of true art must have,
for those imitators who tu • t their book or picture annually
for sale, just as the yearlin .lOrt-horns are sold to tho highest
bidiU^r."

He spoke scathingly, and neleu held lior peace, though
having on the tip of her tongue the names of many conscientious
work»'rs who gave of tluMr best to the world from time to time,
worshipping art as truly as its intlependent devotees, though
com[»idled to have regard also to its sordid gains, and among
these were names which the world deliglited to honour.

From that day, though she saitl but little, her anxiety seldom
slei)t. On tho morrow they departed to Rome, where, in her
enchantment over its revelations, she grew less heavy of heart.
From Rome to Naples, and thence to Sorrento, where they
remained some weeks. Time did not hang heavily, there was
much to see, and Woodgate seemed desirous that she should
miss nothing. ^larch saw them in Venice, early April in
^Icran, where they also lingered a while. The enchanting
spring beauty of that lovely region moved the soul of Woodgate
to sundry graceful verses which found their way to tho
magazines, and gave his contemporaries a hint of his where-

./ /.(KS/' IDEAL

nlniiils. Tlu's*' vrrscs, IIk- idle |»l('!isur(» of a morniii;^', were all
111' liii<l to sliow f(ir four luontlis of jin-rioiis time. Ili.s iii-
ilolt'iicr was colossal. lie taiktMi iiiiiili of the holiday he had
ciiriicd, which he meant so Ihoioii^ddy to eiijoy. Ijclcu soiuc-
tiiiics felt tempted to ask in wh.it manner he had earned it.
Tliiit he should trillo away each day in utter idlenc^ss, un-
haunted hy any accusing' thou;^ht, s(;emed to her, fresh from
a JKime which hail a duty allottetl t(» every liour, a truly
dreadful thin^'. AlthoUL,di there was every temj»tation tr» her
to idle also, she filled her «lays with o(M;u|>alion, (inding each
(lay too short for all she wished to accomplish.

She had a eonsiderahle talent for drawing, and Idled her
sketch-hookas tliey journeyed, intcuiding it as a hirthday gift
for her father. She read much also, and had g<'nerally a pie(M!
of feminino work in hand. Often Woodgatc^ made a jest of
licr industry, calling her his husy hee, hut it nevia* occurred to
liiin to Jhink it a tacit rejtroach to liim. She made a mistake,
iM'iliaps, Hi keeping her thoughts so much to herself as she di<l ;
hut her one attempt to rouse him had not been a conspicuous
success, and she did not care to repeat it. She strove to be an
intelligent and agreeable comj)anion to him, and to sustain her
heart with the hope that when they should be settled in their
(iwu home, he would give his heart to his new work. S(»m(!-
tiiues her longing for that day was almost intolerable. She
was not of the stud' of which good vagabonds arc made, nor
did she ever grow accustomed to the perpetual changing from
place to place, or find in the ever-shifting scenes of continental
hotels anytliing to compensate for the absence of a home. But
to Wood gate tliese were the wine of life.

" Meran is getting too full, Helen," he said one day. "It
is time for us to move on."

"Home?" said Helen wistfully; and had he lo(d<ed at licr,
he must have seen the dimness in her eyes.

" No ; I have thought of Keutensee, which, according to the
Cotmtess, will now be at its best. l)o you know it is the
l.'4tli of Ajml already?"

"1 know," replied Helen. Had she not of late hungrily

{(.

100

.^ LOST IDEAL

(Hiiuitfd the iliiys? ** ^^'ill you work at Rcutniiscc, do you
tliiiik, Kicliardi If not, wluit is tin- use of goinj^'?"

"Tliat is my o])jt'ct, dearest. I liiive promised tin; ('ountuss
proofs of Ih'uw'hilile in KSepteml)er, wlien we have all retuniecl
to town."

Helen's face liri^diteiied. She hccamo like a cliild in her
simph; j^dadness (»ver a delinite promises.

>iext night they slept at Munich on their way to WUrzhur''.

CTTArTKR XITT

"Far I'r.iiii ;ho iniuMiii'' crowtl,*

,11 K S(;lil()sa and viUaLjc df liciitcnst'e were situated
aiiioiig di'iisi^ piiicwiMtds, aliout ten Kiii^lisli miles
from tlic old town nf \Viij7.1)uri,'. It was cjuito
• ^^^Jl^^jl' dark wlien a heavy and liiniliciini,' earriage, eon-

''~' taininj^ tlie two Kn-^disli tiavellc^rs and tlicir

belongings, rumbled up the (juaint village; Htieet anil entered
tlie courtvard of the little inn. Tiie landlord and bis inotberlv-
looking spouse mad(! haste to weleome the travellers, though
haunted by sundry misgivings as to the capabilities of their
modest hostelry to satisfy the requirements of such dis-
tinguished guests.

The (Jernians have an exaggerated idea of the extravagance
and luxury indulged in by the English, esjx.cially in the matter
of food and household accommodation. Therefore! tlie worthy
c'oui)le of the Keutensee Eagle receuved their guests in no little
fear and trembling. But the charming and simph* manners of
the lady, and the no less happy th'Uieanour of the genthiuian,
sulHeed to put them at their ease, and they made haste to offer
the best the inn could afford. Helen was very tired, and, after
partaking of supper, was glad to retire to rest in the queer, bare,
little room, with its two wooden beds and primitive furnishings,
and the long, low, latticed window overlooking the courtyard.

When she awoke, it was nine o'clock, and a glorious May

101

loi

A i.osr ini-.Ai.

;; i. I

nitiiniii^', tin* s»Mi sliiiiiii'^ in a iloiitllcMM Hkv, liin In'iH'lici'iil
Immiiis liaviiii; Vav^ siiui' tliiftl llic tlrwilMps mi j^tmss iiml ln'(|;^t
mill tr«'«>. rci'riii;: ttvor tlif licit iniislin Miml, slir ulttiijufii u
• ••iiiil view i)|' the < lean, cool roinl \anl, with its liltlr taliirs hiI,
uiul«M tlu' spn'atliii;^ Irrt's. a ('ou|»l(> of |H«a-<aiil>^ tlialliiij; ovn
llu'ir iiioiiiiiil; Im-it, adding' llic iirrcssaiv l»»H'li ol" life to tlir
lie. riir t'oiiitvarti from oii(> sit|<' oprnrtl into an oidiaiil.

Sfl

ill wliirli llif liiM's wt'it' aliratly liiij^'i-jl with I lie wliitr ami pink
••ariu'st of till' ritli liarvt'st wliicli never failed ; ami tliroii.jli
those jovelv masses she eain^dit tii«> <^deani and shimmer of ||ii>
waters of the lake, which j^'ave the place its name. The air,
when a little later she opeiietl the <'aseiiieiit. was odorous of the
pines, and over all there «e«Miie«l to hrood the spirit of a peace
wiiich made the hiisy s»mmi«'s they liul h'ft. neeni far oil' and
unreal. Wood^Mti' was not less charmed with that old world
spot than Helen.

** if tin' tliiiii,' is ever to he written," lie said, "it will he
writti'ii heri'. It is like a hit of .Vrcady."

It indeed seemed as if the inspiration for whicli Helen had
longed and inayed had ciMiie at last. Kvery morning' he ffhul
hinist'lf np with his pajters, leavin;^' lltdeii to explore the
neis^hhomhood on h«'r own ai'count. In her joy over his
awaking from a loiii,' sleep, she was like a happy ( hild, and the
simjile folk she met and often talked with, in such (Jerman as
she poss«\sMMl, wondered at the sunshine in her face. 'I'lies(>
w<'ie days which llehn Wood^ate lu'ver for^'ot ; they w«'ir.
indei'd, tlie happiest slii' had sju-nt since her marria;.,M', and tlic
letters she wroto home hreathed ji spirit of eonteiitment and
peace, whieh set her father's sometimes anxious heart at rest.
It was an ideal lifo in many respects tlie wonder was that
^Vootll:ate suiiercd it so loii<i;. He became ahsorbed in his
story — a modian'al romance he had lon<,' had in view, and the
object for which he strove and laboured was the ap[)rovim;
smile, not of his wife, but of Hilda von I\eutensee. lie talked
but little of the i>rt^gress of his work to Helen, nor did she
trouble him with many questions, tIiou^,di he had no idea of the
al^orbing, almost feverish nature of her interest. He had long

A UKsr inEAf.

»o3

(Irriilnl, rvru \vln"i tIrlilM'i'iiIcI y |i|,iiiiiiii:.; Iii^ lii;m i;i)^'i', tliiil
llcli'ii mIioiiIiI 1)11 II tliiii;^' apiiit tiuiii t lit' i>| Ini' inlfrivstH «•! Iiih
III**, mill lie a<llii'n'ii stiittly lo tli.il •It'tniniiiiilinii. Ilrlcii saw
in Ills nscrvo only tin* t<atiiral rrlimn <• ttf ,1 ninn of ^cniiiH, to
lin work wan (00 hii icd fm- H|Mrr|| In llic i- MayH, wlini

liolii I

slic saw liiiii tlaily al liis desk, tiinnii;; over paj^i* allcr |»a;.M' uf
cliiscly wi'it.ti'ii iiiaiiiiMi ri|il, licr failli in liiin, lin- iiinliitioii ;iiii(
|iu|M' olilaiiM'il a IH'W lt'MM(i Iff lilV. Atlti I wu wn-ks of Umm
isnlatnl litV, in wliirli llilrii was |r|t 111 idi ninir iilono t*iaii
was ri^'lit or kind, slic ln'c: inc, for llii' liisl, liinr Himo her
iiiai'iia^^r, iillnly and inlolmilily Iiouk- sick. Tin- siiM|)|i' lifi' of
llic KraiK'oii villa;^'<', tlic IianI woikin;^', IioihsI, kindly iiiaiiiii'nMl
sons and daii^litriM of toil with wlioiii she lainc daily in contact,
and who liad i|ui(;kly ovcrcomn their awe uf tlie l'',n;^'lish la<ly
who went ahont S(» Hweet ly and so constant iy alone anion;^ them,
awakened in her a painful lon^^'in;,' for that (»M!e.r life, as siniphi
and true and iiiiostentations, which seeineti ho far away now, ho
UMiilteral»ly dear. Shi' hid hei- heart hunger well, not l»y word
(ir look hetrayinj^ to her hnshaiid what was |»asHi!i^' in her heart,
hut many tearn fidl in the KolitutJcH of the pinewoods, t.tarH
which were nover |)ennitted to dim her eyen and so vex his
spirit. FiOvin^ to he occupied, she continue(l to add new leaven
to h(^r sketch hook, which was to he pored over hy many
l()vin«; and wiuiderin^ '■y''"', ''» thi; (piict dalci where Misn
Helen's handiwork was re^'arded almost as a sacred thiiif,'.

All tho tinio Hehui was iu)t without her natural curiosity
re^Mrdin*,' tho Schloss and its iiimat(!s. She had a ;^'roat
(lesiro to hchold tho hoy (lustav, and was disappointod to hoar
from their hostess that he had i^ono with tho (liiilin to h(!r oarly
home in Thurin<,'en. She took adva!itaL,'e of their ahsenco to
explore the Schloss and its environs, and to sketch it from
every possible point. It hun^' I'lK^', lil<'' n.n eagle's nest, on tho
summit of a grey clifl' overhanging the farther sidi; of tho lake,
its square battlements and curious round towers clothed witli
the grace of green iv\', the kindly and true, which can steal
away all harshness and give tenderest beauty to tho most
rugged outline. The inhabitants of Keutensee regar.led the

t. if

TO4

^ LOST inr.Ai.

Scliloss with vein'ratioii and piidc, the riiiifm with rcvcivntial
lovo. llch'ii hcai'd iiiaiiy tah's of her ^Mndiicss, licr kiiiilncss of
heart, her syinjtalliy with all s«irn»w ; al^t laics of the yoiinj;
Gustav's fcarh'ss dariiii,', hi^,'h si>irils, lint l^m'IiIIc, loving' licart.

Slio was sit(in;4 one aflci'iioon on her fav.iuritc hcnch in the
tirchard, when an old-fash ionccl oarria|LM', attended l)y livery
servants, hnnhered inlo the «'ourtyard, and ininiodiately the
landlady came llvinii,' to the orehard in \iyv'Ai cxciteintMit.

*' It is the (Jiiilin, niadanu^ — slu^ would spi'ak with you.
Shall \ hriuLT her here to von, now?"

IFelen assented at once, wilh some tremor of excitement,
whieh amused her not a litlh' ; she had not been wont to Ik!
Ilutt(>red by the presence of stran,L,M'rs.

Presontly, holding; open the orchard ,t;ate with every si^ni of
respect and pleasure, the hostess introduceil her distinguished
callers to the jiresencc of the Kniflish l;idy, and immediately
withdrew. Helen rose, antl regarded them with deei» interest.
The Griilin was a woman of commanding presence, further
enhanced by the extreme heaviness of her mourning garb ; her
loug thick veil was, however, thrown back over hev bonnet,
ami revealed a somewhat stern and hiMvy- featured face of the
])urely German type. The lad was very Knglish in his looks,
slendt^r. tall, and ruddy, with his mother's fair hair and blue
eyes, and as he advanced tot>k his hat off.

"(Tood-afternoon, madame," said the Griilin in good English,
thouLih with a northern accent. " I returned only to the

o t.'

Schloss yesterday, and hearing from my kinswoman that you
■were here, we made haste to pa} our respects, and to bid
you welcome, though late, to Reutensee."

She smiled as she spoke, and all the liarshness vanished from
luu" face. Helen took the extended hand and murmured her
thanks, while looking at the boy with the liveliest interest.

''This is Gustav, whose mother you know; a good lad, and
the joy of Reutensee."

He seemed shy, and blushed a little at the warmth with wliiiii
the English lady greeted him.

When his aunt sat down on the bench beside Helen, ho

/I i.osr mi'.Af.

''=>5

\\;ilkt'»l !i little w.iy, survryiiiM till! trees, ;iii(l a]i|iiii('iil ly ^Iiel
li((t, to Ite ;i(l<lresse(l.

" It is iiiileed kind n|" yMii to ('<iiiie," siiiti Helen ^ruiefully.
"Will you jKM'init. me to cmII my liusliamrr'

"Nay, not to-day. II«! is a scholar, a man ilevoted to his
hdoks. 1 am lu.) loiiLjer tit company for such," said the <hidin,
layint; a detaining' hand on Helen's arm. " 1 have come to see
yi)U, and to ask if you will visit me at the Schloss. I hiar fi'om
(tur ^ood Frau i'.auer that you have already made ac(juaintanc<!
with its exterior."

Helen Mushed,

'' I trust 1 did not intrude. It is so lovely up there, it
fa.scinatos me all day lonj^'."

" It is a sweet spot. There is noiu! other on earth like it in
my eyes, and (lustav is of the same min<l," she said, with a
ulanee of extraoidinary tenderness towards the hoy. "As it is
lilting he should he, seeing it is his own heritage. His mother
has only heen gone a month from us; for your sake 1 wish she
were still here."

She spoke with a kindliness of Hilda whicli showed Helen
that the rehitions between them were in no way strained. And
she marvelled somewliat that two so difl'eront should be able to
iiiid companionship one with the otlusr. The (jlriilin's f..ce
bore traces of the deejuist grief, her expression was one of
habitui'l melancholy — luu" whole bearin<' that of a woman who
is done with life. Helen glanced involuntarily at the boy,
I)itying the young life spent among su(di strange surroundings.
Yet he looked neither unhappy nor dull.

"The boy was so sad of heart when his mother left him, that
I had to take him to my own people in Thiiringen to uplift
him," said the Griilln, following Helen's ghince, and i)artially
con»[)rehending it.

"Is he then so passionately devoted to lierT'

"Passionately; he adores her. It is a hard fate that separates
tliem and Graf Lud\vig ; but this is a family matter, pray excuse
lue. AVill you drink coffee with me to-morrow afternoon at four
u'cluck ? "

106

A LOST IDEAL

\ r.j

'^i -^ I

1 1

I 1

" Gladly. I liave broken the tenth command inont, many times,
looking througli your old gates," said Helen, wiih a laugh.

"Had I known you were in Reutensce, I should have given
orders for your admittance," said the Clriifin, as she rose. "Conic,
Oiustav; we shall have the pleasure of seeing ?Jrs. Woodgate at
the Schloss tomorrow, then you must show her your books.
Her husband is a great sclndar, and in his own land a dis-
tinguished man. You remember your mother telling us of the
Knglish poet?"

"Yes," returned the boy, and his fair fice flushed. "Have
you .seen my mother, madame, since she left Keutenseer'

" No ; before she came. Some day I hope you will visit
her and us in England," said Helen, moved by the wistfulness
of his look.

" When I am a man, if not before. My mother knows I
v;ill come when I am a man," he said proudly, and offered his
arm with great courtesy to his aunt, whom his words seemed to
sadden.

When they were gone, Helen sat idly thinking of the boy,
unable to get h's sweet face from her thoughts; "wae" for
him, as they said in the Dale, because he loved his mother so
dearly, and could only see her for such a short s[)aL'e. And
she felt bitter against a man she had nev(!r seen, the author of
this needless heartache, Ludwig von Reutensce. Next day,
at the appointed hour, Helen climbed the steep path througli
the odorous pines, and, crossing the old drnwbridge, entered
the gateway of the courtyard, which reminded her of sonic
quaint })leasaunce of the olden time. A little garden, in whidi
grew some stately poi)lar trees, made a lovely oasis within tlie
groy ohl walls, and alfortled a delightful shelter from the heat
of the ^May-day sun, vdiich lay drowsily over all. There was
no sign of life visible except on one of the stern battlement?;,
where a peacock sunned himself, proudly spreading out liis
gaudy tail, as if for the stranger's benefit.

A stout man-servant, r-itting soberly on an oaken settle in the
wide, cool hall, ushered iier up at once to the presence of ha
mistress. Her welcome was most cordial.

A LOST IDEAL

107

"You have a lovely diiy fur your walk. T hope your hushand
is well, and that he does not marvel at my discourtesy ' I see
so few strangers. When the Graf himself comes with l.is
I'lit'iids, I go away to Thiiringen always, not hcing lit company
iidW for thos(^ from tlie outside world."

"My hus])and is only grateful to you for your kindness to
lur," said Helen ([Uickly. "He Itad*^ me oiler his respects and
thanks."

The (Jriifni inclined her liead.

"Coli'ee waits us, 1 tliink, in the other room. When you
are rested and refrcished, we can then look at what will intere>t
von in the Schloss."

Helen long remembered that pleasant meal. As they sat
together at the little table in a quaint window overlooking th«^
village and the blue Franconian mountains in the distance, little
(lid Helen dream when and how she should revisit the Schloss
of Keutt^nsee.

The Clriifin did not talk very much, but rather sought to
draw out her guest, till her sympathetic iiiterest, communicating
itself to Helen, caused her to talk more than usual about
herself.

"A new-made wife," said the Griitln, with most motherly
kindness, "and life all before you! Ah me! I do not know
whether to pity or envy you. I too have tasted of your joy.
That, see^ is the portrait of my husband, Graf Waldemar von
Reutensee."

Helen rose, and, crossing the polished floor, stood in silence
before the lifelike portrait of a soldier standing by his steed.

" I had forgotten he was a soldier ; but in your country all
are soldiers."

"They are called by that name, but soldiers, like artists, are
horn, 'said the Griifin, with a slight smile, as she came to Helen's
siile. "The Reutensees are all soldiers born, and have been,"
she added gravely. " ^ly Graf fell at Gravelottc. Can you
remember that desperate tight? If not, you can read its record
i^till. I read it to my Gustav, faithfully as I read him \is
iJihle, so that he may know, when his time comes, how a hero

I I'i

» . » Uli i ll ' "

' 1

'4^'

108

A LOS 7' IDEAL

falls. At (Iriivt*l(»tk', W;il»l<'!ii;ir Vdii Kfuti'iiseu li'd uii lii.s
Ulilans to death and viftdiv."

Helen looked at her in siimde wonder. lieai'e«l in a l.iinl
Avhere women abhorred the name of war, she eould searcely
enter into the fierce exultation, the wild and melancholy [)ridf,
which lit up th(! face of the desolate woman as she told ln'W
tlie hero fell.

"Ami this is my son." Her voice, changed as she moved a few-
steps and pointed to a small nieilallion portrait of a handsoiiic
boyish face, lit by sparkling eyes, in which the gleam of schonl-
boy laughter seemed yet to linger. "My son Waldemar," siic
re[)eated, and the bitterness of her ex[)ression indicated that
this was the ifreat'T sorrow.

" IJereft of both, my heart bleeds for you, Griifin."

" ^Ty first, sorriw could be borne, beraus(! it had no shamo;
my husband died as a soldier should, for King and Fatherland.
In his memory I am wholly blessed ; but the child — the boy
upon whom I had built ho[)es high enough to reach tlir
heavens " —

She came to a sudden stop, and turned her keen eyes with
startling scrutiny upon the calm, earnest, sympathetic face (if
the woman by her side.

"You are a stranger to me, but you are simple and true, :is
Hilda said. My heart opens to you ; you shall hear my sorrow.
This boy, the oidy child God gave to us, grew up in beauty by
my side, and I thanked God for liim. I was a proud woman in
those days, madanie, with that pride of happy po.ssession wliicli
is the most precarious of all ; and when his father died, I said
to myself that the spirit of my dead Reutensee lived again in
his boy, and that he would be an honour to tb-c name he bore.
I let him go, \vhen I dared no longer keep him, to school and
college, living in his absence on his letters. So the years sjhmI,
till came the last year of his university life, and then he would
join the regiment his father loved, and till that honoured [ilaci'.
So then, my dear, I saw no fault in the boy, though they told
me the passionate temper of his race burned fiercely in hi'*
heart. If it did, it w^as never shown to me. I was looking

A LOST IDEAL

ICQ

fur his home-coming, counting the (hiys till I should hold liim
t.i ]iiy heart, when they hroiight him to me dead — killcMl in a
jialtry duel with a peasant's son — and the cause, dear Ilcavon !
that was wliere it hurt— -my son died hy the hand of one of the
conunon peojde, for the sake of a low-horn girl who served them
with heer at a country inn. So died my hushand and his

son.

Helen was shocked, awed, silenced by the bitter intensity of
tiic i)r()ud woman's grief.

"So they brought me my son, and the other, some mother's
son also, no doubt, is shut up in a fortress for lif'' ; and that is
cruel, since it cannot avenge the dead or satisfy tlie living. I
;ihide here by the grace of Graf Ludwig, because he knows 1
cannot live apart from my memories, and the boy Gustav kcej)S
my old heart from withering to the tomb. Say," she added,
suddenly laying her hand on Helen's arm, "do you not think
the boy's mother a good woman — one with whom any man
might have been bap[)y 1 "

"I do indeed," said Helen fervently, "though I know so
little of her."

"I cannot quite make her out at times," said the old woman,
with a sigh; "but of this I am sure, she is ten thousand
times too good for Graf Ludwig. In my prayers — God forgive !
— I ask of Him that the boy may not l)e influenced by his
father, then that tlu^ (iraf may be changed to a better life."

"Does he not love the boy?" asked Helen, with intense
interest.

The Griifin gave her shoulders an expressive shrug.

" Graf Ludwig loves but one thing in the world, and that is
self. He speaks slightingly 3f his wife to the boy, and makes
his young blood boil, love of her being the passion of his soul."

"Do you not remonstrate with himi" inquired Helen.

"I do not. Graf Ludwig regards eld women as unnecessary
evils. He says no woman should be allowed to live after forty
P)Ut now T have wearied you. The boy should be home be-
times. He goes to his lessons at our good Pastor Locher's,
but next year he must go to school at Kl'langen, and I shall bo

ii.! 'K,

m''

p-n jM'rf"

ftl

I lO

A LOST IDEAL

alone. I am pleased to sec yoii \w\\\ niiidaine, and I hope \\v
shall meet again. Do you remain some time at Keutensec ? "

"It depends entirely on my husband's work," replied Helen.

"Gustavand I leave home again tlie day after to-morrow,'
said the Griifin. "Tliis morning I received the Empress's
commands to meet her at Frankfort. We have not met sitici'
the dark days of 1871, when she was gra(!iously pleased to visit
mo here. How long we shall be absent depends, of course, on
her Majesty's pleasure."

" Yet I trust we shall meet again one day," said Helen.

The GriiHu bent forward and kissed her on the lips.

"There was sonu'tliiii;? of the soa aliout In'm,
Something large, generous, and strong."

CIIArTER XIV

^'1 N Au-^ust, travollin*; by easy and fitful stages, the
Wocjdgatcs returned to town, and immediately
began that weariness to the flesli and spirit
seeking for a place of abode. They fixed at last
upon a roomy old manor house at Ilampstead,
within three minutes of tlic Heath — such a house as a poet
would Iv V,. and any artistic soul ind a congenial resting-place.
Then was Helen genuinely happy, throwing her whole
energies into the task of converting the old house into
a home. Woodgate, as was to be expected, left her to do
do just as she pleased, stipulating only certain things pertain-
ing to his own study, which was on the second floor, and had
a long French window opening on a balcony, before which tho
trees in the garden had been thinned, in order that the view
across the Heath might be uninterrupted. Helen was en-
chanted with everything. Like most country folk, she had
imagined London a wilderness of brick and mortar, and was
amazed to find so lovely a spot near the beating heart of the
great city. While she was busy with such housewifely occu-
pations, Woodgate, having finished the first draft of his book,
went to hunt up some of his old friends, such congenial souls
as had been wont to haunt the Parthenon and like resorts.

He was not astonished to find nobody in town except Har-

111

1 1

W LOST IDEAL

fllfl

III

}

^roavos, wlio, orratio in cvory walk of lift', took liis liolitluvs
wlicn (ivcryltody else was at work, ami vice vprm. llo occnpicil
a (It'll of his own in Norfolk Stri'ot, and Woodj^atc found him
sitting,' as he had left him, with his fcot on tho tahio, his pipe
in his mouth, and a mass of incxtricahk; confusion everywhere.

"You look, Harry, as if you had never moved since 1
went away," said Wood<,'ate, as he opened the door without
ceremony.

The journ;dist leaped to liis feet in a surprise which w;is
uncommonly genuine, though he affected never to be suri)ris('(l
at anything.

" Woodgate, by all that's wonderful ! I thought you were
dead. Now that I come to think of it, it was Garhutt who
died, and you got married. It amounts to the same thing in
the end. And how are you % "

"Very well. You are just as of yore. I want to hear
about the fellows."

" Gently, gently ; I want to hear about you first. You owe
it to me, and you're at my mercy, because you know there isn't
a soul in town but myself, and you can't afford to offend me,"
said Hargreaves, with a curious comical contortion of his face.
" Mrs. Woodgate, how is she 1 "

" Quite well too ; any more questions to ask 1 " said Wood-
gate impatiently. " You always were the most confoundedly
inquisitive fellow that drew breath." He cleared a chair with
one hand, and sat down on it, a trifle gingerly, glancing round
the den, which smelt vilely of stale cigars and musty papers,
wondering anew how Hargreaves, who was at heart a gentle-
man, could support existence in such a place. Woodgate was
something of an epicure and a sybarite in his personal tastes.

"I've got something to finish here, Woodgate, for a poor
devil of a fellow. I haven't begun to go back on my word yet,
though I may come to it. Just* hold your tongue for five
minutes, and then I'm free."

Woodgate nodded, and for a few minutes only the scratching
of the pen, mingled with the medley of noise floating in throu^^li
the open window from the busy Strand, was heard, "\Voodgate

A f.OST IDEAL

occujtitMl the time in critically rcj^'ardin^' Har^jroavosi, and came
to the conclusion that he was rapidly a^'cin;^'. He was not oM
in years, — not yet forty, — but his shoulders were stM(»|»('d and
rnund, his hair grey, liis face wan and lined, lie had a tine
head and a prood face ; out something lacked, it would he hard
to say what, llargreaves was a man who had missed his
mark, and who was now a Bohemian of IJohcminns, hating
the conventionalities of life with a mortal liatred. lUit among
his own friends lie was a prince of good fellows, and the
goodness and foolish tenderness of his lieart were so evident
tliat he never liad a penny in his pocket. He was a man well
known in literary circles, a smart writer, and, when he liked,
a In-illiant talker, but ho had never done a i)iece of solid work
in his life, and only wrote so that he might live. He had no
kindred that anybody knew of — no ties such as other men
have to bind them to life.

" Married a swell, Woodgate, eh?" he said presently, having
linished his task and rapidly glancing over it. " Looks like it,
you're so uncommonly smart. Do you think, now, there was
any kind of fairness in your treatment of us ? I think, if a
man is going to do it, he ought to make a clean breast of his
w(!akness first to his friends."

Woodgate laughed. It was pleasant and refreshing to hear
llargreaves' lazy banter once more ; and his heart warmed to
him.

" I want to hear about Garbutt, Harry. You said he was
doail. It can't be true?"

" It is. Garbutt shufllcd off in Jurie, just after the Dcu'by.
Yes ; lost there, goodness knows how much. Couldn't stand it,
so knocked under."

" Not suicide ? " said Woodgate in a startled voico.

Hargreaves nodded.

'* Put a bullet through his brain on tlie Scrubbs on a pouring
wet night, and was not found for twenty -four hours after," said
the Bohemian, with a deep shade of regret. "Fine fellow
was Garbutt, ought not to have wasted. St. John's down on
his luck too, and gone to a permanent situation to write up
8

' ti

! H

I'll I? >

:'!'

i"* I

114

A LOST IDEAL

City news for tlio Eveniti'j liulhfiu^ the ci^'hth wondor of tin
world."

" But, T say, what's hoconie of Garhutt'H wife and childrt .1 !
Ho liad a lot of the latter, hadn't he?"

"Six, I b(diuve," said IIar;^'rcavc' "and Mrs. O. as good ;i
little soul as ever breathed. T! i*e provided for by our
mutual friend, the Countess."

Hargreaves distinctly lookeil at Wood^'ate as he said it, and
was rewarded by seeing Woodgate's eolour rise. Now a blush
on the face of Woodgate was not un everyday occurrence, ami
Hargreaves dulv made a note of it.

" Is sh(! in town at present 1"

" Not yet, but expected next W(!ek, 1 believe. She sent iiic
her instructi(»ns about tlie ( larbutts, and I carried them
through. I went only yesterday to I'ark Lane to inquiiv
after her, and learned that she is coming next week."

A {trinter's boy appeared at the door at the moment ami
Hargreaves, pushing his co])y into a long envelope, threw it
to him, and bade him shut the door. Then he jmt up his
feet again, lit a fresh pipe, and prepared to enjoy a jolly goitii
talk.

"Now I'm ready, Woodgate. So you've gone and done it?
What kind of an experiment has it proved, and what changes
does it involve? 1 want to know everything, so here goes:
Are you going to live in London 1 "

" Ves, we have taken a house at Hampstead. I hope you'll
come and see us in it, Harry," said Woodgate sincerely, wlm
loved this man, if he could love anybody, and secretly re
spected his judgment on most subjects.

Hargreaves shook his head, and watched his smoke curling
upwards in silence for a full minute.

"I'll make no rash jmmiises. There is only one woman in
London who entertains such outcasts as me, — I had almost
said us, — and I need nut name her, but I'm not above listening!
to anything you have to say about your wife. Scotch, isn't
she 1 "

" Yes," said Woodgate drily. " I'm not going to say any-

A LOST IDEAL

tliiii;,' alxiut her, so you're out of your rockonin^', my dtar Hurry.
If you don't likn to conm an«l pay your ri'spocts to hor — well,
ydii can <lo tlio other tiling."

" Kxactly," said Ilar^^rcaves scroiu'ly. "Weil, now, are you
I'liin^' to do any work on this Hide of tin' ^'nvc, or is it tru«!
fliat you are jtlay«Ml out] I saw those thin,y;s you .s(>!jt
I)iiv(Miant from Tyrol, and we <-am(' to the conclusion that
tliry were- awful rot, antl just what we mi^dit expect in the
ciicuiiislances. When will you write anothiu- hook, man?
Kv('ryl)(»dy is asking the same question?"

"1 have written one. I've l)rouglit the completed maiui-
acript hack with me," faid Woodgate, with evident [)ride.

lliirgreaves took down his legs and sat round in his chair,
with the liveliest look of interest in liis face.

"No, really? If that's the effect matrimony has had, let's
all i;(i in for matrimony. St. John might liave tried it liefore
this. Ihit he would liave said it was a desperate renuMly.
\ new Itook — ])hew I We'll have somet' ing to talk .ihout for
the next three months. Has she seen it?

"My wife, (h) you mean?"

" Xo, the Countess. If Mrs. Woodgate is a critic and a
(•(tiiipetent judge, I retract all I said ahout matrimony, and
lilcilge myself to go in for it when every tiling else fails, lly
the hye, did you see the Countess abroad ? She paid her visit
to her son earlier than usual this year."

" Yes ; she came to us in Florence."

" And has met your wife ? "

"Yes."

Woodgate was uncomfortahle under these remarks, and
shdwed it. Hargreavcs put up his feet again, and smoked
another full minute in sihmce.

" Wilkes is not out of town," he said presently, comph^U'ly
changing the subject. " Care to see him?"

" I don't mind. What's he after now ? "

*' Starting a new mag. He's got a new commission just now,
to sweep clean the moral atmos})here of London, and the new
niag. is to be the vehicle of his thought. Let's go and look

! 'i

li
li

nr)

A /.OSr IDEAL

II If

•«;

hini up. Oot editorial cliainltcrs in Anmdcl Street, evcrytliin;;
tip-top. Soniel)otl}''s hacking' him, but we cjin't find out wlut.
Awful ass is Wilkes; always was."

Ho picked liiniself up, pavo his eoat a hnish, aud, takin.'
down a very shal)]»y hat from behind the door, toutleil\
8lMooth(Ml its ruflled surface.

"He's tiikin^' up the aristocracy — that is, sucli of tlu'iii a,-'
have been ill denp waters lately. Some of them have moiicv,
so tliey'll help him to run the thing. AskcMl me to write liim
an article for tlu* lirst number, and when I asked him to talilc
the £ s. d. tirst, ho was as mad as a ^farch hare, and said 1 wii>
an old friend and might oblige liim. I said old frientls had td
live ; but those are the lines he'll go Uj-on, and he'll make it
pay. Let's go up in order that I may have the felicity (if
hearing him badg«!r you."

" I'd lik(! to know what company I am to appear in first,"
said Woodgate.

"iMr. Wilkes is a guarantee of respectability — at least, so
thinks tVilkes. If there's a fellow in this London I desjtjsc,
it's Wilkes ; he's beneath contempt, lie wouldn't contrihiitc
a farthing to the Garbutt fund, though he lauglied the loutlcst
at poor Garbutt's jokes. He said the man had l>rains, and h;ul
no business to leave his family unprovided for. Come on,
man ; I'll sit on Wilkes f(jr you if necessary. I only want you
to see how the pigmy has got himself swollen up with Jii*
new conceit."

lie threw open the window, pulled his loose papers ba(k
from it, and when Woodgate had passed out, locked the door
and put the key in his pocket. They presented a striking'
contrast as they walked down to the Embankment side by
side — Woodgate immaculate in his attire, Hargreaves shabby
to the last degree, and with one hand shoved into his troiisii's
pocket in his usual easy fashion. But there was something;
about the man at once human and winning ; if you had wisluil
to ask a favour of one or other, the probability is you would
have taken your first chance with him of the shabby coat and
hat.

.1 LOST IDEAL

t'7

♦'TluTii's aomt'thin^' IM likr tt> know, Dick," h»! said, with
11 si(|«^ ^'Itinco ut tin* clciii' (tit, hiindsdiiic fact) of Woodj^'ato ;
••and that is, how ditl thu (^'ounti'ss ami your wiff assort?

It's u natural curiosity, but if you consider it cheek, pray say

)»

80.

'*Tln'y assorted very well, so far na T could see," Wood^'ute
ivturiK^d carcdessly. " At least, I liclieve they vowed frii'iid-
slii|t. and are hoping' to meet in Ijondon."

ll;ir<,'reaves' li[)S formed a whistle, but ho did not aulha- tho
sdund to escape.

"l)o you think really that Mrs. Woodgute wouM care to
bclinld a vaga])oud like me?" ho said then, as if the thought
clung to him.

" You had better come and see. I never pester people to
visit ine. If they don't care to come, they can stop away, lli^t
yuii have not the least idea what nty wife is like."

"That I haven't," said Hargroavos honestly, "and I confess
t(» curiosity. Well, I will gather the rags of my respectability
;il)(iut mo one day and look you u[). Will Mrs. Woodgato
receive on Sundays, do you think? "

"We haven't made any arrangement of that kind yet," said
Wdddgate; "but I don't think it likely. She is a Scotch
clergyman's daughter, Tlarry."

"Oh, so she is," said Ifargreavea. "I doubt she and I won't
hit it otr, but I'll do my best. I've had a tit of the blues to-day,
l>i(k, and have even got the length of wishing I had started on
ii (litlerent tack. I tell you that afl'air of (Jarbutt's brings a
fellow on his beam ends. I saw him at the inciuest, poor
l)cj,'gar, and it made mo think of Hamlet : ' There's more
things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in our philo-
sophy.' Adhere would you suppose now the soul of Garbutt is
at this moment ? "

"How should I tell? Been drinking lat(!ly, Harry?" said
Woddgate, to whom this style of talk was not agreeable, the
mure so that he had never before heard it from Hargreavea'
lips.

"Xot more than usual," replied Hargr'javes, smiling with his

CHAI^TKR XV

"A womiiMs li('!ul, my Hrxi,
A li;^!!! Iliiii;^, nli yes I
Si) li^lit, it. vihialf'H

'I'd tllf" slii^lllfisf Idllrll.'

LoODd ATI'", Jirrivcd lioiiic altoiit five, f)'('l(>ck Uuit,

uflcrnoi'!!, and found liis vvif(! resting' a liitlc

aftcr tim IaI)(MirH of tin! day. Sins luid fiist jiiit,

in order a little inoi'nin^-ronni on the ;{i'ourid

lloor (a snu<^ littlo (diand)cr, furnished ir; wahiiif,

and yellow damask), liavin;^' tlio true; hou.se.wife-'s disii;;e of a

('(infusion so universal that no rc-stin;^' phiee w.'is to he fdund for

tlio sole of lu^r foot. The t(!a tray was on the, ta])le, and Helen

was enjoying the. [)aj^fe,H of a new niaga/,in(!, t(;aeu[) in hand,

when lu5 entered.

"Just in time, Kiehard," she said l)ri;^ditly, for things had

},'()iie well with her that day, an<l order was rapidly heing

converted out of cliaos. " Is it not V(!i'y hot in town this

afternoon? — why, I feel it even liere."

" Hot enough," said Woodgate, as he thr(!W himself into

a chair. "Everybody is out of town hut Hargreaves; hut I

would rather have seen him than anybody. Have you heard

me speak of Hargreaves 1 "

"No, dear; but you can tell me alnjut him now, i*" you

like," she said, with a smile, as she passed him his eu[).

"Queer fellow, Hargreaves," said Woodgate musingly.

iiu

( '

120

A LOST IDEAL

ill-

" A iniin who can say the most disagreeable things, yet
everyboily lik(!s liini. He is too thorough a Bohemian, I am
afraid, Hehui, to commend liimsolf to you."

" AVhat is his occupation?" asked Helen, with interest.

" Faith, you puzzle me. He's a literary man, though he has
never written a book ; confines himself to pot-boilers, which
lie publishes anonymously everywhere. Of course, we who
know him recognise his work wherever we see it ; a man of
good parts, but al)solutely without ambition."

"Are there many such in London, Richard?" Helen asked,
with a covert touch of anxiety ; for if it were the prevailing
characteristic of the set in which her husband moved, what
hope could there be for him ?

"A few," he replied, evidently thinking yet of the Strang?
mood in which he had left Hargreaves. " And I question if
they are not to be envied after all. There are plenty of the
other sort too ; and you will find the literary life a choice
exemplification of all envy, malice, and uncharitableness."

" I hope you are only teasing me, Richard. I should not
like to believe that. Why should one be jealous of another —
is there not room and welcome for all 1 "

"Your sim})licity, my love, is truly rc.''reshing — Hargreaves
would enjoy it," he said lightly. " I heard of the Countess
from him, Helen ; she returns to Park Lane next week."

" Is Mr. Hargreaves also a friend of hers ? "

" He is ; he thinks her the only woman worth talking to in
London, I am glad she will return so soon, as I don't want to
do anything with my manuscript till she has seen it; and this
is the twenty-eighth of August."

A curious expression, half envy, half bitterness, crossed his
wife's face as he spoke, but he did not observe it.

" Where is slie just now 1 " she asked, striving to speak
without restraint.

" Hargreaves did not say, but probably in Scotland. Slie
goes there generally in August. But now, come ; tell me what
you have been about all day. When is the drawing-room likely
to be ready ? — we shall have to bv-^gin and receive very soon."

.'II

A LOST wj:al

121

" Xext Tuesday, tliey definitely jtioinise everytliiiiL,' to be in
its iiliite," rejjlied Helen, notliing l(jtli to turn the tulk to
thfines in wliicli she was for the moment a'jsorl»ingly iiiter-
t'sti'd. "I think the servants are going to do very well ; they
ure hoth willing and obliging."

" For these and all other mereies," said "VVoodgate fervently ;
"I'll take another cup. We shtdl want some pictures, shan't
we, Helen? I know a poor little woman who thinks she can
paint; we might buy souKithing from her. It would be a
cliiirity, because she has just been left a widow with six
children."

Helen was interested at once, and asked many questions, he
rei)lying judiciously, only telling what he thought fit con-
cerning the affairs of poor little Mrs. Garbutt. Helen would
have been shocked at the tale, and would probably have blamed
( iai'butt more than he deserved ; so reasoned Woodgate, mis-
judging her entirely.

He spent the next few days revising his manuscript, and
Helen, seeing him ^ concerned over it, rejoiced in her soul and
took courage. She had gone into town one morning, leaving
him thus engaged, when about noon a very smart victoria was
driven up the short ap[)roach to the house. Woodgate, hearing
the wheels, looked out, and immediately came downstairs in
lime to hear the maid tell the Countess her mistress was out.

*'Ah, there is Mr. AVoodgate," said the Countess, "(lood-
morning. Welcome back to London. I came to see your wife
today, not you. Hargreaves uold me where you were to be
fdund, and I came early, making sure to find her at home."

"She is haunting the groves ol Tottenham Court Road just
nnw, and will, I expect, till our domicile is in order. ]hit you
will put up your horse and wait? She will be back to lunch at
two."

"Xot to-day. May I congratulate you on your choice of a
house? It is lovely. Your choice, or your wife's, may I ,isk ? "

"We agreed upon it. Will you not at least step in and
^iew the interior?"

"Xot in Mrs. Woodj-ate's absence. I know what a womaa

^ I

If,''

122

A LOST IDEAL

■I i

1 1

' ^

is; .slio will wish to do the lioiiour.s of her house herself," she
said, feeling aiuioyed, thougli she would not notice it, at tlie
expression on Woodgate's face as he leaned on the side of tho
carriage and looked at her, making no effort to hide his gladness.

Time was when his adoration had not heen unwelcome to
her, though she had never allowed it to overstep the bounds;
hut now it was an insult and an injury to her and to his wife.
But she was too much a woman of the world to suffer her deep
annoyance to exhibit itself.

" Well, so you did go to Reutensee after all, and Mrs. Wood-
gate made a double conquest. My boy writes of her with an
enthusiasm whicli might belong to him ten years hence, and
the Griifin was equally charmed. Did you do any work?"

" The thing is finished. I am only waiting for your verdict,
before sending it to Davenant."

She lowered her sunshade a trifle, but far enough to hide her
face at tiie moment.

"I call that most absurd," she said quickly. "Has your
wife read it ? "

" No, she has not. I don't think she has sufficient interest
in the thing to take the trouble," ke said carelessly.

Down went the sunshade to the farther side, while she leaned
forward, her fair face wearing a look of undisguised eagerness.

" Kichard, believe me, you are making the most profound of
all mistakes ; treating your wife as if she were a doll or a baby.
Is it possible that you, who make your study of your kind your
boast, have failed to grasp the depth and sincerity and nobility
of her character? You must allow her to share your life, or
you will live to regret it."

He cast his eyes on the ground, and kicked tlie pebbles from
under his foot with the air of a spoiled child.

" I think you take an exaggerated view of the case," he saitl,
at length. " I have known my wife for fifteen years, and I
assure yi u she is a housewife ; one of the sweetest and most
womanly of women, if you like, but nothing more."

"You are mistaken, Richard," she repeated. "Time will
prove that i am right."

A LOST IDEAL

123

"The conflict is really (tiily al)(»ut to hcgin," he ohservcil
then. "She is gixxl and sweet-tcniiicivd, hut her prejudices
are unusually strong, and she will not lay them aside without
a struggle."

"If you knew all that, why in heaven's name did you marry
her?" asked the Countess, with a touch of passion.

He gave his shoulders a little shrug; he couhl very well have
tuld her, hut there were some things he did not dare to say.

"I wanted to be settled," he replied evasively. " Ihit to go
Isack to what is of more immediate importance — when can I
bring my book to you ? "

She took out her tablets and ran her eye ovor her engage-
ments. "Iliave a lunch to-morrow, but I shall be home at
four. Come to me tlun, and bring Mrs. Woodgate with you.
Ask her to accept this call, and to give me a couple of hours
to-morrow from her housewifely engagements."

"Thank yoa," he said. "To-morrow, at four. 1 saw
Hargreaves yesterday. Sad affair of Garbutt's, is it not 1 "

"Very. I must interest Mrs. Woodgate in Mrs. Garbutt;
she is a plucky little woman. Well, good-day ! "

She gave him only the tips of her lingers, smiled Init coldly,
and bade the coachman drive on. Her face as she drove down
the hill from the Manor House wore a troul)lt'd look. She felt
angry, impatient with Woodgate, and wondered anew over his
marriage. Also she thought much and t(Miderly of Helen, and
regretted that she had ever admitted Woodgate to su(.'h close
friendship, seeing he did not seem to know its limit. She
thought of Hargreaves, who came and went as he pleased to
Park Lane, bringing with him a^' sorts and conditions for her
symi)athy and aid, and yet preserving through it all the sim})le
good fellowship which, when genuine, is so pleasant and
gives so little troulde. Hargreav^^s was not handsome, and
made no pretensions to genius, but he was a good, plain, honest
soul, whom it was a pleasure to meet in any circumstances or
mood. Though by no means a morbid or gloomy person, Hilda
von Reutensee, looking ahead, saw trouble, and it lay heavy on
her soul. Perhaps it might yet be necessary for her to break

*!|,M'

I I

. ' "j * , H I III ■ J l I—

11^

iir

124

A LOST IDEAL

entirely with th»^ Wood^'ates, and yet when she thought of
Helen that seemed hard. She tried to banish these hannting
thoughts, and returned to her planning for the Garhutts, her
sympathy being notliing if not practical. Next day Woodgate
kept the engagement at Park Lane alone, making an excuse to
tinj Countess which was a deliberate falsehoo'i, secnng he had
never delivered her message. Helen saw him go with a faint
pang at her heart, and, being left alone, could not settle to her
occupations. She knew, of course, his destination and his
errand, and felt the pain of a wounded s[)irit left out in the
cold. She did not resent the Countess's ability and right to
advise him as she had done heretofore ; nor was she jealous of
her in the ordinary sense of the word ; but it hurt her keenly
that her husband seemed so determined to keep her on the out-
side so far as his work was concerned. Iler dream had been so
different. She had pictured herself sharing his every aspira-
tion, rejoicing in his success, and sympathising with him to the
full when he seemed to have fallen short; and, instead, she
found herself relegated to the post of housekeeper, tenderly
and considerately cared for, it is true, and gently treated always ,
but it was not enough. Hilda von Reutensee had read lu^r
correctly in that first hour of their ac(|uaintance ; and after
eight months of married life Woodgate knew nothing of his
wife's inner life, — his own fault entirely, though it is also true
that Helen was too reticently proud. A confidence not invited,
or at least encouraged, she would never give.

He returned late for dinner, and Helen saw at once from his
face that he was out of sorts; but slu; made no remark, feelint^^
that it was his part to tell her of the interview and its result.
They talked of commonplace things while the servant waited
on them ; when they were left alone, Woodgate alluded, for the
first time, to the incidents of the afternoon.

"The Countess seemed frightfully disappointed that you did
not come, Helen, and I think that made her short with me."

" How could she be disappointed when she did not ask nie,
Richard % " said Helen quickly.

" 01), well, she did say something about your coming yester-

ht of
Lilting'
,s, her

vise to
lO hail
I faint
to her
\d his
in the.
iglit to
lous of
keenly
he out-
been so

aspira-
n to the
iad, she
ienderly
always ,

ad her

d after
of his
llso true

invited,

Irom his

feelin.u;

result.

waited

for the

'OU dill
Ime."
lask me,

A LOST IDEAL

^25

ye;

ster-

(lay, hut is T knew you were very busy, and she did not seem
pres.sing, I sai<l nothing' about it."

"I was not so busy that I eould not have spared an liour or
two to aecompany y(Mj/' .sai<l Helen quietly. " Ihit that is neither
here nor there. Tell me what she said about vour book."

" She is a very severe eritie, but I arrived at an inopportune
moment. She had been bored ])y a stupid luneheon-party, and
she seemed annoyed at your absence."

Helen perceived that his vanity had been wounded by the
Countess's reception of his work.

"She is more fortunate than I," she said, with a sigh..
"Sliidl I never be privileged to look at your work, Ri(diard,
until it has become common propjrty V

He winced slightly at this direct question.

'* I did not know you took so much interest in the thing,
Helen," he re})lied. "My study and my desk are open to you
at all times. I keep nothing under lock and key."

"That is permission, dear, not invitation," she said shrewdly.
" Hut I will bide my time ; only I don't think it kind of you
to say you did not know I was interested. You have shut me
out of your life very soon."

"Deai-est," he said in his most caressing voice, "don't you
understand that a nuin can't always share his inmost thought
with those dearest to him? It is easier to talk with strangers."

" You are going round about the point," she said, with a
slight smile. " Let me come directly to it. Is it not the case
that you do not thiidc me capable of appreciating your work?
1 do not lay claim to any special ability, but don't set me aside
without a trial."

"Woodgate, now slightly ruffled, ran his long fingers imi)a-
tiently through his hair.

" Helen, upon my word, I don't know how we shall get on if
this is to be the way of it. Try to understand how long I have
been accustomed to a solitary life, doing my work without let
or hindrance, consulting nobody's convenience but my own. I
trust I shall never be sellish ; but you, also, must give me time
to heconie accustomed to the new order of things."

imm

i2r> .1 I ()sr inE.\r.

1 Imsl I shall not lie scllislnMlluT, IvicliMnI," hIh' Hiiid, willi

llial toucli of wislfuliuv'^s which always disaniKMl him.

Dot

I'l.

hr aiijjjrv with inc. I wish (<t i)o so iinnh, and I himmu (.«» he so
liUlo." "

" My h^vo, yoti arc ixM'fcct. I have always Ihon^dii ho, ami
ihiiik so still. I»ii(. you know my views ahont what a wife shonM
he to a man — a haver, of n'l'jige to which he llics lo escape all
the outside worry. How can he esca|i(> if she insists on
(Iraju^^ini; said worries within the inner doors of the sanctuary ?"

It was a tin(> theory, which Helen immediately demolished
in her calmest and most delilierale fashion.

" How can a wife Ix what ytui say if she does not share tin'
worries? Sh(> Ciin give no syni|tathy ; she is really ii^'norant of
luM" h\isl»and's inmost mind, and therefore can never coiud very
near him. I can't a}^r(>(> with yoii there at all, K'ichanl."

Lookini; at her, AVood,L;ati> was struck at the moment hy llw
strength of her face rather than its swe(>tness

Wfis ind I

as the (\Mintess liad said she was n<» child ; the calm, judicial,
ilcliherate chaiacter of the woman was marked in every linca
nn>nt. No, Helen was not pliahlc. Ilt> had h(>(«n mistaken in
her. She would n(>vcr hcnd just as he willed.

" liusinivss nuMi, dear, are i)rivileL,'ed to Icavo their cares in
the City. May I not l(>ave mine upstairs 'I It is that 1 ask

trom you, my darling, .^ym|)athy without^ (luestionmg, a love on
which 1 ean lean without having to still its continued exactions,
sometinu^s its uphraidings."

H(^ I'amo to her sid(\ and, taking her fact^ in his liaiuls,
kissed it witli sonu^thing of a lover's fondncvss. Sht^ clung ti>
him falteringly, and when she spoke, Ikm' voice was tremidous.

" 1 shall try to he what you wish. It is my desire and prayer
to he a true wife to you in all things -to help you as I can. Uul,
Richard, don't go to others for what I so long to give you —
svm]iathv in vour work. Xobotly will ever be as ambitious for
you, or believe in you so thoroughly, as your own wife."

He kissed her again, smiling at wliat ho called her foolish

^currcd to him with all tlie

\vori

is. The day c

iiy came wlien tliev re

bitter sting of an unavailing regret.

OIIAPTKII XVI

liMlt 111 Icisilir Ikiiii
>ll

itself.

o snul III' iiml Hyiii|iiit liisr

n_-n (t

,III'',lvl'' were iiiMiiy tliiii^H in Helen Wood^^'dle's n<w

',1.

Ille l<» |tU/./le and concern ner ; ime ol Uiese Wiis
her liMslMnd's niter (lisre.'aid of llie Sii'iliat.li,

hicl

1 in llie connliy manse is tho diiy ol" day

Sli(> had not felt it so seiioiisly iiliroad, when-

cvcrylhin;^' dill'ers from home customs, hut when s(;ttled in

tlieir own house, und slie found tliiit lie declined to ))rejikfast

licfore noon on Sumluys, slw. did not know what coursi; to

jmrsue. At lirst sh(^ thnu^dit it lier duty to remain at liome

from mornin^Lj ( liurch to hreakfast with hitn ; hut, after a time,

liiuhng tliat the e.ve,nin;^fs wcr(i often hroken in upon hy chance

Cillers, slie, hreakfasted and wcuit to morning scirvictj aloie ,

sometimes witli a sad heait. The- |t(M)|i|(! who drojijuid in on

Sunday evenin<^'s after a. stroll on the Ijeath did not commend

Iheinselves to her somewhat fastidious tastes. 'I'ln^y seemed to

lu" City men enga.ij;e(l in literary and .journalistic work, and

their talk at such times, as Helen heard it, sonnjwhat opened

her ey(>s. She had often in her ima;^dnati(jn picjtured "tin;

feast of reason and the flow of soul" she would he })(!rmitt(.'(l

to hear, if not to share; the reality was far different. They

soeiiied to talk gossip chiefly, and not very kindly gossip either,

of their fellow-craftsmen, and appeared to be more; interested

in the financial side of their profession than any other. They

127

lu 1

I2S

.7 /(IS/' //)/: ir.

iu;n\. initl liiivin^' won ;i tt-il.mi iv|Mil;ihnii, wns wmlli mllivii

in^.

Tills w.is llic ('(inclusion Helen wa < roni-d Id iinixc ;it

»'(inc(Mnin^ lli(is(» ukmi, who slie saw eoiild not have an elevaliir;
inlhn'neo \\\un\ her hnshand. These Ihin'rs \ver(> real liial nl
H(Mil and t'ons('i»>n»;(' lo \Voo(l>;ale's wile, ImiI sht> Ke|il Hilemr
ivgardm;; tluMn, wailini; nnlil she should have liie Knowleij;.'
of t»x|MM'i«Mic(\ and ihen speak with aiilhorilv. Ilar>;i'ea\.';
MovtM' canic. and al Ihe end if Se|i|enih(M' liidcn had nol vd

}\u

•1 1

uin.

All ll

ii>se weeks she had seeti \(>iv lilll<> indeed n|

lh(M'onnle-:s ; and. \Voodi:;at(> heitnj; Imsy with his |»r(»ol's ;iiiil
liavini^ many en,v;a^eni(M\ls in tli(> ('ily, sliv was lel'l a. i,'iv;ii
deal alone. The ! 'anor was now in order, a heanlirnl, ordeilv,
and Ias1(>fnl home, in which Helen look a nalnral inleresi, ami
]Mide. Ihit yon cannol lill n|) yoiir davM ^M/.in^ u|ion fnniilun',
ov ev(M» shiltinc; il ahoni, Iherelon' lime .s(ton hej^an !•» liaiii;
heavily (Mi her hands, ll was in every resji(>el a sln|ienditii-;
ehan,i;(' for her. In Ih'oadinle her dulies, social ami jiaro(lii;il,
had hi>cn si> multifarious Ihal she had nol kn(»wn an iinoccii|(i('(|

momen

1 : 1

UM'e slu> was

al a 1

OSS to till uj> the linn

Jiew

no (Mie, and on In^ own av-counl had no chance calhM's, seeing'
li(m(hm |>eo|ile Ao \\o\ call on stran,i;(>rs, and such friends as Inr
husband ]>ossessed, other than the I»oheniians aforesaid, li;i(l
not yet returned lo town.

Se]>temher was a p(M'fecl montli in LtMuhm, mellow, sunsliiny,

;\n(

I Uncdv, with sunsets to dream of. and loiej: delici

oils even

inns wh(Mi it seemed a. shanu^ {o nMuaiu indoors. I hi' 11
iMijoyed h(M' garden, which she tended witli a faithful ciiv,
whicli well n^paid hiM*. She was busy amonj.,' her llowers in
the wide old jasmined porch one aflernt^m when she licurtl
the roll of whet^ls, and presently saw the Countess's carri;i,i,'e
approaching. She dro}ipod her ba.sket and >vissors, and ran to

et it. pleased and happy as a child. Hildtt von Kent

eiist'O

observed the tbisli on her cheek, the sparkle in her eye, ami

felt her wolconu^ to be sweet.

((

Oil. it is so lonijr since vou were liere, since

T h

;ivo

tiilkod with anybody 1 You can't possibly have any ido

'/ /('.s/ ini \r

I.M,

Pi'lljll

rnltiv il
inivt' \\\

"Irvatni"
hiiil.. "I

nt)vvl»'"l;',<'

I uol vet

H'ool's ;mil
I'l !\. Ul«',il
1, onlrll\,

fwrnilniv,

UI\»MMMl|>inl

■ nils a^^ !»•■''
rcsaiil, l>!i'l

Iiill il is li» llli> 111 HIT Villi. I ||M|H" yuH liiVP rdiiic |i

sllU

^liinv,

Iciiuis I'ViMi-

(MIV.

Ilhful

|\()\V»M'S il

10 luMVil

Is's cavniv^o
ami v;in to

Ki'iitt'U;

'V oyi

Ice

1 have

any

sIllV

*' I ( miH" ir.iliy In luKr yoii iiWiiy, il ynii will <(iiiii«. I kniw
\(iii unr iiltiiic, Itrciiiisr I kjiw y(Mir liP IijiikI in lowii. Will

\n|| cnllH' I'ur II (llivc, illitj liiKr |c;i willl llic illlrl wuhIm ?"

" Itiilrnl I will I il<) not I'D onl. tiiilili ; ;iiii| SM|Mi'l.itiii''i llin

iliiVM :in' loiij^. Will ynii r(»iin' in wliiln I (Iii'sh/ 1 kIkiII nut
lie Irii liiinillcs."

"No; I mIdiII Wiiil. Ih'it iiihI iDlniiir ymii lovely lulf iiij^mh^^h,"
siiiti Ilic ( ')iiinl('Ms, willl il nml ; imil wlini lirlcn Din inlu tlic
liiiiisc hIic irpoilnl llif wnnlH l(» lid ;<'|| ; " I do iml, yu «iiit
iiiin'li, iiiid Honiclinn'M llir dnys iirc luiii^ " ; luMin^j willi Itil/lciiirss,
"Oil, wliiil II I'lMil Mm- nitin is! Ii<»w will'iilly liliinl!"

Ill r l';ir(< wore !i iliHliirlu'il jodk. Slic wjim lliinkin;^' nl IIic
inminirriililc iiiiics \\'o(M|;.fMlc Innl pli-fKlcil cnciiscs fur Imh will-,
s;i\iiij,' slif Wiis HO jiIisoiIm'iI in lioiisfwildy ciircs tli;il, sIm- |i,ii|
till IIioii,l;IiI. nr diHiif I'or luiylliin;^' I'lsr.

" Mr lias (Icccivcd nic, iiml I iicvci will liclirvr liiin ii^mIii,"
^llt' said lo liciscir, willl a. ralJHT aiii^^'iy iircssiirc ol tlic lijis.
"And slio d('.-«'rV('H Ji lirllcr lair."

Ill r Tare was Hiill f^'nivc t,o sIcrnncHH when llili-n (aiin'. oiil, of
llic door drawin;.; on lirr ;^doV('s. 'I'lic little, exciteinent <tj' the.
lui'iiieiit had i^^iveii her a hrilliant colour, hiit tli(! (y(»iintesH
imlired lliat she was thiniKM' Jind a trifle older looking' than
wlirii they had liist met in l^'londie,*!.

" I am afraid you l:av(^ heen iiiopin;^ too niiicli at home,
lalcly. Mrs. Wood^'ale," she, said ^'ently, as Ijeli'ii ,sl.e|(|»r;d to
iiri' place heside. Ijer, "do you think it wise to make, siieli a
llaiL^lrau (^f yonrsidf alto^^ef her ?"

" Nn, I (hm't, and 1 ha\'e never liccii used lo it," replied
llrlcii frankly. "Now that we are <piit(i scdthiil, 1 really do
imt know wluit to (h> with mys(df. Nohody cf)mes to sec me,
ami l\i('hard is so husy just now, lie, has no tinio tf) tako me, out,
;uul ^1 Uicri'fore I find London incomparahly more dull than the Dale
was in the deptli of winter. Jlut we were n(;ver dull in
r.ruailnile."
uliM ^1 The Countess looked with keen intensst at the sweet, strong

1 !

wm ' >> *■

i I

i.]o

A LOST IDEAL

outliiK? of lior coinpiinion'H face, ainl in her oyos dwelt somo of
tho bittcrnosM hIk! fi'lt iii,'!iiiist the man who fulfilh'd so poorly
liJH ' hh"^ati(»iis to th«' woman he hiid taken from tln^ liiijipitst
of liomcs, and wlio liad ^dvcn np c^vcrythin;^' for liim.

** Von aro so <,'ood to come for mo," waid Htdcn Kuddndy with
spaikling ('yes, as the fl('(;t horses trotted ra[>idly down the liill,
and tlie sweet ecjol S('i»temher wind ])h'W freslily ni»on thciii.
** Kxcuse me, I cannot contain my ph'asnre ; it is so deliglitful
to drive, and I was so nsed to it at liome."

" I l)lame myself very mnch. 1 shall sco that you have
more outin^rs," said the Countess (piiekly.

"Oil, hut I must n(tt tax my friends!" said Helen hri^ditly.
' ( )f course, I did not often ride so finely as this, except sonic-
times with my sister in her family coach. I had a little cart
of my own, and a Norwegian i)ony, and 1 drove papa every-
where. You would laugh at the turn-tmt, Countess ; but I loved
Tommy, he was so willing and so good."

" 1 have seen him," said the Countess, with a little smile
" He is a pretty creature, and runs like a hare."

*' You have seen him ? " cried Helen, turning round to lnuk
at her comi)anion in blank surprise. " Seen Tommy I —
wliere ] "

" In your dear Dale," r. x^ded the Countess. " Yes ; I am
in earnest. You forget I have only recently returned from
Scotland on my way south. What more easy than to drop otl
at your IJorder town for a night, to get a peep at your Dale?"

"But why — why should you do that?" inquired Helen in a
bewildered voice.

The Countess laid a hand on hers, and looked straight into
her (!yes. " I did not quite understand you, and I thouglit if
I could see your old home, it might help me, and it has."

" Oh, tell me how it looked," cried Helen ; then, with all
her heart in her eyes, " Was it not lovely with the autumn
tints in the woods, and the heather purple on the hills? Did
you call at the manse ? "

" I was not so bold ; but I had the good fortune to see your
father, who was \xx the little cart when we met it. My t'oach-

\M\

A LOST IDfAL

IJ'

111,111, IuhmI from tlio Geori^'o lloti-l, tcdd nio >vh<> \w wns, atnl
(lid not f.iil tti t«'ll m»', too, about liis dauj^'htor wlio li.id pme
to London. lUit I think I should have known liini hy his
n scnihlanco to you, and ho is one uf the haiulsoincst men I
luivc (^ver soon."

Helen did not speak for a nionicnt. The Countess saw that
she was forgotten, and envied the woman by her side lier
liiippy memories.

"To tliink you slioiild liave secui tlu^ Dale!" said II»'len
lit length, and her eyes still shone; *'and to think 1 have seen
you three times, and you have never mentioned it to me."

" I waited a favourable opportunity, my dear," said the
Countess quietly. " And now, to return to the prose of common
life,— I see the Dale is your poetry, Mrs. Woodgate, — I have
read every word of lirimihihlt'."

In a moment Helen's interest became breathless. "Have
you^ I have not seen it. ^Fy iiusband says you are a severe
critic, thougli he told me nothing you said."

"He does not like a frank ojnnion, Mrs. Woodgate, unless
it be favourable ; but I must be honest, or silent liviuu'hilde
is a beautiful story ; it has many tender and fine passages, but
it lacks what " —

Helen was silent, fearing to ask a single question.

" A foolish boy once told me I was beautiful, but had no
soul. In that I resemble the book wo are speaking of —it lacks
soul; though we call it by another name, because it sounds
better — the spark of genius."

" And is that your opinion. Countess 1 "

"It is. Of course, I am only one person, and I have never
set myself up to be a judge. But I do know what is likely
to touch people's hearts, and obtain a permanent bold. When
YOU read the book, and compare it with the other, you will know
wiuit I mean. I do not know why you have not read it already.
It makes me angry, my dear."

" It need not — the explanation is quite simple," said Helen
Calmly, yet with a little timid touch. " My husband does not
wish to bring all the worries of his work into his home, and if

'mm-

132

A LOST IDEAL

I am to be of any use or comfort to him, I must respect that
wish."

"To a certain extent," replied the Countess, with distinct
ilryness. " But don't sink your individuality too much ; leave
that to more colourless wives. Had I been in your place, I
should have read every word of the \X\\w^ long ago, if I had to
break into lockfast places to accomplisli it."

Helen looked scared. " Oh, I should never do that ; I am
too proud to steal what is not willingly given," she said quietly.
'• How beautiful the Park is today. Look at that spreading
tree, is it not a picture % I am very much obliged to you,
Countess, for giving me this rare pleasure."

The Countess smiled broadly, amused at the change in the
subject, which she accepted as a sign that her companion had
had enough of it. They were now in Regent's Park, wliicli
was looking lovely, recent rain having washed all the dust from
the trees, so that the autumn tints were shorn of none of their
glory.

*' I have my reward in your pleasure," the Countess replied
gracefully. " And now it is the question — What about
Reutensee ? Is my son not a pretty boy % "

"He is more — he is a manly one," replied Helen warmly.

*'Do you think him like me?"

" Very ; and how he loves you ! It is hard, bitterly hard,
that you should be parted," cried Helen, with keen sympathy.

Hilda von Reutensee's eyes suddenly overflowed. " Don't
you make a baby of me, and it is my creed to bear the inevit
able philosophically. "We shall not be parted for ever, thank
God ! When the boy has right of choice, he will come to me;
till then I must have patience. And my kinswoman, you likcil
her, I think, and you have won her heart. Tell me — did eli;
sueak of me at all % "

"Yes; and most kindly. AVhy will you always speak asi"
you were a hard woman of the world, instead of one of tl^'
most womanly ? "

"Do you think that of me?" said the Countess, with mi
indescribable and lovely look. " God bless you for it ! I liavc

A LOST IDEAL

33:

so few friends, the thought that I may find one in you is very
sweet."

" You have few friends ? " repeated Helen in surprise. " You
live so good and pure and useful a life, anyone might be proud
to know you. I am sure many are."

" I know many people," said the Countess, " and some seek
me for their own ends. The few friends I possess are those to
whom I have been able, out of Reutensee's money, to render
some little service, and who are grateful to me. I have found
many true hearts among the poor, but I have not one in the
whole world who knows the real woman, or believes in me for
myself!"

" Uh, Countess, surely you speak wide of the mark."

" No, I don't. I was thinking of women when I spoke,
though I have one or two tried friends of the other sex who
would stand by me, I believe. Have you met Hargreaves yet? "

" Not yet. Richard said he was coming to the Manor, but
I have not seen him yet."

" You will like him, I feel sure ; but I shall say nothing till
you have seen him. By the bye, I have resumed my Sunday
evenings ; will you make your husband bring you next Sunday?"

"Your Sunday evenings — what are they?"

"I am at home from eight to eleven two Sundays in the
month."

" I should like to come for some reasons, but I wish to keep
my Sundays as I did at home. Countess," replied Helen frankly.

" I have heard about the Scotch Sundays ; but you will not
1)0 able to do it here. Sunday engagements will force them-
selves upon you, and I see no great harm in it myself."

" There are six days in each week. Why choose Sunday ? "

" Because it is the only day working people allow themselves
a little leisure. I do not receive fashionable people ; perhaps
because they do not countenance me," said the Countess, a trifle
bitterly. "It is my duty to tell you, that in allowing me to
call upon you, you are not commending yourself to the British
matron, who will probably warn you against me."

"I care nothing at all about that," replied Helen warmly.

"fPBBHiJ

134

A LOST IDEAL

" I wondered a little when my hii-band told me you lived apart
from your husband; but now I understand, ar.d admire you
for it."

*' I might divorce him and marry again, then I could re-enter
society," said the Countess, with a smile Helen did not like ;
" but that I shall never do. So long as 1 am alive, Ludwii,'
shall never have the chance of marrying another woman, to
render her as miserable as he rendered me."

" I think you are right. I admire you for it," repeated Heluii
warmly, as before.

The carriage was now rolling through the throng of Oxford
Street, but the Countess, appearing to have forgotten her sur-
roundings, now leaned forward, looking at Helen with a long,
yearning, searching look.

" Then you will be my friend — will permit me to call you ])y
that name ? " she said, with a strange emotion.

" I will, indeed. I like you very much," said Helen simply,
as a child.

" I thank you. I shall never forget it. I have no woman
friend. I shall try to make myself worthy of you. Because
you have given me this boon so freely, I will wa'«/ch over you
and be true to you to my dying day."

i I I

CHAPTER XYII

"Having a good conscience." — 1 Pkt. iii. 16.

T was almost dinner-time when Helen returned to
Hampstead, being driven liome in the Countess's
carriage.

"So you have been pleasure- seeking in my
absence," said Woodgate gaily, being in good
spirits over Davenant the publislier's opinion of his book.
"The Countess is very sly; she never breathed her inten-
tion to me when I saw her in Davenant's office this after-

((

AVas

noon.

" She is very kind, I think," replied Helen quickly
she at Davenant's on your account, Richard ? "

"No, my dear. She is good enough to take some slight
interest in my literary concerns, but I don't make an idiot of
myself," he replied. " The meeting was purely accidental, she
liiippening to call on Davenant on some business pertaining to
one of her innumerable poor proteges. By the bye, will you go
to her At Home next Sunday ? "

"No, Richard; she does not expect me.*'

" And why will you not 1 "

"Why, dear, you must know I prefer to keep my Sundays
as I have been accustomed, though it is not always easy. JJut
it was among my last promises to papa that I should allow
iiolhing to break in upon the sac redness ol that day. He asked
it most specially, and said, what I see now is very true, that, if

186

1 :

1 i

T36

A LOST IDEAL

once lo;-;t, the regard for Siuitliiy as the Loid's day can never Ik;
restored."

Woodgate uiifortunattdy allowed himself to smile, which
liurt liis wife a good deal more than his words, though they
were pronounced enough.

"Didn't we agree, Helen, that the cloak of such observances
should be left over the Pxtrder? We didn't? Well, we'd
better agree now. If yon examine or exercise yourself, as they
say in the Dab', you'll find that you don't feel a whit holier on
Sunday than any other day in the week. What is the use of
pandering so slavishly to the imagination?"

"It is not imngination with me, but a matter of sini])le
choice," said Helen, as she deftly smoothed the braids of her
abundant hair. " I have quite made up my mind that I shall
never receive in the full sense of the word on Sundays myself,
or go to the houses of those who do."

The calm decision with which she spoke rather irritated
him.

" It is not always a wise or graceful policy to obtrudo
one's opinions so decidedly, Helen. Your father assured mo,
on a certain evening you and I have not forgotten, that y^u
possessed in a remarkable degree the capability of adapting
yourself to circumstances. I>ut I begin to doubt it."

"Have I then shown mvself so deficient?" she asked
quickly. "There have been times when I fancied I ada])ted
myself too easily. We live a very careless, I had almost said
a godless life, Richard, which often concerns me deeply. I
would not wish to draw comparisons, but it is a great change
to me, dear, a very great change indeed."

It was the first time she had really uttered her thoughts 011
the subject, and the deep feeling which prompted her words
caused tlie rich colour to leap to her cheek, \jX it faded in a
moment, leaving her quite pale. Woodgate observed the swift
fluctuation of colour, always a sign of extreme nervousness, and
it also occurred, to him that his wife looked much less fresh
and well than when they came first to London. He had not
given her that passionate, adoring love which is constant in

A LOST IDEAL

>S7

its solicitutle, but she was in a manner dear to liini, nnd it \va^
ini])Ossil)le for him to b'3 actively nei;leetful or inikind.

"My dear love," he said, almost tenderly, "1 am looking at
you, and I feel concerned. Are you quiti; welH"

"What makes you askl" she inquired, turning to look at
him in surprise.

"Because you do not look it. Would you like, my dear, to
take a little run to Scotland before Christmas?"

To his ext''eme surjjrise and discomfiture, she burst into
tears. In a mo.nent he was at her side, with his arm round
her, soothing her with many tender words. They were not
the first tears she had slied since her marriage-day, only the
first he had been permitted to see.

"Richard, how childish of me!" slie cried in self-reproach.
"Pray forgive me. I do not know what made me all in a
moinent so foolish."

" Xo excuse is necessary, my love. All women weep more
or less, and I am rather glad than otherwise to find that you
are not exempt from the common weakness," he said, with the
utmost kindness ; " but I think you might have t(jld me ere
this that you were homesick, and I should have taken or sent
you to the Dale at once. You see, I know nothing of that
malady myself, and I can't be expected to see its signs in
others."

"I have not been so very homesick," she said; "only once
or twice when it has come home to me that London is a very
large and a very desolate place."

It was a somewhat sad confession for a nine months' wife
to make, and it touched Wooilgate inex])ressi))ly.

"I have been thoughtless, my Helen, thoughtless and
sellisli," he said, in haste to make amends ; " but you will
forgive me, I know, because it is a change for ]ne to have
another life to consider besides my own. We shall go toaether
to Broadrule next week, pay them a flying surpris.o visit, then
your sister can return with us."

Helen shook her head.

"I had a letter from Annie after you had gone to-day.

,; [ I

'.^8

A LOST WEAL

►Siio will not be able to conic this year, as tlicy cxju'ot anotlicr
baby at Iii'oadyanls. And will you really take nio next
week?" she asked, and lier eyes sIk ne. "()ji, you have made
mo ba|>i)y, and thank you very niucii."

*' Hiivo I then so })()orly ('oni|)ensated you ivix what you left
at I>roadrule?" he asked Jcddusly.

"Oh no, I have never ret^retted it. You have f^ivon me ii
jfreat deal," she cried impulsively ; "only it is so dill'erent frnm
the old, you nnist not be impatient with me, Hiehanl, because
1 have so many little batth's to lij^dit, and lind it so hard to
dis(ini;uish between right and wrong."

" Don't try ; life is too short for such a conflict," he said
easily. "Take my advice, and accept thingg as they are. It
will be liap})ier and better for us both. Your Scotch exercising,'
is a very unprofitable and uncomfortable occupation, which I
would advise you to abjm-e."

" J)Ut, Richard, sometimes one has to thiid^ and to decido.
It is quite impossible alwa}^ to drift with the tide, impossihlo
and wrong. Don't you remember how Paul bids us fight tlio
good fight % "

Woodgate elevated his brows and shrugged his shoulders,
signs which Helen was beginning to miderstand.

" iSIy dear love, nobody quotes Paul in these degenerate
days. He is quite obsolete. 1 know my generation better
than you, though I grant I am not so good ; and my advice to
you is to accept the philosophy which bids us to-day oat,
drink, r.nd be merry, for to-morrow we die."

"Kichard, you don't believe that is all?'^ cried Helen, with
a shudder ; " that responsible beings have no higher destiny
than that % Now I know why you can write nothing like your
first book. You have lost the anchor of faith."

" Not I. I believe certain things, as I always have done," he
replied lightly. " But a truce to such dismal reasoning. "What
about the Countess's At Home ? You will meet a great many
interesting people there, and many who are most anxious to
see you."

"I will think it over, Richard; but I do not think the

'ii

A LOST WEAL

139

rciuiitoss will 1)(' imu'h (lisaj)|K)iiit(Hl or surprised, she knows
my views altout Siindiiy entcrtaiiiincnts."

" Vou like her, then, Helen, as well as you did in Florenci; 'j "
he s;ud anxiously.

" I>«'tter, much better. 1 tliink she is truly j,'ood, and there
is no doubt that she is cliarniinj,'. I ani sorry for her too ; she
has led such a hanl life."

AVo()djj;ate looked <^Matified, and the subject dropped.

Tiiat ni<,dit Ihden took s(M'ious counsel with herself, review-
ing her positional the calmest and most judicial manner. She
saw quite clearly that nothing was to be gained by acting in
(lircM't opposition to her husband's wishes, and that she was
much more likely to influence him by complying to a certam
extent. Had Mr. Lockhart but known with what intense
longing Helen went back upon every word he had uttered
rcgirding a Christian's duty; how she pondered upon hia
example and his teaching, taking courage and strength and
guiding from them now, as she had never done in the old days
wlien she dwelt beneath their benign influence, — he must have
been moved to the dei)ths. It was a very crucial period in the
history of Helen Woodgafce — this conflict between what existed
and what she wished could exist. She was forced to admit
that \wx husband was of all men the most worldly, the least
concerned with what pertained to the higher life. Her clear
eyes, which never shrank from beholding the truth in all its
bareness, however painful, saw that even his literary ambition
was a poor thing, an empty desire to rank higher than his
fellows, to he."'' his own praises sounding loudly in the world's
mouth ; of the higher aim, the nobler ambition, to use his gifts
for God's glory and the good of his fellow-men, he knew little
and cared less. It must not be supposed that this admission
cost her faithful heart nothing ; nay, it was a shock which for
a time robbed life of its sweetness, and set on her brow the
seal of a great sadness, which never wholly left it until many
years had gone, and grave sorrows had put even that lost ideal
in the background. The sentence of her father recurred to
her most vividly, and seemed, when in her extremity, when

I !

iCrrm^f!'

■n

140

A LOST IDEAL

.slie was lighting out this, for licr, great matter of conscience
ah)n(', to convey a direct mosisage : " Perliaps God may have n
groat work for you to do in a new sphere!."

It miglit be, she told herself, that, in quiet ways as yot
undreamed of, she might be i)rivileged to hohl the cup of cold
water to the lips of some thirsty soul, though in the doiiiL,'
her own heart might be riven. It was a thcmght to kimllo
the heart and give to life a new aspect. After much couiisi'j
and many prayers, her decision was taken, and Woodgate wiis
surprised when slie told him next day she was quite willing;
to accept the Countess's invitation for the Sunday evening.

" I felt sure that when you thought about it, dear, you
would take the sensible course," he said, looking much gratilii'd.
** You will find that nothing is ever gained by setting up to lie
better than your neighbours. Eccentricity never pays. I ain
sure you will enjoy yourself, and of course I shall be very
proud to show oif my wife, who can look and act so charmingly
when she likes. What will you wear?"

" I have not settled that weighty question yet, Kichard, but
I shall try to please you," she said, with a smile ; and he went
off to the City in high good humour, telling himself that he was
managing his wife very well after all.

The Countess's house in Park Lane was undoubtedly the
home of a highly cultivated and refined taste. If to Helen's
somewhat conventional eye the statuary gleaming among the
tall palms in the hall and staircase, the rich Eastern draperies
about the doorways, seemed a trifle fantastic, there was no
doubt about their beauty. The double drawing-room was so
arranged that many little groups could find quiet corners;
nothing so offended the Countess as a great crowd iniliscrimin-
ately huddled together, as at many social gatherings, without
any provision attempted for their comfort or enjoyment.
Numbers, so dear to the heart of the fashionable entertainer,
possessed no attraction for her. She possessed in a high
degree the many attributes which go to make up the successful
hostess, and never in her rooms were discordant or opposing
elements to be found.

A LOST IDEAL

T41

She was ono of tlic fow wonuii wlio, in lia[>pior circum-
stiiiiccis, nii^lit, liad slio so willed it, have foundotl a v^aUni.
Woodgiite had not licon far astray in his dos(ii[)ti<)n of the
Coullte.s.^'s ^niests. At iirst sij;;lit they indeed appeared to ilrlcii
a motley crew. 8he wiis reecivinj^' just wilhin the door of the
(inter room, wearin^jj a rich j^fowii of aniher sutin, witli a daiin^'
touch of scarlet in the bodice. Helen th()Uj,d»t she looked like
ii queen. Her face hriglitencd with surprise and plea.'uirc as
the Woodgates appeared within the jiorfihre, and the warmth
of her greeting, especially to Helen, was very marked.

"How good of you to come, how very good!" she wh'spercd,
iis she pressed her hand. "I thank you very much. I know
it is a concession of opinion hy which 1 am honoured. I thank
you very much."

►She was i)erfectly sincere, but Helen blushed under the
unusual warmth of her words ; and seeing she seen.ed a trifle
nervous and embarrassed, tin; Countess took her a^ once to a
(piiet corner, and bade her grow accustomed to h.3r surround-
ings, and she woukl come to her by and by.

Helen gratefully nodded, and, leaning ])ack in her chair,
•glanced leisurely round the room. There were about thirty
j)ersons present ; a fair proportion of both sexes. One or two
gentlemen Helen recognised, having seen them in her own
house, but the ladies were all strangers. Had she been dis-
posed to criticise, she might with perfect truth have characterised
the appearance of the latter as dowdy in the extreme. lUit
there were many interesting and striking faces, though Helen was
struck by the prevailing expressions of anxiety and furt'" o caie
which seemed marked in a greater or less degree in every face.

"I have been watching you, my dear, and I see you are
puzzling over my guests," said the Countess, coming by and by
to her side. " You of the large heart and the womanly soul
should be interested in every one of them. These are the men
and women, but especially the women, to whom life means per-
petual strife. And the saddest thing of all is, that they are not
likely ever to get beyond the fighting sLagc. Do you feel suffici-
ently interested to allow me to make some presentations to youV

\ 'W* W"

f 1 '

■ I

«' Hii;

142

y^ LOST IDEAL

" How can you ask *? I liave never been so intensely
interested," rei)lie(l Helen quickly, and her eyes wore luminous
as she spoke. " Is the one of whom you told mo at Florence
here to-niglit?"

" He will come, I hope," said tlie Countess, with a nod.
"But he plays the organ in a City church, and it is lite
always Ijcfore ho is free. I am glad you are not angry that
I have invited you here, though I have not asked to meet you
any whom the world delights to honour. One or two are hen;
— yourselves ; and see yonder, by the standard lamp, talking to
tlie little woman in grey, is Waldron, the landscape; painter,
I must introduce you to them both, but she is the nioic
interesting. Failures always interest me, just as tragedy
appeals more to me than comedy ; it is not so commonplace.
Oh, that poor little woman ! She is a story-writer, Helen,
turning them out at the rate of four thousand words a day all
the year round ; and such poor little stories ! Yes, she will
interest you ; and now I will bring her to you, for you must
not be allowed to hide that lovely light of yours under a busiicl
here."

'I ;

CHAPTER XVTTT

"Hatli ill lu'i- lu'art wide room
For all that 1»«\"

EHY shortly the Countess returned with the httlo
woman in grey, whom yhe l)riefly introduecil as
Miss Ryder, and with a few laughing wonls took
herself again away. She knew very well wliat
she was d')in<r, and that in less than five minutes

'OJ

Helen's sympathy and interest would be fully roused. Miss
Kyder was i)ast middle life, a little, spare, harasseddooking
creature, with a thin weary face, and restless black eyes, which,
in the moment of introduction, wandered keenly and critically
over every detail of Helen's appearance. Apparently this frank
inspection was satisfactory, for she seated lierself contentedly
by her side.

"Isn't it very pleasant to spend an evening here?" she began
confidentially, "I always tell the Countess it is like a draught
of generous wine to me, and sends me to my work with a better
heart."

Helen was quick to observe how the restless eyes grew large
and luminous as they travelled in the direction of the Countess,
and remembering her words, "Some are grateful to me," Ix'gjin
to understand. " It is very pleasant, I think," she gently
assented ; " but I have never been here before."

"Oh, have you noti then perhaps you would like to be told
about the people," said Miss Ryder vivaciously. "I know tlie
most of them. Did you observe the gentknian to whom 1 was

143

1 . '
1

-■ ] I . 1

i. 1

144

A LO^T IDEAL

spoukiii^' wlu'n tho Countess caino t(» nin? Tli.it was WiiMinn,
till! painter ; you have lu-anl of hitn. His pictun-, ' Thu List
ApjM'al,' was till' picture of tin; Academy tins year."

"1 liavo the honour to know him a httle," replied Helen.
"Two years a;.;() he came to j)aint a portrait in the nei^dilMiui-
hood of my old home, and I had tho pleasure of dining with
him at the liouse of a friend."

"I[(^ is as good as ho is great," said Miss Ryder warndy.
"]»ut I daresay you have ohserved, as I have, that it is always
tho great who wear most simplicity of heart. Wluiu you know
London as I do, the i)retensions of Nothing will sicken you,
But there, I must not rail. Do you seo that very handsouKt
man speaking to Waldron now? That is Richard Woodgato,
the novelist. You do not know him, of course; neither do T,
and I am not sure that I want to. It is so ditterent a face frdii
AValdron's, isn't it? though there can he no physical comparison
Itetween them. He has written one hook which I think canic
near heing a great work, and they say ho has another ready
now. ^Fany think he has not advanced, that lie will never
writ(* another; that is, he may make hooks, yoa know, hut not
literature — it is rather a sad thought."

" I hope you are mistaken," said Helen quickly. "You do
not know, I see, that I am Mrs. Wuodgate."

"Oh !" The little woman was covered with confusion. "I
am sure I sincerely heg your i)ardon. Now that is just like inc
— I am so consummately stuimi. I never pay any attention tu
names. I hope you will forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive," replied Helen, with her kind,
hright smile. " A frank expression of opinion should not be
offensive; but I hope you are mistaken."

" I ho})e ,so, I am sure, and very likely I am ; hut when I conio
to think of it, it was not my own opinion I was ventilating, hut
that of other people. I should not presume to criticise Mr.
Woodgate's work. What a mercy I did not say sometliing
worse ! Now, what an unfortunate beginning to our acquaint-
ance ! "

"You must not say that," said Helen, still smiling, thmr^li

W LOST IPE.ir

fiio liltli! woman's words luiJ sunk into licr lirnvt all \\w
siinio.

" Will yoii oxruae me snyiii*,' you jiro tlin very hnndsomcst
couple I liiivo ever kchui ?" ((uotli Miss Kytlcr then, hor ('(Hiu-
iiiniity restored. ** I am often laughed jit and nimlo fun of,
lu'causo T make all my licnu's handsome and my licroinus
l(jV(!ly ; IjuL that is (juitc natural, and as it should he. Xohody
wants to contcmiiiati! an uj^dy object, if it can j)ossil»ly Ixi
avoided. I am (juito suro if 1 made my ladies and ;^'entlemen
u^ly, I should make a j,'oneral slaughter of them to linish up,
and that would bo too ridiculous ! "

Helen laughed so heartily and so spontaneously that tin; little
woman joined in it, and that laugh made them the best of friends.

''Do you write ?" she in([uired next.

"Not at all. I am only an appreciative reader," replied
Ih-l.-n.

"T^iat is a great deal. I think, on the whole, you may be
rather glad you don't write. 1 know all al)out it, and especially
as you are married to a genius. It is always said that two
literary })Cople do not pull well, together, though the Jlrownings
were a lovely exception; an ideal marriage theirs, -was it not?
—such as I always try to depict in my stories, but, of course,
YOU have never read any of them."

"Tell me some cf their titles. It is quite possible I may
have read them."

"That is not likely. I don't write l)ooks--only serial stories
for the newspajjcrs, i)eriodicals ehielly. >»'ot very andjitious
work, Mrs. Woodgate ; but it l)ays very well, and that is my
chief concern in the meantime, till my boys are 2)rovided for."

"Your boys?" repeated Helen in surprise. "I thought the
C(»untess said Miss Kyder."

"So she did," said the little woman, with a nod. "But I
have four all the same, my brother's orphans, left to my care
about ten years ago. I have had to give tiieni everything,
lie was a struggling journalist, and died in debt. I've paid
that too, every copper, and brought uj) the Ijoys ; ')roud and glad
ia their poor little aunt Sophy that sUe can do it. Only
10

i.:6

// LOST IDEAL

\ •

somotinies" — in the slight pause the careworn look deeponci]
in her face, making its outline very haggard — "I wish they
(lid not grow out of their clothes so dreadfully fast, and that
their appetites were not so prodigious. But there, of course, I
am only joking ; I am thankful they grow and eat so well. It is
their education that has been troubling me — they are very clever
hoys, though I say it ; they've got brains, ^Irs. AYoodgate, and
it pays to give brains a chance. The Countess thinks so too,
and she will give my boys' brains the best of chances, so she
has promised." Again tlie little woman's eyes followed the
radiant figure of Hilda von R(?utensee, and this time there wus
adoration, pure and simple, in their depths.

"It is charity, of course, but charity of the heavenliest sort,"
said Miss Ryder, and hia* very voice grew melliflu* is with her
hidden feeling ; " and I am not ashamed of it, not in the least,
but proud that it has come in my way. Since the blessed day
I met her, my belief in my kind has been restored. It had fallen
very low. One cannot help one's harsh thoughts, when there
are four hungry boys at one's knee and no bread in the house."

Involuntarily Helen laid her hand with a quick gesture of
sympathy on the little woman's withered fingers, and her eyes
were full of tears. INIiss Kyder nodded once or twice, and
wiped her own e} es.

She put it so beautifully to me at first, when my pride
revolted at the idea of chr"ity. She said that if one woman
had a little more given her, it was her duty, her simple duty,
as it ought to be her joy, to share it M'ith others to whom
destiny had been harder. A beautiful gospel, is it not, Mrs.
Woodgate, the gospel of Christ ? "

"It is," Helen answered simply, and her eyes dwelt with a
new light in them ov the animated face of Hilda von Reutensee,
while she stood between the folding doors, the centre of an
admiring throng. Helen's own husband was there, and his face
M'ore a rapt expression, showing that he was, for the moment,
entirely absorbed in the beautiful woman before him. The
sight gave Helen no pang, She believed her honour and her
happiness safe in the hands of Hilda von Reutensee.

A LOST IDEAL

] :

h thoy
id that
lurse, 1
1. It is
y clever
iite, aim
1 so too,
3, so she
wed the
bere was

est sort,"
with her
the least,
Bssed day
liad fallen
hen there
e house."
Lresture of
her eyes
wice, and

my pi'id''

px woinan

iple duty,

to whom

not, ^Ii's-

, with a
Leuteuseo,
itre of an
id his face

moment,
iim. The
ir and her

"Yon would not think, seeing her now," said the little-
woman, following her glance, "that she would have time or
iiicliualion to consider a case like mine. IJut I could tell you
a dozen such stories, only my own is the most interesting to
me. Strange how I should desire to give you so much confid-
ence ! Your face inspires it. She has always known my
desire to have one of my stories i)ul)lished, to see my name on
the title-page of a real hook, if only that my boys might Ixi
ahle to show it one day to their children. And she has taken
the trouble lo read a great many of my stories, and to piclc out
wliat she thought the best. And she took it herself to Davenant,

just thiidc, to Davenant! — who publishes only the highest

literature, and he has agreed to give me a royalty on every
ropy. It is to be rci.ily in spring. I have not told my hoys
vet ; it is to be a surprise for them, and we will make a little
festival over it, and be as happy as only those can be who have
known the sadness of hope deferred."

" 1 thank you for telling me all this," said Helen in a low
voice. "I thank you very much. I shall never forget it."

" How good of you to say so ! I think you have given me
a new inspiration now, and I must put you in my next book.
lUit you must not think I am one of those foolish people who
tell their story to everybody. I can be discreet on occasion.
Do you see that — that person in the red plush gown over the
wayl I cannot call her a lady. She is Amelia Briscowe. the
editor of the Woman^)^ Kingdom, a dreadful person, I assure
you— no heart, no anything, to fit her for the place she fills,
8he belongs to our club. Has the Countess told you about
our club? I hope you will come one day, just to see how many
women there are with aspirations. It will make you sad. But
this Miss Briscowe, she is so objectionable, because she has a
fixed salary and an assured position. She sits upon me fright-
fully. She has even said to me that there ought to be a
l>unishm(mt for those who provide the fiction for provincial
newspapers. Of course she meant mc, and of course I felt it ;
Itiit when I told the Countess, she only laughed, and said it
was pure jealousy, because Miss Briscow'f) has never been able

iT' li ' ". ' ' ' ■' 'i " i| j" — "

148

A LOS I J DEAL

to write a story anybody could read. The jealousy, dear [Mrs,
Wood;^Mte, is awful, positively awful. ]5ut here comes 31r.
Waldrou, and the Countess is beckoniufj to nie. I must <'n
If I have not entirely bored you to death, I hoj)e you will Id
me talk to you aj.fain. You are so sympathetic and so true."

"Indeed I shall," replied Helen, with great heartiness ; "and
r hoi)e you will come and see mo at niy liome. We live at
Hampstead, and you must bring your boys to spend a long day
with me."

"Oh, that would bo delightful — such a treat for Tim and
Tony and Jack and Pat. Irish? Yes, we are very Irish. 1
was born in Connaught. Yos, I should dearly love to conic ;
but do you think Mr. Woodgate would like it?" she added
doubtfully; "for, of course, I am very small fry."

"Come and see," said Helen, with her Ln'oly smile, which
sent the tired little woman away with a gleam oi sunshine at
her heart. Her place was taken by the grave, gentle-faced man
whom the world numbered among its masters in art. IJolli
were pleased to renew the pleasant acipiaintance begun that
past summer in the drawing-room of old ]Madam Douglas, at
Toviothead.

]^y this time the rooms were filling Late as usual,
Hargreaves dropped in, and after paying his respects to his
hostess, for whom he entertained a chivalrous regard, lio
stationed himself in an unobserved nook to note who was in
the room. Of all present he had some knowledge, except tho
lady talking to AValdrun ; and, being interested in her faci ,
ho wondered what new li(jn the Countess had captured, siiuc
she did not look \\\iQ a protrijc. He found himself again and
again glancing in her direction, noting the animated, earnest,
speaking face, the bright, gentle eye, the air of ladyhood, the
indefinable charm of the whole woman. She looked so natural
and so real ; there was a freshness in her face which secnud
to breathe a purer mental atmosphere than that of a London
drawing-room. Curiously enough, it was to Woodgate he pui:
his question concerning her.

" "Who is that handsome woman in black smiling so divinely

A LOST J DEAL

r Mrs,
es Mr.
list <;ii.
%vill U
rue."
; "iUi.l
1 live at
Qiig (lay

Cim ami
rifc^h. 1
o come ;
le adde'tl

.0, wliirli
ishine ai
iced man

•t. r.oiii

Lfun that
jiiiilas, at

lis

usual,
ts to liis
arcl, 1k'
10 wa.-^ in
xecpt the
her fan,
reel, siiiee
gain ami
, earnest,
hood, Ih''

natural

1 set;iu'''l
London

6 he put

on the lucky AValdron?" he asked in his usual hantering way.
" Has the Countess caught a new lion?"

" I holieve shii thinks st)," answered Woodgate, with a laugh
of conscious pride. " If you come over, I'll introduce you,
though you really don't deserve it."

" Von don't mean to say that is Mrs. Woodgate, Dick?"

Woodgate nodded, and his eye lit up at the implied compli-
ment to his taste.

'M)ii !"

llargreaves elevated his brows, took another critical survey
of Helen, who had never looked better than at the moment.
WaMron was speaking to her of the beauties of Teviotdale and
Liddesdale, and her heart was in her eyes.

"I wish I had come to Hampstead before this, but how was
1 to know she was like that?" liargreaves said, M'ith a sober
an<l delightful frankness. " It's a pity to interru})t a conversa-
tion evidently so engrossing to both, but I should like, if you'll
allow me, to make my apologies at once."

" Conue on then," said AVoodgate graciously ; and the pair
piloted their way across the room, and, taking advantage of a
hrief pause in their conversation, Woodgate mentioned
llargreaves' name to his wife. She looked up (piickly,
nervously, scanning his face with a certain questioning of
which llargreaves was quite conscious.

She was not at first favouraljly impressed by his appearance,
which presented a striking contrast to that of her husband.
His dress was careless to the verge of slovenliness, and there
was a certain indolence and indifference in his whole bearing,
which almost verged on the supercilious. r>ut there was a
suggestion of strength in his mas.sive head, a fearless honesty
in his eye, and a directness in his address which she felt were
t;rand attributes of a manly character. For a few Sv^conds the
conversation was general, then Woodgate took Waldron away,
leaving his wife and llargreaves to begin the friendship
destined to bless them both.

divinely

1
j

1 •{

■■ 1

CITAPTER XTX

"So (nrcled lives slie with Love's holy light,
That t'lOTii the shade of self slic walketh iVoe."

,ELEN was the first to break the silence when
tliey were left together. She felt Ilargreaves'
eyes upon lier critically, questioiiingly, and it
was perhaps natural that she nuist fear his
disapproval. She had heard much of him as a
man of the keenest discrimination, and Woodgate himself
habitually spoke of him with the profoundest respect. Yet he
was a man who had done nothing to separate himself fvcm
the .nass of mankind, no worthy or lasting work was attached
to his name, but he was a distinct and impressive personality
to all who knew him.

*'I have heard my husband speak of you, Mr. Ilar-
greaves," she said simply; "and I am glad to make your
acquaintance."

" I do not deserve that you should speak to me so kindly,"
he made answer. " I ought to have paid my respects to you
long ago ; but since Dick has s})oken of me, he may have t(Al
you that I am a Bohemian of the Bohemians, and that tliutie
who know me suffer my shortcomings, regarding them m
incurable."

" He has not told me anything of the sort," replie;^, Helen,
with a swift glef.m of amusement in her eye. " Is it true that
you felt inclined to send my husband to Coventry because lie
had married me 1 "

150

iHiiiii'

aruToaves

A LOST IDEAL

15'

Hargreaves lauglicfl mio of his ([uccr silent lauglis, and sat
down directly in front of Ihm, ms if ho intended to enjoy a
thoroughly good talk.

"Have you been here before — in tliis house, T mean?" \\(\
iiKjuired.

"No, this is my first (ixpnrience. I have found it most
interesting, and not a little instructive."

"Instructive?" r(>}>eated llargreaves, in a lone of significant
iiKluiry.

"Very. I have talked for nearly an hour witli Miss Ryder.
])o y(ju know her?"

"Oh yes, poor little soul. Well?"

" From her I have learned a good deal ; how hurd, for one
tiling, it is for some to live."

"And what more?"

" 1 have acquired an increased respect for the Countess."

" Which will not he diminished as you learn to know her
hetter," said llargreaves sincerely, " Yes, there is more than
one in this room she has saved from mental and moral destruc-
tion. She is a Christian woman in a sense not accepted or
understood by many who name His name. So you have come
up from the breezy mountains of Scotland to this Sahara? I
wonder what the result will be," he said, bending his deep eyes
ui)'^ her musingly.

His mann(:r was familiar for a first meeting, but it was not a
fiiniiliarity the most fastidious covUd resent. Certainly Helen
(lid not ; she liked him more and more, and felt the curious
fascination which he could exercise when he chose, though it
was unconscious always.

"The result? AVhat do you mean ?"

"London is l)ound to work some change, the conditions of
its life necessitate it. Sometimes, in my darker hours, I regret
having come to it, but I shall never leave it now. I know 1
could not live away from it."

"But you are very busy always, are }ou not?" asked Helen,
a trifle hesitatinglv, not b^ing able to recall anvthing Hargreaves
hud done in the literary world.

' •

'52

yl LOST IDEAL

"Oil, r Inu'c cnoiii^'li in till. I'm ;i pciiiiy-ii-linor. T kct^ji
liody :iii(l soul tn^M'tln'i' l»y my ju'ii, Just ;is poor little Sophy
iiydcr (l(i!'s ; mid j;i'iiidi)i;4 drudi^cry it is, only In-r inipossiltjc
ladies and j^M'utlenien, and their impossihhi adventures, all'ord
lior an amount of ^'enuine interest an<l satisfa(!tion which I
often wonder at. Sh(^ lias been at it for thirty years, and lias
not outlived the freshness of it, nor tho aspiration to do sonie-
tiiin<; worthiei'. I often wish, for her sake, she could get tlie
ehance, which she most richly deserves."

Helen looked at liim a moni(!nt silently'. He -spoke as one
who had tasted tlie bitterness of life, and had lost faith in its
sweetness.

And as she looked, there came to her a vague fear lest tiiis
life in London, of wdiic.h those who knew it best spoke so
harshly, should work some dread change in her also. Almost
they seemed to expect it.

"Why have you never risen above what you say you are?"
she asked, wondering as she sjjoke at her own boldness. "You
look as if you could accomplish anytliing you willed."

Hargreaves gave his shoulders a little shrug, but did not
meet the clear eyes lookii<g so directly into his face. He luul
never in his life had that question put to him so ])lainly, and
it made him ashamed, until the dark flush slowly dyed liis
cheek.

"Once I also thought so, l)ut there came a tini'^ when the
iron entered into my soul. 1 emerged from tliat mad storm a
derelict, and have so remained. One day, perhaps, I may tell
yini more. I am li(>aring daily fresh rumours about your
husband's new^ book, written since his marriage ; now I shall Ix'
imi)atient f(U' its appearance ; it ought to bind a fresh laurel
on his brow."

It was a gratifying compliment, delicately conveyed; it
WM^ impossible for Helen not to be gratitied by it. Her colour
rose a little, and she leaned forward, moved to breathe to this
man with the grave, stern face and melancholy eyes, something
of her secret fear.

" So many have said to me that his best work is done," olio

A LOST mi'lAL

15;

s;ii.], willi ii touc.li )f' Avi>;lfnl ;i|iii(al. " Vnii Imvc 1 cfii Ihml;
his fiiciid, and kiidw liiiii well. I )() y<»u tliiiik they mv limlit?
lie is s(» VdUiiLj, Mild Indks CI jiiiMc," slic said, willi ii swift
.4lauc<' towards Wood^^iitc, wlio Imvcicd, as usual, near the

('oimtcss.

.0 11

H! it is an iiituh-iahh' th(Ui,nht.

llargrcavcs was dccjdy innvi'd. In his soul lu; hcdifvcd
tliiit, l)oforc Woodgiito woidd bo able to prodiUM! a worthy
successor to his iirst l)Ook, ho must cliango his attitude towards
life and its problems, which \\v. now reL;arde(l lightly, from
th(! com[>lacent pinniude of success.

"Things liavo gone too easily ^vitll Diek," Ik; answered,
not seeking to evade the (question. "lie thiidvs thert; are
no more worlds to eon(juer. I>ut lie is young, as you say;
his })Owers \\\(\ not ically matured ; tht; mellow wisdom of
experience will yi't e< nie to him. Till then ycni and I cm
wait."

The hist sentence comforted Ifeleii incixpressibly. As the
Countess camo to her for the second time, she could not but
wonder, seeing the expression on lier face, what luid been the
topic of tlieir talk.

"Am I too tiresome?" she asked, with her beautiful smile,
as slu! laid her hand with lightest touch on Helen's shoulder.
" I am destined to interrupt you always at a most intevesting
point. It is you, my dear, 1 want to shine for the public
rather than the individual good. I have very little, nuisic
to-nijiht. Our friend the or<:anist has not come.

Your

luisl)and tells mc you sing, Mrs. Woodgatc — will you do so

now ? "

" WilliuLjlv," said Helen, and rose at once. ITargrcavcs
looked at these two wom"n, eacli a ([ueen, stoh; an involuntary
glance at Woodgatc, and many strange thoughts came to him
AVhen they moved together across the roimi, all eyes foF-ovving
them, the expression on llargreaves' face did not change.
Ho continued to watch Helen closely, noting hov; devoid
f^lic was of tiie smallest atlectation, yet what grace Avas in
cvciy ni'^'cmcnt. She played from mi mory, and gradually,
a^ the nuisic fi'led the r(jom, the garment of speech seemed to

rimtm

154

A LOST IDEAL

fall from those present, until the silence heenme most im-
pressive. Tint the ])lii_yer <li(l not seem to notice it; she hail
forgotlen them. Her heart was hack with her own peoj)j(' ,
her ears heard tin; sweet sound of church bells ringing thnmgli
the stillness of the Siih))ath morning; her sjtirit was tou<-he(l
with the lioliness of heaven. And 'some of the careless,
godless souls present felt that there liad come among tliciu
one who still reverenced the old faith, and from whom tin;
unseen was not hid. Quite suddenly the ex(piisite melody
ended, and, striking a few chords, slui began to sing. She had
in a moment remembta-ed lier desire to use su(di opportunity
as oift-'red itself to give some Sabbatli message} to those wiio
listcmed to her. The song was, "Too late," and as the sad,
})assionate words, wedded to their app[)ropriate music, left her
lips, many hearts were stirred, and many eyes filled with
tears. When she rose, no one spoke, and she stole back to
her corner, during the silence, without any feeling of eni-
barrat'sment. ILirgreaves drew her chair forward, and said
only two words — "Thank you." Then talk began again, and
presently a slender, pale woman, in a widow's gown, came
across the room, and held out two hands impulsively to
Helen.

"May I thank you for your singing 1 It sunk into my
heart. You do not know me ; but I have had great sorrow,
and you have comforted me."

"Let me make you known to each other," said Hargreuves,
as he gave his seat to the new-comer. " This is ^Irs. Garbutt
— Mrs. Woodgate ; her husband was known to yours in
life."

" I have heard of him," replied Helen.

Then Hargreaves went away, and the two women drew their
chairs close together, and Lucy Clarbutt began to talk.
Hargreaves went to the side of the Countess, but she couKI
not speak to him just for a moment.

"Well," she said at length, lowering her voice a little so
that others might not hear, "what do you think of her? Is
she not all I said, and more ? "

A r.OSr IDEAL

^55

"The mystery decju'iis," rcsiioiidctl Hai'^'roavos, witli liis
f'\l)rossive slirii^. *' JIow lias lie won licr, aiul wliat will he
(l(t with her now she is won '( "

" Hither she will ejinoble liini, or he will l)reak her heart,"
siiiil Hilda von Reiitenseo, without any manner of hesitation.
"W'iiieh is tlie likelier?"

II*! sliook his heati, and a smile jtassed between them, and
thim^li llar^M'eaves saw AVoodgate beekonin.i,' him with ids
lirows, he appeared not to see Ids summons, lie felt that, in
his j)resent mood, he eould not stand Woodgate's ])retentious
talk, and very shortly took himself away, liaving got a ntiw
problem to st)lve, u new study to give a i)i(piant tiavour to iiis
s(»litary pipe.

"So you are Mrs. Woodgate," began Lucy Garbutt ; "1
liave so often wondered what you would be like. ^Ir. Wood-
gate used to come often to our liouse when I liad my husband.
He and Ilargreaves and Charlie were the insei)arable trio ; and
now it is all so changed. It is a fearful thing to be h;ft a
widow, ]\rrs. Woodgate."

"It must be; but you have your chihiren," said Helen
o' 'utly.

"Oh, I have six of them, but they do not make up for him.
AVe were so happy, and might have been so still, had Charlie
only been appreciated as he deserved. It is a very hard
world, ^Frs. Woodgate, and the most deserving are the most
hardly treated by it."

"Was he a writer?" asked Helen, not being able to re-
member hearing what was Garbutt's calling.

" Why, yes ; he was on the staff of the Albemarle Review^
and made that paper what it is. Everybody knew its most
Itrilliant pages were written by him," said the widow, with
cuuscious pride. " And they treated him shamefully, just as
they have treated me. Of course, poor Charlie could not
leave me a princely fortune. How was it possible, off a
meagre salary, and six children to support? and when he died
they circulated such lies about him, seeking to take from his
Jiildren all he had left them — a blameless name."

1 -f

, ' i ! I

I 56

/ /.osT inr.M.

" I'.iit yiMi li.ivi' rmmil sdiiic Kiii<l litMits Idl, I Inistl" ,;ii.|
I li'lni IIm'I).

"<>li yes; llic ('tduilcss li;is liccii limsl, kiln!, I will s.iy
(hut. r.ut slic is !i ricli wminn, and it is iiolliin^' fni' Imt tn
i,MV(\ C U' ('(tiii'sc, .slic cMii't undt'rsland ///// reeling's on a'Toimt
<»t" iicr curitMis position. ( H' couisc yon know Aw is scpaialnl
iVoni her linshand, and that it was a very ([nccr tdti. NH
dttidit there were lanlts on liotli sides,"

Helen shrank a iittl from Lncy (larhutt, not likiii;^' tlic
slirewd little venonions look which :ieeoni|tanied thest? si^Miili

cant words

.leal

onsy was at the botioni of it. Mrs, (larhiitl

jjjrndtjed the C'onntess sneh thiiiiLfs as she had, not knowiiiij
how i)()\verless they were to till the aching void of a woiiiini's
Jiejirt.

"I don't know the ntory, except what the Conntess li;is
herself told nu'," said Helen ipiietly, hnt a trille coldly; "and
it is enough for lue, I am sure she is a nohle, good, generous
woman, and many here so regard her, ihit let ns talk ef
something I'lse, My hu-<hand tells me you are fond of art •
have you a studio'} "We have gone to housekeeping lately,
and are in want of many tilings. May I couk^ and scm; vimi.'
— perhaps we may he of nuitual use to eacli other."

"Oh, thanks, yes, 1 shall he glad. I receive twi(;e a montli,
loo, on Tuesdays ; hut perhaps it wouhl he wise to come mi

inolher day

1 h

lave not much m mv studio lust i

\\y\\S.

l\'o})le wt-re very kind ..fter Charlie died," she said plaintively,
"and 1 liave been ratbicr idle latidy. Ifow j\rr. Woodgati'
admires the Countess! — ^that is liow slie loses her frioiuls
among married women. I used positively to luitc her, for, ef
course, it is easy to look (diarniing when one can spend lifty

Whiit day shall you come ? Oh, any

)t>

und

s (MX one gown.

day — Weilnesday, at three, if you like. AVell, Mr. Woodgitc,
yt)ur wife and I have made acquaintance, you see. Are you
going to take her away % "

"It is nearly eh'ven, Helen. Are you not tired ?" he said,
with kind solicitude, and not paving mucli attention to Lucy
Garhutt, whom he could n(jt endure.

'/ /.OS J J DEAL

'57

11 \vt)miin.s

w a iiioiitii,

1) COllH' oil

1I>1

hi'

r'f

il.

CI I

' Nut tired, 1)m1. rciidy I" ^''N "Ir.u', if yii like," Ilrlrfi siiitl,
iil; ill niicc. "Mrs. ( liirliiilf and I Imvr lurii tidlviiii,' nf Inr
tuics, iiiid I iii.iv ;^'<> 1<> Ikt sliidio on W fdiirsdiiy."
" Very well. ('Inldicii well, Mrs. (iiirl.Mlt? We ;im- idl ^'liid

Id sec ytiii ii;.;;iiii idler yniir Va\'^ ret iiciiiciit," sjiid \\'iHid<^Mt(i

i(iiirlt'itii>ly.

"I ;i-siii(' ynii it is ii;,',iiiist. my feeling;-, Imt \\\v ('minie-s

wnidd insist ; and <>t coni.sc she dn(> ni't iindi ist;inil. Nolmdy
iu kiinw a widow's I'odinLjs liut, tli'i.M' who liavc i^'one t.lirnu;^di

"Of cnnrse not.; Imt I lie ('nnntrss woidd dn notliin;^' in-

iisdeiiite, iind you iiri' wise to let, lid' L^Miidc yon,' siiid
\V i^Mte, iind |>ut, his wife's liaiid on Ids iinn.

The (^onntess aeeonip.inied hitn t(» the l.iiidin^', and there,
]mttiii,L,' her two jjands on II(den's shoiildrrs, ki>scd hei- once,
and lor the lirst time,

" I thank yon. 1 will tell yon sonn; day what yon have
done to ni^dit what yon have conir amoii;^ ns tti do," she said
ill a enrions voire. "( lood-ni^yht, Mr. \\'o()d;.;at(!. Yon are
the man of all men in London to he envieil."

Wood^'ate and Ins wile droves lionui to llampste.ad almost
ill silence, neitluir lu-in^i; imdined appanMitly for talk. Wlniii
they entei'cd the lionsc;, liowever, Ihdcn tnrncd to him suddenly,
licr white! cloak falling' from her slionldcirs, her sweet faee. nj)-
Imned to him with that wistfnhutss In; most dreaded, since it
always seemed to carry with it some reproaiih.

"Are yon not pleased with me, Ki(diai'd, that yon ai-e so
(juiet. I)itl 1 do wrong, or liavc 1 disa[)pointed yon in any
way % "

"Disappointed me, Iliden? (Jod forhid ! " lie cried, and took
her to his heart with a passion most nnnsnal. "You aro a
good woman, too good for me I'lay, since you heliove in
prayer, that I may be made more worthy of you."

\\\\

CITAPTKR XX

"Sum tho last curl
or tli(! good man is [icacc"

'^^^^^[lIK Woodgjitos (lid not ^'o to Scotland tho followiiij,'
\V(!(!k. Proofs of Urunehihhi continued to coiiic
%W^^'^ ' in slowly, and a snowstorm l)lockod tlie Cheviot
railroad. At tho last tiic visit was iil)aiid(iiicil
till the spring, and if Helen feltdisa[)i>ointed, slio
said nothinpf. After tlie Conntess's recei»tion she seemed to
acqnire several new interests. Mrs. Garhntt's studio in Kussoll
S(juare was duly visited, and several purchases made, but Ih'loii
did not draw to the little woman, who, tli()Uj.,di undoabtedly
clever, had an uncharitable cast of mind and a venomous
tongue. Sometimes her perpetual talk of her husband ami
her widowed state, her setting of herself apart, as if there
never had been so sad a case as hers, jarred upon Helen, and
even at times she felt inclined to doubt her sincerity. Her
attitude towards life and its hardships was very different from
that of Sophy Ryder, who made the best of everything and
M'as cheerful always. AVhen not cheerful, she hid her face.
But ^Irs. Garbutt made capital out of her misfortunes, as
many do, and while bewailing her sad fate, knew, as did every-
body else, that she; had never been so well off in poor Garbutt's
lifetime. A good fellow in some respects, he had been
thoughtless and selfish, and absolutely devoid of any sense of
responsibility.

Miss Ryder &j)ent the promised day at Humpstead with the

158

// LOS I IDEAL

159

four rollii'kin;; I"isli Imls, ami tlif liMppy iiiKlcrsliiinlin;^ l)«'t.\v«M'ii
them and Aunt Sojth, as tlu-y irn'vcn'ntly callt'il lnr, did
Helen ^ood. It was a ^dimpao of tin' nal among niucli that
wuM nnn-al in In-r London life.

In Cliristniiis week a groat joy ciuno to Helen, one which
amply conijM'nsatetl for overy disap|)ointinent, in tlie shape of
a visit from her father, unexpeeted and unannonneed. Acting
ii]i<m ono of thoHO unu.snal inipnlses which do not conuj very
(iften to a man of his placid temperament, he rose up ono
laorning, packed his portmanteau, and joinetl the liondon train
at their own station. What that Christmas was to Helen it
is iiiipossihle to say. Years after she looked hack upon it us
one of the- golden epochs of that brief but untroubled time.
Tlio good minister did not tell her that he had missed some-
thing in her letters, that his soul had yearned so unspeakably
over her that he had come to see with liis own eyes how it
was with her. And it seemed well ; for at his coming an
ex<|uisite peace seemed to settles down upon the house. Wood-
^Mte, having disposed of all his proofs, and now waiting
placidly the delayed i)ublication of his book, was in a good
mood, and exerted himself to the utmost to make his father-in-
law's visit a happy one. As for Helen, at sight of that dear
face, set with the seal of the peace the world can neither give:
nor take away, all her troubles fell from her like a garment for
which she had no further use. She could not reni'-mber the
perplexities which had vexed her soul, though, in those halcyon
day? she unconsciously drew great draughts of strength from
th'it fountain of wisdom and experience, and was hap[)y as
a child. Her chief regret was that Hilda von Keutensee
and her father did not meet, she being in Jersey for
Christmas. But Hargreaves came, and the two so oddly con-
trasted, in most respects one would have thought opposite as
the poles, seemed to find some kinshii) with each other, and
in many tramps over the Heath discussed the philusoi)liies
of life.

Mr. Lockhart returned to the Dale utterly content about
Helen. The experiment he had so greatly feared had turned

iiHt

i6o

A LOST IDEAL

out a perfect success ; and lie was not slow to make his (luic^t
buast over it among tliose wlio suiaetimes shook their hi'ads.
And it was well he thought so — that ho suspected no under-
current. All her life Helen remembered with thankfulness
how he had blessed her at parting, telling her his heart was
at I'est.

Kot many days after his return a great calamity happened
in the ])ale, one which was never afterwards spoken of l)ut
with hushed, unsteady voice and starting tear.

The first Sunday ho occupied his own pul[)it, in the middle,
of th(! opening prayer, which long remained in the memories
of those who heard it, he suddenly laid down his head upon
the Book, and that was the end. Thus fittingly did that true
f^oul, purer than most, after sixty years of earthly existence,
return to the Uod who gave it. On Mondav morning Wooduate
and Helen arrived, and in two more days all was over. The
reat burying, to be long spoken of in the Dale, had taken
l)lace in the old churchyard, and the doors of Broadrulc ^Mansc
closed for ever on the name of Lockhart. But the fragraiKx-
of it conlinueil to hallow the place : "the memory of the just
is blessed." The suotk of the calamity had so serious an ellect
on the delicate health of ]\rrs. Douglas, that Helen remained
at Broadyards, AVoodgate returning alone to town.

It was destin(Hl to be a longer separation than either antici-
pated. Li the last week of January the child was born dead,
and such was Annie's condition that her sister could not leave
her. During cl:is period; as was inevitable, Jirian Laidlaw and
Helen saw much of each other. He soon felt, as he had never
yet felt, how completely Helen was now severed from the Dale,
and from him. She had passed out of his life, her interests
were such as he know not, and could not possibly share. lie
watched her with a yearning keenness, his eyes sharpoiied bv
the great passion of his life, but failed to detect in her the
leasl sign of disaiipointmoi.t or regret. He saw her eyes
brighten and her cheek delica: ly flush when her husband's
letters were brought to her, and judged therefrom that the
husband was dcarci' than the lover had ever been, And tliat

A LOST IDEAL

i6i

■vviis well. A load was lifted from tho honest, iinsellish heart
(if lU'ian, and he went about his work as if ho had <,f()tt(.u a
new inii>ulse. Helen's manner towards him was a thin^- so
1 leant iful it can hardly be deseribed. lUit its chief character-
istic was a perfect trust, which betrayed itself in ev(>ry look
mill tone. She thought him older, graver, more soljered in
every way, and wondered often at his gentleness, his >skill, and
his untiring patience.

" Vou remind me every day, Brian," she said once, when
her sister had been more than usually trying and capricious,
"(if Ltdvc, the beloved physician. If I have to send for a
(lo(t(»r in London, I shall be very diflicult to please."

"That is high praise, ^frs. Woodgate," he said, with some
sli-lit constraint, and his face flushed. "I wish," he added,
with a ([uick smile, "that you could imbue ISfrs. Douglas with
a liitle vf your confidence in me. What do you think she has
]\\>y said to me*? that she is sure I do not know my business,
and she will make (Juy send for an Edinburgh professor."

"How ungrateful! but you must not mind her, Brian.
I'lioi' Annie, she is so weak and ill, she must not be held
responsible."

"Oil, I don't mind it at all. I am rpiite hardened, I do
a^^sure you. Tlie^'e is another thing I would wish to see, ^Frs.
Woodgate, and that is Mrs. Douglas regarding your great
sorrow from your standpoint. She says she has no desire to
live, and that is ahvays a difficult mood to deal with."

"Vet I do not think, Brian, that xYnnie loved pa[)a more
dearly than I," said Helen, and her lips trembled. "It has
made a gieat difference. He was so ludpfid always; he under
iitoiMl everything so quickly ; and we were so dear to him."

ilrian bit his lips and turned away. It was no common
sorrow, and ho could share it to the full; yet he had no right
to ronifort her, and she was yet too perilously dear to him for
liiiu to attempt it.

"Tliero is only 1'ime, merciful to every wound," he said,
l)ut lanitdy, and went his way.
Ihltn watched him stride down the avenue, and her heart
11

! 5

lC2

A LOST IDEAL

if .'t-

was tender to him, becauso of his simplicity, his true manhood,
his big loving heart. She did not really know how constaiuly
her image dwelt Avitli liim, how her marriage had changed his
views of life. She believed, ind(;ed, that he had loved her
after a fashion, with a steadfast aifection which had grown
with him from their childhood, not knowing she was the
})assion of his manhocjd, and that even yet, another man's wife
though she was, his whole soul clave to lu^r.

She was still thiidving of him when she returned to her
sister's room, and it seemed natural she should speak of him.

"Don't you thiid': ]>rian much imjjroved, Annie? I have
just been telling him that when I have to send for a doctor in
London, I shall be hard to please. I shall not be likely to linJ
another Brian Laidlaw."

"It's a pity you didn't find out his incom])arablo qualities
sooner, Helen," rejJied Mrs. Douglas in her most petulant
mood. "I am (piite tired of hiin, and I told him I should
make C»uy send to Eilinburgh for another doctor."

"Guy won't do it, Annie, even to please you, unless Brian
himself thinks it necessary, and he doesn't," re})lie(l Helen
quietly.

" Well, if I die, the consequences must be on all your heads,"
retorted the invalid shortly. " I've had a letter from Madam.
She returns to Teviothead to-day from Mentone, awfully dis-
appointed because she couldn't visit you in London. How
thankful you must be ! she is such a prying old thing."

Helen laughed. A woman who could express herself in
such energetic terms could not be so very weak after all ;
in(!"ed, none of them were wow seriously concerned about her,
and Brian had told Guy frankly that she might get up any day
that she had a mind. But Avhcn wouhl the mind conio?
There appeared no sign of it yet, sin; evidently regarded ]ier>olf
as in a most critical state.

"I wish you'd sit down, Helen, and let's have a decent talk.
You are so restless, you look as if you liad something on your
conscience. It's such a pity you don't have any childien. I
was saying so to Brian to-day."

A LOSl IDEAL

"There is plenty of time yet, Annie," said Helen meekly,
as she sat down at the window. "I am very well content as
I am."

"Oh, but you won't be lon<f eontent. Nobody is. AFarriei^
people ou^dit to have children. IJesides, as yoii are, you
;ire no good really to me. It is so disai>[iointing not to have
talks"—

" About babies r'

" Yes, of course. What else could we have talks about?"

"Not much, certainly, when one comes to think of it," said
Helen, much amusid. "Is it not because you can't pour out
all the advice you have been storing up for me?"

"How can you laugh so merrily, Helen, so soon after poor
jia})a's death?" cried Mrs. Douglas in keen re[»roa( h. "It
sounds so dreadfully heartless. I said to (luy this morning
t!iat I was ipiite sure 1 should never be happy again."

"Is that not rather hard on Guy?" incjuired Hehjn in a
very still voice, and with a curious look in her face.

"Hov'can it be? He knows liow fond I was of jjoor dear
pa})a ! It would be quite heartless of him to expect nu3 to be
as l)right and cheerfid as I used to be, and I must say I cannot
luilp wondering at you. Why, nolxnly, I believe, has once seen
yuu cry. What are you maile of ? "

Helen winced just slightly, and turned her face a little more
towards the window, from which she coukl see the church, and
even, under the spreading yew trees, the outline, under the
snow, of a new-made grave. There rested " all that was mortal,"
as the inscription ran, of Edward Lockhart, but the soul had
^'onc to its immortal home ; but it seemed to Helen at times
tliat the presence unseen still lingered to comf(trt those to whom
it had ever been an ins[)iration and a bencnliction.

"There is a danger, Annie," she began in a low voice, M'hich
liiul a far-off cadence in it, "ai)t to arise out of grief like ours,
and which we must guard ourselves against, the danger of
indulging too much in unavailing regret. It does no good to
the dead, and it is not kind to the living to wear always a
mournful face."

\ ,

164

A LOST J DEAL

"Oh, Ilflon Lo(^kliart, how awful it is to hear yon ! " crieil
Mrs. Douglas, pii.>]iin,L( back licr short fair curls with a fretful,
iiupatieut hand. "1 have always feared that London would
convert you into a dreadful kind of person — and now I know
it. Poor dear paj)a, to be forgotten so soon ! It is a mercy he
was taken. It would hnve grieved him so much to see how
you liave clianged."

ll(den coloured deeply, and her eyes filled with bitter tears.
IJut she smiled a faint, dreary smile as she turned her face to
her sister and tried to laason with her.

" Annie, you speak thoughtlessly too often. You would not
willingly hurt or wound anybody, I know — me least of all.
You . nd I do not see things from the same standpoint, and it
is better th;'' we should not argue. You do not think what
you are saying wlien you accuse me of disrespect to the darling
memory which is all that is left to us now. Papa understood
me, Annie, thougli you do not ; and I don't thiidv he had any
misgivings. Some day I shall show you a letter he wrote to
use the Friday night before he was taken, and then perhaps
you will understand what he was to me and I to him, and
how impossible it is that I can ever have in this world a more
precittus possession than his memory,"

It was seldom Helen spoke so much, or with such j)assion
Annie lay rpiiet under it, somewhat awed indeed ]jy the e\-
jM'ession on her sister's face. Helen, however, gave her no
opportunity just then to withdraw or modify her words. She
could not at the moment endure any more, and immediately
left the room. She caught up a cap and a shawl from the hall-
stand, and wont out into the grey stillness of the wintry
afternoon. I'he cold was less intense, the wind had fallen, and
a few stray flakes of snow fell tlunly through the silent air.
She took, as was natural in that moment of tension, the patii
by the river to the churchyard, and in less than ten miuutcs
stood, for the first time, beside her father's grave. Sh t had
not hitherto cared to visit it ; the place had Jio mespL*ge for
her, no comfort — it simply covered "all that was mortal." IJut
the stillness of the place, its hallowed associations, its many

.ge for
5 many

A LOST JJ)EAl

ir.:;

memories, s])oke to her heart, and her tt ars fell in LK'Ssed relief.
A prayer miiigletl with these tears, a passionate^ prayer wliicli
must have pierced tiie heavens. Slie was" now alone in the
world ; surrounded, it is true, hy those who called themselves
her friends, but to whom her soul was not revealed. IJut (Jod
was in heaven, and her father's spirit mi^jht yet return to
• aiide and comfort lier.

(

\ 1 1

■ I ;

11,

CnAPTER XXI

" Tlu! homo of nioniory
or huiicil hopes,"

J^^^^^S Helen crossed the jiark on her return, a carritai^'e
J9jfl/^ilk. drove up to the door of Broailyards. Slie
recognised the Teviothead livery, though slic
could not see tlie honest fa :e of John Hali-
burton, who had been in Madam's service since
she came a bride to Broadyards. She reached the dunr
in time to welcome the old lady when she stejjped from her
carriage.

"Dear me, Helen, is that you?" she said fussily. "And
where have ye Ijeen, mieht I ask, at this time in sic a
guise ? "

Helen pointed towards the churchyard, but did not speak.
Madam nodded silently, and turned to her coachman.

" I'll be half an hour exactly, John, so ye can dae what ye
think fit ; only be round here punctually at half-past four."
Then she followed Helen into the house.

"Will you go up now. Madam, or shall I tell Arniie first?
It is just possible she may be asleep. She often gets drowsy
after her early dinner, and sleeps till tea-time."

" Oh, there's nae hurry. Let me speak wi' you first, Helen,''
said Madam, and, laying down her fur mantle, motioned Helen
rather imperiously into the library. "Eh, lass! I'm wae for
you an' for the Dale," she saitl ; and Helen observed her hands
tremble as she spoke. "I huriied awa' whenever I heard it;

// LOST IDEAL

167

l)nt what have I hurried to? It would have set me better had
1 hidd(!M where I was."

"It wa.s a lon^' Journey to take in winter, when it was for
your healtli you went a])road, Maihuu," .said Ileh'n, and drew
in a chair for tlie okl huly, stirrinjj; tluf lire till it hla/'-.l merrily
in the grate. She liad knelt down on the liearthrug to do it,
and so remained, gazing into the fire. She felt nervous and
unstrung, and had not a word to say. Madam untied her
l)onnet-strings and threw them back on her shoulders ; then
took a long, deliberate survey of the woman on the hearth,
noting the slender, supple curves of the figure in the sombre
black gown, and the strong, sweet, serious outline of her face.

"Ye are thinner, Helen — much thinner. And hoo is it wi'
you, my lassie % "

The tenderness in the voice, usually somewhat harsh and
shrill, was more than Helen could bear, and she could only
give her head a quick shake and press her hands to her eyes to
keep back the willing tears. "Oh, ]\[adam, it is a sore loss;
we miss him so terribly. It is hiird to say God is good, even
though we know it is well with him."

" I thocht it needless mysel' to cut olf sic a life in its prime
—a life that has preached its sermon to us ilka day for so many
years. It may be we dinna think enough o' oor mercies ; but I
couldua but think the Lord micht hae lookit round first and
seen how sairly he was needit in the Dale." The quaint direct-
ness of her speech arrested Helen, and she looked for tn " first
time full into the beautiful, proud old face, to which sorrow
had given a mellowing touch.

" You also loved him, jNIadam," she said impulsively, and,
leaning forward, touched the white gemmed hands with
her li])s.

" I did. Had he but said the Avord, Helen Lockhart, I would
hae left Teviothead for Broadrule ^Manse any day in the week,
and thocht mysel' a favoured woman. That was the love I
had for him, Helen Lockhart, for twenty year and more ; but
he bade true to your motlier's memory, and he never thocht
what a foolish old woman abode at Teviothead. An' 1 sit here

1 68

A r.OST IDEAL

boforc! his ain (lochb^r t(^lliii' it, an' tliiiikiii' nac shame — aNwhv
sliould \% To liivc Kdwanl Lockliart was to love what was
,t,'oo(l, was it not, Jlflcn? Are ye. tliinkiii' shame for me, or
what?"

"Oil no, ]\ra(him," Hehni said; but lier fjice liad flushed
hotly. She leaned forward a second time and kissed Madam
on tli<> lips. Ai:d a quiver ran over Madam's face, and shi;
))rushv i sc thing from her eyes as if ashamed of her passinii;
weak n I

"Thei ^iier" what's past, Helen. ForL,'et what I hae said,
if ye can ; if no, ;'.inna think less o' me than you can helj*.
Now, come, tell me lirst, how is Mistress (Juy?"

"Imi)rovii.g," replied Helen, glad to ehango the subject.
" lUit she is very fretful and trying. I cann; so near losing my
temper witn her this afternoon that I had to run out of the
house. ]Iow little patience we have with each other, after all ! "

" Um ! that's so, I lookit in at IJroadrule as I pas.>^ed, and
was fortunate to find the doctors in. ]]rian says she's had
a serious turn, but mending fine. It v/as a disappointment
about the bairn, but, bless me! there'll be plenty bairns yet,
maylx; mair than they want. And there's my bonnie wee
]nan, very weel too, Brian says."

Helen smiled, thiidving of the precious child in the nursery,
who, since her coming to ]U'oadyards, had given to her the
needed sunshine every day.

" Guy is well, and a child who might make up for anything,"
she said, with a faint sigh. " I had better go, IMadam, had I not %
and tell Annie you have come. She is in that state, that if slu;
hears I have kept you here, she w-ill l)e very cross indeed."

"Oh, let her," said jNIadam, very coolly. "I'd rather talk
to you than to her any day, Helen, an' ye diuna gang a foot
till ye tell me something aboot yersel'. Are ye happy in
London, bairn, tell me that % "

" Yes, ^^adam, I am very hai)py."

■'' But ye hae found some things not to yer liking, I ccukl
wafjor," said Madam shrewdlv.

" Many things," replied Helen frankly. " But these should

•<j-

A rOST IDEAL

t(n)

not, and do not, nflVrt my li;i]i]iin('s><. Did yon licu' wlmt a
liaji|»y visit we liad fioin j»iii)a at Cliristnias?"

"I did. llu widto me once from your houst>. I'll si'o .
you the letter some day, Helen, when I think you need '♦.
I'ditlie was I to <,'et it, Helen, and l)litho am I to hear th.it
Richard Woodgate has proved hissel' lit to handle the; hlessin'
we, in the Dale, thocht he hadna earned or deserved. Now I'll
^fang n^) tlu.' stair; you can slip up first while I see my honnie
wee man ; an' if she's sleepin' dinna vvauken her. I can eonui
again the morn."

She rose u}) and moved majestically ? ^oss the floor, Helen's
eyes following her line ligure with a ;\e^ ind even a tender
interest. The woman who had lov< he "atiier silently for
twenty years! She was invested w a new grace and pathos,
and could never he uninteresting any m re to Helen's heart.

]\[rs. Douglas, being still aslee, vis not disturbed, and
having paid her respects and left hei very substantial Fren(!h
gifts in the nursery to delight the soul of her " wee man,"
Madam took her leave, i)romising to come again on the morrow.

She made John Haliburton sto[) the c;M'riage at the church,
and went into the churcln'ard, the second visitor that afternoon
to the new-made grave. She stayed but a minute, and when
she left, she was like a woman in sore distress, but kept her veil
down, half-ashamed that her old servant should see her unusual
tears. So Edward Lockhart had died in ignorance «)f ^Fadam's
feelings towards him, and none dreamed that the world was now
a changed world to the lonely mistress of Teviothead.

Brian came up again that evening after dinner, and Helen
took tho 0})portunity of asking him whether she need now
remain at Ih'oadyards, Madam having returned to tak(! her
place.

"There is no need. ^Irs. Douglas is really getting well
fast ; she will be al)le to get u}), I expect, on Sunday — if she
will," he added, with the smile Helen understood. " Vou have
been here a long time, Mrs. Woodgate, and I can (piite sympa-
thise with your desire to return home."

There was always now a certain formality in Ih-inn's speech

.■i>

*^.t:il

.«kW

A LOST iDE.ir

and niamicr wlu'ii he sjxikc ti» Helen, and Iw was Sfrupulously
observant idways of licr name. Hut it was irn|»(i.>^sil)le fur
Helen if) call him unytliini,' ]»iit I5iian, and siie had never
attemptod it,

"This is Tliiirsday ; I tliink I must ^'o lionn; on Saturdi.y.
I'll tell Annie to-nij^ht slu! must s[)aro mo ; hut, of course, if
she excites herself over it very much, I must just wait another
week or so."

"Oh, Ithiidv she will he reasonable nuw she has Madam.
How do you think the old lady lookin;,'? She feels our loss
most acutely, it is easy to see that."

" Yes, she does. I have never understood Madam till now,
1 Irian ; and I have often had hard thoughts of her, which 1
never shall have again. Don't we misjudge each other in this
world, and often don't discern it until it is too late 1 I shall
see you to-morrow, I suppose ? "

" I think not. 1 have to run in to Edinburgh to see a i)atient
I have in the infirmary, that is why I came thrice to-day."

" Then if I sliould go on Saturday, I may not see you again,"
said Helen, a trifle disapi)ointedly.

They were now in the hall, and Brian had opened the door.
A cool whill'of the snow-wind rushed in and milled Helen's
hair.

"Perhaps not, but I shall hear of your welfare from ^Irs.
Douglas," he said, and turned to her with outstretched hand.
Helen saw that he was moved, his eyes spoke what his lips
could not utter.

" Afay I say that I am glad you are so happy — I see it in
your face now — at the thought of going home 1 That is as it
should be. I thank God that the fears of those who loved you
have been }>roved without foundation. You will permit so
nuich from an old friend ? "

" I will, ]>rian ; I thank you for it," she said, and laid both
her hands on his. " I have many, many blessings ; none [
prize more highly than your friendship, Brian."

"I am glad of it— honoured by it, as I said before," he said,
and his blue eyes lost for a moment their bright keenness.

t ! !

A r.OST JPEAl

171

"T 1inj)e yon will never nred tlif In-lp (»f .1 friend ; T il<i ni't
think you will ; l»ut if tliat day ever eoines, 1 am ready.''

lie looked down Upon Ijer sweet/ fare from his tall heii^dit,
nml, moved l>y its exitression, hent and li.nhlly torched lier
hrow witii In's li|>s. Then he. went out into th' in'-^ht, and
Helen went hack to her room weeping', she -id not know why.

llel

en s

talk

ivnitr 01 uoiu-r

•nan.

salt

I I

Jroai

Ivard.'

as m

stood hvtho doctor's liorse in the .>«tal»le vard. "She's rc'idarlv
lioniesiek, anybody can sen; tliat. The thing's turned out
rather Ix'tter tlian either yon or I expected, old hoy,"

" Wliat thin^' ? " t|Ueried iSrian va^aiely, for Helen's face was
l»eforo liim, and his heart was rent with u fierce jiain In^ s(;arcely
knew liow to endure.

"Why, her marriage. Thoy seem hajjpy together, ^fr.
Lock')art said so, yon \now, when he came home, and now I am
sure there is no (h)ul)t ahoiit it."

"Oh no; I think not. Good-nij'ht, C

"y»

sail

I J'.ri

in, an*

as he rode away his hand tremhled on Dob's bridle, and he salil
under his breath, "Thank God ! thank God!"

CITAPTKR XXTT

hliist, tliilic (illicc do !

bent Upon tlicir t'uccs,

"Arc you not i,'oiiig to Itcutciiseo tin's sinin^', Hilda?"
Helen \\'oo(l^i;ate asked.

" I think not. (liustav is now at tlu; academy at Krlan.ncn,
and what is ]ieutensce without the hoy? though I helieve the
old lady would be pleased to see nie. I have not made any
plans at all, but the Count has |)r()mised that I shall have
(iustav part of iIk; tinu' with nu.' when he has his holidays."

" In Kngland? " in([uire(l llehiu, with interest.

"Oh no; in (lermany — at leaden, if 1 like, or elsewliere.
No, no; the Count hates England and the Knglish too
heartily, he will never ])ei'mit (Justav to set foot here so
long as he is under his coiitiol. "What are your plans for
the sunnncr ? Coidd you not join us abroad? IVrhaps Mr.
AVoodgate will sj)arc you while he goes to Norway with
]largreaves, as 1 havi' heard talked of."

" Perhaps," said Helen, a little absently. "Don't you think
Richard seems very unsettled of latt', Hilda? He is bitterly
disappointed over his book."

172

•/ /.OSr IDI'.Al.

I ■• '

"ITo is, l)iit it. will not hiirm him, my <li'iir," said tlic Cuuiito,<«
li^'litly. " lit' lias liail l>ut little ailvrrsc criticism in his ciinM'r
t'Xi;oj)t from thn mnrt' candid among his friends. Don't fret
tihont him, it will ilo him j^'ood."

Helen said nothing, l>eca\iso in truth slie wa^ fretting a
good deal. Jiriuirliihh' had not achieved that success fondly
anticipated hy its luithor, hut had lallen rather Hat, having
positively been ignored in certain (piarters where recognition
was most imoortant. The general verdict, calmly exjiress«'d,
was that it d »l not eipial its ]trcde(;essor, and that Woodgate
had not fultilled his early promise.

Woodgate was very angry, and ascrilxMl (>vevy description of
mean motives to those who had expi'cssed an ailverse oj»inion.
lie was so vain a man that fair critieism was lost upon him ;
his assumption hail disgusted many, and j)erhaps it was the
case that more than one had enjoycMl pickiuLT tlu' new ])ook to
j>ieces simply hccausi! it was Woodgate 's. These unl'avourahle
notices which s(» maddened Wood; . , hurt IlohfU also, though
in a (liflerent way, because she was forced to admit that they
contained so much that was true.

"1 advised him, nay, urged him, not to }mhlish just now,"
said the Countess, noticing Helen's absent manner. "The
thing Avas slipshod and sketchy, altogether unworthy of him ;
and to "" the way he is beliaving now, puts me out of all
l)atience. What he ought to d(j now is to set to work on
something that will refute all their croakings. Have you not
advised him?"

"He will not be advised by me on that point," said Hi.'len
sidly. " It irritates liim, apjtarently, that I .should take any
interest in it. And yc^t, how can I help it? It is a constant
Weight upon my soul, this thought that he may have done his
Ix.'st work — and he is only thirty-one."

Hilda von Keutensee stole a glance at Ler companioi s face,
wondering at the passion in her voice.

"Do you remember what I said to you at Florence, Helen,
that suffering is the crown of genius'? When he lias suffered,
then, perhaps, he will write what will make his name immortal.

i\\

i inmm m' •

OSTH"

174

A LOST IDEAL

rj'.TBR?JB:^

He has all upon wliich liis licart is set at present, and is asleep.
Some day a <,'reat sorrow will come to him, and then lie will
awake, never to sleep a;^'ain. "

])Oth were silent, thinking; over such a i)ossibility, whieli,
however, at the moment seemed remote.

"You sjxike of poverty too, Hilda, at that time, T rememh(;r;
Imt I have lu'ard them say in our house that it f,'rinds tlie souls
of men to the very dust. .Mrs. (larhutt has told me, too, of
the terrihk' elleet it had o»i her husband's ^^enius. They must
have suflered awfully. 8he says sometimes they had not bread
to eat."

"That is quite true; they were in that condition wheu T
found them iirst," said the (Countess eahnly. " JUit that was
entirely poor fhirbutt's fault. He had a fixed income; not a
lar^'e one of course, still in thrifty hands it might have sufliccd.
They iiadn't an idea between them, my d(!ar, nor had GarbutI a
scrap of genius. He was a fraud; but I must say that odd
little woman, who has her good j)oints, though she is far from
lovable, seems to believe in him imi)licitly, and talks of him
even to me as one of the unai)preciated martyrs of whom the
world was not worthy."

"I cannot understand it. Such self-deception would h(>
imj)ossible to me," said H(den, with a frankness which revealed
more than she intended.

"I know; you look through clear eyes which nothing can
d(H'eive. A sham or a lie is killed by such a look. You must
sutfer more as you go through life, but you will have a rare
satisfaction in what passes the bar of your judgment. I predict
that you, and you alone, will make your husband great. It
may be a long and arduous task ; but you are lit, and when it
is accomplished, you will feel Kke a queen."

Helen's face flushed, and her eyes shone as they had done
when Hargreaves paid her a somewhat similar compliment.

" You are very good, and I know you are sincere," she replic<l
simply, "only I cannot realise it. I have not sulHcient con-
fidence in myself. Often, indeed, I fear lest I should have
exercised already some deteriorating iniluence upon my husband.

A LOST IDEAL

175

It is certain I do luttshan; his work. To return to the question
of money. It is less likely than ever that Richard uill ever
know the meaning of the sordid care lie tliinks so fatal to
endeavour. I have inherited a small fortune from my fatluM* ;
and though I do not exactly know the extent of Richard's
means, I know that he has plenty."

"Riches have heen known to take to themselves wind's,"
said the Countess. "I heiicve that the hcst thin^f that could
hai)pen to him would be to lind himself compelled to earn his
daily l)read."

Helen did not now resent Hilda von Reutensee's frankly
expressed opinion ; she had, in a manner, laid aside th(! veil of
her own leticence regarding her hushand, In-cause her consum-
ing anxiety found relief in s[)eech to tliis woman whom she
truly loved, and in whose loyalty to herself she absolutely
l)elieved. Their friendship, though not of long standing, had
heen mo^t satisfying and profitable to both. From the siMi[)le,
pure fountain of Il'deii Woodgate's goodness, Hilda, von
Reutensee had taken many refreshing draughts ; contact with
a soul at once so strong, gentle, and womanly, had given to her
a fresh glim[)se of the nobility of human nature ; and she loved
her with a devotion which astonished herself. To Helen the
comianionship, at a critical period of her life, of a woman of
the world, who had such experience as nnist either harden or
einioble, had })roved invaluable. Slie had come to London a
child in many things, steeped to the lips in simple country
faiths, and disillusionment had l)een hard. Hilda von Reutensee
had softened it for her, exj»laining apparent anomalies, and
making rough places plain ; apjilying her gay wisdom to tiie
contradictions of human nature which so puzzled arid perplexe<l
Woodgate's wife. The unreality, the soidid and almost
universal self-seeking of the circle in which they moved, had
sunk into Helen's soul, filling it 'with })ity and a vague dis-
trust. Hilda von Reutensee had tried to <'xplain to her that
such self-seeking was inevitable amid>t the, overcrowding, the
fearful com])etition, the bitter struggle for existence, which is
ijowl'.ere more keenly felt than among the aspirants who find

I 76

A LOST IDEAL

I-,

new OruL Street scarcely less luird than tli<' old. "Woodgatn
rej^^arded soniewliat impatiently this close frieiidslii[) hetwuen
his wife and the woman he would have married in preference
had circumstances permitted. Jt irritated him at times, because
it was made evident to him that whatever interest the Countess
had once felt in his jirosijccts and career, it was now absolutely
transferred to Helen, and that she only looked at him throujdi
Helen's eyes.

It was some time befvnx; he would admit this, and he regarded
their friendship with cynicism, alfecting to l)elieve that it was
impossible for two women to regard each other with a dis-
interested affection. They saw a great deal of each other, and
had even now come to Ih'ighton together to sj)end a little
holiday, though there were some wjio, knowing the past,
wondcM'cd that Helen AVoodgate should so constantly throw her
husband and the woman he had loved together. Then, you see,
she knew nothing of the past; and she was not a woman to
Avhom any dared drop a hint of what had been. Perhaps, then,
the Countess was to blame ; but she believed all danger past.
8he knew that Woodgate had once loved her, or imagined that
he did, though she had never allowed him to show it. She had
ke})t him at arms' length, always, and had little to reproach
herself with, certainly nothing since his marriage. She had
marked the dilference, and defined their relationship v.'ith the
consummate skill of an exceedingly clever woman. 8he loved
Helen dearly, and prized her friendship above everything on
earth, save her boy's love ; and she imagined that she might
keej) it — even with her friend's husband in the background,
tiresomely remembering the days that had been.

Strong and absolutely true Inu'self, slie f(»rgot the -weakness
of AVoodiJi-ate's moral nature. So for twelve months the little
comedy, which many watched with varying interest, played on
till it reached the Rubicon, and tragedy took its place.

"I wish you would not wear so serious an air," she said,
L)oking at the strong, jrave outline of the womanly face by In r
sidv\ '^I do think you lay things too nnich to hearii. You,
v/iio have so much faith in the highcu" I^ower, should be content

A LOST IDEAL

'^7

liiul
roai'li

luul
tlu'

(J veil
ig on

uiiul,

<;uoss

little

id on

saitl,
^y li'T

You,
Intent

to uait. Snniconc lias said, I think, that overythinff comes to
thos(; who wait."

"Yes, only at tinios it is hard to realise that. I do feel
curiously dei)rossed to-day, and I ouj.(ht not in this tin(3 hracin^'
air within sight of the sea. I>ut it always d(»es mo good to
talk to you. What a tower of strength yon have hcen to me,
during the last six months ! I can never forget it or he grateful
rnough to you."

Under pretence of drawing her furs more closi-ly ahout her
neck, lEilda von Keutensce jiressed Ikm* hand to lier trend)ling
li[)s. Her fac^^ heautiful and haughty, was invested witli a
tenderness which none hut her hoy had ever seen upon it.

" Hush, huvsh ! It is I who ought to he grateful, and 1 am.
\o\\ have made me a better woman, more lit to he a mother to
my son. Sonu3 day I will tell Gustav what you have hcen to mt;,
and he will then reverence you as he has already hegun to do.
I only wish there were more women like you in London, in tlui
society among which we move — there would h(! less tragedy,
less heartbreak ; but you may leaven the mass. Tliere is
nothing impossible to you with those eyes, clear as CJod's own
heaven. Y^ou have strengthened many already, and will
strengthen many more. I know what I am saying. AYith so
much in your power, you should not dare to desjjond,"

Helen long remembered those words, the last before their

communion suffered so terrible an interruption. The story was

commoni)lace in every detail, such as can be read any day in

the newspapers ; but as it happened, so it must be told. They

were staying at one of the great hotels on the sea front, and

shared a large drawing-room facing the sea. An inner room,

which Woodgate used as a stu.ly, communicated with it by

folding doors. The day after her talk on the pier with the

Countess, Helen had occasion to go to town to see the family

lawyer on some business connected with the winding-up of her

father's estate. Woodgate ollered to accompany her, but she

did not think it necessary, and arranged to return by the six

o'clock train. As it happened, tlie busine^^s was not complicated,

and was settled in ample time to allo^v of her return early in

'78

A LOST IDEAL

the afternoon. She was tired, and looked forward to an hour's
rest before dinner. On inquiring for her husband at the hotel,
she was informed tliat he and tlie Countess had gone out
together after kmcheon. Smiling to herself, ind glad that they
should not have missed her, she went, before going to her own
room, to the study, to write a few lines to her sister. She had
only headed the sheet when she heard the drawing-room dooi
open and tlie sound of familiar voices. She was about to
rise and surj Ise them when she was arrested by something
Woodgate said. The words did not signify much ; it was the
subdued passion in his voice whicli struck Helen and made her
feel powerless to move.

"Don't ring yet!" he said. "You have left me where I
was. What do you moan by saying that I ha J never deserved
success, and now less than ever?"

It was a theme in which Helen was intensely interested ; she
paused in silence fo'' the reply, scarcely realising at the moment
that she was listening to what wis not intend.od for her ears.
The next moment it became impossible for her to reveal herself.

"Why assume such a tragic manner?" the Countess asked,
with a sarcastic and lan.L'uid note in her voice. "It is not the
first time I ''ave bidiit^:! , u be worthier of the noble woman
you have married. S:;^ is even harder to please than I, and it
ought to be your highest endeavour to reach the height she
desires and ex})ects you to reach."

Woodgate made a gesture of impatient dissent. Helen felt it
though she could not see it, and her heart seemed to die within her.

" You ought to be the last, the very last, to speak so to me,"
he said harshly.

"Why?"

Very coolly Hilda von Reutensee put the question, not quite
comprehending his meaning indeed, and very weary of his con-
stant harp:ng on one selfish string.

" Because you are the only inspiration I own, or have ever
owned," he replied. "To make ray work worthy your accept-
ance is all I care for, or have ever cared for, and you know it^
What is she to me?"

CHAPTER XX! II

"And thorewith such an agnnv did rend
Her body and soul, tli '' ali Jiings she forgat
Amidst of it."

hinlier.
bo me,"

USH ! "

Clear, sharp, incisiw*r m a laBce-tbriist, Hilda
v<»ii KeutenF"e's voi<'e iwok** i^n u|»on the torrent
of his wcrds, and Hele«, »ittii«^ tchirul the lidd-
ing doors, hoanl the fiwtfe «i Wr ,:ariM<Mits a« she
pjjrang to her feet.

"I will not hash — I will spt-ak !" the man ■»^plied, pll^^'/mg
the flood-tide of his passion vent. " I love yitu wit) ,i mad
love, which is my ruin. If I had married you, there is notliing
I could not have achieved, and you know it too well. As it
is, life is bitter to me as Dead Sea fruit.

"It was your own doing. Why oh, why, did you do her so
irreparable a wrong?"

Her voice was shrill with her intolerable anguish. It was of
Helen, of Helen alone, she thought.

"I was in a manner bound," he said gloomily. "I had to
make some return for their long kindness, and there was no
other way."

"None but that? Heaven, these are tiie tender mercies

of men ! Do you know that to such ■ wotiman it would have

Itoen a greater kindness to have killed .ler? God forgi\e you,

and be merciful to her ! "

There was a moments strained and dr'^adful siien'«\ Tikeu

179

fSo

./ LOST IDEAL

\\ p^

the Countess spokii iigaiii more (luietly, yet with a nuto of
despair in lier voice.

" r pass over the insult you have ofrered to nie to-(hiy, an
insult 1 lia\(' not (h'sevved. I ])ass it o\'er for iier sake, ^'oii
know, none better, ]\i('liar<l AVood^ate, tliat 1 liave picver
encourage(l you to care for me in that way, that I liave hi en
true to myself always, tliat I have never forL;(»lten 1 am anotlier
man's wifc^ and tliat I have a »on wlio ])eli(,'ves in and loves liis
motlier. 1 liave had a hard life, isolated always fr(,m my own
sex, exposed to temptalion which »)tiier women, as good as i
am, have not heen ahlc to withstand. 1 have made some
mistakes: one of them was to imagine I might make a frieml
of you. 1 have f(dt kindly towards you, 1 will not deny. I
have been int(;resteil in your career, as I have been interesteil
in a liundred others, but iinthing more, .^s for you, I knew
your weakness, that you longed for the adoi'ation of every
woman you knew, and lai<l y(»urself out to win it; but you did
not win mine. 1 trembled when 1 heard you had marii(!d —
trembled for her. lUit when 1 saw her 1 took coorauc, and
said to myself, She will make r» man of him. No; be still.
Hear nu* to the end. It is my last word, and say it I will.
You arc baser, more hopeless than I thought, sincie the constant
ccmpanionship of a soul scarcely .<it for contact with this
miserable world has failed to work in you the smallest good.
You ay you lo' e me. Ia) you know that in saying that you
have taken from me what is dearer to me than anything in this
world except my boy — her friendsliip? I must now pass «iiit
of your life and hers for ever, and before I go I would pray
you t< try to be worthier of her— to seek to atone by lifelong
devotion t^' her for what you have done this day."

Agaiii Helen heard tae swift rustle of her skirts and the
o}ten Mg and shutting of the door. She sat in silence, her
(dhow.-- on the writing-table, her eyes staring straight before her,
chaos in her soul. At any moment her husband might throw
open the door and there find her, but she felt powerless to
m< ve. In a few minutes he also left the room, and Helen sal
etill; how long or Uoav short a time she could not teU, At la.-;!

aga

lie

.le.

liini

her,

face;

iinni

ih'av

lin;

h.ilK

hcsii

Woi

hail'

the

thuu

haiu

ill

A LOST IDEAL

.<?!

slic herself rns(», ^iitlicrcd licr writing iiiatevi.ils tn^'etliei',
sliuttin,L^f tlic uiiliiiislnMl sheet iiilo her ease, aii<l went upstairs.
Ahsoliitely foi' llif iiioiiieiit slie did iidl know wliat to (h». It
was now tiv(; o'clock, in her room, at tiie other end of the
corridor, the Countess was sittinL,^ trying' to write c> leiter to
account for lier iinniediate departure from IJri^hton ; while in
the dressing-room lier maid, in no small surprises, was [)ackin<4
lier trunks. W, the half-hour she had left the hotel. Ahout
the same hour, when Hilda von Keutensee's eyes were turned
ill the mute anguish of farewell towards hei windows, Helen
came to hei'self and suddeidy took her resolve. She had no
maid to aid her, hut she needed none. Her })r(;parations were
not elahorate, nor would she l)urden herself with anything that
was not absolutely necessary. Her life being over, as she
liiought, she had no further use for the dainty garments, the
elegant trifles, which in luipi»y days she had loved and worn.
Her dressing-bag, the marriage gift of an old fi'iend in the Dale,
sulliced to carry the few things indispensable meanwhile till
she had further planned. Having awakened to the fact that
her husband had repudiated her, had no further neetl of her,
lier sole idea was to get away at once from any possibility of
again looking on his face. Having packed her bag, put on her
rich but plain travelling-cloak and her bonnet, all part of the
deep mourning she still wore for her father, she stood still a
moment in the middle of the room, looking perplexedly about
her, as if wondering whetluu' anything had been forgotten. Her
face wore a scared, troubled look, her eyes were dazed, h(;r
mouth hard, stern, most pitifully drawn. She had begun to
draw on her leftdiand glove, when she suddenly observed hei'
lings. Very deliberately she took them all oil", laid the broad
band of her wedding ring and its handsome diamond keipei-
beside it on the dressing-table. Then she replaced her mother's
wurn wedding ring and the mourning ring containing her father's
liair side by side on the third lingei-, put on her gloves, and left
the room. She met no one in the corridor or on the stairs,
though a curious chamber-maid, seeing her go down bag in
hand, called the attention of a neighbour to the fact. She

[j"fy:*««"'-

182

A LOST IDEAL

passed out of the liall also without a word of explanation to th«
porter, though he looked after her curiously too, and seemed on
the point of speaking. As she passed on, however, he looked
at the clock, and ohserved that it was a (piarter to six.

Ahout seven Woodgate returned to the hotel. He looked
ill, and in his eyes there was a furtive uneasiness. The
situation he felt to be awkward in the extreme, and he did not
know how to face it. The porter, shrewd and suspicious after
the manner of his kind, regarded him with curiosity also,
feeling intuitively that something had gone wrong.

" na''< ^Irs. AV^oodgate returned from town, do you know?"
"VVoodgfite iiupiired, with an assum[)tion of carelessness which
did not in the least deceive the person addressed.

" Yes, sir. Mrs. Woodgate returned by the four o'clock.
She went out again at a quarter to six, carrying her dressing
bag."

"Left any message'?" inquired Woodgate, and he could not
help his face reddening.

"Xo, sir, none. The Countess went to town by the five
thiity-five, taking her maid and her luggage. That is all, sir.
She said she had been unexpectedly called away."

" I knew that ; but Mrs. Woodgate returned at four o'clock,
you say. I was in the house th(^n, Ho\v did I not see her?"

"Couldn't say, sir," rej/lied the mar, with a peculiar grin,
feeling more and more convinced that something was u}),
" Perhaps madame may have lef c some message with the
chamber-maid."

Woodgate nodded, and walked upstairs. The most horrible
suspicions were awakened in him, and yet it seemed utterly
unlikely that the Countess should have revealed to Helen the
incident of the afternoon. That Helen might have overheard
did not occur to him.

He met the chamber-maid in the corridor. She had been in
the room Helen had just left, taking an inventory of things for
herself. Bu^ .• h Lad not learned much ; the rings lying on the
table had n deemed of special significance to her, though she
had wondered a little at the lady's unusual carelessness.

A LOST WEAL

183

**Did Mrs. W(joJf,'Hto say to you where she was goiii^' or
wlien she would return." he inquired, stoitping her as she
respectfully glided past.

"No, sir, she said nothing to me."

"Did she have any tea when she returned^"

"No, sir. I asked her, but she said she would take tea with
you and the otlier lady when you returned, and she went down
to tlie anteroom then to write some letters."

" The anteroom ? " repeated AN'oodgate vaguely. " Do you
mean the room behind our drawing-room'?"

" Yes, sir."

" What time would it be when she went there % "

"About ten minutes past four, sir, and she came upstairs
before five. She seemed very tired, sir, and I thought would
go to lie down."

" Very probably," replied AVoodgate steadily, and, i)assing
the girl, entered the room and shut the door. The explanation
was before him in all its simplicity. Helen had heard, and had
gone away. The moment he entered the room, his eye was
arrested by the gleam of the rings on the table. He took them
up and looked at them with a curious twitching of the mouth.
There they were, the pretty baubles — mutely ollfering him
their message — a last farewell. It was an awful moment for
the man, the complete wreck of all most men hold dear. I do
him the justice to admit that his first thought was not of him-
self, but of her, of the wt^man from whom he had taken all, to
whom given nothing. He glanced round the room, standing as
Helen had stood little more than an hour ago ; and, when he
saw the open door of the wardrobe, t lie signs of hasty packing,
sank down upon a chair, completely overcome. His remorse,
his self-reproach were more than he could bear. The more ho
thought of Helen, the more intoleraljle did his thoughts bec(jnie.
If she had, as was, he feared, too evident, overheard the words
he had addressed in a moment of passion to the Countess, then
all was over. A bitter experience for any wife, it was one he
felt sure which his wife would never forg: .'e. Her own purity
and uprightness of soul were so absolute and unsullied, that

/ (

iF4

W /.C).S/' IDE \L

Aw \v<iulil look iiiKiii liis disloyalty iis too ])la(k for iiiiLjlit liiit
utter <;oii(li'innatioii. I'lvcii Ikt love woiiM he slain l>y it, so lie
bitterly told Iniaself; and what remained f(»r jdni or for her?
lie cursed the weak folly l)y whieh in one dark nioniunt he liad
lost his wife and his friend.

H(! roused liiniself })y and by, and began to wonder what he
should do. lie eould think of nothing but his wife, and in his
own mind he had no ih)u])t of the course she. had taken. He
believed tliat she was ah'eady in London, awiuting the de[)arture
of the Scotch night train. lie rose from liis chair, began with
a curious nervous haste t(j put the things scattered about the
room into the wardrobe, which he locked and put the key in
his pocket. Then he put the two rings in the inner pocket of
his letter-case and went downstairs.

" r am going up to town for the niglit," he said to the portei.
" iMy wife has been suddenly called away. I do not know
when we shall be back. IMeanwhile, I keep the rooms, and
have left all our belongings in tliem. You will hear from me
when to ex[)ect us back — or where to send our luggage if we
should be unable to return."

lie gave the man a sovereign, and stei)ped into the hansom
at the door. lie had to wait some time at the station, and
'vhen he reached Victoria, it was live minutes to ten o'clock.
The Scotch train h,'ft Euston at 10.30; he liad not much more
than time to drive from one station to another, but he was
in time, lie went from one end of the train to the other,
scanning each compartment without the smallest hesitation,
but failed to find his wife or any trace of her. He stood on
the i)latform till it steamed out of the station, then he
turned on his heel and walked away, a miserable, fear-haunteij
man. What to do next was the proljlem. The house at
llampstead was ojx'U, the servants during the ab.^ence of their
mistress beijig busy with the spring cleaning. He could not
go there ; the idea of the desolate, memory-haunted house was
hateful to him. He sauntered out, with his hat drawn over
his brows, into the liiiht and bustle of Euston Koad, and Icjoked
about him dazedly as if uncertain how or where to turn.

1 I ■

A LOST IPEAl.

'«5

" Iliiusdiii, sir? " saitl ii <';iliiniiii siii^'.^'cstivcly, drawiiiLj up nt
til'' k('r))st()iic ill limit <>|' hini. \Vn(MlL,'iit(f lodknl iclicvfil,
JuiniM'd ill, iiiid ^Mvo the mldit'ss <tt' Iliir^rcavcs in Arundel
Strt't't. He li'dkcd out as tlirv turned in oil' the Stiaiid and
saw a li^^dit burning' in the juiinialist's wimUiw, imlieatin^' that
he was at home, which was not usual at that hour. \Voo(l;^Mte
went somewhat slowly upstairs, knocked heavily at the d(»or,
and i'ollowe(l hard uiioii his knock without waitiiiL; an in-
vitation. Ilai'i^'reaves was at work amid the usual litter of
untiiliness, the atmosphere, as usual, thick with tohaiteo smok(!.

" \V(Jod^Mte ! AVhy, bless my soul, I thou,L,dit you wen^ at
l>ri,i;htun," ho said, jum]>iii,i,' uji. "What are you diin^' here
at eleven o'clock at night, and — liut, man alive, sometliinj,''.s
up! What is it?"

"I've pliiyed the very devil this afternoon, TFargreaves, with
everything. It's all uj) — I tell you, all up. hou't look at
me like thiit."

The strain of the last four hours was now beginning to tell
on Woodgate, and he became momentarily more excited,
llargreaves stared at him apprehensively for a full minute,
not sure whether Woodgate had not gone oil" his head.

" I've got sometliing to finish here, old chai» ; it's my chronic
state," he said, trying to s})eak unconcernedly, " Take a chair,
and keep cool for ten minutes. I won't be longer than that."

IJut the look of blank misery ami despair on tlu; face; of the
man before him arrested him, and [)Ut all thoughts of work out
of his head. That something serious had hai»pened was very
evident, for Woodgate was ordinarily the coolest of human
beings.

Woodgate took out his letter-ca.se, opened it, and laid the
two rings on the table, where tlu^y made a little Hash of light.

"Do you see them ?" he .said. "That's all I've got left of
the woman I called my wife."

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

^ A.

/./ ' .*'>.'^

1.0

I.I

11.25

128

y£

■ 2.2

~ 13.6 liM

2.0

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III

Photographic

Sciences

Corporation

23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716) 872-4S03

■^

'«»":^^

•■9,^

CHAPTER XXIV

I' :

" So soon men's passion passes ! yea, it sinks
Like foam into tlie troubled wave that bore it.**

ARGREAVES only stared.

" Wliat on eartli do you mean ? " he s^ammered
at length,

*• What I'm saying. My wife has left me.
Heaven only knows where she is."
"But the cause?" said Ilargreaves excitedly. "Why has
she left you? What have you done to her?"
Woodgate got up and began to pace the room.
"Oh, it's a commonplace story, Harry. Can't you guess?"
Hargreaves may have had some faint idea, b it he would not
express it. After a minute or so Woodgate briefly related the
occurrence of the afternoon, and turned to his friend for his
opinion.

"I suppose you'll say I'm a brute and a cad," he said
gloomily. " But there's something to be said on my side
too."

" You're worse than either. You're a fool, Dick, and no
man has a light to be a fool. Man, don't you kjiow what
you've thrown away, a pearl beyond all price? There isn't
her like in all London. I have never met a woman half so
noble, so womanly, so truly good."

" That's what's the matter with her. She's too good," said
Woodgate, gloomily stilL ''Fact is, Hargreaves, chaps like us,

ISC

A LOST IDEAL

187

accustomed to all sorts and conditions of women, are not fit
mates for an^'els, and the experinient is sure to fail."

Ilargreaves' exi>ression chanji;ed. A tine contenijit curled
his mouth, an honest indignation flashed in his iionest eye.

"Don't make yourself any more contemptible than you can
helj)," he said quickly. " I feel inclined at this numient to
kick you downstairs; it would relieve my feelings and do you
no harm. There is no use commenting any more on this
miserable affair. What we've got to do is to find Mrs. Wood-
gate. Did it occur to you to go to the Scotch train ? "

"I've just come from Euston. She didn't go by it; but,
Ilargreaves, suj>t»oso we found her at this moment, what then?
Do you think she'd come back?"

" I don't know. No man can take his affidavit on a
woman's acti(m ; but anyhow, aren't you anxious about her?"

Wooilgute had grown much calmer, and already the thing
was assuming a different aspect in his eyes.

"I'm not concerned regarding her immediate safety, if you
mean that. She is not a person to do anything rashly, and
.she has plenty of money. But I wouhl wish to avoid a
scandal in these beastly newspapers if possible, and I think
she would be of the same mind. She has always had a slavish
fear of j)ublic comment on the private life of individuals. I
know that, and it is my only chance."

" If that is your only one, you may let it go after the rest,"
said Hargreaves, his lip curling again. " In a crisis like this
I am sure such a consideration would weigh less than nothing
with her. Well, what are you going to do?'

" I don't know — must wait till to-morrow now," said Wood-
i^'ute, a trifle forlornly. *' You see it's near midnight. What
would you advise ? "

"I'm not in a position to advise anything. When a man's
• hum acts in such a totally unexpected and confounc'edly
brutal manner, it throws a man on his beam ends. What did
you marry her for ? "

Woodgate impatiently shook his head. " AVhat do half
the fellows marry for, Hargreaves? Because they want to

1.S8

A LOST IDEAL

, .'

\,\

|i*lr:;l

settle <li)W!i, and llicy think tlic nin- tlicy have clioscii will d.
credit ti» their taste;. I dun't claiiii tn he any hetter than my
iiei,i;hli(>ni's."

irar^'reaves thrust his enijity pipe siivaj^'cly into his mouth,
^'othin^f was to he got hy (juairellini,' with \Vood<,'ate, hut
never ha<l the honest soul Iteen so tem[)ted to lay hands on a
man hcfore.

"1 don't know what you're made of, Dick; and I don't
want to know. You've talked a lot sine(! you canu' into this
room, and you never h't a word of sympathy or eompassioM
for the unliapi>y woman you have so hitterly wronged fall from
your lips."

Woodgate wincetl. He was far from feeling as callous as he
appeared ; it was remorse, indeed, that gave the sting to his
bitterest words. l*ut he was reserved, secretive to a degree? ;
no man could say he had seen into Woodgat(.''s heart. At
hottom he was capalile of deep and strong feeling, and he was
at that moment tpiite as uidiappy as he deserved to be.

"There's no use, talking here, 1 suppose," he said, picking
up Ills hat. " I'll go round to the Metropole for the night.
Walk with me?"

"No, not to-night; I've got work to do, and that's midnight
rijiging," said Hargreaves coldly.

"All right, good-night. I'll look round in the morning.
Don't go back on nie entirely for this, Harry, and try to think
I have a redeeming virtue left."

Hargreaves allowed him to go without saying another word,
and he sat down Mith his empty pipe still in his mouth, like
a person stunned. He opened the window by and by, and put
his head out. It was a iino mild evening, the sky soft and
lovely, daj)p]ing round the rising moon in soft masses; the stars
shining steadily in the little rifts, like so many w-itchful eyes.
Hargreaves was much upset. He had witnessed many sliiji-
wrecks on the sea of Loudon life, had seen the swamping of
many a matrinu)nial barque, but none had ever moved him like
this. He felt a personal interest in it, the three being known
to him so well. But it was upon Helen Woodgate his thoughts

./ I.Oi^T ID/: A/.

189

«l\vrlt most lin^'criiij^ly imd |»;uiifiilly ; Ik- fdf as if tlii! wrong
liiul l»o(»n done tu !i dear sister of his own. II" had not seen
licr many times, lad tlicsc liad sulliccd to naiso in liini a tender
and chivalrous rc^'ard towards the woman wlio sccmiMl to him
to stand n|H»n a pcth'stal, to look at life from the loftiest heii^dd,
— throu;.^h eyes that brooked no wr<in|L( heeanse they had never
known it. The action of the otlu'r woman, on whose; loyalty
Ik; coidd iiave stakeil his life, he could not compndiend. lie
simjtly <lid not understand it, and he told himself that if t(»
talk with her fac(; to facf hefore the close (»f another day woidd
help him to a hotter understanding', it should he done. With
\Vood;^Mte, he was simply and unfei;^qiedly an^'ry ; he could
scarcely think of him and keep calm. If the. work Ilar^Mvavis
had in hand were pressing', it was shamelessly ne^dected. lb-
sat by the open window till the bed! of St. (Element I >anes ran;^'
two; then he closed it, lit his pipe, and continued to thiidv of
Helen Wood^Mte, of her alone. lie was a man of the nicest
discrimination, possessing a knowletj^fc! of human and of
feminine nature most accurate and ddicatc!. lb; couhl follow
in thought th«' very workings of Jlcdiui's mind, and even
shared the intolerabh; and righteou.s indignation in her heart.
She had no ])art with complaisant wives who view such devia-
ti<ms on tiie part of their sjtouses with jihilosctphy, and wlio.s<!
gospel is to avoid o])en scandal at any price ; she had given herself
absolutely ; all or nothing, was her creed. Therefore the shock
must have been terrific, the awakening most cruel. The mere
dwelling upon it banishetl sleep from the eyes of Ilargreaves,
and the dawn found him lying on the hard c(mch, with
his arms under his head, thiidving still. Woodgatc in his
luxruious bedroom at the Metro]iole fared better; although his
heart was heavy, sleej) did not refuse to visit him, and ho
awoke in surprise to see the sunshine lying across his l)ed.

Before breakfast Ilargreaves finished his neglected task, then
had his bath, breakfaste<1, and went out. He ha<l no sort of
hesitation about his destination or his errand ; he turned his
face westward, walking all the way, ami reached Park Lane
ItL'furo eleven o'clock, not knowing whether ho should find the

' 1

i ■

I
1

r I

I :,

«r^

190

A LOST IDEAL

Countess tho^-c, but if he should, determined not to leave
without seeijig her.

The man-servant looked at him, and shook his head.
" Yes, my mistress is here, sir, and downstairs, but she will
not see anyb(»dy to-day. These is my borders, sir, very
peremptory."

"Take her my name, my man, and say it is most important,"
said Ilart^reaves.

The man asked him to walk in, and did as he was bid. In
a fow minutes he returned to the hall, and recjuested TIarfjreaves
to walk into the library, as his mistress would come to him
presently. Hargreaves was not elated, but felt cahnly satisfied.
Had the Countess absolutely refused to see him, he f(dt that
nuitters would be eomi)licated still further. He had not long
to wait. In less than five mini:tes the door opened and slu;
came in, nodding to him gravely; and he noted the look of
misery in lier fa(;e.

"Good-morning. I suppose you have heard something, or
you would not have come here. Sit down."

She spoke without the smallest embiirrassment, but she did
not sit down herself. She wore her morning gown still, a soft
clinging robe of a heliotrope shade, with trimmings of white
lace which matched the hue of her cheek. There was not a
vestige of colour in her whole face.

"Woodgate came to me last night," replied Hargreaves
bluntly. " His wife has gone away."

The Countess gave a great start, the colour leaped back to
her face, and she bit her lips, while her hands nervously
clenched.

" God forbid, Harry I God forbid ! Did he crown his mad
folly, then, by telling herl"

"No," said Hargreaves, with a curious dry look. "It was
more commonplace than that. She was in the adjoining room
— you will understand the situation better than I — and over-
heard."

She walked away from him to the window, where the tall
spring flowers in the window-boxes nodded gaily to her, and

A LOST IDEAL

191

80 stood with her ])ack to liiin, in ahsohite silcnco, for sonic
minutes. She was suffering arutely, and the seal of it was on
licr face.

"Will you he merciful, Harry, and tell mo quickly all you
know?" sli(! said to him at last, hut without looking round.
" Remember what it means to me. ]5e as Irninit with me as
you can."

" There is very little to tell," said Ilargreaves in tlic same
dry, even voice, for the tragedy seemed to doepi-n as he wit-
nessed the woman's silent suffering. "Mrs. AVoodgate, having
overheard, simply went away, leaving no message except such
as her discarded wedding ring might convey. AVoodgate «loea
not know where she is, and it struck me — may I he forgiven
if I misjudge him — that it did not cause him much concern."

She flung her hand down from her ])roast with a gesture
which conveyed a contempt immeasurahlo and sublime. "Do
not name him," she said harshly. Then suddenly her maniu'r
changed, and she turned to the man who had been her tried
friend for so many years with a gesture of infinite and wistful
pathos. "Do you, can you exonerate me? I have been in
torture all night long. You are on the outside. You are wise,
and your eyes see clearly always. Have I brought about this
awful thing? Have you seen in me any lightness of behaviour
towards him that could have caused so gratuitous an insult?
Don't spare me. I want to know that — only be true with

"I have seen nothing. You cannot help your attractions,
and you are altogether blameless. If he cared for you all
along, the sin was his marrying another woman."

A little shiver of relief trembled over her, and she put her
hand over her eyes a moment.

" I feel stronger now, and I thank you. You are the only
man I have ever met to whom a woman may speak her mind
without fear of being misunderstood. But now, what is to be
done? How — ^how are we to help hrri"

"That," said Hargreaves gravely, "I do not know."

" But we must try — you and I. I love her so, I would

uy.

A LOST IDEAL

»■;

willin^'ly dir for her. SIic lias sliowii iiic tlii* hi;4lu'st lovdi-
lU'ss of woiiiaiihotxl, li{»w lovrly it is to l)o S"*^'^ > '''"'^ yt- I
unwittii ^^ly liuvc. sliiin Ikm*. Do you think thcro is any j)os>i-
Itility of !i reunion? — that it wouM he; jiossihlo for linr (ivcr to

OVtM'look ?"

" I do not," r(^i»li<'(l I rar<^r('av(*s frankly. "I confess that at
this moment 1 see no hope at all. You se(»," hi? atldetl, with
a curious rontraetion of his brows, "a woman can always for-
j^'ivc if the suppliant is at her feet; hut he* is not that. 1
ohserved a touch of (pierulousness in him last ni^dit. I l)elicvo
he thinks she? has Ijccin needlessly wounded by a punctilio."

" if that is so, his punishnuMit will not be lackinj^'," she
replied, and her eyes flashed; "but 1 can hardly Ixdieve in a
sellishness so sublime. Surely her sweet influenco must have
left some impression on him, else must all sweet inllucnce Im-
a myth. Let us not bo too hard upon him (uther, Harry, until
we SCO."

She was very just, even in li- iiidst of lusr keen pain.
Uarj^'reaves re},'arde(l her, if jmssiDle, with an increased access

of rOSJHM't.

"What is he?" he asked himself. "What is he to have
disturbed the current of two wonu-n's lives — and such wouienl"

"Are you jj;oing to remain in town?" he asked at last.

"I don't know what to do, nor where to go. Until I
hear something of her I can know no rest. What stejjs is he
taking to-tlay ?"

" I don't know ; but I shall sec him later in tho day. IIo
stayed at the Metropolo last night."

"It is unlikely she would go to Scotland, I think. It would
be worth your or his while to see the lawyer to-day — the Scotch
lawyer, I mean, who came down from her native town to see
her about her father's estate. She had an interview with him
yesterday, I think, at the Inns of Court Hotel. If she left her
hus])and deliberately, it is just possibl. that she may have
sought his advice."

"What is his name?" asked Hargieaves, taking out his
jiote book.

./ /A)S7' IDI.Af.

"iroM.mi."

"I'll tell Wonilj^atr, niid if iioccssjirv, son liiin mysilf," sjiiil
Iliirj^rciivcs, rising, " Mcaiiwliilc, I am ;,'la<l I have seen y<»»i."

lit! looked at luir steadily a iiioiiienl, and saw that her eyes
wen' tlini.

"Take my advice, and don't let this thinj,' crush you !<> tlm
dust," he said kindly. "The law of eternal justice will surely
yet hrin*; oi-dcr out of chaos, here as elsewhere, and the; end
may he Ix'tter than the hej^inninj^'."

She ;^M'as|»ed his hand, and one ^u-eat tear dropped upon it.

"Conn- to me a^'ain," she said falterin^'ly. " Your iM.'iief in
me, your honest friendship, .saves mo from despair."

i ^^!l

CHAPTKR XXV

" I have socn all tlio wons oi' iiuMi — pain, death,
Remorse, and worldly rniii ; they are little
Weighed with the woo of woman when forsaken
By him she loved and trusted."

LMOST from the, first moiiiont that slie realised
tlic full sigiiilicancG of wliat slie had over-
heard, H<den had a fixed itiir}>()se in view.
There was no alt(»-rnative. Her dream was
over; almost it seemed to her that life had

ended with it. Slw^ wondered at lier own eomposure, at
the calmness with which she could face the situation, the
precision with which she could weigh every detail. Hei
hushund no lonj^^er loved her — had never loved her indeeil ;
she had heard his own lips utter the dreadful truth with an
intensity which admitted of no mistake or doubt, therefore she
could no longer remain with him. To go away as fast and as
far as possible must he her first concern.

At the railway station she took out her purse and counted its
contents. It was well lined, she having drawn a consiilerahlf
sum in London that very afternoon. Finding no train to
London for two hours, she made inquiry regarding Newhaveii,
from which port she knew Continental boats sailed. Her in-
(|uiries were satisfactory, and just as Woodgate got into the
train to convey him to London, she stepped aboard the packet
which was to make the night passage to Dieppe. She would
uot sail till midnight, but no objection was, of course, made to

realised
td ove I'-
ll view,
am was
life had
sure, at

[on, the
1. Hei

indeed ;

with an
L>fore she

it and as

Jiinted its
Isiderahlt'
1 train to
?whaven,
Her in-
into the
16 packet
16 would
made to

/I LOST jnr.AL

'95

the solitary lady j»assenger p'ttin^; aho.ird as soon as she arrived.
It was a mild and lovrly ni^dit, the true April snftiu'ss in the
swoet air, stars ami moon visihh' thi<iu<.;h a m\^t«-'rious filmy
haze, rescMiililin^' a hridal veil. Whrn tlu'y steaim-d away from
the wharf, llcdcn was still on de<!k, and hotli captain and erew
n^'ardcd with soim^ siirju-isiMl interest tlw'tall ihrrk-rohrd li;^Mire,
with the hood of her eloak drawn over her In-ad, hut sii»' was
ipiite (dtlivious of them. She j>a(('d to and fro the deck the
iiij^dit lon^', pausin*,' oeca."ionally at tin* ship's side to wat( h the
Ion;,' roll of the dark waves (trested with the foam madr hy the
jiathlle-whecds. In the lonely stillness of these wrird ni^dit
hours, the unhappy woman be^'an to realise the intolcrahle
nature of the wron^' done to her, and her outraged heari, began
to beat tumultuonsly under its in<lignant load. She marvelle<l
and trembled at the darknet: of her own thoughts. Hate had
])een familiar to her as a word of dreadful import ; as an
experience and a reality she now ma<h! its aeiiuaintance- for
tiie first time. Its dark shade seemed to stand between her
and happiness, betweiui her and heaven for ev(!r. Far, far
away seemed the early days of her happier youth, when she
had dwelt untroubled in a home of peace, into which came
only such things as were lovely and oi good rejjort.

She was now twenty-eight years old, and her disillusionment
was complete. She looked upon life stripped of its every
adornment, and saw it stretch before her an arid and desolate
waste, whereon flourished no green thing. It was a frightful
experience, which robbed Helen Woodgate of her youth for
ever. Out of the depths she raised her eyes once or twice to
the peaceful heavens, finding them for the first time dumb.
( )nce the voiceless prayer rose to her lips : " My God, my God,
why hast Thou forsaken me ? "

The dawn found her calm and worn, still pacing the deck ;
and then her attention was arrested by seeing the rose blush of
the new day lying on the flat shore and the quaint roofs of
Dieppe. This forced her to think, to plan further for the day
on which she was thus cast des(»late, to make or mar it as she
willed. She took the train to Tarit:, arriving at St. Lazave at

:|!'

.' i ' <

lijO

J LOST IDEM.

niiu' (M'l"»rk. Slio feverishly tliiiiik \ <iip of onfTfi', at tlio
l)iifrft, ainl linn <lruvo tt) the Kin' <lr Stiaslmr^', whom m1i»>
iMiokt'il >haiL,'lit tlii'tiii^'h to Wm/lmi'x'. Soinctliin;,' srcnu'd to
]»o calliii;^ Iht to tlm soIitinl<'s of tlic I'Vaiicoii ]iiiM'\voo(|s, n'linc
al)oil(> aiKdlicr woman for wlimii lift) was |ira(-ti<'ali,v ovrr. Slut
luul not slept fur tliirty lionrs, lait her eycH were wide ojien ami

nntiuMJ. She \'at,Miely Wi»n<lere(i when the hleMsetl ohlivioii nf
tliat slmnher wliith is death's twin sister would ever a^'ain
visit them. She, arriveil at Wiir/hurL,' late in the evening', so
weak and spent that she remained at the hotel all ni;4ht, aiiil
slept, without stirring or dnNimin^', for twtdve hours. Next
inornin;; her hrain was (;alni and clear, h(;r vision inidisturhe*|.
She knew where she was the. m<»ment she was awaki-, and Inr
desiri' and resolvt; to sec the olil (Jiiilin, whose hitter experience*
of life had so jirofoundly touched her, sullerod no ahatement.
Nor did any mis«,Mvin^' as to her reception hainit her. There
is a kinship in suirerin<,'; honds forj^'ed in the dark «lays of
life, which do not jjartako of the nature of ordinary ex-
perience.

Karly in tlu^ forenoon Helen hired a carriaj^M; and took tlio
now familiar way to Keutensee. It was an exipiisito sprin-,'
day, the sun shinin<^' with a suhdued and tender radiance, the
whole earth smiling, as it awakened to newness of life. The
young leaves were downy on oak and heech and elm, tondcsr
green showing in fint; contrast against the somhre hue of tlu;
pines. Helen nsmemhered every landmark, every detail of their
last journey through the solemn avenues of the pinewoods amid
the drowsy sunshine of full summer-tide ; it was not less lovely
now, nor was she less conscious of it. Every sense was sharpened,
every faculty keenly awake; not a gleam of light or throb osraj)cd
lier eye. The tirst sense of restfulness came to her when she
came within sight of the little village slumbering on the e(l;40
of its placid lake; old-world, quaint, far removed from tlic
haunts of the busy world where tragedies abounded. Yet here
also tragedy had come. She hade the man take her straight to
the Schloss, and M'ait for her outside the gates. She had come
without bidding' and without warning', and it mi^'ht be that the

I /.osr ini.iL

'9:

liulv slie had come to h«m' wus alisfnt. As slir | assnl uiuliT
tlu' low ari'li of tlu' ^'ateway, tin* first oUjcct ln-r rvs ifstctl on
vvaH tlir lioy <liistav sill in;; on a stone seal liy I In- lonntain, liis
sunny licutl Itaiv, an*! l.is I'ynn ti\<'(l on a Ixi.ik in liis lianM.
lie lit'ard In r footfall, !i;;lit tlnnij^li it was, m tlic stoiM's, an«l
R|trani,' to his fcrt.

"Oh, niadanic," ht' <ri,<tl, witli a pirtty salntf, and \\\> hoyish
fuct* llushin"4 with pleasure and surprise, "have you come a^';;in
tn l{eut(!nsee? Vou art' very wuh'ome indeed,

Had there heen any hardness in llelcui's thoM;;hts of Hilda
V(»n Keutensee, they \\\\\A l\avo vanisht-il at si;^dit nf tlu! frank,
open face of the hoy who had her very eyes. He canui to her
and to<»k her hy the hand with that simple ,L;ladness an Kn;^lish
lad would scarcely liave sliown, thoji^'h In; mij^dit have felt it;
and he looked up into her face with his fresh young eyes,
seeing that slie looketl tired and even somewhat ill, hut sus-
jtecting nothing wrong.

" Your aunt, (lustav, is she at liome?"

" Yes, madame ; it is tinij for her collec; now. How glad she
will he to .«ee you ! She hi.s so ofU'U talked of you."

"And how are you here now, (Justav'? I thought you were
at school in Kriangen."

"Yes, madame, hut it is Kastertide now. I came only
yesterday. Have you come from England? and when did you
t;ee my mother?"

Jt was an ordeal of no common kind for Helen to answer
these questions simply as tliey were put, hut she put the curh
Hj) in herself, and, though growing pale under it, she answered
natuially enougli — •

" 1 saw her only three days ago."

"And was slie well? And did she say, nuidamo, when she;
Would come to Reutensee? It was twelve months yesterday
since she left us here."

"She will not come, 1 think, till the summer, when you are
to spend your holidays together."

"It is a long time," said the hoy, and his face clouded.
"Strange, I had hut written to her this morning, and the letter

I ']:■

i:'; ri:

198

A LOST IDEAL

has gone. Had I waited till evening, what a piece of news it
would have been for her ! "

He still kept lier hand as they walked towards the house,
and Htd(?n returned its pressure, while some faint warmth begiin
to steal about her heart. She had been desolate for three days,
and human companionship, the touch of human kindness, seemed
Bweet.

"My aunt is in the salon now. You know the little salon ;
don't you smell the coffee ? How glad she will be to see ycju I "

He took his hand from hers and bounded up the polished
siair before her, and, after the boit:terous way of youth, threw
open tlie salon door.

" Oh, Aunt Clothilde, liere is a guest — such a welcome guest !
The English madame ! Is it not delightful to see her again ■?"

The Griifin got up hurriedly, and Helen stood within the
door. She saw at once, with that keen intuition which seldom
errs, that something grave indeed had happened to the English
lady since they had last met.

" Yes, Guutav. Run now, my son ; I shall call you laler.
Gretchen will give you coffee, perhaps, in her room, if you ask
her nicely."

The boy at once withdrew. Helen stepped forward with an
uneasy, questioning look in her face.

" Oh, I am in dire trouble ! " she cried bitterly. " To you I
have come — i do not know why. Let me stay ; comfort me
— my heart is broken ! "

The dignity of the Griifin melted away in a great wave of
womanly tenderness, and her arms, most motherly in their
touch, closed about the slender figure of the stricken woman,
and she drew her head down upon her breast.

"There, my daughter, let it rest. Yes^ yes; you shall tell
me b> and by, but not yet. You are stricken of God, I can see ;
yet will He in His mercy comfort you in His own good time."

She would not let her speak, but busied herself unfastening
her cloak anil her bonnet-strings, all with a touch so motherly,
so indescribably caressing, that it carried healing with it.

Gradually the drawn look died out of Helen's haggard face,

ews it

house,

began

e days,

seemeil

! salon ;

)olisluHl
I, threw

Q guest !
igainV
ihin the
1 sekloni
EngUsh

ou la'ter.
you ask

with an

|To you I
ifort me

wave of

in theiv

woman,

Ishall tell

can see ;

Id time."

ifastening

(motherly,

it.

mrd face,

A LOST IDEAL

199

the ineffable peace of tin; place set'nunl to lay a hush upon
her spirit.

" You have travelled far ard quickly, I can see," said the
Gratin. "No, you must not 'jpeak until you are rested and
refreshed ; there is no haste, we have time here for every-
thing. It does not matter to us, and to such as you leisure is
rest."

The coffee was brought, and Helen drank it gratefully, and
broke bread too, feeling vaguely the need of it and the strength
it gave. The (Jriitin herself spoke almost continuously, and
of a set purpose, of things commonplace, the boy and his
education, the season of the year, the tine seed-time over which
the village folks were rejoicing ; and in this she was very wise.
For, listening to her, lifted for the momciit out of the one idea
which had enthralled her during these three desolate days,
calmness came to Helen, and she was at last able to tell her
story, so that it could be at once understood. She told it
briefly, and with a reserve characteristic of her ; but the Gratin,
whose perceptions long- seclusion fron the world had by no
means blunted, could till up the sj)aces until the web was
complete. And in her eyes, as she listened, a vast pity wa'?
enshrined. She saw the sharp chating of a proud, sensitive
spirit under the veil of that admirable reserve, the tumultuous
and bitter heaving of a woman's heart outraged and wounded
to the quick.

" It is a common tale, my daughter," said the elder woman
with a heavy sigh. " It seems impossible at times to fix the
wandering star of a man's faith ; but your case may not be
altogether hopeless. I would have you remember that men
are not as we are. They are subject to whirlwinds of passion,
which pass over them, leaving after a time scarcely a trace.
It is possible this heavy cloud nniy yet pass from your life."

Helen emphatically shook her head. " It will never pass
from mine. My faith is destroyed, and that is the end. You
wid let me remain here with you a little while, Gratin, where
nobody knows me or will ask me any questions ; at least, until
I can decide what I must do."

li-

\i' '^i

200

A LOST IDEAL

"You are wclcimic, my daiiglitcr, so long as you like to
stay, iuiil wlicn (Jraf Ludwig eoiiies to Rcutensep, we can go,
you and I togetlior, to my own home in Thiiiingen, which is
even more remote from the world than this."

Hi'len thanked licr gratefully, and they talked on. One
thing only Helen withheld — the name of the woman who had
unconsciously wrought the evil in her life.

.^ii^w*

CHAPTEK XXVI

*' Even love itself is bitterness of soul,**

ON'T you think, Guy, that it's a long time since
we heard from Helen?" intiuiied the mistress
of Broadyards, as she poured out her lord and
master's second cup of coffee at the breakfast-

table one morning.

"Now that you speak of it, ray woman, I think it is,"
replied Broadyards, lifting his eyes from his paper, which
happened to be the current issue of the Live Stock Journal.
Breakfast in that comfortable household was a very free-
and-easy meal, the laird usually taking his literature with
it, while his wife overhauled the contents of the letter-
bag.

"I've only had one letter from her since she left us, and
that was before they went to Brighton, nearly a month ago
Do you think she can be ill?"

"No, I don't think so, or Woodgate would have written.
Brighton's a very gay place, you know, and no doubt she is up
to her eyes in dissipation."

" Oh, Guy, you dreadful creature, to suggest such a thing !
IIow can she possibly be indulging in dissipations and wearing
deep mourning ? Why, she oiiglit not to go out at all to see any-
body, except in the quietest way, for six months at least, though I
must say it would not surprise me very much to hear something
quite dilierent. I %\ afraid Helen is very much changed."

201

}
!

202

A LOST IDEAL

.■ ;! \-^'x

" ll»>w? I llio'iulil luT jusl llu' siiiiH', (tiily iiiror, when alio
was Ihm'c," said I'lKadyiinls in mild suriMisi-. "Ilavo yctu
written sinco sIm» did ? "

" V»'s, twice, and inner an answer. I am afraid I olVendi-il
her wliiMi she was here."

"Olleniled h(>r'l What ahout ? Slu^ was v(»ry kind to yon
whiMi you W(»ro ill, and 1 was ^Matcfid to her, if you weren't,"
said Ihoadyards, with some n'proaeh in his mild eyes.

*'()h, so 1 was ; hut sometimes we had talks and didn't agree."

"What kiml of talks 1"

"Oh, all sorts; hut ahout hiihies ehii^fly."

Hroadyards laid tlowii his paper and regarded his wife
fixedly. ' /

"Annie, I hope you iiiver made her feel thut you were
richer than Ikt, heeause you had hahies."

"Oh no, 1 don't think that, though 1 am disai)pointed, and
I couldn't lielj) slu>wing it. I am (piite sun* Helen herself
does not mind ; she is not what y(»u would <'all a very womanly
or motherly woman," said Mrs. Douglas, with an air of great
wisdom. " Hahy darling, take your lists out of your milk, or
you shall go upstairs to nursie. Oh no, 1 don't think that
oifended her at all ; hut 1 never could help something coming
up my back when she spoke ahout Richard. It made me sick,
quite sick sometimes; and after all the warnings 1 gave her."

"What on earth are you talking alxmt ? I'm (piite at sea,"
said the lain!, his interest divided hetween his wife's s})ee.('h
and the jmce of two-year-olds. "It was quite natural she
should speak ab.>ut him. I hope you'd sometimes think and
speak aliout me if you were away from me."

"It would depend on how you had behaved just before I
left you, sir," said the little woman, with that coquettisli smile
which had long ago made havoc of the laird's honest heart.
" It was not the mere speaking, you silly boy, it was the way
she spoke, — just the very way I always warned her against, as
being so bad for a man, setting him on a pinnacle and kind of
worshipping him. Just imagine what sort of a person you
would be were I to tnat you in any such manner. "

A LOST inr.Ar.

205

T (')iirt inui^'iiie; luit- suppose y« n try \\\ys ex|)('riiiM'Mt,, it,
wniiM l>t' a iiii'c little clijiii^T fur nif," said liioailyanls, with 11
tAviiiklo in liis ryo ho incMislililo that his littUi wilV iiiHlaiitly
|uiii|i('(l up aixl frav(3 liiiii 11 kiss, vvhicli raiisnl little (liiy to
(TOW with <U'li;;ht, aiul ruplnroiisly chmii in the milk jii«,' with
hiH fi.>4t.

'Mluy, 1 (loii't know what yn\i (hs<Tv«' (UMtainly n(»t this

.sort «>f treatment," she said, with another kiss.

Well, ahoiit

Helen. I'll write ^to Jiiehanl today. 1 comp(»M'tl the letter
in my hed this morninj;."

"When you ou^dit to have heen asleep. I )ie,k would feel
llatlered, I am sum; at least, he ou^dit, f<»r I'm sure you never
kept awako to compose a letter to me."

"No, that I nevor did, or l should never have married you.
Well, when H^'len sees I have written to Jtiehard, 1 hojie she'll
feel reprove»l tor her unsisterly conduct."

The letter was duly v/ritten and despatched that very day,
and bntUf^ht a reply ])y return (»f post, which fell like a
thunderholt on the peaceahle h(»us(s of liroadyards. it was
from Wood«^ate, and ran in those curt, cold words : —

"Dear Mrb. 1)()U(;i-ah, — I liave received your letter
incpiirin^' about your sister. She left me at I>ri}.;hton, on the
8tli of Ajtril, nearly tliree weeks a|.,'(), and till to-day I have
supposed her to be in Scotland. I cannot give any exi»lanation
of the matter. We had no quarrel, l>ut she must have ex-
a^'gerated S(mio slight circumstance, which she has as yet given
nio no opportunity of exi)laiuing. ^»evertheless, I expect that
she will ere long return to the home she has deserted. — 1 am,
yours truly,

" Kkjiiaud Woodoate."

That letter, apparently so cool and heartless in tone, had
nevertheless cost Woodgato a tremendous efl'ort. He knew
that he did not stand in very high favour at Broadyards, and
that all blame would be attached without questioning to him.
This certainly made him more brief, more brutally candid than

./ /OS/' l/)/-.\L

our

Ih'l

on.

niul lu'vin* \s\\\ bo in this world. N

(\ no : vou

noodn't tvv to sliift the blame from tlie ri'dit shouKlors : thou'di

n"'

of course, mon always stand np for oacli otlior. No, it was his
fault : ho has boon unkind to lior and has broken her heart. Not
that J am a bit surprised — I always expected it; and, with idl
deference to yon, Helen didn't appear to mo when she was here
to be a tleliriously happy woman. You can't deceive a married
woman."

"It's a bad business, my dear Annie, and u[)on my word, [
don't know wliat's to be done. I think I'll go over to IJroailriile
and consult Brian. I'll just catch him before he goes out ou
his rounds."

J /.iis/' ini Af.

205

" ( lii\ in T>mU'I.is, if y<»ii (jiuc ! " <i i<'<l liis \\\\v i|iiil)< lUriou.sly.

** V»>U ;4lCill ,tll|il«l, tinn't, ycMI sri- \\y\ llillst l<rr|» it ||i(|(|f[| (IS

Ion;,' !iH \\y\ Clin, till il niiii.'s ii;^r|,t .i^^'.iin, wliidi I pray it will?

TrII itri.'in, ind I ! It is sd <lrriiill'Ml, it diii*' not, Ik> Kpokcn

jilMint. I wtiiild not liavc yuiir mrttlicr know Inr unyt.liin;,'. Slic.
tlit>u;^lil I WiiH M<»t ;,'o(m| iMHMi;^'!! jni' yoii ImI'kic, what woiiM sho
lliink now 'I Slic niij^dit even not Icavr TcvifitliPad to <liiy."

In tlic very fare of liis wife's dislrcsH i'.roiidyards lani^ln-il,
lie could n(»t liclp it. 'I'Ih'M sIk- liccanir, rcproa'ldid, and
liysinirally wept. Altogether it was a tiyin;,' iiiornin;^ at
IJioadyards.

In the end it was arranged that they should go to I,ondon
next morning, and that meantime nothing should hi> said to
anyhody. Ihoadyards was restless all day, thinking of j'.iian,
and longing to get his opinion on the unhapjiy husiness. In
the afternoon, ahout the time ihian usually came, u)* the lo.id,
ii'tui'ning fi'om his round, the- laird Wftnt down to the lodge and
hung ahout most suspiei(»usly, in s|»ite r.f all Anni(^ had said.

Ahout half past three tic; gig eamc; over tin; hridge, and (luy
went d( v 1 the rcmd to meet it.

"(loud-day," called ilrian cheerily, and, taking ca second look
at his friend's fac(^, he detected upon it a most unusual gravity.

" [ wish you'd come down a minute, Brian. I want to si»«;ak

to you."

llrian at once swung liimself fr(»m his seat, ]>aile his man
drive slowly on, and turned to (Juy ap[)rehensively, hut hefon;
he |»ut the (jucstiou it was answered.

"An awful trouble has come; to us, Brian. Helen has left her
hushand."

IJrian whit^encd to the Ii[)S, and his mouth became set like

H'on.

Oh, imi)ossi}»le, Guy! it can't be true T

ruy

"It is. Read that."

lie handed Brian Woodgate's letter, over which he ran his
eye in a moment.

Good (Jod, Guy, what a letter ! The cold-blooded scoundrel !

If I only had him here for two second.s, I'd ask no more,

li:

1 1

1 '

1 4

% ; .

';? j

l!ii

206

/^ LOST IDEAL

His passion was at wliito heat. lie strode across the road,
with hands clenched, brows knit, and eyes flashin^j tire.

" Wliat is to 1)0 done?" he asked hoarscdy. " Nearly three
weeks, and he has made no attempt apparently to find her.
She may he dead ! "

"Oh no, I don't think so. Helen was not that kind of
woman," said IJroadyards vaguely, half wishing he had not
disobeyed his wife's peremptory orders. He had expected the
aid of a cool, sensil)le advice, not the rage of a passion,
righteous maybe, but terril)le to sec.

"Annie and I are going to London to-morrow. You can do
nothing, Brian, but liold your tongue. You can do that,
I hope 1 "

Brian remained silent, biting his lips. The wisdom of the
advice went home. Ih had no right to interfere, his great
love only made it the nKjre imperative that he should take no
action in the matter.

" I sup})ose I can, and must. It's long to wait, but you'll
telegra})h the result, (Juy, directly you know it. You can
easily make it obscure, but don't keep mo waiting too long."

" You're taking on badly, Brian ; I thought you'd got
over it."

" I haven't forgotten her ; and I say again what I said to
you before, Brian : if Woodgate has behaved badly to Helen, he
shall answer for it to me, right or no right. I made my vow,
ami I'll keep it."

l^roadyards was considerably put out. After all, his wife
was wiser than he. It had done no good to spread the news ; so
far as Brian was concerned, it had but kindled a fire which would
be difficult to quench. He was a peaceable, easy-going person,
who hated upheavals and scenes of any kind : seldom had he
felt so uncomfortable as he did that afternoon walking up the
avenue to his own house. As for Brian, he was totally unfit
to attend to his work, and the old man fussed about him
tenderly like a woman, fearing he was "in for" a fever or
some other trouble. But who can minister to a mind diseased?

Kext morning Mr. and Mrs. Douglas joined the London

A LOST IDEM

207

train at Hallkirk, .and roacluMl Huston at lialf past six. Thny
had sont no intimation of tln-ir roiiiin<,', and wcro oven doubtful
of findii'f; Woodgato at the houso at IIani|)st('a<l. They were
relieved to find it open, and apparently inhabited, looking its
loveliest, too, in the sweet dusk of tlie early spring. Woodgato
at his study window saw them eoine, and was not surprised.
He was in a sense ready for tlicm, an«l did not keep them
waiting very long. These few minutes, however, sullicsd for
the mistress of Iiroadyards to take an inventory of the spaeious,
well-appointed, and \\v t artjistic drawing-room, and to convinee
her that in her home Helen had certainly }»ossessed all the
outward attril)Utes a woman could desire.

When her brother-in-law came into the room, looking hand-
some and even distinguished in his brown velvet coat, she
stood up before him without any greeting, like a little tragedy
queen.

" We got your dreadful letter," she said shrilly ; " and we
have come, my husband and I, to ask what you have done
with Helen."

The extreme anxiety of the past weeks had told on Woodgate ;
he looked thin, and even haggard, a miserable, memory-haunted
man; but the attitude of his wife's kindred somehow roused all
that was worst in him, and he would not betray the smallest
concern.

" I told you all there is to tell — all I myself know," he said
coolly, but a close observer would have detected the extreme
nervousness he tried so hard to hide. * Helen has gone away,
and I have not yet learned her whereabouts, though I have
many persons searching for her."

" You must have been cruel to the poor darling before she
would take such a desperate step," cried Mrs. Douglas angrily.
'* Xone of us wished her to marry you ; we all knew it would
turn out badly ; and, of course, you only waited till poor
papa was gone to reveal yourself in your true colours ; but
remember I am alive, and Guy will punish you for your wicked-
ness, and make you give an account of the whole unhappy
business,"

1
1

1'*' , 1

1 1

:o^

// /()S'r //>/■:. I r

I i.

\\'tMMl.;ill<« lifi ;ilMt' \r|y wllilr. li|s lips tllill, Iii'm Hnsflils

• liliilt'tl, ;inil ln' liiiiii"! t|iiiiKlv to r»r<>ii(lviinls. "|)im;^litM, I
.i^K von |o liy iiitl Innllr your wilVs toii^^ii"', it im pjisl iny
riullirilMi t>. I )i;i\c |o|(| \o\\ :i|| t)ii>|i> is to ' It is .Mi||M>r

l!uo\iM to »'\]trrss my Miivifly, my if^Mi'l -y will iio| Im>

iU'r(>nl('(l. Is llicrc !iny use |>roln|i;;iii^ this iiioTN ii'w 'I "

Korluniili'ly nt llu- niomiMit Mrs. Pouyliis lo.tk a violent lit
of hyslrrifs, ii.ti«l no moic coiiltj he said. Tin' »'airia;,M> in wliidi
they liati come from tin- station still stood ;i| the door, niid tlir
moniont sin' ^'''^v talmcr, i»ioad\iiid~^ to.iK hrr down to it, nnd
tifoxc her back to tlic I'jiston Hotel, sayini,' rnitly to W'ood^^alc
In' wotild sec |\im next d;iy. .In^t as they left, a speeiid
nn'sseu<j;er hvonL^ht a letter tt the lion-e for Mi. \\'oud;;ate.
It was from one of the deteeti\e>, sayin; Mr-^. W'ood^Mte had
Ix'on traeed to (Jeimaiiy, uiul wus now liviiij^ ul iho JScIiIo.sh of
Kculciisoo,

111

t -r

(!iiAp'n:ii \\vii

" FlircWl'll ! lest til lllllir f}fS lliMll sliiililirHt, IlllVH liiull' In U']\
Tllllll Iinw tlinii IkisI."

>»

SHALL never Ite rii^lil, diid, (ill I've, }i;mI u
Imlitliiy. My Wnnv luis Itceil ;it, tll.: |^'lill<lst,'»?in

for live yejHH \villi(»ul, ;i l»ie;i|<, I've iiiinie, all
my un'iiii^'eiiieiits, iuxl tin "'h h nmti cMniiji;^'
ffoin l''.(liiiliiii|;li Mil Mniidiiy l.o take my jdaec
'IMiis iiiiiioiiiiee.meiit iSiiaii iiiado (piite Hiiddenly one,
mornin;,', taking' tlie old man en)ii|i|ftely l»y Hnrpri.se. iJriari
waK Hlir«'\v<l, iind knew thin was jiis oidy plan. Had lie,
liroaelied the siiltjcHjt lieforo making' aiian;;emenis, lir- would
certainly have lieen talkiMl onl of it. TIm! old docttor looked
very hard at his son, and mnnelnd his dry toast in ominon.s
silence.

"Out with it, dad ; I've; a broad hack and can Htand it," .said
iJrian, with a faint reflection of his old merry Hmihi.

"If you think you ikumI it, I siipp(w(5 I HJiotddn't say an y-
thin<4," said the, old man then with cxtnirno dryness. " Hut at
your a^'c I had no such word as holiday in my vocahulary. I
liiul only thrc(! days for my wcMldin^' trip, lon^' enou^di to tear
()V(!i to Ireland and hriiiL,' your mother hack. Thirteen years
aficr that I went to the Medical Conr,'ress at iJirmin^diam, and
plenty <j;runil)lin^' there Avas over that."

((

Times are changed since then," was Brian's answer.

must have this holiday, and I mean to take it.

.. \

i\o

.7 /(>.sr inr.\r.

Kooin^; \ lin\«' 1«> MulVtM' fix* mllnlion A Pimm«i.iI\ imni. I

»'>!»«»

\Vi»n't l>;l\«< \\\\\ \\\\M

Km I

H»n»

"Oil, ll»t> innn'n 111) n»!ht. (JniM'n»»n in Imh niiiiii, hii M.'l.

II n

I >viil

\ n<< <

\v\ t»f itMhIiriitt" 4 fiitiii \ H'lniu Mini llt>ilin wlion

ho It;!'- m»<Mll the \\ lUliM

\\\\\^ v»'«'tnt'n»il MH rtHMMinnt \ , IIh* oM tl.i. Im imw iM'tiinii

lik«' \\ A\\\<\ \\\ nMhfipuHon of ti new lov. mitj » .mlil liilK nl
notluuo lull 1ht> \w\\ \\\\\\\ t'oiuin}; on MoihIiin. Il l(tu«'ln't|
\\\\\\\\ inr\pvossiM\ iuul s;»<ll\, ItrriuiMo il imliniloil llin ^;rii(lMiil
but sure »li'i;i\ of tlto iiiohImI po\v(<r« \\liiili hiul oiiro limi
vigoroiis i\U(l fnulfiil. I'lil llH' i IhMimIi inhMcHl in (ln» rliiin«;n
\\\v\ \\^ ;ul\Mntjip\ for \\ ]Mo\t'nlotl hnn nniuirin^ lo(» rloMcly

\\\

to \\

vinn's n'.ison for wisliinu' \\ liolid.iv

Thotloini^slir npln'Mx.il in llic \\'oo(li;;il(> lionsclioM liii«| Itocii
well kopt in lh»> tliiiK 1»\ the throo who Knrw (lie Horrcl. 'i'iii'
P«>Uj;l!»s»^s rotnrnt'tl 1o nromlMinls scircoly wiHor tlnm wIhh
\\\o\ l»M'l, lhonj;l> in ll\t' < onisc of w fow »l:iv'< Woodj^nlo <litl
stMn\ ;» forn\;il noto 1o \\\\\ informing' liini of IIoIimi'h when'

ib«>ut-'

Tins, howover, (luv dnl no| niiMilion to Ihian

rtMiuMulxMiiiv: tho first rvplosion, ho hositiiti'tl to risk w scm'oiuI.
Nov »ii»l r»n;in m:iko \\ oontiduit of his old frioiul n\L,'!ir(lin^ tli(>
inunoiliato tibj«H't iunl inttMition o{ his jonrnoy, thon^Oi thoic
was no s>>vt of nnoortainty ahont his plans. Ho went straij^ht
1o l,vnuh>n, uiado oortain iinpiirios oonoorning Wtxxl^'ato and
his prosont luannor »d" lifo, and Ihon \Yont on, travollin^ hy tii(>
most dinvt and ra]M*l routo to Wurzhurj*.

riioro w;w somolhing nioro in tho man's mind thnu a va^uo
dosiro to soo \vitl\ his own oyostlio plaoo whoro Holon liad hoon
a]>parontly so ha]>py, from whioli slio had sont suoh swoot,
int<^rostini:: h^ttors ; thoro oxistod also tho ho]>o, growinj; hoiuiy
into oonviotion, that ho would thoro tin«i hor. Ho had no sort
of ground for the snpjnvsiiion, nor was ho a man who gavo, at
any tinu\ tho roin U> imai;ination : ho took the jonrnoy ipiito
c^ilmlv and mothoilioallv, as if it wore a foroirone conclnsion
that at Kontonsoo ho and Holon should moot.

He arrived at the little inn in tho quaint old village late in

// f.dS/' //'A. /A

ai f

utiu, I
M.'V,

Immmiiiip

lnlU <'l

lircn KM
ijmI Immmi

•t. Ti.r

\\\ wlxn
> l'»ri!\t» ;

SiM'tMltl.

(ling llio
;1\ thrvc

s_-;»t(' and
«' by tilt'

ii vagut>

lliul l>t'»M\

h SNV*'»

k*»

honrly
il no sort

gav(
hoy q^ito

late in

||m> iirirriioMt), mill wIm'm |ii< miw it, it, nil ii|)|Miir'*<| Mn riiiMJiiiir

dial iHMilinoMi r<>ll tlinl Im< iinmi IniV' vi^^iliij it licftiic ll< h-riK

ikotcji ImhiK, wIih Ii Mi, l,iM|<|ititt IumI i>\ liiliitt'ij with mm riiiM Ii
prnlr atpl |)l* iiMiii'i>. iiH wt*

IIH

lllf *' lill'l " III- lillij HMllH'tiriM -^

niHJ fiMin lin ji'llriH |.M two ihli'M' till IhIpih'H iti lli<' ilMclor'M
"({•»ll,"Mf (MniHO ilfnnmtnl Im IIhi imIiI h»>||H<' mT iir«|i|iillitiilirM

Willi tlii> |i|ii<'(>. nvrr liJM Miiti|i|)' iiM'iil I'll lull (lit) It'll iiiIm iMn
vrrHiiliMii witli till' (^iitriilMiiM IiiidIImmI, iukI tliMit^'li {•iiiin rMimil
lii'i ( M'tiiiaii a tiill<> iih'lv, lii< niaiia^M<i| in <<xI.iim I Jioni Iih llM^t.
III* Tail Unit nil I'.ii^li^li laily wiim tlii< iMi)>Mt> mT |Iii< (iinlin iit Mic

Sl'lllilMH. AltllMllJ^'ll lie IiImI fl'lt Mill*' If WlIM Mri tllM iJl'llt. tllU'k,

llir I<iimw|mi|(^m^ lliiit lli'liMi waM MM iji'iii' liiin iimw iiia'li^ I'tiiaii
HMiiirwIiiit niM v'MiiH ami niirntni'iittnltlr. ||m Ix'i^rin Im (|iii'MliMri
tin' wi'*t|Miii of Iiis4 liimty ad, iiikI I'vni Im ('oii|)'iii|i|iitt' ;iii jm-
iiK'tlialr ri'liiin williMiit iMukin^ mm Imt fnt i'. ATtci all, li<- IiimI
iiM rij^hl, aliHMJiilrly iimmc, Im laiiMiic Iht, mi rvfii Im mIIci Imi f Iki
stiiallrHl. cMiiMMliit.iMii ill lirr li'Miililr. Il«^ "^iiMik'tl hn |)i|i(' Fmp
niir MMlilary and cMiiJi'tiiplalivt^ Iimiii- in tlm Mrclwiiil IkIhu'I the.
inn, nml fiMin Mir Imfy iirliMiir, in wliidi llflcn Inul km Mftcri
s;il. wilJi IimmK mt WMik u yciir u^m, Ik- cmiiM himi on Mm* ffirtluT
sit|«^ of [\\{\ HliiniiiH ring lake llif gff'y l»att,li'iiicnt,H of t,lMi S(|iIm<h
• rMwning tlio In'iglil tlnir sMiiild*' oiitlim' ri'n<lc'r«'il '^Mft, iiiMl
lovely l»y tho rlinging spniys of tlm "ivy Krf«'ti." At, tin- »mmI
nf IImi liMUr In^ stiMllcd out mF the orclianl and t/<»Mk Um" gruH^y
|)atli skiiting Mm <Mid mF tjio lake, and wliicli hroiiglit liirti at.
IcngMi to Mic pinn cMvcn-d hill which t,lm ruHt-ln rrownf-d. IIj-,
walked vrry sl<»wly, lingering Mflen to adinire the [icimive Ix-uiity
nf Iho KiMMic ; 1-lu' clrar and didicjitc, Ht.illri«'s^, iinhrMk'-n even l»y
the lliilliT Mf a wild hiid ofi the- wing, se.crned to jay a himh
upon his Npirii. 'I'lie frd, and tho fover of the [uiHt few days
si'cniod to fall frMiii him like a garnient for whieh he had no
liirthcr need, and he felt aw if he had come- to a world where
Midy peace alHMinde<l. In this niMod he (sntered the sornhre
shadows of the pine wood, — whcne the footfall gave, hack no
sound, and tin; air was ladcin with the health-giving and delieifnis
iii'onia of tlie i)ines. Siiddeidy he emerged once more into the
light, upon a bare liillaide which Helen had always loved

2 I 2

A LOST J DEAL

luH'auHO it had somcliow nMniiidcil Ium" of lioiiio, and tlioro mIk*
was, st.'U. liii<; solitary aiiiouLf tlic j^rrcn licjitlicr loj)s, Icatiiiit,'
ai;aiiisi tlto blcacliiMl trunk of a ,i;iiiu'1(m1 mikI (wistcMl liirdi tr.T,
her ii'^uro .sliowii.jj; a very sl»'ii(l(>r out line against tlic ({flicatc
cloanu'ss of tlu> air.

Tlio woman Hriau L; idlaw liad loved and lost! In liis
(Muotion liowavS fain lo hide himself a moment bdiind a friendly
tree, from wliieli lie could, however, look ujjon her fixie. It
was tunu'd away front him and slightly upraised, as if it mi^'lit
appt^d to th«» t»X(piisite loveliness of the «'venin,L,' sky. She
was not mueli ehant^'ed : the profile was, perhaps, a trill;, more
sharply (mtlincnl than of yore, the figure more slendcM" than he
r(Mneud)er(Ml it, hut the hu(> of health was on her eheek, and
her attitude het rayed no lan,ij;uor. Th(» intensify of that look
must, I think, have eommunieated itself in some .subtle fashion
to the woman who was the ohjeet of it, for .shc^ gave suddenly
a littl(> start of surpri.se, and turned her head. Itrian stepped
out ^'^i \\\(' .^haihnv, and th(>ir eves nu>t. In a moment he was at
her sitle,

*' It is you, ijoit ! " was all she said. No greeting of any kind
passed between them, but she became deadly pale, and trembled
violcMitly, as she leaned heavily against the tree.

"Helen, forgive me ! " eried P>rian in a troubled voice, for he
saw he had made a mistake. " [ thought the time had ccMiic
tliat you might need a friend. You remember you did not,
deny n\e the ju'lvilege."

She shook her head, remaining silent. The awkwardness (tf
the moment dwelt with them both. Again ]]rian told him.sclf
he had made a gigantic mistake.

"I appreciate your willingness to help me," she forced hersell"
to say at length. "But it is quite vain, and you must know it.
How did you know to come here 1 Did my sister tell you 1 "

"No. 1 am not aware that they know you are here. I
came on a chance, which 1 felt to be a certainty. Uncertainty
I could no longer endure."

" I hope," said Helen, with the faintest, most dreary smile,
** that they are very well at Broadyards "--'

A /,(KS/' IPEAt.

i\'S

"(.^Iiiilc well, hilt .'iiixious, of cdiirsr, I tliiiik, wli;it('V«'r
tniiispii'cs, you iiii^lil write to Mrs. I )oii}^'I;is. Tlic siispnise in
linnl upon licr ;iM(l ( Iny."

" 1 will write. I <lii( not, tlii.iU. I li;iv(^ heen selliHli, perliapH,
1(U(, tlieie is some excuse."

Slie looked liiiii str.'iij^litly in tlie fiuM! as hIk; spoke, the, lace
of a ^'tiod iiiaii and true, who would Ix'tray no trust n-poscd in
liini.

Had l*<rian Lai<lIaw'H lovc! I)i'(iu a loss pure, ajul unsellisli
(lUidity, tliat look, so full of pathos, of mute appeal, must havc^
opened the very llood;^^at(!s of his passion. He hit his lij», his
eyo ^I'ew wot with a stinging inoistun;, the colour rose high to
his l)row.

" lifden ! Helen! you aro ]>id(ling me loavo yoii wit.h that
look," lie cried j)assionately. " I'.ut I cannot go like this; \
must know how it is with you, and wh;d, the end will lu!.
Such poor satisfaction you will not deny me, for the, sake, of the,
old days, and tliose who are away."

"It is with me -as you site," slie ma<le, re.jjly, almost in a
whis]ier. "How it will (Mid 1 know not. 1 made a Uiistake,
that is all. and l)y its eonsecpienccs I must ahide."

" is there; no i>ossihility of its heing riglited? Will yo i not
return to your hushand ? \\(\ secerns to expect it."
"No."

Decisive, chsar, and cold fell that moiiosyllahle from her
comj)ressed lips.

"What, then, is to become of you? It is impossible you
can remain here. Your life has to be lived — how?"

"I don't know — I wait — sometliing will hajtpen," she said
with ditliculty, for the strain upon her was very great. " If
one waits long enough, there is always a way. TlniClridin says
so; and she has been this way Ixd'ont nu.'. Meantiin*!, she
permits me to remain with her, and I have found at least the
sendjlance of peace. Gooibbye, Ihian. 1 will write to my
sister to-night."

Brian turned his head away. He was only a man — and hot
Irish blood coursed in his veins. It was a superhuman eti'oi t

' M',

|!l

214

A LOST IDEAL

for liini to keep the curb on himself. l>ut he dared not add
to the burden tdready too heavy for her to bear. Never had
she so stood in need of his reverence, his sympathy, his help,
as now. But liow to otter it ? What could he do ? He stoftd
])efon; her battled : nor did she help him at all. Again the
silence became oppressive, and the two lonely figures oi. the
bare hillside, face to face with the tragetly of life, had no word
to say.

Yet the stillness was not quite unbroken. In the thicket a
bird called sleepily to its mate, the branchcis creaked where the
wood-gatherers were at work, and in the road below an oxen
waggon lumbered heavily along, A solitary woman sat in it,
grasping the reins tightly in her sunburned, rugged hands. The
red kerchief tightly bound across her brow threw out the strong,
harsh outline of her face, her expression betrayed nothing but
a stolid, passionless calm. The village slept by the shimmering
lake, the sunset glory bathing it tenderly, converting even the
lung lean outline of the church into a thing of loveliness and
grace ; and all about them the pinewoods stretched, a vast
and melancholy sea — until the blue Franconian mountains
hemmed them in.

" Is it not lovely here 1 " asked Helen dreamily, as she
gathered her black skirts in her hand. "One wonders \u
more at the passion of her children for the Fatherland."

Brian made an impatient gesture with his hand.

" What is the place, or its j)eople, to me ? It is you I want
to hear of, you alone. Are you going now — and shall T see
you no more ? "

She gravely nodded.

" You have called yourself my friend — so you will under-
stand. I thank you for coming ; it has comforted me. When
you are gone, it will comfort me yet more to know that I am
not forgotten."

A thousand bitter impassioned words sprang to Brian's lips
but Helen arrested them, turning to him with a sudden change
of demeanour, and a slight, faintly mocking smile on her lips.

"Will you tell me v.'hat they are saying of us in England

A LOST JDEAn

215

It is a new sensation for iIr'Ui, is it not? What is the poiiular
version ? "

"They say, what I su}»[K)se is tlie tnitli, tliat you parted
from your husband because of tlie Countess,"

"It is true and yet not true ; it is redeemed from the vul<j;ar
and the commonphice l)y one fact, that slie still possesses my
regard and esteem. For what has happened, he and he alone
is to blame. Let them know that."

Brian looked surprised. Siie spoke with so much earnest-
ness and passion.

" Will you pass through London as you return?" she asked
then.

" I expect so."

"I will put your friendship to the test, then, Brian. "Will
you see two people for me tliere?"

" Not Woodgate, Helen. Even for you I could not do
that."

" I did not mention his name," she said quickly. " If you
have time, and still desire to do me a service, go to the
Countess von Reulensee, — she lives in Piirk Lane, — and tell her
you have seen me; that I am well, and not quite crushed;
above all, that her boy has comforted me. Then go to
Norfolk Street and find Walcot Hargreaves. He will be glad
to have news of me— anil he will tell you anything you may
wish to know. Now good-bye."

This time she dismissed him peremptorilj', and when he
hesitated to take her otiered hand, feeling that he could not so
leave her, she slightly waved it, and walked away. Nor did
he dare to follow or to call her back. There was a majesty
in her bearing, a distant dignity which seemed to mark an
un measurable gulf between them. When the shadows of
the wood hid her, Brian flung himself on the ground her feet
had so lately pressed, and did battle with his pain. The
hopelessness of the case crushed him to the dust. He had
come so full of sympathy, feeling strong to aid her, and lo !
she had shut him out ; and, while not despising his lionest
friendship, had shown him that hers was a grief with which

ii !

I \

!• 1 :

// LOST IDEAL

even a friend may not meddle. He did not dream how the
meeting,' witli him liad stirred her lieart, how it had hrought
home to lier, in one j,'reat sweep, tlie fri<^ditful humiliation of
her position. She; was walking toward the old gateway with
her li(jad hent in deep dejection, and her hands clasped hefore
her, when the hoy (histav, always on the wat(di for the sweet
Kngiish lady, came running to her side, and took her liand in
his in that simple fashion which might have s(!emed childish
in another.

" Oh, niadame, aunt hade me look for you. She thinks you
wander too much alone. May I walk with you?"

She raised her eyes swimming in tears to the fresh boyish
face, and clasped close the warm young hand in hers.

"Gustav, some day you will be a man, and you will under-
stand some tilings you do not know now. Now you are little
more than a child, but you have not yet parted with the
Avisdom of childhood. Tell nie, when a human heart feels
crushed to the eartli, and hope is dead, how is life to be
lived?"

The boy looked perplexed, and her tears caused his own e^^es
to 1111.

" Madame, I don't know ; but always there is God, v/ho
knows everything. It is a great thought, Aunt Clothilde says,
Avhich should never fail to comfort us," he answered ; then,
seeing her attention was his, he ailded, in his quaint, simple
manner, "Then it will not last always — I mean if we arc
unhappy. It can only be for a little time, then we are happy
again, and forget."

III.

\v the

ought

lOli of

J with
before
sweet
and in
liklish

ks you

boyish

imder-
■0 littU^
ith the
rt feels
e to be

kvn eyes

)d, who

de says,

then,

simple

we arc

e happy

CHAPTER XXVIII

"She dill most luisdiief
Where she nu'aiit most love."

AVI NO seen Helen, and obtained even so sliglit
a commission from her, there was nothing to
keep Brian in Keutensee. He left next morning,
and travelled as he had come, without stoppage,
arriving in London on the evening of the second
day. He dined at the Charing Cross Hotel, and after
sundown walked along the Strand to Norfolk Street, in
search of Wnlcot Hargreaves, but found that he was dining out,
and would probably not be home much before midnight. It was
now nearly nine, not quite a suitable hour to m:dve a first call on
a lady, but the circumstances were exceptional, and after a brief
hesitation, he jumped into a liansom and gave the address of
ihe Countess von Reutensee in Park Lane.

The Countess had dined in company with Sojdiia Ryder, and
the two were talking over the coffee when the servant brought
Brian's name. She took it langr'Uy, but when she read
the name,

Brian Lau)[.aw, M.D.
Broadrule, Hall Kirk,
N.B.

her manner changed. She had heard his name from Helen
Woodgate, and sha wondered what this visit might portend.
" Tell the gentleman I shall see liim presently, Barrett," she

217

til

A LOST IDEAL

said carelessly, and passed the card to So])hia Ryder, who
formed her mouth into a curious contraction of surprise when
she read it.

" This is a friend of Mrs. Woodgate's," she said at once.
" I liave seen his photograph at their house, lie is a man,
Countess, as steady and reliable as one of his own mountains.
But what can he want with you V

The little story-writer was admitted to a very close intimacy
with Hilda von Reutensee, but the Woodgate affair had never
been discussed between them. It is not to be expected,
however, that the voluble and outspoken Sophia had held her
tongue about it elsewhere ; and she had almost decided to
make Woodgate the villain of her next story. His lordly
demeanour towards the little story- writer, for whom he enter-
tained a species of good-natured contempt, had not commended
him to her good graces, and she had long ago delivered herself
of a frank ex[)ression of opinion regarding him. She, in
common with the rest of the world, luul been left to surmise
the cause of the disaster in the Woodgate household, but she
had no doubt where to fix the blame ; and she had a hard time
of it, at the club and other haunts, standing up for the
Countess, for whom she fought boldly, though in total
ignorance as to her real share in the catastrophe.

And she did wish she knew the ins and outs of the story,
not from any mere motive of curiosity, but in order to justify
her own absolute loyalty ; but the Countess, of course, was the
very last person to be questioned regarding so delicate an affair,
to which she had never even remotely alluded.

"Yes, he is a friend of Mrs. Woodgate's, Sophia," said the
Countess, rising somewhat hurriedly and with an unusual flush
in her cheek, which betiayed an inward agitation. " And I
wonder very much what he can possibly want with me. You
will excuse me. I shall not leave you longer than I can
help."

" Pray don't hurry or apologise for anything. If I can't
amuse myself here for a whole evening if necessary, then I am
a poor creature indeed," she said, with an expressive glance

A LOST IDEAL

219

round the lo\('ly room, wliicli slie had (h'sn-ibcd in every one
of her novels, till all her readers knew it by heart, Slie
thought, as the Countess left the room, tliut slie had never
seen her look more lovely or more rej^al. She wore a gown of
rich black silk, profusely trimmed with jet, close fitting to the
neck, and unrelieved by a touch of colour or scrap of jewellery.

"If he's come in the role of avenging s[)iiit, he'll be dis-
armed," said the little .story- writer. "Oh dear, oh dear! if
only I couhl be invisilde, it would be such a help to witness
a bit of genuine tragedy from real life, iusteatl of having to
imagine it all the time."

The genuine tragedy, so far as the couple downstairs were
concerned, was a very simple alfair, betraying nothing exciting
to the casual eye. Brian Laidlaw was standing by the
Countess's escritoire in the f-quaie window when she entered ;
greeting him with a slight bow, and glancing from him to the
pasteboard in her hand, with a suggestion of inquiry, to which
Brian at once responded.

" I am a stranger to you, madam," he said ; and the Countess
liked the strong, even harsh, utterance of his voice; it seemed
to suggest strength ; " but I am here at the request of a lady
whom we both know, Mrs. Woodgate." She bowed again,
and waved him to a chair.

"AVill you not sit down?" she said; and he noted in his
turn the exquisite cadence of her voice, just as he had noted,
at her entrance, the striking beauty of her face. " Have you
then seen Mrs. Woodgate ? "

"I have ; I returned only this evening from abroad."

It was an awkward moment for them l)oth, the theme of
their talk being one of extreme delicacy. The Cor.ntess cast
one rapid, searching glance at the Scotchman's honest face,
and then spoke out to him frankly, as she might have spoken
to Walcot Hargreaves, but no other. In the circumstances it
was the only course to adopt.

" Tell me how she is. Did she send me any message ? I
do not know how I have remained in England when I knew
where she was. Tell me what she said."

i 1'

220

A LOST IDEAL

\ \K ■!

jj ; :

■ ^. i

' i

. !
1
(

• (

\\ ■

1 •

She spoke with an emotion wliith cnnmiiinicated itself at
once to Brian. For two days he had puzzled himself over the
attitude of Helen towards this woman, an attitude which
aj)[)eared to him at once inexplicable and impossible ; but now
he understood. He saw truth written in every lineament of
Hilda von Reutensee's face, anxiety in her eye, keen anguish
in the toncss of her voice. The shipwreck of another woman's
life had not been deliberately planned and wrought by her,
and she now deplored it with her whole soul. There were
more things in heaven and earth than ]>rian had yet dreamed
of in his philosophy, and life was more complicated than he
had yet imagined it to be.

" She bade me tell you she was well, that she was nob
quite crushed, and that your boy had been a comfort to her,"
repeated Brian, simply delivering his message without adorn-
ment or comment of his own.

Hilda von Reutensee sat down suddenly and covered her
face with her hands, and he saw two great tears force them-
selves ])etween her fingers. He took a turn across the room.
The sight of a -woman's tears was intolerable to him, and she
was a stranger to him. Then she had, if unwillingly, yet
surely, destroyed the peace of one dearer to him than lite ;
he was but a man, and though she had in a manner disarmed
him, he could not altogether forget that stern fact. She
became conscious of his restlessness, and looked at b.im suddenly
with the passing shadow of a smile.

" You are not sure whether I am acting or not. Dr. Laidlaw.
Nevertheless, I ask you to believe that my regret, my sorrow,
is sincere. That she believes it, is the only sweet drop in this
bitter cup. You are her friend, I know — will you deign to
discuss this matter from its most practical and imperative stand-
point " What is her state of mind ? Is reconciliation possible 1 "

"With him,do you mean'?" asked Brian, withalightning glance,
which showed another and a stronger side of his character.

"Yes."

"No; not probable, nor even possible in her present state
of mind."

A LOST IDEAL

221

She rose then, her aj^itation ho('i)iiiin«; ditlicult to control.

"Doctor LiiitUaw, it must l)e maile j)os«i1)l«'. Perliaps you
do not know wliat life is to a woman who lives apart I'roiii her
liusband. Wo. she as innocent as an unborn babe, it is cruel
as the grave to her. I know because I have suffered it. I
am suffering it novv. Anything is preferable to it. She must
return to him."

"Another woman might; she never will," said Hrian
emphatically. " If you have been admitted to lier intimacy,
you should know her views on such questions, and how
difficult, nay, impossible, it is for such a truthful nature to
restore a shattered faith."

" I know all that, oh yes, much better than you can tell
me," cried the Countess quickly. "But I know other things
as well. I am a woman of the world. I have lived in it.
I know it well ; and though my married life was as unhappy
as it could possibly be, 1 regret — yes, I say I regret that I
willingly gave it up. A lonely woman, withdrawn from her
husband's protection, even though it bo little more than a
name, is an object for tVie pity of heaven. Helen is so con-
stituted that she will acutely feel the coldness of the world,
which blindly blames the woman always, and has no nu-rcy
upon her. I would save her fnmi it if I could, she is so
innocent of evil, so ignorant of the laws which govern society
— the laws maile, and rigidly kept too, by women who preteml
to have hearts, but who are made of stone."

Brian was silent, moved by her eloquence and her truth.
Her words were but a bitter confirmation of his own views,
and he knew that even yet Helen had not awakemsd to the
full bitterness and peril of her situation.

"Have you — have you" — he said, and hesitated a moment,
then blurted out his question with characteristic bluntness,
" Have you seen Woodgate ? "

" I have not," she replied in a voice cold as ice.

"The first attempt at reconciliation must of course come
from him, supposing it to be a possibility, which I doubt.
So far as I am aware, he has not even attempted to commuui-

i-HPfc

i-
{t

1 I'll ; ' 1

222

A LOST IDEAL

cato with his wife ; and whon his hrothor-in-iaw saw In'm, his
attitiich', to put it mildly, was not promising."

" Thcro is only one man in London who can find out his
state of mind, and who has any intluenco over him, and that
is Walcot Ilargreavcs."

"Mrs. Woodgato commissioned me to see liim also," said
Brian quickly. "I have already called, but did not find him
at home."

" He is in town, however, and you *":ay see him to-morrow.
It may seem strange to you. Dr. Laidlaw, that I should speak
so frankly to you, that I should continue to urge so passionately
one course. But I kno.v of what I am speaking, and I would
fain hope, for the credit of h.^nanity, that Woodgate is ah'eady
in soul at liis wife's feet, i do not, of course, know what
your experience has been ; possi])ly you do not know any
more than she knew the extreme laxness of London society.
There are many wives who would have laughed at the whole
thing, and i)assed it over as one of the inevitables of life.
Yes, I know what you would say : these are women who stand
upon .. lower plane, who lower the whole tone of life. I admit
it all. But I still think that Helen should not abandon him
for one fault ; and I believe, as I have always told her, that
she, and she alone, possesses the power to rous(j in him ail
that is good."

Brian's lip curled in a fine scorn. "He has had her at his
side for a year and a half, the fruits arc not encouraging," he
said drily ; forgetting, in the extreme relief of talking the
unhappy business over, that he talked to the woman who had
caused it.

" I grant you ground for what you say, but I keep my belief,
which I pray I may live to see justified."

Brian felt that there was no more to say, and made a move
to go.

The Countess walked with him to the door, out into th(?
hall ; thinking, as she looked at his strong, rugged, trust-
inspiring face, that he belonged to a different race from
the pigmies whose manhood after all was such a meagre

A LOST JDEAL

223

quality, lacking in ita first essential, Ftroi.gth of body and
of mind.

"(lood-byo, niadiini. I thank you for y<'ur courtj-sy," he
said, and oilrrcd his h.ind.

"Nay, it is I from whom thiinks nro due," she said, with a
slight, sad smile. "It may ho that we shall yet meet in
happier eireumstances ; till then I am grateful, because you
have lifted mo above the contempt I have had heaped upon
me lately, and whieh it is at times so hard to feel is not
deserved."

"Since you have won her regard, madam, contempt cannot
touch you," he said, and gave h(!r hand the honest grip of
friendshij), whieh sent the blood to her very finger-tips.

If Sophia Ryder were devoured with curiosity, slie hid it
well. She nu-rely glanced up from her book when the Countess
entered the room, and, seeing her expression, decided not to
speak.

"You were right about the Scotchman, Sophia," she said,
after a long interval. " He is the man who ought to have
been husband to Helen Woodgate. Well, you were telling me
about Larry's scrape with the tifth form. Wliat happened
after the champagne bottles were discovereel in the dormitory,
and how did he escaj)e being expelled'? "

The little story-wiiter swallowed her disappointment, and
continued her moving tale of Larry's woes at Harrow SchooL

e a move

^^^

CHAPTER XXTX

♦'What she Mi (lie wliilr iim.st I lliiiik
Love's so (liU'irciit witli ua nun."

■ I

HI AT uvj:}\i was the inoiitlily inoctinj^ of the
Piirthciion Club at the AlMoii Restaurant ; an«l
tliey sat down seven at table, the eij^'htli chair,
usually occupied by Wodd^'ate, bein^' empty.
]>nt b(^f()re the soup j)lates W( re removed, the
door opened and he appeared, calm, nonchalant, smiling,
with a gay apology on his lips, and a debonair greetin;^'
for all.

Hia appearance caused a little f'ltter of sur[)rise, it being
now universally known that he wis under a domestic cloud.
For a moment there was a marked restraint in the demeanour
of the seven, until they remembered, as one man, that they
had met as brothers of the pen, not as censors of private
conduct.

Then how many, after all, could point to an absolutely cl(!an
record? Not ouf, save, iierhaps, Walcot Hargreaves, whose
name, encased though it was with tlie richest Bohemian
eccentricity, no breath of personal reproach hatl ever stained.
Woodgate, sensitive to a degree at the moment, felt the
momentary breath of ice freeze the atmosphere, and his face
fell as he took his place ; nor could the immediate cordiality
of the greeting accorded to him for some time put him at his
ease. Now, Hargreaves, who had brooded with more or less

'/ r.osT inr.An

«25

r of tho

rant ; ainl
liih cliiiir,
<' ('iintiv.
lOVed, tl\t!
, smilin.i,',
' <froe'tin;j;

, it lH'in;4

;tic cloud.

Ili'inciinour

that tlu'V

if privatt)

itoly clean
[es, whoso
lp>ohoinian
br stained,
felt the
ll his face
cordiality
him at his
Ire or less

ronstancy rijion tlio Woddi^Mh^ alliiir, liad In en ohli^ed to treat
it Hs a cnuuiidniin and ^'iv<f it U|>. Keen tslndent of iiuiuaii
nalnre thoii^di Im was, us \v(dl as Wood^ate's nmst intimate
friend, lie had not hecMi aide to fathom that pei'^on's mind,
and iiatl never lii'trayeil him into any expression of re^'riit for
the sad destrueti(»n of his donn'stic. peace, ^'et was he hy no
means incdimil to credit the man with a total lack of feulin;; ;
observing' him, (!ven at tho present moment, with a lynx eye,
ho detected a covert nneasiness, a heaviness id' soul h(Mieath
tho exterior, which was certainly tonched with a sh;,dit de-
lianco. And his private coiij(M!tnre was, how lon;4 tiiis mask
woid«l ho sustained, how lon,Lj before tlu! hre, wonhi leap (tut,,

'i.y

10 chaos ot restlessness within ih'velop into some man
action. \Vood,L,Mto was, when so moved, a brilliant, if >1 j^ditly
superficial talker, and ho that evening' exctdlcd ail jneccidcuit.
Ho was the ^'ayest of tho <;ay, and llar^rea\es, mori! than
usually silent, waUdied him yet moio keenly from under his
grave, dark brows, and saw tliat a (diango was not far oil'.

Tho immediate object of thci Parthimon ^'ath(!rin<fs wa.s tho
submission of now productions before that select tribunal, the

ading of unpublished tab

rhirh

d th

rearung oi unpur)iisnei

ment of the critical seven, before being submitted to tho

public.

It was long since Woodgate had contributed any share to
tho evening's after-dinner entertainn'ont, but on account of
brilliant past favours, had not booii ignominiously rebuked.

The contribution for that evening fell to tho lot of Ivan
Radovski, a young Pole, latL'ly admitted t« the restricted ranks
of the Parthenon, and one of tho most brilliant of the younger
generation. He read a short story, bearing upon tho wrongs
of his unhap})y country ; a gloomy, passionate, tragical con-
ce})tion, yet so full of power and pathos, that it carried his
listeners irresistibly as on the waves of a great flood. He told
it well too, and with a subdued but dramatic intensity, which
betrayed the wound in the exile's heart. It left a deep im-
jtression on those present, and was received almost in silence.
The criticism and comment so fieely bestowed on pieces of
15

I '

l-^-

226

A LOST IDEAL

li^'htnr calibro wove not oHfrod ; the vcnlirt wan, that the
tiling was hcyoiul criticisii), being perfect of its kind. The
dinner- tiihle was dulh-r tiian usual, the usual after- dinner
i)adiiiago desultoiy and evidently forced. The evening was
felt to have hi'cn souu'what heavy and sondu-e, nor was there
much inclination to prolong it heyond eleven (»'cloek. The
lii.>l move to break up had been made, when Woodgate slowly
rose to liis feet. His face was observed to be unusually
flushed, but before he opened his mouth the colour rec^cded
until h(> became paler than his wont.

He drew a folded sheet of foolsca[> from his pocket, glanced
incjuiringly at llargrcaves, who occupied the chair, and cleared
his tlu'oat.

"I have not for some time done my l^art at this table,"
he said in a low, but calm, evenly-nuxlulated voice. "It is
growing Lite, but 1 crave your imlulgence for other ten
minutes."

They waited, breathless, for what was to come. Whatever
its nature, ii was short, occui)yiug only one side of the sheet.
To the amazement of all, the contribution was a poem dealing
with the sad pilgrimage of Love u[)on the earth ; allegorical in
conception, and told in impassioned language, touched with
the spirit of the true poetry. He read it quietly, yet with a
suppressed passion which communicated itself subtilely to those
who listened, and made many wonder.

AVhen he finished, he fokled it up and looked at them
calmly.

" I await your criticism," lie saitl, but none was fortlicoming.
llargreaves spoke first.

"I think it will be the opinion of all at this table, when
I say that there has been nothing more touching read at this
table ; and, further, that the author of Fir^ifridis and Brunv-
hilde has not forgotten his craft, nor grown cold towards its
higher meaning."

A slight murmur of applause ran round the table, yet all
looked puzzled. AVhat did the thing mean ? Was it supposed
to represent Woodgate's state of mind 1 If so, what more ex-

A LOST IDEAL

227

[it t.ho
Tlu'
(liniu'V
ig was
s llu'Vf,
. Th.>
slowly
1 visual ly
receded

(rlalKHMl

I cleared

s table,"

" It is

ther ten

^Vliatover

the slu^et.

Ill dealiivi
orical in
lod with
et with a

y to those

I at them

•thcoming.

ihle, ^vhc^
ad at this
nd Brune-
,0 wards its

)le, yet all
it supposed
it more ex-

traordinary, more unlike him, than tliat lie should tliiis lay it
hare before those who, thoiif^h his comrades in art, were not,
with the exception of llar^reaves, his bosom friends? It
{j[ave a fillip to the clos(! of a sonuiwhat did! eveiiitij^', and
was discussed variously on the homeward way. Har^Meaves
and Woodgate walked together along Holhorn aud through
Chancery Lane to Fleet Street, in almost unbroken silenc.-e.

"Turn in for a smoke with me?" suggested Hargreaves,
at the corner of Norfolk Street.

"J. don't miud, it's early yet," assented Woodgate, and tho
two mounted the familiar stairs together.

On Hargreaves' table lay the card IJrian Laidlaw had left
earlier in the evening. lie took it up, speaking the name and
address aloud in audible; surprise. " Don't know tlu; chap,"
he said carelessly, but Woodgate looked as if he had been
stung.

"Laidlaw! What the deuce is he doing here? What can
lie want with you 1 "

"Couldn't say. Do you know him?"

" Yes, I know him," retorted Woodgate, evidently so put
out that Hargreaves regarded him with curiosity.

" If he wants anything particular he will come back, I
expect. Light up, Dick, and don't worry. I want to talk."

He threw himself on the sofa with his feet elevated on the
hard end thereof, and proceeded meditatively to fill his pipe.

"A cigar once in a while is a luxury, but the pipe's the
thing. Now, Dick, I want to know the meaning of the thing
you read to-night ? "

Woodgate threw himself into the easy chair, twisting Brian
Laidlaw's card in his fingers. It seemed to burn them, for
he presently tore it to fragments, and let them fall in a shower
on the threadbare carpet. It had changed the current of his
thought ; the mere tliought of Brian's presence in London was
not in itself alarming, but that he should have sought an
interview with Hargreaves seeuied significant. Could it bo
possible that Helen should have placed her interests in his
hands? There was torment in the thought. Hargreaves had

:li

; ii

228

A LOST IDEAL

to wait so long for an answer to his qm-stion, that he repcat('(l
it at length, and Woodgate, feeling soothed hy tlie first dvaw
at a particularly good l»ipe, tried to give him his attention.

"Meaning?" lie repeateil, just a trifle vaguely. "What
meaning did you take out of it % "

" I did not tak(; any. If it was a representation of your
own state of mind, then I have to ask your pardon, and to
express my joy at the dtiwn of another life. If it was an
analysis of Iut state of mind, then I'll try to say God forgive
you. You're only lit to be your own exeeutioner, and I'll
cut you dead from this day, as ought every decent soul in
Christendom."

Woodgate oddly smiled, nor did he avoid the penetrating
gaze of his friend's eyes.

" Do you think, Harry," he said at length, so calmly that
he might have been uttering the merest commonplace; "do
you think there is any use in my going to Keutensee?"

Hargreaves took his pipe from his mouth, and sat up.

" If you are in a right frame of mind, go, in God's name,
and try what you can to join the broken threads. I can't get
her out of my head ; she has come between me and evei'y-
thing I have tried to do since it happened."

" You can imagine then, perhaps, though vaguely," said
Woodgate " what it has been to me." He laid down his
pipe and began to paca the floor. " I'll write first, I think,"
he said, more to hiniov^lf than his listener, " and upon the;
answer I'll shape my future action."

" Don't," said Hargreaves laconically. " Written words are

cold, and give out unintentional meanings.

Go, and go at

once.

Woodgate shook his head.

" I am a coward," he frankly confessed. ''Yon don't know
how her contempt is a quality that slays whatever it touches.
I can't meet her without some faint assurance that it will not
slay me."

It was a speech absolutely characteristic of the man. From
bis earliest years he had basked in sunshine, leaving the

al
el

A LOST IDEAL

229

all'*!

yo\ir
lul to
,'iis an
bvgive
lid I'll
50ul in

>trating

Lly tliiit
•p.: "do

L's name,
can't got
d evevy-

ly," i^aid

own his
think,"
jpon tlio

rords arc
tid go lit

)ii't know
it touches,
lit will not

From
kavmg the

shadows for others, sparing }uiii.self cvt-ry annoyance, every
un[)h'asantness, at whatever c<»st. Having thus jx-rsistently
indulged liimsclf, liis weakness hecanie liis tyrant, Ins Xeniesis,
in the very C2'isis of his life. Tlargrcavcs looked at liini with
compassion touched l)y a healthy scorn, lint he understood
him ([uite, and so was less hard u[)on him iii liis thought
than might have l»e(Mi ex})ected in one who never shrank
from a disagreeal)le task or a disngreeahle duty in his life,
nay, who had nuuiy times ungrudgingly and in silence hornt;
a heavy burden for a less ahle hrother huiret«;(l hc^yond his
strength.

"If you write," he said slowly, and in that manner wliie.h
hetokened his deep interest and concern in what he was
saying, "don't forget tin; manner of woman you have to deal
with. Don't mock her with pretence. Her eyes were always
clear to detect humhug, now they will he relentless. S;iy
what becomes a man in the circumstances, and should slu;
listen, you have a lifetime for action more elotjuent than speech."
There was silence then, and at last Woodgate, whose thoughts
had been entirely engrossed, pulled himself together with a
i.:art.

"I'll go home now, Hr;rry,"he said abruptly. "Thank you,
and good-night."

"Good -night," said Hargreaves laconically, hut the grasp of

his hand was more like the grasp of yore. Ibtpe for the iban

had revived in his soul, and it was a relief to him of no

)r(linary kind to find Woodgate not altogether base and void

of heart.

As Woodgate passed out of the doorway to the street, on the
lookout for a hansom, a tall figure came up from the Embank-
ment, and, though they exchanged careless glances, they failed to
recognise each other. It was now half-past eleven, but Brian
was anxious to return to Scotland on the morrow, and having
peen Hargreaves, would have nothing to detain him in London,
lie sav7 the lights in the window, and so made bold to enter
and knock at the door. Hargreaves himself opened it, in
evening dress of course, and pipe in hand. He betrayed no

1 1

h ::^

230

A LOST IDEAL

surprise on beholding a visitor at such a late hour, and, giving
him a courteous good-evening, bade him enter.

" My name is Laidlaw," said Brian apologetically. " I
must ask you to excuse this late call. I was here about eight
o'clock."

" Yes. I got your card ; a preoccupied friend who came in
to smoke with me tore it to atoms, and there they are. Pray
sit down."

He spoke affably, regarding the intruder with favour, being
impressed by the line manliness of his bearing, as well as the
wiiisomeness of his look. Brian carried a passport to favour
in his face. As for him, not less keenly did he regard
Ilargreaves ; he being, by her own confession, the friend of
Helen Woodgate.

"I presume my name is not familiar to you," he said, as he
sat down. " But there ought to be a bond between us — true
friendship for another. I am here by request of Mrs.
Woodgate."

Hargreaves started, visibly impressed. "Oh, you are? Then
you have heard of or perhaps seen Mrs. Woodgate lately ? "

"I only arrived in London this afternoon from Germany.
I saw her at Keutensee on Wednesday night."

" Oh, you did ? "

Hargreaves was more than surprised, he was astounded, and
looked it. He would like to have asked what right this
stalwart Scotsman had to meddle in the most private affairs
of Helen Woodgate, but Brian relieved him of the necessity.

*'I am a very old friend of the family," he said quietly.
" We were like brother and sister at the manse of Broadrule.
Woodgate also I know well. I simply went to see whether I
could be of any use, or help her in this unhappy crisis in her
life. So far as that was concerned my visit was usele .3 ; the
time for advice has not come apparently. She told me I was
to see you, and toll you what I chose."

"Is she very bitter against himT' inquired Hargreaves, in a
voice which by no means betrayed the absorbing interest he
felt.

A LOST IDEAL

23T

giving

((

t eiglit

laine in
Vray

r, being
il as the
3 favour
I regard
riend of

id, as lie
us — true
of Mrs.

el Then

]lermany.

ded, and
ight this
ite affairs
:;essity.
d quietly,
koadrule.
.vhether I
sis in her
|ele -3 ; the
me I was

"She is, and justly so. It is well I have not come across
him in London, Mr, Hargreaves, or I sliould not he answerable
for the cons('([U('ncos."

"It is fortunate, then, tliat you did not liappcn here ten
minutes earlier ; in fact, 1 supi)ose you must have passed each
other on the stairs or in the street. 1 )i(ln't you see anyone ? "

" I saw a man leave the door as I approached. Was that
Woodgate % "

" It was."

" It is fortunai- as you say, that I did not come up ten
minutes sooner. But wliat good wijuld it do ? Kevenge is
sweet, they say, but this is not a case revenge can mend. I
don't know what your connection with the Woodgatos has
been or is. She certainly said you were her friend ; hut if
you are the gentleman I take you to be, your o])inion of that
intolerable scoundrel must be the same as mine, and I wonder
you can suffer him in the room with you."

"He has gone home — I believe to write to his wife," said
Hargreaves meditatively ; then, laying down his pipe, he drew
up his chair to Brian, and began to talk in earnest. They
forgot that they were strangers to each other, forgot everything
but the common bond of interest between them.

Two o'clock found them sitting together, talking still.

At the same hour, Woodgate, Avho was the subject of their
talk, closed the letter he had written to Keutensee.

Pll

1 f

I !

iaves, in a
Interest he

CHAPTER XXX

** I as lit tip iimlcrstand
Love's decay."

P to-morrow, (liisl;i\-, yo;i go back to school?"

" Yes, iiiiulainc, and tlioii it is but a few weeks
until I t;o to r»onn or Wiesbaden, whore my
mother will come."

Tlie two, Helen and the boy, inseparable com-
panions, were sittinj;- to<j;(^ther in a curious little balcony, ojien
in front to the lake. They had been reading together a book
of English poetry, of which the lad was j)assionately fond.
EvtUTthing English was of interest to him because of his love
for his English mother.

*' Wo shall miss you here very much, Gustav," said Helen ;
" what shall I do without the companion of my walks and my
reailing? "'

"Hut you will g( back soon to England, will you not,
madame T' inquireil the boy, with a slight hesitation, though
the thouglit had long puzzled him why the English lady should
have come alone to Reutensee, and M'hy the subject of her
return h:id never once been mentioned in the house.

" Xo, my boy, I shall not go back. I have nothing in
England now," she replied, and even while sp'3aking, the
desolation of her condition came Inmie to her with a new
sharpness, and the colour died out of her face,
**A letter for madame."

232

A LOST IDEAL

2.53

GuHtav jmnpcd up, tonk it IVnin Uki scrv.iiit, and (•Mrrrd it
to Helen.

When hIu? siiw tlio wiiliii;^ on Mie cnve](»i>e, tlie colour
retmneil in a vivid flood to her faen, and .she heoanie visiKly
norvoMs.

"Shall I go away until you have road your letter?" asked
(Justav. "Aunt Clothilde may wish mo to do Koniething for
her."

"If you i)lease, d(Nir," Helen re])lied ; and suddenly the ])oy
shaded his eyes with his liands, and looked heyond the dark
]iinewoods to the slope of a distant ascent on the, way to
Wiir/.hur}^'.

"There is a carria^'c cominj^', niachiinn. Do you see it? I
wonder who can conio to-(hiy. I must go and tell Aunt
Clothilde."

The boy darted off, closing the door whi(;h shut the room
off from the balcony, and Helen was left alone with h(;r
husband's letter.

It lay upon her lap, and she looked down upon it with a
certain nervousness which Ix'trayed itself in the nervous
twitching of her mouth and the perturljed light in her eyes.
It came at a tinu', when she had reaehiMl another turning-point,
when it became necessary for her to decide what must ])e the
next ste]) in her life. She had had time and solitude for
thought in Keutcnsce, and though the tumult was hvss terril;le
within, no delinite idea for tlie futiire liad yet arisen. She
seemed to be waiting still, for what she did not know. The
afternoon was very drowsy and sunshiny, scarcely a ripple
fretting the surface of the placid lake ; a lovely afternoon, and
a lovel}'' spot, whispering of nothing but an infinite ])eace.
She took up the envelope by and by, and looked it carefully
over, noting each curve of the delicate, diaracteristic hand-
writing, and even studying, as with a new interest, the familiar
crest and motto on the seal. How long it seemed since it had
been her pride and pleasure to seal her letters so — a very life-
time ! No flutter of tenderness stirred her heart as she tli;i9
studied the exterior of the missive whose purport she could

I \-

iH—

V :f;

234

A LOST WEAL

not ^'lU'ss. Sli(» loaned forwiinl pn'sciifly, and, rostiii^^r hor ami
(»n tlio stront,' rustic parajM^t, lonki'd down into tlio lake ludow,
wlicro the trout leaped up merrily to the ^Miats sporiin^' in the
snn ; and .^he felt half teni|>te(l foi the moment to let the h'tter
drop into those depths and drift away from Ihm- sij^dit. Tiiat
its contents would disturh her, she felt sure ; hut ashamed at
length of her own lack of eourai^e, she hroke th(> seal with a
sli*,'htly impatient hand, and then sat motionless with the ojtcn
sheet in her hand a loni,', loni( time.

The letter which had coat \Vo(id«j;;it(^ so tremendous an effort,
which had heen written and re written in the silent ni<,dit-
watches, was almost curt in its hrevit.y and simj)licity, hut it
was a letter of which I [argreav(!S, the downright and sincere,
would have approved.

"DearHelkn," — it hegan,— " It is imperative that I now
write to you, whatever may he the issue. I have waited until
waiting has become no longer tolerable or possible ; therefore I
ask, what is to be your tinal decision % I know you well enough
to feel sure that my otfence is one you will find haul to forgive.
It is one which I must to the end of my life deplore. I have
no excuse to oiTer : I only ask you to lielieve that after the
climax has come a most bitter reaction, and that my own folly,
to call it by no harsher name, now stands out before me in all
its nakedness, a hideous reproach, and I know now the priceless
value of what I have renounced. I will not, I dare not, mock
you with promises which in the light of the past may well fill
you with scorn. I only ask another chance. I beg of you to
return at least to the nominal shelter of my roof — for your sake
as much as for mine ; then might the future hold some possi-
bility of hope for us both. ])o not, I entreat, decline this in
the impulse of the moment. Until I hear from you I am a
miserable man. — /ours, R. Woodgate."

Helen read it over carefully twice, and at the second reading
the expression of her face grew less hard and. set. It was at
east a sincere letter, but it failed absolutely to touch her heart,.

A LOST IDK/tr

235

to awaken in hvv a HJiij^rNi tender or relcntiiij^' tlinii;^'lit. The
hitternesH li):<I passed, it is inie, luit in itn jilace liad come an
indillerencM^ kh '•(• deadly and iiior(^ ?ioj)elesH than tlie wildt^Kt
fiiorni of her in(li,L,'nation. Siie sat- there, lier vyvA fixed on the
lines which Woodj^'ate liad written out of the a;^'<)ny of his heart,
as nninovod as if it liad hecm a missive from a stranj^'er's \h\\\.
When nho came a^'ain to th(^ wonls, " return at h'ast to the
nominal shelter of my roof," sIk; smiled a faint and slightly
bitter smile and shook her head.

It is impoHsible," she said un«ler her breath.

can

never i)e.

She sat some minutes longi^r, but the boy did not return, ami
the servant came to her i)resently, saying the (iriifin waited her
at coffee in the little salon. Helen put the hitter in its envelope;
and carried it with her. Of late the oM (Iriifin had failed
much in health, and looked frail and worn, though her keen
eye had lost none of its elearn(!ss, and she had relin(|'iislied
none of hcir accustomed duties. She belonged to a rjN-e who
could endure to the bitter end, and to whom sidf-imiulj^once
M'as an unknown term. She had sufliired for years jrom au
internal disorder, which was now rapidly approaching its crisis,
and could only have a fatal issue. She had wasted to a skeleton,
her garments hung loosely upon her, and her long slender hands
were pitiful to see. But she was brave always, and h(U' smile
never failed, though it was touched with the sublimity of
pathos, and moved Helen sometimes to t(!ars.

"Gustav tells me you have had a letter," she said, looking
up hi(]uiringly. " Good tidings, I hoi)e."

" From my husband," answered Heleii simply. " I wish
you to read it — yes, now."

Even then the Griifin hesitated a moment. They had talked
but little of the matter since the day the stricken wife had come
seeking sympathy and shelter, and the old woman felt the
extreme delicacy of the theme. She had borne her own sorrows
in solitude, asking or expecting sympathy from none ; and she
shrank from entering the inner courts of another life, though
her heart overflowed with compassion towards the woman, who

2T,C)

A LOST IDEAL

%:/

iii

tlius early liad factMl tlic rxtreint* bittcrin'ss of life. Tlelcn
Piiioothefl out the open slu'ct and laid it hcfore licr, repeating'
siiri])!}', *' r wisli you to ii'ad it." 'I'lie (Iriilin thru did so
slowly, Helen sittiiij^ at tlie table with her elbows on it, and
liiT chin resting' in her hands, watchinj,' her expression as shc^
read. The Griilin took olF her spectacles, l)ent her searching
eyes on Helen's face, and spoke only three words —

"Well, my daughter?"

"Tell me what you think, Griilin," said llehMi, with a most
unusual touch of impatience,

"I think," said the Griifin slowly, "that it is the letter of
an honest man whose sin has come home to him. You will
retiirn to him, as he desires ? "

Helen rose and walked across the floor with clasped hands
in silence.

" Aunt Clothilde," she said, using the name she was privileged
to share with Oustav, "I cannot: it is impossible."

*' Why, my daughter?" inquired the old woman gently. " It
is not so Heaven deals with the sinner, else what of us? He
has bitterly wounded your heart, it is true ; but it is the lot of
women to suffer one way or other, but to sutler, here below ;
we cannot escape our destiny. It may be for the salvation of
your husband's soul."

"And what of mine?" asked Helen hotly, and her face flushed.
"I am not so good a woman as I was when I married him — oh,
not nearly ! I had simple faiths ; he has destroyed them all.
I believed most people to be good, or at least that they tried
to be so ; his creed is that selfishness is the only human creed,
and I think he has proved it. I am not happy now, but I am
happier than I would be with hitu. How can I, having no
respect for him, return to him and reain my own self-respect?"

The Griifin shook her head, took a draught of coft'ee from the
cup, and road the letter again.

" It is the letter of a man putting a restraint upon himself,"
she said slowly. " Unless I am mistaken, you are not alone in
your suffering. Do not be too hard on him, child ; remember
that men have a harder struggle after goodness than we have ;

A LOST ini.AL

Helen

l»ejitin^'
(lid so
it, and
as she

lurcliing

, a most

[otter of
rou will

d hands

rivilogctl

ly. *' It
us % He
Ihe lot of
; below ;
nation of

; flushed,
lim — oh,
hem all.
cy tried
m creed,
)ut I am
iving no
aspect % "
[rom the

liimself,"
I alone in
t member
,'6 have ;

■hi

and you have your own life to think of. It is all before you
jet — what are you going to do with it?"

"There is work for women whose, life; is over," said Helen
(iui(;kly. " in hospitals, among children and sick people, I e;in
still be us(!ful, though 1 cannot bo hajtpy. After all, haj»|)iness
is not the end of all."

" 1 am an old woman, standing, as you know, on the briid< of
th(! grave, a woman who has seen and sutl'ercd much," said (lie
(Iriitin impressively. "I know my kind, and I think I know
you ; not for nothing have 1 watched you these many days.
The life you speak of is not for you. You would sink under
it. You are one of the women to whom home and its interests
are essential, you must not throw them away. This is a crisis
— a bitter one, I admit, but not without its promise of better
tilings."

Helen shook her head, and gave a little deprecating wave of
her hand as if to put the possibility far from her.

"He — he said h<^ had married me out of gratitude. Can I
ever forget that? — the sting of it will live with me till I die,"
she cried passionately.

"The man was not himself at the moment, my daughter,"
said the Griifin calmly; "and even if it had its element of
truth, love has arisen from a feebler root. It is possible that
out of this terrible convulsion in your relations may arise the
love which will bless your later life. Do not throw it away."

But Helen remained fixed in her own conviction.

" I have not the sn^allest desire to go back, nor one tender
thought towards him. He liar completely killed my love. To
go back feeling as I do would be to make confusion wors(; con-
founded, and would end in the shipwreck of two souls, ^^o, no,
it can never be."

The Griifin regarded the lithe, graceful figure, the flushed,
beautiful face of the younger woman with a curious yearninj'',
wistful look.

" I wish, I wish vou had had a child ! "

Deeper grew the flush on Helen's cheek and her eyes filled
with bitter tears

238

./ /.OST IDEAl.

*M)h, (irafin, how can you say wluit iH s«» cruol?" hIi*' crii'tl in
a cliokiii^' voi(;o. "I— 1 haw never cniscd to tliiiiik (lod that
thai is s|>an'(l nic ; it woulil huvr inudo tlu? tiling' iutol«Miil»I»'."

At tliat tnonuMit tlicro was a ^^Toat ruinhlinj^' in the courtyanl,
and presently Hans came running' hreatldess to his mistress.

"The (traf ! " he crieil in a lialf-seared voice, "(Jraf Ludwig
lias arrived, and he uueiiiu ill uutu death."

nrAi'TEij XXXI

*' 'I'Iki world liiis ilcalt witli iiit!
As wlini tlio lijird seu bites and flicwh ii sloiio,
Am] (dmiigfs its tiist Conn.

[HKdriilin iimiu'diatcly left the room, llcdcn walkrd

1, to tlu; 1. il)l(! window wliich conmiaiMlcMl a pcjej) of

L tlio ('(iiirtyiird, and saw the ('airia^'c, standing sur

p rounded l)y a little ^Toup of scrvantH, tl»(! ])oy

^ (lustav anion^' them. Pres(uitly she saw ali^dit

from the eaniaj^'e the tall, ^auiit figure of a man with a

military cloak over his uniform, leaning heavily with oiw.

arm on his servant and the other on his sword, lie looked

like a man stricken with mortal sickness. Helen looked ut

him with the keenest possible interest, the husband of Hilda

von lleutensee. Tie was of the true Teuton type, po\v(U'fully

and squarely built, and carrying himself, ttvon in his evident

extreme weakness, with a military grace. Ilis face was

extremely fair, ruddy in health, but now pale and worn ; his

hair bright flaxen, as was the moustache which drooped over

the mouth, effectually hiding whatever may have been its

strength or weakness. When he saw his aunt hurrying across

the courtyard, he saluted her courteously, and the faint shadow

of a smile flitted across his face. Then the boy, Gustav, who

till now had stood aloof, came forward impulsively and touched

his father's arm, while his eyes wistfully looked up into his

face. Helen was struck by that look ; it conveye ^ so nuich —

&11 the longing of the child's heart for the father's love which

ii9

'i. I

If,'

■( ' '

:1n!,

240

A LOST IDEAL

■\\\\

had liitliorto been denied him. Tlio Gnif regarded the hoy
steadfastly for a moment, and then laid his hand kindly on his
bare head. The hoy, touched to the (luiek, burst into tears ;
and Helen drew back, her own eyes wet, and feeling that she
was a witness to a vrry sacred scene.

She was still standing by the table when ihe sound of voices
and approaching footsteps indicated their approach. They,
however, passed by the door of the little salon, and Helen knew
by the direction of the retreating sound that they had gone to
the rooms which were always kejjt in readiness for the Graf.

The whole household was now astir. Once a year, when
the Graf came from the shooting, it awakened from its
drowsy slumber, and was on the alert night and day, the master
of Keutensee being one who exacted his meed of service.,
pressed down and running over ; and though his coming was
totally unexpected, and he ai)peared fit only for a sick-bed, the
effect of his presence was precisely the same. Helen was left
a long time alone, and had gone to her own room when the
Griitin came to her, looking white and anxious.

"It is a new trouble," she said nervously, "and I fear the
Garf is mortally stricken. He has been fighting in a duel, and
the wound is difficult to heal. He has neglected it, and the
result is sad to see. I fear he has come home to die."

Helen murmured a word of sympathy, and the Griifin sat
down wiping the moisture from her ^»i.ow.

" He is completely worn out, and there is a gentleness I have
never seen in him before. He had not an oath or a harsii
word for a servant since he entered the house two hours ago.
Formerly his presence was like a great storm which scarcely
knew a calm moment but in sleep. I fear, I fear, Graf
Lud wig's days are numbered."

"They may not be," said Helen gently. "The quit t of
Keutensee and careful nursing may make him well. Has he
seen a physician or surgeon 1 "

" Yes, many of them, and I gather that they have given him
but scant hope ; but I have sent to Keuten.-ree for our good
I*astor Loeder, who has raie medical skill as well as spiritual

A LOST IDEAL

241

grace. It is sad to sec a man stricken, in liis prime, and to
unink how little he has to show that is worthy or noble for his
forty years of life."

"It may be the crisis in his life," said Helen hopefully.
" And now, will you tell me truly, madame, would you not
prefer me to leave Reutensee? In these sad family circum-
stances the presence of a stranger may be irksome."

"A stranger?" repeated the Griifin in a mild tone of
reproach. *' Huve I so regarded and treated you, Helen, that
you still call yourself a stranger in Reutensee? To me, you
seem like a daughter of the house."

"Forgive me, then I will stay. I have had much experi-
ence of nursing. I may be of use ; I may be able to spare you,
my beloved friend, some anxious hours. But" — Helen hesi-
latcd a moment — "will it not be necessary to .send for his wife*?"

"Not yet. I suggested it, and it was then he exhibited the
only sign of impatience I have observed this time ; but I fear
they are alienated for ever. I am glad that Gustav remains.
How his heart yearns over his father ! It would melt a heart
of stone."

"Heelings more to his mother," said Helen, "and yet he is
a boy of whom any father might be proud."

" Ah, yes ; but he has starved the child of love, and nothing
can atone to the young heart for that. There are many things
about my nephew's wife I do not understand, but she has been
a good and loving mother to the boy, and had Ludwig consulted
his own best interests, he would have permitted her to keep
him."

" Is Graf Ludwig then so h( pelessly bad 1 " inquired Helen,
with interest. "I caught a glimpse of him from the window,
and I thought there was an air of nobility about him."

"He is a selfish man — selfish and hard, and his wife never
loved him ; that was where the mischief lay. T do not blame
her; she was very young, and he tried her very hard. Then
they were of a different nationality, which is always a risk, a
great risk, indeed, But now I must go send my message to
pastor Loeder,"

■ vW

,f ;

1 1

||i

■]^

1 }

■

ill ,..

Nr:

i
.' -■

242

A LOST IDEAL

The arrival of Graf Ludwig made a great stir and change in
the Schloss, and, though he lay upon his bed unable to move,
soemed to exercise an influence over the household. Helen
once or twice took her turn to watch by him while he slept,
but he had not seemed to observe her presence in the
room.

One evening at sundown, however, she was sitting at his
chamber window with her book when she became conscious
that his eyes were fixed upon he^ Immediately she laid down
her book and glided across to his oed. Now, Helen Woodgate
was at home at a sick-bed anywhere. She was a woman born
to minister. Her movements were gentle and soothing, her
voice sweetly modulated, her whole presence restful.

" What can I do for you 1 " she asked softly. " The Grafin
has gone to lie down. Would you like me to call her V

" No ; sit down and talk to me," said the sick man in
excellent English. " I know all about you, but I want to hear
you talk. Sit down."

In some surprise Helen took the chair by the bed,

"I did not think you were aware of my presence in the
house," she said, thinking that this terrible Graf, of whom the
whole household stood in terror and awe, could both look and
speak pleasantly when he chose. There is something in the
prostration of a strong man on a sick-bed which appeals very
specially to a woman's compassion and sympathy.

" You think me very ill, madame, I can see," he said, with
a faint, grim smile. "Are they waiting and hoping for my
death-belH"

" Have you given them cause to regard that as a boon
instead of a misfortune, Graf Ludwig "J" asked Helen, with un-
expected sharpness, which made him give an inward chuckle,
even while he felt surprised. 'No woman had spoken so
candidly and straightly to him since that stormy day he had
parted from his wife in the Hotel de I'Univers at Monte Carlo.

" I came here expecting to die. I confess I have seen many
physicians, but, bah ! what can they do for one in an
extremity '< I believe myself that old fossil Loeder in the

A LOST IDEAL

243

1.1 '

village knows more than any of them. His cures are those
of an old housewife, but they do no harm if no good."

" Pastor Loeder has not given up hope, Graf Ludwig," said
Helen, as she measured out his medicine fron^ the phial, the
sick man watching her intently the while, his blue eyes still
retaining an unusually gentle look.

" You are English. I have an English wife who has served
me but shabbily. I daresay they have regaled you with th(;
history of our domestic felicity. Is it the fashion of your
countrywomen to leave their husbands for the merest
punctilio % "

Helen winced, and the hand grasping the medicine glass
trembled.

" I think not. We are more true to our vows than the
women of other nationalities, Graf Ludwig, but we do not like
to be deceived."

" My wife had an impossible standard of excellence, but the
greatest offence was that she hated me from the first. Tel] me,
do you not think it was wiser to part \ "

*' You are talking too much," said Helen quietly. "Drink
this, and keep still. Pastor Loeder has told us that quietness
is essential to your recovery."

"Ach Himmel ! I have lain still for eight days, and I had
made up my mind to talk to you. You say that because you
do not want to answer my question. If you will answer it, I
will be still, I promise you."

Helen smiled, administered the medicine, shook up his
pillows, and made smooth the coverlet about his neck, gently
and tenderly, as she might have ministered to a sick child.
She felt no repulsion towards him, but rather an attraction.
There was a fearlessness in his blue eye, and a lurking sweet-
ness about the mouth, which seemed to tell her that the stern
Graf had another and a gentler side. The pity of it was that
those whom it might have blessed had, through some strange
perverseness, failed to call it into life.

" What was it you asked me % " she said. *' Whether it was
wisir to part? How can I, a stranger, answer that? But \

A LOST IDEAL

know that in some of her sad moments your wife has regretted
the circumstances which necessitated it."

*'How do you know that?" he asked, with apparent quiet-
ness; but Helen saw his eyes flash with a h?.'^ restrained
eagerness.

" Because she has told me so."

"Do you then know my wife ?" lie asked eagerly, and making
an attempt to raise himself on his elbow.

"I thought you said you knew all about me," said Helen
whimsically.

"Ah, well. Aunt Clothilde told me you were English, and
had come here for a little quiet after trouble, but she did not
say you knew my wife. Tell me, when did you see her?"

" In England, six weeks ago," replied Helen, with evident
restraint, which, however, the Graf in his eagerness did not
observe.

" Were you her friend ? Do you know intimately her way
of life ? I have often wondered about it, but I know no one
in England who can tell me anything of her. How does she
live?"

"If you will be quiet, Graf Ludwig, and ask no more
questions, I shall tell you all I know of her," replied Helen ;
" but if you ex'"te yourself, I shall go away and not come back."

" You will not be so cruel, niadame, I should excite myself
more and more then. And yet why should I care ? She hates
me, and never hid her scorn of me. Only once, I remember,
when I was ill, did she betray any womanly or wifely quality."

" Which, nevertheless, she possesses in a greater degree than
most," said Helen ; " only you did not encourage their exercise."

" She has spoken to you of me then, I see, and the account
has been bad. Tell me what she said."

" She did not forget your good quplities, Graf, even while
deploring the bad," said Helen. "Do you know that there is
no woman in London more beloved and honoured by those
whose good opinion is worth having ; that she spends her life
in doing good, and that oven to have called hey >yife is si*
privilege many envy you ? "

J LOST IDEAL

245

"Then she has not consoled licrself with another?" said ilie
Graf, and Helen looked at him with indignation.

"That you should say so proves how little you knew her,"
she said curtly.

" It is worth hearing how you stand uj) for her. Tell me
more. Does she feel hitter against me?"

"Only for one thing, Graf Ludwig."

"And that?"

"Because you keep the boy from her."

" Does that make her unhappy ? "

" It does ; and it seems so needless, as well as so cruel, since
he is not with you, ' said Helen, pleading for her friend with a
passion she would not have betrayed in a^:/ cause oP her own ;
"and she is very lit to rear him. Besides, his heart clings to
her — you must know that."

*'I had to punish her somehow. I did not wish her to
leave me, and I thought she would not hold out so many
years."

" You do not know her," repeated Helen. *' If she believed
it her duty to leave you, for certain causes, she would never
return until these causes were repented of and lemoved."

" Did she also make you acquainted with the cause ? "

" !Never ; nor did I wish to know. But of this I am very
sure, Graf Ludwig, the fault was yours."

The Graf never took his eyes from her face ; Iit frank out-
spokenness fascinated him.

" If I die, no one can keep the boy from her," he said.

"No; but why wait for death? Let him go to his mother
instead of to Erlangen, so you may have the joy of doing a kind
and a generous deed."

" But then I shall have lost my son as well as my wife"' said
the sick man, with a feeble touch of impatience.

Helen saw that he was weary, though his interest had not
abated.

" Is Gustav then so much to ycu f " she asked, as she moved
to the window and arranged ti^e blind to avert the sun's raya
from the bed.

ihi;

1 1 i '

i \

iHn^i;

24C} A LOST IDEAL

" \\\> Is t(H) like his mollicr, ;iii<l his ('y«'« n'jtroiicli iiic," saitl
thr (Inif, jiml iiinu'd \\\^^^w his pilhuv.

llo hiy still so h)ng tliut Ilch'ii Jit hist iiuuh' u inoviMiicnt
tnwanls tlio (h^or, thinkiiii:^ lie sh'|>t.

" Aro you fjjoing, iiiiKhinic ? 1 (h> not. shM'|), only tliiiik. And
>]m' is unli:»i)j)y, my brilliMut llihhi, is shu'? 1 tliouj^ht lar
.tl

(tlhorwisc

lloh'U inadi' no reply, hut phiccil hi^r hand on the door.
*' You will conio again and talk to me, madam«, will yi

((

OS, if you wi:

^h it.

Have you v(\dly gonel Woll, since you wish it, and yi

ay she is unhapiiy, she shall have the boy.

MlMMlt

CTTAPTRR XXXII

Bid not a hungry rlijM ha siitislicj
With h(uitiig(! of many cornfiolda."

« (1

Go to him

(1(

<1.

ith

d(h

now,
intuition, which -^lio felt was ri^lit.

A great eagonieshi leaped into tlie boy's exj)ressive eyes, ))ut
he liesitated.

"Does he wish to see me, madame? I would not intrude,"
he said humhly. "Has he asked for me?"

"We have been talking of you, dearest. Go now, very
gently, and if he is asleep, steal away again. Where is Aunt
Clotl'iilde?"

"Not yet downstairs," answered the lad, and crept towards
the door of the si^k-chauiher, Helen watching him, her own
desola'uion for the moment dwarfed by that great mystery, the
sorrowful yearning of a child. He opened the door softly, and
closed it again. Helen leaned her head a moment against the
oak-panelled wall, and uplifted her heart in prayer. Could it
be that the rent thrfads might be joined again, if only in deaths

247

1 i

■

■■■Mi

1 ! .

;'il' .

■ J ■

( . ■

■

1
1

■I ■

1- •'

'i !

A LOST IDEAL

Tli(! Graf muvoil eagerly at tlie opening of the door, hoping
Helen had come back. When he saw the timid, expectant face
of the hoy, ho looked for the moment disappointed, and then
beckoned him towards the bed.

'Well, Gustav, have you come to inquire after me? Shut
the door and come in."

The lad was not slow to obey. He threw himself on his
knees by the bed, all his loving heart in his eyes as lie fixed
them on the changed face of the father whom he had never
understood.

"You are better, i)a[)a, are you not?" he inquired wist-

fully.

" IJetter? I don't know, my boy ; it matters nothing. Tell
me, would Reutensee not be happier fo'' my death ? "

" Oh, no, no ! " cried the lad. " You must not say that."

"There are two who would be happier, I know — you and
your mother."

The boy's face flushed, and for the moment he was torn
betwixt two feelings, his passionate and loyal love to his absent
mother, and his newly-awakened tenderness towards his father,
who had shown him, after all, such poor fatherliness all these
years. Encouraged by the unwonted softness of his father's
look, the lad tried to give expression to the mingled emotions
which raged in his young heart.

" Oh, papa," he cried impulsively, " why are we different
from others? Why are you here and mamma in England?
Why cannot we all be together, as others are ? "

" Ask her, Gustav. You will see her soon."

" Not till midsummer," replied Gustav sadly. " Let me write
to her. She will come at once, I am sure, when she hears you
are ill. Let me write, dear paf)a ! "

" Not yet. There are things you cannot understand, Gustav,
because you are too young. Your mother would not come here
even for your asking, even if I desired it, which I do not yet.
If Pastor Loeder says I am to die, it will be different; then she
must come, because there are things that must be arranged for
you, the future Graf von Reutensee."

il 1

A LOST IDEAL

249

"And if you recovor, tlion, pajia, will it l)o as hcfDrc?" in-
(juired the boy, witli that i^'reat wistfuliii'ss which secretly
tt niched the man's heart.

"Not (|uite; on(^ thiiij^' will he diircreut," said the (Jraf, and,
moving liis liand, he laid it on the hoy's bright head, where it
lay on the i)illow very near his own. "1 am .sorry 1 have been
.so rough with you, lad. J'erhai)s I was jcsalous of your lov«^ for
your motlicr. Didn't she tell you many times what a l)ad man
your father was if "

"Never, never! Slie always bade me look up to you, and
pay you a son's duty. I have always loved you, papa, only you
would not let me show it."

The Graf lay still a moment witli his eyes closed, pondering
the boy's words in his mind. Slie had been more loyal than
he; she hud never sought to poison the young mind of the
child against him, and had borne uncom[)lainingly the harsh
verdict which restricted, lier intercourse with her own child,
and had made it but a fearful pleasure. How he must have
misjudged her ! His thoughts grew very tender towards the
woman against whom he had so long cherished a supreme
bitterness. The heart of a man still slumbered in the breast
of Ludwig, Graf von Keutensee ; the husks of the world had
not robbed him of every manly quality. LyiTig there with
closed eyes, his son's warm breath on his cheek, a vision of
what might have been swept over him in a wave of intolerable
pain, which caused him to give a quick shuihler,

"Dear papa, you are feehng worse. Let me call Aunt
Clothilde ! " cried the lad in alarm ; but his father silenced him
quickly.

" No ; it is nothing. You should be back at school, Gustav ;
should you not 1 What would you say to going to London to
your mother, instead of back to Erlangen % "

"To be with her always, do you mean?" inquired the boy
in a breathless whisper, and the red rose in his cheek.

" Yes. There are good schools in England as in Germany.
You shall go to your mother instead of to Erlangen."

"But not just yet, dear papa."

I ;

ill,

hi:;'

250

A LOST IDEAL

1 1

" Wliy not ? I thought you would fly on the wings of the
wiml," t<ai(l tlie Graf in slight bantor, and secretly admiring
the fine, lithe figure of the boy as he stood up, holding himself
as striiiglitly as any soldier in the ranks. It "was impossible
not to feel a thrill of fatherly pride in that gallant boy ; and
Gustav, with the quick intuition of a child, felt his father's
eye rest upon him for the lirst time with approval he did not
seek to hide, and his young heart swelled within him for very
joy, and his blue eyes, heritage from his English mother,
became suffused with a mist of tears.

" If you will let me stay by you, papa, to wait upon you,"
he said hurriedly. "Mamma is well; she does not need me
so much. Let me stay here r.nd be with you. I will be so very
quiet, and not trouble you — only let me stay ! "

" Come here, Gustav, and kneel beside me once more."

The boy did so, and Graf Ludwig looked straight in the
guileless eyes.

" Say after me : ' I forgive you, father.' "

" But why must I say that, papa ? There is nothing to
forgive."

" Yes ; there are years of neglect, and other things you could
not understand. Say the words after me."

The boy did so tremblingly, feeling as if it were a sacrilege
to repeat them.

" Now kiss me. I shall sleep now, and you may sit by my
window till you are tired."

A great sob broke from the boy's bursting, happy heart, and
he threw himself on his father's breast.

" And you will tell your mother when you go to her, or
when she comes here after I am dead," said the Graf, " what
I have made you say — she will understand."

In her own room, wondering whether the interview should
have such happy ending, Helen Woodgate pondered the situa-
tion in her mind, and finally, opening her portfolio, wrote
a letter. Having finished and sealed it, she put on her bonnet
and walked down to the village to post it with her own hand.
She had taken upon her a great responsibility, yet her inward

A LCSr IDEAL

251

of the
Imiring
himself
possible
)y ; and
faUu'i-'s
(li«l not
for very
mother,

)n you,"
[leod me
J so very

t in the

)thing to

irou could

sacrih'ge

it by my

eart, and

D her, or
f, " what

consciousness told her slni was right. When she returned to
the Schloss, she at once sought the (.Iriifin, wlio was making her
toilet in her own room.

"I have done a very daring thing, Aunt Clotliilde," slie said
calmly, "and I am going away from Keutensee."

The old lady paused with her caiKstrings in her hand, and
looked round at her in wondmnient,

" I have sent for the Countess Hilda."

" You have ! But why ? "

" Because J. have had a talk with Graf Ludwig this after-
noon, and I feed sure the time has come."

" He is certainly very ill, and her place is by his side," said
the Griilin musingly. *' But does it please him that she should
come ? "

" I have not asked him, and you must not tell him, Aunt
Clothilde. In such a crisis everything should be left to the
influence of the moment."

" For your age, you are a wise woman," said the old lady.
" I i)ray God to bless your experiment."

" He did not speak harshly of her, Grafin ; and his heart is
softened towards Gustav, who is with him now. There is good
in Graf Ludwig, and the time has come for it to come to the
surface."

" We are bidden believe that there is good in all things
evil," said the Grafin, with a sigh. " But Ludwig has long
shown his worst side at Reutensee. Yet do I remember him
such an one as Gustav, though, perhaps, less sweet. Ah me !
how this bitter life can warp the better nature of a man, and
bring him to a level with the dust. If you are to be the peace-
maker in Reutensee, my daughter, many hearts will bless your
name ; but — why must you go ? why not stay and see your
ministry crowned ? "

" That," said Helen, with averted head, " I may not tell you.
But it is better for me to go."

In connection with her own trouble, Helen had never
mentioned Hilda von Reuten see's name, though many times
tempted to it. How thankful was she now for her own

t'T

252

./ LOST IDEAL

\v \

I ' ■

rcstriiiiit, wliicli wouM cmihlc (Inif Luthvii,''a wife to receive
luM- kiiiHWouiiin w'itliDut prcjudico.

"Tell me, Helen — in the press of new anxieties 1 have not
liad time to ask — hut tell me now what answer have yitii
returiKul to your hushand T' in(iiiir(Ml the (Jriitin anxiously.
" If it is to him you return, then <,'liitlly sliall 1 sju-eil your

" It is not. I have written to him tellin;^' him my state of
mind was such that I (!ould not yet ^'o l)aek. What the future
may ho'd 1 know not, hut to |^'o hack with this indillerence in
my heart would he to make tht^ hreach complete. We must
wait until my heart speaks in a dillerent tone."

"Then why leave us? Where can you go?"

" I liave my own people in my own land, Griilin ; their hearts
are heavy because of me. I shall go to them."

" Wherever you may go, my daughter, tlie blessing of the
Most High will follow you," said the old lady, with solemnity,
"ami I doubt not will show you the way wherein you are to
go. The heart knoweth its own bitterness and its own need.
If you feel that the time has come for you to go forth from
Reutensec, our love and prayers can but follow you."

" When I am gone you will write to me, Aunt Clothilde, if
the news be good. If I hear nothing, I shall know the experi-
ment has failed," said Helen ; "and I go feeling that there will
be a welcome for me here should I wish to come again."

She began her preparations that very night, and having once
taken her decision, seemed eager to be gone.

Next day Graf Ludwig was visibly weaker, and partially
unconscious, not recognising one from the other. Pastor
Loeder in grave anxiety advised the Griilin to send to Wlirzburg
for a surgeon skilled in such cases. He admitted that he had
come to the end of his resources, and that there was some
graver seat of disease than he had yet discovered. In these
circumstances Helen did not hasten her departure, though she
had resolved to leave before the arrival of the Countess Hilda.
0.1 the morning of the third day, just after the Wiirzburg
surgeon had performed a serious operation on his patient,

l!1

* ' I

A i.osr rPFAi.

253

whose condition ho pronouncrd most critical, ft t^'lc^'iani camn
from England sayinj,' A\y>. was leaving L()n<l(»n tliat mornin;,'.
That afternoon Helen loft Keutensro, al>o<l(! in Paris two days
and went to London by a night train. 8ho was conseiiais of
u strange, nnreal feeling as she landed onco more in Kngland,
from which she seemed to liav(r Ix-en absent many years. Ko
one knew of her coming; slie felt like a waif in London streets,
a waif for whom there was no shelter or liome. She who
had been so loved and sheltered in tho Dale, whose visit to
any house, small or great, had bec^n made an occasion (»f
jubilee, was now cast honudess in the great dark tide of
London life. Tlu; grim humour of it made licr smile, but
the smile was wintry, and died swiftly on her lips.

She alighted from tho train, and after a moment's hesitation
entered tho Charing Cross Hotel. She had time to breakfast
and catch tho Scotch train if sho so willed, but she f(dt in no
hasto. After all, her welcome there was not assured. The only
communications she had received from her sister at Keutensee
had been allectionate, but distinctly reproachful. She had
brought a blot on the family name. Iler position was indeed
serious, and such as a woman of her character could not long
sustain. Sho was u}theld just then l)y the strain of an un-
natural excitement, which, however, was gradually api)roaching
its limit. Outwardly sho was calm, dignified, self-possessed ;
but within there dwelt a trembling soul. It is a terrible thing
for a woman delicately nurtured and tenderly cherished to find
herself thus thrown upon her own resources, without aim (tr
object in existence. It was a state of affairs, as I said, which
Helen Woodgate could not possibly endure for any length of
time. With her return to English soil, to the scene of her
married life, her imagined peace of mind, her indifference fled,
and she became once more passionate, indignant, torn by a
thousand conflicting feelings, which, linding no vent, consumed
her very heart. She was conscious of extreme weariness of
body and mind, of weakness even for which she could not
account. She had been so strong always. She felt impatient
pf the physical change in herself, But human endurance has

254

A LOST IDEAL

its limits. She had lived the past six weeks in an unnatural
world, putting an unnatural restraint upon herself, and now
another crisis was at hand.

She went into the hotel, ordered a room and breakfast, and,
having refresh ,d herself, leisurely went forth once more into
the bright sunshine of a brilliant May day. The streets had
a fascination for her, the whole city looking its loveliest, a
peculiar charm. Moved by some uncontrollable impulse, she
got into a hansom in Trafalgar Square and gave the order to
drive to the Manor House at Hanipstead. The driver, as usual,
had difficulty in finding it among the tortuous windings of
Upper Hampstead ; but at length she reached the gates, only to
find them closed, the lodge shut up, tlie whole place bearing
that desolate and chilly look peculiar to the uninhabited
house.

CHAPTER XXXIII

** Why go without me, you loved and loving t
What lias earth left of hai»piness or peace?"

OPHIA RYDER occupied a small house in Crad-
dock Street, Bloomshury, a house which was a
home for herself and her boys. They were very
poor in this world's goods, and many an anxious
hour was spent by the little house-mistress wrink-
ling her brows over accounts it seemed impossible to square ;
nevertheless, they were happy, and simple pleasures hardly
won were treasured and enjoyed. If they could not go to the
mountains or the seaside when everybody else was out of town,
had they not a choice of all the London parks ? and could they
not go to Hampstead Heath for the modest sum of fourpence
a head ?

As was inevitable, the little story-writer had her own cares
and worries with the lads. They were not always amenable to
her authority ; on the contrary, they were at times so unruly
that she was in despair. But they had warm, impulsive Irish
hearts, and when an appeal to their principles was of no avail,
one made to their affection was pretty sure to succeed.

About five o'clock in the afternoon on which Helen Woodgate
found herself in London, Aunt Sophy's three boys were having
thoir tea in the little sitting-room in Craddock Street. Tliey
were alone, their aunt being at ilni weekly meeting of her club.
It was a very poor little room, shabby to the last degree, and

255

■■f I]

256

A LOST IDEAL

IIM

the table presented a heteroj^'eneovia collection of battered cups,
which showed visil)le signs of rough usage. In the absence of
his aunt, Tim, the second boy, presided over t!ie tea-tray,
dealing out sundry cups of very weak tea to Jack and h:tle
Tony. Larry, whose rare abilities and winning ways had
determined Hilda von Reutensee to give him the best possible
chance, was at Harrow, where he made it hot for himself and
everybody with whom he came in contact. But there was
nobody in his form ado'' -d as was Larry Ryder, and though the
masters had to punish him often and sometimes seriously for
pure mischief, they always performed it with a grudge. For
tliere were the true Irish patlios and humour in his eyes whicli
disarmed every prejudice and won every heart. Althougli
Larry was the ringleader in larks, Tim did not come far behind,
and little Tony was described by his aunt as a perfect imp.
Jack, the third, was more studious and more dreamy — a lad
with a fair Raphael face and a pair of dreamy artist's eyes.
Tim was a typical Irishman ; there was something intensely
comical in his square, squat figure and chubby, freckled face,
with a wide red-lipped mouth made for laughter, and a pair of
round eyes as innocent as a baby's. They were making a great
deal of noise, and squabbling a little over the contents of a
jam-pot which Aunt Sophy had set out by way of treat in her
absence, when a hansom drove up to the door. Instantly three
noses were glued on to the lower window-panes and three pairs
of eyes fixed intently on the cab. It took little Tony all his
time to reach the window-pane, which was a trifle high, and
there he stood, a comical figure in a pair of very ill-fitting pants
(a triumph of Aunt Sophy's economical art) and a long blue
pinafore reaching to 'lis heels — a strange costume altogether,
but one which did not disturb the equanimity of Tony in the
least. He had not yet commenced the study of the philosophy
of clothes.

" It's Mrs. Woodgate ! " cried Tim joyously ; and the others
set up a whoop of delight and trooped out to the door.
Children do not readily forget, and the young Ryders had not
80 many pleasures that they had so soon forgotten sundry

A LO:ST IDEAL

257

ired cups,
,bsence of
tea-tray,
and litle
^vays had
5t possible
mself and
there was
hough the
riously for
idge. For
)yes which
Although
far behind,
irfect imp.
my — a lad
•tist's eyes,
g intensely
'cklod face,
id a pair of
ing a great
itents of a
reat in her
antly three
three pairs
'ony all his
high, and
tting pants
long blue
altogether.

-ony

the

philosophy

the others

the door.

}rs had not

ben sundry

pleasant days spent at the Manor House at ITampstead. So
when Helen alighted from her cab, looking very worn and
white and dispirited, she was greeted by a vision of three
radiant faces (one adorned by several smears of jam) arrayed in
the doorway — a sight which warnK.'d her desolate heart. For,
after all, these were home faces, and a home welcome beamed
upon her from out those open saucy eyes which had not as yet
learned to veil their feelings.

" Aunt Soph's out," said Tim. *• But you won't go away ;
she'll be back in a jitfy, I'm sure."

"No, no, I won't go away ; I've come to see you. And how
are you all ? "

She kissed each happy face, and even bestowed two on the
jam-smeared Tony, whose innocent, angelic look went to her
very heart. She dearly loved children, and somehow, in the
midst of her desolation, the boisterous welcome of the little
Kyders gave her a thrill of joy, which came very near to tears.
Tony slipped his grimy paw confidingly into her dainty glove,
Tim closed the door, and the small procession moved on to the
sitting-room. Then Judith, the Irish help, appeared from the
rear regions, looking rather askance at the unusual sight of a
fine lady, with whom, however, the boys seemed to stand in no
manner of awe.

" Missus isn't in, ma'am," she said apologetically. " An' the
bhoys is hevin' their teas, an' a dhirty mess they do make for
shure. 'Tain't fit for the loikes o' you to go in."

" Oh, never mind ; bring me a cup, Judy, and I'll join them,''
said Helen with a pleasant smile ; and immediatel} Tim essayed
to improve the appearance of the table by putting the things in
their proper places, and rating Tony for having in liis haste
laid his bread jam-side down on the table — a rejjroof which had
but small eflfect on the youthful ofifender, who continued his
meal in seraphic silence.

"Aunt Soph's at the club. It's Friday, you know," said
Tim, with an important explanatory air. " She '11 be home at
six, and it's half-past five now. Not long to wait"

"Oh no." Helen laid down her gloves, and, leaning back
17

^s«

A /A) ST IDEAL

in Anul So]>liy's ImtlovMl old rocking;; i'linir, lookod round lirr
willi in< n;d>l<> ('(Mitcnl. '!'li • pliice wn« poor niid tn(»iin, nnlidy
iind soidid, ImiI, Ini^dilonctl liy llnv'^f denr yonng fjH-cH, H(M>im'd
so like ;i lul of lioiiie i1i;\t \l nciniv hn'kc Imm' li(';nl.. Slu» wmh
V(MV wi'inv, V(Mv luMiH'sit k, v;MV f<i»d, jnid it all ciinu' l»oin<» 1o
luM' so |)o\V(Mrnlly \\\\\\ slic ronld scurccly rc^lnin Iht coniposnii'.

And liow is vonr jiuntic?" slic forced IxMscIf to ask, lal

>(Mn_i; nor only sai»\miar<

Oil, amities all riulil ; li

\\\\. s1i(>'m jj;oi

je <») IIh» einl) i

]>roptM' wax to day, I can lell yo\i. Slu^ liadn'l. time hardly to
i:<\ f<1»e had so nuK'h to Ak\ ; l>ut. she wanted to uo, for sotii(>

\m><\\, though 1 «ion"l exaetlv know who

onv, von

might at least wait till th(> lady ean sit down witli >is. It's
awfid to go (Mannning your.-elf liki* that. Never mind iiin;,
rdrs. Woodgat*^ ; h.(> s » ,[y a little chap, anil wiien Aunt S(»pli
isn't here In^ thinks he can d(t anvthinir."

needn t as

k 1

low vou a

ar(»

aid Helen, wit.li an

indulgent, smile at tln> otlVnding Tony. " W hen diil yot; see
Larry, and how is h(> % "'

"Oh Im^'s all right; he was luM-e at l\astt>r. My! wliat
stunniuLT tinu^s tliev have at Harrow ! — no end of fun. 1 onlv
wish I'd his ehantt\"

"And your Kaster liolidays are over, anMj't iheyl"

" Oh, ycvs ; age;^ ago. It'll soon be midsummer," said Tim ;
and just then -hidy entered with a olean <'ni> and saneor, an<l a
fresh \\A of t(\i on a vvaittM\ apologising profusely and loudly at
lh(> sauu^ time for the «'inulition of things.

"(>h. tlry up, -ludy,"" said Tim loftily. " /"/v ajtologised to
?^lrs. AVoodgate. and slu» ilorsii't mind. My! 1 wish Aunt
Sojihy would eome in just now, wouhln't she stare ! "

Aunt Sophy divl stare v. ith a vengeanee twrnty minutes later,
when she eame dancing into the little sitting-room, and b(dield
Mrs. Wottdgato sitting behind the tea trav, with lier cloak oil
and her bonnot-stvings Hung b.u k on her shoulders, Tim on
her right hand. Jack on her left, and Tony hanging on to the
back of her chair.

"Well, I never! no, I never, never did! "she cried

A /.OST IDEAL

f59

oiind lu^r
II, iinlidy

SIlO WflM

)\(»in<' lo
ask, (iilU

clul) in !i

hardly <<>
for st>iii(>-
Tony, ynu
1 \>s. It's
mind liin;,
Aunt Sojili

, wiili an
[id yor, hoc

IM V ! what.
n. 1 onlv

said Tim ;
ic(M', and a
loudly at

lionised to
wish Aunt

uuti's latiM-,
uul beheld
n- cloalc oil
.^, Tim on
>• on to the

' she cried

]jyHtori<'n]ly. " Merry ine ! where have you eome from, uud
ftro you llrsh and hh»od ? "

" YeH, gniuine, mh the hoys ran Icstify, and I've <in|ili(d
.Fudy'H teapot. Th«» first Isn^dish tea I've drunk for wij-ks,
nnd it wa.s too dfdieious t(» lea\e a dn»|t. An<l how (in- you T'
Baid Helen, rh hIh^ kissed the Utile story writer '»n holh ehcckH.

She was a very odd little figure, for times had of late hceri
harder than usual, and sundry old ^^Mirmeuts had hecn remade,
and had suflered in the process. A very o<ld little li;^ure
indeed, hut a, tru" heart heamed from thos.' hrij^ht hiack eyes,
and sincerity was writ lar;^'e on > ,ery feature of hei' face.

"Have you hid your teas, hoys? Well, clear out, and come,
ill at (u'j^dit sharp to y<»ur h'ssons. Oh, hut it/s Kri<lay ? Well,
Tim, h:'in}^' Tony in at ei;^dd,. Oil' you ^o, all (»f you at once."

They wore reluctant, after iJu', manner of hoys, when diMmisse<l
peremptorily from «'«unpaiiy they like, hut thc^y (d)eyed. Then
Sophia shut tho door and sank liel|»lessly int,o a seat.

" Wiuit does it mean '\ " she said in the sanM! liysterieal voice,
for she had hoen thinking; of Ilideii all the way from Fleet
Street, and to see the emhodinient of her thou^dits was some-
thiuj.1; of a shock. '* I thouf^ht you wer«! in (iermany at Keutensee.
The Countess thinks so. She h^ft on Monday morning'."

" Yes, I know she did, and \ left for Kiif^dand on the samo
afternoon."

The littlo story-writer sat still, nervously clapjjin^' and un-
elasj)ing her hamls. She liad no right to ask questions, and
yet it was hard to refrain.

" Th(3 Count is very ill, Isupjiose?" she said interrof^'atively.

"Very ill indeed, hi t 1 tiust not hopelessly," answered
Helen.

"Not hopehissly?" repeated Miss Ryder, with a sli;,dit up-
liflin<jf of her brows. "I understood he wa.s dying. 1 thin.^
the Countess thought so too."

" You saw her quite i<?cently, then T'

"Yes; I spent Sunday evening with her, and saw her off at
Cliarinii Cross on Monday morning."

Is she well ?

rii"'

!iir

"; i

» ' ;

ij :

.»

260 J LOST IDEAL

" Nut v«>ry," r('j)li<>(l Miss Ryder, jiiid both f«^lt Min ronver*
Siiiion to 1)0 :i trillc (Mnl>iirriissiii^'.

"When did you sec Mr. llarm'eavc.s'J " !isk(>d HiUcii, sockin;*
(.0 chiin};(> il.

"Lust week. Ho wont to Miiri^-ito on Sunday morning with
^Ir. Woodjjjato," s„id tlio little story-writer (jiiiekly, and not
lookinj; at Holen aa she spoke.

"To inak(^ a stay?" in(Hiire«l Helen eahnly.

" 1 lielieve st). I have Immmi at tln^ cliih this afternoon, Mrs.
Woodgate, and 1 heanl a rumour — you know what a nest of
rumours it is — that Mr. Woodyato hatl lost all his nionoy. I
hojie it isn't true."

" I couldn't say, I am sure," rejilied Helen, with the utmost
inditleronee. "I have heard nothiuLj; about it."

Sophy Ryder t^ot up. Slu^ Avas iin emotional, exeitahlo
person, antl slu^ had laid this romantie traj^M'.dy so seriously to
heart that she eould seareely control herself. Jletween the
Ct>untess and Mrs. Wood^i^ate she was awkwardly placed: both
trusted her and looked upon her as a friend, yet neither had
ever openly spoken of the breach which was ui)permost in the
minds of all three.

"You don't look very well yourself," she said, lo(»king at
Helen straightly. "In fact, you look worn out. Where are
you staying \ "

" 1 am not staying anywhere. I only arrived from the
Continent this mornirig."

" And are you going anywhere else % Excuse my questions,
.Mrs. Woodgate, but (yi\(}. nuist ask (juestions, especially when
there are a million things one wants to know."

*' I think of going to Scotland to-night ; but if you will invito
me, I shall be very glad to remain one night with you. 1 am
tired. ^Now I come to think of it, I travelled all last night."

Sophia flushed with jileasure.

" Invite you ? I didn't dare. But if you, knowing the
resources and the drawbacks of this iidnage, invite yourself, I
am the happiest woman in the world. Where can I send Judy
to fetch your luggage?"

A /.OS'/' inr.Ai,

261

1 conver-

ling with
juul not

(»on, Mrs.

;i nest of

luuicy. I

ho utmost

('xcitahh'
I'l-iously to
twci'U th.o
iced : both
icithcr had
uost ill tho

h)oking at
Where arc

from the

(|no,stions,
|ially when

will invito

roll.

1 am

It ui'j;ht.

iowin*
your

the
self, 1

"To the Cliirin^,' Cross," n-plir.! II.-I.-ii.

P.iit

1)11

Id it not

he there till toiiiori'cnv, and 1 eoidd pifk it nj» as I j^o to the
station '\ "

((

It eonid, hut it won't. iN'ili!i|»s we may krcp yon i:

than a. ni;;ld. [kittle did I iaiow who was adornin;^' my hund^Ie
sittiie^-room wiiilc. I was listening t<i Amelia IJriseowe holding
forth with licr nsnal venom. That wonifin gels worse than
ever. If the elnh were managed on any kind of hnsinrss lines,
we'd run hei' out. How do you think the hoys are lonking?
AnMi't they monsters? AimI Tim has hegun to rehcl at my
homo-made garments. Whei-e he su|>|)oses the money is to
come from to |)ay tailors' bills J (;an't imagine; but Ik; is a deiir
boy for all that."

They are all dear hoys," said Hehsn warndy ; "hut Tony

looks lik

e a e

herub

He isn't, though, lu^'s an imp; hut he gets off s(;ot fnio on
r4.k;count of Ids cherubic air, whi(;h is a fraudideid- im|»osition.
Mrs. (Jarbutt says tln^y ani hopelessly vulgar, and 1 fear they
are," said the little story-writer, with a sigh. " l>ut I can't help
])referring them to her nand)y-pand)y aesthetic l)and. T.arry is
beyond speaking of, Mrs. Woodgate; but he is a perf(;et genius.
He'll distinguish, himsc^lf yet."
" I am sure of it. I think

\ yon are a ha])])y woman

to 1

lave

so many bright young crciatures about you," said Helen, with
a sigh, and a wistfulness in her eye which stabl)ed the; little
story-writer to the heart.

"Oh, 1 liave my cares; but I love the lads, and I wouldn't
part with one of tliem to ride in a coach and six," she said
(luickly. Then suddenly she looked straightly at Ibden and
spoke out frankly. " When I look at you, I can't endun; it —
endure to think of your trouble, I mean. I can't help sfx-aking
about it; I'll die if I don't. Isn't thcire any chance of its
being mended? Is it hopeless for (!V(;r ?"

Helen laid down her head on the shabby arm of the old
rocking-chair and burst into tears.

send Judy

.! i

CITlf^TER XXXIV

I have paid tiitc, vith the current coin
Men give to women."

HE Countess Hilda arrived, as Helen had arrived,
at Reutei see in the afternoon, driving all the
way frorr WUrzburg. Her thoughts throughout
the journey had been more of Helen than of the
sick, perhaps f'ying, man she had been summoned
to see. Perhaps she would not have been in such haste
had the summons not come from Helen, and had she not
expected to see her at the end of the journey. She had nevc.'r
seen Woodgate, but from time to time Hargreaves had told her
of his state of mind, and there was hope in her heart that a
reconciliation might be effected soon. If she could help it on,
she would feel herself a happier woman than at any moment
during the past six weeks. She had not many tender associa-
tions with the old Francon Schloss ; nevertheless, her artistic
eye was pleased as it burst upon her vision that sunshiny May
afternoon, and a half smile stole to her lips. It was indeed a
sweet and lovely spot, and it held at that moment, as she
imagined, the two persons she loved best on earth, Helen
Woodgate and her own boy. Of her sick husband she thought
surprisingly little ; she had not, indeed, realised all that his
possible death might involve. Helen's letter had been of the
briefest description, simply telling of the Count's critical state,
and asking her to come at once. But there had been an under-
tone of entreaty running through it which Hilda von Reutensee

262

A LOST WEAL

263

i arrived,
; all the
lirouf,'hout
lan of the
summoned
uch haste
she not
had nevt.T
,d told her
art that a
iielp it on,
y moment
er associa-
er artistic
ihiny May
,s indeed a
it, as she
|th, Helen
.e thought
II that his
len of the
Itical state,
an under-
Reutensee

was quick to detect, ami v.lucli moved her to instant obedience.
The boy Gustav, on tl>c lookout all *li\y Itmj^', had seen the
carriage come over the distant slopes, and was standing outside
the courtyard gates when it came crawling up tlie steep ascent.
He threw himself into his mother's arms, and she, with the
tears running down her cheeks, pressed him to her licart, and
laid her cheek to his. The cliild's love was sweet to her ; she
had hungered for it daily, hourly, since she had last held it
there.

"There, there, that will do, child; now let me look at
you. How you have grown! n«'arly as tall as yoi m Mier, are
you notl" she said smilingly. " liut you lock st ng and
well."

" Oh, I am well ; and you, mother dearesi, a -^ you well ?
You are tired ; the journey from England is sc long ; but all is
well now you have come back to us," said the : j looking into
her face smilingly, and noting a subtle change thereon — the
change wrought by weariness and much anxiety of mind.

*' And how is your father now ? "

" He is very ill," rejdied the lad ; and his bright face
shadowed. " Yesterday I was not permitted to see him, and
to-day he did not know me. The great man will come again
from Wiirzburg in the evening. Aunt Clothilde bade him not
come till evening, as then you might have come."

" You had not gone back to school before your father came,
then?" said Hilda, as they walked hand in hand across the
courtyard.

" No, I was to go next day, only he said I might stay.
Mother, I think papa loves me at last."

She gave a little start, and glanced inquiringly at the young
face beside her, noting the eager flush, the bright light in his
eyes.

"I hope he always loved you, Gustav," she said gently.

" Perhaps so," replied the lad, with a sigh ; " but now I
know it. He likes me to be with him, and we talk all the
time of you."

His mother covered her eyes a moment, touched, though she

.|3 i

Ilr|

•■11

164

A LOST IDEAL

I ,

would not own it, even with a vague Htirring at her heart fop
whicli slie couM not account.

''There is Aunt Clotliilde," alie said suihlenly. "She looks
very ill and aged, poor Aunt Clothilde !"

" W(il(!()nio, Hilda; welcome home again," said the old lady,
folding lier nephew's wife to her heart, and kissing her on both
cheeks. " Xow will the heart of the boy be at rest ; it has
been on the wing all day long."

" And Ludwig, Aunt Clothilde ; is it true, as Gustav says, that
he is so ill to-day % "

" lie is far spent ; but come in, my daughter. You need rest
and refreshment. Gustav, tell Hans to make haste with our
coffee."

Countess Hilda stepped into the large, bare, but nobly-pro-
portioned hall, and glanced about her with a slightly inquiring

air.

"Mrs. Woodgate is still here, is she not?" she inquired a
trifle sharply.

" Xo ; she left us yesterday morning, and is now in England."

The Counters turned her head away, biting her trembling
11 P; her eyes stinging with the mist of her most bitter dis-
appointment. At length, however, she faced her kinswoman
ogain, looking her very frankly in the face, desiring to learn
from its expression how much or how little she knew. And
she was quick to gather from the plac'd unconsciousness of
that withered old face, that she was in complete ignorance of
her share in the upheaval in Helen Woodgate's life.

" I hoped she would wait at least until I came," she said.

" I urged lier to remain, but the child's heart seemed turned
to her own land and she could no longer be at rest. But come
up, my daughter ; we can talk of that and other things while
you eat and rest."

" Now tell me about Ludwig, Aunt Clothilde ; what has
happened to him?" asked Hilda, as they went upstairs. "He
was the very last man I should have thought to have been so
stricken."

"The strongest are not exempt, Hilda," said the old ladyj

A LOS J' IDEAL

26i

leart for

lie looks

3ld lady,
on both
; it has

3ays,

that

need rest
with our

lohly-pro-
inquiring

nquired a

England."
trembling
bitter dis-
inswoman
to learn
BW. And
msness of
lorance of

said,
ed turned
But come
while

Ings

I what has
rs. " He
[e been so

old lady J

"but there is no «l()uht it came of Ills own scj'king, Hf fought
in a duel at l>aden, I undtTslund, over sonu; money mattri",
tliough I have lieurd no particulars, and the wound lias been
neglected — that is all. The surgeon from Wiirzburg extracte'i
the ball on Monday, but he is still in a very critical sit*^"."

" Is he conscious ? "

" Only partially." «

"And does he know I am here, or that I had been sent
for?"

"No; it was the doing of Mrs. Woodgate, Hilda. She said,
the time had come."

The Countess Hilda slightly curled her lip as she stirred
her cofl'ee.

" Fought in a duel, did he ? Then he is no better than he
was. What doe? Gustav mean, Aunt Clothilde, by saying Ids
father loves him now % Has sickness so changed Graf Ludwig
that he has unbent to the boy ? "

" I believe so ; and Mrs. Woodgate talked to him, I know.
A sweet woman, Hilda, undeserving of such bitter sorrow as
lias fallen to her lot. Tell me what manner of man is this
husband of hers who has treated her so."

" Oh, he is no worse, I suppose, than other men — not so bad
as my husband," said Hilda, with a flippancy she was far indeed
from feeling. "Only, she is too good for him, totally unfitted
always for the life he could ofler her. Their marriage was a
mistake — that was all. The probability is, however, that this
breeze M'ill blow over, and they will settle down to an outward
semblance of peace. How long has Ludwig been here ? "

"Little more than a week."

" And what do they say ? tliat his case is hopeless \ What
do you think yourself, Aunt Clothilde ? "

" I do not like his look to-day, but when you go to his room
you will judge for yourself."

"You look as if you wanted rest — as if you sutt'ered. Aunt
Clothilde," said the Countess, and stretching out her firm white
hand, she laid it with a tender, sympathetic touch in the old
lady's withered fingers. " Our troubles are too much for you.

!:iTl

266

A LOST IDEAL

It is a shiinir that you slioultl liave tlicin 80 iicar you
always."

" Nay, it is not that, it is l)0(li!y woakncss. My ihiys aro
also iiuimIkm-ciI, aiitl 1 do not ^'rit^vc thereat, l)ut rather rejoice,
for my traasures are in h(!av«ii," said the old woman ; and, moved
by the unwonted fjentleness in th(! fac<^ of the woman she had
never understood, she leaned . ross the- talile, looking' aearcli-
in,L;ly and yearnin^'ly into her face. "Hilda, if Ludwij,' shows
hut a ^deam of penitence, you will bo vcMy ^'untle with him.
It is bad for you, l»ad for him, but specially bad for the boy,
to bo thus separated ; and we are bidden not to br(*ak the
bruised reed."

"Who am I that I should break the bruised reed, Aunt
Clothilde?" was the reply, and Hilda dashed away a quick tear.
" I have lived eight desolate years — long enough to rei)ent me
of my sluire in the unhappy past. I was not blameless, and I
will tell him so." <

" Thanks be to God ! " fell fervently from the lips of the old
Griifin.

*M>o you know who has taught me to know myself] Helen
Woodgate. I have bi^en her friend not yet a year, but she has
shown me that religion is not a mere name, that the spirit of
Christ can yet animate a human heart."

" Strange, yet she finds it herself so hard to forgive," said the
old Griifin musingly.

*'Tlie shock was too great. It will come in time; this
yearning to return, of which you told me, is a sign that the
reserve is breaking down. I can only pray he will meet her as
she must be met, if the future is to hold any possibilities for
either. Now I must go to my room and remove these travel-
stained garments before I venture into the sick-chamber. Is
anyone with him now % "

" Only one of the maids. He needs no nursing, only
watching ; and Gustav keeps a faithful guard."

" I shall relieve them both," she answered, with a faint smile,
and when she had gone from the room, the old Griifin sat still
by the open window looking out on the placid lake, pondering

A LOST IDEAL

1/67

ar you

lays aro

rojoico,

1, moved

sho Iwul

; aeart'.li-

i^ shows

ith him.

tho, boy,

)n!ak the

ed, Aunt
^uick tear,
vpent iHB
ess, anil I

of the old

f % Helen
>ut she has
le spirit of

i," said the

time; this
that the
neet her as
ibilities for
lese travel-
mber. Is

^sing, only

faint smile,
iftn sat still

ponde

rin

those inyslcrics in her s(»iil. SIk^ had so lonj; dwelt witli tlie
unseen that tin; eoncfrns of rartli di«l not ^^n-ally troul>l<' lier ;
yet did lier heart swell within her at tlu! thought that the white
dove of p(!a(!e luul spread her win}^'s over that dishonor'ed and
niiserahlo house, and she jirayed with all the pussion, tlu^
earnestness of those whoso prayers prevail, that a brighter dawn
might yet arise for i^'utensee.

Within an hour ^Jonntess Hilda took her plaee in the sick-
ehamber. She came down in a soft, noiseless nthe of black,
relieved by a cross of [)earls at the throat, her shining hair
] notted low on tlu; nape of her graceful neck, her face sweet
with that remarkable sweetness, the compassion of a tender
woman's soul. The mai<l, who rose to leave at her ))i»lding,
looked at her in awe, thinking she had never beheld a vision
more beautiful, nor a human being look more like an angel.
While 8}teaking to the maid. Countess Hilda luiver glanccid
towards the bed ; and when she had closed and ^' ';ed the door,
she walked over to tho window and drew the hangings back,
in order that the last radiance of the dying day might illumine
the room. Then, with a hurried glance at the red and salFron
sky, she stepped back and approached the bed. Her footfall
was so noiseless that it sent forth no echo, fell with no disturb-
ing cadence on the sleeper's ear. For (inif Ludwig slept, and,
so far as she could jud^ , it seemed a natural and healing sleep,
tlie breath coming in gentle, easy respirations, and the whole
appearance that of returning health. Quite motionless Countess
Hilda stood, with her hands clasped before her, looking down
upon him, t^ ". husband of her youth, the father of her boy.
in his sleep K'»mething of the iiniocence of a far-off time had
returned to his face; the mouth had lost its weary, cynical,
selfish curve, the hard lines were softened, and parity and poaru
seemed to dwell upon his brow. A ])road and noble brow it
was, seat of fine powers laid waste in riotous living, index to a
soul which had been fed with husks. As the wife, who had
never loved him with that saving love which is the redemption
of so many men, so regarded him, her heart became as wax
within her ; and she saw, even yet more clearly than Helen

I l"'

I ■

268

A LOST J DEAL

Wooilgate h:i(l unconsciuiisl;/ shown lier, wlierein she had fallen
short. Reviewing the past, calmly, justly, mercilessly, she
recalled her bitter scorn, her impatience, her hot anger, her
repelling 0^ any good impulse he had ever shown ; she admitted
that she had aided the hitter shipwreck through which she had
so keenly suflered. There stole ui)on her, too, gentler mcmoiies
of which the early years of her wifehood were not utterly barren.
He had sometimes been tender, generous, chivalrous, all a man
should be. And he had loved her well; and she knew that it
was her indifi'erence, her cold contempt, her unmeasuied cold-
ness, which had driven him into comi)any she loathed, and liad
forced her at last to leave him. As she stood there lashed with
the stings of her un measurable self-reproach, she saw his li})S
move, and knew that they formed her name. Then she fell
upon her knees, and the noise of her sobbing woke him, and he
looked about him in sore wonderment, a moment, his troubled
eyes resting u[)ou the sheen of her hair where it lay so near to
his hand that he could touch it.

" Is it Hilda ? " he said in a weak whisper ; then she raised
her head and looked at him, and he at her silently. " What
does it mcanT' he said, with difficulty. "You shall have the
boy. I promised him. He can go to you now. Did I not tell
him so r'

He comprehended nothing; too weak to wonder how she
had come or why, he attributed her tears to the only cause
of unhappiness that occurred to him, separation from the boy.
She grew calm listening to him, and felt the difficulty of the
moment.

"I do not want the boy this time, Ludwig. I have come to
see you, to be with you."

"Ah yes, but you shall have him. I promised him. He
eaid you were unhappy. Yes."

He grew drowsy again, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.

L(l fallen
sly, she
crer, lier
idmitted

she had
ncmorios
,y barren,
all a man
»\v that it
lied cold-
, and had
ishedwith
,w his lips
n she fell
im, and he
s troubled

so near to

she raised
" AVhat
In have the
d I not tell

n- how she

only cause

lin the boy.

lulty of the

live come to

him. He

lleep.

CHAPTER XXXV

As God made woniL'u to save men by love,'

1^*^/;, HORTLY afterwards the sur^^'eon arrived from
Wiirzburg, prepared to stay the night, but ex-
pressed liimself so satisfied with the condition of
his patient that he changed his intention. The
weakness was very great, but the fever had
abated, and the sleep had become natural and ealm. He was
surprised to be received by firaf Ludwig's wife, of whom
he had heard as a heartless Englishwoman, utterly unmindful
of her wifely duty. The land of her adojjtion had thus not
been less hard upon Hilda von Reutensee than the land of her
birth. When he saw her queenly bearing, her lovely face
softened by the shade of her deep anxiety, and observed in her
close questioning a wifely concern in which he could find no
flaw, he went away marvelling, and telling himself the family
history of Reutensee was a riddle too hard to read, and that
the world, as is its seltish wont, had jumped too hastily to a
lame and impotent conclusion. The weakjie.-^s of the prostrate
(rraf was indeed very great. For days he lay in that semi-
conscious state, sleeping so many of the hours away that but
for the surgeon's assurance that it was a healtli-giving and
strength-restoring slumber, they must have felt alarm. Hilda
only left his side to take a walk in the pinewoods with the
boy, and tiieir talk was all of him. Yet while she sufl'ered
Gustav to talk incessantly of liis father, to draw glowing

269

n !

270

A LOST IDEAL

pictures of a reunited and happy future, her own heart had itsf
own v/eight of misgiving. Restored health might shatter all
these dreams, might make it impossible for her to accomplish
the resolve she had taken, her new-found desire to try another
and a gentler method with her husband might be so chillingly
repulsed that it would recoil icily u})on her heart. Meanwhile,
however, she permitted the child's bal)ble, nay, encouraged it ;
and in constant contact with his pure innocence, his unassail-
able beii'^f in all that was lovely and good, her own heart was
drawn yet more near to the divine v/hicli had till now been but
a shadow or a myth to her. For years she had striven to carry
out the letter of the work done on earth oy the Nazarene,
seeking to lind in ministry to others some balm for her own
hurt ; but because her heart had been untouched l>y His Spirit,
her effort unbaptised by the consciousness of His loving
approval, it had brought her but a passing joy.

In the world where she lived and moved and had her being,
religion was a quality not p^;^redited nor understood. It was
simply one of the questions of the day, to be discussed, criti-
cised, weighed in the balance like its fellows. I\[any Christian
deeds were done, it is true, but not in the name of Christ ; and
the simple faith of Helen Woodgate, which was at once the
guide and comfort of her life, had opened up a vista of great
surprise to the woman who had made a study of her from
curiosity first, and then for love.

Helen had never by word or look suggested that she thought
the Countess had erred, or even been harsh in her treatment of
her husband. She had accepted in absolute faith the Coun-
tess's own assurance that she had found it impossible to live
with him, had sympathised with her to the full in lier separa-
tion from her boy, and had never hinted that there might be
another side to the picture. It was this simple faith, this
giving of true friendship without a question or a doubt, that
had raised for the first time in Hilda von Reutensee's mind a
doubt concerning her own attitudi^ as a wife, and nad caused
her to examine her own feelings, as well as her behaviour in
the past. She had been in a sense forced to marry Ludwig

A LOST IDEAL

271

t had itit
latter all
complisH
^ another
chillingly
eanwhile,
Araged it ;
; vinassail-
heart was
IT been but
m to carry
Nazarene,
r her own
His Spirit,
His loving

I her being,
od. It was
iussed, criti-
ly Christian
hrist; and
at once the
sta of great
f her from

Ishe thought
treatment of
the Coun-
jible to live
her sepaviv
Ire migbt be
faith, this
doubt, that
see's mind a
had caused
jehaviour in
irry Ludwig

von Reutensee, for whom slie had cared nothing, though ho
had some qualities »vhich might have won a woman's regard.
His youth had been wild and wayward, it is true, but his faults
had been those of a generous, ])assionate nature. Then his
early environment had been of the worst ; ho had been from
boyhood al.>solutely master of his own fortunes and resources,
being respons-'ible to none. When he married the sweet
English girl, it was out of pure and ])assionate love, which
would undoubtedly have saved him had it been returned, or
even appreciated. But she, soured in her sweet youth by
harsh treatment, and rebe'"' ^,g against her fate, had entered on
her married life in a state of mind which augured ill for happi-
ness or peace. From the beginning there was no semblance of
either. She exaggerated his faults, and stung him perpetually
with reproach ; casting contempt even on the national pride,
the family honours which are dearer to the German soul than
life. He retaliated, as was inevitable, and the breach daily
widened, until there was no hope of reconciliation.

The birth of the boy, instead of healing, seemed to aggravate
their relations to each other. She, professing open hatred of
everything German, insisted that he should be reared and edu-
cated in England and on Englivsh lines ; a grave and absurd
contention, seeing he was heir to an honourable German name
and a great estate. And so the end had come, and the interval
had passed as we have seen.

Helen Woodgate's high ideal of wifely duty, though seem-
ingly but ill appreciated and not rich in fruits, had gradually
communicated itself to the woman to whom she had laid bare
her heart, awaking in her a great wonder at first, then a vague
discontent with herself which forced her to view her own
conduct in a light altogether new. She must not be too
harshly judged, for she had moved through life during the
past years free, unquestioned, absolute as a queen. The creed
of those surrounding licv was that the queen could do no wrong,
and so there had gmwii up in her a great complacency, which '
had made her heart hard as the nether millsl(>ne. Even Har-
gieaves, whose eyes refused to see through the eyjs of others,

J! ■ ^

''Iff

272

A LOST IDEAL

M'A

lil \

and who was reloiitlpsR in his condemnation of liumbug, had
acccpicd her at her own valuation, and absohitely believed
Ludwig, (Jraf von Kcutensce, to be a scoundrel of the first
water. Very gradually, during her intimacy with the large,
pure - minded, wholesome nature of Helen Woodgate, it had
dawned upon Hilda von Keutensee that she had deceived them
all, herself included, and that she was a gigantic humbug. So,
when Helen wrote, the time was ripe, the harvest was at hand.
How ignorant was Helen of this silent process, this wonderful
sowing and reaping, due to ner ahme ! She had been down in
the depths often, weighed to the very dust with a sense of h«,"'
own fee])leness and impotence, her powerlessness, even with
the will, to do good anywhere ; and lo ! while she moaned,
and felt herself beginning to drift like a useless derelict, the
silent lesson of her life did its lovely and perfect '.Huk.
AVhile she sat in Sophia Ryder's shabby little room, weepiiig,
with her head on the old arm-chair, that work received its
crown.

Graf Ludwij* awoke one evening from his long sleep like
a ginnt refreshed. The great room, which, according to English
ideas of comfort, seemed bare and sombre, yet which had its
own nobleness of proportion and dfj:' :^y cf arrangement, was
batlicd in soft, lovely sha-lows, tl-rowu by the brief twilight
which, in Germany, follows so swiltiy on the sunset. And at
the window, with her arm on the sill, her soft eyes turned
yearningly towards the sky and a prayer in them, sat a woman
whom he recognised, who had been with him in shadowland
these many days — his own wife. He raised himself lightly,
and fixed his blue eye s on her, searchingly, yearningly, afraid
to ask what her ])resence there might mean. That he still
loved her "vas written on his face. There is, in spite of a gruft-
iie£s (>i exie. 'or, a peculiar softness in the Teuton nature, a
keen susceptibility to the dearness and sacredness of family
tie*;. (.Kiaf Ludwig ha<l suffered through the shipwreck, of his
t:i-nily lif( moii! than it is possible for me to say. Her profile
v.'u." towards him, and if more sharply outlined, it was perfeit
as of I oie ■ one liaml rested on her cheek, and the wide sleeve

A LOST IDEAL

273

ibug, had

believed

the first
the hirge,
te, ii had
ived them
il)ug. So,
as at hand.

wonderful
en down in
nise of he'-

even with
lie moaned,
ilerelict, the
rfect '.'HU'iv:-
m, weeping,
rtteived its

irr sleep hko
,g to English
lich had its
igement, was
.riof twilight
t. And at
I yes turned
sat a woman
shadowlaud
nself lightly,
lingly, afraid
Chat he still
ite of a grutt-
,on nature, a
ss of family
pwreck of his
Her profile
It was perfect
e wide sh'ev

of her black gown, with its inner frill of dainty white lace, had
fallen back to the rounded elbow, revealing the exquisite con-
tour of her arm.

Of what could she be thinking, he wondered, afraid to move,
lu disturb that peace, lest some echo of the bitter past should
leap up to cut him to the heart. At length, always on the
alert, she turned her head, saw his attitude, and rose to her
feet. She came over to him swiftiv, and a visible trend)liii(;
shook her. His eyes did not leave her fac/e. They still
([uestioned, questioned hungrily, incessantlv .

"At lust," she said quite gently, "yon are b«'rt i', Ludwig —
much better — are vou not?"

She schooled herself to speak calmly, to utt^r ' common-
place, though tragedy stood in the rei'. ; and it ■*!.x. .ae second,
and undoubtedly the last crisis in these two livesu

"I want to know," he said quietly, " why y*jm aase hme/*

" I came to be with you, Ludwig," biic madi* re|i4gr, '^]t» m0t
ihat sufficient reason."

"It was very kind of you to leave 'our ItniMHii^ ibieiui^^
1h> by the bedside 01 a sick man, for wlu.m yifU hav« •# pcjapnird,"
he said ; and she could not tell whether he spoke in eanu'st or
in scorn. "I promised (instav h.- should go to you now.
Vou can take him back with vou if you wilL"

"I do not think the boy has any longer the desir- .0 come,"
she said quietly. "Am I not then welcome hen Ludwig"?
You would be happier rid of me ? "

He gave his head an impatient shake, and his mouth hardened.
" What Uwse is it to ask such questions'? There <;an never be
any talk of welcome between you and me. Everything is over,
hut I have j)assed my word you shall have the boy until the
service claims him. Hrrd I known you and he were so \m-
liappy, you should have had him ere this. It was nothing to
me,"

The Countess bit her lip. In face of this calm jsuii, :i

that she was still of the same mind, it was hard to utter a word

of what was in her heart. The fear that she would be repulsed

bound her. She was & proud woman, who liad never sued to

2 74

A LOST IDEAL

1 1

any; yrt lior liourt went out t<» liiiii as lu- Iny tli(!ie, a fine
fi;^urt! t'Vt'ii in liis wciikucss, his faco wcariiiL;' a grave, gonllc
Icjok slu- lia<l iK'vei' Itcforc seen iijioii it. Tlie wliiilwind of
jKission was lung sj^-nt in botli hearts; eac.li was weary, an;l
glad to be at pf'jice. (iraf Ludwig was cons(nous of a gr<;at
and subtle change in his wife, but the cause of it never dawned
upon liini. It was too impossible a joy to be imagined, but he
felt in his weakness glad that she looked upo.i him so kindly
and spoke in such gentle tones, which indicated that tlie
bitterness was )»ast.

"I wish to thank you, Ludwig," she began, a trifle fornially,
"for your generous kindness to me all these years. I " —

He interrupteii her l»y an impatient wave (tf liis band.

" i3ah, what was that 1 nothing. The Counters von Rcutensecr
was entitled to such comfort or luxury as the revenues ';oul<l
afford. They were your rights, nothing more; why thank me
for tliat?"

"Rights, nevertheless, which many n.on in like cir<:umstances
would have ignored," she said quietly ; " but I wish to tell you
that your money has not all been selfishly spent. It has done
good to many.*'

"I care not, so lo)\g as you had it to do with as you willed.
Why tell me these things % " he said quickly ; and as his irrita-
tion seemed to increase, her face became gradually more gentle,
more lovely in its look.

" I tell you, because when you are well you will like to think
of them, bocaii.se I know your heart is kind," she «aid. "Yes ;
Reutensee's money i;as comforted many a downcast English
lieart, and given l»road lo some little children who might other-
wise have lacked : an'i I must thank you, Ludwig, now, if I
do not have any Either opportunity, for conferring on me that
exquisite j-ower t-' relieve distress."

He regarded her aitnntivel}^, conscious that therfe was some-
thing behind all this he did not yet comprehend. But he never
spoke.

" We have not uiet, Ludwig, for eight long years," she said
nervously. " Do you see any change in me ? "

A LOST IDEAL

275

^, a fine
r, Identic
hviud of

i a gvt'itt,

i,l, hut li<*
so kintUy
tluit tin-

^ f.jvmally,

1"—
ind.

Kt'UUM»S(M>

nvios ';oul«l
^ thank iiK*

L'cunistances

to tell you

lit has done

you ^villecl.
IS his ivnta-
uore gentle,

ike to think
:id. "Yes;
last English
Inight othei-
Icr, now, if I
Ion me that

■e was somo-
Rut he never

It.," she said

"I have no right to say," he replird ; and slie smilt'd, l)nl
sadly.

"Am I, llicn, so cliangtHl ? W«dl, a disstljslifMl woman,
eating licu' heart out for wliat miglit have hceii, nuist age ([uie.ker
than in happier circumstanees.''

"Age? Well, perhaps, y(»u are aged a little, hut you are
lovelier than ever, Hilda, and you know it; though why you
should provoke mo U) say such a thing I eannot imagine, unless
for your own amusement."

"I am a poor croaturc in your estimation yet," slii-said, and
turned from him, her eyes swimming in tears. " I came liere
inteniling to ask you something. Ludwig, hut now I do Jiot
think I shall."

The man was sorely puzzled, and did not know how to deal
with her, or what to say The memory of their strange parting
still dwelt keeidy with him; its hitter words seemed scarred
u))on his heart. Lo, what a change was here ! a change so
great as to hewilder.

"I can do no less than listen courteously to anvthinLi vou
have to say to me, Hilda," he rei)lied ; " I can at least pnmiise
you that."

8he turned to him then, and he saw her tears. Standing
close by the bed, with her white hands on its rich hangings, she
looked down upon him and uttered the words she had long
conned in her heart.

" I wish to ask forgiveness for my share in the bitter past.
The desolate vears have taught ma that I was far from blame-
loss, and in the interval you have been more generous than I."

These words seemed to work in him a strange distress; they
were so totally unexpected, he could find no answer to them.

" Xo, no ; the fault was mine, mine alone. I never blamed
you, my poor wife ; only it was a mistake, a mistake from the
beginning, and for which we must sufler all our lives. Had I
been a better husband to you, it might have been different."

"Do not say all our lives, Ludwig," she cried, falling on her
knees beside him and laying her hot cheek against his long,
thin white hand. " Let us try it again for the child's sake.

276

A LOST IDEAL

Let us bury tlir past and lH'f,jin ant'W. Yon will fuirl mo a
c?iang('(l woinai), for oh, those desolato years have nearly broken
my heart ! "

Her words thrilled him, but the toueh ol' her eheek in his
hand was like an electric shock, awakenin.Lj in him all the
passion of the love which estrangement had not (luenched.

"Do you know what you are saying, Hilda!''' he siiid
hoarsely. "I am no better a man than 1 was. I have been
guiiLj of numy follies."

" Yes, yes, but you will give them all up because I ask you,"
she said, and her lip.-', tonched his now trembling hand. " We
will have no recrimination, we will let the past be as a sealed
book for ev(;r. There will be oidy the future : we can make it
good, perhaps even happy. God has shown me my heart,
Ludwig ; and perhaps a loving woman may help you where a
bitter, unloving one hindered. Let us try it. 1 am tired of
being alone."

Then a radiance as of a new and glorious dawn arose on tli<!
face of Lu<lwig von Reutensee, and he tried, though but feebly,
to draw his wife nearer to him.

"You are • "i earnest, Hilda'? It is not i)ity of my weakness?
You will say liie same when I am well?" he said breathlessly.

"So help me God, I will, and till the end of my life, if only
you will love me a little, Ludwig, and help me to be good."

It was the appeal of all api)eals to mov(^. him ; he could orily
clasp her closer, without a spoken word.

The boy Gustav presently crept timidly to the door and
looked in, his sweet face grave with all the anxiety of a loving
heart. The shadows had deepened in the quiet room, but there
was light enough for him to see that his father was awake, and
that his mother lay across the bed, with her golden head uptm
his breast.

CHAPTER XXXVI

"'Ihs lift; 1 live -iutuleiablu/'

I IM KV1)KU was a tnit^ speciiUL-ii of the Londttii
I: bov. He was at home in the streets, and found
the keenest enjoyment in wandering about, with
eyes and ears open for anything startling, comic,
"^ or pathetic. Nothing escaped liim ; he had thi-
gift of a large observation, and an imagination (Mpial to tiic
supply of every missing link. As might be expected from his
nationality and his peculiar temperament, the (piccr sid*; (if
things was usually the first to present itself to his vision, and
many a quaint bit did Tim carry home from the streets to the
little house in Bloomsbury, giving to Aunt Sophy many an
inspiration which redeemed her work from the dead level id
sentimental commonplace. Sophia Ryder had had a hard lifr,
and sordid care was beginning to tell on her; she c<tuld ni'i
now so absolutely lose herself in her v ork as to be able to shiii
out the grim details of the })roblem which faced her daily, huw
to live, feed, clothe, and educate a family on a microsco{)ic and
very precarious income. Bhe loved all her boys, but Tim was
more especially her chum, in the sense that he took the liveliest
possible interest in her stories, faithfidly read and a^ faithfully
believed in. When he came across a bit which he n^cognisod
as his own providing, Ik; was highly delighted, and felt quite a
proprietary interest in it. Therefore his leisure was spent in
haunting the streets for ccj-v, though he had never heard the

277

Hm|5

278

A LOST IDEAL

word, and if ho, i^eiKirally emlifllisliod his nxperioncos and
obsorvatioiis in a most outrageous fashion, well, it but proved
tliat the niantlo of liis iiniit had descended on liini, and that in
all prohaliility the name of Tim Kyder miL;lit yet appear on tlje
title-page to rival hers. Uehold iiini, then, standin;^ about four
o'clock in the afternoon outside the Ilolborn Viaduct Railway
Station, with his hands in his poc^kets, taking his observations
of tlie (ionstant stream of passengers being taken up and set
down within the portico. The Viaduct Station was a favourite
vantage-ground of Tim's, and the policemen and porters had
become tolerant and even friendly. Though he sometimes
lingered for hours, nobody ever bade him "move on," ami
there was something irresistibly comic, but at the same time
patheti*', in the appearance of the big overgrown lad, with the
exceedingly short and skimp trousers, which gave undut^
prominence to a [>air of tolerably-sized feet ; the shal)by jacket,
whose sleeves also revealed an abnormal length of bony wrist,
ami the round, merry, freckled face, which was the only bit of
him that could be callsd fat. It was the eyes that did it; they
could beg indulgence from a heart of stone. A train from
Margate had just come in, and Tim was in his glory watching
the hul/uub, when suddenly he caught sight of a familiar face
— two, indeed — Hargreaves and ]\[r. Woodgate walking side by
side and talking very gravely. Hargreaves and Tim (;aught
sight of each other simultaneously. " liuUoa ! there's Tim
Ryder," he said, and came up to shake hands in a very
friendly fashion, he being a frequent visitor at that little
house in Craddock Street, and a prime favourite with the
inmates. "How's all at home? You've seen Tim, haven't you,
Woodgate?" he added, turning to Vvoodgate; "Miss Ryder's
nephew."

"Yes; he's been at Hampstead, I believe, several times,"
said Woodgate, a trifle absently, and Tim laid a limj) paw in
the outstretched hand and surveyed him doubtfully, and yet
with a new curiosity.

The Ryders had not taken kimV.y to Woodgate, who had
not the knack of winning young hearts; and in private, indeed,

/I LOST IDEAL

;ofl and
t, proved
I tliiit ill
r on th<i

lOUt f"Ul'

Kiiihviiy
^rvatioiis
and sot
favouvito
^tt'r.s had
ometinx's
on," and
inie linu'
witli tlio
^e undurt
by jafkct,
ony wrist,
(Illy bit of
\ it ; they
rain from
watching
niliar face,
ig side by
m caught
ere's Tim
|in a very
Ithat little
with the
,ven't you,
iss Ryder's

tal times,"

fip paw in

', and yet

who had
[te, indeed,

they took the impardonMhle liltrrty of <lul>hing llie great
novelist "the solemn dutler."

"How's your aunt? — well, I hope? hiisy, I suppose, as
usual?'' siiid Ilar^ eaves clieerily.

"Not writing; we've had a ludy stopping with us for tliret'
days — Mrs. Woodgatc," said Tim boldly, and glancing in his
surre[»titious Irish fusliion at \Vof)dgat<''s far*-, upon which
this announcement had a vciy striking eU'ect.

" ^frs. Wooilgate.'" he repeated, giving Tim a lightning
glance. " I >o you mean my wife]"

" Yes; she went away to-day."

"Where?" asked Woodgate, and his voice took a curious
lioarse note, and the colour Huctuated in his face.

"1 don't know, but Scotland, I think; at least, Aunt Soj)h
went to Kuston with her this morning. We were jolly sorry
when she went away, and I believe Tony's blub])ering yet."

Woodgate took Hargreaves by the arm and di-ew him a little
aside.

"What on earth, Harry, can be the meaning of this?"

"It's hopeful, Dick; cheer up. Her heart's turned liome.
We must consiiler what's to be done."

" I must see Miss Ryder at once, that's certain. Will you
take the things to Norfolk Street, and the boy can go with
me?"

Hargreaves nodded. Scarcely one hour ago they had had
confirmation that AVoodgate's means had all been swallowed
up in one of the gigantic swindles which are the curse of
modern times, and Hargreaves could not help an inward smile,
seeing how completely this new announcement had driven the
other out of his head.

So Tim, to his own consternation, found himscdf presently
bundled into a hansom beside Mr. Woodgate, who gave his
aunt's address, but he never addressed a single remark to the
boy, and Tim wondered why he had been taken into custody,
though he enjoyed the ride, it having the charm of extreme
novelty.

Sophia Ryder was yawning over her manuscripts at her de^ik,

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aSo

A LOST IDEAL

■i'r

i ':

! I

I 1

finding the labour, after Holen Wood gate's company, very
stale, lliit, and improfital)lo, and longing for tea-time and a
romp witli the boys, when tin* liansom rattled up to the door.
And when Woodgate came ^valking into the little hall, she
was so overcome that she could only clasi) her hands and cry
incoherently —

"Oh, Mr. Woodgate, you'rt; just a day too late; she went
oflF this morning ! "

"I know, but 1 want to talk to you. Here, my boy," he
said, extracting a crown piece from his pocket and handing
it to Tim; "go and spend it, and leave me with your
aunt."

Tim looked at it doubtfully, and, with a whoop, disappeared.
Aunt Sophy was too agitated to relieve him of it, or even to
send a proviilent caution after him, as -she certainly would
have done on an ordinary occasion ; but Tim had something
else in his head besides lollipops or even clasp-knives — some-
thing which he knew his aunt coveted, and which should be
hers that very day.

Aunt Sophy opened the sitting room door and invited
Woodgate to walk in, which he did.

"1 want to hear how my wife happened to come here, where
she came from, and what are her plans, if you know them," he
said simply, and sat down, looking like a man who meaid
what he said. He seemed so very unhappy that the susceptible
hoart of the little Irishwoman instantly melt«d towards him,
tlnjugh she had inwardly Mnnthematised him many times during
the last three days.

"She came from Eeulensee, Mr. Woodgate. 1 was ;.s
sur})rised to see her as you can jiossibly be to hear that slie
has been here, and I saw her oil' at Euston this morning. She
tuok a ticket to Hall kirk."

"To Hallkirk ? Did her relatives expect her?"

"No. She didn't write; she seemed not to know or care
what became of her, and she couldn't. You go after her, Mr.
Woodgate, and bring her back, because 1 don't know what is
to become of her; indeed 1 don't."

( I

A LU.sT IDEAL

d8i

The little story-writer was aniaz<Hl at her own temerity in
thus adflressiiifj a man whom slie know so siiplitiy, and of
whom slie stood considerably in awe. WotMlLrjitr's mouth
twitched. He was sensitive and j>iou<l, and thonj^h he was in
an extremity, it cost him dear to discuss this matter witli Sopliia
Kyder. He suddejdy turned t(t her antl looked her fully in
the face, deciding that now he had come, tlie only course was
to be perfectly frank with her.

"Miss Ryder, you and I are comparative strangers to each
other, but I know that vou and mv wife have he(»n verv
friendly — that she has lived here for three days proves it. 1
presume she spoke of me. Would you advise me to follow
her to Scotland ? "

The little story-writer hesitated and louked confused. Helen
had talked with sufficient frankness to her to convince her
that she was not yet ready to return to her home and her
husband. She had confessed herself miserahly unhappy, it is
true, but had seemed to be in no doubt as to her inditt'eronce,
which she assured Sophy was superl). Woodgate observed
her hesitation, and from it drew his own o<jiclusions.

"You have answered me," he said, a trifle bitterly, "and
my passing hope is extinguished. You can, at least, tell me
how she locked."

" Not well. She is haggard and worn, and something
will have to be done, or she'll die, 1 do believe," said Sophia
emphatically.

Woodgate winced, but did not feel alarmed. He knew that
Helen possessed in a remarkable degree her countrywomen's
staying power, but it hurt him keenly to hear that she looked
ill ; her perfect health had always been one of her charm.s.
He rose to his feet, feeling that he had better go. yet lingering,
a thousand questions on his lips. He looked round the 8ha))by
little room which Helen's presence had so lately glorified, and
regarded with envy the odd little woman who had partetl from
her onlv a few hours before, Ves, it had come to tliat with
Woodgate; he now prized what he Ijad lost beyond any
earthly thing. He had come to himself, and was now a man

2S2

A LOST JD/wiL

J''

ill

of one idea, one aim, one pnrpo^^o in litV — to win again the
woman he had lost.

" Will she write to you, do you think ?"

"She promised to do so, in a day or two."

"And she ciiun^ direct from IJeutensee? Do you know
whether the Countess had arrived hefore sin* left ?'

" No ; they passed eaeh other on the way."

" And she has gone to her sister, I suppose to Mrs. Douglas,
at Hroadyardsr'

"That was the address she gave me," said the little story-
writer, an«l the pity of the wh(tle matter dwelt so keenly with
her that she eouhl scarcely trust herself to do more than answer
the questions briefly as they were put. She had never heen
so favoura}»ly drawu towards Woodgate, had not heretofore
credittnl him with the possession of a heart; and, blaming
herself for her too harsh and hasty judgment, she longed to
help him, and yet there was no way.

" Well, I suppose I had better go. 1 am very much obliged
to you, Miss Ryder, for your courtesy to me to-day, and also
for your kindness to my wife."

"Oh, that's nothing — nothing at all. I was unspeakably
honoured in having her here ; but oh, I hope everything will
come right, for it's awful that things should be so — perfectly
awful!"

Woodgate faintly smiled, but his eyes were grave. It was
the first time he had mentioned Helen's name to a human
being except Hargreaves, and none had dared mention it to
him. But Sophia Ryder was a woman, and her sympathy was
sweet; then, she had Helen's confidence and friendship, which
entitled her to his reverence.

"They may come right. I, who have transgressed, may
yet be allowed to atone," he said, with a look which finally
and completely won the soft heart of the little story-writer.
"Good-bj'e ; and again I thank you from my heart."

She followed him to the door, wiping her eyes openly with
the corner of her housewifely apron.

"Oh, Mr. Woodgate, 1 hear<l an impossible rumour at the

A LO S7' IDEAL

28.^

iigrtin the

you kn<»w

^. Donj^las

ittle stovy-
oenly willi
lian aiiswN'V
nev(?i' l»'<Mi
heretofore
111, blaming'
) longed t(t

uch obliged
ly, and also

inspeakably
rythiiig will
— perfectly

ve. It was
o a human
ention it to
mpathy was
ship, which

club on Friday, that you had lost all yoiir money in that
scandalous Aitoiia business. Of course there isn't a word of
truth in it 1- excuse my asking. '

" It is (|uite (rue. 1 believe I am at this ninment a peiuiih'ss
iiiiin, Miss Hyder ; but what of that?"

"Oil, T am sorry. I hope it may turn out )»etter than Is
anticipated. You may get it back."

" I may, when 1 am too old for it to d(» any good," he said,
"pon't trouble about me; many worse things befall a man
than the loss of his money. Will you permit me to come and
see you again when I am in London ? "

" Why, certainly ; I am only t(»o pleased and honoured," she
said quickly, gratified by the compliment. Then he shook
hands and went his way.

The little story-writer went back to her desk and took uj)
her pen. She had once longed to witness a bit of genuine
human tragedy ; now that she had stood face to face v,'ith it
in the i)ersons of Kichard and Helen Woodgate, she did not
tind it of such substantial aid as she expected. In fact, it so
distracted her that the march of her story stood still for a
whole week.

ressed, may
diich finally
story-writer.

openly with

iraour

at the

II *■

II:

■if

1 .

:!i :

CHAPTKIl XXXVII

*' She, being wise uiitl good uud hoiii iiliuve
Tlu' Hats I've nr\tr climbed from."

e*j' n( >I )( ; ATK wmt back to Hai-icavt's' rooiii-t in
L >i()rfolk Street, to Hiid him ciiu,- .ssttl in ilic
r i) coni'sijondeiice which had atM-iiiiiiilatcd in his
ahsciici'.

" \V«'il, wliat clu'or?" he askt'd, throwing
himself back in liis chair and survcvin;^- l;is friend keenly.
"Did you fintl the iitth' woman at home f'

Woodgatt' noiUled, took a pipe from the mantel, and ])egan
to fill it in ^ik-nee.

'* She's gone hai'k to her own people, Harry ; and, mean-
while, that is the conclusion of tlie whole matter," he said at
length.

Hargreaves nodded his head two or three times, pondering
the thing in his mind.

"Good little soul, Sophy Ryder," he said suggestively.
"Very," assented Woodgate, quite warmly for him.
" Heavens, what a struggle she must have had ! "

His own troubles were making Woodgate symj)athetic, as
he had never yet been for the cares of others. There is
nothing so arrogant as success, and so hardening to certain
natures, which rtupiire a special baptism of grace to make
them tolerable. Let no man say adversity has not its uses ; it
is one of the benedictions of life, recognised only, it is true,
when it has done its appointed work, and sometimes not even

284

A LOST IDEAL

2«5

les not even

thon. Yet it.> iniiiistrv rcinains, it> savin;; ^raco is still
npjiarent in tin- souls of nit-n.

Woodgntc had n»?V(jr known care ovimi of the lightest kind,
and seeing its giaduai influence uj)on liini, Ilargreaves rejoiced
that it liad overtaken liim. Kven lie, of late years, liad l)egun
to regard \Vo(jdgat<! with despair, as an example of tine powers
laid waste by a coini)l»!te sellish eoniplacney which nothing
could assail, and which is death to all noble; cllort.

"She has liad a struggle, but she tights i.obly, and she has
her compensations. There is more heroism in that odd little
creature than in twenty ordinary men and women," sai«l
Hargreaves. " And through it all she has kept a simple faith
in God and a belief in humanity which more than one of us
might envy."

"Women are ditl'erent from us, Harry. They deal more
with the ideal than with the real, and are more easily satisfied.
I seem only to begin to understand the feminine portion of the
race, though J have written of them with the superb assumption
of ignoiance for years.'

"Jkityour cieatures were mere pu]»|)ets, Dick,' said Hargreaves
cheerfully; "not creatures of flesh and blood at all. Why,
that little thing you i-ead the other niglit at the Albion had
more life in it than all the books you have ever written."

"1 don't suppose,' said Woodgate meditatively, as he puffed
slowly at his l>il>e, "that I shall (!Ver write another book."

"And what will you do for a living then]" queried Hargreaves;
"since is it deiiionstniled beyond a doubt that the Altona has
swallowed up all your jacsent resources."

Woodgate grimly smiKd.

"Faith, I don't know. I .supi)0.se 1 shall earn a crust som(v
where and somehow. It'll be a new sensation anyhow, and
isn't that what half the race are grasping after, eh? — a new
sensation."

"I doubt you won't relish it. Have you thought of any-
thing T'

"Not I. I once had a profession at my lingerends, but it's
gone. I daresay I could sit on an ollice stool and tot up tigure«j

286

A rosr I DEAF.

St :

that r*'*|nirt>s im s|i*'< ml aplilude, ami I tlairsiiy I'll liiid soniM
one to \(\\v a jMHtr tlevil a j(»h fur old tiiiKis' sakr. And it
doi'.sii't, take nnK'li to k«'"|» a sinj^dr iiiaii in «li;^'s like fliis."

Harj^rravL's iiidulj^Mnl liiiii.s(df in a \\\v^v Imt iiiaudil)!^ Iau;,di.

" Not v<'rv inurh ; but a sij^dit inorr tliaii you'd over «'ani »ni
an oHicc stiinl, I)ick. Faith, I'd think t\vi(;e abotit givin;; you
sucli a joh niyndf, even for oKl times' sako."

Har^'H-avrs jK-rccivi'd that clian.^'cd rircumstancos had not
yrt h(M'oni<' a reality to Wood^'ate, and that ho still regarded
them from an outsider's |M>iiit of vi(;\v.

" I could prophesy for you, but I won't," he said. "Aren't
you going to tell mo what Sophy Kydor said about Mrs.
Woodgate?"

Woodgato took his pipe from his mouth, and rogarded
TT.'ugroaves for a full minuto in serious silen('«\

*' There isn't anything to tell, Harry, and I didn't question
much, as you can well iniiiginc. But from the litt' iie did say,
I ga- bored that my wife had gone baek to her own h . • Js in any-
tliit'!; JUt a forgiving frame of mind. I am more hopeless than I
wu. , I am held in very poor estimation about l»roadrule, and
the influences brought to bear upon lu'r tliero will be decidedly
against me. I am not grumbling, Harry, Heaven knows. I
deserve it all ; but I tliink she might have given mo just one
chance — granted me an intervi«!W to try to explain."

Hargreaves thought so too, ))ut held his tongue. Helen's
continued resentment had puzzled him, and having been a
witnt'ss to Woodgate's reverses and depression of soul, liis
sympathy was now more with him.

"I cannot for the life of me understand why she went to
Keutonsee, of all places in the world. I should like to be at
tho bottom of that," saitl Woodgate presently.

*' I suppose nothing would be gained l>y fcdlowing her t<j
Scotland ? " suggested Hargreaves ; and for answer \t'oodgate
took out his pocket-Vtook.

" It would take a man pttssessed of more courage, tlian 1 to
go in the face of that," he said, handing liim tlio small, thin
envelope, bearing Helen's handwriting and the Keutensee

,1 /osr rnr..\r

2S7

\ liml si>ni"
(>. Aiitl it

!V«'i' ciirn oil
'j giving,' you

C8 lliul not,

,ill r('<;anhMl

.1. " Aivii't
about Mrs.

11(1 regavdoil

In't •juostiou

h<' »li(l say,

. • ^ls in any-

.|»eles8 than I

oatlrulc, and

3e decidedly
n kncnvs. 1

mc just ono

10. Helen's
ving been a
of soul, his

she went to
like to be at

)wing her to
r \t'oodgate

gc than 1 to
|e small, thin
Keutensec

])(»sliii;irk, tin' niiswcr to his apjical. i[iir;;n'avps had not s«'rn
it, did not ixrii know h(>. had lerrived it : it had laiikitMl mi
liittcrly in Wofxlgatcs mind that he had not tell tciiiptcd to
talk of it. It was a poor, cold answer to the letter which had
est him a night's agony to write. Ilargreavcs tdi.k it slowly
from its cover, and was chilled at once by the manner of its
cuiiinienccinent.

'* What you ask is imj)os>ible," it began abrii|ttly. "J am
willing to accept your assurance of regret for the past, but the
future does not ap|iear in any way clear to me. If you will
cast your memory back to that afternoon at Ilrighton, you
must atlmit that tlwre were sttme things said then you will
find it very hard to explain away. In my jiresent frame of
mind, to nitum as you (h.^iiv would b(> worse than folly, and
would certainly end in i more hopeless and irrevocable separa-
tion. I do not wish to be unforgiving; I try not to be, but.
there is no use pretending to a serenity of mind I do not feel.
There is nothing for it but to let matters go on as thoy are.
Vou need not concern yours«'lf about me, and, above; all, do
not send me money. If you do, I shall certainly return it. If
I ever do change, and see things in a ditt'erent light, 1 shall
consider it my duty to let you know. Meanwhile, p?ay leave
me in peace.— II. AV. "

" By Jove ' " said llargreaves, when he came to the signature,
and, without another word, he read it through again.

"Pretty hot, isn't it?" asked Woodgate, as he re})laced it in
his pock«!td)ook. ''Fancy subjecting oneself to hearing such
things sj)oken by W(»rd of mouth. It needs more courage than
I possess. I can only wait, like Micawber, for something to
turn up."

"She's awfully cut up, Dick. Upon my wonl, my heart
bleeds for her."

"Don't I know it? I know her better than vou. lean
follow every working 01 her mind. She's had a most awful
shock, Harry ; it'll take her years to recover from it And, you
see, beine so ditt'erent from aiiv woiiian vou and 1 have ever
seen, so ab.solutely unique in her uprightness and loyalty to

I 'A

■u

''\>

' h

!RR

/f LOST IDEAI.

truth, hIio InvM a great <1«'h1 too iinich stn'SH on wlmt sho over-
licanl. She knows notliiu^' of th(^ wljirlwimls of passion that
sliake sumo men's souls, au«l yet pass, leaviuK liut little tran-
boliiml. I quo8tion if it would ever lu^ jt(issi])ln to convince
her that a nuiii says thiii<^.s in such nionients which have no
l»ernianent significance. Hers is a ilillicult nature to deal with
among the quicksantls of ordinary life."

Again Hargreaves gravely and silently nodded. He was
thinking of the change in Woodgate, tin; sympathetic tone in
which he spoke of his wife, ami iiis nicenet.s of perception
regarding lun' state of mind. i»efore he rould l)reak the silenci',
the hoy hrought in a letter, hearing a foreign stamp and the
prim, strong, characteristic handwriting uf Hilda von Reutensee.
H«. opened it at once, glanced hastily over its hrief contents,
and after a moment's hesitation passed it on to Woodgate. It
ran thus : —

*'S<;iiLo.s.>, VON Rkutknske,
May 24th.

"Dear Mh. Haugheaves, — I promi>ed to let you know how
I found matters here, hut I have Ix'cn much eni^rossed. My
liusband is still very poorly, hut his jihysicians arcs agreed that
his ultimate recovery is fsun-. It is mtt likely I shall return
to London all summer, and there are .some things I will ask
you to do for me concerning the housi; in Park Lane. If you
could hear of a. tenant for it, for the remainder of thf season. I
shouhl not mind. I think, on .second thoughts, I shall write to
Henley, and tell him to let it if possible. Tin's will doubtless
surprise you, l)ut not so much as another auiiouncement I liave
to make, that mv husband and I have aureed to trv double
harness once more, and that 1 am a hajipier woman to-day than
I have been in all the years you have kn(»wn me.

" Did you see Mrs. Woodgate as she passed through London ?
It is all I dare to ask. — Yours sincerely,

"Hilda von Keutensee."

i I)

( .r
I I

Woodgate laid the letter down without comment and rose t
his ff»et

it sho over-
mssion that
little ivarv
bo convince*
ih have no
,o (leal with

He was

K'tic tone in
' ]»orcioptii)M
the silencf,
mp and thr
\ Keutensei'.
iof contents,
oodgato. It

RlUTKNSEE,
4//*.

)U know hoAv
rossod. ^^v
'. agreed that
sliall return
s 1 will ask
ant'. Ifyt'U
tilt' season. 1
ihall write tn
,ill douhtU's-
jiient 1 liave
) try doublf
to-day than

vjh London ?

CUTEN8EE."

It and rose to

A LO^-^ IDEAL

289

" I'm going out to Haiupsteati, Harry, to liave a look at some
of tiic personal etVectH I want to n-niove. ('oid<l your land-
lady put me up, do you think ] The Metropolo is ratln-r
lu-yond mo now."

" Oh yes ; she has rooms on the up[)er Hoor. Want me to
go out with you ? "

"Not to-day ; wrM talk an<l do nothin;.; : and I doi/t want to
linger over the business, the .stuiucr it's over tlw^ hcttrr. Woulil
you mind asking the landlady ti* step up litr«' a minute f May
as wt'll make arrangrments and he dour with it. I iiiu^t put
up somewhere, and I won't hore you any luore than 1 can help."

"Oh, you wen't hore me; ihrru's a key in my lock,' said
Ilargreaves serenely. "I'll go down and interview Mrs. Figges
first; she rccjuires manipidation."

Ilargreaves ])icked himself up and retirev^ ; and when ho was
left alone, Woodgate took up the Countess's letter and glanced
over it again. It had not surprised him so much a.s it had
surprised Ilargreaves, and it had niov«'d him not at all. Only
he told himself that it was the hitter irony of fate that ihai
reconciliation M'hich had appeared remote, if not altogether
impossible, should have been ellectetl, while the gulf seemed to
widen daily between him and Ids wife.

"Mrs. Figges is amenable," said Ilargreaves as he re-entered
the room, " on my athdavit that you are sober and won't give
trouble. She'll liave the rooms ready for you this evening.
\Vh(?n will you be V)aL;k?"

"I can't say. I'll take a hansom out and bring back some
things with me. I'll turn up before dark. Good-bye just

now.

Hargreaves knew that Woodgate had not been at the Manor
House for weeks, and he knew that the visit to the deserted
home must of necessity be painful, but how painful he had
no idea.

It was one of the loveliest of May days, and the Ilamp-

stead lanes were redolent with the sweet odours of lilac,

laburnum, and May, which hung rich and fragrant in every

garden. There were many quaint, delightful, old-fashioned

1 '

^' ii ■

ri!'''

1 1 t

ii:

iiii

i »'

i^O

^ l.OSI FDl-.M.

gardeiiH in th«HA Ihiihk and bv-\vuys, liut iiuiie nioin ((Uiiim
ind (l«*li^htful than t)i« Mtinur Huu.>«', bccnuHc it wuh aJurnud
with Kit inHn.y uM trt'cs, which guve it Hoclusiun und u very
special chariii.

ThoHu old trees w»;re tlie ncHting-plact's of many Inrds, and
though it WiiH nearin^ sunH«'t us \Voo<lgatc drove througli thn
gatoH, th«! air was tilled with innuiiMrahlo twitturingH, the low
brooding nudody of bird motherhood, one of the sweetest of
nature'H HOunds. The gardener and his wife, who formerly
lived in the lodge, now inhabited the basement quarters of the
house, and acted au cart^Uikers, puzzling and shaking their heads
many times over the change they could not understand. The
gardener was busy on the lawn when the hansom drove up,
and he made haste to welcome his master, full of garrulous talk,
but Woodgate cut him short. He was in no mood to listen ; he
had a Uisk to perform, one whitdi would harrow up his soul.
When he found himself within, surrounded in every room l)y
the personal memorials of his wife, and tried to bring himself
down to the task of selection, he found it beyond him. In the
little morning-ioom, where so many of their happiest hours had
b(;en spent, he sat down and looked about him ludplessly.
Everything there was hers ; above the mantel hung a portrait
of her father, and all the little ornaments that hud come from
the manse of Broadrule. Her favourite books were fitted on a
little table in the corner, her work-basket close by, its daintily-
worked cover a tritle dingy with the dust of weeks. Her spirit
seemed to pervade the place, her voice seemed to speak to him,
and the accents were harsh, distant, such as he had never Vieard
from her lips. So strongly was this consciousness of her
presence with him, that he looked round with a half start as if
expecting to see her. It seemed to bid him behold the ruins
of the home they had built up together with such pride, and
to blame him mercilessly for it all. It was an intolerable
moment to the man, wrought up as he was to a height (»f
nervous excitement At last, moved by an uncontrollable
impulse, he drew his chair up to her writing-table and began
a second letter, giving vent to all that was in his heart. W^

A LOST IDEAL

sqt

({Uillllt

adorned
I a very

irds, and
jugh thn
, the low
oetest of
formerly
rH of UlH
leir heads
ind. Thtt
drove up,
ilous talk,
listen ; hi^
) hiH soul.
y room l>y
iig himself
11. In the
hours had
helplessly.
f a portrait
come from
titted on a
ts daintily-

ller spirit
eak to him,
never Vieard
less of Iht
If start as if
d the ruins

pride, and

intolerable
a height of
icontroUablf
and began

heart. He

told hor'of hi.s cluinK'od fortune, of his object in visitin;,' thn
hoUM', «»f his inability to eliooso wluit sIm niij^ht wish to keep,
and he a^ked lier to ^ive hiui .some directions to guide him, if
she could not como uimI make the selection herself; and before
h(! closed it, he abasfcl himself at InT fcrt as lie had never yet
done, and allowi'il the whole yearniii;^' of his soul to find a voire.
In conclusion, he said that if he received no reply, he shouM
nev»'r again trouble her, and when it was written and >o,iIod, he
felt himself relieved. The iilace was haunted for him, uieniorieH
most bitter and sweet lay in wait for him in every room ; he
almost expected to hear the rustle of h':r gown, to have the
faint fragrance of her favourite perfume wafted to him with
the opening of every door. He (-(juld not stay, and pa-t.>>ing out
to the ganlen, ho exehiinged a few woids with the old man,
entrusted him with his letter to post, and returned empty-
handed as he had come.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

J '

•» « ! <

Ji I

" (let li'iive to work, in tliis world
Tis the l.fst y<iu get .it a' I."

ilHE l)nys wt'i't! all at school, .ludy prejiarin^ tho
Miiilday meal, and the. little story-writer at her
desk one forenoon a ueek later, when Wood^Mte
j)aid his second visit to the humble doniicilt'.
During that week Miss Ryder's work had made
hilt poor ]»rogress, and she was that morning in an tinusually
desj)ondent mood. She sat back in her shabby old arm-chair, with
h.pr elbows on the arms and her ftnger-tips meeting befon; her
nose, the j)icture of perplexity and disgust. She wore an old
c?»lico morning gown, very clean and neat, but remarkably skimp ;
her grey hair wa^' brushed tightly back from her temples, and
her spectacles on her nose, in which costume and attitude
siie h)oked very old indeed. AVoodgate came in the opposite
lirection from the sitting-room window, so that Sophia did not
.^ee him come, and Judy uslu'red him straight in with her
' rstomiM-y lack of ceremony. Hut Miss Kvder was not at all
)>ut out, though she jumped to her feet all in a fluster, as
usual.

" Oh, Mr. Woodgate, how do you do 1 I'm so glad to see

yiiu — pray sit down. Judy, I do wish you'd keep that kitchen

door shut and that window open when you're cooking onions.

Try the old rocker, Mr. Woodgate; and how do you do?"

"I'm very well, thank you. How are you?"

^'Qnly so so," said the little storv-writer, returning to her

292

Ill

A /OST tPF.AL

393

)arinj,' the
A;r at hor

domi<'ilt'.
had nuuU*

unusually
chair, with
hefmi! her
ore an oM
bly skimp ;
smples, and
id attitude
le opposite
hia did not
1 with her
, not at all
, fluster, aa

glad to see
;hat kitchen
?ing onions,
ido?"

ning to her

perch in the ofliee chair, from wliich her small feet dangled
about twelve iuclies frnni the ground. "I'm face to face with
an awful possibility, Mr. Woodgate ; so awful that it nearly
paralyses me. 1 believi; I'm jilayed out."

Woodgate cast a sympathetic ghmce at the littered desk, and
smiled encouragingly.

"Oh, not a bit of it, we all feel that oc(;asionalIy. You only
want rest, or change of occupation at lea-<t, to give you a new
inspiration."

"It's very good of you to say so, and I hoj)e you may be
right," she said, shaking her head dolefully. " Ihit positively
I haven't an idea left. I've got a duke into a coiner, and 1
can't get him out of it; very disrespectful to the duke, isn't it «'
but how can / help it? I was just feeling, when you came in,
that I should like to slaughter them all. Tim says I mustn't,
and that he may think of something at school ?"

"Does Tim collaborated" inrpiired AV'oodgate, both amazed
and touched.

"Oh, bless you, yes; without that boy I might as well
shut up shop. You see," she added, with a little sigh, "I've
been at it so long, my ideas have got a little thin. This is
my thirty-seventh three- volume novel, Mr. "VYoodgate — think of
that!"

Woodgate divi think of it, and of his own two-and-thirty
years of indolence, and there was a sick pang at his heart. How
mean and little and empty seemed those years to him, sot
against the brave toil involved in the words " thirty-seven three-
volume novels." Perhaps the world had never heard of then,
and the greater lights among her literary sisters sometimes had
their laugh at the little story-writer's oddities ; but we who
Itelieve in the Eternal know that her stress, her heartaches,
her bitter mourning over many failures are treasured in heaven,
where also awaits her an exceeding great reward, fn the great
mass of selfishness, of bitter strife and envying, of all uncharit-
ableness which characterise new Grub Street as it characterised
the old, there is a little leaven unrecognised by the great ones
whom the critics delight to honour, and whose art passes every

294

A LOST J DEAL

i:';i

standard. And it is found in tlio work dono, hj Riioh as
Sopliy Rydor ; dospisod on oarth, hut hallowed by holiost s«»lf-
sacritice, and liall-markod in lieav(Mi.

" I believe that Tim inay become a second Charles Lever if
he fulfils his present promise," said Miss Ryder, waxinj? brighter
with a brighter thenx'. "Ilis humour is most diverting, —
thoroughly Irish, of course, but he just brims over with it, — and
he has such a loving heart. If he knew what a forenoon I've
had with these tiresome people getting themselves into such
scrapes, and not making the slightest attempt to get themselves
out again, 1 <lon't believe he'd take a bite of dinner, and it takes
a , ood deal to put a boy past his dinner, as you'd know to your
cost if you had my weekly bills to [>ay. And what about the
Altona?" She broke oil' suddenly, the word "bills" bringing
Woodgate's money troubl(\s sudd.ijdy to her remembrance. "1
hope it isn't so bad as they sjvv."

*' It is quite as biid, and I am, linaneially speaking, a ruined
man," said Woodgate, so philosophically that Miss Ryder looked
at him with a deliglited nod.

"I'm sorry to hear it, but really you look as if you rather
enjoyed it," slu; said apologetically. "Arid then, you see, all
you have to do is to write a new book and they table down
thousands to you."

" That's a very roseate view of the case," said "Woodgate,
impelled to smile.

" But isn't it tru-? Why, look at me ! I only got £30 for
a three-volume story. Of course, I can write one in six weeks.
I wrote four last year, but it's pretty hard work, and then that's
only £120. I have three London letters to write in the week
for provincial papers, and several ladies' columns. You see I
must, because it costs so much to live."

Woodgate got up, becauoe he could not ui still. That
simple record of incessant and brain-wearing toil almost un-
manned him. He possessed keen feelings, but had always
carefully spared them by keeping away from all that was likely
to harrow them. But he had never been ungenerous with
money ; nobody had ever appealed to him in vain ; but he

^1 LOST IPEAI.

^95

fliich as
iliost solf-

s Levor if
<:f brighter
verting, —
ii it, — anil
inoon I've
into sucli
hemselves
id it takes
^w to your
, about the
" bringing
ranee. " 1

i», a ruine<l
'der looked

you rather
^ou see, all
iable down

Woodgate,

5ot £30 for
six weeks,
then that's

n the week
You see I

still. That
almost un-
had always
t was likely
lerous with
lin; l>ut he

li.id ni.ido ,1 jKtiiit (»f rei'usjng t<» \\y\\\' (U'tiiils bocjiuse he did
not iik»' unjileiisant things. Wliat wonder, then, that his
later books had lacked the power to touch the human heart '{
They were the work of a man who knew very little of human
nature, nothing at all of the ordinary current of human life.
It is the shadow which throws out the sweetness and pleasant-
ness of the sunshine. How, then, could Woodgate, who walked
always on the sunny side, give the line shading which is the
test (tf all true art?

"It's intolerable that such things should be," he said,
almost passionately, thinking that a week or two ago he hail
the power to relieve ]>ermanently all this harassing care, and
that now, when he had the will, the power was no longer his.
" Is there no other, no easier way for you than that 1 It is a
wonder you are alive."

" Oh, I'm tough," said the little story-writer, with her queer
laugh. " It takes a lot to kill an Irishwoman, and I can't die
till the boys are up, for there's nothing but the workhouse for
them. But, dear me"! how terrible of me to inflict all this
upon you ! I do assure you I'm not grumbling, and that I
enjoy my work immensely ; only that duke has worked me up
this morning, and I was bound to let it out on somebody."

" How old is the youngest boy ? " he inquired.

"Tony? Oh, only seven, and somehow I grudge him
growing up, he was such a winsome baby. I got him in long
clothes, so he seemed almost like my very own baby. I'm
not in a hurry for them to grow up, I assure you, and it is
delightful to think I am so much use in the world that I can
keep together a home for them. Just think of the multitudes
of women who have nothing to live for. And then Larry is
so splendidly provided for. I can never be grateful enough
for that, and though he is a scamp for mischief, he's got
cleverness in him, and is going to do credit to his old auntie
and the blessed woman who has given him such a chance."

Woodgate did not ask who the lady was, nor was he think-
ing of it. Little did So{>hia Ryder dream that she waa
dropping seed which would yet bear its abundant fruit, that

296

A LOST IDEAL

H:?

uovtr ill hor lifo had sho don*' a hoitpr morning^a work.
Pouring' <Mit hor own troiihlos, conscious of nothin<^ hut a s«'nso
of rolicf that flicy fell on synij)atlii'tic eaivs, she lia<l given a
strong ami heavenward inijtetus to a human soul.

" I canKf to ask you to do something for me this morning,
Miss Kythu-," said Woodgatc presently. " lUit when I liear
wiiat you have on your shouhh'rs already, \ hesitate."

"Oh, [iriiy don't," she cried earnestly. "I can always find
time f(»r extra things. It's only peoj)le wlio have nothing to
do who never have any time. That's one of the amusements
I got at the cluh, hearing all their cackle about work, when
they don't begin to know its jnimary meaning — that is, some
of them. Well, what is it?"

" ^[y house at Hampstead must be sold, of course, and all it
contains," lie said, keej)ing his face averted, for he could not
help an odd change passing over it. " But there are many
things in it which belong exclusively to my wift^ : her father's
study furniture, among other things, and all her own books.
1 want you to go over to the house with me, and Ixelp me to
select all you think she W(mld like."

Sophia Ryder sat still, with a v(»ry grave look on her face.

" I appreciate the compliment you pay me very highly, Mr.
Wootlgate," she said at length, with a little nervous tremor
in her voice. " But why don't you write to your wife, and
ask her to come and look after her own things ? Nobody
can possibly do it for her with any satisfaction."

" I have written," replied Woodgate, without turning round,
"a week ago, laying the whole facts of the case before her,
and begging an immediate reply. None has come."

"It may come yet," said >riss Ryder hopefully. "Tony had
a box of Scotch sweets from her this morning,"

"In that case there will be no answer," saiil Woodgate, a
slight hardness creeping into his voice. " 1 told her the
matter was urgent, and I also said that if she did not reply
within the week, I should Know .she had no wish in the
matter. Still, the things are hers, and I should likt- to keep
them, in case she may regret her decision,"

/I LOST IbEAL

297

•' WpII, I'll ^'o. Tlicro isn't niiytliiiij:,' in tlio woiM I wonMn't
do for hrr, and I can't nn<lorstanJ it," said Miss Kyd»'i, with a
perfectly audible sob.

"I don't supj)oso," said Woodgate, turning round at length,
"that you liave an empty room where the things could be
stonul meanwhile ? "

" Yoa ; I liave three of thern on the top floor, and you're
welcome to them, I'm sure, as long as you like."

"I'll pay, of course, just as I should pay elsciwhere, and I
should feel that they were safe here. A few of them are
vahiablc in themselves \ all are precious to her, or used to be.
Anyhow, I cannot reconcile myself to letting them go."

"You are right, perfectly right. Judy shall wasli out the
top floor this very day, and make it clean and sweet for these
precious things, though I'll see them come in with a sad
heart."

"I am certainly obliged to you. You have been a true
friend to one who has little deserved your friendship."

"Oh, don't mention it — pray don't — or I don't know what
I shall do. May I ask what you are going to do ? "

" I have taken rooms, meanwhile, where Hai greaves is, and
when I get things settled a bit, I'm going to work."

" Well, I'm sure 1 Work for your daily bread, I suppose,
just as I do. Fortune is a fickle jade ; but you'll never come
to my straits, because you've gained a great rcjtutation, and
everybody's gasping for your things."

"That has to be proved, Miss Ryder. It is when a man
most wants countenance he doesn't get it ; but, anyhow, I
must live, as you say, and your example has inspired me this
very day."

The little story -writer blushed like a schoolgirl at this
rompliment, as genuine as it was sweet. " Do you know
I used to stand quite in awe of you ? " she said confidentially,
as she got off her chair to bid him good-bye. " And now I
think you quite different, and I'm quite sure everything will
come right. I'm going to pray for it with all my might."

" You believe in \. rayer still, then % " He asked the

298

A /.OST IDEAL

■ii

question in nil siiiceritv. iiiul tiirn«(l to look at her as she
followed him into the little hall.

"Why, yes; if I didn't l>elieve in prayer, \\\ have jyiveiTTTfr
long ago. All the good things I've ever got in this world
have come in answer to prayer."

Woodi^^ate looked down into the plain face of that little
plain woman with distinct envy.

" You are to he congratulated that the hardness of life has
not rohheil von of your faith in nil we do not see and cannot
understand," he said quietly. "(Jood-bye, Miss Ryder. You
have done me good this morning, and if you have not done
nnich at your desk, you may have wrought a better work in a
human soul."

So he went his way, and the little story-writer went hack
to her desk, as she had done the day Helen left ; and her mind
was so full of the real pathos of life, that to treat of the unreal
and imaginary vseemed more impossible than ever. What,
then, did she do? She laid her head down upon the page
where she had left the duke in an impossible situation, and
poured out her heart for the two who engrossed all her thoughts.

The observant Tim, seeing a peculiarly soft and sunshiny
look on his aunt's face at dinner-time, concluded she had got
over her dilemma, and therefore attacked hia shepherds' pie
with all the zest of a hungry schoolboy.

ler as alio

jTivftiTTrfr
this world

that little

of life has
and caniu't
yihiY. Yo\i
e not done
V work in ii

went back
id her mind
f the unreal
rer. What,
>n the pa^'c
tuation, and
ler thoughts,
id sunshiny
she had got
epherds' pie

CHAPTER XXX IX

Kavtli has no liomo for lu^arts so worn and woary ;
Lite lias no scfontl sj»rin<; for such a y<>ar."

RIAN LAIDLAW ha«l been visiting a patient in
Branksome Dene, and was returning to Hallkirk
at the close of the afternoon. It had been raining
heavily when he h^ft Broadr.de, and he had there-
fore driven in a covered trap instead of in an open
gig, or riding, as was his wont. But now the; rain had gone
off, and it was a glorious evening, with a tou-.di of delicious
coolness in the air, which wa ^ -ystal clear, imparting vigour
with every breath. Branksome Glen was looking its loveliest,
with the young leaves on the trees, and the smell of th(! rii)en-
ing summer teeming from every furrow. As the doctor's trap
bowled smoothly on towards the station at Hallkirk, the London
train steamed in with a great noise and \n\tt', twenty minutes
late.

"Just run up, Tom, and see whether there's a parcel lying
for me. It's a small one, we can take it with us ; it will save
sending down specially."

Tom touched his hat, leaped from the box, while his master
stood up and took the reins. Many people passing had a
greeting for the popular doctor, and more than one stopped to
ask how he was, and how it fared with the old gentleman, who
was now seldom seen within the confines of the town.
Tom came back in about five minutes, carrying the parcel,

299

Ill

Jii

iillji^

36d

.4 /.(9.vr WEAL

and at the samo time looking witii a touch of ovidont inquiry
at tho various vohiclos, |)rivato and hire«l, waiting for tht»
passengers. """"""""^

" I was looking for a Hroadyards machin*^, sir," he explained.
"1 saw Mrs. Woodgate on the platform, and there isn't anybody
tliat I can see to meet her."

"Mrs. Woodgate? Xonsensc, Tom ! you must have made a
mistake," his master answered, hut not without a great start of
surjirise. "I saw Mr. Douglas this morning, and he never
said she was coming."

*' I didn't make no mistake, sir. I touched my hat to her,
and she bowed just as she used to."

"I'll go and see," said Brian, vaulting over the low steps.
"If it is really ]\[rs. Woodgate, ami there's nobody to meet her,
we can take her u])."

A few strides took Ihian to the station-house door, on the
threshold of which he met Helen face to face.

"It is really you, Mrs. Woodgate !" he said, making an eH'nrt
to speak natnrally. "Tom has just told me he saw you, but 1
didn't believe him. Are you expected at Broadyards?"

" Xo," she replied in a quiet, even listless voice, nor did she
even offer her hand in greeting ; and he noticed that she looked
very white and tired. " I suppose I can get a cab ? "

"Will you honour me? I had to go up to Branksome this
afternoon in a perfect deluge, so I have the victoria," said Brian
eagerly.

" Oh, thank you. W(dl, if you don't mind, I shall be very
glad. 1 have no luggage to speak of — only this."

She pointed to the small diess-case on the shoulder of the
porter behind her, to whom I^rian indicated the carriage, ami
took Helen's wraps from her. He was agitated at sight of her,
agitated and profoundly surprised. Not so Helen. She stej)pe(l
back to these familiar scenes after the upheaval of the last two
months with the careless indifference of one who seems to feel
nothing. Even Brian, so intimately connected with that painful
period, had no power to move her. She bowed gravely in
response to several salutations from people who recognised her,

1 1

A LOST IDEAL

30X

but somehow Brinn was glad to get lier into the carriage, and
to turn tlio horse's head frou' the town, and from the curious
l^aze of inquiring, interested eyes. She looked totalis unlike
herself — she seemed almost dazed. A hundred ({uestions
burned upon his lips, yet did they not (Ian- fnime one,

" Is your father quite well ? " she aske(l, aftfM- they had driven
ahout five minutes in utter silenee, which, however, did not
;ij)i)ear to embarrass her.

"Thank you, yes; he had a bad time in March, but has
([uite recovered. Vnu had not written to Broadyards, surely ?
1 saw Guy this morning, and he said nothing""

"No, I have not written. Why do you omo over it
again 1" she asked, with a slight, cold smile. " Do you think
they'll close the door on me? If so, 1 have money in my
|>urse."

'*God forbid!" said ih'ian, and liis brow grew dark, not iit
the suggestion her words contained, but at the pitiful change
trouble had wrought in this dear woman — troubh^ which luul
robbed her eye of its lustre, her cheek f)f its bloom, her heart
of its lightness, its gentle, happy courage. She cann- back to
the dale she had left in the flower of womaidiood a beaten
woman, old before her time.

Brian coidd have gnashed his teeth in the impotency of his
wrath, his unavailing regret.

"Mrs. Douglas is at home and W(dl," he said, uttering the
commonplace as he best could. " W(> both know what a joy it
will be to her to see you."

"Do we?" A slow, wondering smile parted her sad lips.
"I do not feel so confident. We are all so very respectable in
ihe Dale ; we do not like peo{>le with histories, like me."

"You have not returned to your husband, then?" said IJrian
abruptly.

"I have not, else I would not be here."

" And no reconciliation is possible ? " he questioned further.

" No reconciliation is possible," she repeated, without any
alteration of face or voice. "Has my sister talked of nfie
recently, Brian?"

302

A LOST IDEAL

■9k

•iiiiii

The frank way in which she aildresKi-J him was a murk of
confi(hMit'(' wliich sent a little ^'low to his hoiu'st heart.

"Not fur some tinif. ^She tuKl niu you had written from
JieutenHoe."

"And is evorythinp; known hrre?"

" Nothing;; even my father knows nothing'. Only Madam
Doui^'ias, besides (iuy and Annie, is aware that you have ])Pon
living apart from Wo(»d;,'at(! f<>r two months."

He thought it would he a relief to her to hoar it, Imt it only
provoked another slight, inexplicable snjile.

"That is so like the Dale — so like my sister, \ mean. I oii,L,'ht
not to have come back. Is Madam at Teviothcad just now ?"

"Yes; sh*) has not been away since her return from
Mentone."

•'And is she well?"

" Yes; younger than ever. She talks to me about you some-
tinu's."

Helen turned her hea«l away quickly, and he did not dream
that her eves were wet.

" I am glad Madam is at Tcviothead," she said in a satisfied
voice, and afterwards Brian had occasion to remember the words.
" Annie was very desirous at one time that Madam should not
know. Who told her?"

" I did, when I returned from London," replied Brian. " She
was suffering from her old enemy, gout, and I was in attendance
for about a fortnight. "We had many talks, and I seemed to
get to know her as I had never known her before. We did not
use to think, Helen, there was a sweet side to Madam's nature."

"No; but I have seen it, when I was here at the beginning
of the year. We are always misjudging people, and will, I
suppose, till all our gigantic mistakes are made clear to us in
a clearer light," Helen replied. "Did you see in London the
people I asked you to see for me, Brian ? "

"I did."

"Well?"

"I liked Mr. Hargreaves exceedingly, and I think he liked
me, He is the sort of man to make a friend of; not an atom

./f /.0S7' IDFAl

>lo.^

of Ijunibug or pretence any where — nil Mincrrity unJ randour.
I wish there were mure like him."

"Vet he lia« some enemies- -and bitter »Jn••^*. Weil, Hr« you
not K*>i'>K t<j ■'^"y anytliiny about the other, Hrinu'l"

"I don't know what to way," he replied frankly.

"You admireil her as a woman, of courae? — her appearanre,
1 mean ; everyone must."

" I certainly thou^dit her the most beautifid woman J had
ever seen," he admitted ; "and her manm-rs are fascunatinj^."

"Yes," said Helen, with a faint sij^di, " I thon},dit when you
saw her you would probably take a tlill'erent view of the eas«,'."

" If you mean your ease, it maiU' no dillerenee," said Hi iaii
liotly ; " I shall never take but on»! view of that. How any
man who has won you could look at another, 1 cannot under-
stand, and never will."

"Apart from her appciarance, how did she strike you?"
asked Helen, with inUuest. "I am curious to know."

"I thought her sincere, and there is no doubt of her rej.;ard
for you. In fact, the whole thinj,' mystified me, does mystify
me yet, as nothing has ever done in this world."

"There are Broadyards gates already," said Helen suddenly.
" 1 can get out here and leave the box at the lodge. There is
11' > need to take you so much out of your way."

"I shall drive you up," replied Brian quickly. "Tom, go
right to the house."

" Yes, sir."

The lodge-keeper ran out, and, seeing who sat beside l)octor
Brian, was so paralysed she forgot her function.

" Oh, Miss Helen, — Mrs. Woodgate, I mean, — nobody expects
you, do they ? " she asked, all in a flutter.

"Ko, but I met a friend in need, Mrs. Scott. How are you
alH"

"Very M'ell, thanks; an* yersel'? Ye look but puirly, but
what can folk ex pec' in the like o' London ? The maister's
weel, I hope ? "

"Thank you," said Helen ; and, happily, at the moment Tom
drove on

.104

A LOST IDEAL

In throe minulfu inure the} drow up at the pillared doorway
of the old house. It was now hulf-pa.st Hevon, and dinner wws
hi'ing served, Mrs. Doiij^las having at last obtained her heart's
dosiro, a late dinner. The dining-room was to the front, Init
at the f.uther side of the door, so that, thongli they Iieard the
wJioels, tlicy coidd not see the carriage.

(luy, lioW(5ver, g»»t up, and, gh»ncing out of tlio window,
recognising Tom, did not look any farther.

•'It's Ihian. Ihing Dr. Laidlaw ri;,dit in, Shaw. ]I»:'h hcnn
at Ihank.soine, and iiis o«vn dinner will he sptiled in the wait-
ing. He nniy just as well hav«.' a hite with us."

Nfr.s. Douglas, lo«»king very dainty and sweet in lier njourning
silk, with tjjc delicate white crepe at the throat which inil,
enhanced the lovely whiteness of her skin, l)Usied herself witli
the fowl she was .so deftly carving, and said notiiing. It was a
very free-and-easy Intuscdiold, more like a country farmhouse
than a nnvnsion, the master being very oHhand and uncere-
monious in his hospitality, bringing all sorts and conditions to
his table without regard sometimes to the conventionalities so
dear to his wife's soul. She had liii.i pretty well under control,
but tliere were some points in whicli he was as obstinate as a
nnde, some of her wi.slies which he totally ignored ; and he told
her flatly, indeed, that so long as he had bite and sup in the
house, ho .shouM make welcome to it whom he liked, and the
little wife had Ix-en compelled to acijuiesee. But she had
sometimes been known to freeze impromptu guests with her
over - politeness, when they were such as did tiot commend
themselves to her fastidious taste. This was one of the bones
of contention, indeed, between Broadyards and his pretty wife.

Presently, Shaw, the portly old butler, who had elected to
remain with the young master rather than follow his old
mistress to Teviothead, came bustling back, looking rather scared.

"The doctor's "Drought Mrs. Woodgate, sir," he said, not
looking at his mistress as he spoke. *' She came by the London
train."

Helen walked straight in behind him, and Mrs. Douglas
leaped to her feet, all flushed and excited in a moment,

A r.osT rnEA!.

.^05

"Wliy, IIcloii, 18 it p'ully you? Why <li«lii't ynu writol
And— and iirt' you <iuil«' jiloiic?"

Kvcii JIM slu' kissnl llt'lt'ii, bIu! ^'laiiitpil <»v<'r lirr t«lM»iil»l»«r

tlirnti;;ll tlu' open <l()(»|-. -

•' Yos ; I'ln aloin'. IIt»\v are you, (iiiy?" Helen sniU <|iih»tly.
" T)on't look us if you'd mcu a j^linst."

"I can't lu'lji it, it'.s so UMi'X|i(ii('d ; Imt I'm awfully ^'lad to
sec you, llok'U, upon my word I am— awfully ^lad !"

Thon; was no duuht of lii.s welcome, it was wiitten in overy
lineament of liis face. And Ifelen went from liei- sister to
liim, and kissed him of her own aceord for the lirst time, and
lher<} was a tienndousni^s in ihc t-ycs whiih met his, which
sent the honest fellow out of the n»om with his own lashes wet.

"I'll just SCO if r.iian won't couu; in," he siiil shamefacedly,
as he took himself oil. Shaw had also disereetly retiretl, and
iho sisters wore left alont?.

" Why on earth didn't you write, su that we (.ouhl meet yen
in a Christian manner ?" askeij Annie, a trifle petulantly, notin;^'
at the sanu* time that Helen looked sliahhy and tired and old,
and feelinj^' intensely for hci, though vexed, horribly vexed,
that she should dare to lo(tk so. ".lust fancy allowing' lirian,
or anybody, to pick you up at the stati(»n. What would people
think % Did you seo anybody at the station ,' "

"Yes; May Gilbert and her mother, ami the, Elliots,"
replied Helen listlessly. "Hut uhat did it matter, anyhow 'J
How's Guy? I hope not in bed vetT'

"Yes, he goes at seven. You'd better come up, Helen, ami
get your things ofr. "Whercj's your luLiga^er*

" I had only one box ; iJrian's groom carried it into the hall,
r think. I)Ut don't leave your dinner, and Guy. Tell me
where to go."

"Don't be absurd ; the dinner can wait till you are ready to
sit down too. As if I could sit down quietly and finish mine
when you are in the house. "What room would you like, Heloi
— the regular spare bedroom?"

"No; the one T had last winter, if you doii'l mind. \ can
see the church from it," >uid Helen, and her face was very
20

m'
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306

A LOST IDEAL

weary. She had come to her own jjeoplo, it is true, but it
was not home, and lier sister's welcome had a smaclv of suspicion
iind inquiry in it which she most keenly felt.

Mrs. Douglas ran^^ the be^l, and 81iaw came bustling back to
the room.

" Lay a cover for Mrs. Woodgate, and take the fowls back to
cook to keep hot," she said quickly; "and ask, first, whetlior
])r. Laidlaw will dine too. Come, Helen."

The sisters left the room, and Shaw opened liis plate-box
with a mournful and .sympathetic headshake. Meanwhile, Guy
was on the doorstep with Brian, far enough away from the
carriage to be able to speak frankly.

"Now, Brian, what does this mean? The poor thing looks
like a shadow of herself. Has she said a, ly thing to you ?"

" Enou^jili to let me know that no recon(;iliation is probable
yet," Brian answered sadly, and the two men looked at each
other for a moment in mournful silence.

" I say, Brian, what are women nijide of % You'd have
thought, wouldn't you, that my wife's heart would have over-
flowed at sight of her sister in such a sorry plight?"

" You don't mean to say Mrs, Douglas received her coldly ? "
said Brian, with flushing cheek.

" By Jove, she did ; and if I don't know what she means by
it before I sleep to-night, I'm a Dutchman," said Broadyard.s,
with unmistakable decision.

"Please, sir, my mistress bade me ask if Dr. Laidlaw would
dine too?" said Shaw, appearing in the doorway.

"No, not to-right, thank you," said Br -an hastily. "I must
go at once ; my father will think something has liappened to
me already. Good-night, Guy. I'll see you to-morrow, old
chap."

"You will, for I'll need somebodv to talk to. I've gotten

' I/O

the rest of my dinner looking at Iledcn's eyes. Heavens,
Brian ! to think of the misery the best of people have to endure
in \\\\>. world is enough to upset all a fellow'^ ideas of justice,
human or di\ ine."

Brian said nntliing, but he thouglit so too.

true, but it
of suspicion

Lling back to

owls back to
irst, whetlior

\\h plate-box
iuwhile, Guy
ay from tlio

r thing looks
,oyour'
n is probablii
oked at eacli

You'd hav(3
Id have over-

I her coldly?"

she means by
d Broadyards,

Laidlaw would

jily. " I must
s happened to
bo-morrow, old

D. Tve gotten
es. Heavens,
have to endure
ileas of justice,

CHAPTER XL

"Ttiey were two sisters of one race.**

INNER was over ; the laird smoking a meditative,

but not very comforting pipe in the gunroom ;

Helen and her sister in the library, where, tliough

it was ^lay, a little fire crackled merrily and was

not unwelcome, for Broadyards stood in fairly

high latitudes, and often after a rain storm, even in summer,

there was a sharpness in the air which made a fire welcome if

not imperative.

"Now, Helen," said Mrs. Douglas, kneeling down on the

hearthrug and giving the fire a quite unnecessary poke, and then

energetically brushing up the ash she had scattered on the tiles,

"I hope you are going to tell me everything. You can't say

you have treated me very well, can you ? "

"I didn't mean to treat you badly, Annie; you might at

least believe that," Helen replied, leaning back in the huge

divan easy chair, which made her slight, thin figure look very

small-pro j)ortioned indeed.

"Ohj that's all very well," said Annie impatiently; "hut it

is facts we want to deal with, not intentions. How long have

you been back from that outlandish place where Brian went to

look for you ? "

Helen perceived that she was in the grasp of the inquisition,

and resigned herself to her fate. "I returned to London last

Friday,' she replied m<'-ekly.

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308

A LOST WEAL

"And where have you been stayin<,' in tlu^ interval?'*

"With my friend Miss Ryder, of whom you liave licard me
speak."

"Oh ! And where, may I ask, is your husband ?"

"I bfdieve he is at Margate," Helen replied, and her faro
bef^an to redden.

There was at the moment absobitdy not a spark of sympatliv
between the sisters, and both felt it. But Mrs. Douglas eon
eeived that she had been shabbily u^ed, and she deemed it lni
duty, for her family's sake, to be at the bottom of the whole
unhappy business. Helen, however, was even less disposed to
be comnuinieative than before. She answered every question
under protest. Yet she was in that sore, suffering mood when
a word of genuine sympathy would have broken her silenee aiitl
drawn everything from her, as witness her enH)lion when licr
brother-in-law weleonu'd her so kindlv.

"At ]\[argate," repeated Annie meditatively. "Then yoii
did not see him ?"

" No. I have not seen him since I left Brigliton," Helen
replied calmly.

"And why did you leave Brighton? 1 have never heard
the story, of course, though Brian has told us something. l)(i
you think it a right thing to have given Brian Laidlaw the
confidence 3'ou deny to your own sister? Jt Inis hurt me very
much, Helen."

Helen put out her hand and touched the plump, pink fingers
resting on the arm of her chair, a caressing touch such as she
might have bestowed on a child. As such, indeed, the one
sister regarded the younger, and felt no desire to talk to her as
one woman can talk to another of the deep things of life. She
was abs(>lutely inexperieue(;d, and in her ignorance of life arro
gant in the extreme. H(^len felt more and more that between
them there was a great gulf fixed, though the tie of kinship
still made a dearer bond than common between them.

"I did not give Brian a spontaneous confiilenee, Annie;
simply answered his questions as I answer yours. Nobody seems
to understand thatl want to hold niv tongue and to be let alone."

iv«' lu'ard me

and her faro

: of sympatliy
Douf^'las eon
deemed it her

of the whole
3s disposed to
J very question
g mood when
ler silence ainl

ion wlitMi hrr

"Then Y(»n

l^iton," Helen

I' never heavd
)metlunt;'. D"
n Laidlaw the
s hurt me very

ip, pink fingers
ch such as she
ideed, the one
) talk to her as
^s of life. Sill'
ice of life arm
L-e that between

tie of kinship
them,
rtdenee, Annie ;

Nobody .secins
to be let alone."

.-/ LOST JDEAI.

0O9

It was a passionate, heart -wrung cry, but !Mrs. D(»ugl;is
steeled herself against it ; strong in her ri,i;hteons belief that
Helen owed a duty to her and to the family, and that her
K'ticenre was wrong as well as selHsh in the extreme.

'' Helen, dear," sin; began in a gentler voice, "I don't want to
Mcm unkind, hut you must not be so selfish. There is a duty
IPC owes to one's family. We have heard one side of the story,
ind until we hear the other, fiom your lips, how are we to know
Ikiw to act? That vou have come back to us tells us you da not
w ish this (istran-cment to continue. I am very sorry for you,
liiit I cannot go on any longer in the dark, and I won't. I osve
it to myself, and to my husband ; but especially to him."

"Guy is not like that, Annie. He is a true, dear fellow,
iiid he would ot, harrow u[) my soul as you are doing now,
not for the world."

"You know nothing about him, ray dear," replied Annie
!• dmly. "?»renare all idike ; they relegate every disagreeable
duty to their wives. (Juy is just as anxious to be at the
bottom of it as I am. Of course, he feels the humiliation of
the thing even more keenly than I."

This was a cruel thrust, which caused Helen's pale lips to
compress themselves rather tightly.

" 1 will answer such questions as you may put to me, Annie,
as I best know how, if I am able to endure them," she said at
lenG;th.

" Keally, Helen, you are very trying. T don't want you to
go minutely into everything," she said, though that was exactly
what she did want. "I only wish to know what Richard did
that you felt justified in taking such a disa.-trous step. Surely
that is not much to ask."

" Perhaps not. Well, since you have asked and I must
answer, hero it is. When I returned from being here last
spring, we went to Brighton, as you know ; and a mutual
friend, a lady, went with us " —

" What was her name?" queried Annie, with keen interest,
scenting a sensation.

"1 would rather not say," replied Helen, quite coldly.

3-,

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It is

310

J LOST IDEAL

" Acciilenlally, one aftonmoii, T overlicnrd a convorsatidii
tietwoen thoiii, in which Kichiiril frankly confessed to her that
(»ur marriage had been a ,i,'igantic mistake — in fact, that he liud
married me out of gratitude, because of the kindness he liad
received from us— that" —

•'What impertinence I" cried Viv^. Douglas indignantly.
" Dut go on."

"And that he never could be hajipy or satisfied with me.
After that, perha]is, you will admit tliat it was time for me to
take my departure,"

"It certainly was abominable to hear that; but, pray, what
sort of a woman was this that Richard spok(i so confidentially,
to? — she couldn't be a very resj.ectable person."

" We have nothing to do with lier. iShe was and is my
frienil, Annie, and I j)refer not to sj)('ak of h(jr. That is the
whole case. Are you satisfied now T'

"Well, things look a little clearer, but I don't understand
it yet. Had you had no quarrel with Richard ?— for, of course,
men often say things when they are angry which they do not
mean, and which no power on earth will make them admit
they have said afterwards. Xow, had I been you, I should
have walked straight in on them, and asked Richard what on
earth he meant by such audacity, and this unhappy breach
might have been jn-evented."

"Yes; but that is just the difference between you and me,
Annie, I could not do it."

" And you were quite friendly with him at the time?"

"We were not in the habit cf quarrelling," replietl Helen
wearily, for this cross-questioning rent her very soul.

" It was certainly abominable to hear such a thing, and
transcendental impudence of him to say it; when everybody
knows you were oceans too good for him, and when nobody
wanted you to many him. Still, you might have had it out
with him and gone on. I hope you think that you liave
punished him enough, and that you will go back to him now."

Helen never spoke. It was a lemark it was altogether
impossible for her to answer.

A LOST IDEAL

3»i

inv(-rsati(in
to hor that,
iiat he liatl
'ss be liad

uli^^nantly.

I with nio.
n for me to

pray, wliat
ifidoiitially.

and is luv
Tliat is the

iimlerstaiul
', of courses,
:hey do not
hem admit
I, I should
rd what on
ppy breach

ou and mo,

ne ? "
liod Helen

thing, and

everybody

len nobody

3 had it out

you have
him now."

altogether

"Did you write to him, tlioji, mid lull him yi'U had nvtr-
hoard?"'

"I did not."

"And does he understand it to this day?"

" I suppose he does."

•'Have you had no communication with liim at all, then?"

"Yes; he wrote to mo at Reutonsee, and I replied to hia
Irtter."

" Did he apologise?"

Helen smihnl — a wintry, mirthless smile — at the awful
absurdity of the tjuestion.

" He did. He askcnl me to return, and I rt'fustd. I have
no more to say to you, Annie, so pray don't ask me any more
<|iU'stions."

"Well, I won't if I can help it; but there are some things
1 must say yet, Helen. I would not bt' doing my duty as u
(Christian woman if I didn't say them. Xow, do you think
you are displaying a Christian spirit through this afftiir?"

" I have not thought about it," replied Helen, with a fine
indifference.

" I suppose not. Of course you are fearfully unhappy ;
anybody can see that. You look as if you'd die of pure
weariness at this minute, and fen- the time being you can't see
l)eyond your own misery. You think me very hard-hearted,
Helen, I know — 1 see it quite plainly in your eyes ; but you are
my only sister, and I love you too dearly to let you ruin your
life without a word of protest. I am on the outside, and I
can judge better than you. Won't you believe me when I say
you have punished Richard enough, and that, seeing he has
written entreating you to come back, won't you go back ? "

She was very much in earnest. She leaned both her "^Ibows
on her sister's knees and looked at her imploringly, but Helen's
expression never changed.

" I believe you mean everything for the best, Annie, but you
are in no position to judge. In my present state of mind I
would sooner jump into the Teviot than do what you say. The
one step wouldn't be more fatal to me than the other."

A LOST jnr.AL

'• Vot you used to be so f^ood, suoh an examplp, to evoryhody,"
said Annie, looking very vexed. "The Bible tells us to forgive
our enemies, and I am sure dear ])aj)a was always preaching
charity. I wish he were hen; to advise you."

"Oh, my (Jod, so do I!" cried Helen, with a passion so
terrible that Annie started back looking genuinely scareil.

"Dear me, Helen ! don't use such language. You are quit*',
quite changed from what yon used to be, and 1 am sure it
would have broken poor pai)a's heart had he lived to see it.
Well, since you are (juite determined in your own way, what are
you going to do?" Helen shook her head in the same listle.s.s,
indifferent way. "Of course, we are very glad to have ytju
here, but I should like to hear what you are going to do witli
yourself."

"Couldn't you let merest — even one night, Annie? " asked
Helen. "One thing I ])romi.se you, 1 shall not stay too long
at Broadyards,"

"Don't be absurd. ( )f course you can stay jn>t tts long as
you like at liroadyards. What 1 want to know is what you
pi.opose to do ultimately."

" I will tell you as soon as I know myself."

"Nobody knows in the Dale that you and Richard are not
quite happy, except Brian and Madam. I was very angry with
Brian for telling ^Fadam, and 1 think he has been too officious
all through. But he means well, and there is no doubt about
his devotion to you. But, of course, Helen, if you stay here
a long time, and nothing is ever heard or seen of Richard, what
will people say? and wliat more dreadful than to iind oneself
or one's relations the gossip of the countryside ?"

"I shall leave in time to prevent that contingency, Annie,
never fear," s lid Helen, with a faintly ironical smile.

" Then yi.u are (juite determined not to give Richard a chance
to explain or make it up?" said Annie, with her tiny
slippered foot beating a slightly impatient tattoo on the brass
fender. " You would not allow me to write and ask him
down, I suppose? an interview is always so much better than
writing. He certainly behaved veiy rudely to me when I saw

// J.Oiil /J)I-AL

3»3

him in London ; but Guy saw hi^ a^'ain next clay, and lie Wiis
quite dilTcrent, and I sliould say by n )w lie in\ist be in a very
penitent frame of niiiid."

Helen was made aware for the first time tliat an interview had
taken plyce, but she felt too dispirited to inciuireuny particulars,

*'lf I thought you would do that, Annie, I should h-avr
liroadyards in the morning. I have been very j»atient, dear,
leeause 1 believe you have my interest at heart, but can't you
see that this is a matter between my husband and me alone '<
It is impossible for anyone else to judge or to say what we
sliould or should not do, and 1 must derline to discuss it any
further."

Helen spoke gently, but with a decision there was no
mistaking.

"Very well; I shall say no more, but, of course, it is very
awkward for us, in our position here, to have awkward (juestion^i
put."

"^Nobody ever asks me questions except you," said Helen
calmly. "If they question you again, refer them to me."

"Well, to change the subject, is that all — the luj:gage you
have] Where are all your things?"

" In the house at Hampstead."

Annie nodded.

"And there they are to remain, I suppose. I have never
seen you so shabby. Such a l(»v('ly house, too. I liad no
idea it was so large and line ; and to leave it all — oh, 1 have
no patience with you ! "

Helen got up all of a sudden,

"May I go upstairs and look at Guy, Annie? If we talk
here any longer, we shall certainly say things we should regret."

Her sister made no rejily, and Helen left th(^ room. ^Irs.
Douglas continued her ruminations in silence, and by the
pucker in her brows showed that she was seriously disturbed.

The laird, still wondering what was transpiring in the
library, had lit a third pipe and was trying to read a little,
when his wife came in and plumped herself down on a basket
chair.

',:ii

1''

. ;i^

[in''

// Ao.s/' //)/: I/,

"Oil, (Juy, I liiivc iusi hoi'ti tulkiii'M: vnv st'rimi^ly lo Flrlpii,
and I'm nut of all pntitMicr willi licr. I dont lirjirvc tlit<v'il
«'V«M' Ih' nM'oncilctl if s)i(> L,rnoa on likd that ; anil just lliink nlial
|K'o|iI«' will say."

" ( )li, hang j)('i)|)l(' ! "

Tho lain! threw hi^j |»i|H» on the floor and sat round with
nmre onrri^y than his wife had seen him dis|i!;iy for a lont,'
lime.

" Now look hero, Annie ; I've ^ot somethiui,' lo say to you,
atnl 1 mean it. HehMi has eomt> to us in Irouhle, and she hesi
knows how deep it is, and wIimI is Imm* mind rej^'ardin^' it.
What we'\e i^'ot to do is to he kind lo her ; and if yon tlunk
you uave her a »^oi»d wejionu' to-ni,uhl, I tiidn't. It made uui
so asliiimiMi I coulil have cried."

Mrs. Douulaa stared. This was ca]>])inj^' flu* elimax, and it
made her alto«^other sjieeeldoss.

" Vou'r.' a groat «h'al too frightened for what poophi will
say. Wliat tho diekiuis business is it of anybody's whetlier
Woodgate and Helen pull together or not? It isn't oven any
business of ours. They aren't babies, to bo whipi)od antl put
to bod if thoy don't do as we want thorn. I depend upon it,
if Uolon left Woodgate, she did it witli her eyos open, and
knew what she did it for. She'll go l)aok to liim when she
thinks fit, and we've got no earthly business to meddle with
it. All we've got to do is to ho kind to her, as I said, and
try to make things easy for her. I won't liave Helen bullied
here, Annie, remember that."

Thus did Broadyards deliver himself of the eonvietion of
his honest, tender soul ; and under the torrent of his homely
eloquence his astonished wife sat absolutely dumb.

. ' I

CnAPTRR XLI

" iruiiiiin Ih-uiIs are liai|is iliviiicly Htning,
Wiiitiiij^ tlio jtowtT of kiinliTMl Siiiil."

U I A X wiiH very Lusy. Tlif fitful wiinls mihI
ti'cju'licrous suii-liliuka of May toM upon cliiMirn
iind oM ]n'o|»I(! in the I)al<; and on tlu^ hills, and
the, popular doctor did not oat t}i(5 ])Y(hu\ of idlo
n(!s.s. JIc had talked of getting an aH.si.stant for a
lonf; time, but what is the good of an assistant, as his
fatlior pointed out, whom nobody will see? Not that J'.rijin
,L,'r'Mnbled. He loved liis work, and there w.'is not a
lazy bone in him. lie was never haj>pier than starting out
of a morning with a list of visits in his pocket so long
that he did not know how to overtake them in a day. The
old man was a trifle frailer, but could still relieve his son a
little in the surgery at the house, and very proud he was when
ho had seen two or three patients there, which he called a
good day's work.

The morning after Helen's arrival, though his visiting list
was not shorter than usual, iWian deliberately made a perfectly
unnecessary detour, in fact, went to pay a visit entirely out of
his way. About twelve o'clock his trap was driven through
the gate at Teviothead, which surprised the lodge -keeper.
Madam now being out of the Doctor's hands. Teviothead,
the dower house of the Douglases, was less imposing, of
course, than Broadyards, but was a very homely and picturesque

816

rr"-

[ 'i

f ■

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f
'1 '

it:

! (

316

J /.OSr IDEAL

liou.su, stanrlinpj, as its nanic imliciitiMl, at thn foot of thn liill
from whlcli arose; tho river that watorod tin- r)al(>, and wliicli
flowed tliroii^'li the grounds — a tiny linipid stream, gatheriii;^'
8U|»|)h"es from many burns as it ripided on its way. Thi're was
110 polhilion in the Teviot at its source, and many a lusty
trout liad iirian lirou^iit to baidc t'mm tlio ilusky pools within
the demesne; of Teviotliead. Likf most healthy - mindiMJ,
liealthy- bodied dale>men, lie- was a keen sportsman; but a
jiopular doctor in a wide and scattered district has but little
time for recreation.

The long avenue to the house skirted the riv<'r for soniu
little distance, and as Ihian watched the sunbeams ripiding in
the siiallows, and the little eddies made by the trout, the soul
of the angler was stirred in him.

"1 aay, Tom, a good l)asket could be made here, early as it is.
We'll come \ip some evening after dinner and have a try at it."

Tom grinned ai)preciativ(dy. He ad(jred his mas'ter, who
treated him with a friendly familiaritv, whi(di, however, never
encouraged the slightest presuming, and the relations between
them were of the happiest, most ideal kind. ^fadani kept
early hours at Teviotliead, breakfasting every morning at eight
and lunching at noon ; and the whole mechanism of tlu'
establishment moved on wheels, the vibration of which was
never felt. She was in the dining-room, and caught sight of
the doctor's gig as it came whirling round the sweep of the
avenue before the door.

"There's the doctor, Katie. Bring another plate, and he'll
have some soup, honest man. He ha^ aye a long round, and
question when he'll get another meal of meat."

Madam had no men-servants in the house, having relinquished
them with the other accessories of her greater estate at Broad-
yards. But she had clever and capable women about her —
dainty in their ways as she was herself.

Though quite alone, and in somewhat failed health, she
never abated a jot of her extreme precision and daintiness of
attire. At twelve o'clock in the day she wore her black silk
gown, her beautiful lace cap and fichU; and the chatelaine

J /.OST I/^r.lL

3«7

winch nuljody evor saw lier without. And .she wis very Iminl-
Bome and stately, liko an old portrait .step[)t'd t"r<»ni its franiH
into life.

"lUithc am I to see yon, Ihian," she said, nifeting him
hoartily at tho dinin;,'-.'0(ini door. " JUit 1 didna .send for
you," slu! added, with a twiidvle in her eye. " I'm no' one
that'll hae a doctor for ever at my tail, unles.'^ need Im-."

"Oil, I won't charge you thi.s visit, Madam. It isn't
professional ; though I suppose 1 may ask liow you are, now
I have come."

"Oh, I'm line. Do you see anything hy ordinary ahout
mo? Katie, see that the doctor's groom has some kale, ami
you ncedna come in or I ring."

Katie withdrew, and P.iian threw his liding - gloves on
Madam's shiny damask, and laid his hat aho\(; them.

*'^Irs. Woodgato has come to IJroadyanls, !Madam. SIk;
came last n'ght."

*' Eh, no I and is the man wi' her?"

"Oh no; there seems to he wo .settlement so far as that is
concerned."

•'Dear me !" j\Iadam hegan to tremljle. The tiling touched
her nearly, tor Helen was dear to her as if she had heen her
own daughter. " Dear me I Mrs. (luy never let on to me on
Hahhath at the kirk that she was expected."

" Nor was she. 1 was at Branksome yesterday afternoon,
and hapiH'ne«l to drive by the station as the London train came
in. J .sent Tom up for a parcel, and he hrouglit back word
that Mrs. Woodgate was on the jdatform. And she was there,
sure enough. 1 drove her up to Broadyards."

''And how does she look, dear land>? Tell me a'thing,
Ihian. It was kind of you t(j come."

"I am afraid I had a selfish reason, and I don't know that
I have any business to state it. But, upon my word, 1 can't
lielp it, ]Madam. This thing lias cut me up so awfully. Helen
<li(l not appear to be very sure about her welcome at Ih'oad-
yards : and after she went in, Guy came out and told me Mrs.
I>oii'das had received lier but coMlv."

ir III

! !

;.«8

/f r.0S7' IDEAL

Mmlaiii's <k'li(iitu faco dubliud| ami lii;r swtH-t, slruii^' nnmtlj
took its sternest line.

"kSlie'a a Hilly thing — a silly, t'ini)ty tliinj;, that caniia sen
ower lier own doorstane," sIm; said, witli a ikhsjou most luiusuaL
"And she thinks a deal more .>' what folk will say alMtiit it
than of th(5 trouble it is to Helen, ilut tell mc about Helen,
Ihian ; how does she look?"

"Hut Jtoorly; not nearly so well as when I saw her ut
Reutensee. IShe looks just as a woman niiglit be expected to
look who has come throu<^'h dire tn>nl)le — worn out."

One l)ri<,'ht tear started in Madams eye and rolled down the
pink of her cheek.

"It's a sore thing, Ih-ian ; a sore, sore thing, and 1 wish wc
understood it bettor than we do. lUit of this I am assurcil,
Helen Lockliart is not one to lichtlie a marriage vow for
naught Nor has she ta'en this step, as a silly lassie miglit, for
spite or pure waywardness."

"IV'rhajjS not; but there is a danger in a nature like her.s,
Madam, wliich I think you will admit; there is too much
indwelling on self, until a certain degree of morbidness is
bound to arise. If anybody can get at the bottom of it, and
])ut it on the best possible basis, it is you, Madam, because
you are sympathetic as well as strong. 1 wish you'd try."

Madam turned away and buried herself at the table for a
moment in silence.

" Here, eat this soup, Brian, while I think what is to bo
done. Do you think I should go over to Broadyards?"

" Not to-day ; perhaps you had better wait till they send
word. I really liad no husiness to carry the news to yoii,
Madam, but I just couldn't help it."

"Oh, there's nothing wrong in that, Brian, though Mrs.
Guy is (pieer. I was to go to lunch on AVednesday— that's
the morn. I'D bide till then, unless they send me a message
to-day ; an' they needna ken who told me, Brian. I dinnu
doubt it's the clash o' the l)ale by now."

"That will do very well," .said Brian in a well-plea>ed voice.

"And if there be na room for Helen in Broad vards, big

.'/ LOST ir)E.\I.

.V9

though Mis.

ni. I cUnna

thdUKh it he, ihfi'c'ii idiiiii here, Ihiaii ; itn' hlillic nnouIU I ho
to 8C»' hrr."

" It wuiilil du Imt more ^'otul tJ»;iii ;iiiythiij^'. It' I liinl to
l»n!«crih(' lor her, Miulain, IM advise, a hightu" lutitJul*', and say
Ihoadyards Htt.s too low on the river."

" noctors' h'cs," said Madam, witli a sniilf. " So ihcrc'.N no
hetternient If Did llelt-n speak iit all ah(Hit her man to you J "

" Slic Haiti no reconciliation was possildi; mranwhilc, that
was all."

"Ah, weel, Wf canna meddle too much wi* married folk ; it's
hut a thankless joh. JJut if sin; doesna go hack to him, what's
to hecomo o' \wx% tell me that. She's no' on(! o' the wild
women that cry for emanciitalion an' a' that, llame is Helen's
hit, an' aye was. liereft o' that, what think ye is left to tho
hairn? Why, just naething at a', an' she'll dwine awa' like a
rose that has a worm at its heart, an' withers in its hloom."

"You never said a truer word than that, Madam," said Ilrian,
as he rose to his feet. " If you should get Helen's conlidence,
try and make it up hetween them. It is the only way ;
and she loved him dearly once, whatever she may feel for him

now

" I'll see what I can do. How's your fatlier, honest man ?
I saw him in tho kirk on Sahl)ath ; his face minds one on
nothing hut a jtsalm of praise. What a gran' auld age has the
man that is mindfu' o' his Maker ! There's nae regrets in von
face, Brian ; it's like the sky when the hairst moon is up, after
a long working day."

" I'll tell him what you say, Madam. Sometimes he .«ays ho
is hut a cumherer of tho ground."

" That's when he's eaten too much. Tell hira fioni me, then,
that he preaches a sermon to me ilka Sabhath day, that does
mo mair guid than anything I have heard in tho kirk o'
liroadrule since our minister gaed awa', ' she said, noddin^^ all
the way out to the dof)rsteps, where she bade him good-bye,
but stood still to watch the tine young fellow vault into the
gig ; and in her old heart there arose many vain regrets.

So moved was she hv Ih-ian's news that she was very fain to

i l:i

^\:o

A /.osr //)/•//

ii-

'M'(1(M' luM" own carriiif^o to nri>m!\aitlM ul oiuc, ImiI slie put ilm
curb on Iwr iiup.Mtit'Uco. Sln> whm rcNMirilnl alioul. four o'clnck
in ll\(> iilUM'uoon l\y tl"' vusioii of \wv own non on liorHnlim 1,
roininj.:; \\\\ \\w aviMMio ; iv wplfotnc sii^lit. jil all tinu's, hnl rspi'
oiivlly (o »lay, whon sho wuh so f»ill of iinxicly to ln'iir all ahoiil
n«'l(Mi.

'* 1 sfjw Hrian, niolluM'. ;mtl he told in<» lio Inul lircn licip,"
>VMS his ^rootinj::. "This is a hail hnsincss ahont llrlcn. Winn
wo von conunj; over (o r«M> luM't"

" I was t'oniing lli<> morn."

" V(»uM lu'Kor ('»>ni(' llw niu;lil, 1 ihiiik. 'I'hingH an- not as
thoy vshonKI he IntwiMMi htn; an«! Annie, and I'vo «u'on had
\V(>rds with luy wif«» ahont il."

"Hill can 1 ilo any j;i>od, (Juy, my man? 'i'hat's what I
want' to ktMi."

" V(Vs ; it's iiiotlit'iinLj llol(Mi wants, not. hadgiM'in;^;. No man
ovov had a hoilcv wdo than I'vo i^ot, iiiotluT, hut sink's put up
ht>r hark at lu'V own sister in a way 1 cannot understand, and
I'm luit lit lo hiil(> it. Women are very queer creatures, I
can't make thcni out."

" Well, it's I'.ui lour o'clock. 1 can conn* and go heftU'i* the
ilarkenin', and I'll hriiis;' Helen hack wi' ine if she'll come."

"t>h. sh(>'ll «'oine fast enoiij;h ; hut I question if .Annio'll
It^t her, r>ut the ohanc(> is this, ni(»tlier ; Annie has to hi^ ;it
Mrs. (lilhert's at some »lrawin«i;-room moi^tinj^ at six to-niglii.
Suppvv^c yi>u just take her away without lettiie.; (»n. "

Tlie old lady silently laughed, rather enjoying the idea o{
stealing a inarch on her danghtor-in law, especially if aided and
aheticd therein hy her son,

"Well, I'll come, and we'll see. Katie Korhos. hid John get
out the brougham as quick as he can, to take mo to Hroadyards.
Hire's a cup •■•f tea, Guy, while ho gets n>ady.''

Thoy talked of Helen as thoy ate and drank, hut (Juy could
not toll any nioro than 1h-ian, lianlly as much. It Avas ahoul
half-past tive v hen they reaidied Broadyards, and the pony
carriage was at the door to drive the young mistress to Tracpiaii.
She came downst^iirs hut toning lior gloves, and when she saw

.'/ n).\r fni- Ai.

riiafs wlint I

Iho Tcvinllicnd «firria^'t«, }>it, ln<r lipM in voxalion, ifi* jj}i Otiy
liiul iolil licr Ii<> Ind ^oiM^ ii|» to Hcn Iijh inoMicr, o; t li II )ntr
IIpIcii liiul conic Vuiinj^' Mrs. |)(iii;^'liin liiiil lun-ri liillicr huI»
(IikmI III! iliiy MJlrr ll(^r liii,sl)(iii<rH nnwontrd hIkii'i* .pcfiluii):, l»iit,
llir iitinoH|ili(n(i IiikI not liccn very HiniHliijiy, and lli-lcn Ii;id
o('(M!|»ir(l InTKi'lf llni vvlioln <liiy wiMi lit He (liiy out, in flin
groiMidM. VVIicn Annio saw Mm carriage, hIic ran Iwilf way
npHlairM uj^'ain, and <'allrd lo Iht sintor —

" llcilcn, lltdcn, conn' down ! Ifc.rc'H Madarn rum*' to hik?
yon." Tlirn nln' went out in a very dii^nilicd inanncr t»» ^ecot
hor nn»tInM' in l)iw.

"How do y(»n do, (lianny? I)idn't (Jny tell yon I wan
Iry.stcd to MiM. (lillicrt's at hix o(do('k? I'm Hur** lie. ncjcd not
hiiv(5 l"or;^'ott('n so .soon."

"Oh, hf told in(i, my cloar,-- l)nt itn llcdcn I'vr, corno to H<iM.
Wlirro iH .she 'I "

"U{)Htaii'H; l)nt V\k\ told Inn'. TImmm hIio i« on tint land inj.^,
iMit not very hiithn <'om|»any for anybody, (Jranny; mon'/a
tho pity,"

Madam alit^litcd (piickly from her r;nria|;n and Ht(',[)p(!d within
the liousc ; and wlniii IFfhrn saw her, kIm-, ^'avo a stran^'c cry,
and the- stony calm of In^r faco hroki', and a |L,'n;at trcmldinj^'
shook her. Ay, it was motlicrini.,' hIic iMicdcid, aH(iny had siid ;
anil when Annie suw liow slui cnspt into Madam's arnis, and
the expression on Madam's face when she M) enfolded her, .she
got very qnietly and soberly into the pliaeton and drove; away,
feeling tliat thoro wore a great many things, clever oh nhe was,
sho did not uiKh'rstand. And when she returned to find that
Madam had taken Helen away, she did not seem Rurj)riHed, and
never said a word. Also, sin- was more gentle oi speech and
nuiuuer tu her huisband. than uhe had been all day.

pli-

k I

I! '■

I ■ '' ' .

I
I

CHAPTER XLII

"0 vanished hope, that withered in its bloom!"

Teviothead Helen seemed at peace. There was a
restfulness in the house, a dignity and roposo
indescribably soothing to a troubled s})irit. No-
body was ever in a hurry, everytliing moved in its
placid, undisturbed way, and, above all, nobody
asked any questions. Helen was so sick of being questioned
that she felt profoundly grateful to find herself in an atmosphere
not interrogatory. Madam had the wisdom of experience, the
tact of a fine and delicate nature ; she saw that what Helen
wanted most of all was absolute rest, physical and mental. It
was quite evident that the body Avas not less weary than
the soul. Watching her closely with the solicitude of love,
Madam observed certain signs Avhich disturbed her not a little.
Helen's ap))etite was fitful and capricie o, and she was easily
tired, neither did she sleep well. Madam often heard liei'
moving in her room in the silent watches ; and the old lady
would herself lie awake till moining, pondering what was to be
done. That this sort of thing .should go on was, of course,
impossible. But it was not easy to break down the wall of
Helen's absolute reserve. She was painfully sensitive too,
and would scarcely go without the grounds of Teviotheaii.
When Madam insisted that she should go for a drive, she had
to choose those bye-roads where they were not likely to en-
counter anybody. And so a week passed away. One aftern'mu

I' I

A LOST J DEAL

323

Madam liad gone to Hallkirk, and Helen was alone in the
house,

Katie Forbes, who thouylit many thin^'ti and said nothing,
and was therefore a treasure in the house, had brought tea to
her in the drawing-room, and was waiting upon her in her
gentle, kindly, unolttrusive fashion, when a visitor arrived at
the house in the shape of Mrs. (Jilbert of Tra(iuair, and she
asked for Mrs. AVoodgate. The door was opened by the under
housemaid, who, thinking nothing, immediately showed the
ladjj' into the drawing-room. Katie Forbes reddenetl at sight
of her, and blamed herself for not being on the alert to hear
the knocker, but could do nothing but reti-e at once. And
what could Helen do, having known Mrs. Gilbert nearly all
her days, but get up and try to receive her with a perfect
nonchalance 'v But it was a great effort, which matle her greet-
ing constrained i^ven to coldness.

"]\Iadani is not at home, Mrs. Gilbert," she said, a little
confusedly, for the keen eyes of the visitor were upon her face,
taking in every detail.

" Oh, never mind. I was driving on the Broadrule road,
and 1 saw the Teviotheau carriage go by, and when I saw
Madam in it alone, I just said to myself, 'I'll go up and
liave a little talk with IMrs. Woodgate for old times' sake,' and
here I am."

She said all this with the utmost complacency, and sat down
opposite to Helen, her 3ilk skirts making a great rustling, and
her whole a})pearance suggestive of inward satisfaction.

She was the wife of one of the Hallkirk manufacturers, a
well-meaning, kindly - disposed body, but (-aten up with an
unwholesome curiosity regarding her neighbours and their
affairs. She was not a lady, but there was nothing offensively
vulgar about her, except when she wanted to be at the bottom
of some Dale gossip; and that was her mood and intention
to-day. The Gilberts lived in great style in the old mansion
house of Traquair, on the left bank of the Teviot, one of the
seats of an impoverished Border family, and were ])otentat('S in
the Dale. There was a very nice family of sons and daughters^

ifl

lUi

!ii'-;

r.. i ■■

I i '■

i 'i li li

;i,jl

.til I

324

A LOST IDEAL

with whom the Manse girls had been intimate in the old days.
But Mrs. rjilbert, with her insatiable prying into private
matters, had been ever the hC'.iv rwir of the minister of Broad-
rule, the only woman who ever tempted him to forget hi,;
usual courtesy.

"Mrs. Guy was at our house the other niglil at the Zenana
meeting, and she was very short with me when I asked aft< r
you," said Mrs. GilbiM't, with an aggrieved note in her voice
"And she never said you had gone up to Teviotliead. Do you
know if 1 have done anything to ofTend Mrs. Douglas, Helen 1
The girls and I have been puzzling over it all the week."

"lam sure you haven't, Mrs. Gilbert," Helen replied quickly.
"How are you all at Traquair? Florence will be quite a big
girl now."

"Not so very big ; it is not two years yet since you left the
Dale, Mrs. AVoodgate. And how is your husband, and when do
you expect him down?"

"I don't know."

Helen was no match for the gossip-monger. She could refuse
to answer questions, but she could not parry them.

"You don't know 1 How odd ! Well, I suppose he is very
busy. And are you going to make a stay for some time?"

" Yes, I think so — that is, I don't know. Oh, thank you,
Katie ! just stay here and wait," she said, turning with evident
relief as Katie Forbes came in with a cup for Mrs. Gilbert.
She knew very well that so long as the servant remained in the
room, Mrs. Gilbert could not come to very close quarters ; and
I think Katie understood, for she remained till the last possibh
moment, until there was no shadow of excuse for her to linger
any longer. Then she took away the tray, and Mrs. Gilbert
returned to the attack. She called her curiosity a kindly
interest in the girl she had known so long, and had no qualms
of conscience, though she might have been warned by a certain
look in Helen's eyes — the look of a hunted animal at bay. So
she blundered on.

"You don't look very well. I am sorry. Quite changed
fi'oui what you weye in the old <iays. Mary thouglit so too

A LOST IDEAL

3^5

;e could refuse

)iiite chaii'^ed

that day wo saw you at ilio station. I sujtpose it'c^ the fogs in
London. How do you like it on the wlutlo?"

Helen was in absolute torture, and did not ki\ow what to
say. She therefore said nothinp; at all ; and Mis. Gilbert kept
looking at her, <lrawing her own eonclusions from tbe fitful
colour wavering in her cheek and the general nervousness of
her demeanour.

"I daresay it *11 do you ever so much good to be in the Dale,
though why you should prefer Teviothead to Broadyards 1
can't think. Helen, excusi; me, but I'm a very old friend. I
knew your mother before you were b^rn, and, of course, I'm
interested in you. Is there anythiiig wrong? Of course there
are all sorts of stories going. Do tell me, so that I may be able
to put my foot down."

"What kind of stories, ls\\%. Gilbert?" asked Helen calmly,
though her colour came and went more fitfully than before.
"Pray tell me what they are saying."

"Well, my dear, it is not pleasant for me to repeat what is
being said," replied Mrs. Gilbert. " Jhit it is certainly believed
that you are not altogether happy with Mr. Woodgate, and
some even go to the length of saying that you are sei)arated
from him, I hope you will give me authority to contradict it."

"It is quite true," replied Helen. " So you may allow them
to talk."

Mrs. Gilbert looked petrified, and sat for a full minute quite
silont. Then she leaned forward eagerly, and with an expression
of genuine concern in her face. She was certainly kind-hearted,
and sincerely deplored the calamity she had not believed.

" Oh, my dear, tb.is is very dreadful I What was it all about %
You know none of us approved your marriage with Mr. Wood-
gate, though we never expected it would come to this."

Helen never spoke.

" Surely you don't mean that it is a separation for life?" said
Mrs. Gilbert mercilessly. " Mr. Woodgate was never much of a
favouiito in the Dale, but we never thought he was a bad man."

"He is not a bad man," said Helen in a very low, clear
voice ; and she rose as she cpoke, " I wish you would go

.^2^

^ LOST IDEAL

W^.

iff!

■ ■■>

• ■■' 1

I 1'

;.:n

iiwny, Mi's. (jrillxM't. You have no rip^lit to ({liostion me as yoii
have (lone ; and now you have Icarued what you eamc to learn,
perhaps you will be so kin«l as to go away."

Mrs. (xilbert was not a particularly sensitive person, but it
was impossible to ignore such a request. She had no alternative
but to rise also.

" Well, I'm sure, I didn't mean any harm, Mrs. Woodgate ;
and I'm your true friend, whether you believe it or not," she
said forciibly. " If I have given offence, I'm sure I'm heartily
sorry; but you might lielieve it wasn't meant,"

"I have taken no offen(;e," said Helen d'earily, "and I
believe you feel kindly towards me; but there are some things
one can't discuss, even with friends."

" I won't speak of it, I do assure you, IL'.len," said the good
woman, secretly touched and anxio.is to atone for the hurt she
had too evidently inflicted. *' And perhaps it '11 all come right.
I'm sure, from the bottom of my heart I pray it will ; so keep
your heart up, my dear, and good-bye."

Her going was more graci^ful than her coming, and sh.^ kept
her word, lover of gossip tiiough she was ; she did not even
mention to her own husband that she had ])een at Teviothead,
nor a word of what h id passed. And, more, she took it upon
herself to reprove several who seemed inclined to spread the
report about the separation of the Woodgates, and so did
something towards allaying the tide of gossip rolling through
the Dale. The intensity of Helen's look, the extreme bitterness
of her words, had left an indelible impression on the woman's
soul ; and she truly felt that such a sorrow was too sacred to
be bandied from mouth to mouth like other minor affairs that
occupy the busybodies of a countryside.

It was six o'clock when Madam returned to Teviothead, and
when Katie Forbes told her Mrs. Gilbert had been there, great
was her wrath. She knew the woman well, and feared the
consequences,

"Well, my de^ ; you've had company, Katie tolls me. And
<N'hat did my lady Gilbert want here % News, I suppose ; is that
it, dearie r'

.■1 LOST IDEAL

327

"Slic fTot what >li(' wanted, Miulatn," repliod Helen, wiili ;♦
I'iiint sniilo. "And I fear I was not so civil as I ought to have
been to a guest in Teviothead."

" A guest in Teviothead, indeed ! " said Madiun in lofty scorn.
"She's nae guest o' mine, certy. I only wish I'd been here,
not a foot would the woman have set up this stair. She has
vexed ye sair, my lamb ; but never you mind ; her clash is but
the sough o' the wind over a dry stane dyke, and leaves nae
mark behind ; never heed her."

"She made me think, though. Madam," said Helen, looking
out of the window with a far-ofl' expression. " I cannot stay
here for ever, and what am I to do % Can't you tell me what
I am to do?"

Madam gulped down a lump in her throat, and threw back
her boimet-strings.

" Helen, I hae never said man till ye since ye came, an'
wadna hadna ye spoken. It's but little I ken ; maybe some
day, when ye are able, ye '11 tell me the story, and then we'll
tak' counsel thegither. Ye are young an' I am auld, an' auld
een whiles see clearer than the young, and get blinks o' licht
through the clouds that mak' the way plain. D'ye understand
me, my lamb % "

Helen slid to her knees at the old lady's feet and laid her
head in h(>r lap. She was very weary, and the strength in that
sweet kindly face was good for her. And bit by bit, with her
face so hidden, the story came out, the sad history of disillusion-
ment, of heartache, of bitter striving with influences that bound
her soul to earth. Nothing was hid. For the first time, Helen
Woodgate laid bare her soul to another, emptying its secret
recesses, laying her load at the feet of u loving, motherly woman,
whose face urew grave and grey and solemn with the vast
tender pity of her soul. She saw in that pitiful revealing what
was sadder to her than all the mere shattering of a girlish ideal,
the gradual undermining of a faith in human goodness and in
the justice of Eternal Heaven. The anguish 01 human loss had
weakened her faith and driven her from the Divine. Thinking
of the dark ways that tortured soul had groped alone, Madam's

"! I: ■■

i.'ft-^

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328

A LOST WEAL

heart ,!?ro\v dark within linr, and shn uplil'tpd it in passionatfl
prayer, which, when Helen ceas«Ml, found a xoice.

" Helen, my bairn, this is beyond all human aid," she said
in a voice vibrating,' with tenderness. " Listen while I spier for
other help. David cried to the Lord from the depths, and He
heard him. Shall He be less merciful to poor, lone, and stricken
women this day?"

And she })rayed with an awful and solemn earncstne.ss, which
fell upon Helen's rent siml, long estranged from communion
with Heaven, like some singular and precious balm.

*' "We will speak nae mair this nicht, my dear lamb. We hae
cast the burden on the Lord, now we wait patiently for Him."

She passed her aim round Helen and raised her from her
knees, lookiuLf into her face with those eyes made tender
l)y a moth( r's ]o\(\ And she was struck by the sharp, thin
outline of Helen's face, and a strange, sad fear went ediilly to
her heart. She said never a word of it to Helen that day,
however, though on the next slu; did not forbear to (juestion.
And the next time she met Brian, she looked at him with an
awful ]iathos in her eyes.

"Brian," she said, and her voice shook, "maybe I do wronu
to tell ye, but tell somebody I must, and ye are a doctor as well
as a trusty friend. There's something far amiss wi' Helen.
Can ve guess what?"

Brian shook his head.

"Does she look worse than usual? and what in Heaven's
name is to be the end of it. Madam % Can nothing on earth be
done to bring the two together again ? "

" We can da(^ naething," she said, and her tears fell. " But
the Lord has His ain ways of work in', an' He has lifted the
thing clean out of our hands, yours or mine, or anybody's."

" How ? " inquired Brian, mystified and even awed by her
words.

" Ye havena guessed, then ? Stoop down an' I'll whisper
ye, my lad. In six months' time Helen will hae a baitn at
her breast, an' if that dinna mak' peace, then peace is not to
be made atween the two this side the grave/'

CPIAPTER XLIII

"Thf sorrows of tin; soul are graver still !'

OW a curious experience came to Wood^iato, curious
and novel. Having wound up all his affuirs,
dismantled the Manor House, and given up all
that Mas necessary to satisfy the call of the
liquidators, he found himself practically penniless,
and obliged to take immediate steps to earn liis daily bread.
Though the rooms in Norfolk Street were modest and inexj)en-
sive, they were beyond his means, unles^ he could at once
devise some method of procuring money. He was assured by
Hargreaves and others that anything he might write would find
an immediate and profitable market, and indeed he had no
doubt on that point ; but when he set himself down with the
stern resolve to write what shoidd give him the equivalent for
bread, then this new and bitter experience was his. For he
found thought only a confuseil jumble and chaos, in which
there did not loom one available idea. He had now the desire
and the will to work, but power seemed to have departed from
him. And yet the task he essayed at first was of the most
elementary, the first of a series of travel papers he had pro-
mised to one of the new magazines. He did not fail to cover
the sheet with writing, but it was such poor inconsequent stull",
empty of originality and brilliance, that he tore it up in ineffable
disgust ; and, throwing himself back in his chair, he tried to

S28

330

.•/ /.(hsT IDEAL

fncc tlio situaticii. The rooiii in wliicli lie sut was (liicctly
nliMvc nurgiciives', and corn'spondod witlj it in si/c. I'ut it
was a less lioniely place, and savoured so entirely of the more
lod^'ing-house. tliat Wood^'ate often looktd round liini with a
little shiver of disgust. The tloor was the, principal eyesore,
with its s(pmre of cheap, gaudy tapestry carpet, and its
surround of harsh, yellowisli paint, which tin; enterprising
Afrs. Fij.'ges regarded as a special artistic triuniiih. Four
painted chairs in American chtth, and a very short l)ony coudi
of the same ; a srpiare tahle with stained legs and a deal top,
covered by a yellow and crimson tapestry cloth, comi)leted the
furnisliings. The d'.'corations consisted of two jingling glass
ornaments, a gilt ch.mney-glass, and a wooden American clock
with a design of impossible roses painted on the lowcu- part of
it ; an oleograph representing a pair of intense lovers parting in
a perfect bower of greenery hung above the couch, and was
also much admired by Mrs. Figges. Woodgate more than on "e
had been on the point of shying his ink-pot or an open pen-
knife at this inofiensive production, but was restrained by the
certainty that he should have to make the damage good. He
was by nature fastidious, fond of artistic and harmonious
surroundings, to which he had been all his life accustomed ;
therefore the change was great. lie had but one compensation,
the peep of the Embankment and the river he could obtain
from the window by placing his chair in a certain angle ; and
there he sat oftenest and longest, with his pad and his ink-pot
on his knee, looking out dreamily, blankly, and finding himself
destitute of any capacity for work. Hargreaves had been
obliged in self-defence to lock his door in working hours, and
to take no notice of sundry appeals for admittance.

"I've got to live, Dick, if you haven't, so you may spare
your knuckles," he said one morning about eleveii o'clock, when
Woodgate, after a vain attempt to concentrate his thoughts,
came thundering at the door.

" Let me in just half a minute, old chap. I'm going out.
Ton my word, I won't even sit down."

Hargreaves, with rather an impatient jerk, turned the key,

^1 LOST ini'.M,

'SS t

rned the key,

nnd tlioii Wont l»ii(k to his dosk, krc|iiii^' lis luick rosolutoly
turncM lowanls tlio dtior.

"I say, Il.irry, what on oarth <lo yo\i suppose I'm ^'(ling in
do?" h<^ in([uii'e(l, so dolofidly that Hari^Tciivos was smitten,
and turned a more than iifnially sympathetic face to his
friend,

"If you'd stop in the plaee nnd make yourself work, instead
(»f wanderinj; ahout like an evil spirit," he began severely ; but
Woodgate's ])arti('u]arly disconsolate look struck him, and his
lips parted in a half-satirical, half-comi»'issionate smile.

The change in the man was so great as to amaze him. The
confident air of 8elf-assurance which, mingled witli a cynical,
condescending amiableness, liad made him so o})jectionable, had
entirely disappeared, and he was absolutely natural, perhaps
for the first time in his life. There was a humility in his very
attitude, as he leaned against the closed door with his hands in
his pockets, which inwardly touched Ilargreaves, though he
tlid not suffer it to appear.

"It's all very well for you to say stop in the j)lace, but I
believe it's the ])lace that's at the bottom of it. I've traced
that awful ])attern on the floor ten distinct and separate times
since breakfast, and regarded those maddening idiots in that
picture till I had to retire before murder was done. Seriously,
Dick, it's madness to try it. If I ever write again, it will be
in difterent circumstances. Meanwhile, I'd better go out, and
see if any kind Christian will give me a job."

"What kind of a job?"

" Oh, anything. I'll try Blake, of the East India Company.
You've seen him at our place. There's surely something in
that huge place a fellow of fair ability, mental a id physical,
might be fit fop. I might pack tea, if nothing else was
available."

"Where's the place 1"

" King William Street. I'll go down now. Heavens, Harry I
I'm in a queer predicament."

" It's all part of the programme," replied Hargrcaves serenely,
" Well, I'll be free after two, and if you like, we'll take train to

•*J'J>

33»

^ r.O ST IDEAL

II;iiii]':mii, and liav*' a piil! as f;ir ;is Tr i.lin'^ton. T '.in tal\a
out Waldnin's [nint wlicn I like. Couldn't you mcoL mo at
Wat.Tl.M. at Iialf-p.isf two?"

"All ri^dit. If iiu not hack hero by then, I'll )>«) at
Wati'i'lnn," said Woodi^atr, taking,' his han<ls from Ids |»o(kt!ls
and ^dvint,' himself a prodi^'i<»u.s strcti'h. *' I say, Harry," he
added lu'fort! ho wont, "it's lior - Tlrlcii. She comes lictwetm
nil! and overythin;;. If I couM forget her, I eouhl do any-
thin*,'."

Then he flun^' himself out of the room ai)d haiiLCed the dooi.
Out of doors he fur^'ot or postpnned his errand to tho Cily.
He sauntered down t(» the Kmhankment, and, keeping close hy
the parapet, sauntered alon-^ aindessly, regariiiiig the swift How
of the incoming tide with eves in whi'ii there was a stran<re
wistfulness. That swift tide had hidden many sorrows,
tenderly eovcred \\y many failures. Why not his? The
thought occurred to him for the first time, and it was full of
a strange fascinatiftn. It was high noon, ami the sun shone
with full summertido hrillianee. liife ilowcd around him
everywhere, yet was the man encomiiassiMl hy a sijigular and
oppressive sen.se of loneliness, whicli shut out the world from
him. A failure I Yes, that was the word. He had failed in
every relation of his hfc, and at the moment the future
seemed destitute of hope. It was suflering of a very deep,
intense kind, for this deep, reserved nature, which had heon
efjciusted for so many years by such comi)lacuncy and pride of
seU. The very foundation of things was shaken for him, and,
having no foothold, nothing to fall back upon, he felt like
tottering on tho brink of an abvss. Yet outwardlv, and to the
unobservant eye, he looked like one of the leisured rich enjoy-
ing an idle stroll and a glimp.se of the river in all its noonday
activity and splendour. tSu do wo, pass unheeded and un-
dreamed of the tragedies daily wrought in our midst, and the
saddest tragedies of life are those which find no voice, which
jnovide no spicy addition to the hoarte cries of the paper-boys
as tliey plv (hoir vociferous trade. He came by and by to the
Nwdle, and there paused, entirely oblivious of the busy throng

A LOST IDEAL

.VU

bohirul liim ; nnd ;i;,'iiin his uyt'S, Rtraiij^cly faarinatfd, fixod
tjieiiisilvt'h upon tlu' swift cuirt'iit li.'ltiw. Ho reoallrd, us he
leaiu'd his elbows on the stono copiiij^', all the cases (»f suirjdo
niiioii'^ thoso ho had known, and the caiisrs that had led up
thereto. Gavliutt's was tho last, but the manner of his deatii
revolted Wood;^'ate's more fastidious ta.ste, and 1m! bepm to
roviso in his mind all the moro artistic modes of self-destruction
of whieli ho hail heard and read.

It is a subject which has a sinj^'ular and horiible lasciiuition
for some of tho moro morbitl lunods of the human mind.
There had that very week been a discussion in a daily paper
on tho " Ethics of Suicide," to which many distorted and
morbid minds had given their contributions; but they hud
failed to lift th(.' question to any high or tenable jdatforui, and
self-destruction still remained the coward's escape from the ills
of life. In his thoughts, Ilargreaves' suggestion that they
should have a pull on the river occurred to Woodgate, and he
thought how pleas, lut it Mould be, in one of the (juiet reaches
of the river, to lie down quietly auK^ng the osiers under the
blu(5 sky, and there drift, drift away from the sordid and heart-
breaking realities of life. But that with a companion would
not be possible. Ilargreaves* healthy mind had nothing but
scorn, intense, robust, unsparing, for the invertebrates who
seriously contemi'lato suicide as a cure for the ills that Hesh is
heir to. He t;Jok a sudden resolve: he would go up the river
alone, and leave the rest to fate — in a word, to the impulse of
the moment.

lie turned round, suddenly arrested by a tug at his coat-
sleeve ; and when he looked, he saw the short squat liguro and
the round comical face of Tim Ryder, the big innocent eyes
li.Ked on him with a curiously wistful, inquiring look. Ho
took a long breath and smiled down upon the boy with whom
he had become so friendly of late. The momentary nightmare
was gone, chased away fur ever by the clear look in tho eyes of
a child.

"HuUoa, Tim! what are you doing here? IShuuldn't you
be at school?"

■ ! If

334

A LOST IDEAL

'^^

lit;'

" No, it's Saturday; don't you know?" iiiquiivd Tim. " I've
watched you ovit so long, and I thought you looked us if you
would topple in."

"Saturday, i.s it? and you'n! not at school — of course not,"
said Woodgate altscntly ; and presently he pulled out a handful
of loose money from his pocket and regarded it inquiringly.
" We both belong to the ranks -f the unemployed, t.' ut's
(jvident. Suppose we go into ]»artnership and make a day of
it I Ever been to Hampton Court, Tim?"

"No, sir."

"Well, you and I'll go to Hampton Court, have a look
through, then we'll pull uj) to Teddiugton, and come back by
train. But what'll the aunt say ? "

■'Oh, she won't be anxious till it gets dark. She knows I've
got twopence," said Tim, with explanatory (dieerfulness.

"All right, we'll go; and we'll dine at the Mitre, and hav*;
a jolly good time. How '11 we go — train or steamer? — let's
toss up,"

Tim looked on in a kind of glorified wonder as Woodgate,
tossed up a copper in the air and caught it in his palm.

"Tails, steamer, and here she comes; we've just time to
make the nearewt pier," said AVoodgate,

The pier happened to be Westminster, and in less than five
minutes they were on board. The expression on tlie face of
Tim was a study. He sat very quiet, and once or twice stolu
a look at the handsome but careworn face of the man besidr
him. and there was a great wonder of thought lii the boy'.s
iiiind.

" Xov\', Tim," siiid Woodgate presently, " I may spend a
sovereign to-day, and who knows but it is my last. I want
value for my money, even from you ; do you hear ? "

" Yes, sir," replied Tim, with alacrity, though his face wore
a doubtful look,

"I want you to talk to me, to divert my thoughts, which
are not desirable companions. I know what a little beggar
you are for seeing the queer side of things. Begin in this boat
fuid trot thenx out for my benetit."

A LOST IDEAL

Tim i^ainned, and the quick Irish wit leaped in his eyes.
The side of things that seemed queerest to liim at the moment
was, that they two should be sitting side ])y side in a river
steamboat on their way to Hampton Court. He did not, how-
ever, lon<,' sit quiet or hold his tongue. Before they caine to
Vauxhall, he had explored the boat from end to end, and made
his comments thereon. He was the liveliest of companions an I
the most interested. Also his capacity for the asking of ques-
tions was appalling. Woodgate had asked a diversion from his
own thoughts, and he had it.

He enjoyed the boy's talk, innocent though it was ; and
though Tim was totally unconscious of it, he let fall from his
precocious tongue sundry bits of wisdom which Woodgate
treasured in his soul. It was another experience for him, this
lo"king at life and the world through the eyes of a child, and
Woodgate began to think that all ignorance was his. I'y some
curious, subtle magnetism, Tim managed to impart a little of
his boyish enthusiasm to the grave, preoccupied man of whom
he had been wont to stand in such awe. Woodgate found
himself looking on the familiar scenes through which tht^
st(!amer rapidly took them with a newly -nwakimed interest.
When they reached Putney, he began to tell him of the great
boat races, which Tim had never seen. At Twickenham he;
talked to him of Po[)e, and the old days when the lights, great and
small, of a past geiieration had been wont to gather in that
classic villa; and Tim listened to everything open-eyed and
o))en-eared. To say he was enjoying himself but feebly con-
veys any idea of his state of mind. Seeing the lad's keen
(h'liglit in simple pleasures which are within the reach of almost
every Londoner, Woodgate thought with renewed bitterness of
the })ast, and his own neglected opportunities nf w for ever
passed away. He had even objected once to the frequent
presence of Miss Ryder and the boys at the Manor House, say-
ing to Helen, he did not know what she saw in a [jack of wild
boys to interest her. Ah, she had been wiser than he in that
as in everything; the joy of giving, of imparting j)leasuro to
(•thej'ii had long been liers, Tie tasted it now for the tiv^t ti^e.

:rii

u i

3.36

A LOST IDEAL

" Suppose we get olf lieru, Tim,'' he suggested, as they slowed
towiirds Twickenham pier, ''ami walk through the park to the
Court. You've heard of the chestnuts of course and the deer?"

Yes, Tim had heard of them, and was amenable to every
suggestion. He was in that state of mind which would have
made him stand on his head if his benefactor had suggested it.
So they stepped from the boat and sauntered slowly up the
leafy road to the park gates, and when the glory of the Chest-
nut. Avenue, then in its first and loveliest bloom, burst upon
them, Tim positively gaspi-d.

" Oh my ! " was all he could say. " I wish ^ant Soph had
been here. Does she know there's a place like this, do you
know?"

"She knows of its existence, I don't doubt," replied Wood
gate with a smile. " Yes, it's a fine sight. One doesn't need to
travel very far from home after all, to look on what is pleasing
to the eye. Well, ain't you hungry, Tim ? "

"I don't know what I am. I never thought there were
places like this in the world. The Heath hasn't a chatice ;
poor old Heath, your eye's put out for ever for Tim Kyder ! "

"Tiic Heath has its own beauty, Tim," replied Woodgatc
'• Well, I'm hungry, if you like, so just step out a bit, and
\\r'll see what they can give us uL tliu Mitre."

CHAPTER XLIV

" A chilli's fair ojn'U face ;

You read not licic of hiokcn lio[)e,

Of laiiiirc. of dcsiiair."

[T was iiuw two o'clock, '^'liey iliiieJ well at the

]\ritro, tlie first titiie Tim Und lirokeii bread under

y^ igi w i'

Yv'^'i'/^r ^^^^ ^'""^" ^^ '^ I'ultlic hostoliy. He was trcinend-
^^ -M ■'- ■ ously excited. W'ood'fijte saw it in his eve in
tlie restless way he sat in his chair, getting' up
every minute or so to rush over to the (juaint low windows
which lo(»ked out u\n<n the river, which was fairly ([uict at tin;
time, the usual inllux of Sattirdav visitors not havin<f vet
arrived. His appetite was not impaired, however; he did
ample justice to the substantial fare Woodoate oidered,
takinfj a melancholy satisfaction in it; in all probability il
was the last dinner he should (n'der at the Milre for many
a day to com;'. He was well known in the (tld hostelry,
which was a favourite haunt with him and Har<i;reaves ; and
the servants had a word and a smile for him, and a little extra
attention always, Tim regaided him with aw(! and wonder,
thinking what a great man he was, and yet how jolly wdicn you
got to know him.

" Now for the cigai', Tim, and a stroll to the Palace. Arc
you well up in your history?"

"Not much," said Tim, a trifle ruefullv. "Df couisc I
know that it was AVolsey's jnilnce, and all that; but a fellov/
forgets, don't you know."
22

1' *l

33^

A LOST IDEAL

"That's so," said Woodgate meditatively, as he lit his ciga?!
"A fellow does forget all he ougat to remember, and rciiieiubers
what he wants to forget. You've uttered a solemn truth, my
boy. Come then, let's into the sunshine ; it's a shame to lose
a breath of it, isn't it, such a day as this?"

Two hours they spent exploring the old Palace and its lovely
gardens, then they came down to the river and took a boat.
Then was Tim in the seventh heaven, never having been in a
little boat in his life. Woodgate was a good rower, but in a
lazy mood, and after they were through the first lock took it
very easily; nor was Tim in an impatient mood. His restless-
ness was gone, soothed into quiescence by the delicious languor
of the moment, and his face wore a look which caused Wood-
gate to regard him with curiosity more than ever. The boy
interested him more and more ; the possibility, the promise of
tliat ardent young nature was a study that pleased him. Tim
had a plain face, inclined to comicality by reason of its breadth
and the extreme smallness of the slightly retroHSse nose ; but
when his warm heart was touched, his eyes lit up, and the soul
of the boy was writ large in every feature. He looked so now,
and Woodgate divined that Nature, of whose sweet moods in
her own haunts Tim had first exi)ericnce, was imparting her
divine message to a young impressionable soul.

"What are you thinking, Tim?" inquired Woodgate, with a
gentleness most unusual. " xou were to divert my thoughts,
you know. You can do it by telling me yours."

"Oh, well, I was thinking an awful lot of things," answered
Tim, letting his hand drop into the soft shining water and
watching it eddy through his fingers. "First, wishing that I
was a man, ami rich."

" What would you do then ?"

" Bring Aunt 8oph here every day ; or better, come and live
here. Oh my, ain't it scrumptious ! "

"I've been hero scores of times, Tiui, and I don"; j-'iow thai
it ever struck me just so," replied Woodgate, yet lorced to
admit, as lit- Jtokeil, that the scene was very fair.

The freshness ^f the early siunmer still brooded tenderly over

A LOST IDEAL

339

come and live

d tenderly ovei

the land; tlio Ixniulis Ix'uding to the river's brim were un-
stained l)y <liist; the j^rass shoiK^ like a hank of emerald affainst
the clear water; the air was laden with the delieidus odours of
a thousand hloomin^f tre(.'s. For the city hoy, whose "flimpses
of the, country had been so very few, it was a yeritable bit of
fairyland, and he, hidin*,' beneath his rollickiiij^' exterior a
tender heart, and a soul capable (tf appreciatiuo all that was
beautiful, was touched by it in a wonderful de^M'ee.

"Well, I sui)j)ose you'ye travelled abttut so much, sir, that it
doesiTt set'm anything very line to you ; but I know what T
think.''

"AVell, and what else was in your mind, Itcsidi's the desire
to be a man and rich, so that you might bring your aunt her«'?"
Woodgate iuipiired ; but Tim did not immediately ans\ver. Also
his face reddened a little, and he seemed more intent tlian ever
on watching the \vater ri]»ple through his fingers.

"Come, tell rae, Tim : perhaps it is something it wouhl do
me good to know."

Then Tim l)rought up his wet hand with a little jerk, and
fixed his big innocent eyes full on AVoodgate's face.

"You won't be angry, sir, if I do cell you?"

"Certainly not. Have you ever seen me angry, Tini?'*

" No, but I think you could be," replied Tim, with engaging
frankness. "You can look so stern, though I don't think you
mean anything by it. That's one of the things I was thinking -
how different you are, and hew awfully jolly when a fellow gets
to know you. Aunt Sophy thinks so too."

Woodgate remained silent a minute, tlevotlng his attention
to his oars, as they came in near contact \\'\i\\ a st(\am launch
and a couple of punts.

"Ay, so your Aunt Sophy thinks so too, does she? AVell,
what else, Tim 1 "

" You'll be angry, I know. Aunt Sophy said it wasn't any
business of mine, and that boys should not ask questions.
That's all very well, but if a fellow wants just stunningly to
kno^v, what's he to do if he doesn't ask questions?"

" t^iite true, Tim. AVell, Avhat is it you want to know?**

• III

til

'' I

IP' i '

.no

A LOST IPEAL

" \\'liy it's all burst up at tlic MainT ll-iii •: ;iii(l Mi-.
Woo l,i;iitc so miliapity ; and cvt'iN tliiii;;. If nou'v" (pi incllf.;.
wiiy don't yoii make it \i]>?"

When Tim did i)ut his ([Ui'siions, ilicrc was nn si it of
ambiguity about ihciii, and Ik* liad got his (••niipaiiidii im,. i
very tight place, from which hi would havi' sonif tiouM.- in
extricate himself.

"How do you know Mis. AVoodgato is unhappy?" queried
\\'oodgat(', apparently unmi»ved.

"Know?'' r('i)eate(l Tim loftily. " \\'hy. aiiyb(»dy could sc-
it. Slio lo(»ks awfully ill, too, ami J think if you vexed hci,
you ought to try and make it up; because, you sec. she's Sd
awfully nice, a kind of angel, don't you think ? Jack and Toii\
think so too, though Tony's only a little ciiaj* that docsn'i
know much."

Woodgate shii)ped ids oars, and, resting his (di)owson his knee,-.
looked o\('r his hnger-tijis into the boy's jionest, wistful, <Mriie-!
face. lie had none of the hesitation or retii^ence in tkiiJCii'SKiiig
the inward care of his heart with this child, though it always
oppresse 1 him when he had to allude even distantly to it to
Ilargreavcs or Sojdiy Kyder.

*' But if I've tried to make it up, and she Mon't, what Iheii,
Tim?"

"Did you?" (pieried Tim, with eager interest.

AVoodgate nodde(l.

"Twice. I offended her very deeply, Tim — stal)bed her to
the heart; but Go'i knows I have repented of it, and told In i'
so as I best know how. But she has never noticed it. She is
gentle and forgiving to everybody except to me, who need it
most. Tim, my boy, do you know what I was thinking when
you came up to me on the Embankment? "'

Tim shook bis ^lead. His big eyes were wet, and he knew
his voice would be husky and jierhaps fail him altogether if ho
attempted speech.

" Well, that I'd come quietly up here by myself and just end
it all. It would be the easiest Wi^y out."

Tim looked scornful and uubel Living.

i;i, '

./ j.osr inEAL

34»

it, what llicii,

"Tliat would be l>ivtty sill\, I tliiiik, whon it's sudi a
scruiujitiuus world. It's only poople that want to <^<'i written
iihoiit in the ncwspajjers that do that sort of thi.if.'[, and I'm sure
i1h* nionicnt thcy'vo done it thoy wish they hadn't. TUit, I say,
why don't you l;(> after Mrs. AVood^^'ate to Scotland? I should."

" 1 may some day, Tim, but not yet. Of course tliere's ihinj^'S
1 can't explain to a boy like you, and which you wouldn't
iiderstand even if I did explain."

Tim wisely nodded.

'* If she could only see you — how much nicer you are than
vuu used to be — she'd be glad to come back," he remarked, with

delici(ms candour which provoked a smile on ^Voodgate's lips.
• rUit, if I were you, I'd go to Scotland."

" I'll think of it,'' eplied AVoodgate. "This current is rather
irong. Sujjpose we turn, Tim, pick up a boatman at Hampton,
and drift down as far as Hammersmith ? Tlien he can take
liack the boat, and we can get home by steam, rail, or tram."

"All right," .sii<l Tim in a voice of inellable content. "Only
lon't go houK^ any tpiicker than you can hel]). It won't be
ilark for ages yet."

Nevertheless, they managed to dawdle away the evening
hours pretty well, and it was dark when they landed at Waterloo,
parting there more like old friends than a mere boy and his
benefaetoi'.

Tim returned home to Craddock Street in a very mixed frami;
of mind. Aunt Soi)hy was not much given to worrying over
the vagaries of Tim, who made Saturday his chief day for
reconnoitring the world at large ; nevertheless, she was some
what relieved to l)ehold him enter the house just as they sal
down to their supper of bread and milk and fruit. I>\ way of
a treat, Tony was allowed to take su}>pe)' on Saturday nights in
a (udightful state of dishabille; in other words, in liis night-
gown, after his bath. And he looked si)ecially cherubic with a
pink frill, a design of his aunt's, standing up beautifully round
his rosy face.

*• Now, Timothy Kyder, have the goodness to indicate where
you've been all day,"' said Aunt SopJiy, with a futile attemi)t at

Jri it.:.

iif

" !

' I ill

•

342

w /.as/' //'.T.//

severity. ** And T tliiiik, s(MMn<< it is nine (^NilncK-, niid we
liaven't seen tin- face of you since ten this nioniin*;, you mjolit
be lookin<( a trifle more |)enitent."

"Oh, I can't, Aunt Sophy, I'm so awfully \\i\\)\>y ! " said tl
lad ; and his aunt ref,'ardcd him with amazement, as she rejieatei

ler (luestion —

((

AVhere have you been ? "

I've hccii ii|» the river, nearly |o Teddinoton, with tiie
S. B.," said Tim, the latter half (tf the sciiteiK-e hein^' exclusively
for the benefit of .lack and Tony.

'' Tp the river witli whom ? "" queried Aunt Sophy suspiciously.

"The S. B. — I mean Mr. W..od.rate."

"And what, may I iiKjuire. is sii^niified by the S. IJ., Tim?"

" S. II. — isolcmn iiufler. IJiit I say, boys, J vote we drop
the name, bec-ausc he ain't solemn a bit: just the oppo.site, and
1 have had such a .sernniptioiis time. And we had dinner at
the Mitre at Hampton Conit such a feed you never .saw I —
salmon, and lamb and yreen pe is. and strawlicrrie.s and cream."

Aunt Soi)hy still lookeij iiK-redulous, half intdined to thiidv
the boy was spinning a yarn.

"Well, if it's true, I'm sure it was very oood of Mr. Wood-
gate to take so much trouble to make a boy happy," ahe said
wisely.

"Oh, but he didn't take ;iny trouble. He liked it himself,
and he thaidved me for my (•om[»any, and told me to tell you
he'd learned a lot of me," .said Tim, stoutly determined to
maintain his own credit.

"Oh, well, that doesn't detract from his j^oodness. Now, if
you can look at milk and bread after such fare as you've been
liayin.u', please to fall to, for it's time the three of you were in
Ijed. dudy's oot youi' bath ready, and the sooner you get into
it the better. It's peace I'm wanting, to get a bit of work done
after you're all abed."

Tim fell to, his appetite ai)])arently in no way impaired by
the snniittuors fare he had tasti d during the day : an<l ^vhen
they rose from the lable. all the ]»lates were emp'y as usual.

Aunt Sophy sat up till midnight at her work, and as she

A LOST IDEAL

rk, Mtltl \V(^

:, you mi^lil

,• : " said tlie
slic repentcil

n, witli tlif
L,' exclusively

suspiciously.

, r.., Tim'r

(dc we drop
)pliosite, and
jiid dinner at
lever saw ! —
and cream."
ned to think

f Mr. Wood-

•y

." .<5he .said

d it himself,
(' to t<'ll you
lermiued to

»s.s. Now, if
you've heen
yon were in
you get into

^i work done

impaired by
and when
as usual.
and as she

stole to hcil, ('an(:flit a gleam of liyht .shiniiij; l»i in'itli Tiin's
<loor.

'• Xow, what on earth's the hoy up to?" she said to herself,
for ordinarily lie was sound ash'cp the moment his head
touched the jiillow. She softly turned the liandli' and peepeil
in, and there was Tim, in his white nightgown, on- font curled
up under him in a chair, and the other tlangling to the H<»or,
writing as if for dear life.

" Now, what are you up to, Timothy? Is it a diary you're
trying to keep, eli'J" she asked got^d-naturedlv.

Tim gave (piite a guilty start, and hastily covf/red up his
})aper.

"No, Aunt Soph -it's— it's a letter."

"A letter i Who to?"

lie shulHed roun<l in his chair, and cast upi»n lier a pair of
most beseeching eyes.

" It's a secret, Aunt Soph. I'll tell if you make me, but uot
unless."

" It's not very ea.;/ making a big chap like you do anything
now, Tim. Got anything to do with Mr. Woodgate ? — the S. I>.
as you call him ; though how you ever took such a liberty with
such a famous man passes my comprehension."

"Oh, that's easy, and he didn't know," said Tim serenely.
" I say, Aunt Sopli, will you lend mo a stamp to-morrow 1 "

" Maybe."
And not ask any questions?"

" Not a question. I>ut if you get yourself into a scrape, mind
you get yourself out of it too," said Aunt Soph. "Now get to
bed, or it's your death of cold you'll be getting; and, faith,
you know I haven't got any money to si)are for doctors' bills."

Aunt Soph invariably relapsed into the Irisli idiom when
alone with the boys, and sometimes the brogue enriched her
speech.

"Oh, it's boiling I am, Aunt Soph, and never a cowld can
come near me," replied, Tim, "svith a twinkle in his eye, which
made Aunt Sophy cuff his ears for him, and then give him two
goodnight kisses instead of one.

■ij

3' '

./ I.OS'I' l/)/'. 1/

Jt^ "4

I-

,1' ■.

1 1 u-(S a full iioiir hcforo tlio letter wiis writton to Kis
."■atisfactidii, and hroad (lawn boforc In- slcjtt.

Aunt Sdjdiy iMaua,<;(Ml t<» ;^'t'r a surreptitious Lrlanco at the
f'nve]()[)e as Tim slipped it into a pust-pillar on their way to
church, and was not much surpris«ed to observe that it was
addressed to Mrs. Woodgute.

11:^1

Hi ,!

i i i :

iit<Mi l'> his

CHAPTER XLV

"I lov(; tlifc, ainl will Iciivc tln-f never,
Until niv »>\\\ leave lilt- lor ever."

IIOAT (IriftcMl idly ill tlic sum's lra(k nii the lake
of Koutcnsoc, and in it sat two |>('(tj»l»' (Iraf
Liidwig and liis wiff. Tlic Cuuntt^ss liail lit'i-n
r<)win<(, and her face was ('X(|uisit<'iv thislicd willi
the licalthful exertion, and slic iiad tos^cil iicr
liat on the s«'at beside lier, to let the cool, soft June wind
toucli her ]n'o\v.

"See my hands, Ludwig," she said «;hM'fully, as she held
them up, ruddy and sunl)urnt, and a triHe less soft in the
jialms than of yore. "Ihey are ruined, ruined for ever.
Aren't ymi sho<;ked ? "

For answer he leaned forward, imprisoned them in his,
which were still too wliite and slender fur absolute? health, and
pressed them to his lips.

"They hold m}- hapi)iness and my life, HiUhi," he said, with
the sim})licity of a child, though his cheek Hushed a little w4th
the passion in his soul. It was a new love-story they were
reading together, a love-story which unlocked the pages of two
hearts which had never understood each other, and which
now made new daily revelations, full of wonder and sweet
surprise.

" Hush, Ludwig ; only yesterday 1 made you promise not to
talk any more nonsense," she said reprovingly ; but she laid his
hard against her cheek, very near to her li})S, and so held it fast

345

■\

j.; I

.1'' ■ ■

':''' !' . i

34^»

/I /.osT //>/;.//

('V( r

a niojiu'tit. " Is it tiot lionvonly lioro ? Wo sIimM iicvrr, n
he iililc to Ifjivi- it, iiii<l tn think that I Imvc tlioii^ht il Mn-ury,
iij^'ly, tin- Worst \A\\rv on earth, aii«l Imvc iilways hcen ulatl tn
If'avc it ! It is 11 lovi'ly place, Liidwi^. ami I think 1 :nii
prolliler of hciii;; inistlfss of K<MlteIl>ee tli;lll of auytlliUL; ill till'
woi'ld, except that I liaNe won yoiir alle^fiaiice."

His face thislit'd, and lie raised liis jyes to tlie o|ey Itattleineiit-
of the castle, where it frowned on its rocky height, his own
heritage, the home of his race, which he loved with that peciijiiii

To hear those words from

»wn.

lo\ (• the ( leniian heai-s to his (

I he lips of his Kiij^'lish wife was more than tho wine of life ti

him ; it set every jiidse throhhin^ with happiness and jiridt

unspeakahle.

need not leave it, th-arest, niitil you feel that you wisii

fiti' some chani^e ; is it not our home?" In^ said eaut'ilv

\'es," she answered, and a sli)^dit wistfiilness crept into lier

eyes.

I feed

if 1

as II nere we were sale ami iiappv

d h

'V\

le wori"!

is wide, and oh, so cruel, Ludwi<,' I it has tio pity for h\uiian
hearts, even thoiii^h tliey are hreakin.1,'. l>ut wdien you are
(piit(» yours(df a<;ain, in another month [lerhaps, you may feel
this (piit't irksome."

" Perhaps we may ask you, (^fUstav and J, to take us to
Kn.^land then?" he sufjgested, with a visihle touch of anxiety.

She lookc^d ffrave a moment, and then a little smile of aniuse-
niciit curved lier lips.

"'The Count and Countess von Routensee have arrived in
Park Lane for the remainder of the season, and the Countess

)» >

r>'">

sne sail

will r<'sume her receptions on Sunday evenin

whimsically, as slie h4 her hand idly drop into the clean,

cool <,Teen water. " It wouUl make a sensation, Ludwig ; and
we should jj,et a little amusement out of it. I helieve it is a
L;(>od suLi^'estion. j .-Imuld enjoy il. ;uid I'll write to Kcnlwood
t ' withdi'aw the house liniu his li 1. I'.iit first I shall write to
1 Iniiicavi's antl tell him to inseil a | leliminary j» iragraph, so

that

(•\ rrv

h(.(l

\' niaV oe on 1 he '//// /v/v-

le smile, a

tritli

iioiiiral and haisli. ladicl t'loni her lip.-, and her face hecanic
sadder and more perphxed. '* You have put into .^liupe

/ /.o.\y //>/; //.

347

ii(\ ••)■, ni'Vi r
L^lit it (Irivu'v,
1mm'|» ;^l.'nl til

tliiiik 1 ;iiii
ytliiii^; ill tin'

y liiittli'iiit'iilN
iulit. Ills own

lliiit |M'cilli;ii

(> wmiU li'diii
inc ot" life to
388 ami iiiiilt)

hut you \\'\^\\
gcily.

('roi»t into lii'P

Tlu' wtivM

ity tor Imiiiaii

ivlieii you arc

you may fed

o take U8 to

of iiiixii'ty.
lilc of aniusc-

,iv(' arrived in
the Countess
,"' she said
o the clean,
.udwig ; and
itdievt' it is a
e to Uedwood

hidl write to
]Mra.L,'rai)h, so
sniili', a trit!*'

face heeanu'
; into s«hupe

a wish I have uni'onscioiisly had in in\ hiMit tor sniin' thiys,
Ludwiu. Thcrr ari' mium* cord*' drawiie^ inc Inn k tu l,n;4land
not a^ a iiriinamnt li'ime, dear ; 1 havf adojitfd your country
-intM' the t'i;j;ht<'i'nlh of May: hut I know there an* some thiuL!"*
'IfmaiidiuLj uiy attention. First and greatest of all, I want to see
ill leii Woodj^ate."

*• She is still partetl fi'oni her hushamn " he said inquiringly.

She gravely no(lded, and after ;i moment opened hei led
sunshade, and, resting it on her shoulder, leaned towards him a
lllle eagi-rly.

•' If we are going l»a(d< to Kngland, as I tlunk we ;ire for a
little, -you see the idea lias taken possession of nu', LudwiL;,
I must tell you all that story, so that you may niideistand ni\
share in it, and how it has eaten into my heart."

"lam ready to hear it, dearest," he saiil, ami leaned huck
among the <'Ushions tramiuilly, witli the supreme look (d'
content which said so plainly he had nothing left in this
world to desire. Then she told him, hit hy hii, a little
hesitatingly, laying han^ the entire history of her friendship
with Woodgat(^ in the light in which it now a|ipeari'd to le i
own soul. She saw its weakness an<l wherein she had heen i"
hlame. She had ac(!orded to TIargreaves an intimacy <piiti' , •■
frank and untrammelled, hut had overlooked the diHeivnei' i
the men. Ilargreaves, having had hut one love-story onl\. Ii,
no further interest of that kind in any woman, ^\'oodgate, i.u
the otluM' hand, was sa«lly susceptible to the inlluenee of ;ili
women, especially such as were beautiful and had ability at tie'
same time. As her husband listened, he was conscious of ,i
vague envy to think that any other man could have had the
power to move her ever so slightly. To some natures a love
without its keen touch of jealousy is impo.ssible. His was one.

"I do not blame him," was his comment, given with a faint
sigh, which her (juick ear caught.

"Do you blame me then, Ludwig, as I must for ever blame
my.self?"

" Xo ; the woiider to me is that it did not become more
serious," he replied. " But you have forgiven in me much

•i'-

^'-i .'

' ,

:,48 // /.asr ipeai.

L,. ,\<T faults, llildji. W'licii I s;i\v lii'i' hci'c, li'uly T did iidt,
tl ink Ip'I' line t.,> licar lUidii'c so Idii,^."

"ll i.> iinj malice, LudwiLj. She has liad a L^-rcnt shock,
t'loiii which I li(i)ic and juay she may yet fully I'ecover. The
|ii<iefss with one of her nature is houiMl to he slow. She was

as innocent of e\'il, as nnsusjiectin;^ of such thinj^s as broken
trust and waiul"i'in,L;' passions as our (lu.>tav. I confess she
I'i^hs upon my soul, and I think, perhai)^, if I could see hei, it

miglil be well/'

" If you would like to lose no more time, 1 can take you to
England at once."

She looked at him with a (juick aj>|)reciative glance.

"Not just yet. l)ou"t forget it is not many days since yuu
were permitted to rise. Kven for Helen, I will not risk a
rt lat'Gc lor von."

Do you then care as much as that?" he (|Ueri(;d, putti

((

again the (piestion he was nevei' tire<l of asking; but she
lowered her sunshade so tliat he might not see her fane, and
for a moment had no answer ready.

Ludwig," she said presently, "did you ever see anything as
ridiculous as the happiness of that boy T'

"Our Gustav, do you im-an ? "

"Yes; it is infecti(uis. It is impossible, looking at him, to
feel sad even for a moment."

" I do n(»t fe( 1 s(t,"" he replied, so gra\('ly that she hjoked at
him in (piick, surpiised inquiry.

" ])o you not- and why ? "

" Because i think of him as he was in all tlie years lie ought
to have been as hapjiy, llihhi, and my soul is lieavy within me.
Tell me, dear w ifc, liav(» you no feu' for the future'? You said.
not many minutes a^o, that the world is wide, and that }*ou
feel safer and happier here. Is it tliat you distrust nn^ ? I
Would that you were peifectly fraidv with me,"

" No. it is not that ; only 1 have sidlered in the W'orld, oh,
so keeidy, I f''»d as if j wanted to turn ny back on it for ever,
ijut when you spoke of it, and I thought what it would be to
face them with you by my side, it would be a pleasure t

U')

V* ~

.-; LOST id:.. L

349

ily T (lid Hill

_L!,r<'at shock,
■(■cover. The
i\v, Slie was
igs as broken
I ronfoss she
luUl .seo her, il

lays since you
11 not risk u

lerieJ, putting

\\v^ ; but she

her fane, and

eo aiiytliing as

png at hitr., \k)
she h)oked at

•e;\rs be ought
ivy within me.

re'! Vnii saiil.
and that A^tu
?trnst me '\ 1

exquisite to fun go ; so,
We shall go.''

'' \'ou (hi trust me, then

i I S S( '( I

n as Noll are nuile .ibl', Ludwi;

I 1

1 ivi' > ill it," >he aii>\vered .-imply

rust is easy

loV(; i.s, and 1 do 1

o'.e Voll,

Lu.l

wig : \du

mus

t k

now

where

tliat."

She stretelii'd out her baud and put back the sunny masses of
bis hair from his broad white brow, and the vei'y loiieh of her
lingers was a pa.-sionate i aress.

r liav

e gr. at thoughts, wide and i ecp,

bud

wig,

dretcl

nnu

before me like a flood, w jiidi will licai

u> o

11 through life, side

by side alwaxs -none to cdine between. I IriNc dreams, ttjo,

•f 1

low we, who are so rich, w i

11 d

( ) <;■( )( K

1 and not evil witli tht

money <'<)d has gixcn us, and we shall teach our buy to make
tlu! noblest u>c of all his gifts — tlie u>e which siiall l)less all
they toU(di. And if Godgi\cs us oihcr chddreii, Ludwig,'"— •
and her face tb;slied a bttle. and in her d(.-ep eyes lay a tender
and solemn light, -''J shall know that 1 am forgiven, and that
my oll'er of service is acceptaMe in liie sight of Heaven. AVill
you ]iel[) me, T.ndwig'? for it is only so we siiall be ha[)py an<l
at peace."

"I am not worthy," he made answer, and his Noicc trembled :
but something of her enthusiasm touched him, and as he rai.sed
Ins eyes to the perfect limitless blue of the sky, a vision came
to him of what life ami its great purjtosc might be, men for one
who has gone so far astray. And tluaigh there was no further
speech between them, a great inell'able peace seemed to lie up(jn
them like a benison from heaven, lifting them up from every-
thing sordid and mean in tluu'r earthly life.

The Countess sat silent, but thinking, tliiid<ing ever, and il
was her husband who was the burden of her though.ts. She
wa.s more and more amazed, day by tlay, seeing him as wax in
her hands, getting glim[)ses of hi? simplicity, his feebleness in
the hands of one who loved him. Ah, that was the secret I
Love had o])ened the door. Looking back upon the bitter and
.•<ad }) 1st, and thinking of all she had mis>cd, of the shipwrecked
years, a regret so keen .stabbed her that she could have abused

J J'

/ /OS/' //>/:. I /.

■

i'i'

licrseif ;it itis fciit,, prayiii^f f()i';;iv('ii('ss for her laxiics.s in w.l'clv
duty, for \utv ;,nvat sliai<' in all the misery which ho had en
diired Like all ^MMicrous natures, once thoroughly awakcnc.l,
she was rideutless towards herself, though generous towards all
otliers.

"There is a great deal, dear, in London, to which it will he
a joy tc introduce you," she said l«y and hy, taking up the oar>
again and judling towards the little landing-stage. "I have
some very good friends then', and there is one man whom I
believe to l>e one of the best in that great city, though he
j)rof(!sses nothing, I hoi)e it will \e i)ossil)le for you and he
to become friends,"

"What is his name?"

"Hargreaves Walcot Hargreaves ; a poor man and liaid-
working, only a journniist; but he has a heart a king might
envy,"

" If he is hard-working and poor," said the Count medita-
tively, "peril ps he will allow us to help him. I think of a
way. It is (•••ilain Strumpfen w-ill not allow me to travel fur
two weeks at lea<t. Could you not ask this friend to come
here to Reutensee, so that I may begin my education among
your English friends?"

Her eyes tillcfl and she; stooped forward and kissed him
again; and (Justav, watching for them on the little pier, saw
the a(;t,

" Ludwig, you are a geiuus," sh(> said eagerly, "I shall
write this very day, or telegraj)h. Now, let us pick up the
lioy. and he shall row us. It is a shame to go indoors on this
l>erfect day. '

At six o'clock that evening, whilst Woodgate and Hargreaves
were dining at a Strand restaurint, which the latter had
frequented for years, Mrs, ' igg s' little maid brought thr
telegram wdii(di had early in the afteinoon been di.'Spatched
from K(Mtens(>e, Hargreaves whistled as his eye quickly
devouicd liu' contents; then he [jassed it to Woudgate, and
devoicd himself meditatively to his cutlet.

"Well," said AVoodgate inquiringly, " will you go]"

A LOST IDEAL

351

ilv. "I sliall

"Yes — ( I)- morrow ni-lit. 1 wmit tlio clinnLit' anyliMW, and
I'm not xcrv liai'd jjicsscd just now. There's nion; in this tlian
meets tin; eye— bnt I'll write and let you know."

To decide, with Ilar^reaves, was to act, and Woodi^ate saw
liini oil' l)y the Chd) train the folluwin.L,' in,t,d»t, and tluMi walked
hack, a trifle disconsolately, to Noiiolk Sticei. The summer
was now in its early prime, out -loor London lookiuLj its hest
and loveliest; hut in such w.athei' the jioor little louiis where
Woodiiate n(tw sitent Ins time looked dinj-'V and mean bv
contrast witli the hii^htiu'ss without.

The impulse to work, however, alter its many abeyances, had
awakened in n^sponse to his constant jirayer, and the pile of
manuscri})t was daily growing in his desk. In his earnest
desire to complete sonu' worthy work, he was, indeed, temi)ted
to go to the o})po8ite exticnu', and now sjjcnt so many hours
over it that Hargreaves, though rejoicing in the change, had
sometimes occasion to remonstiate. As may Ix; imagined, his
interest in the new \vork was intense and keen, bnt \\'<*odgate
was unnsually reticent about it, and parried his <|uestions
without giving any satisfaction. Hargreaves did not even
know' wdiat was its central idea, but that it had laid hold of
the man, entering into possession of his soul, was very evident;
and, knowing that only so is all or any greal and lasting work
accomplished, the true fiieud and wise critic held his peace
hopefully, and bided his time.

There was a good deal of natural curiosity mingling with the
other feelings wdiich caused Hargreaves to accept so promptly
the Countess's invitation to Keutensee. lie had had no com-
munication with her since the brief letter announcing her
r(!conciliation to her husl)and, .md it wiis to be expected that
he had had many thoughts about hei' in the interwl. (Ireat
was his surprise, when he alighled at the railway station at
AViirzburg, to behold her swiftly ai)proaching, looking m(jre
radiant and more lovely than he ever rememlu'red ha\nig seen
her look before.

"AVelconu'. a thousand welcomes to (iermany! ' -he said,
trying to smile gaily tlxaigh her eyes weie wet. "1 .-ee you

352

./ LOST mr.Ar.

I :'•;!':

:r-j

iirc surprised to sec me, but 1 ^vi^sl!e(! L.» iieet you here. It
a very loii*,' tlrive. I brcnifrht over tlie (tairia^r,. in the mornin^r,
lunclied in town, and now it waits. ll(.w good it is to see you
again, and how good of you to come ! "

"I came because I knew you wanted me to come, and soon,
or you would not iiave sent," lie said, and his true (>yes, in
which so much deep feeling lay, dwell upon her lovely face
with the old friendly, ))rotherly look wliich now nearly broke
her (h)wn. "1 need not ask how it is with you."

'• Vou see that it is well," she suj)plemented l)rightlv.
" Wei!, come ; we caii talk as we go. J said to the Count that
you tiaveUed w illi no luggage— how comes it that [ behold thes,.
two large poilMiiiMleausT'

" I luive read nf tlu; splendid courtesy of your great (
houses," he replied wliimsically, "antl I don't want to d

lermaii
is<rracr

th I

)ohemiaii w

lys. I spent Hfteen pounds on new
les yestertlay. by which auful extiavagance 1 liope you feel

you

elotl

duly Mattered.

((

Indeed I do ; but my frieml /> my friend in whate

ver garb

and we are as sinii)k' -d Reutensee as you in Norfolk Street,
Well, let us go : we can talk as we drive. There
so very much I want to hear."

IS so mucli.

Wii^'

I !
■ 1 I ■

'.Ji

M 5

CHAPTER XLVl

wife, a queen thou art ! "

'■■Cy

{

ARGREAVP^S long romemboifMl that drive across-
the sunny landscape, smiling under summer skies,
and afterwards through the long, cool avenues of
the fragrant pinewoods to the old-world Fran(.'nii
village. At first they did not talk very mm li,
finding, as old tried and true friends do, that it is a satisfying
thing to he together. No hrother had ever given purer, iii"V('
chivalrous affection to a loved sister than ria^-greaves had hf-
stowed on the Countess. She, in her turn, trusted li in
absolutely, and could speak to him freely even of her iiuiiosi
concerns. And that, in this workaday world, is as precicus ; <
it is rare.

" About vourself I do not need to ask," she said at lencith.
"I suppose your manner of life is as it was, all work and but
little play. You look rather fagged, and I am glad vou (ibcycd
me so ]>romptly. You will find Keutensee air act like niagie.
Tt is a heivenly place,"

He looked at her intently, and with some inw ird wonder.
He could remendjer when she had used other langunge. concern-
ing her husband's home, and perceived that love, the wond,! fid,
the omnipotent, had touched her, and shed his halo over her
environment. .Vndagreat sense of satiicfaction welled in his
holiest lie li.. ti'V lie perceived that content of the highest and

. f:

..54

W LOSf I PEAL

I' ;N

iiiofit jtcrfcct, kind, lli'- only kind, iiiil«'"d, wliicli cmm sitisfy h
Wdiiian's need, iiMU d\V(dt in liri' soul.

" V'nU llHVc siiid it," he Ul.ldr Mllswci'. "I \Vi»s i;lad of ill.'

suuiMions. \\'iirn the '''ill' lu'j^ins to Itlossom, it is V\\\\k\ tn
hicatlic s(»nn' sudi air as this. 1 liad no idea your (icrrnaii
sccn(!ry was so ri.ddy lifinililiik"

'" Wail a liilli'. \'on see the ^rcat daik nuissc's of tlie woods
yonder? we sliall enter tiieni li\ and l>y, and he sliaded solemnly
l>y them for niih's. They icnnnd nie of tiie- sea always, and
when 1 cannot sKm^ji, the wind, svvee]»in,i; over tlieni, sjjuaks with
niauy voices. I5ut 1 shall weary yon before we arrive. Come,
tell me of everybody. When did you see Sophy?"

"Not for some days — about two, I think. 1 hope youi
hospitality will bt; ^!xtended to Bloouisljury as well as Norfolk
Street, the neeil is j^a-eater."

"Trust uie. They shall speml a lonj.? summer with me, and
my (lustav will make his first acquaintance, with English — 1
ought to say Uritish — boys ; ^Mit L wanted to see you Hrst. We
are coming to London directly, for the remainder of the
season."

" Who are 'we'?" inquired llargreaves, with a perfectly iui-
))erturbal)le face.

"The Count, the boy, and J," she answered, with a little
laugh, ami the dawn of a lovely blush.

"To your own house?"

" Yes ; it has found no. tenant, and I am glad, What
are you thinking nov/ ? Your face is as inscrutable as ;i
sphinx."

Then he turned to her and met her eyes, saying sim,)ly —

" 1 am glad, not oidy because T. know you are, but l)ecause
yju will taste of the full cup again. I wish'' — He stopi)ed
withal half-impatient sigh.

" You wish what ? "

" r daresay yo\i have guessed it already," he answered, and
there was a moment's silence.

"Have you seen Mrs. W^oodgate at all?" she asked at
length, and the gladsomen<'ss had gone out of her voice,

A LOST IDEAL

355

can sitist'v ii

answered, and

" Nev(M' ; but I hear of her. She \s'rite.s uccaisionally to Miss
Ryder."

«'»oni ScuUand?"

" Vrs ; hut, licr letters are not satisfaetory, I gatlier ; hut I
still h()[)t; it inay ciuue sooner oi later."

"What is he doin-?"

" Awaking- to the hest that is in him ; that is why I iiave
any hope whatsoever."

" Is it true that he has lost his all?"

"He has lost his inont-y at least, for a time. Some hope it.
maybe restore<l. Meantime he is (!ven as I, or in a worse
plight, for poverty ha.'- mirscd me tentk'rly, and cannot give me
any new sur[)rise."

"J Tow does he take it?"

" Excellently. It will be the making of him, I can sec."

The (,'oniitcss tnrneil her head a little away, and a half-.sad
smile partetl her lips. She was thinking of two talks she had
had with Helen, one on the hills behind Fiesole, and another
on the pier at Bri^diLon, and a vague wonder of the working of
providence and circumstances dwelt with her.

"Does he live alone in the hou.se at Hampstead?"

"No; that had to be sold. Mi.ss Ryder has given shelter
to the more precious of the household goods ; and he .•ccu[)ies
the rooms above mine in Norfolk Street, where he works on an
average fourteen honr.s a <hiy."

" At a new book ? "

"I believe so, but be is reticent regarding it, and I regard it
as a sign wholly good. ^Nlake a guess at the one he ha.«! (diosen
for his companion and contidaiit."

" 1 might gue.ss a score wide of the mark. !Man or woman ? "

" Xeither," answered Hargreaves, with a huge silent laugh.
"Our mutual friend Tim has been elevated to the po:^, and
AVoodgate is now looking at life through the eyes of a child."

" 1 would rath':- bear that of him than anything vou could
have told me," she made answer (juickly. " It reipures a simph^
iieart to enjoy the eompanionshi]) of a child. I l)egin to share
your hope, and I thank (iod for i1^,"

.v^^'

A LOST I PEAL

The floot Imrscs, covjMiiif,' iho ground witli rapid iind pnsy
motion, now plnn^cd them in tlu^ hwccI odoious sliadow of the
piiKiwootis, iind lluMr talk dril'l(>d to otlicr .snlijci ts of nintu;il
intorcHt to both. It was not till tlicy <;iiim' williin si-^ht nf
Kcutcnscc that Ilar'Tcavcs niadr a dirrcl alhisjoii to tht- ilian"''
that had taken |>l.i( c in ht>r life

"So tliis is lionic to you — the otlicr was hut a house," lie siiid,
as his eye fell with a dccjicnin^' snisc of rcstfidncss on thr
trautiuil jtirturc of the ;^Mry old casllc keeping watcli upon its
wooded heiglit, lookini; dowi heu' y on the sliiniineiing lake

and tlK: village asleep on its ; ,

*' Vou have said it. Life is '^ .i ossihilities for nie again,
and I so little deserv(> it. Ihippmess h.i iad»' nio what misery
never could, lowly in heart."

Ho forborr to s;iy wiint was in hi-, mind, that surely a gi'e;it
ehangi' must have l,d<eu i)la('e likevvisc in the man whom sin'
had been M-onl to say had darkent d her life. Vet when they
eauu> shortly within the (]uaint nu'dia'val courtyard, and he saw.
standing between the old (friilin and the boy, the, tall soldici
tigurt' of the Coiuit, he could not but .13 to himself that if tlie
face wa> any iude.\ to the inner m;in, there was but little guile
after all in the soul of Ludwig von Ileuteusee.

His wtdcome was cpiiet, but sincere, and il was the looks th.tl
passed between these three,father, mothei, and child, which c;iusnl
a di'cp peace to (>uter the strangt>r's soul, and made him glad th.ii
he had been permitteil to see with his own eyes what in his secret
heart he had almost discredit(Ml, a pi-rfect reconciliation.

The old (ualin, drawing daily nean^' the gates of the Mteiual.
and full of a ])ious ji)y over the ri^stoied honour and happi
ess of her house, seemed to shed upon them the last needeil

benison, the ajjj^roval of Heaven. Over a pijjc of peace thai
niijht. ll;ir<jreaves obtaii.e I a clearer glimi)se into the mind ef
the Count. Hrawu by the winning personality of llargreaves,
which at once and everywhere made itself felt by its st rengi'i
and sincerity, Ludwig von Kiaitensee allinh d of his own accoi'l
to his siid family history, blaming liiniself in no measured touts
for the long I stiiingciinnt.

' /r.s,' IDEAL

lipid Jind easy
sliiuldw of tllc
ct ts n|" iiMitu;il

ntllill sJLjllt nf

I ti» tlir chan^'i'

house," lie said,
fulness (Ml tlir
watcli iiptMi il>
liiinnei'iiig lake

's for ine a,L;aiii,
no wliat luisei \

I surely !i ^Mval
man wlioni sin
Yet \vheu tliev
.rd, and ho saw,

tlio tall soldier
isolf that if the

hut little ,i;uile

> the looks that
1, which e:iusiil
him ,ii;lad thai
at in his seeicl
iation.

f the Internal,

II' and happi

le last needed

of ]H'aco thai

o tlu' mind of

lof IIai',m'eave>,

ly its .-t ren,L;!'i

us own aeeoid

H''asured tones

" ^'oU ;oe oiir ihal, has l)efriende(| mv wife thrniivhuiil ,in a
l.i'othei iiii-ht," h'' aid. '' I did not ipnte un«h'istanil i' at liist
when she ^poke of you; su(di friendships are liar lly po- ihle,
eertaiidy nut enmnion, in (ieimany; hut now I see ;ind spe;ik
with you, I see it all (pntc (deaily, an<l I thank you from ni\

liear

"No thanks aie due," replied I (ar^Teaves seicnely. **Any
thin;.:; I iiiiv have done f^r ih^' ('lamtess has lieen amply n*-
comjx'Used hy ihe friendship of on'- so he.iutiful and >i> vifleil
If it were necessary to make you any plunder of her than you
arc, I mi.nht eull you some pa^cs from these, years to whi* h 1
have heeii a witness. There is not one you couM not reji I and
rejoice over. Hf how few ill tlu' lik(! cin um-tanees cmmM the

aiiie he san

The ('ount remained silent, hut llar,urea\es lik<d the cxprcH-
sioii on his face.

"And to think that all these years \ have denicMl her the
custody of the hoy. 1 shall never furi^ive myself that, ^'ou
\\\\\K\ never hecn married, so you cannot understand the hitter
iiess ])ossihle to such a state. it is more supreme! and ndentlcss
(hail can enter into any other I'clution in life. I^'or the married
there is no middle course ; it must ho eitluir Paradise or
Pau(hMnonium."

Harj^^reaves shook Ids head sli^ditly.

" My ohservatioii, I think, lias shown me- tliat some do steei'
a middle course, and joij; along together without much joy or
bitterness. They are simply indillereiit to (^ach other, and walk
their se])arate ways."

"And would you not then say such a condition had reached
the acme of bitterness? It seems so to me."

"It is not a desirable static, certainly. Perhaps I, vdio have
never tried double harness, am after all to be envied," reidied
Ilargreaves, with a faint, curious smile.

'' Why have you not? Have you never seen the woman who
made matrimony seem to you the only possible condition of
existence ? "

"Yes," replied Hargreaves after a short silence. "I have,

.^5«

./ J.Osr IDEAL

s!l

iiiitl slif t'liilol me. Krniii that time \v^ wimmii li;is over hail
the powor to interest inr in that way, aii*l I sliail die as I am.
It is so witli some. ( Juc ilis.,|i|»ointm('iit disilhisioiis for cvit.'

*' I)Ut you liiiv«! not Immoiiic liard, or hittor, or cynif'nn"

"No; 1 am tliaiikfiii t^> have kcpl my faitli in my kind. I
know many good women, and have never clianged my opinion
that it is throngli wnmi'ii the world \\'\\\ he re.;<'nerated, even
as it was (h'stroyod at lirst. I mean that women will heroine
yet moi'e and moic the instiument thron!;h which the Sj»irit
of Christ will work for the iicalint,' of the tiations. She is
awaking to her higli<'r destiny, thongh n"ither_\oii nor I will
live to see the fruition."

The Count regarde(l him wonderingly, and tlie thought in
his mind was, that the English v/ere very diflerent frfnu those
of his own nation, especially in tluMr views regarding tlu' powei'
and place of women. If Ilargi'eaves' was the average view of
that (piestion, what marvel that his wife had rehelled against
the narrow creed wluch seeks to l)ind the (lerman hous«?wife
ahsolut(dy to the routine of household labour and the hearing
of children?

She entered at the moment, pleased with no ordinary pleasure
to see the two apparently finding so much interest in their talk.

"Do 1 intrude?"' she asked gaily; and she moveil, very
Uittnrally it seemed to Ilargreaves, to her husband's side, and
laid her hand on his shoidder.

"Do you know, dear, that it is ten o'clock, an hour j)ast your
usual bedtime? He is an invalid yet, Harry, and you must
excuse him."

Hargreaves thought he had never seen her look s(f lov(dy or so
womanly. The velvet folds of her gown fell sii'aightly about her,
the stately ex(piisite throat gleamed whitely through the delicate
lace of the l)otlice, the contour of the j)erfect arm was revealed as
it rested with that caressing tt)Uch elo.-e to her husband's head.

" We have been discussing the marriage question, Countess,"
he rejilied, "which you and I agreed long since had neithei'
beginning, middle, nor end ; nevertheless, it continues to he the
subject more interesting to men and women than any other."

3(1, ;

.1 L0S7' )l)i: \l.

Slic liiip^lii'"]. " I ■ lliJit ^(). I.inluin .' lla.N Mi. Il;ir;^i( ;iM '• • -i
astoni.'^liiiij,' you witli home of tlic .nlviuircd l'',iiij;lisli views, v\\ :

"If tlicyaro ndviiiurd, I wisli to know mow of tlirm, lliMn,"'
ht' answiTcd. ''At tln^ jin'sciit iiicinciit I find tlic stiidvuf Knyli.-li
liiunan natiin? more iutoicstin*: lliaii aiiytliinu: <'ls«' in tlic wtnld.'

" Well, we liavc days and days in whirli '\n disiiiss il, sn I
ir.u>*t iKisiiivclv sciiil \nu liotli to bed. I know voii aif sonic-
tliinj^^ of ati owl, Harry, so yon will Hml li^dits and liouks pro-
vided in yonr room, ;nid pray consider tliat Itreakt'ast is a
niovaMc feast here ; and even if yon do n(>t elect to iqipeur till
lundi, nobody will say a word, llolieniia is possible even in an
orthodox (Icrniiin castlo."

She swept the Count a little enrtsey and held out her arm
to him.

"Come," she said, with a pretty imperativeness. " it is time
for little boys to retire. ( loodninht, Harry; sonnd sleep and
pleasant dreams."

Har<,n'eaves was moved as he took her hand, and eonld say
nothing' in reply. l>ut he held it Avaiin and elo.^e, and his eyes
F])oke the silent lan^LMiayc of ti:;inkfnlness and joy. He di'tected
in her such a su))tle chanf^'c, saw the natural <,'a.iety of her nature
now bubble over for the tirst time, the <fladsomeness of hei'
lieart could not be hidden. She nndcr.-tood, ami when she
was alone with her husband, she threw her-(df sobbin<,' on his
breast.

"Oh, Ludwij^f, let me cry ! It is joy, dearest, joy and thank-
fulness, not anything else. He reminds me of the desolafi-
years which are gone forever ; soon searctdy a niem(»ry of them
will remain. That is what I Avanl to go back to London with
you and Gustav for. 1 want to jieople its streets Aviih image<
of my new hopes. I want to clothe that sad old house with
my new hap[)iness. Tell me, Ludwig, are you as happy, as
thankful as I 1"

He coidd not for the moment sp(>nk. Tjiconsciously, by lie!'
whole attitude, s!.e bound, him to her as nothing el>e ('n\',]\\ ha\e
ilone. When a woman thus gives herself s«» entirely. - bowing
herself dependent for all ear'hly hapjtiness upon a man's love, it

;^^o

A r.osT rnRAl

I !

\\v\A iHMiisc in liiin, iiiili-ss Ik- Iw w'mlly lasc, all flint is tioKI,.
Ml"! i^'MOil, all that nitprojn'ho.M, if lnit 'limiv. to tho hivitic Sn
it was with thcsf two tln' past r«*;4ntlt»l aixl ilcjiloicd ; tlir
l»r('.s('nt rich with tM-mhliii'^' proiiiiso ; thi- futiirc, hjpsscd of (hm|,
made sncrotl hy I'niiif^t nsnivc, must Ix* rich of fniit.

Th;i( iiiv'nl II:ir;^i'('a\ (>>< could not slcop. lie had for iii;in\
ycni- h«rii ;i loni'iv man, ''iii never hud his hmcliiu'ss c(>m«^ home
t«> iuni with .-..ch a I\M'Ii scnx; of pain. He hatl st'nid upon the
oiixide. lie !iad shared many sorrows, witnosscul the dawn of
i!ian\ Joys, jiml fiiey had not Ljrcjatly all'ectcMl him. or e\en jnade
him till now looU in u|)on his own heart. I>ut u vision hail
(dine lo lijm of what lile mi,i;ht havo hecn to him, enrichi'd }>y
tile tenderness of a. wife, the love of little cliildrcn, tin; pcrfect-
ncHS of home. The windows were yet wide open in his s[»a(Mous
room, and he leaned out over the sill, as he had s(» often done
in the little Norfolk Street room, when he felt that he needed
tlie wideiiess of th(^ sky. It was very still, yet was the air
full of a solemn and restless swaying', lik(^ the rush of a j^'real
sea — the Voice of the i>inewoods answering to the night winds.

The sky was dark hut gloriously clear, and the stars shone
steadfastly ; nor was their message lej-s comforting than when
they hrooded over great London, whose sin and suffering have
lain so heavily on many tender sotds. They shone steadfastly,
and their silent testimony was as ever to the immutahility of
the Kternal hidden behind the veil.

Through the silences (Jod speaks in the stillness of the
night. He can he heard sometimes when th(i clamour of the
day's fret and fever drowns that cadence of divinest comfort.

" * God's in His heaven,
All's right with the world,' **

said Ilargreaves softly, and, closing his window, went to bed.

And when he sloi>t, he dreamed of his mother, and the Avord
loneliness ceased to have a meaning for him.

Thus did the dove of [»eace, white- winged, pure -hearted,
joydaden, l)rood from dark till dawn upon the old Schloss of
Reutensee,

CMIATTKIl \LVfT

"Love lit tin; Liiitp a<ii| >\M'{it tin' lioiisr h'I idiiikI,
Till t'li' Id.st iintiit'y ill the t-ml \\;;s luiiii i.

i^*- N llic swcot (Icwv fi'oshin'ss of a iiiil-miiiucr
'i iiiiiniiiiLf, H('l(Mi Wii.s ]mt'in<^' to uikI fff tin- wide

*;iavel sweep bcforo tlic old houso (»f Tcviot-
licful. She had ah-eady had lior walk ; a hunch
of jdimroses, with hoads yet wot with (h'w,
clustored in hor Ixdt. She liad ^Mthorcd them fi'cshly ii'
the doll behind the house, a favourite haunt of hers, wliere
she spent many meditative hours. Teviothead, the wliole vale
of the Teviot indeed, was looking' its loveliest, ami tliose who are
familiar with it know what its loveliest means. The suninuir,
which comes but tardily to such remote rej:,'ions, was just dawn-
ing, and exquisite beyond all telling was its dawn. The lawns
were flecked with daisies, which ^naam, old -fashioned and
faithful in her loves, never allowed \,o be touched ; the prim rose,
the hj'acinth, the wood-anonione made bright spots by the river
brim, and scented the delicate air ; the trees were dreams of
emerald beauty, and the b. ils kept up their choruses all day
long. The lovely world was full of hope; hope was in every
scent-laden breeze, in every .-iins(>t and sunrise, the hope of
spring which summer was bringing to fruition. Helen, to
whom in the ))ast all such things had a message, was not less
susceptible to their influences now ; and in the midst felt awak-
ing in her heart a wild unrest which would not be stilled.

362

-/ AOSr IDEA I.

iii

|;V

.1' '

rfr

'If!

Solitude, peace, ine(litati(iii, luul dono their silent Wnik, and the
time was rijie for change.

Watcliing lior with eyes made keen by a love most innthorly,
.\[adam saw the gradual develojtment, and waited. The Spirit
was wrestling with that tried heart, and no human intevfereiKM-
must he suffered to spoil that slow hut perfect work. Thtire-
fore Madam held her ]»eace, only prayed, Indieving that prayer
was hoth heard and answered in lieaven, though sometimes not
according to the present desire or light in the human soul.
^^adam was more hopeful than she had l)een concerning Helen.
Each day as she rose she wondered wlietlier ere it closed tin;
cliange would come.

From her dressing-room window that morning she saw her
[)acing to and fro, and |)resently, when the postman's whistle
came resounding across the lawn, turn down the avenue to meet
him. Slie took only one letter from him and let him ])ass on,
nor did she seek to open it until she had returned to the door ;
then she sat down and looked at the round, crude, boyish hand-
writing, V'hich .she recognised as pertaining to Tim. She smiled
a little as she ])roke the clumsy seal which Tim had pressed
down with his thumb ; her heart was tender yet to the rollick-
ing Irish lad who made the .sunshine in Sophia Ryder's home.
Thus did Tim deliver his soul of its burden, but little dreaming
of the effect it would have on the woman to whom he thus
passed it on : —

"37 CllADDOCK StHEET, Bl.dOMsmTKV,

Saturday nk/hf, \:)th June 188(5. 10 p.m.

" Dear Mrs. Woonv'JATE, — You'll be surprised to hear from
me, but I' got something to say. It's ten o'clock, and Aunt
Soph thinks I'm in bed and fast asleep, only I'm not. I've
been up the river to-day at Hampton Court with "Mr. Wo» Jgate,
and then to Teddington nearly, in a boat. It was no end jolly.
We had dinner at the Mitre, salmon and lamb an<l strawberries.
You should have seen Jack and Tony when I told 'era. They
were green. It was awfully jolly for me, but he — ^fr. Wood-
gate, ^ mean — isn't jolly at all ; in fact, he's no end miseralile.
He looks it, and I wish you'd come back, so does he. lie told

'I LOST IDEAL

0"v">

"ii'k, aiiil the

ist iiiothfrly,
Tlie Sj)irit

illtci'flM'OllCC

uk. 'I'lidc-
i' that prayci'

'lUt'tillK'S iKil

liimian s(iul.
riling Helen.

t cldSCll tlu!

slic saw liei'
lan's whistle
:^mie to meet
him pass on,
to the iloor ;
boyish hand-
She smiled
had pressed
1 th(! roUick-
yder's linnie.
tie dreaming
loni he thns

lu-itv,

!(). 10 P.M.

ID hear from
and Aunt
not. I've
Wo» J gate,
o end jolly,
trawbcrries.
'era. They
:Nrr. Wood-
.1 miserahle.
lie told

me so : 1)iit I'm not at liberty to tell you what he snid, bccau.-e,
you see, when a fcdlow gives another felldw lii> conhdence, if
the other f(dl(nv peaches, he's a sneak. .\unt Soph says a
sneak's the worst kind of creature in the world. They thiidv
so at Harrow too. They've got one there in the ImuiiIi foiiu.
called Daggles. Larry told mo they nearly skinned him one
Saturday for his mean tricks, but I haven't time to tidl you
about it now. 1 wish you'd come ba(;k ; everybody would like
it awfully, but him more of all. lie's lost all his money too —
not got a penny left, .Vunt Soph says, anil he's living at Mr.
llargreaves' place and working like bla/es — I mean like anything.
Please excuse me. Please come ba(d<. Don't you tliiidv it's
a shame to desert him beeause he's lost his money \ I do
hope you won't be angry at me for saying tliis. If he's done
anything, he's awfully sorry, 'cos he told me so. If your going
to come, please let m(! know. Pd like to be the Hrst to tell him.
^^aybe Annt Sopli woidd be awful mail if she read this, but 1
can't h(dp it. F had to get out of bed to write it, Vos I couldn't
sleep. Please write soon and say if you are going to come. —
And r I'emain, your loving Tim.

"i^^S. — He's ever so much nicer than he used to be. dark
and Toriy think so too. Please don't wait, just come as soon as
you can."

The gong sounded, and Madam came leisuidy downstairs.
Not finding Helen in the dining-room, she ste]»ped out to the
door, and there she sat, staring at Tim's lettei', and her face wa^
a study. That she was or had been deeply moved M;idam could
see, two great tears tremlded on her eyelashes and sonu' l)ig drops
lay on the page. The old hitly toucdied her sh.iulder gently.

"I am waiting for you, bairn; come iiway in. If there be
trouble there, it'll seem lighter after you've eaten. Coine in.''

Helen crushed the letter and put it in her pocket, and, rising,
followed Madam silently, obediently as a child. P)Ut slie lookt «'
like a person in a dream, nor did she, even after they had seat' d
theiiisidves at the table, say a single word, ^^adam had no
.■-.ervant to wait at breakfast ; she liked quiet, homely ways of her

A Lost ideal

r i

I'Wi!, '!iM:i_;h she (MiiM it" ii('i'('.ss;)r\ ))iit (111 mII tlic il' -Mty of
statp. Slio \\\v\ llolcii iilwiivs succially eiijoyi'd their 'i;i'.;ikf is!
t;il»Ii' tnlk : that )ii<»niiiiu' there Wiis rone, but Madam tlitl imi
ask a siii,i;lo (jiu^stiiMi. Ilideii iitc as usual, noithiM" more oi- less ;
mid wliou tliey had linislied, Mndaui went to interview Katie
and the cook, as slie did Ix'fore )>ray(M's every mornin,!^'. Thov
w<'i'e waitiui;' in tlu; dinini,'-ro(iiii for the ser\ants to ennie u]i to
]i!'ayei's when II(den said (juite siuhlenly —

" I could not ciiteh the London train now, could I, Madam t"
Madam i^ave a ^re it start, ulaneed ;it the cloelc, ami shook
her head.

"If it's desperation you might, h it desi)eration, Helen?"
"Not quite ; to-morrow will do," she replied, and the servants
came in. Madam's voice was a ti'itle unsteady as she read the
psalms, and in the prayer was like to break down. H len
appeared now (uitirely self-i)ossessed, hut her air of listlessness
was gone, and she looked like a woman who had made upher mind
to a certain course of action. When tlie xu'vants left the room,
tlnu'CAvasa moment's silence, whifdi Mad;im l)roke hy a question.
"Hae ye had a letter from Mr. Woodgate, Helen ?"
"Xo," she answered quietly ; "but I have had a letter, which
you can read. I think I should like to go Id London to see for
myself."

She handed Madam the letter, which the old ladv read with-
(»ut hesitation and with a visible twitching of the lips, which
indicated that it touched her deeply.

" Ah, well. I'd l)e the last to say nay. If it has come to you,
Helen, that it is time to go, then it is time. The morn, did
you say? "

"There is tin; night train," said Helen quickly, but AFadam
put up a quick, deprecating hand.

"There is, but you shall not go by it if I can help it. The
(-•ase is not desj)erate. AVe'll gang the morn."

" We % " rejx'ated Helen. " You mean I shall go % "
"So will I. Ye arena fit to be left to your own device^'*. I
maun remind you, Helen, my lamb, that neither in mind nor
body are you the Helen we used to ken. Dinna be feared.

A LOST IDEAL

36:

■ IP -Mty (it
ir l;i'.';tkf is!-

am (lid mil

lore Ol' less ;
I'vicw Katie
iin,y. Tliey

colllc U]) to

', ^Fadani t '"
, ainl shook

I, Holon?"
the servants
-he read the
wii. \l leii
f listlessiiess
uplier mind
'ft the room,
)' a question.

I'tter, wliieh
m to see for

read witli-
ips, wliich

)me to you,
morn, did

but .\radam

p it. The

devices. I

mind, nor

be feared.

I'll no fash you too much. I'll bide in the background, but go
I will, so you needna say a word." Helen cast upon her a
grateful look, which spoke volumes. " We'll get ready, and
syne after lunch we'll to Broadyards and tell them there, and
blithe news will it be to ihem baith."

Helen visibly shrank.

"Is it necessary, ]\Iadam 1 Annie will ask so many ques-
tions. Questions make me desperate. Could I not write to
say I was gone? Besides, I may come back. I do not know
that I anticipate n reeonciliation Avith Richard, only I am his
wife, and if he is as Tim says, I at least ought to know the
circumstances. Besides, I have money ; he need not suffer so
long as it is liere."

^Nladam smiled tenderly. It was all so like Helen. The
moment a creature became dependent or needful, she was alert
to see her duty. The old lady turncnl her eyes through the open
window to the summer sky, and her upward glance was a prayer.

" I winna force you, Helen, but just let me go to Broadyards
an' tell them."

"Oh yes ; that will do very nicely," assented Helen eagerly.
"And be sure you don't say too much, ^Nladam ; or could you
not just say we were going a little trip together? Tf nothing
comes of it, Annie will be so disa})}iointed, it will be better not
to raise her hopes."

"Dinna be ower hard on Annie, Helen. She has l)ehaved
just un('(»mmon well, I think, since ever you came to dwell with
me. nie a'bndy their due."

" Well, well : just say what you like, dear ^Ia<lam. I am
sure it will be right," slu^ said, and left the room.

^ladaiii liiMrd her run iqistairs, and the smile, whimsical,
tender, thankful, dee})en(Ml on her li})s. She hoped everything
from this sudden step, hojied and })rayed. That day did Helen
appear something like the Helen of old, bustlir,g about, gaMiei-
ing her gear together, with a vixacity ami puiposc wli'' !i
betokened newly awakened interest in life. After !'i, r\\
M ;dam betoi.k lieiself to JU'nadyar(N. mdy 1'> liiid ik'Im d_\ ..t
liome. A'uiie having tak'en a cui-. into Mdmbiinh fm the dav

^66

A LOST IDEAL

with lif'i" liusliand. So it caiiic tn puss \\v,\\ the travellrrs wvxp
away Ix'luic their let urn, ami Helen spcnied glad of it. They
arrived at Huston ahout seviMi, and Madam took rooms in ihe
hotel. Helen did hiiL poor just ire to tlie uieal ordereil, and
Madam saw that th" ('.Kciteinent grew \\\)on her, and tliat slie
became restless and ajipareiitly ill at ease.

" \'ou wdultl not take it unkind if 1 left you for an hour,
Madam ? " she said at length.

" No, my hairn, if I ken where you are."

"Perhaps I shall gn to ]Miss llyder's. It is not very far -I
can go and come in an hour."'

"And how far," incpiired Madam cahnly, — "how far i.s it to
Norfolk Street?"

" 1 could go in a hansom in ten minutes."

"Then you hail hetter try Norfolk Street first. News at
tirst hind is best. If ye arena back by ten, I'll nuiybe go to
my ])ed, llidcn. Anld scores need a heap o' settlin'. Good
bye b.iirn, an' (rod be wi' you an' him."

She tiied to s])eak in a calm and matter-of-fact way, but hei'
excitejuent quite equalled Helen's. She spent the hour after
Helen left in prayer, wrestling like Jacob of old nth the Lord
tor the life's hapj)iness of the husljand and wife, about to
meet under such strange circumstances. Helen walked the
whole distance to Norfolk Street, finding in rapid motion some
outlet for the agitation she could hardly control. Sb '^elt Uiat
the greatest crisis of her life had come, r. id the isipoi . of the
mon)ent dwelt keenly with her. She had never been in
Hargreaves' rocjms, but had more than once waited in a cab
outside for her husband, so that she knew the house.

The l)ell of St. Clement Danes was ringing the half-hour after
eight when she knocked at the familiar door.

" Mr. Woodgate has gone out, ma'am — only for his smoke on
the Knd)ankment. Ho always goes reglar after dinner," said
Mrs. Kigges' ii' ; !e maid.

"1 can c(»me 'i^ nrd wait I am Mrs. Woodgate," Helen said
(piietly, and there v : s an au of authority with her speech which
quelled tlu; ri'omenta^y ^vonder in the girl's soul, and caused

A LOST IDEAf,

^^67

ellrrs \Aorp
it. 'I'liry
onis ill ihr
(lerrd, ;iii(l
i<l tliat .-he

11' ail hour.

.'ery far I

fai i.s it to

News at
lay bo go til
11'. Good

IV, but her

hour aftt'i"

h tlic Lonl

, about to

alked tli(>

otiou sonic

^elt ^Jiat

pov. of tlio

r been in

in a cab

hour after

i smoke nn
inor," said

Helen said

ech whicli

md caused

her to show hi-r at once ami very ves])eeLfully upstairs. Tlie
little room, smelling still of the recent dinner, was growing dark,
and the window was wide oj)en to admit tlie fresh evening air.

"Sit down, ma'am, ami f'll clear uji. There's .><o many
dinners 'ere, it ain't easy to get everythink done to tlu! minit,"
said the girl apologetically. "An' Mr. Woodgate ain't ever in
much afore nine."

She lit the gas and dr(!W down the blind without closing tlie
window, then [)roceedetl to gather up the things from the table.
Helen sat down in the hard wooden chair before the desk and
watched the girl, noting every detail of the place, the coarse
tablecloth, the common crockery, the battered, ill-kept electr(»-
l>late, and as she remembered her husband's excpiisite fasti-
liiousness regarding such matters, a faint smile curved her lipfs
The maid, rather inclined to talkativeness, met witdi su littl''
encouragement that she hastened her motions, and, haviii;^
removed the tray, sjiread tin; gaudy tapestry (;over on the table
and took her departure. Then Helen got up, nervously trembl-
ing, and began to walk to and fro in the narrow r<»om, trying
to master her extreme nervousness, and at the same tinif keenly
noting the whole ai'rangement of the place. Wcidgate had
done nothing to improve his surroundings, in which he luid no
interest whatever. The [)lace wa-; simj>ly a shelter tu him, a
corner wlieriun to do his work. He had got used to it, and
even felt the sense of comfort in it at times; but to Helen, after
the tpiiet, rich luxury of Teviothead, it .seemed small, ugly,
mean, insull'erable. A great pity .•surged in her soul, and the
last drop of bitterness seemed to be swallowed uj» ]>y that great
liood. Suddenly she observed for the first time the desk at
which she had seated her.self at her entrance, littered with all
the evidences of work.

A pile of manuscript lay (m one side, the bl(»tting-]uid had
several loose sheets upon it, and the ink was but newly dried
on the last words Woodgate had written. '

She drew nearer, and her hand was outstretched to lift the
last i)age, when she IkmimI a foot on the stair, and presently
knew that she was imt alone,

CHAPTER XLVni

**Clas]i my lnMit on thine,
Now miblanied,
Since upon thy soul as well
Han^cth mine."

II I

A LOST IDEAL

369

Det-aust.! li(!

portend ; not forgivenoas or reconciliation evidently, unless
outward tokens convej'ed nothing.

" I wrote to you six weeks ago explaining everything," he
said, a trifle formally. " Did you not get that letter ? It ams
written from the Manor House."

"No," she re[)lied, "I never received it. The first intima-
tion of your reverses came to me yesterday morning from a
rather unexpected quarter. I suppose it is true, since I find
you here, that you have lo.sl all your means. Ilow did it
hai)pen 1 "

"Won't you sit down?" he said, witli extreme gentleness,
noting her tired, colourless face. " 1 will try to explain every-
thing to you, tliough I can't umlersland how you did not receive
it. It must have been carelessness on the part of Roberts — I
left it with him to jxist."

"He must have forgotten it," she answered, and, seating her-
self in the chair before the desk, rested her arm on the manu-
script she had hastily laid down. Her left hand was bare, and
be saw that she wore on it only the thin worn circlet of lier
mother's wedding ring, and that it hung very loosely on her
finger.

"There is not very much to tell," he said, leaning against
the eiid of the sofa with his hands in his pockets, wondering at
the situation, scarcely crediting its actuality, and wondering
most of all at his own calmness. " I was one of the victims of
the disgraceful Altona business, and that's all."

" And is everything swallowtnl up ? "

"Everything. I have only the rent of my fathc^r's old
cottage at Cambridge betn-ecMi me and want at the pr(>sent
moment. Thirty-live pounds a year; it barely pays my rooms
here."

She winced slightly, and he observed tliat since his first
entering she avoided looking at him. >She seemed like a
woman who had a fixed purpose in view, and who feared lest
she should V)e moved a hair's breadth from it. It was a curious
situation, strained to the utmost pitch. Woodgate felt himself
on thi^ verye (tf that laughter which is sometimes forced out of

.370

A LOST IDEM.

an awful tragedy. Tie liad often pieturecl tlieir meeting, yearii
ing over it as a. man in his Ixjst moments yearns for the oj»eniii-
of heaven's gates, hut lu; had never jiietured anytliing so utterly
<'ommonj)lae.o, so sordid as this.

"Who uiv.te you tlie letter, may I ask?" was his next
• luestion. " Was it Miss Kyder?"

"No, it was Tim," slie rephed, witliout any cliange of voice.
" Voii must liave tliouglit me heartless not having replied to
the one you wrote, hut which luiver reaehed me."

" I did not presume so far," he rejilied. " 1 had no right to
expect anything at your hands. I simply wrote asking what
you would wish done with certain tilings in the house M'hicli
were not mine U/ dispose of. When you did not reply, I did
what I thought the hest in the circumstances, confide(l them to
the keeping of Miss Ryder. I thin^ you will lind there all you
set store oy in the house."

She sat very still, the white hand with the worn wedding
ring half covering her eyes. Wh^t were her thoughts, God
alor-" knew. That she was suffer.'ng at the moment, more
acutely than she had yet suffered, she knew. Only now it
seemed to her she realised the full, the awful bitterness of tin'
position, and the futility of hope. As for Woodgate, the ni;id
impulse to kneel at her feet, to clasp her close in arms whose
touch would say they would never let her go, had to be re-
strained by an effort alyJ^ost superhuman. His wife ! There
she sat ; still, silent, suffering, dearer to him than life, yet his
lips were dumb. They were like children facing life's tragedv,
playing with realities they feared to touch upon too nearly.
How would it end %

She gave a little sobbing breath presently, and putting \\\)
her two hands with a sudden quick gesture, threw back he.-
cloak, as if she felt its weight oppressive.

"I had better say what I came to say, and that qui(;kly.
You know that I have money — the five thousand my father
left. We must share it."

His face flushed deeply, and he gave his head a quick shake.
** I appreciate your unselfish goodness, but you must know that

A LOST IDF.AL

371

for mc to take luonoy from you is an impossibility. God forbid
that I should sink so low."

" Ihit it is imi)ossibl{3 you can go on as you aro doing," she
said, not inij»ati(!nily. l3Ut with a great, sad gtMitlciicss. "I
cannot spend this moi ey, and after all I am still you ' wife."

" I will not touch it," he said (juickly. " Xot a penny of it,
as J leaven is my judge."

She turned to the desk then, laid her hand on the pile of
manuscrii»t, and looked at him inquiringly. "This is your work.
Is it near completion?"

" Yes, another fortnight will see it tlone. It is worth money,
1 believe, so you need not conecrn yourself about me,. Bite
aiul sup, a roof to shelter me, is all that is neeessary U)\' me.
It can provide that."

She bowed her head, and, after a moment, rose. "Then you
absolutely refuse to take anything from me?"

" >ry God, Helen ! don't torture me. Don't show me so
plainly that you consider me so utterly beneath your contempt.
Rather than take money from you, I would sweep the pro-
verbial crossing."

"If I were in need," she said slowly, "I would still take it
from you."

He was silent a moment, and his heart leaped within him.
Little more than two months ago she had written that to send
money to her must be his last resource, that it would instantly
be returned. Had she forgotten that, or did her words indicate
some gentler attitude towards him? She gave no sign he could
read in manner, look, or speech.

" It lifts me from the dust to hear you say so," he replied,
and there was an infinite pathos in his tone. " But the cases
are not parallel, that you know. That you have come here to
say this to me is more than I deserve, and though I may
express my sense of it but poorly, it will not be lost. Do you
see that work — done in a month — a feat I should at one time
have thought impossible? It is not only the outcome of an
absolute necessity, it is a form of atonement which you should
ynderstand better than any other,"

.u«

A LOST IDEAL

She <,'l{iiico(l at th<! nmiiuscript, and Iut lips moved, but no
sound fiiiuo from tlicni. Slio fastened her dosik and took a
step to the (h»or, then nervously unfastened it apiin, and W\\\
awful strain of the moment increased. Woodi^ate, his heart
sick witli a new and ineonceivahle longing', stiMid set ahsoluti'lv
in awe of her that he was lit only to answer such ijuestions as
she miglit put. To make any allusion to the past, or to advance
(iven the smallest plea for the future, was even more imi)o.^.sil>l(?
to him in her pre«enc(! than he had thought even in his
moments of most lonely and des[)ondt'nt eontem[)Iation. At
last he did put the (luesticui, the vcricfst eommonj)lacu —

"May 1 ask where you ar(^ staying?"

"At t.he Euston Hotel."

"Is your sister with you'? "

"Xo; Madam is with me. I have been st-aying with her at
Teviothead all the time."

" Does she know you are here to n'ghtl "

" Yes, she sent nu; here. I nnist go back to her now. I
promised not to remain long away."

"I may not walk with you, I suppose. Can I get you
a cab?" "

"Yes, 3'ou can walk with me if you like. I am not tired,
except with sitting all day."

" I thank you for that permission. Will you sit down a
minute 1 "

lie left the room, but Helen did not sit down. She was
conscious of a strange, subtle sense of disajipointment ; her
heart was sore, almost to tears, Both had behaved excellently,
and preserved throughout both dignity and reserve : ^Voodgate,
because he felt that any expression of th(3 repentant regrets of
which his mind was full would be distasteful to her; Helen,
because she seeme<l to have no control over her own niooii.
When he reentered the room, she turned to him and looked
him very fully in the face. Ther(> was a mute, a jnithetic
(piestioning in those eyes which almost unmanned him. The
c!olour rose in his face and passionate speech came to him, but.
she interrupted him.

A rA)sr mi: A I.

y>s

with her at

**S]mt tlio (liMir. riinc is sonn'tliiii'' «'ls(' T ciiiir to min.
1 li;i(l Ix'ttiT say it, I tliiiiU, hctoic we ^m."'

|[(! (thoypd lnT, and waitctl, hut she was taidy <'!' sju-ccli.

"1 liavc tli(»ii;,dit it nil KVcr ai^'ain," slic said sluwly and witli
evident dilliiulty. "And I am williiiL; ti» coint' hack to tin
noininal slicltci' of your root, as you expressed it in the letter

you wrote to licutcusee. It will he l)ett('r for U.^ hotli."

" lint I have no loof tn nllrr you lait this," he said hoarsely.
"Uoii't iiiuik at in<'. Helen; 1 have sull'ered enough without
tliat."

"1 am not nioekinu you," she answered simply, and lier sad
eyes met his steadfastly. " \ mean what I say ; we can liiul
another roof, in the eoinitry somewhere, and you can linish
your work. I shall not l»e a hindrance to you. Perhaps,"
she added, and the w< rds UA\ like a sm]» from her lips, '' I have
heen too harsh. ,\nyhow, let us make the host of what is left."

W'oodeate sat down at the tahle, lai<l his arms on it, and
hurled his face. She stood not many paces from him, her eyes
hent on the nohle head she had so often in the old days heon
so proud of, and a ^reat tenderness smote her heart. Although
he knew it not, his silenee, his ahsolute re.serve, had pleaded
more ehxpiently for him than a thousand hurning words. It
made her helieve for the first time for many weeks in the
.sincerity of his heart. She moved to him and touched him
very lightly, hut the touch thrilled him through and through.

"I am not wholly uns(dfish in this. It is right to tell you
that I have h(!en in a manner forceil to this conclusion," she
said in the same still, strained voice. "(lod has taken this
matter out of my hands and out of yours. What we might he
ahle to hear for ourselves we cannot tolerate for the child. I
cannot — cannot for a mere selfish reason hlight its life from
the heginning."

Her meaning slowly dawned upon Woodgate, and the
revelation stunned him. But at last all his manhood awakened,
and he knelt at her feet with a great cry, and hid his face in
the folds of her gown ; and she did not repulse him : nay, there
dawned upon her face an inexpressible loveliness— the joy oi

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

II I.I

11.25

u. — i«|2.0

1.4

1.6

Hiotpgraphic
_,Sciences
Corporation

■1>'

33 WEST MAIN STREfT

WEBSTER, N.Y. MS 80

(716) 873-4S03

4i.

374

A LOST IDEAL

iiiotlu'ili'Mtd wlioso liopi! is shared, and that hohoMs heavoTi
pos.-d(lp tlirou^d* a little child.

■ I

They walked back to the hotel together, near midiii<,'ht, and
on Woodgate's arm his wife's hand lay, hut trenihliu",'!)' yet,
n(»r did ho dare to clasp it. What passed in that room was
hctwecn these two souls and the God who made them. It was
never told. To say they were happy would he to assume to<»
much ; as yet pain predcmiinated. JJut the possibility of peace
dwelt with them, and hope eternal and divine hovered near
them and whispered to them of days to come. At the door of
the hotel he left her, and when .she gave him her hand, he
raised it to his lips. A man less in earnest, less sincere, would
not have heen .so reticent of his rights, and might, after such
reconciliation, such ex(piisite forgiveness, have asked to touch
her lips. She understood, and his very reticence had for her
heart a message of ho[)e.

" T .shall see you again to-morrow," she said hesitatingly, as
she turned to leave him.

"If y<»u wisli ; Avlien and where you please."

"I .shall not leave the iMjtel, then, till you come," she said,
and so left him with a smile, tiiough her eyes W(>re dim. She
did not .seek ^fadam's room, hut went (piickly to her own, and
threw her.self U|ion the beiL And in the midst of her sobbing,
sleep came to lier softly as it might have come to a tired child,
and she woke no more till morning.

Woodgate could not slee}) because the same city held him
and the wonuin who had restored to him all the best possi-
bilities of life. His night was spent in retrospect, in fierce
gclf-examination, in holy resolve.

All extremity which drives the humari to the Divine, which
causes it to ask humbly for what it cannot tind elsewhere, is
from the hand of God.

So is His great purpose made perfect in the human souL

CHAPTER XLIX

"Tlio !W I't lil'e incltinj^' through thy looks
Hath mall- my lilt- (li.iiic"

T was far on in tlie .s«'jis(»n — nearly in the mitklle
of July — before llar^reaves returned to town.
He came witli the Von Krutensees, a happy
party, susceptil)le to all the variety and the
amusement to be extru'tfd when the heart is
light, even from a journey so prosaic. lie left them at
Charing Cross and made haste to his own rooms, to learn
there for the first time that Woodgate had left ten days
before, nor could they tell liim where he had gone. He only
waited to refresh himself a little, and then betook himself
to Miss Ryder's house in Cra«ldock Street. She was un-
feignedly glad, and also somewhat surprised to see him.

"When did you come? and where have you left thf
Countess?" she cried, all in one breath as usual. "How
splendidly you look ! You must hav(* iiad a glorious holiday.'*
"I have never had one like it. Miss Kyder," he answered,
noting with a new access of pity the worn, tired face of the
little story-writer, whose wan look told that the long hard-
working summer in the city had left its mark. "But before
I say a word aboul that, you must answer me the question I
came to ask. It's not much more than an hour since I arrived.
Where is Woodgate ? "

The little story-writer gave a jovous laugh, and her hands un

376 "

37^>

A LOST WEAL

pxcilrMl liitln (^lap. *'l).»irt VMii kiinw ^ How tldifjlitful fnV
iir' l<t !)(' tlio first Id trll you I Ili's win-]''' lie ou^^'ht to Ix^ --in
tjic lutsom of lii.s fjiiiiily.'

l[nr^'roiivos incicilulously stnrotl.

" Do yon iiu'aii to sny he is nMoncilcd to liis wifo?"

" I tli» ; 111' is. anil they've l^oik- inton little house in llendori :
iiml llieie, Ml-. lliU',L,M(';iV('s, they want to Ik; left alone for a
little while."

llar^M'eaves hel|»le>.-ly sat down. " I can't helieve it. Voii
iiiii^dit have written to let nie know," he said reproach fully.

"IJlossnipI 1 haven't had time to remomher I'ven that you
wore in oxistonce, I've had so much to do," she replied flatly.
" besides, I thouj/ht he'd writo."

"He didn't. Men are always selfish in their happiness. He
was j,dad enough to hanij on to me when lie was down on his
hick," saitl lIar<,'roaves <.!;loomily. " lUit 1 don't grudjjje him it.
Tell me how it happened."

"In the most ridiculous way," said the little story-writer,
composing]; herself for five minutes' genuine enjoyment. "Do
you rememher an excursion Woodji;ate and my Tim made u|>
the river one Saturday afternoon % Well, it all came out of
that."

" How ? "

" Well, the ahsurd boy, who by some curious means had
obtained a glimj)S(! into the man's heart that day, took it upon
himself most audaciously to write to Mrs. Woodgate. What
he said in that letter, Heaven only knows. I did not dare to
ask, and never will ; but it had the desired effect, and brought
her to London. And there they are."

Hargreaves got up and took a turn across the floor.

"At Hendon, did you say? Have you been there?"

" Yes, I was there evc^ry day till they got the place in order.
Her things were all here, you know ; and nov/ they've got to
be let «alone."

" And what is the state of the domestic atmosphere ? Is the
re«onciliation comj)lete ? "

Sophia Ryder looked a trifle perplexed, and it seemed to

J LOST TDltAL

ttarffreaves, as he waited her aiiswor, tliat she rorjardftl him
with a ccitain iiiceiu'ss of perceiitiMij, as if wonMcriiiu hnw far
she iiUL^'ht ooinniit lierself.

" Wt'll, you s»»o," she lu'j^an thtuhtfully, and then i»aus<'(l.
"They're not (h'liriou.sly hapjiy, if you nu'an thai. 'I'hcy iu(»k
like j)copk; who have to feel every ^'^^'Y '>f the wav. It's vt-ry
tryintj to hiok on ; tliat's wliy T liurried away, and say tht-y
nu,L,dit to he let alone, Ihit they're toi^t'thcr, and tliat's a ^ood
deal, don't you think ?"

She rcnardt'd ilar^^'rcaves anxiously, as if fearinuaii expression
of his ojiiuioM. lie sjuileij cheerfully.

•' I like what you t^dl me tnueh hotter than if you hail said
they .seenu'd in the seventh heaven. The rest will eoiiie.
Well, you'll he elad to hear that 1 found an iileal state of
thini^'s at Keuten.see, and, for the life of me, I don't understand
why that pair should have lived apart so long."

" Don't you % Is the Count not the monster, then, we have
.^upi»osed?"

" Not he ; he's a hig, good-natured, soft-hearted German, |>ig-
headed a hit, like the rest of his nationality, but the sort of
man a woman like the Countess could mould into any shape,
j»rovided she set about it the right way. She tried all the
wrong ways first, you see, and the succe.ss of the last resource
has made her humble. They're in Park Lane ; so you will
pro jably see her to-morrow. You thought her charming
})efore ; if you don't agree with me that she is perfect now, I
shall he astonished."

The little story- writer gave a sigh of deep content,

" So it all comes right, just as it always does in stories, Mr,
Hargreaves, isn't it odd that you and I, who have never been
married, .should have been vso much mixed up in love affairs ? "

Hargreaves joined in her laugh.

" Indeed it is ; we shall have to try a personal experience
next. We might do worse than try it together."

He was quite sincere in what he .said. He was not in love
with the little story-writer, but he entertained for her a species
of chivalrous respect, which, combined with his admiration for

378

A rosr J DEAL

'( t

th(> )M>|(i ti<^rlit she had inii«lo and a gcnuiiu* compassion for \\^v
many liardsliips, might have made a fair htisjs for matriinouia!
happiness.

She laughed again, hut the rolour rose a little in her
face,

" 1 shall always be able to say I have had one nflVi of
marriage, and from no despicable person," she replied, passing
it (•tf as a joke. "I shouldn't be at all surprised to hear yoii
had caught the conta;;ion. Hajipiness !k very infectious, I
hav(! always been told."

" r meant what 1 said," repeated Ifargreaves frankly. "We're
l)oth getting on in life, and we entertain a sincere respect for
«'ach other. We'll be less lonely together. Won't you think
it over?"

** I'm very much obliged to you, Mr. llargreaves, for 1 see
«iuit(? well you're not making a fool of me, and I feel as
flattered as a woman might in the circumstances ; but I'm not
going to make a fool of inynef/ at my time of life. We'd
both live to regret it, if we ever did anything so foolish. It's
the atmosplicre you've been living in, my dear, so I'll excuse
you."

The last was delicious. The touch of motherliness was all
that was needed to restore the equanimity to the atmosphere.
So it ended with a laugh ; and the pair who had known each
other so many years shook hands upon it, and parted as they
had done before — friends for life.

*'Ah, I .say, the Ilendon address," Hargreaves came back
to say. " You may as well give it me, because, you see, if you
don't, I'll simply rake from one en<l of Hendon to the other
till I find thenL"

" I believe you are capable of it," she replied, as she scribbled
the name of the house on an envelope.

The boys thought Aunt Soph in a particularly lively mood
that night, and to their appalling joy, she hurried them oti'
before supper to the Crystal Palace to see the illumina-
tions.

I^ext morning, after a late breakfast, being in an idle mood,

A LOST IDEAL

379

ttlo in her

yot havinj^' a (listiiK't jau'iutsc in his mind, lliirj^n'jivcs itwh' (»ii
the top of a Itus to llnnii)st('a(l, and walk'd tlicncf in a Irisiircly
fa.sliion to llcndon, arriving; aUont luncli tinu-, and with
apjx'titc suHicipntly sharpened to make a nio(h'st hinchc'on at
the Wclsli Harp accoptable. Then he took a stroll to tlic old
clinrchyard, looked at some of tlie notahle lieadstones, an«l
feasted Ids eyes for a space on tlie with'sjm'adin;,' panorama
of lovely landscape, so trnly Kn^dish in every detail, sleeping
drowsily under the golden haze of the niidsunimer sun.
Finally, he betook himself, about three o'clock in the afternoon,
to the main road a;,'ain, to search for the new habitation of his
friends. He found it a little remote from the villaj;e, a low,
one-.storeye<l, rambling cot ta^'e, standing; in a larj^e <,'arden, within
a belt of ])ranching lime-trees which shut it completely off from
the road. The entraiu^e was })y a wicket gate half- way uj) a
leafy lane, which reminded Hargreaves of tlie Warwickshire
village where he had spent Ins boyhood. Without the gate lie
paused just half a minute, looking in at the old-world garden,
which was gay with every old-fashioned country flower, the
walks bordered M'itli rose-trees laden with those common and
delightful sorts from which cultivation has not stolen the
])erfume. JJeyond the glory of the rose-trees there was a little
lawn, upon the centre of which grew a weeping ash, making a
natural arbour, and there he felt no surprise to see Helen
sitting, with a small table beside her chair piled with dainty
M'liite stuff similar to what occupied her hands. He felt no
surprise, becau.se she seemed to fall in with her surroundings, to
l)e so naturally a piece of that home-like scene. He could only
see her profile, which gave no indication of the peace or the
.serenity of her mind. He could have stood there watching her
indefinitely, but his scrutiny he felt to be an intrusion, though
she was not aware of it ; and presently, after the .slightest
hesitation, he opened the gate and entered. The creak of the
hinges disturbed her, and she looked round quickly, and with
a great surprise she flushed in her recognition of him, but had
a smile immediately, and a word of welcome for him, simple,
cordial, and sincere as of yore.

.•?8o

// l.O^T I PEAL

-' . '

'' \\'<' tliou;^lit yuu wiTf alii'M.!." ^hr >Mit|. "It i< plon^tiint
to S(M' v"! iiK"''>-

•'I rctiiiiH'il last iii-Iil. Siiplna Kydftr told nio wlifii- yni
wt'iT to lie fuinul. It was (juitc iiii|i(»ssil)lM for ini* to stay away."'

His (liri't'tiirss (»f s|>n'cli sccriK'il ti> amuse licf a little, lir.t
lii-r iiiwanl a^ntation was t(» Ix; (lete<'t«'tl in the treiiililin;^r of
tlif tiiijLjeiN wliiili lieM the iiee.lle,

"Sit (I'Wii." she saiil (|iiietly. " Kiihanl isn't at huni'' tiii-s
iiM'niiii;;. He went imiiiediately after hreakl"a«-t up tn tnwn.
I'rohahly he will ^n to Noifulk Street to iiimiire after yuu. I
• 'X]»eet him hefore dinner."

She did not sn^'L;est that he mij^ht remain till tln-n, hut
went on (piiekly, as if dreatlin^' any interval of silence,

" He finished his new l)o(»k last nij^jht, and has taken it
with him."

** Finished it? lly Jove, tliat's powtrfnl work! Have yuu

have y(»u read any of it?"

" I have read it all."

She laid dctwn the dainty ;^'arment she was stiteldnj,', aiid
the eyes which turned t rds the snnny ;;arden were fidl of
a light which made Hai;" .-s wonder and keep silent, waiting
he did not know for whai. At last she turne(l to him shtwly,
and he never forg(»t lier look.

"God has given to me my heart's desire. You, who have
through all been so tndy my friend and his, will, I kn<iw,
rejoice with nie."

Hargreaves did not ask what her lieart's desire was; he
understootl.

"I knew it was in him, and I also knew that nohody in the
w(»rld could bring it «nit, save onh' you."

" Wlien I read it, the words which must move, and for good
only, every heart that reads them," she said, with a sob in her
voice, " I couhl thank God for all that has passed ; and — and
— for the future I «h) not fear."

Hargreaves rose to his feet. An uncontrollable emotion was
upon him. He walked down the rose-lined path and back again,
pausing before her humbly.

A LOST rPEAL

381

;it lioiin- tlii-<

"Perhaps T ou^'ht not to have, conic to-day, and yet I seemed
to be ur;,'od to it. I will go away now. After a time I siiall
come again, if I may."

'• Vou may, jiist as you did before, after a time," .she replud,
expressing no surprise, and acrej)ting his words as be uttered
them. "1 am glad to have seen you."

So he went away, satislied, though longing 1<» ask a thousand
«|Uestions. Yet be dared not; there was s(»mething bidden in
the woman's heart, and written on her fare, wbicb loibudi; thr
smallest curiosity, even on the part of a frie.nd so faithful.
There was an inwaiduess, a saerediuss, in her new vision ol
life, which threw a halo rouiul her. llargreavcs had many
strange; thoughts, and again bis loneliness ihv»'lt with him,
oppressing him more keenly than it bad done at Kcutensce.

For that reason, and for another, it seemeil natural for
him to go out to Park Lane before hi; returned to Norfolk
Street.

"The Countess has been out driving, sir; she has just come
in," the man said, imlicating, though he did not say so, that
his mistress might prefer not to be disturbed.

"Take licr my card," Ilargreaves said serenely, and waited,
knowing very well that he would be immediately admitted.
She ieceiv(!d him in her own sitting-room with a gay
smile.

"Well, I have made my first public appearance with my
husband and my sou, and now they have gone a further
expedition without me. How are you to-day 1 and whence this
intense, souk; what sad look on the face that was so gay
yesterday 1 "

" 1 have had a glimpse to-day of the inwardness of life,
I'ountess," be answered. Then he told her in a few words,
well chosen, of his errand tbat day, and the impression he had
carried away with him. As she li.stened, her face grew very
grave, even to satlness; and when she spoke, the sound of tcms
was in her voice.

" Vbat vou s;iv lifts me up; it mav be tbiit vet I -liail Imph
ibc biuul of my friend." was all she said; and fr(»iii tbat day

js? A rosr III AL

til' lnt|tc (Iwill Willi III! till vi'.ii- ;il:e , wlioii It Wiis ful-
lil«''l.

t •«

.'!

fl'

% !

■X-' ■

li li'M tli>>M<4lit Imi lil|sli;ii|.| i|r|>ri-ssi>i| when iit> l<tliriii><l
tlwil lll^'llt, .111*1 Unliilrrcil w lilt III I III- liiul rcrriviii lillt S( ant

ftmilr-v from liis luiMislu'iN. Sjir iisknl him a trillf limiiliv,
as lliry sfti t(»;4i'tlit r in tlir iliisky iliawiii^' rii(»m after ilimuT,
liiiw III' ha«i fairtl. Tlii'ir tli'iinMiiour towards carh utlirr was
still iimrli straiiinl his siirpassiiii^ly ^'rntlr : hrra marknl hy
a itcriiliar hrsitatiii;^' xtilliicss. Sophia Ryder had expressed it
well when she suiil liiey s(>eiued to ho fei'liii;^ every step of the
way.

"Oh, it'j* all ri^dit. l)a\eiiaiit was very civil. I daresay hell
publish the lliin;^', as he did hefore, without expressing; any
opinion. It's not that that trouhles me, hut niy own con-
viction of its poverty. I wi>h you'd toll mo truly what you
think."

It was iiKsoliitely the tii*st time he had asked hor to pass an
opinion on his work, and his words had still tho power to thrill
hor — Jiy, to tho very Iwart. .Vnd sho could not hclj) contrasting;
tliis humility, which oppresses every honest soul in tho i-on-
templation of all tinished work whatsoovor, with his former
complacency, his absolute ci.nlidenco in tho porfection of his
labour.

" I do not know vory much, but I tliink you have never
written anything; to equal it."

"I>o you think so'/" he asked ipiickly, and tho liylit loai)e(l
in his eyos. "Tell me how?"

"It is sincere, and it comes from the heart," sho answered
simply.

"(nul knows it was wruv.g from the heart — tho outcome of
desperation, 1 lelon. Do you know what was my moving impulse
all through?"

Sh(> shook her head.

"To write something which I might lay at your feet as an
atonement. Heavens ! the fool T have boon all through. God
forgive me ! I do not deserve even this semblance of peace,"

// f.OST IDF.AL

.183

;)r('ssnij; any
y own (.on-
ly wliat you

have never

" Ih it Hilly a Hrnililancc, Ki<'li:ii<l '{"
"If it I (iotl I'nilii.l that I >lioul>i rniiiplain ; but" —
ll(^ ttirnctl ii|Hin lirr a louk of smli ;^rr«al anil |ia.s.siunat<' Idm*
tliat tlir I'oluur Icapctl in liir fan-. Slic liaii prnniiHiMl him
Miitliin;,' n<» woid of loxc ha*l pa^scil hctwccn tht'ni y<'t ; lln'y
hail siniplv a^rccii to hiiiy tli<> past, an<l to share sikOi life us
nii;.,'ht yet he possiMc to tlu'in, for tlir >al\<' uf tin- unhorn chiM.

I \vt»nl«l Nvish V">u to niaKc v«»'H' Nsmk noMc for tlif wniK

>ak»', and in y;ratiliuli' for so ^'rcat a ,L;ift,"' sin; sai-l, with
(lillifulty.

"Tliat I can only do tliron;^di yoii," lie said, still paM>ionat<'ly.
"I am notliin;; witlioiit you; y«»u arc my Ix'ttcr self. CnhiMH
you take mc in hand, I sjiall never nadi llh- ln'i;^'lils."

Sin; upliftiMl licr hand in dcprrcation. Ixathcr would >li( ,
womaidikc, luive seen him stand alone, self reliant, strong' as a
man oUj^ht to he, r<'a<ly to (i;j;lit tin* wron;^' and do Ltie lij^ht foi-
ri;^dit/.s .sake only. Ihit, rcmemherin^' the past, shr thanked (lod

I tool

Iv conia^'e.

lire Wits the earnest of the ''ood which

nuj^dit he. Also, she saw stretehin^ heforc her, in a futnn^
^rown lovely with heavenliest pmmise, her own herita^'e, room
for lier soul to exereise its goodliest ,L,'ifts ; the power to hless, to
stn^ngthen, to point the upward way. She rose up, her heart
stirred within her, and for the lirst time .since the darkne.s.s had
overtaken her life, laid her lu'ad, wifelike, upon hi.s hreast.

And hecau.se lov(> can con<|Uer nneoiujuerahlei worlds, the .soul
of the man ro.s(! up within him, and, though .silent. In; eried out
with ii mighty crying to the Lord to make him worthy.

er would i>ierce the heavens, even were they

some starved souls Itelieve.

Sucl

1 pray
adamant, as

So a deepening peace liroode(l upon them, nor was hope,
joying towards fruition, v(!ry far away.

THE END.