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He sat beside the bed, his arms fallen between his knees, his face flung forward, intense with straining, as if to draw her back before she slipped away! During ten short years— a moment— she had filled his life with summer: she had been— she was —his sunrise: his day was young yet, young as hers— God, the day is brief enough, at best: I' t 2 HER MEMORY. it doesn't end at noon! There are clouds enough at best, and mists across the morning — but, oh God, the sun must run his Httle course before he sinks into the sea! — she lay dying, in her early prime of womanhood: the stealthy shadows blackened on the whiteness of the room. She opened her eyes, and looked at him. " Anthony," she said, in a voice like that of a stranger, speaking very low and calm, " I want you to fetch her, please." He rose hastily and walked to the win- dow, gazing out, seeing nothing. He re- belled against this inevitable desire of hers, the leave-taking from their only child. And he crept away, with laggard step, to the far- ther side of the house, and took the child's hand from her toys, and brought her. In the grey death-chamber, by the bed- side, the child stood solemn, accustomed of late to sickness, her little face accepting the sadness all around. HER MEMORY. o " Margaret," said the father, " it is little Margaret." The child wondered: none but her grandmother ever called her " Margaret." The dying woman again unclosed her eyes, to more than their natural width. "Margaret," she responded: the word sank like an echo in measureless abysms of passion. He saw, as she lay immovable upon the pil- low, he saw all her soul well up towards them: for one moment he felt it blend with his and mingle as never in all their happy years of union— then, a terrible change came over the eyes: they broke: the child trembled under his hand, cried out: the doctor ran in! the nurse! -the room seemed full of people, of hideous, unbearable commotion— an immense cloud had fallen between him and the bustle round the bed. He drew back, watching their busy move- ments, and the tumult of his impressions, as he watched, seethed down rapidly into a resolve to resist. "Doctor," he said, " what are you 4 HER MEMORY. doing? " For the moment nobody answered him. " You are disturbing us," he continued angrily. " Mrs. Stollard wished to speak to me. She had sent for the child." The doctor turned from the bed, a rough man, uncouth. " She will never speak to you again, Mr. Stol- lard," he said. 7'he husband made one great stride for- ward. "Liar!" he said, and pushed back the meddling physician, not, certainly, in- tending to hurt him, pushed him back over a stool or a cushion, on to a couch. " Oh, Mr. Stollard, oh sir, come away! " exclaimed the sick nurse: he bent over the dead woman and suddenly lifted her high in the air. He faced them with his burden enwrapped in clinging linens: he saw, through the twilight, the vul- « gar, frightened expressions around him; he saw the child sobbing, half hidden in her nurse's lap. Without a word he passed from them, bearing his burden, through the door, and the long passage, downstairs. HER MEMORY. 5 The doctor sat up and brushed his arm. "He knows she's dead," he said. "He wouldn't have moved her, if he hadn't known she was dead." CHAPTER II. The husband, erect and slow, directed his steps "o a room which had lain unused for the last three weeks, his wife's. As he entered, his arms shook. There were flowers here — great masses — in vases, as usual: the gar- dener had gone his daily round; the machin- ery of the house moved on. The room looked horribly unaltered: he laid down the beautiful burden from his arms, on the familiar couch in the great bay window. And he turned quickly, to double-lock the door. Seven years ago, that time she had sprained her ankle, he had carried her down like this, day by day, for a month. She was very young and lovely then. She was very lovely still. And young. HER MEMORY. 7 When, at last, he looked up from the mus- ing into which he had fallen, on the low chair by her side, all shapes in the room were grown indistinct with dusk. He sprang to the win- dow-curtains and tore them aside— tore them away, in sudden descents of dark drapery, feverishly anxious to see clearly, to distin- guish each feature, to have light all about, full upon her— not this increasing darkness- light! And as the remorseless gloom sank faster, lie bent close, resting his hot cheek against her cold one, whispering her name. A fold of falling curtain had carried down with it a table full of knickknacks: he had not re- marked the crash. But he noticed that a slip of linen had dropped away from the half-bared arm, and he gently drew it up again. He realised nothing, reasoned about noth- ing, desired— for the moment— nothing, ex- cept, perhaps, that the advancing night should pause. When the room had grown 8 HER MEMORY. quite dark, with sultry summer darkness, he rose to his feet and hghted all the candles in a great porcelain chandelier overhead, Hghted all the candles in numerous sconces and Dresden ornaments, against the mir- rors and shiny hangings, went on light- ing candles, that had never burnt in such abundance before — his hand so shaky that he knocked off bits of flowers and leaves from the brittle china — went on multiplying bright reflections, till the little rounded cham- ber, all pale silk and porcelain, shone, opal- escent, like the inside of a shell. He could draw no blinds, for he had broken the cords: beyond the great window the blue night beat against the blaze. Somebody stealthily tried the door-handle. There were steps on the ijravel outside, and once came the sound of ' carriage-wheels. Single stars crept forth above the distant wall of trees. A blackbird started its loud call, and stopped. Everything was still, expectant, holding its breath. He >'*-tf HER MEMORY. only expected nothing, sitting watching in the yellow glare. All through the night he sat thus, watch- ing. The terrified domestics, alone with the sleeping child, whispered and stared at each other. Far adown the country-side shone the radiance from the terrace-window: the serv- ants, peeping round a corner, discussed it un- der their breath, sore-troubled, delighted, amazed. The footman, who read books, vaguely mentioned " funereal pyres; " the women-servants thrilled responsive; the un- der-housemaid slipped upstairs, escorted, to fetch her ear-rings: old nurse brought down her charge, to an improvised bed in the break- fast-room. They were all of them attached to their employers, within reasonable limits of menial devotion. Their master was an honourable man, a gentleman: they were honestly sorry for him, wondering what changes would come 10 HER MEMORY. to themselves, primarily nonplussed by this extravagant concluct to-night. " You must telegraph to Sir Henry," the doctor had said to the butler, as the two went stealing back from the boudoir door; " Sir Henry, I sup- pose, is in London: is he not? " The butler did not know: Mr. Stollard's elder brother ?o seldom came to Thurdles, the household hardly cared about his movements. " But I think," said the butler, cautiously, " that Stawell Court is closed." Stawell Court was the family seat, about seven miles away. " Well, then, nothing remains but to send for Mrs. Fosby," said the doctor testily. " And a natural thing to do, she being the poor dead lady's mother. But I always pre- fer to have a man on the scene first. WonK^.n are no good, except for crying, a thing any one can do who is paid for it, as they under- stand in the East. Good-night!" He turned in <^ht hall-door: " Do you want me for any- i'un.'?:* • he asked. HER MEMORY. II The butler's family-j)ricle rose vvilliin him, ^hoii^'h he was not an old family servant. " I ihank you, sir," he made answer, " no, I think we can manage, sir." And he went down- stairs, feeling miserably forlorn, and respon- sible, with that great glare across the gravel road, and the barred door within the house, and all this helpless woe. " The doctor ain't vo gentleman," he said to the other servants, " I shall send a messenger to Mrs. Fosby. You must find me a messenger, John." The servants detested their mistress's mother, but they would be eager to welcome her now. " He said as he preferred a man— for to manage things," said the butler, with a grin. A shout went up, immediately suppressed. " She'd manage us alive or dead, 'd Mrs. Fos- by," remarked the unthinking housemaid. "Lor', Adelaide, how can you!" squeaked cook. All the servants cried out upon Ade- laide, who sat down, very red and sniffy, sev- i 12 HER MEMORY. eral times repeating she should say anything slie chose. ill \ " It is absurd," said Mrs. Fosby, on the doorstep next morning, in the clear light of the summer day. All the way up from the town, on whose farther side she lived, suburb- anly, she had stared at the wan window that stared down at her. Now, having alighted from the fly, she had cautiously stared under cover of the rhododendrons. She could hardly steady her impatient foot, as she lis- tened to Nurse Lintot's lucubrations. " It is terribly sad, and my child is taken — taken from me:" her lip shook— " taken from us. Sad enough,— God knows!— without this very extraordinary com — plication. Lintot, this scandal must be stopped at once. By the bye, it was extravagant of Hawkin to send me a messenger. Stopped at once! Every- body will be talking in Rusborough. And what will the county say? " HER MEMORY. 13 " The Lord knows, ma'am," said Liiitot sobbing. " I do not," replied Mrs. Fosby emphat- ically. Without the remotest sense of havinj^ said anytliing; incongruous she swept into the hall. Mrs. Fosby was a good woman: it would be a great mistake to imagine she was not. An unlikely mistake, for she possessed a large store of such second-rate virtues as any aver- age community is swift to recognise. Su- premely respectable herself, she loved, hon- oured, and served respectability all the days of her common-place life. She had never done anything that any of her associates deemed wrong. She belonged to the upper middle class, for her husband had been able to " retire " from something substantial in the city; her religion was the Church of England, and her worship the stratum immediately above her. She had been " blessed," as she fully realised, in her only child, ]Margaret, who H HER MEMORY. had succeeded, with admirable tact, in leaving her mother's feelings unhurt, and her own un- injured, growing up pure and good, without giving or taking offence. Once only there threatened a fateful divergence, when Mar- garet refused her first suitor, a baronet, on the sands of Llandudno; but the baronet turned out a Mysterious Musician, and Mrs. Fosby ate humble pie. The girl herself, from whose gold her mother's gilding dropped harmless, unconsciously and innocently con- formed in the temple of Rimmon, while busy with her own white thoughts and prayers. And the god Snob was merciful to her; or perhaps he is weary of virgin holocausts. An- thony Stollard fell in love with her and she with him. Anthony, who belonged not only to an old county family— every one in the country does that— but to a family mansion, a baronetcy (Victorian), and a handful of apocryphal pictures. Anthony was the happy possessor of a competency and moderate ill- HER MEMORY, n leaving own un- without ily there en Mar- 3net, on baronet nd Mrs. Jlf, from dropped tly con- ile busy- prayers, her; or s. An- md she ot only in the ansion, clful of happy •ate ill- 15 heahh. He was the unhappy possessor of an artistic temperament, and an adequate talent for painting. Had he been gifted with genius, his fortune would hardly have hampered him; had he been destitute of means, his art-love could have done him no harm. As it was, he painted, frequently with pains, and his pic- tures were taken by the Galleries, and the critics said they showed various most admi- rable qualities, and he gave them away to his friends. When they married he was twenty-five and she was twenty. In his case, at any rate, there had been love at first sight. Their mar- ried life lasted through an almost cloudless decade. During ten years of that time he loved her for her beautiful face, during nine for her beautiful soul. He thought there was no better, fairer woman. He never looked at others. He painted sheep. " It is absurd," said Mrs. Fosby, sitting in i6 HER MEMORY. the breakfast-room, beside Margie's elisor- > 18 HER MEMORY. " Yes, mamma," replied her daughter; for Margaret knew that whatever Mrs. Fosby re- marked about reh-gion was sure to be correct. " Essential," said Mrs. Fosby. " Yes, mamma," repeated Margaret, fer- vently. But "rdigion" is an expression which covers a multitude of sins. With Mrs. Fosby it meant learning ail the Bible-stories (espe- cially those of the Old Testament) and serv- ing the great god Snob. Morally, it meant trynig not to wish that Sir Henry might die a bachelor. " It is the truth of religion which chiefly appeals to mamma," declared Mar- garet. Her husband smiled. "Yes," he said, "just as its beauty appeals to me, and its' goodness to you. There you have our three characters, combined in the three attributes It IS the story of the Ring. To your mother religion means devils, to me it means angels to you " He paused. '■*!»». HER MEMORY. 19 filter; for "osby re- ■ correct. iret, fer- 1 which >. Fosby s (espe- id serv- : meant ght die 1 which 1 Mar- e said, md its r three ibutes. nother ingels, "Just human creatures looking up to God," she said. He bent to kiss her. " And, looking out of human creatures, God," he said. But Mrs. Fosby had no patience with what she called " theories." " On the most sacred subjects," said Mrs. Fosby, " to my own granddaughter, my lips are sealed. Not for worlds would I intrude upon her mother's task. Still, Margaret, when the child insisted upon splashing my new silk dress, I was compelled to refer to a possible visit from the bogey-man." " Did she cry? " questioned Margaret anxiously. " She did not. I am boi^nd to confess she informed me the bogey-man was there al- ready. It appears that, according to An- thony, / am the bogey-man! " Anthony, however, always stoutly main- tamed that here was a misconception on somebody's part, and, as he liked his mother- 20 IIER MEMORY. ;-■• A" occasion .oo„ pj;:; ;■ O" a Sunday afternoon, d„„, ^u.^^i^h T' gestn-e of tl.ree o'clock tea IVI *^' -;-.-a-..a., sa. on .e r.^^Hr "■"en Mrs Fosbv """ ""'°™'' - •- .een':::, r ::. r ^ .-"^-'^'^ had been riw. i , , Margie's tears -er:;:„risrr"^ '"'---- Mnrdill"^"'?"™^ ''-' "^^ '"""e Miss '»™ in ..ejaZ:: :::■■'"- who never driv. , '^ P^°P'e ""icbs tney want to. \ \ floor. "And ^j^ HER MEMORY. 21 ntcrested in Mar- '111 the Miss Murcham, sweetly pie, took up a nondescript effig7fro 's." siie said IS Mrs. Noali's tortoise-shell insinuati cat. ngiy, "Moo-moo-cow," said Margie fiercely ^"atclnng the animal away. ^' ^ J^Acow,isit?" The spinster reddened. C"t what a very little one! It can't ho --i^ -ore than a calf. Mar.ie--a„ calf!" ' ^'^ a" orange book, ..nerposed Anthony p.e.ti,,: ".he Golden Calf, you know. Miss Murchan, I ': ™7 ^'^"°- - 'he pic,„.e. M.J: . j grandma all about the naughty Calf " Sie " "t?r''' " "'^^ "■""^'''" -d Mar- k'c. And Jimmy squealed " ;; What? "exclaimed Mrs, Fosby. There is some mistake " ,-^ t , , "= mistake, remarked An- 'hony gravely. "M„p, j^ ^^^^^^.^^ ^^ ^^^^ * ( J M 22 HER MEMORY. Httlc boy's leg that was bitten two clays ago l>y the stable-dog." " Yes, bited it in its leg and it squealed," repeated Margie. " There is no connection between the two subjects," said grandnianmia tartly— " „o connection at all. And i cannot comprehend Anthony's fondness for ferocions, not to say murderous, brutes. Sometimes, indeed, I can- not but realise that I come here in dange: of my life." " Oh, poor Toby's been shot," said An- thony. "They were afraid he was going mad, so they shot him to make sure, and that may happen to anyone— now, mayn't it? Look here, grandmamma, Mops knows a lot out of the Bible, don't you. Mops, dear? Give her the picture-book, Margaret; let her tell about the pictures." Both parents bent fondly over their dar- ling- " It is Anthony's idea, you remember," HER MEMORY. 23 said Margaret, proudly; "the engravings are taken from celebrated pictures. Now, Mar- gie, tell grandmamma, what is the little boy doing with the lamb?" But Margie, seated in front of the great volume on the floor, all starch and blue rib- bons and obstinacy, refused, after the igno- minious incident concerning the calf, to utter a word. "These are Popish pictures, my dear," said Miss Murcham. " It does seem a pity," assented Mrs. Fos- by sadly, " that all the Italian painters should have been Roman Catholics. Michael An- gelo, I have been told, was a Protestant; but, really, to judge by his paintings, an Italian Protestant might as well be a Papist as not." Margaret smiled; but Anthony impatient- ly turned over a number of pages. "Now, here," he said— " here are the parables. Tell grandmamma what the old man is doing, Mops." 24 HER MEMORY. Silence. Coiitcmi)latioii. " VVhcre had tlic young man been. Mops? Why was he coming home? When his father ran clown from the top of the house, what did he say? " More silence. Deeper contemplation. "Now, Margie, you are very naughty \ ou know perfectly well. He put a beautiful coat on his !)ack, and then he put rings on his fingers -" " And bells on his toes," said Margie, sud^ denly finding voice. But Mrs. Fosby was by no means so fool- ish a woman as the careless generaliser would like to think. When Anthony-in his happy days a bit of a teaze-informed her how Mar- gie, having hiccoughed in the midst of her evening address to the Almighty, had paused and courteously interposed, " T beg your par- don," before proceeding, Mrs. Fosby had merely answered: "The child is a gentle- if HER MEMORY. 35 woman born," which shows her to have been sufficiently discriminating in her own pecuhar sphere. Nor did she remember with any par- ticular annoyance the scene between herself and Margie on a day when the child had been sent across to amuse !ier~she being confined to the house with a cold— and a desultory thunderstorm had abnormally protracted the visit. " You mustn't be afraid of the thunder, Margie; it's the angels talking." Far from reassured by this view, Margie hid away close under the sofa cushions. Pres- ently, however, grandmamma sneezed several times consecutively. Margie drew forth her head, half timidly, and watcnt:d. " And is the showers the angels sneezing, gran'ma? " Into this little circle, full of mutual love, and the human diversities which quicken love, came the Angel of Death and cut the string 26 HER MEiMORY. "V """"■"'' •°8-^"'-- "Gather up the fragments," He said in passing. And one poor I^uman being, on his knees in the dust, hokhng together tl,e severed ends that crum- Wed under his fretting, cried back that .he chain still held. Jr up 1 one iust, "um- the CHAPTER III. It was very early in the morning— the morning of the day after-when he threw open the boudoir door, and stood Hstening. The deserted corridor was full of tlie awakening sunlight, cool and golden, with a hundred glinting suggestions of glories to come. He drew the door to and locked it carefully on the outside. Then he hastened down the solemn stillness with the step of a man who has taken a great resolve. He went up straight to the nursery. Both rooms were deserted; bars of light fell be- tween the shutters: from the inner chamber the child's cot had been removed, leaving an immense forlornness behind it. The discov- ery came home to him with a shock— a sen- sation of something having happened, a 27 28 HER MEMORY. change. Something that other people knew. They were acting, the outsiders. Life moved. On the stairs a frightened undermaid met him, and sank away, white, from his white face, into the dusk. He asked calmly enough Adhere the child was. In the breakfast-room? He went there, dully surprised. All curtains were already drawn back- here at the back of the house-the room was as full of light and brightness as possible Nurse Lintot sat droning a fairy tale. Close up against the woman's arm lay little Mar- garet, still in her cot, white-garmented, at- tentive. " And the King said to the golden-haired Princess: But why is your name Misfor- tune?" The father stood in the doorway; Nurse Lintot dropped her book. "Papa!" cried little Margaret. There was a glad note in her voice; he caught it, and for the first time a sob rose to his throat. HER MEMORY. "Come," he said, beckoning, "I want you to come at once." She crept out of bed, obedient, and took his hand. "Put some- thing on Iier feet." he said gently, and led her away slippered, bare-legged. Nurse Lintot, shaking against the doorpost, watched them down the solemn sunlit corridor in the shad- ow of the awakening day. She saw them en- ter the room together— that room!— and its door closed heavily upon her heart. Against the door, which her father had once more locked behind them, the child hung back, open-eyed. There was a fascina- tion in the unfamiliar aspect of the long fa- miliar room. Her glance fell on the shreds of china scattered here and there. " Oh," she exclaimed, "mamma's beautiful chandelier!" Her father took no notice; he was staring with a terrified, terrifying look at the couch l)y the window-her eyes followed his— on which mamma so often lay. And mamma lay ■ii Pi 30 HER MEMORY. i i?ti 1 ) i ; there now, with face unveiled, upturned to the liglit-nianuna. of whom they had been tell- ing her all yesterday-Nurse Lintot, Grand- mamma Foshy, everyone-that she had gone to hve with the angels, gone to heaven (above the sky), gone to live with God. gone, gone that she would never see her again, at least never unless she was very good; she must always be a good little girl now, and comfort her poor father, and then, perhaps, if she died (which only other children do), etcetera. "Mamma!" she cried out, regardless for the moment of the awe which had filled her regardless of possible disturbance, of sickness' or sleep, of all things except her mother's' face. Suddenly she understood-completely God had heard her unceasing pravers of yes- terday-for God hears little children's prayers -and had sent back from His far away, an- gel-filled heaven the mother she had cried for till Nurse told her it was naughty to cry. She no longer observed the torn hangings in HER MEMORY. 31 heaps on the floor, the sprinkHngs of rose- leaves from the gutted candlesticks, the dazzle of the naked windows against the streaming sun— her glance flashed to her father, stand- ing expectant. "Mamma!" " Ves, yes, yes," he said, finding passion- ate utterance. " That's what I want you to do, Margie. That's what I fetched you for. Think of it, she can't hear me, Mar- gie. She can't hear me. She won't hear me. I don't know which. I've been calling to her for hours-for hours! I couldn't tell how long: it doesn't matter. She'd have heard me by this time, if she could, I think. But she'll hear you, Margie: I want you to call her and wake her. Hush, you needn't call very loud, not for other peo- ple to hear, you know. She used to hear you when you were a tiny baby, and when I said nothing had moved, she used to guess you wanted her: she couldn't possibly have heard. 32 HER MEMORY. i'tt She'll hear you now, and wake, and answer. Margaret! Margaret! Oh my God-Mar- garet! Come here, Margie, come closer! Whisper in your mother's ear! " The child drew near, trembling. She stood by the couch, and, as she leant forward, her yellow curls, in the crystal sunlight,' mingled with the dead woman's darker locks.' " Mamma," she whispered, under her father's eager gaze, "mamma!" A groan broke from the wretched watcher. " She doesn't hear you," he exclaimed, " Oh Margie, you must call louder, too! " He sank down beside her and together they murmured against the impassive cheek, that one dear, unanswered word. His voice rose to a wail of disappointment; the child burst into tears. A long, dead silence ensued in the fiower and sun-filled room. Outside, a chaffinch broke into carolling: for a moment the still air seemed to ring with a rejoicing that deep- ened immediately into unendurable pain. The HER MEMORY. 33 widower rose to his feet and kissed his Httle daughter. "Little one, you must forgive me," he said, " come away! " Pie threw open the door. His wife's mother stood ia the cor- ridor, hurriedly summoned from a sleepless pillow, irresolute, white to the lips. " She is dead," exclaimed Anthony, and threw himself on her breast. He had scarcely calmed down, when his brother came forward and held out a sym- pathetic hand. " He'll be all right after this, and a good thing too," thought the brother. For Henr> Stollard took life simply, and al- ways behaved as everyone would expect him to behave. A transparent nature himself, up- right and sensible, he thought everybody else was sensible and transparent too. At the sound of his voice, the younger brother turned round, disengaging himself, and stood, apparently collected. " Oh, Henry, is that you? " he said, " how i 34 HER MEMORY. ■ '""''■■ "'"^^Posing, sai.! so„,e,l,i„„- ai.ou. dress-„,akcrs a„., parcels, a.u, „„, .eav! ."g the house.-.. Oh, what does it „,at,er> '• he answered quite gently. '. We can get what he wants for her anywhere. BlacKc.othes i suppose you .nean-„,anima?" And he strocle <,own the passage, thoughtfully brush- >ns .s erutnpled sleeve. His brother fol- 'owedhnn. " Anthony," said Sir Henry •. I ™l>3-ou would listen to n,e for just one min. ■ l'''"' ''' ^°'"e unavoidable arran^^e- nients." ''"'t>e Anthony stopped. " Yes, of course," he a , I understand what you mean, quite V a I wsh you would see to all that for ™e. Henry. You could not do „e a greater -™e. To „e it is al, a tnatter of supreme indifference." <( All ? " HER MEMORY. 35 'ff tt All." *' l-!iit, Anthony, the responsibility! I should be so vexed, if there were anything you would wish done differently!" Anthony interrupted hmi with a weary gesture. " There is nothing I should wish done dif- ferently," he said, " because, you see, there is nothing I should wish done at all. I am go- ing away at once with Alargie, for good. This is no place for her or for me. Do as you like in everything. I shall be so glad. You are sure to act right, Henry. You al- ways know what your duty is, and you always do it. I mean " He hesitated, flushed, imagining he had said something unkind. " I'm so glad you think so," said Henry warmly. " I shall be delighted— I mean, I am willing to do whatever I can for you. But, Anthony, I don't understand about your go- ing away. In this most trying crisis— this, this terrible affliction, I do trust that you will i J i, illJ! 36 HER MEMORV. ask yourself, Anthony, what Dnty rcc,.,irc., of you. There are n,o„,ents in our hve,,, ,lc.u Anthony -" "There arc," said the widower. "Yes Henry, you are quite right, and many thanks ; I am so unfortunate-as I have often told you-I have never in a'l my life leen ahso- lutely sure what my duty was. Do you know 1 have sometimes tliouglit I shouli V, The Riviera, as eve vc; le kn-.vvs, is by no means a land of jollity. ;, ,, the abode of perpetual diversion, and also of persistent dis- ease—for along its smiling shores crowd those who know not how to live, and those who know not how to die. In its palm-en- folded palaces the man who cannot sleep for dissipation lies down beside the man who can- not sleep for pain. And, at night, the reveller, returning, crosses, in a by-street, the clandes- tine cortege of Death. In no spot on earth does louder clang of cymbals strike upon softer air; nowhere may Danae so shamelessly bare her brazen bosom, or Midas so greedily gorge of the banquet which crushes his soul. And nowhere, surely, do Midas's ears show quite so plain. 53 •A\ .a] 54 HER MEMORY. All the world over the great circles of dis- sipation still centre, doubtless, in the doings of the vicious few. These are prominent, much chronicled, coveted from afar. But other wheels of life revolve around them, wheels wiihin wheels innumerable, and each man must attend to his own. " Society " is a sort of performance that goes on, like the puppet-show, in front of your honest work- shops and smithies; you pay your sixpence, or a penny, for the pleasure of being present (in print): and the town is full of honest artisans still. But the little world of this little sun- dazzled corner is only "society," there is nothing under and nothing around it: self- inflated, it revolves around itself, the con- glomerate Supereminence of the nineteenth century, the shoddiest and shadiest aristoc- racy that ever the heavens laughed upon— till they fell in. Anthony Stollard stood aside, watching the flow of turgid amusement. When a man IIER MEMORY. 55 IS melancholy, amusement proves a remedy that either kills or cures: in no case, however, should it be applied from without. To the onlooker there is always something drean'V senseless in the gambols, on a platform, of the kid-booted human beast. Vice, to be impres- sive, must smell of the field and the wine- press: drunkenness and obscenity may be, in their own terrible way, great deeds in the great service of too great a master, but no- body admires from a vantage-point the pal- liardise of patchouli, pate, and paint. On the loud terrace of Monte Carlo An- thony walked in the full glory of the declin- ing day. There was sunlight all about him— sunlight on the broad stretch of embankment, with its luxuriance of flowers and verdure; sunlight on the gilt and gaudy Casino; sun- light on the castle crag of the Robber Princes; sunlight, in wide sweeps, across the purple ocean; sunlight, continuously downpouring, upon the gold and silver-grey belt of encir- 56 IIER MEMORY. cling hill-side; sunlight, far stretching and clear, on the endless curves of Mediterranean sea-coast; sunlight, yellow, Pactolian, every- where — but shadow away towards white Bor- dighera, towards Italy, the land of art, and art-love, and art-service, the beauty for which no Napoleons can pay. He St: lied to and fro amid the balm and the brilliance: on all sides rose a flutter of ele- gance, a vision of pale silks and glowing furs, the chatter of Babel, the graces of Babylon, the blooms, and the snakes, and the appe- tites of Paradise. He tried not to listen for the "bang" of the pigeon-shooting down below, whose inexorable return strikes the lover of true sport like a blow — and yet a blow — and yet a blow — across the face. He tried not to remark, detesting superciliousness, the obtrusive fact that al- most every i, ale countenance which passed him was the countenance of a fool or of a knave; he tried not to trace, abhorring dis- HER MEMORY, 57 courtesy, in what manner the marvellous women were thus skilfully manufactured. A pale Russian in passing, paused imper- ceptibly — for one moment her passionate glance dwelt complacently on his; he turned towards the ocean with a smile in his eyes. Sorrow is a sacred thing, and scorn a right- eous; but there's not a heart of man on earUi that doesn't leap to a woman's approval. He hung against the parapet, sick with the nostalgia of enjoyment. Life had been kind to him hitherto. At lier banquet are dress seats, reserved, velvet-cushioned, to which some struggle upward, for which some get an order on entering. It was not the velvet cushions he cared about, never having missed them; what he wanted v^as the feast. The sad resentment in his heart had deep- ened, as its sorrow calmed down. He was angry with the dead wife he still dearly loved; he was angry with God. He hated the re- ligion which calls its best devotees away to 58 IIER MEMORY. the willing ecstasies of heaven. " He that love'Ji son or daughter more than Me "— twice, he rtmembered, his wife had quoted the words to him— ah, poor h'ttle orphan Margie! Ah, how he hated the words! His eyes swept over the tawdry parakeets preening themselves on the terrace. If Mar- garet's prayers remained unanswered — there is nothing up yonder but sky. "Mr. Stollard, of all people!" said a bright voice behind him. He turned to the owner, a florid woman, brightly laughinr-, brightly dressed. " You here at Monte Carlo Only passing through, of course! " " I am at Nice, Lady Mary. I have been there for a week." "At Nice? That is reassuring. I should have put you down to Carmes. Cannes, Men- tone, Nice; with you men they are the three degrees of hypocrisy. They all mean Monte Carlo. Now I am here, frankly, at the Hotel de Paris." 4 HER MEMORY. 59 " I assure you, I have not the remotest idea " " No, of course not. The remotest idea is Cannes. And of course Mrs. Stollard is with you; you are just the sort of man to come here with your wife." He flushed. " My wife died three months ago," he said. " Oh, I'm so sorry! I had not the sHght- est— we have been away in South Africa— I noticed your mourning, I made sure it was your mother-in-law! Forgive me, I beg of you; you will think me quite bru d, but you know I'm not." Her voice dropped over the last word, full of meaning; she hur- ried on. "Yes, we have been to South Africa; I thought it exceedingly tiresome, but my husband liked it. He says it's Tom Tiddler's ground, without any Tom Tiddler." " I hope Mr. Hunt is well," said Anthony stiffly. 6o HER MEMORY. " Oh, quite well, thanks. But he doesn't approve of Monte Carlo. He has the queer- est prejudices about making money. South Africa he thinks all right." "As a money-making concern, comT)ared with tlte Casino? " said Anthony. " I can quite understtViid his view." " Now tlr.'t is unjust to dear old Montey. You don't nnnd my saying * Montey,' do you? I know it's vulgar, deliciously vulgar, but tliere's no harm in being vulgar as long as youVe aware of the fact." Anthony made no reply. " Plenty of people win at the tables. Lady Gawtry won two thousand louis the other night. And Arthur Coverdale told me he had won a lot last year. That is so nice of him, so encouraging; people never tell one about their winnings. But if you go into the rooms (as of course you do), you can see the Duchess piling up her banknotes night after night." HER MEMORY. 6i "The Duchess!" repeated Anthony vaguely. *' Well, you arc a newcomer! The new Duchess of Dorrisford! Sam Hicks's only daughter. Her father made all his money by living with a female detective and keeping her drunk. She is charming; I'm exceedingly attached to her, but I must say, though I know that it's mean of me, I should like to see her lose a little now and then." " Surely, Lady Mary, you can't want monev." " Thanks. How kind of you to remind me. No, I have money enough, thank Heaven; but that's no reason why I should want everybody else to win." He raised his hat, but she retained him. "Don't go," she said; "you can't know a single soul here, or you wouldn't have asked about the Duchess. There isn't a stupider place than Monte Carlo for those who look 62 HER MEMORY. on; you must be in the thick of it. I want to introduce you to my daughter, she is com- ing towards us, that girl yonder in bkie; I sent her for my daily Gil Bias. My daughter: doesn't it sound absurd, Anthony? She is very nearly as old as I am, you know. Eve- line, this is Mr. Stollard, a very old friend of mine, a neighbour in Oakshire. Give me the paper, dear." The step-daughter gazed full at this new old acquaintance with a gaze that said noth- ing. Her whole manner, her features and complexion, betokened pallid indifference, a little studied perhaps— the indifference which stops short of neglect. " Don't you wish they wouldn't shoot the pigeons? " she said. Lady Mary looked up with an impatient exclamation. " One might have known she would say that. I thought you would have grown wiser, Eveline, after Colonel Coxe's answer the other day. ' Oh, I don't mind,' IIER MKMORY. 5* said the Colonel, ' so long as they don't shoot as many as me! ' " " I've got wiser about faces now," said the girl. " Dear me, you are improving! That is almost a compliment to Mr. Stollard, as far as it goes. I tell Eveline she is morbid about the tir. The pigeons I pity at Monte Carlo are the ones that shoot themselves." " Yes, two a day," said Miss Hunt, in a matter-of-fact tone, " from sixty to seventy a month. But I don't pity those one bit. It's their own free will to come and play, and they have to bring their money with them." " And leave it behind them," said An- thony. Lady Mary laughed. " That sounds like Bo-peep's sheep," she said. ' I wish you would take us over to the restaurant and give us some tea." They moved across the gravelled terrace. '^if'i^' - 64 HER MIJMORV. " And I hope there will be no musicians," remarked Fveline. "What do you care, ch'Mr iUq strp- daughter winced. " Eveline's whole life. Mr. Stollard, is spoilt by her noticin^^ small dis- agn., ablcs. How did Count de la J-aille ex- press It? ' Elle s'appuie sur le cote facheux.' " " I can't help listening when people play false," said Eveline. " That's just the difference. Other people hear, but you listen. Now, I don't analy.se the music, I just like the cheerful noise." Eveline slirugged her eyebrows, ever .so slightly. Once or twice she cast inquirin^^ glances at Air. Stollard, whose countenance she evidently considered too ^^ood fo-- her step-mother's cornpany. She dropped away from the others so that she might speak her thoughts aloud, a lonely habit she harl got into years ago. " Blessed are thr llmd," she said under her breath, - a trebly blessed they who only see thems- ,es. Anthony HEK MEMORY. 65 overheard lier. "An unpleasant girl," he thought. For men never like a woman to feel on her own initiative. " Now what / object to." said Lady Mary, as she settled herself by the little table in the road, " is the invari: ' le mustiness of the cakes. Why, for goodness sake, can't they stop baking three whole days and then start afresh? Anthony, I wish you would suggest that to the head man yonder. It is an excel- lent idea! But of course, like all men, you are afraid to interfere. A three days' strike in the kitchen would set them right, but I don't app ve of strikes." Iwe girl had looked up with wide-eyed astonishment as the stranger's Christian name escaped from her step-mother's lips. " Oh, Mr. Stollard and I are such very old friends." said Lady ALiry. " We used to play together: don't you remember our playing together, Anthony? " " Yes, I remember your playing with me," : i m HER MEMORY. replied Anthony " Lady Mary, I fear I must be gettin^r down to the station." A look of positive annoyance swept over Lady Mary's genial face. - Oh. nonsense, you must dine with us to-night." she said. " Why. Anthony, it's ten years since we met. I'm not going to let you slip away." He looked along his black sleeve. " True, you nnist dress," said Lady Mary, " but you've plenty of time to run over to Nice. Every- body does. I shall certainly expect you. I liave one or two people coming, quite a small party. All people you know, or ought to." " You forget that I am in mourning," he began. The lady dropped her eyeglass. " When— when did you say it was? " she asked, lower- ing her voice in a not very successful effort at sympathy. '' It cannot be so very recent, An- thony, or I should hardly have met you here." "So I fear you must kindly excuse me " I .i HER MEMORY. 57 " 1 tell you it is (juite a small party. My cousins Croylet, and Sir Arthur Banks, and Mrs. T. V. Pott. Don't be absurd. People must dine whatever happens; and nolK)ily — nobody, I tell you, Anthony — yes, I shall sometimes call you Anthony, as 1 always used to do — nobody keeps to the old eti(|uctte al)out mourning. You may take my word for it. I am an authority on the new style — not on the old, I confess. It's all style now-a- days, not etiquette. There's not a Court in Europe has any etiquette left to speak of. Well, excepting the Austrian and the Spanish, ' perhaps. Pve been the round of them, in a Baedekerish way, of course. And as for man- ners, they're dead and gone. It's ' manner ' now-a-days has taken their place. If your 'manner' is all right, you'll do. We shall dine at eight. Till then, good-bye!" She walked away quickly, leaving no opportunity for further refusal. In the train Antlion) Stollard reproached lbs 68 HER MEMORY. '" ':' ""'"^ ^ •"■•"g he did not desire to "" ,^"" "'^° f- ">^ l-lf-heartedness of his ■■°"-o increasin, „po„ -at.he.e.,„,o„,e„,,„he„.ho,;shodd e-et, of a„ persons, ,n,t Lad, Mar, Hunt! « He years ago. when they .ere li.tle n,ore "an ehddren. Lady Mary and he had found ""adulterated pleasure in one another's so- -;>'■ I" t,,ose days she was Lady Marv D"ys, one of the too ntuuerous daughters o'f '" ^'°"^^"^ "°'* ""' i."poverished neigh- W.theEariofFoye. People ,uite expeet- el to see then, "n.i.e. „,,,„„,,„ dclenly her engagen,ent was announeed to Mr. Thon,as Hunt, of the City firm of Hunt rennn,g (originally Pfennig). Steele Bros ' ;"" """'• '^='"^-- Mr. Hunt's years, like' -nnua, t,,ousand, „.ere n,ore than half a hu"*-ed. It was the old squalid story, and all t HER MEMORY. 69 Lady Mary's relations agreed with her that slie had acted for the best, and, on the whole, was lucky. Two years later Anthony, per- fectly heart-whole, married a girl he had loved at first sight-and second— and Lady Alarv, perfectly contented, sent him a silver butter- dish. And now this woman suddenly crosses his path with her grown-up step-daughter beside her. In those early days he had always found Her delightful to talk to; a healthy element, full of ihe qualities he lacked-easy good na- ture, good sense. He was fascinated now by the desire to compare her with herself; the ■vhole of his married life lay between Lady Mary Dellys and Lady Mary Hunt. He found Alargie awaiting him, tiresome- ly expectant: " I thought you weren't com- ing, papa." For every evening at six o'clock lie taught her, compelled to do so by his choice of an utterly incompetent governess. The lessons had become a daily drag; to- 70 HER MEMORY. night she was specially inattentive He closed the book with indignant protest and left her. A man's world, after all, contains a great deal more than churchyards and little children. It was with a feeling almost of pleasure that he got out his dress things and returned to Monte Carlo in the over- crowded corridor train. The Restaurant des Princes was full of I'ghts and lightness; light hangings, light dresses, light women, light laughter. On the air, which alone was heavy, rose incessantly the music of champagne corks and prin:ely titles; two reigning monarchs were dining at little tables in the crowd, comparatively un- noticed this evening, because the Duchess di \'aldemarina had with her the latest Paris music-hall man. " You shall sit in this corner." said Lady Mary to Anthony. " You will feel nice and quiet with your back against the wall, and be- sides, you will have the best view of Diane " HER MEMORY. 71 "And who is Diane?" asked Anthony. He had a knack of saying awkward things in a room full of people, while in dialogue he performed miracles of tact. " The goddess of chastity. My dear Mrs. Pott, may I introduce an old friend, Mr. Stol- lard? Surely, Mr. Stollard, you know my cousin, Lady Ermyntrude Croylett? I can't say whether anybody else can endure tube- roses on a dinner table, but I know that I have too little brains, or too much, to support them, so otez-moi ces fleurs, je vous en prie." The little company was very gay, as are all such little companies, which, by a merciful dispensation, laugh incessantly for want of wit. While everyone reprobated gami)ling as a habit, the talk was almost entirely of luck at the tables. Mrs. Pott, a pretty American, recently divorced (by the way, she is now the Countess Crachaska), had no other aspiration in life than to show off her diamonds among people of title; Lady Ermyntrude Croylett, 72 HER MEMORY. quite content with being: Lady Ermyntnule, liad no aspiration at all. Anthony sat be- tween Mrs. Pott and the hostess; the latter was resolved he should thoron-hjy enjoy him- self, and not only that in"t,dit. " \ou make a mistake," she said. " Do, pray, pernn't me to say what I want to. I think you have been making: it all these years. No man should balance his whole life on a pin-point, no. not thoug:h that point be the purest of diamonds. Oh, I daresay my meta- phors are mixed; I don't pretend to be a talker. What 1 mean is— and I know about the world, and making- one's self comfortable in it: have plenty of foundations! Some- thing-'s always coming: tlown in some corner. Now I— oh. my dear Mrs. Pott. I could not think of your declining: that lobster- soum! " " Well." she said, as they rose from table. *' have you enjoyed my little dinner? " He could honestly answer " Yes." He had seen HER MEMORY. 73 little in his life of that bri^'-htness, and prctti- ncss, and flashy merriment which pass so well fur hapi)iness. Even when abroad with his wife, or, more rarely, in London, he had lived secluded in his own affections. *' His brother is Sir Henry, you know," said Lady Mary to Mrs. T. P. Pott. " He has recently lost his wife. Touring ten years he has lived with her, and loved her, and painted pictures she ad- mired." The company separated on its way to the Casino; acquaintances don't want to see each other's play. " \ou do not seriously mean to say that you have never been in the rooms? " asked Lady Mary, pausing before the pompously guarded door. " Do you know% Anthony, it's a good thing that matters went as they did. \ ou and I would never have got on to- gether." " I have been in the rooms — the atmos- phere is stifling. I have never gambled." 74 HER MEMORY. "Worse still! You are like your name- sake. I can forgive a man for avoiding temp- tation, but not for resisting it. The one may be angelic, but the other is unhuman." He smiled irritably. "You enjoy the good things of life," he said. She burst out laughing. " It is the bad things I enjoy," she replied, passing in. " Oh, I know I am shocking you, but I don't do it on purpose. At least, I mean, I trust I am doing it in kindness. I pity you," and now her voice was really grown gentle; "good-bye for the present. The bald man over there is my favourite croupier. I always begin with a little rou- lette." He found himself in the middle of the crowded rooms, surrounded by that hot stench and stuffy dazzle which everybody knows. Here and there among the dull gild- ing the tables made islands of yellow glare, with the eager faces massed around them, the I HER MEMORY. 75. low summons of the officials, the click, click of the ball. He edged into a circle, mechani- cally assuming that air of indifference which everyone, except an occasional plunger, wears visibly put on, like paint. At the moment of his entrance nobody was playing for more than money, nor for much of that, as money counts at Monte Carlo; the large sprinkling of spectators — the good people, tourists — were getting impa- tient for their expected sensation, which so rarely comes. The croupiers leant back yawning, insisting, " Faites votre jeu, mes- sieurs, faites votre jeu! " " Oh, let's go to one of the other tables," said a prim person at Anthony's shoulder. "Jim says the Trawnteycawrant is best; he was here last year with Suzan." As they moved off he caught her prim companion's reply: "How awful it would be "—with in- finite relish — " if somebody shot themselves while we were here; the Society Report says 76 HER MEMORY. tlicy constantly do! " '• Le jeu est fait," said a weary voice, under Anthony. In sudden silence the little hall went whizzing round. He, too, wandered away to the farther rooms where everything is so much more re- poseful, and where the quiet gold looks so harmless on the smooth expanse of ,.n-een. He found the curious crowd collected round the cool Duchess of Dorrisford; he saw Mrs. Pott take the seat which her maid had re- tained for her. A man with a head like a 'null's u-as risking thousands indifferently; somebody mentioned his-South African- name. " The devil won't let him lose," said one of his friends. Vnthony drifted from one room to an- other, a very doubtful form of diversion; ulti- mately he returned to the roulette he had started from. Trade had looked up; Zero had come out twice running; three rows of faces had thickened ro.md the chairs. The same types were here present as all over the HER MEMORY. 77 tawdry palace, evil types of men, and many foolish — the foolish ones faultlessly groomed — and terrible old wbmen in diamond-be- sprinkled satins, and plenty of fresh-looking, lightly-clothed girls. Presently Anthony put down a five-franc piece on a colour, inevitably — the other colour came up, and he saw the coin swept away. As he bent forward to i)lace his money, he observed the look of an old man standing in front of him, just the kind of haggard yearning one expects to find at the tables, and never does see at first, and always sees the next moment — the man was not play- ing, but carefully watching the game. An- thony held out a couple more silver pieces; unable to reach far enough, he asked the other, who was carefully looking away, to place them. " You will watch your money yourself, if you please," said the man, as he ungraciously complied. " Here, at Monte Carlo, you know " and he shrugged his lean shoul- 78 HER MEMORV. I! I mi ders. Anthony, with a jerk of Lis wrist, flung a louis on " ii^passe." At that moment the table was heavily laden. At the call of " 14 " the two silver coins disappeared from the black, but two gold pieces lay. immovable, in front of the beginner. He let them lie- a moment later there wore four; he let them lie. " Faites votre jeu, messieurs! " " Rien ne va plus! " The number 9 was called; four fresh gold-pieces came clinking down on the other four. He could not stretch out his arm to take nn the money. He hesitated; a moment later. ,t, die general scramble, a croupier had dexterously whisked the neglected "or- phans" away. " Pardon, what are you doing with my stake," said a harsh voice, directly in front of Anthony. The latter started; it was the hag- gard old Frenchman speaking, and his words were imperiously addressed to the croupier. " Your stake? " repeated the ofKcial, facing right round, in supremest scorn. The usual HER MEMORY. 79 brief altercation immediately ensued, fierce on the one side, firm on the other. Suddenly Anthony interposed: " The money belongs to this gentleman," he said in Anglo-F i, " I witness that it belongs to this geuL^v^man." The whole table was watching with concen- trated interest, eager for the defeat of the croupier. *' Oh, if the gentleman saw him put down the stake," said the latter, with tem- per, and immediately paid the three hundred and twenty francs into the Frenchman's dingy hand, for he was aware that the money had been gained by some person who did not claim it, and the bank cannot afford — nor does it require — to be difiicult. Above all must it avoid investigation or inquiry of any kind. Anthony drew a long breath; he stopped playing, and watched half-a-dozen of the napoleons — his napoleons — disappear, one by one, from the old man's hand, in full on the 3. Then, actually, the number came up; without any expresison on his cadaver- ir IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-S) // ^KL Ua % 1.0 I.I 12 11:25 ■ 1.4 6" 2.0 1.6 Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 iV '"W \ :\ v" ^ ;\ ^ %v ) *■ .*v« ,% U.J. % ^ 8o HER MEMORY. m: I ous countenance the croupier paid seven banknotes of a hundred francs into the claws outstretched behind him. Immediately the old man left the table, and Anthony also lounged away. The official's eyes followed the pair; he had thought himself acquainted with every trick of the game. The old rogue, looking round, met the neophyte's convicting glance. He turned back to him at once. - Monsieur," he said recklessly, " you have saved me. The money was yours. Why did you give it me? I know not, unless it be of your nature to do beauti- ful things Stay! "-for he misread the other's expression of disgust-" I understand. You saw that to support me was your unique chance of recovering it " (that, indeed, had been the man's natural explanation from the first); "but, Monsieur, you are a stranger here, you would never have secured it. I saw your dilemma. I came to your assistance. These rascally croupiers! they all cheat! I HER MEMORY. 8r know them well. Ah, the public imagine there can be no cheating, the fools! Bu^ a hundred francs — what say you? You see I am open-handed. I will sacrifice one hundred francs." " Keep the money," answered Anthony. " But tell me; what made you win that 3? " *' What made me win? Ah, a merciful Providence! Or perhaps the croupier was not attending to the stakes. Besides, occa- sionally they must allow a number to come up *en plein.' Though not for me, I should say — not for me! Monsieur, I have lost mil- lions at Monte Carlo; inalterably, now, I play the number 3. It is the number of the Blessed Trinity. And you see how, when again I was starving, again it has wondrously assisted me." Anthony recoiled; ar, he did so, a young woman passed by them, n crimson and emer- alds, leaning against a white-haired dandy with exhausted eyes. '* Five louis more, mon i '4a m ixn ■'mi' 82 HER MEMORY. petit chou," the woman was saying; "only live louis more! The luck must turn at last! " Anthony walked straight out into the bril- liant vestibule. It was airy, roomy, cheerful with colour and movement. From the corner of a sofa Eveline Hunt came towards him, pale, rather interesting, in her pale evening frock. "Could you get my cloak?" she asked abruptly. " Lady Mary has the number: it is 1 102; I daresay they will let you have it. If not, I shall just go without. I can wait here no longer." As he followed her, she turned upon him. " How c vou come to this hor- rible place? " she ex„ .ned. " You have no right to— you!" and, before his look of amaze- ment, " Lovely? It is loathsome. Sometimes I fancy I see the inside of things like — what do they call him?— Rontgen? I'm not as good as many people— oh, I've not the most distant desire to be good; all the worst of my ac- quaintances are ' good '—but I can't stand HER MEMORY. 83 this! Just look at the faces streaming out — only look at them! Look at those who have won ; their expressions are still more disgust- ing than those of the many who've lost. And the poisonous atmosphere we spend half our day in, we, the Sybarite seekers after health! The management knows better than to pro- vide fresh air for hot heads! I've been in there for hours, watching the play. Lady Mary imagines the zero accounts for the mil- lions of profits, year after year! She won't — but it's no use talking. I don't pity the poor fools who blow out the brains they haven't got. I pity — don't mind me, please, Mr. Stollard. I always say and do the wrong thing; but that, in the world I live in, must surely be a sort of virtue. Yes, that is the cloak; you see, the man knows me. I can't imagine what made me burst out; I suppose it's a sort of compliment. Please tell mamma I had a headache. It's quite true. Good- night." ' '' "ji 1 I t t-.1 84 HER MEMORY. " Let me see you to the hotel," he sug- gested. " Oh, no, thanks. It's just over the way. As a favour, please not." She escaped from him, a white flutter among the greenery and the lights. " A girl who might come right, and who may go wrong," he said to himself, philo- sophically. '\ Probably, like most women of the set she is in, she will do neither." He went back, and found Lady Mary, to whom he gave her step-daughter's message. Her Ladyship shrugged her comfortable shoul- ders. " Eveline is so foolishly clever," she said, " and that is unluckily a combination I have little sympathy with. But, honestly, it is rather in your way, you know; I mean peo- ple with more brains than they quite know how to use. Some people spoil everything by thinking about it. I myself have never seen brains succeed in the world. Adaptability, is not that the word? Have you had good luck? HER MEMORY. 85 Oh, of course you've played; people always do. I w^n three times running on ' couleur gagne ' ; going now. Take me back to the hotel. You've any number of trains. But you'd much better come and stay here. You would have a splendid time; I should see to that. And I should like to be good to your poor little girl. What a beautiful moonlit night! Give me your arm, Anthony, and let us walk up and down for a moment, among all the gaslamps." He did as she bade him, but perhaps she felt the reserve in his hold. " Oh, I don't want to revive any dead and gone flirtations," she said; "I'm afraid I've had too many since then. But I always liked you, and I'm sorry for you, and I want to give you a bit of advice, unasked. Of course you're miserable; anyone can see that in your face — which Eveline approved of. And of course one can understand your being miser- able, after your terrible loss. But mark my f'Jl 1 fv ■>l 86 HER MEMORY. ii ' words, you're just the man to mix up misery and enjoyment till you don't know which is which. It's the greatest mistake a human be- ing can make; they're both good enough, . nd right enough, if only you keep them apart. Once mix them up, and misery is bound to swallow up everything else. It's like wine in water to some peoole, or the lean kine in Genesis, or— dear me, that's a very striking pelisse! " * "Don't interrupt me:— as I was saying, stop enjoying your sorrow at once. Come here to Monte Carlo; you shall have your mornings to yourself and the mountains; and your evenings you can dedicate to us and the ' tapis vert.' Then, later on, you must come up to London and see people. I really do feel for you; you know I've got a heart of a kind. But no reasonable man's life is only a love- story. ' And the heart of Edward Gray ' is rubbish, really. It's absurd, your not know- ing people. Besides, you can meet artists and HER MEMORY. 87 cranks enough in London, if you like — I'm sure Eveline does; in any circumstances you would ultimately have tired of Thurdles. I don't want to be impertinent, but, believe me, when people have made a mess of their lives, they always find it out, and always as a big surprise, and always too late. Besides — frankly — you owe it to your daugh- ter. There, I shall not say a word more about that, but just leave you to think it out. " What? " he asked, with the irritation of a clever man who knows he is saying some- thing stupid. " Would you want me already to find suitors for Margie? " "Look at your brother," .:i: continued, " he understands life, as I take it. He is mak- ing a splendid career for himself in the House. If he live long enough, he will die Lord Sta- well." He laughed, half amused, half annoyed, for none of us like to see our brother's suc- 1 ' .1 hi 1. ,ei I I'l m 88 HER MEMORV. cesses confronted with our failures—and she knew it. " Is it really Lady Mary Dellys speaking," he said—" the daughter of a dozen earls? " She flushed angrily. " Of two dozen," she answered; '' I suppose there was a f^rst Chevalier du Lys, was there not? Shall we walk towards the hotel? You needn't talk as if Sir Henry were a cheesemonger, like poor Thomas's alderman grandpapa, of whom he once used to be so proud. I take life as I find it, a rough diamond; it wants a good deal of glittei to improve it. I have made Thomas a good wife on the whole; in marrying him I did my duty to-to everybody. Of course he has oceans of money, the one thing you really need nowadays. Eveline, who probes most things, could tell you that." "Surely Miss Hunt doesn't care about money? " " Of course not. She 'despises ' it. She 4 is compelled, however, to notice that some HER MEMORY. 89 men take a different view. She will have £5000 a year at her marriage, and who knows how much in the end? She is one of the big- gest heiresses, and, really, my greatest anxiety is, Anthony, that — some day — she should marry an honourable, disinterested man, a man who would understand and direct her many noble aspirations and — and enjoy her peculiarities." Lady Mary paused on the hotel steps. " She can't marry one of our so- ciety-idiots. Or one of the people here — the barons who steal your pocket-book at a party, or the princes who are wanted by everyone, including the police. Do you know, the dear Duchess played against the table to-night, and was rather unlucky! Now good-bye till to-m -row, and remember what I said! " Ke had hardly taken a few steps, when she recalled him: " Do you know, I c|uite forgot! Colonel Coxe tells me the Prince is coming after all, for the carnival! He is quite sure they can manage it. So we shall all be so ! ;l 'Ik '11 m m 1:1 if- ■;; 90 HER MEMORY. H gay; you will have a magnificent time! " He murmured some acknowledgment. " Is that all?" she exclaimed pettishly. ''No, deci- dedly, you and I would never have done for each other! " He wound down along the broad sweep to the station steps, amid the soft shrubberies and the moonlight. Crowds of people were leaving the gambling-rooms, all elegant, a triHe noisy, in a rustle of silks. With some difficulty he found a seat in the train, and had to abandon it at once to a lady. He took his stand, amongst others, in the long gangway, looking out to the splendid curves of illu- mined Mediterranean as the slow line of over- filled cars crept away along the coast. He barely heard snatches of talk about losing and winning; he barely noticed the diversity of attitudes, apathetic or truculent. Beside him, in the half-light, a little man pulled out a cigar-case, gold, with a coronet in diamonds, and, replacing it in an inner pocket, began 'III! ^:ii HER MEMORY. 91 cautiously buttoning his coat. Anthony, ob- serving the movement, edged away with a smile. Yes, he loathed the place. Whatever might be the exaggeration of her manner, Eveline Hunt was right in her verdict. The whole thing was hideous, most loathable, in its beautiful, blood-sodden attractions; loath- able in the people who worked it, and the peo- ple who came. Most of all, in the people who came. Why, the " people who came " formed the wJwle of cosmopolitan " society." Lady Mary had truly informed him that everyone who is anyone was here. It was the world which had pleased him for a moment that evening, the world Lady Mary had praised, while she scorned it — the life she had advised as a refuge against sorrow! Oh, sweet, oh, sacred sorrow! Oh, sweet, pure memory — on which each word ot Lady Mary Hunt fell like a stain! It was not till he had nearly reached his 92 HER MEMORY. hotel on the Promenade des Anglais that he suddenly realised, or fancied he realised, the full meaning of Lady Mary's allusions to her plans for her step-daughter. The suggestion struck him crimson with indignation, again and again. He crossed over from the shiny waterside to the shadow of the houses. In his present revulsion the very thought was an in- sult. Poor Lady Mary, whose only aspiration was always to be comfortable and kind! He sank on his knees by the child's bed, and caught her little face to his lips, and kissed it with abundance of kisses. She awoke, crying out in the dark, with mingled satisfaction and fear, " Mamma! " As that word fell— a revelation— on his soul, the widower, for the first time in all the long, desolate months, burst into tears. The child leant up against him, weeping also. " Don't, papa," she sobbed; " I will be atten- tive. I wanted to tell you, I will be attentive. Don't, papa, don't! " HER MEMORY. 93 " Hush," he said, mastering himself. "Hush, dear, hush!" And they kissed each other, now slowly, caressingly, in that dark corner, in the shadow of the night-lamp. " Margie," he whispered presently, " what made you cry out like that? Do you think of mamma stir Margie? Do you sometimes want her bacK? " " Think of her! " repeated the child, in- dignantly, troubled, catching at that one idea. And again she began to cry, more vehemently, with anger in her tears. " Hush, little one, hush! We will think of her together, Margie. "We will want her back together." He rose to his feet. " But she won't come! " He soothed her, saw her fall asleep again with the drops on her lashes, bent softly to remove them, and left her in peace. He had always imagined that " a child would forget what you wished it to"; that "out of sight, • I ''.V, :i 1 ij :!*! t 41 . ( 1 -if r,,*. 'I k 94 HER MEMORY. out of mind, was tlie rule with a child." Now, carried to the otlier extreme, he unconscious- ly measured Margie's regrets by his own, and he reproached himself for his futile endeavour to rob the child of a treasure legitimately as much hers as her father's. " I have acted towards Margie," he reflected, "as Lady Mary would act towards me." He stood at his bedroom window, look- ing out on the sleeping Gomorrah; all his thoughts were of the woman in heaven, his child, and his art-work; love, sweetness, sad serenity, and far-away light. Next morning, he wrote to Lady Mary that he was leaving Nice for good. !,{«. CHAPTER VI. Crossing into Italy from the Riviera is like coming out of a music-hall into the star- lit night. For the moment, in his change of mood, the painter asked nothing of life hut that it should let him alone. The oarsman who has shot the rapids may justly claim to rest upon his oars. And gradually there sank around him that appeasement which emanates from splendid and dignified decay. For, if there he a witness on earth that death is heautiful, he- cause manifestly living, as all death surely must be, it is Italy, the heir of the ages, the child of the gods. And, if the chronicles of human virtue glow with the wonder of dead saints whose touch can raise the dead, the his- 95 :'■■ ill if:» ir ; r a . - it 1 tt i il" 96 HER MEMORY. Si :i!!!m tory of human inspiration tells of a sleeping mother from whose paps all the children of man have drawn fire. A new horizon spread clear before the traveller; a pure air enfolded him on every side. From one stronghold of hidden beauties he passed to another; in places unsought by the tourist he lingered entranced. He himself did not realise how his sorrow grew tranquil in this daily enjoyment of the purest and noblest sensations our world can bestow, nor did he fully understand that again there had come to him a calm pleasure in living, from the very heart of this art-lov- ing people — a people, remote from our cult of vulgarity, whose desires, be they virtuous or vicious, are set upon fairer possessions than the pig-prizes of our greasy scramble up the pole! But once more he amply developed an early conviction that, whatever men may babble about modern education, two influ- ences, incomparable and consistent, confer on the human mind a freemasonry of refinement HER MEMORY. 97 — the study of the classics, and the apprecia- tion of Italy. And the love of his art awoke and cried out. He stopped buzzing from one flower to another, and settled down in a Florentine villa on the Viale dei Colli, the house of an Enghsli lady, who most willingly acceded to his proposal that he, his child and the gov- erness, should be her only guests. Here he lived, v^^orking hard, learning to paint, with a heart become, in all this matter of picture- making, like that of a little child. Of course, he had visited Italy before his marriage; he had toured it; he had seen it. He had seen nothing. The scales were fallen from his eyes. With his small daughter he entered into close companionship, and in their daily walks he taught and learnt. Between them the dead wife and mother had become a living bond. From the moment when that fictitious rilence of his careful building had been broken down — when the father had seen the futility in "I 'm '■ ' f 'I II iiiir it 98 HER MEMORY. of his effort to make all things new — from that moment, the love which was not dead resumed its rightful position, the living, lov- ing memory arose in the sanctuary crowned with living flowers. Anthony now spoke often to the child of her mother, spoke of that mother's example, her habits, her endeavours, her tastes. It became a rule of little Mar- garet's life, even more than her father real- ised, to do things because mother had done them, in the way mother would have done them, as far as possible. She knew a great (leal about mother now from her father's con- stant references. She liked to hear about her, to put questions, and ponder replies, in their long summer rambles, in their winter chats beside the blazing logs, grown less senti- mental now in more natural expansion, in the natural conception of a memory which was no longer a dream. Nobody who knows anything of human- HER MEMORY. 99 ity will believe that Mrs. Fosby approved of the turn things had taken. She possibly might never have exactly " approved," but she certainly could have been content with less cause for reprobation. She wrote An- thony urgent, repeated appeals. The closed mansion was going to rack and ruin (though she aired it as constantly as her grievances). Sir Menry Stollard was having a brilliant (and iitost useful) career, and the county was dis- appointed in Anthony. The " county " was Mrs. Fosby's divine oracle in all things, but it must be admitted that Mrs. Fosby herself often figured as the oracle's self-constituted voice. The education dear IMargaret was re- ceiving was not such as poor dear Margaret (these confusions are inevitable in our fam- ily, etc.) would have wished. Mrs. Fosby was an authority on all poor dear IMargaret's likes and dislikes. No greater testimony could be adduced to the dead woman's tact and tcn- dernes - than is implied in the fact that she J i ;< it I.J ■* • P iff < -- |:< ' •T 1 % iill lOO HER MEMORY. had left this impression behind her. The im- pression was not Anthony's, but then An- thony had never understood his wife. Anthony, as Mrs. Fosby put it in the inti- mate silence of her own little sitting-room, " had been offended with his wife for dying." Could anything be more monstrous? Oh, of course, he had never so expressed it to any- one, but he had run out of the house and the country, refusing to bury the poor innocent thing. " Why, my dear, I call it pique." In Anthony's heart there had, indeed, arisen, as we have seen, a tender resentment against all he most deeply loved and rever- enced, an emotion too delicate for any Mrs. Fosby to appreciate, but which that good lady unwittingly helped him to overcome. It was she who, rummaging in drawers which Anthony fondly believed to be locked to all others as they had ever been to himself, came upon an envelope bearing the inscrip- tion, " For my husband, when I am dead." HER MEMORY. lOI 1(1 1 I" Tliis she forwarded to tlic Riviera, and it fol- lowed the widower to Genoa, where he opened it, one silver evening, in his still hotel room, above the white sweep of the port. " My dear, dear Husband," wrote Mar- garet, — " When you receive this, you will be alone. For some months I have known that I am dying of a fatal disease, I asked the doctor to tell me, me only, so do not be angry with him. There was no need that you should suffer beforehand. Your sufferings will be- gin, poor husband, when mine are over. I did not think we could have borne the slow separation. If I have been impatient some- times of late, forgive me. " You will not really be alone, although at first you may think so. And, besides, you will have Margie. She will grow up to be your companion. Make her happy, as you have made me. Make her happy — and good. Good-bye. God be with you. Good-bye. " Your own Margaret." f, • M -U i '4 W I 103 HER MEMORY. (( Oil! I want to stay! I want to stay! " He laid down the paper, and stood gazing at the domes and steeples in the distance. Church-spires! And the pale blue lieaven be- yond them! Why mourn ye as they that have no hope? " If I have been impatient sometimes." No, she had never been impatient, But what long strain of silent fortitude looked out from under those few words! And in the face of '•aray side. That this is so we have all been taught when we grew up and grew sensible, yet we rarely realise it in our intercourse with the children around us. At its best that inter- course is always laborious; so few of us have been children ourselves. For the next fortnight, Margie remained HER MEMORY. 109 entirely engrossed in the delight of confec- tioning clay pottery and getting it baked— a mystery into which she had been initiated by the pitiful French lady opposite. A consid- erable period elapsed during which she never referred to her mother at all, and Anthony, whose reflections were now purely tender, found himself craving for a far fuller sym- pathy than Margie could ever have bestowed. To a nature such as his, a young child's par- ticipation in its sorrow could convey little comfort, but rather increase of pain. They had gone on to Siena. One evening, their walk being over, they were standing on the market-place there, behind the Palazzo Publico, with their backs turned to the untidy ascent of buildings and their eyes gazing down across the vast extent of plain. In the dis- tance, rain-shadowed, hung the hills. Mar- gie, who had insisted on taking her skipping- rope, now stood still, her cheeks flushed, her eyes far away. 11 ;«] no HER MEMORY. " If I could only see her face for just one teeny moment, I should knozv;' she said, sud- denly, with vehemence. Anthony started, but made no reply. " Papa, I always knew at once whether mamma was pleased or not." *' She would be pleased with you, Margie; you try to be good." " I don't mean that," said Margie, march- ing off. ' " Margie, Margie, take care! Good heav- ens, child, do look where you're going; you were very nearly over the side! " Margie withdrew her gaze from the great emptiness above her. Miss Gray had recently told her the Struwelpeter story of the school- boy who was eaten by fishes; she had been vastly offended, but from her father such mis- conceptions were not to be endured. " I can't help looking up, when I'm out walking," she said. " In all the pictures, in the churches, there's always lots of people HER MEMORY. Ill looking out of Heaven. Papa, does God never look out, now, as He did in Moses's time and Michel Angelo's? " " Not for us to see Him," said Anthony. " But Michel Angelo saw Him dozens of times, and he didn't live so long ago, you said. It isn't like Moses, who died before grandma was born. She told me. And there's such a lot of Heaven here in places; doesn't one little angel ever look out any more, papa? " " And what would you do with the angels child?" ' " Why, if mamma could only look out for one minute, half a minute, only half a minute, I should know if she was happy up there." " Ah, if she could— what would we not ask! " Margie shook her head with a solemn smile of superiority. "How could she hear us, papa? She couldn't hear us up there! But I sha'n't need to ask anything. I shall just see her face and t .r i fyf 1 12 HER MEMORY. know. Do you know, papa, there's a thing I'm most afraid of; it makes me quite wretched sometimes. I could cry all day." " What is it, Margie? " "I don't want to tell you. You won't laugh?" "Laugh!" " I'm so afraid, when she does look out at last, / sha'n't be looking! And I can't look up all day, papa, like the children in the pic- tures. You can't unless you're a picture, and even a lot of those are looking away at the people come to see. But, with them it wouldn't matter, because there's others look- ing. But I can't keep on long; Miss Gray wouldn't let me. And besides, it hurts my neck." " Margie " " Oh! I wonder how it was in the picture days ! " " Listen, Margie; you will never see your mother looking down from Heaven." HER MEMORY. I'3 But, papa- " Never. All the same, I believe she does look down. And her face, though you can- not see it, will be happy if she sees you happy and good." She turned away from the immense land- scape and walked on quickly: he could see that she was struggling with herself. Presently she stopped and swept one small hand, with skipping-rope attached, across the dull grey vault, far and wide above them, from which the last lurid lines were fading in the west. *' Then nobody has ever seen the angels in the sky? " she asked, but the interrogation in her voice was perfunctory. - Oh, papa, I never want you to show me any of the beauti- ful pictures again ! Oh papa, what is that little boy doing? i dl him not to beat that dear little dog! " So the first seeds of doubt were sown in Margie's heart, doubt of her father, who had ;i J. "I \4 M H 114 HER MEMORY. '!lli| more than once rashly declared that the great painters painted what they saw; doubt of the marvellous Bible stories, which of course must be true, though apparently they weren't; doubt of all human certitude, where the grown-ups invented, made up, fairy-tale an- gels, just as children and their dolls make be- heve to be grown-ups. That doesn't make them grown-ups. For a long time Anthony hesitated whether he should abandon his impulsive re- solve never again to let the child behold a like- ness of the mother they had left in the boudoir at Thurdles. There existed no portrait of Margaret deserving the name. They had quitted their home with nothing but the clothes on their backs: he had no wish to write for anything, least of all for photographs he abhorred. Let the child, if unreality there must be, imagine a fair unreality of her own. Nature herself, often unwise perhaps, but al- ways invincible, had frustrated his design of HER MEMORY. "5 oblivion— he now set himself to build up, for the child even more than for himself, a beauti- ful fancy, a vague splendour, shrouded and aureoled in death. So they travelled, seeing, studying — striv- ing, as most of us do, to think of something else. And so they settled at Florence, and lived on in study and sight-seeing, as do the best of us, and in thinking of something else. And gradually, on the father's heart there deepened a devotion, hitherto undreamed, to his work, and on the daughter's a cult of all that is righteous and lovely, embodied in her vision of the dead. r, j] d 1 r CHAPTER VII. Four years passed thus uneventf-i'ly at Florence, or among the neighl)ounng hills ntiring: that period Anthony never once went northward. Why should he? Soon it had be- come to him an insupportable vexation to re- rall. and far more to revisit, home scenes. He liad few near relations or '-onnections; such as he possessed had but rarely come his way None of them disturbed his Italian seclusion. Sir Henry was far too much occupied in Eng- land; Mrs. Fosby had a hard-and-fast rule of I'cr own about " awaiting an invitation," and meanwhile confined herself tr voluminous epistolary protest, advice, consolation, appeal. Anthony painfully replied. The child was iK'althy here, happy, well-cared for, well taught. Delicate by nature, she had taken Ii6 HER MEMORY. kindly to the climate. Her mother l,a,l „f,e„ 'l..sc„5se" Anthony's eyes grew hard. " Yes," he said. " I know you did. Haven't I, a hundred I; V' I20 HER MEMORY. times, heard Lady Mary call you romantic? Let her laugh! I believe if she ever loved anyone, it was you! " " My dear Miss Hunt, I must beg of you " cried Anthony in distress. " Oh, loved a la Lady Mary, I mean. Nothing to weep over. I should certainly not betray heart secrets, but I don't possess hers — if she's got any. However, I haven't come here to speak of Lady Mary, but of myself. / had a heart secret. It's everybody's secret now!" Her voice trembled: tears brimmed across her passionate eyes: she dashed them back. " Let me tell you everything calmly. I am not a flirt, Mr. Stollard, but, of course, when I came out, men proposed to me — there is no glory in that; I am part of a bank. I said ' no ' once or twice, when my father and Lady Mary would have liked me to say * yes.' All that is very natural — everybody knows as much; but I wanted" — her voice drooped, and so did her eyelids, her hands, her head — HER MEMORY. ,21 "I wanted to say 'yes,' on one occasion, when my father insisted on my saying ' no.' " A moment of silence ensued. Anthony did not stir. " I did just as they wished, and there was no more talk of the matter. He was an artist : he— had given me lessons. He was terribly poor. I heard no more of him for some months, until, three days ago, I learnt from a friend that he was in Florence, dying." Again she ctopped. The room was quite still. The bright sun poured down into it. " And so I came here." "Alone?" exclaimed Anthony. She turned on him angrily, her pent-up emotion thus finding vent. "Did you expect me to wait for Lady Mary? " she cried. " Well, sc be it. I will help you to f^nd him. And then we will see what can be done." " I needed no help to find him," she said, and her pale face grew suffused with colour. •\ i m !' 'J 122 HER MEMORY. " He is lying in a garret not far from here, too ill to be moved." " And you want me to go to him to assist him? I shall be very pleased to do so. For the present it would hardly be prudent to tell him you are here." " I have been with him all night." The room seemed more silent than ever, the sunlight more glaring. "Oh, Miss Hunt, how could you But forgive me. He is very ill you say? " " He cannot possibly live much longer." Anthony checked a faint gasp of what might almost have sounded like relief. "I am very sorry," he said; "but, now, what is it you w^ant me to do? " " I want you to recommend me to your landlady, to take me under your protection, to let me live here and go to him from here un- molested until — all is over. Then I want you to let me go away unmolested. That is all." He sprang to his feet and paced up and HER MEMORY. 123 down the room, in the painful, sim-Iit silence. At last he stopped before her. " You are ruining your life," he said. She looked up at him, and, grown suddenly calm: " What a foolish remark," she said scorn- fully. " It sounds very clever, but it really means nothing. My life is ruined already." "Oh, you mustn't say that!" he cried. Then his voice grew very serious: " Into some few lives there does come at an eariy stage the —how shall I call it?— the irretrievable. If it must come, it must. But, for God's sake, let it come of itself! " She bent her head on h-r hands that he might not see it. Then she looked up again. " Don't be afraid: I'm not going to cry," she said. " It's no use talking, I can't help myself. I must comfort him these few days. You can't think how little hfe looks, face to face with death." " Oh, I know that! " he exclaimed pas- i ; tii:, 124 HER MEMORY. sionately. "And life remains little— and long." She sat ruminating these words. At last she asked: " You think I am acting wrong? " " I do not wish to say that; only " She rose, and her glance swept round the Italian saints, half finished, just begun, upon easels against the walls. Their faces were calm and symmetrical: they all looked very pure and good. " Would you have me go back? " she ex- claimed. " You— what do you care for social considerations? What do you give for Lady Mary's advice, or Sir Henry's career, or Mrs. Fosby's reproaches? I came to you, naturally, as to a man who listens just to the voice of his heart, a man who doesn't ' reside ' in this world but who lives in it, a man— oh, my God!— who dares to be wretched, dares to sufifer— so few men have the courage to be weak! " HER MEMORY But then I am a man. as you say- 125 began Anthony, endeavouring to cahn her. " Yes, I know. That is your universal ex- cuse for doing wrong— or doing right. We women can do neither: we can only do as usual! Mr. Stollard, I haven't come here to air my poor ' fads,' as my step-mother calls them. I have come here to do a good action: you must help me to accomplish it. I can manage my bad actions alone." " Surely he could be sufficiently cared for," expostulated Anthony. " If you gave me his name— we have an excellent society " "Don't," she said. " Oh, yes, charity could bring him broth— which he can't swal- low." "I would rather he died to-night," she cried, and began pacing the room, " than that Christian charity should touch him! Oh, I know your excellent society, that is born of our social crimes! Here too, in Florence, of course— that the nine-tenths may safely go 126 HER MEMORY. H hi unto Cassar — you pay your dime to God! Oh, I know of your props and your plasterings! Of how many societies is Lady Mary not Pa- troness and President? Your ' succour ' shall not touch him, do you hear? " She turned upon Anthony furiously. "He isn't 'indi- gent ': all the jewels I have with me are his! " Anthony stood watching her with a puz- zled expression. He was quite willing to like her, to pity her more, " And you will assist me in disposing of them to the cheats on the Ponte Vecchio," she added. She heaved a big bored sigh. " Let us speak to Mrs. Thomson," he said; " at any rate, you must ..nd some place where- in you can spend this night." She stood thinking, a graceful figure, in her contempt. "Very well," she said. "The world is idiotic. I can go to him all day." That evening Lady Mary arrived in Flor- HER MEMORV. 127 ence, n„.i im.ne.liately se„t (or Anthony to l;er hotel. SI,e had grown a little stouter h, tliese four years.- she looked very handsome and flurried. " Applaud me," she said immediately " J l^ave risen to the occasion. Whatever may l^appen, I have done my duty. I am here." " Miss Hunt is safely housed with a re- spectable widow," answered Anthony. " That is excellent, but it is unimportant. Miss Hunt is staying at the Grand Hotel Vic- toria, which is full of English tourists, even at tl^- season. She accompanied Lady Mary Hunt, who was suddenly called to the death- bed of an aged relative-a connection of the Hunt family. My relatives are too well known! That will be in all the papers to- morrow." Lady Mary sighed. "And nobody will believe it," she added. She loo.Ved away wistfully, through the win- dow, to the darkling river. " I was to have dined with the Prince on I ti- 1 11 ^^ M 128 HER MEMORY. Friday next," she said, "at the Duchess of Dorrisford's. Nobody will believe it." She brightened up. "Do you know, I am proud of that stroke about the EngHsh tourists," she said. " It will please the poor hotel keepers; there's not a soul in the house! " She threw up her hands. " I am ready to do anything," she said. " I shall order light mourning, though heliotrope never suited me! I am will- ing to advertise Miss Octavia Hunt in the Times — I think ' Octavia ' looks well. In the middle of the season, I will spend a w^eek, any- where! But it's dreadful to think that it's all of no use. People always know." Anthony was too conscious of this fact; he could offer no consolation. "You might say they didn't," she ex- claimed, laughing hastily. " But they do. I am never quite sure whether the farce one gets up over every tragedy is worth playing. But 'tis a traditional rule to have a sort of lever de rideaii. They always do at all the courts when HER MEMORY. 129 => royal personage commits s„icincl tlten co.nes the piece! So I suppose it's ^.e ,v.sest thing to do, or tUcy wouldn't do it 1 oor Eveline! " •; But there's nothing much amiss now yoye come," suggested Anthony sooth- ■ngly. "Oil. no, nothing much. Only that Miss Evehne Hunt has run away to live with her drawtng-master! All the way to Florence. F>ve thousand a year ought to get over that r- She spoke with great bitterness, her hands embled. " And she merely fell in ,ove with th.s man from pique. In one season five hus- bands presented themselves, all more or less desirable. The last was Lord-well, never ™.nd; she has theslightest obliquity of vision; her father was very an.xious she should take h.m, so she said she would marry the first over with regular features. She has always been hke this. It is very diverting, I dare say ;..*! 130 HER MEMORY. Init if (loesnt answer. Eveline tries to be original; ti.at is stupider, though less danger- ous, than being born queer. Elle n'a pas besoin de courir apres I'esprit pour attraper la l)ctise." " Lady Mary, you exaggerate! " " A painter! " " You forget that I am an artist." "Oh, nonsense! So is Thomas. He's got some things hanging in his dressing-room he hat I have helped you a bit." Lady Mary also was white. ^^ " You do me horrible wrong," she said, but I suppose it's no use talking. Yet you might easily comprehend, that I do not feel the disgrace to the Hunt family as keenly as your father does." " You need not remind me that you are my step-mother; the fact is evident enougn But ^I refuse to accept my rejection as a r=,„„T.ter, except from my father's lips." in daughtt 142 HER MEMORY. " You must be content to receive it from his hand," said Lady Mary, and she drew forth a paper. The girl seized it, and read the curt sentence it contained. Her knees sank away under her; with a great effort she rose erect. "My father speaks of his affection, and his fortune," she said. " He evidently thinks I shall regret losing both." " Both are desirable," said Lady Mary. " But either, I imagine, suffices," said the girl. Again she looked down splendidly on her step-mother, who quailed before such magnificence of scorn. " There is no more to be said," continued Eveline. " I choose my life. I refuse to marry Lord Farringdale, who possesses every vice I despise and every vir- tue I dislike. I am of age, and I take as my husband " — she glanced down at the paper she held in her hand— ' this fellow, this draw- ing-master, this Geoffrey Strainge." "And what will you live on?" asked the lady on the sofa. HER AfEMORY. '43 *' His genius and my love." Lady Mary smiled sadly. " My dear, .ould you look into my heart you would be astonished to see how deeply I pity you. I have not your confidence, nor your affection; you would laugh at the kind words I am longing to speak. You have often condemned the comedy of our society life Evehne; perhaps you are right, but, my dear child, you are making of your own existence a farce-forgive me, if I speak plainly-a farce, with a tragical ending, which nobody will give you due credit for, because it doesn't fit into the piece." " Whatever kind of play my life may be " said Eveline proudly, " I have come to-night to the transformation scene. I do not im- peach the ideals you and all your set have been brought up to; they are the lights of your hfe; art and love, these are mine! If you do not mind, I should like to retire to my room." • n II 144 HER MEMORY. "Good-night, Eveline. Let us meet to- morrow morning. Believe me, whatever may happen, I will befriend you with your father all I can." " Art with a little a. Love with a big L, let us hope," said Lady Mary, as the door closed on her step-daughter. " Come out of your corner, Anthony. Well, do you ap- prove? " " Really, it is difficult for me," replied An- thony, hesitatingly, " to express any authori- tative opinion." " Oh, if you begin like that, you will end t)y approving. I don't. Not that I grudge Eveline her coveted romance. But the ro- mances of real life begin well and end badly. This one is bound to." " But, then, you are so unromantic, so matter-of-fact." "Am I?" She looked at him wistfully. "Perhaps I am. Then, at least, I avoid being absurd. Absurdity is the one thing I HER MEMORY. '45 dread. The fear of absurdity is my dominant sin." " If she loves him," began Anthony, but the lady interrupted. "If she loved him! him only, heart and soul, without heed of her own emotions, once for all, and for ever, through sickness and desolation, for life and in death, thinking only of his happiness— if she loved him as one human being loves once in a thousand— oh! unfortunate, oh! most favoured atuongst women, who would dare " she broke off. hoarse with the vehemence of that word, un- able to proceed. " And I who just said 3'ou were not ro- mantic! " murmured Anthony. " Every woman is romantic; but I am not sentimental. Besides, I am nearly thirty-five — 'nel mezzo del cammino '; that is an apt quotation here, and it is, moreover, the only Dante I know. Oh, except, of course, ' Lasci- ate ogni speranza,' which is appropriate for 146 HER MEMORY. Eveline. Eveline, what a name! Half the fault lies there. Tf I wanted my daugh- ter to elope with a groom. I should call her Diana." " Now you are superstitious," protested Anthony. " Call me whatever you like, hnt let me go "ly own way. I tell you. I have seen the world. Nothing succeeds in it except com- mon sense; and that only succeeds because It IS so uncommon. I would give my right hand— yes, I know what I am saying— to save Eveline from all the sordid wretchedness with this miserable man. As it is, I can do noth- ing. And, of course, it is pleasant to have one's right hand where it ought to be. I do not imagine for a moment, as Eveline would, that I should enjoy going about with a stump." " You think this man will be unkind to her? " " I think he understands she is an heiress. HER MEMORY. m; But even were matters entirely difTerent " she paused, looking^ anxiously at Anthony, struggled to say something, and hesitated,' manifestly at war with herself. "Anth^i:v" she said softly, and then, pouring forth ],< r words, "you must let me speak! V,, : mus:n't mind for once. You've got a little ,ii, 1 know about her. I've been wanting to say this for c^ cr so long, only we never met. And perhaps I should never have dared. But I wanted to say, -- ^'-e has been with Thns snubbed, Margie turned ,0 the land- scape, and they walked away, each busy with ">e.r own reflections. The Piazzale Galileo '«;« HER MEMORY. had been reached before Anthony broke the silence. '• Can Miss Cyr^v -^e the difference, I won- der, between a ' Madonna' by Botticelli, and a ' Madonna ' of Murillo's? " be said. Margie looked up in indignant astonish- ment, but she only replied, " I don't know. They look very different, papa." " After all, what does it matter? She can distinguish between Rugby and Association." " Yes, papu. Do you know, I tlink As- .sociation's best." " The ancient Greeks could do both. Mar- gie. But then, they were fine fellows. Fancy sculpting the Apoxyonicnos after having beaten him in a race." "I ihougl the Apoxyomenos had been wrestling, papa? " Anthony hea^-ed a plaJntive sigh. " You remember my jacket Miat I tore in Rome?" contini.cd Margie. "Miss Gray says I shaF. ve ^o get a new one." HER MEMORV. 159 Anthony Slopped in the middle of the hill- side road, and, bending, kissed her. That evening he sought a little talk with Miss Girling, the landlady's spinstc-r niece ^vlio helped her in the housekeeping. Usu-' ally he avo.ed Miss Girling as nu.ch as he cu-dly could, simply because she bored him for he was unaware that half-a-do.cn cour- teous words on his part caused much flutter and speculation in a heart essentially youthful and sdly, full of vague aspirations suHiciently sentmiental to meet any demand. " Indeed, Margaret is the sweetest child " said Miss Girling. "And well developed, I think, for her age? " " She might be stronger," said V/m Girl- ing. "I mean intellectually," explained the father, with a quick shadow acros.s his face. BSBII 'm ^^ HER MEMORY. " Indeed, she knows twice as much as I ^I'cl when I was her a^^e. and about all sorts of things. And yet I had the very best educa- tion that the very best academy in Clapham could give-Miss Grigson's the name was- and I had all the extras." " I am glad to hear you say that," replied Anthony, keeping to the point which was of interest to him. '' There are subjects, of course," continued Miss Girting, " which can be learnt nowhere as they are learnt in England. Deportment, for instance -" *' You think Margie is deficient in deport- ment?" " Oh, no, I should never wish to say that. The poor motherless dear! " " What is deportment. Miss Girling? " " La. ]\Ir. Stollard, you know better than I! For shame! The dear child is altogether su-eet, yet she cannot but miss a lady-mother's refinmg influence, the daily contact with a IIKR MEMORY i6r gentlewoman l,orn." Mis>; r.vi- her eyelids. "'"^ '^'°PP"^ " Vo.i ol,ject to Miss Gray? " '• I object? ideally, Ur. Stollard, you make o,.,,3,3„H things, I an, al„,„3t afraid o talk to yon. I object? No. indeed. The 'er father nasn, trade. Her brother is. I be- Y::' =• ^r" ■■- "- Chnrd, of England. „n:er'"""'-^™=^'^-^— stiLble nursery-governess." "B"titisIwhohaveednca,edMargie." She has, indeed, had a ,cacl,cr such as now reqtnres to render her the met charntinc of g.ris,s a gentlewoman's daily inm,e„ee, a: Enghsh lady's constant intercourse, the at mosphere of a cultured English home " .oMtGiir""""'''"''""'''''^^-'' "Thank you! "he exclaimed. " I am so much obliged to you. She shall have it." 1 62 HER MEMORY. ! Miss Girling blushed, and coughed. " You need not be distressed about Miss Gray," she said. " I know that she is only waiting for an opportunity to take a step from which she has long shrunk in vain. She believes it her duty to go and keep house for her brother, and I am sure she is right.' "Is it possible?" exclaimed Anthony, overwhelmed by the pressure of fate. " The brother is a widower, as vou are probably aware. Pie has seven children. And what is home without a mother? " " In a year he will marry again," said An- thony, bitterly. " Miss Gray .vill grudge no one his happi- ness. She was saying to me only the other day that it was the best thing he, or any other widower, could do. I'm sure I beg your par- don, Mr. Stollard-I Gracious, who's there? Si, si, Cenza, vengo. These Italian servants never know how to behave. But I I I i HER MEMORY. ^^3 like Italy-at least, for the winter. I quite sympathise with your feeling about Italy." " Thank you. Do you know if the post has come in? " " I will inquire," said Miss Girling, a little crestfallen. A few minutes later, pale, little Miss Gray brought up his letters. " Might I speak to you, sir, for a mo- ment.^ " she asked, in her timid way, perpetu- ally dreading a liberty she would never have ventured to take. '' I have felt, for a long time, that it had become my duty to do so, but the courage was wanting." She broke' down already, with easy tears. " Margaret is twelve years old, as you remarked this morn- ing. Do you not think, Mr. Stollard, it is time some more-efficient companion should take my place?" " I shall be very sorry to lose you," an- swered Anthony, expectantly. m M ii: ^^4 HER MEMORY. She noted the " shall." " Is there no other reason for your go- i"g? ' he added. " None other but dear Margaret's welfare ^ was not speaking of immediate departure In the first place, I must consider your con- venience." " ^ ''^'' "nderstood from Miss Girling tliat you were anxious to join your brotl.er Alfred -the poor fellow who lost his wife last year " _'Miss Girling,.. „ied the governess. Oh! the-Iandlady-s niece is not acquainted vv.th my private affairs! I have spoken with her, of course, about my poor brother's be- reavement, as I have with you, Mr. Stoilard But m all matters I shall be guided by your kuid and generous advice." Miss Gray cried a imle, quietly. •• You have always been to me l,kea-hke a father," said poor, little Miss Gray. She hoped for a pension or something slie hardly knew what. " ^ ™"^' ^^« ^b°»' it." he said, taking up HER MEMORY. 165 h.s letter,, as a form of dismissal. He noticed that the top one was front Mrs. Fosby Accpio omen," l,e said to Itimself. ■• If she bothers about the child's education, I sha'n't send her. Voiln ! " u^ ,^ It was ful of jrossin p-i^»,. ■ fco.sip, eager inquiry, affection- ale messages— no more. He carried up ,0 Miss Gray a couple of ■"us rated papers, unopened. " You and Mar- g.e had better make ready .0 start for Eng- and next wee,<,-. he said. " I may have f, early opportunity of sending you. She would go .0 her grandmother; you cou.''*. A hundred home-en- joyments. long discussed with Miss Gray un- HER MEMORY. 169 expectedly lay i„ l,er lap. She was taken to Thurclles, and everybody spoilt her; she vis- aed Nurse Lintot, and the old woman rose up ar^d blessed her; Uncle Henry, she wrote, was "^ost kind; Mrs. Fosby she had evidently pleased. Anthony, it must be owned, found tl^ese nppling letters rather difficult to swal- low; they ran over. AVith scorn of his own selhshness he checked a grimace. He was glad the child should enjoy herself, even over yonder. But he painted all the better when the time approached for her return. '' Why, he's look- ing much more cheerful." said good-natured Mrs. Thomson. During the last fortnight he panned desperately, day and night. " One would think he had to do it," remarked Miss Girlmg, who felt about the mysterious cham- ber as Blue Beard's consort must have felt though, alas! she was devoid of Mrs. Blue Beard's claims to cross the threshold. Miss Girhng found the lodger disappointing. " Of li 111 11 I/O HER MEMORY. course, I can quite understand a gentleman painting to amuse himself," said this resident in Florence. When Margie, returning towards the end of the autumn, fell into her father's arms at the railway station, he believed that the blank in his life had been filled. Mrs. Fosby came with her; the old lady had not seen her son- in-law since his flight from Thurdles, on that summer morning. Both of them w^ere glad to let Margie chatter on, of anything and every- thing, as long as it was unimportant, as long as they could listen, and ask questions and take an interest, avoiding one another's eyes. Through the self-created ordeal of this meet- ing, Margie's flow of new experiences now carried them triumphantly. " Look, Margie, at the della Robbias," said Anthony, as they drove past the Loggia di San Paolo; he did not trouble Mrs. Fosby to look at della Robbias. " Child, aren't you glad to be in Florence again? " HER MEMORY. 171 "Oh, yes, beautiful Florence!" said the girl. " But, papa, I was telling you about the rector's daughters who lived close to grand- mamma." He had to listen to England, Eng- land, Thurdles, Mrs. Fosby's circle and sur- roundings, the worship of King Snob. The old lady said but little, except occasionally to correct a misconception. '' The ' Duchess,' my dear! People don't say Lady Dorrisford." At that moment she certainly looked re- proachfully towards Anthony, who tried hard not to feel ashamed. He trembled to think of all possible shortcomings. He was relieved when, immediately after din- ner, she got up and left him alone with the child. " Papa, there's a thing I want to ask you," began Margie immediately, with nerv- ous rapidity of speech; " I didn't want to write about it. Grandmamma has quantities of things, you know, that belonged to mamma, relics of when she was a baby, and when she 172 HER MEMORY. was as old as I am — her first shoes, and her last pinafore, and all the works she made for birthdays, and " " Your grandmother! " exclaimed An- thony, amazed. " Yes "—the girl looked surprised. " She says that I ohall have them all some day. I— I don't mean when she dies — dear granny! And what I wanted to say was, she gave me —this!" From under her frock the child drew a plain gold locket, with gold monogram and thin gold chain. She pressed the spring. " Grandmamma thinks this is very like," she said. Anthony glanced down on a miniature photo of his wife, a simpering, grey thino-, with the absurd head-dress of her teens. " There are any number of portraits at grandmamma's," said Margie. " She was so astonished to find I had never seen one of them. But I explained to her, you did not I HER MEMORV. 1/3 like portraits. Papa "-Marfcic's voice ^ro^v implorins-- "is this like F" "Come with me," he answererl. fic led tlie way. and she fol! i. upstairs to the studio. He struci< a u.-Uch. and. without speaking, went straij^dit to the i„„er door Margie's heart throbbed. He motioned her to accompany him. Hurriedly he lighted a great lamp, tliat blazed overhead. The child stood in the small chamber and looked. The walls were hung with a smooth grey texture like clouds; the whole room was bare, but for one picture, looming large. The child trem1)led with emotion. From grey clouds, m strange paleness of colouring, a white fig- lire bent forward, seraphic, yet himianly ideal- ised-a denizen of heaven, but a daughter of earth. All the warmth of the picture con- centred in the eyes; and these were gazing at Margie. The locket, with the mother's dull effigy, beat on the daughter's breast, "And that was mamma." said Margie in a IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-S) // ^.% 1.0 1.1 £ lis 25 2.2 11:25 III 1.4 2.0 IM 1.6 w Phntnoranhir Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 # V V> \i ^ tA 174 IIER MEMORY, whisper. She stood immovable for many minutes. Anthony watched her. Then they went out of the Httle room together. " Mops," said the father, usinp- the pet name he had given her at Thurdles, " we will keep that picture to ourselves, you and I. Nobody else shall ever see it. And now you must go to bed. You are tired." He found Mrs. Fosby waiting for him in the sitting-room. "Anthony," she said in an agitated voice, " pray be seated; I have some- thing of importance to communicate." Anthony did as he was told. Important statements should be made without prepara- tion", he thought. " Your brother Henry, as you are aware, is unwell." said Mrs. Fosby, dropping a stitch. " No wonder, with his life, and in that cli- mate! " replied Anthony aggressively; he was speculating where all the hideous articles were which Mrs. Fosby had remorselessly manu- HER MEMORY. 175 factured in the last few years. The old lady let the attack pass unnoticed. " But Henry was always fussy," added Anthony. " I dare- say it's nothing much." "He is very ill." replied Mrs. Fosby, studying her work, yet dropping more' stitches. " He is going to die." "My God, what do you mean?" ex- claimed Anthony thickly. " He has been very ill for a long time. Much more so than he chose to let anyone know. But his energy and his sense of "— Mrs. Fosby's eyes were fixed on her knitting — " of duty are immense. However, at las't he has had to give in. The doctors insist on his leaving England. H^ is coming to the Riviera." " To recover? " exclaimed Anthony pas- sionately, " No-~to die." Anthony sat with his face behind his hands. When at last he looked up. •• Henry! " 17^ HER MEMORY. he said once. At the sound of his voice the tears gathered behind Mrs. Fosby's specta- cles. She was vexed with her son-in-law, the strange creature; sorry for him, certainly, but troul,led by his eccentric way of taking things. Had she, then, not loved her daughter, she v;ho, every Tuesday fortnight, in a room filled vitli portraits and other mementos, held a meeting of the Dorcas Society Margaret had started as a girl? It was a very nice society; the Hon. Mrs. Boring belonged to it. Well, she. Mrs. Fosby, had taken up the meetings three weeks after Margaret's death. She now spoke not a word of reproach about Anthony's neglect of his brother— of his brother?— of everything. She had made up her mind, with such vast cause of reproof, to be terribly silent. His sorrow at the bad news greatly touched her, but then, she re- membered, he w^as always demonstrative, not to say sentimental. " One of my reasons for accompanying HER MEMORY. 177 Margie was that I might tell you this," she began presently; " I promised your brother to do so. He is cruelly alone. His servant is coming out with him, Frangois. It is a bless- ing now that he has a French servant, though I do not approve of foreign domestics my- self." " When is he coming? " asked Anthony. " In ten days or a fortnight." "I wonder," said Anthony timidly, " whether— whether he would like us to go to him?" Mrs. Fosby raised a pair of pleased eyes to her son-in-law's face. "I know that he desires it above all things," she said. "Anthony, he has of course been compelled to send in his resig- nation." " Poor, poor fellow," said Anthony. " You will see it in the papers in a day or two. What papers have you here? " "Oh— all," replied Anthony hastily. '■. , hi t -4', M H I'i 178 HER MEMORY. " Miss Girling, the landlady's niece, reads the Queen." Mrs. Fosby again looked reproach- ful. "■ 1 think." he continued. " I had better go upstairs to my room. 1 — your sad tidings have rather disturbed me. Perhaps we had better leave Florence immediately. Good- night. Poor Harry! Good-night." '* Yes, Margie, it is the last glimpse," said Anthony. They were standing under Giotto's tower in the full midday nu>\cment of the city. " But perhaps we shall come back, you know." " No, we shall never come back," an- swered Margie. "What do you mean, child?" exclaimed her father uncomfortably. "' How can you tell? " " I don't quite know what I mean, papa. Of course we may come back to Florence. But it W'On't be coming back to this; not to Miss Girling and Miss Gray, for instance, HER MEiMORY. 179 though I don't mean that either. I mean I don't know; but things never come back, cK they? We shall never be the same again." " No ; for one thing, you will grow older." She heaved a sigh. " Yes, I suppose one must," she said. And they both laughed. "And things happen to one, papa, and make one different. My going to England, for instance. I can't be the same as before I went." "What difference has that made?" he asked, a little anxiouslv. " I don't know. I couldn't possibly ex- plain." Tell me you are happy, Margie. You have been happy here in Florence, have you not? All I care about is that you should be happy, dear." " Of course I'm happy with you, papa." "What would you like? Tell me what you would like. If I can I will get it for you. 'if I ■ 1 I] i 1 ' "•' I I 'km 1 ril 1 '^'"9 I 1 80 HER MEMORY. All I care about is tliat you should l)e happy, clear." His voice was tremulous with pas- sion. Margie looked straight in front of her. " I don't want anything, thank you, papa," she said, " except for you to love me awfully. Almost as much as you loved mamma." He stood silent by her side for some time. She was almost afraid she had offended him. At last he said in a very low voice, " You are like your mother in many things. It is time that we went." ;.ii, I- CHAPTER XI. At the H6tel des Milords et des Princes, amongst the lemon groves of Mentone, on the stucco terrace with its neat gravel walk and vases of geraniums, its carefully kept bor- ders and yellow-striped aloes, under blue sky and red parasols and smart awnings — the usual laughter and coughing, play, pleasure, and pain! Slow distraction, and sudden death. All just as it had been four years ago; just as it goes on for ever, think we, for whom it goes on till it stops. Sir Henry Stollard sat on the terrace watching the glitter of the sea. His face was pale, and a trifle parchmenty; his dress was scrupulously trim and proper; his look was proper also, and immeasurably sad. Anthony sat beside him drawing circles in iSi i !< i "-N 182 HER MEMORY. ill i1! the sand. That had been his occupation now for several weeks. The circles were admi- rably even. *' Isn't it a beautiful day? " said Anthony. " What a season we're having! Such weather as this must do you lots of good." " Oh, yes. lots," said Sir Henry. '^ The ^veather is beautiful. I wish Franqois would hnng me those pills." " He's not due for five minutes yet," said Anthony, consulting his watch. " It takes one at least half an hour to get down to the Piiarmacie Centrale and back." "He is an excellent servant," said Sir Henry; " it would be madness to complain of Francois." " Yes, you seem to get on first-rate. It rather amuses me to see you with a French valet, you who are the most English of Eng- lishmen." " Do I strike you as the most English of Englishmen?" said Sir Henry proudly. • HER MEMORY, Well. I 183 suppose we are all of us more com- plicated creatures than we appear. Von arc very complicated, Anthony." " Oh, I am cosmopolitan," said Anthony. " I am kaleidoscopic. I am all things to all men." There was a long pause between them; both watched a shiny skiff upon the shining sea. '' When I die," said Sir Henry—" Don't, Anthony; of course I know I am dying. We must talk about it sooner or later; we may as well talk about it now. When I die, what will become of Stawell, and of all my work there, and— and "—his voice faltered— " of everything? " He steadied it. " Let me .uy what I wanted to say, Anthony— all of it. I have worked hard all my life, you know I have. It's been practical work. I don't know anything about music and painting ; I couldn't if I'd tried. We're very different; you take after mother. But there's the cot-' 1; •• if 1 84 HER MEMORY. tages. and all the improvements, aiul tlic coun- ty business. Then tl.ere was the parhamcn- tary work, and my Under Secretaryship-I l'l M I , tht' case you sent r.. HER mi:mory. 199 home this morning 'as l.ccn placed in Mrs.— in my lady's— bccg^ing your i)ardun— lioun room, as you hordcrcd, Sir Anthony— and I've laid a screw-driver on the table all ready, as was the message, Sir Anthony." Margie looked up. With quick in- sight she understood what the case con- tained. " It has got too late for to-day," said An- thony hastily. " Let everything remain as it is. Mrs. Gibbons; I shall be coming back next week." His mind was out of tune with the child's; he wanted to get away. He turned back on the steps. " Be sure nobody touches it." he said. "Touch it— or anything, Sir Anthony!— lor, before anybody was to " The horse ''i'lng hk head up impatiently, with a jingle of bells. Father and daughter spoke little on the way home. He was amazed that she had not asked after the boudoir. A water-colour por- it i 111 Il< 30O HER MEMORY. trait by himself— an early thing, poor— hung in his old " den "; she had turned away from it impatiently. The locket and chain were long gone from her neck; she never talked any more about photographs. He wondered whether she was deliberately setting herself to forget, rebelling against his morbid cloud- ing of her bright young existence. She was right. The more fool he! When he went up to dress for dinner, Frangois desired a word with him. That was only natural; somebody was always standing ready to worry him now. " Well, what is it? " he said hastily, "Sar Anzony, I 'ave waited till you were — 'ow shall I say it?— installed. But now I 'ope zat you will permit me to speak. You 'ave no more, I imagine myself, immediate necessity for my services?" The valet looked inter- rogative. He was a blue-cheeked, high- boned Parisian, creamy of complexion, close- ly cropped. I" HER MEMORY. ^^j "Well, no, I suppose not," replied An- thony much relieved. " Why? Do you con- template leaving Stawell? " " For myself, I would not, Sar Anzony. Sar 'Enry was an excellent master. You also are an excellent gentleman. But zere are rea- sons which render imperative zat I return to my native land." " I hope they are pleasant reasons, Fran- cois. Profitable reasons also. I shall always wish you well." " Ah, Sar Anzony, where is zere anyzing profitable to ze people of my condition? We are born to be poor. England is profitable. But I cannot remain in England. It is physi- cally impossible." "That I can enter into," returned An- thony heartily. - To foreigners the climate must be terribly trying." " Ah, Sar Anzony, it is not ze climate, it is ze language. Ze language to me, it would be fatal. In tjme I say no." I.'! i 202 HER MEMORY. "The language? what on earth are you aiming at? " " Ze EngHsh language, Sar Anzony, in ze foreigner oo 'as ze tendency, it is proved by ze medical auzorities zat it produces cancer in ze zroat. Zink of it, Sar Anzony, it is 'or- rible! Ze German doctors — I 'ave read in many newspapers— zey 'ave proved zat ze German Emperor Frederic 'ave died from speaking English in ze bosom of 'is family. 'Im I need 'ardly pity, "e was a Prussian. Still one pities 'im— cancer in ze zroat; it is too 'orrible! And of late, since I read zat, I 'ave pain in my zroat, many times. I say it cannot be, but in vain. I o-q I fly." "Cancer in the throat? What unutter- able nonsense! " " It is ze ' th,' zey believe, Sar Anzony. See, you 'ave it even in your name. But in vain I avoid it, Sar An///ony! I can say it as well as ze English. Better! But I refrain. } HER MEMORY. li 203 Carefully do I avoid it. Yet ye .nr.,. ^ 'i^- i eu ze soreness is zare." "I remember reading about the Em- peror's doctors," said Anthony. ''But I didn't think any one believed it-not even they! " " '^''' ^="' '"^"™"y. it is impossible for one nat.on to understand another-especially ze English. And yon, who are of all people most hnghsh " " Dear me! " exclaimed Anthony, amazed. H,s astonishment overcame his discretion >ou say that, after having lived with my brother? " ■' "Sar 'Enry never come ont.side: 'e wa, whne among ze whites. ,a ne se voit pas' Yon, yon are white among ze blacks; ca se VOlt." " I observe," replied Anthony, greatly in- terested. ■• Bnt why don't yon sav ' black among the whites ' at once, while yonVe about It, for that is what you mean? " JJ I 204 HER MEMORY. The valet threw np a deprecating hand. " Monsieur plaisante," he said. " And, by the bye, if you are so afraid of speaking Enghsh, why do you persist in using that language to me, while you always spoke French with my poor brother, who couldn't make himself understood? " " Monsieur ne sera pas fache? " " Of course not, as I ask you! " " Well, then, Sar Anzony, Sar 'Enri, 'e speak so ill, nobody zink to compare, but Sar Anzony 'e speak so well, one observes 'ow it be ill. And to a Frenchman it 'urt. But zat is of no importance; it is only because you ask, zat I explain myself. It is unintentional, Sar Anzony, it is instinctive; I speak, of course, ze language you desire me to speak. But as for me, my country calls me; I am 'omesick. To live 'ere always, in ze Eng- lish country, it were to me simply impossible. Sir 'Enry was in London, in ze movement; it is 'orribly dark zere, indeed, but ze doctors HER MEMORY. 205 declare ze darkness is ealzy! 'Ere I would fall ill of some swifter disease, even were it not for ze fear of ze language. I would take ze liberty of presenting my younger brozer, 00 'as possibly all ze family virtues, and certainly none of 'is elder's particular faults." " Your faults? " asked Anthony with an amused smile. " We all 'ave zem." " And you don't object to the idea of your brother falling ill? " Francois looked mightily offended. "'E 'as not ze tendency, Sar Anzony. Ah, yes, I 'ave certainly my faults. But not egotism; for my family I sacrifice myself. Would you please to see my brozer? After dinner may 'e mount? " " What, you've got him here! " Anthony turned from arranging his tie. " But yes; before offering my resignation, was it not my duty to obtain a rcmplagant? " 14 «i' if II T \\ 206 HER MEMORY. " You could have spared yourself the trouble, had you uttered a word. I shall not require a man." The valet stared in round-eyed silence. " Well, what is it? " queried Anthony, pro- voked. " But, Sar Anzony, I do not understand. Sar — Anzony — Stollard — Baronette — not — require — a — man! " Anthony laughed aloud. " No," he said, '' I shall hve a quiet life down here, very different from my brother's." The man made a grimace. " But yes, it will be quiet," he said, "And as soon as possible — and as long as possible — I shall go abroad." The man pricked up his ears. " Go abroad," he repeated dubiously. "Yes; don't you approve?" " Sar Anzony, I should not venture to in- terrogate. But I 'ad been assured zat it was out of ze question, zat 'enceforze you would HER MEMORY, 207 inevitably ever remain in zis country, Sar An- zony." " And who assured you so? Not I." Again Franqois cast up his hand. " No Sar Anzony. Nor Mrs. Fosby. But I 'ave understood it is impossible for ze baronette of Stawell to reside on ze Continent, ozer- wise- " " Otlierwise you might not have found yourself catching cancer. And who gave you that precious bit of information? " "Everybody," said the valet doggedly. " ^'^° J^"e Mary, Mrs. Fosby's maid." 1 b a 11 CHAPTER XII. " Oh, you will accept the inevitable," said Lady Mary. She threw herself back among the Oriental cushions of her little London smoking den. " People always do." " Not always," said Anthony moodily. '* Educated people do. It proves want of refinement to go on kicking against the pricks." Anthony flushed. " And you say that to me, who have never done anything else? " Lady Mary laughed between two pulls of her cigarette. " Oh, yes, you have." she said. " That is only fancy. You were very comfortable in Florence, I feel sure. And now you will make an excellent monarch of Stawell." 208 HER ^TEMOR\^ 209 " You really think so? " " And member for South Oaks." " That never! " he exclaimed, with great energy. " Yes, yes, you will. It is your duty, and you think it unpleasant— you are certain to do it." " I have never done my duty yet." " So be it; the man who says that is about to begin. But you are mistaken. Ever since the loss of your wife four years ago you have devoted yourself to your little daughter for her sake. You have done a great deal more than your duty, though I am not quite sure what your duty was. And now, for tke sake of your dead brother, you are going to sacri- fice yourself over again." He would have protested, but she stopped him. "And quite right too.", she said coolly. " Besides, you cannot act otherwise. There is no greater tyranny on earth than the self-indulgence of your conscientious man. You will force your- S'l I' SI Pfc 210 HER MEMORY. self, my clear Anthony, to accept this vacant seat." " No, I sha'n't," said Anthony. " Shall— sha'n't. What a funny sort of schoolboy conversation we are having. Well, if you don't, so much the better for me." " What on earth do you mean? " " If you definitely refuse, they will put up my husband, faiitc de mieiix. You know he was thrown out at the general election." " I thought he was to be consoled with a . baronetcy? " " The baronetcy will come in any case; he has paid for it." " I congratulate you." " Oh, no. To me it seems an absurdity. An old man like Thomas does that sort of thing for his sons." Over Lady Mary's face stole a meditative look of regret. " But I should prefer him to get back into Parlia- ment; it will occupy his evenings, and restore his good temper, which Eveline's behaviour HER MEMORY. jir has not been calcniatcd to improve. Now, we play piquet every night, and I detest piquet." " Most certainly Mr. Hunt shall have my seat," said Anthony gleefully. Tarry a little; there is something else.' That's a quotation, isn't it? You haven't even asked after Thomas's political views. But of course you can guess them. Fifty thousand a year and a cheesemonger grandfather. Thomas is, of course, an ultra-Conservative." " Do you say these sort of things to many people? " " To you only. Hush, you should never extract that kind of confession from a woman. Take another cigarette. Thomas is opposed to every social reform or improvement. In his speeches of course he calls himself a Tory Democrat. I imagine the Government find him rather a handful. But they must give him a seat again, whether for South Oaks or some other place. He will make an excellent successor to Sir Henry." ■m 212 HER JrEMORY. Anthony sat looking at his boots for some time. Presently he said, with deep conviction — and a laugh — in his voice: " Lady Mary, you are a very intriguing Avoman." '■ I have not the remotest idea what you mean." she replied promptly. ^ He got up. " It would be difficult," he said, "to make myself plainer. But how about the piquet?" "I also," she replied, playing with her cigarette: "I accept the inevitable-at least, till the next vacancy. Even the Government of this great empire, you see, has to do that." He went off to his club, where he had a room. He found Mr. Smithers. the agent, waiting for him, and also the inevitable packet of letters. He glanced over these. One was from Thomas Hunt. The writer, presuming the report to be true that Sir Anthony Stol- lard was returning to Italy and amateur paint- ing, asked in no very dignified manner for the H' "ER MEMORY. seat thus left vacant. His political convic- tions, he need hardly affirm, were entirely Sir Henry's-Tory Democracy, government for the people. Anthony tossed the letter aside and turned to the agent. '• More business? "' he said. He paused presently, surrounded by papers. " I don't understand these figures," he said; " I am so stupid at sums, you must really have patience with me. Smithers." " Excuse me. Si- Anthony "—Mr. Smith- ers' manner was nervous-'* it is quite pos- sible there should be some confusion in the carpenter's account. Jobson is a terrible muddle-head. Will you allow me-you are so quick. Sir Anthony, at noticing things. Sir Henry was nothing to it." " You say that to flatter me," replied An- thony rather stiffly. " No, indeed, it is gospel truth. Sir Henry took great pains about everything. But you !l . ml i I iff«' 'II 214 HER MEMORY. are much quicker about things, I— I win look over Jobson's statement again, if you will permit me, Sir Anthony. I had just got it as I was coming away." " Is there anything more? " asked the bar- onet. Mr. Smithers sat bolt upright and twid- dled his thumbs. " There is the election," he said. "Well, what about it?" asked Sir An- thony impatiently. " They have put up a Labour candidate in Rusborough," "Indeed!" Anthony pushed all the documents away and turned round with great interest. "How is that? Tell me all about it. I thought that my brother had never been opposed." • " Nor has he, Sir Anthony, nor would you have been. None of them would have ven- tured, though for years the people at the new paper-mills have been burning to do it. So HER MEMORY 215 they've seized on the opportunity of your not standing, and before one could say 'Jack Rob- inson,' the thing's done." "And who is this Labour candidate? " " Oh, I don't know. It's some Sociah'st person from London, in a black coat~a great speaker, I m told. He used to be a Method- 1st parson, and now he believes only in damn- ing the rich." " But who said I was not going to stand > " Mr. Smithers coughed. " It was generally reported, Sir Anthony. You yourself have repeatedly informed me that you intended shortly to return to the Continent. And the Radicals at Rusborough thought they would stand a much better chance against a London banker, a personage utterly unknown in these parts, so they're out with their man." " What London banker? " " Mr. Hunt, Sir Anthony. He is to be the Conservative candidate, is he not? So we have all understood, and, of course, with your I 1 i ' it , i 2l6 HER MEMORY. entire approval? His chances are excellent, on the whole: of course he must promise still more than the other man." " I know nothing of Mr. Hunt's candi- dature. That is to say. I hear of it to-day for the first time. But no Conservative candidate could promise as much as the other man." "Why not, Sir Anthony? Lots of 'em do. They will not keep their promises, but then, neither will the Radicals. It is for a can- didate to make promises and for his party not to keep them. And I fancy Mr. Hunt is quite aware of that fact." " How do you know? " asked Anthony quickly. " I am speaking from hearsay. I have not the pleasure of Mr. Hunt's personal acquaint- ance." The agent's manner was hurried, his statement only literally correct. He had al- ready corresponded with the great banker, had received money from him, and hoped to receive more. I : ! HER MEMORY. 217 Anthony remained silent for some time "meditating on all that he had just heard, and combining it with Lady Mary's warning. Then he deliberately crossed his Rubicon. "I knew nothing of Mr. Hunt's plans," he said. " I intend to stand myself." Annoyance kept Smithers from answering immediately. At last he said: " That resolution, if you adhere to it, will cause a great change in all your arrange- ments. Sir Anthony." " I had hardly made any definite arrange- ments as yet." " I was thinking of the past-of your life at Florence." " That is over," said Anthony, and he sent the agent away. Mr. Smithers walked to Paddington in a condition of mind which he himself would have described as " put out." Sir Henry had been an excelleU type of the landlord who is also a politician, and under Sir Henry's su- ,"t 2l8 HER MEMORV. premacy, the agent had succeeded in gradu- «iUy stealing his thousands. He had calcu- lated on stealing his ten thousands under the nominal rule of the new man at Flor- ence. " How uncommon sharp was Sir An- timony," he reflected, "about spotting those alterations in Jobson's account." His face Rrc-w exceedingly rueful. " And as for thit l^anker'. commission, it's gone-and only a contested election remaining, for the first time i" my life, with all the extra bother, and not an extra halfpenny-oh lor! " In the train he very nearly wept for Sir Henry. Meanwhile Anthony, having announced Ills decision, was anxious to get back to Sta- well, before the news should be all over the county. He hurried through his business in T^ondon, and without taking leave of Lady Mary, returned hastily home. Mrs. Fosby had kept Margaret company while the master of the house was away. The old lady enjoyed managing a considerable 1 HER MEMORY. establishment; she liked a good quarrel wit! an upper servant, it braced and invigorated "er. To g.ve people a piece of her mind - when she could insist on .heir taking it. had «ays been her favourite act of generosity It was a wonder, considering what a lot of mmd she had ,eft-to do various things no- body desired of her. The household of Sta- well, accustomed to an accurate but easv- f°7 '^^^'^^'-- '-°ke out into sporadic re-. ''elhon, and kept " Mother-in-law." as thev scornfully called her. in an exquisite fiurrv of d.gn,ty and nerves. The state of affairs 'did not augur well for Sir Anthony's ultin.ate re- pose. "My dear Margie," said Mrs. Fosby for the twentieth time, "young as you are, vou can exercise great influence on your father He attaches much importance to your likes and d,slikes, a great deal more than people ;". '° ^'"■"'""'^ '''-^ "hen / was young. It -s very nice, I daresay, but it is a great 220 HER MEMORY. responsibility. Your father's happiness and comfort are largely dependent on you." Margie's young- heart fluttered. When grandmamma talked like that, she always wanted to cry. But she only said bravely: " I will do all I can, grandmamma. At Flor- ence, when it rained, I always made him change his boots." Mrs. Fosby smiled, with full consciousness of an old lady's wisdom—" Especially now." she continued, "when circumstances are so much altered. Your dear father is now a per- sonage of very great importance "—oh, de- licious words! She looked through the win- dows of the morning room, away across the park— "many men, women, and little chil- dren—children like yourself— are dependent upon his decisions. Yes, it is a great respon- sibility. You like Stawell very much; you enjoy being in this beautiful home, do you not, my dear? " Mrs. Fosby had decided on ruling An- HER MEMORY. "»">• through ,,is affection for Margie ^U was not a very .„ag„a„in,o„s resolve. „or was s»e con.,c.ous of I,avi„g tal, and paused in her tattino- ,,,J ^"ould like to liv; at Thurdles "AtTiumlles, mydearf-atThurdlesi- ^peated Mrs. Fosby in amazement. "Why ItH /'^'"^^^'''■"■'^^■■--p-i- u.th .h,s! There are no deer there-no eon- -rvatones to speak of-no-.-hy, my dea -:r;^'"t^::er '■---— ,u '"^'''^ '''^' q'-»te irritable- tile contrariness of human nn. ]^er_ """^"^ "ature annoyed A delicate instinct kept Margie from men- tiomng her reason. " It is sm.j. jg It IS such a pretty place, 222 HER MEMORY. !(,:' grandmamma; the name was originally ' The Hurdles,' was it not? " "I'm sure I don't know," replied Mrs. Fosby, still ruffled. " Papa told me so," said Margie. " Now, Margie, you must not allow your father to worry about that place." Mrs. P^os- by grew eloquent as visions rose before her of Stawell shut up, thp whole establishment dis- banded, her own short-lived grandeur a thing of derision. " You know, Margaret, I have told you before, that your father is— how shall I say? —inclined to be morbid. You must counter- act the tendency. I mean, you must do all you can to enliven him. Nothing could be worse for him— nothing— than a residence at Thurdles." " Yes, grandmamma, I quite understand," said Margie. " I am glad you do, my dear. And the less you refer to your mother, the better. You "ER MEMORY 223 may talk of her to me denr- T bear it." ' ' "" ="">= '" " I never mention her now," said Margie eyes suffused .i.h tears. " Besides l' ■"•"•% ever talk to papa about anythin' I very seldom see him ,0 talk ,0" "My child, on the whole that is better an e t, .,,„,_, ^.^^,_^^ J ir."""" ~P P-P'e, especially " P^'' i^"'t a n,an," replied Margie in- Agnantly. Mrs. Fosby sighed "Perhaps not," she sai.l. " perhaps not. f '';"' "'^- y°" are far better off with out-and-out women, like me." Mrs. Fosby bent forward and kissed the grandchild she loved bettpr t. earth "I , '^"'" "'^" anything on ■ ' '"" '™^''" ^he said, " that some arrangement wiil be made which keeps bo" of you m England. I have a perfect horror o fo-gn parts and their fevers. In the whole ■y-> 24 HER MEMORY. i - ; of Italy. I am told, there are no drains, and I can readily believe it. Ah me! all the sanitary improvements in this house have been carried out by Messrs. Jennings, of London." Mrs. Fosby sighed. " Papa says," remarked Margie, " that the people who live in the healthiest houses are always the first to catch typhoid." Mrs. Fosby opened her eyes. Neither the doctrine that " extremes meet " nor its prac- tical manifestations had any part in her simple philosophy. "My dear," she said majestically, " your father likes teasing. I hope that when the new governess is found, she will be a good common-sense person, with plenty of accom- plishments. Common-sense and refinement, that is what we need. But I cannot bear to think of your going off to Florence together; you are such a small family, Margaret, your father and you." " I don't see hov^ we could well be larger," protested Margie laughing. iii HER MEMORY. 225 Mrs. Fosby did. thoufi:h of course she said "othing. She thought it was an exceedingly generous thing in her to desire her son-in- law's re-marriage, but she was also perfectly convinced that her generosity would never be called upon to prove itself sincere. " If you please, ma'am, could I speak to you for a minute?" said Jane Mary at the door. Her manner betokened agitation "What is it? Is it a secret? Come in " replied Mrs. Fosby, attempting to hide her curiosity. " A secret !-lor, no, ma'am-(I do believe she's afraider than ever of my getting mar- ned)-there's been a telegram for the dog- cart to meet Sir Anthony at the station." Margie clapped her hands. Mrs. Fosby said: "Indeed!" " But it's the reason of his coming back so sudden, ma'am! 'Tis all over the place ma'am. Sir Anthony is a-going to seat him- self m Parliament!" !-ti iff 226 HER MEMORV. " God bless my heart! " cried Mrs. Fosby. She half rose, sta-gering. in her chair. " What do you know of such matters. Ja.ie Mary?" slie added testily; <' you're only a stupid country girl! " "Aged thirty-seven," said Jane Mary coolly. " I'm not as stupid, Mrs. Fosby, as I was when I took your place, ma'am. And if I knowed the news afore you knowed it, that's more Sir Anthony's fault than mine, ma'am! " " Don't be impertinent," replied Mrs. Fos- by imperiously. The mistress who says that twice to a maid, and she had said it many times, is lost. Before Jane Mary could an- swer, as she always did. Sir Anthony himself walked into the room. Margaret flew to him. " Oh, Anthony, is it true? " exclaimed Mrs. Fosby, her voice shrill with agitation. He did not enquire what. " Oh, yes, true enough," he replied. " God be praised," said Mrs. Fosby. Her son-in-law looked surprised. "In- HER MEMORY. ^,_ •Iced? •' he answered. " Well, he it so. One l>as to he thankful for everything, 1 suppose —even for positive disagreeahles and possihle mistakes." He walked to the window and looked out on the park, the deer, the bleak, black misery. Suddenly he turned to Margie: " You foresaw we should never go back," he said. CHAPTER XIII. The fight of Sir Anthony Stollarcl's elec- tion has long remained famous in the annals of Oakshire. Competition was a new thino- but the Radical candidate and his mill-hands made an unexpected display. Unanswerable figures were grouped, and stories invented to prove the depravity of all landlords, and espe- cially of this one. Everybody listened to these "arguments," many believed them: most voted for the lord of the soil. Some part of his ultimate success was due to the man himself. His manner was modest and sincere: once the nervousness surmount- ed, he spoke well. Some of his most influ- ential supporters were annoyed, they had hoped for considerable largesse from the Lon- don banker; they had to confess, in the end, 228 HER MEMORY. 229 that Sir Antl ony had a right to his scat. Jt was all very new and strange, and exciting. Margie would have l-'ked to understand more about it; she dimly realised the r ormous gulf between all this vulgar turmoil id the twilight churches of Florence, the Madonnas, the sunset walks to San Miniato. A new governess was provided, " a very superior and highly accomplished gentle- woman, who has given the greatest satisfac- tion to her former employer, Mrs. Griene— the Honourable Mrs. Griene, you know— the Espinard family " So spoke Mrs. Fosby, to whom Anthony had wisely conceded the initiative. All stereotyped subjects were with- in Miss Bursley's range. She said her inter- esting young pupil had been terribly neg- lected. At twelve Gretna Griene had done algebra and dynamics. The day before his definite departure to claim the seat he had honestly conquered (for he had made no promises beyond those he 230 HER MEMORY. would l)e able to keep), Anthony Stollard rode across, late in the evening, to Thurdles, alone. He shuddered as he walked, with his candle, through the long-deserted house. In the boudoir he found his wife's picture await- ing him; it had waited there in its case for weeks. He set to work by the dim candle- light unscrewing the lid: he took the portrait out uninjured and gazed at it thoughtfully. Then he hung it up in the place he had always reserved for it while painting at Floience, and having adjusted it, he varnished it with great care. The night was far advanced by the time he had finished. Again he sat down and seemed sunk in contemplation of the portrait. Was it a portrait? He smiled gravely. His memories were of that other night— four years ago— in this same chamber: except for the brief hour with Margie, he had never since been near the place. He could not have come with Margie now, whose f^rst curiosity was satisfied, whose memory of her mother was HER MEMORY. 231 mildly asleep, as a child's should be. With liim also sorrow had become a deep and calm regret. Then the dull winter morning crept between the shutters; he threw them open wide, left them wide open, that in the whole black house this room at least might have such warmth and brightness as were possible, and then, turning hi. . ^k upon it all, went out with the key in ^ pocket. And the London papers discussed his ap- pearance at St. Stephen's. Sir Anthony Stol- lard had become a public man. They got a lot of information about his private life from his new French valet, Frangois' brother, who had been in his service a few weeks. ' w » When he went to see Lady Mary Hunt, he expected that she would worry him about his acceptance of his fate. But she was too wise a woman, in her generation. Only, in the course of their conversation, she said that she hked a game of cards: he had complained U 232 HER MZMORY. of the dull evenings at Stawell. " Why don't you play piquet? " she asked, laughing. " No- body need ever be dull who can play piquet. But now, you will have no time for dulness. We shall see a great deal of you in London." And, indeed, he frequently went to her: he found her immensely useful, with her large experience of society, and she liked to shov/ oHf her strength. Of course he now spent much of his time in London. Mrs. Fosby had returned, with mutual good-will, to her home on the farther side of Rusborough: dur- ing the summer months, and the shooting, whether there were guests to entertain or not, she could take her place, if she chose, as a sort of deputy mistress of Stawell. The absence of solid foundation to Ler claims made them all the more vexatious; there was irritation in the big house, and discomfort. Sir Anthony, tormented by a wasp's nest of worries, pre- tended not to notice. He was occupied with the unwilling discovery that his agent, the HER MEMORY. 233 faithful Smithers, cheated him. He was hard at work, also, in Parliament, doggedly study- ing blue books in an honest endeavour to feel less of a fool. For the greater part of the summer, how- ever, the whole of the season, Margie and Miss Bursley shared the mansion between them— that is to say, of course, they lived in a couple of rooms. Miss Bursley's system of education was very different from Miss Gray's, or Sir Anthony's You had to do everythmg exactly as she wished you to (Miss Gray had ceaselessly commanded, but never enforced), and you had to learn everything exactly as she had learnt it herself. Regular school hours filled the whole day with sym- metrical boredom: history was figures (not pictures); arithmetic was letters, botany was Latin, " science " was Greek. Miss Bursley considered herself especially strong on sci- ence, in which word she included all those facts about nature that nobody wants to I, 'if' 234 HER MEMORY. know. Into Margie's colour-filled world there entered the letter tt. Between capacity for learning and ability for teaching there exists, of course, no inevi- table connection. Miss Bursley had picked all the apples off the tree of learning, but she set them as dried and uncooked pippins before her pupil, in a row. The pupil was a proud child, and only cried in private. England, and especially the English coun- try, however, brought her many compensa- tions. Amongst these riding was chief. She had a pony at Stawell, Puck; he was her only confidant, and, besides one or two of the serv- ants, her only friend. The manes of ponies are designed to wipe children's tears. And Puck's tiny hoofs soon learnt that one of their chief objects in life must be to gal- lop across country to Thurdles. The coach- man who accompanied his young mistress, though limiting gallops, had no objection to this particular route. The care-taker at the HER MEMORY. 235 smaller house was his sister: he hked to go and complain to her of the other servants at Stavvell. While the two sat, amicably irrif.ble, over their teacups, Margie would roam about the liouse, dreaming dreams. One room was locked; but, in contrast to the others, its bhnds and shutters were completely drawn back: by climbing on to a balustrade outside the bay window, she corld obtain various views of the inside: by pressing hard against a stone pillar, she could see the picture-the Florentine picture, in full. Often she would sit thus, huddled against that pillar, for a long time: she hardly knew why. She liked it. She liked imagining all sorts of impossible memories. The beauty of the picture awed and delighted her. She had hidden away her grandmother's locket with the pitiful photo- graph. Once, suddenly, her father had asked her why she never wore it. '' I don't like it," she had answered; and then, as a frightened 236 HER MEMORY. after-thought, lest she should distress him: " It isn't a very pretty locket, is it, papa? " He brought her an expensive one from London, in his scornful kindness. And he talked, when he came down for Sunday, of the horses and dogs, and the farm. For himself, he was happy and occupied, pleased with his patent success. Such a num- ber of new interests and occupations crowded around him, he could not but fill up his time. Once or twice he had down a lot of people: it was a bore, but it had to be done. He rather liked it. Lady Mary came for a few days, with her husband. Mr. Hunt was very tottery, made of millions: it was amusing to watch' the passages of arms between Lady Mary and the quasi mistress of the mansion. But there must always be a great deal of bother, espe- cially for a man, in the managing-well, no, let us say in the supporting-a big household like Stawell. The upper servants agreed with Sir Anthony. They couldn't understand what HER MEMORY. 237 he wanted with Mrs. Fosby at all. A terrible young footman penetrated into his presence, and proved that his brother's most estimable' housekeeper deducted one-tenth from the wages, all round: he got a new housekeeper, and had everything paid by the agent. The agent deducted one-eighth. And Anthony thought of old Lord Fowey's favourite story: "What? Discharge my steward? And let a second pauper steal himself as rich! " It was tiresome to come home to this sort of worries, but it was not altogether disagree- able. The pleasantest and simplest of human beings likes to be more than he was. And there is something not altogether unsatisfac- tory in the thought of worries awaiting you at Stawell. Besides, Anthony was an eager philanthropist, a believer in, and originator of, various private and political reforms. A posi- tion of importance inevitably takes possession of him who acquired it. It is a beautiful thing to paint human saints, but it is a far more 16 238 HER MEMORY. Ijeautiful thing to feel a bit of a saint yourself. Quite honestly, energetically, doing his best, doing good, Anthony had taken the gilded cross upon his shoulders: if honestly, har- moniously, it shifted round to his breast, so much the better for him. On a Friday afternoon in November — it was the seventeenth of the month, at that mo- ment of decline when a dull day grows sooth- ingly duller— Sir Anthony Stollard arrived at the little Thurdles station. The dogcart, sum- moned by telegram, was in waiting. Sir An- thony had been expected to-morrow, if at all. He had not come down for the last two or three weeks. He started at a good pace along the high road, as usual — nervous men like rapid driv- ing—but presently he swung ofY to the left, with a swift impatience which doubled up the young groom on the back seat. The latter, a new servant from beyond Rusborough, stared HER MEMORY. 239 in astonishment at the wrong road lengthen- Hi^r tinder him. Not going home! Such a thing had never happened before! No; it had never happened before. Many weeks had elapsed since Anthony had last been near the old house at Thurdles. When down at Stawell, he preferred to drive in the opposite direction, especially with strangers. He could not have endured the idea of any- thing being altered about the place-there was nothing altered about its associations- but he shrank from the thought of its un- changing existence as he had shrunk away yonder in Florence. The seventeenth of November!— it was his wife's birthday. In his London chambers, with the yellow fog all around him. he had suddenly resolved not to wait till to-morrow, to go down into the country at once, with an earlier train, to drive first to Thurdles. He had telegraphed, r.t the last moment, to be met at the little sxde-station. He now drove 240 HER MEMORY. along the ^hort curve of dreary road in the fall of the autumn day. There was a grey vapour in the air, half mist, half drizzle; it clung about the gaunt, black trees. The avenue of Thurdles looked forlorn and dripping. lie shuddered, with a slight irritation, as he drew up at the back entrance, half wondering why he came. But he passed down the long passage with a heart full of sweetness and tenderness. Lin • gering on the threshold, he gently unlocked the boudoir-door. In the heavy twilight outside, in the shad- ow of the pillar, Margie shrank back, with a gasp of amazement, her heart in her mouth! For the immovable door of the boudoir had moved, and her father had come into the room ! Her father! She knew he avoided the place; she reckoned on his tacit dislike of it. Once, under protest, he had come there for her sake. The last thing she would have HER MEMORY. 241 imagined possible was his appearing at this moment, when she believed him to be in London. She, herself, had not come oftei^, espe- cially of late, but to-day the anniversa.v Lad attracted her. The day was very dull at ' ,ta- well, the atmosphere very unsympathetic. After her drawing-lesson, while Miss Bursley was chatting with the master from Rusbor- ough, Margie had slipped away, saddled her pony unnoticed, and torn across country, in the early twilight, to her window, driven' on by an unreasoning impulse— just a glimpse of the picture, and back! She could not have defined her attitude towards the portrait, or the fascination it ex- ercised over her. Nor could she, now grown old enough to consider such matters, have explained why the tender memory of earlier years had more recently become, under these changes of circumstance, a yearning which, at periods, was almost a pain. Though a fanciful, I1 M m 242 HER MEMORY. she was not a sentimental child. But some- times she could not help realising that the ex- change from Italy to England, while drawing her father away from her, had brought the absence of her mother too cruelly near. She hung against the casement in terror, crouching back under the shadow of the wall. She dared not move lest he should notice her. She could trust to the black corner to hide her, in the thickening twilight, if only she made herself small enough, pressing close to the pillar, keeping strenuously still. He would go soon, she hoped. He was looking at the picture. He could not stay long in that room. When she cautiously peeped out, she could see him standing there immovable, with his head uplifted. She shrank bac'- again. The wall, like the air, was very damp and clammy. He must not find her there. She had learnt, with too docile affection, Mrs. Fosby's lesson of unseliohness. She must get HER MEMORY. 243 away before he saw her. Still he stood, in the gathering dusk, immovable. She could vaguely trace the outlines of his figure, of the portrait looking down upon the face she could not see. Suddenly she understood that she must act at once. She must get home before her father. To move along the balustrade was more than she dared venture. She felt with her feet for a resting-place below the pillar; in doing so she slipped, caught herself, and hung, panting, by her fingers, pressed hard on the pillar-foot. In that position she could not remain more than a moment. She clenched her teeth hard, afraid that the pain at her finger-tips would cause her to cry out. She was still more afraid that, if she dropped, the thud of her fall would betray her. There was no time to reflect. In another second, with the blood spurting from the pressure, she let go. Her right knee struck against some pro- M If 'I 244 HER MEMORY. jecting stonework as she fell. The distance from the ground was not much, but it was enough to do mischief. She Hmped away as well as she could to a shrubbery, where her pony awaited her. She untied him, and hur- ried across the wet grass in her haste to be gone. But before she had ridden far, she found that her injured knee could not endure the pain of its position in the saddle. She was compelled to slacken her pace, and the dread increased upon her of her father's pursuing dogcart wheels. She struck ofif into a lane as soon as she could, and gasped with momentary relief. But the road she must now follow would take her a longer round. She struggled to bear the pain as she rode, in constantly alternating spells, her pony fretting under the unwonted checks, and cruelly increasmg her sufferings by perpetual jumps and bumps. She set her face, white and miserable, resolved not to cry. HER MEMORY. 245 The drizzle, which had long hesitated, settled into rain. More and more she was compelled to walk her pony. She was still a long dis- tance from home. When Anthony reached Stawell, he went straight, as was his custom, to the school- room. Miss Bursley sat there, still in ani- mated contest with the drawing- master. "Sir Anthony, you will judge between us," said the governess, who had none of those considerations which she collectively dubbed "nervousness." "Mr. Pimberly is trymg to convince me — nobody ever con- vinces me— that the stupider a mother is, the better for her child." "I did not say that," protested poor, timid, self-assertive, little Mr. Pimberly. "Few women, I said, are capable "—he bowed—" of combining study with physical care." " And we governesses, pray? " cried Miss Bursley. 246 HER MEMORY. The drawing-master grew red. " There are exceptions," he faltered, "which prove " ''Sir Anthony, I trust I am an excep- tion! " persisted Miss Bursley. " Margie would bear witness to that," re- plied Anthony, smiling. " By the bye, where is she? She was not at the door." " I knew nothing of your coming," replied Miss Bursley, aggrieved. " The servants (she meant the housekeeper) tell us nothing. Mar- gie has gone to wash her hands for tea. I will send for her." But in a minute or two the chambermaid came back with the news that Margie was no- where to be found. Her pony was missing. A stable-boy said she had gone out for a ride. "Gone out for a ride!" exclaimed An- thony, immediately distressed. " At this time of day! In this weather! Whereto?" He turned on Miss Bursley. ! i HER MEMORY. 247 " I am sure I have no idea! " cried Miss Bursley in an agitated voice. " She is very self-willed, Sir Anthony. It is very difficult to control all her movements. I had given her a task to prepare before tea! " "The child must be found," said An- thony. He reflected for a moment. " Bet- ter not make a fuss. She will be back be- fore tea, I dare say. We can always wait till then." " Unless I could be of any use, perhaps I had better be going, Sir Anthony," said the uncomfortable drawing-master. " Oh certainly. Good night," said Sir An- thony. He stood for a moment looking at Miss Bursley curiously, as if he would like to say something. But he restrained himself, and, in silence, walked out of the room and downstairs. In the lighted entrance hall he met Mar- gie, lame, dripping, bedraggled— utterly worn out. ^■.■ili ■1' 248 HER MEMORY. "Child, where have you been?" She did not answer, only looked ,i' him piteoiisly. "Where have you been? Margie, I am very angr} with you ! " The tears she had kept back sprar {f to her eyes. "What absurd pranky. are these! I can- not understand Miss Bursiey. I insist upon knowing where you have been! " She swayed forward, and he ran towards her, jnst in time to catch her in his arms. " Why, bless you. Sir Anthony, she's only fainted," said the housekeeper. " She'll be all right again in a minute or two." And so she was, though her knee took a fortnight to heal. She told that she had ridden ofif for the sake of the ride. She said nothing of Thurdles. " Your father is morbid, my child," had said Mrs. Fosby. " Above all things, you must never encourage his mor- bidity! And keep your own counsel — except HER MEMORY. 249 When you come to me-it's the best thing for a wklower's child!" And so it came about that Margaret Stol- lard was sent to boarding-school. s hi CHAPTER XIV. The school of Mrs. Fosby's selecting was inevitably ultra-select. In fact, it had reached that stage of selectness in which a teacher confers a favour by admitting a pupil. The number of Margie's companions never ex- ceeded ten: and the money expended on these young ladies' education would have sufficed to bring up half-a-dozen of their equals with ease. Still, whatever ignorance or ineptitude you may ultimately return to, there is always a satisfaction in remembering that large sums have been wasted on making you what you are. And modern education, whether cheap or expensive — it is only cheap when other people pay for it— has always for finale, the apparently unalterable puzzle, how it should • have been possible to teach anyone such a aso HER MEMORY. 251 quantity of subjects and leave him knowing so little in the end. With Margie, however, the result was of no importance. Mrs. Fosby's secret opinion remained, although she herself was unaware of it, that the less a woman knew, beyond certain accomplishments, the better for every- body; her own collection of inaccuracies, mis- conceptions and mistakes, historical, geo- graphical, ethnographical, was curiously com- plete. Her granddaughter, who could distin- guish between Guiana and Guinea, between Socrates and Solon, had always seemed to her over-educated, as a child. Two nieces of Lord Fowey were among the pupils at Miss Grough's. The arrangement was in every way a desirable one. Anthony approved of the beautiful house and grounds. He had no doubt his little daughter would be happier among these pleasant surroundings and com- panions. Her reticence and carelessness dis- turbed him. She was a str.n,e child, not as 252 HER MEMORY. docile and aiTectionate as he had hoped. Doubtless Lady Mary, who warmly appn-.ed of the school-plan, was right: children need a congenial "milieu"; girls especially must grow up in a circ'e of similar acquaintances, planted like apj/K>trees in an orchard, each in the same little palng of proprieties, rooted in prejudice, painted white vvith pretence. When Margie had been away for a few- weeks in her new home, Mrs. Fosby aston- ished everybody by quietly abandoning the neighbourhood of Rusborough, and taking a house within two miles of the school. Noth- ing could be more disconcerting. Iiad not the object of Mrs. Fosby's exf-tence been th'- achievement of "county" rank? Had not she almost succeeded in making people think and speak of her only as the moth 3r-in-law of Sir Anthony Stollard, the mistress, to all prac- tical purposes, of Stawell? And now, h '^e moment of her triumph, she resigned all nis glory, and went to live where she was no- HER MEMORY. 253 body, where socially she must begin all over again. Love achieves all things. Not only can it turn beads into diamonds, but it can leave them, while giving thcni the beauty of diamonds, beads. So Margie went to spend her Sundays with her grandmother. The friendship of the two grew closer: the old lady liked nothing better than to tell of days when another Mar- garet's presei - filled her life, and Margie, alone and feeling lonely, clung to these remi- niscences with a too romantic interest. On great occasions, as soo ns a longer holiday left her free, the child was allowed to join her father, and deli-htful beyond words were theso sunlit vacations, at Stawell, or on the French sea-side, or among Su iss and Italian lakes. Busy as Anthony's life now was, with the constant inevitable activity of a man be- fore the public, these periods of rest he de- voted entirely to his daughter, and sometimes it almost seemed as if the Florentine existence 17 il H 254 HER MEMORY revived. But it was Tiot so. and they knew It. Sir Antliony was a rising^ politician, fan- tastic, many thoughts, and not ahvays suffi- ciently matter-of-fact, but a man of heart and brain ; and Margie was growing into a woman, a serious young creature, over- weighted with loyalty to early traditions and responsibility towards her father and herself, 'i'iiey could neither of them be young again, nor sad with the old affectionate sadness. Life had grown much more real, much more raw. But they clung to each other all the more tenderly, too anxiously dissembling that constant solicitude for the other's happiness which was the mainspring of every important action. And they misunderstood each other, or, rather, Anthony misunderstood. He returned to London after one of these holidays, a delightful three weeks at Beuzeval, and on an early occasion went to visit Lady Mary Hunt. He had heard that her husband was failing, and she calmly admitted the fact. HER MEMORY. 255 " I have been a good wife to him." she said. " 1 feel confident of that. I read him the Economist, of evenings: it is not at all amusing, and anyone with half a head can see what rubbish it all is. besides. If the world were half honest, my dear Anthony, banking would simply be an impossible trade. For- tunately for us, the world isn't honest. Try some of these grapes. They're exceedingly good." " But he isn't " began Anthony. "Oh. yes. he is. He's had things of late would try any man. That terrible busi- ness of his daughter, and his dropping out of Parliament, and missing the baronetcy. Although I tell him that, if he will only live another year, I shall get him the baro- netcy." " If he will only live another year ? " " Yes. Dear me, Anthony, I canno^ un- derstand the newspapers! You always seem to me the most literal person I know. Of i 256 HER MEMORY, course I put it more prettily. I should have liked Thomas to have his epitaph exactly as he wants it. Don't think me unfeeling. / can't help it. He's an old man, getting on for eighty. Don't look at me in thid way Anthony. I can't bear it from you!" She stopped speaking : her lips trembled : she plucked nervously at the naked grape-stalk she held in her hand. " There is one thing I can never under- stand," ventured Anthony suddenly. " Why did you not want him to get in for Rusbor- ough? " " How long ago is it since you lost your wife? " she answered. " Eight years," he replied, taken aback. " As long as that? Then Margaret is now sixteen? " " Yes. Next year she will be leaving school and coming home. I want to give her a finishing governess— a sort of companion, to polish her up. She is a dear girl, but I 257 lie HER MEMORY. think she wants a little pohshing.' sighed. " How serious you look," she said laugh- ing. " The polish will come." " It's not that," he replied hastily, " but I am anxious n.bout her. A marriageable daughter at home! It is a great responsi- bility." " You may well say that in this house," she answered gravely; then, seeing the sub- ject was distasteful to him, she led away from it. " And what does Mrs. Fosby say to los- ing Margaret? " she asked. "Haven't you heard?" He looked up astonished from moody contemplation of his boots. " My mother-in-law has had a stroke -two, I fear. She is half childish, and quite inarticulate. There are days that she thinks Margie is her maid." " Dear me," said Lady Afary musingly. " Dear me— how old old people grow." She looked out of window at the rusty trees in I' If- ! i if hi: 258 HER MEMORY. »'j( i' m> the square. '' When you married," she said presently, " your wife was barely twenty. She was one year younger than I." " Yes," he answered, " I know." He was surprised to find he did not more resent these references to his w^ife. Lady Mary's voice was gentle; he was sorry for her. " Is there anything of interest doing in the House? " she said. " The House is always interesting," he re- plied, " or never. It all depends upon one's attitude towards the game we play there." " I think it is always interesting." " And Margie, never." He laughed. " Margie is a child. I can understand that during her Easter holidays she wanted to talk of other things than politics." " Yes, of course. Still, I know girls who do care about what happens, in a general way." " Yon have brought up Margie very dif- ferently — to take an interest in art." HER MEMORY. 2S9 "That was many years ago. Do you know, I don't think she takes an interest in art." "Well, what then?" said Lady Mary, in- dolently eating more grapes. " When I ask her, she answers little. She is most painstaking, and a little punctilious. She always seems pre-occupied about doing her duty. She wants to be good and affec- tionate, and make people love her. Well, she succeeds. But sometimes I fear the school is too proper — too religious!" "Anthony! For shame! " "You mustn't misunderstand me. You mustn't pretend to misunderstand me. Mar- gie is a dear child. I love her more than any- thing on earth. I would do anything for her happiness. Anything and everything she cared to ask." "No wonder she is afraid *o speak." His exaggeration nettled her. "Would you give up your career in Parliament, if if I ii 260 HER MEMORY. she said she preferred to return to Flor- ence? " " She would never want me to do what siie didn't think right. As for the career in Parliament, you know why I took it up? " "Dear me, no?" said Lady Mary inno- cently. " Yes, you do, Mary "—she started ever so slightly—" of course I had to, and all that sort uf thing. Well, I don't object; it might ^lave turned out ever so much worse. And if poor Henry knows, he's satisfied. But, as for Florence " he paused. She waited, saying nothing. " Pooh! " he exclaimed scornfully, in quite a different tone, " what right should I have had to go back to Florence? If I had been a real painter-if_if " Again he halted, then, quite gently, " But I should certainly do everything I could to make Margie happy," he said. He took his hat, and got up to go. Lady Mary walked with him to the door; ¥iit HER MEMORY. ^^ 2or there she shook hands. " Anthony," she said " there are men whose entire hves are ruined by bad women, and men whose entire lives are rumed by good. You are not of the bad women sort. Good-bye." As he meditatively descended the stairs she bent over the banisters: <' Come and see' me again," she said. » 1 till CHAPTER XV. A FEW weeks later he received, at Stawell, the tidings of Mr. Hunt's decease. He wrote Lady Mary a curt letter of condolence; he was awkward about it, but then, he detested letter writing. For only answer he got the following: " You can't write letters. You had much better have come." So. understanding her to be annoyed, he went up to London to see her. She looked handsome in her mourning; the black toned down her rather florid style. She was very self-possessed and natural. " He thanked me, before he died," she said; " I liked that." " And what are you going to do now? " he asked presently. " Get through my period of retirement as best I can. I don't pretend to like that, and 262 HER MEMORY. 263 I certainly sha'n't prolong it. Thomas was very considerate—always. Do you know, he actually as good as asked my pardon for dying in the season. I— I couldn't help crying a little at his saying that, but I told him I— I hoped he would live till it was over. He very nearly did." " You are going down to Princingham? " Princingham was Mr. Hunt's ancestral castle. "How inquisitive you are! As if you cared! No, of all things in the world, not Princingham. Not seclusion in the country! A solitary black figure among the fields and cows! That needs an elegiac state of mind. I shall go to one of the quiet Normandy sea places, not too far from a noisier one! ' Et puis, on verra! ' " " Quite so," he answered. He was think- ing of his own mourning, sixteen years ago. " What do you mean? " She flared up a little; his tone displeased her. " I don't make J^ 264 HER MEMORY. believe. Of all things I hate pretence; and pose, which is half pretence. The Duchess of Birmingham came in crying yesterday — the dowager, you know, my aunt — very loud and fussy, as usual. ' Oh, ray poor dear Mary,' she shouted, ' I am so grieved! ' ' I'm not,' I said. I couldn't help myself. C'etait plus fort que moi." *• That was pretence," replied Anthony; "you didn't mean it." " Anthony, how clever you are! Well, no, I didn't, quite. Do you know, I suppose I had better call you ' Sir Anthony ' now? " He got up to go, feeling very uncomfort- able. "Thomas has been so good to me," she said, " to the last. 1 suppose you've heard? " " No, I have heard nothing. What are you alluding to? " " He has left me all his money." " And his daughter? " " Not one penny. He never forgave her, HER MEMORY. 265 never spoke of her or wrote to her. He was a vain man, and she had wounded, ahnost mur- dered, his vanity." " Well," said Anthony reflectively, " good- bye." He went down to Bournemouth, before returning, and took Margie for a walk in the pme woods. '' At Christmas you will be com- ing home for good," he said; " what a change that will make! " "A very great change," said Margaret gravely. He glanced askance at the grown- up daughter beside him. She was not tall, delicately featured, rather insignificant, he feared. But she had thoughtful, kindlv brown eyes, and a face that good men looked at again. " You like the prospect, surely? " he said, with a tinge of irritation. Perhaps that fright- ened her, she was always too afraid of hurting him. 266 HER MEMORY. " Oh, yes, yes," she answered hastily, " but I was thinking of — the responsibihty. I only hope, father, that I shall not disappoint you. You see, I shall have nobody to tell me what to do." Her voice was even graver. "What do you mean? " he said — to lead her on, for he knew. " Other girls have their mothers, you see. Lucy and Ermyntrude De'l-s, for instance; they are leaving school m\u uie. And when they speak of their plan, it'-, 'mother this,' and ' mother that,' all the time." " H'm! Mrs. Delly., doesn't strike me as a particularly desirable parent. She's about the most foolish woman I know." "Perhaps," said Margaret, "a foolish mother is better than none." " Do you really think so? " He stopped in the darkness of the firwood, and looked at her, astonished. It was as if a revel, tion had suddenly been accorded him. " I do not know, father," replied Margaret HER MEMORY. 2(^y ^veanly. " I am speaking of thinj^s I know nothing about. Only I couk! not help think- '"g: wliat a help it must be. When Lucy doesn't know what to do about anvthing, she says, ' I'll ask mother; and goes to sleep." " Don't you go to ^leep? " '; Oh, yes. But sometimes I lie awake, lookmg for my answer." '' Well, I daresay when you f^nd it. it's a better one than Mrs. Dellys's." "I don't know." Margie sighed. "One never does know about one's own answer. Very often, for instance, grandmamma didn't agree with me." Anthony made a wry face. " I ,,ho„ld thn,k not," he said, sitting down on a bank Margaret huddled up against him. " I miss her dreadfully," she said, and, to his astonishment, she burst into tears. He let her cry on quietly_he was not one of the men who can't stand a woman's cry- ing-and very soon she calmed down again ! I -^^ .^n, IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1= 11.25 |50 ™IS" 1^ 1^ M 18 \A. IIIIII.6 — 6" riiuiugrapniu .Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 4^ V \ c\ ^ ^ t and the- 277 Oh, dear, I everything. It was my daughter's work, sir-I beg your pardon. An- thony-that cushion was. Here, let me dust ^t myself! " And she fell to with her pocket- handkerchief. In the middle of the dusting the cushion dropped again. '' I'm a poor tottery old woman," cried Mrs. Fosby, and began to shed tears. She grumbled then for several minutes, while Miss Gimpling was try- ing to satisfy her, and finally, having produced a letter from her bag, and laboriously polished her spectacles, she settled down to a careful perusal of the missive, cushion and cap on one side, m imminent danger of another catas- trophe. Anthony recognised, to his amazement and discomfort, on the envelope lying before him Lady Mary's sprawling handwriting. He averted his eyes; they fell on Winifred Gimp- Img's weary face, and wandered over the stupid, heavy furniture. A copy of the Wodd f~ 2;8 HER MEMORY. I was lying on a table. That was Mrs. Fosby's worship of King Snob. " Quite so," said Mrs. Fosby, folding up her letter — " Exactly." She look oflf her spec- tacles and peered at her son-in-law. " Anthony," she said, " why don't you marry Lady Mary Dellys? I strongly advise you to marry Lady Mary Dellys." Anthony Stollard was not a young man; he was, to a certain extent, a man of the world; he was a pale-faced man. lie coloured crim- son up to the roots of his hair. And he said, in a tone of the greatest annoyance: " Pray let us speak of something else." But Mrs. Fosby shook her head. " No, no," she said, " it is my duty to speak of this.'* And she struck a bony, much bejewelled fore- finger on the letter lying before her. " What was I saying? Winifred, what was I saying? " The companion looked up at Sir Anthony, with a glance of such sheer terror and appeal that he could not but laugh. IIEK MEMORY. 279 " I do not sec anytliing to laugh at! " cried Mrs. Fosby in great irritation. " Pray, uliat is there to laugh at in an old woman. Sir An- thony Stollard, Baronet?" " Indeed I was not laughing at you! " ex- claimed Anthony, distressed. " M. P.," said Mrs. Foshy. " But at a— a coincidence. Margaret is much better; I shall be able to get her away next week." " Margaret." echoed Mrs. Fosby, all the harshness gone from her face and voice. "Margaret! Yes, Anthony, you took her away and she never came back." Then fol- lowed a few moments of solemn silence. "But thisr said Mrs. Fosby briskly, and crackled the paper, "this is what I wanted to talk about. Winifred, Fm very tired; why don't you give me my smelling-salts? Mark my birds, Anthony— words, I mean. You ought to marry Lady Mary Dellys. The county ex- pects it of you— the county. There was some I 280 HER MEMORY. talk some time ago, I remember, about your marrying her. You didn't; you preferred to marry Margaret. Margaret's where I shall soon be going." Mrs. Fosby began to whim- per. " So now I agree with this " — she tapped the paper — " and with everybody, that you ought to marry Mary Dellys. I remember her well. A nice, bright, pheasant-spoken girl — peasant-spoken, I mean." " Does that letter give the advice? " asked Anthony. " Indeed it does. It says the whole county is agreed about the matter. And it tells me to make you do it." " Oh, Mrs. Fosby, you shouldn't have said that! " cried the companion, starting up and scattering her sewing things on the floor. " I am so much obliged to the county," re- marked Anthony. But Mrs. Fosby's attention was concentrated on the one person she could still unrestricted bully. HER MEMORY. 281 " I will thank you to hold your tongue, Winifred Gimpling! " she screamed, " and not to insult people of my position by telling them what they are or are not to say! The society of Stawell, I presume, was superior to that of your father's curacy at Pigseye." The companion gathe... up her belong- ings without a word, and Anthony, forgetful of the reputation which was largely his own, gave his mother-in-law the curtest of good- byes and walked out of her house. He was annoyed with the poor old crea- ture, who, like most old ladies, was no better than she had been— rather worse, but he was far more angry at Lady Mary. He knew how reckless she could be in her downright speech, but what had she meant by going out of her way to write this outrageous letter from America? He was not sorry Mrs. Fosby had betrayed her. She deserved it. A day or two later he took Margie as far as Paris. She was very quiet on the way and. i 282 HER MEMORY. 11 he thought, depressed. He spoke of her re- turn in the spring, of the coming London sea- son with all its glories. She answered little, in a subdued voice. " I am afraid of it all, father," she said once, lying by their hotel window, from w'-ence you could see the carriage-filled sweep of the Champs Elysees. *' Afraid of what? " he asked, bending over her. " Afraid of life, dear? All good people are, now and then. The only way is to walk straight up to it, look it in the face, and say, Oh, are you all? That is what philosophers call doing your duty. Ask no questions, but tell your story. I don't think there's a wiser rule." His own eyes grew dreamy, as he looked away, beyond the stream of human movement, into the still, pale sky. Margie's hand stole to her father's and, clasping it, held it tight. Holding her father's hand! To her the action hat! in part a mys- tical meaning. Ill HER MEMORY. 283 " It will alj come right." she said presently. " We shall be very happy, father. I am sure we shall." Her thoughts were full, now as constantly through these slow days of con- valescence, full of all she would be for An- thony on her return to cheer his home. Dur- ing forty-eight hours of her illness she had be- lieved herself to be dying. She was not afraid to die— to go home to the God with whom her mother dwelt-but she had been loth, with many tears and pleadings, to leave the father whose lonely home had waited through all these years for her return. And she knew now that God had spared her to be his com- fort for the past and, for the future, his delight. She was going to the Riviera now so as to gain strength for that great task. This ''cure" would be their last long separa- tion. She would go back, through the in- evitable troubles of the London season, to that. They were made for each other, for each other only, united in their common 1 1 :i 284 HER MEMORY. memory of the dear saint wljo had made them one. " Oh, yes, it will all come right," said An- thony. CHAPTER XVI. On the last day oi the old year Anthony arrived at Stawell. It was a dripping day, dark, full of dreariness and dull calm. He got into the brougham with a shiver; he had shivered in the train, although the damp air was far from cold. Through the gaunt trees ran a shiver also; it sent their shiny mist- drops down across the shiny road. He sat alone with gloomy thoughts, of Margie gone away to Cannes, of the hideous northern winter all around him, of duty (with a slow internal yawn), of solitude, and loneli- ness, and damp. Presently the carriage drew swiftly near the side-road branching off to Thurdles. He put out his hand, almost invol- nntarily, to pull the check-string, to give an "" 285 i "ii 'fC 286 HER MEMORY. order; he sank back, saying nothing, and sighed to himself. In the house there were big fires and soft lights, a servants' welcome. He shut himself up in the library, had dinner served there, amongst all his books and papers, sat boring himself with statistics he didn't believe in, his mind occupied all the while by the talk of John Lumley's resignation, by the rumour which recommended him, Anthony Stollard, for the post. Staring moodily into the red-hot embers, he once more asked himself the old, old ques- tion, if the whole thing was worth his while. Why not break away from it all, pick up Mar- gie, and fly away to Italy, for good? His mind dwelt on the old life in Italy that had ended four years ago. All its sadness, all its sweetness came over him, like an odour of dead roses and pot-pourri. Why should any man sacrifice to an idea, to social position, social duty, social claims, the free develop- HER MEMORY. 287 mcnt of his own inner nature, that soul-life which, to some temperaments, remains in sorrow as well as in gladness the one joy of existence? Some men surely have a right — it is their duty— to suffer as they will. He paused. " // I had had genius," he said to himself in utter forlornness— //. The conclusion of the whole matter lies in that " if." He shook himself, and lighted a particularly good cigar. "All that is over now," he said, taking up " Figaro Noel." " Two ladies asking to see you, Sir An- thony," said the butler, in the dim doorwav. Before another word could be spoken the two ladies were crossing the room. " What a strange reception! " cried Lady Mary Hunt. " But of course you did not get my telegram! I telegraphed to your London address, asking whether you could have us down here for a day or two. And as you didn't answer, I came." i 288 HKU MEMORY, 'II "You are very welcome: I need hardly say that," replied Anthony, with slight hesita- tion. He glanced away to the figure in the background. " 1 had thought you were still in America." " This is Mary Dellys, my niece. I am not sure if you are acquainted." (Which last was a fib.) " Fowey's eldest daughter, you know." " It is exceedingly kind of you to look me up," said Anthony. He noticed, as he shook hands, that Lady Mary's companion was un- usually pretty. " Now what can I do for you, or get for you, first? " " Pay the fly," replied Lady Mary prompt- ly. " Dear me, it's actually past ten o'clock. We had some dinner — and very bad it was — at Trapping Junction. I want you to give us a hot supper, a regular make-a-night-of-it sup- per, as near the New Year as you can manage it. I want to have roast chestnuts, please. I got into Liverpool the day before yesterday; so you see I've lost no time in coming to you." HER MEMORY. 289 Anthony went to give the necessary or- ders, that his guests might be as conifortahlo as he could make them. He was not going to analyse Lady Mary's manner of doing things; her appearance at this moment, with a probably agreeable companion, caused hini almost extravagant pleasure. When he re- turned to the library, he found the elder lady comfortably ensconced by the fire. " I drove to your chambers," said Lady Mary, " but the woman said you had left for here. That suited me exactly. So I just stopped to pick up poor Mary, and brought her away with me. Don't you think she's ex- ceedingly pretty? " " Where is she? " asked Anthony. " She has gone to lie down a bit, so as to be in trim for my midnight supper. But you don't answer my question." " All women are pretty," replied Anthony; " even those who are only pretty old." He felt quite light-hearted, equal to making puns. II iPlK^i 290 HER MEMORY. Lady Mary laughed. " That isn't bad," she said; "but it's not good enough for an Under Secretary of State. You have the news already, haven't you?" " Nothing," began Anthony, " be- yond " She clapped her hands. " Then it's my news," she cried. " I'm so glad; I had hoped it would be. I picked it up this afternoon from — never mind from whom. It's true. John Lumley has resigned, dead-beat, and you are to take his place. Of course you will accept: what else have you been working for, these five years? " " I'm sure I don't know," replied Anthony, bewildered, staring into the fire. " I should think not. Well, Anthony, I want you to be very pleased about this ap- pointment, as pleased as all your friends are. I'm so glad I had the telling of the news. That's worth a bad dinner at Trap- ping." ilii HER MEMORY. 291 "You are very grood," murmured An- tliony, stil! collecting his thoughts. "What a horrid thing to say! But seri- ously, this appointment marks what Mrs. Fos- by called when I went to see her before leav- ing—we were speaking of Margie— a peacock in your career! It's the landing, so to speak, after the f^rst flight of stairs! How does Ten- nyson put it?—' That men may rise o'er step- ping stones ' " "Don't, please!" he exclaimed. ''That isn't apposite a hit!" "VVell, I don't pretend,'; she answered good-humouredly, " to know anything of po- etry." She shifted her neatly slippered feet in front of the blazing logs. " I don't know more than half-a-dozen lines of Tennyson, and I'm not sure how many of those are Brown- ing's. ' 'Tis better to have loved and lost,' for instance." She stopped, blushing slightly. That quotation was perhaps too apposite. "How is Margie?" she said. "Laying ^2 HER !^''MORY. in a store of strength, 1 hope, for the com- ing' season. By the bye, Anthony " — this with an air of affected carelessness — " who is going to present her, when the time comes? " " My cousin Dartry, 1 suppose," replied Anthony. " She's got no nearer relation." " Poor little Margie," said Lady Mary, nuising. " But perhaps she isn't Httle at all? " " She is far from tall. And she is — I im- agine — rather unformed." " She was a dear child when I saw her last, simple and kind-hearted, and pleasant to look at: just the sort of child that any father ought to be fond of, and proud of, and very especially good to." " I am all that," replied Anthony softly, " and a good deal more. But — well, U.I us talk of something else. ' " You will want to be still more in London now: you ought almost to have a house there." HER MEMORY. ,^, -93 " What should 1 do with a house? I can't entcrt.-iin." "You migfht in a way—you miglit— but no. that would be unsatisfactory. An- thony, I want you to marry Lady Mary Dellys." For a moment the confusion of names, the reminiscences of Mrs. Fosby, disconcerted him even more than the proposition itself. Lady Mary went on talking. " That's why I brought her here, in fact. Of course she doesn't know. Or rather, I car- ried her ofTf from the tender mercies of her family." ^'' Lady Fowey ? " began Anthony. " Lady Fowey is a sweet nonentity, and does her children as much harm as only sweet mothers can. But my aunt of Birmingham manages us all. I don't think you ever met her. She is a Cerodac, one of the few great ladies left in the country. It's a good thing they arc dying out, the great ladies. They 294 HER MEMORY. were the cruelest creation of God upon earth." Anthony smiled. " And for her punish- ment she is called Birmingham," continued Lady Mary. " She wants poor Mary to marry Sir Lancelot Colquhoun — all of them do, more or less. Colquhoun and Colquhoun, you know, the great sausage-shop people — Laza- rus Cohen the name was twenty years ago. But I say there must be limits " — Lady Mary set her shapely teeth hard — " and I have more right to speak than any of them. The meas- ure of the sacrifice must be proportioned to the measure of the need. And Fowey can at least pay instalments on his debts." Anthony smiled again. " The Duchess wouldn't consider me much of a match," he said. " You'd do," replied Lady Mary coolly. " She'd discount you. There's the sausages, you see, and the Cohen connection. Besides, I don't see why I shouldn't have a word to say HER MEMORY. 29s m the matter. Before I went to America I'd never thought about it. But as soon as it oc- curred to me, I wrote to Mr^. Fosby. I am glad to say she heartily approves." Antliony knew not whether to laugh or frown. He was certainly glad to find that he had misunderstood Mrs. Fosby's allusions to " Lady Mary Dellys," and that the fair widow before him had not openly proposed herself as a candidate for his hand. Nevertheless, he also felt himself disappointed, for reasons he comprehended, though he would have found them hard to explain. " You don't expect me, surely," he said with a little irritation, " to await Mrs. Fosby's approval?" '' I ^vas thinking of Margie," she answered calmly. The words struck him like a blast of ice He said nothing more for a long time. " Of course you need do nothing in a hur- ry," she remarked presently, wearying of the ill' > i I 296 HER MEMORY, silence, a thing she always disliked. " Just watch her and pet acquainted. 1 am sure you will like her. She is very unsophisticated. I have told her I shall give her a dowry, who- ever she marries. So you see, to a certain extent, she is free in her choice." " Oh, yes, I forgot," said Anthony. " Of course you are enormously rich." Perhaps he had forgotten at that moment, but he had often enough reflected on the fact. Lady Mary looked uncomfortable. " Not so enormously," she answered; then fearing he should presume some affectation on her part: " Perhaps you haven't heard? " she con- tinued. " I — I didn't keep all that money, Anthony." " I have heard nothing about it," replied Anthony, bending forward with much interest. " Oh, it's very simple. There were two wills, one before Eveline's marriage and one after. I carried out some of the provisions of the first." HER MEMORY. 29; cried " You gave the money to Eveline! Anthony. " Not exactly. Her husband has turned out better than we feared. He is a mediocre artist, but he treats her decently. They still live in Florence. I don't quite see why the marriage should have made all that difference in her father's plans." "You carried out the original will!" in- sisted Anthony. " I have seven thousand a year," replied Lady Mary. " That seems amply sufficient. Can you imagine what Eveline is doing with her money? Building magnificent free hotels for art students in half-a-dozen places at once. At least, that is her project. You will see all about it soon enough in the papers. She was always half crazy, but rather attractively so." " Lady Mary," said Anthony with fervour. " how much better you are than you try to make yourself." "Out?" 298 HER MEMORY. m, i la " No, I did not say ' out.' You are a good woman. Surely your step-daughter admits as much now? " " I don't know; it is too late. You see, she started wrong. Start right with Margie. What you say about her makes me anxious. This is a worldly world we live in, and un- worldliness, like other-worldliness, doesn't pay. Mary Dellys will be a great help to Mar- gie — like an older, wiser sister. She is really a good girl, is Mary. Very much like what I was fifteen years ago! " " Not so hanrlsome," said Anthony. " Nobody ever knows," replied Lady Mary rather sadly, " how handsome a woman zvas." " Mary," he said, " will you marry a man whose heart " " No," she interrupted him hastily, " I won't hear anything about Edward Gray." His face grew dark with annoyance, but before he could speak another word: HER MEMORY. 299 " I know exactly what yonr heart k like," she said; "it is in very good condition. It is a first-rate heart. And I advise you to make a present of it to a younger woman than I am." " You wrong me," he answered. " I was not going to talk rubbish about Edward Gray. But I have loved once as I shall never love again. I cannot ' love/ in the old sense, the lady who consents to gladden my home and to befriend my daughter. You say that you know my heart. Such as it is, if you will have it, it is yours." Lady Mary sat gazing straight in fmnt of her. "To me," she said at last, "the whole thing seems unfair— unfair to yourself and to the name you are bearer of. I am nearly forty, Anthony." "And I— do you think I am young?— a young woman's husband— I? " Again a long silence fell between them, the 'i'tll' 300 HER MEMORY. longest silence in Lady Mary's life. When she spoke it was to say: " If you really will have me, to be what little 1 can for you and for Margie, I will grate- fully, faithfully, endeavour to do my best. I will do all I can for Margie. Anthony, I — I am not sentimental — am I? — but I have loved you all my life," CHAPTER XVII. When Lady Mary Dellys entered the li- brary half an hour later she found her god- mother, who apparently had not moved all the while, engaged in very serious conversa- tion with their host. The little party went >nto supper immediately, and the ladies espe- cially were exceedingly gay over this uncon- ventional entertainment. " A""»ny. before the clock strikes I ex- pect a speech and a toast," said Lady Mary Hunt. " My dear Mary, you must wish all possible prosperity to this Government func- tionary, who will some day be m the Cabinet " Are under-secretaries in the Cabinet?" asked Lady Mary Dellys innocently. Her aunt felt somewhat reassured. After all. per- haps, an^older and more experienced wife 302 HER MEMORY. would not be the worse match for Sir An- thony Stollard. " Lady Mary has possibly a toast of her own? " said Anthony gallantly. A sparkle of mischief came into the girl's good-natured blue eyes. " Yes, indeed," she said, " I drink to the duke's future bride, Aunt Mary. May she sit at the head of his table before the new year has grown old." " And may we be there to see," said Lady Mary imperturbably. " She means Birming- ham, Anthony. I ran away from him to America, and he stupidly pursued me. The duchess was terrible. I really am afraid I should have been compelled to marry him — and I'm a good plucked one, as you know — I had to arrange about the will, as my only escape. It was very funny; I wish you could have seen it. They dropped off, all at once, quite silent and dead, like dogs when the last biscuit's eaten. I hadn't the remotest HER MEMORY. 303 ^lesire to become Duchess of Birmin,.- " ^' "^"st be rather a nice thing to be a duchess," said Lady Mary Dellys. ''Not of Birmingham, my dear. And that ,s what all our duchesses are novv-a-days Anthony, I want some more of those red-hot chestnuts. Mary, I invite you to supper next year-you have no objection, Anthony?^ with Lady Mary Stollard." " Good heavens, is that how you keep secrets.^" exclaimed Anthony. " ^'°t from this child. She shall be my one exception. My dear Mary, this engage- ment must be mentioned to no one till Sir Anthony has returned with his daughter from Cannes. To the astonishment of both her con,,,an- .ons Lady Mary Dellys burst into tears, of wh.ch sl,e refused to give any ex,„anatio„. She rose from the table and hurried away. Her aunt hastened after her. i^ 304 HER MEMORY. "My dear child!" cried Lady Mary, half laughing, " you didn't know him before this evening! You surely didn't want to marry him yourself? " " No," sobbed the younger Lady :Mary, almost laughing also; " but— but— oh, every- body seems so happy except me! " " Tell me, who is it? " whispered the older woman in the dark of the ante-room. And, as no answer was forthcoming, " Make haste, my dear, before that fat butler comes in." . " It's Hugh Brassell," sobbed the damsel. " What, handsome Hugh Brassell of the Guards? You sly little puss, you shall have l-iii-n—that's to say, if he wants you." " Oh, Aunt Mary, of course he wants me. I mean to say, how could I want him, if he didn't? How should I know anything about it? " And Mary Dellys hid her face in her handkerchief. " You shall have him. You know, I have promised you a dowry. I'll make it enough HER MEMORY. iary, half ;{ore this to marry \y :Mary, )h, every the older m. And, ake haste, s m." le damsel. ,ell of the shall have wants me. him, if he ling about ace in her ow, I have it enough 305 for you to marry on. You're my godchild. They won't dare refuse me." The great hall clock began to chime. " Come 1)ack to the I'l^rary. qtiick, child. Anthony. Ik e are two engagements to celebrate! " "Hush, aunt, I entreat of you— hush!" implored the young Lady Alary. The older woman, the widow, obeyed. For some moments her thoughts had dwelt on her own girlhood and early marriage; now they flew away to Eveline, away yonder in Florence, childless, with a life-mate who could never be anything more than a disappoint- ment. " God bless this house," she said sol- emnly, " and all who dwell in it. God bless Margie, all alone, far away! " " Thank you," answered Anthony heartily with uplifted glass. " And here's the health of all lovers!" he added, as if it were an after- thought. " And may they all get the desire of their heart," said Lady Mary Hunt. Il m 306 HER MEMORY. " Before they grow too old to enjoy it," said stupid little Mary Dellys, smiling like an April day. Next morning the weather had changed. The new year opened faint and tepid, under a pale blue sky. Church being over, and lun- cheon eaten, Lady Mary Hunt stopped yawn- ing in the picture gallery, sat up briskly, and demanded to be taken for a drive. Her niece, wisely and sweetly, had letters to write — one letter, at any rate — and so the engaged couple started together in the phaeton. "Will you drive?" asked Anthony, hold- ing out the reins. Lady Mary declined, and took her seat, chuckling to herself over some thoughts of her own. When she broke the silence, it was to say: " Anthony, I wish you would take me to Thur- dles." He clenched his hands on the ribbons so tight that the sensitive horses sprang forward : they had flown on some yards HER MEMORY. 307 along the slushy road before Anthony said- "Why?" " Because I should like to see it. Because I think I ought to see it. Because we should have some things in common-as far as pos- sible—no farther." "Perhaps you are right," he answered quietly, and he turned the horses' heads. " You know the house— surely? " he said as the white building came into sight between the trees. " From the outside only." " It isn't much of a house to look at." She laid a hand on his arm: " You don't mind, do you? "she said. " No, indeed," he answered hastily " I don't mind anything. I n^ean, why should you think I minded? As you say, we have everything in common now." " I did not say that, nor anything like it." Her voice showed she was hurt. "What a beautiful pale blue sky-almost like Flor- m I 308 HER MEMORY. ence. Would you like to live in Florence again? " "Would you?" " No. I should prefer Monte Carlo." '• Well, there's not much chance of either for me. I had a telegram this morning; it bears out your information. I must be ofif to London to-morrow." " So I understood. That is why I asked you to drive me here to-day." She alighted as she spoke. They walked along the front of the house, round by the boudoir window, to whose parapet Margie had so often clung. "It looks very deserted," said Lady Mary. " Naturally it would," replied her companion; " nobody ever comes here but L" They wandered through the rooms, she saying very little, he reflecting how clever she was, to have brought him here at once in this manner. She was " getting it over," as he understood. And really the little she said from time to time — for under no circum- I HER MEMORY. 309 Stances could she keep silence long-was m admirable taste. Perhaps he had hardly given her credit for her full share of tact: perhaps he had hardly realised what kind of insolence is tact consummate. There is nothing a man i'kes better i„ a woman, except physical attraction, than neatness of hand and of heart. They paused before the one room which she had left unmentioned, and he unlocked the door. " And this room," she said looking round " '' '^'''"^ to her memory. That is as it should be, Anthony." " It shall always remain so," he answered She bent over a magazine lying on a side table. A number of " Fra.er's," nine years old. The pale light crept from the bow- wmdow across the wall opposite. " Oh, what a picture! "she cried. She was standing, astonished, before " The Angel of Human Love." It loomed from its 3IO HER MEMORY. dark background, white and pure, with that almost awful actuality which seems to breathe from a great painting of the human face when you come upon it unexpectedly in a solitude. The eyes, in their sweet sadness, were gazing full at the two who stood before them. " An- thony!" cried Lady Mary, "who painted that? " " It is the last work I ever did," replied Anthony. " I finished it five years ago." " You! You! " her voice, trembling with amazement, fell to a sudden hush. " You painted thatf " She remained motionless be- fore the picture: he, standing a little behind her, knew not whether to feel pleased or vexed. Her presence in that room, her voice on its stillness, her study of the portrait, these things were to him as a physical pain. " That is a great picture," said Lady Mary. " Surely others — better judges — have said as much? " " You are the third person that has ever HER MEMORY. 311 seen it," he answered. " The others are Mar- gie and I." "And you say you have never painted anything since? " "I have not. It didn't seem worth while." " Not worth while? The man who could paint that picture ought never to have done anything but paint!" He cried out at the cruel words, struck as if with a knife. " You don't mean that, Mary! You can't mean that! It's against all your traditions and teaching of common sense! " " No, I don't mean it," she said sooth- ingly, with ready woman's wit. " But you oughtn't quite to have abandoned painting. You must take it up again in your spare mo- ments." He grew paler still, at the thought of painting in his spare moments. " Come, let "s go," he said. His face was drawn with pain: he could stand the tension no longer. II \, 312 HER MEMORY. The eyes of his dead wife were looking at him, full of pity, full of pity. " I can hear the horses outside," he said. " They are exceedingly restless. We had bet- ter make haste." On the way home Lady Mary talked of plans for the new life in London, of possible situations for a residence, of servants, and even casually of the conventional restrictions imposed by her period of mourning. " The engagement cannot possibly be an- nounced for the next month or two," she said. " In any case, people will talk." Lady Mary smiled. " Because of seven- teen years ago," she said, " and because they always do. And because we have given them plenty of occasion — recendy. And because they would, though we had not." Anthony frowned. He did not like the idea of people talking about these afifairs of his. Seventeen years ago he was not a pub- lic man. Away at Florence, he had not HER MEMORY. 313 minded what people said. Now, in his altered circumstances, he felt that his public life was public property. Surely that was enough. "Everybody will discuss us," continued Lady Mary Hunt; "from my aunt of Bir- mingham down to— down to the buyers of the penny society papers. I wonder what sort of people those are? I should like to meet one; just as the Princess Pobolski, who had known hundreds of English abroad, said she hoped, when she came to London, she should meet a Home Ruler. " I don't quite see the connection," said Anthony carelessly. " My dear Anthony, I am not algebra. If you expect me to talk like a— what do you call it?— a theorem, you will be immensely dis- appointed. If there is anything Euclidic in my conversation, it must be the reduction to the absurd." She went on talking for the sake of talk- ing, distressed by his white face, the set look 314 HER MEMORY. in his eyes, the grave indifference of his man- ner. She believed that if he was now suffer- ing thus keenly, the entire cause must be sought in the visit to Thurdles which she had suggested, and the thought was a great hu- miliation to her. Certainly she was not pre- pared for the suddenness with which he turned to her at last. *' You are partial," he said, " about that picture." "Ask whom you like," she answered heartily. " It is a masterpiece. You must send it to the Symbolists' next n^ inth." He drove on so fast that, in spite of her traditional courage, she could not resist con- vulsively clasping the side of the seat. CHAPTER XVIII. Two months later, not one month— Lady Mary's dates were generally wrong-the " An- gel of Human Love" was sent.in, anony- mously, to the Easter Exhibition of the Sym- bolists in the Champs Elysees. Anthony had not intended to send it, which fact is a fresh proof of the very old truth that, when woman proposes, she generally disposes too. Shortly after the picture had been ac- cepted, its author, availing himself of the re- cess, started southward to spend a few days with his daughter. At Paris he naturally de- layed twenty-four hours to inspect the Exhibi- tion. Short as his holiday was, and fondly as his heart yearned after the child, he could not but dread the disclosure of his plans for the future-her future, although he had resolved 315 f »i iS 316 HER MEMORY. from the first that the news should be with- held till she heard it from his lips. The more he reflected on former conversations with Margie, the surer he felt that he was acting for her happiness. " Make her happy." These words had been a law to him since first he read them. "Make her happy and good." She had needed no making good. All that was compatible with his highest duty he had done for her, and now at this critical moment — never could he recall, without an inward shudder, the arrival of Eveline Hunt in Flor- ence — at this critical moment he was doing almost more. So he reasoned, for the hundredth time, as he sat over his coffee after luncheon on the boulevard. Years ago. Lady Mary's warn- ings about nestless fledglings had frightened and greatly influenced him. In Margie's de- velopment, on her return to England, and especially of late on leaving school, he had seen the wise woman's contentions come true. HER MEMORY. There were many things to be considered in his life, perhaps; there were few, it seemed tr, him, still worth considering. The great thing IS to see what is most important, and to put it first. He walked across to the kiosk, and bought a couple of daily papers. He had only got into Paris that morning. Almost the first thing to strike his eye in the Figaro-after the Nouvclles a la Main, which everyone naturally picks out-was a notice of the recently-opened exhibition, con- tainmg half a column of unusually enthusiastic praise. And the picture thus selected was not by one of the numerous dear confreres, col- laborateurs or concitoycns, to whom French journals so easily address their compliments; It was the anonymous English painting, sent in under the appellation, "The Angel of Hu- man Love." He took up the serious Temps, with fairly steady hand, and again the name of his pic- I .1 3i8 HER MEMORY. ture stared him in the face. " It is the great- est picture," said the Temps, " that Paris has seen for several seasons. It reveals a new genius in the world of painting. We welcome him, although he be not a Frenchman. The Republic of Art recognises no frontiers, etc., etc." And the article was signed Maurice Rodillet! He rose to his feet a little dazed, and walked through the unresting crowd. The constant going and coming troubled him. He was glad to get away to the larger spaces, among the barren trees. There was nothing like a crush inside the Exhibition building; scattered spectators formed lively groups of two and three. In the second room alone a larger group had gathered, buzzing with that stupidly impor- tant interest which accumulates around the ignorant sensation of the hour. There, stared at by twenty unsymp. thetic faces — fat, fair, old, foolish, simpering, bored HER MEMORY. 319 -there, staring back at them, sweetly, serene- ly unconscious, was the face of his solitude his sanctitude, his dream of life and death' He gazed, on the outskirts of the crowd, until there seemed to come into those constant eyes a look of soft reproach and pleading. He tore himself away. On a bench by the swiftly-flowing river he sat until the evening fell, and watched the river flow. At the restaurant where he dined, a couple of journalists were talking of the picture. Curiosity was rife, he heard them say, as to who would claim the work. " A young man of course," said one of the diners; "he will do great things." " A young man? " echoed his companion. " I have my doubts. But yes, he will do great things." The station of the Boulevard Diderot was full of very different preoccupations. In the turmoil of English people go- ing south the anonymous celebrity once 320 HER MEMORY. more felt himself secure. "That's Sir An- thony Stollard," somebody whispered, " the Under-Secretary " He moved away. But he could not escape the conversation which reached him from the neighbouring compartment of the corridor train — " Owner of Stawell, by Jove— forty some- thing, not five — and such a position in Parlia- ment! Lucky fellow! Do you believe there is anything in the story of a liaison with Lady Mary Midas? " " I always believe, on principle, the story of a liaison. Besides, why not? He^ been a widower for ages ; men don't go on mourning for their wives till they marry -gain. And surely, Lady Mary can't have doted on Midas. By-the-bye, she's been giving her millions away." "Yes. Rum go. What fools women are!" "And to that painter chap, of all crea- r An- pered, iioved sation luring 5ome- 'arlia- lere is Lady- story een a rning And lidas. llions Dmen crea- HER MEMORY. tures! It was awfully hard on Mida dauHit 321 s, h IS marrying- a painter chap! " Sir Anthony Stollard sat still in his com- partment. Well, he was a statesman. Great God! he might have been-he might have been—a painter chap! " Margie, you are looking very much bet- ter! " were his first words, as he alighted at the l>ttle Cannes station. There was a cry of joy 'n them. '' Really very much better," he said. '' So I wrote, pap,- , every letter." " Yes; but one likes to make sure of the thing for one's self. I can't wait half-an-hour for my luggage. Let us drive up at once to the hotel." During the drive-during the ensuing dinner at the Villa Liseron, where Margie was stayi.g-he talked of an hundred subjects- pets, acquaintances, dependents; but he knew that presently, before they parted for the night, he must speak of the one thing which occupied his thoughts. 322 HER MEMORY. He did not imag-ine he should find it very- difficult. Of course, in such matters, there is always the newness, and the absurdity, of the situation to get over. But Margie's heart would doubtless leap up for joy at thought of the responsibility, the timidity, rolled away from it, like a stone. She would enter the great world she dreaded, under Lady Mary's experienced guidance. Joyous and careless, as a young girl should be. in London, at Sta- well, she would live the same bright life as the friends she had frequently envied, and, in time, she would marry happily. God bless her! He could never have arranged about her mar- riage. Often he had trembled at the thought. He did not fear that she would dislike to see a stranger in her mother's place. She had forgotten her mother. If there was one thing in which she had disappointed his constant affection, it was her easy attainment of that indifference he had so ardently desired. For years she had never mentioned the deceased; HER MEMORY. 323 she had never again asked to see the picture at Thiudles. When she complained, it was not that she regretted loss, but a want. " Margie," he saiu , his voice quivered slightly. They were out on the terrace of the villa, in the perfumed evening air. " Margie." A little breeze cast shadows of black foliage across the twinkling stars. The sea lay in the distance, a silent mass of gloom. " I have got son^ething to tell you. On the whole, I think you will like it, at least, after a while." " If you have arranged it for me, father, I am sure I sha^l like it," she answered. Slie was standing close against him, with her hands clasped on his shoulder, and she ^.ressed them as she spoke. " In a few weeks, when the weather is defi- nitely milder, you will be coming home— defi- nitely, too. You are going to be a grown-up young lady now, Margaret. You remember you used to be so afraid of the idea? " 324 HER MEMORY. " Yes," she answered; but there was more than affirmation in her reply. He hesitated. " But I have had plenty of time to think about it all," she continued, " and I think I have got a little more sensible, father. I feel that I have been rather foolish and — and dis- trustful of God's help. I have been waiting to say this to you till you came. I couldn't write it. I am going to be your own brave daughter, and make your home happy for you, and comfortable, as far as I can. I am going to do my duty, to follow the example you have set me, dear father, through all these years." Very quietly she unclasped her hands, threw one arm round his neck, and kissed him. " I can never repay all you have done for me/' she said, " but I'll try to do all I can." In the silence, the heavy, living silence, she stood patiently waiting, with her arm round his neck. " Are we going to live part of the year in HER MEMORY. i:ondon?" she asked at last. "I expected It would have to be that, now. I am sure I shall get accustomed to London, and-and like parties, especially now. I am so proud of you, father; everyone sings your praises, though I don't need th^. I was rude to Mr. Gleeson .he other day, I fear, because she said 't wa' extraordinary; nobody had ever thought formerly you could do anything but paint! ' Just do nice little amateur pic- tures,' she said. She had never seen the- the portrait of "-Margaret's voice dropped very low—" my mother." " Just so," he said quickly, " we shall have to hve in London now during the season. You could never have undertaken the responsibil- ity of a London house-of fashionable enter- tamments. It would have worn you out, dear- you have no idea what it means. I have found somebody to help us with it all, Margie, some- body who will be an immense comfort to you and make everything smooth. I have asked 326 HER MEMORY. Lady Mary Hunt to marry me and she has consented," Again the silence, the heavy, living si- lence. She stood with her arm round his neck; he felt the arm tremble ; that was all. " I am glad," she Said at last. ** I thought you would be, dear. I knew it. I — — For we Things turn out so differently in life from what one expects." He hardly knew why he said that; he was think- ing of his own crushed ideal, the thing that might have been! — that might have been! — and neve;- would be now. " The only hap- piness kit on earth is common sense — to take life as it comes, and do one's best. You are so E-nsible, Margie; I can't think, as I've often said, from where you get your delightful, help- ful common sense. From your mother, to a certain extent. But your mother was more- how shall I call it? — sentimental." "Perhaps," said Margaret. ''Papa, I should hke to sit down." HER MEMORY. 1^7 She slowly withdrew her arm. He knew not whether to be fully pleased or slightly vexed by her calm satisfaction. He had judged her character rightly. He was slightly vexed. He went after her, folded her in his arms, and repeatedly kissed her. "Dearest," he said, " you have always been, through all these desolate years-you will always be in the fu- ture-the light of my eyes, and the joy of my heart. My own dear daughter— mother's daughter! My comfort, my hope!" He turned hastily, then pausing. " Yes," he said, " her petition is answered. You are happy and good." And he left her. She sat on the seat staring far into the darkness towards the sea that lay distant, a dull mass of gloom. A little breeze cast shad- ows of black foliage across the twinkling stars above her. From behind the silent water, heavy clouds were creeping up. 328 HER MEMORY, "To be happy and good?" she repeated aloud. Her head sank on her hands. " Oh, Father in Heaven — mother's God! my God! — make me good! " THE END. r eated 'Oh, God!