LIBRARY 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 SANTA BARBARA 
 
 / 
 
 GIFT OF 
 MRS. BRUCE C. HOPPER
 
 THE LIGHT BEHIND
 
 lT H E 
 
 T. T 
 
 G H r 
 
 B R 
 
 H I 
 
 N 
 
 I) 
 
 By MRS. WILFRID WARD 
 
 Author of 
 ** One Poor Scruple" 
 
 " Dear God," she cried, "and must we see 
 All blissful things depart from us or ere we go to Thee ? 
 We cannot guess Thee in the wood or hear Thee in the wind ? 
 Our cedars must fall round us ere we see the light behind ? " 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 JOHN LANE: THE BODLEY HEAD 
 LONDON & NEW YORK . MCMIII
 
 Copyright by 
 
 JOHN LANE 
 
 1903 
 
 FIRST EDITION, FEBRUARY, I903 
 SECOND EDITION, MARCH, 1 9O3 
 
 Set up and Electrotyped by 
 
 The Knickerbocker Press, New York, U. S. A. 
 
 Press Work by 
 
 The Caxton Press, New York, U. S. A.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PART I 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I — A Woman's Orders 9 
 
 II — An After-Dinner Hymn . . . * . . .19 
 
 III — A Gleam thro' the Cedars 28 
 
 IV — The Friends in the Train 33 
 
 V — Henry Dacre 40 
 
 VI — Lady Anne Visits Her Sister 48 
 
 VII — The Face in the Church 56 
 
 VIII — In the Exile's Garden 66 
 
 IX — In London 71 
 
 X — Mr. Biddulph Gives Advice 76 
 
 XI — Lady Jane is Absurdly Anxious . ... 81 
 
 XII — Lady Cheriton Comes to London . . . . gi 
 
 XIII— "But" 105 
 
 TART II 
 
 XIV — Anne Alone in the Woods no 
 
 XV — Relief and Reaction 114 
 
 XVI — The Statesman's Evening Party . . . .126 
 XVII — A Speaker of No Mean Order . . . .131 
 
 XVIII — The Future Member 141 
 
 XIX— Lady Cheriton Interrupts 151 
 
 XX — Lord Cheriton is Not Pleased .... 158 
 
 XXI — Anne Sees Lord Cheriton 163 
 
 XXII — Gossip with a Purpose 174 
 
 XXIII — Under Newman's Statue 180 
 
 5
 
 Contents 
 
 XXIV — "Let it Begin at Once" . 
 XXV— Dinner at the House of Commons 
 XXVI — The Gift at the Altar 
 
 XXVII- 
 
 XXVIII- 
 
 XXIX- 
 
 XXX- 
 
 XXXI- 
 
 XXXII- 
 
 XXXIII- 
 
 XXXIV- 
 
 XXXV- 
 
 XXXVI- 
 
 XXXVII- 
 
 XXXVIII- 
 
 PART III 
 -At Cheriton Abbey 
 -The Vicar and the Doctor 
 -Before and after Mass 
 -A Trial to Faith 
 -The Vicar is Too Late 
 -The Cedars are Fallen 
 -A Lonely Sound . 
 -What was Heard of the Cheritons 
 -What was Said of Lady Cheriton 
 -The Message from Ferledo 
 -The Light Behind 
 -Mr, Biddulph has the Last Word 
 
 PAGB 
 190 
 
 206 
 
 214 
 223 
 229 
 242 
 246 
 254 
 261 
 267 
 
 283 
 288 
 297
 
 THE LIGHT BEHIND
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 PART I 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 A woman's orders 
 
 IT was too early in the spring for the heat to appear 
 natural, but it was all the more delightful from the 
 sense of unreality it conveyed, as if life were being 
 converted unexpectedly into the atmosphere of childhood 
 or of a fairy tale. 
 
 The Sussex forest country lay under a blue sky of extra- 
 ordinary lightness. To right and left, as far as the eye 
 could reach, stretched low ridges of hills, covered with 
 small dark fir-trees and brilliant green larches, or brown 
 and bare in ploughed fields, or again broken up into rough 
 common; — an irregular, badly marshalled and furnished 
 army of rough little headlands, ever hurrying into the 
 plain, as if to rouse the rounded masses of the South 
 Downs to come and meet them and try their mettle in the 
 rich meadow-land between. 
 
 Under a double line of fir-trees, bent back by autumn 
 winds, on one of the highest of these ridges, a few garden 
 seats and a long deck chair had been carried out, and here 
 three people were enjoying the view. 
 
 "I don't believe it is going to last, the downs are too 
 clear by half," said Mr. Murdock, a youngish man, whose 
 
 9
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 appearance suggested at once habits of society and farm- 
 ing, wealth and rusticity. 
 
 "Then I shall miss the sunshine, as well as you and your 
 home, when I go away to-morrow." 
 
 The voice that spoke was low, sweet, and soft, but a 
 little slow and emphatic, as if the speaker were accustomed 
 to attention. She was a tall woman, leaning back on the 
 deck chair, dressed with a simplicity that suggested the 
 cotton frocks of the Trianon, as a comparison for costli- 
 ness. But as an art creation, her appearance might have 
 been indebted to a Sir Joshua, or to any distinctly English 
 idealist, for its inspiration. 
 
 "Dear Lady Cheriton, if we could but persuade you to 
 stay one day more." 
 
 "Dear Mrs. Murdock, you are so kind, and you know I 
 would if I could." 
 
 "Your friends, too, who are arriving to-day," continued 
 Mrs. Murdock, — she was one of those Americans who, for 
 some occult reason, speak with a French accent — "they 
 will be intolerable when they find that they are only to have 
 you for one night. I am sure we shall not like each other 
 at all." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Biddulph I am sure you will like; as to Horace, 
 if he bores you, give him some of the cigarettes you have 
 given me, and send him out driving. No, seriously," and 
 the slight figure turned in the chaise longue, till the dark 
 face under the shadow of the big hat was bent full on her 
 hostess, "I would have stayed, only that I promised Lord 
 Cheriton to meet him in London to-morrow. I have to 
 open the new wing of the Cottage Hospital at home next 
 day." 
 
 A moment's silence followed this allusion to Lord 
 Cheriton, and then a bright smile lit up her face. 
 
 10
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 "Ah, here they are," she cried, as a waggonette came in 
 sight, jolting over the rough country road behind the belt 
 of fir-trees. 
 
 In it were seated two men, one elderly and stout, the 
 other somewhat younger — thin, almost bony. 
 
 Lady Cheriton stood up, and held out both hands till the 
 older man, who stumbled over the rough ground between 
 them, not without smothered expletives, reached her side. 
 
 "How are you? This is delightful!" 
 
 "It is a very rough road," was the only answer, as he 
 extended one large red and not very clean hand to meet 
 the small white fingers. 
 
 "And was it not kind of Mrs. Murdock to ask you? 
 Mrs. Murdock, this is Mr. Biddulph," in a tone of tri- 
 umph. "Ah, and here is Horace. Did you leave Cheri- 
 ton quite flourishing ? " 
 
 One hand only was held out this time, and there was a 
 subtle difference in her voice. Mr. Horace Colquhoun 
 took it with an air of immense respect, as he murmured: 
 
 "I never saw him better." 
 
 The Murdocks surrounded the newcomers with an atmo- 
 sphere of welcome, and Lady Cheriton told them that it 
 had struck her only yesterday that she could not go away 
 till she had shown them the view, and so her hostess 
 had begged her to write and ask them. Meanwhile, Mr. 
 Biddulph grunted at intervals, with apparently some in- 
 tention of being polite, in a few of the lower sounds he 
 emitted, Mr. Colquhoun, who had a pleasant, cool-sound- 
 ing voice, with an intermittent tendency to purr, began his 
 habitual task of making everybody feel happy. He really 
 was perfectly astonished at the beauty of the country. The 
 mere ordinary West Sussex to which he was accustomed gave 
 one not the faintest notion of this sort of thing. What was 
 
 11
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 that intensely fascinating seventeenth-century farmhouse 
 they had passed on the way up? Was that really the Mur- 
 docks' own house, where he was actually to stay the night? 
 
 "Lady Cheriton gave me no notion of this treat," 
 
 "Yes, it is quite charming," said Lady Cheriton, a little 
 absently, as she sank again on the deck chair, "but, dear 
 Mrs. Murdock, were you not going to take Horace for a 
 drive? He would love it. And, if it really is not too 
 troublesome, do you think somebody could bring Mr. Bid- 
 dulph some tea ? " 
 
 Mr. Biddulph's face brightened, as Mrs. Murdock 
 acquiesced in all these orders, and before long he was left 
 alone with Lady Cheriton and with tea in near prospect. 
 He sat square and straight, with his right shoulder turned 
 to the view, as if it aggravated his feelings, and occasionally 
 he wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. Lady Cheri- 
 ton, who was watching him, gave a low laugh, upon which 
 his wrath spluttered over. It was most inconvenient; he 
 had been exceedingly busy; would she never learn that 
 while Parliament was sitting his time was as precious 
 
 "As mine is valueless," she said, gravely, but he would 
 not be stopped. 
 
 To bring him down on a piping hot day, when he was as 
 likely as not to have heat apoplexy, to stay with an Ameri- 
 can who pretended to be a Parisian, just because Lady 
 Cheriton chose to take her up. 
 
 "Yes, I thought you might give her a helping hand in 
 society," said the other, maliciously. 
 
 And to travel with Horace Colquhoun's death's-head 
 face, to come and talk humbug about a view and a farm- 
 house — it was damnable. 
 
 He flung the word at her as much as to say: "Take that, 
 for you deserve it." 
 
 12
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 Lady Cheriton was glad he had reached that word so 
 soon ; she knew it to be the high-water mark of wrath, after 
 which the tide would turn. 
 
 Also the tea came from the bailiff's cottage, and was 
 Chinese, and undeniably good, and Mr. Biddulph was 
 softened by the thought that he would be able to teach 
 Mrs. Murdock to make it still better by a pinch of a very 
 fine Formosa brand, which was all it needed in order to be 
 perfect. He turned his chair round to face the view. 
 
 Lady Cheriton looked at him affectionately. His hat 
 was off, and a fine forehead rose above the rugged features 
 and shaggy beard. 
 
 "The air is nice," he admitted. 
 
 "I suppose Horace talked to you on the way down?" 
 asked Lady Cheriton, very seriously. 
 
 "Much more than I wished him to." 
 
 "What did he tell you?" 
 
 "Oh, much the same as usual." 
 
 Mr. Biddulph's voice, though still gruff in texture, was 
 very gentle now. They were both silent, and both gazed 
 at the distant hills. Mr. Biddulph, without looking round, 
 said: 
 
 "I 'm afraid you ought to face the fact that there will, 
 as far as human eye can see, be nothing better to tell as 
 long as Cheriton lives," and he sighed deeply. 
 
 "I know," said Lady Cheriton, "that things are worse 
 just now, and that Horace wants to tell me so. I don't 
 feel well enough for it, from Horace, at any rate. Why 
 will they tell me things? Do they suppose I know nothing? 
 Why not let me ignore what I choose to ignore? " 
 
 She closed her eyes as she lay back. 
 
 "Of course there is another side to the question. From 
 your point of view, I mean," he answered. "There is 
 
 13
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 something in what Colquhoun says, though he always an- 
 noys me by his way of putting a thing. He thinks that the 
 point has come when you suffer in the world's eyes from 
 enduring too much." 
 
 He paused. 
 
 "And you agree with him?" 
 
 The enquiry did not betray much anxiety as to what his 
 answer would be. 
 
 "Well, I own that I wish there could be an end to a good 
 many things; for instance, sending for people to come and 
 see views." 
 
 "On hot days when they are busy, and Parliament is sit- 
 ting, and the Permanent Under-Secretary is required at the 
 Colonial Office," said Lady Cheriton, lightly. 
 
 "That 's real mean," said Mr. Biddulph, but he admired 
 the facility with which she could return to the surface. 
 
 "You deserve it," she replied, "but most of all for agree- 
 ing with Horace Colquhoun. I know he means well, and 
 is a friend to us both, still " 
 
 "That 's just what I can't understand," interrupted Mr. 
 Biddulph, impatiently. 
 
 Muriel Cheriton was silent for a moment, but she remem- 
 bered that the time was passing, and she feared lest some 
 of the party might disturb them. She leant forward and 
 stretched out a hand towards him, while a half-pathetic, 
 half-bewitching smile played over her face, reminding him 
 of when he had first known her, when she had been hardly 
 twenty. He could count ten years of a tried friendship. 
 
 "Well, what am I to do?" he grumbled. 
 
 "Save me from discussions with Horace. Tell him that 
 you know that I know everything, even more than he does, 
 and say that you can see that nothing will induce me to 
 consent even to a separation. Don't say it as a message 
 
 14
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 from me, but as your own conclusion ; say you regret it if 
 you like." 
 
 Mr, Biddulph did not speak at once; then he made an- 
 other effort. 
 
 "Are you sure you are right? Is it best to fight any 
 longer? You have pluck for anything, I know. Let me 
 tell you just once," his voice shook a little, "that it has 
 been the bravest thing I have known in a longish life. But 
 do you know, it is at times more courageous to know when 
 to yield, and to do it." 
 
 He saw something hard coming into her eyes, and her 
 lips closed a little more firmly. 
 
 "Try," he said, "a simple, peaceful life, where truth is a 
 matter of course. At least, don't throw away this oppor- 
 tunity without more thought." 
 
 "So you think me very untruthful?" 
 
 "Don't ask me what I think you, you know it," he said, 
 quietly. 
 
 She rose and stood looking away from him. 
 
 "No," she said, "nothing can make it my duty to do 
 that. You don't know anything about it. You must never 
 say it to me again." Her voice rose wrathfully and seemed 
 to sing away in a sharp note in the fir-tree over her head. 
 "I have had a hard life, but I have made the best of it. I 
 have filled it with work. My position is all my own doing. 
 What woman with a good husband and children has done 
 half so much as I, handicapped, insulted, calumniated? 
 How would they go on at Cheriton, at Cumrock, at Cobden, 
 without me? And even you don't see that I have had a 
 career which has been the only thing that made life bear- 
 able. You ask me now to go and live at some dull dower- 
 house, and to take something in London, furnished, for 
 the season, and to give up . . . Oh," breaking off, 
 
 15
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 partly because she saw a change in his face, "what silly 
 things one says when one means something else." 
 
 Mr. Biddulph looked relieved. There was an element 
 in this woman that had at rare moments grated on him; it 
 was the element that reminded him of her mother, the 
 mother who had been proud of marrying her daughter to 
 such a man as Lord Cheriton. She had stopped, and yet 
 what she could not bring herself to say would have annoyed 
 him less. Anger, pride, love of power, ambition, he could 
 have endured in her better than the clinging to the material 
 things for which her mother had bartered her. 
 
 "Don't," he said, holding out a hand. "You are the 
 best judge. Forget what I said. I had no idea, or I 
 would not have spoken. The fact that you feel in this way 
 is to me conclusive. Great heavens ! Have not you the 
 right to choose to go on enduring your present life? How 
 should we interfere?" 
 
 She was trembling, and the rose colour had faded from 
 her clear brown cheeks. 
 
 "Come, come," he said, "tell me exactly what I am to 
 say to Colquhoun?" 
 
 And so he learnt his lesson, and they were friends again, 
 and he agreed to go by an early train with her, and to men- 
 tion the hour to nobody before she did, which latter point 
 was a great concession, as he detested little mysteries. 
 
 Having secured all she wanted, she proposed to walk to 
 the house. Everything seemed to promise well. The man 
 who had asked to be allowed a private interview at Cheriton 
 Abbey had been brought down to the Murdocks', where she 
 could avoid seeing him alone; and a busy man, the perma- 
 nent head of one of the chief Government offices, had come 
 at her bidding to speak to him instead. 
 
 Mrs. Murdock, meanwhile, enjoyed showing the country 
 
 16
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 to Mr. Colquhoun, but she enjoyed still better a little walk 
 with him after they had sent the waggonette home, and Mr. 
 Murdock had turned aside to visit the farm. 
 
 "Should we still find Lady Cheriton looking at the 
 view," he enquired, "if we went that way? " 
 
 "I don't think so; she had letters to write; she is prob- 
 ably back at the house now." 
 
 Horace hurried the pace a little, but had to give it up, 
 as his companion apologised for being a bad walker. 
 
 "She must have been pretty, and one feels it a grievance 
 that she has begun to fade," thought Horace. And then 
 somehow they talked a great deal about Lord and Lady 
 Cheriton. Mrs. Murdock did not believe that the two men 
 had been asked to stay at her house merely because Lady 
 Cheriton had never before fully appreciated the Sussex for- 
 est country. Somehow, before they reached the singularly 
 charming old house on the ridge of the hill, Mr. Horace 
 Colquhoun had told her, bit by bit, and of course in confi- 
 dence, the very things that he had come down there to tell 
 Lady Cheriton. He had a great deal to say as to his own 
 position as friend to both parties, and how exceedingly em- 
 barrassing he found it. There was n't a word, he knew, 
 to be said for Cheriton, and yet he could not help having an 
 affection for the old fellow. "He has been a good friend 
 to me, and I shall stick up for him to the end." As to 
 her, of course it was a privilege to be her friend; a finer, 
 braver woman never trod the earth. Perhaps if she had 
 been differently brought up — You could excuse a woman 
 for thinking rather much of money who had been so entirely 
 without it. Perhaps if she had in some ways been different, 
 things might never have come to this; but those who know 
 what the difficulties of a beautiful woman are — one must 
 not be hard. And of course he (Horace) had been very 
 
 2 JY
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 much behind the scenes, and he should never abuse the 
 confidence they had placed in him. 
 
 Mrs. Murdock felt that she had been clever in eliciting 
 so much. A man, properly handled (she thought to her- 
 self), is generally a sieve. 
 
 Horace Colquhoun was grateful to her for giving him 
 so quickly the opportunity for telling of Lord Cheriton's 
 "latest," which he did with many circumstantial details, 
 cheerfully borne by Mrs. Murdock, although hardly fitted 
 to be repeated here. 
 
 When they returned to the house, he found that Lady 
 Cheriton had gone to her room. He supposed that she 
 meant to have the talk he had written to ask for, in the 
 evening after dinner, or next morning. 
 
 18
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 AN AFTER-DINNER HYMN 
 
 " T T 7H0 is the handsome young man? " 
 
 \/\/ Mr. Biddulph spoke in what he evidently 
 
 meant to be a low voice to Lady Cheriton, as 
 they waited in the wainscoted parlour for dinner to be 
 announced. 
 
 Lady Cheriton, without looking round to see which of 
 three young men present he intended to indicate, answered 
 promptly: 
 
 "Henry Dacre." 
 
 "I 've heard of him, have n't I?" 
 
 " You ought to have heard of him if you have n't. Is it 
 for me to tell you that he has written some exquisite 
 verses and an article on Christian Socialism in the Nine- 
 teenth Century ? ' ' 
 
 Mr, Biddulph grunted and chuckled sardonically. 
 
 "It is so exactly what I should expect to hear from you, 
 as I suppose he told you so himself." 
 
 "Don't be cynical; come nearer the window, and look 
 at the flowers going to bed in the dusk." Then a little 
 seriously, "I really want you to cultivate him. There is 
 something so fresh and earnest about him. He is a Roman 
 Catholic, but not of a tiresome kind." 
 
 She finished her words in her usual slow accents, while 
 her host waited to give her his arm. 
 
 "But this is wrong," said Biddulph, as he found that he 
 
 19
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 was reserved for the mistress of the house; "Colquhoun or 
 one of the others; certainly not me, as it happens." 
 
 Though gruffly, it was not ungracefully said. 
 
 Mrs. Murdock had been advised by Mr. Colquhoun, who 
 generally acted as an amateur private secretary and adviser 
 wherever he found himself, to make Mr, Biddulph take 
 her in to dinner. "Not that boy of Lord Hawkridge's," 
 he said, looking at her other guests. "It is not a formal 
 party." 
 
 " Why is he so bearish? " she said, in plaintive accents. 
 
 "Oh, he 's been spoilt, but like other rough animals he 
 answers to a light hand." 
 
 Mrs. Murdock, however, did not find him answer at all. 
 The fact was that he had made up his mind that he did not 
 like her, and after he had told her how to improve her tea, 
 he did not know what to say next. He would not even 
 talk about the house, and how wonderfully well it had been 
 arranged. 
 
 "Frankly, now," he said, "if you were quite truthful, 
 would you not own that a nice new villa with windows you 
 could open at the top, and ordinary washing-stands instead 
 of oak chests that rasp your knees, and soft armchairs from 
 Maple's, is on the whole the nearest approach to comfort in 
 a sorry world?" 
 
 He meant her to laugh, and then they would have done 
 better, but his tone had a touch of irritation which annoyed 
 her, for Colquhoun had set him against this farmhouse 
 business by his reiterated enthusiasm. 
 
 Presently he was relieved by hearing another and a 
 favourite topic of his started on the other side of the table. 
 
 "Yes, Bunyan was at the siege of Leicester at the very 
 date carved over the front door." 
 
 "Is that so?" 
 
 20
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 Mr. Biddulph leant across towards the speaker, Henry 
 Dacre. 
 
 "Did it ever strike you," he said, "how little feeling 
 Bunyan had for nature? With all his use of ' delectable 
 mountains ' and ' sloughs of despond,' there is hardly a fine 
 bit of insight into nature all through." 
 
 "It has struck me," said Dacre, "that he was no artist 
 in his use of light and darkness. Contrast Christian's 
 journey with Dante's." 
 
 "Yet, as a travelling tinker, he had plenty of oppor- 
 tunity; a better supply of sunsets than most of us see, and 
 probably, in his early days, if he were not too drunk, of 
 sunrises, too." 
 
 The young girl next to Mr. Biddulph, a sister of the host, 
 gave a little laugh of merriment. He turned to her. 
 
 "You know your Bunyan? " he asked, kindly. 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "What are we coming to?" cried Mr. Biddulph, in tones 
 of horror. "I suppose it was not a subject for examination, 
 and so nobody thought of giving it to you," and he groaned. 
 
 "You surely would not want it to be made a text-book," 
 cried Dacre, who was on the other side of the silent hostess. 
 
 "Heaven forbid. But, my dear young lady, — for I sup- 
 pose," putting up his eyeglass to look at the girl of seven- 
 teen by his side, "you are young, and though you have, I 
 am sure, passed many examinations, there is still hope for 
 you — do confess to me, quite frankly, are you much bored 
 by Shakespeare? " 
 
 And he chatted on very happily till nearly the end of 
 dinner. "A nice little girl," he thought to himself. 
 
 Lady Cheriton was very gracious to Horace at dinner, 
 and they had talked in their usual strain about her doings 
 and interests at Cheriton, at Cobden, and in Scotland. To 
 
 31
 
 TJie Light Behind 
 
 listen to them, — and Mr. Murdock had little else to do, — 
 it would seem that there was nothing spiritual or material, 
 benevolent, political, or aesthetic in the neighbourhood of 
 her husband's domains that was not inspired and domi- 
 nated by this beautiful woman. And it was more true than 
 those impressions usually are, though Horace's flattery 
 made it seem to the listener that among the advantages of 
 the Countess of Cheriton must be a thirty-hour day and 
 the gift of being in two places at once. Intermixed was a 
 gentle good-natured banter as to Lord Cheriton's peculiari- 
 ties, than which nothing could more easily and lightly sug- 
 gest to the uninformed listener the intimate jokes of a 
 happy home. 
 
 But after dinner, Horace felt himself to be a new-comer 
 in a little circle that knew how to amuse itself. Mr. Mur- 
 dock's sister was playing the violin, and Mrs. Murdock 
 accompanying her. Lady Cheriton was leaning back on a 
 cushion against the oak shutters of the open window; her 
 gown was again almost aggressively simple, a muslin skirt 
 and blue sash and a fichu edged with narrow lace half con- 
 cealing the Cheriton pearls round the slim throat. Some- 
 thing white shone among the large free curves of the black 
 hair. Her face was flushed to a soft rose tint. But al- 
 though her complexion was extolled by artists, a great 
 man's pencil sketch had proved that her beauty depended 
 little on the accidents of colour. Mrs. Murdock's elaborate 
 Parisian clothing looked singularly out of tune beside her 
 guest. The violin was in tune, and in a girlish, immature 
 fashion the player gave hints at inspiration not entirely 
 spoiled by crude simple touches as they would have been 
 by pretension. 
 
 A swift glance of welcome brought Mr. Biddulph to 
 Lady Cheriton's side. 
 
 22
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 "The music bores you?" in tones of apology. 
 
 "No, no, nonsense," he said. Then, after an effort to 
 listen: "I like Dacre very much; we have been talking. 
 But beyond the universal maxims of charity, why am I to 
 be kind to him?" 
 
 "Well," said Muriel, a little eagerly, "if you will sit down 
 here I will tell you why. I have had a good deal of talk with 
 him and I think he really needs help. He has ambitions." 
 
 Biddulph grunted. 
 
 "And he has talents; but he has got a good many things 
 against him. He feels very much not having been to a 
 University. He was at school at a Roman Catholic college, 
 and went on to a seminary, as he meant to be a priest." 
 
 "Then why is n't he a priest?" said Biddulph, a little 
 sternly. 
 
 "Because he had no 'vocation.' The priests told him 
 that his call was for life in the world. And now he is, so 
 far, a briefless barrister, and he is intensely keen to have a 
 political career, only you see he has no friends who can do 
 anything for him, either at the bar or in any other way, and 
 no one to teach him how to get on." 
 
 "What is his family? " said the listener, in a businesslike 
 tone that showed Muriel a dawning interest in what she 
 was saying. 
 
 "He comes of a very old family of Catholic squires," she 
 answered, with a wave of the hand, intended to indicate 
 many past generations, "but I infer that for many years 
 they have lived quite out of the world. His father is dead 
 and his eldest brother is evidently very dull. He has good 
 connections, but they are quite without interest in public 
 life. They can't see why he should want to do more than 
 make a decent income at the bar, so as to be able to 
 marry. I know the sort of people exactly." 
 
 23
 
 TJie Light Behind 
 
 "It is curious," said Biddulph, "how many of the present 
 generation of young Roman Catholics are trying to come 
 forward. I have met several of them lately who are pa- 
 thetically eager to plunge into the public life of the country 
 from which their families used to keep aloof even after 
 the removal of their disabilities. But these youths are 
 too crude and self-opinionated; somehow they have so 
 little sense of proportion. Still one forgives a good deal 
 to earnest youth when it is in a first rate state of efferves- 
 cence. But this protege of yours is not so crude intellec- 
 tually; he has a very good manner and I suppose good 
 clothes ?" 
 
 "Yes, he has an extraordinary social instinct," answered 
 Lady Cheriton decisively, with the great lady's sense of her 
 infallibility on that topic. 
 
 "And he is modest, too," Mr. Biddulph went on, very 
 willing to please her. "I am accustomed to having to listen 
 to the boys nowadays, and they are much worse than even 
 a violin. I think I will get Colquhoun to come and talk 
 in the cowhouse or whatever they call the room they smoke 
 in. You are tired ?" 
 
 He spoke a little tenderly, and she put her fingers on his 
 arm with a caressing gesture for a moment, and made no 
 answer. 
 
 "There, they want Dacre to do some parlour trick. 
 Don't sit too long by that window. After all, though I did 
 nearly have heat apoplexy, it 's only April, and the wind is 
 treacherous." 
 
 "Why, it 's breathless," cried Lady Cheriton, turning 
 her face to him. 
 
 "Take care, all the same": then, as Dacre moved to- 
 wards them, "now I have talked with him I don't think him 
 so oppressively good-looking. Why was the back of his head 
 
 24
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 cut so straight off, and could n't you cure him of working 
 his nostrils like a horse ?" 
 
 He chuckled a little, and moved towards the piano. 
 
 "They want me to read that thing of Lamennais I spoke 
 of this morning; shall I ?" 
 
 Henry Dacre stood waiting his orders with an eager look 
 in his dark eyes. For several days he had done nothing 
 without permission. 
 
 "Oh, do. Make them all come over here." 
 
 So Mrs. Murdock, who was chilly, and Mary Murdock, 
 who was in the agonies of first love for Lady Cheriton, 
 came close to the open window. 
 
 "Oh, don't let Mr. Biddulph go," cried Lady Cheriton, 
 eagerly, "not till this is read." She leant forward with 
 the imploring countenance of a child. 
 
 A second later, a strong, clear, man's voice rose above the 
 little party, with a touch of solemnity that might recall an old 
 air in Hymns Ancient and Modern ; but it suggested as it went 
 on a larger, if not less solemn cadence, as it gave forth the 
 fullest utterance that ever came from the stormy, religious 
 and undisciplined nature of the Abbe Felicite de Lamennais. 
 
 There was no movement, but Mrs. Murdock, who had 
 been excited by the music, feeling that nerve-thrill which 
 is so sought after by the moderns, leant forward, straining 
 her eyes at the reader. Little Mary's eyes filled with tears, 
 and to Lady Cheriton came one of those moments of su- 
 preme distraction, which she fed upon greedily. There 
 was so much, so very much, that she longed to forget. 
 
 Catching the thrill from his audience, and the instinct of 
 eloquence being in his nature, Henry Dacre brought out 
 the words as it seemed from the very soul of him: 
 
 "lis ont aussi pass6 sur cette terre, ils ont descendu le 
 fleuve du temps; on entendit leurs voix sur ses bords, et 
 
 25
 
 TJie Light Behind 
 
 puis on n'entendit plus rien. Ou sont-ils? Qui nous le 
 dira? Heureux les morts qui meurent dans le Seigneur. 
 
 "Pendant qu'ils passaient, mille ombres vaines se pr6- 
 senterent a leuis regards; le monde que le Christ a maudit 
 leur montra ses grandeurs, ses richesses, ses volupt^s; ils le 
 virent, et soudain ils ne virent plus que I'^ternit^. Oti 
 sont-ils? Qui nous le dira? Heureux les morts qui meurent 
 dans le Seigneur. 
 
 "Semblable 5. un rayon d'en haut, une croix dans le 
 lointain apparaissait pour guider leur course; mais tous ne 
 la regardaient pas. Ou sont-ils? Qui nous le dira? Heu- 
 reux les morts qui meurent dans le Seigneur. 
 
 "II y en avait qui disaient; qu'est-ce que ces flots qui nous 
 emportent? Y a-t-il quelque chose apres ce voyage rapide? 
 Nous ne le savons pas, nul ne le sait. Et comme ils disaient 
 cela, les rives s'evanouissaient. Ou sont-ils? Qui nous le 
 dira ? Heureux les morts qui meurent dans le Seigneur. 
 
 "II y en avait qui semblaient dans un recueillement pro- 
 fond ^couter une parole secrete, et puis, I'oeil fix^ sur le 
 couchant, tout a coup ils chantaient une aurore invisible, 
 et un jour qui ne finit jamais. Ou sont-ils? Qui nous le 
 dira? Heureux les morts qui meurent dans le Seigneur. 
 
 "Entraine pele-mele, jeunes et vieux, tous disparaissaient, 
 tels que le vaisseau que chasse la tempete. On compterait 
 plutot les sables de la mer que le nombre de ceux qui se 
 hataient de passer. Ou sont-ils? Qui nous le dira? Heu- 
 reux les morts qui meurent dans le Seigneur. 
 
 "Ceux qui les virent ont raconte qu'une grande tristesse 
 ^tait dans leur coeur; I'angoisse soulevait leur poitrine, et, 
 comme fatigues du travail de vivre, levant les yeux au ciel, 
 ils pleuraient. Oil sont-ils? Qui nous le dira? Heureux 
 les morts qui meurent dans le Seigneur. 
 
 26
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 "Et nous aussi, nous irons la d'ou partent ces plaintes ou 
 ces chants de triomphe. Ou serons-nous? Qui nous le 
 dira? Heureux les morts qui meurent dans le Seigneur." 
 
 Mr. Biddulph watched them as he listened to the words he 
 knew so well, with the tragic sequel of the apostate's history 
 in his mind. It had not been a large nature that had been 
 driven forth by petty persecution; but what a large utterance! 
 And these women that heard could take it as an after-dinner 
 amusement ! First a delicate repast, then a violin telling a 
 passage from an opera, and then those awful words. What 
 was it? What did it mean? Which of the three had they 
 enjoyed the most? It perplexed him, and he felt a sensa- 
 tion of pity and of fear. The Roman Catholic, the Ameri- 
 can woman, Muriel Cheriton, the child, and himself — 
 
 "Oil serons-nous? Qui nous le dira? Heureux les 
 morts qui meurent dans le Seigneur." 
 
 There was a silence after Dacre had finished, and Mrs. 
 Murdock leant back with a sigh of enjoyment. Dacre 
 moved towards the window, silently seeking a glance of 
 appreciation from Lady Cheriton. It came, and then — 
 
 "Oh, go on; read us something else; it is the last night." 
 She turned to Mr. Biddulph: "You enjoyed it ?" 
 
 "I must own I like to take my pleasures less sadly," he 
 answered; "I belong to an earlier generation — which had 
 its own way, after all, of playing with the terrible. I, too, 
 could recite a tragedy. Do you know the harrowing story 
 of ' Billy Bowlane ' " 
 
 Lady Cheriton's brow puckered; she thought he was 
 going to be tiresome. 
 
 "Please don't," she said, a little fretfully. 
 
 "No, no; I advise some of the hardest bits of Browning, 
 and I shall go and smoke, while you revel in the incom- 
 prehensible," 
 
 27
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 A GLEAM THRO' THE CEDARS 
 
 MR. BIDDULPH, as soon as he found himself in 
 his room, lit his candles, and settled down to two 
 hours of answering letters. Then came his long 
 night prayers, at which he dozed and roused himself and 
 dozed again, and repeated them three or four times till 
 he was satisfied that he had done his best, and then with 
 a weary sigh, and little sweetness of spirit, got him to bed. 
 He would have been equally astonished and pained had he 
 known how he had hurt his friend that day. 
 
 Muriel, with a mind that would fain have rested, had 
 too much experience to love the night. After the day's 
 toils, worries, and misunderstandings, at length comes the 
 hour of silence, solitude, darkness; and yet at times that is, 
 to many of us, the worst of all. 
 
 She had thrown open the lattice window, and, wrapped 
 in a great white cloak, was sitting looking out at the dark- 
 ness, her mind dwelling persistently on Mr. Biddulph's de- 
 sertion, as she chose to call it. Very reserved people are 
 seldom happy in their confidences. Their moments of ex- 
 pansion are too important, too much dwelt on ; like misers, 
 when they give at all they expect great results, results in 
 proportion to the greatness of the effort on their own 
 part. 
 
 Muriel, shut up in a world of her own, idealised what 
 human intercourse might be, if she could let down the 
 
 28
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 barriers to the right person. And Mr. Biddulph had won 
 and kept that place in her mind for ten years. 
 
 "Some day I will tell it all to him," she had often said 
 to herself, and now she had a special secret to tell 
 him. 
 
 For how perfectly had he once helped her. Ten years 
 ago, a woman of only twenty, already broken-hearted, as 
 she thought, struggling still to find some joy in youth and 
 life, had had opened to her a vision of joy and love, for- 
 bidden only by a vow already despoiled and desecrated by 
 her husband. Mr. Biddulph was, perhaps, quicker to see 
 and understand ten years ago; he had saved her from the 
 mirage, had bade her fix her eyes on a higher point, on the 
 horizon between two worlds. With exquisite delicacy and 
 tact he had devoted himself to her, and his admiration for 
 her from that time knew no bounds. Nothing he had come 
 across had been more touching, had felt its way to his heart 
 as did this soul-struggle. They had seldom, if ever, during 
 those months spoken in words to each other of what she 
 was suffering, but she had come to him and spent hours at 
 a time with him, had more than once pleaded an engage- 
 ment with him as a reason for avoiding other things and, 
 above all, one other person. 
 
 One night, Lady Cheriton had suddenly driven to his 
 rooms, to tell him that she must leave her husband, that 
 she had decided to go, and that nothing could now prevent 
 it. He knew by the fact of her coming that the crisis was 
 in reality past, — that she would not go at all; that she had 
 come instead to find refuge in a tenderness that had the 
 divine characteristic of never sparing her present suffering, 
 any more than he could spare himself in her service. He 
 was more than fifty then, a widower, a very successful man, 
 and a centre of many sorts of men and women whom he 
 
 29
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 constantly helped, in a thousand ways. But no one owed 
 him more than Muriel. 
 
 From that time she had put him on a pedestal, and, ac- 
 cording to Horace Colquhoun, she had spoilt him shock- 
 ingly. Besides which habit of indulging him, she had a 
 way of treating his remarks, on literature especially, as 
 final and decisive. She liked to think that he had formed 
 her mind, and said so even to people who were not very 
 much interested in the matter. 
 
 However, years passed on; she fought her fight and con- 
 quered temptation and won the world's good opinion. In- 
 stead of a beautiful, childless, forsaken, much-to-be-pitied 
 woman, left on one side by the great man who had married 
 her, she had reversed the positions. She had become the 
 centre of his world, the person whose wishes were to be 
 consulted, and who could be relied upon to carry things on 
 when he failed, which he did so often that, at last, he was 
 left mostly alone; it was so much easier to go to Lady 
 Cheriton. All men are inclined to be angry with those 
 whom they have greatly injured, and they usually dislike 
 women for the weakness which they have trampled on. 
 But Lord Cheriton feared his wife, with the impotence of 
 a weak, sensual nature that struggled helplessly with one 
 stronger than itself. 
 
 In this ten years of life and work, Muriel had grown 
 not happy, but fully occupied. She had the sort of pleasure 
 in doing things well that may, in imagination, make daily 
 life to a woman of her position what a successful session is 
 to a statesman. She hardened, perhaps, and grew con- 
 tented with her own aims, and did not look too closely into 
 the motives of a woman so undoubtedly high principled and 
 correct as herself. Meanwhile she took her friend's point of 
 view for granted. Had he not ten years ago urged her to 
 
 30
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 take up all manner of work and interests, had he not made 
 her realise her own powers of organisation, had he not 
 helped to transform Cheriton, the village, the school, the 
 tenants? And now to-day, after a few words from Horace 
 Colquhoun, inspired by her husband, who was too much 
 afraid of her to do anything himself, Mr. Biddulph, in the 
 very talk she had planned as one of her rare moments of 
 confidence, suggested to her to give it all up, to abdicate, to 
 leave her little kingdom to go to rack and ruin, and to 
 acknowledge herself defeated. 
 
 It seemed so hard to be thrown back in this way when 
 intending to tell him a secret which she could not bring 
 herself to tell anybody else. It was a chilly fear as to her 
 own health, that she tried to make light of, but that the 
 doctor at Cheriton wished her to treat seriously. He was 
 only an old country practitioner after all, and he had wished 
 these many years to be called up to the Abbey to prescribe 
 for Lady Cheriton. He was not likely to own that there 
 was really nothing the matter with her. 
 
 Muriel had meant to tell this trouble to Mr. Biddulph, 
 and she had looked forward to receiving the tenderness 
 and sympathy she knew so well, intensified by the confi- 
 dence. Instead of which, he had repulsed her, and shut 
 her up within herself, and she forgot that she had not really 
 told him of those fears at all. She had half meant, too, to 
 tell him of certain aspirations, certain yearnings, after a 
 more spiritual life that had arisen from this anxiety. But 
 Mr. Biddulph had stopped all this with his extraordinary 
 suggestion of a separation. He had deserted her standard, 
 and had seemed to imply a real disapprobation of herself! 
 
 It was the note of disapprobation in her old friend that 
 had stung so sharply. Perceiving little, what he did perceive 
 impressed him the more, and, being human, the exceeding 
 
 31
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 inconvenience to himself had given edge to his dislike to 
 the manoeuvring that had brought him to the Murdocks. 
 It had passed quickly and was forgotten by him ; he 
 had abandoned instantly that idea of a separation when he 
 realised how she felt about it. But, somehow, the incident 
 had made something uncertain and crumbling about her, — 
 it was her ideal of herself. 
 
 Surrounded by admirers, many genuine, others counter- 
 feit, and with a few declared enemies, simple disapproba- 
 tion was almost unknown to her. Coming from Mr, 
 Biddulph, it made her feel lonely and troubled. She 
 asked herself with pathetic yearning, what she could do in 
 this difficult way of life that she had not done. There was 
 no articulate answer in her mind, but a great disgust came 
 over her, a nausea for the things, and the ways, and the 
 words, of a life conformable with the world. It did not 
 amount to a struggle. Only the surface of her soul was 
 troubled. Had the angel of God passed that way? 
 
 82
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE FRIENDS IN THE TRAIN 
 
 MR. and Mrs. Murdock were up in time to see Lady 
 Cheriton off next morning. She had breakfast in 
 her room and came down only the moment before 
 the carriage was announced. Mr. Biddulph had mean- 
 while greatly softened Mrs. Murdock's heart while he ate 
 his own breakfast by his knowledge of gardening and en- 
 thusiasm on the subject. Lady Cheriton had, on the other 
 hand, evidently lost her enthusiasm for the farm, and the 
 joys of her visit, and Mrs. Murdock felt that the invisible 
 barriers between herself and her guest, which had fallen 
 away during the last few days, had risen up again in the 
 night. In a travelling cloak that might have appealed to 
 a Burne-Jones, and with her little flat bag of green leather 
 holding her correspondence, she appeared to look beyond 
 Mrs. Murdock as she murmured, half absently, gracious 
 words of thanks, while her eyes sought her maid and the 
 boxes. 
 
 "One thing more done," seemed to be suggested by the 
 graceful shoulders, as the carriage rolled away in the 
 spring sunlight. 
 
 The first part of the journey was spent by the friends in 
 the reserved carriage in looking over their letters; the 
 morning papers were not to be got so early. 
 
 "Your bag and even your packets of letters look more 
 official than mine," said Mr. Biddulph. 
 ' 33
 
 TJie Light BeJiind 
 
 "All is not real business that is tied up in red tape." 
 
 "No, alas! I have not been occupied in her Majesty's 
 service this forty years without knowing that." Then, as 
 she shut her bag and made ready to talk: "I spoke to 
 Colquhoun last night. I certainly have reached a state of 
 perfect obedience. I wonder if it is really as profitable a 
 condition for the soul as the mystics would have us believe." 
 
 "Quite, if you have faith that never falters; and now you 
 must tell me what was said," 
 
 Mr. Biddulph, looking out of the window, went on: 
 
 "He was dreadfully put out at finding that you were 
 going to leave so early. But it never entered his head that 
 he could get up at such an hour. I said nothing much, 
 except to assure him that there was nothing more to be said. 
 And he proceeded to tell me a great many things — most of 
 them painful, and I think it hardly desirable to repeat them 
 to you." 
 
 "No, we need not particularise, and I don't want names. 
 But I suppose the principal thing was the party at Cobden. 
 It is the first time," and a little sigh passed lightly from 
 her lips, "that he has actually done anything disreputable 
 in one of his own houses, and they thought it would force 
 me to act. Was there anything else of a public kind which 
 he wanted me to know ?" 
 
 "Nothing but a few drives in the park." 
 
 "Oh, yes; well, Cobden can't be filled by those sort of 
 people again for some weeks. I am going to lend it to 
 Jane and Anne. After that we shall be having the usual 
 garden parties there. I never try to see ahead more than 
 six weeks." 
 
 "How is dear Lady Anne? " 
 
 "I have heard nothing of her for ages before to-day, when 
 I got a letter from Lady Massingham hinting rather broadly 
 
 34
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 that it would be rather nice if I took Anne out in London 
 when I come up. It provokes me because it is exactly 
 what I have been wishing to do. Lady Massingham's hints 
 are nearly enough to make me give it up." 
 
 "Poor Lady Massingham. I doubt if a better step-mother 
 ever trod the earth. Still the woman is a bore." 
 
 "Yet his first wife, my mother's only sister, was the 
 most charming woman. Much too good for Lord Massing- 
 ham; but she met him just after she horrified her family 
 by becoming a Roman Catholic. He is a pillar of the 
 Papists' faith, and I suppose that was the attraction." 
 
 "I can imagine that Lady Anne had a charming mother. 
 I do hope you will have her in London with you." 
 
 "Not if you pay her outrageous attentions, as you did at 
 Cobden last year." 
 
 Mr. Biddulph chuckled. 
 
 "I was quite as devoted to Lady Jane. How is Lady 
 Jane?" 
 
 "Well, she has just had a little boy, so of course every- 
 thing is doing well." 
 
 "Really, I am very glad. She had a girl last time. Nice 
 things ought to happen to Lady Jane. Where is she ?" 
 
 "Poor Jane; she is in a semi-detached brick villa in 
 Hempville — of all abominable suburbs. Fancy what a 
 semi-detached villa must be like, when inhabited by 
 Jane." 
 
 "What took her there? I thought he was in the army." 
 
 "It is because Uncle Massingham made him promise 
 that he would leave the army when the regiment came home 
 from Egypt, and go into business, to provide a few extras 
 for Jane's bread and butter. So now he toils in and out of 
 the City, and I believe is already aware that that need not 
 mean picking up gold and silver." 
 
 35
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 "Poor Lady Jane," murmured Mr. Biddulph kindly, "it 
 won't suit her to be poor." 
 
 "After Massingham, too ! Dear me, in the days when 
 mamma and I used to scrape up enough for third-class tickets 
 to go to Massingham, and leap out of the train so that the 
 footman might not catch us — what an abode of luxury it 
 seemed. The only domestic disturbance there I ever re- 
 member was when the third footman refused to help the 
 steward's room boy to bring the dinner to the house- 
 keeper's room. As a general thing the servants ruled the 
 family very kindly." 
 
 "Yes, she must find it a hard change," said Biddulph, 
 "but happily she is not of the sort that will let love fly 
 out of the window, whatever comes in at the door." 
 
 "I suppose not," said Muriel, indifferently. 
 
 It was not a long journey, and they were soon groaning 
 over the queer ways of the South-Eastern Railway, before 
 they could get out in London. 
 
 "By the way, I asked for Dacre's address, and told him 
 to come and see me in London. I suppose that that was 
 your intention? " 
 
 "Yes, and by the way, I want you to take him for your 
 secretary." 
 
 "As my secretary! How could I have him as my secre- 
 tary? If I got him into the Colonial Office — and I fancy 
 he is too old to go in for the examination — he would have 
 to work his way up for years before I could take him as 
 my secretary. How like a woman !" 
 
 "How like a man to jump at the idea that I mean any- 
 thing of the kind !" and Lady Cheriton leant back, smiling. 
 "Of course I know all that and I don't in the least want to 
 make him one of your humdrum official sort of clerks, with 
 no future." 
 
 36
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 "Except to become a humdrum permanent official in the 
 end like your humble servant !'' 
 
 "As if there were any chance of any other permanent 
 head holding the position that you do!" cried Muriel, 
 glancing at him proudly. "You could have been in the 
 Ministry and even the Cabinet if you had only chosen." 
 
 "Stuff and nonsense," said Biddulph, a little roughly; 
 "I do really wish you would not exaggerate in this way." 
 
 "Very well, I won't say any more if you will let me ex- 
 plain what I mean about Mr. Dacre. I only want him to 
 be your own private secretary for your own private affairs, 
 instead of Mr. Whitehead." 
 
 "But what good would that do him? And as to a 
 future?" 
 
 "Well, and what was Mark Ronalds once upon a time, 
 and what is he now ?" 
 
 "Oh, Mark Ronalds was quite a peculiar case. I never 
 did anything for him. He fell on his legs by an extraordi- 
 nary bit of luck and he was only my secretary for a year. 
 Then the Prime Minister took a fancy to him. It is curious 
 how lucky some men are. I sent him to show the proofs 
 of my article on the Berlin Conference, for The Quarterly, to 
 find out if there was anything the great man objected to, 
 and that gave him a career which only collapsed into a 
 title." 
 
 "But don't you see that you were his true opportunity ? 
 and I want you to be Mr. Dacre's opportunity, too. And 
 he really writes well. It won't be half as absurd if peo- 
 ple suppose that he has written your next epoch-making 
 article! " 
 
 "Base flatterer," murmured Mr. Biddulph; "and what 
 is to become of poor Whitehead ?" 
 
 "He is not half good enough for you." 
 
 37
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 "But I am good enough for him, poor fellow." 
 
 "Nonsense; you have often said you could not stand 
 him much longer. I '11 find him something else." 
 
 "You dare to meddle, and 1 '11 " 
 
 "I dare most things," — she smiled her sweetest as she 
 rose from her seat, — " but I dare not say all the thanks I 
 feel." 
 
 "Stuff and nonsense," murmured Mr. Biddulph, and as 
 he saw her drive away in a coup6, followed by a good deal 
 of attention from the bystanders, he said to himself: " I 
 wonder how Dacre will suit me as a private secretary, 
 for it is clear that I am to have him." Then, " Poor child, 
 poor child! " he muttered aloud, as the brilliant figure in 
 the coup^ passed out of sight. A barefooted street arab 
 thought that the words applied to himself, and asked for, 
 and obtained, a penny, without discovering his mistake. 
 
 The rest of Lady Cheriton's day in London was chronicled 
 by her husband, in a note to Colquhoun: 
 
 So, most wise Horace, I need not feel anxious as to losing my bet. 
 Seven thousand pounds are not trembling in the balance. The wise 
 friend who was to free me from my bonds by his diplomacy has not 
 apparently done much. I was strolling down Piccadilly, when a coupe 
 stopped a little way in front of me. From it alighted my gorgeous 
 Countess, and the happy pair strolled on together. Both there and in 
 the Park we met many friends who stared a little, perhaps, but were 
 most effusive. It ended in my seeing her off with pomp from St. 
 Pancras in the saloon carriage she had engaged to take her home. It 
 does not look exactly as if she had been driven to the verge of a 
 separation. Still ever yours, 
 
 Cheriton. 
 
 P. S. — By the way, she mentioned that she had offered to lend Cob- 
 den to her poor relations. I must own in candour that, much as I 
 should like to be rid of her, she is a very fine creature and a born 
 diplomat. 
 
 38
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 Colquhoun was annoyed as he read the letter. He was 
 annoyed with Cheriton for harping in this way on that bet. 
 Cheriton really seemed to think that Colquhoun was taking 
 all this trouble on his behalf simply to win ;!£"7ooo. He 
 had only said, "Done," as half a joke when Cheriton had 
 said, ";^7ooo to a fiver, you don't succeed in making her 
 agree to a separation before this day twelvemonths." 
 
 They had both no doubt had a great many brandies and 
 sodas at the time, but he knew he could trust Cheriton's 
 word absolutely, and he did not want to be constantly re- 
 minded of the money in this crude way. 
 
 39
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 HENRY DACRE 
 
 HENRY DACRE was the second son of a Catholic 
 house, of old family but very modest fortune, which 
 had kept for generations to the life, and been con- 
 tent with the culture, of Lancashire squires, differing little 
 in degree from yeomen of the better sort. He was even as 
 a boy unlike his brothers and his other relations, and little 
 understood by them. They thought him a very odd boy, 
 with outlandish ideas. He was a poor shot, and " hardly 
 seemed to know his way about." And when his father once 
 entertained at dinner the luminaries of the law on circuit, 
 Henry being at the time a boy of fifteen, great had been 
 the astonishment of the family, who were for the most part 
 silent in the presence of so much intellect, to find Henry 
 taking an active part in the conversation, and an object V 
 undisguised admiration to the brilliant talkers assembled 
 round the table. 
 
 It was soon after this that his father died somewhat un- 
 expectedly, and a little later Henry went to Stonyhurst — 
 his rather delicate health having hitherto kept him at home. 
 He was regarded by his masters as clever, though somewhat 
 erratic, and was one of the few really eloquent members of 
 the Boys' Debating Club. The time came when his friends 
 asked him as to his future. His relations, — the large 
 cousinhood of Dacres and Bromleys, — when they were 
 not eldest sons, had turned for the most part to farming 
 
 40
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 or brewing, or entered the offices of solicitors or land 
 agents. Henry showed the greatest repugnance to all these 
 careers; and his advisers seemed to be at the end of their 
 tether. 
 
 But Henry soon decided for himself. His uncle, a 
 Jesuit, who had done great things in India, and had to 
 tell of work almost suggestive of Paraguay, — of the won- 
 derful influence the fathers had won over the natives, 
 paid the family a long visit on his return to England. 
 Henry was constantly with him, drinking in all the particu- 
 lars of the work of that great world-wide Society. Father 
 Dacre preached in the village church with the eloquence 
 of the heart and Henry was fascinated. No one had 
 hitherto thought of Henry in connection with the priest- 
 hood. He was, perhaps, of all his family, the least given 
 to devotional exercises. But now he gave out, when his 
 uncle had departed, that he meant to be a priest — perhaps 
 a Jesuit, if the life were not too hard. Anyhow, he would 
 first try his vocation in a seminary. 
 
 In that seminary he stayed two years. He had a fol- 
 lowing among the "divines,"' — "Dacreites" they were 
 called, — and his friends looked on him as almost a future 
 Bossuet — a leader of men, an orator, destined to be a 
 great figure. The professor of dogma complained that 
 Dacre shunned the routine work of his daily thesis — 
 though he crammed the examinations, and passed them 
 fairly. He was not, the professor said, a satisfactory stu- 
 dent and did not really work. Quite the opposite was the 
 opinion of the professor of sacred eloquence, who coached 
 the divines for their prones (or trial sermons) and corrected 
 their essays. A man who had written against time such an 
 
 '"Divines" is the equivalent of "divinity students" at English 
 Catholic seminaries. 
 
 41
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 essay or such a sermon as he was proud of showing to 
 friends of the college could certainly, he said, be no idler. 
 
 Dacre had a taste for church history and the liturgy. A 
 little knot of divines met periodically to read papers on litur- 
 gical subjects; and one of the most zealous of their number 
 proposed that they should, like priests, recite the office daily. 
 In this habit some of them persevered; but Dacre, after a 
 week's trial, found that his other labours left him insufficient 
 time for it. But he still remained a great authority on the 
 liturgy, and wrote a moving essay on the history of the daily 
 liturgical chaunt of the monks in the Middle Ages. The old- 
 est and most experienced of the authorities were never sure 
 that he would be a priest. Nor were those divines who were 
 not " Dacreites." But all were surprised at the suddenness 
 of his resolution to change his future course. It followed 
 on the visit to the college of a Mr. Long, Q.C., who was in 
 Parliament. He was a convert and devoted to Catholic 
 interests. His excellent practice at the Bar brought him 
 a sufficient income to indulge his political tastes. He 
 wanted some clever "divine" to act as an amanuensis while 
 he stayed at the college, helping him to sort and copy 
 various documents connected with educational schemes 
 which he was to support in Parliament. Dacre was chosen 
 for this purpose. Mr, Long was immensely struck with his 
 ability. To Dacre Mr. Long's career opened out a new 
 idea of the possibilities of life. That a Catholic layman 
 should be not a brewer, or a stock-broker, or a solicitor, 
 but a leader of men and in Parliament had never before 
 dawned upon him as possible. Less than three months 
 from this date he left the college, was entered at Lincoln's 
 Inn, and began to eat his dinners for the Bar. 
 
 This was four years before he met Lady Cheriton, and 
 now she could tell Mr, Biddulph of his achievements, how 
 
 42
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 her new friend had written exquisite verses, and had got 
 an article in the last Nineteenth Century, but that he 
 felt keenly the want of connection and of influence to 
 help him in his wish for a political career. Whereby 
 it may be seen that Henry had learnt several things 
 since he went up to London, thinking that a man's char- 
 acter and talents would suffice by themselves. He had 
 learnt several things, and perhaps forgotten some others 
 in the excitement of that plunge into so very new a life. 
 But there are many worlds in a complex civilisation, and 
 after he had spent two days at the Murdocks', he felt the 
 fresh excitement of entering into another new one. The 
 visit was a great pleasure to him. He had seen very little of 
 society with a big "S," and he was more fitted for the best 
 parts of that world in consequence of his ignorance of the 
 ways in other social strata. Lady Cheriton felt in him 
 great adaptability and great ignorance, and this, combined 
 with unusual talents and much ambition, made him inter- 
 esting and amusing. 
 
 "He is so fresh and charming, and yet so strong," she 
 told Mrs. Murdock, emphasising each adjective; "it is so 
 delightful to hear all his hopes and ambitions. Do you 
 know that he is to be something very great indeed ? I can't 
 quite see what, but I suppose a prime minister." 
 
 And after that, Mrs. Murdock had tried the role of con- 
 fidante herself, but found that his dark eyes could be very 
 negative and unresponsive, and so desisted. 
 
 Henry had explained to Lady Cheriton, in the first walk 
 they took together, that to be a poet was not his great aim. 
 
 "I 'm not the real article," he said, "and thank Heaven 
 I know it." 
 
 Then had followed the delightful discovery that she had 
 read his article on Christian Socialism, and had been deeply
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 interested in it; and he was too tactful to attempt an en- 
 quiry into how much of it she could recollect. 
 
 The immediate practical future was much more insisted 
 on by her than by him. 
 
 "I think you ought to have some definite post. I should 
 like you to be connected in some way with the House of 
 Commons, so that you might learn the ropes. You see 
 you must be So-and-So's private secretary, or whatever it 
 is, 'who writes so well,' not Henry Dacre, the poet or 
 essayist who has other ambitions." 
 
 Pacing the long path in the carelessly ordered kitchen- 
 garden on the Sussex hill, Henry had been educated, by 
 light touches, and suggestions only half consciously assimi- 
 lated. She knew far better than he did how a young man 
 should tread the stepping-stones to greatness, and she was 
 most willing to teach his inexperience. She was refreshed, 
 but almost startled, at the vigour and intensity with which 
 he approached many things, to her so humdrum and com- 
 monplace. 
 
 But with all his efforts to be definite, she felt rather that 
 his ambitions were in a luminous and pure haze, with big 
 outlines, moving and interchanging in an uncertain manner. 
 For besides this prime-minister idea, was he not a son of 
 the Catholic Church, and also a lover of the poor, and, 
 though last and least, also a poet ? One thing she tried to 
 touch on, with the lightest touch, and entirely from a psy- 
 chological interest — had he ever been in love ? What was 
 his general attitude as to women ? But something in the 
 dark eyes, not the chill gaze that had met Mrs. Murdock's, 
 something indeed more like the shrinking from half-guessed- 
 at possibility of pain, on the face that had seemed till then 
 hard, in its youth and hope, made her change the subject 
 instantly. 
 
 44
 
 The Light Behmd 
 
 They had been standing under two large oak-trees on the 
 plot of grass that bounded the Murdocks' sweet-peas and 
 potatoes. The sun flickered down on them and Henry had 
 stood and looked at her for a second only, but it seemed 
 to him a long one. And she had suddenly reminded him 
 that they were late for luncheon, in a tone that seemed to 
 close that morning's talk in a flat need for mutton and jam 
 tartlets. 
 
 As the carriage that took Lady Cheriton and Mr. Bid- 
 dulph to the station the next day disappeared from sight, 
 Henry hurried down-stairs and met Mr. and Mrs. Murdock 
 as they turned on the narrow flagged path from the carriage 
 drive to go back to the house. 
 
 "Too late; she has gone," said the hostess kindly, but 
 not without a little amusement at the expression of dismay 
 on his face. 
 
 "I had no idea she was going so early," he said, and 
 then he suppressed, just in time, the words that rose to his 
 lips: "And she did not even say good-bye." 
 
 With that effort came self-consciousness enough to make 
 him rouse himself not very successfully to enter into the 
 talk at breakfast. But he wanted to escape as soon after- 
 wards as he could, and leaving the Murdocks and the 
 two young men guests, who seemed to him very uninter- 
 esting, and the dogs and the Persian cat, to make a noise 
 together, he sauntered off, with a volume of Browning, to 
 the hill with the great view, where he sat him down and 
 mused a bit dolefully on the departed guest. 
 
 Why had she not said that she was going so early? Why 
 had she not left a message for him? Or was it possible 
 that she had left a message, and that Mrs. Murdock had 
 not delivered it on purpose to tease him ? It would not be 
 unlike Mrs. Murdock to keep it back until she could worry 
 
 45
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 him with it when they were alone. He had certainly 
 understood that Lady Cheriton was staying till after 
 luncheon. Had she not said something of the afternoon 
 trains being the best? And so he had told his hostess that 
 he could not stay till next day, but would like to go up in 
 the afternoon. It was really very tiresome. He had so 
 much that was important to say to Lady Cheriton, though it 
 might well be wondered if there were anything of import- 
 ance about himself that he had not told her in two days and 
 three evenings. Still, of course there was a very great deal 
 more to be said, and he crossed his legs, and sighed at the 
 thought of how badly he had expressed what he wanted to 
 tell and to ask, while she was there. He wondered, too, 
 rather wistfully, if he had really talked too much of his own 
 concerns, and had bored her, though she was too kind to 
 show it. 
 
 He need not have been afraid; he had been a most op- 
 portune distraction and amusement to his new friend. 
 
 Looking round while he was recalling the joys of the day 
 before, he saw Horace Colquhoun slowly strolling through 
 the wood, with the morning paper in his hand and a 
 cigarette in his mouth. Henry opened his Browning 
 thereupon, and began to read The Statue and the Bust dili- 
 gently, wishing that he had chosen a less obvious spot to 
 muse in. Horace's lined face was drawn round his eye- 
 glass into a benevolent smile, as he sat down on the deck 
 chair at right angles to the bench. 
 
 "So two of our party have gone," he said; " we may say 
 the two most important members of it," and he rustled the 
 paper. "Hullo, the Kentucky shares down again," and a 
 deadly earnestness overspread his face. 
 
 Presently he heaved a sigh, and offered the paper to 
 Henry, who began to look it over. 
 
 46
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 "Did you know Lady Cheriton before this?" he asked, 
 smiling. 
 
 "No, I had not even seen her." 
 
 "She is still a beautiful woman." 
 
 " Why still? " said Henry, quickly. 
 
 "True, she is only thirty, but she has had a lot to try 
 her, and I have known her for twelve years, so I say 
 'still,' after all that time, because I feel how I have aged 
 myself." 
 
 "I suppose she has suffered a great deal ?" said Henry, 
 tentatively, and half unwilling to talk about her at all. 
 
 "She has had a great deal to put up with, but I don't 
 think she feels things as some women do. She has always 
 come up smiling, as it were, after any blow, and in her posi- 
 tion there are compensations which she certainly does not 
 undervalue." 
 
 "You don't like her ?" said Henry, crudely. 
 
 "Like her! My dear Mr, Dacre, I admire her enormously; 
 she is the cleverest woman I know. Astonishing! Her 
 freshness and unworldliness, too! Look at these two days. 
 I know how she has been amusing herself with you young 
 people, as if she had not a care on her mind. And all the 
 time she has been carrying on a rather difficult bit of 
 diplomacy, and had Biddulph and me down here to defeat 
 us on the spot. I suppose, like the rest of us, you thought 
 she was going by the afternoon train, and so settled to stay 
 till then." 
 
 "Yes, I did," said Dacre, with a frown. 
 
 "So did I," said Horace, " so the day to both of us is not 
 quite what we intended. Come along and see Murdock's 
 horses; I think we can get off by the three o'clock train," 
 
 47
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 LADY ANNE VISITS HER SISTER 
 
 IT was past five o'clock on a mid- April afternoon, a few 
 days before Lady Cheriton's visit to the Murdocks. 
 Lady Jane Haselton did not like waiting for tea: but 
 to-day she was quite resigned, although she had cherished a 
 secret longing for a cup of tea for at least an hour. The 
 servants had been far too busy to think of it. The parlour- 
 maid was rubbing up the silver inkstand and candlesticks, 
 which Lady Jane had not given out for the spare room 
 until after luncheon; and the housemaid was nailing up 
 muslin blinds that had only been bought that morning. 
 
 "I wish the train were not so late," thought Lady Jane. 
 " Anne ought to be here by now. I wonder, if I had asked 
 Mrs. Murray, whether she would have baked some little 
 cakes. It would have been nice to have had some little 
 rice-cakes for tea. It was quite a false alarm about her 
 giving warning this morning. I really do believe it would 
 be good for her sometimes to bake things in the afternoon, 
 and she might even enjoy it." 
 
 Soon wheels could be heard in the distance, and Lady 
 Jane sat up eagerly, all worries lost in the thought of Anne. 
 Lady Anne was the younger sister; — now, alas ! the youngest, 
 for a year ago they had, with aching hearts, carried Lady 
 Mary across the park, under the old oaks, where they had 
 played as children, to the family vault, to lay her beside 
 her mother, Lord Massingham's first wife. 
 
 Jane had stayed some weeks in her old home with her 
 
 43
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 sister, while her father and his wife were abroad. Since 
 then she had not seen Anne; and now a feeling of faintness 
 and a choking sensation in her throat prevented her from 
 leaving her sofa. The fly drew up at the garden gate, and 
 the housemaid at the opposite duplicate Queen Anne red- 
 brick villa put her head out of the window, to see who the 
 smart lady with the large trunks could be, who was arriving 
 at "that Lady Jane's who never does have company." 
 Then the bell rang, and the parlour-maid hurried to the 
 door, and there was a moment's confusion, and Anne ran 
 in before she could be announced. 
 
 The sisters kissed each other, and Jane shed a tear or two, 
 and they felt supremely comforted and happy at being to- 
 gether; yet both knew, with a sudden pang, that in meeting 
 they sorely needed Mary, and were very incomplete without 
 her. 
 
 "I don't think you look so extraordinarily well," said 
 Anne, looking hard at her sister. 
 
 "Oh, I 'm a bit tired, but never mind; I shall be all 
 right now that you 've come. Oh, it is nice having you! " 
 
 The sisters devoured each other with their eyes. They 
 had a strong family likeness in spite of much difference. 
 Anne was tall, straight, and active, with blue eyes, firm 
 mouth, and well-chiselled nose. The charm of the face 
 lay in the straight, clear glance, the unconscious outlook 
 which, while it was delicate, reserved, and spiritual, had so 
 strong a sense of fellowship in meeting other human eyes. 
 It was the look of one who had never been deeply disap- 
 pointed, had never known what it is to be 
 
 "... misled, wronged, or distrest, 
 And surely here it may be said 
 That such are blest." 
 49
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 Jane, too, had in her darker, duller eyes the peace of the 
 sheltered, but it was the negative rather than the positive 
 quality of fearlessness. Altogether, in features and general 
 contour, she was a less clearly cut, a dimmer and less beau- 
 tiful woman than Anne. 
 
 Tea came after a short wait and nervous queries from 
 Lady Jane as to what " they could be doing." And it was 
 rich in surprises. Not only the unbidden rice-cakes, but 
 delicious hot buttered toast had been provided in honour 
 of the guest. 
 
 Anne poured out tea, and Jane ate more buttered toast 
 than a far stronger woman could digest, saying that she 
 had counted the cost and must enjoy herself. 
 
 "I heard from the step-dame this morning," she said 
 presently, "a fair account of papa. I think they are hav- 
 ing a real good time, sightseeing with some nice little toady 
 people ' who quite take your father's views of the state of 
 the Catholic Church in England.' " 
 
 "Let me see the letter." 
 
 "No, you can't; that 's what 's so funny. It 's private; 
 you see it is mostly about ' poor dear Anne.' " 
 
 "I wish she would stop worrying her conscience — it 's 
 all that sense of duty," and Anne's face clouded a little. 
 
 "This letter would really amuse you," said Jane, gently, 
 "though of what good I can be I don't know." 
 
 "Then I know what it is," cried Anne. "According to 
 her pet principles, they ought to give me a London season; 
 and as she does not want to come home, she suggests that 
 it would do quite well, instead, if you would provide a 
 Catholic eldest son of high degree with a large fortune. 
 Now, doesn't she say that 'a quiet homely way of meet- 
 ing people really often does these things better than a sea- 
 son in London '; also that * it is a well-known fact that no 
 
 50
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 marrying men ever go to balls now '; that 'unless you are in 
 a very smart Protestant set you never meet a marriageable 
 Catholic man'; that the world has sadly altered; and, in 
 short, that she knows things will be much better in your 
 hands?" 
 
 "But," said Jane, seriously, " we see nobody at all here, 
 and there are no men." 
 
 "Oh, for Heaven's sake, drop the man question, Jane; 
 it drives me mad. But one should recognise the mercies 
 of Providence, and I have escaped another season with 
 Lady Massingham, in one of her moods of doing her duty 
 to her husband's child exactly as if she were her own." 
 
 "Do you know," said Jane, pensively, "I do feel sorry 
 now for the step-dame that she never had a baby. I often 
 think how tiresome I was to her. You and " — hesitating — 
 " Mary were much nicer," 
 
 "My old darling," said Anne, stretching out her hand 
 for Jane's, " have you been repenting very much of all your 
 imaginary sins this winter ?" 
 
 "No, Roger won't let me. I sometimes think that I 
 sha'n't know how to repent of my real every-day sins soon." 
 
 "That is one advantage of a husband, I admit," said 
 Anne. "By the way, how is he ?" 
 
 "Well, he says he is very well," said Jane, who was one 
 of those women who can never be quite without anxiety for 
 those they love, "but I think he seems a little tired in the 
 evenings. I don't like the look of his eyes sometimes. I 
 wonder," with a deep sigh, " if I have done right in en- 
 couraging him to smoke." 
 
 "Why shouldn't he, if he wants to ?" said Anne. 
 
 "I don't know that he did want to, not so very much, 
 only — " but now the door opened, and the dowager baby 
 was pushed into the room by a very unformed nursery maid. 
 
 51
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 Muriel was two and a half years old, and so round that 
 she might have been drawn in circles, and from the stiff 
 curls round her head to her very fat legs every curve at 
 this moment expressed offended dignity. She stalked up 
 to her mother, giving glances of defiance at Anne. 
 
 Mother and aunt were kissing her and laughing and did 
 not hear a noise in the little hall, and Lady Jane gave a 
 start of joy as her big husband hurried into the room, and, 
 after hastily greeting Anne with enthusiasm, turned to kiss 
 his wife. 
 
 "You look tired, darling; what have you been bothering 
 about ? How do you think she is, Anne ? " 
 
 Captain Hazleton was a tall, finely built man who looked 
 every inch a soldier, and not in the least as if he were in 
 business in the City. His vitality was exuberant; his walk 
 always seemed to be turning into a run, and he never went 
 up-stairs without almost shaking the house down. 
 
 After a few minutes' talk with Anne, he put Muriel on 
 his shoulder, and she disappeared in triumph with one fat 
 hand lost in his curly hair. 
 
 This time he woke the baby; but the nurse, who was a 
 smart, thin, modern woman, with a large fringe, only 
 smiled a welcome as she set to work to hush it again, and 
 a moment later he was spinning down the road on his 
 bicycle, to get some exercise before dinner. 
 
 But the baby would not settle, so that the nurse could 
 not bathe Muriel, who would not be touched by the 
 nursery-maid, and Lady Jane, who had left her sister to 
 unpack her box, and was lying down and saying her rosary, 
 heard the noise and went up to put him to sleep. Lady 
 Jane was not handy with a baby, and held it rather as Alice 
 held the pig in Wonderland. She tried to make up for 
 her lack of skill by zeal, and she walked up and down, 
 
 53
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 "hushing" vigorously, made more nervous by the anxious 
 looks of the nur<5e, who was decidedly cross with Mu- 
 riel, for keeping her away from the " precious lamb," 
 screaming itself hoarse in its mother's aching arms. At 
 last Muriel was in bed, and Lady Jane gave up the baby 
 in an apologetic manner, with a little pain at her heart, 
 and no human nurse could have resisted saying, " Poor 
 darling, the perspiration 's running down his neck." 
 
 So Lady Jane was late for dinner, and the soup, for 
 which special stock had been bought the day before, was 
 spoilt, and Roger criticised it before the parlour-maid, 
 who was sure to repeat his remarks to the cook. But then 
 she was able to tell Anne all her troubles, while Roger 
 smoked his cigar. Before he joined them, Anne had heard 
 and sympathised in a thousand things. She had learnt 
 how quickly they had taken Belle Vue Hill Villa, other- 
 wise No. 12 Hartington Place, because the suburb was 
 such a particularly healthy one, and the agent told them 
 that several other people were after the house, and that 
 there was no time to lose; besides which it was so con- 
 veniently near the station for Roger. She had learnt how 
 Roger had never arranged about the painting of the house, 
 and how after all it was not nearly as near the Common 
 as they had expected, and how terribly tired Jane had 
 been over getting in, and how badly the ball cock in the 
 top cistern had behaved from the first, and how she thought 
 that City life was bad for Roger, but that the angel, and 
 "he really is a born archangel, Anne," never blamed his 
 father-in-law for making him leave the Army, and "what 
 a terrible mistake it had been." Then there had been a 
 succession of cooks, of course, and the perfectly charming 
 housemaid who had outlived them all, and who sometimes 
 actually took a scuttle of coals up to the nursery if the boot 
 
 53
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 and knife boy were late (that was, of course, before the 
 nursery-maid came), and there had been the parlour-maid, 
 who had been as good as a butler, but who said she 
 couldn't stay in a house where they gave no dinner-parties, 
 and then the present parlour-maid, who "seemed" all 
 right, except that she did not look after Roger's clothes 
 properly. 
 
 And Anne was really keen to hear it all, and full of 
 cheering views and suggestions, most of which showed, 
 according to Jane, no due appreciation of the difficulties, 
 but were morally supporting all the same. 
 
 When Anne went to the little room overlooking the tiny, 
 square, badly kept garden at the back, the one sooty barked 
 apple-tree, now glorious in white and pink blossom, seemed 
 to shine in the dim light. She flung the window wide open, 
 and leant out and inhaled a deep draught of spring air, 
 
 " ' Master of life,' he cried, desponding 
 * Must our lives depend on these things ? ' " 
 
 It had been one of those quotations that had been common 
 with Mary and herself. Who does not know what it is, for 
 a quotation that we have specially shared with one who is 
 dead, to rise unbidden, bringing back laughing lips and 
 tender eyes, with a vividness that is searching pain? A line 
 of poetry, an old joke, a word of slang held in common, 
 may be the symbol of the union of hearts 
 
 " That words are powerless to express 
 And leave it still unsaid in part. 
 Or say it in too great excess." 
 
 All through the winter months, which Anne had spent at 
 home, in her unspoken sorrow, she had thought how sweet 
 
 54
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 it would be to be with Jane, and how then they would talk 
 of Mary. And how differently the evening had been spent ! 
 She believed — and Anne believed very thoroughly in those 
 she loved — that Jane's deeper heart was very full of Mary, 
 and she saw, too, that her nerves were unstrung by illness 
 and unaccustomed solitude. But still, the loss of Mary 
 could not be the same to her sister as to herself. Jane had 
 Roger and the babies, and Anne had only a part of Jane's 
 heart and a fraction of her father's. Yet Jane, who was so 
 rich, had such a knack of scraping off the gilt from the 
 gingerbread of life ! 
 
 35
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE FACE IN THE CHURCH 
 
 ANNE, coming into the drawing-room at tea-time, a 
 few days after her arrival, was surprised to find a 
 visitor, but immediately recognised the new parish 
 priest who was paying his first call on her sister. Jane had 
 dropped the novel Anne had bought for her on the floor; 
 and her shoe, also at a little distance, confirmed the impres- 
 sion that she had been taken by surprise, an impression not 
 calculated to put the visitor at his ease. 
 
 He was a very fair, rather washed-out young man, who 
 looked, as was probably the case, as if he had been under- 
 fed and overworked at the seminary. 
 
 Anne sat down and made ready to join in the rather 
 spasmodic conversation. She observed that it was very hot 
 for April. 
 
 " Not so hot as this time three years ago." 
 
 Jane asked if there were any hope of getting the new 
 church built before long. 
 
 " Not unless people bustle a little more about it." 
 
 Anne asked if they had a good school. 
 
 "The ordinary sort of thing; holds about a hundred." 
 
 Jane tried next. 
 
 "Wasn't the schoolmistress a very nice woman ? " 
 
 She spoke with more enthusiasm than realisation of the 
 mistress's personality. 
 
 "Good teacher; but does n't get on with the parents."
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 A pause. Jane rang the bell to order tea. 
 
 " Have you been here long ? " said Father Groves, sud- 
 denly, to Anne. He looked at her hard as he spoke, after 
 the manner of some shy people. 
 
 She told him " a few days," and said what delightful air it 
 was, a thing she had repeated often since she came, as she 
 could not think of much else that was delightful in that 
 most respectable suburb. 
 
 "It does not suit me as well as South London," he 
 answered quickly, and his face brightened. 
 
 " Were you long in South London ? " 
 
 "Five years at St. Ethelwald's, " he answered, less 
 abruptly than he had yet spoken. "I wish they had left 
 me there." 
 
 " Did you like it ? " asked Jane, 
 
 " I should think so," he answered; " there was something 
 to do there. Five thousand Catholics in our parish and 
 only two priests. Baptisms, marriages, giving the sacra- 
 ments all day long and a good bit of the night. We 've 
 had five sick calls in one night; often sent for to men and 
 women we had not even known to be Catholics, to hear 
 their confessions and give them the last sacraments ; hear the 
 story of a man's whole life sometimes, give him holy com- 
 munion, and go on to the next. Perhaps you would hear 
 no more of him till you buried him. You couldn't, you 
 see," he explained to Anne, who was listening intently, 
 " go back to the same; you had to go on to the next. If 
 you tried to keep in touch with Monday's cases, you 
 couldn't get through Wednesday's." 
 
 " Was it not very hard work ? " said Jane. 
 
 " I didn't feel it; there was such a lot of life. I think 
 it will be much harder work down here, pottering on with 
 the pious, respectable people."
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 Jane and Anne laughed; clearly the ice was broken. 
 But Anne was absorbed in what he had said. 
 
 "Five thousand Catholics in one parish?" she repeated. 
 
 "Oh, probably many more," said Father Groves, "that 
 we knew nothing about." 
 
 "And were they frightfully poor ? " 
 
 Father Groves laughed. 
 
 "Don't you know that South London has the darkest 
 spots of Booth's Darkest England 7 Oh, it 's too awful to 
 speak of, though St. Ethelwald's parish is n't really as bad 
 as Rotherhithe. Rotherhithe is impossible." 
 
 And Father Groves went on to speak with animation of 
 his work in South London, of the appalling overcrowding of 
 the huge Irish colony, of the semi-barbarous natures which 
 the life produced, the occasional wonders of grace, the 
 disappointments. The misery was too vast to be repre- 
 sented as a whole. The economic side was beyond the 
 zealous priest's knowledge. But the field for work — for 
 instance, among the class of dock labourers and lightermen 
 — was immense; — for rescuing large numbers from prac- 
 tical animalism; for bringing comfort and peace to the 
 dying, religion and self-respect to those whose course had 
 yet to run. 
 
 Anne, giving him his tea and eating bread and butter, 
 was lost in thought. 
 
 "I knew something of it, vaguely, I suppose," she 
 said; "I wonder how far we are responsible for being 
 vague about these things. Did you have much lay 
 help?" 
 
 "A little, not very much; but I think the clergy are 
 partly to blame for that. Henry Dacre came to work for 
 us at times. Do you know Henry Dacre ? He is a great 
 friend of mine." 
 
 58
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 There was a good deal of eagerness in the way he asked 
 the question. 
 
 " No, I don't think I know the name. Do you, Anne ? " 
 
 Anne shook her head. 
 
 Father Groves looked at them in blank astonishment. 
 
 " Have you never read his poems ? Why, The Chronicle 
 said that they had caught the true Elizabethan spirit better 
 than anything written in this reign." 
 
 The sisters were politely interested, but internally scepti- 
 cal, as all educated persons should be with regard to a new 
 poet. 
 
 "And he worked with you in South London ?" said Anne, 
 trying to return to the former topic: but it would n't do. 
 
 "Oh, yes," said Father Groves, "but you must read his 
 poetry. You do care for poetry ? " for a doubt struck him 
 as to whether these two women, in spite of their intelligent 
 eyes and well-formed foreheads, owed their ignorance of 
 Henry Dacre to a general lack of culture. 
 
 "I hope so," said Anne, smiling, "and I should like 
 to read your friend's poems. Are any of them about South 
 London ? " 
 
 "No, no," he answered, almost impatiently; "South 
 London is n't Elizabethan, now, at least. No, Dacre's 
 poetry is inspired by the love of ideal beauty, and of the 
 eternal unity between truth and beauty. That is his inter- 
 pretation of Shakespeare's Sonnets which are his own source 
 of inspiration. But I put it so badly. May I send you the 
 poems ? " rising to go; " he gives me all he writes. He is 
 coming down to stay with me some day this week. He may 
 even turn up to-night." 
 
 He paused, rather as if he expected them to say that they 
 would like to know this genius; but as they did not, he 
 made his farewells and escaped. 
 
 59
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 "They seem very nice," he said to himself, as he walked 
 down the road, " and they might help to amuse Dacre if he 
 stays on. Fancy never having heard of Henry Dacre ! " 
 and he laughed aloud, and had only just time to compose 
 himself into a polite bow to the wife of one of his leading 
 parishioners. 
 
 Roger found the sisters talking of the visit. 
 
 "Jane, I do wish you would practise keeping your shoes 
 on; it really is " 
 
 "I do try," said Jane, plaintively, "and, Anne, I am 
 sure he did not see." 
 
 " Didn't see !" cried Anne,' ' when your shoe was straight 
 in front of him ! I think that was partly what made him so 
 shy at first; it seemed a plain intimation that you did n't 
 expect visitors. Happily, he has got a sense of humour. 
 Do ask him to dinner. I want to know a lot more about 
 South London, and 1 am sure Roger would like him." 
 
 " Yes, but he will have this Dacre man staying with 
 him." 
 
 " He meant you to ask his poet to come and see you," 
 said Anne. 
 
 " Roger," interrupted Jane, " have you ever heard of an 
 Elizabethan poet called Henry Dacre, who is the glory of 
 the Victorian era? I needn't ask him here, need I, just 
 because he is going to stay with Father Groves ? You see 
 he is sure to be impossible, is n't he ? I am sorry he is to 
 be here just now, because I should like to see more of 
 Father Groves." 
 
 " Oh, I dare say he won't stay long," Roger answered, 
 "and then we can ask Father Groves; there is no hurry, 
 and we shall lose our reading of Pickwick if he dines. By 
 the way, did you remember the note-paper ? I must write 
 one or two letters before I go out." 
 
 GO
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 " Oh, Roger, I am sorry," said Jane, starting up in horror; 
 " how can I have forgotten ? " 
 
 Roger said nothing, and rose instantly to leave the room. 
 
 "Oh, dear," cried Jane, "isn't it the most extraordi- 
 nary thing that when I would willingly go barefoot to the 
 town and back rather than let him write his letters after 
 dinner and get a headache, I can't remember such a simple 
 thing: and we passed the shop this afternoon ? " 
 
 Anne was silent, and her sister went on in a broken 
 voice: 
 
 " You see, it is the sort of thing that is always happening, 
 and if he had n't the temper of an angel — Do you think, 
 Anne, that if he really lost his temper and swore at me, it 
 would do any good ? " 
 
 A few minutes later Anne was walking fast up the villa- 
 skirted road until she turned down a narrow lane between 
 brick walls, which was the short cut to the common. Her 
 spirit had been greatly relieved since she had found this 
 outlet from villadom, and now that she could feel that space 
 and width of view and expanse of sky were at only a mile's 
 distance, she was more friendly to the trim gardens, and 
 could enjoy their faintly budding lilacs and brilliant wild- 
 cherry blossoms, almost crudely pink against shower-washed 
 blue skies. 
 
 The great park at Massingham and the rolling downs 
 beyond had left their impress on Jane and Anne, who, in 
 their brown holland pinafores and shaggy heads, had grown 
 up almost as freely as the deer that grazed there. 
 
 "Oh, dear, oh, dear," Anne sometimes said to herself 
 now, " I hope I sha'n't fall in love with a poor man, for if 
 I do, I know I shall marry him, and I could n't live like 
 Jane, even if I managed quite differently. I dare say I 
 should do just as badly if I got il! and had to save every 
 
 61
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 penny. Jane did n't seem half as forgetful and unpractical 
 at home, but then everything was done for us at home. 
 The fact is, we were abominably brought up, or rather we 
 were brought up to be rich. Now, if we had been brought 
 up to be poor, like Muriel Cheriton, we might have married 
 men like Lord Cheriton, and rolled in wealth with broken 
 hearts." 
 
 And then she would laugh to think how like her own 
 thoughts were becoming to Jane's disjointed conversation. 
 
 "And Jane says she is the happiest woman in the world, 
 in spite of the poverty, and the little furnished house, and 
 the whole thing. And I dare say it 's true; only if so, there 
 is n't much to be said for the world at its best, that 's all, 
 if you worry yourself into fiddle-strings all the time." 
 
 This evening her thoughts were turned elsewhere. She 
 had been suffering for some time from a sense of emptiness 
 in her own life, — not an easy trial to bear. How much pity 
 and sympathy had been showered upon her by a small 
 circle of relations and friends, while she was nursing the 
 beautiful Lady Mary, who had faded very gradually into 
 consumption ! But then, in spite of aching care and 
 anxiety, in spite of the sense of loss and parting, what ideal 
 hours of union, of peace, of nearness to the spiritual! 
 
 "The Orient from on high hath visited us, to enlighten 
 them that sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to 
 direct our feet in the way of peace." 
 
 Anne had been in those years singularly without the little 
 frets and jars and the sense of smallness that especially wor- 
 ried her in ordinary life. There had been an escape from 
 many things that seemed to her vulgar and dull in the world 
 when she first came out. She and Mary had felt worried, 
 and their pride had been a little hurt at Lady Massingham's 
 attitude towards marriageable step-daughters. They were 
 
 63
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 several years younger than Jane, who had persuaded her 
 father not to think London necessary, and who had ended 
 by marrying a penniless soldier of good family. It was 
 not what her step-mother considered a creditable marriage 
 in any way, and she had been determined that the younger 
 sisters should do better. 
 
 Mary's illness had proved for Anne a retreat from a some- 
 what uncongenial world, and then had followed a sacred 
 time of mourning. Now that was closing, and the old wor- 
 ries were reviving with a new loneliness and without Mary 
 to share them. 
 
 It was in this sense of dissatisfaction with her present life 
 that Father Groves had unwittingly lit a spark, not so much 
 by any words spoken, as by the infection of a strong en- 
 thusiasm unsuccessfully concealed. To work in South 
 London, — might not that be what she was meant to do ? 
 To go to the very worst state of things in a fallen world, 
 and help just a little bit to bring light into that darkness! 
 
 She stood on the top of a fir-crowned hillock out on the 
 Common, gazing with little consciousness at the great view 
 spread out before her. It seemed but as an accompaniment 
 of music to the passion of pity and longing rising in her 
 soul. Then she roused herself, and remembered that there 
 was another spot where these thoughts should be crowned, 
 if they were indeed acceptable. She had not paid a visit 
 to the church that day, and it was getting late. 
 
 She walked very fast, and found that she had ten minutes 
 to spare in the ugly little church near the station. It had 
 been built by a French htiigre abbe at the opening of the 
 century, when the suburb it now stood in had been a quiet 
 country village. It would soon have to be pulled down 
 to make way for a new church. 
 
 Anne found it empty and nearly dark. She knelt in one 
 
 63
 
 The LigJit BeJiind 
 
 of the stiff, narrow benches, and buried her face in her 
 hands. She had meant to pray that all obstacles, all objec- 
 tions on her father's part to her working in South London 
 might be overcome; but in the first moments of recollecting 
 the Presence in which she was kneeling, her thoughts turned 
 differently, and she humbly made an offering of the com- 
 ing years, that she might be ready to do and bear in them 
 whatever was for the greater glory of her Lord. And the 
 peace for which He has borne the chastisement seemed to 
 rest visibly on her upturned face. 
 
 Two men were moving in the sacristy and talking in a 
 low voice. Father Groves opened the door and shut it 
 again. Anne had a vague impression that she had seen 
 him, and a tall dark man behind him. 
 
 " There is somebody there now," said Father Groves; 
 " I will show you the tomb of M. I'Abbe when the church 
 is empty." 
 
 "But who is that beautiful woman?" asked Henry 
 Dacre. 
 
 "Lady Anne Massingham, sister to Lady Jane, whom I 
 spoke of just now," was the answer. 
 
 When Anne got back to Belle Vue, she found the family 
 in the happiest state of n.'nd. The calamity of Roger 
 having to write his letters after dinner had been avoided by 
 putting off the meal, regardless of the feelings of the small 
 but pampered household, until half-past eight. Jane's 
 voice calling from the nursery informed Anne of the 
 change. Anne ran up-stairs and found her sister flushed 
 to a pretty rose colour with the exertion and pleasure 
 
 64
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 of bathing Muriel. The child had just been lifted out 
 of the bath on to her mother's knee. The evening glow- 
 was fading in warm tints, and in the dimness the little 
 white figure shone as with a light of its own. 
 
 " Oh, how delicious," cried Anne, putting her arm round 
 the damp, soft, rounded, firm, little person, and burying 
 her face in the fat neck till the child rippled with laughter 
 and tried to catch at her hair. 
 
 "I wanted to tell you," said Jane, "that I have had a 
 letter from Muriel Cheriton, asking us all to stay at Cob- 
 den." 
 
 "What a good idea," said Anne; "it is just the change 
 you want." 
 
 "Yes, I know," sighed Jane, "but you know the nur- 
 series at Cobden do look north, and I 'm not at all certain 
 of the drains." 
 
 " Oh, my dear Jane, what nonsense ! " 
 
 "Well," said Jane, apologetically, "don't tell Roger 
 that I said that. Oh, and I meant to tell you, Muriel has 
 been staying at the same house with Father Groves's hero, 
 Mr. Dacre, and says that he is quite charming, and she 
 wants us to know him." 
 
 "How amusing! " cried Anne; "and you said he was 
 sure to be impossible." 
 
 "I know I did," said Jane. " I suppose it was the spirit 
 of contradiction." 
 
 65
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 IN THE EXILE S GARDEN 
 
 " T HARDLY know why this place charms me as it does," 
 I said Henry Dacre, as he strolled about the little 
 paths of Father Groves's garden; " the old wall and 
 those creepers, the elm inside and the fir-trees beyond — 
 why have they such an atmosphere ? It must be that your 
 hnigri was a remarkable man. A pathetic and dignified 
 sense of exile has left its stamp on church, house, and 
 garden. And is not the sense of exile peculiarly Chris= 
 tian?" 
 
 "Yes, that it is," cried Father Groves, eagerly. "Oh, 
 could n't you make a poem on that idea ? " 
 
 Dacre shook his head, took his friend's arm, and went on: 
 "It is peculiarly spiritual, and think how much stronger 
 must have been the sense of exile in his day. Noiv the 
 material differences between our country and his are going 
 fast. Then he may have felt that nothing was alike except 
 a few flowers, and they so differently scented, and the stars 
 at night, and they so often hidden here by mists and fog. 
 Everything he saw, touched, tasted, would make him feel 
 that he was a pilgrim in a strange land." 
 
 Dacre's face was raised towards the fir-trees and the light 
 where the sun had been a few moments before. The same 
 glow that lit up his dark eyes made the sallow, delicate 
 face of his admirer shine as he looked up at him. Then 
 Father Groves gave a sharp little sigh. 
 
 66
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 " I must go in and finish my office," he said regretfully; 
 but he went in with the boyish smile of a hero-worshipper, 
 to say his office in the little church. There is a special in- 
 fluence in the admiration of a good friend on a nature at 
 all honest, and Henry could not see Father Groves's eyes 
 kindle in looking at him without realising how different he 
 was from what his friend dreamed him to be. 
 
 He and Father Groves had once passed together through 
 the acute stages of spiritual development, which seem, like 
 every other phase in earnest youth, to spring at heights, to 
 bound over the mountains of human difficulty, and to 
 make men, like the sons of the morning, full of light and 
 glow. 
 
 Father Groves was disappointed when Dacre gave up 
 the priesthood; but he believed, nevertheless, that his gifted 
 friend was to do great things for God in the world so full 
 of drama, beauty, and colour, on which he himself had 
 turned his back. Therefore when Henry came to see him 
 from time to time, with fresh instances of success in litera- 
 ture and plans for the future, he found the companion of 
 his youth eagerly drinking in his views, gaining in his 
 friend's career an outlet for his own sacrificed ambitions. 
 
 On the other hand, Father Groves kept before Henry 
 the picture of himself as he had been some four or five 
 years before; but in those years Henry had learned more 
 of the perspective of life than his friend suspected, and 
 while to Lady Cheriton he seemed delightfully fresh, and 
 almost unpleasantly so to Colquhoun, he was a cynical man 
 of the world compared to the young priest. Nevertheless, 
 he had not himself perceived until this evening that the 
 diversity of their ideals was growing very marked. 
 
 This was Henry's first visit to his friend in the old Abbe's 
 house, and his flexible imagination had caught on to his 
 
 67
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 surroundings — he was extremely susceptible to novelty of 
 scene. The quaint, low rooms, the shelves from floor to ceil- 
 ing filled with old patristic volumes and early editions of Bos- 
 suet, Fdnelon, and Massillon, some old French devotional 
 engravings, and, above all, the little neglected sweet-smelling 
 garden, had suddenly brought the spirit of romance back 
 to its former channels. To-night he dreamed not of Parlia- 
 mentary life, not of satisfying Lady Cheriton, not of literary 
 success; but with a heartache such as comes to a man in 
 the midstream of life, if he goes back to the scenes of early 
 childhood, Henry dreamed again of a life of sacrifice, of 
 union, of peace. But when he awoke, such thoughts 
 brought to him that same sense of being a spectator, not 
 an actor, which comes so vividly to the middle-aged man 
 watching the boys in his own old home. " There it is — see 
 how it still goes on — but I cannot go back to it now." 
 
 And yet, Henry told himself that he could not renounce 
 these ideals, or regard them as a thing of the past, or as 
 unconnected with his own life; that whatever his career, 
 they did represent life as a whole and its worth. 
 
 " I wonder if it would do me any good to go into exile," 
 he mused, as he lit a cigar, and turned again on the narrow, 
 overgrown grass path. "Only I should always be able to 
 come back again. If one could not be always doing what 
 one likes one might come to some good. 
 
 " * Me this unchartered freedom tires, 
 I feel the weight of chance desires.' 
 
 I wonder if a fellow like Groves knows what a weight they 
 are sometimes ? ' ' 
 
 His thoughts presently wandered from this mood of in- 
 trospection, and he began to smile over some little joke 
 
 r)8
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 that had passed when he left the Murdocks but a few hours 
 before. 
 
 Instantly Lady Cheriton came back to his mind. 
 
 With his priest friend, in this spare but beautiful little en- 
 closure, in the pure light of the spring evening, he was glad 
 to feel, as he thought of her, a growing reaction against the 
 influence that had held him during the past few days. He 
 felt annoyed at himself for having been so easily fascinated, 
 for having shown the secret and sacred places in his soul 
 so unreservedly to Lady Cheriton. 
 
 A calm came over his excitement, and he acknowledged 
 it with a sense of relief. The thrill of certain moments 
 when reading aloud, when hearing her speak, when ren- 
 dering the homage of his eyes to hers — had it not been 
 foolish, and below what was best in him, thus hungrily to 
 gather the crumbs cast him by this woman of the world ? 
 What right had she to look at him like that ? He felt angry, 
 then breathed a low sigh of pleasure, then checked himself 
 sharply. He felt sure now that this great air of friendship 
 had had no meaning; it was only a way of passing time in 
 the country — the trick, the mannerism of a beauty and a 
 great lady, who thought the light from those orbs could only 
 be beneficent. Was it part of the education of her society 
 to grow accustomed to these things, to smile hardily back 
 again, and go on lightly to the next person, thing, impres- 
 sion, sensation in the kaleidoscope of life, until, worn out 
 and jaded, you pronounced the whole thing a sham ? He, 
 Dacre, would not live like that; whatever came, he would 
 keep his manhood and its realities and its happiness. 
 
 Good God, how heartsick he had seen her look at mo- 
 ments! What a strange, icy, hard look had come over her 
 face once or twice, as if the amiability were a mere mask! 
 Could a woman who acted so skilfully be in any of her 
 
 69
 
 The Light Behmd 
 
 converse quite sincere ? Colquhoun, who had been very 
 friendly, had hinted not^ and yet Mr. Biddulph,whom Henry 
 liked infinitely better, believed in her so thoroughly. Was 
 it only because he, too, felt the subtle commanding fascina- 
 tion ? 
 
 What else had Horace Colquhoun hinted unpleasantly 
 about Lady Cheriton to Henry Dacre ? Something that 
 made him protest against slander, and query angrily in his 
 own mind, as he stood silent and frowning in an angle of 
 the old wall, and looked with eyes that did not see at the 
 ground in front of him. Then he gave a start of impa- 
 tience, and made a few quick paces forward. 
 
 " Oh, what does it matter what she is really! It is of no 
 use bothering over it; let me leave it alone, I don't truly 
 trust or like her." 
 
 And then something caught his breath painfully. 
 
 "Suppose I never see her again. Could I be the same 
 as if we had not met ? Is she not now more to me than 
 she ought to be ? How has it come about, and ought I to 
 resist it ? " 
 
 Then gently there seemed to rise in the dusk of the 
 walled garden, where the Abbe had walked and prayed for 
 all those in suffering, sin, or temptation, a face that Dacre 
 had seen that evening — young, simple, but most exquisite, 
 with eyes fixed on the tabernacle. Those eyes, too, be- 
 trayed the yearning of the exile, that seemed to exhale from 
 the very flowers of the garden. And the girl's face calmed 
 the angry trouble of his mind with the infection of a divine 
 peace. 
 
 70
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 IN LONDON 
 
 WHEN Henry Dacre left Father Groves, and went 
 back to his bachelor rooms in London, his mus- 
 ings in the Abbe's garden seemed unreal enough 
 to be easily suited to a poem, had he had a mind at leisure 
 to write one. He said to himself that it had been a fit of 
 the imagination, the sham fight of a day-dream, and had 
 held no true history of temptation or of ideal. Lady Cher- 
 iton was an opportune friend, and really he needed some- 
 body of the kind, and it would be impertinent to her, 
 and morbid in himself, to hesitate to take advantage of 
 her kindness; while as to the face seen in the dim light of 
 the sanctuary lamp, that was certainly clear and radiant 
 enough to inspire a poem, and should do so one of these 
 days when there was leisure. 
 
 At present he was very busy. There was little profes- 
 sional work in prospect; but he had two important books 
 to review for a weekly paper, and he had heard from the 
 editor of the Nineteenth Century that his article on Christian 
 Socialisfu would not pass unchallenged. Press cuttings, 
 typewritten copies of MSS., law business, and many other 
 things made a formidable pile on his writing table. But on 
 the top, his clerk had placed several letters of a different 
 kind. He took up the first, and, opening it, saw to his sur- 
 prise that it was from Cheriton Abbey. 
 
 71
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 Dear Mr. Dacre : 
 
 I want to tell you that yesterday I met LordNewfold and Sir John Rusk. 
 I have asked them to use their influence to ensure your being among the 
 members specially selected by the Committee of the Junior Carlton for 
 election this year. That ought to be enough to secure your election and 
 you should not, I think, move further in the matter. One or two friends 
 of mine are giving some tiresome parties. You ought to go to them. 
 Ambition must be of stuff stern enough to endure being bored, even 
 very much bored. It is the old problem of the game and the candle. 
 But take the advice of one much older, a long five or six years older 
 than you are. If you will play the game, make sure you choose the right 
 candle. Yours truly, 
 
 Muriel Cheriton. 
 
 Then, below that, lay three invitations for evening, and 
 two for dinner-parties, all of them, except one of the din- 
 ners, at houses where he had never been before. 
 
 He sat back in his chair, a little startled, feeling that he 
 was, without his own concurrence, in a stream of life that 
 was new to him. He had not been prepared for such sur- 
 prising activity, and he was not sure what he thought about 
 it. Did he like it or not, this being floated into the Lon- 
 don world on a wave of Cheriton patronage ? And yet he 
 did not think of refusing; it did not occur to him to doubt 
 whether to obey orders. Also, had he even debated it, he 
 would have known that to refuse these things was a more 
 marked step down the hill of one sort of progress, than to 
 accept them was to go up. Once the powers decided to 
 launch him in their own way, he must go on, or not go at all. 
 A card of Horace Colquhoun's, with a scribbled line, 
 *' Shall we meet at the ' F. O.' to-night ? " seemed to indi- 
 cate that Colquhoun, too, had received orders to assist in 
 this process of launching. 
 
 And when he got to the Foreign Office, and was slowly, 
 inch by inch, mounting the stairs, occasionally exchanging
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 a few words on that hill of difficulty with a " Q.C." whom 
 he knew slightly, he was convinced from the look in Col- 
 quhoun's face, as he let his eyeglass fall from under the 
 wrinkled eyelid, while he gazed on the crowd from the 
 vantage-ground of the landing, that Horace had been told 
 to watch for him. Colquhoun spoke a few words to a 
 tall, fair, large woman with heavy features and heavily set 
 diamonds, by his side, and a little later Dacre found himself 
 presented to Lady Berringfield, who told him, almost 
 crudely he thought, that she knew he was a friend of Lady 
 Cheriton's, Nor after she had left him with the expressed 
 hope that he was coming to her party next week did the 
 ministering spirit of Colquhoun desert him. This time it 
 was to a man, small, shrewd-faced, loud in voice, telling 
 stories, and burying their point in his own laughter, that 
 he was introduced. Dacre recognised the name as that 
 of one of Lady Cheriton's acquaintances who had promised 
 to get him into the Junior Carlton. 
 
 "It is a useful club," said Sir John Rusk, "especially 
 for entertaining your friends; and a young man can get to 
 know plenty of good Tory wire-pullers there if he likes. 
 But," he exclaimed suddenly, " what do I see before me ? 
 Biddulph! — what dissipation! And now," he said audibly 
 to Colquhoun, " we shall see the women making for him 
 till he turns as cross as — But why has he come ? The 
 only attraction is not yet in London." 
 
 Mr. Biddulph, with clouded brow and palpable efforts 
 at good temper, was tunnelling his way, through exclaiming 
 and welcoming friends, to where they stood. 
 
 Then it flashed on Dacre that he, too, had had his orders. 
 
 "Why weren't you at Cheriton to help her to open the 
 new wing ? " said the sharp voice of the little man to Bid- 
 dulph. " We went over from Dartley." 
 
 73
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 " I had one or two things to do at the ' C. O.,' " was the 
 reply; *' I can't play with time as if I were a mere Cabinet 
 Minister. What have you great men been plotting down 
 there?" 
 
 "Things against your peace. Newfold has orders to 
 get your secretary, Whitehead, some extremely comfortable 
 and lucrative appointment without delay." 
 
 Sir John Rusk laughed at this piece of information, as if 
 the joke were too delightful, and turned to speak to a 
 lady near him before more could be got from him. Colqu- 
 houn, too, had turned aside, but he came back for a mo- 
 ment. 
 
 '* Lunch with me at the Bachelors', on Saturday, two 
 o'clock," he said to Henry. 
 
 "All right." 
 
 Mr. Biddulph looked at Dacre with an expression of re- 
 sponsibility and perplexity as they were left. 
 
 " I was told to look out for you," he said. " Now what 
 ought we to do ? " 
 
 Henry Dacre caught the look in his eye, with an expres- 
 sion of amusement, and then they both laughed. 
 
 "Come along," Mr. Biddulph said suddenly, "there's 
 old Lady Crock quite alone, and she is nearly blind. I 
 will introduce you to her. She is very poor and lonely, 
 and it is a kindness to look her up." 
 
 So Lady Crock mumbled at him for some minutes, and 
 Mr. Biddulph divined that she wanted some supper, and 
 prepared for the herculean task of making her reach it, 
 impeded as he was by the crowd and by the protests of 
 more than one lady who wished to speak to him. Dacre 
 felt the comic side of attempting to follow them. He saw 
 Mr. Biddulph had forgotten him, so he made his way 
 through the room and out of it all. He saw tired women 
 
 74
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 leaning against any available door or pillar, and heard a 
 shrill voice call his name. It was Lady Berringfield. 
 
 "Could you," she said, "establish any means of com- 
 munication between me and my footman ? " 
 
 This was nearly half an hour's task, but at last he got 
 home. On his table was another note from Lady Cheriton: 
 
 Dear Mr. Dacre : 
 
 I am wondering whether you would like to be private secretary to 
 Mr. Biddulph? I believe he will soon want one. It might interfere 
 for some time with your work at the Bar, but on the other hand it 
 would be an excellent political opening. Think well on it, and as soon 
 as you feel clear go and see Mr. Biddulph. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 Muriel Cheriton. 
 
 75
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 MR. BIDDULPH GIVES ADVICE 
 
 "y^^AN'T attend to you just yet"; then a little less 
 
 I . gruffly: "Sit down, the papers are there some- 
 where." 
 
 It was in the downstairs sitting-room of Mr. Bid- 
 dulph's house, looking out on a few square yards of 
 paving-stones across to a high, begrimed brick wall, sur- 
 mounted by a decoration of broken glass. The speaker 
 was Mr. Biddulph, and he did not speak again for some 
 time, though he emitted audible sighs and grunts as his pen 
 scratched onward. He leant over the table with large 
 rounded shoulders into which the rough, grizzled black 
 head seemed to sink as if no neck separated it from them, 
 while, with small, dim eyes, he wrote with effort an almost 
 undecipherable hand. 
 
 Henry Dacre, looking blankly out of the window, felt 
 chilled. He had had no anxiety as to his reception. After 
 a good deal of hesitation on his own part he had come. It 
 was in reality a foregone conclusion that he should come. 
 But if he was not wanted ? If Mr. Biddulph was unwilling 
 to have him for a private secretary he would much rather 
 have stayed away. 
 
 At last, after nearly twenty minutes of scratching, and 
 the other intermittent sounds, Mr. Biddulph touched a bell 
 on the table, and a servant appeared. His master handed
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 him a large blue envelope without speaking, and then 
 turned slightly towards Dacre. 
 
 "I can't face the light," he said, "will you come over 
 here?" and he rose and took his seat in a deep, much- 
 worn armchair, and Dacre sat down opposite to him. Was 
 it partly that he might see him better ? The short-sighted 
 surprise us sometimes by what they see in our faces. 
 
 They were a strong contrast; the unwieldy, bulky form 
 in untidy, ink-stained clothes, and collar of uncertain form, 
 shaggy beard and rough hair, with dim eyes almost lost 
 under heavy brows ; and the young man, very well dressed, 
 very well groomed, with no spare flesh beyond what was 
 needed to soften the outline of bone and muscle, large eyes, 
 full of light, and an almost arrogant vitality in the carriage 
 of the head. 
 
 "And you want to be my secretary," thought Biddulph, 
 with a touch of humour. "And if you do well, nay, very 
 well, you may some day be as successful as I am," and he 
 muttered a line from his beloved poet: 
 
 " ' 'T is all perhaps which man acquires. 
 But 't is not what our youth desires.' " 
 
 " Well ? " he said aloud, at length, and a little gruffly still. 
 
 *' Lady Cheriton told me to come." 
 
 There was no pique in Henry's tone, only still the same 
 suggestion of a sense of humour, which they had shared at 
 the Foreign Office evening party. 
 
 "I know, I know," said Biddulph, and then, sitting for- 
 ward a little, with an emphatic gesture of his large hand, 
 and in his voice an earnestness that explained much of his 
 personal influence, he said: " I cannot see your way in it at 
 all." 
 
 77
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 Dacre said: "But if / do ? " 
 
 Biddulph again did not answer for a moment. 
 
 " I am not sure that you can judge of it at all adequately. 
 Lady Cheriton judges of it from one point of view — which is, 
 strictly speaking, a social one. She wishes to give what she 
 conceives to be your talents the opportunity of being backed 
 by all the influence that she understands and possibly over- 
 rates. You sacrifice the possibility of success in your own 
 profession to make a stepping-stone of my drudgery. What 
 I should say to you is — stick to your own work, be patient 
 and wide awake, and you will get your opportunity. You 
 will rise at the Bar, and twenty-five years hence you will 
 have conquered your own position, and you can then go 
 into Parliament and have a political career. It wants more 
 faith to do this, but it is less worldly as a moral life, and 
 you will get the best of the world in the long run." 
 
 Dacre did not feel in the least now as if Biddulph did not 
 want him, and that was a relief. He did not speak, and 
 the other went on, as if talking to himself: 
 
 *' I 've told her often what I think of it all. But it 's of 
 no use. It's ingrained in the ways of her world. From 
 time to time they get excited over some man whom they 
 think of extraordinary promise, and they run him as if he 
 were a favourite horse. They will take," he said, looking 
 at Dacre as if he were the audience for a lecture on the 
 habits of some strange race, — " they will take infinite pains, 
 write floods of nonsense to each other about him, get him 
 all the sorts of things that can be got by teasing, and then 
 — puff 3 — generally when he marries or grows fat they forget 
 him. If he is lucky, he has meanwhile got himself some 
 permanent post, even if it is only the care of the flowers in 
 Hyde Park, and can live discontentedly with a discontented 
 wife, on the fringe of the world those women hurried him 
 
 78
 
 The Light Behmd 
 
 into, and they will ask each other in quiet moments in the 
 autumn if they know how he gets on, and if they remem- 
 ber how wonderfully good-looking he was." 
 
 Biddulph's twinkling eye met Dacre's, and they both 
 laughed heartily. 
 
 "I have thought it over very seriously," said Dacre, a 
 moment later, "and I am ready for the risk, I can't wait 
 twenty years; life is too uncertain. I want to do many 
 things. I am quite ready for the risk," 
 
 The repeated words fell on Biddulph's ears with the 
 rhythm of some internal harmony. He felt as if his duty 
 as devil's advocate were accomplished. 
 
 "There are no rules for genius," he said to himself, and 
 curiously enough he did not ask himself why he accepted 
 this genius as a fact. Not long afterwards, he reflected 
 that they seemed all to have taken for granted that this 
 young man had a great future. 
 
 " Well," he said, smiling, " if you definitely refuse to be 
 Lord Chancellor we must do our best. But, good Lord, 
 have you the faintest conception of this drudgery? " and 
 he glanced at the endless piles of papers in their perfect or- 
 der in the otherwise neglected room. "No, stay," he 
 said, correcting himself, "not so fast. The devil's advo- 
 cate has not finished. There is another aspect to the 
 question." 
 
 He hesitated, and, to Dacre's surprise, looked shy, and 
 the colour rose on his wide forehead. 
 
 " If you don't mind my doing it, I should like to say one 
 thing more. Have you prayed about this ? " 
 
 Dacre was silent, and Biddulph went on: 
 
 "Your religion has the undoubted advantage of present- 
 ing a plan of life, and guides. You don't need the advice 
 of one like myself. You are happier. But perhaps I know 
 
 79
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 better than a priest would the thickening effect of this 
 London society, and of a career in any way depending on 
 it. Even supposing you were to be a Dizzy, — mind it is 
 not impossible; a Catholic now is no more handicapped 
 than a Jew was then, — would it in your individual case be 
 possible to do all this without dimming the light without 
 w^hich we are all in darkness ? " 
 
 Dacre heard the voice tremble, and was immensely 
 touched. Surely to work with this man would be the great- 
 est safeguard. But he did not speak. 
 
 "This is what you would call a question of vocation," 
 continued Biddulph, half to himself. "And if you are 
 right to do it you will be helped to do it rightly." 
 
 Dacre rose and stood by him. 
 
 " I am more obliged to you than I can say. I think it 
 is all right, but if you advise, I will think it over again and 
 write to-night." 
 
 Biddulph pulled himself out of his chair, and shook hands 
 with him very heartily. 
 
 "Just in time for lunch with Colquhoun," thought 
 Dacre, and the afternoon slipped by in that gentleman's 
 company. 
 
 Then letters to write, dinner with some friends in South 
 Kensington, then to Lady Berringfield's party. She was 
 as kind as her daughters were charming, and she presented 
 him to a Cabinet Minister, a bishop, and an actress. After 
 this he went home to bed and to sleep. 
 
 Such were his opportunities of reflection; and next morn- 
 ing he wrote a grateful note, accepting the post of private 
 secretary to Mr. Biddulph. 
 
 He soon heard that he would enter on his duties directly 
 after Whitsuntide. 
 
 80
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 LADY JANE IS ABSURDLY ANXIOUS 
 
 JANE and Anne had never made any long stay at Cob- 
 den Park. For very many years 't had been used 
 only for garden parties and Saturday to Monday 
 visits from London. Little strain had been put on the 
 Adams furniture, beyond the slow, steady endurance of 
 endless cleaning and polishing. All the rooms had a 
 lingering dignity, as if long emptiness had made them 
 independent of present inhabitants. They were peopled 
 by the undisturbed shades of earlier generations, whose 
 ladies might observe with satisfaction how mellowly their 
 embroidered chairs and screens had faded, and how regu- 
 larly the pot pourri was renewed in their priceless bowls, 
 while their miniatures had not given place to the photo- 
 graphs of the moderns, which they so rightly despised. 
 
 Even when Lady Cheriton entertained at Cobden in June 
 or July, unless it were a very wet day the guests spent 
 their time out of doors, and only sauntered through the 
 long gallery on one side of the large low hall with its marble 
 pillars, or took each other to look at the treasures in the 
 suite of small rooms opening into the garden on the south 
 side. There was much to see, from the Romney, which 
 dwelt in the little blue room with its solid silver grate and 
 fire-irons, to the red bedroom where Sir Peter Lely had 
 left ladies of singularly candid conceit to contemplate a 
 carnation held in one white stiff hand, or to look supercil- 
 
 «1
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 iously at the silk embroidery on the matchless old quilt 
 on the heavy four-post bed. 
 
 Little Muriel was an innovation indeed, but could not 
 have been a shock to the shades of Cobden, for childhood 
 they had always had with them. One dignified dame 
 seemed to look at another and say: "A child at last, but 
 evidently only a connection. When will the graceful boys 
 that we had in silken knickerbockers and hose be repeated ? 
 Where is the heir of the Cheritons ? " 
 
 Lady Jane, lounging back as those dames had never 
 done, in a low garden chair, in the deep shade of a great 
 cedar, was thinking very seriously. There was a faint 
 difference between Lady Jane at Cobden and Lady Jane 
 at Belle Vue Villa, difficult to define. Perhaps, to put 
 it crudely, she was like a duck back in the water again, 
 when she found herself in a beautiful house and grounds, 
 with no housekeeping cares, and nothing to produce the 
 sense of failure that weighed upon her at home, when she 
 was doing unsuccessfully so many little homely tasks that 
 seemed to come easily to other people. 
 
 Jane's garden hat and white muslin suited her, and a 
 little colour had come into her cheeks. Lately, she had 
 looked as if the still brightness of the exquisite lawn before 
 the cedars, and the glow of the early roses growing in un- 
 defined nooks and corners, had passed into her face. But 
 this evening there was a cloud of a different kind from the 
 domestic species; and she was buried in thought when, 
 looking up, a cry of joy broke from her, and she hurried 
 across the lawn. Roger had been away to visit his mother, 
 and a week's absence was a serious event to be closed with 
 rejoicing. 
 
 At first they were absorbed in each other, and then Roger 
 said: 
 
 82
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 "Where is Anne?" 
 
 Jane's face clouded a little. 
 
 "She and Mr. Dacre are reading somewhere in the 
 wood." 
 
 "I saw from your letters that you are coming round to 
 what you snubbed me for saying almost at their first meet- 
 ing. I think you said that I had a low military view of 
 any man and girl liking each other." 
 
 Jane did not laugh. 
 
 " I don't know what to think," she said, gravely, leaning 
 back in her chair. 
 
 "I can't think why you are so surprised," said Roger. 
 "It seems so very natural." 
 
 "I 'm not surprised, only bothered, " and Jane wrinkled 
 her forehead more deeply than usual, and sighed. 
 
 "Is it because you don't think him rich enough ? " 
 
 "No," came very slowly from Jane. "With Anne's 
 money and his talents, it would be all right. No, it 's not 
 that." 
 
 " But you do like him," said Roger, watching his wife 
 with affectionate amusement, "or you would not ask him 
 here so often." 
 
 "I haven't exactly asked him," said Jane, helplessly, 
 "but he has come, and keeps coming." 
 
 She spoke rather as if she were complaining of the con- 
 stant coming of spring showers, over which she had no sort 
 of control. 
 
 " Every day but one, — no, that's an exaggeration, — every 
 day but two, while you have been away, he has been here. 
 There generally seems to be a reason, something about 
 South London and Anne's house there." 
 
 "You don't mean to say that she has taken a house 
 already?" 
 
 83
 
 The Liglit Behind 
 
 " No, but they have chosen a house. They went down 
 there and met Miss Brownson, who works there, and is 
 very anxious to have a settlement, and they chose a house, 
 and they have made out about the taxes and drains, and 
 all that sort of thing. If papa allows it, Anne and Miss 
 Brownson will go into it next October." 
 
 ** Is it all about South London ? " asked Roger. 
 
 "No, he comes about South London, and he stays and 
 reads to us. Then, if I have to go and see after baby, he 
 goes on reading to Anne. Anne says that he is making 
 her understand Cardinal Newman for the first time, and 
 she has only known Mr. Dacre for three weeks." 
 
 " Oh, then it is all right," said Roger. " You know even 
 I managed to read aloud to you before we were engaged, 
 but I certainly never arranged for you to live with a Miss 
 Brownson." 
 
 " No," said Jane, with a sigh half suppressed. 
 
 How difficult it is sometimes to speak even to a husband, and 
 even when that husband is such a perfect specimen as Roger ! 
 
 "Modern people get intimate in that sort of way very 
 easily," she said at length. 
 
 "I don't see why you should be worried," said Roger, 
 half impatiently, for it seemed as if Jane could never be 
 without a magnified worry. " If they do like each other, 
 it is all right; he is of a good family and likely to get on in 
 life. He seems to be a perfect Providence, for Anne is 
 hard to please, much harder than you were." 
 
 " Darling," said Jane, indignantly. 
 
 "Well, it is no use protesting; in the matter of my nose 
 for instance you were not exacting. Now, this youth — but 
 hang it, here 's a visitor, I '11 slope." 
 
 The footman advancing from the house told Jane that 
 Mr. Biddulph was in the drawing-room. 
 
 81
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 "Oh, if itisBiddulph, I '11 go and fetch him," said Roger. 
 " Order fresh tea, Jane," and he strode across the grass. 
 
 Mr. Biddulph had not been long established between the 
 couple before he asked for Anne. 
 
 "She and Mr. Dacre are reading somewhere," said 
 Roger, easily, but Jane had a look so solemn and charged 
 with meaning that Biddulph made a mental note of the 
 situation. 
 
 " He is a capital fellow," he said; " so keen and full of 
 life. I don't know any young man at this moment of whom 
 one might expect more." 
 
 " Do you really think so ?" cried Jane; "but of course 
 you would n't say it if you did n't. But you do like him 
 and quite trust him, too, don't you ? " 
 
 Her dark eyes, made darker by the lines of ill-health 
 about them, touched Mr. Biddulph's tender sympathies. 
 
 " I have only known him for a few weeks certainly," he 
 answered very gravely, "but I do like him and I think I 
 trust him, though I know how young and unformed he is. 
 The ease with which he falls in with new ways and new 
 people is greatly because of this. But, Lady Jane," smil- 
 ing as he put his fourth lump of sugar in his tea, " there is 
 a venture in all trust, and when there is a fair cause for 
 trust, we must venture those we love even as we have ven- 
 tured ourselves." 
 
 Jane's eyes glistened. 
 
 "Thank you," she said, and then in nervous haste: "I 
 dare say there is nothing in this; we may be quite wrong." 
 And appealing to him with questioning still in her eyes: 
 " Looking on at love, I suppose, is the most difficult thing; 
 it is like watching dancing through a glass door." 
 
 "You are altogether too anxious-minded," said Biddulph, 
 kindly. 
 
 85
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 " I know," said Jane, *' and that is depressing for Roger," 
 
 "And then you get more depressed because of depressing 
 him, and so that makes him worse, which makes you worse, 
 and so on, ad infinitum y 
 
 "Until it is a marvel," said Jane, laughing, "that after 
 all we are so astonishingly happy." 
 
 " Still it is a mistake," said Biddulph, smiling back again; 
 " I can't make out why happy people's hearts don't get too 
 big for little things to worry them." 
 
 "I think it is plain enough; the big sorrows swallow up 
 the little things, but the little things are so much more to 
 the happy people — like the crumbs in a comfortable bed, 
 you can't forget them. But you know you have wandered 
 from the point; worrying about little things is quite differ- 
 ent from being anxious about the people one loves. 
 Happiness must make you anxious-minded, for if you have 
 great and precious things to lose, you must feel terribly 
 frightened about them." 
 
 "Yes," said Biddulph, in a low voice, "and when once 
 they are safe with God, whatever else we feel, it is not 
 anxiety." 
 
 Jane was silent with the silence of understanding, for she 
 knew he was thinking of his wife. 
 
 After a moment, a slight noise on the gravel made them 
 look round and see Anne, followed by Henry Dacre, com- 
 ing towards them. Jane had a momentary impression of 
 something being wrong, before Anne had smilingly greeted 
 Mr. Biddulph. 
 
 "And Lady Cheriton is not coming to London yet," he 
 said presently. 
 
 " So I shall miss her," said Jane, " as we are going abroad 
 early in June to please a tiresome London doctor who wants 
 to separate me from my children."
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 "Because you worry so much," said Mr. Biddulph. 
 
 ** I suppose so, though I think the allusion is mean." 
 
 "Are you going with her?" he asked Anne, who was 
 standing by the table helping herself to tea. 
 
 "No, I am going to stay with Muriel Cheriton and be 
 dissipated." 
 
 Jane, who was on the alert to a morbid degree, was 
 watching Henry Dacre. He looked up suddenly, spilling 
 a little cream into his saucer. 
 
 "Are you ? " he cried eagerly; "when is that to be ? " 
 
 " I don't quite know," said Anne, a little stiffly, turning 
 from him towards Mr, Biddulph, 
 
 "When is Lady Cheriton coming up?" he asked Jane, 
 in the same quick way. 
 
 "She is rather vague about her dates," said Jane. "If 
 she is not up before we go, Anne must join her at Cheriton." 
 
 Dacre was silent, Jane thought he was listening to the 
 other two, but she owned to herself that she was in that 
 exasperating state of mind, which most people know at 
 times, when the least word or gesture seems fraught with 
 hidden meaning. She would have given much to penetrate 
 into the mind behind the well-formed head and deep, dark 
 eyes. They worried her now with a kind of negation, an 
 absence of response in their very excellence, like the 
 negative qualities of a Greek statue, that presents Manhood 
 and Youth with capital letters rather than one suffering or 
 rejoicing fellow creature. 
 
 Did Anne feel this in him too ? 
 
 Anne was sitting in a low chair, talking eagerly to Mr. 
 Biddulph, her voice a little louder than usual and her face 
 a little paler, 
 
 "It 's all very well," he said, "but how many of you 
 really understand Newman ? It aggravates me to hear you 
 
 87
 
 The LigJit Behind 
 
 people boasting of him without understanding what he 
 said." 
 
 ** We may not understand," said Henry, his eyes lighting 
 up, and the irregularity of nervous movement breaking the 
 artistic effect of the face, " but many of us are talking New 
 man without knowing how far he may take us." 
 
 "Yes," said Anne, "he has revealed our thoughts to 
 ourselves, though we can't grasp his." 
 
 Dacre gave her one quick glance of admiration, but she 
 did not look his way. 
 
 *' I am in a path in a strange land, beset with dangerous 
 natives," said Biddulph, looking from Anne to Henry, " but 
 yet I maintain that many of your people — you Catholics I 
 mean — don't understand Newman and would be more 
 afraid of him if they did." 
 
 "Any living organism shrinks from analysis," said Henry; 
 "it is like vivisection," 
 
 Mr. Biddulph threw back his head and laughed. 
 
 "That is an ingenious explanation of the dislike ecclesi- 
 astical authorities have of being reminded of the rights of 
 the Ecclesia disc ens." 
 
 "It is not ecclesiastical authorities, as such," said Henry, 
 "but the men of practical minds who shrink from theories 
 as to the constitution of Church or State. Don't you know 
 how certain English officials connected — shall we say — with 
 the Treasury, are bothered at any analysis of its workings, 
 however true ? They feel the sufferings of vivisection, and 
 so the conventional theologian, even more than the eccle- 
 siastical superior, shrinks from being analysed and located 
 to his proper position in church history." 
 
 " I wonder," said Biddulph, with a twinkle, " how New- 
 man would have analysed and located you and Lady 
 Anne."
 
 "~ ■n»ii»iiiiii|iii ipm mi 
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 "Oh, he would have been dreadfully bored by us," an- 
 swered Henry, quite unconscious of the double meaning, 
 " and he would have snubbed us well if we had given him 
 the chance." 
 
 Biddulph had risen as he spoke, and they walked with 
 him towards the house, Henry and Lady Anne falling be- 
 hind the others as they went. Anne's face was bright 
 again, and as her laugh and Henry's eager tones followed 
 them, Biddulph smiled encouragement at Lady Jane. As 
 usual, when he perceived anything, his mind jumped 
 rapidly to a conclusion. Jane shrank slightly from the 
 broad, simple confidence as to her sister's friendship with 
 Dacre, but she felt the warmth of the kindness, blunder 
 though it might. 
 
 After that day, Jane spoke no more on the subject, 
 even to Roger, and Mr. Biddulph was too busy to come 
 down again, his evenings being devoted to an old friend 
 who was ill. But Henry Dacre came and went with the 
 ease and unconsciousness of a friend who had known them 
 from childhood, or who had some work in common with 
 them to be carried out. It could hardly be the plans for 
 South London, for it was agreed that no more could be 
 done until Lord Massingham came home. Was it perhaps 
 the study of Newman, or did she want to read the proofs 
 of the rejoinder, which the editor of The Nineteenth Century^ 
 with his known appreciation of coming talent, had permitted 
 Henry to give to his opponent in political economy ? What- 
 ever it was, Henry came, and manifestly enjoyed himself, 
 whereas Jane saw a little cloud growing on Anne's brow, 
 till it overshadowed the blue eyes and betrayed its influ- 
 ence in her manner. It could not be seen while the visitor 
 was present, but it seemed to come especially just after he 
 had left, which was usually during the children's hour. It 
 
 89
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 was new for Anne to be irritable or selfish in little things, 
 but now she was sometimes cross to the children, and she 
 forgot her old habit of sending Jane to rest and keeping 
 Muriel herself. Roger showed a dim, brotherly perception 
 of something being wrong, and suggested long bicycle rides 
 in the cool of the evening, at which Anne grasped joyfully, 
 Roger did not tell his wife, who he felt had the subject 
 of Anne on her nerves, how silent those rides were, or 
 what a curious expression of seeking relief Anne wore, 
 as she sped down the long hills drinking in the summer 
 breezes. For dealing with the hardly conscious suffering 
 of a mind which shrinks from knowing its own future, 
 the hand of the most loving is too heavy. Only Nature has 
 caught from its Maker the secret of how to touch the bruised 
 reed and the smoking flax. 
 
 90
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 LADY CHERITON COMES TO LONDON 
 
 ALTHOUGH Dacre managed to find time for so many 
 visits to Cobden, these weeks were the fullest and, 
 in one sense, the happiest of his life. It was glor- 
 ious weather too, and not oppressively hot; and from early 
 morning, when he would bicycle down to South London, 
 to make or more often to cancel some engagement with the 
 workers there, to the constant evening rides to Cobden and 
 the short walks back to his rooms from a party, or a ball, 
 Nature alone might have filled him with her summer joy. 
 He had not dwelt on social success as much of an element 
 in life, but had regarded it more as an accompaniment and 
 a background than an aim in a man's existence. But it 
 was pleasant, very pleasant, to imagine that all the walks 
 of life were open to him, not from position or wealth, but 
 from some personal gift or attraction, some natural social 
 power of his own. 
 
 He quite knew how much was due to Lady Cheriton, to 
 Colquhoun, and to Mr. Biddulph; but his success was 
 certainly quite as much due to his own gifts, for which his 
 friends had given him the opening. He was living many a 
 "crowded hour of glorious life," and was in no mood to 
 analyse it. He was too young in mind, too vigorous and 
 careless, not to be making enemies as well as friends, a 
 danger he quite ignored. 
 
 91
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 *' What excuse has the fellow got for looking so d- 
 successful ? " 
 
 It was Colquhoun who said that to Mrs. Murdock one 
 afternoon in Piccadilly. Mrs. Murdock had stopped her 
 Victoria to speak to him, Colquhoun's figure looked very 
 young, and his face very old, as with one foot raised to the 
 step of the carriage, he was graciously accepting an invita- 
 tion pressed upon him in faintly Parisian English. 
 
 Past them in a hansom cab came Henry Dacre, wholly un- 
 perceiving of sublunary things, wrapped in some day-dream 
 of his own. He had just come from the House of Commons, 
 and his imagination had been fired by the simple process 
 of taking a private message from Mr. Biddulph on some 
 exceedingly dull question of detail, to a Member of the 
 House. Dacre had been kept waiting about the lobby, 
 which was nearly empty; and had had perforce to fall back 
 upon the Treasury messengers for some outlet, by ordinary 
 conversation, for the oppressive historical sense of the 
 place in which he stood. Burke, Fox, Pitt, Disraeli, 
 Gladstone, jostled each other, about him, while the statue 
 of Cromwell seemed to ask him in religious accents if the 
 blood of the best of kings had been more than a fitting 
 sacrifice. At last the member asked for had appeared, 
 too bored and sleepy that hot afternoon to be surprised 
 at the intensity of the accents of Biddulph's new secretary. 
 
 "By Jove, it 's an aesthetic improvement," the member 
 had muttered to himself, as he went back to his seat. 
 
 He was thinking of poor Whitehead's nose and chin, and 
 contrasting them with those of his successor. 
 
 Meanwhile Dacre had briskly left the House; he had 
 an appointment with a remarkable political economist who 
 lived in South Kensington, and he had to look out a book 
 for Mr. Biddulph in the London Library. A good hansom 
 
 9d
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 took him well on his way, and what beats a hansom for 
 exciting the sense of life and movement in the London 
 streets ? Lamb cried for joy as he stood aside to see life 
 pass, Dacre, moving with it and in it, laughed within his 
 soul for pleasure. 
 
 He had taken off his hat, and was sitting a little forward 
 in the hansom, unconsciously attracting a good many 
 glances, for in the picture-gallery of the streets this might 
 well pass for a masterpiece. To Mrs. Murdock and to Mr. 
 Colquhoun it was unpleasant, and so the latter said shortly 
 the words already quoted: 
 
 "What excuse has the fellow got for looking so d d 
 
 successful ? " 
 
 "Because he is Mr. Biddulph's secretary?" said Mrs. 
 Murdock, interrogatively. 
 
 " I wish we could all be as contented with the gifts the 
 gods send us," said Colquhoun. 
 
 "Ah, but he is to do great things; he told Lady Chariton 
 so. 
 
 " Really one is glad to know," said Colquhoun. 
 
 "And is it nothing to have made such a conquest 
 already ? " 
 
 She nodded her farewell, and left Colquhoun something 
 io think about, as he walked his smiling and bowing way to 
 Grosvenor Place. A new idea had occurred to him. He 
 did not see his way yet. But that night, meeting Dacre 
 when dining en famille with Lady Berringfield, he was 
 more friendly, more paternal and encouraging than ever. 
 
 Lady Berringfield liked Colquhoun because her son liked 
 him; and her son liked him because he amused him in many 
 ways that the mother would not have liked at all, only of 
 course nobody told her. 
 
 Dacre had news for Colquhoun, for he had been down 
 
 93
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 to Cobden before dinner, and they told him there that 
 Lady Cheriton was at last coming up. Horace piqued 
 himself to a quite curious extent on knowing more about 
 the Cheriton couple than anybody else, and it was so taken 
 for granted that this was the case that Lady Berringfield 
 said to him in a voice of surprise: 
 
 *' Mr. Dacre says that Muriel Cheriton is coming up this 
 week. Surely you told me yesterday that she was not very 
 well, and had decided to stay at Cheriton another fort- 
 night ? " 
 
 " Well, so Cheriton told me." 
 
 " Perhaps Mr. Dacre is mistaken. Ask him." 
 
 Colquhoun, looking across the table, interrupted Dacre, 
 who was sitting between the two Miss Arbertons, the 
 daughters of the house, with whom he was very intimate. 
 
 "Dacre," he said, "did you say Lady Jane had heard 
 from Lady Cheriton that she was coming up this week ? " 
 
 "Yes, she had a letter this morning, — no, yesterday 
 morning. She told me so yesterday, and they spoke of it 
 again to-day." 
 
 " He is a day-boarder at Cobden," said one sister to the 
 other, in a mock whisper across Dacre, who suddenly 
 coloured perceptibly even to Colquhoun's limited vision, 
 
 "He has heard from her himself," he thought, "and 
 won't say so." 
 
 Meanwhile the other Miss Arberton had taken up the 
 ball. 
 
 " Lady Jane Haselton, though rather plain, has a fas- 
 cination of her own, I believe." 
 
 "She 's delightful," said Dacre, trying to speak natur- 
 ally, but confused in mind by many thoughts. Had he 
 really been nearly every day at Cobden ? Ought he to go 
 so often ? What did they think of it down there ? 
 
 94
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 But at the same time Lady Berringfield began to talk 
 about the Massinghams with Colquhoun. 
 
 " Poor girls," she said, with a touch of contempt, " nice 
 girls, especially that pretty one that died." 
 
 " Most people think Lady Anne the best looking, and 
 she will have some money from her uncle." 
 
 " Jane was the odd one. She has made a very bad mar- 
 riage, has n't she ? " 
 
 "Hardly enough for bread and butter, — bread and 
 scrape, I imagine." 
 
 "But why is Anne to have money?" Then, throwing 
 something to the dog that was teasing her, "Is it anything 
 much ?" 
 
 "Old John Massingham left his money to the second 
 daughter, because he thought Jane would have her mother's 
 money. But she left it to Eglinton, the eldest son. It is 
 only about ;^2ooo a year, and she won't have it till she is 
 twenty-five." 
 
 The words reached Dacre, and added to his confusion of 
 mind. All this was news to him. 
 
 " Very comfortable," said Lady Berringfield, kindly. " I 
 should like to see Anne again. I used to like her mother." 
 
 She turned to take a scrap of paper from a salver offered 
 to her. She started up, and spoke across her guests to her 
 two daughters. 
 
 " Muriel Cheriton has come, — is here, upstairs." 
 
 Lady Berringfield was quite excited, excused herself 
 rather hastily to her guests, and disappeared. Dacre was 
 startled, but his mind ran on the theme already started — 
 Cobden, Lady Anne, and the fact that it was possible, 
 nay, practicable, for her to marry a poor man. Then there 
 had been no barriers, and therefore what must be thought 
 of his frequent visits there ? He saw that something had 
 
 95
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 made the Arbertons quickly drop the little joke about 
 Cobden. At first, his question of what was the state of 
 things, what impressions he was giving rise to at Cobden, 
 held him independently of any other thought. He was 
 not happy or unhappy, he was only breathless. 
 
 Meanwhile, Lady Berringfield had flown up-stairs, holding 
 her heavy skirts with one hand. As she came into the long, 
 dimly lighted drawing-room, she saw the tall, thin figure 
 dressed in some softly flowing gown, standing by the open 
 window with her back turned to her, the whole attitude a 
 tired and weary one, almost as if the effort of self-support 
 was being abandoned. Tramps sometimes look like that. 
 It was only until she heard the rustle of Lady Berringfield's 
 garments. Then she turned hastily. 
 
 Lady Berringfield and Lady Cheriton were on the exact 
 footing of intimacy that suited Muriel. They told each 
 other the troubles, follies, and sins of their acquaintance, 
 their difficulties with clergymen, villagers, agents, servants. 
 But Lady Berringfield rarely mentioned, and that only 
 casually, the dead husband whom she had loved, and Lady 
 Cheriton talked glibly — just as she talked to the world at 
 large — of the husband who did not love her. And their 
 affection for each other was real, but not deeper than 
 their intimacy. 
 
 "Yes, I came up in the end sooner than I intended. 
 The fact is, Susan, that I have come up to see a doctor. 
 Don't be alarmed; I 'm not. And don't speak of it, in case 
 it should get round to Cheriton. It is poor old Jinks, the 
 doctor at home, who is getting past work, and who has for 
 years wished to have me in hand. And now he has got 
 me, it seems too much for his nerves." 
 
 Lady Berringfield led her by the hand, as she spoke, down 
 the room, looking at her rather anxiously. Lady Berring- 
 
 96
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 field, the large, decorous, plain-featured, substantial matron, 
 seemed by contrast to make the other appear thinner and 
 more delicate. 
 
 " I begin to see," said Muriel, sinking into a chair near 
 the open window at the far end of the long drawing-room, 
 "what an amusement and interest health may become as 
 one gets older! To be so interested in one's temperature 
 prevents monotony. And I begin to understand how you 
 and your sisters can talk about your insides for hours 
 together." 
 
 It was said a little impertinently, and Lady Berringfield, 
 who generally gave the other her own way, saw that it 
 would not do to enter upon the fascinating subject of 
 symptoms. But she could not resist saying: 
 
 "I don't like temperatures." 
 
 Muriel turned her head languidly on the back of the chair. 
 
 **But you see I find them quite amusing. Well, how is 
 Berringfield getting on ? " 
 
 Of course the mother flowed after that. 
 
 " So you think Horace a good friend for him ? " 
 
 Muriel's voice was reserved and puzzled. 
 
 "Yes," said Lady Berringfield, cheerfully; "I am so 
 glad the boy has taken to a sensible, elderly man of the 
 world, and a friend of yours. By the way, we like your 
 new friend immensely." 
 
 ' ' Do you mean Mr. Dacre ? ' ' 
 
 " Is n't he quite charming ? The girls are devoted to 
 him. Here they come." 
 
 The girls approached Muriel with a pretty glow of en- 
 thusiasm. They were young, fair, unremarkable, but 
 thoroughly self-confident, cheery, and worldly. They 
 could be trusted safely with penniless youths, however 
 handsome. 
 
 97
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 "Whom are we devoted to, mother? Are you telling 
 tales?" 
 
 "Mr. Dacre." 
 
 "Ah, that is a sad tale, indeed; our little feelings are 
 quite in a flutter. We have made a discovery during 
 dinner. The handsome youth is in love." 
 
 The two sisters sank together on a low settee near 
 Muriel, clasped hands, and looked commiseration at each 
 other. Lady Cheriton gave a little start and sat up, full of 
 interest. 
 
 "Already? Dear me, how these boys spoil their lives 
 just when one is trying to do one's best for them! Who is 
 it?" 
 
 The eldest Miss Arberton went on with a little air of 
 apology: 
 
 "Really, it is only some nonsense. I was forgetting at 
 the moment. I am afraid I have been rather indiscreet." 
 
 Lady Cheriton looked impatient. 
 
 " They mean your cousin, Anne Massingham." 
 
 "Anne?" cried Lady Cheriton; * how very amusing! 
 But are you sure ? ' ' 
 
 " We are sure of nothing," said the elder sister. 
 
 "If he were not so young, it would be delightful," said 
 Muriel, so seriously that the girls wished that nothing had 
 been said. 
 
 " Did you hear the absurd story of Berringfield being 
 engaged?" asked his mother. 
 
 " No, to whom ? " 
 
 And they left the other topic alone. 
 
 When the three men came up-stairs, Lady Cheriton, after 
 a slight greeting to Colquhoun, turned, with her face lit up 
 with smiles and interest, to Henry Dacre. It was to her a 
 great pleasure to see him, and she did not conceal it. For 
 
 98
 
 TJie Light Behind 
 
 the moment Dacre thought of nothing but her, and the 
 sense of being faintly dazzled by her came over him again. 
 Moreover, he was now convinced that there was real and 
 proved friendship between them; he had not been to her 
 the pastime of a brief country-house visit; he had mis- 
 judged, had been morbid and foolish. But he recognised 
 how high stood her reputation as a good and strong 
 woman in her own world, and there was a touch of repara- 
 tion in the homage of his greeting. 
 
 "I want so much to have a talk," she said. "Susan, 
 may I take Mr. Dacre out on your balcony ? " 
 
 From her manner, Mr. Dacre might have been a little 
 boy whom she intended to amuse. Colquhoun, sitting by 
 the Miss Arbertons, put the glass into the wrinkles of his 
 face, and looked at her. 
 
 " New emeralds, Lady Cheriton ? " 
 
 "Old ones reset," said Muriel, fingering the long chain 
 of jewels that fell over the misty folds of something coloured 
 like dust or cafd au lait. "Is not the setting well done, 
 Horace?" 
 
 "Exquisite. Philips, I see," said Colquhoun, bringing 
 the chain to the level of his near-sighted eyes. 
 
 "She is thinner," he thought, "and flushed. She is 
 certainly changed." 
 
 He drew back to let her pass to the window, and Dacre 
 followed her. 
 
 Lady Cheriton seated herself in a large wicker chair 
 covered with red, and drew a long breath. 
 
 "There is some air out here," she cried. Then, with 
 the sweetest sisterly interest, " Do tell me about everything 
 since I saw you at the Murdocks." 
 
 "It is a large order," he said, — "thanks to you, more, 
 many more thanks than I can say. It is a very large order, 
 
 99
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 indeed. If I ever do anything, it will be owing — " he 
 could not say more; he felt almost as if she were some- 
 thing sacred and apart at that moment; her influence on 
 his life, the power she seemed to possess over other men, 
 and her beauty seen again, realised again, made him 
 nervous. Just as his imagination was fired by the thoughts 
 that thronged in upon him in the lobby of the House, so it 
 became fired now with the notion that here was one of the 
 great women who send men out to affect the life of nations 
 or to inspire great thoughts. But it was only for a moment. 
 Then he went on telling her everything about his work, his 
 hopes, and very much about Mr. Biddulph. 
 
 "He does n't give me enough to do," he said inciden- 
 tally. 
 
 " But Mr. Whitehead was busy enough." 
 
 "Yes; I can't understand it." 
 
 "Mr. Biddulph's private charities took most of Mr. 
 Whitehead's time." 
 
 "Why, that 's it, then!" cried Dacre, looking a little 
 hurt; " I don't know anything about them." 
 
 "Oh, it 's not easy," Lady Cheriton smiled; "the dear 
 man made it very hard at first for Mr. Whitehead to find 
 them out, and really some of them are very foolish." 
 And she laughed. 
 
 "I 've been too full of my own affairs, I 'm afraid," 
 said Dacre, candidly and sadly. 
 
 "He would have been just the same with anybody at 
 first," said Muriel. " You need only tell him that you are 
 hurt, and it will be all right." 
 
 All this time, he had not alluded to Cobden; Muriel 
 waited, but still it did not come. 
 
 "I hear you have been often at Cobden," she said at 
 last. 
 
 100
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 Dacre's colour rose; then she had heard it, too. 
 
 "Yes," he said, " ahnost every day. Lady Jane is so 
 kind, and what a delightful place it is ! It is such a relief 
 on a hot evening to get out of London." 
 
 "And how do you like Anne ? " 
 
 She turned as she spoke and looked at him. Dacre was 
 sitting on a lower chair than hers. To his own surprise, 
 he found himself looking straight up to the dark eyes and 
 answering their question with his own. And such a fateful 
 answer, one he had not yet given to himself, for he knew 
 that he was telling her quite plainly that he wanted to love 
 Anne, if she would give him permission. 
 
 "I am very glad," she said, and turned her eyes away 
 to the dark of the opposite park. 
 
 "Do you think — ?" she asked, presently, in quietly 
 spoken, detached words. 
 
 " I don't dare think yet," he said. 
 
 "Well, I shall hope for you," she said very gently. 
 " Oh, it might be so happy," and then, in a voice that cut 
 him to the quick: " I love to see happiness. I should love 
 to see yours and hers." 
 
 It was so detached, so sad, that tone of hers, that an 
 immense wave of compassion came over him, an over- 
 whelming sense of the contrast between his life and hers. 
 His own seemed cast in some Dantesque, earthly paradise, 
 with Anne for Beatrice; a dim, accessory figure, perhaps, 
 but full of light — and hers ? He could not endure to think 
 of it; he was almost kneeling beside her now. 
 
 "We should be cousins," she said kindly, and moved 
 her hand a little away from him; she did not wish him to 
 kiss it. 
 
 Colquhoun at that moment dropped the eyeglass that 
 had made some wrinkles into lines of pain, it had been 
 
 101
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 there so long; he saw that they had risen. Dacre came 
 back into the room with a great radiance on his face. 
 
 Lady Cheriton was left alone on the balcony. She 
 leaned her elbows on it, and rested her head. She had no 
 doubt, no misgiving that she was glad, and she felt relieved 
 on one point. Now all was well; she could help this new 
 friend freely — this career of his which seemed some outlet 
 for aspirations, ambitions of her own. This new ambition, 
 this new interest of helping Henry Dacre was quite safe 
 now. And then she faintly sighed. All that had passed 
 to-night was right, and she could rejoice in the joy that was 
 coming to Henry and to Anne, But it brought over her 
 afresh all the loneliness of her own life. 
 
 Anne was her favourite cousin. Henry was an untried 
 friend, but he gave promise of being a true and loyal one. 
 By becoming so much to each other, of necessity they left 
 Muriel more lonely. They could not be all in all to each 
 other without becoming less to her. Not that, as a matter 
 of fact, Anne had ever been very intimate with her cousin. 
 She and Jane often wondered whether any human being 
 were really intimate with Lady Cheriton. It was rather 
 the loss of an imagined joy, a possible resource, that Muriel 
 felt. Anyhow her friendship with Anne was the nearest 
 approach to family intercourse that she possessed. Mar- 
 riage — at least she thought so to-night — would probably be 
 a check upon it. 
 
 But as she stood on the balcony, in the curious quietness 
 that comes at moments in the midst of the greatest city at 
 night, a new thought dawned on her. Yes, she was alone, 
 quite alone. But could she ever have been otherwise ? If 
 she were in Anne's place now, if love were hers at its best, 
 would she not still, in her secret soul, in the mysterious life 
 of the spirit, have been alone ? She was feeling after a 
 
 102
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 truth more often found out in hours of happiness, in 
 full human joy, than in hours of solitary pain. It came 
 clearly to her that she owned a sacred life within her, 
 an unreclaimed country that no man had entered into, 
 could enter into; she trembled a little to think that no 
 human being ever had, ever would, ever could cross the 
 barriers of that territory. Even if human love had warmed 
 the atmosphere about it, love could never have possessed 
 that land itself. 
 
 The consciousness of the loneliness of the spirit of man 
 is a feeling which comes in different ways, at different dates 
 in men's and women's lives. It is not all a question of 
 happiness; the happiest, the best-loved realise it sometimes 
 more quickly than the others. It is those who have the 
 closest human intercourse, whose souls sometimes stand up 
 suddenly, and make them know that they are alone. To 
 the unhappy, to the unloved, it may come later, because 
 they often imagine it to be their own special misfortune to 
 be alone, and they idealise the human remedy, which they 
 have never known, and yet do not cease to hope for. But 
 at whatever age it comes, early or late, it is the end of 
 youth. It is the knowledge of what are the limits of 
 our being here, and when it comes as a Divine gift, it sets 
 awake within us a great yearning to break the barriers, 
 to reach the infinite. Is not this " the pain of finite hearts 
 that yearn " ? 
 
 Did this feeling come to Muriel that night as a reward 
 for a tacit, half-conscious sacrifice ? In those few moments 
 she passed through an overpowering awe into trembling 
 joy at the touch of the living Truth, Who, having made 
 her, could alone complete His own work and fill to over- 
 flowing the measure of her needs. 
 
 103
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 Yet how often do men and women come down from 
 Tabor, to find only confusion at the foot of the mount, and 
 as they are not saintly apostles they are quickly swallowed 
 up in that confusion, even adding to it by their own follies 
 and sins! So perhaps Muriel, when meeting the chilly 
 look of Colquhoun's eyeglass, came back to earth with a 
 shock. At any rate, she appeared to be her London self 
 again in a moment. 
 
 104
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 BUT 
 
 HENRY DACRE was waiting in the handsome cheer- 
 less drawing-room of Mr. Biddulph's house in Port- 
 land Place. He stood with his long hands clasped 
 behind him, and the fingers moving with a little nervous 
 twitch. 
 
 Morning had brought reflection, anxiety, questioning. 
 What had been in his mind as a vague future possibility, 
 not canvassed or examined into willingly, had taken shape 
 last night, almost without his own volition. He had dis- 
 covered that the world thought he was in love with Lady 
 Anne; and filled with sudden excitement, he had gone on 
 to confide that same love to Lady Cheriton. And surely 
 this was love, — the sense of her sweetness, the reverence for 
 her spiritual nature, the confidence in her heart. And yet 
 ought he to ask her for all this ? Had he the right ? The 
 right! Was it not a duty after last night; would it be 
 honourable now not to do it ? This was what he wanted 
 to think, — that he ought to do it. And why not ? If she 
 were richer than he, it was not very much. He had a name 
 as old as hers; he had the treasure of the same faith, to her 
 so priceless; and he had, too, that career, that future, in 
 which she believed as much as he did himself. There was 
 in him sufficient delicacy of soul to refrain from questioning 
 as to whether she loved him; he would not risk answering 
 
 10.-,
 
 The LigJit Behind 
 
 that query in the affirmative. So he might do it ? Why 
 not ? Why not ? 
 
 Mr. Biddulph's step was lighter than might have been ex- 
 pected. He came up and touched Henry's shoulder. Dacre 
 turned quickly, and smiled as few people saw him smile. 
 
 " What 's the matter ? " was the gruff question. 
 
 "The matter?" 
 
 "You look ill or idle." He laughed off the last word as 
 if he did not wish to force a confidence. 
 
 ** May I speak to you ? " 
 
 " By all means." 
 
 "I was thinking of proposing to Lady Anne Massing- 
 ham." 
 
 He was surprised at the change in Biddulph's face. 
 There was a look more tender and bright than he had 
 ever seen on the rough features before. Biddulph put his 
 hand on the young man's shoulder. 
 
 "I don't see why you should be hopeless," he said, 
 looking at him earnestly; " no man is good enough for that 
 kind of woman, but she may not think so herself." It 
 amused and touched him to have this confidence and to 
 see his favourite's handsome face so rueful. 
 
 " But, — " said Henry, and paused. 
 
 " But ? " echoed Biddulph, smiling. " Do you mean that 
 you want to go to Cobden this morning ? I 've no objec- 
 tion. Pluck up heart. I really do think it is an occasion 
 which justifies a stiff brandy and soda in the morning, if 
 necessary," 
 
 The smile on Dacre's pale face was faint. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " I will go now." 
 
 "God bless you; get along." 
 
 Henry rode his bicycle as one pursued, and it was in 
 
 106
 
 The Light BeJiind 
 
 barely an hour from the time he left Mr. Biddulph, that he 
 found himself waiting in the little anteroom at Cobden. 
 
 " I will stay here," he said to the footman who was leading 
 him to the drawing-room, after he had asked for Lady Anne. 
 
 He stood by the window that opened on to the lawn, pale 
 and a little dishevelled, his hands clutched and unclutched 
 in nervous, uncertain movements; and the footman, had 
 he followed the kind promptings of the fellow creature, 
 would have proposed the same remedy as that of Mr. Bid- 
 dulph — a brandy and soda. Lady Anne apparently could 
 not be found, and Henry began to turn about the little 
 room with long strides. It was stupid, he thought, to have 
 so much valuable china lying about; in his condition of 
 mind it would become a temptation to break it. Would 
 Anne never come? She ought to come; it was not like 
 her to delay. He felt dimly that angel guardians should 
 not keep people waiting. He watched the door, then 
 turned impatiently again, and saw that she was standing 
 in the window, coming in from the garden, a large hat 
 shading her high white forehead. She had many roses in 
 her hands, and their green branches trailed against her 
 white skirt. All at once, suddenly and sweetly, his agi- 
 tation was calmed. Light, rest, and peace exhaled from 
 her. Is there not in every man a whole side to his nature, 
 that thrills at times responsively to the entirely good wo- 
 man, — sister, wife, mother, Madonna, Mater Dolorosa if 
 need be t Henry felt this thrill, took it, as it were, home to 
 his own heart, and blessed the Maker of them both. He 
 pressed the fingers of his left hand on his forehead for a 
 moment, and as she saw how very pale he was, a rosy 
 colour crept up from the poised neck, till it flushed round 
 the cool wells of light in the blue eyes. Then she spoke, 
 but it was only to say: 
 
 107
 
 The LigJit Behind 
 
 ''How d'ye do?" 
 
 " I came," said Henry, and after this statement of a self- 
 evident fact, he was silent again. " May we go into the 
 wood ? " 
 
 "Yes," said Anne, gently, and began putting the roses 
 on an oak table near the window. 
 
 A long trail of thorny green caught on her gown. She 
 took hold of it, and tried in vain to disentangle it. Dacre 
 caught it, and in his nervous impatience, seeing that she, 
 too, trembled a little, pulled it almost roughly. A big 
 thorn caught in her white finger, and red beads of blood 
 rose from the scratch. Neither of them heeded it; they 
 were still silent. Only when in the wood did he speak; 
 and then, with a holier, humbler look than she had ever 
 seen in his face before, he asked her if she would be his 
 wife. 
 
 " Heaven knows," he said, with an energy of conviction, 
 " that I am not worthy of you." 
 
 And then she gave a low laugh that startled him. With 
 such a sound, perhaps, do the cherubs and the babies in 
 heaven laugh in unison with the great celestial harmonies. 
 It was so gentle, happy, and yet humorous, that it brought 
 him still further to himself. 
 
 " Do you mean that you could love me ? " he said. 
 
 " Why not ? " said Anne, very gravely now, and the words 
 seemed to catch his breath, for they were an echo of his 
 own. 
 
 He had supposed he would kneel down to kiss her hand, 
 but instead he bent and kissed her very reverently on the 
 lips, while he was conscious of a soul's effort to leave no 
 part of his nature unconsecrated by the action for ever, 
 yea, for ever and ever. For so do men purpose. And he 
 saw the happy tears well up in her eyes. 
 
 108
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 So they stayed in that wood, in a very perfect hour — an 
 hour that would be among those " happier things " that may 
 yet prove a sorrow's crown in remembrance. 
 
 " Great Heavens," said Mr. Biddulph, " is it de rigueur 
 on these occasions to slam doors ? If so, pray don't con- 
 sider me." 
 
 " I felt that I must come and thank you at once for the 
 happiest day of my life." 
 
 " It passes me to find out what you have done to deserve 
 her." 
 
 "And me also." 
 
 "By the way, what has become of the 'but' I heard 
 this morning ? " 
 
 "Was there a 'but'?" 
 
 109
 
 PART II 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 ANNE ALONE IN THE WOODS 
 
 HENRY was gone. Anne, after straining her eyes to 
 watch the last glimpse of the bicycle, as it sped 
 down a hill, some two miles away, let her head 
 sink on the gate. 
 
 What a relief that he had to go, and yet the pain was 
 there also! 
 
 " But I could not," she said to herself, " have gone with 
 him to Jane. I can do it alone, but not, dear love, with 
 him." 
 
 An expression came into her face that was new to it, for 
 which bitter is a word too strong and too defined. It 
 seemed as if the face were thinner, more lined, not with 
 age, but with the experience of a new lesson, learnt with 
 resistance and a sense of irony. There was a desolation, 
 an aloofness in the attitude of the graceful white figure 
 as she stood leaning on the gate. 
 
 " Why did he come now ? It is too soon, too soon," she 
 thought. " I did not think it would happen for a long time 
 yet. I thought ... I thought he would grow gradually, 
 perhaps for a year or more, to love me very much, and that 
 then he would do it — not now — but perhaps — Why do I find 
 
 110
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 it so hard to believe that it is all right ? I have let myself 
 trust to my instincts so often, that I am superstitious about 
 them. But it is n't fair, it is n't right. One ought to be- 
 lieve. Ah, if I did n't love him so terribly strongly as I do, 
 I think I could believe in his love for me. Oh, why must 
 I be stupid and unhappy and aching to-day, my engage- 
 ment day ? If only he had not come now, or if I had re- 
 fused him ! Years hence he might have loved me. But I 
 could n't help yielding to him to-day. What could I refuse 
 when that voice asked me? And did it not," she cried, 
 turning on herself, " look and seem true ? He was so pale, 
 so anxious; poor Henry! Pale and anxious, not because 
 he feared for my answer, but ... I hardly know 
 why. Could it be some fear of the future, or because a 
 man must feel like that when he has to propose ? Has to 
 propose! " 
 
 Anne buried her face in her hands, and her elbows 
 pressed hard on the five-barred gate. Tears came but 
 slowly and with burning. 
 
 She recalled how she had stood in the window in silence, 
 watching him before he knew that she was there, noting 
 his paleness, his restless, nervous movements, with a 
 strange joy, a feeling that overcame thought, and from 
 which doubt hid itself. The Henry waiting for her was 
 strangely, and yet as a matter of course, her own, and 
 their lives were surely bound together. And so she had 
 been happy. 
 
 Raising her head, and looking proudly into the slope of 
 the wood in the hills beyond, she claimed that day's happi- 
 ness. 
 
 But in a few moments the head sank again, as the in- 
 stinctive knowledge that she had had all along oppressed 
 her. The firm, gentle touch of his hand, and the infec- 
 
 111
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 tious light and strength of his eyes were gone, and without 
 him there to make her quite forget herself, she asked 
 with piteous hunger what else besides the joy of his pres- 
 ence he had to give her. 
 
 " If only, only I had refused him, I should have known 
 if he loved me. I should at any rate have roused him ; he 
 would have had to realise me, to know me. Now he is 
 like a man walking in his sleep, and I am his shadow, his 
 guardian angel." 
 
 The saddest of smiles lit her face. 
 
 "I am the ' good girl,' all that he could wish for, all that 
 he ought to have. He thinks it all so right, so appropriate. 
 Oh, why did I not have the strength to say ' No ' ? " 
 
 It would have been less hard to bear if she had believed 
 Henry Dacre to be incapable of love, to be one of those 
 men consumed by noble ambitions, who are often loved, 
 but have not the talent of loving very completely in return. 
 It would have been a defect in his character, but it would 
 have been less terrible for her than this strange conviction 
 of hers that he would love some day, but did not love now. 
 Poor Anne, who had not, from her childhood to her 
 twenty-third year, wasted her treasure of love on fancies 
 and follies, — had she hoarded it all for this ? But there is, in 
 the use of all our highest faculties, a mysterious joy that will 
 not be quenched. In spite of all, Anne might have grown 
 to a great sense of joy in loving, even as any one who does 
 w^hat he does supremely well knows the joy of so doing it, 
 had it not been for another element in her nature. Anne's 
 was a trained, educated conscience, and her ethical sense 
 hardly allowed a simplicity of passion. She must ask her- 
 self constantly: "Am I doing right?" "Have I done 
 right?" 
 
 And here the case grew more complicated, for though she 
 
 112
 
 The LigJit BeJiind 
 
 could not feel that she had actually done wrong, she could 
 not feel that the thing was wholly right. 
 
 When Henry Dacre had first seen her, a few short weeks 
 ago, she was kneeling before the altar, and her face was 
 to him a revelation of the light and peace in her soul. If 
 he had seen her on the evening of their engagement, even 
 he, taking her thoughts — herself — so easily, yet reverently, 
 for granted as he did, must have perceived the difference. 
 She was caught in the toils of her own human heart, yearn- 
 ing and fearing, rejoicing with tears of sorrow. 
 
 " Oh, my God," she prayed, " if I have done wrong in 
 promising, I need not go back; I must live with him, and 
 love him, and be his wife now. Only, dear Lord, if there 
 must be pain, if we are on the wrong road, don't let him 
 suffer for it, don't let me bring him harm and evil. You 
 made him to be something great in this world and the next; 
 don't let me stop him," 
 
 Peace would not come this time as it had come that 
 other evening. The lights and darks, the stormy atmosphere 
 of passion, held her too closely. Yet to men and women of 
 good will there are angels sent in all hours of pain of mind 
 or of body, though they may only give strength to bear, 
 not consolation to lighten the load. 
 
 113
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 RELIEF AND REACTION 
 
 LADY CHERITON did not sleep well after she had 
 talked with Henry Dacre on Lady Berringfields' 
 balcony. The air seemed stifling even in the large 
 rooms of her London house. It was one of those eighteenth- 
 century houses in which everything was sacrificed to the 
 reception rooms; and the few large bedrooms, inconven- 
 iently high up, were low and plain in design. The largest 
 had been fitted up, not with great taste, but with every 
 luxury, for Lady Cheriton, at the time of her marriage, 
 and had hardly been altered since then. Muriel had never 
 been much interested in the heavy, gorgeous house; and 
 after a few years she had grown to dislike it intensely. 
 In it had passed the most miserable hours of her early 
 married life. In it she had learnt what the world had to 
 teach to the deserted wife of Lord Cheriton. Her un- 
 happiest, her least good moods had been lived through 
 here, whereas her simplest, best, and kindliest feelings 
 had been mostly aroused in a comparatively quiet life at 
 Cheriton. 
 
 To-night she seemed hardly able to breathe, and she 
 longed for the fresh breezes from the hills that blew into 
 her bedroom in the high tower at Cheriton. 
 
 She tried to lie down, but she could not sleep, and then 
 she dozed off to wake with an uneasy start in the first light 
 of the June morning. 
 
 114
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 The house was very still, and a cooler air blew through 
 the open windows. Muriel felt nervous and wakeful. 
 Then she recognised her own fears, for it was to-day, — this 
 morning, — that she was to see the doctor. But the feeling 
 of fear left her as her mind became more clear in the still- 
 ness. The sense of awe was on her again. She got up 
 and lay on the sofa, where it would be cooler, and drew 
 over her a wrap lying there. Her hair was intolerably 
 heavy, and she drew it back and rolled it ineffectively into 
 a ball, from which it soon fell on her shoulders. Her 
 eyes were large and questioning, as though she would, if pos- 
 sible, make them see beyond their own limits and report to 
 her of the invisible. Have we not all at moments experi- 
 enced that intense sense of questioning — fate, life, and, 
 most of all, death, standing almost palpably about us till our 
 brains reel and we know nothing but a consciousness of 
 physical suffocation? But Muriel would not take nature's 
 relief, would not tell herself that she was faint and let her- 
 self sink into looking for physical comfort. No, she would 
 face these thoughts. How could she afford to give way 
 when questions so awful and so practical came before her 
 mind ? 
 
 If Dr. Jinks were right, and she had, possibly, to end 
 this life and to die, how was she to face death ? 
 
 It had often been very hard to see what to do in life, 
 but on the whole she had done her best to see what was 
 right and to do it. " On the whole," she thought, for lately 
 she had been less confident of herself and her motives, 
 more hard on her own past. It is always so when the soul 
 gains a wider horizon. Muriel could not now dwell with 
 any self-satisfaction on the victory of her youth, the re- 
 jection of the one man she had been tempted to love. She 
 shivered to think how nearly she had fallen. Would she 
 
 115
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 have kept right at all if it had not been for the friend who 
 had looked on — for Biddulph ? Those who have fallen 
 cling to the circumstances that can always excuse so much. 
 So too do those who are true conquerors give to the 
 accidents of their case a large share of the victory. 
 
 Yes, it had been hard often to know what to do in life, 
 but now she wanted to know what to do in prospect of 
 death. 
 
 There must be much to do. Death surely would not be 
 the only thing in life that needed no forethought, no wis- 
 dom, no strength. She had never seen a death-bed; she 
 had arrived too late to be with her mother at her death. 
 Still she had known that nothing had happened then and 
 that the poor worldly little mother had been warned by 
 nobody, and would probably have been very angry if 
 anybody had attempted to warn her of what was coming. 
 
 Muriel knew that the business affairs of this life should 
 be so left that nobody should suffer, and from her charac- 
 teristic wish to settle everything herself, she had long ago 
 done all such duties, and left all directions even for her 
 funeral. She had, too, a wonderful design by a great 
 sculptor of a mediaeval-minded tomb on which she and 
 Lord Cheriton were figured in marble side by side, that, 
 thus united in effigy, she might make her last protest 
 against scandal, her last effort to keep up both principle 
 and appearances. 
 
 " No," she thought now, " at the very worst,— and Jinks 
 only said it was a possible danger, — that is all finished." 
 But surely there must be more to do for herself. What 
 was it ? 
 
 She felt still the glow, the gleam that had entered her 
 heart in that strange moment after dinner on the prosaic 
 modern, red cloth-covered balcony. A pang of annoyance 
 
 116
 
 The Light BeJiind 
 
 came with the thought of the sudden transition that had 
 followed the rather ill-natured, rather sophisticated gossip 
 with Colquhoun and young Lord Berringfield, who had 
 come in afterwards. Now in the stillness of the dawn the 
 atmosphere of awe and reverence was about her again. 
 She felt the need to see her way more clearly, to respond 
 to that elusive light that sometimes shone from behind the 
 endless affairs of life, gleaming through the crowds of men 
 and women, as the light shines fitfully through a wood of 
 trees. If nothing in life mattered much in comparison to 
 those moments, bearing as they did the unuttered secret 
 of their own value, what must they mean to one who 
 perhaps was about to die before many weeks had passed ? 
 
 Muriel began to wonder as she lay there how the people 
 she knew and loved best would take the position she was in. 
 She tried to make out what they were really thinking in 
 their hearts, how they lived each in the solitude of his own 
 soul ? Her thoughts turned first to Mr. Biddulph, and with 
 quickened perceptions she realized in a new way how sad a 
 spiritual world he lived in. She felt that its motto would 
 be — *'Tho' He slay me yet will I trust in Him." A true 
 instinct told her that such a life was not for her, and could 
 only be meant for a heroic few. God spoke to Job out of 
 the whirlwind; Muriel sought to find him in the whisper of 
 a gentle air. 
 
 Mr. Merton, the clergyman at Cheriton, she loved and 
 looked up to, but he worried her with the insistence and in- 
 consequence of his detailed Ritualism. 
 
 Nor could she feel drawn to the religion of her Roman 
 Catholic cousins, although she envied it. The mists of the 
 modern spirit made her feel their definiteness of belief to 
 be crude, and more fitted to a child's mind than to her own. 
 Then, too, at the back of her consciousness had been 
 
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 The Light Behind 
 
 written the great Protestant tradition of the old-fashioned 
 schoolroom, that nothing good could come from Rome. 
 
 Yet when one of those cousins — Mary — had died not two 
 years ago, although she had not been present she had had 
 so many letters from Anne, and had seen the sisters so 
 shortly afterwards, that she had realised and had been 
 deeply impressed by very much of what had passed by the 
 death-bed. She had learnt enough to feel then and to feel 
 again now something of what has been well described by 
 one who was far from the faith of the Massinghams: — 
 
 " Meanwhile Laura realised the force of the saying that 
 Catholicism is the faith to die in, 
 
 " The concentration of all these Catholic minds upon 
 the dying of Augustina, the busy fraternal help evoked by 
 every stage of her via dolorosa, was indeed marvellous to 
 see. ' It is a work of art,' Laura thought, with that new 
 power of observation which had developed in her. ' It is 
 — it must be — the most wonderful thing of its sort in the 
 world!' 
 
 " For it was no mere haphazard series of feelings or 
 kindnesses. It was an act — a function — this ' good death ' 
 on which the sufferer and those who assisted her were 
 equally bent. Something had to be done, a process to be 
 gone through; and every one was anxiously bent upon 
 doing it in the right, the prescribed, way — upon omitting 
 nothing. The physical fact indeed became comparatively 
 unimportant, except as the evoking cause of certain symbol- 
 isms — nay, certain actual and direct contacts between earth 
 and heaven, which were the distraction of death itself — 
 which took precedence of it, and reduced it to insignifi- 
 cance." 
 
 And was not this what ^Muriel longed for now, those 
 " certain actual and direct contacts between earth and 
 
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 The Light Behind 
 
 heaven, which were the distraction of death itself — which 
 took precedence of it, and reduced it to insignificance " ? 
 Would not such a death be the completion, the making 
 actual of those moments of spiritual insight which she had 
 known from time to time lately ? 
 
 Still Lady Cheriton did not feel that her cousins' faith 
 could be in any sense possible for her, " If I had been 
 brought up to all their superstitions perhaps I should have 
 been happier, but it is impossible now." She shook her 
 head finally as if to close a discussion, and rose and moved 
 restlessly to the window and looked out. 
 
 The plane trees in the square below looked bright in the 
 glow of the early sunshine in spite of their black trunks. 
 It was intensely quiet, only an occasional market cart or 
 belated cab breaking the general rest, and the twittering 
 sparrows picking up the grain that had fallen on the cobbles 
 of the empty cab-stand, sounded quite noisy in the stillness. 
 
 In the morning the maid found Lady Cheriton sound 
 asleep. 
 
 In another hour she was at the doctor's, and in another 
 hour and a half she was saying to him: " Then you think I 
 may dismiss all thoughts of an operation ? " 
 
 " Certainly," and the great man smiled with the benevo- 
 lence of a paternally minded courtier at the beautiful 
 Countess. He was brown-haired, not yet middle-aged, 
 strong, square, and vigorous, with nothing exceptional in 
 his appearance except his hands, that were exquisitely 
 formed, and combined strength and delicacy of touch to a 
 marvellous degree. 
 
 119
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 "You are not strong, you know," he went on gently, 
 " and it would be foolish to give you the unnecessary strain 
 of such an operation." 
 
 " Why do you suppose that Dr. Jinks was so anxious?" 
 
 " I suppose. Lady Cheriton, that he was oppressed by a 
 sense of responsibility from the importance of the case 
 — and no wonder. His letters read as if he had your health 
 a little on his nerves." Muriel laughed, and her eyes were 
 merry; something within her sang with joy. 
 
 " Don't rush to the conclusion that you are perfectly well 
 and strong because Dr. Jinks's fears were groundless," he 
 went on. " I think you are overworked; you should really 
 make a point of getting plenty of rest." And then a few 
 minutes more were spent in giving and receiving excellent 
 advice, which both knew was not in the least likely to be 
 followed. 
 
 Only those who have been through the same experience 
 as Muriel can understand the sense of lightness that she felt 
 in mind and body. She was treading on air, hearing joy 
 bells ringing in her ears, detecting the smell of flowers from 
 afar, as she crossed the pavement to her carriage. 
 
 She was astonished at the degree of her relief after the 
 interview. Was life really worth so much, that his reassur- 
 ing words should bring such a reaction of joy and high 
 spirits ? Or had it been rather that death was so awful and 
 that a chilly fear had mingled itself lately in the web of 
 her difficult life ? Anyhow, happiness of any kind was to 
 be made the most of, — and, after all, was this happiness so 
 very unreasonable ? She was only thirty, very beautiful, 
 and she had the very best of all that toiling, thinking, 
 or talking London could give. Surely, as Colquhoun 
 had said to Dacre, the life of the Countess of Cheriton 
 had many compensations which Muriel did not under- 
 
 120
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 value. A thrill of life filled her heart as she drove home- 
 wards, and her slight figure and dark, exquisite face held 
 the light and fire that not many feel intensely, and fewer 
 still are capable of expressing. 
 
 But, meaning to find life happy, she was the less fit to 
 bear with the trials of the rest of the day. When she 
 reached home, a little over-excited and more tired than 
 she knew, she was told that the stud-groom wanted to see 
 her. Holmstead was a man whom she particularly liked 
 and trusted; who she knew was thoroughly loyal to herself 
 and extremely respectable; his family had been for three 
 generations in service at Cheriton. He had come to tell 
 her that his lordship had dismissed him suddenly, on the 
 ground that he intended to bring the race-horses to Cheri- 
 ton, and that the men who came with them would replace 
 the present grooms at the Abbey. 
 
 Holmstead's face spoke of suffering and hurt pride, and 
 a look of intense injury and helpless wrath deeply lined his 
 large features. 
 
 Muriel had a struggle for self-command. She had rarely 
 felt more angry, and she knew the cowardice that had done 
 this thing without her knowledge. Yet she decided with 
 the quick instinct of self-preservation that she must submit. 
 It was not a moment at which she could afford a losing 
 battle for the sake of poor Holmstead. 
 
 So with bleeding heart she let the man think that she had 
 known what he had come to tell her, and that Lord Cheri- 
 ton had himself told her of it, although in fact no com- 
 munication of any sort had passed between the husband 
 and wife since she had come to London. 
 
 Fearfully wounded and despairing, the old man under- 
 stood that she would not take his part, and with proud 
 humility he told her that nothing in the way of compensation, 
 
 131
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 no other post on the estates at Cheriton or elsewhere, 
 would be accepted by him. 
 
 She had been sitting at the writing-table, and he had 
 been standing at a little distance, the very picture of an 
 old type of family servant, respectful and self-respecting 
 also. He went away after a low, steady bow, declining 
 tacitly to enter upon any future plans of his own. 
 
 Muriel rose the moment he was gone, and strode up and 
 down the room with long steps, uncertain and hesitating. 
 She had been really fond of Holmstead, and had done all 
 that she could do for him for years. And now she knew that 
 he was ruined, too old in years and in ways to occupy any 
 good post in a really first-rate stable, and unfitted for a 
 small one. The thought, too, that she would not have him 
 any more, with his kind, strong eyes, eager to follow out 
 her wishes, and never failing in respect for his master, was 
 painful in the extreme. And he had seen and known so 
 much of their private lives. Was Cheriton mad, to drive 
 away all that was respectable and trustworthy from about 
 him ? 
 
 "Ah, it is on purpose," she groaned, as thought became 
 clearer. "It is another blow aimed at me. It is for my 
 sake that Holmstead is to suffer." 
 
 This complete revolution in the stables, without a word 
 of warning, the dismissal of a true servant and friend with- 
 out her knowing it, seemed to indicate some new and dan- 
 gerous plan of action. Hitherto Cheriton had been let 
 alone to go its own way, or rather to go hers. Would it 
 have been wiser to have shut her eyes to what went on at 
 Cobden, and not to try to keep it in hand at all ? 
 
 Muriel was seriously alarmed, and annoyed with herself 
 for being so. She had been through many a strait place 
 before, with a cool head and steady nerve. If her enemy 
 
 123
 
 The Light Behmd 
 
 saw her falter now, saw that she was nervous or anxious, 
 how mercilessly cruel his weakness could be! No, she 
 would not and could not betray any feelings or ask any- 
 thing as a favour. But was it certainly too late to take a 
 high-handed line and to insist on keeping Holmstead ? She 
 had carried such a point as that before now, by sheer force 
 of will. Should she risk it again ? It would be generous, 
 unselfish, a good action, and she had wished so keenly 
 lately to do some good in a life that had seemed, before the 
 great doctor reassured her, to be likely to be brief. Would 
 she do it for Holmstead ? 
 
 Tall and erect, with burning colour in her cheeks, she 
 looked just then exactly the beautiful presentation of will 
 and courage that Lord Cheriton both feared and hated. 
 Then the flash went out, and she sank back into a chair, 
 white and faint. 
 
 " He says the faintness will go off, if I do what he tells 
 me. I wish it would, it is so inconvenient." 
 
 She could only lie back with closed eyes, and a feeling of 
 nervous exhaustion, until luncheon time. But with the 
 physical support of food and wine the glow of courage did 
 not come back. Calm reasoning convinced her that she 
 must ignore the insult and affect indifference. She could 
 do no good now, and might do further harm; only for the 
 future she must be more vigilant, and be better informed 
 of what was passing at Cheriton. She would not again be 
 stabbed at in the dark. 
 
 It was altogether not such a very new experience to be 
 hurt in her best feelings, or to be humiliated; and pride 
 and determination brought her to much her usual self, by 
 the time she had dressed to go out to dinner, — only that self 
 was harder, more angry and combative, more greedy of 
 distraction and relief than it had been for some time. 
 
 133
 
 TJie Light Behind 
 
 Probably in any case Muriel would have reacted some- 
 what against the thoughts and feelings of the last week. 
 Back in London in the season, and suddenly relieved from 
 physical fear, she was likely to be caught in the current of 
 the life about her. She had lately had severe thoughts of 
 the world and its ways, and had judged harshly of the mo- 
 tives of even her good works, feeling as if a new spirit were 
 needed even in them. Now she felt vaguely irritated by 
 these ideas as unreal and unpractical, and half uncon- 
 sciously she put them from her. 
 
 Apart from this move of Lord Cheriton's, which roused 
 her to a determined spirit of combat, she was seldom at her 
 best in the same house with him, especially in London. 
 She could not forget for an hour the vices that made his 
 life an insult to her, while the large, heartless audience of 
 society was about her, gossiping and commenting thereon. 
 
 To-night Lady Cheriton had been asked to dine with Mr. 
 and Mrs. James Maurice, to meet a royal prince. It was a 
 house to which she went rather often now, although at one 
 time she had been careful to avoid it, for at one time she 
 had kr.own that she must keep at a distance all danger of 
 being seen with that distinguished statesman, Mr. James 
 Maurice. Now, dining there was a quite uninteresting and 
 ordinary event to her. 
 
 The royal prince was young and a little negative, but he 
 was delighted with Lady Cheriton, and, to talk to her, 
 almost abandoned Mrs. Maurice, one of the handsomest 
 women in London. 
 
 Mrs. Maurice was large, sumptuous, and golden-haired. 
 She was not an interesting woman, and had thrown her 
 husband into uncongenial society. James Maurice was at 
 this time the leader of the House of Commons, and his 
 bored face at race-meetings and other kindred amusements 
 
 134
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 was well known in the smart world. His wife had the sort 
 of attraction for Muriel that is often felt by rival beauties. 
 Moreover the husband was the one man who had ever in- 
 terested Muriel very much indeed. But that was very long 
 ago, a story only known to themselves and to Mr. Biddulph. 
 
 Later in the evening, when royalty had left, Mr. Maurice 
 stood talking with Lady Cheriton a little apart, and Mr. 
 Biddulph, appearing in the doorway, was imperiously sum- 
 moned to join them. 
 
 "I am asking her," said Mr. Maurice, smiling at Bid- 
 dulph, "whom she intends to put in at Cheriton. I hear 
 on good authority that old Snead will retire." 
 
 "Yes," said Muriel, "but he asked me not to tell you." 
 
 "Well, give us a decent member, and one who does not 
 talk more than old Snead did; his silence was a reliable 
 quantity." 
 
 And then they asked Biddulph his opinion on a new 
 tragedy, and the talk turned to things literary. 
 
 135
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE statesman's EVENING PARTY 
 
 THINGS sacred need quiet, silence, and shade for 
 their nourishment and stability. To Dacre the day 
 that had borne a sacramental peace and joy was to 
 close in a different atmosphere. He dined with Colqu- 
 houn, Lord Berringfield, and one or two others, and the 
 food reached a rare exquisiteness of good taste and refine- 
 ment, while the conversation was witty, in Colquhoun's 
 special style. 
 
 To hear Colquhoun talk among certain kindred spirits 
 was to hear a specialty, a brand of his own that he re- 
 frained from offering even to the most modern of modern 
 women. 
 
 "Are you going to the Maurices' to-night?" he asked 
 Dacre, as they were smoking after dinner. "I am taking 
 the unwilling Berringfield." 
 
 "Yes," said Dacre, "I think so." 
 
 " Berringfield has no sense of his duty to royalty. Come, 
 I will allow you one more cigarette, and then we go." 
 
 Lady Cheriton, as Dacre knew, was dining at the Mau- 
 rices', and he intended to look in there, to tell her of the 
 great event of the day. He would not stay long. He had 
 told Anne that he would go to Mass and Communion in the 
 morning, at half-past eight, as that was the hour at which 
 she would be going at Cobden. His evening so far had 
 jarred on him, but it was nearly over. 
 
 126
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 Berringfield, Colquhoun, and Dacre arrived before the 
 prince left, and Dacre stood about listlessly, waiting for his 
 opportunity. Once indeed Lady Cheriton nodded to him 
 in all friendliness, but with no summoning look. Left by 
 his two companions, who had entered the circle close about 
 Mrs. Maurice and her royal guest, Dacre felt a little lost 
 in the crowd. He realised, or fancied he did, what a 
 distance there was between himself and the great of the 
 earth, what a small hold he had upon this society, after 
 all the petting and flattery he had received these last weeks. 
 He felt how swiftly he could disappear, unobserved and for- 
 gotten. And then he remembered those words of Mr. 
 Biddulph: 
 
 "When a man grows fat or generally when he marries, 
 they forget all about him and " 
 
 Then there was a little bustle, and Dacre was jammed 
 against a door-post, and Lady Cheriton and Mrs. Maurice 
 and others tvere curtseying, and the prince was going, and 
 gone. 
 
 A gloom possessed Henry, and he turned instinctively to 
 question what might cure it. Why, to be indifferent, to be 
 
 independent of " the whole d d show," to live a life of 
 
 his own with Anne, and do a man's work for his country 
 without favour or flattery. A glow came into his heart 
 when he thought of these things. How few hours had 
 passed since that hour in the wood! Surely earth and 
 Heaven's best things could be had outside of this world of 
 society. It was good to have tasted it, to have a man's 
 knowledge of it, but it was essential to save your soul alive. 
 
 Mechanically now he watched Mr. Biddulph pass close 
 to him and join Muriel and Mr. Maurice at a little distance 
 from the throng. He wondered what they were talking 
 about; — he would go, it was nearly half-past eleven. He 
 
 127
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 began to move, when Lady Berringfield kept him for a mo- 
 ment. Then he turned again to go, when he was touched 
 on the arm. 
 
 " Dacre," said Biddulph's gruff voice, " Lady Cheriton 
 wants you. Don't tell her I have run away," and he pushed 
 past him smiling. 
 
 Henry moved quickly. 
 
 "This is Mr. Dacre," said Lady Cheriton, with her most 
 winning smile, and a little pleading in the manner with 
 which she presented him to the statesman. 
 
 Henry was tall and his eyes met those of the great man 
 on a level. The face that had seemed sallow in colouring, 
 irregular in design, and yet smooth in surface when looked 
 at from afar, did not improve on nearer view. It was still 
 a mask provoking the question whether the polished surface 
 concealed much reserved strength, or only betrayed a lack 
 of vitality and conviction. But as he smiled in greeting 
 him, Henry thought he had never seen a happier combina- 
 tion of a great man's manner with the bonhomie of a good 
 fellow. 
 
 "I am telling Mr. Maurice that you really know South 
 London." 
 
 "I know a little of real South London Irishmen," said 
 Dacre, " but I am afraid I am of no use beyond that." 
 
 " It led you to write an article that I read with much in- 
 terest," said Mr. Maurice, kindly, while Muriel smiled her 
 pleasure at him. " But nothing so deep is in question now. 
 It is only," and he leant his shoulders against the mantel- 
 piece behind him, " one of those nuisances, a bye-election, 
 and I 'm told there 's a large Irish vote going dead against 
 us. Why on earth," a little impatiently, " these people go 
 in for all that will destroy religious education and break 
 the power of the priests I cannot see." 
 
 l'^8
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 Henry Dacre talked a little earnestly but vividly of the 
 men and their conditions of life, and how from the wretch- 
 edness of their existence they had become the lawful and 
 proper prey of every agitator and anarchist. 
 
 " But why don't their priests do more ? " 
 
 Dacre detected a touch of antipathy in the tone. 
 
 " I might say why have the Anglican clergy, with num- 
 bers and wealth, not done more with their own poor ? No- 
 body realises our poverty and weakness as a body. We 
 have n't the men, and we certainly have not the money." 
 
 Dacre began alluding to some of the most striking results 
 of a statistical table he had made. 
 
 Mr. Maurice looked politely interested, but Dacre sus- 
 pected that he felt the intrusion of figures in the evening 
 as part of the boredom of a bye- election. He paused. 
 
 "Well," said Maurice, "you know these people. I am 
 going to speak there to-morrow night. Will you come and 
 talk to them as a Catholic ? It would be really useful." 
 
 Dacre's heart beat quickly; to be asked to speak on the 
 same platform, the same night, as the great man ! 
 
 " I shall be delighted," he said. " I will get," he con- 
 tinued, half glancing at Lady Cheriton, " my friends at one 
 of the Working Men's Clubs to come to the meeting." 
 
 "A good idea," said Maurice, graciously, as he moved 
 away. 
 
 " That is capital," cried Lady Cheriton, with a little air 
 of excitement, "and I can see that he likes you already. 
 Will you have time enough to prepare your speech ? " 
 
 " Oh, I shall do it to-night; I must go at once. Another 
 thing to thank you for, and I have much to tell you; might 
 I come to-morrow ? " 
 
 " Do, to-morrow at twelve, to rehearse the speech! I 
 have often done audience in that way before," and a 
 
 9 1?0
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 reminiscence of doing it to her host came to her mind 
 with a little pathos, but without any deeper sentiment. 
 
 Dacre hurried away, and, seated as soon as possible at his 
 table, began making notes for the speech. In the middle 
 of his work he paused and helped himself to a glass of 
 soda-water; drinking it, he glanced at the clock and saw 
 that it was nearly five. 
 
 Needless to add that it was late before he awoke with an 
 aching head that morning, and thought, with a movement 
 of regret, that Anne must be just then walking back from 
 Mass through the wood! — probably she was dressed in 
 white. He could see her passing between the trunks of 
 the silver birches, the white draperies, dappled in gold and 
 green reflections, looking up, perhaps, with her blue eyes at 
 the blue heavens. 
 
 But she would understand that he was obliged to sit up 
 last night to prepare that speech. How could he possibly 
 have got up early that morning to go to Mass ? As it was, 
 his head was aching. Blomfield, Mr. Maurice's secretary, 
 would soon arrive to give him directions as to the evening, 
 and he must rehearse the speech to Lady Cheriton at 
 twelve. Ah, he did long to do it well! It would be in- 
 tolerable to disappoint Lady Cheriton. 
 
 130
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 A SPEAKER OF NO MEAN ORDER 
 
 " T BELIEVE I have prepared too much," said Henry, 
 
 I wearily, but half laughing, as he leant back in Lady 
 Cheriton's brougham, his hat on his knees and one 
 hand pressed on his forehead; "I feel I have muddled 
 myself hopelessly." 
 
 "Try to think of something else, " said Muriel, brightly. 
 
 She wore a high black silk gown and small black velvet 
 bonnet, but while something suggested that she was dressed 
 for the evening, a man would not distinguish what made 
 the difference from day attire. A shimmering dust-cloak 
 of the colour of faded roses fell about her, softening the 
 effect of the rich black gown. Her eyes were bright and 
 her manner eager; it was a long time since she had been 
 so keenly interested, so roused out of her own life and 
 anxieties. 
 
 "Can you make yourself think of what you like?" he 
 asked, turning to her and trying to meet her glance, as a 
 street lamp flashed its light on them for a moment, 
 
 " Not always, but often" ; then, with a sigh, " but I have 
 practised managing my own mind for years. If you have 
 things you dare not think of, you must look elsewhere in 
 self-defence," and her voice trembled a little. If she had 
 intended to distract his thoughts from the coming meeting, 
 she could not have done it better. 
 
 They had spent much of the day together. She had 
 
 131
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 listened to three or four different plans for the speech, and 
 had inwardly trembled lest they should all emerge in one 
 hodge-podge. For although recognising the brilliancy of 
 some of the thoughts and their expression, and impressed 
 by the way he brought the facts home to her, she was far 
 too eager for success to be easily satisfied. She had planned 
 everything he should do during the day, had sent him out 
 for a good walk, made him eat a light but sufficient dinner 
 at her house, and now was bringing him with her to the 
 scene of action. 
 
 Muriel had never talked to him of herself before, but 
 just now, in this moment of excitement, she made the 
 effort, even as a stage-manager might go any lengths in his 
 efforts to send a young prima-donna on the boards in a fair 
 condition of nerves. They were crossing Battersea Bridge, 
 and could see how the dark river, with its endless sparkling 
 reflections, was trying to mingle lamplight in its own tragic 
 movement, as it bore onward the secrets of the great city. 
 
 " Do you ever notice, when you are at a party, how the 
 women look at chance moments, when they are not obliged 
 to speak and smile ? " 
 
 "No," said Dacre, with a boyish note of interest, while 
 he added to himself, "I have only watched you at such 
 moments, nobody else." 
 
 "Well, watch and see," said Muriel, "or rather don't 
 do anything of the kind. It is n't fair. My troubles 
 are too well known, and my world is too ready with the 
 only kind of pity it has in stock, for me to be willing to 
 gratify it by looking sad. And by force of not showing 
 things, I am sure that, to a great extent, you deaden your 
 power of feeling them. The curious thing is that you also 
 lose your power of getting absolute distraction. I think 
 the poor, or Southern women, who have the relief of pas- 
 
 133
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 sion, are carried off by the next feeling of joy or pleasure. 
 They go back to the pain again, but they get more holidays 
 intermingled." 
 
 They had passed, meanwhile, into a different region of 
 the town, where gas-jets flared and threw hard light on 
 costers' carts and white-faced men and women, bargaining 
 chiefly, it seemed, for cheap and repulsive fish. She was 
 inwardly dwelling with horrified curiosity on their faces 
 and their lives. Were her sufferings now and in the past 
 more than a shadow of theirs ? If so, did it not deepen 
 the gloom indefinitely and fearfully ? But she did not wish 
 Henry to think yet of the audience he was about to face, or 
 he would begin preparing that unfortunate speech again. 
 
 "You did not think I was so analytical?" she said 
 lightly, " and, after all, how difficult it is to talk with absol- 
 ute reality about oneself! I do enjoy myself a great deal; 
 I don't mean it is all sham." 
 
 Dacre had not spoken; now he exclaimed eagerly: 
 
 "You could not be unreal if you tried." 
 
 Muriel's laugh rang out. 
 
 "Couldn't I? My dear Mr. Dacre, — no, I forgot we 
 are to be cousins, — my dear Henry, how you do believe in 
 your friends ! " 
 
 "How I believe in you, rather!" he cried with a voice 
 that showed he was afraid of his own boldness. 
 
 Muriel was silent, looking out of the window. Then she 
 said, in quite a different voice, quick and businesslike: 
 
 "There is the central Conservative Committee room," 
 and she pulled the check-string. "Enquire there, where 
 the blue placards are, the way to Housman's warehouses." 
 
 The footman obeyed, and as he mounted the box and 
 they moved on again, she said: 
 
 "Now we are close there, I want to give you some 
 133
 
 TJie Light Behind 
 
 advice. To begin with, feel for your audience, follow 
 them, or, if necessary, fight them, then stick to bringing in 
 your main facts, and trust your peroration to the gods." 
 
 He could only just catch the words, for they found 
 themselves, almost suddenly, in the midst of a dense mov- 
 ing crowd, shouting and boohooing in what sounded like 
 strangely deep and menacing tones. The carriage moved 
 at a foot's pace. Dacre for a moment could not see to 
 which of the political parties the crowd belonged; a little 
 more light from a flaring butcher's shop showed the Liberal 
 colours. The heads of the nearest men were close to the 
 window, and some stared in at the lady as they passed. 
 Then a voice cried: " Mr. Dacre ! " and a very dirty hand 
 was thrust into the carriage. 
 
 " Coming along to our meeting ! " said a thin, white-faced 
 little man with a red rosette; "there 's a lot of the Club 
 coming; we '11 be real glad to see you." 
 
 "No, no," said Dacre, laughing and taking his hand; 
 "I 'm the other side, and come down on purpose to speak. 
 I hope that some of the Club are coming to hear me." 
 
 " Are you ? " cried his friend, in accents of bitter disap- 
 pointment; "ah, but sure," he went on, after a moment, 
 still holding on to the carriage window as it moved slowly 
 on, — " sure I 'd rather hear you than all the Protestants and 
 members of Parliament, or even Dillon himself. I '11 be 
 round to the warehouse in no time, and bring some of 
 the boys with me. But it 's a pity — " Here the carriage 
 made a start forward, and Dacre was obliged to leave his 
 friend behind. The little incident had pleased and ex- 
 cited him. 
 
 "But I hope you don't mind all this," he said, turning 
 with a quick but very gentle movement to Muriel. 
 
 She only laughed. 
 
 134
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 " Now we are getting out of the crowd," she said, " I am 
 almost sorry. I wonder where the rival meeting is to be. 
 Ah, here we are, and that is Mr. Maurice's carriage in 
 front of us ! " 
 
 Mr. Maurice was standing on the pavement, while eager 
 Committeemen and admirers cleared a space in the crowd 
 that was trying to press in at the private door of the ware- 
 house. Two evidently important personages were defer- 
 entially trying to catch the great man's words in the hubbub. 
 The crucial point about the return of his carriage being 
 settled, he spoke to his private secretary, who spoke to the 
 footman, and then he passed on with courteous bows, the 
 quietness and reserve in his manner apparently only exciting 
 the crowd still more. Muriel, waiting for her carriage to 
 move, watched him with a renewal of the old pride in him, 
 and a touch of cynicism, in the recognition that pride was 
 the only feeling that he could now excite in her. "How 
 right I was in thinking that he would do great things ! " 
 Had he not been also a woman's pupil ? 
 
 The light shone on the curious irregularity of his sallow 
 features and the fair hair, as he suddenly turned round and 
 saw Lady Cheriton's carriage reaching the door. He spoke 
 to the men near him, and went back with them to insure the 
 space on the pavement being kept clear, — no easy task, as 
 the crowd increased. He gave Muriel his hand, and as 
 she reached the ground, he said in his low, clear under- 
 tones: 
 
 " So you have brought him yourself ? " 
 
 As they walked on down a narrow passage, followed at 
 a little distance by Dacre and the Committee, he spoke 
 again. 
 
 " Does not all this recall past days ? Not at all ? " 
 
 "Yes," said Lady Cheriton, lightly; "we are getting 
 135
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 old enough for the pleasures of memory, you and I. But 
 it is the pleasures of such hopes as Mr. Dacre's that we like 
 best to recall." 
 
 "Ah, yes," he said quickly; " we would rather think of 
 the hours of hope than of those of attainment." 
 
 The private passage ran alongside the huge warehouses, 
 and through its thin partition the noise of the crowd almost 
 drowned their voices. At the farther end, several Primrose 
 League knights and dames were standing together, and some 
 local ladies who had helped in the canvass. Dacre was 
 following with a Catholic member of the Committee, who 
 anxiously confided to him the special local reasons why the 
 Catholic vote was almost entirely radical. 
 
 " I am awfully glad you have come," he said in the 
 tired, excited voice that befits the last days before the poll, 
 " but I wish you were an Irishman." 
 
 " My grandmother was, and there 's a bull to prove the 
 blood." 
 
 "Capital," cried the other, "capital! A few of St. 
 Gregory's Club are here. They would all have come to 
 hear you if they had known in time." 
 
 Meanwhile the parliamentary candidate was presented 
 to Muriel. He was a red-haired, self-confident, middle- 
 aged man of business, now almost voiceless from the 
 labours of the campaign. Then she spent a few minutes 
 asking questions of the local ladies as to the hopes of 
 success. They eagerly told her their different views, with- 
 out any of the embarrassment of the Englishwoman on 
 ordinary occasions; the excitement of the moment brought 
 them all together. It was part of the unusual state of 
 things for them to be talking familiarly to the famous Lady 
 Cheriton, whose picture was so well known to them. Muriel 
 had perceived which were the ladies who had come from 
 
 136
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 the West End, at the bidding of the League, and which 
 were local, and made her remarks to the latter accordingly, 
 
 Mr. Maurice, taking the candidate by the arm, now passed 
 through the door, urged on by Committeemen, and a deaf- 
 ening roar rose on the other side of the partition. 
 
 " There 's an awfully rowdy lot got in," Muriel heard 
 one of the men with blue rosettes saying, a little anxiously, 
 but this prospect seemed to increase the pleasure of the 
 ladies. Then two eager men begged Lady Cheriton to go 
 on to the platform, and she went into the hall, followed by 
 the rest. Until she had climbed the rough steps that led 
 on to a sort of wide shelf, made to hold sacks of grain, 
 that ran across the warehouse, and that was now used as a 
 platform, Muriel could see nothing. 
 
 She found herself in a scene very unlike the political 
 meetings she frequented. The warehouse was enormous, 
 with a dark, cavernous roof, blackened as only London can 
 blacken wood; it was roughly divided by hurdles into two 
 parts, and only one of these had been intended for the 
 meeting. But the crowd had pressed into the other side, 
 whence they could see but little and hear less of what passed 
 on the platform, and had no amusement but that of upset- 
 ting the rest. This was one of the initial mistakes in the 
 arrangements. The other, which might prove more serious, 
 but which certainly gave picturesqueness to the scene, was 
 due to the only lights being the enormous, unprotected 
 flaring jets of gas below the platform. They were placed 
 like the footlights of a theatre, only there was nothing more 
 to be turned up between the acts. 
 
 Muriel felt a catch at her throat, as she looked down on 
 the strange, Rembrandtesque effect below her. There were 
 no seats in the hall, and the crowd surged up and down to 
 the barrier that kept a few feet's space between it and the 
 
 137
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 platform. Instinctively she felt that the scene before her 
 was calculated to inspire radicalism in any one. Penned 
 in the darkness below was the mass of humanity, chiefly 
 made up of the most unfortunate, the worst housed and 
 fed, the worst provided for, body and soul, in this vast 
 empire, while the few ladies and gentlemen, well dressed, 
 exquisitely fed, and with all that could be given to body, 
 mind, and soul, sat in the glare of light on the too high 
 platform above them. Her emotions were with the great 
 surging crowd, whose faces looked ghastly, as the nearest 
 were pressed within radius of the flaring gas only to be 
 pushed back again into the darkness beyond. She had a 
 feeling that nobody cared what happened down there in the 
 dark where women and children might be hurt, seriously, 
 perhaps, if only the votes could be got which would keep 
 such gentlemen as Mr. Maurice in security of power. In 
 her heart, she knew that it was not true, but the effect on 
 the imagination was startling. 
 
 A little consultation was going on on the platform. Who 
 should speak first, as in all probability the first speaker 
 would get no hearing at all ? The Chairman at last rose, 
 and there was a lull, broken by one or two facetious in- 
 quiries as to where he had left his voice or his wig, and 
 who was minding the kids while the missis was on the plat- 
 form ? 
 
 He was a good-natured, " h "-less personage, and he 
 chaffed them back again, and told them that the missis's 
 sister was minding the children, and he hoped none of 
 their wives had come out without taking the same precau- 
 tion. On the whole, he did well, and they understood 
 him, especially when he abused the other side in the time- 
 honoured fashion, which produced some "boohoos" from 
 the enemy present, but was felt to be quite en rtgle. 
 
 138
 
 The Light BeJiind 
 
 The candidate, who was well received, was clearly no 
 speaker, but much might be excused him on the ground of 
 his evident exhaustion. He had been speaking at the rate 
 of five speeches a day for three weeks — so he told them. 
 He was obviously glad to fall back on the presence of the 
 great statesman as an excuse for sitting down. 
 
 Mr. Maurice, who was listened to better than was 
 expected, by the crowd in front, and who was calmly 
 patient of the interruptions from the back, gave a busi- 
 nesslike, quite unoratorical statement of proposed Gov- 
 ernment measures for the benefit of the working man and 
 for the housing of the poor in London. They listened 
 to him, chiefly because they knew he was a great swell and 
 quite a leader in this governing business. Towards the end, 
 and he did not keep them long, two or three voices asked if 
 he were going to tell them about Ireland, and he turned to 
 them, saying: 
 
 "That question will be dealt with immediately by a 
 friend of mine, whom I think you know, a Roman Catholic, 
 Mr. Henry Dacre," and he finished his own point and sat 
 down. 
 
 A solitary cheer greeted Henry, as he rose and stepped 
 forward. Muriel turned so as to have a good view of him. 
 Set against the darkness of the cavernous roof beyond, 
 with a glare of light thrown on him from below, the excel- 
 lent construction of the face bore the test, and he had 
 never looked more handsome; while boyish eagerness and 
 grace and a man's evident strength of will were combined 
 in him, as they can only be combined for a few years of 
 life. 
 
 "Would it be a wonder," thought Mr. Maurice, whose 
 mind was full of memories this evening, of memories of this 
 same woman in years gone by, as with a faintly sarcastic
 
 TJie LigJit BeJiiiid 
 
 smile he watched Lady Cheriton — " would it be, after all, 
 anything new ? Do not women, when they are very young, 
 mercilessly shut down their hearts, and when they find for 
 themselves how little they are paid for the sacrifice, give 
 themselves a little more liberty ? " 
 
 Henry began to speak, the crowd vociferated ; he waited 
 and began again. Muriel passed a few moments of intense 
 anxiety, then she leaned back contented. She had been 
 right in her instinct; the man was a born speaker, a speaker 
 of no mean order of talent. 
 
 140
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 THE FUTURE MEMBER 
 
 ANNE was sitting alone in the great, stiff, heavily 
 gilded drawing-room of Lord Cheriton's house. 
 The room was gorgeously upholstered in red silk, 
 and seemed to breathe a coarse, aristocratic defiance to the 
 higher schools of art that had gone before and had followed 
 its earthy magnificence. 
 
 Anne's graceful figure, in the mellowed white satin that 
 did for ordinary evenings at home, looked lonely and alien, 
 leaning back in a huge armchair near the open window. 
 Yet there was a sparkle in her eye and her cheeks were 
 bright with colour; her hand held rather tightly on the 
 gilded lion's head of the arm of the chair, and her lips 
 were firmly set. She was not thinking, only resolving. 
 The time had passed quickly since Henry had left her in 
 the wood the evening before. She had been glad that Jane's 
 rapture of sympathy had necessarily been interrupted by 
 the cares of the move from Cobden. Packing up the 
 babies, who were to be sent to Roger's mother, had been a 
 welcome distraction. It had been a relief, too, to get a 
 wire, saying that Henry could not come down that morn- 
 ing. She did not wish him and Jane to meet yet. She 
 only ticked off, as it were, one of the things she had ex- 
 pected, and did not enquire even to herself whether he 
 could have come or not. Amidst the domestic bustle and 
 intermittent outbursts of sisterly love and rejoicing, and 
 
 in
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 the council held together as to the letter to her father, ask- 
 ing his approval of the engagement, the day had passed till 
 Muriel's brougham came to take her up to London. The 
 footman had a note to bring her: 
 
 Dearest Anne : 
 
 I am longing to see you to tell you my joy. Meanwhile I am so 
 sorry to have to leave you to dine alone to-night. I am going to take 
 Mr. Dacre down to the meeting, as I think I may be a link between 
 him and some of the people on the platform. I have ordered your 
 dinner at eight and our supper at ten. I shall be as good a reporter 
 for you as I can. Ever yours, 
 
 Muriel. 
 
 P. S. — I quite understand that you wish the engagement to be kept 
 secret till you have your father's consent. Of course you are quite 
 right. 
 
 Anne felt annoyed at the note. If ladies were to be at 
 the meeting, could they not have telegraphed to her in the 
 morning to come up for it ? What could have interested 
 her more ? Then there was the pain of something unex- 
 pected this time; she had thought that Henry depended 
 much on her sympathy, and also on her judgment as to his 
 work and aims. Had he not even wished to have her pre- 
 sent, to listen to him at the meeting? She was not angry; 
 it was all of a piece with the fears and doubts she could not 
 drown, though she tried not to dwell on them; only this 
 particular symptom was an indication which she had not 
 expected. 
 
 While she had an unappreciated masterpiece of a little 
 dinner alone, and wondered nervously if Lord Cheriton 
 could be in the house, and looked at the evening paper, 
 and drank her coffee, her resolves were forming inarticu- 
 lately within her. She would not be critical, nor suspicious 
 of every little thing, warping her own judgment by imagin- 
 
 142
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 ing slights and neglects; she would be bright and affection- 
 ate, asking for nothing that she did not receive, and thus, 
 as peacefully as she could, wait and watch. Otherwise, 
 she might just miss her happiness from too great anxiety 
 to be sure of it. Then, too, nobody need suspect her pain, 
 if there were pain that she must pass through, however 
 great. After all, if she were not quite rightly treated, if 
 she were neglected and slighted for a time, was it more 
 than many wives put up with from a sense of duty ? Could 
 not Anne do as much for a little while, for love ? This was 
 all supposing that her fears were true; and had she any 
 right, even the shadow of a right, to criticise him yet ? So 
 she turned resolutely to the evening paper, and was ab- 
 sorbed enough in an article in The Westminster Gazette 
 not to hear anything till Muriel walked into the room, and 
 she knew that Henry must be following. 
 
 " Here she is," cried Muriel, joyfully, and, hurrying for- 
 ward, she kissed her cousin with more warmth than Anne 
 could have thought possible. Anne fancied her eyes 
 were moist. Then Muriel moved, with a pretty touch of 
 discreetness, down the room to leave them to meet alone. 
 
 Henry followed hurriedly, his face aglow with joy, his 
 head erect, and coming up to Anne, he caught the white 
 hand, with its long, taper fingers, and kissed it with a 
 gentle reverence that seemed to offer her all that could be 
 given, — all that he as a man meant and could be. He 
 stood one moment looking at her, and Anne met his eyes 
 with the bright, confiding look of her own. Then she said 
 quickly: 
 
 "How has it gone off?" 
 
 **I think it has been a success," he answered in a most 
 confident voice. 
 
 "Oh," cried Muriel, "you should have been there, 
 
 143
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 Anne; it was grand. Mr. Maurice was quite delighted. I 
 had no idea," — Muriel was looking at Henry as she spoke, 
 — "that you could speak like that." 
 
 She walked across the room and back, her long summer 
 cloak floating about her. 
 
 "He simply carried them away with him, and they 
 cheered frantically. It was in a huge, empty warehouse, 
 and they were nearly all standing; there was no real plat- 
 form, but a sort of ledge against one end, and on this there 
 were Mr. Maurice and the local committee, with their funny 
 fat wives. But, Anne, the faces, oh, the white and black 
 faces, where one could see them as they came near the 
 lights, and the sense of a dense crowd of those same hag- 
 gard faces in the blackness behind! Oh, it was exciting; 
 it was awful! I felt half wild to help them, and yet to 
 fight them, too. For they shrieked at him. For a long 
 time they would n't let him speak, after he got on the Irish 
 question. I wondered you could keep your head as you 
 did." 
 
 " And what did he say ? " asked Anne. 
 
 "Ah, that 's too large an order," said Henry, turning 
 quickly from watching Lady Cheriton as she walked and 
 talked; "you shall read it," smiling at Anne, "or I will 
 inflict it on you to-morrow. But if supper is allowed 
 now " 
 
 So to supper they went, and talked, the while, much in 
 the same way, Muriel and Henry describing, and Anne 
 listening. 
 
 When they came up again, Horace Colquhoun sauntered 
 in and came to greet Anne. 
 
 "Where is Cheriton?" asked Muriel; "has he come 
 in?" 
 
 " Yes and no. We came in together after dinner, and 
 
 144
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 he has just gone to the Travellers'. I stayed to see Lady 
 Anne before I followed him." 
 
 There was the usual tone of almost paternal kindness in 
 Horace's voice, as he began asking her many questions as 
 to her brother, and Jane, and Jane's husband, and even the 
 babies. 
 
 '* Just as usual," she wrote to her sister, afterwards; *' he 
 would not cross the street to call upon any of us, and I was 
 convinced at the moment of his being one of our most 
 intimate friends." 
 
 Meanwhile Muriel, leaning on a screen, regardless of the 
 pressure of the gilded arms of the Cheriton family against 
 her elbows, was talking earnestly, in a low voice, to Dacre. 
 Twenty minutes, half an hour and more, and still Colqu- 
 houn asked questions and received bright answers, and 
 still the low murmur of Muriel's voice continued, when she 
 said aloud: 
 
 "Well, then, we will take them into our counsels at 
 once. Anne, Horace, come here. I have something to 
 speak to you about. Won't you stop talking, and come 
 here ? " 
 
 " I thought we were most discreet," said Horace, coming 
 forward with his little trotting step, and putting up his glass 
 with an air of expectancy. " Come, Lady Anne, we are to 
 be admitted behind scenes." 
 
 Anne laughed, and asked if they were to swear on the 
 poker. 
 
 "No," said Muriel, "your honour is above suspicion. 
 But this really is serious. Horace, you know, but Anne 
 does n't, that we are going to have an election for our 
 division, as old Mr. Snead is retiring. Well, now comes 
 the point. Mr. Maurice has suggested to me to-night that 
 Mr. Dacre should be the Conservative candidate." 
 
 lu 
 
 145
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 Henry's eyes sought Anne's for sympathy, and Muriel 
 looked to Colquhoun, and then flushed slightly. 
 
 "Why not ? " she said imperiously. 
 
 '* My dear lady, give me time to speak," answered Hor- 
 ace. " It seems to me an admirable idea. I met Maurice's 
 secretary just now, and he is full of your meeting to-night; 
 says he never heard a thing better done." Then, looking in 
 Dacre's direction, ** Shall I tell you what his chief said to 
 him afterwards ? ' The Roman Church has missed a great 
 pulpit orator,' " and Horace beamed on them genially. 
 "My dear Dacre, this is splendid. M.P. for the Cheri- 
 ton division of Downshire. We really ought to move a 
 vote of thanks to old Snead for retiring in the nick of 
 time." 
 
 "Take care," said Muriel, quickly, for he spoke in a 
 loud voice, and a servant was already in the room. He 
 brought a card from Lord Cheriton to Colquhoun, asking 
 if he were coming or not, as he would not wait at the club 
 for him any longer. 
 
 "I must be off." 
 
 *' But you will come and talk this over in the morning ? " 
 
 " Of course," said Horace, and ambled away. 
 
 Muriel was looking white and tired as he left them, and 
 Henry had a frown on his face. Anne divined that he did 
 not like the pulpit orator comparison. 
 
 " Do you think my speech was too like a sermon ? " 
 
 " Nonsense!" said Muriel. "Oh, how tired I am! Come, 
 Anne, we must adjourn the debate and go to bed." Then, 
 holding out her hand to Henry: " I do believe it will all 
 come right." 
 
 Pausing on the upstairs landing, she kissed Anne as they 
 separated. 
 
 "I am so glad, dearest; I think you will be so happy. 
 
 U6
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 I wish I were not too tired to talk to-night, but we shall 
 have plenty of time." 
 
 But Anne had an instinct as she turned into her room 
 alone that even if there were plenty of time — and when 
 did Muriel ever find plenty of time for a quiet talk? — 
 she would not say much more than that about the engage- 
 ment. Indeed, in the days that followed, Muriel did not 
 dwell on the subject. She took for granted easily that, as 
 they were engaged of their own will and seeking, and not 
 for worldly motives, they would be sure to live happily ever 
 afterwards. It was quite delightful that Henry should 
 marry her favourite cousin. But perhaps it needs a larger 
 heart than Muriel had yet attained, to stand and watch hap- 
 piness, or what she took to be happiness, without a yearn- 
 ing that it would be both untrue and harsh to call jealousy, 
 — which resembles jealousy "only as the mist resembles 
 the rain." 
 
 Henry was fond of walking in the silent streets of the 
 City, overshadowed by their great dome. To-night he 
 shrank from the club and other people, smoking and talk- 
 ing, and from the closeness of his own rooms. Coming 
 out of the big gates of the Cheritons' house in Grosve- 
 nor Square he walked quickly away from the West End 
 with long, impatient strides. He felt a peculiar sense of 
 irritation and disappointment. Was it only that little shaft 
 of Colquhoun's as to the lost popular preacher ? Yes, cer- 
 tainly, that was annoying. Would that always be the man 
 of the world's attitude towards him, because he was a 
 Catholic — speaking of him kindly and patronisingly — "not 
 bad for a foreigner, that speech was quite a fine thing in its 
 own way; he would make a good preacher? " That was irri- 
 tating, but he must not make too much of it. Dizzy had 
 
 147
 
 The Light Behmd 
 
 had worse cold water to put up with than that. He was sure 
 he could master that tone, and bring those men to acknow- 
 ledge his powers. What hurt was seated deeper. It was 
 his want of enjoyment in his first successes. For surely, 
 though on a small scale, the evening which had ended in 
 Mr. Maurice suggesting him as a member for Cheriton, 
 and speaking so strongly of his speech, was in itself a suc- 
 cess, and promised more. What was the matter with him ? 
 he asked dumbly of the silent streets and the stars that 
 were so pale above the street lamps. Was it merely the 
 old, old moral of disgust in accomplishment, brought on, 
 apparently, by some pin-prick like Colquhoun's, but going 
 further ? Did the heart that expanded with the warmth 
 and glow of success, and men's admiration, and the first 
 taste of power over them, only reveal thereby its huge, 
 hungry capacities for more ? What would satisfy it, with its 
 craving for more and more achievement, and yet the fatigue 
 of body and mind from having even got so far — its vast 
 empty moral spaces asking to be filled, and its surface 
 sensitiveness, the slave of any pin-prick ? 
 
 Silent and still was Amen Court. No echo broke the still- 
 ness of the Strand, as Henry trod the pavements alone, and 
 coming " to a deep heart," counted over all the things that 
 to-night seemed flat and stale, not forgetting his engagement 
 with Anne and the loss of the emotion he had known when 
 he had spoken to her in the wood. Love, then, was 
 among the things that he had tried and found wanting. 
 
 He paused as the silence was broken by the city clocks 
 striking the monotonous four quarters, and, like a man 
 roused from sleep, he vaguely wondered what hour of the 
 night they were about to record. 
 
 "One, only one. " He felt as if it ought to be later, and 
 mechanically took out his watch to see if it held the same 
 
 148
 
 TJie Light Behind 
 
 opinion. Then he lit a cigar and began to turn towards 
 his rooms, acknowledging that he was tired, mind and 
 body, and therefore discounting the melancholy of his re- 
 flections. 
 
 "When I have had a good sleep, things will seem more 
 worth while," he thought. '* Anything can be analysed to 
 death. It is only such fortunate men as I am that can 
 afford to pick themselves to pieces," and his mind went 
 back to Lady Cheriton's self-analysis that evening during 
 their drive. What a pathos it added to his conception of 
 her! The ideal of a great, beautiful, inspiring woman; 
 the influence before which it seemed that so many bowed. 
 
 At first he remembered that he had, after the visit to the 
 Murdocks', and when still under the influence of Colqu- 
 houn's insinuations, half blamed her for the attraction she 
 had for him, ready, as men and women often are when 
 first brought among a set of human beings that are strange 
 to them, to see subtle meanings and intentions in little 
 things. He had felt, he remembered with a smile, as if he 
 ought to resist something that threatened to be a strong and 
 untrustworthy influence. Now — and he glanced up at the 
 summer's night, radiant above the gas-lit city — he had 
 proved his friend. He knew from experience that she was 
 not light and fickle. She was beautiful, and many men 
 would be at her feet if she chose, but she had not an 
 ordinary woman's vanity. She had not a woman's vanity, 
 yet she had eminently a woman's heart, made more tender 
 and kind by patient suffering. How good she was to him- 
 self, how sweet and sisterly to Anne ! 
 
 There was a brightness in his face, as he walked slowly 
 onwards, back to the West End; all gloom had gone, as he 
 fancied himself again in his friend's society. He dressed 
 her in his fancy picture in the dim dust colours he had seen 
 
 149
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 her wear that first night in London, and the faded rose- 
 coloured cloak she had worn at the meeting floated about 
 her; her eyes were sad, but kind, and the mouth, that had 
 little lines of pain about it, smiled encouragement and con- 
 fidence at him. 
 
 150
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 LADY CHERITON INTERRUPTS 
 
 WHEN Dacre woke next morning he felt a slight 
 sense of oppression, though he did not at once see 
 why. Then he remembered that he was to be with 
 Anne at twelve o'clock. He was to see her alone, so Lady 
 Cheriton had said, in a sitting-room that had been set aside 
 for Lady Anne's use. He sighed, though why he sighed he 
 hardly knew. Something of the feeling came over him which 
 he had known as a child when his mother had told him that 
 he was to be allowed to come to a specially long service on 
 a great feast-day. No want of reverence, but a fatigued 
 sense of want of fervour in himself. Why had the glow of 
 that hour in the wood at Cobden died down so quickly ? 
 That, too, he had known in religious emotions. It was 
 only the insufficiency in himself that he had felt this morn- 
 ing. It was annoying, too, that he could not make up his 
 mind to tell her that he had failed to go to Holy Com- 
 munion the day before. Poor Anne, how little she would 
 have wished him to attribute a bit of the mentor, to his 
 picture of the guardian angel! 
 
 It was symptomatic of his mental condition, that neither 
 then nor afterwards had he any definite picture of married 
 life before him. He had a much more definite picture of 
 Dacre, the statesman, in his outlook, than of Dacre, the 
 husband of Lady Anne. Perhaps there was an unconscious 
 chivalry in his hesitation to dwell on the future results of 
 
 ir,i
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 his engagement. Or was it because a strong, secret action 
 in the unconscious working of mind and heart produces a 
 kind of torpor in the regions of consciousness ? While he 
 breakfasted, and during the course of a busy morning, his 
 thoughts ran entirely on the meeting of the evening before, 
 and by half-past eleven he had almost forgotten Anne. 
 Then he hurried off to Grosvenor Square, and found her in 
 the room at the back of Lady Cheriton's boudoir, just come 
 in from Mass, in her usual white muslin dress and a black 
 hat. The hot weather suited her, and more than one 
 glance of admiration had followed her in her short morning 
 walk. As they were left alone by the retiring footman, with 
 the length of a large room between them, a sudden and 
 overwhelming embarrassment seized Dacre, and he needed 
 an extraordinary effort to command himself before he 
 could join her at the window. She was standing, only 
 half turned towards him, and he trusted that she had seen 
 nothing in his face of this most unaccountable awkwardness 
 before he stood by her. As he met her eyes and looked 
 into her face, the awkwardness left him as suddenly as it 
 had come. Something in her made him feel that she was 
 still the friend to whom he had been talking for weeks past, 
 in the summer evenings at Cobden: and the comfortable 
 sense of her presence came back to him, and he shook 
 hands with her as naturally and as warmly as if no engage- 
 ment existed between them. Anne gave him back his 
 smile of sympathy and comradeship, telling herself that she 
 was glad, though a little startled at the nature of his greet- 
 ing. It was the first time that they had been alone together 
 since the great moments at Cobden. 
 
 ** Well, how are you after last night's excitements ? " she 
 asked, turning from him into the room; and, sitting down 
 with her back to the light, she went on: "Are you very 
 
 153
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 tired? Too tired to tell me all about it ? " He moved to a 
 chair near her, and instantly fell into what she needed of 
 him, telling her everything, even to his fears beforehand, 
 and to the disillusion after the success. Anne was almost 
 too good a listener for Henry, too much a mental mirror, 
 charming at the moment, but receiving, not giving impres- 
 sions. This had not been so at Cobden, but no doubt 
 there was a tension in her nerves now that lessened the 
 freshness of her mind. 
 
 At length he felt that he had talked quite enough of 
 himself. The glow on his face faded a little as he 
 turned towards her. "I am so glad that you are here," 
 he said, glancing, as he spoke, with a sort of shyness 
 at the light hair that clustered round her white fore- 
 head. Anne, feeling his eyes on her, did not respond. 
 She turned to smell a glorious bunch of red roses from 
 Cheriton, in a bowl by her side. He came nearer. "As 
 we could not always live in that wood at Cobden, Anne, — " 
 he continued, very gently, and paused, lingering on her 
 name. — Yes, he felt now that the glamour was coming back 
 to him, and he welcomed it, almost too eagerly. Still, per- 
 haps, it was too much as if she were some sacred image in 
 a shrine, despite the dawning of a warm human joy in his 
 heart. — " Could n't we go down there one day soon ? " He 
 knelt by her as he spoke, and took her hand, still seeking 
 the blue eyes. But the questioning light in them, like a 
 gleam trying to win its way through mists, he could not 
 read. A sense of inquiry, almost of anxiety, was breaking 
 on him; but fear and doubt had no time to become articu- 
 late, for the door from the boudoir opened, and he sprang 
 up. 
 
 "I 'm so sorry to interrupt you," said Lady Cheriton's 
 low, soft voice, " but it is something important, and I could 
 
 153
 
 The Light Behmd 
 
 not wait any longer. Sir Thomas Turton is here, and I 
 think we should not miss the chance. I left him in the 
 drawing-room. You know him, Anne," and Muriel sank 
 back in a chair as she spoke, looking tired but eager. 
 "You see, Henry, he is an awful and really astonishing 
 bore, but he is one of the Cheriton members, and even old 
 Snead has not been member as long as Sir Thomas. He 
 has got it into his head that he is the leading influence in 
 the county, and as nobody else poses in that role, he is 
 quite happy. Now, although he never ceases talking, he 
 can keep a secret, so I want you to let me tell him ours." 
 
 Henry was all attention. " If you really think it wise, so 
 soon," he said. 
 
 "Well," Muriel went on, "I am anxious to make sure 
 of him before his wife hears anything about it. She hates 
 Romanism, in a really old-fashioned, sound way, and she 
 does n't love me. So he must commit himself before she 
 knows anything about it. I '11 go down to him, and will 
 you come when I send for you ? He will be enchanted to 
 be the first person consulted. Stay and talk with Anne till 
 then," and she left them, her long skirts sounding on the 
 staircase. 
 
 " Is n't she splendid! " said Henry, half to himself, as he 
 slipped into the deep chair in which Lady Cheriton had 
 been sitting. " Do you know she told me last night that 
 you were her favourite cousin " ; and the quarter of an hour 
 sped away as he talked of Lady Cheriton. 
 
 And again Anne was as good, as sympathetic a listener 
 as ever. 
 
 Then he was sent for, and with a bright smile of humour 
 and understanding, he said quickly: "We shall meet at 
 luncheon, after this most important interview," and fol- 
 lowed the summoning footman. 
 
 15 i
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 Anne sprang up from her seat and saying half aloud: 
 "That dressmaker will be sick of waiting," ran off to her 
 room. She knew instinctively that this morning was typi- 
 cal of what her visit to London would be. There would 
 be nothing consecutive, nothing uninterrupted, nothing into 
 which a busy, tired, outside life would not intrude. Muriel 
 Cheriton's own way of life gave the tone to those around 
 her. It was a life, Anne knew, of extraordinary system, of 
 untiring effort for great ends, but for small ends also. 
 There would be people to luncheon, meetings in the East 
 End or the West, people at tea, big parties in the evening, 
 individuals of all classes who must have a word alone, 
 filling up the gaps, and dressmakers always upstairs, or 
 things on approval waiting below, and a constant chang- 
 ing of clothes that must be always appropriate. Nobody 
 in Muriel's house was kept waiting if its mistress could 
 avoid it; no letter was unanswered, no appeal carelessly 
 dismissed. Anne had often wondered at it all; now her 
 mind ached, and she longed for even the dull routine 
 under the commonplace step-mother. Surely, in life at 
 Massingham there was some room for the silent, moral 
 growths on which life depends, some sunshine in God's 
 unspoiled world, at least for the feelers of the heart to grow 
 in strength and vitality. Oh, this busy, modern, uneasy, 
 deeply engaged world! Did it not, with all its charity, all 
 its humanity, tread very easily but with crushing power on 
 hearts that must harden under its pressure ? How could 
 she hope that, with everything she had to think of, Muriel 
 would understand ? After all, Anne devoutly hoped that 
 she would not understand. Then, too, the bustle of the 
 season, the never being alone, made it easier to conceal 
 thought, gave an easier vantage-ground for observation. 
 All that Anne wanted to know would surely very soon 
 
 155
 
 TJie LigJit Behind 
 
 become clear now. What was the use of hoping for growth 
 if there was no root ? If only she could be spared such 
 pain as she had felt that morning! Must she be knelt to, 
 gazed at, talked to, at one moment, as if a man's whole 
 soul went out to her, and the next be forgotten ? At one 
 moment be shaken hands with, like a man friend and com- 
 rade, at another flush from kisses on the same hand, de- 
 vout and eager kisses like those of last night ? Was it that 
 he loved her more than he knew, or less ? She was sure 
 that he was not a mere flirt — but was it that love was so 
 new to him that he hardly seemed able to deal with it ? A 
 flirt might behave as Henry did. — Or did he act so from 
 mere youthfulness ? He was so young — so absurdly young. 
 And as Anne came in late for luncheon, a slightly tremu- 
 lous but almost motherly smile was the end of all the 
 useless thinking that had underlain her important business 
 with the dressmaker. 
 
 Sir Thomas Turton sprang up to greet her effusively, and 
 he was so big, and his greeting so considerable, that Anne 
 seemed to stumble under its attack into the chair beside 
 him. Her hope that Lady Turton was quite well became 
 a conversational event, as did also Sir Thomas's enquiries 
 for Lady Jane and " her good husband." 
 
 Then, tripping across the vast space from the door to the 
 round table by the window, which Lady Cheriton always 
 used for luncheon, came Colquhoun. 
 
 "Yes, Cheriton is lunching at the Travellers'. Good- 
 morning, Lady Anne. Ah, Turton, glad to see you! 
 How 's her ladyship ? Flourishing, as usual ? You have 
 been introduced to the rising statesman — no, no, not that, 
 that 's too rich, the fish will do, the rising statesman, Mr. 
 Henry Dacre ? I was just thinking that he ought to 
 know you. He knows Maurice already," and adjusting 
 
 156
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 his eyeglass in a way that implied a wink to the rest of the 
 company, Horace beamed on Sir Thomas. 
 
 "I 'm sure," said Sir Thomas, " any little result of forty 
 years' experience of the House of Commons that might 
 benefit Mr. Dacre is absolutely at his disposal." 
 
 "Ah, but then he is not there yet," Horace went on; 
 "and you 're not of much use in advising men how to get 
 there. You 've always had a walk over, you know." 
 
 " But Sir Thomas has helped so many other people in the 
 good cause," said Lady Cheriton. 
 
 "Well, I should not have ventured to suggest that ex- 
 perience myself if Lady Cheriton had not done it for me," 
 said Sir Thomas, giving a big laugh of enjoyment. " I 
 may say, I suppose, without boasting, that a good many of 
 our members are kind enough to tell me that they would 
 never have been in the House at all if it had not been for 
 me." 
 
 Happy Sir Thomas! Flattered and petted, grazing on 
 the most delicate viands, absorbing champagne with the 
 smiles of beauty and rank! No wonder he forgot many 
 things — forgot the Protestant Association, and most of all 
 forgot the look of Lady Turton's small firm mouth. " You 
 see," he said in a low voice to Henry, as they smoked to- 
 gether, his fine, manly figure protruding over the rug on 
 which they stood, "under the circumstances, poor thing, 
 you know, she naturally leans a good deal on me. She 
 always sends for me if she is in any little difficulty at 
 Cheriton; but of course you know, the whole position is 
 rather delicate." And with a wave of his cigarette, he indi- 
 cated his feelings towards the absent master of the house. 
 
 157
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 LORD CHERITON IS NOT PLEASED 
 
 IT was past one in the morning, and Lord Cheriton and 
 Colquhoun, in excellent humour, were counting the 
 gains, for they had won heavily that night, having had 
 in company several ardent and inexperienced youths. They 
 were not actually, only mentally, counting out gold and 
 silver, in the long, low, luxuriously furnished smoking-room 
 that ran out behind the house in Grosvenor Square, and 
 had a separate little entrance hall and exit of its own, 
 through the stables. 
 
 Lord Cheriton was a short, stout, bald, well-dressed, and 
 well-groomed man of about fifty; in face and figure a 
 blurred and over-coloured sketch of the handsome man, as 
 men were reckoned handsome under the fourth George. 
 Even in the way he lounged back in the deep armchair 
 there was something in the attitude that told of a man of 
 fastidious personal habits, who would require a relay of 
 skilled hirelings to tend him exquisitely, from the perfum- 
 ing of the few reddish hairs left on his head, to the polish- 
 ing of the gouty nails on the large white hands. 
 
 Colquhoun, from the days when they were boys together 
 at Eton, had been the self-constituted mental attendant of 
 Lord Cheriton, guarding him from boredom in every pos- 
 sible way. Himself of good family, it had seemed to 
 Horace an exceedingly interesting thing to be the chosen 
 
 158
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 chum of a youth destined to so much more greatness than 
 he was; and a genuine affection had grown in the boy's 
 heart, to which was given a nobler basis of gratitude, as 
 Cheriton, before he succeeded to his father^ wealth, em- 
 broiled himself with Israelites to pay Horace's debts as well 
 as his own. However it had come about, they had become 
 inseparables; and though Horace had made an effort at a 
 life of his own, and joined the diplomatic service, he soon 
 threw it up, and returned to the ennobling kind of existence 
 which he still led. He had rooms of his own, tradesmen 
 of his own, friends of his own; but the rooms were of 
 great use to Lord Cheriton, the tradesmen were paid by 
 Lord Cheriton, and the friends were never allowed to 
 interfere with his patron's convenience. 
 
 Horace, having at last exhausted the topic of the even- 
 ing's game, and the folly of one poor youth who had been 
 comically torn between conscience and the gambler's fever, 
 paused for a moment. He was lying at full length on a sofa 
 before the empty fireplace, caressing the long hair of a King 
 Charles spaniel that had curled itself between him and the 
 cushions. 
 
 "Have you seen her ladyship to-day?" enquired Lord 
 Cheriton in the tone of sarcasm with which he usually 
 alluded to his wife, when alone with Colquhoun. 
 
 ** Yes, I saw her at lunch this morning. She has Lady 
 Anne staying with her." 
 
 "Really, I did not know," was the answer; "has Jane 
 come, too, and the babies ? " 
 
 " No; only Lady Anne; you know I told you that her 
 ladyship intended to take her cousin out this season." 
 
 "It gives an additional touch of respectability to the 
 house in which I have the honour to live," said Cheriton, 
 
 159
 
 TJie Light Behind 
 
 and Horace laughed. " Has she spoken to you again 
 about the stables at Cheriton ? " 
 
 "No," said Horace; "she knows when she is beaten, 
 and I don't think she ever turns back to the last chapter. 
 As a rule she is too busy with the present one." 
 
 " Then she won't speak to me about it? " said Cheriton, 
 a little nervously. 
 
 " No, I am pretty sure she won't; she has got something 
 else on hand. Has it struck you that she has changed lately?" 
 
 " No," said Cheriton, promptly, conscious, as he 
 spoke, that it was a very long time indeed since he had 
 looked at his wife enough to observe any changes of 
 countenance. 
 
 "I think, old fellow," said Colquhoun, slowly, "that 
 you were a little beforehand with your jeers about the bet." 
 
 Cheriton laughed. 
 
 " My dear Horace, you don't mean to say that you have 
 still got that seven thousand in your mind? This is really 
 too good," and he rubbed together the fat white hands, 
 that somehow were suggestive of red velvet cushions and 
 port wine, and leaned back in his chair, as if Horace had 
 surpassed himself in his powers of wit. 
 
 Horace waited, and then said carelessly: 
 
 " Has it ever struck you as odd that Lady Cheriton has 
 never fallen in love ? " 
 
 Muriel's husband laughed again, still more loudly. 
 
 " Really, Horace, since when have you taken to indulging 
 your imagination like this? It would be an unhoped-for 
 exit indeed." 
 
 But Horace thought he detected a little nervous query in 
 the face, all the same. 
 
 " Remember, you see so little of her." 
 
 160
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 " I saw enough of her at one time to know that she is as 
 hard as steel, and loves, and can love, no one but herself," 
 said Cheriton, bitterly. 
 
 " Ah, well, then that settles it," said Horace. " We will 
 say no more about it, — only I think you '11 find a change. 
 See the way she has taken this affair about the stables at 
 the Abbey — as quietly as a lamb. I had an instinct that 
 if we could make her give up the reins there, and take her 
 proper place, she would be much more likely to throw up the 
 whole show, and leave you free." 
 
 "And you seven thousand pounds?" said Cheriton, 
 roughly. 
 
 Colquhoun looked a little rufifled. 
 
 " No, no, old boy," said the other, almost affectionately, 
 and Horace went on : 
 
 " But I did think she would have shown some spirit for 
 Holmstead's sake, as well as to keep her hand in. But she 
 did n't, and now," Horace jumped up and stood with his 
 back to the fireplace, and waved his hands expressively. 
 " Call no woman clever till you see the end. She is going 
 to cut Cheriton in the county of Downshire from under her 
 feet, with her own hands. She is going to ask the division 
 to accept as a candidate a young Roman Catholic they 
 never heard of in their lives before, this Dacre whom all 
 the women have gone cracked about for love of his l^eaux 
 yeux. Educated in some religious college, cut out for the 
 role of fashionable Jesuit preacher, he is to be member 
 for dear old English Protestant Tory Cheriton. What do 
 you say to that? " 
 
 " I say," said his friend, spluttering with wrath, '* that I 
 won't have it; I won't allow such impertinence; I will assert 
 
 myself. I will " 
 
 161
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 " My dear fellow," said Colquhoun, "you are perfectly 
 in the right, undeniably in the right, but I strongly advise 
 you to leave the whole thing alone. It will come to no- 
 thing; let her cut her own throat. Anyhow, wait till they 
 come and ask you to interfere." 
 
 He paused expressively, for he knew it would be a very 
 long time before the Downshire Conservatives would come 
 to such a pass as that. 
 
 " But I can forbid her to do it." 
 
 " By all means," said Colquhoun; " forbid anything you 
 like. You might succeed, there 's no knowing, but don't 
 count on me to do any of the talking. I think it is an ex- 
 cellent thing." 
 
 Cheriton sat looking helplessly in front of him. He 
 knew he should end by taking Colquhoun's advice and 
 leaving it all alone; he always did end that way, but he 
 did n't like it — he had not liked any of Horace's talk that 
 evening. He was putting two and two together, in a heavy 
 whisky-and-watery fashion of his own. 
 
 " Have I ever seen this Dacre ? " he asked. 
 
 " Do you remember a youth you found in my room a few 
 days ago, tall and dark? I told you he was Biddulph's 
 secretary." 
 
 "He was d d handsome," said Cheriton, sulkily. 
 
 " Well, I, for one, am going to bed." 
 
 163
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 ANNE SEES LORD CHERITON 
 
 MR. BIDDULPH was shown into the long drawing- 
 room in Grosvenor Square, a few nights later. 
 Anne came forward to greet him, her face full of 
 pleasure. He shook hands with her with cordiality, even 
 emotion, but did not speak for a moment. Then, after he 
 had sat down in the highest chair within range, he smiled 
 humorously, but his voice shook a little. 
 
 "I came to congratulate you," he said, "but I don't 
 seem to do it very well." 
 
 Anne was greatly touched, but she did not find it easy to 
 respond at once. She was getting accustomed, she told 
 herself, to a more superficial treatment of her engagement. 
 
 " No doubt he is much more lucky than he deserves," 
 Biddulph went on, in a matter-of-course manner, "but I 
 can congratulate you too. He ought to do great things; 
 he is suffering rather much just now from a disease we will 
 call megalomania. But I like that in youth. In short, Lady 
 Anne, I like your young man immensely, and I hope you 
 won't take him away from me." 
 
 He gave a shake of satisfaction at having got through his 
 little speech so well. 
 
 " No, indeed," she cried; " I am so thankful that he is 
 with you"; then, anxious to do away with the effect of 
 words that might have betrayed anxiety, she went on, 
 
 163
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 laughing: " But what is the disease you spoke of ? I don't 
 understand." 
 
 " Well, ' ambition ' means something commoner; it won't 
 do for it," he answered; " but it is a kind of craze for do- 
 ing and being big things. Nothing wins one's sympathy 
 more, but still it is a craze; and although it is the craze of 
 saints and heroes, it is risky, for it tends to confuse means 
 with ends. I have known people suffering under megalo- 
 mania do very little things indeed. He won't," he added 
 hastily; and then half to himself, "but you never quite 
 know what line it will take; it may make him melancholy if 
 he does n't get on quick enough." 
 
 Anne was silent. What he said fitted in so well with her 
 own thoughts. 
 
 " I am lucky to find you alone," said Biddulph, with the 
 old-fashioned courtesy that was only roused by his favour- 
 ites. " But where is Lady Cheriton ?" 
 
 " She and Henry are dining with Lady Rusfield." 
 
 Anne said it quite simply, and was surprised to see his 
 brow darken. 
 
 "Lady Rusfield told Muriel yesterday that one of her 
 men had failed, so Muriel asked if she might bring Henry, 
 as she wants him to meet Mr. Forrest and another Down- 
 shire member who she thinks would be useful." 
 
 " I did not think she would dine with Lady Rusfield," 
 said Biddulph, roughly; "she is a bad woman, as bad as 
 they are turned out in London. I did not think Lady 
 Cheriton would go there, and take the boy. It 's not like 
 her. This sort of excitement and rushing at a plan regard- 
 less of consequences will weaken her influence. She is one 
 of the few women in London who have really kept up a 
 high standard in these things." He was silent for a mo- 
 
 164
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 ment, and his large brow was drawn into deep frowning 
 lines. Then his face softened as he turned to Anne. "Be- 
 sides, they are leaving you alone. It is nonsense, pre- 
 posterous nonsense." 
 
 There are men who have the unfair advantage of using 
 ordinary words with as much force as any bad language, 
 and Biddulph, though he was not always content with fus- 
 ing his commonplace adjectives with wrath, could do it ad- 
 mirably. He paused, and Anne began to explain. 
 
 *' Muriel has not been there before, but she knew that 
 Mr. Forrest and the other member were to be there, 
 and she wanted to talk to them about the election." 
 
 "Nonsense," fumed Mr. Biddulph, "she ought to have 
 asked them to come here." 
 
 "But it is awkward," pleaded Anne, "because Lord 
 Cheriton is here, and they won't meet." 
 
 Mr. Biddulph grunted, and Anne felt as if she were a 
 Sunday-school child who was being scolded because the 
 others had not come. 
 
 "Then she ought to go down to Cheriton to see them; 
 anyhow, she ought not to dine with Lady Rusfield, and 
 Dacre ought not to have gone with her." 
 
 Anne flushed at this conclusion, and he laughed. 
 
 "Don't think it necessary to defend him," he said; 
 "probably he does not know much about Lady Rusfield, 
 and it is different for a man. Besides, I know from a 
 shameful experience how often I have gone against my 
 better judgment at your cousin's bidding." 
 
 Anne laughed, and Biddulph, to change the subject, en- 
 quired after Lady Jane, and drew Anne on to tell anecdotes 
 of the beloved little Muriel, listening with a genuine 
 pleasure and sense of amusement. 
 
 165
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 Biddulph did not stay many minutes longer, for he 
 fancied that he heard Lady Cheriton's carriage reach the 
 door, and he did not wish to be caught and talked into a 
 good humour with her. 
 
 Quite a week had passed since Anne had written to 
 her father, asking his consent to her engagement, and 
 she was beginning to think that he and her step-mother 
 must have left Florence, when a letter from him arrived 
 one morning, as she was breakfasting with Muriel. On 
 opening it, a slightly faint, sick sensation came over 
 her, such as some people feel in smelling lilies. She had 
 felt it once before, while being congratulated on her en- 
 gagement, by Mr. Biddulph. Her step-mother's anxiety 
 that she should marry was no secret to her, and she had 
 several times already pictured Lady Massingham's relief 
 and half-suppressed joy at the approaching end of her re- 
 sponsibility. But to Anne's surprise, the letter, though 
 gracious, and to herself affectionate, was not one that she 
 could easily show to Henry. What crotchet had taken her 
 father, or what imaginary eldest son of great wealth had 
 seemed necessary to his idea of his pretty daughter's future, 
 it was difficult to say. Anne flushed at the magnificent tone 
 of the letter, and could hardly believe that Lord Massing- 
 ham was withholding his approval until he should return 
 to England. 
 
 I do not ask you [he said], to alter anything that has passed between 
 you and Mr. Dacre, only I must beg you to consider nothing as finally 
 determined, and I need not add that the engagement must not be made 
 known to any of the family connections before my return. 
 
 Anne gave the letter to Muriel, saying: "As you al- 
 
 166
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 ready know all about it, I think father would rather you 
 should read this." 
 
 " My dear! " cried Muriel, in astonishment. '* Why, you 
 will soon have two thousand a year of your own, and he has 
 already, I suppose, five or six hundred! " Then she sat 
 silently reading the letter once more. " Pomposity and 
 love of power gone mad," she thought. "It is dreadful 
 when a man's faults crystallise and harden as he gets older." 
 But to Anne she said: 
 
 " I am sure it will be all right when he does come back," 
 and then they were both silent. 
 
 Anne's instinct had told her to give Muriel the letter at 
 once, but she could not discuss it. Before they had fin- 
 ished breakfast, Henry Dacre was shown into the dining- 
 room. He looked worried, and after a hasty greeting to 
 them both, began at once to Lady Cheriton: 
 
 "A tiresome thing has happened. Here is a paragraph 
 from a Downshire paper saying \}a.dXyou have nominated me 
 member for the Cheriton division! It is really very 
 spiteful." 
 
 Muriel seized the cutting, read the paragraph, and sat 
 back in her chair, with a frown on her beautiful face. 
 
 "I wonder who has done this," she mused. "It is 
 cleverly contrived, and about the worst thing that could 
 have happened." 
 
 "It is most unfortunate," said Henry. 
 
 Muriel rose, gathered up her letters, and stood by the 
 open window without speaking. In a difficulty she always 
 required time for reflection in solitude. "How long can 
 you stay ?" she said at length, turning to Dacre. 
 
 " I need not go for half an hour," he replied, looking as 
 his watch. " Biddulph is out of London." 
 
 167
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 "Come to me in my sitting-room in twenty minutes. 
 Anne has a letter she will want to tell you about." 
 
 Sheer concentration of thought on the matter in hand — 
 the all-important election — made Muriel forget that Anne 
 might not wish to plunge at once into the question of the 
 embarrassing letter. Henry opened the door, saying ear- 
 nestly as Muriel passed him: 
 
 "I do trust that you will not let this worry you. I 've 
 not really set my heart on being elected, and I would in- 
 finitely rather give the whole thing up than that you — " 
 He looked very ardent and chivalrous, and Muriel was 
 touched. 
 
 "No, no," she interrupted, laying her hand lightly on 
 his shoulder ; "it will come all right. I rather like obstacles 
 when I have made up my mind to a thing." 
 
 He stood quite still for a moment, as if transfixed by the 
 touch of her hand on his shoulder; then he started, closed 
 the door, and walked down the long room to the window. 
 Anne was still sitting at the table. 
 
 "You wanted to speak to me about a letter," he said 
 absently, looking out of the window as he spoke. His face 
 had on it the grey, worn look that came over it sometimes 
 now; and it brought out the strength and beauty, the fine- 
 ness of outline, and nobility of expression that so immeasur- 
 ably attracted Anne. 
 
 She did not answer, though she was looking at him, wish- 
 ing she hardly knew what, — only that they were n't there 
 alone together just then, that his face had less power 
 over her, that the long, nervous, muscular hands were not 
 so expressive — or if all these things must be so, if she must 
 be for ever beating the air, for ever fighting against some- 
 thing too vague and elusive for definite thought, that he 
 
 168
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 might either be put away from her altogether, or that — 
 She leaned her elbows on the table, and buried her face in 
 her hands. Should she try now to put him away from her ? 
 Should she say more than the letter said, exaggerate her 
 father's want of approval, and tell him that they must 
 part? 
 
 "I am afraid that you are distressed." His voice was 
 quite gentle, and seemed, as it came to her, to speak all the 
 human love and tenderness that his face so often lacked: 
 and the temptation passed from her. 
 
 "Yes," she replied, "I have had a tiresome letter from 
 my father. He makes difficulties about money and things. 
 It is a stupid letter — a very stupid letter," she added al- 
 most tearfully. 
 
 "He does not think me good enough for you, and of 
 course he is right." Henry was not thinking of himself 
 personally, but his pride had instantly adverted to his 
 family. Did Lord Massingham know how it had dwindled 
 in wealth and importance, till there was little to distinguish 
 the Dacres from the yeoman farmers of the north? He was 
 keenly sensitive regarding the position to which his Dacre 
 grandfather had sunk, and he asked himself now, whether 
 Lord Massingham had ever met the red-faced, swearing, 
 squire-farmer. If so, that would account for his holding 
 back. Henry had more than once come across this annoy- 
 ing recollection of his grandfather among older men, and it 
 was a sore point — one of those irrationally sore points that 
 are so hard to cure or to conceal. Anne was not aware of 
 this weakness. 
 
 "Nonsense," she exclaimed. "It's only the money. 
 But surely we should be all right on two thousand a year, 
 Henry ? " 
 
 169
 
 The LigJd Behind 
 
 Henry was not thinking of the future in a sufficiently 
 concrete way to be interested in Anne's two thousand a 
 year, and ignoring her remark, he asked: 
 
 " Does he know anything about us ? — about the Dacres, I 
 mean ? What did you say to him ? " 
 
 " Oh, he is sure to know all about the Dacres," she cried. 
 "There is n't an old Catholic family in England that he 
 and my step-mother don't know all about." 
 
 " Will you show me the letter ?" 
 
 Anne handed it to him, and watched him read it, saw 
 his lips tighten and his nostrils quiver a little, and the im- 
 patient movement of his hands as he turned over the pages. 
 His voice seemed to come from a distance, when he at last 
 spoke. 
 
 "Of course, we must do as your father wishes; nobody 
 thought for a moment of announcing our engagement till 
 he came home. I had no wish to hurry you into a poor 
 marriage. It is a letter that he ought not to have written 
 — unless — " Happily he was too chivalrous to finish the 
 sentence — "unless your letter was very badly expressed " 
 was in his mind. 
 
 Seeing that he was on the point of losing his temper, 
 Anne, with a woman's instinct to soothe, said gently: 
 
 "I don't think he meant the letter to be disagreeable. 
 It is pompous and old-fashioned; but he will not make real 
 difficulties." 
 
 "Perhaps not." 
 
 The clock on the mantelpiece struck half-past ten. 
 
 "You will be late for Muriel," exclaimed Anne. 
 
 He gave a start, and took a hasty leave of her. 
 
 " How idiotic of Muriel to make me show him that letter 
 just when he was so much annoyed about the election! " 
 
 170
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 thought Anne. " But it was silly of the poor dear to be so 
 sensitive." 
 
 Somehow, the episode was not altogether unpleasing to 
 her. There had been very little incident in their relations, 
 so far. 
 
 " He quite forgot the time, and he won't have five minutes 
 with Muriel to discuss that paragraph. Who could have 
 put it in ? " 
 
 Just as they were sitting down to luncheon with a number 
 of visitors, including the faithful Colquhoun, a note was 
 brought to Anne. It said: 
 
 Dear Anne : 
 
 I am ashamed, and want to tell you so at once. Something revived 
 a tiresome memory, and I was irritable and inexcusable. 
 
 Waiting to be forgiven, your devoted 
 
 Henry Dacre. 
 
 A happy blush lit up her face, and excited Colquhoun's 
 curiosity. 
 
 " Do you want anything in Paris, Lady Anne ? " 
 
 " In Paris ? No — why ? " she asked with a radiant smile. 
 
 ** Because I am going there with Cheriton, in two or three 
 days. Did n't you know ? " 
 
 "Oh, yes, but I *d quite forgotten. How stupid of me! 
 Would you really get me some gloves ? " 
 
 " Delighted, if you will give me the address of the shop. 
 By the way. Lady Cheriton, could you make one reform 
 while I 'm away ? I want the hall door made larger. I 
 was nearly jammed this morning — there were three mes- 
 senger boys coming out, three telegraph boys going in, 
 your secretary, the telephone lady, and the shorthand 
 writer. It is too much for any door." 
 
 171
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 "Nonsense," said Muriel; "I have only sent four tele- 
 grams this morning, and I have n't got a telephonist." 
 
 Anne had noticed before that this sort of joke usually- 
 flattered Muriel on a weak point in her vanity. To-day 
 she was not responsive to any of Mr. Colquhoun's convers- 
 ation, though it was most carefully selected to give satis- 
 faction. 
 
 The night before Lord Cheriton started for Paris, Anne 
 saw him for the first time, and the encounter was rather an 
 awkward one. She had just finished dressing for the Court 
 ball, and was coming down-stairs rather cautiously for fear 
 of catching dust on her new gown — when, looking down, she 
 saw Lord Cheriton on the next landing. She did not 
 know that he never came to this part of the house, but she 
 felt at once that his presence was unusual. He was stand- 
 ing behind a pillar at the farthest corner of the passage 
 that ran round the grand staircase, almost hidden by it, and 
 he seemed to be waiting. He did not see her, and she 
 stood quite still for a moment, hoping he would go away. 
 How fat and red he had grown! But he did not move, and 
 Anne felt that it would be absurd for her to be caught 
 waiting on the stairs, to avoid meeting the master of the 
 house. Then Muriel's door suddenly opened, and she came 
 out just below Anne. 
 
 " My dear, what a success! " she cried with almost girlish 
 pleasure. "Foster," calling to her maid, "come and see 
 Lady Anne's gown." Anne blushed deeply, and looked 
 almost awkward; she could see that Lord Cheriton had not 
 moved; she turned toward him, meaning to greet him as 
 naturally as possible. But he did not seem to see her; his 
 eyes were fixed on his wife, with an expression that Anne 
 could not understand. She gave a little shiver, and looked 
 
 173
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 at the beautiful, gorgeously arrayed woman before her, feel- 
 ing as if she had never till now seen truly the tragedy in 
 her cousin's eyes. The exquisiteness of Muriel's heavily 
 embroidered white satin gown, and the admirably placed 
 shining gems, only heightened the note of bravely borne 
 sorrow, the still defiance with which she faced her woman's 
 humiliations. Anne, as she thought this, could hardly 
 breathe, she was so oppressed by the consciousness of Lord 
 Cheriton's presence. She waited in dread for the moment 
 when Muriel should see her husband. 
 
 But Lady Cheriton passed quickly down the front stairs 
 without looking round and reached the hall in a moment. 
 She could not hear the stately and courteous " How d' ye 
 do " of the master of the house, as he greeted her cousin on 
 the landing. His manner could at times be excellent, and 
 it saved Lady Anne from all apparent embarrassment. 
 
 173
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 GOSSIP WITH A PURPOSE 
 
 ** A H, Mr. Colquhoun! we were just speaking of you!" 
 
 AA exclaimed Lady Turton. 
 
 " No harm, I hope — How d' ye do, Mrs. Maurice? 
 How d'ye do, Lady Turton?" and in a moment he was 
 sitting between them on a high chair, nursing one foot in a 
 smart boot and wrinkled sock, and adjusting his eye- 
 glass as if in haste not to lose a moment in looking at 
 them. 
 
 " Only wondering whether you were still in Paris," re- 
 plied Mrs. Maurice, languidly. She was leaning against the 
 cushions on a large sofa with her back to the light, giving 
 her usual impression of youthful yet sumptuous beauty. 
 Opposite to her, erect and alert, trim and straight, in a 
 richly beaded mantle, and a feathered London-season 
 bonnet, sat Lady Turton, benevolent and indulgent towards 
 her companion, her firm little mouth a trifle softer, and her 
 small, bright eyes less severe than usual. 
 
 " The less we ask about Paris the better, I suppose, dear 
 Mrs. Maurice ?" 
 
 " Delightful drives in the Bois," murmured Colquhoun, 
 with a sweet smile. 
 
 "You are such a humbug," said the golden-haired lady 
 on the sofa to her pug. 
 
 ** It 's a wicked world that makes him so, not his own 
 
 174
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 nature," said Horace. " But though Paris cannot interest 
 either of you, London does interest me, and I want to know 
 what you have all been doing." 
 
 '* Oh, just as usual," and Mrs. Maurice yawned. " James 
 has been seeing a great many dull men, and bringing them 
 here." 
 
 "And you have been seeing a few amusing ones, and 
 bringing them here ? " 
 
 Mrs. Maurice laughed. "You won't let anybody else 
 pretend anything," she replied. 
 
 " And whom has Lady Cheriton been seeing ? " 
 
 There was a moment's silence, then Lady Turton said 
 solemnly: " I must own up. I was shocked, I know, and I 
 scolded you almost rudely the last time we met. But I can 
 be frank, and I confess now that you were right, and I was 
 wrong." 
 
 " I was never in the least shocked, nor have I scolded 
 any one ; so I need make no apology, I have known her 
 for some time," and Mrs. Maurice heaved a soft sigh. 
 
 "But my dear ladies," observed Colquhoun, "I never 
 said " 
 
 " Oh, you never say anything, you know," interrupted 
 Mrs. Maurice ; and Colquhoun, feeling annoyed, smiled at 
 her benignly. 
 
 " It is quite true that she is going to force the man on to 
 Cheriton, and she made Sir Thomas promise to support 
 him," snarled Lady Turton. 
 
 " No — really ? " demurred Horace, 
 
 " It has been in The South Dotvnshire Gazette." 
 
 " You don't say so ? When ? " Then musingly, " Now I 
 do wonder how that came about ! " 
 
 " The people down at Cheriton are mad about it. I ran 
 
 175
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 down to do some business for Sir Thomas, and I had half a 
 dozen people waiting to see me, to ask if it could be true." 
 
 " So they are very angry ? " 
 
 " Furious, of course," 
 
 " My husband says he is the most promising young man 
 he has met for a long time, so we are helping to run him," 
 put in the rich, languid voice from the sofa cushions. 
 " Curious, is n't it ? I had them all here to dinner, and, of 
 course, James took her in ; and they talked all the time 
 about the new friend. I wonder James found it amusing. 
 She looked so thin and excited." 
 
 " Yes," agreed Horace, " it is curious how thin and ex- 
 cited she has looked lately ; and flushed, too." 
 
 " Only it's absurd," and Mrs. Maurice sat upright, the folds 
 of her diaphanous draperies falling gracefully about her, "for 
 her to keep up all that old prudishness. She really seems 
 to think that she can start a pocket young man of absurdly 
 good looks, who never takes his eyes off her, and " 
 
 " Did you see him at the Court ball, when she was walking 
 in to supper ? You know some paper once gave a ridiculous 
 account of the way the Countess of Cheriton walks in to 
 supper at a Court ball. I was just opposite to him, across 
 the doorway, and you would have thought he had seen a 
 celestial vision." 
 
 " Yes, he has got that trick with his eyes," answered Mrs. 
 Maurice, a little crossly ; she did not see why Lady Turton 
 should interrupt her. 
 
 "When do you go into the country, Lady Turton?" 
 asked Colquhoun. 
 
 " About the middle of the month." 
 
 " Lady Cheriton is going on or before the 20th. I sup- 
 pose she leaves earlier than usual on account of the political 
 
 176
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 campaign. When shall I find you in ? No, I can't stay, 
 Mrs. Maurice. I only came to show that I am back. Shall 
 we meet anywhere to-night ? " 
 
 In a few minutes he was walking down the street and 
 making his way to the Cheritons' house. As he entered 
 the hall, he saw Biddulph letting himself down the stairs from 
 step to step in his blind way, and Horace waited for him. 
 
 He had not wished to see Biddulph, or to have any serious 
 talk with him; but the uncertain element in his motives and 
 actions, which probably accounted for the impish look that 
 often came into his face, made him decide to try an experi- 
 ment. 
 
 As Biddulph passed between the marble pillars of the 
 large low hall, a familiar voice arrested him, and Colqu- 
 houn tripped round a pillar to his side. 
 
 '* Walking or driving ? " he asked. 
 
 " Walking," said Biddulph. 
 
 " Then let me come too." 
 
 Mr, Biddulph submitted with a grunt, and the two 
 walked across the square that was resounding with the 
 sounds of the nearest streets. The air was hot, and the 
 pavements smelt more like those of Paris than of London. 
 
 " Who was in ?" asked Colquhoun. 
 
 " Only Lady Anne." 
 
 " Well," said Colquhoun, " I have been wanting to see 
 you. What do you think of this election business ? " 
 
 Biddulph was long accustomed to Colquhoun's little way 
 of coming to him, if he wanted any influence to be brought 
 to bear on Lady Cheriton, or even if he merely wished for 
 information; and to perceive this generally put him on the 
 defensive. 
 
 " What election ? " rather gruffly. 
 
 177
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 " Have n't they told you then ? " said Colquhoun, stop- 
 ping short in his surprise. 
 
 " Yes, I suppose they have," answered Biddulph, walking 
 on without him. 
 
 Three quick little steps brought Horace to his side in an 
 instant. 
 
 " Do you think," he asked quickly, " that it is of any use 
 for this youth to stand for the Cheriton division ? " 
 
 "I don't see why not," said Biddulph; "he has got 
 talent, remarkable talent, and he will have the Maurice and 
 the Cheriton influence." 
 
 "The Lady Cheriton influence," said Colquhoun, in 
 marked accents. 
 
 " Well," said Biddulph, a little contemptuously, "do you 
 suppose Lord Cheriton will take the trouble to object, or 
 that it would be much odds if he did ? " 
 
 " Perhaps not ; and yet it is one thing for a woman to 
 act alone, and another for her to go directly against her 
 husband, however bad a one." 
 
 " That 's true," said Biddulph, now himself pausing and 
 turning towards Colquhoun. " But does he, as a matter of 
 fact, object ? " 
 
 " Yes, very strongly." 
 
 " And does Lady Cheriton know of this ? " 
 
 " No, she does n't, and it is rather a delicate matter; for 
 the fact is, Biddulph, that I, for one, can't tell her why he 
 minds, and he certainly can't tell her either." 
 
 " Explain," said the other, impatiently. 
 
 " Well, he thinks," said Colquhoun, turning away to 
 knock the ash off his cigarette, " that — well, in short, that 
 her ladyship has taken too much of a fancy to the young 
 man." 
 
 178
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 " D — n his impertinence," cried Biddulph, with a harsh 
 laugh. " There is a limit to what can be endured, and this 
 passes it." 
 
 Colquhoun shrank a little from such a crude display of 
 wrath. 
 
 " But, my dear fellow, he is always about with her." 
 
 "So are you," almost vociferated Biddulph. "And so 
 am I. Look here, Colquhoun," and he paused again, "you 
 go to your club, and leave me to go my ways, and don't 
 talk such vile nonsense, if you are a man and a gentleman. 
 This idiotic set you live in puts a low, mean interpretation 
 on everything they see. Now take my advice and drop this 
 at any rate. You will soon see what a fool you 've been. 
 Good-night." 
 
 And then the unwieldy figure turned its back so reso- 
 lutely on the other, that he gave it up and turned away, 
 shrugging his bony shoulders under the perfectly fitting 
 clothes. 
 
 " The old bear grows blinder every day," muttered Colqu- 
 houn, while the other grumbled to himself, smiling but still 
 angry: 
 
 " Lord Cheriton should be told at once of Dacre's en- 
 gagement to Lady Anne, and it should, if her old fool of a 
 father gives his consent, be announced before the election 
 comes on." 
 
 179
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 UNDER NEWMAN S STATUE 
 
 IT would be a mistake to suppose Horace Colquhoun to 
 be qualifying at this time for the role of a Machiavel- 
 lian or Mephistophelian plotter. There was not enough 
 consecutiveness or forethought in his actions for either part. 
 He was too garrulous, and the imp element in him con- 
 stantly upset his larger manoeuvres. He hated Lady Cher- 
 iton, and he had convinced himself — absolutely convinced 
 himself — that she was falling from that intolerable pedestal 
 of virtue, from which she had seemed hitherto to regard her 
 husband, and lately his friend also, as if they were crawling 
 animals at its foot. 
 
 Horace had come to a stage in his friendship with Lord 
 Cheriton in which he must either suffer from remorse about 
 Lord Cheriton's wife, or must turn that remorse into all 
 manner of uncharitableness. He had done the latter, 
 and it was growing upon him to wish to give her pride, 
 and perhaps even her goodness, a nasty fall. But he 
 had almost persuaded himself that it would really be 
 best and safest for her to own that she was beaten, and 
 to leave Cheriton free to start a new life. His morality 
 was all on the side of an immediate separation. To oust 
 her from Cheriton Abbey, or to disgust her with it, and to 
 make her feel that her good name was hard to preserve 
 while she was in her present position were his chief points. 
 
 180
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 And if a young man had at last made an impression on " the 
 icicle," as he and Lord Cheriton often called her, then it be- 
 came "her duty to put aside her religious scruples, divorce 
 her husband, and settle down as the wife of the good-look- 
 ing nobody." 
 
 That Horace would have talked as much scandal to Mrs. 
 Maurice and Lady Turton, that he would have put that 
 paragraph concerning the election in The South Donmshire 
 Gazette, just before starting for Paris, and that he would 
 have done other things almost as annoying to Muriel, but 
 for the bet made one night when Lord Cheriton was a little 
 drunk, is uncertain. But it was to him obviously better for 
 Lady Cheriton to retire, and for her husband to begin again 
 (rather a vague thing that beginning again) and for Horace 
 himself to get ^7000 as soon as all was settled. However, 
 he really often forgot all about " the d — d money " while 
 he was making little plans for the good of others ; in spite 
 of which he was constantly betraying his feelings, if not his 
 little plans, and doing things likely to make those very plans 
 abortive. 
 
 Colquhoun had taken a great fancy to Lord Berringfield, 
 a promising boy with some of his own social tastes and 
 a gift for appreciating all those things that are accounted 
 good by men of Horace's type. Lord Berringfield found 
 '* old Horace " capital company, and was patient enough to 
 put up with his occasional fits of gouty grumpiness in 
 consequence. 
 
 One night, the older man was unusually cross ; something 
 had upset his liver. He had brought Lord Berringfield back 
 to his rooms, a luxurious flat, in mansions very near the 
 present French embassy, with the great advantage of an 
 outlook on Hyde Park from the sitting-room. He gave his 
 
 181
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 young friend an admirable cigar, took one himself, and 
 went on grumbling. He would never, he said, dine with 
 minor royalties again. They fed you on garbage cooked 
 in German sauces, with sour Rhine wine, to make a marsh of 
 your tortured inside. 
 
 But it was not only Rhine wine or German sauces 
 that had produced Horace's state of temper. A suspicion 
 had been growing in his mind during the present London 
 season, that his own position in society was suffering 
 from the general opinion concerning the openly scandal- 
 ous conduct of his patron and friend. Much may be 
 forgiven to a man who indulges his bad passions with a 
 fair amount of good taste and regard for appearances. But 
 lately. Lord Cheriton had exceeded all bounds, without even 
 the excuse of his wife being a dull or unpopular woman. 
 Hitherto, Colquhoun had succeeded in posing as the virtu- 
 ous and sorrowful guide, philosopher, and friend of the 
 dissolute Earl; but to-night, not for the first time, he had 
 detected in the sarcastic enquiries after his exemplary com- 
 panion, that the world at large was beginning to think that 
 the guardian angel showed more facility for following the 
 sinner, than for leading him into better paths. Perhaps their 
 visit to Paris, with certain attendant circumstances which 
 shall be nameless, had proved the proverbial last straw in 
 public opinion. 
 
 As Horace sat cross-legged on a divan by his open win- 
 dow, whence, across boxes of beautifully kept flowers, the 
 eye could rest on the silent Park below, he looked like a 
 quaint, spoilt, elderly child. 
 
 " You and Cheriton seem to have had a pretty good time 
 in Paris," observed Lord Berringfield, unconsciously touch- 
 ing a sore place. 
 
 182
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 "Well, he wanted a change," retorted Horace, angrily. 
 " It 's a dog's life he lives down in those rooms of his on the 
 ground floor, and I don't believe he has ventured into the 
 drawing-room once this season. There they go on — music, 
 visitors, singing, people coming and going. I believe you 
 could find women who have been to that house for years 
 who will boast that they have never set eyes on him." 
 
 Lord Berringfield made a faint, warning motion with his 
 hand as some one was shown into the room. 
 
 "Well, I don't care if it is Henry Dacre, or anybody 
 else. Good-evening, Dacre, take a cigar, or whatever you 
 want"; then still looking at Berringfield's fair, unintelligent 
 face, Horace went on : "I say it 's preposterous, and I 
 can't see a chance — no, not a ghost of a chance — of the 
 man pulling himself together again, while such a state of 
 things lasts. What can he do but sink deeper and deeper? 
 And that 's the result of marrying a good woman! " 
 
 Perhaps the sour wine had made a slight impression on 
 Horace's head as well as on his liver, for he was evidently 
 not quite himself. Dacre stood by the fireplace, which was 
 filled with delicate blossoms, holding an unlighted cigar in 
 his hand and looking down at the flowers. 
 
 "But I don't see what could be done now," replied Ber- 
 ringfield, "unless he were prepared to behave fairly de- 
 cently." 
 
 **Be done?" echoed Colquhoun, angrily. "It is clear 
 enough what ought to be done. She ought to divorce him, 
 and give him a chance of starting afresh." 
 
 " Good Lord, Horace ! " said Berringfield, laughing. 
 " First a man insults his wife in every conceivable way, and 
 then it 's her duty to give him a chance of marrying some- 
 body else! What next ? " 
 
 183
 
 The LigJit Behind 
 
 " It 's quite as much for her good as for his." 
 
 There was a moment's silence, and Dacre wondered as 
 he stood immovable, studying the rare flowers at his feet, 
 whether his host had forgotten his presence. 
 
 "Great heavens, what nonsense!" exclaimed Berring- 
 field. *' As my mother says, she has a unique position now! 
 It might, from your point of view, be good for him to be 
 free ; but it would make her a sort of moral dowager, 
 respected, if you like, but not the great lady she is now." 
 
 Horace looked sulky, and threw the end of his cigar out 
 of the window with an impatient gesture. "It is extra- 
 ordinary, the sort of superstition that has grown up about 
 that woman," he said. " I think, myself, that it would be 
 much safer for her to be out of the present state of 
 things." 
 
 " Safer! " cried Berringfield. " I 've heard that said 
 about some women — but Lady Cheriton! " 
 
 " Do you suppose," asked Colquhoun, " that she is really 
 a block of marble plus tact and brains ? " 
 
 " But she never has cared for a soul — has she ? " 
 
 They seemed both to have forgotten the presence of the 
 third person. 
 
 "When you were at Eton," said Colquhoun, in a narra- 
 tive voice, " and I came back from South America, where 
 I was attached to the embassy " 
 
 " Yes, yes, I know," interrupted Berringfield, for he 
 knew how tediously Horace loved to dwell on the only 
 time of his life when he had attempted to do any work. 
 
 "Well, when I came back to London, ten years ago, she 
 was twice as handsome as she is now." 
 
 " Can't believe that." 
 
 Dacre was still strangely silent, wondering, in an odd, 
 
 184
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 impersonal manner, what sort of bill was sent in by Colqu- 
 houn's florist. 
 
 " Oh, she 's aged, believe me," Horace went on spitefully. 
 "But then she was only twenty, and James Maurice was 
 thirty-five, as ugly as he is now, but more amusing." 
 
 "James Maurice!" repeated Lord Berringfield, in aston- 
 ishment. 
 
 " Yes, it was Maurice. He was always there. How well 
 I remember it! And poor old Biddulph was always hang- 
 ing about too. One evening I came in late, and found 
 James Maurice rehearsing a speech — he at one end of the 
 long drawing-room, she at the other " 
 
 " That does n't sound dangerous," interrupted Berring- 
 field, in a knowing manner. 
 
 " No, it does n't sound so, I know, but Biddulph thought 
 otherwise. He came in just after me, and stayed till I 
 don't know what hour, and then took Maurice away with 
 him. But what could the poor old elephant do with two 
 people in love? " 
 
 *' It can't have come to much," said Berringfield, incredu- 
 lously. 
 
 " I don't know," answered Colquhoun, with a meaning 
 air, and the words were perfectly true, for he knew nothing 
 at all about it. Suddenly some impulse seized him; he 
 glanced for the fraction of a second at the black head and 
 the tall figure of Dacre, his eyes still bent downward, 
 his elbow on the mantelpiece, and the unlit cigar in his 
 fingers. Then Horace went on: 
 
 " There were things about her then — signs you know — 
 changes of temper and temperature — fits of extraordinary 
 absence of mind — curious excitability — you know the sort 
 of thing." 
 
 185
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 Berringfield nodded and Horace paused. " Curiously 
 enough," he went on after a few seconds, " I 've noticed 
 nothing of that kind since, till quite lately, and this time 
 old Biddulph evidently sees nothing. Now " — before Ber- 
 ringfield could interrupt — " I 'm sure I 've been indiscreet 
 enough, and it 's late, my dear boy. No, I should say " — 
 with a little start of surprise very well contrived — " my 
 dear boys. Hang it, Dacre, I 'd forgotten you were there ! 
 What a taste you have for turning into a Greek statue. 
 Are you practising for tableaux vivants ? " 
 
 Dacre laughed mechanically, received Colquhoun's hand- 
 shake passively, and went out with Lord Berringfield. 
 
 " Old Horace was screwed," remarked Berringfield, with 
 emphasis, as they stood together on the pavement outside. 
 
 " Obviously," replied Dacre, with a forced smile. 
 
 "Wine excites his imagination," continued Berringfield, 
 signing to a hansom. 
 
 " Enough of it would make him a second-rate novelist," 
 rejoined Dacre, and they parted. 
 
 " He was drunk, drunk, drunk," Henry muttered when 
 Berringfield had driven off, and he stood for some moments 
 as blind and rigid as if the word were true of himself. 
 Then the drift of Colquhoun's talk held him strongly and 
 repulsively. A repulsion so intense and sickening was on 
 him that it recalled faintly a scene of his childhood, when 
 he had found amid the bed of mignonette in his garden, 
 some hideous dead animal — indistinguishably awful. 
 
 " Curse him for a foul-minded liar," cried Henry. Can 
 no woman be a man's friend, he thought, without a reptile 
 like Colquhoun vilifying all the joys of friendship with 
 execrable insinuations ? She used to hear him rehearse his 
 speeches, she at one end of the drawing-room, Maurice at 
 
 186
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 the other!" And Berringfield had said: "Does n't sound 
 dangerous." No, it wasn't anything but good and right to 
 rehearse a speech to such a listener. He had done it 
 himself, and so he knew. Yes, he knew, but he had not 
 known that another had had that same experience too. 
 The long drawing-room — yes, with the graceful, thin figure 
 leaning forward, resting one elbow on a table or a chair, 
 every movement betraying sympathy, self-forgetfulness, and 
 the thrill of complete union of thought and feeling. That 
 had all happened to Maurice also, and if Colquhoun were 
 right — and drink often makes a man more, not less, truth- 
 ful — James Maurice, the great statesman, had ached for 
 that privilege. No wonder! it was enough to make any 
 man ache — and such aching ! 
 
 Henry had only been conscious that he was walking south- 
 west, but now the broad part of Brompton Road stretched 
 wide before him. How much had Maurice suffered ? he 
 wondered. How much could a man suffer that way ? It 
 is n't the pain we feel, but the capacity for unlimited pain 
 within us, that frightens us. And Henry was frightened. He 
 tried to fight it, to ignore it, but both were useless. That 
 half-drunk reptile, Colquhoun, had come into the dream of 
 his life, and had turned it into a nightmare. And what can 
 any one do with a nightmare ? Nothing, for it is of the 
 essence of a nightmare that we are helpless recipients; and 
 the brain works falsely, while the will is passive — non-ex- 
 istent. Surely, a nightmare is not a bad presentment of 
 what hell might prove to be. It had got him en grippe so 
 suddenly, this ugly sense of pain, and through it came 
 Colquhoun's words, like actual thrusts of some instrument, 
 against which he struggled in vain. 
 
 " O God ! how hideous it is to have her image 
 
 187
 
 The LigJit Behind 
 
 made less sacred, brought down to so low a level — a7id 
 yet " 
 
 For if Colquhoun's suggestions had broken down the in- 
 visible barriers that stand round a perfectly good woman, 
 in the eyes of a young man of Dacre's type, not a loss, 
 but a change of fascination had taken place. Muriel's 
 personality had such a hold upon him, her presence was so 
 vivid to him when alone, that in the midst of the pain and 
 shock caused by Colquhoun's rambling talk, a more brilliant, 
 if less holy, more seductive, if less touching, aspect of her. 
 was being revealed to him. 
 
 ^'' And yet" he repeated — and this was the waking moment. 
 The nightmare ended, daylight came back to his faculties ; 
 he felt the relief of action, as his will asserted itself. There 
 must be — there was — no yet. He began to pray that no yet 
 should dawn upon him now. He felt on the brink of an 
 unknown world of passion, and was startled by his own 
 helplessness. 
 
 He looked up at the sky mechanically to see if there 
 were any stars; in a far more true sense he was looking into 
 the great spaces of his soul for light — for the grace from 
 heaven which he had known in his boyhood, for the aspira- 
 tions of his early youth, only two or three years ago! 
 Purity, light, peace — he had had them in the past, and 
 had wished that what was highest and best might be made 
 more manifest, more assertive. But these ideas in the stress 
 of life were so elusive ! He looked now at the blank walls 
 of his mind; the words purity, light, peace, were not there 
 — just as above the garish London lamps that night there 
 were no stars. 
 
 As he realised this, as he felt the absence of what he 
 sought for, his steps took him past the Oratory, and he 
 
 188
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 looked at it inquiringly for a moment, but felt no attrac- 
 tion. A second later he stopped half unconsciously before 
 Cardinal Newman's statue. 
 
 " No," he cried, bitterly, " you can do everything else for 
 me; you have made luminous the great truths of life; you 
 have shown the intellectual difficulties so clearly that I 
 knew them before I met them, because with infinite pain 
 and travail you trod alone the paths of the generation that 
 was to follow you. But you can't help me now; you could 
 only tell me with that terrible cold light of analysis which 
 you could not soften with the divine tenderness of your 
 smile, that if we let the things of this low world grow up high 
 enough, they will of necessity hide the light behind." 
 
 189
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 LET IT BEGIN AT ONCE 
 
 ANNE was standing by Muriel, holding a note in her 
 hand, with a puzzled look on her face. 
 
 " Well," said Muriel, as she bent over the proofs 
 of the Annual Report of her Settlement in the East End, 
 " does Henry dine here to-night ?" 
 
 " No ; he has gone to stay with his mother for a few days." 
 
 " Oh, that 's why we heard nothing of him yesterday! I 
 wonder why he did not write before he left! Now it 's of 
 no use for us to bore ourselves with the Turtons to-night. 
 I counted on his completing the conquest of Lady Turton. 
 What a stupid compositor this is! " 
 
 Anne said nothing; she had walked to the window, hold- 
 ing the note, and was looking with unblinking eyes at the 
 glare of sunshine. 
 
 Henry had written: 
 
 Dear Anne : 
 
 Please make my excuses to your cousin for my non-appearance at 
 luncheon to-day. I came down here by an early train. I felt that I 
 must come away and be quiet — quite quiet for a few days. I have 
 been a good deal tried lately, and two days in the woods at home are the 
 best remedy for mind and nerves. 
 
 You are too good to me to mind my writing all this to you about 
 myself. Your devoted Henry Dacre. 
 
 " I suppose he will be back before we go to Cheriton," 
 
 190
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 said Muriel, " or it will be difficult to settle things about 
 our campaign there. It is rather tiresome of him to go off 
 so suddenly. Is his mother ill ? " 
 
 " He does not say so." 
 
 *' I suppose it is business, but I thought she did all the 
 business," objected Muriel, a little irritably. 
 
 " She may want help occasionally," replied Anne, moving 
 rather wearily across the room. 
 
 " Are you coming with me to see the club-room ? I 
 ought to start in a quarter of an hour." 
 
 " Yes. I want particularly to see it. I must learn all I 
 can, in case I am able to do any work in South London." 
 
 She got to her own room and sat down. It was large and 
 high up, and she rested in the big armchair. 
 
 "To your cousin," Anne read in the note; it seemed an 
 unusual way for Henry to allude to Muriel, and the whole 
 note was so strained and excited. There seemed to have 
 been some other ending which had been scratched out, and 
 " your devoted " written over it, the unvarying conclusion to 
 all his letters. There was no reference to his mother. 
 Had he, after all, not told her of the engagement ? They 
 had agreed that he was to tell her as soon as he went down, 
 and it was extraordinary not to say whether he had done so 
 or not. But there was suffering in the note. What did it 
 mean ? 
 
 Anne's instinct and her judgment told her that a crisis 
 was at hand. Henry had realised something that he had 
 not realised before, and it was for this that he had gone 
 away — to be alor e among the beech-trees on the hillside, to 
 know his heart, and get the courage for action. Then he 
 would come back, and all would be over between them. 
 There was no calm for Anne in this conclusion, neither did 
 
 191
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 it amount to a certain conviction, but she was glad, genu- 
 inely glad, to think that the end was near. 
 
 How strange he was! He did not love her, and yet he 
 could write that note. Well, after all, was it not perhaps 
 just the note he would write, to prepare her mind; and surely 
 his silence with regard to his mother was the clearest in- 
 timation. "He need not be afraid," thought Anne; "he 
 can go away as easily as he came. There is nothing so 
 terrible as a lingering death, and I would to God that the 
 torture were over." 
 
 It had been no small trial to her to feel herself in a false 
 position, a trial peculiar to proud, unworldly minds that 
 have not been much in contact with life. False positions 
 seem to them to involve some moral responsibility, and they 
 can hardly believe themselves to be blameless. There is 
 perhaps nothing more mysterious in the training of souls 
 than the discipline of false positions. 
 
 There was an excitement in Anne's manner that looked 
 like high spirits. Muriel was, however, preoccupied, 
 and remarked nothing. She had had, before going out 
 that morning, one of those talks with Horace Colquhoun 
 which she found to be the only possible means of manag- 
 ing business matters with Lord Cheriton. They had quite 
 gradually fallen into the habit of employing him to arrange 
 such things as their arrivals and departures, instructions to 
 the agent, etc., and for a long time this had been the great- 
 est convenience, and had kept them out of the danger of 
 breaking through the icy politeness of manner into which 
 they had settled down, after the miserable clashing of the 
 first years of their life together. Now they let each other 
 know, through Horace, where each intended to be, and 
 something of what each purposed to do. 
 
 192
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 Lord Cheriton had this morning told Horace to inform 
 her that when she went to the Abbey on the following 
 Saturday, she must do without the chef, as he should want 
 him at Cobden. Muriel had been afraid that he meant to 
 go to Cobden this year, instead of paying his annual visit to 
 Homburg, and she was feeling the confirmation of her fear 
 acutely, Horace had seemed very much annoyed at this 
 decision of Cheriton's, but suspicions as to Horace were 
 growing in her mind. She found herself almost wishing that 
 the invaluable go-between did not exist, and was forced to ac- 
 knowledge that, however painful it might be to endure those 
 dreadful state interviews with her husband, it was far more 
 dangerous for them both to depend in this way on Horace. 
 So Muriel, being preoccupied with these weighty matters of 
 her own, noticed nothing special in Anne's face or manner. 
 
 The four days during which Henry was still absent 
 passed swiftly. The external bustle of the season did not 
 disturb the sense of stillness, of waiting, that had come over 
 Anne. She was more tired than she knew — tired in heart, 
 soul, and body, but she told herself that these were days of 
 peace. She and Muriel had agreed that Henry must be 
 back in time to dine with Mr. Maurice at the House on 
 Thursday night — " He would surely not be so foolish as 
 to miss that," Lady Cheriton had said. 
 
 On Wednesday evening after tea, Anne was reading in her 
 sitting-room, in a vague mental condition, with very little 
 idea of what was in the book, having slipped out of the 
 drawing-room when Mrs. Maurice was announced. She 
 had told herself that she did not expect to see Henry 
 before to-morrow, and it was a shock as of something rather 
 unnatural, and trying to the nerves, when he suddenly 
 opened the door, and walked in. 
 
 193
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 " The servants told me you were here," he said, speaking 
 in a low voice. He was very pale, and looked unbrushed 
 and ungroomed, and unlike himself. 
 
 " Oh, you are back! " Anne tried to speak lightly, and 
 forced herself to look up at him, but her words and her 
 eyes faltered. 
 
 " Anne," he began hurriedly, " I have come back to see 
 you," and then hesitated ; " I — I could not stay away any 
 longer." 
 
 "No — why should you?" She spoke tremulously and 
 with an effort, but she contrived to smile. 
 
 " I have something to ask you, to beg of you with all my 
 heart, 1 can't live like this. I can't go on waiting in this 
 way. I am getting unnerved, absurd, intolerable." He was 
 half kneeling on a chair by her side, and his dark troubled 
 eyes were fixed on the dusky leaves of a tall plant behind 
 her, while he was acutely conscious of her bent head and of 
 her trembling hand holding the arm of her chair. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " she asked, very quietly. 
 
 " This sort of uncertainty is awful," he cried. " I don't 
 know what your father means, and — " his voice broke a 
 little. 
 
 " I don't think you know what you mean yourself, just 
 now," she answered gently. 
 
 ** Yes I do, I do, but I don't want to startle you. I 
 mean, dear Anne — could you not end all this ? Could you 
 not marry me soon — very soon ? " His eyes were bent 
 now on her soft, brown hair, and they filled with tears. The 
 pity of it! Oh, the pity of it! For a moment he forgot 
 himself. The trembling of her hand touched him strangely. 
 Ah, how he would cherish her, care for her, build a wall 
 between her and a wicked world! He knelt by her side 
 
 194
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 and kissed her hand with a devotion, a gentle tenderness 
 that only a woman's instinct could distinguish from passion. 
 " If you will be my wife," he said, almost as though she 
 were not already engaged to him, " I will live for you and for 
 nothing else. I will have no ambitions, no dreams or 
 fancies — nothing, unless you wish it. A man's whole life," 
 he said almost to himself, " is little to give to a woman like 
 you. My God ! " he cried, and his voice sounded terrible 
 to her. " Let it be soon — let it begin at once! " 
 
 It was the last words that seemed to Anne the clearest — 
 " Let it begin at once! " They did not ring like the rest, 
 and sounded like traitors to what went before. She was in 
 an agony of doubt, struggling to keep her self-control, when, 
 if she had but known it, to let him see her full heart, to be 
 forced to show a little of the depth in her, might have been 
 the salvation of them both. There is no knowing — might- 
 have-beens must always be counted among our ignorances. 
 But Anne's nerves were so completely overstrung by this 
 time that all she could think of was that she must not 
 break down, but must at all costs remain her quiet self. 
 
 "Henry," she said at last, "let me have time to think; 
 you have never spoken in the least like this before." She 
 saw an embarrassed look in his eyes, and added: "You have 
 startled me." 
 
 " Please, oh, please forgive me," he cried eagerly. 
 
 " Yes, I forgive," said Anne, a little solemnly, more as 
 a general proposition than as if it were an answer to his 
 spoken words, " but let me think a little. I don't know 
 what to say — I don't know what to do." 
 
 Her voice was exceedingly troubled, and very unlike that 
 in which she usually spoke. She turned away and buried 
 her face in her hands, while he stood over her, and through 
 
 195
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 the utter stillness of the room he heard a voice on the stairs 
 that made his heart beat wildly, " I think," came in 
 muffled tones from Anne's quivering lips, " you must give 
 me three or four days to decide." 
 
 " So long ? " exclaimed Henry, almost impatiently. 
 
 *' So long," replied Anne, a little sternly, raising her 
 head, but not looking at him. " We are going down to 
 Cheriton on Saturday, and Muriel expects you to go, too. I 
 will answer your question on Monday." 
 
 Henry strode across the room, and back to her. '* I do 
 hope you won't let anything stand in the way. Do you 
 think I might go to your father and press my cause myself ? 
 Oh, let me go to him now! " There was feverish anxiety in 
 his words, but something also in his face, as if his thoughts 
 were distracted — he had heard a skirt rustling in the next 
 room. 
 
 Anne turned to him and, speaking almost vehemently, 
 'No, no," she said, "do nothing before Monday. You 
 went away to the beech woods ; I can't do that, but you 
 must leave me in peace. Don't come here to-morrow." 
 
 He flushed as she spoke, 
 
 '* We shall meet at Mr. Maurice's to-morrow evening, and 
 we shall go to Cheriton together on Saturday — now good- 
 night! " 
 
 He came nearer to her. "Anne," he said, " may I kiss 
 you ? " He had not asked her that since the day in the wood. 
 
 She stood in front of him, erect, proud, and yet terribly 
 humble, holding up the fair face to him. And he had the 
 cruelty to kiss her. To him that kiss seemed almost sacra- 
 mental. 
 
 Men clutch for salvation at the holiest things, when they 
 will not save themselves ! 
 
 196
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 DINNER AT THE HOUSE OF COMMONS 
 
 THE First Lord of the Treasury, the taciturn man who, 
 with a bored countenance, followed his wife to race- 
 courses and to many country-house parties, seldom 
 entertained on his own account, and the fact that he was 
 giving a little dinner-party in the House of Commons 
 made a faint stir in its lower precincts. 
 
 At the night of the meeting he had said to Lady 
 Cheriton : 
 
 " Come and dine with me at the House, and bring the 
 future member." 
 
 " And may I bring my cousin, Lady Anne, who is staying 
 with me ? " 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 But delays had been inevitable, and the season was 
 drawing to an end before the little dinner came off. Be- 
 sides Lady Cheriton's party, it included Mr. Biddulph, 
 Miss Arberton, one of the fair and rather impersonal 
 sisters of Lord Berringfield, and Mr. Maurice's private 
 secretary. This last individual was the reverse of the 
 ordinary ideal for such an office. He was awkward socially, 
 and either too silent, or inclined to be didactic; but James 
 Maurice had the talent of discerning strength, and Mr. 
 Blomfield possessed a quite unusual power of gaining know- 
 ledge on living questions at home and abroad. Mr. Maurice 
 
 197
 
 TJie Light Behind 
 
 saw quickly that Blomfield was bound to succeed, and in 
 the meanwhile, the secretary no doubt was a rock of refer- 
 ence to a wearied statesman. 
 
 " How long is it since you have been here ? " asked the 
 host of Mr, Biddulph. 
 
 " Heaven only knows," was the response, as Biddulph 
 tried to guide his soup successfully over the rugged passes 
 of his beard, 
 
 " There must have been a stir in the lobby at the sight 
 of you," said Maurice, smiling. 
 
 " Indeed, no," said Biddulph, pushing his plate vin- 
 dictively ; he always resented the difficulties presented to 
 him by soup. Then, looking up with a chuckle: " The 
 denizens of the outer courts of the Temple know me no 
 more." 
 
 " You forget that you were distinctly visible under the 
 clock at least twice last session." 
 
 " Ah, so I was; that beastly bill kept me standing about 
 awaiting your pleasure." 
 
 " It is one of the singular arrangements of the Govern- 
 ment under which I have the happiness to serve — " 
 " Listen to him," mocked Biddulph ; but Mr. Maurice 
 would not be interrupted — " that the men of real power," 
 he went on, " the Permanent Heads, who depend on no 
 fickle popular breath, and who tell the puppets of an hour 
 what to do, are often almost unknown." 
 
 " So much the better for them," said Anne, to whom he 
 had spoken. 
 
 " Perhaps; and yet the farce of the thing ! Conceive ! 
 When I first took ofhce I was one of the whips, and then, 
 by good luck, I got the Under Secretaryship for the Colonies, 
 and, my chief being in the Lords, I had, in the Commons, 
 
 198
 
 The LigJit Behind 
 
 to represent Mr. Biddulph's department, of which I knew 
 as much, probably less, than you do now, Lady Anne." 
 
 " But nobody wanted you to know anything about it," 
 said Biddulph. 
 
 " Exactly so; I was clay in your hands." 
 
 " A very good thing to be," — and Lady Cheriton smiled 
 affectionately at Mr. Biddulph. 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Mr. Maurice; "but there is the truly 
 British farce of the thing. I, who was Biddulph's puppet, 
 and, by the way, had to do all his fighting for him, became 
 the public figure-head in the Commons, and the apparently 
 responsible person." 
 
 " No," said Biddulph, " you were by no means a puppet, 
 and, being an intelligent youth and not tied up by red 
 tape, you brought a fresh mind to bear on many things, 
 which is often invaluable. There's a deal more sense in 
 the British Constitution than you logical gentlemen suppose. 
 The value of a common-sense man's opinion, untram- 
 melled by too much knowledge of detail," — and Bid- 
 dulph smiled genially down the table, exciting a crowing 
 laugh from Mr. Blomfield, — "is the great factor in many 
 British affairs, from trial by jury down to the Government 
 offices ; — but I protest this is not conversation for dinner- 
 time. Since when have you managed to get quite decent 
 wines ? " 
 
 " Since we have had a wine merchant as an M. P.," an- 
 swered Mr. Maurice. " Hang that bell! " 
 
 As he spoke, a bell rang loudly, and there was a sound of 
 hurrying feet in the passage. Mr. Blomfield moved in haste 
 to the door. 
 
 " They must do without my vote this time," said his chief, 
 a little irritably. "It 's only a division, Lady Anne, brought 
 
 199
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 on by certain members who amuse themselves by ruining 
 our digestions, and then go out to dine while we are work- 
 ing. It ought to be put a stop to." 
 
 After dinner, Mr. Maurice asked the little party to 
 adjourn to his own room. 
 
 *' Unless," he said, smiling, " Lady Anne is anxious to go 
 at once to the Ladies' Gallery. I would not for the world 
 deprive her of the elevating pleasure of hearing our legis- 
 lators display their powers of research into the question of 
 margarine and butter. That's it, isn't it, Blomfield? " 
 
 " Butter or margarine," suggested Mr. Blomfield, who 
 was watching, with some surprise, the unusual geniality of 
 his chief's manner this evening. 
 
 " I wish," he said aside to Dacre, as they followed the 
 others, led by Lady Cheriton and their host, " I wish he 
 had his own friends about him more often; I 've not heard 
 him talk so much for a twelvemonth. You can't conceive 
 what a set they live in." 
 
 " I 've seen some specimens," said Dacre. 
 
 *' I don't blame her," Blomfield went on, " for being 
 jealous of Lady Cheriton ; of course, everybody can see " — 
 but by this time the long stately passages which were filling 
 Anne with a youthful sense of awe and excitement were 
 passed, and they found themselves in Mr. Maurice's room, 
 and Mr. Blomfield's sentence remained unfinished. 
 
 It was a large room, lined with books and furnished with 
 two or three large writing-tables and large dark leather 
 chairs, having an old-fashioned look of dignified fixtures 
 about them. Henry noticed that, whereas Mr. Biddulph's 
 rooms and papers were as neat as he was himself untidy, 
 the books and papers in Mr. Maurice's room were not 
 nearly as neat as their exquisitely groomed possessor. 
 
 200
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 Anne and Henry had avoided each other after her kindly- 
 greeting in the lobby, — kindly, but a little defensive. He 
 was very silent at dinner, and looked so ill that nobody 
 liked to ask him what was the matter. 
 
 " It seems irreverent to play about here," Anne observed 
 to Mr. Biddulph, as he followed her to some chairs at a lit- 
 tle distance. 
 
 " You are very young," he answered, — and added to him- 
 self, " but you don't look as if you were playing." He did 
 his best this evening to distract her from a sadness that he 
 dreaded to find in her eyes. 
 
 He knew that the best of engagements are rarely cloud- 
 less, and that men and women seldom adjust their lives 
 quite smoothly at once. All the same, he was by no means 
 satisfied as to the expression on the sweet, fair face which 
 was lifted up to him as he talked. 
 
 Meanwhile their host had settled himself, on the huge 
 green morocco sofa that stood between the windows, with 
 Lady Cheriton. Miss Arberton was being amused by Mr. 
 Blomfield, who was making harmless little allusions to his 
 chief's peculiarities, and Henry stood near them, trying 
 to listen while his eyes wandered to the statesman on the 
 sofa. 
 
 Mr. Maurice's sallow face, with its irregular features, was 
 to most people inexpressive to a peculiar degree, but to 
 Muriel it retained much more of what he had been as a 
 younger man, when the expression was less smoothly nega- 
 tive and the eyes were less indifferent than now. For 
 years she had seldom had an intimate talk with him. In- 
 deed, her acquaintances said that her avoidance of him had 
 grown into a pose. But for the last two seasons or so, she 
 had found it quite natural and easy to make small talk with 
 
 201
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 him, though he had never before entertained her on his own 
 account, as he was doing to-night. 
 
 " The realisation of so many dreams," she said lightly, 
 looking round at the dignified, official sitting-room. 
 
 " Yes, and, as you said the other day, the happiness lay in 
 the dream. I wonder if it was not really worth paying for, 
 though the instalments do stretch over so many years." 
 
 Muriel looked a little surprised. 
 
 " What makes you take things like that to-night ? " 
 
 "Well," he said, " having you here recalls so much, that 
 it makes me half disposed not to let my grudge against you 
 die out, for having put me in this way of life." 
 
 " Not really ? " said Muriel quickly and anxiously. " You 
 don't really regret that you took to serious work for your 
 country ?" 
 
 " Yes, I know you will despise me," said James Maurice, 
 smiling, as he leant back. " I did not appreciate, till the 
 other night, how completely you still idealise it all. You 
 are urging on a new victim." 
 
 Muriel was silent, and so sad in face for a moment that 
 Maurice, who was sitting with crossed legs, and one strong 
 well-formed hand pressed on his knee, looked up at her 
 apologetically. 
 
 "I should not tease you," he said, "and it 's chiefly a 
 question of vocation. You see he may have been born to 
 it. I was n't. I was made in London society, manufactured 
 by a woman. I might have been such a happy country- 
 gentleman." 
 
 " It is n't true," cried Muriel. " It is some absurd fit of 
 depression. You ought to go to Homburg." 
 
 He had had a friendly purpose in asking Lady Cheriton 
 to dine that night, for he took in more of the women's talk 
 
 202
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 at home than his wife supposed, and had worried over it, 
 and teased himself as to what he could possibly do. It had 
 struck him that he might try to give her a delicate hint. 
 But the worst of delicate hints is that the hint is apt to be 
 lost in the delicacy. Also his talk was too full of reminis- 
 cence to-night, and his mind was oppressed by the burden 
 of his home life, which seemed to become more unbearable 
 every season. 
 
 " You are not really sorry ? " repeated Muriel, after a 
 moment's silence, as if asking him to contradict himself. 
 
 " I won't be baulked of my point," he said. " You made 
 a great mistake with me ; " and, in a lower voice: " You never 
 knew what you made me suffer. I want you to learn a lit- 
 tle caution. You should dread your own influence." 
 
 Then he became silent and embarrassed, fearing that he 
 had been too serious and too explicit, and he hastened to 
 give another turn to his words. 
 
 " I own it may be quite different ; you may have found 
 the real article at last." 
 
 " You shall not talk like that," said Lady Cheriton, look- 
 ing for a moment some of her old proud confidence in him, 
 and it came as a refreshment to the tired man by her side. 
 
 "No," he said ; "you couldn't make me more than the 
 humdrum, conventional, at heart immoral, British states- 
 man, who is always pretending to believe in a huge show 
 built upon shams, and carried on by humbug. The fact is, 
 if you are not a fanatic or a genius, the machinery is too 
 much for you, and the better you work your part of it the 
 more it crushes you into a bit of itself, and then you writhe 
 against it, and call it names." 
 
 Muriel sat forward, her lips a little parted. 
 
 "You've never talked to me like this before," she said, 
 
 203
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 and tears rose in her eyes. She looked very like her old 
 self now, and he had never understood why he sometimes 
 heard her called a hard woman. " You are very unkind 
 to-night, you say things on purpose to hurt. Your career 
 has been such a joy, such a justification to me. If I 
 thought even that had been a mistake, I hardly know how 
 I should bear it." 
 
 Maurice was startled. His words had not been simple 
 joking ; they had had some bitterness in them, bitterness 
 against her, perhaps, and the underlying bitterness of his 
 home life, but he had not meant her to take them seriously. 
 He bent a little more towards her, over the large green 
 leather seat between them, but there was nothing quite like 
 the past in his present attitude. 
 
 Yet she could not, quite unmoved, hear him speak earn- 
 estly, with the peculiar clearness and resonance of that voice 
 which influenced crowds now, and which had been her chief 
 danger some ten years ago. 
 
 "To give you that joy was my one object for years," he 
 cried, forgetting all about the delicate hint. " Don't pay atten- 
 tion to anything I 've said, to-night. The humdrum I swear 
 at is the greatest relief in life, and I do believe in quite a 
 tenth of the opinions I profess in public. Now I must go." 
 
 He stood up and looked at her for a moment with self- 
 reproach, as he saw something in her face that made him 
 remember that her suffering might be greater than his, and 
 her means of relief far less. There they must leave it; the 
 wife of Lord Cheriton and the husband of Mrs. Maurice 
 had no intention of asking sympathy from anyone, far less 
 from each other, but as they stood together in silence for a 
 moment they felt the little drama of their evening, while 
 neither wished to have it over again. 
 
 201
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 " By the way," said Mr. Maurice, turning towards the 
 others, " there may be something in the House presently 
 that will interest Lady Anne, — an important telegram has 
 come from Egypt." 
 
 A subtle change in his face made them all feel as if, in a 
 moment, he had taken up again the weight of responsibility 
 that had been laid aside, and Mr. Blomfield knew that his 
 chief's evening out was over. 
 
 Muriel left Anne and Miss Arberton in the Ladies' 
 Gallery, and drove Mr. Biddulph home. 
 
 "So that is our postscript," she thought, as she leant 
 back in the dark carriage, and a warm sense of affection 
 came over her towards the friend by her side. 
 
 " Lovers come and go," she thought, " but there are 
 friends who never fail." 
 
 She did not notice Mr. Biddulph's silence till the car- 
 riage stopped at his own door. 
 
 " We have n't had much to say. I thought you wanted 
 to talk to me." She spoke brightly. 
 
 " Yes — by the way, should I find you in to-morrow 
 evening? You go on Saturday, don't you ?" 
 
 " Yes, come any time to-morrow night," and she clasped 
 his big hand, as he turned, after stumbling out upon the 
 pavement. 
 
 305
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 THE GIFT AT THE ALTAR 
 
 IT was past two o'clock that same night, and Anne was 
 standing in the drawing-room, with Mr. Colquhoun 
 close by her. She and Miss Arberton had come 
 away from the House together, and now the carriage had 
 taken Miss Arberton home. Anne had welcomed the ex- 
 citement of her first visit to the House of Commons, almost 
 feverishly, and if the pleasure was not what she had dreamed 
 it would be, it was still a potent distraction. She had been 
 eagerly telling Colquhoun all that had passed, feeling as if 
 he must be equally eager to hear the details from an eye- 
 witness, when she suddenly perceived that he was not list- 
 ening, and was even beginning to talk to her very seriously 
 of something else. He spoke confidentially, lowering his 
 voice, and assuming an understanding between them that 
 was quite new. As soon as Anne perceived his drift, she 
 made up her mind to check him at once. 
 
 "I don't think I quite understand," she said in words 
 that came slowly and distinctly, but a little haughtily. 
 
 " Well," replied Colquhoun gently, " I should like you to 
 try and understand, because I think it is for everybody's 
 advantage. I repeat, that I think Lady Cheriton should 
 have a separation. You know this state of things is intoler- 
 able. To you ' upstairs ' or ' in another place,' as we say 
 in the smoking-room, it is simple, because you forget the 
 
 206
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 existence of the master of the house; but to my mind it is 
 an impossible situation. I don't suppose they have spoken 
 to each other once this week." 
 
 "O yes, they have," cried Anne, but she felt that the 
 remark was weak, for the meeting had been a brief and 
 accidental one. " I don't think," she went on stiffly, after 
 a moment, " that it is exactly my business, if Muriel chooses 
 to endure." 
 
 "Yes, I know," replied Colquhoun, irritably. " But don't 
 you see that she suffers from the state of things almost 
 more than she knows, and that she has nobody to help her. 
 You are all blind — blind. Don't you see the danger she is 
 in ? Will no one lift a little finger to help her ? Where is 
 she now ?" 
 
 He said it almost as he would have asked whether she 
 was on fire, or drowning, or in any other position of immi- 
 nent peril. 
 
 " She is showing Mr. Dacre some letters about the elec- 
 tion." 
 
 " Dacre, Dacre, — always Dacre! " exclaimed Colquhoun, 
 watching her narrowly while he spoke. 
 
 Anne started, but controlled herself with a strong effort. 
 
 It seemed at the moment, as if the hint conveyed by 
 Colquhoun's voice and manner was an absolute revelation, as 
 startling as any unexpected evil could be. But in reality it 
 was only a discovery of what had underlain her own con- 
 sciousness since the day she had come up to London. 
 
 Had she not been blindly struggling all this time to keep 
 down some dark and unkind thoughts of Muriel, and try- 
 ing to hide from herself an interpretation of Henry's 
 attitude during their engagement that would explain too 
 much ? 
 
 207
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 She stood rigidly straight before Mr. Colquhoun, betray- 
 ing nothing but the same touch of haughty contempt with 
 which she had met his first confidence. But it needed a 
 strong effort of her will. 
 
 Before it was necessary to speak, the distant door opened, 
 and Muriel came in with Henry by her side, walking towards 
 them, and talking earnestly together. For many years after, 
 Anne could have lived through that moment again, as 
 vividly as if the scene were before her eyes. Muriel was en- 
 tirely in white, and wore no jewels except her famous pearls. 
 
 How beautiful ! How wonderfully beautiful she looked, 
 with the strange sadness of her eyes, and the brightness of 
 her smile! And Henry? All that Anne felt and knew was 
 that he was gazing at that slight, stately figure, — intently, 
 searchingly. "Blind — blind," seemed again to come from 
 Colquhoun's closed lips, while he tried to meet Anne's 
 eyes, as if to ask: " Can't you — won't you see ? " 
 
 And Muriel, slowly reaching them, asked Anne languidly 
 whether she was ready to go to bed, and half absently bid- 
 ding the two men " Good-night," she took her cousin's arm 
 and led her away. 
 
 Anne was thankful for the shortness of a summer's 
 night. It was three o'clock when she reached her room, 
 and two hours later she slipped down-stairs and escaped 
 into the open air. How still it was! The tapping made by 
 the feet of the simple figure in grey echoed quite loudly 
 as she hurried on towards Kensington. 
 
 Hyde Park was just opened, and she entered, only half 
 conscious of the strong relief that the green brought to her 
 sleepless eyes. Every now and then, as she passed on, she 
 clenched her hands, or held them together with a tight pres- 
 
 308
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 sure. On and on — past the Row, through Kensington 
 Gardens, smelling sweetly of the night's uninvaded peace — 
 past the children's walk, and away by Kensington Palace 
 still asleep, till her goal, the Carmelite church, was reached. 
 
 As she went in through the dark porch, she heard the 
 harsh, monotonous, muffled tones of the friars in the distant 
 choir. She fancied, but she could not be sure, that she 
 caught the words " Tibi soli pec cavi " — ^''Against Thee only have 
 I sinned." And it came over her with a wave of meaning, 
 as she sank upon her knees. What, after all, were her own 
 wrongs, her own provocation ? For all sin is against God 
 only, and we all have done it. It was not possible to ex- 
 plain how it came to her, but it was a flood of strange 
 music over her rebellious soul. Why resent ? Why cry out 
 in hatred ? Why even strive so hard to forgive ? It was 
 God who had made them, against whom was their sin. 
 
 ^'That Thou mayst be justified in Thy words, and overcome 
 when Thou art judged. For behold Thou hast loved truth, 
 and the uncertain and hidden things of Thy wisdom Thou hast 
 made manifest" beyond all reasoning, all words. 
 
 The poor soul that had come there, struggling to forgive, 
 come to get the weapons with which to fight herself, now 
 rested awe-struck in those greater mysteries. " Lord," this 
 soul now said, " they and I belong to Thee, and what we do 
 is against Thee only, and how we suffer from each other's 
 wrong-doing is Thy affair also, and Thou must bear it for us." 
 
 ^''The uncertain and hidden things" cannot be spoken, but 
 to Anne, with a crushed heart and weary being, they were 
 exceedingly ^''manifest." 
 
 Presently she rose, and going to the sacristy, rang the bell, 
 and asked if one of the Fathers would come to the confes- 
 sional. A few minutes later, after simply telling what she 
 '' 209
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 had done wrong since her last confession, Anne was back in 
 her place. She had come for absolution, not for sympathy 
 and advice. 
 
 Mass was being said, and Anne went to Holy Communion, 
 and made a long, peaceful thanksgiving. Then, going out 
 into the street, she found a shop where some breakfast 
 could be got, and swallowed some food quickly, feeling as 
 if she was in the midst of a great and important work that 
 must be done at once. 
 
 Passing back into the cool shadow of the church, she sat 
 down in the Lady Chapel, and tried to think quietly and 
 coherently of the position. That Colquhoun had been the 
 means of making clear what she must soon have seen for 
 herself, was evident to her. She wondered now that she 
 had not seen it before. But what did it mean ? She had 
 before been blind ; she must now beware of her own judg- 
 ment. She fixed her elbows on the sharp edge of the bench 
 in front of her, and pressed her hands on her forehead, 
 while great tears welled up in her eyes. 
 
 Was he unfaithful, or, rather, was not the old fear the 
 true one ? Had he never loved her from the first ? Never 
 at all ? Then none of those precious moments — precious, 
 in spite of her doubts — had ever been really hers. In 
 all the time before hope left her, never had she clung to 
 those first days with him at Cobden, and, above all, to 
 those moments in the wood, as she did now. Could she 
 but keep that remembrance as having been something real? 
 " If it had not been for Muriel he must have loved me, — he 
 did love me," she moaned. 
 
 Anne raised her eyes to the statue of the Madonna above 
 her. Had nothing been her own ? A deep blush of shame 
 and protest covered her face. Could he have been so com- 
 
 210
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 pletely deceitful, so hardened a liar ? The thought of his 
 last talk with her, when he had pressed her to begin their 
 married life quickly, was unbearable. Surely he had been 
 terribly cruel then, terribly false — yet, after all, not false 
 enough to act that scene well. He had been like a frightened 
 man coming for help, fiercely demanding help, because he 
 had lost his nerve. 
 
 Then what must have passed in his mind seemed gradu- 
 ally to become clear to her. He must, in those days at 
 Cobden, have believed her to be his real attraction. On 
 the day of his proposal, he must have been drawn to her. 
 Afterwards, feeling safe in his engagement, he had let 
 Muriel's fascination grow upon him, until, somehow, he had 
 found out the truth, and had run away to face it alone. 
 
 But it had been cruel, horribly cruel, to come after that, 
 and ask her to protect him against himself. Did he imagine 
 that he could satisfy her with such a lie in action ? Why 
 had he not, for heaven's sake, told her the truth ? Did he 
 suppose she could want him now ? 
 
 But he was surely in danger, and so was Muriel ; yet 
 Anne knew that to do any false thing on her own part, — 
 such as to keep, even for a time, her claim on Henry's 
 honour, — in order to save them from each other, would be 
 worse than useless. She must tell him the truth, and let 
 him go free, and leave them both to God. She was not 
 morbid, and she knew that it was not possible by any self- 
 sacrifice to undertake another man's soul. God must see 
 to it. She could not forget the Divine Master's answer to 
 that question which our hearts are ever asking when we 
 love a friend truly : " Lord, and what shall this man do ? " 
 " If I will that he tarry till I come, what is that to thee ? 
 Follow thou me." Peter was not told the secrets of John. 
 
 211
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 The practical point immediately before her arose from 
 the necessity of deciding whether she should now go down 
 to Cheriton, as already planned, on the following day. She 
 had told Henry that she would think over his anxiety to 
 hurry on the marriage, and let him know her decision on 
 Monday. She shrank from being at Cheriton with him 
 and Muriel, and yet it seemed almost impossible to prevent 
 it at the eleventh hour. Would it not be better to spend 
 the Sunday there exactly as they had planned, and to await 
 the decisive talk with him on Monday ? It was true this 
 would throw him into Muriel's society during two whole 
 days, but her instinct was rather against any sudden and 
 abrupt catastrophe. She thought that the breaking off of 
 the engagement would be more quietly and naturally done 
 at Cheriton, and that she herself was hardly fit to act calmly 
 and with tact, during her present mood of strain. As to the 
 additional suffering to herself, it was such a little more that 
 she scarcely counted it. 
 
 Later on, when the dreaded crisis had come and passed, 
 she asked herself if the decision arrived at that morning 
 had been a right one. 
 
 Having, with almost unnatural calmness, settled what she 
 had to do, and would, if possible, carry through, Anne 
 weighed the subject carefully from Muriel's standpoint, and 
 this involved a fight against a blacker doubt. Could Muriel 
 have had no idea how she was leading Dacre on during 
 these past weeks? Had she, too, been blind, — strangely 
 blind ? Little things crowded in on Anne's mind, — little 
 actions, words, arrangements, all that had wounded and 
 stung her, all that she had tried to ignore, or to explain 
 away at the moment. Had not these two been all in all to 
 each other ? Had they thought of her at all in their eager 
 
 213
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 talks and plans ? Had she not been often alone and often 
 forgotten, even while sitting close to them ? 
 
 But then she put these darker suspicions vigorously 
 away, deeming that she was no fair judge of these things. 
 By God's help she would not be little or mean in bearing 
 her sorrow. Sobs again shook her frame ; for that she 
 loved Henry, loved him with terrible strength, with her 
 will and against it, with her judgment and against it, was a 
 certainty that possessed her entirely, with an ever-increasing 
 conviction. But she sternly cut the future from her heart, 
 and bade it mourn in a solitary place where no hope was. 
 
 Gradually, as she thought less and prayed more, Anne 
 grew in pity for those who were costing her so much pain, 
 and there came over her a longing that her pardon might 
 be complete, that her suffering might bring them a blessing, 
 that she might emulate the tender mercies of the Divine 
 forgiveness. What could she do for them ? How could 
 her pain win them help in their great danger, and 
 bring them safely out of it ? There was no thought of 
 self in this, no wish that Henry should ever return in any 
 sense to her, — her heart was too sorely wounded for that. 
 But she yearned over him and over Muriel, till, in a great 
 cry of the soul, she asked that, if it were God's will, she might 
 leave there at the foot of the altar all her own earthly hap- 
 piness, to purchase for those two the gift of pure sorrow 
 here, and its exceeding great reward hereafter. 
 
 Only in one of vivid faith could such an offering have 
 been an act of heroism ; only in one of great simplicity 
 could it have been real ; only in very singular circum- 
 stances could it have been justified. In Anne's prayer, all 
 these conditions were united. 
 
 213
 
 PART III 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 AT CHERITON ABBEY 
 
 AN UNUSUAL bustle at the Cheriton Station, and an 
 air of cheerful importance among the porters, were 
 among the symptoms denoting that Lady Cheriton 
 had just come down from London. The heat of the day was 
 passed, and a cool breeze came gratefully to the little party 
 that drove along the dusty highroad to the Abbey. Muriel 
 and Anne leant back and cried *' How delicious, how re- 
 freshing! " in one breath, while Henry Dacre and Horace 
 took off their hats at the same moment, and breathed a 
 deep breath of relief. 
 
 " You may take them off now, but you must put them on 
 in the town," said Muriel, with a mock air of ceremonial. 
 "Ah, there it is! " she cried, as a bend in the road brought 
 them in full view of town and Abbey. 
 
 Nestled amid the woods and climbing the steep hill be- 
 tween them were the red roofs of the town, and the long 
 straight line of the High Street. Tall and gabled was the 
 Town Hall, and near it rose most of the more important 
 houses, some of them square, ugly, and grey. But whether 
 lovely or the reverse, all were half concealed by ivy or ir- 
 repressible climbing roses, by stone pines, or by immense 
 lilacs and laburnums, now long past flower. It seemed a^ 
 
 214 
 
 x;
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 town planted in a garden. The grey roof of the old church 
 came in line with the lower slope of the hills above the town, 
 and, rising in the high range of the downs above church and 
 town, and standing clear against the blue sky, was the old 
 group of dark, irregular buildings that was of all dates and 
 styles, and that had in all its different stages of growth, and 
 decay, and restoration, been called Cheriton Abbey. 
 
 " No wonder she loves it," thought Colquhoun, as he saw 
 her silent gaze fixed upon it, with an expression he wished 
 he could understand. 
 
 Dacre was seeing it for the first time, but Muriel pointed 
 out nothing, and offered no explanations, whereas she usu- 
 ally was an eager cicerone, loving to tell something of its 
 history to a new-comer. 
 
 The others talked, but she did not speak, and lay back 
 gazing intently before her. As they came into the narrow 
 lane that led into the High Street, she held herself up and 
 looked about her, giving friendly response to the universal 
 greetings of the groups gathered round doorways or in the 
 road, enjoying the evening air, 
 
 Henry felt at once that here was the place where she was 
 happiest, and that no position among her own class, 
 however tenaciously she held it, was as dear to her as this 
 that she had helped to make for herself in her husband's 
 domains. 
 
 Colquhoun, too, knew most of the faces, and greeted 
 many, while he spoke to Muriel, asking her questions as to 
 recent news. 
 
 " How decayed Sparrow looks! " 
 
 " Didn't you know that his wife had died, and he has no 
 one to keep him tidy ? " 
 
 " Dear old Tomkins, he must be any age now! " 
 215
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 ** Just turned eighty." 
 
 And then Colquhoun saw another familiar figure that 
 came out of the Cheriton Arms, half way up the High 
 Street, How changed! the gait was unsteady, the clothes 
 untidy, but the look in the eyes was clear enough; he was 
 staring at the carriage and he did not take off his hat. It 
 was Holmstead, the dismissed groom. 
 
 Colquhoun saw Muriel's lips firmly set, and she became 
 a little paler, and did not speak again till they had driven 
 under the avenue of horse-chestnuts that led to the elaborate 
 Gothic doorway of the Abbey — Gothic of the revival of the 
 XVnith century. 
 
 "Let us have tea at once, and then go out," she said to 
 Anne. ** Don't let us waste any of this weather." 
 
 They mounted the shallow stairs that curved upwards 
 from the hall, with deep piled carpets and gilt bannisters. 
 
 But aesthetic objections to details never dimmed Muriel's 
 enjoyment of the sense of space, of colour, of what she called 
 the Cheriton smell, — one of those clinging scents that hang 
 about old country houses, suggesting the pot-pourri and 
 mignonette and cherry pie of many generations. 
 
 As she walked along the slippery floor of the long low 
 gallery that even for the most critical could not be spoilt by 
 occasional lapses into the furniture of the Georges, going 
 to her favourite seat in the far window looking over the 
 valley, not even the stab of pain that the sight of Holm- 
 stead had given her could quite spoil the joy of this sum- 
 mer home-coming. 
 
 "I always have tea here first," she said to Anne, "and 
 then go out, and nobody brings me any business till next 
 day." 
 
 As she sat down, and Anne bent over a bowl of red roses 
 
 216
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 by the window, while Colquhoun was showing Dacre a 
 Romney in the gallery, some words that had passed between 
 herself and Biddulph the night before, came back to 
 her. 
 
 " I wish you had not taken up this election so keenly." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " I don't think you have quite your usual good judgment 
 about it." 
 
 " But you think it would be such an excellent thing for 
 him." 
 
 " Yes, I do, but I don't want you to suffer for it. Don't 
 be quixotic. Remember, the best happiness you have is in 
 having done the duties of your position thoroughly well ; and 
 the knowledge that your people appreciate it, though not 
 the highest reward, is not to be despised. Don't set your 
 heart on getting your own way about something unneces- 
 sary. Your position is too difficult for that. Don't risk 
 any change at your home." 
 
 Muriel had cried impatiently at the time, " Can't one 
 sometimes do something for a friend ? " but now his words 
 came over her with fresh strength. 
 
 Only those who love places deeply, with a personal love, 
 could understand the influence of the atmosphere of Cheri- 
 ton on Muriel. The green swelling of the hills to the 
 north, the rounded waves of beech trees hanging down 
 their sides, the lowing of the cows in the low-lying land 
 sinking away to the south, the movements of some half- 
 bold rabbit immediately under the Abbey wall, the sounds of 
 the children playing, down in the town, — nay, even the great 
 tapestry chair she sat back in, the mellow depths of the 
 Vandyck near her, the great stands of flowers, and the 
 glimpse of the cedar drawing-room through an open door, 
 
 217
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 — all these were a part of the scene in which she had suffered 
 so much, in which she had seen the hopes and joys of youth 
 die away, but had only loved the beautiful things about her 
 the more. No one loves flowers so intensely as those who 
 are in physical pain. Perhaps some perceptions are made 
 more acute by the suffering of the rest of the nature. 
 
 Yes, Mr. Biddulph was right ; she must take heed to her 
 steps, for her road was very slippery. But she would not 
 think, this evening; she would only enjoy; and as the others 
 gathered about the tea-table, she told them that in ten min- 
 utes she intended to start for a walk in the park, and who- 
 ever chose might come, too, but she should wait for no one. 
 
 Colquhoun never cared for a walk without an object, and 
 now he strolled down into the town, and looked in upon 
 the agent, and chanced upon the parson, with both of 
 whom he cautiously felt his way as to the coming election. 
 It seemed to him that they were as reticent as he could 
 wish to be himself. 
 
 Muriel, left alone that night in the tower room, which 
 she had chosen for her own, sat by the window, looking 
 down on the valley. It was the largest of the towers, and the 
 room was big and commanded two views: one of the park, 
 to the north, where just glimmered the waters of the lake 
 between the hills, clothed in hanging beech woods; and the 
 other, of the river, curving between low rich meadows, 
 until it was hidden by the town, and then coming into 
 view again, lazily widening as it neared the sea. 
 
 The moon had risen, and the mist floated in faint 
 clouds below the Abbey, lying over the low land about the 
 river and the tiny streams that divided the rich meadows. 
 The water shone brightly, and it seemed from Muriel's 
 height as if she were at once in the sky with the moon, and 
 
 218
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 strolling by the silver river, so clear were the heaven above 
 and the water beneath the floating mist. 
 
 Yes, she was enjoying the first evening at Cheriton, about 
 which she was almost superstitious, taking it as a proof 
 that keen enjoyment was still possible to her. But she was 
 enjoying it with an effort of the will. Just as in the story, 
 the friar who, being asked why he lingered several 
 moments behind the others at the chapel door, explained 
 that he had to say to all thoughts of the world, " Stop 
 there, don't come with me," before he was free to pray, 
 so Muriel had deliberately, while waiting for her tea in the 
 gallery, banished to the threshold of her mind all that 
 would interfere with the glory of the summer evening. 
 
 But now she frowned a little, as she went back in thought 
 to that tiresome talk with Mr. Biddulph. He was right. 
 Cheriton — every stone of it, the people — every man, woman, 
 and child, were dear to her, were far too dear to be risked. 
 But how was she risking them now? By helping Dacre to 
 become their member ? Dear, humdrum, money-making 
 little tradesmen, dear, heavy, hardy farmers, they would 
 not mind. Henry was a Tory, and from the deepest con- 
 viction he believed it right to support the Establishment. 
 Three members for the other divisions, and two neighbours, 
 had spoken to her warmly on the subject, after making 
 Henry's acquaintance. Then, had she not always suc- 
 ceeded best, in any local trial of strength, by being bold ? 
 As to Lord Cheriton, it was always good for him to see her 
 influence with other people succeed. It did not do to be 
 weak with him; she had made a great mistake as to Holm- 
 stead; she ought to have insisted. She had been weak, 
 and evil had come of it. And now she had got his con- 
 sent to Henry being supported by the Cheriton influence 
 
 219
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 in the election. But to explain how this was done we must 
 go back to Muriel's last evening in London. 
 
 Mr, Biddulph came in after dinner that evening, and find- 
 ing as usual Anne, Henry, and Colquhoun, asked Muriel to 
 take him to her own sitting-room. And when he got there, 
 he made the remarks already quoted as to the election, and 
 she said: 
 
 "Can't one sometimes help one's friends?" and then 
 half to herself: " I always thought that if I had had a 
 brother I should have loved to work for him, to help him 
 to be great." 
 
 Biddulph shifted uneasily in his chair, 
 
 "Yes, but mind you do the right things for him." 
 
 " But you said," cried Muriel, " that he ought to be a 
 member as soon as possible." 
 
 " Yes, but I didn't mean," replied Biddulph in some irrita- 
 tion, "that everything should be sacrificed to it; he is en- 
 gaged to be married, and that 's generally enough to take 
 up a man's time for some months at least," 
 
 " Yes, if they were going to be married soon," said 
 Muriel, " But they have not even got her father's per- 
 mission yet." 
 
 Both felt irritated, and did not wish to show it. 
 
 " Her fool of a father should make up his mind," said 
 Biddulph, roughly, 
 
 " Of course he ought. But in any case, Anne is most 
 anxious that he should get into Parliament, and I can't see 
 the objection," 
 
 " No, no," answered Biddulph, uncomfortably, " Only she 
 is the sort of woman who lets herself go to the wall for the 
 sake of those she cares for," 
 
 " But how," asked Muriel, opening large, rather imperti- 
 
 220
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 nent eyes at him, " does his standing for Cheriton send Anne 
 to the wall ? She would much rather be the wife of an M. P." 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Biddulph, crossly, and he ventured no 
 further, but abruptly brought in his other point. " Does 
 Lord Cheriton know of the engagement ?" 
 
 ** No, nobody knows but you." 
 
 " Then I think he ought to know before the election." 
 
 "Anne would not like it." 
 
 " Nonsense ! he should know it ; " and then, with a great 
 effort : "The best justification of your bringing a stranger to 
 be Member down there, is the future connection." 
 
 "But I can't tell them all that." 
 
 " No, but you can tell Lord Cheriton." 
 
 " Very well." 
 
 Biddulph's fear of doing harm, and his anxiety to shield 
 her from Colquhoun's mean suspicions, made him nervous, 
 and it seemed to Muriel that he was critical and hostile. 
 She had meant to tell him about Holmstead, the groom, but 
 she was hurt, and remained silent. 
 
 When he said " Good-bye," he tried to talk in their usual 
 way, but she would not, and when he pressed her hand in 
 parting, she raised her dark eyes at him reproachfully, — a 
 look that stayed long with him. 
 
 " Will you come to Cheriton ? " she asked in a voice that 
 struck him as meaning, " Altho' I am not quite pleased with 
 you, I ask you, all the same." 
 
 " Perhaps," he said, with a sigh that was half a grunt, and 
 went away. 
 
 This was the conversation — the incident that Muriel had 
 to forget, before she could enjoy the summer's evening, and 
 it needed great practice in shutting up whole rooms in her 
 mind, to make it possible. 
 
 221
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 " I must get him down soon, and put him right," she 
 thought, " but he is not what he used to be. Can one never 
 lean on anybody ? " 
 
 Still she had done what he told her. She had gone to 
 Lord Cheriton's study next morning, and dismissing Colqu- 
 houn with a joke, had sat down with him alone. Cheriton 
 had appeared profoundly uncomfortable. Muriel's manner 
 had been as natural as if she came there every morning. 
 She had told him then of Anne's engagement, and had asked 
 him if he saw any objection to Dacre's standing for the 
 Cheriton division. She had been surprised at the facility 
 with which he had agreed to it, even saying that he would 
 write a line to the agent. As she had risen to go, a moment 
 later, she had seen a dawning smile on his weak mouth, 
 which was usually grave in her presence. 
 
 " Does Horace know of this engagement?" 
 
 " Oh, no ; please don't tell him." 
 
 "Certainly not." 
 
 Something like a chuckle had been emitted from the arm- 
 chair as she passed it. 
 
 222
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 THE VICAR AND THE DOCTOR 
 
 MRS. MERTON, the wife of the Vicar of Cheriton, 
 was a little, delicate woman with the transparency, 
 if not the neatness, of a Dresden china figure. She 
 was not considered to be of much consequence by Lady 
 Cheriton and the visitors at the Abbey. In fact it was not 
 uncommon for the latter to say, — 
 
 " It does seem a pity that your Vicar's wife does not re- 
 lieve you of more of the things you do ; so many vicars' 
 wives are invaluable." 
 
 "Oh, my dear, with her health and those children!" 
 Lady Cheriton would reply indulgently, and with a little 
 kindly contempt. 
 
 It was possible that a more invaluable " vicaress " would 
 have found the position a difficult one. Things worked 
 admirably at Cheriton, between the mistress of the Abbey 
 and the Vicar. But a good deal of this harmony was due to 
 the distinctly passive role of the little wife with the firm 
 mouth and clear blue eyes, who was generally making her 
 children's frocks, with some volumes of High Anglican litera- 
 ture by her side, — volumes that kept the busy Vicar's ser- 
 mons up to date in culture and in quotations. 
 
 On the evening on which Lady Cheriton came down from 
 London, Mrs. Merton from the depths of a chintz-covered 
 sofa was listening to her eldest girl repeating some passages 
 
 223
 
 Tlie Light Behmd 
 
 from Shakespeare, intelligence and delight on the fat, rosy 
 countenance, when the Vicar came strolling in from Even- 
 song, with a clouded brow. 
 
 " Say that to father, Mary, it is really wonderfully better 
 now." 
 
 "Oh! not yet, Mother." 
 
 " Is n't it her bedtime ? " asked the Vicar, with unusual 
 want of sympathy. 
 
 " Run along, your father wants to speak to me." 
 
 A smile of understanding passed between mother and 
 daughter, as the child ran out of the room ; but it did not 
 seem that they were right, for Mr. Merton remained silent, 
 gazing at the carpet in front of his chair. He was a tall, 
 fine, ascetic looking man, a good deal older than his wife, 
 a sensitive delicacy written in lines about the mouth and 
 eyes that implied either the capacity for much suffering, 
 or past experience of much pain. Mrs. Merton's white 
 forehead contracted under its pretty, fluffy hair, and she 
 kept glancing at him with sympathy and understanding. 
 At last she said: 
 
 " So they have come ? " 
 
 " Oh yes," said her husband, wearily, " they have come," 
 and he crossed his legs, and balanced the long paper knife 
 between the fingers of his right hand. " I met Mr. Colqu- 
 houn this evening, and," with a touch of sarcasm, " the 
 future member has come too, and Lady Anne." 
 
 "Well, it is a good thing that Lady Anne has come, at 
 any rate," said Mrs. Merton more cheerfully, taking up her 
 work as she spoke. 
 
 " Just after I had got rid of Colquhoun, I met the others 
 in the Park." 
 
 " What is he like ? " asked Mrs. Merton, a little eagerly. 
 
 224
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 Mr. Merton frowned. 
 
 " Just what I expected, only more so. The sort of good 
 looks that make people ill-natured. They did not see me, 
 so I did not stop." He paused. " Mr. Colquhoun tried to 
 draw me as to a Roman Catholic member and said: 'Of 
 course I don't like it, but it would be better for us than 
 a Protestant fanatic, like Colonel Stokes.' But what he 
 wants to know is, what is the general opinion here, and 
 owing to this disgusting gossip, that is just the delicate 
 ground which I want to avoid." 
 
 Mrs. Merton let her work fall again. 
 
 " But, Edward, if we do avoid it, that won't stop it." 
 
 He arose as she spoke, and began walking up and down 
 the room with long, nervous strides. 
 
 "I can't conceive what to do," he cried. 
 
 " Lady Turton called to-day," said his wife, " and I 
 could n't keep her off it. Do you know, I am more sure 
 than ever that it comes from Mrs. Maurice; but what puzzles 
 me is, that it would seem that Mrs. Maurice quotes Mr. 
 Colquhoun. Lady Turton tells me that ' the county,' as 
 she always calls her neighbours, thinks that Lady Cheriton 
 will divorce her husband, and marry this man." 
 
 "But both Lady Cheriton and any Roman Catholic 
 know what a sin that would be," replied Mr. Merton, 
 sternly. 
 
 "Of course it's not true," said Mrs. Merton, her loyal 
 blue eyes looking startled. " But then Lady Turton said 
 that was no reason for taking him as a member for this di- 
 vision. I can't help seeing," she went on with a subtle fem- 
 inine smile, "that though Lady Turton looks gloomy, and 
 sighs over Sir Thomas's gloominess, she rather enjoys seeing 
 Lady Cheriton in a difficulty. Of course, she said, dear 
 '^ 225
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 Lady Cheriton had been just a little overbearing, a little too 
 superior, don't you know. But, Edward, what does worry 
 me is, that they have asked Lady Turton to give the prizes 
 at the Flower Show at Hurstwood, a thing Lady Cheriton 
 has done for years." 
 
 The Vicar groaned at this detail, and covered his face 
 with his hands. 
 
 " And here she comes, absolutely in the dark as to all 
 this nonsense, and I can't conceive who is to tell her." 
 
 They were both silent; the suggestion that he should do 
 it was so obvious and painful to them both. 
 
 " It might be easier for a woman," said Mr. Merton at 
 length. 
 
 " I wonder," said his wife, " if Lady Berringfleld is com- 
 ing down." 
 
 " No, no, she wouldn't do it; she is far too cautious, and 
 wisely so," said the Vicar, taking up a book, and trying to 
 read, 
 
 " Edward," Mrs. Merton began again, presently, " do you 
 know, I am sure it would be a great mistake to tell her at all." 
 
 "Would you let her go on like this? " cried the Vicar. 
 
 " No," said Mrs. Merton, sitting up and speaking firmly, 
 " she must be persuaded to drop the election business, for 
 the sake of the party, and then Mr, Dacre will go away, 
 and the whole thing will die down. And she will think — 
 she must be made to think — that all the opposition has been 
 religious, and of course that is at the root of most of it. A 
 woman does not have a perfectly good name for twelve 
 years, for nothing. I really should be afraid of her giving 
 up the whole thing, and going away for good and all, if she 
 found how eagerly these people catch at anything against 
 her, after all these years. I often think I have too low an 
 
 226
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 opinion of my fellow creatures, but they have surprised me 
 this time," and the blue eyes were filled with limpid tears. 
 
 The Vicar, moved by some hidden feeling, came across 
 and kissed her. Perhaps he felt that there was a special 
 touch of generosity in his wife's championship of Lady 
 Cheriton. 
 
 " How would it be," she said, after a moment, looking 
 up at him, " for you to talk it over with Mr. Jinks ? He 
 must have heard all about it by now, and he is really to be 
 trusted. And you know she was seeing him a good deal 
 before she went to London." 
 
 It seemed a brilliant idea, and gave the Vicar the com- 
 fort of action. He decided to go out directly after supper 
 to see the doctor, who was generally to be found smoking 
 his bachelor pipe at that hour. 
 
 The doctor, a short, black-haired, red-faced man, was 
 sitting in a low garden chair, admiring his flowers in the 
 dusk, when the Vicar found him. 
 
 " Now look at that," he cried, pointing at a big bed of 
 cannas in front of him, and a wonderful effect of tall blue 
 and ghostly white delphiniums against the wood beneath. 
 " Ask Lady Turton, with ten gardeners and an acre of 
 glass, to beat that." 
 
 The Vicar nodded absently and sat down by his side. 
 
 " My wife thought I had better come and see you," he 
 said, and pressed his fingers on his forehead, and pushed 
 back his black wideawake, as if it oppressed him. 
 
 "Well, you don't look up to much. You 'd be better if 
 you always did what she told you." 
 
 "It 's about all this gossip; I wish to Heaven old Snead 
 would keep his seat a little longer. Couldn't you patch 
 him up ? " 
 
 337
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 " If he had the sense to ask my advice, I 'd keep him 
 going one year more, whatever it cost him and my reputa- 
 tion," answered the other, sardonically. 
 
 " My wife says it won't do to tell her," said Mr. Merton. 
 
 " But then who's to prevent her finding it out "i You see 
 the talk is among the two lots she comes across most, the 
 county people and the working people, including many of 
 those on the estate. Lady Turton seems the worst of one 
 lot, and poor Holmstead, who 's drinking hard, of the other. 
 I do wish Lady Cheriton had not treated Holmstead so 
 shamefully." 
 
 " I doubt if she could help it," said the Vicar. 
 
 "She might have made more of a fight. Of course it's 
 grown into a nine days' wonder, and you could hear at any 
 of the little public-houses, any night, a grand account of his 
 going up to London, kneeling at her feet, and her spurning 
 him like so much dirt, — though I don't quite know how 
 you do spurn dirt." 
 
 " Still, how could it all come round to her ? " 
 
 " I don't know exactly, but those things do happen, and 
 she certainly will run a good chance of hearing it, if it 
 comes to an election. But I suspect some female friend 
 will let her hear of it first." 
 
 "I can't think what to do," said the Vicar, wearily. 
 
 " Do you know," said the doctor, " that I am more worried 
 than I've told a soul as yet. I had just determined to 
 come round to you, to see if you could help me." 
 
 228
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 BEFORE AND AFTER MASS 
 
 ANNE dreaded the drive to the distant Catholic church 
 on Sunday morning. There was a Catholic under- 
 coachman at Cheriton, who always drove her to 
 mass in the victoria. This Sunday morning it must mean 
 a long tete-h-t^te with Henry, and she had managed to avoid 
 being quite alone with him for the past two days. She 
 longed for Monday to be over, for on Monday she had 
 promised to answer his urgent entreaty to allow him to go 
 to her father. Would he repeat those entreaties that still 
 rang strangely in her ears ? What were his feelings during 
 those two days ? Was he dreading lest his half-terrified 
 appeal to her should meet with her agreement ? Did he 
 still cling to her as to a refuge ? Perhaps Anne was not far 
 from the mark, when she at moments inclined to the opinion 
 that she and her decision were in the vague background of 
 his consciousness, and that he might, for hours together, 
 forget that Monday had been chosen as a day of fate. 
 Certainly, he did not attempt to disobey her wish to be left 
 quiet and alone. 
 
 At breakfast, she was too full of her own thoughts and 
 fears to notice Muriel, or she might have been struck by a 
 curious expression on her cousin's face, as Lady Cheriton 
 glanced through a large pile of letters. 
 
 *' How absurdly cowardly these people are! " cried Muriel. 
 
 229
 
 The LigJit Behind 
 
 " How terribly afraid of committing themselves! They 
 don't want to have Colonel Stokes as member, but they 
 won't say so." 
 
 Henry saw her frown and an expression on her face that 
 puzzled him. " That is always the way at the start," he re- 
 plied cheerfully, " but those are the very people who, when 
 the cat begins to jump the right way, are the most fervent 
 of all. When the friends we made in London have been 
 down here a short time, they will rouse these people up. 
 Don't you remember that was exactly what Mr. Rupert said 
 would happen?" Mr. Rupert was the member for the 
 neighbouring division, and had been a keen partisan of 
 Henry Dacre's in London. 
 
 " Oh yes," said Muriel, a little absently, " and, of course, 
 when Mr. Maurice comes down, we will have a meeting, and 
 they will all rally round us. But certainly they are cautious 
 as to committing their infallible judgments in your behalf. 
 It is curious how many of them find that they can't dine 
 on Thursday, and Lady Turton, who at any other time 
 would have come barefoot rather than not come at all, has 
 a previous engagement. In fact," she added, pushing a 
 mass of notes from her, " I shall have to send into the high- 
 ways and byways if we are to have apolitical dinner-party." 
 She laughed, brightly enough to deceive Dacre, and Anne 
 heard her as if her voice came from far away. 
 
 But Muriel was having an entirely new experience. Four- 
 teen invitations, and only four acceptances, which included 
 the Mertons, the retiring member himself, Mr. Snead, and 
 his niece. Three or four of the refusals were evidently 
 bona fide, and Muriel was determined not to suspect Mrs. 
 Rupert, although there was a curious ring in the very good 
 reasons she gave, why she and her husband could not accept 
 
 230
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 It was all the more puzzling as it had been carefully made 
 a non-committal affair, and Dacre had not even been men- 
 tioned in the neatly turned notes in which Lady Cheriton 
 asked her friends informally to a small dinner-party. 
 
 Muriel had almost forgotten Anne's presence, or she 
 might not have said even so much. But to Dacre she 
 talked with, for her, curious freedom ; and it was evidently 
 a relief to some blind instinct that was oppressing her, to 
 speak exclusively of the political question. She had, when 
 opening her letters, put them into two piles, as was her 
 habit, one of refusals, the other of acceptances; now she 
 gathered them up with a scornful gesture, and rose, and 
 walked to the window. Henry and Anne followed her, 
 and they looked down through the narrow, deep-set mul- 
 lions, at the red-roofed town nestling beneath. Anne had 
 drawn aside into one window, by herself, and putting her 
 head out, as far as she could reach, drew in the air gratefully. 
 Lady Cheriton leaned against the window-frame, drawn up 
 to her full height, and Henry stood opposite to her, knowing 
 that some anxiety had got hold of him after all. The thought 
 came to him as a sword-thrust — " What if the election were 
 lost! " That did not matter, he felt, so long as she did not 
 suffer. But how intolerable if it were to bring her pain! 
 Then he heard her say to herself in a low, sweet voice, 
 " Dear, beautiful little town! How much better the people 
 are here than those worldly, selfish county folk, who think 
 themselves so deadly important! " Her lip curled, but her 
 eyes softened, and Henry, too, gazed down at the red roofs 
 in a glow of enthusiasm. Then a footman came, to ask how 
 soon Lady Anne would want the carriage. Anne came out 
 of the deep window quickly, and said, half looking at Henry: 
 
 " I think we ought to start in ten minutes." 
 
 231
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 " I thought of bicycling," he answered, with his usual, 
 almost ceremonious respect of manner. 
 
 Anne said no more, and left them. She had a beautiful 
 drive; the fresh air caught her face, and, for some time, 
 the trees of the park, and afterwards, the great copses and 
 preserves, gave her shade. Occasionally, wide sweeps 
 of view were spread out before her, as the carriage took her 
 over the hills. There was physical relief, and nerve relief, 
 and yet something of a pathos not to be told, in the sense 
 of Henry's absence. Their last drive together had been 
 missed. She half smiled, and half wished to let herself 
 weep. Although glad, or at least relieved, that he was 
 not with her, she felt now, that she had had a half glint 
 of hope of a possible something passing between them, 
 of a gleam of human feeling before it was all over for 
 ever. 
 
 A long stretch of hilly road lay bare behind the carriage. 
 Anne looked back, and began to wonder why she did not 
 see the bicycle. If he were to be in time, he ought to be 
 in sight now. Was it possible that he was not coming; 
 that he had stayed to talk with Muriel ? Only those who 
 realise what is the nature of the obligation of the Sunday 
 Mass on Catholics can understand how completely, from 
 their point of view, such an action would justify her darkest 
 fears. Anne tried to stifle the thought. " Oh no, no, surely 
 not that! He must be coming — he must." She shut her 
 eyes. " But if ^/la^ were true, why should he come ? No, 
 no," she cried in her heart. 
 
 But still no bicycle was in sight. 
 
 " He will coast past us in a few minutes," she told herself, 
 as the carriage began to go down the big hill towards the 
 small ugly town, with its two or three factory chimneys, in 
 
 232
 
 The Light BeJiind 
 
 which stood the iron building, the only Catholic chapel for 
 many miles round. 
 
 Presently, a figure on a bicycle did appear, coasting fast 
 from the sky-line, but as it gradually became definite, it 
 proved to be that of a total stranger. 
 
 Then Anne arrived at the tiny church, and was shown 
 through the rows of chairs to a front seat, where three 
 chairs and three red hassocks made the only division from 
 the sanctuary. 
 
 Once kneeling, her joy and relief were untold. Again 
 in the presence of the Tabernacle, Anne's happiness was as 
 that of a child that has been harshly used at school, and 
 once more leans a tired head against its mother. But this 
 joy was far greater, for as the woman had known a deeper 
 suffering, so was the Divine relief proportionate. 
 
 The priest came out of the sacristy, and the congregation, 
 composed mostly of Irish factory hands, soon crowded the 
 little building. It seemed to Anne as he began Mass that 
 it was weeks since the previous morning, when she had 
 heard those same words in the Carmelite church: 
 
 " I will go unto the altar of God, 
 To God who giveth joy to my youth." 
 
 Then the priest bowed low as if caught by another 
 thought. And the Confiteor with its " Mea culpa, mea culpa, 
 mea maxima culpa" rang in her ears, and the consequent 
 appeal to the great chorus of intercession, that the family of 
 saints in heaven and the faithful on earth might be one in 
 obtaining the forgiveness of sins. 
 
 Anne could not feel alone in such a company, though a 
 gnawing anxiety that would not be stifled was the under- 
 current of her prayers, as the Gospel and the Offertory 
 
 233
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 passed, and she could distinguish no sign of Henry being 
 in the church. But then, at last, she felt a movement 
 in the throng around her, the vacant chair by her side was 
 taken, and a dark head was bowed close to hers. The 
 Canon of the Mass began, and the mystery became too 
 sacred to be dwelt on here; and of that secret sacredness 
 Anne's prayers partook also. 
 
 After Mass, Anne went to speak to the priest, with a 
 message from Lady Cheriton concerning a poor Irish 
 family in his parish. She half hoped that Henry would 
 have bicycled away meanwhile; that half-hour of kneeling 
 by his side had seemed to her to hold all that she needed. 
 She would rather not be alone with him again after that; 
 the rest could be done in a letter. The trial of a parting 
 interview would thus be spared her. On coming out, and 
 seeing no one at the door, she concluded he had gone on, 
 when looking to the right, she saw that he was waiting for 
 her in the shade. 
 
 "I punctured," he exclaimed, coming forward, "just at 
 the top of the park; so I left the bicycle at the lodge, and 
 walked over; that is why I was so late." 
 
 Anne met his eyes as he spoke, and read in them a 
 deeper sense of her presence than he had betrayed during 
 the last two days. She shivered and looked away. The little 
 knot of rough girls and rougher men stared after them 
 with not unfriendly curiosity, as the victoria drove away 
 with the handsome couple inside. For a few moments, they 
 talked of the bicycle, with precise questioning and answer 
 as to details, until the topic faded into silence, and the car- 
 riage began to crawl up the hill. Henry jumped out to relieve 
 the horses, but at the top he got back into the carriage, and 
 they moved on rapidly. Anne's heart beat like a hammer. 
 '^ 234
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 " Do you think," she began in quick, earnest tones, ig- 
 noring the painful scene in London, when he had pressed 
 her so strangely to marry him at once, — " do you think 
 that we could talk a little now, of the mistake we made at 
 Cobden ? " And then, not waiting for his answer, and 
 feeling that the end must come quickly, she added : " You 
 see, my father is coming home in a few weeks, and I think 
 we had better, or, rather, I had better tell him at once that 
 we have had time to know that it was a mistake." 
 
 Henry bowed his head for a moment, and groaned. 
 
 *' I feel," she went on, speaking very quietly, " that you 
 thought it was true, but do you know " (she was looking 
 away over the woods, and her voice was sweet, clear, 
 and continuous as became a narrative) " even then I had 
 doubts — not for a moment of your truth, but of your 
 knowing yourself. And the strange thing was that I felt 
 you would have cared for me, possibly, even, very much, if 
 something else had not happened. Something filled your 
 mind so that you did not know me, and we had missed the 
 moment when it might have been. I have often meant 
 since that morning at Cobden, to tell you that I could not 
 be your wife ; but I was weak, and I did not. I thought, 
 for some little time after we were engaged, that if I had 
 refused you in Cobden wood, you would have come back to 
 me. It was my mistake. I thought, too, for many days, 
 that, in time, the mist between us would be dispersed, and 
 that everything would come right. It was another mistake. 
 Now all is over, and, if you consent, I will give you back 
 your promise, and we will say a real ' Good-bye,' a real 
 * God be with you.' " 
 
 He groaned again, and murmured half indistinctly: 
 
 '* I leave it all to you." 
 
 235
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 And Anne, feeling how impossible it was for him to say 
 more, how humiliating must be his position in his own 
 eyes, hastened to relieve him, to fill up his embarrassed 
 and terrible silence. 
 
 " It has been," she said, " so like a dream owing to many 
 things, — to our engagement not being made public, to our 
 rarely meeting, except in a London crowd, and our not hav- 
 ing known each other even for three months. All this will 
 make it pass as if nothing had happened. But I shall want 
 to know about you, and I shall not be told much. So I 
 want to talk now of your life and your future. I have been 
 afraid, Henry, that the mistake — our mistake — might 
 have taken the shine off some of the things we planned to- 
 gether. You won't let it, will you ? If you have all the 
 success I know you will have, you will keep the best 
 things first, won't you ? Do you feel as I do, that the 
 London world is more deadening to one's ideals than we 
 expected it to be ? " 
 
 The sound of her voice, the strange, new, outspoken 
 words, carried Henry back to that day in the wood, and lis- 
 tening to the decision that set him free, while he knew, in 
 his sober senses, with a hard self-contempt, that he would 
 not have it otherwise, a bitter feeling of regret was taking 
 possession of him. Kneeling by her side at Mass, with, at 
 first, an unwilling consciousness that her prayers were for 
 him, the slumbering soul had awakened within him. Some- 
 thing stirred undoubtedly, and he found that he knew 
 things about himself for the first time, and must tell her. 
 
 " Deadening ? Oh, if you but knew, how you would 
 despise me ! It is all gone ; I don't know if it was there 
 when I used to talk to you, but I only care for success 
 now. It all fell away somehow, and I took for granted 
 
 236
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 that high motives were there long after they had left me. 
 Do you know," and his face as he turned to her had a 
 haggard look, " my faith must be going, or gone, in the 
 same way, and I don't mind. I have nothing to keep 
 me from yielding to any sin. Other men, surely, have prin- 
 ciples, and keep to them for their own sakes, without being 
 religious: but I can't. Oh, you are well rid of me — God 
 knows ! How dare I now to talk to you of myself ? It is 
 an impertinence, but it would be blasphemous for me to 
 speak of you. There is only one course open to me, and 
 that is to^go away from here at once — that, at least, I can 
 do." 
 
 Anne was silent. Then after a few minutes she said : 
 
 " I am not afraid of what you have told me. The very 
 fact that you say it shows that it is not all true. You see," 
 she added, turning to him with a light shining in her eyes 
 through tears, " you have never known yourself, but I 
 knew you, because I loved you." 
 
 These last words decided him. Now he felt that he 
 must go at once. They were in sight of the lodge. 
 
 " I must stop here," he said. " You must let me say good- 
 bye here. 1 left my bicycle with the lodge-keeper, and he 
 said that he would get the tyre blown out. I shall ride to 
 Hurstwood Junction. There is one Sunday afternoon train 
 to London from there, I know." He paused. " Tell every- 
 body that I have bad news, and must go to my mother. 
 Tell — ." There was a long silence. "Tell — ," again 
 silence, — " Lady Cheriton the truth, and say that I have 
 gone away." 
 
 There was a look on his face that might, for very pity, 
 have moved a passing stranger, and it was hard for Anne to 
 bear it, even although she did not realise that she was already 
 
 237
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 (iOrgotten. They reached the lodge, and Henry called out 
 to the coachman to put him down. A moment later he 
 stood alone in the open gate. The lodge-keeper came 
 round the corner with the bicycle, as the carriage drove out 
 of sight with Anne. Henry was busying himself with the 
 tyre that had been punctured, when he heard himself called: 
 
 " Dacre, Dacre! stop a minute," cried Colquhoun, coming 
 out of the lodge with his ambling step. " I thought you 
 would come back this way, so I walked to meet you. 
 I must have a few words with you before luncheon." 
 
 " I can't stop," said Henry, his eyes still fixed on the 
 tyre. " I have had news and must go to my mother," and 
 unwillingly he raised his terribly altered face to the scrutiny 
 of the man by his side. 
 
 " My dear fellow," replied Colquhoun, in a voice as 
 soothing as a woman's, " there will be no train from the junc- 
 tion till four o'clock this afternoon." Then, calling to the 
 lodge-keeper, he said: " Thwaite, will you send Mr. Dacre's 
 bicycle down to the Abbey? we shall walk. Whatever the 
 matter is," he lowered his voice to an undertone, " you 
 must not be a fool. One would think you had had a sun- 
 stroke." 
 
 Henry held on to the bicycle with a nervous clutch. 
 " Colquhoun, let me go. I ought, as a gentleman, to go 
 away. I shall ride to the junction." 
 
 " Look here," protested Colquhoun, " as a gentleman you 
 are bound to stay. Your going like this is theatrical, and 
 absurd; it will do harm, and make talk." 
 
 " I don't see that that matters," said Henry, sadly. " No 
 one could suffer from the talk except myself. Just say 
 what is true, that I have had news, and am going to my 
 mother." 
 
 238
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 " Don't you know," asked Horace, emphatically, *' who 
 will suffer if you go off like this ? with whom the tongues 
 will busy themselves ? " 
 
 Dacre looked up in genuine surprise, and Colquhoun 
 stared back at him, saying in a low voice, " Lady Cheriton 
 will suffer." 
 
 A swift flush covered the young man's face with a deep 
 dye. "Why?" he challenged him, angrily. 
 
 "Be quiet," muttered Horace, "your voice is too loud. 
 Give your bicycle to Thwaite." 
 
 Henry did so mechanically, and walked into the trees on 
 the side of the road, followed by Colquhoun, who began in 
 his usual conversational tone: 
 
 " It 's a confoundedly absurd state of things, but the fact 
 is, a ridiculous gossip has grown up in this antediluvian 
 spot, about you and our hostess." 
 
 "Impossible," cried Henry. 
 
 " Well, after all, I don't know," said Horace, putting his 
 glass to his eye, and glancing at his companion, " that I am 
 so very much surprised. But having through your own fault 
 or not got her into this hole, you are bound as a gentle- 
 man to see if you can't help her out of it," 
 
 " How can I possibly help ? " cried Henry, whose nerve 
 and temper were failing, at this second sudden stress on 
 them in a short time. " If I am the offending cause, I 
 ought to go away. — If these scandal-mongers must spend 
 their time in this way, let them say that she sent me 
 away." 
 
 After a moment's silence Colquhoun said: 
 
 " It 's more than likely that you will have to go away for 
 a rest cure, if for nothing else; but can't you see that you 
 ought to go quietly, and that there must be some good ex- 
 
 239
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 planation to offer, of your giving up the attempt to be their 
 member ? Believe me, I 've known the world for some time, 
 and I can assure you that sudden moves are a mistake. 
 Don't do anything out of the common; don't excite notice. 
 If a situation grows awkward, get out of it as quietly as if 
 there were no awkwardness, and people will begin to sus- 
 pect that the awkwardness was in their own imaginations." 
 
 " But," said Henry, stopping and facing him, " I can't go 
 back to Cheriton. I told Lady Anne that I would n't. O 
 heavens ! What a muddle ! " 
 
 " Never mind what you and Lady Anne said to each 
 other. She is a very charming, devout young person, but 
 she knows nothing of the world, in such a question as this. 
 Your duty now is to think of Lady Cheriton." 
 
 " Good God! " cried Henry, forgetting himself, " I never 
 do anything else! " 
 
 " I know," said Colquhoun, calmly; " poor fellow, I 'm 
 awfully sorry for you, but I feel far more for her, and you 
 must consider her, not yourself." 
 
 " It is obvious that I ought to go. It is impertinent for me 
 to be with her. What would she feel if I betrayed myself ? " 
 
 " My dear fellow, you bewilder and amaze me. Do you 
 suppose that she doesn't know, didn't know from the first ? 
 Why, it was patent to your humble servant long ago. Yours 
 are not eyes that keep that sort of secret." 
 
 " But then," said Dacre, in a voice of agony. " But 
 then " 
 
 " But then! " echoed Horace, with contemptuous mockery. 
 
 Henry was silent, and remained standing, covering his 
 face with his hands. Colquhoun turned to him, and spoke 
 sternly, with the man-of-the-world conviction of his own 
 standard of morality: 
 
 340
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 " Surely, Dacre, you will not shirk the responsibility 
 now ? What right have you to assume that that lonely 
 woman may not have given you a position in her heart 
 which, as a man of honour, you are bound to act up to ?" 
 
 He paused and looked up. 
 
 Henry slowly took his hands from his face, and drew 
 in a long breath of the summer air, Colquhoun stepped 
 back, unpleasantly struck with the expression in his com- 
 panion's eyes, now lit up with a strange joy. 
 
 The Colquhouns of this world never fail to despise in 
 their hearts those who, like Henry, having seen the better 
 things, fall to their own level. 
 
 241
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 A TRIAL TO FAITH 
 
 SMOOTHLY and swiftly the victoria took Anne through 
 the wooded park, and the shade was grateful to her 
 tear-blinded eyes, though the sunlight too seemed 
 mellow and golden, for she was rejoicing in a thankful 
 heart. Her own story of love was over; her own life 
 stretched grey and indistinct before her; but come what 
 might, the glory of the heavens would be above her, and 
 He to whom she had committed her way would bring it to 
 pass, Henry was safe; Muriel was safe. The offering she 
 had made in the Carmelite church had been accepted. He 
 had seen his own danger, had made the sacrifice, and had 
 gone away. Anne pictured him, already speeding towards the 
 junction, his beautiful face firmly set with resolution. He 
 would go away now to his own home, and then back to work. 
 He was made for work, for action, and in that only could 
 she envy him. For the success that she was sure awaited 
 him, for the career she had hoped to help forward, she 
 could feel no envy, no painful sense of contrast with her 
 own life, that would be passed in the shade. 
 
 Anne, though only twenty-three, was not possessed of 
 that sanguine, gaudy-coloured view of life that makes great- 
 ness seem enviable. She wanted Henry to do great things, 
 to use his vital forces for their appointed work, but she 
 guessed intuitively what such a life entailed. No, there 
 
 O/IO
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 was pity and yearning over what he must suffer and do 
 in his future life, as, on this morning of farewell, it seemed 
 to lie stretched out as a whole. It would be good, noble, 
 brilliant, and successful before God and man. Of that she 
 had no doubt. But what would be the measure of his 
 allotted pain? What the suffering that must needs lead 
 him heavenward ? He would live down his love for Muriel, 
 his chivalrous shame at the way in which he had treated 
 herself. Of that she felt sure; and as to the rest, she must 
 be content to leave him. 
 
 " O well for him whose will is strong, 
 He suffers, but he will not suffer long; 
 He suffers, but he cannot suffer wrong." 
 
 These words were in her mind as she stepped out of the 
 carriage, with a bright glow on her face, and went up to her 
 room. 
 
 Anne wanted a few moments in which to decide how she 
 could best tell Muriel what had happened, that the engage- 
 ment was at an end and that Henry had gone away. Hav- 
 ing settled that it would be best to tell her in a note, she 
 wrote one, tore it up, then wrote another, which met with 
 the same fate. By that time she saw that it was nearly two 
 o'clock. The peace and joy of the drive were 'being lost; 
 her cheeks were burning; it was really not easy at all to tell 
 her news quite simply to Muriel, — and she must do it be- 
 fore luncheon. At last she hurried from her room, anxious 
 to catch her cousin in the drawing-room, before Colqu- 
 houn, who was always late, should come in. She ran 
 down the great front stairs, and stopped aghast opposite 
 the big window. 
 
 Henry Dacre and Horace Colquhoun were walking 
 343
 
 The Light Behmd 
 
 quickly towards the Abbey, coming down the drive from 
 the park, under the long avenue of chestnut-trees. 
 
 Anne stood there feeling sick and faint, a violent reac- 
 tion against the mood of a few minutes ago taking posses- 
 sion of her. Her faith seemed to turn to bitterness. She 
 moved slowly away, went back to her room, and knelt down 
 by her little altar, pressing her lips till they almost bled, on 
 the foot of the bronze crucifix that had belonged to her 
 sister Mary. Inarticulate and hopeless was her prayer, 
 blind yet desperate the effort of her will. She heard a 
 knock at her door, and, opening it, saw to her astonishment 
 Colquhoun's benignant and paternal countenance. 
 
 "You will forgive me," he said; "I must have a word 
 alone with you. The anteroom is empty — will you come 
 there ? " 
 
 Owing partly to having had hardly any food that morn- 
 ing, Anne felt a little faint; but in spite of this and of the 
 noises in her head, she had a fictitious sense of clearness, in 
 listening to Colquhoun. Nothing could have been more 
 delicately or considerately expressed than his explanation 
 on the situation in which they found themselves, through 
 this disgraceful and wide-spread calumny. It never oc- 
 curred to her to cross-question him as to the grounds of 
 his information; and she received, as perhaps he wished, an 
 exaggerated impression of the extent to which the lies 
 against her cousin had been circulated. 
 
 Appalled by the horror of the situation, Anne was the 
 more inclined to listen to the man of the world, whose com- 
 mon sense she unwillingly recognised. It was quite clear, 
 Horace said, that Henry must go away soon, but it was ex- 
 tremely difficult to see what must be done about the election. 
 Horace tried to persuade her that for Lady Cheriton's sake 
 
 344
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 there must be nothing abrupt or sudden. It would, he said, 
 be perfectly absurd for Henry to scuttle away on a bicycle 
 without his luggage. 
 
 "Nothing, of course," said Horace, eyeing her closely, 
 "must be said to Lady Cheriton," and then, perhaps in 
 time to hear the words. Lady Cheriton's maid was in the 
 room. 
 
 " I wanted just to tell you, my lady, that Mr. Jinks is 
 with her ladyship; she did not feel quite well, and when 
 you have finished luncheon, he would like to speak to you." 
 
 " Shall I come at once ? " 
 
 " No, my lady; he won't come down for another twenty 
 minutes. Shall I tell him that you will see him here in 
 twenty minutes ? " 
 
 " Oh, tell Mr. Jinks to come here in a quarter of an 
 hour." 
 
 Anne was thankful for the excuse for a hurried meal, and 
 as Henry had not come down, she was spared the ghastly 
 absurdity of having to eat luncheon in his company. 
 
 245
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 THE VICAR IS TOO LATE 
 
 MURIEL felt very tired when she came back from 
 the vicarage on Sunday morning. She climbed 
 slowly up to her sitting-room in the tower, and sat 
 down in a low chair by the window, through which she could 
 look away to the hills on the north. She did not look at 
 them now, but shut her weary eyes and sighed. Had she, in 
 talking with the Mertons, betrayed some slight irritation as 
 to her neighbours, or some guilty sense of her own past 
 cowardice with regard to Holmstead ? Something had 
 jarred while she was with them, — she could not tell what, 
 but she was annoyed with herself. Was she becoming the 
 ordinary foolish woman who carried her feelings on her 
 sleeve for her friends to peck at, as the average human 
 being will peck, not from meditated ill-will, but from care- 
 less activity of mind or temper ? 
 
 There had been no pecking on the Mertons' part cer- 
 tainly, but she fancied some sort of pity and embarrassment 
 in their manner. Yet they had spoken in a thoroughly 
 large-minded way of having a Roman Catholic member, 
 only they had urgently pressed her to remember that 
 others would not feel as they did. There was evidently a 
 stronger Protestant opposition already active than Muriel 
 had anticipated, and she saw that they more than feared 
 that Lady Cheriton would only ride for a fall if she per- 
 
 246
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 sisted. But through all their plain speaking, she had felt 
 that they were terribly embarrassed, and this was exceed- 
 ingly annoying. 
 
 If the dull old Protestant electors of the division would 
 not take a Catholic without extreme pressure from such 
 leaders as Mr. Maurice, or if, indeed, they kicked altogether, 
 why could not the Mertons take such a situation simply ? 
 After all, did they believe that she was so spoilt that she 
 could not brook any contradiction ? Lady Cheriton felt 
 angry with her clergyman and his wife. 
 
 It was the more annoying, as she had been very happy 
 in church. Muriel had prayed earnestly, as men and 
 women do who feel a cloud of anxiety growing about 
 them. The Mertons often regretted the absence of any 
 doctrinal education in Lady Cheriton, and her curious 
 facility for taking up new views, without any sense of their 
 discrepancy with the church principles she professed. 
 Still, as Mrs. Merton had once said : 
 
 " Do you know, though she doesn't listen to the sermon, 
 I am sure she prays." 
 
 But the peace of the service had been lost to Muriel, as 
 soon as she got to the vicarage, and the tiresome political 
 question had been raised. 
 
 As she sat in her tower sitting-room afterwards, her 
 thoughts dwelling with irritation on Mrs. Merton's anxious 
 friendliness of manner, and Mr. Merton's evident wish to 
 postpone discussion, a servant came in with two letters on 
 a salver. They were small dirty envelopes, " To Lady 
 Cheriton " being scrawled in a large hand on one, while on 
 the other an attempt at " The Countess of Cheriton " was 
 much blotted. 
 
 Muriel was quite accustomed to letters from her poor 
 
 247
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 neighbours, and took them without surprise. But no sooner 
 had she opened and read the first, than her face became 
 as pale as if she were going to faint, and she could hardly 
 decipher the second letter. 
 
 The first was from Holmstead, the second anonymous. 
 Holmstead's had evidently been written under the influ- 
 ence of drink, but was quite coherent. The other was a 
 raving religious rant. Both told her in the coarse, un- 
 varnished way of low, rough minds, that they knew she 
 was trying to thrust her Popish lover into Parliament, as 
 their member. 
 
 Muriel struggled to keep herself from unconsciousness ; 
 her breathing was difficult, her hands quite cold. She held 
 on to the iron stanchion of the window, and pressed her 
 forehead against it. It had come upon her, this blow, as 
 suddenly as a telegram can announce an unexpected death. 
 But she fought against it bravely — no, no, Holmstead was 
 drunk. The anonymous writer, he was drunk, too. It was 
 incredible, impossible, that such a story should be believed, 
 after all these years of a spotless life, and a spotless repu- 
 tation. No, it was nonsense. She was ill, nervous, imagin- 
 ative. All sorts of people got anonymous letters from 
 lunatics ; it was quite common ; it was absurd for her to 
 mind it. 
 
 She sat down and became quieter. Poor, wretched 
 Holmstead — what had he sunk to, that he should do 
 such a thing? 
 
 But she was still very pale and faint, and if it were not 
 such a long distance from the window across the room to 
 the bell, she might ring, perhaps, and get somebody to bring 
 something. She was not quite sure that she had not rung 
 the bell, when the door was opened again by the footman, 
 
 248
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 and instantly after him, nearly as pale as herself, appeared 
 Mr. Merton. 
 
 Muriel pulled herself together and rose, grasping the 
 greasy letters in one hand. The door shut behind the foot- 
 man, and Mr. Merton cried in tones of unmistakable anguish: 
 
 " I am too late to stop it, Holmstead's wife thought I 
 might be in time." 
 
 "Poor woman!" said Muriel, almost lightly. "I am 
 afraid he is really mad. I thought at first it was drink, but 
 it is too coherent for that." 
 
 She looked, as she spoke, more and more keenly at the 
 clergyman's face, as her powers were gradually restored. 
 What she saw there made her tremble. 
 
 " You have heard of this before ? " she asked sternly. 
 
 He put his hand to his forehead for a moment's miser- 
 able silence, then, with a deep sense of guilt, "Yes." 
 
 "Is it Holmstead's own pet delusion?" asked Muriel, 
 sitting down on a huge tapestry armchair, as if it were a 
 seat of judgment, " or do other people say it ? " 
 
 " Other people are scoundrels enough " 
 
 " To say it too," continued Muriel, leaning her head 
 against the chair, as if she wished to be quite comfortable, 
 her white hands lying idly on her lap, her great eyes look- 
 ing mercilessly at the nervous, delicate, suffering face of 
 the man before her. 
 
 " Is this said among the lower classes only, or also among 
 the upper?" 
 
 " Also, among a set " 
 
 '* Led by Lady Turton," said Muriel, again finishing his 
 sentence. " Have you any idea where it originated ? " 
 
 " I think in London; my wife thinks it comes from Mrs. 
 Maurice." 
 
 249
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 " Quite right, I am sure," agreed Muriel. *' How long 
 has it been down here ? " 
 
 "I can't tell," he replied; " it seemed to spring up 
 suddenly, in two or three different quarters. Holmstead and 
 Lady Turton, and — " he hesitated, " but it is too impossible. 
 Mr. Colquhoun is quoted also." 
 
 "Why impossible?" 
 
 " We are not friends," stammered the Vicar, " but I can't, 
 I absolutely decline to believe it of him." 
 
 " But I do," said Muriel, quickly; " it is so very likely. 
 Who else heard of this ? " 
 
 " Mr. Jinks heard it about the same time at Hurstwood." 
 
 " So you all knew it ? " said the judicial voice from the 
 great chair, and an awful silence followed. 
 
 Mr. Merton felt that an immeasurable distance had been 
 put between her and their agonised sympathy, and longing 
 to help her. All past friendship seemed to have been long 
 ago, and counted for nothing now. 
 
 Muriel turned languidly in the great chair, and said in 
 quiet undertones of complete coldness: 
 
 " Why did nobody tell me ? " 
 
 Mr. Merton looked away from the white face contrasting 
 so strongly with the cloud of black hair, the head supported 
 stiffly against its tapestry background. He was not con- 
 cious of how mercilessly beautiful a picture his perceptions 
 were engraving in his memory, to cause him mental pain in 
 the years yet to come. The blue green of the distant hills 
 relieved the tension of his eyes, and as he looked towards 
 them, he could speak more freely: 
 
 " We thought it too low and insignificant a thing to 
 
 trouble you with; lies die quickly. We thought that you 
 
 need never know of it." 
 
 250
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 " But the election ? " said Muriel, in a quiet negative 
 voice. 
 
 " We thought that would drop on account of the religion." 
 
 There was silence for a moment, then judgment was pro- 
 nounced, not without a touch of the impertinence of a 
 great lady. 
 
 " You meant well, no doubt, but it was cruel kindness," 
 and slowly and distinctly, " a great blunder." 
 
 She stood up then, and said no more. Mr. Merton came 
 forward, and shook hands, not looking at her, and left the 
 room. 
 
 Then she moved quickly to the window nearest to her 
 looking to the south, and clung to the iron bar that 
 divided it, struggling still not to let the flood of anguish 
 overwhelm her. The years of toil, of self-denial, and, most 
 of all, her resistance to the one great temptation long ago — 
 what had her goodness done for her, what her long years of 
 self-restraint ? The tact, the care, the cleverness that had 
 built up her very good name had proved useless. Little 
 things and great things connected with this new horror 
 crowded in on her mind, out of all due proportion. But 
 worst of all was the struggle against an unmanageable sense 
 of shame. She could not throw off the feeling that she 
 was a sham, a wretched delusion that had been found out. 
 The beautiful, noble-minded woman of wonderful, shining 
 virtue, who unconsciously had been her own ideal of herself 
 in the background of her mind, seemed never to have ex- 
 isted, now that it was no longer reflected in the minds of 
 those about her. It was a dense, living blackness at first; 
 but gradually things became distinguishable, first to her 
 physical, and then to her moral perceptions. 
 
 First she saw clearly the red, green-dappled roofs of 
 
 251
 
 The LigJit Behind 
 
 the little town, shining in the sun, and her wounded heart 
 yearned and sickened over it. Truly, it might have been 
 a great subject for an artist — the lonely woman in her high 
 tower, leaning back against the stone-work of ten centuries 
 ago, looking down with her beautiful face turned into one 
 tearless image of agony, tearing up from the roots of her 
 wounded heart the only place on earth that she had loved, 
 the one set of her fellow creatures in whom she had be- 
 lieved. 
 
 Down under those roofs how many who had begged of 
 her, fawned on her, and made her think they loved her, 
 were passing her name from mouth to mouth with coarse 
 easy jests about her and a Popish lover! A Popish lover! 
 The words stuck in her mind. The misery became unbear- 
 able. She turned back from the window. She must not 
 think such thoughts. She must nerve herself to face the 
 practical situation before her. 
 
 It was now that the hard-earned habits of self-com- 
 mand, and her natural gifts for action, stood her in good 
 stead. Without losing herself in conjecture, in wonder- 
 ment, or in dwelling on her individual enemies, not 
 turning to any thought of revenge, she simply asked her- 
 self if any good could now be done, or any of the harm 
 mitigated. 
 
 Physically, she was hardly capable of the struggle to 
 master her ideas and form some plan of action. Would it 
 be wisest to send for Mr. Biddulph ? It would, a short 
 time ago, have been her first impulse in any difficulty. But 
 now she at once rejected it. She was avoiding in her own 
 mind those weeks in London, and all that had passed be- 
 tween her and Anne and Dacre. Had not Mr. Biddulph 
 been watching and criticising her all that time — possibly,
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 unkindest cut of all, misjudging her too ? How embarrassed 
 he had been in their last talk together! No, she could not 
 dwell on Mr. Biddulph now, lest she should become morbid 
 in suspicion, and lose her self-control. She felt ill, so very 
 ill, and she must not give way. Then the first perception 
 of action came to her. She was wrong in fighting against 
 illness; probably the best thing to do was to be ill — to be 
 ill, and to send for Lord Cheriton. 
 
 " Good God! " she cried with half a laugh, " am I come 
 to that ? " But she felt convinced that the inspiration was 
 a true one. 
 
 253
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 THE CEDARS ARE FALLEN 
 
 FOSTER, Lady Cheriton's maid, was meanwhile wait- 
 ing in the bedroom above, to help her mistress 
 to get ready for luncheon, when she heard her call 
 up the turret stair from the sitting-room below. Foster 
 hurried down and found her half fainting on a chair. She 
 helped her up-stairs, and laid her with some difficulty on the 
 heavily curtained four-post bed. 
 
 " Don't make a fuss, but send for Mr. Jinks," said a faint 
 voice, and Muriel, giving up the struggle, collapsed com- 
 pletely. 
 
 But she was herself again when Mr. Jinks puffed up the 
 steep steps to her room. 
 
 After a little medical enquiry and reply, Muriel said with 
 a sweet, sad smile: " Mr. Jinks, I was a coward in the 
 spring, and I was so relieved when your specialist did not 
 think the operation necessary. I am afraid now that he 
 was wrong, and that you were right." 
 
 " Would you like another opinion — Sir John Hopkins 
 perhaps ? " 
 
 " Yes, I want you to send for him at once. I can't bear 
 suspense." 
 
 Mr. Jinks was surprised, and still more so, when he found 
 that he was also to tell Lord Cheriton that he, Jinks, would 
 be happier if he would come down next day to meet the 
 
 254
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 great doctor. Nor did Mr, Jinks's tasks end here, for he 
 was at once to seek out Lady Anne, and give it as his pro- 
 fessional opinion that Lady Cheriton ought to remain quite 
 alone, except for her husband, and that all visitors had 
 better leave the Abbey. After that Lady Cheriton would 
 see Lady Anne herself. 
 
 Mr. Jinks had yet another task, in his character of family 
 doctor and friend. He was to drive that afternoon to the 
 house of the retiring member, Mr. Snead, " and put the 
 whole situation before him, the violent religious opposition, 
 and what else you know," and he felt the dark eyes of his 
 patient looking up sternly at his face, through the shadows 
 of the grim, curtained bedstead. 
 
 " You will tell him that I am to have a dangerous opera- 
 tion, almost at once," 
 
 "Not dangerous I think; I do not now take nearly as 
 serious a view of the matter as I did in the spring," mur- 
 mured the doctor. " You must have been seriously ill by 
 now, if I had been right then. I am thankful to own myself 
 mistaken." 
 
 But he knew that he should obey, and say " dangerous." 
 
 "Then will you ask Mr. Snead if he could not solve the 
 difficulty by announcing that he has consented to keep the 
 seat for at least another year ? " 
 
 Mr. Jinks bowed before the dominant will and acute 
 intelligence; but perhaps the overwhelming sympathy with 
 which he had entered the sick-room was, if not chilled, 
 braced into action, rather than melted into sentiment. At 
 length he turned to call Foster from below, and give her 
 his directions. 
 
 " One moment," said the voice, so physically weak and 
 morally strong, — and a white hand drew back the heavy 
 
 255
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 curtain. " Let my cousin see that I don't want any fuss 
 about their leaving on account of my health. It is 
 natural, is n't it, that they came down from Saturday to 
 Monday ? " 
 
 Jinks was a shrewd, experienced man, and could take his 
 cue as well as anybody. But his mind might be said to be 
 fairly full of directions, and he only hoped he should make 
 no serious blunder. 
 
 The effect of the draught that Mr. Jinks gave her kept 
 Muriel in a heavy doze till nearly six o'clock. Then she 
 sat up, suddenly awake, as if somebody had called her 
 name. 
 
 " It is n't true! it can't be true! Why should they say it ? 
 Oh, why should they say it ? He has never said a word to 
 me, he has never ventured to show me the least — Why of 
 course not. He is in love with Anne, he is engaged to Anne. 
 He can't help his eyes. I 've known several men with eyes 
 like his. It was only gratitude, only friendship, I know. 
 I can't bear this; it is intolerable." 
 
 The wave of misery seemed to overwhelm her. She was 
 horribly mortified with herself. Had she really given her 
 enemies any excuse ? Had she, could she, have hurt Anne ? 
 She had cared for so few people, but she had cared for 
 Anne. Why hadn't she thought more of her during those 
 weeks in London ? Could she honestly think now that 
 Anne had been so very happy in her engagement ? 
 
 Muriel could not understand herself as she looked back 
 at the rush of those busy weeks. It appeared now for the 
 first time, — and her cheeks tingled at the thought, — that she 
 had been constantly talking with Henry, and the reverential 
 look of his eyes seemed to cast a shadow over the past 
 London season. 
 
 256
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 " Why, I gave them a sitting-room on purpose that they 
 might be alone! I thought, if I thought at all about it, that 
 they were there a great deal. Oh no, it 's nonsense, he is so 
 good — he — " but here another thought broke in. " Had 
 he been so very unlike all other young men, since they had 
 been in London ? " Little impressions, occasional words of 
 his own, of Colquhoun's about him, came back to her now, 
 showing, as Horace had once said, that Dacre had taken 
 to London life like a duck to the water. Oh, what harm 
 had she done ? What in the name of kindness and friend- 
 ship had she done to Anne and to Henry ? Had not even 
 James Maurice warned her, though she had not understood 
 it at the time. But O Anne! Anne's pale face, her increas- 
 ing thinness! Mr. Biddulph had tried to make her notice 
 both. Why had not James Maurice and Mr. Biddulph 
 spoken out, and really helped her ? She sat up against her 
 pillows, her hands folded in front of her, in a stillness of 
 agony. What a picture of her life, of herself, seemed to rise 
 before her! Lady Cheriton, then, had indulged in a flirtation, 
 and had lost her good name. She had always thought that 
 no woman need lose her good name. And Muriel had, in 
 blind, selfish, heartlessness, taken her lover from Anne. 
 
 Humbled, weak, helpless, she lay lower and lower, feeling 
 as if she were out in the bare world, alone and helpless, the 
 great arch of the heavens very far off. All that was good 
 and happy in her life was gone. What came next ? She 
 was too miserable to see more than that all she cared for 
 and valued was falling about her. Yet her great beauty 
 was never more striking than when she lay there now, with 
 no external sign of moral weakness. She still looked strong 
 in mind though weak in body, still looked as if the force of 
 her will made inaction unnatural and forced. 
 '^ 357
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 It was late in the evening before Muriel asked for Anne. 
 It seemed that Lady Anne was in the tower room already, 
 and she came in a moment. 
 
 She had been thankful to escape as soon as dessert ap- 
 peared on the table, on the excuse that Muriel might need her. 
 That little dinner, with a tnenu shortened by Colquhoun's 
 orders, had been a masterpiece of quiet society chat on his 
 part, for which the other two could not but feel grateful. 
 
 Anne was dressed in a plain white silk dinner gown. 
 Her hair had had little attention, and strayed about the 
 fair face, that was slightly flushed. Her eyes as she came 
 into the dark room held the spiritual light that is full of 
 pain, not joy, a look that has been very rarely caught in 
 pictures of the saints. 
 
 Muriel had made no plans as to what she should say to 
 Anne; but as the evening deepened, she had begun to wish 
 for her presence, and then to dread it, and then to desire it 
 again. Now, when the curtain was gently put aside, and 
 the candles in the heavy gold candlesticks shed their light 
 on Anne's beautiful face, Muriel shrank. Until to-night 
 Anne's love, and her possible pain, had never been very vivid 
 to her cousin. During the last two hours they had become 
 the chief facts of all. 
 
 "This is sudden, isn't it, Anne?" The tones were quite 
 her usual ones. " I never told you that Jinks wanted me 
 to have an operation in the spring. I went to a great doc- 
 tor who considered it unnecessary, and I thought no more 
 about it. I am sure now that it ought to be done, and I 
 want to have Hopkins, and Cheriton here to meet him. 
 But I suppose Jinks told you." 
 
 " Yes, he did, and I was horrified. But I could not 
 understand; I do hope it won't be serious," 
 
 258
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 " I think it will be. I don't know that it matters. Have 
 you told the men that they must go ? " 
 
 " Yes, and Mr. Colquhoun seemed rather surprised. Of 
 course Henry understands, but it seems that Mr. Colqu- 
 houn thinks that Lord Cheriton may want him." 
 
 " Yes," said Muriel, faintly, pushing her hair off her 
 forehead, and looking up at the roof of the great bed, 
 " I thought that might be the difficulty. Anne, would 
 you mind going to him this evening, and telling him 
 from me that I wish to be alone with Lord Cheriton ? " 
 — then, half to herself she added: " for the first time for 
 ten years. I would have begged you to stay, Anne, except 
 for that." 
 
 " Oh yes, I quite see, dear. I will tell Mr. Colquhoun. 
 I mustn't say, may I, that I wish to Heaven he would 
 never come back ? " 
 
 Muriel almost smiled at the energy of Anne's words. 
 
 " Perhaps he never will," she said. 
 
 And then, as if Colquhoun was not worth further thought, 
 she passed to other things, and sent messages to Jane. 
 
 At last her voice broke a little, and Anne bent over to 
 kiss her. The longing to speak, to break through the 
 barriers, to tell Anne the truth, and to ask it from her in 
 return, was unbearable. To let her go like this was in- 
 tolerable: but Muriel's facility for speaking what she did 
 not mean, went with a terrible impediment to revealing her 
 imprisoned heart. The dark eyes, dumb, hungry, and in 
 anguish, were all that Anne had to read, while the spiritual 
 sweetness, the womanly love, and — was it the passion of 
 pity, or the strength of forgiveness, or both? — that strove in 
 Anne's clear blue eyes, looked down upon Muriel, but 
 could not reach the wound in her heart. 
 
 359
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 But Muriel, when she was alone and terrified, knelt up 
 in the summer moonlight, amid the white pillows of the 
 bed, and her soul " caught on to the skirts of God," as 
 she prayed for Anne and for herself. 
 
 260
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 A LONELY SOUND 
 
 LORD CHERITON arrived at the Abbey, about six 
 o'clock the next evening, and drove up from the 
 station with the great physician who was to see 
 his wife. 
 
 Sir John Hopkins knew little of general gossip, and had 
 only a faint recollection that he had heard Lord Cheriton 
 alluded to as the "virtuous Earl," on more than one oc- 
 casion. If he had not had this dim memory in his mind, 
 he would have been very favourably impressed with the 
 stout, florid, but dignified nobleman, who said little, but a 
 little that was courteous and appropriate, during the short 
 drive. Lord Cheriton generally controlled himself before 
 total strangers, and one reason why he disliked coming to 
 Cheriton was, that he had by no means altogether lost the 
 sense of what was befitting in appearances generally, to his 
 position in his own domains. It was the more of a strain 
 as he chafed intensely at his own perception that nowhere 
 was it more obvious that he was le mari de Madame than at 
 Cheriton, where he could see on every side his wife's ad- 
 mirable control over all the matters which he persistently 
 neglected. 
 
 It was a relief to think that Horace was there to soothe 
 his vanity, and to give a vent to the weak, bullying con- 
 versation in which he threatened to do all manner of things 
 
 261
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 to crush Muriel, which never, so far, had got beyond the 
 threatening. Also, it would be amusing to learn from 
 Horace what new move of the game had caused her lady- 
 ship to make the family doctor summon him down in a 
 way that he could not refuse, though Jinks had not per- 
 illed his reputation, by insisting on the danger of Lady 
 Cheriton's state of health, or on the absolute necessity of a 
 specialist's opinion. 
 
 Mr. Jinks, red, stout, and all that a country doctor 
 should be, was waiting in the gallery to receive the great 
 pale, intellectual-faced man, who looked all that a London 
 specialist should look. 
 
 The two medical men walked on together. Lord Cheri- 
 
 ton muttered to himself, " What a d d comedy ! " and 
 
 turned to ask the butler for Mr. Colquhoun. 
 
 " He left this morning, your lordship, by the nine 
 o'clock train." 
 
 Lord Cheriton's face flushed scarlet, and he muttered 
 
 rapidly in a very low voice, " D him, d her, d 
 
 them!" 
 
 The butler waited, then quietly observed, with the deep- 
 est and most respectful bow, that her ladyship wished to 
 see him in the tower sitting-room. 
 
 "Bring a brandy and soda to the smoking-room," was 
 the reply. 
 
 Indeed, his courage wanted support. He could not 
 think what she was up to now, letting Horace go without 
 telling him that he, Lord Cheriton, was coming down. It 
 was an intolerable trick. He would have to spend the 
 evening with the two doctors. But worst of all, he would 
 have to see his wife alone, and be sent for up to the sanctum 
 sanctorum, as he and Horace called the tower sitting-room, 
 
 263
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 to receive her commands on things in general. Or was 
 she perhaps going to upbraid him, reproach him at last ? 
 The years of silence made such a prospect terrible indeed. 
 And it would be so wise and so like her, to be ill first, to 
 give herself every advantage. 
 
 " Tell her ladyship that I will come up in half an 
 hour." 
 
 Brandy and soda twice, constant watching of the clock, 
 longing for Horace. 
 
 "Rather like a dentist's waiting-room!" and he laughed 
 at that, and thought how it would amuse Horace. " So 
 they were all made to turn out this morning. I wonder if 
 Horace has discovered his blunder as to Dacre yet, and 
 how he looked, when they said he was engaged to Lady 
 Anne." 
 
 But though he laughed, it was a matter on which he got 
 irritable, for Colquhoun had certainly been impertinent. 
 
 Lord Cheriton at last mounted the turret stairs, and found 
 himself in the sitting-room. He had no eyes for the glories 
 of the summer evening, or the great view from the tower 
 which he had rarely seen of late years. He managed to 
 get to a chair and to say, " I 'm so sorry you 're ill," with 
 only a dim sense of the figure on the sofa. 
 
 "Thank you," said Muriel; "I thought it best to have 
 Sir John. But before he comes up I want you to read these 
 two letters, and to advise me on a very unpleasant matter. 
 One is from Holmstead, and the other from some ranting 
 Protestant." 
 
 Lord Cheriton felt easier at this opening. 
 
 "The letters are on the table by you." 
 
 It showed his wife's clearness of head that, thinking of 
 him as she must, she should believe it to be of any use to 
 
 263
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 appeal to his instincts as a gentleman. No doubt, in 
 any case, it would have answered at the moment, but 
 now his feeling of relief as he read the letters helped his 
 wrath. 
 
 He was red with anger, but he turned, and looked at her 
 quite naturally. 
 
 "What does it matter?" he spluttered; "put them in the 
 fire and think no more about it." 
 
 It even struck him as strange that for so mean a thing 
 her face showed signs of pain, and, he thought, of tears. 
 
 It was the first time that he had seen her weak, and 
 human for many years. And his breath caught. Yes, Col- 
 quhoun was right, she was indeed changed. 
 
 "But unfortunately," Muriel went on, in a quite calm, 
 business-like voice, " it is only the echo of what has come 
 from their betters." 
 
 " It 's impossible," said Cheriton, sternly, and with intense 
 conviction. 
 
 " It would have been impossible," said Muriel quickly, 
 " if it had not originated from one almost of the family. 
 From what motives I cannot yet see, it has been the doing 
 of Mr. Colquhoun." 
 
 Then, as if exhausted she lay back, and shut her eyes. 
 She did not for a moment expect him to believe it, and she 
 was preparing for a struggle; but he had reasons of his own 
 for thinking it, besides his greater knowledge of Colqu- 
 houn's character, about which he had no illusions. 
 
 " The scoundrel," shouted Cheriton; and then walking up 
 and down, "so that was what he meant. I'll never set 
 eyes on him again. I '11 " 
 
 But, looking at his wife, a certain fear came over him. 
 He must not be emotional, he must try and be as quiet 
 
 264
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 as she looked; the ground on which he stood was too 
 delicate. 
 
 Muriel now slightly sketched the story of the progress of 
 the slander, as she had gained it through a talk with Mrs. 
 Merton. They had traced it to Mr. Colquhoun, then from 
 him it had passed to Mrs. Maurice, from Mrs. Maurice to 
 Lady Turton, and then to Lady Turton's county gossips; then 
 again, it had gone fromColquhoun's valet toHolmstead, from 
 Holmstead to the society of the Cheriton Arms, It was all 
 so simple. As to the election, Muriel told him Mr. Snead 
 would keep his seat. She had heard it only this morning. 
 
 ** That 's a pity," said Cheriton; " the engagement to Lady 
 Anne should have been announced, and the election pulled 
 through." 
 
 Muriel knew that he was right, but then the question 
 shot through her, " Would that engagement ever be an- 
 nounced at all ?" 
 
 " I doubt if it could have been done anyhow in this 
 Protestant county," she said indifferently. " But it is get- 
 ting late; there is the dressing-bell. I have one thing more 
 to say, Cheriton, which you will be glad to hear. I have 
 made a mistake in staying on here." 
 
 Lord Cheriton stood at the window, and looked down on 
 the valley. 
 
 "The position is an impossible one," she continued. " I 
 fancied that I had made myself indispensable to these 
 people. I have had my lesson. 1 thought too — " a deep 
 colour flushed over her face for a moment; she paused, and 
 then went on — " that it was my duty to keep my place in 
 the world as your wife." 
 
 The man at the window gave a start, and half turned 
 towards her, with a smothered exclamation. 
 
 265
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 But she went on quite calmly : " It would no doubt be 
 the more perfect way to do that still. But I am convinced 
 now that I am not obliged to aim at what I can no longer 
 bear, at what is slowly killing me. I am going to ask you 
 to arrange for a separation, though if you will let me choose 
 my own time, it had better not be for a few months — not 
 until this absurd story has died down." 
 
 " Muriel, don't, for God's sake don't! Give me one 
 chance to make up to you," he cried. 
 
 He moved towards her. Muriel raised her eyes to his; 
 then he fell back, for there was that on her face which 
 spoke the story of her life at last to the man who had 
 ruined it. He shrank away, and taking up a book that lay 
 by her side, she said in her ordinary voice : 
 
 " I shall be too tired to see Sir John to-night. Would 
 you ask him to put it off till the morning? I suppose they 
 will dine with you ? Good-night, we will have more talk 
 to-morrow." 
 
 He left the room and went down to his dressing-room, 
 but as he reached the bottom of the turret stairs he paused 
 and listened. Yes, Muriel was walking about above, and 
 he thought he heard a sob. To any ears it must have been 
 a strangely lonely sound, that one sob that broke the still- 
 ness of the old tower. 
 
 It was indeed that one sound which made it necessary for 
 Lord Cheriton to see the butler and ask for one of the few 
 remaining bottles of a very precious champagne for dinner 
 that night.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 WHAT WAS HEARD OF THE CHERITONS 
 
 IN those hot July days Mrs. Merton began to wonder 
 whether she was really as delicate as she and her 
 friends supposed. She was surprised to find how very 
 much she could do without knocking up, and, later on, she 
 was very grateful for this spurt of nerve power. A day or 
 two after the great doctor's visit, Lady Cheriton sent for 
 her, and, entirely ignoring what had passed between her- 
 self and the Vicar, assumed an intimacy with his wife that 
 had never existed before. The Mertons were too deeply 
 interested, too anxious to help her, to admit any smaller 
 feelings, and the Vicar slid into the background, and Mrs. 
 Merton took his place as if it had always been thus. In 
 their first talk Muriel broke down all stiffness by entire con- 
 fidence on the subject of her health. She spoke of the 
 coming operation as no great matter, and Mrs. Merton, 
 whose sister had had the same thing done for her, was of 
 opinion that it would do Lady Cheriton great and lasting 
 good. 
 
 " I am not really nervous about it," Muriel had said, 
 " but I do want to get it over. I am sure I shall not be fit 
 for anything till it is done. So I have persuaded Sir John, 
 when he goes abroad for his holiday, to come to Perledo. 
 Our villa is so high up, right above Lake Como, we shall 
 not be too hot; and both Cheriton and I like to be hot. I 
 
 267
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 shall be spared all the inquiries and fidgets that would tease 
 me if I had it done in London. And Perledo is such a 
 perfect spot for a convalescence." 
 
 " Then I suppose you will be back in England about the 
 end of September ? " asked Mrs. Merton. 
 
 " I can't tell anything at all as to further dates," answered 
 Muriel, hastily. 
 
 After this, Mrs. Merton was surprised to find Lady 
 Cheriton asking her to master all the complications of her 
 various charities, and the general business of the work for 
 the good of the neighbourhood, which was carried on at the 
 Abbey, and she came away puzzled by her visit. A couple 
 of days passed before it became clear that Lady Cheriton 
 was in fact winding up the work of over ten years, and 
 putting it entirely into her hands; and Mrs. Merton had 
 hardly grasped what was needed of her as to the Cottage 
 Hospital, when she was alarmed to find that she must 
 thoroughly understand the working of the lace industry. 
 The training-school for the village boys, as up-to-date 
 gardeners, was mentioned casually by Muriel as the next 
 job in store for her friend. 
 
 After this suggestion Mrs. Merton had hurried home for 
 her children's dinner, during which meal she was unusually 
 silent ; and it was not until she had regained her beloved 
 sofa, and was alone with the Vicar, that she began to give 
 vent to her thoughts. 
 
 " I am quite certain now," she said abruptly, " that Lady 
 Cheriton does not mean to come back here." 
 
 Mr. Merton was in a mood of such depression that no 
 bad news could have surprised him, 
 
 " You thought yesterday that she was merely nervous at 
 the prospect of the operation," he said. 
 
 268
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 " I think I was wrong; it was her anxiety to get it done 
 so soon, and her persuading Sir John to meet them in 
 Italy, and not to wait till after his holiday, that made me 
 think her nervous. It was clear that the doctors thought 
 there was no hurry. Now, I think the operation is only an 
 excuse for getting away from here." 
 
 " My dear, I have the greatest confidence in your intui- 
 tions, but you can't expect me to follow you in a different 
 direction every day." 
 
 " Of course," mused Mrs. Merton, with closed eyes, as 
 she leaned back on the sofa, " it would make a very good 
 break, and give people something to talk of. She might 
 stay abroad some time for her health, and only come back 
 when she finds out how much they need her here, but " 
 
 " But — " echoed the Vicar, with a sad smile. 
 
 " But," said Mrs. Merton, opening eyes full of tears, " it 
 is my conviction that we shall not see her here again. I 
 think she has come to the end of her strength. At 
 moments she might be fifteen years older than she is, and I 
 have caught a meek, gentle expression on her face that I 
 cannot bear," and Mrs. Merton gave a little sob. 
 
 " I wish she would really confide in you," said the Vicar 
 in a tremulous voice, as he rose, and, turning his back to 
 her, stood looking out of the window. 
 
 " She is not capable of it," answered his wife. " All this 
 week we have talked as if we were doing everything on the 
 bare chance of the operation turning out badly." 
 
 " Did she say to-day when they would go ? " 
 
 " She said that they intended going abroad in a fort- 
 night. Meanwhile, Lord Cheriton has gone to Cobden, 
 but he will be back here in a few days." 
 
 " I heard from Williams, at Cobden, yesterday, and he 
 269
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 says that he shall be obliged to resign the living if Lord 
 Cheriton goes on bringing down such disreputable com- 
 pany. The house is so near the church — it is disgraceful. 
 Lucy!" (he came back from the window) "do you think 
 she will see me before she goes ? " 
 
 " I 'm afraid not, dear." 
 
 " After all these years ! " replied the Vicar, somewhat 
 bitterly. 
 
 " Do you know," said his wife, " I think she can't bear 
 to see you again, just because she was so fond of you. Her 
 iron will seems to have got some twist, and I feel that it is 
 beyond her own management." 
 
 In the meantime, some knowledge of the fact that Lady 
 Cheriton meant to make a complete change in her life had 
 reached two other of her friends, as they would have been 
 called — Horace Colquhoun and, through him, Henry Dacre. 
 
 London was very hot, and even the atmosphere of Col- 
 quhoun's admirably ventilated rooms was unbearably op- 
 pressive. 
 
 Horace was lying on the divan by the window, at ten 
 o'clock in the morning, three days after he had left Cheri- 
 ton by request, and he was occupied in scolding his valet 
 in very unvarnished language. He was one of those men 
 who find an outlet for irritation in minute bullying, and he 
 had been harassing his admirably mannered and imper- 
 turbable servant for the past hour. Horace's face was 
 grey, and his lips shook, while his breakfast had been 
 scarcely tasted. When at last there was no excuse by 
 which the valet could be kept in the room any longer to re- 
 ceive the venom which his master's tongue spat out so 
 
 270
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 freely, Colquhoun was left alone, and he groaned aloud. 
 He was startled at the sufferings of his own heart — startled 
 to find how deeply one affection had taken root there. 
 
 " I have never done him anything but good ! " he cried. 
 " Other people — yes, it would have been fair enough if 
 several other people had treated me badly — but Cheriton! " 
 His mind flew back to the days of their boyhood, when 
 they had chummed at Eton: 
 
 " I would we were boys as of old 
 In the field, by the fold:" 
 
 Pain without dignity, hurt feeling in a mist of enormous 
 self-delusion, the struggle with the old affection, its trans- 
 formation into hatred and a wish for revenge — these things 
 do not improve the human countenance. The shrivelled, 
 sallow face that seemed too small for the eyeglass, and the 
 shrunken, bony figure in the silk dressing-gown, were not 
 attractive. 
 
 Horace did not move when Lord Berringfield came in, 
 and hardly said " Good-morning," but looking out of the 
 window, and speaking in a voice that whimpered a little, 
 said, holding out a sheet of paper towards him: " That came 
 last night — read it," Berringfield threw himself into a 
 chair by the divan, and read through the short note, which 
 was written in an untidy, blotted scrawl: 
 
 Horace : 
 
 You have won the bet. I enclose a cheque for ;^7ooo, and if I ever 
 wished for anything, I wish now that I may never see you again in this 
 world or in the next. 
 
 Cheriton. 
 
 " What does it mean ? " asked the bewildered young man, 
 and Horace was reminded for the first time that Berringfield 
 
 271
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 knew nothing, and ought not, even now, to know anything 
 about the bet. The thought flashed upon him in the same 
 second as the fact that it was too late to conceal the 
 matter. 
 
 " It means," he replied in a broken voice, " that I have 
 lost my best friend." 
 
 " How can it mean that ? " he asked in a tone of puzzled 
 sympathy. 
 
 " A year ago," said Horace, " Cheriton was one night wor- 
 rying me about his troubles with his wife, and saying that 
 he wished to goodness she would divorce him, or even have 
 a separation en rtgle, but that of course she never would. 
 Well, I told him he was quite wrong, and that I was sure 
 she would do it, and he declared that if she consented to a 
 separation within two years he would hand me over ;^7ooo. 
 And I said, ' Done,' chaffing, of course. I had almost for- 
 gotten the stupid joke; but you see, now, she must be going 
 to separate, and the ass turns round and makes a grievance 
 of it. Of course I shall send him back his money " 
 
 " Of course! " echoed the younger man. 
 
 '* And it 's d d ungentlemanly of him to have sent 
 
 it," continued his friend. 
 
 But Berringfield was thinking of the bearings of this in- 
 formation on Lady Cheriton, and what his mother and the 
 world at large would think about it. 
 
 " Horace," he said, after a pause, " I wish I knew what 
 makes you so positive about that bit of gossip. It does n't 
 follow, if — Lady Cheriton — is going to have a separation 
 that it has the remotest connection with " — he stopped. 
 
 " With Dacre, you mean," put in Horace, crossly. " I 
 can't be bothered to go over that old ground again it 's 
 as plain as a pike-staff. I 've got my own trials this 
 
 272
 
 TJie Light Behind 
 
 morning. I must consider what to do, and I must, of 
 course, send Chariton back his cheque. By the way, have 
 you seen the papers yet ? " 
 
 "Yes; there 's nothing in them." 
 
 " You can't tell me whether Argentines are as low as yes- 
 terday ? Just hand me that paper, will you ?" and Horace 
 studied stocks and shares until he had decided how he 
 would have invested Cheriton's jQtooo if he could in 
 decency have kept them. 
 
 Meanwhile, finding that he got no more of Colquhoun's 
 attention, Berringfield, after watching him for a few mo- 
 ments with a sarcastic smile, left him, and strolled out into 
 the Park below. 
 
 "He '11 tell me soon enough," he thought, "how he 
 speculated with that ;^7ooo. Probably when he has lost 
 it ! Poor old Colquhoun, he can't keep a thing to himself ! 
 His secrets and his money go equally quickly. It 's my be- 
 lief, if Cheriton has really thrown him over, that he '11 be a 
 pauper before long ! " 
 
 But when ruin did threaten for Horace (not for some 
 time yet), he did not turn to Lord Berringfield or to any of 
 the men to whom he had been a social mentor in youth. 
 With a true instinct he appealed to his old enemy, Mr. 
 Biddulph, for help, and the appeal was not made in vain. 
 
 During those weeks in which Muriel and Mrs, Merton 
 were so busy at Cheriton, Mr. Biddulph was watching by 
 a death-bed — a friend of many years' standing, not quite 
 in his own rank of life, but with whom he had constantly 
 had business relations. Mr. Stanley was dying of a disease 
 of the spine, and Mr. Biddulph had spent much of his leisure
 
 The Light BeJiind 
 
 time with him for the past six months. They had not been 
 very intimate before this suffering came upon Mr. Stanley but 
 it was curious how those in pain or in great sadness would 
 find that they were far greater friends of Mr. Biddulph's 
 than they had supposed while they were well and happy. 
 
 As soon as Parliament rose, and he could leave the Colo- 
 nial office, Mr. Biddulph hurried down to the Stanleys at 
 Folkestone, and gave up his holiday in their service. He 
 had his reward in his admiration for the dying man, in 
 whom he divined a sanctity and a spirituality that others 
 might not have seen. It was not patience but joy that 
 shone from the ordinary features and dull eyes of the suf- 
 fering old man of business. And as Mr. Biddulph sat by 
 the bedside, with an awkward tenderness in his dim eyes, 
 peering at the bottles, and the fan, and the fruit with which 
 he was unequal to dealing, he felt that strange glow of 
 triumph which is infectious in the near neighbourhood of 
 martyrs. Pursuing his dim and perilous way amid the un- 
 beliefs, and the foolish beliefs of his day, and of his society, 
 Biddulph had passed on undaunted: but simplicity of faith 
 had not been possible to him. His feet were on a rock of 
 confidence in God, and his mind was infinitely reverent 
 and patient of apparent mystery. But he had known few 
 moments of such soul sunshine as these. He became in 
 love with the unattractive old man he was nursing — he 
 could not repress a tremor in his voice when he spoke of 
 him. To the priest who came to attend him the Under 
 Secretary was so reverent that the good man felt awed, and 
 jumped to the conclusion that this death-bed would produce 
 a conversion to the Catholic Church. 
 
 Perhaps in consequence of something the priest said to 
 Mr. Stanley, the latter ventured with a blush, on what he 
 
 274
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 feared to be a great intrusion. " No," said Biddulph, gently, 
 " I don't mind. I know what you wish for me, but I can't. 
 If God showed me that it was the truth, I should be very 
 glad, but He has not." 
 
 This was spoken with absolute decision, and they never 
 raised the subject again. 
 
 For some weeks, Biddulph was absorbed in his friend, 
 and almost impatient of anything that might take his mind 
 from him. Unfortunately, in this life, we cannot afford to 
 live for one thing only, as he realised afterwards to his cost. 
 
 One morning, he received two letters which at any other 
 time would have been of absorbing interest. One was 
 from Anne, the other from Muriel. Anne wrote from home: 
 
 Dear Mr. Biddulph: 
 
 I am afraid you are busy, and sorrowful, and that I am going to give 
 you one more sad thing to think of. But, indeed, it is really a thing to 
 be glad of, a great escape for us both. 
 
 I know now that I made a great mistake in accepting Mr. Dacre, and 
 I told him so when he came down to Cheriton, You must not be sorry 
 for me. Do you remember saying that sins are punished in the next 
 world but that blunders are punished in this ? I shall live down my 
 punishment, and life here is easier than I expected, as my father is 
 more affectionate, and more dependent on my society than he has ever 
 been before. I feel too tired at present for more than this quiet life at 
 home. I know you will feel very kindly to me, so I want to ask you 
 not to let what has passed make any difference in your relations with 
 Henry. Please be as good to him as ever. I ask you this with all my 
 heart, and now forgive me for writing at all. I don't forget to pray for 
 Mr, Stanley. Yours most sincerely, 
 
 Anne Massingham. 
 
 P. S. — I had almost forgotten to tell you, in case you should see 
 Muriel before she goes to Italy, that I do not want her to know that 
 our engagement is broken off, until after her operation. Altho' I 
 believe that it is not a serious affair, I would rather she had nothing 
 to upset her just now. 
 
 275
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 Mr. Biddulph had mingled emotions as he read this 
 letter of compassion, of anger, of pity; but all was dim to 
 him in his present preoccupation. Human life seemed 
 colourless in the valley of the shadow of death. 
 
 Muriel's letter was brief. She asked him to meet her in 
 London in three days' time. 
 
 " I should like to say good-bye before I start for abroad," 
 she wrote. He glanced at the note almost impatiently. 
 He was feeling most for Anne, and he was trying not to 
 accuse Muriel of being selfish and hard in regard to her. 
 After all, he knew nothing beyond the fact of the en- 
 gagement being broken off. He had no great wish to 
 see Muriel, and he told himself that he could not possibly 
 leave the Stanleys now. It never struck him that Muriel 
 might be in far greater need of him than even Mr. 
 Stanley. For he knew nothing of her latest trouble. 
 Gossip did not flow quickly in his direction, and he had 
 heard nothing of the growth of Colquhoun's calumny. 
 All he had heard was that Lady Cheriton was not well, and 
 was going for medical treatment abroad. How bitterly in 
 the coming years he regretted that ignorance! As it was, 
 he merely telegraphed to say that he was very sorry he could 
 not come up to London. 
 
 Muriel Cheriton went abroad, thinking that surely he 
 might have spared her a few hours. 
 
 276
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 WHAT WAS SAID OF LADY CHERITON 
 
 OH, he is a very odd fellow," said Lord Berringfield 
 to the four people sitting and standing under the 
 shade of the great oaks in Mr. Maurice's York- 
 shire home. 
 
 Mrs. Maurice and Miss Arberton, Lord Berringfield's 
 eldest sister, were leaning back in deep garden chairs. 
 Mr. Maurice and Mr. Biddulph, who had been walking up 
 and down in serious talk at a little distance, had just strolled 
 up to them. 
 
 " He is a remarkable poet, which is a rare oddity, cer- 
 tainly," said Mr. Maurice. " I have had two of his things 
 cut out of the weekly papers to-day." 
 
 " Yes, if he keeps up to this level," said Biddulph, " but 
 I doubt if he can. It is such a startling advance on any- 
 thing he has done before. It looks like one of those erratic 
 gleams of genius that don't last." 
 
 They were speaking of Henry Dacre. 
 
 "You can't always draw a hard-and-fast line between 
 men of genius and men of talent. A man of talent, under 
 sufficient pressure, may be a man of genius for a time, and 
 then relapse again. I have known several cases where strong 
 emotion or some crisis in life, makes a man produce really 
 remarkable verses, so that he becomes a standing disappoint- 
 ment for * all the rest of the time,' as a Yankee would say." 
 
 277
 
 The LigJit Behind 
 
 He had forgotten, as he went on speaking, the special 
 application of his words to Henry Dacre. Mrs. Maurice, 
 who tolerated Biddulph better than she did any other of 
 her husband's intellectual friends, looked up at him from 
 under dyed eyelashes and a wonderful garden hat with a 
 humorous and defiant expression. 
 
 "The question to my mind is — what strong emotions 
 have had this effect on Mr, Henry Dacre ? " 
 
 Biddulph gave a rather strained smile. There was a sort 
 of frankness about Mrs. Maurice, that often softened him to 
 her against his judgment, and in spite of his sympathy for 
 her husband. But now she was trenching on a topic in 
 which her coarse touch would be insufferable. 
 
 *' He is a very odd fellow," repeated Lord Berringfield. 
 
 "You have said that before," observed his sister. 
 
 "Well, you see I 've spent the last month, or most of it, 
 with him." 
 
 " How did he show his oddness?" asked Miss Arberton. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know exactly! He began by being awfully 
 good company. Sauteris, Towner, and I were delighted with 
 him ; in fact we used to fight a bit every morning as to 
 which of us should be coupled with him. We thought he 'd 
 be the making of the tour, and he climbs like a goat. But 
 after a bit, he took to writing poetry, and he got gloomy 
 and would n't talk. Then he got all right again, and we 
 thought him the jolliest fellow. Then he 'd be back in 
 the dumps again, and we began to wish we had n't got him. 
 The funniest thing was the night before we went up the 
 Simplon." 
 
 " But I thought you said that you and Mr. Sauteris were 
 the only ones who did the Simplon ?" 
 
 " Yes, because Dacre would n't come, and Towner stayed 
 
 278
 
 The Light Behuid 
 
 with him. The day before, we had been going to lunch at 
 a little inn on the road, when Dacre suddenly refused to 
 come in. He said he sa^ some bores he knew, through the 
 window, and that he did n't want any luncheon." 
 
 " It does not seem particularly odd to avoid bores, does 
 it ? " asked Biddulph. 
 
 " No, but he looked so queer, and they were two rather 
 harmless Roman Catholic priests. We did the Simplon 
 with them next day, and that was why Dacre would n't 
 come. One was a nice, pale chap called Groves, very keen 
 about the climbing, and though I did n't let him know that 
 we had Dacre with us, he talked a lot about him, thought 
 no end of him, and it seems they had been great chums. 
 But Dacre was as cross as an old bear when I told him." 
 
 " Any other signs of oddity ? " asked Mr. Biddulph, who 
 had been listening attentively, while Mr. Maurice strolled 
 off by himself. 
 
 "Well, you know those verses you were talking about; 
 he wrote dozens of poems, and kept tearing them up. And 
 he wrote a lot of letters to old Colquhoun, and once, when 
 I was taking all the letters, as I was going down to the 
 post-office, he came after me, and took back a letter to 
 Colquhoun, and tore it into bits. Then another odd thing 
 was that he never would look into a church. S^uteris 
 always likes to see churches, even the ugly ones, but Dacre 
 never would go with him. Now would n't you have thought 
 that a chap who writes verses and all that, a Roman 
 Catholic too, would have been a bit interested in churches, 
 studying the life of the country and all that?" 
 
 Then, not waiting for an answer, Berringfield went on: 
 " The end of it all was that he suddenly left us, and went off 
 by himself. Of course, we were all soon coming home, so 
 
 279
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 it did n't affect us. But one night he got a letter in old 
 Colquhoun's shaky fist, and he was awfully excited, and 
 next morning he was gone before we were up. He left a 
 note for me, saying that he was off, and that he had had 
 an awfully good time, but that he had had a letter which 
 made him think he must hurry up, and leave us to come 
 home in our own way. I thought from the letter that he *d 
 gone home, but Sauteris's servant was positive that he 'd 
 gone down to the Italian lakes. He said Dacre had labelled 
 his things to Lugano." 
 
 There was a moment's silence. Mrs. Maurice smiled 
 to herself, and Mr. Biddulph looked quite emphatically in- 
 different. 
 
 " Now you '11 allow that that 's odd," said Lord Berring- 
 field, fixing his boyish eyes for a moment on Mr. Biddulph's 
 face, and then turning to give a surreptitious wink to Mrs. 
 Maurice. 
 
 At that moment the host came back, and Mr. Biddulph 
 joined him, and they paced up and down the terrace. Miss 
 Arberton said she must go in to write letters, and Mrs. 
 Maurice and Lord Berringfield were left to themselves. 
 Something had evidently amused them a good deal. 
 
 " Poor old Biddulph," laughed Lord Berringfield, " his 
 face was a study," and then they laughed again. 
 
 " Of course I knew what was up with Dacre from Horace, 
 who always blabs everything. He has had no end of a row 
 with Cheriton, because the * virtuous Earl ' has veered 
 round, and is furious with his Countess for wanting a 
 separation." 
 
 Mrs, Maurice sat up, and positively gasped at the 
 news, 
 
 " She is going to be separated," she cried, and clapped 
 
 280
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 her hands with delight, though the endless jewels must have 
 hurt her plump fingers. " Of course it means a divorce, 
 and she will marry Henry Dacre. How I shall enjoy see- 
 ing all her adorers' faces! Fancy Mr. Biddulph! " and then 
 with a chuckle, " fancy my husband's face! Oh, it is fun! 
 Are you quite, quite sure?" 
 
 Berringfield told the story of the bet of ;^7ooo, without 
 a pang, and Mrs. Maurice seemed convinced. 
 
 " Of course that 's why she gave up trying to put him in 
 as member. We could not make out why it was suddenly 
 given up. Lady Turton wrote that it was Muriel Cheriton 
 herself who made Snead keep on as member for another 
 year. She must have suddenly made up her mind to give 
 it all up and marry him. Oh, it is rich!" 
 
 " Poor old Dacre's mind has been running on the di- 
 vorce courts," giggled Lord Berringfield. " I remember we 
 chaffed him, because he had been sitting gazing in his 
 moony way at the paper, and he said quite suddenly: 
 * They gave a divorce yesterday, and there was no evi- 
 dence of cruelty at all.' And Bill Towner said: ' Dear me, 
 how interesting — was the lady a friend of yours ? ' How 
 we did laugh! " 
 
 "But I don't understand," said Mrs. Maurice, "why she 
 has taken Lord Cheriton abroad with her now. Only that 
 it is so like Muriel Cheriton to do things in a round-about 
 way. You know she made a most ridiculous fuss about 
 this operation. Sir John is back in London, and he told 
 Mr. Biddulph that it had been a slight affair, and that she 
 would soon be quite well again. Lady Turton says that 
 she behaved at Cheriton as if it were a matter of life and 
 death. * People were so busy,' she writes, ' talking about 
 Lady Cheriton's health, that they quite forgot to talk of her 
 
 281
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 morals.' That 's rather well put for Lady Turton, is n't it ? 
 By the way, where exactly is their Italian villa ? Some- 
 where on Lake Como, is n't it ? " 
 
 " Yes, high up above Varenna, an awfully jolly place. I 
 say I shall never forget old Biddulph's face when I said 
 that Dacre had labelled to Lugano." 
 
 " Are Lugano and Lake Como very near together ? " 
 
 " Oh yes, it 's the regular way to Lake Como of course. 
 You go down from the town of Lugano, across the lake in 
 a steamer, and then you take a steam tram from Porlezza to 
 Menaggio on Lake Como, and you are straight opposite to 
 Varenna. I bet you anything he is there now. But what 's 
 up?" 
 
 For at that moment they saw Mr. Biddulph and Mr. 
 Maurice meet a servant with a telegram. The telegram 
 was for Mr, Biddulph; he read it and handed it at once to 
 his companion. 
 
 " It is something very serious," said the statesman's wife 
 as she watched their faces. " Bad news from the Colonial 
 Office, I suppose, as it is for Mr. Biddulph; but anyhow 
 they won't want us." 
 
 And in that at least she was perfectly right. 
 
 283
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 THE MESSAGE FROM PERLEDO 
 
 IT is quite true that only that enchanting lake passage 
 from Lugano to Porlezza, and half an hour in a steam 
 tram, was all that separated Henry from Menaggio, 
 and that Menaggio is just on the opposite shore to Varenna, 
 on the Lake of Como. But as Dacre did not leave Lu- 
 gano for nearly a week, he only reached Varenna the day 
 before Lord Berringfield gave news of him to the Maurices, 
 and Mr. Biddulph received so " very serious " a telegram 
 under the spreading oak-trees of their Yorkshire home. 
 He had slept at Menaggio, although a tempting steamer 
 was ready to take him across in a mere ten minutes to 
 the Hotel Royale at Varenna, and he could even distin- 
 guish the white terrace of the hotel gleaming in the setting 
 sun. But next morning brought more courage, and too 
 impatient to wait for the steamer, he took a little boat and 
 rowed himself across. 
 
 He pulled hard, enjoying the exercise, and finding a 
 relief for his nerves in the use of his muscles. But in 
 the middle of the lake, half-way between the gleaming 
 coasts, with Bellagio on the wooded headland to his 
 left, and the terraced gardens of the villas by Cadenab- 
 bia before him, he stayed still for a longish rest. Not 
 that he was looking with admiring eyes at anything in 
 the heavens above, nor at the snow-topped mountains 
 
 2b3
 
 TJie Light Behind 
 
 between the sky and the lake, or in the water beneath that 
 reflected them; these things were nothing to him. He had 
 not even tried to do the impossible, and make out the 
 Cheritons' villa, above what he had discovered to be the 
 white-washed facade of the Church of Perledo, half-way up 
 the mountains, above Varenna. As he sat there, the water 
 dripping from his oars, his eyes seemed to be seeking the 
 bottom of the lake ; and the men and women, in more 
 than one boat, passing him by, wondered what the hand- 
 some Englishman in the white flannels, with the curly dark 
 head, could be gazing at. At last he put a hand in his 
 pocket, and for the thousandth time drew out the letter in 
 Colquhoun's " shaky fist," which Lord Berringfield had 
 seen him receive the night before he left his friends so 
 abruptly. 
 
 It must have been owing to the mists of the unreal world 
 in which Henry had been living for weeks past that he did 
 not recognise the ring of the special pleaders arguments in 
 Colquhoun's letter. He did not even question Horace's 
 motives, or suspect the longing for revenge that was eating 
 him up. It had been Horace's metier for so many years to 
 look after Lord Cheriton's affairs that he could not in any 
 case have left him alone; habit was too strong for him. 
 And as Colquhoun wrote the letter, he rejoiced to think 
 that he knew how best to wound Cheriton now, and how 
 to humble Lady Cheriton. But Henry, with the egotism of 
 passion, took the letter very simply. 
 
 " No, my dear Dacre," the letter said, " it is all very well 
 for you to be so charmingly modest, and so discreetly de- 
 spairing, and to write poems so eloquently expressive. But 
 to tell you the truth you are positively exasperating to a 
 cool looker-on like myself. Don't waste your time writing 
 
 284
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 me any more accounts of your own unworthiness; that isn't 
 the point. Good gracious heavens, whoever said you were 
 worthy ? Not I for one. Hate and its opposite are never 
 by any chance reasonable. If you were all you say you 
 wish you were, and, excuse plain speaking, that you are quite 
 right in saying you are not, would a woman, would even 
 a goddess be in the least more likely to fall in love with 
 you ? She might, of course, because she may do anything 
 wise or foolish, but it 's not the least likely that she 'd do 
 the wise thing rather than the foolish thing. You know the 
 reverse is much the commonest. So please stop writing 
 any more of your egotistical modesty and nonsense to your 
 humble servant, because he is sick of it. 
 
 " As to waiting to see what she does when she gets back 
 to England, I think you are altogether wrong. As I read 
 it, and I know my lady pretty well, she went abroad in- 
 tending you to follow her. Otherwise, why not have the 
 operation at home ? There was no sort of hurry. I read it, 
 as I say, that she wanted to get it over quickly, and to be 
 ready to begin a new life. She only took Cheriton abroad 
 to look respectable, and to silence the gossip of the county. 
 The separation between them is an absolutely fixed thing. 
 It is clear to me that she meant to part with him, and settle 
 things with you out of reach of the gossiping English 
 world. Now that she is quite well again, Cheriton is going 
 or has already gone, to Homburg, as his valet writes to mine. 
 Man alive, don't you see " 
 
 " Eh, eh! Oh, Oh! " were shrieked at Dacre, and a clamour 
 of Italian voices made him look up only just in time to get 
 out of the way of a large boat laden with a cargo of bark. 
 In a few moments, he found himself on the Varenna side of 
 the boat, and his mind was made up; and though physically 
 
 2S5
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 he still faced Menaggio, he had mentally turned his 
 back on that little town, and on many other things as 
 well. 
 
 "You know Lord Cheriton's villa, then?" 
 
 " Perfectly; his lordship often dines herewith his friends 
 from Bellagio. I can send the note from here easily. 
 How long will the boy take to come and go ? Oh, about one 
 hour and a half. Will you have dejeuner while you wait ? 
 On the terrace? Yes, certainly," and the waiter bustled 
 away. 
 
 Henry went down the steps to the terrace, and had 
 luncheon there, but more than that he could never remem- 
 ber of the Hotel Royale at Varenna. Nothing came back to 
 him afterwards, for he had seen very little, not even the 
 famous cactus that stands out half-way between the terrace 
 and the water, and which Tennyson had noted so admiringly 
 in the Visitor's Book. He might never have leaned over 
 the old wall, and gazed at that wonderful world of moun- 
 tains and of water, never have turned to look at the castle 
 ruins frowning on the hill behind him. 
 
 Our world is not in what we see, but in what we carry 
 about with us, and " under the pressure of strong emotion, 
 or at some crisis in life," to borrow Biddulph's phrase, all 
 external things may be blotted out, or may become pain- 
 fully impressive. There is no rule, but with Henry that 
 day it was the former. He only saw feverishly in his men- 
 tal vision his brief note — (had the note really seemed as 
 natural as he had wished to make it ?) — telling Lady Cheri- 
 ton that he had come over for the day from Menaggio, and 
 asking if he might come up to the villa to see her. He 
 seemed possessed, as time dragged on, with the idea of the 
 actual slip of paper. He seemed to see it in the rough 
 
 286
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 hands of the boatman's boy, whom the waiter said he had 
 given it to, in the care of the Cheritons' butler, and then in 
 those long thin fingers that would be thinner than before 
 her illness. Probably she would not be wearing any rings. 
 She always seemed indifferent to her jewels, he fancied. 
 Magnificent as they were they were never somehow vulgarly 
 en Evidence. He saw the note in those hands, then, when 
 she had read it would she take a pen — writing things were 
 always near her — and would she write — ? 
 
 "Very sorry, sir," came the waiter's staccato accents, 
 "very stupid boy, — got a message for you, — it was Eng- 
 lish, — he is Italian boy, and know no English. There was 
 a message." 
 
 Henry glanced ferociously at the harmless little waiter 
 who added hurriedly, " but there is this card too, and some- 
 thing written I think, sir." 
 
 Henry clutched at the visiting card; it was Lady Cheri- 
 ton's, and on it he could just distinguish in faint pencil 
 marks the words " Come after six." That was all, but was 
 it not enough ? 
 
 287
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 THE LIGHT BEHIND 
 
 IT was an Italian garden in the Renaissance style, for- 
 mal, with dark cypress and ilex trees cutting with hard 
 outlines against fading plaster walls, that were still 
 brilliant with colour in the midday sun. But now, evening 
 was closing in, and long shadows from the cypresses were 
 merging into the general gloom. Languid enjoyment ex- 
 haled from a twilight full of sweet scents, while glimpses of 
 wondrous crimson clouds, seen between the branches, threw 
 each palm spike into black distinctness. 
 
 To Henry, Italy was a new experience. Rich with past 
 dreams, it would in any case have quickened his imagina- 
 tion, and he would have clothed every laurel bush, every 
 statue, with a glory not its own. To-night, as he passed 
 into the garden he was not in a condition to recognise 
 the fitness to himself of his surroundings. Greek art 
 had worshipped beauty in a far other spirit than the Re- 
 naissance. It aspired to the highest it knew, whereas 
 Renaissance art was essentially apostate, having tasted, and 
 rejected a better thing. Hence it could never be simple, 
 or spontaneous, nor could Henry, however much his self- 
 consciousness was lost in intoxication. 
 
 But since he had read that note, his insensibility to outer 
 things had vanished. It seemed to him as he trod the long 
 alley under the pergola, that the world and life had never 
 
 288
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 been so rich; for mother earth does " pay her children on a 
 Saturday," and he was rapturously content in her rewards. 
 The fading light caught his face, which was wonderfully 
 beautiful that evening, full of exuberance of life as he trod 
 the gravel path, too well worn to crunch beneath his light 
 step. He paused for a moment where the sides of the per- 
 gola opened, showing two alcoves formed by clipped ilex 
 trees. In the one an Antinous looked down indiffer- 
 ently on the rank grass and trailing weeds about his feet. 
 The statue was scarcely more beautiful than this latest 
 favourite of the common mother. But there was no liv- 
 ing being there to greet Henry any more than on the 
 other side, where a late Italian satyr, gnome-like, earthy, 
 and possessing a spirit very evil, might have seemed to 
 mock him, had he heeded, with a scoffing laugh too ill- 
 natured to warn. He was coming to the end of the alley — 
 surely she must be very near him now. The English servant 
 had told him that he would find her in the pergola; but 
 Henry hesitated — his courage failed him for a moment; and 
 it came over him that this wondrous woman of the world, 
 who must have known far more accomplished lovers, would 
 surely find him unequal to his part. It was an abasement 
 the more, and he was feeling conscious of it when a low 
 voice quite near him murmured: 
 
 " Who is there ? Is it Henry ? " 
 
 " Yes, Lady Cheriton," he cried as composedly as he 
 could; " are you playing at hide-and-seek ?" 
 
 ** Go back as far as the faun, and then walk round it." 
 
 He did as he was told, and there, in a little green space 
 
 like a room, walled high with ilex and box, lying on a long 
 
 wicker couch, was Lady Cheriton, dressed in trailing white 
 
 garments, with a rose-coloured silk cloak that he remem- 
 
 '' 289
 
 The LigJit Behind 
 
 bered only too well, thrown over the couch, forming aback- 
 ground to her face, at which he hesitated to glance. She, 
 too, seemed embarrassed, and her hand struck cold in his. 
 Then hastily pointing to a gap in the green walls, she said, 
 still in a low, hesitating voice : 
 
 " See what a view! I can lie here in the shade and look 
 at that." 
 
 Henry gazed, with eyes that did not see, at low vine-clad 
 hills, overtopped by a great mountain range now rosy in 
 the sunset light. He felt that Lady Cheriton was looking 
 at him. How long it was since he had looked at her! One 
 glance now, and his soul would, he felt, with a new intensity, 
 take in, in an instant, to the full, the joy of life, the sugges- 
 tion of which lay all about him. 
 
 At length he found courage to turn, and their eyes met. 
 He caught his breath; there was something in the helpless, 
 almost imploring look that met his, in the dull veil that had 
 come upon her beauty that struck him with terror. It was 
 the face of a dying woman. Her hair was dusky against 
 the crimson silk; her face was slightly flushed; her white 
 hands — he had been right, they were without rings — plucked 
 a little at her draperies. 
 
 Henry stood silent, rooted to the spot. The glance from 
 those eyes, which used to light up his whole nature, and 
 make all life seem so fair to him, had in a moment passed 
 their death-chill into his heart. 
 
 She seemed troubled at his silence. 
 
 " You understood ? " she said at length, and he felt that 
 she spoke with difficulty; " did they not tell you about me 
 this morning? Ah, I see they did not! I told them to let 
 you know that I was very ill. I know that I cannot live. It 
 began quite suddenly — only yesterday. How strange you 
 
 390
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 must have thought it! How — " she closed her eyes, and 
 there was silence again. Her face worked, as if she might 
 be about to cry. 
 
 " Never mind," she went on, " if there has been a mistake 
 the explanation is very near " — the last words were touched 
 with irony — " you are in time, and I am sure you will under- 
 stand, only come very close." 
 
 Henry knelt beside her, and could see the white fold 
 above her chest rise and fall with her laboured breath- 
 ing. 
 
 " It seemed when I got your note as if you had been 
 sent to me, I know no one here, and I had been longing 
 for somebody, just to tell me how you die — Catholics, I 
 mean. I don't want a priest. I can't make a business of 
 it — I am too tired. One of your poems — things you have 
 said made me think you could help me." There was a 
 moment's silence, and then the words escaped like a faint 
 breath of air: " You will — won't you ? " 
 
 Henry's head sank; he could not speak, he was tongue- 
 tied. Her hand was close to his head, wandering a little 
 uncertainly near him. He shrank from it — for him to 
 touch it now were desecration. 
 
 "I have spoken too suddenly; I have startled you; you 
 are young; you don't know. Oh, but you can help me! 
 Surely I have not made a mistake." There was anguish, 
 terror in the voice. " It is too late to get any one else." 
 
 Henry rose. " No, no," he said soothingly, " J know — 
 I have learnt. May I have a few minutes first? " 
 
 " Yes," she answered, " five minutes, will that do ? Go, 
 don't be longer." 
 
 Her eyes closed, her hands were still moving. Before 
 he had time to leave her, she looked round, and pointed to
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 a glass on a table on the other side of her. He stretched 
 across the couch, and reached it, 
 
 " Give me a spoonful," she said. 
 
 His hand shook so much that he upset the first spoonful, 
 but he filled the spoon again, and put it to her lips. 
 
 " Don't go far," she almost whispered ; " I sent the 
 nurse away." 
 
 Henry turned through the open space in the tall hedge, 
 and the wide landscape lay before him, — rough, broken 
 ground at his feet, the eternal hills, and the great sweep of 
 the heavens above. But he was in the grip of an anguish 
 that mastered him, body and soul, and he was hardly con- 
 scious of more than physical pain. No vision of a God 
 either threatening or merciful came to him, only an over- 
 powering conviction of his awful unfitness to minister to the 
 dying woman. She was no longer Lady Cheriton, for Lady 
 Cheriton had been the world to him, and now she belonged 
 to it no more. She was not the woman he had loved with 
 such a sacrifice of all the best in himself. She was to him 
 only a soul passing in its agony, asking him how to pass, 
 how to cling to the cross of the Master whom he had 
 denied. And the apostate knew — that was what came to 
 him clearly with an overwhelming knowledge, that drove 
 out all else — no nun at her prayers in any convent of that 
 countryside knew better than he, what Lady Cheriton must 
 do now. 
 
 The great sky above, the darkening earth beneath, 
 the whole vast world about them was but the theatre 
 for this one act — to die. The awe of it thrilled him ; 
 he kissed the broken earth, put his forehead to it, whis- 
 pered " Domine non sufn dignus " and stood up. As he re- 
 turned through the green wall, he started at the change in 
 
 893
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 Muriel's face. It seemed to have grown more grey. Her 
 eyes were not quite closed, her mouth was a little open. 
 Henry was terrified. Had that been indeed the end ? and 
 a sudden tempest of wrath and pity took him. Where was 
 her husband ? her nurse ? where were her servants ? Was 
 she to die out on this hilltop, alone with one who had come 
 — ah, his very presence was a desecration ! He was almost 
 startled to hear her say slowly and distinctly : 
 
 " I have been asleep. I am sorry if I have kept you 
 waiting." 
 
 ''^ Kept you waiting'' — it is what the dying often say. 
 How long seems that time from which they are almost 
 detached ! How it must drag for them ! They cannot 
 bear the thought of others waiting. But there was no 
 one there who felt, as at other death-beds, that all their 
 future lives would be but a waiting, till death should 
 bring them to meet this dying one again. It was the 
 lonely end of a lonely life. 
 
 " What must I do ? " she asked, and her eyes rested as 
 with comfort on Henry's altered face. His whole attitude 
 was now that of a priest or doctor, revealing an uncon- 
 scious taking of responsibility upon himself. 
 
 " It is very simple," he said ; " I know you have been 
 baptised — I know " — and his voice did not even tremble — 
 " that you love God. Now, would you believe whatever 
 He wished you to believe, if you knew that He wished 
 it?" 
 
 " Of course," came very faintly from her lips. 
 
 ** That must be your act of faith," 
 
 " Yes," and there was a childlike ring in the voice, 
 
 " Then say these acts after me," 
 
 '* Not too fast," she pleaded, and groped in the direction 
 
 293
 
 TJie Light BeJiind 
 
 of the glass. He moistened her lips again, and she re- 
 peated after him, very slowly: 
 
 " O my God, I believe in Thee, and in all that Thou 
 wiliest I should believe. 
 
 " O my God, I hope in Thee, for grace and for glory, 
 because of Thy promises. Thy mercy, and Thy power. 
 
 " O my God, I love Thee with my whole heart, and for 
 Thy sake I love my neighbour as myself. 
 
 " O my God, I am truly sorry for having offended 
 Thee, because Thou art so good, and by Thy help I will 
 not sin again." 
 
 It was long before she had finished, with halting, la- 
 boured breath, her voice at times almost painfully distinct, 
 at others sinking into a whisper. 
 
 " You see," he said gently, when the prayers were 
 finished, " faith in all that God has revealed, sorrow for 
 sin, because it has offended the God we love, and love 
 towards all men for His sake." 
 
 " Write the prayers down please; there is a writing-case." 
 
 Henry took the case off the table. 
 
 " Write it large." 
 
 Placing the desk upright on the chair near him, he knelt 
 down, and wrote out the acts. 
 
 " You are sure that is all I need say and feel ? " 
 
 " That you need say and tmll, not feel ; never mind the 
 mere feeling." 
 
 Something caught at his heart at those words ; how 
 could he dare ? He brought the sheet of paper to her. 
 
 " Thank you. Will you say them again ? I will listen. 
 And if I die, willing and wishing all in that prayer, shall 
 you and Anne hope for me, in spite of my sins ? " 
 
 " Even if they were as scarlet, they would be washed 
 
 294
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 white as snow," came in broken accents from the sinner 
 beside her who had not done penance. 
 
 " Would not a priest ask me if I had forgiven every- 
 body ? " 
 
 Henry hesitated a second. He had heard a learned 
 doctor of the Church say that no priest need tempt a 
 dying man with the concrete thought of individual ene- 
 mies — love and forgiveness towards all mankind were 
 enough. A look betokening that struggle which he would 
 fain spare the dying woman passed over Muriel's face, and 
 Henry was not surprised at her next faltered words : 
 
 " Will you ask my husband to come here ? " 
 
 He moved as if to obey. 
 
 " Stay," she said, " it is good-bye." 
 
 He tried to speak, and knelt down beside her, not daring 
 to kiss her outstretched hand. She touched his dark 
 hair. 
 
 " Give Anne my love. I have always been fond of 
 Anne. Tell her that you taught me the prayers — and did 
 not stay — no, no, I don't mean that." Her face grew 
 troubled again. " Promise me that you will make her very 
 happy. I don't see any clouds over you two. You will 
 pray for me ? " 
 
 Blinding tears came to help him. He would not for the 
 world have told her the truth about himself and Anne. 
 She only heard that he was weeping. 
 
 " May n't I come again ? " he asked when he could com- 
 mand his sobs. 
 
 " No, I hope it will be to-night; but if not, I will see no 
 one now but my husband." 
 
 The last words struck Henry as with a martyr's touch; 
 she would die alone with that brute. He tried to protest, 
 
 295
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 when he heard a step on the path outside; it was the nurse 
 coming with quiet tread and cheerful face. 
 
 " Medicine time," she said quietly; " I hope you have n't 
 been naughty, and talking too much." 
 
 Muriel smiled faintly, as Henry moved away; but he saw 
 that her face was lit with the still radiance of spiritual joy. 
 The strange lines of the dying form, that lay against the 
 blurred rose-colour, and the now murky background of the 
 trees, made a picture in his mind that never grew less vivid. 
 The last thing he noted was the uncertain groping of the 
 thin hands, that like those of an infant moving aimlessly to 
 and fro. He passed hastily along the pergola, and mounted 
 the steps to the door of the villa. The English valet 
 answered the bell. 
 
 " Lady Cheriton wishes to see Lord Cheriton in the 
 garden." 
 
 " His lordship is just going down to dine at the hotel," 
 and the valet looked as if the suggestion were an imperti- 
 nence. 
 
 At that moment, the nurse ran round the corner of the 
 house. 
 
 "His lordship must come at once; there is a great change." 
 
 The woman hurried away, and Henry slowly left the 
 garden. He turned up the darkening road, and climbed 
 higher and higher, till the villa and gardens were left 
 behind, and only steep rocks rose above him. The stars 
 came out, and showed a track, which he followed, only crav- 
 ing for silence and solitude. He knelt down at length be- 
 neath a rock, and the stars, that had seen Peter go forth 
 from the Judgment Hall, testified to the angels that they 
 might rejoice in the bitter weeping of one who had denied 
 his Lord. 
 
 296
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 MR. BIDDULPH HAS THE LAST WORD 
 
 MR. MAURICE and Mr. Biddulph sat in silence in 
 the train together, as long as they could see the 
 dark outline of Cheriton Abbey frowning over the 
 valley. Their thoughts were akin, for they dwelt not on 
 the Abbey, or on the friends they had left there, — for many 
 people had been gathered at Cheriton on that glorious 
 September day. The two men saw the whole of the 
 wooded hills, and the grand old pile of buildings only as 
 the surroundings of a tomb; and their minds dwelt on the 
 vault that lay beneath the ancient parish church, and on 
 the cofifin which they had seen lowered to its resting-place 
 that morning. 
 
 A more perfect ceremony they had seldom witnessed, 
 and the vast number of people assembled had seemed but 
 to accentuate the simplicity and religious feeling of the 
 whole. But one moment stood out alone in Mr. Biddulph's 
 memory. 
 
 The workmen of the estate had carried the cofifin down 
 the great avenue crowded by the tenants and the poor 
 of the town. Lord Cheriton and Mr. Biddulph whom he 
 had begged not to leave him, had followed first; then had 
 come Lord Massingham, Mr. Maurice and the chief men 
 of the neighbourhood, and afterwards Lady Anne, Lady 
 Jane, Lady Berringfield, and several more. The sunshine 
 
 297
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 was brilliant, and the " happy autumn fields " that lay full 
 in their view, as they passed under the avenue of chestnuts 
 and moved slowly towards the church, seemed painfully 
 redolent of a life that was passing away. Nothing broke 
 the stillness save the dull tramp of their feet. An intoler- 
 able weight of grief oppressed Mr. Biddulph; he could 
 hardly see the way before him. His mind was black with 
 useless regrets, with hard thoughts of the wretched man 
 beside him, of the crowds of poor, whose tears were an 
 unreality and a mockery to him, — black, too, with a bitter 
 sense of having failed his friend, and with the still more bit- 
 ter recollection that would intrude, of a certain disappoint- 
 ment mingled with his aching love of the dead woman. 
 While he stumbled along, blind and self-contemning, there 
 rang out, in Mr. Merton's clearest tones from the lych-gate, 
 like a great note from a trumpet, like a wave of light 
 breaking through the midst of darkness, like a burst of 
 harmony rising above discord, the words, "/ am the resur- 
 rection and the life, saith the Lord." That was all that 
 Biddulph remembered. Not the weeping crowd, not her 
 husband, not Anne, not Dacre — not any of them all mat- 
 tered. God alone, with Divine egotism, bade them realise, 
 not only that He had given what He had taken away, 
 not that He had crushed an earthly life, and had laid 
 low the power of man, but that He was now simply 
 what He had always been — her resurrection and her life. 
 A profound peace fell upon Biddulph. His dim eyes 
 filled with tears, and he stumbled, so that Lord Cheriton 
 caught his arm, or he would have fallen on the worn steps 
 that led up to the church. 
 
 Now, as it was all over, and he was going away, that 
 moment stood out as the keynote of the day. But soon 
 
 298
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 the train — he and Maurice had been obliged to leave early 
 — took them out of sight of the richly wooded hills above 
 Cheriton, and quite away from the shadow of the Abbey 
 walls. The dull reaction of every-day life threatened him. 
 
 '* When did you go down ? " asked Mr. Maurice, 
 
 " I have been with Cheriton since he reached London. 
 He sent for me as soon as he got back, and put everything 
 into my hands." 
 
 *' Then that was why it was all so admirably done. I had 
 dreaded to-day, but " 
 
 " No," interrupted Biddulph, " it was all settled by Lady 
 Cheriton herself, even to the choosing of the anthem — 
 every detail. She had too a remarkable sketch of a tomb 
 for herself and Cheriton." 
 
 " Then she thought the operation might be dangerous ? " 
 
 " As far as I can make out, she had no fears as to the 
 operation. All this preparation was done some years ago; 
 she was not a person to leave things to themselves. But 
 there had recently been a great change in all her plans, and 
 what has come to me as a surprise is that just before going 
 abroad, she told Cheriton that she meant never to go back 
 to the Abbey." 
 
 Maurice gave a start of astonishment. 
 
 " Did she mean to get rid of him ? " he asked. Mrs, 
 Maurice had not told him of Lord Berringfield's indiscre- 
 tions, 
 
 " Yes. They were going to have a legal separation this 
 winter." 
 
 There was another silence, then Mr. Maurice, looking 
 away, with a touch of his House of Commons manner 
 of perfect indifference, said in his low, penetrating 
 voice : 
 
 299
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 " Did she intend to marry Dacre ? " 
 
 " No, certainly not," answered the other. Then, with a 
 visible effort, he continued: 
 
 " I have seen Dacre this afternoon. You were all quite 
 right. He was madly in love, but he never breathed a 
 word of it to her, though he intended to do so, and had 
 laid his plans in his own mind. He had thrown over his 
 principles and his religion in the wild hope of winning 
 her. As soon as it was reported that she was convalescent, 
 he followed her to Italy, and by the merest accident arrived 
 at the villa, on the day that her heart suddenly failed. He 
 saw her by appointment three hours before she died. She 
 kept him some twenty minutes, and made him write down 
 the Roman Catholic prayers for the dying, sent messages to 
 Lady Anne, said good-bye to him, and sent him to fetch 
 Cheriton, who told me the rest. Cheriton knelt by her, re- 
 peating the prayers Dacre had written out for her, till she 
 became unconscious. Think," he went on sadly, " of 
 Cheriton repeating acts of Faith, Hope, and Charity, while 
 she died." 
 
 "And what is Cheriton's state of mind ? " asked Maurice, 
 after a moment's silence.. " Now that he has got his free- 
 dom, I suppose he will induce some other woman to marry 
 him almost at once." 
 
 " No, I think not," replied Biddulph, with a faint smile; 
 ** his attitude reminds me more of that of George the 
 Second at his wife's death-bed." 
 
 " Lady Anne looked fearfully white to-day," observed 
 Mr. Maurice presently. 
 
 ** Yes, but there was that in her face that makes one 
 think of angels or little children. You saw Dacre. Cheri- 
 ton absolutely forced him to come, and I think it was 
 
 300
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 quite right." And Biddulph added to himself, "he did 
 not meet Lady Anne even for a moment." Then aloud, 
 " I took him into the park during the luncheon, and he 
 has gone home. I confess that, as we talked, my wrath 
 melted. We all made a mistake in taking him too seri- 
 ously. He was only a boy. Now sorrow has made him a 
 man. His imagination and his adaptability made him 
 a weak boy, but it does not follow that he will be a weak 
 man. Curiously enough when he has gained, as I believe 
 he will, the grit and firmness that were lacking, he will be 
 less attractive to women in general. What they liked in 
 him was the nature of a boy under the semblance of a 
 man. For the moment his ambitions are dead. Cheriton 
 insisted that I should press him at once to stand for the 
 division, as soon as old Snead retires. I could n't do it. 
 I saw that he would n't be able to bear it yet. I '11 try 
 again later ; I have no doubt Cheriton is right, and he 
 would have a walkover ; there is such a reaction. They 
 would do anything they think would have pleased Lady 
 Cheriton." 
 
 " How did he dare fancy himself in love with her ? Did 
 she ever give him the slightest encouragement ? " 
 
 " No," answered Biddulph, " but he was very young, 
 and, as I was saying, curiously immature. He had been 
 brought up in almost monastic ignorance of the world, and 
 he was naturally sanguine. And she — well, Maurice, is it 
 so very hard to understand ? She wished to be doing 
 good to some one. He interested and excited her. She 
 believed in his genius. He was the latest peg for her 
 ambition; her sense of her own powers carried her away, 
 and she became selfish in it perhaps, and I think would 
 not face the possibility that she was doing mischief, while 
 
 oOl
 
 The LigJit BeJiind 
 
 she was making a politician out of the raw material, and 
 helping forward a clever youth, without interest to back 
 him. But she must have been uneasy towards the end, 
 must have known that she had done harm. Just after the 
 operation — " he checked himself, he had no right to betray 
 Anne's secret, and he thought of her face, as he had seen 
 it to-day, so beautiful in its sorrow. His mind turned 
 to a little fact that had been confided to him by the 
 hospital nurse, who had been with Lady Cheriton at 
 the end. 
 
 The nurse had told him that in a short time of great suf- 
 fering that had followed the operation, her patient had said 
 to her: 
 
 " Is it true, do you think, that God accepts pain as an 
 offering ? that you can bring good to others by it ? It 
 would be a great help, a great consolation, if I could be 
 sure of that. I do so long to make two people happy ; I 
 am afraid I have done them harm." 
 
 " Such a prayer viust be heard," muttered Biddulph, 
 half aloud. 
 
 His companion, thinking he was spoken to, turned to- 
 wards him, and something in the statesman's smooth face 
 startled him. In his own grief, in the misery of feeling 
 that he had failed Muriel when he was most wanted, after 
 years spent in her friendship and service, Biddulph had 
 forgotten the history of the man beside him. Now he re- 
 membered. 
 
 " No," he repeated, " I am certain that she was never in 
 the least touched by Dacre. If it is any comfort to 
 you to know it," he added almost enviously, " you were 
 her only temptation." 
 
 Maurice turned his back to Biddulph, and the House of 
 
 303
 
 The Light Behind 
 
 Commons voice was a little lower, but as distinct as usual, 
 as he spoke, 
 
 " But as she would not let herself care for me, whom did 
 she love ? " 
 
 Biddulph hesitated. 
 
 "I do not think she ever knew any absorbing human 
 love. I suppose her way had to be a lonely one. And yet 
 the human heart is made for love." 
 
 Biddulph paused. He seemed to be speaking more to 
 himself than to James Maurice. 
 
 " With all her faults," he went on, " I think she ever 
 craved for something worthy of her love, and often saw the 
 sacred aureole where God has placed it and the world over- 
 looks it." 
 
 Then, with his usual indifference as to whether he should 
 be understood or not, he concluded: "Yes; as she went 
 * about the city, in the streets and in the broadways,' with 
 a dim vision she was seeking, on the whole faithfully, for 
 the source of all love. She has found Him now. And," 
 he added almost inaudibly, " He will be her exceeding 
 great reward." 
 
 THE END 
 
 303
 
 One Poor Scruple 
 
 By 
 Mrs. Wilfrid Ward 
 
 The Outlook ; "The characterisation is delicate: aesthetic in- 
 sincerities, deep pieties, social pettinesses, worldly difficulties and 
 dissatisfactions, are cunningly set forth and exemplified in Mrs. Ward's 
 crowd of characters, for they live and move. The most arresting aspect 
 of the book is its reality of effect. It is distinguished work, strong, but 
 quiet and discreet : the writer has not over-emphasised any side of her 
 ability. Such over-emphasis of undeniable gifts is the besetting sin of 
 many most able living writers ; Mrs. Wilfrid Ward is entirely free from 
 it. So, whether she introduces us to saints, to sinners, or to the strange 
 average of poor humanity, she writes as a fine discerning artist." 
 
 The Critic: "There is something about Mrs. Ward's composi- 
 tion which reminds me of Madame Sarah Grand at her best ; but there 
 the likeness ceases. ' One Poor Scruple ' is a novel, not a treatise, the 
 characters are human beings, not typical portraits. In spite of the 
 monotony and modernity of life nowadays, there is still a pathos to be 
 found in human affairs — sunt lacrimcB rerum — and the authoress has 
 struck the sacred fountain." 
 
 The N. Y. Commercial Advertiser : " Power, sure touch, and 
 accomplishment of purpose are the chief merits of this book." 
 
 The Pall Mall Gazette: " It must suffice to say that the tale is 
 not only well told, but excellently well written. There are passages of 
 sparkling dialogue equal to some of the best in the books of 'John 
 Oliver Hobbes.' There are scenes of a pathos intense and real enough 
 for the tribute of tears. The story is tense and dramatic and convinc- 
 ing." 
 
 The Daily News: "The work, so far from suffering from the 
 usual disadvantages of ' the novel with a purpose,' is a distinctly artistic 
 as well as a finely executed piece of work. The^ook, which is never 
 dull, rises at times to a very high level ; in fine, ' One Poor Scruple ' is 
 not only a very interesting, but also a remarkably powerful, story."
 
 JOHN LANE'S NEW NOVELS : 1903 
 
 DORA GREENWELL McCHESNEY 
 
 CORNET STRONG OF IRETON'S HORSE: An Epi- 
 sode of the Ironsides. By Dora Greknwell McChesney. 
 With eight fUIl page line drawings by Maurice GreifFenhagen. 
 Decorative cover. 12 mo. $1.50. 
 
 Miss McChesney's mjistery of the art of the historical novel has been attested 
 by the reception of her previous books: "Beatrix Infelix," " Rupert, by the 
 Grace of God," "Miriam Cromwell, Royalist," "Kathleen Clare," etc. 
 
 CHARLES MARRIOTT 
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE SANDS : A Novel. By Charles 
 Marriott, author of ''The Column" (18,000), and "Love 
 with Honour." izmo. $1.50. 
 
 Mr, Marriott's first noTcl *'The Column" was picked as one of the ten 
 best novels of the year (1901), and the same honour has been accorded his 
 second novel "Love with Honour" (1902). 
 
 Hon. MRS. HENNIKER 
 
 CONTRASTS. By the Hon. Mrs. Henniker, author of " In 
 Scarlet and Grey. " izmo. $1.50. 
 
 RICHARD GARNETT 
 
 THE TWIUGHT OF THE GODS. By Richard Gar- 
 NETT, LL.D. A new and revised edition, containing many 
 additional stories. i2mo. ^t.50.
 
 JOHN LANE'S NEW NOVELS : 1903 
 
 ZOLA 
 
 TRUTH. By Emile Zola. Translated by Ernest A. Vize- 
 telly. izmo. ^1.50. 
 
 This is the third novel in the "Four Evangelists" series, follovv'ing "Labor" 
 and " Fruitfulness. ' ' "Truth" was completed only a fevir days before the 
 great author's untimely death. In plot the story is virtually a resetting of 
 the celebrated Dreyfus case, and the experiences of the hero correspond in 
 many instances exactly with those of Zola himself in the famous affair. 
 
 MRS. WILFRID WARD 
 
 THE LIGHT BEHIND. By Mrs. Wilfrid Ward. 
 izmo. ^1.50. 
 
 The author's previous novel "One Poor Scruple" acquired considerable popu- 
 larity as a deft handling of one of the problems presented by the influence of 
 Roman Catholicism on modern social life. 
 
 VANDA^ WATHEN-BARTLETT 
 
 THE GAP IN THE GARDEN. By Vanda Wathen- 
 Bartlett. i2mo. ^1.50. 
 
 By the same author : " Heart's Desire." 
 
 ANONYMOUS 
 
 ELIZABETH'S CHILDREN, izmo. $1.50. 
 
 This book is in direct descent from the famous "Visits of Elizabeth" and 
 "The Letters of Her Mother to Elizabeth."
 
 THE LADY PARAMOUNT 
 
 By HENRY HARLAND 
 Fifty-Jifth Thousand 
 
 The Nenv York Commercial Ad'vertiser : "Delicate and dainty 
 were the words which came spontaneously to mind when reading 
 'The Cardinal's SnufF-Box,' and equally dainty and equally deli- 
 cate is this latest product of Mr. Harland's nimble imagination. 
 Yet it is a fabric which })romises longer endurance than many of the 
 heavier canvases upon which his contemporaries have painted pon- 
 derous pictures of historic strife and bloodshed. This is a book 
 full of sunshine and sparkle, full of the breath of outdoor life and 
 the hidden beauties of nature, and pervaded with a lyric note as 
 blithe, as spontaneous, and as irresponsible as the song of the sky- 
 lark vanishing in the azure sky above the old town of Craford. 
 Finally it is a book without a shadow, a sorrow, a single note of 
 gloom or cynicism — sovereign remedy for a despondent mood." 
 
 The Chicago Record-Herald : '* Henry Harland's novels possess an 
 atmosphere of joyousness that belongs to the springtime of life and 
 love. . . . There is a bouyancy, a joyousness about the manner in 
 which it is told that stimulates like a spring day. You think of 
 green woods and dancing nymphs and of all things that are pretty 
 and happy and free from care. We predict that ' The Lady 
 Paramount' will be a prime favorite for summer reading. It is free 
 from fatiguing problems, cheerful, witty, and thoroughly engaging." 
 
 T/ie Baltimore Sun : " < The Lady Paramount ' has all the bright- 
 ness and delicacy that made popular 'The Cardinal's Snuff-Box,' 
 and than this we could hardly give it higlier praise. The predom- 
 inating feature of the book is brilliancy — not that mere cleverness 
 which is at first attractive and then wearisome, but a constant play 
 of light and shade, a delicate dressing of thoughts in most appro- 
 priate and yet lightsome words, a mingling of playful wit with tnith 
 of delineation that is the perfection of art in this wise. . . . The 
 most brilliant of contemporary novelists. ... It is the brightest 
 piece of fiction that we have read In many moons, and one of the 
 most artistic in method and delicate in fancy and treatment." 
 
 T/ie Neiu Tork Times : ** There are some books which woo one 
 to the springtime. Such a book is Henry Harland's latest story, 
 ♦The Lady Paramount.' Enjoyment of it would not be complete 
 unless it were read in the park, under the trees, or while idly swing- 
 ing in a hammock in some sequestered nook of the piazza. It is 
 fresh, sweet, and pure — which, on the whole, is now rare praise."
 
 THE CARDINAL'S SNUFF-BOX 
 
 By HENRY HARLAND 
 
 Eighty- Fifth Thousand 
 
 The North American: "This charming love story is as deh'cate as 
 the sunset on the snow-covered summits of his Monte Sfiorito, as 
 fragrant with th- breath of youth, summer, and love as the forest 
 breeze which swept into the Villa Floriano." 
 
 The Nenv York Tribune: " We find 'The Cardinal's Snuff-Box' 
 so captivating, a book so good that we want it to be perfect. It is 
 a hook to enjoy and to praise." 
 
 The Chicago Times-Herald : "The chief virtue of the story is the 
 freshness and idyllic quality of the manner of its telling." 
 The Albany Argus : " One of the prettiest love stories one can find 
 in searching the book-shelves over. . . . There are few books that 
 give so broad and beautiful a picture of the Catholic as this garden 
 idyll." 
 
 The Boston Herald: <<So happily flavored with witty and brilliant 
 conversations, and so full of charm in its love avowals that it is 
 utterly irresistible. . . . Altogether it is one of the most refreshing 
 love stories of modern fiction." 
 The World (London) ; "A work of art." 
 The Spectator (London) : "A charming romance." 
 Tlie Star (London) : << My admiration leaves me breathless." 
 The Speaker (London) : " Mr. Harland has achieved a triumph. 
 . . . The most delightful book the spring has yet brought." 
 The Times : " A book among a thousand." 
 The Outlook: "One of the prettiest love stories we have 
 chanced upon." 
 
 The Globe : " One of the lightest and brightest of stories pub- 
 lished tor many a long day." 
 
 The St. James Budget: "One of the brightest, the wittiest, 
 and the cleverest books we have read for some time."
 
 COMEDIES AND ERRORS 
 
 By HENRY HARLAND 
 
 The Nation : " What Mr. Harland has done definitely for the art of 
 the short story is to enlarge its scope, to give it fulness and richness, 
 to link the incident with the rest of life, and to convert what has 
 been feared as embarrassing decoration into essential substance. . . . 
 Mr. Harliiiid's temperament is gay enough to wrestle with the most 
 painful experience, and to declare that, after all, life is good, pain 
 transient, and pleasure of one sort or another always waiting for 
 recognition." 
 
 The Dial : <' T/iese ' Comedies and Errors" re'veal the instinct efthe 
 true artist, the sense of form, the compression and restraint, the 
 lightness of touch and the deft handling of incident that characterize 
 the short stories of the most famous practitioners. Mr. Harland has 
 not gone to the school of the best Frenchmen in -vain and has at last 
 shoivn himself capable of ^workmanship so delicate that nve have not 
 the heart to say aught but praise concerning it."* 
 
 GREY ROSES 
 
 By HENRY HARLAND 
 
 Pall Mall Gazette ; " Exceedingly pleasant to read. You close the 
 book with a feeling that you have met a host of charming people. 
 * Castles near Spain ' comes near to being a perfect thing of its 
 kind." 
 
 Daily Chronicle: *'They are charming stories, simple, full of fresh- 
 ness, with a good deal of delicate wit, both in the imagining and in 
 the telling. The last story of the book, in spite of improbabilities 
 ^uite tremendous, is a delightful story. He has realised better than 
 any one else the specialised character of the short story and how it 
 should be written." 
 
 Spectator : << Really delightful. < Castles near Spain ' is as near per- 
 fection as it could well be." 
 
 Daily Telegraph : "'Castles near Spain' as a fantastic love episode 
 is simply inimitable, and 'Mercedes' is instinct with a pretty humour 
 and childlike tenderness that render it peculiarly, nay, uniquely 
 fascinating. * Grey Roses ' are entitled to rank among the choicest 
 flowers of the realms of romance." 
 
 Whitehall Re'vienv : " Never before has the strange, we might almost 
 say the weird, fascination of the Bohcmianism of the Latin Quarter 
 been so well depicted."
 
 Richard Bagot^s Novels 
 
 THE JUST AND THE UNJUST. i2mo, 
 
 I1.50 
 
 The N. Y. World : " It is a daring story. It shows to admirable 
 purpose the power and conviction in narrative possible to a 
 writer whose literary sight and literary style are equally clear." 
 The N. Y. Tribune : " A story of ingenuity and romantic in- 
 terest." 
 
 A ROMAN MYSTERY. i2mo, ^1.50 
 
 The N. Y. Commercial Advertiser : "A story which is likely to 
 win a good many friends for its author. Mr. Bagot possesses 
 the qualities of a story teller and of a student of character." 
 The N. Y. Examiner: "An interesting situation. Mr. Bagot 
 makes good use of his materials. He throws a good deal of 
 light on the movements of to-day." 
 
 CASTING OF NETS. i2mo, ^1.50 
 
 Rabbi Joseph Krauskopf, D.D.: " The story is excellently viTitten ; 
 it holds the reader spellbound from first to last. The author 
 deals with facts : the names are but guises of actual personages 
 well known in aristocratic circles in England and in Rome." 
 Dean Hole, in The Academy : " Of the novels which I have read 
 in 1901,1 have been much pleased and interested in 'Casting 
 of Nets.' " 
 
 Canon Scott Holland, preaching in St. Paulas Cathedral, Lon- 
 don : "A book widely read of late; a book of singular brilliancy." 
 
 An Anonymous Novel 
 THE CATHOLIC. i2mo, I1.50 
 
 The Author's Advertisement: " This is a 'picture of life,' not a 
 novel with a purpose. The author has endeavoured to put into 
 artistic form the results of his observations of a section of con- 
 temporary English society interested in the Roman Catholic 
 Church, with a view, not of attacking or defending that Church, 
 but of portraying character in association with it. The story is 
 a record of a proud Englishwoman under the influence of a great 
 spiritual power. She is not held up to the admiration or to the 
 reprobation of the reader; judgment is not passed upon her by 
 the author ; she is merely presented."
 
 Charles Marriott's Novels 
 THE COLUMN 
 
 Decorative Cover . i2mo . $i.^0 
 
 Senator John M. Thurston : " I have read no story of modem 
 times which so completely demanded my undivided attention 
 from the beginning to the end as 'The Column' by Charles 
 Marriott. It is a striking and, as it seems to me, a faithful 
 delineation of the strongest, yet most natural characters. The 
 language is chaste and refined, the dramatic interest intense, 
 the plot powerful, and the whole work cleanly and brilliantly in- 
 tellectual It is sure to take high rank in the literature of the 
 day." 
 
 Mr. Julian Hawthorne : "Marriott, taken as an alterative after 
 other literary forms, is deeply welcome and full of wholesome 
 succulence. He paces up and down, as it were, in a hall where 
 all is harmonious and proudly beautiful, even fastidious ... It 
 is a book full of repose, even in its passion ; and it is everywhere 
 rich in beauty. Mr. Marriott comes among us a stranger and an 
 alien ; but he is welcome, for he brings with him a beauty which 
 lifts and purifies the mind." 
 
 Mr. Bliss Carman : " In this book a new ■writer of English 
 fiction has arisen and arrived, another signal success been added 
 to contemporary literature. . . . Here is ' The Column,' with 
 genius writ clear on every page. ... A fine book, a piece of art 
 for which to be gladly thankful." 
 
 LOVE WITH HONOUR 
 
 Decorative Cover . i2mo . %i'50 
 
 The Times: " The book contains some exquisite pictures of life 
 touched with real poetrj-, and should not be missed by any one 
 who keeps an eye on the English novel." 
 
 The Spectator: " A well developed story, full of really fine studies 
 of character."
 
 Nathaniel Stephenson's Novels 
 
 THEY THAT TOOK THE SWORD 
 
 Decorative Cover . I2mo . $1.^0 
 
 Tlie N. y. Times, Saturday Review: " It is one of the first books 
 to treat the Civil War with absolute freedom from partisanship." 
 The N. Y. Tribune: " Mr. Stephenson's story of the Civil War has 
 a charming unconventional form. Hardly, in fact, a novel at all ; it 
 is rather a kind of pictorial narrative, one which shows us some of 
 the most interesting phases of life in Cincinnati in the sixties, and 
 envelops background and action in an atmosphere which is half 
 romantic and half historical. There is a plot, and it is a good one. 
 The story moves with nervous force ; it is as exciting as it is natural." 
 
 The Dial: " An unusually satisfactory performance." 
 
 The Sewanee Review : " He will lay it down with the consciousness 
 of having gained something the average novel most frequently fails 
 to furnish. A cultivated and philosophic style has added to it the 
 new charm of fresh and direct power of statement. His narrative 
 flows smoothly through an ease and polish of diction that makes 
 the reader wonder as to this being a ' first novel.' His love scenes 
 are fresh and simple, ever permeated with a subtle himior that sug- 
 gests he is laughing at reader and lover alike. Everywhere appar- 
 ent is the knack of the practised writer, of putting an idea in a 
 terse paragraph." 
 
 The Baltimore Sun : " Mr. Stephenson has drawn a picture of Lin- 
 coln that is so full of sympathy, so full of strength, so full of tender- 
 ness, and, apparently, so full of truth, that we cannot help but think 
 it the best portrait of the martyred President that has been given 
 us in the many recent historical novels. We feel that our author 
 must have known the man ; we begin to feel that we, too, have 
 known him." 
 
 The San Francisco Chronicle : " A story of the Civil War, in design 
 and treatment materially and very agreeably differing from most 
 of the current fiction based upon the events of the great struggle." 
 
 THE BEAUTIFUL MRS. MOULTON 
 
 Decorative Cover . l2mo . $1.20 net 
 
 New York Times, Saturday Review : "Mr. Stephenson's style is 
 fresh and good ; it is easy, and free from mannerism, and charac- 
 terized by the personal tone of a narrator who has grown up on the 
 scene of his story and knows his characters intimately." 
 
 The Boston Herald: " Mr. Stephenson is a man of scholarly taste, 
 very wide reading in the best English literature, and has a grace- 
 ful and polished style,"
 
 The Novels of W. J. Locke 
 
 THE USURPER. By W. J. Locke. Idmo, $1.50 
 
 The Boiton Herald: "Contains the hall-mark of genius itself. The plot is 
 masterly in onception, the descriptions are all vivid flashes from a brilliant pen. 
 It is impossible to read and not marvel at the skiUed workmanship and the con- 
 stant dramatic intensity of incidents, situations and climax." 
 The Chicago Post : ' ' More than bears out the promise of its predecessors. 
 Upon all sides it is the strongest work yet presented by Mr. Locke. It is safe 
 to predict for him a steadily widening popularity with us." 
 The Baltimore Sun: "A suspensive plot that is marvelous for its ingenuity. 
 The book v.'ill have a multitude of readers, and not one will be justifiably 
 disappointed. We recommend ' The Usurper ' as one of the decided hits of 
 the year." 
 
 DERELICTS ByW. J. Locke. i2mo. ^1.50 
 
 The Daily Chronicle : ' ' Mr. Locke tells his story in a very true, a very mov- 
 ing, and a very noble book. If any one can read the last chapter with dry 
 eyes, we shall be surprised. ' Derelicts ' is an impressive, an important book. 
 Yvonne is a creation that any artist might be proud of. ' ' 
 
 The London Morning Post : " One of the best types of the social derelict is 
 depicted with subtlety and sympathetic acumen in Mr. Locke's clever novel. 
 Altogether one of the most effective stories that have appeared for some time 
 past. ' ' 
 
 IDOLS. By W. J. Locke. i2mo. $1.50 
 
 The Daily Mail : " One of the very few distinguished novels of this present 
 book season." 
 
 The London Daily Telegraph: "A brilliaatly written and eminently readable 
 book." 
 
 A STUDY IN SHADOWS. By W. J. Locke. 
 i2mo. ^1.50 
 
 The Daily Chronicle: " Mr. Locke has achieved a distinct success in this 
 novel. He has struck many emotional cords, and struck them aU with a firm, 
 sure hand. In the relations between Katherine Raine he had a delicate 
 problem to handle, and he has handled it delicately. ' * 
 
 THE WHITE DOVE. By W. J. Locke. 
 
 i2mo. ^1.50 
 
 The Morning Post: " It is an interesting story. The characters are strongly con- 
 ceived and vividly presented, and the dramatic moments are powerfiilly realised. ' ' 
 Literature: "Mr. Locke writes well. . . . He has the seeing eye for charac- 
 ter, the capacity for emotion. We have nothi ig but praise to give his able 
 character drawing, while the attitude of the Lanyons — father and son — to each 
 other is singularly beautiful and touching.
 
 GERTRUDE ATHERTON'S NOVELS 
 
 THE ARISTOCRATS. Being the Impressions of the Lady- 
 Helen Pole during her Sojourn in the Great North Woods, as 
 spontaneously recorded in her Letters to her Friend in North 
 Britain, the Countess of Edge and Ross. i2mo. $1.50. Twenty- 
 Third Thousand. 
 
 The Times : " Clever and entertaining. . . . This gay volume is written by some one 
 with a pretty wit, an eye for scenery, and a mind quick to grasp natural as well as 
 individual characteristics. Her investigations into the American character are acuta 
 as well as amusing." 
 
 TAe Si. James's Gazette : " We feel constrained to warn our readers that by 
 rigorously refusing to order 'The Aristocrats' from the library they will prevent 
 entrance into their drawing-rooms of a book which is frank almost to offence, indecorous 
 almost to naughtiness, and %o funny that on no account would we have missed its 
 persual.^' 
 
 The Bookman (New York) : " One of the cleverest books of the year." 
 The Onlooker : "I have no hesitation in recommending it strongly to my readers' 
 notice. ... It contains the most delicious satire and the brighest writing that has 
 been published for a long time." 
 
 SENATOR NORTH, izmo. $1.50. Thirtieth Thousand. 
 
 New York Herald: " In the description of Washington life Mrs. Atherton shows 
 
 not only a very considerable knowledge of externals, but also an insight into the 
 
 underlying political issues that is remarkable." 
 
 Chicago Times-Herald: "Mrs. Atherton is capable of dramatic situations of great 
 
 intensity." 
 
 Outlook: "The novel has genuine historical value." 
 
 Town Topics : " ' Senator North ' is a book that every American, whether interested 
 
 in the society life of the capital or the larger life of the men who make the laws, should 
 
 read. It is the strongest political novel ever ivritten by an A merican. As a 
 
 historic novel it is in a class by itself. No earnest student of our national life caa 
 
 afford to let ' Senator North ' go unread." 
 
 Boston Times ; " It is one of the best books I have read this year, and it is thoroughly 
 
 American." 
 
 THE CALIFORNIANS. By Gertrude Atherton. i 2mo. 
 ^1.50. 
 
 Daily Chronicle : " Mrs. Gertrude Atherton has given us as usual a clever, brilliant 
 and interesting piece of work, full of brisk epigrams, vivid turns of speech, and 
 effective local colour." 
 
 Daily Mail: "'The Califomians' is brilliant, sharp, and vigorous, as was to be ex- 
 pected." 
 
 British Weekly : " Mrs. Atherton is in our judgment the ablest woman writer of 
 fiction now living." 
 
 Standard : " That Mrs. Atherton is one of the most accomplished novelists of her 
 country there can be no manner of doubt." 
 
 PATIENCE SPARHAWK AND HER TIMES. By 
 
 Gertrude Atherton. i amo. $1.50. 
 
 Westminster Gazette : " The book has very high merits. The charaotars ara all 
 
 firmly conceived and firmly drawn." 
 
 Literary World: " It is scarcely likely that any one who commences it will be able to 
 
 throw it aside unfinished." 
 
 Glebe: "A clever and significant book." 
 
 Mr. W. L. CotiRTNKY in the Daily Telegraph: "The book is one of rare pronsia* 
 
 and power. A nov«l to be read."
 
 The International Studio 
 
 Universal Press Opinions of the Magazine 
 
 New York Tribune : " The Studio is to-day, by all odds, the most 
 artistic periodical printed in English." 
 
 Boston Globe : " It is like walking through a select art gallery to 
 look over the Studio, and like attending a course of first-class 
 lectures to read it." 
 
 Detroit Free Press : " A publication that the up-to-date art lovef^ 
 cannot do mthout." 
 
 Washington Times: "This is the most beautiful of all magazines 
 in pictorial embellishment and the extrinsics of superb book- 
 making. 
 
 Troy Times : " Has become famous for the beauty of its illustra- 
 tions. It is simply invaluable." 
 
 London Daily Chronicle : " The most successful art magazine in 
 Europe." 
 
 TAe Outlook (London) : " Shows an alertness to the needs of the 
 present day art-lover that no similar publication in any way 
 approaches." 
 
 The Sketch (London) : " It would not be easy to have another 
 art publication so distinguished for so many and so variously de- 
 lightful qualities." 
 
 The Globe : " No other periodical can be said to have a policy 
 of the same kind, or to show such complete consistency in its advo- 
 cacy of all sestheticism that is intelligent and progressive." 
 
 Le Figaro (Paris) : " Le premier magazine artistique du monde." 
 
 La Depeche de Toulouse : " Le Studio compte h. peine cinq annees 
 d'existence, mais ce temps lui a suffi pour operer une revolution 
 veritable dans la presse artistique." 
 
 L'Art Moderne : " Bien ecrite, bien editee, d'un artistique aspect 
 dans sa robe vert olive, le Studio est sans contredit la plus neuve et 
 la plus originale revue d'art illustree qu'on puisse signaler. . . . 
 Nulle autre revue d'art ne lui est comparable, ni en Angleterre ni 
 surtout sur le continent." 
 
 The Bombay Gazette: "The Studio easily takes first place among 
 art magazines."
 
 The International Studio 
 
 An Illustrated Magazine of Fine and Applied Art 
 
 Kmrf'H.nStt^^VtiitJ^ 
 
 Published by JOHN LANE 
 
 The Bodley Head 
 67 Fifth Avenue, New York City 
 
 35 cents per Month. Annual Supscription, $2'S^ 
 
 Three Months' Trial Subscription, ;^i,oo 
 Two Specimen Copies sent, post free, for 25 cents 
 
 IT is the aim of " The International Studio" to treat of every 
 Art and Craft — Architecture, Sculpture, Painting, Ceramics, 
 
 Metal, Glass, Furniture, Decoration, Design, Bookbinding, 
 Illustrating, Photography, Lithography, Enamel, Jewelry, Needle- 
 work, Gardening, etc. The principal writers on Art are contri- 
 butors to its pages. Many original illustrations, reproduced in 
 every variety of black and white process, half-tone, line, photo- 
 gravure, etc., are to be found in each number. Color plates 
 of real value are to be found in every issue. No magazine can 
 boast a more artistic and sumptuous get-up than '' The Interna- 
 tional Studio." 
 
 Everyone interested in Art, professionally or otherwise, 
 should read it; for the magazi; keeps its readers au fait with 
 the doings of the art world, both literary and technical.
 
 p 
 
 9 01 O 
 
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 THE LIBRARY 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
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 THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE 
 STAMPED BELOW. 
 
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