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 I MEANT WHAT I SAID," ADDED KATHLEEN. 
 
 (See page 162.)
 
 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 BY 
 
 MAXWELL GRAY 
 
 Author of The Silence of Dean Matt land, etc. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
 1903
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1903 
 BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
 
 Published March, 1903
 
 r 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PART I 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. THE JOY-BELLS 3 
 
 II. THE LIGHTHOUSE 14 
 
 III. AN OWN BROTHER 27 
 
 IV. BELTON, LAKING & Co 89 
 
 V. KITTY MUSGBAVE 54 
 
 VI. MY SON'S WIFE . .65 
 
 VII. ON THE DOWNS 77 
 
 VIII. THE CHRISTMAS TREE 87 
 
 IX. GERALD'S APPEAL . 96 
 
 X. THE FANCY BALL . . 107 
 
 XI. UNDER THE PINES 120 
 
 XII. SUSPICION . .131 
 
 XIII." I WILL ARISE " 143 
 
 XIV. THE DARK HOUR BEFORE THE DAWN .... 155 
 
 PART II 
 
 XV. THE BURDEN AND HEAT OF THE DAY .... 169 
 
 XVI. A FAMILY AFFAIR 179 
 
 XVII. GATRELL'S ADVICE 187 
 
 XVIII. THE SLEEPING PRINCESS 197 
 
 XIX. THE JOY-BELLS AGAIN 208 
 
 XX. THE LITTLE RIFT 220 
 
 XXI. KITTY MAYNE 234 
 
 XXII. NANCY'S ADVICE 247 
 
 XXIII. THE MYSTERIOUS SIREN . . 259 
 
 2228463
 
 vi RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XXIV. THE RETREAT 272 
 
 XXV. A SONATA OF BEETHOVEN'S 285 
 
 XXVI. RICHARD'S BLINDNESS 298 
 
 XXVII. IN THE DUSK 309 
 
 XXVIII. THE DECEMBER ROSE 321 
 
 XXIX. THE STORM 334 
 
 XXX. AT THE VILLAGE CLUB 347 
 
 XXXI. SETH BARTON'S JAUNT 359 
 
 XXXII. IN THE GORGE 373 
 
 XXXIII. GATRELL'S VISIT TO THE HEAD OFFICE . . . 387 
 
 XXXIV. ON ST. ANN'S PIER 401 
 
 XXXV. A RIDE IN THE FOG 415 
 
 XXXVI. A SLOW HORSE 428 
 
 XXXVII. NANCY'S TRIUMPH 440 
 
 XXXVIII. A CONFESSION 452 
 
 XXXIX. RICHARD AND GERALD 465 
 
 XL. THE FIRST STONE 469 
 
 XLI. AUTUMN SUNSET . 493
 
 PART I
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE JOY-BELLS 
 
 THE air of a still autumn day trembled to the music 
 of church bells, joyously, even recklessly, rung, peal 
 trembling over peal, change clashing upon change in a 
 sweet, mad jangle, a very tumult of exultation. The 
 joy-bells, the villagers called them. 
 
 "Why ;o#-bells?" Richard asked with a choking 
 sigh. He stood at the gate in the afternoon sunshine, 
 his eyes wet, his lips pressed together, his face in a 
 frown, his feet firmly planted and chin high. "Why 
 joy-bells, Susan?" 
 
 "For to bring 'em joy, to be sure, my dear. It's a 
 happy day that sees a happy couple wed. If a woman 
 ain't happy of her wedding-day, you may depend upon it 
 she never will be. Nor a man neither, for matter of 
 that." 
 
 The boy's face expressed frowning dissent; he 
 choked again and set his teeth fiercely in his quivering 
 lip. 
 
 "Joy!" he muttered bitterly; "Joy! Wedding if 
 you like, not joy. A nasty row, is what I call it. There 
 it is again; bang smash the whole blessed lot coming 
 down together. ' ' He dashed his sleeve angrily across his 
 eyes, rushed at a mole-heap in the grass and stamped it 
 vigorously down. This seemed to refresh him, and with 
 impatient glances at the open house-door he walked up 
 and down leisurely and firmly, with the tolerant air of 
 one prepared to bear with human weakness. 
 
 Still the mellow, recurrent bell-melody irritated and 
 upset him, his nerves were unable to bear the rushing 
 
 8
 
 4 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 clangor that seemed to sweep from the sky, poise itself 
 exquisitely below, recover and swing back again, only to 
 come tumbling precipitately down once more by some 
 rapid flight of golden steps, and then balance backward 
 and forward, forward and backward, meeting and 
 mingling, parting and clashing, in melodious measure, 
 but always touching some strange, elusive sweetness that 
 was yet sadness, in the very center of the boy's breast, 
 till it seemed as if it must split asunder with the wild, 
 delicious pain. It was as if everybody was dead, every- 
 thing passing away to nothingness, yet all was poignantly 
 and unbearably beautiful. 
 
 The church-tower was visible, square and massive, 
 bare to bleakest winds and gray with storm, a familiar 
 friend, a daily sight; surely it rocked in the tumult of 
 sound ; all was changing and falling, why not that solid 
 square of stone? A confused hum and air of festivity 
 was everywhere; in gossiping groups along the road 
 and at cottage doors, in the unfamiliar aspect of the 
 house, every room turned from its proper use, in the 
 voices and laughter and clink of glasses coming from 
 open windows, in servants standing about at the gate, in 
 the carriage waiting, with white-favored men, and horses 
 with clanking bits and stamping feet, in his own velvet 
 suit, stiff broad collar, and shiny, uncomfortable shoes. 
 
 A tall, handsome man appeared at the door, nervous, 
 preoccupied, with that curious air of being out of place 
 and superfluous to the ceremonial that marks the harm- 
 less but necessary bridegroom. He saw Richard with 
 unseeing eyes and the boy scowled back at him. A 
 clergyman joined him and let off some mild and appro- 
 priate jests, at which he smiled faintly while consulting 
 his watch. 
 
 "After all, Belton, the misfortune is not irrepara- 
 ble," the vicar said, in a rich, deep voice, while Richard 
 looked appealingly at him ; he could not tell why. 
 
 "Not irreparable?" the bridegroom echoed. "Any- 
 thing wrong in the license or register?"
 
 THE JOY- BELLS 5 
 
 "Not unbearable, I should say; and I ought to know 
 from bitter experience. It's the common lot, you know, 
 the common lot. Many a better fellow than you or I will 
 ever be has borne it without a murmur. ' ' 
 
 "Man was made to mourn," the best man sighed. 
 "And to wait," he added, looking gloomily at his 
 watch. 
 
 "Why are women unlike watches? Because they 
 never keep time, eh?" 
 
 "It isn't true!" Richard shouted. "She's always 
 in time. You sha'n't speak against her behind her 
 back." 
 
 "Hulloa! young man, who are you going to eat up 
 alive now? Nobody speaks against your mother," the 
 best man said, catching the boy up bodily. 
 
 "But she's a woman," Richard maintained, wrig- 
 gling himself free. 
 
 "Bravo," said the bridegroom, patting him on the 
 shoulder. "Always stand up for your mother. Good- 
 by, old fellow ; we shall soon be back again. Look after 
 the birds ! Ah ! here she comes at last. ' ' 
 
 A rustle of silken skirts and a soft call of "Richie, 
 Richie, where are you?" announced the bride, to make 
 way for whom the men stepped aside, while Richard 
 slowJy and doggedly passed in between them, his small 
 heart bursting with grief and his pride set upon not 
 showing it. 
 
 "Well, good-by, mother; pleasant journey," he said 
 in a loud, forced voice, before being caught to the breast 
 of a graceful, delicate-featured woman, who looked over- 
 young to be the mother of such a tall lad, and kissed 
 again and again with reiterated good-bys, to all of which 
 he responded only by a clinging, stifling embrace that 
 sadly crushed the bridal finery. 
 
 Mrs. Belton was breathless and tearful when at last 
 she freed herself with some whispered entreaty from the 
 fierce clasp of the strong little arms, and went out to the 
 waiting husband and the new life, followed by the white-
 
 6 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 faced, sturdy boy, who seemed to embody all her past 
 life and to drag her back to it by the heart-strings. 
 
 "Oh, Richie," she sobbed, pausing at the carriage- 
 door for one more embrace, and forgetting all she had 
 intended to say at parting, "Richie!" 
 
 But he only looked at her with wide bright eyes, full 
 of the bewildered reproach of a wronged animal's gaze. 
 The look cut her to the heart; she could not escape it 
 even after her husband had handed her briskly, almost 
 lifting her, into the carriage, and they had driven off; 
 but looked back, her head bent from the window, re- 
 gardless of rice-showers and cheering bystanders and 
 dust, until the carriage whirled round a bend in the 
 road and the slight figure and wistful eyes were lost to 
 her sight, and left with the old life that vanished for 
 ever on the marriage-day. 
 
 When the carriage turned the corner and nothing was 
 left in the road but a cloud of sun-gilded dust, thinning 
 into rings and spirals and passing like breath on glass, 
 Richard felt as if the sun had fallen plumb out of the 
 sky. His heart dropped heavy and numb in his breast 
 as he stood, deserted and desolate, staring into the va- 
 cancy, where his mother's face had been, and heedless of 
 everything but the poignant beauty of these exulting joy- 
 bells. Other carriages drove up and went; some one led 
 him into the hall, where many faces surrounded him, and 
 he grew conscious of women's voices speaking caressingly 
 and women's eyes beaming pity, and suddenly turned 
 and scurried quickly away, like a startled rabbit to its 
 burrow. 
 
 "Poor little fellow?" echoed the vicar. "Don't 
 waste pity on Richie, dear lady. 'Tis a good day 's work 
 for him. He is nine and has never stirred from his 
 mother's apron-strings. She was ruining him, making 
 a regular girl of him. She's entirely made of feelings 
 and they are all poured out upon poor Richie. The boy 
 cares for nothing but his mother. Belton will make a 
 man of him. ' '
 
 THE JOY- BELLS 7 
 
 "A heavy-hearted man, Mr. Wrexham, I fear. A 
 stepfather is a stepfather a good many steps farther 
 than a real one." 
 
 "Fallacy. Prejudice. Belton is a good-hearted 
 man. He is attached to the boy. Richie was much taken 
 with him, till this little jealousy sprang up, when he 
 realized that they were going off and leaving him be- 
 hind. That is an eye-opener to the reality of life. It 
 had to come sooner or later. The sooner the better. If 
 you believe me, he has never played any boy's game in 
 his life. And he quotes poetry ! ' ' 
 
 ' ' And doesn 't know a word of slang, ' ' added the best 
 man, impressively. "Yet he'll tell you the name and 
 genus and species of every wild flower in the place, and 
 the note of every bird. Shocking, isn 't it ? " 
 
 "Oh, come; no harm in botany and a little weak 
 knowledge of natural things. But he can't throw a 
 stone. He's not ashamed of his long curls. He visits 
 the poor and reads to them, and carries them puddings 
 and soup." 
 
 "Awful," exclaimed the best man; "very likely he 
 knows his catechism and says his prayers. Who can 
 tell?" 
 
 "You have me there," the vicar grumbled. "But, 
 honestly, do you think young Rosny is being brought up 
 as a manly English boy should be ? " 
 
 "Honestly, Mr. Wrexham, I think a boy under ten 
 may have a worse education than the constant compan- 
 ionship of a pure-minded and well-informed woman. 
 Masculine discipline won't come amiss now. But he'll 
 never be the worse for these first years of close compan- 
 ionship and tenderness. They will leaven all his life. 
 It 's precious hard boys are when they grow to manhood. 
 I never yet knew a man with too much heart did you, 
 Mrs. Musgrave?" 
 
 "No, nor a woman either." 
 
 "A woman is different," the vicar conceded, "but a 
 man has to be a man. Heart for the woman, head for
 
 8 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 the man. Gentleness from the one, strength from the 
 other. Iron must be well hammered to make it strong. ' ' 
 
 "So poor Richie is to be hammered by a step- 
 father ? I wish my boys were half as manly, Mr. Wrex- 
 ham. Richard takes care of his mother and is thought- 
 ful and considerate. My little scamps racket and riot 
 all over the place without a thought for anybody or any- 
 thing but their games. They tolerate 'the mater' as a 
 necessary evil or a source of supply. I often envy Mrs. 
 Rosny her companionable little son. But where is 
 Richie? And is he to stay here all alone? I hear that 
 his aunt leaves Wimbury to-night. ' ' 
 
 "It is his own choice to stay at the cottage. A boy 
 should have no choice. He might stay at the vicarage 
 altogether, but he only consents to come for the Latin 
 lately begun with me. The youngster condescends to 
 like Latin. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Really ? Ah ! there is our carriage. Good-by, dear 
 Mr. Wrexham, and don't hammer Richie more than 'tis 
 your nature to. You can conscientiously leave that to 
 the stepfather." 
 
 "I think not," the vicar confided later to the best 
 man. ' ' Belton is easy-going to a fault. Far more likely 
 to spoil the brat. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Belton was never hard on anybody, ' ' was the reply, 
 "still poor little beggar!" 
 
 When Richard left the wedding party he fled through 
 the kitchen-garden, over the wall, where peaches hung 
 tempting in the sunshine, across the meadow, through 
 the copse, straight as a bird, to the cliffs by the sea, mur- 
 muring its low sweet summer-song to shingly beach and 
 jutting rock ledge. His curls flew behind him lustrous 
 in sunlight, the light velvet-clad figure flashed over the 
 green in headlong speed ; he knew not whither or why he 
 was flying, driven on by blind instinct to hide and wild 
 longing to be rid of bitter, incomprehensible pain. He 
 was deserted and alone; all was gone. The whole wide 
 world had been summed for him in the word mother;
 
 THE JOY- BELLS 9 
 
 there was no one now to take counsel with, no one now 
 to sympathize with this intolerable pain and strange- 
 ness, no one to care she did not care, she had left 
 him. He could never have left her, yet she left him 
 and was happy. Everybody said she would be happy 
 with that man; they wished them happiness, they spoke 
 of the happy pair ; the joy-bells rang. Oh, yes ; she was 
 happy enough. Sobs rose in his throat as he ran, un- 
 conscious of the tears raining over his firm, ruddy cheeks, 
 till he reached a favorite secluded spot, a ledge a little 
 way down the cliff looking out to sea, and threw himself 
 face downward on the short turf in the whole-hearted 
 abandonment of a child's grief. 
 
 Here the cliff curved in a small sheltering bay that 
 caught the sun and shielded from all but the south 
 wind. A few stunted trees grew here. They called it 
 their sea-bower; they had passed many pleasant hours 
 there, reading, talking, watching the ships, and idling. 
 Here the best stories had been told and the best poems 
 learnt and recited. The Battle of the Baltic, Toll for 
 the Brave, the Wreck of the Hesperus, Sir Patrick 
 Spens, and The Armada, had each imparted a poetic 
 aroma to the little eyrie, whence the sea was seen rolling 
 into illimitable distance in every tint of changing color. 
 Here he would leave her with her needle or her pencil, 
 and climb about in rock and tree and cliff, returning 
 with various spoil of eggs, shells, or seaweed. 
 
 It put a keener edge upon his despair to contrast it 
 with past happiness, and thus extract a certain luxury 
 from excess of misery. Strange that children look for- 
 ward so little and backward so much, considering their 
 small experience and unlimited possibilities. Perhaps 
 the very narrowness of their past dwarfs the future to 
 their inexperienced vision, and makes their griefs so 
 piteously hopeless. All poor nine-year-old Richard knew 
 was that the happiness he once had was gone; his heart 
 could not rise to the possibility of fresh joys ; the burden 
 of present misery, increased by the memory of lost sweet-
 
 10 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 ness, paralyzed it. Children's griefs are very long to 
 those whose age is measured by months and whose shape 
 and stature changes with the seasons, to them a year is a 
 great gulf of time. Richard ground his teeth and pressed 
 his body into the turf in his pain, when he thought 
 of the happiness of a few months back, when he was all 
 in all to the worshiped mother, whom, in his masculine 
 condescension, he regarded as a frail, feminine thing in 
 need of protection. He had been her companion, coun- 
 selor, friend. He heard all her grievances, knew when 
 her headaches were coming, drew down the blinds and 
 brought cups of tea, without any asking, and stepped 
 about the room without sound. "Richie is so compan- 
 ionable, I need no other society, ' ' he heard her tell people 
 who tried to persuade her to come out of her widowed se- 
 clusion. "Richie is so useful; I could not possibly send 
 him to school. To separate us would break both our 
 hearts. ' ' 
 
 Yet she had gone away with a strange man and left 
 him alone, gone forever that is, six weeks. He had liked 
 this Mr. Belton, never suspecting this plot of taking his 
 mother away. The man had given him many presents 
 and taken him for pleasant excursions, accepted with the 
 proviso "If mother may come, too." He had suspected 
 no guile in the smiling acquiescence, "Mother may cer- 
 tainly come, too." How could he guess that those gifts 
 and treats were but wicked baits to rob him of all worth 
 having? Still less suspect that his only friend was in 
 league with this man against him? He had even been 
 thankful to the brute for calling at the cottage during 
 his absence at Latin lessons. 
 
 It was but a few weeks since his mother sprung a 
 mine upon him in this way: "Richie, darling," she said, 
 ' ' I have something very serious to tell you. ' ' 
 
 There was that in her voice that made him shiver with 
 certainty of calamity in the air. He heard that it was 
 not good to be alone, that grief could not last forever, 
 that life was so ordered that a boy needed not only a
 
 THE JOY- BELLS 11 
 
 mother, but a father. He heard it all with a look of sad 
 bewilderment that made her gather him to her heart with 
 sudden caresses. Then she told him that their dear 
 friend, Mr. Belton, was to marry her and be a father to 
 her fatherless boy. 
 
 To marry his mother ! Married people lived together 
 and had all things in common, so far he understood, with 
 great bitterness. Stifling pain rose in his throat at the 
 picture of this Mr. Belton sitting at their hearth, and 
 himself set aside and betrayed. 
 
 "Don't look like that, Richie," she said, watching 
 the quiver of the proud, silent lips; "it is for your sake, 
 dearest. We shall be so happy together, we three. ' ' He 
 hid his face in her breast. 
 
 "You don't know how much you need a father," 
 she murmured. 
 
 "We were happy enough as we were," he muttered, 
 lifting his head and eluding the hand on his curls. "No 
 boy wants a second-hand father. ' ' 
 
 Vaguely feeling that he scored by that expression; 
 she looked frowningly at him. The look, so new and un- 
 natural, cut into his heart; he tasted the bitterness of 
 jealousy. "Belton is a beast," he cried, and walked out 
 of the room. 
 
 Edith Rosny knew well how to move the young heart 
 upon which she made such perilously large demands; 
 she had recourse to tears, entreaties, and large asser- 
 tions of affection. Mr. Belton was not again called a 
 beast and Mrs. Rosny was only once reminded of many 
 past assurances that her son inherited his father's ex- 
 clusive place in her heart. Henceforth Richard, studi- 
 ously ignoring or avoiding all mention of the marriage, 
 treated his future stepfather with polite toleration, ac- 
 cepted his advances, and sometimes, in the charm of his 
 society, forgot the approaching bond and all its bitter- 
 ness for a space. 
 
 He remembered his own father, who died when he 
 was four. The memory had been constantly renewed by
 
 12 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 his mother, who poured out reminiscences, feelings, re- 
 grets and consolations, from sheer necessity of speech 
 and lack of any other confidant at first, from habit and 
 want of consideration afterward, into the half-heeding 
 and wholly unfit ears of her little son, whose unduly 
 stimulated feelings rose to the large demands made upon 
 them. A cheery smile, a strong, kind voice, arms that 
 caught and tossed or carried him, was all he could recall 
 of the man whose picture still smiled from the wall, be- 
 neath the sword that Richard regarded with silent rever- 
 ence and secret fascination. He remembered the strange- 
 ness and dignity of following a coffin to church with 
 grown men, of wearing black clothes and observing un- 
 usual rites in a grassy place, where the sun shone on 
 many flowers and birds sang in bushes, and he looked up 
 at the blue sky in which God lived. All this was con- 
 nected in the vaguest way with his father, who lived in 
 his thoughts as the naval officer smiling so kindly from 
 the wall. He felt in his dim, childish way that a great 
 wrong had been done the cheery sailor who smiled on 
 unsuspecting in his frame, while others usurped his 
 rights and reigned in his stead. 
 
 The whole thing was so complicated. That is the 
 tragedy of childhood, to be blind and bewildered, to 
 grope in darkness and shatter oneself upon invisible 
 wrongs and harms. Suppose it was only a bad dream, and 
 he would wake presently and find her sitting there with 
 her book, ready to go home to their quiet cottage and 
 their simple ways as last autumn? There was always 
 something to be gathered, something to be looked at on 
 the way, the fire to be built up, chestnuts to be roasted 
 at home. The pleasant lamplit evening, with books and 
 games and music and stories told by firelight, he lying 
 stretched on the rug. Then the sense of outside night 
 brooding over the wide, unseen world, while they two 
 were safe within, the wonder of stars and moon, the 
 weird pleasure of darkness and storm, the howl of winds 
 and roar of seas and all the charm of wreck and peril on
 
 THE JOY- BELLS 13 
 
 sea and land. The pleasure of sleep and dreams and 
 the snugness of the little bed in the dressing-room with 
 the open door through which they could speak to each 
 other on waking in the morning. All was lost now. 
 There was nobody to go home to, only Susan to stare at 
 his misery and misunderstand and interfere with him. 
 "Why go back at all? He would stay out all night and 
 wander far away and never be found or heard of again 
 unless he was picked up dead. And it would serve them 
 jolly well right.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE LIGHTHOUSE 
 
 THINGS grew vague and vanished, then he heard a 
 voice that seemed to have been speaking ever so long in 
 a curious sort of dream close by him. 
 
 "AVhatever's the matter with ee?" it said clearly at 
 last, 
 
 Richie rolled over on his back and looked up through 
 hot and swollen eyes in the sunburnt, good-tempered 
 face of a boy of about sixteen, in a stained white smock 
 tucked into corduroy trousers, battered felt hat, and 
 heavy boots. 
 
 "Nothing is the matter," he replied, slowly getting 
 up and pushing back his damp tangle of curls. Then 
 he saw, by the gray melancholy of the sea under a sky 
 of pearly cloud, that the sun had set behind a mist-bank 
 and dusk was falling. 
 
 "Go on with ee," retorted the lad. "Then what- 
 ever hev ee ben a squinnyen about 1 You be a nice mam- 
 my-sick mud, I hreckon." 
 
 "You mind your own business and get out of my 
 way." 
 
 The boy laughed a slow, good-tempered, scornful 
 laugh, leaning back with his chin in the air and his head 
 against the cliff as he sat on a jutting ledge, his hands in 
 his pockets and his legs stretched out. 
 
 ' ' Hark to en, ' ' he chuckled, " 't es a smeart young 
 cockerel as ever crowed on a mexen. Your comb ain't 
 worth the cutten, young un, not yet. Look ee here. I 
 can tell ee where there's a litter of fox-cubs and wold 
 dog-fox letten of 'em play with his tail and wold mother 
 14
 
 THE LIGHTHOUSE 15 
 
 setten washen of her vaace with her paws, just like our 
 tortoise-shell cat with her kittens." 
 
 "Where?" Ritchie asked, his imagination dazzled by 
 this domestic sketch. 
 
 "Ah! that's tellens, Master Rosny. Maybe if you 
 can get up at vive o'clock to-morrow mornen and stand 
 outside o ' your back gaate, I '11 take ee along and show ee 
 the cubs." 
 
 "I'll be there, if I can wake in time. What a kind 
 boy you are!" 
 
 "Oh! go long with ee! I be gwine to hrow out to 
 lighthouse with these here baskets afore dark. You can 
 come too, if ee've a mind to. Be ee man enough to carr 
 a basket?" 
 
 Man enough? The delight of rowing out to the 
 lighthouse, whence yellow radiance already streamed 
 over the seething breakers that crashed perpetually on 
 sunken ledge and strong sea-wall. All his life he had 
 wanted to do it. Quickly and gladly he shouldered the 
 smallest basket of fresh vegetables, sprang down the 
 sandstone gorge, over bush and through brush, till they 
 reached a shingly shore, and, putting the baskets in a 
 broad-beamed dingey, beached above water-mark in a 
 niche in the cliff, ran her down through the surf, and 
 then, jumping in, pushed joyously out into the bay, Seth 
 Barton sculling and Richard taking the tiller, as he had 
 often done with his mother's hand on his. 
 
 "Look out, young un. Kape her head straight. We 
 caint hround the earner close in, 't es hrocks below. 
 Mind what I tell ee, athout you've a mind to go down in 
 Davy Jones's locker." 
 
 What happiness to feel the sea-breath in face and 
 hair, to feel the leaping stride of the boat over the long, 
 lazy rollers, whence foam-fringes fell so softly, dazzling 
 white in the dusk. A red moon was peering above the 
 sea-rim through a break in the clouds and casting a 
 tremulous path over the changing wave-ridges. Seth 
 pulled a slow and steady stroke, forward and backward,
 
 16 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 forward and backward, his good-tempered face and 
 honest eyes shining through the dusk; the oars struck 
 the trembling sea with a pleasant plashing and flicker of 
 gleaming spray. The boat tugged at the tiller like a 
 horse trying to get his head ; Richie kept her straight with 
 all his might, his eyes glowing, his heart filled with the 
 joy of guiding a leaping live creature over the rocking 
 surge, his ears soothed by the multitudinous murmur of 
 waves and soft deep boom of seas broken upon reef and 
 rock, and sliding white and ghostlike up lighthouse walls 
 and flying in snowy drifts over half -sunken juts and 
 ledges. 
 
 ''Port, young 'un; kape her straight agen. Vine 
 coxen you'll maake, if ee doos what I tell ee." Yet Rich- 
 ard suspected that the oars did more than the tiller to 
 pull her head round. 
 
 Now the lighthouse was immediately before them, the 
 cliffs towering to the stars on their left; he had never 
 been so near the strong and solid tower before, never 
 seen its crest of light so well, or caught the quiver of the 
 waves in its yellow luster so distinctly. How the great 
 breakers reared their crests from the sea, how gallantly 
 they plunged upon the solid rock-bases of the tower, the 
 joy and the tumult of them ! His head was uncovered, 
 his long, curling hair floated out behind, gleaming in the 
 lights; his arms and legs had been bared to go through 
 the surf; the wedding favor and tunic were drenched 
 with spray. 
 
 ' ' What do ee wear they silly curls for ? ' ' Seth asked, 
 lazily scanning him. "Anybody med think 't was a 
 maid garbed up in buoy 's cloase. ' ' 
 
 Bitter feelings rose in Richie 's breast ; all his misery, 
 forgotten for a few joyous moments, returned. His 
 curls had long been a reproach and burden and had 
 earned him many a gibe and sneer; but his mother had 
 been grieved at the thought of clipping them, so he put 
 up with them rather than vex her. But to have to look 
 like a girl ! And she could desert him, after that.
 
 THE LIGHTHOUSE 17 
 
 No answer was vouchsafed to Seth's rude remark. 
 The dingey began to prance and rear, like a fretted horse, 
 on the eddying confusion of meeting seas, as they turned 
 again to fetch a little sheltered cove in the ledge ; it was 
 grand to feel and curb the spirit of her, and it was 
 grand to see the glory of the great lanterns turning 
 above in the tower and flashing, flashing, in that wonder- 
 ful rhythm, so that mariners, counting the flashes and 
 the dark moments, may know what coast they are making. 
 
 Delicious hunger that the sea gives, making thoughts 
 of all kinds of nice things come into the mind, so that 
 one tastes them over and over again ; it is almost better 
 than eating real food up to a certain point, which 
 Bichie was fast approaching. What delight to make the 
 landing-place through the tumbling surf, to keep the dan- 
 cing boat off the rock with the boat-hook, to heave the 
 baskets ashore, to fall down and get up and fall down 
 again, and then come ashore with a flying leap, and help 
 Seth haul her up and make her fast ! 
 
 So this grave, gray-haired man in dark blue was 
 really the lighthouse keeper. Did he live in the tower 
 all alone? Suppose the lanterns went out? Did he 
 never forget to light them ? And a thousand other ques- 
 tions. 
 
 "Come in and have a bit of supper, Master Rosny. 
 I '11 warrant you are sharp-set after your row. Then you 
 shall go up the tower and see all you want to see and 
 Seth '11 wait for ee for the last of the tide. Do the sea 
 ever splash over the door? Why, bless the child, the 
 foam flies up the cliff-face and round the lanterns in a 
 gale at high tide. Get a boat here in a heavy sea ? Lord 
 love ye, nothing could live. The sea would lift her up 
 and fling her on the rocks just as you might drop a wren's 
 egg on a door-step and squash it. No; Grace Darling's 
 lighthouse was far away from this up on the north coast 
 on the Fame Islands. Come and see me arid my mate as 
 often as you like, my dear, and welcome. I don't know 
 as we often have too much company out here. Here's
 
 18 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 frech milk Seth has brought, we'll make some tea for ye. 
 I served before the mast on the Redoubtable under your 
 father, and a smart young officer he was. He was sec- 
 ond lieutenant, that cruise. ' ' 
 
 All was so orderly and snug and small in the keeper's 
 house ; it was almost like being on board ship, everything 
 so neatly stowed. There was a charm in the homely fare, 
 the bread and cheese and ship biscuit, the w T ell-sugared 
 tea, the steaming glass of rum the men took, the smell of 
 strong tobacco pervading everything ; all was exquisitely 
 masculine. The tower stood on a ledge, with a cliff ris- 
 ing sheer behind it and sea all round, except at neap tides, 
 when the rocky ledge between tower and cliff was ex- 
 posed. The whole world cut off, nothing but sea and 
 cliff to be seen, nothing but grinding surges, booming 
 breakers, and wailing sea-birds to be heard in calm 
 weather. And in storm? There imagination rioted 
 and the boom of minute guns marked time to a tumul- 
 tuous symphony of wind and tempest. It was glorious. 
 
 Up and up the tower, from story to story, they went, 
 seeing strange and wonderful mechanism and endless 
 complications of lenses and facets to distribute and mul- 
 tiply and reflect the light and regulate and intensify it at 
 need. Richard stood outside by the railing and looked 
 clear away to the pale afterglow in the west, across the 
 wide and placid sea, that was like a floor of wrinkled gray 
 metal; his heart beat at the thought that he might be 
 looking straight into America ; down below in the circle 
 of light the shimmer of waves was dizzying yet inspiring ; 
 on the other side the moon was laying that inviting path- 
 way of quivering golden scales that always makes one 
 want one knows not what. 
 
 Sea-birds must feel like this when flying high over 
 sea, Richard thought. Then all of a sudden the joy of 
 action and the glamor of peril and strife took hold of 
 him; he felt the breadth and variety of the world, the 
 narrowness of fireside things, and the wide ranges of in- 
 terest and hope beyond the hothouse of emotion in which
 
 THE LIGHTHOUSE 19 
 
 he had been cradled and confined; the sea was in his 
 blood and the waves were calling, calling to him. He 
 had slipped his prison bars and escaped into free space. 
 All that trouble of the wedding and the joy-bells, and the 
 bitterness of parting and betrayal, was far and far be- 
 hind in a forgotten past. 
 
 When they took the empty baskets back to the boat, 
 a thoughtful and philosophic cat and a friendly dog 
 came down with the men to see them off, and the canary 
 chirruped sleepily as they passed its cage ; only the hens 
 were silent on their perches above the coops that had to 
 be taken in when the great seas came sweeping over the 
 rock and the outhouses. Did the lighthouseman think 
 that a boy of nine or ten, providing he was big and 
 strong and looked older, might be got into the navy? 
 The keeper feared this was not possible; young gentle- 
 men began even later now than formerly. "You learn 
 all you can and get as strong and healthy as may be, Mas- 
 ter Rosny, till you're rising fourteen. And don't ee eat 
 too much sugar and spoil your teeth. They're mighty 
 particular nowadays in the Royal Navy. ' ' 
 
 Till fourteen? Very chilling to think of, still you 
 might begin in a naval school. 
 
 It was late when the anxiety at the cottage was re- 
 lieved by the appearance of a dirty, weary boy, with 
 eyes still red and face swollen by crying, yet not the 
 boy who had rushed heart-broken from the house a few 
 hours since. That seemed to be some boy Richard had 
 heard of ages ago and despised and forgotten. What 
 was home and affection to the joy of the sea and the free- 
 dom of action ? Susan had every right to scold, but her 
 scolding was of small account now. 
 
 "Don't bother," he said sleepily, "I won't stay out 
 again without letting you know. There ! I promise. ' ' 
 
 Two minutes after he was fast asleep and had missed 
 neither his mother nor the once treasured good-night 
 kiss. It was some days before Mrs. Belton received 
 Richard's first letter. "My dear Muffle," the stiff.
 
 20 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 round letters spelt out, "I have a hedgehog. I have 
 seen some fox-cubs. I hope you are well. Mr. Wrex- 
 ham tried to thrash me, so I kicked him and he didn't. 
 I like Seth Barton. I have been to the lighthouse. Susan 
 says send her duty. I send my love. I now end this let- 
 ter. I remain your affectionate son, Richard Rosny." 
 
 Mrs. Belton perused the half-sheet more than once 
 before extracting any definite information from it. Who 
 was Seth Barton? What could have moved Mr. Wrex- 
 ham to the serious step of trying to thrash Richie? He 
 had never been struck in his life. 
 
 "All the more reason for making a beginning, my 
 dear," her husband said. 
 
 Once again the joy-bells rang, for the bride's home- 
 coming. Susan was busy and bustling and cross days 
 before the event, so Richard gave her and the cottage a 
 wide berth during the preparations. 
 
 "I never see a child so changed," poor Susan con- 
 fided to the supplementary maid necessary to the en- 
 larged household. "Never a fault to vind with him be- 
 fore. And I've often said to the mistress he was more 
 like a girl than a boy for goodness, and prayed it mightn 't 
 be he was marked for a better world. But from the hour 
 Mrs. Rosny 's back was turned he've been nether to hev 
 nor to hold. What I've gone through with that young 
 gentleman, Maria, is enough to turn anybody's hair 
 white. Sooner than undertake a job like that agen, I'd 
 pay five pounds down and give up service if I had to go 
 to the workhouse. Mr. Wrexham says I must have pa- 
 tience, and I 'm sure Job couldn 't be named with me. But 
 anybody has their feelings. Though, to be sure, Mr. 
 Wrexham have been led a life himself. And I nursed 
 him from a baby. And up at night with his teething and 
 all." 
 
 Mrs. Belton was somewhat astonished at her son 's ap- 
 pearance when she drove up to the cottage, as she had 
 gone away, to the sound of joy-bells ringing, and caught 
 sight of the slender little figure at the gate.
 
 THE LIGHTHOUSE 21 
 
 Often, and tearfully, during the honeymoon, she had 
 recalled the wistful gaze, the sad, bewildered face, framed 
 in long brown curls touched with gold, the graceful fig- 
 ure in black velvet, silk stockings and buckled shoes, to 
 lose sight of which had cost her many pangs and some 
 remorse. The boy she now saw appeared taller and 
 stronger, his face tanned with sun and wind, his curls 
 gone, and replaced by an irregular crop of short hair 
 with jagged ends sticking out ; the velvet suit, for cogent 
 reasons, had given place to one of cloth; the hands, 
 plunged in pockets, had bruises and scratches on their 
 brown ; he had a black eye and a cut lip, his look was de- 
 fiant, his attitude, with feet planted very far apart, un- 
 usual. And this change in six weeks. 
 
 ' ' Better have taken my advice and sent him to board 
 with Wrexham, ' ' the stepfather commented. 
 
 "My own boy, my precious Richie, what have you 
 done to yourself?" was poor Edith's piteous cry on 
 alighting and embracing the child, who first wriggled 
 away from her and then nearly crushed her with a 
 great bear's hug. Belton laughed his genial good-tem- 
 pered laugh and pinched the boy's ear. "Been in the 
 wars, old man?" he asked. "Who gave you that game 
 eye?" 
 
 "That beast, Brookes; you know, the baker's boy. 
 He was always cheeking a fellow, so I had to thrash him. 
 A jolly good licking he got, too. He 's twelve. Oh ! that 
 cut on the mouth was Ronald Musgrave. He isn 't half a 
 bad chap. We had it out at Wrexham 's after lessons one 
 day." 
 
 "And the curls, old chappie? Nonsense, Edith. The 
 boy isn't a girl. So you cut them off yourself?" 
 
 "And you were not so very lonely without Muffle?" 
 Edith asked him later, with disappointed tenderness. 
 
 "How could I be lonely, Muff? When I know all the 
 boys in Wimbury " 
 
 "All the boys in Wimbury? All the cottage and 
 farm boys ? My dearest child, how dreadful ! ' '
 
 22 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 "Besides all the boys at Wrexham's. It's awfully 
 jolly learning and playing with other boys. Glad you 
 are home again ? Why, of course I am, but I can 't keep 
 on saying it. I do wish you wouldn't make a fellow look 
 like a fool before people, Muff, dear. ' ' 
 
 Edith looked long in the dark-blue eyes and sighed 
 audibly. "Ah, Richie, the dear old days, when we were 
 all in all to each other, are over, ' ' she said. ' ' They will 
 never come again, I sadly fear." 
 
 "How can they when you are married to Mr. Bel- 
 ton?" 
 
 "Not Mr. Belton, dearest. Try to say father." 
 
 "7 didn't marry him, Muffle. / was quite happy as 
 we were; but I was only a baby. Don't cry. There. 
 You may kiss me when nobody's looking. But I'm not 
 going to be made a girl of any longer. And I want to 
 go to sea." 
 
 "You can not know what a mother's feelings are, 
 dear, or you would be kinder and more considerate. Boys 
 always want to go to sea when they are young, especially 
 bad boys, who are troublesome at home. Go away and 
 leave me; you have given me a headache as well as a 
 heartache. ' ' 
 
 Richie was conquered; there was nothing for it but 
 expressions of contrition and caresses and assertions that 
 he would never, never, never leave darling Muffle, except 
 for the honor of England, and even then not unless she 
 wished it. 
 
 "These women" he muttered, as he left her and re- 
 paired to his usual refuge from domestic care, the high- 
 est forks of a great linden-tree on the lawn "they have 
 to be tenderly handled. They are so frail ; " so he had 
 heard his stepfather say. 
 
 That new relation proved a more than tolerable addi- 
 tion to the domestic circle. He took the boy out with 
 him in weather that kept Edith indoors, he let him 
 tramp over stubble and turnips after birds with him and 
 taught him many mysteries of the field. He gave him
 
 THE LIGHTHOUSE 23 
 
 a pony and taught him to ride, and readily promised that 
 he should go into the navy. He never found fault with 
 him, but treated him with easy tolerance on equal terms 
 of companionship, laughing him out of follies and siding 
 with him against his mother's overtenderness. 
 
 By Christmas Edith was jealous of the liking her hus- 
 band and son showed for each other's society. Her 
 jealousy resulted in a reluctant consent to send the boy 
 to school, but only to the grammar-school, some seven or 
 eight miles distant. Thither he rode every morning on 
 the pony, often starting before daylight and returning 
 after dark, tired and muddy and uncompanionable, with 
 lessons to prepare during the evening. Sometimes on 
 coming home he found his mother alone, Mr. Belton 
 having gone off for a few days on business; then there 
 was a renewal of the old, happy companionship of 
 the precious winter, enjoyable, but detrimental to les- 
 sons. 
 
 In the summer, to Richard's great grief, the cottage 
 was let, and they went to live at the new large house that 
 had been preparing for them within easy reach of the 
 central office of the private bank in which Belton was a 
 partner. So at the beginning of the autumn term he 
 became a boarder at the grammar-school and found con- 
 solation in living with boys, and great joy in going home 
 for the Christmas holidays, with a good character in his 
 pocket, easily earned by a boy who learned with ease and 
 pleasure and was strong and quick at games, good-tem- 
 pered and apt at the give-and-take and rough-and-ready 
 fellowship that earn popularity in the boy world. 
 
 It was strange and pleasantly exciting to be going 
 home to a new house, in spite of some pangs of longing 
 for familiar "Wimbury faces. 
 
 "Why, where's mother?" was his sudden, dismayed 
 cry, when the train roared into the station and he saw his 
 stepfather standing alone on the platform. 
 
 What a little thing changes the world ! He had been 
 growing more and more uneasy for the last ten minutes
 
 24 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 in the fear of being publicly kissed and embraced at the 
 carriage-door; but when the train stopped, the expected 
 face was nowhere to be seen and there was no fear of 
 kisses ; everything turned blank and dreary and his heart 
 dropped down plumb in heavy dread. "She is isn't 
 ill ? " he added, gulping down some rising tears. 
 
 ''Your mother is perfectly well, Dick," Belton re- 
 plied with a singular smile. ' ' You will find her at home 
 very much engaged too much so to come out this aft- 
 ernoon. ' ' 
 
 Too much engaged to come and meet him 1 A singu- 
 lar hearing. There are worse things than too much hug- 
 ging and kissing before people. He could very well have 
 put up with a public hugging, after all. Too much en- 
 gaged ? A sad feeling of being out in the cold came over 
 him ; nobody wanted him. Belton 's manner was strange 
 and unusual; he seemed to be keeping something back; 
 he was curiously reserved and preoccupied. 
 
 "None of your stepfather ways," Richie thought to 
 himself, pulling his cap over his eyes and whistling to 
 conceal his disappointment. 
 
 "What in the world makes her too much engaged to 
 come out?" he asked presently, a little breathless from 
 keeping up with Belton 's long, quick strides. 
 
 "Ah! that's tellings, Richard. There's a little sur- 
 prise for you at the Pines, old chap." 
 
 "Hang surprises!" Leaving the cottage had been 
 one surprise, a stepfather another. His heart sank lower 
 than ever when his stepfather stopped at an unfamil- 
 iar gate and pushed him in before him to a gravel drive 
 bordered by tall pines and unfamiliar shrubs. This 
 led to a solid stone house standing gray in the wintry 
 dusk and looking somewhat chill and repellent, yet with 
 one window glowing as with warm welcome, its glow 
 quickly supplemented by the sudden radiance of an 
 opening door, to which Richard leaped with a joyous cry 
 as Edith came out and clasped him to her breast with no 
 lack of fervor and many terms of endearment. She led
 
 THE LIGHTHOUSE 25 
 
 him in silently through a fair-sized, lamplit hall, to a 
 room at the other end of the house ; and, in the warmth 
 and brilliance of a blazing hearth, held him close to kiss 
 and at a distance to look at his cool, ruddy cheeks, bright, 
 shining eyes, and added inches of height. 
 
 "Darling, how you have grown, and how long it is 
 since I kissed my own boy! And how do you like the 
 new home, dearest?" 
 
 ' ' Oh, Muffle, it 's all so fine and new and strange ! I 
 like the cottage best. And Wimbury. And Seth Bar- 
 ton. And I am so jolly hungry." 
 
 "My precious child, of course you are hungry. To 
 think of starving my own boy. Susan has made you 
 such a cake. You shall have your tea at once, dearie. 
 And then" very mysteriously "I have something to 
 show you. ' ' 
 
 "Ah! the surprise, Muffle. Daddy wouldn't let out 
 what it was. Is it alive?" 
 
 " Oh ! isn 't it ? " Belton put in with a cheerful shout of 
 laughter ; ' ' very much alive and kicking, Dick. ' ' 
 
 "Then it can't be a gun, though they do kick. Oh, 
 Muffle, how awful pretty you are ! ' ' Richard cried, at the 
 happy, tender smile with which Edith had averted her 
 face. ' ' Then it 's another pony ? No ? Not a donkey ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' I hope not, but you never can tell, ' ' returned Belton 
 with another cheerful shout. 
 
 ' ' Nor a tortoise ? Oh ! I know ; it 's a parrot. Why, 
 what 's that noise ? Oh, Muffle ; it is a parrot or else a 
 cockatoo. ' ' 
 
 "Come and see, darling, come and see," she cried, 
 unable to contain herself longer, and hurrying him out 
 of the room and up -stairs in eager haste, while the sound 
 was repeated, filling Richie with amazed incredulity that 
 grew and grew till they found themselves in a dainty 
 pink-and-white draped room, where a young woman 
 sat sewing by a high fender at the hearth, and where 
 stood a kind of little tent all pink silk and white lace. 
 Thither Edith joyously darted and gently drew from the
 
 26 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 filmy folds a small white lace package that kicked and 
 protested loudly against the injustice and futility of 
 things, until, by some singular magic in a few shakes, 
 a toss and a kiss, the thing became still and placid and 
 was proudly laid in Richard's quivering arms. 
 
 He turned white and stood statue-still under the pre- 
 cious burden. This contingency had never entered his 
 thoughts ; the shock took away his breath. The weight of 
 the warm living creature breathing so softly beneath his 
 wondering gaze, its utter dependence upon him, and the 
 appeal of its placid helplessness and fragility, touched 
 the same chord that his mother 's tearful widowhood and 
 demand for sympathy had so early wakened in his 
 heart; he felt that he could die in defense of this soft, 
 limp, helpless thing. The touch of the little bald head 
 securely pressing his shoulder thrilled him, its soft gur- 
 gling and gaze of calm and thoughtful wonder awed 
 him ; he seemed to hold the whole world within the com- 
 pass of his own arms in the form of that tiny, complete 
 human being. The creature was a potential man, a 
 Cceur de Lion, an Alfred the Great, a Nelson. It seemed 
 to smile at him, the aimless, crumpling and uncrumpling 
 of its dainty, dimpled fists so perfect and so finished, 
 with their tiny pink nails appeared conscious and full 
 of meaning. He would give it his pony; it should see 
 lighthouses and fox-cubs and go to school and to sea. It 
 should have the gun he was longing for and his fishing- 
 rod, and learn to row and ride and play with other boys. 
 
 It was a great, an almost intolerable, moment in his 
 life ; he had been still and white and statue-like so many 
 minutes, that his mother, sitting in a low chair watching 
 him, grew uneasy and was as much relieved as affected, 
 when tears suddenly rained upon the tiny, crumpled 
 arms and pensive face, and he burst out with a cry of, 
 ' ' Oh, Muffle, a brother, an own brother at last ! ' '
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 AN OWN BROTHER 
 
 TEARS of emotion were to Edith, as to most French- 
 men, more refreshing and enjoyable than the choicest 
 meat and drink. She shed many of these pleasant 
 larmes de sensibilite over Richard's reception of the baby; 
 and when, a few minutes later, Belton looked into the 
 nursery, he found her in a very happy mood, with the 
 baby on her knee and her sturdy schoolboy, half -ashamed 
 of his burst of feeling, at her side. 
 
 ''How do you like your surprise, old chap?" he 
 asked, sitting on the edge of the table with one leg swing- 
 ing and his hands in his pockets. "Ugly little squalling 
 beggar, isn 't it ? " 
 
 "The prettiest pet in the world," Edith cried, ca- 
 ressing the baby and looking at Richard, who stood very 
 squarely at her side, trying to appear unconcerned, and 
 dangling his new silver watch before the infant's solemn 
 and thoughtful gaze. 
 
 ' ' I always wanted a brother, ' ' he replied in a voice of 
 grave content. ' ' But he 's rather young, ' ' he added, cal- 
 culating that he would be twenty by the time the baby 
 had reached his own age. 
 
 "Well! old boy, that fault's soon mended. Come 
 along, don 't let your mother turn you into a nurse-maid, ' ' 
 Belton said, with an uneasy, almost jealous, feeling. The 
 baby had touched no such depths in its father as in Rich- 
 ard, who was still pale from the agitation of that imper- 
 ishable moment ; it affected Belton physically with a sort 
 of tolerant disgust, mentally as a necessary and unob- 
 jectionable incident in life. Yet Richard appeared to his 
 
 27
 
 28 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 stepfather to be profoundly and unaccountably attracted 
 by this uninteresting scrap of human infirmity. It was 
 more like a girl than a boy, he thought, with the irrita- 
 tion of average minds at what they can not measure into 
 truism and proverb. 
 
 But Richard never forgot the deep and awed feeling 
 called out by the pressure of the baby's warm body on 
 his arms. It stood out in his memory like the sad dignity 
 of walking in infancy behind his father's coffin and the 
 agony of being left behind to hear his mother's wedding- 
 bells. It colored all the holiday time and gave a sweet 
 and imperishable friendliness to the new, strange house 
 that had looked so unfriendly in the grayness and chill 
 of the winter dusk, a brother at last, something to take 
 care of, a living toy more interesting than any of the pets 
 on which his affections had been lavished and often 
 wrecked. Without being conscious of anything more 
 than a vague want, he had been very lonely; Edith's ex- 
 acting and exclusive devotion, which barred all child 
 companionship and shut him away from older friends 
 she would never suffer him to visit his Rosny relations, 
 and it was not convenient for them to come to remote 
 Wimbury had created an isolation very sad and un- 
 wholesome for a child, whose emotions were overstimu- 
 lated in one direction and whose instincts were emi- 
 nently social and combative. Companionship implies 
 combat and contradiction as well as agreement and am- 
 ity ; a good lover is always a good fighter ; no one cares 
 to fight an unlovable foe. 
 
 The exquisite surprise of that first holiday evening, 
 the warmth and glow of the festal Christmas, the cheer- 
 ful, careless stepfather, the beautiful, tender mother, and 
 the small, unconscious baby, the center that linked them 
 all together, made the best memory of his boyhood. Nor 
 did his deep and silent love for Gerald ever change or 
 falter all his life long. But he kept true to the newly 
 wakened instinct to curb and hide his feelings, and after 
 the first outburst seldom spoke of the baby, and avoided
 
 AN OWN BROTHER 29 
 
 all allusions to the new relationship. He liked to look 
 at the little creature asleep, when no one was near; but 
 liked most to be told to carry it about in the garden. He 
 would sometimes fetch it from the nursery and sit in 
 some quiet nook, the baby on his arm and a favorite book 
 in his hand, for a long hour. 
 
 One evening during those holidays the family trio 
 were peacefully dining alone, when a woman's shrill and 
 long-drawn shriek cut the air and made them all start 
 from the table with one accord and hurry into the hall. 
 Hasty steps and confused outcries followed, and before 
 Edith and Belton could gather from disjointed exclama- 
 tions of servants that the fire, evident by clouds of smoke 
 and a smell of burning, was in the nursery, where linen 
 airing on the high fender had caught a flame blown out 
 by a wind-gust, and hurry toward it, they were met by a 
 little, slender figure plunging back through smoke and 
 flame, with a wailing bundle tightly clasped and wrapped 
 in a woolen coverlet in its arms. 
 
 At sight of this, Belton darted into the nearest bed- 
 room, snatched an eider-down and wrapped Richard in 
 it, first throwing the baby, whose woolen coverlet was 
 only singed, to Edith, who ran back to the warm dining- 
 room with her salvage, too dazed and bewildered by the 
 sudden fright and its relief to think of Richard. 
 
 Left to his fate, the boy fell unconscious on the floor, 
 while Belton set vigorously to work to put out the fire, 
 as yet confined to the nursery, where only draperies, 
 chairs, and other light things had suffered. In ten min- 
 utes only a few charred fragments, smoking rags, and 
 some drenched furniture remained to tell the tale of the 
 mishap, and Belton, breathless, smutty, and well-pleased 
 that the adventure had ended so well, went back to the 
 dining-room, where the baby, rudely awakened by its res- 
 cue but totally unharmed, was loudly expressing its in- 
 dignation, and Edith trying to soothe it to sleep again. 
 
 "But what of Richie ?" Belton asked. "Where is 
 our small hero ? ' '
 
 30 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 She had completely forgotten him, she owned, and 
 Belton, much concerned, rushed off and returned a few 
 minutes later, half-carrying a staggering, blinded boy, 
 with singed-off hair and eyelashes and burned face, who 
 kept repeating in a dazed way that he was not hurt, not 
 in the least, and why was the doctor sent for? 
 
 Everybody, as Edith observed, admired the excellent 
 understanding between the stepfather and son. She be- 
 gan to be more and more jealous of the satisfaction they 
 took in each other's society, though an indefinable some- 
 thing told her that little love was lost between them. 
 Belton liked to be followed by an active, intelligent lad, 
 eager to acquire masculine occupations and sports, ready 
 to fetch and carry, and young enough to be sent off when 
 in the way, while Richard, weary of feminine ways and 
 coddling, was glad to ride and walk and talk with a 
 grown man. Each thought of the other, the man con- 
 sciously, the boy unconsciously, as a necessary encum- 
 brance, an inevitable evil, to be tolerated for the sake of 
 the woman who at once drew them together and created a 
 repulsion between them ; each held the other as an inter- 
 loper, an infractor of rights; yet neither saw why this 
 latent hostility should be a bar to good-fellowship or 
 spoil the amenities of life. But when Richard dashed so 
 gallantly through the fire to save the baby, Belton was 
 moved to something not unlike affection, and entirely like 
 respect, for him. He said nothing, but was solicitous 
 about the boy's health and comfort, helping to dress his 
 burns, and utterly astonished to find that Edith spared 
 herself this painful duty. She could not bear to see 
 Richie suffer, she said; as for holding him during the 
 dressing, it was cruel to propose such a thing. But Bel- 
 ton held him and saw him suffer and struggle and heard 
 him groan and turned sick at the sound. Once it was too 
 much for the man's nerves; he called the doctor a brute 
 and told him to stop his infernal torture. 
 
 "It wants a woman's nerve for this," the doctor said. 
 "Was I a brute, Richie? "Well, you might have let the
 
 AN OWN BROTHER 31 
 
 baby suffocate; then you would have been spared all 
 this." 
 
 "Oh, I don't mind," he said, stoutly, "only I can't 
 help squealing." 
 
 ' ' Never mind, old boy ; we '11 run up to town and see 
 a pantomime," Belton said, and eventually did, and the 
 burns healed, but not without scars indelible, like the 
 griefs of youth. 
 
 By the next Christmas holidays the little brother 
 made bewitching attempts to talk and walk, and was be- 
 come the most amusing plaything possible. 
 
 During those holidays the first hint of discord be- 
 tween the husband and wife became perceptible. Rich- 
 ard had found his mother crying more than once and con- 
 nected the tears with Belton 's increasingly frequent 
 absences from home. Then he found himself the reluc- 
 tant recipient of complaints and confidences. He learnt 
 that men were selfish and inconsiderate, that they neg- 
 lected and disliked ailing wives, that it was terribly 
 lonely with one's husband away and one's son at school 
 and oneself too frail and suffering to go out and into 
 society. 
 
 * ' Of course, ' ' Edith would say, "it is a great denial 
 for Horace to be unable to give dinners and dances, such 
 as we began with. But he never considers men never 
 do what a much greater denial it is to the poor, frail 
 wife, who has to suffer as well. I could never enjoy so- 
 cial pleasures with a husband sick and lonely at home. 
 I wonder that he can. Yet he goes everywhere. Richie, 
 darling, will you ever go out and neglect your wife? 
 Oh! I say nothing against your dear papa. He means 
 well; but he doesn't understand. He can not see how 
 easily a sensitive nature is wounded. He thinks one 
 cross when one is only depressed. He forgets the innu- 
 merable demands upon the time and strength of a mother 
 and mistress of a house. His business never seems to 
 prevent his hunting and shooting, or billiards or dining 
 out he is playing in a billiard match now, I believe or
 
 32 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 running up to town, or being with bachelor friends. 
 And as for expense, he denies himself nothing ; yet he is 
 always grumbling at the bills that keep coming in and 
 never seem to be paid. Richie, darling, will you grow 
 up and neglect your poor Muffle and break her heart? 
 No ; I shall always have my own boy to comfort me. We 
 have the same tastes, dearie. Horace can not enter into 
 my feelings in the least. He would take no notice of 
 Gerald at first. Now baby is everything. But the poor 
 darling must never cry. That drives his father wild, 
 and, of course, he cries now he is teething. You had 
 convulsions with your teeth and Gerald is not nearly 
 such a strong child as you were. Many children die with 
 their teeth, and scarlatina is in the neighborhood. It is 
 very harassing to be a mother." 
 
 ' ' The little beggar looks strong enough, ' ' Richard ob- 
 jected. "And he's always laughing. You see, Muffle, 
 all babies have to cut their teeth, and they all seem to 
 howl over it, so what's the use of bothering?" 
 
 With such philosophy he sought to comfort his 
 mother, feeling himself on surer ground with nursery 
 than with conjugal troubles. His views upon marriage 
 were as yet hazy; but, on the whole, he considered the 
 holy estate an eminently unpleasant one, and much to 
 be wished away from the general scheme of life. This 
 notion, far from being dissipated, took deeper root with 
 years. Little as a boy observes such things, he observed 
 and wondered at the depreciating and contemptuous 
 manner in which Belton habitually alluded to Edith, and 
 was infinitely perplexed both by the bitterness of his 
 mother toward her husband's shortcomings and the in- 
 dignation with which she resented the faintest aspersion 
 cast upon him by the passionate fondness and equally 
 passionate disapproval she constantly expressed for him. 
 Nor did he know which he resented most, his stepfather's 
 depreciation of his mother or her too outspoken devotion 
 to her husband. Family life was a wearying and bewil- 
 dering muddle, to which the boy-world in which he lived
 
 AN OWN BROTHER 33 
 
 habitually offered a welcome contrast; he was always 
 glad to go back to school. 
 
 Yet, if the domestic bickerings bored and disgusted 
 him, his mother 's daily repeated assertion that he was the 
 comfort and mainstay of her life, was sweet. Let alone 
 by his easy stepfather, placed on an unsuitable eminence 
 by his mother, and looked up to by the children, he grew 
 to regard home as a place of freedom from restraint and 
 discipline, and himself as the genial prince of all except 
 that rival potentate, the master of the house. Belton 
 seldom corrected and never struck him ; Mr. Wrexham 's 
 ill success in that kind of persuasion had not been encour- 
 aging. 
 
 The vicar had given Mrs. Belton his views upon the 
 incident, together with an exact narration of the details, 
 and Richard, arraigned before his parents, had been de- 
 sired to offer some explanation of his conduct. 
 
 "All I mean to say is," he replied, looking very 
 steadily at Belton, ' ' that I 'in not going to be thrashed by 
 anybody. If any man hits me, I shall kick out and give 
 him what for." 
 
 "It's time you went to school, old chap. It would 
 soon alter your views, ' ' Belton observed carelessly. But 
 he took care not to rouse opposition by personal chastise- 
 ment before Richard's views on the subject had been 
 brought into proper focus. Yet his hand was heavy 
 upon his own children, heavier than Richard, whose 
 views on corporal punishment, as his stepfather had pre- 
 dicted, had been entirely changed by school life, thought 
 right or wise. 
 
 The advent of a fresh brother or sister soon became 
 a usual incident of home life; by the time Richard 
 proudly put on his first midshipman 's uniform there was 
 a circle of admiring faces to wonder at the sturdy, merry 
 sailor-brother; when he came home after a three years' 
 cruise, he found just one short of half a dozen in the 
 nursery. 
 
 "Enough to turn a man's hair gray," Belton ob-
 
 34 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 served gloomily; but Edith rejoiced and spoke of their 
 beauty and cleverness, with the usual ending: "But 
 Richie, darling, I look to you for comfort. And what I 
 have suffered during these cruel years ! ' ' 
 
 She certainly looked as if she had suffered ; there was 
 a curious repressed anxiety, even terror, in her face, that 
 made Richard wonder if nothing could make a woman 
 happy. 
 
 The look became less evident during that holiday ; Bel- 
 ton was much away, and Richard was constantly with his 
 mother, walking and talking, reading, rowing and sail- 
 ing, and visiting the poor, as in the old cottage days. 
 Much time was spent with the children, making toys for 
 then and letting them make a slave of him. 
 
 It was at this time that he noticed an alteration in the 
 easy, good-natured stepfather, who had become irritable 
 and morose, and whose step the children learned to dread 
 and fly, though he petted them outrageously at intervals. 
 Grave childish faults Belton would ignore or laugh at, 
 while some innocent indiscretion or infirmity would be 
 met by such a terrific box on the ear or cuffing as made 
 their brother's blood boil, though Richard was not above 
 administering just and judicious cuffs himself. Their 
 mother's sole thought was to conceal their faults and keep 
 them out of their father's way, a treatment most shock- 
 ing to ideas of discipline imbibed on board a man-of- 
 war. 
 
 At sixteen Richard measured six feet; he was broad 
 of chest, strong of limb, active exceedingly and perfectly 
 healthy, with a genial glance and sunny smile that won 
 friends everywhere. He had twice saved a life and had 
 more than once been in command under fire. He was 
 very forward with his studies, which cost him little 
 trouble. But he had the defects of young blood and 
 great strength. 
 
 Such a lad would measure his stepfather from a man's 
 standpoint; many things in Belton formerly perplexing 
 now became plain to Richard, who found his after-din-
 
 AN OWN BROTHER 35 
 
 ner conversation more amusing than edifying, and who 
 would have enjoyed it more from any one but his moth- 
 er's husband and the children's father, positions in which 
 the most rackety youth exacts a certain amount of re- 
 spectability. So the good-fellowship between them was 
 succeeded by a sort of armed neutrality. "That cub, 
 Rosny," was Belton's usual designation of his stepson, 
 who was accustomed to allude to him to intimate friends 
 as "That beast, Belton." 
 
 Belton had really altered and not for the better. His 
 very comeliness had departed; his features were coars- 
 ened, the lines of his figure blurred and bulged. He was 
 still a keen sportsman, though a less certain shot ; he still 
 rode to hounds, but at billiards his stroke could never be 
 counted upon, though at times he falsified all calculations 
 by a steadily brilliant game. His temper was gloomy in 
 the morning, overcheerful and ill-balanced at noon, con- 
 tentious and impatient at night sometimes more than 
 impatient. "Don't let him have the children in to- 
 night," Edith would say to Richard. "His nerves are 
 all ajar. Liver again." 
 
 One day Richard took the three eldest to Wimbury 
 and rowed them out to the lighthouse while Edith visited 
 some of her old cottage friends; then they picnicked on 
 the cliff, returning in the dusk of a glorious autumn day 
 to high tea in the dining-room, an irregularity against 
 Belton's rule. Afterward one last game was played 
 round the drawing-room fire, the youngest falling down 
 asleep in the midst of it and being carried to bed, while 
 the other two climbed their brother's knees, determined 
 to sit up as long as their eyes would keep open. "Just 
 for once," their mother conceded, "just to-day." 
 
 "Dust once," Adeline echoed sleepily, "cause papa's 
 away. ' ' 
 
 "Such a jolly day we've had," added Gerald; "no 
 one to bother. I wish he was always away." 
 
 "Wiss him always away," Adeline echoed, drowsily 
 nodding; "wiss there wasn't no f avers, never no more."
 
 36 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 "You young reptiles," cried Richard, "I've a good 
 mind to smack the pair of you. You are not to talk like 
 that." 
 
 ' ' Only fink, ' ' murmured Adeline, contentedly. Edith 
 said nothing. 
 
 Belton had started for Paris that morning; bank 
 business, his wife carefully explained to Richard, often 
 summoned him at uncertain intervals to that city of 
 pleasure. As usual, in the absence of the head of the 
 family, the mother and son sat up late, finding more to 
 say the more they talked, while the look of peace on 
 Edith 's face, the return of youth to her fading features, 
 and sparkle of pleasure to her eyes, gave Richard a feel- 
 ing akin to pain. They had been reading; the reading 
 had led them to a discussion, which was interspaced with 
 thoughtful silences, Richard being at the crude spring 
 of mental development when thoughts form with bewil- 
 dering rapidity, rolling back on themselves in a per- 
 petual change. Edith had broken away from the narrow- 
 ing meshes of personal feeling; Richard listened, happy 
 at her escape from the turbid element of family worries. 
 All was hushed in the pleasant silence of an exquisite 
 autumn night ; one shaded lamp near the glowing hearth 
 left the greater part of the room in a darkness broken 
 by the white glimmer of moonlight from tall, uncur- 
 tained windows, through which pale stars and moon- 
 steeped stretches of field and woodland were visible. 
 Edith laughed out like a child at something he said ; she 
 looked young and attractive, charmingly dressed with 
 fresh roses in her corsage. 
 
 Through the hush following her joyous laugh came 
 the sound of approaching wheels, rumbling ever nearer 
 and louder. 
 
 "Wer reitet so spat durch Nacht und Wind? 7 ' Edith 
 asked lightly. 
 
 The wheels, now unmistakably passing under the 
 pine-trees, drew up at their door. Creaking of wire 
 followed, as a furtive hand set the door-bell clanging
 
 37 
 
 through the silent house, and brought them to the win- 
 dow, Edith suddenly pale. 
 
 "Some idiot has lost his bearings and put in here. 
 Don 't move, Muffie. I '11 tackle him, ' ' Richard said, go- 
 ing quickly to the door, quickly and silently followed 
 by his mother. 
 
 The bolts and bars were soon shot back and the door 
 thrown open. A closed fly stood outside in the dim 
 light, with a jaded horse and a driver w r alking up and 
 down by its side. 
 
 "What's up?" Richard asked briskly. 
 
 ' ' Gemman inside, sir, ' ' the driver said, pointing with 
 his whip to the fly; "lost his way. Soon sleep it off. 
 Bless you, it's a poor heart that never rejoices." 
 
 Upon this he opened the fly-door without further 
 ceremony, and dragged out a senseless, grunting figure 
 with a darkened but too familiar face. 
 
 Richard turned with a gasp of disgust to help carry 
 the noxious burden in, when, to his horror and pain, he 
 perceived the ashen face and piteous glance of his mother 
 in the doorway. 
 
 "Go up-stairs and leave him to me, Muff," he said 
 gently. "He isn't hurt. Go up-stairs, dear." 
 
 "Hurt? Bless you, they never comes to no harm," 
 returned the driver. "Keep his head up and loosen his 
 collar and let 'im be till morning light, and no questions 
 asked. Blest if I didn't think he was hurt first thing, 
 though. My hoss shied at him lying like a log on the 
 roadside. Many an honest chap would be glad of half 
 of his complaint. You trust me. I won't waken no- 
 body. Thankee, sir, and good-night. It's worth a sov- 
 ereign if you come to that. ' ' 
 
 The door closed softly, the fly rumbled away, Richard 
 struck a light and disclosed the sorry spectacle of the 
 master of the house, stretched on a lounge, purple-faced, 
 heavily breathing and covered with dust and dirt. 
 
 "Oh, Richard!" sobbed the wretched wife; "this 
 is worse than widowhood."
 
 38 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 " Worse than those joy-bells," Richard thought. 
 
 They carried him up between them. He pushed his 
 mother out of the room and did what was necessary, with 
 contemptuous carefulness and a hard look on his face. 
 Then he led his mother back to the drawing-room and 
 silently kissed her, a thing he rarely did, and, placing 
 her in the low deep chair she had just left, sat quietly by, 
 letting her pour out the fulness of her long-burdened 
 breast, accusing, excusing, deprecating, pitying, con- 
 demning, condoning, hardly knowing what she said. 
 
 ' ' He was so different when we married, ' ' she sobbed. 
 1 1 Always good to you. It is only since since the money 
 troubles There was an execution in the house last 
 autumn that is why I wanted you to take away your 
 father's sword and picture Richie, darling, I did so 
 hope this might be kept from your knowledge. I am so 
 afraid for Gerald. The boy is so quick. Adeline, too, 
 is clever, far beyond her age. I wish they had never been 
 born." 
 
 "Come, cheer up, Muffle. It may never happen 
 again. Perhaps it was an accident. Very easy to be 
 overtaken tired, seedy, nothing to eat ; that sort of thing 
 will happen sometimes, don't you know." 
 
 The lamp burned out with smoke and sputter, and the 
 Great Bear hung its large jewels with a friendly sparkle 
 out in the sky north of the east windows, before the un- 
 fortunate woman had sobbed out her bitter tale, com- 
 forted by the silent sympathy in Richard 's healthy, hon- 
 est face and dark-blue eyes, and Richard, dizzy-eyed and 
 drowsy, with the joy-bells that had so harassed his child- 
 hood pealing in his memory, flung himself on his bed 
 under the sword and picture of his gallant young father, 
 consumed by indignant pity for the delicate and sensi- 
 tive creature he seemed born to cherish and sustain. ' ' Not 
 Hyperion, but Diana, to a satyr, ' ' he thought, unable to 
 forget the two faces he had seen in the hall in the dead of 
 night.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 BELTOX, LAKING & CO. 
 
 BELTON, LAKIXG & Co. were an old-established bank- 
 ing firm of unquestionable solvency, always unshaken by 
 the squalls and storms of modern finance, and weathering 
 crises such as overthrow many a sound and firmly based 
 business with gallant ease and haughty calm. They 
 were to the county almost what the Bank of England is 
 to the nation. These new joint-stock banking companies 
 filled them with tolerant contempt as upstart products of 
 a degenerate day. Yet Horace Belton was a partner in 
 that immaculate firm, and the fact filled Rosny with ever- 
 growing wonder. For money seemed to grow scarcer and 
 ever scarcer at the Pines, where the inmates still con- 
 tinued to increase in number, where bills continually 
 rained, often headed with an ominous "Bill delivered," 
 and where, at every fresh holiday he spent there with 
 his mother, Richard observed increasing shabbiness and 
 dilapidation. 
 
 Meditating on these things, he went into Belton, La- 
 king & Co. 's head office on some small errand of his own 
 one day, and, looking round the handsomely appointed, 
 spacious hall, with its array of clerks and cashiers, busy 
 each at his desk or counter, steady, grave, and diligent, 
 was grateful to a destiny that had cast his own lot in 
 pleasanter places, wondering how these young men bore 
 the irksome confinement, and especially wondering if 
 Belton 's youth could possibly have passed through the 
 discipline of an occupation so steady and apparently un- 
 exciting. He was turning to leave the bank, when a 
 messenger from an inner office approached him and asked 
 
 89
 
 40 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 him to be so good as to step into the manager's room, an 
 apartment he had heard of as the sweating chamber, from 
 the mental agonies there endured by the impecunious, 
 the extravagant, or the fraudulent. 
 
 "I'm an infant and only just ashore, so I'm flush of 
 cash," he reflected, as he swung, with a seaman's roll 
 in his firm stride and a gallant carelessness in his open 
 face, into the august presence of the head of the firm. 
 He had been there once before, introduced as "Young 
 Rosny, my wife's son," since when he had two or three 
 times at intervals spoken with Mr. Godfrey Belton, who 
 was an occasional visitor at the Pines. 
 
 The tall, gray-haired senior partner and manager 
 threw a kind but searching glance at the young guest on 
 his entrance, and withdrew it as if satisfied with what 
 he saw. Rosny, though not come to his full strength, 
 was powerfully built; the strength and salt of the sea 
 was in his handsome face, deep blue eyes, broad, clear 
 brow, firm, smiling lips, and crisp-waved hair. His 
 height was six feet six, his shapely figure well set off by 
 the simplicity and perfect cut which distinguishes the 
 dress of men who understand the proprieties of costume. 
 
 " It is long since we have met, Mr. Rosny, ' ' the banker 
 said, partly rising from his chair and offering a courteous 
 hand and welcoming smile ; ' ' you were a boy when last I 
 saw you ; you have now, if I am not mistaken, every right 
 to be styled a man. ' ' 
 
 "Not quite. Not for another fortnight. Then I leave 
 off being an infant for good. ' ' 
 
 "A golden age in more senses than one," Mr. Belton 
 said, with a kind expression in his bright and keen eyes ; 
 "who wouldn't be one-and- twenty 1 I have a slight re- 
 membrance of your father, whom you strongly resemble, 
 at that happy age. But, as I need not remind you," he 
 added, with some hesitation, as in search of some fitting 
 phrase, "coming of age brings many responsibilities." 
 
 "Aye. You lose your guardian and look after your 
 own property, if you've got any."
 
 BELTON, LAKING & CO. 41 
 
 "If you have property," Mr. Belton repeated ab- 
 sently, slightly turning his revolving chair, so that his 
 line gray head and clean-cut features showed in profile 
 to Richard ' ' if you have property, ' ' he repeated, turn- 
 ing back, after a prolonged gaze in the direction of a 
 window commanding the busy street, to meet Richard's 
 open gaze, "and if you sign legal documents at one- 
 and-twenty, your signature is binding. But young men 
 do not always realize that, Mr. Rosny, especially, if I may 
 be permitted to say so, young men of your gallant pro- 
 fession. Sea air apparently has some subtle influence on 
 the value people attach to money ; it appears to make them 
 careless, open-handed, open-hearted. And ah sailors 
 often fall a ready prey to designing persons." 
 
 "Well, I hope I'm not as simple as all that," Richard 
 replied with a boyish, hearty laugh. ' ' And I sha 'n 't be 
 a Croesus exactly, though I'm blest if I know what I 
 shall have." 
 
 Mr. Belton sighed ; he looked at the blotting-pad be- 
 fore him, absently lifting and replacing a paper-weight, 
 and sighed again. 
 
 ' ' What I am about to tell you, ' ' he said at last, " is in 
 strict confidence, as one gentleman, as one man of honor, 
 to another. Under the circumstances, I owe you such 
 confidence. Your responsibilities, my dear young man, 
 are greater than perhaps you are aware. Your mother 
 depends greatly upon you ; her other children are young, 
 their needs are many. Women do not understand busi- 
 ness ; their conduct is regulated by their feelings. Where 
 men think, women feel. Women are unable to weigh the 
 justice of courses of action. Thus the counsel of a mother, 
 and especially of a mother so unfortunately situated, in 
 money matters, is often misleading. Ah, in plain words, 
 Mr. Rosny, I warn you against entering upon any mone- 
 tary transaction with my nephew, Horace Belton. 
 Never sign any paper at his request, without submitting 
 it first to your man of business or taking counsel with 
 your guardian, your uncle, Mr. Adrian Rosny, who is
 
 42 
 
 a sound business man, as well as a distinguished officer in 
 the Indian Civil Service. I speak, not as a member of 
 this house, in which, as you are aware, my nephew, Hor- 
 ace, has been a partner from his youth; I speak as the 
 near relative of the man to whom your mother, -unfortu- 
 nately I fear for herself, is married." 
 
 "My stepfather," said Richard, slowly and stiffly, 
 ' ' has always been most kind and indulgent to me. ' ' 
 
 "Quite so. His stepson gives him all due honor and 
 would not willingly or unnecessarily refer to faults of 
 which he can not, and ought not to, fail to be aware. His 
 stepson is a gentleman, a member of a profession in 
 which honor is greatly prized; he is to be trusted with 
 matters of the greatest delicacy, and, having arrived at 
 man's estate, must not shrink from the knowledge of 
 things very properly concealed from him in earlier years. 
 There are men, Mr. Rosny, who are born without the 
 money-sense; Horace Belton is one of these. Of the 
 duties and obligations, of the values, the moralities, in 
 short, concerned in the acquisition and possession of 
 money, in spending and distributing wealth, he has ab- 
 solutely no conception whatever. He regards money as 
 other men regard the common air around them a neces- 
 sity and a possession to all, within reach of all, and of 
 which none can, by enjoying it, rob any other. He means 
 well, but is none the less dangerous for that. For in- 
 stance, he can not conceive that honor has anything to do 
 with money; the two things do not appear to him to be 
 capable of affecting each other. When I speak of money 
 I include every description of property, of all of which 
 money is the symbol, the common denominator, the ex- 
 pression. Money to Horace is simply metal or paper in 
 a convenient shape, a sufficient quantity of which he holds 
 himself entitled to possess without being bound to take 
 any steps to acquire or retain it. When he steps out of 
 a hansom or into a train or hotel, he feels it to be in ac- 
 cordance with the fitness of things that certain of these 
 pieces of metal should be forthcoming from his pockets ;
 
 BELTON, LAKING & CO. 43 
 
 but he never concerns himself as to the manner in which 
 they came there. When he goes into a shop or writes an 
 order to a merchant, on the other hand, he holds the pres- 
 ence of metal or paper in his pocket to be unnecessary, 
 because payment for his requirements is not immediately 
 demanded. Credit must appear to my nephew in the 
 light of a powerful and beneficent deity, supplying the 
 majority of his needs and demanding nothing from him 
 in return except on rare occasions, when a day of reck- 
 oning, in the form of County Court summonses, bills of 
 sale, and the irruption of bailiffs into his house, fills him 
 with a fine indignation. I am not sure, ' ' added Mr. Bel- 
 ton, inspired by his subject to the extent of forgetting 
 the presence of his auditor, "that Horace would not 
 think it sinful that is, if he thinks anything sinful 
 positively sinful, to pay a bill till he was at least on the 
 verge of being County Courted. But you may have ob- 
 served my nephew's eccentricities concerning the uses 
 and values of money yourself, Mr. Rosny," he added, 
 hastily pulling himself up. 
 
 ' ' They always seem deuced hard up ; I 've noticed that 
 much. ' ' 
 
 ''There is not the slightest necessity for the state of 
 affairs to which you refer, my dear lad. My nephew has 
 a settled and steady income, amply sufficient for his fam- 
 ily and position; what he does with it, the Lord only 
 knows. But we may all know this, that to lend or give to 
 such people as he is worse than waste. Throw money 
 into the sea if you like, but do not lend it to Horace Bel- 
 ton, or to any one depending for maintenance upon him. ' ' 
 
 ' ' It seems a queer failing for a banker, ' ' said Richard, 
 rising to go. 
 
 "He ought never to have been in the business. He 
 has not for some years had any share in the management. 
 He was never anything but a drag and a hindrance to it. 
 The youngest clerk in the house is of more use. But my 
 brother was set upon it ; it was the heritage of his son ; 
 he thought the thorough business training of our desks
 
 44 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 and ledgers, and the habit of steady daily work, would 
 make a man of Horace. It is an excellent training truly, 
 but you remember the adage, 'You can not cobble a silk 
 purse out of a sow's ear.' ' 
 
 "Or a sow's ear out of a silk purse," Richard re- 
 flected, when he walked down the street, wondering what 
 to make of this communication. ' ' That fine old boy must 
 have meant a good deal more than he said, ' ' was his reflec- 
 tion. "I fear that my valued stepfather can be little bet- 
 ter than a swindler. So poor old Belton can't think what 
 his nephew does with his money ? Well, I could give him 
 points there. But how they can keep such a customer 
 aboard the firm beats me. There will be an ugly smash 
 some day. I wonder if poor darling Muff has any notion 
 of the state of things ? I suppose he can 't touch her tiny 
 settlement, which is a little comfort. Oh, Muffle, they 
 shouldn't have rung those blessed joy-bells that day in 
 Wimbury steeple. They really shouldn't. I must have 
 howled prophetically. ' ' 
 
 Richard went straight from the bank to his uncle and 
 guardian, Adrian Rosny, who was just now in England 
 in a little country house a few miles from Ingrestone 
 with his wife and family, some of whom were to con- 
 tinue to live there when he returned to India, and with 
 whom Richard was to spend a couple of days before go- 
 ing home to the Pines. 
 
 "It is but fair that we should see something of you, 
 Dick, ' ' the uncle said. ' ' When once your mother has you 
 at the Pines she will not be overwilling to let you go. 
 And it is not often that you and I chance to be at home 
 together. When did I see you last ? Four or five years 
 ago, was it? Well, I've been longer than that without a 
 sight of my own children. It's a curious state of affairs, 
 but we old Indians are used to it, like the eels, who think 
 nothing of being skinned." 
 
 "Have you seen my mother?" was the first thing 
 Richard asked his uncle when they were alone together. 
 
 "We've exchanged calls. To tell the truth, Dick,
 
 BELTON, LAKING & CO. 45 
 
 it's not easy to be very friendly at that house. Belton 
 and I are not sympathetic ; we have nothing in common. 
 Very natural, don't you know, it's a sort of step-relation- 
 ship. The first husband's family are never welcome to 
 the second husband. A brother's wife's second husband 
 is scarcely a persona grata. It 's a long drive to the Pines, 
 fortunately. Your mother is very well and the children 
 coming on how they spring up in a couple of years ! I 
 wanted to have some of them to stay at Merstone, but I 
 could hardly let your cousins accept invitations to the 
 Pines." 
 
 " It 's awfully hard on the poor little beggars. They 
 must grow up without friends. No one can ever go to 
 the Pines unless there has been a great change since I 
 was there last. Sometimes they suggest Mr. Belton has 
 always been civil to me that I should bring a messmate 
 home. Poor, dear mother would enjoy seeing my friends, 
 and she's so charming. But it can't be done. I say, 
 Uncle Adrian, what on earth made my mother marry that 
 man?" 
 
 " Nature, Dick. A woman of her disposition can't 
 stand alone ; she wants a man to cling to. She was very 
 happy with your father. They had never had a wry 
 word. But Charlie was an ideal husband. She was 
 heart-broken when she lost him ; but she was young. A 
 young woman can 't go on being heart-broken. It 's either 
 consumption or a second marriage. Edith was not con- 
 sumptive. And I was in India. But I don't know that 
 I could have forbidden the bans; it was an excellent 
 match. Partner in Belton, Laking & Co. why, we all 
 thought she was marrying money." 
 
 "Does any one know where the money goes?" asked 
 Richard, who thought he knew. 
 
 "He was always extravagant and careless. And he 
 has many expensive hobbies. At one time it was fancy 
 poultry and fancy cattle-breeding. Then it was horses. 
 Then he is a collector of rare books that he never opens 
 of coins, gems, antiquities. Then he writes, don't you 
 4
 
 46 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 know, and publishes at his own expense of course, you 
 know how slight and amateurish these little essays and 
 travel and sporting sketches are but they must always 
 appear in the most expensive way, sumptuous bindings, 
 hand-made paper editions de luxe, in short. Still, with all 
 this, your poor stepfather must have a perfect genius for 
 getting rid of money to make it fly as he does. I won- 
 der if he speculates ? I fancy he was never anything but 
 a sleeping partner in the bank. ' ' 
 
 "But what could a refined and delicate-natured wo- 
 man like my mother have in common with a man of his 
 character, a loose fish like that ? How could she ? Don't 
 good women know character by instinct ? ' ' 
 
 Adrian Rosny looked at the boy's brown, smooth face 
 and thoughtful brow with amazement. "Not always," 
 he replied with gravity, "else there would be fewer un- 
 happy wives. But I think men know men. And I must 
 confess that I was not unfavorably impressed with Hor- 
 ace Belton. He was pleasant, genial, accomplished, well- 
 bred, a good shot, a good horseman, shallow and flippant 
 certainly, but with nothing against him, certainly noth- 
 ing serious. That very regrettable weakness had cer- 
 tainly not appeared in the early years of his marriage, 
 when I first made his acquaintance. What could have 
 developed it? There is generally some cause, Dick. 
 Some misfortune, loss of hope, bereavement, loss of self- 
 respect, disappointment; some hopeless dreariness that 
 drives a man desperate. A man is sent to some isolated 
 station with nothing to do and fever to poison his blood, 
 or he makes some irreparable mistake. Then he takes 
 to drink. But all seems to have gone well with poor Bel- 
 ton. A charming wife, to whom he appeared genuinely 
 attached, a fine, healthy family; he never lost a child. 
 The bank business has been increasingly prosperous ; you 
 see fresh branches flourishing all over three counties; 
 outwardly, one might say of him that he 'comes in no 
 misfortune like other folk.' But one never can tell, 
 Dick, one never can tell. Take one of these cigars, you'll
 
 BELTON, LAKING & CO. 47 
 
 find them soft and mild. Ah ! you like a fuller flavor ? 
 Judge gently, if at all. I've seen so many fine, lovable 
 young fellows go wrong, go utterly to the dogs for what 
 seemed a mere nothing a push toward the brink, and 
 over they go as we, who have had no such push, might. 
 Judge gently." 
 
 They were walking up and down under the great 
 spreading plane tree on one of the lawns, now meeting 
 the shower of slant sun-rays that pierced the broad leaf- 
 age and made it glow like living chrysolite, now seeing 
 its shadow stretched long and longer before them on sun- 
 lit grass and flower-bed, sun-dial and sun-bright trees; 
 the odor of rose and mignonette blended with crushed 
 turf and cigars, swallows wheeled and swifts darted with 
 thin, sharp cries across the upper blue of the sky. The 
 house, half-smothered in bloom and greenery, basked 
 with open windows and drawn blinds in the sun-glow; 
 women and children came and went, sitting or playing, 
 with happy voices in the shade. The peace and pleas- 
 antness, the feeling of home and security in all around, 
 mingling with the kindness and large-hearted ring in 
 his uncle's deep voice, suddenly struck sharp upon 
 Richard's sense, sharp with a pang of envy and fear 
 and longing, and a miserable feeling of loss and con- 
 trast. 
 
 He looked at the thin, dark face, with its fine-cut in- 
 telligence and serene spiritual glance, observed the fine 
 presence, and the noble air that comes from an eminent 
 position and the habit of command, all graced by that 
 Christian self-forgetfulness and modesty which is the 
 basis of what is summed up in the word gentleman, and 
 sighed. His uncle straightened his tall, spare figure tall 
 as Richard 's, but built on slighter lines, dried by Indian 
 suns and sapped by a strenuous life and looked with af- 
 fectionate tolerance, as he replaced the cigar-case in his 
 pocket, at the young, troubled face, fresh and vivid and 
 richly hued under its sunburn and glowing with the 
 passion and impatience of youth.
 
 48 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 ''Youth is sometimes hard and often intolerant," he 
 said; "untempted, untried youth." 
 
 Richard's face had darkened; he crushed the match- 
 box flat in his hand, so that the matches kindled and sent 
 out sulphurous, smoldering fume, that burned him and 
 made him dash them to the grass, into which he stamped 
 them with a furious foot. "I hate the beast," he cried, 
 in a quivering voice, ' ' I hate him to death ! ' ' 
 
 "Natural, very natural. But futile, Dick, futile and 
 feeble. Try to pity, learn to pity. ' ' 
 
 "Pity? Pity, Uncle Adrian? Pity is not for him. 
 Heaven knows I've learned to pity. I pity her, oh, God, I 
 pity her, pity, pity her! And Gerald who wouldn't 
 pity the boy ? Oh, a splendid boy ! And pretty Addie 
 and the rest. Don't talk of pity. Think of those help- 
 less things; that sweet, refined, delicate woman and 
 that that that hog!" he shouted. 
 
 * ' Come, come, old boy. Try the cigar ; you '11 find it 
 mild. Here's a light. Your cousins have been looking 
 forward for weeks to annexing you for their tennis. 
 Well, fume away, then let off the steam. Fie, f o, f um ! 
 I smell the blood of an Englishman ! This is your true 
 Ercles vein, Dick. Come, old lad, no man lets himself 
 go. Women and children can't help it. We Rosnys have 
 to hold ourselves in, don't you know; plenty of brim- 
 stone in the blood." 
 
 Richard was ghastly white under his bronze, his stal- 
 wart body quivered, a faint sob shook his deep chest. 
 His uncle took his arm and paced the leaf -shadowed turf 
 in silence, smoking pensively till Richard calmed a little 
 and spoke in a more natural voice. 
 
 ' ' If you knew my mother, Uncle Adrian ; if you saw 
 her devotion, her unselfishness, and, oh! her misery. 
 She a woman of intellect, of social charm condemned 
 to that squalid suffering, that degraded companionship, 
 condemned to see those children poor little beggars 
 ill-treated, neglected, spoiled, dragged up anyhow ! Oh, 
 if the brute would but drink himself to death ! ' '
 
 BELTON, LAKING & CO. 49 
 
 "No, Dick, no. Not that." 
 
 ' ' Such things ought not to be possible, ' ' the boy con- 
 tinued. "Consider Aunt Margaret in my mother's posi- 
 tion. Think of it. Fancy it. And my mother so sen- 
 sitive, so dainty in all her ways and thoughts. Diana to 
 a Satyr and no mistake. My mother is a good woman, 
 Uncle Adrian. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Most unselfish. Most devoted. Make her as happy 
 as you can, Dick. Her trials are many and she has only 
 you to look to for earthly comfort. But things are not 
 as bad as you think. Belton is not by any means so bad. 
 Of course, he has that deplorable weakness. But he has 
 good points. And he has not been fortunate in his 
 choice of a wife. You needn 't flare up. A worse woman 
 might have made a better wife. An unfortunate mar- 
 riage ; but a marriage still. Try to think the best of that 
 poor man and be as civil as you can to your mother's 
 husband for her sake. Shut your eyes to weaknesses. 
 Cursed was Canaan. Life, one finds as one grows older 
 the art of life consists chiefly in tolerating the failings 
 of those around us. Human intercourse consists in mu- 
 tual forbearance. Human kindness is based on pity. 
 "We admire in youth, we pity in age. For we all need 
 pity, Dick, every one of us." 
 
 ' ' Hm ! Not beasts who snatch at every swinish en- 
 joyment they can find and lay waste the lives of women 
 and children who depend on them. Not beasts who 
 Well, well ! No use to howl over it, as you say. I dare 
 say I shall be civil to the brute and he to me. But if I see 
 him kick one of them for nothing again by George " 
 
 "Better not, Dick, better not. It would do them no 
 good, and you couldn't stay in the man's house if it 
 once came to blows. I '11 try to get him to put Gerald in 
 the navy. He and Archie are to go to a good prepara- 
 tory school next term with our Charlie and Harry. By 
 the way, you've been lucky, Dick; your few years' serv- 
 ice have been stuffed with good chances. Wherever a 
 naval gun has to be fired in earnest your ship always
 
 50 
 
 seems to be there. Tell me about the^West African busi- 
 ness. ' ' 
 
 Richard felt better after this explosion and made no 
 further reference to family troubles during his visit, nor, 
 indeed, had he ever done so before. But Merstone, an 
 ideally happy and harmonious household, overflowing 
 with boys and girls at home for those rare holidays in 
 which Anglo-Indian families occasionally meet under one 
 roof, was a bad preparation for the Pines, the inmates 
 of which were in the habit of seeing far too much of one 
 another. A Rosny among Rosnys, and popular among 
 the young ones, as the sailor cousin who had been all 
 over the world and could do everything, he felt more at 
 home at Merstone than in his mother's house, where no 
 one bore his name, and where he missed the intimate com- 
 panionship of a man of varied experience and cultivated 
 intellect, of sterling character and the exquisite courtesy 
 and tact characteristic of Indian civilians. 
 
 Yet he could not but be touched by his reception at 
 Ingrestone. He had seen none of the Beltons for three 
 years ; and his mother met him at the station, too deeply 
 moved to give way to her feelings in public. She could 
 only take his strong hand silently and silently kiss him, 
 unable to withdraw her eyes from their eager feast on 
 the face so long missed and so much developed by three 
 years of action and study, yet the same familiar, friendly 
 face, as that of the first baby she brought into the world 
 in joy and pride, with the same love and courage looking 
 from the deep blue eyes. It was rest and security merely 
 to look at the stalwart young figure and hear the deep 
 boom of his cheery voice. 
 
 "How are you, Muff? I'm blest if you don't look 
 younger than ever," was all he said, but it was enough 
 to last all the way to the Pines, whither they drove in 
 silence and content, and where they were received with 
 a joyous shout from a crowd of small faces looking over 
 and through the gate. 
 
 "What's all this?" was the gruff salutation of the
 
 BELTON, LAKING & CO. 51 
 
 tall brother, standing at the house-door with children 
 swarming all round and upon him, Addie standing on 
 the balustrade post and pulling down his face to kiss, 
 Gerald and Archie thumping him in an ecstasy of wel- 
 come, and various smaller ones clinging to his legs and 
 arms. "Where do all these kids come from? Who 
 do they belong to? Why doesn't somebody smack 
 them?" 
 
 "Witty, Witty, good old Wit," was the cry with 
 which he was dragged into the hall, pulled on to a seat 
 and danced round by the bigger ones, protesting that he 
 didn't know the boy and girl of ten and eleven, and ask- 
 ing what had become of Gerald and Adeline, allowing 
 the girls to kiss him, and bestowing a few affectionate 
 cuffs on the boys. 
 
 "What have oo dot in oo pottet?" was shouted. 
 "Where are my shark's teeth? Where's my Indian ca- 
 noe ? ' ' while the luggage was being thumped down in the 
 hall and bumped up the stairs under a running fire of 
 conjecture as to its contents. 
 
 Mrs. Belton sat in the broad path of sunshine that 
 streamed in through the open door and continued to 
 feast her eyes on her handsome sailor, the contents of 
 whose rifled pockets were being appropriated with joy- 
 ous cries in spite of cuffs and threats. The merry tumult 
 was at its height, Adeline and Gerald at last catching 
 hands and swinging each other round in their excitement, 
 Addie 's tangle of sunny curls flying out like a Moenad's 
 hair, when a shadow fell across this scene of harmless 
 riot, and there, in the doorway, blocking out the sun- 
 shine, stood the gaunt figure of the master of the house. 
 At the sight of those stern eyes every face fell, and the 
 hall was emptied in a moment, as if by magic, of all but 
 Mrs. Belton and Richard. 
 
 Rosny was surprised at the friendliness of his step- 
 father 's reception, pleasantly surprised to find him more 
 like his old genial self and less uncertain in temper, until, 
 a few days after the twenty-first birthday, he was asked
 
 52 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 in a careless, offhand manner, just" to put his name to 
 a bit of paper, a mere legal form ; then he was surprised 
 no more. But less of his time than usual was spent at 
 Ingrestone; business a word as interpreted by male 
 relatives too familiar to poor Edith often called Rich- 
 ard to town; there were long-standing engagements to 
 visit old friends; now that Uncle Adrian was living in 
 the neighborhood, it was a duty to look him up, irrespec- 
 tive of business visits in connection with the long guard- 
 ianship now coming to an end. 
 
 No one knew that one of these visits was marked by 
 an exceedingly bad quarter of an hour for Richard, in 
 which there was a serious calling to account respecting 
 debts incurred in a way difficult to explain and far from 
 satisfactory to the uncle and guardian. But the bad 
 quarter of an hour, as Dick expressed it, was in the bill, 
 an incident that commonly befalls spirited youth in the 
 years of minority; it left him light-hearted and cheery, 
 except for a little compunction of conscience at having 
 vexed his uncle. 
 
 ''Uncle Adrian takes things so tragically," he re- 
 flected. "That's the worst of being so saintlike. Yet 
 the dear old boy isn't a saint; he isn't as bad as all that. 
 But he's much too good for a world like this. He's 
 bound at his time of life to preachee-preachee to a young- 
 ster like me, I suppose. ' ' 
 
 "Dick is young and light-hearted," the uncle com- 
 mented to his wife ; ' ' boys of his temperament are prone 
 to take life as a good joke till they find it a bad one." 
 
 "That is just what I was saying, dearest; Richard 
 has no real seriousness, no ballast, he is never in earnest. 
 How is he to keep straight ? ' ' 
 
 "That is what David asked so long ago, my dear, 
 and if I remember rightly, he supplied the only solution. 
 I 'm less surprised at the number of youths who go wrong 
 than at the number of those who keep straight, or having, 
 as they say, sown their wild oats, pull themselves up and 
 develop into irreproachable old fogies, when I remember
 
 BELTON, LAKING & CO. 53 
 
 what young blood is. Dick lias a heart and a good one ; 
 but, as you say, he wants ballast. And I don't think 
 much of his friends especially that young Musgrave. I 
 hope Musgrave may get another ship soon." But the 
 friendship with that young Musgrave continued.
 
 KITTY MUSGEAVE 
 
 INGBESTONE had suffered the fate of all pleasant 
 solitudes in these rushing days of overteeming popu- 
 lation, since the Beltons first came to live at the Pines. 
 Then the plain substantial gray house, that had 
 looked so grimly at Richard when he first saw it in 
 the winter dusk, had stood solitary and aloof among 
 its dark trees; now its windows saw the smoke of other 
 chimneys and its wide prospects were blocked here and 
 there. 
 
 Yet Ingrestone was still small and secluded, com- 
 manding broad spaces and far horizons. The new rail- 
 way that allured the Beltons thither had attracted others, 
 without working such utter havoc as is usual with that 
 familiar brownie, the curse and blessing of our days. 
 The sentiment of the place was not yet destroyed; its 
 aloofness, the freedom of the wind's broad and briny 
 sweep over marshy meads, the exhilaration of its wild 
 and wide burst over gray and lonely downs, by which the 
 place was ramparted, remained; the sea's sparkle, the 
 tumult of its foaming ridges and azure sweep of its calm, 
 were still dominant. The squalor of half-built outskirt 
 and rubbish-heap, the dreariness of stuccoed terrace and 
 smugness of encroaching villa, were not yet, nor the 
 horror of high w r alls and overtrim public gardens. 
 Only at Sandycombe, beyond the marsh-land, was the 
 glare of electric light thrown upon the astonished 
 waves. 
 
 The joy of open field, tangled hedgerow and copse; 
 the pleasantness of cottage and farm buried in garden 
 54
 
 KITTY MUSGRAVE 55 
 
 and orchard; the comfort of lichen-crusted barn, pic- 
 turesque granary and elm-shaded rickyard, and sounds 
 and sights of animal life; the beauty of unnumbered 
 wild flowers springing in untold variety everywhere, 
 unbidden and unsought, like all our best joys, still 
 made life in that region a pleasant and wholesome 
 thing. 
 
 And always the solemn grandeur of the sea, the wild 
 and pensive freedom of open downs, the flight of sea-gull 
 and cormorant, of plover, rook, and hawk, and the song of 
 every bird in its season, gave the feeling of wild life and 
 freedom. Nor did any steam plow tear violently, with 
 harsh clank of iron and stench of smoke, at the fair bosom 
 of earth; the plowman still drove his share with gentle 
 skill along the fragrant furrow, behind beautiful, patient 
 horses with liquid eyes and nodding manes ; mowers still 
 lined sloping meadows in rhythmic ranks; the sower 
 still strode with fine gesture and open hand across the 
 fallow; man and nature worked together, half in play, 
 hand in hand in exquisite harmony; the hoof of Mam- 
 mon had not stamped upon the wholesome life of these 
 fields the hideous desire to wring the utmost farthing 
 from them ; the ugliness of commerce was forgotten ; the 
 wealth of the land seemed spontaneous, unmercenary, 
 virgin. 
 
 The beauty and sweet peace of the place came into 
 Rosny's heart like a sudden revelation as he skimmed 
 along the level road through marshy meadows where a 
 deep stream crept slowly between trenched banks that 
 were hidden by lush-growing water-plants and stiff 
 phalanx of sedge and flag, and where masses of forget- 
 me-nots and plumes of meadow-sweet still lingered into 
 autumn with the last and sweetest bloom of honey- 
 suckle on his bicycle, the perilous high-wheel machine 
 of that day, attempted only by agile youth of virile sex, 
 and somewhat frowned upon as a cheap plebeian substi- 
 tute for the costly and aristocratic horse. A line of 
 poetry flashing into memory brought Rosny with a
 
 56 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 bound from his bicycle to the side-path and thence to the 
 bank of the stream, to gather a bunch of 
 
 The sweet forget-me-nots 
 That grow for happy lovers, 
 
 and tie them to the handle-bar with some meadow-sweet 
 and honeysuckle. 
 
 Then up and off again in the mellow September sun- 
 shine on his quaint iron steed; past low flower-tangled 
 hedges and cattle browsing in meadows; past a shining 
 upland, where wheat-sheaves were piled, and up a steep 
 lane, where berried briony festooned the hedges and 
 crimson rose-berries mingled with fast-seeding traveler's 
 joy, and brambles were laden with pink blossom and ber- 
 ries red and black ; past a deep-eaved cottage, standing in 
 its little teeming garden, close-sentineled by gallant 
 hollyhocks and rich with fruit-bent orchard boughs; 
 past a gray-walled grange, belted with elms and sur- 
 rounded by gardens, orchard, and barn all glowing in 
 September glory, with the sea behind and the long ram- 
 part of undulating down before him. Strange that the 
 beauty and interest and charm of these every-day sights 
 and sounds had never before come home to his heart as 
 to-day, when they touched him as he had never been 
 touched before. Not by palm-fringed coral islands and 
 Cingalese precipices robed in forest of Paradise, by Alps 
 descending toward the blue Mediterranean, by its blue 
 grottoes and islands set gemlike in its bosom; nor by 
 splendor of sunrise and sunset on mountain and sea, or 
 by the vivid life of foreign ports and cities seated, domed 
 and spired, upon beautiful bays and inlets. No, this 
 quiet English countryside, smiling under a tender, mys- 
 terious blue sky, was worth all the world beside, and his 
 heart was bounding with fulness of eager life as it had 
 never bounded before. 
 
 Now he leaped to the ground to go through a herd of 
 sedate, soft-eyed cows, padding with gentle dignity along 
 the lane to afternoon milking; what balm in their
 
 KITTY MUSGRAVE 57 
 
 breath, what expression in their innocent faces, how lov- 
 able, how pathetic, these helpless fellow creatures were ! 
 Happy Dick Rosny, happier in your unconscious joy than 
 you know, will you ever again be as happy as on this 
 golden afternoon at the culmination of the year? Per- 
 haps there is a day in every life that can never be recalled 
 or repeated, that, could it be made eternal, would never 
 pall, and perhaps that day is one of hope, not fulfilment. 
 Certainly it is a day that comes before life is marred by 
 any serious error or irrevocable wrong-doing, a day glori- 
 ous with the morning light of innocence and hope. 
 
 Arrived at Ingrestone, Rosny flashed past the Pines, 
 with a careless nod to the curly head peeping idly through 
 the dilapidated gate ; passing the Pines, he turned in at 
 the gate of a newer house, standing beyond and some- 
 what behind the other and overlooking some part of its 
 grounds, and, leading his bicycle, walked with a less con- 
 fident step between trim flower-beds cut in the turf up to 
 the door, which stood hospitably open under Gloire de 
 Dijon roses and almond-scented clematis, as if to say 
 "Come in," filled with trepidation, almost terror. Yes, 
 Lieutenant Rosny, R. N., of H. M. S. Formidable, who 
 counted war service, and had been in wrecks and ex- 
 plosions, who had saved many lives and reveled in all 
 such perils as beset sea-soldiers, trembled through his six 
 foot six inches at the thought of ringing the bell of that 
 open door. He almost turned and fled for fear of facing 
 the homely parlor-maid the sound would summon to it. 
 As for the forget-me-nots, he would have thrown them 
 away, they looked so homely by flaunting garden beau- 
 ties, but that there was nowhere to throw them unno- 
 ticed. 
 
 He never rang the formidable bell at all, for, while he 
 stood hesitating, a light step crossed the hall, a white 
 dress fluttered through its cool shadows, and a young 
 voice was heard softly singing 
 
 " If doughty deeds my lady please, 
 For her I'll wear the blue,"
 
 58 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 Dick Rosny's own song, which restored his ebbing cour- 
 age and flushed him with serene self-confidence, un- 
 troubled even by the advance of the singer with a look of 
 pleased surprise. 
 
 "Mr. Rosny? How odd! We were just wondering 
 what had become of you." 
 
 "Since the day before yesterday?" he thought, but 
 only said: "How kind of you to wonder! Well, I've 
 just risked my life in your service, Miss Musgrave ; that 's 
 what became of me. I thought you might like these for- 
 get-me-nots, so I nearly tumbled into the trench getting 
 them, just where it's at least three feet deep." 
 
 ' ' Three feet ? I hoped you were going to say twenty 
 at least. The peril of three feet ? Very cheap heroism. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Ah ! you are too hard-hearted to believe in the dan- 
 ger. Consider the narrowness of the trench ; it would be 
 like putting one's head in a bucket with pinioned arms. 
 Think what a fool I should have looked, wrong end up- 
 permost, if I had tumbled in. ' ' 
 
 1 ' On the whole, it was wiser to keep right end upper- 
 most and bring me these charming things. Mother is so 
 fond of them. We shall find her on the tennis-ground ; 
 she will be so glad to see you." 
 
 It took a long time to reach the tennis-ground, con- 
 sidering that it was so near ; but the afternoon was warm 
 and the grounds were arranged in such a manner as to 
 offer objects of interest at every turn, and so cause long 
 deviations from the right path. The rose-walk, a tunnel 
 of climbing roses, for instance, led away from the tennis- 
 ground to a seat under a beech-tree, where it seemed 
 necessary to sit and talk in the particularly bald and dis- 
 jointed strain of people who have more to say than they 
 dare express and who are quite content with silence. 
 
 " Du bist wie eine Blume, 
 
 So schon und hold und rein," 
 
 Rosuy was saying in his heart, whenever he looked upon 
 the dainty figure and flower-like face by his side, or lis-
 
 KITTY MUSGRAVE 59 
 
 tened to the voice that made him tremble with delight 
 that was half pain, and mixed with longing and dread. 
 If the clear eyes would but look up and smile, he thought ; 
 yet, if they did, it was too much. Some of his forget-me- 
 nots were in her white dress; she gathered him a dark 
 crimson rose, the scent of which made him weak with 
 pleasure, as they passed through the sunny gardens to 
 the tennis-lawn, where her mother sat beneath yellowing 
 linden-trees and made him welcome. Adeline was not to 
 come to Kathleen for music-lessons again, she mentioned 
 presently. 
 
 "I was proud of my little pupil," Kathleen said; 
 "she has real talent. And the fence is mended." 
 
 ' ' But why ? Why mayn 't she come ? " he asked, the 
 light going out of his face. 
 
 "Mr. Belton thinks it a tax upon Kitty. A pity, be- 
 cause the obligation is really the other way. ' ' 
 
 "Oh," said Richard, "I don't know about that. It 
 was a splendid chance for Addie. ' ' He looked so vexed 
 that they were sorry to have mentioned the thing. All 
 three knew that the mended fence meant an end to all 
 but formal intercourse between the two houses. When 
 had a fence been mended at the Pines before ? 
 
 "You have been very kind to my little sisters," he 
 said presently. ' ' They talk about you from morning till 
 night." 
 
 * ' They are darlings, ' ' Kathleen said, with the pretty 
 flush that went to Richard's heart. 
 
 A few weeks ago he had never seen her and had 
 been bored by the children 's recital of her virtues. Mrs. 
 Belton, who went out little and never called on fresh 
 people, had made an exception at his request in the case 
 of Ronald Musgrave's cousins, who had lately become 
 her neighbors ; and she had told Richard what a boon it 
 was to the children to be so much with this gentle and 
 charming young woman, who was gradually taming and 
 refining them and giving Addie steady music-lessons. 
 All this was very well ; still Richard had no great desire
 
 60 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 to make Miss Musgrave 's acquaintance, a duty he meant 
 to perform at the proper time. A girl so good was prob- 
 ably dull and stupid, with no complexion and a large 
 waist. 
 
 One hot Sunday morning Dick had come over to the 
 Pines from his quarters at Sandycombe to breakfast, a 
 repast at which his stepfather seldom presented himself. 
 The bells were ringing for morning prayer, the children 
 in Sunday attire were waiting for their mother in the 
 garden, where he was stretched in the shade with his 
 pipe ; they were asking him why he did not go to church, 
 he was inventing various whimsical excuses. 
 
 ' ' Oh, shut up and don 't bother ! ' ' cried Archie at last. 
 "Men don't go to church; it's only for women and chil- 
 dren." 
 
 "Is men too wicked to go to tsurts?" asked Molly 
 sadly. 
 
 "Much too wicked," Dick said, patting the tiny 
 gloved hand on his knee and smiling into the wide blue 
 eyes. 
 
 "Then they are too wicked to go to heaven," said 
 Adeline with decision, "and I don't believe it; for how 
 could there be any heaven without men in it?" and 
 Molly began to cry over her clean frock, and screw her 
 best gloves into her eyes at this melancholy prospect. 
 
 ' ' I sant like to go to heaven if there isn 't no gempel- 
 mans there," she whimpered piteously. Nor could she 
 be comforted by any means until her brother consented 
 to accompany her, not only to church that morning, but 
 also, as far as in him lay, on the road to a better world. 
 
 So to church Richard went, enchanted by his small 
 sister's discontent with a purely feminine heaven, one of 
 his hands firmly grasped by Molly's mite of a fist, the 
 other as firmly held by Addie's. and between these two 
 he sat, each arm brushed by a cloud of curly hair, whence 
 innocent eyes peeped up now and then, partly to see if 
 he was behaving properly, and partly to taste the joy so 
 dear to woman of leading the errant male into good ways.
 
 KITTY MUSGRAVE 61 
 
 Much relieved to find the prodigal's conduct beyond 
 reproach, the little maidens attended to their own de- 
 votions and gradually forgot him in the splendor of Sun- 
 day hats, the furtive smiles of friends, the pleasantness 
 of trees and birds outside, and the mystery of half-de- 
 ciphered mural tablets within, until at last a tangle of 
 curls drooped in helpless slumber upon his arm. 
 
 At this he moved to make the child more comfortable, 
 and looked behind him, straight into the pure and pen- 
 sive eyes of a slight and graceful girl sitting by a mass- 
 ive stone pillar, that by its gray and antique solidity 
 emphasized the freshness of her fragile beauty and wild- 
 rose face. His heart gave a great bound, such a flame 
 leaped into his dark-blue eyes as kindled warm crimson 
 in the soft young cheeks they rested on; for three sec- 
 onds he looked steadily and gravely, but so intently, into 
 the other young eyes, that they were obliged to meet his. 
 Then, fetching a deep breath, he turned and looked be- 
 fore him in a tumult of new and strange emotion, made 
 up of joy and pain and terror and exultation, and knew 
 that the whole world had changed and would never be 
 the same again. 
 
 Who was she, what was she? Of what was she 
 thinking in that long, soft gaze? Did she feel the fire 
 that flashed through and from some inner unsuspected 
 deeps in him ? Ah ! and what was he that he should dare 
 encounter that pure glance? All his sins, follies, and 
 weaknesses rose up in their blackness and pollution and 
 asked him what he could have in common with one so 
 white and sweet of soul. Yet the world was suddenly 
 irradiated with hope, yet the very sunshine pouring 
 through translucent green of lindens outside was more 
 glorious, the blue of the deep summer heaven sweeter 
 and deeper, and the quality of everything beautiful and 
 worthy and delightful suddenly intensified, because of 
 that brief, mutual gaze. 
 
 His mother, decorously listening to the sermon, 
 turned by chance and looked upon him with wonder. 
 5
 
 62 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 Never had she surprised such an expression upon her 
 son's strong and masculine face, so full of worship and 
 aspiration, so rapt, so spiritualized, by joy mixed with a 
 sacred awe. There were depths then in this matter-of- 
 fact son of hers, after all depths still unsounded. His 
 pronounced dislike to all expression of feeling probably 
 covered a warmer heart than he was credited with. He 
 was a kind son ; but she would rather have had caresses 
 and tender words than kindness. Emotions were to her 
 as wine to a drunkard. She lived on excesses of feeling 
 and reveled in tender expressions. In these days Rich- 
 ard was a source of perpetual irritation to her ; she com- 
 plained that he misunderstood her, and was secretly 
 angry that she could not understand a nature that was 
 to hers as the sea to a river. 
 
 Once, when they rose to leave the church, Eichard 
 ventured another glance in the direction of the pillar. 
 The pensive young face was still there, the slender figure 
 fluttered over by a sunbeam sliding through rustling 
 leaves outside; a soldierlike man with grizzled hair sat 
 next her, and next him a handsome woman of middle age. 
 They must be the Musgraves. 
 
 Five minutes later found him walking between 
 hedgerows in a strange sort of dream, side by side with 
 the young creature whose face had so deeply touched 
 him, feeling as if his soul were plunged into some foun- 
 tain of sweet waters that cleansed and healed. 
 
 Only a few weeks ago this meeting had occurred, but 
 very few days had passed since without some word, and 
 many thoughts had been exchanged between them and 
 many more divined by infinitesimal signs. She was so 
 gay and good-tempered with the children, so companion- 
 able and sympathetic to their mother ; whether she sang 
 or rowed, played tennis or talked, all was done with such 
 grace and distinction so Richard thought. 
 
 They played tennis under Mrs. Musgrave's eye; the 
 Musgraves, Dick thought, were upholders of convention 
 to a fault. What a fool to miss the opportunity in the
 
 KITTY MUSGRAVE 63 
 
 garden ! It was always like that ; when the favorable 
 moment came it found him mute as a fish, stupid as an 
 owl. But could she ever care for a harum-scarum, devil- 
 may-care fellow like himself? 
 
 "Well, I seem bound to win everything to-day," 
 Kathleen said at last, laying down her racket and rais- 
 ing her arms to tidy the hair tumbling about her flushed 
 face after the last victorious bound at the ball. 
 
 "Everything; more than you want, perhaps," Rich- 
 ard said. 
 
 "Oh! but I like to win everything even if I don't 
 want it," she added, with the joyous ring only heard in 
 young voices. 
 
 ' ' Well, then, ' ' he burst out with a sudden movement 
 toward her, his hands outstretched, his eyes flashing blue 
 fire, "you've won me. You won me at first sight that 
 day in church, before ever I heard your voice or knew 
 your name. Oh, Kitty, one look finished my business, 
 and whatever you say or do, I shall never forget you, 
 never. ' ' 
 
 "And I shall never forget you, never," she fal- 
 tered. "I I liked you that day in church, when you 
 turned round." 
 
 "Oh, darling! You can't mean that you care for 
 me, that you'll listen to me, that you'll have me?" 
 
 Mrs. Musgrave had thoughtfully left her seat under 
 the trees; the tennis-players were overshadowed by a 
 young birch; only swallows sweeping with airy cries 
 across the blue and robins chirruping in an apple-tree 
 saw this world-old drama enacted. Kitty raised her 
 clear bright eyes, swimming in tears, and smiled in a 
 silence that went to the very center of his heart. Her 
 dear, gallant sailor towered above her with a graver, 
 deeper look on his frank and sunny face than she 
 had ever seen before; then she was gathered to his 
 heart. 
 
 A few minutes later, Kitty 's father, returning from a 
 day 's shooting and striding noiselessly over the deep turf,
 
 64 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 came noiselessly upon his pretty Kitty and ' ' that young 
 Rosny." 
 
 "Pray, sir, what is the meaning of this?" he thun- 
 dered. 
 
 "The meaning is," replied Richard with a start and 
 quick recovery, "that your daughter has promised to be 
 my wife, with your consent."
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 MY SON'S WIFE 
 
 THE stern parent, frowning down his children's 
 youthful joys and warning suitors of the premises, is 
 obsolete, if not extinct; with him has vanished a great 
 zest and stimulus to love-making and early marriage. 
 Colonel Musgrave was not a stern father ; he looked with 
 philosophic resignation, even with complacence, upon the 
 probable marriage of all his daughters in turn, so Rich- 
 ard passed scatheless through the ordeal of a private in- 
 terview in the study, though he afterward confessed that 
 his knees shook and his heart thumped audibly the whole 
 time. 
 
 ' ' I think, my dear, ' ' the father said to his wife at the 
 end of the day, "that little Kitty has done fairly well, 
 after all. She hasn't the style and go of the others, 
 though she 's the prettiest and best of the bunch. Rosny 
 is all right. A smart officer, and has seen service." 
 
 "He is a dear boy, and a good son. Good sons make 
 good husbands. But I do not like the Belton connec- 
 tion." 
 
 "You can't have everything in a world like this 
 where there are not husbands enough to go round. Mrs. 
 Belton, poor thing, is a charming woman. She dresses 
 well and is still good-looking. Grief preserves the figure 
 if it ages the face. Rosny is well-connected. He has 
 property and a fair chance of promotion. If he has been 
 a little wild, he will steady down. Kitty is the very girl 
 to steady him, just a little overprim and Puritanic; I 
 shall take care that he settles everything on Kathleen and 
 her children, if only to keep it from those Beltons." 
 
 65
 
 66 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 "After all, if only the young people are attached to 
 each other, what more can we ask 1 ' ' 
 
 "For Kitty I should ask five hundred a year to 
 begin with, not more. She's a good little housewife. 
 Rosny is a capable chap. That factory of his has money 
 in it. You don't often find a young naval officer start- 
 ing a factory, much less making it pay. I like the young- 
 ster. He looks you straight in the face. Kit has turned 
 up a trump this time, bless her. ' ' 
 
 "Thank Heaven, I sha'n't have to face that any 
 more," thought Richard, passing a handkerchief over 
 his face when he issued triumphant from the study. 
 "Kitty, darling, I'd face it ten times over for you, 
 though, ' ' he told her afterward in the scented dusk of the 
 garden. ' ' What wouldn 't I face for you, Kitten ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' What would you face, Richard ? ' ' Kitty asked, sud- 
 denly lifting the sweet face hidden on his shoulder and 
 smiling into his eyes. "Name the poison." 
 
 ' ' My sweet angel ! What do I hate most 1 Dulness, 
 twaddle, cold mutton, barrel-organs, bagpipes, a dead 
 calm every horror you can think of, dear, I 'd face for 
 you?" 
 
 "Could you give up tobacco for me?" 
 "Yes; and stop my grog into the bargain." 
 "Do it for a week, then. So good night, Richard. ' ' 
 "Darling, it's done. Ah! one minute, only one." 
 His arm clasped empty air; he found himself alone 
 in the garden, with the sound of a light, joyous laugh and 
 the rustle of fluttering skirts in his ears and heart and 
 happy tears in his eyes. 
 
 Till to-morrow at luncheon? Why, it was an eter- 
 nity ; Musgrave must have a millstone for a heart. But 
 that was Kitty's window up there, muffled in clematis, 
 the Virgin 's Bower of poets. Ah ! it was lighted and the 
 blinds drawn ; she was there ; would she peep through the 
 blind ? or was she too certain that he was there below, his 
 heart, all his heart, going up to her in his eager eyes ? 
 Up there, behind the blinds, Kitty stopped, smiling,
 
 MY SON'S WIFE 67 
 
 the brush arrested half-way through the long swathes 
 of her shining hair, to listen to the soft whistle of Kath- 
 leen Mavourneen. And when the last gong rumbled, 
 and with a last touch, she flashed like summer lightning 
 down the stairs to dinner, the melody still came low and 
 mellow from under the clematis. 
 
 "He will not be here to-night, children/' a sad voice 
 was saying at the Pines, where Mrs. Belton, having dined 
 lightly and drearily alone, was sitting by a shaded lamp 
 in the drawing-room with some needlework in her hand ; 
 ' ' he was on his way to Merstone, no doubt, and will dine 
 and perhaps sleep there. No, Adeline, no music to-night, 
 please. Suppose we have a little French reading, Les 
 Malheurs de Sophie. Archie, you may say your poetry 
 first. Come, dear. 'When the British ' ' 
 
 " 'When the Blissish,' " began Archie, discontent- 
 edly, 
 
 " When the Blissish warming queen, 
 Leading out the Roaming gods, 
 Thought it was so beastly mean " 
 
 "Nonsense, dear," sighed poor Mrs. Belton, whose 
 efforts to teach her wild little brood were necessarily 
 spasmodic, "you are not trying. Molly, darling, say 
 your piece instead. ' ' 
 
 Edith still retained the grace and charm of early 
 womanhood, though the hair rippling over her delicate 
 forehead was dashed with gray ; the lines traced by care 
 and pain in her face, and the hollows darkening with 
 many crows' feet under her large, bright eyes, were 
 scarcely seen in the lamplight; her languor and soft 
 melancholy suited well with the refined tenuity of her 
 face and form; her dress, no matter how plain or even 
 shabby it might be, was always in the best taste and worn 
 with an elegance peculiar to herself. A jewel, a flower, 
 a little exquisite lace placed with inimitable grace and 
 discretion, sufficed to redeem from dowdiness anything 
 she wore. She had the instinct of beauty so strongly that 
 she could not pass through a room without some slight and
 
 68 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 rapid adjustment of the things in it r that was like magic 
 in the air of beauty it effected. Though the drawing-room 
 was shabby and faded, there was nothing ugly or squalid 
 in it. Flowers carelessly flung about gave it poetry; 
 everything was gracefully arranged, cracks and rents and 
 stains were hidden by some apparently unmeant device, 
 that converted a blemish into an adornment. The long, 
 slender hand laid caressingly on Molly's curls was white 
 and pretty; her voice was sweet, if plaintive, and her 
 accent very pure. She scarcely looked old enough to be 
 the mother of that stalwart sailor whistling beneath his 
 sweetheart's window. 
 
 Les Malheurs de Sophie were being slowly recounted 
 with great variety of bad accent, when Richard bounded 
 up-stairs four steps at a stride, and, bursting like a 
 beneficent bombshell into the room, his pulses leaping 
 with all kinds of repressed emotion, was touched 
 by the pensive charm of his mother, engarlanded by 
 fresh child-faces, and reclining in a deep chair, whence 
 her fine-cut face and thoughtful eyes showed starlike, 
 and her clear voice, correcting the children, sounded 
 sweetly and woke the deep pity always alive, if some- 
 times slumbering, in the depth of his heart. 
 
 There was a unanimous subdued cry at this appear- 
 ance ; the Malheurs de Sophie were flung aside ; even the 
 tired mother rose with a joyous exclamation and a smile 
 of welcome. 
 
 "Why didn't you come before?" cried Gerald. 
 "He's been asleep all day. We could have had a stun- 
 ning time." 
 
 "When he gets up and goes to sleep in the morning, 
 he's safe for the day," Adeline explained. 
 
 Dick, to their surprise, returned the little girls' kisses, 
 bestowed a cuff of unusual cordiality on the boys, and 
 kissed his mother with a vehemence that startled her, it 
 was so unusual. 
 
 "Why, Richie, darling, what is the matter?" she 
 asked.
 
 MY SON'S WIFE 69 
 
 "Nothing, Muffie, nothing only I am so jolly hun- 
 gry. Hasn't Mr. Belton slept rather long this time? 
 Wouldn 't it be well to rouse him ? ' ' Dick asked, when he 
 was in the drawing-room alone with his mother, after the 
 children had gone to bed. 
 
 "Heaven forbid!" she replied hastily; "I mean it 
 would make him in a terrible condition to rouse him be- 
 fore he has slept it off. I used to at first. It nearly 
 drove him mad. Once he took an overdose and told us 
 to keep him awake by force. That was an experience not 
 easily forgotten." 
 
 "Surely he might take an overdose and not tell 
 you." 
 
 "Yes, I have thought of that. But I watch him. 
 Oh, Richie, where will it end? And how can it be 
 stopped ? And what must the children think ? It is not 
 fit for them to be in the house." 
 
 " It 's better than the other thing, Muffie. They think 
 he is ill. And he 's out of the way. And you are sure of 
 a little peace for a time, at least." 
 
 "For a time, indeed. He often walks the house the 
 whole night after such a day as this up and down, up 
 and down. Frightful to think of! I am so afraid the 
 children may hear him, perhaps even see him. Oh, 
 Richie, you don 't know all, ' ' she sobbed, suddenly break- 
 ing down and pouring out a torrent of miserable expe- 
 rience from her overcharged heart. 
 
 ' ' Poor Muffie ! What hard luck ! " he said, when the 
 dreary recital came to an end. "Cheer up, dear. Bet- 
 ter times will come. I'll make him send the children to 
 school. Godfrey Belton has promised the funds. And 
 this can't go on. If Belton doesn't pull up soon he'll 
 have to be put under restraint " 
 
 "Restraint? My dear boy, what a Job's comforter 
 you are ! ' ' 
 
 "Why, Muffie, people put themselves under restraint 
 of their own free will, which is their only chance. But 
 if he doesn't pull up, I think you'll have to leave him."
 
 70 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 "Never. I hope I know my duty better than that." 
 
 "You can't go on losing your night's rest, Muffie. 
 No constitution could stand it. And you were never 
 very strong. There's always hope. Belton may turn 
 over a new leaf, especially if he's made to see that you 
 don 't mean to stand it. Give him a good fright. Bluff, 
 Muffie, bluff all you can. That is your game." 
 
 She cheered up after a little; the complaining tone 
 left her voice, the persistent droop of the corners of her 
 mouth became less perceptible; she had leisure to ob- 
 serve an unusual excitement and tenderness in Richard, 
 especially in his eyes, which were moist and brilliant as 
 she had never seen them. 
 
 "Why, what has come to my own boy?" she asked, 
 suddenly sitting up and looking attentively into his 
 face. 
 
 ' ' Good luck, the best luck, ' ' he replied, with a quiver 
 in his voice. 
 
 "Richard! What have you been doing? Where 
 have you been to-day?" she cried, with misgiving. 
 
 "Can't you guess, Muff? Hadn't you noticed? I'm 
 going to give you a daughter, such a daughter. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Oh, Richie, Richie ! ' ' she moaned, sinking back as if 
 under a blow. "Already? I didn't think you would 
 desert me in my misery. No, I had not expected this. 
 This is, indeed, a bolt from the blue." 
 
 "And you are not glad? Not glad of my happi- 
 ness?" he asked, disappointed and confounded. 
 
 ' ' You don 't understand. You know my misery. You 
 are all I have; and you leave me for a girl." 
 
 "Good heavens, mother, doesn't every man? Isn't 
 it in the Bible? Didn't you do it yourself twice? 
 Didn't you leave your only son and your first husband's 
 memory for a man " 
 
 "You are hard, Richard, hard. I have lost you al- 
 ready, I see. How am I to endure my life now ? ' ' 
 
 "You have not lost me. But you have gained an- 
 other daughter. And you are fond of her and she of
 
 MY SON'S WIFE 71 
 
 you. When I am at sea she will be near you; you will 
 have a home with her. She is a good girl. Oh! you 
 ought to be glad. ' ' 
 
 ''I shall be second; she will be first. I was always 
 first before. This is a blow, indeed," she wept. 
 
 "By Heaven, mother!" thundered Richard, with 
 blazing eyes, "you expect too much, you are too exact- 
 ing and too unreasonable. As for being second with me ? 
 Well ! A mother is a mother, a wife a wife. The things 
 can't be compared. Because you made an unfortunate 
 marriage, do you expect me to live single ? Do you mean 
 that you would be happier if I were wretched ? By the 
 Lord, that's a strange sort of comfort, a fine way of 
 showing affection ! By " 
 
 "I can not suffer this violence," she cried indig- 
 nantly ; ' ' you forget to whom you are speaking, Richard. 
 You choose to misunderstand me and misrepresent what 
 I say. You are absolutely brutal. You know that my 
 nerves can not stand that stamping up and down and that 
 loud, angry voice." 
 
 "Oh! I'm brutal, am I?" he muttered under his 
 breath. ' ' Brutal ! By all that 'a holy, brutal ! ' ' 
 
 He forced himself into a chair and clutched the arms 
 of it, as if to keep himself from moving by main force, 
 while Edith dropped her arms on the little table beneath 
 the shaded lamp and her head on her arms, and cried 
 helplessly, like a child. 
 
 "Come, mother," he said, after some seconds, during 
 which he resisted an impulse to rush away in a fury, 
 "don't go on like this. If I have hurt your feelings I 
 didn't mean to, and I'm sorry. Very likely I said more 
 than I should." 
 
 "That my own son should turn against me!" she 
 sobbed. 
 
 Disgust, indignation, and pity fought together for 
 some minutes in her son's thoughts, and the latter con- 
 quered. 
 
 ' ' But what have I done. Muff 1 Tell me the head and
 
 72 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 front of my offending, ' ' he said with constrained gentle- 
 ness. 
 
 "Why bandy words'?" she returned. "You have 
 neither sympathy nor consideration for me, and I was 
 foolish enough to expect both; that is all." 
 
 ' ' Poor Muff ! You have real troubles enough, without 
 fancying more," he said with repressed impatience. 
 "Well, I'm sorry that I've upset you; more sorry that 
 you dislike my engagement. ' ' 
 
 "You might at least have confided in me," she re- 
 proached, leaning back in her chair and drying her eyes. 
 "It seems to have been all signed, sealed, and delivered 
 without the faintest hint to your mother. Not that I 
 was blind. I quite understood the music-lessons," she 
 added with an acid smile. 
 
 ' ' Why, I never said a word to her till to-day, mother. 
 Then I said it all, and her father surprised us and gave 
 his consent and I came straight to you, thinking you 
 would be glad. I thought," he added plaintively, after 
 a pause, ' ' I thought it would brighten you up and lighten 
 your own troubles a little. I thought you were fond of 
 her; you always had a high opinion of her. I thought 
 you would consider it a good thing for me to have a wife 
 and a home of my own and steady down. I never 
 dreamed of your opposing my marriage with this lady." 
 
 "My dear boy," she expostulated with an air of pa- 
 tient long-suffering, "you can not know how very trying 
 you are. Men's perceptions are certainly very blunt. 
 Why will you so persistently misunderstand me 1 When 
 have I expressed opposition to your marriage? When 
 have I preferred my own happiness to yours?" 
 
 ' ' By jingo ! ' ' muttered Richard below his breath, " if I 
 didn 't think her troubles had driven her wild ! ' ' 
 
 "Why should you deny me your confidence as you 
 do? You refuse that. You utterly ignore my interest 
 in all that concerns you " 
 
 "Oh, Lord!" thought Richard, "if she isn't cracked, 
 lam!"
 
 MY SON'S WIFE 73 
 
 "You impute the most unamiable motives to me, and 
 why? You inform me in the most sudden and violent 
 manner of an approaching marriage you appear to have 
 arranged with some unknown person. And then when, 
 in my foolish womanly weakness for my first-born, not to 
 speak of wounded affection and repulsed confidence, I 
 am surprised into the emotion that every mother with 
 any heart must feel at the thought of such a parting of 
 the ways as a beloved son's marriage with a stranger, in- 
 stead of the consideration and sympathy every mother 
 has a right to expect, you give way to the most un- 
 governable fury and terrify me to death with a violence 
 that is perfectly brutal. You rage and storm and lac- 
 erate my nerves with your unjust upbraidings and re- 
 proaches. You " She sighed and shook her head 
 sadly, as if mere words were powerless to express her 
 pain. 
 
 "I seem to be a perfect beast, Muff, according to 
 you," he replied, very gently, surprised at the great 
 wave of tenderness surging up in his breast for this frail 
 and unreasonable mother, so overburdened and blinded 
 by the necessities of her hypersensitive emotions and 
 boundless, unconscious egoism. In a moment he realized 
 that no sympathy must ever be expected of one so pre- 
 occupied by her own sorrows and needs, so incapable of 
 seeing, much less feeling, from any point of view but her 
 own, and knew that hers was one of those parasitic na- 
 tures that twine so tenaciously, by virtue of their very 
 weakness, round the nearest supports as to crush the life 
 out of them. This jealousy of all interests but her own 
 was pitiable. The old, immense compassion that dated 
 from his very cradle woke again, and with it that deep- 
 rooted instinct to cherish and protect her before every- 
 thing. He neither reasoned, nor analyzed his feelings, 
 but it suddenly became clear to him that his affection for 
 his mother was deeper and stronger than life itself, and 
 that nothing could ever change or weaken it. Yet this 
 very conviction increased the irritation and impatience
 
 74 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 she provoked in him, and sharpened his disappoint- 
 ment at her refusal to rejoice with him in his first great 
 
 joy. 
 
 He was very glad, after she had talked herself into 
 some sort of grudging acquiescence in his engagement 
 with Kathleen Musgrave, since he must be engaged, to 
 leave her and stand outside the house under the stars, 
 drawing free breath and shaking off the goaded sense of 
 being pricked and stabbed all over. He drew out his 
 pipe and tobacco-pouch, infallible soothers, filled the 
 pipe, struck a match, and was just about to draw the 
 first whiff, when he threw down the match with a joyous 
 laugh and murmur of ' * Kitty, Kitty, did you know what 
 you were asking, you dear little tyrant ? ' ' and lighted his 
 bicycle lamp instead. 
 
 Soon his mother heard the light crunch of the wheel on 
 the gravel and a mellow voice singing 
 
 " Kathleen Mavourneen, the gray dawn is breaking, 
 
 The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill, 
 The lark from his light wing the bright dew is shaking," 
 
 into the inaudible distance. 
 
 "Ah! yes," she thought bitterly, "all his life is set 
 to that tune now. And mine to ' Willow, willow ! ' ' 
 
 Yet she found the sympathy she sought for the mis- 
 fortune of her son's proposed marriage in the least ex- 
 pected quarter, from Kitty herself. 
 
 "Of course, you'll hate me for the first week, dear 
 Mrs. Helton," the latter said in the prettiest way, when 
 they met next day. "People always do when their sons 
 and brothers are engaged. But you have no cause. I 
 shall never take him away from you. I would never 
 have listened to him, if I hadn't known what a good son 
 he was. I'm a little jealous, I own. But I won't give 
 way to it. And some day you'll have to be fond of me, 
 too!" 
 
 "Of course, dear, it is a great grief to me," was the 
 melancholy rejoinder. "It is hard to lose my precious
 
 MY SON'S WIFE 75 
 
 boy so early. But he could not have made a better 
 choice, Kitty. Indeed, we are all delighted." 
 
 Among those delighted was Mr. Belton, whose 
 spirits, none of the best after his opium sleep, were 
 raised to an unusual gaiety at receiving the announce- 
 ment. 
 
 "What could you wish better for the boy, Edith?" 
 he asked impatiently. "It's quite time he had a wife 
 and family of his own, instead of ruining our children 
 by all kinds of indulgence, and putting all sorts of 
 nonsense into their heads. Gerald would never have 
 clamored to go into the navy but for Rosny. Gerald 
 shall never go into the navy, as I've told him again 
 and again. Kitty Musgrave is a very good match. A 
 charming girl, extremely good-looking and no fool. 
 The sooner they marry the better; what is to hinder 
 them?" 
 
 "Really, dear Horace, I was under the impression 
 that you disliked any connection with the Musgraves. 
 Addie 's music-lessons ' ' 
 
 "Confound Addie 's music-lessons! Can't you un- 
 derstand, Edith, that my children are not to be treated 
 as paupers? Adeline shall go to a finishing school by 
 and by. Or, perhaps, we might let the Pines and take a 
 house in town for a few seasons and give the eldest girls 
 masters. It is the same with the boys. Your son is per- 
 petually worrying me or setting you on to worry me to 
 send the boys to school. Some day I shall send Gerald 
 to a better school and Archie to the grammar-school. I 
 need no interference with my plans for my children's 
 education. Let them be thoroughly grounded at home 
 and by and by " 
 
 It was always by and by with poor Belton, as 
 his wife knew. The book, the picture, the invention, 
 he was perpetually engaged upon, was to take the 
 world by storm by and by. The speculations in which 
 he was always losing were to make his fortune by 
 and by. And by and by he was going to conquer un-
 
 76 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 fortunate habits and sober down into a respectable 
 old age. 
 
 ' ' But when will it be by and by, papa ? ' ' little Harry 
 asked one day, and Adeline and Gerald whispered to 
 each other the pregnant sentence, "It is never by and 
 by and it never will be."
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 ON THE DOWNS 
 
 THOSE September days glided by in a golden dream ; 
 the world had been touched and transformed by an en- 
 chanter's wand; glamour lay on every commonest thing; 
 the windlestraws on life's dusty highways and hedges 
 were transmuted to beaten gold by the level rays of 
 love's auroral sunshine. 
 
 That the pretty flush should mount in Kitty's dainty 
 face and her gentle heart beat quicker at the step of a 
 reckless, harum-scarum fellow like himself was an endless 
 wonder to Richard. That she should win all hearts, both 
 at Merstone and the Pines, was natural, and yet he could 
 scarcely believe his senses when he found himself dining 
 at his stepfather's table, the fellow guest of Kitty and 
 her father and mother, two days after the engagement 
 had been announced. It was many years since any guest 
 had dined in that faded room, and it was not without 
 agonizing terror on the part of his mother, and some 
 trepidation on his own, as to the host's possible condition, 
 that the dinner was contemplated. 
 
 But, Mr. Belton having decreed this domestic festi- 
 val, nothing would dissuade him from it ; it was a neces- 
 sary civility to offer to his wife 's future daughter-in-law. 
 Nor were his wife 's fears justified ; for, whether by a su- 
 preme effort in deference to some surviving self-respect, 
 or because recent indulgence had sent the pendulum in 
 the opposite direction, poor Belton kept straight for 
 many days at this time, and looked and spoke on that 
 evening more like his former self than he had done for 
 years. Time was when he had been a fascinating com- 
 6 77
 
 78 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 panion and genial host ; and Richard, on this occasion ob- 
 serving a pathetic return of some of the old lost charm 
 in his stepfather, set it down as one more tribute to the 
 all-compelling beauty and graciousness of sweet Kitty 
 Musgrave, who dutifully brought all her guns to bear 
 upon the fortress of Mr. Belton's heart. 
 
 "Nothing could be more perfect than Mr. Belton's 
 reception of me," she confided to Rosny. "And after 
 all a stepdaughter-in-law is not a very close connection. 
 Do you know, Richie, you scarcely do him justice. Why, 
 he 's a charming man ! And he spoke so kindly of you. 
 He said that he always wished to be a father to you and 
 always felt as one, but that you never quite understood 
 him, and, of course, it was perfectly natural, though it 
 gave him pain. Poor, dear old man ! think of that. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Gave him pain ? Hm ! Kitty, darling, I 've always 
 said that he was kind to me in his way. He let me alone. 
 But I always felt that he hated me. I was in his way; 
 and, as he says, it was perfectly natural. So I don 't un- 
 derstand him? It's not always too delightful to be un- 
 derstood. Sometimes people understand one another too 
 well." 
 
 "Doesn't somebody say that to know all is to pardon 
 all, Richard ? Or isn 't it that to know thoroughly is to 
 love thoroughly?" 
 
 "In the case of angels like my Kathleen I dare say 
 it's true," he replied, looking rather wistfully in the 
 bright face so near his as he held a gate opening on to 
 the down, where they were walking on a breezy forenoon, 
 for her to pass through. "But oh! Kitty, darling, it's 
 a wicked, wicked world, much more wicked than such as 
 you can possibly imagine. And it 's best not to know too 
 much, else such as you would never care for such as I, I 'm 
 afraid." 
 
 "Richard, you shall not say such things; one would 
 think I was a saint. And everybody who knows me 
 knows better than that. Oh ! how disappointed you will 
 be when you find me out. And as for not caring for such
 
 ON THE DOWNS 79 
 
 as you do you think I could ever have cared for you if 
 I hadn't admired your character and been perfectly cer- 
 tain that there was nothing in you that I could not 
 honor and trust?" 
 
 ' ' Ah ! Kitty, darling, how sweet of you to say it ! But 
 I'm afraid you wouldn't care for me, if you knew all. 
 And that is why you must shut your eyes and not see 
 too much. Dear, there are things things better hid- 
 den " 
 
 "Oh! but this hurts," she said, visibly distressed; 
 "that is, it would hurt, if it were true. But it's not," 
 she added, stopping, as they came to another gate, and 
 clasping her hands on his arm with a sudden, sweet smile 
 of childlike confidence ; " I could never feel as I do, else. ' ' 
 
 He turned his head away; when she saw his face 
 again, it was pale and his eyes glowed with a deep fire 
 that perplexed and troubled her; he seemed to be re- 
 pressing some strong impulse, while the arm she clasped 
 quivered under her light touch. 
 
 "But suppose," he rejoined, slowly and very seri- 
 ously, "suppose you found you were mistaken in me 
 would you leave off loving me?" She looked up into 
 the blazing blue eyes and her own fell ; he saw the deli- 
 cate curve of her under lip quiver as he took the hands 
 clasped on his left arm in his other hand in a firm, almost 
 fierce, grip. 
 
 "I am not mistaken," she faltered, with the curious 
 courage that coexists with terror. "But don't hide 
 anything. There must be no secrets between us. There 
 must be full confidence." 
 
 "I've not been a good man, Kitty. But I will be, oh ! 
 I will be, if you will only love me," a fierce, deep voice 
 burst out, with a tighter grip on the slender, pained 
 hands. 
 
 ' ' Who has been quite good ? ' ' murmured a soft, liquid 
 voice from the face hidden on his arm. It stole caress- 
 ingly through his ear to the depths of his inmost heart, 
 quickening every pulse like a draft of fine wine.
 
 80 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 "Who, indeed?" he echoed. "But, darling, I'm 
 afraid it 's begging the question, after all. Mavourneen, 
 I think, I think, you really do love me enough to for- 
 give much. ' ' 
 
 A slight trembling of the warm, hidden face gave the 
 impression that she was crying, and evoked from Richard 
 such a sudden passionate outburst of tenderness as car- 
 ried them both away and made them forget all but that 
 young intoxication of a first, spotless love-dream, in 
 mutual assurances, promises, hopes and doubts, questions 
 and answers, and such tender and restrained caresses as 
 chivalrous homage permits. 
 
 "The whole world is changed for me, Mavourneen, 
 and all my thoughts are made cleaner and better since the 
 day I first saw your face, ' ' sighed Richard later, from his 
 place on the turf at the feet of Kathleen, who was half 
 reclined in the shelter of a red-berried thorn hedge on a 
 sunny bank, where wild thyme still bloomed and sweet 
 marjoram, and scabious and delicate saxifrage, with yel- 
 low hawkweed, and here and there a harebell showed 
 how tenacious of life the most fragile creatures can be, 
 and many a purple knapweed, with euphrasia, rock-roses, 
 and other flowers, suggested the question of what May 
 could be like if autumn bloomed so freely. 
 
 From a stubble-field hard by a covey of partridges 
 whirred up and over a hedge tangled with berried bram- 
 bles, bracken, and briony, the scent of burning weeds rose 
 with fitful pungency on the light breeze, sheep browsed 
 near the lovers, far off the sea sparkled, deeply blue with 
 thin white foam-crests, while a train drew a long white 
 smoke-trail through the rich harvested plain below and 
 rumbled into silence out of sight. 
 
 "You might make anything out of me," he added, 
 "with those white, pretty hands. Oh ! I am wax to their 
 touch. Strange, when you come to think of it, that a 
 look, a touch, or a word from a thing so fragile should 
 have such power over a great, strong fellow like me." 
 
 Kitty smiled sweetly and subtly into the strong and
 
 ON THE DOWNS 81 
 
 vivid face propped on its hands on the turf before her, 
 too happy for words. A great pride rose in her heart 
 and mingled with her love at the sight of the stalwart 
 figure at her feet ; he was a man in the fullest and finest 
 sense. She remembered the stories she had heard of him, 
 of his dashing rush up a savage country in command of a 
 battery of bluejackets, of the gun-carriage he contrived 
 on that occasion and of the lives he had so gallantly res- 
 cued at risk of his own. The sweet down-breath, scent 
 of burning weeds and crushed thyme, tinkling sheep- 
 bells, distant rumbling train and cawing rooks all min- 
 gled with the wide blueness and beauty and sense of airy 
 space outspread before them, tincturing and giving vis- 
 ible form to the feelings of their hearts in that sunny 
 autumn time. 
 
 And in all this open-air freshness and tranquil de- 
 light there came upon Richard, as it were, wave upon 
 wave of purity from Kitty's clear eyes, cleansing and 
 quickening every faculty and bearing him away on a 
 calm, swift flood to shores of unknown hope. The things 
 they were to do, the miracles to perform ! The children 
 were to have a second and better home, Mrs. Belton a 
 refuge from care and sorrow with them. 
 
 Yet poor Edith contrived at this time to manufacture 
 many fresh pains for herself. Kathleen's affection and 
 consideration for her were at first wholly delightful. She 
 enjoyed having her at the Pines and accompanying the 
 young pair on sailing and driving excursions. But there 
 was another side to the picture. Richard's filial obliga- 
 tions were now divided ; while Kitty paid every possible 
 attention to herself, Richard fulfilled his duty to her 
 father and mother. If Kitty was at the Pines one day, 
 Rosny was due at Ingrestone House the next ; if, she 
 found Kitty lovable and fascinating, her son appeared 
 to delight in the Musgraves. Worse than that, he openly 
 wondered how such a young and handsome woman as 
 Mrs. Musgrave could be the mother of grown-up sons and 
 married daughters. Mrs. Belton hinted at secrets of the
 
 82 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 toilet and praised the virtues of Parisian corsets, cosmet- 
 ics, powders, and dyes. There were even suggestions of 
 milk-baths and massage, all scouted with indignation by 
 Richard, and therefore advanced again with increasing 
 acrimony by his mother. The phrase "made-up" was 
 pronounced and repudiated. 
 
 But the unkindest cut of destiny came when, Rosny 
 having joined his ship, the Musgraves went with Kath- 
 leen to Southsea to be near a soldier son for a few weeks, 
 during which Edith heard of luncheons and dances 
 on board the Formidable and of Kitty's pleasure in all 
 the appointments and arrangements of battle-ships. It 
 seemed hard that she could never meet her son in society. 
 Her ' ' only son, ' ' she often called him, to the fury of her 
 husband, doubtless meaning, poor soul, that he was the 
 only son and the only human being on whom she could 
 throw the whole weight of her clinging weakness and 
 heavy cares. 
 
 It may have been some irrepressible bitterness of this 
 kind in one of her long letters to him that induced Rosny 
 to press her to go to Southsea at the end of November. 
 Gerald was at school, Addie and Molly might come with 
 her, leaving only Archie and the little ones at home. It 
 would be such a pleasure to take her over his ship and 
 bring his friends to her, he grew urgent as he wrote. 
 "Muffle, come," was the postscript, underlined. 
 
 She received this letter on a cheerless November day, 
 gray and grim, with never a lift in the leaden clouds 
 glooming low and heavy over saddened earth and half- 
 stripped woods. A fine rain that was half mist floated 
 on a weary wind, moaning fitfully in the pines, the black 
 tops of which swayed and bent with harsh grind of cross- 
 ing boughs before windows blurred with drops. The 
 breakfast-table, surrounded by unmanageable children, 
 had a squalid air ; a cup of coffee was overset in a squab- 
 ble. It was one of those mornings on which all things do- 
 mestic go wrong servants are rebellious, children tire- 
 some, tradespeople exasperating, when accounts will not
 
 ON THE DOWNS 83 
 
 come right, clocks stop, fires refuse to burn, and every- 
 thing either breaks, explodes, or is lost, unless it is alive, 
 when it either runs away or is taken seriously ill. 
 
 Edith's rest had been canceled by the nerve- wearing 
 sound of her husband's ever-pacing footstep, up and 
 down and in and out, now monotonously even, now exas- 
 perating in its impatient irregularity, but never, never 
 still ; she felt that she could bear the strain no longer if 
 she were to keep sane, without the relief of some interval 
 of forgetfulness. One week's forgetfulness might save 
 her. 
 
 She raised her eyes at the sound of the suddenly 
 opened door, to see the haggard face, livid with fury, of 
 her husband, whose shaking hand held the well-known 
 stick, that hurt her far more than the culprits on whom it 
 descended with angry reproaches for the noise that had 
 roused him. 
 
 "I wish to goodness he would sleep and never wake 
 up any more, ' ' sobbed Archie, when the door closed upon 
 him, after an indiscriminate measure of stick had been 
 dealt out to all, and received with one deep, unanimous 
 sense of injustice. 
 
 "We will leave him alone for ten days," Edith de- 
 cided, shaken by this scene and the growing conviction 
 that the children ought not to be at the mercy of their 
 hardly responsible father. In this strain she wrote to 
 Richard. 
 
 But three days later Rosny received a short, sad note 
 to say that Belton would not hear of her leaving the 
 Pines even for a day. 
 
 This episode was recounted some few days later to 
 Godfrey Belton, who chanced to be making one of his 
 rare visits, and walked out after luncheon with Edith and 
 the children. 
 
 "But I do not agree with you, my dear Edith, in 
 your deduction from these regrettable scenes that Hor- 
 ace should be separated entirely from his children," he 
 said at the conclusion of the history. ' ' You do not real-
 
 84 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 ize that his children are his one chance of redemption. 
 Nor do you perceive that jealousy is at the root of much 
 of his arbitrary and injudicious treatment of them. 
 Horace sees very plainly that he is last in their affec- 
 tions. And this is very bitter to him. The elder chil- 
 dren are disrespectful to him and avoid him ; the younger 
 ones are afraid of him and avoid him. None appear to 
 have the slightest affection for their father, except per- 
 haps Gerald. Surely, my dear, they might be trained to 
 more dutiful conduct and feeling toward one who, of all 
 people, has the greatest claim upon their affection and re- 
 spect. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Oh, Uncle Godfrey, how can they respect him, while 
 they see and hear what they do in this house ? And how 
 can they love one who treats them with such cruelty and 
 injustice?" she returned. "That is why it is so terri- 
 ble for them to be with him. They are being ruined. 
 What can we do ? If my health gives w r ay entirely, as I 
 feel it must before long, what will become of them 1 ' ' 
 
 "Your health must not give way, Edith. Your duty 
 to your husband and children forbids it. Exercise your 
 will, show courage," he said, irritated by the too-ready 
 tears following the breaking voice. ' ' The children must 
 go to school and they must be taught to practise the Fifth 
 Commandment. I shall urge it strongly upon Horace. 
 Indeed, I came here for the express purpose." 
 
 "Rosny has been putting you up to this," was Bel- 
 ton's first comment upon his uncle's urgent representa- 
 tion; "he's a meddlesome young brute, always cockering 
 up the youngsters and making them discontented and un- 
 manageable. ' ' 
 
 "You should understand that I am not the kind of 
 person to be 'put up to' what I conceive to be my duty, 
 Horace. Much less do I need the advice and instigation 
 of one so much my junior as your stepson. The young 
 man is naturally attached to his brothers and sisters. 
 Any indulgence he may show them upon his visits to your 
 house can scarcely harm them. They do not expect dis-
 
 ON THE DOWNS 85 
 
 cipline from a mere visitor, however closely related. The 
 best way to preserve them from any such injurious in- 
 dulgence as you indicate would be to place them in good 
 schools, where neither their mother nor their brother 
 would be permitted to interfere with them. I observe 
 that your nerves are intolerant of the noise and vivacity 
 inevitable to healthy children. It would surely be an 
 advantage to one in your indifferent health to have a 
 quieter household." 
 
 "That's my own affair. The children's good is the 
 great thing, my dear uncle." 
 
 "Consult their good by educating them properly. I 
 will gladly undertake all arrangements and find proper 
 schools for the four eldest." 
 
 1 ' You are very good. But I allow no one to interfere 
 with my children's education. My girls shall never be- 
 come those odious creatures, boarding-school misses. ' ' 
 
 "Then let them have a good visiting governess." 
 
 "Their mother and I between us can teach all they 
 need to learn, thank you." 
 
 "Come, Horace, let us be plain and open. You are 
 fully aware that your allowance is calculated to include 
 your children's education. Unless it is put to its proper 
 use it must be reduced, and that instantly. ' ' 
 
 Belton laughed bitterly. "My allowance, as you so 
 considerately call it, is anticipated for the next two 
 years," he explained. "Putting that play of mine on 
 the stage was no joke ; it ran into four figures. ' ' 
 
 "I will guarantee the school-fees for two years." 
 
 ' ' Thank you. My children are not paupers. If this 
 book scores a success, as it will, when I can bring it out, 
 I shall be a wealthy and celebrated man." 
 
 ' ' Then you could repay me. ' ' 
 
 "No doubt, and with compound interest. But no 
 honorable man contracts obligations of the ultimate dis- 
 charge of which he is doubtful," was the velvet re- 
 joinder. 
 
 "You talk of honor! You!" cried his uncle, rising
 
 86 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 from his chair and bringing his clenched fist down upon 
 the table. ' ' By the Heaven that is above us, Horace, you 
 will drive me to stopping the allowance altogether. ' ' 
 
 "And starve the youngsters? Let the brats be 
 chargeable to the parish?" replied Horace, languidly 
 stretching himself in his long chair and reaching across 
 the table for a cigar. 
 
 ' ' I wish we had never hushed the thing up, ' ' Godfrey 
 said. ' ' If justice had taken its course, those unfortunate 
 children would have been out of your power. But for 
 Edith, we should have exposed the whole matter but 
 for Edith and the poor children's sake. Indeed, I doubt 
 if it might not still be done," he added fiercely. 
 
 Belton laughed an irritating laugh and clasped his 
 hands comfortably behind his head on his high-backed 
 chair. 
 
 "But for the firm's sake, you mean," he drawled, 
 staring straight before him into the fire. ' ' That impec- 
 cable firm!" 
 
 "Upon my soul, Horace, I sometimes wonder if you 
 were born devoid of all sense of moral responsibility. ' ' 
 
 "I don't. I was always sure of it. Consider the 
 boredom of a sense of moral responsibility, Uncle God- 
 frey. It ages a man, makes him an old fogy before his 
 time. It ruins the temper and undermines the digestion. 
 It spoils conversation and destroys ease of manner. Tell 
 me frankly now, did you ever know a man w r orth talking 
 to with a sense of moral responsibility? I never did. 
 And never shall. ' '
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE CHRIST1IAS TREE 
 
 CHRISTMAS came crisp and cloudy, with a hint of 
 frost in the air, and a menace of snow in lowering skies, 
 dark seas, and moaning woods. The black pine-tops, 
 whose musical murmur so rarely died into stillness, com- 
 plained among themselves of some intolerable wrong, or 
 rolled out from time to time in a deep-voiced chant the 
 tragic tale of some old, never-healed calamity; again 
 their hoarse and sealike surge seemed to forebode some 
 terrible disaster as they swayed in slow and solemn 
 rhythm before the gray, gaunt house and over the needle- 
 strewn paths in which the children played beneath their 
 boughs with joyous shouts and laughter. 
 
 Their father sat in a deep easy chair by his study fire, 
 wrapped in a shabby dressing-gown, bearded because his 
 shaking hand could no longer guide a razor, haggard and 
 sunken-eyed, a melancholy wreck of the handsome man, 
 clear-eyed and clean-limbed, who had waited for the de- 
 laying bride on the cottage-step that autumn afternoon 
 while Wimbury joy-bells were ringing, fifteen years ago. 
 
 The study was full of books, chiefly sumptuous or 
 rare editions. Some quaint tomes on magic, alchemy, 
 and astrology were there and a few black-letter chronicles 
 and romances, with here and there a lovely illuminated 
 missal, golden-clasped and jeweled. A few modern vol- 
 umes on Art, with engravings on obsolete steel, and re- 
 productions by the latest processes of photogravure, were 
 piled upon the broader shelves. Turf chronicles and 
 books upon sport were jumbled up with new plays, deca- 
 dent novels in three languages and dramatic and sport- 
 
 87
 
 88 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 ing periodicals of recent date, with volumes on the 
 latest hints to investors. The works of Horace Belton 
 in dandified bindings occupied a conspicuous place. 
 An Unsentimental Journey through Sweden, beautifully 
 illustrated, was a verbose and rambling account of a 
 singularly uninteresting tour in that country ; A Disciple 
 of Walton in the Land of the Midnight Dawn, a similar 
 recital of a few weeks' fishing in Norway. The Gentle 
 Art of Book-Making affected to codify various betting 
 systems and reduce what is usually regarded as an ap- 
 peal to chance to the certainty of an exact science. The 
 work at present on the stocks was to be called The Inves- 
 tors' Vade-Mecum, or how to build a fortune on half a 
 crown. 
 
 Guns, fishing-rods and tackle, riding-whips, spurs, 
 bits, wading-boots, nets, antlers, foxes' brushes and 
 heads, horseshoes, plentifully bestrewed the room, amid 
 a chaos of retorts, crucibles, Leyden jars, cameras, dry 
 and wet plates, and other photographic apparatus, jostled 
 by galvanic piles and batteries, hand-presses and stamp- 
 ing-machines. An easel bearing an unfinished impres- 
 sionist landscape, several washy water-colors framed and 
 otherwise, a weighing-machine, a calculating-machine, 
 foils, single-sticks, boxing-gloves, dumb-bells and Indian 
 clubs, with palettes, paint brushes and color tubes, were 
 among the various litter of this untidy room, which had 
 not been painted since Gerald was born, and the carpet 
 of which had forgotten its original colors. 
 
 At a leather-covered table piled with manuscripts, 
 papers, and books sat Adeline, pouting and fidgety, with 
 hollow eyes and inky fingers, her tangled curls falling 
 over her cramped right hand upon the manuscript before 
 her and a dilapidated dictionary at her side. She looked 
 wistfully through the window opposite her at the sway- 
 ing pine-tops, her pen suspended in her hand, while her 
 father, whose back was turned to her, stared dreamily 
 into the fire, his hands in his pockets, his brain pursuing 
 a thought, or a phrase wherewith to clothe it. A de-
 
 THE CHRISTMAS TREE 89 
 
 canter containing a dark liquid and a liqueur glass 
 whence he had just taken a sip stood on the table at his 
 elbow. He was personally conducting poor little Ad- 
 die 's education by turning her into a small white slave or 
 amanuensis in the service of the Investor 's Guide. 
 
 "Not generally known," he muttered. 
 
 "How many r's in generly?" asked Addie, hurriedly 
 finding her place on the page, "and has throne got an a 
 in it, please ? ' ' 
 
 "Known, you stupid child; not thrown. Known, 
 known, known!" he shouted in crescendo; "your perver- 
 sity and ignorance utterly destroy one's ideas." 
 
 "I'm so tired," whimpered Addie, diluting her ink 
 with tears, ' * and it 's Christmas Eve. And it 's a shame. ' ' 
 
 "To the majority of the investing public," her father 
 confided to his beard and the fire. 
 
 "And there's Richie and Kitty outside, beckoning," 
 cried Addie. "Mayn't I go, papa?" 
 
 "You may go straight to bed, unless you choose to 
 pay proper attention and stop your chatter. To the ma- 
 jority of " 
 
 ' ' I wish I 'd been a posthumous child, like Eva Sterne. 
 Then I shouldn 't have been shut up all day on Christmas 
 Eve," commented Addie, vindictively digging her pen 
 into the paper. 
 
 ' ' Do you know what a posthumous child is, Adeline ? ' ' 
 Belton asked with sudden seriousness. "A child born 
 after its father 's death ? Eh ? Perhaps you wish I was 
 dead?" He rose and walked slowly toward her; the 
 child cowered and shrank like a frightened animal, her 
 lips pressed together, her eyes dilated. ' ' Answer me, do 
 you wish your father dead ? " he added sternly, but with- 
 out violence. 
 
 ' ' N-n-no. I only wish I 'd been born afterward, when 
 you do die," was the terrified response. 
 
 ' ' She wishes she was fatherless, ' ' he muttered to him- 
 self, "fatherless," he repeated with a quivering lip; 
 ' ' fatherless, ' ' he added brokenly, shocked to find that the
 
 90 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 hand he extended to stroke her head made her shrink and 
 parry with her raised arm. 
 
 ' ' Undutif ill, unloving child ! you can go and play and 
 look forward to seeing your father in his coffin, when 
 he will need no more help and no more love. Go and 
 play. Leave him alone with his aching head and his 
 tiring work now, as you will have to leave him in his cold, 
 dark, lonely grave then. A merry Christmas to you, 
 Adeline. Go." 
 
 He drew her chair from the table, and, taking her 
 by the arm, raised her to her feet, turning and pushing 
 her gently in the direction of the door, whither she 
 walked blindly, half-dazed and half-relieved, till she 
 reached the door and laid her hand on the handle, when 
 she turned, looked at the gaunt, melancholy figure stand- 
 ing solitary on the hearth in the fading light, and, with 
 a sudden cry, flew back and sprang upon him, clasping 
 her arms about his neck. 
 
 "Oh, papa, poor papa, I do love you, I do, I do," she 
 sobbed, her face buried in his breast. "But I was so 
 dreadful tired. ' ' 
 
 A spasm contracted the man's face and the too- 
 ready tears sprang to his eyes as he swayed under 
 the weight of the little body hurled suddenly upon him. 
 He stroked the golden head in silence for a minute, 
 then raised it gently and freed himself from the cling- 
 ing arms. "Be a good girl, then," he said, looking 
 wistfully into the clear, upraised eyes and pushing her 
 gently away. "Go and play now, baggage; go and 
 
 Play." 
 
 Another minute and through the window he saw her 
 spring upon Rosny, who was surrounded by the chil- 
 dren, with the same childish abandonment, and then 
 upon Kathleen. Then she was on the top of one of 
 the low pillars at the bottom of the steps, crying to 
 Richard to take her hands and swing her off again and 
 again. 
 
 The old story, Belton thought ; Rosny was their idol ;
 
 THE CHRISTMAS TREE 91 
 
 he could do anything with them ; why had he this power 
 and this love? 
 
 Gerald, standing by his brother, was now a slight, 
 graceful lad, already as high as Rosny 's shoulder, and not 
 unlike Richard, who at his age had worn his first uni- 
 form. But Gerald had nothing of Richard's sturdiness 
 and strength of character. "Gerald is more like me," 
 his father thought. The children began some game ; Mrs. 
 Belton walked up and down with Kathleen ; their father 
 turned back to his fire with a bitter sense of loneliness 
 and neglect. Why did his children fly from him in ter- 
 ror and aversion ? If his hand was somewhat heavy and 
 overready, Richard's was no light one. If he found 
 fault, Richard allowed no misconduct. Conscience, sud- 
 denly stabbed by Adeline's rebellious desire to be father- 
 less, awoke in the lonely winter gloaming, and said things 
 not easily silenced. He saw himself as he had been on 
 that other winter afternoon, when he brought Richard 
 home for the first time to see the "surprise" his mother 
 had in store for him. Richard had never shrunk from 
 him as his own did. 
 
 He groaned miserably as he realized the depth to 
 which he had fallen since then and wondered weakly how 
 it had come about. Not that he had ever been what he 
 termed a saint. But he had always ' ' meant well. ' ' 
 
 The fire sank ; shadows gathered heavily in the great, 
 unlovely room ; he was sitting, bowed and limp, his head 
 in his hands, in the dark, when suddenly there broke 
 upon the stillness a sweet sound of fresh voices singing in 
 long-forgotten strains, 
 
 " Hark! the herald angels sing 
 Glory to the new-born King." 
 
 He started up from his gloomy reverie, staring with 
 wide, frightened eyes into the shadows, massed darkly 
 round and scarcely lessened by a smoldering glow from 
 the sunken fire, clutching the arms of his chair and shud- 
 dering. Were they spirit voices ringing through the
 
 92 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 darkness, or some such weird deceits as sometimes clouded 
 his fancy of late? 
 
 " Peace on earth and mercy mild, 
 God and sinners reconciled," 
 
 the joyous voices caroled out in inspiriting melody, as if 
 from some passing band of angels singing in their meas- 
 ured flight through the clouds. Was it the mockery of 
 demons ? How could God be reconciled to sinners ? He 
 knew too well to what depths sinners can descend. Great 
 horror shook him with fear of loneliness in the darkening 
 room, visible by its one sullen glance of smoldering fire ; 
 he feared to rise and face what might be lurking in those 
 dreadful shadows. Cold dew stood on his forehead, his 
 joints loosened, a faint cry escaping his lips startled 
 yet steadied him, while the rise and fall of the inspiriting 
 melody carried the heart-easing hymn to an exultant 
 close. 
 
 Then the cloud cleared from his brain with the sober 
 conviction that the strains were from no supernatural 
 source, but only the familiar Christmas hymn of his own 
 childhood, sung by his own children in his own house. 
 With this sober certainty he came to himself. It was 
 Christmas Eve ; the children had clamored for a Christ- 
 mas tree "just for once"; he had consented to please 
 Kitty Musgrave; Richard had dug up a young fir and 
 planted it in a tub in the dining-room. There all day be- 
 hind a curtain there had been comings and goings of 
 elders and rigid exclusion of children. That accounted 
 for Adeline 's rebellion, the arrival of Richard and Kitty, 
 and the general excitement and festivity. 
 
 There was reassurance and cozy reality in the vision 
 of the warm room, the decorated tree, twinkling with 
 tapers, and the shining eyes and glowing cheeks of the 
 singing children, in pleasant contrast to the dark solitude 
 of this horror-haunted chamber, whence the young ones 
 always fled and whither even his wife came but seldom. 
 
 They had not asked him to their tree, he thought bit-
 
 THE CHRISTMAS TREE 93 
 
 terly ; but why should he be shut out of the brightness ? 
 Striking a match and lighting a taper, he became con- 
 scious of his slovenly undress. Too early to dress for 
 dinner and not worth while to dress twice. He could not 
 go in as he was. Shouts of more mundane happiness had 
 now succeeded the hymns and bursts of laughter came at 
 intervals. 
 
 He went into the dimly lighted hall and listened, 
 tempted to look in at the door, but shrinking at the 
 thought of the silence and dismay the sight of his face 
 would cause. Edith had turned his children against him. 
 Once he had loved her. Yes ; even as late as the day when 
 Richard was taken to Gerald's cradle, though even then 
 her fickle and selfish heart was already absorbed in the 
 baby. The woman was as jealous as she was exacting. 
 She was a curse to him. He took an overcoat and hat, 
 and passed softly out to the gravel sweep, and under the 
 moaning pines, more weird and solemn in their murmur- 
 ing by night than by day. A sound of distant bells was 
 on the wind; lighted windows were sparsely dotted in 
 the distance among trees. Here the dining-room win- 
 dows cast rods of light through curtain chinks upon ever- 
 greens and gravel. He went up to a window, whence a 
 wider rod of radiance fell, and looked in with a pang of 
 morbid self-pity at the warmth and brightness in which 
 they were all making merry unmindful of him, while he 
 shivered outside in the dark. A fir-tree reached to the 
 ceiling, twinkling with miniature lights and gilded fruits. 
 Beneath it stood Richard holding up a toy at full stretch 
 of arm, a smile on his firm, full lips, his eyes glowing on 
 the eager youngsters leaping to snatch the toy. 
 
 Kathleen's light figure leaned against the chimney- 
 piece, a little stranger girl about Adeline's age held her 
 hand and leaned her upraised head against her; Edith 
 glided among the children with those perfect motions 
 that are better than beauty; even her husband admired 
 her and wondered at the childlike pleasure in her face. 
 Rebellious Adeline, her tangle of curls smoothed and tied 
 7
 
 94 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 back, held the youngest child 's hand ; the others grouped 
 with her, their fresh faces looking like some cherub gar- 
 land in an early Italian painting. Beauty had been dealt 
 with no niggard hand to those seven young ones; other 
 children present were far less gifted with it, he observed. 
 
 The servants came smiling in and found gifts under 
 the tree ; no one was forgotten except the shabby figure 
 standing outside in the dark. Even Kitty had over- 
 looked him. 
 
 It was cold; he turned to go in, dreading the phan- 
 toms beginning of late to haunt his solitary room. He 
 had never seen his children so happy before, and happi- 
 ness is contagious. He went to the dining-room door and 
 then stopped, remembering the consternation his ap- 
 pearance usually evoked. 
 
 Perhaps he was a little severe with those children ; his 
 nerves were not equal to them; they were such an un- 
 ruly set, thanks to their mother. They goaded him be- 
 yond endurance, and at times now he was not quite mas- 
 ter of himself. How much did those children know? 
 Gerald must surely know. He sorely needed affection 
 and companionship ; was it too late to change ? He must 
 change, if he was to live, the doctor said. But he wanted 
 sympathy and comfort, and Edith was a perpetual irri- 
 tation, a human gad-fly. 
 
 He walked up and down, as he so often did at night 
 now, under the moaning pines, looking now at bars of 
 light from the windows, now at golden dots from scat- 
 tered homes in the distance, wishing more than half his 
 life undone. If Adeline would really care for him! 
 He would never strike her again. She might care for 
 him. He would alter his habits when the book was fin- 
 ished. 
 
 Presently he crept back to his specter-haunted room 
 and the terrible consoler, that glittered seductively on the 
 table in the light of the replenished fire. Ah ! there still 
 remained one never-failing source of peace and rest. 
 With a shaking hand he filled the glass with the dark
 
 THE CHRISTMAS TREE 95 
 
 draft of quietness, drank it and sank into his chair 
 with a voluptuous sigh, curtained round with exquisite 
 vision, spellbound, tranced in magic stillness, all the 
 persecuting furies stricken dumb, body and soul folded 
 in a soft, sweet rapture, till the charm was broken by his 
 wife's unwelcome voice, softly asking, "Are you asleep, 
 Horace? Dinner has been waiting long." 
 
 When he went in, an untidy, slippered figure in a 
 dressing-gown, a faint scent of fir and burning wax was 
 all that remained of the festal brightness ; a curtain hid 
 the extinguished tree, holly and mistletoe had vanished. 
 Edith was in her usual evening dress and wore her usual 
 look of anxiety and querulous suffering, her happy smiles 
 were gone, ten more years weighed upon her brow. 
 
 "One day," she was thinking, "he may sleep to wake 
 no more."
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 GEEALD'S APPEAL 
 
 "How do you find time for all this?" Kathleen asked, 
 smiling up at Richard as they walked briskly away from 
 the mill, "with only these few days ashore, and so much 
 to distract " 
 
 "And the temptation to dance perpetual attendance 
 on the very sweetest " 
 
 ' ' Is this conversation, Mr. Rosny 1 Must I be driven 
 to converse with fieldfares and linnets, or will you be 
 rational?" 
 
 ' ' Mavourneen, how can I ? When you look like that 
 you drive a man 's five wits to the four winds. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Five wits to four winds ! One and a quarter apiece. 
 Small loss to the owner, I'm thinking. I was going to 
 say something nice about this biscuit factory and admire 
 the energy that organizes and controls so much, while 
 doing so many other things such as talking to some 
 poor, silly girl not worth talking sense to " 
 
 "Oh, come, Kitty." 
 
 ' ' I have come. I 've walked all the way to that bis- 
 cuit-mill and covered myself with flour and glory in 
 the eyes of the workmen, by looking at little wheels and 
 great presses and huge rollers, and trying to understand 
 the whizzing and whirling and stamping and kneading 
 and water-power and horse-power and cooperative power 
 and pneumonia power and hydrangea power. And do 
 you know, Richard, I've come to the conclusion that I 
 could be very happy in that sweet, little rose-covered cot- 
 tage near the mill above the stream, where the manager
 
 GERALD'S APPEAL 97 
 
 lives. I would keep fowls, and gather primroses. How 
 dear of you to consume your own smoke ! ' ' 
 
 ' ' Dearer to me than you think, Mavourneen. It costs 
 us a hundred a year. It's my fad to combine industry 
 with beauty. Ugliness gives my mother such pain, that 
 I'm bound to. She's very fond of this little hollow by 
 the hanging wood. She has so little to please her." 
 
 "She has you. I don't pity her in the least. And 
 she 's going to have me. ' ' 
 
 "I hope you will get on with her, Kitty," he said 
 with sudden, sad seriousness ; ' ' she 's not altogether easy 
 to get on with; her troubles have worn her nerves to 
 nothing. You '11 make allowances, darling, won 't you ? ' ' 
 
 "Indeed I will, dear Richard." 
 
 He pressed the slender hand he held almost to pain. 
 His heart throbbed with unutterable happiness. Gaiety 
 he had known and reckless delight and frequent pleas- 
 ure, but not this deep and stable and uplifting joy. 
 Something he had lost with childhood was given back to 
 him with the tender love and sweet companionship of this 
 pure-hearted girl. The glamour of early idyllic days at 
 Wimbury, intensified but not less pure, lay upon these 
 sweet days of first love. He lived in an exquisite dream, 
 that was but a dream and must have a waking. In this 
 wild world of every-day sorrow two enchanted dreams 
 visit every heart the dream of infancy before the eyes 
 are opened, and the dream of first love, when they are 
 holden by potent magic. 
 
 Added to her beauty and womanly charm, Kitty had 
 the further grace of being able and willing to enter into 
 those numerous schemes and theories he had begun to 
 make and carry into practise already, as in this biscuit 
 factory in which he had sunk his patrimony, ' ' The Mer- 
 stone Biscuit Factory," trading under the manager's 
 name and partly cooperative. The ship-biscuits were 
 to keep fresh and crisp through long voyages, and the 
 factory hands were to have every opportunity and en- 
 couragement to buy small shares. Richard was already
 
 98 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 developing the commercial instinct and managed both to 
 make the factory pay a small dividend and his biscuits 
 keep fresh. Many merchant vessels were supplied with 
 Merstone biscuits, but few hands had as yet bought 
 shares. The factory was Richard's toy and delight and 
 the cause of many quite bearable gibes and sarcasms. 
 ' ' How are biscuits to-day ? Flour steady ? Patent anti- 
 weevils ruling firmer? How do you make 'em keep? 
 Powdered bones or Keating 's Insect Powder? Capital 
 stuff, Keating, to keep off weevils. You don't mean that 
 you tasted the things, Kitty? Well, I am No harm 
 in Keating, dear; bones are nourishing. And since you 
 must marry a baker, why " 
 
 ' ' The biscuit is very nice, ' ' Kitty always maintained 
 stoutly, "ever so much nicer than common ship-biscuit. 
 The great tins they are packed in keep them fresh and 
 crisp." 
 
 "Ah! my dear, but if the biscuits are in tins, it 
 strikes me there won 't be much tin in the biscuits. ' ' 
 
 He followed Kitty home to luncheon, where the party 
 included three of her brothers, and was very lively and 
 cheery. They arranged to go altogether in an omni- 
 bus to the fancy-dress ball at St. Ann 's that night, Rich- 
 ard reluctantly refusing the dinner in costume that 
 was to precede it, because it was Adeline's birthday 
 as well as his last night ashore, and he was therefore 
 due at the Pines. But he was not to leave till the after- 
 noon; might he come to luncheon to-morrow and say 
 good-by ? 
 
 "And talk it over," Kitty added. "Talking it over 
 is the nicest part of a dance." 
 
 "Except getting home and thanking Heaven it's 
 over," her father said. 
 
 There was no getting rid of Rosny that afternoon. 
 The men went their ways, but he lingered over the draw- 
 ing-room fire, interrupting Mrs. Musgrave's correspond- 
 ence and hindering Kitty's embroidery, saying he must 
 be off, getting up to go, and then coming back again.
 
 GERALD'S APPEAL 99 
 
 "The last day," he said plaintively at last. "Play 
 me something to remember, Mavourneen." 
 
 So Kitty went dutifully to the piano and played her 
 favorite bits in her best manner, and gradually became 
 so inspired and emboldened by the magnetism of her 
 sympathetic audience and the stir of youth and hope in 
 her heart, that she dared a difficult deed, a Sonata she 
 never ventured upon except when alone. Richard 
 lounged all his great length in a chair facing her, his 
 hands clasped behind his head, his eyes full of dream, his 
 spirits calmed yet moved, rapt away to a realm of en- 
 tranced delight. Moonlight slept upon the vast calm of 
 a windless ocean, a faerie sea, in the opening Adagio, and 
 a soft melody, sad and sweet and full of inextinguishable 
 longing, glided over the still waves. Far away, from 
 time to time, the boom of breakers plunging on rocky 
 shores was heard, and the distant thunder of seas pent 
 up and struggling in dark and deep caverns gave a hint 
 of storm. But the tender melody glided on over the un- 
 ruffled sea in the moonbeams and died far away upon the 
 quiet deep. Then came a fairy dance of joyous waves, 
 tumbling and tossing in the moonlight, with the occa- 
 sional deep thunder of baffled desire and the play of light 
 and whisper of waking winds; again the light, bright 
 tripping of the fairy dance came in a tender close. This 
 finished, Kitty paused and looked into Richard's charmed 
 face and dream-filled eyes, when a fire thrilled her gentle 
 pulses and flushed her cheek; she turned the page and 
 attacked the Presto Agitato with sudden ardor. Her 
 light fingers flew, as true as swift; her eyes glittered, a 
 spirit not her own was in her hands, a strange, unknown 
 spirit of fire and passion and agony and rapture and 
 yearning unutterable, and she played as never before or 
 after, truly and unerringly to the splendid close. 
 
 Great breakers rose up out of the heart of the deep 
 and rolled and thundered and plunged tumultuously in 
 the silver moonbeams, in exultation and hope and despair. 
 The tossing manes of wild sea-horses flashed snow-white
 
 100 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 above dark ridges, the rioting steeds leaped and plunged 
 with dull and hollow and long-drawn roar upon rock and 
 reef and iron shore; innumerable voices shouted and 
 sang in exultant chorus and threatened in hoarse thun- 
 der, and muttered and moaned in vain, unquenchable de- 
 sire. Great storm blasts drew deep furrows along the 
 dark and heaving waste; mad winds tore mighty seas 
 out of the roaring ridges, caught them up and dashed 
 them down, one upon another, in quivering rage; they 
 took up little ships laden with half a thousand souls, like 
 walnut shells, and crushed them to atoms and warred 
 wildly together and fled far away in rumbling fury and 
 were still. Moonbeams shone calmly over all the tumult, 
 they silvered the tumbling wave-crests and danced in 
 golden luster upon the quieting waters; the vast sea 
 stretched out a million arms in vain longing, and leaped 
 up in hope and sank back in tumult and pain ; then the 
 moonlight trembled in a long, golden path upon its heav- 
 ing breast and it thundered itself into peace, with many 
 a dying murmur and echoing roar. 
 
 Kitty's mother looked on in astonishment, her pen 
 suspended in her hand. When Kathleen raised her 
 hands from the last chord, she was pale and trembling; 
 she looked at Richard and saw strange, happy tears in 
 his eyes and a great light in his face. 
 
 ' ' I shall never forget it, ' ' he said presently, ' ' never. ' ' 
 
 She said nothing, but shut the piano and went back 
 to her embroidery in a sort of dream, followed and ca- 
 ressed by Richard 's eyes, and wondering vaguely what it 
 all meant. 
 
 Still Richard lingered, silent, spellbound, and happy, 
 while Mrs. Musgrave's industrious pen traveled on and 
 Kitty's needle twinkled in and out of her silks and her 
 cheek flushed and paled with a trouble that seemed with- 
 out cause. 
 
 "Well, I won't worry you any more. I really will 
 take myself off now," he said at last, for the seventh 
 time; "Mrs. Musgrave, if I don't turn up at the first to-
 
 GERALD'S APPEAL 101 
 
 night, you'll keep those two dances for me, won't you? 
 And, Kitty, you won't forget how many you've prom- 
 ised Sir Walter. So till to-night, ladies, till sweet to- 
 night." 
 
 Even then he turned and paused at the door. It 
 seemed as if he could not look long enough at the warm, 
 homelike room, or print deep enough on his memory the 
 picture of the handsome mother looking up with a kind 
 smile, and the gentle beauty and speaking glance of the 
 daughter in a deep chair by the fire, her silken skeins in 
 her hands, her head lifted and turned so as to show the 
 delicate curves of her throat, her soft cheek flushed, of 
 the low winter sun shedding glamour of changing light on 
 carpet and wall, where a Madonna della Sedia glowed 
 softly, on the green folds of Kitty's gown, the shining 
 gold plaits of her hair, and just fluttering over her cheek 
 and chin, and blazing out in the jewel he had placed on 
 her hand. 
 
 "Your Richard has a sweet smile, Kitty," her mother 
 said, when the door at last closed upon the manly figure 
 and strong face. ' ' Quite a home boy. But light-hearted 
 and far too light-minded." 
 
 "Oh, mother! Richard light-minded? Richard!" 
 
 He could not bear to lose the picture or leave the at- 
 mosphere of that enchanted presence. Yet he had no 
 foreboding that he would look upon it no more. The 
 sun sank, the red light died from the topmost pine with 
 the closing of the door. In the cold grayness he stormed 
 down to the gate, along the road, and under the somber 
 shadow of the pines, whose sealike surge to-night was a 
 deep lament for some irreparable loss. 
 
 When the gate fell to behind him with a melancholy 
 clang, thirteen years vanished ; he was a boy again, with 
 Belton striding before him in the winter dusk to the new 
 home, standing so grim and gray under the cold evening 
 sky. 
 
 "Well, old boy, how do you like your surprise?" he 
 seemed to hear again in the cheery voice.
 
 102 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 To-night the house looked grimmer than ever, dark 
 against a lucid sky that was pink to the zenith, in 
 which stars were slowly kindling. Scarcely a glow 
 showed from any window, no wild troop of children 
 rioted about the grounds. No one was about, not even 
 a dog's bark broke the stony silence. He walked, 
 without sound, on the edge of the road where the 
 fir-needles lay thick, till the drive bent sharply, and 
 he came upon a space lighted by the western sky. 
 There, between red pine-trunks, stood Gerald, his head 
 bent down, his hands in his pockets, dejectedly kick- 
 ing a drift of dead leaves about the heaped pine- 
 needles. 
 
 He raised his head at Richard 's ' ' What cheer, mate 1 ' ' 
 and showed a miserable, tear-swollen face, over which he 
 hastily drew the back of his hand, at the same time pull- 
 ing his cap over his eyes. 
 
 "You seem to be making pretty heavy weather to- 
 night, young un," Dick said, seizing him by the shoul- 
 ders and looking into his quivering face. "What the 
 dickens are you piping your eye about ? ' ' 
 
 "I ain't," was the defiant answer, followed by a sob 
 and a cry of, ' ' Can 't you stop it, Dick, can 't you ? Don 't 
 let him let him h-hit her again." 
 
 "Bring her head round, young un. Don't run be- 
 fore the wind like this," Richard growled, with a couple 
 of vigorous shakes. "Heave to, old chap. Which is it 
 now? Molly or Addie? No girl over ten should be 
 smacked." 
 
 "Oh! you don't know I didn't know half. She 
 she she couldn't dine at Merstone yesterday, because 
 she she couldn't wear a dinner-gown " 
 
 Richard turned white and threw the boy from him 
 with a suppressed cry. "You can't can't mean He 
 doesn't dare " he gasped. 
 
 " He 's always at it. That 's what frightened the baby 
 Jane said it was seeing him. If I saw it, I'd kill him, 
 Dick; I'd fly at his throat, I'd kill him, if I could. I
 
 GERALD'S APPEAL 103 
 
 would, I would, I would!" he cried in hysterical cres- 
 cendo. 
 
 Richard stood with muscles tense, eyes blazing, lips 
 drawn tight and fierce, his back was to the light, his 
 face to Gerald, whose sobs mixed with the long shudder 
 of the moaning pines. Suddenly he took Gerald by the 
 collar and shook him. ' ' It 's a lie ! " he cried. ' ' How do 
 you know?" 
 
 "Go in and see. Ask Adeline and Archie. Ask the 
 servants. What the fellows say at school about him is 
 
 true " 
 
 "They say that, do they? And what do you say to 
 them?" 
 
 ' ' I say nothing and lam lam into them. ' ' 
 "Right," said Richard, still holding him by the col- 
 lar and walking him up and down under the pines. 
 "Always lam into them. Don't let them wrangle over 
 it. Hit out straight and have done with it." 
 
 "I'd like to lam into him ! And I will, if I see ' ' 
 
 "Now, Gerald," said Richard, still walking him up 
 and down, ' ' mind what I tell you. You must never see 
 anything. It would only make it a thousand times 
 worse. No boy or man ever strikes a father. Be quiet 
 and listen. If it comes to the worst, stand before her. 
 It mayn't happen again. Not if I can help it. Where 
 are the others ? ' ' 
 
 "All hiding, except Addie she's locked up. Can't 
 Tie be locked up, Richard? Don't they lock them up for 
 morphia ? ' ' 
 
 "Look here, old boy," Richard said, drying Gerald's 
 face with his handkerchief . "You can't help this. So 
 don't think any more about it. What's the good? And 
 whatever you do, don't irritate him. Besides, he's really 
 ill. It's past five and I must go in. Just cut over to the 
 mill, as hard as you can lick, and ask Merwood for my 
 bicycle lamp, will you, and cut back again. There's a 
 good cake there that you can have, tell him. One, two, 
 and off you go. ' '
 
 104 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 Off he went, head forward and down, arms pressed 
 to his side, at a swinging trot, while Richard, his steps 
 ringing firm on the frozen gravel, went into the house, 
 whistling, with a fierce light in his eyes and burning fire 
 at his heart. 
 
 The shadows were thick in the drawing-room, kept 
 purposely thick, he thought, though the fire was roused 
 to a blaze to welcome him, and his mother spoke with a 
 forced cheerfulness that cut him to the heart. 
 
 ''I wish you could have been at Merstone last night, 
 Muff," he said presently, in an uneven voice. "The 
 children sat up and helped in the tableaux. Kathleen 
 was Oberon, Nancy the charmingest Titania ; clever little 
 thing. How did you contrive to get such a swollen face ? 
 Sitting in drafts? Foolish Muff. Have it out, Muf- 
 fie. I'll take you to the dentist to-morrow. Patience 
 isn 't always a virtue, don 't you know ? It can be carried 
 too far." 
 
 "Yes; so I have been thinking," she replied sadly. 
 "Not about the dentist, dear. But we can not, we can 
 not go on like this. I don't know what to do. He has 
 been like a madman. All but Gerald are in disgrace; 
 the maids have given notice. So many have left for the 
 same reason. They say they can not stand his treatment 
 of of the children. Richie, dear, I wish I had a pleas- 
 anter tale to tell you but, indeed " Her full heart 
 overflowed and a sad story was unfolded, in the despera- 
 tion of one driven to bay, to a listener whose heart was on 
 fire with pain and indignation, and his imagination 
 quickened by what Gerald had just told him. But the 
 true history of the swollen face was not given, nor was 
 the bruised arm alluded to. 
 
 "Of course it can't go on," he said impatiently, at 
 the end. "You must leave him. Have you threatened 
 to go?" 
 
 "How can I desert the poor children?" she sighed. 
 "I am some restraint. He would be only too glad to be 
 rid of me. "What set him off this morning was your giv-
 
 GERALD'S APPEAL 105 
 
 ing Adeline a present that pleased her. He had, of 
 course, given her nothing. She was angry and imper- 
 tinent in return, so was condemned to her room for the 
 day. He is always dangerous in the morning now. For- 
 tunately he seldom comes down to breakfast. Thorne 
 says he can do nothing. He tells him plainly that he is 
 killing himself. But I am afraid of something worse 
 before he does that, Richard, and the doctor can not deny 
 it. This excessive jealousy is a symptom." 
 
 "I see no help except in leaving him, unless he be- 
 comes much worse in the way you fear. ' ' And with this 
 cold comfort she had to be content, the door opening at 
 this juncture to admit Gerald, flushed and calmed by his 
 run. 
 
 They dined very drearily that night; the master of 
 the house looked, as his stepson said, like a thunder- 
 storm in a shabby dressing-gown, and was as conversa- 
 tional as an ice-floe on your weather quarter. 
 
 ''Where did you get that cut on your wrist?" he 
 asked Dick, after a long and gloomy silence. 
 
 ' ' Oh ! in a scrap up the country, that time. I cut the 
 poor nigger who did it in halves. Don't squirm, Muff; 
 it didn 't hurt him, and everybody has to die. You can 't 
 fight with cowslip balls. Why, the poor beggars went 
 down before our fire in ranks like reaped corn." 
 
 "All fighting men are brutes," was Belton's civil and 
 apposite comment before relapsing into morose silence. 
 
 Gerald sat silent and wretched opposite his brother, 
 who was too preoccupied to comfort him by so much as a 
 friendly kick. All lights but that immediately over the 
 table were lowered because of Mrs. Belton's eyes. But 
 in spite of the dim light and the black lace in which she 
 was muffled from wrist to chin, Richard observed such 
 marks on her face as no cold or toothache could produce. 
 Adeline, coming in to dessert after her day's solitary 
 confinement, went straight to Richard and pressed her 
 face silently to his shoulder till her father called her 
 roughly away, when Archie tried to comfort her by
 
 106 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 making faces at her whenever Mr. Belton was not 
 looking. 
 
 ' ' I wish, ' ' Gerald said in the hall afterward, ' ' I wish 
 he was dead ! ' ' 
 
 "Don't say that, Gerald," Richard quickly retorted. 
 "You would be wretched if he were to die to-night as 
 he very likely may, ' ' he added, going out into the darkness.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 THE FANCY BALL 
 
 Two minutes longer in that house and Richard must 
 have suffocated with fury or given way to some irrepa- 
 rable violence. Once outside, with the door shut, the 
 frosty air playing upon his face and the pines moaning 
 their subdued, immemorial sorrow, a great weight was 
 lifted from his laboring heart ; the wind 's low rhythm in 
 the trees was like a friend's voice calling and calming 
 him; he turned, with a sound between a groan and a 
 shout, into the small clearing where Gerald had told his 
 tale at sunset, leaned his bicycle against a tree and threw 
 himself face downward on the ground, clutching the 
 heaped pine-needles in his hands. 
 
 Beaten and bruised ! His mother ! his own mother ! 
 Even Gerald could not stand by and see it, the man 's own 
 son. Something must be done ; the children must be left 
 no longer in the shadow and terror of that miserable 
 home. Godfrey Belton must interfere. Yet what could 
 even he do? The doctor could but warn and had done 
 so. His mother could not leave the children, and she 
 had no power to take them away. He could see no way 
 out of this tangfe of misery except one. The man was, 
 indeed, killing himself, but only by inches; he might yet 
 pull up. If he would but double the black potion that 
 darkened those helpless lives; if, in some hour of the 
 despair such drafts engender, he were to end all of his 
 own will. That was the only solution of this bitter 
 problem. 
 
 A sudden wind-gust rising out of the deep heart of 
 
 107
 
 108 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 night and rushing with a shudder and roar through the 
 black tree-tops, as if in sympathy with the violence of his 
 thought, roused him. 
 
 "Well, old boy, and how do you like your surprise?" 
 he seemed to hear again through the pine murmurs, in 
 the old genial voice, like a reproach. 
 
 His passion had so exhausted him that everything 
 looked crimson, and his trembling hands could hardly 
 light the lamp of the bicycle he wheeled out into the 
 graveled drive, where it east a red radiance upon the 
 drifted leaves and fir-needles and the pallid road itself. 
 The sky was gray, with hardly a star looking through the 
 thinning cloud- weft drawn like a velarium across it ; but 
 above the pines on the hill glowed lights that made his 
 heart leap and soften. For Kitty's window was there. 
 To forget Kathleen? Yet all the misery and fury had 
 put her completely out of his mind. All the light-hearted 
 gaiety came back with the friendly gleam from the 
 house that held all his happiness and hope ; the ball, the 
 bizarre masquerading, the bouquet promised to Kath- 
 leen, gay trivialities, ghastly by the lurid light of the 
 scene he had just left. The bouquet had been forgotten 
 and time was flying; springing on to the high wheel, he 
 flew down the hill and across the marsh-land toward the 
 white lights of Sandycombe, a crimson spot in the dark- 
 ness marking his rapid trail between leafless hedges and 
 across open waste. 
 
 Kitty Musgrave knew that crimson spot well and 
 often watched for it with a quickening pulse from her 
 aerie on the hill ; Richard often came to Ingrestone in this 
 way, and, if he sometimes passed, it was not without her 
 knowledge. 
 
 She was already watching for the red star to flash 
 from under the trees upon the road, ready dressed in 
 her fantastic medieval costume, and not only watching, 
 but waiting for the welcome red light that was to bring 
 the white roses. Ah ! there flashed the sudden red glow, 
 but it dulled down to a minute dot and passed slowly by,
 
 THE FANCY BALL 109 
 
 once more and once again; only a cigar or pipe passing 
 along the road. 
 
 But Richard was already late when he started; he 
 had not only to fetch the roses from Sandycombe, but 
 also to turn two miles out of his way to go to the mill, 
 where the manager was waiting to finish some business 
 matter with him; so Kitty's patience, of which she had 
 no larger stock than most girls, came to an end just as 
 the roll of a gong told that time had also come to an end, 
 and she slipped down the stairs in a shimmer of white 
 and gold to find a varied company going through the 
 hall, with laughter and ejaculations of surprise, admi- 
 ration, and frank, fraternal criticism. 
 
 The Adrian Rosnys, who were in powder and patches, 
 had taken Ingrestone on their way to St. Ann 's in charge 
 of a Queen of Scots niece, bringing little Nancy with 
 them to see the dresses and stay for a few nights. The 
 party, which included a Franciscan monk and a Black 
 Brunswicker, would fill the omnibus twice. It was felt 
 that Rosny should have been one of them; Kitty began 
 to be cross, she felt herself slighted by his absence. She 
 expressed her sense of the frivolity and futility of fancy 
 dress with marked emphasis, and was sure that her hair, 
 which was in two long jeweled plaits, would come un- 
 done with the first dance; it worried her to think that 
 some of her pearls were borrowed and would certainly 
 be lost; it was small consolation that the Rajah's blazing 
 jewels were hired paste; she frankly pronounced the 
 Pierrot hideous, besides prophesying the descent of 
 "Prince Charlie's" tartans as soon as he danced. 
 
 "Send Dick to the right about," one brother coun- 
 seled. "Mortal man can't dance attendance forever 
 and ever," was the opinion of another, whereupon Kitty 
 averred with her sweetest smile that she was perfectly 
 content with everything and was really better without 
 flowers in her cloth of gold and white satin. 
 
 "Ah! my dear," Mrs. Rosny said, when they were 
 leaving the dining-room, "you will be a happy girl if 
 8
 
 110 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 Dick is half as good to his wife as he is to his mother. 
 Your dress is lovely. It goes so well with the Black 
 Brunswicker. Your cousin?" 
 
 "My cousin, Ronald Musgrave, Dick's friend." 
 
 But the children, gathered in the hall to see the 
 maskers passing, were half frightened by the grim em- 
 blems on the Black Hussar. The four eldest from the 
 Pines were there ; they had stolen out by a back door and 
 winding path lest they should meet their father in his 
 evening wanderings. "Our Kitty is the best of all," 
 was their proud verdict, as they came crowding round 
 her, full of questions and comments. 
 
 "Have you seen your brother's bicycle go by?" she 
 asked, and went to a window with them, drew the cur- 
 tains, and looked out. 
 
 "But he must have passed long ago," Gerald said. 
 "It's a quarter past nine." 
 
 "No, he hasn't," cried Archie. ''There he goes," 
 and Kitty caught the well-known flash of the red lamp 
 down among the trees shadowing the road. Her face 
 changed and grew joyous; she smiled brightly; she was 
 certain this time. But the smile died quickly, when 
 the red flash vanished in the darkness. A few seconds, 
 and it gleamed out from the pine-stems again, but in the 
 wrong direction. 
 
 ' ' Why, he 's gone into our gate ! ' ' exclaimed Adeline ; 
 "he's gone wrong!" 
 
 ' ' It must be a mistake, ' ' Kitty said, with a blank look, 
 when the red light vanished once more in the darkness. 
 She turned to Gerald, who was standing by, looking 
 dreamily into the wall of night outside and absently re- 
 peating to himself, ' ' A quarter past nine, a quarter past 
 nine. ' ' 
 
 "Treasure trove," said a deep voice on her other 
 hand, and, looking quickly round, she found the tall 
 Black Brunswicker standing there with a sheathed bou- 
 quet of roses in his hand. "No reasonable offer refused, 
 Cousin Kitty. Where did I get them? Since you are
 
 THE FANCY BALL 111 
 
 so rude as to ask, I confess that they were lying on that 
 identical table, visible to the naked eye. How they got 
 there I know no more than King George knew how the 
 apples got into the dumplings. I might conjecture that 
 my slandered messmate, whose fist is decipherable on 
 this card, caused them to be placed there.'* 
 
 "Why, of course," she replied, "how very stupid I 
 am ! He must have passed long ago and left them. And 
 that red lamp Simmons is so negligent leaving 
 things about, instead of bringing them in." 
 
 "And so the belle Iseult was well content and her 
 kindred with her, and so they lived right joyously and 
 made great cheer the one with the other, ' ' said the Black 
 Brunswicker, slowly advancing upon Molly, who re- 
 treated before him, fascinated by the horror of his death 's 
 head and bones, with saucer eyes and open mouth, while 
 Gerald, lost in some vague dream, repeated again and 
 again, "A quarter past nine." 
 
 Sir Walter Raleigh, otherwise Dick Rosny, had prom- 
 ised to arrive at the Assembly Rooms early and be in at- 
 tendance in the vicinity of the cloak-room, where Kitty 
 naturally but vainly expected to find him. After a few 
 seekings they went into the ballroom without him, the 
 Queen of Scots with the Pierrot, the Monk and the Rajah 
 affably chatting together, and the Black Brunswicker fol- 
 lowing the scarlet and gold Colonel Musgrave, who rep- 
 resented his military rank a hundred years ago, and his 
 hooped and powdered lady, with the fair Iseult, who 
 glanced somewhat wistfully over the party-colored, in- 
 congruous crowd in search of a plumed cavalier in a 
 short velvet cloak. 
 
 "What a menagerie, Kitty!" the Brunswicker said. 
 "Look at Falstaff, do you recognize him? Well, I tell 
 no tales, but he 's no stranger to either of us. That Span- 
 ish girl will be the death of me. She has nine bouncing 
 children, my dear, and the airs and graces of a kitten. 
 Why, there's our old friend the Devil, the good old ortho- 
 dox chap with horns and tail, grinning like a Cheshire
 
 112 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 cat. Mephistopheles is leering affectionately at him. How 
 are you, Mephisto? Haven't seen Gretchen to-night; 
 minding her wheel at home, no doubt. What in thunder 
 is the thing over there on the beef -eater's arm meant for, 
 Crazy Jane? Turns the scale at eleven stone. How 
 that Vivandiere grins ! She fancies herself hugely, which 
 is lucky, for nobody else will." 
 
 "How do you know that, Ronald? I think her 
 charming and so good-tempered. And why in the world 
 should she come if she didn't fancy herself? I liked 
 myself immensely this evening in the glass " 
 
 "Ah! but we are not all belle Iseults " 
 
 "Or Black Brunswickers, I hope. If I thought half 
 here had the Brunswick tongue, I 'd run away and hide. ' ' 
 
 "Don't think it for a moment, Kitten; we can't af- 
 ford to lose the light of the room. Jove! did you see 
 Sir Philip Sidney tumbling over his sword ? Bluff King 
 Hal looks as if something had disagreed with him an- 
 swers to the name of Smith, my dear. All the rag-tag 
 and bobtail of the county seems to have been raked to- 
 gether." 
 
 "That is how we came to have cards," said fair 
 Iseult, sweetly. "For pity's sake go and fill your pro- 
 gram while you can." 
 
 "Bid me to ask and I will ask Thy Brunswicker to be. 
 Number two, Kit?" 
 
 "Filled. Besides you're down for six and fourteen. 
 Stand to your guns and don't bother me. No tea, thanks. 
 I'm going to sit with mother." 
 
 Iseult 's eyes were clouded with ill-timed moisture; 
 the first notes of the Polonaise were sounding ; strangely 
 assorted couples, flower-girls and monks, Queen Eliza- 
 beths and British officers in latest uniform, nuns and 
 Pierrots, Kings and peasant-girls, Tudor ruffs and 
 Georgian powder, Louis Quinze ladies and medieval 
 knights, white-kilted Albanians and Fair Rosamonds, 
 Venetian fishermen and ladies in Greek chitons, were tak- 
 ing their places, and many goodly Cavaliers with plume
 
 THE FANCY BALL 113 
 
 and spur came and went in the gay and glittering show ; 
 but the tall stature, short velvet cloak, and broad ruff of 
 Sir Walter were nowhere to be seen. It seemed mon- 
 strous that one of the most graceful and natural imper- 
 sonations in the room should sit out that first, stately 
 show dance now beginning like a splendid serpent slowly 
 and melodiously to unwind its coiled length. 
 
 She looked her assumed character, her mother 
 thought, and Kathleen felt it so strongly that she began 
 to wonder if Rosny were playing up to Iseult of Brittany 
 by this strange and unexpected dereliction of duty. But 
 the joke was too crude, it could not be that. There must 
 be something wrong. 
 
 Gerald said that his brother left the Pines soon after 
 eight on his cycle. To Sandycombe and back with the 
 roses should have taken half an hour at the longest ; an- 
 other quarter of an hour might have been spent in riding 
 to St. Ann's. He could surely dress in half an hour at 
 the outside; yet it was already half past ten. Gerald, 
 she had observed, was not himself to-night ; he had been 
 crying ; he was preoccupied, dreamy, and sad. A boy of 
 thirteen does not cry for a trifle. Foolish Iseult, what 
 had the boy 's tears to do with Richard ? Only that some- 
 thing must be wrong, and very wrong, to keep him so 
 long on this last night. To-morrow at this time he would 
 be at sea and in a few weeks he might be at the ends of 
 the earth ; for there was talk of his going on the Pacific 
 Station; he would not lightly waste a moment of this 
 precious night. Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, had a 
 pensive and monosyllabic partner in the next dance; 
 an Algerian pirate fared even worse in the next after 
 that. 
 
 "I should like to sit down," said the fair Iseult. 
 "This cloth of gold is too stiff and heavy to dance in. 
 And my wimple will keep catching in people's garments. 
 It pulls my head off." 
 
 "II faut souffrir pour etre belle," the pirate admon- 
 ished. "And without humbug, Miss Musgrave, yours is
 
 114 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 the prettiest and most suitable dress in the room. Every- 
 body is raving about it." 
 
 "Let them rave. But they came to dance. They 
 don't know what it is to be dressed in a gilt bonbon box 
 and wear an extinguisher with a veil tied to it on the 
 back of their heads," replied Iseult, so sadly that the 
 pirate laughed and a Folly jingling by in cap and 
 bells lowered his bauble in homage to her and bade 
 her cheer herself with the prospect of the next dance 
 with him. 
 
 "And I said of Folly, it is vain," answered Iseult, 
 rising and placing her hand on the pirate's arm, and sud- 
 denly smiling to find herself face to face with a tall and 
 splendid cavalier, cloaked and plumed, his hand on his 
 rapier, his eyes shining with singular luster above the 
 bristling mustachios that changed the character of his 
 face so that only Kitty and the Black Hussar recognized 
 him. 
 
 "Ah! Sir Walter," said Iseult; "have you been to 
 find El Dorado, or were you mewed in the Tower all this 
 long while?" 
 
 " I 've come to find La Dorada at last, ' ' he replied in 
 a constrained, almost affected, manner. "Looking for 
 Iseult without a dictionary of dates, I stumbled into the 
 wrong century, I suppose, and that threw me behind 
 time." 
 
 "You would naturally look in the middle age for 
 Iseult, Sir Walter, and so miss Kitty Musgrave, who is 
 glad to say she is still young. ' ' 
 
 "And by no means plain to see," added the pirate, 
 claiming one more turn before his dance was done. 
 
 "But where in the world were you?" Kitty asked 
 later, when she had taken her turn with Folly and was at 
 liberty to accompany the grave Sir Walter to a quiet 
 nook in the hall, where they sat by a bank of blossomed 
 plants, a little withdrawn from the stream of prom- 
 enaders moving to and fro before them with flash of 
 jewels and rustle of shimmering silks, like some unreal
 
 THE FANCY BALL 115 
 
 masque in a dream, that may change and dissolve at any 
 minute. 
 
 "I like you in your finery, Kitty," was the irrelevant 
 reply; "the gold and the white answer to your hair and 
 your complexion. The pearls are like you, dearest, 
 precious and pure. I like the long gold plaits twined 
 with pearls. May I touch one ? How long and soft and 
 bright! Ah! Kitty, darling, how came you to put up 
 with such a rough specimen as I? And you so young. 
 You are only eighteen, Kathleen, are you? Perhaps it 
 was only because I came so early that you took me or out 
 of pity." 
 
 ' ' Pray, does your worship expect payment in kind of 
 all those fine speeches? Am I to say how lovely your 
 mustachios are? And your fine feathers and smart 
 oloak all ready for Queen Bess to walk upon. I never 
 saw you wear a brooch before ; that is a beauty in your 
 cloak, not much larger than a saucer. And what a mag- 
 nificent gold chain! But, Richard I thought you al- 
 ways wore your father's ring? I never saw you without 
 the signet- ring before. You wore it this afternoon." 
 
 He sighed heavily and looked at the hand on which 
 he had been used to wear the ring, and which he had un- 
 gloved to stroke the plait of hair with. 
 
 "Was it this afternoon?" he replied. "I don't re- 
 member. Yes ; I always wore it. I prized it though I 
 don 't care for such things. He always wore it and sealed 
 with it. It had the Rosny crest. I I 've lost it, Kitty. ' ' 
 
 "I am sorry. What a pity! What shall you do? 
 Have it cried? Put out little bills?" 
 
 ' ' I think not. Why do we talk of such things ? Shall 
 you mind much if I get an appointment on a foreign sta- 
 tion? I could claim a home appointment; but it's not 
 the way to promotion. Your father utterly refuses to let 
 us marry before two years. And it would be much bet- 
 ter to have a home appointment in the first years of mar- 
 riage than now. It would be too hard luck to have to 
 leave a wife behind, hard enough to have to leave a sweet-
 
 116 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 heart. But I can trust you, Mavourneen, and there are 
 always letters to keep a fellow alive and pictures of you 
 to see over again in night watches in the mind's eye, 
 darling. This gold-tressed Iseult, with her pearls and 
 her smile, will be painted on the sea-waves in the gloom. 
 And, if you wake in the night, what will you see in the 
 dark, Kitty?" 
 
 ' ' I shall see the officer of the watch on deck, far, far 
 away on the dark sea sometimes. Or I shall see my 
 Cwur de Lion coming home again; and oh! how I shall 
 wish the days and nights before that gone. Richie, how 
 shall we ever drag through two long years 1 How wicked 
 and cruel of you to be a sailor!" 
 
 ' ' Darling ! You are too good to me ! " 
 
 ' ' Of course I am. But you needn't crush my hand to 
 death in that great strong paw of yours." The hand 
 was suddenly unclasped, while a spasm of horror whit- 
 ened the face and dilated the eyes looking into Iseult 's. 
 "What is it, Richard?" she asked anxiously. "You are 
 so strange to-night. What have you been doing ? Why 
 were you so late this evening ? You are not ill, dear ? ' ' 
 
 He turned away his face, trembling and shaken by a 
 heavy sigh. Kathleen looked anxiously at him and he at 
 the stream of promenaders, sparkling, shimmering, and 
 rustling by in their gay fantastic dresses, with multitudi- 
 nous hum of low- voiced talk and occasional ring of light- 
 hearted laughter, all emphasized or subdued by the rise 
 and fall of waltz music borne fitfully from the ballroom. 
 
 Kitty 's heart misgave her. The love-burdened strains 
 of the band, the recurrent clash of cymbal and rarer light 
 roll of drum, when the music wave rose to a climax, were 
 more than she could bear in this wild dream of color and 
 character, of mirth and movement. The strangely cos- 
 tumed figures gathered from the ends of the earth and of 
 time had a weird and confusing effect ; they overpowered 
 her imagination, she felt astray, her personality lost in 
 that of the lady of old romance whose dress she wore. This 
 was not Richard sitting by her side, but some splendid
 
 THE FANCY BALL 117 
 
 sinister vision in velvet and silk, his jeweled rapier at his 
 side, wearing Richard's features and using Eichard's 
 voice. 
 
 "111?" he said presently, turning back to her again 
 with a smile that belied the strange look in his eyes ; ' ' I 
 am never ill, dearest. What singular notions sometimes 
 stray into my sweetheart 's golden head. Was it so very 
 wicked of me to miss our dance? Well, I suffered for 
 it. I was far the worst off, you may be sure. I 'm afraid 
 I didn't take the disappointment like an angel, Kitty. 
 The fact is I came to grief, I I had a spill ; it knocked 
 all the sense out of me for a time. That made me late. 
 That 'sail. Hurt? Not a bit. Oh ! I picked myself up 
 and walked most of the way. It wouldn 't be worth men- 
 tioning if it hadn't made me lose my dance. Couldn't 
 you scratch some other name on the card to make up ? " 
 
 She promised with a joyless smile. A strange terror 
 invaded her heart ; never, never would she go to a fancy- 
 dress ball again; she had never been drawn by such 
 vanities, so hindering, she feared, to a Christian course. 
 They must, as good people said, be soul-destroying. 
 There was some evil magic in them, fascinating and re- 
 pulsive and fiendishly sweet; they made Richard so un- 
 like himself; there was something in his face that made 
 her shrink from him, something in his laugh that gave 
 her a horror of him; horror of Richard! 
 
 "Ah!" said a deep, sweet voice close by. "What a 
 haven of rest ! What an Eden ! I play the role of ser- 
 pent, I fear. Or am I the angel who drove the happy 
 pair out ? I 'm but too conscious of being de trop. * ' 
 
 The tall figure of the Black Hussar towered above the 
 promenaders in front of them ; Iseult's eyes met his smil- 
 ing glance with something like relief; she remembered, 
 with a pleasure that surprised her, that the next dance 
 was his, and, with a slight gesture, indicated a seat on 
 the lounge at her side, of which he immediately availed 
 himself. 
 
 ' ' I 'm afraid you must be very vain, ' ' she said, gaily ;
 
 118 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 "you see everybody looking at you, and you hear them 
 saying, ' Who is he ? "Who is that distinguished-looking 
 officer in the black uniform?' So much admiration has 
 turned your head till you think yourself an angel black 
 or white." 
 
 "Do they admire me? Do you admire my beauty, 
 Rosny ? "Well, a cat may look at a king, after all. How 
 beastly mean to come in simple uniform, like Johnstone 
 and Stokes. All very well for the seniors. But it isn't 
 playing the game. All should make fools of themselves 
 or none. Those uniform chaps will exult over us and 
 think they have us on toast to-morrow. ' ' 
 
 "Vanity," Kitty said. "They know that nothing 
 beats a naval uniform, after all. Do make Richard be 
 photographed in his, Ronald. Do you know, I've never 
 been to a fancy-dress dance before. It 's like a beautiful 
 dream to see the people passing. ' ' 
 
 "It's like the world, gaudy, made-up, pretending to 
 be what it is not, selfish, stupid, and vain, ' ' moralized the 
 Hussar. "And this quiet, flowery nook is a sort of 
 Island of the Blest or Earthly Paradise, in which Beauty 
 rests apart from the stream of passing life with Love. 
 Then comes Duty, all in black, with his death 's head and 
 bones, and says very sternly, 'This is my dance.' So 
 she sorrowfully and reluctantly forsakes Love for Duty, ' ' 
 rising and offering his arm, which Iseult, with a blush 
 and a sigh and a backward glance to Richard, accepted 
 just as the second phrase of the dance-music swelled out 
 with clash of cymbals and full concert of all instruments. 
 
 Rosny looked with an absent gaze upon the vanishing 
 figures of his future wife and his most intimate friend ; 
 then, suddenly remembering that he was engaged for 
 the dance, went to look for his partner, who had not 
 waited for him, so that he had ample leisure to watch 
 Iseult, graceful and sweet in her floating whiteness and 
 shining tresses, and set off by the Black Hussar, stately 
 and stern in his somber, martial garb. Then his mood 
 changed suddenly; he became full of life and prodigal
 
 THE FANCY BALL 119 
 
 of quips and laughter, with eyes overbright and flushed 
 cheeks. He kept Kitty laughing and merry through all 
 subsequent dances and sittings out with her, was gay and 
 delightful to other partners, and somewhat wild in his 
 talk with men. 
 
 ' ' What was the matter with Rosny to-night ? ' ' Colonel 
 Musgrave asked his wife, when the two were thankfully 
 alone at their own hearth again. 
 
 "Nothing, dear. What did you notice wrong? He 
 was in exceptional spirits. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Very exceptional. I hope I may be mistaken. But 
 I didn't like the look of him at all. I'm glad I was firm 
 about the marriage not taking place yet. I never before 
 suspected him of wine. But he's young and accidents 
 will happen. And, after all, he is not Belton's son."
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 UNDER THE PINES 
 
 AN early breakfast at his hotel, a plunge in the win- 
 ter sea, and a sharp bicycle run through the frost-curdled 
 country lanes to Merstone, before the household there 
 was fully awake, on the morning after the ball, ought to 
 have freshened and restored one less used to turn night 
 into day than Rosny. But when, after half an hour's 
 delay, his uncle came down into the breakfast-room to 
 see him sitting by the fire, with a newspaper that he was 
 not reading in his hand, he was surprised to find him 
 heavy-eyed, haggard, and altogether out of sorts. 
 
 ' ' Why, bless me, Dick, a youngster like you .ought to 
 be able to dance all night and turn up as fresh as paint 
 in the morning," he said, going round the table and 
 peeping under covers to see what was to be had. ' ' Make 
 a good breakfast, lad ; that will pull you up. You will be 
 sharp-set after your ride this bracing morning. Break- 
 fasted at St. Ann's? Well done. But you've earned 
 another by this time. Try this grilled fowl. At least 
 a cup of coffee, then. I don't feel very kindly toward 
 breakfast myself this morning. Late hours and late sup^ 
 pers one must eat something if one has to drag young- 
 sters about all night at these tomfooleries play the 
 dickens with the digestion. Very good show, though, 
 very pleasant fooling. Surely all the officers of the 
 Agamemnon were there?" 
 
 "We mustered pretty strong, sir." 
 
 "As for my future niece, she was prettier and more 
 charming than ever. Everybody was talking about her 
 and the Black Brunswicker. You seem a cup too low, 
 120
 
 UNDER THE PINES 121 
 
 Dickon. I hope there was no lover 's quarrel last night ? 
 Swallow your pride and make it up if there was, for your 
 pretty Kathleen is quite as good as she looks." 
 
 "And better if possible, Uncle Adrian. But it's to 
 be a two years ' engagement and to-day 's Black Monday. ' ' 
 
 "Come; the Agamemnon isn't far off. You'll be 
 turning up again in a couple of weeks. I'm afraid 
 there's trouble at the Pines, Dick." 
 
 ' ' There is, indeed, ' ' Richard replied. ' ' I heard some- 
 thing yesterday. I can't get over it." 
 
 "I'm beginning to think with you that there should 
 be a separation, ' ' Adrian said. ' ' There are grounds for 
 one. Why not go at once to Godfrey Belton and induce 
 him to urge her to take legal steps for a judicial separa- 
 tion with custody of children 1 ?" 
 
 ' ' Too late, ' ' Richard replied in a strange voice. 
 
 "Too late? How so?" 
 
 " I go aboard to-day. And I must be off to say good- 
 by at both houses. You will say good-by to my aunt for 
 me. She will not be down yet, I suppose. Can I do 
 anything for anybody? Here's a letter for Nancy, shall 
 I take it?" 
 
 "Aye, do, Dickie; the little wench likes her letters. 
 Good-by. Cheer up, lad. You are going to marry a 
 girl worth her weight in gold, remember. Think over the 
 separation. ' ' 
 
 " I 'm not likely to forget that, ' * Richard replied, turn- 
 ing before stepping on his cycle and smiling with sad 
 eyes at his uncle, who stood on the steps to see him off 
 and watched while he flashed through the open gate and 
 along the highway till a distant bend hid him from sight. 
 
 "Can you wonder at his sadness," Mrs. Rosny said 
 later, "after what the children told Nancy? Poor 
 Dick!" 
 
 More than the usual heart-sickness oppressed Richard 
 when he jumped off his high wheel to open the gate at the 
 Pines and walked with a dragging step up to the door, 
 looking at the familiar gray house with a fearful ques-
 
 122 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 tioning in his eyes, as if some heavy disaster might have 
 befallen it since last night. 
 
 Yet it seemed less grim than usual, partly lit by 
 bright winter sunshine, which drew glittering sparkles 
 from frosted pine-boughs and cut off sharp squares of 
 vivid green from the whitened lawn. The song of the 
 pine-tops was softened to a dulcet murmur, lulling and 
 sweet, and pierced now and then by a robin's warble; 
 there was warmth in the rich browns and grays of bare 
 branches feathering in sunlight, and the deeper greens 
 of sunlit laurels and hollies ; smoke curled light and tran- 
 quil against a cloudless sky; voices of laughing children 
 came on the still, sweet air; Archie and Molly flew out 
 from the far corner of the house, rosy and riotous ; both 
 brought up at sight of him and followed him indoors with 
 dancing steps. 
 
 " Mother's in the dining-room counting out her money, 
 Addie's in the pantry stealing bread and honey, 
 Gerald he is up-stairs tying up his flies, 
 Cook is in the kitchen making us mince-pies," 
 
 the cheery little imps chanted in answer to his inquiry of 
 where they all were, and going into the dining-room he 
 found poor Mrs. Belton actually engaged in the unsatis- 
 factory occupation of reckoning up the household bills 
 and wondering how on earth they were to be paid. 
 
 "You good boy, to come so early," was her cheerful 
 salutation. "Well, dear, and how did the ball go off? 
 The Ingrestone House party were superb from all ac- 
 counts. I must get Kitty to come down and dress up for 
 me presently. We are going to console each other over a 
 cup of tea this afternoon when you are gone. ' ' 
 
 She still wore a light band of lace across the eye and 
 face, yet she looked years younger than on the previous 
 night, her voice had a joyous ring such as rarely survives 
 youth. Richard wondered, as he often did, at his moth- 
 er's mercurial temperament, and pondered on the re- 
 serves of vitality and joy in life she must possess, and
 
 UNDER THE PINES 123 
 
 which would enable her in better circumstances to see 
 many years of happiness and enjoyment. Handing her 
 to a place by the fire with her back to the light, he took a 
 chair on the opposite side of the hearth, facing the win- 
 dow, through which he looked anxiously from time to 
 time, while she chatted lightly and pleasantly in the gay, 
 half -mocking strain that came so rarely now and seemed 
 to her son like an echo of childhood. In this mood she 
 sometimes let herself go with a wild exuberance that 
 jarred upon him, and seemed more consonant with the 
 mad merriment of youth than with any mirth permissible 
 to years of discretion. 
 
 To-day it produced a curious mixture of irritation and 
 tenderness in him. Irritation that she could rattle on 
 so light-heartedly, with yesterday's wretchedness so 
 fresh in remembrance and those marks still darkening her 
 face ; a tender pity for one who snatched so eagerly at a 
 moment's sunbeam, a moment's healing for get fulness. 
 Without that power of forgetting, her terrible life must 
 have destroyed her. Yet the very faculty that irritated 
 had a perverse fascination for him ; she seemed so young 
 and pretty and irresponsible in these gay moods. 
 
 "How is Mr. Belton?" he asked presently, his eyes 
 fixed upon the pale blue sky, against which rooks were 
 slowly sailing with wings flashing in sunlight. 
 
 "Need you ask?" she replied with a reckless laugh. 
 "We are all happy and contented this morning. He is 
 still asleep." 
 
 "Nobody has seen him since dinner last night," Ger- 
 ald added. ' ' He sleeps well at last. ' ' 
 
 Richard put his hand across his eyes, as if the sun- 
 light was too strong, and fetched a deep breath; while 
 Adeline absently quoted from her last poetry-lesson, 
 "After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well." 
 
 "Surely," Richard remonstrated, "that is too long a 
 sleep. Have you not really seen him to-day, mother? 
 Where is he?" 
 
 Addie 's quotation beat on like a knell in his brain ; he
 
 124 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 thought to hear the footsteps of fate on the sunny gravel 
 outside. 
 
 "Not since last night," his mother corroborated, add- 
 ing that she had paid her accustomed visits to the study 
 many times, asking through the opened door if her hus- 
 band wanted anything and listening to hear if all were 
 well before leaving him. "We dare not interrupt these 
 long sleeps. ' ' she said. ' ' It upsets him so terribly. ' ' 
 
 "I think," said Richard with an effort, "considering 
 all things I think, some one should watch him during 
 these prolonged sleeps. It is close upon noon now and 
 he seems to have slept since early last night. ' ' He spoke 
 with his eyes fixed on the window, toward which the 
 footsteps approached with a curious, hurried stealth- 
 iness. 
 
 "Dear Richie, you are weird this morning; you give 
 one the creeps, ' ' his mother replied. ' ' Why do you put 
 such horrors into one's head? I'll go to the study, if 
 only to pacify you, if we see nothing of him in ten min- 
 utes' time." 
 
 Richard scarcely heard her, his eyes being fixed on 
 the figure that passed the window and rang the door- 
 bell with a sharp decision they all recognized. 
 
 ' * Colonel Musgrave, ' ' Archie announced. ' ' I wish he 
 always wore his uniform. He did look so ripping last 
 night. He let me draw his sword. I shall go into the 
 army. ' ' 
 
 ' ' So shall I, ' ' shouted Harry, and Molly cried because 
 the misfortune of sex debarred her from both services. 
 
 "How are you, Mrs. Belton?" said the colonel, 
 dragged reluctantly into the room by the children. "I 
 I didn't mean to invade you at this time of day; I was 
 wanting a word in private with Dick, that's all." 
 
 "What is wrong?" Rosny asked, when they were out- 
 side in the sunshine. 
 
 ' ' When was Belton last seen 1 Has he been missed 1 
 There's bad news of him, Richard." 
 
 "He is said to have been sleeping in the study since
 
 UNDER THE PINES 125 
 
 early last night. My mother is quite happy about him," 
 Richard replied with a singing in his ears. 
 
 "I have just found him," Colonel Musgrave said, 
 "dead." 
 
 "Dead?" 
 
 "You'd better prepare your mother. He must have 
 fallen over the edge of the gravel-pit last night; the 
 clothes are covered with frost. I've sent for a constable. 
 I'll have him brought in while you look after your 
 mother. ' ' 
 
 "Stop," cried Richard, clutching his arm. "Do 
 you Was he What do you think ?" 
 
 "What can one think? What was to be expected? 
 A slip in the dark in his condition is no joke. You 
 are shocked, Richard; pull yourself together. We all 
 die. After all, it is a happy release. Tell your mother 
 it was an accident." 
 
 "I can't tell her. I can't face her. How could I?" 
 cried Richard incoherently, his eyes burning like coals. 
 
 "You must tell her at once. Don't play the fool, 
 Dick, go in," he remonstrated, pushing him away and 
 hurrying back to the spot Richard knew so well. 
 
 When he was gone Richard fell against the door- 
 jamb with a groan and threw up his arms. ' ' I can 't do 
 it, I can't," he muttered, something rising in his throat 
 and strangling him. He fought it off, with waving arms 
 and choking breath, passed a handkerchief over his face, 
 and went in. 
 
 "Mother," he called with soft urgency, "mother!" 
 
 "Oh, Richard!" she replied, coming quickly from the 
 direction of the study with wild looks, "he is not there. 
 What shall I do ? I ought not to have left him. ' ' 
 
 "Come up-stairs, " he said gently. "Don't be 
 frightened, Muffle. Gerald," he added, seeing the boy 
 listening, "you and Adeline are to take the others up to 
 the nursery at once and keep them there till I come. 
 Look sharp." 
 
 "Oh, Richard, Richard!" said his mother, when the 
 9
 
 126 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 children were gone, "something is wrong; something has 
 happened; and you knew it." 
 
 In her agitation she had pushed off the lace bandage ; 
 the darkened eye and discolored cheek showed clearly in 
 the full light ; wild exultation thrilled him at the thought 
 that all that bondage of wretchedness was over and her 
 chains broken forever. 
 
 "Something has happened, dear," he replied very 
 gently. ' ' Colonel Musgrave has just told me. He came 
 for that. Mr. Belton went out last night after dinner, 
 as he so often does. It was a dark night " 
 
 Her terror-stricken face was suddenly traversed by 
 the lightning of a dreadful certainty. There was a sound 
 of heavy feet on the gravel outside. She flew to the door 
 with a cry and saw in the bright sunshine four laborers 
 followed by a policeman, and slowly carrying a hurdle 
 with something heavy and still, covered by a rug, upon it. 
 Clearly marked on the blue distance beyond, she saw a 
 flight of pigeons flash by with clattering wings. 
 
 "Come back, mother, come back!" cried Richard, 
 drawing her back. ' ' Come away ! " he added, tightening 
 his hold. But she tore herself from his arms with a 
 great cry, that seemed to divide the daylight and pierce 
 to the very sun, and flung herself full length by the 
 corpse the men had set down in a silence through which 
 that cry seemed to ring, and which Richard remembered 
 as long as he lived. 
 
 ' ' Yes, ' ' the doctor said later on, ' ' I quite expected it. 
 I have often warned him. It could not have been pre- 
 vented. Of course, it might not have happened for 
 years. You never can tell. Mrs. Belton knew. That is 
 to say, she had been told." 
 
 ' ' A natural cause ? ' ' Rosny asked. 
 
 "So there is every reason to suppose. There was 
 valvular disease of the heart and other things. But I am 
 afraid there must be an inquest under the circum- 
 stances. ' ' 
 
 "If it is really necessary," Richard conceded. "But
 
 UNDER THE PINES 127 
 
 isn't it rather a pity? It will distress my mother. And 
 it can do him no good. ' ' 
 
 "No, poor man; we can do nothing for him. The 
 same might be said however he came by his death. And, 
 honestly, I can not be quite sure beyond all doubt. The 
 ground has not yet been examined thoroughly. These 
 formalities are not as painful as they seem, and you may 
 rely upon me to do all I can to make them as little painful 
 as possible. Mrs. Belton need know next to nothing. It 
 will be just a matter of questioning those who last saw 
 him alive, those who found him, and myself as to his 
 usual health. It ' s simply a police regulation, and a very 
 necessary one. I shall miss poor Mr. Belton, though " 
 
 Kitty Musgrave had reluctantly left the Assembly 
 Eooms, or, strictly speaking, been taken home at the early 
 hour of two in the morning. She slept till nearly twelve, 
 \vhen, fresh as a rose and divinely happy, in her favorite 
 morning frock, which was simple and tailor-made, bright 
 sunshine playing in her shining hair and sparkling face, 
 she danced down-stairs, singing, and looked into the 
 sunny morning-room, where her mother was already ab- 
 sorbed in her usual occupations. 
 
 ''A pretty time to say good morning, Miss Kitty. 
 Good afternoon is nearer the mark. Vanity, vanity, 
 Kitty. Sleeping this bright morning away. Sad waste 
 of time." 
 
 "Quite true, mother. I shall never go to another 
 fancy Ball I never enjoyed anything so much in my life. 
 I don't wonder at girls being carried away by such 
 things. As for you, mother, I believe you enjoyed it as 
 well as anybody. Where's Annis? Come, Nancy, get 
 your hat and let us go and look for Christmas roses. 
 No, no walk this morning; it's half past twelve already." 
 
 The roses were found, the conservatory visited and 
 despoiled, and some lily-of-the-valley tucked into Kitty 's 
 coat; then the grounds were danced round and Nancy 
 sent in with the flowers. Then the jeweled ornament 
 that Kathleen always forgot to wind was interrogated,
 
 128 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 with the usual result of showing some wildly impossible 
 time, and Kitty was nonplussed till the rumble of a train 
 through the level meadows increased to a grinding roar 
 and died away, and she knew that it was at least ten 
 minutes after one. Richard was becoming negligent ; he 
 had promised not to be after half past twelve; and this 
 was his last day. She went in and opened the piano, but 
 there was no music in her lingers to-day ; they stumbled 
 feebly among double sharps and accidentals and blun- 
 dered on to impossible dissonances, that refused to be 
 resolved into any kind of harmony. Chopin was, after 
 all, not worth the trouble of unraveling his crabbed minor 
 harmonies and abrupt changes of key. A step at last; 
 she began to play better; the door opened, and, look- 
 ing over her shoulder with an attempt at unconcern, 
 she saw, with a deep flush of disappointment, her 
 father. 
 
 "Wrong man, Kitty," he said. "Very sorry, my 
 dear; but poor Dick can't come to-day. lie's got his 
 hands full at the Pines." 
 
 " It is too bad, ' ' she cried. ' ' His mother makes a per- 
 fect slave of him not that I care ! ' ' 
 
 ''You won't grudge him to his mother to-day, Kit. 
 She's in a peck of trouble. Poor Belton's gone." 
 
 ' ' Gone ? ' ' she echoed, as her mother came in. ' ' Gone 
 where?" 
 
 ' ' A very long way, poor man ; ' where the wicked cease 
 from troubling, ' my dear. ' ' 
 
 "Mr. Belton dead? Oh, how shocking! And how 
 sudden ! ' ' 
 
 "He must have been ill yesterday," Kathleen said, 
 sitting down and turning white. "And that accounts 
 for much." 
 
 Her father soon told all there was to tell. 
 
 He had gone round by his own paddock to that neg- 
 lected corner of the Pines, behind the house and kitchen- 
 garden, whence gravel had at one time been dug, to see if 
 some of Belton's trees, which spoiled his own view to
 
 UNDER THE PINES 129 
 
 the sea, might be lopped and thinned. They had dis- 
 cussed it a day or two since, and Belton had agreed to cut 
 down the trees, if necessary; but had wished to keep 
 them standing if it could be done without blocking the 
 view. 
 
 The old gravel-pit was near the top of a steep rise, 
 making a miniature precipice of six or seven feet, with 
 crumbling edges, close to which and around which grew 
 scattered pines and broom-bushes, hiding the pit. It was 
 only when Colonel Musgrave, in measuring and consid- 
 ering these trees, had climbed over the low and ill-kept 
 fence that the gravel-pit became visible to him. See- 
 ing that its edge had been newly broken, he looked over 
 and saw something at the foot of the steep. It was cov- 
 ered by unmelted white frost, yet was too certainly the 
 motionless body of a man. 
 
 "He must have lain there all night in the open," he 
 said. 
 
 "While we were dancing and laughing in our made- 
 up finery. Poor, poor Mr. Belton, so unprepared ! ' ' Kitty 
 wept. 
 
 "Who knows?" her mother said. "It is our duty 
 to believe the best. ' ' 
 
 "Let us hope the best, by all means. This opium 
 habit is scarcely ever cured ; it is a disease. It's a happy 
 release, Kitty, so don't cry too much. I was always 
 sorry for the poor beggar ; he had many temptations ; now 
 they're over. And what a deliverance for his wife and 
 family ! Those children were going to the dogs, and poor 
 Mrs. Belton she's awfully cut up now. But she'll get 
 over that." 
 
 "But to lie there all night long and till nearly mid- 
 day, ' ' Mrs. Musgrave said. ' ' What were they about not 
 to find him?" 
 
 "They hadn't so much as missed him. They were all 
 as merry as grigs, till Rosny told his mother somebody 
 ought to look him up. Thought he was safe in his growl- 
 ery all the time."
 
 130 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 "How she must reproach herself!" Mrs. Musgrave 
 said. 
 
 ' ' Oh ! mother, let us go to her at once, ' ' cried Kitty. 
 "She has Richard; but, after all, he's only a man." 
 
 "Only a man? Well, Kit, I hope you'll remember 
 that and manage your man better than poor Mrs. Belton 
 has managed hers. Be kind to him. But don't be al- 
 ways bothering him to kiss you, when he's no mind to 
 it " 
 
 "Papa!" 
 
 "And when he's wrapped up in duties and worries, 
 don't fancy he's cooling off and forgetting you. If he's 
 cross and snappish, think it's business or liver, don't 
 think it's your precious self. Don't marry him at all, 
 unless you care enough for him to put up with his fail- 
 ings. And don't marry him at all, unless you are sure 
 he cares for you. Once sure of that, stick to it, but don 't 
 expect him to talk about it or to be always thinking about 
 you. Men have so many things to think of; they can't 
 be forever bothering about women and feelings. But 
 they do feel, Kit, and a precious sight deeper than women, 
 it 's my belief. ' ' 
 
 "But, after all, papa, you are only a man." 
 
 "Come, come, Kitty. Take your father's words to 
 heart. It is not often that he preaches. Let us go in to 
 luncheon at once and then run down to the Pines," her 
 mother said. 
 
 "And above all," continued the father, too much 
 absorbed in his thoughts to notice interruptions, ' ' never 
 nag. Forgive much, but always let bygones be by- 
 gones. ' ' 
 
 "There ought to be nothing to forgive," Kitty said. 
 
 "Ah, Kit, there's the mistake women make. If you 
 insist on a man 's being a saint, you may turn him into a 
 devil," her father replied. 
 
 But why did he choose the moment of poor Belton 's 
 death for a lecture on wifely duty?
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 SUSPICION 
 
 ""WHAT a deliverance for poor Mrs. Belton !" was the 
 general verdict upon the tragedy at the Pines. Yet the 
 condition in which that poor lady continued for many 
 days was more that of one condemned than of one deliv- 
 ered. She fell from one fit of hysteria to another, re- 
 proaching herself in the wildest terms for neglecting her 
 husband and accusing herself of a thousand exaggerated 
 faults and derelictions of duty toward him. She had been 
 selfish and exacting, while he was suffering and in danger. 
 She had sacrificed him for her children. She had cen- 
 sured him and complained of his gloom and silence, when 
 he was dying. She could not sleep ; she would not suffer 
 Richard out of her sight during the whole of the first, 
 half -delirious night; but clung continually to his hand 
 and poured forth incoherent lamentations and hysteric 
 sobs, her discolored face visible in the dim light. He 
 let her rave herself out and enjoy such sympathy and 
 consolation as the mere sight of him afforded. She 
 would not so much as see the children for the first few 
 days. 
 
 "The shock has unhinged her; she is not herself," 
 Richard told Eitty next day, knowing how futile it was 
 to offer his mother any consolation. ' ' But the children, 
 dearest, if you could stay with them a little, it would be 
 kind." 
 
 ' ' You poor boy ! ' ' Kitty said tenderly. ' ' Why should 
 all this come upon you?" 
 
 "Why, indeed?" with a strange look. 
 
 "Well, he was a wild un in his day," Jaynes, the 
 
 131
 
 132 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 carrier, said, when he stopped at the thatched stone cot- 
 tage opposite the Pines to deliver some packets of seed 
 to Silas Gatrell, gardener and odd-job man; "bound to 
 be took off sudden. Fine vigure of a man as ever I see 
 and middlen civil spoke when sober." 
 
 "I liked en well enough," Gatrell returned, "when 
 he come to Ingrestone fourteen year ago. A wasn't so 
 to say drinky then. Liked his glass, and now and agen 
 he'd take one too many. Many a time I've helped carr 
 en indoors. 'Twasn't honest drink done for he. 'Twas 
 what he took for sleep. He'd be up and down all night 
 long, out in gairden and back agen, walk, walk, walk. A 
 couldn 't hrest. ' ' 
 
 "Do ee think he took too much o' the sleep stuff?" 
 
 "Vurry like; they mostly do. They cain't forget. 
 That's wher 'tis." 
 
 "Well, there, it's a warning to them that's left. 
 'Twas shameful the way he used that poor lady. And 
 the children, they'd hrun like hrabbits at the sight of en, 
 so they say. He hadn't no call to use the poor things 
 like that. 'Tain't like when a poor man comes home in 
 liquor and vinds the young uns littered all over the 
 plaace, the baby a-cryen, the missus a-jawen, the vire 
 blocked up, and no comfort nowhere, and lets drive at 'em 
 all hround. I've yeared tell as how Belton'd gaily the 
 children all hround gairden with a stick; a wouldn't let 
 the poor things be. It 's a judgment, Gatrell, you may be 
 bound. Where was it they vound en ? Under the trees 1 
 You med ha seen en from your house." 
 
 ' ' I med a zeen it, if I 'd a looked, Jaynes. I med a told 
 'em things, if I'd a ben asked," replied Gatrell, thought- 
 fully chewing a straw as he leaned over his gate in the 
 wintry dusk, and looked on the ground with an expres- 
 sionless face. 
 
 Jaynes, leaning against his dusty shafts, in which the 
 bony old brown horse was glad to stand still with closed 
 eyes and one leg drawn up, contemplated the gardener's 
 lined and sphinxlike features for some seconds in silence,
 
 SUSPICION 133 
 
 his hands plunged deep in his pockets and his hat pushed 
 over his bushy brows. 
 
 "I hreckon you med a year'd summat if you'd a 
 hearkened," he said presently. 
 
 ''I hreckon a med a year'd whatever there was to 
 year," was the slow reply, without change of feature or 
 position. 
 
 "I hreckon a didn't go into that there pit only for 
 pleasure, Silas Gatrell," continued the carrier, also 
 without change of position. 
 
 "I hreckon there's a sight more things than anybody 
 ever knows in this world, let alone the world to come," 
 replied the gardener. 
 
 "If she did give en a shove, you couldn't blame her, 
 poor thing!" continued the carrier. "There wasn't no 
 bearen of en for the likes of she ; 'tain 't what a lady is 
 bred up to look for in a husband, drink or no drink. 'Tis 
 entirely different with the likes of we." 
 
 ' ' They 're much of a muchness, gentle or simple, I al- 
 low," the gardener rejoined; "a ooman can aggravate, 
 lady or no lady. And when a ooman jaws, a man ups 
 with his fists, ' ' he added, with the gravity of one stating 
 an immutable law of nature. 
 
 " 'Tis terrible hrough for gentry," the carrier per- 
 sisted. "And there was no commonalty in she. She's 
 pure bred gentry, made vine droughout. She couldn't 
 abide a man that acted that common and cruel. So, 
 vurry like, she give en a shove over pit edge. 'Twas a 
 miserable dark night. The maids in kitchen they year'd 
 voices like folks vallen out. Too well used to 't to mind. 
 A w r as like a crazy man, they zay, with the sleep stuff." 
 
 "Aye, it is not like honest drink. It do drive folk 
 crazy in the long hrun. Ter 'ble pleasant 'tis to be sure, 
 but it do beguile the zenses of mankind. I never drunk 
 none, but I've took it t'other way. 'Twas when I was in 
 hospital pretty nigh crazy with the pain. Calls it high 
 derned subjection or zummat. First they scratched me 
 in the earm with a middlen shearp knife ; then they took a
 
 134 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 little titty squirt, and squirted the stuff into the scratch. 
 Darned if I didn't quiet down like a young babe as soon 
 as the stuff come into me. It hrun all drough me and 
 hround and hround ; and I velt that happy as never was. 
 I thought I was gone dead and had awaked up in the 
 kingdom of heaven. Pain was all gone and everything 
 zimmed that beautiful and still and happy. But it does 
 not bide long. 'Tis like a drame, when anybody waakens. 
 It drives folk crazy if they does it often." 
 
 "Vurry like he was crazed aready," commented the 
 carrier; "and she done it to save 's life. They used to 
 stufflicate crazy folk, my vather says. But there's laws 
 agen it nowadays, more 's the pity. ' ' 
 
 ' ' There 's laws agen taken of characters away, Jaynes. 
 You mind that and keep a still tongue in yeh head about 
 this yere job, will ee ? " 
 
 "Go an with ee; talk about my tongue? Look at 
 yourn. I don't blame her, poor thing. He med a hit 
 her, and she med a hit en agen or give en a shove and no 
 hearm meant. All we know is they was vallen out, and 
 yolluppen at one another and 'twas dark night. ' ' 
 
 "All we knows, Josh Jaynes, is Accidental Death. 
 That 's all we 're any call to know, ' ' replied the gardener, 
 slowly raising himself from the gate and sending a search- 
 ing glance all round the clear sky, whence a rosy after- 
 glow was fading, and into which Orion was slowly begin- 
 ning to climb above the distant sea. ' ' More vrost comen, 
 I 'low. Lard a massy ! " he cried, with a sudden start that 
 caused the carrier to look round in the direction of his 
 startled gaze, and find its cause in the pale face and slight 
 figure of Gerald Belton, who appeared ghostlike in the 
 dusk from behind the tilt of the cart. "If you didn't 
 give me a turn, Master Gerald. ' ' 
 
 "Evenen, sir," said the carrier, touching his hat in 
 some confusion ; " I must go on home. I '11 call for they 
 empties a Wednesday, Gatrell, good night to ee." 
 
 ' * Come on indoors, Master Gerald, ' ' the gardener said 
 with forced cheerfulness, when the old horse had been
 
 SUSPICION 135 
 
 roused from his blinking reverie and the cart had rattled 
 and creaked away; " 'tis mis'ble cwold for ee, come on in. 
 by the vire. My missus have put a taatie down to hroast 
 vor ee. Vurry like he nied come in to-night, she says. 
 How 's mother ? ' ' 
 
 Gerald, very white and quivering, followed the gar- 
 dener's heavy footsteps along the narrow path between 
 gooseberry-bushes to the cottage door, which threw out a 
 hospitable glow, disclosing the substantial form and 
 wholesome, friendly face of the gardener's wife. She 
 welcomed her long-missed favorite very heartily ; she had 
 more than once sheltered him with the younger children 
 from his father's rage in her cottage. 
 
 ' ' Glad to see ee, Master Gerald ; step in, do, and set 
 down to a cup o' tea. Here's a cake I baked a purpose 
 for ee avore Christmas, and taaties hroasten in wood-ash. 
 Come, my dear, cheer up ; you'll zim to feel better now the 
 inquest is over," she said, placing a chair in front of 
 the blazing hearth for him; "ter'ble bad for ee, to be 
 sure. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Have you heard the verdict ? ' ' Gerald asked, loung- 
 ing wearily in the chair, miserable, but comforted by the 
 warmth and friendly voices. 
 
 "Aye, we've a-y eared. Accidental Death," Gatrell 
 replied. "So ee mustn't take on too much about what 
 can't be helped nor mended." 
 
 " Was it accidental?" Gerald asked, his eyes fixed on 
 the blaze, while the gardener and his wife looked at each 
 other above his head. "Do you know if my father had 
 any enemies, Gatrell ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' Lord love the poor buoy ! don 't ee take no such mag- 
 gots into your head, sir. The poor gentleman had his 
 faults, but he wasn't altogether misliked. A wasn't 
 robbed, sir; there was his watch and all vound on em. 
 You've took this yere job too much to heart. Don't ee 
 think no more about it. Be ee gwine back to school?" 
 
 "Richard says I'm to go to the funeral," continued 
 Gerald, in whose overstrung brain a confused medley of
 
 136 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 terrible possibilities, suggested by the fragments of talk 
 overheard in crossing the road, whirled distractingly. 
 
 "Why, of course, my dear; it's only right," said the 
 gardener 's wife ; ' ' the oldest son is chief mourner. ' ' 
 
 Gerald shuddered and spread his hands to the blaze 
 with a murmur of repugnance. "I can't, I can't," he 
 sighed. ' ' I shall never be happy again, Mrs. Gatrell. I 
 said I wished he was dead, that very night, that very 
 night, and I did wish it!" 
 
 "But you don't now, and you wouldn't if you'd a 
 known," she said, tender pity in her voice. "Them as 
 are sorry are forgiven ; it 's in the prayer-book. ' ' 
 
 The cheerful comfort of the cottage and the kindness 
 of his old friends soon worked a healing charm on the 
 boy's distracted brain. It was all so pleasant and 
 friendly there. The china cats on the curtained mantel- 
 piece, the colored Scripture prints and glaring pictures 
 of prize fruits and flowers on the walls, the dresser with 
 its shining crockery, the white-faced clock ticking loud 
 and slow in the corner, the books and flowered tea-tray on 
 the chest of drawers, the high-backed armchair in which 
 Gatrell took his ease and his pipe at the end of the day 
 all were old familiar friends reassuring in their homely 
 reality, and potent to charm away the nightmare terrors 
 that had oppressed him in the last few days. The very 
 accent of the country voices echoed of happy times, when 
 the children used to be feasted on roast potatoes and 
 sugared bread and butter and entertained with old tales 
 and rustic lore. 
 
 Orion was well on his way across the southern heav- 
 ens, with his shining hounds in full chase, when at last 
 Gerald went home, secretly afraid of the dark and re- 
 lieved to find that Gatrell had to go to the Pines himself. 
 
 "That buoy's tenderer-hearted than what a buoy 
 ought to be," the gardener said when he came back; 
 ' ' growen too vast ; he 's all hrun up to stalk. ' ' 
 
 "He was always terrible old-fashioned, and trouble 
 heve made en softer-hearted than reason. Whatever put
 
 SUSPICION 137 
 
 it into his head? He couldn't ha' seen nothen, do ee 
 think?" 
 
 ''No fear. A med a-yeared talk. But there, Belton 
 was enough to scare anybody to death, let alone a slip of 
 a buoy like that. A good job to get he underground and 
 no mistake." 
 
 ''And I scolded Richard for being hard on poor Mr. 
 Belton, and misunderstanding him," Kitty confessed 
 after the funeral to her mother. 
 
 "I always thought he behaved remarkably well to 
 him, Kitty. It was a difficult relationship. But the 
 strong feeling he showed by the grave, I must admit, sur- 
 prised me. Especially as your Richard is anything but 
 demonstrative, my dear. And he must feel the relief it 
 is to them all. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Oh, mother, but the pity of it ! Richard would feel 
 the pity of it." 
 
 "Well, Kitten," her father said, "by the time you 
 have stood at as many graves as I have, you'll find that 
 remorse is the thing that brings the biggest lump in your 
 throat. You think you might have judged the poor chap 
 more kindly; you might have done so many things and 
 left so many undone. When the drums are rolling and 
 the Dead March is wailing, and you march in slow time, 
 with arms reversed, behind the gun-carriage, you think 
 there's nothing you wouldn't have done for him or put 
 up with. Be kind to people while they 're above ground, 
 Kitty; it's no use after." 
 
 No one was more astonished at Richard 's demeanor at 
 the graveside than Adrian Rosny. That his nephew's 
 nerves should be shaken by this sudden death and all its 
 painful accompaniments, seemed a monstrous supposi- 
 tion; he was used to sudden and violent deaths. What 
 had that robust and light-hearted young fellow to do with 
 nerves? Richard was no introspective student, no mor- 
 bid dreamer, but a man of action and fresh air, gay to 
 levity and faultily thoughtless; yet he shed tears over 
 the grave of a man he professed to hate and whose death
 
 138 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 was of the greatest benefit to everybody he cared for. 
 Mrs. Rosny suggested that love had softened dear Dick's 
 heart. "He chose a good girl," she said, ''and her in- 
 fluence is beginning to tell. I knew there were unsealed 
 deeps in his nature. This terrible awakening to Life's 
 tragedy and reality will strengthen the dear boy's char- 
 acter. His responsibilities are great. Some natures 
 never develop except under burdens. What will he do 
 with all those wild children?" 
 
 So Richard was asking himself and his mother. 
 ' ' Why do you agitate me with such proposals ? ' ' she said. 
 ' ' How can I think of anything but my terrible loss yet ? 
 You have no pity. ' ' 
 
 "Muffle, dear, I can't stay ashore forever," he re- 
 plied, ' ' else I wouldn 't worry you just now. These holi- 
 days are nearly over. And Gerald must not go back to 
 his old associations. He has had a great shock, he is 
 hardly fit for school at all. ' ' 
 
 "Then why tear the child away from home? Why 
 rob me of my chief comfort?" 
 
 "Dear mother, don't you understand? Home is the 
 worst place for him. He can't forget anything while he 
 is here." 
 
 "Why should he? You speak as if it was wrong for 
 the boy to grieve over his poor father's sad and sudden 
 death. Really, Richard, I think you have no heart. My 
 poor, poor Horace, not yet cold in his grave ! And his 
 son must be made to forget him, forget! The want of 
 feeling in the others jars sadly upon me. I would rather 
 part with them. But Gerald and Adeline are my only 
 comfort. Poor darlings, they will never be happy 
 again. ' ' 
 
 "That is just what I am afraid of," he said, with 
 constrained gentleness. "Thorne says they will never 
 get over it, if they stay here and brood over it. Muffle, 
 dear, you are too much upset to realize what this has been 
 to those unlucky children, especially Gerald. The boy is 
 hysterical ; he fancies himself to blame for it ; he exagger-
 
 SUSPICION 139 
 
 ates his feelings. I can't explain it all he can think of 
 nothing else; he needs the greatest care." 
 
 "And who but his own mother can care for him and 
 sympathize with his natural grief? Gerald inherits my 
 nature; his feelings are strong; we comfort each other, 
 and you try to tear us apart." 
 
 "Oh, mother, think of the poor boy, don't think of 
 yourself; don't sacrifice Gerald to your grief; consider 
 how young he is just at an age when it's touch and go 
 with him, when even small things make a mark for life. 
 Let him go to some cheerful place where he will lead a 
 healthy boy 's life until he recovers from this shock. ' ' 
 
 ''Sacrifice my son?" she cried with hysterical sobs. 
 "Think of myself? Richard, you are more than cruel; 
 you are brutal. I should never have believed it possi- 
 ble that any man could speak so to his own mother. 
 After all, what does anything matter to me ? Insult me, 
 and accuse me of anything you like, tear my darling 
 children from me; they can comfort, they can not heal 
 me. I can scarcely be more desolate than I am but 
 don't drive them from their home and their mother." 
 
 "Hush, Muffle, hush," he muttered. "You are up- 
 set, overcome; we misunderstand each other, I blunder, 
 but Heaven above us knows there is nothing I would 
 not do." 
 
 "You came between me and my darling husband,'* 
 she sobbed, ' ' and now you come between me and my pre- 
 cious children. Why will you interfere?" 
 
 His lips grew livid, his face white, the scar left by 
 the fire showed purple on the pallor. He paced the room 
 silently, his dry lips opening and closing, as if trying to 
 speak. At last he stopped and turned his eyes, caverns 
 of dark blue flame, upon her. 
 
 "You could never be happy unless you were miser- 
 able," he burst out. "Ah, Muffle," he added, gently, 
 " if I thought you meant what you say, I would leave you 
 to manage by yourself; but " 
 
 ' ' You speak as if my sorrow were put on, ' ' she broke
 
 140 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 in; "you have no feeling, no sympathy; you can not even 
 understand how deeply you have wounded me. You are 
 too much absorbed in your own happiness, too much 
 wrapped up in Kathleen to enter into your mother's 
 grief. ' ' 
 
 "I think I'll go and smoke," he said, rather hastily, 
 leaving the room and taking refuge in the free air, where 
 the pines unburdened their sad memories to the wind. 
 "Poor Belton!" he said to himself as he filled his pipe, 
 "After all " He sighed deeply, his face went gray 
 with pain. Then he pulled himself together. "Well, 
 she 's made like that, and I 'm made like this, and we drive 
 one another frantic," he thought. The pipe was alight 
 now, the smoke rising in blue rings, and he remembered 
 how he had divorced himself from the comfort of this 
 gentle companion once for a whole week for Kitty 's sweet 
 sake, and smiled rather sadly, his eyes turned toward her 
 window. There was his sheet-anchor and his beacon- 
 light, he felt, with a throb of joyous hope ; there he pos- 
 sessed treasure beyond price, infinitely beyond all that 
 he had any right to wish. 
 
 " I 'd better appeal to Thorne, ' ' he decided, when the 
 pipe was smoked and the evening mist began to rise. 
 "I'll go to-morrow the first thing." 
 
 "I must speak to her myself," said Thorne, the 
 young surgeon, whose bills Belton had never paid. ' ' Not 
 that I like to meddle if I can help it. I sha'n't mince 
 the matter ; it would be cruel kindness. ' ' 
 
 "Why should the children both take this particular 
 craze into their heads?" Richard asked. 
 
 Only because their nervous systems have been over- 
 done. A fit of indigestion has made people think them- 
 selves guilty of the unpardonable sin." 
 
 "But why this particular sin?" Richard urged. 
 
 "Well, I suppose there had been rows that day. Poor 
 Mr. Belton had certainly, from appearances, been to his 
 usual source of consolation, and that always made him 
 unbearably irritable. These rows and the surmise of
 
 SUSPICION 141 
 
 people being with him and foul play must have found its 
 way to their ears and given the fancy that form. They '11 
 soon forget it with proper treatment." 
 
 ' ' Was that surmise general ? What did you think ? ' ' 
 Rosny asked, fixing the young doctor's eyes with his 
 burning gaze. 
 
 Dr. Thorne went to the window, which opened into 
 a bower of myrtles, through which a blue sea sparkled 
 in morning glory; the soft sound of wavelets break- 
 ing on the sand was heard in the silence, during which 
 Richard watched him anxiously. Presently he turned 
 abruptly and looked at Rosny with an enigmatical ex- 
 pression. 
 
 "Thoughts are free and chatter idiotic," he said 
 sharply; "I am passing your way this morning and will 
 call. Good-by." 
 
 In consequence of the doctor's call, Gerald was sent 
 on a long visit to Merstone, where there were companions 
 of his own age, and whence he rode daily to a tutor, and 
 Adeline was despatched to cousins of her father's, who 
 had girls of his own all this to the great comfort and 
 relief of Richard. 
 
 10
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 "i WILL ARISE" 
 
 POOR Belton was scarcely laid in his grave when bills 
 began to pour in like a flood, some of them years old, and 
 the chance of settling a quarter of the claims appeared to 
 Richard problematical in the extreme. No will was dis- 
 coverable, but, as Edith held it indelicate even to think 
 of such sordid things for the next few months and flatly 
 refused to look through his papers, this was by no means 
 remarkable. 
 
 "I am inclined to doubt the possibility of Horace's 
 having made any testamentary disposition of his prop- 
 erty, ' ' Godfrey Belton told Richard in confidence. ' ' In 
 the first place, he was far too indolent to make a will ; in 
 the second, he had nothing to leave." 
 
 "Nothing?" echoed Richard. "Why, the Pines 
 alone " 
 
 ' ' Belongs to me, ' ' Godfrey said. ' ' He began to mort- 
 gage it soon after his marriage. Ingrestone House was 
 mortgaged from its foundations as it was built. ' ' 
 
 "But the share in the banking business?" 
 
 " It is many years since he had any share in the busi- 
 ness. I gave him a yearly income, but he had not the 
 smallest claim upon us. You may remember that I 
 warned you on your coming of age never to enter into 
 any pecuniary relations with your stepfather. I did 
 not judge it fit at the time to divulge the very strong 
 reasons that made it incumbent on me to take that de- 
 cisive step. It was advisable while he lived that you 
 should have as much confidence in that unfortunate 
 man's integrity as was consistent with your own secu- 
 143
 
 "I WILL ARISE" 143 
 
 rity. But now that he has been called to his account and 
 can no longer be helped or harmed by the estimation of 
 his fellow creatures and in spite of the duty and desire 
 that we all cherish to say only the best of those who have 
 passed away it seems just and even necessary that you 
 should know what can scarcely be made known to his 
 widow. She is, indeed, the natural and legal guardian 
 of his children; but, considering her sex and character, 
 and in default of near relatives of her own generation, 
 she will no doubt transfer her responsibilities to you. 
 You will, undoubtedly, be the virtual guardian of these 
 poor children, Richard. Therefore, I repeat, it is just 
 and right and in a manner necessary that you should 
 learn the whole truth concerning my unfortunate 
 nephew. 
 
 "Far from having any claim upon Belton, Laking & 
 Co., Horace has owed the firm many thousand pounds for 
 several years, during which he has received an ample 
 yearly income, to which he had not the slightest claim, 
 and which he squandered. Perhaps we should have with- 
 held that income when we saw how little the children 
 profited by it. We did reduce it; before his death we 
 were on the point of taking steps to insure the proper edu- 
 cation of the children. Our care for the honor and name 
 of our house put us to great disadvantage in our dealings 
 with him, of which he was not slow to profit. Horace was 
 ingenious, he was not without capacity in a perverse di- 
 rection. The system of fraud and forgery by which he 
 embezzled large sums of money from the firm was most 
 complicated and clever, and long eluded all our attempts 
 at discovery. My unfortunate nephew was cursed by the 
 gambler's temperament; he probably deluded himself 
 with the intention of restoring what he appropriated tem- 
 porarily to his own use. But, as is almost always the 
 case, he would appear never to have found the opportu- 
 nity to restore what, during a considerable period of 
 time, it must have been his custom to take. I divulge 
 these painful facts, Richard, in order that you may per-
 
 144 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 ceive how far our firm is from being under any obliga- 
 tion to provide for Horace Belton's children. The firm 
 held that to abstain from publishing these sinister trans- 
 actions, and thus utterly ruining him, was sufficient gen- 
 erosity on their part. The income that I felt it my duty 
 to provide for my grand-nephews and nieces was not 
 granted by the bank. ' ' 
 
 "Do you mean," asked Richard, shocked, "do you 
 really mean that he was liable to be tried and impris- 
 oned for embezzlement?" 
 
 "That certainly is my meaning, Richard. He prac- 
 tised for a period extending over several years fraud and 
 forgery of an extensive and complicated nature. Our 
 credit was severely shaken by the efforts we made to 
 make good his defalcations. Our accounts were embar- 
 rassed, our system shattered; for, having admitted the 
 execution of such frauds, it had to be entirely remodeled ; 
 our financial operations were crippled, our very existence 
 was imperiled. Belton, Laking & Co. is no longer what 
 it was before Horace plundered it ; its palmy days have 
 long been over. ' ' 
 
 "Poor beggar!" sighed Richard. "No wonder he 
 tried to forget. Poor, unhappy man! Dishonored, 
 ruined, degraded in his own eyes, without hope ! ' ' 
 
 "He had only himself to thank, Richard." 
 
 ' ' That must have been the bitterest sting of all, Mr. 
 Belton. The perpetual remorse, the haunting memory, 
 the impossibility of ever again looking men in the face 
 with a clean sense of honor, the thought of what might 
 have been, the impossibility of ever undoing what he had 
 done. Think of it, picture it! What hell could be 
 worse?" 
 
 Mr. Belton was dumb with amazement ; he gazed open- 
 eyed at the moved face of Richard, who spoke with a 
 passion that rang in his voice and quivered in his ges- 
 tures, as he turned and paced the room with broken 
 utterance and sobbing breath. 
 
 "Richard, my dear young man," he said, "your
 
 "I WILL ARISE" 145 
 
 feelings do you the utmost honor ; but at the same time 
 mercy should ever be tempered with justice." 
 
 "Justice!" he broke in. "What is justice? God 
 alone knows the true justice of things ; there is no knowl- 
 edge in man." 
 
 "True, very true. Man can be but approximately 
 just. But a merciful judgment of the criminal and the 
 fallen, whose lot, as Scripture tells us the lot of trans- 
 gressors is undoubtedly and deservedly hard, should be 
 kept within bounds and tempered by a just consideration 
 for those innocent persons who most undeservedly suffer 
 from those transgressions." 
 
 "Ah! but they have their innocence; and that is 
 worth all, worth everything." 
 
 "Very true. But in this conjunction of ideas it is cal- 
 culated to destroy, or at least confuse, fundamental prin- 
 ciples of equity, for the discussion of which you are at 
 present too much moved a circumstance that I con- 
 fess, considering your peculiar relations with my unfor- 
 tunate nephew, astonishes me." 
 
 "Mr. Belton," protested Richard with earnest sad- 
 ness, "that poor man never injured me; he treated me 
 better than his own children, and he he is dead. ' ' 
 
 "Very true. He is gone to his account, where, let 
 us trust, he will find mercy. Whither he was doubtless 
 RO suddenly called in mercy. For, however sad and pain- 
 ful recent events may have been to us all, Richard, we 
 can but feel that to such a life the end was timely, was 
 the greatest boon." 
 
 "Who can say that? It is not for us to say. We 
 know nothing," returned Richard, sadly. "But it is no 
 use talking of what can not be mended. The question is, 
 what are the children's prospects and my mother's? 
 That is what I came to consult you about, Mr. Belton. ' ' 
 
 ' ' I shall not allow them to want, Richard ; but at the 
 same time, I have other and more pressing claims upon a 
 purse that is far from being bottomless. My family is 
 large and I am not a young man. I come near to ac-
 
 146 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 complishing the years allotted by the Psalmist, and, al- 
 though my health is excellent, I begin to feel the burden 
 of my days. ' ' 
 
 "You have, indeed, been generous, sir. I feel that 
 your generosity ought not to be so preyed upon. But I 
 don't know what in the world to do myself. My own 
 means are small, my pay is smaller. And I am engaged 
 to be married. It never came into my head that the chil- 
 dren would have to be helped. I should not have thought 
 of marriage in that case. But now I am bound in 
 honor. ' ' 
 
 They were in the library of Godfrey Belton's pretty 
 seaside villa, embowered in woodlands, not far from St. 
 Ann's, whither he resorted nearly every Saturday to 
 take refuge from the turmoil of business cares and re- 
 fresh himself with family life, with the beauty and peace 
 of nature and interest of country things. Through the 
 windows they could see sunlight sleeping upon grassy 
 slopes, lighting the brown branchings of leafless trees 
 and dark fir-tops and playing on the armored bulk of a 
 great warship steaming by and leaving a snowy furrow 
 behind her on a gray-green sea, that was sometimes 
 blue and sometimes burnished silver in the wintry sun- 
 shine. 
 
 "The navy,'"' said Mr. Belton, thoughtfully poising 
 a paper-knife on his forefinger, "is scarcely the profes- 
 sion of a poor man. It is a profession that presupposes 
 good connections and affluent circumstances. There is, 
 to use a colloquialism, no money in the navy." 
 
 ' ' Certainly not. There is only honor, ' ' Richard said 
 with an accent that implied antagonism between the two. 
 "My father was a sailor, but he was not rich, and prob- 
 ably never wanted to be." 
 
 "I have always grudged you to the navy," continued 
 the old man, absently following the great war-ship, throb- 
 bing along the gray sea-path toward the grim black forts 
 that showed iron teeth above the distant waves. ' ' Your 
 talents are wasted there. It is a pity they should lie, as
 
 "I WILL ARISE" 14? 
 
 it were, idle. You have remarkable business faculties. 
 You might achieve great wealth." 
 
 ' ' Any one might get rich. I suppose ; I never gave it 
 a thought. The life of a sailor for me, ' ' he said, his eyes 
 following the vessel's foam-furrow, his ear pleased by 
 the faint rhythm of her engines. 
 
 ' ' Leave the navy and acquire wealth, ' ' said Mr. Bel- 
 ton, with a sudden and uncharacteristic brevity that 
 startled Richard 's gaze from the gulls hovering about the 
 vessel, their wings silver-white against her black hulk, 
 and bent it upon the banker, whose lined and composed 
 features and quiet, intelligent eye seemed to express the 
 quintessence of all that is respectable and unexception- 
 able in mind and morals and manners, and whose crown 
 of thin, silvery hair claimed a veneration he amply jus- 
 tified. ' ' To acquire wealth, though not the first duty of 
 man, may on occasion become so." 
 
 "Leave the service?" cried Richard. ''I'd as soon 
 leave my life and a precious deal sooner. As for getting 
 on in life Why I've been lucky in the service I've 
 seen, and stand well for promotion. You're joking, sir." 
 
 ' ' On the contrary, ' ' was the austere rejoinder. ' ' This 
 is no theme for jest. I have seen much of you in late 
 years and watched your unfolding capacity with pro- 
 found and increasing interest. I have discovered in you 
 an aptitude for business that has greatly surprised me; 
 and, during the monetary transactions in connection with 
 the factory you have established here, have discovered in 
 you the instinct, for it is nothing less, for commercial 
 success that curious and not usual power of divining 
 what will suit the wants of the public, which almost en- 
 ables a man to create a market together with great 
 readiness in adapting means to ends, which is a quality 
 necessary to all successful enterprise. You are no mere 
 theorist, no mere thinker; you are an eminently practi- 
 cal man ; you are enterprising but not rash ; you have that 
 form of courage which decides in a moment before op- 
 portunity slips away; you possess foresight and are not
 
 148 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 without caution. You are fertile in expedient and too 
 tenacious of purpose to be easily discouraged ; you have 
 a singular grasp of the fundamental principles of finance ; 
 you appear to have that sense of honor in commercial 
 matters which is sometimes wanting in men whose sense 
 of honor is otherwise keen. You know how to handle and 
 control men, as I have observed in your dealings with 
 your mill hands, and the man you have so judiciously se- 
 lected as their manager. All these qualities make for 
 success. Besides these, your mechanical ingenuity is 
 considerable; you have invented things of great practi- 
 cal value to the general public ; patent them and manu- 
 facture them." 
 
 "I must be dreaming," Richard said, "unless you 
 are. But to speak seriously, Mr. Belton, I should be a 
 fool to throw up my good prospects and certainty in the 
 navy to begin at the beginning of a mercantile or manu- 
 facturing life, even if I had all the fine things you are 
 good enough to say I have." 
 
 1 ' But I offer you a certainty, ' ' proceeded Mr. Belton 
 firmly; "Belton, Laking & Co. require new blood, new 
 energy and new enterprise to develop the possibilities I 
 see before it as a widening provincial business in locali- 
 ties with centers of rapidly thickening population. You 
 are the man to develop a large business. As I was say- 
 ing, I have watched you narrowly, struck by the remark- 
 able though undeveloped powers in course of con- 
 versation with you, and especially in course of conversa- 
 tion touching the factory our firm helped you to finance 
 of which I perceived you to be possessed. The successful 
 man of business, like the poet, is born and not made ; no 
 training can develop these unusual faculties unless they 
 are inborn. You are the fortunate possessor of these 
 gifts. I have long desired to bring your talents and 
 capabilities to the rescue of our firm. I now propose to 
 do so." 
 
 "But how?" exclaimed Rosny. "Do you expect me 
 to take the rudder and steer the firm through all her dif-
 
 "I WILL ARISE" 149 
 
 ficulties by the light of mother- wit? I don't know the 
 ropes; I don't know the chart. I couldn't sit at a desk 
 if I did. I'm an open-air man, never at home ashore, 
 always at sea." 
 
 ' ' I propose to give you a desk in our house and a sal- 
 ary considerably larger than your lieutenant's pay for 
 a year, Eosny. By the end of that time you will have 
 mastered all technical details and become familiar with 
 the practical working of every species of transaction in 
 which banks like ours are engaged. ' ' 
 
 "At the end of that time, sir, I should be dead for 
 want of air and exercise. I'm much obliged to you for 
 your good opinion all the same. But I'm a plain sailor 
 and don 't want to be rich, even if I could. ' ' 
 
 ' ' And the seven children ? And your mother ? How 
 are they to be provided for ? ' ' 
 
 His face fell and his eyes darkened. The battle-ship 
 had throbbed herself out of sight, leaving a faint, milky 
 trail on the wrinkled blue-gray plain; other vessels 
 showed in the offing; a great black East Indiaman, a 
 shining white troop-ship, a few skimming yachts with sil- 
 very wings outspread in the sun-glow. 
 
 "You propose to withdraw your support, then?" he 
 asked faintly. 
 
 "I might justly do so, or at least withdraw a part of 
 it, Richard. But my support, which, as I recently hinted, 
 is both precarious and a heavy strain on an already heav- 
 ily taxed income, has never been munificent, and is quite 
 unequal to placing four youths out in the world in a man- 
 ner befitting their station, in addition to providing por- 
 tions for three young women. In these days penniless 
 girls are not sought in marriage," Mr. Belton said, fixing 
 his gaze upon the handsome, clean-shaven face, that grew 
 more and more somber under his words. 
 
 "You have been most generous," Richard said with 
 a sigh; "it is my turn to put my shoulder to the wheel 
 now. I might try for a paying berth ; and I might sink 
 capital to help educate the youngsters. Something must
 
 150 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 be done. But I can't be a banker. I'm not built on 
 those lines, Mr. Belton. I should only make a mess of it. ' ' 
 
 "You are still unconscious of your own strength, 
 Rosny. That surely is the luncheon-bell. Reflect upon 
 what we have been discussing at your leisure. And, if 
 inclined to think me ungenerous in alluding to the de- 
 pendence of my nephew's children upon my resources, 
 recall to mind the large debts of that nephew to the firm 
 and the very serious injuries his nefarious transactions 
 have inflicted upon what, other considerations apart, is 
 the sole source of my income. The children will never 
 know of those injuries, they can never even be aware of 
 debts that they could in no case ever repay, even were 
 they so minded. No, we require a strong man, a young 
 and bold man, such a man as yourself, to put new 
 blood into us and repair the injuries Horace inflicted 
 upon us. ' ' 
 
 Mr. Belton rose at the conclusion of his speech, and, 
 with an air of finality that seemed to stamp its fulfilment, 
 turned and walked to the window with a sweeping glance 
 round the horizon of hill-slope and sea-belt, across which 
 a white puff of smoke suddenly rolled from a flash that 
 was followed by the reverberating boom of a heavy gun, 
 the sound of which shook the house-walls and gave the 
 windows a shiver. Richard sat silent, his gaze seaward, 
 his strong and beautiful face marble with thought, his 
 brown hands tightly clenched, his body still in every 
 muscle. A second gun boomed heavily over the sea, the 
 sound scattering and dying away in multiplied reverber- 
 ations as before, then a third and a fourth. The meas- 
 ured thunder-bolts sounded through his heart like min- 
 ute-guns proclaiming the death of his life; the sunny 
 sea darkened and eddied away from his fixed gaze; his 
 heart throbbed with deep, slow beats, like answering 
 minute-guns; he could not hear the words spoken near 
 him; his thoughts were far. 
 
 Mr. Belton forbore to repeat his unheard sentence, 
 and sought instead to read the fixed, stern face, beautiful
 
 "I WILL ARISE" 151 
 
 in its masculine strength and energy, broad of brow, firm 
 of lip, and square of jaw, unconscious and immovable be- 
 fore him. 
 
 Presently the marble melted into life, the full lips 
 moved, the breath was deeply drawn, and the dark blue 
 eyes, hazed and somber, were raised with a penetrating 
 gaze to the old man's face. ''The drift seems to be that 
 somebody must put poor Belton's account square," he 
 said. ' ' Heaven knows I would do it if I could. Thanks ; 
 I'm afraid I mustn't stay to luncheon. I shall just catch 
 the two o 'clock train. So good-by. ' ' 
 
 All the breezy sunny mile within sight of the sea to 
 the station, the minute-guns boomed on in his heart, while 
 he walked with a firm and rapid step and bent brows, 
 pondering many things, but chiefly pondering on the 
 miserable history of the man he had so bitterly hated. 
 The loneliness of that secret consciousness of ill-doing, the 
 degradation and suffering of the life, unsuspected by all 
 around him, appealed very keenly to him. Did poor 
 Edith suspect? That she could be reticent on some 
 points he was well aware. How well she had kept the 
 ugly secret of the violence! Alone with evil memories, 
 with shattered honor and lost self-respect and ruined 
 prospects, without hope, with dread or dislike of him writ- 
 ten on the faces of all around, fast caught in the grip of 
 at least one insidious vice, what a misery, what a desola- 
 tion, the man's life must have been, and how welcome 
 the forgetfulness he sought in those deadly opiates ! But 
 the cause of his downfall, the first propulsion toward the 
 moral suicide what must that have been? Something 
 deeper and more poisonous surely than even the indul- 
 gence of a selfish and intemperate love of pleasure. Some 
 deep disappointment, some ever-present anguish? Yet 
 he was weak and shallow, and wanting even in natural 
 affection. What was to become of those seven, and of 
 the wife he had made so wretched and who mourned him 
 so immeasurably? Ah! but did she? Was there not a 
 false note in the threnody that fell with such irritating
 
 152 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 and wearying iteration upon his ear? "Methinks the 
 lady doth protest too much. ' ' 
 
 Tangled wilderness of a world, incomprehensible, 
 dark and without guide, yet with one sweet and sunny 
 spot in it; gladdened and glorified by a woman's smile 
 and a voice. He must see Kitty forthwith, Sunday or no 
 Sunday, and take comfort and counsel with her. She 
 was no shallow butterfly beauty, but good and true and 
 thoughtful beyond her years. To love a good woman is 
 a redemption in itself. 
 
 Gatrell was leaning over his little garden-gate when 
 Rosny went past the Pines on his way to Ingrestone 
 House and passed him the time of day as he came by. At 
 the sight of the gardener a sudden thought, a momentary 
 fear, struck cold to Rosny 's heart and was brushed 
 quickly away ; then darting a penetrating glance at him, 
 he discovered nothing but the old wooden immobility 
 that had been the mask of so much kindness and affection 
 toward the boy who had grown into manhood as first 
 favorite at the cottage. 
 
 "You be gwine wrong, Master Rosny," the gardener 
 said. 
 
 ' ' How so ? " he asked with a little start. 
 
 ''Gone to Sunday-school. Zeen her go down along 
 just now. 'Taint often she misses school, hrain or shine. ' ' 
 
 "Confound the school, I'd forgotten," he muttered, 
 pulling out a tobacco pouch and offering it. ' * Well, I 've 
 lost a good dinner for nothing. Don't you think she's 
 worth losing a good dinner for, Gatrell ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' That 's as may be, Master Rosny. I allows a good 
 dinner's a good thing. But a young ooman like to she 
 you've cast your eye upon is better than meat and drink. 
 You shewed sense when ee looked that way. She'll kape 
 ee straight and make a man of ee. ' ' 
 
 "If I ever get her," he sighed between his pipe puffs. 
 
 ' ' A single life is bad vor ee. A wild un you 've been. 
 Time you steadied down into a vamly man ! ' ' 
 
 "That's what I am, Gatrell; I've seven brothers and
 
 "I WILL ARISE" 153 
 
 sisters to look after already. Good-by, old hearty. Love 
 to Deborah." 
 
 People were streaming along the country ways in 
 orderly peace to afternoon church, whither Rosny fol- 
 lowed them, lingering behind a little, lest he should miss 
 the face that drew his heart after it. Going into the 
 churchyard, his eye was caught by a new-made grave 
 heaped with fading wreaths ; a great pang, hi which pity 
 had a large part, smote him, as he raised his hat in pass- 
 ing it. Perhaps the pain was written on his face, for 
 the sight of it startled Kitty, who came along the path 
 and went by him just as he turned and met her gaze with 
 an instant brightening. Nothing but a nod and a smile 
 passed between them before they vanished side by side 
 in the solemn dimness of the church, through which 
 throbbed the deep boom of organ music, leading on to 
 the sentences telling of pardon and contrition, worn al- 
 most meaningless by repetition, yet to-day flashing with 
 sudden significance, like magic writing unriddled. "I 
 will arise and go to my Father, ' ' etc. 
 
 Only Kathleen occupied the Musgrave pew, with 
 Rosny at her side unasked, sharing her hymn-book and 
 tasting again the old childish peace and safety he re- 
 membered in the sacred stillness of church by his moth- 
 er's side as a little innocent boy, wide-eyed and sunny- 
 headed. It would be sweet, he thought, and very restful, 
 to be a child again. 
 
 Only so, he heard in the Gospel reading, could the 
 Kingdom of Heaven be entered. But a little child has no 
 memories and no regrets. 
 
 "Don't go in, Kathleen Mavourneen," he besought 
 when they reached her gate in the frosty twilight that 
 was fragrant of the breath of earth. ' ' You are my ano- 
 dyne and I want you. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Poor boy ! ' ' she smiled, after the story had been told 
 and discussed in the shadowy lane that led to the downs. 
 "You must not take things so much to heart. You used 
 to be hard on poor Mr. Belton."
 
 154 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 "I was a beast, and I'm sorry. How long will you 
 wait for me, Kathleen? ought I to ask you? I'm not 
 sure. But you are my rock of safety, dear, and I am like 
 to drown." 
 
 "My dear Lion Heart, I will wait till things are 
 brighter. You are out of sorts, Eichie, unlike yourself. 
 Things are not half so bad as you think. And they'll 
 mend. And I'm sure that you need not give up the 
 service. Don't do anything in a hurry. And we really 
 must turn back and go in to tea now. Now be good and 
 reasonable and trust, and, remember, I will never give 
 you up."
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE DARK HOUR BEFORE THE DAWN 
 
 THE peace and order now reigning at the Pines seemed 
 unnatural, and struck Rosny sharply when he went 
 home on that Sunday evening and found the four younger 
 children ranged round the drawing-room fire listening to 
 a story. They went off to bed at a word and he began 
 at once to discuss family matters. 
 
 ' ' These sordid considerations jar so sadly, ' ' Mrs. Bel- 
 ton said. "Couldn't we defer them till you come ashore 
 again, Richard?" 
 
 ' ' I may never come ashore again, mother, ' ' he replied, 
 with a seriousness that roused her to attention. ' ' I want 
 to see your affairs settled before I come again. And I 
 don't like to leave you among these painful associations. 
 You will never be happy here. My tenant leaves the 
 cottage at Lady Day. Why not go there?" 
 
 "Leave home? Go back to Wimbury? How ab- 
 surdly unpractical of you, dearest Richard. How like 
 a man to think of packing such a family as ours in that 
 tiny nest. And to leave the home of my whole married 
 life for a cottage we could not possibly crowd into. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Poor people are obliged to live in small houses. Of 
 course, these sordid considerations are unpleasant; but 
 what is more unpleasant is, that there is nothing for the 
 children, absolutely nothing, or for you either. There is 
 no will." 
 
 "No will? Then I must certainly have my widow's 
 thirds, ' ' she returned with an energy that surprised him. 
 "He can not have willed things away from us." 
 
 "He had nothing to will, Muff. This house is mort- 
 
 155
 
 156 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 gaged to its full value, so is Ingrestone. The partner- 
 ship was dissolved years ago. Poor Mr. Belton seems to 
 have been for years in great difficulties. Godfrey says 
 that he was not a man of business. He has promised to 
 do what he can for the children, but it can not be much. 
 I will do what is in my power, but that will be even less, 
 I fear." 
 
 ' ' I can not believe this, Richard, I really can not, ' ' the 
 poor woman cried, rising from her low chair and moving 
 distractedly about. "My troubles appear to have no 
 end. There seems to be no peace anywhere on earth for 
 me. For Horace's debts I was prepared. Nothing but 
 compulsion ever made him pay anything. He seemed to 
 have a rooted and unconquerable dislike to parting with 
 money on any terms whatever. But for his insolvency? 
 Richard, there must be some mistake. Uncle Godfrey 
 must be misinformed. It is shameful of him to think of 
 deserting those poor orphans now. In any case, Horace 
 must have claims on the bank. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Best face it, mother. The bank has claims on him. 
 All you can depend upon is your settlement. Cheer up. 
 The boys may get scholarships. I'll do what I can." 
 
 "Oh! my poor boy! And your marriage?" 
 
 "Kitty will wait. She's true blue. Things may 
 mend," he added quickly. "Only for Heaven's sake 
 let's face the worst." 
 
 "No, Richard," she replied with unexpected de- 
 cision, "Kitty must not wait not longer than a year, 
 or at most two. Your happiness must not be sacrificed. 
 It would be the height of injustice. My dear, dear 
 boy!" 
 
 ' ' Think it over, ' ' he said, letting her sink weeping into 
 his arms. "Let's stand by one another and do the best 
 we can. And whatever you do, for any sake, don't re- 
 proach Godfrey Belton. He's better than you think. 
 There is no claim whatever on Laking or any of the Co. 's. 
 With Godfrey it is a family matter, nothing more. I un- 
 happy? Don't you believe it, Muff. With the nicest
 
 DARK HOUR BEFORE DAWN 157 
 
 girl in the world waiting for me ? I hope I 'm not such 
 an ass." 
 
 But in the end Mrs. Belton was guaranteed the ten- 
 ancy of the Pines rent free for two years on certain con- 
 ditions. All was put in order without and within; Bel- 
 ton's creditors were appeased for a time. His effects 
 were sold for their benefit and produced a considerable 
 sum, owing to his having collected a few priceless curios 
 and rare books among the mass of rubbish that encum- 
 bered the house. 
 
 Before Easter the Pines presented a forlornly clean 
 and outswept appearance. The picturesque of weath- 
 ered paint and overgrown creeper was lost, and the star- 
 ing freshness of new paint and paper within emphasized 
 by extreme scantiness of furniture, there being, as Mrs. 
 Belton bitterly observed, scarcely a chair apiece for them, 
 but all the more room to make a row in, as Gerald 
 thoughtfully added. 
 
 "And I hope he will make a row," Mrs. Musgrave 
 commented. ' ' It was piteous to see the boy so cowed 
 and unboylike. ' ' 
 
 "He's all right," her husband returned. "His 
 mother would have driven him out of his wits. It's a 
 bad business for Kit, though. I'm glad she stands to 
 her colors, though I hate long engagements. Rosny is 
 straight enough; he knew nothing of Belton 's affairs. 
 But I never saw a man so completely bowled over. In a 
 way, it has done him good, steadied him ; still, I wish Bel- 
 ton could have contrived to make his exit three months 
 earlier. Then there would have been no engagement." 
 
 "Then I'm glad the poor man lived. For I'm more 
 and more convinced that Richard has the sound qualities 
 that make a happy home. How is he to help those chil- 
 dren? That I can not tell. But I can tell that he is 
 well worth waiting for." 
 
 They were going round the flower-borders in the 
 spring sunshine, watching the general burgeoning of 
 stem and bough and welcoming the return of old friends 
 11
 
 158 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 with the joyous surprise these expected returns never fail 
 to bring daffodils standing on guard with lifted spears 
 as if daffodils had never stood thus, with fluttering yel- 
 low pennons, before ; wall-flowers shedding delicate scent ; 
 plum-trees veiled in bridal white; peach all ablush, and 
 pear and cherry budded and panting to burst into bloom ; 
 with these the pungency of flowering currant and fresh 
 breath of primrose and violet, all so exquisitely novel, 
 though so rich in association. In their happiness there 
 were alternations of pleasure and disappointment, as this 
 old friend appeared or the other was missing, when the 
 Belton affairs suddenly turned up among the anemones 
 and auriculas. 
 
 ' ' Still Kitten is scarcely as chirpy as she was, ' ' Colo- 
 nel Musgrave interpolated in a chant of ecstasy over a 
 blaze of crocus on a grassy bank. " If I 'm not mistaken, 
 she was crying this morning, yet she had the usual naval 
 despatch. ' ' 
 
 ''Dear Harold, I'm afraid she was. This waiting is 
 trying, and she takes the Belton troubles so seriously. 
 Our poor Kitten is emerging from kittenhood at last. 
 After all, these contrarieties are wholesome and stimu- 
 lating ; they will test and strengthen both her character 
 and her attachment to Richard. Here she comes ah, the 
 white clematis is nearly out. ' ' 
 
 "But I don't want her turned into an old cat yet," 
 he said, and there was Kathleen herself stepping sedately 
 in the shadows of leafless boughs over the turf, gloved 
 and hatted and daintily dressed. ' ' Where are you going 
 to, my pretty maid ? ' ' 
 
 11 Not going a milking, sir, she said," was the gay but 
 rather forced reply. "I thought you were both out for 
 the afternoon," she added. 
 
 ' ' This looks dark, Kit. What are you up to, eh ? Go- 
 ing to make a bolt of it ? It 's true that your mother has 
 requisitioned me for the afternoon. She's on fatigue 
 duty. We are just off. I hope we are not in the way, 
 my dear. Parents will be troublesome sometimes."
 
 DARK HOUR BEFORE DAWN 159 
 
 "Well I I didn't I tell you?" she stammered, 
 prodding the turf with her sunshade. "Perhaps I for- 
 got to mention that Richard is coming to-day. I am to 
 meet him on the downs this afternoon to save time, be- 
 cause because he wants a quiet talk but not with his 
 mother. ' ' 
 
 ''That is quite conceivable under the circumstances, 
 Kit. I have known instances myself in which men 
 wanted quiet talks but not, as you so pointedly observe, 
 with their mother. Bless the child, what's the matter? 
 There, there, be off with you, pussie. Don 't keep a good 
 fellow waiting." 
 
 "My love to him, and will he dine here to-night?" 
 Mrs. Musgrave called to Kitty, who nodded in reply 
 before vanishing among the shrubs. 
 
 "What on earth has come to the girl?" her father 
 asked. "Mystery and confusion and evasion, and Kit 
 always so straight. One would think she was going to 
 meet somebody else's sweetheart." 
 
 ' ' Poor little Kit ; she 's not quite herself. There has 
 been some little tiff it all seems so heart-breaking at that 
 age and Dick is for making it up, I suppose. But she 
 means to stand on her dignity and is divinely wretched. 
 She will tell him they must part. He will ask her not to 
 break his heart into more pieces than she can help. He'll 
 dine with us to-night. Cook shall send up his favorite 
 entree, and we shall be bored to death, and neither of them 
 will have ears or eyes for any one but each other." 
 
 "That's part of the game. Amantium irce. After all, 
 I like having the Kitten at home a little longer. She 
 isn't a bad little maid. Eh? What's that about sea- 
 kale pots 1 ' ' 
 
 Kitty stepped briskly between the budding hedges, 
 graceful and sweet in her pale-gray costume, and turned 
 up the lane that led to the downs. It was overshadowed 
 by hedges and starred along its banks by primroses, with 
 here and there the delicate sea-shell petals of wind- 
 flowers, and here and there sheets of emerald leaves
 
 160 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 pearled with sweet white violets, some of which she gath- 
 ered and wore. It was one of those joyous spring days 
 in which everything has a double vitality in the general 
 outbreaking of renewed life; you could almost see the 
 leaf-buds swell on bare stems and the primroses open in 
 a sort of divine ecstasy of haste. Fleecy white clouds 
 sailed high across a clear blue heaven, a pure live breeze 
 sighed through grasses and sang in trees, larks shot up on 
 spires of mad music, the lulling coo-coo of pigeons floated 
 up from rich brown woodlands, where nuthatch and 
 woodpecker were busy at their carpentry; far off the 
 mocking cry of the cuckoo was heard. 
 
 Kitty paused and sighed in all the sweetness, her 
 pensive glance wandered over village and homestead and 
 across the marshy meadows to the long band of blue, soft 
 sea, flanked by steep cliffs on either hand and returned 
 to light on the blue-green tops of the Ingrestone pine- 
 trees, the sight of which sent a little shiver through her. 
 How bright the world seemed, basking in warm light; 
 those sun-lit spires by sea and hill, those brown fallows, 
 vivid green meadows and soft turf slopes, those cluster- 
 ing roofs and faint smoke wreaths marking town and vil- 
 lage, hamlet and homestead, how gay! Yonder a team 
 was plowing with sounds of clinking gear, men's voices 
 and cracking of whips; the scent of fresh-turned mold 
 mingled with the odor of primrose and violet and crushed 
 turf ; there a harrow clinked over the furrowed soil ; here 
 sheep nibbled peacefully on gray slopes brightening in 
 sunlight ; yonder the dark hull of a steamer crawled be- 
 neath a smoke trail on the still sea, where yachts flitted 
 winged with light ; here and there larches gleamed green 
 from brown masses of plantation ; orchards whitened and 
 sloe-bloom glimmered on hedge and thicket; everywhere 
 in shining multitudes were daisies. Such a day speaks 
 of bounteous promise and exquisite possibility, yet it is 
 sad with the evanescence of first things and the fragility 
 of youth. 
 
 Kathleen stopped by a gate in the hedge, her feet sunk
 
 DARK HOUR BEFORE DAWN 161 
 
 in daisies, and looked back over the familiar fields and 
 hills ; her lips tense, her brows drawn in a frown, her eyes 
 a little hard. 
 
 There below her was the miniature bell-tower of Ingre- 
 stone Church, its base muffled in trees. There, only last 
 autumn she had first seen Richard. Again she saw his 
 fine head towering above the others, outlined on the altar 
 frontal and framed by the chancel arch. Again she saw 
 him turn, his eyes lit by sudden flame, and felt the kin- 
 dling, wondering gaze go through her, with the moving 
 and unquestionable certainty that he loved her. That 
 beautiful face, transfigured by a passion more beautiful 
 still, could never be forgotten; the burning gaze had 
 penetrated too deeply. What happiness, what proud 
 and tender delight had been hers in that first joyous cer- 
 tainty of love ! 
 
 But life was hard in its bitter reality. She turned 
 and went on. Gatrell, the gardener, was coming down 
 the lane with a bundle of plants over his shoulder and 
 touched his hat with a friendly smile. 
 
 "Vine growen' weather, miss; sha'n't I carr that 
 passel home for ee?" he said, looking at a sealed brown 
 paper packet she held. 
 
 "No, thank you, I am taking it to a friend," she 
 replied, with a smiling good-afternoon, leaving him 
 planted in the chalky lane, looking after her with loving 
 admiration. 
 
 "Aye, Missie," he thought, "wold Gatrell knows 
 where you be gwaine sure enough. Wold chap's sorry 
 for ee, ter'ble sorry.' 
 
 The lane led to a little hollow high up on the downs, 
 a miniature combe, whence trees and coppice feathered 
 on to the turf. All is so free, wild and open to the skies 
 and winds on the down ; there is such austere purity in 
 those gray-green undulations and sweeps of close turf, 
 where everything grows without rankness, in a noble 
 restraint and gallant submission to harsh wind-buffets 
 and scanty diet, that results, not in deformity, but a
 
 162 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 hardy, if ascetic, beauty. Kitty's heart expanded when 
 she pressed the deep, elastic turf and met the pure, exhil- 
 arating breath of the breeze that sang in bent and furze, 
 and saw a stalwart form and handsome face coming to 
 meet her. 
 
 ''You are very good to come," he said; "too good. 
 But you don't know the comfort of speaking out with that 
 knowledge, of touching one human hand of breaking the 
 awful solitude " 
 
 "Oh! Richard, please " she broke in, with a faint 
 sob; "it is more than I can bear." 
 
 "Oh! I'm a selfish brute, and yet Come into the 
 lee under the ash, Kathleen, and let me look at you and be 
 near you for five minutes. Shall I take Ah ! the par- 
 cel is directed to me. Then I'm afraid it's all up, my 
 dear." 
 
 ' ' You had my letter, ' ' she said, going toward the ash- 
 tree, the bare gray boughs and black buds of which were 
 steeped in sunshine, while the hollow in the downs 
 screened it from the winds. Under it lay a felled trunk 
 all braided with lichen and cushioned with velvety moss, 
 where she sat. 
 
 "I meant what I said," she added in a cold, clear 
 voice. 
 
 He laid the packet with a bunch of fresh white violets 
 on it sadly at the other end of the trunk, and stood look- 
 ing upon her in silence, with an expression that gave her 
 such pain and fear of herself that she turned away. 
 
 Then suddenly he knelt by her side. ' ' Kathleen, ' ' he 
 said, ' ' do you know what you are doing ? Do you know 
 your power? Do you guess my need?" 
 
 "Yes," she said, faintly, looking not at him, but over 
 the woods and marshy meadows to the sea. "I have 
 thought ; I know ; and, oh ! Richard, I can not, I can not 
 do otherwise. This is the only right thing. ' ' 
 
 " Oh ! it is very right and just, and I can not expect 
 and dare scarcely ask anything else," he returned in a 
 voice that rang with restrained passion. ' ' But, my dear,
 
 DARK HOUR BEFORE DAWN 168 
 
 my better self, my soul 's soul, think oh ! you can not 
 yet hear what you might do with me. Give me one ray 
 of hope in the future. Oh ! I know it would be a sacri- 
 fice. But, Kitty, help me, for the love of Heaven, help 
 me; don't let go of a drowning man's hand." 
 
 "Dear Richard, how can I help you? I had better 
 not have come to-day; it can only give pain to us both." 
 
 ' ' Is there no comfort, none ? All this afternoon I have 
 been wondering if I had done right to speak out. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Oh, you were quite right, absolutely right. It could 
 not have been otherwise. And I am so sorry, so very 
 sorry for you. And I hope and pray that you will be 
 happy. ' ' 
 
 "Happy? Happy! Don't mock me, Kitty. How 
 can I be happy ? But I might have been better. I might 
 still be better, if you could but stretch out a hand to me, 
 if you could but stand by me. Dear, you are my sheet- 
 anchor ; if you go, I must drift alone into some awful sea 
 of despair and darkness. But, of course, it can not be. 
 I must not drag you down But, oh ! the pain, the im- 
 possibility. Kathleen, Kathleen, we two were one; and, 
 my dearest, you loved me, you did." 
 
 He was still kneeling, shaken with dry sobs ; suddenly 
 his head went down on the arms he flung upon the mossy 
 trunk and he was still, golden sunshine raining upon him 
 and the clear, wild joy of a lark showering down from the 
 dappled sky in which it swam and circled. She turned 
 white ; she pressed her young red lips tight together ; and, 
 stiffening her arms on either side of her, stayed her quiv- 
 ering body upright. Her delicate face was set in a 
 frown ; she looked away from Richard straight before her 
 over the sunny prospect, like one struggling with physi- 
 cal pain. 
 
 "It is so sad, so very sad," she said presently. "I 
 am so sorry for you. Oh ! I wish we had never, never 
 seen each other. Say no more, Richard. You are cruel. 
 I suffer, too, you forget that." 
 
 "No, Kitty, I do not forget," he said, raising his head
 
 164 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 and speaking slowly. "That makes it so hard. I have 
 come into your life only to trouble it, when Heaven knows 
 Kathleen, Kathleen, how can we part ? Think what we 
 have been to each other. Think of those first days 
 those walks those hours our letters. Why, I have held 
 you in my arms, Kathleen ; I have held you on my heart ; 
 I have kissed you, kissed you on the mouth, thought of 
 you as my wife, we are one. How can we part? How 
 can any other man " 
 
 "Oh! Richard, hush," she cried, rising and recoiling 
 from him in horror. "You don't understand. You 
 ought not to speak so. It was not you that I loved; it 
 was a man so different. In any case, I must have found 
 you out. I might have gone on blindly for a time, if 
 you had not told me all; but now now my eyes are 
 open. ' ' 
 
 ' ' You can not bear the knowledge it is too much for 
 a soul so white, ' ' he said, rising and standing away from 
 the fallen tree; "but, oh! my dear, I have repented. I 
 do repent ; you have made another man of me. Is there 
 not joy even in heaven over repenting sinners?" 
 
 "Oh! you will never understand. What is repent- 
 ance? I thought you could never have done what you 
 have done. Oh ! I respect you, I honor your penitence, ' ' 
 she added, quickly and earnestly, but with a repulsion 
 that carried conviction like a knife to his heart. "But 
 even if you had not told me, we could never have been 
 happy, indeed, indeed. Oh ! Richard, you you frighten 
 me." 
 
 Steadily, unflinchingly, but with a sadness that made 
 her tremble, he looked long into the eyes she vainly tried 
 to avert. She felt his height and strength and the power 
 of his presence and his burning gaze, as she saw him out- 
 lined upon the sunny landscape, his head backed by a blue 
 sky with a fleecy cloud and a singing lark in it, and was 
 conscious of the daisies and down-flowers braiding the 
 turf at their feet, conscious of the sad-colored ash-tree 
 and warm brown copse and the sallow tree in a cloud of
 
 DARK HOUR BEFORE DAWN 165 
 
 golden, bee-haunted bloom. He was only conscious of 
 her face. 
 
 "I understand," he said at last, with quiet despair. 
 "It is good-by forever. Good-by, then. All good be 
 with you, Kathleen, forever. ' ' 
 
 "Good-by, Richard," she replied unsteadily, her 
 throat tightening, her eyes scalding. She held out a 
 tremulous hand, he pressed it warmly but not unduly. 
 Then she turned and glided swiftly away over the daisies 
 and turf and out of his life, looking back once, to see him 
 standing in the same position in the sunshine under the 
 ash-tree. 
 
 When she was gone, he turned back to the trunk and 
 sat quite still, with heavy, dazed eyes, holding the parcel 
 on his knee. After a long while he began to untie it, 
 knowing very well what it held his own letters and the 
 engagement ring and trifles he had given her. 
 
 Suddenly he threw it unopened aside and flung him- 
 self on the ground, his face pressed into the daisies, where 
 she had passed, just as he had flung himself down on the 
 cliff at Wimbury on his mother's wedding-day, and sobbed 
 as he had sobbed then, with the same violence of despair 
 and the same unreasoning sense of betrayal and desertion. 
 Again in memory the joy-bells of that day came sweep- 
 ing down from the sky, but now a knell beat insistently 
 through the merry cadence, a knell that would never 
 cease. In that first great shipwreck there was still hope. 
 Then the joyous row over the leaping waves and flying 
 foam to the lighthouse had unlocked a new world of peril 
 and action and striving to him; but now he had said 
 good-by to the sea and bound himself to the still indoor 
 toil of desk and pen. The good-by had been said on that 
 Sunday afternoon, when he went with Kitty into the dim 
 church and the organ music hushed and the words "I 
 will arise and go to my father" rang out. In that first 
 despair, a rough laboring lad had comforted him and 
 pointed to him a better and manlier life ; to-day he was 
 alone and uncomforted, yet perhaps not all alone; for
 
 166 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 haply one, who had lived in a cottage and worked with 
 his hands, may have stood by him unseen, and bid him 
 arise and take comfort and follow a better and manlier 
 life to its close. 
 
 When, at last, he rose and turned to the sea, out- 
 spread beyond the meadows, dark-rimmed but glorious 
 with reflections of the slowly waning afterglow, above 
 which one clear planet swung in a primrose sky and the 
 mystery of night was gathering in solemn stillness, he 
 took his solitary way down into the darkness with a great 
 peace in his heart.
 
 PART II
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE BURDEN AND HEAT OF THE DAT 
 
 KITTY MUSGEAVE carried home a heavy heart and a 
 wet face that spring afternoon when she gave the ring 
 and letters back to Richard and crushed a hope out of two 
 lives. She found it a very hard task to explain the mat- 
 ter to her father and mother. His circumstances were 
 totally changed, she told them; he had left the service 
 and was going into business to be able to maintain the chil- 
 dren. This made marriage impossible in any case for 
 years to come, probably forever; therefore the engage- 
 ment was at an end. 
 
 "Well, my dear," her father said, "you have chosen 
 the wisest course; but oh, hang it, Kitty, I wish you 
 had shown a little more folly. I can't help wishing you 
 had waited for him, or at least wanted to. I tell you 
 what it is, Kit, you won't find another such husband as 
 Dick Rosny in many a long day's march, and I'm sorry 
 for him. After all, why should he be sacrificed for Bel- 
 ton's children? I wish you'd stood by the poor fellow 
 and kept him to his promise, Kit, though I suppose I 
 ought not to say it. ' ' 
 
 Her mother was sorry, too. "But it really is an im- 
 possible match," she said. "And even if you felt that 
 you could wait ten or a dozen years for him, Kitty, it is 
 much better to end it all now. ' ' 
 
 Kitty burst into tears. "Oh," she said, "it's not 
 only that, mother. I am not so serf-seeking and worldly 
 as you think, but Richard is not what I thought him. ' ' 
 
 "Ah! And how do you know that?" her father 
 asked. ' ' I hope you have not been playing fast and loose 
 
 169
 
 170 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 with him. It is not Ronald Musgrave, I hope. That's 
 a poor game to play, a dangerous game ; it ends in burned 
 fingers, Kit." 
 
 ' ' He told me what his life had been, ' ' she replied bit- 
 terly, "and I knew that I could never be happy with 
 him." 
 
 ' ' There you are wrong, Kit, for he is straight enough 
 now. He should not have told you. A girl of your age 
 can't be expected to see things in their true proportion. 
 When you are older you will see that a woman must be 
 content with what a man is, and not bother about what 
 he has been. You are young, Kitty, and well out of it. 
 But don't let the next man make you his father 
 confessor, that's all. And don't let the next man be 
 Ronald." 
 
 ' ' No one will ever understand, ' ' she said, with a quiet 
 sadness that drew attention to the deep suffering in her 
 pale and sharpened face. ' ' Only take me away, send me 
 away don't let me ever see Ingrestone again." 
 
 So the ash-tree, under which those lovers had parted 
 with such grief and pain, opened its black buds to pour 
 a shower of graceful greenery upon the summer air and 
 cast it down, ruined, on the turf, and spread its gray 
 arms bare to shrieking tempests and silent snows, again 
 and again. Old men laid down the burden of life, chil- 
 dren shot up to full growth and met as lovers beneath its 
 light foliage and polished branches by sun and moon and 
 starlight, but Richard and Kathleen met no more there 
 or anywhere upon the earth. 
 
 Other faces and other voices were in Ingrestone 
 House, trees grew, turf deepened and golden broidery of 
 lichen came upon roof and wall. But Ingrestone itself 
 changed little after the first mad outburst of building 
 provoked by the railway running through it. The Pines 
 had thrown out new wings and enlarged its stables, 
 taking in fresh garden ground and shrubbery. Glass- 
 houses, lawns and fruit gardens now claimed the whole 
 of GatrelFs and several helpers' time; the gray front of
 
 BURDEN AND HEAT OF DAY 171 
 
 old, so square and stern, now smiled in light-hearted ir- 
 regularity of window and gable from a veil of creepers 
 and climbing roses ; fences and walls were in good repair ; 
 prosperity was written everywhere. But the pine-trees 
 sang the same old song that seemed an echo of the sea's 
 multitudinous moan, and was a lullaby or a dirge, a 
 tragic foreboding or a dream of forgotten joy, according 
 to the listener's mood. Some of the taller columns had 
 fallen, their tops were higher and thicker, more birds 
 sheltered in their boughs, and the solemn yet cheerful ef- 
 fect of their dark roof and shadowy aisles was deeper 
 than ever. 
 
 The neglected spot by the gravel pit, where Mr. Bel- 
 ton had met his death, was now tenderly cared for and 
 marked by a granite cross clasped and clothed by a red 
 rose-tree, the plinth half submerged in low-growing flow- 
 ers in their several seasons, with summer sentinels of tall 
 white lilies. Here Mrs. Belton had passed many an hour 
 of summer and autumn, with books or work or gardening 
 tools, quiet and unmolested for the most part, since the 
 spot was shunned by the children. But Edith bat- 
 tened upon regrets and reveled in emotions; she was 
 never so truly happy as when able to drop a tear upon 
 the flowers planted in memory of poor Belton, who might 
 have been the kindest of husbands and fathers and most 
 faultless of men, by the way in which she alluded to him 
 to the speechless amazement of Richard, whose own 
 father she never named. Which of the two, he some- 
 times speculated, had she loved? Belton had certainly 
 exercised a powerful fascination over her, but fascina- 
 tion is various; there is even a fascination of repulsion. 
 ' ' Poor Belton ! ' ' was the usual refrain to his reflections 
 on the subject. 
 
 ''Pretty nigh forgot by this time," Jaynes, the car- 
 rier, was saying one evening, among the hollyhocks by 
 Gatrell 's garden wall, which was of the social height that 
 allowed men 's arms to rest comfortably upon it. Gatrell 
 leaned breast-high upon it inside his garden, Jaynes and
 
 172 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 Seth Barton were propped in the same way in the road at 
 the pleasant hour of curfew. Glowing sunset streaked 
 all the western sky, the scent of summer flowers, and hay- 
 fields, pine-wood and sea-salt, filled the pure and rapidly 
 cooling air; clanging rooks and high-flying swifts were 
 giving place to the blind flutter of bats and ghostly 
 glimmer of moths. A sweet and restful hour, the burden 
 and heat of the day gone by, when sweethearts stroll in 
 shadowy lanes, and tired folk rest and talk of things past, 
 present and to come. 
 
 "Pretty nigh forgot," Jaynes said. "Not but what 
 there 's some that mind it well enough. ' ' 
 
 "Aye," Gatrell assented from the hollyhocks, his 
 grizzly hair powdered by their pollen. ' ' Sure enough, ' ' 
 he added, brushing away a cockchafer from his face, 
 "sure enough." 
 
 "They maids could tell a tale," added Seth Barton, 
 thoughtfully staring into thick-laden gooseberry bushes. 
 "Emma lives married over at Sandycombe, married a 
 baker, name of Jacobs. ' ' 
 
 ' ' We seen en go out of geate, ' ' continued the carrier. 
 "A tallish man with tight trousers and a high hat, a 
 harsy-looken man. You med see the like of en at the 
 races. ' ' 
 
 "Many a one poor Mr. Belton had doens with," added 
 Seth Barton. "He was a rare hand at betting, that's 
 where the money went, I reckon. Times is changed 
 over at the Pines. It is not the saame plaace to 
 look at." 
 
 "What do ee make of it?" asked Jaynes. "Belton 
 hadn't a penny to his naame. And the debts he left! 
 Look at Beltons now. They purely drows money about. ' ' 
 
 "It's Mr. Rosny, he's paymaster. A long head he've 
 got. Put his money in Belton & Laking. Aye, and put 
 somat a sight better than money, put his brains in. Bel- 
 ton & Laking is three times what they was. Look at the 
 new plaaces they've opened pretty nigh everywhere." 
 
 ' ' He was never one to think of himself, ' ' Gatrell said.
 
 BURDEN AND HEAT OF DAY 173 
 
 ' ' He 's ben a father to the young uns, poor things. Med 
 have had some of his own but for they. ' ' 
 
 "Ah! she gave him the go-by so soon as she known 
 how he was left," Jaynes said. "A ooman'll go to the 
 lew side of the hedge so soon as ever the wind blows." 
 
 "Goo on with ee. There's many a ooman'll stand to 
 windard of a man in a storm, ' ' said Barton. ' ' They 're 
 tenderer-hearted than men, take them all hround, and 
 faithfuller. Very like 'twas he that gave her up. Med 
 a-told her what was laid upon him and said he hadn't the 
 conscience to ask her to bide till her beauty time was 
 over. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Nothen second best in that young ooman, ' ' said Ga- 
 treli. ' ' Never bin anighst the plaace zince. Volk do say 
 'twas the Colonel put a stop to it, and no blaame to eii 
 neither. Mr. Rosny, he never held up his head after. 
 Vurry like she bides a maid for love of he. ' ' 
 
 "That's your fancy way of looken at things; a man 
 don 't pine for a ooman like that, ' ' Jaynes said. ' ' Now, 
 Mr. Rosny, he 's a practical man. Merstone biscuits goes 
 hround the world. Look at his Life Saving Apparatus. 
 All brings grist to the mill. And him bred up at sea. ' ' 
 
 "'Tisn't the breeding up," objected Barton, "'tis 
 what's in a man. Put a heart of oak man in the navy 
 and he'll end a Admiral. Put him in business and he'll 
 maake a vartune. Put him in Parliament and he'll end 
 a Prime Minister or a Earl." 
 
 ' ' Put en in a gairden and what '11 he do ? " questioned 
 Gatrell, smiling wisely on the "roving sailor," whose 
 shining leaves crept in the interstices of the stone-wall be- 
 neath his rugged brown hands. 
 
 "I'll warrant he'll grow more in thet there gairden 
 than anybody ever done before. ' ' 
 
 "A gairden 's a gairden," Gatrell objected. "Some 
 is barn with a head vor't, some is barn without. Mr. 
 Rosny 's a knowledgeable man as ever I know and a 
 reasonable. There's a poor vew things he cain't do. 
 But he and me differs about the gairden." 
 12
 
 174 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 "Ah, Gatrell, voreright you was barn and voreright 
 you '11 die ; but every man to his trade. ' ' 
 
 ' ' You and me seen en go in geate, ' ' repeated Jaynes, 
 who had been pursuing the thread of his own thoughts 
 in silence; "but we never zeen en come out no more. 
 And there was vices. And whether 'twas she done it or 
 he, I shouldn't cast it up agen her. And Gatrell could 
 tell a tale, if he'd a mind to." 
 
 "I can tell the time o' day when the sun shines at 
 noon. Draa out a vurrow north and south and stand 
 there till your shadow vails straight along the vurrow, 
 and you med be sure 'tis nooning time. How do your 
 Missus do with the bees Mr. Rosny let her have, Jaynes ? ' ' 
 
 "Middlen. Wold ooman hreckons to make mead 
 already. But I must go on home. So good night 
 to ee." 
 
 He rose slowly from his bending posture, straight- 
 ened himself gradually, and went on his way in the cool, 
 scented twilight, leaving the others leaning cross-armed 
 on the wall, listening to the quick chirp of grasshoppers 
 and slow boom of cockchafers till they were joined by 
 Deborah, who had been quietly circling about the garden, 
 examining this row of peas, and trying that carnation, 
 picking up a weed here and a pebble there, and specula- 
 ting on the prospects of various vegetable darlings with 
 tranquil enjoyment and interest. Then it occurred to 
 Seth Barton to deliver himself of the piece of news he 
 had come on purpose to tell. 
 
 "I be gwine back to Wimbury to live," he said. 
 
 ' ' The deuce you be ! " exclaimed Gatrell, whereupon 
 Barton wished them good night and went his way home. 
 
 ' ' I allowed the wold chap had somat to say, ' ' Gatrell 
 explained when he was gone. ' ' A was vit to bust wi 't ; 
 's f aace was like a vuneral. ' ' 
 
 An hour earlier in the evening, Rosny jumped out of 
 the train that stopped at this point only when there were 
 passengers to drop, and rushed across the platform before 
 the engine hissed off again, leaped a fence and strode
 
 BURDEN AND HEAT OF DAY 175 
 
 rapidly along a couple of fields into a lane all honey- 
 suckled and glowing in summer- evening sun, that led into 
 the road by the Pines, heedless of the lavish summer 
 beauty of woodlands darkening velvet-leaved, of corn- 
 fields turning tawny, of feathery barley crops, and soft 
 blue bloom of sea ; heedless of heat and dust, mindful only 
 of being late for dinner. 
 
 He kept his sailor step and easy motion, but his ap- 
 pearance suggested the man of business; his face no 
 longer kept its open, joyous look, but was grave and care- 
 lined ; the dark-blue eyes had lost no fire, but all gaiety. 
 A close beard hiding the full lips, once so sunny, took 
 further from the open character of the face; some gray 
 streaks in his hair made him look older than his thirty- 
 three years ; his frame was spare though athletic ; dusty, 
 hot and fagged though he was, it was a fine and im- 
 pressive figure that flashed through the fields and lanes 
 in the July sunshine, dashed through the carefully cooled 
 house and up to a little room at the top that had been his 
 room from schooldays. A bed, a bath, a chair, a wri- 
 ting-table with a copying-press, and some book-shelves, 
 composed the furniture of this stronghold, which was 
 adorned by his father 's sword on the wall above his own, 
 his father's portrait, a few time-tables, some plans, maps, 
 diagrams, and lists of engagements. 
 
 Very different was the dining-room, into which he 
 plunged renovated in an incredibly short space of time, 
 to find dinner half over. It was still more different from 
 the dingy and battered apartment in which so much 
 misery had been suffered. The window, through which 
 Belton had looked at the Christmas-tree, had given 
 place to a deep bay, open to the cooling air sweet with 
 pine-scent. Peacocks formed the somewhat sumptuous 
 decoration of this room; the birds themselves in many 
 combinations, with various sweep and expanse of tail, 
 circled round a dado of the dull cinnamon of the wing 
 feathers, with a bordering of brilliant breast-blue, dia- 
 pered and edged with tail-eyes; the walls were splashed
 
 176 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 with tail feathers on a gold ground ; the frieze, of cinna- 
 mon edged with eyes, again showed peacocks; the door 
 curtain of silken embroidery gathered up all these mo- 
 tives in one, with a full spread bird in the lower panel; 
 the window curtains were silk tapestry of tail feathers ; 
 the oaken chairs upholstered with the same. This dar- 
 ing color was checked by oaken furniture and judicious 
 pottery and bronzes. 
 
 Edith seemed very happy in a pensive way among her 
 peacocks ; she looked little older than nine years ago and 
 was exquisitely dressed in neutral tints of slight mourn- 
 ing with red roses from the granite cross. 
 
 "My dearest boy," she murmured, when Richard 
 came in, ' ' if you would but learn punctuality. The poor 
 cook. It is all very well to tell us not to wait, but when 
 should we see you, if not at dinner?" 
 
 ' ' Some day I hope to have time to be sociable. This 
 'loathsome commerce,' as you call it, mother, ruins the 
 minor morals." 
 
 ' ' It spoils a man, ' ' added Gerald, pausing to contem- 
 plate the dish handed him before he passed it, with a 
 profound sigh. "The trail of finance is over you, old 
 chap ; you '11 soon be unfit for human society and have to 
 be turned out to grass like Nebuchadnezzar." 
 
 "Any news of Archie, Muff?" Richard asked. "I 
 thought I saw a foreign letter this morning. ' ' 
 
 "A most interesting account dear Archie writes so 
 charmingly for a man of Innspruck. Why not go to 
 Innspruck by and by, all of us? I know so little of 
 eastern Europe. Archie regrets leaving Vienna, so gay 
 and musical, they made so many pleasant acquaintances 
 were entertained by Viennese students. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Vienna seems hardly the place for a reading party, ' ' 
 Richard said. 
 
 "They think of going through Greece, Bulgaria and 
 Servia; they may do Constantinople." 
 
 " Ah ! " said the head of the family. * ' It was to be a 
 quiet reading party in the Tyrol."
 
 BURDEN AND HEAT OF DAY 177 
 
 ' ' Travel has expanded their wits, ' ' Adeline explained. 
 "Books are not in the Tyrol." 
 
 ' ' His love to you, and he wants another cheque, ' ' Mrs. 
 Rosny added. 
 
 "Already?" grumbled Richard, rising to open the 
 door for her. 
 
 "Your Partagas are not up to much, Dick," Gerald 
 said, selecting and lighting one, when the brothers re- 
 turned to the table, now lit by admirably shaded electric 
 lights, though the glow of a clear crimson sunset still lay 
 on sea and hill. "Always give the best price for cigars 
 and wine." 
 
 "And most things, above all experience," added 
 Rosny, filling a brier-wood and looking thoughtfully at 
 Gerald's exquisitely tailored figure, which was thrown 
 with careless comfort into a deep chair, his long, straight 
 legs stretched before him, his arms clasped above his 
 head, his eyes languidly intent on the blue spirals of 
 cigar smoke. The half-brothers had each a strong look 
 of their mother, and, though Richard was a thorough 
 Rosny in feature and coloring, a still stronger likeness to 
 each- other. Gerald was a slighter and weaker Richard, 
 of more delicate features and fainter coloring; and, 
 whereas Richard was held to be iron-hearted and bear- 
 ish, Gerald's susceptibilities were quick and his sympa- 
 thies easily touched. His mother said he was all feeling, 
 a creature of fire and air like herself. When people say 
 this of themselves, it means that they think themselves too 
 fine for the common uses of life. 
 
 "You shouldn't grind at this rate, old boy," Gerald 
 said presently, with subdued sadness. "You're a regu- 
 lar swot on this beastly banking. You'll have to patent 
 yourself as a calculating machine. Try this Pommard. 
 It isn't half bad. I '11 ring for more ice. I like a lighter 
 wine myself. But you want a pick-me-up, by the look 
 of you." 
 
 "There's life in the old dog yet, Gerald. "What's 
 your news'?"
 
 178 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 <; Deuced bad, Dick. Look here, old boy, it's no use 
 to blink the matter, but I absolutely can't do on my al- 
 lowance. The whole of my pay goes in uniform and 
 messing. ' ' Richard remarked that he had heard this be- 
 fore. "And I dropped a lot at that last meeting. I 
 must have another polo pony just lamed Jewel, think of 
 shooting the poor beastie and, in short, you must plank 
 down three or four hundred besides the allowance. You 
 don't know a chap's necessities in a regiment like ours. 
 So much is expected of a man in a big banking family. 
 That's the worst of the commercial taint, you've got to 
 live up to it." 
 
 "It has been a hot day, Gerald, and money is indi- 
 gestible, ' ' Richard said, his eyes fixed abstractedly upon 
 an exquisitely cool and restful Alma Tadema on the wall, 
 all clear blue sea and sky, clear marble and graceful 
 Greek girl, filleted and chitoned and calm. 
 
 : 'Ah! it's of no consequence," Gerald said blandly, 
 tinkling some ice into his glass. ' ' No hurry for a day or 
 two. Here comes Gwen to call us out to coffee. Awfully 
 jolly outside in the cool. Coming, little girl, coming."
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 A FAMILY AFFAIK 
 
 ROSNY'S face had a jaded and almost heart-sick ex- 
 pression when he rose from his peacocked chair and lin- 
 gered a moment looking up at the ceiling, which was 
 painted in many shades of peacock blue up to the deep 
 breast-tint, as if in a kind of despairing interrogation. 
 Then, looking through the window, he saw Gwen, a fairy 
 figure flitting in and out of the trees, singing for pure 
 gladness of heart, with her flying hair and short white 
 dress wreathed in fresh-gathered honeysuckle, and rose 
 and followed Gerald into the clear and balmy twilight, 
 that breathed roses and mignonette and crushed grass. 
 
 Fields and sea, cliffs and downs, all lay magical in 
 the soft shadows; the girls' voices sounded fresher than 
 ever in the stillness of closing day ; Richard felt the peace 
 at the heart of things sink into his breast, when he sat 
 under the trees, hearing the joyous talk and watching his 
 sisters' young figures flitting among the flowers. 
 
 They sat in the refreshing coolness till the stars came 
 out and the white glow of towns showed clear in the dis- 
 tance, and rumbling trains became red-eyed, fiery mon- 
 sters flashing through the fields, and glow-worms hung 
 out little quivering green lamps. Then Richard was 
 taken into the new drawing-room, opening from the old 
 one, to see Adeline's new piano. 
 
 "Hullo !" he cried, at the sight of it. "I thought it 
 was to be a semi-grand or a cottage." 
 
 "Ah, I thought it would be a pleasant surprise, Rich- 
 ard, ' ' was the gay reply. ' ' In rooms like these a grand 
 
 is a necessity." 
 
 179
 
 180 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 ''In rooms like these well, it certainly has a fine 
 effect." 
 
 He was not a great admirer of those rooms; their 
 brocaded hangings of delicate pale blue, with borderings 
 of equally delicate rose-wreaths on a blue ground, their 
 ceilings painted with pale sunset clouds and rose- 
 wreathed cupids in the same tints, their portieres and 
 window curtains in ivory silk embroidered with forget- 
 me-not and almond blossom, and their white enameled 
 woodwork all seemed too light, dainty and evanescent 
 for his taste, which was toward comfort and homeliness. 
 ' ' Though why poor, dear Richard can not be comfortable 
 in a well-stuffed lounge because it happens to be uphol- 
 stered in blue silk brocade passes my comprehension," 
 his mother more than once observed. 
 
 "The whole thing is like a piece of Dresden china," 
 he explained once, whereupon he was asked what could 
 possibly be more charming than Dresden china. The 
 water-colors on the brocaded panels would have been 
 killed by deeper tints, he was reminded, and all was just 
 right for the Bartolozzis. Much Dresden china was in 
 these rooms, with many specimens of cream-yellow 
 Worcester ; nor was antique china nor Greek and Roman 
 pottery wanting, nor inlaid cabinets of curios, nor books 
 in sumptuous editions, nor superbly illustrated art pub- 
 lications, nor marble statuettes from the best Greek and 
 modern models. 
 
 Perhaps there were too many flowers; he was quite 
 certain some of the potpourri jars might have been 
 emptied with advantage to the atmosphere. But he 
 often thought with regret of the dear, shabby old room, 
 to which his mother had contrived to impart a poetry 
 and grace peculiarly her own on the slightest material 
 foundation ; the room in which they had read and talked 
 so pleasantly together, and brought delicate music from 
 a piano whose only fault was being past its youth; the 
 room in which his mother had poured so many troubles 
 into his sympathetic ear, and to which he had brought
 
 Kathleen one golden autumn afternoon, as his future 
 wife. What deep, irrecoverable charm there had been 
 in that room ! The others maintained that the Dresden 
 china coloring would have been less obnoxious to him in 
 paper and chintz than in brocade and hand-embroidery. 
 "We have the defects of our qualities," his mother once 
 observed with tender melancholy. ' ' Those who have ac- 
 quired wealth by toil are disinclined to part with it. 
 Yet, dear Richard is by nature the most generous of men. ' ' 
 
 When she said things like that Rosny's thoughts flew 
 to the granite cross, and he said to himself, "Poor Bel- 
 ton!" 
 
 So, when dear Richard saw the new piano and per- 
 ceived that it was a Bliithner grand of superb dimen- 
 sions, and all the latest improvements, his spirit died 
 within him and he had no heart to frame the sordid 
 question that trembled upon his lips. His wandering 
 gaze rested upon a little inlaid table his mother had 
 shown him a few days before, a fine piece of marquetry 
 and no doubt dirt-cheap at fifty guineas, but very tiny, 
 and though second-hand, in good condition. 
 
 "Well, Muff, dear," was his comment upon the table, 
 "I'm glad you like it. But if you manage to get fifty 
 guineas' worth of pleasure out of that little bit of wood- 
 work, you'll be a clever woman, and a lucky one." 
 
 "To measure our pleasure by the guineas' worth," 
 had been the horrified rejoinder. "Has it come to this, 
 Richard? Must you ask the pecuniary equivalent of 
 fine emotion, the money value of esthetic charm? You 
 will be putting a price on primroses, and demanding the 
 cost of sunset tints soon. Oh, my dearest boy, why did 
 you leave a noble profession to embark on a sordid career, 
 in which all that is highest in you seems to be slowly 
 atrophied 1 ' ' 
 
 "Oh, for reasons, mother, for reasons. But if the 
 table satisfies your finest emotions Well, well." Re- 
 membering this he restrained an unhallowed curiosity; 
 about the piano.
 
 182 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 "Suppose you let us hear it," he said, opening the 
 piano and lifting the great wing. 
 
 "So that's a butterfly of Grieg's? Very pretty, Ad- 
 die. Yes ; the tone is very good. ' ' 
 
 "But you'll squirm at the price, old boy," said Ger- 
 ald, who was on the stool by Adeline for a duet. ' ' Four 
 fifty; that's all. Guineas, mind you." 
 
 "Ah!" replied Richard. "How do I look when I 
 squirm ? ' ' 
 
 "Isn't the tone superb?" Mrs. Belton asked through 
 the pianissimo passages of an arrangement of Beethoven 's 
 Septet with violin parts by Molly. 
 
 "They play well," he assented. 
 
 Molly was sixteen, fully grown, her face had a sweet 
 unconsciousness, the young undeveloped figure, swaying 
 to the sweep of her bow, and dressed in white, was charm- 
 ing. Adeline was twenty-one. Her mass of wild curls 
 gathered up and piled with great play of light and 
 shade on her well-carried head, her round white arms 
 and full white throat gleaming in soft light, her bright 
 blue eyes and rose and lily face alone entitled her to 
 beauty. But her eyes could flash and soften, there was 
 a gay, almost reckless, daring in her looks and words, a 
 certain come-if-you-dare challenge in her firm, full lips, 
 that went far beyond physical attraction and dangerously 
 heightened it; there was spring, like that of a fine steel 
 blade, in the supple figure poised with firm lightness at 
 the piano; it was a well-trained and capable physique, 
 such as previous generations seldom knew ; power, mental 
 and physical, and restrained, impatient energy, made the 
 dominant notes in this pretty Adeline. 
 
 ' ' By the way, ' ' Mrs. Belton said, from the depths of 
 a downy Chesterfield, "Ronald Musgrave turned up to- 
 day. He is coming to lunch to-morrow on the chance of 
 finding you, as it is Sunday." 
 
 "Ah!" returned Richard. "I haven't seen him for 
 years. He 's a commander now. ' ' 
 
 "I didn't see him; Molly and I were in that absurd
 
 A FAMILY AFFAIR 183 
 
 little yacht, ' ' Gerald said. ' ' Why don 't you get an elec- 
 tric launch, Dick? Or a decent-sized yacht? Such a 
 grind to sail this little beast. ' ' 
 
 "Captain Musgrave brought news," Adeline began, 
 with hesitation. 
 
 * ' You mean of Kathleen ? ' ' Richard said. ' ' I saw it 
 in the Times a week ago. I hope it 's a good match. ' ' 
 
 "Ah!" his mother thought to herself. "It is all 
 right again. He has recovered from that horrid Kitty at 
 last." 
 
 Then Gerald and the girls played and sang some 
 Mikado music with spirit and enjoyment, while Richard 
 walked about, his hands in his pockets, his face full of 
 thought so absorbing that he stood looking at a lovely Al- 
 liugham of thatched red cottage peeping through clouds 
 of apple-blossom, for ten minutes without seeing it, and 
 the concert ended in a shout of laughter, and Adeline 
 turned and cried to him, ' ' Come, old Grumps, why don 't 
 you join in? What in the world's the matter?" 
 
 "Nothing," he said, coming back to sit on the end of 
 Mrs. Belton's sofa with one leg swinging. "But I've 
 been thinking. And now that Gwen has gone to bed and 
 we are all here, except Archie, I want just to say " 
 
 ' ' Hear, hear, ' ' cried Gerald, extending his long limbs 
 in the most comfortable chair he could find. "Drive 
 on!" 
 
 "To say," he continued, while the two girls leaned 
 across the piano, "that is to take you into my confi- 
 dence. It's better, Muffle, dear, don't you think, that 
 we should all know just how we stand financially " 
 
 "Ah! my dear boy, sordid details again," she com- 
 plained. ' ' Getting and spending we lay waste our pow- 
 ers. Surely we need not be always counting these 
 wretched pennies. ' ' 
 
 ' ' That 's just it, mother, ' ' he continued, more gravely. 
 ' ' What I want you and all the grown-up ones yes, Molly 
 is sixteen and sensible to do, is to know exactly what 
 there is to spend and keep to it. I hate to have to say
 
 184 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 ' this and that is beyond our means. ' Gerald is out of it, 
 on his own foundation. But as the eldest he has a right 
 to know how we stand ; and Archie and the rest have their 
 allowances, all but the youngest. But with regard to 
 general expenses it's simply this, Muff, darling, we 
 must retrench." 
 
 ' ' My dearest child ! ' ' she cried, starting up from her 
 downy depths. "You can not mean oh! I knew there 
 was something terrible from the expression of your face 
 but surely Belton, Laking & Co. are not going 1 ?" 
 
 "I say, you don't mean a smash, Dick?" Gerald said. 
 
 ' ' Oh ! the firm the firm is all right. But we are not 
 the firm, and, as I was saying, we are living beyond our 
 income and must retrench." 
 
 "And Molly coming out in the spring," sighed 
 Edith. "And the poor boys at Winchester and Wool- 
 wich. Oh ! this eternal lack of pence. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Let us let the Pines and winter in Borne or Florence, 
 or Monte Carlo," suggested Adeline. 
 
 Gerald dragged himself out of his deep chair in pure 
 horror, and let his arms drop in dejection upon his knees. 
 "Come, old chap, you don't expect mother and the girls 
 to run a mangle or take in single men ? " he remonstrated. 
 
 "This dear home and all its associations," Edith la- 
 mented. "Richard, how can we retrench? Poor econ- 
 omy to give up part of the glass and the gardens and have 
 to buy things ; we can not give up the house in Belgrave 
 street just as your sisters are coming out. We can not 
 do with fewer servants. It must be the carriage horses, 
 and with my increasing weakness " 
 
 ' ' Set your heart at rest, Muffle, dear. Your carriage 
 horses shall not go. You know when we began to keep 
 house together, we agreed that you should order things 
 and I pay the bills. I scarcely think that the best sys- 
 tem. Every year we 've spent more than double the pro- 
 posed income. I propose that Adeline, with your ad- 
 vice and with Molly to take turns, should take the family 
 finances in hand. Three hundred a year comes from
 
 A FAMILY AFFAIR 185 
 
 Godfrey Belton as long as he lives. With that and nine 
 hundred paid to your account to draw from, can you keep 
 house, mother? It won't run to Bliithner grands, of 
 course. But it's only for housekeeping. The personal 
 allowances are exclusive of that. And I am not to be 
 counted as an inmate. ' ' 
 
 "Kichard, my head whirls," interrupted his mother, 
 with considerable energy. ' ' You are really terrible ; you 
 seem to have money on the brain. You can't expect your 
 sisters to act as bank clerks, nor can I, at my time of life, 
 entirely change my nature. After all, if we must starve, 
 let us at least starve with dignity, if not with elegance. ' ' 
 
 "You need not starve in any manner on twelve hun- 
 dred a year." 
 
 "That you should be capable of such unkindness," 
 she said, "when you left the navy expressly to do 
 nothing but make money,. To lead us to suppose you 
 were able to bear all these expenses and then suddenly 
 and for no reason to wish to cut everything down ! It 
 was your wish to enlarge the house and add to the 
 grounds, not mine; you bought it, not I. It was your 
 wish to give the boys expensive educations. And you 
 tell us suddenly that you are penniless. ' ' 
 
 ' ' But, mother, the house was not bought and enlarged 
 with income," he explained. "That was an investment. 
 The capital came from the Life Saving Gear. Every life- 
 boat station and lighthouse has it now, and the boom has 
 become a slump." 
 
 "What in Heaven's name is a slump?" the afflicted 
 woman sighed. 
 
 "I'm blest if I understand," Gerald said. "I 
 thought it was all boom and no slump. I thought you 
 were one of the firm, Dick. I thought the Merstone bis- 
 cuits and the cooperative places were paying like fun." 
 
 "I am a salaried manager with some shares; we are 
 joint stock now. The biscuits pay, but the cooperatives 
 were never intended to make money. Do you think, Ade- 
 line, that you can keep mother 's household accounts 1 ' '
 
 186 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 "I think," she said, still leaning on the piano, her 
 chin supported on her firm white hands, ' ' that I 'd better 
 elope with the first curate I can pick up. Or open a 
 milliner's shop." 
 
 "I say, Dick," cried Gerald, "don't you think we've 
 had about enough of this before the girls 1 ' ' 
 
 Eichard was standing very squarely with his back to 
 the chimney-piece and a flame in his eyes. He looked at 
 Gerald in silence, then turned to his mother. 
 
 ' ' We will discuss these matters when alone, ' ' she said, 
 coldly, with an angry flush, and Richard looked at her 
 with a memory of innumerable and fruitless discussions. 
 "I am content with our present arrangements, Richard, 
 but I gather that you wish to leave us. Why should 
 you?" 
 
 "Why shouldn't II Dear Muffie, a man doesn't 
 always live with his mother." 
 
 "Why, Dick," cried Adeline, with a joyous smile, 
 "you don't mean to say you think of marriage at your 
 time of life?" 
 
 ' ' That is exactly what I mean to say, ' ' he replied, his 
 eyes softening. ' ' But I meant to tell mother first. ' ' 
 
 "But pray what is there to tell?" she asked, bewil- 
 dered. 
 
 ' ' That I am engaged to be married, Muff, dear, only 
 that."
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 GATEELL'S ADVICE 
 
 AN explosion of shrapnel or lyddite, or the sudden 
 furious snapping of a pom-pom in the midst of the Dres- 
 den china rooms, could not have produced more con- 
 sternation than this announcement. 
 
 A silence of utter horror, through which a clock sur- 
 mounted by groups of china figures cheerily chimed the 
 three-quarters, sealed the lips of the petrified gazers on 
 the tall man in their midst, for the space of one minute. 
 Had Richard announced the imminent extermination of 
 the race instead of a probable and pleasant addition to it, 
 the stupefaction could not have been greater. 
 
 "Richard!" almost shrieked Edith. "Engaged? 
 You? Why Kathleen is married." 
 
 "I thought that young damsel was not fished out of 
 the weir for nothing, ' ' Adeline observed. 
 
 "Going to be married!" ejaculated Gerald in a 
 tragic voice. "With your responsibilities? Well. I 
 a in " 
 
 ' ' It has come upon me rather suddenly, ' ' said Rosny, 
 smiling to himself, his eyes bent upon the admirably par- 
 queted floor. "These things do. I meant to tell you 
 first, Muffie ; but, as you see, I 've given myself away. I 
 hope you will like her. I am sure you will." 
 
 "Dear Richard," she replied gaspingly; "you must 
 be aware that this is a terrible blow to me, the more ter- 
 rible because so totally unexpected it is your old hurri- 
 cane way you never spared one's feelings; it is some- 
 times a little trying and so very like your poor father 
 rough and ready, a veritable human tempest. I presume 
 
 187
 
 188 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 that the engagement is yet to be concluded ; as for mar- 
 riage " 
 
 11 Marriage?" echoed Adeline, "and he wants to re- 
 trench?" 
 
 ' ' Marriage ? ' ' added Gerald. ' ' How can a man with 
 such responsibilities marry ? It would be positively sin- 
 ful. It wouldn 't be fair to the girl. ' ' 
 
 ' ' The die is cast, Gerald. Single blessedness is a little 
 monotonous for a continuance. ' ' 
 
 "But the other thing is infernally selfish. Nobody 
 ever dreamed of your doing such a thing. Look here, 
 Richard, you must be having us, you can't be serious; 
 and with your responsibilities " 
 
 "He has no responsibilities, Gerald," Edith broke in 
 with sudden fire; "none but those of every grown man. 
 He need consult no one, still less on such a very natural 
 proceeding as his marriage. Because he has given up 
 everything and devoted himself to a life of severe and 
 uncongenial toil; because he has renounced every pleas- 
 ure, every personal hope, every joy ; because he has con- 
 sumed his youth, dwarfed his interests and stifled his 
 talents, to assure good fortune and high education to my 
 children ; because he has surrounded us with luxury and 
 refined pleasure, at the expense of his own present and 
 future; because of this long self-abnegation, these years 
 of self-devotion, is he to be denied the most elementary 
 joys of life, is his immolation to be perpetual? Oh, I 
 have been to blame. I have not taught you how much 
 you owe to your brother " 
 
 "Mother, for pity's sake " Richard interrupted. 
 
 "I have been to blame, Richard," she repeated, push- 
 ing him away as he tried to detain her, the fading roses 
 she wore quivering with her quick breath. "I have been 
 selfish for my children. In my anxiety for the younger 
 ones, I have forgotten him. You must remember, Ger- 
 ald and Adeline, that your poor father had nothing but 
 debts to leave, and that but for your brother 's noble self- 
 sacrifice "
 
 GATRELL'S ADVICE 189 
 
 "For Heaven's sake, mother," he remonstrated, "if 
 you did but know the pain " 
 
 "She's right, Dick. Mother's quite right," Gerald 
 said heartily. "You're a brick, and let us all sponge 
 upon you and devour you. ' ' 
 
 "We have been horrid," Adeline said. "But it is 
 your own fault. You give us everything without stint, 
 so we want more. The way of the world, Dickie, dear. ' ' 
 
 "No, mother," Richard returned, gravely and very 
 sadly. "It was my plain and simple duty to do what 
 was possible for the children, my plain and simple duty 
 to my stepfather. No one knows or can know what I 
 owe to him," he added, with sudden emotion. 
 
 Edith looked up, startled, in his moved face ; and Ger- 
 ald was not less amazed. Then Gerald remembered a 
 December night of the last year. He had wanted Rich- 
 ard, and hearing that he was somewhere about the place, 
 went out and hunted about till he came within sight of 
 the granite cross. It was a bitter, black night, shot with 
 moon-gleams and torn by roaring wind. The pines 
 shuddered and swayed in the blast, their branches creak- 
 ing and clashing together, with thunder like breaking 
 surf in their surging tops. Outlined upon the blackness 
 of their shadowy aisles, gleamed the thorn-wreathed 
 granite cross in sudden moonlight pouring down the steep 
 of a fissured cloud, to be as suddenly swallowed again 
 in darkness, as the fissure closed, but not too suddenly 
 for the picture to be engraved upon Gerald's memory. 
 The figure, standing motionless with bowed head by the 
 cross in that sudden light, was certainly Richard's and 
 no phantom. He could swear to it. Yet there was 
 something weird and phantasmal in the moonlit vision; 
 the pine-trees moaned round it in voices of human agony ; 
 the vast pall of overarching night shuddered as it closed 
 above it ; the winds rose, like flutes and horns above the 
 bass of rolling drums, and wailed over it. Richard 
 mourning for his stepfather; and after all these years; 
 and whv ? 
 13
 
 190 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 "What I owe to him," Rosny repeated in his deep and 
 deeply moved voice. "He was kind to me," he added. 
 "I never remember being struck by him yet I must 
 often have deserved it. And a stepson is not a pleasant 
 relation, mind you " 
 
 "Or a stepfather," Edith interposed. "And you 
 were always perfect to him." 
 
 "Ah! Muffie, you don't know. Now, don't cry, 
 there's a good Muff. It's late ; these girls ought to be in 
 bed." 
 
 Before the dews were well dried from the grass or the 
 sunbeams had lost their first softness next morning, 
 Richard was in Gatrell's garden across the road, whence 
 he could see the pine-trees, motionless and dark against 
 a pure morning sky, and pierced by many a long shaft of 
 sunlight, one of which struck full on the rose-covered 
 cross at the end of a red-stemmed vista. The cottage 
 sat among its flowers opposite the house and grounds, as 
 if to keep watch on all the comings and goings, it seemed 
 to Richard. 
 
 "Your garden is well-stocked and flourishing," he 
 said to Gatrell. "Everything seems to thrive here so 
 much better than with us. ' ' 
 
 "Aye, to be sure, it do. It's the land. Yourn's a 
 sight poorer. We strikes a lie of good, loamy soil over 
 here. Then it's fine and lew; we lies open to the south. 
 Look at this plum-tree. I never see another like 'en; 
 it's entirely bowed down. You're bright and early this 
 morning, Mr. Rosny." 
 
 " It 's the prime of the day. ' ' 
 
 "I allows it is. However volk can bide abed till 
 pretty nigh noon beats me. 'Tis that fresh and lively 
 avore the dew 's off, the air is that vine and heartsome ; 
 the bubbles ain't gone out of 't, froth ain't glowed 
 away, so to speak. Sun's finer, too; nail a rose agen 
 a east wall and he'll thrive and throw out bloom. Look 
 at this here Wilfrid Lawson nigh the southeast win- 
 dow. There's Deborah dressing bacon inside; power-
 
 GATRELL'S ADVICE 191 
 
 ful hot she do zim, poor ooman! You'll step inside, 
 sir?" 
 
 "Not this morning. I bring you news, Gatrell." 
 
 ' ' Well, there, 'taint news to me. I reckon 'tis Miss 
 Musgrave. ' ' 
 
 "Wrong. She is married; but that's not my news. 
 I am thinking of marriage myself, ' ' he said with a shade 
 of apology in his voice. 
 
 "The dickens you be? "Well, there, you've knocked 
 the breath clean out o' me this time. This here is a 
 hearen, so to speak. So ee be gwine to be married, sir? 
 Matrimony is a honorable estate, sure enough. It is not 
 good for man to be aloan, and mis 'ble bad it is for woman- 
 kind. But you've knocked me clean off my thoughtful 
 foundation, sir. I onexpected this here of ee. Set down 
 on the bench, Mr. Rosny, will ee? Sun's warmish by 
 now. So ee be gwine to be married? Clean off o' my 
 thoughtful foundations be I knocked. ' ' 
 
 The bench was in a sweet-smelling hedge, tangled with 
 brier and honeysuckle, and shaded by a gnarled apple- 
 tree set thick with fruit. Gatrell let himself down on 
 to it and stared straight before him at the gooseberry 
 bushes and sweet herbs and rows of peas, with his sinewy 
 brown hands stretched on his knee, his wrinkled face 
 startled out of its habitual wodenness. 
 
 Eichard sat bending forward a little, with his eyes on 
 the grassy path, whence the dew was not wholly dried, 
 his face shadowed by a straw hat. The day was still with 
 the double stillness of windless summer and country Sun- 
 day ; there was scarcely a sound but the hum of bees ; a 
 field of barley near had no ripple on its velvety surface ; 
 even the pines waited in the beauty of the morning, with- 
 out a sigh or a tremor in all their blackness. 
 
 ' ' No one can be more surprised than myself, Gatrell, ' ' 
 he said presently. "I wonder how I dared. But it 
 came before I knew where I was. But ought I, dare I, 
 do this thing? What right have I to take this fresh 
 young life and mingle it with my own stained and sordid
 
 192 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 stream? How dare I accept this exquisite joy? She is 
 young and beautiful and good; innocent of even the 
 knowledge of evil. How can I break her heart? How 
 can I spoil her happiness?" 
 
 "Do ec zim entirely drawed to the maid? Be ee 
 bound up in the thoughts of her? Do ee zim as though 
 victual and drink couldn't make a man of ee without 
 she?" 
 
 "I do, indeed. But what right have I to such feel- 
 ings? Gatrell, you know all. You know what I owe to 
 others. You know what I am, oh ! you know ! ' ' 
 
 His voice faltered, his head sank in his hands, a dew- 
 drop flashed in the grass at his feet, and another. 
 
 "Do she know?" the gardener asked, solemnly and 
 slowly, after a pause, during which he seemed to be swal- 
 lowing something. 
 
 "Yes," he replied, lifting his head. "Yes," he 
 added, seeming to gain calm and confidence as he spoke. 
 ' ' She knows what I am, knows all. But no names. ' ' 
 
 Gatrell chewed a piece of grass for some seconds and 
 cleared his voice before speaking again. 
 
 "Do ee believe in the forgiveness of sins?" he asked, 
 turning to look on Richard's face. 
 
 "I hardly catch your drift. What has that to do 
 with it?" 
 
 ' ' What right have anybody to be happy when it comes 
 to that? You'll stand up in church this morning, Mr. 
 Rosny, and you'll say 'I believe in the forgiveness of 
 sins.' I reckon ee won't be tellin' no lie. When but in 
 your young youth you was overtook by the sinful temp- 
 tations of mankind. You done wrong. What you done 
 was ter'ble wrong, as nobody can gainsay. Be you sorry 
 for what you done? Have ye turned away from the 
 wickedness you committed, and have ye done what is 
 lawful and right? I reckon you have. Ten year long 
 and more have ee lived without spot or blemish. Ten 
 long year have ye ben in zarra for zin. Ten year long 
 have ye tried to make up "
 
 GATRELL'S ADVICE 193 
 
 * ' Tried 1 Ah ! but nothing can ; nothing, nothing. ' ' 
 
 "Do ee mind when you throwed stoans dro my glass 
 vrame? 'I forgive ee,' I says, 'but doan't ee do it no 
 more ! ' You was for giving of me all your pocket money 
 till ee'd a-paid for the glass. 'I forgive ee,' I says, 'for 
 ee cain't maake they seedlings grow no more.' I mind 
 well. But you done what you could. The seeds was 
 some Deborah's brother brought from abroad. I never 
 seen the like of them no more, nor never shall. But I 
 forgave ee. When I gave ee a apple or may be a plum 
 after that, did ee zaay: 'I cain't take en, Gatrell, along 
 of they seedlings I cain 't bring back ' ? I '11 warrant you 
 never zaid no such foolishness. ' ' 
 
 The cottage roof, red and gold and purple in full 
 morning sunshine, was firm against the black-green pine- 
 trees; a spiral of delicate wood smoke wound with aro- 
 matic scent from the chimney and was lest in the trans- 
 parent azure of a sky, whence the song of larks rippled 
 as if from an over-brimming fountain of delight; fields 
 and hills and woods, and a little curve filled with azure 
 sea, laughed in the broad splendor of sunlight and sweet 
 air; cows in the meadows and nibbling sheep on downs; 
 circling swifts and swallows; bees drowsily murmuring 
 and airy butterflies flitting in graceful circles ; all spoke 
 of the joyous, ungrudging bounty of nature, of the un- 
 covenanted delights of life. 
 
 Sympathy wth the peace at the heart of all things 
 throbbed in Richard's breast; his spirit was uplifted 
 within him. Was he indeed forgiven ? What if this un- 
 expected joy were a pledge of pardon? His penance had 
 been long and arduous, his penitence deep and sincere. 
 No thought of personal happiness, after that one last 
 bitter cry to Kathleen at their parting, had been in his 
 mind ever since he had arisen, like the prodigal son, and 
 gone to his Father. He had thought to be alone all his 
 life long, and rightly alone. Surely some angel of pity 
 and pardon had been charged with this sudden, unasked, 
 almost undesired, gift. Gatrell was right, forgiveness
 
 194 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 is forgiveness ; it is mockery to go on repenting and ask- 
 ing pardon, and still rest under the ban of the unf orgiven. 
 Shall mortal man be more just than his Maker? The 
 heavens spread wide and clear, deep upon deep, space 
 upon space, illimitable, unclouded and free ; they seemed 
 to open vista upon vista to the yearning gaze that lost 
 itself in their endless depths, and calm and holy hope 
 seemed to stream down abundant, inexhaustible, upon 
 the flooding overpour of light and air ; the summer woods 
 and fields, hills and homesteads, and homeless sea, all so 
 exquisitely arrayed in the beauty of morning and warmth 
 of golden light ; all spoke, as in one mighty, many-toned 
 symphony, not of an austere and implacably just judge, 
 but of a loving Father, slow to anger, of great kindness 
 and repenting him of the evil. The east seemed very far 
 from the west and the heavens infinitely higher than the 
 earth on that balmy July Sunday, the very grass at his 
 feet, a living jewel in the sunlight, spoke of mercy and 
 forgiveness. 
 
 But in the very heart of the glory, gray above rounded 
 leafage, rose the little spire of Ingrestone Church, and 
 there in its shadow were graves, invisible but never for- 
 gotten. They were there, indeed, but the dead should 
 bury their dead, while the living lived, joy of joys ! they 
 lived a sweet, real life, no dreary, dragging masque of 
 death, but true life. 
 
 ' ' I never see no religious holiness in being miserabler 
 than what is ordered for volk, ' ' added Gatrell ; ' ' I cain 't 
 abide the sight of plants cankered and vrosted and eat 
 up by worms myself. Look at that quarantine. Loaded 
 up wi vruit he is, and narra apple upon en but what's 
 hround and hrid and zound. He do zim entirely as 
 though he enjoyed the life of en ; his apples do plim out 
 for joy in sunshine afore the seeing eye, in a manner 
 of speaken. I be no scholard, sir, on'y a plain laabouren 
 man; but anybody do have their thoughts, watchen the 
 comen on of things and the manner of growth the Al- 
 mighty have ordered to 'em all, and the spring and vail
 
 GATRELL'S ADVICE 195 
 
 of the year and the waays of the sun and hrain and 
 vrost, and the life that doth spring out o ' dead, dry zeed 
 after their kind. When I think of it all, it do come over 
 me like this, as though One above was kinder than man- 
 kind, and as though he wished well to what he made." 
 
 ' ' Still still, there are things we can not forgive our- 
 selves, things we should never forget. At least such 
 as I " 
 
 "I never zeen no zense in grizzling overmuch, Mr. 
 Kosny. Sinners we be, and sinners we 'm bound to mind 
 we be. But if so be as a man cain't rejoice with his sins 
 forgiven and Heaven vor 'n to go to, he 's made of pretty 
 poor stuff, I allow. The more we'm forgiven, the more 
 we 'm bound to be thankful. ' ' 
 
 " Whatever 's come to Mr. Rosny?" Deborah asked, 
 when the gate had clicked to behind him, and Gatrell had 
 clumped in to breakfast ' ' 'S vaace is all lit up and he do 
 step out with a jounce. He puts me in mind of Christian 
 with the burden veil off of 'em. ' ' 
 
 ' ' To think, ' ' Gerald was saying to Adeline under the 
 linden-trees; "to think of Richard turning selfish and 
 leaving us all in the lurch. ' ' 
 
 ' ' To think of his being so poor after all these years, ' ' 
 continued Adeline. "Money-making, as mother says, 
 seems to have got into his blood and infected all his 
 thoughts and all for nothing. Poverty is respectable in 
 some cases; but poor bankers and manufacturers can't 
 justify their existence. I dislike poverty. It's degrad- 
 ing to think of the price of things. That is the true 
 ~bourgeois note. ' ' 
 
 "After all, commerce is a taint, Addie. Some fellow 
 defines a gentleman, a man whose family has been ar- 
 miger, entitled to bear arms for three generations without 
 a taint of commerce. Now one hears everlastingly of 
 Dick 's beastly biscuits, and after all they don 't pay. No 
 gentleman wants things to pay. No gentleman thinks of 
 what he spends. But that's where the taint shows in 
 Dick. He 's always thinking of money. Bad form. The
 
 196 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 more one thinks of it the more one frets that a man in his 
 position has no right to marry. It's beastly hard on us 
 all. Of course, as mother says, he needn't have done a 
 thing for us. He might have let us go to board schools. 
 But then he 7ms; he's brought us up to expectations. 
 And it 's jolly hard to be tipped out of it all at once. ' ' 
 
 Some of these views he developed later to Kichard, 
 who wished him to understand that the necessity of re- 
 trenchment was entirely unconnected with his proposed 
 marriage. 
 
 "The income I mentioned last night will cover the 
 usual expenses," he said, "but it won't run to fresh 
 ones." 
 
 ' ' You have me there, Dick, ' ' Gerald said, with a good- 
 tempered laugh. "But polo must be played you can't 
 be odd man out in a regiment and ponies are always sur- 
 prising you. You never know what they'll do next; 
 sometimes they fight like fun. I do assure you, Dick, 
 I'm not the plunger you think. You must do as others 
 do in the service." 
 
 "Why not learn to say no?" 
 
 "You can't. You can't be always asking for the 
 bill. And when it comes you can only pay and look 
 pleasant. ' ' 
 
 ' ' But I can 't see the necessity of polo even in infantry 
 regiments, Gerald. Maxwell tells me he wishes the 
 youngsters were not so keen on it. ' ' 
 
 ' ' But he 's the colonel and bound to be like that. You 
 don 't know how infernally shoppy he is. Maxwell thinks 
 of nothing but soldiering, wants to turn the regiment 
 into a sort of staff college. He'd have us grind all day 
 and do with three weeks ' leave in the year. ' ' 
 
 "But you chose the service, Gerald. Soldiering was 
 the only thing for yon. It was to be its own reward. " 
 
 ' ' Look here, old lad, ' ' Gerald said, with earnest sad- 
 ness, "you want your breakfast. A good feed will bring 
 you to a better frame of mind. No man is fit to speak to 
 till he has been fed."
 
 THE SLEEPING PRINCESS 
 
 THE part Richard had come to play in his family was 
 less gratifying than he could have wished. He was fully 
 aware that his presence in the house was considered as 
 more or less a domestic calamity. No one cares to play 
 kill-joy and marplot. No is often the hardest possible 
 word to say. 
 
 To make "a happy fireside clime" for Edith and 
 educate the children properly was the simple aim for 
 which he had at first lived and worked in his new pro- 
 fession, in which he had soon learned to take interest and 
 find excitement, if not pleasure. And when things pros- 
 pered, almost turning to gold at his touch, was added the 
 wish to clear off Belton's debt to the bank. On that fol- 
 lowed commercial schemes on a philanthropic basis, such 
 as what his brother termed his "pious pubs," an asso- 
 ciation that carried on public houses by salaried mana- 
 gers who had no interest in the sale of drinks, but much 
 in that of food. 
 
 In these houses nobody was "licensed," as his scan- 
 dalized boyhood had rashly interpreted, " to be drunk on 
 the premises," but only to drink in moderation. The 
 houses, respectable clubs for respectable working men 
 and women, had succeeded, and after locking up capital 
 for a time were beginning to pay their way. Such 
 schemes as this made it imperative to limit the family ex- 
 penditure, which at first had expanded with the expan- 
 sion of income ; upon attempting this, Rosny learned that 
 wealth depends, not upon income, but expenditure, and 
 discovered that the more money he made the poorer he 
 
 107
 
 198 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 grew, until the struggle on the one hand to make money, 
 and on the other to limit expenses, was wearing him out. 
 How it came about that his family had such amazing 
 necessities, such a horse-leech appetite, was an insoluble 
 mystery to him. Adrian Rosny had brought up his chil- 
 dren on a moderate income without this perpetual war- 
 fare, he told him ; Godfrey Belton had had no such expe- 
 rience in his family. It might have been heredity. Edith's 
 inability to grasp the meaning of money 's worth, together 
 with her scorn of applied arithmetic, was a constant thorn 
 in the flesh. This had to be very tenderly borne with 
 and the painful experiences of Horace Belton 's wife had 
 to be remembered. In the first dreariness of shattered 
 hopes and ruined prospects it had been a solace, the near- 
 est approach to happiness, to deny his mother nothing; 
 to find himself a sort of earthly providence or fairy god- 
 father to all her wishes. But the wishes grew with ful- 
 filment and the children with their growth. To act the 
 part of paymaster and general provider and nothing 
 more, becomes wearisome in time. "They think me a 
 mere money-bag, ' ' he often complained to himself. 
 
 That was after it had become clear that Gerald shirked 
 his company, and tolerated him as a mere fogy who 
 ought to be shelved as decently as possible in his own 
 house. This cut deep, from Gerald, the "own brother" 
 of boyhood. Archie was but a boy, Adeline a girl, but 
 Gerald that was another matter. That Gerald should 
 order this, alter that and improve the other at the Pines 
 was very well ; but when it came to shrinking from com- 
 panionship, it hurt. Such a hurt comes to many a 
 father, who rears sons with care and self-denial to find 
 that the young man whose companionship was to make 
 up for so much, thinks him a bore and nuisance and has 
 not the grace to conceal it. 
 
 People grow accustomed to these things; Rosny had 
 soon come to do so. When, as often happened now, busi- 
 ness took him to town, he was less anxious to gt home for 
 Sunday, finding more peace and refreshment in solitude.
 
 THE SLEEPING PRINCESS 199 
 
 He was beginning to feel the strain of many years of in- 
 cessant activity, and one sunny Sunday morning in May, 
 looking on the fresh leafage in St. James's Park, felt a 
 great longing for fresh country air and stillness. Buses 
 were going out of town with various printed labels ob- 
 scuring their week-day destinations, and on one of these 
 the words "Putney, Barnes and Richmond" summoned 
 visions of fresh green park and cool blue river so invi- 
 tingly that there was nothing for it but to take train to 
 Richmond and there step into a dainty pleasure-boat that 
 almost went of itself on the strong insetting of the tide. 
 
 It was fresh and rural after London, in spite of crowd- 
 ing fleets of gay pleasure-boats, manned with great vari- 
 ety, and steered with frequent recklessness, steamboats 
 black with humanity, tinkling with band music and plow- 
 ing the still green river into tumbling furrows, and fussy 
 launches, hissing unexpectedly along the liquid highway 
 with miniature breakers in their wake. 
 
 It was quiet and peaceful on the broad breast of the 
 river winding between green banks, overshadowed by 
 trees in early May freshness, or spread with deep mead- 
 ows flooded with buttercups; with here a historic man- 
 sion, hidden in blossomed chestnut and gold-burgeoned 
 oak; there a villa with gay parterre and tree-shadowed 
 lawn ; here a village and there a little town ; everywhere 
 lavish glory of bloom, snow-white of May, drooping gold 
 of laburnum and warm tints of copper beech and trans- 
 lucent poplar. And though the trail of suburban wealth 
 and cockney pleasuring was over all, and Pope's villa 
 seemed to wear a cynic smile at the longevity of its own 
 artificiality, here and there were quiet fields over which 
 larks sang, as if villas had never been or cities overflowed 
 into country sweetness, where actual haystacks peeped 
 out so naturally that people grew sick for the real coun- 
 try and knew for certain that it still existed. And here 
 great variety of wild flowers brimmed over banks and ran 
 down into the river, refreshing eyes long jaded by the 
 gaudy splendors of forced and marketed flowers with the
 
 200 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 simplicity of cuckoo buds and lady's smocks. And 
 everywhere the cuckoo himself said the same thing he 
 said to Shakespeare and repeated what Wordsworth 
 heard him tell, but not to the hills. Swans floated here 
 as majestically as on "still St. Mary's Lake," withal be- 
 traying some stain of cockney greed in their approaches 
 to boats whence they took ample largesse of bread and 
 biscuit. 
 
 He sculled easily on the top of the tide in sun and 
 shadow, soothed and calmed by the May beauty and the 
 fresh sound and diamond sparkle of dipping oars, till 
 the foamy curve of Teddington Weir was reached and the 
 last of the tide lost. Then, after a pause in that fresh- 
 ness and green shade, through the lock and between green 
 fields with a following wind to help, sometimes drifting 
 before the impetus of a spurt, sometimes towed by lads 
 running along the bank, and once, perhaps, at Hampton, 
 lying in sweet flowery grass in Hawthorn shade till the 
 noon blaze was well past. 
 
 Then he glided peacefully along, seeing and not see- 
 ing the holiday folk swarming on river and bank, w r hen 
 his eye was caught by a boat made fast to the crooked 
 root of a tall chestnut turreted with bloom, which spread 
 giant arms over the water at the foot of a sloping 
 meadow. In the boat was a young woman, a mere girl, 
 all the pliant curves of her supple and slender figure re- 
 laxed in sleep, with a half-spent sunbeam flickering over 
 her face. As he drifted slowly by with suspended oars, 
 Rosny's fascinated gaze lingered upon her with wonder- 
 ing pleasure. It was monstrous to leave such a young 
 and pretty girl alone and unprotected and fast asleep 
 among the motley crowd on the Sunday river. His boat 
 stopped at the indignant thought and slowly swayed 
 round from stem to stern, while he shipped the sculls 
 and smoked and wondered about the sleeping girl. 
 
 Some pleasurers, racketing by with noisy rowlocks 
 and splashing oars, shouted and pointed to her with wild 
 laughter as they passed; and Richard, furious and dis-
 
 THE SLEEPING PRINCESS 201 
 
 gusted, rowed up to the chestnut and lay alongside the 
 boat with the girl in it. A smart little private boat it 
 was, well cushioned and trimly finished with blue-and- 
 gold monograms on the oars. An open book had slipped 
 from the sleeper's hand and showed the story of Elaine 
 to his keen far sight "the fair," "the lovable," "the 
 lily maid of Astolat. " The young figure, in a simple 
 white gown, belted with silver clasps and closed at the 
 throat with a white sailor tie and collar, was charming 
 in its surrounding of fresh greenery and bloom, the face, 
 lightly flushed and serene as a baby's, more charming 
 still. A bunch of lily-of-the-valley was her only orna- 
 ment; no ring showed on her slim white hands, lying 
 loose in the folds of the gown. The gentleness of sleep 
 was upon her young, innocent face, over which young 
 green chestnut leaves slipped many a soft, changing 
 shadow. She made a picture infinitely calming and re- 
 freshing to see, like some gentle landscape of wood and 
 field stilled into deeper peace under the glamour of moon- 
 light. The world's cares took flight, a pleasant hypno- 
 tism fell upon him at the sight of those sleep-sealed, blue- 
 veined eyelids on the still face. He could almost hear the 
 gentle sound of even breath stirring the lily bells and 
 blending with the soft lapping of water and the rich 
 song of a nightingale, that seemed as the voice and heart- 
 beat of all the sunny vitality of spring moving and leap- 
 ing in the surrounding greenery and bloom. All was 
 so tranquil that, but for the clink of rowlocks and plash 
 of oars and sound of passing voices, you might have 
 heard the grass growing and buttercups opening on that 
 sumptuous and melodious May afternoon. 
 
 The restful posture, the pure outline of the peaceful 
 face and the slender immaturity of the youthful figure, 
 suggested the ideal of sweet purity and conquering weak- 
 ness, he had loved in Kathleen. All that was tender and 
 womanly, pure and graceful, recalled her, now that his 
 love had passed into that sublimated form in which the 
 object is no longer a concrete human being, but an ab-
 
 202 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 straction of qualities, idealized by memory and purified 
 by pain and longing, yet an abstraction or spirituality 
 that constantly seeks reembodiment. He thought, with 
 a wild throb of tenderness, that Kathleen herself might 
 be resting even then in some such green shade, forgetting 
 the years that had passed since he saw her. 
 
 Presently she stirred, smiled and murmured some 
 half articulate sounds; then she laughed. "Rosny," she 
 said, ' ' yes, Rosny, ' ' and slept deeper. He started at the 
 sound of his name. Was this some new development of 
 telepathy, or only fancy twisting the indistinct utterance 
 of some other name to his own. For the day was full of 
 enchantments ; what dreamy peace there was in meadow 
 and sky, what glamour in the rare and evanescent tints of 
 fresh, opened leafage, steeped in sunlight! 
 
 Es lluTit das fernstc, tiefste Thai ; 
 Nun, armes Herz, vergiss dein Qual. 
 
 But his sorrow must never be forgotten; hidden away, 
 bravely, silently borne, but never quite forgotten; there 
 lay the sting and the healing balm. Cares might be 
 forgotten, and plans and schemes, worries and labors, 
 hopes and fears, failure and success, the whole tangle and 
 turmoil of the world's life, in this enchantment of fresh 
 unstained green, in the bird's wild warble and quick jug- 
 jug, in the clarity of blue sky and green and blue river, 
 in the charm of golden water-break and grasses swayed 
 in the gentle wash of the stream, in the cool green frame 
 of deep live grass, and in the magic shadows and lights 
 playing over the sleeping girl. A butterfly hovered over 
 her face and fluttered to her lips, as if a soul should enter 
 or escape them. A sound of church bells circled melodi- 
 ously in upper air and rippled down, sweetened by the 
 water they floated across ; shadows shifted and gathered 
 purply warmth ; sunbeams grew golden ; then at last the 
 enchantment culminated in the opening of dark eyes, 
 liquid and soft with dreams, and a flash of thought and 
 feeling illuminated the sealed mystery of the face.
 
 THE SLEEPING PRINCESS 203 
 
 A long, silent, smiling gaze into the grave, bearded 
 face before her, a sudden rush of red over her face to the 
 spring of her hair, and the young girl started up, and 
 Rosny came to himself and emerged from his waking 
 dream. 
 
 ' ' I beg your pardon, ' ' he said. ' ' You were asleep and 
 alone, and roughs were passing; so I brought to along- 
 side of you." 
 
 ' ' Asleep ? ' ' she said ; ' ' alone ? Why, where are "Was 
 I really asleep ? ' ' Rosny 's smile made her draw out her 
 watch. " It was most kind. Oh! Surely not asleep " 
 
 "Why, Dick," cried a gay voice from the bank; "you 
 of all people?" 
 
 He turned, his ear catching the light rustle of skirts 
 over the deep grass, to see Annis Rosny coming down to 
 the river. 
 
 ' ' How did you find us ? " asked a male voice, at which 
 he recognized an elderly naval officer under whom he had 
 served. "Glad to see you. I hope Evelyn has per- 
 suaded you to row back and dine ? Early people dine at 
 seven or thereabouts. Not had time, Evelyn? Well, 
 now, Rosny, you will then. Very friendly of you to look 
 us up like this. And you didn't know your cousin was 
 staying with us? Where's that lazy beggar, Will, Eve- 
 lyn? Tired of waiting? Too bad of us to be so long. 
 We lost our bearings and went a couple of miles out of 
 our course. You may thank Nancy for that. ' ' 
 
 "This is a perfect fairy tale," Rosny said, leisurely 
 dipping his oars, when, with Evelyn transferred to the 
 stern of his own boat and the other two in that moored 
 to the chestnut, they pushed off for a little water-side 
 villa "I don't even know the name of the sleeping 
 princess. ' ' 
 
 "I am Captain Arbury's niece, Evelyn Arbury," was 
 the quick reply, with a pretty flush. "And the guardian 
 knight turns out to be Nancy 's often-mentioned cousin, 
 Richard Rosny. It is just like a story-book." 
 
 "Hardly knight," he corrected, with the caressing
 
 204 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 voice used to little children. "Rather some benevolent 
 old ogre or dragon, fit to guard enchanted treasure under 
 magic trees and deliver distressed beauty from evil spells, 
 else capable of eating people up alive with a scrunch." 
 
 "But ogres are ugly, and dragons have horrid teeth 
 and claws and great wings, and are covered ail over with 
 dreadful scales." 
 
 Dragons sometimes travel incognito with wings and 
 tails and teeth packed away in portmanteaus, and ogres 
 themselves are subject to enchantment, veiling their ogre- 
 ishness in decent old-gentlemanly respectability, Rosny 
 told her, as they shot over the clear green water, Evelyn 
 with the ropes and Richard bending to the sculls, and a 
 silver swan, with upstanding wings full spread, floated 
 on either side of the boat like an escort, or like two en- 
 chanted princes in their train. Anything might have 
 happened on that enchanted afternoon. 
 
 He heard, during the short passage, that she had 
 neither father nor mother and was an only child; she 
 lived with this uncle, who had no daughters, but many 
 sons. They had taken the riverside villa for the sum- 
 mer ; they moved about a good deal, even following Cap- 
 tain Arbury to foreign stations ; it was a little unsettling 
 to have no fixed home. The vivid young face and dark 
 and dreamy eyes grew wistful with the recital. He 
 thought it more than probable that "the child" was of 
 little account in the uncle's household, and was unconsid- 
 ered and very lonely. 
 
 By the time he stepped into his boat again in the 
 moonlight, though he had exchanged no second word with 
 her, he seemed to have known and pitied "the child" 
 for years. 
 
 It seemed only natural to have promised to dine and 
 sleep at the Lindens instead of going straight home on 
 the following Tuesday. The next Sunday, being Nancy's 
 last with the Arburys, he Avas easily persuaded to spend 
 by the riverside ; it was not far for a Saturday to Monday 
 visit, and his old chief had found many things to talk
 
 THE SLEEPING PRINCESS 205 
 
 over with him. The visit of an old messmate to the Lin- 
 dens furnished an excuse for another week-end; and, 
 after that, a Saturday river-picnic in a launch to Clieve- 
 den Woods seemed only a proper return for so much 
 hospitality. Evelyn had spoken of the pleasantness of 
 such excursions. 
 
 He was very sorry for the solitary girl, who seemed 
 an alien in her uncle 's house, and was evidently regarded 
 as such by the uncle's wife. He was more than glad to 
 see her brighten at his coming and smile over the bon- 
 bons and flowers he brought her. Nancy had admitted 
 that Evelyn was not happy and felt her dependence 
 deeply; it is delightful to give ever so little pleasure to 
 those who have little. Besides, "the child" was attrac- 
 tive and companionable ; all she did or said seemed grace- 
 ful and sweet ; her presence gave him a pale twilight hap- 
 piness ; she was so strangely like Kitty, though her eyes, 
 instead of being blue and calm, were dark and dreamy. 
 In church, standing at her side and hearing her voice in 
 the hymns, he seemed to hear Kitty's again. He knew 
 that he went to the Lindens more for the sight of Evelyn 
 than for long discussions and reminiscences with her 
 uncle, but the gladness he brought on her face he thought 
 nothing more than what the kindness of some uncle or 
 godfather might give. The "responsibilities" to which 
 Gerald referred had aged him ; he seemed to belong to an 
 older generation than any of the young people he met. 
 Evelyn would naturally regard him as an elderly rela- 
 tive. But his manner grew more tender and caressing 
 than he knew, and his eyes followed her with Kitty Mus- 
 grave's memory in them. That look in his eyes made 
 Mrs. Arbury tell her husband that it would be an excel- 
 lent match, far beyond what could be expected for Evelyn. 
 
 "My niece will have nothing," Captain Arbury told 
 Rosny that evening in the garden ; ' ' but she is a good girl 
 and clever, and I don 't like the thought of losing her. ' ' 
 
 ' ' I should think not, ' ' he replied ; ' ' but she seems to 
 be very well. I hope she is not consumptive." 
 It
 
 206 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 "I hope not. Sickness and death are not usually 
 suggested by the sight of handsome young women, ' ' was 
 the enigmatical reply. 
 
 "What could he mean?" Eosny afterward asked 
 Nancy. 
 
 "Mean? He meant 'hands off or come to the point. 
 No trifling with young affections on these premises. ' ' 
 
 "Nonsense, Nancy. He couldn't think that at my 
 age and at hers. Such an idea never entered my mind. ' ' 
 
 "How absurd you are, Dick! It is high time a few 
 ideas entered your mind as they have other people's. 
 You are only thirty-two or three; Evelyn is nearly 
 twenty ; and you have paid her marked attention. Why 
 should you go to the Lindens so often but for her? 
 Everybody sees it. How could it be otherwise?" 
 
 " Oh I confound them all. Then, thanks to these peep- 
 ing Toms, I must stay away, Nance, and it's a bore, that's 
 all." 
 
 "That's not all by any means, Richard. Somebody 
 will have a heartache if you stay away now. And I am 
 not sure that you can stay away now in honor. ' ' 
 
 "Dear Nancy, you can't mean this seriously, you who 
 know. She couldn't think of me. And if she did bet- 
 ter a heartache now " 
 
 "But why any heartache at all? Why should you 
 not both be happy ? Oh ! I know what you think you owe 
 to those children, and I don't say you are wrong. But, 
 if you have little to offer a wife, she has nothing, and is 
 quite unworldly. And she is not happy at home. And 
 well, it will go hard with her, I am afraid. You would 
 be happier and better with a home of your own. Give up 
 these ascetic notions, Richard, and live a wholesome, 
 human, Christian life. ' ' 
 
 "Christian?" he repeated, with a long and deeply sad 
 look. 
 
 ' ' Go once more, ' ' she said gently, but he refused. 
 
 The effort not to go was great and surprisingly pain- 
 ful; every energy seemed paralyzed by the necessity of
 
 THE SLEEPING PRINCESS 207 
 
 banishing the young face that was so like Kitty 's from his 
 mind. And Kitty herself was about to be married and 
 must be forgotten. Besides, Evelyn was more like Kitty 
 than Kitty herself. Only, if he had hurt her, as Nancy 
 did but such a thought was madness. 
 
 The train in which he chanced to be during some such 
 reflections as that, stopped at Baker Street for the usual 
 half minute, with a simultaneous ejection of passengers 
 from already opened doors, and the usual hurried troop- 
 ing to the stairs of one human current, while another 
 surged into the scarcely arrested carriages. Rosny, going 
 with unobservant eyes and abstracted thoughts along the 
 platform in the stream, suddenly looked at a compart- 
 ment in which some one was trying to open an obdurate 
 door, and, darting toward it, wrenched the stiff handle 
 round with a violence to which the door suddenly yielded, 
 but not till the train was beginning to move. The pas- 
 senger, stepping too late to the footboard, lost balance 
 and nerve and would have fallen but that Richard, run- 
 ning by the train, lifted her bodily in one arm to the 
 platform, before he saw that it was Evelyn herself. 
 
 He saw much more than that in the face of the un- 
 nerved girl who still clung to him, while the train swept 
 dizily on and vanished in the darkness, and he felt a 
 great deal more still. 
 
 "You were frightened," he said unsteadily when he 
 had led her to a seat. 
 
 "I was afraid of being taken on," she replied, try- 
 ing to hide her tears. ' ' I have to meet my aunt, and I 
 dropped my purse. And what will they say?" 
 
 A few bantering words, an offer to put her in a cab 
 and good-by, was all that passed then. But two long let- 
 ters followed, one to Captain Arbury and one to Evelyn, 
 and both received an affirmative answer.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THE JOY-BELLS AGAIN 
 
 ONCE more Wimbury joy-bells rang out clear and 
 pure upon the air of a golden autumn afternoon, and 
 once more the cottage was gay and full of flowers in 
 honor of a bride, returning, not departing, this time. 
 The sea was still and peaceful, the downs dreamy, the dis- 
 tance blue, the air warm with odor of fruit and flowers, 
 as on the day when Richard stood at the gate, a desolate 
 child, to watch his mother's carriage disappear in the 
 dust-clouds and listen, heart-sick and deserted, to the 
 mocking melody of the exultant bells that had rung in 
 such a long sequence of sorrow. 
 
 It was the mother who watched and waited now to 
 that same mad bell music, gladly expectant of the com- 
 ing of her son and his young wife. She watched with 
 no impatience or misgiving, remembering her own wed- 
 ding-bells and her own home-coming with gentle regret 
 and sweet sadness, dashed with relief; all that misery 
 was past, she was calm now and content, happier than 
 ever in her youth. It only troubled her that Richard 
 chose to live in this frugal way and begin his married 
 life in what it pleased Gerald to call such ostentatious 
 poverty. 
 
 She had been very happy in the cottage and enjoyed 
 nothing so much now as regretful tears over the mem- 
 ories with which it was filled ; her happiest days had been 
 spent, her most sacred feelings experienced, there, she 
 often said, but no earthly power would have induced 
 her to live there, and nothing but the wish to induct the 
 young couple into their home would have made her spend 
 208
 
 THE JOY- BELLS AGAIN 209 
 
 any time in that absurd doll's house, as Adeline called 
 it. It was a very charming trait in Richard ; it showed 
 a refinement of feeling beyond what might be expected 
 in a masculine breast, to select the home of his infancy for 
 that of his married life; she could not grudge her dear 
 boy the indulgence of these delicate emotions, still 
 people owe something to their position and friends. It 
 takes a good many mansions to preserve the sacred flame 
 of love in the average human breast, according to Mrs. 
 Belton. This reflection made her sigh while she filled 
 bowls of roses and scattered trails of Virgina creeper 
 about the small and simply-furnished rooms with the 
 taste that distinguished her ; and, unless she was greatly 
 mistaken in Evelyn, she would soon rebel against the 
 narrow seclusion of this remote, sea-washed village. Not 
 that Evelyn's position could claim anything better; she 
 was very well in her way, pretty, but totally unformed ; 
 what could poor, dear Richard have seen in her ? It was 
 no use to lament, evidently Mrs. Arbury had known 
 what she was about. Since Richard had thought proper 
 to throw himself away, the only thing was to make the 
 best of it ; Evelyn was young, she might develop. 
 
 "I'm afraid it will be a little dull for you, dearest," 
 Richard was saying, as they drove between hedges tan- 
 gled with briony, blackberry, and honeysuckle. "But 
 what rest and refreshment for me!" 
 
 He rarely said "dearest," so Evelyn smiled and 
 slipped a hand inside his arm with an affectionate little 
 squeeze. "Nothing will be dull to me that you like," 
 was the reply. ' ' I only want to make you happy, Rich- 
 ard." 
 
 "Darling" still rarer and more valued expression 
 "how I hope you will like the place ! For me there is 
 110 place in the world like it. It makes me a boy again. 
 But you were not born there, Evelyn; you didn't live a 
 sort of fairy-tale life there alone with your mother." 
 
 ' ' No, but I mean to live a sort of fairy-tale life there 
 alone with my husband, ' ' the low, sweet voice replied.
 
 210 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 ' ' The worst is I shall have to be away so much. But 
 not more than I can help. Perhaps I may be able to get 
 them to put on another train. You'll find interests in 
 time, dear. You will take pleasure in parishing. 
 Mother used to parish." 
 
 "How do you know I like parishing?" 
 
 "Your uncle said so." 
 
 "Oh! did he?" 
 
 "And you may like the rectory people; it's a rine old 
 house, and often full of visitors. The Retreat is very 
 near. I hope you'll like the Chesneys. Ronald Musgrave, 
 Lady Randall's brother, is an old messmate of mine; 
 he'll be coming down sometimes. We'll have a big 
 box from Mudie and plenty of papers and reviews. 
 And with music and needlework and housekeeping 
 and gardening and a stupid, tired husband coming 
 home " 
 
 "And sometimes a shipwreck and sometimes a mack- 
 erel catch, and smugglers " 
 
 "No, I can't promise you smugglers; they're gone 
 out ; but you can have coast-guardsmen, splendid fellows 
 to look at, and very handy if you want anything done. 
 Their officer is an old messmate too; you may find his 
 wife companionable, and she may give you some wrinkles 
 in housekeeping. ' ' 
 
 "I'm afraid I need them, dear. But I used to be 
 good at arithmetic at school. I can cast up, though I 
 was never quite clear about compound subtraction. ' ' 
 
 "It's a happy thing for me," Richard said, "that you 
 are content with little ; for, as I told your uncle, my wife 
 marries poverty, and, indeed, I was not sure, till he told 
 me how little you cared for smart frocks and carriages 
 and such things, whether I dared ask such a bright young 
 creature to share such a gray and humdrum life, some- 
 thing like planting a rose-bush in Whitechapel. But I 
 know that you very clearly understand that I hold the 
 banking profits in trust for the Beltons, and that you will 
 never want me to alter our modest way of living. Be-
 
 THE JOY- BELLS AGAIN 211 
 
 tween ourselves, Evelyn, I made a great mess of it at 
 home. I began by just paying for everything that was 
 wanted. Now I've asked them to take a certain income 
 and spend it and leave me free to devote myself to busi- 
 ness. I'm going to ask you to do the same; it will be 
 such a help to me if you will, Evelyn " 
 
 " If ? " 
 
 "Never speak of the cost of things, Evelyn. You will 
 have a banking account and draw cheques as you want 
 them. You will have three hundred and fifty a year, no 
 more and no less. Divide three fifty by four and make it 
 do for three months, and. if you find yourself going 
 ahead, pinch on the next quarter. Or strike a weekly 
 average, and try to keep to it. But you'll soon learn, if 
 you pay as you go and keep careful accounts. Nothing 
 like accounts to make time fly. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, I'll learn as fast as I can. But how much to 
 learn ! And how shall we ever spend all that money in a 
 little cottage? Shall you be very cross if I only get 
 through half, dearest ? ' ' 
 
 "Not very. But I hardly think my temper will be 
 tried in that way. You sweet little goose, you'll be clever 
 if you keep within bounds in the first quarter. But if 
 you can, it will make all the difference between domestic 
 happiness and domestic misery." 
 
 Her face clouded; she withdrew the caressing hand 
 and nestled back into her own corner, disillusioned and 
 shocked. As if sordid considerations of shillings and 
 pence could affect high matters of heart and soul, or love 
 could fluctuate with account-books. 
 
 "I trust that our happiness is based upon something 
 better than bills," she replied, with an offended dignity 
 that was unnoticed by the obtuse male creature at her 
 side; "upon something higher and holier than house- 
 keeping." 
 
 "You will always take high and noble views of life, 
 Evelyn. It is a great rest to me to be sure of that, ' ' he 
 said tenderly, but with the want of effusion that had per-
 
 212 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 petually exasperated his mother and now chilled his wife. 
 Was there ever wife not chilled, disappointed or exas- 
 perated by married calm and silent confidence, so curi- 
 ously in contrast with the fire and agitation of prenuptial 
 days? 
 
 She shrank deeper into her corner, an immense soli- 
 tude and desolation weighing upon her hungry and sen- 
 sitive heart, listlessly hearing him wish that summer 
 instead of winter was before them, so that it might not 
 be so dull, while she recalled with a spasm of home- 
 sickness all the best traits in her uncle and aunt, and 
 all the cheerful bustle of a house overrun by boy 
 cousins. 
 
 They had all been so much kinder and more affec- 
 tionate during her brief engagement, and her uncle so 
 generous with the wedding outfit ; she had been for a little 
 the central figure in the family. Even the boys had 
 racked their brains to think of wedding presents and de- 
 vise farewell gaieties for her. All were scattered now; 
 the uncle and aunt were far away on the wide seas. She 
 forgot all the harshness, all the slights, all the misery of 
 dependence, and only remembered the shelter and com- 
 fort of the home she had lost. She was going to stran- 
 gers in a strange place, with a husband whose love seemed 
 waning, and whose very existence she had not known six 
 months ago. His friends were strangers to her ; she had 
 seen his family only twice before the wedding. She knew 
 nothing of housekeeping, nothing of bills and account- 
 books ; country life was quite unfamiliar to her ; the sea- 
 side was associated with banjos, piers, and bathing-ma- 
 chines, and gardens were known as places for tennis and 
 bands, where flowers grew but must not be gathered. This 
 country, through which they were driving on to their 
 destiny, seemed dreary to her unaccustomed eyes; trees 
 had become few and stunted, habitations fewer; a long 
 gray ridge of down rose on one side, a long bare level of 
 fields spread on the other; even the hedges were losing 
 their blossom and fruit and looked less and less cheer-
 
 THE JOY- BELLS AGAIN 213 
 
 f ul ; everything was more and more ravaged by savage, 
 salt winds as they approached the sea, which was their 
 destination. 
 
 Marriage had scarcely brought her the happiness and 
 freedom she had pictured ; the thoughtful, practical man 
 at her side was very different from the romantic knight 
 in the boat, into whose love-filled eyes she had looked, 
 half waking and half dreaming that May afternoon, and 
 at once accepted him as her deliverer and lifelong protec- 
 tor; still more different from the man into whose rescu- 
 ing arms she had fallen that day from the moving train, 
 and whose agitated face and deep eyes and voice had 
 been such a strength and comfort to her. Where were 
 all his agitations and fears, clouds and sudden radiances, 
 his silent homage and delicately veiled adoration, his 
 sudden changes of voice and color, and constant preoccu- 
 pation with herself; where his perpetual solicitude for 
 her pleasure and happiness, that had made this summer 
 one long and tender and romantic poem? Where the 
 carefully chosen conversation, the anxious seeking of 
 subjects of interest to her; in short, where was the wooer? 
 the lover, as she phrased it she had not learned to sep- 
 arate the two. He already read things in which she took 
 no interest; he was sometimes lost in thought in her 
 presence; his conversation on their home-coming was of 
 bills and housekeeping and the dulness of their future 
 married life. He advised her to kill time by parishing 
 and gardening. 
 
 Some hot drops gathered in her eyes and fell ; but the 
 obtuse male creature, looking straight before him, took 
 no notice of them, sublimely unconscious of any offense 
 toward her; he was evidently wrapped up in his own 
 thoughts. The hot tears dried at their source, scorched 
 by his indifference. Harsh aunt, inconsiderate uncle, 
 teasing cousins, dependent life of a superfluous and un- 
 valued girl, all grew suddenly sweet and dear in retro- 
 spect. She would have given anything to see them 
 again. No doubt Richard would grow more and more
 
 214 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 indifferent as they settled down, into monotonous mar- 
 ried life in that dull little cottage. Why did people 
 marry ? 
 
 She flicked her tears daintily away, turning her face 
 toward the down-ridge; she was determined to keep a 
 cheerful countenance before his mother ; she was terribly 
 in awe of his mother, before whose misprizing gaze she 
 had instantly felt herself marshaled, inspected and found 
 wanting. Yet, but for the coachman, whose sturdy back 
 and unconscious head betrayed little curiosity or inter- 
 est in those behind him, she would have yielded to an 
 impulse to hide her face in Richard's arm and implore 
 him to comfort r?r with one loving word, one tender 
 assurance. 
 
 "Isn't it much nicer to drive instead of waiting to go 
 by train?" he asked, contentedly changing his position 
 and turning toward her. "But you look tired, Evelyn. 
 We shall be home soon now. There ! " he cried, as a turn 
 in the road delivered them from the long, monotonous 
 down-ridge and disclosed a varied plateau of village, 
 farm and homestead, spreading to higher and more broken 
 and sunnier hills on one side and to the sea on the other, 
 while before them were woods and fields and cottages 
 buried in gardens and orchards, and, standing four 
 square and sturdy to the winds of heaven, Wimbury 
 church-tower, whence the joy-bells pealed gaily on the 
 still and sunny air. ' ' There are your wedding-bells, the 
 joy-bells to welcome you home, darling. ' ' 
 
 The tears came now in flood, but without bitterness, 
 the coachman was forgotten, the impulse to fall into Rich- 
 ard's arms unresisted, and all was well again. 
 
 "Don't cry, you little goose," was the most tender 
 observation vouchsafed her; but the voice and caress 
 made up for much, and after all, a road bordered by cot- 
 tages is not a complete solitude, and, though the coach- 
 man was perfectly discreet, he was there on the box 
 solidly blocking the westering sunbeams from them. A 
 group of children, with purple-stained faces, stood on
 
 THE JOY- BELLS AGAIN 215 
 
 a broken bank by the road, and desisted from black- 
 berrying to drop courtesies and raise shrill little cheers, 
 that brought women from cottages to drop courtesies in 
 turn. 
 
 "What is the sense of piping your eye when you're 
 happy ? ' ' Richard said, when they turned another corner 
 and drove past the weather-stained church-tower that 
 seemed to rock in the tumult of tumbling bells, between 
 gardens blazing with autumn flowers and orchards loaded 
 with ripe fruit, and drew up at the gate of a gabled 
 house very near the road, which was overrun with green- 
 ery, pierced by the flame of Virgina creeper, and roofed 
 with brown tiles mellowed by sea and storm and partly 
 sheltered by trees. 
 
 Richard saw the ghost of his boy self standing, heart- 
 sick and full of hatred, under the wind-ravaged sycamore, 
 with a retrospective pain that made the happy present 
 happier than ever. 
 
 "How pretty!" Evelyn cried, surprised by the 
 homely charm of the small house basking in the sun, 
 among its roses, honeysuckles, and clematis; and, in 
 truth, it seemed to smile on them from its low, latticed 
 windows, as from friendly eyes sparkling with welcome, 
 and to breathe out flower-scents like blessings. 
 
 Rosny paused, warmly pressing her hand, in the act 
 of handing her out, unable to speak in the exquisite hap- 
 piness that rushed upon him on the surge of the joy-bells. 
 "Forgiven," his heart sang within him, "forgiven. 
 Forgiven at last and forever." This deep and perfect 
 joy, embodied in the lovely and loving young woman 
 stepping into his home as into his heart, this pure and 
 deep joy, was the symbol and seal of his pardon and ac- 
 cepted penitence. He had been forgiven much; his 
 heart overflowed with gratitude, and he loved much. 
 The heart of a little child seemed given back to him with 
 the home in which he had lived a little child 's most happy 
 life; something that had come into his life and marred 
 and darkened it on that other wedding-day seemed to
 
 210 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 fall away now and leave it bright and pure and joyous, 
 an innocent child's again. 
 
 His mother stood, smiling and gracious, at the door ; 
 he led Evelyn to her in a kind of blissful dream ; again 
 he saw as through a mist of tears the tall, dark man who 
 had been at her side on the wedding-day, but with pity 
 and tenderest regret, in place of the jealous hate and 
 bitterness of that day. No day dawned on which he 
 failed to remember that man with sorrow and love; no 
 night fell on which his name was not spoken in prayer. 
 
 He left Evelyn to pass before him to his mother ; she 
 looked back at him in nervous appeal; the bells, which 
 had paused a moment, broke out again, ringing a fresh 
 change. Evelyn turned again, flushed and wistful, then 
 hurried dizzily forward and, catching her foot on the 
 threshold, stumbled badly and recovered with difficulty. 
 
 Mrs. Belton frowned ; the two maids standing behind 
 her noticed the omen; for the bride to stumble on the 
 threshold is the worst luck. 
 
 "You are tired, dear," Edith said through her em- 
 brace, "too tired to see the step. Poor child, you shall 
 have some tea and rest." 
 
 But Evelyn remembered, in the mortification of this 
 awkward entrance, to speak to the maids, and accept their 
 good wishes. Edith, inclined to carp at this undignified 
 want of self-possession, had to admit that her daughter- 
 in-law could be gracious and sweet in trying circum- 
 stances, and looked with approval at the graceful young 
 figure and agitated face. 
 
 "How can you call this a cottage?" she asked when 
 she came into the parlor and surveyed her tiny domain 
 with pleasure and admiration. "Why, it's charm- 
 ing!" 
 
 "I hope you will like it, dear; Adeline and Gerald 
 and I have spent much thought and many happy hours 
 in arranging it. I think, Evelyn, you will find every- 
 thing that can be wanted in your little nest. We tried 
 to leave nothing for you to do."
 
 THE JOY- BELLS AGAIN 217 
 
 "I am sure I shall. How very kind!" she replied, 
 mournfully dismissing the pleasant prospect of arrang- 
 ing her house to her own taste. "Everything will be 
 nice if you did it. What lovely flowers ! ' ' 
 
 "They are from the Pines, and the grapes as well. 
 Now sit still, dearest Evelyn, and rest. I will give 
 you tea, my dears. Yes, Richard, those are the veritable 
 ivory chessmen you were only allowed to touch on Sun- 
 days. But not the old bellows you liked to blow. These 
 are new for remembrance. The old brass fender is new, 
 too ; there is quite a rage for old brass fenders just now." 
 
 "And you picked this one up cheap?" He knew 
 very well what Edith's picking up cheap involved. 
 ' ' You have been far too good to us, Muff. I really didn 't 
 mean to let you in for so much trouble. I thought if you 
 just made the place habitable we could finish it our- 
 selves. ' ' 
 
 "Oh! a man's idea of habitable! I doubt if your 
 poor little wife would have enjoyed that." 
 
 ' ' Is this lovely china your choice, mama 1 Ah ! I 
 thought so. But isn't Crown Derby rather expensive?" 
 Evelyn innocently asked. 
 
 "By Jove, Muff, you are incorrigible," Richard 
 growled, half laughing and half dismayed; "Crown 
 Derby china in a cottage parlor! From fifty to many 
 hundred guineas, perhaps. Look here, I really can't 
 have it. Using the cups once won't hurt them. We'll 
 pack it up to-morrow and send it back for something 
 cheaper. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Nay, Richard, that is quite out of the question, ' ' was 
 the serene and smiling rejoinder. ' ' My dearest boy, you 
 really must conquer that sad habit of alluding to the 
 cost of things. Besides, it is not your affair at all ; the 
 china is my gift to your wife " 
 
 "But, indeed, it is far too good," he remonstrated. 
 
 "Too good for Evelyn? Come, come, dainty china is 
 quite the proper thing in a cottage ; one of the few ele- 
 gancies that redeem simplicity from barbarism. And
 
 218 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 since you will allude to the sordid detail of cost, Richard 
 darling, remember that I have quite given up all idea of 
 having the ballroom decorated by Sir Lorraine-Leigh. 
 That saves a thousand guineas at once. A tea service 
 is a bagatelle in comparison," Mrs. Belton said, with 
 calm and triumphant logic; and Evelyn added that she 
 knew little of the cost of china, but was quite sure this 
 was one of the loveliest services she had ever seen, and it 
 was most dear and sweet of mama to think of anything 
 so charming, and she thanked her with all her heart. So 
 kisses and smiles having been exchanged, and tea handed 
 about in the costly cups, Rosny came to the conclusion 
 that he had better pay and look pleasant and never again 
 commission his mother to buy anything. 
 
 When Adeline and Gerald came in with a fluffy little 
 Persian kitten for a wedding present, Evelyn's shyness 
 began to wear off, and she bloomed and sparkled in a way 
 that made Gerald admit an excuse for his brother's crim- 
 inal indulgence in the luxury of married life. The kitten 
 lapped cream to admiration from a Crown Derby saucer, 
 which it broke to atoms with great applause soon after, in 
 the course of some charming gambols with its own plumy 
 tail. Then the young couple were introduced to the plen- 
 ishings and renovations of their cottage, and Adeline 
 showed what could be done with the new piano, after they 
 had dined in a style unusual in ordinary cottages. 
 
 They were all very gay at dinner, even Richard, who 
 forgot for a moment what he called the rampant and ex- 
 pensive simplicity of their cottage, and cheerfully as- 
 sented to the Beltonian dictum that the truest economy 
 consists in buying the most expensive things. And when 
 the Beltons drove back to Ingrestone by the light of a 
 large yellow moon, they left a respectably happy pair in 
 the clematis-covered porch, just as the joy-bells clashed 
 out again from the steeple. 
 
 Evelyn thought when they went back that the wain- 
 scoted parlor looked pleasant and homelike; she liked 
 the low ceiling crossed with heavy oak beams and the
 
 THE JOY- BELLS AGAIN 219 
 
 cushioned window seats, oak furniture, old china and few 
 well-chosen pictures. 
 
 ' ' I hope they will come often, ' ' she said rather plain- 
 tively ; " I like Gerald best of all your people. He 's so 
 light-hearted." 
 
 Richard was looking at his father's picture on the 
 wall with the sword beneath. His own sword crossed it 
 and a permanent photograph of himself in his last uni- 
 form hung beneath. He seemed not to hear her, till she 
 hung on his arm and gently reproached his inattention, 
 when he just stroked her beautiful hair and said emphat- 
 ically, ' ' Gerald is dearer to me than any one in the world 
 after my mother. ' ' 
 
 She flushed and let go his arm with a little stamp of 
 her foot. Then, swallowing a sob, she turned with a 
 little strained laugh and looked up in his face. "And 
 pray where do I come in?" she asked, lightly. 
 
 "As if there could be any question," was the grave, 
 almost stern, reply. 
 
 ' ' Who knows ? ' ' she returned, hiding the icy chill of 
 disappointed tenderness under a cynical hardness he 
 mistook for gaiety. 
 
 Then they walked out in the warm moonlit stillness, 
 through the garden and fields, to the cliff by the sea, the 
 way he had run on his mother's wedding-day, and as they 
 walked he told her all that story, to the sound of the 
 same bells ringing their joyous changes to echoing hills 
 and softly sighing sea.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 THE LITTLE RIFT 
 
 THE winter proved not so dull after all; everything 
 and everybody was new, and even receiving and return- 
 ing calls is not without interest in an entirely new neigh- 
 borhood. 
 
 "Another dinner-party?" Richard would groan, as 
 weeks rolled on, or ' ' another dance ? ' ' and Evelyn would 
 reply cheerily that, after all, some of her lovely frocks 
 would have a chance of seeing the light. Then he would 
 congratulate her on having a stock of gowns that would 
 last for years. And when this saying, quoted at the 
 Pines, evoked a shout of laughter, he could not see the 
 joke. 
 
 "He thinks ladies are like ledgers, and only want 
 binding once," Adeline said. 
 
 ' ' And I 'm perfectly sure that every one who comes to 
 the cottage thinks the same," Evelyn returned. "I 
 never even imagined such rags out of an old-clothes 
 shop." 
 
 The difficulties of compound subtraction provided 
 much pleasant and harmonious pastime for long and 
 quiet evenings at home, and having proved not insuper- 
 able, led on to still greater achievements, until such things 
 as book-keeping by double-entry became bagatelle, and the 
 house books balanced as if by magic. 
 
 "But now, dear, you can run alone," the tutor said, 
 
 with an approving smile one spring evening, after which 
 
 Evelyn received no more of the lessons that had been 
 
 such a pleasure. Then Richard began to be detained 
 
 220
 
 THE LITTLE RIFT 221 
 
 from home by business ; sometimes till the midnight train 
 that dropped him six miles from Wimbury; sometimes 
 for one or two consecutive nights. 
 
 About this time he was urgent for her to have friends 
 to stay with her. But Evelyn was deficient in the army 
 of girl-friends with which most young women are pro- 
 vided, and her sisters-in-law cared little for Wimbury, 
 while Evelyn cared even less to have one of them there 
 for whole days or weeks of tete-a-tete. She frankly ad- 
 mitted that she would prefer the prolonged company of a 
 brother-in-law. 
 
 ''Two women shut up in a house together can never 
 escape one another," she told her husband; "but a man 
 must do something a woman can't do with him during the 
 day. Perhaps," she added, reflectively, "that is partly 
 why men's society is so much pleasanter than women's;" 
 an observation that surprised and a little discomposed 
 Rosny. 
 
 "Nonsense, child," he said testily, "you don't know 
 what you are talking about. ' ' 
 
 "Don't I, though?" she thought, but did not say. 
 For after six months of marriage she had come to the 
 conclusion that one 's husband is not a person with whom 
 discussion is profitable or even possible. Thoughts, to 
 Evelyn's great astonishment, seemed to be as much sub- 
 ject to sex as human beings; there were evidently male 
 thoughts and principles and female thoughts and princi- 
 ples ; only, unlike human males and females, they seemed 
 incapable of marriage or even of any temporary union 
 that did not result in discord. 
 
 "Why did you marry me, Richard?" she suddenly 
 asked one day apropos of nothing, after a long silence 
 filled in on her part with some such reflections, and on 
 his by rapidly skimming a paper. 
 
 "My dear child," he replied, with hardly restrained 
 impatience at this unexpected dragging of large and 
 sacred topics into the dusty details of workaday life. 
 ' ' Surely you remember. It 's not so very long ago. ' ' 
 
 13
 
 222 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 "But tell me again, please; I never quite under- 
 stood." 
 
 '"Oh! the usual reason It's very kind of you to 
 kiss me, dear ; but I 'd rather have another cup of coffee 
 just now, please, if I'm to catch this train : 
 
 ' ' How rude and unkind you are ! " in a voice choked 
 by tears. ' ' You care for nothing but creature comforts. 
 You don't care for me at ail. Why on earth did you 
 marry me ? " 
 
 "Dearest Evelyn, do try to be reasonable," was the 
 very grave reply. ' ' You know by this time, or ought to 
 know, that a man hates to be always talking about feel- 
 ings especially when in a hurry. It's it's profane. 
 To accuse me of not caring for you is absurd. Why 
 should I have married you else? Perhaps," he added, 
 after a pause, "it was a little rash. Perhaps it would 
 have been wiser and kinder to have left you without a 
 word. I am over old for you and over grave. But you 
 knew my age and my glumness and all my disqualifica- 
 tions long ago, and took me in spite of them for better or 
 for worse. So try to make the best of me, and don't at- 
 tribute unkindness where none is or can be meant. 
 Surely you can trust me. I trust you. I did hesitate to 
 ask you to marry me, Evelyn. I should never have done 
 so for my own sake. I had actually given you up ; I had 
 said I would never see you again. It was only after I 
 met you that day on the Metropolitan, and saw that your 
 happiness was involved for so it seemed to me, and 
 afterward you told me I was not mistaken it was only 
 after that that I ventured to propose marriage to you. It 
 is too late now to consider the propriety of that very 
 serious step. Try to make the best of it, Evie, and don't 
 be a baby, there's a dear. I must be off now, breakfast 
 or no breakfast. Good-by. ' ' 
 
 He tried to kiss her, but was angrily repulsed and left 
 the house unkissed, but also, she jealously observed, com- 
 paratively untroubled by the omission. The fact that he 
 had had an uncomfortable and insufficient breakfast was
 
 THE LITTLE RIFT 223 
 
 to Evelyn quite immaterial ; she would rather have gone 
 without a breakfast than without a kiss herself any day ; 
 the fact that he had a whole world of things more im- 
 portant than kisses to think of was also immaterial to her ; 
 nothing in the wide world was of such consequence to her 
 as her husband's feeling toward her; no duty could be 
 so imperious as the duty, not only of loving, but also of 
 expressing her love. This makes the tragedy of relations 
 between husband and wife, their different view-points of 
 life and its obligations, and their different standards of 
 duty, feeling and happiness. They never see things in 
 the same perspective. 
 
 Poor little Evelyn, with a long, empty day before her, 
 scarcely broken by the series of infinitesimal duties that 
 claimed no special hour or even day of performance, and 
 any one of which might stand over indefinitely, shut her- 
 self up alone to hug a misery of her own making, and 
 magnified and distorted it out of all proportion by long, 
 solitary brooding. Richard had been rude and unkind ; 
 had complained of being kissed and openly preferred cof- 
 fee to caresses; he had refused to tell her he loved her, 
 though he knew that she was dying for the comfort of 
 that assurance; he had scolded her and preached to her 
 in the most unkind and heartless way when he should 
 have comforted and caressed her; finally, he had filled 
 up the measure of his cruelty by saying that he had made 
 a mistake in marrying her and would never have done it 
 for his own sake, but only out of pity for her, because he 
 saw that she was dying for him. And with this cruel 
 and unmanly insult he had left her for a whole day, per- 
 haps forever; for trains might smash, or she might be 
 taken ill and die before night; she hoped she would; it 
 would serve him right. The thought of this last con- 
 summation was a mournful luxury that brought floods 
 of tears and sobs of self-pity to her relief, and ended 
 in exhaustion and a headache that chained her to a 
 sofa for the rest of the day, in a room darkened to the 
 golden sunlight and all the sweet beginnings of leaf
 
 224 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 and bloom and life outside in the pleasant spring after- 
 noon. 
 
 Meantime the heartless cause of all this tragedy, rush- 
 ing half -fed to catch his train and plunge into the multi- 
 farious and arduous toils of the day, was conscious only 
 of a justifiable irritation, that he had held in due check, 
 and a sense of undeserved unkindness and unreasonable- 
 ness, that he excused on the score of physical weakness, 
 and tried honestly to bear with as being due to the nerv- 
 ous complications to which young wives are subject. 
 
 It was but a pin-prick, yet the soreness and vexation 
 worried him for a good half-hour, refusing to yield to the 
 tenderness Evelyn's weakness claimed from him. Per- 
 haps he had not made sufficient allowance for her; he 
 might have tried to show more tenderness and less irrita- 
 tion ; the poor darling was alone ; he would take some lit- 
 tle present home for her and try to be a little more ef- 
 fusive to make up. Strange that she could not see what 
 a nuisance gush and sentiment are, especially to busy 
 people ; strange that she did not realize that, being won, 
 she was no more to be wooed, and that things once said 
 and feelings once expressed need no repetition. She was 
 young and would grow wiser ; soon there would be a more 
 legitimate object for the tenderness with which Nature 
 seems to have overdowered the sex most in need of it. 
 
 A vague irritation mingling with the busy workings 
 of his brain was all that remained of his part of the dis- 
 sonance by the time he reached the bank, where news of 
 a disquieting nature had to be faced, and business of such 
 unexpected urgency to be met, that there was no coming 
 home that night at all; so that the penitence secretly 
 hoped by Evelyn, and the forgiveness she looked for- 
 ward to granting, were alike prevented by one of those 
 cruelly hard little sentences to which telegraphy has 
 accustomed us. 
 
 ' ' Business ! ' ' she cried, tearing the familiar scrawl to 
 pieces; "business! when people's hearts are breaking. 
 Surely I might be allowed one hour in his busy day."
 
 THE LITTLE RIFT 225 
 
 So when the second evening came and with it the 
 truant husband, he had so far forgotten the little tiff that 
 the cool and haughty reception vouchsafed him entirely 
 failed to impress him, except faintly as being preferable 
 to too much effusiveness, and he was so glad to find him- 
 self in his own home again, with the sweet face and beau- 
 tiful dark eyes of his wife looking across the table at him, 
 that his placid cheerfulness and content nearly drove her 
 wild. The cold cheek passive to the unreturned kiss, the 
 cold "Quite well, I thank you," in response to his affec- 
 tionate inquiries for her health, her monosyllabic replies 
 and silences, seemed to discompose him not at all; he 
 seemed almost glad to take his soup and fish without a 
 word. 
 
 ' ' The sensuality of these men, ' ' Evelyn reflected, after 
 an especially well-thought-out dinner had been des- 
 patched, course by course, with apparent satisfaction; 
 "their dinner is their life!" 
 
 "It is a comfort to get home again," the creature 
 vouchsafed to say at last, when a cup of good black cof- 
 fee was placed before him. "Last night I dined alone 
 on a railway sandwich made of sawdust and stale mus- 
 tard." 
 
 "No wonder you appreciate the contrast. But no 
 doubt your dear, delightful business made up for all," 
 was the acid rejoinder. 
 
 "My dear little woman, what's the matter with you 
 to-night 1 Tell me what you have been doing these two 
 long days who has called, how many fowls have laid 
 eggs, what flowers have come up, and what you've been 
 reading. Then I'll tell you my business, which is any- 
 thing but delightful." 
 
 "Nothing is the matter and it's of no consequence. 
 Nobody ever calls, I hate fowls and dislike growing flow- 
 ers, and don't want to be bothered with business," she 
 replied, rising and going to the window. 
 
 "Come, come, come. That's pretty comprehensive. 
 You are not well, Evie, and ought not to be so much alone.
 
 226 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 Would you like to go somewhere for change ? " he asked, 
 following her to the window and drawing her down on 
 the cushioned seat by his side. 
 
 "I only want to be loved," she sobbed, subsiding, 
 pride and all, into his arms. 
 
 "Little goose! You know you are that already. 
 Don't give way to hysteria, Evelyn," he added more seri- 
 ously. "It's one of the things you have to fight against, 
 my dear. You want more fresh air; I can't let this go 
 on." 
 
 So that storm blew over, and it was in that idyllic 
 position that they were seen through the window by a late 
 visitor, who thought it most natural and proper, and who 
 was no other than the vicar, who had tried, with such dis- 
 astrous results to himself, to introduce the rod into Ros- 
 ny's education. 
 
 ' ' I don 't know that I ought to intrude on you at this 
 inappropriate hour, ' ' he said, when the Rosnys went into 
 the parlor to receive him, unconscious of the picturesque 
 effect they had produced ; ' ' but my wife said you would 
 like to know first, so I just ran in to tell you." 
 
 "Very friendly and kind, Canon, and most proper of 
 you to obey your wife. A bishopric this time, is it ? " 
 
 "Not as bad as all that," he returned, sitting near 
 Evelyn and bending forward, his elbows on his knees, to 
 talk to her. ' ' This husband of yours, Mrs. Rosny, being 
 churchwarden and otherwise a leading parishioner, is 
 supposed to be interested in my successor." 
 
 ' ' I should think he was ; I should think we all were, ' ' 
 she agreed. "There is no knowing what frumps and 
 horrors may come to the vicarage now. Such a pity, too, 
 when we had just got to know you all so well. Do put 
 us out of our pain at once, dear Canon Wrexham. ' ' 
 
 "Oh! I don't think you need apprehend frumps 
 or horrors in this case, dear lady. They are quite young 
 people who are coming. Very nice people, very well con- 
 nected, quite up to the mark in every respect." 
 
 " I 'm glad they are young for my wife 's sake, ' ' Rosny
 
 THE LITTLE RIFT 227 
 
 put in. ' ' It 's dull for her when I 'm away, and the young 
 turn to the young. A Camf ord man ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' Oh ! yes, a college living, you remember. Yes, a Fel- 
 low of Blasius, a very scholarly man and sound church- 
 man. I think you will all like him. She is very charm- 
 ing, a most charming woman, very pretty, and a delight- 
 ful manner. Oh! she will be a great addition to your 
 circle, especially after such old fogies as ourselves. I 
 fancy he has good private means, too, and that's an ad- 
 vantage in a parish like this. The endowment is sadly 
 insufficient. Mrs. Mayne is a relative of the Chesneys, I 
 believe?" 
 
 "Mayne?" cried Rosny sharply; "Mayne, did you 
 say ? Herbert Mayne ? ' ' 
 
 "The very man. You know him already? Come, 
 this is capital. They'll scarcely feel that they are com- 
 ing among strangers. I hope Mayne will keep up the 
 schools and keep boards out of the parish. I told him 
 what an efficient helper he would find in you about 
 your Sunday afternoons for boys and your refreshment 
 houses 'pious pubs,' as your brothers call them." 
 
 Richard had arisen from his place on the opposite side 
 of the hearth and gone to the window, which was still un- 
 curtained, the night being mild and clear, and looked out, 
 his face hidden from the others and dead white, his breath 
 coming and going, and said nothing, while Evelyn and 
 Canon Wrexham made their various comments on the 
 newcomers. Presently he came back slowly and stood 
 with his face in shadow above a shaded lamp. 
 
 "I knew Mrs. Mayne before her marriage," he said 
 slowly in staccato tones ; " I used to know her rather well 
 then a long time ago. ' ' 
 
 "Oh! but she hasn't been married long. Hardly a 
 year, I'm told. There's a young baby, by the way; not 
 that babies are ever very old ; Mrs. Mayne can 't be any 
 age." 
 
 ' ' I don 't know, ' ' added Rosny, ' ' that I shall have time 
 to be churchwarden much longer; I shall be fearfully
 
 228 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 rushed for the next year or two. I was just going to tell 
 my wife of the disquieting news that kept me yesterday. 
 Godfrey Belton has had a stroke. He'll never be fit for 
 business again if he lives. ' ' 
 
 "Dear, dear, that's sad news, indeed. He must be 
 an old man, hard upon eighty, old for harness, old for 
 everything. I am sorry." 
 
 "A man of great energy. He would never give up 
 any part in the management, the kind of man who works 
 till he drops. Seventy-five is his age. He has dropped, 
 poor fellow ! I lose a very kind friend and the business 
 its main motive power. A kinder, more honorable, more 
 genuine, more upright man never breathed, I suppose. 
 The best we can hope for him is a speedy release. ' ' 
 
 ' ' But he leaves a son in the business ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' Yes, a very good man of business, but nothing to his 
 father." 
 
 "Oh! what will mama do?" asked Evelyn. "Uncle 
 Godfrey is so much to her. ' ' 
 
 Edith would lose three hundred a year from her in- 
 come, among other things ; but, as she tearfully observed, 
 she lost as good a friend as she had ever possessed, and 
 could not bring herself to consider the sordid details to 
 which her son referred later, after the death and burial 
 had actually taken place. 
 
 ' ' But, mother, ' ' said Rosny, whose heart was heavy as 
 death on his return from the last tribute of respect to 
 his old and stanch friend, "are you prepared to do with 
 three hundred a year less than you have been accus- 
 tomed to ? I will make it up to within a hundred for the 
 first year, but I can not promise farther ahead." 
 
 ' ' Dear Richard, pray, pray clear your mind of these 
 degrading apprehensions. Take shorter views of life, 
 dear, and cultivate a more trustful spirit. We must take 
 things as they come, ' ' was the philosophic rebuke he re- 
 ceived in reply. 
 
 But no attempt to live within narrower limits w r as ob- 
 servable at" the Pines, and Rosny, in view of the bills that
 
 THE LITTLE RIFT 229 
 
 kept surging in from unexpected quarters and that could 
 not be met by the originally covenanted income, gradu- 
 ally came to the conclusion that it was best to face the 
 inevitable and strain every nerve to make up, not only 
 the deficiency consequent on Godfrey Belton's demise, 
 but also the surplus expenditure that he seemed powerless 
 to stay, even at the cost of bickerings and misunderstand- 
 ings such as wear out the finer fibers of the heart and 
 make of life a sordid misery. 
 
 In the meantime it grieved him to be obliged to be 
 less at the cottage, though for a few summer weeks Nancy 
 Rosny came to companion Evelyn during the long va- 
 cation which preceded the taking of the high degree 
 that fitted Annis for the important post she afterward 
 held. 
 
 Soon after Nancy left the cottage, the joy-bells rang 
 out again for the birth of Evelyn's son. Rosny rejoiced 
 greatly over this powerful rival for the supreme place in 
 his wife's affections, and was glad that her days would 
 henceforth be full and companioned enough during his 
 long absences. For he saw that the joy-bells rang in her 
 heart, too, and that the small, soft creature cradled on 
 her arm completely filled the horizon of her thoughts for 
 the time being, that its vague and aimless movements, its 
 gurglings and cooings, its very breathing, filled her with 
 joy and perpetual wonder. 
 
 When first he looked upon this helpless pair and felt 
 their dependence upon him, he was moved beyond power 
 of speech, and only smiled back in answer to the appeal 
 in Evelyn's dark and liquid eyes larger, darker, and 
 softer than ever in this hour of weakness. He was sur- 
 prised to be so touched by that frail and unconscious 
 morsel of humanity, with its wrinkled red face and per- 
 petually opening mouth, and crumpled fists, already, as 
 it seemed, balled in unconscious defiance of fate. He 
 went into the wainscoted parlor and looked at his fath- 
 er's picture and the two swords beneath it, and thought 
 of a third sword, that Gerald so the child had been
 
 230 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 named before its birth should bear one day with honor 
 and joy, and should never be compelled to lay aside while 
 he could bear it, and his eyes grew wet and his heart 
 went up in prayer and thanksgiving. To be forgiven so 
 much, to be allowed all the deepest and most satisfying 
 human joys. It was almost too much. 
 
 "Isn't he like Richard, mama?" Evelyn asked when 
 Edith took her grandson in her arms and appraised his 
 beauties with discriminating criticism. 
 
 "Was I ever really as ugly as all that?" Richard 
 asked in genuine astonishment. 
 
 ' * Never mind, dear, ' ' Edith said afterward, ' ' men are 
 like that. They never notice children till they begin to 
 talk." 
 
 But this baby never began to talk. Evelyn rejoiced 
 in him through the sunshiny autumn and winter, and 
 Richard looked on and listened to many details of his 
 brief and uneventful history with bored content, well 
 pleased at the light in Evelyn's eyes and the happy flush 
 and fulness in her cheeks ; the sisters came over from the 
 Pines, and Nancy interrupted her grave studies to come 
 and admire the fine little boy, and Gerald and Archie 
 consented to be godfathers. 
 
 One evening when the leaves were thinning, the days 
 shortening, and the fruit gathered in, Richard came home 
 in happy anticipation of a restful fireside hour to find 
 the house in disorder and Evelyn, white and tearless, 
 clasping a dying child in her arms. A few days later 
 he laid the little body in his father 's grave with a heart- 
 pang that was more for Evelyn than for himself or the 
 boy. 
 
 After a time, he persuaded her to go away for a few 
 weeks, and brought her back again a little before Christ- 
 mas on a frosty, starry evening, when the joy-bells were 
 ringing gaily to welcome the new vicar. He was per- 
 plexed to find that the bells, instead of cheering Evelyn, 
 made her cry bitterly. "Her baby is alive," was the 
 only explanation he could gather of this mystery.
 
 THE LITTLE RIFT 231 
 
 ' ' Surely you would not have had it die, ' ' he returned 
 gravely. 
 
 ' ' You don 't understand ; you never understand, ' ' was 
 the irritated reply. 
 
 "Poor child!" he thought; "her nerves are all to 
 pieces," and made some gentle answer and tried some 
 gentle diversion of thought. 
 
 The usual calls were exchanged between the two 
 houses, on his part vicariously, so that he met Kathleen 
 for the first time as his guest in his own house. 
 
 There was no party, Evelyn's mourning excusing her 
 from all but the simplest social courtesies, only the 
 Maynes and themselves at an eight o 'clock dinner, which 
 left him barely time to rush home from the station and 
 dress. Some little detail of a missing stud or crumpled 
 tie made it some minutes after eight before he appeared 
 in the parlor with a strangely beating heart and a 
 strangely confused manner, hardly concealed by apolo- 
 gies for lateness. Yet he had paused outside the door, 
 handle in hand, for some seconds, before gathering cour- 
 age to open it and come in to the familiar room, warm 
 with firelight and bright with shaded lamps. 
 
 Kathleen had forgotten, no more than he had, their 
 last agitated meeting and parting on the down on that 
 bright spring afternoon. She had chosen her seat care- 
 fully that her face might be in shadow and its changes, 
 when the expected step was heard, unseen. One false 
 alarm caused by the entrance of a servant with a note 
 and the apprehension of another, made it a relief to her 
 when the door opened at last to admit the tall figure so 
 well remembered yet now so different. The grave, 
 bearded face at first glance seemed a stranger's, but was 
 only too well recognized by the deep eyes and direct and 
 fiery, yet singularly sad, glance. 
 
 ' ' We need no introduction, ' ' he said, walking up with 
 outstretched hands to the graceful woman, whose face 
 and form were at once so unrecognizable and so unf orget- 
 able.
 
 232 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 "Scarcely; we are such old acquaintances," she re- 
 plied, deliberately yet tremblingly meeting the direct and 
 penetrating gaze, and feeling the room swim round and 
 right itself again with a stagger, when the strong hand 
 closed firmly upon hers. The old days grew vivid and 
 fresh again while he seemed to be seeking and question- 
 ing for what was forever lost in that long, deep, and burn- 
 ing look, that pierced her through and through and 
 weighed and measured and sifted her to the last thought. 
 
 "But my husband," she added, catching her breath 
 before she could speak; "you need an introduction to 
 him." 
 
 "Scarcely either," replied the grave and handsome 
 clergyman, coming forward with an open hand and win- 
 ning smile ; "my wife's friends are mine, and I know you 
 well by report. ' ' 
 
 The two men faced each other a moment before tak- 
 ing hands, each face darkening, each glance growing stern 
 almost to defiance, each interrogating the other's in a 
 sort of armed but quiescent hostility, but each softening 
 to something kinder than conventional courtesy, when the 
 hands clasped at last more lingeringly and closely than 
 is usual at a first meeting. 
 
 Then Rosny found himself, like one in some wild, in- 
 congruous dream, with Kathleen on his arm and com- 
 monplaces on his lips, in the tiny hall and then in the 
 dining-parlor, where the light, except from the blazing 
 hearth, was chiefly from shaded candles on the table , and 
 it was long before he got courage to look round and ap- 
 praise the one bright figure of the quartet, Evelyn being 
 all in black for the baby. Kathleen was in a soft and 
 shimmering fabric of faint blush-color, open at the 
 throat to disclose a string of pearls that recalled the most 
 poignant moments of his life, with bare, round arms and 
 veiled shoulders. The bright hair had darkened and 
 lost its first luster, the face had entirely changed its char- 
 acter, the lips grown firm, the slender limbs and slight 
 figure filled out ; the look and voice, figure and manner,
 
 THE LITTLE RIFT 233 
 
 were those of a mature and very self-possessed woman. 
 Kitty Musgrave was gone, gone, as surely and irrevocably 
 as the leaves of the spring in which they had parted. He 
 suddenly realized the wide gulf of years that lay between 
 their two meetings and wondered at all the passion and 
 pain of those days, wondered still more when he looked 
 across the table at Evelyn, whose youth and fresh beauty, 
 enhanced by the tender sadness of bereavement that 
 deepened her dark eyes and filled them with touching 
 wistfulness, came upon him with a shock of surprise 
 and gladness. Strange that Evelyn 's first attraction had 
 been her likeness to Kathleen; he saw very clearly now 
 that all the likeness between them had been but youth and 
 grace, and that singular charm of sex that springs from 
 the deeper necessities of human nature with blinding, 
 and sometimes lasting, glamour. 
 
 "I hope you will often come to see my wife, Mrs. 
 Mayne," he said in a lowered voice; "she is too much 
 alone, and just now you know her trouble nobody but 
 a woman can do her any good." 
 
 ' ' I am not so sure of that, ' ' Kathleen replied, lifting 
 her grave blue eyes from her plate ; ' ' but I hope she will 
 let me come. I hope we shall be good friends in time. I 
 am sure we shall. ' '
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 KITTY MAYNE 
 
 "I LIKE the man," Herbert Mayne said, when the 
 cottage door had closed behind the Maynes and they were 
 walking home, well-muffled from the frosty cold, between 
 bare and icy hedgerows, their steps ringing on the iron- 
 bound road. "There's good stuff in that man, Kitty, 
 first-rate stuff. One doesn't see all. There's so much 
 reserve force." 
 
 "Yes, he has a fine nature. I used to be proud of 
 him, ' ' she said, with a little sigh. 
 
 "I can't understand your throwing him over, Kit, 
 young as you were. You couldn't have cared for him 
 really." 
 
 "Not for him, Herbert. But, oh! I did care for the 
 ideal Richard, the man I thought him." 
 
 "And left him at his need? At the turning-point, 
 when it was touch and go with his character ? No, no ; 
 that wasn't love. 'Love bears it out even to the edge of 
 doom.' " 
 
 She shivered and pressed closer to her husband 's side. 
 " Oh ! not to that doom, ' ' she said. ' ' How could it have 
 been ? How could I look up to such a man ? What fel- 
 lowship could I have had with him? The man I loved 
 was not the man who told me of his sin. ' ' 
 
 "No, but a much better man. It was not wise 
 worldly-wise, that is but it was right, heroically right. 
 If you had loved him you would have stood by him and 
 loved him all the more for his penitence and honesty. 
 You would not have left him to fight it out alone, to face 
 temptation, despair, perhaps. Mind you, I don't say 
 234
 
 KITTY MAYNE 235 
 
 that you were wrong. That man has suffered ; it is writ- 
 ten in his face and sounds in his voice; he has suffered 
 spiritually, he has wrestled and overcome. You were 
 very young and quite ignorant of evil, and the shock must 
 have been awful ; but it could not have killed love, only 
 strengthened and deepened it, set it on a higher level." 
 
 ' ' If you could have seen me then, Herbert ! Well, I 
 suffered, I nearly died. It was not till after I knew you 
 that I began to recover at all. You were the Perseus who 
 slew the sea-monster of grief and delivered Androm- 
 eda from her rock. Even now well ! I am thankful 
 that first meeting is over. It is all right now. He has 
 completely forgotten and is quite happy with that very 
 pretty and charming girl. I can meet them now as 
 unconcernedly as as if they were the postman or the 
 sexton " 
 
 "Not being exactly or entirely wretched in your own 
 marriage, eh?" 
 
 "Not being absolutely and entirely wretched in my 
 own marriage. How little I dreamed that you would 
 bring me into contact with him even when you were 
 actually presented to the living ! Not that I mind now 
 though I would rather somebody else lived at the cot- 
 tage. I have a sort of horror of him, Herbert I always 
 felt that I must have some one to lean on felt that I 
 could never marry any but a perfectly spotless man. ' ' 
 
 ; ' Ah ! but who is spotless, Kathleen ? Not your hus- 
 band, my dear. It is true that I have been among the 
 happy few who are kept in the hour of temptation I am 
 deeply thankful for that from many sins of youth. But 
 I had very early a deep sense of religion, had been relig- 
 iously trained and warned and given the habit of prayer, 
 and so was guided and guarded through the furnace of 
 a public school, and so entered manhood unscathed and 
 strong. That is a great and inestimable blessing. But 
 those who, having fallen, have strength to rise again, 
 those who make the very angels rejoice in the Presence 
 by their difficult and painful repentance, surely tliey are
 
 236 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 worthy of deepest reverence ; their shields are dinted and 
 their bodies scarred, but they have overcome, they have 
 a something that the just who need no repentance can not 
 have." 
 
 ' ' Ah, yes ; their scars those never leave them. ' ' 
 "No. They become marks of honor. It's a great 
 mystery, child. It 's not the sin that raises them and 
 brings them to even greater spiritual heights than are 
 reached by the comparatively just; it's the repentance, 
 the bitter grief, the deep humiliation, the difficult turn- 
 ing away, the deadly spiritual conflict that strengthens, 
 purifies and molds their manhood and makes them 
 knights of holiness. And those who are forgiven much 
 must love much. Repentance is a great thing, the key- 
 stone and foundation of the Christian religion. Well, 
 dear, I hope you will forget this feeling of horror and 
 learn to reverence this man for his present goodness and 
 past conflict. I'm wonderfully drawn to him myself. 
 I 'm much attracted by the philanthropic turn he gives to 
 commerce in this age of fraud and overreaching and 
 selfish money-grubbing. After all, why should commerce 
 be excluded from the domain of Christianity ? Why not 
 trade in a Christian spirit ? Why not put religion first in 
 commerce as in all else ? Imagine what a great commer- 
 cial nation might be if service and not gain were made 
 the end of trade, if people manufactured and sold for the 
 good of man and the honor of his Maker, if every trader 
 put self last and the public good first. But self will leave 
 everything before it leaves trade. It is leaving not 
 exactly politics but policy. I think we may venture 
 to hope that altruism is at least the ideal of our foreign 
 and imperial policy ; it is the avowed and obvious aim of 
 all our internal policy. Self must leave every art be- 
 fore it can approach success, it must leave every great 
 profession too. Art followed for gain is impossible; it 
 carries its own death-warrant in its heart. Some day 
 gain will cease to be the first aim even of trade. Rosny 
 works toward that ideal. He put it clearly in a few.
 
 KITTY MAYNE 237 
 
 words at the opening of the Guild of Honest Trade, of 
 which he is a member. It's an open secret that he orig- 
 inated and founded the Guild, though he occupies a very 
 inferior post in it. You must read that terse little speech, 
 Kit. Half a dozen plain words and a new world pre- 
 sented in them. Rosny is a man." 
 
 "It seems pretty evident that you would have pre- 
 ferred me to marry Mr. Rosny. Still, I scarcely see how 
 the thing is to be managed at this hour of the day, even 
 to oblige you. And, after all, I am resigned to my pres- 
 ent inferior position. I am, on the whole, fairly content 
 to be Mrs. Mayne. ' ' 
 
 "I don't know that I have any very decided objection 
 to the present state of affairs myself, Kit. After all, a 
 man needs discipline, and marriage gives it to the full. 
 The comfort and peace of the unmarried man is danger- 
 ous. How clear the sky is to-night, what an innumer- 
 able blaze of stars ! They seem detached from the sky, 
 they swing free in space. It's a good world. How 
 cold you are, child, after your brisk walk ! Here we 
 are." 
 
 They stepped into the warm, bright vicarage, which 
 would have held three or four such dwellings as the cot- 
 tage, and shut out the icy night with all its stars, and 
 Kathleen cowered over a great fire, near which her child 
 slept peacefully in its cot, and was very, very thankful, 
 yet strangely sad. 
 
 She honestly tried to cultivate Evelyn's friendship, 
 but was perplexed to find the baby anything but a bind- 
 ing force between them. Evelyn looked at it, admired it 
 with cold civility, and turned with relief from it, shrink- 
 ing from the usual young matronly talk of its little ways 
 and needs; she even declined the honor of holding the 
 creature in her arms. 
 
 "It is just as well that her baby died, ' ' Mrs. Mayne 
 
 confided to her husband; "she seems actually to dislike 
 
 babies. It's so unnatural. Harold's crying to-day 
 
 actually made her start and look annoyed. I felt quite 
 
 16
 
 238 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 guilty and apologized as one would to a man or an old 
 maid." 
 
 "Singular; one would have thought the child would 
 be a comfort to her. But she is a little strange and unap- 
 proachable. She may thaw in time. What in the world 
 can she do all day long?" 
 
 That was the question Evelyn asked herself day after 
 day, as the winter wore on and the pang of her baby's 
 death dulled, while her own youth asserted itself and 
 ached with all the vague and wild necessities of renewed 
 vitality. 
 
 ' ' If you would but take a class in the Sunday-school, 
 dear Mrs. Rosny," Kathleen urged one day; "you would 
 find it such an interest and such an occupation. Such an 
 escape from self." 
 
 "I'm afraid I don't know anything to teach, and I 
 do so dislike the smell of schools, ' ' she replied. ' ' Besides, 
 I should be afraid of those rough children. Indeed, I'm 
 no good for that ; altogether, I am a useless creature. I 
 was brought up at school, don't you know. So I can't do 
 anything. ' ' 
 
 ' ' What ? W'ere you taught to do nothing at school ? ' ' 
 
 "Indeed we were. And very hard work it was to 
 learn. We might not do this, and must not do that; 
 young ladies must know nothing about the other. I need 
 scarcely say they were private schools. So many holi- 
 days had to be passed at school, so that one had little or 
 no home life." 
 
 ' ' Poor child, how very sad ! But you lived with an 
 uncle and aunt?" 
 
 "Yes; but not until recently within the last three 
 years. And that was a migratory existence. We were 
 nomads, dear Mrs. Mayne, wandering from camp to 
 camp, never long in one stay. Oh, it 's very cramping to 
 stay at private schools till eighteen. I always seem to 
 have been shut out of everything," she sighed, opening 
 her hands impatiently and almost gasping as if for air; 
 "shut out or shut in. I feel sometimes that I must fly
 
 KITTY MAYNE 239 
 
 away and live, I must begin to live. I can not oh, what 
 nonsense I am talking! It comes of being too much 
 alone," she added, rising as if to shake off unwelcome 
 thoughts, and replenishing the fire with great vigor and 
 flushed cheeks. 
 
 ' ' Oh, but you interest me exceedingly, ' ' Kitty rejoined 
 cordially; "it's so nice of you to tell me about yourself. 
 I am older ; I have lived really. I might be of use to you. 
 Who knows? Richard ah your husband was saying 
 how much he regretted your being so much alone. He 
 hoped we might become friends. Let me help you, dear 
 child, if I can." 
 
 "You knew my husband long ago?" Evelyn asked, 
 with one of her long, wistful glances. 
 
 ' ' Surely. Did he not tell you ? " 
 
 "Yes. Men are odd creatures; he seemed to think 
 that quite a sufficient foundation for an instant and 
 romantic friendship between us, ' ' she said, with a cynical 
 little laugh; "do you?" 
 
 She stopped blowing the fire, with the bellows in her 
 hand, and threw back her head with a graceful movement 
 to bend her dark and lustrous eyes upon the face of 
 Kitty, who turned crimson and quailed before the ear- 
 nest, searching gaze, becoming suddenly conscious of the 
 increasing beauty of the young face turned toward her 
 and of the fulness of soft red lips, the flush of velvet 
 cheeks, the soft purity of the forehead under straying 
 tendrils of shining hair, the fine poise of the full white 
 throat and the beautiful contours of the figure kneeling 
 in firelight on the hearth. The pathos and a curious 
 unconsciousness in this sweet face appealed to her, while 
 a vague jealousy repelled her; only she did not call it 
 jealousy, but wondered why the youth and beauty and 
 pathos of this lonely, unsatisfied woman should be as a 
 pain to her. 
 
 "My dear child," she faltered, unconsciously compar- 
 ing her own face with its lost bloom and her own dress, 
 that, without being careless or really dowdy, was neither
 
 240 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 so dainty nor so much cared for as it had been in old 
 days, with Evelyn's, "how very frank you are! But, 
 indeed, men are curious beings. And, to tell the truth, I 
 think you have been exceptionally sweet in your recep- 
 tion of me. Of course well ! The situation is never 
 quite easy; it often but I hope we are both above that 
 sort of pettiness " 
 
 "Which situation, and what pettiness?" asked 
 Evelyn, rising and laying the bellows aside without with- 
 drawing her inquiring, perplexed gaze from Kathleen's 
 confused face. " I 'm afraid I haven 't been at all sweet, 
 but, on the contrary, very grumpy and dreary you know 
 my trouble, please don't refer to it those things make 
 people unsocial." 
 
 "But don't you know," said Kathleen, startled into 
 still greater frankness, "of Richard of our that we 
 were engaged?" 
 
 "Engaged? Engaged to be married? You to my 
 husband ? Certainly not, ' ' returned Evelyn, still stand- 
 ing in the blaze of the hearth and looking down upon her 
 guest with haughty indignation, dashed with pain. 
 
 "He never told you? Then I I wish I had not 
 spoken. Oh, Mrs. Rosny, he never told you why we 
 parted ? ' ' she added, with sudden horror. 
 
 ' ' Stay, ' ' returned Evelyn quickly, with a little gasp ; 
 ' ' I remember now, but I had forgotten ; it seems so long 
 since we married ; he did tell me of his engagement years 
 and years ago, when he was very young. The thing had 
 escaped my memory entirely. Why, of course ; you were 
 neighbors at Ingrestone." 
 
 ' ' Yes, we were neighbors at Ingrestone many years 
 ago. I I was not as heartless as as some people sup- 
 posed," replied Kathleen, looking away from the search- 
 ing, dark gaze that could not be escaped. ' ' I don 't know 
 how much he told you, or whether what he told you would 
 prejudice you against me. It's all ancient history now, 
 done and over and forgotten yet I think I should like 
 you to know because I wish to be quite frank and really
 
 KITTY MAYNE 241 
 
 wish to win your friendship and confidence I should 
 like you to know that I really cared for him I had cared 
 for no man before nor have I since in any serious sense 
 until I met my dear husband." 
 
 "And yet," added Evelyn, now quite mistress of her- 
 self and rapidly piecing things together in her brain as 
 she made strokes in the dark; "and yet you jilted him 
 left him broken-hearted ? ' ' 
 
 "Jilt is a hard word, Evelyn. He would scarcely 
 use it ; he knew why I could not fulfil my engagement. 
 There was no concealment on either side. I see that you 
 think me wrong. Nay, the very fact of your marriage 
 shows that you think me wrong. We are very differently 
 constituted, you and I. He he is generous and large- 
 hearted, whatever his faults. He would not nay, he 
 could not refuse me the freedom I asked ; but I doubt if 
 he ever suspected that he was not the greater sufferer of 
 the two. It is just as well. For he is healed and happy 
 now, as I am. We meet quite tranquilly as friends, and 
 he does me the honor to wish me to be his wife 's friend, 
 as I trust I shall be. And men forget so much quicker 
 than women, especially men of his temperament per- 
 haps I scarcely realized that in those young days, when 
 he was young, too. The most impassioned lovers are the 
 most easily consoled. The adage, ' Love me little, love me 
 long, ' is very true of men. That vehemence of Richard 's 
 is both his strength and his weakness; he never does 
 things by halves. But I must go, dear; I had no idea 
 how time has been running away." 
 
 ' ' Don 't go, dear Mrs. Mayne ; come in to lunch with 
 me first, ' ' Evelyn said tranquilly, though she had grown 
 very pale during Kathleen's broken confidences, every 
 tone and look and gesture accompanying which had been 
 well weighed and noted down in her memory, with the 
 words themselves, and all possible meanings and sug- 
 gestions they were capable of conveying. "Must you 
 really go? Another time, then, though I think Mr. 
 Mayne might be disappointed this once for the good of
 
 242 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 his soul. Ah! I had forgotten the poor baby. Good- 
 by, then." 
 
 It was but a step from the parlor to the hall door, 
 and Evelyn accompanied her guest thither with all pro- 
 priety and politeness, with some promise of future lunch- 
 ing at the vicarage, and stood smiling in the wintry sun- 
 shine that just then broke from a relenting sky of dull 
 cloud, to nod a last good-by to Kathleen as she turned 
 at the gate. Then she went back to the parlor, and, 
 throwing herself on a pillowed oaken settle, face down- 
 ward, sobbed like a child with all a child's passionate 
 rebellion until the sympathizing parlor-maid, tired of 
 sounding the gong for nothing, ventured to come in and 
 remonstrate and beg her not to give way, but come and 
 "take a bit of something" instead. 
 
 "It is but natural, ma 'am ; it do come upon anybody 
 at times," she said; "but it is wonderful how a little 
 something heartens anybody up of a cold day, and seeing 
 Mrs. Mayne and all and bringing it to mind. There's 
 Master '11 be home by the early train to-night, and the 
 turn of the day 's come and all. So do try to take a bit 
 and cheer up." 
 
 Evelyn raised her wet face with a smile for the kind- 
 hearted girl, and stroked back her ruffled hair, dried her 
 eyes, and went, with the childlike air that won her much 
 tender consideration on all sides, to table, meekly listen- 
 ing to her handmaiden 's brisk attempt to cheer her lone- 
 someness and meekly accepting the food pressed upon 
 her, in a way that went to the girl 's heart ; but with no 
 such result as that predicted. 
 
 She felt that she had had a blow from which she could 
 never recover never. Richard engaged to Mrs. Mayne, 
 Richard jilted by that middle-aged for so she seemed to 
 Evelyn that middle-aged clergyman's wife, that exces- 
 sively tame and correct person, with her nursery and her 
 parish, her endless small occupations and interests, her 
 absorption in choir-singing and services, mothers' meet- 
 ings and villagers, his heart occupied and broken, years
 
 KITTY MAYNE 243 
 
 ago before ever he saw herself; it was incredible, intol- 
 erable. And Richard vehement, one of "those passion- 
 ate natures?" that cold, undemonstrative man, against 
 whose hard, unresponsive nature she continuously bruised 
 and shattered the tenderness and passion of her own? 
 Her stern, cold husband a "most impassioned lover?" 
 Ah! yes; for Kathleen, and in his youth, never, never, 
 never for her. At last she understood. 
 
 An immeasurable longing to be away and alone seized 
 her, away anywhere out of that house, that was no home 
 but a prison. Lonely enough she had been in it, yet she 
 could not be quite alone there, with servants looking on 
 and pitying, and with so many associations, suggestions, 
 and evidences of Richard everywhere, in the very walls. 
 So she went out, followed by the retriever, Rollo, joyously 
 barking at the prospect of a walk. She instinctively 
 made for the sea, which is ever a silent confidant, refuge 
 and escape, in its immensity and perpetual movement 
 and song, and took the path Richard had taken in his first 
 great grief, and where he had walked with her in the joy 
 of their home-coming, telling her of that old sorrow that 
 had tinctured all his life. 
 
 But her pain was too deep and bitter to admit of any 
 such memories; she stepped quickly and lightly, circled 
 by the dog's gambols, over the fields, under the sky of 
 breaking cloud, unobservant, absorbed in a passion of 
 misery and revolt, torn by jealousy and tortured by 
 wounded love, uncheered by gleams of sun and balm of 
 soft spring airs, by budding hedgerows and opening eyes 
 of golden celandines, unsoothed by the wren 's treble song 
 and the coo-cooing of pigeons under their warm roof 
 of pine branches, till she came to that sheltered nook in 
 the cliff that Richard knew, with the broad sea spreading 
 its gray and polished surface far down before her eyes 
 and filling her ears with the boom of breakers on reef 
 and rock and the wash of quiet waves on the shore. 
 
 Kathleen Mayne had known his love, but she only 
 knew what? The quickly extinguished warmth of a
 
 244 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 spent and disappointed life. It was very clear now w r hy 
 she was neglected. He had scarcely denied, what was 
 evident to every eye, that his mother came before her in 
 his affections ; he had not cared for the child ; he had shed 
 no tear, not one, for the poor little lost life. All his affec- 
 tions were centered in that household at the Pines. All 
 his labors and thoughts were for them. They lived in 
 luxury of his making while he had asked her to share 
 poverty with him. She could have been content with 
 poverty, provided love had come into the bargain. 
 Healed and happy was he? Not at all. He still cared 
 for this woman, who might have been pretty in those 
 young days. 
 
 Why had he not told her of the situation which Mrs. 
 Mayne had rightly called difficult ? It was atrocious that 
 she should have made this woman's acquaintance in igno- 
 rance ; it put her in a false position ; Mrs. Mayne had her- 
 self been shocked at it. And why had they parted? 
 There was some mystery here. Could she forget the 
 amazement and horror in Kathleen 's face when she asked 
 if he had never told her why they parted, or her assump- 
 tion that the fact of her marriage with Eichard stamped 
 her as of a different nature to herself? She could not 
 understand this preoccupied, unemotional man who had 
 married her, presumably, that he might have some one to 
 manage his hermitage it was hardly a home and his 
 income, and save him the minor worries of existence; 
 every day made him less comprehensible and put them 
 farther apart. He was beginning to inspire her with 
 repugnance ; she could not go on loving a heart of stone. 
 How lonely she had been all her life, she reflected with 
 sudden tears of self-pity ; how deeply she had longed for 
 the love she had seemed to surprise in the eyes of the dis- 
 tinguished-looking stranger, whose figure suddenly came 
 into her dream and captivated her girlish fancy that 
 afternoon on the river. She could always see that fine, 
 grave face, bearded and sad, yet so full of fire and ten- 
 derness, always feel the strange flame of the deep blue
 
 KITTY MAYNE 245 
 
 eyes burning through her, with the exquisite sense of 
 repose and shelter the strong figure gave her when she 
 recalled that day. The touch of frost on hair and beard 
 added to the dignity and pathos of the strong, beautiful 
 face ; she was so young, so much younger than her years, 
 that age had a charm for her; she felt honored by the 
 interest she excited in her elder. 
 
 Loved at last, her loneliness gone forever, she could 
 dare be herself and live at full tide, she had thought, in 
 the sunshine of his presence and glances in those first 
 romantic days. Then the terrible time when his visits 
 became few and the prospect of never seeing him again 
 had to be faced, and then the exquisite, agonized moment 
 of her danger and deliverance at the station, when she 
 fell, not to the ground, but into his protecting arms, and 
 thought herself safe and sheltered for life in his love. 
 a dream long since dissipated. 
 
 How young and ignorant she had been in those days, 
 how little she had known of life, how much less of mar- 
 riage! To be the center and sun of a man's life, the 
 source and end of all his hopes and cares, the confidante 
 of all his thoughts and actions, his counselor, controller, 
 and inseparable companion, to feel him troubled by her 
 pain, rejoiced by her joy, and hungry for her love ; to be 
 sheltered and fenced from the bitter world in the warmth 
 of home; above all, to be "compassed with sweet observ- 
 ances" in her poet's words such had been her maiden 
 dream of marriage. And it was false. He did not so 
 much as love her, though he had been, perhaps still was, 
 "an impassioned lover" of that other woman. She had 
 looked forward to marriage as a deliverance from the 
 fetters and barriers that surround a superfluous woman 
 in a half-grudged home, as a means of tasting that ful- 
 ness of life from which one in tutelage is perpetually 
 debarred ; but marriage had only forged fresh fetters and 
 raised new barriers round her. She felt herself capable 
 of so much, thirsted so strongly for life ; yet here she was 
 in the bloom of her days, cribbed, cabined, and confined,
 
 246 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 cut off and cast away in this dull and stagnant back 
 water, while the great full river of life rolled majestically 
 past her, with many a full-sailed pageant passing upon 
 the flood of its tide. Yet she could have been content had 
 she known that love which was forever denied her. If 
 the child had lived but she dared not think of her little 
 lost babe, for whom his father had shed no tear. 
 
 Hollo laid his muzzle on her knee presently and looked 
 up understandingly in the forlorn young face that tears 
 did but embellish; a fresh spring gushed out and 
 sprinkled his head at the thought of being reduced to 
 take comfort in a dog's affection. She stroked the black 
 head absently, remembering the increasing beauty her 
 glass showed her day by day. But what is beauty in a 
 wilderness? Even her husband had not seen it by day- 
 light for months, except on Sundays, when he probably 
 never observed it. Such waste. 
 
 The day faded and the sea shimmered in reflections of 
 amber and pink and purple. She listened to the deep- 
 ened roar of breakers till the chill of twilight compelled 
 her to rise and go home under a sky hung with vari- 
 colored clouds slowly fading over the green west. 
 
 A dull knocking upon a wooden fence by the garden 
 gate made her aware of "that carpenter man," Seth 
 Barton, whom Eichard had presented to her as "one of 
 my oldest and best friends" as if one could be friends 
 with an ignorant day-laborer who now wished her good 
 evening and left off hammering to open the gate for her 
 and ask her how she was. 
 
 "It's loansome here for a young lady," he said, 
 "but it will be summertime avore long. My missus she 
 lost her first, ma'am, and mis'ble downhearted she was, 
 couldn 't zim to look up nohow. But she 've a rared nine 
 since; she never buried but that one. You'll look up 
 agen avore long, ma'am, with the birds and flowers and 
 everything heartsome and pleasant. And downhearted 
 or not, every one have their duty, Good night to ee. ' ' 
 
 "Goodnight, Barton."
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 NANCY'S ADVICE 
 
 THE dusk was deep when Evelyn went through the 
 garden with a sick heart to her solitary fireside, where, to 
 her great and glad surprise, she found a well-known fig- 
 ure rising out of the shadows with open arms and laugh- 
 ing eyes. 
 
 "Why, Nancy," she cried, joyously kissing the firm, 
 cool cheek presented to her; "is it you, yourself?" 
 
 ' ' Oh ! it 's me, sure enough. And very cross at wait- 
 ing so long. It's term holiday, so I cycled over to the 
 Maynes and go back to-morrow, my first call in their new 
 house. I '11 stay here till it 's time to go back and dine at 
 the vicarage. I sha'n't wait for Richard. But perhaps 
 you'll persuade him to bring you over after dinner; the 
 Maynes will be so glad." 
 
 "And do you like the grind of teaching? And is it 
 such very hard work, and have you any time to yourself 
 at all? I used to pity the governesses at school; they 
 never had any fun, nothing but fag and fuss from morn- 
 ing till night." 
 
 "I like it very much. But I should like some tea 
 now, please. These high-schools are very different to the 
 old boarding-schools. We only see our pupils in class. 
 It's more like a college or a boys' public school. I have 
 such lovely rooms not far from college, Evelyn ; you must 
 come and see them. Couldn't you come over with Kitty 
 Mayne one day? Richard would never have time and 
 you wouldn't care to come alone. Some of the college 
 people are very interesting, and many old Indians and 
 others we have met live in the place, and one or two old 
 
 247
 
 248 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 Cambridge friends. I really don 't know how I could be 
 more happily placed. And it is such a comfort to be able 
 to pay one's own way and relieve dear old dad from one 
 burden. You know what a smash he made by investing 
 in that dreadful company. They are leaving Merstone, 
 and poor Charlie will have to give up the service and do 
 something at once for a salary. That is the worst bit. 
 Perhaps he may get into Belton's, as Richard will have 
 told you. But I 'm afraid Charlie is not cut out for busi- 
 ness. Now for your news I mustn't have any more 
 cake; the Maynes dine at seven." 
 
 ' ' How I envy you ! ' ' sighed Evelyn tragically. 
 
 "Which, the appetite for cake or the seven-o'clock 
 dinner?" 
 
 "Everything," was the emphatic reply, into which 
 was thrown such longing disgust and despair as startled 
 Nancy. She sat on the opposite side of the hearth in its 
 full blaze, dumb with a surprise and concern expressed in 
 her brilliant blue-gray eyes opened to their widest extent. 
 These eyes were the finest and most noticeable feature 
 in a face but moderately well-favored, pale but fairly 
 healthy, and expressive of gentle firmness and modest 
 intelligence. 
 
 "Evelyn, you to envy me? In the second year of 
 marriage ? Come now, what have I that you have not 1 ' ' 
 she said. 
 
 "You have liberty; you have an object in life, com- 
 panionship, hope, interesting occupations, friends." 
 
 "This sounds tragic, Evelyn. I'm afraid you are 
 growing morbid. You can 't be quite well. You ' ve been 
 crying. I wish I had liberty, and I'd take you away 
 somewhere and rouse you up. "Why don't you go to 
 Florence with the Beltons ? Adeline was quite disap- 
 pointed not to have you." 
 
 "One's mother-in-law is a mother-in-law at best. 
 Besides there would be the coming back again. Oh! 
 you don't know, Nancy; you can't imagine what it is. 
 Why did he marry me? Why couldn't he leave me?"
 
 NANCY'S ADVICE 249 
 
 she sobbed. "I didn't know what marriage meant; I 
 thought it was all love and happiness; why didn't some- 
 body tell me? He never cared for me, never. Why 
 couldn't he let me be?" 
 
 ''What has Richard been doing? What have you 
 been quarreling about?" 
 
 "Nothing. He couldn't quarrel. He hasn't heart 
 enough. He doesn't care enough. He has no feeling; 
 he is made of stone, of iron, of everything hard and hor- 
 rid and detestable. I can't live with him much longer 
 or I shall hate him, hate, hate, hate him. Nancy, did you 
 ever know such a cold, hard, insensate being in your life ? 
 He treats me as if I were part of the furniture or the 
 weather. The only thing he cares for is his wretched 
 business; he hasn't a thought to spare for anything else." 
 
 Nancy went over to the oaken settle, where Evelyn 
 sat, panting with passion, and silently passed her arm 
 round her. 
 
 "You poor little thing!" she said presently. "You 
 don't know what you are talking about. You are hyster- 
 ical; you are exaggerating some small misdeed of poor 
 Dick's till you believe in the bogie of your own creating. 
 Have it out with him. Tell him all his sins and he'll tell 
 you he never meant them. But tell him gently ; don 't say 
 all these violent things to him. Men don't forget hard 
 words; they are more sensitive than we in that respect. 
 Richard is a man of exceptionally deep and steadfast 
 feeling. He is one of those still, strong men who cover 
 warm and sensitive hearts with a shield of silence and 
 reserve. It 's very easy to make such a man suffer. So 
 very easy to wound such a man beyond healing. ' ' 
 
 "Ah, Nancy, what a woman you are! Your first 
 thought is for the man, the poor, fragile, unprotected 
 man ; men must be tenderly dealt with, wrapped in cotton- 
 wool, no matter what women suffer, you think. But you 
 don 't know Richard ; you have not the misfortune to be 
 married to him." 
 
 "But do you think you quite understand him, Evie?
 
 250 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 Granted that he has behaved abominably, are there no 
 faults on the other side ? Don 't take up the absurd idea 
 that he doesn't love you ; you are bound to believe that he 
 does; it is an insult to believe otherwise." 
 
 ' ' Ah ! you don 't know, you don 't know. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Probably not ; but it 's quite clear that you two have 
 come to a crisis somehow. Some absurd little misunder- 
 standing is probably at the bottom of all. Be patient, my 
 dear, and think the best of him oh! no doubt he's a 
 blackguard. ' ' 
 
 "He makes me so unhappy, Nancy, so very un- 
 happy." 
 
 "Oh, don't bother about being happy. Try to make 
 poor old Dick happy instead. Oh ! Evelyn, don 't throw 
 your happiness away. However much people may love 
 one another, all their happiness must depend upon duty 
 and forbearance." 
 
 "But the forbearance must be mutual, Nan, not all 
 on one side," objected Evelyn, wondering that all the 
 world seemed in a conspiracy to hurl the word duty at 
 her. "Why should the wife do all the forbearance, 
 while the man makes himself as odious as he likes ? ' ' 
 
 "Well, somebody must begin, I suppose. Why don't 
 you begin the forbearance? You have the most time. 
 Poor old Dick comes home fagged and bothered to death, 
 so mightn't some allowance be made for him? Very 
 likely he hasn't a suspicion of the crimes with which he 
 is charged and reckons himself the most exemplary of 
 husbands. ' ' 
 
 "Oh! I grant you that," she retorted with a savage 
 sarcasm; "you may safely stake all you have on that. 
 He thinks that, like the rest of the furniture, I only want 
 a little dusting and putting in place from time to time ; 
 I 'm not valuable enough to be run away with. He 's sure 
 to find me along with the other chairs when he thinks 
 proper to come home which is seldom." 
 
 "Ah! You'll feel better after that; bring it all out. 
 But I must fly, if the Maynes are to dine at seven. Good
 
 NANCY'S ADVICE 251 
 
 night. You little idiot," she added, turning back when 
 she reached the door and taking Evelyn by the shoulders 
 to give her an affectionate shake, "you don't know what 
 a lucky woman you are. Take care of your happiness. ' ' 
 
 "Thank you. Wisdom will certainly die with you, 
 Nancy. Only you haven't been married and you don't 
 know what misery means. ' ' 
 
 "I know that it's easy to play the fool and throw 
 happiness away. So good night, and good sense to you." 
 
 "Stay, Nancy," Evelyn said, keeping her back with 
 gentle violence ; ' ' only tell me this one thing. Were you 
 ever engaged to Richard ? ' ' 
 
 "Engaged to Dick? What an idea! No." 
 
 ' ' Did he ever ask you to marry him ? ' ' Evelyn urged, 
 clinging to her and looking with a wistful, earnest gaze 
 into her face. 
 
 ' ' You funny child ! Certainly not. He is my cousin. 
 He has always been an elder brother to me. What next ? " 
 
 "Nothing. Good night." 
 
 Much comforted and relieved by all she had heard 
 from Nancy, she went to her room and dressed with 
 exceptional care, trying this and laying aside that with 
 dissatisfaction, and at last finishing the whole with white 
 and pink azaleas, the first color she had worn since the 
 baby's death, with the words "duty," "forbearance," 
 "happiness," in her ears. 
 
 Nancy 's advice was always good ; even her uncle, who 
 was contemptuous of female minds, had respected her 
 counsels. She resolved that she would try hard to think 
 the best of Richard and to believe in his love. After all, 
 it is pleasant, on the whole, to be happy ; no one particu- 
 larly wishes to be miserable, even at twenty-one. Besides, 
 the reflection of herself she saw in a long mirror was very 
 cheering. The pink of the azaleas was answered in her 
 cheeks, and their pure whiteness in her throat and arms ; 
 her black lace gown threw up the gold tints of her shi- 
 ning brown hair ; she was taller and more rounded than 
 at the time of her marriage ; there was deeper luster in her
 
 252 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 velvety brown eyes and more certainty in her carriage. 
 Her beauty took her by surprise; it was the first time 
 she had thought of it or cared about her dress since the 
 baby's death. 
 
 She went down-stairs singing and played with the 
 Persian kitten that had been Gerald's wedding gift and 
 was now a grave and majestic cat, pondering the mystery 
 of the universe with an inscrutable gaze, yet sometimes 
 condescending to human weakness by stately gambols and 
 decorous mirth. Poor Fluff had a heart with all his dig- 
 nity, and that heart had been nearly broken by the advent 
 of the baby, whose death had scarcely improved matters 
 for him; but he, too, deemed happiness wiser than mis- 
 ery, and decided to make the best of this life and his 
 friends. 
 
 The hour struck at last when the master might be 
 expected, and Fluff listened for him as anxiously as his 
 mistress, for he had personally ascertained what the bill 
 of fare was and wished to express his approval of it in the 
 most practical way. 
 
 But as the hands of the clock moved on and no step 
 came, Evelyn sent a message to the kitchen to keep dinner 
 back till the next train. Fluff, after a little lion-like 
 stalking up and down, settled himself resignedly among 
 his mistress's laces and purred himself to sleep again, 
 while Evelyn, tired out by her passion, succumbed to the 
 warmth and quiet, and slept as fast as Fluff. So Rich- 
 ard, coming home at last, found them when he dragged 
 himself, fagged and stupid, into the silent parlor. 
 
 All his weariness was charmed away by the pretty 
 homelike picture ; the lines went out of his face, he smiled 
 gravely, and with a kiss too gentle to wake her, went up- 
 stairs. This home-coming was worth all the long day's 
 toil and moil and the particularly vexatious occurrence 
 that detained him at the end. He had intended telling 
 Evelyn about it, but the beautiful young face looked so 
 peaceful, yet so tired and sad, that he had not the heart 
 to burden her with his care.
 
 NANCY'S ADVICE 253 
 
 "How I wish you would dine without me when I 
 am late," he said, when he came down a few seconds 
 later. "Please excuse my not dressing to night; I was 
 kept at the last moment by an urgent message from the 
 Pines, and there was no time to telegraph. Any one 
 called to-day ? ' ' 
 
 "Only Mrs. Mayne." 
 
 His face brightened. "Ah! that was nice. You'll 
 find her a great resource. Did she beguile you out ? " he 
 said. 
 
 "No. She had to go home to luncheon. I went for 
 a walk alone toward the sea. Came home to tea and 
 found Nancy. She has a holiday term holiday, she 
 said, and spends the night with the Maynes. ' ' 
 
 "Poor little Nance; I wish she hadn't to grind so 
 hard. Why in the world doesn't she marry? Though 
 I don 't know what would become of the rest if she did. 
 Uncle Adrian fails more and more. He frets perpetu- 
 ally at having been the cause of their poverty." 
 
 "You and Nancy always seem to have been good 
 friends, Richard." 
 
 "Always. I don't know that I ever had a better 
 friend than Nancy, except Musgrave. " 
 
 "Did you know Mrs. Mayne through Ronald Mus- 
 grave?" Evelyn asked. 
 
 He looked up surprised. "Mrs. Mayne? Kitty 
 Musgrave? Why, no; they are only cousins. By the 
 way, Evelyn " 
 
 "By what way?" she wondered, seeing no connec- 
 tion. 
 
 "Mother and Molly are coming to luncheon to-mor- 
 row. I said I thought you had no engagement. ' ' 
 
 "You might well say that," she thought, silently 
 observing that he had been very quick to change the 
 conversation from Kathleen Mayne. Then she left the 
 room, first handing him his pipe and tobacco jar, with a 
 small kiss, which he thankfully but silently accepted. 
 
 Soon he joined her in the parlor, but answered her at 
 17
 
 254 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 random with muttered apologies and nodded and fell 
 asleep till roused by tea. Quickly drinking the tea, he 
 attacked a pile of letters and papers he had brought 
 home with a flying pen that seemed to Evelyn to have 
 been going on since the beginning of the world. 
 
 "Hadn't you better go to bed, dear?" he said 
 absently without laying the pen aside, when the clock 
 struck twelve; "I have a couple of hours' work still and 
 must be off early to-morrow," and Evelyn, wearied by 
 her passionate day and its humdrum close, took the hint 
 silently. 
 
 "I might as well be married to a counting-house," 
 she reflected as she conveyed herself and her candle list- 
 lessly up-stairs, thinking sadly of the tiny grave in the 
 churchyard. "He doesn't give himself time to be 
 human. ' ' 
 
 Rosny was distinctly relieved by her absence ; it was 
 by her wish that he picked up these threads of business 
 correspondence in her room rather than in another ; but 
 her unexpressed boredom and evident distaste for her 
 own occupations disquieted him and diverted his atten- 
 tion from his work. He was beginning to find serious con- 
 versation with Evelyn daily more difficult and restricted ; 
 they had reached the critical point in married life when 
 disappointments are accepted without surprise ; he knew 
 well that she would not, presumably could not, enter into 
 any but his immediate domestic interests, or sympathize 
 with the aspirations and aims of his wider life; but it 
 scarcely grieved him now, the fact had been so long 
 accepted. 
 
 At this point romance dies, the poetry of life evapo- 
 rates, love itself often takes wing, and they are fortunate 
 who save from the general wreck some remnant of friend- 
 liness, some scrap of mutual respect, some relic of the 
 kindness and regard arising from common needs and 
 common daily interests. 
 
 Yet his heart bounded with happiness when he came 
 in to breakfast next morning and saw Evelyn sitting,
 
 NANCY'S ADVICE 255 
 
 fresh as a rose in her daily increasing beauty, by the 
 hearth he loved. 
 
 "Take that away," he heard her say to the waiting- 
 maid presently, indicating a homely-looking pot. "I 
 said it was not to be brought in. ' ' 
 
 "If you please, ma'am," returned the maid, "Mrs. 
 Barton would be hurt if it wasn't had in the parlor. It's 
 best virgin honey from her own bees and she thought 
 you would fancy it. She brought it herself with her 
 duty." 
 
 "Don't send it away, Evelyn," Richard interposed; 
 "I should like some." 
 
 "Really, Richard," she cried, her cheeks flaming, 
 when the maid was gone, "you put me in a very awk- 
 ward position. You make it plain to Rhoda that you 
 sanction her impertinence. I may not put what I choose 
 on my own table, it appears. All the old women in the 
 place come to this house with their bees and their honey- 
 pots." 
 
 "Nonsense, dear," he returned with the secure ac- 
 cent of conjugal indifference; "the woman was not 
 impertinent. You don't understand our rustic ways. 
 Seth and his wife would have been terribly hurt if 
 their present had not been appreciated. I wouldn't 
 have a slight put on them for worlds. Do taste the 
 honey yourself. It has the thyme flavor from the 
 downs. ' ' 
 
 "You should have married one of your delightful 
 honey-making rustics," she cried. "You seem to care 
 for nobody else." 
 
 "Not even Fluff?" he asked, handing that urbanely 
 blinking favorite a scrap of cold fowl. "Yet Fluff's an 
 aristocrat of long descent eh, Fluff ? Take it or leave it, 
 old boy. I can't fool about all day with you. There, 
 there!" 
 
 She tried to keep back her tears and raised her cup to 
 her lips to hide their quivering. Richard always had 
 time to humor and caress Fluff, whose dallying airs and
 
 256 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 insolent delays were most exasperating, she thought; it 
 was impossible that he could care for her or he would 
 surely be more tender and considerate. 
 
 Yet he observed the tears, but, setting them down to 
 the baby's death, purposely ignored them. So he talked 
 of trifles to distract her thoughts, and continued his 
 breakfast with the steady and amazing appetite so exas- 
 perating to irritated wives who are unable to realize that 
 food is as necessary to the male organism in trouble as 
 in joy. 
 
 ' ' Try this bacon before it 's cold, Evie. Thanks ; some 
 more coffee; it's very well made this morning." He 
 could talk in that way while her heart was breaking, and 
 he had made no attempt at apology. 
 
 "Richard," she asked suddenly, after a long silence, 
 "why did you never tell me that you had been engaged to 
 Mrs. Mayne?" 
 
 He dropped a knife, crimsoned, and looked up 
 sharply, with a flame in his eyes that frightened her. 
 
 "Did I never tell you?" he said after a pause, dur- 
 ing which he compelled himself to speak gently. "I 
 think you are mistaken. Don't you remember what I 
 told you that day in the boat the day I brought the 
 ring?" 
 
 "I remember something about your having been 
 attached to some other girl long before ; I heard no name. 
 And when the Maynes were coming here and so much 
 discussed you never once alluded to her having been 
 engaged to you." 
 
 ' ' Didn 't I mention the name ? Well, I was not aware 
 of it ; but what does it matter ? Everybody knew, every- 
 body knows." 
 
 "Everybody but your wife," she broke in, almost 
 crying. 
 
 ' ' My dear child, I never tried to conceal it, ' ' he said, 
 trying to subdue the impatience he felt and heard in his 
 voice. "I told all my life that day up to the Sunday 
 afternoon when I first saw you asleep in the boat. What
 
 NANCY'S ADVICE 257 
 
 a memory, Evelyn! Yet once you told me that when 
 you woke and saw me sitting there watching you 
 Well, / remember if you don't. Evelyn, you must 
 remember how I was drawn to you on that first day, when 
 you were sleeping and unconscious, by a likeness to the 
 only woman I had ever cared for oh! you can't forget 
 that, surely I told you how deeply I was attached to her, 
 and why she gave me up, and how I never thought to 
 take any pleasure in my life again, or to care about any- 
 body or anything after I lost her. Have you forgotten 
 that?" he asked, his voice more and more moved as he 
 spoke. 
 
 "I had forgotten that other woman; it was so long 
 ago. But I know that you never named her, it comes 
 back to me now. Ah! you cared very much for her, 
 Richard?" 
 
 "Cared?" he echoed; "oh! cared! I was not a boy, 
 Evelyn, to fall in love and out again with every pretty 
 face, young as it was, but a man fully grown. She was 
 the only woman in the world for me all those years. 
 Cared ? Why, she was my religion. Oh ! I was a pretty 
 pagan before she lifted me out of the mire. Every bet- 
 ter thought, every purer wish, I owe to her. She was 
 right to leave me, quite right. I was utterly unworthy 
 of her. Losing her was a bitter, bitter blow. What I 
 should have been but for knowing and loving her, I dare 
 not think. Yes, the world was dark for me then, 
 indeed. ' ' 
 
 Evelyn locked her hands tightly together under the 
 table and turned cold and white. She looked straight 
 across at his moved face and took in the deep and ear- 
 nest feeling in his voice; then her eyes grew hard and 
 bright, her lips tightened and she was silent. 
 
 "And when I woke that day in the boat and looked 
 in your face," she said presently, in a curiously still 
 voice, "'you were thinking of her?" 
 
 "Yes, I was thinking of her as I knew her at your 
 age, and wondering how far the likeness between you
 
 258 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 went. How little she imagines that it was she who 
 brought us together " 
 
 "And parted us?" Evelyn mentally added. 
 
 ' ' By George, is it striking the half-hour 1 I shall lose 
 my train. Good-by, Evelyn." 
 
 "Good-by, Richard."
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 THE MYSTERIOUS SIREN 
 
 ROSNY rushed to his train in a miserably uncomfort- 
 able frame of mind, out of temper with Evelyn and with 
 the whole world, and especially out of temper with 
 himself. He felt that he was falling into that wretched 
 condition of fretted and overwearied nerves in which it 
 is almost impossible to conceal irritation and bear with 
 querulous and unreasonable conduct. It was contempti- 
 ble to show irritation with Evelyn, to be unable to bear 
 with her ; he ought to soothe and reassure her, and laugh 
 her into happier spirits. No doubt all her perversity and 
 hysterical gloom was due to what he most ardently wished 
 for. He was an absolute brute to be annoyed by the poor 
 child's weakness. Still, he could not have a slight put 
 upon the Bartons, nor could he allow her to make false 
 and absurd accusations of himself. Only he wished he 
 might have been gentler and pleasanter in meeting these 
 contrarieties. Perhaps he ought not to have married. If 
 only the baby had lived, it would have been so much 
 easier ; the next would make everything right again. 
 
 Evelyn heard his departing steps, as he tore down 
 the road, with a curious feeling that was almost relief in 
 its certainty. Those hastening steps seemed to be going 
 out of her life never to return; the good-by exchanged 
 between them meant good-by to almost everything; a 
 chapter in her life was closed; the next would scarcely 
 contain the name of Richard. 
 
 Nancy had been entirely wrong in her advice ; Nancy 
 was not acquainted with the bare and bitter facts on 
 which her misery was based. Richard had, indeed, a 
 
 259
 
 260 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 heart, but not for her ; he had loved with deep and vehe- 
 ment passion, not yet extinct, but not her. The sacred 
 fire she had surprised in his eyes on waking that after- 
 noon in the boat was by his own admission not for her, 
 but for Kathleen, the cold and correct woman who had 
 broken faith with him in his youth and who had broken 
 his heart but not his constancy by her desertion. It was 
 the old story of Iseult of the white hand, the young, un- 
 loved wife, chosen because her name recalled the elder, 
 the lost Iseult of Tristram's youth. Iseult of Brittany 
 was loving and very lovely, and the mother of his chil- 
 dren, but never won his heart ; that remained forever with 
 Iseult of Ireland, to whom he was at last united in death. 
 Evelyn could not play the part of the younger Iseult ; her 
 heart hardened to steel against the man who had loved 
 and never forgotten Kathleen, and had chosen herself for 
 some imaginary resemblance between them. 
 
 After luncheon that day, when Molly and Gwen 
 were at the piano and Mrs. Belton and herself had drawn 
 their chairs close to the fire, she asked Edith if she had 
 liked Richard 's engagement to Kathleen. ' ' Mrs. Mayne 
 must have been a charming girl, ' ' she supposed. 
 
 "I can not say that I was enchanted with her," was 
 the reply; "Richard was young to think of marrying; 
 the engagement was a painful surprise and shock to us 
 all ; he was far too young to settle down to the responsi- 
 bilities and humdrum duties of marriage. Still, Kitty 
 was a very lovely girl. Of course, my dear boy 's happi- 
 ness was my first consideration ; so I made the best of it 
 and was deeply grieved when she broke it off. Her 
 people took her away; I never saw her again till just 
 recently. She was probably playing with him all the 
 time, but she seemed so nice and so devoted. I can not 
 understand how such a girl could behave so badly. It 
 was so palpably because of his misfortunes. She gave 
 him up immediately after my dear husband's death, when 
 Richard left the service and devoted himself to the sup- 
 port of his brothers and sisters. So cruel to desert him
 
 THE MYSTERIOUS SIREN 261 
 
 just then. Yet Richard would never hear a word against 
 her so loyal, so devoted, and so heart-broken." 
 
 "He must have been very deeply in love," Evelyn 
 suggested. 
 
 ' ' He was, indeed ; it was quite an infatuation. Rich- 
 ard is a strong man and bore the pain. But it entirely 
 changed him; it crushed all the youth and brightness 
 out of him. If you had known my frank and light- 
 hearted sailor boy, Evelyn, you would wonder what con- 
 nection he could possibly have with this stern, still, 
 emotionless business man. Poor, dear Richard, his has 
 been a sadly marred life. And though he is so happy 
 now, it can never be the same ; that first brightness can 
 never be regained. Kathleen Mayne has much to answer 
 for. How do you like her, my dear? One scarcely 
 expects you to adore her. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, I like her well enough, mama. Just the sort 
 of well-meaning frump one expects in a clergywoman. 
 Difficult to realize that Richard could ever have been 
 seriously in love with such a person. Yet she has not 
 been married long a few months longer than we. And 
 Mr. Mayne is about Richard 's age. ' ' 
 
 Mrs. Belton smiled; she recognized a proper wifely 
 acidity in this description of a husband's former fiancee. 
 "We can afford to forgive her," she said graciously; 
 "Richard most of all." 
 
 Richard was surprised and pleased on his return that 
 evening to find an even-tempered, placid wife, quite 
 oblivious of the morning's passage of arms, and content 
 to occupy herself with books and papers while her lord 
 dozed or finished off odds and ends of work. 
 
 Later on in the year he began to hope that they were 
 entering upon a newer and better phase of married life. 
 Evelyn's pettishness and sharp retorts were gone; she 
 was compliant and reasonable, never reproachful, taking 
 all he said and did, or left unsaid and undone, with 
 equanimity and without comment, as so he flattered 
 himself it was meant. She had at last learned to trust
 
 262 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 him and to know that he could mean nothing but the best 
 for her, whatever he did. This state of things was very 
 restful ; he was very thankful for it ; there is no peace on 
 earth like the peace of one's own fireside. 
 
 And if any man needed the peace of home during 
 that summer it was Richard, on whom cares and harass- 
 ments seemed to accumulate at compound interest as the 
 days went on, and who found it more and more difficult 
 to come home at any reasonable hour, or do anything but 
 take food and rest in his own house. 
 
 "I ought not to have married," he said one lovely 
 summer night, waking from an after-dinner doze in the 
 parlor. 
 
 Evelyn was in the window-seat by the open lattice, her 
 face outlined against the soft green summer dusk without 
 and illuminated by lamplight from within. Her head 
 was slightly thrown back and her face upturned to the 
 starry sky, so as to show the beautiful columnar throat 
 and fine curves of the bust ; her hands were clasped list- 
 lessly in her lap ; her face was wistful and full of dream ; 
 her whole figure and posture, the very roses fading and 
 falling from her dress, expressed the restrained longing 
 and sadness of some wild, imprisoned creature. It 
 seemed to her husband that some great change was going 
 on in her and developing her beauty. The girl asleep in 
 the boat had promised no such beauty and character as 
 was in this face. His heart smote him, he knew not why, 
 beyond a vague general notion that he had no right to 
 tame and cage so bright a creature as this in that secluded 
 cottage. "I ought not to have married," he repeated. 
 "I am too busy, I have no time." 
 
 Evelyn smiled faintly, and shaking off the dreams in 
 which she seemed wrapped, rose and resumed the piece of 
 work she had laid aside, with some cheerfully trivial 
 remark. 
 
 ' * I wish you could see more of the Maynes, ' ' he added. 
 ' ' The atmosphere of that house is what you need. And 
 they are such near and pleasant neighbors. ' '
 
 THE MYSTERIOUS SIREN 263 
 
 "I am learning the violin," was the inconsequent 
 reply; "it is not so difficult as I thought. Molly gives 
 me wrinkles." 
 
 "Next year I hope to be less rushed," he continued, 
 "and then " 
 
 He left the sentence unfinished in the longing that 
 came upon him to disburden himself of some of those 
 accumulated anxieties and worries and talk them over 
 with her; but memory supplied him with many former 
 repulses and baffled attempts to enlist her interest in 
 things that concerned him, and he refrained. 
 
 "Is the meadow to be mown to-morrow?" Evelyn 
 asked, and he looked at her in a dumb despair that 
 matched her own unexpressed desperation. 
 
 "But the baby will come and all be well," he thought, 
 and then suggested some pleasure excursion, which she 
 declined. 
 
 The next evening he came home in good time for din- 
 ner. Evelyn was loitering in the rose-garden, listlessly 
 crooning some old ballad, and listening for the well- 
 known click of the gate, when to her surprise she heard 
 a double footstep on the gravel, and, parting the green 
 boughs that concealed her from the approach to the 
 house, saw two men enter the cottage. This brought her 
 slowly round to the front entrance, listlessly curious as to 
 the rare guest her husband was bringing home. Too 
 tall for Gerald, not slight enough for Archie could it 
 be Uncle Adrian? But no; the step was too firm and 
 certain for an old man; might it be Herbert Mayne? 
 Any one was welcome, any one to break the monotony, 
 even the coast-guard officer ; but he would scarcely come 
 without his wife. 
 
 Youth was stirring her pulses and setting them in 
 tune with the sumptuous summer evening, when, with a 
 gracefully languid step, she appeared in the parlor in a 
 flood of yellow evening sunshine, roses in her white, 
 black-ribboned gown, roses in her cheeks, roses filling her 
 hands and falling in showers to the window-seat, when she
 
 264 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 let them go to give a hand to the stranger her husband 
 was presenting, as "my old messmate, Ronald Mus- 
 grave," the latter meeting her mildly interested glance 
 with a full, direct, and searching look, in which was a 
 flash that startled and interested her. 
 
 ' ' Captain Musgrave at last, ' ' she said in a voice that 
 struck Eichard as having developed many more tones of 
 late, and with a smile that was gracious but restrained as 
 a queen's. "So long predicted," she added, slowly giv- 
 ing the hand he seemed to have waited so long to receive, 
 and withdrawing it with scarcely a touch. 
 
 ' ' At last ! " he echoed, the flash coming and going 
 again in his full, dark eyes. "Fate has hitherto been 
 against me, Mrs. Eosny, from the moment I missed the 
 wedding. I was appointed to a ship a week before, or 
 rather disappointed. It was nearly two years ago." 
 
 "So long?" Rosny asked. "It seems no time." 
 
 "How should it, Dick, under the circumstances? I 
 congratulate you at this late moment with all my heart, 
 because at last I am in a position to do so. Congratula- 
 tion on the unseen is a farce. ' ' 
 
 Evelyn 's color rose and her eyes fell before the subtle 
 homage in the man's voice. 
 
 " Oh ! it 's far too late for congratulations. Congratu- 
 lations ought to end with presents," she said, not real- 
 izing how her words might be interpreted, sinking upon 
 the window-seat by her roses, which she began to arrange, 
 while looking absently into the garden. 
 
 ' ' In ordinary cases, no doubt, ' ' he assented in a way 
 that implied something beyond the common in this. 
 
 Then Rosny went to dress, and Musgrave helped her 
 to arrange the roses, for which bowls seemed ready in 
 various corners of the room. 
 
 On his return, after a hurried toilet, Richard found 
 them still among the roses in the yellow evening glory. 
 The tall, brown, strikingly handsome sailor, with a dusky 
 crimson Camille de Rolian unfurling its velvet petals in 
 his coat, and a contented look upon his face; Evelyn,
 
 THE MYSTERIOUS SIREN 265 
 
 rosy and animated, her white gown, the single string of 
 pearls on her round, white throat, her white arms and 
 the trail of pure white Niphetos roses set with one red 
 Camille de Rohan in her corsage, all this whiteness glow- 
 ing in the sun's rays as if made of palest amber fire. 
 The picture gladdened him in its setting of the dear old 
 homely parlor ; it was a happy man who sat and listened 
 to their trivial conversation and watched the sunbeams 
 playing in Evelyn's rippling hair and wondered at her 
 beauty. 
 
 "So the fair Kitty has finally struck her colors?" 
 Musgrave said at dinner. "What a dance she led us 
 all!" 
 
 " All ?"Rosny asked. 
 
 "Well, all present. When you were bowled out, I 
 went in and batted for all I was worth. No go. She 
 wouldn't look at me. Said we were cousins. Which we 
 undoubtedly were, and are still, for all I know. Does 
 marriage dissolve cousinship, Mrs. Rosny?" 
 
 ' ' It depends. I seem to have lost all mine. Do you 
 find Mrs. Mayne much altered, Captain Musgrave ? ' ' she 
 added, with some eagerness. 
 
 "Finding her haltered in the matrimonial noose 
 one must find alterations for one 's own peace. So I hope 
 it isn't very ungallant to wonder what has become of all 
 the endearing young charms since the splicing. What 
 sort of a chap is Mayne? I'm dining there to-mor- 
 row. ' ' 
 
 "I think you will like Mr. Mayne," Evelyn said; 
 "he's very nice for a clergyman." 
 
 " For a clergyman? I thought all ladies worshiped 
 the cloth." 
 
 "Ah! but I'm not 'all ladies,' " was the quick retort. 
 
 "I bow to the exception and keep my rule intact. 
 I hope bluejackets are more favored in this quarter. But 
 the inference is obvious. Well, Dick, it's to be hoped 
 nothing will ever wash the salt out of you ; I think noth- 
 ing will."
 
 266 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 "And then my uncle is a sailor," Evelyn said. 
 "You sailed with my Uncle William, Captain Arbury, 
 once, Captain Musgrave, I am told." 
 
 Yes ; he remembered that very well. He had recently 
 met Captain Arbury abroad. Yet he found little real 
 enthusiasm for sailormen in Captain Arbury 's niece. 
 And why that droop in the pretty red mouth, and the 
 unnatural fatigue in eyes that were at moments so 
 bright? He thought of a scene enacted only yesterday. 
 
 He had been climbing up the cliff-path from the sea 
 with a photographic apparatus, and he was just setting 
 his camera on a natural terrace in the boldly broken 
 gorge, where the cliff lines parted, when he became aware, 
 by the unnamed sense that conveys such things to the 
 brain, that he was not alone, though no one was to be 
 seen when he looked around. 
 
 A lark sprang up from the grassy summit with a 
 broken song ; some linnets fluttered chirping from bushes 
 strewn about the broken ledges; rabbits scattered into 
 cover; the near bushes rustled with another sound, the 
 touch of a woman's dress; and, stepping back and peep- 
 ing Actaeon-like through a parting in the screen of stunt- 
 ed oak, he caught sight of a figure pacing to and fro, 
 looking out to sea and speaking in a low, cadenced voice, 
 with waving arms and rhythmic gestures. The face was 
 hidden, but the figure and the movements were charm- 
 ing; the sunlight glowed through gold-edged hair. 
 
 "A woman who can walk " a rare thing he thought 
 "most of them wabble, pound, or jerk a woman who 
 can move, whose movements express feeling and thought, 
 whose body is an instrument of the soul and not its mere 
 clogging shell still rarer." Then he caught the side- 
 face and found it exquisite, now the intermittent words 
 she seemed to be speaking to the sea; she was reciting 
 poetry; odd to find people reciting poetry at Wimbury. 
 
 Then the voice rose clear and vibrating on a wave 
 of feeling ah ! more than feeling ; that was the unmista- 
 kable note of passion the whole of the longing and pain
 
 THE MYSTERIOUS SIREN 267 
 
 of an imprisoned and suffering soul seemed to be poured 
 out in the words, so familiar, yet with such new meaning : 
 
 Oh, let the solid ground 
 
 Not fail beneath my feet 
 Before my life has found 
 
 What some have found so sweet. 
 
 Let the sweet heavens endure, 
 
 Not close and darken above me, 
 Before I am quite, quite sure 
 
 That there is one to love me. 
 
 Then let come what come may 
 
 To a life that has been so sad 
 Then let come what come may ; 
 
 I shall have had my day. 
 
 Reckless abandonment was in the last four lines, in 
 sharp contrast with the pleading and passion that went 
 before ; a defiant laugh, almost sob, broke through the last 
 of all. She paused, then suddenly repeated, in a voice 
 of infinite pathos, 
 
 I shall have had my day 
 
 Then silence, with folded hands, and in the listener's 
 eyes a stinging heat and in his throat a hot pain. The 
 leafy screen fell into its place; Actaeon stepped back, 
 ashamed, noiselessly gathered up his apparatus, and 
 noiselessly slipped away and up the gorge to focus his 
 view from a higher point. 
 
 How the voice rang on in his mind, with meaning far 
 beyond the words! Strange power in human voices to 
 express things beyond thought, or verbal expression, 
 power given to few except on rare occasions and in 
 acute crises of feeling. Only actors and orators can so 
 touch hearts, and only the best of these. 
 
 "So you have an actress at Wimbury?" he said at 
 the vicarage an hour later. "I thought nobody ever 
 came here. I've always heard you were free from 
 visitors and harbored none but aborigines in the place."
 
 268 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 But Kathleen disclaimed the actress and pronounced 
 the place free of lodgings and hotels for miles round. 
 "If anybody were staying at the Eight Bells we should 
 know it," she added. "JPerhaps it was somebody from 
 the Retreat." 
 
 "There's nobody staying at the Retreat but myself. 
 It must have been a mermaid. If they sing, why 
 shouldn't they recite poetry? The destruction of man- 
 kind could as easily be accomplished by recitations like 
 that I heard on the cliff as by song. Who knows but the 
 siren's singing was chanted hexameters and pentam- 
 eters?" 
 
 ' ' Very likely it was. Herbert says that Greek poetry 
 was always chanted, and that our Gregorian plain-song 
 is but the ancient poetic recitative. ' ' 
 
 "That settles the matter, Kitty. Gregorians would 
 turn the handsomest and most fascinating sirens imagi- 
 nable into mere harmless bores. Ulysses would have 
 called out for wax to put in his ears, instead of asking to 
 be unlashed from the mast the moment he heard the first 
 growl of a Gregorian. ' ' 
 
 Rosny, on being interrogated, had also disclaimed all 
 knowledge of anybody within reach of Wimbury capable 
 of reciting poetry except Mayne. Mayne recites well," 
 he added. 
 
 ' ' It certainly was not Mayne, ' ' Musgrave said, when 
 they turned in at the cottage gate. ' ' He could never be 
 mistaken for a siren." 
 
 Oh, let the solid ground 
 Not fail beneath my feet 
 
 was still echoing in the sweet and passionate voice through 
 Ronald 's brain when they were sitting in the cool parlor, 
 and the door silently opened and the mysterious reciter 
 herself appeared in the sunshine, white-clad, clear-eyed, 
 her hands full of roses. So the mystery was solved to 
 lose itself in a mystery still deeper. 
 
 The heart-hunger of the voice was clear to read in
 
 THE MYSTERIOUS SIREN 269 
 
 the wild eyes, and yet this was Dick Rosny 's young 
 wife, as beautiful as the day and possessing infinitely 
 more distinction both in look and manner than he had 
 been led to expect. 
 
 "A very pretty and charming girl," his cousin had 
 described her, "but very quiet and reserved, and quite 
 given over to grief for the baby she lost nearly a year 
 ago. Most unsociable, caring for nothing outside her 
 own four walls." 
 
 "I hope you will get on with my wife," Rosny had 
 said to Ronald. ' ' She 's a little shy, very domesticated. 
 She never cared for pleasure or society, very different 
 from most girls. Evelyn -'s tastes are womanly and quiet ; 
 she is a good housekeeper, fond of simple things ; flowers, 
 music, and country walks are her amusements." 
 
 "Quite a model of all a woman should be. You're 
 a lucky chap to have found such a paragon, Dick. ' ' 
 
 "Yes," with a sigh. "The only trouble is that our 
 life is too quiet for a girl for she is but a girl. One 
 could almost wish for a little discontent, a little revolt 
 against the monotony. She can't get over the poor 
 baby's death. That's natural, I suppose. Women feel 
 those things. She wants young society. Yet she appears 
 not to care to have the girls with her. And they find it 
 dull here." 
 
 With that voice and face, that carriage and figure, 
 not to care for society or pleasure or anything beyond 
 the four walls of home! There must be a screw loose 
 somewhere, Ronald thought. 
 
 "Yes, you are a lucky chap," he corroborated, when 
 Evelyn's white skirts had fluttered out of the dining- 
 parlor and the two friends drew their chairs together; 
 ' ' I don 't know when I 've met anybody so utterly charm- 
 ing as Mrs. Rosny. Even her sadness becomes her. Very 
 few women can be sad without losing charm. Grief 
 plays the deuce with the complexion ; it ruins manner and 
 makes most women dowdy. They take no interest in their 
 frocks when they are not happy." 
 18
 
 270 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 "But Evelyn never cared for dress." 
 
 "Then dress cares for her. Bless your heart, Dick, 
 it 's the way they put their clothes on and the instinctive 
 knowledge of what suits them and is suitable. Some 
 women wear clothes ; some are dressed by maids and tail- 
 ors, and some dress by the light of genius. ' ' 
 
 Rosny smiled with full content. "She seems to like 
 you," he said; "and she's not easy to please." 
 
 They smoked in the garden. There they discussed the 
 business on which Ronald had consulted his old mess- 
 mate, who had asked him to come and dine and talk it 
 over. Up and down the gravel they paced beneath the 
 pale summer stars, both showing a trace of the sailor in 
 their leisurely walk, passing and repassing the parlor 
 window, through which Musgrave never failed to look, 
 with a pang of intense pity for the solitary white figure 
 faintly seen within by the light of a shaded lamp that left 
 the room in twilight barred with thick shadows. 
 
 Presently Evelyn rose from the shadows and sat in 
 the window-seat. Then Ronald stopped when they came 
 up, and leaned on the sill to talk, and Evelyn remem- 
 bered that it had been Richard 's habit to do the same last 
 summer; but Richard only remembered that Ronald's 
 business was but half discussed and tore at his beard with 
 hardly suppressed impatience. Presently they went in, 
 and, to his pleased surprise, Evelyn consented to sing and 
 accompanied songs for Ronald. 
 
 " No ; not that, ' ' she said, pushing Kathleen Mavour- 
 neen from the desk ; ' ' sing another, I hate the thing. ' ' 
 
 "Why, it used to be Dick's favorite," he said, sub- 
 stituting another, and looking round to see Rosny fast 
 asleep in his chair. 
 
 "He almost always falls asleep after dinner," Eve- 
 lyn apologized; "he is often late and always so tired. 
 He was up at four this morning and to-morrow it may be 
 the same." 
 
 ' ' What mischief can a man possibly find to do at that 
 unholy hour ? ' '
 
 THE MYSTERIOUS SIREN 271 
 
 "It was something philanthropic, I think. A coope- 
 rative farm or factory." 
 
 ' ' Poor old chap ! You don 't train him up in the way 
 he should go, Mrs. Rosny. Have hysterics next time he 
 tries those games on." 
 
 ' ' Ah ! ' ' she said with an odd little smile that went to 
 his heart, as she struck some chords, and "I arise from 
 dreams of thee" rang through the parlor in Eonald's 
 fine voice without awakening Richard.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 THE EETEEAT 
 
 THE Retreat was a long and irregular but comfort- 
 able stone house, built in a slight depression half-way up 
 the bleak hill that ran out to sea and sank in steeply 
 broken gorges down to a rock-beset point, on which a 
 lighthouse gave warning of hidden reefs where great 
 breakers fretted and flung themselves in perpetual thun- 
 der and foam. A slight southward trend and the shelter 
 of some skilfully ordered plantations made the grounds 
 immediately surrounding the house a paradise of varied 
 bloom and foliage, in sharp contrast to the wind-shorn, 
 treeless slopes surrounding it ; while the air was so pure 
 and the prospects so far and fine, that it was in truth 
 what its builder designed it to be a retreat of pleasure 
 and peace, rather than a place of penance and mortifica- 
 tion, as public opinion rashly assumed. For the Chesney 
 who built it in the eighteenth century was an eccentric, 
 lonely man, whose youth and prime had been passed 
 abroad, no one quite knew how or where, and who had 
 spent a solitary old age in it, wifeless and childless, 
 among spoils and curios picked up all over the world. 
 Some of the curios had been alive, and, to the local 
 mind, a little uncanny; some of them had even been 
 human, speaking in strange tongues and more uncanny 
 still. A little chapel had been built on a bleak summit 
 in the higher grounds and served by a Roman priest, who 
 was Lucas Chesney 's private chaplain and was said to 
 have imposed severe and constant penances upon him; 
 this imparted a still deeper savor of uneanniness to the
 
 THE RETREAT 273 
 
 atmosphere of the place by presupposing the existence 
 of mysterious and deadly sin. 
 
 But when Lucas Chesney died which he did no 
 sooner than he could help and much later than could natu- 
 rally be expected he was discovered to have neglected 
 one simple and obvious duty that of making a will so 
 that his property went to his nearest male kinsman, who 
 chanced to be an Anglican duke and the head of the 
 house, so the older form of worship ceased at the Retreat 
 and the little chapel was served no more. The mansion 
 itself, after affording a refuge for widows and unmarried 
 daughters of the house, had been bequeathed by the last 
 duke to his son, Lord Randal Chesney. This Chesney had 
 married Ronald Musgrave's sister, Olivia, after a some- 
 what prolonged bachelorhood, which his wife averred had 
 been spent chiefly in educating himself for the duties of 
 married life and building up the character of an ideal hus- 
 band an opinion which Lord Randal, from the happy se- 
 clusion of his study, cheerfully permitted without question. 
 
 Though small, the place was eminently respectable, 
 and properly furnished with the ghost and the disrep- 
 utable or presumably disreputable ancestor without 
 which no gentleman's country-house can be considered 
 complete. There was an elegant and aristocratic poverty 
 in the bleak and barren acres of which the estate con- 
 sisted, and an elegant and aristocratic cycle of legends 
 concerning Lucas Chesney and his strange household 
 legends which made up in variety what they lacked in 
 antiquity. Much moss and lichen on the quaint stone 
 roofs and walls gave an air of false antiquity to the 
 house itself. 
 
 "Why don't you hold a bazaar or flower-show or 
 something in the grounds ? ' ' Ronald asked the lady of the 
 house over the breakfast-table; "you've nothing to spoil 
 and plenty of room." 
 
 "I don't wish to grow gray before my time though 
 I believe Randal wants me to do so. He hates being per- 
 petually mistaken for my father at hotels. ' '
 
 274 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 "Why not gratify a harmless whim? Though a 
 husband, Randal is still human. You were always sel- 
 fish, Olivia; selfishness is horrid in a woman." 
 
 ' ' Then let me be true to myself, Ronald, and be horrid 
 still. Besides, the exchequer won't run to it. Let us 
 content ourselves with making these theatricals a success 
 to the best of our ability. Have you found me a stage 
 manager ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' Yes, and knocked an orchestra together. And I 've 
 discovered a leading lady for you." 
 
 "Discovered? Why they swarm; they're thicker 
 than blackberries; every girl who has ever so much as 
 walked on any boards is competent to be a leading lady, 
 in her own estimation." 
 
 ' ' But this one isn 't in her estimation only in mine, 
 which makes all the difference and distinction. She 
 doesn 't so much as suspect herself of genius, or talent, or 
 even capacity. And I haven't so much as whispered the 
 thing to her. I want you to do it." 
 
 "My dear Ron, I really can't have another woman in 
 the house. My party is made up every corner and 
 cranny is full." 
 
 "You needn't have her in the house. It's local tal- 
 ent ; she lives on the place that is, at Wimbury. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Nonsense. Nobody lives at Wimbury or ever did in 
 the memory of man. You can't mean Kitty Mayne, 
 surely. ' ' 
 
 "Not quite. The nobody I allude to is younger and 
 well, without being exactly good-looking, she's the 
 type that looks well on the stage, makes up well. The 
 sort of figure for the stage, too, and the voice. I heard 
 her recite a few lines of poetry and sing. I was dining 
 there last night with my old chum, Rosny, don't you 
 know. It's his wife. Of course you called on them." 
 
 " So I believe. And I seem to remember their dining 
 here. But you know they don't go out. He is a philan- 
 thropic faddist always on boards, founding societies, 
 and originating schemes. Randal thinks everything of
 
 THE RETREAT 275 
 
 him; I believe he knows him rather well. Everybody 
 seems to consult this Mr. Rosny on everything he is a 
 sort of provincial Lord Shaftesbury, without the evan- 
 gelical leaven. Fabulously rich though, and yet he 
 chooses to live in the simplest way in that quiet cottage. 
 His last fad is buying an estate and building an indus- 
 trial village upon it. Because, of course, when people 
 have enough to do without tiring themselves, and healthy 
 houses to live in without paying any rent to speak of, 
 and are properly washed and fed, and amused without 
 any trouble to themselves, they never do or even think 
 what they ought not to. They don't even get drunk 
 when they have enough to drink, and it's not w r atered 
 of course, I 'm alluding to the lower classes, who, accord- 
 ing to Mr. Rosny and his like, are all born exactly alike 
 very dull and so totally devoid of originality that they 
 haven't so much as an original sin to bless themselves 
 with." 
 
 ' ' Come, Livy, you needn 't sneer at Dick Rosny. Very 
 few people are fit to black his boots." 
 
 ' ' I wouldn 't dare to black so much as his reputation. 
 Though a rich banker, I believe he's a religious man. 
 The mystery to me is how such a pattern of propriety 
 came to be such a friend of yours. ' ' 
 
 "We were messmates as mids. We sowed our wild 
 oats together; lie wasn't born without original sin any 
 more than I was. That's how. Just before he left the 
 service he turned religious was going to marry and 
 settle down. Kitty must have converted him before she 
 jilted him. Or perhaps the jilting did it. I like old 
 Dick in spite of all. He wants this young wife waked 
 up and brought out. She's been brooding over a dead 
 baby ; he thinks she 's too quiet and too much alone. Why 
 don't you take her up and brighten her, Livy? You 
 often grumble because there's nobody fit to speak to 
 within a dozen miles." 
 
 "So Kitty jilted our admirable Crichton?" Lady 
 Randal said, thoughtfully helping herself to strawber-
 
 276 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 ries ; ' ' kindly converting him first to prevent his blowing 
 his brains out? How original of her! So few girls 
 would have thought of it; but Kitty was ahvays so con- 
 siderate. And Rosny was so thankful for the jilting that 
 he turned religious and philanthropic and married a 
 young genius not exactly good-looking, don 't you know, 
 but the type that makes up well on the stage I quite 
 understand. And they all live next door to each other in 
 a little village at the other end of nowhere. What an 
 idyll! And how very tenderly those two Christian 
 matrons must love one another, Ronald ! ' ' 
 
 The morning was bright and beautiful as a summer 
 morning can be in the country within sight of the sea. 
 Evelyn felt its beauty to her heart's center when, Rich- 
 ard having gone to his day's business, she stood alone 
 in the garden where the dews had scarcely dried, and 
 looked across green spaces on the soft yet vivid blue of 
 the summer sea, that had scarcely a sound in all its 
 hushed waves and calmed surf. An exquisite breath of 
 tea-rose vitalized the still and sunny air, mingling with 
 muskier scents of other roses in rich and delicate variety, 
 and enfolding her in an enchanted calm. After all, the 
 earth is beautiful, she thought ; and life, surely life still 
 had promise even for her. Her narrow prison was very 
 lovely and its quiet very healing. She sighed a deep, 
 long sigh that was half happiness, though she thought it 
 all pain, and went about the daily nothings that made all 
 her duties with a subdued content through which glowed 
 the splendor of the summer with all its roses. And 
 always somewhere in her brain rang the echoes of that 
 song of Salaman 's full of the languors of longing and the 
 glory of dreams 
 
 The wandering airs they faint 
 
 On the dark and silent stream, 
 The champak odors fail, 
 
 Like sweet thoughts in a dream. 
 
 Only Shelley could imagine that line, and what 
 charm in the musical phrase fitting it! What was
 
 THE RETREAT 277 
 
 Champak? Some rich Oriental blossom, perfumed with 
 poetry and romance, heavy with dream beauty, sweeter 
 than any known odor? Both music and words had a 
 mysterious charm. Often and often she had sung "I 
 arise from dreams" with pleasure, but without realiz- 
 ing its subtle and exceeding loveliness as now, when 
 the voice of this man had given it something her 
 lighter feminine tones could never express. What 
 an exquisite melody! Yet Salaman was not among 
 the great musical composers; only this once it had 
 been given him to fit an exquisite song to exquisite 
 music. "Once and only once and for one only," per- 
 haps. 
 
 The song floated through the household accounts, was 
 heard in the half-hour spent in the kitchen over homely 
 details of the day's needs, and echoed in the garden 
 among the roses and cherries ; it was played softly on the 
 piano and flitted dimly through nocturnes of Chopin and 
 intermezzos of Schumann, and came in like a refrain 
 through the day's reading of poetry and prose. It was 
 the grace before and after the slight and solitary lunch- 
 f. on that divided the day 's monotony, and was still sound- 
 ing deliciously in some remote corner of consciousness, 
 when the drowsy, golden peace of the summer afternoon 
 was stirred by the crunch of wheels on gravel, and the 
 lonesome sound of a bell echoing through a silent, empty 
 house was heard 
 
 " And a spirit, a spirit in my feet 
 Hath led me who knows how ? 
 Hath led me to thy chamber window, sweet." 
 
 Evelyn woke at the bell and sang the lines softly, 
 balancing herself on a hammock in the shade. 
 
 The wheels and the ringing were promptly answered 
 by the indignant bark of Rollo, who started up from the 
 grass at her feet. 
 
 "Down, Rollo, down! it's only a tramp or an old- 
 clothes man," she said rather sadly.
 
 278 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 " My cheek, my cheek is cold and wan, 
 
 My heart, my heart beats loud and fast, 
 Oh, press it, oh, press it to thine own, 
 
 Or it must break, or it must break at last! " 
 
 And Kichard could sleep placidly through that? Yet 
 she had seen him shiver at Kathleen Mavourneen. Once 
 he had asked her not to sing ' ' I arise. " " Not a woman 's 
 song," was his verdict. "Besides, it's rather rather 
 you don't understand, dear. I dislike to hear you 
 sing it." 
 
 " A spirit hath led me to thee, sweet, 
 A spirit hath led me " 
 
 No spirit but Rhoda, the solidly-built housemaid, 
 eagerly welcomed by Rollo, glad to find his barking pub- 
 licly justified, with her announcement in studiously un- 
 surprised tones, of "Lady Randal Chesney and Captain 
 Musgrave. ' ' 
 
 These were duly discovered in the cool, dark parlor, 
 where the blinds were drawn and bowls of roses and 
 carnations made a sweet freshness, and where Evelyn, 
 pausing in the doorway with dazzled eyes to make out the 
 visitors in the shadows, seemed to Lady Randal a stri- 
 king and incongruous figure in such homely surround- 
 ings. 
 
 "I've been trying to come for ages, dear Mrs. Rosny," 
 she said with a warm hand-clasp. "But I find that one 
 always has such a host of engagements when one has 
 nothing to do an infinite deal of nothing, that takes cen- 
 turies and centuries to transact. Don't you?" 
 
 "Ah!" replied Evelyn with judicious vagueness and 
 a level glance that was almost discomposing, ' ' very kind 
 of you to come. Yes, there is rather too much nothing to 
 do hereabouts at times. How do you do, Captain Mus- 
 grave? I am afraid you found it hot driving, Lady 
 Randal. So exposed on the down; no shade." 
 
 "But you are so deliciously cool here," the visitor 
 returned, sitting down with a thoughtful and educated 
 arrangement of her skirts.
 
 THE RETREAT 279 
 
 "And so perfectly charming," her brother added, 
 while Evelyn glided into an opposite chair with a dis- 
 creet disposal of her own draperies. Then these women 
 took notes of each other, as perfect strangers, while 
 placidly weaving a web of chat suited to lifelong 
 acquaintance; and a subtle antagonism from Heaven 
 knew what in Evelyn's secret soul grew and grew 
 against the noble-looking woman with the delicate aqui- 
 line features and violet-blue eyes, who had been a 
 much photographed and fashion-papered beauty in 
 youth, and was handsomer than ever in her prime, 
 and was, besides, so strangely like and unlike her 
 brother. 
 
 "I want you to come much oftener to the Retreat; 
 we've seen so very little of you lately, dear Mrs. Rosny. 
 So romantic of you to lead this hermit's life. Some- 
 thing so fascinating in it. We all admire the beautiful 
 way in which your husband gives away all his great pos- 
 sessions like the young man in the Bible I mean the 
 one who didn't, but ought to and was sorry." 
 
 "His great possessions?" Evelyn mentally echoed, 
 with a flush and a frown. ' ' My husband 's tastes are sim- 
 ple," she said; "he is easily contented. The way to be 
 happy is to cultivate simple tastes." 
 
 "And roses," Musgrave put in; "and the Muses and 
 the Graces and the domestic and civic virtues, and a 
 garden. ' ' 
 
 "Things are not always as simple as they seem," his 
 sister said. ' ' Or hermits as virtuous ; they are sometimes 
 even a little selfish; they don't consider the claims of 
 their less perfect neighbors, or reflect on the dulness to 
 every-day sinners of having nobody to dine with them. 
 "Will you come to luncheon to-morrow, dear Mrs. Rosny ? 
 It would give us all so much pleasure. We shall be quite 
 alone, my husband, my brother and I." 
 
 "Circumstances under which people invariably 
 squabble. Such intense domestic privacy is too much 
 for average sinners," the brother added. "So that in
 
 280 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 mere Christian charity, Mrs. Rosny is bound to come to 
 the rescue of weaker vessels." 
 
 "You are very kind; but I'm not going out just 
 now. ' ' 
 
 ' ' But we want you to come in, not to go out. Put it 
 in that way. Not ? Well ; very soon. So glad to have 
 found you at home. What dear bellows! So homelike. 
 No tea, thanks. I have to go on to the vicarage. Come, 
 Konald." 
 
 "But mightn't I stay and have tea?" he suggested. 
 "I'm dining at the vicarage to-night. Some faint rem- 
 nant of conscience restrains me from teaing there, too. 
 Besides, even cousins are fellow-creatures, or at least 
 ought to be treated as such. ' ' 
 
 ' ' I think you really might, ' ' Evelyn said. There was 
 a sudden childlike gaiety in the brightened face and 
 dancing eyes she turned to him, that reflected itself in his 
 own and gave him a careless throb of delight mixed with 
 surprise. This was not wholly lost on Lady Randal, who 
 paused in her rustling exit to ask about a picture and 
 say another good-by, with a sharp side-glance at those 
 two suddenly illuminated faces. 
 
 "A child, a mere child," she reflected, when Ronald 
 was packing her skirts round her in the carriage; "un- 
 conscious of her beauty, unaware of her charm or of her 
 gifts. Quite an interesting find. ' ' 
 
 She looked back with a last little farewell nod at the 
 slender figure in pale gray and black lace standing in the 
 porch and showered upon by overblown roses. The pink 
 petals lay in the folds of her gown, on her shoulders, and 
 in the waves of her shining hair, a spray of golden lime- 
 blossom was in her belt, else she had no color except the 
 cherry and rose of her face and mouth, and the warm 
 brown of her soft, dark eyes, that were earnest and 
 thoughtful as they watched the victoria and high-step- 
 ping bays out of sight. 
 
 "Come into the garden," she said then, turning a 
 bright face to her guest; "I thought of having tea out
 
 THE RETREAT 281 
 
 under the trees. What a long story I shall have to tell 
 my husband to-night! But, first of all, I have to pick 
 strawberries for dinner ; I had forgotten. He likes them 
 gathered just as the sun goes off. Will you help 1 ' ' 
 
 ' ' He likes them picked so, does he ? It strikes me that 
 my old pal is in clover. Now, / like to pick my own. 
 We '11 divide the duty, Mrs. Rosny ; the laborer is worthy 
 of his hire." 
 
 It seemed quite natural and friendly and pleasant to 
 be set strawberry-picking in this unceremonious way. 
 Ronald shook with silent laughter, while he bent over the 
 beds and obeyed orders, and was asked his experimental 
 opinion upon this and that variety, and enjoined to put 
 none but pines in one basket, but what sort he liked in 
 the other. ' ' And don 't eat too many now, because they 
 are so much nicer with cream, ' ' was the final injunction. 
 
 The deep, grassy paths bordering the beds were cool 
 to step in, and the shadows playing across them were 
 pleasant ; scents of lavender, carnation, and lime-blossom 
 came and went "like sweet thoughts in a dream." 
 
 "I can hardly picture Richard in the days when he 
 was intimate with you," Evelyn said over the tea-cups. 
 
 "Don't try, Mrs. Rosny; he wasn't half as good as he 
 is now; in fact, he was almost wicked enough to match 
 me." 
 
 "I'm not sure," she continued slowly, "that I 
 shouldn't have liked him better then. Because," she 
 added hastily, ' ' he had no beard then and the lower part 
 of his face is very good, as you can see by the photo- 
 graphs. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Of course. So natural, ' ' said a voice a little shaken 
 by laughter. "He was much more of an Adonis before 
 he left the service half his charms not being hidden, if 
 possible, that is to say but I speak under correction." 
 
 "And naval uniform is so becoming even when not 
 worn. That is to say, when people have uniform they 
 can always put it on to be photographed, for instance. 
 How I wish he was still in the navy, Captain Musgrave ! ' '
 
 282 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 "But you wouldn't like to have to be a grass-widow 
 half your time while he was at sea, would you?" 
 
 "Well, I don't know that it wouldn't be better on 
 the whole to have him at sea. There would always be the 
 coming home to look forward to. And he would not be 
 too busy and overworked to be companionable when he 
 did come home. It would be like a fresh honeymoon 
 every time. ' ' 
 
 "What an appalling prospect! an endless succes- 
 sion of fresh honeymoons! I was brought up to think 
 one as much as frail humanity can be expected to 
 endure. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Ah ! but then you never did endure it. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Not experimentally ; but the sorrows of one 's fellow- 
 men are instructive. What heavenly tea! I thought 
 only bachelors could brew a good tea. Average draw- 
 ing-room tea has wrecked many a robust constitution. 
 But Olivia always gives you decent tea. I hope you will 
 like my sister, Mrs. Rosny. She is most anxious to culti- 
 vate your acquaintance. You have so many tastes in 
 common." 
 
 "Have we? Really? But what can you know of 
 my tastes?" 
 
 "Well, I can guess. To begin with, music, poetry, 
 recitation, acting " 
 
 "But you must be a wizard. Only I never acted in 
 my life." 
 
 ' ' But you can and will. You are a potential actress ; 
 I can tell it by your face and voice. If my sister could 
 persuade you to help her, she might often manage a little 
 show at the Retreat, and so enliven the neighborhood. 
 It wants enlivening, Heaven knows." 
 
 "Do you think so? Yet people seem very well con- 
 tent with things as they are. Mrs. Mayne, for instance. ' ' 
 
 "Kitty's an exception. She does things all day long 
 by the clock, and then sits up all the night to invent 
 more. But you, Mrs. Rosny, what can you do all the 
 long day?"
 
 THE RETREAT 283 
 
 She smiled a curious, little fatigued smile, opening 
 her hands and letting them sink dejectedly again. ' ' Oh, 
 that is a very short story," she said, laying one arm 
 slowly along the back of the bench on which she sat, her 
 head thrown slightly back against the brown trunk, and 
 soft lights dancing over her hair ; ' ' and very simple. I 
 give my husband his breakfast and sort his letters and 
 newspapers Richard is one of those fearful people who 
 can do five things at once. Sometimes I read out the 
 leading telegrams to him while he runs through his let- 
 ters, pencils the heads of answers, amuses the cat, and 
 eats his breakfast; it's quite an art, and he excels in it. 
 Then I remind him of things he is afraid of forgetting, 
 all down the path to the gate, and watch him hurrying to 
 his train till he is out of sight. When he is gone I 
 recollect the little trifles he wants done, and order dinner 
 and arrange the flowers. By that time it is ten, some- 
 times eleven. Then I begin to wonder what train he will 
 return by. That's all." 
 
 ' ' But between eleven and luncheon what do you do ? " 
 
 "Wonder when he will come again." 
 
 "And all the afternoon?" 
 
 "Go on wondering till tea time. And after tea I 
 go on wondering again." 
 
 ' ' Ah ! and then ? But I must pry no further. But I 
 amagine that seven o'clock is a happy hour for some- 
 body." 
 
 "Seven? Sometimes it's eleven. Dinner is a mov- 
 able feast in this house. Is it a right or wholesome life 
 for a man, Captain Musgrave ? I can not think so. He 
 has no mercy on himself. He's so dead tired that he 
 almost falls asleep at table. And when he can manage 
 to keep awake, he writes letters horrid, dry business let- 
 ters or puzzles over written papers and calculations 
 after dinner till midnight. Enough to ruin the digestion 
 of an ostrich, I tell him." 
 
 "Make him take you into society, Mrs. Rosny. Tell 
 him you want change and amusement. You are too easy
 
 284 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 with him. Men need discipline that 's why I never mar- 
 ried; didn't want to be bitted and curbed till I'd had my 
 fling." 
 
 She looked so young and soft and sad under the tree, 
 with her arm along the back of the garden seat and her 
 face a little thrown back and tired eyelids drooping ; and 
 the voice in which she told her tale of the perpetual wait- 
 ing that made her life was so tired that it made his 
 heart ache ; every line in her figure and every tone of her 
 voice expressed a prolonged and desperate weariness that 
 haunted him for many a day. 
 
 Yet the afternoon was gay; he tore himself away at 
 the last permissible moment with an apology for the long, 
 pleasant stay. 
 
 " Oh ! it has been pleasant, ' ' she replied. ' ' Talking to 
 you is like a fragment out of Richard's youth." 
 
 In the evening Richard was both pleased and sur- 
 prised to find her so gay and communicative. " I 'm glad 
 you like Musgrave, ' ' he said ; " I hope he will come often 
 and cheer you up, and I'm sure you will like the Ches- 
 neys too. They are very pleasant and cultivated people. 
 They'll take you out of yourself."
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 A SONATA OF BEETHOVEN'S 
 
 ANNIS ROSNY spent her summer holiday between 
 home and Wimbury, sometimes at the cottage and some- 
 times at the vicarage, equally welcome at either, but most 
 welcome of all at home in the small villa at Sandycombe, 
 to which broken fortune had led her father in his old 
 age. When at Sandycombe, some errand was always 
 taking her to Wimbury, and when an hour 's bicycle spin 
 had conveyed her to Wimbury, there was usually some 
 valid reason for remaining there. When she spun home 
 on her bicycle, Basil Mayne frequently accompanied her, 
 and when she returned to Wimbury it was often because 
 he had been sent to fetch her ; and when she was at either 
 of those three houses a bicycle ride with Mr. Mayne was 
 an almost daily occurrence. 
 
 "The bicycle," Mr. Mayne observed on one of these 
 occasions, "is the true and only Woman's Emancipator. 
 What Sisterhoods have been shrieking for, what people 
 have been agitating, lecturing, and wrangling over for 
 three parts of a century, was suddenly and quietly 
 accomplished by the first turn of the first lady's safety 
 wheel. That freed a whole sex." 
 
 "In one bloodless revolution. Yes; it has widened 
 the horizon of female life by two score miles, at least. 
 It has made us creatures of action and delivered us from 
 the bondage of the fireside." 
 
 "Into the glorious liberty of the Queen's Highway. 
 It has raised you to the rank of our comrades." 
 
 "Raised? Oh, raised? Instead of " 
 
 "I don't exactly know what. But something very 
 19 285
 
 286 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 far off . It has cut through a whole labyrinth of conven- 
 tions. I believe that it is still improper for two people 
 to drive alone together. Yet the moment the bicycle 
 came, solitary girls scoured the country upon it, and 
 nobody said a word. Glorious wheel, emblem of For- 
 tune, messenger of Fate ! Roll it in Greek hexameters, 
 or spin it into a Pindaric Ode." 
 
 "It has its tragic side, its reverses." 
 
 "When one is under it. And it is possible to be 
 broken on the wheel. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Well, let us mount ours, and leave this bank of wild- 
 thyme else we shall be in wild time for dinner and the 
 bank of Kitty 's patience will be broken. ' ' 
 
 Nancy had no claim to beauty, but Basil Mayne liked 
 the look of her in bicycling dress, with wind-flushed 
 cheeks and bright eyes. Nor was Mr. Mayne a model of 
 loveliness. He wore pince-nez glasses and shaved not at 
 all to save time ; but he spoke seven languages and looked 
 on the Higher Mathematics as a light mental recreation. 
 As Fellow and Tutor of Goldenose he was held in some 
 esteem. He had made the acquaintance of Annis Rosny 
 at a married Fellow's house, while she was a student of 
 one of the women's colleges at his University; they were 
 now old friends and found many things to discuss on the 
 numerous occasions when bicycles appear to need rest. 
 The founding of a Chair of Oriental philosophy at Cam- 
 ford, the question of University degrees for women, the 
 progress of biological science and the probability of the 
 infinity of space. When people discuss the properties- 
 of space, they sometimes forget the existence of time. 
 
 On this occasion they found Kathleen already dressed 
 and waiting for them, with the spoken intelligence that 
 they were to dine at the cottage, where they were due in 
 ten minutes, and the unspoken conviction that Basil's 
 recent conversion to the toleration of married fellows 
 was mainly responsible for their lateness. 
 
 "Clever people are never punctual," Kitty apolo- 
 gized to an impatient husband. "On the other hand,
 
 A SONATA OF BEETHOVEN'S 287 
 
 they waste no time in dressing. They don 't dress ; they 
 only change their clothes." 
 
 "The distinction is too fine for me, Kitty." 
 
 "There's no distinction in the result, Herbert. He 
 never shaves and she never curls. What can you expect ? 
 Here they are." 
 
 ' ' I didn 't expect that. She has nice round arms, and 
 he has a good, firm step." 
 
 He also has a good straight back and square shoul- 
 ders, with no scholar's stoop, his age being a little over 
 five-and-thirty. Whenever Annis looked at him she felt 
 the mellow security and comfort inspired by a country 
 full of hedges and corn-fields and cozy cottages and 
 orange-roofed farms, and whenever she spoke to him she 
 was quite sure of being understood. So few people 
 understand what is said on subjects of interest. Half 
 the world is dumb and the other half deaf, except when 
 the weather, the crops, the money market, or the frocks 
 of actresses are discussed. This makes half the tragedy 
 of the world ; there are so many million people in it and 
 not one to speak to. 
 
 "I like Basil Mayne," Annis had been heard to say. 
 "He is honest and companionable and very well in- 
 formed. ' ' 
 
 "Annis Rosny is quite reasonable for a woman," 
 Basil had confessed; "she's good-tempered and not 
 opinionated. And she knows enough to know that she 
 knows nothing." 
 
 "Then she knows as much as Socrates, Basil, and is 
 much better-looking," Herbert said. 
 
 Six people filled the little dining-parlor well, but the 
 Maynes were not surprised to find a seventh there in the 
 person of Ronald Musgrave. Seven is a lucky number, 
 but not always a convenient one. In this case, the par- 
 lor being so full, there was an unexpressed x feeling as of 
 one of the party being superfluous, and, as the even num- 
 ber w r as in the masculine gender, it must have been one 
 of the men.
 
 288 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 The night being so warm and still and mellowed by 
 the light of a broad red moon, it was plcasanter and less 
 cramped outside under the trees after dinner. The turf 
 was dry and dewless and the scent of mignonette and 
 carnation hung in the air. The conversation was not 
 fatiguingly intellectual. Lady Randal's theatricals in 
 which Evelyn, as Lady Teazle to Musgrave's Sir Peter, 
 had been the acknowledged star, and which was fol- 
 lowed by a dance and attended by everybody within 
 reach and many more specially imported for the occa- 
 sion having already taken place, furnished ample mate- 
 rial for light-hearted and irresponsible criticism and 
 reminiscence. 
 
 "What I liked best in the play," Rosny said pres- 
 ently, it being two nights after the dramatic entertain- 
 ment, "was the minuet afterward." 
 
 ' ' The Rosnys are of Irish descent, ' ' Nancy explained. 
 
 "Spare my blushes, Dick," Ronald said. "Remem- 
 ber that I had the honor of acting as foil to Mrs. Rosny 
 on that occasion." 
 
 "I know I ought not to admire my wife's doings in 
 public," Rosny said, "but I'm rustic and plain-spoken, 
 and I can't help it." 
 
 "Justifiable under the circumstances," the vicar said, 
 "quite justifiable." 
 
 "Nobody admires me; I can't get a hand from 
 anybody," Ronald complained, with cheerful incon- 
 sistency. 
 
 "Oh, you were perfectly lovely. You glittered like a 
 star, ' ' Annis said. ' ' No dancing-master could have done 
 the steps and bows better." 
 
 "Couldn't you say something more complimentary, 
 Miss Rosny? Grace, charm, elegance? What, Dick? 
 Dance a minuet in cold blood in the open air without cos- 
 tume? These things are not done." 
 
 Yet the thing was clone, though not absolutely with- 
 out costume of a kind. The minuet, it was averred, was 
 an epitome of the courtly grace of a forgotten age; it
 
 A SONATA OF BEETHOVEN'S 289 
 
 was a joy to see; it inspired delicate thoughts and gra- 
 cious ways; it should be revived to the purification of a 
 decadent century. It was a libel on human nature to 
 suppose refined ceremonial impossible without powder. 
 Besides, the moonlight and the grass and the leafy shad- 
 ows supplied the charm of remoteness and lent poetry 
 even to the prose of male evening dress. Nancy's violin, 
 deftly touched in the shadows, was the very instrument 
 for minuet music. 
 
 Rosny was fascinated by the stately measure and 
 slow rhythm, and by the gliding grace of the slender, 
 white figure glimmering in and out of long, black shad- 
 ows on the turf. The yellow moonlight had almost the 
 warmth of sun ; the shadows were black and sharp ; 
 the far-off murmur of sea came fitfully between the 
 violin phrases; steps were noiseless on the soft sward; 
 the dancers flitted dreamlike with uncertain outlines, 
 black and white in deep shadow and soft moonlight ; the 
 faintest stir of balmy air shook musky odors from unseen 
 roses and carnations; all the prospect of hill and field 
 gleamed vague and unreal in magic light. Richard was 
 sorry when the last long cadence died from the violin 
 and the lady acknowledged the black cavalier's final rev- 
 erence with a sweeping courtesy that shivered ripples of 
 light from her silken draperies. 
 
 "A Ronald for an Oliver. You ought to give a pas 
 seul in return, Rosny. A breakdown, a hornpipe." 
 
 "Bears only dance to leaders. Can you fancy your 
 bear blundering gracefully about on his hind legs, 
 Evelyn?" 
 
 "He was a keen dancer in his youth, Mrs. Rosny. 
 You remember his dancing, Kitty?" Ronald asked. 
 "You remember that fancy-dress ball at St. Ann's one 
 Christmas?" 
 
 "Perfectly. You were a Black Hussar, Ronald." 
 
 ' ' And Dick Sir Walter Raleigh ; Miss Rosny, you were 
 a child; you and the little Beltons came to look at us; 
 you may not remember it."
 
 290 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 "Oh! perfectly. Your death's head and bones gave 
 us all the creeps. We all fell in love with Kathleen as 
 belle Iseult." 
 
 "Richard dancing! Richard at a fancy-dress ball! 
 How unimaginable!" Evelyn exclaimed. "You never 
 dance now, Richard?" 
 
 "Never now," he said sadly, his face white in the 
 moonlight. ' ' That was my last dance. ' ' 
 
 His eyes met Kathleen 's ; it seemed to Evelyn that a 
 glance of secret intelligence passed between them and 
 Kathleen's face softened and became sweet with sympa- 
 thetic feeling. 
 
 "It's growing chilly," Kathleen said then with a 
 shiver; "the dew is beginning to fall." 
 
 ' ' Take my shawl, Mrs. Mayne ; I am perfectly warm, ' ' 
 Evelyn said, with cold civility. 
 
 She was more than warm ; her blood boiled. She saw 
 Sir Walter Raleigh and the belle Iseult dancing, dancing 
 through a long night, long ago when Nancy was a child. 
 It was his last dance. They must have been engaged 
 then. After that the rupture must have taken place, 
 else why should he give up dancing from that particular 
 date? Else why should they exchange those glances, 
 and why should Kathleen suddenly fancy chills and 
 dews in the warm, dry air of that moonlit night? 
 
 In the general move to the house, Evelyn found her- 
 self behind with Musgrave; their eyes met in the clear 
 moonlight, hers on the point of brimming over, his bril- 
 liant and appealing. 
 
 ' ' Show me the night-blowing stock, ' ' he said, and she 
 turned down a little alley and stopped by a border full 
 of a bright confusion of flowers sleeping in the dreamy 
 light. Their shadows fell, mingling across them, when 
 Ronald bent to examine the insignificant blossom that 
 filled the air with a heavy yet penetrating scent. 
 
 ' ' One geranium-leaf is worth it all, ' ' she said, gather- 
 ing a large leaf and drawing its fragrant velvet across 
 her lips.
 
 A SONATA OF BEETHOVEN'S 291 
 
 "Sometimes," he assented, looking very earnestly at 
 the geranium-leaf. 
 
 "He must have been very different then," she said, 
 looking on the massed flowers that stood motionless, as 
 if listening in the magic stillness; "dancing in fancy 
 dress ! ' ' 
 
 "We were all very different then." His eyes were 
 on the leaf that she was absently drawing through her 
 fingers. 
 
 "Not you. I see you quite plainly as a Black Brims- 
 wicker. And you stiil dance," she added, turning back 
 toward the house. "Astonishing what a little thing will 
 change the tenor of a life. A word a look" she was 
 thinking of the tenderness in Kathleen's eyes and the 
 appeal in Richard's. 
 
 " Or a tone, ' ' he added, his voice softened and vibra- 
 ting, ' ' even a scent, ' ' taking the geranium-leaf from her 
 with a look of furtive daring mixed with tender fierce- 
 ness, that passed unnoticed in her preoccupation. "A 
 sigh too much or a kiss too long " 
 
 Evelyn turned quickly with a look of flushing, startled 
 inquiry; he paused for one doubtful, dangerous mo- 
 ment : her eyes calmed, her step grew firm and even, and 
 she passed into the broad band of moonshine before the 
 house. "And the world is never the same again," he 
 concluded, with a catch in his breath and a sudden drop 
 to a matter-of-fact voice. 
 
 "Browning, isn't it? Yes, Browning. How I wish 
 they wouldn't go in on this lovely night!" 
 
 Her step quickened unconsciously, a buzz of voices 
 came from the open window. She drew a quick breath 
 as of relief from danger passed and shelter reached, and 
 went gladly in before him. 
 
 A whist-table was being made up, and Ronald, look- 
 ing dazed by the moonlight, cut with Basil Mayne and 
 won, to his secret disgust. Evelyn went as far from the 
 whist-players as the little room would allow and opened 
 the piano, gently pushing Nancy on to the music stool.
 
 292 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 Basil Mayne placed music on the desk, and sat down in a 
 shadowy corner, whence his eye-glasses twinkled in the 
 direction of the piano. 
 
 Evelyn sat in full light under the two swords, where 
 Richard could see her well. Two red roses burned in her 
 cheeks, her eyes were like stars, her features exalted by 
 strong inward excitement ; her husband thought that her 
 beauty seemed to grow with the days ; she had forgotten 
 the little grave in the churchyard at last. The piano was 
 softly touched and the magic of the marvelous Adagio 
 that opens the sonata in C sharp Minor filled the room. 
 All the charm and mystery of the summer night, its 
 flower-scented freshness and balm, sounded in that simple 
 and softly flowing movement, that a child might play but 
 could never feel ; all the calm and soft sighing of a moon- 
 burnished sea was there, wave shimmering to wave in 
 hushed delight; all the glamour of poetic passion satis- 
 fied to calm was there, but ever and again the thunder of 
 sleeping storm woke in the deep bass notes and calmed 
 to peace again with far-heard boom. But in the yearning 
 of the simple melody floating on the surface or rolling 
 through the depths, was the wild, ever-restrained cry of 
 unsatisfied longing, the infinite, divine despair of an ever- 
 lasting denial, the " desire of the moth for the star." 
 Now an exquisite hope rose in the melody and shat- 
 tered itself upon a rock of denial ; it rose and fell broken 
 again and rolled back in surf and spray, to sink into 
 the stillness of a sublime acquiescence, deep down, 
 where the storm thundered fitfully and trembled into 
 silence. 
 
 Then, without a pause, followed the tripping measure 
 of the Allegretto, light and bright and fairylike as the 
 dance of moonbeams on rippling waves ; delicate phrases 
 chased each other from wave to wave, mingled and broke 
 like the glancing gold-flake of moving, moonlit waters. 
 Such light dalliance and delicate mirth will sometimes 
 skim the surface of a profound passion. But through all 
 there broke ever and again the faint cry of eternal desire
 
 A SONATA OF BEETHOVEN'S 293 
 
 and perpetual denial; the moonbeams danced with the 
 waves, again and again the faint cry was heard. The 
 trio plunged into still and secret depths, shadows danced 
 on the waves, thunder of the bass muttered fitfully with 
 a hint of coming storm. Then again the fairy dance 
 of rippling waves and the faint, far-off cry of passion 
 and pain. 
 
 The music touched Evelyn too deeply after the charm 
 of real moonlight and faint-heard sea outside in the 
 soft night ; she could hardly bear it, and, turning, looked 
 across the room straight into the dark, burning eyes of 
 Ronald Musgrave. An electric current seemed to flash 
 between them, something met and mingled with a thrill- 
 ing shock in their meeting glances, a veil was snatched 
 away ; the music had told them all. An agony of exulta- 
 tion shook Evelyn's heart, and overflowed from the soft, 
 dark depths of her eyes, a proud, fierce rapture flamed in 
 Ronald's; for one delirious moment each knew and con- 
 fessed everything; then the room swam round Evelyn, 
 her glance fell, her cheeks burned. The world could 
 never be the same again. 
 
 It was but a moment. Annis, carried away by the 
 beauty and fervor of that divine composition, could not 
 break off, but, without considering the difficulties of 
 execution, plunged hotly into the Presto agitato, hardly 
 pausing. 
 
 The storm was up, the winds unchained, the fountains 
 of the great deep broken up. The moon distilled her 
 unsullied beams upon raging waters; heaped tides pur- 
 sued her in perpetual baffled yearning; great breakers 
 plunged madly upon rock and reef and dissolved in foam 
 with hollow boom far-echoing and multitudinous. The 
 old cry of passion and pain rose again, intensified and 
 unrestrained; mellow thunders rolled, melodious cries 
 pealed through the growing tumult of unchained tempest 
 that walked abroad at will upon wide wastes of raging 
 sea. Evelyn felt the music in every fiber ; she knew with- 
 out looking that Ronald still held the geranium-leaf
 
 294 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 pressed to his lips, and was vaguely conscious that the 
 whist-players had stopped, with cards lying fresh-dealt 
 before them. Ronald was like a man enchanted to 
 marble and unconscious of things near ; she dared not look 
 at the others, she shuddered in wild exultation, and let 
 her heart go out upon the splendid tumult of the music. 
 Now the moon was lost ; now the light poured down jagged 
 edges of steep black cloud on the tossing, roaring waste ; 
 now a vast roller thundered up from the heart of the sea 
 and caught and crashed a great vessel like a nutshell on 
 an iron shore; now the spent storm-blast fled far away 
 over the wild waste, and left the waves quieting in 
 steady moon-rays. Nancy felt the triumph of the great 
 sea courses as they leaped and plunged and shook their 
 white manes; she had never been so glad before. But 
 the old cry broke perpetually through the gladdest, wild- 
 est tumult, and boomed far off in the softened thunder 
 of distant surge the cry of unmeasured longing and 
 illimitable desire, the immemorial voice of the ever-striv- 
 ing sea ''hungering for calm." Rosny felt it, and the 
 one inextinguishable regret and the one inextinguishable 
 hope of his life quivered through his heart. Kathleen 
 remembered how and why she had once, and only once, 
 played that divine sonata well; her husband felt in the 
 tumult and triumph of the wild sea-thunders baffled 
 and broken at the very summit of desire, but rolling up 
 again unsubdued forever in their despairing hope, the 
 unconquerable longing of the finite for the infinite, of 
 the human for the divine. Basil Mayne sat motionless 
 in the shadow, his face inscrutable behind misty eye- 
 glasses twinkling in the flicker of a shaken candle-flame, 
 and wondered, while the music stormed on with the 
 promise of a vast consolation in its fiercest tumult and 
 came to an abrupt end upon staccato chords. 
 
 Nancy, flushed and dreamy-eyed, left the piano and 
 sat in the window-seat, looking out into the moonlit 
 garden like a somnambulist, for a measurable space. The 
 silence seemed to throb with an audible pulse; a breath
 
 A SONATA OF BEETHOVEN'S 295 
 
 of wind rustled through the trees and wafted clematis 
 scent into the room. 
 
 "Why, Nancy," Herbert said at last and broke the 
 spell, ' ' I never heard you play like that before. ' ' 
 
 "I never did," she said, and the buzz of voices rose 
 again and the players took up their cards and one of 
 them trumped his partner's ace. 
 
 When Nancy and the Maynes were walking back to 
 the vicarage, all four unusually silent, Herbert and 
 Kathleen going ahead in a narrow part of the road, 
 Basil stopped to gather honeysuckle in the clear moon- 
 shine. 
 
 "Sweetest at night," he said, offering it to Annis. 
 "A wonderful sonata, but why moonlight? And won- 
 derfully played. You did not play with fingers, you 
 played it with your soul." 
 
 ' ' Some spirit must have played it, not I. I am. no 
 pianist. ' ' 
 
 "I shall remember it as long as I live: 
 
 " 'The high that proved too hi^h, the heroic for earth too hard, 
 Is music sent up to heaven by the lover and the bard ' 
 
 Beethoven wrote that sonata because he was hopelessly 
 in love with a woman beyond his reach. He thought 
 himself very unhappy, but he was not. It is a great 
 thing to be able to long for what is out of reach. It is a 
 great thing to be able to desire anything strongly, to feel 
 the worth of what can never be won." 
 
 "Evidently you are not a Buddhist, then." 
 
 "Not I. The extinction of desire is the extinction of 
 life. Nirvana is death. Don't you agree with me that 
 to desire a certain happiness is to be capable of it, and 
 even to taste it in a sort of anticipatory fashion, and that 
 therefore to desire happiness is a sort of happiness in 
 itself?" 
 
 ' ' Yet the desire of unattainable food is no remedy for 
 starvation. ' ' 
 
 "But hunger presupposes health. And the desire of
 
 296 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 food impels the generality of mankind to take active 
 measures to procure it. ' ' 
 
 "Surely the sonata means 'Infinite passion and the 
 pain of infinite hearts that yearn.' ' 
 
 ' ' And those feelings are the springs of all fine action 
 the infinite passion that Browning saw in the Cam- 
 pagna and Matthew Arnold heard in the Thames night- 
 ingale, Beethoven felt in the sea and expressed in that 
 sonata. It is very stimulating, don 't you think ? It lifts 
 one up out of the smoke and mire, it reconciles one to 
 pain, and shows the grandeur of denial. Yes ; it is good 
 to bear the ache of baffled longing. I shall always be 
 grateful to you for that divine sonata, Miss Rosny." 
 
 "Be grateful to Beethoven and his crossed love in- 
 stead. Coming, Kitty? Why, it's striking twelve, fairy- 
 time." 
 
 But though fairy-time was late for that simple house- 
 hold, it was early for the university don, who paced the 
 dry sward with a brier-wood pipe in his mouth after the 
 good nights had been said, and was joined by his brother 
 in a companionable silence. Presently Basil shook the 
 ashes out of his pipe and refilled it. 
 
 "That chap, Musgrave," he said during the process, 
 ' ' is out of his element here. He 's no good. A precious 
 loose fish. I hate the beast." 
 
 ' ' Oh ! he 's very well in his way ; a man of the world. 
 No saint, certainly, but good-hearted. My wife's cousin. 
 I've always found him pleasant. Chesney likes him. 
 You know that he is Lady Randal 's brother. And he is 
 a very old friend and messmate of Rosny 's. Surely he 
 is quite at home here, among us all." 
 
 "Very much at home here; far too much at home 
 and at his ease in this little Zion. You persons are too 
 innocent by half. Why, my good Herbert, you don't see 
 what other men see at a glance that Musgrave is a regu- 
 lar fast man. He's notorious. He has been in scandals 
 without end." 
 
 "Parsons are allowed to be ignorant of the world's
 
 A SONATA OF BEETHOVEN'S 297 
 
 wickedness and unacquainted with its scandals, Basil, 
 therefore they should exercise the greatest charity. But 
 Goldenose is not exactly in the wildest vortex of the 
 world." 
 
 "It's no charity to bring such a sweep as that into 
 intimacy with unsuspecting women, Herbert. Some of 
 them will rue it." 
 
 ' ' Come, come ; I can 't think very badly of a man who 
 finds so much pleasure in our quiet house and is so fond 
 of Kitty's society. A good woman like Kitty instinc- 
 tively turns from a really bad man. They've been 
 friends all their lives. And a bad fellow would not have 
 kept up this long friendship with Rosny, who appears to 
 think him a suitable companion and friend for his young 
 wife." 
 
 "Oh, Rosny! Rcsny's a fool." 
 
 ' ' He 's a very able man. At least three counties look 
 up to Rosny as a man who can do things and can 't be done 
 without. ' ' 
 
 "A man may be very able in some things and an 
 awful fool in others. Rosny 's blind." 
 
 "I think not. But the eyes of jealousy are prover- 
 bial."
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 RICHARD'S BLINDNESS 
 
 BLIND, indeed, Rosny was, in his utter trust in those 
 who had never deceived him ; blind, too, in his absorption 
 in innumerable business and family cares; he had not 
 time to observe what passed immediately before his eyes. 
 
 He saw nothing unusual in Evelyn during those 
 glowing August days ; nor did her spasmodic gaiety and 
 nervous excitement trouble him. The morning after the 
 sonata found her in a state of mental tension in which it 
 was impossible to touch food. Once or twice during 
 breakfast she looked at her husband with a wild and 
 piteous appeal in her overbright eyes, and her lips moved 
 as if trying to frame a sentence that was never spoken. 
 But the day's papers and correspondence were unusu- 
 ally absorbing, and his eyes never left their perusal. 
 
 It was a relief to Evelyn when he rose and went ; and 
 yet she walked to the gate with him and watched him out 
 of sight, as if her safety depended upon his presence, and 
 she knew that his absence left her defenseless and in 
 extreme peril. Through all the tumult of the wild, sweet 
 pain that troubled her ran an undercurrent of over- 
 mastering terror of actually seeing the face that was 
 ever present to fancy, fierce tenderness and delirious tri- 
 umph naming in the eyes and the geranium-leaf pressed 
 to the lips, as during the enchantment of the sonata. 
 She felt her weakness in ever fiber, and knew not how to 
 conquer herself. If Richard had but been true, she told 
 herself, she might still have sheltered herself in his love. 
 But that glance in the garden, when the fancy ball was 
 alluded to, and his engagement to Kathleen recalled, 
 298
 
 RICHARD'S BLINDNESS 299 
 
 that mutual glance finally destroyed her one forlorn 
 hope and left her defenseless in the hour of her great 
 need. She could not rest; she started at every sound, 
 fearing the step for which she was secretly longing. At 
 one moment she thought of flying anywhere, every- 
 where from the terrible joy that was ravaging her 
 soul; at the next she was computing the probability of 
 meeting what she most dreaded. 
 
 A note announcing the well-worn headache, which is 
 the feminine form of the urgent business that postpones 
 so many masculine engagements, excused her at the 
 Retreat where she was due at luncheon, and the day wore 
 away in feverish solitude till five o 'clock, when the sound 
 of wheels made her start and shudder and fly to her 
 room. There her worst fears were confirmed by the 
 entrance of Rhoda with, "Lady Randal Chesney to 
 inquire, if you please 'm, and are you well enough to see 
 her?" 
 
 ' ' Is she alone ? ' ' was the tremulous question, and the 
 reply in the affirmative was as saddening as it was tran- 
 quilizing. 
 
 "So kind of you," she said, coming into the parlor; 
 ' ' I was so sorry to miss going up to luncheon ; but a head- 
 ache makes one such a bore and nuisance. So I kept 
 indoors in the shade, and ate nothing, and it is 
 going off." 
 
 Lady Randal said that even headaches could not make 
 bores of some people, with a smile that was pleasant to 
 see. ' ' You must come up of tener now, dear Mrs. Rosny, 
 now that we are going to be so solitary. No tea, thanks. 
 I am due at the vicarage to implore Kitty to let me off 
 some of her parish functions. She pursues her parishing 
 with such a fury, that little woman. One could forgive 
 her personal fervor, but unluckily she must needs drag 
 everybody particularly my luckless self into the cur- 
 rent of her furious activities. I suppose it is the right 
 thing; no doubt she is a model vicaress. One respects 
 Kitty ; but I confess that I stand in considerable awe of
 
 300 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 her. I 'm fond of her, but not with the perfect love that 
 casts out fear. How much ought one to love one's cous- 
 ins, Mrs. Rosny?" 
 
 ' ' It depends a good deal, ' ' she replied with acidity 
 for the old jealousy of Nancy was awake "upon their 
 sex." 
 
 1 ' Very true ; the sex should always be opposite. It is 
 a great mystery, child. One always 'likes the lads best' 
 unless one is a lad oneself, then one prefers the lasses, 
 providing one has taste. My husband has none, I regret 
 to say, though he chose me, by a happy fluke, I suppose. 
 But Ronald, I sadly fear, likes the lasses far too well. 
 I often wish I could roll the two men together and then 
 cut them out, like pastry. They would make a couple of 
 eminently respectable mediocrities whom we should all 
 heartily detest. Which is the most intolerable respect- 
 able mediocrity or eminent virtue? They run one 
 another fairly close, I fancy." 
 
 "Oh, I don't know," was the fervid response. 
 "Eminent virtue can be most appalling, most intolerable, 
 especially," she sighed; "especially to live with." 
 
 "My dear child, I trust you are not speaking from 
 experience, for you certainly possess an eminently vir- 
 tuous husband." 
 
 ' ' Oh, no ; he is not so bad as all that ; don 't slander 
 him in his own house, Lady Randal. I can assure you 
 that he is not entirely devoid of amiable weaknesses, 
 though, on the whole, he's rather like blue china diffi- 
 cult to live up to." 
 
 "So is mine, dear. We are most unfortunate in that 
 respect ; and I am afraid we don 't try to live up to them 
 as hard as we might; but I ought only to speak for 
 myself. Do shake off the headache and come up and 
 comfort our solitude before we leave, which I suppose 
 will be in a fortnight. By the way, Ronald gave me a 
 message for you. All proper good-bys and regrets and 
 kind regards. He had to leave suddenly and unexpect- 
 edly this morning, owing to some mysterious and unex-
 
 RICHARD'S BLINDNESS 301 
 
 ampled iniquity on the part of somebody at the Ad- 
 miralty, I fancy; the Admiralty always seems to be the 
 villain of the piece with sailors, always making wrong 
 arrangements and promoting the wrong people. Wrong 
 people are promoted in the navy by the authorities, and 
 right ones by the favor of Heaven, as far as I can make 
 out." 
 
 "Then may we trust," said Evelyn, in spite of the 
 sudden paralysis that seemed to strike her heart and 
 brain and take all the savor out of everything, "that 
 the favor of Heaven has been successfully exerted on 
 behalf of Captain Musgrave." 
 
 "Oh, it's not promotion. He's still only a com- 
 mander, and at present with nothing to command but his 
 own idle time. I believe he has some idea of going to 
 Greenwich in the autumn for a six-months' course of 
 something terrible higher mathematics, international 
 law, and all the dreadful things post-captains have to 
 know. But he doesn't want to be a salt horse. I have 
 to say all his good-bys for him, owing to this sudden 
 change in his plans. Tiresome fellow, as if he couldn't 
 write to everybody and tell his own fibs. By the way, 
 I was to say how very much the cottage hospitality had 
 added to the charm and enjoyment of his stay." 
 
 "But I doubt if that is a fib," Evelyn began with slow 
 gravity. 
 
 ' ' Dear Mrs. Rosny, you are so charmingly quick and 
 quaint. You have me. It certainly was not." 
 
 "We shall miss your brother sadly, Lady Randal; I 
 shall have to break it very gently to my husband to-night. 
 He is not the most sociable of men, but his few friend- 
 ships are strong." 
 
 "Still waters, you remember? but Kitty's muffins 
 will be cold. So good-by and remember your promise. ' ' 
 
 "No harm done; no, I am sure there is no harm 
 done," Lady Randal thought, when she rolled smoothly 
 away behind the bright bays. ' ' She was white and grew 
 whiter and whiter as we chattered, but took the news 
 
 20
 
 302 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 without turning a hair. The headache was real. That 
 kind of woman always has headaches, unless she has 
 babies. I always rouge after mine, they leave me so 
 deathly white. And those parched lips with the black 
 marks. Oh! I know the headache demon very well by 
 sight ; and the weather is so cruelly hot. These men are 
 so subtle ; one can never tell their game. He doesn 't go 
 for her; then he must go for that quiet Nancy Rosny. 
 Tired of beauty, no doubt, and 'she plays Beethoven 
 divinely,' does she? He knew very well that the Maynes 
 were dining there last night and went on the chance of 
 meeting Nancy. I am glad that no harm has been done. 
 I like the child and feel rather responsible for her. Per- 
 haps the marriage is happier than it seems." 
 
 Nor was the news of Captain Musgrave's sudden 
 departure productive of any wild lamentations and dis- 
 may at the vicarage, where it was received with a cheer- 
 ful equanimity wholly incompatible with hidden tragedy. 
 Later in the evening, indeed, Herbert Mayne remarked to 
 Kathleen that the departure afforded him some relief 
 after Basil's unsatisfactory verdict on the character of 
 the departed. ''Surely, Kitty," he added, "you must 
 know if he is that kind of man. Your father and brothers 
 would know. And he was always thought fit to be on 
 cousinly terms with you." 
 
 "They certainly didn't want me to marry him, Her- 
 bert. Mother thought that being with us was a safe- 
 guard for him. She warned me he certainly was a 
 little wild in those days but I doubt if he was worse 
 than many others. I think he is all right now ; though we 
 should all be glad to hear of his marrying and settling 
 down with some good girl." 
 
 ' ' Kitty, you appall me ; you, you of all women, to talk 
 of marrying and settling down in that easy way. The 
 poor, good girl! You who demand a spotless past and 
 contemn the smallest need of repentance." 
 
 She crimsoned and appeared distressed. "It seems 
 very inconsistent," she replied gently, "but I am not a
 
 RICHARD'S BLINDNESS 303 
 
 model woman exactly. I am very exacting in some 
 respects. And yet But the generality of women are 
 different only too ready to condone an evil past. They 
 may be wiser than I only I don't think so. To return 
 to poor Ronald, Herbert, I really don't think he is the 
 black sheep Basil suggests. I should rate him as an 
 average man of the world, careless, pleasure-loving, capa- 
 ble of better things. Basil is hardly a fair judge. He 
 is jaundiced by jealousy. That is why he 'hates the 
 beast.' " 
 
 ' ' Basil 1 Basil jealous ? But you have to be in love 
 before you can be jealous, Kit. ' ' 
 
 "On the contrary, jealousy is often the forerunner of 
 love especially in your horrid sex. Men always want 
 what other men prize. To play one man off against 
 another is a very old trick. Many a hesitating swain has 
 been brought to the point by that stale device. ' ' 
 
 "I must confess that I wondered why Basil had dis- 
 covered so much charm in remote and slow Wimbury. 
 Poor old chap, I thought him wedded to Goldenose. This 
 accounts for so much cycling. Poor, dear old chap ! 
 Who is safe in a world like this ? ' ' 
 
 When Lady Randal was safely off the place, Evelyn 
 crept back, like a mortally wounded creature, to her room 
 and let her despair have its way. If he feared to speak 
 of his sudden departure, he ought to have written; to 
 tell her in this way was nothing less than brutal ; it ex- 
 posed her, unprepared and undefended, before his sis- 
 ter 's very eyes ; before, he knew not whose eyes. He could 
 never have done such a thing had he known. No, he 
 had not divined her secret, and only fled, most wisely and 
 honorably, from his own danger. Yet a danger seen and 
 fled is only half a danger. The music had moved him 
 and revealed a possibility to him, not an actuality. That 
 look, exultant and wild, tender and fiery, meant only the 
 surprise of a sudden thought. "This might have been, 
 and it would have been so sweet, but it can not be." 
 That Avas all. Yet the geranium-leaf who could forget
 
 304 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 the geranium-leaf '? And that wild moment in the moon- 
 light by the night-blowing stock ? Yet he was gone with- 
 out a word, with worse than no word that cruelly 
 public apology. Why, indeed, could he not "tell his 
 own fibs?" She had been so happy in her blindness, 
 behind that screen of friendship and interest in Richard 's 
 youth; all had been so innocent, so sweet, so uplifting. 
 But now It was the cry of Gretchen, the world-old 
 cry 
 
 My peace is gone, 
 My heart is sore ; 
 
 I shall find it never, 
 Ah! nevermore. 
 
 "Oh, Richard," she moaned as she lay face downward 
 on her sofa, "what have you done to me; what have you 
 brought on me ? If you had but cared for me, if you had 
 been ever so little kind to me, if you had but thought me 
 worth while." 
 
 So she lay like a broken flower in the rain till the next 
 morning. The serviceable "headache" had been re- 
 ported to Richard on his return, with a request, that was 
 now rapidly becoming familiar to him, to be left quite 
 alone for at least twelve hours. 
 
 ' ' Her nervous system was too tense ; she needed much 
 quiet, ' ' she was accustomed to tell him, to his great sur- 
 prise. 
 
 "For," he sometimes said, "my conscience often wor- 
 ries me for giving you such a monotonous life. ' ' 
 
 "You don't understand, Richard; the male intellect 
 seems unable to conceive the horror of headache!" 
 
 "Mother's headaches are so different. I always 
 understood them ; she 's had them all her life, or at least 
 all mine," he said, and Evelyn smiled rather bitterly. 
 "I can't even have the proper kind of headache," she 
 thought. "His mother's is the only orthodox kind, it 
 appears. ' ' 
 
 "You poor little thing!" he said, when she appeared 
 at breakfast after her twelve hours' solitude. "You
 
 RICHARD'S BLINDNESS 305 
 
 have had a rough and tumble with this wretched head- 
 ache this time, and no mistake. I don't half like these 
 headaches, Evelyn. I should like you to see Thorne, 
 dear. It may be a small matter, after all a matter of 
 sight. A pair of glasses might set you right." 
 
 He had laid a gentle hand on each of her shoulders, 
 and stood looking down from his superior height into her 
 ravaged face, with real and deep concern mixed with 
 pity. She could not avoid his gaze, she dared not meet 
 it ; a sudden storm of contradictory feelings rose in her 
 desolate heart, her head drooped till she hid her crim- 
 soning, wet face on Richard's arm, shrinking painfully 
 from his kiss. "Glasses will never set this right," she 
 sobbed. 
 
 "Come, come," he said, stroking her bright hair. 
 ' ' Cheer up ; don 't be a goose, don 't be hysterical. There 's 
 nothing in the world to cry about. I can't breakfast on 
 tears, Evie, neither can you. Come, come; drink some 
 coffee, and turn off the water- works. " 
 
 He poured her a cup, sweetened it, and held it to her 
 quivering lips ; she drank it, feeling that it must choke 
 her. For the first time since her marriage she felt her- 
 self in the wrong; dreadful shame swept over her, her 
 pride seemed broken. How had she come to this terrible 
 pass? she asked herself, feeling that all her life now 
 must be duplicity and concealment. 
 
 Und alles, was raich dazu trieb, 
 Es war so lieblich, ach, so lieb 
 
 She steadied herself and sat down, forcing herself to 
 take food and observe the small courtesies of the table, 
 while Richard talked and read extracts from the day's 
 news. 
 
 A woman can scarcely be in a more horrible position 
 than hers ; she had not even the terrible joy that compen- 
 sates for so much; she had lost herself for nothing, 
 ensnared by her deepest needs, entangled by her best 
 instincts. The world, indeed, could never be the same
 
 306 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 again. Suddenly it struck her that, after all, her secret 
 was her own; whatever Ronald may have felt, her feel- 
 ings had been sacred from him; whatever he may have 
 seen in that mutual glance. A look may be recalled and 
 explained away; a word, never. Every one had been 
 visibly moved and carried away by the magic of that 
 music. And she had made no response to those wild sug- 
 gestions in the garden. Pride woke at the thought, self- 
 respect returned, and a strange, wild gladness, that was 
 yet poignant with pity, leaped up at the thought of the 
 pain she had inflicted. Perhaps this sudden flight had 
 been the only course open for one so completely repulsed. 
 
 "Come, Evelyn, try the mushrooms. They are very 
 well done," Richard said cheerfully, laying his papers 
 down. "Hullo, here's a letter from Musgrave; why, 
 what 's this ? " he asked, tearing it open and absorbing it 
 in his rapid way. "Finds he has sudden business in 
 town; no time for good-bys; going on to Scotland for a 
 month 's grouse and salmon. May have a ship after that ; 
 if not Greenwich. Well, dear, there's small chance of 
 seeing him here again, I'm afraid. 'Kindest regards to 
 your wife, and apologies for not calling to say good-by. ' 
 Well, the only wonder was that he stopped so long. 
 And Nancy's going to-morrow. You must have some one 
 to stay here, Evelyn, unless you care to go to the Pines 
 till we get our holiday. When Thome hears of the head- 
 aches he'll probably say change of air. I can't have you 
 look like that; something must be done." 
 
 "Don't fret about me," she replied quickly; "you 
 have so many worries." 
 
 "I'll fight it down," she said to herself fiercely, "I'll 
 fight it down, I '11 die fighting, but I '11 not be beaten. ' ' 
 
 Never before had she practised serious self-restraint ; 
 all her brief life had been a yielding to feelings and 
 impulses or revolt at the pain of their perpetual denial. 
 Gentle and sweet and good those impulses had been; 
 temptation in any but gentle forms had never entered her 
 sheltered girlhood ; her religious instincts had but faintly
 
 RICHARD'S BLINDNESS 307 
 
 responded to a vague conventional creed; she was self- 
 centered, and at the mercy of every breath of feeling. 
 
 "When do you mean to stop over-pitying yourself 
 and have some pity to spare for other people?" Nancy 
 had asked once, to her bitter indignation. The need for 
 self-restraint had come now with a vengeance; feelings 
 had at last overtaken her that even a child could not 
 mistake. 
 
 "Don't fret about me; you have so many worries," 
 ran often in Rosny's head that day. He had become so 
 accustomed to have his occupations and cares treated as 
 crimes that he was quite touched by this sudden consid- 
 eration. Still more was he charmed and touched by a 
 neiv interest Evelyn began to manifest at this time in his 
 concerns, and by some attempts she made to understand 
 the ins and outs of his endless philanthropic schemes. 
 He was never reproached for being late now, still less for 
 not coming home at ail, and was encouraged to accept all 
 public duties such as being on the County Council 
 proposed to him. He never suspected that his absence 
 was a relief to her. 
 
 But her nervous system remained in an unsatisfactory 
 state, and it escaped his notice that she avoided being 
 alone with him, and herself proposed that Gwenny Bel- 
 ton, who was at the awkward between age so hateful to 
 elder sisters, and much hustled about and kept under at 
 home, should share their holiday. This was a rush 
 through Normandy and Paris to the South of France, 
 thence by sea to Venice and Sicily, a time of guide-book 
 reading and sight-seeing, of hotels and table-d'hote 
 dinners, and trains and steamers, cathedrals and picture- 
 galleries a most arduous and thorough doing of every- 
 thing that could be done in the shortest possible time, in 
 most deadly earnest, in which Evelyn and Gwenny out- 
 did one another. 
 
 There was no quiet lingering in remote spots to enjoy 
 the silences and sweet influences of nature, no long, sunny 
 hours on mountain slopes or within sound of rolling
 
 308 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 waves, no pleasant dallying about old towns, or aimless 
 sauntering round historic places, while their memories 
 and associations quietly impressed themselves on the 
 memory and stimulated the imagination; the very gon- 
 dolas were used like cabs, only to go from one place to 
 another, Gwenny expressing dissatisfaction with their 
 slow pace, while Evelyn quoted Shakespeare and made 
 Gwenny read the Ruskinian ecstasy on the Piazza of St. 
 Mark. 
 
 Rosny would rather have lounged in occasional f orget- 
 fulness of anybody's impressions and experiences but his 
 own, but was well content with what satisfied his com- 
 panions, while marveling at the fervor with which the 
 female mind sometimes pursues pleasure. And some- 
 times it struck him as a strange and uncomfortable thing 
 that the human being he understood least in the whole 
 world was his wife.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 IN THE DTJSK 
 
 GERALD'S first foreign service occurred early in the 
 autumn, when he sailed for the Cape, laden with parting 
 gifts and keepsakes, burdened with good-bys and promises 
 to write, and highly delighted with the prospect of seeing 
 something new. No -one finds it difficult to be bored by 
 the routine of garrison life, and Gerald had a capacity for 
 being bored that almost amounted to genius. His pulses 
 bounded at the prospect of shooting wild creatures with 
 names ending in bok and beest, while the chances of real 
 soldiering in that perplexing continent beckoned most 
 alluringly to him. But hardly had he landed before 
 enteric laid hold of him so fiercely that on his recovery he 
 was invalided home again. 
 
 This, not entirely without justice, he termed "the 
 beastliest luck." He felt out of place and superfluous 
 there, with three weary months without aim or interest 
 staring him in the face and the listlessness of recent ill- 
 ness upon him. Adeline, his special sister and compan- 
 ion, was away on a round of visits whence she returned 
 in December, preoccupied and dreamy, and anything 
 but good company, until the not quite unexpected arrival 
 in the neighborhood of Rupert Chesney, a gay hussar, 
 nephew of Lord Randal and eldest son of the duke's 
 next brother, restored her spirits to their usual high 
 level and culminated in her engagement to him. 
 
 "Jusy fancy Addie within an ace of the strawberry- 
 leaves," was Gerald's comment on this event. 
 
 "I sincerely hope she won't have the chance of 
 them, ' ' Richard replied. ' ' Unluckily the Chesneys share 
 
 309
 
 310 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 the popular delusion that she is an heiress. Their solicit- 
 ors are demanding the most outrageous settlements." 
 
 "Chesney's all right; he'd marry her with nothing 
 but the gown she stands in. I like Chesney ; I knew him 
 well at Shorncliffe when I was at Hythe. But I've 
 always said what a drawback it is to belong to a great 
 banking firm. You have to live up to it. And I never 
 shall believe but that my poor father was victimized by 
 the firm. There must have been some hanky-panky 
 somewhere. Who knows but the scoundrel that killed 
 him may have had some hand in it?" 
 
 "The old fancy again? I thought it had died out." 
 
 "Never. It never will till I have found that man," 
 Gerald said excitedly, his eyes growing wild. 
 
 "Look here, Gerald, supposing that your father had 
 been entitled to a large share in the firm 's profits Avhich 
 were very low and still dwindling at the time of his 
 death do you think, seriously, that his death could pre- 
 vent his heirs taking what was due to him?" Richard 
 asked, rising from the table in the peacock-room, where 
 they had just dined, and standing with his back to 
 the fire. 
 
 "Heaven only knows," replied Gerald, laying aside 
 his cigar with a worried look. "I can't argue the thing 
 out, Dick; my head still swims from that beastly fever. 
 But as sure as I am a living man, I know, I feel it in 
 my bones I know that my father was a deeply wronged 
 man, and that he came to his death by foul means. Who- 
 ever did that deed must have had some motive. The 
 specific motive is hard to find. But we know that, by 
 some mysterious hocus-pocus, his death found him cut 
 adrift from Belton, Laking & Co., of which he had been 
 all his life a partner, and without a penny in the world." 
 
 ' ' My dear boy, what does that prove ? ' ' Richard asked 
 with restrained impatience. 
 
 "That he was swindled out of his rights, Dick." 
 
 "Is it so very unusual on a man's death to discover 
 the state of his affairs and find him penniless and
 
 IN THE DUSK 311 
 
 involved?" Richard returned, with a gentleness that 
 was almost tender. "He had long had no connection 
 with the firm." 
 
 ' ; When I 've found the man, ' ' continued Gerald with 
 the persistence of a victim of a fixed idea ' ' and I mean 
 to find him I've dreamed it several times when I've 
 found him, a lot will come out, and my poor father's 
 memory will be cleared." 
 
 "Of what?" Rosny asked with the gentleness of 
 exceeding pity. ' ' There is no stain on his memory, Ger- 
 ald, that I am aware of. His weakness was buried 
 with him." 
 
 Gerald looked exceedingly distressed, and a cold dew 
 broke over his forehead, whence he pushed the short- 
 cropped curly hair. "I don't know, I don't know, I 
 forget things, ' ' he muttered wearily. ' ' I forget things, ' ' 
 he sighed, "but I never forget how he died and that no 
 one avenged him. And it is my duty to do so. It 
 haunts my dreams; it speaks to me when I wake in 
 the night." 
 
 "Is it quite wise," Richard said, looking through 
 moist eyes at the worried white face, "quite prudent to 
 let your mind dwell on these past sorrows? Dear old 
 chap, your nerves are still strained by the fever; you 
 are hardly your own man yet. The shock of that trag- 
 edy on a child's mind returns, as such things will, with 
 weakness. You ought never to be at the Pines. It has 
 too many associations for you." 
 
 "Only just all my life," Gerald returned with a 
 little, sad smile. " 'I remember, I remember, the house 
 where I was born, the little windows, ' etc. It 's soft, but 
 it's human." 
 
 "Well, but don't brood over it. Put your back into 
 this business of Adeline's marriage. Arrange all, you 
 and mother and the girls. I hope Chesney won't cry 
 off now at this eleventh hour. If Archie hadn't made 
 such an ass of himself she would have had more. As 
 it is, more will be settled on her than we can give to the
 
 312 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 others when their time comes. What a comfort to 
 have Adeline off one's hands! Chesney will keep her 
 straight. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, come, Addie's a handful, I confess, but not so 
 bad as all that conies to. She likes to go the pace, but 
 she never kicks over the traces, Dick. She knows where 
 to stop." 
 
 "A young woman who excites so much admiration," 
 Eichard said slowly, "is a great responsibility, espe- 
 cially to a busy man like myself. She needs the pro- 
 tection of a husband." 
 
 "Besides," added Gerald, listlessly resuming his 
 cigar, "you've got a wife of your own to look after." 
 
 "A wife of my own," he echoed with a smile of wist- 
 ful gladness, "but not to look after. My wife is well 
 she's my wife. Always gentle and sweet and still." 
 
 "Cffisar's wife. But she's deucedly good-looking, 
 Dick; she's handsomer and handsomer every time I see 
 her. There's more of her than there used to be. She's 
 a woman people turn round to look at in the street. I 
 never saw such a change from the baby she was." 
 
 "Marriage forms women; it's their only education. 
 Adeline will develop now, you will see." 
 
 "I wish it formed men. It seems to have pretty 
 well done for that young fool, Archie." 
 
 "I don't know that. I believe it was this foolhardy 
 marriage that turned him into settling down to a desk 
 in our house. And the prospect of being a father seems 
 to have waked him up completely." 
 
 ' ' Poor old Archie ! Only twenty-one and done for. 
 He '11 be old before he 's young, poor chap ! ' ' 
 
 All these family matters naturally occupied much of 
 Rosny's time as well as his thoughts, and kept him 
 more and more from home, where he now enjoyed the 
 new comfort of being able to speak of such troubles. 
 
 "What kept me away last night, Evelyn?" he said 
 a few weeks before over the evening meal. "Why, Ar- 
 chie this time."
 
 IN THE DUSK 313 
 
 ' ' And he had settled down so well. Is it more debt ? 
 I did think Archie was safely launched at last, Richard. ' ' 
 
 "Well, he just said to me yesterday, 'I suppose you 
 ought to know that I'm married. I married last Janu- 
 ary, and yesterday there was a boy.' That was Master 
 Archie's news. Imagine the rumpus at the Pines. 
 'What in the world did you do that for, you young 
 donkey?' I couldn't help asking. 'Why, because I 
 thought you would stop it if you knew, ' he said ; ' I was 
 under age.' 'Well, then, it's illegal,' I said. And so 
 it is, and they are to be married legally in church as 
 soon as possible. The first marriage was at a regis- 
 trar's office. She's an orphan without a penny in the 
 world." 
 
 "And they have a boy," Evelyn thought to herself. 
 
 "That is where Archie's money has been going. He 
 is the best fellow in the world, but he's not overwise. 
 He picked her up in a confectioner's shop at Camford; 
 she's Swiss, and a cousin of the confectioner. If he 
 would but have waited, the fancy might have died out. 
 Mother would never have consented to it. A Swiss shop- 
 girl, Evelyn! They'd scarcely known each other six 
 months young idiots." 
 
 "Your brother can cite a good precedent, Richard. 
 How long had you known me ? ' ' she asked with an odd 
 little bitter smile. 
 
 "Circumstances were different and exceptional. 
 Yet we might have been happier if we had known each 
 other longer," he added rather sadly. 
 
 "Is she respectable and well-conducted?" she asked. 
 
 "Heaven knows. According to Archie, she's perfect, 
 but has a slight and of course utterly charming 
 accent. Poor boy! It really is a trial for mother and 
 the girls. Adeline vows she will never receive her. And 
 Adeline is the master spirit at home." 
 
 "I am sorry that you have this new and serious 
 worry, Richard." 
 
 "My dear girl, don't waste pity in the wrong place.
 
 314 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 Think of that poor young donkey, Archie, beginning 
 life in such a blundering way we don't know w r hat sort 
 of a mess he may have made of it. It all depends on 
 the girl. And if she's good for anything I must say I 
 pity her. She is in apartments at Shackleton alone, with- 
 out a friend near her, at the present moment." 
 
 Evelyn was for going to her forthwith, but Richard 
 refused to hear of it, and the matter settled itself in 
 the course of time by the exchange of formal and exceed- 
 ingly uncomfortable visits between the young wife and 
 the ladies of her husband's family, the young pair hav- 
 ing been settled meanwhile in a small house in the 
 market town, to a branch of Belton's in which Archie 
 had been transferred from the head office ; not too near 
 the rest of the family, but near enough for set visits a 
 nearness most conducive to family harmony. These 
 arrangements were not effected without endless journey- 
 ings and long and laborious consultations and persua- 
 sions, and involved still more frequent absences from 
 home for Richard, with intensified solitude for Evelyn. 
 
 So when November closed in with its long, dark 
 nights and short, gray days, and frequent sheetings of 
 fog and rain, she felt as if Nature had conspired with 
 circumstance to hem her in and fence her round with 
 gloom and solitude ; her youth withered within her ; her 
 heart starved, a horror of the thick darkness of loneli- 
 ness fell upon her and drove her for refuge into the 
 recesses of her own unsatisfied emotions. Yet she was 
 always relieved by Richard's absence. 
 
 There was no one during that dark month at the 
 Retreat; she went rarely to the vicarage; Gerald some- 
 times rode over, and, more rarely, induced her to go to 
 the Pines by a roundabout railway, else she was alone 
 with the sere woods, the moaning sea, the storm-swept 
 moorland, and the long, gray, treeless downs, capped by 
 low clouds or sheeted in rolling mists. She walked in all 
 weathers attended by Rollo, and often relieving an over- 
 charged heart by reciting poetry to roaring winds and
 
 IN THE DUSK 315 
 
 raging seas. In the long evenings she poured out the 
 inarticulate passion so long restrained, in Chopin's poign- 
 ant nocturnes and dreamy mazurkas, or sang to her 
 firelit solitude songs of Schumann and Schubert, dan- 
 gerous remedies for these terrible heart maladies, sooth- 
 ing for the moment, but insidiously ministering fuel to 
 the flame. 
 
 But what does not furnish fuel to that devouring 
 flame, that terrible necessity for loving and being loved, 
 which ravages the lives of so many women? Outcast 
 winds complaining in outer darkness round the warm 
 house, crying with human voices in lonely woods, and 
 whistling over barren wastes; the sea-bird's wail, the 
 plover's cry, the sudden rush of rain on roof and win- 
 dow, and above all the many-toned, multitudinous yearn- 
 ing of the ever-hungering sea; all uttered the eternal 
 lament of starving hearts. In her extremity, Evelyn 
 turned to the only source of balm for such hurt as hers ; 
 she cried out to her Maker, but cried with the angry pain 
 of a spoilt child, and cried fitfully and with uncertain 
 hope. Yet not all in vain, unheard and unanswered 
 though her cry might seem to her; for such cries are 
 often forced by the birth-pangs of a better life; and 
 the prodigal was welcomed while he was yet a great 
 way off. 
 
 In those days a strange pity for Richard woke in her 
 from the very depths of her own self-pity. He was so 
 utterly unconscious of the tempest raging by his side, 
 his trust in her was so profound as profound, she 
 thought, as his indifference. He might as well expect 
 the oaken eight-day clock in the little hall to cherish 
 disloyal thoughts as her stationary domestic self; for 
 was she not but another piece of furniture, a somewhat 
 more costly chattel? 
 
 "You are losing your summer brightness, Evelyn," 
 he said on the evening of a very dark and eventless 
 day. "This is no place for you in winter. It is most 
 unlucky that I should have to be away so much in the
 
 316 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 dark time. How would you like to go to Cannes or 
 Mentone?" 
 
 "Oh," she replied, with sudden animation, "it 
 would be such an escape" he looked up in quick sur- 
 prise, and she colored deeply "such a deliverance from 
 this cold grayness, " she added quickly. "Sunshine is 
 life. But how could it be?" 
 
 "Could you chaperone Gwen if I took you across 
 and settled you in some nice Pension ? Or Gerald might 
 escort you, or he might stay and look after you. Gwen 
 is perpetually catching cold and coughing, and Thorne 
 says she wants a warm winter. You might go after 
 Christmas and come home for the wedding." 
 
 "But what would you do here alone?" 
 
 "Shut the cottage and use my rooms at the head 
 office. I don't like that drawn look in your face at all." 
 
 She tried hard to keep back the tears that clouded 
 her eyes in the unutterable relief of going away, any- 
 where if not forever, at least till she had had time 
 to become used to this corroding misery and acquire the 
 courage to hide it. 
 
 "Then you can buy a fine frock for the wedding at 
 Paris," he added cheerfully, as he left the room to 
 smoke his pipe, "and take the shine out of them all." 
 
 Still the days went heavily on, with leaden-paced 
 hours lagging most wearily. Evelyn tried to fill them 
 with homely duties, and was more than ever punctilious 
 in carrying out Richard's wishes. The thought of her 
 own death was sweet to her in those days, and she 
 noticed her sharpening features and hollowed eyes with 
 mournful satisfaction. 
 
 ' ' The days are sad ; it is the holy tide, ' ' she quoted 
 to herself one dark December day as she sat in the win- 
 dow-seat and wondered at the cruelty of her fate. The 
 window-panes were blurred to opacity by myriad drops ; 
 they blotted out the leaden sky and the rain-soaked earth 
 and dark line of undulating down-ridge, running grim 
 and gray out to sea behind curtains of slow, rustling
 
 IN THE DUSK 317 
 
 rain. She had stayed in all day, too listless to brave 
 the leaden-hued atmosphere and steady, gray down- 
 pour that permeated everything in its quiet, stubborn 
 persistence, melted the roads to an oily pulp, soddened 
 the sere leafage to a black and rotten mash, and took 
 the spring and stiffening out of everything. A day 
 in which grief itself turns limp and resolution dissolves 
 like April snow. No wind to fight, no keen-fanged cold 
 to endure, no sudden rush of hail or driving scud to 
 elude, nothing to stir the Viking blood, or rouse the 
 battle instinct; no rolling panorama of cloudland to 
 watch, no splendor of foaming sea, of changing light 
 on hill and plain and wind-bowed wood; nothing but 
 that gray persistence of fine, soft heart-chilling wet, 
 blotting and blurring everything. Every bird cowered 
 in its covert; every beast stood patient, with drooping 
 head and dripping fell, under hedgerow and tree; there 
 was no sound but the moist, muffled rustle of steady 
 rain ; not a plow furrowed the purple fallows ; fields and 
 lanes were empty; not a creature came to the cottage 
 except the patient postman. 
 
 Once a wagon creaked slowly by, the horses' great 
 hoofs making a sucking sound as they gripped and let 
 go of the sodden road, their manes and tails beaded and 
 their bodies striped with wet, and their heads droop- 
 ing in patient depression. The wagoners, splashing 
 heavily by them, were mud-spattered; wet sacks over 
 their heads and shoulders seemed a cumbrous and gro- 
 tesque expedient to keep out the penetrating rain ; Evelyn 
 had a passing spasm of sympathy for the chill discom- 
 fort of man and beast ; they emphasized the solitude and 
 silence by their brief passage across the piece of road 
 visible through the blurred window. She heard the clock 
 tick in the hall and a clatter of crockery and voices from 
 the kitchen was relief; the monotonous pitter-patter 
 of fine rain on the grass and drip-drip of trees and spouts 
 outside vexed her nerves beyond bearing. A man's 
 measured step on the gravel roused her to look out and 
 21
 
 318 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 see the corduroy-clad figure of Seth Barton, his head 
 and shoulders shrouded in a sack; he was going home 
 to his tea, and had been doing some job in the garden, 
 she remembered. He turned and looked out from the 
 pent-house of his sack to see the warm glow of the win- 
 dow and herself outlined upon it, and touched his hat 
 as he went by with a wet sound in his dragging steps. 
 He and the horses and wagoners and the rain-drenched 
 fields and trees, the heavy-headed chrysanthemums 
 dropping with wet, and sparrows cowering in creepers 
 with fluffed-out breasts, and the leaden sky slowly dis- 
 tilling that fine, persistent rain without break or gleam 
 all seemed to embody a weary patience that was hardly 
 resignation, and to symbolize the unbreaking dreariness 
 of her life. Nothing could alter the gray monotony of 
 her days now not even the fierce ache of tragedy. 
 Always her life would be like this dull gray day of rain 
 and mud, waning to a darkness without hope of stars, 
 one endless endurance, whence all passion, even that of 
 revolt, had died out. 
 
 A great wave of self-pity rolled over her; she felt 
 her youth and beauty waste and fade sensibly. Why 
 was she thus caged and cast aside? she asked with impi- 
 ous revolt and rushing tears. 
 
 The fire began to glow warmly in the dusk and lit 
 the room with fitful radiance, disclosing traces of the 
 day's occupations. Her embroidery- frame stood to 
 catch the light ; a mass of glowing silks and gold thread 
 lay near, tossed aside in sudden weariness. Yet the 
 satin quilt was beautiful, designed by an artist from 
 her own suggestion; the execution demanded thought 
 and invention; it was a wedding gift for Adeline; she 
 had hoped to forget herself in the wreaths of oak-leaves 
 and acorns and twining rose. Vainly had Fluff dis- 
 played the graces of his furry limbs and plumy tail, 
 madly toying with the silken skeins to attract her atten- 
 tion, and now, coiled into a velvety clew, slept happily 
 with a comfortable sound between purring and snoring.
 
 IN THE DUSK 319 
 
 Music was scattered on the open piano ; the contents 
 of Mudie's last box were littered about with half a 
 dozen periodicals. Evelyn looked drearily at the cheer- 
 ful disorder, and thought of the interminable evening 
 before her, picturing happy homes where children 
 stormed in from schoolrooms upon this vacant, firelit 
 hour, and danced laughing down from nurseries, and 
 where fathers and husbands came in from work or pleas- 
 ure to forget the murk and mud outside in the glow of 
 their cheerful firesides. Or people like Seth Barton and 
 the wet wagoners it was quite a new thing for Evelyn's 
 imagination to admit such homespun visitors might be 
 enjoying the welcome and companionship of their hum- 
 bler hearths. But she was all alone. 
 
 Rhoda presently tripped in with a tea-tray and lin- 
 gered in the hope of conversation, but was disappointed. 
 
 "Enough to give anybody cold shivers down their 
 backs," she complained in the kitchen. "Give me sum- 
 mer-time and visitors." 
 
 Evelyn thought with her. She longed desperately 
 for the "green felicity" of those stripped lime-trees 
 massed upon the wet gray gloom, and for the enchanted 
 hours of their summer blossoming. 
 
 To know the change and feel it 
 Was never said in rhyme. 
 
 The gloom gathered, the last lonely cottage on the 
 hillside merged in the darkness, its glowing window 
 quenched by a curtain. Her head drooped; the cheek 
 she laid against the window frame was wet; her heart 
 ached for the sound of a voice and a step she might 
 never hear more. Slow steps were indeed sounding on 
 the wet gravel, but it was only poor Seth coming back 
 in the rainy dark to work, she thought. The front door 
 was softly and silently opened, and as softly shut ; then 
 the sudden opening of the parlor door made her turn 
 quickly and spring to her feet with a cry of irrepressible 
 gladness to see, full in the firelight, that unforgotten
 
 320 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 face, the eyes shining, the hair and beard thickly beaded 
 with rain, the arms outstretched, and to hear in that 
 deep, full voice, the one, heart- wrung word, ' ' Evelyn ! ' ' 
 
 A precipice toppled in the fire; flame leaped up and 
 glittered upon the portraits of father and son and upon 
 the two swords crossed beneath them on the wall; the 
 lion-headed hilts, the rings and finishings of the scab- 
 bards burned fitfully, the faces of the two sailors looked 
 out, clear, frank, and trustful, straight upon those two 
 living figures meeting in the light and shadow of the 
 hearth. But Evelyn saw nothing but the passion-fired 
 face, wet with rain, heard nothing but the heart-music 
 of her own name, felt nothing but the damp freshness 
 of open air, breathing round him, and the unutterable 
 security, repose, and gladness of being fenced and shel- 
 tered in the impregnable stronghold of a strong man's 
 deep and enduring love. 
 
 "I couldn't help it," he cried with fierce restraint; 
 "I couldn't keep away. I couldn't live away. But I 
 didn't mean to come in, only to look, to look once on 
 your face, Evelyn, Evelyn." 
 
 The two frank sailor faces seemed to frown in the 
 fitful light; the lion-headed hilts and scabbard-mount- 
 ings glittered fiercely; the light suddenly failed, and 
 the two silent figures were lost in the heavy gloom.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 THE DECEMBER ROSE 
 
 PITCHED as if by chance as in a cleft of intersecting 
 uplands, at the foot of the long, gray ridge of Wim- 
 bury Down and above the steep road that crossed Black- 
 ridge Down, a heathy upland, smitten and scourged by 
 all the winds of heaven and all the storms that rush, salt 
 and shrieking, from the wild, gray channel, roaring 
 yonder upon an unseen shore, and standing sheer upon 
 the highroad where it is crossed by a lane that winds 
 deep among the downs, with scarcely a habitation in 
 sight, the stone-built Barley Mow seemed to have small 
 justification for existence, except as a retreat from the 
 roar and tumult of human life. Yet it made a social 
 center and focus of pleasure and good-fellowship for 
 many lonely miles round. The leafless sycamore across 
 the road, from a branch of which the weather-faded 
 sign-board creaked, was fringed and crusted with a gray 
 growth of lichen, and its spreading top showed irregular 
 gaps, whence boughs had been torn by tempest ; lichens 
 brocaded the steep house-roof and the bare stone front, 
 and the windows, whence could be seen a wide prospect 
 of wind-swept slope, scantily-wooded, barren, and de- 
 clining gently to the gray blue channel, were heavily 
 shuttered against storms that roared and howled round 
 its strong chimneys and steep-pitched gables on autumn 
 nights. Long days and longer nights went by when the 
 Barley Mow was deserted and silent, except for shriek- 
 ing storms and furious winds, or the gentler music of 
 birds and breezes in sunnier hours. But on one Decem- 
 
 321
 
 322 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 ber morning the remote and solitary inn had a sudden 
 loss of quiet and accession of guests. 
 
 All winds were still on this bright morning, that 
 was pungent with the earthy scent of hoar-frost; all 
 vistas opening along the down-windings were veiled in 
 purplish haze, and all outlines softened in the misty 
 gold of December sunshine. Such wintry sunshine is 
 not without a sadness of its own; its pathos is like the 
 smile of a brave and suffering soul, facing adversity 
 with gallant jests; for storms and rains and driving 
 mists are too recent and too liable to return on the bright- 
 est midwinter day to be quite out of mind, and the 
 world has had no time to forget the tragedy of the long 
 winter night before the early darkness extinguishes the 
 last glowing embers of sunset. 
 
 But to-day the sun lay with cheerful warmth on the 
 gabled front of the Barley Mow; it sparkled on its 
 frosted windows and brought warm brown flushes upon 
 copse and wooded hill, and especially upon the wide- 
 armed sycamore that held the painted sign-board. 
 Drawn up in front on the broad, grass-edged road, were 
 the huntsman and whip, red-coated and purple-faced, 
 on lovely satin-skinned horses, standing with tossing 
 heads and impatient feet in a sea of tawny hounds, 
 whose eager, questioning faces and waving sterns glowed 
 in yellow sunshine and were set off by the green of turfy 
 banks and road edges. 
 
 And all about the broad bit of road at the turn, and 
 all along the crossing roads by the finger-post, was a 
 brave company of mounted men in black and red coats, 
 and a goodly assemblage of vehicles, two- and four- 
 wheeled, shabby and smart, and a little sprinkling of 
 pedestrians and cyclists. And everywhere a cheery hum 
 of voices and laughter, a stamping and neighing of 
 horses and clink of bits, a cracking of whips and whim- 
 pering of hounds, with scent of cigars, trodden grass, 
 and trampled ground, rotten leaves, and horses and har- 
 ness-leather, a singular but inspiriting bouquet of min-
 
 THE DECEMBER ROSE 323 
 
 gled odors to accompany a pleasant and inspiriting 
 chorus of mingled sounds. 
 
 ' ' No sport to-day, ' ' was prophesied from the vicarage 
 wagonette, which slowly climbed the road winding up 
 the heathy flank of Blackridge Down, whence all the 
 purply brown and green and golden landscape could 
 be seen rolling away to the channel, or climbing with 
 many a wooded cleft to the down summits. "Look at 
 the rime on the brambles." 
 
 "Oh! but the frost is giving in the sun. See how 
 it drips from the bracken and thorns. Besides, it's the 
 first for some time." 
 
 ' ' Ah ! and see, ' ' cried Evelyn, pointing to the sandy 
 bank, ' ' a rose, a white rose in bloom. ' ' 
 
 The vicar adjusted his pince-nez to look at the brambly 
 growth alternating with bracken and furze and ling, 
 among which were bushes of the small burnet-leaved 
 rose that loves the free, fierce air and sunshine of open 
 wastes, and comes when May-blossom fades. 
 
 "I'll gather it when we come back, Mrs. Rosny. 
 "Why, it would be Heine's Haideroslein." 
 
 "No, it's the musk-rose, and always white, cream- 
 white; and Heine's rose was red and prickly." 
 
 ""What? a thornless rose? I thought that was a 
 poetic fiction," he said, jumping up to the driving seat 
 and resuming the reins Evelyn had held while he walked 
 up the hill. "J?osa spinosissima? I thought that meant 
 as thorny as can be." 
 
 "It is so overdone with prickles that it can't prick, 
 Herbert; which is symbolical," Kathleen said. 
 
 "Of one's wife, I suppose. What do you make it, 
 Mrs. Rosny ? Now, then, Sam ; steady, boy, steady. I 'm 
 blest if old Sam doesn't want to follow the hounds. 
 Can 't forget his youth. "Whoa ! then, steady there, good 
 Sam; steady, my beauty." 
 
 But the joy of the old brave days of youth, when he 
 followed the chiming pack in the first flight over field 
 and fallow, kindled in the old horse's heart, for he
 
 324 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 heard sounds and snuffed scents imperceptible to duller 
 human sense; down went his head, up went his heels 
 with a reckless, jubilant whinny, and away he plunged 
 with a coltish ardor unbecoming to his sober age, and 
 most disturbing to unsportsmanlike nerves behind him. 
 
 "Not that I have any serious objection to following 
 the hounds," Kathleen explained, "but I never cared to 
 go across-country in a wagonette." 
 
 "Besides," Herbert added, "we can't see either the 
 meet or the throw-off with Sam perpetually dancing on 
 his hind legs." 
 
 "Let me drive him back for you," Evelyn proposed 
 rather eagerly, with a flushed face that had no connec- 
 tion with Sam's elderly antics, but was rather attribu- 
 table to something her quick eye had caught along the 
 lane leading off Wimbury Down. "I don't think I care 
 to stand about watching hounds to-day; the meet only 
 makes an object for a drive." 
 
 "Dear Mrs. Rosny, I shouldn't care to reckon with 
 your husband if I abandoned you to a single-handed 
 struggle all the way back with Sam. But if you really 
 don't care Whoa, my beauty to walk on to the Bar- 
 ley Mow, I see Jim Cox coming along, and I'll get him 
 to take Sam quietly home and drop you at the cottage." 
 
 "Why on earth," Kathleen asked when, the disen- 
 gaged stableman having been entrusted with the wagon- 
 ette and Sam and Evelyn, they were walking on to the 
 Barley Mow, "was Mrs. Rosny so anxious to go home 
 all of a sudden ? She was so very keen to see the throw- 
 off this morning, and she's never keen on anything. I 
 never shall understand Evelyn, Herbert; she's so capri- 
 cious. One never knows where to have her." 
 
 "She's very charming," he said rashly, "and if 
 capricious well, mulier est. Somehow you two never 
 seem to hit it off together. Ah! there's Nancy looking 
 as fresh as a rose." 
 
 There, indeed, beyond the hounds and huntsmen, was 
 Nancy, standing, bicycle in hand, by a five-barred gate
 
 THE DECEMBER ROSE 325 
 
 on the left of the inn garden, and at her side, likewise 
 bicycle in hand, his eye-glasses twinkling in the sun, 
 was Basil Mayne, who had left the vicarage gate full 
 five minutes after the wagonette had started, and had 
 apparently been for some minutes in conversation with 
 Nancy. She had cycled from Sandycombe, and the ten- 
 mile run might have been accountable for the fresh 
 color observed by Mr. Mayne. There, too, were many 
 other familiar faces in carriages and on horses. 
 
 "Good old Chesney, with a sort of England-expects- 
 every-man-to-do-his-duty look on his grim old mug," 
 Herbert muttered to Kathleen, nodding to Lord Randal, 
 who sat humped up upon a quiet-looking weight-carrier 
 and held his hunting crop in a martial, not to say 
 aggressive, manner, and wore an old-fashioned shabby 
 red coat with the resolute air of one determined to 
 encourage field sports as becomes a fine old English gen- 
 tleman. His wife said that he could not tell a fox from 
 a hound, or a horse's tail from a cow's. Yet he was 
 holding a knowing discourse with a young farmer upon 
 a beautiful little bay mare, thin-flanked, with long, 
 speed-giving hind quarters and finely finished legs, upon 
 the mare's points and pedigree and her chances for the 
 cup she was to be entered for in the spring steeplechases. 
 The young farmer was smiling with gentle forbearance 
 and polite attention. Lady Randal, very handsome in 
 her well-cut habit and businesslike hat, and sitting her 
 brown hunter as if she were part of him, was every- 
 where and talking to everybody upon every conceivable 
 thing. 
 
 Backing out from a space behind a landau, she 
 nearly backed upon Gerald Belton, handsome and lan- 
 guid, red-coated and top-hatted to the utmost perfection, 
 upon a young horse, rather a small beast, but looking 
 fit for anything. Gerald smiled his charming smile as 
 he edged cleverly away and raised his hat from his 
 close-cut hair that glittered in the sun. 
 
 ' ' What a beauty ! ' ' she said, looking lovingly at the
 
 326 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 little black horse. ''If I know anything, he'll go and 
 he'll stay. He's about the fittest little beast I've seen 
 this long while, Mr. Belton." 
 
 "He isn't a bad little chap, is he? Lent me for the 
 season by my brother. ' ' 
 
 "Your brother? Not Mr. Rosny? Is Saul also 
 among the prophets, then? I had not suspected him of 
 a knowledge of horseflesh." 
 
 "Dick knows most things, Lady Randal. He knows 
 me better than to give me Boy Blue. He lends him, so 
 that I can't sell him or bet him away." 
 
 Boy Blue began to dance delicately; his master had 
 seen Annis Rosny, rose-cheeked, and trimly dressed in a 
 short cycling suit; there were crossings and recrossings 
 among the maze of horsemen, in the course of which 
 Boy Blue edged toward the five-barred gate, and Lady 
 Randal brought up by another friend and chatted gaily 
 away, reflecting all the time on the fact that Rosny had 
 practically given this valuable hunter to his stepbrother, 
 while his wife had but a homely pony cart to drive to 
 the market town in, and he himself went afoot. She 
 thought, too, of Adeline's dowry and sumptuous wed- 
 ding preparations. Gerald was destined not to reach 
 the five-barred gate as soon as he could have wished. 
 The Maynes had approached the little recess that sloped 
 up from the road to the field it barred, and could not 
 well be ridden over; rather they had to be smiled at 
 and congratulated upon the weather and complimented 
 upon their energy and consulted upon the slightness of 
 the rapidly exhaling frost; and, while this desolating 
 social rite was proceeding, another hunter rode up at 
 right angles to Boy Blue, with something to say to 
 everybody. 
 
 This cavalier, who dismounted at the gate, was on 
 a tall, long-legged iron-gray with a soft and gentle eye 
 and very fine head; he himself looked businesslike in a 
 black coat and the usual finishings. In his coat, con- 
 spicuous in the sunshine, was a creamy-white wild rose
 
 THE DECEMBER ROSE 327 
 
 with a golden center, at sight of which Kathleen and 
 Annis both exclaimed: 
 
 "Did you get it on Blackridge Down, Ronald? We 
 saw one as we came up the hill, ' ' Kitty asked. ' ' Or does 
 it rain December roses to-day?" 
 
 "And I flattered myself it was a rara avis, a black 
 swan of flowers, Kitty. Don't say that you've seen one 
 already, Miss Rosny, I implore you." 
 
 "You find them now and again in late autumn," 
 Annis said. "Has it any scent, Captain Musgrave?" 
 
 ' ' Try it ; do me the honor to wear it, ' ' he said, hand- 
 ing it to her. "Mayn't I fix it in your coat? 'The sweet 
 musk-rose, the Mid-May's eldest child,' ought to be 
 honored. ' ' 
 
 "A pity to disturb it," she replied, fixing it in her 
 sage-green coat to prevent his doing so. "Is that big 
 gray of yours the one you tumbled off the other day?" 
 
 "What an unkind way of putting it? People don't 
 tumble off unless they are duffers. We came a cropper 
 together, the gray and I, as we were negotiating a bull- 
 finch. We don't quite know how, but we suddenly found 
 ourselves all mixed up together in a plowed field on the 
 other side. Two valuable lives, human and equine, were 
 very near being extinguished on that occasion, and yet 
 you smile at the recital." 
 
 "You don't seem to be much damaged," growled 
 Basil Mayne, the expression of whose usually cheerful 
 and urbane countenance was gradually becoming fiend- 
 ish in its malignity. The transfer of a harmless wild 
 flower from one person's coat to another's seemed to 
 have an injurious effect upon his nervous system, out of 
 all proportion to the triviality of the incident, while the 
 quality of his voice expressed liveliest dissatisfaction 
 with the absence of perceptible damage to Captain Mus- 
 grave 's person. What with the withering scorn and dis- 
 gust in Mr. Mayne 's eyes, and the wrath and fury in 
 those of Gerald, who was also a close and disgusted 
 observer of these petty details, it was a marvel that
 
 328 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 either the rose or its debonair giver escaped shriveling 
 to dust beneath that scathing double glare, of which 
 Captain Musgrave himself was agreeably conscious. 
 
 "Very little damage," he said, cheerfully smiling, 
 but not on the eye-glasses. "One soon discovers which 
 are one's own legs, and which one's horses on such occa- 
 sions. The gray and I look forward to many another 
 spill together, Miss Rosny. You may have the pleasure 
 of seeing one to-day. There will be little other sport, I 
 fear, to judge by the state of the atmosphere." 
 
 "Yet you took the trouble to come out?" 
 
 "And have been amply rewarded. One likes to 
 meet ah friends, especially sometimes. Are you stay- 
 ing at the vicarage?" 
 
 "Ass!" muttered Basil. 
 
 "Beast!" growled Gerald, fretting Boy Blue till he 
 backed on a hound and made him yelp and the hunts- 
 man say unpleasant things. 
 
 "That's good news," Captain Musgrave said, upon 
 an affirmative reply. "Even deserts may smile 
 "And bounders grin like Cheshire cats," Basil Mayiie 
 muttered savagely "and the wilderness has already 
 blossomed with and like the rose. I hope you'll stay 
 over the New Year. My sister is meditating some big 
 function " "Why doesn't Mayne kick the beast?" 
 Gerald wondered "and I'm going to persuade my 
 cousin to have a carpet-dance one night. Shall we join 
 forces to move on, Miss Rosny?" 
 
 "When Kitty asks us will be time enough," Nancy 
 said, turning to Kathleen, who was still standing near, 
 an amused spectator of the various life gathered in front 
 of the inn. ' ' Did you walk all the way, Kitten ? Ah ! 
 there's Gerald. How do you like Boy Blue, Gerald?" 
 
 "How are you, Musgrave?" Herbert said, coming 
 back from a round of visits to mounted and carriage 
 people. "They're going to try the spinney by the mill. 
 Shall we follow, Kit, or stay here and watch?" 
 
 Ronald was on the gray in a trice, abreast with Ger-
 
 THE DECEMBER ROSE 329 
 
 aid on Boy Blue, and genially pleased with his company, 
 to all appearances; the huntsman touched his cap and 
 moved off with the bustling pack ; led horses were mount- 
 ed, friendly groups dissolved, horsemen streamed after 
 the hounds, vehicles followed, and foot and cycle people 
 mixed in among the straggling, thinning train that 
 flowed along the country lane between gorse and bracken- 
 grown hedges or over the open down beyond them, a 
 bright and cheery sight in the wintry sunshine, with 
 crunch of hoof and wheel, crack of whip, and clink of 
 bit and bridle, and scent of crushed turf and trampled 
 ground. Now a horse whinnied, a hound yelped, and all 
 the dogs within hearing barked in answer, or a man's 
 voice shouted an order or a question above the general 
 hum; now came the thud of cantering horses on the 
 turf; now there was a general trotting of steeds along 
 the lane, and stray notes from the huntsman's horn in 
 the distance; and now the roads meeting by the Barley 
 Mow were empty and silent, swept bare of the gay 
 groups that had swarmed there five minutes before. 
 
 "Let us go back over Blackridge Down," Herbert 
 said after a few minutes' chat with the landlord and a 
 good morning to the buxom wife, who was busy washing 
 glasses and mugs in the bar. "If they find in the spin- 
 ney, we may see them break away. And I must call at 
 the corner cottage Cox's wife is ill." 
 
 The day was clouding over before a southwest breeze 
 that boded rain; robins sang, a storm-cock was shout- 
 ing from the tallest tree he could find in a sheltered 
 hollow by a farm; everything looked a warm purply 
 brown, touched with green and shading into pale indigo 
 in the distance; the hoar-frost was gone, except in hol- 
 lows and on the north side of hedges. The note of a 
 horn and sudden confused sounds of hounds giving 
 tongue occasionally rose upon the faint breeze ; and when 
 they began to descend the steep road over Blackridge 
 Down they could see the spinney in the lower land a 
 mile away, and the hunt dotted about a gray stubble
 
 330 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 and a green meadow, looking as small as toy soldiers; 
 between the lane hedges carriages could be seen. 
 
 ''I can just make out Mrs. Belton and the girls," 
 Kathleen said, using the field-glasses, "in a landau; 
 Adeline is in chinchilla; Molly in blue fox. Did you 
 see Gerald's lovely little black horse?" 
 
 "Who didn't, Kit? I can't help wondering at 
 Rosny's resolution in living so very modestly. He must 
 be rolling in riches, giving young Belton that valuable 
 hunter, when his wife has nothing but that little scrub 
 of a pony. Of course, we know that he spends fortunes 
 on these different philanthropic enterprises, but it's 
 scarcely charity to give an extravagant young fellow, 
 who is always head over ears in debt, an extra, unneces- 
 sary horse." 
 
 "Only lent, perhaps, to prevent more buying. And 
 Richard may not have a large share in the firm. Gerald 's 
 father was a partner, was he not?" 
 
 ' ' They say that Rosny is the firm, and that old Belton 
 was long out of it and penniless and in debt when he 
 died. The firm was going to the dogs till Rosny put 
 his shoulder to the wheel and pulled it round again and 
 made a new thing of it. You must surely have known 
 that, Kitty." 
 
 ' ' I know far too much about it, Herbert, dear, to be 
 able to discuss it," she said, reddening. "But I think 
 I may tell you without breaking faith, that Richard 
 Rosny has some Quixotic notion of holding his partner- 
 ship in trust for his stepfather's children. No doubt 
 Evelyn fully understands, though it must come hard to 
 her at times. Do you know, Herbert, it is extremely 
 awkward to come into possession of other people's 
 secrets. One is always carrying contraband facts hid- 
 den in one's mental baggage." 
 
 "I'm afraid, Kit, that you have come into posses- 
 sion of a sad gossip by way of a husband. But don't 
 let me worm anything out of you. The fact is, as you 
 know, I am much interested in this man, and have a
 
 THE DECEMBER ROSE 331 
 
 real liking for him and can't help speculating on his 
 motives, which must be unusual. And to tell you the 
 truth, Kitten, I always forget that old boy and girl 
 business of yours one is not very keen on that kind 
 of thing, don't you know and so I forget that it may 
 have involved more knowledge of his affairs than he 
 would wish others to have." 
 
 ' ' It does, indeed, ' ' she sighed. ' ' I happened to come 
 into his life just at the meeting and parting of the ways. 
 Poor, poor fellow ! So I know too much and am always 
 afraid of letting it out." 
 
 "He seems to have no such fear. He is always at 
 ease and unguarded with you. Kit, he told me the other 
 day that the vicarage was his land of Beulah. I don't 
 think he's so very much to be pitied, all things con- 
 sidered. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Poor Richard ! I used to be afraid of him. But I 
 have nothing but pity for him now. You, too, would 
 pity him, Herbert, if you knew the tragedy of his 
 life." 
 
 "Tragedy? The expression is strong, Kit. Perhaps 
 you don't quite realize it. I should rate Eosny a happy 
 man, as men go, and place all his griefs in the past. 
 The man has known suffering who has not? but he 
 has mastered it and entered into peace. He has a happy 
 home. Half the men and all the boys in the parish 
 worship that man. He is more trusted and looked up 
 to than any man in the county, aye, and in half a 
 dozen, always being asked to fill some important posi- 
 tion or advise upon some vital point. Isn't that happi- 
 ness to know oneself valued and trusted?" 
 
 They were leaning over a gate, watching the spin- 
 ney in which the pack had disappeared. From the pur- 
 ple furrows of a field in the foreground a flock of plover 
 rose suddenly, their wings flashing silver against the 
 deep brown of a coppice ; the thrush was silent now, but 
 the cry of a gull was heard. 
 
 "What is tragedy?" Kathleen asked presently.
 
 332 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 "What should you say was the deepest of all human 
 griefs, Herbert?" 
 
 "Oh, that has been said often, and is eternally true, 
 and we have all in some degree known it," he replied; 
 "the sorrow of sorrows is having sinned." 
 
 The trot of a horse, long heard on the road, checked 
 behind them with the call of the rider: "Seen the 
 hounds ? ' ' and they turned to see, on his serviceable bay, 
 the spare, strong figure of Dr. Thorne, now verging upon 
 his fourth decade. Hardly had the question been an- 
 swered and the doctor leaped the hedge, when Kath- 
 leen, looking through the glasses, saw a small, dark 
 creature stealing out of the spinney and making for 
 the open. 
 
 "Oh, look, Herbert, there's a poor, lost dog. He 
 doesn't know where the others are," she exclaimed, 
 when, to her amazement, the vicar of the parish bound- 
 ed like a ball to the top of the gate, and, taking off his 
 hat and waving it like a maniac, gave utterance to the 
 most unearthly yell ever heard. The doctor took it up, 
 as he rode; it was prolonged by some laborers hedging 
 farther on, and echoed in a chorus from the spinney; 
 then a hound gave tongue, another and another, and 
 soon the wild music of the whole pack broke out with 
 pulse-quickening tumult, and hound after hound tum- 
 bled out of the spinney, and after the long, dark crea- 
 ture flying over the open, till the pale stubble field was 
 overspread by a tawny yellow and white fan, succeeded 
 by a wider and darker fan of horsemen coming round 
 from the various directions in which they had waited. 
 The tawny yellow stream poured like liquid over the 
 hedge into a gray brown fallow beyond, and the whole 
 hunt, a moving mass of black and brown, vividly dotted 
 with scarlet and interpenetrated with white, flashed 
 across the country, not unlike a flock of birds of passage 
 in a wedge-like formation, spreading out in a thinning 
 fan behind. 
 
 "Lady Randal is in the first flight. Well done!"
 
 THE DECEMBER ROSE 333 
 
 Herbert cried. " George Chesney is well to the front. 
 His mother's own son not bad for ten years on a rough 
 little pony. Ronald is down. What will Nancy say, 
 Kit? Up again and off like a shot. Who's that girl 
 on the gray? Do you see Gerald Belton? He went 
 over like a bird. Look at poor old Chesney creeping 
 round to find a gate. There's Guy Belton in the ruck; 
 the boy rides well. There are our two cyclists pulling 
 their wheels through a gap. Thome is pounding along 
 like a true Briton. How the bay sails over the fences! 
 Another spill. Well, Kitten, we're in for all the fun 
 of the fair this time." 
 
 "And my 'poor, lost dog,' " she said, smiling and 
 well pleased with the spectacle that flashed across the 
 champaign and disappeared, leaving the field stiller, the 
 hills lonelier, and the woods more dreamlike than before.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 THE STOKM 
 
 THE high ridge of Wimbury Down ended seaward 
 in an abrupt and precipitous fall of some three hundred 
 feet to a grassy level, bestrewn with fallen rocks and 
 sheltered from the north by the grassy cliff crowned 
 with weathered limestone crag that was drawn bold and 
 sharp against the sky. This broken level, itself on the 
 summit of cliffs descending less abruptly to a rocky 
 shore on which the sea broke with thunderous roar in 
 stillest summer weather, was a sunny and peaceful place 
 enjoying a climate of its own, and much clothed, espe- 
 cially between projecting spurs of the upper cliff, with 
 woods feathering away on the steep to mere brush, bram- 
 ble, and ivy, that sometimes ran up even to the over- 
 beetling crags, where ravens built and hawks, and more 
 rarely a falcon, had their homes. 
 
 Here on one wild December day, when the hoarse 
 roar and harsh scream of the ground swell made a con- 
 tinuous fundamental bass to all other sounds; when the 
 wind, striking the tide sideways, crushed the long rollers 
 one over the other upon themselves and tore their crests 
 into white haze of blinding spindrift, and whistled shrill 
 and sharp over the shuddering turf above the crag, and 
 howled across the open country and smote tree-tops 
 together and tore them apart with savage shrieks and 
 cruel mirth amid grinding branches and twisting trunks ; 
 here in the mossy heart of a wooded hollow there was 
 peace and warmth, and all the tumult of wailing wind 
 and beaten surge and roaring woodland was subdued 
 and blended to a deep majestic organ symphony, with 
 334
 
 THE STORM 335 
 
 trumpet stop and bourdon alternatively prevailing. 
 Hence, through thinning trunks and boughs to the south 
 could be caught a glimpse of foam-ridged sea, empty of 
 mast and sail; here a small wren, climbing through the 
 low brush feathering the cliff flank, raised a dispropor- 
 tionately powerful strain of shrill, sweet song from time 
 to time, and not far, the waters of a clear spring fell 
 musically and were caught in a rude stone basin; the 
 nearest house was hidden from sight. 
 
 Here, on that wild afternoon, when a sullen glow 
 under the gray pall of cloud over the southwest sea 
 gave hint of closing day, Evelyn Rosny slowly paced 
 the mossy ground under wind-rocked trees with glowing 
 cheek and sparkling eye. But not alone. Ronald kept 
 even step with her, bending toward her and speaking 
 with subdued and earnest fervor. 
 
 "Let us do away with cant and humbug," he was 
 saying. "This can not go on; we have to face a situa- 
 tion that was not of our making. Having given me so 
 much, Evelyn, you are bound to give me more. You 
 can't play fast and loose with a man who loves you with 
 all his soul and who knows his love returned." 
 
 "Ah! but no. That is not fair. You surprised my 
 secret, else you would never have known, Ronald. Oh! 
 I was fighting it down, fighting it, well " 
 
 "But why fight? Who can fight against Fate? It 
 was a losing battle from the first. You surrendered once 
 for all in that blessed firelight hour. You can not go 
 back. Doubtless I was wrong. I ought not to have 
 come. Heaven knows, I tried to stay away. But I 
 came, dearest. Something stronger than self, stronger 
 than w T ill or wisdom or any earthly consideration, aye, 
 and stronger than honor itself, drew me. I came, Eve- 
 lyn, I came. Life can never be the same again ; we can 
 not alter facts. That moment binds us both ; honor and 
 right sailed into new latitudes that evening. We owe 
 ourselves to each other henceforth. And what is mar- 
 riage in its essence ? Is it oh, Heaven ! a legal slavery,
 
 336 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 a bitter bond of estranged and incompatible natures, 
 formally rendering exacted tithe of miserable, loveless 
 intercourse? Is it two antipathetic hearts and minds 
 chained by custom and convention to sit at the same 
 hearth, to eat the same bread, to share oh, last degra- 
 dation to live a loveless life that is a daily and hourly 
 renewed lie, a long shame, a perpetual desolation, an 
 abnegation of all that is vital, natural, real, and uplift- 
 ing? To feel indifference crystallizing to repugnance, 
 to active dislikes, to bitter hatred, w r hile the tribute- 
 money of outward observance is daily extorted and 
 unwillingly rendered? Is that holy matrimony, Eve- 
 lyn? Can you decline upon that, you that are you, my 
 you? No, dearest; this degradation must not go on; 
 you can not continue a life that has become a shame 
 and a lie." 
 
 "Ah! but my friend, to wrong him, your friend! 
 No ; no. It must be good-by. It must indeed. ' ' 
 
 "It is too late for good-by. Our lives have min- 
 gled too closely, Evelyn. And as for wronging him 
 will he care ? Does he love you ? Honor ? Oh, yes, you 
 are right. There is such a thing. His will be safe 
 enough. He will take the case before the court ; it will 
 be undefended; he will be free; our marriage will be 
 legal " 
 
 ' ' No, no, not that, ' ' she cried, trembling, and shrink- 
 ing from him. "I never thought I could not 
 
 ' ' Silly child ! So bound to convention ! You would 
 wreck both our lives for a prejudice. This pettiness 
 is unworthy of you. Come, sit here by the spring on 
 this rock so. Listen; you have made a mistake, your 
 marriage is loveless " 
 
 "No,' no; I loved him; I love him still. I will be 
 true." 
 
 ' ' You can not. You can not love two men at the 
 same time," he replied, with sudden pallor. "You can 
 not be true to two. You can best serve him by setting 
 him free. Honor and truth are not in such a marriage
 
 THE STORM 337 
 
 as yours they can not be. Honor and truth are only in 
 true marriage, in the union of hearts and souls. What 
 are you to him? Does he really know you? Has he 
 ever cared to know you? Shall I ever forget that first 
 night his neglect, your isolation, my pity, that grew 
 to love? He doesn't attempt to take care of you; he 
 doesn't suspect, doesn't care enough to suspect. How 
 many evenings did he spend at home last week? How 
 much do you occupy of his leisure day his Sunday ? 
 You saw him, I suppose, at breakfast this morning. You 
 saw him in the choir, surpliced and singing, at church. 
 He walked home with his cousin; you followed with 
 me. He rose before luncheon was over to go to his boys. 
 He will be overlooking their footer in the field and their 
 games in the club-shed till dark; or he will go to the 
 village club and see the older men. Perhaps he will come 
 home to tea. He will be busy till evensong. After that 
 he will practise in the choir or go to his boys ' club. Then 
 home to sleep in his chair. Is that a true picture, and 
 is it a picture of what ought to be? No, Evelyn, you 
 have no share in his life, or he in yours. Your union 
 is one long iniquity and degradation. You must break 
 away from it. You were made for better things. Honor 
 and love and happiness await you my life, my happi- 
 ness, my love, my hope all are in your white, white 
 hands, Evelyn, Evelyn " 
 
 "Hush! You must not say, must not think such 
 things, ' ' she broke in, shaking and striving to push away 
 with trembling hands the figure kneeling before her and 
 kissing her hands. "Oh, I have been weak and wicked, 
 indeed, I did not think I could not help Oh, hush! 
 what is that?" 
 
 She sprang up, suspicion, shame, and terror written 
 on her tear-wet face, as the sullen boom of a gun pierced 
 the wild storm-symphony. 
 
 "It comes from the sea a ship in distress," he said, 
 approaching her with a look that made her shiver and 
 turn pale. "Another? She's firing minute-guns. An
 
 338 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 awful sea, and the wind dead ashore. Look, Evelyn, 
 here is another ship in distress before you ; it is a man 's 
 life. Will you see her go down? Will you sail on your 
 course and never lend a hand to save? Will you not 
 even stand by and at least fling out one life-line?" 
 
 "Spare me, Ronald. Leave me to my duty," she 
 sobbed, shrinking more and more, while he as steadily 
 drew nearer, with that terrible mastery in his dark and 
 burning gaze and that terrible passion of thwarted ten- 
 derness grown fierce in the voice that vibrated through 
 and through her and held her in a magnetism that made 
 her helpless with fear. 
 
 ' ' Duty ! " he echoed in bitter scorn. ' ' Duty to whom ? 
 Have you no duty to me? Have I no claim to you, 
 Evelyn ? Are you so selfish ? Must my heart bleed and 
 break in its despair that you may look well in the eyes 
 of the conventional, the petty, the bourgeois? Must my 
 life be ruined that you may conform to the standard 
 of the narrow-minded, the unthinking, the prudish, the 
 vulgar? Duty! Dearest, for my sake, dare to be true 
 to a more real standard. Oh, to save me, cast away the 
 falsities of custom, the impurities of the worldly and 
 prudish. Can you ever have loved, Evelyn? Are you 
 so cold, so hard, so cruel?" 
 
 ' ' For the love of Heaven, go ! " she cried, starting up 
 as Rollo came bounding through the trees. "It is 
 Nancy." (She took the dog.) "I'll go out by the coast- 
 guard. ' ' 
 
 He made but one bound and slipped quickly behind 
 a rock into some brushwood. She went slowly forward 
 toward Rollo, with caressing words, dried and veiled her 
 face, and, after stopping to stroke the dog, passed with 
 it out of the wood into the open. He kept still in his 
 lair, listening through the softened roar of the wind 
 and sea, but hearing nothing more than the storm, the 
 musical plash of the spring in its basin, the continued 
 boom of guns and the answering signal from the coast- 
 guard station. Five full minutes he waited, savage at
 
 THE STORM 339 
 
 the interruption, mad with baffled passion, furious at 
 the humiliation of these furtive meetings ; yet interested 
 in the fate of the distressed vessel tossed upon that 
 a\vful sea and driven, as he gathered from the sound of 
 the guns, full upon that deadly coast. Then he ventured 
 cautiously from his hiding-place, calm and self-pos- 
 sessed, with no trace of the agitation and fury that had 
 so recently blazed in his face and made his breath come 
 hot and quick in suffocating gusts, and, going up to the 
 mossy basin in which the spring-water trickled, took 
 some in his curved hand and drank. 
 
 Then, lighting a pipe and whistling softly, he 
 strolled out into the open in the direction taken by 
 Evelyn, to be met by such a furious buffet of wind round 
 the first turn of the cliff-flank as sent the tobacco out of 
 his pipe and his hat from his head. The gale was increas- 
 ing ; the breakers were pale green walls, thirty and forty 
 feet high, with shattered white crests spraying and fly- 
 ing in every direction; the spindrift was now a mealy 
 mist veiling the whole of the sea and floating far inland. 
 Rolling helplessly in a deep hollow between the great, 
 green, moving hills, that seemed to spring like live things 
 out of the very depths of the sea, was a broken-masted 
 vessel, tossed and tumbled and toyed with by the mad 
 waves, like a cork in a rain-flooded gutter. Now she 
 was dashed by one huge roller to the summit of another, 
 on which she toppled a moment before crashing with 
 it into the trough of another. 
 
 It hurt Ronald to see her so mercilessly beaten and 
 bruised and flung from wave to wave by the savage sea, 
 as it hurts one to see some beautiful horse or helpless 
 dog cruelly flogged. He strode on, head down against 
 the buffeting blast that was laden with stinging sand 
 and salt and even small pebbles, and, joining some coast- 
 guardsmen coming out of the station laden with various 
 tackle, offered to lend a hand. 
 
 "She'll be ashore in ten minutes unless she breaks, 
 Martin," he shouted to the officer, who was stepping
 
 340 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 smartly along in the teeth of the wind with the men. 
 "Where will she go?" 
 
 ' ' She won 't break till she grounds, ' ' the officer shout- 
 ed back. "She may ground in Caster Cove. We're 
 going to the cliff-top with lines." 
 
 The cliffs were dotted now with staggering men con- 
 verging to the spot on which it seemed likely the vessel 
 would be driven. The lighthouse people were on the 
 lookout, the life-boat had been launched from the near- 
 est station in a bay a mile to the west, and could be 
 seen pulling round the headland, beating up against 
 the wind. 
 
 Where was Evelyn? Ronald wondered, and quickly 
 decided that she must have taken refuge with Nancy in 
 the nearest house, probably that of Mrs. Martin, the 
 coast-guard officer's wife. But Evelyn, who had not met 
 Nancy as she expected under the cliff, but only Seth 
 Barton, whom the dog often followed and who besought 
 her to take shelter against the rising gale while he 
 hastened toward the sea, had gone homeward more 
 quickly than was pleasant, literally driven before the 
 gale, against which her strength was too slight to stand. 
 Sometimes it dashed her into a hedge, sometimes against 
 a wall ; at times it gathered force suddenly with a deri- 
 sive whoop, and, curling round her, threatened to lift 
 her clean off her feet, so that she could only cling, flat- 
 tened and crouching, to the nearest support till she had 
 recovered her breath and the worst fury of the gale 
 had for a moment abated. 
 
 Every blade of grass was combed flat and straight 
 along the ground; branches and twigs, thatch and hay, 
 flew before the wind; every bush and stunted tree was 
 bent to cracking point; hurdles were laid flat and feed- 
 ing-racks blown over hedges away from the bleating 
 sheep, who cowered together with storm-ruffled fleece 
 wherever they could find shelter. Evelyn's hair was 
 wild, her face scratched, her hat crushed and torn, her 
 muff and fur collar were gone, and her coat and skirt
 
 THE STORM 341 
 
 twisted. She scarcely perceived the approach of some 
 men in reefer coats and tied-down caps, before the gale 
 carried her straight into the arms of the foremost and 
 tallest with such force that he rocked under the shock 
 and steadied himself with an effort. 
 
 ''Evelyn!" he shouted, and she hardly recognized 
 that it was her husband till he began to scold her. 
 "What on earth took you out in such weather? Lucky 
 I found you. I'll follow when I've taken her home, 
 Mayne. ' ' 
 
 "Let me take her," Herbert shouted back. "I'll 
 follow. A pity to keep you back. You are of more use 
 than I am." 
 
 "Take care of her, then," came in Richard's loudest 
 roar. "Take her through the field, under the lee of the 
 hedge. Little goose ! " he added, putting her bodily into 
 Herbert's hands, and rushing on in the teeth of the 
 gale after Basil Mayne and some men and boys who had 
 been with him. 
 
 "Cling on," Herbert shouted. "I'd better hold 
 you," he added, taking her firmly round the waist. 
 
 "Oh, the furniture," she thought bitterly, when she 
 found herself a helpless encumbrance, passed from hand 
 to hand like a parcel, without even a suggestion of her 
 own consent. "The furniture must be safely housed, I 
 suppose. Anybody can be trusted to cart the furniture 
 about. He won't trouble himself with it." 
 
 "The back door," was Herbert's only further word, 
 shouted w T hen they reached the cottage and she was 
 making for the front gate. ' ' If you once open the front 
 door, ' ' he added, when they stood safe inside the kitchen 
 entrance, "you women would never be able to shut it 
 again. I'm glad you let me escort you, Mrs. Rosny. 
 Your husband is of such great use in these cases. He's 
 so strong and fearless, and of such resource. He will 
 save more than one life to-day." 
 
 Nancy came into the kitchen and received her with 
 a shout of laughter and much surprised conjecture
 
 342 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 as to how and why she had been out so long in such 
 weather. 
 
 "Ronald Musgrave left me on Wimbury Waste," 
 she told Evelyn, when Herbert was off to the sea again. 
 "He told me that the gale was rising and I had better 
 beat to quarters. So I came straight home with Hollo, 
 horrified to find you out and hoping you were not far- 
 ther off than the vicarage. But Herbert was bringing 
 you from the sea?" 
 
 ' ' Yes. I had been by the spring in the undercliff , ' ' 
 she replied with composure. "It was so warm and 
 sheltered there that I had no idea of the wildness of the 
 weather outside till I came out and began to sail before 
 the wind. You see, not every one has a sailorman to 
 warn them against heavy weather. What a spectacle 
 I am!" 
 
 "Somewhat storm-beaten, you poor thing!" Nancy 
 said, helping to disentangle her blown hair. "How 
 enraging it is to be a woman when there's anything to 
 be done like this ! Every male creature within miles is 
 out upon the cliffs. However, Richard asked if you 
 would have hot blankets, baths, and fires, and plenty 
 of hot water and brandy ready. So it seems that we're 
 good for something, after all." 
 
 They went to a window in the roof and looked 
 through glasses at the groups fringing the cliff, which 
 was sheeted in thin spindrift and occasionally topped 
 by the foam of a roller flying up the cliff face. They 
 made out the coast-guardsmen busy by a flare above 
 Caster Cove; they even made out some of the men 
 grouped with them, especially Rosny, who was distin- 
 guishable by his superior height. They saw a steel hel- 
 met shining on his head; then he sank, as it were, 
 slowly beneath the ground, and disappeared. 
 
 "He's gone down the cliff with a life-line," Nancy 
 said in an awed voice. 'The vessel must have ground- 
 ed in Caster Cove. Oh, Evelyn, you have married a 
 man ! ' '
 
 THE STORM 343 
 
 ' ' I was under that impression, ' ' Evelyn replied. But 
 her heart gave a great bound; she was almost stunned 
 by a crowd of thoughts rushing suddenly upon her. She 
 was bruised and tender from being beaten against gate- 
 posts and fences by the heavy gale; bits of chalk and 
 sand from the stinging wind had been brushed out of 
 her hair and shaken from her skirts. And Richard, in 
 the full fury of that gale, was hanging upon the steep 
 cliff; the surf boiling and foaming beneath and around 
 him; the blast dashing him against the cliff; pebbles, 
 sand, and salt raining fiercely upon him; stones and 
 earth loosened from the cliff pelting down upon him. 
 She saw and felt it vividly; she knew Caster Cove, and 
 remembered how the stillest summer sea there thundered 
 through tunnels and caves hollowed out by the perpetual 
 grind of surges on the cliff base. Yes, she had married 
 a man; and that man's life and limbs w r ere being freely 
 imperilled, not for the first or second time, for the lives 
 of others. 
 
 "But a life-line," she faltered through pale lips, 
 "would be thrown by a rocket." 
 
 "Didn't you hear it screech and see it burst? 
 There's another. Yet Richard is gone down the cliff 
 with something. The two Maynes must be there. And 
 that tall man? Oh, that would be Ronald Musgrave." 
 
 ' ' Richard has probably gone down on a rope ladder, ' ' 
 conjectured Evelyn, knowing well enough who the other 
 tall man was. "I can not look any more, Annis. It 
 turns me sick. We can't see; we can only guess." 
 
 ' ' Let us go and pray, ' ' Annis said, her healthy cheek 
 paling in the dusk. "But you are cold," she added 
 quickly, after touching her. "Come down by the fire, 
 dear. Let us have tea, and I will chafe your hands and 
 feet." 
 
 They shut out the storm, but not its thunderous roar 
 and wild shriek, and cowered over the warm hearth, 
 Evelyn shivering perpetually in spite of the hot tea and 
 Nancy's chafing hands. "Dick will come in safe and
 
 344 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 sound," Nancy said to comfort her. "He will be all 
 right. He has saved many women from widowhood." 
 
 Nancy's voice broke on the word. Widowhood some- 
 times comes before marriage. Her whole heart rose in 
 agony at the thought and told her how dear the man 
 who silently loved her had become. Evelyn began to 
 sob hysterically. Widowhood meant infinitely more to 
 her than Nancy had any idea of more than she herself 
 had any idea of. Richard dead! oh, it was horrible 
 but the marriage bond sundered by that chill, inevitable 
 hand Sinful woman that she was, had she become a 
 murderess in thought? 
 
 "Pray, Nancy, pray. Pray for them," she cried at 
 last, clinging shuddering to her with the desperation of 
 the drowning to the nearest spar, and burying her face 
 wildly in the arm that sheltered her. 
 
 The prayers soothed her, though she could scarcely 
 join in them. Then she began to wander restlessly 
 through the house ; sometimes standing at the attic win- 
 dow straining her sight through the darkness to make 
 out the figures moving dimly in the flare-light above 
 Caster Cove; sometimes making up fires and seeing to 
 the small preparations Richard had enjoined; always 
 trying to shut out the sound and sight of the storm. 
 Then the solitary maid not out on Sunday leave was 
 bidden to the drawing-room for comfort and company, 
 and the three women sang the hymn for those at sea, 
 their voices half drowned by the organ notes and trum- 
 pet-blasts of the storm. Again the two ladies went to 
 the kitchen to bear Rhoda company. Rollo, whimpering 
 and uneasy, was admitted to the hearth, where Fluff 
 boxed his ears soundly to relieve his own furry breast 
 of its disquiet. The church bells, ringing for evensong, 
 were torn and tossed about, their rhythm lost amid the 
 thunder-claps of the storm; now and again a crash was 
 heard, as if some outbuilding or chimney had fallen. 
 The mad exultation of the elements got into Evelyn's 
 blood and fired her brain; the passion of it was in her
 
 THE STORM 345 
 
 eyes and burning, wind-stung cheeks; she longed to 
 throw herself into it, to be carried away upon the breath 
 of its fury, to be one with it, to lose herself in its tumult 
 and strength and so lose the terrible tumult in her dis- 
 tracted soul. 
 
 Nancy saw her agitation and tried to soothe it. She 
 made her sit by the fire in the oak parlor and talk of 
 other things and other days, of her old home with the 
 Arburys, of the Beltons Archie's wild marriage, Ger- 
 ald's nerve-sickness and depression, Adeline's engage- 
 ment to Rupert Chesney, and the perpetual worry and 
 loss of time these things entailed on Richard. Evelyn 
 quickly turned from these topics and questioned Nancy 
 on her college life, whether she taught classics or mathe- 
 matics, of her prospects of promotion, how her tennis 
 and golf clubs were arranged, who came to her rooms, 
 how often her evenings were spent in society, why she 
 did not persuade her father and mother to live near col- 
 lege; all with preoccupied eagerness and evident inabil- 
 ity to receive what was said in reply. "And you like 
 the life?" came for the third time at least. "No men to 
 worry you." 
 
 "But that is the great drawback, Evelyn. One is 
 human, after all. And sometimes it it is a little 
 unnatural. One dreams of a more feminine life." 
 
 "Folly, Nancy, folly. Keep free; don't lose your 
 heart. That reminds me that you seem to have made 
 a great impression upon somebody lately. I heard all 
 about the rose at the Barley Mow." 
 
 " Oh ! " cried Nancy, recovering from a hot flush and 
 laughing with amused relief. ' ' You mean Captain Mus- 
 grave. That's nothing." 
 
 "But we are always hearing of his attentions. He 
 seems to be making a dead set at you. He 's rather given 
 that way, you know, without meaning anything," Eve- 
 lyn said with a sudden furtive look at Nancy's com- 
 posed face. 
 
 "Very kind of you to warn me, Evie. But there's
 
 346 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 not the slightest fear. I could never care for a man like 
 Ronald Musgrave, or he for me. It is quite true that 
 he seems attracted perhaps by the novelty of being 
 snubbed. But I'm not in the least afraid of breaking 
 his heart, even if he had one to break. Probably there's 
 nobody else handy to flirt with, and that kind of man 
 must play the fool with somebody." 
 
 ''That kind of man? What kind?" Evelyn asked, 
 flushed with irritation. "Richard thinks everything of 
 him. He is a very fine officer, by all accounts, and cer- 
 tainly a most accomplished and agreeable man." 
 
 "A man of the world, a man of pleasure, I suppose. 
 A very different man from your splendid Richard." 
 
 "Different indeed. But was it he or Richard who 
 went over the cliff?" 
 
 ' ' It might have been he. No doubt he has the bravery 
 of his kind. He is an Englishman and a sailor. But 
 not a good man like Richard." 
 
 "Not quite. But he's human, very, very human. 
 Nancy, when will they come back? It's striking ten. 
 Five mortal hours in that awful wind and sea." 
 
 The storm was lulling now and the church chimes 
 could be heard beating steadily on the swell of the wind. 
 The quarter struck and the half-hour, and then men's 
 voices and steps were heard outside, and Evelyn rose, 
 wild-eyed and pale, and went to the back door, which 
 was just admitting a group of men staggering under the 
 weight of another man on a stretcher in their midst. 
 Her heart gave a great, choking bound when she per- 
 ceived the face of Ronald Musgrave among the bearers, 
 and she staggered and recovered herself before asking 
 Seth Barton, who was next her, in a faint voice, "Is 
 he dead?" 
 
 "Lord love ee, no; not a bit of it, ma'am. But the 
 breath is regular beat out of en. He 's entirely twickered 
 out, that's all."
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 AT THE VILLAGE CLUB 
 
 ON the morning after the wreck there was a melan- 
 choly summing up of the total of lives lost, when the 
 tale of the recovered bodies and the lives saved was told 
 at the vicarage, not without thankfulness and gentle 
 exultation for the part played by the Wimbury folk in 
 the rescue. 
 
 "There were the four Rosny carried up the cliff 
 the boy, the two injured men, and the poor fellow who 
 was exhausted," Herbert counted. "Then the man he 
 went down the cliff to help that was an awful business, 
 Kit either the poor chap's strength was beaten out of 
 him or he was stunned ; there he hung in the ropes, help- 
 less and dashed upon the cliff again and again till 
 Rosny got down to him with another line and brought 
 him up. That makes five. Then the poor fellow whose 
 arm was broken while he was being hauled up, and who 
 was helped up by Ronald Musgrave with another line 
 six. And six came up on the rope ladder by themselves 
 twelve altogether." 
 
 "Wouldn't you reckon those who got ashore in the 
 Cove and were taken off by the life-boat this morning ? ' ' 
 Basil asked. "But for the things the coast-guard let 
 down to them, they would hardly have got through the 
 night. They were six. That's eighteen. What strength 
 Rosny has ! Not another man there could have carried 
 those four men up the cliff." 
 
 "Considering that six only just managed to carry 
 themselves, and the others chose the rigging and the 
 open rock all night in preference to the climb, I wonder 
 
 347
 
 348 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 he has a whole part left in him. He got off well with 
 bruises and exhaustion and a dislocated shoulder. Burt 
 is a strong fellow, but the breath was .banged out of him 
 half-way down the cliff, and Ashton w r as nearly fin- 
 ished before he got down to help him. Musgrave stood 
 it well, but was quite exhausted before he reached the 
 top of the cliff, which he could never have done but for 
 half a dozen stout pairs of arms to rope him and the 
 sailor up. It was a fine thing, Kitty. Martin was 
 pleased with the men; but he hasn't a Rosny, or even 
 a Musgrave, among them except for bravery and good- 
 will." 
 
 "And how about their parson, shall he have no 
 glory?" Kitty asked. "And our Camford scholar? By 
 the state of your hands and faces, you poor dears, you 
 were not mere spectators last night." 
 
 ' ' Oh, his reverence lent a hand to everything, Kitty, ' ' 
 Basil said. "I tried to shove my oar in now and then. 
 Not that I had much chance among your native Sam- 
 sons. Our complexions won't spoil, and, as you may 
 observe, our appetites are in nowise damaged. Why 
 not run up to the cottage presently, Kit? Though 
 Rosny has had a good night, it struck me it was more like 
 coma than honest sleep. So Miss Rosny thinks, and she 
 helped restore him last night. Mrs. Rosny was be- 
 wildered. ' ' 
 
 "We'll both go," Herbert said. "But Rosny will 
 come to no harm. He has at least a dozen lives, and 
 amazing powers of recovery. I'm told that when the 
 Horace Belton, which was his gift, was launched, he 
 being in her, she missed stays in a sudden squall off a 
 dead lee shore, and came in and capsized upon it, pinning 
 all but the coxswain and himself under her. While the 
 coxswain made for an oar to use for a lever, Rosny 
 lifted her by main force and held her while the men 
 came out, and then he righted her. There was no time 
 to lose ; one man was stunned and another had a broken 
 leg, as it was. A few seconds made all the difference
 
 AT THE VILLAGE CLUB 349 
 
 between life and death to them. The strain disabled 
 him. He had a nasty knock on the head from mast or 
 bulwark when she turned over. One is always hearing 
 these legends of Rosny. Yet the man lives a desk-and- 
 ledger life, except on Sundays, when he boats and 
 plays footer and cricket with the boys between the 
 services. ' ' 
 
 Richard kept Sabbath all that day till the evening, 
 with a pleasant pervading sense of home and Evelyn's 
 beauty and ministering presence, and an even pleasanter 
 impression of last night. Waking, he could shut his 
 eyes, and the whole of the fierce, wild joy rushed back. 
 The stinging spray, charged with chalk and sand, beat 
 upon his face, as he dropped down the cliff in the teeth 
 of the gale, bracing his feet against the rock on which 
 the wind struck him from time to time ; he felt the hiss 
 and crash of the huge waves flying foaming up and over 
 him, drenching him and dragging him down to the cal- 
 dron of surf that thundered with perpetual boom and 
 intermittent clap beneath ; he felt the glory and grandeur 
 of the wild wind and the awful, irresistible strength of 
 enormous rollers crashing one upon another with long- 
 drawn roar and explosive boom; he heard the jarring 
 undergrind of torn shingle in the back draft, feeling 
 himself a feeble atom in the heart of the magnificent 
 hurly-burly, tossed like a cork from giant hand to giant 
 hand, and near to be shattered like a shell upon the cliff- 
 wall, and yet exulting in his strength to resist and defy 
 those mighty forces and drinking deeply of the joy of 
 battle with raging sea and furious wind above all, 
 exulting in being able to pluck their prey alive from the 
 foaming turmoil of the great breakers that crashed over 
 the stranded vessel with angry, deafening roar. To be 
 so thrillingly, passionately alive in the very gaping jaws 
 and quick-coming clutches of death, to defy and baffle 
 that dark and subtle foe, to wrestle to the last gasp with 
 the dread presence sheeted in storm and voiced by the 
 sea 's thunder-roar was a joy never to be forgotten. To
 
 350 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 face the terrible upward climb lashed to an injured man, 
 the ropes quivering under the double strain and fraying 
 in the continuous friction, which brought hail of crum- 
 bling cliff and stone upon his helmeted head, and, 
 whirled in winds and drenched by surging seas, to keep 
 his living burden from striking against the cliff, was 
 indeed fulness of life. It was the joy imagined when as a 
 boy he rowed out to the lighthouse on the wedding-day, 
 and first divined the pleasure of action and delight of 
 dominating the great, unpitying elemental forces that 
 move in wind and wave and grinding surge, and felt the 
 freedom and vigor of open-air life in a first escape from 
 the hothouse of forced emotion. 
 
 And when the rescued life was safely landed and 
 borne by willing arms to warmth and shelter, a better 
 feeling stirred his ebbing pulses with an exquisite thank- 
 fulness that he was allowed to save human life. It was 
 another symbol and seal of forgiveness. 
 
 "How happy he looks!" Nancy said, after helping 
 Evelyn with bandages and fomentations, and leaving 
 Richard dreaming over these glorious experiences again. 
 
 "Perfectly. Why not? It is his nature. Nothing 
 disturbs him; he is always happy. It is so easy for men 
 to be happy; they can do, we can only suffer." 
 
 "I don't envy him those bruises and that arm and 
 those torn hands, or even the cut face and swollen eyes. 
 I don't know what he looks like unless it's the wicked 
 stepmother in the fairy-tale after she was rolled down- 
 hill in the barrel studded with nails and to quite come 
 up to poor Dick, she would have to be put under a steam- 
 roller for an hour as well." 
 
 "Where is Ronald?" had been Rosny's first hoarse 
 question when warmth and stimulants had somewhat 
 restored him the night before, and Evelyn's voice had 
 failed her in the act of telling him that he had gone 
 home unhurt. In the forenoon he called and stood by 
 Rosny with an unusual expression on his face. Richard 
 roused at his voice, gripped his hand, and began to doze
 
 AT THE VILLAGE CLUB 351 
 
 again, when Ronald turned and left the house with mis- . 
 erable eyes bent on the ground. 
 
 "I couldn't make him understand that Richard was 
 all right," Nancy told Evelyn. "He was too much 
 upset to take it in. After all, he has more heart than I 
 supposed. He sprained his ankle last night, and has a 
 most interesting limp; but his beauty, I sadly fear, is 
 spoiled for the present; his face is only less raw than 
 Dick 's. I think I like him better ugly ; I am beginning 
 to feel quite kindly toward him in his present unflirta- 
 tious mood." 
 
 ' ' I thought you would some day do him more justice, 
 Nancy. Every one came out well last night ; even Lord 
 Randal turned out, but, after being blown into a ditch, 
 ran home again before the wind. He is sheltering the 
 poor drowned men a gruesome hospitality but a true 
 one that is Seth Barton's news. Oh, Nan, to think 
 what might have happened," she cried, suddenly press- 
 ing her hands to her eyes, as if to shut out some terrible 
 sight. "I feel as if as if I had been shipwrecked 
 myself, and rescued by a hair's breadth; I can hardly 
 realize it. I'm all dizzy and confused." 
 
 She went about the house that day bewildered like 
 one in a dream. It was so strange, so amazing, to have 
 Richard at home all day, more amazing still to have him 
 motionless, helpless, and hurt. But to have him there at 
 all, alive, after the wild thoughts of last night, was a great 
 deliverance. She began to realize what a great remorse 
 might be and to dread the possibility of spiritual suffer- 
 ing. A great amazement, too, was produced by the esteem 
 in which Richard was held, not in the immediate neigh- 
 borhood alone, but everywhere. The lane was thronged 
 with people of every description from everywhere within 
 a dozen miles and more all day long, and all day long 
 there was a subdued hum of voices and rumble of wheels 
 from those who came and went. Bushels of cards poured 
 in, and later in the day sheaves of telegrams from people 
 and societies and associations she had never heard of.
 
 352 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 Every man and boy within a couple of miles, and many 
 women and girls, came that day, all with real anxiety 
 in their faces, and most of them waiting to gather what 
 intelligence they could; some of the more intimate 
 friends, like Seth Barton, and Gatrell, who had "just 
 stepped over" from Ingrestone, asking to be allowed to 
 look at him through the door. 
 
 Gerald, who had ridden over from Ingrestone in the 
 afternoon, complained that he could hardly get in, and 
 recommended the employment of some of the men as 
 chuckers-out of interviewers, who had been doing their 
 deadly work at the coast-guard and life-boat stations, at 
 the vicarage, the Retreat, the village club, everywhere, 
 and were now importuning the inmates of the cottage. 
 
 Evelyn turned from the window, whence the 
 thronged road was visible, to the object of all this 
 solicitude and affection who was stretched his stalwart 
 length on the bed and unconscious of anything but yes- 
 terday's wild joy and to-day's peace. His hands and 
 eyes were bandaged, his face covered with ointments and 
 plasters, but the grand outline of his athletic figure 
 was perceptible under the coverings. Sometimes he 
 wanted his face free, wiien the happiness written on the 
 scarified features was noticeable. Fluff sat on the foot 
 of the bed, his plumy tail daintily coiled round his paws, 
 and, with a majestic toleration mixed with displeasure 
 on his thoughtful face, surveyed the tall form before 
 him with a mysterious and profound glance. So Fluff 
 had been sitting for hours, a small, shaggy, gray-coated 
 sentinel, keeping self-imposed guard and evidently con- 
 vinced that things were not at all as they should be with 
 the man he owned. Rollo was stretched on the hearth- 
 rug, his muzzle on his paws, his eyes winking watchfully, 
 his tail occasionally beating a tattoo on the floor, at 
 which Fluff swore gently in reproof. 
 
 "Even the cat and dog," she thought, and sighed 
 most wearily. She meant to do her duty, but it seemed 
 a bitter thing, even when she remembered that she had
 
 AT THE VILLAGE CLUB 353 
 
 once loved the man who seemed to her to have a heart 
 for every one but herself. "If he were only a worse 
 man and better husband, ' ' she mused, yet she envied him 
 this power of winning worship from every one except 
 his wife and partly knew that such worship is not for 
 the self-centered. Was she so much to blame after all? 
 she wondered, reviewing the loneliness and the aching 
 longing of her life. Could the misery she saw yesterday 
 in Ronald's face and heard in his voice be laid to her 
 charge? Ronald was, after all, in Nancy's phrase, a 
 wan, and a gallant man, who ungrudgingly risked life 
 and limb for strangers, as Richard had done. He had 
 been hurt ; she had observed the halting step with which 
 he had dragged himself away. Would to Heaven she 
 had never seen him, never vexed him with her harmful 
 beauty; would to Heaven she were rolled far, far away 
 in those surging waves that had swallowed so many gal- 
 lant lives, and were even now audible in the gradual 
 stilling of the spent storm, the low growl and fretful 
 murmur of which had not wholly subsided; would to 
 Heaven she were still and cold at rest in their green and 
 quiet depths ! She bowed her head on her hands on the 
 brass rail of the bed, and choked back a sob that vibrated 
 the figure with the whole bed. 
 
 "Is that Fluff, or Rollo?" asked Richard, who 
 could not see her through his bandages. 
 
 "No; it is only me," she said in a low, even voice. 
 "Shall I read you something, Richard?" 
 
 "Yes. Oh, not the money-market. What you were 
 reading in the boat that day." 
 
 "Elaine?" she faltered. "Poetry?" 
 
 "Aye; poetry. It's a holiday to-day. Elaine, what 
 you like. Or Enoch Arden. The sea is in that." 
 
 Amazed, she fetched the book, and read, as she could 
 read, with charm and propriety and moving pathos, in 
 the sea-like rhythm of that idyl of English coast life, 
 till the rooks sailed home, the last red sun-glow faded 
 from the sky, and dusk gathered in the peaceful room,
 
 354 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 where only the fire's flapping and clock's ticking pointed 
 the silence. 
 
 Fluff, from a responsible sentinel had long since 
 become a beautifully shaded coil of silky gray fur, 
 dreaming in secure peace, and Rollo, as much soothed 
 and relieved of responsibility as Fluff by the continu- 
 ous melody of the well-known voice, was stretched in 
 voluptuous ease on his side with outlaid paws and blink- 
 ing eyes. Richard lay like a felled column, without a 
 stir in his perfect rest. All was peace and tranquil 
 enjoyment except in Evelyn's wild and tortured young 
 heart, that ached and struggled in its solitude, like some 
 fierce, trapped creature, both in the quiet and during the 
 enchantment of her beautiful reading. Neither she nor 
 Richard ever so dimly divined the contrast between what 
 was passing unknown to either in the heart of each. 
 
 Presently he roused up. "Do you remember the 
 night Nancy played the sonata that has the sea in it?" 
 he said. "She and the Maynes were dining here, and 
 you and Musgrave danced the minuet in the moonlight ? ' ' 
 
 "Perfectly. Nancy's playing startled us all. The 
 inspiration of Basil Mayne's presence, no doubt." 
 
 "Aye; they think he is making up to her. She's 
 too good for him; Ronald would be far better a thor- 
 ough good fellow. He went the pace in the old days; 
 but he has steadied down now. Why won't she have 
 him? And why is he never here now?" 
 
 "Because you are so much away," she said, glad 
 that the sudden flame in her face was visible. ' ' He came 
 to tea the first day of Nancy's visit. Didn't I tell 
 you?" 
 
 "Might not he dine here with you and Nancy? But 
 I must fix a night for him when I can come home. Don't 
 let me forget; perhaps on boxing-night." 
 
 But boxing-night found Ronald Musgrave with a 
 previous engagement, and no other evening available 
 while he was in the neighborhood. Rosny was unusually 
 occupied with affairs at that time or he might have
 
 AT THE VILLAGE CLUB 355 
 
 observed that Ronald avoided him ; for without being a 
 saint, one may have no love for domestic treachery. 
 There were many dark pages in Ronald Musgrave's life, 
 and few without reproach; but he wanted to be loyal. 
 And very strangely all feelings concerned with honor 
 and loyalty had grown more sensitive since his love for 
 Evelyn. Many light loves had been his and many vehe- 
 ment passions; but nothing like the feeling with which 
 she inspired him; and yet this love, the very existence 
 of which was a disloyalty, made honor and loyalty 
 dearer and more desirable to him than ever ; it unsealed 
 deeper and fresher springs of feeling, and inspired him 
 with purer ideals. He had meant no wrong in his sym- 
 pathy with this lovely and lonely young life in other 
 cases he had meant wrong, but not in this he had been 
 genuinely moved by the isolation and suffering of a 
 nature apparently so little understood, and so lightly 
 valued, and had only wished to make a dreary lot a little 
 brighter. He had never thought to kindle perilous feel- 
 ings in her, for he had the unbounded confidence of a 
 man of pleasure in the impregnability of a pure-minded 
 woman's heart, and the profligate's sure instinct to 
 detect frailty, and in Evelyn he found none. 
 
 But he had neither reckoned on her susceptibility to 
 pure passion, nor fathomed the depths of her starved 
 nature's need, nor divined that all the virtues sometimes 
 combine to conspire against virtue itself, and when the 
 conviction that she loved him came, it went like fiery 
 wine to his head, making short work of every considera- 
 tion, except the one inexorable necessity of taking to 
 himself her who had become so inextricably intertwined 
 with the life of his life. She had waked the finest chords 
 in his nature, and had lifted him above himself; he 
 could forget himself and deny himself for her; he ex- 
 pected her to forget and deny herself for him; she had 
 become his unawares her very purity bound her to 
 him. But though all good dies, honor dies hard, espe- 
 cially in an English heart, and, in spite of all sophistry,
 
 356 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 Konald Musgrave loathed the thought of betraying his 
 friend, whom, nevertheless, he was pledged to betray 
 and firmly intended to betray. Therefore he dreaded 
 the sight of him ; therefore he hated him with the strange 
 hate that comes of love wronged to the wronger; there- 
 fore he sought occasion against him and wished him un- 
 worthy; and therefore the hours of gallant effort and 
 heroic endurance shared with him on the cliff, were 
 hours of passionate misery, envenomed by bitterest 
 shame, and the sight of his friend, blind and helpless 
 on his bed, was torture to him. 
 
 The drowned bodies recovered from the sea were 
 buried in Wimbury churchyard a few days after Christ- 
 mas, on a fair, calm day of melting hoar-frost, with 
 a great following from the village and the country 
 round, that included many of those who had tried to 
 save them. Knowing that Rosny would not be there, 
 Ronald walked behind the coffins of the strange, poor 
 men the tempest had cast upon their unavailing charity ; 
 few in the neighborhood omitted this chivalrous tribute 
 to the unconscious victims of a gallant calling, nor was 
 any one following them too poor or too rich to contribute 
 something toward the relief of the survivors. 
 
 On the evening succeeding this pathetic ceremony, 
 it occurred to Basil Mayne to go into the village club 
 otherwise a public-house on the reformed plan advo- 
 cated and put in action by Rosny, and by the irreverent 
 termed a pious pub. The professor found himself in a 
 clean room, warm and well lighted, with plain deal 
 tables and benches and a sanded floor. He sat down on 
 a bench alone, wondering what hidden charm made this 
 different from other houses. Laboring men sat about the 
 room in twos and threes ; some had a glass of ale before 
 them, some only a pipe, one had a bottle of ginger-beer, 
 another a cup of steaming cocoa; some talked and some 
 were silent ; there was decorum and evident though quiet 
 enjoyment. No one observed, or appeared to observe, 
 the professor's errand, the table he had chosen being
 
 shaded by a projection in the wall, until, when the bar- 
 man passed, he asked and received a glass of ale, still 
 without attracting attention from the social groups talk- 
 ing in the country laborer's intermittent way with long, 
 meditative pauses. 
 
 "She'll lay there till spring; she won't break up," 
 one man said, "without they tries to get her afloat too 
 soon. ' ' 
 
 "The many I've seen go aground in Caster Cove!" 
 said an old man after a long pause. "Moastly breaks 
 up when they comes ashore." 
 
 "Without they clears high-water mark, like she," 
 said the first speaker. 
 
 "I tell ee," Mayne heard from another table, "it 
 hadn't ought to be. Somebody had ought to up and 
 tell en, Barton. 'Tis a proper scandal. It's in and out 
 of gairden, up and down cliff, waiten and watchen, and 
 him away all day long, and pretty nigh all night, too." 
 
 "He don't go for she," returned Barton slowly be- 
 tween thoughtful pipe-puffs; "goes for t'other." 
 
 "For Miss? No vear, goes for Missus. I seen 'em 
 a-Sunday. She come out by coast-guard, pretty nigh 
 blowed off of her feet. What do a soft-bred ooman like 
 she want to go traipsen about country in weather like 
 that for? Vive minutes after, out comes he they be 
 that craafty, one '11 bide for t'other to get clear off. Off 
 goes his hat over cliff, he being took unbeknownst by 
 the storm." 
 
 ' ' Go long. I seen en long with miss a-Sunday after- 
 noon. Gwaine athirt Wimbury Waaste they wer', a 
 proper courten couple as ever you med wish to see." 
 
 "Well, there, he come out from under cliff by the 
 spring a-Sunday, when the ship was comen in. Coast- 
 guard was stepping along to Caster Cove. All of 'em 
 seen en, and he went along with 'em. Borried a cap 
 off Jem Ashton. I tell ee, Seth Barton, Miss is only a 
 blind. He's acten with she. She've got her own sweet- 
 heart up at the vicarage him with the glasses. When
 
 358 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 folk is about sinful doens like this here, it do sharp their 
 wits up wonderful; makes 'em pretty nigh as deep as 
 the devil." 
 
 "Then I hreckon you've a-ben about summat middlen 
 sinful, Job Daish," Seth retorted. "Your wits seems 
 sharpened up pretty fine. You sees more peas inside of 
 a shuck than the Almighty ever put into en." 
 
 "There's many hain't sense enough to see the shells, 
 let alone the peas inside of 'em, Seth Barton. Tis a 
 mis'ble bad job down at Rosny's, whatever you med 
 zay. I've come across 'em, and my Missus she've seen 
 'em, times and times. He never went up vicarage when 
 Miss tid up there, not he. A handsome young ooman do 
 melt the hearts of mankind, to be sure, but give I a hard- 
 vaavored one what '11 bide honest." 
 
 "Too much jaw was put in when you was made, 
 Daish. If ee cain't vind summat to jaw about without 
 taken away of volk's characters, you med as well bide 
 quiet," Seth replied, emptying his glass and dragging 
 himself up reluctantly. "My Missus '11 jaw me if I don't 
 go home. So good night to ee, ' ' he added, clumping out 
 of the room and leaving Basil Mayne unobserved in his 
 shadowed corner, still as a stone and full of thought.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 SETH BABTON'S JAUNT 
 
 PROFESSOE MAYNE did not go to the village club 
 merely to listen to village gossip, but rather to observe 
 personally the working of this scheme for reforming 
 public-houses, of which his brother was so full. Never- 
 theless, he saw nothing more of the King's Arms that 
 night; he left un visited the reading-room, the woman's 
 tea-room, and the big room, in which dancing was taught 
 and practised, sing-songs were held, and lectures and 
 entertainments given. Nor did he visit the barn with 
 a shooting-gallery along one end, which served as a 
 winter gymnasium, and as a summer dining- and tea- 
 room, or the covered skittle-alley opening on to the bowl- 
 ing green, or the bath and dressing-rooms; he merely 
 observed that an old-fashioned country inn and its out- 
 houses and grounds had been enlarged and heightened 
 and converted to many uses new to village folk, without 
 entirely losing its familiar characteristics and air of 
 homely comfort. 
 
 "I'm glad you haven't parsonized the place, Her- 
 bert, ' ' he was good enough to observe at dinner. ' ' You 
 don't seem to boss the house at all. Hodge evidently 
 does as he pleases and takes his ease in his inn accord- 
 ing to his own taste. There are no texts on the walls. 
 Yet everything seems decent and orderly. How is the 
 thing done?" 
 
 "The company have a few simple rules. Member- 
 ship by ballot, no obligation to drink 'for the good of 
 the house,' a limited quantity of drink the maximum, 
 they call it during the day. If members don't expel 
 
 359
 
 360 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 a disorderly member a notorious drunkard or profli- 
 gate the company may compel them to. But, after all, 
 the majority of people in all classes prefer decent con- 
 duct. Eosny modelled the publics, allowing for neces- 
 sary differences, on the best West End clubs, and he 
 introduced a feminine element, as you may have ob- 
 served. A trouble in a little village like this is the 
 accommodation of travelers, who can not all be members, 
 though some are. There is scarcely room here for a regu- 
 lar public baiting and lodging place for man and beast 
 besides the club, though one actually exists here, thanks 
 to summer trippers. All our houses are affiliated to the 
 central club. Membership in one town or village or 
 house means membership in all and is easily proved." 
 
 "But does it pay?" Basil asked, and Herbert was too 
 much interested in his subject to observe that his 
 brother's mind was full of something closer and more 
 personal to him than reformed public-houses. 
 
 "The association is paying a fair dividend; but the 
 King's Arms doesn't pay yet; it's building and fur- 
 nishing outlay would take time to cover. This is gener- 
 ally advanced by the association at a small percentage of 
 interest. The King's Arms, like many village houses, 
 was started by private beneficence. Certainly I go there, 
 Basil. Why not ? I have my rights as a member. Ches- 
 ney is a member; Kathleen is a member." 
 
 "I'm not often seen hobnobbing with gossips over 
 a pint of ale and a pipe," she explained. "But I've 
 had a cup of tea in the women's room and taken a book 
 from the library." 
 
 "Well, saving your presence, I should think you 
 were an infernal nuisance there, both you and Herbert. ' ' 
 
 "Very likely," he cheerfully agreed, "still, it seems 
 best to go there occasionally at present, at all events. 
 I know my place, bless you, and take care to take a back 
 seat. So does Kit." 
 
 "Hm! I'm old-fashioned enough to regret the ex- 
 tinction of the good old village publics, and dread these
 
 SETH BARTON'S JAUNT 361 
 
 artificial, new-fangled, philanthropic substitutes. The 
 village Falstaffs, the jovial, good-tempered Rip Van 
 Winkles, seem to me an essential part of the human 
 comedy. Because you and Rosny are virtuous, shall 
 there be no more cakes and ale?" 
 
 "Ah! that's where we score, Basil. You couldn't 
 get cake at the old publics, but the King's Arms supplies 
 the most delicious cakes going. Kit has invented a spe- 
 cial club cake for them. And as for ale, and 'ginger 
 hot in the mouth?' Circumspice next time you go." 
 
 "I had no idea a Goldenose don could be so nobly 
 conservative, Basil," Kathleen said. "It removes the 
 last spice of regret at having made you the baby's god- 
 father. I feel assured that your influence upon her 
 young mind will be for good." 
 
 ' ' Nice centers of gossip your precious clubs will turn 
 out," the professor complained in the drawing-room, 
 when alone with Kathleen, Herbert having gone to some 
 choir or guild meeting immediately after dinner. 
 
 "My dear Basil, to what other end do clubs exist? 
 Gossip is a human necessity. I call it a truly Christian 
 pastime to be interested in the doings of one's fellow- 
 creatures. Is there no gossip in Common Rooms ? None 
 at the Rag ? or the Atheneum ? For my part, I can con- 
 ceive of no civilized state of society without gossip." 
 
 Basil walked up and down, after the custom of the 
 human male in meditation, passing through deserts of 
 shadow and oases of lamplight, with knitted brows and 
 pocketed hands, to the serious peril of various little 
 tables, flower-stands, screens, and other modern devices 
 for making rooms uninhabitable, in his destructive and 
 short-sighted path. Kathleen, gay and comely in her 
 simple, square-cut gown, that disclosed a graceful white 
 throat and well-rounded arms, sat by the hearth and 
 stitched merrily in the light of an umbrella lamp at her 
 side at some beautiful church embroidery of silk and 
 gold, and tried not to mind hearing a pet china vase go 
 over with a crash.
 
 362 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 "But gossip means scandal. Is that a Christian 
 amusement?" he continued, apparently unconscious of 
 the tragedy of the jar, in a tone that convinced his sister- 
 in-law of some serious mental discomposure. 
 
 "Gossip and scandal are not the same thing," she 
 replied. 
 
 "Ronald Musgrave is your cousin, Kitty," he con- 
 tinued, heedless of this correction. "You've known him 
 all your life. But I doubt if you know what a very loose 
 fish he is." 
 
 "I hear so little scandal," she replied gently. 
 
 "Why," he went on, impervious to satire, "is he 
 always at the cottage, or loafing about the cottage?" 
 
 "To begin with, is he?" 
 
 "So scandal says." 
 
 ' ' Or innocent gossip ? Well, you may not be aware 
 that the cottage at present harbors a not wholly unat- 
 tractive guest." 
 
 "If you mean Miss Rosny, she she is not remark- 
 ably attractive at least to the average man." 
 
 "Then my poor cousin certainly can't be an average 
 man, for she is marvelously attractive to him," she 
 returned, not without mischievous intent; "marvelously 
 attractive. He pays her marked attention. He is always 
 singling her out and making her conspicuous by his 
 attentions. You must have seen him at the Barley Mow 
 the day of the meet. He seems very hard hit. ' ' 
 
 "I hope, I do most fervently hope, that there is 
 no response on her side," he said, viciously kicking a 
 waste-paper basket from his path. "I am convinced 
 of that," she thought. "His attentions," he continued, 
 "are an insult to her. I have long suspected it, Kath- 
 leen, and now I find it a matter of common village gos- 
 sip. The blackguard is actually using her as a blind. 
 Her!" 
 
 "Basil! What can you mean?" she asked, dropping 
 her work in dismay. 
 
 "You never quite hit it off with Rcsny's remarkably
 
 SETH BARTON'S JAUNT 363 
 
 pretty young wife, did you? You scarcely considered 
 the marriage a happy one, either ? You were right, Kath- 
 leen. Good women have an instinct that detects the 
 faintest shadow of evil, and shrink from it. She is 
 immensely to be pitied. Her husband ought not to leave 
 her so much. He is one of those over-good people who 
 ignore human frailty and expect too much of flesh and 
 blood ; he is absorbed in a thousand things and blind to 
 what is going on under his very eyes. He must be 
 warned. I've given a hint or two to Herbert, but he 
 wouldn't take them. Now I turn to you. I've seen 
 things with my own eyes." 
 
 "0 Basil! you make me sick," she exclaimed. "You 
 can't mean that. Ronald has been fast; he is careless 
 and pleasure-loving, I know. But oh, not that, surely 
 not that!" 
 
 "Can't you put Rosny on his guard get him to take 
 her away?" he asked, stopping and looking very ear- 
 nestly through his glasses at her paling, perturbed face. 
 "Women can do these things delicately and tactfully. 
 Besides, you have an influence over Rosny; I sometimes 
 fancy his poor little wife is jealous of you. I don't 
 blame the poor woman for listening to a plausible 
 scoundrel. She 's one of the handsomest and most charm- 
 ing women I ever met ; she has no babies ; she is young, 
 and must be conscious of her striking beauty. Musgrave 
 is a dangerous fellow, horribly attractive to women, and 
 thoroughly versed in all the wiles that turn their heads. 
 They've been thrown together those theatricals, music, 
 everything has combined to bring them together. We've 
 all been blind; we have done Miss Rosny the greatest 
 injustice by supposing her capable of responding to the 
 hm! to the fellow's insolent advances. What could 
 she have in common with a an unlettered, sensual Phi- 
 listine ass like that a man of hm! Kathleen, the 
 long and short of it is that her cousin's wife must be 
 saved before it is too late, that Rosny must be warned. 
 Couldn't you tell him it is the talk of the village give
 
 364 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 him a hint without exciting suspicion tell him that Mus- 
 grave ought not to be admitted to decent houses?" 
 
 ' ' When he comes to ours ? You have strangely 
 original ideas of what constitutes a delicate hint, Basil. ' ' 
 
 "He ought not to come to this house, Kathleen," he 
 returned, with a gravity that made her feel that his ill 
 opinion of Ronald was based upon something more solid 
 than jealous prejudice. 
 
 "Ronald is only here for a short time. Is it worth 
 while supposing that what you say of him rests upon 
 known facts to make a breach with the Chesneys and 
 perhaps ruin the peace of the Rosnys? Don't ask me 
 to risk anything so terrible as that, Basil me of all peo- 
 ple. I wish I could have won Evelyn's confidence; I 
 might have given her a hint; she is the person to be 
 warned, not her husband ; she might be told of the talk. 
 Nancy must give her a hint; she trusts Nancy. I will 
 get Nancy to speak, but not to Richard. You are a 
 bachelor, Basil; you don't understand the danger of 
 interfering between man and wife. And you must 
 remember that Ronald is Richard Rosny's early friend 
 and former comrade. He must know him far better than 
 we can. Have you anything special against him?" 
 
 "Only that a woman at Plymouth has just drowned 
 herself because of him. It was a connection of many 
 years ' standing ; there were children ; the poor thing was 
 his wife in all but name. She had been told that their 
 relations must end; he was thinking of marriage; she 
 and the children were to be pensioned off. So she threw 
 herself into the- harbor, and wrote a letter, which was 
 read at the inquest; that's all," was the grim reply, 
 which petrified gentle, unsuspecting Kathleen with hor- 
 ror and amazement. 
 
 "Oh! but this is too terrible," she cried. "And, O 
 Basil ! how could you keep anything so awful from us ? " 
 
 "I only got the paper this afternoon. They've been 
 finding coins and Roman pottery in the harbor, and 
 there's an account of it in a Plymouth paper, side by
 
 SETH BARTON'S JAUNT 365 
 
 side with a report of the inquest. Herbert shall see it 
 when he comes in. In the meantime, give me some 
 errand to the cottage a note to Miss Rosny and let 
 me run down with it at once. Kitty, Kitty, supposing she 
 lias been induced to listen to that blackguard ? The poor 
 woman's letter alluded to his approaching marriage," 
 he cried, with a break in his voice that identified the 
 pronoun with Nancy. He flung himself on a sofa and 
 dropped his arms upon the cushion at its head. "Wom- 
 en of intellect are after all, women, and often as easily 
 beguiled as ' ' 
 
 "Basil, dear," Kathleen interposed with a tender, 
 pitying, yet glad, little smile, "why go on beating about 
 the bush ? Why not ask Nancy to marry you, and have 
 done with it?" 
 
 ' ' Why not ask the Queen ? " he retorted, pulling him- 
 self together and raising his head. "She has a life of 
 her own; she wouldn't care for a solitary, purblind owl 
 like me too much poetry and imagination. Besides, I 
 can't afford to marry. And you know her people 
 rather depend on her." 
 
 ' ' That 's her own affair. Besides, you needn 't marry 
 the day after to-morrow. Ask, Basil, ask." 
 
 "Do you think she would ever care enough? No, 
 Kathleen, it's not fair to ask a woman to wait and wear 
 her youth out on a chance. My income may be as good 
 as Herbert's; that is indeed the case. But it is not 
 income alone it is the obligations a man in my position 
 has. If, indeed, this mastership should be given me 
 but it will not, and truly has not, been conferred upon 
 me. Idle talk. Give me an excuse to go to the cottage. 
 Rosny is not coming home to-night, and he knows it, and 
 will doubtless act upon it." 
 
 " I '11 send a note to Nancy to come up the first thing 
 to-morrow and discuss this sad business with me, and 
 you shall bring the answer. But you don't deserve the 
 chance; you don't really care for the poor girl. You 
 are a selfish old, ease-loving college don; it is nothing 
 24
 
 366 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 to you that women's hearts break, as long as your own 
 petty ambitions are satisfied and your learned leisure 
 unviolated. You are dwindling into a mere Dryasdust, 
 Basil. If you were pricked I believe you would bleed 
 ink. And as for a heart well, I suppose there's some 
 kind of mechanical watch-spring or steel escapement 
 somewhere under your waistcoat to keep the wheels of 
 your system going; but as for anything that can feel 
 Pff! Herbert talked of your putting on flesh; you 
 might have put on a couple of pounds of manuscript or 
 half a stone of parchment nothing that can feel. Poor, 
 darling Annis ! You are desiccated into a kind of ambu- 
 lant book, heavy as lead and dry as chaff and crusted 
 over with dust a typical musty, fusty, crusty, rusty, 
 old Camford don. Oh, go back to your wormy old shelf, 
 and stop there, for pity's sake," she said, tossing him the 
 note she had been fiercely scribbling all the time. 
 
 ' ' If I thought there was the smallest gleam of hope, ' ' 
 he began, apparently much heartened by this wrathful 
 outburst, and slipping the note into a waistcoat pocket 
 as he backed irresolutely toward the door. 
 
 "Oh, go away; I've no patience with such people," 
 she cried, resuming her place by the fire, where she 
 remained plunged in painful reflections, her work 
 neglected on her lap, until Herbert returned from his 
 guild meeting tired and glad, to be shocked and startled 
 from the expected peace by the tale she had to tell. 
 
 ''To think of that man on Sunday," he said. "We 
 hauled ropes knee to knee. He went down and brought 
 up that poor fellow at his own peril, and was nearly 
 beaten to death against the cliff. He was quite done and 
 lay senseless. It was a gallant thing, Kitty. And this 
 awful tragedy at his door!" 
 
 Seth Barton was scarcely less perturbed than Basil 
 Mayne by the discussion the latter had overheard in the 
 King's Arms, although the substance of it was no new 
 thing to him. 
 
 "Whatever be I to do?" he asked himself help-
 
 SETH BARTON'S JAUNT 367 
 
 lessly as he swung out of the club and stood in the 
 unlighted, hedge-bordered street, looking slowly round 
 at the lighted public-house and the red, glowing squares 
 indicating cottages, dotted regularly among gardens 
 and under dark masses of trees. "Whatever sholl I 
 do?" 
 
 He stood long in the dark, with the countryman's 
 immemorial patience, sometimes thoughtfully scratching 
 his head, which was well-covered with a thick, grizzling 
 thatch of dull-brown hair, else quite still. He looked up 
 at the dark immensity of the sky, all cloudless and 
 spanned by the shining bridge of the Milky Way, where 
 the Swan spread its wings like a cross. 
 
 Hanging over the church was the familiar splendor 
 of Charles' Wain, faithfully pointing, as through all 
 its various turnings and inversions, to the unchanging 
 pole-star; and yonder over the sea glowed the proudly 
 striding figure of Orion, his jeweled sword-belt flashing, 
 his shining hounds following; above him gleamed the 
 gentle and glorious sisterhood of the Pleiades, and far 
 up in the zenith Cassiopeia sparkled in lonely majesty 
 upon her glowing throne. Old friends and dear were 
 these starry splendors, guides of lonely night-journeys, 
 companions and timekeepers of weary night-watches, 
 witnesses of youthful merry-makings, of Christmas bell- 
 ringings and joyous home-comings from the silent belfry 
 afterward in wind or frost or snow-stilled air; and all 
 their shining, serene glances were bent in most friendly 
 wise upon him, Seth Barton, village carpenter. He took 
 great comfort from their sweet looks; the beauty and 
 majesty and great peace of them sank into his mind ; he 
 was calmed, soothed, and uplifted in heart, he scarcely 
 knew why. For he only took careful note of them, 
 drawing his inferences of weather and time and season, 
 and but vaguely savoring the sum of their varied asso- 
 ciations. Yet those silent, shining ones had spoken and 
 given him good counsel, and he turned and went slowly 
 through the village, striking the hard road with iron-
 
 368 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 shod feet, a clear course of action firmly shaped in his 
 mind. 
 
 Coming into a little fan of yellow light from a shop- 
 window under deep thatched eaves, he stood contempla- 
 ting the merchandise set out there with gay dressing of 
 holly, colored paper and tin flags and little drums and 
 tinsel balls. Sweets, cakes, biscuits, penny toys, oranges, 
 and nuts were there, with dates and figs, apples and 
 pears, and little pictured boxes and packets of sugar- 
 plums in tempting profusion. Also gaily-colored pen- 
 boxes, tops and marbles, staylaces and stationery, with 
 dried peas, bacon, cheese and mineral oil, Christmas- 
 cards, colored picture-books, treacle, brushes, eggs, and 
 twine. He stood many seconds in contemplation of these 
 things, though the charm of the stars was still strong 
 upon him and the constellations were shining unnoticed 
 above in a sky that revealed fresh treasure of stars, as 
 the air grew more and more transparent with frost. 
 Then he opened the half-door, the clinking bell of which 
 summoned a buxom woman in a cross-over shawl and 
 checked apron, with the whole of the village gossip on 
 her tongue and a cheerful smile on her ruddy face. He 
 asked for chestnuts, while she poured out a stream of 
 sympathetic comment on the melancholy procession of 
 coffins that had traversed the road to the church that 
 day, with deepest relish of every tragic accompaniment 
 and mournful expansion of all suggestible issues. 
 
 ' ' The many I 've a-seen come in, ' ' she sighed. ' ' Tide 
 mostly casts 'em up in Cove. And the buryens in Wim- 
 bury church lytten! Fit to make anybody's heart ache, 
 and that ar bwoy of ourn purely sick for to go to sea." 
 
 ' ' Aye ! Nothen wunt stop 'em once they be took like 
 that," he replied. "Our Jem, nothen wunt do but he 
 must go aboard the Britannia. Good night to ee," he 
 added rather hastily, at a mysteriously pronounced sug- 
 gestion that seafaring men were apt to be loose of 
 morals, especially when gentlefolk, and had he, Seth 
 Barton, heard of scandalous goings on in this very Wim-
 
 SETH BARTON'S JAUNT 369 
 
 bury village. "Volk must hae summat to maake a to-do 
 about. One '11 rig another out wiv a fullish tale, and 
 tother'll swear 'tis gospel. Volk must yoppul about 
 summat, Miss Burt. Good night to ee." 
 
 "No call to jaw, missus," he said when he reached 
 his own door some three hundred yards farther on, and 
 was confronted, on raising the latch and stepping 
 straight into the bright and cozy living-room, by an 
 indignant wife. "I'll tell ee all about it somewhen or 
 other, ef ee'll bide quiet and gie me a bit of victual. 
 Taaties be all done to a snarker, be they? Oh, go long, 
 I allow the pork ain't hardly readied itt. I'd leefer hae 
 it nice and scrump. Zett down, young uns, and vail to. 
 Doan't ee glutch the victual down so vaast, Tommy, do 
 ee want to chock ? Gie en a clap on the back, Annie. Do 
 ee know what vather have got in's pocket vor ee all, for 
 all what knows how to behave ? Aye, mother, I sees wold 
 clock vaast enough. Spears points to haalf paast seven 
 o'clock, do 'em? Middlen right he be. Stars '11 tell ee 
 'tes pretty nigh haaf -paast." 
 
 Six cherry-cheeked faces of graduated height circled 
 round Seth Barton's table, at which a bright-eyed and 
 somewhat quick-tempered mother dealt savory food of 
 her own frying, and poured fragrant tea well-sugared, 
 with sundry grumblings and impartial fault-findings all 
 round. It was a fair-sized room of moderate height, 
 with a beamed ceiling and blue-washed walls, hung with 
 framed photographs and Christmas number colored 
 prints, and furnished with a dresser, an eight-day clock 
 that ticked with soothing steadiness in a tall oaken case, 
 a wide-open hearth, upon which a small iron basket of 
 coal was cheerily blazing, and round which benches were 
 set, plain wooden chairs, some pegs for hats and coats, 
 and two windows full of geraniums, brightly blooming, 
 and of lemon verbenas diffusing a delicate scent. 
 
 A gun-rack ran over the mantel-shelf, which was 
 adorned with a pair of brass candlesticks shining like 
 gold, two liver-and-white china dogs, a cow, and some
 
 370 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 mugs printed with a "present for a good child." Two 
 of the chairs had elbows and high backs polished by 
 constant use. One of the dearest grievances of Mrs. 
 Barton 's life was the absence of a passage, or even a little 
 porch, to screen this room from opening directly on to 
 the road ; but Seth loved it for old association sake, as it 
 was. He liked to sit at meals in summer-time, with the 
 sunshine and all the life of the village, as it flowed by, 
 visible through the open door, to stand and smoke on 
 the threshold of an evening, looking at the stars above 
 the trees opposite, ready to pass the time of day or dis- 
 cuss the news of the hour with those that "happened 
 by/' and all the time to feel the stability and comfort 
 of the hearth behind him, with his "wold ooman" 
 stitching by the fire or the doorway at his side, and "the 
 young uns" going and coming and frolicking about. 
 
 On this late December night bunches of holly and 
 sprigs of mistletoe set among pictures and crockery, gave 
 the cottage a festal air, and in one corner there was a 
 tiny fir-tree, hung with shining colored balls, half burned 
 tapers, tin flags and an orange or two. Books were few, 
 but a concertina on a table and a fiddle on the wall lent 
 a touch of poetry to the homely surroundings. 
 
 Little was said during the hearty repast, at the end 
 of which the table was quickly cleared by half a dozen 
 pairs of hands. This being done, the paternal pockets 
 yielded up their treasure of chestnuts, and each child 
 being allotted his or her share, they crowded round the 
 fire to roast them, eyes shining and cheeks glowing in the 
 ruddy warmth. Then Seth, instead of lighting his pipe 
 and spelling over his newspaper in his elbow chair as 
 usual, followed his wold ooman out of the room on some 
 water or fire-wood-fetching errand. 
 
 " I be gwaine to jant over to Ingrestone, ' ' he told her 
 in a low voice. "Don't ee set up for me, and don't ee 
 tell the young uns. No call to tell nobody. Lave the 
 door on the latch and I '11 queal in quiet avore morning. ' ' 
 
 "Ingrestone? This time o' night? Cain't ee bide
 
 SETH BARTON'S JAUNT 371 
 
 till mornen light?" she asked. "Lord love ee, Seth, 
 whatever do ee want to hike over there for? Be ee 
 gwaine in cairt, and dark night, too?" 
 
 "I be gwaine on Shanks' mare, Charlotte, and the 
 job I be at wunt bide. Don't ee go for to yoppul all 
 over the plaace about this here. Hyste up this here 
 cwoat ; he 's a sight too little in the earms. Good night. 
 Let the young uns hae their chestnuts and be abed by 
 half -past nine. Tell 'em father won't be home avore 
 they be gone to sleep. Good night, young uns," he 
 added, returning to the warm room and slipping through 
 the door before Mrs. Barton had time to catch her 
 breath and offer any further objection to this long and 
 lonely night walk. 
 
 He knew by the space the stars had crossed that it 
 was half-past eight, before the church clock clanged it 
 out with iron tongue from the tower he was approaching 
 with a steady, unhurried step, that left a twinkling spark 
 as it fell and made a sound that seemed to surprise the 
 deep silence and impart a deeper loneliness to the soli- 
 tude of the untrodden road. Cottage windows still 
 glowed under roofs that seemed shadowy and unsub- 
 stantial in the vague starlight; the King's Arms was all 
 lit up as before when he passed it and heard the buzzing 
 murmur of voices within. Then he left the highway and 
 struck up a rutty lane that led on to the downs, and 
 began to take the keen crystal air of Wimbury Waste, 
 where the frost ever bit deepest. Here he lit his pipe, 
 pulled up the collar of his rough coat, and, plunging 
 his hands into his pockets, where hot roasted potatoes 
 kept them warm, plodded up the steep and slippery 
 way, the stars shining down as if in benediction upon 
 him, and the great, gray ridged sea beating out a deep 
 and solemn music far below, where broken surf from 
 time to time slid up over a jutting crag, ghostlike, and 
 melted into air again. Orion was behind him now; but 
 he could see Cassiopeia overhead; when he could spare 
 a glance from the broken and iced slope, which made
 
 372 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 a difficult foothold and obliged him soon to stop and 
 breathe, he looked back toward Orion. Beneath the 
 bright hunter lay the sheltered gorge where he had found 
 Richard crying as a boy years ago, and where that noon 
 before the funeral he had seen, as he climbed up from the 
 shore, what set him upon his long night walk two peo- 
 ple together there who should not have been together 
 anywhere. The lighthouse was invisible, but its broad 
 fan of light flashed and faded over the sea. 
 
 ' ' Married the wrong woman, ' ' that had been the Bar- 
 tons ' verdict on Rosny's wife. But of late both Seth and 
 his wold ooman had been drawn to Evelyn as they had 
 never expected to be. That was since the sharp illness 
 of their little Tommy, when she had stood by the child 's 
 pillow all one night, and done what his mother had 
 lacked courage to do for him. 
 
 Thinking of these things, the tired laborer turned 
 and put his best foot foremost and plodded heavily over 
 frozen waste and frost-crisped turf and iron-bound 
 road, up hill and down dale, under the freezing, spark- 
 ling stars, past cowering beasts and huddled sheep, past 
 village, homestead, and coppice, until, half an hour be- 
 fore midnight, he brought up at the gardener's cottage 
 opposite the Pines at Ingrestone, and, striding wearily up 
 the garden path, threw a handful of gravel at the dark 
 upper window where Gatrell slept.
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 IN THE GORGE 
 
 SETH BARTON'S heavy footfall had hardly echoed 
 away into the stillness upon the lonely road before it 
 was succeeded by a lighter and quicker step, and the 
 professor's long and dark figure turned in a contrary 
 direction to that taken by Seth, away from the main road 
 and toward Wimbury Cottage. 
 
 Here his pace slackened and his glances became alert, 
 questing in every direction, lest anything might lurk 
 among the shadows; he even tried with unwonted cau- 
 tion to tread without sound, though that was difficult, 
 for the frosted grass bordering the lane rustled icily 
 and the hard lane rang like metal. The cottage looked 
 most peaceful and homelike beneath the star-bright sky, 
 the white radiance of the Milky Way arched far above 
 its vaguely outlined roof, and glittering Orion striding 
 up from the south sky toward its front, that was all 
 dark except for some thin lines of light escaping from 
 windows; most peaceful and homelike, he thought, 
 half envious of the still and secluded nest in which two 
 people of similar tastes might be so happy together. 
 The dimly-seen trees pressed round the house as if on 
 guard, and, as he drew near and went through the gate, 
 a voice of subdued music sounded from it, gradually 
 resolving itself into the heart-torn strains of an inter- 
 mezzo of Schumann that one which carries all through 
 it the longing despair of the sad, almost distraught, 
 melody Meine Ruh ist hin. 
 
 The professor, usually so unobservant and abstracted, 
 but now, by the guile and malice of the blind archer 
 
 373
 
 374 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 converted into a suspicious amateur detective, exerci- 
 sing all the wiles and subterfuges of those Red Indians 
 whose adventures had charmed his early youth, stepped 
 more cautiously than ever, ears and eyes alike astrain, 
 and crept past the parlor window, whence the music 
 came, deciding that the broad and emphatic touch, under 
 which the pain of the melody became more than ever 
 poignant, was not Nancy Rosny's. Might this wild 
 music be a sign? The linden-branches swayed lightly 
 under a passing breeze that rustled dryly through some 
 sere leaves clinging to the brushwood round their bases, 
 recalling their "green felicity" in the summer moon- 
 light, and the wonderful hour of music that had followed 
 the open-air dance. 
 
 The intermezzo broke off abruptly with a discord, 
 and there was silence in which the twinkle and flash of 
 the innumerable stars became almost audible above the 
 distant surge of a peaceful sea. The professor stood 
 like a statue on the doorstep, peering into the shadows 
 massed under trees and shrubs, and looking up at the 
 splendor of the sky for a couple of hundred seconds. 
 Then there fell upon his charmed ear the soft and sea- 
 like music of the opening adagio of the sonata in C 
 sharp Minor, and he recognized Nancy 's touch, and, after 
 a few more seconds, rang the bell and was admitted and 
 shown into the warm parlor full of soft light, soft music, 
 and flowers, where one young woman sat playing at the 
 piano and another lay in a deep chair by the fire, the 
 cat purring on her knees and the firelight drawing 
 sparkles from the two swords on the wall opposite. 
 
 All was so peaceful and pleasant, so suggestive of 
 refined and elegant domesticity. Could this firelit Eden 
 harbor the rumored serpent? Village folk must talk. 
 And yet He thought that Evelyn avoided his gaze; 
 but Nancy looked him straight in the eyes with a frank 
 and happy smile when she gave him her hand, and 
 looked away again so quickly that he wondered how he 
 could have called her unattractive, even to undiscerning
 
 IN THE GORGE 375 
 
 Philistines. He thought her dress, the simplest of gowns, 
 most becoming and delightful, and admired the life and 
 gaiety which shone in her clear eyes and sounded in her 
 fresh voice, and was emphasized by Evelyn's weary face 
 and languid manner. 
 
 "You are tired, Mrs. Rosny?" he asked, handing 
 Nancy the note. "I ought not to have come in, tmt my 
 sister-in-law wants a verbal answer." 
 
 "Hardly tired," she replied; "only bored. Two 
 lorn women badly want waking up after a long day 
 together, with no gayer incident than a funeral. Very 
 dismal functions, funerals nearly as bad as weddings. 
 So you are to be master of Goldenose?" 
 
 "Really? But that is news. What is your au- 
 thority?" 
 
 "Lord Randal. He had it from a Camford friend." 
 
 ' ' Lord Randal ? ' ' echoed Nancy, looking up from the 
 note she had been crumpling in her hand. "But when 
 did you see him ? ' ' 
 
 Evelyn crimsoned and bent over the cat. The pro- 
 fessor hoped that the tidings, however gained, might 
 be prophetic. "I should not refuse the mastership," 
 he added. "It would be a marvelous stroke of good 
 fortune far too good for this workaday world. It 
 might mean so much more than its actual worth," he 
 continued, looking at Nancy, who colored warmly. ' ' So 
 you had it from Chesney, Mrs. Rosny? Do you know 
 that makes me rather hopeful?" 
 
 "Oh, you will be master if you wish it," Evelyn 
 said airily, to hide her vexation. "The next step will 
 be to provide a mistress for Goldenose. In that case, I 
 wash you better luck than falls to the majority." 
 
 "Thank you," he said with grave simplicity. "I 
 should certainly make the attempt." 
 
 "Will you tell Kathleen that I will run up directly 
 after breakfast?" Nancy said hurriedly. "I am going 
 home to-morrow and will take her on my way." 
 
 "Going home?" echoed the professor with visible
 
 376 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 dismay. "So soon? At least let me escort you if the 
 roads are fit for cycling. ' ' 
 
 "Thank you," she hesitated. "I think I mean 
 in any case I was not meaning to cycle to-morrow." 
 
 "Lucky people, to be able to take pleasure in 
 cycling," Evelyn said. "I wish I could. But it is so 
 appallingly hideous." 
 
 The professor, feeling badly snubbed by Nancy's 
 refusal, said much in praise of cycling. ' ' I know noth- 
 ing more graceful than a good rider stepping easily on 
 to her wheel, with her skirts falling naturally into place 
 and her hands lying lightly on the handle-bars, as she 
 glides rapidly away without effort ; except, perhaps, the 
 same rider, erect and steady, slipping lightly to her 
 feet and walking beside her wheel without a pause," 
 he added. "Have you never seen Miss Rosny ride? I 
 admit that people of my clumsy sex look more clumsy 
 and ungainly than ever, crooked over handle-bars, and 
 heaving themselves like so many sacks of coal on to their 
 saddles. ' ' 
 
 "Nancy, Nancy," said Evelyn, laughing, "after 
 such a tribute, can you refuse to ride to-morrow? I 
 couldn 't. But I know I 've an exceptionally soft heart. ' ' 
 
 "I should be in such deadly fear of coming short of 
 all those imaginary perfections and less than ever dis- 
 posed to ride," Nancy maintained cheerfully; but to 
 show that her heart was not made of adamant, granted 
 the professor's next request that she would play the open- 
 ing adagio of the sonata, which she did with unusual 
 taste and tenderness, so that the room was filled with 
 the soft rhythm, the wild longing, and hushed thunder 
 of wave-music and the mingled passion and peace of 
 the vast, calm, moonlit sea. And just as the last chords 
 were dying into peace, and the professor was in Elys- 
 ium, a joyous bark was heard, a firm step sounded in 
 the hall, and Rosny came quickly in with a rush of cool, 
 sweet air. 
 
 Evelyn sprang up with a suppressed cry and start-
 
 IN THE GORGE 377 
 
 led face. "You you you were better than your word 
 this time," she said, quickly recovering herself. 
 
 "Yes," he replied, "I was determined to get home 
 if I possibly could to-night, though I scarcely thought 
 it would come off. To-morrow and next day it will 
 be quite impossible. But it was a rush. Hail ! Thane of 
 Cawdor, or master of Goldenose ! No ? My authority 
 was Musgrave; he had it from Randal Chesney." 
 
 "If I hear it a third time I shall take it as a 
 prophecy," the professor said. "But, pardon my curi- 
 osity, when did Musgrave furnish you with this aston- 
 ishing piece of intelligence?" 
 
 ' ' Why, now, of course, when I met him at the gate, ' ' 
 Rosny replied cheerfully. "Didn't he congratulate 
 you? Strange! he seemed full of it. And having just 
 met you " 
 
 " I 've not seen him since the funeral this afternoon 
 hardly the time for congratulations. Besides, I had no 
 speech with either Musgrave or Chesney." 
 
 "Ronald Musgrave has not been here to-day, Dick," 
 Nancy said. "How could you have met him at the 
 gate? It makes one feel creepy. It must have been his 
 wraith. ' ' 
 
 "It was pretty solid for a wraith and limped like 
 life," Richard said. "What the dickens brought him 
 to the gate if he hadn't called?" he asked; and then, 
 looking at Nancy, smiled a slow, pleased smile. "Ah!" 
 he said, with a mysterious nod. 
 
 At first mention of Musgrave, Evelyn had turned 
 from the group on the hearth and gone to the window to 
 arrange the curtains and exclude a fancied draft, which 
 appeared to be a delicate and difficult achievement. 
 
 "Perhaps," she suggested, turning slowly back and 
 bending over a bowl of chrysanthemums which seemed 
 to require some fresh adjustment, "perhaps he had been 
 dining with the Martins. I like these deep crimsons 
 best. I wonder if they are difficult to grow, Nan?" 
 
 Two grave and keen eyes surveying her through a
 
 378 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 pince-nez detected a tremor in the slim, white hands 
 touching the flowers, and a strained expression in the 
 beautiful, weary young face above them. The voice, 
 low and clear as usual, expressed only a normal toler- 
 ance of the commonplace. The professor, in spite of 
 the keen personal raptures thrilling him, had a pang of 
 pity and condemnation to spare for what was before 
 him, and Nancy, equally preoccupied, yet received a 
 mental photograph that developed slowly in the dark 
 chamber of the next twenty-four hours, of this brief 
 scene, especially of a wild, hunted look in the eyes Eve- 
 lyn suddenly and defiantly raised under the mesmerism 
 of the professor's pince-nez. 
 
 Next morning saw Nancy stepping along the rime- 
 covered gravel before the sun had melted a single jewel 
 from the frosted boughs, on her way to the vicarage, 
 with the happy professor, who had foregone half his 
 breakfast to be at the cottage by the time she started, 
 clear-eyed, rosy, and gay, her voice ringing with purest 
 happiness. The professor had so much to say that he 
 wasted the few minutes of the quick, brief walk in 
 nothings. 
 
 Could she not put off her return till the afternoon? 
 No; her father wanted her for a special reason on that 
 forenoon; he expected her by the eleven o'clock train. 
 Might he call, then, on the following day? Most unfor- 
 tunately that day was engaged, but if he cared to call 
 on the Thursday, New Year's Day why not ride over 
 to luncheon ? Her father and mother would be charmed ; 
 there was no engagement for Thursday; it would be a 
 good beginning of the year. 
 
 Till Thursday, then, and good-by, at the vicarage 
 door, and the professor, forgetful of all lore but that 
 which is learned in ladies' eyes, and of all ambition but 
 that which was to be gratified by the college mastership, 
 now of a known certainty to be offered him, turned 
 away to walk off the excess of the happiness that over- 
 weighed his well-stored and well-disciplined mind, and
 
 IN THE GORGE 379 
 
 to consider how to possess his soul in patience for eight- 
 and-forty, nay, for fifty, hours fifty solid hours, each 
 stuffed out with sixty mortal minutes of sixty seconds 
 apiece. What fraction of man's allotted span was fifty 
 hours ? 
 
 But more events were to be accomplished during 
 those hours than he had bargained for ; had he been able 
 to foresee the manner of their passing, he would have 
 wished their pace slower, nay, he would have been but 
 too thankful could he have stopped the clock altogether, 
 and dwelt in the agitating joy and fear of that most 
 joyous morning hour, with the face he loved, all bright 
 with health, happiness, and intelligence, vividly pictured 
 upon his memory, investing the winter morning with 
 magical beauty and making the sea's mysterious music 
 a voice of unutterable gladness. 
 
 "What does it all mean, Kit?" Nancy asked, when 
 she found herself by the fire in the sunny dining-room, 
 in a bay of which Kathleen transacted most of her winter 
 morning duties. 
 
 "It means very serious mischief, Nan, if only the 
 mischief of tongues," Kathleen said. "It means that 
 these two are, certainly and beyond all doubt, often 
 alone together and secretly. It means that you must 
 stop it." 
 
 " 1 1 Dear Kitten, it seems that I have hitherto only 
 made things worse by serving as a blind or pretext not 
 a very grateful part to play. That mystery is solved. 
 I could never conceive why the wretch persecuted me 
 with such studied court one felt the falsity all the time, 
 one always does. But yesterday, for instance, he was 
 not to my knowledge in the house. Yet Dick met him 
 coming out of the gate." 
 
 "Had you dined together? Yes? And dressed 
 first?" 
 
 ' ' Ah ! Evelyn was absent a long time after tea. I 
 was reading. She came in at the dressing-bell ready 
 dressed. She had been trying on a gown. It wasn't
 
 380 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 worth while to change twice, she said. Ah! and she 
 scolded me for not going to dress till the last minute 
 as you often do. But Richard came home and met him 
 two or three hours later. That doesn't fit." 
 
 ' ' Nancy, you may save her. No one else can. Don 't 
 go home; let me telegraph to your father. Stay in this 
 house to-night, and go down to the cottage presently. 
 You may, I fear, surprise a visitor there. That will 
 give you an opening. But in any case, you must take 
 the bull by the horns and tell her what people are say- 
 ing and how culpable it is to give any foundation for 
 such talk." 
 
 "Surely Evelyn is not without common sense and 
 knowledge. She must know what is decorous and usual. 
 I can 't think that she perceives anything but a somewhat 
 warm friendship in Ronald Musgrave's civilities. Is it 
 well to make her suspicious?" 
 
 "Suspicious!" cried Kathleen. "Can you be so 
 blind ? I think that she never loved Richard. It was a 
 most ill-assorted marriage; they have always been poles 
 asunder. ' * 
 
 "I can't think this," said Nancy, deeply distressed, 
 after a long and thoughtful silence. "I can't think 
 such things of Evelyn; it is too horrible. But I will 
 stay and take care that she takes care of her good name. 
 It may be that she has been thoughtless, and has allowed 
 him to go farther than is conventional, treated him too 
 much like a brother, and so has excited all this foolish 
 talk. I can't think Evelyn false and treacherous and 
 to Richard. No; I can't allow this of Evelyn. But she 
 must not let herself be talked about ; I can tell her that. 
 And this dreadful story about Musgrave. I think she 
 must hear that." 
 
 "Herbert and Basil think so. And, as they say, it is 
 no mere hearsay report. There is simply the poor crea- 
 ture's letters read at the inquest with his name in black 
 and white, and the fact of her suicide and the fact of 
 the children and his allowance for them. Oh, Nancy,
 
 IN THE GORGE 381 
 
 however charitably we may think of Evelyn, however we 
 may minimize the causes of the scandal, I fear that those 
 two can never be happy together. I am so grieved for 
 Richard, poor, dear Richard! Surely he has suffered 
 enough. Oh, yes ; I know that I made him suffer, Nancy. 
 But you know all about that; I could never have made 
 him happy. And I did hope that this young and pretty 
 creature " 
 
 "She cares for him more than you think, Kitty. 
 Who knows but this may be some childish freak to make 
 him jealous? He is undemonstrative, she exacting. I 
 think somebody ought to scold Dick. Ah! Kitty, you 
 should have stuck to poor Dick." 
 
 "I couldn't, I couldn't. Oh, Nancy, you know I 
 couldn't. But I am made like that. I did care for him ; 
 and I do now as far as wedded wife may. I would do 
 anything for his happiness, Herbert knows that; Her- 
 bert values him as I do, and more. Nancy, how can a 
 woman betray her child 's father 1 What shadow of hap- 
 piness can there be with any other man, however deeply 
 and wildly loved? To be a shame to both, a hindrance 
 to both, a true joy and help to neither?" 
 
 "But / would have stood by him," Nancy reflected 
 an hour later when she turned back to the cottage, a 
 sadder though hardly wiser woman than w r hen she left 
 it. "Kathleen has a fine nature, but it's not quite as 
 broad as it is high. Was she right? Then I would 
 rather be wrong. Well, it was written. And who shall 
 judge?" 
 
 The cottage parlors were empty, the house silent, 
 forlorn, it seemed to Nancy's excited fancy. The mis- 
 tress, she heard, had been out for about an hour and 
 might not be in to lunch. She had gone toward the sea, 
 it was supposed, and certainly alone. 
 
 Thither accordingly Nancy bent her steps, with 
 
 careful surveys over gates and gaps as far as eye 
 
 could reach, to discover the graceful figure flitting over 
 
 the familiar paths, and with much pondering over the 
 
 25
 
 382 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 best way to accomplish her difficult and delicate mission. 
 By this time the rime was melted by the low south sun ; 
 shadowy lines of hills and brown tree-tops were traced 
 upon a clear, blue sky; distant horizons and hill-folds 
 were of the sweet, soft azure so suggestive of joy and 
 purity; the gentle sea, murmuring its secret of unutter- 
 able bliss as if in sleep, gave back a deeper and clearer 
 blue to the sky's blue glance. Through the mild winter 
 midday pulsed the rich song of a thrush; a wren war- 
 bled a thinner but almost sweeter strain, rooks had many 
 things to say in many various notes ; white wings of gulls 
 fluttered round the lighthouse tower, at the base of 
 which foam broke with a sound softer than silence. 
 Here a purple headland, and there a white, blue-veined 
 chalk range stood far out to sea with surf -silvered foot ; 
 there a great liner throbbed over the blue waste, leaving 
 a white-streaked furrow and the shadow of a smoke- 
 trail behind; far in the offing a bark, full-set with 
 shadowy sails of fairy-like weft, sat as if motionless 
 upon the lightly-crisped wave, and there panted and 
 puffed an ocean tramp in fussy haste; else the sea lay 
 lonely in the sunshine, cormorant and sea-mew brooding 
 almost imperceptibly on its ridged quiet. 
 
 The limestone crags, yellow in the warm light, drew 
 a sharp edge along the pure sky; rich brown of wood 
 and brush glowed beneath them set in various green; 
 russet bracken burned at the head of the gorge, that 
 broke in purpling browns and yellowing greens with 
 dark gray of jutting rock and red sand of broken cliff, 
 down to the ever-blooming reef, the thunder of which, 
 though subdued by distance and chained by calm, became 
 with every step a deeper and richer organ music. 
 
 The joy of rich and pure color, the harmony and 
 completeness of things, the charm of sound and sight, 
 and the sweetness of pure and sparkling sea-air up- 
 breathed by a gentle southwest wind, entered into Nancy 
 and made her warm and guileless heart leap up in thank- 
 ful adoration to her Heavenly Father. All the perplexi-
 
 IN THE GORGE 383 
 
 ties and strivings, all the enigmas, misgivings, and heart- 
 searchings, slid away and vanished, leaving her calm 
 and clear-minded, with the heart of a trusting child. 
 How good, how fair, how clean was all the brave out- 
 ward show of this world, mere shadow though it was and 
 symbol only of something yet to be. Even the great new 
 joy of that morning was merged and sublimated in this 
 high serenity of pure and peaceful nature, while as for 
 that dark possibility of treachery and wrong-doing in 
 the near and the dear, surely that could not be; it was 
 too improbable a dissonance in the grand all-embracing 
 harmony. Yet she had studied S. Augustine as well as 
 Plato, and ought to have known the sharp contrast 
 between the moral and physical worlds. She roused 
 herself from a happy trance of nature magic to look in 
 every known haunt for a figure in a moss-green, or dark- 
 gray coat and skirt, but in all her walk had seen only 
 village children dancing on errands, laborers mending 
 hedges, and striding after the plow on upland furrows, 
 a smart coast-guardsman, and a fisherman in a blue jer- 
 sey. Truly the place was solitary and Evelyn's life 
 dull ; Nancy would not for all her joy in natural beauty 
 like to live so remote, even with the bicycle Evelyn 
 contemned. Yet with books and duties, and a kindred 
 spirit by one's side we all have our ideals of hap- 
 piness. 
 
 Nancy's healthy pulses leaped with exquisite joy; 
 she bounded down the broken side of the cliff and saw 
 the clean, golden brown shingle appear and disappear 
 under the curving white surf. She had forgotten to 
 ascertain the whereabouts of Rollo, who would not fail 
 to appear if he were with his mistress. She had reached 
 the little ledge near the favorite nook in the cliff where 
 Richard had sobbed out his first grief, and where Ronald 
 Musgrave once heard the recitation of ' ' Oh, let the solid 
 ground." The branchy screen was thinner now, the 
 leaves being off; the soft, south breeze carried every 
 faintest sigh up the cliff, and Nancy was suddenly
 
 384 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 stopped, petrified by the sound of voices, of two voices 
 vibrant and incautious with emotion. 
 
 There was quick, confused interchange of question 
 and answer before the bewildered listener made out dis- 
 tinctly in the fine baritone she recognized: ''Till five, 
 then, dearest. The pier station, well understood. Make 
 the flyman bring you as near as possible and keep in 
 the waiting-room till the last minute. Then a reserved 
 first-class marked reserved, remember will open at 
 your touch; the veil won't deceive me. Till five o'clock, 
 darling. ' ' 
 
 There was a light rustling as of a resisted embrace, 
 and then in a deeply agitated voice : ' ' No, no. Not yet. 
 Till five, Ronald." 
 
 ' ' You shall never repent, ' ' cried the man in a passion- 
 thrilled voice; "never. Be brave. The Rubicon is 
 crossed, sweetheart." 
 
 Evelyn's clear and tremulous "Till five, Ronald," 
 were the last words heard by Nancy, who by that time 
 had sufficiently recovered her horror and amazement to 
 turn with tingling ears and aching heart, and slowly 
 climb the broken path she had so lightly descended a 
 minute before. 
 
 Evelyn, little Evelyn, come to this ! Nancy was quite 
 sure that she had never known the depth of her friend- 
 ship for sweet, innocent Evelyn till now, when she found 
 her in the dust, dethroned and dishonored. Poor, pretty 
 Evelyn! why had she let her come to this? She ought 
 to have seen and known ; she remembered so many things 
 now, when it was too late. That was the secret of her 
 renewed interest in life, of her apparent content and 
 acquiescence in her marriage ; indifference finds no fault. 
 Why had she been so blind, so stupidly secure of Eve- 
 lyn 's impeccability ? It came of living at college among 
 girls and women in the cloistered quietudes of life. 
 Those few overheard sentences burned themselves in 
 molten white-hot characters into her brain till she 
 repeated them mechanically, slowly gathering their full
 
 IN THE GORGE 385 
 
 meaning as she slowly climbed the steep way. The pier 
 station would be at St. Ann's, that was clear; the five- 
 ten boat would catch the Waterloo express. But whence 
 would Evelyn take the fly? Certainly not from Wim- 
 bury, the publicity apart, the distance was too great. 
 Of one thing Nancy had been instantly certain, as soon 
 as she realized what ' ' till five ' ' meant namely, that the 
 appointment was not to be kept. She was quite decided 
 on that point. No doubt people have the control of their 
 own lives, and in a free country may if they please go 
 to the dogs in their own fashion. Still, Nancy did not 
 intend to let these two people do as they pleased; she 
 had at times a certain slow and steady and invincible 
 way of meaning that things should or should not come 
 to pass dogged, her father called her ; she had no right 
 to interfere, she knew, but she intended to do so by 
 force or by fraud if necessary. So she told herself, start- 
 ing violently in the midst of her meditations at the 
 sound of a cheerful voice in her ear. 
 
 "Well met, Miss Rosny," it said. "And Dick told 
 me you were off the first thing this morning. What a 
 heavenly day! Did I startle you?" 
 
 She turned, ignoring the outstretched hand, and won- 
 dered at the cheerful unconcern upon the handsome face 
 well shown under the small stable-cap he replaced. 
 
 ' ' I was going, ' ' she replied with a level though shud- 
 dering gaze, "but I changed my mind." 
 
 "It is one of the prerogatives of your delightful sex 
 a charm of priceless worth. However hard-hearted 
 ladies may be, there is always the hope of one of these 
 changes of mind to buoy one up." 
 
 His dark eyes were soft and brilliant with newly 
 stirred emotion, his voice eloquent of it, his always win- 
 ning smile and charming manner made that a homage in 
 him that would be impertinence in others. Nancy, shiv- 
 ering inwardly with repulsion, yet looking him straightly 
 and somewhat disturbingly in the face with clear and 
 bravely earnest eyes, fully recognized the dangerous
 
 386 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 fascination and irresistible charm of this handsome and 
 accomplished man of the world, and felt the powerful 
 magnetism he must exercise over such a one as Evelyn. 
 "The prerogative sometimes snatches the cup from 
 the lip," she said with grim satisfaction, still looking 
 up in the face that was courteously, almost caressingly, 
 bent down to hers, just as they issued from the narrow 
 path upon a wider ledge covered with bracken and whin, 
 and caught the flash of two angry eyes, as the professor 
 crossed their path at right angles, and without pause, 
 vanished round a projecting spur of the cliff.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 GATEELL'S VISIT TO THE HEAD OFFICE 
 
 SETH BAETON found that the work of breaking the 
 slumbers of the laboring man was not to be effected in a 
 moment or without danger of cracking the window- 
 panes. The sleeper having been awakened at last, it 
 took some time to assure Gatrell's drowsy wits that the 
 man below was neither robber, policeman, nor tramp, 
 but simply Seth Barton, "just stepped over" from Wim- 
 bury, still longer to convince him that nobody was dead 
 or dying, and no one's house or rick was afire. By that 
 time they were both half frozen, and when at last Gatrell 
 lumbered down stairs, dizzy and hastily clad, and 
 opened the door to the numbed visitor, the fire had to be 
 lighted and hot drink brewed, and each of them allowed 
 they were ' ' pretty nigh shrammed to death with cwold, ' ' 
 and gladly availed themselves of comforting potations 
 and hot victual quickly cooked by Deborah. 
 
 The consultation which followed was long; the small 
 hours drew to an end before Barton set out on his 
 homeward journey under the vault of changed stars, in 
 a more bitter and biting cold than ever, with a contented 
 mind and tired body, while Gatrell returned to his inter- 
 rupted slumbers with such hearty good-will that Deborah 
 could hardly rouse him in time to eat his breakfast be- 
 fore taking the half -past nine train in fulfilment of his 
 promise to Seth. 
 
 The nearest branch of Belton, Laking & Co. was at 
 the market town seven miles off, a branch at which Rosny 
 was often to be found at this time of year. Thither 
 accordingly Gatrell went, walking into the office almost 
 
 387
 
 388 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 as soon as it was opened, and boldly inquiring for Mr. 
 Rosny, who, he was informed, was not there, nor, as far 
 as was known, likely to be there that day. It was most 
 probable, that he would be found at the head office at 
 Shackleton. At all events the Shackleton people would 
 know where he was. 
 
 Greatly discouraged by this failure, and by the 
 remembrance of work that ought to be done on that 
 particular day, and by doubts as to whether "that ar 
 buoy" would not ruin the early rhubarb he was forcing, 
 and forget to open and shut important glass frames at 
 proper hours, Gatrell, who could count the occasions 
 on which he had traveled as far as Shackleton, was yet 
 elated by the prospect of visiting that exciting city, and 
 sternly resolved to incur the expense and waste of time 
 it involved, the importance of his errand justifying both 
 the extravagance and the holiday. By this time the wind 
 had changed and brilliant sunshine and mild air made 
 it proper holiday weather, inspiring a proper holiday 
 mood, tempered by the gravity of his mission as well as 
 by the perpetually recurring doubts as to the advantage 
 1 ' that ar buoy ' ' would take of this glorious burst of sun- 
 shine and breaking off frost. Resisting the attractions 
 of the bustling streets, and even denying himself more 
 than a passing glance at the nurseryman's shop-win- 
 dow, he made his way resolutely to the station and caught 
 a train that caught the next boat to Shackleton, and 
 in less than an hour's time was gliding over a sunny sea, 
 watching the white furrow fall away from the paddle 
 and listening to the disjointed chatter of passenger and 
 crew as either passed and repassed, his pipe well alight, 
 and a serene enjoyment in his mind. 
 
 To see the curving land-lines lessen and fade upon the 
 sky in a haze of turquoise, and black and threatening 
 forts loom into sight on the sparkling waters, to meet 
 a dainty yacht winged with azure-shadowed white, and 
 smacks of various rig with warm brown sails spread to 
 catch the light sea-breath, to glide past a great ocean-
 
 GATRELL VISITS THE OFFICE 389 
 
 liner, a towering war-ship, turreted and full-armed there, 
 to watch the advancing shore, city-crowned, dock-girded, 
 grow clearer, and to creep in through a maze of masts 
 between the hulls of vessels great and small, of every 
 rig and many a nationality, was new, delightful, and 
 inspiring; doubts concerning "that ar buoy" slipped 
 away like morning mist, and even the grave nature of 
 the errand to Shackleton was forgotten in the joy of the 
 vivid and many-colored life throbbing round upon the 
 bright and still water. 
 
 Boom, boom, rolled distant guns at practise, the dull 
 sound growing and dying away upon the lightly heaving 
 sea; throb, throb, wash-wash, came from a great out- 
 going steamer, beating the still harbor waters into rolling 
 surge ; bells, hoarse shouts, and mellow, melancholy Yo ! 
 heave ho's! rattle of hawser and chain, creak of turn- 
 ing crane, scream of running block and shot like sound 
 of loosening sail, with shriek of steam-whistles and hiss 
 of engine, overpowered the gentle pulsing of oars and 
 sound of broken water everywhere. 
 
 A delightful bewilderment and self-forgetfulness fell 
 upon the gardener's simple soul as he staggered over the 
 deck to the gangway in the surge of the off-crowding 
 passengers, and became conscious of the innumerable 
 sounds arid sights of the busy and thronged city, the 
 spires and towers and bastion-like buildings of which 
 grew out of the sunny haze into definite form before 
 him. Resolutely grasping his stout, thorn-knotted stick, 
 he plodded along the pier, resisting the importunity of 
 cabman and omnibus touts, and tramping along the 
 strand, where nursemaids lingered with their charges 
 under bare-boughed trees in the sunshine, and made for 
 the principal street, which led uphill from the sea and 
 was broad and gay and thronged with carriages and 
 fashionably-dressed foot-folk, shopping and chatting 
 and going up and down the steps of hotels and clubs. 
 The marvel and richness of the shops, the splendor of 
 the great buildings, the bustle and rush and roar, took
 
 390 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 away Gatrell's breath and kept his mouth as wide open 
 as his eyes, while he plodded heavily on in his country- 
 made Sunday suit and thick overcoat, stemming the 
 jostling, shouldering human tide that rolled with and 
 against him, till he reached the ancient, arched and bat- 
 tlemented gateway that barred the broad street and 
 showed the city arms in their proper colors on their 
 carven scutcheon. Here he paused and drew breath in 
 a corner made by a buttress, and looked rather wistfully 
 at a restaurant opposite, and then shaking his head as 
 if at a conscious tempter, tried to forget the glamour of 
 the gay show before him and arrange his thoughts and 
 stiffen his courage for the task he had in hand, when, 
 looking at a gray old belfry tower giving on the street, 
 his eye was caught by the quaint sight of a little crowd 
 of armored men running out beneath the clock-face and 
 smiting each a several bell with his battle-ax till the four 
 quarters had chimed and a giant among them had crashed 
 a final stroke on a deeper-mouthed bell and the hour of 
 one was echoed musically all over the city from tower to 
 tower, and hummed and whistled and shrieked in all 
 varieties of dissonance in factories, docks, and harbor, 
 and the side streets ran black with workmen hurrying 
 out to dinner; and the character of the street changed 
 as if by magic. But none observed the miracle of the 
 quaint little men in armor, who, their duty done, had 
 run back each to his quarter, leaving one little warder 
 with lifted ax outside on guard; nobody but Gatrell 
 and a little girl wheeling a perambulator had so much as 
 looked at the entrancing sight. Again he tried to collect 
 his thoughts and steel himself to the seductions of the 
 gay city, and turning and passing under a side arch, 
 made his way without pause till he brought up at the 
 steps of the pillared brick building faced with stone, that 
 bore the deep-cut name Belton, Laking & Co., Limited, 
 upon its face. 
 
 Now Gatrell's heart began to jump and his courage 
 to fail, for he considered the nature of his business and
 
 GATRELL VISITS THE OFFICE 391 
 
 the difficulty of putting it into any words at all, much 
 less any befitting the subject and himself and the per- 
 son to whom they were to be addressed. 
 
 "Od, darn it all, Silas Gatrell," he said to himself, 
 ' ' be ee man enough for this here job, or bain 't ee ? Take 
 and go on with ee, for a zimple girt zote. What be ee 
 jackassen about all day long for? I allows you won't get 
 no more zense than what's inzide of ee already, if ee 
 bides gaapen and gawken about here till the devil's 
 dancen hours. Go on in and get shut of it, do." 
 
 To see Mr. Rosny was a daring and astonishing 
 request from any, much less from one so humbly placed 
 as the simple country gardener. He was told that Mr. 
 Rosny only saw people by appointment and on business 
 of importance, but that a letter, message, or card might 
 in the course of the afternoon receive some attention, 
 or it might not. He was beginning to despair of gaining 
 access to him at all. 
 
 ' ' I tell ee I 've a-come to see en, and I 'm a-gwaine to 
 see en," he said at last. "I've come all the ways from 
 Ingrestone. Will ee just tell en Gatrell, gairdner at 
 the Pines, is come across the water a-purpose to speak to 
 en? He'll see me sure enough, if you'll name me. I've 
 known en from a boy. Tell en I shall bide here till he 
 do. Write ? I cain 't write no zense. Silas Gatrell from 
 Ingrestone, that's who I be." 
 
 "Well, well, your message shall go in," was the 
 reply, and some ten minutes later came the message that 
 Mr. Rosny would see him if possible in an hour's time; 
 upon which, rejecting advice to call again, he stood 
 patiently waiting by the door, wondering at the quick 
 coming and going of the busy crowd of customers and 
 the rapidity with which piles of glittering wealth and 
 bundles of bank-notes changed hands, as if it were 
 pennyworth of sugar or treacle over a grocer's counter, 
 and the lightning speed with which things were written 
 in books and on slips of paper. Where did all the gold 
 come from? It seemed of no more account than the
 
 392 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 mold he was used to shovel and cast about in his gar- 
 dens; the gentlemen in charge of it shoveled it up care- 
 lessly in a little scoop, as the grocer shovelled up tea, 
 and poured it out prodigally before unastonished custom- 
 ers, who pocketed it with unconcern, just as he might 
 pocket a twist of tobacco. "Notes or gold?" these lav- 
 ish gentlemen asked, and people were found simple 
 enough to say notes when they might have had gold. 
 
 It was after a very long hour perhaps it was nearer 
 two when at last he was summoned, and led through 
 halls and corridors and up a wide staircase and along 
 other corridors, into a small room scantily furnished, 
 in which he was told to wait for five minutes. Then he 
 heard the sharp tinkle of an electric bell, a door opened, 
 two people came out of an inner room, a second bell 
 sounded, and he was shown into a large room with a 
 bright fire, and there at last found Rosny in a revolv- 
 ing chair, at a table covered with papers and books and 
 various things to which Gatrell 's imagination could sup- 
 ply no possible use. 
 
 "Why, Gatrell, this is a surprise," Rosny said, look- 
 ing up with a kind smile. "Very glad to see you. . . . 
 But I'm awfully busy, and shall be for a few days. So 
 will you say as quickly as you can what I can do for 
 you?" 
 
 "I'm come over to bring ee home, sir," he replied, 
 refusing the chair indicated and standing very squarely, 
 with his bare, brown hands stayed on the stout staff 
 planted firmly before him. 
 
 "This is sorrow," Richard's heart told him at first 
 sight of the gardener's face. It was Adeline's birth- 
 day, and yet he had risen that morning with a gladder 
 heart than he had known on that anniversary for years. 
 So much that he had felt bound to do had been accom- 
 plished, that the necessity for excessive toil was over- 
 past, the time had come to take breath, and, after a little 
 holiday, settle down to a more human and less toilsome 
 life. The conviction that he owed this to Evelyn, and
 
 GATRELL VISITS THE OFFICE 393 
 
 that, amid so many people's claims and interests, hers 
 had been in a measure neglected, had of late been grow- 
 ing upon him. Always it had nagged at his inward 
 peace, but in the conflicting duties to which he was 
 pledged, Evelyn, as the nearest, even as a part of self, 
 had been in some measure sacrificed. The family respon- 
 sibilities promised now, for a time at least, to fall into 
 abeyance. No boy's debts and no girls' extravagance at 
 present called for settlement. Archie had unexpectedly 
 steadied down to learn and work diligently in the bank, 
 Adeline was absorbed in her approaching marriage, 
 Woolwich and Winchester gave fair reports of their 
 respective students, and Gerald's nervous excitement 
 was lulling; so now there was leisure for Evelyn's 
 claims. 
 
 One of the firmest principles of his conduct had 
 been to touch no penny of money in Belton, Laking & 
 Co. beyond the simple minimum interest of his patri- 
 mony invested in it for his own or his wife's use. Nor, 
 until certain philanthropic aims had been achieved, did 
 he think it well to use even what had come from his own 
 private enterprises such as the biscuit factory. 
 
 Thinking these things over, now that he was finan- 
 cially and otherwise a freer man, it seemed to him that 
 he had pushed his principle overfar and had been un- 
 just to Evelyn, to whom, as he gladly felt, he would at 
 last be able to make some amends. She understood ; he 
 had explained all before marriage; but it was hard for 
 her, very hard, though she had been so compliant and 
 uncomplaining. Surely she was one in a hundred ; surely 
 no other young wife could have accepted such poverty 
 in the midst of plenty, he thought. On New Year 's Day 
 he would go home home to that dear little quiet hearth 
 and give her a glad surprise. He would tell her how 
 good she had been and how much her goodness had 
 lightened the burden of life to him ; then he would put 
 a morocco case in her hand as a New- Year's gift. He 
 would watch the sparkle in her eyes when she took out
 
 394 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 the glittering gauds ; he would clasp them upon her and 
 admire her in them ; then he would tell her that the time 
 of denial and restriction was past, and that they could 
 now use the interest of those private moneys to double 
 their present income, which was to be spent in any way 
 that gave her pleasure, was indeed to be entirely hers. 
 Then they would be much more together for a time ; and 
 that vague barrier that had risen between them in the 
 stress of his overbusy life would fall down perhaps 
 perhaps. And who could tell but they might come to 
 understand each other better. These hopes had made 
 him very glad. 
 
 But Gatrell had certainly come for sorrow. 
 
 "To bring me home, Gatrell?" he echoed. "But 
 why not telegraph? Is it my mother, Gatrell?" 
 
 "No. 'Tis home, sir; home." 
 
 "Evelyn," he gasped, rising from his chair with a 
 nameless terror gripping his heart. He turned and 
 went some paces through the room before he asked in a 
 dull voice : ' ' What is the matter 1 ' ' forcing out his words 
 as if under compulsion. 
 
 "The matter is this here," replied Gatrell, with his 
 hands still firmly crossed on his stick, "you married a 
 woman a sight younger than you be and a sight bet- 
 ter-looking than most and she wants looking after, 
 sir." 
 
 Richard turned with blazing eyes at the word mar- 
 ried. "You forget yourself," he said sternly. 
 
 "You'll vind them as forgets theirselves over Wim- 
 bury, Mr. Rosny, ' ' the gardener continued, his face pur- 
 pling and the veins in his gnarled hands standing out. 
 ' ' This here is a onthankful job as ever I done in my life, 
 sir ; but I be a true vriend to ee, as here bevore ee standen 
 I be. There's valse vriends out Wimbury way, there's 
 Judas work over there. There's them alone together as 
 shouldn't be alone together. There's talk on 'em; aye, 
 it's in everybody's mouth the naame o' Rosny is a by- 
 word. ' '
 
 GATRELL VISITS THE OFFICE 395 
 
 Rosny looked at him with eyes that seemed to search 
 to the very marrow of the gardener's bones. White and 
 still and cold, he stood listening, but the light of life 
 went out of his face under the gardener's terrified gaze, 
 and it seemed to the old man that it was the face of a 
 corpse animated by some spirit of fierce horror. 
 
 " It 's a lie, ' ' he said, in a voice that Gatrell scarcely 
 recognized; "a lie," he repeated, as if to himself. 
 
 "So," he said presently in a more natural tone, "so 
 you have been listening to some senseless gossip from 
 Wimbury, and have come over here in the middle of a 
 busy day to regale me with it. Come now, I should have 
 thought you had more sense. What doited old woman 
 has been stuffing you with venomous nonsense? And 
 what name has she been throwing mud at?" 
 
 "Ah, Master Rosny, sir, this ain't no wold ooman's 
 tale, worse luck. Seth Barton have a-zeen it with his 
 own eyes. Ah! and he've a-yeard it at King's Earms, 
 and a-give the lie to it, though he known it was true. 
 You come on hoam, sir, and bide long with her, else take 
 her long with ee avore 'tis too late, if it eddent too late 
 aready. Come on hoam." 
 
 ' ' Do you know what you are saying ? " he asked with 
 dry lips. "You can not mean my my my wife. 
 You can not dare." 
 
 "I allow 'tes purely haerd. I allow I'd liever show 
 to a mad bull. But somebody hev a-got to tell ee, and 
 Seth, he 'lowed he wasn't man enough. Says he, 'You 
 ben a vriend to en ever since he wasn 't but a little chap, 
 and you be older than what I be. So you take and go 
 and tell 'n.' So I ups and goes." 
 
 "You see this is all nonsense, gossip, slander; and 
 of course I don't believe a word of anything so prepos- 
 terous," Rosny said slowly and with restrained agita- 
 tion. ' ' But since you tell me that people are slandering 
 my wife, and since of course I can not allow her name 
 to be slandered, I must thank you to repeat the exact 
 rumors that are being circulated, so that I may may
 
 396 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 stop them. The other name ? " he added with ill-feigned 
 carelessness. 
 
 "Naame o' Musgrave." 
 
 "No, no; not that," he cried, dazed and shuddering. 
 "Why, Gatrell, that is my friend, my my oldest 
 friend." 
 
 ' ' Seth hev noticed zummat hwrong ever since he come 
 along in the summer-time. She simmed to perk up and 
 enjoy her life 'long with he. She give over fretten for 
 the child. Then she'd steart and turn hred whenever 
 Seth come across they two up cliff, and out in orchard 
 or vield." 
 
 " Ah ! So Seth is the liar, Seth ! Seth is the spy. ' ' 
 
 ' ' But there was Miss bideing 'long with her and volk 
 said he went there for Miss, and he'd be walken 'long 
 with she. Then one wet day, December time, Seth seen 
 him hid in gairden behind some spars. 'Twas duckest 
 the day was sheltenen in. A hour later Seth went back 
 for zummat he 'd forgot in gairden and it was dark night, 
 and he seen they two in parlor by the vire. A zeen what 
 a shouldn't; a zeen 'em cuddled up in one another's 
 arms. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Liar ! Spy ! ' ' shouted Richard, starting up and sit- 
 ting down again. 
 
 "A never zaid nothen, a didn't bide spyen, a didn't 
 gloat, a went on hoam straight. Then Mrs. Barton, she 'd 
 tell en how she'd come across 'em here and there, and 
 one ood talk and another. Then volk begun to zaay 
 how Miss wasn 't only a blind, he was that craaf ty. And 
 there, volk'd meet 'em all over the plaace, down cliff, in 
 Undercliff, in copse, pretty nigh everywhere. As sure 
 a you zeen one you'd come across t'other; they was a 
 ?ight too craafty to go out 'long with one another. You 
 mind the starm Sunday afore laast? They was in Un- 
 dercliff then, hid under trees. He went there athirt 
 "Wimbury Waaste, stearted off 'long with Miss. Miss 
 she soon left en, and he went over to Undercliff and 
 she went along hroad and they two bid together in 'ood
 
 GATRELL VISITS THE OFFICE 397 
 
 over a hour. Presently she come out and goes on hoam, 
 pretty nigh battered to death with the starm, and Mr. 
 Mayne, you mind, he took her hoam. Musgrave ee bided 
 a good ten minutes afore he come out of 'ood. That's 
 what they always done then he vails in with coast- 
 gaird, and goes 'long with they. That 's what they doos. 
 And Seth, he years volk a yoppullen about this here 
 laast night at King's Earms, and a sez to hisself, a sez, 
 'This here must be put a stop to.' So a steps straight 
 along over down to my plaiice and a knocks me up mid- 
 dle o' the night vast asleep, and I come down and let 
 en in. And there we set, Seth and me and Deborah, 
 pretty nigh all night long, a say en, 'Whatever sholl us 
 do ? ' And vust thing 's marnen I goes in to bank to vind 
 ee. Then I come across the water, and here I be." 
 
 Rosny had resumed his seat at the writing-table and 
 sat with his hands clasped on his knees and his face sat 
 in a frown, looking straight before him at a great library 
 ink-stand on which a stray sparkle of sunlight danced 
 and near which lay the morocco case that had played a 
 leading part in the pleasant dream that had so cheered 
 the day's toil. The lines under his eyes darkened and 
 sunk, and his face grew sterner and stiller, while he 
 listened without remark, and some seconds passed before 
 he replied coldly: 
 
 ' ' You and Barton forget that my cousin, Miss Rosny, 
 is staying in my house." 
 
 "No vear. Barton he said Miss was to go home vust 
 thing this morning." 
 
 "True. I was at the cottage last night, Gatrell." 
 And coldly as he spoke he remembered with an agony 
 of fear and certainty his encounter with Musgrave at his 
 gate and Nancy's surprising denial of his visit and the 
 whole mystery of Evelyn's demeanor. "Peacefully at 
 home," he added, "while you and Barton were sitting 
 up in the small hours exciting yourselves over absurd 
 and exaggerated gossip. I am quite aware that Captain 
 Musgrave sometimes walks out with Mrs. Rosny. There
 
 398 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 is nothing incorrect in that; Professor Mayne probably 
 does the same; he calls at the cottage such visits are 
 quite usual. What Seth Barton thought he saw for a 
 moment in the twilight when he was passing the window 
 was no doubt a mistake what is called an optical illu- 
 sion the firelight and the shadows danced and made 
 him fancy two figures, in reality apart and probably 
 shaking hands and saying good-by touching each 
 other ; his eyes were dizzy with the dark of a wet night ; 
 he had no time to correct this false impression. He 
 meant well, no doubt, and I am sure you do, Gatrell. I 
 am obliged to you. Don't think any more of this silly 
 gossip, there's a good soul. People must talk of some- 
 thing, more's the pity. Now good-by, and a thousand 
 thanks. Go and get a good dinner now; I'll send a 
 porter to show you a capital place and you must let me 
 stand it. Buy something for Deborah and give her my 
 love and tell her it's all right; nothing but idle tales 
 exaggerated. Good-by, old friend, good-by." 
 
 "Maaster Rosny," returned the gardener earnestly, 
 ' ' come hoam, for the love of Heaven. Come hoam, I tell 
 ee, avore it's too late. Avore that Judas have carred 
 her off." 
 
 "Have done," cried Richard with sudden fury. 
 "Judas, you say? By Heaven, if I thought that, if I 
 had reason to think that, I'd strike him dead, aye, and 
 her too I'd strike them both dead without pity. Have 
 done, I say, have done!" 
 
 Gatrell 's eyes dilated, he clutched his stick more 
 firmly ; his chin quivered nervously at the sight of Rosny. 
 The tortured man trembled ; he seemed to be supporting 
 his shaken form by the hand he had struck violently 
 upon the table, making glass and metal shiver and loose 
 papers fly; the dark purple of passionate fury clouded 
 his agonized face and a dreadful fire blazed in his mad- 
 dened eyes. 
 
 "A man of blood do spake there," the gardener said 
 slowly after a little. "A man of heavy hand and haerd
 
 GATRELL VISITS THE OFFICE 399 
 
 heart. Avore ever you come anighst they two, Richard 
 Rosny, down on your knees and set to work and pray. 
 Set to work and pray as though you was hung over hell- 
 vire aready, as though the roke of it was nigh to chock 
 ee, as though you was like to be shroke up with the 
 blaze of it, and as though nothen, only the grace of 
 God, could hyste ee up zafe and zound agen. Aye, sir, 
 zet to work and pray agen the brand of Cain." 
 
 Richard looked him straight and steady in the eyes, 
 drawing deep, hard breaths; and his face grew ashen 
 white and the flame in his eyes dulled and sunk. 
 
 "Good-by," he said wearily, and then turning to 
 some papers, touched an electric bell on the table. "I 
 am going home to-night. Take this note to my mother. ' ' 
 Then he wrote hastily : ' ' Dear Mother : Unexpected busi- 
 ness prevents my coming to you to-night. I will try to 
 turn up to-morrow, but can not promise. Never mind 
 Gerald's megrims, and believe that only most urgent 
 affairs could keep me away on Adeline's birthday. 
 R. R. " And handed it to Gatrell as the bell was an- 
 swered and the gardens was shown out. 
 
 Then he locked the door and fell on his face on the 
 floor, shaking and shuddering violently, like one in an 
 ague fit. After a few minutes he suddenly sprang up, 
 consulted time-tables, wrote half a dozen notes and spoke 
 through a tube. Five minutes after that he was in a 
 cab, tearing down the street to the sea, over which a 
 thick haze was gathering, shot with a sunset glow that 
 was soon darkened and quenched in the fog which 
 wrapped the steamer he caught in gray wet folds and 
 obliged her to go slowly and feel her way with siren 
 screams and extra lights and fog-signals, a bewildered, 
 unwieldy monster, startled every few minutes by the sud- 
 den wash of a vessel under her bows, or its light upon 
 her quarters, now backing, now bringing to, now turning, 
 and making no perceptible way through the gray chilled 
 confusion that ringed her round and blotted out the 
 stars above and made the very sounds from the shore
 
 400 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 and from vessels in the thronged seaway distinct and 
 dull and strange. 
 
 Illimitable, impenetrable night seemed to have set- 
 tled down upon the solitary vessel and shut her off from 
 
 the inhabited world for hours and hours. And yet it 
 
 was only five o 'clock in the short December day that had 
 begun so brightly.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 ON ST. ANN'S PIER 
 
 THE flash of fury that escaped the professor's pince* 
 nez upon the cliff acted like an electric shock upon Nancy, 
 who visibly started, while her companion smiled a gentle, 
 complacent smile. 
 
 "A cut," he said, "a most determined cut. Our 
 mutual friend appears to be not quite happy in his mind 
 this morning. Upborne by a serene consciousness of my 
 own inward rectitude, I am convinced that you must be 
 the offender. Own up, Miss Rosny, what have you been 
 doing?" 
 
 Fury beyond expression invaded the gentle soul of 
 Nancy ; she thought how very good it would be to stand 
 on the brink of the cliff above Caster Cove with this 
 man, and with one vigorous push send him crashing 
 over upon the rocky ledge below, where the stranded 
 vessel still lay. Hardly conscious of her words, she 
 turned sharply upon him, and said in a low, fierce voice : 
 " Captain Musgrave, what have you been doing?" 
 
 He flinched under her indignant gaze and laughed 
 uncomfortably, almost foolishly, before returning, with 
 his usual nonchalance: "Much as usual. Amiable noth- 
 ings. Aw r f ully good of you to care to know. I wish I 'd 
 done something interesting, since you ask discovered 
 the North Pole, or something like that, don 't you know. ' ' 
 
 Nancy wished he were there with all her heart. She 
 again looked searchingly and disconcertingly at him, 
 and considered what vulnerable point, if any, there 
 might be in him to touch. Her glance weighed and 
 found him wanting, and he felt it. She stopped and 
 
 401
 
 402 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 turned to the sea, and he stopped too. "Pray, go on," 
 she said. 
 
 "But I can't think of anything beyond the North 
 Pole that might interest you," he replied, taking her 
 words in another sense, and horribly afraid to leave her 
 lest Evelyn might come upon her and betray herself. 
 "What of discovering a fourth dimension? or communi- 
 cating with the inhabitants of Mars?" 
 
 The same thought of Evelyn coming upon them sud- 
 denly came to Nancy, and, finding he was not to be 
 shaken off, she walked quickly on. After all, it was use- 
 less to irritate him ; so she listened to the cheerful noth- 
 ings he poured out in his beautiful voice and touchingly 
 deferential manner. 
 
 "He will think me piqued and coquettish, putting 
 him off to draw him on," she hoped, as a new idea 
 flashed through her actively working brain ; and she con- 
 quered her violent repulsion and smiled at his light- 
 hearted banter, happily unconscious of the jealous flame 
 scintillating from the unseen pince-nez of a man emerg- 
 ing from the shadow of one of the rocks scattered over 
 the green levels of the undercliff. 
 
 ' ' My way, unhappily, lies over the Waste to an affec- 
 tionate sister, who is heroically waiting for a last fond 
 luncheon w r ith a departing brother," Musgrave said at 
 last; "so a long farewell." 
 
 "You are going back to Greenwich? To school?" 
 she asked carelessly, but with a watchful glance at his 
 face, the expression of which was guarded, though vivid 
 and changeful. "Pleasant journey." 
 
 ' ' That young damsel, ' ' Ronald reflected as he climbed 
 the upper cliff under its shadow of feathering wood, "is 
 capable of mischief. But she suspects nothing. That 
 little huffiness \vas but the tender fierceness of the dove, 
 pretty Fanny's way. Sweet five o'clock! Great Heav- 
 ens, five o'clock! And it's not half-past one yet. But 
 what the deuce is that girl up to ? What if she fastens 
 upon Evelyn and stays another day there ? Stuff ! Eve-
 
 ON ST. ANN'S PIER 403 
 
 lyn will know how to shunt her in the sweetest and most 
 artless way. Five o'clock, sweet, sweet five!" 
 
 Nancy turned back from the road, certain that Eve- 
 lyn would avoid it and take the field way, within sight 
 of which she lingered under a stunted tree, herself invis- 
 ible. She was soon rewarded by the appearance of a 
 slim figure in green, flitting along the sunny path toward 
 the garden entrance to the cottage, whither Nancy shad- 
 owed her, making certain that she actually entered the 
 house, where her midday meal would be awaiting her. 
 What if she followed her in and told her what she had 
 overheard and besought her to break that unhallowed 
 engagement? Reflection convinced her that she knew 
 too little to do this effectually, and she recognized with 
 a sickening heart the whole-hearted passion in Evelyn's 
 reply on the cliff. No, the first plan was the best. So 
 she went to the station, whither her luggage had been 
 taken in the morning and where it was still awaiting 
 her, and studied time-tables, making notes of alterna- 
 tive routes. The station-master, presently seeing her 
 at the table in the waiting-room, touched his cap 
 and wished her good day. "We've been expecting of 
 ee all day, Miss," he said, the luggage waiting on a 
 truck. 
 
 "I couldn't get away before. And now that I have 
 lost the best part of the day I may as well wait till eve- 
 ning. The luggage had better go into the cloak-room. 
 You'll take care of the bicycle, Ringwood; I got it 
 punctured once at a station." 
 
 "Aye, I'll look after he, Miss Rosny, sure enough. 
 There's ben a young lady asking after ee, Miss. She 
 seen the name on the trunk. Young Miss Godfrey. 
 She've been keeping of Christmas at Motford Grange. 
 She seen you out hunting 'long with Captain Musgrave, 
 she said, and asked where you bid this Christmas." 
 
 "Oh, yes; Blanche Godfrey, a college girl. One of 
 my pupils at Casterford, Ringwood. I saw her some- 
 where perhaps at church. Then you'll take care of
 
 404 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 the bicycle? I don't know what train will suit yet. 
 Good afternoon." 
 
 It is not easy to conceal one's affairs in a village, 
 nor is a small railway station the best hiding-place in 
 the world, and Nancy had excellent reasons for avoiding 
 public observation. She therefore took a secluded path 
 leading up to the top of the down, and sat under a bent 
 thorn with a book in her hand, and watched the village 
 approach to the station for an hour, at the end of which 
 she was rewarded by the expected sight of Evelyn walk- 
 ing sedately toward it with a bundle of wraps in her 
 hand. Just as usual, Nancy thought with a shiver, 
 daintily gloved, with not a curl astray and charmingly 
 dressed in black. She must have passed the church- 
 yard where the baby's grave with its little marble cross 
 was too visible to be overlooked. Nancy ran quickly 
 down the hilly path, still inconspicuous while she 
 watched Evelyn into the station, when she followed 
 slowly, taking care to keep a good way behind her. 
 
 Evelyn went straight to the ticket-office without 
 hurry or excitement, with a bow here and a smile 
 there for the people she recognized on the narrow plat- 
 form. Nancy, keeping carefully behind a pile of empty 
 casks, listened eagerly and heard the clear voice speak- 
 ing to Ringwood, who was ticket-clerk as well as station- 
 master, asking him how he did, and receiving his answer 
 and the customary encomium on the weather as if she 
 were responsible for it, before she asked for a first-class 
 single ticket to Wycherley, a small village four or five 
 miles from St. Ann's. 
 
 "Did ee say single?" the man asked doubtfully. 
 
 "Certainly, single." 
 
 "Beg pardon, ma'am. I doubt I be someat hard of 
 hearing now and agen. There, I be getting in years. 
 And you don't often bide out a-nights." 
 
 Having taken her ticket she went to a sheltered seat 
 on the other side of the station, and Nancy, waiting till 
 she was safely out of the way and herself invisible, went
 
 ON ST. ANN'S PIER 405 
 
 to the office and asked for a second-class ticket to St. 
 Ann 's. 
 
 "Mrs. Rosny have took a first-class to Wycherley," 
 the station-master said; "shall I giv ee a first, so as ee 
 can go 'long with her?" 
 
 "Thank you, Ringwood, I prefer to travel alone," 
 she replied. "No, thank you, my things had better stay 
 till I come back. I can't take them all the way to St. 
 Ann's and back." 
 
 When the train came in Evelyn entered her carriage 
 without delay and Nancy was able to find hers, the 
 second-class being behind the first, without crossing her 
 line of vision. 
 
 On reaching Wycherley, Evelyn sprang quickly from 
 the train and went so quickly out from the platform to 
 secure the only fly there that it was easy for her shad- 
 ower to follow her unobserved, and, standing within the 
 building, to overhear her orders to the driver. 
 
 "Are you sure," Evelyn asked of the latter with 
 nervous haste, "that you will be able to drive to St. 
 Ann's pier in good time for the five o'clock train?" 
 
 "Sure as sure, ma'am. Why, Law bless ee, 'taint 
 more than four and a half mile, though we calls it five, 
 owing to hills." 
 
 "Five shillings extra for yourself if you are punc- 
 tual, if we reach the town itself at twenty to five. Then 
 you can drive slowly to the pier, ' ' she added with increas- 
 ing agitation. 
 
 "Right you are," he replied cheerfully, shutting her 
 into the closed fly, behind which Nancy had darted, 
 making a sign to the man, who, thinking something was 
 dropped or broken there, followed her to the rear of the 
 carriage. 
 
 "That young lady, she is very young," she said in 
 a low voice, pointing to the fly, "must not reach St. 
 Ann's pier-head 'before half-past five. The horse must 
 pick up a stone or fall down, or lose his way. An extra 
 sovereign for you if you can't arrive till half-past five.
 
 406 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 Quick ! Is it done ? ' ' she added, pressing a shilling into 
 his hand. 
 
 "Make it two, ma'am, can't ee?" 
 
 "Two, then," she said, dashing back just in time 
 to spring into the already moving train. 
 
 She reached St. Ann's at half -past four and looked 
 out on a calm, blue-gray sea stained with red and yellow 
 sunsetting, with a madly beating heart and serious 
 doubts as to whether she had done well. She had orig- 
 inally intended to get into Evelyn's fly, and there, 
 refusing to leave her, to implore her to think better of 
 the frightful act she was contemplating and go home 
 before it was too late; but Evelyn's offered reward to 
 the flyman and her own ebbing courage suggested a more 
 high-handed and effectual proceeding, which, if it failed, 
 would fail more completely. Nancy now began to trem- 
 ble and to feel faint, as the horror of Evelyn's situation 
 and her own impotence and rashness grew upon her, and 
 she felt herself less and less competent to do battle with 
 this wild confusion of treachery and misery. Surely it 
 was not too late? At least she would do her utmost. 
 
 She had eaten nothing since breakfast breakfast 
 that very morning in apparent peace and contentment 
 with that tragically divided husband and wife, whose 
 wedded life had reached a crisis so terrible. She needed 
 every power of mind and body to contend single-handed 
 with those two and balk them at the very foaming flood- 
 tide of their passion, without any warrant or authority 
 or justification beyond her own simple sense of rectitude 
 and desire for the happiness of the husband and wife; 
 she wondered how she could dare to throw herself be- 
 tween that erring pair. 
 
 A visit to the refreshment-room put her in better case. 
 She went to a mirror in a waiting-room and compared 
 her appearance with Evelyn's. They were about the 
 same height, but Annis was of sturdier build, her hair 
 some shades lighter, her face and bearing and the set of 
 her head entirely different. Happily, she was in black,
 
 ON ST. ANN'S PIER 407 
 
 and wearing a hat such as Evelyn or any other young 
 woman might have worn, and she had bought just such 
 a bunch of geranium-leaves as she had observed in Eve- 
 lyn's coat at the florist's stall on the pier. With fingers 
 that no longer trembled she pinned a thick veil over her 
 face, effectually concealing all but the vaguest outline, 
 whence overbright eyes gleamed fitfully; she held her 
 head high as Evelyn did, and tried to convert her own 
 quick and rather long step to the grace of Evelyn's 
 inimitable walk. She trusted much to the uncertain 
 lights ; dusk had closed suddenly upon the ruddy sunset ; 
 the last western lights were quenched in the thick-rolling 
 channel mists that held Richard hidden in their chill 
 folds, which, seen from St. Ann's, were as a wall of 
 darkness moving upon the sea. 
 
 It was upon the stroke of five ; the train, a little late, 
 was not yet signaled, when Nancy stood veiled at the 
 entrance to the station, which was inadequately lighted 
 with ordinary yellow gas, trembling at every wheel that 
 rumbled by, considering how slender was her hold upon 
 the faith and unfaith of the much-tempted flyman, and 
 wondering if, after all, Evelyn would succeed in keep- 
 ing her unhallowed tryst. 
 
 Yet her heart beat less quickly than Konald Mus- 
 grave's, and her conjectures as to Evelyn's arrival at the 
 appointed hour were less anxious than his, though he told 
 himself again and again that she could not fail him now, 
 however faint of heart she might be, now that she had 
 gone so far and committed herself so irretrievably. He 
 knew well in his heart of hearts that it was but the 
 lover's immemorial terror, which is more than half long- 
 ing and impatient, that was thus agitating him. He 
 could never more doubt her love any more than he could 
 his own; besides, the finger of Fate was in it: the two 
 were so distinctly and irretrievably marked out for each 
 other, were the victims of a mutual passion so over- 
 powering, so unusual, so unlike anything he had ever 
 felt before, so like the great passions of story and
 
 408 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 romance, the elements of body, soul, and spirit were so 
 intimately blended in it; nothing could prevail against 
 such a love as that. All usual ties, all accepted stand- 
 ards and conventions of right and wrong, of honor and 
 dishonor, were as children's toys and nursery rhymes 
 in the presence of this grand and masterful emotion, the 
 very resistless force of which justified and ennobled it. 
 Wrong? Why, it was the purest feeling of his whole 
 life ; and as for bringing dishonor to its object, it set her 
 upon a pinnacle even in the sight of man. She would 
 bear his name as soon as this miserable travesty of a 
 marriage was legally annulled her beauty, charm, and 
 intellect could not fail to win her the social distinction 
 she deserved. Domestic joys, from which he had shrunk 
 as necessary evils, to be delayed till the decline of life, 
 made all pleasant vices forsake their decaying tenement, 
 now beckoned alluringly with white hands and angel 
 faces, and stimulated an ambition that had till now gone 
 somewhat haltingly. From early youth he had known 
 sinful pleasures, but never before had tasted such a cup 
 of joy as this, ennobling, not degrading. Yet follies, 
 irregularities, life, were the harshest names he could 
 find for those earlier pleasures, educational preliminaries 
 to a full and manly life, yet hateful now in retrospect. 
 
 Yes; all this absurdly, tremulous emotion held no 
 taint of doubt in Evelyn's faith; it was like the terror 
 of the bridegroom on the chancel step, lest the expected 
 bride should be false, dead, suddenly cold, spirited away 
 by some absurdly impossible chance. It was like the 
 "pride of the morning," the little, pettish shower in the 
 forenoon of a lovely summer day. She would be there as 
 she had promised, at sweet, sweet five. 
 
 An easy and natural way of changing plans and leav- 
 ing the Retreat that day instead of a week later had sug- 
 gested itself. He had driven light-heartedly in Lord 
 Randal's smartest dog-cart to the next station but one 
 to Wimbury, and taken a better train than Evelyn's 
 to meet the quarter-past-five boat. They had not even
 
 ON ST. ANN'S PIER 409 
 
 been on the line at the same time together; each had 
 gone separately and without danger of attracting atten- 
 ion to the meeting-point, where hurry and bustle and 
 confused lighting would insure immunity from observa- 
 tion in the wildly improbable event of Rosny himself 
 stepping off that steamer as they went on it. 
 
 Yet Musgrave's strong heart throbbed faster and 
 faster till the train rumbled out of a tunnel and hissed 
 on to the open rails by the sea, which lapped pleasantly 
 against the granite w r all in the dark, and breathed a 
 scented freshness in grateful contrast to the sulphurous 
 smoke and rancid oils the tunnel air. 
 
 The stoppage was but just long enough to pick up the 
 few passengers waiting on the platform, whose luggage 
 was quickly hitched on behind ; porters and guards were 
 hustling and hurrying people in and out of the train; 
 Musgrave's eyes were bent steadily and eagerly from 
 the reserved carriage of which he had an inside key to 
 the entrance; the minutes filtered away, he was in de- 
 spair, when a veiled, black figure, wearing geranium- 
 leaves, threaded itself quickly through porters and 
 paper-boys, and, after a second's eager survey of the 
 first-class carriage, caught his eye and sprang lightly 
 and silently in by his side, the rapid rise and fall of the 
 geranium-leaves and the trembling of the hand he held 
 alone giving token of the agitation he knew she must be 
 feeling. 
 
 "The dear geranium-leaves," he said, lightly touch- 
 ing them when he released the trembling hand with a 
 final pressure ; "they breathe the music of our own divine 
 sonata. ' ' 
 
 Click, snap ! ' ' Tick 'ts, please ! ' ' the intrusion of a 
 rough but honest human paw, and a rough but kindly 
 human face inside the window ended the rhapsody some- 
 what abruptly, and evoked a few hearty but low- 
 breathed swear-words, while wrong pockets were hur- 
 riedly and vainly searched for two tickets finally discov- 
 ered in the flap of a Gladstone bag.
 
 410 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 Click, click, lang ! click, snap ! ' ' Thank Heaven the 
 beast is gone," from the impassioned lover, a steam 
 shriek, half a dozen disgusted grunts from a swart mon- 
 ster panting smoke ahead, the clank of couplers and 
 groan of iron upon iron, and they were gliding smoothly 
 along above the calm sea. 
 
 ' ' Safe at last ! " he exclaimed in the richest music of 
 tenderness. ' ' Darling ! ' ' 
 
 "Not yet, not quite," said a voice that made him 
 start with a muttered imprecation; "she can not keep 
 the appointment." 
 
 "Who the devil What damned trickery is this?" 
 he cried fiercely, when Nancy removed the veil and 
 looked him straightly and scornfully in the face under 
 the dim nicker of the lamp. " Where is she? What 
 have you done with her?" 
 
 "Far away and unable to come. More I am not at 
 liberty to tell," Nancy replied coolly. "Captain Mus- 
 grave, do you think that any woman, however infatuated 
 and deluded and wrought upon by the contagion of un- 
 hallowed passion, could trust herself to such as you, after 
 what came out at that inquest?" 
 
 ' ' What inquest ? Are you insane, or dreaming ? " he 
 asked, regaining self-control. 
 
 "The inquest on Mabel Weston, reported in the 
 Western Morning News of Saturday," she said. "In 
 her letter, written before the terrible death she sought 
 in her despair at your desertion and proposed marriage 
 to another woman, she says that you have been for many 
 years her husband in all but name; she speaks of your 
 children surely that is enough, without the tragedy of 
 the suicide, to disenchant any woman who may other- 
 wise have loved you to her undoing." 
 
 "This must be a bad dream," he muttered heavily. 
 "Mabel is not dead. I heard from her ' he swept 
 the mists from his dizzied eyes and looked with haughty 
 indignation in Annis's face. "Let us understand 
 each other, Miss Rosny," he said coldly. "This is a
 
 ON ST. ANN'S PIER 411 
 
 somewhat singular adventure for a young and unmar- 
 ried woman an instructor of female youth. You have 
 forgive me if I am somewhat brutally direct, the occa- 
 sion is hurried when overhearing something not intend- 
 ed for your ears this morning on the cliff, put a wrong 
 interpretation upon it, and interfered most unwarrant- 
 ably in affairs that do not concern you, and of which you 
 are not competent to judge. Having done me the singu- 
 lar and unexpected honor of personating an unnamed 
 lady with whom I had made an appointment of a some- 
 what intimate and personal nature, you have, no doubt 
 with the utmost generosity, placed yourself in a false 
 position. It is not for me to complain of that far from 
 it. You have caused me the inconvenience of missing 
 this boat and the express that is, should my traveling 
 companion prove not to be in this train nothing more. 
 You will easily understand that when people have made 
 an appointment involving important changes in their 
 lives, they do not renounce it because they happen to 
 miss a train. My friend, whose affairs are in her own 
 hands and not yours, may by this time have reached 
 the point at which we agreed to meet. She can scarcely 
 have taken an earlier boat. Nor will the world probably 
 end to-night. It is a great pity that you have meddled 
 in this matter. You may have retarded it and muddled 
 it ; you may have brought it into undue prominence and 
 caused the deepest pain to the lady concerned in it ; but 
 you have no power to stop it; your attempt is absurd. 
 The shortest way now and the least painful for your- 
 self will be to tell me where she is though the end will 
 in any case be the same. You are but a girl; you have 
 done an exceedingly stupid and clumsy thing, and you 
 had better mend it at once." 
 
 "I am but a girl," she owned in an agony of fear 
 and supplication, "and I may be clumsy and stupid; 
 but oh! I do love them, I do love Evelyn and Richard 
 with all my heart. I can not see their happiness de- 
 stroyed and their trust betrayed without doing all that
 
 412 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 is possible to save them. Besides, it was through me 
 that they knew each other; I am in a way responsible 
 for the marriage. And it was such a happy mar- 
 riage " 
 
 "Happy? Ah! that's good. Happy? Ha, ha!" 
 
 "And they needed happiness each had suffered and 
 was lonely. He is your friend, Captain Musgrave; he 
 loves and trusts you; how can you do him this great 
 wrong? Think better of it, think better of yourself, 
 think what marriage is, how every relationship in life 
 hinges upon it, and leave them in peace." 
 
 "Your sentiments, Miss Rosny, are just and admi- 
 rable, and eminently suitable to one of your honorable 
 calling. They do you credit. Still, I must ask you to 
 allow me to arrange my affairs as I see fit. Here is 
 the pier-end but no boat, thanks to the fog. Allow me 
 to thank you for the unexpected honor of your com- 
 pany. And, unless you can tell me where the lady 
 I was to meet is, I must say good night and go on the 
 search. ' ' 
 
 "God grant you never see her again, Ronald Mus- 
 grave," she cried. "I do beseech you to go on by that 
 boat she is just coming out of the fog-bank and leave 
 her and think better of the crime and cruelty you were 
 going to perpetrate. Think of your motherless children ; 
 think of their unhappy mother ; picture the poor, dead, 
 despairing face floating among the boats in Plymouth 
 harbor " Musgrave shuddered, but walked steadily on 
 toward the ticket-office, having politely handed her out 
 of the train and bowed his farewell " picture that 
 face," she repeated, following him and laying her hand 
 on his arm in her agitation, "and drag no more trust- 
 ing women down to the dust of death. Tempt my Eve- 
 lyn no more ; she is weak, but she never loved you. She 
 is young and imaginative, easily led away. Spare her! 
 spare her! She is so young and inexperienced, and so 
 lovely and might be so happy." 
 
 "Miss Rosny, for Heaven's sake," he muttered,
 
 ON ST. ANN'S PIER 413 
 
 drawing her aside to a sheltered seat at the edge of the 
 pier, "we are seen, the place is public." 
 
 ' ' What of the place ? Don 't destroy those two lives, ' ' 
 she implored, her tears falling unchecked. "Ronald 
 Musgrave, you are a bad man, but you are not all bad; 
 you would never have gained such a mastery over her 
 without some good and noble qualities. Think of the 
 misery you are bringing upon her and him, your 
 friend, your early friend, the man who loves and trusts 
 and admires you as probably no other does." 
 
 "My dear child, you don't know what you are talk- 
 ing about. What should you know of life? Don't cry 
 like that. Go home and teach your little girls and leave 
 things you don't understand alone." 
 
 "I understand the shame and lifelong misery of a 
 broken marriage well enough. Oh ! by all you hold 
 sacred if you hold anything sacred by your very love 
 for her, spare her and spare him." 
 
 "Him? He neglects her and makes her wretched. 
 He cares for another woman." 
 
 "No, no; he loves her; his every thought is for her. 
 He is silent and undemonstrative and she thinks him 
 cold. He is full of business and she thinks he cares 
 for nothing else. But he does. ' When I come home and 
 catch that light shining on her hair, all is atoned for, it 
 is worth the weariest day.' He said that to me three 
 days ago. Yes ; and she loves him, though she has never 
 understood him. What can you give her to atone for all 
 she would lose, to atone for the isolation, the social ostra- 
 cism, the remorse, the memories she will have to drug? 
 How can she ever forget her child, or her child 's father ? 
 And when the glamour of passion has faded and you see 
 each other's failings and are jealous of each other's mem- 
 ories, and you tire of her, and she remembers that poor, 
 drowned woman and the motherless children, and Rich- 
 ard's wronged face and his desolated life rise before 
 her, and her beauty withers and her health goes? Ah! 
 what happiness beyond the first brief delirium can there 
 27
 
 414 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 be for a woman except in the safety and sanctity of 
 marriage ? Go, and let her forget her momentary weak- 
 ness she is so young, so easily worked upon, so defense- 
 less, so sweet and lovely and gifted. Oh! let her have 
 her day in peace; don't wreck her life to give yourself 
 a few months' pleasure and unlawful excitement. You 
 know life ; you ought to know how soon such things pall ; 
 she knows nothing, except that her life is dull and unoc- 
 cupied, and that a man nearly twice her age can be hor- 
 ribly fascinating just while he is at her feet." 
 
 "She knows that, does she?" he interrupted with a 
 grim laugh. 
 
 ' ' Here is the boat, take it, ' ' she implored, laying her 
 hand on his arm and looking up through streaming eyes 
 at the moved fierceness of his face, just as the steamer's 
 wash surged against the piles beneath them and she 
 brought to fifty yards away with a bump on the buffered 
 pier that shook them and made Ronald look a moment 
 at the rolling water beneath. There the reflection of a 
 lamp tossed to and fro in the steamer's wash suddenly 
 took to his excited fancy the semblance of a drowned 
 face dashed in piteous helplessness among the dark weed- 
 grown piles, and, with a low awe-struck cry, he covered 
 his face with his hands. Neither he nor Annis saw two 
 men, one from the boat just arrived, and one from the 
 pleasure pier alongside, meet and shake hands and pass 
 them by, disappearing in the pavilion, whence the music 
 of a military band came fitfully and where one of them, 
 wearing a pince-nez, had little heart for music or anything 
 else in the whole wide and weary world.
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 A BIDE IN THE FOG 
 
 ROSXY kept on deck, straining his eyes to pierce the 
 impenetrable pall that clung round the vessel and walled 
 them away from the world, now thinking he saw the 
 lights of St. Ann's, now finding only the lights of some 
 vessel athwart their bows, or grinding close upon their 
 stern, or shaving their quarter. The steamer crept along 
 like a wounded thing, haltingly and uncertainly, the pad- 
 dles moved with difficult, slow jerks, like an asthmatic 
 heart ; it seemed to Rosny that they made two backward 
 revolutions for one forward one; he pitied the poor, 
 baffled boat struggling in the toils of coiling serpentine 
 fog. 
 
 The fog became a personal enemy, a part of the gen- 
 eral horror that seemed to have closed in so cruelly upon 
 his lately brightening life; weird things shaped them- 
 selves out of it ; forgotten scenes, forgotten faces, issued 
 from its dank, gray folds. That scene by the cottage 
 parlor fire, vivid and glowing as with fires of hell, came 
 out of its cold, cruel heart. Could Barton have invented 
 or fancied it, building it on some distorted reality? If 
 it were real if it were the dark, deep water sliding 
 away so slowly from the black vessel was the only refuge 
 left for him. But of course it was not true. Then the 
 anonymous letter he had thrown so contemptuously into 
 the fire on that bright morning ; he remembered its brief 
 and vitriolic contents: "Your wife is in danger. Take 
 care ! ' ' His wife, the light of his life ! That anonymous 
 writer must be either the cause or effect of this hide- 
 ous gossip. What sane man is seriously pertui-bed by 
 
 415
 
 416 RICHARD ROSXY 
 
 anonymous letters and gossip quickly put an end to? 
 Yet through the soft plash and roll of waves, in the 
 sharp scream of sirens, in the hoarse cries of "Larboard 
 port. Back her!" in the sudden laughter and louder 
 chat of passengers through opened doors, he seemed to 
 hear the wild laughter and many- voiced clamor of 
 demons, rising in harsh dissonance and eddying away in 
 sobbing shrieks and moans upon the vast hidden spaces 
 of the sea. 
 
 It had been a mistake to live at Wimbury; he was 
 sure of that at last, a mistake for her, a perpetual joy and 
 refreshment for himself. The dear old cottage must be 
 given up ; Evelyn should stay no longer within sound 
 of slanderous tongues ; she should choose their home this 
 time. 
 
 Ronald's face was painted en the fog; Ronald was 
 the soul of honor. He had sown his wild oats long ago ; 
 but he was the soul of honor. Still it might have been 
 unwise to throw him so much with Evelyn, within reach 
 of petty gossip. Ronald's laugh, his hearty hand-clasp, 
 their early comradeship, their scraps and jests, and the 
 friendship that survived all the parting years all came 
 back, painted upon the fog and winding in and out of its 
 folds. Ronald, his senior in the service, had taken him 
 in hand and stood up for him in those first badgered 
 midshipman days, when a boy has hard work to hold his 
 own and find his right level amid the bewilderment of 
 unknown customs, accentuated by kicks and cuffs and 
 pitiless practical jokes. He had also led him into much 
 mischief; but Ronald was the soul of honor. Ah! how 
 good the old sea-going days had been! 
 
 The fog was lifting at last, or rather the boat was 
 creeping out of its thinned edges; those were the lights 
 of St. Ann's, a vague, bright blur on the water, gradu- 
 ally resolving itself into lamp-garlanded pier and espla- 
 nade, and the town itself stepping down from low hills 
 to the sea, over which trembled the dulled sound of 
 clocks chiming six on the misty air.
 
 A RIDE IN THE FOG 417 
 
 Every available train on the two or three possible 
 routes to Wimbury was lost. He got out at the pier- 
 head and walked through the bright busy streets to the 
 St. Ann's branch of Belton's, where, though the bank 
 was long shut, all hands were hard at work making up 
 the half-yearly balance, and where some business mat- 
 ters were awaiting his hand. Strictly speaking, he 
 should have spent another hour there; but, though he 
 told himself there was no occasion for hurry, he left all 
 the less pressing matters and stopped but a bare ten min- 
 utes, and then, considering the circuitous railway routes 
 and the checks and delays of the most direct one, de- 
 cided that a bicycle would most speedily take him over 
 the fifteen miles between St. Ann's and Wimbury. He 
 had left a bicycle on the premises a few days before and 
 was soon upon it, toiling up the steep street, among 
 smart carriages taking people out to dine or bringing 
 them home to dress, past the Town Hall and the lighted 
 Assembly Rooms, outside which a concert \vas advertised 
 in gigantic posters, and upon a melancholy procession of 
 sandwich-men, past suburban villas buried in trees, and 
 so out into the open country roads, dark and only lighted 
 by blurred glow of cottage, farm, and village, at wider 
 and wider intervals. 
 
 The night was breathless, the few faint stars in the 
 zenith gradually vanished, the dim and shadowy fields, 
 woods, and hills were merged in one blank darkness of 
 all-pervading fog, silently and stealthily rolling in from 
 the channel, cold and ghostlike. The bare trees dripping 
 with it, the hedges soaked in it ; all was silent and soli- 
 tary, damp, and lifeless. The cycle lamp threw a red 
 and tremulous glimmer upon a few yards of road ahead, 
 and upon banks and hedges by the side; nothing else 
 was visible ; all sense of distance and proportion seemed 
 to have vanished from an oppressed and mist-covered 
 world. Here a turn in the road would throw a bank, a 
 tree, an outbuilding abutting on the highroad, suddenly 
 in the face, so that there was scarcely time to turn
 
 418 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 from it; there an unexpected descent would bring the 
 bicycle with headlong swiftness against the hardly 
 shaved stone-wall of a bridge, over which the road ran ; 
 again some shapeless mass, conjectured to be a building 
 or clump of trees, would recede as it was approached, 
 withdrawing itself into endless increasing distance. 
 Nothing was recognizable; the small visible portions of 
 hedge, wall, or paling had no distinctive features ; even the 
 rare farmstead and cottage, the roadside pond, the stream 
 over which the highroad bridged, were hard to distin- 
 guish without their accustomed surroundings. A sense 
 of baffling and bewilderment was in the ghostly mist- 
 hidden night ; all seemed unreal and fantastic ; the thick 
 air held hidden secrets, stifled sounds, dread portents. 
 Now the cough of a cow behind a hedge seemed to come 
 hollow and ghostly from the earth beneath, a horse snort- 
 ing as he browsed unseen, the tread of cattle and sheep 
 in the fields, thrilled the nerves unpleasantly. Going 
 carefully within the limited area of his lamplight, he 
 was beginning to wonder where he was, when a succes- 
 sion of faintly glowing windows suggested a village ; this 
 was confirmed by the brighter and larger glow from 
 an inn, its sign visible in the light of an outer lamp, and 
 doubly confirmed by cheerful sounds issuing from the 
 door. 
 
 Rosny, whose heart was in idealized public-houses, 
 forgot his trouble for a moment to think about this par- 
 ticular unreformed bar, only to be quickly brought 
 back by way of his own King's Arms to his pain. Just 
 now they would be dropping in, Seth Barton and the 
 others, to the club, tasting their temperate cups, smo- 
 king their cheery pipes, and discussing the village gossip 
 in which the name of Rosny ah ! that was nothing 
 but the name of Rosny 's wife that was everything 
 had become a byword. The thought was madness and 
 drove him, furiously pedaling, out into the weird 
 silence of the fog-swathed night, where he lost his way 
 on a heathy eminence that was crossed and recrossed
 
 A RIDE IN THE FOG 419 
 
 by low brambly hedges, and ran into a sandy bank. 
 What mad impatience not to wait and take the 
 train ! 
 
 Far away through the dense fog-wall he heard the 
 dull rumble of a train rising to a faint roar and grum- 
 bling away into silence again. Not that haste was of 
 the smallest consequence, except for the longing to find 
 himself safe and calm within the walls of the dear cot- 
 tage, and at one stroke lay the whole army of specters 
 raised by Gatrell with the first sight of Evelyn's face. 
 One glance just one glance at the graceful figure sitting 
 in the light of his hearth, as he so often found her, and 
 turning with a smile when he came in would be enough 
 to deliver him from this spiritual tempest and land him 
 in a sweet haven of calm and perfect trust. The arm 
 injured at the wreck was not yet quite recovered, and 
 when he came off on the sandy bank, a fresh wrench 
 renewed the sprain, making it useless and very painful; 
 the cycle was unhurt; but he did not know on which 
 part of that heathy plateau crossed by many roads he 
 was. He picked himself and his cycle painfully up, and 
 looked round in doubt and perplexity. One solid wall of 
 damp darkness closed round and hemmed him in on 
 every side; nowhere was the faintest glimmer or break 
 discoverable to his straining eyes; he was like some 
 trapped creature caught and shut away in the dark. He 
 had known the silence of shoreless seas, in storm and 
 calm, in cloud and starlight and in such fog as this; he 
 had been alone in wild places without inhabitant, but 
 never had such a realization of solitude come upon him 
 as now, when he stood with shaken nerves and troubled 
 heart ringed round and stifled by the clinging black- 
 ness, and felt with his one sound arm for the lamp ex- 
 tinguished in the shock of the fall. All his sins of all 
 his life rushed with scorpion stings upon him, yet there 
 was not one unrepented he thought. A great horror 
 fell upon him ; his soul passed through the Valley of the 
 Shadow of Death. It was just and right so to pass he
 
 420 RICHARD ROSXY 
 
 had sinned so deeply. The story of the night of Ade- 
 line's birthday traced itself upon the darkness in letters 
 of fire ; prayer rose to his lips ; little by little peace came 
 through the unbreaking darkness and the Valley of the 
 Shadow was robbed of terror. 
 
 A strucken match revealed and relighted the lamp, 
 the cycle was found serviceable, a cautious walk of some 
 few yards discovered a white shaft in the brambly hedge 
 upon the sand-bank, which proved to be a finger-post, 
 with five branches, all illegible until he had stepped on 
 the bank and swarmed high enough up the post to read 
 them by a match, just as the fog-smothered call of a 
 bugle proclaimed the nearness of a garrison and told 
 him he was on the right side of the heath. 
 
 It was quick work then, except for the danger of 
 running into vehicles and foot-passengers, to plunge into 
 the valley in which lay the market town, thinning the 
 fog with its lights and warmth far out on either suburb. 
 Through these he passed at high speed to be again swal- 
 lowed in immense, all-covering night. 
 
 How sweet the home-picture then looked to longing 
 fancy; how often it had cheered him on home- journeys 
 through dark winter nights! In fine weather he some- 
 times cycled home, though the customary route was by 
 rail, ending in the short walk to the cottage the lights of 
 which grew dearer with every step. 
 
 Though the way beyond the town was wilder and 
 lonelier and more complicated, it was traveled without 
 further catastrophe till the bleak upland of Wimbury 
 Waste was reached. There again he lost all sense of 
 locality, and had to get off and walk with careful exam- 
 ination of the strip of waste bordering the road to make 
 sure he was not descending the wrong slope of the hill. 
 He was quite sure that it was Wimbury Waste ; he had 
 passed the Barley Mow, else there would have been a 
 doubt. The cold wetness had crept into him, penetrating 
 to the very marrow, soaking hair and beard and trick- 
 ling under collar and cuffs: the long struggle with fog
 
 A RIDE IN THE FOG 421 
 
 and dark Avas becoming exhausting. He stood still and 
 bewildered again. 
 
 Then he remembered that night-ride on the high, old- 
 fashioned bicycle, when Kitty Musgrave watched and 
 waited in vain for the gleam of his lamp. Kitty had 
 been dear, but less dear than the mother of his son, the 
 tiny baby in the churchyard of whom he so often thought, 
 and whom he hoped one brighter day to see among the 
 "solemn troops and sweet societies" moving in the celes- 
 tial fields of joy. 
 
 He could not but think of that other night-ride and 
 the sorrow it brought, while he stood by the solid and 
 impenetrable fog-wall eddying perpetually away in rings 
 and spirals, yet always returning upon itself with dizzy- 
 ing persistence; he was dead beat, and was fain to sit 
 down on the banked border of the road and take breath 
 and close his aching eyes. He was on Wimbury Waste, in 
 one of its intersecting roads, and Wimbury Waste was 
 wide and desolate, and he might wander till morning 
 without finding the right road that was all he knew. 
 He might, of course, keep straight on till he arrived 
 somewhere, but there were pits and wayside ponds on the 
 waste, and, lower down, marshes cut across by deep 
 trenches, and, higher up, the lonely downs scored by 
 chalk quarries, and scarcely a house anywhere except on 
 the Wimbury road, which, by the feel of the air, he 
 thought to be behind him. 
 
 He was growing numb and confused, worried to 
 think of Evelyn waiting and watching for him poor 
 child, she was always waiting and watching; he must 
 end it. They would live near Shackleton or else on the 
 Riviera no ; it was Gerald who was to go to the Riviera 
 with Gwenny. He was half asleep; it was not wise to 
 sleep in the open air of a winter night, as poor Belton 
 had done all that long, cold night. Suddenly he saw it 
 all, clear and plain before him. He himself was to lie 
 out in the cold all night as Belton had done on this 
 very night twelve years ago. It was just; it was well.
 
 422 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 After a time weird shapes wound in and out of the 
 fog, changing and growing as they came and went; 
 things were fading; a soft music swelled up and died. 
 It came again and again like a familiar, homelike song. 
 It was the bells, the joy-bells of Wimbury tower, muffled 
 and hollow, like the music of dreams, but very pleasant 
 and comforting. Yes; the bells, the wedding-bells, to 
 welcome them home again. 
 
 But it was no dream : it was real ; he drew his stiffen- 
 ing limbs slowly up, shook off the dizzy drowsiness and 
 listened eagerly to the cheering voices. Down they swept 
 in softly dropping notes through the muffling mist, the 
 eight gay, sweet notes, an angel voice in each, down and 
 up and down again, crossing and recrossing in the 
 changes, and sounding dim and distant through the fog ; 
 the sweet familiar Wimbury bells. ' ' Come home, ' ' they 
 sang, "come home to peace and love and trust home, 
 home, home." 
 
 He knew now that he was on the Wimbury road and 
 had nearly fallen asleep there forever; he had only to 
 spin straight on down hill without a turn to reach Wim- 
 bury and see his own warm cottage lights and Evelyn 
 by the parlor fire. 
 
 Nearer and nearer sounded the bells ; here and there 
 was a villager walking cautiously, and here a dim light, 
 and now he skirted the churchyard wall, where from 
 some effect of fog the bells sounded fainter, and now 
 he turned into the lane by the cottage and caught the 
 glow of the kitchen window. And here was the front 
 gate and he was off, suddenly conscious of the pain in 
 the wrenched arm, and of a mistake in the bell-ringing 
 that jingled all the music ; and now, with a wildly beat- 
 ing heart yet why should it lose its normal rhythm? 
 he opened the gate with the sound hand, propped it 
 back with his body, dragged the cycle in, and looked for 
 the lighted windows. 
 
 But all was blank and dark. 
 
 He walked with an unhurried step to the door, opened
 
 A RIDE IN THE FOG 423 
 
 it and went into the dim-lighted hall, greeted by a jar- 
 ring shriek of laughter from the kitchen. Softly open- 
 ing the parlor door, he stepped into darkness visible in 
 the embers of a fire. He spoke, his voice sounding 
 strange and weak. ' ' Evelyn, ' ' he said. He found wood 
 and, blowing up the embers, looked round the empty 
 room. He saw the flowers that Evelyn had bent over 
 the night before, while Musgrave's presence at the gate 
 \vas being discussed ; they were still unf aded ; some sheets 
 of music lay on the piano; the firelight glittered upon 
 the two swords beneath the portraits; the sword-glitter 
 was repeated in his eyes ; they were cold and hard. ' ' He 
 zeen that a shouldn't a zeen, zeen they two cuddled up 
 in one another's earms," he seemed to hear Gatrell say. 
 
 He stumbled slowly through the little hall to the 
 dining-room, and another shriek of laughter rang from 
 the kitchen. The room was empty and dark, the hearth 
 cold; he went back, lighted a taper and rang the bell, 
 which was answered, first by the tumultuous inrush of 
 Hollo, who fawned and leaped upon him and was fol- 
 lowed by the sedate and dignified Fluff, with shining 
 eyes, loud purrs and opening and shutting paws, and 
 then by the housemaid, who started back wide-eyed with 
 a suppressed cry at the sight of him. He was covered 
 with mud and soaked with wet, his hair and beard drip- 
 ping in fine points with fog; the wild and haggard fig- 
 ure, with burning eyes and drawn face still marked by 
 the Sunday storm, was indeed hardly recognizable. 
 
 "Is Mrs. Rosny not at home?" he asked. 
 
 "No, sir. She wasn't expecting you. Dear heart 
 alive, and no dinner nor nothing and you that wet and 
 tired and muddy." 
 
 He wondered if it were the rule that she should be 
 out when he was not expected. 
 
 ' ' Is Mrs. Rosny at the vicarage 1 " he presently asked. 
 
 Rhoda's eyes became rounder and rounder and she 
 fidgeted nervously with her apron hastily assumed at 
 the bell-rinsring and not finished by the customary cap.
 
 424 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 ' ' Well, sir, since you ask me, Mrs. Rosny didn 't leave 
 word where she was dining," she said slowly. "All 
 she said was she wouldn't be home to dinner, nor yet 
 nor yet to sleep, sir," she added in a frightened 
 way. 
 
 "She didn't mention that she was going to Ingre- 
 stone? Mrs. Belton or my sisters have not called 
 to-day ? She talked of dining and sleeping at the Pines. 
 They were to drive over and fetch her, ' ' he continued in 
 a way that went to Rhoda's heart "he tried that hard 
 to put a good face on it," she said afterward. 
 
 "No, sir. Mistress didn't mention going to Ingre- 
 stone. And nobody called here except " 
 
 "Ah! except?" he put in eagerly. 
 
 "Except Miss Rosny just before lunch." 
 
 "Ah! Miss Rosny. Did she take Mrs. Rosny home 
 with her?" 
 
 "Mistress was out when Miss Rosny called. And 
 when she came in to lunch she didn't mention Miss 
 Rosny. And I'm sorry to say I forgot to tell her Miss 
 Rosny called, sir." 
 
 "Mrs. Rosny probably thought she had told you 
 where she was dining and sleeping, ' ' he replied wearily, 
 "though it was of course no consequence. Ah when 
 did your mistress set out? Did she drive? Did she 
 carry a bag or something?" 
 
 "She walked, sir. I don't know as she took anything. 
 When I come in to clear the table she was gone. Nobody 
 seen her go." 
 
 "Did she leave any orders for to-morrow? No? 
 You had better expect her to luncheon then. Strange 
 that Mrs. Rosny should happen to dine out to-night 
 when I unexpectedly had a chance of coming home. Get 
 me hot water and clean clothes, Rhoda, will you, and tell 
 the cook to find me something to eat." 
 
 "Rhoda knows," he sighed, when the girl left the 
 room and he fell heavily back in his chair. "Every- 
 body knows; everybody but one blind, befooled idiot."
 
 A RIDE IN THE FOG 425 
 
 He felt his senses going in the shock; the singular 
 experience of not being able or willing to care about it, 
 that comes with the first shattering onset of calamity, 
 took possession of him; he became immersed in imme- 
 diate physical necessities, the only important thing 
 seemed to be warmed, dried, and fed, and relieved from 
 the pain of his arm. 
 
 After a little he staggered into the dining-parlor, 
 where a fire had been hastily lighted, and got some 
 whisky from the cellaret, observing that the key Eyelyn 
 always kept was left in the door. She was a good house- 
 keeper, he reflected, in a slow, stupid way. Then he 
 wished she were there that he might kill her. To strike 
 her dead there before him on the hearth she had dese- 
 crated seemed the one thing worth doing. 
 
 Setting his glass down with this thought, he saw an 
 unrecognizable face in the mirror before him, with blood- 
 shot, burning eyes, matted hair and beard, and livid, 
 sullen countenance, splashed with mud. "Only the 
 husband," he thought with a savage laugh. 
 
 A hot bath and clean clothes, quickly laid out by 
 the pitying handmaid, made him feel more human; he 
 was careful in the difficult matter of fitting on an eve- 
 ning tie with one hand, and brushed a speck of dust from 
 the dinner-jacket Rhoda had put ready. He was glad 
 that his son was dead. 
 
 "He wouldn't sit with his black coffee and his pipe 
 lighted up as comfortable as comfortable, if there was 
 anything wrong," the maid said in the kitchen after- 
 ward. 
 
 Physically refreshed, he began to reason with his 
 misery. Only that morning he had left his home in 
 utter trust and confidence in his wife. She had not 
 kissed him, but that was nothing. Now he came to think 
 of it, that custom had gradually become obsolete; why 
 not? They had been married over two years. 
 
 What had happened since? An anonymous letter 
 with a London post-mark in a disguised writing; Gat-
 
 426 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 rell's visit to report village gossip villagers have 
 another etiquette and other conventions than ours they 
 allow practically no social intercourse between the sexes ; 
 it had startled them to find a man visiting the cottage 
 in his absence. But the firelit embrace? No, no; that 
 was fancy fired by gossip. Seth had passed quickly and 
 caught sight of the two figures in the fitful light. Eve- 
 lyn may have become aware of the gossip ; she may have 
 thought Ronald might call in his absence and have been 
 unwilling to be found alone. She might be at the vicar- 
 age. Why not call and see? But if she were not there, 
 and they saw that he knew nothing of her movements? 
 He argued long for the defense, but the venom of sus- 
 picion, once in the blood, is not easily purged. They 
 had not been quite happy together. 
 
 Might she have left a note? The dining-parlor was 
 thoroughly examined and showed nothing unusual but 
 the keys left out. After all, he had unexpectedly come 
 home only the night before ; she might have left them out 
 in view of the contingency of his coming again. The 
 drawing-room showed her work with the needle in it, 
 and every evidence of occupations to be resumed to-mor- 
 row, nothing missing from the book-shelves, no photo- 
 graphs gone. Note-paper lay in a blotting book, notes, 
 memoranda, bills, household accounts were there, all in 
 order; but no note for him; his strong fingers trembled 
 in the vain search. 
 
 Up-stairs her things were about ready for use, gowns 
 hanging in the wardrobe. The gowns were all old 
 friends ; but he could not tell which of them was missing. 
 The jewel-case was in its place and locked. One white 
 rose stood in a glass on the dressing-table. Such roses 
 were not grown at the cottage at this winter season, only 
 at the Retreat. The baby's photograph was on the wall, 
 also that charming group of herself with the child smi- 
 ling over her shoulder. The sight accentuated the deso- 
 lation. It was many months since Evelyn's disordered 
 nerves had condemned her to lonely pillows. He under-
 
 A RIDE IN THE FOG 427 
 
 stood these nerves at last; and flinging the rose on the 
 floor, stamped it out of shape. 
 
 Then down-stairs again to sit and stare into the fire 
 on the lonely hearth and listen, with strained ears and 
 desperate hope, for the step that he knew would never 
 come again.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 A SLOW HOESE 
 
 RICHARD was not the only man in Wimbury with a 
 heartache on that foggy December night which lay like 
 a shroud upon the world. Heaven seems a very long 
 way off on such nights as these, and they are happy who 
 have a home so bright and cheery as Wimbury vicarage 
 was, when the master elect of Goldenose stepped into it 
 on his return from meeting a friend at St. Ann's, and 
 performed one of the brief and ineffectual toilets which 
 were used to scandalize his sister-in-law. 
 
 "I sometimes wish, Basil," she said somewhat tartly 
 after a sidelong glance at him, "that you would marry, 
 if only to cure you of wearing your necktie under one 
 ear; though if you marry some one who is as bad, I 
 don't see the good." 
 
 "Nor I the construction or sense of your sentence, 
 Kit," her husband retorted. "What's up, Basil? You 
 seem a cup too low to-night." 
 
 "The matter? Why the fog is the matter. It's like 
 being lost in a bad dream. Who can be cheerful in a 
 fog like this?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. Kit and I manage to keep up 
 our spirits, even in fogs. But our digestions are serv- 
 iceable and our consciences clear. I thought Nancy was 
 dining here to-night, Kit?" 
 
 "So did I. Odd, very odd. She was to sleep here 
 and to telegraph home not to expect her. That was be- 
 fore luncheon, when she went to the cottage." 
 
 "When I met Miss Rcsny this morning," the pro- 
 428
 
 A SLOW HORSE 429 
 
 fessor said very slowly and earnestly looking into his 
 plate, "I was given to understand that she was on her 
 way to the station, en route for Sandycombe by the 
 10.30." 
 
 "Really? This is impressive. I say, Basil, what 
 have you been saying eh, Kitty, what?" 
 
 "It was I who said it, Herbert, not Basil. I per- 
 suaded her to stop the night here and telegraphed to 
 her people, and she hasn't." 
 
 "You telegraphed? Well, why should she, if you 
 did? Oh, stopped the night. But the night is not yet 
 in the past tense. And what did you say became of 
 the errant damsel ? You can 't mean that you locked her 
 up in the coal-cellar while you wired to her people not 
 to expect her even your hospitality would hardly go 
 such lengths as that and then came back and found 
 her escaped by an unexpected trap-door or practicable 
 paving-stone ? ' ' 
 
 "Not quite," Kathleen replied impressively. "She 
 went to the cottage." 
 
 ' ' And was locked up in their coal-cellar ? How inter- 
 esting ! Mysterious disappearance of a substantial young 
 lady; startling disclosures; supposed elopement " 
 
 "I scarcely see the point of the joke," Basil inter- 
 rupted stiffly. "Miss Rosny's present whereabouts ap- 
 pears to me to be a matter of some moment at least to 
 her friends." 
 
 "My dear old chap, do we live in a melodrama? Is 
 it likely that a robust and substantial young woman, in 
 possession of her five wits and a pretty strong will into 
 the bargain, would be spirited off nolens volens in broad 
 daylight from this our innocent Arcadian hamlet, where 
 we haven't the ghost of a villain to bless ourselves with 
 unless, indeed, poor Musgrave?" 
 
 "But he's gone too," cried Kathleen in sudden dis- 
 may. "Olivia came in to tea this afternoon and said 
 how tiresome it was, with the New Year's Eve tableaux 
 vivants depending on him, and Randal setting up his 
 28
 
 430 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 gout, as he always does whenever he can be of the slight- 
 est use." 
 
 "Aye, that's the way of these husbands, Kit, wlien 
 they can be of use. Well, that departure is a good thing, 
 considering all things. I wonder if Olivia gave him 
 notice to quit. Nancy is at the cottage, no doubt." 
 
 "But I sent there this afternoon. Evelyn had gone 
 out, but not with Nancy." 
 
 "Console yourself, Kitten. Nancy has not eloped 
 with Mm though to confess the solid truth I always 
 thought she had a sort of sneaking kindness for him. ' ' 
 
 "Are you quite sure," the professor asked in sad 
 earnest, ' ' that the attentions, supposed to be a blind, were 
 after all not genuine?" 
 
 "Not in the least sure. Nancy is a delightful girl, 
 fresh, genuine, wholesome, straightforward, and orig- 
 inal qualities that might attract that kind of man by 
 their very novelty. Her want of beauty " 
 
 "There is no want of beauty in Miss Rosny, Her- 
 bert," he corrected. "But her beauty is inferior to her 
 intellect, which is of a kind rarely met with in women, 
 and not often in men. A man of powerful intellect and 
 scholarly acquirements is frequently attracted by super- 
 ficial sparkle and mere good looks, why not a woman? 
 They instinctively admire the qualities they do not pos- 
 sess and the brute is such a plausible brute," he added 
 with savage emphasis. 
 
 "Oh," cried Kathleen, laughing, "if Nancy could 
 but hear herself accused of a weakness for Ronald Mus- 
 grave, what would become of us? We should have to 
 make our wills, every one of us. Why, she hates the very 
 sight of him; she has no words bad enough to describe 
 him." 
 
 "That," observed the professor with deepening 
 gloom, "has been a feminine characteristic from imme- 
 morial ages. All the great poets have recorded it." 
 
 "I don't doubt it, Basil. All the nastiest things 
 that can be said of women have been said from imme-
 
 A SLOW HORSE 431 
 
 morial ages by all the greatest poets, except Sappho, 
 because they were all men and knew no better. But I 
 can not recommend anybody who values Nancy's friend- 
 ship to think her capable of admiring my poor, black- 
 sheep cousin." 
 
 "Ah!" sighed the professor; "but it is, unhappily, 
 the finest natures and the noblest and purest characters 
 that fall victims to these fatal infatuations; it is they 
 alone who conceive grand and tragic passions for evil 
 and outwardly attractive seducers, who play upon their 
 most generous emotions to their undoing. That is the 
 tragedy of life, the lacliymce rerum, ' ' he added, with such 
 genuine anguish that his brother and sister-in-law were 
 startled into sympathy with him. 
 
 "Poor old boy," the former thought, "it's either 
 indigestion, corns, or being chucked for the mastership. 
 Come and have a cigar, Baz, " he said affectionately. 
 
 "Come and see the darling chicks asleep, Uncle 
 Bazzy, dear," was the still more sumptuous offer of the 
 latter, who was sure it was corns, complicated by under- 
 graduates and college rules. 
 
 But the professor knew only too well that it was 
 Nancy. 
 
 The unfortunate cause of all the painful and dis- 
 quieting emotions packed into that brief winter's day, 
 and herself the victim of more than she could endure, 
 was entirely free from any suspicion of being followed, 
 especially of being followed by Nancy, who had given 
 her a cheery and affectionate good-by that morning and 
 then disappeared bag and baggage, as had been decided 
 some days earlier. 
 
 She was quite sure that Nancy suspected nothing that 
 morning, when she watched the latter step briskly down 
 the path to the gate, where she turned and waved a last 
 bood-by. But it had been a terrible strain to keep her 
 in the dark, and she was unspeakably glad of the rest 
 and relief her departure afforded her, shuddering at 
 the recollection of the narrow shaves by which a discov-
 
 432 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 ery of this impassioned drama had been missed. Espe- 
 cially did she shudder at last night's encounter at the 
 gate and Richard's frank and unsuspicious remarks 
 when Nancy had, equally unsuspiciously and unexpect- 
 edly, come to her rescue with her flat denial of Mus- 
 grave's visit, and had taken Richard's attention from 
 her own too evident agitation. How bitterly she felt 
 the degradation of all this double-dealing! Always 
 secretive and reticent, as the sensitive and deeply feel- 
 ing must ever be, except when in the warm and encour- 
 aging atmosphere of sympathetic surroundings, she had 
 never been underhand, never been given to act a part. 
 Her mother-in-law's perpetual assumption of becoming 
 roles and pathetic poses revolted her and erected a bar- 
 rier between them, the elder knowing herself seen 
 through and the younger unable to conceal her impa- 
 tience. 
 
 When the gate clicked behind Evelyn that afternoon 
 and her trembling feet bore her away from the home in 
 which she had tasted the fulness of life and known such 
 deep happiness and such bitter pain, the feeling upper- 
 most in the wild chaos of her overflooded and tumultu- 
 ously stirred heart was relief at being able at last to 
 throw off concealment and subterfuge, and look the 
 world in the face as one who had defied it openly and 
 given up all for love's sake. There was pain and even 
 shame, that irrepressible voice of conscience and fine 
 instinct, in the position, but the very pain was joyous, 
 since it was borne for the beloved; and, besides, it was 
 shared. Yes, all her life was shared at last; a strong 
 arm enfolded her weakness, a devoted heart sheltered 
 and sustained her, unfit as she was to stand alone. She 
 gloried in a way in the daring and decision of the ter- 
 rible step she was taking; she was glad to find herself 
 of a spirit strong enough to give her emotions active 
 expression, and reward the one being on earth who loved 
 and understood her by the generous and ungrudging 
 gift of herself, body and soul.
 
 A SLOW HORSE 433 
 
 'After all, it had been terribly easy and unheroic ; no 
 one had interfered; Richard had almost thrown them 
 into each other's arms; that was the crudest part. He 
 cared too little to feel the faintest pang of jealousy ; she 
 had never been worth troubling about in his eyes. What 
 could he expect? How would he take it? He would be 
 the last to discover it. He would not return to Wimbury 
 till New Year's Day, and then would simply wonder 
 what had become of the piece of furniture that had been 
 so long in its place. Some one would tell him, and then 
 Would his eyes turn cold and hard ? Would they blaze 
 with fury? Would he no, he would not shed a tear. 
 
 The farther she went on that ill-omened journey, the 
 more her husband dominated and absorbed her thoughts. 
 All his sins and omissions were arraigned before her and 
 censured ; all her own sorrows and denials in highly ex- 
 aggerated coloring set to his account. Never wife had 
 been so cruelly treated as she; the miserable creatures 
 beaten and kicked and dragged by the hair till they 
 died had by comparison been kindly used by their harsh 
 consorts. Their hearts had been unbruised. Besides, 
 beating and kicking, uncivil as it was, argued an amount 
 of interest in the objects of their violence that she was 
 certain Richard had never had for her. She doubted 
 if he would take the trouble to drag her round the room 
 by the hair. Husbands did that and were forgiven, after 
 due penitence. And yet 
 
 And yet a still, small voice whispered reproach and 
 condemnation, stifle it as she would. And oh, how 
 happy they might have been if he had but cared for her 
 and for the baby! And why had he looked at her 
 that very morning in that way? 
 
 "Next year," he had said, when he went off with that 
 look in his eyes, "it will be a great year for us, Evelyn. 
 I shall have time to be human then." Well, he certainly 
 would. 
 
 And why must he leave his watch up-stairs that morn- 
 ing, and why must she seeing that he was late and
 
 434 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 had to gather his things together over a half-finished 
 breakfast run up and fetch it for him, like the docile 
 household slave she had sunk into? There it was, on 
 the table by his solitary bed, attached to one of those 
 double chains that carry a watch in one pocket and a 
 sovereign-purse in the other. Richard's watch was bal- 
 anced, not by a sovereign-purse, but a locket, which was 
 propped open on the little table visible from the bed. 
 And in the locket was the photograph of herself, with 
 baby Gerald smiling over her shoulder, and the sight 
 of it smote her like a sword. After all, it was just like 
 him to do these conventional things and so give himself 
 a respectable family air; Richard had always been so 
 maddeningly respectable. She loathed respectability it 
 was so bourgeois. 
 
 But Ronald had too much poetry to be respectable; 
 he was with her in hating bourgeoisie; they were both 
 consumed by the passion for beauty, charm, distinction, 
 joyousness. Were they not, as he so often said, made 
 for each other, with the same tastes, ideals, and aspira- 
 tions? Did they not differ in character only to be com- 
 plimentary to one another, the two halves of an ideal 
 whole, fitting each exactly to either 1 Had they not been 
 blindly and unconsciously seeking each other all their 
 lives long? Was it not really Ronald whom she had 
 thought to find in Richard's eyes on that sunny after- 
 noon in the boat? There was a sanctity in this union 
 of true and kindred hearts that no conventional tie or 
 mere church-spoken marriage could possess ; the outward 
 legalized marriage was but the husk, the true and sac- 
 ramental bond was the dear union of heart and soul, to 
 which she was now speeding with every tick of the watch 
 at her side. Oh ! it was very sweet and restful after the 
 long agony of doubts and scruples, the long mental con- 
 flict between love and what seemed duty, to find that 
 love and duty were one, that there was an ideal right, 
 beyond and above the poor limits of conventional right, 
 and that she had found and was following it, illumined
 
 A SLOW HORSE 435 
 
 by the auroral hues of a dawning happiness beyond 
 words, beyond imagination. Yes, the bitter conflict was 
 over forever; she had emerged from it calm, strong, and 
 utterly happy, purified by that pain and purged of the 
 crude and inadequate and utterly wrong principles 
 which had cramped her so long. She had crossed the 
 Rubicon ; there could be no going back now, even should 
 the old scruple specters rise again and shake their gory 
 locks at her; there was great peace in that thought; it 
 helped increase the potency of the exorcism. Nothing 
 more to be troubled about; her life was Ronald's; his 
 strong and capable hands would mold it rightly and 
 happily. 
 
 Yet she was troubled. How slow the train was in 
 dragging itself with all her hopes and fears from station 
 to station, and what ghastly, groundless misgivings shook 
 her from time to time! Baby Gerald's face rose white 
 and waxen from the tiny coffin in which she had laid him 
 with such agony of heart. She shrank from all memory 
 of the child now. The ghosts of early married days flitted 
 unbidden by, each with a bitter heartache for her. And 
 the fly she had so easily found and stepped into crawled 
 even more slowly than the lagging train ; each mile that 
 divided her from the shelter of the beloved arms seemed 
 longer than the other. She looked at her watch; by 
 this time Ronald would be in his train ; the thought made 
 her shudder with a joy that was half fear. A month 
 ago her life had been all despair; and now She bent 
 to kiss the geranium-leaves in her coat. How he loved 
 them! They were Galeotto they and the sonata to- 
 gether. 
 
 But the crawling fly had stopped altogether on the 
 slope of a windy hill in a long, stone lane, far from any 
 house. 
 
 ' ' Anything wrong ? ' ' she asked, looking out anxiously 
 at the driver, who was slowly getting off the box. 
 
 "No, m'm, nothing wrong," he replied cheerily. 
 "Only a stone the hoss have picked up."
 
 436 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 The wind whistled over the sunset-stained, green 
 slopes on either side of the hedges; she heard a train 
 rumble away down the valley into silence and was con- 
 scious of the rustle of wings overhead. Strange gut- 
 turals and gruff interjections from the driver to the 
 patient horse: "Hyste up. Steady. Stand stull. 
 Whurr." Each foot was pulled from under the unwill- 
 ing and astonished steed in turn, and after careful ex- 
 amination of the upturned hoof was set down again, to 
 its owner's satisfaction. 
 
 "He've a got a stone in his off forefoot," Evelyn 
 heard at last with impatience, just as she thought the 
 whole trouble at an end. Then a huge, many-bladed 
 clasp-knife was slowly rummaged for in an endless 
 sequence of pockets, and having been slowly and with 
 great difficulty and much puffing and blowing abstracted 
 from enormous depths, was even more slowly opened. 
 ''He do open hard, this here knife," the man explained 
 when the right blade at last clicked into place; "the 
 rain rusts en." 
 
 Then a coat was thoughtfully and deliberately taken 
 off, and the amazed horse, perfectly aware that nothing 
 whatever was wrong, was once more adjured in gruff 
 gutturals to "hyste up" his off forefoot, over the iron 
 circle of which the clasp-knife rasped and rasped, till 
 the driver rose from his kneeling position, puffed deeply, 
 and drew a handkerchief over his face as if exhausted. 
 Then again kneeling, he bid the indignant quadruped 
 once more to "hyste up" an unoffending forefoot, 
 over the iron of which the clasp-knife once more rasped 
 with many interruptions of equine fidgets at being made 
 a fool of, rebuked in gruff human monosyllables. Then 
 at last with a loud exclamation the man fell backward 
 into the hedge-bank, as if let go by a spring, all a-sprawl, 
 with a flint-stone in one hand and the knife in the other, 
 while the horse, quietly dropping his hoof on the road, 
 turned his wise face to survey what he knew to be a very 
 poor histrionic display with a look of unutterable con-
 
 A SLOW HORSE 437 
 
 tempt. "Got en out at last," cried the driver in tri- 
 umph. "Wedged hard in between the frog and the 
 shoe he was. And a tough job to get en out as ever I 
 known." 
 
 He brought an angular flint up to the window and 
 pointed out the extreme inconvenience of its presence 
 in a horse 's foot. ' ' Good job it didn 't make en go lame, 
 enough to cut the foot all to pieces," he said, while Eve- 
 lyn looked at her watch in despair and besought him to 
 drive on as fast as possible. 
 
 "You little know how much depends on my catching 
 that train," she said. 
 
 "Don't you trouble yessulf, the hoss'll go double as 
 quick, now he's rid of the stone," he replied, winding 
 himself with irritating slowness into what seemed to be 
 the tightest-fitting coat ever worn. "We must let the 
 poor beast stanH a bit till the pain's out, ma'am. In- 
 spector med come round corner any minute." 
 
 "The inspector? What inspector?" 
 
 ' ' The society 's inspector ; I seen him about here yes- 
 terday cruelty to animals. We should look middlen 
 f ullish if we was stopped by he. ' ' 
 
 The indignity of the mischance was even more revolt- 
 ing to Evelyn than the mischance itself; to be stopped 
 on a journey of such moment, an episode in a poem of 
 such passionate splendor, was to be insulted as well as 
 injured by Fate. That the union of two hearts and 
 lives should be deferred of course it could not be pre- 
 vented by a stone in the foot of a fly-horse, was a trick 
 worthy of the meanest and most grotesque demon ever 
 cast out of a cathedral to grin as a gargoyle. 
 
 The lane was steep and stony; the horse crawled 
 slowly, the driver walking by his side, to the summit of 
 the hill, where he stopped, as the man explained, to get 
 his wind, Evelyn vainly suggesting that a fresh horse 
 might be hired or even borrowed from the nearest sta- 
 ble, if this one was, as it appeared, worn out. 
 
 ' ' Don 't you fret, ma 'am, ' ' her charioteer said caress-
 
 438 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 ingly, "I'll get ye along somehow orn other, no fear, 
 Once the hoss have got his wind, he'll go like a bird." 
 
 Presumably the poor animal never got his wind, for 
 his rate of progress on that journey never resembled 
 that of any known bird; nor could Evelyn remember 
 any beast that could parallel the slowness of his steady 
 jog-trot. She began to hope the train would be late 
 trains so often are, except when any good is to be gained 
 by their delay. Fortunately the contingency of her 
 missing the train and boat had been foreseen and pro- 
 vided for ; she was to take the next boat and find him on 
 the Shackleton landing-stage in that event, which was 
 too painful to contemplate. 
 
 The bright day had closed in with a biting chill 
 under the glowing sunset; the damp of rising fog pene- 
 trated everywhere except to the slow driver of that slow 
 horse. The carriage-lamps had to be lighted then, and 
 this involved turning out of the way to get matches at a 
 roadside cottage and some mysterious adjustment of the 
 candles that seemed to take endless time. Fate certainly 
 was in a freakish mood to-night. Who ever heard of a 
 flyman without matches in his pocket? How Ronald 
 would laugh over these small tragedies ! She could not 
 see the time by her watch, nor could she recognize the 
 roads along which they drove in the darkness. But the 
 suburbs were reached and ended at last, and she joy- 
 ously recognized the main street of St. Ann 's, all blazing 
 with gas-lamps and lighted shops, with the rarer bril- 
 liance of electric light mocking the moon here and there. 
 The town-hall clock flung a musical chime upon the air 
 as they passed; she could not quite catch it, but sadly 
 feared it was already five, and called to the man to 
 quicken his pace, which he cheerfully did, recognizing 
 the half-hour chime and anticipating his two shining 
 sovereigns with a light heart. 
 
 ' ' At last ! ' ' Evelyn sighed, a curious pain tightening 
 her heart and making her breath come chokingly, as the 
 fly rattled round the corner at the bottom of the hill,
 
 A SLOW HORSE 439 
 
 and, rumbling along the street, came out upon the 
 esplanade in view of the dark immensity of the sea, 
 where the quiet waves broke very gently upon the wall, 
 and drew up before the pier-head station. 
 
 For one moment Evelyn's courage gave way, a full 
 sense of the wrong she was doing rushed upon her, and 
 she sank back in the darkness of the fly with terror and 
 pain. Then Ronald's face, moved as she had seen it in 
 the morning, came before her, and a great wave of pas- 
 sion surged up and swept her off her feet. She sprang 
 from the fly, gave the money, which was already in her 
 hand, to the treacherous driver, and, too hurried to see 
 if she were in time, passed quickly into the little station 
 and out upon the platform, where a train was about to 
 stop, looking dizzily through the thick veil she had 
 pinned on, for the first-class reserved carriage she had 
 been told to expect, and dimly congratulating herself 
 upon being in time, after all. 
 
 But carriage after carriage was examined and 
 neither the reserved label nor the expected face was dis- 
 cernible ; people were stepping in, porters hurrying and 
 hustling. She realized that there was a hitch somewhere, 
 and was just asking if this were not the 5.15 boat train 
 when a hand was laid on her arm and a low voice said 
 ' ' Evelyn, ' ' and she turned with a faint cry to see Nancy 
 at her side. 
 
 "You are too late," Nancy said; "this train is for 
 the 5.50 boat." 
 
 "What are you doing here?" Evelyn asked, startled 
 out of all presence of mind. 
 
 "I am come to meet you and take you home," she 
 said, drawing her toward the waiting-room, just as 
 Rosny, hidden in a group of two or three more passen- 
 gers from the fog-delayed boat, hurried by on his way 
 out of the station, unseen by either.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 NANCY'S TEIUMPH 
 
 ROSNY must have passed Musgrave within twenty or 
 thirty yards when he stepped off. the gangway of the 
 belated boat ; but so full of thoughts and emotions were 
 both that they might almost have rubbed shoulders in 
 the crowd without recognizing each other. 
 
 ''You forget," Musgrave had said to Nancy, when 
 he recovered from the shock of that spectral appearance 
 in the water, "that your very anxiety to prevent my 
 going back to the pier-head clearly shows that the lady 
 I wish to meet is there." 
 
 ' ' I can not tell where she is at this moment, ' ' Nancy 
 said. "But if you go back to look for her now it will 
 be with me." 
 
 " If I go by the next boat will you promise to deliver 
 a note to her by six o'clock this evening?" he asked, 
 after a little thought, and she promised, and he wrote as 
 follows : 
 
 ' ' The bearer must have overheard us on the cliff this 
 morning. She came in your place, determined to frus- 
 trate our plans. Humor and get rid of her, and come 
 on by any boat you can catch to-night. I shall be at the 
 gangway watching every Shackleton boat off. Should 
 all fail to bring you, I shall put up at the Pier Hotel 
 to-night, and unless I receive a telegram by ten o'clock 
 to-morrow morning, shall be in the orchard at 1 P. M. 
 If N. R. is troublesome give her in charge of police. Be 
 brave and come quickly." 
 
 Armed with this, Nancy sprang into one of the per- 
 petually gliding tram-cars just in time to reach the pier- 
 440
 
 NANCY'S TRIUMPH 441 
 
 head and pay the expectant flyman before stopping 
 Evelyn, while Musgrave, glad to be rid of her and yet 
 angry with himself for not going boldly back to the ap- 
 pointed meeting-place and carrying Evelyn off in spite 
 of her, lit a cigar and walked up and down a sheltered 
 piece of planking to wait for the next train. 
 
 Evelyn was so sensitive, he reflected ; she could never 
 have borne the coarse and jarring experience of the pub- 
 lic opposition Nancy was capable of making. Capable? 
 That dreadful girl was capable of anything; and, after 
 all, Evelyn could not be expected to recover all in a 
 moment from the shock of learning of his relations with 
 Mabel Weston. It might not be wise to meet her just 
 now, and dare all and perhaps lose all. Evelyn was so 
 ignorant of life, so exquisitely innocent of its harsher, 
 coarser aspects; the shock to her would be too severe. 
 But what will a woman not condone in the enthusiasm of 
 passion? The first shock past, her love might be deep- 
 ened and strengthened by the knowledge of the bonds he 
 had broken for her sake, and she was too irretrievably 
 committed now to draw back; Nancy's knowledge, which 
 was probably Rosny 's, or at least would be, was too com- 
 promising. 
 
 But what tale was this that Nancy had so pat, of 
 inquests in local papers ? Could she have invented it ? 
 ah! that spectral plaque of light on the water again 
 could she? Yet how could she have become acquainted 
 with all the too accurate details of that unlucky entangle- 
 ment? He actually at that moment had an unopened 
 letter from Mabel in his possession ; it had been received 
 at the Retreat, pocketed unread and forgotten, until 
 again discovered in the process of packing in the pres- 
 ence of a servant, when it had again been put out of 
 sight to await destruction at the first opportunity. It 
 was not to be read; all that ugly chapter of life was 
 definitely closed and sealed to oblivion. But in view of 
 Nancy Rosny 's extraordinary assertions, it would be 
 reassuring to read poor Mabel's letter before destroying
 
 442 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 it. He found the much redirected and traveled envelope 
 and read it under the gas in the waiting-room. The 
 Plymouth postmark was four days old, but the letter 
 was dated the 23d a week ago and the first sentence 
 convinced him that Nancy's tale was true and the wri- 
 ter's heart cold before the letter had been posted. This 
 was indeed Nemesis. 
 
 Evelyn had been too much dazed by the sudden onset 
 of Nancy and the knowledge that she had missed the 
 five-o'clock train to resist being taken by her into the 
 waiting-room; but when she found herself there alone 
 with Nancy, she quickly recovered her self-possession. 
 
 "I must catch this train," she said, trying to push 
 her way out of the room. 
 
 ' ' You must do nothing of the kind, ' ' Nancy returned, 
 stepping in front of her and keeping her back. "I 
 bring you a message from Captain Musgrave." 
 
 Evelyn went white. ' ' What can you mean 1 ' ' she fal- 
 tered, turning back. 
 
 "He has had some unpleasant news," Nancy said, 
 opening a scrap of newspaper and spreading it out 
 under the flickering gaslight. "You had better read 
 it, too." 
 
 "Are you mad?" Evelyn asked despairingly, as she 
 heard the train roll away ; and then, raising her veil, she 
 cast her eyes over the paragraph recording the inquest. 
 She read it several times, a stony horror spreading over 
 her face as she read. Then she looked up in Nancy's 
 face with piteous, childish appeal. "What does it 
 mean?" she asked. "It must be an assumed name. Or 
 there must be many Ronald Musgraves." 
 
 "And all at Wimbury?" Nancy returned. 
 
 "The woman was mad," Evelyn whispered with hor- 
 ror-stricken eyes. "It was not true." 
 
 "A singular invention. Wimbury is not quite the 
 center of the universe." 
 
 Evelyn gasped painfully; her soft, white brow was 
 all wet under its tendrils of straying hair; she wrung
 
 NANCY'S TRIUMPH 443 
 
 her hands fiercely together and looked fixedly at the 
 matting at her feet, opening and shutting her mouth 
 and apparently striving to overcome some unspeakable 
 emotion. 
 
 "Supposing it to be true," she said at last; "what 
 right have we to pry into his private affairs?" 
 
 "What right indeed? But inquests and newspapers 
 are scarcely private. Evelyn, I know why you are here. 
 No one else shall know it, no one else need ever know it. 
 Dear Evelyn, let me take you home by the next train; 
 let me, ' ' she implored. 
 
 ' ' And pray, why am I here ? ' ' she asked, looking with 
 haughty defiance straight into Nancy's honest eyes. 
 
 "Oh, Evelyn, dear Evelyn, poor Evelyn! you know 
 and I know, ' ' Nancy sobbed. ' ' Oh ! how could you, how 
 could you? How can you forget Richard, ever forget 
 little Gerald, forget yourself? Oh! what infatuation, 
 what blind folly could have brought you so far?" 
 
 "St. Ann's is no great distance from home. Pray 
 what infatuation brought you equally far?" 
 
 "Love brought me, Evelyn; love for you, and for 
 Richard, and for all that makes life livable, and for 
 the old, pleasant days we have had together. How could 
 I see you oh! how could I? I never suspected it till 
 this morning, and Richard poor, trusting Richard 
 never suspected it at all. Oh, Evelyn, what a love and 
 trust is there, what a heart of gold is yours to break and 
 torture, what a happiness to throw away ! I came back 
 this morning to ask you to be careful I was told that 
 his attentions had been observed and gossiped about. 
 You were out gone the sea way, they said so I went 
 down the cliff, and the wind w r as blowing in from the 
 sea, and I saw no one, but I overheard this appointment 
 before there was time " 
 
 "Ah!" Evelyn replied, lifting eyes blank with de- 
 spair to Nancy's. "So you kept my appointment for 
 me? So you tried to rob me of my one only chance of 
 happiness? Let me go, let me go!"
 
 444 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 "Stay!" Nancy said gently; "I promised to give 
 you this letter." 
 
 "Ah! you come from him! Where is he?" 
 
 "On the way to Shackleton." 
 
 "Very well," Evelyn said, after reading the note 
 and tearing it slowly to ribbons. "Now leave me. 
 Haven't you tortured me almost enough?" 
 
 "Oh, you poor child!" cried Nancy, drawing the 
 white, miserable face down on her shoulder, where it 
 rested with a pitiful listlessness. "How could I do 
 otherwise? To-morrow would have been too late." 
 
 "So is to-day," she sighed, without raising her 
 head. 
 
 "Not to-day. There has been folly, infatuation, but 
 no irreparable wrong, Evelyn; of that I am convinced. 
 There has been no compromise in the world's eyes, no 
 hopeless compromise." 
 
 "Let me die, let me die!" she moaned, clinging to 
 Nancy. 
 
 "Come home, dear. People will be coming in here; 
 they are passing and looking in even now. Let us drive 
 part of the way to be alone together. Come out and 
 I will call a fly." 
 
 "I will never go home," she said with a shudder. 
 
 "Evelyn," Nancy said, leaving the caressing tone she 
 had been using, "you will not go to that man?" 
 
 "He he is not what I thought him. Oh, it breaks 
 my heart," she said in a voice of indescribable misery. 
 "But but he is all to me. He, whatever he may be 
 oh, Nancy, how should you understand, a girl like you? 
 he loves me and he needs me. How can I desert him ? 
 Go away, dear; you have done what you could. Go. 
 Good-by." 
 
 ' ' Does he love you, does he need you, as your greatly 
 wronged husband does ? How can you desert and betray 
 him?" Nancy asked in a low, fierce tone, withdrawing her 
 from the observation of the people who were dropping 
 into the waiting-room, and going out into the open air
 
 NANCY'S TRIUMPH 445 
 
 with her. "How can you desecrate your best memories, 
 yourself, your past life ? Have you no fear of God, Eve- 
 lyn ? Have you no sense of honor, none of duty 1 Do you 
 owe nothing to the man whose name you bear? the man 
 whose life is bound up in yours? owe nothing to the 
 sanctity of marriage, to the dignity of our sex? And 
 when you have betrayed the love and trust and broken 
 the heart and ruined the life and soiled the honor of your 
 husband, what good will you do to the profligate who 
 has beguiled you ? What will it profit him to add to his 
 sins? What woman's lawless love ever benefited any 
 man in all the whole wide world's history? What but 
 misery and mutual disgust can come of such things? 
 How soon would he tire and cool? How will you like 
 to cut him off from all social and family intercourse, to 
 be a drag upon him, and a shame to him? Oh, if you 
 loved him and he loved you, that would be the bitterest 
 drop of all. Your wickedness has already driven one 
 poor creature to death, and made orphans of her worse 
 than fatherless children. Isn 't that mischief enough for 
 one lifetime? Come home, Evelyn; come home!" 
 
 She had drawn her along the esplanade beneath the 
 spindling trees, where few walked at this chill season 
 and where the mist made strange blurs of the gas-lamps, 
 and the dark sea at full tide moaned and sobbed upon 
 the long sea-wall, foaming faintly over the groins in its 
 roll. Then Evelyn suddenly stopped and faced about. 
 She seemed to see a woman's body tossing in the surge, 
 and hear a woman's voice in its low moan. 
 
 "And what," she asked, "what of the degradation 
 of a loveless marriage, the long-drawn agony of it, the 
 hopeless, perpetual fretting of the chain?" 
 
 "No, Evelyn, you loved him; you know that you 
 loved him well at first. ' ' 
 
 "At first? Ah! at first. But he threw it all away. 
 It was a stuff for which he had no use. He couldn't 
 represent it in coin of the realm." 
 
 "How you misunderstand Richard, Evelyn! He is 
 
 CO
 
 446 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 great-hearted. He is a silent man. Such men often 
 have the deepest feelings." 
 
 "Nancy, he still cares for Kathleen. He never cared 
 for me. He even told me so, ' ' she wept. ' ' I will never 
 go back to him never." 
 
 They were walking on through the misty uncertainty 
 of the gaslight, leaving the sea for the streets, where the 
 fog was thinned and the light augmented by the bril- 
 liance of shop-windows. Nancy felt that she was de- 
 feated and realized sadly enough that some hurts are 
 beyond healing. 
 
 Yet Evelyn leaned upon her arm, and made no fur- 
 ther attempt to leave her. People passed and repassed, 
 going in and out of the shops, stopping before windows, 
 going up and down the steps of hotels and clubs ; cheer- 
 ful, careless, busy people in furs and greatcoats; car- 
 riages rumbled by ; here a motor-car groaned and rattled, 
 pouring out clouds of steam and leaving evil smells in 
 its noisy wake; here a bicycle whizzed past; and, Avhen 
 they were climbing the steep main street near the As- 
 sembly Rooms, Nancy saw a tall man straining stiffly up 
 the hill on a cycle on the opposite side of the road; 
 he had already passed them before she caught sight of 
 him in the misty light bending and pedaling labori- 
 ously, yet the figure recalled Richard's. Evelyn had 
 stopped at a print-shop window with ebbing breath and 
 whirling pulse; but she saw nothing in the street; her 
 eyes had been caught by a photogravure of one of 
 Raphael's Madonnas, with the Eternal Child clinging 
 to the Eternal Mother, the divine in the human. What 
 hidden fiber of her burdened heart that familiar glory 
 of art touched may not be told. The maiden mother's 
 soft gaze pierced her, the babe's glance of divinest pity 
 smote her, and she fell all her length on the pavement, 
 whence Nancy raised her and, with the help of a man 
 hurrying by, carried her into the shop. 
 
 When Richard sat in the parlor that night listening 
 for the footstep his reason told him would never again
 
 NANCY'S TRIUMPH 447 
 
 be heard there, it came into his mind that Evelyn must 
 have passed many and many a night so, sitting in that 
 very chair, where he had found her often patiently wait- 
 ing for him, alone with the dog and cat. There the crea- 
 tures lay to-night in the strange animal sleep that leaves 
 some unknown and unnamed sense awake to listen and 
 watch; now an ear would point or an eye blink faintly 
 at some infinitesimal sound beyond human perception, 
 else they were wrapped in blissful somnolence in the 
 peaceful warmth, while the flame flapped drowsily in 
 the grate, cinders tinkled, furniture creaked, a semi- 
 musical sound escaped the piano, the clock ticked, and 
 all the house was silent and asleep. So she must have 
 sat night after night, he thought, refusing, and, as it 
 now seemed to him, rightly, to go into society without 
 him, weary and sick to death of the narrow bounds of 
 that familiar room. 
 
 His sisters called her dull, his mother unsociable and 
 reserved ; else she might have been less lonely. Why had 
 those ladies not amalgamated? Whose was the fault? 
 She had been right in not having the brothers there too 
 much; after all, she had had more wisdom in her inex- 
 perienced youth than he in his world-worn maturity. 
 It was just that he should sit there childless by a dese- 
 crated hearth. But she, had she deserved the fiery temp- 
 tation to which she had succumbed ? He had trusted too 
 much, where overtrust was a crime; too much he had 
 trusted that friend, who was still the soul of honor. He 
 had wronged her in marrying her and caging her here 
 alone to share only the few scanty snatches of leisure his 
 life afforded, and be entirely cut off from the main 
 stream of it. He had tried to do two incompatible things 
 to lead a life of lonely renunciation and one of mar- 
 ried happiness. The blame was entirely his. All had 
 been against her the Tantalus sorrow of the baby's 
 quickly-snatched life, the loneliness and dreariness of 
 her days, the sudden temptation of that ill-advised inti- 
 macy. He saw them dancing in the moonlight. Ah!
 
 448 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 Caesar's wife, not uncorrupted alone, but incorruptible, 
 who shall find you in all the wide world? And found, 
 who shall love you in your pale and passionless perfec- 
 tion? Yet if Evelyn could fall, purity itself had faded. 
 
 Would it were I had been false, not you, 
 I that am nothing, not you that are all. 
 
 The awful blank of the heavy fog-wrapped night, 
 whence every star was blotted and every gleam of break- 
 ing cloud hidden, was like the dead void of nothing, the 
 negation of being. It was like the blank agony of his 
 own soul, whence the face of God was withdrawn because 
 of sin long past. That agony must come, it was just ; it 
 was the penal fire to purge the dross. But he could 
 neither pray nor hope. He caught the fierce glitter of 
 lamplight on the swords and a dreadful joy glittered 
 responsively in his eyes. There was one way to wash out 
 the stain, and the sword revealed it, spoke of it, sang of 
 it in its rhythmic glitter. Oh ! the sword, the virile, all- 
 cleansing sword ! No knot so complex but gallant sword 
 can cut it, no anguish so bitter but swift sword may 
 end it. He was a man and no worm, after all. 
 
 But what voice was speaking across the blank silence 
 of the night, rough, untutored, stern, and kind? 
 
 "Down on your knees, Richard Rosny, and set to 
 work and pray. Set to work and pray as though you 
 was hung over hell fire aready, like to be chocked by the 
 roke of it, and like to be shrove by the vlare of it as 
 though nothing only the grace of God could hyste ye 
 up safe and sound again." 
 
 It was a friend's voice speaking clearly through the 
 sorrows of death which encompassed him, and the pains 
 of hell which had hold of him. Just then a little sportive 
 flame leaped up with a cheery flutter from the grate and 
 danced like a joyous child in shadowy corners, magni- 
 fying this and minimizing that, and bringing all pro- 
 portion out of things. It threw a long, quivering shadow 
 over the swords, and lit up a photogravure in a dead
 
 NANCY'S TRIUMPH 449 
 
 gold mount so vividly that the calm and sweet and 
 pathetic face of the Sistine Madonna seemed to be advan- 
 cing from the golden glow and offering to the world, 
 enthroned on her arms, the Child in whose deep and 
 solemnly tender gaze lies the whole mystery of eternity 
 and the whole insoluble riddle of humanity. The vision 
 dimmed with the dying flame, but glowed on vividly in 
 his soul awful purity, divine power, and love and pity 
 enshrined in the helpless beauty of an unconscious child. 
 Such a gaze, far-off, divine, and wistfully tender, comes 
 at times from many a mortal babe; he had seen it once, 
 with awe and love unspeakable, in his own little son's 
 eyes the last look before death he would see it again, 
 the first in the new life. The splendor of unseen things, 
 the deep symbolism of those primary emotions that 
 are the roots of our being and the sources of all our 
 joys, the glory and awe of womanhood, and the rev- 
 erence due to it all came upon him, with the strongly 
 realized feeling that the Incarnation has indeed re- 
 deemed our race; his burdened heart overflowed in 
 tears, and his sins fell away from him like a garment 
 shed. 
 
 When the house-clock struck five and the church- 
 clock repeated it in the clear and thrilling voice that 
 seems so much farther off by night than by day, he 
 stole up-stairs through the dark and silent house, and 
 slept fitfully till daylight. It was a ghastly thing to 
 come down to breakfast again and miss the beautiful 
 face and ministering hand, a ghastly thing to sort the 
 pile of letters, and anticipate one from Evelyn to make 
 this dark calamity certain beyond all doubt. But he 
 found none. He would say that she was gone away for 
 change ; there should be no divorce ; a way of repentance 
 should be kept open. He who had been so greatly for- 
 given could and should greatly forgive. 
 
 The fog had rolled away ; lovely filigree of hoar-frost 
 glittered on every feathering branch of the lindens. The 
 morning was so still that the sea's pulse was audible,
 
 450 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 the boom of a ground-swell beginning to beat, the sooth- 
 ing sound he had listened for as a child. 
 
 A letter from Herbert Mayne. "Dear Rosny: Can 
 you by any possibility give the lecture with limelight 
 illustrations on the 2d? Musgrave left unexpectedly 
 yesterday. I can think of no one but you to take his 
 place." Unexpectedly yesterday. Might it have been 
 unpremeditated a sudden temptation? Mayne sus- 
 pected nothing, it was evident. 
 
 Rosny was still there writing at midday. Fluff and 
 Rollo lay restless on the rug, vexed and puzzled by the 
 change in the clock-like household routine, sometimes 
 starting up and going to the window, Fluff stalking lion- 
 like, his plumy tail anxiously swaying, Rollo fussing and 
 dancing in quick, uneasy jerks. Suddenly Rollo leaped 
 up with a sharp, joyous bark, and Fluff uncoiled him- 
 self slowly and listened. Richard's heart throbbed like 
 a sledge-hammer, and his ears sang at the sound of 
 light steps outside and the quick opening of the hall 
 door and inburst of women 's voices. In another moment 
 in came, with a rush of fresh air and a rustle of skirts, 
 Evelyn and Nancy, both starting at sight of him with a 
 simultaneous cry of "Richard!" He stood up in his 
 place facing them, speechless. 
 
 "Richard!" cried Evelyn. "You here? At this 
 time of day ? Is anything wrong ? ' ' she added, with such 
 genuine concern and uneasiness as set his mind free from 
 the last shadow of fear. 
 
 "Wrong?" he almost sobbed, taking her in his arms. 
 "Nothing can be wrong now. But the fright you gave 
 me ! My dear child, where have you been ? ' ' He kissed 
 her so fervently that her faint shiver of repulsion 
 escaped his notice ; then he turned to Nancy, whose face 
 was a study. 
 
 "So, Miss Nancy, this is your work," he said. 
 "Where in the world have you been?" 
 
 ' ' My work, ' ' Nancy echoed rather grimly. ' ' Dick ! 
 how like a man to come home on this particular morn-
 
 NANCY'S TRIUMPH 451 
 
 ing! You said you were off till the New Year. We 
 went to St. Ann's last night to hear Sarasate. We 
 put up at Chuff ey's. You remember Chuffey, moth- 
 er's maid? She has a fancy-shop close by the Assembly 
 Rooms. ' '
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 A CONFESSION 
 
 ALL the darkness vanished in a flash, and the world 
 was flooded with light again. He could have sobbed like 
 a child in the joy of his unburdened heart. All was so 
 simply and so naturally explained; the terrible night- 
 mare he had just awakened from was so monstrous and 
 incredible. 
 
 "Why on earth," he said gruffly, "why on earth, 
 Nan, couldn't you leave a proper message with the 
 maids? They didn't know you were with her." 
 
 "I will do so next time, Dickie dear," she said. 
 "What is wrong with your arm?" 
 
 ' ' I fell off a bicycle in the fog. I hope your precious 
 Sarasate fiddling was worth the jaunt." 
 
 "Absolutely worth it. But unluckily we didn't hear 
 it except through the windows. Evelyn must needs set 
 up one of her smashing headaches and go to bed. Hard 
 luck, considering we don't often go off on a lark 
 together. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Poor child ! " he said, turning to Evelyn, his voice 
 unsteady with tenderness. "Pale, so pale, too. Some- 
 thing ntust be done for these headaches." 
 
 "I don't see why slie should have all the pity," Nancy 
 said. "She can go pleasuring when she likes. But my 
 holidays are numbered. I'm off by the next train. So 
 good-by." 
 
 "Good-by, Nancy." 
 
 Nancy smiled a victorious smile when she walked 
 away in the sunshine. "Heaven help them now," she 
 452
 
 A CONFESSION 453 
 
 thought, "a little thing would undo it all. She isn't 
 worth him. But none of us ever are worth them that is, 
 when they are worth anything." 
 
 Then she remembered that it was Wednesday and that 
 to-morrow would be Thursday and that more than half 
 the fifty hours were over ; and, in spite of all her learning 
 and the customary brevity of her toilets, began to con- 
 sider which of her gowns would befit the occasion. He 
 took no interest in frocks ; but she was sure from her own 
 feelings that he was amenable to the subtle influence 
 that frocks exercise over all rightly constituted male 
 minds. Had he felt the slowness of the lagging hours? 
 Was he counting the remainder of them? Perhaps he 
 was absorbed in abstruse mathematical problems, or try- 
 ing to lose his anxiety in the mazes of metaphysics and 
 the subtleties of philosophy. 
 
 "Come, Amos, and take a letter to the vicarage for 
 me," she called to a flaxen-headed Barton, who was 
 trudging along to the station with a parcel. "Mind you 
 don 't loiter on the way. What standard are you in, and 
 what are you going to do for a living ? Dunno ? Oh, but 
 you must contrive to know somehow. Why, you must 
 be thirteen. Wait outside while I write in the waiting- 
 room." 
 
 She found writing things in a hand-bag and scribbled 
 off to Kathleen : ' ' All is right at the cottage. Never ask 
 me how I spent the rest of yesterday. If you remember, 
 I left the vicarage in the morning for the station on my 
 way home. Wlio knows but I went? This by Amos 
 Barton." 
 
 After all, Nancy reflected on her way home, it was a 
 negative victory. Evelyn, disenchanted and revolted by 
 the revelation in the newspaper, had broken with Mus- 
 grave and written a last letter to him. But much moral 
 pressure had been necessary to bring her home. "Noth- 
 ing but duty," Nancy had told her with kind cruelty, 
 "can ever bring happiness. No wife can be happy, 
 except in her home."
 
 454 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 "Nothing matters now," Evelyn sighed. "There is 
 no more happiness for me anywhere." 
 
 "Try duty instead. You'll be feeling better by New 
 Year's Day when Dick comes home." 
 
 Evelyn could scarcely be more dejected and heart- 
 broken, she thought, than on this morning. Yet when 
 they walked to the station in the brisk air she was sur- 
 prised to find herself conscious of something very like 
 relief. A man long threatened with blindness might 
 feel such relief when it came, she thought. This feeling 
 grew with every mile in the train; familiar landmarks, 
 churches, homesteads, fields, and downs, all glimmering 
 in fleeting hoar-frost in the low sunshine, had friendly 
 and welcoming looks for her; a weight was lifted from 
 her heart; she felt, like one waking from a bad dream 
 to some real sorrow, that she could rest a little now. 
 The cottage seemed like some sad but safe haven in 
 which she might be still and recover strength. Nancy's 
 affectionate care of her, and all her censures and exhor- 
 tations, were healing; she rested like a child in her 
 friend's robust and cheery nature, in her strong will and 
 healthy mind; the mere sight of her fresh face, clear 
 eyes, and sunny smile, gave her comfort. Yet Richard 
 and Nancy were more alike than most brothers and sis- 
 ters are. 
 
 Youth and morning stirred in her blood, when they 
 walked quickly over the ringing roads and turned in at 
 the gate she had so nearly closed against herself for- 
 ever. After all, however dreary the cottage might be, 
 it was home. But when Richard came back, how would 
 she face him? 
 
 "0 Nan!" she sighed when they went in, "if you 
 could but stay with me ! " 
 
 Utter amazement at the unimagined idea of Richard 
 there at that hour at first erased every other thought 
 from Evelyn's mind when she saw him; then followed 
 the curious sense of safety his presence invariably gave 
 her, while the unaccustomed tenderness and unfeigned
 
 A CONFESSION 455 
 
 joy of his welcome stirred the strangest medley of feel- 
 ings in her heart. She scarcely heard what the cousins 
 said in her agitation, but she remembered the photograph 
 she had seen in the locket, and thought with a keen but 
 sweet pang of the little grave in the churchyard. "When 
 Nancy was gone, and Richard turned back into the 
 room, Evelyn was sitting by the hearth with her back to 
 the window, alternately stroking Fluff on her knee, and 
 Eollo, sitting before her, his muzzle on the arm of the 
 chair. 
 
 ' ' Is the headache gone 1 " he asked after a little pause, 
 during which she did not look up, and he remembered 
 how but a few hours since he wished to have her there 
 that he might strike her dead. 
 
 "Not quite," she said, still without looking up. "It 
 leaves one limp and stupid. When did you come home, 
 and why?" 
 
 "Yesterday, by the four-o'clock boat. There was a 
 fog. We didn't get in till half -past five." 
 
 "Half-past five!" she echoed, startled into sudden 
 interest. "At St. Ann's?" 
 
 "Then, like a fool, I must needs cycle straight 
 across here from St. Ann's, and was twice lost in the 
 fog. It took over two hours; I had a fall and came in 
 a mass of mud, and wet through even Rollo hardly 
 knew me to find a dark, empty house and no din- 
 ner " 
 
 "How terrible!" 
 
 "Terrible?" ignoring the sarcasm "terrible is no 
 word for it. I was positively frightened, Evelyn. It is 
 such an unheard-of thing for you to pass a night from 
 home; the maids seemed to have no idea where you 
 were. ' ' 
 
 "It must indeed have been a shock to find part of 
 the furniture absent without leave. Almost as bad as 
 if the dining-table had unexpectedly vanished, or the 
 hall-clock incontinently waltzed away." 
 
 "It was no laughing matter for me, dear."
 
 456 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 "You must have wanted your dinner badly after 
 the foggy ride," she said, going to the window. 
 
 "I wanted my wife," he replied with gravity. 
 
 ' ' But why on earth did you come home in that sudden 
 way?" she asked, leisurely removing her hat and coat 
 and piling them neatly on a chair with her gloves and 
 muff. "It was as much a new departure for you as my 
 sudden festiveness was for me." 
 
 ' ' I can hardly tell you why I came, ' ' he said slowly. 
 "It was most inconvenient, very urgent business had 
 to be neglected. But I was anxious about you, terribly 
 anxious. So I threw up everything and came as fast 
 as fast as that infernal fog allowed." 
 
 The door opened and Rhoda came in to lay the cloth, 
 with a welcoming smile, in which there was a good spice 
 of curiosity. Evelyn spoke to her, and then went into 
 the parlor, where a fire crackled cheerily and sunbeams 
 fell through a little window and lighted the shining oak 
 furniture. 
 
 To her surprise, even terror for the need of being 
 alone was urgent in her bewildered mood her husband 
 followed her and stood in front of the fire, looking down 
 upon her with that in his large and deep-blue eyes she 
 did not care to face. 
 
 "I was very anxious," he repeated in the same earnest 
 voice. 
 
 She looked away with a shiver. Nancy had spoken 
 of the village gossip ; a cold fear clutched her heart lest 
 he too might have heard it. She could think of noth- 
 ing to say either to the purpose or from it ; she felt the 
 disquieting gaze she dared not meet pierce through 
 and through her, analyzing, measuring, and sifting 
 her; she heard the clock tick, the firewood crackle, and 
 her own pulses beat wildly. Then of a sudden she 
 found herself crying helplessly, her hands before her 
 face. 
 
 ' ' Come, come, ' ' she heard in a voice of gentle remon- 
 strance, "what is there to cry about?" But she went
 
 A CONFESSION 457 
 
 on crying like a child, with audible sobs, pitiful to hear, 
 her slight figure shaking and bowed over her hands. 
 
 ' ' You poor little soul ! " he said, his heart torn by the 
 sight; "how can you be so silly? Is it the headache? 
 What is it? Come now, tell me all about it." 
 
 She heard him step near, she felt a strong arm gather 
 her to the shelter of a strong breast, and went on crying. 
 
 "I'm tired," she said at last, slipping from the shel- 
 tering arm and rising. He rose, too, and stood facing 
 her, silent and pale, while she dried her tears and tried to 
 be calm. 
 
 "More than tired, Evelyn," he said presently with 
 sad concern. 
 
 ' ' What does it matter ? What do you care what have 
 you ever cared?" she returned with bitter emphasis. 
 " I 'm neither a bank, nor a biscuit-bakery, nor a philan- 
 thropic public-house. I'm nothing but a respectable 
 piece of furniture, more ornamental than useful per- 
 haps, the correct thing to have but' not indispen- 
 sable." 
 
 "Evelyn ! Come, I see that I'm somehow in disgrace. 
 What have I done, dearest?" tenderly, and laying a 
 hand on her shoulder. 
 
 "Nothing. You don't care enough to do anything," 
 she panted, edging away from him. 
 
 "Oh, my dear, what a wild charge! Who should 
 care if not I? Not care? What else in the world have 
 I to care for?" 
 
 ' ' Kathleen, ' ' she muttered, in a low, fierce voice, 
 repulsing the offered embrace. 
 
 "Kathleen? What? Kathleen? What do you 
 mean?" he cried, stepping back a pace, the whole- 
 hearted love and tenderness dying out of his voice. 
 
 "I mean," she said, her words sharp and clear with 
 passion, "I mean that I never clearly knew that you 
 did not care for me, and never had, until that day when 
 you told me yourself that you still loved Kathleen Mayne 
 more than any other woman in the world."
 
 458 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 ' ' Good Heavens ! You must be mad, ' ' he exclaimed, 
 a flame of fury leaping up in his eyes. 
 
 "Mad? Oh, likely enough. Yes. Till then I thought 
 your neglect and unkindness only meant the usual cool- 
 ing off after marriage, intensified by your taciturnity 
 and gloomy, unsocial ways. I still hoped to win you in 
 spite of your heartlessness about the baby. But from 
 that day I clearly knew my fate; and it drove me to 
 despair. It made me reckless and hard with misery." 
 
 ' ' Take care ! " he cried, white with indignation. ' ' It 
 is a pity to say things like that, easy to say not easy to 
 forget." 
 
 ' ' Not easy to say, else said long before. . . You asked 
 me just now why I cried? Only because you seemed 
 you seemed to care a little what became of me," she 
 sobbed. 
 
 "This is awful. You can not realize what you are 
 saying, Evelyn," he said after a pause, the fury in his 
 face yielding to horror and pain. ' ' How can you ? You 
 poor child! You can never have thought those terrible 
 things of me, never have kept all that bitterness locked 
 up in your heart all these months. How could you live 
 with me day by day ah ! that explains how could you 
 break bread with me, how stay under my roof, with these 
 hideous thoughts to me insulting thoughts fermenting 
 within you?" 
 
 ' ' How indeed ? ' ' she returned. ' ' But what else could 
 I do ? I wanted to forget in serious study. I asked you 
 to let me go through a course of classics. You wouldn't 
 even listen, only laughed and left me alone to fester in 
 my misery." 
 
 "Evelyn! Evelyn!" 
 
 "You never had the slightest sympathy with me, 
 never thought me worth while. The day you brought me 
 home to this house you told me that you cared more for 
 Gerald than any one else in the world, except your 
 mother. ' ' 
 
 "You poor baby! Why then did I marry you?"
 
 A CONFESSION 459 
 
 "To keep the accounts and mind the housekeeping, 
 I suppose. You said that married happiness depended 
 entirely on that that day." 
 
 ' ' Then we ought to be at the summit of bliss, my dear, 
 for you ' ve been A-l at both, ' ' he replied, his voice soften- 
 ing with pity and great tears in his eyes. "Why didn't 
 you trust me, Evelyn? How could you wrong me by 
 supposing me capable of these things 1 You have twisted 
 my sayings hasty and fragmentary sayings out of all 
 proportion, and brooded upon them until they have come 
 to mean something quite opposite to my thoughts. 
 Heartless about our child? Do I ever forget him, day 
 or night, or ever cease to grieve that because of my sins 
 we are childless? Putting others before my wife? My 
 wife ! Perhaps it is my fault that we have so grievously 
 misunderstood each other. I did not think you capable 
 of imputing all this to me. I may be too reticent. I hate 
 sentimentality; it never seems genuine; I can't talk of 
 feelings. Women have so little trust. My mother calls 
 me hard. And yet Oh, I wish you had complained 
 long ago. I thought you understood; I thought you 
 trusted me, as I trusted you, Evelyn, as I trusted you. ' ' 
 
 "You didn't care; you couldn't have eared. You 
 had no time for home things." 
 
 "I have wronged you, dear Evelyn," he said with 
 growing earnestness; "I have greatly wronged you by 
 being too much absorbed in things in which you had no 
 part. But I always hoped it was only for a time. The 
 necessity for so much business has passed; I was going 
 to begin this year very differently. I had decided to give 
 up the cottage and keep you near me always. You know 
 why my life is what it is. But I ought to have given 
 you a brighter and happier life. I mean to try. You 
 never should have been left as you have been I see that 
 now, too late, perhaps. That is one reason why I came 
 home yesterday." 
 
 "One reason?" she returned quickly. "And the 
 other?"
 
 460 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 "How say it? Evelyn, my neglect was a grave 
 wrong to you. You you were exposed to to talk. To 
 more than talk to temptation," he added in a shaken 
 voice. 
 
 She shrank from the deeply moved gaze an un- 
 speakable fear suddenly burned into her and turned 
 away, going to the same chrysanthemums over which 
 she had bent two nights before. His shaken voice went 
 through her with knife-like pain. 
 
 "Talk," she faltered presently, "of course there 
 would be talk. I tried to make you see. I told you I 
 could not receive people in your absence." 
 
 "Ah! I was blind, culpably blind," he gasped. 
 
 "I tried to tell you from the first, but you wouldn't 
 listen, ' ' she added trembling, ' ' and I thought you didn 't 
 care what became of me. You threw us together of 
 course he saw," she sobbed, "that I was neglected." 
 
 "No, no," he cried, "not that! No, Evelyn." 
 
 "He tried to amuse and cheer me" another sob 
 "we used to talk of you. He was pleasant and amusing 
 and I was so so unhappy." 
 
 ' ' Evelyn, don 't kill me ! Or kill me in reality, ' ' he 
 groaned. 
 
 "So utterly lonely," she sobbed, her face hidden on 
 the arm she had laid on the piano; "but but, I never 
 thought I had no fear he was your closest friend." 
 
 "The worst, the worst ; tell me the worst /" he shouted, 
 losing self-control. "Stop the torture, I say!" 
 
 She raised her wet, white face with a look of such 
 terror as pierced him with grief and shame. 
 
 "The blame is mine," he gasped, "whatever it may 
 be. Don 't be frightened, dear. Not not dishonor. Oh, 
 not that!" 
 
 "No ; not dishonor," she said, in a low, terrified voice, 
 ' ' except except in thought. ' ' 
 
 "The scoundrel! The thrice accursed " 
 
 "Oh, Richard, Richard!" 
 
 "He he made you love him?" he cried, the words
 
 A CONFESSION 461 
 
 forced from him with an inarticulate groan. "Tell me 
 the truth, you you as you value your life. Do you 
 love that man?" 
 
 She sank down in a heap in her terror, falling 
 against the sofa and propped by it, shaking, wild-eyed, 
 scarcely able to breathe. "Tell me," he thundered, 
 "tell me the truth." 
 
 "No," she said, in a low voice, with a great gasp. 
 "No not now," she added faintly. 
 
 "But you did?" he urged harshly. 
 
 ' ' It was so dreadful, ' ' she moaned, ' ' so lonely. There 
 was no one to care for me in the whole wide world 
 he " 
 
 "Ah! he told you that; he beguiled you with that 
 bait. Don't crouch there; I can't bear to see it. Stand 
 up, Evelyn. Come, sit here. Aye, you were tempted, 
 poor child! Ah! why didn't you trust?" 
 
 "It it was so pleasant," she sobbed, meekly rising 
 and sitting on the sofa under the swords, "to talk to one 
 who was interested, who treated me like an equal, like 
 a reasonable being " 
 
 ' ' Oh, drive it home ! Stab ! stab ! ' ' 
 
 "But I never dreamed that he would care for me 
 in that way. It was like having a brother " 
 
 "Poor child, poor, dear child." 
 
 "And he he thought so, too. He meant no harm." 
 
 "The soul of honor, always the soul of honor." 
 
 "Then on that night last August, when when we 
 danced the minuet, you remember? The Maynes and 
 Nancy and the professor were here. Annis was playing 
 the Moonlight sonata, and I looked up and he looked 
 up; and all at once I understood and he understood. 
 And he went away at once without speaking or even 
 saying good-by. I never thought to see him again. He 
 never meant to see me again." 
 
 ' ' Always the soul of honor. But he did see you. Go 
 on, tell me all. He did speak, Evelyn; out with it. 
 Cleanse your soul of the damned stuff. Cleanse it." 
 80
 
 462 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 "It is all over now, Richard. I shall never see him 
 again. Is not that enough?" she pleaded. 
 
 "No. You have been seen together. You have been 
 the talk of the place. You have played fast and loose 
 Avith our honor, have given our name to the winds. I 
 must know and face the worst." 
 
 "O Richard! you are hard; you have no pity." 
 
 " It is no time for pity not till the thing is done 
 the cancer cut out. Then the knife stays. Not before. ' ' 
 
 "The worst was on one miserable wet afternoon in 
 December," she said, in a low, terrified voice. "I had 
 been alone all day. You were not coming home that 
 night Richard ! how I used to cling to you and feel 
 safe in those days ! If you had shown me ever so little 
 tenderness, then I should never, never " 
 
 "Turn the knife in the wound turn it, turn it!" 
 
 ' ' I can 't tell you how wild I was to be loved on that 
 dreary day, Richard, and how lonesome. I thought how 
 nobody had ever cared for me all my life long till that 
 night when Nancy played the sonata and never would. 
 And then then the door opened silently in the dusk; 
 it was like a dream" a long pause "and we were 
 taken by surprise, and I, before I knew, had spoken his 
 name, and he had taken me in his arms and kissed me. 
 That was the worst, the very worst." 
 
 Richard had seated himself before her, bowed for- 
 ward and nearly double, his head held low in his hands, 
 while she spoke. So he remained, saying nothing for 
 some seconds. "But you saw him again and alone," 
 lie added presently, "you discussed feelings with him. 
 Did he never ask you to to leave me?" 
 
 "Yes," in a faint voice; "he said that I belonged to 
 him after that meeting. That fate was too strong for us. 
 That you would not care. He was so unhappy. He had 
 his rights. His love was so great." 
 
 ' ' And you listened. That was worse, far worse. That 
 was no surprise, but deliberate dallying with tempta- 
 tion. But who am I, to censure you ? You sinned deeply
 
 A CONFESSION 463 
 
 yet your soul is white by mine. And, if you re- 
 pent " 
 
 "I do repent. Oh, I have been weak and wicked 
 enough; but I am truly sorry." 
 
 ' ' That you could be so false, Evelyn, could play such 
 a part to me on your own hearth that you could tell 
 me he must not come in my absence, while you were 
 actually secretly receiving him " 
 
 "No, not in this house never! If I saw him alone 
 it was out-of-doors out walking. Oh, I am sorry and 
 ashamed beyond words. Will you never forgive me, 
 Richard? It is all over now and forever." 
 
 "I forgive you freely. But I can not excuse you, 
 tempted though you were. And I can never forgive my- 
 self my folly and blindness and seeming neglect. But, 
 oh! I thought you thought you made of finer stuff. 
 And I trusted that other. And I thought, I did think, 
 that you loved me." 
 
 "But you threw my love away," she faltered. "And 
 I never really loved him. I was only grateful to be 
 loved, grateful for the love he professed. It was like an 
 enchantment, a fairy spell all broken now, all faded 
 and gone." 
 
 "That you you could think such a wrong you, 
 Evelyn, the boy's mother!" 
 
 "We will leave this," he said presently, rising and 
 going to the window, whence he looked sadly out, "and 
 begin again fresh. Try to trust me ; think of all I prom- 
 ised in the sight of God and man the day we took each 
 other for better and for worse. I have never by the 
 briefest thought gone from that. I never shall. But 
 I can not change my nature." 
 
 "Nor I mine," she added. "You are very good to 
 forgive me. And I will try to do better." 
 
 He turned and looked in his direct and uncompro- 
 mising way straight into her melancholy eyes, question- 
 ing, fearing, pitying, wondering, disappointed, and self- 
 condemning. Her eyes fell, her lip quivered ; great seas
 
 464 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 of strangeness seemed to roll between them, gulfs that 
 could never be bridged. Yet everything within her set 
 toward him across all those waves and gulfs; there was 
 her safety and only chance of happiness, she knew. 
 
 ''Let us trust one another," he said presently, lift- 
 ing the drooping flower- face in his hands, ' ' and be quite 
 open and true henceforth." 
 
 A kiss was exchanged, silently, sadly, without pleas- 
 ure ; yet each felt it a sacrament of deep meaning. Rich- 
 ard still held the white and wistful face, saddened but in 
 no way marred by tears, in his hands, as though it were 
 a book he was reading in some little known language, 
 when the door opened and Rhoda came in with a letter 
 on a tray. 
 
 "The man is waiting for the answer, sir; he rode 
 over from Ingrestone on Mr. Belton's horse." 
 
 He read it quickly, with a face on which Evelyn saw 
 sudden pain and perplexity. 
 
 "I will go to the Pines by the three o'clock train," 
 he told the maid, after a brief pause. "That is the 
 answer. ' ' 
 
 Then he turned to Evelyn as if for help, with a look 
 that almost bridged the great gulf between them. "What 
 can I do?" he asked, handing her the note.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX 
 
 EICHAED AND GERALD 
 
 EVELYN read the letter with a bewildered and pre- 
 occupied mind. "Dear Dick," it ran, "what on earth is 
 keeping you? I waited till all hours last night and 
 expected you all this morning till I had your wire. My 
 leave is running out, and if you can not come to-day I 
 must act without you. / have found the man. Evidence 
 justifies a warrant to arrest him at once. Bearer waits 
 for reply. Ever yours, Gerald." 
 
 "What man?" Evelyn asked. 
 
 "The wrong man," he replied. "I must go at once, 
 if you don't mind being left." 
 
 "But mightn't I go too?" she asked, to his great 
 relief. 
 
 "We must keep together now as much as we can," 
 he said in a saddened voice, gladly assenting. 
 
 So after one of such silent and ghastly meals as peo- 
 ple choke over when there is death or sudden disaster in 
 a house, Evelyn found herself, in accordance with the 
 essential irony of things, at Wimbury station just twenty- 
 four hours subsequent to her attempted flight thence 
 with Ronald Musgrave, very tranquilly and thankfully 
 running away from home with her own husband. Only 
 twenty-four hours, yet it seemed years and years 
 years which had devoured her youth, fed her with bitter 
 fruit of experience, and chastened her folly and self-love 
 with the long discipline of suffering and remorse. 
 
 Did that great, grim, sad-eyed man by her side really 
 love her, after all ? she wondered, as the carriage slipped 
 
 465
 
 466 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 over the rails between the well-known fields, and she 
 rested as it were secure in the shadow of his great 
 strength. There was a comfort in only being near him. 
 He represented duty and the peace that comes of duty ; 
 and, whether he really cared for her or not, she knew 
 that she counted for something in his life she at least 
 had power to hurt him. 
 
 ' ' Yes ; let us always keep together now, ' ' he had said 
 in his deep voice when she proposed going to Ingre- 
 stone with him. She thought that he seemed glad to have 
 her, but not elated. She did not yet realize the extent 
 of her sin against him; neither his humiliation, nor the 
 bitterness of his betrayed trust, nor his instinctive mas- 
 culine repugnance to forgive what the one-sided male 
 view of honor has for so many ages held unpardonable 
 in women, were in the compass of her thoughts ; she was 
 still wholly preoccupied with the bitterness of her mar- 
 ried solitude and long unhappiness, though Mabel Wes- 
 ton's drowned face kept rising before her and the chil- 
 dren's crying rang in her ears. Blinded by the egoism 
 of suffering, deafened by the tumult of her misery and 
 ineffectual struggle, she held Richard to blame for all. 
 
 And Richard, sitting so near her and looking with 
 unseeing eyes upon the same familiar fields and hills, 
 was even blinder and deafer and more self-absorbed than 
 she ; not so much from the fiery pain through which he 
 was passing as from the immediate necessity of action 
 in difficult circumstances ; he was far too deeply absorbed 
 to observe Evelyn's want of interest in what had called 
 him so suddenly and imperatively to the Pines not only 
 absorbed, but utterly sick at heart and overcome. Even 
 the stranger sitting opposite them in the train observed 
 that heart-sick, doomed look upon his face. 
 
 The pine-trees were singing of pleasant things in the 
 golden sunbeams that glowed on their feathery tops and 
 red stems, as if all the gay coming and going of happy 
 young people beneath them were recorded in their soft 
 and dreamy song. The gates stood open in sign that
 
 RICHARD AND GERALD 467 
 
 Edith had driven out; shouts and laughter came from 
 the near meadow, where boys and girls were playing 
 hockey; the tremulous, long-drawn wail of a violin and 
 the crisp ripple of a piano sounded from the drawing- 
 rooms, where the Dresden china decorations had given 
 place to brocaded satin hangings of cream and pale blue. 
 The brightness and gay animation of the house struck 
 Evelyn as in sharp contrast with her own feelings, and 
 roused her to wonder what possible trouble or perplexity 
 could be in that cheerful household to call Richard post- 
 haste from his own domestic complications to the rescue. 
 Gerald came himself and received them in the hall, visi- 
 bly startled to see Evelyn, and so much unlike himself 
 that she could not but observe it. 
 
 "Delightful of you to come," he said; "mother will 
 be in soon. That's Molly you hear fiddling for all she's 
 worth, rehearsing for a concert. The billiard-room floor 
 is being beeswaxed for a dance. But here's the morn- 
 ing-room quite at your service, if you will come in and 
 don't mind being alone. Adeline and Chesney are out 
 riding, Harry's golfing, the children are at hockey. 
 They'll all drop in for tea, Evelyn. But I'm going to 
 monopolize Dick now, I'm afraid." 
 
 "I can wait here very comfortably alone," she said. 
 "I've not seen the new decorations, or the Bartolozzis. 
 You can get through tons of business while I look round 
 at all the pretty things." 
 
 "You forget that Evelyn is at home here," Richard 
 added. "She's tired and will like to be quiet for a 
 little." 
 
 The morning-room was the old study in which poor 
 Belton had slept so many opium sleeps, and dreamed 
 and drowsed so many squalid hours away. His portrait 
 in oils was on the wall, and some of his sumptuously- 
 bound and long-forgotten publications were on the 
 shelves; else there was nothing to recall him and the 
 dreary hours his children and wife had passed there. 
 A bay-window had been thrown out in the front, a door
 
 468 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 by the fireplace stood open into a conservatory that 
 caught the last sunbeams and was visible over the man- 
 telpiece through a glass partition flush with the shelf. 
 The room was painted in shades of salmon-pink and 
 cream, and covered with engravings, etchings, blue 
 china, and bronzes ; the linen curtains and hangings were 
 beautifully hand-embroidered, the furniture was Louis 
 XVI, delicately inlaid and daintily upholstered; but in 
 mercy to a frailer and more fatigued generation, there 
 were some deep and downy lounges of the present day 
 as well. An open cottage piano, an easel with an unfin- 
 ished water-color, boxes of cigarettes and sweets, needle- 
 work in various stages, and a sprinkling of fashion and 
 gossip papers, among novels and framed photographs, 
 gave token of feminine occupation. 
 
 Leaving the spider-legged chairs and sofas, Evelyn 
 sank into the warm depths of a Chesterfield by the fire, 
 and drew out a screen to protect her aching eyes, and 
 then, hoping nobody would come in for the next hour 
 at least, rested, while the sun dipped, the sky flushed 
 deeper, firelight played on the palms and mimosas and 
 many-hued flowers in the conservatory, and voices of 
 hockey-players came cheerily through the still air, and 
 opening doors let strains of music swell out and fall 
 again. 
 
 When he left her, Richard turned with a look she 
 could neither understand nor forget a look of appeal 
 and pity and tenderness and unspeakable pain, mingled 
 with a something beyond them all that penetrated and 
 moved her deeply. Her emotions were exhausted to a 
 sort of stony weariness ; just to be still and sleep seemed 
 the only tolerable thing now. But that look stirred her 
 weary apathy and pursued her with perplexed ques- 
 tioning that kept her waking when her tired eyes closed 
 and her limbs relaxed in the warmth and downy luxury. 
 For Richard had always dominated her thoughts; even 
 when that other crushed poetic passion was at fullest 
 fervor, the idea of her husband was continually in the
 
 RICHARD AND GERALD 469 
 
 background. He was a complete antithesis to Ronald, 
 whose fervor and tenderness contrasted sharply with 
 Richard's coldness and carelessness; while their mutual 
 companionship and intellectual converse emphasized the 
 silence and constraint that Richard seemed to have erect- 
 ed as a barrier between them. Though she had been so 
 hungry for love, none but her husband's could ever sat- 
 isfy her. 
 
 All this became clear to her while she watched the 
 day glorious dying from the clear sky and feathery pine- 
 tops, and saw field and wood and hill fade to a solemn 
 vagueness. Soon a large, liquid star trembled into the 
 pink and orange translucence, and silvery points began to 
 pierce the pale blue above it. The solemn pageant of the 
 day's passing rebuked her, its tenderness pierced her 
 aching heart; from relief at having gone through the 
 worst with Richard and laid all bare before him all 
 except the trifling circumstance of her having actually 
 left home with the intention of going to Ronald ; that, not 
 having been carried out, seemed as if it had never been 
 she passed to shame and remorse for what she had felt 
 and thought during the last few months. In sight of the 
 pure clarity of the changing sunset sky, always so im- 
 pressive and uplifting to see, she felt how greatly she 
 had been forgiven, and tears of love and gratitude rose 
 to her eyes. She wondered how she had dared tell him, 
 still more how he had forborne his just anger. But he 
 had forborne it; he had forgiven her a wrong that 
 dwarfed all his sins against her by comparison, and she 
 was thankful and humbled. 
 
 Gerald in the meantime had taken Richard to the 
 dining-room, where the peacock decorations had all been 
 renewed, and where abundance of cut-flowers made the 
 air fragrant to faintness. 
 
 "The smoking-room is snugger, but too public," he 
 said. "Nobody comes here at this time of day. I want 
 to get the warrant at once, Dick. My man is at Shackle- 
 ton now, and he may be off at any moment."
 
 470 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 ' ' Ah ! ' ' said Richard, leaning up against the chimney 
 and looking down at a writing-table covered with papers 
 in a window, and thence out at the pine-tops glowing in 
 the dying sun. "Your man. Well?" 
 
 ' ' You do put a chap off with that short way of yours, 
 Dick. Isn't that arm right yet?" 
 
 "Wrenched it again last night," he said, holding it 
 with his right hand, "and you hauled me along pretty 
 stiffly just now." 
 
 "What a brute I was! I say, I wonder how many 
 that arm kept back from Kingdom Come Sunday week? 
 But you are not curious about my great find ? You are 
 thinking of something else." 
 
 "I have much to think of, but I am giving my full 
 attention," was the grave reply. 
 
 "Oh, these pious pubs and all the blessed bothera- 
 tions ! You are a queer chap, Dick, ' ' Gerald said, walk- 
 ing restlessly up and down. "It's like making a clean 
 breast of it to a charity dinner, or asking advice of the 
 poor's-box, or confiding in a Board of Guardians." 
 
 "Get on with the story, Gerald; never mind the 
 metaphors. ' ' 
 
 "His name is Amos Clarke," Gerald said. "He is a 
 well-known bookmaker. ' ' 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 Richard's large presence seemed to dominate and fill 
 the room; his great frame, stayed lightly against the 
 carved overmantel, gave an impression of enormous 
 reserve strength. Gerald felt smaller and slighter than 
 ever by the side of the brother he so much resembled 
 in color and feature; he admired Richard's darker com- 
 plexion and massive face, now so stern and weary in its 
 strength and squareness, and wondered what set of 
 mouth the dark, close beard concealed. Some silver 
 lines in the thick hair waved crisply over his broad and 
 powerful forehead, and a somber fire glowing in his 
 blue-black eyes increased the attractiveness of the face 
 to Gerald, who had long since outgrown a boyish distaste
 
 RICHARD AND GERALD 471 
 
 for his elder brother's society, and returned to the old 
 worship of childhood. But to-day Gerald saw a sadness 
 so profound, a look so heart-sick, as he had never seen on 
 any face, and which, to use his own expression, put him 
 off. There was a silence and capacity for endurance in 
 this look that rebuked his own feverish and fitful agita- 
 tion, and made him half ashamed of the exaggeration 
 with which he had so long been pursuing an end half 
 fanciful and half dutiful. 
 
 ' ' Oh, you think me a morbid ass for running the fel- 
 low to earth," he cried pettishly. "But the murdered 
 man was my own father and I am his eldest son. Did 
 you know this Amos Clarke and his dealings with my 
 father?" 
 
 "I knew that your father knew the man. He was 
 often here. What of that? There was nothing against 
 Clarke, ' ' Richard replied, turning his sad face and som- 
 ber glance upon Gerald's mobile and excited face. 
 
 "But I can prove that he was here on that night." 
 
 "Yes?" Richard said, with a jaded sigh. 
 
 ' ' He was the last man who saw my poor father alive. 
 Do you remember that night, Richard, the night of Ade- 
 line 's birthday, and of the fancy-dress ball?" 
 
 "Perfectly." 
 
 "After dinner my poor father went out and walked up 
 and down under the pines, as he so often did. You went 
 off on your bicycle to dress for the ball. Adeline, Archie, 
 Molly, and I ran through the kitchen garden the short 
 way to the Musgraves, who dined an hour or two later, 
 in costume. How well I remember it ! You were en- 
 gaged to Kitty Musgrave at that time; she was in some 
 medieval dress of white and gold. Ronald Musgrave 
 was a Black Brunswicker. We children Nancy Rosny 
 was staying there played about the hall till they came 
 out from dinner ; Molly roared with fright at Musgrave 's 
 Death's Head and Bones; we thought Kitty looked like 
 an angel; she did nothing but look out of the window, 
 for you were late, I suppose. I had been in love with
 
 472 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 Nancy since I was a little chap. We were all as jolly as 
 could be, till I heard the clock strike half-past nine. 
 You won't believe it, Dick, but my blood seemed to turn 
 and go backward through me when I heard that clock 
 strike, and I went cold all over. No wonder. At that 
 moment my poor father was being murdered." 
 
 Richard laid his strong, steady right hand caress- 
 ingly on Gerald's heaving shoulder. "Come, come," 
 he said, "why torture yourself by all this?" 
 
 ' ' And that very afternoon I had wished he was dead. 
 And you said said he might die that very night. And 
 Tie did," Gerald panted. 
 
 ' ' Come now, ' ' said Richard, whose face was gray and 
 strained; "what is a child's pettish word, and long 
 since recalled and forgiven. And you didn't mean it 
 after all." 
 
 ' ' I did, ' ' he muttered. ' ' I did mean it ; I hated him 
 for mother's sake. I would have struck him down dead 
 if I could." 
 
 "No, no; you repented it as soon as said. This is 
 morbid, Gerald. Get on with your story. There's 
 mother coming home. Don't let her hear of this." 
 
 Gerald, sunk in a chair by the writing-table in the 
 window, had dropped his face between his hands, with 
 the faint radiance of the afterglow on his close-cropped 
 head. Richard, backed by the glowing hearth, threw a 
 giant shadow that darkened nearly all the firelit interior. 
 When Gerald pulled himself together and looked up in 
 his face it was lost in its own shadow, while his figure 
 towering against the hearth-glow seemed gigantic. 
 
 ' ' Get on, ' ' Richard repeated from the shadow. ' ' How 
 do you know that Clarke was there?" 
 
 "The cross, the place where he was found the next 
 morning," Gerald said, "was not far from the kitchen. 
 One of the maids was outside fetching wood or water 
 and she heard voices, men's voices, quarreling under 
 the pines." 
 
 "Ah!" His shoulders had been stayed against the
 
 RICHARD AND GERALD 473 
 
 mantel, his head bent, his hands in his pocket and 
 one foot drawn up behind him on the fender in an atti- 
 tude of utter dejection, that suddenly changed to one of 
 alert amazement. He straightened himself and stood up 
 square and still in strong relief against the blaze. ' ' She 
 heard men quarreling? Who put that in her head?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "This Emma married a baker, named Jacobs, and 
 lives at St. Ann's," Gerald continued. "I remember 
 the girl well. I have asked her to tell me everything she 
 remembered about that night." 
 
 "How much did you suggest to her?" 
 
 "Clarke called that evening after dinner, she says. 
 She answered the door, and offered to go and fetch the 
 master, who was walking in the grounds. Clarke said 
 he would find him himself, he had found him there be- 
 fore. Soon after that, she went to the wood-house and 
 heard angry voices." 
 
 "And words?" 
 
 "Cursing and swearing, and two voices raised high 
 at the same time." 
 
 "Nothing definite? No connected sentence, threat, 
 accusation ? ' ' 
 
 "Vague abuse. She detailed phrases." 
 
 "Why was she silent at the inquest?" 
 
 "She thought it more respectful. Besides, violent 
 language was too usual to be remarked." 
 
 "Then she had no suspicion of the man?" 
 
 "Not at first." 
 
 "Not till you put it into her head?" 
 
 "Not till after the inquest, when they came to talk 
 it over." 
 
 "She and her fellow-servant?" 
 
 "And all their acquaintances. There was much talk 
 at the time. I overheard some such talk one night before 
 the funeral at Gatrell's gate Jaynes and Seth Barton 
 were there talking with Gatrell. I can't well recall it; 
 it was but the fag-end I heard as I came across the road
 
 474 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 in the dusk. But I have the distinct memory of the 
 question of foul play and of money as a cause, with an 
 insinuation that Gatrell knew more than he cared 
 to tell." 
 
 "Does he? Did you ask him?" 
 
 "You might as well ask the Sphinx. I never knew 
 such a stubborn old beggar. A charge of dynamite 
 wouldn't draw a straight answer from Silas. Round 
 and round he goes like a corkscrew staircase. You can't 
 have him anywhere. He's like an eel. Of course he 
 could throw light upon it if he chose." 
 
 "Why should he not choose? And what motive 
 should Clarke have had against poor Mr. Belton?" 
 
 "My father probably owed him money. And he was 
 in one of his most irritable moods that night. I suppose 
 Clarke asked for money and was told to go to the devil. 
 Clarke retorted, and from words they came to blows." 
 
 "That would be homicide with extenuating circum- 
 stances, more or less, according to the jurors' sympa- 
 thies. And all upon the slight evidence of Clarke hav- 
 ing been known to call that night, and of voices having 
 been heard by Emma " 
 
 "And the other maid, who is still alive and remem- 
 bers " 
 
 "And after all these years. Is it worth while to 
 rake it all up, Gerald? And for what?" 
 
 "For justice to one of the most unfortunate of men. 
 Other evidence would come out. Gatrell would be put 
 under the examination screw, and we should know all. 
 Oh! this thing haunts me, Dick. Night and day I get 
 no rest; I must clear it up I, his eldest son, and no 
 other. He seems to be always calling upon me to help 
 him." 
 
 "You can not help him," Richard said, looking sadly 
 into Gerald's pale face and overbright eyes. "He needs 
 no help. He is at rest, we trust. We know nothing 
 except that God is infinitely merciful, and that your 
 poor father has passed from the power of temptation.
 
 RICHARD AND GERALD 475 
 
 We can only pray for his soul, and we know that prayer 
 is heard." 
 
 "I mean to help him in this life, to do him jus- 
 tice, to right his memory, to do what I can," Gerald 
 replied, too much agitated to observe his brother's deep 
 emotion. "What he must have suffered ! What hopeless 
 misery of body and mind must have driven him to those 
 drugs for f orgetf ulness ! Fate was always against him. 
 There must have been rascality and double-dealing in 
 that banking business, else how could he have been so 
 poor while they were rolling in riches ? He was a part- 
 ner, and the son of a partner " 
 
 "The partnership had long been dissolved, Gerald. 
 His share was spent and he was of no use in the business. 
 He had none of the qualities that insure success in busi- 
 ness; his talents were in other directions." 
 
 "He was done out of his right all the more easily 
 for that. Thorne will be an important witness. He 
 said at the time that the blow might have been caused by 
 the fall; but there was no certainty. I wonder if he 
 kept notes of the case ? Thorne, the two maids, Gatrell, 
 and myself what I overheard and what I suspected. 
 By the way, didn't you suspect anything, Dick?" 
 
 "Suspicion is not evidence." 
 
 "Do you remember anything? Things you hardly 
 noticed at the time might be brought out in the witness- 
 box, don't you know. Think it over. Was anything 
 owing to Clarke at the time ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes. It was paid. He did not press for it. 
 Mother was urgent to clear off debts of that kind first. 
 Her great anxiety was to avoid publicity, to shield his 
 memory. I hope you will not worry her with these 
 things, Gerald. She is happy now ; time has dimmed and 
 softened those sad memories." 
 
 "I have said nothing to her, but I must. She must 
 look back for evidence. Before putting it into lawyers' 
 hands I thought I would tell you all about it, and get 
 any facts you might remember, ' ' Gerald said, in a calmer
 
 476 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 and more collected manner. "I shall now get a war- 
 rant for Clarke's arrest and take all the usual legal 
 steps. I must see this thing through before my leave 
 is up, if I can. Then I shall, of course, ask for an 
 extension. ' ' 
 
 "You are not really determined to do this?" Richard 
 urged. "Consider what it means." 
 
 "Perfectly determined. I can't sleep for it. It's a 
 very plain and simple duty, Dick." 
 
 "You've no evidence, Gerald. But supposing that 
 you had the fullest, and succeeded in convicting Clarke 
 of homicide, consider what it means. Two or three years ' 
 imprisonment, probably less, for the guilty man who 
 has perhaps long ago repented a moment's sudden un- 
 controllable violence what good would that do to any 
 human being? It might harm many innocent people 
 depending on him. Would it bring your poor father's 
 life back, or soften our mother's grief of years ago? 
 While your father's memory " Richard paused, start- 
 led for the moment by a sudden blaze of light leaping 
 up all over the room, which had become quite dark, at 
 the pressure of Gerald's finger on a button in the wall, 
 and Gerald himself felt a shock at the suddenly illu- 
 minated face of his brother, which was drawn and 
 strange, with the hair roughened back from the forehead, 
 where the old scar left by the fire showed purple-red, 
 and on which some marks of the pebbles dashed upon 
 it by the storm still remained. 
 
 "My father's memory!" Gerald cried. "That is the 
 chief point that would be cleared." 
 
 "Great Heaven! What can you be thinking of? 
 You remember all that sordid wretchedness, Gerald, and 
 yet want to drag it out into the light again. Can you 
 have forgotten that miserable day the tale you told me 
 that afternoon under the trees, that miserable dinner, 
 Adeline's birthday dinner? The poor child shut up all 
 day and creeping in, scared and wretched, at dessert; 
 the marks on mother's face and arms that she tried to
 
 RICHARD AND GERALD 477 
 
 hide can you forget that? or his condition, and the 
 gloom, the silence, the terror of what he might do next, 
 the misery of those poor, frightened children, running 
 wild, ill-treated, and untaught, you yourself barely 
 allowed to hang on at that fifth-rate school, and having 
 the home wretchedness cast up against you there, or 
 poor mother's poor, poor mother's futile attempts to 
 hide things and put a good face upon it all ? By Heaven ! 
 you can forget that hunted, tortured, furtive look in 
 her bruised face? And you want to drag out from the 
 grave the memory of your father's long-forgotten fail- 
 ings and faults. And all for what?" 
 
 "For justice and right," Gerald replied, rather un- 
 steadily, and as he spoke the light in all the electric 
 burners sank, and after a few wild leaps nickered and 
 went out, leaving the room in darkness touched by a gray 
 pallor from the windows and a dull glow from the 
 hearth. "Truth never does harm. He has been 
 maligned; he will be avenged." 
 
 "And your mother? What will it be to her to have 
 all this dragged into the light?" 
 
 "It will be a great satisfaction to her to have it all 
 cleared up, Richard. You don't know what she has suf- 
 fered from doubts and from rumors that have come to 
 her from time to time. It is said that he took his own 
 life. That is torment to her. We often talk it over. 
 But I have told her nothing of Clarke yet." 
 
 "It is a serious thing to make a charge against an 
 innocent person, especially when it can not be either 
 proved or disproved. You may not find him guilty ; but 
 the suspicion will cling to him, and always be against 
 him." 
 
 ' ' This will be proved, ' ' Gerald replied, with the stub- 
 born conviction of a monomanic. 
 
 "Don't do this thing, Gerald," Richard implored 
 from the darkness in a breaking voice. 
 
 "I must; my father's blood cries to Heaven against 
 me till I do." 
 
 31
 
 478 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 There was silence for some seconds, broken now by a 
 tinkle of distant music, now by a burst of laughter or 
 the sound of young voices in the hall. Then Richard 
 spoke again from the shadows. "Clarke is innocent," 
 he said. "I can prove it." 
 
 "Prove it, then." 
 
 Richard drew a deep sigh, audible to Gerald in the 
 darkness. "Are you still set on prosecuting?" he asked. 
 
 "All the more. If you can prove it, he can." 
 
 "Clarke was not the last man who saw your father 
 alive, Gerald. A third man was under the trees that 
 night. He joined Mr. Belton after Clarke left," Rich- 
 ard said. "Clarke met that man going in under the 
 pines. ' ' 
 
 "By George! And you kept it secret all these 
 years," cried Gerald, springing to his feet. "How do 
 you know it? And who was the third man?" 
 
 "I was the third man," Richard said, in a fatigued 
 and sad voice, looking straight before him and not seem- 
 ing to observe the sudden return of the electric light, 
 that brought out every detail in the room and showed the 
 marks of fire and storm on his face, "I!"
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE FIKST STONE 
 
 X Mrs. Belton came home from her drive in the 
 crimsoning dusk, she went immediately to the morning- 
 room, which was not far from the hall door. 
 
 "Tell them to send me some tea here," she said to 
 Molly, who was in the hall. "I'm too tired to see any- 
 body. Adeline and Rupert are coming up the drive, and 
 Gerald and Harry will be in soon. Let me be alone till 
 dinner. ' ' 
 
 So going in, cold in spite of her furs, and tired out 
 with the innumerable nothings of the day, and the high 
 spirits and incessant activities of a house full of happy 
 and unrestrained youth, she was startled to see Evelyn 's 
 slight figure rising in the warm hearth-glow, and 
 straightway forgot her fatigue in the surprise of a visit 
 from her daughter-in-law, to confide to whom a multi- 
 tude of small vexations incidental to the approaching 
 wedding was an exquisite solace. 
 
 "It is the first time I have had to marry a daughter, 
 and I shall certainly never survive a second," she com- 
 plained, with a comfortable pathos that set Evelyn won- 
 dering if serious trouble could ever have crossed that 
 peaceful and pleasantly ordered, if twice widowed, life. 
 "We rear children with endless trouble and no thanks, 
 Evelyn ; and as soon as they have grown to a companion- 
 able age and might make us some return, their sole thought 
 is to fly away and absorb themselves in the life of some 
 total stranger. One has little comfort, and perpetual 
 care, in children. You are spared much, my sweet Eve- 
 lyn, in having none. "What, no sugar, dear? Sugar is 
 
 479
 
 480 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 another of the pleasant fashions going out in these days. 
 And pray why did you keep Richard yesterday? "What 
 was the urgent matter that called him home on the one 
 day that he always devotes to cheering his mother the 
 sad anniversary that you know of?" 
 
 "What, indeed?" Evelyn thought, flushing hotly in 
 the shadow, but certain that no gossip could have reached 
 Mrs. Belton's ears as yet. 
 
 ' ' On the whole, he seems to be an attentive son, ' ' she 
 replied evasively. "Indeed, mama, I am often jealous 
 of you, I must confess. And if you scold us for not 
 coming more frequently to the Pines, you might remem- 
 ber how seldom you are seen at the cottage." 
 
 "Ah! that is another cachet of these latter days: 
 parents are to be dutiful, not children. One learns to 
 accept things," she added, mournfully, creaming her 
 well-sugared tea and sipping it as if it were the cup of 
 affliction itself. "A mother is well practised in patience, 
 Evelyn ; her name is a synonym for long-suffering. You 
 must turn over a new leaf with the new year, dear, and 
 come oftener to comfort my loneliness." 
 
 A more perfect picture of placid well-being and 
 daintily sensuous enjoyment than Edith among her cush- 
 ions and flowers and teacups, in the delicately luxurious 
 room, her daughter-in-law thought she had never seen; 
 nor was she far wrong. Years appeared only to make 
 Edith younger and more charming. The contentment 
 written on her delicate features made a quaint contrast 
 with the melancholy of the voice in which she dealt her- 
 self such abundant measure of pity. Evelyn marveled 
 at her tasteful dress, and was lost in admiration of the 
 subtle grace with which lace and fur and cloth and silk 
 were combined and fashioned into a harmonious and 
 apparently simple costume, the most costly ingredient 
 in which was the exquisite cut and glovelike fit. 
 
 "But I forgot," Mrs. Belton added. "You will be 
 going abroad with Gwen and Gerald if Gerald goes, 
 which seems doubtful. You and Gwen will have a
 
 THE FIRST STONE 481 
 
 charming experience, dear. But Gerald he grows more 
 dreamy and unlike other men every day. Poor boy ! he 
 has something on his mind. Yet there seems to be no 
 woman in the case; I never heard of his paying atten- 
 tion to any girl certainly not to any girl we know. He 
 never recovered from Nancy. Sometimes I fancy that 
 he must be following his father's example and inventing. 
 Richard, as you know, has patented my poor husband's 
 twin- wheel bicycle. But Gerald is not clever at me- 
 chanics. Then I wonder if, like my dear husband again, 
 he is speculating. He is perpetually immersed in papers 
 and calculations. One can't be inquisitive, but I should 
 like to know what is worrying the poor boy. He eats 
 nothing, and comes down in the morning looking as if he 
 had never slept. Gerald's nerves were always too tense. 
 Richard said that soldiering would cure him ; but he was 
 wrong. No doubt Richard know T s what is troubling him 
 men tell each other things. But I do think it hard that 
 a mother is always left to guess and wonder and be 
 twice as anxious as she need be. He sent for Richard this 
 afternoon, you say?" 
 
 "A most urgent message, upon which we came." 
 
 Edith pressed a button, and a shaded lamp upon the 
 table threw a soft brilliance over Evelyn's fatigued face 
 and dissipated the deepening shadows in the room. 
 "I hope you will be able to dance this evening," she 
 said, rising and crossing the room for a book. "It is 
 only an undress thing a flapper dance improvised this 
 morning for a dozen holiday boys and girls. You are 
 looking a little pale, dear; a dance might brighten 
 you up." 
 
 "I think I am too old to dance," Evelyn sighed, 
 taking the book her mother-in-law handed her. 
 
 Some pleasant minutes were passed in discussing the 
 new book; Edith buried in the depths of the springy 
 sofa, her feet in the warm blaze and a screen to shield 
 her face from it, pleasantly conscious of the quiet of that 
 room, and of occasional bursts of music and laughter,
 
 482 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 and the sound of people coming and going through the 
 house, with a cheerful whistle of boys and their whole- 
 hearted banging of doors and shouting down echoing 
 passages. 
 
 Presently all these sounds lulled for a few seconds; 
 then there rang through the silence a sudden loud cry, at 
 which both women sprang to their feet with thrilling 
 ears and blanched faces, looking one to the other in the 
 dead stillness that followed. 
 
 "A man's voice," Evelyn muttered, "from the 
 dining-room." And with one impulse they flew across 
 the hall and into the dining-room. 
 
 There was dead silence in the lighted room. Rich- 
 ard was standing, tall and stern and pale, on the hearth ; 
 Gerald, sitting in a deep chair by the fireside, had fallen 
 forward, his face on his knees, as if struck down by a 
 blow. At his mother's terrified and hurried exclama- 
 tions, Gerald slowly lifted a white and quivering face, 
 lighted by burning, horror-stricken eyes, and looked 
 round the room from his mother to Evelyn and back 
 again. 
 
 "What is it?" Edith repeated. 
 
 "It is murder, ' ' he muttered, in a dazed way. 
 
 "Gerald is upset," Richard said. "Will you take 
 Evelyn away, mother? We are discussing a painful 
 question between ourselves." 
 
 "Not between ourselves," Gerald quickly contra- 
 dicted. "Stay, mother, you ought to know this; you 
 should have known it years ago " 
 
 "Between ourselves," Richard repeated. "Go, 
 mother ! " he added, stepping in front of her and facing 
 Gerald. "Don't drag her into it, Gerald, I say," he 
 added, stretching out an arm to wave him back. 
 
 "She shall know!" cried Gerald, pressing past him 
 and seizing Edith's trembling hand. "All the world 
 shall know. It is he who murdered my poor father. He 
 has confessed it at last he, who took his place; he, 
 whose bread we have been eating all these years, to
 
 THE FIRST STONE 483 
 
 whom we have all looked up ; he, the liar, the hypocrite ! 
 OGod! Oh, mother!" 
 
 ' ' Are you mad, Gerald ? " his mother asked with sud- 
 den self-command. "Do you know what you are 
 saying ? ' ' 
 
 Evelyn looked in Richard's marble face with a quick 
 surge of pity and love and fellowship flooding her heart, 
 and in a flash everything became clear to her ; she under- 
 stood her husband and his strange life and curious incon- 
 sistencies all but his reticence, which to the last 
 remained unfathomable to her. Suddenly she found 
 herself at his side, her hand on his arm, feeling nearer 
 to him than ever in his life before. He took the hand 
 that was on his arm, silently and without looking at her, 
 but as if it were something he greatly needed; he had 
 turned now to face his mother, whose first convulsive 
 shuddering had given place to the alert coolness she 
 sometimes commanded in moments of deep agitation, 
 and at Gerald, who seemed to be beside himself. 
 
 "I know what I am saying; it is all true, mother," 
 Gerald repeated. "I knew it by instinct from the first. 
 I said I would track the murderer down, and I have. 
 There he stands." 
 
 "No murderer," Richard said; "but I killed him. 
 I had been dining here. The wretchedness was too 
 great; I wanted to stop it. I had cycled off on some 
 errand after dinner, and was coming back to Ingrestone 
 and passing this gate, when I saw a man parting com- 
 pany with my stepfather under the trees. Then I went 
 up to him to remonstrate with him for what I had seen 
 and heard that day. I said it must stop. He was furi- 
 ous, I was furious. I struck, and he fell dead." 
 
 "Richard! Richard!" cried his mother. "My poor, 
 poor Horace ! And you never told. ' ' 
 
 "Mother, I wished you never to know. Would it 
 have done my poor stepfather any good? I struck him 
 in anger; my hand was heavy, and he was an older man 
 and infirm. It was a crime. But God knows that I did
 
 484 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 not mean to kill him, that I would have given my life to 
 call his back again," he cried. 
 
 "Merciful Heaven!" cried Gerald. "He can stand 
 there and talk coolly of such a crime as that ! And after 
 all we have said about it Richard the philanthropist, 
 the religious man he who has never ceased to advise 
 me to hunt down the man who did it. Good Heavens ! 
 And I never dreamed why. I never suspected for a mo- 
 ment He called me morbid, hysterical, knowing that 
 I was right." 
 
 "No," Richard interrupted, "there was no wilful 
 killing, such as you suspected." 
 
 "He talked piously of shielding my poor father's 
 memory, of not exposing his failings, of sparing my 
 mother's feelings he who made her a widow. God! 
 And I believed and trusted him. He took my father's 
 place and grew rich on his name." 
 
 "I only held the property in trust for his children. 
 I touched no penny for myself," Richard said. 
 
 "He came and went," Gerald continued, "the master 
 of this house, here on the very spot of the crime. He 
 deceived and married an innocent girl with that stain 
 upon him." 
 
 "Gerald, you are raving!" Evelyn broke in. "Rich- 
 ard told me all before ever he asked me to be his wife. ' ' 
 
 "Raving? That is what he always said. I was mad, 
 because I suspected the truth. He could marry and 
 bring children into the world with that upon him." 
 
 "God has judged me, Gerald, I have no child." 
 
 "He could live under the same roof and break bread 
 with the mother he made a widow and the children he 
 orphaned. And, mother, you say nothing, you do not 
 curse him?" 
 
 "No, Gerald," she replied, quietly crying; "I pity 
 him and I pity you. Why do you say all these cruel 
 things?" 
 
 "I say truth, and one calls me cruel and all call me 
 mad. Would you have me smile and smile and look
 
 THE FIRST STONE 485 
 
 pleasant 1 Perhaps you would have me thank him. Oh, 
 don't mention it of no consequence such a trifle as 
 killing a man's father of having dust thrown in one's 
 eyes such a trifle as being deluded, befooled, and cajoled 
 all one's life; of having for best friend, of living with, 
 taking advice of, trusting the murderer " 
 
 "You don't know what you are saying, Gerald," 
 Kichard interposed. "You are startled and shocked. 
 This has been too much for you " 
 
 ' ' Far too much. A great deal too much. The world 
 is all lies no truth anywhere, no honor, no trust " 
 
 "Spare our mother, Gerald. Let me leave you till 
 you are calmer," Richard said, turning toward the door. 
 
 "No, no," Gerald cried, stepping before him and 
 barring the way ; ' ' not quite so easily. There will be a 
 warrant against you. Plenty of proof now. Your con- 
 fession is evidence against you." 
 
 "You seriously mean to prosecute, then?" Richard 
 said, turning slowly back. "Don't act in passion, Ger- 
 ald. Think it over first. Sleep a night upon it." 
 
 "Sleep? Sleep after this? And give you time to 
 escape ? ' ' 
 
 "Don't be afraid; I give you my word to stay at 
 home. If you decide to get this warrant, Gerald, let 
 it be done as quietly as possible. I will go with you to 
 the magistrate who would it be? I believe I am the 
 nearest, myself. Or is it Chesney? Then I would make 
 a full statement. I suppose it would have to come before 
 a jury at the next assize. I should plead guilty. The 
 charge would be manslaughter. The sentence probably 
 a year or two. ' ' 
 
 A door opening while he was speaking let out a 
 chorus of laughter, followed by a helter-skelter, head- 
 long charge of rioting boys down a corridor into the dis- 
 tance. A door banged like a pistol-shot, and Edith, who 
 had been silently crying, started forward with an amazed 
 cry of, "Richard! Gerald! are you both mad?" 
 
 "Don't touch him," cried Gerald, stepping between
 
 486 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 them, "his hands are full of blood! He has confessed 
 it. How can you bear the sight of him?" 
 
 ' ' How can you ? ' ' she returned. ' ' Look at him, Ger- 
 ald," pointing to Richard, who had pushed the heavy 
 hair off his forehead, bringing the dark-red scar left by 
 the burning into prominence. ' ' How did that scar come 
 upon his forehead ? How did those marks come upon his 
 face ? What crippled his arm ? Where would you have 
 been but for that burn? If my poor son took one life 
 unintentionally in his passion, how many has he saved 
 deliberately at the risk of his own?" 
 
 ' ' I wish to Heaven he had left me to suffocate ! ' ' Ger- 
 ald said miserably. "But it can not alter his guilt or 
 my duty." 
 
 "If it is your duty," Richard added, "mother, I am 
 grieved to bring this on you. I am indeed a guilty man. 
 My violence made you a widow; I hoped you would 
 never have the pain of knowing. There was no one else 
 to take care of the children." 
 
 "There was our Uncle Godfrey," Gerald contra- 
 dicted. 
 
 "I may have been wrong; but I thought I could do 
 better by working for you and the children than by giv- 
 ing myself up and making all the misery public, ' ' Rich- 
 ard said humbly. ' ' At first I tried to hide it for Kath- 
 leen 's sake and of course for my own. But Kathleen, 
 when I told her what I had done, turned against me, and 
 broke off the engagement; she had a horror of me; it 
 was only natural. But, mother" his voice shook "I 
 couldn't have you against me." 
 
 "My poor, poor boy!" 
 
 ' ' But justice has overtaken me at last. You will turn 
 against me now." 
 
 "Never, Richard, never! Turn against my dearest 
 child? Richard, Richard! you have been everything to 
 me all your life long, and I have tried you sorely. I 
 tried my poor Horace. With a better wife he might have 
 been a better man. Oh, what am I to condemn you
 
 THE FIRST STONE 487 
 
 I, who wished him dead, who hoped time and again that 
 he might not wake from his drugged sleeps I, who 
 was actually glad yes glad when his poor body was 
 brought in that morning? Yes, Gerald, you may well 
 look horror-stricken. Your mother has been a sinful 
 woman. She had your father's death in her heart while 
 your brother had it only in his hand. It was a bitter 
 marriage I made " 
 
 "Mother! Mother!" Richard remonstrated. "I 
 warned you, Gerald." 
 
 "Oh, poor Gerald!" sobbed his mother, "you were 
 so young. You didn't know. You don't know what it 
 is to live in constant terror and shame day and night; 
 to be always trying to conceal, to be dragged about by 
 the hair, to see your own little, helpless children ill used 
 and neglected, growing up wild and miserable. You 
 don 't know, you don 't know ! But Richard knew, and it 
 maddened him," she sobbed. 
 
 "It was the bruises," Richard added with his white 
 lips and Evelyn felt the strong shudder that ran through 
 him at the memory. ' ' The bruised face the lace could not 
 hide. And what Gerald told me that afternoon under 
 the pines. I didn't know till then." She pressed closer 
 to him, crushing the bruised arm to which she clung, 
 filling his body with pain and his heart with exquisite 
 comfort. 
 
 Through the tense silence that followed she heard 
 in the clear notes of the piano above the opening adagio 
 of the sonata in C sharp Minor that Adeline was play- 
 ing with unusually tender and true touch, because 
 Rupert Chesney was standing by listening and her heart 
 was full as never before. The strange glamour, the 
 subdued passion, the unutterable longing, perpetually 
 breaking through the charmed peace of low-toned waves 
 with deep boom of distant surges, penetrated and bound 
 Evelyn's consciousness like a spell of magic. Again, 
 as on that August night, her senses were enchained and 
 her heart melted by the subtle passion and deep charm
 
 488 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 of sea-music and waves and moonlight; her pulses 
 throbbed deeply and every throb was for the man by 
 her side, to whom every fiber of her nature vibrated. 
 That wild and wicked disloyalty that had so nearly 
 wrecked their lives now seemed incredible, the memory of 
 it was intolerable. Richard needed her and that made 
 him very dear. His suffering and sacrifice restored to him 
 the lost aureole of her youthful fancy; his long-repented 
 crime brought them to a mysterious nearness and sym- 
 pathy; Gerald's hostility roused every loyal instinct to 
 his defense. And this was no selfish crime as from his 
 confession of the bare fact long ago she had imagined 
 rather an excess of righteous anger and generous indig- 
 nation; a sin in harmony with the early, knightly ideal 
 that sprang to life when she woke on the river, and 
 looked into his still, strong face and deep, glowing eyes, 
 and loved him with a lasting love before there was time 
 to think. 
 
 " Mother," he said, at last mastering his feelings, "I 
 did wrong and I ought to suffer. And I have suffered. 
 I have tried to put myself in his place and bear his bur- 
 dens. I have tried to give up my life for his. Godfrey 
 Belton showed me a way to do it. It is done. Perhaps, 
 as Gerald thinks, I ought to give myself up to justice 
 now. But but my wife my innocent wife " 
 
 ''Every criminal can plead that," Gerald retorted 
 with scorn, "children, parents, or wife. The innocent 
 must suffer when justice is done to the guilty." 
 
 "Gerald," said his mother, "must we all suffer be- 
 cause you can not forgive your brother your brother, 
 who has been more than father to you, to whom you owe 
 everything your very life " 
 
 "Ah!" cried Gerald, "that is the sting. To have 
 been deceived all these years ; to have looked up to him ; 
 to have lived on the hand that took my father's life " 
 
 "Oh, Gerald, think of the others Adeline so happy 
 in her approaching marriage must she be punished? 
 Archie and Harry just beginning life, and poor Molly
 
 THE FIRST STONE 489 
 
 why should their lives be darkened ? Why should such a 
 blight fall upon them? And Guy and little Gwen 
 what wrong have those poor children done? Why must 
 they be sacrificed? You are hard, Gerald. The day 
 may come when you'll need mercy yourself." 
 
 ''Everybody is against me," was his bitter reply. 
 ' ' But justice shall be done. My father shall be avenged. ' ' 
 
 "Is there no vengeance in twelve years' repentance 
 and bitter regret?" Richard asked in his deep voice. 
 
 ' ' Repentence ! Regret ! A man who repents, con- 
 fesses and takes the penalty. He doesn 't pose as a philan- 
 thropist. He doesn't go about the world talking respect 
 and affection that he has no right to, heaping up money, 
 marrying and giving in marriage a secret criminal, 
 judging and sentencing from the bench when he should 
 be in the dock himself ; going to church and making hypo- 
 critical prayers to heaven for forgiveness, when he has 
 broken the laws of God and man, and never made repa- 
 ration, never given himself up to human justice. Church- 
 warden Rosny is a hypocrite." 
 
 Richard had left Evelyn's clinging hand and walked 
 into the farthest part of the room while his mother was 
 speaking. When Gerald addressed him he came back 
 and stood before him, looking sadly in his face. 
 
 "You hit straight and hard," he said. "But are you 
 sure that I have broken human laws? Surely society 
 human law only takes cognizance of open breaches. It 
 exacts no adequate retribution and has no purifying 
 power; it is only tentative and preventive. It acts in 
 self-defense; its penalties are deterrent and defensive. 
 A known and proven crime is punished for an example, 
 to prevent its repetition not according to its intrinsic 
 moral guilt, but according to its effect upon social life. 
 Some of the worst crimes are not punishable by man's 
 laws at all. My crime was never even suspected ; it had no 
 effect upon social life; it was between my soul and my 
 Maker and Judge alone. My stepfather was a doomed 
 man, suffering from mortal disease ; my crime shortened
 
 490 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 his life if at all, which I sometimes doubt only by a 
 few weeks, perhaps days." 
 
 "You excuse yourself for killing a dying man?" 
 Gerald burst out. 
 
 "No, no. It does not lessen, rather increases, my 
 crime; but it takes it out of human jurisdiction by 
 making it of no social importance; human jurisdiction 
 only deals with obvious social wrong. I owed society 
 no reparation; I had not shocked people's conscience 
 by the criminal brutality seen by no eye but God's. 
 I am not bound to shock that conscience in order to 
 make an inadequate reparation to it. My sin was to my- 
 self, between my soul and God alone. If there had 
 been any question of a crime, if any one had been sus- 
 pected, the duty of confessing would have been quite 
 clear. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Sophistry ! Jesuitism ! And the victim of the crime, 
 the helpless victim? No reparation to him?" 
 
 "None was possible. Ah! there is the sting indeed. 
 God has forgiven me, but I can not forgive myself. 
 Nothing can call him back to life. Yet I sometimes think 
 dare to hope the mercy of God is infinite, and who 
 shall say?" he broke off, lost in larger thoughts and 
 apparently forgetful of those present, his mother again 
 quietly crying, as she sat on a lounge, her arm propped 
 on the edge and her hand over her face, with Evelyn at 
 her side. 
 
 Gerald made no reply, but, with a look of contemp- 
 tuous indignation at Richard, resumed his seat at the 
 writing-table, and taking a sheet of note-paper, rapidly 
 covered and signed it and placed it in an envelope. Rich- 
 ard, after a few minutes' silent thought, during which 
 the presto of the great sonata was heard surging in 
 splendid tumult through the house with many a dying 
 fall and sudden exultant storm-burst, until the bells 
 ringing for New Year's eve pealed out and thundered 
 through it, turned to Edith and signed to her to come 
 away with him. He unlocked the door, at which serv-
 
 THE FIRST STONE 491 
 
 ants, wanting to set the table, had knocked more than 
 once. 
 
 "Come, Evelyn," he said. "Good night, Gerald. 
 Keep that letter twelve hours and think it over. Ah! 
 who is this? Nancy?" 
 
 ' ' Yes, Nancy, ' ' was the cheery answer from the hall. 
 "I came by an early train, because the next would be 
 too late for dinner. Why, what is the matter?" 
 
 ' ' I have found the man, Nancy, ' ' Gerald said, coming 
 forward into the hall. 
 
 "Then I am sorry for you," she replied gravely. 
 ' ' I knew who it was years ago. ' ' 
 
 "What, you too, Nancy? You kept this from me?" 
 
 "Certainly, dear Gerald." 
 
 "Why, it is a conspiracy of silence a crime in itself. 
 Was it well to shield your cousin at the expense of an 
 injustice, Nancy?" he asked with sad reproach. 
 
 "Not my cousin Richard my friend Gerald. I 
 wished to shield him from painful and profitless knowl- 
 edge, " she said, leading him from the dining-room door, 
 where servants were now going and coming, to a 
 screened recess near the hall fire. "And your mother, 
 too," she added, glancing at the white and stricken face 
 of Edith, who went with Richard into the morning- 
 room. 
 
 "Richard, dear," his mother asked, when they were 
 alone, "Kathleen and I suppose her husband and 
 Nancy and Evelyn, all know and have long known this 
 terrible thing. Is it known elsewhere?" 
 
 "Gatrell knows, mother. He had seen me go in on 
 that night, and from the first suspected the truth, which 
 Nancy accidentally stumbled upon years later. A few 
 weeks after that night, Gatrell found the ring I lost 
 there by the cross in the struggle. Years later Nancy 
 remembered having seen me go in to the Pines from 
 Ingrestone House that night, and she knew that Kathleen 
 had some valid reason for breaking off the engagement. ' ' 
 
 "I thank Heaven that Nancy is here to-night," she
 
 492 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 said. "If any one can dissuade Gerald from this hor- 
 rible thing, it is she. I sinned against my poor husband, 
 Richard, and my sin has found me out. For if Gerald 
 does this thing it will kill me." 
 
 But Gerald did it. He had been too long under the 
 influence of a dominant idea, founded partly upon a real 
 sense of duty and partly upon a morbid terror generated 
 by a severe shock at an impressionable and sensitive age, 
 and exaggerated by long brooding of a nervous and 
 imaginative temperament upon it, to be able to renounce 
 what had become the one serious purpose of his life. 
 Many suffered by that deed, but of all those concerned, 
 Richard suffered the least and Gerald the most. Yet 
 Gerald drew a great peace out of his own suffering; for 
 he had tried, however mistakenly, to do his duty at a 
 great cost to himself, and the morbid mental condition, 
 that was perilously near actual disease, at this time left 
 him with calmed nerves and a manlier tone of mind than 
 he had ever had before.
 
 CHAPTER XLI 
 
 AUTUMN SUNSET 
 
 THE dying year was slowly burning itself out in 
 gorgeous woodland and many-hued hedgerow; a broad 
 and burnished sea glowed nightly in splendor of purple 
 and gold; haze of softest blue lay daily like a magic 
 dream upon the earth. The robin's song, that is so sad 
 because it is so gay and so gay because it is so sad, 
 summed the whole of the pathos and heart-break of life 
 in a few tremulous, wildly sweet notes and ceased. Then 
 it would ring out again in cheerful tenderness and 
 pathetic courage, filling the sunny garden with music 
 fresher than morning and more tranquil than night. 
 
 On one such day Nancy Rosny stood by the sun-dial 
 on the golden turf in the vicarage garden and listened to 
 the brave little singer in that mood which lends poign- 
 ancy to all natural sounds and sights; little Harold 
 stood near, clutching at her skirts and stammering out 
 a breathless babble of baby incoherence, helped out by 
 gestures and the eloquence of wide, blue eyes. 
 
 "Harold's story is something like mine, Kitty. No- 
 body knows what it is all about except the teller, and 
 he can't get it out," Nancy said. 
 
 "It's the human story," Herbert explained, "the 
 story all the poets and romancers have been trying to 
 tell ever since the beginning of the world." 
 
 "Sometimes they get it out," Kathleen amended; 
 looking from her work to the boy, whose stammering 
 drama was culminating in a shout of ecstatic laughter. 
 
 "Yes, now and again they become articulate in a 
 phrase or a luminous burst of humor," Herbert said, 
 32 493
 
 494 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 snatching up the child to kiss. "But come, Nan, let us 
 hear your story. Those girls really saw you and not 
 your wraith on the cliff with Musgrave that morning, 
 and you and not your wraith meeting him on the pier 
 in the evening, I take it." 
 
 ' ' What they saw was pretty substantial for a wraith, 
 Herbert; it weighed heavily, especially at the heart." 
 
 "A pity the story breaks off there. One wonders 
 what on earth such a girl as Nancy Rosny could be 
 doing with such a man as that." 
 
 "Wondering about it isn't playing the game," Nancy 
 said. "Some parts mustn't be talked about." As she 
 spoke she crumpled a packet in her hand, which her 
 friends knew to be a rejected manuscript stamped with 
 that mark of the beast, "Declined with thanks." Not 
 so much the manuscript as Nancy herself in her last 
 attempt to gain a livelihood and support her home, 
 seemed to be declined with those stereotyped thanks and 
 practically snuffed out. 
 
 "The path of literature," Herbert told her, "is 
 thorny, especially before you begin to tread it. You 
 have thoughts, imaginings, knowledge, ideas; but peo- 
 ple may not want them, or they may not want your way 
 of setting them out. Whereas, everybody who possesses a 
 pack of unruly girls wants them to go to school, if only 
 to keep them out of the way. And nothing but this 
 difficulty of explaining those meetings last December 
 prevents you from going back to Casterford?" 
 
 "Ah! you don't know our Head. No explanation 
 would make her reinstate me on the staff, even if my 
 place were not already filled. The Casterford girls hav- 
 ing seen me under such circumstances with such a man 
 is enough. It has been talked about at Casterford; 
 nothing can alter it. The Head will have no woman on 
 the staff, or child in the school, who has been talked 
 about. Besides, I have no explanation to give, and when 
 I try for another post, it is always, 'Why did she leave 
 Casterford?' And Miss Arundel's fine testimonials
 
 AUTUMN SUNSET 495 
 
 always give the cause. She has every confidence in Miss 
 Rosny, etc., but " 
 
 ' ' Well, I call her a hag a hard old hag. She should 
 hear your explanation in camera, under the seal of con- 
 fession, and laugh at idle tongues. She makes the repu- 
 tation of the school a fetish. She immolates you on the 
 altar of her own obstinate Mrs. Grundyism." 
 
 "I don't blame her. It's the honor of the greatest 
 school in England which means the higher female edu- 
 cation in England against the life of Annis Rosny," 
 Nancy stoutly maintained. 
 
 The New Year's morning that was to have brought 
 her so much happiness after those agitated days in which 
 she had fought her two great battles for Richard, brought 
 her a letter from Basil Mayne, regretting in the most 
 civil and correct terms that a sudden turn in the affairs 
 of Goldenose called him back to Camford, and obliged 
 him to renounce the pleasure he had proposed to him- 
 self of coming to lunch that morning and in person wish- 
 ing them all a Happy New Year. And the new year was 
 only a few days old when Nancy was painfully surprised 
 by receiving an abrupt dismissal from Casterford Col- 
 lege, on account of circumstances that had come to the 
 knowledge of the authorities. 
 
 The days went on and she was not reinstated. The 
 new master of Goldenose was appointed, the appoint- 
 ment was fully discussed, accepted, and forgotten; but 
 no letter, message, or communication of any kind came 
 from Basil Mayne. 
 
 Then Annis knew that the idyl centering in the sonata 
 in C sharp Minor had come to an end, and wondered 
 greatly. Basil Mayne, to go so far, profess so much, 
 and turn away at the critical moment Basil ! Men truly 
 were ever so "since summer first was leavy," but not 
 such men as the master of Goldenose. It appeared that 
 neither solidity of character, nor intellectual distinction, 
 nor scholarship, nor high principle, nor unworldliness, 
 nor anything, was a preservative from inherent mascu-
 
 496 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 line frailty. It was very sad. It was clear that the 
 man was not worth a sigh, yet Nancy sighed. He was 
 not worth a thought, yet she thought of him all day 
 long and most of the night. 
 
 "What ruthless creatures you women are on prin- 
 ciple!" was Herbert's comment on this piece of Caster- 
 ford discipline. "Most of you, mercifully, are quite 
 illogical, else there would be no living with you any 
 more than there is without you." With this remark 
 he thought it prudent to disappear from the garden and 
 the house. 
 
 He had not been long gone before Rosny was seen 
 coming through the open drawing-room window to find 
 them. 
 
 Six months' imprisonment with hard labor can 
 scarcely be a cheerful experience, but it may be highly 
 instructive, and it actually had been productive of great 
 peace and satisfaction to Rosny personally. It contented 
 a natural desire for formal and definite penance, and 
 satisfied an instinct for justice and openness, while it 
 could inflict no serious harm at his age. For its effect 
 on his position in the world he cared little; if he were 
 disqualified to carry out his philanthropic schemes, he 
 knew that better men would be found to do it. Whatever 
 he was fit to do would doubtless be put into his hand ; 
 it might be little or it might be much; in either case he 
 bowed his head and gave thanks. 
 
 He had slipped back after his imprisonment into the 
 accustomed groove, almost as if he had never left it. 
 Hats were touched to him and hands offered him much 
 as before ; here and there was a stiffness, here and there 
 a blank face looking past him, here and there increased 
 cordiality. His crime was no disgrace; in some eyes it 
 was no crime at all; in others, a pardonable weakness; 
 while those were found who even held the act for which 
 he was sentenced as commendable. With regard to the 
 concealment opinion was divided. Then it had happened 
 so long ago, and he had since built up a reputation that
 
 AUTUMN SUNSET 497 
 
 nothing could shake; what he was, was known; what he 
 had been was of little consequence. 
 
 ' ' Was I right to break with Richard, Herbert ? ' ' was 
 Kathleen's first word when her long-guarded secret be- 
 came public. 
 
 "Who can say that, Kitty?" he replied, after some 
 thought. ' ' If you had cared more you would have stuck 
 to him. But your breaking was probably the making 
 of him. For a strong nature needs strong discipline." 
 
 Richard had wished Evelyn to leave Wimbury and 
 all its painful associations before his sentence; but she 
 had thought it better to wear out those old associations 
 and create fresh ones as w r ell as to silence local scandal 
 by keeping on the old tenor of her tranquil life. Lady 
 Randal called at the cottage; Evelyn dined and spent 
 literary and musical mornings at the Retreat when the 
 Chesneys were alone ; Ronald was spoken of without per- 
 ceptible constraint on either side, and his movements 
 were reported from time to time. Lady Randal had 
 her own thoughts upon what had passed between Evelyn 
 and her brother. She was no prude, and would scarcely 
 have dealt blame to either of them had she known the 
 whole truth. As it was, she pitied Evelyn a little and 
 admired her much, deciding that she had extricated her- 
 self very cleverly from an embarrassing situation. She 
 was furious with Gerald for the part he had played 
 toward Richard, and did not scruple to say so. 
 
 "I admire your husband more than ever," she told 
 Evelyn. "As for knocking his detestable old stepfather 
 down, no boy worth his salt could have helped it. He 
 ought to have done it long before, but it seems that he 
 was ignorant of what his poor mother had suffered till 
 that unlucky night. Very likely Thorne knew or guessed 
 the truth when he gave his certificate, and quite right 
 too. If ever homicide was justifiable that was. My dear, 
 people knew all about poor Mrs. Belton's black eyes and 
 high frocks long before. And the poor boy meant noth- 
 ing but an expression of natural feeling. That stupid
 
 498 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 Gerald! It's a stupid world, and your husband is one 
 of the few sensible people in it a man of deeds, not 
 words; a strong man." 
 
 All the same, Lady Randal thought, it might be 
 pleasanter to marry a weaker man with more to say for 
 himself. 
 
 But Rosny had more to say for himself after com- 
 pleting his sentence ; his moral atmosphere was lightened 
 and exhilarated, and something of the old frankness 
 and gaiety returned ; he laughed at little things. He was 
 less burdened with business, and when affairs took him 
 from home, it was understood that Evelyn followed him. 
 
 "So I have left off being a piece of furniture and 
 become a fellow-creature," she reflected. 
 
 And in some way quite incomprehensible to Richard, 
 his sentence had drawn Evelyn closer to him and revealed 
 many fine features in her character. She had been very 
 good to poor Mrs. Belton, who, during the term of her 
 son's imprisonment, had been very ill almost to death 
 whence Evelyn's constant and tender care had in great 
 measure brought her back, an aged and shattered woman. 
 
 Adeline had married her loyal hussar in the simplest 
 and least public manner possible, and had gone out to 
 the Cape with him soon afterward. Gerald had gone 
 back to South Africa in the spring ; he had been among 
 those soldiers hurried into Natal to repel the sudden 
 Boer invasion in the early October of that year and was 
 now a prisoner of war at Pretoria. His mother took 
 this disaster very quietly, Richard told them; she was 
 on the whole rather glad that the dear boy was safely 
 locked up at Pretoria out of harm's way. That Gerald 
 had lost his chance and incurred bitter humiliation did 
 not enter her mind, nor did it occur to her to think what 
 a semicivilized enemy might do with prisoners of war, 
 or of the possibility that Gerald might break his prison 
 and so lose his life. 
 
 Richard had scarcely joined the group on the lawn 
 when a step was heard on the gravel and the master of
 
 AUTUMN SUNSET 499 
 
 Goldenose came round the corner of the house, returning 
 unexpectedly from a visit that was not to have ended, his 
 friends supposed, until late in the evening a fact that in- 
 duced Nancy to consent to spend the day at the vicarage, 
 those two not having met since the previous December. 
 
 The near-sighted scholar did not at first recognize 
 the figure leaning on the sun-dial, not until she turned, 
 straightened herself, and looked in his face, her own a 
 little pale, but composed and cheerful. Then he started, 
 stepped backward, came forward again and began to 
 stammer out no one knew what. 
 
 "How are you?" Nancy said, turning back to the 
 baby girl who lay gurgling on a rug in the sunshine at 
 the foot of the sun-dial. 
 
 "How are you, Rosny?" the master said, after 
 recovering himself and censuring the warmth of the 
 October sun, and explaining at some length to Kathleen 
 his unexpected return. 
 
 Then Kathleen went to the sun-dial, and had the 
 children taken indoors. "These autumn days close in 
 so chilly," she said absently. 
 
 "I bring you news, Nan," said Richard, who had 
 followed Kathleen to the sun-dial. "You are to be 
 classical lecturer at this women's college at Airedale." 
 
 "No!" she almost shouted. "It's too good to be 
 true. I did apply, it is true, but only as a forlorn 
 hope." 
 
 "It's quite true," he affirmed, and the master, who 
 had joined the group round the dial, on which Nancy 
 now leaned her arms, looking across the gnomon with 
 shining eyes and pleased face, listened with an eagerly 
 interrogative countenance. "You will receive the official 
 announcement to-morrow. Mrs. Mayne," he added, 
 1 ' you will be more glad than surprised to know that the 
 Casterford authorities have at last had that piece of 
 gossip satisfactorily explained." 
 
 "I am all adrift," Kathleen replied. "I was not 
 aware till this afternoon that there was any gossip."
 
 500 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 "We only heard it quite recently ourselves, through 
 those wretched schoolgirls who made all the mischief. 
 And then, my wife happening to refer to the true his- 
 tory of that day," he added with a little sigh, "also 
 quite recently," he said, looking up into Nancy's face, 
 in which he read sympathy and understanding, "it ap- 
 peared to us that we held the key to the mystery, and 
 Evelyn went to Casterford without delay. Miss Arundel 
 at once saw that she had acted under a mistake, and 
 made interest in every direction for Nancy. Among 
 other things, she suggested this appointment. We have 
 just heard from her, Nan. She has kept counsel; no 
 confidence has been violated," he added, with another 
 little sigh. 
 
 "Oh, Dick, dear Dick, I am glad," Nancy said, 
 almost crying, and he knew that her gladness was less 
 for herself than for him and Evelyn. 
 
 The master, who had been looking hard at the rose 
 that climbed about the dial-stem, now looked at Nancy, his 
 face suffused a deep-brown blush, his glasses misty. 
 
 "May I congratulate, since you are glad?" he asked, 
 in an unusually meek voice, while Kathleen suddenly fell 
 upon Nancy's neck and kissed her. 
 
 "Ah!" said Richard, with a grave smile, "there's 
 nothing like friendship." 
 
 "Except love," added Herbert, who had just come 
 up. "That's best of all." 
 
 "Friendship wears best," Richard said, with the 
 same grave smile. 
 
 "I'm to be classical lecturer at Airedale College, Her- 
 bert, ' ' cried Nancy, extracting a radiant face from Kath- 
 leen 's embrace, "and Kitty and I have lost our heads 
 over it." 
 
 ' ' Hurrah, Nan ! I could jump for joy myself were 
 it not unclerical." 
 
 "Oh, do; please do! Waltz five times round the 
 grass with Kitty, and fling up your hat in my honor." 
 
 "Too much sadness in life for that, Nancy dear,"
 
 AUTUMN SUNSET 501 
 
 with an affectionate smile. "Let's shake hands instead. 
 Be as happy as you can, for I have heard sad news from 
 South Africa, which news probably sent you home so 
 early, Basil, did it?" 
 
 "Yes, that sent me home," the master replied very 
 slowly. ' ' The official telegram was immediately sent on, 
 and of course I left them at once." 
 
 "Not my brother?" cried Kathleen, turning pale. 
 
 ' ' Or mine ? ' ' asked Nancy, whiter still. For this was 
 the autumn of 1899. 
 
 "Then mine?" Richard quickly added. "Gerald 
 the prisoners? No? Nor Chesney? Then we are safe. 
 You have no brother at the front, Mayne?" 
 
 "Mercifully not, though Kathleen has two. But 
 Nancy and you each lose a friend, and we a kinsman. 
 Chesney had a telegram; poor Olivia read it. He was 
 one of the Naval Brigade, you remember." 
 
 ' ' Ronald Musgrave. I am sorry, ' ' Nancy said, under 
 her breath. But Rosny reeled as if under a blow, and 
 Kathleen's soft eyes filled with tears. 
 
 ' ' We were children together, ' ' she said. ' ' I was the 
 youngest of all the cousins, and sat on his knee. Poor 
 Olivia!" 
 
 Then the knell began to boom from the tower and 
 the vicar raised his hat and bent his head in silent prayer. 
 The master raised his hat, too, but the thought upper- 
 most in his mind was of Nancy's composed reception of 
 the tidings. 
 
 The robin's song shrilled out again upon the fading 
 day in a long, clear warble, a little autumnal shiver 
 went through the sere trees, and some fallen leaves, dead 
 and dry, leaped up and began that hurried, anxious 
 rush, with sighing rustle and terrified bound, that re- 
 minded Dante of lost souls driven to the Styx. The 
 robin sang more and more joyously, and the declining 
 sun shot long lances of dusty gold through the thinned 
 trees and steeped in richer radiance the weathered face 
 of the tower, whence the knell dropped heavily at slow
 
 502 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 intervals, aromatic scents of box and bay and faded leaf 
 stole upon the air, and Rosny left them with a heavy 
 heart to tell the news to Evelyn. ' ' He was our friend, ' ' 
 he said as he went. 
 
 Then Herbert and Kathleen drew together and 
 turned down a sun-shot alley, talking in low voices, 
 and the master and Nancy were left alone by the sun- 
 dial. 
 
 "Forgive me, Annis," the master said, then, very 
 humbly. "Heaven knows I have been wretched enough 
 to glut the most insatiate vengeance. I ought to have 
 known you incapable of that." 
 
 "People should trust," Nancy said severely, her 
 deep, clear eyes shining like agates, her gaze untroubled 
 by the wild appeal in the master's. 
 
 "I was at the pier-head at St. Ann's that night," he 
 added. "What could I think?" 
 
 "That a good deal of fog was about, surely." 
 
 "Will you take me after all, Nancy, for good and 
 all?" the master said, in an unsteady voice. 
 
 "Not if the fog is to be lifted." 
 
 "I accept the fog, but I implore the consent," was 
 the fervid rejoinder. 
 
 "Come; that sounds better," Nancy observed with 
 impersonal encouragement. 
 
 ' ' You know, dearest Miss Rosny, you must long have 
 known, that you are the center of all my thoughts all 
 my hopes, all my desires " 
 
 "Ah! we seem to be getting on now. Quite the 
 lyric touch." 
 
 "You are heartless, Nancy, hard and heartless; you 
 only mock me. Why will you trample on a deep and 
 honest and abiding passion? Is that right or wise? 
 You must have understood, you must have seen long 
 and long ago, all that I felt for you, but had no right 
 to put into words?" 
 
 "Oh, I am not stone blind. I can see the time on the 
 sun-dial. Time to go home," she said, slowly straighten-
 
 AUTUMN SUNSET 503 
 
 ing herself and turning away toward the house, leaving 
 him petrified with amazement for some seconds. 
 
 ' ' What do you mean 1 " he asked, overtaking her with 
 quick strides. ' ' Am I nothing to you, Nancy ; nothing at 
 all, after all?" 
 
 "Who knows? You were a good deal to me once. 
 But friendship implies trust." 
 
 "And will you fling me away for a mere foolish 
 pique?" 
 
 "Yes. You let me go for a mere stupid suspi- 
 cion. ' ' 
 
 "But won't you forgive me? Won't you think bet- 
 ter of me?" 
 
 "Who knows? I am a woman, not a door-mat. I 
 might, therefore, be won, but not in this take-me-or-leave- 
 me-bef ore-the-train-starts fashion. My address in future 
 will, I hope, be Airedale College. I have many claims 
 on me, Basil," she said, turning back and abandoning 
 her tone of banter, "I am not in a position to marry, 
 and shall not be for a long time perhaps never. Prac- 
 tically never. So let us be open and have no more fool- 
 ing or beating about the bush." 
 
 "Dear Nancy, I am ready to be responsible for all 
 your claims, ' ' he said earnestly. ' ' I will take every care 
 of you and yours as long as I live." 
 
 ' ' Ah ! but can you ? And could I let you ? No ; but 
 if you care to reconquer my friendship which is worth 
 having good. I was on the verge of having a great 
 regard for you once, do you know. Then, I found you 
 fickle, suspicious, or rather I didn't find you at all, or 
 that great regard either. But we used to have pleasant 
 disputes chatter about Shelley and the differential cal- 
 culus ; arguments on Euripides, female suffrage, and the 
 limits of free-will. It never occurred to me to say I 
 was not a marrying woman. I thought I looked it. Be- 
 sides, I didn't think it." 
 
 "Then you were playing with me, after all?" 
 
 "Nay. Fate was playing with me. Chatter about
 
 504 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 Shelley and the fourth dimension is pleasant some- 
 times. We may have more of it some day. But my 
 father is an invalid and has nothing, and my brothers 
 have yet to make their way, and I am to be classical 
 lecturer at Airedale, and have no time for feminine 
 weaknesses. ' ' 
 
 "Your people shall be my people, your burdens my 
 burdens. ' ' 
 
 "Never! That is not a man's way." 
 
 "Yes it is; it's my way. Nancy, I will bide my time, 
 but I will have you you and no other and all your 
 responsibilities to boot. I am not a youth exactly, and my 
 personal fascinations are, to say the least of it, limited. 
 But I mean to win you. You are everything to me, 
 and I must have you. I never thought to be in love at 
 my time of life, but I am desperately, though you may 
 not believe it. You are the only woman I ever knew 
 capable of understanding anything. You you are a 
 fine Greek scholar, and the men who surpass you in the 
 higher mathematics can be counted. You have a thor- 
 ough grasp of the science of history, you can sift evi- 
 dence, you have an intuitive sense of the value of 
 recorded fact and tradition. Yet you are not wholly 
 deficient in feminine grace and charm." 
 
 ' ' At this rate, I can hardly be expected to have much 
 modesty left." 
 
 ' ' Ah ! but you have. You never think of yourself at 
 all. That is your crowning charm. Nancy, I have had 
 no leisure to study the arts by which women's hearts 
 are won " 
 
 "Well, if you think barefaced flattery is one " 
 
 "I wish I had. But I can not think you entirely 
 indifferent to me." 
 
 "No?" 
 
 "Perhaps you will think all this over, Nancy, and 
 decide in my favor at last?" 
 
 "Have Airedale lecturers leisure to study the arts 
 by which female hearts are assailed, and weigh the
 
 AUTUMN SUNSET 505 
 
 merits of the various besiegers? The notion is prepos- 
 terous. Let us go in to tea." 
 
 ' ' Think it over, ' ' he repeated, pressing her reluctant 
 hands in both his. "You would like Goldenose almost 
 as much as you would adorn it," he added, and she ob- 
 served that the eyes behind the glasses were clear and 
 bright and full of honest feeling. "What an influence 
 you would have upon those boys! What a paradise it 
 would be for me! Oh, I will hope and wait and hope. 
 But don't make it too long, Nan. Not too long." 
 
 Nancy looked at him not unkindly, and smiled slowly 
 and gravely as she stood in the last ray of sun, but find- 
 ing nothing to say, turned in silence and went through 
 the open windows into the firelit drawing-room, where 
 Kathleen was pouring out tea and Herbert delivering 
 himself of many wise utterances on the hearth-rug, and 
 the knell having tolled its last heavy stroke, the song of 
 robins and twitter of belated swallows was clearly heard. 
 
 "I like these early autumn twilights," Herbert said, 
 after a little general silence that was not without con- 
 tent. 
 
 Rosny took the shortest way home, and opened the 
 gate with that warm and intimate sense of comfort and 
 peace that never failed him at sight of the cottage. 
 Strange that hearts should cling to brown tiles and 
 weathered brick walls in this tenacious way. The scent 
 of the clematis tangled about the windows was a voice 
 from the fairyland of infancy, the chimney 's blue smoke 
 curl against the lime-top's autumnal gold a breath of 
 romance, the mignonette's sweetness a caress; the win- 
 dows shining in warm sun, the trees, the garden, the 
 fields, and the sea all had kind and welcoming faces for 
 him ; no other spot on earth could have the same lasting 
 lifelong charm. A lemon verbena ran over a sunny wall 
 by the door and was rarely passed without a casual touch 
 of its scented leaf, though it died down with the first 
 frost every autumn ; it was older than his oldest memory ; 
 its fragrance held all the poetry of life.
 
 506 RICHARD ROSNY 
 
 Evelyn came from between the leafy lime pillars with 
 a springy step and bright face. "Come and see the 
 bees," she cried. "Seth says the honey will be very 
 fine, and he'll take it to-morrow. I am so glad I took 
 to bee-keeping. Richard, darling, let us have a vine- 
 house, and grow early potatoes and spring flowers in it. 
 Seth says he could knock one up for next to nothing with 
 some seasoned wood he has, at odd times this winter." 
 
 He found himself dragged unceremoniously through 
 the garden to the bee-butts, a velvet cheek pressed against 
 his arm, thence to the last clutch of chickens running 
 about the feet of a clucking, stately hen in the meadow, 
 and lastly to the bench under the lime-tree where the 
 minuet was once danced in the moonlight. 
 
 "Baby!" he growled at last. "Well, child, well! 
 You don't ask my news?" 
 
 "Dick, dear, I don't like to think of the cause of 
 it," she replied sadly. "That I should have brought all 
 that upon Nancy, who saved me. Was she very glad?" 
 
 "She was very glad, Evelyn. So was Basil Mayne." 
 
 "Basil Mayne? I used to think there was something 
 between those two." 
 
 "There was. But whispering tongues, Evie, whis- 
 pering tongues! Well, it's all right now. He under- 
 stands at last." 
 
 Her face went down on his arm with a little moan. 
 "And Nancy, dear Nancy, did all that for me," she 
 whispered. " Oh ! tell me all that passed, Richard all. ' ' 
 
 ' ' That was all, and it 's all right. But Mayne should 
 have trusted her. She's worth ten of him." 
 
 "She's worth everything and everybody. But you 
 are not glad, dearest," she said, looking up and struck 
 by the sadness in his face. "And the knell is tolling. 
 What is it?" 
 
 "Come into the house," he said, rising from the 
 bench and giving her his hand. 
 
 ' ' Who is it 1 " she whispered, when they were in the 
 oak parlor.
 
 AUTUMN SUNSET 507 
 
 He placed a hand on each of her shoulders, and 
 looked deeply and searchingly in her eyes. 
 
 " It is Musgrave, ' ' he said slowly at last, and her face 
 flushed and paled again, and her eyes fell. "He was 
 training the 4.7 gun on to the Boer position when he 
 fell." 
 
 "Killed?" in a low whisper. No tear, no quiver be- 
 neath the pressure of his strong hands; only a grave, 
 awed silence after the question his face answered. 
 
 "Did you see his sister?" she asked presently. 
 
 "No; I had it from the Maynes. Chesney had told 
 them." 
 
 She went to the window and looked over darken- 
 ing fields to a sea that was deep pink under a band of 
 paler pink sky, saffron immediately above the sea-rim. 
 Shadows filled the room, but pale rose-bloom from the 
 sky touched her face; her pure profile showed clear 
 against the garden's blurred and darkening color, her 
 face was still and thoughtful. 
 
 Presently she came back to Richard and buried her 
 face in his arm. 
 
 "It is all so far off and dreamlike," she sighed, "as 
 if it had never been." 
 
 "Best so," he said, laying his hand upon her head. 
 
 "But you?" she faltered. 
 
 "He was my dear friend, Evelyn." 
 
 The knell had stopped by this time, and they could 
 hear the sea murmuring faintly through the pink twi- 
 light like a friend's voice. Then Evelyn raised her face, 
 wet with tears, and drew a foreign letter from her 
 pocket. 
 
 "From Gerald," she said, and going to the smolder- 
 ing fire, roused it to a cheery blaze that filled the room 
 with dancing light. 
 
 "Poor, dear old chap; he has forgiven me at last!" 
 he said, joyously tearing it open to read in the firelight. 
 
 THE END 
 
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