HALF A GUINEA PER ANN
 
 SO*'
 
 THE SEVERINS
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 HOME LIFE IN GERMANY 
 CYNTHIA'S WAY 
 THE KINSMAN
 
 THE SEVERINS 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. ALFRED SIDGWICK 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE KINSMAN," " CYNTHIA'S WAY," 
 ETC. 
 
 METHUEN & CO. 
 
 36 ESSEX STREET W.C. 
 
 LONDON
 
 First Published in lt)Ot)
 
 THE SEVERINS 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE Crescent, which was on the north side of 
 Regent's Park, was not a sociable Crescent. The 
 people living in it did not know each other, and at first 
 none of them knew the Severins ; but they all took some 
 interest in persons who were outwardly so unlike them- 
 selves. From the beginning they decided that the 
 family at the corner house was respectable, and that its 
 odd ways must be put down to its " foreign " blood. 
 There was no father of the family. He, it was soon 
 ascertained, had died respectably, and had been buried 
 respectably less than two years ago. But the widow 
 did not wear widow's weeds. She was a tall, slim, untidy- 
 looking creature, and when she went out she wore a 
 purple cloak. The Crescent had never seen a widow in a 
 purple cloak, and it gaped at Mrs.Severin till it heard her 
 name. Then it subsided as the inquiring mind will when 
 it has received a satisfactory explanation ; for in this 
 country you may do as you please if only you will call 
 yourself Severin and not Smith. 
 
 But if the Severins had known that their neighbours 
 called them either odd or foreign they would have been 
 deeply hurt, for intermittently they prided themselves 
 on being English to the core and just like other people. 
 Besides the widow in the purple cloak there were three 
 daughters and one son; and the eldest daughter was
 
 2 THE SEVERINS 
 
 called Mrs. Crewe. At first the Crescent supposed her 
 to be a widow, for Mr. Crewe was never forthcoming ; 
 but the postman, who delivered letters from South Africa 
 at regular intervals, was informed by the maid-of -all- 
 work that Mrs. Crewe's husband was in Natal, and that 
 she had not seen him for several years. The separation 
 did not seem to affect her spirits or her beauty. One of 
 the odd family ways was to leave the drawing-room 
 blinds up when the lamps were lighted, so that any one 
 passing could see what was going on inside the room, 
 and every evening the Severins had what some people 
 in the Crescent called " high jinks." Sometimes one of 
 them would come to the window and see two or three 
 persons outside listening to the music. But they never 
 drew down the blinds and shut the window when they 
 saw this, as any true-bred Briton would have done at 
 once. It did not seem to disturb them at all. So various 
 people in the Crescent soon had some acquaintance with 
 the different members of the family, and could have told 
 you that Mrs. Crewe was the prettiest of the sisters and 
 that her name was Clotilda. She had a charming voice 
 and a flashing smile, and several young men in the 
 Crescent became her admirers. In time one or two of 
 the boldest persuaded their womenkind to call at the 
 corner house in the approved English fashion, but the 
 results were not all that could be wished. Miss Jenkins, 
 for instance, came back scandalized, and told her nephew 
 who had urged her to the venture that in future she 
 would rather keep to their own country people. She 
 was not used to foreign ways, and could not be expected 
 at her time of life to take to them. At four o'clock in 
 the afternoon she had found Mrs. Severin in a dressing- 
 gown. No, she was not ill. On the contrary, she was 
 smoking a cigarette and reading a French novel. Horrid, 
 Miss Jenkins called it. Besides, the steps had not been
 
 THE SEVERINS 3 
 
 cleaned for days, and a window-pane that Miss Jenkins 
 knew had been cracked in March was still cracked in 
 May ! She could not countenance such a household. 
 Perhaps, as Sydney said, a little slackness in domestic 
 affairs was not a crime ; nevertheless, if Mrs. Severin 
 did not return her call, Miss Jenkins thought she would 
 survive it. 
 
 " Did you see the daughters ? " asked Sydney Jenkins. 
 
 " I did not," said his aunt. " Perhaps they were still 
 in bed." 
 
 " Has Mrs. Severin returned your call ? " he asked a 
 few days later. 
 
 " She has not," said Miss Jenkins, and next time he 
 asked she gave him the same answer, and again after 
 that. It became evident in time that Mrs. Severin did not 
 mean to return Miss Jenkins' call. 
 
 " The woman probably does not know that it is in- 
 cumbent on her," said Miss Jenkins. " I opine that she 
 has never lived in civilized society." 
 
 When his aunt " opined " Sydney Jenkins knew that 
 argument was useless ; and it was with considerable tre- 
 pidation that he told her one fine evening a little later 
 that he was going to the corner house to hear some music. 
 
 " You are going to the corner house ! " said Miss 
 Jenkins. " Pray where did you meet the persons living 
 there ? " 
 
 " In the Tube." 
 
 " Where ? " 
 
 " Tube Piccadilly Circus yesterday and of course 
 we knew each other by sight and you have called 
 It would have been rude not to speak." 
 
 " Who spoke first ? " 
 
 " Oh well she apologized for her mother said she 
 never would pay calls but if I liked to come in any 
 evening for some music and I'm going to-night."
 
 4 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " When you say ' she ' which of the family do you 
 mean ? " asked Miss Jenkins. 
 
 "Mrs. Crewe the little dark one with laughing 
 eyes." 
 
 " Why is she not with her husband in Natal ? " 
 
 " I'll ask her to-night," said Sydney, who considered 
 that he had a sarcastic tongue. 
 
 But next day when he came down to breakfast he 
 told his aunt that he knew all about Mrs. Crewe's mar- 
 riage without asking. Mrs. Severin had told him the 
 whole family history. Mr. Severin had been in business, 
 she said, but he had not prospered because he was too 
 clever for his work. 
 
 " What rubbish ! " said Miss Jenkins, for Sydney was 
 in business and was not getting on very fast, and she 
 did not wish him to think he was too clever for his 
 work. 
 
 " He died two years ago, and they had to leave a nice 
 house where they had a croquet-ground and a conser- 
 vatory. Mrs. Severin says they grew their own grapes." 
 
 " That does not explain why Mrs. Crewe is not with 
 her husband in Natal." 
 
 "Oh, that's all right. He went to South Africa to 
 carve his way, and he hasn't carved it yet. She was 
 married when she was twenty." 
 
 " Were other people there last night ? " 
 
 ' Yes," said Sydney gloomily. " Foreigners. I 
 couldn't understand half their jabber." 
 
 " You learnt French at school." 
 
 " All foreigners aren't French," said Sydney ; and 
 then he had to run for his train. 
 
 The other person in the Crescent who called on Mrs. 
 Severin was a Mrs. Henderson. She was egged on by a 
 musical son, but she was not musical herself, and she 
 did not think that the most commanding genius in any
 
 THE SEVERINS 5 
 
 line would excuse Mrs. Severin for washing her drawing- 
 room curtains in the middle of the afternoon. 
 
 " If a woman will open the door to you herself and 
 take you into a room where the young ladies, with their 
 sleeves turned up, are pinning out curtains on the carpet, 
 you can't help passing judgment," said Mrs. Henderson. 
 
 " Perhaps it is a foreign custom," said her son ; but 
 Mrs. Henderson said she did not see how that made it 
 any better. 
 
 Meanwhile, Mrs. Severin went her ways, and had no 
 idea that she was criticized by her neighbours, or that 
 she had driven two of them to speak of her as a " woman." 
 She never thought about her neighbours or watched them 
 or expected to know them. She would have told you 
 that she was too busy and too full of care. She certainly 
 ought to have been busy from morning till night, for she 
 had four children at home, was in good health, and had 
 hardly any money ; but although she talked of all there 
 was to do she did not get much done. She was as full 
 of care as a woman of her temperament could be, because 
 she found it impossible to live on her income. But some 
 time ago her cares had been lightened by news from 
 Michael, her elder son, whom she had not seen for years. 
 He was coming to live in London, he said, and if his 
 mother had room for him he would come straight home 
 on his arrival. He did not say what he was going to do 
 in London, and he did not say a word about the joy he 
 felt at the prospect of joining his family again. He wrote 
 a short businesslike letter on a sheet of business paper. 
 The name of the firm he had served since he was a boy 
 was on the top of the paper, but Mrs. Severin thought 
 that as he was coming to London he must be leaving 
 his employers, and she supposed that he had made a 
 mess of things. The youngest girl, Camilla, who could 
 remember her elder brother, though she had not seen
 
 6 THE SEVERINS 
 
 him since she was ten, asked why he should have made 
 a mess of things ; and Mrs. Severin could not answer 
 except by saying that, in her experience, people usually 
 did. 
 
 " Our family never gets on in the world," she said. 
 " Things go wrong somehow. Bob, go and do your 
 lessons." 
 
 Bob did not move. He Was absorbed in Carnage's 
 catalogue, the only book he had ever been known to 
 study with application. 
 
 " Even if poor Michael has made a mess of things, he 
 may be able to earn his living and help us a little," con- 
 tinued Mrs. Severin. " In the letter to which this is an 
 answer I told him that when he received it we should 
 not have a penny in the house for food." 
 
 " I expect you have said that in every letter for 
 years," said Selma, the second girl. " He is used to it." 
 
 " Well, this time it is true," said her mother. " Mogson 
 called this morning and said we should not have another 
 leg of mutton till I had paid something on account. I 
 asked him if he had ever read The Merchant of Venice, 
 and he got quite rude." 
 
 The family was sitting together in the front part of 
 the double room that, with the narrow passage and the 
 staircase, occupied the whole of the ground floor. A 
 grand piano took up a great deal of space, and the rest 
 of the room was furnished with chairs and tables bought 
 years ago for a larger house, and all more or less shabby. 
 
 " I wonder whether we shall like having Michael to 
 live with us," said Selma, who was much taller than her 
 sisters and not as good-humoured. She wore her dark 
 hair in a fuzzy mop on either temple, she had a deep 
 contralto voice, and she dressed in vivid colours that be- 
 came her, but made her the cynosure of every eye to 
 such an extent that Bob refused to walk out with her.
 
 THE SEVERINS 7 
 
 " If he will help me to pay the butcher I shall like it 
 very much," said Mrs. Severin. " You all take your 
 dinner for granted in such a heartless way. Where do 
 you suppose I should have got a leg of mutton if I had 
 not been able to say that my son from India was coming 
 home to-night and would pay for it to-morrow ? Bob, 
 why are you listening like that ? Go and do your lessons." 
 
 To the surprise of the whole family Bob actually did 
 as he was told. At least, he went out of the room. The 
 process known as " doing his lessons " was carried on 
 downstairs, and consisted chiefly of skirmishes with 
 Harriet, the maid-of-all-work. This evening, however, an 
 unnatural quiet prevailed below. 
 
 " I'm going to have my birthday supper on Sunday, 
 whatever happens," said Mrs. Crewe, " and I've pro- 
 mised Deminski that if it's fine we'll have it in the garden." 
 
 Mrs. Severin did not seem to hear what her eldest 
 daughter said. She was restless and preoccupied, now 
 looking out of the window at the street, and then walk- 
 ing the length of the two rooms to the other window 
 which faced part of the garden. It was natural, she 
 knew, that Michael's sisters should look forward to his 
 return with curiosity rather than with affection, for he 
 had left home twenty years ago, when Clotilda was five, 
 Selma three, and before the younger ones were born. 
 But whatever life had made him, he was his mother's 
 firstborn, and she hardly knew as she waited whether to 
 expect the little child she had loved or the grown-up 
 man she hardly knew. It was a cousin of Mr. Severin J s 
 who had taken a fancy to the boy, and had persuaded 
 her English husband first to ask him to live at their 
 house in Manchester, then to pay for his schooling, and 
 when the time came, to take him into his own business 
 and see that he had a good commercial training. The 
 Wests had never formally adopted the boy. They had
 
 8 THE SEVERINS 
 
 sons and daughters of their own. Michael's separation 
 from his people had come about gradually and without 
 definite intention. He had got into the way of spending 
 his holidays with the Wests either at Bowdon, or in 
 summer at the seaside ; and when he went into business, 
 it was first in Manchester and then in Paris. After that 
 came the call to India and seven uninterrupted years 
 there. The Severins had never contributed a penny to 
 his expenses since he left home, and they had not made 
 strenuous efforts to see him often. There had been brief 
 occasional meetings. Just before he left for India, for 
 instance, he had spent a few breathless days at home, 
 buying his outfit, seeing the partners of the London 
 house, seeing what he could of London, going to the 
 theatre, and in the intervals making the acquaintance of 
 his family. That had been seven years ago, when they 
 were living at Broadlands, the semi-detached villa with 
 the croquet-lawn and the conservatory. Compared with 
 the present state of affairs, those times seemed prosperous. 
 
 " When he was here before we did know where to buy 
 a leg of mutton," said Mrs. Severin, stopping short near 
 the piano. " It is rather hard that the poor boy should 
 have the whole family on his shoulders the moment he 
 comes home." 
 
 " How do you know he will have any shoulders ? " 
 asked Selma. " If he is in a scrape, he may be as hard 
 up as we are." 
 
 " Or he may want to marry and buy his own legs of 
 mutton," said Mrs. Crewe. 
 
 Camilla, the youngest girl, contributed least to the 
 discussion. She had taken her chair close to the window 
 and was darning stockings, but at every sound in the 
 street she looked up, hoping that it might be Michael. 
 Selma lay at full-length on the hearth-rug doing nothing. 
 Clotilda was also unoccupied, but she did not lie on
 
 THE SEVERINS 9 
 
 hearth-rugs. Her air was brisk, her eyes provocative, 
 her figure slim and neat. She was better dressed than 
 the others, because Tom Crewe sent her a regular allow- 
 ance, and though she helped by fits and starts with the 
 legs of mutton, she spent most of her money on herself. 
 
 " I wonder what Deminski will think of Michael ? " 
 she went on. "He says he hates the idea of finding 
 another man always here." 
 
 " He can't object to a brother," said Selma. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. I was not speaking from that 
 point of view. So far there has been no master of the 
 house here. A man may want to boss things." 
 
 " He won't boss me," said Selma. 
 
 " I wonder what Michael will think of Deminski ? " 
 said Camilla's young musical voice. " He may not like 
 him at all." 
 
 " Sh ! " said Mrs. Severin, coming to a standstill again 
 and holding up her hand. The sound of wheels became 
 plainer, and as the girls rushed to the window a cab laden 
 with luggage stopped at the house. From the cab a tall 
 young man descended, and it was seen that he wore a 
 long travelling coat. After a swift glance at him the 
 girls ran after their mother into the hall. The glance had 
 shown them that the seven years in India had done a good 
 deal to change the fair, fresh-coloured young man they 
 all remembered clearly. He was tanned with his sea 
 voyage, but no longer fresh-coloured. He looked fully 
 his age, which was thirty, and as he came slowly up the 
 steps with a bag in one hand and a bundle of rugs in the 
 other the girls all felt that he came too slowly for their 
 expectant and impatient mood. Mrs. Severin, perhaps, 
 felt this too, for she ran over the threshold to meet him. 
 As he was carrying things she could not exactly throw 
 herself into his arms, but she caught hold of his coat and 
 kissed him on both cheeks in full view of the cabman and
 
 io THE SEVERINS 
 
 the Crescent. To do this she had to stand on tiptoe and 
 he had to stoop a little ; as he did this the girls caught a 
 twinkle of surprise and amusement in his greyish blue 
 eyes. When his mother released him he came further 
 into the narrow hall that seemed to be crowded with 
 handsome and smiling young women. 
 
 " I suppose you don't know us apart ? " said Clotilda, 
 as he put down his bag in order to take her outstretched 
 hand. But it seemed that he did. 
 
 " You are no more alike than you were seven years 
 ago," he said as he shook hands with the others and kissed 
 them in a brotherly way. " I think Selma is taller than 
 ever, and Camilla has grown up. But you were never 
 much alike." 
 
 " Why have you left India ? " asked Mrs. Severin, 
 when he had paid his cabman and sat down with his 
 family in the shabby drawing-room. " What has gone 
 wrong ? " 
 
 " I am coming into the London business," said Michael. 
 ' Then you have not left the old firm ? " 
 
 " Rather not." 
 
 " And there is nothing wrong ? " 
 
 " I hope not. I've just been made a partner." 
 
 He made this startling announcement in the most 
 matter-of-fact way in the world. He spoke with a slight 
 drawl and rather slowly, but clearly and well. His 
 speech, like his movements, was less wide-awake than his 
 intelligent eyes, and it was as refined as his manner and 
 expression. Clotilda knew already that he would never 
 have much traffic with Deminski. Selma thought she 
 could foresee what his prejudices would be. Camilla 
 watched him with fascinated eyes. 
 
 " I have been made a partner," he had just said, and 
 he saw that his mother and sisters were gasping and 
 incredulous.
 
 THE SEVERINS n 
 
 " A partner ! " cried Mrs. Severin, whose married life 
 led her to expect any business communication to be news 
 of fresh disaster. " You must be dreaming, Michael ! " 
 
 " I think so myself sometimes," he said. " I've been 
 pretty lucky. It's only a small share at first, you know." 
 
 " Did you like India ? " asked Clotilda. 
 
 " Oh, India's all right but I'm glad to be in England 
 again." 
 
 " I thought society in India was just as narrow and 
 ignorant as it is here," said Selma. 
 
 " Perhaps it is," said Michael, glancing at Selma with 
 amused attention. Then he turned to his mother. " What 
 time is dinner ? " he asked. 
 
 " We have had dinner," said Clotilda. 
 
 " We have it at one," said Selma, " when there is 
 any." 
 
 " But there is plenty of cold meat in the house to-night," 
 said Mrs. Severin. " I thought you might be hungry." 
 
 " I am rather," said Michael. " By the way, where is 
 Bob ? " 
 
 Camilla, who had hardly spoken yet, said that she 
 thought he must be out, as they did not hear him. But 
 as she spoke there was a loud, prolonged knock at the 
 door, and she flew to open it. A confused jangle of sur- 
 prise, rebuke, and explanation took the others into the 
 passage, and Michael, looking over the shoulders of his 
 sisters, saw a fair-haired boy with the mouth of a saint 
 and the eyes of a sinner valiantly trying to lift a small 
 bicycle over the trunks still cumbering the ground. Every 
 one shrieked " Bob ! " in varying notes of anger and 
 astonishment, and Selma pounced on the bicycle and tried 
 to take it from him. 
 
 " He has been to Spooner's and bought it," said 
 Camilla, looking quite frightened. 
 
 " He must take it straight back," said Clotilda.
 
 12 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " It is not to come into the house at all, you wicked 
 child," said Selma. 
 
 " Spooner must be out of his mind," said Mrs. Severin. 
 
 " He isn't," said Bob, struggling as he spoke to get his 
 machine further on. "He made a fuss at first, but I told 
 him it would be all right. It's a cheap one." 
 
 Selma, Bob, the bicycle, and everything else in the hall 
 now seemed to Michael to be inextricably mixed together, 
 and he was not surprised when a sudden tug in opposite 
 directions brought the combatants and the machine with 
 a crash to the ground. Selma picked herself up im- 
 mediately, but Bob, still hugging his hind wheel, set up 
 a howl of grief and anger. 
 
 " None of us can manage him," said Mrs. Severin, 
 through the din, to her son. " He does exactly what he 
 likes, but this is beyond everything." 
 
 Then she turned to Bob again. " How could you do 
 anything so wicked ? " she said. " You know there is no 
 money in the house to pay for it." 
 
 " I don't see what difference there is between a bicycle 
 and a leg of mutton," said Bob, shaken by sobs^ but 
 speaking quite clearly enough to be heard. " He's just 
 as much my brother as any one else's. I only said to 
 Spooner what you said to the butcher." 
 
 The mother and daughters looked at each other un- 
 comfortably. 
 
 " Come upstairs, Michael," said Mrs. Severin to her 
 son ; "I'll show you your room. Camilla, you must go 
 back to the shop with Bob and explain that there has 
 been a mistake." 
 
 " I won't go ! " cried Bob. 
 
 Michael followed his mother upstairs ; and the sounds 
 of a lively squabble pursued them till they arrived at a 
 back bedroom on the second floor. 
 
 " I'm glad you've come home," said Mrs. Severin,
 
 THE SEVERINS 13 
 
 looking anxiously at her son now that they were by them- 
 selves. They sat down together and tried to bridge over 
 the years that separated them. But it was not to be done 
 in a moment. " I miss your father dreadfully, although 
 when he was alive he spoiled the children more than I 
 did. But somehow things have gone from bad to worse 
 in every way since he died. I'm afraid you must have 
 noticed what Bob said about the butcher." 
 
 " Yes," said Michael, " but I didn't understand." 
 
 " I had to promise to pay the butcher what I owed, or 
 he would have sent no meat to-day. But I can't pay him 
 unless I didn't mean to bother you about such things 
 to-night, Michael." 
 
 "You don't bother me," said Michael, and his voice 
 was so kind that it comforted poor Mrs. Severin instantly. 
 
 " I guessed from your letters that I had better come 
 home. I might have got rich quicker out there, but since 
 
 my father's death you seemed to have no one much " 
 
 ' You may save us all from going to the devil," said 
 Mrs. Severin with suppressed emotion. 
 
 " My dear mother ! " said Michael. 
 
 " Clotilda is going to the devil," said Mrs. Severin, 
 " and Selma would if she had the chance ! "
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 MICHAEL looked round the room that had been 
 prepared for him in his mother's house. It was 
 more comfortable than he had expected. There was 
 a good bedstead, a roomy wardrobe with only two 
 handles wanting on the drawers : there was a shaving- 
 glass and a solid washstand. These things had evidently 
 come down from more prosperous days, when Mr. and 
 Mrs. Severin had married and furnished their house 
 with stuff warranted to wear. The bizarre colours he 
 had observed in the drawing-room and in his sisters' 
 clothes were not forced upon him here. The carpet 
 had no colour left in it, and the curtains were nonde- 
 script. He looked out of the window and saw a patch 
 of garden with ragged - looking grass, untidy flower- 
 beds, and some rickety old wicker chairs under the one 
 shady tree. What his mother had just said about his 
 sisters should have given him a shock, but although he 
 had been away from his family since his tenth year, he 
 had enjoyed occasional peeps at them, and he had always 
 been in correspondence with his mother. He was there- 
 fore in some measure accustomed to her sensational 
 method of imparting information that had more root in 
 fear than in fact. She had constantly announced im- 
 pending tragedies in one letter, and only allowed him to 
 deduce from information in the next that they had not 
 come off. When, for instance, he had heard by one mail 
 that Clotilda was not expected to live many hours, he 
 knew that she must have taken a turn for the better, 
 
 14
 
 THE SEVERINS 15 
 
 because a few weeks later a letter brought him news of 
 her betrothal and forthcoming marriage. When Camilla 
 had measles he sent a cheque for her funeral expenses, 
 as Mrs. Severin had written to say that she must sell her 
 watch to cover them ; and he was delighted to find that 
 the money had served instead to give the whole family a 
 seaside holiday. He had sent money home at regular as 
 well as at irregular intervals ever since his father's death, 
 for he knew that his mother had small means and no 
 management. But apparently what he had sent had not 
 been enough to pay the butcher's bill. As the young 
 man unpacked and put away his things his new respon- 
 sibilities began to take shape in his mind. He had come 
 to a household that he must not only maintain but in 
 some ways reorganize. If the butcher was a regular 
 institution, why was there no dinner ? He was as hungry 
 as a hunter, but he had not heard a gong ; nor had the 
 neat English housemaid of his fancy brought him hot 
 water. He heard a good deal of noise going on somewhere 
 below, and after ringing in vain once or twice he went 
 downstairs. Just outside his mother's bedroom he dis- 
 covered a grimy young woman with a torn apron and a 
 cap set awry on her tousled hair. She was watching Bob, 
 attired in a gauze vest, turn admirable somersaults on 
 his mother's bed. She giggled foolishly as the boy made 
 a dash from the room that was meant to upset her and 
 just failed ; and then she suddenly became aware of 
 Michael. 
 
 " I'm putting Master Bob to bed, sir," she said with a 
 clutch at her cap. 
 
 " So I see," said Michael, and asked for some hot water. 
 
 After some delay it was brought to his room in a tin 
 that had apparently been enamelled by amateurs who 
 liked frequent and violent changes of colour ; but the 
 water it contained could only be called hot by courtesy.
 
 16 THE SEVERINS 
 
 A little later, when Michael went downstairs again, he 
 heard voices in the basement, and when he sought them 
 he found his mother and sisters at supper in a little 
 sitting-room next to the kitchen. Never in his life had 
 Michael shared in a meal so badly served and so untempt- 
 ing. The family fortunes had steadily declined since his 
 childhood at home, and Mrs. Severin made scarcity of 
 money an excuse for many discomforts that capable 
 people, however poor, keep at arm's length. The cloth 
 was not clean, the glasses were dull, the loaf was cut any- 
 how, the butter was melting and shapeless, the mutton 
 looked underdone. As he sat down, Camilla, to whom he 
 had hardly spoken yet, stole a swift glance at him, a 
 glance of distress and inquiry. Her sisters were conduct- 
 ing a heated argument about the rendering of a phrase in 
 a song by Brahms, which they proceeded to sing against 
 each other as noisily as canaries. They both had voices 
 of amazing power and sweetness, and they both, so it 
 . seemed to Michael, sang with their whole bodies. At any 
 rate, their expressive faces and their waving hands lent 
 dramatic intensity to their performance, and when they 
 stopped it was only to take breath, to call each other 
 abusive names and then to begin again. At last Clotilda 
 clapped her hands so loudly that for a moment she 
 startled Selma into an indignant silence. 
 
 " I tell you that Deminski says it is as I sing it," she 
 screamed, " and what Deminski says is right." 
 
 " I wish you wouldn't always quarrel about music at 
 meal-times," said Mrs. Severin plaintively; "at any rate, 
 you might let us have a little peace to-night. I don't sup- 
 pose Michael is used to such ways." 
 
 " I don't suppose Michael knows a thing about music," 
 said Selma, who, for no reason that he could gauge, seemed 
 hostile to him. 
 
 " You're both right," he said cheerfully.
 
 THE SEVERINS 17 
 
 " What do you do yourself ? " said Clotilda, helping her- 
 self to pickles. Michael helped himself to pickles too, and 
 to London bread and to cold underdone mutton. It was a 
 revolting meal, but to his own surprise he was soon eating 
 it with as much indifference as the others seemed to feel for 
 the food before them. He had answered that as regards 
 music he did nothing, and could not even say whether or 
 not he had a voice. His confession made a stir that 
 amused him. The three pretty girls all talked at once as 
 was apparently their way, and they all talked to him. 
 Their subject was his latent musical powers, and he could 
 not have guessed that it was one charged with so much 
 excitement and such gorgeous possibilities. He promised 
 that when they went back to the drawing-room they 
 should try his voice, and as the name of Deminski came 
 again and again to his sister's lips, he asked at last whether 
 Deminski was a musician. Mrs. Severin blinked at him 
 when he said this, but he would probably not have ob- 
 served her if Selma had not nudged him. 
 
 " Sophia wishes to tell you something that we are not 
 to hear," she said, and thus diverted her mother's atten- 
 tion to herself, for Mrs. Severin's total want of control 
 over her family did not prevent her from administering 
 rebukes as downright as they were ineffectual. Michael 
 discovered, therefore, that his mother had the poorest 
 opinion of Selma's manners and sense of filial duty ; and 
 that in spite of her repeated prohibitions, all her children, 
 even Bob, addressed her as Sophia. 
 
 " What am I to do ? " she inquired. " When I don't 
 answer it makes no difference. They just say ' Sophia's 
 on stilts,' and think it a joke. What are you going to call 
 me, Michael ? I object to Mother, Mummy, or Mamma ; 
 but the worst of all is Mater. That I could not stand. 
 Arthur Henderson is always talking of THE MATER. 
 I seem to see her on the sands in August, very large and
 
 i8 THE SEVERINS 
 
 stout and rather hot. Perhaps you had better call me 
 Sophia too. After all, I'm used to it." 
 
 " We'll see," said Michael, inwardly resolving to do 
 nothing of the kind; and then Selma said that supper 
 was over and that if Sophia had no objection they would 
 adjourn. 
 
 The rest of the evening was passed upstairs at the piano, 
 where Michael proved to his sisters that he could not sing, 
 and then sat down comfortably to listen. But before he 
 did so he went to the front window and pulled down the 
 blind. 
 
 " Why do you do that ? " said Selma. 
 
 " Because people can see in." 
 
 " None of us care. We would rather be seen than 
 stifled, wouldn't you ? " 
 
 " No," said Michael, " I would rather be stifled. Be- 
 sides there is the back window I'll open that." 
 
 He walked across the room and did so. From the 
 front window he had seen a man standing close to the 
 outside palings, and now he waited and watched a 
 moment because he had an impression of another slipping 
 behind a tree. 
 
 " I believe there is some one in the garden," he said, 
 putting his head out. 
 
 " Sh ! " said Clotilda, coming up behind him. ' That 
 is really why we leave the blinds up. They can hear 
 better." 
 
 " But who are they ? " 
 
 " Oh ! Young men who live near. They come 
 and listen to our music." 
 
 " Perhaps we had better invite them in ! " 
 
 " We do sometimes," said Clotilda. 
 
 " No wonder they hang about," said Michael politely ; 
 but though he left this window open he drew down the 
 blind. Then he sat down beside his mother, and answered
 
 THE SEVERINS 19 
 
 her questions about India ; but he saw that she did not 
 pay much attention to his answers. Her mind, like her 
 letters, seemed to be vague and wandering. 
 
 " What do you think of your sisters ? " she said 
 suddenly, just when in response to her request he was 
 trying to describe the architecture of the Taj Mahal. 
 
 " The'y are even prettier than I remembered," he 
 replied, but when he went to bed he tried to answer 
 his mother's question more fully to himself. What 
 did he think of his sisters ? There was no doubt about 
 their beauty, but there was also no doubt that they 
 were oddly behaved. Michael had expected from his 
 early experiences to find a happy-go-lucky, ill-kept 
 household without discipline or method ; but two or 
 three hours' experience of it had done more than all 
 his fancy pictures to show him what it was really like. 
 He had been out in the world long enough to know that 
 he was going to make a success of his work. He had 
 learned to take responsibility, to overcome obstacles, 
 and to deal with men. But he still had to learn how to 
 deal with a household composed of five women and a 
 child. 
 
 He began next evening when he came from the City, 
 where he had had a satisfactory interview with his 
 senior partners, and had received an invitation from 
 one of them to come to his house in Rutland Gate on 
 Sunday afternoon, and be presented to his wife. 
 
 " Where are you staying ? " Mr. Walsingham had 
 asked. 
 
 " With my mother and sisters," Michael had answered, 
 and had given his address. 
 
 " Oh ! very pleasant," Mr. Walsingham had said 
 politely ; but as Michael let himself in at the door 
 he wondered how far Mr. Walsingham's picture of his 
 junior partner's home differed from the reality. He
 
 20 THE SEVERINS 
 
 found his mother in the drawing-room smoking cigarettes. 
 She told him that the girls had gone to a concert, and 
 that Bob had left her no peace till she gave him a shilling 
 for the Zoo. 
 
 " Have you had tea ? " said Michael, for it was not 
 five o'clock yet, and he wanted some. 
 
 Mrs. Severin said that she had had coffee with the 
 girls after lunch, but that she would order some for 
 Michael. So she went to the top of the stairs and shouted 
 to Harriet, who shouted back again. 
 
 " Are the bells out of order ? " said Michael when she 
 returned. 
 
 " I don't know," said Mrs. Severin. " We never 
 ring them. Harriet doesn't like it. She expects us 
 to call down the stairs. I'm very sorry, Michael, but 
 she says she has just made up the fire, and you can't 
 have any tea. She is a girl with a temper, you know, 
 and I told her we should not want any this afternoon. 
 It always upsets her when we change our minds. What 
 shall we do ? " 
 
 " Perhaps the best thing to do would be to get more 
 civilized servants," said Michael. As he spoke he rang 
 the bell, and soon after Harriet appeared, scowling like 
 a fury. 
 
 " Tea," said Michael, and though the girl bounced 
 out of the room, she did not speak. 
 
 " I wonder if she will bring it ? " said Mrs. Severin. 
 
 " I am sure she will," said Michael, and in ten minutes 
 she did. Meanwhile he explained his wishes for the 
 future to his mother. He would like an early, punctual 
 breakfast, he told her, and, if she did not mind the 
 trouble, he wished to dine at eight every night. 
 
 " I don't much like the house," he owned. " I don't 
 like that horrid little downstairs room close to the 
 kitchen ; and the whole place looks out of repair."
 
 THE SEVERINS 21 
 
 "It is," said Mrs. Severin. " Any house would be 
 after Bob and Harriet had lived in it a year. When- 
 ever Harriet is out of temper, she knocks bits off the 
 paint. I chose dark paint because I knew what white 
 paint looked like at Broadlands. I dare say you have 
 noticed Bob's hands." 
 
 Michael admitted that he had. 
 
 " He hates washing," said Mrs. Severin placidly. 
 " I don't know what you are making, Michael, but these 
 changes you want will be expensive, and I never have 
 a penny somehow. If it had not been for you and Tom 
 Crewe we should have died of cold and starvation this 
 winter. You have no conception what we have been 
 through." 
 
 " What has Crewe had to do with your expenses ? " 
 said Michael. 
 
 " He sends Clotilda money every month, and she has 
 helped me out sometimes. She used to do it regularly 
 until she began to dress up so much for Deminski. If 
 Tom knew how his money was spent, he wouldn't half 
 like it, but none of my children ever listen to what I say, 
 so I've left off arguing with them." 
 
 " Why doesn't Clotilda join her husband ? " 
 
 " He begs her to in every letter. He says he could 
 give her a comfortable home now. He has got on very 
 well. In his last letter he actually sent her passage- 
 money . . ." 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " She spent it on clothes, and said nothing would 
 induce her to go out to a man who called her Tilly. 
 The truth is that both the girls are in love with Deminski. 
 It is most unlucky." 
 
 " But, my dear mother ! " cried Michael. " If you 
 disapprove of the man, why have him in the house ? " 
 ' You must be old-fashioned in India if you can ask
 
 22 THE SEVERINS 
 
 a question like that. Do you suppose I have any au- 
 thority over the girls ? They do just as they please. 
 Besides, Clotilda is a married woman." 
 
 " But her husband's not here to look after her." 
 
 " I can't help that," said Mrs. Severin. 
 
 " Who is Deminski ? " 
 
 " Our best friend," said Mrs. Severin tenderly, and 
 she could not understand why Michael jumped. 
 
 " Then you don't disapprove of him ? " he said. 
 
 " I love him," said Mrs. Severin. " When he plays 
 the violin he brings tears to my eyes, and when he 
 talks I could stay up all night to listen. He calls me 
 his mother, and he says that outside these doors lies the 
 cold world." 
 
 " The question is," said Michael, " do you want him 
 here or don't you ? " 
 
 " I do and I don't," said Mrs. Severin. 
 
 " That's awkward," said Michael. 
 
 " Yes, it is," admitted his mother. " I'm devoted 
 to him, but when I told you the girls were going to the 
 devil, I really meant Deminski. You see, he has such 
 advanced ideas." 
 
 " What sort of ideas ? " 
 
 " Oh ! the usual sort . . . about love and marriage 
 and such things ; I agree with them in theory. I 
 believe in self-development, don't you know, and the 
 freedom of the individual and all that, and yet when 
 I think of poor Tom Crewe . . . slaving away out there 
 and believing in Clotilda ... I suppose I'm rather narrow." 
 
 Michael saw that his mother's mind was in a confused 
 state of anxiety and self-distrust. He asked when 
 he was likely to see Deminski, and was told that he had 
 promised to come to-morrow (Sunday) evening, in honour 
 of Clotilda's birthday. 
 
 " She has bought chickens and champagne for supper
 
 THE SEVERINS 23 
 
 . . . out of her passage-money," Mrs. Severin complained. 
 " It really isn't right. There's Bob." 
 
 Bob was announcing himself by knocking as loudly 
 and as rapidly as he could at the front door, and Michael 
 rushed out to open it and stop the insufferable noise. 
 
 " Don't you ever do that again," he said to the boy. 
 
 " Why not ? " said Bob, staring as if he could hardly 
 believe his ears, for every one he knew nagged at him, 
 but no one ever spoke with command. 
 
 " Because I tell you not to," said Michael, who 
 knew nothing of children and education, but who had 
 a grain of sense. 
 
 " Why ? " said Bob from force of habit, and with 
 a shrill whoop he flung his schoolbooks on the passage 
 floor, and scuttled down the kitchen stairs. The usual 
 sounds of expostulation from Harriet and uproarious 
 enjoyment from Bob soon reached the drawing-room. 
 
 " Harriet likes Bob," said Mrs. Severin. '-' I think 
 it is a pity to let her go. When he makes faces at her, 
 she makes worse ones at him and laughs. The others 
 said he was not a young gentleman, and gave notice." 
 
 " Bob ought to go to school," said Michael. 
 
 " He does when he gets up in time," said Mrs. Severin. 
 
 " I mean to a good boarding-school." 
 
 " He would never agree to that. Besides, it would be 
 expensive." 
 
 " I will pay for it," said Michael; " and the only con- 
 sent I want is yours." 
 
 " I dare say Bob would be the better for it," sighed 
 Mrs. Severin. "He is beyond me. But Deminski 
 thinks that you only ruin good material by educating 
 it. He says he admires my system with my children 
 more than any he knows." 
 
 Michael's silence might have informed his mother 
 what value he set on such an opinion coming from such
 
 24 THE SEVERINS 
 
 a quarter, but Mrs. Severin was not accustomed to in- 
 terpret silence. She was used to people who screamed 
 their opinions at the top of their voices, and with the 
 aid of their hands and arms. However, their tete-d-tete 
 was ended by the return of the girls, accompanied by 
 their young neighbour, Mr. Arthur Henderson, whom 
 they had apparently met in the concert hall. He con- 
 fessed on impeachment that he had spent most of the 
 previous evening on the pavement listening to their 
 music, and that Sydney Jenkins, who, he said, had cheek 
 enough for two, was in the back garden. 
 
 " I thought it was you in front," Selma said. " If 
 I had been sure, I should have fetched you in." 
 
 " But you drew down the blinds," said the young 
 man. 
 
 " My brother did that. Never mind. Stay to supper 
 now, and fetch your 'cello after supper, and we'll play 
 till three in the morning, if you like." 
 
 ' Yes, do," said Clotilda. " I'll sing to you." 
 
 In appearance Mr. Henderson was a hobbledehoy, 
 and in manner he was awkward and unformed. You 
 could not tell from his reply whether he was delighted 
 or embarrassed by this invitation, but he mumbled 
 something about having nothing better to do, and he 
 stayed on. So, after blinking in vain at her daughters, 
 and sighing audibly, Mrs. Severin got up and left the 
 room. Michael, who had observed her evident distress, 
 followed her. 
 
 " What's the matter, mother ? " he said. 
 
 " There's nothing for supper but the mutton bone, 
 and Selma knows it as well as I do. Is it likely that 
 we should have anything fit to eat on a Saturday night ? " 
 
 Michael could not help laughing. " Can't you send 
 for things ? " he asked. 
 
 " I could send Bob to the cookshop for ham and
 
 THE SEVERINS 25 
 
 pressed beef," she said, " but I gave him my last shilling 
 this afternoon. He would have it." 
 
 Michael put money into his mother's hand and went 
 upstairs. He felt that he would wait for further ac- 
 quaintance with Mr. Henderson till he had to act as 
 his host at supper ; and, on thinking it over, he decided 
 that he would shortly enter into correspondence with his 
 brother-in-law, Tom Crewe.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 As Michael Severin followed the Walsinghams' butler 
 upstairs on Sunday afternoon he felt like a man 
 who, after a short disturbing exile, gets back to his own 
 country. Here were the surroundings in which he was 
 at home, yet all he valued most in them did not depend 
 on money, and was not to be bought for money. Every 
 fresh impression confirmed the first ones. The drawing- 
 room was empty when he went in, and he had time to 
 look round at it. He saw that it occupied the whole of 
 the first floor ; he saw flowery chintzes, Eastern carpets, 
 a grand piano, some books and papers, bowls with fresh 
 flowers, side tables set with silver, a writing-table, china, 
 pictures, the usual photographs in the usual frames. 
 He saw nothing uncommon and no signs of a fastidious 
 taste ; yet the whole character of the room, its easy 
 comfort and order and pleasantness, were civilized, and 
 Michael liked civilization. It had become his second 
 nature to like it, and to miss it vexed him as a jarring 
 noise vexes people used to quiet, as uncleanliness vexes 
 the clean. While he waited in the room he was conscious 
 of a well-being that he had not felt before since his 
 arrival in England, and when Mrs. Walsingham appeared 
 with her daughters Beatrice and Clara, he saw them 
 as a man will sometimes see his country-folk in a foreign 
 land, with a new keen appreciation of their qualities. 
 
 Mrs. Walsingham had a manner that struck some 
 people as artificial ; when she chose it could be freezing ; 
 as she welcomed her husband's new junior partner it 
 
 26
 
 THE SEVERINS 27 
 
 was cordial. Her husband had told her to expect an 
 agreeable young man, and she saw instantly that James 
 had been right. In spite of his foreign name, Mr. Severin 
 made a favourable impression. He was tall, good- 
 looking, well-dressed, and by reputation unusually 
 hard-working and intelligent, and as she sat down 
 with him near an open window she remembered that 
 he had been at Winchester with one of her young brothers 
 and with Henry West. Beatrice and Clara Walsingham 
 sat down near the window, too, and joined in a con- 
 versation that played round the most obvious topics 
 Michael's journey, life in India, the change to London, 
 and his luck in finding summer weather. The real 
 interest of the moment had nothing to do with this 
 empty talk, but depended on the various impressions 
 conveyed without the spoken word, and establishing 
 more firmly and swiftly than words a friendly beginning 
 to this new acquaintanceship. 
 
 These are some of the things Michael had observed 
 before he had known the three ladies ten minutes. 
 Mrs. Walsingham was tall, slim, grey-haired, and ex- 
 tremely well-dressed. Michael knew nothing about 
 fashions, but he could see that Mrs. Walsingham's 
 clothes were fashionable and well put on. Her daughter 
 Beatrice was absurdly like her. She was the same height, 
 had the same features, smile, and glance, moved as her 
 mother did, and spoke with her agreeable, languid, 
 rather artificial voice. Clara was smaller, fairer, younger, 
 and more girlish. She looked like a young person who 
 had been beautifully dressed by competent people 
 upstairs, and sent down to behave nicely in the drawing- 
 room. But when she talked it was with complete self- 
 possession and assurance. She had china-blue eyes, a 
 babyish mouth, and a tiny nose ; yet her face was not 
 without character. On the whole, the ladies persuaded
 
 28 THE SEVERINS 
 
 Michael for the moment thalrlife held no problems and 
 presented no difficulties. He found their presence 
 soothing and their friendly politeness comfortable. 
 Mrs. Walsingham apologized for her husband's absence, 
 but said he would be in to tea. 
 
 " Have you seen anything of the St. Erths yet ? " 
 she asked. 
 
 " I saw Mr. St. Erth at the office yesterday," said 
 Michael. 
 
 " You know it was his father who helped to found 
 the firm. I suppose this man is older than you a good 
 deal. Mrs. St. Erth is charming, a girl we have known 
 all her life. You must dine here one night and meet 
 them. This week is rather full. Clara is to be presented 
 on Tuesday, and we are giving a dance for her on Thurs- 
 day. I hope you will come to it. Do you like dancing ? " 
 
 " Yes, I do," said Michael. 
 
 " Delightful," said Mrs. Walsingham, her mind still 
 running on days and dates. " Saturday is free so far, 
 isn't it, Clara ? Will you dine here on Saturday, Mr. 
 Severin ? and I will ask the St. Erths and my brother 
 Hugh, whom you remember at Winchester." 
 
 Michael accepted both invitations with evident pleasure. 
 He had not expected such a cordial reception, and he 
 did not realize that it was called forth at the moment 
 by his own agreeable personality. Yesterday evening 
 when Mr. Walsingham had told his wife that he had 
 asked the new junior partner to tea, she had said that 
 it would have been better to wait a little and begin 
 with some semi-official form of entertainment at a 
 restaurant. Nothing was known of the new man's 
 origin or connections, and it did not follow that because 
 he was capable in business he would be presentable in 
 private life. 
 
 " I was charmed," Mr. Walsingham had said. " I
 
 THE SEVERINS 29 
 
 only wish he was to share my private room instead of 
 St. Erth." And as he entered the drawing-room at tea- 
 time this afternoon, he saw at a glance that his wife and 
 daughters endorsed his quickly formed opinions. 
 
 " My husband tells me that you are living with your 
 mother and sisters," said Mrs. Walsingham, when 
 Michael got up to go. "I am coming to call on them 
 as soon as this busy week is over. Where is your 
 Crescent ? I don't know that side of Regent's Park at 
 all." 
 
 Michael explained the position of the Crescent with 
 great clearness, wishing devoutly as he did so that 
 Mrs. Walsingham would never find her way there. 
 He had a moment's fear that she would ask his sisters 
 to Clara's dance, but that was because he did not know 
 her well. Mrs. Walsingham never hurried things un- 
 wisely. She meant to call on Michael's mother because 
 she considered it the right thing to do, and also because 
 she wished to see for herself what his connections were 
 like. It would be easy to begin and end with an ex- 
 change of formal calls if this was found desirable. 
 
 When Michael got back to Regent's Park, bells were 
 ringing for evening service, and he met a stream of well- 
 dressed, decorous-looking people on their way to church 
 and chapel. He was accustomed to go to church regu- 
 larly himself, and in a simple-minded, uninquiring 
 way he was a believer, not one, it must be said, whose 
 faith moves mountains or even lights life with a sustaining 
 glow ; but a believer like many he met book in hand 
 this evening, one who, in matters that hardly reached 
 him, accepted what was given, and whose religion was 
 an outward garment rather than an inward fire. For 
 the greater part of his life he had been drilled in Sunday 
 observances, not rigidly, but with an eye to the sus- 
 ceptibilities of his neighbours. He supposed that all
 
 3 o THE SEVERINS 
 
 English households, big and small, allowed their servants 
 chances of going to church, that the small ones had 
 rather simpler meals than on weekdays, and that, what- 
 ever their private opinions and beliefs were, people 
 paid some regard to the prevailing desire for quietness 
 and restraint. By this time he knew that his mother's 
 household was happy-go-lucky. Nevertheless, he ex- 
 pected to find that Harriet was out, and that the dinner 
 he had asked for during the week would not be prepared 
 for him on the day of rest. 
 
 His first thought on turning into the Crescent was 
 that there had been a fire or a burglary at the corner 
 house, for a policeman, as well as two or three other 
 people, were loitering near it. But he saw no sign of 
 a fire, and before he reached the gate he discovered that 
 public interest was attracted to that part of his mother's 
 garden which was in full view of the road. The family 
 had gathered there, a man Michael guessed to be De- 
 minski was playing the violin, and Harriet was coming 
 from the back of the house with a tray for supper. She 
 was followed by Bob carrying a bottle of champagne in 
 each hand. As Michael halted and looked round, it 
 seemed to him that Deminski and his playing were 
 what made the scene amazing. The girls sat quietly 
 beneath the old elm tree, but he stood or rather danced 
 on the grass, fiddling with energy and brilliance, laughing 
 with delight at his own performance, flinging his devil's 
 measure at the church-goers who were passing by. But 
 suddenly, to Michael's horror, he advanced towards 
 Clotilda, said something to her in an undertone, began 
 to play a dance with more abandon than before, and 
 whooped at the top of his voice as she smilingly rose to 
 her feet, curved her arms, swung her skirts, and danced 
 with him. A moment later Selma was dancing too, 
 while Bob hopped about with them, and yelled when
 
 THE SEVERINS 31 
 
 Deminski did. Harriet, coming forth again, with dishes, 
 looked glum and disapproving. The policeman tramped 
 heavily further, the other loiterers stared between the 
 palings and made loud remarks of a jocose nature. 
 
 As Michael opened the gate he turned so black a face 
 on them that they melted away. Then he turned to his 
 sisters and their friend. The music did not exactly 
 stop at his approach. Deminski still paced the grass, 
 his fiddle tucked under his chin, still smiled to himself, 
 still kept up a little ripple of sound that promised at 
 any moment to break out again. The girls looked 
 flushed and eager, but halted breathlessly when they 
 saw Michael. So did Harriet with her dishes. Only 
 Deminski still walked to and fro, giving to the air his 
 little wail of melody, and Bob stepped out beside him, 
 trying to whistle the tune of it. 
 
 "It is Sunday evening," said Michael, looking at his 
 eldest sister. 
 
 " Yes," said Clotilda sweetly. " Nicholas, this is 
 my brother Michael, just home from India. Michael, 
 this is Herr Nicholas Deminski, the London correspondent 
 of the Pappenheimer WochenUatt. We are going to 
 have supper in the garden, Michael. I hope you won't 
 be chilly." 
 
 Deminski made Michael a deep, sweeping, half-ironical 
 bow. Michael just acknowledged it. Deminski was 
 dressed in a badly-cut frock-coat and shepherd's plaid 
 trousers. Michael could have forgiven him that, per- 
 haps, but he could not forgive him the floating ends of 
 his terra-cotta tie or the length of his hair. He did 
 not want to know any more about Deminski than he 
 knew already. A man who had to toss his hair from 
 his brow, and who looked pasty for want of exercise 
 made Michael sick. 
 
 " Where is my mother ? " he said to Clotilda.
 
 32 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " Making salad in the dining-room," said Bob. 
 
 Michael went on into the house and found Mrs. Severin, 
 as Bob had said, engaged with lettuces and a cruet- 
 stand. She looked at him in a worried way when he 
 went in. 
 
 " There is no tarragon vinegar," she said. " Deminski 
 won't like the salad if I make it with this common 
 vinegar." 
 
 " Can't he eat his salad in here ? " said Michael. 
 
 " Why should he ? " said Mrs. Severin, her eyes still 
 fixed on the vinegar bottle. " Clotilda wants to have 
 supper in the garden. She says it will make Deminski 
 think he is in Germany." 
 
 " It makes me think I'm in the Zoo on the wrong 
 side of a cage," said Michael. 
 
 " Are there many people outside the palings ? " asked 
 Mrs. Severin. 
 
 " Well it is Sunday evening people are about." 
 
 " Perhaps that is why you don't like it ! " 
 
 " I don't like scandalizing my neighbours," admitted 
 Michael. 
 
 " The girls said you would be narrow," said Mrs. 
 Severin dreamily. " We all think it more elevating 
 to play Brahms on Sunday than to sit in a public- 
 house and drink, as the English do. Of course, I can 
 tell them that you think it is wicked to eat chicken in 
 the garden, but I wish I really understood why." 
 
 Michael knew by this time that his mother could only 
 absorb a burlesque of his views, so he did not attempt 
 to expound them. 
 
 "Never mind," he said; "I'll be wicked with you 
 for once ; but in general I'd rather we had our meals 
 indoors, especially on Sundays. Do you think the girls 
 would consider it narrow if I asked them to stop that 
 dancing and whooping ? "
 
 THE SEVERINS 33 
 
 "They might," said Mrs. Severin ; "but I dare say 
 they would oblige you." 
 
 So Michael went back to the garden ; but directly 
 he appeared Deminski put down his fiddle, and the girls 
 said that supper was ready, and that if Camilla would 
 dig out Sophia and the salad, they would begin. 
 
 " What was she doing ? " said Clotilda to her brother. 
 
 " Something with vinegar," said Michael. 
 
 " No tarragon I knew that I tried to get some 
 yesterday, and they said at Wilson's we couldn't have 
 another thing till Sophia had paid what she owed. 
 Tradesmen are so selfish and inconsiderate. They 
 don't care if the salad is spoilt on my birthday." 
 
 " They are sordid people the bourgeoisie," said 
 Deminski. " What would you do with such a man, Mr. 
 Severin ? " 
 
 " Why, pay him," said Michael, and then the salad, 
 with Camilla and her mother, appeared in the garden. 
 The table was laid with more care than usual, and the 
 signs of gala reminded Michael that he was sitting down 
 to a birthday feast. There were flowers and champagne 
 glasses, and two chickens that he was at once asked to 
 carve. He did this extremely well, but he was not made 
 happier when Deminski drew general attention to his 
 skill, and vowed that he would be eternally grateful if 
 Michael would there and then give him a lesson. 
 
 " Change places with me," he said impulsively to 
 Clotilda ; "let me sit next to your brother and carve the 
 second fowl under his tutelage. I wish to carve in the 
 English fashion. A man of truly wide mind sees in 
 every nation something to admire and imitate. Allow 
 me, sir, to take the knife and fork into my own hands." 
 
 " I don't think any more is wanted at present," 
 said Michael. But Deminski had risen to his feet, 
 pulled the dish to the edge of the table, and seized the
 
 34 THE SEVERINS 
 
 carvers, which he found chiefly useful to punctuate his 
 unbroken flow of talk. 
 
 " Isn't he a silly ass ? " whispered Bob, who sat 
 close to his brother at one end of the table, and Michael 
 understood why the boy thought so, and why the girls 
 did not. His carving was preposterous. He did not 
 wait for Michael's instructions, or apparently observe 
 the ironical silence with which the son of the house 
 watched the second chicken hacked into shapeless 
 chunks. His last remark had landed him on one of 
 his favourite subjects, the thorny one of national charac- 
 teristics. His talk was florid, his judgment invariably 
 unsound. But he had ideas, and he was fluent, and 
 Michael found himself, half against his will, defending 
 British rule in India to a man he thought a mountebank. 
 The girls joined in, arrant nonsense was talked, but it 
 was nonsense that compelled Michael either to be silent 
 or to make vigorous and intelligent replies. In the 
 midst of it Bob stole unnoticed from the table, found the 
 champagne nippers, and broke the wires on one of the 
 corks. There was an explosion, a spill of wine, and a 
 chorus of rebuke that left Bob quite unmoved. 
 
 " I'll open the other now," he said, when all the glasses 
 were filled ; and he was quite surprised because Michael 
 stopped him. 
 
 "You let him carve," he said; "just look at that 
 chicken." 
 
 Deminski did not hear. He had risen to his feet, 
 his glass in his hand. His squat Slav features were 
 flushed, and his small, light, intelligent eyes were eager. 
 He was about to make a speech. 
 
 Michael heard footsteps on the pavement now, and 
 knew that people were returning from church. Some 
 passed the gate as Deminski began. He spoke in honour, 
 in congratulation, and in extravagant praise of his
 
 THE SEVERINS 35 
 
 beautiful friend Clotilda. He did not call her Mrs. 
 Crewe. He called her Clotilda. He mentioned her 
 eyes, which he said were laughing lakes, he mentioned 
 all her features, in fact, and said that they were the win- 
 dows of her shining soul. 
 
 " Is her nose ? " said Bob, who was listening solemnly, 
 and Deminski, not a bit put out, waxed eloquent over 
 Clotilda's nose. Then he said that the whole family 
 had more soul than any other family he knew, and that 
 he loved them all. He said he loved Michael and Bob 
 too, and he smiled tearfully at them. The champagne 
 had not got into his head, because he had not touched 
 it yet. He was quite sober, if a man of his kind can 
 ever be described as sober. Certainly alcohol was 
 not responsible for the stuff he talked. He ended by 
 reading a sonnet to Clotilda, which he had composed 
 himself, and which he handed to her for a birthday 
 present. It was in German, so Michael did not under- 
 stand it all, but he thought it sounded amorous, and 
 he saw that Clotilda looked pleased, and that Selma 
 looked glum. Mrs. Severin smiled with pride at her 
 family, and told Michael to open the other bottle of 
 champagne. They had all emptied their glasses at 
 the end of Deminski's speech, and now they filled them 
 again, and proposed various informal toasts, and clinked 
 glasses in the German fashion. 
 
 " Now you make a speech," Clotilda said to Michael, 
 " well, not a speech, perhaps but propose some one's 
 health." 
 
 ' Very well," said Michael, meeting his sister's eyes. 
 ' You and Tom Crewe." 
 
 " Hear, hear," said Selma, and drank with him.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 MICHAEL arrived at Rutland Gate at a crowded 
 moment on Thursday, and passed into the 
 drawing-room after a gracious but fleeting reception 
 from his hostess. There he was taken care of at once 
 by Beatrice, and introduced to several young women 
 who could still spare him dances. Beatrice herself 
 allowed him to put her name down twice on his pro- 
 gramme, and his own was' nearly full before he met 
 Clara, who said that she had only one dance left. She 
 looked young and seraphic in a white gown, the men 
 in the room thought simple and the women extravagant. 
 Beatrice wore pale green, a shade that suited her flaxen 
 hair and the soft tints of her complexion. As the even- 
 ing went on Michael found that he was enjoying him- 
 self not madly, but quite pleasantly. Mr. Walsingham 
 was an admirable host, and took care that a man as 
 willing to dance as Michael should never be without a 
 partner ; so Michael had to entertain a variety of young 
 women he had never seen before ; and though he knew 
 it was absurd, he saw in all of them a likeness to Beatrice 
 and Clara Walsingham. What struck him was a general 
 level of behaviour, accent, and costume that sorted 
 them, as it \vere, labelled them Londoners belonging to 
 the prosperous classes ; and in his present mood his 
 fancy turned to the qualities these damsels possessed in a 
 high degree. They all had manners, reticence, and 
 some social dignity. 
 
 When Michael danced with Beatrice she told him 
 
 36
 
 THE SEVERINS 37 
 
 who the girls he had talked to were. He found that 
 their menfolk belonged to the several worlds of finance, 
 law, medicine, and politics, and that to judge from 
 their addresses, and in some cases from their official 
 designations, they were in positions of importance and 
 success. 
 
 ' You live so far off," she said to him ; " you won't 
 stay over there, will you ? " 
 
 " I hardly know yet," said Michael. They were not 
 dancing at the moment, but were standing near one 
 of the drawing-room doors. Michael's eye was caught 
 as he spoke by a man he knew. It was Mr. St. Erth, 
 the second partner in the firm. 
 
 " There are the St. Erths," said Beatrice, so Michael 
 was informed that the lady beside the man was his 
 wife. 
 
 He had not seen very much of Mr. St. Erth yet, but 
 he knew by this time that Mr. Walsingham, the most 
 kindly and genial of men, was not on comfortable terms 
 with him. Mr. St. Erth had a sneer in his face, slanting 
 and narrow eyes that reminded you of a crocodile, and 
 a discontented manner that was depressing. That 
 any one should remain in his company a moment longer 
 than he need was unthinkable ; yet the girl who had 
 entered the room just now had married him presumably 
 of her own free will. For a moment Michael was guilty 
 of a piece of bad manners he always resented when he 
 noticed in other people. He paid a perfunctory atten- 
 tion to something Beatrice said to him because his eyes 
 and his fancy were busy with Mrs. St. Erth and her 
 husband. 
 
 " Shall I introduce you to her ? " said Beatrice, 
 who was watching him. "It is just like Mr. St. Erth 
 to bring her late, when every one's programme is full ; 
 and he will probably take her off again in half an hour.
 
 38 THE SEVERINS 
 
 Madeline loves dancing, so he never lets her have 
 any." 
 
 " That doesn't sound amiable," said Michael. 
 
 " Amiable ! Mr. St. Erth ! He is hateful," said Beatrice 
 bluntly. 
 
 The dance in progress ended just then, and, as it was 
 the most crowded moment of the evening, the room 
 seemed very full. But Beatrice, followed closely by 
 Michael, soon reached the St. Erths, who still stood near 
 the door, as if they were half inclined to go away again 
 now that they had shown themselves. In fact, as 
 they came within earshot, both Beatrice and Michael 
 heard Mr. St. Erth say that he hated a rabble like this, 
 that he was going downstairs for a whisky-and-soda, 
 and that when he came up again they would leave. 
 
 " Mind you're just here," he finished ; " I don't 
 want to hunt high and low for you." 
 
 " Very well," said Mrs. St. Erth, and then both hus- 
 band and wife saw Beatrice, and Mr. St. Erth nodded 
 to Michael. But he did not wait to speak. A great 
 many of the dancers were streaming out of the room now 
 in search of refreshments, and he went with the stream. 
 So did Beatrice when she had presented Michael to Mrs. 
 St. Erth. They sat down together near the door, and 
 began to make each other's acquaintance. Some of the 
 people passing seemed to know Mrs. St. Erth, but she 
 did not allow herself to be captured. She told the men 
 who asked her to dance that she was going directly, 
 and when they exclaimed, she said that she had danced 
 till three the night before, and was tired. She was a 
 small woman, lightly and slenderly made ; she had the 
 deep, violet eyes that are nearly black at night, and 
 she had soft black hair. Her voice was low, her words 
 came rather slowly, and her manner was composed. 
 But it was not the composure given by dull nerves.
 
 THE SEVERINS 39 
 
 Compared with her other women passing by looked 
 solid. 
 
 " Did you really dance till three last night ? " he 
 said, wishing it had been his luck to meet her then. 
 
 'Yes," she said; "there was bridge going on last 
 night. Mr. St. Erth loves bridge, and I love dancing, 
 so when we find both under one roof we stay." 
 
 " I wish there was bridge to-night," said Michael. 
 
 " So do I," said Mrs. St. Erth. " I should forget that 
 I was tired if I began to dance." 
 
 " I have been asked to dine here on Saturday to meet 
 you." 
 
 ' Yes, I know. But we are not coming. I am 
 sorry." 
 
 She did not say why they were not coming ; nor 
 did she suggest, as Michael half thought she would, 
 that he should go to see her. He knew that the St. 
 Erths lived in Grosvenor Gardens. He saw that Mrs. St. 
 Erth was dressed in white and silver, and that she wore 
 fine diamonds, but he knew nothing of clothes, and 
 did not care about diamonds. He thought a tiara 
 and a splendid necklace looked out of character on a 
 young woman as delicate and ethereal in her beauty as 
 a wood anemone. If they could have been single and 
 unset like dewdrops . . . what he really admired immensely 
 were her silver shoes. I cannot tell you how it was that 
 he had never seen any before. It is to be supposed 
 that when they were worn in London they were worn 
 soon after in India. But Michael had never observed 
 any before, and they made him think of fairy tales and 
 the beautiful princesses in fairy tales. He was sure 
 that when they were straying or captive they wore silver 
 shoes, and that when the ogre appeared they looked 
 up and ^then down again with a slight, a very slight, 
 shiver. No one but Michael, who was close by and
 
 40 THE SEVERINS 
 
 watchful, could possibly have seen it. Mrs. St. Erth 
 got up with serene composure as her husband came into 
 the room, at his service, if he wished to go now. 
 
 " Are you ready ? " he said. " I'm sick of this." 
 
 She shook hands with Michael, Mr. St. Erth nodded 
 to him, and they turned away. As they reached the 
 door, however, they were stopped by the large, genial 
 form of Mr. Walsifcgham, who expostulated with his 
 partner, and after some argument took him away. 
 Mrs. St. Erth came back into the room, and spoke to 
 Michael. 
 
 " My husband has gone to play bridge," she said ; " we 
 may be here half the night now." 
 
 " Good ! " exclaimed Michael, and straightway asked 
 for the dance just beginning ; and she, laughing a little 
 at his look and cry of delight, accepted him for her 
 partner. Michael said to himself that he had known 
 the moment he saw her that she would dance as no 
 other woman in the world did. He or any mortal 
 was too gross and clumsy to dance with her ; and if 
 he could have done so, he would have stood aside and 
 watched her dance alone. But it should have been 
 by moonlight in an open place, with grass under her 
 silver feet, and with her silver scarf in her white hands. 
 Gloves were no more for her than diamonds were ; 
 and this crowded room full of everyday people was not 
 for her. Yet she looked happy as she was dancing, 
 and Michael made another discovery about her before 
 their dance together came to an end. Her lovely eyes 
 could lose their look of watchful melancholy and light 
 her face. Before she danced they had clouded it, for 
 though they were beautiful, they were sad, and 
 once he had thought they were scared. He had to 
 dance the next three dances with other people, but 
 he did not mind much, because Mrs. St. Erth had
 
 THE SEVERINS 41 
 
 promised to go down to supper with him, and to give 
 him an " extra " after supper. One of his dances was 
 with Clara Walsingham, and he wondered what he 
 would find to say to her. But she made it pleasantly 
 easy for him by talking herself. She told him a little 
 about the Court she had just attended, and said that 
 she had not felt at all nervous ; she advised him which 
 plays he ought to see and which of tl\e Academy pictures 
 he ought to admire. Then her thoughts turned to 
 summer holidays, and she said that she did not care to 
 go abroad, and that her father had taken a house on the 
 Cornish coast where there were golf links. Michael 
 said that he liked going far afield for a holiday, but Clara 
 took no interest in his point of view. Her ideas on 
 every subject were fully formed by tradition, by her 
 family, and by the society in which she lived. You 
 would not have called her self-satisfied, because you 
 would not have found it in your heart to say anything 
 unkind of a young person with such amiable manners 
 and such a pretty face. But if you had any acumen 
 about the qualities of your fellow r -creatures, you would 
 have known the instant you heard her speak that she 
 was self-satisfied. Her little cut-and-dried opinions 
 were uttered in an unhesitating treble that would not 
 have faltered before any problem under the sun. She 
 told him that Madeline St. Erth had been at school 
 with Beatrice, and had wanted to go on to college, but 
 had married instead ; and that she, Clara, did not 
 approve of women's colleges, because over-education 
 only made women restless and discontented. 
 
 " Perhaps it does," said Michael, trying to get a 
 glimpse of Mrs. St. Erth over the shoulders of some 
 one else. He wondered if Clara thought that moon- 
 light lady could ever have become restless and dis- 
 contented.
 
 42 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " Beatrice was rather inclined that way at one time," 
 continued Miss Clara ; " she went in for philanthropy 
 and philosophy, and all that kind of thing, and read 
 the deepest books. But Mummy never encouraged 
 it, because she says that is not what a nice girl is for, 
 and now she is engaged to Jack Mundesley, the eldest 
 son of the judge, you know. We are all delighted. 
 They are going to be married in the autumn, when Jack 
 has had some shooting, because Beatrice wants to go to 
 Rome for her honeymoon. Mummy says that is one 
 of her deep ideas, and that Jack will be bored ; but he 
 says he can always get snipe-shooting in the marshes, 
 if the sights are too exhausting. What is the next 
 dance ? Oh ! the Merry Widow waltz. Have you seen 
 the Merry Widow yet ? Oh, but you must. It is quite 
 charming." 
 
 Michael murmured something indistinguishable, and 
 released his partner, because the dance was at an end 
 now, and there seemed to be a movement towards the 
 supper-room. Clara went off with a young man who 
 was in waiting for her, and Michael found Mrs. St. Erth, 
 and took her downstairs. They secured a small round 
 table set for two, and Mrs. St. Erth said that dancing 
 had made her hungry. She slipped her hands out of 
 her long gloves, but left the gloves on her arms. She 
 had beautiful hands, Michael noticed, delicately modelled, 
 and with character in their shape and movements. 
 She took up a long slender roll that lay beside her plate, 
 and broke off a piece and ate it. There was champagne 
 on the table, and Michael filled her glass and his own. 
 Then some clear soup in little cups was brought to them. 
 
 " Are you going to the country soon ? " he asked her 
 when she had said something of the heat. 
 
 " Not that I know of ... but I may be going to-morrow. 
 My husband likes to do things at a moment's notice."
 
 THE SEVERINS 43 
 
 " Where do you usually go ? " 
 
 " Last year we went to Ostend, and the year before 
 that to Paris, and the year before that ... I was at 
 home." 
 
 " In the country." 
 
 " In the depths of the country in West Cornwall 
 how did you know ? " 
 
 " Oh ! I knew when I spoke of the country, and 
 when you spoke of Ostend and Paris. So you are 
 Cornish ? . . ." 
 
 " Only on one side . . . and I grew up in Cornwall. 
 There was a valley near my home ... no one ever went 
 into it. . . ." 
 
 " Except you and the fairies." 
 
 " How you know things . . . but you should see the 
 valley ... in the spring . . . when the gorse and the 
 blackthorn are out . . . that is country " 
 
 " Some day I will," said Michael, and he wondered 
 whether Isolde's eyes and not her hands had really 
 held the draught she drank, and let Tristram drink to 
 his undoing ; whether she held him with the deeps of 
 her glance, and talked of a valley all golden and white, 
 and led him there in spirit by the force of her own vision 
 and her own longing. They had forgotten their sur- 
 roundings for the moment, and were forgetting to go on 
 with their supper. 
 
 " I have been in India," Michael murmured. "It is 
 years since I saw gorse and blackthorn." 
 
 " It is years since I saw it in the valley," said Madeline ; 
 and then, as if some untoward thing had happened, her 
 face fell, the dream vanished, she looked up and saw 
 her husband scowling savagely. 
 
 " Why did you hide in here ? " he snarled. " I've 
 been hunting everywhere for you. I'm going. Come 
 along."
 
 44 THE SEVERINS 
 
 A silence like lead fell on the two young people 
 at the table. Michael saw Mrs. St. Erth turn pale 
 as she pushed her chair back and got up to go. He 
 hurriedly got up too and shook hands with her. She 
 did not speak. Michael watched her follow her husband 
 through the room, and he admired the composure of 
 her manner, for various people had been near and had 
 heard what passed. Beatrice Walsingham, seeing that 
 Michael was left by himself, invited him to come to 
 her table. 
 
 " I'm afraid Mrs. St. Erth has had no supper," she 
 said. 
 
 " No," said Michael, " and she had just told me she 
 was hungry." 
 
 " What a beast my uncle is ! " said a large, cheerful, 
 red-faced young man, who had been presented to Michael 
 as Mr. Mundesley. His ingenuous comment seemed to 
 clear the air. Every one had been thinking what he 
 said, and every one else had been too polite to say it. 
 A chorus of assent went up from the six or eight people 
 at the table. From its unanimity Michael gathered that 
 it would have been easy to swell the chorus with every 
 voice in the room. 
 
 " What I can't understand is how he ever got a ripping 
 girl like that to marry him," continued Mr. Mundesley. 
 
 " There are tons of things you don't understand, Jack," 
 said Beatrice to her future lord in an undertone that 
 Michael could not help hearing ; " that marriage was 
 made in a week, and we all blame Mummy for helping 
 it on. Madeline was with us when it happened. She 
 was very poor, you know, oh ! poorer than you can know ; 
 and her mother was dying, and her father ill ... they 
 hadn't a farthing. . . . Mummy meant well, of course 
 . . . and it would have been a tremendous thing for 
 Madeline if Mr. St. Erth was different.
 
 THE SEVERINS 45 
 
 " Good lord ! " exclaimed Mr. Mundelesy. 
 
 ' They have been married two years," said Beatrice, 
 " Madeline is only twenty-one now." 
 
 " I should think two years a jolly long time if I had to 
 spend it with St. Erth," said Mr. Mundesley, and then 
 he devoted himself to chicken and champagne. 
 
 Soon after supper Michael found it possible to slip away, 
 and as it was a warm moonlight night he walked all the 
 way home. He thought a good deal about the St. Erths, 
 and wondered if his second partner did not mean to ask 
 him to his house. He was no longer surprised that 
 Madeline had not done so on her own initiative. He also 
 thought with discomfort of the imminent encounter 
 between the Walsinghams and his family. Mrs. Wal- 
 singham had said again that she meant to call, and it had 
 been impossible for him to do anything but murmur a 
 grateful assent. He had not yet told his mother and 
 sisters of the attention in store for them, because he had 
 rather hoped it might fall to the ground. He knew that 
 women like Mrs. Walsingham often promise something 
 polite and pretty and leave it at that. From her manner 
 to-night, however, he judged that she really meant to 
 come. 
 
 He was rather surprised when he went down to break- 
 fast next morning to find that Selma was in the little base- 
 ment dining-room before him. He had been a week now 
 in his mother's house and had never yet seen one of the 
 family before he left for the City. Mrs. Severin invariably 
 had breakfast in bed, he was told, and the rest did when 
 they felt inclined. Otherwise they dribbled down singly 
 at all hours in the morning. Was it any wonder, in- 
 quired Harriet, that the house was not kept as clean as 
 she could wish, when she had to spend the morning 
 running about with trays and the afternoon in making 
 beds ? It was not a question Michael felt competent to
 
 46 THE SEVERINS 
 
 answer, but he said to Selma this morning that he thought 
 it would be pleasant if they all had breakfast together 
 as other people did. 
 
 " Only in England," said Selma ; " no one does abroad." 
 
 " We are not abroad," said Michael. 
 
 " There is nothing so narrow, prejudiced, and suffo- 
 cating, nothing so malignant in its influence on mankind 
 as home life," said Selma ; " I mean that way of intimate 
 methodical home life that stupid people praise in Eng- 
 land." 
 
 " I suppose I'm stupid," said Michael, " for I like it." 
 
 " I should not wonder," said Selma dispassionately ; 
 " the kind of upbringing you have had must stunt the 
 intellect and the soul." 
 
 Selma was taller than her sisters, and some people 
 thought handsomer. Her colouring was vivid, but even 
 at this age rather harsh in its contrasts. Her hair and 
 broad eyebrows were heavily black, her skin a creamy 
 white, her cheeks and lips as red as if she rouged them, 
 her eyes large, dark, and gloomy. This morning she 
 wore a chintz gown covered with sprawling flowers, and a 
 huge Zulu hat trimmed with black ribbon and a clump of 
 big red poppies. In an impressionist picture painted by 
 a Frenchman she would have been splendid. You would 
 never have forgotten her. But Michael, who knew she 
 must be going to the studio where she worked, wondered 
 whether he would have enough courage to walk to the 
 station with her. 
 
 " How do you like the Walsinghams ? " she said when 
 she found that Michael dropped the subject of his stunted 
 soul ; " are they deadly dull ? " 
 
 " You will soon be able to judge for yourself," said 
 Michael ; " Mrs. Walsingham is coming to call." 
 
 " What for ? " 
 
 " I suppose to make your acquaintance."
 
 THE SEVERINS 47 
 
 " Don't they live at Rutland Gate ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Then I wish they'd keep away." 
 
 Michael wished it too, but he thought that Selma prob- 
 ably had different reasons from his own, so he asked why. 
 
 " I hate rich people," she said; " I am an anarchist 
 politically." 
 
 Michael went on with his breakfast. 
 
 " What are you . . . politically ? " she said, putting her 
 arms on the table and gazing at him in a mournful way. 
 
 " I'm a Conservative," he said, " and I wish this beastly 
 Government was out." 
 
 He had his paper propped in front of him, and had just 
 seen that the thieves and villains on the other side were 
 likely to wrest a small seat from the saints and angels on 
 his own. 
 
 ' You ought all to be swept from the face of the earth," 
 said Selma ; " then we should get on." 
 
 Michael seemed to be deep in his paper now, but 
 presently he looked up for a moment and helped himself 
 again to bacon. 
 
 " I have been here nearly a week now," he said, " and 
 I've had bacon for breakfast every day." 
 
 " What do you suppose a starving Russian peasant 
 has ? " said Selma. 
 
 " I have no idea, have you ? " 
 
 " Sometimes he is so hungry that he has to gnaw his 
 furniture." 
 
 Michael laughed, not at any poor creature who was 
 starving, but at Selma's solemn tone and reproachful face. 
 
 "It is men like you who bring on a revolution," 
 she said, and flung out of the room and soon after out of 
 the house. So Michael did not have to walk to the station 
 beside a gown that reminded him of Mrs. Walsingham's 
 drawing-room chairs.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 FOR some days to come Mrs. Walsingham's threat to 
 call kept the household in the Crescent in an uncom- 
 fortable state of fuss and expectation. Mrs. Severin 
 informed her younger children that Michael was now 
 master of the house, and that in every way his wishes 
 must be consulted and his commands obeyed. Mrs. 
 Walsingham was the wife of his senior partner, and it was 
 natural that Michael should feel honoured by her friendly 
 advances. 
 
 " Michael may," said Selma ; " I don't see why we need." 
 
 " Don't be a curmudgeon, Selma," said Mrs. Crewe. 
 " Michael's success is a turn for us, and we are not going to 
 thwart him. I mean to put on a clean blouse every 
 afternoon this week, and you must get out of your dressing- 
 gown by three o'clock, Sophia, and Bob ought to be in 
 school and Harriet dressed. But the united family 
 won't get Harriet dressed by three o'clock." 
 
 " And no more you can't expect it, mum," said Harriet, 
 who was in the room and in a temper. " Miss Selma wasn't 
 out of her bedroom yesterday till after tea, and me 'aving 
 to do 'er room when I ought to a bin peelin' potatoes for 
 dinner. You ought to do your rooms yourselves if you 
 can't let me 'ave 'em at a correct hour. That's what I 
 say. And as for late dinner with a family so irregular 
 and foreign in its ways, six to do for and one pair of 'ands, is 
 more than any girl can bear. But I don't want no words." 
 
 " I told you this morning that we were going to have 
 two servants in future," said Mrs. Severin mildly. " You 
 
 4 8
 
 THE SEVERINS 49 
 
 only have to decide whether you will be cook or parlour- 
 maid. And I'll peel the potatoes till we have more help." 
 
 " I don't want no ladies messin' in my kitching. There's 
 a deal too much of that as it is. Miss Camilla's down 
 there now making some foreign pig tub, and as for master 
 Bob, I've been used to the best families, and if I was to die 
 for it I wouldn't call 'im a young gentleman, not that I 
 don't like him ; but when he jumps on the kitching table 
 and turns out the gas just as I've got the 'ot joint in my 
 'ands . . . well, there." 
 
 " Camilla is only making a fruit-salad," said Mrs. 
 Severin when Harriet had flounced out of the room. 
 
 " I thought Michael wished you to dismiss Harriet? " 
 said Selma. 
 
 " He does . . . but she is such a hard worker . . . and 
 she is devoted to Bob . . . really." 
 
 " I thought Michael's wishes were to be obeyed ? Any- 
 how, Harriet won't do as parlourmaid. She is too rude 
 and smutty. We had better keep her in the kitchen 
 her kitchen I mean." 
 
 " I agree with Selma for once," said Mrs. Crewe. " I 
 object to being called ' foreign ' by Harriet, and she is 
 impossible as parlourmaid." 
 
 Mrs. Severin knew well enough that the choice was not 
 in her hands at all. Harriet would be where she chose 
 to be, or she would flounce out of the house in a tantrum 
 as she had flounced out of the room just now. A life- 
 long experience of cheap, incompetent, undisciplined 
 Harriets had brought Mrs. Severin to a pitch of resigna- 
 tion that was provoking to her less experienced family. 
 She knew that when one Harriet left another came, and 
 that the only result was some novelty of discomfort. 
 But her daughters were like the wife of Emerson's friend, 
 who sent her husband out to find an ' angel ' to cook and 
 clean for her. They still hoped for the angel.
 
 50 THE SEVERINS 
 
 Michael had already effected some small changes in 
 the family life, but he had decided not to move into a 
 better house till he saw his way more clearly. Bob was 
 to go to school in the autumn, Clotilda ought to join her 
 husband, and Selma might work at her painting some- 
 where abroad. Selma herself did not speak in this inde- 
 finite way of " somewhere abroad." She was quite clear 
 and positive that she meant to live alone in Paris. But 
 Michael had lived in Paris, and he really could not see 
 Selma with her vivid colours, her shouting fabrics, and 
 her conspicuous height and pose, living alone there. 
 His mother had advised him, however, that it was of no 
 use to argue with Selma, as she invariably did what she 
 pleased. 
 
 " All my children do," she said. " They have such high 
 spirits and such strong wills." 
 
 " Selma cannot live in Paris without means," said 
 Michael. " We have that hold upon her." 
 
 " But she says that I can spare the money now that 
 you have come home," said Mrs. Severin artlessly. 
 
 " I don't know what your income is," said Michael. 
 
 " I ought to have two hundred a year ... at least so 
 I was told when your poor father died . . . but I can't 
 tell you what I have now . . . because less comes in 
 every quarter . . . and there are five of us ... and 
 Harriet . . . and as your poor father used to say, man 
 muss satt werden . . . luckily I've been able to sell a 
 little stock whenever I ran short ... I just wrote to 
 the office, you know, and said send me 50, and they sent 
 it ... it's the easiest plan . . . perhaps you had better 
 go to the office and find out what there is left . . . I've 
 had some very croaking disagreeable letters from them 
 lately ... I wonder how they expect me to feed six 
 people without money . . . and no one can say I'm 
 extravagant ... we hardly saw asparagus this spring
 
 THE SEVERINS 51 
 
 ... at least we only had it when Clotilda's money came. 
 She always buys luxuries." 
 
 Michael smoked and listened, and did not say much 
 while his mother babbled of her affairs in this way. He 
 did not blame her and he did not try to give her more 
 businesslike views, because he saw that she was quite 
 incapable of them. He made up his mind that as long 
 as he lived he would look after her as one looks after a 
 child, and that if he died she should still find herself 
 looked after, but never again have it hi her power to 
 disperse capital and leave herself destitute. 
 
 " What sort of man is Tom Crewe ? " he asked. " I 
 have never even seen a photograph of him." 
 
 " Clotilda can show you some. He is not handsome. 
 In fact, he's plain. What the child saw in him is more 
 than I can tell you. It was one of those silly sudden 
 affairs. They met at a picnic, and Clotilda wore a pale pink 
 cotton. You've not seen Clotilda in pale pink yet. They 
 were in a boat by themselves all day, and when Clotilda 
 came back at night she said she was going to marry an 
 Englishman. All she could tell us was that he was as 
 tall as a tree and was called Tom Crewe. I was delighted 
 till next day when I saw him. 
 
 " What's wrong with him ? " said Michael. 
 
 " His nose," said Mrs. Severin. 
 
 " His nose ? " 
 
 ' Yes. I told Clotilda at once that it was not right 
 to bring a nose like that into the family. But she was 
 infatuated. She said she admired it." 
 
 " What kind of a nose is it, then ? " asked Michael. 
 
 " I should call it square. It looks as if der li&be Gott 
 had run short of material and picked up a bit of rock in a 
 hurry. The whole man is like that. There is any 
 amount of him and all ugly." 
 
 " But what sort is he himself ? "
 
 52 THE SEVERINS 
 
 Mrs. Severin reflected before she spoke. " A good 
 sort," she said at length. " He is devoted to Clotilda. 
 He hated leaving her behind." 
 
 '' The best thing he could do would be to come and 
 fetch her," said Michael. 
 
 " She will never go till he does. Deminski's been 
 telling her about a German law that says no woman need 
 follow her husband to savage countries, and he advises 
 her to take advantage of it. He says there must be a 
 law of the same kind over here, because so many English- 
 men go to savage countries. But I never heard of it : 
 did you ? " 
 
 " Never," said Michael. " Besides, Natal is not a savage 
 country. What nonsense ! " 
 
 " I believe you would get on with Tom Crewe," said 
 Mrs. Severin. " I should say that he was more your kind 
 than Deminski." 
 
 " Deminski is not at all my kind," Michael said plainly, 
 and Mrs. Severin, who never could keep anything to 
 herself, repeated this to the girls next day. It was in 
 the afternoon, when, by a great effort, the drawing-room 
 had been put straight and the ladies themselves brushed 
 and tidied in case Mrs. Walsingham should call. They 
 were sitting together in idle elegance, all feeling rather 
 bored and resentful. So in one way Mrs. Severin chose 
 the wrong moment for her communication. 
 
 " I knew that Michael was a Philistine," said Selma, 
 " the moment he entered the house . . . but his letters 
 were enough . . . such empty letters . . . only a Philis- 
 tine could write them." 
 
 " Hullo ! " cried Bob, bursting into the room and fling- 
 ing his satchel on the sofa and his cap on the piano. 
 " What are you sitting about here for ? Why are you 
 all dressed up ? Where's tea ? Is there a party ? 
 Who's coming ? Deminski, I suppose. Why don't you
 
 THE SEVERINS 53 
 
 ever have some one else ? Deminski's such a silly 
 ass." 
 
 " You see, Bob is a Philistine too," said Camilla. 
 
 " Who is the other ? " said Bob. " I suppose you mean 
 Michael. I'd rather be Michael than Deminski. Michael 
 does get his hair cut." 
 
 "So do convicts," said Selma, and then one of the 
 usual excited discussions began that are apt to take place 
 in families where there is some strain of foreign blood 
 and a considerable mixture of prejudice, habit, and 
 tradition. The Severins were indignant when any one 
 English called them foreign, yet even the children, born 
 and bred in London, looked at the English with alien eyes. 
 Their points of view were different. Camilla and Bob 
 were staunchly British. Mrs. Severin and Clotilda 
 wobbled from one side to the other according to the mood 
 of the moment. As long as they were violently in ex- 
 tremes they were happy. Selma was more consistent, 
 but not as good-humoured as her mother and married 
 sister. She was one of the people who quarrel easily 
 with their surroundings, and go through life assured that 
 the surroundings are to blame. Just now she hated the 
 country of her birth. She felt the blight of its mental 
 narrowness, she said, and she added pensively that 
 Deminski agreed with her. 
 
 " Let's have tea," said Bob when the argument soared 
 above him in this way, and as it was late now for callers 
 they all descended to the basement and enjoyed a nursery 
 tea with thick bread-and-butter, watercress, and jam. 
 
 When Saturday came the family patience was exhausted, 
 and the girls said it would be absurd to change the regular 
 household ways another day for a person who would 
 never arrive. You will say, perhaps, that the Severins 
 were not people to talk of their ways as regular. But 
 they did. They had only a hazy, intermittent suspicion
 
 54 THE SEVERINS 
 
 that their manage was unmethodical or in any sense odd. 
 On Saturdays, ever since they had lived at the corner 
 house, a person called Mrs. Ginger had come there in the 
 morning and gone home at night : and whenever she was 
 not sitting down to one of her five meals she was turning 
 out rooms and cleaning them. So on Saturdays it was 
 always difficult to get through the passages or up the 
 stairs, because Mrs. Ginger had choked them with 
 furniture and ornaments. This was especially the case 
 once a fortnight, when she turned out the double drawing- 
 room and took most of the day over the job. She was a 
 gaunt, raw-boned creature, hard-working, poor, and 
 abnormally stupid. If she could put glass and china 
 where Bob was bound to break them she did so faithfully, 
 and though she had taken the movable things out of the 
 rooms regularly for a year she had not learned yet where 
 any one of them had its place. Her favourite dumping- 
 ground was the piano, but she also liked putting wet 
 flower-pots on books, and an overfilled lamp on embroi- 
 dery. Mrs. Henderson had paid her famous call in the 
 midst of Mrs. Ginger's operations, and Clotilda, having 
 been caught pinning out curtains, said on that occasion 
 that the room ought to be begun and finished earlier. But 
 Mrs. Severin said this was impossible. There were other 
 things to be done in the morning steps, passages, and 
 windows for instance. Selma asked why they could not 
 be done after the drawing-room, but though there had 
 been an argument there had not been a reform. So when 
 Saturday arrived Mrs. Ginger began at the usual hour to 
 barricade the narrow entry with chairs and little tables : 
 and every one knows how curiously shabby and dis- 
 reputable furniture can look when it is set out like this. 
 On her return from the studio Selma found that, tempted 
 by the summer day or embarrassed by want of room, 
 Mrs. Ginger had left the front door open and deposited
 
 THE SEVERINS 55 
 
 various battered articles, such as bamboo tables, a jar 
 with dusty bulrushes, and a broken standard lamp, on 
 the front steps. The lamp had a dissipated pink paper 
 shade wreathed with large red poppies sadly the worse 
 for wear. 
 
 " Our things are only fit for a bonfire," she said, as she 
 sat down to the hashed mutton and turned up her pretty 
 nose at it. "If Michael is such a Croesus, why doesn't he 
 refurnish the house ? " 
 
 " Michael is not a Croesus yet," said his mother. " He 
 has told me all about his affairs. He is only a junior 
 partner, and he wants to put by money." 
 
 ' Just like Michael ! " said Selma. 
 
 " He has only been here a fortnight," said Clotilda. 
 " He can't do everything at once." 
 
 " He has promised me a bicycle when I go to school," 
 said Bob. " I call him jolly decent." 
 
 " Michael will do," said Clotilda easily. " He's narrow, 
 but we shall soon shake him up a bit. What a ripping 
 day it is ! We'll have tea in the garden." 
 
 So at four o'clock, when Mrs. Walsingham's victoria 
 stopped at the corner house this is what she saw : at 
 least, this is what she said she saw when she got home and 
 described the visit to her husband. 
 
 " The front steps were littered with old furniture," 
 she said, " and the front garden was littered with blowsy 
 young women in tea-gowns. They were lying on the 
 grass, reading penny novelettes, I suppose." 
 
 " No, Mummy," corrected Clara, who had been with her 
 mother. " The big blowsy one was reading a French 
 novel. I saw the cover. The pretty one with her hair 
 down was doing nothing, and the little one was darning 
 stockings. She was the best of them." 
 
 " My dear child, you won't deny that we fell over a pail 
 of dirty water, I suppose? " said Mrs. Walsinghftm, and
 
 56 THE SEVERINS 
 
 this regrettable incident had in fact occurred. The foot- 
 man was ill and had not been on the box as usual, and 
 when Mrs. Walsingham slowly ascended the front steps 
 she had been so much interested in the unexpected 
 display there that she had stumbled against Mrs. Ginger's 
 pail, put insecurely on the edge of the top step. It had 
 immediately fallen forwards, and discharged its unpleasant 
 contents partly on her silk skirts and partly on Clara's 
 muslins. In the flurry of the moment, too, she had 
 dropped her chiffon sunshade. Mrs. Walsingham did 
 not at all like being flurried. It was a rare event, and 
 upsetting to her usual serenity of carriage and temper. 
 As she was looking at her parasol, hesitating whether to 
 let it lie in a soak of greyish water, or whether to touch it 
 with her clean light glove, two people came out of the 
 house to see what had happened, and when they did see 
 they became flurried, too. One cried, " Drat that pail ! " 
 as she bustled down the steps after it and nearly swept 
 Mrs. Walsingham back on the furniture. The other, a 
 dark elderly woman, dressed in what Clara vowed was an 
 old curtain, stared helplessly and did not speak. 
 
 " Is Mrs. Severin at home ? " said Mrs. Walsingham, 
 recovering herself. 
 
 " Yes. I'm at home," said Mrs. Severin, and then she 
 recovered herself, too. 
 
 " We are sitting in the garden this afternoon," she said. 
 ":We are going to have tea there. Will you come ? " 
 
 With a composure Mrs. Walsingham could only admire 
 she picked up the tail of her dressing-gown and accom- 
 panied her guests down the steps. The girls had not seen 
 exactly what happened, but they had heard the carriage 
 stop and had watched two beings from another world 
 come in at the front gate. Camilla had not exactly said 
 "Drat it!" like Mrs. Ginger, but she wished she had 
 not been too lazy to take off her shrunk and crumpled
 
 THE SEVERINS 57 
 
 holland frock. Clotilda had been lying at full length on 
 the grass, staring at the clouds and trying with Camilla to 
 remember verse after verse of Shelley's " Ode to a Sky- 
 lark " ; but, unfortunately, this charming occupation of 
 her mind was not visible, while the extraordinary dis- 
 arrangement of her hair made Mrs. Walsingham and Clara 
 think of the Golliwog. For Clotilda had washed her hair 
 directly after lunch, a meritorious act in itself, but apt 
 to have inconvenient results if performed at the wrong 
 time. She rose to her feet when the ladies appeared, 
 gave them a hasty hand, and fled into the house, followed 
 by Mrs. Severin. 
 
 Mrs. Walsingham and Clara sat down on the only 
 chairs there, two battered wicker ones with loose, grimy- 
 looking cushions. Camilla went into the house for 
 another chair. Selma, in her flowery chintz, sat on the 
 grass and fixed her eyes on the ladies as if she wished 
 without losing a moment to read their very souls ; and 
 that, as Mrs. Walsingham said afterwards, is not at all 
 a proper thing to do when you have only known people 
 two minutes. 
 
 " Isn't it a lovely day ? " said Clara amiably ; and 
 Selma turned her gaze on this young person. 
 
 " It is a most beautiful day," she said, and she managed 
 to show that she thought Clara's remark stupid. Then 
 she turned her attention to Mrs. Walsingham again. 
 
 "What has happened to your parasol?" she asked, 
 looking at the draggled chiffon that Mrs. Walsingham 
 held as far as possible from her. 
 
 11 There was a little accident . . . with a pail of 
 water." . 
 
 " Mrs. Ginger's pail ... on the front steps, I suppose 
 . . . she will plant it there . . . last time Bob fell over 
 it ... Bob . . . come here ! " 
 
 Selma had raised her voice to summon her brother,
 
 58 THE SEVERINS 
 
 and Mrs. Walsingham, following the direction of her eyes, 
 saw some one move amongst the branches of a tree just 
 above her head. 
 
 " Bob . . . come here ! " cried Selma again. 
 
 ' You wouldn't want me if you knew what I looked 
 like," called Bob, and craning up Mrs. Walsingham saw 
 a dirty, ragged-looking boy peeping at her. 
 
 " I thought I would send your sunshade to be dried," 
 said Selma, " but if Bob won't come down, he won't. I'll 
 take it myself directly." 
 
 " It doesn't matter at all," said Mrs. Walsingham, 
 moving a little further from the tree. 
 
 ' You needn't move," shouted Bob ; " the chestnuts 
 aren't ripe yet." 
 
 " He means he won't pelt you with them," explained 
 Selma. 
 
 " I hope not," said Mrs Walsingham with a shudder. 
 
 " We are all thankful when Bob is at the top of a tree," 
 his sister continued; "he has to sit still there. Down 
 here he's a terror." 
 
 An unripe chestnut directed with considerable skill at 
 Selma's head hit it sharply, and she sprang to her feet. 
 While she rated Bob the rest of the family carrying chairs 
 and tables, followed by Harriet with tea-things, now 
 arrived on the small, ill-kept lawn. Harriet was still 
 in her morning dress, and any one acquainted with the 
 Harriets of the world will know what it looked like by 
 Saturday afternoon. She was conscious, too, that it was 
 worse than usual, as coal had arrived that morning and 
 she had been obliged to sweep up after it. To bring out 
 tea for the family would have been injury enough, but 
 to bring it out into the June sunshine for the scorn and 
 laughter of these two superfine ladies made Harriet "mad," 
 as she said, and no one can wonder at it. She scowled 
 like a fury as she dumped down thick bread-and-butter,
 
 THE SEVERINS 59 
 
 buns, watercress, and jam ; the meal the family enjoyed 
 every day at five o'clock far more than the dinner they 
 now ate at eight to please Michael. 
 
 " We have most of our meals out of doors in this 
 weather," said Mrs. Severin; " we like it." 
 
 Mrs. Walsingham assented civilly, but thought in her 
 own mind that as the garden could be seen from the street 
 she would hate it. 
 
 " But we have to dine indoors now that Michael has 
 come back," said Clotilda. " He doesn't like people 
 standing against the gate and watching us." 
 
 Mrs. Walsingham was watching Bob, who had seen the 
 tea-things and was now scrambling down his tree. When 
 he arrived at her feet he offered her a grimy hand with 
 the friendliest air in the world. She looked at the hand 
 and at her own spotless glove, and then as she really was 
 a well-mannered woman she sacrificed the glove. 
 
 " We can't keep Bob clean," said Mrs. Severin. 
 
 Mrs. Walsingham wished to say " So it seems," but 
 refrained ; and Clara came to the rescue by reminding 
 her mother that they had promised to be in Cornwall 
 Gardens by five o'clock. 
 
 " But you'll have tea ? " said Mrs. Severin anxiously. 
 " Camilla, isn't tea ready ? " 
 
 " I'm afraid we can't stay," said Mrs. Walsingham, 
 and both ladies got up rather hastily. The draggled 
 sunshade lay on the grass. 
 
 " Why don't you leave it, Mummy ... if Mrs. Severin. 
 will let you? " said Clara. " You can't use it again." 
 
 " I'm so sorry it happened," said Mrs. Severin. 
 
 At that moment there was a click at the front gate, and 
 Michael with papers in his hand arrived from the City. 
 His eyes fell first on Mrs. Ginger, engaged now in clearing 
 the front steps, and then on the garden, on the solidly 
 supplied tea-table, on Bob in rags, on Mrs. Walsingham,
 
 60 THE SEVERINS 
 
 Clara, and his mother considering the ruins of a sunshade. 
 There was an exchange of greetings, a sudden thaw of the 
 two ladies into smiles and cordiality, and then their 
 immediate departure. 
 
 " Come and see us soon," Mrs. Walsingham said to 
 Michael as he stood at the door of her carriage. ' You 
 will always find us in on Sundays."
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 ' T ^ THAT happened ? " said Michael, returning to his 
 V V family and staring in a puzzled way at the 
 draggled parasol in his mother's hand. 
 
 " Mrs. Walsingham didn't look where she was going," 
 said Selma. 
 
 " She knocked over Mrs. Ginger's pail,"'* said Mrs. 
 Severin. " It was most unfortunate." 
 
 " But where was the pail ? " inquired the still puzzled 
 Michael. 
 
 " On the front-door step," explained his mother. 
 
 " Isn't that an unusual place for a pail ? " 
 
 " Not at all. You must have a pail about when you 
 are cleaning." 
 
 " But must you have cleaning done in the afternoon ? " 
 
 " Only when Mrs. Ginger comes." 
 
 " On other days we don't clean at all," said Selma. 
 
 " I wish you'd set Mrs. Ginger at Bob," said Michael, 
 " pail and all." 
 
 The united family then endeavoured to make Bob wash 
 his hands and brush his hair before tea. But it was not 
 until Michael gave him a determined shove in the right 
 direction that the boy did as he was told. The others sat 
 down to tea and incidentally to talk about the Walsing- 
 hams. 
 
 " They are much too fine for us," said Mrs., Severin 
 simply. " I wish they would stay away." 
 
 " Perhaps the pail will discourage them," said Michael, 
 who wished it too. 
 
 61
 
 62 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " Those empty worldly people are so depressing," said 
 Selma. " They were scornful the whole time ; but not 
 more than I was. I have a burning contempt for people 
 who magnify small irregularities. Nothing is so underbred. 
 Suppose there was a pail ? and suppose Mrs. Walsingham 
 did trip up over it ? The moment she saw us she ought 
 to have forgotten all about it, and let her soul meet ours. 
 But I don't believe people of that kind have souls." 
 
 " They have lovely clothes," said Clotilda. " Perhaps 
 that makes up." 
 
 " In your eyes and theirs not in mine. The girl 
 is shallow and conceited." 
 
 " She is very pretty," said Camilla, looking anxiously 
 at Michael. She hoped her sisters were not vexing him. 
 Camilla said less than the others, but she was rapidly 
 becoming Michael's favourite ; while she regarded him as 
 a god who had come from the clouds to be honoured and 
 obeyed. 
 
 " I suppose you will have to return the call," he said, 
 leaving his sisters' comments otherwise unanswered. 
 
 " I never pay calls," said Mrs. Severin. " If people like 
 to come and see me, they are welcome except when Mrs. 
 Ginger is turning out the drawing-room but I would 
 rather not go to see them." 
 
 " Why not ? " said Michael. 
 
 " Oh ! what's the good ? " said Mrs. Severin. 
 
 " We all prefer to lie on the grass and hear Deminski 
 play the fiddle," said Selma. 
 
 Michael thought that perhaps this accounted for their 
 friends, who reminded him, as far as he had seen them, 
 of the remnant counter at a bargain sale. They were all 
 oddments. 
 
 " We are going to have music to-night," said Clotilda. 
 " Several people are coming." 
 
 " I didn't know it," said Mrs. Severin.
 
 THE SEVERINS 63 
 
 " I heard from Deminski this morning ; and I sent a 
 note across to the Henderson boy. His 'cello is useful. 
 Perhaps I'll let Sydney Jenkins come, too. And I met 
 Marie Petersen near the Zoo. She said she meant to come 
 in. So I suppose Kremski will come with her." 
 
 Mrs. Severin looked uneasily at her son, but said 
 nothing. He noticed the look, however. When tea was 
 over he remained in the garden, lighted his pipe and 
 opened his evening paper. His mother and sisters had 
 gone indoors, but presently Clotilda appeared again, and 
 without either hat or gloves went out of the front gate. 
 The click of the gate when she returned a few minutes 
 later caused Michael to look up, and he saw from her face 
 that something must have happened to vex her. She 
 came into the garden and sat down on the grass near him ; 
 but she did not speak until Harriet, who was clearing away 
 tea-things, had disappeared. Michael became absorbed 
 in his paper again, but put it down when his sister claimed 
 his attention by saying in a low, emphatic voice ; 
 
 " Miss Jenkins is an old pig 1 " 
 
 " Who is Miss Jenkins ? " asked Michael, understanding 
 that some appeal was being made to his sympathy. He 
 remembered the inferior-looking young man of that name, 
 but he knew nothing of any womenfolk belonging to him. 
 
 " She is Sydney's aunt," said Clotilda. " She lives just 
 opposite, and Sydney made her call because he admires 
 us so much, and she found Sophia smoking a cigarette 
 and reading ' L'Homme qui assassina.' I suppose the 
 old cat was shocked, and we never returned the call 
 Sophia won't, you know but one day I sat next to 
 Sydney in the Tube and asked him to come in and he 
 has been as often as we'd let him ever since." 
 
 Michael had put down his paper and was listening 
 attentively to his sister's ingenuous tale. 
 
 " She was sitting at the window when I ran across just
 
 64 THE SEVERINS 
 
 now," Clotilda went on, " and she stared straight at me 
 and never blinked. But when I asked if Mr. Jenkins was 
 at home, and the maid went to see, she said in a loud voice 
 so that I could hear, ' Tell the young person that Mr. 
 Jenkins will not be home till late, and that it's no use her 
 coming here after him.' What would you have said, 
 Michael, in my place ? " 
 
 " My dear girl, I never should have been in your place. 
 What did you say ? " 
 
 " I just ran away. I was taken by surprise, you see. 
 But isn't she an old pig ? " 
 
 " There can be no doubt about that," said Michael. 
 
 " I shall have to send Harriet across with a note or 
 I might catch him on his way from the station. That 
 would annoy his aunt most." 
 
 " I wouldn't do either the one or the other," said 
 Michael. 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 " We can get on quite well without Mr. Jenkins." 
 
 " But Sydney loves coming here and it's all the old 
 cat's nonsense about being late. I had a letter from him 
 yesterday." 
 
 " How many young men do you correspond with ? " 
 asked Michael. 
 
 " I don't know not many why ? " 
 
 " Do you ever let Tom see the letters ? " 
 
 " Certainly not," said Clotilda, flashing into smiles at 
 the thought. " My dear boy, they're love-letters. Three 
 men at least are in love with me." 
 
 " If you call them men," said Michael. " But seriously, 
 Clotilda " 
 
 " Oh, don't be serious," said Clotilda. " It's so dull." 
 
 ' You must go back to your husband." 
 
 " I could not breathe out of London." 
 
 " Nonsense ! "
 
 THE SEVERINS 65 
 
 Clotilda laughed, and darted to her feet as a weedy- 
 looking young man in the dress of a City clerk passed the 
 front gate with lagging footsteps, and stopped to raise his 
 hat and speak when he saw her in the garden. But 
 Michael caught her arm and stopped her from running 
 forward. 
 
 ' You are not to waylay that young man," he said. 
 " I don't want him here." 
 
 " Why not ? " said Clotilda, dismissing her admirer 
 for the present with a friendly nod. 
 
 " Well because to put it plainly he's not good 
 enough." 
 
 " Oh ! " cried Clotilda, drawing a long, delighted 
 breath, " may I just send Bob across the road to tell his 
 aunt so ? " 
 
 " I shall write to Tom Crewe again to-morrow," said 
 Michael; "and I shall ask him to come and fetch you 
 as soon as he can. It is his business to look after 
 you." 
 
 " Then you'll bring matters to a crisis," said Clotilda. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 ' The two other men," she said mockingly, and ran 
 off into the house. 
 
 Michael, rather disturbed and provoked, sat down to 
 his paper again. He had expected to find a house that 
 was higgledy-piggledy, and ways that were like the house, 
 but he had not foreseen difficulties of this special kind, 
 and he did not feel equal to coping with them. Mr. 
 Jenkins did not weigh on his mind. He felt sure that 
 Clotilda was not seriously engaged with that anaemic, 
 weak-chinned young man. He supposed the second 
 string to her bow might be the Henderson boy, and he 
 did not count either. It was Deminski who mattered. 
 Michael had not seen him since that Sunday evening 
 when he had danced and fiddled in the garden ; but he 
 
 5
 
 66 THE SEVERINS 
 
 felt sure that Clotilda had met him in various places since 
 then. She hardly made a secret of her assignations with 
 this man. One night she had been to a Wagner concert 
 with him ; another night for an evening walk. There 
 were various occasions when she had evidently met him, 
 and been for some time in his company. Besides, she 
 did not mock at him as she did at her young English 
 admirers. Michael feared that she was dangerously 
 attracted by a man he saw to be a windbag. Deminski 
 talked nonsense, but he had a vivacious mind, and set 
 your own thoughts going if only in contradiction to his, 
 and Michael understood how it was that the man attracted 
 his mother and sisters. They took his veneer of learning 
 for depth, his liveliness for genius, and his opinions for 
 gospel. 
 
 " Who is Marie Petersen ? " he asked when his mother 
 came into the garden again, for he wanted to know why 
 she had looked uneasy when she heard that Marie Peter-, 
 sen was coming. 
 
 " She is a Russian," said Mrs. Severin ; " a very clever 
 woman. She speaks six languages, and has a contralto 
 voice that harmonizes with Clotilda's soprano. But she 
 is really Selma's friend." 
 
 " Who is Kremski ? " 
 
 " He is Kremski," said Mrs. Severin, looking tho- 
 roughly uncomfortable. " He manufactured the bomb 
 that Marie dear little Marie threw at the Russian 
 general. When you see her you will be astonished that 
 any one so small could be so brave." 
 
 " Did she get the general ? " asked Michael, astonished 
 but interested. 
 
 " She did," said Mrs. Severin ; " that is why they live 
 here. Deminski brought them to the house and asked 
 us to be kind to them. We could hardly refuse, and I 
 did not foresee that Selma would swallow their views as
 
 THE SEVERINS 67 
 
 she has done. When she first knew them she was a 
 Ritualist." 
 
 " Is Kremski married ? " 
 
 " I believe he is. I'm sure I've heard him mention a 
 wife and children. I suppose they are in Russia." 
 
 " I see," said Michael ; " and Marie Petersen is here ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Severin ; " I was rather scandalized 
 myself at first, but Deminski assured me that they were 
 a most high-minded couple. I think they are in some 
 ways. After all, we can't apply our English parochial 
 morality to Russian anarchists. You might as well 
 object to a Turk because he has more than one wife." 
 
 " What do the high-minded couple do for a living ? " 
 asked Michael. 
 
 Mrs. Severin said she had no idea. She supposed they 
 were helped by their organization, and that probably 
 they kept body and soul together with difficulty. His 
 question reminded her that she must have a large dish 
 of sandwiches brought in at ten o'clock. 
 
 After dinner, when the evening was well advanced and 
 various people had arrived, Michael knocked the ashes 
 out of his pipe and went into the drawing-room. He 
 found that he might as well have taken his pipe with him, 
 as Deminski and another man, who sat beside Selma, 
 were both smoking. Michael's first impression was that 
 the two men were a good deal alike. They both wore 
 queer, badly-made clothes, and wanted their hair cut 
 and brushed ; and they both looked the same colour, the 
 colour that in his narrow, insular opinion came from 
 insufficient exercise and insufficient soap and water. 
 He shook hands with both men, and then Clotilda pre- 
 sented him to a small, thin young woman, whose eyes 
 were so eager and burning that they arrested him. She 
 wore a Turkey-red blouse and a grey skirt, both of the 
 cheapest make and quality. She was smoking a cigarette.
 
 68 THE SEVERINS 
 
 She had sunken cheeks and a frog mouth, and her black 
 hair was cut so that it touched her neck, but was too 
 short to coil. When Michael was brought up to her she 
 made room for him beside her, said she knew he had just 
 come from India, and asked him after certain notorious 
 leaders of sedition there. When Michael said that he 
 had lived in the same city, but had unfortunately never 
 met them, she took stock of him, and seemed to find him 
 disappointing. At any rate, still smoking, she got up, 
 went to the piano, and shouted across the room to Krem- 
 ski in Russian. He answered in Russian, and Michael, 
 watching his pantomime, decided that after all he was 
 not much like Deminski. He had small, dark, furtive 
 eyes, while Deminski 's were curiously light in colour. 
 He had a flat, Tartar face, with high cheek-bones, and 
 Deminski's face was no shape at all. You could have 
 made it yourself of putty. He was small and slender, 
 too, while the Russian was thick-set and misshapen. 
 They both talked with gesture and vivacity, but Kremski 
 had an unpleasant scowl, while Deminski smiled at the 
 world, and if he only handed you a tea-cup would make 
 eyes at you. The two English boys were in the room, 
 so Michael gathered that either Miss Jenkins or her maid 
 must have delivered Clotilda's message to one of them ; 
 and there were three or four other people whom Michael 
 had not seen before, and would have been delighted not 
 to see again. 
 
 There was not much talking, because every one paid 
 attention to the music which went on incessantly. 
 Michael saw that Kremski was decidedly bored by the 
 music. He sat hunched up in a corner, and looked at 
 some books within his reach. Deminski remained by the 
 piano. After each item there was an eager little dis- 
 cussion, such as Michael had been used to hear after a 
 round of whist or bridge. He had never been amongst
 
 THE SEVERINS 69 
 
 people who took music so seriously ; but it was good 
 music, and he enjoyed it. 
 
 He saw that Deminski was on intimate terms with his 
 sisters, calling them by their names, inviting them to 
 sing this and that, telling them where they had failed and 
 where succeeded. He saw Clotilda, full of life and laughter, 
 dressed in white, dazzlingly pretty, turning the heads of 
 the two English lads, one with his 'cello, one with nothing 
 to offer but his stupid, adoring eyes, and his jumpy 
 efforts to anticipate her wishes. He nearly upset a lamp 
 she wanted moved, in his hurry to get it before Deminski 
 could. Deminski called him a dummer Junge quite loudly, 
 and though the boy did not understand a word of German, 
 he knew that he was being laughed at in Clotilda's pre- 
 sence, and turned red. Selma sat picturesquely in one 
 of the longest chairs, and took no trouble to entertain 
 any one except when she was singing. Camilla pla}/ed 
 most people's accompaniments, and Mrs. Severin listened 
 rapturously to everything till ten o'clock, when she dis- 
 appeared for a time, returning later with Harriet and 
 light refreshments. There was a lull in the music then, 
 and Michael, who had been sitting near Kremski in the 
 back room, strolled into the front one, where every one 
 else had gathered. To his amazement he saw Bob half 
 asleep in a corner behind the piano. 
 
 " Bob ! " he exclaimed. " Why aren't you in bed ? " 
 Then he looked more closely at his company, and 
 wondered why they stared so. He did not realize that 
 the type he represented stirred their antipathies just as 
 deeply as they stirred his. He did not tell himself how 
 it happened, but in fact every hour of his life for twenty 
 years had carried him further and further from the people 
 collected here. He knew them, though, knew them 
 better than a man with no early memories like his could 
 have done. He had never quite lost touch with his
 
 70 THE SEVERINS 
 
 family, so some echoes from their milieu had always 
 reached him, little pictures in his mother's incoherent 
 letters, of the odd foreign bodies with whom she consorted. 
 Even their ideas, full of sound and fury, would be poured 
 out for him in the hope, he presumed, that they would 
 ferment in his heavy British mind, and so improve its 
 quality. He wondered what the Russian's wife and 
 children were doing while their husband and father lived 
 here with the frog-mouthed girl in the red blouse ; and 
 he wondered how he could rid the house of these two 
 undesirables without wounding his sisters. 
 
 " Go to bed, Bob," he said again. 
 
 The boy came forward, rubbing his eyes, but he said 
 he could not think of going to bed till he had had supper. 
 
 " Of course he shall have supper, le p'tit ange ! " cried 
 Marie Petersen, and she snatched up a plate of sand- 
 wiches, fell on her knees before Bob, and began to fill 
 his hands. Bob kept tight hold of all she gave him, but 
 looked at Michael. The next moment, without even a 
 grateful glance at the lady, he scuttled from the room. 
 She, instead of getting up, squatted on the floor, and began 
 to eat the sandwiches herself. 
 
 " Come and sit on the floor," she cried invitingly; " it 
 is more amusing." 
 
 Deminski and half a dozen others fell in with her 
 suggestion, and there was a supper-party on the floor, 
 eating sandwiches and strawberries and cream, drinking 
 claret-cup and lemonade. 
 
 " Don't you want anything ? " said Camilla, bringing 
 Michael some claret-cup, and looking up at him rather 
 anxiously. 
 
 " I rather want to go to bed," he said, taking the glass 
 from her hands. His intimate, friendly tone rejoiced her. 
 
 " They will soon go," she whispered, and Michael 
 found that most of them did. Kremski made the first
 
 THE SEVERINS 71 
 
 move, with Marie Petersen. Others followed, and by 
 eleven no one was left but Deminski, who lighted a fresh 
 cigarette and seemed inclined to linger. 
 
 " So you feel music ? " he said to Michael. 
 
 " I enjoy it," said Michael. 
 
 " It is easy to see ... when you listen. Now Kremski 
 ... he has no music in him at all ... it vexes me to 
 see him. ... I would rather he did not come here 
 again." 
 
 " I was just going to say the same thing," said Michael. 
 " I would rather that he ... and Miss Petersen did not 
 come here again." 
 
 " And, pray, why not ? " exclaimed Selma. 
 
 Michael glanced at Camilla, who had just said that 
 she was tired and would go to bed at once, but she lin- 
 gered near the door a moment, waiting for what her 
 brother was about to say. 
 
 " I didn't like Miss Petersen's blouse," he said ; " and 
 Mr. Kremski wants a nailbrush." 
 
 " Always the same story," said Deminski gloomily. 
 " Always the nailbrush ... as if these trifles affected 
 a man's value in the world. Personally I detest Kremski." 
 
 " I don't wonder at it," said Michael, nodding good 
 night to Camilla, who now left the room. 
 
 " But he is a man of commanding intellect." 
 
 " None of us blame them, Michael," said Mrs. Severin, 
 looking rather frightened, for she had not expected her 
 son to declare himself in this way. "To be sure, their 
 relationship is a little irregular. ..." 
 
 " We admire them," said Selma. " They are brave 
 and free." 
 
 " Besides, your remarks are a reflection on me," said 
 Deminski. " I brought them to the house." 
 
 " Then I wish you would take them away again," said 
 Michael. " Can't you tell them it's an altered house now
 
 72 THE SEVERINS 
 
 . . . that I'm too old-fashioned for them . . . and that 
 I'm usually here ? " 
 
 ' You surely don't mean that you object to them be- 
 cause they are not married," said Clotilda. " I never 
 heard of anything so narrow." 
 
 " I always was beastly narrow," said Michael. " I 
 seem to get worse as I grow older. I'm sure you'll all 
 be amused, but I don't like the idea of Camilla associating 
 with these people." 
 
 " Think of his mind," said Mrs. Severin. 
 ' Think of his nails," said Michael. 
 
 " Then it isn't only his relationship to Marie that you 
 object to ? " said Selma. 
 
 " It's the altogether," said Michael, with an air of 
 apology. 
 
 " How can any one be such a Philistine ? " asked 
 Selma. 
 
 ' They're not made in a day," said Michael. And then 
 Deminski got up to go. 
 
 ' Your brother's return is a real calamity," he said to 
 the two elder girls, who accompanied him to the front 
 door. 
 
 " Isn't it ? " said Selma ; " the others don't see it, but 
 I do. He is the kind of man who believes in England, 
 home, and beauty, and considers himself master of the 
 house. He is out of date."
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 /CLOTILDA and Selma found that Michael was not 
 \^^ to be moved from his objection to Kremski. Next 
 day they put their views before him with all the eloquence 
 at their command, and assured him that his own were 
 intolerably narrow and antiquated. They said that the 
 world was moving, and that the intelligent vanguard 
 considered such prejudices as his ridiculous. He asked 
 them if Kremski and the frog-mouthed girl belonged to 
 the intelligent vanguard. 
 
 " Of course they do," said Selma. 
 
 " Then let us keep well behind it," said Michael. 
 
 " I suppose you actually prefer people like the Wal- 
 singhams ? " 
 
 " A thousand times." 
 
 " We shall never agree, then." 
 
 " Perhaps not," he admitted. 
 
 " I don't understand the position," said Clotilda. " I 
 have always understood that I was living in my mother's 
 house, and that as a married woman I was answerable 
 to no one but my husband." 
 
 ' There can be no doubt about that," said Michael. 
 
 " Then why do you raise objections to my friends ? " 
 
 " Because Crewe isn't here to do it." 
 
 " I suppose that in this house you consider yourself 
 head of the family ? " 
 
 " Why define the position ? I don't want to." 
 ' You think it your duty to look after us ? " 
 
 " My pleasure, you mean," said Michael, who thought 
 Clotilda tiresome, but lovable, and got on very well with her. 
 
 73
 
 74 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " He believes that every woman needs a man to look 
 after her," said Selma scornfully. 
 
 "That's too sweeping," said Michael. ".Some women do." 
 
 " We don't. We have always been accustomed to look 
 after ourselves. A modern family is a republic. There 
 is no head. As for the phrase ' master of the house,' I 
 consider it an offensive one." 
 
 " So do I," said Michael. " Nothing would induce me 
 to use it." 
 
 Michael did not say so to his sisters, but he knew by 
 this time that he would have had an easier task if his 
 mother had supported him consistently. She did not 
 wish to be insincere, but her moods and her opinions were 
 all made of stuff that did not last. He had believed that 
 she was anxious about the intimacy between Clotilda 
 and Deminski, yet she would often say or do something 
 that encouraged it. She had assured him that she would 
 not countenance Selma's wish to live in Paris by herself, 
 yet he had heard her discuss it with Deminski as if the 
 plan had her favour. She would not conform to the 
 social habits and prejudices of her neighbours, but she 
 resented it when they were spectators of her irregulari- 
 ties. On Michael's account and on her own she was 
 annoyed when Mrs. Walsingham stumbled over the char- 
 woman's pail, but instead of blaming her own want of 
 method she took a dislike to Mrs. Walsingham. Never- 
 theless, when a week or two had passed, she said to 
 Michael that she supposed the call must be returned. 
 
 " I suppose so," said Michael, and it was settled that 
 Mrs. Severin should have a carriage from the nearest livery 
 stables, and perform this unwonted duty in a comfortable 
 way. Michael had told his mother that he would give 
 her a sufficient fixed sum for housekeeping, and that 
 he would pay other necessary expenses, such as Bob's 
 schooling, rent, taxes, fire, and wine. She should keep
 
 THE SEVERINS 75 
 
 her own small income for clothes and incidental expenses ; 
 and he would also make Selma and Camilla an allowance 
 for clothes. Mrs. Severin recognized that Michael was 
 behaving generously, but she did not really enjoy having 
 a fixed sum for housekeeping. She did not enjoy any- 
 thing that was fixed and methodical ; and she com- 
 plained to her daughters that the plan was unbusiness- 
 like, because no one could spend exactly the same sum 
 on food every week in the year. 
 
 " Sometimes I shall have a pound or two left, some- 
 times I shall want a pound or two more," she argued 
 plaintively. 
 
 ' You need never have a pound or two left," said 
 Clotilda. " You can always buy a hat or a blouse for 
 one of us." 
 
 " And when you want more you must show Michael 
 the books and ask for it," said Selma. " If he calls the 
 tune, he must expect to pay the piper." 
 
 " Or you might save a little one week to help the next," 
 said Camilla. 
 
 " I've never saved money," said Mrs. Severin. " Your 
 dear father said it wasn't in my nature, and he couldn't 
 expect me to. He said I had all the other virtues, and 
 that no one was perfect." 
 
 " Money-saving is a vice, not a virtue," said Selma. 
 " It leads to usury and meanness. Deminski says " 
 
 " It isn't a vice any of us have to fight against," said 
 Clotilda cheerfully, " so why bother about it ? It would 
 really be more convenient if some of us sometimes had 
 a sixpence." 
 
 But there was a new air of ease and plenty in the 
 house now that Michael had come home, and when the 
 whole family went to return Mrs. Walsingham's call they 
 all wore new clothes. It had not occurred to Michael 
 to tell them that only two should go, and as it was a fine
 
 76 THE SEVERINS 
 
 day the unwonted chance of a drive across London 
 tempted them. Bob, looking angelic in clean white 
 flannels, sat on the box. Mrs. Severin, Selma, and 
 Camilla had gone to Liberty's for their new things, but 
 Clotilda said she would rather be smart than picturesque. 
 She wore a white embroidered muslin, and an attractive 
 but daring hat. When they reached Rutland Gate they 
 all five got down, and looked at each other nervously as 
 they waited at the front door. Even Bob was solemn. 
 Then the door flew open ; they saw a footman with a 
 butler behind him, and Mrs. Severin asked if Mrs. Wal- 
 singham was at home. A moment later the inwardly 
 derisive and outwardly impassive butler was leading the 
 little crowd upstairs. 
 
 The drawing-room had a good many people in it, as 
 Mrs. Walsingham had asked a few friends to tea, while 
 others happened to be calling after Clara's dance. So 
 the arrival of the Severins made a small sensation. No 
 one knew who this group of handsome but odd-looking 
 people could be, for Mrs. Walsingham was not one of 
 those London hostesses who make a reputation by gather- 
 ing freaks under her roof. Mrs. Severin wore a pale 
 Havana-coloured silk, and over it a long gathered cloak 
 of brown velveteen. Her hat was brown and floppy, and 
 had brown ostrich feathers in it. The lovely young 
 woman who came in with her was dressed in the height 
 of the fashion, and might have been the humorous widow 
 who marries the elderly deus ex machind in the fourth 
 act. Behind her came an early Sargent, a Burne-Jones, 
 and a child by Reynolds. Selma was dressed in blue and 
 green, floating sinuous draperies of blue and green 
 rather too vivid for her own vivid colouring, but effective 
 and not to be forgotten. Camilla wore a thin mole-grey 
 gown, and a big hat of the same shade. She looked rather 
 frightened as she came in with Bob holding her hand.
 
 THE SEVERINS 77 
 
 Mrs. Walsingham sent a swift glance towards her 
 daughters, and Selma saw it and the flash of derision in 
 it. If it had been possible she would have turned there 
 and then and run away. But she had to advance with 
 the others and be amiably received by the three ladies 
 of the house, who took steps at once to distribute the new- 
 comers amongst their other guests. Mrs. Severin and 
 Clotilda found themselves near the Walsinghams. Bea- 
 trice took Selma to another part of the room, and intro- 
 duced a young man, who looked at her as if she frightened 
 him, and after considering her toilet reflectively, asked 
 her if she had been to the Academy. Selma looked at 
 him, he vowed later, as if he was some new kind of insect, 
 and said that she was an artist, and that artists did not 
 go to the Academy. So he stroked his chin with a worried 
 air, and explained that he meant the picture show at 
 Burlington House, didn't she know ? 
 
 " I mean that, too," said Selma, refusing both tea and 
 coffee which were offered to her just then. 
 
 " I say, won't you have some tea ? " said her com- 
 panion, trying to get away from pictures to an easier 
 subject. 
 
 " I never drink tea," said Selma, in the low, tragic 
 voice that, like her eyes, gave exaggerated emphasis to 
 all she said. 
 
 " Coffee, then ? " 
 
 " Coffee and tea are both poison." 
 
 " What an extraordinary and awful girl," thought the 
 young man, but as he had nice manners he continued in 
 a brave way to make conversation. 
 
 " I should have thought, you know, that artists would 
 go to the Academy to see their own and their friends' 
 pictures," he said. 
 
 " None of the pictures at the Academy are painted by 
 artists," said Selma.
 
 78 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " Oh ! I say," cried the young man, " you're pulling 
 my leg." 
 
 Selma stared at him solemnly and sadly, moved her 
 chair a little, and seemed to reflect on what he had said. 
 
 " I suppose you're talking slang," she observed at 
 length. " Why do you ? " 
 
 " Oh, I say ! " exclaimed the young man again, for 
 this was a poser. " How would you talk ? " 
 
 " Correctly," said Selma. " Where were you educated ? " 
 
 " Educated ? " 
 
 " Never mind. I dare say you can't help it. Tell me 
 who some of these people are. They look very dull. I 
 wonder whether people who look dull feel dull ; or 
 whether they are quite contented with their trivial little 
 minds ? I suppose they may be ? " 
 
 " I'm sure I don't know," said the young man, and 
 then, to his intense relief, Clara Walsingham came up 
 to them and tackled Selma herself. She talked of this, 
 that, and nothing for about a minute ; and then with 
 her little air of serene self-possession floated away again, 
 the happy young man in her train. 
 
 " Who is that girl ? " he murmured. 
 
 "*A sister of my father's new junior partner ... a 
 Miss Severin. We called, and this ... I suppose . . . 
 is the return call." 
 
 " Well, they've shown willing," said the young man ; 
 " five thick." Clara permitted herself to smile. 
 
 Meanwhile Mrs. Severin and Clotilda had unfortunately 
 been placed next to a self-important, easily shocked 
 person called Mrs. Legrange, who lived in a large house 
 near the Crescent, and could see their garden from her 
 back windows, knew the whole family by sight, and would 
 not have known it on any other terms for the world. 
 
 " I'm sure I've often seen you before," said Mrs. 
 Severin, with vague friendliness.
 
 THE SEVERINS 79 
 
 " Why, yes," put in Clotilda. " You live quite near 
 us, don't you ? Your husband came to see us once, soon 
 after we went to the Crescent." 
 
 " I don't remember it," said Mrs. Severin. 
 
 " Nor do I," said Mrs. Legrange. " Perhaps you are 
 thinking of the people next door to me, whom I do not 
 know." 
 
 " They are a lively lot," said Clotilda. " I often wish 
 we knew them." 
 
 " I should have thought there would be no difficulty ; 
 they look like people who would know anybody Tom, 
 Dick, and Harry." 
 
 " I like sociable, friendly people ; don't you ? " said 
 Mrs. Severin. 
 
 " Not always," said Mrs. Legrange, with an air of 
 indifference that was meant to discourage further con- 
 versation. But Clotilda went on talking. 
 
 " I saw Mr. Legrange when he called," she said. " He 
 stayed a long time and we got quite friendly. He always 
 takes off his hat to me when we meet." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said Mrs. Legrange. 
 
 ' Yes, I don't think he has looked well lately. Is he 
 quite well ? " 
 
 '' Very well, thank you." 
 
 " But why did he call, Clotilda ? " said Mrs. Severin. 
 " I don't remember anything about it." 
 
 " We didn't tell you at the time, because you'd just 
 been reading some book about education, and for at least 
 a fortnight you thought you'd educate Bob." 
 
 " I remember that," said Mrs. Severin with a sigh. 
 " But it was impossible." 
 
 " And Bob had been throwing stones at your con- 
 servatory," continued Clotilda, addressing Mrs. Legrange. 
 " He broke three panes in one week." 
 
 " I suppose Bob is your brother ? " said Mrs. Legrange.
 
 8o THE SEVERINS 
 
 " Yes. That pretty boy over there, eating cake." 
 
 " It is his fifth piece; I have watched him," said Mrs. 
 Legrange. 
 
 " I call that rude," said a deep voice by her side, and 
 looking up quite startled she saw that the blue-and-green 
 girl had come across the room, and was standing just 
 behind her. However, she soon recovered her self- 
 possession if not her temper. 
 
 " I call it greedy," she said; " but I suppose he doesn't 
 know better." 
 
 ' That is the daughter who paints," said Mrs. Severin 
 as Selma moved away. " She is soon going to Paris." 
 
 " Will she be with a family or in a pension ? " said Mrs. 
 Walsingham, who came up just then. " I know two 
 delightful maiden ladies who live out at Passy " 
 
 " That wouldn't suit Selma," said Mrs. Severin. 
 " She means to live by herself in the Quartier Latin." 
 
 " But surely you will not allow that," said Mrs. Wal- 
 singham uncomfortably. She began to wonder how long 
 a call these inharmonious people proposed to make. She 
 was not the woman to pluck success out of failure, and 
 treat the Severin family as an amusing episode in a dullish 
 afternoon. Their presence irritated and disturbed her. 
 Yet she perceived that at the other end of the room, where 
 the younger ones sat with Mrs. St. Erth, there was a merry 
 party. 
 
 Mrs. St. Erth had come in a little while ago, and had seen 
 Camilla and Bob sitting by themselves rather forlornly. 
 
 " Who are they ? " she had asked Clara, and then she 
 had gone up to them. 
 
 " Didn't your brother tell you that we met at the 
 dance here ? " she said, when she had introduced herself. 
 
 "No," said Camilla. 
 
 " I think you are a little like him though you are 
 fairer than he is."
 
 THE SEVERINS 81 
 
 " None of us are like him," said Camilla, but she 
 flushed with pleasure. 
 
 " I am," said Bob. 
 
 " Not a bit," said Mrs. St. Erth, and then the three 
 made friends. Presently Clara, thinking that Mrs. St. 
 Erth had sacrificed herself sufficiently, brought up the 
 young man who had got on so badly with Selma. He 
 got on very well with Madeline and Camilla, and it was 
 his happy idea to feed Bob with cakes. He found a 
 silver basket heaped with them and plied the boy. At 
 last it became a game, and Bob took cakes in order to 
 play his part with credit. 
 
 " I shall have to stop soon," he said regretfully, but he 
 was lifting a fresh cake to his mouth when Selma swooped 
 down on him and made a snatch at it. Bob gave a 
 scream of anger that was heard all over the room, but he 
 kept the cake. 
 
 " Some woman over there has been watching you," said 
 Selma indignantly. " She says you have had five." 
 
 ' This one makes seven," said Bob. " They are very 
 small, and I didn't eat any dinner because we had mince. 
 1 hate mince." 
 
 "So do I," said the young man, putting a petit four 
 into each of Bob's hands. 
 
 " Now you're as sticky as I am," said Bob. 
 
 " I shall not shake hands with either of you," said 
 Mrs. St. Erth. 
 
 She looked at Camilla and Bob as if she liked them, 
 and when she laughed at Bob she looked young and 
 happy. Camilla admired Madeline extremely, because 
 she was lovely, kind, and beautifully dressed ; and 
 Madeline liked Camilla's gentle manners and her Madonna 
 face. She saw that Selma was handsome and probably 
 cleverer than her younger sister, and that the dramatic 
 pose of her long limbs was natural and not put on. But 
 6
 
 82 THE SEVERINS 
 
 Selma took for granted that men and women with a 
 certain cachet of worldliness were fools, and she expressed 
 this opinion in manner even when she restrained her 
 tongue. She was a clever girl in some ways, but she 
 never tried to correct her preconceived opinions by facts. 
 She went on treating other people as if they were idiots, 
 and resenting it when they avoided her because she was 
 so disagreeable. She acted like a wet blanket on the 
 little group with the cake-basket. Instead of devoting 
 themselves to Bob they began to talk to each other, 
 but their ideas did not flow, and every one was relieved 
 when Mrs. Severin and Clotilda came towards them on 
 their way to the door. Bob was the last of his party to 
 leave the room, and Mrs. St. Erth went with him to the 
 top of the stairs. 
 
 " I'm coming to see you some day," she said, kissing 
 him. " Will you come to see me ? " 
 
 " Where do you live ? " said Bob, hurriedly brushing 
 off the kiss with his sleeve. 
 
 "55, Grosvenor Gardens. Can you remember that ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Bob. " When shall I come ? " 
 
 " Whenever you like." 
 
 " To-morrow ? " 
 
 " Yes, if you like. But you can't come by yourself, 
 can you ? " 
 
 " Of course I can," said Bob scornfully. 
 
 " To lunch ? or shall you be at school ? " 
 
 " I can miss school. I often do. What time is your 
 lunch ? " 
 
 " Half-past one. What would you like ? " 
 
 " Peas and strawberries." 
 
 " Shall I ask a nice little girl I know to play with you ? " 
 
 " No," said Bob vehemently ; " I hate girls." 
 
 He was half-way downstairs by this time, but turned 
 back to say something more.
 
 THE SEVERINS 83 
 
 " Have you any animals ? " he said. " I like animals." 
 
 " Do you mean Noah's Ark animals ? " said Madeline. 
 
 Bob gave a scornful quiet chuckle. " You haven't any 
 children," he said positively. 
 
 " No," said Madeline, " but I can borrow one or two." 
 
 " Oh, don't trouble. I'm not very fond of children. 
 I only meant that if you were used to them you'd know 1 
 was much too old for a Noah's Ark." 
 
 " I have a dog," said Madeline. 
 
 " That will do," said Bob, and then Selma hurried 
 him downstairs. 
 
 " What a duck of a child," said Madeline, as she went 
 back into the drawing-room; " and what a queer, hand- 
 some, amusing family I " 
 
 ' You would think them queer if you lived as near them 
 as I do," said Mrs. Legrange, who was acquainted with 
 Madeline and heard what she said. 
 
 " Oh, do you know them ? " said Madeline. 
 
 " Certainly not," said Mrs. Legrange. " They claim 
 acquaintance with my husband, because when they throw 
 stones at my windows he calls and remonstrates. Other- 
 wise there is no intercourse between my household and 
 theirs. Can you tell me what freak of fate brought them 
 here this afternoon ? I should have thought that Mrs. 
 Walsingham was the last woman in London " 
 
 " Mrs. Severin's eldest son has just been made a 
 partner in the business," explained Mrs. St. Erth. " Mr. 
 Walsingham and my husband both think very highly of 
 him." 
 
 Mrs. Legrange looked astonished and put out. " Well," 
 she said at length, " I don't think highly of his family. I 
 should advise him to get away from them as soon as he can."
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 WHEN the Severins sat down to dinner that night 
 Mrs. Severin told Michael that they had returned 
 Mrs. Walsingham's call that afternoon. He asked which 
 of them had been, and he looked astonished when he heard 
 that they had all been, including Bob. He said that 
 perhaps two of them would have been sufficient . But he 
 did not lay any stress on their blunder as he did not wish 
 to hurt their feelings. Besides, he regarded the present 
 state of affairs as temporary. He looked forward to the 
 time when he would be living with his mother and Cam- 
 illa ; and Camilla never offended his taste. Bob was full 
 of Mrs. St. Erth's invitation both before he went and 
 after he came back from her house. He could not describe 
 the house to his sisters, but he said he had never seen such 
 big strawberries as they had at lunch. After lunch she 
 had taken him to the Hippodrome and then to tea at 
 Buszard's. He arrived home in a hansom, his hands 
 clutching a box of sweets, his angelic face radiant, and 
 his spirits boisterous. 
 
 " She has given me five shillings for donkey rides as 
 well as the sweets," he related. " When we come back 
 from the seaside I'm going to see her again. She says 
 she likes boys. She's rippin'." 
 
 " Where are you to have donkey rides ? " asked 
 Michael. 
 
 " At the seaside in August. I told her about Carbay 
 and our tent blowing down in the gale and the fish we 
 caught and the blackberry jam. She said it sounded a 
 rippin' place, and she wished she could come too. She 
 
 8 4
 
 THE SEVERINS 85 
 
 can play cricket ; not as well as a boy or a man, of course. 
 But I said I'd play with her if she came to Carbay." 
 
 " Where is Carbay, and when are you all going there ? " 
 said Michael. 
 
 Carbay, his family informed him, was on the west coast, 
 and for two years past Tom Crewe had sent them a holiday 
 present that paid their journey there and back, and the 
 rent of a cottage for six weeks. They had shut up the 
 corner house, taken the Harriet of the moment with them, 
 and had, as Bob justly remarked, a ripping time. But 
 Tom Crewe had said nothing about sending them a 
 cheque for the holidays this year. He was probably 
 rather annoyed because Clotilda had spent her passage- 
 money on clothes instead of going out to him. At least 
 that had crossed Mrs. Severin's mind, although Clotilda 
 said it was nonsense. Tom, his wife vowed, was a sensible 
 man and expected her to do as she pleased. 
 
 Michael said that until he heard from Tom or saw him 
 he could not judge of his sense, but that at any rate the 
 family need not do without their usual holiday. The 
 cottage could be engaged at once, as in this hot weather 
 the sooner they all left London the better. Camilla asked 
 what he would do if they took Harriet with them and shut 
 up the house ; and he said that he would be away on 
 business a good deal, and that when he was in London he 
 could live at his club. He was glad to find that for once 
 the whole family desired the same thing, and that from 
 the moment the plan was made they were in a childish 
 hurry to carry it out. He thought that their speedy 
 departure and prolonged absence were most desirable for 
 many reasons. He wanted to separate Clotilda from 
 Deminski and Selma from the frog-mouthed girl and her 
 lover ; though as a matter of fact, Selma's intimacy with 
 these undesirables was running the usual course of her 
 friendships, and had just reached the quarrelsome stage.
 
 86 THE SEVERINS 
 
 For a week past she had not been on speaking terms with 
 them, but Michael did not follow these ins and outs of 
 her attachments, and at any rate he knew enough of her 
 by this time to know that her moods were as variable as 
 the weather. Besides, there were other little flaws in the 
 social environment his happy-go-lucky family had made 
 for itself. He thought it well that Mr. Jenkins should 
 get out of the way of dropping in whenever he heard the 
 piano, and that Bob should play with Camilla on the 
 sands instead of with the rabble of an inferior school in 
 the streets. When they all returned in the autumn it 
 would be time to introduce other changes he had in view. 
 
 The girls told their mother that the post was too slow 
 in its ways, and that a reply telegram must be sent to the 
 cottage at once. This was accordingly done, and from 
 the moment the reply came saying that everything would 
 be ready for them in two days, the corner house was in a 
 state of excitement, business, and confusion. 
 
 " They want to start on Friday," Mrs. Severin com- 
 plained to Michael. " But it is impossible to get the 
 house ready by Friday." 
 
 " Don't you leave the house as it is," said Michael, 
 who wished to pacify his mother, but did not know much 
 about houses. 
 
 Mrs. Severin in a rambling way discoursed to him of 
 dust, moth, burglars, caretakers, and cats. Michael made 
 no attempt to follow it closely, but gathered at the end of 
 half an hour or so that Mrs. Severin would like to leave 
 Mrs. Ginger in the house, but considered her expensive. 
 Last year the alternative had been to travel to Carbay 
 with a cat, and back from Carbay with a cat and kittens. 
 
 " It was a corridor train," she said, " and Bob would 
 play with the kittens, and they got away, and then he 
 would hunt through the train for them till the attendants 
 made a fuss about it. Then he howled because one
 
 THE SEVERINS 87 
 
 kitten was lost, and an old lady in the next carriage com- 
 plained of him. We had a dreadful journey." 
 
 So it was settled that this year the expensive Mrs. 
 Ginger should be left in charge of the house and the cats ; 
 and for the next two days the family prepared for its 
 exodus. Clotilda and Selma overhauled their wardrobes 
 and did some shopping ; Camilla patched and tidied for 
 her mother, Bob, and herself ; Mrs. Severin wandered 
 aimlessly about the house, and told every one she would 
 be too fatigued to travel ; and Bob was so wild with joy 
 and expectation that he drove even his dear friend 
 Camilla to say that it would be a relief when he went to 
 school. On the morning of their departure they nearly 
 missed their train, because when the omnibus was loaded 
 with trunks and ready to start the boy could not be found. 
 It was Camilla who tore across the garden to his favourite 
 tree and discovered him shooting peas at Mrs. Legrange's 
 back windows from its topmost branches ; and it was 
 Camilla who, having dressed him half an hour ago in clean 
 flannels, knew where to find others without a moment's 
 delay. 
 
 ' With Bob it is never safe not to have a change of 
 clothes where you can find them," she explained to 
 Michael. " Last year he sat down on a wet flower-bed 
 and dug up worms for fishing just before we started." 
 
 Michael felt that the express train taking his people to 
 the country took a considerable weight off his mind for a 
 time. It occurred to him often enough that most men in 
 his place would make them a comfortable allowance and 
 leave them to go their ways. Sometimes he thought 
 this would be the sensible as well as the easy thing to do. 
 He was sure that most of his friends would say so, but 
 they were mostly English and would look at the situation 
 from a practical point of view. When the ways of your 
 people are entirely not your ways, when you have grown
 
 88 THE SEVERINS 
 
 so far asunder from each other that their thought, their 
 habits, their desires, their friends are all different from 
 yours, then it is surely folly to remain with them. In 
 theory Michael saw the common sense of this. But in 
 practice he could not be indifferent to his kith and kin, to 
 their fates, or even to their natures and conduct. The 
 mysterious tie of blood linked them with him against 
 all reason, against his very wishes. It had called to him 
 across the years and across the world, and he had come 
 at its call to find discomfort, perplexity, affection, and an 
 intangible unbreakable chain. The people he revered in 
 the world were toilers and spinners, the people he scorned 
 were dreamers and windbags ; and nothing roused him 
 to wrath more surely than the impertinent assumption 
 that the daily duty and the daily work honestly and 
 steadily done takes less spiritual effort and is on a lower 
 spiritual level than a vague, fruitless life amongst the 
 clouds. He was by temperament so averse from the 
 drones of the world that he hardly distinguished amongst 
 them and hardly recognized degrees of crankiness, folly, 
 and misfortune. He saw that his mother and sisters 
 were surrounded by people he wanted to sweep out of the 
 house, and in thinking of them as a rabble he never 
 stopped to consider their separate personalities. But 
 Deminski did stand out with danger signals from the rest 
 of them. Michael saw that Clotilda was strongly attracted 
 by the man, and that there was not much either in her 
 surroundings or her professed principles to protect her. 
 As for Deminski, he had no principles from Michael's 
 point of view. He scoffed openly at marriage and the 
 sanctity of marriage ; a man-made tie he called it, to be 
 loosened at will by men in their senses, to be rejected with 
 contumely by women of intelligence. The happy mar- 
 riages he knew had not been blessed by Church or State, 
 he vowed. He instanced the poetical and harmonious union
 
 THE SEVERINS 89 
 
 between his friend Kremski and Marie Petersen. " What 
 of Mrs. Kremski ? " Michael had asked, but he had hardly 
 disturbed the flow of eloquence that apotheosized these 
 liberal alliances, and did not allow itself to be diverted by 
 uncomfortable side issues. It was Deminski's pet theme, 
 this one of marriage, as he called it, for the moment. 
 " Why call it marriage ? " Michael said once when his 
 sisters were not present ; " what you want is nothing 
 new." This made Deminski angry, because, like other 
 men of his views, he prided himself above all things on 
 being in advance of his time. Clotilda, in deference to 
 her neighbours, had begged him to express his opinions 
 in German, because, as she pointed out, if Mrs. Henderson 
 and Miss Jenkins knew that the innocent ears of Arthur 
 and Sydney heard such tenets the boys would be kept 
 away from the house. Upon this Deminski had begun 
 to tell a story about Arthur and Sydney that Michael did 
 not like. He stopped the genial journalist rather curtly. 
 There had been an uncomfortable moment for all con- 
 cerned, but in Michael's presence Deminski had put a 
 check on his tongue. This, however, did not mislead 
 Michael. He distrusted the man, and desired to see his 
 sisters out of his reach. 
 
 For a week or two after the exodus from the corner 
 house Michael had more peace than he had known since 
 he had arrived in England. He lived comfortably at his 
 club and worked hard at his office. A satisfactory letter 
 arrived from Carbay, describing the journey and the 
 joyful first few days there. Bob would swim out of his 
 depth, though he was only a beginner, and Mrs. Severin 
 expected him to drown before her eyes ; otherwise she 
 was not suffering from anything but Harriet's temper. 
 The girls wrote of walks and picnics. Bob did not write 
 at all. Then Michael had to go to France for a fortnight 
 on business, and directly he came back his partners went
 
 90 THE SEVERINS 
 
 off for their holiday, leaving him in sole charge. They 
 knew by this time that they could trust him. But when 
 Mr. Walsingham gave Michael his holiday address, the 
 young man discovered that for the next six weeks the 
 senior partner and his family would be at Sarnen, a 
 village about two miles from Carbay. There were golf 
 links at Sarnen, otherwise, Mr. Walsingham said, the 
 place did not promise much, and he thought that his wife 
 and daughters were amiable women to put up with it. 
 
 " My mother and sisters are in a cottage at Carbay," 
 said Michael. 
 
 " Then we shall no doubt come across them," said Mr. 
 Walsingham, and that was the most he could say, because 
 he knew that his womenfolk would not have anything 
 to do with Michael's womenfolk if they could help it. 
 
 Mr. Walsingham could not help wondering how Michael 
 got on with the mother and sisters, who were really 
 strangers to him, and were succinctly described by Mrs. 
 Walsingham as impossible. He was mildly curious to see 
 the ladies himself. He was curious about another point 
 connected with his junior partner, and this he now pro- 
 ceeded to clear up. 
 
 " Has St. Erth never asked you to his house ? " he said. 
 
 " No," said Michael ; " nor did Mrs. St. Erth when I 
 met her." 
 
 " She daren't call her soul her own, poor girl," he said. 
 " That's a sad story." 
 
 " Is there a story ? " said Michael. 
 
 "I'm afraid there must be though Madeline never 
 speaks. But she has altered. Besides it's all I can do 
 to stand him, and I'm not his wife." 
 
 There had been a scene at the office this morning, a 
 scene that paved the way for Mr. Walsingham's admission 
 almost forced it, in fact. Mr. St. Erth had behaved 
 in such a manner that both the older man and the young
 
 THE SEVERINS 91 
 
 one had wanted with primitive ardour to kick him. He 
 had a temper he never tried to control, a mean mind, 
 and an overbearing tongue. He was inclined to be 
 jealous of Michael, both of his business ability and of Mr. 
 Walsingham's liking for him. The scene had been ended 
 abruptly by the appearance of some people from outside, 
 but it had left an unpleasant taste. The occasion had 
 been some step taken by Michael while he was in France, 
 a step in which both Mr. Walsingham and he had faith. 
 Mr. St. Erth had expressed his want of faith in terms 
 that his partners could not forget or forgive. Michael 
 went back to his club that afternoon in a sanguine and 
 contented mood. To get rid of Mr. St. Erth for six 
 weeks was like getting rid of bad weather. He thought 
 of Mrs. St. Erth with pity and romantic admiration, but 
 she was as far beyond his help as if she had lived in a star, 
 or as if she had been a star herself and had fallen mysteri- 
 ously and irrevocably into darkness. When he reached 
 his club he found two letters waiting for him one from 
 Camilla and one from Bob. Camilla wrote a pleasant 
 letter about the weather and their daily doings. Michael 
 read it happily till he came to the last sentence, when 
 he jumped. 
 
 " Deminski has been here a week now, and looks better 
 already," she wrote, then signed herself his affectionate 
 sister. Michael opened Bob's letter hurriedly, seeking 
 further light. It was not a long one, and it was profusely 
 illustrated with coloured chalks. 
 
 " Dear Michael," wrote the boy, 
 
 " I have spent the five shillings Mrs. Senturth gave 
 me ; at least I lost one and spent four. There is a shop 
 here and girls come on the sands selling fruit, and there 
 are three donkeys. Yesterday we had a picnic and all 
 carried baskets. I carried a very heavy one, and it made 
 my arm ake, so I'll now draw a pictcher because it doesn't
 
 92 THE SEVERINS 
 
 make my arm ake as much as spelling. When we got to 
 the picnic Clotilda and D (I can't spell his silly name) were 
 not there. To-day they've gone out for the day in a 
 saleing boat and wouldn't take me although D is shore to 
 be sea-sick, and I can stand the ruffest wether. I hope 
 you'll come soon and take me out in boats. It was nicer 
 before D came. He's always jabbering and then if you 
 make the least noise or play with the cat the girls say be 
 quiet. Instead of giving me pocket money at school I 
 wish I could have a little to spend here. There won't 
 be anything to buy at school. I want to bring you a 
 watch-stand made of surpuntine marbel but I only have 
 id. left. I will now draw you a picture of the watch- 
 stand and the cat-fite. The fite took place yesterday 
 between our cat and a fox terrier and D was afraid and 
 ran into the house. I wasn't. I pulled the fox terrier 
 off our cat and it got away. It was very a savage dog 
 and mite have bit me. It didn't. Bob." 
 
 Michael put down the letter and wondered what he 
 could do. It was impossible to separate his mother and 
 sisters from this man. He might write and ask Mrs. 
 Severin to send Deminski about his business, but Michael 
 knew pretty well by this time what the result would be : 
 sheets of rambling twaddle about the complications and 
 subtleties of the family friendship for this lonely and 
 remarkable young man, reflections on Michael's want of 
 sympathy, allusions to the proverbial narrowness of the 
 English point of view ; words, words, words in short, 
 and nothing else. Yet something ought to be done, if 
 only for Tom Crewe's sake. If Michael could have gone 
 himself, he would have set off at once. But with both 
 his partners away, it was impossible to leave London for 
 the moment. A letter to his mother seemed the only 
 course open, and he wrote one there and then, using few
 
 THE SEVERINS 93 
 
 words, making no reproaches, only saying that he wished 
 she would not entertain Deminski in her cottage, and that 
 he hoped she would find some way of letting him go as 
 soon as possible. He also wrote a short note to Bob, 
 and sent him a postal order for five shillings. 
 
 On the following day when he left the office he went 
 straight to the Crescent, as he wanted some clothes he 
 had left there. He could not get in with his key, because 
 Mrs. Ginger kept the door on the chain, but in time she ap- 
 peared herself. She explained, quite needlessly, that she 
 had not begun to clean yet, and when Michael went into 
 the drawing-room he thought he had never seen a place 
 look so grimy and forsaken ; but he sat down a moment 
 to look through a pile of circulars and catalogues that 
 she had not sent on. While he was doing this Mrs. 
 Ginger tramped upstairs again with a telegram, which 
 she said she had been about to put in an envelope and 
 post to Mrs. Crewe. Michael opened it, read it, stared 
 at it, and tried to collect his wits. 
 
 " When did this come ? " he said. 
 
 " About an hour ago," said Mrs. Ginger. 
 
 Michael looked at the form again. 
 
 " Arrive at Waterloo five o'clock. Tom Crewe," he 
 read. 
 
 " Mr. Crewe arrives from South Africa this afternoon," 
 he said. " I will wait here for him." 
 
 " Sakes alive ! " said Mrs. Ginger. " Do Mrs. Crewe 
 know it ? " 
 
 " I suppose not," said Michael. 
 
 " I 'ate telegrafts," said Mrs. Ginger, " they're always 
 
 upsetting What'll the gentleman do, sir ? Will he 
 
 want 'is supper and 'is bed 'ere ? Because I ain't got a 
 thing in the 'ouse." 
 
 " I shall take him to my club," said Michael.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 was at heart a rake. She loved a love 
 affair, the sentiment of it and even the naughtiness 
 of it. She flirted as a child does, openly and in a sense 
 innocently. She could not live without masculine ad- 
 miration or act without masculine support. The string 
 of her admirers, if she had set their names on paper, would 
 have made a roll as long as Don Juan's ; but her little 
 affairs had never yet been of the kind that ends in tears. 
 They had never hitherto been serious or caused her any 
 anxious thought : for since she had married Tom Crewe 
 in haste no one had actually proposed that she should 
 abandon her husband. To this step, however, Deminski 
 and the summer days were leading her ; at least it 
 seemed so as she sat on the cliffs between Sarnen and 
 Carbay, watched the rollers breaking on the sandy shore, 
 and listened to her lover's arguments. 
 
 " We are quite happy as we are," said Clotilda ; " this 
 week has been delightful." 
 
 " I am not happy," said Deminski, " I am wretched." 
 
 He had come down to Carbay at her suggestion without 
 much thought of bringing matters to a climax. But the 
 intimacy of a country holiday, the strong, beguiling 
 influences of this outdoor life and of the summer weather, 
 above all a sudden unexpected change in his affairs, 
 determined him. He was shortly going to live in Paris, 
 and he wanted Clotilda to go with him. 
 
 " What nonsense ! As if I could ! " said Clotilda, the 
 first time he put the idea into her head. But that was 
 three days ago, when he had received the letter from his 
 
 94
 
 THE SEVERINS 95 
 
 German newspaper office intimating that in a short time 
 he was to take himself from London to Paris and act as 
 their regular correspondent. 
 
 " It is promotion," he said excitedly. " My articles 
 on English manners and morals have made a stir. I told 
 you they would. I am a man who can call a spade a 
 spade. I am not afraid of offending people. I assure 
 you that when England hears of them it will not be safe 
 for me in the London streets." 
 
 " It never will hear," said Clotilda, " and if it did it 
 would only laugh. I know them. Look at Michael." 
 
 " Never mind Michael. Come away from him. I shall 
 have a better salary. With care we can both live on it." 
 
 " I hate care," said Clotilda. " I like plenty." 
 
 " I appeal to your higher self. I feel within me the 
 strength to keep that alive." 
 
 He meant what he said. He held opinions sane men 
 execrate, and he advocated morals most men leave to 
 monkeys ; but if you had said this to him you would have 
 made no impression. He would have told you that, like 
 other prophets and reformers, he was in advance of his 
 times, and that in fifty years or less all men would approve 
 the conduct he was now prepared to defend in himself 
 and his comrades. Even to Clotilda, who was dazzled 
 by his fluent tongue, it occurred sometimes that his topsy- 
 turvy mind called vice virtue and virtue vice. He talked 
 of qualities that since men were men they have striven 
 and died for, qualities of self-sacrifice, energy, and 
 courage, as if they were of the devil ; while he preached 
 the self-indulgence and the want of scruple that the great 
 amongst us in all places and all time have combined to 
 condemn. But he gave his principles, or want of prin- 
 ciples, fine-sounding names, and said that the future 
 belonged to broad-minded persons like himself. He was 
 not mercenary or, as far as he knew, dishonest, and for
 
 96 THE SEVERINS 
 
 the moment he was violently attracted by Clotilda Crewe ; 
 therefore he urgently desired that she should leave her 
 husband and cleave to him, for an unspecified time. The 
 situation, in his opinion, was free from difficulties. Clotilda 
 had not seen her husband for some years, and openly said 
 that she did not care for him now, that she would not live 
 in South Africa. But for some time past she had shown 
 that she did care for Deminski. What, therefore, should 
 hinder them from joining their lives for as long or as 
 short a time as it pleased them ? Deminski could not 
 understand Clotilda's sudden hesitation, her scruples, her 
 evasions. If they were so many phases of her coquetry 
 he must overcome them, and surely they could have no 
 deeper origin. She had always listened to his theories 
 with sympathy and understanding. 
 
 " We will be as happy together as Kremski and Marie," 
 he said, taking her hand. 
 
 " Michael would not have them in the house again," 
 murmured Clotilda. 
 
 " Oh ! Michael," exclaimed Deminski with scorn. 
 
 " Michael isn't bad," said Clotilda. 
 
 " But he is narrow," retorted Deminski, " as narrow 
 as this," and he measured with a doubtfully clean thumb 
 and forefinger the pitiable narrowness of Michael's views. 
 His own appearance at the moment proclaimed in all its 
 details his broad-minded insensibility to public opinion. 
 It was a baking hot day, so he had taken off his coat and 
 waistcoat as well as his old sand shoes and his stockings. 
 He wore a flannel shirt without a collar, and he had rolled 
 up his sleeves and turned it back at the neck because, 
 he said, a partial sun-bath was better than none at all. 
 On his head he wore a stitched white cotton hat ; at least 
 it had been white last year when he bought it. His 
 sharp little eyes were nearly shut by the sun, and as he 
 sprawled on the grass with his discarded raiment scattered
 
 THE SEVERINS 97 
 
 near him he looked unattractive and disreputable. 
 Clotilda was also rather overcome by the heat, and had 
 the flushed face and sleepy eyes of a languid summer after- 
 noon. They had brought their lunch with them and had 
 eaten it up here ; and they meant to get as far as Sarnen 
 for tea with the others at a farmhouse there. But at 
 present they felt too lazy to make a move. Clotilda said 
 she felt too lazy to argue or to do anything but lie on 
 the grass and watch the gulls. 
 
 " I should like to live near the sea," she said dreamily. 
 
 " I suppose I shall be tied to Paris for a year or two," 
 
 said Deminski. " But Paris will suit you very well in 
 
 winter, and in summer you can go to some cheap place 
 
 in Brittany and I will join you when I can." 
 
 "The way you take things for granted!" objected 
 Clotilda. 
 
 " Surely it is settled," murmured her adorer. " You 
 know I can't live without you." Then he dropped 
 asleep. 
 
 Clotilda stared at the sea and the sky, and tried to 
 make up her mind. Like many women, she wanted to 
 eat her cake and have it. She dearly loved a little ro- 
 mantic adventure, and she eagerly echoed all the opinions 
 that on Deminski's lips sounded so bold and alluring. 
 Nothing had been easier and spicier than to scoff at 
 marriage in the security of her mother's drawing-room, 
 and even to welcome Kremski and his mistress with the 
 generous ardour of a woman who has original convictions 
 and is brave enough to act on them. Nothing since the 
 swift romance of her marriage had made a pleasanter 
 interlude in the prose of life than her growing friendship 
 with the man at her side, the quick discovery that they 
 had ideas in common, the flattering discovery that he 
 found her irresistible, the walks, talks, and music that 
 brought them together for nearly a year now, and had
 
 98 THE SEVERINS 
 
 culminated in this last long delightful week when from 
 morning till night he had wooed her openly. But to 
 take the irrevocable step he urged upon her was another 
 matter ; and some aspects of it gave her pause. She 
 liked to flout public opinion in little ways ; but she was 
 not sure that she would like the united opinion of estim- 
 able people to flout her. It was one thing to use " re- 
 spectable " as a term of reproach, and quite another 
 thing to forfeit one's own personal respectability. Be- 
 sides, there was Michael, and in the memories of bygone 
 years her young husband. Michael without words 
 suggested a different standard. Clotilda was woman 
 enough to appreciate his personal refinement, and intelli- 
 gent enough to know that the outward signs of it had their 
 counterpart in the subtle graces of his nature which was 
 both strong and lovable ; besides, he laughed at Dem- 
 inski, and his laughter rang true. At the same time 
 Deminski had a hold on her ; and he knew definitely 
 what he wanted while she did not. When he coaxed and 
 argued she felt it more and more difficult to stand firm, 
 for she had no arguments to use against his. He took 
 for granted that they were of one mind ; and, if she 
 demurred, out of her own mouth he could convict her. 
 Now she was called upon to have the courage of her 
 adopted opinions ; while he slept she asked herself 
 uneasily whether she could screw her courage to the 
 sticking point. 
 
 As she lay on the grass staring at the sky she heard 
 footsteps and voices coming by way of the footpath, 
 that led past them from Sarnen to Carbay. She raised 
 herself on her elbow, and saw three ladies a few yards 
 away, but the glare of the sun was in her eyes, and it was 
 not till they were actually passing that she recognized 
 Mrs. Walsingham and her daughters. They looked 
 deliberately at Deminski and then at her ; and though
 
 THE SEVERINS 99 
 
 her hat was tilted over her face, Clotilda believed they 
 knew her, perhaps not at first, but in one of those retarded 
 moments of recognition that sometimes paralyse people. 
 However, they went on, and made no sign, and Clotilda 
 looked after them, wondering whether they had cut her 
 with intention, or rather with a quick instinct of avoid- 
 ance when they saw her with Deminski. She sat up 
 and tried to put her hair and her hat straight, and to 
 remove banana skins and sandwich papers from the grass. 
 In doing this she roused Deminski, who sat up too, 
 blinked, yawned, looked at his watch, and said they must 
 soon go on. Clotilda told him what had happened while 
 he slept. 
 
 " Michael's friends, the Walsinghams, passed by," she 
 said. " They stared, and looked away." 
 
 " What frightened them ? My bare feet ? " 
 
 " I suppose so." 
 
 " In England the middle classes are easily frightened," 
 said Deminski. " They are all prudes and hypocrites. 
 Nothing alarms them so quickly and surely as Nature. 
 In this heat it is natural to wear as few clothes as possible. 
 What have you been thinking of, Clotilda, while I slept ? 
 You look troubled." 
 
 " I am troubled," said Clotilda. " I don't know what 
 to do." 
 
 Deminski was struggling with a wet shoe-lace that 
 would not come undone, for they had begun the day on 
 the sands ; but he put the shoe down for a moment in 
 order to answer Clotilda. 
 
 " We will come to a decision to-night," he said. " We 
 will go down to the sands, as we have done other nights, 
 and watch the moonlight on the sea and arrange our 
 future. Nature in one of her beautiful moods will teach 
 us wisdom." 
 
 " I think that sometimes Nature in her beautiful moods
 
 ioo THE SEVERINS 
 
 makes you forget wisdom," said Clotilda. "If it had 
 rained every day this week, and we had been kept indoors 
 if it had been muddy and chilly when we went out 
 if the skies had been grey " 
 
 " It would have made no difference to me. Directly 
 I got the news about Paris I knew that we must go there 
 together. You are all the world to me." 
 
 " I wonder how many women you have said that to 
 in the course of your life ? " inquired Clotilda. 
 
 " Not many," said Deminski ; " and I never say it unless 
 it is true." 
 
 Clotilda was silent for a time while her friend put 
 himself into walking trim again. Then she got up and 
 they walked along the cliff together towards Sarnen. 
 But at one place where the narrow path wound through 
 a dense thicket of neglected sea-swept bushes they 
 lingered arm-in-arm, overcome by the silence and senti- 
 ment of the spot, listening to the roll of the waves 
 beneath them, and looking at each other as lovers do 
 who are on the eve of a great decision that must unite 
 or part them. They were slow to issue from this har- 
 monious shade into the open day. 
 
 " But we must have tea with the others," said Clotilda. 
 " We have disappointed them so often this week ; and 
 I can see that Sophia is getting uneasy. Suppose she 
 takes it into her head to write to Michael ! " 
 
 " I cannot see how Michael affects the question," said 
 Deminski. " Come to Paris with me and no one can 
 ever interfere again. You will be a free woman as long 
 as you live, and what is life without freedom ? " 
 
 " When people marry for a time, what happens when 
 they get tired of each other ? " inquired Clotilda. 
 
 " There is usually some one else," said Deminski 
 soothingly. " But we need not look so far ahead, my 
 beloved."
 
 THE SEVERINS 101 
 
 " When you first came to the house, I thought that 
 Selma would be your beloved." 
 
 " So did I. Selma is superb. Nothing would please 
 the natural man in me better than to take you both to 
 Paris. But we are all slaves to prejudice, and I perceive 
 it would not do." 
 
 " It most certainly would not do," said Clotilda. 
 " And if there is any doubt in your mind " 
 
 " There is not. For some time you have been first 
 and Selma second. But it is a little difficult to express 
 perhaps but in many countries the idea that shocks 
 you would shock no one. These arrangements are a 
 question of geography." 
 
 " But in Carbay Oriental ideas are not agreeable," 
 said Clotilda with decision ; and then they talked of other 
 things till they reached the farmhouse, where they found 
 the rest of their party at tea. As they entered Selma 
 looked at them searchingly, and her eyes seemed to 
 gather intensity and melancholy as she saw the pre- 
 occupation in her sister's face, the pretty flush in her 
 cheeks, and the languor in her shining eyes. Mrs. Severin 
 looked at them too, and felt vaguely disturbed. Her 
 daughter and Deminski appeared like lovers their faces 
 still charged with the sentiment of the bygone hour. 
 They said that they were hungry, but they did not eat 
 much, and in a few minutes they pushed their chairs back, 
 complained of the heat in the room, and said they would 
 go down to the seashore. Bob offered to go with them, but 
 Camilla held him back. She saw that her sister did not 
 desire the child's company, and she feared that he would 
 be left to his own devices, which were often unsafe. A 
 heavy silence followed their departure, and Camilla did 
 not break it though she only dimly understood its cause. 
 
 " What can I do ? " said Mrs. Severin at last to Selma, 
 in the tone of one defending herself against reproach.
 
 102 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " It is probably too late to do anything," said Selma. 
 ' You might have stopped it in May, when Tom sent the 
 passage-money." 
 
 " Clotilda has never listened to me. None of you do ; 
 so it is not fair to blame me when things go wrong." 
 
 " I have not said a word of blame." 
 
 " But you look whole dictionaries," said Mrs. Severin. 
 " I think that is why I am uneasy, and that you are 
 probably making mountains out of molehills. I have 
 absolute faith in Clotilda. Is she not my child ? " 
 
 Selma shrugged her shoulders, turned her chair to the 
 window, and stared at the empty road. Camilla and Bob 
 withdrew from the room and went down to the sea to- 
 gether, where they spent a blissful hour wading in big 
 pools of sea water and then in the warm smooth incoming 
 tide. Deminski and Clotilda were nowhere to be seen, 
 but these two younger members of the family did not 
 trouble about that. 
 
 Meanwhile the two elect were walking home together. 
 They considered that they had done their duty to the 
 family by appearing at tea, and they were not in the 
 mood to desire the society of others for long. Their way 
 by the inland road they had chosen took them through 
 quiet, sandy lanes shut in by rough hedges of furze 
 and briar. The sun was low now, and was leaving 
 red lights in the sky ; the heat of the afternoon was 
 over. As they walked together Deminski found his 
 tongue again, and again began to urge Clotilda with all 
 the eloquence he had to join her fortunes with his and live 
 in Paris with him. He painted the delights of life there, 
 the freedom, the gaiety, and the good fellowship that 
 prevailed in the society waiting for them. He assured 
 her that she would feel no loss of prestige, because she 
 would only associate with people who shared their 
 broad outlook on life and generous views of human-
 
 THE SEVERINS 103 
 
 ity. They two would have a little flat in an old quarter 
 of Paris where artists and journalists forgathered, and 
 she must not imagine for a. moment that these people 
 would offend her by their ways. Those he knew were 
 quiet, clever people who had their own ideas as he had, 
 and worked hard, as he would when he had Clotilda to 
 work for and worship. He had hardly any money in 
 hand, but he knew of a cheap hotel for the first few days, 
 and they could take a small furnished appartement till he 
 had saved enough money for furniture. In fact, it would 
 probably be wiser not to buy furniture, asliis metier made 
 him a nomad. He had thought of everything and planned 
 everything, and he was very much in earnest and curiously 
 indifferent to what the world in general would say to 
 such an escapade. Like others of his calibre, he had the 
 lowest opinion of what he called bourgeois or middle- 
 class virtue, and his gimcrack judgment never plumbed 
 the depths of courage, self-denial, and patience these 
 everyday virtues imply. " Respectable " in his voca- 
 bulary was a byword, and he implored Clotilda not to 
 hanker after a quality the meanest and cruellest of man- 
 kind had made their own. As he talked he waved his 
 hands, pulled at the loose ends of his tie, and sometimes 
 in the ardour of his argument put his arm around her 
 shoulder. She listened interested and impressed. She 
 was pretty enough to stir any man to eloquence, and in 
 such a setting to some less abstract display of his affection. 
 It was like Deminski not to look ahead, to be carried 
 away by his own phrases, his own passion and the pro- 
 vocative conjunction of Clotilda's beauty and the beauty 
 of the quiet country lane. He chose the brow of a short 
 steep hill, when their steps were slow and their breath 
 came short, to draw her suddenly to him, and as ill-luck 
 would have it Mrs. Walsingham and her daughters, having 
 taken the same walk the reverse way, appeared on the
 
 104 THE SEVERINS 
 
 brow of the hill while the lovers were almost in each other's 
 arms. They flew apart, Clotilda flurried and Deminski 
 swearing audibly, but they knew it was too late. They 
 had again been seen by the ladies, and their last 
 state was worse than the first. This time it was im- 
 possible for Mrs. Walsingham to pass Clotilda without 
 either recognizing her or giving her the cut direct, and 
 apparently she meant to choose the first alternative. 
 Clotilda only felt that the embarrassing moment was 
 prolonged when the three elegant women stopped, frigidly 
 shook hands, and said something about the weather. 
 Deminski stood close by, scowling and resentful, and 
 Clotilda saw Mrs. Walsingham look at him much as you 
 look at a wireworm if you are an inexperienced gardener 
 and suddenly see one wriggling in the soil. You do not 
 know what sort of insect it is, but its appearance does not 
 attract you. However, she looked from him to Clotilda, 
 and said in a more kindly tone : 
 
 " I didn't know your husband had come back from 
 South Africa." 
 
 " This is not my husband," said Clotilda. " This is 
 M. Deminski ... a friend." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Mrs. Walsingham. " I naturally thought 
 it was your husband." Then she drew herself up, looked 
 stonily at nothing in particular, and without any glance 
 or word of adieu, signed to her daughters to come 
 on. 
 
 The encounter had been brief but crushing. 
 
 " You see," cried Clotilda when she recovered suffi- 
 ciently to speak. " You see what people will think and 
 how they will behave. On paper or on the stage nothing is 
 easier than to defy convention. But directly you do it 
 in real life some one hateful like that makes you uncom- 
 fortable. When those peacocks hear Tristan and Isolde 
 they say ' How sublime, how touching, what a perfect
 
 THE SEVERINS 105 
 
 love-story ! ' But when they meet you and me in a 
 lane ... it really was horrible, Nicholas." 
 
 But Nicholas would not admit this for a moment. 
 He said that such stupid artificial people did not count, 
 and that when he reviewed the long roll of his genial and 
 brilliantly-endowed friends, he was in a world that would 
 think small beer of the Walsinghams. It was to this 
 world that Clotilda, so beautiful and so intelligent, 
 belonged by rights, and when she reached it she would 
 wonder how she had ever breathed in any other. It gave 
 him some trouble to coax and cajole her into a happier 
 mood, but by the time they reached the cottage he felt 
 tired but triumphant. They had agreed that they would 
 hurry through supper before the others returned, and go 
 down to the sands by moonlight as they had done yester- 
 day. When they went into the hall they saw Harriet 
 getting supper ready in the dining-room, and when 
 Clotilda appeared she came forward with a telegram 
 which she said had just arrived. Clotilda opened it, 
 read it, and handed it to Deminski. He had watched her, 
 and gathered from her face that it brought serious news. 
 
 " Just arrived," he read aloud. " Am with Michael. 
 Will come to-morrow. Tom." 
 
 Deminski followed Clotilda into the little drawing-room 
 and shut the door. They sat down, too much disturbed 
 at first to speak. But soon the man, watching the woman's 
 troubled face, broke the silence. 
 
 " This makes no difference," he said. " You no longer 
 care for him. You will come with me ? " 
 
 " But he will be here . . . to-morrow," murmured 
 Clotilda. 
 
 " Then we will not be here. Of course, it is impossible 
 that you should meet." 
 
 " There is no telling what would happen," murmured 
 Clotilda. " I wonder if he has altered much."
 
 io6 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " We will take the ten o'clock express from St. Mic- 
 hael's," said Deminski. " We shall pass him on the way." 
 
 " How can I ? " exclaimed Clotilda. " How can I tell 
 the others that I am going off with you to-morrow 
 morning ? I can't get off without telling them. We 
 must have our trunks with us, and we must order a cab." 
 
 Deminski's thoughts were working at express speed. 
 He saw that Clotilda's wavering mind had been upset 
 again by the telegram, that her fancy had turned for the 
 moment to her husband, and that his own programme 
 would fail if he was not prompt to carry it out. 
 
 " We will say that your husband has told you to go up 
 to London to meet him," he arranged. " They need not 
 see the telegram, but they will hear that there has been 
 one. They cannot object to our travelling together. 
 Besides . . . what I brought could easily go into your 
 trunk . . . and my bag will hardly hold together for 
 another journey. I will leave it behind. Then I can say 
 I am only going as far as St. Michael's. From St. 
 Michael's we can telegraph." 
 
 " I hate lies," said Clotilda. 
 
 " Sometimes you can't help them," said Deminski. 
 
 Clotilda hesitated, and the sight of her hesitation 
 loosed the floodgates of her lover's ardour, wrath, and 
 jealousy. He rated her, he coaxed her, he confused her 
 with the whirl of his words and the sudden fervour of his 
 endearments. He wept, he besought, he threatened to 
 kill her first and then himself. He was both fierce and 
 childlike in his protestations of undying love. In the 
 midst of it, before they had come to any conclusion, 
 while they were both torn and ravaged by the emotional 
 distress of such a scene, the rest of the party returned, 
 bringing with them the adventures, needs, and interests 
 of everyday life. The sunset had been glorious, said 
 Camilla ; he was dying of hunger, said Bob ; Mrs. Severin,
 
 THE SEVERINS 107 
 
 tired by her walk, sank into a chair. It was Selma whose 
 eyes travelled from Deminski's face to her sister's, dis- 
 covering in both the signs of storm. Meanwhile, Bob 
 had discovered the envelope of the telegram, and was 
 asking Clotilda who had sent it and what it contained. 
 
 At first Clotilda did not answer the child. She got up 
 and passed through the room to the door. When she had 
 reached it and opened it she spoke over her shoulder to 
 her mother. 
 
 " It's from Tom," she said. " He's in London." 
 
 " From Tom ! " cried Mrs. Severin, and it seemed to 
 Clotilda that the whole family cried " Tom in London ! " 
 over and over again, in varying keys of delight and sur- 
 prise. 
 
 " You appear to be pleased ! " she said. 
 
 " What does he say ? Where is his telegram ? " asked 
 Mrs. Severin excitedly. " Is he coming here ? " 
 
 " I am going up to London," said Clotilda. She did 
 not look at Deminski, and by the letter she did not lie. 
 
 " When ? " 
 
 " To-morrow." 
 
 " But why doesn't he come here ? " 
 
 " I have only had the telegram," said Clotilda evasively. 
 
 " Where is it ? " said Selma. 
 
 The two sisters faced each other now, Selma with 
 challenge in her eyes, and Clotilda with defiance. 
 
 " There is the envelope," said Clotilda. " You will 
 see that it is addressed to me." 
 
 " But can't you tell us what was in it ? A telegram 
 is not a letter it is not a private communication." 
 
 " This one is. I shall not show it," said Clotilda. 
 
 " But it tells you that Tom is in London ? " 
 
 Clotilda nodded. 
 
 " And that you are to go to London to-morrow ? " 
 
 Clotilda nodded again and fled from the room, but
 
 io8 THE SEVERINS 
 
 Selma was after her like lightning, and followed her 
 upstairs. There, in Clotilda's room, the sisters faced 
 each other again, breathless, hostile, and suspicious. 
 
 " You are not telling the truth, Clotilda," said Selma. 
 " You are hiding something from us." 
 
 " How dare you say so ? " 
 
 " I wonder what it is ! I wonder what you are going 
 to do." 
 
 " I am going to pack my trunk." 
 
 "To go to London to-morrow and what of Demin- 
 ski ? Does he stay here ? " 
 
 " Go and ask him," cried Clotilda. " I want to be. 
 alone." 
 
 She shut the door and locked it, leaving her sister on 
 the landing. Selma stood there for a short time, and 
 then went slowly downstairs. But when she looked for 
 Deminski, Camilla said that he had gone out to order 
 Clotilda's cab for the next day ; and when he came in 
 again he said that he had a headache, asked Mrs. Severin 
 to excuse him, and, without so much as a glance at Selma, 
 went upstairs to bed.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 MICHAEL had not been obliged to wait long for his 
 brother-in-law. He had gone up to his room and 
 found what he wanted. Then he came downstairs again 
 and took a chair into the garden, where it was less dreary 
 and a little cooler than in the house. But before he had 
 looked through his evening paper, he heard a cab turn 
 into the Crescent and a male voice shouting directions to 
 the driver. He got up, went to the gate, and watched a 
 man of enormous size and breadth descend from the cab. 
 Michael himself was just under six feet. Beside the new- 
 comer he looked spare and even small, and as he received 
 him he thought of Friar Tuck's cell where King Richard I. 
 sees Little John. The man was quite six feet five, and 
 his shoulders, voice, and laugh were in proportion to his 
 size. He laughed before he spoke, because he was trying 
 now to lift a huge cage from the cab with a parrot in it, 
 and the parrot, not liking the process, abused him blas- 
 phemously in English and Zulu. As he set it on the 
 pavement he turned and saw Michael. 
 
 " Is this the right house ? " he asked. " Does Mrs. 
 Severin live here, and Mrs. Crewe ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Michael. " But they are all at the sea- 
 side." 
 
 "Bad luck," said the man. "You're Michael, I 
 suppose ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Michael. " And you're Tom Crewe. 
 Come in." 
 
 For a moment the two men, who were about the same 
 
 109
 
 no THE SEVERINS 
 
 age, took stock of each other. Tom Crewe was what 
 women call an ugly man. He had large rough-hewn 
 features, a sunburnt skin, grey eyes with laughter in 
 them, and no beard or moustache. He evidently had the 
 good humour of the giant, but not the traditional stupid- 
 ity, and he looked like a man who has been in rough 
 places and come away not the rougher for his experiences, 
 but the steadier. This was in fact his history. His 
 marriage had been one of impulse and imprudence, for 
 at the time he could hardly support himself, much less 
 a wife. The only opening with promise that offered 
 itself after his marriage was in South Africa, and in so wild 
 a district that he determined to go out alone and let his 
 wife follow him if the conditions were fit for her. When 
 he got there he found that they were not in any way fit 
 for her, and that the fight for success was going to be 
 harder and longer than he had foreseen. Lately success 
 in a small way had come to him, and he had been able to 
 change the area of his work and settle in Natal. Directly 
 he did this he had told Clotilda to join him, and had sent 
 her money for her passage. Ever since he went out he 
 had written to her regularly, and had sent her regular 
 remittances, often more than he could easily afford. 
 
 Tom looked at Michael, then he looked up at the house, 
 and then he looked at the parrot. 
 
 " Have I got to take this beastly bird to the seaside ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 " Did you bring it for Clotilda ? " 
 
 " No. Clotilda can have all the parrots she wants out 
 there. I brought this for Bob. He ordered one in his 
 last letter." 
 
 " We'll leave it here," said Michael, " and your big 
 trunks too, and you'd better come with me to my club. 
 You won't go on till to-morrow, I suppose ? It's a seven 
 hours' journey."
 
 THE SEVERINS in 
 
 So the two men went into the house, unearthed Mrs. 
 Ginger, left Tom's trunks in her care, and gave her in- 
 structions about the care of the bird. Then they drove 
 to Michael's club, but on the way they sent the telegram 
 to Clotilda that she received when she got back from 
 Sarnen. Michael was glad to find that Crewe meant to 
 join his wife next day. 
 
 " But I don't understand what has happened," he said 
 after dinner, when they were smoking together. " How 
 is it you arrived unexpectedly ? Why didn't you let 
 Clotilda know that you were coming ? " 
 
 " I thought I'd surprise her," said Tom Crewe. He 
 went on smoking for some time before he spoke again. 
 Michael did not feel in a talkative mood either. His 
 inclination was to say as little as possible, and to let 
 Crewe find out for himself how the land lay. He had 
 the horror felt by all sensible men and women of saying 
 the word too much, of doing harm by interference. But 
 presently Crewe spoke again. 
 
 " The truth is I got uneasy," he said. " Who is 
 Nicholas Deminski ? " 
 
 " He is a German journalist," said Michael. 
 
 " What sort is he ? " 
 
 " A beast." 
 
 " But what sort of beast ? " 
 ' The clever sort they call him a genius " 
 
 " What do the women see in him ? " 
 
 " They say he has a rich mind and sensitive soul," 
 said Michael. 
 
 Tom Crewe stared as if Michael had talked Hebrew, 
 and then, catching the whimsical twinkle in Michael's 
 lazy eyes, he laughed ; but he was not altogether in a 
 laughing vein. 
 
 " Clotilda seems to have been about with him a bit," 
 he went on, " by what Selma said and Bob."
 
 ii2 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " Oh, Selma Bob did they write to you ? " 
 
 " Why were you so anxious for me to come over ? 
 Had it anything to do with this chap ? " 
 
 " You did get my letter then ? I wondered " 
 
 " I got it three days before I started. Where is this 
 Deminski now ? " 
 
 " He is at Carbay," said Michael, after a short pause. 
 
 " How long has he been there ? " 
 
 " A week." 
 
 The big man moved restlessly in his chair. " I say," 
 he cried, " couldn't you have stopped that ? " 
 
 " I didn't know it till yesterday afternoon," said 
 Michael. 
 
 It was some minutes before either of the men spoke 
 again, and then it was Tom who broke the silence. 
 
 " Five years is a long time," he said. 
 
 " It is," said Michael, wondering if his brother-in-law 
 had been much altered by the rough-and-tumble of his 
 life, and whether he would find Clotilda much altered. 
 
 " I think I'll have a look at Bradshaw," said Crewe, 
 going to the table where there were some time-tables and 
 books of reference. 
 
 " There is a 9.50 to St. Michael's," he said soon. " I 
 can get on to Carbay by 7.45. I could just do it. My 
 bag is not unpacked yet. Sorry I've given trouble about 
 the room, old man " 
 
 " That's all right," said Michael, and he did not try to 
 dissuade him. It was like seeing a doctor you trust 
 hurry on to some one ill to see this wholesome, kindly 
 man hasten to Clotilda's rescue. 
 
 " I hope you'll find them all fit," he said, as he waited 
 for the train to steam out of the station, for he had 
 accompanied Crewe to Paddington. 
 
 " I'll send you a wire," said Crewe. 
 
 As the train moved the two men grabbed each other
 
 THE SEVERINS 113 
 
 swiftly by the hand, and in doing so said more than their 
 inexpressive tongues had said during the four or five 
 hours of their acquaintanceship. 
 
 " I'm anxious, and I'm glad you are going. I trust 
 you," said Michael's hand. 
 
 " I like you down to the ground and cheer up, old 
 man. I'm there," said Crewe's mighty grasp ; and 
 then the train, on its way west, steamed out of the 
 station. 
 
 Crewe was not a man to make a plan of campaign or to 
 reflect profoundly on the difficulties before him. He had 
 come from Africa to fetch his wife because she disregarded 
 his written summons, and because her letters made him 
 uneasy. But his uneasiness took the form of action and 
 never of mental worry. He settled himself comfortably 
 for the night in his empty compartment, and slept till 
 nearly six o'clock. 
 
 At St. Michael's he managed to get some coffee, and at 
 a quarter to eight he had left Carbay station and was 
 walking up a steep winding path to the cottage which 
 could be seen from below and had been pointed out to 
 him. But before he left the path he saw a girl coming to- 
 wards him with a towel over her arm, and as she came 
 nearer he recognized Selma Severin, five years older, but 
 not greatly altered. At eighteen she had been as tall as 
 she was now and nearly as handsome, and he had only 
 half liked her. She was walking slowly and with her eyes 
 fixed on the ground, and she did not see her brother-in- 
 law till she was close upon him. Then the shock his 
 sudden presence gave her sent the colour from her lips, 
 and she fixed her eyes with an unsmiling stare that 
 seemed to convey bad news and even scorn. 
 
 " Well, Selma," said Crewe, and offered her his hand. 
 ' You change your plans suddenly," she said. 
 " I do sometimes," he admitted. 
 8
 
 ii4 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " However, you'll just catch them. The cab is ordered 
 for nine." 
 
 For the life of him Crewe could not keep a glance of 
 surprise and inquiry out of his eyes ; but he said nothing. 
 
 " You'll find them all at the cottage," said Selma. 
 " I'm going to bathe. But what will happen now ? Shall 
 you go to London with Clotilda and Nicholas Deminski ? " 
 
 "I'll tell you when I've seen Clotilda," said Crewe. 
 
 " I suppose you thought your telegram was not well 
 was not quite ardent enough ? I thought myself that 
 instead of ordering Clotilda to go up and meet you, she 
 might have expected you to come and see her after 
 five years." 
 
 " Well, here I am," said Crewe, wondering what the 
 girl was driving at, and why she looked like a thunder- 
 cloud, and, above all, why Clotilda had told a lie about 
 his telegram. He was not a man to forgive lies ; and 
 he was not a man to discuss his wife with any one. He 
 nodded to Selma as she went her way down to the sea ; 
 and in two minutes he was at the door of the cottage. 
 There he saw Bob, who stared at him without recog- 
 nition, but with evident admiration of his height. 
 
 " What a lovely Goliath you'd make," he said, and 
 then Tom perceived that the boy had a catapult and some 
 small stones. 
 
 " Do you know who I am ? "he asked ; but Bob shook 
 his head. 
 
 " Ever heard of Tom Crewe ? " 
 
 " Of course I have," cried Bob. " Where's my 
 parrot ? " 
 
 " He's all right," said Crewe. " Where's Clotilda ? " 
 
 " Upstairs dressing, I suppose. We've not had break- 
 fast yet. She's going away to-day " 
 
 " Oh ! " said Tom. " Just take me upstairs, will you 
 Bob, and show me Clotilda's room ? "
 
 THE SEVERINS 115 
 
 " I needn't go up," said Bob. " You can see the door 
 from the hall just opposite the stairs that one with a 
 brass knob." 
 
 " Right you are ! " said Tom, and went up and knocked 
 at his wife's door. A voice said " Come in," and he 
 went in, closing the door behind him. Clotilda was 
 kneeling in front of a trunk trying in vain to shut it. 
 She was dressed for her journey in a dark blue coat and 
 skirt, but she had no hat on yet. For a moment Tom 
 stood still on the threshold trying at a glance to bridge 
 five years. For a moment Clotilda did not look up. 
 " I wish you'd help me with this trunk," she said irritably, 
 and then she did lift her eyes and saw Goliath standing 
 there. With a sudden cry that Tom could not fully 
 interpret, she stayed there on her knees, white with the 
 shock she was sustaining, and with the instant flurry and 
 confusion of her thoughts. 
 
 " Well, Clotilda," said Tom, and he took a step to- 
 wards her. She rose then to her feet, but waited where 
 she stood. The next moment her husband had her in his 
 arms and kissed her as if neither doubts nor misunder- 
 standings separated them. For the sight of her told him 
 what course to take better than any reflection could have 
 done. When he saw her he saw his wife again, the girl he 
 had wooed, married, and worked for faithfully, the girl he 
 loved and meant to hold. 
 
 " Well, Clotilda," he said again after a time. " You 
 have not spoken to me yet." 
 
 " I didn't expect you," said Clotilda. 
 
 " Say you are glad to see me." 
 
 Clotilda hesitated. The amazing fact was that she did 
 feel glad to see him, felt happily at home within his arms, 
 felt drawn to him by a thousand tender memories, felt 
 that she trusted him as she had never trusted any one 
 else. But her lover and bridegroom had been a boy. He
 
 ii6 THE SEVERINS 
 
 had returned to her a man, and she feared his judgment 
 and his wrath when he should learn her folly. 
 
 " Oh ! Tom," she said with a short troubled sigh ; and 
 she did not know what to say next. 
 
 " What do the trunks mean ? " said Crewe. " What 
 do Selma and Bob mean ? I have met them both, and 
 they both assured me that you were just going to London." 
 
 " Yes," said Clotilda in a small voice. 
 
 " To meet me ? " 
 
 " I told them so." 
 
 " Why did you teU a He ? " 
 
 " I had to make some excuse to get away." 
 
 " To get away from me, do you mean ? " 
 
 Clotilda broke down, and instead of speaking covered 
 her face and sobbed. Her husband's arms were no longer 
 round her, but she was still standing close to him. 
 
 " I didn't know that I should be so glad to see you," 
 she managed to say rather incoherently when Tom had 
 waited some time for her to speak. " Directly you came 
 I knew that I was glad." 
 
 " Where were you going ? " said Tom. 
 
 " To Paris." 
 
 " By yourself ? " 
 
 Clotilda shook her head. 
 
 " Oh ! Tom," she cried. " Why did you stay away 
 for five years ? It was too long." 
 
 " I trusted you," said Crewe, and turned away from 
 her. For a long time he stood by the window and did not 
 speak, while Clotilda's mind was in a tumult of shame 
 and repentance. As she watched her husband's tall, still 
 figure she thought of all that he had been to her ; of all 
 that he might be again made her ache with the sense of her 
 loss. Deminski's arguments, his principles, his cajoleries, 
 the whole man of straw that he was sank in Tom's 
 presence to a lower world where men and women were
 
 THE SEVERINS 117 
 
 unstable, self-indulgent, and disloyal. The sickening fear 
 that she had qualified for this world, that she was un- 
 worthy of the other, grew until the suspense was unbear- 
 able. It would be like what she knew of Tom if he told 
 her to go her ways, but if he did her heart would break. 
 Certainly she would not go with Deminski now. A 
 revulsion of feeling as sudden as Titania's showed her that 
 she had been enamoured of an ass. She actually saw 
 Deminski with Bob's eyes. 
 
 " I wish it was a dream," she cried. " I wish I could 
 wake and find that it had been a bad, stupid dream, and 
 that I was with you again as we were ... oh ! Tom 
 do you remember. ... ? " 
 
 He turned and faced her again, and spoke before she 
 finished. 
 
 " I remember everything," he said sternly. " For five 
 years I have remembered . . . night and day. It is you 
 who have forgotten. Why didn't you come out to me this 
 spring when I told you to come and sent you the money ? " 
 
 Clotilda hung her head and did not speak. 
 
 " What binds you to this man ? " he asked. 
 
 " I suppose my consent does," she said unwillingly. 
 
 " Your consent to go to Paris with him ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " When was that given ? " 
 
 *' Last night ... after your telegram came ! " 
 
 " After my telegram came ! " 
 
 Crewe looked at his wife and tried to understand. 
 There was neither coolness nor change in her manner to 
 him, nor even much difference made by the years in her 
 looks. She stood there as he had seen her sometimes 
 when any little rift caused by her carelessness or levity 
 had for the moment sprung between them. She was 
 adorably sweet and pretty, as irresponsible as a child, 
 as easily led as a child, probably as innocent.
 
 n8 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " Has . . . this man ... no other hold over you ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 " None at all ... except that yesterday afternoon 
 ... as we were walking home, he put his arm round me," 
 she said. 
 
 "Oh, damn him ! " said Tom Crewe. 
 
 " Michael's friends, the Walsinghams, came by and 
 saw us. It was horrid ! " 
 
 " It certainly sounds so," said Crewe. 
 
 In the silence that followed Clotilda saw herself as she 
 supposed her husband saw her, and the figure she cut 
 was neither distinguished nor romantic, but stupidly 
 ignoble. Also the figure of Deminski persisted in her 
 fancy as she had seen him yesterday, ungroomed, gesticu- 
 lating, in the end hysterical. They were a pretty pair, she 
 said to herself bitterly ; perhaps after all she had better go. 
 
 " But how do you know about him ? " she said with 
 sudden remembrance. " Who told you ? " 
 
 " Your letters were full of him ... at one time. 
 Then there were letters from the others . . . and yester- 
 day I saw Michael ... he let out that this . . . what 
 do you call him ? (Tom's tongue stumbled over the un- 
 wonted syllables) . . . this Deminski . . . was here . . . 
 and a child could see that Michael was worried ... so 
 I came." 
 
 " I wonder who told Michael he was here ? I didn't." 
 
 " No, but Bob did." 
 
 " Bob ! I thought perhaps it was Selma. She . . . ' 
 
 Clotilda checked herself, and Tom did not speak. He 
 had no intention of telling his wife that Selma had given 
 her away. But he was rapidly making up his mind what 
 to do ; so when without another word she walked towards 
 the door he placed himself in front of it and stopped her. 
 
 " Where are you going ? " he said. 
 
 " To him," said Clotilda. " You don't want me."
 
 THE SEVERINS 119 
 
 " Upon my word ! " said Tom, exploding ; but his 
 thoughts were not of a kind he chose to express in words ; 
 so he took his wife by the shoulders and gently put her 
 into the nearest chair. 
 
 " You'll wait here," he said. " I'll settle with him. 
 Which is his room ? " 
 
 " Oh ! I don't want you to meet ! " cried Clotilda, 
 turning piteously white ; "I don't know what would 
 happen. He believes in duels, and you are three times 
 his size, and you won't understand each other. He really 
 isn't a wicked man, Tom. I am as much to blame as he 
 is. I admired his cleverness and his new ideas. He is 
 one of those who think society is all wrong and want to 
 reform it." 
 
 "He is not going to reform it with you," said Tom. 
 " And I mean to tell him so. Which is his room, Clotilda ? " 
 
 This time he spoke in a way his wife could not dis- 
 regard. She pointed out Deminski's door and waited 
 anxiously to see him enter it. But when he knocked no 
 answer came. 
 
 " He must be downstairs," said Tom, whose voice was 
 as large as his body and could be heard all over the small 
 house. As he spoke another door opened, and Mrs. 
 Severin, actually up and dressed before nine o'clock, ap- 
 peared to welcome him. 
 
 " I heard you talking to Bob directly you came," she 
 said, " so I got up. You're taller than ever, Tom. I 
 suppose it's the African sun ... or is it that we've not 
 seen you so long ? But why did you tell Clotilda to meet 
 you if you meant to come here ? " 
 
 " I found I could not wait," said Tom. 
 
 " How nice of you ! . . . But you always were a good 
 husband . . . even when you were in Africa . . . and 
 I'm delighted to see you again. ... Oh ! there's Clotilda 
 ... I suppose you will both stay on here now ... if
 
 120 THE SEVERINS 
 
 you don't mind being packed rather close . . . you see 
 it is only a cottage . . . and we have Nicholas Deminski 
 staying with us ... you don't know him, Tom, but I'm 
 sure you'll enjoy meeting him." 
 
 " I want to meet him," said Tom. " Where is he ? " 
 
 " Where is he, Clotilda ? He is a marvellously clever 
 man you know, Tom, . . . quite a genius . . . and a 
 scholar . . . such a brain ... so versatile . . . you'll 
 find him most refreshing." 
 
 " I'll go and find him," said Tom, and with a stride 
 reached the top of the stairs. But Clotilda ran after him, 
 while Mrs. Severin, remembering that she had forgotten 
 a belt, a handkerchief, a collar, and one or two other little 
 tiresome trifles, went back into her room. 
 
 " Tom," whispered Clotilda, what are you going to do ? " 
 
 " Fire him out," said Tom. 
 
 " But what am I to do ? " 
 
 " Do ! behave yourself." 
 
 " Oh ! Tom are you going to forgive me ? " 
 
 He looked at her. 
 
 " No one need know . . . need they ? " she went on, 
 emboldened by his look to detain him by grabbing his 
 arm. 
 
 " It's not anything I want to talk about," said Tom. 
 " I can't answer for your remarkable friend." 
 
 " Where can he be ? " said Clotilda, and just then Bob 
 appeared at the foot of the stairs with a dirty-looking 
 letter which he waved at them. They ran down the little 
 flight to meet him. 
 
 " Haven't you done talking to Clotilda yet ? " he said 
 to Tom. " I want you out in the garden." 
 
 " Where is Mr. Deminski, Bob ? " said his sister. 
 
 " Gone," said Bob. 
 
 " What ! " cried husband and wife. 
 
 " He saw Tom out of the window, and he came slinking
 
 THE SEVERINS 121 
 
 down the garden asking who Tom was and why he had 
 come." 
 
 " What did you say ? " asked Tom. 
 
 " I said I s'posed you'd come for Clotilda, and that 
 you'd brought me a parrot. It's my parrot ; Clotilda, 
 you're not going to have a thing to do with it. I shall 
 teach it to say ' Deminski is an ass,' if I like." 
 
 " Has he gone down to bathe, then ? " 
 
 " No. He's gone for good, I tell you. He took his bag. 
 Here's a letter." 
 
 " But where has he gone ? " 
 
 " I don't know," said Bob indifferently. " He jabbered 
 a lot to himself. He said Tom was a giant, and that 
 giants were stupid and didn't understand things, and he 
 was glad you hadn't packed for him. Why don't you 
 read your letter ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Tom, " read your letter." 
 
 " Why is it so dirty ? " asked Clotilda. 
 
 " It isn't dirt. It's earth and dew. I put it on a flower- 
 bed and trod on it by accident. Deminski cried on it too, 
 I believe." 
 
 " There is only a line," said Clotilda " a quotation 
 from Rotneo and Juliet. ' I am fortune's fool,' he says, 
 and signs himself ' Your broken-hearted friend.' ' 
 
 " I told you he was a silly ass," said Bob. " Come to 
 breakfast." 
 
 " So far," said Tom, " I think Bob's the most sensible 
 person in the family." 
 
 " You see," said Bob. " until Michael came I was the 
 only man in it."
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 A> Clotilda's trunk was packed and a cab ordered t( 
 take her to the station, Crewe proposed that thej 
 should return at once to London. He had a short tii 
 to spend in England and a great many people to visit 
 He had business to transact, and above all he said he 
 wanted to see more of Michael. 
 
 " He is not much like any of you," he said as he sat 
 at the breakfast table. 
 
 " He is a Philistine," said Selma, who had come back 
 from her bathe in a better temper. " We are children of 
 light." 
 
 Tom Crewe grunted and went on with his breakfast. 
 
 " I think I shall be a Philistine," said Bob. 
 
 " Michael has the family temperament," said Clotilda. 
 " He is not very worldly wise. You'll see ... some day 
 he'll be in a fizzle." 
 
 " I don't know what you mean, Clotilda," said Mrs. 
 Severin in an offended way. " As a family, I think we 
 have our share of brains." 
 
 " Oh ! brains ! What good are they ? Where are we 
 in the world ? " asked Clotilda. 
 
 " That is a Philistine question," said Selma ; " rank 
 materialism in fact. What is worldly success ? " 
 
 No one seemed inclined to answer ; and at last Bob, 
 who was following the argument with great interest and 
 paying no attention to his breakfast, said : 
 
 " What is it ? Don't any of you know ? " 
 
 " You'll never get on in the world if you dawdle over 
 
 122
 
 THE SEVERINS 123 
 
 your meals," said Clotilda, giving him a little shake. But 
 Bob freed himself from her grasp and turned to Tom. 
 
 " What is a Philistine ? " he said. 
 
 '* Don't ask me conundrums," said Crewe with his 
 hearty laugh. " Get Selma to tell you." 
 
 " Tom is an arch Philistine," said Selma. " He has all 
 the middle-class virtues. He is honest, respectable, law- 
 abiding, thrifty, industrious ..." 
 
 " Oh, do leave Tom alone ! " cried Clotilda, getting up. 
 "I've got to put up with him . . . not you." 
 
 " You quite frighten Clotilda," said Mrs. Severin 
 reproachfully to her second daughter ; and she could not 
 understand why her son-in-law laughed again. 
 
 " I hope Clotilda will be happy in Africa," she said, 
 while her daughter was putting on her hat. " I have 
 always hoped that you would some day fetch her, but I 
 did not expect you to arrive before breakfast and depart 
 before lunch. You are rather sudden in your ways, Tom. 
 You were about your courtship and marriage too. But 
 I am delighted to hear that you mean to settle in England 
 again before very long. I should not like to live amongst 
 savages myself." 
 
 " I live in Natal now," said Tom. 
 
 ; ' Yes," said Mrs. Severin, " which kind do you have 
 there ? Those big springy ones that came to Earl's 
 Court one year, or those horrid dwarfs that shoot at you 
 with poisoned arrows ? They must be the worst." 
 
 " I wish you'd take me with you," said Bob. " I'd 
 rather go to Africa than to school, and it would be more 
 useful to me. Take me instead of Clotilda. She'd 
 be frightened of a savage. You know what girls 
 are." 
 
 " I've promised to take her, old chap," said Tom. 
 " She'd be disappointed now. But we may come back 
 next year. What shall I bring you ? "
 
 i2 4 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " A savage," said Bob instantly. " One of the bi 
 springy ones." 
 
 Meanwhile Selma had slipped from the room, and unde 
 pretence of helping her to finish packing, had shut herse 
 in with Clotilda. Until lately the two sisters had alwa 
 been great friends, and now that Clotilda was going so f 
 away, far from her and far from Deminski, Selma felt 
 some revival of the life-long intimate affection that 
 rivalry had disturbed for a time. Besides, she had a con 
 fession to make, a confession of betrayal to which she 
 had been driven by temper and jealousy, and of which, 
 now that she was in a more normal state of mind, s 
 felt ashamed. 
 
 " Can I help you ? " she said as she went in. 
 
 " No, thank you," said Clotilda cheerfully. " To 
 locked the trunk. You see, I was nearly ready when h 
 came." 
 
 " Yes," said Selma gloomily, and she sat down 
 Clotilda went to the glass, arranged her hat at th 
 coquettish angle that suited her, and carefully tied o: 
 her veil. 
 
 " Tom says I'm prettier than ever," she said. 
 
 " Are you happy, Clotilda ? " said Selma in her deep 
 tragic voice. 
 
 " Happy ? Rather ! dear old girl," said Clotilda 
 and the next moment she had danced across the room 
 perched on the arm of her sister's chair, and was kissi 
 her affectionately. 
 
 " I wish you were half as happy," she went on. 
 wish but I know you won't take my advice I wouldn' 
 have taken yours yesterday." 
 
 " You ought not to kiss me, Clotilda," said Selma. 
 
 " Why ? You haven't got a sore throat, have you ? ' 
 and Clotilda danced away again and looked at her sister 
 anxiously.
 
 THE SEVERINS 125 
 
 " I've betrayed you twice," said Selma. 
 
 " Betrayed me ? Who to, and what about ? " 
 
 " About Nicholas to your husband. I wrote to him 
 in June and told him he ought to come and fetch you 
 away." 
 
 " So did Michael," said Clotilda. " What an officious 
 family I have. However, if you brought Tom here < " 
 
 " This morning I met him before he saw you, and I 
 told him you were going to London with Deminski." 
 
 " But you didn't know it. No one knew it but Nicholas 
 and me." 
 
 " I guessed it. I was sure," said Selma. 
 
 " Well, you were a sneak," said Clotilda, sitting down 
 by her sister again, " and I've never known you a sneak 
 before. What's come to you, Selma ? " 
 
 " You know," said Selma. 
 
 Her tragic tongue sobered the merry mood of the 
 happier girl. Clotilda put her arms round her sister 
 again. 
 
 " Well I'm going," she said, and that was all she 
 could say at the moment. Her thoughts ran from the past 
 to the future, and she remembered what Deminski had 
 said of Selma ; but with the newly-awakened sense that 
 found him wanting she could not wish for his union with 
 her sister or say a word to further it. 
 
 " Don't worry," she said soon, and Selma knew that 
 they were friends again. Then Tom appeared to say the 
 cab was waiting, and there were farewells both at the 
 house and at the station, where Bob and Camilla accom- 
 panied them. Then there was the long pleasant journey 
 and an arrival in London and a surprise telegram to 
 Michael inviting him to dine with them at their hotel. 
 It was an immense relief to Michael to see his sister 
 united to her husband again, and to a man he liked as 
 unreservedly as he liked Crewe.
 
 126 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " I knew you and Tom would get on," Clotilda said t 
 her brother just before she sailed. " You have the sam 
 ideas and prejudices. I'm as fond of Tom as I can be 
 but sometimes I feel like a hawk on his owner's wrist, 
 want to break loose and fly into the air." 
 
 " Or into gas," said Michael. 
 
 " You're thinking of Deminski. Did Tom tell you tha 
 he found me just going off to Paris with him ? " 
 
 " What ? " cried Michael, for, of course, Tom had no 
 said a word about it. But Clotilda told him the whoi 
 story. 
 
 " You see," she said, " I had rather forgotten To 
 but directly I saw him again I knew I should have to 
 what he wanted. Deminski seemed to puff out like 
 candle. But I should be quite pleased to see him agai 
 He is far more interesting to talk to than Tom." 
 
 " I wonder if he has gone back to Carbay," said 
 Michael. 
 
 That question was settled next day by a letter to Cre 
 from Bob, thanking him for news of the parrot whic 
 Tom had seen more than once when he had gone wit 
 Clotilda to the corner house to pack her possessions ; and 
 imploring him not to forget the savage whom he desired 
 in the shape of a Zulu armed for battle. 
 
 " He can have Clotilda's room," he finished, " and I 
 dare say you had better let Mummy know what he likes 
 for breakfast. Deminski has grape nuts. He came back 
 next day and said the hotel was beastly. I wish I could 
 have the savage at once. I should tell him to dance a 
 war-dance and hiss the way Mummy heard them at Earl's 
 Court and frighten Deminski out of the house. Besides, 
 I shall soon be rather too old to play with a savage." 
 
 The letter arrived at night when Michael was present, 
 and Cre we handed it to him without comment. Both 
 men looked astonished and annoyed. 
 
 uu 
 
 S 
 
 ith
 
 THE SEVERINS 127 
 
 " He is shameless," said Michael. 
 
 " What's up ? " said Clotilda, and read the letter in her 
 turn. 
 
 " I suppose he may still be our brother-in-law," she 
 said when she put it down. 
 
 " I think I'll run down there for a week," said Michael, 
 when Clotilda's disturbing and offensive suggestion had 
 taken root in his mind ; and next day he arranged with 
 Mr. St. Erth, who had come back to business, to do this 
 and to start two days later. Mrs. Severin, Camilla, and 
 Bob met him at the station, and they were still part 
 of a straggling procession ascending a narrow path that 
 led to the high road when Bob attracted general attention 
 by saying in his high, young voice : 
 
 " I was drowned this morning." 
 
 " Get on, Bob," said Michael, who was behind him. 
 
 " But he speaks the truth," said Mrs. Severin. " If it 
 had not been for the bravery of a dog you would have 
 arrived in time for your brother's funeral." 
 
 " There's the dog ! " cried Bob with a sudden yell of 
 delight. " Look, Michael ! Oh, why don't you look 
 quickly." 
 
 Michael had done his best to oblige the child by craning 
 his neck in the right direction, and he had actually caught 
 sight of a large black retriever racing from th sea across 
 the sands with a stick in his mouth. The moment's delay 
 allowed the people behind to pass him, and when he spoke 
 to his mother again they were well out of hearing. 
 What happened ? " he asked. 
 
 It was terrible terrible," said Mrs. Severin. " I can 
 dly speak of it yet." 
 
 Michael glanced at Camilla. 
 Bob got out of his depth," she said. 
 But you and Selma swim." 
 None of us were in the water. The tide was out ever
 
 128 THE SEVERINS 
 
 so far, and we were up against the cliffs. We could hardly 
 see what was happening." 
 
 " Bob must never go in alone again," Michael said to his 
 mother. 
 
 " I wasn't alone," piped Bob ; " Deminski was there. 
 We were having a race. I can swim very well, Michael. 
 I'll have a race with you to-morrow." 
 
 " What happened ? " said Michael again, and again he 
 looked at Camilla. 
 
 " We don't quite know," said the girl. " Bob says he 
 felt himself sinking and called out." 
 
 " That's all I can remember," said Bob proudly. 
 " After that I was drowned." 
 
 "He is fearfully hurt if you tell him he wasn't 
 drowned," Camilla whispered to Michael. " I looked up 
 by chance and saw people in the distance running, and as 
 Bob was in the water I ran too. By the time I got to 
 the water's edge there was a little crowd round Bob he 
 had just opened his eyes they say the dog got hold of 
 him first." 
 
 " What was Deminski doing, then ? " 
 
 " I met him as I ran across the sands. He was coming 
 back to the tent. He looked wild as if some one was 
 after him and he was holding his head. I thought at 
 first it was he who had been hurt but when I tried to 
 speak he waved me off and rushed on." 
 
 " What explanation does he give ? " 
 
 " None," said Mrs. Severin. " The poor fellow is a 
 good deal upset. He has a bad headache. We left him 
 lying on the sofa." 
 
 " I wonder what you would have called him if Bob had 
 been drowned," said Michael. 
 
 " I am sorry for every one who suffers, whether he 
 deserves it or not," said Mrs. Severin. " I have not 
 forgiven Nicholas, but I have lent him my menthol
 
 THE SEVERINS 129 
 
 for his headache. I wish you would not talk as if Bob 
 could have been drowned, Michael. It makes me tremble 
 all over again as I did when I saw him lying on the 
 sand with a crowd round him." 
 
 " I was drowned," said Bob indignantly. " I couldn't 
 be more dead if I'd been buried. I had to go straight to 
 bed. The dog's master carried me up the hill. I only 
 came to meet you because I wanted to tell you about it. 
 I don't feel at all well now. Could I have some bananas ? 
 They always do me good, and we shall pass the girl who 
 sells them directly." 
 
 " I should like to see the dog's master," said Michael, 
 while Bob was buying his bananas. " Did you find out 
 who he was ? " 
 
 Camilla said she would know him by sight, and that he 
 had told her he was a doctor, but she had not heard his 
 name. Michael gathered from her story that they had all 
 been too much flurried to ask for that, although their 
 thanks had been profuse. 
 
 " Mummy kissed him," said Bob. 
 
 " Yes," said Camilla ; " he turned red and bolted 
 down the hill before we could find out anything." 
 
 " How could I help it ? " asked Mrs. Severin, " when I 
 saw my child alive in his arms and thought of what might 
 have been " 
 
 " Deminski says " began Camilla. 
 
 " Oh, don't quote that creature to me again ! " exclaimed 
 Michael, his anger and impatience rising to his lips. He 
 walked on alone without seeing that Camilla hung back 
 unhappily, supposing that she had displeased him. He 
 walked so quickly that he was soon ahead of the others, 
 but he knew how to find the cottage, because Camilla had 
 pointed it out from below. No one was in the small front 
 garden, and the blinds of a bow window were drawn 
 down. He went in, opened the door of that room first, 
 
 9
 
 130 THE SEVERINS 
 
 and found, as he had suspected, that Selma and Deminski 
 were there. Deminski lay on the sofa with a handkerchief 
 tied round his head, and Selma sat beside him. 
 
 " Go away," she cried angrily the moment she heard 
 Michael's '-hand on the door ; and then, as he walked into 
 the room, her voice and manner changed. 
 
 " Oh, it's you ! " she said coldly. 
 
 Michael stood still at first and looked at his sister and 
 the man on the sofa. The door, which he had left open, 
 let in a flood of light and air. Selma was still frowning, 
 and she did not come forward to meet her brother. 
 Deminski had his eyes shut, and he groaned as if the 
 light and noise tormented him. 
 
 " Is Mr. Deminski ill ? " said Michael. 
 
 " He has neuralgia," said Selma ; "he wants perfect 
 quiet. Will you please go away, Michael, and shut the 
 door ? " 
 
 " No," said Michael, coming further into the room. 
 " You go away, Selma, please, I want to be left here 
 with Mr. Deminski." 
 
 He was too angry to speak with much consideration 
 either for his sister or her invalid. His voice had an edge 
 that cut through their self-complacency, and he stood 
 there waiting for Selma to obey him. 
 
 " What have you to say to Mr. Deminski ? " she asked, 
 but she rose from her chair sullen and unwilling, yet 
 compelled by her brother's wrath. He did not answer 
 her question, but he met her glance, and she went out of 
 the room, because she felt certain that she must. Michael 
 looked quite ready to put her out, she thought. For a 
 moment she stood in the passage, calling herself a coward, 
 wondering why she did not venture in again. Then she 
 went into the opposite room and waited. 
 
 Michael had gone to the window and pulled up the 
 centre blind before he spoke. He hated the semi-darkness
 
 THE SEVERINS 131 
 
 and the stuffy air of the room. It smelt of eau-de- 
 Cologne and menthol. When he got back he saw that 
 Deminski had put his feet to the ground and was sitting 
 up, but he had not removed the handkerchief from 
 his head. 
 
 " What do you want with me ? " he said. " I'm ill." 
 
 " Then why don't you go to bed and have a doctor ? " 
 said Michael. 
 
 " All doctors are knaves," said Deminski ; "I would 
 not allow one to touch me." 
 
 " It was not the doctor who behaved like a knave this 
 morning," said Michael. 
 
 Deminski clutched his head with both hands and 
 groaned. 
 
 " Have you no delicacy ? " he said in a hollow voice. 
 
 " No, I've not," said Michael. 
 
 " Can't you see ? Can't you feel ? Don't you under- 
 stand what I suffer ? I am quite frank about it. Frank- 
 ness is my virtue. I heard the child cry out." 
 
 " And you turned your back on him and swam to shore. 
 People saw you, I suppose. It wouldn't be much use lying 
 about it." 
 
 " Why should I lie ? I am not a god. I am a human 
 being like you, like the rest. I behaved like a coward. 
 Well I admit it. I assure you it is not a pleasant ex- 
 perience to behave like a coward. The moment is graven 
 in my memory for ever and, after all, who is in anguish ? 
 Not the child, not the dog, but ME. My nerves are 
 quivering with pain. I have always maintained that all 
 men who were not fools were cowards at heart. Now I 
 know it. I am not one of your wooden heroes who meet 
 death smiling because they are not sensitive. I am a man 
 of vision and imagination. 
 
 " I should like to shake you like a rat," said Michael 
 slowly.
 
 i 3 2 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " I felt sure you would take that view," said Deminski 
 as he turned back to his sofa cushions, buried his head in 
 them and sobbed. Michael turned on his heel and got as 
 far as the door. Then he changed his mind and came 
 back again ; he hardly knew what to do or say next. 
 
 " I wonder you are here to meet me," he said at 
 last. 
 
 Deminski raised his head and looked at the young man 
 standing over him. His small sharp eyes were contracted 
 with pain, his eyelids were discoloured, his tears were 
 still wet on his cheeks. 
 
 " Do you mean on account of Clotilda or Bob ? " he 
 said with a sort of naivete that both enraged and dumb- 
 founded Michael. 
 
 " Have you no shame ? " he said. 
 
 " What is shame ? I am agitated. My nerves will be 
 upset for days. Is that shame ? To-night I shall have 
 bad dreams. The events of the day will repeat themselves 
 again. I shall swim ashore again I shall cross the stony 
 plage as if the furies were after me I will show you the 
 cuts on my feet if you like. When I reached my tent I 
 sank exhausted on the ground ; I was not even thankful 
 to be alive. The thought of the child's mother troubled 
 me, for I have a tender heart. The child himself would 
 not have suffered as I am suffering now. One must take a 
 reasonable view of things." 
 
 " Look here," said Michael, " if you're well enough to 
 talk you're well enough to travel." 
 
 " To travel ! Where to ? " 
 
 " That's your affair." 
 
 " Do you mean that you want me to GO ? " 
 
 " I do." 
 
 " But Bob is alive and well ; and Clotilda's with her 
 stupid respectable husband. What harm have I done, 
 after all ? "
 
 THE SEVERINS 133 
 
 " What do you know of Clotilda's husband ? You 
 didn't stop to see him." 
 
 " I did see him from a window. He has a voice like 
 Fafner. Besides, Selma has told me of him. She says 
 that henceforth Clotilda will live in a cage and imagine 
 that she is happy. I would have saved her from such a 
 fate. I am sorry that your attitude is so unfriendly, Mr. 
 Severin. I adore your mother and sisters, and I am 
 eager to open my arms to you. Unfortunately your 
 ideas are obsolete, while mine are the ideas of to-morrow. 
 I assure you it is only ideas that keep us apart." 
 
 " As long as we keep apart, never mind what does it," 
 said Michael, beginning to wonder whether anything 
 short of physical force would rid him of the man. 
 
 " I am afraid you are shocked because Clotilda con- 
 sented to go with me to Paris ; but I am shocked because 
 she went to London with her husband. I am sure her 
 higher nature will henceforth be stifled ; therefore from 
 my point of view she has committed a crime. Do you 
 never try, Mr. Severin, to understand another man's 
 point of view ? Can you not sympathize with opinions 
 that are not your own ? Your brow is so intelligent I 
 am sure you are not as stupid as Fafner. Poor Clotilda ! 
 To think of her in an English home when she might 
 have been in Paris with me. We should have spent our 
 evenings in a cheap cafe" with others who are free. She, 
 poor creature, will be yawning by her own fireside. 
 It is in a cafe* that you learn to be sociable and have 
 beautiful manners, Mr. Severin, because you must consort 
 there with a variety of men. The Englishman in his home 
 hugs and enforces his superannuated ideas, and the result 
 is complete stagnation moral, mental, and social. 
 When you violently refused to meet the Kremskis you 
 behaved like a traditional Englishman who is a byword 
 throughout Europe for his hypocrisy and narrowness."
 
 i 3 4 THE SEVERINS 
 
 Michael was standing at the window while Deminski, 
 talking at a great rate and with evident uneasiness, poured 
 out these disjointed remarks at the other man's back. 
 Michael was watching the slow arrival of his mother with 
 Camilla and Bob, and wondering what he had better do 
 next. The thing jabbering from the sofa was made of 
 such poor stuff that his anger lost force as he listened to 
 it, and he felt as a man might who went out with a flaming 
 sword to kill a dragon, and found in its place a worm that 
 he could crush with his foot. Certainly he could put it 
 out of the house, but the last thing he desired was a 
 brawl. Mrs. Severin and Camilla were through the front 
 gate now, and in another moment would probably be in 
 the room. Camilla had seen him at the window already, 
 and waved her hand. He turned to address Deminski 
 again, and found that the invalid had stolen quietly from 
 the sofa and was standing in full view of the road ; so 
 Camilla must have seen him too. He still wore his 
 interesting bandage. 
 
 " I don't want a row before my mother and sisters " 
 
 began Michael. 
 
 " Here they are ! " said Deminski with a smile of 
 malicious relief. 
 
 " But you must leave the house." 
 
 " Dear Mrs. Severin," said Deminski, rushing to the 
 door as his hostess opened it, and seizing her hands in his. 
 " You will be glad to hear that my neuralgia is a little a 
 very little better. Your menthol has done it good." 
 
 " I am glad to hear it," said Mrs. Severin, speaking 
 with the offended stiffness of a weak nature that has a 
 quarrel but does not know how to carry it on. 
 
 "It is so much better that I think I may be able to 
 travel by to-morrow or next day," continued Deminski, 
 with a side glance at Michael. 
 
 " But you told us this morning you could stay another
 
 THE SEVERINS 135 
 
 week," said Selma, who had come into the room too. 
 " You mustn't think of travelling till you have quite 
 recovered." 
 
 " It is your brother who wishes me to go," he sighed. 
 
 " Michael ! " cried Selma sharply. 
 
 " He cannot forgive me. I dare say he is right." 
 
 " I felt like that all the afternoon," said Mrs. Severin. 
 
 " You you ! " bleated the injured man ; " but I look 
 on you as a mother. Does a mother ever desert her 
 child ? " 
 
 " You deserted mine this morning," said Mrs. Severin. 
 
 " It is true," moaned Deminski. " I shall never forgive 
 myself." 
 
 " Isn't he an ass ? " said Bob in an audible undertone to 
 Michael. He was standing with his elder brother in the 
 window, while Deminski, with Mrs. Severin and Selma 
 on either side of him, sat on the sofa. 
 
 " If you feel like that, I suppose I must forgive you," 
 said Mrs. Severin, whose wrath was weakening every 
 moment. " After all, Bob is safe and sound." 
 
 " Thanks to a dog," said Deminski. " Your son 
 condemns me and admires the dog. He does not perceive 
 that we both acted on instinct." 
 
 " I've had enough talk," said Michael impatiently. 
 " Come along, Bob." 
 
 " Did he really tell you to go ? " said Mrs. Severin to 
 her guest when her son had left the room. 
 
 " He was very rude," said Deminski ; "I have not 
 found him at all sympathetic. If he stays, I fear that I 
 must go." 
 
 " Perhaps when he has had a walk with Bob he will 
 feel differently about it," said Mrs. Severin. " You 
 can't wonder if he is annoyed, Nicholas. You see, he 
 doesn't stop to think about psychology and all that sort 
 of thing in the way you do. If he had been in the sea, he
 
 136 THE SEVERINS 
 
 would just have grabbed at Bob and brought him into 
 shallow water, as the dog did." 
 
 " Mentally," said Deminski, " the dog and he are nearer 
 each other than he and I. His mind is very limited. I 
 can't honestly say that he has the family brains at all. 
 Where does he come from, dear Mrs. Severin ? " 
 
 " I do not consider Michael a fool," said Mrs. Severin, 
 beginning to bristle at once. " He may not be as clever 
 as you are, Nicholas. I don't say he is but " 
 
 " I have told you from the beginning," said Selma, 
 " Michael is a Philistine. He is filled up with stodgy, 
 insular ideas. He is one of those men who would die 
 for their country." 
 
 " You describe him exactly," said Deminski. " Now 
 I am cosmopolitan. All countries are the same to me, and 
 I would not die for any of them. I am I, and if I die I'm 
 done, and then where should I be ? " 
 
 " I have no idea," said Mrs. Severin dreamily.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 MICHAEL let Bob take him down to the sands 
 and show him where, as he said, he had been 
 drowned that morning. The dog and the dog's master 
 were there too, and Bob effected the introduction his 
 brother desired. While Bob threw sticks and seaweed 
 into the sea for the retriever's pleasure and his own, the 
 two men discussed the event of the morning, and Michael 
 found, as he expected, that Deminski's exhibition of gross 
 cowardice was the talk of the place. Every one who had 
 seen what happened had seen that he could have rescued 
 the child without danger to himself. Half a dozen strokes 
 would have taken them into shallow water. 
 
 " I sent my dog in and waded in myself to meet them," 
 said the young doctor. " It was the easiest thing. All 
 the same, if no one had been near, the boy would have 
 been drowned. He went under twice, and was a good 
 deal dazed for a time. The fellow simply turned tail and 
 ran away." 
 
 Michael listened and did not say much ; but he dis- 
 covered that the doctor's name was Lloyd, that he was 
 here for a holiday, was fond of sailing, and would be 
 delighted to spend next day in a boat with Michael and 
 Bob. So Bob walked home in ecstasy, till a sudden 
 thought cast a shadow on his spirits. 
 
 " I say ! " he cried, and stopped short in the narrow 
 path right in front of Michael's feet. 
 
 " Get on, Bob," said Michael mechanically. He was 
 thinking, but whenever he walked abroad with Bob 
 
 137
 
 138 THE SEVERINS 
 
 he had to say " Get on " or " Come on " every other 
 minute. 
 
 " But I must ask you a question," said Bob. " Will 
 Deminski come with us to-morrow ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Will he go away to-morrow ? " 
 
 " I hope so." 
 
 " I never want to see him again. Do you ? " 
 
 " Not much," admitted Michael. 
 
 " But what will Selma do without him ? " 
 
 "Oh, shut up ! " said Michael ; but the question put by 
 the boy was the question weighing on the man's mind. 
 When Selma had heard that Deminski had received his 
 dismissal from her brother she had only spoken one word 
 only uttered her brother's name in a voice of tragic 
 expostulation and reproach. But Michael understood 
 that he would have to reckon with her, and that of all his 
 family she was the most unmanageable. On that memor- 
 able Sunday evening he had first met Deminski and had 
 seen the man dancing and fiddling with his sisters, he 
 had observed that Selma was out of spirits because 
 Clotilda occupied the stage more conspicuously than she 
 did. Two of his sisters were strongly attracted by the 
 man. His windy talk impressed them, his flashy clever- 
 ness and his easily stirred emotions. His impudence 
 passed for wit. Mrs. Severin, by fits and starts, was 
 as much under his spell as they were, and although 
 she had at one time seemed to see that her daughters 
 were going to the devil, she walked with them as if the 
 path pleased her. Of late she had treated Deminski as 
 if he was her son, and Michael supposed that she had even 
 forgiven him his desertion of Bob as a mother forgives one 
 child when it fails in its care of another. It would not be 
 easy to ride roughshod over his womenfolk and put their 
 idol out of doors, especially while the idol was artful
 
 THE SEVERINS 139 
 
 enough to cling tearfully to their apron-strings. Even 
 his disclosure of his designs on Clotilda would probably 
 not weaken his hold. He would rant about his noble 
 motives, his courageous soul, the sin and folly of the 
 marriage laws, and the altitudes to which Clotilda might 
 have risen if she had defied convention and followed 
 him : while Mrs. Severin would listen with the want of 
 imagination that condones because it fails to see. Clotilda 
 and Bob had both escaped, so a recital of their danger 
 affected her less than Deminski's bandage. A headache 
 that required a bandage was a calamity she could bewail 
 and understand. 
 
 When Michael and Bob got back to the cottage the head- 
 ache seemed to be better. Deminski sat at supper with 
 the ladies, and Michael felt as he joined them that his own 
 presence cast a disturbing shadow of dislike and criticism. 
 He was right and Deminski was wrong, by every canon of 
 conduct that separates men from monkeys ; but that 
 seemed to make no difference. They would have been 
 happier and easier without him. However, that could 
 not be helped. He sat down, ate his supper, talked cheer- 
 fully to his mother, and as soon as he could escaped to the 
 garden to smoke. But just before he got up, Bob had 
 spoken of the sailing boat to be hired next day, and of the 
 long journey Michael, Dr. Lloyd, and he proposed to make 
 by water : to Pendrevy he said they meant to go if they 
 had fine weather and a fair wind. Deminski had changed 
 countenance when Dr. Lloyd was mentioned, and had 
 said that he could not understand any one putting his 
 foot into a boat except when driven to it by necessity ; 
 but that as long as Bob did not expect him to make one of 
 the party . . . and Bob had stared at him with a child's 
 steady unblinking eyes, and had said : 
 
 " You couldn't go anyhow, could you ? You'll be on 
 your way to London."
 
 140 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " Shall I ? " said Deminski looking offended at once. 
 
 " Who told you so ? " said Selma. 
 
 " Michael," said Bob. " At least he said he thought so." 
 
 Michael pushed back his chair, got up and went outside. 
 Two or three deck chairs were on the small lawn in front 
 of the cottage, and he sat down in one of them and began 
 to smoke. At first he was alone, and he sat there quietly 
 enjoying the summer night. Then Bob joined him, and 
 presently Camilla came to fetch Bob to bed. Soon after 
 their departure some one else came across the grass and 
 sat down near Michael. He had to shift his chair slightly 
 to see who it was, and when he saw Selma he guessed that 
 the hour of reckoning was immediately before him. It 
 was a soft warm night with the light of a rising moon in a 
 dappled sky. The sound of waves breaking gently on the 
 flat sands reached them with a soothing murmur : now 
 and then a dog barked in the distance : at long intervals 
 a farmer's cart lumbered by. 
 
 Michael was enjoying his pipe and the peace around him, 
 but he was disturbed by Selma's brooding silence. He 
 knew her well enough to guess that it preceded a storm. 
 Presently, as he expected, it broke. 
 
 " What a brute you are, Michael ! " she said in a low 
 angry voice. 
 
 It is rather difficult for a man like Michael to answer a 
 remark of this violence when it is made by a young woman. 
 There was not a brutal fibre in his friendly, honest, rather 
 sensitive nature. He had the convictions and the fasti- 
 dious taste of an upbringing that is cleanly, hard, and 
 narrow. His experience had been of men and affairs. 
 He had consorted with men, dealt with men, lived and 
 played with men. When he had met women of his own 
 class it had been on the plane of polite friendship that 
 society spreads like a carpet of thin ice above the depths 
 of human intercourse. He had never quarrelled with a
 
 THE SEVERINS 141 
 
 woman, or been set over one in authority or felt called to 
 interfere with one to save her from her folly. He was 
 old-fashioned enough to believe in the ethereal goodness 
 of good women : and when he read modern novels or saw 
 modern plays in which women lie to men, cringe to men, 
 and yet hunt men down, he disbelieved and shuddered. 
 Poor Michael ! As Selma said, he was absurdly out of 
 date. For his unusual success in business had left him 
 socially rather simple. To be wholly absorbed in his work 
 does sometimes affect a man in this way. So when Selma 
 called him a brute he wished himself back in India where 
 he had disturbing letters from his family but no unpleasant 
 personal interviews with them. He did not ask Selma 
 what she meant, because he felt sure that he knew. She 
 was angry because he had told Deminski to leave the 
 house. 
 
 " One has to be a brute sometimes," he said. 
 
 " I don't see why." 
 
 " No. You wouldn't." 
 
 " I call it brutal as well as rude to answer like that." 
 
 " It's both," admitted Michael. " Let's talk of some- 
 thing else." 
 
 " To hunt the poor man out of the house because, for the 
 first time in his life, his nerve failed him." 
 
 " Is that what he says ? " 
 
 "No. I say it, because I know him. Who are you to 
 judge and condemn your fellow-men ? Have you ever 
 been tried ? Are you sure that your own nerve would 
 never fail you ? " 
 
 Michael's memories lighted his eyes with an irony his 
 sister could interpret. " Have you ever saved any one's 
 life ? " she asked. 
 
 " Never mind that. I really can't stand this Deminski 
 a day longer." 
 
 " He is your mother's friend."
 
 142 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " He left her child to drown like a rat this morning." 
 
 " Is that the only thing you have against him ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " What other crime has he committed ? " 
 
 " I'm afraid I can't tell you," said Michael, who did not 
 know how much or how little Selma understood about 
 Clotilda's plan of elopement. 
 
 " I don't suppose you can," said his sister. 
 
 " Does Mr. Deminski want to stay after I have told 
 him quite plainly to go ? " asked Michael, and his eyes, 
 amused, contemptuous, and serene, turned inquiringly to 
 Selma. 
 
 " Sophia and I have not told him to go," she said 
 angrily. " He does not recognize your right to lay down 
 the law. He has no more belief than I have in allowing 
 more authority to the male than the female. Nature made 
 us equal." 
 
 " But if I am your equal, I ought to have a voice in 
 matters," said Michael. " You don't play fair, Selma." 
 
 " Where is the poor fellow to go if we turn him out ? " 
 
 " Where does he usually go ? " 
 
 " He has always shared rooms with the Kremskis . . . 
 I mean with Kremski and Marie Petersen . . . but they 
 are in Paris now." 
 
 " Well . . . London is large," said Michael, unmoved. 
 " Anyhow, what he does and where he goes is no concern 
 of ours." 
 
 " How little you know me," said Selma. " Your 
 unkindness and injustice only stir my friendship for him 
 to the depths." 
 
 "Then the less you see of him the better," said 
 Michael. 
 
 " He is short of money," Selma continued. " He has 
 just enough to take him to Paris if he stays on here for a 
 week or two. Sophia offered to lend him some when he
 
 THE SEVERINS 143 
 
 told her this, but he said that if you kicked him out of the 
 house he would break with us all, and that rather than 
 borrow a sixpence he would throw himself into the sea." 
 
 " Well," said Michael, " I don't think there's much 
 fear of that after this morning." 
 
 Selma flung herself out of her chair in a tantrum. 
 
 " I shall tell him to go," she cried. " And if he wishes 
 I shall go with him. When we come to our last penny 
 there is the sea for us both. But we shall die with light 
 in our souls, a light that has never shone in yours." 
 
 Michael rose too, and detained his sister by grabbing 
 at one of her arms. He did this because she was running 
 off, and he had something more to say ; but she seemed 
 to think it an iniquitous exercise of masculine strength. 
 At any rate, she first tried to snatch her arm violently 
 from him, and when he did not let it go she stood there 
 as if she was petrified, a figure of stone with a highly 
 offended countenance. 
 
 " Sit down again, Selma," said Michael, and this time 
 he spoke with anger that overcame hers by its greater 
 force. She obeyed him. 
 
 " You can't know what this man is," he said in a low 
 voice. 
 
 " I suppose you are thinking about Clotilda," she said 
 gloomily. " I know all about that, but I blame Clotilda. 
 She leads men on." 
 
 " You know ! " exclaimed Michael. " And yet you 
 are ready to excuse the man to shelter him to oh, 
 it's impossible unless you are out of your senses, Selma." 
 
 " I have just told you that I blame Clotilda as far as 
 I blame any one Clotilda first and then Tom. He 
 ought to have known what she was and kept her with him 
 since he regards marriage as a permanent institution. 
 I don't : so I naturally can't look at the affair from your 
 point of view. I am glad Tom turned up partly
 
 144 THE SEVERINS 
 
 because Clotilda and Nicholas are not really suited to each 
 other. They would have quarrelled in a week. Of course, 
 I knew they were going away together. I told Tom so 
 when I met him." 
 
 " What do you mean by saying that marriage is not a 
 permanent institution ? " asked Michael, made vaguely 
 uneasy by hearing a girl as handsome, headstrong, and 
 ignorant of life as his sister repeat such a shibboleth. 
 
 " It ought not to be," she said. " It ought to end 
 when love ends. Besides, I don't see how an enlightened 
 woman can marry at all under the existing marriage laws. 
 Nothing would induce me to." 
 
 " What's the matter with the laws ? " said Michael. 
 
 " It is waste of time to talk to you," cried Selma. " One 
 might as well talk to one's grandfather. You have no 
 eyes for what is coming. I shall advise Nicholas to stay 
 on. I suppose you won't come to blows ? I suppose you 
 don't feel bound to assault a man because his ideas are 
 wider than your own ? " 
 
 Michael got up. " I'll speak to my mother about it," 
 he said, and went into the house. 
 
 Deminski must have heard or seen him, for directly the 
 chance came he tiptoed into the garden and sat down 
 beside Selma. 
 
 " What a terrible day it has been," he said fretfully. 
 " Horrible from beginning to end. I doubt whether I can 
 ever be happy here again. Your brother's dislike affects 
 me painfully. I cannot expand in his presence. I shrivel 
 and shiver. Why did he come ? " 
 
 " I wish he had stayed in India," said Selma. 
 
 " What have you been saying to him ? " 
 
 " It's no use saying anything. He is the most insular 
 person I have ever met and the most obstinate." 
 
 " I suppose that means that I must go. In fact, I have 
 been discussing the question with your mother. I thought
 
 THE SEVERINS 145 
 
 I would find out what she wished and abide by it. I told 
 her that as a man of honour I could do no less." 
 
 " What did she say ? " 
 
 " That she considers Michael master of the house 
 always her cliche in a dilemma and that he is the best 
 of sons ; but that she regards me as at least a nephew, and 
 would not hurt my feelings for the world. You know 
 what happens when one tries to get a decisive opinion 
 out of your mother." 
 
 " It is impossible," said Selma. 
 
 " However, she ended by giving me ten pounds for a 
 birthday present." 
 
 " But it isn't your birthday ? " 
 
 " It will be in November," said Deminski. 
 
 " That certainly means that she will give in to Michael," 
 said Selma. 
 
 " I don't see how she can help it. When I go upstairs 
 to-night I shall pack my bag ; and to-morrow it will be 
 good-bye for ever." 
 
 " But why for ever ? " whispered Selma, after a 
 moment of panic-stricken silence. 
 
 " I shall be hi Paris, and you in London and when I 
 come to London I cannot enter your house. My pride 
 forbids it." 
 
 " But I hope to come to Paris this winter." 
 
 " Your brother will never allow it." 
 
 " He cannot prevent it. I am my own mistress." 
 
 " But you have no money." 
 
 " Then I must earn some. You might find me work in 
 Paris." 
 
 " What sort of work ? " 
 
 " Oh I could teach English and singing and paint- 
 ing and German if any one wanted it till I began to 
 sell pictures. Here comes Sophia." 
 
 " The grass is very damp," said Mrs, Severin, making 
 
 10
 
 146 THE SEVERINS 
 
 her way slowly towards them. " I came to warn you. 
 It is bad for your neuralgia, Nicholas, and it is such 
 misery to travel with neuralgia. Would you like sand- 
 wiches to-morrow, or will you have lunch on the train ? " 
 
 Both Deminski and Selma gave a little mirthless laugh. 
 
 " So I am to go, dear Mrs. Severin," said Deminski in 
 a sad, cooing voice, and holding one of the lady's hands 
 in his while he stroked it. " That is decided ? " 
 
 " I am very sorry that you and Michael are not friends," 
 said Mrs. Severin. " But it's of no use to ask me to set 
 my will against his. How I came to have such deter- 
 mined children as Michael and Selma and Bob I can't 
 tell. I suppose it's heredity somewhere. I hope you will 
 get on, dear Nicholas, and mind you write often." 
 
 " Then you forgive me my sins though your son can't ? " 
 said Deminski bitterly. 
 
 " I always forgive every one everything," said Mrs. 
 Severin amiably. " We can't all be alike and we can't 
 all be heroes ; I said so to Michael, but it made no im- 
 pression. I'm afraid he is rather hard. The English 
 manner is very misleading. He seems so lazy and good- 
 natured." 
 
 " So he is till you cross him," said Selma ; " then you 
 come to rock. But that must be the primitive Michael. 
 All that England has done for him is to narrow his 
 mind, blind his eyes, and wither his soul." 
 
 " Hear, hear ! " said Deminski.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 MICHAEL had arranged to make an early start next 
 morning, and he was up and away with Bob before 
 any one else came down to breakfast. When they re- 
 turned, in time for supper, Deminski had gone. Mrs. 
 Severin babbled about him as innocently and tactlessly 
 as if he had never been a bone of contention, Selma sat 
 in gloomy silence, Bob chattered about his day's adven- 
 tures, and Michael made the uncomfortable everyday 
 discovery that you may have a clear conscience and yet, 
 if your neighbour is unreasonable, be thrust by him into 
 the role of a brute. At breakfast he said that he had 
 engaged the boat again for that afternoon, and he asked 
 his mother and sisters to come for a sail. Mrs. Severin 
 said that she would greatly prefer to die ; Camilla owned 
 that she had never been on the sea, but would like to ven- 
 ture. 
 
 " Are you a good sailor, Selma ? " asked Michael. 
 
 " I don't know," she answered sullenly. 
 
 " Come with us and try," said he. 
 
 Selma said neither yea nor nay just then, and after 
 breakfast the whole family proceeded to the sands, where, 
 with all the other families passing the holidays at Carbay, 
 they invariably spent the morning and bathed. It was 
 a flat, sandy shore bound on either side of the bay by huge 
 rocks standing out from the granite cliffs. There were a 
 few bathing machines, a row of private tents ranged close 
 to the cliffs, deck chairs for hire, and one or two girls 
 selling fruit. But Carbay was a small, quiet place that 
 did not provide a market for the usual pests of the seaside. 
 
 147
 
 148 THE SEVERINS 
 
 There were no niggers, fortune-tellers, thought-readers, or 
 brass bands. There were two donkeys for hire, and Bob 
 could not understand why Michael refused to ride one. 
 
 " You must be able to ride if you played polo in India," 
 he said. 
 
 " I never played polo on an ass," said Michael, laughing. 
 
 " I'll show you how to ride one," said Bob : " it's 
 quite easy." 
 
 So when they arrived on the sands, Mrs. Severin and 
 the girls walked on to their own tent, while Michael and 
 Bob stayed behind to hire a donkey. When Bob was 
 mounted and off with the donkey-driver in charge, 
 Michael strolled across the sands towards the sea. But 
 he did not go far before he saw Mrs. Walsingham and her 
 daughters, and was seen by them. He stopped to speak, 
 and found that they often spent the morning on these 
 sands instead of at Sarnen. Michael wondered whether 
 they had been here two days ago and seen Bob saved by 
 the doctor's dog, and seen Deminski's stampede across the 
 sands. Their manner was cordial. They introduced 
 Michael to the two ladies sitting with them, offered him 
 a spare beach seat, and asked him to come and see them at 
 Sarnen as soon as possible. 
 
 " What are you doing this afternoon ? " said Mrs. 
 Walsingham. 
 
 " I have hired a sailing boat," said Michael. " Some 
 of us are going for a sail." 
 
 " Are all your people here, then ? " 
 
 " All except my eldest sister. She has gone back to 
 South Africa with her husband." 
 
 Mrs. Walsingham received this information with a 
 slight air of surprise, but she did not comment on it. 
 She slid away from the thorny subject of Michael's people 
 and began to talk about the golf at Sarnen. Did Michael 
 play golf, and would he come over to lunch to-
 
 THE SEVERINS 149 
 
 morrow and have a round with Mr. Walsingham in the 
 afternoon ? 
 
 " I'm afraid I don't play," said Michael. 
 
 " Couldn't we have a sail ? " said Clara. " I should 
 love it." 
 
 Clara looked as fresh and young as spring this morning. 
 The breeze blew her hair into a fluff about her temples, 
 her cheeks were like wild roses, her eyes were as blue as 
 forget-me-nots. They had, too, the opaque look of 
 forget-me-nots, so that though they were pretty eyes no 
 one could ever have compared them with water stilled 
 at even. But Michael did not think of what they lacked. 
 Her refinement and simplicity of manner pleased him, 
 and so did her setting. Here were people who took the 
 world as they found it, and were not in violent opposition 
 to everything their contemporaries observed and respected. 
 The two guests with them to-day were of the same stamp 
 as themselves. Michael liked their pleasant voices, their 
 moderation of speech, their decorum. Not one of the 
 five was as handsome as his sisters, probably not one was 
 as accomplished and intelligent, yet the sight of them 
 was restful. He looked at Clara with some of the pleasure 
 he felt reflected in his eyes, and he said that if she wanted 
 a sail they might get a boat at Sarnen next day at any 
 hour she pleased. 
 
 Clara looked prettier than ever when he made this 
 obliging offer, and she said any hour would suit her that 
 suited the rest of her party. But it turned out that 
 none of them could endure a sailing boat even to please 
 Clara, and for a dejected moment the plan was doomed. 
 Michael showed his disappointment, and Clara's eyes lost 
 a little of their radiance. She wished that Michael would 
 ask her to come with him this afternoon, but he did not 
 do so, and in her mother's presence she could not suggest it 
 herself. She had no desire to see more of his sisters
 
 150 THE SEVERINS 
 
 than she could help, but she distinctly desired to see 
 more of Michael. Her temperament was a placid one. 
 The spring of her love was mild and even ; no storms of 
 passion would ever wreck her happiness or play havoc 
 with her youth. But from the beginning Michael had 
 attracted her strongly. She felt a girlish admiration for 
 his looks, and like most people she felt the charm of 
 manner that had made friends for him everywhere on 
 his way through the world. She thought that he must be 
 unhappy and uncomfortable in the bosom of his family, 
 and she wished that he would cut himself loose from it. 
 She knew instinctively that this was an operation that a 
 man of his kind would not carry out with brutal sudden- 
 ness, but she had no doubt of its ultimate necessity, for 
 Clara was never troubled by doubts about other people's 
 affairs, and rarely about her own. 
 
 While Michael was still considering what could be done 
 about next day's sail, the tranquillity of the little group 
 was rudely disturbed for a moment by Bob and his 
 donkey, who charged headlong at them, pursued by a 
 panic-stricken driver. The ladies flew from their chairs, 
 the donkey plunged. Michael caught at the bridle, 
 brought the beast to a standstill, lifted Bob down, and 
 gave ear to the driver's angry remonstrance. Bob, it 
 turned out, had read in some book of adventures about 
 the uses of a goad and the way to make one. He had 
 made a beauty, brought it with him, and when the man 
 was not watching had tried it with great success on the 
 donkey. 
 
 " You said he wouldn't gallop," he argued. " I told 
 you I could make him, and I did." 
 
 " Give the goad to me," said Michael, and the boy 
 relinquished it, but began to cry. He had been a dis- 
 reputable little object before he cried. One shoe had 
 come off as Michael lifted him down, and he had picked
 
 THE SEVERINS 151 
 
 it up but not put it on yet. There was a large hole in its 
 toe, and a still larger hole in his stocking. His flannel 
 knickers had been darned and patched, and his white 
 sweater was grimy with weeks of hard usage. But when 
 he cried the five women overlooked the dirt and rags of 
 him, and fixed their attention on his grief and beauty. His 
 bright bold blue eyes, his golden hair, and his angelic 
 features made their usual appeal, and five pairs of delicate 
 hands were soon engaged in offering him bananas, cakes, 
 chocolates, illustrated papers, anything and everything 
 that might conceivably stop his tears. Meanwhile 
 Michael applied himself to the pacification of the donkey- 
 driver, who, it turned out, also owned the chairs, and 
 wanted compensation for damage done to one of them. 
 
 " Come along now, Bob," said Michael when this matter 
 was settled. " I'll take you to the tent." 
 
 " Poor child ! " said one of the strange ladies. " You 
 must have been frightened when the donkey ran away." 
 
 This vile accusation did what neither petting nor 
 bribes had been able to do. Bob's tears stopped as if 
 by magic. 
 
 " I wasn't a bit frightened ! " he said hotly. " I'll 
 get on and do it again if you'll make Michael give me my 
 goad. I want my goad." 
 
 " What a quaint child ! " said the other lady, as 
 Michael led the boy away. 
 
 " I wonder why he is so ragged," said Mrs. Walsing- 
 ham. 
 
 " Look ! " cried Clara ; " he has dropped his shoe. He 
 must have dropped it when we were all feeding him up 
 with chocolate. I'll run after them." 
 
 So Clara went after Michael and Bob, but as they 
 walked quickly and had a start, she did not catch them 
 up till Bob happened to look round and saw her coming. 
 She waved the shoe at him, and they both turned to meet
 
 152 THE SEVERINS 
 
 her. But by this time they were a long way from Clara's 
 party, and not far from Mrs. Severin's dilapidated tent. 
 
 " You left your shoe," said Clara breathlessly. She 
 looked at Bob and not at Michael, but it was Michael who 
 took it from her hands. 
 
 " How good of you to bring it," he said : " such a 
 dirty ragged shoe as it is, too." 
 
 " They are the best I have," said Bob, and he squatted 
 down on the sand to put it on. But the tie was wet and 
 tightly knotted, and to get it undone took time. 
 
 " I wish you could have come for a sail to-morrow," 
 Michael said to Clara. 
 
 The girl looked at him, and seemed about to speak, 
 and then to hesitate. Finally she sat down on the sand 
 beside Bob, took his shoe from him, and tried to untie it. 
 So Michael sat down too and watched her capable little 
 hands. 
 
 " We are going for a sail this afternoon," said Bob. 
 " Yesterday Michael and I were out by ourselves all day. 
 But the girls are coming this time, so we shall only have 
 a short sail. Girls get frightened if it is rough." 
 
 " I never do," said Clara. " I love sailing." 
 
 " Are you coming this afternoon ? " said Bob. 
 
 " I have not been asked," said Clara. 
 
 " Michael will ask you, if you want to go." 
 
 " Rather ! " said Michael. 
 
 " Very well," said Clara, " I'll come. We are going 
 to have lunch on the sands. That is why we had so many 
 packages with us. So I shall be there when you start." 
 
 " We start in a little boat," explained Bob. " We row 
 out to the Eclipse" 
 
 *' Yes," said Clara, and then for the first time she looked 
 at Michael. " I shall want to get back by the 6.30 
 train," she said. " Our house is close to the station." 
 
 " It will be quite easy to do that," said Michael ; but
 
 THE SEVERINS 153 
 
 he spoke absently, and his troubled glance followed the 
 dripping figure of Selma, who was making her way from 
 the sea to the tent, and had just caught sight of them. 
 At the same moment Bob saw her and waved his hand 
 invitingly. Clara, who had just given him his shoe, 
 hurriedly got up. So did Michael. But by the time they 
 were on their feet Selma had approached them. 
 
 " It's lovely in the sea this morning," she said, survey- 
 ing Clara's trim white gown as if it gave her offence. 
 " Don't you ever bathe ? " 
 
 " Every day," said Clara, and her air was gently aloof. 
 She thought that, considering their slight acquaintance, 
 Selma should have gone straight to her tent. 
 
 " I saw your donkey run away with you," Selma said, 
 turning to Bob. " What a little stupid you are always 
 getting yourself into trouble." 
 
 " I was drowned on Thursday," said Bob to Clara. 
 
 " But he would have been in no danger on Thursday 
 if the man swimming near him had not behaved like an 
 arrant coward," said Clara, addressing Michael and speak- 
 ing with contemptuous assurance. " We were near and 
 saw the whole thing. I wonder who the creature can 
 have been ? " 
 
 " It was Deminski," said Bob. 
 
 " The creature is my best friend," said Selma, enjoying 
 the moment as much as Michael hated it. 
 
 " Then I hope you will never be with him in a dangerous 
 place," said Clara tartly. 
 
 " Oh ! The poor fellow lost his nerve for a moment, 
 and was ready to kill himself in consequence. I can for- 
 give him but then tout comprendre c'est tout par- 
 donner he is a man of unique genius quite above the 
 understanding and the cheap sympathy of the general." 
 
 " I think you are forgiving," said Clara. " I had no 
 idea that you knew the man, or I should not have spoken
 
 154 THE SEVERINS 
 
 but certainly, when you have seen any one behave in 
 such a way " 
 
 " I dare say we look at things from a different point of 
 view," said Selma. " What most people call bravery I call 
 stupidity. Bob shows it when he gets into mischief." 
 
 " Perhaps Bob will some day make a soldier," said 
 Clara graciously ; and then with a little inclusive nod 
 she picked up her skirt and sailed away. 
 
 " What a silly doll," said Selma, looking after her, " all 
 frills and flutter." 
 
 " You had better go and dress, Selma," said Michael. 
 " You'll get a chill," and he walked away from his sister, 
 followed by the devoted Bob. 
 
 Meanwhile Clara actually felt both vexed and fluttered. 
 Selma's commanding height, her sullen beauty, her red, 
 dripping dress, her rich voice, her rudeness, had/affected 
 the girl as a rough wind affects a plant brought suddenly 
 from a sheltered place into the open. She felt bruised 
 and shaken. However, her discomposure did not last 
 long. By the time she reached her friends again her 
 pretty little face wore its usual air of calm satisfaction, 
 and no one guessed that she had been ruffled. 
 
 " Who was the woman out of the sea who came up to 
 you ? " said Beatrice Walsingham. " We could not make 
 out from here. What an odd thing to do." 
 
 " It was one of Mr. Severin's sisters the tall one," 
 said Clara. 
 
 " I thought it must be," said Mrs. Walsingham, and 
 her friends understood from her tone that Mr. Severin's 
 sisters were outside the pale. So they asked no questions 
 about them. Clara waited for an opportunity of being 
 alone with her mother, and this soon came when she 
 refused to bathe, while the others went down to the 
 machines. Then she told Mrs. Walsingham of her engage- 
 ment to go for a sail with Michael and his sisters this after-
 
 THE SEVERINS 155 
 
 noon, and of the subsequent passage with Selma which 
 made her wish she was not going. 
 
 " I don't much want to be in a boat with that girl," 
 she said. 
 
 " You can easily get out of it," said Mrs. Walsingham. 
 " We can send some message up to the cottage." 
 
 " But I should like the sail," said Clara ; " I like Mr. 
 Severin." 
 
 " Well," said Mrs. Walsingham, " you must make up 
 your own mind. If you are in a boat with Mr. Severin 
 you will probably be in a boat with some of his people." 
 
 " I can't see why he need have so much to do with 
 them," said Clara. 
 
 Mrs. Walsingham let the subject drop just then. She 
 saw that her second daughter was strongly attracted by 
 Michael, and she thought that if there was mutual 
 attraction and ultimately marriage, Clara's parents 
 might be satisfied, but not triumphant. It would be 
 a steady, respectable match, not without drawbacks. 
 Michael was doing extremely well in the firm, and had a 
 future of some commercial brilliance before him. He 
 had not started as his partners did with a large capital, 
 but he was bound in time to make a large income. His 
 family would be a drain on him, but judging by Bob's 
 clothes, Mrs. Walsingham thought their demands must 
 be modest. They were probably odd and uncivilized, 
 but not grasping. Mrs. Walsingham knew that Clara's 
 natural sweetness of disposition did not shut out some 
 obstinacy. She was good-humoured, but not pliant ; she 
 was adroit and practical, quick to perceive and copy a 
 new fashion, to practise a new accomplishment ; the 
 kind of girl who plays a new game the moment it appears 
 and drops it again when it catches on with the mob. 
 But she never fraternized with persons whose opinions 
 did not coincide with her own, and she was scornfully im-
 
 156 THE SEVERINS 
 
 patient of any one less effective than herself any one she 
 denounced as a fool. Clara, without doubt, would have 
 considered Socrates and Darwin fools, because she would 
 not have understood why they idled their time away un- 
 profitably, and it never occurred to her that she could 
 not judge everything she did not understand. Her mother 
 admired her too much to criticize her. She said that 
 Clara always knew her own mind, and that though she 
 was more inclined to give advice than to take it, no one 
 could blame her, because she knew so much better than 
 most people what she was about. It intrigued Mrs. 
 Walsingham to see her daughter attracted by a man 
 whose belongings presented difficulties, but she had such 
 faith in the girl that she trusted her to make a sensible 
 choice and surmount any difficulties the union presented. 
 If it had been Beatrice, she would have been uneasy, 
 for though Beatrice was older she was more malleable. 
 Mrs. Walsingham, you see, could only contemplate a 
 marriage between Michael and one of her children from a 
 point of view that hardly included his relations. Politely 
 and kindly, but quite firmly, they would have to be sent 
 to the background. 
 
 " It will be easy enough," said Clara, breaking in on her 
 mother's reverie. " They start from just down there in 
 one of the little boats. If that sister is with them I shall 
 not go. If she stays at home I can have my sail. I don't 
 mind the young quiet sister or the little ragged boy 
 so much." 
 
 " That wretch who left the child to drown yesterday 
 must have been the one who was with the married sister 
 in the lane," said Mrs. Walsingham, her slow drawl blunt- 
 ing the emphasis of her words so that they sounded less 
 rough than they look. 
 
 Clara gave a little shudder. 
 
 " Well he has gone " she said. " I feel sure of that
 
 THE SEVERINS 157 
 
 from the way the other girl spoke and the married sister 
 will be in Africa in future. But what people ! Why don't 
 they live abroad ? " 
 
 " That would be best for Mr. Severin," said Mrs. 
 Walsingham, looking at her daughter with admiration 
 that was awe-stricken ; for had not the ingenious creature 
 solved a problem without effort that most minds would 
 have found insoluble, and thereby removed obstacles 
 that many girls would have regarded as immovably 
 in their way ? For between Clara's plans and their execu- 
 tion there was usually short grace. She had a persuasive 
 tongue, a determined mind, and for any private doubts 
 and fears of the pawns in her game a blind eye. At present, 
 of course, Michael Severin 's family did not concern her, 
 but when it became her business to deal with them she 
 would know just where they ought to go ; and hence- 
 forward Mrs. Walsingham always pictured them genteelly 
 and happily " abroad." 
 
 At three o'clock, the hour at which Michael said they 
 were due on the sands again, Clara began to look out 
 and directly she did so she saw him arrive with one sister 
 only and Bob. They were exactly punctual. 
 
 " You have such good eyes, Trix," she said. " Which 
 sister is it ? " 
 
 " The little one," said Beatrice, as the three people came 
 nearer. " The one who wore grey and behaved herself." 
 
 " Then I'll go," said Clara, and she picked up a warm 
 cloak she had brought with her and strolled across the 
 sands to meet Michael, Camilla, and Bob.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 pleasure was damped by the addition 
 to their party of Miss Clara Walsingham, the 
 little-known and alarmingly smart young lady. Camilla 
 had put on a clean holland gown when Michael had told 
 her they were not to be by themselves in the boat ; 
 but every one knows what a holland gown looks like 
 after it has been washed out of shape and crumpled in a 
 tussle with Bob and a nailbrush. It was a breezy after- 
 noon, and she wore a motor cap and a veil ; but directly 
 she saw Clara she knew that her motor cap was the wrong 
 shape and her veil tied as any ragamuffin ties a veil. 
 Clara wore a plain straw hat with her white linen, and 
 she carried a short, white knitted coat that was smart 
 because it was plain, and just right for its purpose 
 Her manner to Camilla was sweet and gracious, but 
 graciousness is one of those virtues that exalt the dis- 
 penser and abash the recipient. It implies condescension. 
 Camilla turned shy and took refuge with Bob. They 
 walked a little behind the others till they reached the boat 
 that was to take them out to sea. 
 
 " It is very good of you to come," Michael said to Clara 
 as they went ahead, and Clara understood that he was 
 apologizing for his other sister's behaviour, a very proper 
 thing, she thought, for him to do. 
 
 " I wanted to come," she said with a charming air of 
 letting bygones be bygones. 
 
 Then they got into the little boat and were taken out 
 to the sailing boat that rode at anchor about half a mile 
 from shore. It was manned by the two brothers who owned 
 
 158
 
 THE SEVERINS 159 
 
 it, and with one of them Bob had struck up a fervent 
 friendship. The man explained the boat and its sails to 
 him, showed him how to tie sailors' knots, and poured out 
 anecdotes, riddles, jests, and personal adventures to 
 which Bob listened with the unblinking stare that spoke 
 of close attention. Camilla listened too, and sat with 
 Bob and his friend on the half -deck near the mast. 
 The other man leaned over the side of the boat, his gaze 
 fixed on the sea. So Clara and Michael had the stern to 
 themselves during the early part of the afternoon. They 
 talked of yachting. The sea danced around them in the 
 brilliant August sunshine and sent splashes of spray across 
 the deck. These, when they broke over him, evoked 
 shrieks of delight and enjoyment from Bob. 
 
 " I like your little brother," she said, smiling benignly 
 at Bob ; and she forgave him when at tea-time he kicked 
 over her cup, so that the tea poured in streams on the 
 seat and even over a bit of her skirt. 
 
 " You couldn't help it," she said sweetly to him ; " it 
 doesn't matter a bit." 
 
 It really didn't matter to her. Her maid or the 
 laundress would remove the stain in this case. If the 
 gown had been spoiled she would not have worn it again, 
 and would not have missed it. But Michael and Camilla 
 thought she had an angelic temper. When tea was over 
 Camilla and Bob went back to their place. While they 
 had all sat together in the stern she had listened to Clara's 
 talk, and discovered that she lived in a world unknown to 
 her, but apparently well-known to Michael. She knew 
 people whose friends and relatives in India he knew. 
 A girl friend had lately married the colonel of a regiment 
 stationed in his city, a man who was Michael's friend. 
 He had even seen the bride on her arrival, and could tell 
 Clara just where she lived and what her home was like. 
 They spoke, so it seemed to Camilla, the same tongue,
 
 i6o THE SEVERINS 
 
 used the same idioms, looked at things from the same 
 point of view. She could see that her brother felt more 
 at home with this stranger than he did with his own 
 people. He looked happy and amused while he talked to 
 her, and his eyes rested on her with admiration. As she 
 stood up to let him put on her coat Camilla thought they 
 looked like lovers, and that the supremely important 
 question of Michael's marriage might be settled any day. 
 A little cloud, a slight sense of disappointment, wrapped 
 itself round Camilla's tender heart at the thought of Clara 
 as a future sister-in-law ; but she could not have explained 
 or justified it. Even the spectacle of their rapidly in- 
 creasing friendship seemed to show her more clearly 
 than anything else had done the whole distance life had 
 set between Michael and his family ; and her quick 
 instinct, her eager affection for her brother, told her 
 that this woman, if he took her to wife, would do nothing 
 to bridge it. 
 
 " Do you like that lady ? " she whispered cautiously to 
 Bob, obeying a childish impulse to take another child's 
 opinion. 
 
 The boy did not look up from the piece of rope with 
 which he was playing. 
 
 " I don't mind her," he said indifferently. " I liked it 
 better yesterday, when Michael and I were by ourselves. 
 I don't care about women much except Mrs. St. Erth. 
 Why hasn't Mrs. St. Erth come here ? She said she 
 would," and before Camilla could stop him he clambered 
 down and ran to Clara. 
 
 " Is Mrs. St. Erth coming to stay with you ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " I'm afraid not," said Clara, and as the boy ran back 
 again she turned to Michael. 
 
 " Her odious husband won't let her come," she ob- 
 served.
 
 THE SEVERINS 161 
 
 " I wonder why ? " said Michael. 
 
 " Because we are fond of her and detest him, and he 
 knows it. He separates her from all her friends." 
 
 " It seems a pity her friends can't separate her from 
 him," said Michael. 
 
 " I'm always so sorry for my father having him for a 
 partner," said Clara, leaving a difficult subject. " But, 
 of course, now he has you too." 
 
 That afternoon on the water gave Michael to under- 
 stand that he was accepted and valued by the Walsing- 
 hams both in business and at home ; and naturally the 
 assurance gave him pleasure. He felt encouraged when 
 the sail was over to make the proposal that had been 
 in his mind all the afternoon. Would Clara like to walk 
 back to Sarnen by the cliff, instead of waiting about 
 for the train ? She would still be in time for dinner. 
 
 " I should love it," said Clara. " I have not had a 
 walk to-day." 
 
 " Can we come too ? " said Bob, who was in hearing. . 
 
 Michael and Camilla said this was impossible, as some 
 one must carry the tea-basket back to the cottage ; but 
 Clara suggested, and, in fact, arranged that one of the 
 boatmen should do this, and that Bob should have his way. 
 It was not exactly what Michael wanted, but Clara pre- 
 ferred it. She walked ahead with him while the two 
 younger ones followed at a considerable distance, 
 because Bob stopped every moment to gather flowers. 
 So that the ramble became a duet in reality, although 
 it was a quartet in appearance, or rather when it was 
 described after she reached home. The evening was as 
 fine as the day had been and nearly as warm. The sea 
 caught the radiance of the sky, and all along the cliffs the 
 ling was in flower. As they approached Sarnen and saw 
 the great expanse of sand stretching far below them, they 
 watched the breakers rolling in shallow, crested waves 
 ii
 
 162 THE SEVERINS 
 
 upon the flat shores. Opposite them they saw a long line 
 of sand dunes, the little town of Penleven, and the tidal 
 river that divided it from Sarnen. 
 
 " When do you go back to London ? " said Michael 
 when they came within sight of the golf links. 
 
 Clara said that they had another week at Sarnen, 
 and then they were all going to pay visits, some here, 
 some there, and that they would not be settled at home 
 again till late in October. 
 
 " At least, Beatrice and I shall not be there till then," 
 she said, " and when we get back we shall be in a whirl, 
 because Beatrice is to be married in December." 
 
 As she spoke she looked across the links and saw her 
 father in the distance ; and at the same moment Camilla 
 and Bob came up to them breathless and dishevelled. 
 Bob looked as if he had been down a rabbit-hole, and this 
 was in fact what he had tried to do whenever he saw a 
 big one. He was sure that sooner or later, if he was 
 quiet enough and quick enough, he would catch a 
 rabbit. 
 
 " I promised Mrs. St. Erth that if I did I would send 
 her one," he said to Clara. " When she was young she 
 caught a baby rabbit in a field with her apron, and she fed 
 it on milk and parsley and lettuces. It lived for years 
 and years, and was called Little V. Will you tell her I 
 tried to catch her a new one ? " 
 
 " I'll certainly tell her you tried," said Clara, laughing ; 
 and then she turned to Michael and explained that if he 
 walked back along the cliffs he would get home quicker 
 than by train, as they were now about midway between 
 Sarnen Station and Carbay. 
 
 " We shall see you to lunch to-morrow," she said to 
 Michael as she shook hands with him, after she had shaken 
 hands with Camilla. Then she nodded to Bob and floated 
 away. Michael looked after her for a moment.
 
 THE SEVERINS 163 
 
 " Why didn't she ask Camilla and me to lunch ? " 
 inquired Bob as soon as she was out of hearing. 
 
 " She doesn't want little boys who go down rabbit- 
 holes," said Camilla severely. " Look at your hands. I 
 suppose you think you're a fox terrier ! " 
 
 Next day Michael went over to lunch with the Walsing- 
 hams and found them in a pleasant modern house with a 
 rather new but good-sized garden. After lunch every 
 one went out into the garden, and when they had sat 
 together for a time on a terrace in front of the house, 
 they scattered in various directions. Michael found 
 himself walking with Clara towards a point from which 
 there was a fine sea view ; but they walked slowly, 
 because she stopped to point out various flowers they 
 passed on the way. Michael knew nothing of gardening, 
 but he found it agreeable to stroll between the borders 
 with Clara and watch her pretty ways. She wore a thin 
 white gown again to-day, and a shady hat trimmed with a 
 great clump of cherries. Michael thought it charmingly 
 girlish and simple, and never suspected that the gown 
 and hat together had cost more than one of his sisters 
 spent in a year on clothes. Still he could see that Clara 
 was well turned out, and that she must spend what he 
 considered a good deal of money. He wondered what her 
 ideas of the future were, and whether she would like to 
 live a rather quiet life when she married, or whether she 
 would want to have the world with her, the more the 
 better. 
 
 " I suppose you have lived in London all your life ? " 
 he said. " How is it you know so much about flowers ? " 
 
 " I've always wanted a garden," said Clara, " and we 
 are usually in the country most of the summer. I believe 
 I should like it all the year round." 
 
 " I'm sure I should," said Michael, pleased to find this 
 community of tastes.
 
 1 64 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " It is so easy nowadays," continued Clara, " if you 
 have a couple of motors." 
 
 " Ye es," said Michael. His picture of a quiet young 
 married home had not included a couple of motors. They 
 suggested hustling up to London and back again at all 
 hours of the day and night. 
 
 " I suppose you have hardly made plans yet ? " said 
 Clara. " Are you going to be with your mother and sisters 
 this winter ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Michael. " I shall look after them 
 till I marry." 
 
 Clara stooped over a carnation bed and tried to show 
 Michael the difference between a carnation and a picotee. 
 
 " But there will be no one much to look after soon," 
 she said a little later. " You say your little brother is 
 going to school and your second sister is going to Paris." 
 
 " Who told you ? " asked Michael, surprised. 
 
 " Your mother did when they called." 
 
 " Nothing is settled yet," said Michael. " We don't 
 want her to go." 
 
 Clara thought that Selma was not likely to ask any one's 
 consent to her proceedings ; also, she thought that what 
 such a girl did [and where she went did not matter much, 
 provided she disappeared from the scene. 
 
 It was Mr. Walsingham and not his womenfolk who, 
 before he went off to golf, came across Michael and Clara 
 in the garden, and proposed that Michael's household 
 and his should join in an expedition to Ailsa Head next 
 day. He had said after breakfast to his wife that he 
 thought it unkind to take no notice of Michael's family, 
 and that he did not understand why she objected to them. 
 
 " Then you must have forgotten what I told you," said 
 Mrs. Walsingham, and she again described her encounter 
 with Clotilda and Deminski in Sarnen Lane. " They were 
 behaving like a pair of trippers," she assured him.
 
 THE SEVERINS 165 
 
 " But that girl has gone back to London with her 
 husband, you say." 
 
 ;{ Yes ; and the one left behind is worse. She quite 
 frightened Clara yesterday." 
 
 " How did she manage that ? " 
 
 Mrs. Walsingham gave a little sigh, as a woman must 
 sometimes when the mingled denseness, self-will, and 
 scepticism of a husband try her sorely. Then she told 
 Mr. Walsingham about Deminski's cowardly desertion 
 of Bob and about Selma's violent defence of this un- 
 worthy and disreputable man. The immediate result of 
 her pains was that Mr. Walsingham asked Michael for his 
 version of the story, heard that Deminski had been 
 sent about his business, and returned to his wife with this 
 piece of information, which she admitted was creditable 
 to Michael. 
 
 " What are these objectionable sisters like ? " he asked 
 his wife. 
 
 " They are extremely handsome," began Mrs. Walsing- 
 ham. 
 
 " Then I certainly want to see them," said her pro- 
 voking husband ; " I'm fond of handsome people. "n So 
 he went straight into the garden and proposed the long 
 drive to Ailsa Head. He said that they must pass through 
 Carbay, and would call at the cottage next morning at 
 eleven, and would take Michael and all those of his party 
 who wished to go. 
 
 " Have you counted heads, Dad ? " said Clara, who 
 wondered how her mother had come to approve of such a 
 scheme. " There will be seven of us, and Jack arrives to- 
 night, you know." She turned to Michael. " How many 
 are there of you ? " 
 
 " We should not all come," said Michael. " I should 
 like to, and perhaps I may bring Camilla." 
 
 " Yes, do," said Clara graciously.
 
 166 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " But I want to see all your sisters," said Mr. Walsing- 
 ham, who hardly knew whether Michael had two or half 
 a dozen. " I hear they are beauties." 
 
 " Bob must certainly come," said Clara sweetly. 
 
 Michael was not subtle enough to perceive that this 
 inclusion of Bob pointed to the exclusion of Selma. 
 He went home in a cheerful frame of mind and delivered a 
 general invitation, never guessing how little the women 
 of the Walsingham household desired to send one or 
 how little it avails for men to offer peace when those 
 officially under their sway are bent on war. His mother 
 flatly refused to go. She said that fine ladies frightened 
 her, that she would enjoy a quiet day by herself on the 
 sands. Selma said that she would go, because she liked a 
 long drive and wanted to see Ailsa Head. 
 
 " I would rather have gone there without the Walsing- 
 hams," she said, " but one must take things as one can get 
 them." 
 
 " We can go by ourselves another day," said Michael, 
 who wished Selma would stay at home. 
 
 But the girl looked at him with malicious understanding, 
 and said that the weather might break, and that if it was 
 fine to-morrow she would go. Michael could not help 
 wondering what she would look like and how she would 
 behave, and it was not reassuring to find next morning 
 that she had put on the gown he considered objectionable, 
 the gown with big flaring flowers on it, no collar, and 
 elbow sleeves. She wore an enormous floppy hat too, 
 and had tied yards of scarlet chiffon over it and in a big 
 bow under her chin. She carried a scarlet sunshade 
 and long white gloves. She looked magnificent and pre- 
 posterous, and Michael wished when he saw her that his 
 sisters had been born plain. Camilla comforted him a 
 little by appearing in a harmless white gown and quiet 
 hat, but she looked hot and flurried, and said that she
 
 THE SEVERINS 167 
 
 could do nothing with Bob this morning. He was going 
 to the picnic, but he refused to wash because he said that 
 he meant to have a swim with Michael at Ailsa Head, 
 and that nothing should induce him to wash twice in one 
 morning. 
 
 " But he has been down to breakfast," said Michael, 
 puzzled as usual by the curious ways of his family. 
 " Don't you remember, Camilla, I sent him up to brush 
 his hair ? " 
 
 " You didn't tell him to wash," said Camilla, who was 
 nearly crying. 
 
 " But he was dressed and downstairs," repeated Michael 
 helplessly. 
 
 " He never washes here except in the sea," explained 
 Camilla. So Michael had to go upstairs and wrestle with 
 Bob. Then the brake arrived, and it was seen that Mrs. 
 Walsingham had not come. Mr. Walsingham was there 
 and his two daughters, one of the ladies staying with them, 
 and Jack Mundesley, who had arrived last night. That 
 made a party of nine besides the driver. When they 
 started Selma sat between Mr. Walsingham and Beatrice, 
 but Michael was at the other end on the opposite side. 
 He sat near Clara and found her flow of talk easy and 
 engaging. Bob sat on the box and enjoyed himself 
 as much as was possible considering that the coachman 
 would not trust him to drive. Camilla sat in a far corner 
 and hardly talked at all, because her neighbour was rather 
 deaf and could not hear what she said. Meanwhile, 
 a genial but rather thickheaded elderly gentleman was 
 receiving a series of shocks that helped him to understand 
 by the time they reached Ailsa Head why his wife had 
 refused to join this party. The first shock had been_de- 
 livered when Selma had appeared in the doorway of^the 
 cottage. Her natural colours were so vivid, so cherry red, 
 so raven black, so ivory white, that they looked unreal and
 
 1 68 THE SEVERINS 
 
 insolent. Her body was so tall and pliant that it fell 
 without effort into attitudes most women admire in 
 statuary but cannot imitate themselves ; and her voice 
 gave to her most trivial remarks the echo of tragedy. If 
 she had dressed like a nun she would have looked like a 
 peony. But in her flowered gown and flying scarlet veil 
 she looked, Mr. Walsingham said to himself, like Jezebel. 
 However, he set himself to talk with his usual urbane 
 politeness ; but they had not driven far before he dis- 
 covered that urbanity was not her virtue. She thought 
 him rather doddering, and showed it in her replies. 
 Besides, he soon found that on every subject he started 
 they were profoundly disagreed. He dabbled a little in 
 archaeology, and began in despair to talk of the old crosses 
 and monoliths for which the neighbourhood was remark- 
 able, because he thought that old monuments could not 
 stir this strange young woman to anger as easily as 
 questions of art and literature apparently did. But she 
 displayed an ignorance of Druidic remains that baffled him 
 and an indifference that was rude. 
 
 " I should like to take you to see a really fine specimen 
 of a beehive hut at Sarnen," he began. 
 
 " I've been there," said Selma, in such a cut-him-short 
 tone that Mr. Walsingham, who was the soul of courtesy, 
 tried another tack. He remembered that a royal meeting 
 of political importance was taking place in foreign seas 
 to-day. The daily papers were all devoting columns 
 to it. 
 
 " The king and the emperor are having beautiful 
 weather," he said. 
 
 " I suppose kings and emperors have the same weather 
 as we do," said Selma, looking at him as if she thought he 
 was daft. 
 
 " Do you take any interest in politics ? " said Mr. 
 Walsingham.
 
 THE SEVERINS 169 
 
 " I take no interest in kings and emperors," said Selma. 
 " I should prefer cats." 
 
 This time it was Mr. Walsingham who stared as if he 
 thought the lady daft. 
 
 " You don't know your Mark Twain," she explained 
 scornfully. " His Yankee at King Arthur's Court says 
 that if a nation wants a royal family at all it should have a 
 family of cats. They would do less harm than Neros and 
 Stuarts." 
 
 Mr. Walsingham looked uncomfortably across the 
 carriage towards Michael. 
 
 " I don't think your brother shares your views," he 
 said. 
 
 " Michael ! " exclaimed Selma ; and then, in a tone of 
 measureless contempt, she said, " He's a Tory." She 
 reminded Mr. Walsingham of thrilling moments in his 
 early youth, when he went to melodramas and heard the 
 villain unmasked ; but then she continued speaking in a 
 lighter way, as you do when you have something pleasant 
 and creditable to say of yourself. 
 
 " I am an anarchist," she said ; " my best friend killed a 
 Russian general with a bomb." 
 
 " I really am thankful that my wife did not come, 
 and that Mrs. Trevor- Aspland is slightly deaf," said Mr. 
 Walsingham to himself. He also made a private vow 
 that in future he would take his wife's advice about picnic 
 parties, and when they reached Ailsa Head he got as 
 far away from Selma as he could. At lunch, which they 
 had at an hotel, nothing happened, however, to rouse her 
 vehement tongue until they had finished, and then Jack 
 Mundesley, who was near her, unfortunately said that he 
 would rather grub in a room than on the rocks. 
 
 " Which would you rather do ? " he said to Selma, 
 for he was much impressed by her handsome appearance, 
 and he had tried in vain to make friends with her.
 
 i;o THE SEVERINS 
 
 " I never care what I eat," she said audibly, " I leave 
 that to pigs." 
 
 " But that is just the pig's point of view," said Michael 
 lazily, and every one laughed and got up from the table. 
 Out of doors Selma found herself alone. She chose a 
 conspicuous rock, took off her shoes and stockings, 
 and sat there dipping her beautiful white feet in and out of 
 the water. Jack Mundesley looked at her, but followed 
 Beatrice. Clara looked at her and sniffed. Mr. Walsing- 
 ham walked as far as he could in an opposite direction. 
 It was nearly tea-time when Camilla and Bob came 
 clambering over the rocks towards her. 
 
 " I have enjoyed myself so much," said Camilla. 
 
 "Mr. Walsingham took us to see the cave," said Bob. 
 " I went right to the end. Miss Walsingham says I can 
 climb like a cat." 
 
 " I detest the whole family," said Selma. 
 
 " But they have been so kind to-day," said the simple 
 Camilla. 
 
 "As for that dolly Clara, the way she hunts down 
 Michael is brazen." 
 
 " Oh, Selma ! " cried Camilla with a frightened, warning 
 glance at Bob. But Selma disregarded it. 
 
 " Michael doesn't see a man of his kind never can see 
 anything he can't touch and I don't care. I'm nothing 
 to Michael and he's nothing to me ; but he's being 
 snatched from you, my child, by a clothes-peg." 
 
 "Oh, dear ! " cried Camilla, " and I have been so 
 happy all day but I can't help it can I ? Michael 
 is his own master." 
 
 " He won't be when he marries Clara," said Selma.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 FOR some weeks to come Michael's affairs seemed to 
 mark time. Nothing of importance happened to 
 him or to his people. Tom and Clotilda sailed for South 
 Africa soon after they returned to London, and in the 
 middle of September, the Severins left Carbay. Their 
 arrival at the corner house was marked chiefly by Bob's 
 ecstatic discovery that his parrot used language he was 
 not allowed to use ; that, in fact, it would say " Go to the 
 devil " twenty times in succession, with an air of com- 
 placency and virtue that was staggering. Camilla said 
 it would be impossible to put the cage near an open 
 window when summer came, because if Miss Jenkins heard 
 the reprehensible bird she would think the family had 
 taught him. But the first time Mr. Jenkins and Mr. 
 Henderson dropped in for a little music they were intro- 
 duced to the parrot by Bob, and forsook the piano in 
 order to enjoy his entertaining vocabulary. Soon after 
 this Bob went to school. His mother wept copiously at 
 parting from him, and he shed a tear or two when he 
 parted from the parrot. Otherwise he went off in good 
 spirits. 
 
 The household without Clotilda and Bob entered on 
 a new phase. Clotilda had taken its gaiety with her and 
 Bob some of its disorder. The Kremskis and Deminski 
 were missing too. From the musical evenings the glory 
 had departed. The two English boys who had both 
 adored Clotilda found the place dull without her. They 
 disliked Selma because she snubbed them, and they were 
 not of Michael's quality. So they stayed away ; and 
 
 171
 
 172 THE SEVERINS 
 
 others of their social calibre stayed away too. Various im- 
 provements were made in the management and appearance 
 of the house. Two good servants were engaged, Mrs. 
 Ginger was kept in the background, and ragged chairs 
 and carpets were repaired or replaced by new ones. Mrs. 
 Severin did not change her indolent unmethodical ways. 
 She still lay in bed till noon, still sat about when she 
 was not in bed with any one who would talk to her, and 
 still complained of having no time for what she had to do. 
 She still muddled in and out of the kitchen, and talked of 
 " housekeeping "as if it was an art she practised ; 
 while all she really did was to order lavish supplies of 
 food and hinder the maids by her late hours and capri- 
 cious interference. But as she was good-humoured and 
 unpractical the maids recognized that they might do 
 worse for themselves, and stayed in a situation where the 
 mistress invited knavery by her incompetence. 
 
 When letters began to arrive from Clotilda they gave 
 general pleasure. She wrote cheerfully of her surroundings, 
 affectionately of her husband, and descriptively of various 
 unattached young men both Dutch and English, who, 
 she said, came often to the house and considered her a 
 mother. Bob wrote cheerfully too from the school at 
 Eastbourne, more cheerfully than the headmaster, who 
 suggested that the average mischief and naughtiness of the 
 youngest class had gone up with abnormal rapidity 
 since Bob's arrival. Otherwise he thought well of Bob, 
 and meant to put him with older and more responsible 
 boys next term. 
 
 The only discontented person in the corner house was 
 Selma, and she fretted herself thin and ill because Michael 
 would not consent to her going to Paris. She had not 
 approached him directly on the subject, but she found 
 that her mother had promised him not to supply her with 
 money for this purpose, and that with her son in the house
 
 THE SEVERINS 173 
 
 Mrs. Severin was more afraid to break her promise than 
 to keep it. Selma heard regularly from Deminski. He 
 saw life in Paris through rose-coloured spectacles, and 
 wrote in raptures of an atmosphere where men of wide 
 views could breathe and come to their own. He hoped 
 Selma would soon throw off the shackles of British 
 Philistinism and fly towards the higher ether. He would 
 be charmed to introduce her to his friends, who were all 
 persons of culture, amiability, and understanding ; but 
 he must warn her that Paris was not cheap. Like Roderigo, 
 she should put money in her purse. Also she must prepare 
 to meet the Kremskis on the old terms, for they belonged 
 to his inner circle, lived in fact at his pension, and did 
 much to make his leisure hours supportable. Deminski 
 assured Selma that once in Paris she would judge Marie 
 in a more liberal spirit, and would not blame her for 
 rinding an occasional holiday from Kremski necessary 
 and refreshing. Kremski was the finest fellow in the 
 world, but indigestible as constant diet. Sometimes Dem- 
 inski thought that his sufferings had affected his brain. 
 Marie always spoke of Selma in tones of exalted admira- 
 tion. Never, she declared, had she known so beautiful 
 and intelligent a creature wasted on unworthy surround- 
 ings. Every one in the pension awaited her arrival with 
 impatience, and several of the guests who were painters 
 were quarrelling already as to who should have the 
 honour of showing the English beauty the Parisian ropes. 
 Deminski himself was prospering in a small way. The 
 stuff he sent from Paris gave satisfaction at headquarters, 
 and he hoped soon to strike for better pay. 
 
 These letters did much to increase Selma's restlessness 
 and discontent. She wanted ardently to see Deminski 
 again ; she distrusted Marie Petersen, and hated to think 
 of them under the same roof ; she knew that she could 
 overcome Marie's baneful influence on Deminski if she
 
 174 THE SEVERINS 
 
 was with them. It made her miserable to think of all 
 that might be going on in that French boarding-house, 
 and all that she could do to stop it if she went there. 
 She was jealous of the little frog-mouthed girl, more 
 jealous of her than she had been of Clotilda ; for she had 
 never put much faith in the depth of her pretty sister's 
 affection for Nicholas. She did not admit to herself that 
 such reasons as these were paramount when she burned 
 with hurry and eagerness to get away. She said to herself 
 and her friends that she had learned the little London 
 had to teach her, and that she had worked abroad. She 
 became languid and indifferent in the studio she attended, 
 and one day the distinguished teacher who ran it lost his 
 temper and told her she was wasting his time and her own. 
 He was so distinguished that his studio was overcrowded, 
 and Selma with her airs and her vapours occupied space 
 that could hardly be spared. She turned rather pale 
 when the explosion came. 
 
 *' Do you mean that I shall never do any good ? " she 
 asked with her air of a tragedy queen. The great man 
 looked uncomfortably away. 
 
 " There are other arts," he suggested. " There is the 
 stage, for instance." 
 
 She looked at him, he said later, like a wounded tiger ; 
 only no tiger ever had those haunting melancholy eyes. But 
 he was an honest man and knew she would never paint, so 
 he would not retract what he had said. She packed up 
 her traps in a white heat of anger, shook the dust of the 
 place off her feet, and marched back to the corner house 
 in a mood to let some one there have the full brunt of the 
 storm gathering to a head within. She thought of her 
 mother, but, as it happened, she collided on the doorstep 
 with the rather tired and unsuspicious Michael. He saw 
 as she came up the steps that she was in a state he 
 irreverently described as a tantrum, but when he looked
 
 THE SEVERINS 175 
 
 more closely he perceived that it was a worse one than 
 usual. The girl appeared wretched as well as furious, 
 and he wondered what had happened. He had just 
 opened the door, and he drew back a little to let her pass 
 in before him. 
 
 " I want to speak to you," she said imperiously. 
 
 Michael, like most men, hated a scene, but he saw that 
 he was in for one again, and that he might as well get 
 it over. 
 
 " Very well," he said, and when he had taken off his 
 hat and coat he went into the drawing-room where 
 Selma awaited him. In his hands he had a couple of 
 evening papers. 
 
 " I suppose," his sister began, " that all over England 
 men like you are coming back to their houses now in their 
 black coats and with their evening papers, a little tired 
 after what they consider a well-spent day ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Michael, sitting down by the fire. " That 
 describes us." 
 
 " You have spent your time . . . squeezing money 
 out of people less strong and cunning than you are your- 
 self . . . and you are satisfied." 
 
 " I haven't squeezed as much as I could wish to-day," 
 said Michael. " Something went a little wrong." 
 
 " I call it a contemptible life." 
 
 " It's not a bit heroic," Michael admitted. 
 
 " Why don't you express the thought in your mind, and 
 say that you lead it for me that, in fact, you do dirty 
 work to keep me and other useless women in idleness ? " 
 
 " You put things so unpleasantly, Selma." 
 
 " Money-grubbing is always dirty work. It enslaves 
 and degrades." 
 
 " It tires," hinted Michael. 
 
 " A poet or an artist would hate the life you lead." 
 
 " I dare say."
 
 1 76 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " The work you do is sordid compared with theirs." 
 
 " It takes all sorts to make a world," said Michael. 
 " The poets and artists want people like me to ' 
 
 "To patronize them. I know your jargon and in 
 your heart you despise them." 
 
 " Not the real ones." 
 
 " You mean that I am a sham ? " 
 
 " I was talking in generalities. '! was thinking of well 
 say Shakespeare and Michael Angelo. I don't despise 
 them, though I do spend my days in a counting-house. 
 A man may come to that and yet keep a humble mind. 
 It is your artistic buffoon who is flown with wrath and 
 vanity and contempt for his fellow men." 
 
 " I don't know any buffoons," said Selma. " I agree 
 with Deminski about Shakespeare. He had a knack of 
 putting commonplaces tellingly, and so the mob calls him 
 a poet. I should expect you to take off your hat to him. 
 But I am not here to talk generalities. I want an explana- 
 tion." 
 
 " Will it wait till after tea ? " said Michael. 
 
 "No. Sophia and Camilla will arrive when tea does." 
 
 " What do you want explained in such a hurry ? " 
 
 " Your attitude in regard to me and Paris." 
 
 " Am I in an attitude ? " asked Michael. 
 
 " I am twenty-three. You have no authority over 
 me." 
 
 " Not the least. I know." 
 
 " Then why do you act as if your consent was neces- 
 sary ? " 
 
 Michael always found that in a discussion with Selma 
 she got her adversary into a corner either by asking 
 questions he would rather not answer, or by driving him 
 to define a position that it was painful to define. He did 
 not wish to say that she should not go to Paris with his 
 money or, if he could prevent it, with his mother's money,
 
 THE SEVERINS 177 
 
 but this was in fact the state of affairs. He had no power 
 over her except the power of withholding supplies . 
 
 " I admit," he said, " that in the eyes of the law you 
 are competent to manage your own affairs." 
 
 " But you disagree with the law ? " 
 
 " If you go to Paris I shall." 
 
 " Oh ! " cried Selma, catching her breath in her anger. 
 " How I hate your point of view your smug, self- 
 satisfied conviction that nowhere out of England is there 
 virtue. Do you really believe that there is infection in 
 the air across the Channel, and that the stones of the 
 Paris streets will contaminate me ? Is that the withering 
 effect of your upbringing on your soul ? " 
 
 If Michael had followed his inclination he would have 
 run away. He was tired and wanted tea. Such was the 
 withering effect on his spirits of Selma's tirade. 
 
 " There is nothing in the world so narrow, so ignorant, 
 and so stupid as the ordinary Englishman brought up in 
 the traditional way," continued Selma pleasantly. " I 
 saw it this afternoon at the studio. I see it again in you." 
 
 Michael pricked up his ears. 
 
 " What happened at the studio ? " he asked. 
 
 " Mauldeth told me I was doing no good. He suggested 
 that I should give up painting and go on the stage. I 
 have left him for ever." 
 
 Michael listened attentively now, and in a moment, 
 her throat working with excess of emotion, her voice 
 almost breaking in a sob, Selma went on speaking. 
 
 " In one sense it is true," she said. " I have been doing 
 no good lately, and I have outgrown Mauldeth and his 
 sentimentalities. I am stagnating. No in art you can't 
 stagnate you go back or you go on ; I have gone back. 
 I want new inspiration fresh help. Oh, can't you see 
 from my point of view for once, Michael, and not for ever 
 from your own ? " 
 
 12
 
 i;8 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " I wonder why Mauldeth told you to go on the stage ? " 
 said Michael. 
 
 " I suppose you think going on the stage must mean 
 going to perdition," she cried. " It is what you would 
 think, you Puritan ! " 
 
 " Suppose you stop calling me names and discuss your 
 own affairs," said Michael. " Where do you propose to 
 live in Paris, and what do you propose to do there ? " 
 
 " I shall work at painting there." 
 
 " In spite of Mauldeth's advice ? " 
 
 " I think nothing of Mauldeth." 
 
 " You would go into a French studio ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Where would you live ? " 
 
 " In a pension." 
 
 " Do you know of one ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Who recommended it ? " 
 
 Selma hesitated ; but she was as honest as she was 
 violent and unreasonable, and the question was too direct 
 to evade. 
 
 " Deminski recommended it highly," she said after a 
 pause. 
 
 " Where is he living ? " 
 
 " In this pension." 
 
 " And you propose to go there too ? " 
 
 " Why not ? There are others there. You know that 
 I do not agree with you about him." 
 
 " Do you know who any of the others are ? " 
 
 Again Selma hesitated, and again she answered after 
 a pause : 
 
 " Kremski is there and Marie Petersen." 
 
 " I thought you had quarrelled with them ? " 
 
 " They would like to make friends again." 
 
 Michael saw that his sister looked ill and unhappy, and,
 
 THE SEVERINS 179 
 
 perverse though she was, he desired to help her. But 
 he was determined not to help her into a pension tenanted 
 by Deminski and the Kremskis. 
 
 " Paris is not the only place in the world where they 
 paint," he said at last. 
 
 " It is the only place for me." 
 
 " Why not Dusseldorf or Munich or Newlyn ? " 
 
 " You talk of what you don't understand, Michael." 
 
 " Very well," said Michael. " It is true that I know 
 nothing of painting, or of the schools, or of your capacity. 
 If Paris is the only place where you can work, and you are 
 breaking your heart about it, you shall go there " 
 
 He was interrupted by Selma, who looked up with a 
 start of surprise, gave a little shriek of joy, and flung 
 herself on her knees at his feet. 
 
 " But you must live with possible people," said Michael. 
 
 The glow seemed to fade from his sister's face and the 
 eager excitement from her pose. She sat down on the 
 hearthrug. 
 
 " You mean respectable people, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " If you knew how I hate and despise that word you 
 would not use it." 
 
 " What word ? " 
 
 " Respectable. It covers all the mean and sordid 
 crimes society commits with a complacent countenance. 
 I reject it with contumely." , 
 
 " Do you reject my offer with it ? " 
 
 " What does your offer amount to ? " 
 
 " We must find some decent quiet people who will take 
 you in for a time. Later on we can consider the question 
 of your living by yourself. At present it is impossible." 
 
 " How are we to find a family that you would approve 
 and that I could endure ? It is unthinkable." 
 
 " I don't see why."
 
 i8o THE SEVERINS 
 
 " You never can see any point of view but your 
 own." 
 
 " Then it's obviously waste of time to argue with me," 
 said Michael, touching the bell near him. 
 
 " You have not made any offer that I can entertain," 
 cried Selma indignantly. "I do not recognize your 
 authority, and I have no respect for your opinions. You 
 judge every one by your worn-out standards. The world 
 is moving and you do not move with it. Any one who can 
 take such a word as respectable into his mouth except 
 as a term of abuse lives in a backwater. The Walsinghams 
 and their friends are respectable, I suppose, and suit you 
 exactly. But I consider them insects." 
 
 " Tea ! " said Michael, rather curtly, to the maid who 
 appeared in answer to his bell ; and when she disappeared 
 he opened one of his papers. He hoped that Selma would 
 leave him in peace now ; but peace was not what she 
 desired. 
 
 " You gave that order as if you were a king in Babylon 
 and Ada was a slave," she began. " I suppose it is 
 ' respectable ' to speak uncivilly to girls whose poverty 
 drives them to work for you." 
 
 Michael felt able to ignore this attack. He had never 
 been uncivil to a subordinate in his life, and Ada served 
 him more willingly than she served any one else in the 
 house. 
 
 " In my opinion Ada and the cook ought to have meals 
 with us," continued Selma. " It would be good for them 
 and good for us. And I have been thinking that we ought 
 to clean our own boots. Americans do. Why should we 
 expect our fellow creatures to do such things for us ? " 
 
 Michael did not offer a reply. He kept his eyes on his 
 paper. 
 
 " Now you are uncivil to me, Michael," said Selma. 
 " Your manners are only skin deep if you do not answer
 
 THE SEVERINS 181 
 
 reasonable questions. Don't you think we might black 
 our own boots ? " 
 
 " No," said Michael. " But I think you might get up 
 early and clean the grates. Why should you expect the 
 maids to do it ?" 
 
 " What are you saying, Michael ? " asked Mrs. Severin, 
 straggling into the room just behind Ada with the tea- 
 tray. " Something about the grate. Has Selma told you 
 that a new boiler is wanted at once ? I am afraid there 
 will be a horrid mess here when they put it in. You will 
 have to dine at your club once or twice." 
 
 " Where are we to dine ? " said Selma. 
 
 " Oh, my dear," said Mrs. Severin, giving Michael 
 the first cup of tea, " we can have a tinned tongue. 
 What does it matter ? " 
 
 " I think it matters just as much for me as for Michael," 
 said Selma. 
 
 " I don't," said Mrs. Severin. " Michael is a man." 
 
 Michael looked at Camilla, who came into the room just 
 then. 
 
 " Come here, Camilla," he said, drawing a chair for 
 her close to his own. " Where have you been all this 
 time ? " 
 
 " I've been making Bob a cake," she said happily. 
 " I've iced it and put ' Many Happy Returns ' on it in 
 pink sugar. He will be pleased. You must come and 
 see it after tea." 
 
 " Rather ! " said Michael. " And can I have some ? " 
 
 " Of course not. It's for Bob's birthday next week. 
 I had to make it to-day because there is going to be a 
 mess with the stove." 
 
 " Yes, I know. You'll have no dinner, I'm told." 
 
 " There's a tinned tongue in the house," said Camilla 
 philosophically. "You'll have to dine at_the club, 
 Michael."
 
 i8 2 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " Why won't the tinned tongue do for me ? " 
 
 Camilla looked rather scandalized. 
 
 " Oh, well," she said, "you're a man." 
 
 Mrs. Severin and Michael both laughed, but Selma got 
 up angrily and went out of the room. 
 
 " It is such women as you who keep us back," she 
 flung at Camilla as she passed her. 
 
 " What does she mean ? " said Camilla. 
 
 " She is vexed because I said that Michael's dinner is 
 more important to him than ours is to us," said Mrs. 
 Severin. " As if he could help it, poor fellow ! I am sure 
 that for a man Michael is not greedy."
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 AFTER all Michael did not dine at his club while 
 -I\ his womenfolk ate tinned tongue. His business 
 was one that often sent him here and there suddenly, 
 and while the kitchen stove was repaired he went 
 to Manchester. Mr. and Mrs. West, the people who 
 had done so much for him in his youth, were both dead, 
 but a recently-married daughter was living in a suburb 
 of the city, and he saw her several times. From her he 
 got the name and address of two maiden ladies who lived 
 in Paris and would receive Selma. Mrs. Tyrell had stayed 
 with them herself, and spoke of them with warm affection. 
 Michael had an uncomfortable suspicion that people who 
 liked Mrs. Tyrell might not like Selma, and that maiden 
 ladies lovingly described as " rather old-world, you know, 
 and Cranfordy " might only rouse his sister's impatience. 
 But he had seen enough of life to understand that, as a 
 subject of prophecy, nothing is more unsafe than the 
 likes and dislikes of other people for their fellows. He 
 decided, therefore, to tell Selma that if she chose to spend 
 six months in this household he would pay her expenses, 
 and the only condition he meant to make was, that she 
 should not move elsewhere without his knowledge and 
 approval. 
 
 Michael certainly was old-fashioned, chivalrous, rather 
 quixotic, what Selma called a Philistine. He held that 
 he had a duty towards his young sisters, that he was 
 bound to protect them, and that unfortunately Selma 
 required protection against herself. Her ideas seemed 
 to him the cheapest claptrap the scum of some insane 
 
 183
 
 1 84 THE SEVERINS 
 
 and sordid philosophy to which the windbags who dazzled 
 her gave a specious air of modern thought. It troubled 
 him to think that the headstrong girl might act on them 
 and then find her world in pieces ; and that he was the 
 only person to see the danger and try to prevent it. If 
 Mrs. Severin had been of tougher fibre they might have 
 stood together and saved Selma without any appearance 
 of masculine authority, which was what she seemed most 
 to resent. But Selma knew she could have persuaded her 
 mother into anything if Michael had not been there ; so 
 that all her anger was directed against him and his 
 oppressive sex. 
 
 He got home by a late train, having had dinner on the 
 way. When he reached the Crescent he saw that there 
 were still lights in the drawing-room, so when he had 
 paid his cab and put down his bag he went in there. Mrs. 
 Severin sat by herself over a dying fire, half asleep it 
 seemed, wearing one of her wrapper-like garments and with 
 her hair rather dishevelled by the wear and tear of the 
 day. She started at the sound of the door, blinked 
 stupidly at Michael, then woke more completely and got 
 up to welcome him. A small table was set near the fire 
 with whisky and soda and neatly-cut sandwiches, and it 
 was not necessary to tell Michael that Camilla had pre- 
 pared them for him. 
 
 " She wanted to stay up and see you," said Mrs. 
 Severin, " but I persuaded her to go to bed. The poor 
 child is tired out." 
 
 " Has there been so much for her to do ? " said Michael, 
 sitting down and beginning to eat his sandwiches, for he 
 had dined early and was hungry again. 
 
 " There has been no end to it," said Mrs. Severin, 
 " what with the mess in the kitchen and what with 
 Selma." 
 
 " Selma ? "
 
 THE SEVERINS 185 
 
 " Haven't you had my letter, sent last night to Man- 
 chester ? " 
 
 " No," said Michael, " I left Manchester early this 
 morning. I had to be in Crewe for a few hours." 
 
 " I suppose that's how it is," said Mrs. Severin. 
 
 " But what about Selma ? " 
 
 " She has gone to Paris. I told you she would. My 
 children are so self-willed." 
 
 Michael's face changed. 
 
 " How could she go without money ? " he asked. 
 
 " I let her have some. The moment you were gone she 
 was at me morning, noon, and night, so in the end, when 
 this chance came, I gave in. I told her I was breaking my 
 promise to you, but she did not seem to mind that. She 
 vowed that if I did not help her she would throw herself 
 into the canal, and I could not sleep for thinking of it. 
 Such things do happen, and they happen to people like 
 Selma, who would rather die than not get what they want." 
 
 As usual his mother's curious mixture of acumen, 
 weakness, affection, and indifference was bewildering to 
 Michael, who looked at things with steadier eyes. He 
 could imagine how persistently Selma had set herself 
 to overcome her mother's scruples, and how Mrs. Severin 
 had yielded partly because she was afraid of driving the 
 girl to extremes. 
 
 "What chance do you mean?" he asked. "Where 
 has she gone ? " 
 
 " That is the satisfactory part. It came quite suddenly 
 through Mauldeth's shameful treatment of her. A fellow 
 student who heard him break out, and is going to Paris 
 because he can teach her nothing, asked Selma to go with 
 her." 
 
 " Who is she ?" 
 
 " A Miss Hyde, the daughter jDf a barrister and a friend 
 of the Walsinghams," said Mrs. Severin proudly.
 
 i86 THE SEVERINS 
 
 That sounded so " respectable " that Michael smiled ; 
 but he began to feel relieved. 
 
 " But where have they gone ? " he asked. " Mrs. Tyrell 
 told me of the ladies with whom she stayed. She said 
 it was like home." 
 
 " Then you would never have got Selma there. There 
 is no word that fills her with greater horror. She says it 
 covers every form of tyranny and boredom." 
 
 " Well, where has she gone ? " said Michael, who was 
 never as much impressed as he should have been by 
 Selma's social tirades. 
 
 " They have gone to a pension one recommended to 
 Miss Hyde." 
 
 " Where is it ? " 
 
 " Somewhere near the ntoile miles from Deminski. 
 I asked about that because I knew you would wish it. I 
 think it is all right, Michael. Miss Hyde is very plain and 
 rather elderly, and I begged her not to let Selma go out 
 alone." 
 
 Michael asked a few more questions and then went to 
 bed, on the whole with a feeling of relief. Provided that 
 Selma was safe, he could only rejoice both on his own 
 account and hers that she had gone. Life at the corner 
 house promised to be peaceful for the first time since he 
 had known it ; and he found, in fact, that Camilla and he 
 settled down to those humdrum ways your spirit never 
 finds weary if it can light them with its own flame. 
 He came back now from his day's work to see his young 
 sister on the hearth, ready either to hear of his adventures, 
 or to narrate her own with the keen interest and cheerful- 
 ness that give value to the little pleasures of life, a value 
 out of all relation to their importance. Sometimes 
 they just sat by the fire and talked, sometimes Camilla 
 sang, sometimes they went out together to a concert or 
 a play. Michael enjoyed good music and acting with a
 
 THE SEVERINS 187 
 
 fulness of pleasure that half disturbed him. The depths 
 they touched in him seemed to separate him from his own 
 world and carry him for the time into that world he 
 had cast from him, one of artistic emotion and excitement, 
 lacking the harder qualities men ask of men. At such 
 moments, when music thrilled every fibre in him with 
 ecstasy and fed his senses with a joy he could hardly dis- 
 tinguish from pain because it was so poignant, he sat like 
 a man turned to stone, outwardly rigid, inwardly on fire. 
 Camilla understood, he thought, for she never spoke when 
 the last notes died, but waited till earth broke in again 
 and fetched his spirit down. She loved music too, 
 but she loved it with the weight of her nature, and that 
 was not in the balance with Michael's. There were no 
 smouldering fires behind her dovelike eyes. 
 
 One evening, when they were at the Queen's Hall, the 
 two stalls beyond Michael were empty during several 
 numbers of the programme. The first part ended with 
 the prelude to the Gotterdammerung and Michael listened 
 as he always listened to Wagner. He did not shut his 
 eyes, but he fixed them on his programme, because that 
 helped to shut out the world. So his head was still bent 
 when at the finish some people came to the seats near him, 
 and it was only when the audience began to stir that he 
 looked up and recognized Mr. and Mrs. St. Erth. Mr. 
 St. Erth had not taken his seat. He was standing up, 
 and as he nodded to Michael said he was going out to 
 smoke. He looked over his shoulder once to see if Michael 
 had followed him, then went his way alone. Meanwhile 
 Mrs. St. Erth was talking to the brother and sister. 
 
 Michael found, as he had done before, that the sight 
 of her affected him like music or like wine. He could not 
 smother the attraction or bring reason into it or do any- 
 thing but feel afraid, and at the same time find a mighty 
 joy in it. This was the second time he had seen her, and
 
 i88 THE SEVERINS 
 
 she wore white again and diamonds as beautiful as light 
 or dew, and ermine fine enough for a king's daughter. 
 On her, furs and jewels became the setting of her delicate 
 vivid beauty. Michael could not see whether she wore 
 silver shoes to-night, but he thought she looked like a 
 princess out of a fairy tale, a princess who sleeps on a 
 moonbeam and never stoops except in dreams to the sons 
 of men. It only carried on the fairy tale to remember 
 that an ogre had some power over her. Mrs. St. Erth, 
 while she talked to the brother and sister, felt the shackles 
 of the ogre, for when she saw Michael again the clash 
 of pleasure and pain that troubled him troubled her too. 
 But she was warned by no danger signals in these early 
 hours of acquaintanceship, and desired to see more of 
 two people who both attracted her. For she discovered 
 that Camilla was charming, and that Camilla adored her 
 brother. When the ogre came back Mrs. St. Erth looked 
 at him before she spoke, because experience had made her 
 weatherwise. She knew when a storm was brewing. 
 But even ogres have their milder moods, and as Mr. St. 
 Erth strolled back to his seat he saw that Camilla was an 
 extremely pretty girl. So when his wife asked in a whisper 
 if she might invite Michael and Camilla to the house, he 
 said in a tone of snarling rebuke that it ought to have 
 been done long ago, and that it was her business to attend 
 to such things. 
 
 " Ask them to dinner," he said in a tone of command. 
 
 " When ? " said Madeline, her eyes alight with pleasure. 
 " But perhaps I ought to call first ? " 
 
 " Rubbish ! Ask them now and call afterwards." 
 
 So in the next interval Madeline delivered her husband's 
 invitation, wondering what Michael would think of its 
 coming so suddenly and so belated. But she knew that a 
 man who worked with her husband must have some 
 experience of his morose, capricious temper. Michael, in
 
 THE SEVERINS 189 
 
 accepting the invitation, did not betray what he thought 
 of it, but after consulting Camilla he said that they 
 could not come just yet. 
 
 " There is some difficulty about a dress," he said, 
 glancing from one young woman to the other. 
 
 " I haven't one," said Camilla frankly. " I've never 
 been out to dinner before." 
 
 " But can't you go to a shop to-morrow and buy one ? " 
 said Michael. 
 
 Camilla looked at Mrs. St. Erth as if to ask whether 
 such things could be done. 
 
 " Come to lunch with me to-morrow," said Mrs. St. 
 Erth. " We will go to my dressmaker together. She will 
 find something." 
 
 " That's very kind of you," said Michael, and fixed the 
 engagement then and there, while Camilla listened, horror- 
 struck, but too shy to speak her mind. 
 
 " Michael ! " she exclaimed, directly they were in a 
 hansom together on their way home. " You don't know 
 what you've done." 
 
 " What have I done ? " 
 
 " Said I was to go to Mrs. St. Erth's dressmaker. 
 Mrs. St. Erth's dressmaker ! I don't believe she has one. 
 I believe her fairy godmother brings her magic nuts 
 and she breaks one and out comes a lovely shimmering 
 cobweb and she wears it. All the dressmakers in the 
 world will never make me look like Mrs. St. Erth." 
 
 " She is pretty," said Michael, whose heart leapt to 
 find that Camilla saw the enchanted lady with his eyes. 
 
 " Pretty ! " cried Camilla. " Pretty ! What a word ! 
 You might as well call a cloud pretty or a poem. When 
 you see any one like that you don't use any stupid words 
 about them at all. You just remember them ... all 
 over you. But about the dressmaker ! You have no 
 idea. She will be ruinous."
 
 190 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " Never mind for once," said Michael. 
 
 So Camilla went to lunch with Mrs. St. Erth next day, 
 and on to the dressmaker, and it was a man dressmaker 
 she found, who had lovely things ready to slip on. A 
 stitch here and a nip there, and behold! Camilla, too, 
 looking as if a magic nut had opened for her. Like Bob, 
 she went back to the corner house full of Mrs. St. Erth. 
 When the night of the dinner came she hoped no one 
 had been asked to meet them, because then Michael 
 and she would have the lady of the house to themselves. 
 
 " Mr. St. Erth doesn't count," she said. 
 
 " Oh, doesn't he ? " said Michael. 
 
 It was Camilla's first formal venture into the world, 
 and when they were shown into a drawing-room full of 
 people, she felt inclined to run away. But these awful 
 moments have to be surmounted, and Mrs. St. Erth 
 helped the girl by taking her to a seat comfortably near 
 other people, and bringing up to her a fresh-faced, talka- 
 tive young middy, a nephew of Mr. St. Erth's, who was 
 staying in the house, and who was to take her into dinner. 
 
 While he babbled she regained her self-possession, 
 and began to look about the room. There seemed to be 
 about seventeen people present, and now the party was 
 completed by the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Walsingham 
 with Clara. Directly after they came Mr. St. Erth took 
 down an elderly lady who wore ropes of pearls and 
 diamonds with a white lace gown that was priceless, but 
 as a garment insufficient. 
 
 " That's Mrs. Quantock," whispered Camilla's middy, 
 who by this time considered Camilla " ripping," and was 
 anxious, seeing that she knew no one, to act as show- 
 master. 
 
 " Who is Mrs. Quantock ? " whispered Camilla, looking 
 with awe at the lady's jewels and with wonder at her 
 shoulders.
 
 THE SEVERINS 191 
 
 " The richest woman in England Quantock's Syrup 
 Quails Pain. Don't you know the posters ? " 
 
 " Oh 1 yes," said Camilla. " Is that all ? " 
 
 " All ! " said the boy, leading Camilla down just behind 
 Michael and Clara. " If I had a week of Mrs. Quantock's 
 income I'd never do a day's work again." 
 
 " What a thing to say ! " exclaimed Camilla. 
 
 " That good-looking chap in front of us is the new 
 partner " 
 
 ; ' Yes, I know," interrupted Camilla. 
 
 " I can't get the hang of his name ought to be Severn, 
 but isn't. But he ain't foreign he's all right. My 
 brother was at Winchester with him. That girl with him 
 is his partner's daughter. Her family and mine are 
 going to be united in Holy Matrimony shortly her sister 
 and my brother. Here we are ! Now, where'll our places 
 be ? Let's make a shot for the middle." 
 
 The middy was right ; and when they were settled 
 Camilla showed him her name written on a card, and 
 explained her relationship to Michael. 
 
 " No wonder he's good-looking," was the middy's 
 ingenuous comment ; and by the end of dinner every one 
 at the table knew that Camilla had made a conquest. 
 
 " How charming your sister looks to-night," said Clara, 
 when she had watched Camilla for some time and seen that 
 her manners bore scrutiny as well as her face and gown. 
 
 " She is the only one at home now," said Michael. 
 
 Clara looked charming too, and she was taking great 
 pains to captivate Michael. She knew how to talk 
 agreeably of anything and everything, and she always 
 gave Michael a sense of smoothness and security. " Life 
 is the easiest affair," she seemed to say to him. " Come, 
 live with me and sail peacefully on the waters of worldly 
 prosperity. I promise you that they shall never be moved 
 by storms. We will recognize nothing that is disagreeable
 
 192 THE SEVERINS 
 
 and stop for nothing that would disturb our comfort. 
 The world is a place where people like ourselves sleep 
 softly, dress beautifully, speak prettily, and fill the days 
 with nice observances, light duties, and the pleasures 
 that suit our tastes. The men of our world work, many 
 of them work hard, but they keep their work behind the 
 scenes. The women of our world have a delightful time, 
 and repay you by being as attractive and amiable as I am 
 myself." 
 
 " Where is your other sister," Clara asked, " the one 
 who paints ? " 
 
 " She is in Paris," said Michael. " She went with 
 some one you know a Miss Hyde." 
 
 " Agnes Hyde ! " said Clara. " Yes, she is in Paris, I 
 believe." 
 
 " Do you know her well ? " asked Michael, for Clara's 
 tone was not promising. 
 
 " Oh ! we know her for a crank," said Clara. 
 
 " What sort of crank ? " 
 
 " Well the sort that takes up with impossible people 
 you really never know WHAT you may meet at Agnes 
 Hyde's rooms. I should recommend you to take your 
 sister away from her." 
 
 " I'm afraid my sister won't listen to my advice," said 
 Michael. 
 
 " It may not last long," said Clara consolingly. 
 " Agnes generally quarrels with people when she has fussed 
 over them for a week or two. You hardly ever see her bosom 
 friends twice. She must be in extremes of love and hate. 
 I have no patience with that kind of thing, have you ? " 
 
 " With the love or the hate ? " 
 
 " With extremes either way." 
 
 " Oh ! as long as they last " Michael began, 
 
 and then Mrs. St. Erth looked at Mrs. Quantock, and 
 there was an end for the moment to conversation.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 MRS. ST. ERTH had just asked Camilla to sing, 
 and was standing with her and with Clara near 
 the open piano when the men came back into the room. 
 There was the usual slight stir and readjustment of 
 groups. The middy came straight towards Camilla, 
 and Michael followed him. For a moment the five people 
 talked together, and then they were disturbed by Mr. 
 St. Erth. He entered the room some moments later than 
 his guests, and at first he stood near the door, dazed, 
 silent, disapproving. His face was flushed, but his mood 
 was plainly ungenial, and, as he shuffled across the room 
 towards his wife, Michael was conscious of an un- 
 reasonable desire to stand between them. Directly 
 Madeline saw her husband she went to meet him ; but 
 though this detached them successfully, Michael could 
 not help hearing what they said. 
 
 " Why don't you look after your guests ? " the master of 
 the house began. " There's Mrs. Quantock sitting by 
 herself." 
 
 " I have been talking to her," said Madeline. " We 
 are just going to have some music." 
 
 " Who said so ? " 
 
 " Well I thought every one would like it." 
 
 " I don't, and I won't have it. If people can't amuse 
 each other let 'em go home. You go and talk to Mrs. 
 Quantock." 
 
 " But I've asked Camilla Severin to sing," said Made- 
 line, walking slowly away from the piano beside her 
 husband. Michael could not hear anything else that was 
 
 13 193
 
 194 THE SEVERINS 
 
 said, but he saw the man's face of savage refusal, and he 
 saw the girl shrink and turn away, ashamed lest any one 
 should see what she endured. She did not come back to 
 the piano, so the middy and Camilla found a corner near 
 a group of palms where they could chatter undisturbed. 
 They had heard what Mr. St. Erth said, and so had Clara, 
 but she did not allude to it when she sat down with 
 Michael and talked to him. She was full of Beatrice's 
 wedding, and she hoped that Michael and Camilla would 
 both come to it. 
 
 The invitation to the wedding arrived at the corner 
 house next day, but it was for three weeks hence, and in 
 the interval Michael found that he was constantly at 
 Rutland Gate. 
 
 He hardly knew himself how it came about. One 
 engagement seemed to lead to the next, and one pleasant 
 plan to another. He liked the atmosphere of the house, 
 its well-ordered comfort and good humour. Even a 
 forthcoming marriage did not seem to fluster any one or 
 disturb the clocklike working of those unseen wheels on 
 which comfort depends. He saw a great deal of Clara. 
 She never stirred the depths in him, but he found her an 
 agreeable companion. She was one of the people you 
 inevitably associate with the surface of life the flowery 
 surface from which everything painful is discreetly hidden. 
 It was impossible to picture her poor or suffering, or even 
 ruffled impossible to connect her with such misery as 
 Michael guessed at in Mrs. St. Erth's face. Clara was 
 pre-eminently sensible, and would never have married a 
 man in a headlong moment of self-sacrifice. She would 
 have looked beyond the moment, weighed the pros and 
 cons, and said she would rather not. She had fallen in 
 love with Michael rather hastily, but you have to re- 
 member how young she was. He was the romance of her 
 early girlhood, a romance that did her judgment credit ;
 
 THE SEVERINS 195 
 
 for even Mrs. Walsingham, who was Clara crystallized, 
 could not seriously object to Michael. He had a career 
 before him, might go into politics later, might leave his 
 son a peerage ; such things would be within his compass 
 when he was head of the firm, and Clara's husband. In 
 thinking of the marriage, Clara's mother saw both sides 
 by turn ; the romantic one, that presented Michael's 
 personal charm and the unworldliness of the Walsingham 
 attitude, and the practical one, that consoled her for the 
 other by showing her Michael's triumphant progress 
 through life when he had the incomparable Clara by his 
 side. 
 
 Meanwhile Michael had no idea that Clara meant him 
 to marry her ; and he was rather concerned to find that 
 his intimacy in the house was growing by strides. He 
 had the sense of insecurity^that modest people must feel 
 when they are sought out by people of wider fortunes 
 than their own. He could not suppose that he was 
 necessary to any of the Walsinghams outside the office, 
 but he began to think that he was happiest with 
 them. 
 
 Beatrice Walsingham's wedding was to take place 
 early in December, and Michael got away from the office 
 at three o'clock the day before because he had promised 
 Clara that he would help her to set out five hundred 
 presents. The house, when he arrived, seemed to be 
 overflowing with guests, servants, flowers, telegrams, 
 milliners, parcels, a distracted but cheerful bride, a 
 breathless bridegroom the usual chaos, in short, from 
 which the ordered ceremonial of the morrow would pro- 
 ceed. But amidst the inevitable bustle two people never 
 lost their heads. Mrs. Walsingham issued orders, resolved 
 difficulties, entertained elderly relatives staying in the 
 house, and conducted an urgent correspondence, without 
 the least sign of wear and tear, while the hundred and
 
 196 THE SEVERINS 
 
 one things she had to do by deputy were despatched by 
 Clara with swiftness and decision. Michael was pressed 
 into the service the moment he arrived, and treated by 
 every one as if he belonged to the household. Directly 
 tea was over he went down to the library with Clara to help 
 her arrange the presents. The wrappings of everything 
 except the jewellery had been taken away by servants, 
 and the tables on which the things were to be laid out 
 had been cleared and covered with white cloths. 
 
 " It ought to have been done yesterday," said Clara, 
 " but it won't take us long. I know where the chief ones 
 will go, and the others will fall in. Are you coming back 
 to dinner to-night ? " 
 
 " I didn't know I was asked," said Michael. 
 
 Clara had a pretty little smile, and it flitted across her 
 face now. 
 
 " I ask you," she said. 
 
 " Then I'll come," said Michael. 
 
 They had left all the fuss and movement in the house 
 behind them. The library was a spacious room that had 
 been built on by a previous tenant. It had a great red- 
 brick fireplace, in which a mighty fire was blazing, and at 
 first Michael stood near it idly watching Clara's adroit 
 fingers arrange white flowers and white chiffon on one 
 of the tables. He admired her dexterity, her quickness, 
 and the unruffled sweetness of her disposition. She owned 
 to being tired, but she did not move as if she was tired. 
 She wore a gown of pale pastel blue, and the sleeves had 
 ruffles of lace that fell about her wrists. Every now and 
 then, when she stretched out her hands, he saw the 
 charming curves and tints of her arms. But she did not 
 let him stand there idly watching her for long. When she 
 was ready for the heaviest and largest of the presents 
 she showed him where to put them, and he found that 
 she had a ready-made plan in her mind, so that they did
 
 THE SEVERINS 197 
 
 not waste a moment considering where this and that 
 should go. 
 
 " It will do," she said, retreating from the largest table, 
 which they were at first. " That tureen and the tea and 
 coffee service and the canteen, and all the stodgy old 
 silver now you fill up with more silver and I'll do these 
 side tables with glass and china and embroideries. The 
 jewels will be in a glass case but they are all in the safe. 
 What shall we do with the atrocities have a special 
 table, or plant them here and there and hope they won't 
 be noticed ? " 
 
 " Are there many atrocities ? " said Michael, who did 
 not offer his advice, because he felt sure that Clara 
 knew exactly what to do. 
 
 " There are always some," said Clara, " and Beatrice 
 is so soft-hearted. She will feel bound to leave them 
 on view." 
 
 " What would you do with them ? " 
 
 " With this ? " Clara had just taken up a large, 
 insane-looking flower jar, a specimen, the sender said, of 
 " New Art," bought, he had also said vaguely, " on the 
 Continent." It seemed that art on the Continent was in 
 a bad way. 
 
 " Oh ! never mind this," said Michael. " Hide this I 
 mean with your own when you marry." 
 
 He had gone up to her and offered to take the heavy 
 ugly thing from her. For a moment they stood facing 
 each other, both holding it. Then they somehow managed 
 badly. The jar fell with a heavy crash to the ground, 
 and they stood over the pieces, startled, but hand in hand. 
 
 " Clara ! " said Michael, for her face and the fact that 
 she had let him take her hand told her simple story. He 
 felt profoundly moved as he asked her to be his wife ; 
 and she stood near him, melting, shy, and radiant, a 
 Clara he hardly knew, wholly lovable. Presently they
 
 198 THE SEVERINS 
 
 knelt on the floor together and began to pick up the pieces. 
 But they made no way with them. 
 
 " What will your father and mother say ? " asked 
 Michael. 
 
 " They trust me and they like you," said Clara. 
 
 " But I am only at the beginning of things." 
 
 " I shall help you," said Clara with decision, and 
 Michael saw that the melting mood had nearly passed 
 already. Even as she spoke she rose to her feet, looked at 
 the broken glass on the carpet, and went towards the bell. 
 
 " We mustn't waste another moment," she said, ringing. 
 
 " Have we wasted any ? " said Michael. 
 
 She smiled and blushed prettily, but she would not let 
 him beguile her into idleness again. A servant appeared 
 and took the broken chef cFceuvre away. Beatrice arrived 
 with fresh presents, two or three elderly relatives ambled 
 into the room to see the show. The lovers no longer had 
 the room to themselves ; and they worked on busily. 
 Beatrice helped for a time, but was soon called away. The 
 old aunts and a clerical uncle followed her. 
 
 " I must go if I am to come back to dinner," said 
 Michael, looking at his watch. But he did not go. He 
 stood close to Clara, but as yet he could not believe in 
 their new outlook on life. It became a little more real 
 to him when she let him kiss her, rather slowly and 
 gravely. 
 
 " We will tell no one till after the wedding," said Clara. 
 " They have so much to think of just now. We will tell 
 Daddy and Mummy to-morrow when Trix has gone and 
 they feel flat." 
 
 An ironical light came into Michael's fine eyes. He 
 hoped that Clara's news would not make her parents feel 
 more flat ; but he did not put his self-distrust into words 
 again. 
 
 " Why didn't you confess to the broken jar ? " he asked.
 
 THE SEVERINS 199 
 
 " I never thought of it but I must remember to tell 
 Trix here she comes again." 
 
 The lovers drew away from each other just a moment 
 too late for complete success. Something in their pose 
 and their silence betrayed the truth or, at any rate, 
 suggested it to the person entering the room ; and it was 
 not Beatrice again, but Madeline St. Erth. She hesitated 
 a moment, and then came forward as if it cost her an 
 effort. 
 
 " Beatrice sent me," she said. " There will be such a 
 crowd to-morrow." 
 
 Michael just touched her hand and slipped away. He 
 found a hansom at once and told the driver to look sharp ; 
 but between Rutland Gate and Regent's Park a man has 
 time to think, even if he sits behind a fast horse. He 
 thought of Clara with a warm glow in his heart of tender- 
 ness and admiration. How pretty she was, how charm- 
 ing, how capable ! She would bring to his house all the 
 qualities he missed most in his mother's household ; 
 method, peace, and the worldly wisdom that solves so 
 many problems without effort or wrong-doing. Then he 
 pulled himself up for dwelling on the future from his own 
 point of view rather than from hers. Would he bring to 
 their home the qualities she most valued and admired ? 
 He found to his astonishment, perhaps a little to his 
 discomfort, that he could not say, because beneath the 
 attractive surface of her he really did not know Clara. 
 There must be deeps he had not sounded yet, though he 
 had never seen a sign of them. When he thought of other 
 women, of the one who was not for him, the one with that 
 look of unshed tears in eyes meant to be merry, whose 
 voice made magic, whose presence stirred him but he 
 would not think of her. To-day she had shed tears, he 
 believed ; she had looked pale ; there had been a vibration 
 in her voice like a sob But the sorrows of Mrs. St.
 
 200 THE SEVERINS 
 
 Erth were not his business, and the worldly wisdom he 
 extolled and desired to practise recommended a man to 
 mind his own business enough too, Heaven knows, for 
 most of us to mind. In the days of old the knight-errant 
 had his place made it his business to rescue the oppressed ; 
 but in our best of all possible worlds no one with money 
 need be oppressed. If Mrs. St. Erth's husband treated 
 her badly, she could find relief in a court of law. Here 
 Michael had to pull himself up again, and turn his thoughts 
 by force of will in a new direction ; because Mrs. St. 
 Erth amongst lawyers betraying the secrets of her 
 miserable marriage in a solicitor's office airing her 
 wrongs in court wrangling with counsel it was as easy 
 to imagine a spirit appealing to a policeman. She was kin 
 to the sea and the clouds not to men of law; she 
 was too rare, too delicate for any son of man. Really 
 Michael's fancy was vagrant this afternoon just when 
 it should not have been. What would his mother and 
 sisters say to his marriage, and what would Clara say to 
 them ? When he got home he sought out Camilla before 
 he hurried upstairs to dress, and told her that he was going 
 to dine at Rutland Gate. 
 
 " I was asked at the last moment," he said. " I am 
 sorry to leave you again, Camilla. It is the third time 
 this week, I know." 
 
 "It is good practice," said Camilla. 
 
 " For what ? " 
 
 " For the time when you leave us altogether when you 
 marry." 
 
 " I suppose one may look at it that way," said Michael. 
 
 " When are you going to tell people ? " 
 
 " Tell them what ? " 
 
 " Oh ! what any one can see in your face to-night." 
 
 Michael held out his hands to his young sister, and she 
 gave them an affectionate little squeeze.
 
 THE SEVERINS 201 
 
 " Do I look so happy ? " he said. 
 
 " Not exactly happy all stirred up I knew some- 
 thing had happened and what else could it be ? " 
 
 " Well," said Michael, " it has happened then but 
 we are not going to speak of it until after the wedding." 
 
 " We might tell Sophia, I think. She won't be at the 
 wedding." 
 
 " Better wait," said Michael ; " she suspects nothing." 
 
 " She has thought and talked of nothing else for weeks," 
 said Camilla. " We all have even Selma saw " 
 
 " Saw what ? " 
 
 " That Clara meant to marry you." 
 
 " That's not a thing to say or to think," said Michael 
 indignantly. 
 
 " It slipped out," said Camilla with contrition. 
 
 " Nothing can be further from the truth. It has come 
 to both of us suddenly during the last week almost. 
 I hate that way of talking as if women hunt men down. 
 It is neither true nor pleasant." 
 
 " I suppose all women know that it is often true," 
 argued Camilla, " and I don't believe we think it as 
 unpleasant as you do. We should not use the same 
 phrases about it unless we disliked the woman." 
 
 " Good heavens, Camilla ! " cried Michael. " What 
 sentiments for a child like you to express ! " 
 
 " I only wanted to say that I don't blame Clara," said 
 Camilla, still blundering. 
 
 " I am sure such ideas would horrify Clara," said 
 Michael, and then he tore upstairs to dress, while Camilla 
 went downstairs to find her mother. Mrs. Severin was in 
 the kitchen making German gingerbread. The cook was 
 out, and the parlourmaid in the adjoining room laying 
 the cloth for dinner. 
 
 " Michael is going to dine at Rutland Gate," said Camilla 
 as she went in.
 
 202 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " I suppose when they are married they will live in that 
 neighbourhood," said Mrs. Severin, rolling out her dough. 
 
 Camilla stared. At first she thought that her mother 
 must have heard what Michael had said. 
 
 " They will settle it either to-night or to-morrow," 
 continued Mrs. Severin. " Weddings are as infectious as 
 measles." 
 
 " Shall you be glad if they do ? " 
 
 " No. I shall be sorry. Clara Walsingham will never 
 be anything to us, and she will take Michael away. But 
 I can do nothing to stop it. The first time I saw the girl 
 I knew she meant to marry Michael." 
 
 " You mustn't say so. It would vex him." 
 
 " Why should it ? A girl could not make a better 
 choice." 
 
 " He has ideas about women waiting to be chosen." 
 
 " Michael is simple-minded in some ways," said Mrs. 
 Severin.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 YOU can imagine how curiously Camilla looked out 
 for Clara's arrival in church next day, and how 
 closely she scanned her future sister-in-law's face as she 
 passed up the aisle behind the bride. Camilla was feeling a 
 little oppressed by the prevailing splendour, by the crowd, 
 and by her own loneliness. For Michael did not sit with 
 her. He had been obliged to go to the City first, and he 
 came later than she did. It had been impossible to catch 
 his eye, and she saw him taken past her to a front pew 
 where he sat with the bride's relatives and intimate 
 friends. She had not been to a wedding since she went 
 to Clotilda's, and that had been a very different affair. 
 Besides, she had been a child then, not much older than 
 Bob was now. Compared with Clara, she felt a child still, 
 and yet she knew that Clara was hardly a year older. 
 Camilla watched her all through the ceremony, observed 
 her air of complacency, admired her self-possession. It 
 was a cheerful wedding. The families on either side were 
 pleasant, prosperous people, the bridegroom was in- 
 stalling his bride in an attractive home, their union 
 had met with approval amongst their friends. They saw 
 no cause for tears over an event expected to increase the 
 general sum of happiness, so they entered the church 
 smiling, they left it smiling, and when Camilla found her 
 way with the crowd to Rutland Gate and entered the 
 drawing-room, she saw Michael congratulating a bride 
 who looked as little moved or nervous as any of her 
 guests. 
 
 Camilla herself felt moved by the ceremony she had 
 
 203
 
 204 THE SEVERINS 
 
 just witnessed, partly because she had looked forward 
 and seen Michael at the altar making those solemn vows 
 with Clara's hand in his, and partly because to a girl of 
 her disposition the outward show of temporal prosperity 
 could not quite thrust into the background the higher 
 issues of a union ordained to last till death, and for some 
 faithful hearts beyond it. As she stood at the back of the 
 crowd pressing round the bride and bridegroom, she 
 looked at the faces near for some sign that others were 
 stirred as she was herself ; and so her glance, travelling 
 here and there, came at last to Mrs. St. Erth, who stood 
 near a group of palms talking to a man Camilla did not 
 know ; and she was struck again to-day by the insub- 
 stantial look that made her think of Madeline as a creature 
 who just touched the earth but belonged to it less com- 
 pletely than other mortals. Her furs and her velvet gown 
 did not give her weight, but rather seemed to emphasize 
 the fragile effect of her beauty. Camilla edged her way 
 through the crush until she stood near the group of palms, 
 and when she saw her opportunity, shy and self-distrustful 
 as she was, she went up to Mrs. St. Erth, certain of a 
 kind reception. But as she took Madeline's hand and 
 met her glance she was shocked by the misery in her face 
 and by her heavy eyes. The girl did not understand the 
 tragedy of which she saw the outward signs, and she 
 thought that her princess out of a fairy tale must be ill. 
 
 " Are you ill ? " she said anxiously. 
 
 " No," said Madeline, " I'm not ill. I'm tired. Let 
 us go and sit down over there." 
 
 " It was a pretty wedding . . . wasn't it ? " said 
 Camilla, making the inevitable remark chiefly because she 
 was thinking of Madeline and not of the wedding at all. 
 
 " Yes," said Madeline absently. " I suppose Clara will 
 be married next ? " 
 
 " I suppose so," said Camilla with a little sigh ; and
 
 THE SEVERINS 205 
 
 before this stereotyped bit of dialogue could develop into 
 anything better, Clara came towards them. Camilla 
 wondered whether there would be some recognition of the 
 new tie between them, some greater warmth and friendli- 
 ness in the young lady's manner to herself. She could not 
 discover anything of the kind, however. Clara spoke 
 and smiled with her usual graciousness, but made it 
 clear at once that she had come there for Mrs. St. Erth, 
 who was to be presented to some one of importance on 
 the other side of the room. 
 
 " I would much rather stay here," said Madeline. 
 
 "Oh, but you mustn't," said Clara, and carried her off. 
 Camilla sat where she was for a time, feeling rather forlorn. 
 Then she got up to follow the crowd going down to the 
 dining-room, and in the crush her friend the middy found 
 her, to his own joy and hers. They ate cakes and sweets 
 and ices like the children they were, drank the bride's 
 health in champagne, and went off together to look at the 
 presents. For a few minutes they had the room to them- 
 selves, and therefore, when the middy came to a card 
 bearing Mr. St. Erth's name and affixed to a diamond 
 pendant, he felt free to take it up and put it down again 
 with a juvenile snort of disapproval. 
 
 " Brute ! " he said. 
 
 ' Yes ! " said Camilla with eager sympathy. 
 
 " I sat near Aunt Madeline in church. / believe he 
 beats her." 
 
 " Oh ! " cried Camilla, her eyes round with horror. 
 " Is she your aunt ? Why don't you kill him ? " 
 
 " He's my uncle . . . worse luck. It isn't so easy to 
 kill a man in these days. I'd have done it formerly . . . 
 to please you." 
 
 " But how can you bear to believe such a. thing and do 
 nothing ? Not you exactly . . . but everybody else . . . 
 the older ones."
 
 206 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " I'm old enough for anything," said the middy. 
 " But what can a fellow do ? When once people are 
 married . . . you see they're married. The great thing 
 is to be careful." 
 
 " I suppose it is," said Camilla absently. 
 
 " A girl should always marry a man without an ounce 
 of vice in him. Now I could have told Aunt Madeline 
 what Uncle Anthony was like." 
 
 " Any one could," said Camilla. " His face condemns 
 him." " 
 
 " I hear your brother is going to marry Clara Walsing- 
 ham," said the middy, changing the subject. 
 
 " Who says so ? " 
 
 " Every one. Didn't you know ? " 
 
 " Yes, I know," said Camilla. " But I thought it was 
 to be kept secret till after the wedding." 
 
 " I suppose it leaked out. I'm glad. It brings you 
 and me nearer together." 
 
 " Does it ? " said Camilla, not seeing how. The middy 
 reminded her of Bob, and she liked him ; but he did not 
 rouse any sentiment in her. He was too absurdly young 
 to impress a romantic girl of seventeen. 
 
 " I'm going to sea again soon," he said ; " I shall be 
 away two years." 
 
 " They will soon pass," said Camilla. 
 
 The boy looked as if this point of view did not please 
 him, but their tete-d-tete was stopped now by an incursion 
 into the room of other wedding guests. Michael and Clara 
 came with them. They both looked as happy as people 
 should whose betrothal has just been acknowledged by 
 those in authority and rejoiced over by friends ; and 
 Camilla, going up to them, was rewarded by one of 
 Clara's charming smiles. 
 
 " You know our news," Clara said. 
 
 " Camilla guessed last night directly she saw me,"
 
 THE SEVERINS 207 
 
 said Michael. " It seems that I have a tell-tale counten- 
 ance." 
 
 " That is just what happened to me," said Clara. 
 " The moment I went upstairs the secret was out." 
 
 " When you are living together like cat and dog you 
 will learn to keep your faces in better order," said Mr. St. 
 Erth, who had come up to them. " At least, you will, 
 Clara. Dissimulation comes as natural to a woman as 
 breathing." 
 
 " I suppose it is natural to you to think so," said Clara 
 with delicate disdain. 
 
 " It is a matter of fact, not of opinion," said Mr. St. 
 Erth. " My wife came home yesterday looking as if she 
 had risen from the dead. When I asked her what the 
 devil was the matter she said she had neuralgia." 
 
 " People do have neuralgia," said Clara. 
 
 " People do tell lies," said Mr. St. Erth, who saw, as 
 Michael did, that Madeline had come near and was 
 listening to what her husband said. " However, when 
 they belong to me I punish them." 
 
 Clara turned away with aversion she took no pains 
 to conceal, while Camilla looked at the man with childish 
 horror. 
 
 " It's enough to make a girl think she'll never marry," 
 said the indignant voice of the middy. 
 
 Mr. St. Erth, who heard him, turned with a disagree- 
 able mirthless chuckle, and stared at the boy and girl 
 till they wished the earth would open and swallow 
 them. 
 
 " It will be twenty years before you have enough to 
 marry on," he said with a side glance at Camilla, and then 
 he walked away. 
 
 " Brute ! " said the middy for the second time that 
 afternoon, and then he remembered that Madeline was 
 at his elbow, and looked at her shamefacedly. But she
 
 208 THE SEVERINS 
 
 seemed not to have heard. Her face was white and 
 strained, and her eyes looked beyond the two young 
 people at her side. They seemed to follow Michael and 
 Clara, who were slowly making a progress round the room 
 and still receiving many congratulations. 
 
 Their marriage was not to take place for a year. Mr. 
 Walsingham had made that a condition of allowing the 
 engagement, which, he pointed out to his wife and daugh- 
 ter, pleased his heart better than his head. He thought 
 Michael the best of good fellows, and expected him to do 
 well in the world, but he would not do well unless he put 
 by money, and if he did this he would not have much to 
 spend for some years to come. 
 
 " It is a possible marriage for Clara, but it's not a 
 brilliant one," he said to his wife. " You have always 
 told me you meant the girls to marry well." 
 
 " Beatrice has married well," said Mrs. Walsingham. 
 
 " Clara is prettier than Beatrice, and cleverer." 
 
 " I know but the fact is, my dear, the child fell in 
 love." 
 
 " He has his whole family to support," Mr. Walsingham 
 grumbled on. 
 
 " That won't be for long. The girls will marry in 
 their own sphere and the boy can go to business early. 
 The mother has a little, Michael tells me. When he 
 marries he must make them some small definite allowance. 
 I am sure he will take our advice." 
 
 " What do you mean by the girls' sphere ? " asked Mr. 
 Walsingham. 
 
 " Oh, well you can imagine. Clara thinks that she 
 will be able to detach Michael entirely in time. There 
 really is no reason why he should let them hang round 
 his throat. He was brought up in a different world." 
 
 " That young sister is a modest, pretty creature," said 
 Mr. Walsingham.
 
 THE SEVERINS 209 
 
 " Quite," admitted his wife. " I dare say Clara will ask 
 her to lunch sometimes." 
 
 Of course, Clara did not speak in this way to Michael 
 of his family. She was far too adroit. She wrote a pretty 
 little letter to Mrs. Severin saying that she meant to go 
 and see her again some day before Christmas, and that 
 she hoped she was not behaving selfishly in taking Michael 
 from his family on Christmas Day. When she had sent 
 it she felt that, as usual, she had done exactly the right 
 thing, and that Mrs. Severin would be charmed by her 
 graciousness. 
 
 " Look at this ! " said Mrs. Severin, showing the letter 
 to Camilla. " She means to come and see me some day 
 before Christmas ! Assuredly I shall never understand 
 English ways. When your father asked me to marry 
 him he did so with his parents' knowledge and approval, 
 and directly we were betrothed we went to them to- 
 gether to receive their blessing." 
 
 Camilla did not say much, but as the days went by 
 she felt, as her mother did, that Michael had allied him- 
 self with people who left them out in the cold. She 
 would not have minded this if she had cared less for her 
 brother, but her heart ached at the thought of losing 
 him, and she saw that this must come of his marriage. 
 He did not see it yet. On various occasions he made 
 some effort to bring Clara together with his people, but 
 Clara always had some reason that kept Rutland Gate 
 and the corner house apart ; and Michael ceased to urge 
 encounters that he feared might be inharmonious. The 
 more intimate he became in the Walsingham household, 
 the more clearly he saw that their ways were not the 
 ways of his folk. Still, he reasoned, most marriages bring 
 with them some elements of disparity, and he supposed 
 Clara knew better than most people how to make rough 
 places smooth. So when she suggested paying a visit 
 
 14
 
 210 THE SEVERINS 
 
 to his mother on the Saturday before Christmas he was 
 delighted, and in the simplicity of his heart expected 
 Mrs. Severin and Camilla to be delighted too. But Mrs. 
 Severin only said that Clara ought to have been to see 
 her long since, and that Saturday would not be con- 
 venient, because Ada, the parlourmaid, was going out. 
 
 " Can't Ada go out some other day ? " he asked. 
 
 " It would be easier to ask Clara to come some other 
 day," said Mrs. Severin. " Ada has the temper of a 
 fury, and I hope that Clara has not." 
 
 " Clara has a charming temper," said Michael ; but 
 he found that Clara was not quite pleased when he asked 
 her to alter the day of her visit. The gracious condescen- 
 sion of manner that Michael's people had marked and 
 never digested became visible to him for a moment as 
 she said that she could not appoint another afternoon 
 for at least a fortnight. 
 
 " What malces you so busy ? " said Michael. 
 
 " I am always busy," said Clara, " and it is a long way 
 from here to Regent's Park." 
 
 That was not spoken with her usual adroitness, and 
 she knew it as the words passed her lips. Michael per- 
 formed the journey several times a week for her sake, 
 and his ironical glance showed her that he thought the 
 excuse a poor one. 
 
 " I want you to go as soon as you can," he said. 
 
 Clara really had a charming temper, and she was 
 honestly in love with Michael, so she said at once that 
 she would go on the following Sunday, since he wished 
 her to go soon. She still believed that when they were 
 married she would be able to twist Michael round her 
 little finger, and separate him from his family as com- 
 pletely as she thought desirable ; yet even in these early 
 days she sometimes found that he refused to twist. She 
 had been attracted by his strong, clean-shaven face, and by
 
 THE SEVERINS 211 
 
 his fine eyes, but she had not sufficiently considered that 
 a man with Michael's physique and Michael's record is 
 not likely to be as soft as silk. 
 
 The Walsinghams never used their carriage on a 
 Sunday, so Clara arrived at the corner house in a taxi- 
 cab at four o'clock. She had not been there since she 
 called with her mother in June, and found the front steps 
 laden with furniture. Now a neatly-dressed maid opened 
 the door and took her into the drawing-room, where 
 Mrs. Severin and Camilla awaited her. They came for- 
 ward, and as Mrs. Severin took the girl's hand she stooped 
 to kiss her. Clara had not expected this, and though she 
 meant to show no surprise, Mrs. Severin understood 
 that she had been rather effusive. She again felt that 
 she did not understand English ways from the inner 
 point of view, but she wished to be agreeable to her 
 future daughter-in-law, so she observed that it was a 
 cold afternoon, and that yesterday's Daily Mail said 
 there was skating at Sandringham. Clara did not under- 
 stand why Sandringham was dragged into the conversa- 
 tion, but she drew near the fire with the two ladies and 
 asked if Camilla could skate. 
 
 " Michael has taken Bob for a short walk," said Mrs. 
 Severin, feeling sure that Michael's movements must be 
 more interesting to Clara than anything else. " He will 
 be here directly." 
 
 " I was rather early," said Clara. " We came fast." 
 
 Mrs. Severin gazed at the girl and listened to her, 
 fascinated by her elegance, frozen by a manner that was 
 natural to Clara because she had acquired it imperceptibly, 
 but which seemed to people of a homelier social habit 
 artificial and superfine. Mrs. Severin waited with every 
 breath, too, for some reference to the great event that 
 brought Clara into the family ; perhaps for some word 
 about Michael that, struck from the glow in the girl's
 
 212 THE SEVERINS 
 
 heart, would find an answering warmth in his mother's. 
 But no such word came, and Mrs. Severin, finding this 
 reticence monstrous and unbearable, ended it herself. 
 She looked at Clara's gloved hand, and remembered that 
 her son's ring must be there. 
 
 " Camilla and I would like to see your engagement 
 ring," she said. 
 
 Clara smiled and took off her left-hand glove. The 
 diamonds of the ring sparkled impressively, and Clara 
 explained that they were fine ones. But she said nothing 
 about Michael. 
 
 " Michael tells me that you are not to be married for 
 a year," said Mrs. Severin. 
 
 " We are in no hurry," said Clara. " I am rather 
 young still, and my father and mother want to keep me 
 as long as they can. They will miss me terribly, they 
 say." 
 
 " We shall miss Michael," said Mrs. Severin ; " but, 
 after all, we gain a daughter by the marriage, and your 
 parents gain a son." 
 
 " Ye es," said Clara, but she was saved from replying 
 at greater length to this hoary and unwelcome platitude 
 by the arrival of Michael with Bob, and a few minutes 
 later by the arrival of tea. Clara hurt her future mother- 
 in-law's feelings seriously by refusing to have any, and, 
 in spite of Mrs. Severin 's protests, abiding by her refusal. 
 The girl thought she had never seen quite so many and 
 quite such large or quite such odd-looking cakes before, 
 and she had no idea that the ladies had spent two whole 
 days preparing them from German recipes in her honour. 
 The frost of her presence made itself felt again when she 
 would not eat them. 
 
 " You're not in a hurry, are you, Clara ? " said Michael. 
 
 " I'm afraid I am," said Clara. " People are coming 
 to tea, and I ought to be there."
 
 THE SEVERINS 213 
 
 " I thought you were coming to tea with us," said Bob. 
 
 " So did I," said Mrs. Severin, getting up because 
 Clara did, but looking artlessly annoyed. 
 
 " I'm sorry," murmured Clara with a pretty apologetic 
 air ; but she carried Michael away with her, and the 
 ladies left behind at the corner house felt as children do 
 when their beautiful coloured balloon collapses and will 
 not blow out again. The afternoon that was to have 
 been exciting had turned sad and flat.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THE winter was officially over, and the crocuses were 
 flowering in the garden of the corner house when 
 Mrs. Severin began to say that she was not quite happy 
 about Selma. 
 
 " She writes to you," said Michael. 
 
 " Yes, she writes," admitted Mrs. Severin. 
 
 " From the same address as before ? " 
 
 " No," said Mrs. Severin, " she has changed her 
 address." 
 
 " Does she tell you why ? " 
 
 " She tells me nothing. She writes every week, and yet 
 she tells me nothing. Here is her last letter all about an 
 exhibition of pictures and a new play at the ' Odeon.' 
 Who took her to the play ? She does not tell us. Surely 
 she does not go by herself in Paris. Who are her 
 friends ? She never speaks of them. Why has she left 
 the pension she went to with Miss Hyde ? Has she spent 
 all her money yet ? She ought never to have gone to 
 Paris, Michael. She is much too young and pretty to be 
 living by herself there." 
 
 You would have judged from Mrs. Severin 's tone that 
 Michael and not she had assisted Selma to go there ; but 
 Michael no longer felt surprised when his mother spoke 
 in condemnation of proceedings she had herself en- 
 couraged. 
 
 " I shall be going to Paris soon," he said. " When I'm 
 there I'll look her up." 
 
 " Formerly her letters were full of^Deminski. Lately 
 she never mentions him. I don't like it." 
 
 214
 
 THE SEVERINS 215 
 
 " I should be glad to think she had done with him." 
 
 " Has she done \\ith him ? In my last letter I asked 
 if he was still with the Kremskis, and I underlined the 
 question three times. But you see she does not answer it." 
 
 " Perhaps they have quarrelled," suggested Michael. 
 
 " I wish I could think so," said Mrs. Severin. 
 
 Michael was not much affected at first by his mother's 
 uneasiness, partly, no doubt, because he was not much 
 concerned at the time with Selma. Since she had been 
 out of sight she had been out of mind. When he thought 
 of her at all he had taken for granted that she was living 
 with Miss Hyde, and he had met a variety of Hydes at 
 Rutland Gate, all rather stupid, stodgy people ; decorous 
 associates, though, for a handsome young sister inclined 
 to take a preposterous view of life. That there must 
 inevitably be discords between a breed of this kind and 
 Selma as he knew her had occurred to Michael ; but 
 then friendship, like marriage, is often cemented between 
 people lookers-on consider unsuited to each other. 
 
 Michael understood more and more plainly as time 
 went on that the Walsinghams had accepted him but 
 not his mother and sisters, and that Clara's frigid silence 
 with regard to his people had a definite meaning. He 
 saw some reason in their attitude, and yet unreasonably 
 grieved over it. At first he had depended with a lover's 
 confidence on Clara's insight and affection. She would 
 bridge difficulties and arrange an intercourse that should 
 be intimate yet unembarrassing. Gradually, however, 
 it dawned on him that she meant to do nothing of the 
 kind. She preferred a gulf without a bridge, the wider 
 the better, and hitherto circumstances had helped her. 
 Clotilda was in South Africa, Selma in Paris, Bob at 
 school. Camilla could be asked to lunch now and then. 
 " Will she know that she is not wanted after three ? " 
 the mother and daughter asked each other the first time ;
 
 216 THE SEVERINS 
 
 and they had ordered the carriage for three, and kindly 
 whisked the unsuspecting Camilla (who had not known, 
 and meant to stay till five) to her station. Mrs. Severin, 
 the Walsinghams ordained, never went out anywhere, 
 and need never be invited except on rare and strictly 
 family occasions, when a suggestion that she should 
 come with Michael and Camilla and dine would have a 
 genial sound, and please Michael. 
 
 " It is most fortunate that those objectionable sisters 
 have vanished," Mrs. Walsingham said. " I don't think 
 you will have much trouble with Michael's family." 
 
 " I am sure I shall not," said Clara. " I shall go on 
 just as I have begun, never discussing any of them with 
 Michael, or rinding the least fault with them. I shall 
 always be civil to the well-behaved ones. The others 
 he must give up when he marries me." 
 
 " I suppose he will," said Mrs. Walsingham. Her 
 greater experience made her a little less cocksure than 
 her daughter. 
 
 " I am sure he will," said Clara. But her confidence 
 in Michael's docility received a slight shock soon after this, 
 when he began talking to her of Selma and of his mother's 
 anxiety about her. Clara tried to dismiss the subject, 
 but Michael did not follow her lead. 
 
 " Do you correspond with the Miss Hyde who is in 
 Paris ? " he asked. 
 
 " Agnes Hyde is not in Paris ; she came back before 
 Christmas," said Clara. 
 
 " Are you sure ? " said Michael, more disturbed than 
 surprised, but hardly seeing yet where this news would 
 lead his fears and surmises. 
 
 " Quite sure," said Clara. " She is coming to tea on 
 Saturday, with one or two others. If you will come you 
 can talk to her." 
 
 So on Saturday Clara led him through the " one or two "
 
 THE SEVERINS 217 
 
 people who seemed to fill the large front drawing-room, 
 and presented him to Miss Hyde. She looked oddly 
 unlike her family. She was lantern-jawed, had a dark, 
 yearning eye, a bilious colour, and wore draperies of a 
 khaki shade that did not suit her complexion. 
 
 " This is Mr. Severin, Agnes," said Clara. " I think 
 you know one of his sisters." 
 
 Miss Hyde looked up and down the well-groomed, 
 upstanding man who was going to marry that worldly 
 little butterfly, Clara Walsingham, and who must there- 
 fore be either a worldling or a fool himself. 
 
 " Is Selma Severin your sister ? " she said. " She was 
 once my dear friend." 
 
 " I thought that you were still in Paris together," 
 said Michael. 
 
 " That is not likely under the circumstances," said Miss 
 Hyde. 
 
 She spoke with so much meaning in her manner as well 
 as in her words, that both Michael and Clara listened in 
 surprise Michael with foreboding, and Clara scenting 
 some crazy quarrel between two women she wished to 
 avoid. However, it was easy for her to move away and 
 give her attention to some other guests. 
 
 " Shall we sit down ? " said Michael, who saw a vacant 
 corner seat close to them. 
 
 Miss Hyde flopped amongst the cushions, supported 
 one long, bony arm on her crossed knees, and held up her 
 chin with one hand. She gazed searchingly at Michael, 
 who supposed it must be a habit with Selma and all her 
 tribe to fix their eyes on strangers as if they wished to read 
 their inmost thoughts. 
 
 " So you are Selma's brother," said Miss Hyde in low, 
 tragic tones. Michael found himself wondering whether 
 this woman or his sister or some unknown person was 
 the original type.
 
 218 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " And you are going to marry Clara Walsingham," 
 continued the lady, without observing Michael's look of 
 surprise at this unnecessary allusion to his personal affairs. 
 " Selma and Clara Walsingham ! It's unthinkable. But 
 men never see they are very dense." 
 
 " When did you see Selma last ? " said Michael, feeling 
 that his voice and his manner were as much out of tune 
 with his companion as the questions of a school-inspector 
 would be addressed to the tragic muse. 
 
 " In December," said Miss Hyde, " just before I left 
 Paris." 
 
 " That is more than ten weeks ago," said Michael. 
 
 " Selma is so wonderful," chanted Miss Hyde. " I 
 painted her as Jael emerging from the tent of Sisera. 
 She is the most beautiful creature I know, and the most 
 impressionable. But you should never have let her go 
 to Paris. She can't paint she never will. She inspires 
 pictures but she might have done that at home." 
 
 " Didn't you ask her to go ? " 
 
 " Did I ? Surely not. But I have no memory, and I am 
 as impulsive as a child. If I did I committed a crime 
 and I crave your forgiveness, but how could I foresee 
 disaster ? " 
 
 " Disaster ? " 
 
 " Well it depends on the point of view, no doubt. 
 But what will Clara Walsingham say ? " 
 
 " I'm afraid I don't understand," said Michael. 
 
 " Perhaps you don't know," murmured Miss Hyde. 
 
 " My sister does not tell us much. We are rather 
 anxious about her." 
 
 " Is she still in the Rue de Seine ? " 
 
 " She writes from a street in the Cite de Paris." 
 
 " Ah ! " cried Miss Hyde ; " then she has gone there ! " 
 
 " Is there any reason wfcy she should not have gone 
 there ? " inquired Michael, who found the lady's dramatic
 
 THE SEVERINS 219 
 
 manner called forth a protesting stiffness and stolidity in 
 his. 
 
 " There is, there is," cried Miss Hyde. 
 
 " Do you hear from her still ? " 
 
 " No ! We had a quarrel because I begged her to 
 give it up." 
 
 " To give it up ? " 
 
 " Yes the whole thing. I wanted her to come back 
 with me. She said I was a coward. I suppose I am 
 compared with her." 
 
 " A coward ? " 
 
 ' Yes. She has the courage of her opinions. I have 
 the opinions, but no courage. When it came to the point 
 I tried to get her away." 
 
 " From Paris ? " 
 
 " From what Paris had come to mean for Selma." 
 
 " So you quarrelled ? " 
 
 " Well didn't you too ? Selma told me about your 
 refusing to have them in the house and about the man, 
 too ; she has not forgiven you." 
 
 " Are you talking of Kremski ; or that frog-mouthed 
 girl ? " asked Michael. 
 
 " Yes. I like Bohemians immensely myself but 
 there is a line and when it comes to a starving wife and 
 
 children You see, when we went to Paris Selma was 
 
 all against the Kremskis, and told me how he had left a 
 family in Russia and didn't care what became of them, 
 and we agreed that we would not associate with him 
 and this girl really, it becomes a difficult story to tell, 
 Mr. Severin." 
 
 " I suppose I may guess that Selma changed her 
 mind." 
 
 " She said the maiden ladies in our pension got on her 
 nerves," said Miss Hyde with a sigh. " We certainly 
 were rather dull and respectable. Still, when Selma
 
 220 THE SEVERINS 
 
 said she meant to go to that pension in the Rue de Seine 
 I thought she made a mistake, and I told her so." 
 
 " But she refused to listen ? " 
 
 " She took me by the shoulders and put me out of the 
 room," complained Miss Hyde. 
 
 " That was before Christmas ? " 
 
 " Yes, I left Paris on the 20th of December." 
 
 " And since then you have heard nothing of Selma ? " 
 
 Miss Hyde did not speak directly, and her pause 
 seemed to prepare Michael for the blow her words dealt 
 him when they came. 
 
 " I heard that Kremski and Miss Petersen and Mr. 
 Deminski had taken a flat in the Cite de Paris," she 
 said, " and that Selma meant to join them." 
 
 " Who told you this ? " 
 
 " One of the ladies staying at my pension." 
 
 " Some one hostile to Selma ? " 
 
 " Facts are facts," said Miss Hyde. " A manage of 
 that kind may go down in Paris or Munich in certain 
 circles there; but over here amongst people like the 
 
 Walsinghams the curious truth is I wonder if you 
 
 can explain me to myself, Mr. Severin ? Do you know 
 that until this happened to Selma I actually approved in 
 theory of the union libre. 
 
 But Michael did not feel in the least inclined to explain 
 Miss Hyde to herself. He turned on her, his gathering 
 anger showing itself in his voice and in his indignant 
 eyes. 
 
 " You should be careful what you say," he cried ; 
 " you are repeating mere gossip. It is by no means 
 proved that my sister " 
 
 He got up as if another moment of inaction had be- 
 come unbearable. 
 
 " I shall go to Paris at once," he said. 
 
 " What is the use ? " murmured Miss Hyde, but he
 
 THE SEVERINS 221 
 
 did not answer her. He could easily believe that she had 
 had an evil influence on Selma, and that she was one of 
 those in revolt against the moral and social law as long 
 as words do battle ; one of those who stir others to 
 action they would not venture on themselves. Her 
 instability of mind betrayed itself in person and manner, 
 in everything she said and even in what she wore. 
 
 " I am going to Paris to-night," he said to Clara, when 
 he had sought her out. 
 
 " To-night ! " said Clara. " Isn't that sudden ? " 
 
 " It is rather," said Michael. 
 
 He waited a moment for some question from Clara, 
 some sign of sympathy with the trouble he thought she 
 must perceive in his face ; but he saw the next moment 
 that she did not wish to enter into his anxiety and pain. 
 She smiled prettily, said she hoped he would soon be 
 back, and turned with easy grace to a group of guests 
 near. Michael, feeling more than ever that the skies were 
 dark, got away at once and went home. He had made 
 up his mind that he would not say a word to his mother 
 yet. She was used to the ways of business men, who 
 are here to-day and gone to-morrow and back again when 
 you see them. She only observed, as he bid her good-bye, 
 that if she had known he was going to-night she would 
 have ordered a smaller sirloin, and that she hoped he 
 would have time to look up Selma. 
 
 " Yes," said Michael, " I mean to see Selma." 
 
 " I wish you'd bring her home," said Mrs. Severin. 
 
 Michael made no answer, but his mother's suggestion 
 touched a problem that exercised his mind. He did not 
 know what he wished for Selma in the future, and he soon 
 decided that he must wait for light until he saw her. He 
 was hurrying to her to see what could be done, but he 
 foresaw that she might be unmanageable, and he recog- 
 nized that he had no authority.
 
 222 THE SEVERINS 
 
 Next day, when he stood outside the flat in the Cite de 
 Paris, she opened the door to him, and there is no doubt 
 that if he had not promptly stepped inside she would 
 have shut it in his face. 
 
 " Why have you come ? " she said. 
 
 " To see you," said Michael. 
 
 He saw the open door of a sitting-room close by and 
 he walked in without invitation. No one was there. He 
 had a swift impression of discoloured decorations, ram- 
 shackle furniture, dust, and disorder. The remains of a 
 squalid meal were on a round table covered with American 
 cloth ; a bit of Gruyre under a glass cover, the end of 
 a long Paris loaf, thick glasses, and ill-kept knives. 
 Selma had followed him into the room, but she did not 
 sit down. 
 
 " Did Sophia send you ? " she asked. 
 
 "No," said Michael ; " it was my own idea." 
 
 " It wasn't a good one," said his sister. 
 
 " I want to talk to you," said Michael, looking round 
 at the room and its several doors. " Suppose you come 
 and have lunch with me ? " 
 
 " I've had lunch," said Selma. " You can talk here. 
 We are by ourselves." 
 
 She sat down with a resigned air, and Michael sat 
 down opposite her. He felt shy and uncomfortable so 
 far, and as he cast about how to begin he looked at his 
 boots. 
 
 " Don't be nervous," said Selma. 
 
 That naturally stiffened her brother, and he found 
 words. 
 
 " I saw Miss Hyde yesterday," he began. " She says 
 you are living here with Kremski and that frog-mouthed 
 girl and ... Deminski . . . that people talk . . . ' 
 
 " They say . . . what do they say ? . . . Let them 
 say ..." chanted Selma derisively.
 
 THE SEVERINS 223 
 
 " I want you to come home with me at once," said 
 Michael. 
 
 " I felt sure you would," said Selma. 
 
 She left it to be inferred from the mockery in her tone 
 that her refusal was self-evident. Michael sought here 
 and there for means of persuasion, and wished that 
 primitive means of coercion were not impossible. 
 
 " Who is paying your expenses ? " he said bluntly. 
 " My mother says she has not sent you any money for 
 some time." 
 
 " Oh, we get along," said Selma. " We are content 
 with plain living. When there is a pound or two we share 
 it. ... When there isn't. . . ." 
 
 " Yes," said Michael. " When there isn't . . ." 
 
 " I still have some left," said Selma. 
 
 '' What will you do when you come to your last penny?" 
 
 " Get some more, I suppose." 
 
 " How ? " 
 
 " Beg . . . borrow . . . steal . . . possibly earn a few." 
 
 Michael looked at his boots again. 
 
 " You can't go on here, you know, Selma," he said. 
 " You must come away. Every hour you remain gives 
 colour to the abominable lies these people are telling about 
 you." 
 
 " What people ? " 
 
 " That Hyde woman and others at some boarding- 
 house." 
 
 " I know . . . gossiping cats. ... I wonder you quote 
 them, Michael." 
 
 " But, my dear girl . . . you can't blame them . . . here 
 you are . . . living with Kremski and . . . his mistress 
 . . . and another man . . . it's preposterous . . . you 
 mitst come away ... at once." 
 
 " Give in to slanderous tongues . . . never . . . I'd 
 be done to death rather," cried Selma.
 
 224 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " Oh, don't talk such rubbish," said Michael. " What 
 do you expect people to say when they hear of this 
 menage ? " 
 
 " I have no experience of evil-minded persons," said 
 Selma. " I cannot foretell their suspicions, and I will not 
 give hi to their pettiness. Kremski and Marie are my dear 
 friends ..." 
 
 " They were your enemies a little while ago." 
 
 " Friendship that succeeds enmity is cemented by 
 experience and regret. We are more devoted to each 
 other than ever. I admit that their union is irregular as 
 judged by your parochial insular ideas . . . it's no use 
 groaning, Michael . . . you are insular. . . . The whole 
 of Europe knows it. ... You are hopelessly out of date 
 in art, literature, and morals. . . ." 
 
 " Look here, Selma," said Michael, " I didn't come to 
 Paris to talk this sort of stuff or to hear you talk it. 
 You're living with people of no reputation, and you're 
 risking your own. Haven't you the sense to see that you 
 stand to lose by it ... not to gain in any way ? Now 
 you take my advice. Either you come straight back with 
 me and nothing more shall be said about it ... or 
 else . . ." 
 
 " Well," said Selma, " what is the alternative ? " 
 
 " It's one I hate . . . but I see no other way. . . . 
 It's plain to me that you must either come away ... or 
 get married." 
 
 " Get married ! To whom ? " 
 
 " You know well enough to whom . . . you must know 
 what is being said of you." 
 
 " I can guess . . . but it isn't true ... so I don't care." 
 
 " Thank God for that ! " cried Michael. " I thank God 
 it isn't true." 
 
 " Do you mean to say that you believed it ? " flared 
 Selma, her eyes blazing, her colour rising indignantly.
 
 THE SEVERINS 225 
 
 " I didn't know what to believe," said Michael. " What 
 with the silly stuff you talk, and what with the silly 
 things you do . . ." 
 
 ' You have the lowest opinion of my friends, and yet 
 you want me to marry one of them. Fie, Michael! " said 
 Selma. 
 
 " I want you to come back to London with me." 
 
 " That I refuse to do." 
 
 "Then you had better marry . . . this man . . . 
 whom you refuse to leave." 
 
 " We don't believe in marriage." 
 
 " I must see him and the others," said Michael. " Per- 
 haps I can make them listen to reason. When will they 
 be at home ? " 
 
 " I wish you wouldn't waste your time and trouble, 
 Michael. I know you mean well, but you don't under- 
 stand. We have nothing in common." 
 
 " We are brother and sister. We shall have this in 
 common as long as we live." 
 
 " Another of your exploded ideas. The only ties I 
 recognize are those I make for myself." 
 
 " I'll come back at seven." 
 
 " I wish you wouldn't. All we ask is to be let alone. 
 You will let my friends see that you think them outcasts, 
 and that will make them furious. We have our own 
 opinion and beliefs, and we act on them." 
 
 " What am I to say to your mother if I go home without 
 you ? " asked Michael bluntly. 
 
 "I suppose you will have to tell her that I am with 
 Kremski and Marie. I didn't, because I knew she would 
 tell you, and that you would fuss. You needn't worry 
 much about Sophia. If she agrees with you to-day 
 she will agree with me to-morrow." 
 
 " But I am not going back without seeing . . . these 
 people," said Michael.
 
 226 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " Very well," said Selma. " Come and dine, then, at 
 seven." 
 
 He looked at her doubtfully. 
 
 " Perhaps I had better wait here ? " he said. 
 
 " Just as you like," said Selma indifferently. " But 
 no one will be in till seven." 
 
 Michael hesitated. He had other business in Paris 
 that he might attend to, although he had come so 
 hurriedly and unexpectedly. It seemed absurd to wait 
 and watch here all through the afternoon, when all he 
 could do in the end was to make himself disagreeable 
 to these objectionable people. He had no authority 
 over his sister, and no power to do anything except with- 
 hold supplies. He wanted to see her companions, chiefly 
 to tell them that her family wished her to come home, 
 and would not send her another penny till she agreed to do 
 so. He thought he might say this and other things more 
 forcibly than Selma would, and thus demonstrate that she 
 would shortly fail them as a goose with golden eggs. He 
 felt sure that the money her mother had given her was 
 more or less supporting this squalid household, and he 
 suspected that the " all things in common " system 
 would have the usual breakdown when her means came 
 to an end. 
 
 " I'll come back at seven then, but I won't dine with 
 you," he said. " Won't you come and dine with me, 
 Selma ? " 
 
 " May I bring my friends ? " 
 
 Michael shook his head and took his departure. He 
 could not feel that he had done any good by coming to 
 Paris, and he pursued his business all through the after- 
 noon with an uncomfortable sense of failure depressing 
 him. At seven o'clock punctually he was at the door of the 
 flat again and rang the bell. 
 
 No one came.
 
 THE SEVERINS 227 
 
 He rang again and waited, rang again and knocked at 
 the flat door ; went downstairs then, and routed out a 
 deaf old concierge who had taken no notice of him 
 when he went up. But she produced a letter for him 
 which he saw was in Selma's writing, and he read it 
 there and then, standing near the open street door. 
 
 " When I said that we should all be here at seven I told 
 you the truth," she wrote. " We should have been if 
 you had not upset our plans by your unnecessary inter- 
 ference. Kremski said that if you insulted him he 
 would shoot you, and Nicholas said that he really could 
 not stand scenes just now, because he is engaged on a 
 series of most important articles for his Tageblatt on the 
 ' Immorality and Hypocrisy of Home Life in England.' 
 Scenes give him neuralgia, and neuralgia does not inspire 
 him as it does other people. It makes him cry. So Marie 
 and I talked things over and decided that if Kremski 
 shot you it would be most unpleasant for us all, and that 
 we had better avoid risks. I dare say you will think it 
 was a hollow threat, but we know better. With a man 
 like Kremski the farce of life turns to tragedy in a 
 moment if his passions are roused. We know of two 
 people he killed in Russia. So we have gone to a little 
 country inn for a tune, and I shall not let any of you 
 have the address. I shall write to Sophia as usual, but 
 get my letters posted in Paris. Luckily we know some 
 people who will take our flat off our hands. If you want 
 to write you can send letters there, and they will be 
 forwarded. Selma."
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 MRS. WALSINGHAM sat by the library fire and 
 waited for Michael. He had written to tell Clara 
 what time he would arrive, and Clara had arranged with 
 her mother that she would be out at the time and come 
 in when Mrs. Walsingham had said what it was necessary 
 to say. Mrs. Walsingham feared that the interview would 
 be distressing, but in Clara's interests she could not shirk 
 it. Unfortunately, Agnes Hyde was afflicted with a 
 gossiping tongue, or rather she afflicted her friends and 
 neighbours with it. What she knew, her little world knew, 
 especially if it was scandalous, and so the Walsinghams 
 had heard Selma's story at its worst and believed it. 
 The wonder was that they had not been told the atrocious 
 truth before ; but they had not seen Agnes for months. 
 They were not fond of her. It certainly was most un- 
 fortunate that Michael belonged to such impossible 
 people ! Mrs. Walsingham reviewed her points of attack 
 and waited thoughtfully. Then Michael came in. 
 
 " Where is Clara ? " he said after the usual greetings. 
 
 " She had to pay a call miles away," said Mrs. 
 Walsingham, glancing at the clock. " But I expect her 
 back soon." 
 
 She saw that Michael looked worn and unhappy, 
 and just now rather disappointed. He had doubtless 
 expected to find Clara waiting for him, and doubtless 
 he felt anxious and uncertain about the family attitude. 
 He had not mentioned his sister in his letter from Paris, 
 but he must know that such stories invariably become 
 
 228
 
 THE SEVERINS 229 
 
 semi-public property. Mrs. Walsingham did not comment 
 on his looking ill as she would have done in happier cir- 
 cumstances. He was sad and silent and she was sad and 
 silent, as people are when they meet after a bereavement. 
 
 Michael's state of mind, however, was not exactly what 
 Mrs. Walsingham pictured it. He felt worn out by the 
 trouble of the last few days, but that was chiefly his 
 mother's doing. Her first questions on his return had 
 been about Selma, and when Michael told her the state of 
 affairs she surprised him by taking the news to heart with 
 distressing signs of grief. Mrs. Severin was one of those 
 people who wish others to feel the full blast of their 
 emotions. When she wept it was bound to be in some 
 one else's arms, and she wept floods over Selma. She con- 
 fessed that she had lately sent a considerable sum of 
 money to Paris, and that while it lasted there was not 
 much hope of getting her child to return. She said that 
 Michael did not know the world as she did, and that when 
 once a man like Deminski got an impressionable girl like 
 Selma into his power the worst might happen, and that 
 even if it didn't happen people were talking in an un- 
 pleasant way, and would talk still more when they knew 
 of Selma's last escapade. Michael suggested that no one 
 need know of it, but Mrs. Severin said that if her grief 
 could not speak her o'erfraught heart would break, and 
 that she must tell the true story, so that Miss Hyde's 
 invented one should be proved a calumny. 
 
 " No one you know has ever seen or heard of Miss 
 Hyde," Michael reminded his mother. " All you need 
 say to any one is that Selma is with friends in Paris. It 
 would be most unfair to Selma to say anything else." 
 
 But by the end of two^days the young man was sick 
 of Selma's name. The momenf he entered the house his 
 mother met him, shut herself up with'him, and went over 
 the same ground of reminiscence and disastrous pro-
 
 230 THE SEVERINS 
 
 phecy. She hinted that he ought to have brought Selma 
 back with him, even if he had had to use bodily force. 
 
 " You should have taken her by the arm," she began, 
 and was rather hurt when Michael told her she talked 
 nonsense. 
 
 " I have no more legal authority over Selma than I have 
 over those girls next door," he explained. " The only 
 way to make her come home is to stop sending her money." 
 
 Then Mrs. Severin moaned and beat her breast, and 
 said that she had been born with a soft heart and could 
 not let her child starve, and that if Michael had not had an 
 English education he would not expect it of her. Alto- 
 gether, it was no wonder that the young man felt sick of 
 the whole business and looked forward to being with 
 Clara again. He did not suppose that any one at Rutland 
 Gate would have heard any gossip about Selma, and he was 
 inclined to leave them in ignorance. He wanted to find the 
 Clara who soothed and cheered him, not the one who lifted 
 her dainty skirts and turned her back on his difficulties. 
 
 " You went off in a great hurry on Saturday," said 
 Mrs. Walsingham, after they had talked for some minutes 
 of indifferent matters. 
 
 " Yes," said Michael. " I've been to Paris, you know." 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Walsingham, with a profound sigh, 
 " I do know." 
 
 Michael looked up in surprise. 
 
 " It is terrible for Clara," continued Mrs. Walsing- 
 ham. " If it had not been for that stupid Agnes Hyde we 
 might have kept it quiet ; but she told us and will no 
 doubt tell others." 
 
 " She certainly seems to be stupid," said Michael. 
 " What did she tell you ? " 
 
 " L That your sister, in spite of all she could do to pre- 
 vent it, had cast in her lot with two disreputable Russians 
 who are not married to each other, and "
 
 THE SEVERINS 231 
 
 Mrs. Walsingham hesitated in visible embarrassment. 
 
 " I had better hear the whole story as Miss Hyde tells 
 it," said Michael grimly. 
 
 " Well, she says that there is another man and that 
 every one couples your sister's name with his. It really 
 does sound a terrible story if it is true." 
 
 " It isn't true in the sense Miss Hyde suggests. That 
 woman ought to be muzzled." 
 
 " I am not fond of her but unfortunately she knows 
 all our friends and she is a terrible gossip. Have I 
 your authority to contradict the story, Michael ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Michael, but he spoke gloomily and stared 
 with a frowning face at the fire. 
 
 " Have you brought your sister home, then ? " asked 
 Mrs. Walsingham. 
 
 " No. She refused to come." 
 
 " Where is she, then ? " 
 
 " Somewhere near Paris." 
 
 " Don't you know where ? " 
 
 " I don't know her address." 
 
 " Didn't you see her, then ? " 
 
 " Yes. I saw her. It was no good. She believes in 
 these people, and she is still with them. The first time I 
 went to the house I saw my sister ; the second time she 
 had gone off with them and left no address." 
 
 " With all three of them ? " 
 
 " With all three of them but there is no foundation 
 for Miss Hyde's slanders." 
 
 " I trust not," said Mrs. Walsingham. " But you can't 
 wonder if people take her view. Your sister seems to have 
 committed a sort of social suicide, and when any one has 
 done that they can't be brought to life again. Couldn't 
 you have made her marry this man ? " 
 
 " I suggested that, but she refused," said Michael 
 stiffly.
 
 232 THE SEVERINS 
 
 Mrs. Walsingham looked at the beautiful rings on her 
 beautiful hands. She felt shy and uncomfortable. 
 
 " But, my dear Michael," she said, " will the world 
 in general take your view or Miss Hyde's ? " 
 
 " Apparently it will take Miss Hyde's," said Michael. 
 
 " I am going to ask you not to speak of the matter to 
 Clara," Mrs. Walsingham went on after a little reflection. 
 
 " Surely " cried Michael, but she continued speak- 
 ing. 
 
 "It is her wish as well as mine. She has heard the 
 story as Miss Hyde tells it. She knows, as far as a 
 young inexperienced girl can, that your sister is living 
 with disreputable people. She feels the disgrace of it 
 as keenly as I see you do yourself, Michael, and she says 
 with her usual sense that there is only one way to meet 
 it. She intends to behave to you and to every one else 
 as if your sister did not exist never had existed. She is 
 wiped out of your lives by her own behaviour." 
 
 " Very well," said Michael slowly, " if that is Clara's 
 wish I will respect it as far as she is concerned. I 
 certainly cannot explain people like these Russians and 
 Deminski to a girl of her age. . . . But I make no pro- 
 mises with regard to myself. When my sister needs me 
 I shall stand by her. I think she is extremely silly to take 
 up with these people, but she is not wiped out of my life, 
 and never will be." 
 
 " I hope, for Clara's sake, that you will stand at a 
 sufficient distance," said Mrs. Walsingham ; and then 
 Clara came in, pretty, gracious, and charmed to see 
 Michael. If he looked worn and unhappy she did not 
 observe it ; and if he felt disappointed he tried not to 
 show it. Mrs. Walsingham soon left them, and they spent 
 an entertaining hour discussing houses, neighbourhoods, 
 and colour schemes for Clara's future drawing-room. 
 She had been to see a newly-married friend that after-
 
 THE SEVERINS 233 
 
 noon, and had come back enraptured with a rose-coloured 
 Aubusson carpet and panelled walls. 
 
 " But they have plenty of money," said Clara. " We 
 shall be poor." 
 
 " Are you clever at managing money ? " asked Michael, 
 thinking of his own people and their incapacity. 
 
 " I never can see that it takes any cleverness," said 
 Clara promptly. " A man who has two shillings and 
 spends half a crown is an idiot and ought not to be at 
 large. If I had to live on a hundred a year to-morrow I 
 should arrange my life so that it cost ninety-five. I've 
 no patience with fools." 
 
 " There are so many varieties," said Michael. " Some 
 of them have painted pictures and written poems." 
 
 " Oh ! Artists ! Well, I'm not an artist. They are 
 tiresome people to deal with as a rule." 
 
 " I suppose they are," said Michael. Somehow Clara's 
 mood depressed him to-night. 
 
 " I rather dislike them," the girl continued in her clear 
 thin treble. "They give themselves absurd airs for no 
 reason at all. Look at Agnes Hyde. Was there ever a 
 greater goose ? She wraps herself in yellow rags and sniffs 
 at me because I go to a good tailor as if there was virtue 
 in yellow rags ! and you should hear the stuff she talks." 
 
 " I should call her a goose rather than an artist," said 
 Michael. " There is some distinction, I believe, if you 
 look closely enough," and then, without much reflection, 
 he added, " I wish you had told me what she was like 
 six months ago." 
 
 " I told you she was a crank," said Clara, and she 
 stiffened slightly, showed a severe and frozen profile for 
 a moment, and changed the subject. When Michael got 
 up to go she asked him to come again next day to dinner. 
 
 He refused. He knew that he was able just at present 
 to be of considerable help to his mother, and he felt angry
 
 234 THE SEVERINS 
 
 with Clara. Her pose was artificial, unkind, and, Michael, 
 thought, rather stupid. But he had found out long ago 
 that her capacity had narrow limits, and that a man soon 
 reached the extreme edge of her mind. Clara, too, had 
 made discoveries. Michael had captured her fancy, but 
 the intimacy of a protracted engagement was grad- 
 ually lighting depths in him that she could neither 
 sound nor value. They made themselves felt when 
 he did not agree with her judgment or allow himself 
 to be impressed by her knowledge. Unexpectedly she 
 would get glimpses of a world where no one wanted or 
 treasured her little cut-and-dried opinions, and then she 
 would get angry. Ever since she was a child disapproval 
 had stiffened her, because she always felt sure that she 
 was in the right. Her parents were wax in her hands, and 
 she imagined that her lover would be too. She saw that 
 Michael was hurt and vexed now by her silence, but not 
 for a moment did that make her inclined to break it. In 
 Clara's experience people came round sooner or later to 
 her point of view. 
 
 When Agnes Hyde had blurted out the disgraceful 
 gossip about Michael's sister, she had listened with a 
 blank and chilly disapproval that left the tattling woman 
 smarting, surprised, and furious. Instead of humiliating 
 Clara she had humiliated herself. " Birds of a feather," 
 Clara s s cool, disdainful air had seemed to say, and this 
 was manifestly unfair, for nothing would have induced 
 Miss Hyde to practise the doctrines she preached. She 
 liked their sound and fury, but she would not have liked 
 their consequences in her respectable corner of the English 
 world. Clara meanwhile waited till every one had gone, 
 and then told her mother what had happened. One of 
 Michael's sisters had got herself talked about, and that 
 odious Agnes Hyde knew it and would spread the story 
 far and wide.
 
 THE SEVERINS 235 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Walsingham, " she told me about it ; 
 but talk is not always true." 
 
 " When Michael comes back you must see him for me, 
 Mummy," said Clara, " and you must tell him that I 
 never wish to hear the girl's name mentioned again. It 
 is that dreadful girl, you know, who was on the sands 
 and who went to Ailsa Head with us. Daddy will tell you 
 what she was." 
 
 " But, my dear," said Mrs. Walsingham, " Michael may 
 not like that. This will be a great trial to him. He may 
 want to speak to you. ..." 
 
 " I refuse to hear a word about it," said Clara vehe- 
 mently. 
 
 So Clara had her way, and Michael found a blank wall 
 of scorn and silence set between the trouble oppressing 
 him and the girl who was to be his wife. Every time 
 they met it made itself felt between them, and when they 
 tried to get away from it they seemed to get further from 
 each other too. 
 
 For more than six months now Michael had been an 
 intimate visitor at the house in Rutland Gate, and he had 
 gradually been forced into a change of view. At first the 
 civilization and downy comfort of the house impressed 
 him. He liked order, doors that never banged, civil, well- 
 trained servants, bright silver, all the minutiae of life that 
 sound so trivial and are so pleasant. In comparison with 
 Clara's home his own reminded him of a gipsy encamp- 
 ment. Even now, when they were so few there and 
 Camilla tried to please him, the standard of quiet and 
 order was not a high one. But of late, when he was at 
 Rutland Gate, other aspects than the material ones had 
 forced themselves on his notice. Its admirable manage- 
 ment still appealed to him, to the Philistine in him his 
 sisters would have said. But over and over again of late 
 Michael had found himself yawning, not actually, but in
 
 236 THE SEVERINS 
 
 spirit, which is worse. The Walsingham atmosphere, 
 like the Walsingham carpets, was thick thick and flat, 
 and if too much with you, stifling. Michael used to tell 
 .himself what excellent people they were solid, trust- 
 worthy, and amiable ; he used to sit at dinner opposite 
 Clara's unvarying, pretty little face and find himself 
 agreeing with the unvarying propriety of the family 
 opinions ; and he would wonder what was the matter and 
 why he did not feel as happy as he should. 
 
 As time went on he wondered whether the discontent 
 beginning to alarm him ever found an echo in Clara's heart 
 and one evening, when they were by themselves, he 
 thought he would put out a feeler to make sure. Dinner 
 had been even duller than usual because a clerical uncle 
 and aunt from the country were staying in the house, and 
 in their honour there had been more courses than usual 
 and a heavier blight on the conversation. During several 
 courses the uncle, whose speech was halting and confused, 
 described the loss of a Gladstone bag and its ultimate 
 recovery ; and the only fact Michael carried clearly away- 
 from this narrative was that the archdeacon possessed four 
 pairs of blue striped socks, two of which had been darned. 
 
 " I believe you darned them yourself, my dear," he 
 had said to his wife. 
 
 " No, James," she had replied, " Wilkins does all the 
 darning now." 
 
 " I am sure you used to darn beautifully, Selina," the 
 archdeacon had persisted. 
 
 " When you were a curate I did, James," said his wife, 
 and then the talk had fastened on curates and their 
 stipends. After dinner the four elders had gone to an 
 oratorio, and Michael went upstairs to the drawing-room, 
 where Clara sat by the fire with some embroidery in her 
 hands. For a little while Michael watched her deft, 
 industrious fingers and her downcast eyes.
 
 THE SEVERINS 237 
 
 " I hope you won't want to do fancy work every 
 evening after dinner when we are married," he said at 
 length. 
 
 Clara was so surprised that she stopped her needle for a 
 moment and looked up. 
 
 " Why not ? " she said. 
 
 " It's unsociable. I want to talk to you." 
 
 " I can listen. I never sit idle." 
 
 " Don't you ever do anything you ought not to do ? " 
 said Michael. He got up and began to walk restlessly 
 up and down the room. Clara's face was bent over her 
 embroidery again. She did not attempt to answer what 
 Michael said, because it was nonsense, and when people 
 talk nonsense the wise ones do not answer them. But 
 presently Michael's journeyings to and fro disturbed her. 
 
 " I wish you would sit down," she said, " I can't 
 get on while you wander about in that way." 
 
 So Michael sat down and looked at her and hated 
 himself. 
 
 "I wish we could be married to-morrow," he said at 
 length. 
 
 " Why ? " said Clara absently ; she had just finished 
 a spray of honeysuckle, and was delighted with the way 
 she had done it ; and she wished that some one who 
 could admire it with her was at hand instead of Michael. 
 
 " I want to begin our life together," said Michael. 
 " Don't you ? " 
 
 " I can wait," said Clara. 
 
 " I would rather hurry things on," said Michael. 
 
 " We can't do that," said Clara with decision. 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 " Daddy wouldn't like it ... for one reason." 
 
 " I don't believe he would mind. He wants us to have 
 that house the Richard Hydes are leaving, you know, 
 and we should have to take it from June."
 
 238 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " That house won't do for us." 
 
 " Your father and I both think it will." 
 
 " But Mummy and I are sure it won't." 
 
 " I suppose that settles it," said Michael. 
 
 " I think it does," said Clara, choosing a thread of silk 
 for the next spray. 
 
 " But there are other houses," persisted Michael. 
 
 " It is too soon to take a house yet," said Clara. " If 
 we were to be married next May. ..." 
 
 " Next May ... a whole year from now . . . and 
 we have been engaged nearly six months . . . why 
 should we put it off like that, Clara . . . Why do you 
 wish it ? " 
 
 " I have had an invitation that I rather want to accept," 
 she said, " an invitation from the Underwoods to go to 
 Algeria with them. We should be back by the end of 
 March." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Michael. 
 
 " It has only just been arranged," continued Clara 
 placidly. " The doctors say that Jessica must winter 
 abroad, and she wants me to go with her." 
 
 " When would they start ? " 
 
 " In November. They will be hi Scotland till then." 
 
 " So you propose to go away for five months ? And I 
 suppose you will be away most of the summer too ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Clara, " I shall." 
 
 " I think," said Michael, after a pause, " that we had 
 better be married in the autumn. If you want to see 
 Algeria we can go there for our honeymoon." 
 
 " I have promised Jessica," said Clara. " I can't go 
 back from a promise." 
 
 " You promised me first," said Michael. 
 
 " I am breaking no promise to you," said Clara, and 
 Michael saw from the set of her mouth that nothing he 
 could say would move her from her decision.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 IT was June, and the St. Erths were in Surrey in a 
 house that Mr. St. Erth had taken for the summer 
 months. It had a fine old garden, and was in a quiet 
 corner miles from any town or railway station. Mr. St. 
 Erth was invalided, and could not go to business, so 
 railway stations did not matter to him at present. The 
 remote position of the house would not have mattered 
 to Madeline either if she had possessed Aladdin's lamp 
 and could have summoned the attendant Djinn to fetch 
 anything her husband wanted suddenly from shops that 
 were miles away. They had no motor. They had nothing 
 but a carriage and two horses, and it was impossible to 
 send them six miles south to the chemist, just when Mr. 
 St. Erth insisted on taking them six miles north for a 
 drive. Madeline had ventured to point this out at lunch- 
 time, and a scene had ensued from which she had not 
 recovered. Mr. St. Erth wanted his drive and he wanted 
 something from the chemist, and he could not have both. 
 So he swore at Madeline before the servants, and pushed 
 glass and china about as noisily and violently as if he had 
 been Petruchio sitting down to supper with Katherine in 
 his country house. After lunch Madeline wanted to stay 
 at home and take breath in the garden, but that was not 
 allowed. 
 
 " There's nothing to sulk about, and a drive will do you 
 good. Go and put on your hat, and be quick about it," 
 Mr. St. Erth had said in his amiable way ; and Madeline 
 had done as she was told. But the drive did not do her 
 
 239
 
 2 4 o THE SEVERINS 
 
 good. When they came back her husband kept her 
 dancing attendance on him in the garden till he was 
 comfortably settled with all the rugs, pillows, magazines, 
 and smoking apparatus he thought he needed. Then tea 
 arrived, and there was a regrettable incident. A new 
 footman stumbled over Mr. St. Erth's footstool and upset 
 a plate of bread and butter. No one was hurt, but the 
 plate was broken. The footman received notice, and Made- 
 line was told in the hearing of Michael Severin and the 
 butler, just then coming across the lawn, that such things 
 only happened where the mistress of the house was a fool. 
 
 Michael's arrival made a diversion. Mr. St. Erth had 
 to greet him, and Madeline had to look as if his arrival 
 did not take her by surprise. 
 
 " Is Mr. Severin 's room ready ? " said her husband, 
 when she had given Michael tea. 
 
 " It can be ready in ten minutes," said Madeline. 
 
 " I told you this morning at breakfast that Mr. Severin 
 was coming." 
 
 " Did you ? " 
 
 " Did I ? Of course I did. At least I gave you his 
 letter. I suppose you didn't take the trouble to read it." 
 
 " I'm very sorry," murmured Madeline, her colour 
 rising at her husband's tone, her glance avoiding Michael's. 
 
 There had been a scene at breakfast as well as at lunch, 
 and it had been in connection with a post-office charge on 
 a letter touting for subscriptions. This letter, with another, 
 had been literally flung at Madeline amidst a storm of 
 words that unnerved and confused her ; and she had been 
 so anxious to understand and carry out her husband's 
 instructions with regard to future letters insufficiently 
 stamped that she had forgotten to look at the English 
 one pitched across the table with it. So she had not 
 known all day that Michael was coming, and she had not 
 had a room prepared for him. When tea was over she
 
 THE SEVERINS 241 
 
 went into the house to give the necessary orders, but she 
 did not go with a light heart. She feared the long hours 
 to-day and to-morrow when Michael would be present 
 and see what she endured. 
 
 Mr. St. Erth had asked his junior partner for the week- 
 end in order to discuss a new business undertaking in 
 which he had been interested. Michael had it in hand 
 now and was making a success of it, but he was working 
 on lines of his own, and this made discussion difficult, 
 for Mr. St. Erth believed in himself and in no other man. 
 He still assumed the rights of an active partner, still 
 insisted on particulars of what went on, still attempted to 
 thwart Michael's methods, though he could not deny their 
 success. From the first he had been jealous of the younger 
 man, grudged him his place in the firm, been envious of 
 his energy and financial insight. 
 
 " We shall drop a lot of money over this if it goes 
 wrong," he growled this afternoon. 
 
 " It won't go wrong," Michael assured him. 
 
 " So you say." 
 
 Michael did not lose his temper. He continued for 
 some time to explain, to discuss, and to listen to advice 
 that was of no use under new circumstances ; but he did 
 not enjoy himself, and he was glad when a dressing-gong 
 brought the futile interview to an end. Dinner, however, 
 was as oppressive as the afternoon had been. The master 
 of the house made his guest, his wife, and his servants 
 miserable by his odious temper. Everything was wrong 
 and every one was stupid, and the way to speak was in a 
 snarling grumble. The way to answer, in Madeline's case, 
 was without showing resentment or surprise, and Michael 
 felt sure that the same scenes were reacted day by day, 
 and that his own presence acted as a curb and made them 
 milder. 
 
 " These fools don't know their work," said Mr. St. Erth, 
 
 16
 
 242 THE SEVERINS 
 
 when the two men waiting on them had left the room. 
 " But they've only been here a fortnight, and they're 
 leaving again directly. We never keep our servants." 
 
 Michael thought this was not surprising ; but as he 
 could not say so he said something about servants in 
 India, and about an affectionate and queerly worded letter 
 he had received that morning from his old khansamah 
 there. 
 
 " Wants to get something out of you, I suppose," said 
 Mr. St. Erth, filling his glass with port and passing the 
 decanter on to Michael. He had been drinking all through 
 dinner, first sherry and then a heavy Burgundy. He was 
 flushed and angry-looking, and his hand trembled 
 violently as he lifted his glass to his lips ; so violently 
 that a little of the wine was spilt upon the cloth. When 
 this happened he looked across the table at his wife, and 
 unfortunately found that she was watching him. 
 
 " What are you staring at ? " he asked. 
 
 " Was I staring ? " said Madeline, trying to speak 
 unconcernedly ; and she got up to go. 
 
 " Don't go yet," said Mr. St. Erth, " you haven't had 
 your port." 
 
 " I don't want it to-night," said Madeline. 
 
 " Yes, you do," said her husband. 
 
 Madeline sat down again and pushed her glass towards 
 Michael. He filled it without speaking, and without 
 speaking she drank about half of it, wondering as she did 
 so what Michael must think of her. Would he think 
 that she had neither sense nor spirit to allow any man, 
 even though he was her husband, to speak to her in such 
 a tone ? For it was Mr. St. Erth's manner that made his 
 command an outrage. If Madeline had been a recal- 
 citrant dog he could not have called it to heel in a harsher 
 way. But when her husband was in this mood she had no 
 weapons against him, for she knew that resistance would
 
 THE SEVERINS 243 
 
 only goad him to fury, and that at the worst his un- 
 governable temper knew no checks. As soon as she had 
 finished the wine she went into the drawing-room ; 
 but she felt too restless to sit down there. She wanted 
 to move, she wanted to escape, her cheeks were burning, 
 her spirit was in a tumult. She felt as much ashamed as 
 if her husband had struck her in Michael's presence, 
 and she ran out into the garden with the wish in her mind 
 that she could run further and further away. But 
 the cool night air, the peace, the sweet scents, and the 
 sight of stars slowly restored her. Many a time during 
 her miserable marriage she had looked for a way of escape 
 and found none ; and her instinct had always been to 
 draw a veil over the life she led ; to let no one guess at the 
 price she was paying for her bargain. She had married 
 for money, as a young ignorant girl often will, not in 
 the least understanding what lay before her. She had 
 not wanted money for herself, but for her parents, 
 who were ill and miserably poor ; she wanted it quickly, 
 and she had not been taught how to earn any. In the 
 glow of her pity and acute distress, with her heart aching 
 for the two old people so near and dear to her, she would 
 have married a monster if he could have given her gold 
 for them, the gold that would bring them help and 
 possibly added years of life. When Mr. St. Erth made his 
 offer she accepted it with eager gratitude, and told him 
 the true state of affairs. She did not love him or any one 
 except her father and mother, and they were ill and 
 terribly poor. Mr. St. Erth had given her money for 
 them and money for herself, as much as and more than she 
 wanted, from the beginning. He was a man who would 
 hand her a cheque for five hundred pounds one day and 
 foam at the mouth the next because fourpence had been 
 paid on an unstamped letter. He would load her with 
 jewels she did not value, and swear at her if a servant
 
 244 THE SEVERINS 
 
 made an extravagant fire. His very gifts were embittered 
 by the spirit in which he made them, for when he offered 
 her money or trinkets he would do it with some grudging 
 comments on the extravagance and inferiority of women ; 
 while, if she said she could do with less money and fewer 
 trinkets, he told her that he didn't want a wife who 
 dressed like a frump, and that as she was going off in looks 
 every day she had better try what dressmakers and 
 milliners and all the tribe of rogues that batten on feminine 
 folly could do for her. From the beginning Madeline 
 had been afraid of him, afraid of his temper, of his coarse, 
 bullying tongue, of his sneering mind. She shuddered 
 as she remembered chapter on chapter of her married 
 life ; and his present illness, taking away as it did those 
 hours of relief when he was in the City, this condition 
 of semi-invalidism, made things worse for her. 
 
 At first she walked up and down the garden paths in a 
 quick, aimless way ; then, as she became conscious of the 
 beauty of the evening, she moved more slowly, finding 
 help and strength outside herself. The garden gave on 
 the common, stretching for miles beyond it, and some- 
 times of late, when Madeline could escape for half an 
 hour, she had gone out there after dinner and listened 
 to a nightingale who sang every evening to his mate from 
 a thorn bush about five minutes' walk beyond the garden 
 door. She heard him in the distance to-night, and went 
 out there, leaving the door open behind her. She hurried 
 to him as a lonely creature hurries to a friend, and he told 
 her stories of the world she had never known, the world 
 where lovers meet in rapture and live in peace, where men 
 and women find heaven in each other, even when sorrow 
 comes, because they are faithful and kind. As she listened 
 to him she felt a little happier, for his song belonged to the 
 world from which she was shut out, and he seemed to let 
 her in. The moonlight flooded the common and her
 
 THE SEVERINS 245 
 
 tense, uplifted face when Michael passed through the 
 open door and went slowly and cautiously towards her. 
 She saw him coming, but did not speak, so for a time 
 they stood side by side and listened to the bird's song. 
 
 " Isn't he happy ? " she whispered under her breath 
 when he paused for a minute. " Is any man or woman 
 ever as happy as that ? " 
 
 But the nightingale took fright at her voice, though 
 she lowered it, and he flew away. 
 
 " He will come back," they said to each other, and 
 they waited in the shadow of the thorn bush, hoping to 
 hear the soft whir of his wings. But that night he sang 
 to them no more. 
 
 " I ought to go back," Madeline said presently with a 
 little shiver, and they turned towards the garden, dragging 
 their steps, hoping for another song. When they reached 
 the house and went into the drawing-room they found 
 Mr. St. Erth fast asleep on the sofa. 
 
 " He said he felt sleepy," whispered Michael, " that 
 was why I left him." 
 
 Like two children they stole across the room on 
 tiptoe to the verandah where there were chairs and a 
 lighted lamp. Here they sat down and talked quietly 
 and soberly, because Michael was going to marry Clara 
 and Madeline was married to Mr. St. Erth. Therefore 
 the glow in their hearts was not to be admitted; the 
 thrill in the air was due to the stars and the nightingale ; 
 when their eyes met it must be in the cool way of friend- 
 ship, and not with the shock of love. Yet there between 
 them, though they dared not see it, the great god had come, 
 and first he threw his glamour over Michael so that he 
 adored the cloudy softness of Madeline's dark hair and 
 the]deep of her eyes which God had made merry and men 
 sad. Even what she wore seemed to him unlike what 
 any other woman wore ; and just as when he first saw
 
 246 THE SEVERINS 
 
 her he saw silver shoes for the first time and thought them 
 wonders, so to-night he believed that no one else had 
 ever worn a gown of sapphire blue, thin, trailing from her 
 shoulders, and stiff with a stomacher of many-coloured 
 jewels. For in Michael's eyes Madeline's raiment, like her 
 beauty, came from the stars. 
 
 Over Madeline too the great god cast his magic, and the 
 timbre of Michael's voice enchanted her, his glance held 
 her, his thoughts fired hers to a common flame. Yet 
 it had not entered the furthest hopes of either that this 
 commotion in their souls could ever find earthly close 
 or ever be confessed even to themselves without dis- 
 honour. The only way in which they showed any sense 
 of danger was in their incessant flow of talk. They were 
 afraid of those silences that fall so easily between men 
 and women on the verge of love ; and they were busy 
 with the reconnaissances that take people attracted to 
 each other such enchanting journeys towards the un- 
 known. From one such venture, leading by way of poetry 
 to the everlasting hills, Madeline came back in a panic, 
 for it is not good to fly too far when honour and necessity 
 alike are calling to you from below. 
 
 " I wonder if he is still asleep," she said. " I will see." 
 
 Michael watched her as she passed from the verandah 
 into the drawing-room, and when she was out of sight 
 he looked at the moonlit garden and enjoyed the silence 
 and the cool, scented air. In a moment, however, 
 Madeline came back again. 
 
 " He is fast asleep still," she said. " I suppose I must 
 leave him. But it means a bad night." 
 
 She did not sit down again directly, but stood beside 
 the table watching the dead and dying moths and flies 
 gathered round the lamp. Some of them were moving 
 still. 
 
 ** I hate having a lamp out here," she said.
 
 THE SEVERINS 247 
 
 As she spoke a great moth lumbered against the heated 
 glass, scorched itself badly, and fell with a thud. Madeline 
 gave a little cry of pity and hastily put out the light. 
 Then she sat down in a corner of the verandah where 
 trails of red rambling roses f ell over the edge and became 
 a setting for her in her jewelled dress. The strong moon- 
 light made a new picture of her for Michael, and he 
 wished she had left the lamp, because while it was burning 
 the glamour of her presence had been less compelling 
 and unearthly. He was glad when she spoke, and by her 
 questions brought him back to the realities of life as he 
 had shaped them. 
 
 " When are you going to be married ? " she asked. 
 
 " Not yet," said Michael. 
 
 " Have you taken a house ? " 
 
 " Oh, we don't want a house till next spring. Clara is 
 going to spend the winter in Algeria." 
 
 " I hadn't heard of that. I thought you were to be 
 married at the end of the year." 
 
 " That was our first idea," said Michael, " but now 
 Clara talks of the spring." 
 
 He seemed rather apathetic about it, Madeline thought, 
 and she wondered whether Clara was apathetic too. 
 
 " Who is taking her to Algeria ? " she asked. 
 
 " The Underwoods. Mrs. Underwood is ordered there, 
 and wants to have Clara with her." 
 
 Madeline asked herself how much Michael knew about 
 the Underwoods and the Pratt-Palmers. Mrs. Underwood 
 had been Jessica Pratt-Palmer. They were people whose 
 parents had made enormous fortunes. Jessica's only 
 brother, Julius Pratt-Palmer, was one of the richest 
 commoners in England, and a bachelor. 
 
 " Clara will have a good time with them," she said. 
 
 " Yes," said Michael, " it is natural that she should 
 wish to go."
 
 248 THE SEVERINS 
 
 Madeline did not think it at all natural for a girl who 
 was going to marry Michael to put off her marriage and 
 separate herself from him for the sake of some idle months 
 with people like the Underwoods and the Pratt-Palmers. 
 She could not understand either Clara's design or Michael's 
 indifferent acquiescence. " Perhaps when the autumn 
 comes Clara will change her mind," she said. 
 
 " Who put the lamp out ? " said a snarling voice from 
 the open verandah door, and looking up Michael and 
 Madeline saw that Mr. St. Erth was standing there. 
 
 " I did," said Madeline, reflecting thankfully that if her 
 husband had listened he had heard them speak of Pratt- 
 Palmers and not, as he might have done earlier, of some 
 poet's holy of holies. " I put it out because it was killing 
 flies." 
 
 " When ? " 
 
 " Just now." 
 
 He came out on to the verandah. He went up to the 
 table and touched the lamp to see whether Madeline 
 had been telling the truth, and it was still hot. His wife 
 and Michael both saw him do this, and understood his 
 motive. 
 
 " Another time don't let me sleep so long," he said to 
 Madeline, " it spoils my night, as you know. . . . Besides, 
 I like sitting on a verandah by moonlight. I hope my wife 
 has been quoting poetry, Severin. It oozes out of her 
 on these occasions, I know. So you have put off your 
 marriage till the spring ... or rather the lady has put 
 you off ? Did she say whether Julius Pratt-Palmer was 
 going with them to Algeria ? " 
 
 " No," said Michael shortly. 
 
 Mr. St. Erth gave the low, wheezing chuckle that was 
 his imitation of a laugh. Then he turned to his wife 
 again. 
 
 " You ought to have been in bed an hour ago," he
 
 THE SEVERINS 249 
 
 said. " It's nearly twelve o'clock. Good night, Severin. 
 If you want whisky and cigars you'll find them in the 
 library. I'm an invalid, you know, so I'm off now." 
 
 " Good night," said Madeline. 
 
 " Good night," said Michael. But he went upstairs 
 when his host and hostess did and sought his own room. 
 The windows were wide open, and in the silence of the 
 night beyond the garden he could hear the nightingale 
 singing to his mate on the common.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 /'"CLOTILDA was in London again, and Tom was with 
 V^ her. They had come back for good, they said, and 
 were looking for a small house that for a small rent would 
 give them every advantage of town and country. Mean- 
 while they were staying at the corner house, and were 
 enjoying themselves hugely. 
 
 " Isn't the air delicious ? " said Clotilda as she walked 
 down the Strand with her husband and brother after a 
 matinte one July afternoon when the heat and dust made 
 a yellow fog. " It agrees with me better than any air 
 there is, and I would rather hear a motor-bus than a 
 blackbird, because it means that I am in London again. 
 Life is not life anywhere else. I should like to kiss that 
 little boy selling Globes. Give me sixpence, Tom, I want 
 to buy one." 
 
 Tom Crewe had not come back to lead an idle life, he 
 said. He was looking for a business opening, and as he 
 had brought back a small capital he expected to find one. 
 Like his wife, he was delighted to be in England again. 
 Clotilda had not sobered down much, but her husband 
 seemed to watch her sallies with amusement, and she 
 seemed to know that, good-natured as he was, he had his 
 eyes open. She was prettier than ever, better dressed, 
 just as ready for an hour's flirtation, just as indifferent 
 when the end of the hour came and the victim had to 
 make his bow. Both the boys of the Crescent, Messrs. 
 Jenkins and Henderson, were hovering round her again, 
 and in the evening she sang to them and played duets 
 
 250
 
 THE SEVERINS 251 
 
 and trios with them as she used to do. In fact, the corner 
 house was itself again. Clotilda turned it topsy-turvy, 
 upsetting its lightly founded method, making havoc of 
 its new rules, keeping it up late, filling it with music and 
 laughter, making Michael laugh as he had not done since 
 she left. 
 
 " But, my dear girl, I have to be up early and do a day's 
 work," he said, when the trios went on into the small hours. 
 " As for Messrs. Jenkins and Henderson . . . how do 
 you suppose they will get on at their desks to-morrow ? " 
 
 " Oh, it does you good," vowed Clotilda. " Who wants 
 to live by the clock all the year round ? Just enjoy what 
 the hour brings you, Michael. Let yourself go. You 
 never have yet, I'm sure. You've bottled up all your 
 feelings and all your wishes and worked hard and kept 
 yourself in order till . . ." 
 
 " Till what ? " 
 
 " Oh, ask Vesuvius ! " said Clotilda, and ran to some- 
 thing else. 
 
 But she had frightened Michael, because he knew that 
 she was right. The years of self-control behind him 
 seemed of little help now. Love laughed and stayed, 
 took full possession, waxed stronger every day, and when 
 driven out by a supreme effort looked him in the face a 
 moment later more vivid and enthralling than before. 
 Michael hated himself and fought with himself, and began 
 to look ill and worn. When he was with Clara he was 
 either absently polite or eagerly anxious to please and 
 make amends ; but so far she saw nothing wrong. 
 Clotilda, he found, did not approve of his forthcoming 
 marriage. 
 
 " I shall bid you a fond farewell on your wedding day," 
 she said. " I shall tell every one in future that I have 
 one brother, and that his name is Bob." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " said Michael.
 
 252 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " It doesn't matter to me, because I have Tom. You 
 and Clara will be charming acquaintances. We shall 
 meet at Christmas and sometimes at a family dinner. 
 But I'm sorry for Sophia and Camilla, because they are 
 both wrapped up in you. Besides, Camilla is charming. 
 It is shameful to snub and ostracize her. I know what I 
 shall do. Tom must make pots of money, and for Camilla's 
 sake I shall become a climber." 
 
 " I wish I knew what you were talking about," said 
 Michael. 
 
 " Runner beans won't be in it with me ... you'll 
 see what I can do if I'm driven, Michael. I shall push and 
 hustle and intrigue my way into society . . . charity 
 does it, you know . . . push and charity. . . ." 
 
 Clotilda suddenly stopped. The absurdity of the picture 
 struck her, and she ended with a low rippling laugh that 
 was infectious and made Michael laugh too. 
 
 "No, I really couldn't," she said. "I couldn't be 
 serious about it. But Clara makes me mad." 
 
 " My dear girl, what do you know of Clara ? How often 
 have you seen her ? " 
 
 " Three times . . . and I never want to see her again." 
 
 " How are you going to help it, when she is your sister- 
 in-law ? " 
 
 " In any other capacity I might like her," said Clotilda, 
 " but a supercilious sister-in-law is insufferable." 
 
 " You mustn't put all the blame on Clara," said Michael. 
 " If you will have Mrs. Ginger on your front doorstep 
 you can't expect people like Clara to approve . . . and 
 there were other things." 
 
 " There always will be," said Clotilda. " Selma, for 
 instance. . . . What does she make of Selma ? " 
 
 " She never speaks of her," said Michael. 
 
 " She would be sure to take the wrong tone if she did. 
 However, when Selma comes back we shall see."
 
 THE SEVERINS 253 
 
 " Does she talk of coming back ? " asked Michael, 
 looking rather startled. " She has not even written 
 for a long time. You know how mother frets about it. 
 We don't know whether she is still in Paris." 
 
 " She will come back one of these days," said Clotilda. 
 " Those violent friendships always have violent ends." 
 
 It was shortly after this conversation that Mrs. Severin 
 received an invitation from Mrs. Walsingham, asking 
 the whole family, including Mr. and Mrs. Crewe, to dine 
 there " quietly " on the following Tuesday. 
 
 " That means there will be no one to meet us," said 
 Clotilda. 
 
 " I am glad of that," said Mrs. Severin. " I suppose 
 Michael will wish us to accept, but I would much rather 
 stay at home. I feel uncomfortable with Clara and her 
 people. I don't like grandeur." 
 
 " Oh, we may as well go," said Michael, when he was 
 told of the invitation, but he would not have been 
 human if he had felt gratified by it. He went to so many 
 dinners at Rutland Gate, and met so many dull, prosperous 
 people there, that the inner meaning of this one could not 
 escape him. When you ask a whole family in a bunch 
 and no one else, you are either so fond of them that you 
 want them to yourself, or you do it because you think you 
 ought to entertain them, and will not inflict them on your 
 friends. However, this was a conviction that could not 
 be expressed hi either household, and when Tuesday 
 arrived the five people from the corner house found them- 
 selves at dinner tune in the drawing-room at Rutland Gate. 
 There was, as Clotilda had prophesied, no one to meet 
 them. 
 
 " We are quite by ourselves," said Mrs. Walsingham 
 in her honeyed, rather artificial voice, and of course 
 Michael's family ought to have murmured something 
 polite and inarticulate about that being just what
 
 254 THE SEVERINS 
 
 delighted them. But Michael's tiresome family never 
 did what it ought. Mrs. Severin was in trouble with her 
 fichu, and, instead of answering, detached some lace 
 from a rose that had thorns, while Clotilda glanced at 
 Michael and very delicately winked ; and Clara saw her 
 and was angry. 
 
 " When are you going back to South Africa ? " she 
 said to Clotilda, looking at Tom Crewe's colossal figure 
 with an air of surprise that in revenge for the wink she 
 deliberately allowed to be disdainful. The disdain was 
 not genuine, for she saw that Tom was what in the patois 
 of her day she called " quite," and if he had come with 
 any of her friends she would have made much of him. 
 But he had to suffer for being Clotilda's husband. Clara 
 rather liked Camilla, Mrs. Severin did not count, Bob 
 was at school, and Selma had vanished. The one really 
 provoking member of Michael's family was Clotilda, who 
 always seemed rather pleased with herself, and did not 
 look as if the present occasion impressed her. How dare 
 she come from the corner house to Rutland Gate and 
 wink ! When was she going back to South Africa, asked 
 Clara. 
 
 " Never," said Clotilda cheerfully. 
 
 " Oh ! " said Clara. " Are you going to live in 
 London ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Clotilda, " we are looking for a house. 
 How nice it would be if we could find one close to Michael 
 and you ! " 
 
 " We have not decided on our neighbourhood yet,'* 
 said Clara, and then dinner was announced. 
 
 No one can blame Mr. Walsingham for finding Mrs. 
 Severin difficult to entertain. There was not much in 
 common between them, and they were both people 
 afflicted by a sort of mental paralysis when placed with 
 inhabitants of a foreign world. Mr. Walsingham had a
 
 THE SEVERINS 255 
 
 social conscience and played the game manfully for 
 a time ; but Mrs. Severin did not try to play this 
 evening, and baffled him. The poor woman was op- 
 pressed by her surroundings because they were unlike 
 her own, because Michael was there, and because she 
 was a foolish creature, as sensitive to an unfriendly 
 atmosphere as a seismograph to an earthquake. She 
 was sure that both Mrs. Walsingham and Clara saw her 
 spill a little wine on her fichu. It happened because her 
 hand was trembling and her glass rather full, but she 
 felt tearfully uncomfortable about it, and answered her 
 host at such haphazard that he turned to Clotilda, who 
 was on his other side. He began with the usual question 
 about her return to South Africa, and when she told him 
 she was house-hunting in London he felt quite grateful 
 because she introduced a subject that lasted through 
 several courses, and brought even Mrs. Severin into line. 
 Every one can talk about houses. 
 
 " But you have a wider field for your search than my 
 daughter," he said in his courteous, rather inflated way. 
 '* You are not restricted to a neighbourhood, you tell me. 
 Now we have said that when Clara marries we want her 
 within half a mile. She has promised to stay near us. 
 Our other daughter is nearly a mile away." 
 
 The whole table could hear what Mr. Walsingham was 
 saying, and Clotilda looked maliciously at her future 
 sister-in-law. 
 
 " This is a delightful neighbourhood," she said. " So 
 near the Albert Memorial. Tom and I think of it for 
 ourselves. Are there any small houses to be had ? " 
 
 " I dare say there are," said Mr. Walsingham urbanely. 
 " You must consult Clara. I believe she knows as much 
 as a house agent. First she hunted for Beatrice, and some 
 time ago she was hunting for herself." 
 
 If you think Clara looked or felt at all embarrassed
 
 256 THE SEVERINS 
 
 you do not do her justice. She helped herself to a par fait 
 of strawberries, refused more champagne, and did not 
 turn a hair. Michael's sister knew for certain now that 
 his future wife did not want her for a near neighbour, and 
 his future wife thought that the more certainties she 
 could establish of this kind the better pleased she would be. 
 Clotilda had laid herself open to a snub by offering to 
 establish herself where she was not wanted. 
 
 " Perhaps we could find three houses in a row," said 
 Clotilda. " One for my mother, one for Michael, and 
 one for Tom and me. We should love to be close together, 
 and able to run in and out all day." 
 
 There were only eight people at table, so that the talk 
 tended to become general, and Clotilda's suggestion was 
 heard and answered by Mrs. Walsingham, who repressed 
 an inward shudder and said that she thought that young 
 married people were best by themselves. Then Tom 
 Crewe interposed, and said he did not know why his wife 
 was talking such nonsense. He fully hit ended to live 
 outside London and so did she. That diverted the con- 
 versation for a time to the pleasures of gardening and the 
 merits of the country suburb. So the talk dribbled on 
 till every one had eaten their strawberries, and Mrs. 
 Walsingham got up from table. 
 
 In the drawing-room Clara talked prettily to Mrs. 
 Severin and Camilla about summer plans, while Mrs. 
 Walsingham showed a well-bred interest in Natal and 
 Clotilda's experiences there. When the three men came 
 upstairs Mr. Walsingham proposed music. 
 
 " Come, Clara," he said to his daughter, " sing to us." 
 
 He did not know that Michael's sisters were both fine 
 musicians, and that his daughter was not a musician at 
 all ; and Clara did not know these things either. So she 
 went to the piano and twittered one of her pretty, pretty 
 songs in a thin, high voice. Michael for once wished she
 
 THE SEVERINS 257 
 
 knew better, for he could see Clotilda's downcast eyes and 
 her profile wickedly demure, and he felt sure that when 
 she got home she would mimic Clara to the life, pretty, 
 pretty tune, tinkling accompaniment and all. 
 
 " Are your sisters musical ? " said Mrs. Walsingham. 
 
 " I have heard Camilla play," said Clara, coming for- 
 ward. " She plays very nicely." 
 
 So Camilla went to the piano and played quite nicely ; 
 but as she was not artful enough to suit her performance 
 to her public, her delicate and finished rendering of some 
 numbers from Schumann's Kreisleriana was rather 
 thrown away. 
 
 " I suppose the Germans like that involved music," 
 said Mr. Walsingham when he had praised Camilla's 
 memory and " execution." " I never find it cheers me 
 up much though, and, after all, what is music for ? " 
 
 " That is so true," said Clotilda, her beautiful eyes 
 quite serious and steady as she addressed her host. " Now 
 you should hear Tom sing. You feel happier for the rest 
 of the week." 
 
 Tom's laugh when his wife made this astounding state- 
 ment seemed to shake the room. 
 
 " I've about as much voice as an elephant," he said. 
 
 " Never mind, Tom," said Clotilda ; " come and do your 
 best. We are not a critical audience, are we, Mr. Wal- 
 singham ? " 
 
 " I suppose not," said Mr. Walsingham, laughing 
 good-naturedly. He was charmed by Clotilda to-night, 
 and never observed that his wife and daughter were 
 sitting in cold judgment on her. No doubt she was pretty 
 pretty enough to make men lose their heads ; but what 
 right had she to give herself airs, and to assume that they 
 were an uncritical audience ? Now she had suddenly 
 changed her mind, and said she would have the trio from 
 The Merry Motorist, and that Michael must join in 
 
 17
 
 258 THE SEVERINS 
 
 it. So all three men were at the piano with her, the two 
 younger ones singing and Mr. Walsingham listening 
 delightedly. That was music a man could enjoy when 
 he was tired, he said, and when they had finished he asked 
 for the quartet from the first act. So with Camilla's help 
 they gave him that too. The ladies of the house listened 
 with perfunctory politeness, and Mrs. Severin rearranged 
 the roses she wore, so as to hide the stain made at dinner 
 on her fichu. When the musicians came away from the 
 piano and sat down, Clara said to Michael : 
 
 " I had no idea that you could sing." 
 
 " I can't," said Michael. " Tom and I only bellow. 
 Didn't you hear how out of tune we were ? " 
 
 Clara had not heard, but she did not say so. 
 
 " You were quite good enough for that kind of music," 
 she said graciously, " and you pleased Dad." 
 
 " Didn't we please you ? " said Michael. They were 
 sitting together, but so near Clotilda that she could not 
 help hearing what they said. 
 
 " I'm spoilt, you know," said Clara. " But why don't 
 you and Clotilda train your voices ? You should have 
 lessons from my man, Harwood Atkins. He is splendid. 
 He taught all the princesses of Lothringen, you know." 
 
 " I thought Clotilda's voice was trained," said Michael. 
 Somehow Clara seemed both stupid and conceited to- 
 night. 
 
 " Have you ever had any lessons ? " she said to 
 Clotilda. 
 
 Clotilda laughed ; not rudely but gently, as if she really 
 could not help it. 
 
 " I was five years under Roselli," she said. " He wanted 
 me to sing in grand opera. I wish the poor man could 
 hear you." 
 
 " Oh, well," said Clara impatiently, " people forget 
 what they are taught. I'm sure I do. Besides . . .
 
 THE SEVERINS 259 
 
 Roselli is fearfully expensive. Harwood Atkins is his 
 pupil, and is cheaper." 
 
 " I know Mr. Atkins very well," said Clotilda, com- 
 posedly. " We have often sung together ... he is quite 
 good. We used to meet at Roselli's house." 
 
 " Herr Roselli was father's friend," said Camilla, who 
 saw that in a polite way fur was flying. 
 
 " Signer Roselli," corrected Clara. 
 
 " He is an Austrian by birth," corrected Clotilda. 
 " We call him Onkel Florian. He taught me for love." 
 
 " I wonder you didn't go on the stage," said Mrs. 
 Walsingham. 
 
 " At one time she did wish it," said Mrs. Severin. " But 
 then she married Tom and he disliked the idea." 
 
 " Tom," said Clotilda to her husband, " you might 
 let me go on the stage now. Every one does who can, 
 and Mrs. Walsingham thinks that with my marvellous 
 voice and my beauty and my allure " 
 
 " Rats ! " said Tom to his wife only, and went back to his 
 corner where he was having a comfortable talk with Mr. 
 Walsingham about the iniquities of the Government. 
 
 " What did your husband say ? " inquired Mrs. 
 Walsingham. 
 
 " He said ' Rats,' " replied Clotilda. " He has not been 
 at all well brought up." 
 
 " My dear ! " said Mrs. Severin reproachfully. " You 
 know he was at Eton." 
 
 " At Eton ! " said Mrs. Walsingham. " You don't 
 mean it, surely. He is not one of the Trevider-Crewes ? 
 They all have enormous noses and are extremely plain." 
 
 Clotilda said nothing. She looked as if her husband's 
 ancestry did not concern her, and as if Mrs. Walsingham's 
 personalities were best kindly ignored. 
 
 " Is he one of the Trevider-Crewes ? " Mrs. Walsingham 
 said to Mrs. Severin.
 
 26o THE SEVERINS 
 
 " He may be," Mrs. Severin replied. " I don't know 
 much about him. He met Clotilda at a picnic and pro- 
 posed on the spot. I was very much annoyed at first 
 because of his nose." 
 
 " What's wrong with his nose ? " 
 
 Well look at it ! " 
 
 " I am looking at it. Lord Bosistow has just such 
 another. It's the family nose." 
 
 " Then in my opinion the family should keep it," said 
 Mrs. Severin, and got up to go. But Michael turned to 
 Mrs. Walsingham and relieved her curiosity. 
 
 " My brother-in-law is one of the Trevider-Crewes," 
 he said ; " but Lord Bosistow is only his second cousin. 
 Tom's father is a parson with seven children and no 
 money." 
 
 " Still " said Mrs. Walsingham, and the tone in 
 
 which she bid Tom good night was perceptibly warmer 
 than her welcome had been. 
 
 " But if he was Lord Bosistow himself, I would not live 
 within reach of his wife," said Clara, when their guests 
 had departed. " The little minx was laughing at us all the 
 evening." 
 
 " What could she possibly find in us to laugh at ? " 
 said Mrs. Walsingham.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 IN May Mr. St. Erth had told his partners that he 
 would be back at work in June, and all through June 
 and July he said that he was improving steadily, and that 
 the new undertaking must mark time till he returned to 
 hurry it on. But a business venture will not always sit 
 stationary when it has reached a certain size and vitality. 
 It perishes or it grows. Michael found as the summer 
 went on that he was more and more occupied with the 
 new extension, and that if he had wanted to hold it back 
 he could not have done so. In the end, with Mr. Wal- 
 singham's full approval, he took on Tom Crewe to man- 
 age the factory connected with it. By-and-by, if the 
 affair prospered as it promised, there would be factories 
 and a world- wide trade. 
 
 " We're in for a big thing," Tom said to his wife. 
 " Michael and I are going to die millionaires, my love." 
 
 " Never never," said Clotilda. " No one belonging 
 to our family will ever be well off. Generation after 
 generation we've been poor and rather clever and unlucky. 
 Our way is to get a step or two up the ladder because 
 we've brains, and then to slip down because we're fools 
 the kind of fools who can't keep success when it's 
 in their hands. It's in the blood you'll see, Tom." 
 
 " It's not in my blood," said Tom, " it may be in yours. 
 But you're a woman and don't count. You're ME." 
 
 " Then Michael will come a cropper," said Clotilda, 
 who never troubled to defend the rights of women. She 
 felt quite capable in her own person of getting all the 
 rights of any use to her. 
 
 261
 
 262 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " Michael will do nothing of the kind," said Tom. 
 
 It certainly seemed that, as far as money-making went, 
 the family luck had turned with Michael. His financial 
 acumen, his power of work, and his power of dealing 
 with men grew with every development and every new 
 responsibility. Mr. Walsingham was nearly super- 
 annuated, Mr. St. Erth was ill, the London house of 
 the great firm was Michael only Michael. He had not 
 much time by day to think of his private affairs. Clara 
 complained that she saw less and less of him, and that 
 when he did dine at Rutland Gate it seemed to be for 
 the sake of an extra hour with her father. So it was 
 hardly worth giving up things, and all the dinners and 
 dances of the season seemed to crowd themselves into 
 these last weeks, and even Sundays were filled up. 
 
 " No need for excuses, Clara," said Michael ; " you 
 must do what pleases you." 
 
 He seemed to Clara to have grown older, graver, more 
 self-assured. He sometimes spoke and acted with 
 authority. She had been extremely angry when she heard 
 of Tom Crewe's employment by the firm, and had even 
 tried to hinder it by informing her father that it was a 
 mistake. Though she was going to marry Michael, she 
 did not want to be more mixed up with his belongings 
 than she could help, and this false step was a step in that 
 direction. Besides, why if the opening was a good one 
 should it be offered to a complete stranger when Mrs. 
 Walsingham's nephew, Pat Thorndale, was looking for 
 a good billet ? Was it too late to make the change ? Mr. 
 Walsingham at that date had been bound to say that 
 nothing was settled yet, but that he feared Michael 
 would not be willing to entrust a concern of growing 
 magnitude to Pat Thorndale, whose record well, Clara 
 knew what poor Pat's record had been. 
 
 " But if I tell him that this is the chance of his life,
 
 THE SEVERINS 263 
 
 and that he must work, he will," said Clara, with her 
 usual unbounded faith in her powers of persuasion. 
 But her father received a nasty jar when he undertook 
 to persuade Michael. He would not hear of Pat Thorn- 
 dale ; he compared Tom's career with the idle, dissipated 
 history of Clara's candidate, he treated the little domestic 
 intrigue with the ridicule it deserved, and he got his own 
 way. 
 
 " He is Dad's master," Clara said bitterly to her mother. 
 
 At the end of July the Walsinghams went to Scotland. 
 Michael was left in sole charge, and could not expect to 
 get any holiday till late in September. He had taken 
 a small house at Swanage for his family, and while they 
 were away he meant to live at his club. There had been 
 some riotous days at the corner house when Bob came 
 home and found a brother-in-law of Tom's size ready to 
 enjoy life with him. Then the women and the boy had 
 departed, leaving the two men behind. Tom stayed 
 with Michael at his club and went down to Swanage for 
 the \veek-ends. Michael was expected to spend Saturday 
 afternoon and Sunday with the St. Erths in Surrey when- 
 ever he could, in order to talk to Mr. St. Erth of affairs, 
 and to learn from the lips of his elder what should be 
 done. Before he went to Scotland Mr. Walsingham had 
 begged Michael to humour the sick man. 
 
 " He's the devil when he's crossed," he had added. 
 " Besides, some one ought to keep an eye on what goes 
 on there." 
 
 Michael had not asked Mr. Walsingham to explain 
 himself. He had understood. He was to have an eye 
 on Madeline lest she was being made to suffer beyond 
 endurance, or rather beyond the limits of decorum. When 
 a man begins to smash the. furniture and beat his wife 
 with a poker her lot becomes comparatively easy. The 
 world sees the furniture and the marks left by the poker,
 
 264 THE SEVERINS 
 
 and grants the victim relief. Unfortunately for Madeline, 
 her husband did not choose these primitive means of 
 self-expression. His weapons, except on extreme occa- 
 sions, were his temper and his tongue, her financial 
 dependence and her view of marriage as irrevocable. It 
 had never crossed her mind that the door could stand 
 open, and in fact it did not. 
 
 So Michael, all through the summer, often spent 
 Saturdays and Sundays in Surrey, and in this way saw 
 more of Madeline than was good for his peace of mind. 
 The long summer days lured them out of doors, and in 
 one way or another it happened that Mr. St. Erth was 
 not always with them. At first Madeline would seek 
 and welcome these hours of escape, these breaths of 
 happy air that gave her strength, because they gave her 
 a dream world, a refuge from that squalid real one in 
 which she was a prisoner. Michael began to fill her 
 thoughts ; she lived from one of his visits to the next 
 on memories ; when he came she made new dear dis- 
 coveries about his looks, his ways, his thoughts ; when 
 he did not come, the old dreams had to last a little longer. 
 At first she believed that this growing flame in her heart 
 was lit by friendship, that she hung on his presence 
 because he made a break in her dull history, and because 
 he had patience with her husband. But the hour came 
 when she knew her own heart, and took fright at its un- 
 faithfulness ; and it was Mr. St. Erth himself who hurried 
 the hour on. 
 
 It was late one Sunday afternoon, and though there 
 was no sun the heat was overpowering. Thunder brooded 
 in a leaden sky and in the breathless air. Tea was over, 
 Michael sat with the husband and wife in the garden, 
 and for some time no one had moved or even spoken 
 much. Mr. St. Erth had made himself as disagreeable 
 as usual all day. He had begun by ordering his wife to
 
 THE SEVERINS 265 
 
 stay at home for no reason whatever except that she 
 wished to go to church ; at lunch he kept up the incessant 
 fault-finding that wears the strongest nerves, and after 
 lunch he had dozed in the garden while Madeline read a 
 twaddly book of travels to him while he dozed, only waking 
 in an explosion of rage if she thought he slept and that 
 she could rest her voice. Michael looked on and could not 
 interfere. To a greater extent than this a man is master 
 in his own house, and all an enraged guest can do is to 
 show his host the cold shoulder and vow he will never 
 be a guest again. Michael thought to-day that he must 
 come to such a decision. It grew more and more painful 
 to behave like a neutral when he took sides with every 
 instinct and tradition that made him a man. 
 
 " Fetch me another whisky and soda, Madeline," 
 said Mr. St. Erth, breaking in on Michael's reverie and 
 on his wife's peace. She had been leaning back with 
 closed eyes in a long deck chair, but she was not asleep, 
 and she got up at once when she heard her husband's 
 voice. 
 
 " It's nearly time for your medicine," she said; " shall 
 I bring that instead ? " 
 
 As Mr. St. Erth had had two large whiskies and soda 
 instead of tea, and as all his medical men except the local 
 one forbade him alcohol, Madeline's proposal to substi- 
 tute medicine for whisky was not determined by the 
 feminine bias against any cheerful cup that men find so 
 exasperating. She knew he was killing himself by his 
 intemperance. 
 
 " Will you do as you are told ? " he shouted. 
 
 " I'll get it, Mrs. St. Erth," said Michael, and he walked 
 towards the house, wishing he could kick his host instead 
 of serving him. 
 
 " Come here," called Mr. St. Erth. " I told my wife to 
 get it, and she shall."
 
 266 THE SEVERINS 
 
 Michael took no notice and walked on, but he had 
 not got far when a smothered cry behind him made 
 him turn and hurry back to Mr. St. Erth's chair. He 
 was not in time to prevent Madeline from falling over the 
 foot of it. 
 
 " I fell," she said, in a dazed way, as he helped her from 
 her knees to her feet. He walked with her to a seat, more 
 trouble and doubt in his face than he knew. 
 
 " Did you faint ? " he said anxiously ; but he soon saw 
 that she was too badly shaken to speak yet ; and on her 
 temple he saw a red mark grow plainer every moment. 
 A sudden wave of anger and suspicion took hold of Michael, 
 and he walked up to Mr. St. Erth, who sat amongst his 
 cushions apparently half asleep. His narrow eyes were 
 nearly shut, his mouth looked complacent and derisive, 
 and his hands were folded outside his rug. 
 
 " St. Erth," said Michael, standing over him, and re- 
 minded irresistibly of alligators lying in the sun, their sly 
 cruel eyes both sleepy and watchful. The alligator looked 
 at him. 
 
 " Where's my whisky ? " he said. 
 
 " Do you know that Mrs. St. Erth has fallen and hurt 
 herself ? " 
 
 " I saw you pick her up. Is she hurt ? " 
 
 " Yes. How did it happen ? " 
 
 " How do such things happen ? Some one is clumsy." 
 
 " There is a bruise " 
 
 Michael stopped, because Madeline had come up to them. 
 She spoke to her husband. 
 
 " I am going indoors," she said, and without waiting 
 for him to answer she turned away, and went into the 
 house. Michael had never heard her speak to her husband 
 in such a tone before, or known her to go and come with- 
 out consulting his convenience. She must have been 
 stirred unwontedly. That her tense voice betrayed, and
 
 THE SEVERINS 267 
 
 the indignant fire still alight in her eyes. When she had 
 gone, Michael did not turn to Mr. St. Erth again. The 
 momentary interruption had been enough to give him 
 pause, to remind him that he had no standing-ground, 
 not even the right of relative or friend ; and that if inter- 
 ference is unsuccessful it may do more harm than good 
 to the victim. He turned his back on his host, and 
 walked through the garden to the open common. The 
 thunder was growling already, but he paid no heed to 
 it. He walked forward, thinking of the difficult place to 
 which Fate had brought him. He could no longer hide 
 the truth from himself, and the truth perplexed him 
 sorely. He loved one woman and was plighted to another; 
 and the woman he loved was a wife and most unhappy. 
 Her sorrows were not his business, her husband would say, 
 and the world would say so, too. There was a phrase much 
 in his mind of late, a phrase in a book he knew well, about 
 duty and inclination coming nobly to the grapple, and 
 always when he remembered it he wished some god would 
 tell him where duty lay. In general, when a man loves 
 a married woman his course is plain. Every counsel of 
 dignity and honour bids him ride away ; especially if he 
 suspects with a rebellious leap of his heart that she loves 
 him. But to ride away from Madeline just now would be 
 like deserting a child you see ill-treated ; a cowardly 
 thing to do. Michael did not know how he could help her, 
 and he did not know how he could leave her. His mood 
 as he walked on became as heavy and oppressive as the 
 clouds darkening the sky. 
 
 The thunder was booming now. Peal succeeded peal 
 with brutal swiftness, and lightning played in flashes of 
 blue fire before Michael's dazzled eyes. He was driven 
 back by the violence of the storm, and as he hurried 
 through the garden the rain began to fall, first in heavy 
 drops and then in streams. The lawn in front of the
 
 268 THE SEVERINS 
 
 house was empty now. Mr. St. Erth, he knew, would 
 probably be in the smoking-room, and he had no mind for 
 his company. He went into the verandah, which was 
 wide enough for shelter in any weather, and sat down in a 
 dry corner there. Rain was falling heavily still, the wind 
 was ravaging the flower-beds, the garden looked shivery 
 and cheerless, and the heavy drip from the verandah roof 
 made pools on its floor. But Michael kept dry, and for a 
 long while he sat in his corner smoking, thinking, watch- 
 ing the storm. The worst of it was over, and a bit of blue 
 sky had appeared again, when Madeline came from the 
 drawing-room and stood there quietly. At first she did 
 not see Michael. Then some slight movement he made 
 attracted her attention. She turned, and spoke to him. 
 
 " What a storm ! " she said. " Have you been here all 
 the time ? " 
 
 " No," said Michael, " I went for a walk on the com- 
 mon." 
 
 His level voice, his ordinary manner, gave her confidence. 
 He had recovered, then, from the shock of wrath and pity 
 that had fired his whole figure when he stood over her 
 husband. She chose a seat that should have hidden her 
 bruised face from him, but when she had taken it he 
 moved a little, so that unless she kept her head stiffly 
 turned away he could see her temple, and the discoloured 
 patch there. They talked a little of the storm and of the 
 damage it had done the garden, but their minds were not 
 on these things ; and after one of those silences that fall 
 between two people both set on a difficult discussion, and 
 both afraid to approach it, the woman took the initiative. 
 
 " Has my husband asked you to come again next 
 week ? " she began. 
 
 " No," said Michael ; " but he probably will." 
 
 " Perhaps it would be better if you refused." 
 
 " Better for you, or for him, or for all of us ? "
 
 THE SEVERINS 269 
 
 " It must distress you," she said, in a low voice. 
 
 " Can nothing be done ? " 
 
 " Nothing. He is ill." 
 
 " How long has he been ill ? " 
 
 She answered his thoughts as well as his words. 
 
 " Not very long at least, it has come on gradually. 
 But you can't hold any one who is ill responsible." 
 
 " Was it better before ? " 
 
 Madeline stared at the garden and did not speak. 
 
 " Anyhow, there are limits, and there are things to be 
 done," Michael went on. " Mr. St. Erth should have a 
 nurse. It would relieve you of this drudgery, and the 
 presence of a stranger would act as a check." 
 
 " He would never consent," said Madeline. 
 
 Silence fell between them again. The rain had ceased, 
 and pale changing lights were coming into the wild sky ; 
 but the beauty of them did not cast their spell on Michael 
 to-day. His mood was gloomy. The whole situation was 
 intolerable, and yet Madeline and he were trapped by it. 
 
 " I wish I could take you away," he said suddenly. 
 
 She turned to him as if she could hardly believe her 
 ears, scared, doubting, mystified. 
 
 " I can't bear to see it," he cried, " it's too damnable." 
 
 Still Madeline did not speak, nor did she move when 
 Michael, who had risen to his feet, pointed with an accus- 
 ing gesture to her temple. 
 
 " He did that," he said. 
 
 " What then ? " said Madeline ; her voice was so low 
 and shaken that he could only just catch her words. 
 " What can I do ? " 
 
 " You can leave him." 
 
 " Not now when he is ill." 
 
 " He struck you." 
 
 Madeline laughed miserably. " So that seems to you 
 the worst," she cried. " How little you understand ! "
 
 270 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " Some one ought to interfere," muttered Michael. " It 
 can't go on. Either he must reform or you must come 
 away." 
 
 " Once Mr. Walsingham tried," said Madeline. " He 
 only made it much harder for me." 
 
 Michael did not speak again directly. He was listening 
 in a fury of anger and indignation to a footstep coming 
 slowly across the drawing-room. A moment later Mr. St. 
 Erth appeared. 
 
 " You seem fond of this verandah," he said unpleas- 
 antly. " I thought you were upstairs, Madeline. Did 
 I interrupt an interesting discussion ? " 
 
 " You can share in it," said Michael. " I was advising 
 Mrs. St. Erth to get a nurse." 
 
 " Is she ill ? " 
 
 " She is on the way to be. A nurse or an attendant 
 should be engaged at once for you, St. Erth." 
 
 " My dear fellow," said Mr. St. Erth, blinking at 
 Michael with an air of malignant enjoyment, " you don't 
 distinguish sufficiently between my business affairs and 
 my private ones. I can manage my own house, and, 
 incidentally, my own wife." 
 
 " I don't like your management," said Michael. 
 
 " What the devil do you mean ? " 
 
 " Speak civilly." 
 
 " Civilly " 
 
 Mr. St. Erth's breath came faster. Madeline rose with 
 a little cry. Michael stood still, but there was thunder 
 in his stillness. Suddenly Mr. St. Erth changed his tone 
 again. 
 
 " I beg Madeline's pardon and yours. You took me by 
 surprise, and so but it is too cold out here for argument 
 and this one doesn't interest me because it leads no- 
 where. Whether you like or dislike what I do in my own 
 house doesn't matter a brass farthing. I'm not even
 
 THE SEVERINS 271 
 
 going to argue about it with you. Come into the library 
 and have a smoke and a whisky and soda before dinner. 
 I want to reconsider those plans for the new warehouses. 
 Madeline, give me your arm." 
 
 " Take mine," growled Michael, who saw that Madeline 
 had sunk into a chair because she felt unable to stand. 
 So the two men passed through the verandah doors 
 together as if they were friends. Madeline's eyes followed 
 them till they were out of sight. Then with a long, 
 shivering sigh she rose heavily to her feet, stared helplessly 
 at the garden, stared at the drifting sky, and shivering 
 again, went with stumbling footsteps inside the house.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 THE following week-end and the next one after that 
 found Michael in Surrey again. He hated going, 
 and he could not keep away. He keenly felt his false 
 position in the house as Mr. St. Erth's guest, but even that 
 was more bearable than never to see Madeline. Though 
 he was one of the busiest men in London, the days went 
 slowly, because behind the affairs engaging his time and 
 attention there was room for aching anxiety on her behalf. 
 She never wrote to him, so from Monday to Saturday he 
 had no news of her. Mr. St. Erth wrote of business mat- 
 ters, but he never mentioned his wife. When he invited 
 Michael he did it grudgingly, and he behaved when 
 Michael was there so like a host who entertains a guest 
 against his will that the young man felt inclined to go 
 away as quickly as possible. 
 
 " I don't think I can come again," he said to Madeline, 
 at the end of the first visit after the Sunday of the thunder- 
 storm. 
 
 Her face fell, and he saw it ; saw, too, the bruise still 
 showing in a discoloured patch just below her hair. 
 
 " I'll come if it's any good," he said hurriedly. 
 
 " What do you hear from Clara ? " said Madeline. " I 
 suppose she will want your Sundays soon ? " 
 
 Madeline often talked of Michael's approaching mar- 
 riage, because to do so seemed to make the bar it set up 
 between them tangible. He would answer in the same 
 spirit, tell her that Clara did not write much, but that 
 she was enjoying herself in Scotland, and that she meant 
 
 272
 
 THE SEVERINS 273 
 
 to stay there till October, and that she still talked of going 
 to Algiers with the Underwoods. 
 
 " When are you going to have a holiday ? " asked 
 Madeline. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know," said Michael; "I take these 
 week-ends." 
 
 ' You'll have a long one next spring when you 
 marry." 
 
 " I suppose so." 
 
 " Where will you go ? " 
 
 " I have no idea," said Michael, as if it hardly con- 
 cerned him. 
 
 Mr. St. Erth's behaviour since his outbreak hi the garden 
 had undergone a change for the worse. It seemed as if he 
 no longer cared to hide his monstrous treatment of his 
 wife. When the three of them were together he was 
 either morosely silent or quarrelsome, and in his silent 
 moods he would watch Michael and Madeline with such 
 offensive meaning that their harmless talk withered and 
 died. If they sat by themselves it was worse, for 
 then he would pounce on them, apparently expecting 
 to detect and shame them. They never were by them- 
 selves except by his arrangement, and then they knew 
 that he would appear unexpectedly, or when he had said 
 he would be away. Both Michael and Madeline were made 
 as unhappy as he could wish by this espionage ; for it 
 seemed to publish the hopeless love they were faithfully 
 trying to hide from each other ; and it accused them 
 where they were innocent. They had never sought 
 stolen interviews or stooped to any of the subterfuges of 
 illicit love. But Mr. St. Erth made an unconcerted 
 meeting look like a tryst, and an argument about bedding 
 plants sound like an interrupted declaration. 
 
 On the second Saturday after the thunderstorm Michael 
 got an earlier train than usual, and set out to walk from 
 
 18
 
 274 THE SEVERINS 
 
 the station, leaving his bag to come in the carriage that was 
 to be sent to meet him. When he got to the edge of the 
 common surrounding the house he unexpectedly met 
 Madeline, and though she flushed with pleasure she 
 looked uneasy too when she saw him. 
 
 " I didn't know you were coming so early," she said. 
 
 " No, you didn't know," Michael answered, and then 
 they both heard their own words which were true, as if 
 Mr. St. Erth stood by and disbelieved them. 
 
 " I got down sooner than I expected," said Michael. 
 " I thought of this common and the heather and the hum 
 of bees. London is not amusing in a heat-wave." 
 
 They stood still and looked about them. The sun was 
 blazing, but there was a little breeze too, and the bees 
 were humming amongst the heather. The sky was blue 
 and cloudless, the gorse was in flower as well as the 
 heather ; a little way off Michael saw a cluster of white 
 cottages with gay gardens close to them and spreading 
 trees behind. Madeline herself looked like summer, too, 
 for her walk had flushed her cheeks, and her eyes were 
 soft and sleepy with the glare of the sun. There were 
 roses in her hat and wild flowers in her hands. Michael 
 wished they could have lingered here, rested drowsily, 
 listened to the bees, enjoyed the golden afternoon. But 
 he did not propose it. Madeline turned towards home at 
 once, and he walked beside her. They walked slowly, 
 and before they reached the garden door they heard the 
 stable clock strike five. 
 
 " I shall be late for tea ! " she cried, beginning to run. 
 She had turned quite pale. Michael knew well enough 
 that her arriving a few minutes late would be accounted 
 a crime. 
 
 " I can run faster than you," he said. " I'll go on and 
 explain that you are coming." 
 
 Madeline made some protest, but he was off before he
 
 THE SEVERINS 275 
 
 heard it. She watched him run, and wished she could 
 run with him, not to that unhappy home, but far across 
 the common, over the gorse and heather into that blue 
 horizon where earth met sky. She was tired of the 
 struggle, tired of the waste of her life. Her spirit flagged, 
 the happy hour was over, and she went wearily to meet 
 the hours to come. 
 
 Meanwhile Michael had found tea set in a shady corner, 
 and Mr. St. Erth fuming because Madeline was not there 
 to serve it. When he saw Michael he showed more sur- 
 prise than pleasure. 
 
 " I understood that you were to arrive by the 5.30," he 
 said. 
 
 " I know," said Michael, " but I got off sooner than I 
 thought and just caught the express." 
 
 " How did you get here ? " 
 
 " I walked." 
 
 " Six miles in this heat ! Wish I had your constitution. 
 Why haven't the fools put the table near me ? Where 
 the devil is my wife ? No one seems to know unless 
 you do ? " 
 
 " She will be here in five minutes," said Michael. " I 
 came ahead to tell you." 
 
 Mr. St. Erth nearly closed his eyes as he looked suspi- 
 ciously at the younger man. 
 
 " Where did you meet ? " he asked. 
 
 " On the common," said Michael. 
 
 Mr. St. Erth did not speak again till Madeline ap- 
 peared, and then he immediately addressed her in a tone 
 of violent rebuke. 
 
 " What do you mean by sending the horses twelve 
 miles to and fro on a fool's errand in this heat ? " he asked. 
 " The carrier could have brought Mr. Severin's bag. I 
 suppose you knew all about it, as you went to meet 
 him,"
 
 276 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " I didn't know," said Madeline ; " we met by acci- 
 dent." 
 
 " Nonsense ! Some accidents don't happen." 
 
 " This one did," interposed Michael, in a tone that 
 checked Mr. St. Erth for the moment. 
 
 " I would have wired to you to stop the carriage," he 
 continued, turning with an air of apology to Madeline, 
 " but I had no time." 
 
 " The carriage was going in any case to fetch things we 
 wanted," said Madeline, speaking with more spirit than 
 usual. 
 
 " Sit down and pour out tea," commanded her hus- 
 band. " Give me whisky I've been waiting here till I'm 
 sick of it. However, I'll take good care it doesn't happen 
 again I'll stop the whole thing." 
 
 Madeline did not ask her husband what he meant, but 
 she thought that he probably referred to Michael's visits. 
 If these ceased the shadows would descend on her indeed, 
 and wrap her round, she supposed, for life. It was life 
 she dreaded ; day after day, year after year of poisoned 
 life. The taste of it would be more bitter than ever now 
 that her dream world must be dominated by a real figure, 
 and crowned by the sorrow of memories. 
 
 " I have not been asked for next week," Michael said 
 to her, when he bid good-bye on Sunday evening. 
 
 " Is your business together over, then ? " 
 
 " There was never any real need for me to come," said 
 Michael. " But how am I to have news of you ? Will 
 you write ? " 
 
 Madeline reflected a little, and then shook her head. 
 
 " I should have to do it in secret," she said. " I hate 
 doing things in secret." 
 
 " So do I," said Michael. 
 
 He went back to London, therefore, not knowing when 
 he should see Madeline again, or even hear of her except
 
 THE SEVERINS 277 
 
 by chance ; and he felt as a man does whose hands are 
 tied while wrong is done to a creature he would give his 
 life to help. He went about his work with his usual grit 
 and steadiness, but he worked with an oppression on his 
 spirits that began in time to drain his strength. He 
 looked ill and worn. When he went to Swanage for a 
 day or two his womenfolk saw at once that something 
 was wrong. Mrs. Severin and Camilla guessed at business 
 worries, Clotilda said Clara was the root of all evil ; but 
 though they asked questions with the usual family out- 
 spokenness, they were only told that work was hard and 
 the heat was trying. 
 
 " What is Mrs. St. Erth like ? " said Tom Crewe to his 
 wife one day, for Tom had managed to get a week's 
 holiday. 
 
 "She is lovely," said Clotilda. " Lovely like the 
 unhappy princess in a fairy tale when the prince meets 
 her in a forest, you know and her shoes are gone and her 
 clothes in rags and her eyes full of tears and shining like 
 stars. I only saw her once for a little while, and I have 
 never spoken to her, but I have never forgotten her. She 
 doesn't dress in rags though. When you make 50,000 a 
 year, Tom, I'll have clothes like hers." 
 
 " But why should her eyes be full of tears if she can 
 dress like that ? Don't, Clotilda ! That stone wasn't fair. 
 It hurt." 
 
 "So do you when you pretend that women care for 
 nothing but clothes. Don't you know Mr. St. Erth 
 yet ? " 
 
 " No, he's ill never at the office." 
 
 " I hope he'll die. I've never seen him, but Camilla 
 has, and once Michael let drop what a beast he was. 
 Now he never says a word, so I suppose he's a worse 
 beast than ever." 
 
 " Then why did Mrs. St. Erth marry him ? I've no
 
 2;S THE SEVERINS 
 
 patience with women who marry rich brutes and then go 
 about with their eyes shining and full of tears." 
 
 " Well I don't do it," said Clotilda, and then there was 
 a throwing match in which Bob joined. 
 
 But Tom had become uneasy about Michael. He was 
 sure that there was something wrong, and he connected it 
 with the weekly visits to Surrey, which had begun without 
 reason and stopped without explanation. When he went 
 back to London he stayed at Michael's club again, and 
 as far as one man can look after another, he looked after 
 his brother-in-law. In the evening they often went to 
 Earl's Court together, because the gardens were a little 
 cooler than any rooms. Tom was rather sorry when 
 Saturday came and he had to leave London, but he had 
 promised Clotilda to spend this week-end at Swanage. 
 Michael was sorry to lose him, and when he had dined in 
 solitude at his club, he went out to Earl's Court in search 
 of air. He found the gardens packed with people waiting 
 for a display of fireworks, and when he had been there a 
 short time he tried to get away again. But this was not 
 easy. Masses of people were now gathered on all sides ; 
 those near thrust against him, those further off were 
 trying to reach the place where he stood. He resigned 
 himself to wait awhile, and when the fireworks began he 
 watched them. But he watched the crowd too, especially 
 one group of people who formed an element of danger. 
 They were of the kind to be found in most crowds, people 
 with neither manners nor scruple, but with selfish deter- 
 mination. They are often British or American, and you 
 often meet them abroad. They will hustle you from your 
 seat on a coach or shove you out of your place at a 
 procession or elbow you behind them in a queue or at 
 summer sales. The group at Earl's Court consisted of 
 men and women ; they were flashily smart, they talked 
 pure cockney, and they complained that they could not
 
 THE SEVERINS 279 
 
 see. So presently they closed together and made a 
 sudden rush for the point they coveted just as their 
 counterparts, the hooligans, do when they charge through 
 a crowd. Michael and one or two others tried to check 
 them, but for a moment the hooligans created a panic 
 and the panic-stricken made way. Michael had enough 
 to do to save two women near him from falling, and he 
 could not turn at first and discover who had clung to his 
 arm behind. The continuous shower of fireworks pro- 
 longed the confusion because people stood still, heedlessly 
 to gaze at the sky, and would not make room for others 
 surging against them. Thanks, however, to Michael and 
 two or three other men near him, the danger passed, 
 and when an extra fine shower of rockets lit the sky it 
 distracted the women Michael had been supporting and 
 enabled them to stand by themselves. He was able to 
 turn his head. When he did so the whole sky was flushed 
 red, and as if they were on a stage together he saw Made- 
 line, her face rosy with an artificial glow. 
 
 " You ! " said Michael. " Here ! " 
 
 " I thought you were never going to turn your head," 
 said she. 
 
 " But why are you here ? Why are you not in Surrey ? 
 Are you real ? " 
 
 The theatrical glow lighted his face too, and all the 
 faces in the crowd. Every one looked unreal. 
 
 " We came back three days ago," she said. " Some 
 cousins passing through asked me to dine here to-night, 
 but when the crowd began pushing so I lost them. I 
 seized your elbow because you were tall, and then I 
 recognized you and spoke. But you did not hear." 
 
 "There was such a noise. I suppose we must stay 
 here now till your cousins come back for you." 
 
 "Yes," said Madeline, and they stayed^together in the 
 heart of the crowd, both feeling that the bitterness of
 
 280 THE SEVERINS 
 
 separation made these moments long and precious even 
 amidst such surroundings. But when the fireworks were 
 over, and the crowd began to thin, Madeline grew anxious 
 to find her cousins. 
 
 " I was to be back by half -past ten," she said. 
 
 " It is nearly that now," said Michael. 
 
 " Oh ! " cried Madeline. " I mustn't wait. I must go. 
 Which will be quickest, a train or a cab ? " 
 
 But the crowd was still dense in some places, and they 
 did not reach the gates for some time. Then they found 
 there was not a cab to be had, so they hurried into Earl's 
 Court Station and just caught a train. But luck was 
 against Madeline to-night, and half -past eleven saw them 
 hung up in a tunnel. There was some slight breakdown 
 ahead, and a delay of nearly an hour in consequence. 
 People, on the whole, behaved with British phlegm, 
 although as they talked it leaked out that some would 
 lose country trains and some find doors closed against 
 them. 
 
 A hospital nurse was anxious about her case ;] a doctor 
 had a patient waiting for him. It was a common calamity 
 that unloosed tongues. Madeline kept silent, but she 
 began to look white with the strain of her thoughts. 
 
 " It will be midnight," she whispered to Michael. 
 " What shall I do ? " 
 
 " Will any one be up except the servants ? " 
 
 " I don't know. I suppose it would be worse not to go 
 home at all to go to an hotel ? " 
 
 " To your cousins' hotel do you mean ? " 
 
 " They are travelling to-night to Scotland." 
 
 " Then you can't do that," said Michael. " You must 
 go home and explain what happened." 
 
 At last the train began to move, and then in two 
 minutes they were at Victoria. Michael got out there 
 too.
 
 THE SEVERINS 281 
 
 " I'll see you to the door," he said. 
 
 Madeline wished he would not, for she knew better 
 than he how bitter Mr. St. Erth's anger against him 
 had suddenly and unreasonably become. But she did not 
 know how to stop him. At any rate, in her hurry and 
 anxiety she did not make the attempt. When they reached 
 the door Michael went up the short flight of steps and 
 rang the bell. 
 
 " Don't wait," she said then. " Good night." 
 
 " Good night," said Michael, and took her hand. As 
 he did so the door was opened by Mr. St. Erth, but he 
 stood on the threshold in the way of his wife and looked 
 at her and at Michael. His face was horrible to see, 
 working with fury, malignant, ravaged by his mind even 
 more than by his malady. Michael felt the shudder 
 running through Madeline's body, and guessed at the 
 fear that made her voice choke and falter as she tried to 
 speak. 
 
 " There has been an accident," she began, but stopped 
 short in dismay. Her husband had shut the door in her 
 face.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 MADELINE stared at the door, not understanding. 
 Then she knocked, then she rang two or three 
 times. Michael waited with her because he had seen 
 Mr. St. Erth's face. 
 
 "What does he mean ? " she whispered. "I must go in." 
 
 But no one came to the door again. 
 
 " The servants sleep at the top of the house," she said, 
 beginning to look frightened. " Shall I knock as loudly 
 as I can ? " 
 
 " I'm afraid they won't come," said Michael, " if " 
 
 " If what ? " 
 
 " Well if your husband forbids it." 
 
 " But how can he forbid it unless he has gone mad ? 
 Surely because I'm late do you mean that he is not 
 going to let me in ?" 
 
 " It looks like it." 
 
 " But what does he expect me to do ?" 
 
 Without waiting for Michael to reply she turned to the 
 door and knocked again more loudly. The noise at that 
 hour and in that quiet street must have been heard from 
 end to end of it. 
 
 " I\an't go on," she murmured ; " people will wake 
 up and come. I can't have a scandal." 
 
 " No," said Michael, who was trying to decide what 
 Madeline ought to do in this emergency, and what he 
 ought to do himself. He saw more clearly than she 
 the meaning of her husband's monstrous action, but 
 even he could hardly believe yet in its seriousness. 
 Mr. St. Erth had shut the door in a splutter of rage, but 
 perhaps if his wife had patience he would open it again. 
 
 282
 
 THE SEVERINS 283 
 
 " I'll wait out of sight," he said. " I won't go far in 
 case you want me ; but perhaps he will come to the door 
 again, and if you are alone " 
 
 Anything less expressive of Michael's wishes and inner- 
 most feelings than the words on his lips cannot be im- 
 agined. He was in a burning rage, and it would have 
 best pleased the primitive man still strong in him to batter 
 Mr. St. Erth's door down, and then to batter Mr. St. Erth 
 with all his might. But the civilized man is often obliged 
 to keep his primitive self in check for the sake of a woman. 
 He was just going when a light suddenly turned on in the 
 dining-room, and a blind roughly drawn up there arrested 
 him. The window was thrown up, and Mr. St. Erth stood 
 there showing his scowling face to the two people on 
 the doorstep. 
 
 " Go away," he said distinctly. " Go away, or I'll 
 telephone for the police." 
 
 " There was an accident," cried Madeline, clinging to 
 the paling near the window and speaking in a quick, 
 eager voice ; " do listen open the door you must you 
 must. What can you mean ? I must come in." 
 
 " Go away with your lover," snarled Mr. St. Erth. 
 
 " You blackguard ! " cried Michael, taking a step 
 forward. 
 
 But the man in the wrong had the best of it, and the 
 man in the right could do nothing. Mr. St. Erth shut 
 the window with a bang, bolted it, and drew down the 
 blind. They saw the light go out, they heard his heavy 
 step in the hall and the creak of the stairs as he went 
 up them. Then the light above the door went out too. 
 The house was now in total darkness. 
 
 " Come," said Michael at last, " you can't stay here." 
 
 " Where shall I go ? " she said, without looking at him. 
 
 " Have you no friends near ? " 
 
 " I can't think of any. Every one is away."
 
 284 THE SEVERINS 
 
 He saw that she was confused with the shock of what 
 had happened, and that he must think for her. 
 
 " Some hotel then for to-night," he said. " To-morrow 
 we will see." 
 
 She walked beside him without speaking till they found 
 a cab and were on their way to Charing Cross. Her 
 manner as he helped her in was absorbed and impersonal. 
 She avoided his eyes, but Michael saw that she was not 
 thinking so much of him as of the man who had just 
 thrust her from him. She looked like a creature dazed by 
 a blow it has neither deserved nor expected, tensely strung 
 by pride and anger, hardly conscious yet of her own pain. 
 
 " Has he the right ? " she said suddenly. " Surely he 
 has no right." 
 
 " Probably not," said Michael. " I know no law, 
 though." 
 
 " But he has done it whether he has the right or not 
 and here I am." 
 
 " He must be made to listen to reason." 
 
 "He is wicked," she said with swift, deep anger. 
 " I will never go back to him. I have endured enough." 
 
 " If you can prove that " 
 
 " I will prove nothing. I will say nothing. No one 
 shall ever hear what my life has been." 
 
 Michael had no heart just now to talk of the future to 
 her. He saw no hope in it. If he married Clara, what 
 would the years bring to Madeline ? And if Clara set him 
 free, the bond of marriage still lay like an unsheathed 
 sword between him and the woman he loved. 
 
 When they got to the hotel he had chosen it was closed, 
 but he roused a night porter, engaged a room for Madeline, 
 and even persuaded the porter to show them into a 
 reading-room downstairs for a few minutes. 
 
 " I couldn't talk in the cab," he said, when they were 
 by themselves there.
 
 THE SEVERINS 285 
 
 " Will any words help us ? " said Madeline. 
 
 She spoke with restraint and bitterness. She felt 
 ashamed and oppressed. Her husband had thrown her 
 into Michael's arms, and he could not want her there, 
 because he was a man of his word and troth-plighted to 
 Clara. Her own desolate, embroiled future troubled her 
 less than the vexation the shameful business must bring 
 to Michael. It was enough, she thought, to destroy 
 his friendship for her. But when at last she looked at 
 her friend all the brooding love and struggle in his heart 
 seemed to speak to her in his eyes. 
 
 " Instead of helping you I've hurt you," he cried. " I 
 ought to have seen, I ought to have kept away to-night." 
 
 " How could you possibly foresee ? " said Madeline. 
 
 " To-morrow I will write no, I will wire to Mr. 
 Walsingham. He must come at once and he will take 
 you back to Scotland " 
 
 "Oh, don't make plans yet," she said ; " I'm not ready 
 for plans. I must think " 
 
 " But you must do what is best for yourself," said 
 Michael ; and as he said so he knew that she had never 
 looked at life from that point of view. In the great 
 moments of decision there had always been others whose 
 needs thrust her own into an unconsidered background ; 
 and so the tragic mistake of her marriage had been made 
 without weighing the price she would have to pay for it in 
 the years to come. 
 
 " I don't think we ought to see each other again," she 
 said presently. 
 
 " I believe that is so," said Michael. " It will be the 
 best for you that we should not meet." 
 
 " I was thinking of Clara. I don't want this story to 
 reach her ears. I don't want her father to be told." 
 
 " But some one must act for you, and Mr. Walsingham 
 is the right person."
 
 286 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " Oh ! what does it matter ? " said Madeline. " Who 
 can help me ? I said just now that I would never go back 
 but he is ill ; he may change his mind and want me." 
 
 " Anything rather than that ! " cried Michael. " I 
 can't stand that." 
 
 She looked up at him, taken by surprise by his sudden 
 change of tone. 
 
 " I have loved you since the first moment I saw you," 
 he went on recklessly, " since I saw you standing in the 
 doorway. You danced and you wore silver shoes ; and 
 then in my fancy I took you right away into the forest ; 
 and the moon was shining and you danced there in 
 your silver shoes." 
 
 Madeline did not speak. The passion in his face and 
 voice overwhelmed her, for it found her heart. But in 
 that moment of sweet amazement she could not find her 
 tongue. Besides, the man went on : " You must come 
 with me," he said, taking her hands in his. " Come now, 
 Madeline. I can't let you go back." 
 
 For a moment he thought she would follow where he 
 led. Her hands were small and delicate, and as he held 
 them hidden in his own he thought it would be possible 
 to hold and keep her spirit too. But she knew that her 
 weakness must prevail against his strength to-night. 
 
 " I can't come," she said with a sigh. 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 " You know." 
 
 " What do I know ? " 
 
 " That we are not like that. We can't." 
 
 " I could," said Michael. 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " We are not made by a moment by a crisis. Our 
 past makes us, ' all we have willed or hoped or dreamed 
 of good.' While my husband lives you and I are separated. 
 Besides, there is Clara."
 
 THE SEVERINS 287 
 
 " Yes, there is Clara," said Michael heavily. " But I 
 doubt if the hurt would be deep." 
 
 " She must not be hurt at all. It is we who are to be 
 hurt. That's bad luck, but it's better than dragging 
 each other down." 
 
 " Oh, you're right," groaned Michael ; " you're right 
 but it's hard." 
 
 "Good-bye," said Madeline. She looked as white as 
 death. 
 
 " But what will you do ? " 
 
 " I don't know. I must think." 
 
 " Will you promise not to go back ?^" 
 
 She did not speak. Her eyes were full of pain, her face 
 tense with the struggle between love and right. 
 
 ' You owe him nothing," persisted Michael. " You 
 sacrifice yourself and me to a fetish." 
 
 " Help me ! " she cried. " Be on the side of right. I 
 thought you were." 
 
 " What is right if we knew " 
 
 " We are like children searching in the dark." 
 
 " Then why not take happiness ? " 
 
 " Oh, happiness ! What is it ? For you and me ? 
 Not wrong and shame and the broken word even to 
 be together ; you know." 
 
 ; ' Yes, I know," said Michael, and he bowed his head 
 and turned from her. But the bitterness of parting drew 
 a sigh from Madeline, and he looked back and saw her 
 eyes. Before she knew his purpose, in that moment of 
 renunciation he took her in his arms and kissed her as a 
 man kisses one he loves when death is near. Then he 
 sped from the room out into the night. For hours he 
 walked the empty streets, still fighting his dreams, still 
 aching for her, still tempted strongly to return. 
 
 But with the dawn fatigue came, and a growing sense of 
 the claims made by the common round of life. He must
 
 288 THE SEVERINS 
 
 needs groom himself for the day's work, and do it as best 
 he could. Then he went to the office and plodded through 
 the interminable hours. When he left he took a cab to 
 Madeline's hotel, for he was beginning to feel anxious 
 about the realities of her position. He did not even 
 know whether she had money with her or could get at any. 
 Besides, he must make sure that she was there, was well, 
 was still alive. Even if she would not see him, he could 
 get news of her ; but he believed she would see him. In 
 a few minutes they would be face to face again, hear 
 each other speak, watch each other's eyes. 
 
 " The lady," he said, " the lady who came last night 
 after the hotel was closed ? " 
 
 He remembered suddenly that he had not given 
 Madeline's name, and then he felt sure that she must 
 have done so. It was impossible to imagine Madeline 
 condescending to an alias, even in embarrassing and 
 questionable circumstances. 
 
 " Mrs. St. Erth," he added. 
 
 '* Mrs. St. Erth left this morning after breakfast," said 
 the porter. 
 
 " Where did she go ? " 
 
 That the porter could not tell him. The lady paid her 
 bill and walked away. No one who had seen her or 
 served her could give Michael any further information. 
 He went back to his club, hoping to find news of her there, 
 but none had come yet. His anxiety became over- 
 whelming ; his fears led to darkness ; he thought of her 
 alone and without comfort, without any haven. He 
 would wait a little, and then he must take steps to find 
 her, for he must know before he slept again that she was 
 well and in safety. He had pictures of her ill and poor 
 and separated from her friends, thrust from her world 
 defenceless. That she would take her own life he did 
 not believe. The thought just crossed his mind, but 
 never stayed. He knew Madeline too well to fear it.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 WHILE Michael sat at his club window impatiently 
 waiting for some word from Madeline, and think- 
 ing of the ways he could take to get on her track, a ser- 
 vant brought him a letter from her \vith a blurred London 
 postmark. It was written from the hotel, and probably 
 collected from the post-box there that afternoon. If she 
 had taken it herself to a post office it would have arrived 
 earlier. She wrote : 
 
 " DEAR MR. SEVERIN, 
 
 " I am going into the country. I shall probably let 
 my husband know where I am, but no one else. I beg you 
 to say nothing to the Walsinghams yet. There is no need. 
 " Yours sincerely, 
 
 " MADELINE ST. ERTH." 
 
 Michael read and re-read the empty little note, and 
 found what comfort he could in it. He wondered chiefly 
 where Madeline had gone, and how she would get clothes 
 and money. What she told him did not reassure him 
 completely. But for the present he could plainly do 
 nothing. She had hidden herself, and desired to remain 
 hidden from him and all her friends. He could serve her 
 best by keeping silence. 
 
 October set in wet and chilly, the Walsinghams were 
 back at Rutland Gate, Michael's people were at the 
 corner house again, Bob had returned to school, and 
 Clotilda was in her new house and as busy as a bee 
 Everything went on much as usual, and the fact that 
 19 289
 
 2 9 o THE SEVERINS 
 
 Mrs. St. Erth was no longer in her husband's home had 
 not become known, at least its significance was not known. 
 Directly Mr. Walsingham returned, he called to see his 
 partner, but was refused admittance. The butler said 
 his master was not well enough to see any one to-day. 
 Mrs. St. Erth was in the country. The Walsinghams 
 thought this odd, and commented on it in Michael's 
 presence. 
 
 Mrs. Walsingham said she wondered Madeline went 
 away when her husband was ill ; and Mr. Walsingham 
 said that if he was married to St. Erth he would get away 
 whenever he could. Michael was miserable. If Madeline 
 meant to go back to her husband it was best for her that 
 no one should ever know under what circumstances she 
 had left him. This tied his tongue, and yet his silence 
 made him feel like a double-dealer whenever he was with 
 the Walsinghams. His relations with Clara became more 
 and more unsatisfactory. Sometimes he thought she 
 must see how wretched he was, and let him go. Sometimes 
 he felt sure she was uneasy and preoccupied herself. 
 She seldom had time for him now ; she was a great deal 
 with the Underwoods, and full of preparations for the 
 journey to Algeria. As for Michael's people, she seemed 
 to have forgotten their existence. 
 
 So Michael lived on from day to day, wondering whether 
 the storm would burst or whether it would hang over him 
 indefinitely, darkening his sky. Madeline had not written 
 again, but he thought that if she returned to her husband 
 he was sure to hear of it from the Walsinghams. As long 
 as they said she was away in that placid tone, he knew 
 that her husband had taken no steps to injure her publicly, 
 and to entangle him in the proceedings yet. The sus- 
 pense wore his nerves and his strength, but luckily when 
 he went home he went to a quiet hearth now, where 
 Camilla waited to serve him. Tom and Clotilda were
 
 THE SEVERINS 291 
 
 too busy to be much at the corner house, and Mrs. 
 Severin was nearly always in her bedroom. She said 
 that after her strenuous life she needed rest ; so she took 
 it all night and most of the day. But one evening 
 towards the end of October, when Michael went into the 
 drawing-room, he found his mother there instead of 
 Camilla, and she was evidently waiting to see him. She 
 looked uneasy and excited, and when Michael went in 
 she asked why he was so late. 
 
 " I caught my usual train," said Michael, and he sat 
 down. He expected to hear that the cook had given 
 notice, or that Bob had measles, and that the hardships 
 and complications of Mrs. Severin 's life were more than 
 she could bear, or Michael could understand. 
 
 " Something has happened," she began, in a low 
 thrilling whisper. She had risen and stood over Michael, 
 clutching at her tea-gown with one hand and pointing 
 to the ceiling with the other, as if she wished her son to 
 look there. His first thought was that it had threatened 
 to come down, and he searched every corner for signs of 
 danger. 
 
 " I don't see anything wrong," he said. 
 
 " But did you observe it in the hall ? " 
 
 " The ceiling in the hall ? " 
 
 " Am I talking of ceilings ? " cried Mrs. Severin, in 
 tones of despair. 
 
 " I don't know," said Michael. " I wish you'd tell me." 
 
 He never felt so much inclined to speak bluntly as when 
 his mother confused the matter of the moment in a gush 
 of words. 
 
 " Didn't you see ? " Mrs. Severin went on. " In the 
 hall there is a trunk, a grey wooden trunk ; you must 
 have passed it. We are waiting for your permission to 
 carry it upstairs. At least, the cabman would not leave 
 his horse, and Mabel said she had never been asked to
 
 292 THE SEVERINS 
 
 carry up trunks when she cooked for the judge (I shall 
 be so glad when that girl goes never again will I engage 
 one who has cooked for a judge she seems to think that 
 she is a judge herself, and that we are all in the dock) 
 and the parlourmaid was out so you'll have to carry 
 it up, I'm afraid, unless we send out for a man because 
 whether you give your permission or not before we go 
 any further, Michael, I should like one point settled " 
 
 " So should I," said Michael. " Whose trunk is it ? " 
 
 " You'll know soon enough, and I'm afraid you'll be 
 rather upset. I was myself at first. But all that the 
 poets say of a mother's love is true, though when you 
 come to think of it none of the great ones can have been 
 mothers, or known much about it. But I never can be- 
 lieve as you do, Michael, that children should grow up 
 anyhow and then be thrown out anywhere, as birds 
 from a nest ; and my children know that I am ready at 
 any moment to sacrifice myself for them." 
 
 Michael took out his pipe. He saw that his mother 
 was in one of her voluble moods, and it no more occurred 
 to him to correct her ornithology than to defend himself 
 against her grotesque misrepresentations. It was now 
 six o'clock, and he knew that by half-past six she might 
 be charging him with pedantic and over-cautious views 
 with regard to the education and careers of children. 
 Her inconsequent mind could hardly hold any opinion 
 for a night and a day. 
 
 " The question is," she went on, " are you master of 
 this house, or am I ? We ought to have settled a simple 
 little matter like that the instant you came, but I've 
 never felt sure. However, if you object to have her here, 
 I tell you plainly that I shall go too. Your child is your 
 child, Michael, although, with your English education, 
 I suppose you are too matter-of-fact and unfeeling to 
 understand that."
 
 THE SEVERINS 293 
 
 " Is it Selma ? " said Michael. 
 
 But before Mrs. Severin could reply the door opened, 
 and Selma came into the room. She looked at Michael 
 and did not speak or offer him her hand, and he saw that 
 she was doubtful of her welcome. 
 
 " Well," she said rather defiantly to her mother ; 
 " have you settled it ? " 
 
 " What is there to settle ? " inquired Mrs. Severin. 
 
 " Whether this is your house or Michael's. I knew 
 that Sophia would be glad to see me," she added, turning 
 to her brother. 
 
 " I am glad to see you, too," said Michael ; and then 
 his sister came further into the room. But she still stood 
 a little away from him. 
 
 " Sophia said you would not let me stay," she began. 
 " I don't quite know what crime I've committed, but 
 I suppose you do. All Sophia can say is that it's a brutal 
 world, and that she'll beg her bread from door to door 
 rather than desert me." 
 
 " So I would," said Mrs. Severin. 
 
 " Well, you can't do it in a tea-gown," said Selma, 
 " and if we are to start this evening " 
 
 " I was just going to dress when you arrived," said her 
 mother reproachfully. " I got up later than usual to- 
 day, because I had such a bad night. Something told 
 me that you wanted me, and I could not sleep for 
 thinking of it. I'll go and dress now while you talk to 
 Michael." 
 
 " Well ? " said Selma, sitting down as her mother left 
 the room. " What have I done that is so shocking ? " 
 
 " Why have you come back ? " said Michael, ignoring 
 her question, and asking his own because he thought that 
 circumstances gave it priority. 
 
 " Chiefly because I had no money," said Selma. 
 
 " I hope you have come to stay."
 
 294 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " I did not expect to hear you say so." 
 
 "It is only what I said when I saw you in Paris. I 
 begged you to come home." 
 
 " Then why did Sophia say she dared not take my 
 trunk upstairs until you had given permission ? " 
 
 " I have not the least idea," said Michael. 
 
 " I am going to tell you what happened," continued 
 Selma, who was slowly thawing as she perceived that her 
 brother meant to be kind. " I don't want the others to 
 know. I am ashamed of myself really, but I will not go 
 about the world saying so to every one." 
 
 " Quite right," said Michael. 
 
 " I suppose I am an idealist, I ask too much of people. 
 It is a fatal mistake." 
 
 " When you ask the wrong people." 
 
 "You mean that I have no insight into human 
 nature ? " 
 
 " None of us have much," said Michael considerately, 
 thinking, however, that it did not take much to place 
 Selma's late companions where they belonged. Now 
 that he saw his sister in a better light, he saw traces of 
 suffering in her face and traces of poverty in her 
 clothes. 
 
 " Have you been ill ? " he asked. 
 
 " I've been at death's door in a workhouse infirmary." 
 
 " When ? Where ? Why didn't you let us know ? " 
 
 Selma did not speak again directly ; and Michael saw 
 that she found it difficult and painful to tell her story. 
 
 " We all went to Vienna after I saw you," she said. 
 " At first it was all right, but then my money came to an 
 end and the others had none at least, not enough for me 
 too. I never thought they would feel like that but they 
 did and told me quite suddenly one day when I was 
 ill " 
 
 " Brutes ! " said Michael.
 
 THE SEVERINS 295 
 
 " I wasn't very ill at the time at least, I didn't know 
 it I only felt queer and languid " 
 
 She sighed and waited ; then with a little shiver she 
 went on. 
 
 " You see, I couldn't be all they wanted to them when 
 it came to the point I couldn't and that made them all 
 angry. Marie said it was a reflection on her and I sup- 
 pose it was and Deminski " 
 
 " I can guess at his point of view," said Michael. 
 
 " He was better than the other two in some ways. He 
 would have asked me to marry him if, unfortunately, he 
 had not had a wife already." 
 
 " Where is she ? " 
 
 " He has no idea. He has not seen her for years, and 
 he said that if I would go to America with him, he would 
 get a divorce. One day he talked me over, and I 
 actually said I would." 
 
 " What was he going to do in America ? " 
 
 " Lecture and get divorced " 
 
 " I don't believe he could get divorced. He's a German, 
 not an American." 
 
 " He seemed to think he could. However, the day 
 after I had said I would I said I wouldn't, and we had 
 the most horrible scene horrible Kremski and Marie 
 were both in it and at me and it ended " 
 
 " Yes how did it end ? " said Michael, listening 
 intently, for the agitation with which his sister spoke 
 affected him. 
 
 " They turned me out into the streets," said Selma. 
 " They said I owed them more than my clothes would 
 pay for " 
 
 " But didn't you go straight to the police ? " 
 
 " I didn't go anywhere. I wandered. I was ill by that 
 time and the police found me." 
 
 " Good heavens ! " said Michael.
 
 296 THE SEVERINS 
 
 Selma stared into the fire. 
 
 " They did go to America," she said, speaking again 
 suddenly. 
 
 " How do you know ? " 
 
 " We made inquiries when I got better. Some English 
 people heard about me and helped me. They lent me 
 money to come home. We found that one of my trunks 
 had been left behind at our rooms, but nearly all my 
 things were gone." 
 
 " You ought to have written," said Michael. " You 
 must have known that I should help you." 
 
 " Sophia said in every letter that you had forbidden 
 her to send me a penny, because I should not come home 
 till I was starving, and that she could not invite me home 
 because you said I was a disgrace to the family." 
 
 " I have never said that you were a disgrace to the 
 family," cried Michael, so promptly and indignantly that 
 Selma's ideas began to run along another line. 
 
 " I suppose Clara thinks I am," she said. " I suppose, 
 like Agnes Hyde, she believes the worst she can of me ? " 
 
 " I cannot tell you what Clara believes. She has never 
 spoken of you." 
 
 " Well, that speaks for itself," said Selma bitterly. 
 " However, I can't help it people must take me as I am 
 or leave me. When are you going to be married ? " 
 
 " Next spring," said Michael, after a moment's hesita- 
 tion, and then Camilla came into the room.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 no longer desired to marry Michael, and did 
 not like to say so. She tried to let him see it in- 
 directly, but she was beginning to fear that indirect ways 
 were not in his field of vision. He was blind and faithful, 
 and he stood across her path. At Clara's age a year and 
 a half is a long time, and it was nearly a year and a half 
 ago that she had first met Michael. Her worldly wisdom 
 had grown prodigiously, and though she still thought him 
 charming, she saw, as her mother had seen from the 
 beginning, that when it came to marriage there were 
 drawbacks. If he had been a different man, himself more 
 malleable, more quick to take the right point of view, 
 she might have risked it, she thought. But she could do 
 nothing with Michael. He was not to be stirred to her 
 ambitions or taught to take her opinions for gospel. 
 Socially, for instance, he was in some ways rather absurdly 
 fastidious and in some ways blind. His touchstone was 
 not hers, and it led him here and there, up and down, in a 
 fashion she could not tolerate. The Fitzwegschweins now! 
 Nothing would induce him to make friends with the 
 Fitzwegschweins, although Clara assured him that every 
 one in London went to their house. He said he didn't 
 like them. 
 
 " I really can't see what that has to do with it," said 
 Clara. " I met the Duchess of Islington there last week." 
 
 " I don't like her either," said Michael. 
 
 " Do you know her ? " 
 
 " She was out in India the winter before I left." 
 
 297
 
 298 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " Did you see much of her ? " 
 
 " More than I wanted. She came back in the Jugger- 
 naut." 
 
 " Did she ask you to call ? " 
 
 " She asked me to stay with her." 
 
 " And you've never even called ! Really, Michael, if you 
 neglect your opportunities like that how can you get on ? " 
 
 " I'm getting on very well." 
 
 " In business ? Business isn't everything. I mean 
 socially." 
 
 " Socially, too. I see the people I like and avoid those 
 I dislike. What more would you have ? " 
 
 " A great deal more," said Clara, " with our beginnings 
 and opportunities." 
 
 So the girl was restless, irritable, unlike herself. Mrs. 
 Walsingham guessed what ailed her and cherished hopes. 
 She had never really approved of the marriage, although 
 she liked Michael. But, as Clara said, there are occasions 
 when liking has nothing to do with it, and since Julius 
 Pratt-Palmer had shown Clara such marked attention 
 he was not as charming as Michael, to be sure, or as hand- 
 some or as clever or even as well bred ; but he would be 
 one of the richest men in England that charming old 
 place in Kent would be his. When Mrs. Walsingham 
 thought of her daughter reigning there she saw Michael 
 as an obstacle, and did any little thing she could to give 
 matters a shove in the right direction. 
 
 " I suppose some time we ought to call on Michael's 
 mother again," she said one day with a yawn, " and that 
 sister, whose husband is in the business now. What's 
 their name ? Pew Drew the man with the nose, I 
 mean. Didn't you say they'd taken a house somewhere 
 in the wilds was it Hampstead or Putney ? I wish your 
 father would have a motor. If ever you go and live in one 
 of those outlandish places, Clara "
 
 THE SEVERINS 299 
 
 ' You may be quite sure that I never shall," said Clara. 
 
 " I never feel sure of what you will do when you marry 
 Michael. But about those calls, my dear " 
 
 " I am not going to call on Mrs. Crewe. I don't like 
 her," said Clara, who, like most of us, could use an argu- 
 ment herself that was not good enough for an adversary. 
 
 " But really, Clara," urged Mrs. Walsingham, " your 
 future sister-in-law besides, I remember now the man 
 with the rose is a Trevider-Crewe. He wasn't bad 
 and you mustn't hurt Michael's feelings." 
 
 " I sometimes wonder whether Michael has any 
 feelings," said Clara; "he doesn't seem to care about 
 anything lately." 
 
 " I suppose he's rather stuffy about your putting off 
 your marriage and going off to Algeria. I told you he 
 wouldn't like it." 
 
 " He has never said so. He seems to take things for 
 granted." 
 
 " Well, why not, as they are settled ? You will 
 come back from Algiers in the spring and be married at 
 once and live happy ever after. But I think you ought 
 to go and see Michael's mother again as he is such a devoted 
 son. I'll go with you. I've never been since I fell over 
 the pail and spoilt my sunshade. Do you remember ? " 
 
 Clara remembered only too well. She remembered 
 little episodes of this kind with a magnifying glass in 
 front of them, so that they acquired an importance out of 
 all proportion to other views of Michael's people, which in 
 minds of a different calibre took into account their good 
 looks, their brains, their charm, and the affectionate 
 toleration of each other. However, she agreed that before 
 she left for Algiers she ought to pay a farewell call in the 
 Crescent ; so one winter afternoon she set out with 
 Mrs. Walsingham to do so. This time there was no one 
 visible in the garden and no one on the front steps. The
 
 300 THE SEVERINS 
 
 footman went before them and knocked loudly at the 
 door. The ladies waited in the carriage. But as their 
 man parleyed with Mrs. Severin's maid, something on 
 which they had never calculated happened to upset their 
 peace of mind something preposterous and unpardon- 
 able. Selma the outlaw Selma the impossible came 
 slowly along the Crescent towards them. Camilla walked 
 beside her. It was a most uncomfortable moment for the 
 ladies in the carriage ; and when the sisters came near 
 enough to see who sat there, the elder one looked un- 
 comfortable too, stopped short, spoke to the other, 
 turned round with her, and walked away from the house 
 again. Meanwhile the footman returned and said that 
 Mrs. Severin was at home ; and he opened the carriage 
 door that the ladies might descend. It was Clara who 
 took matters into her own hands. Mrs. Walsingham con- 
 fessed afterwards that the shock had temporarily deprived 
 her of her wits. 
 
 " We are not going in," Clara said curtly. " Home ! " 
 
 The man did not understand at once, and stared. 
 
 " Home ! " repeated Clara in a voice he did understand. 
 So he knew there must be something wrong, touched his 
 hat, and transmitted his orders to the coachman. 
 
 " We might leave cards," Mrs. Walsingham said as the 
 carriage turned away. 
 
 " Certainly not," said Clara. She was in a towering 
 rage. 
 
 The parlourmaid at the corner house gaped at the 
 departing carriage, and when Mrs. Severin hurried 
 downstairs she gaped too. 
 
 " What happened ? " she asked. 
 
 " The young man ast if you was at 'ome, and I said you 
 was, and I 'eard him tell the young lady, who says 'Ome. 
 I 'eard her as plain as plain. They were off in a minit." 
 
 " What can have happened ? " said poor Mrs. Severin.
 
 THE SEVERINS 301 
 
 ' There was nothing on the doorstep this time. Don't 
 shut the door, Ada. I see the young ladies coming." 
 
 So Ada went downstairs and left Mrs. Severin to meet 
 her daughters and describe the mysterious arrival and 
 departure of the Walsingham carriage. 
 
 "There is no mystery," said Selma to her mother 
 when she had managed to send Camilla out of the way. 
 " They saw me and would not enter the house. That 
 is what I have brought on you by coming home. Michael's 
 affianced wife refuses to enter the house." 
 
 " Michael's affianced wife is a little cat," said Mrs. 
 Severin. " Where would she expect to see one of my 
 children if not in my house ? " 
 
 " She believes all Agnes Hyde said of me." 
 
 " Well you can't wonder at that. I have often wished 
 to ask you, Selma, whether you knew what people were 
 saying." 
 
 " Certainly I knew ; but it was not true, so I determined 
 to pay no regard to it." 
 
 " The Severins always act from the highest motives," 
 said Mrs. Severin dreamily, " but they usually do stupid 
 things. I can no more see what you or any one else 
 gained than I ever saw what good your father did by 
 catching his death at a friend's funeral." 
 
 " I had better go abroad again," said Selma gloomily. 
 
 Mrs. Severin began to cry. It was very hard, she said, 
 if she could not shelter her own child, especially as Clara 
 would be a stranger to them if she married Michael 
 twenty times. Besides, where could her darling Selma 
 go without money and without friends? When once 
 Michael married he would want all he made for his fine 
 wife, and he would no longer have much to spare for his 
 family. She was still tearful and excited when Michael 
 came back from work, and Selma was stirred up too. 
 They met him in the hall, whispered what had taken place
 
 302 THE SEVERINS 
 
 before he reached the drawing-room, and asked him to 
 decide at once about Selma's future plans. 
 
 " I hope Selma is going to stay at home for the 
 present," he said ; but he could not help showing that he 
 was perplexed and distressed. As he spoke a telegram 
 arrived for him, and he was not surprised to find that 
 it was from Mrs. Walsingham. " Can you come after 
 dinner ? " she asked. So directly after dinner he went 
 to Rutland Gate, and he found, as he had once found before 
 when Selma was in question, that Clara left her mother to 
 receive him by herself. 
 
 " Good evening, Michael," said Mrs. Walsingham, and 
 the mixture in her manner of embarrassment and frost 
 was enough to prepare Michael for what she had to say. 
 He sat down and asked after Clara. 
 
 " Clara is with her father in the library," said Mrs. 
 Walsingham. 
 
 " Oh ! " said Michael, and waited. 
 
 " I suppose you have heard what happened this after- 
 noon ? " continued Mrs. Walsingham. She spoke in her 
 usual level, slightly artificial voice, but Michael could see 
 that she was rather nervous. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " I heard. I am sorry that it should 
 have happened." 
 
 " You had not even told us that your sister had re- 
 turned." 
 
 " I have not had a chance of telling you, and Clara has 
 always refused to speak of her." 
 
 " Naturally," said Mrs. Walsingham. 
 
 " I have always thought it most unnatural," said 
 Michael with some heat. 
 
 " Well, the whole subject is painful but you cannot 
 expect Clara to risk meeting your sister." 
 
 " There is no reason why they should not meet," said 
 Michael.
 
 THE SEVERINS 303 
 
 " Do you mean to say that Agnes Hyde's story is 
 untrue ? " 
 
 " As she tells it certainly." 
 
 " But you admit that your sister was living for months 
 with the most dreadful people anarchists and not 
 married." 
 
 " I admit everything that happened and nothing that did 
 not," said Michael. " My sister shared a flat in Paris with 
 these people, and then a flat in Vienna. She is a girl 
 who must have a craze of some kind, and it is usually 
 a silly one. Otherwise there is no harm in her." 
 
 " I should not have thought she was a desirable com- 
 panion for Camilla, after such experiences," said Mrs. 
 Walsingham stiffly. 
 
 " If I thought so I would not encourage her to stay at 
 home," said Michael, stiffening too, for he held that 
 Camilla was beyond Mrs. Walsingham's jurisdiction. 
 
 " At any rate, I consider that a girl who has allowed 
 herself to be spoken of in such a way is not an associate 
 for Clara. I should have expected you to see that too." 
 
 " Clara shall do as she pleases about it. If I had 
 dreamed that she was going to see my mother " 
 
 He hesitated. He did not wish to reproach Clara with 
 her neglect of his people. About this, too, he meant her 
 to do as she pleased. 
 
 " We could not guess that a visit to your mother had 
 become impossible," said Mrs. Walsingham. 
 
 There was an uncomfortable silence, and then Mrs. 
 Walsingham rose in a stately way. 
 
 " I will tell Clara that you are here," she said. " I am 
 very sorry about it, Michael, but I am afraid she has 
 made up her mind " 
 
 Michael had risen too. He said nothing, and, feeling 
 probably that she had said enough, the lady, without 
 finishing her sentence, distressfully left the room. A
 
 304 THE SEVERINS 
 
 minute or two later, when Clara entered, he saw instantly 
 that she no longer wore the ring he had given her, and 
 that she carried something hi her closed hand. He made 
 no pretence of greeting her as usual, but stood there 
 quietly, waiting for what she had to say. She was pale 
 and breathless, and he felt sorry for her. 
 
 " What is it, Clara ? " he said at last, as she did not 
 speak. 
 
 Clara had not foreseen that what she meant to do 
 would be so difficult. Her heart beat madly, and she 
 felt angry with Michael, angry with the whole hateful 
 situation. Suddenly, without any words at all, she 
 unclosed her hand, and offered him his ring. 
 
 " Clara ! " he cried, for he, too, was profoundly troubled. 
 He did not hold himself blameless. He knew that if he 
 had loved her as he loved another woman he could have 
 persuaded and appeased her. 
 
 " There is no other way," she said hurriedly. " I am 
 very sorry but I have changed. It would be a failure. 
 We should be both unhappy. It is better to face the 
 truth." 
 
 Michael took the ring from her, but his thoughts were 
 heavy and involved. He did not love Clara as a man 
 should love the woman he means to marry, and she had 
 just given him his freedom. But she had spoken of 
 facing the truth, and she did not know the truth did not 
 know that he loved Madeline hopelessly. For her own 
 sake and for Madeline's it was better not to let her know, 
 and yet as he held her ring he had that uncomfortable 
 sense of being a double-dealer, of letting Clara take on 
 her own shoulders the weight of a change he really desired. 
 Yet, as far as he could see clearly through the turmoil of 
 his thoughts, outspokenness would ease his own mind 
 but vex her. If he left things as they were she might feel 
 gently conscience-stricken because she had dismissed
 
 THE SEVERINS 305 
 
 him ; but if he let her guess that his dismissal lifted a 
 weight from his heart and a load from his mind, she would 
 be amazed and wounded. 
 
 ' You are quite sure, Clara? " he said at length. 
 
 " I am quite sure. I am very sorry. I hope we shall 
 always be friends." 
 
 Michael smiled inwardly at this expression of a time- 
 worn thought and wish, but said soberly that he hoped 
 so too. Clara, looking at him, had a sudden pang, a 
 moment of regret and insight. This man was of firmer 
 fibre, of sweeter nature than his probable successor ; 
 and he was going without a protest, perhaps without a 
 scar. She knew then that she had never held him. 
 
 " Good-bye, Clara," he said, and he went home thinking 
 with a tender light affection of the girl who had let him 
 go, for he knew that she was lightly hurt and would 
 recover. When he got back Selma was waiting for him 
 in the drawing-room. The others had gone to bed. 
 
 " Why did they want to see you ? " she asked. " What 
 did they say ? " 
 
 Michael sat down beside the fire and lit his pipe. 
 Selma sank upon the nig, getting as close as she could 
 to the warmth. She looked less shabby and haggard 
 already. Her beauty was returning. She wore a soft 
 red gown that suited her, but she still fell into a statuesque 
 pose and fixed her gaze on her companion as if, like 
 Hamlet's father, he had a tale to unfold. Her high, 
 tragedy air always made Michael turn to the prosaic 
 side of life, and he was never so matter-of-fact as when he 
 talked to his intense sister. When he answered her now 
 he puffed out great clouds of smoke with serene enjoy- 
 ment, and before he answered he stirred the dying fire 
 to a cheerful flame. 
 
 " Clara has broken off our engagement," he said, 
 without a trace of emotion. He knew that Selma would
 
 306 THE SEVERINS 
 
 show more emotion in one way or the other than he could 
 deal with comfortably. 
 
 She seemed to sink into the earth. Her long, sinuous 
 body collapsed as if the spring of it had broken, and she 
 looked at him with eyes for which he could find no com- 
 parison but an ancient one that came uninvited from his 
 nursery days. " Master Michael," he could remember 
 an old Martha saying to him, " Master Michael, your eyes 
 are like tea-saucers you must go to bed." But he could 
 not send Selma to bed. She had begun to speak now in 
 reverberating tones that made him want to sit up and 
 speak dryly and shortly. 
 
 " It is through me," she said ; "I saw it in her face to- 
 day." 
 
 " Well, it can't be helped," said Michael. 
 
 " I know what I shall do to-morrow," she went on. 
 Michael paid attention then because there never was 
 any telling what Selma would do. 
 
 " I shall put on my most beautiful clothes, those I 
 have bought with your money, Michael, and I shall go 
 straight to Rutland Gate." 
 
 Michael's pipe nearly dropped from his hands. 
 
 " Are you quite mad, Selma ? " he asked. 
 
 " Mad ? No. It is they who are mad to let you go. 
 I have learnt to value your heart, dear Michael, and 
 suffering has taught me that hearts are more than 
 brains." 
 
 Michael's expression when he heard this beautiful 
 sentiment applied to him would have made any one but 
 Selma laugh. She, however, was too full of her pilgrimage 
 to notice the twinkle in his eyes. 
 
 " I shall ask for Clara, and say to her I went out into the 
 world for to see. I have learnt to know good from evil. 
 As a human being I am more complete than you ; as a 
 woman I have more experience. Take my advice and call
 
 THE SEVERINS 307 
 
 my brother back. Thank Heaven fasting for a good man's 
 love." 
 
 " My dear Selma," cried Michael, " you are as change- 
 able as my mother in your moods. I thought you had 
 some sense of well, of having made a mess of things. 
 You really mustn't talk such rubbish over here. You 
 mustn't expect any one to think you were right and put 
 you on a pedestal. They shan't stone you either if you'll 
 behave in an ordinary way. I'll see to that. But as for 
 going to Rutland Gate I forbid it. I won't have any- 
 thing so silly and theatrical." 
 
 " I thought I would appeal to Clara's deeper feelings 
 and bring her back to you," said Selma sadly ; she 
 stared into the fire for a time and then got up as if to 
 go. Michael wished she would. He wanted to be alone. 
 
 " Perhaps you don't want her brought back," said 
 Selma, startling him out of the meditative mood into 
 which he was falling. His eyes met Selma's for a moment 
 as if he wondered what she knew. 
 
 " A man does not look as ill and miserable as you have 
 lately unless he has made a mess of things," said Selma. 
 " Have you made a mess of things, Michael ? " 
 
 " Perhaps I have," he admitted. 
 
 " I knew you would," said Selma, " it's the doom of 
 the Severins. We can't exactly blame fate, because the 
 seed of it is in ourselves ; in our temperaments, our 
 qualities. Sooner or later we come to grief." 
 
 " Oh, that's all nonsense," said Michael; " you might 
 as well believe in a family curse." 
 
 " There is no analogy. I say that if you sow mustard 
 seed you have mustard ; and when a Severin comes into 
 the world, wherever you put him I wonder whether we 
 could do anything to avert the sword from Bob." 
 
 " Well, we needn't settle Bob's fate to-night," said 
 Michael. " Perhaps he'll take after me."
 
 3 o8 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " But you talk of disaster ? " 
 
 " No, I don't," said Michael. " It is you who are so 
 fond of talking, Selma. I've not much faith in it." 
 
 " Then you refiise to confide in me ? " 
 
 " I've done all the confiding that is necessary. I've 
 told you that Clara and I are not going to be married." 
 
 " But you have not told me what is on your mind." 
 
 " No." 
 
 Selma looked at her brother curiously, and then got 
 up to go to bed. 
 
 " Good night," she said. " I'm glad, at any rate, 
 that Clara is not coming into the family ; and I am glad 
 to know that the break with her does not grieve you." 
 
 " I never said so," cried Michael. 
 
 "Not directly perhaps but indirectly. Even that was 
 not necessary. I could have told you from the beginning 
 that Clara would not content you or you her but you 
 would not have listened " 
 
 " Perhaps it is a Severin trait," said Michael, " to be 
 wise for each other, but not for ourselves." 
 
 " Perhaps it is," said Selma thoughtfully.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 AS it happened, Michael had to go to Liverpool the 
 JL\ day after he had seen Clara and received his dis- 
 missal, so it was not till he came back that he learned 
 what view his senior partner took of this family event. 
 He saw immediately, and with profound relief, that Mr. 
 Walsingham was not going to let it affect their ordinary 
 relations. He received Michael in his usual friendly way, 
 and directly they were at leisure spoke of what had 
 happened. 
 
 ' Young people must settle these things for them- 
 selves," he said ; " my girl doesn't blame you, and I hope 
 you don't blame her." 
 
 " Rather not," said Michael, from the depths of his 
 conscience ; "I blame myself. I ought to have been 
 able to hold her. I blame myself horribly." 
 
 " Well, I wouldn't do that either," said Mr. Walsingham, 
 looking at the younger man. ' You do seem off colour. 
 I'm afraid it has gone deeper with you than Clara under- 
 stands." 
 
 That placed Michael in a quandary. He did not know 
 what to say and looked miserably at the fire. 
 
 " It's no use my offering to make things up between 
 you," said Mr. Walsingham, " because, to tell the truth I 
 don't mean that I blame Clara but to tell the truth, 
 her mother thinks there is some one else. That Julius 
 Pratt-Palmer. ..." 
 
 Michael looked up with such evident satisfaction in 
 his face that Mr. Walsingham saw it and felt taken aback. 
 
 309
 
 3 io THE SEVERINS 
 
 ' You seem pleased," he said. 
 
 " I am," Michael admitted. 
 
 For some time Mr. Walsingham appeared to meditate 
 profoundly ; then he looked at Michael again. 
 
 " What's wrong with you ? " he asked. 
 
 " Oh, that's another story," said the young man. 
 
 " Home worries your sister Clara told me and I 
 told her, my boy, that you did right to stand by your 
 sister quite right. Women like Agnes Hyde seem born 
 to make mischief at the same time I quite see Clara's 
 point of view." 
 
 " I don't think Selma need have separated us," said 
 Michael. 
 
 ' You look as if you'd lost all your own money and 
 all mine or as if some doctor had been at you and found 
 something deadly the way they do " 
 
 " I'm all right," said Michael, " and as for money I 
 wish other things were as easy to come by and keep." 
 
 " H m," said Mr. Walsingham, " most people would 
 put it the other way ; money first and anything you like 
 afterwards." 
 
 Michael made no reply just then. The two men were 
 sitting near the fire in their private office and sometimes 
 a clerk came in with a message or a letter. After one of 
 these interruptions, Mr. Walsingham said : 
 
 " I'm going to see St. Erth this afternoon." 
 
 " I thought he refused to see any one," said Michael. 
 
 " He has but I had a mysterious letter from Wilmot 
 this morning you know Wilmot my solicitor and 
 St. Erth's old friend too he says St. Erth is in a 
 queer state and that I ought to see him I wonder if 
 his wife is back yet." 
 
 " I hope not," said Michael. 
 
 " What ? " said Mr. Walsingham. 
 
 " I hope he will never see her again. He turned her
 
 THE SEVERINS 311 
 
 out of his house one night left her standing on the 
 pavement with nowhere to go no one but me near." 
 
 Michael spoke in a low tense voice, his eyes not meet- 
 ing Mr. Walsingham's, but seeming to follow some 
 inward memory that gathered anger and tragedy in 
 their sombre stare. Mr. Walsingham half rose from his 
 chair, threw himself back again, hardly knew how to find 
 words for his surprise. 
 
 " Good heavens, man ! " he cried at last, " and you 
 tell me this now ! But where is Madeline ? " 
 
 " I don't know," said Michael. 
 
 " But when did this happen ? She has been away for 
 weeks we heard she was away when we came back 
 from Scotland." 
 
 " It happened six weeks ago to-day," said Michael. 
 
 " But had she money ? She has none of her own. 
 Didn't you look after her ? You were with her you say ? 
 What happened ? Why didn't you send straight for me ? " 
 
 " I wanted to but Mrs. St. Erth would not have it 
 she said she might go back and then no one need 
 know. It would be better for her and for Clara if no 
 one knew." 
 
 "Clara! What has Clara to do with it? What 
 happened ? St. Erth is mad mad with drink and 
 temper you were there and he turned her out." 
 
 " Mrs. St. Erth and I had met by accident at Earl's 
 Court. I saw her home because she had missed her 
 friends in the crowd. There was a breakdown on the 
 line that made us late. He shut the door in her face 
 and told us to go away together." 
 
 " He had been jealous of you ? " 
 
 " He had invited me constantly you know, then 
 he suddenly turned jealous." 
 
 " With no reason whatever, I suppose ? You were 
 engaged to Clara and Mrs. St. Erth is a married woman."
 
 312 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " Mr. St. Erth had no just ground of complaint against 
 his wife," said Michael. " He has behaved like a black- 
 guard." 
 
 " Nevertheless she must go back to him," said Mr. 
 Walsingham. " We must find her, and she must go back. 
 Poor Madeline ! " 
 
 " Her life was hell." 
 
 " But marriage is marriage," said Mr. Walsingham. 
 
 " Oh ! I don't know," said Michael. Then he stopped 
 short because a clerk came in, and when the clerk went 
 back to the outer office he went with him. He did not 
 want to talk any more just then about these painful 
 intimate affairs. His canons of conduct had broken 
 down ; he had himself transgressed them. He had been 
 a double-dealer, unfaithful in heart to his affianced wife, 
 unfaithful in spirit to the sanctity of marriage. Fate 
 had mastered his desires and his affections. Michael's 
 thoughts were bitter and his eyes heavy with the gloom 
 of his outlook as he brooded over these things. 
 
 " Come and have lunch, old man," said Tom Crewe's 
 faithful voice behind him. Michael turned from his 
 desk, greeted his brother-in-law, and went out with him. 
 
 " How is Clotilda ? " he asked, when they were seated 
 in their usual corner of their chosen restaurant. 
 
 " Ripping," said Tom, " she was expecting them all 
 to lunch to-day all your little lot, I mean." 
 
 " All my little lot oh, yes," said Michael. 
 
 " Sophia Selma Camilla." 
 
 ' Yes," said Michael, again mentally reviewing his 
 little lot Sophia, as the girls called his mother Selma 
 Camilla any one might feel happy about Clotilda 
 and Camilla nowadays and Bob was doing well at 
 school and Sophia was Sophia life would not bring 
 much change to her. It was Selma Selma and him- 
 self they stood side by side to-day in his own mind
 
 THE SEVERINS 313 
 
 to-morrow in the eyes of his world if Mr. St. Erth took 
 public steps to confirm his outrageous action. 
 
 Tom Crewe did his best ; talked to Michael when he 
 would listen, stayed him with wine when he would drink, 
 and parted from him seriously concerned. Michael, 
 hardly awake to his brother-in-law's attentions, brood- 
 ing, gloomy, and sick to death of inaction, went back 
 to the office and attended to business with that outer 
 self who so often has to struggle through the day's work 
 unassisted by the inner one. Mr. Walsingham did not 
 return till much later in the afternoon than usual, and 
 as soon as the partners had despatched the day's mail 
 he left his writing-table, sat down by the fire again, and 
 glanced at Michael, inviting him to come there too. So 
 Michael finished a London letter that might go by a 
 later post and then crossed the room to the fireplace. 
 
 " I've seen Wilmot," the older man said with a heavy 
 sigh. 
 
 " Yes," said Michael dully. 
 
 " Perhaps you know what St. Erth is at ? " 
 
 " I know nothing since he shut the door in his wife's 
 face. I thought he was ill." 
 
 " He is but he won't admit it and he's having his 
 last kick. My dear boy, you're bound to hear, I'm sorry 
 to say. Wilmot says he's done all he can argued 
 reasoned prophesied failure but the man's half mad 
 he means to take his wife and you into the Divorce 
 Court. 
 
 " He hasn't a case," said Michael indignantly. 
 
 " That's what Wilmot told him in fact they fell out 
 about it Wilmot won't act for him but others will 
 and you know what the world is if you throw mud 
 some of it will stick there's been a paragraph in some 
 backstairs paper already Wilmot says the butler put 
 it in about Mrs. St. Erth having vanished and what 
 
 20 *
 
 3H THE SEVERINS 
 
 a life she led and what a charming woman she is 
 and then your name oh, damn it all, Severin couldn't 
 you have seen what the brute was and kept away for 
 Madeline's sake ? " 
 
 " But he hasn't a case," repeated Michael. 
 
 " He told Wilmot you were down in Surrey every week 
 when he was tied to his chair." 
 
 " I was never there except by his invitation." 
 
 " Yes. That's his story. He invited you for business 
 reasons, and you made love to his wife behind his back." 
 
 " It's all lies," said Michael. " I never made love to 
 
 his wife until " 
 
 . Mr. Walsingham waited. 
 
 " Until her husband turned her out of doors. Then 
 I did. She would have nothing to say to me we parted 
 at once I have not seen her again I don't know whether 
 she is dead or alive she may be starving, and I don't 
 know it now I've told you the whole story and I'm 
 not proud of my part in it but I'm glad you know 
 and you must tell Clara what you choose. I felt like a 
 cur when she took all the blame on herself. I'm to blame 
 because I loved another woman. If she didn't guess it 
 she probably felt it unconsciously." 
 
 Mr. Walsingham looked terribly concerned and per- 
 plexed. 
 
 " I'll keep away from Wilmot," he said, " I'll keep 
 out of the whole business if I can. It's more entangled 
 than I thought. I never guessed there was the least 
 ground for St. Erth's suspicions." 
 
 " There isn't," cried Michael. 
 
 Mr. Walsingham shook his head lugubriously. 
 
 " You can't say that exactly, my dear boy," he pointed 
 out. " Now I assured Wilmot that the idea was pre- 
 posterous ; you were engaged to my girl and Madeline 
 was a married woman ; such things don't happen to
 
 THE SEVERINS 315 
 
 men like Michael Severin, I said, and he agreed with me, 
 in a way. But of course he's a lawyer and cautious, and 
 his view is that anything may happen. It seems he's 
 right. He'd like to see you by the way not officially." 
 
 " I'll go round there now," said Michael, and he went 
 straight from the office to see Mr. Wilmot in Lincoln's 
 Inn Fields. 
 
 " I'm afraid he's got hold of some Dodson and Fogg 
 people," said the solicitor, talking of Mr. St. Erth. "I 
 told him I would have nothing to do with it or rather 
 that I should act for his wife, whom I've known for 
 years." 
 
 " Can she be harmed ? " asked Michael. 
 
 " She can be annoyed and dragged into publicity. 
 That is harm to a woman like Mrs. St. Erth and when 
 these gutter papers get hold of a story you never know 
 how they'll work it up. Depends on the genius of the 
 staff, I suppose." 
 
 Michael said very little, and Mr. Wilmot could only 
 give him a sketchy forecast of the course of events if 
 Mr. St. Erth and his new solicitors took certain steps that 
 so far had not been taken. He promised to communicate 
 with Michael directly there was anything new to say. 
 
 " If only Mrs. St. Erth could be found ! " exclaimed 
 Michael, as he got up to go. 
 
 " Mr. St. Erth knows where his wife is," said Mr. 
 Wilmot. " He told me that she had written and that he 
 had not answered." 
 
 " Where is she ? " 
 
 " I didn't ask. It was in our first interview. I didn't 
 know any one was anxious." 
 
 " For six weeks I have not known whether she was 
 dead or alive." 
 
 " Mr. Walsingham has gone to see him this afternoon. 
 He will find out something about her, I hope," said Mr.
 
 316 THE SEVERINS 
 
 Wilmot, looking attentively at Michael. The young man's 
 voice had betrayed more than he knew, and the man of 
 affairs began to wonder, as Mr. Walsingham had done, 
 whether behind Mr. St. Erth's coarse charges and sus- 
 picions there was some innocent reality that would make 
 the case a difficult one for Madeline's friends. 
 
 Michael went straight home from Lincoln's Inn Fields, 
 and there, instead of finding rest, an unpleasant surprise 
 awaited him. He discovered his mother and Camilla 
 both in tears, and when he asked what ailed them, they 
 showed him the newspaper paragraph of which Mr. 
 Walsingham had spoken. 
 
 " Miss Hyde met Selma this morning and told her 
 about it," Mrs. Severin moaned. " She says she still 
 adores Selma, and that it is the Walsinghams who 
 translated her fears into facts. She has asked Selma 
 to go and see her. The St. Erths' old butler is their butler 
 now, and he has told them there is going to be a divorce 
 case, and he says you're a gentleman and Mrs. St. Erth 
 is an angel and Mr. St. Erth is a devil." 
 
 " Is that why you are both crying ? " asked Michael, 
 who felt rather worn. 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Severin with a fresh gush of tears ; 
 for she was one of those women who think " law " in any 
 shape a terror, and hardly distinguished between being 
 wanted for a murder and being summoned to pay taxes. 
 " It is so dreadful, isn't it, Michael ? I always thought 
 you were different somehow and would keep straight. 
 Selma says " 
 
 " I don't think it much matters what Selma says or 
 Miss Hyde either," observed Michael. He sat down in 
 his usual chair and looked so tired and ill that Camilla 
 went off, still weeping, to hurry on tea. Even if Michael 
 had done something mysteriously bad and the world 
 was in pieces, he should be served as long as Camilla had
 
 THE SEVERINS 317 
 
 eyes in her head and strength in her body ; and her 
 vocation somehow was to supply the need of the moment, 
 whether it was food or peace, or only a good fire and an 
 orderly room. She often feared that she was too much 
 Martha and not enough Mary, but in some households 
 any Martha who happens to be there finds her hands 
 full. While she was downstairs, Selma went into the 
 drawing-room, a little light of triumph in her eyes. 
 
 " My congratulations, Michael," she said. " Blood is 
 stronger than environment, you see. After all, you are 
 one of us and not a wooden image of a man without 
 Gemiith the English have no Gemiith and you are in 
 my galley." 
 
 " Am I ? " said Michael. He hardly heard what Selma 
 was saying. 
 
 " We are kith and kin," she went on ; "we have both 
 braved the world for an idea for an affection. I suppose 
 this does mean ruin to you in a worldly sense ? '' 
 
 Michael did not answer at once, because Camilla came 
 in again, and when she heard Mrs. Severin sob loudly she 
 began to sob too. All she understood was that somehow 
 every one had turned against Michael, or, rather, would 
 shortly do so ; every one, that is, except Selma, and that 
 Selma said they would henceforth be poorer than they 
 had ever been before, and that no one Michael and 
 Camilla liked would speak to them, and that they would 
 probably have to go abroad. Michael certainly looked 
 as if something dreadful had happened, and now he 
 looked angry as well as ill and tired. He got up from his 
 chair. 
 
 " I'm going downstairs," he said ; " I want to be quiet 
 and smoke." 
 
 " But do tell us do tell us, Michael," implored Mrs. 
 Severin ; " you see how upset we are. What will become 
 of us all ? "
 
 318 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " How can I know what will become of you all ? " said 
 Michael impatiently. " What fate and yourselves bring 
 about, I suppose." 
 
 " But we can't go on living here." 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 " If you are ruined turned out of the business. Selma 
 says " 
 
 " Turned out of the business ! " 
 
 " I said I thought it likely," explained Selma. ' You 
 must have offended both your partners." 
 
 ' There is a motor-car at the door," cried Camilla, 
 rushing to the window and hastily trying to dry her tears ; 
 " there is a gentleman getting out Mr. Walsingham " 
 
 " Mr. Walsingham ! " cried Michael, and was in the 
 passage before the bell rang. He opened the door him- 
 self, and the two men spoke to each other on the 
 threshold, hurriedly, and in whispers. 
 
 " I've news for you," Mr. Walsingham said, " extra- 
 ordinary news." 
 
 " You know where she is ? " 
 
 " I've seen her." 
 
 " Seen her ? Haven't you been with St. Erth ? " 
 
 " Yes. She's there." 
 
 Michael felt the murmuring shock of surprise that 
 makes all words futile and difficult to choose. 
 
 " There ! " he echoed stupidly. 
 
 " He got frightened he's worse he wired to her last 
 night and she came." 
 
 " But " said Michael. He didn't know what 
 
 to say. 
 
 "It stops proceedings, of course. Wilmot will see to 
 all that." 
 
 " He can't stop that infernal paragraph." 
 
 " He can put in another I came straight away. I 
 wanted to tell you myself, my dear boy. Thank God it's
 
 THE SEVERINS 319 
 
 ended. Thank God, I say. She is well. Did I tell you ? 
 Yes, she is well but he is dying. I saw them both. I 
 
 talked to her. She was right to come back " 
 
 ' Mr. Walsingham drifted through broken phrases into 
 the same silence that seemed to have struck Michael. 
 He had just seen Madeline, and Michael saw her too at 
 the bedside of the dying man. There was nothing to be 
 said except that she was right. 
 
 " I must get home," Mr. Walsingham resumed directly. 
 " No, I won't come in. It's a cold night, and I would 
 rather get home." 
 
 Michael went down the steps with the older man and 
 saw him back to his cab. When he returned to the 
 drawing-room the three women waiting there looked at 
 him in anxious expectation. 
 
 ' We heard him call you ' my dear boy ' as he went down 
 the steps," said Mrs. Severin. " He seemed very friendly." 
 
 " So he is," said Michael. 
 
 " Then you are not turned out of the business," said 
 Selma. 
 
 " I am not," said Michael. " I shall still come back 
 six days a week in a black coat and a tall hat with evening 
 papers under my arm. I'm afraid I'm born to dis- 
 appoint you, Selma." 
 
 " Why did Mr. Walsingham come ? " said Camilla, 
 who was watching her brother's face and saw that he was 
 deeply stirred, though she did not understand whether 
 it was by relief or pain. He glanced at her and glanced 
 away again to his mother and sister, answering the girl's 
 question to the riper experience of the older woman. 
 
 " Mrs. St. Erth has gone back to her husband," he 
 said ; " he is dying." 
 
 It took them some little time to appreciate the signifi- 
 cance of Michael's news ; and then it was Selma who 
 spoke first.
 
 320 THE SEVERINS 
 
 " We all seem to have opinions but no courage," she 
 said sadly. 
 
 " I wish I knew what you were talking about," said 
 Camilla, but no one enlightened her. Selma turned to 
 Michael again. 
 
 " Agnes Hyde has asked me to tea," she said. " For 
 your sake I have consented to go." 
 
 " For my sake ! " exclaimed Michael. " I can't think 
 how you can speak to the woman or touch her hand." 
 
 " She says that I behaved most nobly, and that she 
 meant to tell Clara so." 
 
 " Then how has Miss Hyde behaved ? " 
 
 " Oh, she blames herself bitterly," said Selma. " She 
 says she will make amends by telling every one that she 
 knows the truth now and approves of all I did." 
 
 " Then she is as great a fool as she was before," said 
 Michael, and went out of the room without paying the 
 attention he should have done to Selma's offended face.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 IT was spring in the valley. The grassy paths, over- 
 grown here and there by furze and bramble, were 
 drier now than they had been for months past. In the old 
 deserted orchards the primroses were in flower, in the 
 marshy plains the wild iris sent up its young green reeds, 
 the banks and dilapidated hedgerows were putting forth 
 new growth that would soon hide the winter debris. 
 But the glory of the valley, as Madeline had said, was 
 the golden flower of the gorse and the bridal white of the 
 blackthorn. In the sun the gorse filled the air with 
 its hot, sweet scent, and glowed itself like sunshine ; 
 while the delicate spray of the thorn lay near it every- 
 where, great stretches of lacy white near fragrant vivid 
 gold. 
 
 It was as beautiful as Madeline had said it was ; and 
 Michael, forcing a way through the overgrown paths, 
 thought she belonged here and that she ought to come 
 through the trees at any moment to meet him. He 
 had only come over with Bob for a day from Sarnen, 
 where the family was spending the Easter holidays. 
 They had come, that is, to St. Michael's by train, 
 driven from there to Rosemorran Cove, and from the cove 
 set out to find the way through the valley to the cottage 
 where Madeline had spent most of her time since her 
 husband's death. It had been easy to get the name and 
 whereabouts of the place from Mr. Walsingham, and it 
 would have been easy to reach it by the high road. But 
 at the cove he had inquired about this unfrequented path- 
 
 321
 
 322 THE SEVERINS 
 
 way, and had chosen to take it because she had often 
 spoken of it and told him it led through the valley to her 
 home. 
 
 The difficulty when they came to the primroses was to 
 get Bob on ; and as it was still quite early in the afternoon 
 Michael sat down to smoke while the boy ran here and 
 there gathering and chattering, as happy as a bird. The 
 primroses spread far away on all sides here, and as Bob 
 gathered he was tempted by the bigger ones always 
 growing just a little beyond him. Presently he wandered 
 out of sight and hearing, and then the silence of the valley 
 was with Michael as well as its beauty. He smoked 
 and dreamed, lazy with air and exercise, half asleep in the 
 heat of the sun. Perhaps he fell quite asleep for a moment, 
 because a rustle amongst the leaves startled him. He 
 sat up, opened his eyes, and saw Madeline coming, as he 
 had thought she must, the valley and the spring around 
 her. She stood on the stone steps of a stile she had just 
 got over ; her face was alight with pleasure and surprise, 
 her hands were full of primroses. As Michael sprang to 
 meet her she came towards him. 
 
 " I knew you would remember and that some day 
 you would come here," she said. 
 
 " Yes," said Michael, " it had to be here and I knew 
 you would come." 
 
 Then they sat down together amongst the primroses and 
 talked a little of the past, a little of the future. But they 
 did not talk much. They were together without let or 
 hindrance now, and that was enough. 
 
 " I waited," said Michael, thinking to explain his 
 silence. " I waited for some sign from you." 
 
 " I understood that," said Madeline, " but I was not 
 ready, I wanted to think to recover. Besides, I knew 
 that when the blackthorn came you would come." 
 
 " Have you considered things, Madeline ?
 
 THE SEVERINS 323 
 
 " What things ? " 
 
 " Difficulties that Clara felt if you marry me you will 
 be face to face with them." 
 
 " Clara is engaged to Julius Pratt-Palmer," said Made- 
 line. " I had a letter from her this morning." 
 
 " Did you ever hear why she broke off her engagement 
 to me ? " 
 
 " I was afraid some gossip might have reached her," 
 said Madeline with some shadow from the past clouding 
 her eyes for a moment. " I have not seen her since last 
 spring, you know she has been in Africa all the winter, 
 and before that " 
 
 " When she broke with me gossip had reached her 
 but it was about my sister Selma." 
 
 " Oh, I know that story," said Madeline. " I know 
 Agnes Hyde. She is one of your people who see drama 
 everywhere outside themselves, and must be meddling 
 with it. I believe she has been writing round to her 
 friends to say that Selma is restored to her good opinion. 
 I can't think who would value Agnes Hyde's opinion." 
 
 " Clara did when it was unfavourable. She saw Selma 
 at my mother's house and then the break came." 
 
 " It would not have come if she had loved you." 
 
 " Or if I had loved her," said Michael in a low voice. 
 " I blamed myself horribly." 
 
 " Well, that is over," said Madeline. " I think Clara 
 will be happy. She will have what she prizes. Julius 
 Pratt-Palmer is going into politics. That means a peerage 
 for a man with his money ; he is a good-natured creature, 
 too." 
 
 " Marriage with me means a ready-made family, and a 
 difficult one at that," said Michael rather ruefully. 
 " Selma has taken up Christian science now, and I had a 
 regular fight the other day to get a doctor for my mother 
 when she had pleurisy. Then there is Bob to educate and
 
 3 2 4 THE SEVERINS 
 
 put out into the world. He is here somewhere among 
 the primroses." 
 
 v I see him through the trees. He will soon see us," 
 said Madeline, and she turned to Michael with the light of 
 love and trust in her eyes. " It isn't like you to talk of 
 such things in such an hour as this," she said. " Let the 
 matter-of-course duties of life alone. As they come we 
 will undertake them together. Look at the blackthorn, 
 listen to that lark, see those little ribbed clouds scudding 
 across the sky. And I am with you at last and I love 
 you whither thou goest I will go thy people shall be 
 my people leave speaking to me, Michael for I am 
 steadfastly minded to go with thee." 
 
 WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD. 
 PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH
 
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 IO 
 
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 12 
 
 MESSRS. METHUEN'S CATALOGUE 
 
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 39 
 
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