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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT OF 
 FREDERIC THOMAS BLANCHARD
 
 The Works of Leonard Merrick 
 
 THE WORLDLINGS
 
 The Works of 
 LEONARD MERRICK 
 
 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH. With 
 an Introduction by Sin J. M. Basrte. 
 
 WHEN LOVE FLIES OUT O' THE WINDOW. 
 
 With on Introduction by Sat William Robert- 
 son Nicoll. 
 
 THE QUAINT COMPANIONS. With an Intro- 
 duction by H. G. Wells. 
 
 THE POSITION OF PEGGY HARPER. With 
 
 an Introduction by Sik Arthur Pikero. 
 
 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN and 
 other Stories. With an Introduction by W. J. 
 Locks. 
 
 THE WORLDLINGS. With an Introduction by 
 Neil Mumho. 
 
 THE ACTOR-MANAGER. With an Introduction 
 by W. D. Howills. 
 
 CYNTHIA. With an Introduction by Maurich 
 Hewlett. 
 
 ONE MAN'S VTEW. With an Introduction by 
 Granville Barker. 
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS GOOD. With an Intro- 
 duction by J. K. Prothero. 
 
 A CHAIR ON THE BOULEVARD. With an 
 Introduction by A. Neil Ltons. 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LYNCH. With an Introduc- 
 tion by G. K. Chesterton. 
 
 WHILE PARIS LAUGHED: Being Prankb and 
 Pabsions of thii Poet Tricotrin. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 E. P. DGTTON & COMPANY
 
 THE 
 WORLDLINGS 
 
 ¥ 
 
 By LEONARD MERRICK 
 
 ¥ 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 
 NEIL MUNRO 
 
 NEW YORK 
 E. P. DUTTON AND COMPANY 
 
 681 FIFTH AVENUE
 
 Copyright, 1919, 
 BY E. P. DUTTON AND COMPANY 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 The First American Definitive Edition, with Introduction by 
 
 Neil Munro, limited to 1550 copies 
 
 (of which only 1500 were for sale). 
 
 Published, December, 1919. 
 
 Second American Edition, January, 19£0. 
 
 Third " " " 1920. 
 
 Fourth " " February, 19>>0. 
 
 Fifth " " " 192°- 
 
 Sixth " " March. 1920. 
 
 Printed In the United States of America
 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 The Worldlings has in it almost every element 
 of Merrick's attractiveness as a tale-teller, save 
 perhaps his humour, here kept severely in 
 restraint as a quality out of key in a story 
 founded on "one of the passionate cruces of life, 
 where duty and inclination come nobly to the 
 grapple." The conventionality of the plot, how- 
 ever, and the superficial curiosities it evokes, may 
 at a first reading leave less impressive its grasp 
 of human character, that quality which its 
 author's admirers best like in him. Yet one 
 comes upon returned South Africans who place 
 The Worldlings among Merrick's highest 
 achievements. The vraisemblance of its earlier 
 chapters, with the airs and manners of life on the 
 Fields deployed in those colours that there pre- 
 dominate in the landscape and the minds of men, 
 possibly appeals peculiarly to the exiles of 
 Africa, but they are intrigued, furthermore, no 
 doubt, by the story itself, with its sharp social 
 contrasts, wherein a man yesterday a beggarly 
 overseer to-day is living the life of a lord in the 
 stateliest English surroundings. This vision of
 
 vi INTRODUCTION 
 
 a possible sudden affluence must always be dear 
 to the imagination of men occupied loathsomely 
 in an alien atmosphere of 100 degrees in the 
 shade, in association with Zulus and Kaffirs, and 
 ever carried on from day to day through their 
 squalid search for gems by the hope of a possible 
 Koh-i-noor or Cullinan. 
 
 Not that the Diamond Fields now, or in the 
 days when Merrick was there, directly present 
 any such glittering possibilities to the overseer. 
 As Maurice Blake, the hero of The Worldlings, 
 found in the years of the New Rush, the Fields 
 proffer no better prospect than a living wage to 
 any one who can secure no proprietary interest 
 in the precious stuff he handles, and who must 
 see in Kimberley less a mining camp than a 
 vulgar share market. Yet through a thousand 
 hopeless dawns will men of spirit maintain 
 illusions, cherish dreams, and one surmises that 
 Merrick in his 6tory ministered deliberately to 
 this almost universal human aptitude to speculate 
 upon the possibilities of sudden wealth. It is 
 the theme of a myriad tales, and some of them 
 the best in the world. Sudden wealth being, in 
 the nature of things, unJikely to any overseer 
 on the Fields, and too ridiculous to postulate in 
 Maurice Blake's case as a result of theft or 
 I.D.B., there remained to the author the alterna-
 
 INTRODUCTION vii 
 
 tive of an unexpected English inheritance for his 
 hero, which should, at a flash, release him from 
 his purgatory. It would have been banal to 
 have Blake merely a baronet's son incognito; 
 much more piquant play was to be made by hav- 
 ing him impersonate one. The story of Sir 
 Roger Tichborne is older than the Trial of the 
 Claimant ; it is one of the original thirty-six pos- 
 sible plots (or whatever the number may be) to 
 which every story in the world may be traced. 
 But the Tichborne imposture is what we first 
 think of when the worldling's career is lamented. 
 Merrick inevitably made his hero another Tich- 
 borne; but illiterate Richard Ortons are, in a 
 book, as in real life, impossible creatures to thrust 
 through conversational engagements with mem- 
 bers of the "upper circles" while maintaining the 
 cloak of importance, and consequently Merrick's 
 hero had to be something of a cultured mam 
 
 A cultured man that he might be capable of 
 those conversational flights which rarely happen 
 in the real life of Society, but which no author 
 dare dispense with in his dialogue if Society be 
 his theme; a man capable of at least one im- 
 pulsive dishonourable act, yet at bottom a soul 
 of honour, and capable of great renunciations — 
 such was the type necessary for the heroic im- 
 postor, and having decided upon him, the rest of
 
 viii INTRODUCTION 
 
 the machinery was fairly easy. It needed but to 
 create a few more figures of men and women who 
 by act and word should carry the hero through 
 the tale with plausibility. As The Worldlings 
 is not one of those tales in which the author 
 keeps a card up his sleeve to be brought forth 
 with stunning effect in the denouement, prac- 
 tically all its trend being obvious after the first 
 two chapters, one may divulge its main idea 
 without giving away anything to lessen the eager 
 anticipation of the reader. He is kept in sus- 
 pense not by a succession of mechanically con- 
 trived events but by the fresh recurring problems 
 of honour which must inevitably arise after the 
 first faux pas of Blake. 
 
 There are really but four protagonists in The 
 Worldlings — Maurice Blake himself, who be- 
 came the soi-disant Philip Jardine; the girl he 
 married under false pretences; Rosa Fleming, 
 the Jezebel of the piece, and Sir Noel Jardine, 
 the father of the dead man impersonated. Those 
 four characters are admirably portrayed — fresh, 
 vigorous, and subtle, fitting into the fable with 
 the inevitability of fate. Blake himself achieved 
 the difficult task of securing our sympathy 
 despite his error, long before that final renuncia- 
 tion which, as by a sudden happy shock, jolts all 
 the discordant bells of his life into harmonv. It
 
 INTRODUCTION ix 
 
 is, fortunately, none of the author's business, 
 either to anticipate or disclose how the Blake 
 menage weathered that fiscal adversity for which, 
 at the hour of revelation, the splendours of Croft 
 Court had to be relinquished. A wife whose 
 first impression of the man to be her husband is 
 summed up in "half a radical, half a bore" (a 
 shameful misunderstanding of Maurice Blake's 
 character), is really only beginning to be tested 
 when the curtain falls. Four protagonists — no, 
 there are really five, on coming to think of it 
 again; Lady Wrensfordsley, the most truly 
 worldly of all the "worldlings," is one of the most 
 striking characters in the book; to the heart of 
 her the author gets even "further ben," as we say 
 in Scotland, than he does with her daughter or 
 Rosa Fleming, though all his women are micro- 
 scopically observed. 
 
 The worldlings move in a real atmosphere, not 
 in a vacuum with surroundings gathered from 
 auction sales and described with the minutiae of a 
 catalogue, and Merrick's English park and Lon- 
 don are as emotionally and visually right as his 
 Diamond Fields. This faculty of conveying the 
 real airs of diverse scenes as far apart as the 
 Antipodes, or separate only by a carriage 
 journey, is one of the author's happiest gifts; he 
 may spare but a paragraph or two for topog-
 
 xii INTRODUCTION 
 
 idea of the problems of life and time. Merrick 
 is always sane, even in his sentimental and 
 romantic moods; if he has illusions — and who 
 can escape them in a world of appearances? — 
 they are not of the common and contemptible 
 order that upholster so many novels of crime, 
 wealth, and passion. 
 
 Neil Mitxro.
 
 THE WORLDLINGS
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 The thermometer registered 100° in the shade, 
 and where he stood there was no shade; on the 
 depositing-floors no relief from the intense dry 
 heat was possible for even a moment. He was 
 paid to watch twelve Kaffirs and Zulus, who 
 broke the lumps of diamondiferous soil into 
 smaller pieces, and were adroit in concealing the 
 gems ; their skins glistened now, and they swung 
 their picks torpidly. He was paid to watch them 
 from "sun up" until "sun down," and God 
 knows there was little else for him to view. No 
 tree, no shrub, rose here; there was nothing but 
 the arid earth, and the blue flare of sky. In his 
 eyes was the dazzle of the grey ground which 
 stretched before him like a level beach, and re- 
 flected the blaze of the sun; in his ears was the 
 long-drawn whir of the tubs as they travelled the 
 wire runners to the mine ; in his heart was despair. 
 
 For six months he had lived this loathsome 
 life — he was remembering it. During six months 
 he had filled a fool's berth, because energy, and 
 brains, and education were able to find no better 
 opening. In '82 the time when men without 
 
 l
 
 2 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 capital or credit could arrive on the Diamond 
 Fields and expect to make money honestly had 
 already passed. He would soon be forty, and 
 since he was seventeen the man had done his 
 best. He had done the best that in him lay! he 
 could maintain that. He had never neglected 
 an opportunity, he had never committed a dis- 
 honourable action, he had never shirked hard 
 work — but he was a failure. To go to Kimber- 
 ley had been his purpose for years, while he 
 buffeted ill-luck in America; but it had been 
 years before he could save the means to go. In 
 the United States, as in Australia, his struggle 
 towards fortune had ended in a cul-de-sac; 
 Kimberlev was still called the New Rush, and 
 the thought of it had sustained his courage. He 
 had hoarded, and scraped, and fulfilled his pur- 
 pose at last. And he had come for this! 
 
 He had pictured himself a digger, labouring 
 with his own hands on his own claim, sweating, 
 but hopeful. He found the mines apportioned 
 among companies — in which men like himself 
 could secure no closer interest than they could 
 obtain in a coal-pit at home. He found that to 
 the majority, Kimberley was less like a mining 
 camp than a share market — which concerned him 
 as little as the stock exchange in New York when 
 he had trodden the Wall Street sidewalk. He
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 2 
 
 found that he had added another unit to the 
 hundreds of Englishmen seeking a living wage, 
 and had finally welcomed a situation that held 
 no prospect of improvement. 
 
 And he would soon be forty — the better half 
 of his life had gone! He recalled the period 
 when forty had been so far ahead that to fore- 
 see himself a rich man by then had seemed a 
 moderate expectation. Recalled it ? It was only 
 the other day! He had been twenty- five, with 
 an eternity at his disposal; thirty, with a shock; 
 thirty-five, and fighting against time. The flash 
 of three sign-posts, and his youth was dead. Each 
 succeeding year had been a clod on its coffin. 
 
 "Macho!" he said to the blacks. It meant 
 "Make haste"; it was nearly all the native vo- 
 cabulary that he required. 
 
 He was asking himself "How long?" What 
 unimaginable turn of the wheel would liberate 
 him? Money was not made by working for 
 others unless one worked in a prominent posi- 
 tion. The manager of the company had a thou- 
 sand a year, though he could scarcely be thirty, 
 and it was well known had never set eyes on a 
 washing-machine, or a rough stone, until a few 
 months before he strolled into the post. He wore 
 a blue-and-white puggaree round his wide-awake, 
 and a cummerbund in lieu of a belt, and flicked
 
 4 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 his new Bedford cords with an unnecessary hunt- 
 ing-crop; and he looked at the hauling-engine 
 as if he feared it was going to explode. Yet he 
 had a thousand a year; and he would buy scrip, 
 and prosper, and go to England by-and-by to 
 live in ease. But that had been influence — his 
 brother had been manager before him, and had 
 initiated him into the duties. The dealers who 
 sat in their shirt-sleeves, sorting diamonds on 
 white paper in the windows of their iron offices, 
 would retire and go to England by-and-by; but 
 to be a dealer required capital, and knowledge 
 of the trade. The brokers who bustled in and 
 out of the offices, netting commissions on their 
 sales, might nurse hopes of England and dis- 
 tant independence; but to be a broker required 
 a license and a heavy guarantee. 
 
 England! In two-and-twenty years his only 
 glimpse of it had been in the few days passed 
 in London the previous spring, after he had 
 landed from America, preparatively to sailing 
 for the Cape. The longing for it thrilled him. 
 As he watched the Kaffirs and sweltered in the 
 sun, he fancied what it would be like to be on 
 the river, in flannels, lazying under the boughs; 
 to be driving in a hansom among the lights of 
 the VSJest End; to taste the life of the kid-gloved 
 men he had envied on those April evenings from
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 5 
 
 the pavement, as the cabs sped by him, bearing 
 them to the restaurants, to the theatres, to 
 women's arms. 
 
 "Macho!" he repeated perfunctorily. Then, 
 noticing that some of the gang seemed half 
 asleep: "Hi!" he cried. "What are you doing? 
 That isn't work, it's rest!" 
 
 At his tone their movements quickened, though 
 his words were unintelligible to them, but after 
 a few prods with their picks they grew comatose 
 again. One of the squad, who called himself 
 "Me Tom," had been a kitchen-boy and could 
 speak English. 
 
 "Tell them," said Maurice Blake to him, "that 
 if they're lazy, they won't get full pay on Sat- 
 urday; do you hear?" 
 
 Me Tom nodded, and translated the warning, 
 and the offenders answered all together at great 
 length. 
 
 'What do they say?" asked the overseer. 
 
 'They say," replied the native, "that the baas- 
 is a just baas; what he says is sense. They say 
 they thank him that he not use the sjambok to 
 them, or be cruel with his feet, or throw stones. 
 He is a very good baas" 
 
 "Stop that rot," said Blake; "I don't want to 
 hear any lies." 
 
 The negro raised an arm solemnly, with the 

 
 6 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 first and second fingers extended, and said: 
 "Kor*r which signified "So help me, God !" He 
 continued: "They say it is not because they lazy 
 that they not work, baas, but because on Satur- 
 day they start away, with their savings, and their 
 blankets, and their guns as the baas must have 
 often seen others start. They say they go back 
 to their own country and they buy wives; and 
 they will have daughters and much cattle — and 
 they so sick with happiness that they canvnot 
 work, baas. Kors!" 
 
 "I understand," said Blake, slowly; he under- 
 stood very well. "Tell them they must do their 
 best." 
 
 So he was popular with the Kaffirs; he had 
 not guessed it, nor thought about the matter. 
 
 "Ask them," he said now, "what they call me." 
 
 No white man on the floors was known to the 
 niggers by his name — it was sufficient that an 
 overseer should be a "baas" and a manager a 
 "big baas." But among the blacks themselves 
 their masters were always referred to by nick- 
 names, and though, if these transpired, they sel- 
 dom sounded to European ears very apt, proof 
 was often afforded that to the native mind they 
 were extraordinarily descriptive. When a party 
 of Kaffirs tramped homeward, after the Fields 
 had served their purpose, they met on the road
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 7 
 
 other parties, bound in their turn for the mines ; 
 and then thev who returned narrated to their 
 compatriots the dangers they had passed, and 
 uttered counsel, cautioning them against the man- 
 ager who had flogged their brother to death, and 
 commending the overseer under whom they had 
 been able to steal klips. And so serviceable were 
 the nicknames that, when the newcomers arrived, 
 they identified the owners at sight and recog- 
 nised the baas who was desirable, and the baas 
 who should be shunned. 
 
 "Well? Don't be afraid," exclaimed Blake, 
 seeing that the interpreter looked bashful; "I 
 want to know!" 
 
 "They say," said Me Tom, as if disclaiming 
 all agreement with the sobriquet himself, "that 
 they call the baas 'The baas with square shoulders 
 and hungry eyes.' " 
 
 "Thanks," said Blake. "Now you can get on; 
 and put your back into it!" 
 
 The burning glare of the day was gradually 
 abating; the sun streamed across the sorting- 
 shed now, turning the corrugated iron of the roof 
 to fire. A breeze arose, hot as the breath of an 
 oven, catching the dried tailings and blowing 
 them across the floors in clouds that grew mo- 
 mentarily denser. As it increased in force, the 
 grit was volleyed in blinding gusts, hissing as it
 
 8 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 swept near, and stinging the neek and hands. 
 The atmosphere was darkened as if by fog; the 
 doors of adjacent sheds slammed violently; and 
 the neighing of the horses could be heard. But 
 after half an hour the duststorm passed. 
 
 Slowly, slowly, the sun dropped lower behind 
 the sorting-shed; the grey of the diamondiferous 
 ground lost its tinge of blue; and the screams 
 of the engines announced that the day was done. 
 Blake picked up his jacket and trudged down 
 the barren road that wound to Market Square, 
 and what served him for a home. His berth was 
 in Bultfontein, and diggers and blacks still 
 poured from the neighbouring mines of Du 
 Toit's Pan when he reached it. As he passed the 
 veranda of the one-storied iron club he could 
 hear the popping of corks, and the voices of men 
 luckier than he in some approach to comfort; 
 outside the canteens, and the tin shanties, made 
 of the lining of packing-cases, the guttural cries 
 of the niggers filled the air. Natives stood in 
 groups everywhere, some with their blankets on, 
 others still as they had left the works, shouting 
 and gesticulating excitedly. An ox-wagon lum- 
 bered through the deep dust of Main Street; on 
 the stoep of the Carnarvon Hotel the proprietor 
 and one of the visitors were fighting. After he 
 had drunk a limejuice-and-soda, Blake walked
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 9 
 
 along Du Toit's Pan Road till he came to his 
 bedroom door; he unlocked it, and crossed the 
 mud floor wearily. The heat had melted the can- 
 dle till it drooped from the candlestick in a half- 
 hoop and stuck to the washhand-stand ; when he 
 had straightened it, he washed. The washhand- 
 stand and a truckle-bed furnished the room be- 
 tween the corrugated iron walls, so he lay on the 
 bed, and listened to the buzzing of a hundred 
 flies, until the clash of a handbell summoned 
 him to dinner. 
 
 The boarders belonged to the lower ranks; 
 most of them had overseers' places like his own. 
 A woman was rarely seen at a Diamond Fields 
 hotel, but temporarily there were two women 
 here. They were the wife and daughter of a 
 cockney who had kept a Kaffir-store which had 
 recently been destroyed by fire. The charge of 
 arson had not been proved, and the family were 
 returning to Southwark with the insurance 
 money. The finger-nails of the assembly testi- 
 fied to a laborious week, and Maurice, who knew 
 none of them, hated them with an unreasoning 
 rage. He ate with his eyes fixed upon his plate, 
 about which the flies swarmed furiously; but he 
 could not stop his ears, and, stimulated by the 
 unaccustomed society of white women, the men 
 grew humorous as the beer vanished. It was for
 
 10 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 their "humour" that he cursed them. Habitude 
 had steeled him to their adjectives, but under 
 the sallies and the giggles of the third-class his 
 nerves were taut. 
 
 He finished his meal as hurriedly as usual, and 
 taught up his hat. The moon had risen now, 
 and the mounds of debris, which were all that 
 relieved the flatness of the dreary view, gleamed 
 like snow. He hailed a "cart," for he felt too 
 tired to walk into Kimberley this evening, and 
 he must inquire how Jardine was. For the first 
 time it occurred to him to wonder what he had 
 done with his evenings before these visits to the 
 house in Lennox Street became his habit. What 
 had begun it ? There had been a melee in Carme's 
 Saloon one night, when the threat of wrecking 
 the Kama Company's machinery was in the air, 
 but he didn't quite remember how Jardine and 
 he had come to leave the bar together. Plow- 
 ever, the row had been his introduction to the 
 only educated man he knew, or had a chance of 
 knowing. 
 
 Again Kimberley looked large and cheerful to 
 him by comparison with the Pan, as the cart rat- 
 tled into the electric light; but the air of cheer- 
 fulness was only momentary, and after the prin- 
 cipal thoroughfare the streets were empty and 
 dark.
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 11 
 
 Maurice stopped the Hottentot driver at a 
 wooden cottage with a stoep, and rapped at the 
 door. A voice called to him to go in, and when 
 he obeyed, he stood in the parlour. 
 
 The construction was simple. The cottage con- 
 sisted of one story, and was spacious enough to 
 have formed a good-sized room. Two partitions, 
 roughly covered with chintz, divided it into three, 
 which served for sitting-room, bedroom, and 
 kitchen. At the back was a small compound, 
 where the washing hung, enclosed by a corru- 
 gated iron fence. 
 
 A woman in a rocking-chair had been reading 
 by a paraffin lamp, and as he entered she put out 
 her hand. 
 
 "How is he?" asked Maurice. 
 
 "He is bad," she said. "He's asleep now; 
 don't walk about — the more he can sleep the bet- 
 ter. Come and sit down. I daresay he'll wake 
 before you go. I shall hear him if he moves." 
 
 "What does the doctor sav?" 
 
 "If he pulls through, the doctor advises a trip 
 to the Colony; it's easy to give advice, isn't it? 
 If we can't manage that, 'Alexandersfontein 
 might pick him up.' " 
 
 "They always advise men to leave the Fields 
 after a bad attack of the fever," he said. "I
 
 12 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 know; I had a touch of it myself soon after I got 
 here." 
 
 He took a seat by the table, and for a few 
 moments neither said any more. The woman was 
 staring at nothing, her brows meeting in a frown, 
 and her passionate mouth compressed. The 
 wrapper she wore was discoloured, and her care- 
 lessly coiled hair had come half unpinned; yet 
 she was far from looking a mere handsome slut 
 who had sunk to the surroundings, or a woman 
 who was used to them. She had lived, perhaps, 
 five-and-thirty years; and dressed as nature had 
 designed her to dress — as once, probably, she had 
 dressed — she would have been magnificent. 
 
 "A month at Alexandersfontein wouldn't cost 
 a great deal," said Maurice at last; "can't it be 
 worked, Mrs. Jardine?" 
 
 "Do you know how broke we are?" she re- 
 turned impatiently. "Have you any idea?" 
 
 He shook his head. "I know things aren't gay. 
 Jardine never went into details." 
 
 "We have about nine pounds to-night; that's 
 our capital. There's no reason why I should 
 make a secret of it. Oh! don't look concerned — 
 we shall rub along. But it will hardly run to a 
 month's hotel-bill, eh?" 
 
 "No, it won't run to a month's hotel-bill," he 
 said; "I didn't understand that things were so
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 13 
 
 bad as that. Well, I can manage to lend him a 
 fiver, you know — I can lend it to him now. You'd 
 better take it for him, will you?" 
 
 "You're down on your own luck," she replied; 
 "and I didn't tell you for that. Besides, there's 
 — there's just a chance of something big happen- 
 ing. No, we won't borrow from you before we're 
 obliged to; you shall lend us a few pounds later 
 on, if there's no other way. Now you'll have a 
 drink. Yes, you will!" she said decisively; "we 
 aren't so hard up that we haven't a bottle of 
 whisky in the house — we never are. Perhaps it 
 would have been a good thing for Phil if we had 
 been, sometimes. The girl brought in that jug 
 of water just now — it's quite cool." 
 
 "Shall I mix you some?" asked Maurice, fetch- 
 ing the bottle and two tumblers. 
 
 "Thanks. You know you can smoke? If you 
 sit bv the window he can't smell it in the bed- 
 room. It's a lively state of things, isn't it? This 
 is the result of turning over a new leaf. While 
 he knocked about in cities, Phil was right enough 
 — he always fell on his feet somehow; but he 
 really meant to put his shoulder to the wheel 
 when we came to this heaven-forsaken country 
 —he thought he was going to make money with 
 an ostrich farm. An ostrich farm!" Her ges- 
 ture told everything. "I shall hate the sight of
 
 14 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 an ostrich feather to the day I die. Then he came 
 up here, when he had lost all the dollars that 
 would have given him a show! What fools men 
 are!" 
 
 "A man's always called a fool if he has bad 
 luck," he said; "and it's the one sort of 'folly' 
 that the world doesn't make excuses for. 'Put 
 money in thy purse' — and keep it there, for no- 
 body will give you anything when it has gone. 
 Here endeth the first lesson, and the last." 
 
 "That's your philosophy?" she said. 
 
 "That's my philosophy, or part of it; there's 
 more that I've acquired too late. Succeed! it's 
 the only duty imposed on a man. Never mind 
 how; succeed! It's a desirable world while it 
 turns the sunny side to you, but a clean record 
 won't pawn for much when you're on your 
 uppers." 
 
 "Have you ever had a good time?" inquired the 
 woman curiously. "Have you always had to 
 rough it — or did you come a cropper once?" 
 
 "I never came a cropper in the sense you 
 mean," he said; "my father had made his money 
 in business, and retired before I was born, and 
 most of his fortune was dropped on the Stock 
 Exchange in England when he was over sixty. 
 He had brothers-in-law who wrote urging him to 
 join them in mining operations with the few thou-
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 15 
 
 sands that remained. The young men were flat 
 broke at the time and pretty desperate; the fig- 
 ures they sent were very ingenious. He arranged 
 to leave my sister behind with their mother — I 
 was still at school — and we let him sail. I think 
 the only advice we gave him was not to 'suspect 
 his partners' — I thought I was very clever, little 
 ass! We warned him that he had a 'suspicious 
 nature/ . . . After they had robbed him, and 
 the climate and the hardships had broken his 
 health, he escaped to the coast, and my sister went 
 out to him. He began to get stronger; he was 
 happy there — pathetically happy, when one re- 
 members that he was grudged even that! His 
 remittances for her keep were missed in London 
 — they had been very generous — and the old 
 woman on one side, and her sons on the other, 
 wrote upbraiding him for his weakness in 'hang- 
 ing back.' 'Hanging back' was the term used. 
 They were very scornful about his 'hanging back' ! 
 he was told that it was very cowardly to want 
 to live in comfort with his child. They got my 
 sister sent home, and hounded him to the mines 
 again." 
 
 "How old were you?" 
 
 "I was sixteen. When he had very little more 
 to lose, his brothers-in-law told him he had better 
 go back to England and stay with their mother
 
 16 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 himself. He stayed with their mother, and was 
 overcharged and insulted, until she had had his 
 last pound, and everything of value from his 
 luggage. Then she turned him out. My sister 
 had been brought up to look forward to a life of 
 leisure and refinement, but she went to work — so 
 did I; and we did the best we could for him. 
 Between us we contrived to find fifteen shillings 
 every week for 'partial board in a musical family 
 at Dalston.' When I was eighteen I went 
 abroad. My father was one of the best men that 
 ever lived. He had given away large sums, and 
 helped many people, and there wasn't a day dur- 
 ing his last five years on which he had enough to 
 eat. The wretch who turned him out, and who 
 had sponged on him from the hour he married, 
 was the worst woman I have known — she had 
 every vice except unchastity — and she stood high 
 in her own esteem, and devoured delicacies to the 
 end. I think that was when I began to see that 
 the only moral contained by life is 'Never be 
 poor.' " 
 
 "And your sister? Where is she now?" 
 "My sister got a situation at a draper's, and 
 died in it before she was twenty-three." 
 
 Pie took his pipe from his pocket, and filled 
 it moodily; and the woman lit a cigarette over 
 the lamp. After a whiff, she said :
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 17 
 
 "I don't think I ever met a man who spoke 
 well of his father before. Phil hasn't much rea- 
 son to care a great deal about his!" 
 
 "I didn't know his father was alive," he said, 
 striking a match as far as possible from his 
 nostrils. 
 
 "No, he doesn't talk about him to anyone." 
 She hesitated for a second, in a struggle with an 
 impulse, and then, succumbing to it, added quick- 
 ly: "Look here, I'll tell you something, though 
 I didn't mean to yet! Phil's father is a very 
 rich man." 
 
 "Why doesn't he send you some money then?" 
 said Maurice. 
 
 "Perhaps he will — that's what I meant when 
 I said there was a chance of something big hap- 
 pening to us. But Phil left home when he was 
 nineteen ; there was — I don't know . . . Phil was 
 wild. It doesn't much matter after twenty — 
 how many? . . . Phil is fortv-two. Besides, no- 
 body heard anything about it — it was hushed up. 
 Don't you say anything about this to Phil!" 
 
 "I never give away a confidence," he said. 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Well, his passage was paid to Melbourne, 
 and he was to draw a bit every month on con- 
 dition that he never went back to England — it 
 was very little, for his father wasn't well off in
 
 18 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 those days. After about eight years the pay- 
 ments stopped; the old man had had losses, or 
 got tired of the game. Phil was dead sick of the 
 country, and he'd had a fluke, so he went to the 
 States. I met him in San Francisco. Well, a 
 few months ago the old man, who's nearly eighty, 
 came into a baronetcy. Phil's father is Sir Xoel 
 Jardine now, with about twenty thousand a year." 
 
 "Good Lord!" said Maurice. "Is the prop- 
 erty entailed?" 
 
 "Yes, sir! And, anyhow, Phil was the only 
 child he had — and there's nobody else to succeed. 
 I was bound to tell you — I couldn't keep it in 
 any longer. I'm waiting for the answer to a cable 
 we sent last month; and if it comes — Scott! if it 
 comes, we shall go to London, and I shall wear 
 proper frocks and hats again, and lace, and furs, 
 
 and diamonds, and drive in the Park, and " 
 
 She had risen at the thought, her dark eyes shin- 
 ing with excitement, and she paused with a morti- 
 fied laugh: "I look like lace and diamonds to- 
 night, don't I?" she said bitterly. "Where's my 
 drink? Have another, and wish us luck!" 
 
 "What's the principal doubt?" he said; "why 
 shouldn't an answer come? Isn't your husband 
 in correspondence with his father?" 
 
 "It was stipulated that there should be no cor- 
 respondence when Phil was shipped off. He
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 19 
 
 wrote once, about five years ago, just after we 
 came out here; but he didn't get any answer, 
 and he has never written since." 
 
 "But you say the old man hadn't come into 
 the property five years ago ; the property'll make 
 a difference." 
 
 "Yes, that's why we hope he mayn't be so 
 vindictive now. And our cable would have 
 thawed stone. I say 'ours,' but of course Sir 
 Noel doesn't know anything about me. We 
 couldn't have many words because of the ex- 
 pense, but they were such touching words; Phil 
 did laugh! Do you think it looks bad that we 
 haven't heard yet?" 
 
 "Has there been time for a reply?" 
 
 "Not by letter, no — that's only due by this 
 mail — but he could have cabled; he could have 
 cabled the money, and we should have been on 
 the sea by now, and Phil wouldn't have caught 
 camp-fever! But then he's mean — Phil says he 
 was always mean — a draft would be so much 
 cheaper; Phil didn't expect a cable. Listen — 
 he's awake ! Wait a moment, I'll see if you can 
 go in." 
 
 She hurried into the bedroom, and through the 
 open door Maurice could hear her say: "Well, 
 you've been asleep. Let me turn the pillow for 
 you."
 
 20 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 The other tones were indistinct. 
 
 So Jardine was the son of a baronet — the in- 
 telligence had been rather startling — and, sup- 
 plying the dots and crosses, he had done some- 
 thing dishonest in the past? Well, so many men 
 had! and the remembrance didn't seem to haunt 
 them much. "Remorse" was what the well- 
 meaning attributed to the unscrupulous, to con- 
 sole you for their success — an invention of the 
 optimists, to restore the balance! And it had 
 happened ages ago, and nobody had known. If 
 he recovered, Jardine would doubtless go home 
 now, and lounge in the club windows, and admire 
 the prospect of twenty thousand a year. What a 
 life was awaiting him; how incredible a change! 
 
 The sick man's thoughts were evidently flow- 
 ing in the same channel, and on a sudden his 
 voice reached the parlour thinly: 
 
 "Cable to the governor," he was saying; "cable 
 to the governor. Nearly eighty, and lived them 
 all out! . . . Twenty thousand a year, what a 
 splash! . . . My God! . . . Can't take it with 
 him! Rosa, where's Rosa? Why don't you send 
 the cable?" 
 
 "Yes, old boy, I'm here. The cable has gone; 
 it's all right." 
 
 Then for a few seconds there was a low mut- 
 tering, which sank to silence.
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 21 
 
 * 
 
 After some minutes had passed, the woman re- 
 appeared in the doorway, with her finger to her 
 lips, and Maurice rose cautiously to meet her 
 whisper. 
 
 "He's going off again; he was delirious — I 
 think I'd better stop there." 
 
 "Good-night, then," he murmured; "I'll come 
 in to-morrow." 
 
 She nodded. "Yes, come to-morrow. Good- 
 night." 
 
 She let him out as noiselessly as she could, 
 and he stole across the stoep on tiptoe into the 
 street.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 At sunset the following evening rain began to 
 fall, and it fell in floods. Kimberley was inac- 
 cessible; the horses of the Cape carts, making 
 for shelter, were swept off their feet, and a boiler 
 outside Tarry's was washed down the sluit. For- 
 ty-eight hours had passed when Maurice reached 
 the cottage in Lennox Street again ; and the col- 
 oured girl, who chopped the wood, and did the 
 cooking, was leaving for home. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Blake, sir, it's all over — he's gone!" 
 she faltered, stopping. 
 
 Partially prepared though he had been to hear 
 it, there was still the shock. He whitened a lit- 
 tle, and strove to disguise that he was moved. 
 
 "Where's your missis?" he said. "Can I see 
 her?" 
 
 "She's inside," answered the girl; and Maurice 
 pushed past her and entered. 
 
 The lamp had not been lighted, and for the 
 first instant he thought the parlour was empty. 
 Then he went forward, with his hand out- 
 stretched. 
 
 22
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 23 
 
 "What can I say?" he said. "You under- 
 stand; don't you?" 
 
 The woman lifted her face from the sofa where 
 she was lying, and he could see even in the 
 shadow that she was disfigured with weeping. 
 
 "He died yesterday afternoon," she said un- 
 steadily. "How did you hear?" 
 
 "The servant just told me. I — I'm so sorry. 
 ... If I'm not too late, you must let me do what 
 has to be done," he continued after a pause. 'You 
 haven't anybody to turn to here." 
 
 "Not here nor anywhere else!" she said, rais- 
 ing herself slowly. "Light the lamp, will you? 
 I can't see where anything is." 
 
 He did as she wished, and sought awkwardly 
 for some phrase of consolation. The despair in 
 her manner perturbed him, for he had never cred- 
 ited her with the devotion that would explain it, 
 and he was doubtful whether he was asked to 
 attribute it to the loss of her husband, or the loss 
 of her expectations. Her tone when she spoke 
 next relieved him. 
 
 "Look," she said, pointing to an envelope on 
 the mantelpiece; "the mail is in. I sent the girl 
 to the post-office to-day, and his father had writ- 
 ten ! He sends a hundred pounds and wants him 
 back. Look!" 
 
 She thrust the envelope into his hands and he
 
 24 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 read the contents. The note that accompanied 
 the draft — it could not be called a letter — was a 
 little formal, he thought, even in the circum- 
 stances, a little stilted: the note of an old man; 
 but it was not unkindly couched. The heading 
 — Croft Court, Oakenhurst, Surrey — suggested 
 vague splendours to his mind. 
 
 "That's rough," he said, returning the papers. 
 "And it came too late for your husband to know !" 
 
 She made a movemnet of impatience. "Phil 
 wouldn't have known even if the mail had come 
 in vesterdav; he w-as unconscious for hours be- 
 fore he died. Rough? Why, yes, it's pretty 
 rough, isn't it? If the money had been cabled, 
 or if we had only cabled a month before we did 
 
 Well, it's no good talking about that! — we 
 
 cabled as soon as we happened to read the news 
 — that's not what I blame myself for." 
 
 "What then?" he said; "what can you blame 
 yourself for, Mrs. Jardine?" 
 
 She made no answer. She began to wander 
 about the room, her handkerchief bitten between 
 her teeth. 
 
 "You won't be penniless," he said. "His fa- 
 ther will do something for vou. If he was ready 
 to make it up with his son, he'll hardly turn his 
 back on the widow. He won't let you starve, 
 Mrs. Jardine."
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 25 
 
 "I wish you wouldn't keep calling me that," 
 she burst out: "it's not mv name! Call me Mrs. 
 Fleming. I'm Rosa Fleming, that's what my 
 name is! . . . Now do you see?" 
 
 "Oh, remarked Maurice, "yes, I see. That 
 makes it rougher." 
 
 "Phil was going to marry me," she went on 
 vehemently; "if he'd lived, he'd have married 
 me! I could have been his wife a year ago if 
 I'd liked — two years ago — but I didn't care; 
 there was no reason for it; what did it matter 
 then? Oh, if I could have seen ahead! What a 
 fool I was ! what a fool, what a fool ! And now, 
 I tell you, he'd have married me if he'd got well ; 
 and I should have been Lady Jardine soon. And 
 he dies, he dies, just when he's wanted, after I've 
 stuck to him for years!" She stood still, and 
 seemed to try to repress her excitement. "Have 
 you got any courage?" she said. He looked an 
 inquiry. "Have you got any courage?" she re- 
 peated. "I've something to propose to you. I 
 don't suppose for a moment that you'll do it ; but 
 don't cry out that it's 'impossible' when I tell 
 you ! I've been thinking of it all day, and it isn't 
 impossible ; it's as easy as falling off a log. Will 
 you go back to England in Phil's place?" 
 
 "Willi ?" He sat staring at her. "How?"
 
 26 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 . . . But he saw how. The consciousness that it 
 might be done was throbbing in him. 
 
 "Who would have any suspicion?" she said 
 eagerly; "you know how much alike you were! 
 Do you think, after twenty-three years, an old 
 man who is expecting him — who is expecting 
 him, mind you — is going to tell the difference?" 
 
 "The old man isn't everyone," he murmured; 
 "there'd be some relation, with hopes, who 
 wouldn't be satisfied so easily. . . . Besides, I've 
 always run straight. Leaving the risk aside, I 
 — I've always run straight." 
 
 "Haven't I told you that there isn't any rela- 
 tion to succeed him? Oh, if you won't do it, say 
 so at once, but for heaven's sake don't argue. I 
 know! I know that the father is the only rela- 
 tive Phil had alive — I know it for a fact. There 
 is no earthly reason why you should be doubted. 
 I don't think that either of you ever realised how 
 great the likeness was. Did I show you that 
 article on 'people with doubles'? They were cele- 
 brated people, with the names of the doubles un- 
 der their pictures. There wasn't a case of a 
 stronger resemblance than yours to Phil, not one ! 
 He was stouter than you, his nose widened more, 
 there was some grey in his beard; but the shape 
 of your foreheads, of your faces, the colour of 
 your eyes, and the way they were set, all the
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 27 
 
 points that matter were the same. If you had 
 trimmed your beards and done your hair the same 
 way, I believe you could have passed for one an- 
 other anvwhere. If the old man saw no likeness 
 in you to the boy he remembers at nineteen, he 
 would have doubted Phil himself!" 
 
 He did not speak ; he sat smoking furiously. 
 
 "I can tell you everything," she said, pacing 
 the room again; "I know all his life. If I had 
 never heard it before, I should have heard it all 
 a hundred times over in the last month. After 
 we read of the succession, he talked of nothing 
 else. Hour after hour he has sat where you are 
 sitting now, and maundered about his boyhood. 
 I can tell you about his cousin Guy who was 
 drowned, and his cousin Minnie that he was in 
 love with ; and that Minnie married a civil engi- 
 neer, and went to Canada, and died in Montreal. 
 I can tell you about the row with his father when 
 he was expelled from school, and another row 
 when he ran away from home, and pawned the 
 watch that his father had left at a jeweller's to 
 be cleaned; and that his father engaged a tutor 
 for him, and dismissed the tutor — who was called 
 Benson — because he found out that Benson and 
 Phil used to go on the spree together. I — good- 
 ness, what couldn't I tell you!"
 
 28 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 "Could you tell me what he did," said the man, 
 "that his father washed his hands of him?" 
 
 "No," she admitted, "that I don't know quite; 
 he was never explicit about that." 
 
 "So it must have been bad. I should be taking 
 a name that has been disgraced." 
 
 "But it was kept quiet," she put in quickly; 
 "I do know that. It was between his father and 
 him. Not a soul heard — I can swear it!" 
 
 "You mean he swore it. But he may have 
 
 " He remembered suddenly that Jardine lay 
 
 in the next room dead, and checked himself. "It 
 mayn't have been true," he added. 
 
 "Why should he have deceived me about it? 
 There was no motive: it made no difference to 
 me one way or the other. No, if his father hadn't 
 hushed the thing up, I think Phil would have 
 been rather glad to say so; he Mas always glad 
 to say as much against his father as he could." 
 
 He knocked the ashes from his pipe, and re- 
 filled it, and she watched him till the tobacco was 
 fairly aglow. 
 
 "Anyhow," he demurred again, "his father 
 knew! I should be in the dark about the princi- 
 pal event." 
 
 "Is it likely that Phil would have referred to 
 it himself if he'd gone back? If anybody raked
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 29 
 
 it up, it would be Sir Noel. It wouldn't be diffi- 
 cult to make appropriate answers." 
 
 "You say there were no relations," he said 
 meditatively; "but there are other people. There 
 must be lawyers, friends, servants, half a hun- 
 dred people who knew him before he went 
 abroad?" 
 
 "Before he was nineteen! And there would be 
 very few. Remember that his father wasn't Sir 
 Noel then. He lived in a house in Adelaide Road 
 — if you know where that is — and never dreamt 
 of anything better. And Phil was away at school 
 most of the time, too. Even if any old friends 
 visit the Baronet, there can hardly be one that 
 it would need much nerve to face. Oh!" she ex- 
 claimed, "how can you hesitate? Think what it 
 is: Croft Court and everything to be yours — 
 yours! Do you grasp what it means? I tell you 
 I can post you up in every detail enough for a 
 witness-box, far more than enough for what's re- 
 quired. It's so simple, there's nothing to be done. 
 You haven't to turn anyone out, there's nobody 
 to fight your claim — it isn't like the Tichborne 
 case. Why, if it's necessary I can declare that 
 I've known you as 'Philip Jardine' for the last 
 ten years!" 
 
 "I wouldn't do that if I were you," he said; 
 "it wouldn't be convincing, and you'd be wise to
 
 30 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 take your share of the loot, and not show in the 
 matter at all. . . . If anything went wrong then, 
 it would all fall on me, and you wouldn't he in- 
 dicted for conspiracy. What is it you suggest?" 
 
 She flashed a glance of appreciation. "Do you 
 mean what share? Give me a quarter, and a 
 chance to make as good a match as Phil would 
 have been! That's all I want. A quarter of 
 everything as long as I live, and to be introduced 
 into society." Her tongue dwelt lovingly on the 
 word. "Is it fair?" 
 
 'Yes, I should think it would be quite fair," 
 he said, "if I committed the fraud. Well, I'll 
 think about it. You don't expect me to say more 
 than that to-night?" 
 
 She had not originally expected that he would 
 say so much, nor had he ; he trembled as he real- 
 ised the enormitv of his defection. Yet the sen- 
 sation was exhilarating rather than unpleasant. 
 He perceived with a vague self -wonder that the 
 reluctance he felt was due, less to the horror of 
 dishonesty, which he had always believed uncon- 
 querable, than to a sentimental aversion from 
 profiting by the other man's loss. He was also 
 aware that he was combating the reluctance. 
 Then the recollection pierced him that he had 
 offered to arrange for the burial, and in the mo- 
 ment that the thought came, all desire to em-
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 31 
 
 brace her suggestion fell from him. He was 
 thrilled by the hideousness of the course that he 
 had contemplated and tried to believe that he had 
 been guilty of nothing but a temporary aberra- 
 tion. With great difficulty he forced himself to 
 approach the subject of the interment, and his 
 relief was intense when he heard that nothing 
 remained for him to do. 
 
 "Would you care to see him before you go?" 
 inquired the woman in a low voice. 
 
 He did not know how she could ask him such 
 a question ; he shook his head and shuddered. It 
 seemed to her rather brutal of him. But men 
 were like that ! For herself, the bitterness, which 
 had had its birth in her despair, had faded as the 
 despair decreased, and she could think of Jar- 
 dine's faults with pity. 
 
 Maurice took leave of her, and went back to 
 Clacy's Hotel, and pondered. Before he slept the 
 day was breaking, and when he made his way to 
 Bultfontein he felt but half awake. The con- 
 versation of the preceding evening seemed to 
 have occurred a long while ago, and in the raw 
 light the proposal no longer dazzled him nor 
 looked feasible. It was only as the hours wore 
 by that the spell reasserted itself in part. He 
 was not considering acquiescence now, but the 
 thought that he might acquiesce if he would
 
 32 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 lifted some of the despondence from his heart. 
 As he stood watching the rising and falling of 
 the niggers' picks in the burning glare of the sun, 
 a touch of buoyancy was communicated to his 
 mood by the knowledge that the chance was there. 
 It was there. Release was possible if he chose 
 to accept it. It was in his own power to be done 
 with all this to-morrow, to-day! He might turn 
 from this grey waste of ground, if he would, and 
 never look on it again. He could go to England, 
 to prosperity, to a life of pleasure, at the risk 
 
 of Yes, at the risk of penal servitude! But 
 
 the probability of detection was not very great, 
 he opined; he knew that it was not fear of ex- 
 posure that was deterring him, but the fear of 
 his own conscience. He would be a swindler! 
 No! he was beside himself to consider the pros- 
 pect. . . . 
 
 Yet he could go if he would! And there was 
 no heir to the property ; he wouldn't be wronging 
 anyone — only the Crown, something impersonal, 
 an abstraction. If he failed, he would pay the 
 penalty of his act; and if he succeeded, the suf- 
 fering, should there be any, would be his, too. 
 What duty was owed to anyone but himself in 
 the matter? Did he owe anything to the com- 
 munity — the "community" that meant a multi- 
 tude of self-centred individuals amongst whom
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 33 
 
 he had starved, the community that was as a wall 
 of indifference against which he had beaten his 
 hands until they bled? He might have grasped 
 ease and risen beyond the reach of this tempta- 
 tion, if the guiding principles of the community 
 had been his own — if he had walked through 
 muddy waters, and climbed dirty ladders, and 
 sacrificed his scruples to expedience! 
 
 But "no," and again "no" ! The day dragged 
 on, and the sun sank behind the sorting-shed, and 
 he tramped along the dusty road once more, still 
 telling himself that he would not do it. He told 
 - himself so as he ate his dinner amid the badinage 
 of the overseers and the cocknev's wife and 
 daughter; and he said it while the riot of their 
 laughter reached him after he had sought peace 
 
 in his room. He would not do it; and vet 
 
 His yearning shook him, and he caught his 
 breath. . . . 
 
 He remembered that Mrs. Fleming was wait- 
 ing for his answer; he would not go to her until 
 he had decided! If he refused, his refusal must 
 be steadfast, proof against persuasion. If he 
 agreed, he would agree because it was his will. 
 There should be no reproach attaching to her 
 afterwards for having overruled him. He would 
 do the thing of his own determination ; doggedly
 
 34 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 — saying "yes" because he had meant to say 
 "yes"; choosing his path, and taking it. 
 
 She was waiting for him in suspense. Jardine 
 had been buried that afternoon, and as she paced 
 the parlour, she was questioning if the name on 
 the coffin had put an obstacle in the way of the 
 scheme. The thought frightened her; but it was 
 not an uncommon name, and no one had known 
 him. He would be one stranger more who had 
 dropped out of the bars, that was all. Left or 
 dead; nobody would inquire, or comment on his 
 absence. Surely it couldn't matter? The fever 
 of her inspiration had passed, and she felt feeble ; 
 she felt that she wanted a man's mind to lean 
 on now, someone who would conduct the affair 
 for her, and be authoritative and sanguine. She 
 recalled men who would have shown their best 
 qualities in such a situation. 
 
 Would Blake consent? If he were afraid, 
 what should she do with herself? She had been 
 in equal straits more than once, and she looked 
 back at them for encouragement, but the woman 
 seemed somebody else ; she wondered how she had 
 been so brave. She saw dimly the time when she 
 had lived on fifteen shillings a week in Islington, 
 and worn a fashionable frock, which did not be- 
 long to her, in the race-scene at a theatre. She 
 had been seventeen then, and life was all before
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 35 
 
 her. Though she was only one of the "extra 
 girls," Fleming had married her. Poor Harry! 
 If he had lived, perhaps he would have been a 
 
 big actor to-day, and she ? She had been so 
 
 helpless, left without money in New York. What 
 memories! The situation in the cigar-store on 
 Third Avenue . . . her own flat in East Thir- 
 teenth Street, where the first fiats in New York 
 had just been built. That was in '67, and she was 
 twenty years old. O beautiful time when she was 
 twenty! If only she had known as much as she 
 knew now! . . . Travel; at her wits' end in 
 Caracas- — the result of a caprice. . . . California, 
 Phil. What her life had held! Was it all to be- 
 gin again? Here, in this desert at the world's 
 end? She was no longer so young, and then she 
 had not been dashed from the summit of expecta- 
 tion. All of her past emotions that were vivid 
 to her were those of the last month, the daily, 
 hourly thought of wealth and position. In fancy 
 she had lived in Mayfair, and bought dresses and 
 jewels, and entered ballrooms, holding her head 
 high among the best women in England. She 
 had foretasted their envy, and the admiration of 
 the men. The scent of the flowers had been in 
 her nostrils, and she had seen the lights, and 
 heard her carriage called. And now there .was
 
 36 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 nothing, and she was left like Cinderella in her 
 rags ! 
 
 It was ten o'clock when a Cape cart stopped 
 outside the cottage. She ran to the door. Mau- 
 rice sprang out, and came into the room quickly. 
 His face was white, and his voice quivered a 
 little. "I'll do it!" he said. 
 
 She gave a gasp of relief, and hegan to cry, 
 and he took her hands and told her that they 
 were going to succeed, and that she musn't break 
 down now that it was settled. Then he made her 
 drink some whisky, and swallowed some himself, 
 and she uttered her misgiving. 
 
 'You won't have a stone on the grave," he said, 
 "you wouldn't be able to pay for one in any case; 
 and you needn't publish an announcement of the 
 death. There's nothing in the rest. Where is 
 the draft? I shall have to endorse that." 
 
 She drew it from her pocket, and he read it 
 again : 
 
 " 'At sight — Philip Noel Jardine — one hun- 
 dred pounds.' I'll bring you the money as soon 
 as I get it." 
 
 "Will your writing do?" she asked anxiously. 
 "I had forgotten your having to sign." 
 
 "The bank doesn't know his signature, does 
 it?"
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 37 
 
 "Oh, no," she exclaimed; "I'm losing my 
 head!" 
 
 "Well, if there's any difficulty about the hand- 
 writing, it won't be here — it will be afterwards, 
 when we're in England. But we depend on the 
 likeness — that's what we're pinning our faith to. 
 If there was as strong a likeness as we think, 
 we needn't worry much about anything else." 
 
 His composure had returned, and the coolness 
 with which he found himself able to calculate 
 probabilities, now that his resolution had been 
 made, seemed strange to him. They talked till 
 late. Jardine had taken the cottage, furnished, 
 for six months, on his arrival, and the final pay- 
 ment was due. It was arranged that on the mor- 
 row Rosa should see the agent and satisfy his 
 claim. But the cost of a passage to England was 
 large, and the remittance had been designed for 
 only one person ; therefore ways and means were 
 a serious consideration. They must not land 
 without a few pounds in their pockets; after 
 reaching London the man would proceed to Sur- 
 rey, and the woman must have money to stay at 
 some little hotel in town while she awaited assist- 
 ance from him. On the steamer, and wherever 
 it was possible, they would have to travel second- 
 class. 
 
 "And there are the last two visits of the doc-
 
 38 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 tor," she said; "there are the doctor and the un- 
 dertaker, besides the rent. And there's the girl! 
 there's a pound due to her. Is it necessary to 
 settle with everyone, do you think?" 
 
 "I would, if I were you," he said. "I've saved 
 a tenner, and if we go at once, I shall have some- 
 thing left out of this week's screw — oh, I should 
 pay up !" He did not perceive the anomaly, but 
 he was embarking on a gigantic fraud, and the 
 idea of not "paying up" was repugnant to him. 
 
 The next day was Saturday, and his wages 
 would be forthcoming at two o'clock. But, if he 
 waited till two o'clock the bank would have closed 
 before he reached it. Even if he authorised an- 
 other overseer to collect the wages, he would not 
 be able to reach the bank soon enough, unless he 
 left the floors surreptitiously during the morning. 
 He wouldn't do that, so he-did not cash the draft 
 until Monday. 
 
 It was his first keen pang — and the first time 
 that he had been inside a bank for years. The 
 clerk made the stereotyped inquiry, and he "took 
 it" in ten-pound notes. Nobody noticed him when 
 he passed into Main Street, and he was vaguely 
 surprised that he didn't look conspicuous: he had 
 come out a thief. His life of struggle, and his 
 day and night's resistance were now as nothing; 
 the plunge had been made !
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 39 
 
 He went with the money to Mrs. Fleming im- 
 mediately, and in the afternoon she drove out to 
 the agent's. On the way back she stopped at a 
 draper's, and bought a yard of black ribbon to 
 twist in the place of the red roses that she was 
 wearing in her hat. Some sign of mourning! in 
 a white frock she would not feel heartless. Sud- 
 denly it struck her that if Maurice's linen bore 
 his initials, they must be altered; and on her re- 
 turn she cried to him that the oversight might 
 have ruined all their plans. It was a disappoint- 
 ment to her to hear that the point had already 
 occurred to him, but that the only marks his linen 
 had borne for at least a decade were the hiero- 
 glyphics sewn upon it by the laundress. 
 
 Maurice engaged two second-class berths in 
 the name of "Mrs. Fleming" and "Philip Jar- 
 dine," and their preparations were made with 
 haste. There was then a six days' journey by a 
 ramshackle coach before the railway was reached, 
 and three mornings later, while the dust blew 
 down Stockdale Street in clouds, he and she were 
 among the twelve passengers who started for the 
 Colony. 
 
 To both the man and woman that journey 
 seemed eternal. Their one engrossing thought 
 could not be spoken, and there was little con- 
 versation to divert them. Hour after hour they
 
 40 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 jolted over the barren plains in silence. Often 
 the bones of a horse lay bleached by the road- 
 side, picked by the vultures; sometimes a herd 
 of springbok bounded from their approach in 
 fear. Opposite Maurice an elderly Boer whit- 
 tled biltong almost incessantly, stuffing it into 
 his mouth with filthy fingers; and indeed there 
 were few opportunities for anyone to wash. The 
 squalid houses were far apart, and the accom- 
 modation provided for the travellers was barely 
 possible. Occasionally nothing remained to eat 
 but what the inmates had just left upon the table 
 — some stiffening stew, and sour, brown bread, 
 and rancid butter. Once, when the mules had 
 just been outspanned, and rolled on their backs 
 in the dust, Maurice drew near to her. Thev 
 were for the moment alone, and he was athirst 
 to hear their project voiced. Temporarily, how- 
 ever, her meditations had taken another turn, and 
 all she said was, "Do I look very dirty?" At 
 night they tried to snatch a few hours' sleep in 
 the hovels — the women sometimes outside a bed, 
 and the men below, stretched on their rugs on the 
 floor; but their rest was brief, and the shout of 
 the driver wakened them to gulp scalding coffee, 
 and jolt away, across the veldt again, through the 
 dawn. 
 
 At last Beaufort West and the luxury of a
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 41 
 
 railway-compartment was reached; and after a 
 day and a night in the train, Maurice and she 
 drove out of the Cape Town station. 
 
 On the steamer, discussion of their scheme was 
 practicable, and they rarely talked of anything 
 else. She had not exaggerated when she declared 
 that she could furnish him with a host of particu- 
 lars of the career of the man whose character he 
 was assuming; and though most of them per- 
 tained to the period of her acquaintance with 
 Jardine, and were not calculated to gratify his 
 father, those that had reference to his boyhood 
 were numerous too. Maurice felt that if he were 
 accepted on his entry, he would be secure. 
 
 He had made his choice, and when a qualm 
 came — for qualms did come, though he would not 
 let her know it — he repeated the fact. He had 
 made his choice — and deliberately, in possession 
 of all his senses. He had no excuse to humour 
 his conscience now! Even if he were to break 
 the compact and refuse to proceed any further 
 with the undertaking, he would still have stolen; 
 he would not be honest again, he would only be 
 a coward. He had never pitied the criminals 
 who canted after they had committed the deed. 
 He strove to put compunction from him as reso- 
 lutely as he had striven to put away temptation. 
 When you had taken a hand, you played it out;
 
 42 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 if you couldn't afford the game, you shouldn't 
 have sat down! Nor save in moments did he 
 regret the step. 
 
 Far more frequent than moments of regret 
 were those of passionate foretaste. The woman 
 had seen herself "Lady Jardine," but the man's 
 imagination seldom extended an equal distance. 
 It intoxicated him enough to picture himself in 
 the position of the heir. Almost he was sorry 
 that a title was in question. Money was all he 
 wanted; if Sir Noel had been a stockbroker and 
 lived in a West-central square, the situation 
 would have been easier to conceive. "Croft 
 Court" rang rather alarmingly; what w r ere such 
 places like? His only idea of them had been 
 gathered from the illustrated papers. He be- 
 lieved them to lie behind gates bearing heraldic 
 devices of deep significance. Good heavens, 
 would he be expected to understand heraldry? 
 
 Vet success would give him this Croft Court 
 for his own one day, and twenty thousand a year! 
 As the steamer throbbed on and he watched the 
 wide glitter of the sea, he tried to realise what 
 it would mean. Ten would have conveyed as 
 much to him; thirty would have dazzled him no 
 more. Twenty thousand a year, less Rosa Flem- 
 ing's share! Drunk with excitement, and behold- 
 ing in fancy the fulfilment of all that he had
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 43 
 
 ached for, he was not spending half of such a 
 rent-roll, and he knew it. He could not con- 
 jecture what he would do with wealth like that, 
 what anybody could do with it; it looked limit- 
 less. He saw luxury, extravagance, wild months 
 in the gayest of the capitals, costly presents to 
 beautiful women — but fifteen thousand a year to 
 squander as he pleased! To contemplate it diz- 
 zied him. 
 
 The weeks lagged heavily, and his suspense 
 grew almost intolerable. He was on fire to ar- 
 rive, to put his effrontery to the test, to know 
 that he had won or lost. It appeared to him 
 that the voyage had occupied months, and the 
 monotonous pulsations of the engines that he 
 could not accelerate by a single beat became mad- 
 dening to him. 
 
 The last of the stoppages until Plymouth was 
 reached occurred at Madeira; but the fares did 
 not include free railway-tickets, and to Rosa and 
 him the passage would end only with the London 
 docks. 
 
 It was on a dull afternoon that they were in 
 sight, and as the vessel floated alongside the quay, 
 his throat tightened. She and he leant with 
 others over the taffrail; like him she was very 
 pale. The crowd about them were looking 
 eagerly for expected faces, and from a group
 
 44 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 ashore a cheer came up; it seemed to her a good 
 omen. 
 
 "I'm glad of that!" she said. "Have you got 
 the wire?" 
 
 He nodded; he was telegraphing to the Baro- 
 net. He had written: "With you this evening 
 —Phil." 
 
 "We're near the crisis now!" she murmured. 
 
 "Yes," he said. 
 
 There were the final delays, and then the gang- 
 way was made fast, and they stood in England, 
 waiting for their luggage to be swung down. 
 When they were free to depart they rattled to a 
 private hotel in Bloomsbury that had been ad- 
 vertised in the ship's copy of the "A.B.C.," and 
 here the woman elected to remain for the present. 
 
 The next train to Oakenhurst was found to 
 leave Waterloo at 5.15, and, as he had plenty of 
 time to spare, they ordered a meal for two in 
 the dreary coffee-room, where they were the only 
 visitors. 
 
 The fire had burnt low, and the room was very 
 chillv. A huskv waiter brought them an over- 
 cooked steak, and they sat at the table by the 
 window, talking desultorily, while dusk gathered 
 in the street. When Maurice had promised re- 
 peatedly that at the earliest moment possible she 
 'should hear what happened, their pauses were
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 45 
 
 very frequent; all that they could say yet had 
 been said so often. 
 
 Nevertheless, after a hansom had been stopped 
 and he had got inside, their eyes met as if both 
 were conscious that it was only words that were 
 lacking. She had gone to the door with him, and 
 then followed him to the kerb. 
 
 "You won't forget to send a quarter of the 
 money," she whispered, "as soon as you get some? 
 Remember this won't be enough for the week's 
 bill!" 
 
 "A quarter of everything! depend on me. Are 
 you sure it satisfies you?" 
 
 "Give me a quarter of all you get, and I'll 
 end a duchess!" she said. "Luck!" 
 
 "Luck!" he said; and the cab sped away into 
 the roar. 
 
 He looked out at London and realised that he 
 was here. The figures in the streets could still 
 be distinguished, for the tradesmen had not low- 
 ered their shutters yet. It was London, with its 
 shining shops, its moving multitude. The brutal 
 black city was fair in his sight, even as Friday's 
 sister would have been fair to Crusoe. The best 
 of it might be his at last! ... By audacity and 
 deceit? Well — he set his teeth — they were the 
 weapons of the world, and it had been the world 
 against him!
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 Since the change of trains at six o'clock, the 
 journey had been painfully slow, and now he 
 glanced at the name on the white board again, 
 to assure himself that he had actually arrived. 
 Across the palings of the little gravelled station 
 the view was dark and dispiriting, and after two 
 labourers had crossed the line, he, and the youth 
 who took his ticket, had the platform to them- 
 selves. No conveyance was waiting, the youth 
 said firmly, but it was conceded, in colloquy with 
 a companion who answered to "Hi, Jock," that 
 a trap might be obtained. 
 
 Croft Court was about two miles distant, and 
 Oakenhurst — or as much of it as the few widely- 
 divided lamps permitted Maurice to see from the 
 trap — looked forlorn. The place seemed to him 
 to consist of long black roads, punctuated by 
 the glimmer of saddened ale-houses. 
 
 It had often occurred to him that he might 
 address the wrong man as "Father," if any other 
 were present, and he was considering the possi- 
 bility of the blunder again when the lodge gates 
 were reached. He reverted to the conviction that 
 
 46
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 4.7 
 
 the Baronet would desire to be alone at such a 
 time, but in the drive through the long avenue 
 his heart beat thickly. He had been unprepared 
 for the size of the house, and the appearance of 
 the dim quadrangle staggered him. The driver 
 pulled up at an entrance that suggested a mon- 
 astery; and when Maurice was admitted, before 
 the bell ceased clanging, his glimpse of the in- 
 terior startled him almost as much as the ap- 
 proach. 
 
 An instant, however, sufficed to show him that 
 it was a servant who had hastened to the door. 
 
 "Where's Sir Noel?" he said. "Tell him I'm 
 here — say 'his son' !" 
 
 He strode inside as he spoke ; and then he saw, 
 in the great wainscoted hall, with its Gobelins 
 tapestries — which were strange to him — and its 
 antlers, and its helmets, and its breast-plates, a 
 frail, old man in a frock-coat, who peered eagerly 
 at his face. 
 
 "Father!" cried Maurice; and the old man 
 came forward, with extended hand. 
 
 "Philip," he said, "is it Philip? Well, well!" 
 He stood gazing at him wonderingly. "Philip, I 
 shouldn't have known you! . . . And yet — 
 y-e-s, yes, I can — I can see. ... So Philip has 
 come back!" His tone changed to one of quick 
 impatience. "Well, well, well, don't let us stand
 
 48 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 here, come into the room! Where's Cope? Take 
 Mr. Philip's things, Cope — Mr. Philip's things!" 
 
 Maurice drew a deep breath, and followed. 
 The table was laid for dinner, and in the grate, 
 between two life-size marble figures, which his 
 mythology did not enable him to identify, a fire 
 was roaring. He warmed his hands before he 
 spoke. 
 
 "I'm glad to see you again," he said. 'You 
 have changed, too; it's a long time since I went 
 away." 
 
 The old man nodded. 
 
 "Twenty-three years," he said. "A long time 
 — yes, a long time! You wouldn't have recog- 
 nised me, I suppose?" 
 
 "Oh, Lord, yes, I should have recognised you," 
 said Maurice; "and how are you? all right in your 
 health?" 
 
 "So, so," said Sir Noel, adjusting his pince- 
 nez, and examining him; "I — I am not a young 
 man, you know ; but I am all right excepting for 
 a bronchial cough. Well, well, well, what do you 
 stand for? Why don't you sit down? You must 
 be hungry, eh? — dinner'll be ready directly. I 
 expected you in time for dinner, but if you had 
 said what train you had chosen, I would have 
 sent the carriage to meet you. Why didn't you 
 telegraph what train?"
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 49 
 
 "I hadn't seen the time-table when I wired; 
 I wired you from the docks." 
 
 "So I saw, yes — that is another thing! why 
 the docks — why didn't you land at Plymouth? 
 I remitted a hundred pounds; surely a hundred 
 pounds was enough?" 
 
 "It would have been enough if I hadn't been 
 in difficulties on the Fields. I was in a pretty 
 tight corner there — you may have gathered that 
 from my cable?" 
 
 "It is astonishing," said the old man, musingly 
 — "the difference in you, I mean. Your voice 
 has grown so strong, and you are so big. You 
 are no longer a boy, Philip — you are no longer 
 a boy! . . . What were you saying? Yes, yes 
 — your cable. I was very glad to get your cable. 
 I had already written to you, but my letter was 
 returned by the post-office." 
 
 "You had written to me? Where?" 
 
 "To the farm, the ostrich farm; I couldn't 
 guess that you had left it! I was going to take 
 steps to find you — I was about to advertise for 
 you — when your cable came." 
 
 "I see," said Maurice. "The farm turned out 
 badly ; it was a big mistake for me to try the busi- 
 ness. I went into partnership with a man who 
 pretended to know all about it, but I don't think 
 he knew much more than I did at the start; he
 
 50 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 bought his experience with my money. Then I 
 went up to the Fields. I didn't write to you when 
 I gave the farm up because I didn't think you 
 wanted any correspondence — you didn't answer 
 the first letter, you know." 
 
 "Oh, yes!" said Sir Noel, "you are quite wrong. 
 I did answer your letter; I was very glad to re- 
 ceive it — it gave me great pleasure. You didn't 
 get my answer?" 
 
 "No, indeed I never got it! it went astray then. 
 Your second letter, of course, arrived after I had 
 gone, but I ought to have had the first. I've 
 never had a line from you, till this note with the 
 draft, since I left England." 
 
 The old man tapped his fingers on the arm of 
 the chair. "I had hoped that you would write 
 to me from Melbourne," he said slowly, "when 
 I was obliged to discontinue your allowance. It 
 was not my fault. It was explained to you that 
 I could not help it. You knew that the Bar was 
 never a large income to me, and there was no 
 prospect of my succession for me to raise money 
 on. When my dividends ceased, I was in great 
 trouble — very great trouble — for a long while. 
 I hoped that I should hear from my son to say 
 — to say that he was sorry." 
 
 "I wish you had!" said Maurice, sincerely. 
 "Well, I was younger then, and bitterer; that's
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 51 
 
 the only excuse I've got. I've had some tolerably 
 rough lessons since — if it's any satisfaction to you 
 to know it!" 
 
 "You have been poor, you have had a hard 
 time — and it may have done you no harm. But 
 while you have been away, there has been noth- 
 ing — nothing else, Philip?" 
 
 "I've only done one disgraceful thing in my 
 life," said Maurice; "that I can swear!" 
 
 The Baronet sighed. "There was more than 
 the one," he said, "but I know what you mean. 
 Well, what is past is past. After all you were 
 not twenty ! Many men have turned over a new 
 leaf later and made a career for themselves. You 
 have not made a career, but if you have changed 
 yours ways, you have done enough. I — I am 
 glad to believe you did not get my answer to 
 your letter ; it distressed me very much that, after 
 I had replied, the years should pass without your 
 writing again." 
 
 The soup was brought in, and they took their 
 seats at the table. The butler was the only ser- 
 vant in attendance, but for the first time since 
 he was a lad, Maurice knew a well-served dinner. 
 The surroundings, however, were too impressive 
 to be desirable to his straying gaze; the carved 
 and bracketed ceiling, supported by strange ani- 
 mals' heads, the massiveness of the furniture, and
 
 52 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 the huge, dark portraits on the walls were awe- 
 some to him. Once, as the warmth of Burgundy- 
 ran through his veins, a half-smile curved his 
 mouth; he was picturing Hosa Fleming dining 
 in the coffee-room at Bloomsbury. He must 
 telegraph to her guardedly in the morning! Poor 
 woman, she was doubtless counting the minutes 
 until she heard his news. 
 
 When thev rose, he was relieved to be led to 
 Sir Noel's room, where he found morocco arm- 
 chairs and cigars. 
 
 "I haven't congratuated you," he said; "I sup- 
 pose I may use the word 'congratulate' ? It seems 
 very queer when I look back, and remember 
 where I saw you last!" 
 
 'Yes," said Sir Noel, "it's wonderful — very 
 wonderful — that it should come to me. It is 
 something to be proud of, one of the oldest 
 baronetcies in England, eh? And yet it has come 
 rather late for me to appreciate it fully for my- 
 self. If — if your mother had lived, how happy 
 she would have been to-day ! I have often thought 
 of her since I have been here and wished that she 
 could see it with me." His head drooped pen- 
 sively. "I used to be rather glad that she was 
 dead!" 
 
 "I suppose," said Maurice, "you mean that 
 you were glad because of me?"
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 53 
 
 "Ah, I should not have said that, I — I'm sorry! 
 You must forgive me. Well, well, well, we were 
 talking of other things! There are over a hun- 
 dred farms, and the park is at least five hundred 
 acres; and the place is grand — you have no idea 
 yet. There is the room where Charles II. slept 
 before he fled, and — and the pictures are very 
 fine — Vandykes, Teniers, you will see! Then 
 there are very charming people; I cannot visit 
 much, though I have driven over to them once or 
 twice when it has been mild, but they make al- 
 lowance for my age. Whichcote — Lady Wrens- 
 fordsley's place — is close; Lady Helen, her 
 daughter, is one of the loveliest girls you have 
 ever seen. And Provand has a house here — his 
 family are down here now — and there are the 
 Saviles. Provand and I were called at the same 
 time. I remember when the dinners were a great 
 attraction to him, because of their cheapness, but 
 now he has made a big practice, and has taken 
 silk. I wish you had gone to the Bar, or had 
 been a Varsity man ! When people ask what you 
 have done abroad Well, well, you have trav- 
 elled; you never met anybody, that is all! I re- 
 member when you were a little boy, and we stayed 
 at — at — where did we stay? — when we stayed at 
 some watering-place, you took riding-lessons for 
 a few weeks, but I could not afford them for you
 
 54 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 again, and of course you forgot all you had 
 learned. They ride to hounds, you know; you 
 mustn't be out of it, you mustn't be out of it, 
 you must hunt, and shoot, and do everything! 
 The place will come to you; my son must play 
 his part, and — and be admired." 
 
 "I am afraid I shan't distinguish myself as a 
 shot; I had a gun in my hands in Kimberley for 
 the first time for years, and then there wasn't 
 any occasion to fire. But I can ride a bit; I was 
 in the North-West Police once." 
 
 "The Police?" 
 'Canadian Mounted,' you know — it sounds 
 rather well if vou roll it out!" said Maurice, 
 coolly- Nevertheless he was a trifle sorry that 
 he had let the fact slip; it was inadvisable to 
 be precise. lie wished that the real man's bio- 
 graphical details had been less disreputable. "I've 
 been a good many things," he continued: "I've 
 had to live and to put my pride in my pocket; 
 and it has often been all I had there. In New 
 York I was a reporter for six weeks. I was a 
 flat failure as a reporter. I only had one assign- 
 ment — and that settled me!" 
 
 'Assignment'?" said Sir Noel vaguely; "I 
 don't understand. Tell me; I am interested." 
 
 " 'Assignments' are the daily jobs. I was sup- 
 posed to be reporting for a News Agency. I
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 55 
 
 used to go down town every morning and open 
 a little locker to see what mission had been en- 
 trusted to me, but the locker was always empty. 
 I was a novice, you see, and the experienced 
 hands got all the work. Then I went back to 
 my room, with a book from a free library, and. 
 read ; there wasn't anything else to do. A fellow 
 had told me I might earn thirty-five dollars a 
 week at the business, but I didn't earn a cent. 
 It was rather hard lines, because the time came 
 
 when Well, it was rather hard lines! One 
 
 morning I did find a slip of paper in my locker. 
 I was instructed to interview a girl who had just 
 lost her mother. The address was in Brooklyn, 
 and it was a terrifically hot day. I was pretty 
 tired when I got there ; and I had to pay my own 
 fare, too! I had to put all sorts of questions to 
 her, you know — how old the corpse was, and 
 where it was to be buried, and what time the 
 funeral started; and then I reckoned to write at 
 least six lines of description of the 'floral offer- 
 ings' — the reporters always called the wreaths 
 'floral offerings' — and six lines, when you were 
 to be paid on the string, meant food." 
 
 "It meant food!" murmured Sir Noel. "Yes, 
 well?" 
 
 "Well, as I say, I was a failure. The girl came 
 down to me looking rather like death herself ; her
 
 56 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 eyes were awful to see, and when she asked me 
 what it was I wanted to hear, her voice wobbled. 
 So I just said that there wasn't anything at all 
 and that I was immensely sorry to have bothered 
 her. Of course I had to explain to the manager 
 why I hadn't a report when I got back; and after 
 he had had a fit, I was fired." 
 
 "Tired'?" 
 
 "Sacked. 'Fired' is American, but the process 
 is just as prompt. I was a clerk in a collateral 
 bank next — you would have called it a pawn- 
 broker's — but I only stayed there a fortnight, 
 and left with a V as capital, while I looked round 
 again; a 'V means five dollars. Oh, yes, I think 
 I've been everything, except a success, but — er — 
 I got a few hundred pounds together as the years 
 went on, or I couldn't have gone into the ostrich 
 farm. I should like another cigar!" 
 
 Whisky and potash-water had been brought 
 into the room, and he took a long draught from 
 his glass, and lit a cedar-spill with appreciative 
 deliberation. After Cape lucifers, cedar-spills 
 were good to use. 
 
 "And in Kimberley?" said Sir Noel; "when 
 you had lost your money, what did you do there? 
 •You said that the last time you held a gun was 
 in Kimberley." 
 
 "Oh, that was during the Kama Company's
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 57 
 
 row, before I found an overseer's berth. The 
 men were on strike, and they had sworn to de- 
 stroy the gear. The Company offered a pound 
 a day to fellows to come up and defend it, and 
 those who were broke, went. The rifles were pro- 
 vided — and not much else. Nobody saw soap for 
 a week. We slept on the ground, of course, and 
 there were no plates, or forks, or other luxuries. 
 When the meat was done enough, it was hooked 
 out of the cauldron with a pickaxe, and we ate it 
 in our fingers. It was a very dirty time, but not 
 in the least dangerous. We patrolled in turns at 
 night, and once there was a cry of, 'All fires out 
 — every man to his post!' but nothing happened. 
 Everyone felt very foolish, I think. At the end 
 of the week I went home and washed. And then 
 I collected six pounds, and had a dinner. I did 
 enjoy that beer — a bottle of beer costs three-and- 
 sixpence on the Fields, but it was worth the 
 money." 
 
 Sir Noel coughed, and leant his head on his 
 hand. "I do not recognise you," he said at last, 
 "you have come back so. different. But you have 
 improved. I like your tone ; it is — manly — your 
 tone suits you, Philip. I am glad you have come 
 back!" 
 
 "I'm glad to hear you say so," Maurice re- 
 turned. "I've been knocked into shape since the
 
 58 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 days you're thinking about. Experience is a bet- 
 ter tutor than Benson, you know! . . . Don't 
 you remember Benson? — after the affair at the 
 Bedford school. What an outsider the fellow 
 was, now I look back at him!" 
 
 "Yes," said Sir Noel, "I remember now. I 
 trusted him, and he deceived me." 
 
 Maurice frowned involuntarily. "And though 
 I've had a rough time, I daresay I shall be able 
 to shake down all right, with a little practice," 
 he went on. "I shan't be any good at a dance 
 as long as I live, I'm afraid, but I shall pick up 
 the rest." 
 
 "You want clothes," said Sir Xoel, "you must 
 have clothes at once; in the meantime you are im- 
 possible. We will telegraph to a tailor in the 
 morning to send a man down. Well, well, well, 
 tell me more! Go on, talk to me; I like to hear 
 you talk. Take another drink — vou are verv 
 abstemious! At my age it is necessary, but you 
 are a young man." 
 
 They sat together until eleven, and then Sir 
 Noel retired. "You won't mind if I leave you?" 
 he inquired; "I am obliged to keep early hours 
 now." 
 
 Maurice opened the door for him, and turned 
 slowly, and lit a third cigar. 
 
 W r hen it was smoked to the end he rang the
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 59 
 
 bell, and Cope showed him the way to his bed- 
 room. He sat gazing at his room, and thinking 
 again, for a long while before he undressed. Once 
 or twice he shook his mind free of his thoughts, 
 and crossed the floor curiously to examine some- 
 thing. He drew the curtains aside, and looked 
 over the park, solemn under a watery moon. Was 
 it all real? Had this thing happened in his life? 
 And clothes, clothes fashionable, with piles of 
 shirts, and a row of boots, were to be his as soon 
 as West End tradesmen could make them for 
 him! 
 
 The thought of the row of boots recurred in 
 his meditations after he was in bed, and was the 
 last vague fancy that flitted across his mind be- 
 fore he fell asleep.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 Sir Noel seldom descended before noon, and 
 when Maurice had learnt the fact and break- 
 fasted next morning, he went out. Oakenhurst 
 looked less desolate by daylight; indeed, he could 
 easily conceive that in summer it was very pretty. 
 Having walked into the village, he inquired the 
 way to the telegraph office, and there despatched 
 his message to Rosa. He telegraphed: "Found 
 my father feeble, but otherwise all right. No 
 cause for anxiety. — Philip." 
 
 After luncheon the Baronet wished to conduct 
 him through the house, but the role of guide 
 speedily fatigued the old man, and the house- 
 keeper was deputed to take his place. When 
 Maurice rejoined him, he was sitting by the fire 
 in his room, with The Times on his knees, polish- 
 ing his pince-nez with his handkerchief. He 
 looked up eagerly. 
 
 "Well?" he exclaimed. "Well, what, eh?" 
 
 "I never imagined such a place," said Maurice. 
 "I can't say any more, but I feel the greatness 
 of it right in my heart." 
 
 60
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 61 
 
 The puckered face brightened with pleasure. 
 "Everybody says so. There is nothing like it 
 here; Whichcote is quite modern in comparison 
 — you will see when they come back; they are 
 in Algiers now. I am sorry I couldn't remain 
 with you, but I soon get tired. At seventy-six 
 we are not energetic — and our sight is not so 
 strong as it used to be either!" he added, striking 
 the newspaper testily. 
 
 "You oughtn't to strain your sight ; would you 
 care for me to — to read that to vou for a little 
 while?" 
 
 Sir Noel peered at him with what seemed to 
 be a shade of incredulity. 
 
 "Would you really do it?" he said. "Are you 
 sure it wouldn't bore vou ? I am not so old that 
 I've forgotten that the elderly soon become try- 
 ing; and you — you have no need to pay me at- 
 tentions, you know." 
 
 "I'm the most selfish man that ever lived," 
 said Maurice; "if it went against the grain, I'm 
 afraid I shouldn't make the offer." 
 
 But after the reading had continued for half 
 an hour, Sir Xoel declared that there was no 
 more he wished to hear, and presently he dozed. 
 When his eyes opened, they dwelt on Maurice 
 with satisfaction, and the white head nodded 
 slowly. Then the Baronet and the impostor con-
 
 62 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 versed again, and the evening passed much as the 
 one before. 
 
 The following afternoon Maurice went up to 
 town. He had an open cheque for a hundred 
 pounds in his note-book, and from Waterloo he 
 drove to the hotel in Bloomsbury. 
 
 Mrs. Fleming was in the drawing-room, he 
 heard, and he entered unannounced. A middle- 
 aged person whose countenance proclaimed her 
 spinsterhood was stitching red flannel by the 
 window, and in a green rep armchair, with a 
 crochet antimacassar, a curate was reading The 
 Christian World. Rosa sprang to her feet, with 
 a dozen interrogatories in her gaze. 
 
 "Oh, how do you do?" she said, in considera- 
 tion of the spinster and the curate. 
 
 "Extremely well, thanks!" replied Maurice, 
 considering all three. "Shall we go out?" he 
 suggested in a lower voice; "I want to get to 
 the bank before four, and we can talk. I'll wait 
 for you while you put your things on." 
 
 She did not keep him waiting long, and they 
 strolled into New Oxford Street before they 
 hailed a cab. 
 
 "And it is really all right?" she inquired; "you 
 don't think he is suspicious, you don't think he's 
 watching you?" 
 
 "No," said the man, "I am quite sure he isn't."
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 63 
 
 "I scarcely dared to hope you would get any 
 money from him so soon. Was it difficult to 
 work?" 
 
 "No," he said again; "I didn't work it at all 
 — he gave me the money. I meant to ask for 
 some in time enough for you, but, as it happens, 
 I can only claim credit for the intention. In 
 point of fact, he doesn't answer to your descrip- 
 tion a bit; he isn't vindictive, and he isn't hard, 
 and he isn't mean." 
 
 "Really?" she said. "I suppose he has 
 changed." 
 
 "He must have changed a great deal, if his son 
 read him rightly. Well, how have you been?" 
 
 "How have I been?" she cried — "didn't you 
 see the place? I'd rather be alone in Lennox 
 Street than have those ghastly people over me 
 all day. And it has rained all the time ; I haven't 
 been outside the door till now! When do you 
 think I can move?" 
 
 "You can move whenever you like; there's 
 nothing to prevent you — I daresay I shall be able 
 to bring you some more before your share of 
 this has gone." 
 
 "Twenty-five pounds won't last very long," 
 she said. "I can't move as I am — I haven't a 
 rag to my back." 
 
 "You're going to have fifty. You see, I get
 
 64 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 an outfit besides. I can't give you your share of 
 what it costs, so the least you're entitled to is half 
 this hundred. I'm not sure that even that is 
 fair?" 
 
 "Why, yes," she said; "thanks! Fifty is quite 
 fair — fifty will do a lot. . . . Well, what's it like 
 — what's the place like ? You seem to take it all 
 very calmly. We have succeeded. Aren't you 
 crazy with delight? haven't you got anything to 
 say? 
 
 "The place makes the past seem very real to 
 you, and you feel very humble in it," said Maur- 
 ice; "I should think anyone would feel very 
 humble in it. My bedroom overlooks the park; 
 the park is five hundred acres. There are over a 
 hundred farms. The old man likes me. What 
 else am I to tell you?" 
 
 They had reached the bank, and he took her in 
 with him, and gave her ten of the five-pound 
 notes when they had re-entered the hansom. 
 
 "I have to go to a hatter's, and to the tailor's 
 to try some suits on," he said. "If you don't 
 mind waiting in the cab for me, we'll have a swell 
 dinner somewhere before I go back." 
 
 She clutched his arm. "But won't they stare 
 at us like this? Everybody will be in evening- 
 dress."
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 65 
 
 "Oh, not everybody! Besides, if you'd prefer, 
 it, we can choose a quiet place." 
 
 "No," she said, "no! I'd like to be in the gas- 
 light, among people again. Where shall we 
 go?" 
 
 "You aren't in good hands, but we'll go to the 
 best place we can think of — or the best place 
 where our clothes will pass. By the way, I've 
 often meant to ask you, did — did Jardine speak 
 French, or anything but English?" 
 
 "He knew a little French, but he couldn't 
 speak it," she answered. 
 
 "That's all right," said Maurice. "Everybody 
 'knows' a little French; we have all been to 
 school." 
 
 After the tailor's had been visited they had 
 some lukewarm coffee in two tiny cups, at a 
 confectioner's in Bond Street, for a shilling a 
 cup ; and then they looked at the shop windows, 
 and sauntered into Regent Street, where they 
 looked at the shops too. It amused Maurice to 
 note the furs of the winter and the flowers of the 
 summer such near neighbours, and he wondered 
 in which branches of art the young men were 
 celebrated who scowled so intellectually in their 
 photographs — not understanding that they were 
 celebrities' sons. He bought a hat for her that 
 she stopped to admire — or, more accurately, he
 
 66 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 bought a dearer one that they saw inside, for the 
 "young lady" who attended to them insisted that 
 the hat from the window was ''rather matronly 
 for you, moddam." 
 
 A stranger inclined to speculate about them 
 would have been puzzled to determine what tie 
 existed; they were not attracted by each other 
 certainly — the absence of the sexual magic in 
 their relation was obvious on both sides; they 
 weren't brother and sister — the facial character- 
 istics were too dissimilar; they weren't husband 
 and wife — a quick ear could detect that in their 
 tones. But the "big Colonial" who looked at her 
 so carelessly was paying for the handsome wom- 
 an's hat, and then they went away together to 
 dine. 
 
 Xow Maurice was irritated by his own per- 
 plexity, though he would not suffer his demean- 
 our to betray him. He would have liked to order 
 the dinner with the utmost judgment, to select 
 the wines with scrupulous taste. He was aware, 
 by hearsay, that one may pay for the elaboration 
 with winch the waiter fiddles with the glass, 
 rather than for what the bottle contains, and that 
 the pre-eminence of a vintage in a restaurant 
 occasionally lies in the gravity with which he lifts 
 the cradle. It annoyed Maurice to feel unso- 
 phisticated in the ornate room where women's
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 67 
 
 necks gleamed so whitely and dining had evi- 
 dently t been elevated to the plane of an art. 
 When a man's choice of hors d'oeuvres is "na- 
 tives," however, he strikes the»keynote to his in- 
 tentions, and, if the waiter to whom he has 
 drifted is intelligent, all may easily go well. 
 Maurice accepted several recommendations with 
 regard to the menu, but sought guidance with the 
 air of one whom it is unwise to deceive. Rosa 
 preferred hock and champagne, and, resigning 
 himself to order blindly Schloss Johannisberg 
 '62, and Perrier Jouet '74, his deliberation as he 
 spoke the numbers suggested that a wine-list held 
 no secrets from him. The waiter's conjectures 
 about the stranger who carried himself with such 
 assurance in a pea-jacket and commanded the 
 dinner of a wealthy man, mounted rapidly; and 
 when the peaches, were pronounced flavourless, 
 he staked his all and did that which Maurice was 
 far from appreciating as it deserved — he sug- 
 gested pousse-cafes. 
 
 They were so pretty that Rosa said it was a 
 shame to disturb them, but it was past eight 
 o'clock, and Maurice wanted to catch the quick 
 train. Nevertheless when he had put her into a 
 cab, he did not call another for himself immedi- 
 ately. For the first time he stood on the pave- 
 ments of the West End independent, and his
 
 68 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 fancy hummed with the knowledge. His mind 
 reverted to the women whom he had watched in- 
 side, as they murmured, and dined, and lifted 
 their lashes and smiled — the women among the 
 English parties, in their fashionable toilettes. 
 What did the young men who placed the cloaks 
 about their delicate shoulders so composedly say 
 to interest them? Would he know what to say? 
 he feared not. Yet he wished himself for a few 
 hours in the position of the men. 
 
 The thought of the silent house in Surrey 
 jarred on his mood. How graceful that woman 
 had been who looked back and nodded to the 
 people in the far corner as she left ! How charm- 
 ing the movement! such a quick careless turn, and 
 yet expressing everything so perfectly: "Well, 
 we shall see you afterwards. Au revoir — I know 
 it's going to be very pleasant; I hope you won't 
 be bored yourselves !" How exquisitely her frock 
 became her, and how perfect were her neck and 
 throat! 
 
 The pale curve of Regent Street gleamed en- 
 ticingly. Pie wanted to hear a woman's voice in 
 a song of sentiment — or to see a ballet — or to ride 
 fast through cold air — anything but to go to 
 Croft Court. The burst of brightness at the 
 Circus pleased his eyes, and the exteriors of the 
 variety-theatres shone with momentary allure-
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 69 
 
 ment. But next, the thought that he would feel 
 cooped if he obeyed his impulse, made him hesi- 
 tate. He strolled along Piccadilly, undecided 
 whether he would go back and enter one, or not. 
 Alternately the notion attracted and repelled 
 him. His desires took no definite form, but he 
 was craving for excitement, athirst to gulp at the 
 cup that he had bought, here and now. 
 
 When he looked at a clock, he had only time 
 to catch the last train of all. He had not imag- 
 ined that it was so late. He was annoyed with 
 himself and depressed. What he had won 
 seemed, in the new melancholy that pervaded him, 
 an empty possession. Now the thought of the 
 women whom he had viewed in the restaurant 
 came back to him heavilv, but his mind turned 
 under it, to think with impatience of the men. 
 How soon would the real life be open to him — 
 the life that he had a right to expect? When 
 would he snatch the key to the inner London 
 where things were at their best — where it was 
 forbidden to paint the blemish, to gild inferior 
 gauds, or throw a perfume on the nearly clean? 
 He looked about him, and for him habitude 
 had spun no veil. The hour was late for London. 
 The theatres had shut their doors; in the music- 
 halls the last "comedian" had made the last 
 joke" about the last stale egg. It had struck 
 
 <<:
 
 70 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 eleven, and the amusements of the nation were 
 suspended. Glum-eyed people traversed the 
 dark town drearily, the black figures moving on 
 the greyness like automata. Through the gloom 
 of Regent Street the fusty busses rumbled to the 
 suburbs, the glimmer of their mediaeval oil-lamps 
 tinging the melancholy faces of the Londoners 
 who went home because they had nowhere else 
 to go. For the multitude no choice remained but 
 liquor, or bed. Depression pervaded the cant- 
 ridden, unlighted capital like a fog; the windows 
 of the publicans made the only cheer in the city 
 of the Pharisees. On the pavements of Piccadil- 
 ly he saw self-respecting citizens degraded by the 
 shamelessness of the legislative mind; and kne 
 that when an attempt was made to refine matters. 
 it was severely punished. Counsel — with the 
 tongue in the cheek — referred to the improvement 
 in terms of cloistral contempt; the magistrate — 
 quantum mat at us at) ilia — was officially appalled 
 to learn that such iniquity had thriven; para- 
 graphists — grinning as they wrote — proclaimed 
 the need for "suppressing these offences with a 
 strong hand." It Was the triumph of topsy-tur- 
 vydom — the apotheosis of pretence; the reformer 
 was imprisoned, and the legislative immorality 
 was content. As he looked, the great sombre city 
 seemed to him an incarnate nightmare. . . .
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 71 
 
 Then from the serried sidewalk there rose a 
 strange sound, a sound that for a moment light- 
 ened his oppression — the sound of a single laugh. 
 Something in his breast vibrated, and he was 
 startled by the knowledge that it was the first 
 laugh he had heard in the London streets. 
 
 When he reached home, Sir Noel had gone to 
 bed, and Maurice was glad to seek his own. On 
 the morrow the sun shone, and after they had 
 sauntered a while on the terrace, he repeated his 
 offices of the last two days. It became his custom 
 to read to the old man for half an hour or so 
 each morning ; and so unvarying was the routine 
 of the house, that when a week had passed since 
 the night of his arrival, it was strange to him to 
 reflect that he had been here no longer. 
 
 A dinner-party was given at the Court shortly 
 afterwards, and Sir Noel nodded approval to 
 himself when Maurice appeared. Maurice indeed 
 looked a fine fellow with his close-cropped beard, 
 and the air of distinction that the right tailor can 
 confer on the right man. His eyes were quick; 
 he had learnt at the restaurant that the most de- 
 sirable fastening for the single stud-hole that he 
 found in his shirt-fronts was a small pearl — and 
 had bought one, declining the more expensive or- 
 naments that resembled miniature brooches. He 
 had observed that the best-dressed men there
 
 72 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 eschewed watch-chains in the evening — and this 
 fashion had been the easier for him to obey since 
 he did not possess a watch-chain yet. Little would 
 ever be lost on him: if it had already been the 
 custom among the "best people" to banish their 
 arms from their stationery, the tyro would have 
 been among the first to write on paper that was 
 stamped only with the address; but the knowl- 
 edge that he was apt did not lessen the fact that 
 he was nervous. 
 
 He strove to encourage himself by remember- 
 ing that he had lived among gentlepeople until he 
 was nearly seventeen. But it was a long time 
 ago ; and he had never met county people, never 
 met titled people, and, although it might be ridic- 
 ulous, he could not avoid the misgiving that peo- 
 ple, with handles to their names, must present 
 other difficulties than that of not knowing what 
 to call them. To storm Croft Court and an old 
 man who was awaiting his son had merely re- 
 quired superlative courage, but the ordeal before 
 him demanded something over and above the con- 
 trol of his nerves — it demanded experience. 
 Though the circumstances had enabled him to ask 
 Sir Noel for information on the points of which 
 he knew in advance that he was ignorant, he was 
 haunted by the dread of critical moments im- 
 possible to foresee.
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 73 
 
 Lady Wrensfordsley, and Lady Helen Cleeve 
 were still in Algiers, and Provand, of whom Sir 
 Noel had spoken, had not returned to Oakenhurst 
 since the beginning of the Hilary term. How- 
 ever, Mrs. and Miss Provand came; and there 
 were Sir Thomas and Lady Savile, and most of 
 the other people of whom Maurice had heard, in- 
 cluding the Rector and his wife — a rather sur- 
 prising little blonde many years his junior, who 
 confided to "Mr. Jardine" that parochial work 
 was a "great responsibility," in a tone which sug- 
 gested that she meant a "great bore." To his 
 surprise, he found the evening agreeable after 
 half an hour, and it was only when the West Sur- 
 rey hounds began to stream through the conver- 
 sation that he had the impression of following on 
 a lame mount. 
 
 Yet he was neither taciturn nor tactless; and 
 when Sir Thomas told him the "rabbit-shooting 
 was wonderfully good," and added: "But if 
 you're used to big game, I suppose that isn't 
 much pull?" he contrived to remark that he had 
 done very little shooting without appearing to 
 deprecate the fact, 
 
 What the Rector called "your enviable ac- 
 quaintance with foreign countries" was very use- 
 ful to him on his debut. Central Park, and Niag- 
 ara, or Adderley Street, and Table Mountain,
 
 74 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 present the same features of interest to the emi- 
 grant as to the tourist, and it was not necessary 
 to state that he had admired the park at a period 
 when his only luncheons had been those provided 
 gratis with a glass of beer, or that he had first 
 beheld the mountain from a steerage deck. 
 
 Lady Savile had consented to play hostess, but 
 her good-nature could not be taxed too severely, 
 and Sir Xoel suggested the move to the drawing- 
 room before long. Her cordiality was very grat- 
 ifying to Maurice, and he thought her amusing, 
 though she was secretly chagrined by the absence 
 of her elder daughter, who some people main- 
 tained was a beauty, but who was eight-and- 
 twenty, and still "Miss Savile." The informality 
 \ i th which the lady hoped to "see a great deal of 
 him in future" flattered him. He was not aware 
 that Agatha Savile and her sister were returning 
 from a visit in Leicestershire that week, nor 1 
 would the fact have had any significance to him 
 had he known it. 
 
 Mrs. Provand's manner was equally warm, and 
 Miss Provand herself, though she said little, was 
 so pretty that he pardoned her shyness for the 
 sake of her eyelashes. He felt exhilarated by his 
 self-possession; it seemed to him that nothing 
 could be simpler than to talk to women in a 
 drawing-room. How small a witticism provoke:!
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 75 
 
 their laughter! When the "good-nights" began, 
 he was sorry that the party was finishing ; he had 
 not guessed that it would terminate so early, and 
 he mentally registered the hour for his own guid- 
 ance. People were delightful — they could not 
 have been nicer to him if he had met them many 
 times ! He was conscious that it was not for his 
 graces, nor his talents, that they made much of 
 him; he understood that he merely shone in the 
 reflected lustre of Sir Xoel; but if he had heard 
 that every woman present had been contemplat- 
 ing him in the light of somebody's husband, he 
 would have been dumfounded. His matrimonial 
 eligibility — that the girl who secured him would 
 be held to make a brilliant alliance — had not 
 crossed his mind. He did not realise yet that he 
 might marry the daughter of a duchess if he 
 would — that in the position he occupied he was 
 popularly regarded as a match for any woman in 
 England.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 As the novelty faded — as custom dulled its 
 brilliance and he was enabled to see it steadily — ■ 
 life at Oakenhurst became galling to Maurice. 
 If familiarity with gentlewomen did not breed 
 contempt, it begot tedium. Miss Provand's eye- 
 lashes ; the engrossed gaze of Agatha Savile, and 
 her trick of saying "Do you think so? — you 
 don't?" — a compliment to his profundity, not a 
 contradiction — whenever he expressed a view; 
 the empty chatter of her sister; the allusions to 
 things he knew nothing about, all wearied him. 
 
 It was not so easy after all to sustain a conver- 
 sation! He felt more foreign in the atmosphere 
 now than he had done when he first breathed it; 
 yet it appeared to him sometimes, as the weeks 
 went by, that the deficiency lay in English maid- 
 enhood rather than in himself. If, despite his 
 limitations, he could talk less clumsily to the elder 
 than to the younger women, it was because Eng- 
 lish maidenhood, under its becoming frocks, was 
 distinctly silly. Perhaps he should except Miss 
 Savile; he was inclined to think that with her the 
 silliness was a pose and that considerable shrewd- 
 
 76
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 77 
 
 ness lay behind her artless gaze; but he didn't 
 like her. 
 
 The dress of all the girls, their speech — fla- 
 voured with the phrases of the moment — the 
 modernity of their manner had stimulated his 
 curiosity; but they did not hold his interest. Be- 
 sides, Sir Noel had awakened him to his matri- 
 monial value — and he could never marry; that 
 would be the culminating crime, to jeopardise a 
 girl's future by asking her to share a position that 
 he held by imposture ! To what end should he sip 
 tea in drawing-rooms and yawn in spirit, while 
 he perhaps encouraged a simpleton to anticipate 
 a magnificent income that he could never offer? 
 
 No, it wasn't to flirt over a tea-table that he 
 had done this thing! Nor had the pastimes of a 
 country gentleman any abiding attraction for 
 him; he had roughed it so often from necessity 
 that what he wanted now was to luxuriate. 
 
 He recalled the visions that he had seen aboard 
 ship. When was he going to realise them? That 
 was what he had schemed for — to be his own 
 master in cities, to play, and sup, and gather 
 some of the "roses and raptures" of the world. 
 Sir Thomas had offered to "put him up at 
 Boodle's," and he had accepted the suggestion 
 with alacrity, but even when he should be elected, 
 it seemed to him that his opportunities for learn-
 
 78 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 ingthe pass-word to inner London — for discover- 
 ing the Open Sesame and Roses — would be few. 
 Sir Noel had once referred to the desirability of 
 his making a public career, and the proposal had 
 appalled him. He knew nor cared nothing about 
 politics; he would never be able to open his mouth 
 in the House if he were there! There were hours 
 when he tramped under the ancestral oaks and 
 beeches, feeling with exasperation that he had 
 paid away his liberty as well as his honour, and 
 had little in return — that he was like a child 
 mocked with an expensive present that he mustn't 
 touch. 
 
 Then he asked himself if he had lost his senses 
 — this place would be his. But when Sir Xoel 
 died ! — he didn't desire him to die — he liked him ; 
 he would have been quite satisfied that the Bar- 
 onet should live to be a centenarian if only the 
 circumstances had been different. 
 
 Rosa Fleming was almost equally disappoint- 
 ed, and he had begun to dread his visits to her a 
 shade. She had removed to an hotel in the West 
 End, and had primarily viewed the world with 
 smiling eyes; but the world, after all, never smiled 
 back to her. She was alone, and her resources 
 were precarious. She did not mistrust Maurice 
 — he appeared, as she had exclaimed once or 
 twice, to be "playing very fair" with her — and
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 79 
 
 common sense told her that no writing between 
 them would in any way strengthen her hand; 
 yet, whether it was his fault or not, her situation 
 lacked a good deal. Where were the social ad- 
 vantages that had been promised? 
 
 At first the glitter of the table d'hote, to go 
 everywhere in hansoms, and the consciousness 
 that whether she bought her gloves in Holborn, 
 or the Burlington Arcade, somebody else would 
 pay the price, had all been exciting ; but such ex- 
 citement soon wore out. She had known such 
 things before. The charm, to the woman, was 
 not even that of a brilliant novelty, but only of a 
 brilliant revival; and she was reminded in how 
 much gayer surroundings she had spent money 
 last. To be sure, there were the comic operas and 
 the variety-theatres — she sat in the hall, envious- 
 ly watching the people filter out after dinner 
 sometimes — but to be seen about London bv her- 
 self at night would be indiscreet. Her mind was 
 set on big stakes ; she wanted a footing in society, 
 all that Jardine would have given to her had he 
 lived; she must be careful of her reputation! 
 
 It was impossible that through her brain should 
 never flit the perception that all that Jardine 
 could have given to her, the man who was per- 
 sonating him could give ; and for this reason, al- 
 though she trusted Maurice, her feeling for him
 
 80 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 was one of respect, and not of liking. "Respect," 
 though it sounds a curious term in the connection, 
 was the only favourable sentiment that he now 
 inspired in her. She might have married him — 
 and he looked at her as if she had been a man! 
 He knew too much about her, she had "given 
 herself away" to him! and she was chagrined to 
 feel it. It was true that the first rich man she 
 met would probably appeal to her more, but their 
 interests were one ; it seemed to her that he would 
 take a wise step in making her his wife ; and she, 
 moreover, was unlikely ever to meet any other 
 man who could provide her with so much. It 
 irritated her that she, for whom others had com- 
 mitted follies, should be treated by her partner 
 with impassivity. 
 
 The expression of her ennui to Maurice had 
 been murmurs rather than complaints hitherto, 
 but once, when he came, she spoke plainly. 
 
 "I don't see what I have to look forward to," 
 she said. "How would you care about it? I 
 don't know a soul. Two or three of the women 
 here have dropped a few words to me — and I'm 
 prepared with a few lies; hut there's no occasion 
 to tell them; I don't get any forrader. I can't 
 make a circle of acquaintances living like this!" 
 
 "Well, what do you want me to do?" he asked. 
 
 "I don't know why you don't introduce me to
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 81 
 
 Sir Noel; that was the arrangement. At least, 
 the arrangement was that I should have every 
 chance of meeting people. Croft Court would 
 be a very good place to begin at." 
 
 "I don't think Sir Noel would be very rollick- 
 ing company for you," he said diffidently. "You 
 would be much duller at Croft Court than here." 
 
 "But I should see it — I want to see it. Re- 
 member you are having a very good time! Be- 
 sides, there are other people at Oakenhurst — you 
 tell me that you hunt, and go out to dinner; there 
 are plenty of people I would rather meet than Sir 
 Noel. I see the Countess of Wrensfordsley has 
 a house there — why shouldn't I be introduced to 
 herr 
 
 'You wouldn't see her if you went to Oaken- 
 hurst," he answered. "They went abroad for the 
 winter, and they aren't back yet. By the way, 
 they pronounce it 'Wrensley,' and she's spoken 
 of as 'Lady Wrensfordsley'; I'm sure I don't 
 know why." 
 
 "But she is the Countess of Wrensfordsley," 
 said Rosa, omitting the redundant syllable. "I 
 saw her name in print." 
 
 'Yes; well, a countess is called 'Lady,' I dis- 
 cover. I tell you I don't know why. I'm not an 
 authority on such matters ; I take them as I find 
 them." He played with his watch-chain nervous-
 
 88 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 ly. 'These things arrange themselves," he went 
 on, repeating a phrase that he had heard Lady 
 Savile use; "the whole affair is new yet; it will 
 be all right; if you wait awhile, everything will 
 come." 
 
 "I thought I should have a flat," she said sul- 
 lenly; "I don't want to live in an hotel." 
 
 "Well, surely a flat would he slower still? 
 You would be like Robinson Crusoe on his isl- 
 and." 
 
 "I could go out," she muttered, "I could take 
 drives." 
 
 "You can go out now — the streets are already 
 here. I give you my word that it isn't all beer 
 and skittles for me! I knew you thought I was 
 'having a good time' — I suppose in one way I 
 am! — but there's more than a dash of disappoint- 
 ment in it, too. If you didn't look forward to 
 being in an hotel, I didn't hanker to live in a 
 village. I wanted money in a lump; I don't like 
 the cheques — every time he gives me one, it re- 
 minds me I'm a thief." 
 
 "Oh, rats!" she said impatiently, "you'd never 
 be satisfied, I believe. When you're 'Sir Philip 
 Jardine' you'll find something wrong!" 
 
 "When I'm 'Sir Philip Jardine' you'll have 
 five thousand a year," said Maurice, "and you 
 can have a dozen flats if you like."
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 83 
 
 "With nobody to come to see me in them! I 
 tell you that I want to know people. Even five 
 thousand a year is no good if I'm never to have 
 any introductions. ... I haven't sprung this on 
 you — it isn't anything fresh ; from the very com- 
 mencement, when we sat talking in Lennox 
 Street, I told you that what I wanted was to 
 make as good a marriage as Phil would have been. 
 It isn't my game to pick up any friends I can, 
 and just make the coin fly; I want to marry a 
 swell — I want to go to the top." 
 
 "Well," he said, "well, perhaps you will." 
 "Why shouldn't I?" she exclaimed with sup- 
 pressed vehemence. "Look at the women who 
 do! Flossie Coburg from the music-hall stage! 
 a slim, slip of a stick, too, they said. If she could 
 do it, with nothing but her face to attract any- 
 body, I think / ought to be able to, in a good po- 
 sition. Flossie Coburg, if you please — a duchess 
 to-day! And how many more of them are the 
 Countess of this, and Lady somebody else ! Well, 
 everyone remembers who they were ! I'm not go- 
 ing to do it from the music-hall stage; I'm going 
 to do it properly and be respected just as much as 
 if I'd been brought up among fashionable people. 
 I thought you — you'd remember that you have to 
 thank me for everything ; I thought you'd be glad
 
 84. THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 — more, that you'd be eager — to make as big a 
 return as you could." 
 
 "What do you want me to do?" demanded 
 Maurice again: "don't you see the difficulties? 
 I'm a stranger everywhere myself yet; I can't 
 make my entrance into this precious society with 
 'Mrs. Fleming' on my arm. Wait a few months, 
 wait till I'm a little more familiar with my own 
 footing; wait till people have got used to me. I 
 remember everything, but give me a chance!" 
 
 The truth in the answer was sufficiently obvious 
 for her to realise afresh how smoothly events 
 would roll if only she were to become his wife. 
 She wondered, after he had left, whether the 
 chance would have been born if she had concealed 
 her discontent from him longer. Had those earl- 
 ier murmurs of hers made her a bugbear to him? 
 And now she had taunted him with what she had 
 done! What a fool she was; she had lost more 
 ground still! her impulses were always ruinous. 
 
 Yet — yet surely, in a different key, she might 
 open his eyes to the fact that she was a handsome 
 woman? He was ready enough to perceive beau- 
 ty in others. How his gaze had wandered away 
 from her to the pretty women in the restaurant! 
 She had never forgiven him that. The imposture 
 would never be discovered now, and it would be 
 the finest thing that she could do, to marry him.
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 85 
 
 Yes, she would take a sweeter tone; she would 
 wait as he had begged her to do. The bond be- 
 tween them gave her the advantage of his only- 
 confidant — with patience, and tact, she might be 
 'Lady Jardine' after all." 
 
 While the younger man was panting for free- 
 dom, the other had arrived, by the protracted 
 stages of the old, at a point where their medita- 
 tions met. One day when Maurice had put down 
 the newspaper, and Sir Noel had murmured, as 
 he always did, "I thank you very much, Philip," 
 a long silence fell between them. At last the 
 Baronet said: 
 
 "I have been thinking about you, Philip. I — 
 have been thinking." 
 
 "About mer said Maurice. "What?" 
 
 Sir Noel did not answer at once; he gave a 
 series of his little nods, rather vigorously. 
 
 "I have been thinking that the life here must 
 be dull for you ; and now many of the neighbours 
 will be leaving soon, too. I shall not go; one 
 home is enough for me — I have never seen the 
 town house yet." 
 
 "Whose town house — ours?" Maurice asked, 
 surprised. "I didn't know there was one." 
 
 "Certainly there is a house — in Prince's Gar- 
 dens; I told you so long ago." 
 
 "I don't remember," said Maurice.
 
 86 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 "In Prince's Gardens. Of course I told you 
 — why should I make a secret of it? Well, well, 
 well, that is not the point. What was 1 saving? 
 You confuse me with your foolish questions. . . . 
 Yes! the neighbours will be going to town, and 
 Oakenhurst will be very slow for you. Apart 
 from that, altogether, you should be seen in Lon- 
 don, you mustn't be 'buried' here; you must do 
 the right things." 
 
 Maurice looked at him, drawing a deep, long 
 breath. 
 
 "You might go to Prince's Gardens, or you 
 might have chambers — probably you would find 
 chambers more convenient. Piccadilly. You 
 should take chambers in Piccadilly. It is no life 
 for a young man, to pass the year here. You 
 should have your — your — your brougham — I 
 don't know what you should have — your phaeton ; 
 you should have something! You must remem- 
 ber that you have a position and things are ex- 
 pected of you." His tone implied that Maurice 
 had opposed the proposal strenuously. "Well — " 
 he paused, and tapped his knees — "you must have 
 an allowance; you can draw, say, three thousand 
 a year. Come! three thousand a year. It'll be 
 enough, eh?" 
 
 "It's extremely generous," said Maurice. 
 
 "No, it isn't a matter of 'generosity' — it is your
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 87 
 
 right. And, besides, I wish it. It is absurd that 
 you should live as you are living now, like a lad 
 with pocket-money. It will all be yours by-and- 
 by, too. Three thousand a year is not so much 
 that I cannot spare it, but it will do to go on with. 
 You must take chambers, of course. I am no 
 good to you for company — in town you will find 
 livelier companions than an old father with a 
 cough, who makes you read the paper to him. 
 And I shall get on very well, don't you fear ! I 
 have my own occupations, I — I think a great 
 deal. At my age one is best by oneself. But — 
 but, all the same, I shall miss you, and — you will 
 come to see me, Philip?" 
 
 "I shall come very often," said Maurice, "oft- 
 ener than you'll want me." He was touched. 
 
 "You will not come oftener than I shall want 
 you ; but I know my duty, and you will go ! Well, 
 well, well, we talk a great deal about nothing! 
 I can never keep to the subject in speaking of 
 anything to you — you go off at a tangent all the 
 time; you always annoyed me with that habit as 
 a boy!" 
 
 He waved his hand impatiently, as a sign that 
 the conversation had ended: and Maurice saw 
 that he wished to be alone.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 He was receiving, for his own expenditure, 
 twenty-two hundred and fifty pounds a year, and 
 occasionally the knowledge had power to thrill 
 Maurice with astonishment still. But he did not 
 often draw rein to contemplate the figures; the 
 figures of his income, after all, were unimpor- 
 tant; his means were practically unbounded, for 
 no man about town could have raised thousands 
 with greater promptitude. With a subtlety of 
 distinction somewhat difficult to follow, however, 
 he felt that, while he was dishonest to accept Sir 
 Noel's allowance, he would be considerably baser 
 to exceed it; and his only visit to a bill discounter's 
 was — in the language of the friend whom he 
 obliged — made to "jump up behind a pal's back." 
 The abbreviation "to jump" was not yet general. 
 
 Moreover he tried to avoid running into debt, 
 though it often seemed to him to-day that ready 
 money was the last thing necessary in life. His 
 difficulty was no longer to pay for what he need- 
 ed, but to persuade people to be paid. His tailor 
 met his request for an account with a deprecating 
 smile, and he might have had six rows of boots 
 
 88
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 89 
 
 delivered now without producing a coin. The 
 florist from whom he ordered bouquets, and who 
 sent a girl to decorate his table when he gave a 
 dinner, even the restauranteurs who were used to 
 his patronage, and the jeweller who had had the 
 privilege of supplying him with bracelets, all wore 
 the air of being reimbursed superabundantly by 
 the mere honour of Mr. Jardine's approval. Giv- 
 en half a sovereign a day for hansoms, it appeared 
 to him that he might have lived at the ra,te of ten 
 thousand a year without drawing a cheque. 
 
 Yet, if ready money was not an essential, it 
 provided him with a keen pleasure — he gave 
 freely. Not to public charities — as a man accus- 
 tomed to poverty, the existence of public chari- 
 ties wasn't a familiar fact to him. But no beggar 
 ever appealed to him in vain. During his months 
 in London there had not been an occasion on 
 which he turned a deaf ear to distress in the 
 streets, or asked himself if it was simulated. Once 
 he had risked ridicule. In approaching White's 
 with a member whom he had first met at the Pro- 
 vands', he had passed a man of about his own 
 age, in the station of life that he himself had re- 
 cently occupied. The man was walking slowly; 
 his eyes were vacant and despair was written on 
 his face: perhaps he had just applied for a billet 
 and been refused. Maurice took out a five-pound
 
 90 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 note, and turned quickly. "I owe you this!" he 
 said, pushing it into the breastpocket of the 
 threadbare coat; and he had entered the hall be- 
 fore the man realised what had been done. 
 
 Nevertheless he was plucking the "roses and 
 raptures" of his desires. His chambers were in 
 Bury Street, adjacent to Boodle's; the proprietor 
 of the club was the landlord. They had been rec- 
 ommended by Captain Boulger, a brother of 
 Lady Savile's, who had rooms in the same house, 
 and who assured him that he would find Boodle's 
 the best club in London, because one only paid 
 the bills there when one liked ; the conditions were 
 so happy that he feared they couldn't last. From 
 Boulger, Maurice had acquired various hints. 
 He had his stall where his entrance was watched 
 for, and his box when he kept behind the cur- 
 tains. He had known his first Ascot, and won ? 
 "pony" on Tristan, and lunched among the sur- 
 prising millinery in the Guards' tent. He had 
 been introduced to Bignon's and seen Paris when 
 the acacias were in bloom. He had even made 
 his bows on fashionable staircases while bands 
 were playing, though this far more rarely than 
 the cards among the photographs on his mantel- 
 piece required. And he did not find it all Dead 
 Sea fruit and reflect that the overseer's simple 
 lot had held more genuine happiness. He did not
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 91 
 
 sigh that it was worthless and hollow. On the 
 contrary, it was just as good as he had known 
 that it would be, and excepting for pangs of con- 
 science, which he overcame, he enjoyed it very 
 much. 
 
 Rosa's spirits also had been raised. The change 
 in his affairs had provided her with more than 
 the flat that she now occupied — she had obtained 
 one, furnished, for a year ; Maurice did not forget 
 that she was a stranger in London, and she had 
 had to thank him for many amusing evenings; 
 indeed, he had begun to wonder whether she was 
 not allowing herself to be seen about with him 
 too often. He did not forget Rosa, and he did 
 not forget his promise to Sir Noel. He never 
 wrote to him, because he feared to do so, but he 
 telegraphed often — inquiries about an indisposi- 
 tion, or notifications of arrival — and many times 
 he declined an invitation that he would have been 
 glad to accept, because he knew that the old man 
 would be disappointed if his visit were postponed. 
 
 He had waited so long for some brightness in 
 life that he was burning the candle at both ends 
 now. The season, however, had not been wasted 
 on him, although he shirked the staircases. His 
 introductions among men had been numerous 
 enough, and he had studied them with an atten- 
 tion which few of them had inspired before. He
 
 92 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 had learnt many things, besides where the roses 
 grew, from hearing them talk — perhaps chiefly 
 that audacity was even a stronger weapon than 
 he had understood. lie had learnt not to make 
 spasmodic strokes when he was out of his depth 
 in conversation, but to maintain silence and look 
 bored; he had learnt that the man who has the 
 self-possession to look bored instead of embar- 
 rassed in such circumstances can embarrass the 
 conversationalists, and retire from the group with 
 honours. 
 
 Lady Wrensfordsley had spent a few days at 
 Whichcote early in April, and then gone to town. 
 She had taken a furnished house in Chapel Street 
 — now Aldford Street — Mayfair. Maurice had 
 already left Oakenhurst when she returned to 
 England, but a card from her had come to his 
 chambers soon afterwards, and Sir Noel, who was 
 well aware of it, had asked him more than once 
 if he had called upon her, or seen her and her 
 daughter anywhere else. He had neither called, 
 nor met them ; and in deference to the old man's 
 wishes he decided to do his duty without further 
 delay. 
 
 Lady Wrensfordsley was at home, he heard; 
 and he found her alone when he was announced. 
 She was a younger woman than he had pictured 
 her — barely fifty — and Time, with its customary
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 93 
 
 unfairness, had treated her with the generosity 
 which it never displays but to those whom nature 
 has already favoured. If she still mourned for 
 her lost youth, it was known only to herself; and 
 to the world to-day she appeared to find her flir- 
 tation with middle-age a charming substitute. 
 
 "I'm very glad to see you, Mr. Jardine," she 
 said. 
 
 He murmured something about his regret at 
 having missed her when she last called at the 
 Court. 
 
 "How is Sir Noel?" 
 
 "My father is very well, thanks," he said. 
 "He wished to be remembered to you, only he 
 wished it much more gracefully than I've given 
 his message." 
 
 "Your father and I are great friends," she 
 said. "My one complaint about him is that he 
 doesn't come to see us often enough; but, of 
 course, he says he is an invalid — though I am 
 sure I don't see any signs of it — so one has to 
 forgive him. You take tea, don't you?" 
 
 The tea-things were on the table, and he said 
 that he did. 
 
 "I think it's very nice to see men take tea," 
 she said, dropping in the second lump of sugar; 
 "it seems to bring them so much nearer to us. 
 And they never used to!"
 
 9i THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 "Women are civilising us by degrees," he haz- 
 arded. 
 
 "Civilisation being typified by the teapot? 
 Well, it's not bad. The French were quite right 
 to make 'civilisation' and the 'teapot' both fem- 
 inine. Cream?" 
 
 "Thank you," he said. 
 
 The door had opened, and a girl crossed the 
 room slowly. She was tall and very pale; in 
 his momentary impression of her, all the colour 
 of her face seemed to be concentrated in her beau- 
 tiful lips, and the depths of her unregarding eyes. 
 She was more than "lovely" — he remembered on 
 a sudden that Sir Noel had used that word in 
 speaking of her; now that he looked at her, it 
 sounded insignificant to him. As he watched her 
 move towards them, he was sensible that when a 
 poem had stimulated his imagination of an aris- 
 tocrat — of a girl whose freshness and bearing 
 were instinct with race — it had been the vague 
 image of such a girl as this that stirred his 
 thoughts. 
 
 Lady Wrensfordsley turned her head now. He 
 could see no space to set down his teacup, and, 
 as he rose, it lurched in the saucer perilously. 
 
 The girl's voice was low and clear, as he had 
 felt sure that it would be. The effect that she 
 had on him was at once pleasurable and the re-
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 95 
 
 verse. He was filled with a quick desire to rouse 
 her interest, but he had never felt more awkward, 
 and for fully a minute after the introduction he 
 could think of nothing to say to her, nor to her 
 mother in her presence. 
 
 "Tea, Helen?" 
 
 "Please," she said. 
 
 "I was just saying to Mr. Jardine that the 
 teapot typified civilisation," said Lady Wrens- 
 fordsley; "or perhaps Mr. Jardine was saying it 
 to me — I don't know that it matters — or that it's 
 a fact. The point is that it never struck me to 
 think so till now, and that I shall drink tea the 
 last thing at night without scruples any more." 
 
 "Do you have tea the last thing at night?" 
 asked Maurice, painfully conscious that he was 
 uttering an ineptitude. 
 
 "It was very wrong of you to tell my mother 
 anything of the kind, Mr. Jardine," said the girl, 
 composedly; "now she will drink two cups in- 
 stead of one ! Are the buns hot, mother?" 
 
 "They are supposed to be hot," said Lady 
 Wrensfordsley. "Mr. Jardine can tell you, if he 
 is not too polite to be sincere." 
 
 "Thev're very good," he said, lifting the dish. 
 "May I?" 
 
 "Thanks," said the girl; "can't you assure us 
 that buns are distinguished too? We have a pas-
 
 96 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 sion for buns; we are constant to them even in 
 the summer, and if they were only the type of 
 something, we should be happier." 
 
 Her own aplomb intensified his discomfiture, 
 and it was as if his unfortunate reference to 
 civilisation had woven a net from which he 
 couldn't escape. He began to feel that he was 
 looking a fool, but amid buns and tea his mind 
 was benumbed, and an idea seemed as far away 
 from him as did the girl herself. 
 
 He was grateful that at this moment the foot- 
 man announced Lady and Miss Savile, but be- 
 fore long his relief gave place to a new feeling of 
 irritation. The visitors were evidently on terms 
 of intimacy here, and after a few minutes, Agatha 
 Savile had fixed her large inquiring eyes upon 
 him, and, for the time at least, made him her 
 own. Primarily he had welcomed the opportun- 
 ity to show that he was less stupid than he had 
 been suggesting, but now, since the others no 
 longer listened, he was annoyed as much by his 
 recovered fluency as by the young woman's pro- 
 prietorial air. He was conscious that he himself 
 was lending colour to her assumption of a mu- 
 tual understanding, and perceiving himself in- 
 competent to efface this impression without rude- 
 ness, his resentment against her increased. 
 
 The angle at which Lady Savile held her cup,
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 97 
 
 however, at last assured him that it was empty, 
 and he promptly seized the chance it afforded 
 him to shift his position. His gaze was now 
 enabled to take the direction of his thoughts. 
 
 "When do you go back to Whichcote, Lady 
 Helen?" he asked. 
 
 "After Goodwood," she said; "the season is 
 very nearly over, isn't it?" 
 
 "Are you sorry?" 
 
 "Xo, I'm very fond of Whichcote; there is al- 
 ways an attraction about one's home, don't you 
 think so?" 
 
 "My own home is so new to me that I can only 
 guess," answered Maurice. "All the same, I can 
 guess very well." 
 
 "You have travelled a great deal," she said, 
 "haven't you?" 
 
 "Yes, for years. I have spent half my life 
 abroad." 
 
 "It must be very fascinating; I should love to 
 travel." 
 
 "Though home is so dear to you?" 
 
 "Oh, but home is never so dear as when one 
 returns to it, you know. I was, somehow or 
 other, very dull at Whichcote last winter, but 
 when we came back from Algiers, the few days 
 we spent at Oakenhurst were delightful to me. 
 I think if this house hadn't been taken, I should
 
 98 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 have begged to stay there and forego the season 
 altogether." 
 
 "I am glad you didn't, or I should hardly have 
 met you so soon." 
 
 "You've been in Oakenhurst verv little, I un- 
 derstand. To me, of course, it has the charm 
 of association — my childhood was passed there." 
 
 The word stirred his mind with the wish that 
 he had known her in her childhood — with the 
 enormous difficulty of imagining her as a child. 
 He wanted to say something of it, but the instant 
 in which it could be said naturally had gone while 
 he hesitated; so, instead, he had recourse to a 
 platitude and murmured : 
 
 "One's childhood is one's happiest time." 
 
 This commonplace, which was rendered even 
 tritcr by his disgust of it, found its way to Miss 
 S a vile. 
 
 "Do vou think so?" she said. "Do you? — 
 vou don't?" 
 
 m 
 
 "I think so, indeed," he said; "my own was 
 decidedly the happiest time of my life." 
 
 "How sweet!" said Miss Savile. "Now, I was 
 such a shocking little pickle that I was always 
 being punished. Wasn't I, Helen?" 
 
 The girl's attention, however, had strayed. It 
 had just been remarked that somebody's death 
 was a most merciful release for his widow, and
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 99 
 
 Lady Wrensfordsley was asking to be reminded 
 to write a letter of condolence to her before they 
 went out. 
 
 Maurice rose and made his adieux. The mem- 
 ory of the room, and the knowledge that he had 
 never appeared to less advantage, lingered in 
 his brain with almost painful vividness. He was 
 depressed, and the depression, which was out of 
 all proportion to the cause r deepened as he 
 walked. He recalled his engagement for the 
 evening with distaste, and suddenly his life looked 
 to him as empty as he had found the period at 
 Croft Court while he hungered for town. It re- 
 vealed itself to him that in the whole world there 
 was not a soul who cared for him, excepting, per- 
 haps, the old man whose affection he held by de- 
 ceit. He felt lonely and miserable. A passion- 
 ate desire for sympathy possessed him, though he 
 could not have put his sorrow into words. He 
 wanted to feel the touch of a woman who under- 
 stood ; he ached for a woman's comprehension of 
 a mood which he but dimly comprehended him- 
 self.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 He had been considering where he should go 
 when town began to empty, and had inclined 
 towards Trouville, where there would be several 
 fascinating persons of his acquaintance, but when 
 the Cowes week was over, he went instead to 
 Oakenhurst. The life he was leading had recent- 
 ly filled him with self-contempt, and a longing 
 had sprung up within him to be done with it all. 
 He could not be unaware that the healthier frame 
 of mind was due to the occasional meetings he had 
 had with a girl whose air of fastidious purity had 
 caused him to feel ashamed of himself; but he 
 shirked the perception that the force which took 
 him to the Court was the wish that their meetings 
 should continue. 
 
 He had not, during the last fortnight, failed 
 to tell himself that in casting away the roses for 
 the sake of beholding the lily he was renouncing 
 the substance for the shadow, for of a surety no- 
 body could be less interested in his proceedings 
 than was she. In whatever degrc of unworthi- 
 ness he might stand beside her, he realised that
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 101 
 
 he would be a stranger to her. But the admira- 
 tion she awoke in him was not diminished by the 
 consciousness that he was forgotten as soon as his 
 back was turned; nor since his visit to Chapel 
 Street had he refused an invitation to a house 
 where he hoped to see her because he knew that 
 she would never remark his absence. 
 
 God made Woman last, and she is the best of 
 His works. The girl was not twenty-five: she 
 had never spoken to Maurice a word that sufficed 
 to distinguish her from the well-bred crowd in 
 which she moved; no glimpse of her soul had 
 been vouchsafed to him save that which every 
 virtuous woman who has beauty shows in her 
 gaze to every man who has imagination; yet she 
 had lifted him from the mire without effort, and 
 without will. 
 
 At Oakenhurst, as was natural, he saw her 
 often, and his knowledge grew of how much their 
 vapid conversations meant to him ; the knowledge 
 grew that, though she might be silent, she held 
 him by her presence. The poise of her head, the 
 curve of her cheek, the folds of her dress, all 
 these things stole into his being. Fancy was 
 much kinder to him than she, and sometimes in 
 his reveries he talked to her as freely as he could 
 ever hope to talk to anyone now. Actually he 
 progressed very slowly in her good graces, and
 
 108 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 though lie dared to seek no more than her f riend- 
 shij), her reserve humiliated him. 
 
 One day he admitted something like it. He 
 had lunched at Whichcote, and for a few minutes 
 he found himself alone with her in the garden. 
 He had never felt further from her than during 
 the last half-hour; it had been almost as if they 
 had met for the first time. 
 
 "I can't explain it," he murmured; he was 
 speaking as much to himself as to her. 
 
 Her eyes wandered to him in mute interroga- 
 tion; that interrogation of politeness which was 
 the most he had ever roused in her. 
 
 "I can't explain why I find so little to say to 
 vou. It's an odd confession, isn't it? — not the 
 sort of confession a tactful man would make — 
 but it doesn't matter, because you know I find 
 little to say, whether I confess it, or not. I won- 
 der if I may ask you something?" 
 
 "Why not?" she said: "what is it you want 
 to ask, Mr. Jardine?" 
 
 "The inquiry's even blunter than the confes- 
 sion; I want to ask if you dislike me." 
 
 "Dislike you?" she said. Her eyebrows rose. 
 "Why should I dislike you? What a strange 
 idea!*' 
 
 "What an uncouth question, you mean," said 
 Maurice. "And that's just it — I feel 'uncouth'
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 103 
 
 when I come near you. Pray don't mistake me 
 — you - are all that is gracious — but I have an un- 
 comfortable feeling that, whatever I do, you find 
 it wrong." 
 
 "Have I suggested," she said, "that you do 
 wrong? It was dreadfully stupid of me if I have ; 
 I ought to apologise to you." 
 
 "Oh, take me seriously," he begged; "you 
 know very well that if you owed me an apology, 
 I couldn't have said what I did. But you do 
 suggest that I do wrong. Unconsciously your 
 eyes suggested it just now when you turned to 
 me; your voice suggests it sometimes when you 
 answer. You typify a world that's very new to 
 me, Lady Helen, and you make me feel that I 
 shall be a stranger in it as long as I live." 
 
 "I'm sorry," she said, after a pause. "I'm 
 afraid my manner must be unfortunate — I 
 needn't tell you that it isn't intentional. You 
 remind me of what a woman once said to me. 
 When we had become great friends, she said: 
 'Until I knew you well, you always gave me the 
 feeling that my frock didn't fit.' 1 assure you 
 that I'm really a very natural girl and that if I 
 thought I had affectations, I should hate myself." 
 
 "You haven't," said Maurice. "To be what 
 you are, is, I know, as natural to you as to 
 breathe; that's why I strike you as uncouth."
 
 104 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 "You keep insisting," she returned, "on a word 
 that's the very last one I should have thought of 
 using, and it is more than absurd of you. And 
 I don't know even now what my fault actually 
 is! 
 
 'You, too, have used a wrong word," he said. 
 "Whether my choice of 'uncouth' was good or 
 bad, there can certainly be no question of my 
 pain being your 'fault.' I suppose the fact is 
 that I am not so quick as I thought I was. We 
 all have our vanities — mine is the belief that I 
 acquire very readily. Of late I have set myself 
 to acquire a great many things. I needn't tell 
 you that my life hasn't been passed in society, 
 because you're perfectly aware of it. I went 
 abroad when I was very young, and I had to work 
 for my living with my gloves off. If you had 
 been in New York, Lady Helen, or in Melbourne, 
 or any other city that I've known, I should have 
 been as far removed from the chance of being 
 presented to you as is the poorest man in Lon- 
 don now. Well, as I say, I determined to pick 
 up all that I knew I lacked ; and to some extent, 
 till I met you, I thought I had succeeded. Per- 
 haps you've merely shown me how far one may 
 deceive oneself, and the truth hurts a bit." 
 
 She did not reply at once; she sat looking be-
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 105 
 
 yond her in a little perplexed silence. When she 
 broke it, her tone sounded friendlier in his ears. 
 
 "You've been very frank — I feel very hon- 
 oured that you should have spoken so frankly to 
 me — I won't insult you by pretending to misun- 
 derstand what you said. You mean that the life 
 you're leading is unfamiliar as yet; but because 
 it's unfamiliar, I think you're inclined to imagine 
 that it's evident to all the world that you find it 
 so. I'm not expressing myself very well — or, 
 rather, I'm only expressing half of what it's 
 in my mind to say — but you must surely under- 
 stand that one is judged superficially? I think 
 even by our dearest we are only judged super- 
 ficially. Certainly our acquaintances don't look 
 below the surface. For instance, you and I meet 
 often," she went on with a quiet smile, "but, as 
 you just told me, you regard me as a much more 
 classical person than I am. In the same way, 
 your deficiencies are much clearer to yourself 
 than to your neighbours ; if we don't perceive all 
 your virtues, we miss a great many of your 
 faults." 
 
 "Faults," said Maurice, "yes; but deficiencies 
 — I doubt it ! My deficiencies limit my allusions. 
 We come back to our starting-point — I have very 
 little to say to you."
 
 106 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 "I think," she said, "that in the last five min- 
 utes you have found a good deal!" 
 
 "I've prosed; I've talked about myself. I 
 would much rather have had the ability to talk 
 about you." 
 
 "If you had done that," she said more formal- 
 lv, "I'm afraid we should both have been bored. 
 As it is, I've been very interested." 
 
 "You said one thing that especially interested 
 me" replied Maurice in a quick effort to recover 
 the lost ground; "you said that we were judged 
 superficially even by our dearest. Do you think 
 that's true?" 
 
 "I think so," she said slowly, "yes; I think 
 everyone must be conscious of a self that she's 
 a little shy of; and there's a difficulty about mak- 
 ing it known to others even when she wants to. 
 Some clever man — I don't know who, because I 
 am extremely ill-informed — wrote that words 
 were given us to conceal our thoughts. It has 
 often seemed to me that they do that even when 
 we desire most intensely that they should express 
 them." 
 
 Before he could answer, Lady Wrcnsfordsley's 
 voice was heard, and she made her reappearance 
 in the company of a young man of perhaps eight 
 or nine and twenty, whom Helen welcomed as 
 "Bobbie."
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 107 
 
 "I don't know if you've met Mr. Seymour, 
 Mr. Jardine?" said Lady Wrensfordsley. "He's 
 my x nephew; it's quite the only recommendation 
 he has." 
 
 Bobbie Seymour smiled pleasantly, and put 
 out his hand. He had also, Maurice thought, the 
 recommendation of good looks. He was well- 
 built, and well-dressed, and well-mannered, the 
 sort of young man who knows such charming 
 women in Punch. 
 
 "How d'ye do?" he said. "You won't accept 
 that as final, will you? I come to my aunt for 
 advice, but never for a character." 
 
 "You may come for advice," she said, "but 
 you never take it. Mr. Seymour is an ornament 
 of the War Office, Mr. Jardine. I have never 
 understood what they do in the War Office — 
 that was why I was glad when he went into it — 
 but as well as I can make out, the duties consist 
 entirely of applying for leave." 
 
 "Poor Bobbie!" exclaimed the girl gaily. "And 
 he's quite convinced he's overworked — aren't 
 you?" 
 
 "Awful shame," he said with another of his 
 pleasant smiles, "to talk such bosh, Aunt Sophy! 
 We're kept at it frightfully hard, I can tell you. 
 How's Pip?" he inquired of his cousin.
 
 108 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 "Pip's cured," she said; "he's back again, and 
 in the best of spirits." 
 
 "Bravo Pip! I think I'll go and hare a look 
 at him. Will you come?" 
 
 "Yes," she said carelessly; "if you're so inter- 
 ested, I don't mind." 
 
 "Bobbie's always interested when the trouble's 
 over," said Lady Wrensfordsley. "While Pip 
 was ill, the only suggestion Bobbie had to make 
 was, 'Send him to a vet.' 
 
 "Well, you've found out how good it was!" 
 said the young man; he had joined in the laugh 
 against himself genially enough. As he saunt- 
 ered beside the girl across the lawn, Maurice 
 could see that her face was turned to him as if he 
 continued to amuse her. Since his advent the 
 garden had looked less sunny to Maurice, and 
 the new sense of intimacy that had begun to 
 tingle in his veins seemed to have received a sud- 
 den check. The shadow on his countenance was 
 not lost upon Lady Wrensfordsley, and she con- 
 templated him with cordial eyes.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 If Helen had remained single until the age of 
 twenty-five, or its neighbourhood, it had not been 
 for lack of offers. This, of course, is a cliche 
 used about every girl who has passed her second 
 season, but several of the offers made to Helen 
 had had her mother's warm approval. No at- 
 tempt had ever been made to force her inclina- 
 tions, however, and when she had declared that 
 the idea was distasteful to her, the matter had 
 always been allowed to drop. 
 
 She was Lady Wrensfordsley's only child, 
 and although neither woman perfectly under- 
 stood the other, the bond between them was a very 
 strong one. The old Earl had been a good fel- 
 low, and a bad husband. He had led a very fast 
 existence on the turf, and lost large sums of 
 money at Monte Carlo; he had also lost large 
 sums of money at Ostend, and various Belgian 
 resorts where the authorities met his views. His 
 career had been as rapid as Hare and Hounds, 
 and, as the hare, he had always dropped expens- 
 ive paper in his trail. The title had died with 
 
 109
 
 110 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 him, and Lady Wrensfordsley, who was in pos- 
 session of about four thousand a year, had secret 
 memories of "poor George" which rendered her 
 diffident of playing the part of Heaven in con- 
 nection with her daughter's marriage. 
 
 None the less she desired that Heaven should 
 make it to her own satisfaction; and the gloom 
 that she had observed on Maurice's face would 
 have gratified her even more if she could have 
 detected some encouragement in the girl's. No 
 prospect of seeing her so advantageously settled 
 had hitherto occurred as the prospect latterly 
 opened by his obvious admiration; and the mother 
 would have been less than a mother, and more 
 than human, if she had not nursed hopes of his 
 proposing. 
 
 Her hopes were shared by Sir Noel. He was 
 old; the name and the place meant a great deal 
 to him; he would have liked much to see Maurice 
 marry and to pat a grandson on the cheek before 
 he died. The wish that his son should fall in 
 love with Lady Helen had even formed in his 
 mind before the impostor's return from South 
 Africa, and the delav before thev met had irri- 
 tated him more than Maurice had perceived. In 
 the summer, the attraction that Whichcote evi- 
 dently exercised had raised his spirits not a little, 
 but when August and September had passed and
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 111 
 
 no signs of progress were to be discerned, he be- 
 gan to grow impatient. 
 
 "Philip," he said one night, as they sat to- 
 gether, "you ought to marry." 
 
 "To marry?" echoed Maurice; "what has put 
 that idea into your head? I'm not a marrying 
 man." 
 
 "But you must be a marrying man; it is re- 
 quired of you — you have obligations that you 
 can't shirk. It is not as if you were nineteen; 
 you have come to an age when you have duties. 
 You always oppose things; it annoys me very 
 much in you. You ought to stand for some con- 
 stituency — you object to that. You ought to 
 take a wife — you object to that. It appears to 
 me that you object to everything that is essen- 
 tial." 
 
 "In other words, I'm a failure?" said Maurice, 
 with a nervous laugh. "Be patient with me, gov- 
 ernor!" 
 
 Chagrin struggled with affection in the old 
 man's regard. 
 
 "You are not a failure, and you know that I 
 am proud of you. I have not said much, but 
 you can see. You know very well that it has 
 cheered me up a great deal to have you with me, 
 and — and I understand things; I appreciated 
 your coming to me so often from town and neg-
 
 112 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 lecting your pleasures for the sake of your fa- 
 ther; you would not have done so once. Well, 
 well, well, it is not to praise you that I have be- 
 gun to talk — I am very vexed! I say it Ls not as 
 if you were nineteen, or as if I might live for 
 many years; it will not be long before I am 
 gone." 
 
 "For Heaven's sake," said Maurice, "leave 
 that out! You may live for twenty years more, 
 and I hope you will. You have given me every- 
 thing that I wanted — every desire that I had 
 you've fulfilled ; your death would give me noth- 
 ing excepting pain, and every time you refer to 
 it, you hurt me a damned sight more than you 
 know. Keep to me: you ask me to go into the 
 House; well, I haven't the ability, I couldn't do 
 it if I wanted to — it's out of my line. If I had 
 it in me to become a distinguished man, I'd fag 
 at anything you chose, to please you. Believe 
 me, it's true! You ask me to marry: I daresay 
 that to answer 'I'm not a marrying man' doesn't 
 explain as much as it means. I'll only say that I 
 haven't been home a year yet; my — my liberty, 
 with the means to enjoy it, is new to me." 
 
 "Your liberty? That was all right when you 
 were in town. But his liberty cannot mean much 
 to a man who lives as you live now. I have -lot 
 once heard you say that you think of going away
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 113 
 
 from me, and you have been here nearly three 
 months. The means to enjoy your liberty, it 
 seems to me, was a privilege you got tired of very 
 soon. If you value it so highly, why do you 
 stop?" 
 
 "Why do I stop? Well, why does everybody 
 stop? There are plenty of men down here at 
 the present time." 
 
 "Be frank with me!" said Sir Noel. "You 
 can make me very happy. You're very often at 
 Whichcote: shall I see you marry that girl one 
 day?" 
 
 "Good Heavens," exclaimed Maurice, "no!" 
 The colour sank from his face, and the cigar be- 
 tween his fingers shook. 
 
 He had dealt a heavier blow than he under- 
 stood, and for some seconds there was silence. 
 At last the other said simply: 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " 'Why'? There are a thousand reasons. One 
 is enough — I am nothing to her." 
 
 Into the old man's tones crept a tinge of re- 
 stored hope. "But if she were willing to accept 
 you?" he asked. 
 
 "Why consider impossibilities? I tell you that 
 I'm nothing to her — nothing. If she cares for 
 anyone at all, it is for her cousin, who's always
 
 114 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 running down here. But it's difficult to say! 
 After all he is her cousin." 
 
 "You can offer a very fine position, Philip, 
 and she is not a child. ... If she were willing to 
 accept you?" 
 
 "She would never sell herself to anybody: you 
 don't know her!" 
 
 "To sell? You are not a Bluebeard. And 
 she has a mother to advise her. You — you can- 
 not fail to admire her? You like her?" 
 
 "She is very beautiful," said Maurice unstead- 
 
 iiy. 
 
 "Then what's your objection? You tell me 
 there are a thousand reasons, but I hear only 
 one, and that is very foolish. She is not in love 
 with you, you say? Well, you ought to know. 
 But there are many marriages made for other 
 things than love; women marry for an establish- 
 ment, for esteem; life is not a romance. Besides 
 I do not think she is a girl to fall violently In love 
 with anyone." 
 
 "Don't you?" said Maurice. "I can imagine 
 her loving very deeply — when she meets the right 
 man. But the subject's preposterous; I'm as 
 likely to be Prime Minister as to marry her." 
 
 "Why, why, why?" cried Sir Noel angrily. 
 
 'You may say you are unlikely to marry her 
 
 when you have proposed and been rejected. Wait
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 115 
 
 till you are rejected before you disappoint me in 
 this, too! I have thought of it for a long time; 
 I have not many hopes in my life, but I have 
 hoped to see you with a son. You — you refuse 
 everything I ask you; I was ambitious for you 
 to make a public career, and you refused me. 
 But you said just .now that you would do it if 
 you could, and I believed you meant it. Well, 
 I ask you something else! There is nothing to 
 prevent your gratifying me in this; it is no ter- 
 rible sacrifice to take such a woman for your 
 wife. You are a constant visitor; you have led 
 the mother to think you have intentions ; will you 
 propose?" 
 
 "I can't," said Maurice; "don't — I beg you, 
 sir — don't make a personal matter of it; it can't 
 be done." 
 
 "You are obstinate," said the old man, "you 
 are — you are very hard. And you have behaved 
 very badly; Lady Wrensfordsley will consider 
 you have behaved very badly. Well, she will be 
 justified! We will not talk about it any more." 
 He tapped the arm of his chair rapidly, and rose. 
 "You have distressed me cruelly. I am going to 
 my room." 
 
 Maurice was still very pale; to be left alone 
 was a great relief to him, though his thoughts 
 could take no agreeable turn. Obedience was
 
 116 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 beyond him, but this was the first difference that 
 had arisen between Sir Noel and himself, and he 
 realised that he must appear a dogged fool. Per- 
 haps the emotions that the girl woke in him 
 caused him to sympathise with the disappoint- 
 ment that he had inflicted more acutely than he 
 would have done otherwise. For an instant he 
 revolved the idea of paying a fraction of what 
 he owed by proposing with the conviction that 
 the offer would be declined; but then he shrank 
 from it as an insult to the woman that he hon- 
 oured most. Moreover, a single act of compli- 
 ance wouldn't solve the difficulty: doubtless he 
 would be required later on to propose to some 
 other woman — who might accept him! 
 
 The assertion that he had given Lady Wrens- 
 fordsley cause to feel aggrieved kept recurring 
 to him with dismay; but on reflection he was as- 
 sured that her daughter's manner, even more 
 than his own, must render it impossible for her 
 to entertain the supposition attributed to her. 
 Nevertheless he had been unwise, he saw that 
 now — and he would go to Whichcote less fre- 
 quently; it might be w r ell that Sir Noel had 
 warned him! 
 
 The following morning he w r as met by the 
 Baronet with considerable restraint, and, had he 
 been less conciliatory, the breach between them
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 117 
 
 would have widened. As it was, they spoke to- 
 gether by dinner-time with some semblance of 
 freedom. But neither on that day, nor the next, 
 was an opportunity afforded him for the usual 
 reading, and it was evident to him that his ob- 
 duracy had been taken deeply to heart. 
 
 He began to think of returning to town. As 
 the other had said, there had been little to keep 
 him here, and now there was less than ever. But 
 though he always meditated leaving on the mor- 
 row, he could never bring himself to do it. 
 
 He would not go to Whichcote for a fortnight ; 
 but Oakenhurst held the chance of meeting her! 
 It was only now, when he would not allow him- 
 self to visit her, when he walked, or rode, praying 
 for the sight of the familiar livery, and returned 
 to the Court with the new-found hope that she 
 and Lady Wrensfordsley might have called; 
 when he accepted an invitation to one of the 
 neighbours' and counted the moments until re- 
 lease, because she, too, was not there, that the 
 full measure of the influence that she had at- 
 tained upon him made itself clear. When a 
 week had worn by, it seemed to Maurice that he 
 had borne the separation for a month. The eter- 
 nal roads, in which the carriage never appeared, 
 were as insufferable as the house in which he 
 spent hours listening for the sound of the hall-
 
 118 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 door bell. Imagination, which showed her +o 
 him in a dozen familiar scenes, made him ache 
 more fiercely for her presence. In moments 
 luncheon stuck in his throat while there flashed 
 before him the dining-room at Whichcote, and 
 he was seized with the impulse to pitch his reso- 
 lution to the winds; in others, he was humiliated 
 to feel that, while an entire week had passed since 
 he had been there, he was not missed. He loved 
 her; the truth was vivid, and he knew it. He w r as 
 as far below her as the gutter from the star, but 
 he loved her! Cravings came to him sometimes, 
 boyish and wild: cravings for an opportunity to 
 prove it to her; to break through her indifference 
 by some heroic service; to die for her if necessary, 
 only that he might leap into her life for a moment 
 and see her understand. Of all the complications 
 that his fancy had forecast on the homeward voy- 
 age, not one had happened ; he was stabbed by a 
 thing that had never presented itself to him 
 among the possibilities — he loved. He could not 
 blink facts any more, he could no longer juggle 
 With terms — he loved her as a man loves the wom- 
 an who holds the world for him; and now that 
 he realised it, he would leave Oakenhurst at once! 
 It was no compromise with duty that he rode 
 over to Whichcote to say "good-bye"; he did not 
 intend to see her again till he was master of him-
 
 T.HE WORLDLINGS 119 
 
 self, and to have omitted a leave-taking would, in 
 the circumstances, have been flagrant rudeness. 
 
 The man told him that Lady Wrensfordsley 
 was driving, and when he learnt in the .next in- 
 stant that Helen was in, his heart swelled .at the 
 prospect of seeing her alone. 
 
 There were no visitors to disappoint him, 
 though a tete-a-tete promised him a happiness 
 empty enough. She was arranging some flowers 
 in a bowl, and he took a seat by the fire, and 
 watched her hands. 
 
 "My mother has gone to the Saviles'," she 
 said; "it is almost time she was home now. She 
 wanted me to go too, but I was lazy. Aren't 
 these flowers pretty?" 
 
 "Yes," he said, "very pretty. I like the way 
 you pull some of them up higher than the rest. 
 Do they touch the water that way?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, they touch the water," she said. "I 
 leave the stalks longer on purpose. Is it cold 
 out?" 
 
 "Yes, no," he said, "no. Where are you going 
 to put it now it's done?" 
 
 "On the bookcase," she said. She moved the 
 bowl carefully, and wiped her hands on her hand- 
 kerchief, and sat down. "Well?" 
 
 "Well," he said, "talk to me!"
 
 120 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 "What do you want to talk about?" she 
 smiled. 
 
 "Anything!" 
 
 "That's too vague." 
 
 "Anything you please. How long do you stay 
 here — till the Spring, or do you go South?" 
 
 "We may go to Cannes for a few weeks after 
 Christmas, but I don't know that we shall. We 
 go to town for the season, of course." 
 
 "Do you look forward to it?" 
 
 "I always look forward to amusement. Does 
 it sound very frivolous of me?" 
 
 "I don't think you could be frivolous if you 
 tried; you don't look frivolous even when you 
 arrange flowers." 
 
 "Oh, to arrange the flowers," she said, "is a 
 solemn duty; you'd say so if you saw how the 
 servants do it." 
 
 "Then, I suppose," said Maurice, after a slight 
 pause, "I shan't see you till we meet in town. 
 I'm going away to-morrow." 
 
 "Are you?" she said. "I suppose you won't, 
 then." 
 
 "Even if I see you in town." 
 
 "Oh, one is bound to meet one's friends in the 
 
 season." 
 
 "I mayn't be there in the season," he said: 
 'perhaps I shall go abroad again for awhile."
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 121 
 
 "Really? You are tired of England already?" 
 
 "No, I'm not tired of it, but it's best for me to 
 go." He looked away from her, calling himself 
 a coward. 
 
 "Where do you think of going?" 
 
 "I don't know, I haven't thought yet — some- 
 where where I haven't been." 
 
 "You should try India. I should think it must 
 be immensely fascinating — and you could make 
 sketches, or shoot things. Men generally prefer 
 to shoot things, don't they?" 
 
 "I suppose, on the whole, it's easier," he said. 
 
 "And then you could send us a tiger-skin, if 
 the tiger would let you. Only, if he doesn't, 
 please don't reproach me for the suggestion!" 
 
 "Should you mind?" asked Maurice. 
 
 "'Mind'?" 
 
 He found rebuke in the monosyllable. 
 
 "I mean assuming the tragedy with the tiger." 
 
 "I should mind very much," she said calmly; 
 "wouldn't you?" 
 
 "And yet there are worse fates than an un- 
 looked-for death." 
 
 "Worse?" 
 
 "Far. I could die pluckily enough, I think — 
 death is such a short affair. It's life that is the 
 test of heroes." 
 
 "How seriously you say that!" she said. "Do
 
 122 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 you know you sometimes say things like nobody 
 else, Mr. Jardine?" 
 
 "I told you long ago that I hadn't learnt how 
 to talk to you yet. . . . Well, then, I had better 
 not go and 'shoot things'? And if I'm fortunate, 
 I shall meet you in town after all?" 
 
 "No doubt," she said. "How quickly we're 
 travelling — we have got from India to Mayfair 
 already ! Here's my mother." 
 
 Lady Wrensfordsley came in well pleased to 
 find that he was there, and only a woman would 
 have read her regret in her eyes when his plans 
 were made known to her. For a few seconds she 
 questioned if they had been born of the interview 
 that she had interrupted ; and, deciding that they 
 had not, she was perplexed. Maurice, who, des- 
 pite the conclusion at which he had arrived, had 
 been sensible of some slight apprehension, was 
 entirely relieved by her manner. 
 
 The wrench had been made. But the pain of 
 it lingered. And the idea of going abroad was 
 not to be dismissed from his mind so easily as he 
 had dismissed the subject from the conversation. 
 He knew perfectly that he would be as unwise to 
 meet Helen in six months' time as to continue 
 their meetings now ; and if he remained in Eng- 
 land through the next season, he would be power-
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 123 
 
 less to resist his opportunities. However, he had 
 taken the right course and done all that was nec- 
 essary at present. Having said what he had said, 
 he could avoid her for a year or more if he chose.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 Sir Noel had offered no opposition to the pro- 
 posed departure, nor indeed made any comment 
 on it; only in the moment of good-bye he looked 
 at Maurice wistfully. The appeal was involun- 
 tary, and Maurice understood it to be so. It 
 came back to him, among other things, as he sat 
 alone in the chambers that he had formerly viewed 
 with elation. He did not want to see anvone vet; 
 his solitude was dreary enough, but he felt that 
 he would be infinitely lonelier in a crowd. He 
 could not even pretend to laugh at himself as a 
 sentimentalist. Whether the contingency that 
 he had overlooked was to be called absurd or not, 
 the thought of Helen dominated him. He would 
 have given up everything that he had gained if 
 the renunciation would have placed her in his 
 arms. He did not for a second undervalue the 
 advantages that he had won — he was human; 
 but, being human, he found wealth a poor make- 
 shift for the woman he loved. He had grasped 
 all that he had sought, and it was insuilicient for 
 happiness. The fancy did not strike him — and 
 the moral was imperfect — but he resembled the 
 
 124
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 125 
 
 protagonist of the fantastic who is accorded his 
 heart's desire and whose hasty petition has omit- 
 ted the chief essential for contentment. 
 
 He had been back in town several days when 
 he did what was required of him by calling upon 
 Rosa Fleming. He had received a note from 
 her begging him to oblige her with a loan of fifty 
 pounds, for her resolution not to worry him for 
 introductions did not prevent her worrying him 
 for assistance when she found her income inade- 
 quate ; and he took the cheque in his pocket. 
 
 "I thought I was never going to see you any 
 more," she said. "I've missed you awfully. What 
 a long time you stayed down there! Have you 
 enjoyed yourself?" 
 
 "It wasn't particularly gay," he answered. 
 "Well, how have you been? I've brought you 
 what you want." 
 
 "What a good fellow you are! I was sorry to 
 bother you again, but this rent is always due; and 
 then I had to go out of town, and the hotel was 
 very dear — everything seems to cost more than it 
 ought to. You can stop what I owe you out of 
 my next quarter's money, you know." 
 
 "Oh, that's all right," he said ; "don't talk about 
 that. Where did you go? Folkestone, wasn't 
 
 it?" 
 
 "Yes ; I shouldn't have gone away at all if you
 
 126 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 had come back, but I was so melancholy in Lon- 
 don all by myself. What do you say to this?" 
 She laughed, and took a box of cigars out of the 
 sideboard; "the last time you came you had noth- 
 ing to smoke ; do you remember ? You never need 
 look at your cigar-case any more before you come 
 — you're provided for!" 
 
 "Thanks," said Maurice; "it's very kind of 
 you. I'll have one now." 
 
 "Do! I think they're all right; I used to know 
 a little about cigars. Well, what's the news? It's 
 jolly to see you again. How's Sir Noel?" 
 
 "Sir Noel's quite well," he replied lamely. 
 
 'You've not been quarrelling with him?" she 
 .exclaimed. "There isn't anything wrong?" 
 
 "Why should you think so? Did it sound like 
 it?" 
 
 "Tell me!" she said. "I thought by your face 
 when you came in that something was the matter. 
 What is it — anything important?" 
 
 Maurice shook his head. "They're very good, 
 your cigars. Your attention is appreciated." 
 
 "Never mind my cigars ; I want to know what's 
 troubling you. Is he talking about your going 
 into Parliament again? Is that it?" 
 
 "No," said Maurice, "that isn't it. He wants 
 something more difficult still." 
 
 "Well, then, tell me all about it. Who is to
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 127 
 
 hear your anxieties, if I don't ? You're not afraid 
 of boring me, are you?" 
 
 "Perhaps I am. Anyhow it's all over; it's not 
 worth discussing." 
 
 "Don't be unkind," she said. "I can't gush — 
 I'm not made that way — but your anxieties are 
 mine too. I don't mean your risks ; I mean what 
 I say, your 'anxieties.' It's so queer to me some- 
 times to think that a year ago we didn't know 
 each other much — things have brought us very 
 close together since. You're a peg low ; I'm go- 
 ing to give you a drink first of all, and then I'll 
 have a cigarette with you and we'll put our heads 
 together. It'll cheer you up to be with someone 
 you can talk freely to." 
 
 She rang the bell, and a parlourmaid in a 
 frilled cap and apron brought what was wanted, 
 and said "Yes, madam," and "No, madam," in a 
 hushed voice. The sight of Rosa with a parlour- 
 maid retained its novelty to Maurice, and a little 
 amusement crept into his eyes as he looked on. 
 It was quite the last feeing that she meant her 
 dignity to rouse in him. 
 
 "So the old man has been making himself a 
 nuisance?" she said when they were alone again. 
 "I've often thought of you down there and won- 
 dered how you stood it. What does he want?
 
 128 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 Perhaps it isn't so difficult as it seems — we may 
 be able to get over it." 
 
 Maurice watched a smoke-ring meditatively. 
 After all, there was no reason for reticence. lie 
 was averse from speaking Helen's name to her, 
 but her tone warmed him towards her, and he 
 was athirst for somebody to sympathise with him. 
 
 "He wants me to marry," he said. 
 
 She could not restrain a start. 
 
 "To marry?" 
 
 "Of course it's impossible, and my refusal 
 ruffled him." 
 
 "Why?" she said after a long pause. "I mean 
 — I mean, why did you refuse?" 
 
 "Good Heavens!" he cried, "how could I con- 
 sent? I'm not such a blackguard as that!" 
 
 "No," she said; "no, of course you couldn't — 
 I see! You could never marry any woman who 
 — who was ignorant of what you'd done, could 
 you? What did you say?" 
 
 "I told him that I didn't want to marry her — 
 that I preferred my freedom." 
 
 "Pier?" She caught the pronoun up. "He has 
 somebody in his mind, then — he wants you to 
 marry a certain woman? Who is she?" 
 
 "What's the difference? One woman or an- 
 other — I can't marry anybody." 
 
 The colour was leaving her face rapidly. If
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 129 
 
 he had not been seeing Helen's, he would have 
 remarked the change. 
 
 "Is that all?" she asked harshly. 
 
 "That's about all." 
 
 She began to laugh. "Why don't you tell me 
 the whole story? Do you think I'm a fool? 
 You're in love with her ! I thought the old man's 
 wish wasn't enough to break you up like that. 
 You're in love with her, eh ? Well," — she strug- 
 gled to get the friendliness back into her man- 
 ner — "well, I'm awfully sorry for you, old boy, 
 awfully sorry! It's hard lines." 
 
 "It's damned hard lines," said the man, blind 
 to her agitation. 
 
 "She's a swell, of course? Who is she?" 
 
 "Yes," he said, "she's a 'swell.' But, as I tell 
 vou, it's all over. Heaven knows when I shall 
 see her again — not until she's engaged to some- 
 body else, I expect. I suppose we all make idiots 
 of ourselves over a woman once. This is my first 
 experience. 
 
 Each time that he evaded her inquiry and with- 
 held the name, he stabbed her anew. At this in- 
 stant she could have struck him for it. 
 
 "Poor old boy," she repeated, walking about 
 the room. "I wonder if you know what I'm go- 
 ing to say?"
 
 130 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 "You're not going to advise me to marry her?" 
 he asked. 
 
 She drew her breath sharply. His every word 
 made the hopelessness of her aim more apparent. 
 
 "Don't," he said, "because I'm weaker than I 
 knew! Since I've been in town there have been 
 moments when, if impulse could have given her 
 to me, she'd be my wife to-night. He doesn't un- 
 derstand, but you — you know what I am. I want 
 you to din it into me, to keep telling me that I'm 
 a scoundrel." 
 
 "I'm not going to advise you to marry 
 her," she said, moistening her lips. "You'd be 
 wretched with her; you've too much conscience; 
 your life'd be a hell." 
 
 "That wouldn't matter," he said; "it's her life 
 I'm thinking of; if she accepted me, I might ruin 
 it. Suppose the truth came out — somehow — 
 some day? Oh, I know it isn't likely to come out; 
 it's almost certain that it never will come out 
 now; but if it did? To have dragged her down! 
 Besides, you're right — I should have hours of 
 agony. My God! if I had no other guilt to an- 
 swer for than the sins of every man I should still 
 feel ashamed when I touched her hand. At first 
 she was only strange to me, I — I was embar- 
 rassed: the other women I'd been introduced to 
 were forgotten. I felt as far from her as from
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 131 
 
 the women I had watched as they drove by me 
 when I was shabby and hungry in the streets. 
 And then for a little while there was a satisfac- 
 tion — I congratulated myself. 'Money is even 
 better than you dreamed,' I said; 'how it unlocks 
 the doors! Bravo!' And then the satisfaction 
 passed as well. I suppose I'd begun to love her, 
 though I didn't realise it — and sometimes when 
 I met her eyes, I thought 'How would she look 
 at you if she knew ! Adventurer, impostor, if she 
 knew!'" 
 
 "You'd be wretched," said Rosa again. 'You 
 did a wise thing in refusing. If you made her 
 your wife you'd regret it to the day you died. 
 Oh, I understand," she went on tremulously, 
 "how you must feel, and that the temptation 
 must be pretty big! But, take my word for it, 
 if you gave way you would be a fool, as well as 
 a blackguard. You'd suffer remorse all the time, 
 you wouldn't be happy a bit — you aren't the man 
 to do a woman a wrong and not trouble about it." 
 
 She longed for him to go. Unfounded as her 
 hope had been, she had nursed it for months, it 
 had fastened upon her; and her disappointment 
 was bitter, vivid. The battle between her judg- 
 ment and her nature was wearing her out. It 
 would have relieved her to beat her fists on the 
 table and mutter hysterical oaths. To affect to
 
 132 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 pity him, without preparation, before she had had 
 time to steady herself from the shock, was an 
 effort that could not last. 
 
 She sat down, and lit another cigarette, and 
 sought refuge in contemplative silence. It was 
 for this, then, that she had schooled herself to 
 leave him in peace — that he should fall in love 
 with another woman in the meanwhile, and come 
 to tell her of it! 
 
 "I shall expect to see you often now you're 
 back," she said heroically, after a long silence; 
 "I must help you to get over this facer." 
 
 "You're very good," said Maurice, "but I don't 
 think we'll say any more about it; I mean to for- 
 get. I'll come to see you, but we'll talk about 
 •everything except " 
 
 "Except what you'll be thinking of!" 
 
 "Except what I haven't the right to think of." 
 
 "Are you at your rooms?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes," he said; "why?" 
 
 "Only that if you've got a photograph of her 
 there, I'd like to see it. Or do you carry it in 
 your pocket?" 
 
 "You don't understand," he said, with sur- 
 prise. "The attachment is all on one side, I 
 haven't her photograph anywhere. Good Lord, 
 did you think she cared for me? I am nothing 
 to her aX all!"
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 133 
 
 "You might have stolen a photograph,'"' she 
 answered ; his statement did not console her in the 
 least. The momentous question was, not whether 
 he was loved, but whether he would propose. In- 
 deed, that his devotion was not reciprocated 
 heightened the peril ; a woman looked her best to 
 a man while he was pursuing her — like a butter- 
 fly to a boy ; capture brushed the bloom off them 
 both. 
 
 He went at last, and he cast the shackles from 
 her. By degrees the luxury of unrestricted ac- 
 tion caused her pluck to revive. After all, she 
 had good cards. His scruples, which she would 
 take care to keep alive, were her four to a flush ; 
 and since he would feel debarred from marriage 
 with other women as well, time should deal her 
 the ace. The pool might be long in coming, 
 longer than she had promised herself, but surely 
 she was justified, even now, in hoping that she 
 would win in the end ? He might not fall to her 
 from sentiment, nor from passion; but only to 
 herself could he ever utter what was in his mind 
 — and habit was a force, too. Her reflections en- 
 couraged her. 
 
 She had some slight expectation of seeing him 
 after dinner on the morrow, and she held herself 
 well in hand; but the evening passed while she 
 waited to hear the bell ring. On the next, she
 
 134. THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 was more confident; she even put the cigar-box 
 on the table in readiness for him. She put the 
 cigar-box on the table for three evenings in suc- 
 cession. 
 
 Her fears began to reassert themselves; and on 
 the fifth morning after his visit she telegraphed 
 to Bury Street, begging him to lunch with her. 
 
 She had mentioned two o'clock in the telegram, 
 and at half-past two she sat down to lunch alone. 
 She was now exceedingly anxious, and, though 
 she tried to persuade herself that Maurice had 
 just gone out when her message arrived, she re- 
 gretted that she had not sent a note by the par- 
 lourmaid, who could have inquired whether he 
 had left town. 
 
 As the day wore on and no word from him 
 reached her, she entertained the idea of driving 
 to his rooms. But she was deterred by the 
 thought that he might call at any moment. For 
 the same reason she hesitated to leave the house 
 after nightfall. It was only when eleven o'clock 
 struck that she gave up all hope of his coming; 
 and now she decided to end her suspense before 
 she slept. 
 
 In the hansom, she was mastered by the con- 
 viction that the worst had happened — that he 
 had returned to Oakenhurst. Her relief was in-
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 135 
 
 tense when she heard that he was at home, and 
 alone. 
 
 She was kept waiting only a minute, and she 
 found him with his gloves on; his hat and stick 
 lay on the table. 
 
 "You're a beauty!" she said; "I've been fright- 
 ened out of my life about you!" 
 
 "I just came in, and got your wire," he ex- 
 plained; "I'm awfully sorry. I've been out all 
 day." 
 
 "And the other days?" said she. "I thought 
 you were coming to see me again soon?" 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. "I shouldn't have 
 been good company, so I stayed away. What 
 did you come round so late for — what did you 
 suppose was the matter?" 
 
 "Your welcome is — is very warm," she smiled. 
 "I tell you I was anxious, I didn't know what 
 might be the matter; I was afraid you were laid 
 up. I'll sit down, if you ask me, and have a 
 drink now I'm here." 
 
 "You had better loosen your things," he said, 
 "or you'll take cold when you go out." 
 
 He wheeled a chair to the hearth as he spoke, 
 and she stretched out her hand for the cigarettes. 
 As he produced the tantalus, another telegram 
 was brought in to him, and she understood before 
 he passed it to her that it came from Surrey.
 
 136 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 She fixed him with eager eyes. "What?" she 
 murmured. 
 
 "Sir Noel is ill," stammered Maurice; "he 
 wants me back!" 
 
 "Back?" Her thoughts span. The dread of 
 marriage, and the hope of death eddied in her 
 mind confusingly. 
 
 Maurice turned to the man. "Call a cab," he 
 said; and then glancing at the clock, "No, stop!" 
 he added, "it's no use — I can't go till the morn- 
 ing. Is the boy waiting?" 
 1 es, sir. 
 
 He pencilled a reply, promising to return by 
 the earliest train. When the answer was dis- 
 patched, there was no more to be done. He re- 
 read the message: "111 in bed. Would like to see 
 you. Consultation yesterday. Come as soon as 
 possible." 
 
 Rosa and he looked at each other intently. 
 
 "He wants me back," he repeated; "I'm bound 
 to go!" 
 
 She couldn't dispute it — there was no alter- 
 native — circumstances were too strong for them 
 both. She was about to say that perhaps he 
 would not be detained long, when there was a 
 second interruption. Somebody knocked at the 
 door and opened it simultaneously, and a man 
 strode in who was evidently familiar there. He
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 137 
 
 did not see Rosa until he was in the middle of 
 the room, and then he started, with a quick 
 apology. 
 
 "I beg you ten thousand pardons, Jardine! 
 I was outside when you drove up ; I thought you 
 were alone." 
 
 "It's — it's all right," said Maurice. "How are 
 you? Let me present you to Mrs. Fleming. 
 Captain Boulger — Mrs. Fleming." 
 
 "I have just brought Mr. Jardine bad news," 
 said Rosa, recovering herself. "Sir Noel is very 
 ill."
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 Fred Boulger soon invented an excuse to 
 withdraw, but Rosa's leave-taking had to be made 
 at the same time, and she could say no more in 
 going than "You'll be sure to let me know how 
 you find your father on your arrival?" She 
 threw all the significance that she could into the 
 request, but she was incensed, not only by the 
 interruption, but by the consciousness that a false 
 impression might easily have been excited in the 
 intruder's mind, although Maurice had done his 
 best to avert it by introducing her. As for 
 Maurice himself, he was engrossed by the knowl- 
 edge that he was returning to the Court and that, 
 whether he wished it or not, he must speedily 
 meet Helen again. 
 
 When he reached the house in the early morn- 
 ing, he learnt that the old man had been attacked 
 by pneumonia. 
 
 "Sir Noel was took ill the day after 'e called 
 at Whichcote, sir," said Cope. "Sir Noel drove 
 over to her ladyship's on Thursday afternoon, 
 and Dr. Sanders considers that 'e must 'ave 
 
 138
 
 T.HE WORLDLINGS 139 
 
 caught a chill, sir, though the day was quite mild 
 and pleasant for the time of the year." 
 
 "What physician has been down? What did 
 he say?" asked Maurice rapidly. 
 
 "Sir David Parry, sir; 'e 'ad hopes, strong 
 hopes. I understood from the night-nurse just 
 now, sir, that Sir Noel 'ad passed a good night, 
 and was still asleep." 
 
 Nearly half an hour went by before a message 
 came that the Baronet was awake, and then 
 Maurice went upstairs at once. The nurse walked 
 out of the room with a rustle of the stiff skirts 
 that nurses should not be allowed to wear, and 
 he noted that while she had been drilled to deft 
 hands, the training had not been extended to her 
 noisy feet. 
 
 "This is a bad business, governor," he said. 
 "But they tell me you're soon going to be about 
 again, eh?" 
 
 Sir Noel nodded weakly; the smile that had 
 lightened his face at Maurice's entrance Tiad 
 faded and left him very wan. In the big bed he 
 seemed to have aged and shrunk. 
 
 "Perhaps," he said; "perhaps. I don't know." 
 He spoke with great difficulty, and made fre- 
 quent pauses. "It is good of you to come so 
 quickly; I have been thinking about you all the
 
 140 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 time. . . . We were not good friends when you 
 went away; I have regretted it very much." 
 
 "My fault," said Maurice; "my fault, every 
 bit of it — it's for mc to regret. Don't grieve any 
 more about that, governor. Why didn't you 
 wire me before?" 
 
 "I did not want to bother you. . . . You were 
 amusing yourself in town when I dragged you 
 awav ? 
 
 "Not a scrap. I'd have come last night, only 
 there was no train." 
 
 "I wired very late, I know. I tell you, I have 
 been thinking about you all the time, last night 
 especially . . . and the nurse came in and asked 
 if there was anything I wanted. Did you notice 
 the nurse? I like her; she is very attentive; so 
 is the day-nurse — the day-nurse reads very well. 
 . . . You'd be surprised what patients she has 
 had; she is quite a young woman, but what she 
 has been through! I must tell you some day of 
 her morphia-habit case — extraordinary! . . . 
 Well, well, that has nothing to do with it. What 
 was I going to say? • . • Yes! She came m and 
 asked if there was anything I wanted ; and I said 
 I wanted a telegraph-form, and she sent it at 
 once. You'll stop, Philip, now that you are 
 here?" He broke off, coughing. 
 
 "Yes, yes, of course," said Maurice, "I'll stop.
 
 THE WORLDLINGS ' 141 
 
 What did you go driving in the cold for? Why 
 didn't you take better care of yourself?" 
 
 Sir Noel sighed. 
 
 "Ah, it was not the drive," he answered; "the 
 doctors don't know. They said that, with my 
 bronchitis, either exposure to cold, or worry, 
 might be the cause. I told them I was not wor- 
 ried ... so they put it down to the drive; but 
 — but your refusal hurt me a good deal. . . . 
 However, it can't be helped ; I must put up with 
 it." His voice had grown fainter. "Now leave 
 me," he added; "you will come back presently; I 
 am tired." 
 
 The unexpected reply gave Maurice a disquiet- 
 ing sense of responsibility. If the illness was 
 indeed attributable to his determination to do 
 right, he felt that he had received a poor reward 
 for his effort. While he breakfasted, the hope 
 rose that the invalid had exaggerated — that he 
 had adapted the medical opinion to his require- 
 ments; but when the local practitioner paid his 
 visit the idea was banished. 
 
 "Sir Noel is suffering from patchy pneu- 
 monia," said Dr. Sanders. "He's better than he 
 was, oh yes! But there's a good deal of it creep- 
 ing about the left lung still, and the condition's 
 very dangerous, especially late in life."
 
 142 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 "What," Maurice asked, "do you think it is 
 due to? The drive?" 
 
 Dr. Sanders shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "Possibly — though Thursday wasn't a day I 
 should have thought could hurt your father. Of 
 course in Sir Noel's normal state of health, 
 anxiety'd explain it too — his liver isn't what it 
 might be, you know, and there's the bronchial 
 trouble besides. Anxiety'd certainly explain it, 
 but he tells me he hasn't had any. Still, he's 
 going on very nicely, Mr. Jardine. With care — 
 
 with care, and an even temperature " He had 
 
 said all he knew, and it was plain that further 
 questioning would result only in his repeating 
 himself. 
 
 By-and-by Maurice went to the bedside again, 
 but his presence there was not desirable fre- 
 quently, nor for more than a few minutes at a 
 time. The hours were long, and the corrobora- 
 tion of the old man's statement harassed him. 
 The illness was his fault— or, if not his "fault," 
 at least his doing! The fact disturbed him more 
 because he could not make amends for it and he 
 foresaw that he would be asked to do so, and 
 that his second refusal would appear more un- 
 gracious than his first. He learnt that Lady 
 Wrensfordslev had either called, or sent a ser- 
 vant with an inquiry every day, and he won-
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 143 
 
 dered whether she would call this afternoon. 
 About four o'clock, when he was told that she 
 and Helen were in the cedar drawing-room, he 
 could not for a moment affect to believe that he 
 was sorry. 
 
 "We couldn't go away without seeing you 
 when we heard you were here," she said. "We 
 can't stop, but servants' answers are always so 
 unsatisfactory. How is Sir Noel going on?" 
 
 "He's better, so the doctor says. He had a 
 good night. It was immensely good of you to 
 come in! And all your messages — I want to 
 thank you for them, too." 
 
 "We feel very guilty," remarked the girl; "it 
 was in driving to us that he took a chill, wasn't 
 it? The news must have been a great shock to 
 you?" 
 
 "Yes," said Maurice; "my father is just well 
 enough to be reproached, and I've been telling 
 him how badly he behaved in not letting me know 
 before." He turned to Lady Wrensfordsley. 
 "Do please stay a little," he begged; "it'd be 
 charitable of you!" 
 
 They remained about a quarter of an hour. 
 She hoped that he would go over to them as soon 
 as it was practicable for him to seek a little 
 change. There was tea; there was the reference 
 to the subversion of his plans, and the inevitable
 
 144 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 expression of regret that they should have been 
 frustrated by circumstances so serious. He held 
 Helen's hand again for an instant. And the sun 
 sank. 
 
 For a week, while Sir Noel's health slowly im- 
 proved, he saw her no more. Then he called at 
 Whicheote. There had been nothing to prevent 
 his going sooner, but he had sworn that he 
 wouldn't go. The step made, however, he took 
 no further oath, but went often. He was likelv 
 to be kept at Oakenhurst for a couple of months, 
 and he told himself that he could not repay Lady 
 Wrensfordsley's friendliness with incivility. 
 Every day his longings crept closer to the edge of 
 his resistance. Thoughts came which he no 
 longer strove to put away from him. He began 
 to wonder if it was true that he would be ac- 
 cepted if he proposed. He did not intend to pro- 
 pose, but there was no harm in supposition — or 
 he said that there wasn't — and to imagine him- 
 self Helen's husband made his brain swim. Some- 
 times he questioned if he had magnified the im- 
 possibility of an offer. He had surely passed 
 his danger? It was scarcely conceivable that ex- 
 posure could befall him now. Only one person 
 was in the secret, and apart from their comrade- 
 ship, her tongue was tied by the strongest of all 
 interests; to betray him would be to lose her own
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 145 
 
 income, and to render herself liable to prosecu- 
 tion. He was justified in believing that to count 
 Rosa Fleming among the obstacles was to create 
 a bogey. What then? The arrival on the scene 
 of someone who had been intimate with Jardine 
 abroad? The likeness and the circumstances 
 would withstand a stronger assault. His con- 
 science? Yes, his conscience was to be reckoned 
 with, but it wouldn't injure Helen; shame or no 
 shame, she would see only the obvious, and oc- 
 casionally he felt that for the joy of moments 
 with her he was prepared to pay any price that 
 came out of his own pocket. He was never so 
 near the brink as when he found Mr. Seymour 
 at the house, for then his doubt whether he could 
 win her if he tried was fiercest, and his moribund 
 strength had to contend not only with love, but 
 with jealousy. 
 
 These were not the only minatory circum- 
 stances. His apprehensions had not misled him : 
 Sir Noel had speedily revived the subject of his 
 desire. His initial venture had been tentative 
 enough — a half -veiled lament; but the next time 
 he spoke more plainly. He was an old man, with 
 but one wish — why was Maurice so obdurate? 
 Did he dislike her? To reply that he did dislike 
 her Maurice felt would be ludicrous, and he sim- 
 ply repeated that he did not want to marry. Such
 
 146 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 an answer could avail him nothing. The other's 
 appeal gained in force; he was ill — it was "his 
 son's attitude" that had made him ill; he had de- 
 served better treatment at his hands! The situa- 
 tion was not without pathos ; it gave to the invalid 
 an advantage which was pressed to the fullest ex- 
 tent, and the man who was battling with his weak- 
 ness had to listen to daily denunciations of his ob- 
 duracy. At Whichcote, and at home, he was 
 constantly tempted; even his solitude became 
 vivid temptation. When November had passed, 
 he had succumbed mentally more than once. 
 
 Meanwhile the frequency of Seymour's visits 
 had grown no less irritating to Lady Wrens- 
 fordsley, and one afternoon, when she and her 
 daughter were alone together, she said: 
 
 "I am distressed at something I have heard 
 about Bobbie. I don't like the way he is going 
 on in town. We aren't supposed to know any- 
 thing about it, of course, but I'm afraid he is the 
 reverse of steady." 
 
 "So many men are extravagant, mother," said 
 Helen, stooping over Pip. 
 
 "Bobbie's position doesn't warrant extrava- 
 gance; and there is no probability that it will 
 ever improve. I have the weakness to be very 
 fond of him, but between ourselves, I admire few 
 people less. I know his type so well; he is very
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 147 
 
 selfish, and will get himself into difficulties with 
 the utmost cheerfulness to the end of the chapter. 
 Lady Savile tells me that he gambles shock- 
 ingly." 
 
 As a matter of fact, the information had not 
 affected her so much as it would have done if it 
 had come from any other source. She knew that 
 Lady Savile had been unremitting in her in- 
 quiries at the Court since Maurice's return, and 
 his allegiance to Whichcote must have damped 
 the fair Agatha's hope considerably since the 
 afternoon that she had monopolised him in Chapel 
 Street; a little bitterness, a maternal alacrity to 
 exaggerate unwelcome news, was to be expected. 
 But she had been meaning to discuss her nephew 
 with the girl for some time. 
 
 "Bobbie and I have always been great friends," 
 murmured Helen. Her tone said: "Please don't 
 run him down to me; it hurts!" and Lady Wrens- 
 fordsley understood it. 
 
 "Friends," she replied, "oh yes; you have a 
 cousinly regard for him. There's nothing more 
 than that between you, I'm sure?" 
 
 "And if there were?" said Helen, still play- 
 ing with the dog. 
 
 "I should lose my very high opinion of your 
 good sense, darling, and think less of Bobbie still. 
 But you are only in fun?"
 
 148 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 There was a short silence, in which Lady 
 Wrensfordsley's misgivings mounted rapidly. 
 
 "Helen?" she exclaimed; "Helen, you weren't 
 serious? Why don't you answer me?" 
 
 "Bobbie has never asked me to marry him," 
 said the girl, "if — if that is what you want to 
 know. If he did, perhaps " 
 
 "If he did, perhaps what?" 
 
 "If he did You're my mother; I may own 
 
 it to you!" 
 
 "My dear child!" said Lady Wrensfordsley. 
 "Yes, I am your mother, and you know how much 
 you are to me. I hadn't a suspicion that it was 
 so bad; I thought — I was afraid of a flirtation. 
 Oh, Helen, I blame myself awfully; I'm so 
 sorry !" 
 
 "It's nothing to be proud of, is it, to feel like 
 that about a man who hasn't asked you! I'm 
 ashamed of having said it. Am I horrid?" 
 
 "Not horrid, dear — a little foolish, that's all; 
 for it can never come to anything." 
 
 Y r ou don't want me to marry for position, 
 mother?" 
 
 "No, I only want you to be happy. But you 
 wouldn't be happy with Bobbie, even if I paid his 
 debts and let him take you. You're not the 
 woman to respect a husband who owed you every- 
 thing."
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 149 
 
 "He would go into the House. I should make 
 him ambitious, and he would succeed in politics 
 if I were his wife." 
 
 "He would succeed in nothing with a compara- 
 tively wealthy wife ; he would be content with the 
 success he had achieved. The man who would 
 be of service to the country is Mr. Jardine — he 
 has ideas." 
 
 "Mr. Jardine? Mr. Jardine is half a radical, 
 and the other half a bore." 
 
 "Because he is attracted by you and Bobbie 
 doesn't care for him?" said Lady Wrensfordsley 
 more bluntly than was her habit. 
 
 "Is he attracted by me? I'm sure I never 
 think about it." 
 
 "You know very well he is attracted by you; 
 and I should be glad if you did think about it — 
 I like him." 
 
 Helen looked at her, and gave a little mirthless 
 laugh. 
 
 "What a long way round you take, mother — ■ 
 even with me!" 
 
 "He's an excellent fellow, dearest," said Lady 
 Wrensfordsley, "and you would never have any 
 occasion to regret it, I'm convinced." Her mind 
 was less easy than her manner, but tact told her 
 that to say any more would be a mistake. 
 
 The girl was relieved that the discussion was
 
 150 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 allowed to drop. She was angry with herself 
 for her confession. It had been premature, an 
 impulse; it was a thing that she felt it would 
 humiliate her to remember. But she had been 
 wounded by the disparagement of Seymour, and 
 her loyalty had sought to check it. In her heart 
 she had known for some time that he was more 
 to her than their relationship explained ; whether 
 she actually loved him was a question that she 
 had not permitted herself to face — and that she 
 was able to avoid it, in truth supplied the answer 
 — but, at least, she had a sentiment for him that 
 no other man had stirred in her. She wondered 
 again if the cousin who was called selfish and 
 weak had, where she was concerned, been stronger 
 than most men, because he wasn't a match for 
 her. Perhaps that she had to wonder was her own 
 fault, she reflected ; she had so dreaded to cheapen 
 herself that she might have repulsed him uncon- 
 sciously. 
 
 She was crediting him with a heroism that he 
 was far from possessing, for Mr. Seymour's 
 demeanour had not been less serious than his 
 feelings. To say that he was not fascinated by 
 her, or that the idea of telling her that he loved 
 her had never presented itself to him would be 
 false; but it delighted him to avow a passion for 
 any pretty woman. To be keenly miserable
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 151 
 
 about a woman for a week was one of his greatest 
 joys. And he preferred his divinities married; 
 the thought of double harness made him restive. 
 Besides, cut bono? His aunt would have a fit if 
 Helen accepted him, and mothers' fits told in the 
 end ; the luxury of a love-scene wasn't worth the 
 reproaches that would be levelled at him. No, 
 he couldn't afford it; Aunt Sophy was too use- 
 ful to be offended by a folly that she would never 
 forgive ! 
 
 At no time had he had more cause to be thank- 
 ful for not having committed himself to the 
 blunder of a declaration than he had a week or 
 so after the conversation about him took place. 
 Lady Savile's report had been true enough, and 
 now he had given an I.O.U. for over two hun- 
 dred and twenty pounds, across a whist-table at 
 the Turf Club. It was no more possible for him 
 to find the money without Lady Wrensfordsley's 
 help than to find thousands, and it had been nec- 
 essary for him to send the cheque. Fortunately 
 it was on a Thursday that he had lost the money, 
 and he had not posted the cheque until the next 
 afternoon, assuring himself of two clear days be- 
 fore it could be presented. But he felt very ill. 
 
 He went down to Whichcote pale and nervous. 
 If she refused to enable him to make things right 
 as soon as the bank opened, he would be dis-
 
 152 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 graced; and the sermon that had accompanied 
 her latest loan to him recurred discouragingly. 
 He hoped that there would be a favourable op- 
 portunity for his appeal — in these matters the 
 right moment meant so much — but later than the 
 morrow he could not wait, and at the thought of 
 having to blurt out his errand like a schoolboy 
 he trembled. On consideration he decided that 
 "while he was about it he might just as well say 
 he owed two hundred and fifty. That would 
 put a pony and more in his pocket!" 
 
 The opportunity did not occur till the next 
 morning; indeed he could not feel that it had 
 occurred then, but between breakfast and church- 
 time, while Helen was dressing, he found his 
 aunt alone, which was at least better than having 
 to beg for an interview. 
 
 "Am I interrupting you ?" he asked. She was 
 writing at her desk. 
 
 "Not in the least. There are one or two notes 
 I must answer, that's all. What a nuisance a 
 Sunday post is!" 
 
 "Most posts are!" he said. "There's a lack of 
 variety about the letters one gets; they always 
 begin, 'Sir, I am surprised' — creditors never seem 
 to outgrow the capability for surprise." 
 
 "Oh?" she murmured.
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 153 
 
 "Only some debts are more terrible than 
 others." 
 
 "To be sure," she said; "of course. The Ob- 
 server is there, if you'd like to look at it." 
 
 He did not want to look at it; he sat down, 
 and ruffled it impatiently, and put it aside, and 
 got up again. 
 
 "By-the-by, I wanted to speak to you about 
 
 — about a debt of mine. I'm ashamed to say 
 
 But I am interrupting you, I see!" 
 
 "Just a moment! What day does the 20th fall 
 on, do you know?" 
 
 "No, I don't know." 
 
 "Never mind. . . . Now, my dear boy, I am 
 quite at your service. Go on; you wanted to 
 speak to me, you said?" 
 
 "Well, to be frank, I'm in a deuce of a mess. 
 It sticks in my throat to acknowledge it, but I've 
 had a facer. I hoped I should be able to pull 
 through, and I haven't pulled through — I've got 
 deeper. Now I don't know where to turn. I'm 
 absolutely to blame, of course — a gambler and an 
 idiot — and I don't attempt to make excuses for 
 myself ; but the fact remains that I feel like put- 
 ting a bullet through my head, and that if I can't 
 meet a cheque by ten o'clock to-morrow, it would 
 be about the best thing for me."
 
 154 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 "What's the amount?" asked Lady Wrens- 
 fordsley, coldly. 
 
 "Two hundred and fifty. If I could only get 
 clear this time, I'd " 
 
 "Make some more good resolutions? My dear 
 Bobhie, two hundred and fifty pounds is a large 
 sum, and you forget how often I've heard this 
 sort of talk. I'm not a rich woman. I am very 
 sorry for you, but " She shook her head. 
 
 "I'd make them and keep them," he put in 
 eagerly. "I would, I swear it! It's a tremend- 
 ous favour, of course, but it means that I'm ask- 
 ing you to save me from ruin. If you'd lend me 
 what I want this once, I'd — well, there's noth- 
 ing I wouldn't do for you, Aunt Sophy! I'd be 
 grateful to you as long as I lived!" 
 
 She looked beyond him thoughtfully, toying 
 with one of the rings on her fingers. 
 
 "There are not many people I should feel in- 
 clined to help in such a fashion," she said at last. 
 "But I'm foolish enough to be fond of you, as it 
 happens; indeed, after Helen, I am fonder of 
 you than of anvone I know." 
 
 "It's very kind of you to say so." 
 
 "It's certainly saying a good deal, for Helen 
 is quite all I have to live for." 
 
 He mumbled deprecation. 
 
 'You need not be polite — it is the truth. Al-
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 155 
 
 most the only thing I look forward to in life is 
 to see her desirably settled." 
 
 "There'll be no difficulty about that, I should 
 imagine," said Seymour, as yet a little uncertain 
 of her trend. 
 
 "You think not, eh?" 
 
 "Helen is too charming not to be able to marry 
 as she pleases." 
 
 "Yes, but I want her to please me, too. Do 
 you know I have sometimes feared that there was 
 a silly flirtation between yourself and her, Bob- 
 bie?" 
 
 "Between us?" he cried, now following her per- 
 fectly. 
 
 "It would be too unkind of you if it were so! 
 You know that it could lead to nothing ; I should 
 blame you very much." 
 
 "I should blame myself!" he laughed. "My 
 position w r ould hardly justify me in proposing to 
 her!" 
 
 "Well, no," she said, smiling too. "As a man 
 of the world, you see it, of course. You're a 
 dear boy, but not eligible." 
 
 He admitted it again, cheerfully. Things had 
 taken a promising turn; he wished that he had 
 made the sum three hundred. 
 
 "But Helen, a young girl, might mistake your 
 attentions for something serious; and other peo-
 
 156 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 pie — other men — might be misled also. Lady 
 Savile as good as asked me if you were engaged 
 to her; that kind of thing is very — very detri- 
 mental. It wouldn't be nice of you, Bobbie, es- 
 pecially at a time when I am willing to come to 
 your rescue, to stand in your cousin's light." 
 
 Seymour drew a deep breath before he an- 
 swered. "My dear Aunt Sophy, I should be im- 
 mensely sorry!" he said. "As a matter of fact, 
 after I go back this afternoon I'm afraid it will 
 be some little time before I see either of you 
 again, because I can't come down at Christmas 
 after all. I shouldn't be able to stand in her light 
 if I were fool enough to want to do such a thing." 
 
 "Really?" said Lady Wrensfordsley ; "you 
 won't be with us at Christmas? Well, I daresay 
 you'll find a livelier party somewhere else. 
 What's the time? — you go this afternoon, you 
 say. I had better give you the cheque now, 
 then." She turned to the desk again, and picked 
 up her pen. "By the way," she added, "you 
 might perhaps — er — mention to Helen ... I 
 mean you might let her know that you don't re- 
 gard the stupid affair seriously. There's always 
 a way of conveying these things, and as you 
 mayn't meet each other for months, it might be 
 as well to let her understand that there's noth- 
 ing in it when you say good-bj r e."
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 157 
 
 "Certainly," said Seymour. He took the 
 cheque. "I have no words " 
 
 "No," she said, "don't try to find any. I don't 
 want you to thank me. That's all right, Bobbie. 
 But don't go getting yourself into difficulties any 
 more!" Two hundred and fifty pounds was a lot 
 of money, but she had not often drawn a cheque 
 with a greater sense of satisfaction.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 When Seymour mentioned during luncheon 
 that he should not be with them at Christmas, 
 the carelessness of his announcement hurt the 
 girl. There had been various references between 
 them to Christmas latterly; several persons were 
 expected and there was some idea of theatricals, 
 in which he had offered to take part. He had, 
 in point of fact, professed himself willing to carry 
 on a tea-tray, with the secret hope of being cast 
 for the lover. For an instant she wondered how 
 their plans could have slipped his memory, and 
 then, with a wave of indignation, she felt that he 
 had been banished. 
 
 His air, however, did not support the theory, 
 and she was puzzled; she could not avoid seeing 
 that he was far gayer now than when he had ar- 
 rived. The respite from anxiety had, indeed, 
 sent his spirits up to par, and the cheerfulness 
 with which he made little jokes and laughed at 
 them himself, was obviously genuine. His em- 
 barrassment did not occur till he was alone with 
 her; and their tete-a-tete was not to be yet, for 
 
 158
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 159 
 
 Lady Wrens ford sley was far too diplomatic to 
 betray any eagerness to efface herself. 
 
 However, between luncheon and tea the time 
 came, and he hoped that Helen would question 
 him. As she did not, it devolved upon him to 
 introduce the sub j ect. He kicked the coal for in- 
 spiration. 
 
 "Awful bore about Christmas!" he said. "Isn't 
 it?" 
 
 "A bore?" she said; "you mean about your 
 not coming down? Yes, it's rather a pity." She 
 was manifestly resolved not to inquire why his 
 intentions had been changed, and her reserve 
 made his task more difficult. The next moment, 
 though, he turned it to account with some dex- 
 terity. 
 
 "Don't be high-and-mighty, Helen! I should 
 have told you about it first, only you were so 
 un-get-at-able all the morning. You might say 
 you're sorry when a fellow can't come." 
 
 She gave him a quick smile. 
 
 "I was sore, a tiny bit," she owned, "but it's all 
 it)ver now; we won't quarrel just when you're 
 going away. If you can't come, you can't!" 
 
 "Perhaps it's just as well that I can't," he 
 murmured. 
 
 He said it as if by impulse, but the best acting 
 in the world could not have prevented her
 
 1G0 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 thoughts flying to her mother again. Then he 
 had been lectured after all! He had been told 
 he was in the way! 
 
 "How?" she 'said slowly. "Why 'just as 
 well'?" If he answered: "Because I'm fond of 
 you and your mother has reminded me I'm a 
 beggar," her whole heart would go out to him. 
 
 "Oh," he said, "just as well on your account. 
 People'll begin to think I'm in love with you if 
 I'm always hanging about. You know we have 
 flirted, Helen, desperately!" 
 
 The reply strengthened her suspicion, but the 
 tone in which it was made was the cruellest slight 
 she had ever endured. There was no renuncia- 
 tion in it — she could not deceive herself; if he 
 had been given a hint, it had quite evidently had 
 his cordial approval. She was cold with an aw- 
 ful fear that he might have detected her tender- 
 ness for him — that he might be reading her a 
 lesson ; and she would have given ten years of her 
 life at the instant to prove to him how superflu- 
 ous it was. 
 
 She forced her eyes, wide with amusement, to 
 his face. 
 
 "I didn't know it," she said; "so we have 
 'flirted desperately' — you and I? Oh, Bobbie, 
 how very unprincipled of you! What a risk I 
 have run — if I had only dreamed!"
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 161 
 
 Seymour looked a little uncomfortable. 
 
 "You know I didn't mean that at all," he said, 
 reddening; "I only meant that people might 
 think there was something in it. I'm not such 
 a conceited ass as to suppose " 
 
 She would hear no more, and she cut him short 
 with laughter ; but it rang false in her ears. Did 
 he guess? It was the one question she kept ask- 
 ing herself. The thought that she — for whom 
 the only reproach that men had ever found was 
 that she was cold — might be standing before him 
 like a schoolgirl, rebuked for sentimentality, was 
 piercing her. Ten years of her life? If now he 
 had cried to her that he loved her, and that her 
 humiliation had been caused only by a jest, she 
 would have thanked Heaven for the chance to 
 perjure herself and refuse him. 
 
 Her shame bowed her when he had closed the 
 door. Of a truth she had shaken his vanity se- 
 verely, but she had lost the composure necessary 
 to believe that she had deceived him at all. If 
 he had always guessed her folly, or if her mother's 
 greater, and unpardonable, folly had illumined 
 his perception, no mere words could have served 
 her. She leant against the mantel-shelf, her head 
 resting on her arm. Tears of anger sprang to 
 her eyes, and rolled down her cheeks. She hated 
 herself and him the more because she was crying ;
 
 162 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 and again and again she longed for a proposal 
 from him, only that she might convince him that 
 she didn't care for him and recover her self- 
 esteem. 
 
 It was like this that Maurice found her ten 
 minutes later. She made a valiant effort, but her 
 eyes were wet ; and he was too fond of her to be 
 competent to ignore the fact. 
 
 "I startled you," he stammered; "forgive me!" 
 
 "I didn't hear you come in. My head aches — 
 I'm not myself." 
 
 "I can't bear to see you grieve," said Maurice; 
 he had never spoken to her so spontaneously. 
 "Is there anything that I can do? Tell me — I'd 
 do anything in the world to save you pain." 
 
 She lifted a smile to him, deprecating his earn- 
 estness with convention. 
 
 "Oh, no; it's very kind of you, but it was noth- 
 ing. Pray don't look so anxious. We women 
 make such a fuss about a trifle, you know." She 
 moved to leave him. 
 
 "Ah, Helen!" he exclaimed, "Helen!" 
 
 "Mr. Jardine?" 
 
 "Yes, 'Helen'— 'Helen'!" His arms ached to 
 hold her, and he remembered nothing but his love 
 and her distress. "I have been hungry to call 
 you 'Helen.' Oh, my Love, I love you. To see 
 you cry! I didn't know you could cry — you! —
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 163 
 
 you've seemed so stately to me and so far away 
 — and then, in a second, your tears brought me 
 nearer to you than all the months. I love you. 
 Dear, I love you." 
 
 She stood pale and thoughtful, and he trem- 
 bled in her silence. 
 
 "I'm not worthy," he said. "Oh, I know — 
 under your feet. But no shade of care shall ever 
 touch you. . . . I'll only live to give you happi- 
 ness. . . . You would turn my life into a heaven, 
 and I'd worship you. . . . There's no one like 
 you. If I could tell you what you are to me, 
 you'd pity me. But I can't — I become a boy — 
 you take my words away." 
 
 "You think so much of me as that?" 
 
 He drew nearer to her. "Are you giving me 
 hope?" he asked. 
 
 "Ah," she said, half playfully, "if I'm so very 
 wonderful, I should be selfish, shouldn't I, to re- 
 fuse?" 
 
 "May God protect you, and let met" gasped 
 Maurice. He kissed her hands — he did not dare 
 as yet to touch her lips. "You've made me the 
 happiest man on earth." 
 
 Now her mother's voice was heard; and the 
 next moment she came into the room. 
 
 "Bobbie'll miss his train if he doesn't make 
 haste," she said: "where is he?"
 
 164 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 "Lady Wrensfordsley," said Maurice, "will 
 you give your daughter to me? I don't deserve 
 her, but all my life I mean to try." 
 
 She embraced them with a gaze. 
 
 "This is a surprise indeed," she faltered. "But 
 — but yes, from my heart! There's no man I 
 should grudge her to so little." She opened her 
 arms, and Helen went to her passively. 
 
 "I should like Bobbie to know, before he goes, 
 mother," murmured the girl. 
 
 Almost as she spoke, he joined them, in haste 
 to say good-bye, and Lady Wrensfordsley said: 
 "You must spare time to offer your congratu- 
 lations first!" 
 
 Seymour looked from his cousin to Maurice, 
 and back again, genuinely astonished. 
 
 "What? No, really?" he exclaimed. "By 
 Jove, no end of good wishes to you both? So 
 that was why you laughed?" he added under his 
 breath. 
 
 "That was why I laughed!" 
 
 "I hope you'll be tremendously happy!" 
 
 She tendered a careless hand. "So good of 
 you," she said. 
 
 Her deep satisfaction might have shown her 
 that her feeling for him had been shallow, but 
 her feeling for him had been a weakness that she 
 intended never to think about again. Her mind
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 165 
 
 was more occupied in questioning her sentiments 
 for Maurice. Had she acted wisely? She had 
 been prepared for a proposal from him long ago, 
 and had meant to decline it, but the circum- 
 stances had been favourable for him, and more- 
 over his words had touched her. Yes, she be- 
 lieved she would be happy enough with him. 
 When she had called him a bore, she had been 
 thinking of his too obvious homage, and since she 
 was to be his wife, his homage wouldn't be unde- 
 sirable. She hoped he would not expect devotion 
 in return, however; it was quite impossible for 
 her to yield him that, and she would be sorry if 
 their marriage disappointed him. At any rate he 
 could never say that she had professed anything. 
 In church she would have to do so, of course — she 
 recalled the fact with distaste — but then the wed- 
 ding-service was a form which no woman whom 
 she knew took seriously. Presumably men didn't 
 take it seriously either. 
 
 While she mused, she was listening, and speak- 
 ing. Seymour had gone, and Lady Wrensford- 
 sley chattered complacently. Dusk had stolen 
 in upon them, and Maurice noted the flicker of 
 the firelight on the corner of a gilt picture-frame ; 
 a heap of cumulus darkening in the sky ; the vio- 
 lets that the girl's fingers were mechanically de- 
 stroying. Trifles stamped themselves on his con-
 
 166 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 sciousness, but the magnitude of her promise 
 dwarfed his brain. While an intense joy per- 
 vaded him, there was a sensation of unreality. 
 She was such a long way off; no, not a long way 
 off — only the length of the rug between them — 
 but there was the impression of distance. He 
 was to be her husband. Stupendous! His heart 
 quaked at the sourd; something must happen to 
 prevent it — the world would end first? He 
 would have prostrated himself for her to tread 
 on, and she was going to entrust him with her 
 body and soul. It was to be his to guard her, to 
 sympathise with her, to fathom all the caprices 
 of her moods, and the failings of her temper — 
 O God, give her failings that he might humour 
 them! — to explore, dazzled by its radiance, the 
 paradise of her personality. 
 
 There w T as a misty moon when he took his way 
 home. He had asked her to call him by his 
 name, and she had stabbed him with the name of 
 "Philip"; it had never struck him so painfully. 
 The recollection came that never would he hear 
 her call him by his own; though she grew to love 
 him even with the love that he prayed for, he 
 would always be "Philip" to her! His conscience, 
 which had slumbered, stirred and woke under the 
 sting of the thought. What had he done? How 
 weak, how shamefully weak and guilty he had
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 167 
 
 been ! After all his struggles, to have told her at 
 last ! He wrung his hands. Yet he knew in his 
 soul that he wasn't sorrv. His, and his only, the 
 suffering, now and always — and so what matter ? 
 He would accept suffering for Eternity to gain 
 her and exult in Hell to know that she had been 
 his wife! 
 
 The Baronet's delight made triumphal music 
 in his ears awhile, and then he was again alone. 
 Remorse was drowned in imagination. There 
 was the night to remember in, and the morrow 
 to foresee. 
 
 He rose with the eagerness of a boy mad with 
 his first love. He wanted to go to town, early, 
 at once, and buy the ring. He reached Which- 
 cote while The Morning Post was still warm from 
 the kitchen-fire. Helen gave him her finger and 
 a thread of silk — and the world swayed as he 
 held them; but he could take no measurement. 
 A little colour tinged her face at his enthusiasm. 
 He tore off a scrap of the paper, and she poked 
 her finger through that, as she might have poked 
 it through his heart had she pleased ; and he said : 
 "What shall I bring you? Or shall we have a 
 lot sent down for you to choose from? Which 
 would you prefer?" 
 
 "Which would youV she asked. 
 
 "If you can tell me what you want, I'd like
 
 168 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 to bring it to you," he owned. "I want to rush 
 off and get it, and rush back with it and make 
 the incredible seem true. I suppose it's ridicu- 
 lous, but " 
 
 "It's very charming of you," she smiled. 
 "Well, choose it for me yourself. I leave it to 
 
 you." 
 
 Maurice stood looking at her in a moment's 
 silence. 
 
 "Would it be 'ridiculous,' " he said, "if I asked 
 to be allowed to kiss you?" 
 
 He thought she flinched a little. Then her face 
 flushed again, and she inclined her cheek to him. 
 He knew beyond the possibility of self-deception 
 that he was nothing to her. 
 
 "I'll bring you the most beautiful ring I can 
 see," he said.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 Whether Sir Noel's illness had been caused 
 by his despondency, or not, his convalescence had 
 certainly proceeded with rapid strides since his 
 satisfaction. There had been some talk of his 
 passing the rest of the winter in a milder climate, 
 but he was averse from even the shortest journey, 
 and as the change was not essential, he had re- 
 mained by the fireside at the Court. Here he 
 beamed mildly in contemplating the realisation 
 of his hope, and, when Maurice was present, sang 
 a superfluous pasan of Helen. Lady Wrens- 
 fordsley and she called constantly to see him now, 
 and the proudest hours that he had known were 
 these in which the girl who was to be his daugh- 
 ter-in-law flattered him with her attentions. 
 Maurice was conscious that he never saw her to 
 more advantage than by the old man's side; the 
 slightly contemptuous beauty of her face took a 
 new character, and though he could not suppose 
 that she entertained any affection for the Bar- 
 onet, the gentleness of her solicitude for him was 
 extremely graceful. 
 
 169
 
 170 " THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 To Rosa the news of the engagement had been 
 no less catastrophic because she had dreaded it. 
 It had reached her through the medium of a 
 paragraph, for Maurice had shrunk from con- 
 fessing he had fallen; and that she had been left 
 to gather the information from a paper inten- 
 sified her sense of injury. 
 
 Absurd as it was, she had all the emotion of 
 having suffered an indefensible wrong, and she 
 beheld herself in the light of a benefactress who 
 had been repudiated when her services were all 
 conferred. Her mind harped resentfully on the 
 fact that was incontrovertible — their compact had 
 not been fulfilled; she was as far from society 
 as before Maurice had entered it. Latterly she 
 had forced herself to disguise impatience well, 
 and the remembrance of her wasted sacrifice 
 burned in her. When at last he came, it was only 
 the fear of betraying her defeat that kept her 
 tongue in check. 
 
 "You've been in no hurry for my congratula- 
 tions," she said surlily. 
 
 'To be candid, I was afraid of your re- 
 proaches," said Maurice. 
 
 "My reproaches?" Her glance questioned 
 him. "Oh, when a thing is done, all the re- 
 proaches in the world won't alter it!" 
 
 She knew that the umbrage of her tone must
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 171 
 
 be unaccountable to him, but to repress recrim- 
 ination strained her enough. 
 
 "When are you to be married?" she inquired 
 after a pause. 
 
 "In March. I want to talk to you about it." 
 
 "You've been in no hurry," she said again; 
 "I read the news a fortnight ago in Truth. I 
 want to talk to you too; you mean to ask me 
 to the wedding, of course?" 
 
 Maurice paled, and looked at her blankly. 
 
 "To — to ask you to the wedding?" he said. 
 "It's to be very quiet, on account of Sir Noel's 
 health ; we are to be married at Oakenhurst. I'm 
 afraid I can't do that." 
 
 "You see," said Rosa, with a quiver in her 
 voice, "I have waited a long time for you to keep 
 your word. You had no opportunity, you told 
 me; the wedding'll be a splendid one." 
 
 The suggestion horrified him. There might be 
 women in society no better; but Rosa Fleming, 
 whom he had met as Jardine's mistress! To in- 
 troduce her to Helen, and see them clasp hands? 
 No, by Heaven! he might be a rogue, but he 
 wasn't a cad. 
 
 "You're mistaken," he said; "it isn't an oppor- 
 tunity; it's not to be a big affair in town. If I 
 wanted you invited, it would be extraordinary; 
 people would wonder."
 
 172 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 "I don't know if it ever occurs to you," she 
 returned sharply, "but it's a year since our agree- 
 ment was made; and I think it's about time I had 
 my share. If the wedding is to be a small one, 
 I'll put up with it — that's my business!" 
 
 His brows knit in perplexity. Insistence 
 would compel him to avow the real reason; and 
 to hint to a woman that she was not a fit acquaint- 
 ance for the girl who was to be his wife would 
 be a loathsome task — especially for a man like 
 himself. Xo matter how ingeniously he might 
 put it, the moment would be damnable for them 
 both. 
 
 "If you'll hear what I came to tell you " 
 
 he began; but her self-control was fast deserting 
 her. 
 
 "I'd rather," she exclaimed, "that you heard 
 me! I say a year has gone by and I've had noth- 
 ing. I'm stowed away in a furnished flat. I 
 don't want a flat; I want my ow r n house — and 
 other people's houses; I want what I'm entitled 
 to. When I complain, I get one excuse after 
 another. I'm sick of them. Do what you agreed 
 to do. Give me a chance. You've. had yours — 
 I want mine!" 
 
 'You can have a house whenever you like," 
 said Maurice. "Will you listen to me? My in- 
 come is to be five thousand when I marry; that
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 173 
 
 means that yours will be twelve hundred and 
 fifty. For Heaven's sake be reasonable! I give 
 you my word of honour — well, perhaps I haven't 
 got any honour — I swear to you that I've done all 
 that was possible for you so far. Don't, don't 
 accuse me now — I'm accusing myself enough for 
 both of us! Remember that the last time I was 
 here I was posing as a monument of strength — 
 and a few weeks at Oakenhurst crumpled me up 
 like straw. I deserve worse things than you can 
 say, but let me down as lightly as you can. On 
 my oath, if I haven't done all you wanted, I've 
 done my best ! On my oath, to ask you to Oaken- 
 hurst would look very strange." 
 
 Her countenance had cleared. Since her im- 
 mediate expectation of an income much larger 
 had been banished by two telegrams apprising 
 her of the Baronet's improved condition, twelve 
 hundred and fifty was a welcome surprise. It 
 is difficult to maintain resentment in the face of 
 good news; and when she answered, her tone 
 was not ungracious. 
 
 "Twelve hundred and fifty?" she said. "Well, 
 I'm very glad to hear it; it will be very useful, 
 I'm sure! All right; I don't want to be unrea- 
 sonable — I don't want to put a pistol to your 
 head — if you really can't ask me to the wedding, 
 we won't say any more about it. Only I can't
 
 174 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 go on in this way, you know — an arrangement 
 is an arrangement — and you must do something 
 else for me soon. When can you?" 
 
 "I'll see," he murmured; "I don't forget you. 
 Come, in the meantime things look better, don't 
 they? You can take a charming house some- 
 where; you might even keep a carriage, and en- 
 gage a companion. Or you could travel; you 
 might have a grand time on the Continent. I 
 should think that travel would be a good deal 
 more enjoyable than a house in London — and 
 that way you would meet heaps of people. No- 
 body is ever satisfied, of course, but upon my 
 word you have a very agreeable life from an out- 
 sider's point of view! You're free to go where 
 you choose, you can buy almost anything you 
 like, you have no responsibilities: it isn't hard- 
 ship, now, is it?" 
 
 She accorded him a grudging smile, and when 
 they parted, it was ostensibly as friends ; but the 
 remembrance of the interview lurked in his mind 
 disquietingly. Her grievance, indeed, worried 
 him now more than it worried Rosa. The no- 
 tion of travelling in good style on the Continent 
 tickled her fancy — she had long been eager to see 
 Monte Carlo; it would be agreeable to mingle 
 with such a fashionable crowd as those whose 
 departures for the Engadine had been chronicled
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 175 
 
 earlier in the year; moreover, when his marriage 
 had taken place, there would be his own draw- 
 ing-room accessible. Her perception of the truth 
 was dim as yet; she was not a sensitive woman, 
 and she attributed his procrastination chiefly to 
 moral cowardice. When he had his establish- 
 ment in town and was the host at balls and din- 
 ner-parties, it appeared to her that he could shirk 
 his duty to her no longer. 
 
 The thought of this impending situation was 
 precisely what troubled Maurice. He realised 
 that the difficulty had been only postponed and 
 that sooner or later he would have to meet her 
 demand with a definite refusal. He stood be- 
 tween two fires, in the knowledge, and whether 
 he turned to right or left, there would be a burn- 
 ing sense of guilt. 
 
 It was no easy matter for him to violate his 
 undertaking; he had never broken his word to 
 anybody, and he did not conceal from himself 
 that Rosa's indignation would be warranted. 
 That a wiser woman would have been content 
 in her position was beside the matter; he had 
 entered into a contract with her and she was 
 justified in requiring him to fulfil it. It seemed 
 to the obligant that Fate forbade him to be hon- 
 est to anyone as "Philip Jardine," even to his 
 accomplice.
 
 176 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 That he might be staunch to her, at least, by 
 offering an indignity to Helen he saw clearly 
 enough, and he saw that Helen would be quite 
 untarnished by his action; but he would violate 
 a score of contracts first! Since baseness was 
 inevitable, he must be base to Rosa. He was 
 menaced by a quandary which could have been 
 averted only by his withdrawing from the en- 
 gagement; and even this course, which did not 
 present itself to him, could not have been adopted 
 without casting some slur on the girl he revered. 
 
 He was fully aware that the predicament had 
 had its origin in his ow r n sin — the average fool 
 could not have stated the fact more luminously, 
 in pronouncing judgment on him; but this was 
 as irrelevant to his conduct to-dav as the climate 
 of Callao. Indeed, a lifetime is a very delicate 
 possession, and to all men there should be given 
 a second, with remembrance of the first. Alas! 
 instead of a second youth, which would be ex- 
 quisite, we have only a second childhood, which 
 is painful. For the role that he was playing 
 Maurice had valuable qualifications, but he lacked 
 the most important one — callousness. His cyni- 
 cism was verbal, not ingrained; he had reviled the 
 world while it turned its back upon him, but as 
 soon as it opened its arms he forgave. The 
 pricks and pangs that he had experienced were
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 177 
 
 due to his setting at defiance a temperament 
 which he had partially misunderstood. Many 
 men in his place, hundreds and thousands of men, 
 would have been more tranquil: the thought of 
 distant heirs, unknown in the connection, did not 
 present itself to him, and he had given an old 
 man considerable happiness. But for Maurice 
 the role was a misfit. He had winced at the 
 tokens of Sir Noel's affection, because he had 
 grown fond of him ; he had fallen in love — which 
 the biggest scoundrel may do — but had had hours 
 of torture because he was unworthv to acknowl- 
 edge it ; he had resolved to treat his partner badly 
 since there was no alternative, but tossed sleep- 
 lessly because he foresaw himself forsworn. 
 
 Lady Wrensfordsley had offered to bring two 
 thousand a year into settlement, but he had de- 
 clared that it was quite unnecessary. At least 
 Helen should owe to her acceptance of him noth- 
 ing that he did not provide. The wedding, as 
 he had said, was to be in March, and as the time 
 approached, the thought of it blotted all other 
 considerations from his mind. The breath of fear 
 which has sickened everybody during weeks of 
 passionate foretaste made him yearn for the day's 
 birth with all his being. Many moments there 
 were when, bewildered again by the whirlwind 
 of his emotion, Maurice was literally unable to
 
 178 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 realise that the effulgent future that he beheld 
 could ever be ; it seemed even more incredible by- 
 reason of the self-suppression that he exercised, 
 by contrast with her distance from him now. It 
 wasn't such an engagement as, when fancy had 
 run riot, he had sometimes pictured — not such 
 an engagement as precedes a love-match; he 
 knew that, in his maddest minutes. He knew 
 that he would marry a girl who was making an 
 "alliance," who was no fonder of him than she 
 had been on the morning when he first kissed her 
 cheek. She was still a goddess enthroned to him ; 
 but the world had narrowed to her dominion, and 
 his heart swelled with rapture. Never so ar- 
 dently as he did now had he appreciated the pos- 
 session of wealth. The pleasure of pouring pres- 
 ents upon her was the rarest luxury he had 
 known, and he joyed to take trouble in acquiring 
 something — to do more than go into a jeweller's, 
 or a fan-maker's, or a florist's and select from the 
 stock displayed. He would have bought Bond 
 Street for her if he had been rich enough, but 
 they w r ere not always the most expensive gifts 
 within his means that afforded him the greatest 
 gratification. He had once devoted a day to the 
 purchase of antique silver buttons, because Lady 
 Wrensfordslev had casually observed in his hear- 
 ing that "antique silver buttons would have
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 179 
 
 looked much better on it!" His ultimate discov- 
 ery of a set which was both of the right number 
 and the right size delighted him as a successful 
 mission for the woman with whom he is in love 
 ever delights a man. The considerate woman 
 would provide him with many opportunities for 
 such delight, because the period of her power to 
 do so is generally brief. 
 
 The stream of wedding-presents, from Sir 
 Noel's parure of diamonds to the jade paper- 
 cutter of an acquaintance — still more, the deliv- 
 ery of the bridesmaids' bracelets — helped Maurice 
 to feel that the date was actually drawing near. 
 Helen had less leisure for reverie ; in the interval 
 between her ceasing to be her own, and realising 
 that she was his, it seemed to her that she belonged 
 to nobody but dressmakers, and tailors, and mil- 
 liners. Not since she had been presented had the 
 formula? of fashion fatigued her so much. Lady 
 Wrensfordsley was tremulous with triumph and 
 in a position to be prodigal, and she gave with 
 both hands. Her rope of pearls was as perfect 
 as the neck that it was meant for, and the girl's 
 
 frocks cost a fortune. Her wedding-gown 
 
 It was described at the time; in retrospection 
 Maurice supposed that she wore white. 
 
 He only knew that it was she — that the in- 
 credible had happened — that he had a heart,
 
 180 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 thumping, thumping in his breast. Subsidiary 
 figures presumably performed their duty. She 
 was given away — Almighty God! — to him. His 
 soul rushed to her clasp. He knelt, praying in 
 a prayer without words that God would be ten- 
 der to her, that regret should never touch her life. 
 "Pardon, O God! Pardon me, pardon me"; 
 his spirit uttered it a hundred times. And next 
 he prayed: "Damn me for ever, God, so that I 
 live the lie out — so that my sin won't harm her!" 
 . . . The book was closed. People shook hands 
 with him. The solemnity of the organ filled the 
 church, the hour, and the Universe. They were 
 husband and wife. Was it Oakenhurst, or 
 Heaven? He was alone with her, and could have 
 sobbed thanksgiving. . . . They had reached the 
 house. The wine buzzed on his palate tastelessly, 
 and he heard the voices, and his own voice, from 
 afar. The room seemed very full, but only 
 Helen's face was clear. The room seemed empty 
 — Helen had disappeared. How long she was 
 absent! — something must be wrong? His gaze 
 devoured her when she entered: she had been 
 crying; she was dressed to go away with him — 
 to go away with him! the sight of her hat thrilled 
 his blood. Now the wrench was over for her — 
 they were on the steps at last; and the door of 
 the carriage had been closed again.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 They had arrived only a few hours since, and 
 their relation to each other, even the aspect of 
 the lamplit room, and the sound of the servants' 
 names were strange to them as yet. They had 
 been dining, and were still at the table, dallying 
 with dessert. A little silence had fallen between 
 them, and the woman sat trying to feel at home. 
 
 Stranger than he, and than all besides, was the 
 sense of unfamiliarity with herself. She strug- 
 gled with it constantly, but from this she could 
 not escape; she was as foreign to herself in soli- 
 tude as in his arms. It seemed to her that mar- 
 riage meant the surrender of everything, even of 
 one's identity. 
 
 "What are you thinking of, dearest?" said 
 Maurice. 
 
 "Was I thinking? I'm not sure that I was." 
 She rose with a suppressed sigh, and moved 
 slowly to the window. "How divine!" she mur- 
 mured. 
 
 "Shall we go out there?" he asked. "Shall 
 we go and look at the sea? We have everything 
 
 181
 
 L8S THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 to explore, sweetheart ; let's begin by losing our- 
 selves in the garden." 
 
 She smiled assent, and he held the window 
 open for her. 
 
 "But wait," he said. "You had better have a 
 wrap." 
 
 "The night is too warm," she said, looking 
 back over her shoulder; "no, come — I want to 
 go now, as we are!" 
 
 He obeyed her instantly, and they descended 
 together. Indeed, the scented air was as gentle 
 as a caress, and under a vivid moon the garden 
 was a fairyland filled with a thousand delights 
 and invitations. For some moments neither 
 spoke; they wandered along a winding walk from 
 which they could see the silver quiver of the 
 waves. Where the path ended, they discovered 
 that the owners of the villa had devised a seat, 
 embowered in myrtles, and overhung by the pink 
 blossom of an almond-tree. The view from it 
 was sublime, and Maurice and she remained lost 
 in contemplation. Presently Helen, who was 
 sitting, lifted her eyes to him, and with a quick 
 gesture of authority, that he found enchanting, 
 motioned him to the space beside her. 
 
 "Doesn't it make one grateful to have sight?" 
 she said. 
 
 "I'm wishing," said he, "that you had never
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 183 
 
 seen it before. To me it's so breathlessly new ; I 
 should like it to be new to you." 
 
 "It is new," she said, "it's always new. And 
 this garden's a dream! Look at the oranges — 
 why are they so much daintier while they grow 
 than when they're picked? And how black that 
 cypress! it makes the moonlight whiter." 
 
 "Over your head," said Maurice, "is a branch 
 of almond-blossom that makes your features 
 fairer." 
 
 "It must be very becoming," she replied, flash- 
 ing fun at him; "I saw it when I sat down." 
 
 "Ah," he exclaimed, "how beautiful it is to 
 hear you speak to me like that!" 
 
 "So vainly?" 
 
 "So frankly! I should like you to have a mil- 
 lion vanities, that you might show me every one 
 of them." 
 
 "If you aren't more sensible your wish is likely 
 to come true. Do men find women's vanities so 
 charming, then?" 
 
 "What do I know," he said, "of other men and 
 women? There are only you and I in the world." 
 
 She laughed softly, not displeased. "Then are 
 mine so charming? Why would Helen's vanities 
 charm Philip? Did you have the Child's Guide 
 to Knowledge when you were a little boy?" 
 
 "Yes, it was fat and short, I can remember it.
 
 184 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 Because they'd help me to understand that you 
 are mortal." 
 
 "Ah," she said, "I shall hecome more mortal to 
 you every day, don't fear!" 
 
 "Is it a promise?" he asked. 
 
 "It is a warning," she said. 
 
 For answer he clasped her hand, and retained 
 it until the misgiving stirred her that their atti- 
 tude resembled that of the couples that she had 
 seen about the lanes of Oakenhurst. She re- 
 leased herself to point far away across the sea. 
 
 "Are those the lights of Nice?" she said. 
 
 He understood her motive, and was annoyed 
 with himself for having embarrassed her. She 
 realised his feeling, and knew a pang of self- 
 reproach that she was not in love with him. 
 
 "When I was a boy," said Maurice, breaking 
 another silence, "you weren't born. . . . How 
 stupid that sounds, and it is hardly what I meant! 
 I mean that when you were a little child, I was 
 a man — I was twenty when you were five. And 
 yet it seems such a little while ago that I was 
 twenty." 
 
 "I can remember myself at five," said Helen; 
 "I was a little dear. You'd have liked me." 
 
 "I'm jealous of your memories," he said; "and 
 I'm startled by my own experience. At twenty 
 I had been through so much, and you were run-
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 185 
 
 ning about in a pinafore. It doesn't seem right 
 — or real." 
 
 She did not follow him here, for the wonder- 
 ment was essentially a lover's; it was a matter 
 of sensation which figures were powerless to con- 
 vey. Maurice instinctively felt this; and per- 
 ceiving that in giving the thought utterance he 
 had indulged his own mood rather than sought 
 to enter into hers, he added quickly: 
 
 "Helen, you and I must have a model honey* 
 moon. But I want to ask you an immense 
 favour." 
 
 "I'll grant it in advance," she said. 
 
 "No, no; that is just what you musn't do; 
 I want you to promise me on your honour not to 
 be considerate. Be anything else you please — 
 capricious, exacting, ill-humoured — but don't be 
 considerate. When I'm boring you, let me see it 
 and help me to be tactful; when you want me 
 to go away, say so; and I'll worship out of sight. 
 Treat me as a friend, and the most trying time 
 of your life won't be so hard for you. Ever since 
 we started I've been haunted by the fear that 
 you'd wish the honeymoon were over; be honest 
 with me, and let me make it as little tedious to 
 you as I can! That'll be the greatest, the very 
 highest manifestation of faith in my love for you 
 that's possible."
 
 186 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 These words, the sincerity with which thev were 
 spoken, touched her, and she slid her hand into 
 his again. 
 
 "Xo, no," he repeated, setting it loose, "let us 
 keep the compact! You don't want to he senti- 
 mental; just now you'd rather forget that I am 
 here." 
 
 "You refuse to take my hand?" she exclaimed, 
 astonished. 
 
 "Ah!" said Maurice, "it isn't fair to put it like 
 that. Say that I know such demonstrations 
 rather jar upon you." 
 
 "But it's my hand," she murmured, half laugh- 
 ing, half in earnest; "mine!" 
 
 "You don't really want me to hold it," he said; 
 "I know you don't." And recoyering his ordi- 
 nary tone, he spoke of other things. She an- 
 swered in the same key, and was the brighter 
 lest he should suspect that there was a grain of 
 chagrin in her mind. What he had said was 
 quite true; but that he had had the resolution to 
 act upon the knowledge piqued her, eyen while 
 it heightened her respect for him. 
 
 Again there came a long pause, while she was 
 acutely conscious of his proximity. She was 
 moved by deeper thoughts than she had hitherto 
 known. The responsibilities of life, which had 
 long hovered at the portal, gathered on the
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 187 
 
 threshold, and suddenly a man's devotion pre- 
 sented itself to her as a thing so strange that she 
 trembled. 
 
 "I wish I were worthier," she said; "I have 
 never understood." 
 
 Shame convulsed him, and for some seconds he 
 couldn't reply. 
 
 " 'Worthier'!" he said at last hoarsely. "God, 
 if you only knew!" 
 
 She shook her head. "I know enough. I know 
 what I am to you, I think, and it frightens me. 
 Why am I all that, Philip? Shall I ever be able 
 to 'live up' to the Illusion that you have put the 
 ring on?" 
 
 "Be yourself," he said; "there is no more for 
 you to do." 
 
 "I am full of faults," she said painfully; "no, 
 let me speak! I am just like any other girl. I 
 have never had any high ideals — oh, believe me, 
 because it's true. I haven't. I've lived for 
 my frocks, and I've been flattered by admiration, 
 and — and I shouldn't have married vou if vou had 
 been a poor man. Let me speak! You fell in 
 love with my face — why should I pretend? I've 
 been told that I had beauty all my life ; I under- 
 stood that I was a beauty when I was in the 
 schoolroom ; I've heard the shape of my nose, and 
 the length of my eyelashes talked of ever since
 
 188 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 I was a child. But under this face of mine, dear, 
 I am so commonplace, so exactly the same as 
 anybody else, and — and I'm afraid of being 
 found out and disappointing you, and yet I want 
 you to know it. Let me speak! If you had mar- 
 ried me as most men marry, I could have given 
 you what you asked — I should have been all you 
 wanted — and it would have been all right; but 
 you have exalted me so! I saw it while we were 
 engaged, and now I see it more plainly than I 
 did. Oh, I am talking all round what I mean! 
 I will say it: I am not capable of — of caring for 
 anyone as you care for me — I am too trivial." 
 
 "You have never seemed to me so sweet, so 
 fine, so adorable as you do now," said Maurice. 
 "Does that answer you?" 
 
 Her voice had broken, and he had the impres- 
 sion of a long interval before he heard it again. 
 Their hands lay together once more, and he bent 
 down to her inquiringly. 
 
 "There are many marvels," she said; "there 
 are marvels wherever we turn: the stars, and 
 the mountains, and the flowers, and the sea — 
 but to-night the way a man thinks of the woman 
 he loves seems to me the greatest." Her fingers 
 responded to him. "You hold it as if it were 
 sacred," she smiled — "and it has been manicured
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 189 
 
 since I was twelve! Until I was old enough to 
 rebel I was put to bed in gloves." 
 
 "Even the gloves," said Maurice, "they'd be 
 sacred, too!" 
 
 "O sea and stars," she laughed, "humble your- 
 selves, and hide!" She regarded him wonder- 
 ingly. "What have I ever said to you? Look 
 back to the beginning — to the day you first met 
 me ! Philip, a schoolgirl could have said as much. 
 My face, only my face! you have never seen my 
 mind at all. Why have you loved me?" 
 
 "Can you question my love for you? — nothing 
 else matters." 
 
 "No," she said; "I think that — it would be 
 very foolish of you — that you would give your 
 life for me." 
 
 His gaze thanked her. "What I am going to 
 say sounds mad. But in distant eons, while we 
 were engaged " 
 
 "What are eons?" she said; "I've only seen 
 them in print." 
 
 "They were my period in purgatory before an 
 oversight let me into heaven. I say that while 
 we were engaged I used to wish, among many 
 wishes — and among many prayers — that these 
 were the days when heroes were made by physical 
 strength and that I could go to attempt some- 
 thing Herculean for you and bring back a trophy.
 
 190 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 Why don't you command me to get you some- 
 thing, Helen — what shall I bring?" 
 
 She pointed out into the garden, where the 
 mimosa hung motionless in the mellow night: 
 'Father,' said Beauty, 'bring me a rose!' 
 
 Then the man plucked roses, and brought them 
 to the woman's lap, and fastened the fairest in 
 her breast.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 And long afterwards, when she slept, his 
 mind reiterated words that she had spoken, and 
 her wish that she were worthier of his love wrung 
 him again. For himself there was no sleep; his 
 eyes ached for lack of it and their lids were heavy ; 
 but conscience had never been more wakeful, and 
 his brain worked with the persistence of the watch 
 that ticked beside the bed. Once he bit his lips 
 to stifle a groan that had escaped him, but the 
 sound had reached her dream, and for an instant 
 he feared that he had roused her. The light of 
 early morning was entering the room ; and, hold- 
 ing his breath, he gazed at her haggardly until 
 her face turned upon the pillow and was hidden 
 from him by her hair. 
 
 The day was bright before he lost conscious- 
 ness, but on the breakfast table were more blos- 
 soms beside her plate, and a parcel of new books 
 that, all unknown to her, he had brought for her 
 enlivenment. The idea of surprising her with 
 these had occurred to him early in the engage- 
 ment, and the binding of each of them was a work 
 
 191
 
 192 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 of art ; ephemeral fiction had seldom worn so deli- 
 cate a dress. 
 
 In the morning the sea was brilliant, and the 
 myrtles made the seat a haven of shade. Await- 
 ing their moods of energy were the nearer of the 
 hill villages, and the still nearer charms of the 
 olive woods. The immediate neighbourhood, too, 
 within driving distance of Monte Carlo, but not 
 numbered among the resorts of the fashionable 
 world, was quite unfamiliar to her, and each 
 saunter that she took with him bevond the ear- 
 den discovered a fresh and quaint attraction. The 
 novelty of the scenes to the man, still more his 
 keenness of observation, enhanced their interest 
 to his companion, and when they had been in- 
 stalled in the villa a week, she was startled to 
 reflect how quickly seven days had sped. 
 
 As for Maurice, he would have asked nothing 
 better than to be allowed to pass the rest of his 
 life with her here. Before long the thought of 
 their return to London presented itself to him 
 almost as the end of Eden, and the pathos of 
 leave-taking was foreshadowed by every sunset. 
 Something like dread oppressed him when, in 
 projecting the repetition of a ramble that had 
 delighted them, they began to say: "Let us go 
 again to-morrow, for we mayn't have another 
 chance!"
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 193 
 
 They were to make their home in the house in 
 Prince's Gardens ; and when the honeymoon had 
 waned and the roar of London met their ears, 
 and the rain of London splashed before their 
 eyes, the season had opened. To Helen their re- 
 turn w r as far more agreeable than to him. The 
 arrangement of the rooms, her invitations, and 
 the sense of her new power all amused her. There 
 were her mother and her friends to welcome, a 
 hundred things to do ; she felt very young during 
 her first month in town. Maurice knew no eager- 
 ness to welcome anybody; and excepting Lady 
 Wrens fordsley and Sir Noel, who paid his 
 earliest visit to the house as a guest, their visitors 
 bored him considerably. 
 
 A letter from Rosa might be looked for by 
 any post, and Maurice quailed in anticipation of 
 meeting her again. The thought of her had been 
 odious to him latterly; and partly because of his 
 new aversion, partly in fear that their next inter- 
 view would confront him with the most horrible 
 task in his experience, he had from day to day 
 postponed the requisite call upon her. He did 
 not fail to tell himself that this aversion was un- 
 grateful and unjust; but it had been forming 
 in his mind gradually, and almost unperceived, 
 since their last conversation, and now he hated to
 
 194 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 reflect that there was a person who knew that 
 Helen bore a name to which she had no right. 
 
 When the note arrived, Rosa's delay in sum- 
 moning him was explained by the fact that she, 
 too, had been to the Riviera. She had, indeed, 
 nursed some hope that a happy encounter would 
 have affected her introduction to Helen already, 
 but the disappointment had damped her very 
 slightly. Before her departure she had engaged 
 a French maid, who spoke a little English, and, 
 for once, she had enjoyed herself. She had lin- 
 gered in Paris before the crossing, and, but for 
 her visions of flunkeys displaying paradise, she 
 would have remained there longer still. 
 
 Maurice was received with an amiability which 
 was almost, if not entirely, genuine. She in- 
 formed him that she had made several acquaint- 
 ances during her absence, and had won twenty 
 pounds at the tables; she had a system — she had 
 found it out herself. It was so simple that she 
 was surprised it hadn't been discovered before! 
 In Paris she had bought hats, and a lot of gloves 
 scented with violets — the perfume was everlast- 
 ing; somebody had told her that they could not 
 be got anywhere else. London was abominable! 
 She shrugged her shoulders at it with a grimace, 
 and looked much as if she would like to say. "Mon 
 Dieur
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 195 
 
 "And you?" she inquired in a tone perhaps a 
 shade less genial. "I suppose you're very happy, 
 so far, eh?" 
 
 "I married an angel," said Maurice, for an- 
 swer. 
 
 "Really? Well, when am I going to see her? 
 Have you mentioned me to her, I wonder?" 
 
 "No," he murmured, "I haven't." 
 
 Her eyebrows rose. "Well, make haste," she 
 said. "Everything comes to one who waits — 
 even your marriage ! You don't need me to tell 
 you that it's quite easy now for you to make 
 things solid at once? All you have to do is to 
 get your wife to ask me to your own house ; the 
 rest'll follow, if she asks me often enough." 
 
 "Look here," said Maurice. "I — I want to 
 talk to you about this — I've been thinking about 
 it. You see the difficultv?" 
 
 "The difficulty!" she echoed, staring at him. 
 "What difficulty? I know you can pile up diffi- 
 culties as well as any man I've met, but if you've 
 found another now, vou take the cake!" 
 
 "Listen to me patiently," he begged. "Put 
 yourself in my place, and try to understand what 
 I feel. My wife is more to me than I can faintly 
 suggest — I reverence her; my love for her is a 
 religion. You know what we said when I told 
 you that I cared for her; we said that, thinking
 
 196 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 about her in the way I did, I should shudder at 
 myself each time I kissed her. Well, I have mo- 
 ments, and many hours, worse than we foresaw 
 — or I think they're worse — awful hours! But 
 sometimes I forget — 'forget' isn't the right word, 
 but you know what I mean — sometimes the joy 
 is fiercer than the shame, and I'm happy as a 
 drunkard is happy while his bout lasts. If you 
 were her friend, even her acquaintance, if you 
 came to the house, if I heard her speak of you — 
 well! vou must understand that I could never 
 forget for a single instant — my imposture would 
 be flaring before me every minute of my life — I 
 couldn't bear it." She made a movement as if to 
 interrupt him. "I want to implore you to waive 
 vour rights; I want you to leave me what I've 
 got!" 
 
 She was breathing hard, and now that she had 
 the opportunity, she found it difficult to reduce 
 her sudden rage to phrases. Maurice was in- 
 tensely relieved that he had bethought himself of 
 a way to avoid humiliating her; half the truth 
 had served, though the suppression of his other 
 reason deprived him of all defence. He sat wait- 
 ing for the storm to burst. 
 
 "So," she gasped, "you're a liar, eh? You have 
 been lying to me all the time? You meant to 
 break your word to me from the beginning?"
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 197 
 
 "That isn't so," he said. "When I passed my 
 word I meant to keep it. I didn't understand. 
 ... I didn't realise what the life would be." 
 
 "You meant to keep it? When — how long 
 ago? You've fooled me twenty times over. You 
 cheat, to double on me!" 
 
 He had whitened painfully, but his tone did 
 not lose its note of appeal: "I explained to you 
 why I could do nothing while I was a stranger 
 in society myself. If I could have helped you 
 then, I would have done it." 
 
 "You can help me now!" 
 
 "Afterwards it became more difficult still." 
 
 "When you fell in love!" she said with a harsh 
 laugh. 
 
 "I have done the most for you that I could 
 do — that any decent man could have done. I 
 swear it!" 
 
 "'Decent'!" 
 
 "You can say what you like to me. Of course, 
 I'm quite at your mercy." 
 
 "I don't want to hear any of your heroics. 
 'Yes,' or 'no,' that's all that's necessary. Are 
 you going to keep your promise, or aren't you?" 
 
 "I can't," said Maurice. 
 
 "You refuse?" 
 
 "I entreat you to let me off."
 
 198 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 "Oh!" she exclaimed; "I want plain English. 
 Do you refuse?" 
 
 "If you force me to it," he said, "I must." 
 
 She stood looking at him speechlessly. Then 
 she began to beat her hands together, and her 
 voice came in jerks. 
 
 "I wish that I had left you the beggar I found 
 you," she said; "I do! I'd rather have starved, 
 myself, than given a fortune to you. You black- 
 guard, you cowardly blackguard, to turn your 
 back on me after I've 'made' you!" 
 
 "I shall never turn my back on you. You 
 know it!" 
 
 "I don't want to talk to you! Go! I hope 
 I shan't see you again. Your conscience, eh? I 
 should trouble vour conscience if I came? It's 
 a fine 'conscience,' on my soul! It doesn't trouble 
 you to know that you've behaved like a scoundrel 
 to me. You've got everything, haven't you! and 
 so you can snap your fingers at me. I suppose 
 you think I ought to be grateful that you give 
 me what you do? When are you going to cheat 
 me over that as well — perhaps your miraculous 
 wife will cost more than von think and vou won't 
 be able to 'afford' so much? Treasures like her 
 must be expensive. But take care! I warn you, 
 you aren't dealing with a child. If I have a 
 penny less than my share now, or a penny less
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 199 
 
 than five thousand a year when the old man dies, 
 it shall be the dearest money that you ever stole !" 
 
 "You needn't fear that I shall try to rob you," 
 he said quietly. 
 
 "You have robbed me," she cried; "you've 
 robbed me of my chance! What are you wait- 
 ing for? I told you to go." 
 
 He wiped his face dry with his handkerchief, 
 and got up. 
 
 "Good-bye," he said: "I deserve all you say 
 — there's no answer I can make. I shall always 
 send you the cheques honestly; if you ever want 
 to see me, I'll come." 
 
 She did not reply, nor did she turn her head 
 as he crossed the room. She heard him fumbling 
 with the door-knob, and then the sound that told 
 her she was alone. An hysterical impulse seized 
 her to shriek after him down the staircase, and 
 she set her teeth hard in her handkerchief until 
 his footsteps had died away. In the heat of her 
 passion, what she had said was still true : she felt 
 that she would rather have submitted to priva- 
 tion than have shown Maurice the way to wealth. 
 The thought of his wife seethed in her; his mar- 
 riage had ruined every hope that she had formed ! 
 He had had the intention of playing her false 
 from the time he fell in love with the girl! she 
 was convinced of it. From the time he fell in
 
 200 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 love his standpoint had changed — he had wanted 
 to shake himself clear of the past, to deceive him- 
 self into believing in his own respectability! 
 
 It was not until the evening that she was able 
 to approach the subject of her future movements; 
 and then the idea that Maurice would rejoice if 
 she died relieved her slightly, by reason of her 
 exuberant health. Of course he must be praying 
 that something might happen to her — the secret, 
 and the money would be entirely his own then! 
 She had not thought of that before. She trusted 
 that she would live to be ninety if only to spite 
 him. The five thousand a year must come to her 
 very soon, and, bitter though her disappointment 
 was, she would, at least, be in possession of a 
 dazzling income! 
 
 The question was, what should she do with 
 herself now? The term for which she had ob- 
 tained the flat had almost expired, and she had 
 meant to take another somewhere else and to ask 
 him for the loan of a few hundred pounds in order 
 to furnish it. It was a pity that she had not 
 asked him by letter a week or two ago; he would 
 probably have been very glad of a chance to 
 propitiate her! In the circumstances she did not 
 think she would take a flat at all; there was no 
 reason for her to remain in London. She could 
 always apprise him of her address when the
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 201 
 
 cheque was due ; and with Emilie to get the tick- 
 ets, and direct the cabmen, and to sit respectfully 
 next her on occasion, it would be infinitely livelier 
 on the Continent. 
 
 But to concentrate her mind on such matters 
 was beyond her so early, and anger recurred and 
 mastered her again and again. The thought of 
 the interview kept her awake, as it was keeping 
 Maurice awake, and she lay cursing him, and the 
 wife who was beside him, and all that was his.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 Sometimes Maurice looked at his wife across 
 a ballroom and found it almost as difficult to 
 realise their relation to each other as he had done 
 when they left the church together on their wed- 
 ding-day. That after four months of matrimony 
 there could still be moments when his possession 
 of her seemed incredible to him was a very ex- 
 traordinary thing; and if his love had been a 
 shade less strong, it would have been an entirely 
 desirable thing. The fact was due to various 
 circumstances ; she was one of the most beautiful 
 women in England; he had never time to grow 
 accustomed to any one of the frocks she wore; 
 and money permitted them the elegancies and 
 refinements of life which are as necessary to sus- 
 tain sexual illusion as is a hot -house to preserve 
 an exotic. There was another reason ; the vague 
 promise, that during the honeymoon he had more 
 than once detected in her eyes and caught in her 
 voice, had remained unfulfilled; their return to 
 society had been made too soon and her emotions 
 were still nascent. She liked him; she liked him 
 much better than she had thought she would like
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 203 
 
 him : but between the woman and her potentiali- 
 ties, the influence of the world had been inter- 
 posed — her own "world," the little frivolous sec- 
 tion that she had been taught to regard as all. 
 
 One day he told her so. She had not long come 
 in from her drive, and they were having tea in the 
 boudoir. Maurice never entered it unless he was 
 invited, and this afternoon she had suggested his 
 joining her there. By a mere impulse, which she 
 regretted the moment it was obeyed, she asked 
 him if he was content. 
 
 "Content?" he said. "I suppose a man who 
 idolises a woman as I idolise you can hardly ex- 
 pect contentment. I'm intensely grateful, at all 
 events." He saw that she was annoyed, and he 
 looked at her penitently. "I've vexed you?" 
 
 "Oh, not at all. It's very flattering to hear 
 that I'm still adored so much." 
 
 "I've vexed you," he repeated. "Put out your 
 hand and say you forgive me." 
 
 "Don't be ridiculous, Philip; what have I to 
 forgive? . . . Agatha Savile is going to be mar- 
 ried; did I tell you? She's going to marry Percy 
 Bligh." 
 
 "Is she?" said Maurice; "what a fool he must 
 be!" 
 
 "I don't know; Agatha is considered very at- 
 tractive. You used to find her attractive your-
 
 204 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 self, didn't you? I remember, when we saw you 
 in Chapel Street, we thought it was going to be 
 an engagement." 
 
 "Between her and me? I was in love with you 
 then." 
 
 "It was the first time I had seen you, the aft- 
 ernoon I mean," she said indifferently. 
 
 "I know it was ; all the same I was in love with 
 you then. I didn't understand it, but I was. I 
 thought of you all the evening and wished I 
 hadn't been so stupid. You began to talk about 
 buns, and I couldn't find anything to say." 
 
 "I talked about buns? Ileally? How bril- 
 liant of me; no wonder I made an impression!" 
 
 "And after I had gone, you thought I was go- 
 ing to marry Agatha Savile! Good heavens! 
 But I wish I had known it — I didn't suppose you 
 were thinking about me at all." 
 
 "Well, we thought that Agatha thought so. 
 And I daresay she would have made you happy. 
 Perhaps it's a pity you didn't. . . . What a clat- 
 ter there is from that mews — these houses are ab- 
 surdly arranged!" 
 
 "A pity for which of us, you or me?" 
 
 "Oh, for you, of course. I'm content enough," 
 she answered with the slightest shrug. 
 
 Maurice left his chair, and seated himself on 
 the couch by her side. She did not turn to him,
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 205 
 
 and there was a pause in which his view of her 
 profile was not encouraging. 
 
 "I'm going to explain myself," he said; "I'm 
 not going to leave you the right to speak to me 
 in that tone. You shall know just what I meant 
 — how much, and how little. I wish you'd look at 
 me ; I can only see the tip of your nose, and your 
 eyelashes!" 
 
 She looked towards him reluctantly, like a child 
 who is dreading a rebuke. 
 
 *Well?" she murmured, folding her hands. 
 "Does that suit you better? I know all you're 
 going to say — that I'm cold and horrid, and don't 
 deserve anything at all." 
 
 "Helen," he said, "when I asked you to be my 
 wife I knew you didn't care for me as I cared 
 for you — I knew it; but I hoped that the force 
 of my love would rouse yours. I thought I could 
 make you love me, because by everything I did, 
 by every word I spoke to you, in our life together, 
 you would understand that I worshipped you." 
 
 She nodded. The tip of her nose and the curve 
 of her cheek were again all that he could see. 
 There was a bowl of heliotrope against the couch 
 ■ — there always was — and its scent seemed to 
 grow stronger and confuse him. 
 
 "While we were away I believed that my hope 
 was going to be fulfilled. There isn't a shade of
 
 206 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 reproach in my mind; you are — you are charm- 
 ing; hut before we came back to town you were 
 sometimes more than 'charming.' I think if I 
 could have kept you all to myself my dream might 
 have come partly true — I think you might have 
 grown fonder of me ... . That's all. You 
 know I'd rather be tolerated by you than loved 
 by any other woman." 
 
 Her fingers were playing an imaginary stac- 
 cato passage on her lap, and after a moment she 
 said, in a voice that trembled between contrition 
 and defiance: 
 
 "I have done my best; it's not my fault; I 
 can't help it if I'm not nice." 
 
 "You sav it as if I had blamed vou," said 
 Maurice. "I know it's not your fault; it's the 
 fault of the life we lead — it doesn't give me a 
 chance. What do I see of you? You are out 
 alone, or we are out together, or there are people 
 here — you belong to society more than to me; 
 we live in a crowd. At four o'clock in the morn- 
 ing, when you are tired, it is my privilege to bring 
 you home." 
 
 "One has to do things," she faltered ; "you don't 
 want me to neglect our duties? Besides, soon I 
 — I shan't be able to go out so much. Don't be 
 cross with me yet, Philip. If you knew how 
 frightened I am!"
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 207 
 
 Maurice caught her to him, and they sat silent, 
 both thinking, while he stroked her hair. He 
 had hoped that they would be spared a child. 
 Since he had known that he was expected to re- 
 joice, he had hoped that at least they might not 
 have a son ; and suddenly his heart tightened with 
 the fear that the undesired life might rob him of 
 the woman's. Till now he had not thought of 
 that. He was ashamed that he had had the cruel- 
 ty to own she was not perfect ; she might die ! Her 
 breath was on his neck — and when the spring 
 came she might be breathless and stone cold; per- 
 haps a boy would have entered the world, to bear 
 a title to which he had no right, and Helen would 
 be in her grave ! If, during the few minutes that 
 Maurice sat there holding her in his arms, a 
 prayer could have undone their marriage, he 
 would have kissed her for the last time and ut- 
 tered it. 
 
 He never remonstrated with her again about 
 her amusements. The fear of losing her couldn't 
 be banished, and there was often something ter- 
 rible to him in the sound of her laughter, in her 
 loveliness itself. Let her lead the life that pleased 
 her best! He attempted to view the situation 
 from her own standpoint, and he felt that he had 
 been selfish and exigent from the first; she had 
 never affected to be fond of him — his continual
 
 208 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 appeals to a tenderness that she couldn't force 
 must have wearied her beyond endurance. 
 
 It was at this period that remorse began to 
 wrench the man body and soul. He was no long- 
 er gripped by it in hours; it racked him without 
 cessation. If she died? No one would know — 
 people would condole with him — in the eyes of 
 her mother, of everybody, he would be a bereaved 
 husband — but in his own sight he would have 
 murdered her. As surely as he had been a villain 
 to make her his wife, he would be her murderer 
 if she died. Why hadn't he conquered the temp- 
 tation, why hadn't he himself died before he fell 
 to it! 
 
 His guilt haunted him. It was with him as 
 he watched her smiles where the newest band 
 was playing the latest valse; it menaced him at 
 At Homes while a comedian was being humorous 
 at the piano; he saw it in the dusk of the skirt- 
 filled brougham, heavy with flowers' scent, as 
 they were borne through the empty streets from 
 one hot drawiug-room to another. And if she 
 lived, what would he have gained then by such a 
 marriage? At any moment now he would have 
 undone it, had the past been recoverable. To 
 him it had given minutes of delirium, and her it 
 had profaned and bored. He knew that if he had 
 always loved her as he did to-day, he wouldn't
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 209 
 
 have taken her as she had come to him; it was 
 horrible to love her so and to feel that she only 
 yielded to him by constraint. There was never 
 a dawn when her lips bade him "Good-night" and 
 he lay staring into the dim luxury of the room, 
 that he would not have thanked God to know 
 that he would wake alone in the room with the 
 mud floor at Du Toit's Pan — wake to see the 
 sunlight on the morning after Rosa Fleming's 
 proposal to him and to find that all the rest had 
 been a dream.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 He had heard from Rosa once since their rup- 
 ture — she had written a few curt lines from Paris 
 on the subject of her forthcoming "dividend," as 
 she called it. In August he received an intima- 
 tion concerning the payment, due on the first of 
 September, and by the second note he learned 
 that she was in Aix-les-Bains. 
 
 In October he and Helen went to spend a few 
 weeks at Whichcote, and to Helen, seven months 
 married, life in her former home was very sug- 
 gestive. She wanted to tell him what she felt, 
 but her impressions eluded her as soon as her 
 tongue tried to touch them. Her words implied 
 that she had found the past much sweeter than 
 the present, and this wasn't what she meant. She 
 knew so well what she meant that she demanded 
 divination, and was aggrieved. 
 
 Of Seymour she had neither seen nor thought 
 much since her marriage, but now, in this house, 
 the recollection of the feeling she had had for 
 him was a frequent vexation to her. Reviewing 
 the young man who had dined once or twice at 
 Prince's Gardens, he seemed a different person 
 
 210
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 211 
 
 from the cousin with whom Whichcote was asso- 
 ciated in her mind. It astonished her to realise 
 how stupid she had been about him ; it astonished 
 her still more to realise how recently she had been 
 stupid. 
 
 To Maurice, Oakenhurst was merely painful 
 — additionally painful because the Baronet's eag- 
 erness for a grandson necessitated his affecting 
 to share the hope. To the woman, there was a 
 magic in every familiar sound and scent. 
 
 One morning, before the sun had risen, the 
 trilling of a bird roused her, and though she could 
 not guess what bird it was, its notes requickened 
 all the sentiment of her childhood; in sensation 
 she was a child once more. And then gradually, 
 while the bird called, her bosom swelled with an 
 infinite yearning, or with ecstasy — the moments 
 were ineffable — and her eyes filled with tears. 
 She caught the notes again some hours later, and 
 longed for the emotion that uplifted her when 
 all save herself and the bird had slept; but she 
 strove vainly to recover it, and, in the hum of 
 noon, could not even remember of what it was 
 that she had been made to think. On the mor- 
 row, too, she woke to the enchantment, and hence- 
 forth woke to wait for it. A shyness that she 
 could not account for compelled her to keep the 
 strange joy a secret. But she never failed to
 
 212 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 listen for the high, clear call to thrill the silence 
 above the sleeping lawn; and the bird and the 
 soul of the woman sang together ever}' day. 
 
 Lady Wrensfordsley said to Maurice: "Philip, 
 you look worse and worse; I wish you'd go up to 
 town and see a doctor." 
 
 "It's nothing," he answered; "I'm anxious 
 about her, that's all." 
 
 "But you're absurd," she said; "I never heard 
 anything so foolish. You'll worry yourself into 
 a serious illness if you aren't careful ; and you'll 
 alarm her besides." 
 
 He took the hint, and Helen never suspected 
 that he feared for her life, nor that he dreaded the 
 thing for which he was supposed to hope. In her 
 own breast there was no longer fear. Solitude 
 charmed her, and she had moods in which she 
 loved to escape to the room that had been her 
 nursery, and to sit at the window with a book, 
 which she never read, gazing between the bars. 
 In imagination she was a mother already, and her 
 lips formed kisses, and her arms were filled. A 
 son? Yes, for Philip's sake, she would like a 
 son! But for her own she cared little; it was 
 enough that it would be her child — a girl would 
 be as wondrous as a boy. She would have loathed 
 herself in remembering that she had once trem- 
 bled with aversion, but that it seemed to her that
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 213 
 
 the frivolous girl who had trembled had been 
 somebody else. 
 
 As the year drew near its close, a richer happi- 
 ness than she had ever known pervaded her, and 
 her mind turned to Maurice with a strange per- 
 sistence. She liked him to caress her; she noticed 
 that he caressed her less often than he had done ; 
 one day she cried a little at the thought that she 
 had, perhaps, estranged him by her tepidity. But 
 his manner towards her was so tender that she 
 dismissed the idea as morbid, although she re- 
 mained conscious of a subtle difference in him. 
 
 She felt that he had always been more to her 
 than she had expressed. In intercourse with the 
 Ego there are few revelations ; the sincere diarist 
 does not write, "This afternoon my feelings be- 
 gan to change": she felt that he had always been 
 more to her than she had expressed. A shallow 
 confidant would have told her that this was the 
 beginning of love, but it would have been untrue ; 
 it was the beginning of self-knowledge. 
 
 When the new year was three months old, the 
 man's fear for her had culminated in an agony 
 of needless terror, and he was congratulated on 
 the birth of a son. Every cry that had reached 
 him had torn his heart; he had prayed that he 
 might writhe in hell if his torments would spare 
 her a pang. He fell on his knees — scarcely
 
 211 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 knowing that he did so — and thanked God that 
 she was safe; he supplicated that his sin should 
 never be visited upon his child. Now on the pres- 
 ervation of his secret depended the peace of the 
 wife whom he had bought, and the future of the 
 boy who might grow to love him. He crept up 
 the staircase guiltily to look at them. Like the 
 eves of all infants, the baby's were old with wis- 
 dom, and Maurice could imagine that there was 
 comprehension in their gaze. 
 
 Again and again he repented the steps that had 
 led from the overseer's billet to Prince's Gardens. 
 Alone in the room that was called the smoking- 
 room, at the end of the hall, he sat and thought. 
 He had won all that he had wished for — the 
 wealth and the woman — and he was more wretch- 
 ed than when he had lacked a dinner. He won- 
 dered whether he would have repented if be had 
 avoided marriage; he had been content enough 
 in the early days in Bury Street. Would it have 
 lasted, that sensual satisfaction, or would con- 
 science have cursed him anyhow in time? He 
 could not say, but he knew that, as it was, his 
 Nemesis had arisen from his love. From the 
 moment that the woman quickened his higher 
 self, his punishment had begun. The growth of 
 shame, the yearning to undo, the hopelessness in
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 215 
 
 which he had held her body and hungered for her 
 soul — always through her, his sufferings! 
 
 The consciousness might have turned a feebler 
 love to hatred; it heightened Maurice's devotion 
 to her. A feebler love might have reflected that 
 a woman who married for convenience was less 
 pure than a man who was mastered by passion; 
 Maurice had not married from passion, but he 
 felt that their union would have degraded him, 
 even had he been worthy of her, and he would 
 see rto speck on his wife ; she belonged to a world 
 in which marriages of convenience were usual. 
 In his darkness there was only one pale gleam of 
 comfort — he had ceased to importune her for af- 
 fection and she would have the tranquility that 
 she was entitled to expect. "It's not my fault — 
 I can't help it!" she had said, and he had never 
 forgotten the words; they sounded more piteous 
 to him each time that he recalled them. No, she 
 couldn't help it. He had been an ingrate to 
 complain of what he had been so eager to acquire ! 
 
 Upstairs she lay thinking of her baby and him. 
 The love of a parent for a new-born infant is 
 egotism, but it is egotism sublimed. To Helen's 
 outlook the little living bundle was transfiguring : 
 life took a new aspect, as a landscape changes at 
 sunrise, and the light of the child shone on every 
 hour that she foresaw.
 
 216 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 That strange things appeared so natural was 
 the strangest feature of this time. She listened 
 for Maurice's hand on the door-knob, and knew 
 no astonishment at her wistfulness; she smiled to 
 hear him enter the room — the door was hidden 
 from her where she lay — without reflecting that 
 the pleasure was a novel one; before he was ad- 
 mitted in the morning she parted with the mirror 
 slowly, and it surprised the nurses much more 
 than her that she was never so fastidious as when 
 the expected visitor was her husband. 
 
 The fulfilment of his desire elated Sir Noel 
 mightily. And seventy-eight though he was, he 
 travelled to town to shake silver bells at his 
 "grandson." Three weeks afterwards Helen laid 
 them in a drawer. The old man lived on, but the 
 baby died. 
 
 She had barely regained her strength when the 
 blow fell, and she reeled under it. For the first 
 time she perceived the feebleness of her faith and 
 wished that it were stronger; for the first time she 
 cried bitterly for an answer to one of the enigmas 
 which she had unthinkingly accepted. The 
 thoughtlessness of the favoured, and the resigna- 
 tion of the devout might be mistaken for each 
 other but for the environment that reveals the 
 difference. It had seemed to her a regrettable 
 necessity that people should die, but things had
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 217 
 
 been ordered so. People died, and some were 
 born to wealth, and others to want; it was the 
 way of the world — God's way, one heard on Sun- 
 day, if the weather was fine ; the poignancy of it 
 had never touched her hitherto. Now, at the spur 
 of personal pain, her mind leapt the barrier that 
 had hedged her sympathies ; now she saw that her 
 religion of an ivory prayer-book and a church 
 parade was a meaningless thing. 
 
 Her own child! Why had he been born if he 
 was to be snatched from her as soon as her arms 
 had held him? 
 
 It was also the first time that she had instinct- 
 ively turned to Maurice to share her emotions; 
 and bv the ironv of circumstance, she turned to 
 him at a crisis when he was least able to fulfil her 
 demands. He had been grieved by their loss, 
 more grieved than he would have believed pos- 
 sible a month earlier — nature was stronger than 
 reason — but between the standpoints of the moth- 
 er who had longed and the father who had shud- 
 dered, the disparity was very great. He did his 
 best to soothe her; like Lady Wrensfordsley, he 
 found phrases of consolation; his pity was ap- 
 parent. But her senses had never been more 
 acute — and he did not once say "We have still 
 each other." 
 
 She had clung to him sobbing violently; she
 
 218 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 withdrew from his embrace telling him that she 
 Mas calmer. She was, in truth, calmer, for the 
 vehemence of her despair had worn her out, but 
 she felt more hopeless than before her outburst 
 — more blankly alone. 
 
 She did not turn to him for support again. He 
 saw how she continued to suffer, and their divi- 
 sion looked wider to him still; he felt that it was 
 only on impulse she even sought comfort at his 
 hands. The woman who had sought a thousand 
 assurances of love, suffered doubly to think she 
 was no longer so dear to him. 
 
 She could not blame him for it, she could blame 
 him for nothing — his consideration was undimin- 
 ished; he remained ready to gratify any whim. 
 But it was not his indulgence that she desired 
 now, it was his love. She loved him, and she 
 knew it. Many times he found her crying and 
 believed her in thought by the grave, when her 
 mind was filled by him; many times she petulant- 
 ly refused a suggestion for her welfare when she 
 would have welcomed an appeal to her unselfish- 
 ness. 
 
 It was new to her, wonderfully new, the con- 
 sciousness of a man's mastery. To feel that if 
 her husband had cared for her as he used to care, 
 there could be no deeper happiness on earth than 
 such subjection, was so strange that she did not
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 219 
 
 recognise herself. She had contemplated love, 
 as she had contemplated misery, from the shelter 
 of a pleasance; so faintly had the forces of life 
 touched her, that she had been deceived bv her 
 fancy for her cousin. To-day the fruit of knowl- 
 edge had been bitten to the core; she knew its 
 good and its evil. To-day she was a woman alive 
 to her own soul.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 The London season meant little more to her 
 that year than it means to the majority in Lon- 
 don. Like them, she read in the papers of others' 
 entertainments. Many considered that she car- 
 ried her mourning for an infant too far, and re- 
 monstrated with her. Agatha — now Mrs. Bligh 
 — remonstrated with all the freedom of a bosom 
 friend who had hoped to be Lady Jardine. She 
 said: "Do you think it right, dear, to go to such 
 a length? How dull it must be for your poor 
 husband!" 
 
 Of a truth, after they returned from a sojourn 
 on the south coast, Maurice had begged his wife 
 to seek distraction, though not for his own sake. 
 She had replied listlessly that town was hateful 
 to her and that she looked forward to escaping 
 from it again. Would she care to go at once? 
 he asked; but she shook her head — she would wait 
 until September, when they were going to Pang- 
 bourne. Her lethargy seemed unconquerable, 
 and by Lady Wrensfordsley's advice, he induced 
 her to ask a few persons to stay with them there. 
 
 He was surprised one afternoon in Pall Mall 
 
 220
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 221 
 
 to see Rosa in a hansom ; he had not known that 
 she was back in England. It surprised him more 
 that she bowed, and signed to the driver to stop. 
 
 "Aren't you going to shake hands with me?" 
 she said, leaning forward. 
 
 "Oh, why, yes; of course! How d'ye do?" 
 The sudden meeting embarrassed him. 
 
 "I was sorry to see you'd lost your baby," she 
 added, while he still sought for civilities. 
 
 "Yes," he said. ... "I had no idea you were 
 in London again." 
 
 "I came back in June, just after you sent the 
 last money. I'm at the Langham. How are 
 you? — you don't look very fit." 
 
 "Oh, I'm all right, thanks. You — you look 
 better than ever." 
 
 She smiled radiantlv. 
 
 "Yes, I feel very good," she said. "There's 
 no news, I suppose?" 
 
 "'News'?" 
 
 "How's Sir Noel?" 
 
 "He's all right." 
 
 "And your wife?" 
 
 "Thanks." 
 
 There was a second's pause, in which Maurice 
 wondered what her amiabilitv meant, and her 
 eyes suggested that there was something that she 
 was trying to say.
 
 222 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 "I'm very glad to have seen you again," she 
 
 said. "I We oughtn't to quarrel : I lost my 
 
 head. I hope you'll look me up one day. Will 
 you? 
 
 He wasn't sure whether so much forgiveness 
 was welcome, or the reverse, hut he was instantly 
 touched hy it. 
 
 "I shall he delighted. It's very good of you 
 to overlook everything." 
 
 "Come in anv dav you like. Do! I'm always 
 
 www * 
 
 in ahout five. I won't keep you now. So long!" 
 She put out her hand again, and he continued 
 his way, still undecided whether he was pleased 
 to have met her. The sting of their last interview 
 had not long been mollified by a feeling of thank- 
 fulness that no further variance could occur be- 
 tween them ; and the reconciliation might be only 
 a prelude to renewed entreaties. 
 
 Rosa drove on in the best of spirits. She had 
 wished for such a meeting for the last fortnight, 
 for she had now the strongest motive for desiring 
 Helen's acquaintance, and was sanguine of over- 
 coming his objections when he understood the 
 situation. She had considered writing to him, 
 but the course presented difficulties, and as the 
 matter wasn't urgent, she had done no more than 
 play with the pen. So much had she wanted to 
 see him that she had seldom gone out without
 
 THE WORLDLING^ 223 
 
 hoping for it ; but this afternoon, as it happened, 
 she had not thought of him, and her luck exhilar- 
 ated her the more because it was unexpected. 
 
 While the hansom bore her back to the hotel, 
 she foresaw herself explaining the circumstances 
 and making her request when he came. But when 
 he did come, after a few days, and she reflected 
 that he would come again, she began to think that 
 it would be more tactful to arrive at the request 
 by degrees. 
 
 "I asked vou if there was any news when I 
 met you," she said; "you might return the com- 
 pliment. What would you say if I told you I 
 was on the verge of a big coup? If things go as 
 ■ — as I expect them to go, you won't be the only 
 successful one. It's on the cards that I make a 
 fine match!" 
 
 It gratified her intensely to tell him that she 
 had been independent of his offices; if she could 
 have done without them altogether, the moment 
 would have gratified her even more. But then 
 he wouldn't have been here! 
 
 "I'm heartily glad to hear it," said Maurice; 
 "I thought vou looked very satisfied with your- 
 self." He felt as awkward with her as he had 
 done in the streets, and it amazed him that she 
 could talk so easily. 
 
 "I met him at Monte Carlo. He hasn't popped
 
 224 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 ■ — of course it takes longer because of my posi- 
 tion — but he's wildly in love. My! isn't he! He 
 sends me flowers, and comes to tea. 1 talk of my 
 poor husband, 'Colonel Fleming' . . . one of the 
 oldest families in America. I think it'll be all 
 right. ... It was very funny at the beginning 
 at Monte Carlo; I caught him mashing a lady 
 who was a 'lady' a colonel's widow couldn't know ; 
 Emilie had told me about her. My face was a 
 treat. So was his when I shivered! The shiver 
 settled his doubts about me for the time being. 
 . . . Still, he hasn't come to the point, near as he 
 is to it ; shivers are all very well, but he'd like to 
 see some connections — he's a baronet." 
 
 "Oh?" said Maurice; "what's his name — I may 
 ask, mayn't I?" 
 
 "I think you know him — he has mentioned you. 
 He — er — isn't young, but he's lively for his age. 
 I guess plenty of society girls — girls whose peo- 
 ple have got titles themselves — would jump at 
 him. It's Sir Adolphus Bligh." 
 
 Maurice looked blank. Sir Adolphus was an 
 old friend of Lady Wrensfordsley's, and a fre- 
 quent visitor at Prince's Gardens. He was, as 
 Rosa said, lively for his age — too lively in the 
 opinion of women who were constantly compelled 
 to affect short-sightedness in public — but he had 
 been regarded as a confirmed widower for years.
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 225 
 
 The suggestion that his folly might reach the 
 length of marriage with an adventuress was un- 
 pleasantly strange. What a nutter the marriage 
 would cause, although no one would know the 
 truth about her! 
 
 "It's good enough," she said, complacently, 
 "eh? Monkspool is nearly as old as Croft Court, 
 isn't it, and he's very rich — there's no doubt about 
 it, I suppose?" 
 
 "Sir Adolphus has six thousand a year, and 
 the best shooting in Hampshire," he answered. 
 "Of course it would be a very good thing for you 
 ■ — pecuniarily, though I should have thought your 
 prospects were all right without him." 
 
 "Ah, pecuniarily!" she said. "There's more 
 than a pecuniary pull. Look what I shall be!" 
 
 Maurice twisted his moustache. He was sin- 
 cerely sorry that she had imparted her news. 
 Events must take their course, but he would have 
 preferred to remain ignorant of their drift until 
 he heard of the wedding. 
 
 The perception that he had not said quite all 
 he thought made Rosa ponder when he had gone. 
 She could not believe that he would demur any 
 more when she pointed out the immediate value 
 of his wife's recognition, but she was glad that 
 she had refrained from asking for it to-day. And 
 ; f the distastefulness of suing to him again proved
 
 226 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 unnecessary after all, her triumph would be com- 
 plete. She would have forgiven like a Christian, 
 and would ultimately tender his wife her finger- 
 tips as Lady Bligh! 
 
 Her joy had been intoxicating when she saw 
 that her elderly admirer's intentions were serious 
 — prior to the shiver of which she had spoken 
 she had had some doubt of the nature of his in- 
 tentions ; and his delay in confessing himself had 
 surprised her. Experience had taught her that 
 in love matters the elderly were generally the 
 expeditious. That the tardiness was attributable 
 to his reluctance to take a wife of whom nobody 
 knew anything had not occurred to her imme- 
 diately — it had been his discreet inquiries, his evi- 
 dent eagerness to discover a mutual friend, that 
 supplied the hint — and, as was natural in a wom- 
 an of her class, she under-estimated the reluc- 
 tance still. The gay old gentleman with the 
 waxed mustache and the big picotee was so ob- 
 viously fascinated that it seemed to her that such 
 considerations could weigh with him very little. 
 
 Nevertheless, though Sir Adolphus called two 
 or three times in the next week, his proposal re- 
 mained unuttered, and she dropped a line to 
 Maurice begging him to remember that they were 
 reconciled. She would not humiliate herself to 
 him till she was certain that it was unavoidable,
 
 THE WORLDLINGS W 
 
 but the more often they met in the meanwhile the 
 easier the petition would be to make. 
 
 She was a very handsome woman, and a wom- 
 an who could guard her vocabulary when need- 
 ful. Sir Adolphus was in truth allured; his strug- 
 gles were pathetic. The idea of re-marrying had 
 not crossed his mind till recently, and an aphor- 
 ism of his early widowhood, "The man who loses 
 his wife and marries again did not deserve to lose 
 his wife," had been only the frank expression of 
 his views. Now, however, he meditated that the 
 property would go to his nephew Percy and that 
 it was an Englishman's duty to try to avert the 
 succession of a prig who eyed him with reproval, 
 and had "Percv" for a front name. He derived 
 malicious pleasure from allowing the news of his 
 attachment to reach the young man's ears; and 
 among the Saviles the consternation was extreme. 
 
 When the season was almost over and town had 
 already thinned, Helen received from Lady 
 Wrensfordsley a letter that contained the follow- 
 ing passage: 
 
 "Clara Savile has confided to me that Sir Dolly 
 talks of marrying! and some person that nobody 
 ever heard of before ! ! You may imagine what a 
 state they are in. If he should have a son, Agatha 
 and her husband will be simply beggars — and one
 
 228 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 never knows. I believe they have only got her 
 settlement to live on till the succession. Her 
 mother positively shed tears! I was quite sorry 
 for her. You would be doing a real charity if you 
 tacked on his name to the people you expect at 
 Pangbourne. They are moving heaven and earth 
 to get him out of the woman's reach, and think 
 that if he'd accept anybody's invitation it would 
 be yours. I said I would mention it to you. If 
 you are ordering anything at Lady Pontefract's, 
 please tell her that I consider her bill outrageous. 
 Really I shall have to give up dealing at my 
 friends'! I can't afford them. If it's true that 
 the Duchess thinks of starting a milliner's in 
 South Audley Street, you may be sure that no- 
 body but the Americans, and the Cape people, 
 will be able to stand the prices. Don't forget, 
 there's a good girl — I mean about Sir Dolly." 
 
 The intelligence startled Helen slightly. Sir 
 Adolphus had romped with her when she was a 
 child, and she appreciated the fact that since she 
 had been a woman he had always taken pains to 
 show his best side to her. To hear that he was in 
 danger of making himself ridiculous was distress- 
 ing. She felt sorry for Agatha as well; and she 
 wrote the desired invitation at once. If she had 
 been better occupied, she would probably have
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 229 
 
 waited until the morrow, but she was alone, and 
 her book was dull. 
 
 She had not long despatched the note when 
 the footman announced: "Mrs. Bligh." 
 
 Agatha was evidently ignorant of the request 
 that had emanated from Oakenhurst, and more 
 than ten minutes passed before she approached 
 the matter that engrossed her. She touchedupon 
 everything but what she had come to say, envy- 
 ing the other's position meanwhile more bitterly 
 than she had envied it yet. 
 
 At last she said: 
 
 "Oh, we are so concerned about poor Sir Dolly, 
 dear! His mind is quite giving way — he wants 
 to marry. Isn't it sad? Of course, outsiders 
 would only laugh, but to the family his collapse 
 is pitiable. Such a brilliant man he used to be!" 
 
 "I heard from Whichcote that he was likely to 
 marry," said Helen. "I've asked him to come to 
 us at Pangbourne; your mother hinted that it 
 was rather desirable to persuade him to leave 
 town. Do you think he'll accept?" 
 
 "Oh, have you? At Pangbourne? How kind 
 of you, dear ! But you don't go for more than a 
 month, do you? Another month of the lady's 
 society might be quite fatal — I hope we shall be 
 able to stop it before then. You know Percy has
 
 230 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 always been like a son to the old man; he felt it 
 his dutv to — to do all he could." 
 
 "Naturally," said Helen. She looked through 
 the window — at the trees in the square, and at 
 other women's children, who had lived. "Let me 
 give you some more tea." The transparent dis- 
 ingenuousness of the pose irritated her, and for 
 a moment she repented her attempt to come to 
 the rescue. 
 
 "Xo more, thanks, dearest. I wonder — be- 
 tween ourselves now — if vou know her name: she 
 calls herself 'Mrs. Fleming'?" 
 
 "I suppose there are thousands of women one 
 doesn't know who are very nice," said Helen, 
 coolly. "Sir Dolly might be extremely happy 
 with her." 
 
 A tinge of confusion entered into Agatha's 
 solicitude for him. "Do you think so?" she said. 
 "Do you? — you don't? Of course one can't ig- 
 nore that it would be very cruel towards Percy, 
 too, but really one doesn't think so much of that 
 as of the scandal. It'd be too shocking! For- 
 tunately we made inquiries — there must be limits 
 even to Sir Dolly's weakness. She's quite impos- 
 sible. I know I may talk openly to you, dear; 
 she w r as about London constantly the vear before 
 last, with your husband, and people say that he 
 knew her very well."
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 231 
 
 Helen whitened a little — the stab had been un- 
 foreseen — but her gaze never flinched. The other 
 woman was leaning forward, wearing a confiden- 
 tial smile ; and she smiled back finely. 
 
 "Really?" she said; "but then there are always 
 people who're glad to say spiteful things. Are 
 you sure you won't have any more tea?" 
 
 "I daren't. Sir David told Percy I was ruin- 
 ing my nerves with tea. So meddlesome of him! 
 I had to promise to give it up. Percy implored ; 
 and when one marries for love, one makes these 
 sacrifices — you can't imagine how absurd one 
 gets ! Oh, my dear Helen, there's no doubt about 
 the intimacy! Uncle Fred had chambers in the 
 same house as Mr. Jardine, and she was found in 
 your husband's rooms once in the middle of the 
 night. I don't suppose there's anything in it now 
 — of course he only goes to see her for auld lang 
 syne! — but she's quite depraved." 
 
 She wondered if Agatha had heard her heart 
 thud. While she fought for composure, the weak- 
 ness mounted from her body to her brain and she 
 saw through a mist. She was torn between a 
 passionate eagerness to question the hateful wom- 
 an opposite, and a horror of yielding her the tri- 
 umph. Pride conquered. 
 
 "People allow themselves many liberties on 
 the plea of auld lang syne," she said steadily.
 
 £S8 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 "Where do you go yourselves in the autumn — 
 ( )akenhurst, isn't it ? Give my love to your moth- 
 er, if I don't see you again." 
 
 Agatha rose, the smile fastened to her face by 
 a painful effort. 
 
 "It was quite too sweet of you to ask Sir Dolly 
 down," she said; "of course you couldn't know 
 what arguments we had found." They always 
 kissed, and to omit the ceremony would be to 
 acknowledge her discomfiture; her eyes betrayed 
 her fear of committing herself as she drew near- 
 er. "I must run away; I had no idea it was so 
 late, and we're dining early this evening." 
 
 Helen put forth her fingers, and she was furi- 
 ous that she had not taken the initiative. She 
 squeezed them gently. 
 
 "By, by, dear," she said, still smiling with stiff 
 lips.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 In the moment that the door closed Helen's 
 predominant emotion was relief. Humiliation 
 rushed in upon her the next instant, but the first 
 quick consciousness was of thanksgiving to be left 
 alone. She dropped back into the chair weakly, 
 and, with her gaze fixed upon the same point for 
 minutes, sat seeing nothing. Was it true — not 
 eighteen months married, and unfaithful to her? 
 Her reason told her that it was a malignant lie — 
 a person who was base enough to wound her with 
 the tale so gratuitously was base enough to invent 
 it — but reason could not quiet the wakened doubt. 
 
 How could Agatha have heard ? He had been 
 seen! By whom — Agatha, or friends of hers? 
 Was it already food for gossip? Where was she, 
 this Mrs. Fleming? Even the name was unfa- 
 miliar. Her mind groped in the dusk of igno- 
 rance piteously, and the vast living fact of the un- 
 known woman overwhelmed her. 
 
 Should she ask him if it was true? Should 
 
 she sav to him ? He was in the smoking- 
 
 room; she might go to him and tell him what 
 had been said — now, while the impulse was hot 
 
 233
 
 234 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 in her! She half raised herself, but the futility 
 of the question weighted her limbs. What an- 
 swer but one was possible? Tie would declare 
 that the woman was nothing to him — and the 
 doubt would remain. 
 
 Then it was never to be ended? The suspicion 
 was to haunt her — she was to wonder when he 
 kissed her, and imagine whenever he was out? 
 Tears gathered in her eyes, and splashed on her 
 locked hands. How did women bear these things 
 that were whispered over tea-tables with smiles; 
 how had her mother borne her life? Hadn't she 
 suffered? 
 
 Oh, it was horrible! Her father and her hus- 
 band! Were all men alike? And onlookers con- 
 sidered it amusing. How often she had heard 
 women make a jest of another's misery — as they 
 might be jesting now at hers! She shivered. 
 Weren't they afraid to laugh, when their own 
 turn might come to-morrow or next week? 
 
 If you didn't care for the man, of course the 
 pain was less — the abasement was easier to en- 
 dure; and there might be some who asked no 
 more than the position for which they yielded 
 themselves. Those who married without love 
 must be least wretched, unless tliev loved after- 
 wards, like herself — like a fool — when it was too 
 late! How low she had been — what a degrada-
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 235 
 
 tion, stripping the cant and the orange-blossoms 
 from the sale ! Supposing he retorted that he had 
 the right to hold his mistress just as high? "When 
 one marries for love — you can't imagine it!" 
 That odious woman! She had wanted Philip her- 
 self and was envious still, although she was a wife 
 now — although she believed him incapable of fi- 
 delity. What a world, what a sordid, hypocrit- 
 ical, vile world — the women were as vicious as 
 the men! Her little baby! She craved to clasp 
 his body to her breast. ... At least he had died 
 while he was pure. 
 
 Excepting when her hand rose mechanically 
 to smear away the tears, she sat motionless till 
 the gong sounded. Then she lingered before the 
 glass, and went slowly to her maid. She might 
 plead a headache and dine in her room this even- 
 ing, but to-morrow evening she would again have 
 to dine downstairs. What was an evening more 
 or less! The necessity for replying to Maurice 
 at the table, for assuming her ordinary demean- 
 our in the drawing-room, demanded one of those 
 efforts that are called superhuman. It was a rare 
 occurrence for him to leave the house after din- 
 ner now that she preferred to remain at home ; but 
 sometimes he went into a club for an hour — and 
 she found herself waiting to hear him say that 
 he was going out to-night. She felt vulgar and
 
 23G THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 contemptible; she hated herself for it; but in 
 every silence she knew that she was waiting. 
 
 Conversation ceased. She found her book, and 
 he picked up his own. In the long lamplit room 
 the soft ticking of a Louis Quartorze clock, and 
 the occasional flutter of a bird's wings from the 
 fernery were the only sounds. After half an hour 
 the man's book drooped, ftnd he sat watching her 
 wistfully; noting at what lengthy intervals she 
 turned the pages and wondering what had 
 troubled her. Her face was concealed, but his 
 gaze dwelt upon her fingers on the cover — upon 
 the fairness of her brow, upon the glimmer of 
 her instep through the black lace stocking. She 
 lifted her head, and their eyes met. 
 
 "What's wrong, Helen?" he asked, going over 
 to her. 
 
 The impulse to tell him what she had heard 
 seized her again; and again she wavered, in the 
 knowledge that he must deny. 
 
 "Wrong?" she said. "What makes you think 
 there's anything wrong?" 
 
 'You aren't reading; you had to make your- 
 self talk; you've been crying." The words were 
 a lover's; the tone was the tone of cheerful non- 
 chalance to which he had schooled himself. "I 
 don't want to be inquisitive, but is there anything 
 I can do?"
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 237 
 
 She might have said "Yes; care for me as you 
 cared before I showed that it bored me!" — she 
 might have said it earlier — but she wasn't a wom- 
 an to whom a gush of appeal was easy. The 
 novel lay open on her lap, and her forefinger 
 travelled slowly up the edges of the paper. 
 
 "Agatha called to-day," she murmured. She 
 was going to test the story, and she felt more 
 despicable still. 
 
 "Oh," said Maurice, "how is she?" 
 
 "She's worried. They're afraid Sir Dolly 
 means to marry a Mrs. Fleming. Have you 
 heard of her, Philip?" 
 
 He had not expected her to mention the mat- 
 ter till the engagement was announced. The 
 name on her lips, the quick inquiry that followed 
 it, took him aback. He looked away. 
 
 "Heard of her?" he repeated. "Y-e-s," 
 
 "Do you know her?" 
 
 He was already collecting his wits. 
 
 "I used to know her," he said; "I've met her. 
 So Sir Dolly is going to marry her, is he? It's 
 rather rough on the Blighs." 
 
 He had known her — Agatha had been right in 
 that! But his embarrassment might have meant 
 no more. She trembled an instant between self- 
 abhorrence and temptation. Should she go on?
 
 238 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 Another question, and the uncertainty might be 
 over. 
 
 "Do you ever meet her now?" she said. 
 
 To Maurice his pause seemed longer than it 
 was. Why did she ask? What should he an- 
 swer ? To say "No" was repugnant to him, more- 
 over it might be unwise; to say "Yes" might call 
 for explanations that he was unprepared to give. 
 His hesitancy did not last five seconds; but it 
 lasted long enough to swell her fear. 
 
 "I saw her a few weeks ago in Pall Mall," he 
 said; "I stopped and spoke to her. Why?" 
 
 "Nothing," said Helen; "I— wondered." 
 
 She raised the novel. And the tick of the 
 clock, and the restless flutter of a bird were the 
 only sounds again.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 What had she meant? Why had she looked 
 at him like that? She had discovered something! 
 — he felt it in his veins. She would have avoided 
 his kiss when she said good-night. He turned 
 back from the door, quaking. The trend of her 
 suspicion did not occur to him — innocence is dull- 
 brained. His mind sprang to his guilt, and a cold 
 sweat broke out over him as he asked himself if 
 anything could have happened that menaced ex- 
 posure. 
 
 What — what? His thoughts scoured the field 
 of conjecture vainly. Could he be mistaken — 
 was there no significance in her queries but what 
 his alarm attributed? But, then, why her man- 
 ner? 
 
 Xot for an hour was he in sight of the truth ; 
 and he dismissed the idea as puerile. Even if he 
 had been heard to inquire for Mrs. Fleming by 
 someone who had mentioned the visit, there was 
 no reason why Helen should hold it an offence 
 against her. Mrs. Fleming was ostensibly a re- 
 spectable acquaintance. She was engaged, or 
 about to be engaged, to Sir Adolphus Bligh. 
 
 239
 
 240 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 Helen would have said "I'm told you know this 
 Mrs. Fleming that Sir Dolly is raving about. 
 How is it I haven't met her? what's she like?" 
 Some surprise, a natural curiosity, but no more! 
 No, her manner wasn't to be accounted for by 
 jealousy — even assuming that she cared for him 
 enough to be troubled were there cause. He 
 was doubtful if she did. Complaisance appeared 
 to be a feature of the women's education in the 
 world where he was an intruder — in the world 
 where marriage was a display, a barter, anything 
 but a union ! 
 
 A new element had entered into his torture: 
 he was harassed by misgiving. He felt that he 
 himself had nothing to lose — felt it honestly — 
 the game hadn't been worth the candle; had he 
 stood alone, the whisper — if they did whisper — 
 might have risen to a roar and they could have 
 done what they liked with him. But he would 
 ruin her if he fell: and he swore he wouldn't 
 fall. Before disgrace should touch his wife he 
 was ready to perjure himself with a face of brass 
 and to break every law made by God or man. 
 
 And Helen meanwhile continued to question 
 in every hour of the day whether he had dishon- 
 oured her. Now the rare thing had happened — 
 her soul had shed its veil and leapt to the woman 
 naked: she was dizzy in the light of self-revela-
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 241 
 
 tion. In the doubt that tormented her, his pres- 
 ence was an ignominy, and his voice was a lash; 
 but she loved him. How deep her love Had grown 
 hadn't been known to her till this fear that she 
 had lost him entirely tugged at its roots. It 
 stabbed her to reflect that the stranger had, at 
 least, been his mistress once, and she hated 
 Agatha for telling her; she wished to blot from 
 her mind all consciousness that other women had 
 played parts in his life; she saw that her own 
 was filled by him. She recalled their honeymoon ; 
 she looked back with wet eves at the months in 
 which she knew that she had held him — at the 
 time when he kissed the slippers that she wore. 
 When had the other influence been recovered? 
 O, God! How he had insulted her, degraded 
 her. She twisted her hands. 
 
 But was it true? How did one find out such 
 things? She couldn't live like this; she must be 
 sure ! She wondered if the story had reached her 
 mother's ears, if her mother found it convincing; 
 she was to be in town shortly — when they were 
 together it might be possible to ascertain. And 
 Sir Dolly, what of him? He had accepted the 
 invitation; the fact had been somewhat surpris- 
 ing: had his intentions changed, or would he snap 
 his fingers at the Saviles' interference and excuse
 
 242 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 himself later from coming, on the grounds of his 
 engagement? 
 
 Lady Wrensfordsley's visit to town was for the 
 purpose of a day's shopping, and she would, of 
 course, spend the night at Prince's Gardens. 
 
 The geniality of her greeting was an instant 
 relief to Maurice, for he had dreaded to find her 
 air as constrained as Helen's. Helen herself was 
 more than once persuaded by it, while they 
 shopped and drove, that Lady S a vile had re- 
 frained from repeating the tale that Agatha had 
 doubtless communicated post haste, and she was 
 a little perplexed ; she was eager for her mother's 
 judgment, but shrank from approaching the sub- 
 ject. Only at dinner the visitor's sunniness was 
 a tinge too sunny, her satisfaction with every- 
 body and everything, except Lady Pontefract's 
 bill, a shade too complete to deceive one who had 
 been familiar with her voice for years; and now 
 her daughter watched her hungrily, striving to 
 arrive at her opinion before she uttered it. 
 
 The hope that Helen had not been told had 
 died in Lady Wrensfordsley at the moment when 
 she first entered the drawing-room, and consider- 
 able nervousness underlav the serenitv with which 
 she at last declared herself tired. She foresaw 
 a bad half-hour, as she was accompanied, and 
 memories intensified her pity.
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 243 
 
 It appeared to Helen that her maid was very 
 slow in attendance on another. The preparations 
 threatened to be interminable, as, waiting for the 
 girl to finish, she sat gazing mutely at the tea- 
 things that were to minister to Lady Wrensfords- 
 ley's unconquered vice. Yet when the maid had 
 gone, the power to speak seemed to have gone 
 as well, and the silence continued. 
 
 It was broken by the elder woman. 
 
 "You're going to have some with me, aren't 
 you?" she inquired cheerfully, coming to the 
 table. "Really not? That's a very good girl 
 of yours, dear; you were very fortunate to get 
 her. Other people's maids are so clumsy as a 
 rule — like boots, they're no use to anybody but 
 the owner." She poured out her tea, and sipped 
 it with increasing apprehension. "I've been 
 thinking," she went on, after a pause, "that the 
 insertion would have been more effective than 
 the ruche, do you know! ... I wonder? I've 
 a good mind to send a wire in the morning. What 
 do you think yourself?" 
 
 Helen got up, and stood with her elbow resting 
 on the mantelshelf. 
 
 "What's the matter?" asked Lady Wrensfords- 
 ley. "Aren't you well?" 
 
 "Mother! You know!" 
 
 "I know?" said Lady Wrensfordsley. "I know
 
 244 TIIK WORLDLINGS 
 
 what? What is it — what are you looking like 
 that for?" 
 
 'You know what's said; you know that they 
 say this woman is — is Philip's mistress. Agatha 
 told me — they've told you. Don't pretend to me 
 — I want you to talk to me, to tell me what to do. 
 Should I believe it? Do you believe it? Tell me 
 the truth!" 
 
 "Believe it? Why should I believe anything 
 so perfectly ridiculous? Agatha told you, did 
 she? And what proof did the cat give you? My 
 dear Helen, I thought you had more sense! Sir 
 Dolly wants to marry the woman, and it's to 
 their interest to take away her character. Can't 
 you see that?" 
 
 'They're not compelled to take away Philip's; 
 there are other men in London. . . . Before I 
 married him everyone knew about him and — and 
 Mrs. Fleming. Did you know?" 
 
 "I did not," said Lady Wrensfordsley. "And 
 who says that everyone knew — Agatha? If 
 you're going to be happy, my dear, the first thing 
 you've got to learn is to believe very little of 
 what 'they say.' People say anything, especially 
 spiteful women who are envious of one match, 
 and eager to break off another. I fervently trust 
 that Sir Dolly will marry this Mrs. Fleming, and
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 245 
 
 that he'll have a son with the least possible de- 
 lay!" 
 
 "Why does he go to see her now, if he's true 
 to me?" exclaimed Helen quickly. "Is it natural 
 for a man to visit a woman he used to know like 
 that, if he cares for his wife? Why does he go 
 to her if there's no wrong?" 
 
 'Why'? . . . How do you know he does go? 
 You seem to be wonderfully credulous all of a 
 sudden." 
 
 "I asked him. He hesitated ; he admitted that 
 he had 'met' her. Oh, my eyes are clear enough, 
 I could see I had startled him." 
 
 "I daresay you did if you looked at him as you 
 look now — you'd startle anybody. I keep telling 
 you that you've no reason to think he did know 
 her like that. When a good-looking woman's 
 alone, someone is always ready to explain her 
 income in such a way." 
 
 "What do you mean?" said Helen. "Do you 
 mean that she was supposed to take — to take 
 
 money from him? She's a woman who Oh, 
 
 my God! he insults me for her — the love that's 
 sold — the love that's sold!". 
 
 She began to sob, catching her lip between 
 her teeth in an effort to steady herself. 
 
 "I thought," said her mother, feebly, "you told 
 me that Agatha "
 
 246 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 "You thought I knew — yes. Oh, it doesn't 
 matter! What difference does it make who she 
 is if he has gone back to her? Why should I 
 mind ? Has he ? Tell me ! You treat me like a 
 child. You sit there trying to deceive me. I'm 
 a woman — I'm his wife — I've a right to know." 
 
 "I've told you. The story's nonsense. Helen, 
 don't !" She went across to her dismayed, stretch- 
 ing out nervous hands. 
 
 "I don't believe you — I don't believe you think 
 so. Of course, you say so — you think it best for 
 me to say so. You don't think what it is to me 
 to be with him, if it's true : the horror of it — day 
 after day! now! You mean to be kind, but you 
 don't understand — you don't understand!" 
 
 "Z don't 'understand'?" murmured Lady 
 Wrensfordslev, with a lifetime in her voice. 
 
 Helen raised her head, and for a moment the 
 eves of the women met. 
 
 "Ah, mother! mother!" 
 
 She drooped to her with the cry, and some sec- 
 onds passed while they held each other without 
 speaking. 
 
 "Listen," said Lady Wrensfordslev, "I under- 
 stand — I understand much better than vou can 
 realise. One is never young to one's child, but 
 I was younger than you when I married. I've 
 been through it all, just as you are going through
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 247 
 
 it. I oughtn't to say that to you ; but you know. 
 At the beginning I tried to find out, just as you 
 are trying to find out. And when I succeeded I 
 broke my heart. Helen, don't ask! You might 
 prove him true now — and again, and perhaps 
 again; but the day'd come when you'd ask once 
 too often. And nothing pays for that. Close 
 your eyes; the contented woman is the woman 
 who doesn't see too much. Love isn't blind, be- 
 cause there's no love without jealousy, and jeal- 
 ousy's an Argus ; but contentment's as blind as a 
 bat." 
 
 "'Contentment'? To suffer — to question! 
 You say that I'm mistaken — tell me how to be 
 sure of it. Never mind the future — I'd never 
 suspect him any more. I'd go on my knees to 
 him and ask his pardon. The doubt's killing me 
 — tell me how to be sure to-day!" 
 
 "And supposing you found you were right? 
 I don't say you would — I don't think you would ; 
 but if you did? What do you imagine that cer- 
 tainty'd do for you? Your doubt'll die. You 
 can't believe that, but some time — in a few months 
 perhaps — you'll look back and wonder at it. Per- 
 haps you'll be wrong to wonder — perhaps you'll 
 be right ; but right, or wrong, the revulsion comes 
 to every woman who's as fond of a man as you 
 are. I didn't dream how fond you were. Knowl- 
 
 ?
 
 248 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 edge never dies; I heave known it poison every 
 hour of fifteen years." 
 
 "If I found I was right, certainty would — 
 would save me from shuddering at myself," 
 stammered Helen; "that's what it would do! I 
 should wish I were dead, but the worst humilia- 
 tion would be over." 
 
 'You wouldn't make a scandal?" gasped Lady 
 Wrensfordsley. "You wouldn't do that?" 
 
 "Make a scandal — I? Isn't it the scandal that 
 he should come to me from — from that woman's 
 arms and that I should have to tolerate his touch, 
 and — and give him my lips? I tell you that it's 
 driving me mad, the shame of it! Make a scan- 
 dal— ir 
 
 "If you knew you were right, it would be very 
 awful. At the same time " 
 
 'You feel that I'm right, or you wouldn't ad- 
 vise me to bear the doubt." 
 
 'Your position gone! 'Poor Lady Helen!' — ■ 
 everybody talking. How would you bear that?" 
 
 "Some people talk already." 
 
 "But you don't suffer socially while you re- 
 main with him. Think what you'd lose! You 
 don't mean it?" 
 
 "Socially? Oh no, I don't 'suffer socially' 
 while I remain with him — I forgot. I suffer just 
 a little in my heart — I feel just a little lowered,
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 249 
 
 and unclean. But I havn't reached the martyr- 
 dom of suffering socially!" She lifted steadfast 
 eyes, and to both the women who had loved with- 
 out comprehending each other, the great gulf 
 that separated them was clear. "I wouldn't sub- 
 mit to the dishonour to keep a coronet," she said. 
 
 Lady Wrensfordsley moved about the room in 
 purposeless inquietude. Her transformation, 
 which she had retained in prospect of the inter- 
 view, had been displaced, and the sign of trouble 
 on her forehead was deepened by the unfamiliar 
 glimpse of grey hair. 
 
 Helen kissed her, and drew her back to her seat, 
 
 "I'll leave you now, mother. You've had 
 enough." 
 
 "Are you tired, dear? Good-night. I shan't 
 go to bed yet." Her hand lingered. "I'm posi- 
 tive of one thing — he's very fond of you. I've 
 no doubt about that at all. If he lost you he'd 
 be dreadfully cut up." 
 
 "We won't talk about it any more, dearest. 
 I'm so sorry." 
 
 "Wait a minute. I mean it. Whatever he 
 may, or mayn't have done, he's very fond of you. 
 Don't overlook it." 
 
 "If he were fond of me still, I shouldn't be 
 wondering. He used to be ; it was my fault that 
 he changed, I know."
 
 250 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 "And yet you'd divorce him for — for a mad- 
 ness? When all is said, wouldn't it be rather hard 
 for you? . . . Sit down — you wouldn't sleep. I 
 want to tell you something that we take a long 
 time to learn. We never do learn it, really, or 
 we mightn't be so wretched, but after a great 
 many years we begin to get an inkling of it. We 
 oughtn't to judge our husbands from our own 
 standpoint. You said just now that if Philip 
 cared for you, he couldn't be unfaithful ; I assure 
 you that you're wrong. We're better than men 
 are, in some things — we're less unselfish, and less 
 grateful, but we sin with more refinement. A 
 woman has to fancy herself in love with another 
 man before she deceives her husband ; but a man 
 can run after other women while he knows he 
 loves his wife. I'm not saying that all men do 
 — Philip mayn't for one — but there are hundreds 
 and thousands who can. The woman who refuses 
 to believe that her husband loves her simply be- 
 cause she discovers him to be inconstant, only un- 
 derstands her own nature." 
 
 "'Simply'?" said Helen. "The woman who 
 'simply' discovers it?" 
 
 "Yes ; if the bare fact is all she has to go upon, 
 she only understands her own nature — she doesn't 
 understand men's. And such as it is, it's what 
 We ought to judge them by. They're the slaves
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 251 
 
 of their impulses, to use a pretty word; their 
 point of view is totally different from ours — they 
 can't see what we have to make such a fuss about. 
 Many a man who deceives his wife without the 
 slightest compunction would go through fire and 
 water to save her from a grief he understood. 
 My dear child, don't let's forget that if men had 
 self-control, most women would die old maids! 
 Nobody can imagine that men marry because 
 they find their most suitable companions; the 
 number of 'kindred souls' that happened to drift 
 together every year, in St. James's alone, would 
 be quite miraculous! They marry because they 
 can't resist temptation. While we are the temp- 
 tation we aren't surprised — and why expect a 
 man's nature to be altered by a wedding cere- 
 monyf 
 
 "Why didn't you ask me that while I was en- 
 gaged?" returned Helen drearily. 
 
 "My dear!" exclaimed her mother, looking a 
 little shocked. . . . "What I am telling you is 
 quite right," she went on; "men are ruled by their 
 passions; but after marriage there may be affec- 
 tion and esteem — after marriage they may have 
 quite a different feeling for their wives than for 
 anybody else. I think in most cases they have. 
 That's what I mean by saying that they can't 
 see what we have to make such a fuss about when
 
 252 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 they're horrible. The feeling they give way to is 
 often so much lower than their feeling for our- 
 selves — so separate from their affection — that 
 they don't understand our being jealous of it." 
 
 "I am not 'jealous,' ' said Helen, rising; "I 
 am revolted." 
 
 "Yes," sighed Lady Wrensfordsley, "I know; 
 we never say we are jealous till it has ceased to 
 be true." 
 
 "Good-night, mother." 
 
 "Good-night. . . . Your eyes are red; he'll 
 wonder — you'd better use my puff before you 
 
 go." 
 
 "Have you everything you want? A book?" 
 
 "No. I shan't read. . . . Take my advice now 
 and don't meet trouble half-way." 
 
 "They shall bring breakfast in to you in the 
 morning; don't get up!" 
 
 "Oh, I'll get up; I may as well. Half-past 
 nine, isn t it f 
 
 "You had better not — you are sure to be tired. 
 I shall say you aren't to be called." 
 
 "Well, if you think so, dear! — perhaps it would 
 be best. . . . Good-night." 
 
 "Good-night."
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 Maurice had not been to see Rosa since Helen 
 referred to her. His fear had faded ; but to call 
 upon her was neither pleasant nor necessary. It 
 was impossible for him to feel at ease in the pres- 
 ence of a woman Mho had told him that he was a 
 liar and a blackguard, and he considered that the 
 few visits he had already made were sufficient 
 to show that he appreciated her forgiveness. A 
 few days after Lady Wrensfordsley's departure 
 he received another note, reproaching him for his 
 absentment; and he replied that he was at the 
 point of leaving for the Court. The statement 
 was quite true, but he omitted to add that he was 
 going that evening, and returning on the morrow. 
 Such flying trips, either in Helen's company, or 
 alone, were frequently made to the old man, and 
 eagerly anticipated by him. 
 
 Rosa was perturbed. That she would have to 
 seek assistance from Maurice had latterly looked 
 to her inevitable; Sir Adolphus was also absent- 
 ing himself, and on the last occasion that he came 
 had said nothing more definite than that he was 
 going to Pangbourne on the first of next month 
 
 253
 
 254 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 to stay at Lady Helen Jardine's. Pangbourne 
 was far enough from the Langham; but, com- 
 pared with other places that he had lightly men- 
 tioned, it was round the corner. A cacocthes for 
 travel seemed suddenly to have possessed the old 
 gentleman, and an airy allusion to Damascus had 
 struck her dumb. 
 
 If she had failed to realise, during their con- 
 versation, that her prospect had suffered an un- 
 expected blow, the ensuing week would have 
 made it clear to her ; and now that the waiter no 
 longer announced him at the hour of tea-gowns, 
 she saw it was more luck than judgment that per- 
 mitted her to remain confident of victory. He 
 was to be Maurice's guest and admired her much 
 too ardently to be able to stay in the same house 
 with her without proposing ; her desire to conquer 
 single-handed hadn't been fatal, near as it had 
 come to being so! But that she should be invited 
 to Pangbourne was imperative; and now Maurice 
 was leaving town — had probably left it! She 
 threw his answer on the floor in disgust. 
 
 In point of fact, he had just started for Wa- 
 terloo as she tore open his envelope. Helen was 
 not accompanying him this time ; she was still at 
 the dinner-table, from which he had risen on the 
 removal of the sweets. She had not petitioned 
 her mother again to help her to set her mind at
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 255 
 
 rest — she knew that it would be useless — nor had 
 she responded in her letters to the guarded hope 
 that she was "feeling better." It seemed to her 
 that she would never feel better in her life, and 
 there was no need to cause further distress by 
 saying so. They regarded the matter from dif- 
 ferent standpoints: to her mother's view it was 
 folly to be wise — to herself such ignorance was 
 continuous torment. They were rooted to their 
 positions, with the shield between them, and not 
 all the talking in the world would ever turn it. 
 
 Her dessert plate was before her, and she was 
 alone, but the fruit was untasted. While she sat 
 thinking, a hansom rattled to the house, and the 
 next moment the click of a latchkey told her that 
 her husband had driven back. She wondered 
 what he had forgotten, for it was only a minute 
 or two since he had said good-bye. 
 
 She heard him stride along the hall and stop at 
 the hat-stand. A clatter of sticks and umbrellas 
 reached her, as an overcoat was swept against 
 the handles. Whatever he had sought, it was 
 found almost at once, for the impetuous search 
 was brief. Then the scratch of a vesta suggested 
 that it was his cigar-case that had been left be- 
 hind. He hurried out; the door was slammed 
 again, and she heard him run down the four steps. 
 
 The sound of the horse's hoofs grew fainter;
 
 256 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 the clip-clop died away. In the street there was 
 momentary silence. She traced lines on the cloth 
 with the fork and wished that it were time to go 
 to bed. She was, anomalously, relieved to be 
 free of his presence and lonely without him; she 
 began to regret that she had not gone to Oaken- 
 hurst herself. . . . 
 
 Presently the postman went to the next house 
 but one; she always knew when he had reached 
 that — it was the only house on this side with a 
 knocker. She paused, with a strawberry between 
 her fingers, and listened. Even letters would 
 make an incident. He was going to the next 
 house, too. . . . Now he had come down. Was 
 he passing? No, he stopped — he was coming 
 here. There was the slow, heavy ascent, the pull 
 at the bell; and then a second ring, which meant 
 that he was waiting. Something unstamped, or 
 too big for the box ! 
 
 She heard the servant's lighter footfall on the 
 stairs — his leisurely approach. It was interesting 
 to note the time that he found it possible to take 
 between the two doors. . . . 
 
 "For Mr. Jardine, or me?" 
 
 "For you, my lady." 
 
 She turned her head, and saw Maurice's keys 
 lying beside the letters. 
 
 "Where do these come from?"
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 257 
 
 "They were left in the door, my lady. The 
 postman just saw them." 
 
 "Oh," she said; "it's lucky he did. Very well, 
 put them down. . . . And, Plummer!" 
 
 "Yes, my lady?" 
 
 "Give the man something the next time he 
 
 comes." 
 
 "Yes, my lady. Half-a-crown, my lady?" 
 
 "Yes," she said. "No! give him more than 
 that. They might have been stolen, and it would 
 have been a great inconvenience. Give him — 
 give him half-a-sovereign. Don't forget; I wish 
 him to have it to-morrow night. You had better 
 go to the door when you hear him in the street." 
 
 "Very good, my lady." 
 
 A bill, and a begging letter. Some furniture 
 that had displeased her when they took possession 
 was being warehoused, and at least one applica- 
 tion for ten-and-sixpence in advance irritated her 
 every month. The ninth woman who had written 
 to say that she, too, had lost her baby in the 
 spring, quoted the Scriptures and asked for 
 twenty pounds. 
 
 Her mind reverted to the keys. Yes, it was 
 lucky that the postman had come — if they had 
 been lost it would have been a dreadful nuisance ; 
 there must be the keys of the safe here, there 
 must be the key of Philip's cash-box, there must
 
 258 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 be the key of his desk. . . . There must be the 
 key of his desk! 
 
 She sat quite still. The room was very warm, 
 but she felt suddenly cold in it. It shocked her 
 that she could have thought of such a thing. What 
 an idea; how had it entered her head? She was 
 mortified that she had entertained it, even for a 
 second. To open his desk — to spy? How im- 
 possible! Extraordinary that such baseness 
 should have occurred to her. . . . She didn't want 
 any strawberries after all. She would go to the 
 drawing-room. 
 
 She found her pocket and put the keys in it; 
 and went upstairs. She had left the piano open, 
 and she wandered over to the music-stool ; but her 
 touch was weak, and before she had played a bar, 
 her eyes grew wide again, and her hands drooped. 
 He kept his bank-book in the desk — she might 
 have ended her doubt in five minutes ! She sighed 
 impatiently, and struck another chord . . . and 
 got up. 
 
 A volume of verse was lying on the sofa, and 
 she settled herself to read. When a quarter of 
 an hour had gone by she awoke to the fact that 
 she had not understood any line, and she put the 
 book down. She drew the kevs out, and sat 
 looking at them. If she proved him innocent, she 
 would ow r n to him what sho had done; she would
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 259 
 
 6ay: "Forgive me! I was mad to see if you were 
 keeping the woman or not, and I went to the 
 smoking-room and opened your desk." "Opened 
 your desk"? It sounded horrible! No, she 
 couldn't do it! 
 
 But hadn't she the right to do it — hadn't she 
 the right to learn the truth? The action was re- 
 pugnant to her, but she was entitled to know. 
 She could not live like this; better the one swift 
 shame than the humiliation that she was suffer- 
 ing — better a thousand times! When all was 
 said, there was nothing unjustifiable in a woman 
 looking at her husband's pass-book ; nothing hein- 
 ous in her unlocking a desk that she had never 
 been asked to consider sacred. . . . If it held no 
 secret, why should he object? If it didn't hold 
 the secret, she would apologise — she would tell 
 him how much she had borne first. If it did, she 
 would re j oice that she had overcome her scruples ; 
 she would be intensely and for ever glad of what 
 she had done! 
 
 Perhaps the book was at the bank? She took 
 her own sometimes, and for weeks forgot to call 
 for it. She hadn't thought of that till now. But 
 his cheque-book, at least, might be seen. Those 
 little slips at the side — what was the word? 
 Counterfoils. Mrs. Fleming's name would ap- 
 pear in those. Would he imagine that it was the
 
 260 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 money that she grudged? Heaven knew that he 
 might have given away their money with both 
 hands and she would have made no protest. He 
 could not, he dare not, suggest it was the money 1 
 
 The keys burnt her palm, and she moved rest- 
 lessly to and fro. Somewhere within hearing, 
 one of the untrained bands which are forbidden 
 in their own country and to which England opens 
 her arms, began to bray a German valse. The 
 discords maddened her, as they were maddening 
 manv others. 
 
 The Louis Quatorze clock struck nine. After 
 a while, the brazen torture ceased. She put the 
 keys on the table, and returned to the poetry and 
 forced herself to follow it — re-reading the lines 
 until her brain grasped their sense. . . . The 
 clock struck again, once. Her cushion slipped 
 to the ground, and she rose feverishly. She 
 couldn't bear it any longer — she must know ! 
 
 She went down to the hall without further hes- 
 itation. The smoking-room was at the foot of the 
 back staircase, and for once she dreaded to meet 
 a servant's eyes. As she turnd the handle she 
 glanced over her shoulder apprehensively, and 
 caught a breath of relief. In private houses 
 electric light was not yet general, and a minute 
 passed while she felt about the room for matches. 
 She brushed the box off the mantelpiece, and it
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 261 
 
 fell with a rattle in the fender. By the time she 
 had lit the gas she was breathing fast. 
 
 The desk stood opposite the door; it had been 
 here when they came — a walnut desk and book- 
 case combined, with drawers down the sides, and 
 clear amber knobs. She dropped into the chair 
 that faced it, and wondered which was the right 
 key. 
 
 Now when she had got so far, indecision seized 
 her again, and while she yearned for certitude* 
 she quailed in self-contempt. The sight of the 
 desk magnetised her; but for some seconds her 
 hands shook in her lap and she could not put 
 them out. 
 
 If he had dishonoured her, a moment's strength 
 would bring the knowledge; one effort, and the 
 ignominy of her position with him would be over. 
 Had he dishonoured her? — the answer lay inside. 
 She lifted her hands, and bent forward. There 
 were six keys on the ring, and any one of them 
 might fit — she would have to try them all. 
 
 She was trembling violently, and still she could 
 not force herself to touch the lock. For an in- 
 stant she wavered so — a reed between enticement 
 and repulsion. Then she flung the keys from her, 
 and sprang upright : 
 
 "I won't, I won't!" she said: "I swear itl"
 
 262 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 And when she had found them — far across the 
 room — she went upstairs again and put them in 
 her dressing-table, where they lay unseen till 
 Maurice's return.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 A few days after he came back he received a 
 letter from Rosa, that had been re-addressed at 
 the Court. Evidently it had not been forwarded 
 without delay; by its date he saw that it must 
 have been delivered there on the day he left. 
 
 She had written at length; and his heart sank 
 as he read the first page : 
 
 "Sir Adolphus is backing out, and if I am not 
 helped, it will be all up with me. I know all 
 about your objection to seeing me in your house, 
 and very foolish of you it is! — but this once I 
 want you to invite me to stay at Pangbourne 
 while he is there. You need never ask me any 
 more, but this one visit means everything to me. 
 I suppose you won't spoil my chance rather than 
 put up with a little unpleasantness ? For Heav- 
 en's sake manage it at once. I've the right to 
 turn to you — and I am." 
 
 After the "am" the letter was repetitious, and 
 in parts more urgent than lucid. 
 
 He destroyed it in dismay. So his apprehen- 
 sions hadn't misled him; the difficulty was re- 
 vived ! He had to maintain that what she asked 
 
 263
 
 264- THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 was impossible, and this time his refusal would 
 madden her. Although she would probably have 
 swallowed her pride at such a crisis even if their 
 reconciliation had not occurred, he recalled their 
 meeting in Pall Mall with the bitterest regret; 
 there was just a doubt whether she would have 
 renewed her request if they had been still es- 
 tranged; and certainly denial would have been 
 easier. 
 
 He did not know what to say to her. He was 
 as averse as ever from wounding her with the 
 truth, and in the circumstances he could not avoid 
 it by the plea that he had advanced before. To 
 tell her that she must sacrifice a definite matri- 
 monial prospect because her presence in his home 
 would remind him of what he wished to forget, 
 would be the answer of a ruffian. He began to 
 compose a reply in his head, with the instinctive 
 hope that prelusory phrases would suggest an 
 idea; but none came to him. All that came was 
 a second letter, which she had directed to Prince's 
 Gardens and which reached him within a few 
 hours of the first. In desperation at last, he sat 
 down and wrote a hurried note, in which he said 
 nothing but that he would write fully on the mor- 
 row. It arrived at the same moment as some 
 boxes from Bond Street containing frocks for 
 the river.
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 265 
 
 She read it almost at a glance, before she 
 looked at them. It alarmed her slightly. Still 
 "fully" might mean with the invitation. He 
 couldn't be capable of ruining her in sheer dog- 
 gedness — no man's audacity could rise to such a 
 pitch? She was glad that her second letter had 
 been sent, for her references to his responsibility 
 had been less veiled in that; one sentence she re- 
 membered with especial satisfaction: "I have got 
 nearly as far, myself, as I helped you to get ; and 
 now I ask you to give me a hand over the last 
 half -yard." That had said everything in a nut- 
 shell, there was no shirking that ! Canting hum- 
 bug as he was, he could not have the shameless- 
 ness to answer that she must forego six thousand 
 a year and a title, in order to spare him a month's 
 discomfort. He might squirm, but he would have 
 to give in ! 
 
 She spread the frocks on the sofa and the arm- 
 chairs ; and fingered them, and moved about them 
 backwards, with her head to one side; and rang 
 for Emilie. And on the morrow her impatience 
 was forgotten while she went to say that all the 
 thing's must be sent for and altered. But in the 
 evening, when the nine-o'clock post brought her 
 nothing, she was very angry. 
 
 What occasion was there for delay? It need 
 not take him long to mention the matter to his
 
 266 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 wife, and to scribble a line to say that he had 
 managed it. Perhaps his wife had demurred? 
 That might be the explanation — that wife of his! 
 Very likely she did not want anybody else to join 
 her party; in a languid, superior way she was 
 making difficulties? Well, he would have to in- 
 sist, that was all! And "Lady Bligh" would be 
 just as good as she, and wouldn't fail to eye her 
 with open disparagement whenever they met ; she 
 wasn't so startling, to judge by her portrait in 
 the Illustrated London News — there had been 
 nothing for a man to go crazy over. A man? 
 Two statues staring at each other ! 
 
 The following morning she woke so early that 
 she had an hour to wait before the post was de- 
 livered ; and when at last she saw Emilie empty- 
 handed, disappointment tightened her throat. 
 She returned from a milliner's with the thought 
 that a telegram might be awaiting her; and in 
 the afternoon her chagrin found vent in the com- 
 position of a furious remonstrance, which she 
 sealed, and then tore up. It was not till she was 
 going down to dinner that the letter appeared. 
 She seized it with a sudden premonition of disas- 
 ter — she knew that a blow was falling before she 
 succeeded in ripping open the envelope. 
 
 Maurice stated that unfortunately he was not 
 able to come to her assistance. The idea of Si*
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 267 
 
 Adolphus's re-marrying was not approved by 
 his intimate friends, of whom Helen was one. In 
 view of the opinions that she held, it was abso- 
 lutely impossible to ask her to do anything that 
 was likely to further the match. He added friend- 
 ly futilities. 
 
 An access of rage rose out of her mental sick- 
 ness. He could have hit on no excuse that would 
 have exasperated her more. His wife disap- 
 proved ! The woman who had ruined one of her 
 chances already, "disapproved" of the other. She 
 paced the room with exclamations, cudgelling her 
 brains for argument. She wouldn't, she couldn't, 
 resign herself to failure. Any humiliation was 
 preferable; she would go on her knees rather 
 than accept defeat! 
 
 After a few minutes she began to question the 
 truth of the message. Perhaps it was merely a 
 cloak to his cowardice and he had never spoken 
 about her to his wife at all? It might be a down- 
 right lie, to conceal the infamy of his refusal. She 
 snatched at the letter again: if the suggestion 
 couldn't be made, why hadn't he said so at the 
 beginning — what had he waited two days for? It 
 was a lie ! and, fiercely as she hated him for it, her 
 load lightened a little. The obstacle of his wife's 
 objection had been crushing, but this permitted 
 her a breath of hope.
 
 268 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 Dinner was forgotten. She ran to the writing- 
 table and caught up a pen. 
 
 'You will do what I want," she scrawled, "or 
 I will make you pay for it with every shilling you 
 have." She continued in the same strain for half 
 a dozen lines; and then paused uncertainly. No! 
 She could not frighten him — he wouldn't believe 
 that she would beggar herself. Oh, what a scoun- 
 drel he was ; she would like to see him in the gut- 
 ter, wiping a crust! But since it was no use to 
 threaten, what could she do? She was too much 
 excited as yet to think of any course less obvious. 
 Not much more than a week now was left of Au- 
 gust, and unless she drove him into a corner, she 
 would not hear from hjm again until he made the 
 September payment. She burst into tears and 
 threw down the pen despairingly ; and it was late 
 before she picked up another. 
 
 "If your wife disapproves," she wrote, "give 
 me a chance to get into her good books; if she 
 sees me, she may change her mind. I see by 
 your kind letter that you are anxious to do all 
 you can; so let me call at Prince's Gardens to- 
 morrow afternoon. If she doesn't take to me 
 when we meet, that can't be helped — you will 
 have done vour best for me then. Wire what is
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 269 
 
 the best time for me to come; wire as soon as 
 you get this. I am sure I can depend on you." 
 
 She became aware that she was feeling very 
 faint, and she ordered some supper and a bottle 
 of champagne. Her courage flowed back to her 
 while she supped; she was proud of having sub- 
 jugated her temper to diplomacy; and though she 
 had small expectation of the telegram that she 
 had affected to ask for so confidently, she did 
 not doubt that Maurice would be announced at 
 an early hour. Now that the note had gone, she 
 regretted not having told him that she should 
 read silence as consent and call about four o'clock 
 if he didn't telegraph. However, she had prob- 
 ably said enough to bring him! 
 
 Her brain buzzed in rehearsing her appeal, and 
 she did not sleep till half the night had worn 
 away. When she rose, she was far more tired 
 than when she had gone to bed, and she perceived 
 with consternation that the cogency born of cham- 
 pagne had faded from her; the forcible phrases 
 that had kept her awake and promised victory, 
 no longer presented themselves. After all, when 
 he did come, what was she going to say? She 
 felt too spiritless to withstand anybody, and was 
 cowed by the consciousness of her own lassitude. 
 
 She took no more of her breakfast than the 
 tea; but when she had dressed, she stimulated
 
 270 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 her mind a little by a strong brandy-and-soda. 
 About eleven o'eloek, when she began to expect 
 him, she thought that she might at least be fluent; 
 and by midday she was again eager. 
 
 As the hours passed and neither a visitor nor 
 a message arrived, her impatience glowed at 
 white heat. She tried to lunch, but it was as 
 much as she could do to swallow some biscuits 
 with a second brandy-and-soda. Her uneasiness 
 developed into a fury of indignation, and she 
 told herself that never had a woman been so 
 abominably treated before. Now she had no fear 
 of being feeble if he came; perhaps it was just 
 as well that he was late — the callousness had 
 served to rouse her! She reflected that she ought 
 always to have been the mistress of the situation, 
 instead of a pensioner on his good-will. Other 
 women, with not half such a hold over men, did 
 as they pleased with them. It was monstrous. 
 She ought to dominate, and she was a cipher. It 
 seemed to her that she must be overlooking the 
 lever — that, in relegating her to a position so 
 subordinate, he must have traded on her stupidity 
 from the first. This idea incensed her doubly. 
 
 Maurice had not received her note until lunch- 
 eon-time, for she had sent it downstairs after the 
 night collection was made, and it had been de- 
 livered at an hour when he was out. If she had
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 271 
 
 known the fact, her anxiety would have been 
 lessened. 
 
 It appeared to him that the best course was to 
 telegraph that he would be with her in the even- 
 ing, but he was not immediately free to send the 
 message. Helen had heard that her mother was 
 indisposed, and she spoke of going to Oaken- 
 hurst unless a telegram relieved her misgivings 
 during the afternoon. It was three o'clock be- 
 fore he was able to communicate with Rosa; he 
 went to the office in Exhibition Road. In 
 Prince's Gate, as he returned, the occupants of 
 a victoria bowed to him, and he was conscious of 
 starting as the wheels flashed by; he wondered 
 what had been thought of his abstraction. He 
 felt as dreary as he had ever felt amid the dust 
 of the Diamond Fields. In the oppression that 
 weighed upon him, the hot wide street looked 
 quite as barren, the life for which he had paid 
 too great a price looked just as blank. How lit- 
 tle it all meant, how soon one got used to every- 
 thing! The expensive houses — he was master of 
 one; the passing carriages — he, too, had a car- 
 riage; the young men, waxed and varnished — 
 equally expressionless, only their neckties and the 
 flowers in their coats differentiating them — it was 
 not long ago that he had envied their credit at 
 their tailors'!
 
 272 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 He had turned the corner, and as he crossed 
 from the shade of the trees to the pavement, he 
 saw Rosa on the steps. 
 
 Evidently her inquiry had heen answered. If 
 he had been a minute later, she would have re- 
 entered the hansom. Now it was impossible to 
 avoid her, and he advanced heavily, wishing that 
 at least the man had shut the door before they 
 met. 
 
 "Oh, you were out!" she exclaimed; "I didn't 
 suppose it was true." 
 
 He affected to overlook her excitement, and 
 made an abortive effort towards persuasion. 
 
 "You're in a hurry," he said. "Let's get in 
 the cab — we can talk as we go along." 
 
 The servant still waited, an impassive witness, 
 and, without replying, Rosa walked past him. It 
 was plain that to oppose her would be to create 
 a scene in the hall. After an instant's hesitation, 
 Maurice followed and led the way to the smok- 
 ing-room. 
 
 "I have just wired to you," he said. 
 
 "Really? It was about time, I think !" 
 
 "I wired that I'd call this evening." 
 
 "Did you indeed? A Veil, I've come instead, 
 you see! I've come to hear what you've got to 
 say." 
 
 "I don't understand," said Maurice; "what's
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 273 
 
 the matter? I hope you haven't come to quarrel; 
 I answered as quickly as I could." 
 
 "We won't talk about your answer," she said 
 — her voice shook, and she pressed her hands to- 
 gether tightly — "I've come to talk about my visit. 
 . . . Understand this : you've got to invite me to 
 Pangbourne. I don't choose to ask favours of 
 you any more. I think you must be mad to sup- 
 pose you can treat me in the way you do. ... I 
 think you must be mad to suppose you can have 
 all the money, and all the say, after what I've 
 done. I've as much right to everything as you 
 have. . . . You put me off with a few hundred 
 a year, while you keep thousands; you tell me 
 you can't do this, and you can't do the other. 
 Remember who you are! . . . You've got to in- 
 vite me to Pangbourne. I've borne just as much 
 as I mean to bear. Whether you like it, or 
 whether you don't like it, you've got to do it! 
 You'd better learn the sort of woman you're deal- 
 ing with — vou've snapped your fingers at me too 
 long." 
 
 Maurice took a turn about the room before he 
 spoke. When he faced her his tone was studi- 
 ously quiet : 
 
 "You're talking very wildly," he said. 
 
 "I'm saying what I mean." 
 
 "Yes; please let me go on. You're talking
 
 274. THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 very wildly, and there's nothing to be gained by 
 it. I can't do impossibilities, even to avoid a 
 quarrel with you ; it isn't in my power to ask you 
 to Pangbourne. I quite sympathise with your 
 disappointment; I'll do the little I can do to con- 
 sole you. But I can't give you half my income 
 now I'm married, and I can't give you the invi- 
 tation." 
 
 "Will you introduce me to your wife and let 
 me have a chance with her?" 
 
 "No," said Maurice; "I'm sorry, but I can't 
 do that either." 
 
 "All!" she cried, "and why not? Why not, if 
 you sympathise, as you say? Oh, you must take 
 me for a fool to tell me such lies!" 
 
 "Mrs. Fleming," he said, "you make me give 
 you an answer that goes very much against the 
 grain. I'm a thief, but ... I have my conven- 
 tions, like other husbands. As a woman of the 
 world you should know that I can't introduce you 
 to my wife." 
 
 She lowered at him dully, failing at first to 
 grasp the sense of his reply. Then it dawned 
 upon her that he meant she was unfit to associate 
 with the woman who had frustrated all her plans. 
 She opened her mouth to curse him, but she 
 could only pant. 
 
 "I do sympathise with you," he continued hast-
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 275 
 
 ily. "If I could give you the six thousand a year 
 out of my own pocket, I would! I'll think what 
 I can do; you must understand, without my tell- 
 ing you, that once or twice even the share you 
 have has been difficult to manage. If I could 
 explain where it went, it wouldn't matter. . . . 
 I must think! Perhaps I can raise money, since 
 you aren't satisfied." 
 
 She made no response. She was realising what 
 his marriage had cost her from first to last. 
 
 "Come, don't let us part bad friends," he said. 
 "As you're here, you may as well take your 
 cheque now, instead of next week. And we've 
 been very quiet : I can even draw it for five hun- 
 dred if you like." 
 
 He wrote it, eager to be rid of her, but when 
 he rose and held it out, she did not move. 
 
 "Come," he repeated, putting it down, "don't 
 let us part bad friends!" 
 
 She began to revile him then — slowly, articu- 
 lating by an effort; and he interrupted her only 
 once, when she mentioned his wife. Some sec- 
 onds passed while he listened to her. 
 
 When she ceased, he spoke again; he was by 
 this time almost as white as she : 
 
 "It can do no good to prolong our interview," 
 he said. "It is quite true that I have broken my 
 word to you ; and circumstances must always pre-
 
 276 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 vent my keeping it. To tell me that I had no 
 right to marry is only to say something that I'm 
 conscious of in every minute of my life, hut no- 
 body has done you any wrong except myself." 
 He stood waiting for her to go. 
 
 Helen came into the room, with her mother's 
 telegram in her hand. 
 
 "Philip," she said, "I thought you'd like to 
 know my mother wires that " 
 
 "I'll come to you!" he exclaiming, starting for- 
 ward. 
 
 She had paused at the sight of the woman. 
 Instinct had named the woman, and his words 
 confirmed her instinct. Her heart seemed to jerk 
 to her throat, and her knees tremhled. She 
 turned to the door; but Rosa was reckless. 
 
 "Lady Helen," she said, urgently, "I'm glad 
 to meet you! I'm sure Sir Adolphus has talked 
 of 'Mrs.*Fleming'?" 
 
 For a moment Helen wavered, questioning 
 still. Maurice committed the first of two mis- 
 takes; he picked up the cheque — and she saw it. 
 The room lurched; she knew an agony of fear 
 that she was going to betray her agitation; but 
 her pride rose supreme. Her indifferent gaze 
 met the other's — and ignored her. It was the 
 only sign that she made of having heard. 
 
 The blood surged to Rosa's head; she was
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 277 
 
 filled by an ungovernable impulse to defy them 
 both. 
 
 "Your husband," she added, insolently, "has 
 just invited me to stay with you at Pangbourne; 
 I've told him that I shall be very pleased to go." 
 
 Maurice's second error was delay. He had to 
 cope with a woman who had lost her senses, and 
 there was an instant in which he stood irresolute, 
 daunted by the thought of what he might pro- 
 voke. His hesitancy was fatal. 
 
 Helen spoke now, not to Rosa, but to him ; her 
 intonation was perfectly level, perfectly distinct. 
 
 "I am sorry," she said, "that I must decline 
 to receive Mrs. Fleming — either at Pangbourne 
 or here. You will be good enough to make her 
 understand that my house is not open to her." 
 
 "There isn't any question of your receiving 
 her," he said in a quick undertone. "I'll come 
 to you directly; go back to the drawing-room 
 at once." 
 
 But in Rosa the limits of endurance could be 
 strained no further. All her pulses clamoured to 
 retaliate, to destroy; and nothing else mattered. 
 Her single thought was requital, her sole anxiety 
 was that she would not have time to taste the 
 triumph. 
 
 "You 'decline to receive'?" she gasped; "your
 
 278 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 'house isn't open'? I've as much right in the 
 house as you have!" 
 
 Before she could say any more Maurice sprang 
 to her; he clapped his hand on her mouth. 
 
 "Go, go!" he said to Helen, "I'll explain after- 
 wards. In God's name, why don't you go?" 
 
 The power to move seemed to have left her; 
 she was spell-bound by the woman's struggle to 
 speak. During the few horrible seconds in which 
 he stood holding back ruin, Maurice wondered 
 if he would have done better to seize Helen, in- 
 stead, and thrust her from the room. 
 
 The sound stunned him at last: 
 
 "I've as much right here as either of you! His 
 name isn't Philip Jardine at all — he's a damned 
 impostor I can send to gaol !" 
 
 After the sound came silence — a silence more 
 fearful than any sound in life. After a long 
 time, he forced his eyes to Helen's face. It was 
 rigid; it was like the face of a woman who had 
 died of fright. The silence became too tense to 
 be borne; Rosa herself was appalled by it; but 
 the return of reason chilled her veins, and speech 
 had frozen in her. Triumph, and even resent- 
 ment, congealed. She felt dizzy and afraid as 
 she realised what she had done. . . . Still nobody 
 spoke. No scream, no outburst of despair, could
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 279 
 
 have had the awfulness of the overpowering si- 
 lence, which seemed as if it would never end. 
 
 Presently, watching his wife's lips, Maurice 
 heard her whisper: 
 
 "Tell her to go." 
 
 He went to the door and opened it. 
 
 "Are you satisfied?" he said. "You can do no 
 more!" 
 
 Rosa moved towards him slowly. She an- 
 swered nothing; she did not look at him as she 
 passed. The thought of escaping from the room 
 filled her with relief. 
 
 He waited while she crossed the hall — until 
 the outer door was slammed. Then he turned; 
 and the weight of silence sank upon the room 
 again. . . . 
 
 "What shall I say?" 
 
 She stared before her speechlessly. 
 
 "What shall I say? . . . You know now! I 
 have done you the worst injury a woman ever 
 suffered. I've no defence; but — I loved you, I 
 — that's all, I loved you. ... I meant to go 
 away, never to tell you. I shuddered at my 
 thought of making you my wife; I struggled, I 
 did, I did ! But — oh, my God, I loved you ! . . . 
 I believed the disgrace could never touch you — 
 only she knew — I thought you were safe. . . . 
 Helen !" He took a step towards her, and shrank
 
 280 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 as he met her eyes. "I gave her all I could to 
 keep her quiet; I would have done anything but 
 allow her to know you. . . . I'm a thief — what 
 she said is true; they might put me in the dock; 
 but my punishment, my degradation has come — 
 to stand before you like this." 
 
 "A thief," she moaned, "a thief!" 
 
 "I gave her all I could," he muttered. "I 
 thought you were safe." 
 
 She put her hands to her head, gazing at him 
 wildly. 
 
 "Who . . . are you?" she asked. 
 
 "My name is Maurice Blake; I used to be a 
 gentleman." 
 
 "I think I'm going mad," she said; "my head 
 feels — No! don't touch me. There — stay there 
 —tell me all." 
 
 "I thought you were safe," he repeated. 
 
 "No — the beginning, all!" 
 
 "He died when I was with him — the real man 
 — we were very much alike. That woman was 
 his mistress — I persuaded her to help me. ... I 
 was poor; I've been very near starvation in my 
 life. . . . My father lost a fortune, and died in 
 want. Poverty killed my sister — she was a lady, 
 you wouldn't have refused to know her; she died 
 of cruel work, and too little to eat. ... I said 
 there was only one God : Money ! And the chance
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 281 
 
 came. There was no one to be displaced — I had 
 only to call myself 'Jardine.' . . . Ah, what can 
 you know — you! — of what the chance meant to 
 a man like me? I took it; and — and I'll be can- 
 did — I didn't feel much shame till I met you. I 
 had never spoken to such a woman as you — I 
 imagined you when I was a beggar. Since you've 
 been my wife, conscience has made my life a 
 curse. . . . It's too late. My love was my worst 
 crime, but — you had it all. I sinned to you be- 
 cause I couldn't conquer my love for you — I've 
 ruined you because I loved you. For God Al- 
 mighty's sake, don't look like that — your hor- 
 ror's killing me !" 
 
 " 'Love'?" she said hoarsely. "Speak of your 
 poverty, not your 'love' — I know you! . . . 
 You've degraded me . . . you've made me a 
 thief — you've done me every wrong a man can 
 do a woman — you haven't spared me one! . . . 
 Oh, my mother did well; I might have married 
 my cousin — she gave me to you instead!" 
 
 "Helen!" he cried; "Helen, I loved you!" 
 
 "She gave me to you'' she said through her 
 teeth; "to you, without honesty, without con- 
 science. . . . Let me go!" 
 
 "I loved you!" He had clutched her dress. 
 
 "I hate you; I hate you! ... I pray that I
 
 282 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 may never see you again. I thank God my baby 
 died!" 
 
 "Give me a word! You're my all! You make 
 my heaven or my hell by what you say. . . . 
 Helen, have pity!" 
 
 "I have none!" she said. She dragged her 
 skirt from his hold; and he stood in the room 
 alone.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 When she opened the door again, he was in 
 the chair to which he had stumbled as she left 
 him. He could not guess how long ago that was, 
 but he saw that she was going away. 
 
 He got up, and the sun shone on their faces 
 while he waited for her to speak. 
 
 "There's something I want to say to you first," 
 she said, in a low, monotonous voice. "I'm going 
 to Whichcote; I shan't see you any more." 
 
 "No," he said, as she paused, "I understand; 
 you won't see me any more." 
 
 "I — I've been thinking, as well as I can think 
 yet. She said she could — could punish you. . . . 
 Will she?" 
 
 "It's not likely; she'd punish herself at the 
 same time." 
 
 "I thought so. . . . But she said it?" 
 
 "She was mad; she would have told all London 
 this afternoon. She must be sorry enough by 
 now." 
 
 "If she did — I mean if it were known — what 
 could they do to you?" 
 
 283
 
 284 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 "Do to me?" he said, dully. "It's penal servi- 
 tude, I suppose." 
 
 She shivered and shut her eyes. 
 
 "Who?" she said, "who would it be?" 
 
 "'Who'?" 
 
 "Who would have to do it — your father? — I 
 mean Sir Noelf" 
 
 'Yes, Sir Noel would have to prosecute; I 
 don't know that he would!" 
 
 "But he might?" 
 
 'Yes, he might, of course; but I don't fancy 
 you need fear a public scandal. I — I fancy you'll 
 be spared that." 
 
 "I was thinking of you," she said. . . . "He 
 has always been fond of you, I can hardly realise 
 that he'd treat you like a common — like " 
 
 "Perhaps not. He'd hesitate on your account 
 — I might escape because of you. . . . That'd 
 crown my career." 
 
 "But ... on the other hand, he's fond of you 
 because he believes you're his son," she said, 
 thickly. "If he knew you were a stranger who — 
 if he knew what you've done, how can you be sure 
 what his feelings would be then?" 
 
 "'Sure'? I have scarcely wondered yet; I've 
 been thinking of your feelings, not of his." 
 
 "I have thought all the time," she said; "I've 
 thought of all you say: that you'll persuade that
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 285 
 
 woman to keep the secret, and that you're only 
 afraid of me — that your safety depends on me. 
 And I thought that Sir Noel might hesitate for 
 our sake — for my mother's and mine; I thought 
 of that. ... I thought what I would say. But 
 ... he might refuse! and then it would be too 
 late. After I had told, it would be too late!" 
 The lump in her throat was choking her; she 
 swallowed convulsively. "I want you to know 
 that I shan't betray you. You must do as you 
 please. I shall never touch another penny of his 
 money. I'm leaving everything — every single 
 thing that you've paid for — but — but I won't 
 run the risk of sending you to prison ; I suppose 
 I shall be as guilty as you — but I can't run that 
 risk." 
 
 By the twitching of his lips she saw that he 
 was trying to speak. Then on a sudden he cov- 
 ered his eves. 
 
 "I — I thank you," he said, in a whisper; 
 "you've always been the grandest woman God 
 ever made. My sins are my own — I wouldn't 
 have your conscience troubled to save my neck! 
 And now that I've lost you, what do I care for 
 the rest? It's you I want, not the money. To 
 let you sin for me ? I'd damn myself a thousand 
 times first — I'd have damned myself a thousand 
 times to spare you what you're suffering. If
 
 286 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 you hadn't come in, I should have quieted her: 
 you'd have been safe. ... It doesn't matter — I 
 suppose it was meant to be — but why did you 
 refuse to speak to her? You knew nothing, and 
 — and it was that that did it all." 
 
 "I had heard," she answered; "I heard some 
 time ago. My mother will think that's why I 
 have left you — because of her" 
 
 "You 'heard some time ago'? . . . When you 
 questioned me! You heard what?" 
 
 "There's no need to deny it; our life together 
 has been ended anyhow. I mean that I had heard 
 what she was to you ; and when I came in, there 
 was the cheque." 
 
 He pieced her words into a coherent whole. 
 
 "You think that I've been false to you?" he 
 exclaimed. "Good heavens! how little you know 
 yourself." 
 
 "Do you tell me I'm mistaken?" she faltered. 
 
 "I swear by — by You that since I have known 
 you — since the first day I saw you — there has 
 been no other woman in the world to me ! I was 
 true to you when I thought you would never 
 belong to me. And she — she was never anything! 
 I have never thought of her in such a way. The 
 cheque? The cheque was her share; there have 
 been many cheques." 
 
 "She was seen in your rooms ... at night?
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 287 
 
 That was before you married me ; but once — once 
 it must have been so? Oh, it doesn't matter — 
 then or now ! I don't care, it's nothing to me." 
 
 "I know it's nothing to you," he said, "less 
 now than ever; and I know that I have been noth- 
 ing to you; but, guilty as I am, I'm innocent of 
 that. I can't expect you to believe anything I 
 say — but I'm innocent of that! She did come to 
 my rooms one night — I remember; it was after 
 I had left you, while I was struggling to keep 
 away from you. Yes, she came there, and Boul- 
 ger came in — I remember. It was twelve, I 
 think. There was no harm. If I were dying, 
 and they were my last words: I've been true to 
 you from the hour we met!" 
 
 His eyes besought her, and she bent her head. 
 It had come too late to make her happiness, but 
 she marvelled that she could be so glad ; she mar- 
 velled that faith in this could lighten the horror 
 that lay upon her brain. 
 
 "I believe you," she said. 
 
 "God bless you! You've shown me more 
 mercy than many a woman who had loved me 
 would have shown. Don't fear my shielding my- 
 self behind your silence — I must say that again 
 and again in our good-bye. And your life shan't 
 be ruined — I'll take care of your name. Tell your
 
 288 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 mother what you choose, but be guided by her 
 till you hear of me again — it won't be long." 
 
 "I shan't put you in danger," she declared. 
 "What I have said, I mean. You will confess, 
 or not! I've given you my word." 
 
 "I understand." 
 
 "I think that's all. . . . I'm going." 
 
 "Wait," he said, "I am considering you. . . . 
 Write to somebody — one or two friends — that 
 you're staying at Whichcote till your mother is 
 better. . . . Invite some more people to go to us 
 at Pangbourne. Don't forget. Write at once." 
 
 "What's the use?" she muttered; "we shall 
 never be seen together any more. 'Pangbourne'? 
 Even if you escape punishment, everyone will 
 know we spend our lives apart." 
 
 "I am considering you," he repeated; "it's your 
 name that I've been thinking about ever since 
 you went upstairs. Do what I say! ... It 
 doesn't seem quite real to be speaking to you for 
 the last time — but I know that I am. Don't 
 hate me more than you can help; I'm thankful 
 that you believe I've been true to you. I hope 
 by-and-by you'll be able to forget something of 
 what I've made you suffer. You're very young, 
 and if the world doesn't know, it'll be easier for 
 you; trust me, I'll do my best to prevent that. 
 Of course you'll always remember that I didn't
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 289 
 
 love you well enough to act fairly to you, but per- 
 haps, later on, you'll try to believe that I loved 
 you with the greatest love I was capable of. . . . 
 I don't want to cant, or to be a coward — you'd 
 better go." 
 
 His teeth were set, and he clenched his hands 
 that he mightn't lift them to her. 
 
 "Good-bye," she said, brokenly. 
 
 "Good-bye, Helen," he said. 
 
 She went out.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 Rosa had tumbled on the couch; her eyes 
 were dilated, her hands impotent and wet. The 
 explosion no longer reverberated, but she lay 
 crushed in the ruin. Earlier, the reaction had 
 held the relief of hysterical tears, but now the 
 vehemence of despair, like the fury of resent- 
 ment, had passed. She never moved; her stare 
 never wavered; she lay where she had fallen, 
 thinking. 
 
 What would happen? She had wrecked her 
 world. That she had shattered the world of 
 others neither troubled nor consoled her. She 
 was faint with horror. Everything was over; 
 this morning all her future had been safeguarded 
 — this afternoon she was a beggar. For an in- 
 stant she questioned whether Maurice mightn't 
 approach her, whether his wife mightn't lend her- 
 self to the fraud, in order to retain her position; 
 but the hope sank as it came. It was too wild; 
 a woman like that did not do such things! No, 
 she repeated it: everything was over, her future 
 was a blank ; a few pounds, a few diamonds, these 
 were all that remained. 
 
 290
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 291 
 
 Would she be prosecuted ? Only when this fear 
 recurred to her, a shiver mounted from her vitals 
 and twitched her mouth. She had sought to ex- 
 tirpate the dread by the reminder that she was 
 safe unless Sir Noel proceeded against Maurice 
 — that to imprison him would cover his wife, and 
 his wife's family, with disgrace — that they would 
 do their utmost to avert it; but now misgiving 
 mastered her again. Supposing that, in their 
 wrath, they wished to see him punished, or sup- 
 posing that their efforts failed? The Baronet 
 was harsh, vindictive — she had learnt his charac- 
 ter from his son, long before Blake professed to 
 read it — perhaps he would be obdurate ! Then a 
 new terror sprang into being; she remembered 
 the term "compounding a felony" ; it flashed upon 
 her that condonation itself might be punishable 
 — he might be forced to prosecute? 
 
 Beyond the flaring phrase the law was dark 
 to her; she knew nothing of its subtilisation ; she 
 was as ignorant of the name of her offence as of 
 the penalty annexed to it. She heard herself sen- 
 tenced, like Maurice, to penal servitude. 
 
 Fright leapt to her throat; she turned dizzy 
 and sick. Suddenly the thought of escape en- 
 tered her bruised brain. Why should she wait? 
 Even if she cowered before a scarecrow, why 
 should she wait? She had nothing to gain by it;
 
 292 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 it would be to incur a risk for nothing. Her in- 
 come, her hope of marriage, had melted into black 
 air; suicide that she was, she had not even seized 
 the last cheque obtainable! Why should she wait; 
 for what? . . . She would go abroad at once — 
 she would go back to America! Yes, she would 
 leave here early in the morning; she must pawn 
 
 her jewels. In the States Well, she wouldn't 
 
 starve ! 
 
 She must determine her movements — she 
 mustn't delay. How difficult it was! Her mind 
 swirled and her memory had gone; she had to 
 struggle to recall familiar facts. She tried to 
 repress her agitation, to look straight ahead, but 
 her tortuous thoughts tricked her a dozen times; 
 a dozen times reflection forsook her utterly, and 
 she succumbed to helplessness. . . . 
 
 She would move early in the morning to some 
 little hotel in a different quarter — the most un- 
 likely quarter — Bermondsey, Bow. Were there 
 hotels in Bermondsey, or Bow? Islington! she 
 would move to an hotel in Islington. . . . "She 
 must discharge Emilie first; if she left her here 
 and pretended to be coming back, it might prove 
 a blunder. It would be safer to pay the wages 
 that she couldn't afford and get rid of her. What 
 would she be able to raise on the jewellery? She 
 couldn't add the prices; and no doubt she had
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 293 
 
 been cheated. She might get a hundred; per- 
 haps a hundred and fifty. She mustn't drive di- 
 rect to the hotel — she might be traced by means 
 of the cabman. No, she would drive to Charing 
 Cross, and leave her luggage in the cloak-room 
 while she booked her passage. She would book 
 it in an assumed name. Then she would have 
 her trunks put on another cab, and hide until 
 the day the boat sailed. ... If they meant to 
 arrest her, they might have the ports watched? 
 . . . Well, she would go from Liverpool, and 
 she'd write to Blake that she was returning to the 
 Cape — they could watch the wrong port! . . . 
 
 Perhaps a note to him wouldn't be opened? A 
 telegram was more likely to attract attention. 
 . . . But she couldn't be confidential enough in 
 a telegram ; if she didn't appear confidential and 
 contrite, they might suspect that the motive of 
 the message was to throw them off the scent. 
 . . . She would write a note marked "Private"! 
 If they wanted her, they'd be certain to open 
 that. She would say — what should she say? It 
 must sound very natural — it must sound impul- 
 sive. Two or three lines would be best. 
 
 The clock struck. For the first time she was 
 aware that the room had grown quite dark; she 
 was bewildered to realise how long ago it was 
 that the idea of flight presented itself. She had
 
 294 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 told Emilie that she was not to be disturbed, 
 but now there was the packing to be done, and 
 the dismissal to be given. And she was weak, 
 worn out; since she could not eat, she must drink. 
 She put her feet to the ground, and lifted herself 
 feebly. Her clothes felt damp, and she tottered 
 a little when she stood. Then she steadied her- 
 self by the table, and groped, clammy and nerve- 
 less, towards the bell.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 Helen had gone; they had parted. There 
 were moments when Maurice repeated it, because 
 it seemed unreal once more, too swift and too 
 strange for actuality ; moments when the sudden- 
 ness of the disjunction scattered his thoughts and 
 pain was deadened by stupor. They had parted. 
 It sounded impossible; and yet nothing in life 
 could have been more natural — nothing more un- 
 natural than that they should have remained to- 
 gether. 
 
 He had dined, or made a semblance of dining : 
 the servants must have no grounds for comment'. 
 The fact of their existence recurred to him more 
 pressingly than it would have done to a man in- 
 durated to the espionage of the least grateful 
 class. He had sat through dinner and swallowed 
 tasteless food, and drunk a couple of glasses of 
 claret ; and now he returned to the smoking-room 
 and pondered again. 
 
 Helen had left him; she was never coming 
 back. Nor could he ever implore her to come 
 back; he could not have implored her to come 
 back even had she loved him, for after he con- 
 
 295
 
 296 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 fessed, he would have nothing to offer her; he 
 would not have a home. That would he the end, 
 when he confessed — he could walk into the streets 
 without a prospect. He was thankful that he 
 was nothing to her — if she had loved him, the 
 blow would have been heavier to her still. 
 
 He could walk out of the house without a 
 prospect — if he took no more than he owned, 
 without a shilling; but possibly they would de- 
 sire him to go abroad? It might be understood 
 that he had gone to one of those places where 
 men sometimes disapj^eared in quest of big game; 
 they might hush the shame up? It could not be 
 hushed up for ever, though. How could they 
 account for his not succeeding to the property? 
 They would have to say that he had died. It 
 would be very risky; he couldn't make a living 
 in a desert — he might be recognised one day. 
 
 And even if her world imagined him dead, he 
 would be her husband still. In every hour she 
 would remember. Time promised nothing in a 
 case like this. Time could bring neither forgive- 
 ness for such an injury nor the right to beseech 
 it. No matter how hard he worked, he could not 
 work a miracle; work as he might, his poverty 
 and his sin would divide them! 
 
 She had never cared for him. She had accepted 
 him for his position — and the position was lost.
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 297 
 
 She might have married her cousin, she had said. 
 If her one false step could be retracted, she might 
 wish to marry him yet. As it was, she could 
 marry no one; she would always be the wife of 
 a scoundrel who had blasted her life. She had 
 trusted him, and as long as he lived the mistake 
 would be irreparable. She was barely twenty- 
 seven; as long as he lived, forgetfulness would 
 be denied to her. Whether the disgrace of his 
 imprisonment fell upon her, or not, whether 
 strangers believed her free, or not, he would be 
 standing between her and the chance of happiness 
 as long as he lived ! 
 
 It all pointed to one course, he had seen it 
 before she said good-bye to him; the only thing 
 he could do for her was to kill himself. As soon 
 as he was dead her anguish would be over. No- 
 body could ever know anything then. Her name 
 would have been saved, and she would again 
 have a future. She would be in the same position 
 as if he had been the real man. 
 
 But there must be no suspicion of suicide, it 
 must look like a mishap. If he shot himself, he 
 would spare her much, but not all. In every 
 West End club and drawing-room his act would 
 be a nine days' wonder; in default of an ex- 
 planation, several would be invented. Ultimate- 
 ly the situation would not lack a beast to slander
 
 298 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 her, to raise his eyebrows and say, "My dear fel- 
 low, don't you know?" The calumny would be 
 credited only by those who were avid to impute 
 dishonour to any woman, but they were numer- 
 ous enough. At the thought of such a whisper, 
 the man's biceps tightened. No, he had to do it 
 so that his- death wore the air of an accident! 
 But how? He put out his hand for his pipe, and 
 filled it meditatively. How? 
 
 He must decide at once — in the meanwhile she 
 was suffering. Could he drown himself? If 
 they had been at Pangbourne, that might have 
 
 been the best way; here, however The pistol 
 
 came to his mind continually ; he could think of 
 little else. . . . Presently he recollected that, 
 where he had staved in New York, a man had 
 nearly lost his life through an escape of gas dur- 
 ing the night. Was that plan feasible? To make 
 sure, he would have to fasten the window, and 
 close the register, and in the morning the house- 
 maid would Even then there might be 
 
 enough ventilation to frustrate him! . . . 
 
 Abruptly his 'thoughts took another turn. 
 Since he was going to die, what necessity was 
 there to confess? It demanded no courage — it 
 could not harm him in the smallest degree — but 
 it seemed to him that it would be rather cruel. 
 It would be to give an old man who was fond of
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 299 
 
 him a great grief for nothing. In the circum- 
 stances it would be needlessly brutal, he consid- 
 ered, rather cheap. . . . 
 
 But again, how? Men had taken poison by 
 
 mistake. Could he arrange matters so that 
 
 But everybody knew the danger of an overdose 
 of that ! and no medicine that he could recall was 
 sold in such small phials — it would be evident 
 that he had drunk the bottleful by design. . . . 
 Dr. Sanders had once said that suicide by hypo- 
 dermic injection might defy discovery; they had 
 been talking of a fraud on an assurance com- 
 pany ; he had said that even the cleverest medical 
 man might be deceived. What did one have to 
 ask for? the details were forgotten. Besides, the 
 
 things would be found afterwards and How 
 
 had Dr. Sanders explained away the things? . . . 
 It was a pity that the crash hadn't come at Pang- 
 bourne — her release might have been immediate! 
 
 Dawn was breaking when he put down the 
 pipe and went to his dressing-room. The thought 
 of death engrossed him, and the consciousness of 
 her absence was dormant till he realise'd that me- 
 chanically he was moving on tiptoe. The poig- 
 nancy of loss leapt in him afresh. He opened 
 the other door; he looked at the empty bed and 
 saw the room at Oakenhurst. Did she sleep yet? 
 He buried his face in the pillow that hers had
 
 .'300 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 pressed last night, and hated himself that he was 
 still alive. 
 
 All through the morrow his brain sought the 
 means to set her free. It was not till the even- 
 ing that he determined what to do. It must hap- 
 pen at Pangbourne next week; the delay couldn't 
 be helped. He would write to Sir Dolly that 
 Helen was joining him there in a few days — 
 that she and her mother were coming together as 
 soon as Lady Wrensfordsley was well; he would 
 ask him not to postpone his visit. Casually he 
 would mention that he was mastering the man- 
 agement of an outrigger, or a Canadian canoe, 
 and that he rose at sunrise every morning to avoid 
 the derision of spectators. He might invite Fred 
 Boulger too, so that he could say the same thing 
 to somebody else. Then one morning he would 
 go out in the boat and come back again; and the 
 next morning the boat would be found over- 
 turned and he wouldn't come back. He would 
 drown, he swore it. It would be a ghastly effort 
 to refrain from swimming, he supposed, but he 
 could lock his hands and remember it was for 
 Her. 
 
 The nine-o'clock post was delivered. There 
 were three letters. Two of them were for Helen ; 
 the other was Rosa's note to himself. His curi- 
 osity to see what she could still find to say was
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 301 
 
 of the slightest; he put the letters for Helen in 
 an envelope, and directed it to "Lady Helen 
 Jardine." He might have known that she had 
 not written, but suddenly he had hoped to hear 
 from her as the man entered the room; he won- 
 dered that he could have been so foolish. There 
 was only this! 
 
 His impulse was to destroy it unread, but he 
 broke the seal, and glanced at the contents indif- 
 ferently. "She was going to the Cape and he 
 would not hear from her again ; his recriminations 
 would never reach her, so he could save himself 
 the trouble of making them. It was no use to 
 tell him that she was sorry!" The last was a 
 postscript. 
 
 He tore the paper into infinitesimal pieces, and 
 dropped them in the basket. No, it was no use 
 at all, he agreed with her ; nothing on earth could 
 be more futile. 
 
 She was disappearing; she had fired her shot, 
 and was staggered by the recoil. His wife would 
 be silent in mercy, and Rosa Fleming would hold 
 her tongue in fear. The circumstances were very 
 propitious. If he liked, the position that he had 
 sinned for might be retained. He need neither 
 confess, nor die. He need only take Helen at 
 her word! 
 
 He smiled. Now that he knew that her agony
 
 S02 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 would cease in ten days, half of his own had 
 rolled away. He revolved his project patiently, 
 debating whether it left any opening for suspi- 
 cion. He could see none. It appeared to him 
 perfect, save for the drawback that the house 
 wasn't at their disposal until the thirtieth of the 
 month. Sir Adolphus's presence in it would be 
 no drawback: he, assuredly, would not get up at 
 sunrise; and as to Boulger, he would never be 
 there at all, for he could be asked to come a fort- 
 night hence. 
 
 That night Maurice slept more peaceful. 
 
 The following day was Sunday. In the after- 
 noon, for the first time since she had gone, he 
 wandered from the drawing-room to the boudoir, 
 and touched the trifles that had belonged to her. 
 There was a book with a jade paper-knife pro- 
 truding from it; he remembered an insignificant 
 remark that she had made when she looked at the 
 title, and that he had w r atched her cut the leaves. 
 There was her music on the piano; her birds were 
 singing in the fernery beyond the open door. 
 When he shut his eyes, the scent of the heliotrope 
 gave her back to him. After a little while he 
 heard Plummer usher in a visitor, and started as 
 a familiar cough told him who the visitor was. 
 For a moment he stood disconcerted, question-
 
 THE WORLDLINGS SOS 
 
 ing. Then he returned to the drawing-room, and 
 Sir Noel looked sharply round. 
 
 "Oh, you are at home," he said; "the man 
 wasn't sure! Well, you see I've come to town — 
 I've come to hear what it all means. What is the 
 meaning of it, eh? The news has upset me very 
 much." He wiped the heat-drops from his fore- 
 head with his handkerchief. 
 
 "You should have sent me a wire," said Mau- 
 rice; "if you wanted me I could have gone to 
 you. You must be tired — I'll tell him to bring 
 you something." 
 
 He rang the bell before a protest could be 
 made, but when the servant reappeared Sir Noel 
 would have nothing. His fingers drummed his 
 knees impatiently till the interruption was past; 
 and the door had no sooner closed than he broke 
 out: "Lady Wrensfordsley came to me this 
 morning; I could scarcely believe what I heard I 
 She wished to come to you, but Helen had made 
 her promise not to approach you. It is a very 
 scandalous thing, Philip. I can't make it out. 
 I — I am terribly distressed." 
 
 "Lady Wrensfordsley was laid up," murmured 
 Maurice, at a loss how to reply; "is she all right 
 again now, then?" 
 
 "Yes, she is all right. Well, well, well, you 
 have not told me if it is true! I'm waiting to
 
 304 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 hear what has happened. I understand that your 
 wife has left you and that you offer no opposition 
 — that you were quite willing for her to go. It's 
 extraordinary! What does it mean? Is it a 
 fact?" 
 
 "Yes," said Maurice, "it's a fact. I couldn't 
 oppose her going. How is she — have vou seen 
 her?" 
 
 "I've only seen Lady Wrensfordsley — Helen 
 didn't know that she was coming to me. She 
 was in great grief — and there is no explanation 
 made; she is quite in the dark. Helen says noth- 
 ing hut that she will not go back to you. At 
 first her mother hoped it was only a quarrel, but 
 she seems to think it is quite serious — that you 
 intend it to be a separation. You yourself tell 
 me so?" 
 
 Maurice nodded. 
 
 "There is, I suppose, another woman? Al- 
 ready!" 
 
 "Did Lady Wrensfordsley say that?" asked 
 Maurice. 
 
 "She told me that Helen had suspected it for 
 some time, but that now she denies it — that she 
 says she was mistaken. Her mother thought that 
 that was the reason, but Helen said 'Xo'." 
 
 "I'm glad," said Maurice. "No, there's no 
 other woman, sir. There never has been."
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 305 
 
 "Then why have you parted — what about? 
 Your wife has gone, and you do nothing to bring 
 her back? You — you do not attempt to make it 
 up with her?" . . . He rose nervously and laid 
 his hand on Maurice's arm. "It can't be that — 
 that you have found out something?" 
 
 "Good God!" gasped Maurice. "She's the 
 noblest woman in the world." 
 
 "Then — then — I have a right to be answered! 
 I have come to hear what has taken place. You 
 think so much of her, yet you let her go? I in- 
 sist on your explaining to me. If it's not her 
 fault, it's yours. It has got to be put straight. 
 I have promised to use my influence with you. 
 You must bring her home — you must return with 
 me to-day." 
 
 "I can't. Helen wouldn't wish it, sir. I let 
 her go because it was impossible to prevent it; 
 it's impossible to bring her back." 
 
 "Are you mad?" said Sir Noel shrilly. "Do 
 you understand what it is you are talking about? 
 One would think you were a boy ! What do you 
 suppose people will say? I think she must be 
 mad, too! Her mother is in despair, I tell you. 
 We have got to know what it all means. If you 
 refuse to answer me, I shall go to Helen myself. 
 These things can't be allowed to happen."
 
 ;30ti THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 "You mustn't do that," exclaimed Maurice; 
 "she has borne all she can!" 
 
 "She has 'borne' — you have treated her badly? 
 Then it was not true what you said: you have 
 been unfaithful to her?" 
 No. 
 
 "No? But " his voice cracked with anger; 
 
 "what then? What else can she have had to bear 
 — you are not a navvy to ill-use her. Damn it, 
 you're exasperating me, Philip! Why do you 
 make a secret of it; can't you speak?" 
 
 "It is between her and me," said Maurice, after 
 a pause. "That is all I can say." 
 
 "All you can All right! Then I will go 
 
 to your wife — she shall say more! You have 
 both of you a duty to others — you seem to forget 
 that it also concerns her mother and myself. I 
 shall try to make Helen remember it, since you 
 don't. It is disgraceful!" 
 
 Maurice looked at him with harassed eyes. *'If 
 you question Helen," he stammered, "you will 
 torture her — and you will learn nothing. She'll 
 never tell you; but she'll suffer cruelly." 
 
 "We shall see," said Sir Noel. "Perhaps you 
 will oblige me by ordering a cab?" 
 
 "If I refuse to answer, it is simply because it 
 would be a blow to you; and it isn't in the least 
 necessary that you should ever know.' 
 
 >>
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 307 
 
 "That is a matter for me to judge. May I 
 trouble you to ring? I am waiting to go." 
 
 Maurice took a few slow paces, and turned 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 "Very well," he said, "I'll tell you. I think 
 you had better sit down, sir." 
 
 Nearly thirty seconds passed while he consid- 
 ered how to say it — how to avoid stunning him 
 with the five words that said it all. 
 
 "When your son wrote to you from the Dia- 
 mond Fields," he began, as gently as if he had 
 been speaking to a child, "there was a man there 
 called Blake — Maurice Blake. They were ac- 
 quaintances; they were both broke. The other 
 man was very much like your son. . . . After 
 you got the letter, your son caught camp-fever. 
 Before your draft was delivered he had died. . . . 
 Do you understand?" 
 
 The old, bewildered face was still attentive; 
 the change in it did not come. 
 
 "He had died?" murmured Sir Noel. "No, 
 no, I do not understand. Who had died? — the 
 other man, 'Blake'? What of it?" 
 
 "No." His gaze was fastened on him. "Think 
 what I've said — they were very much alike. . . . 
 The one who died was your son. I am Blake." 
 
 Even then, only the sense of calamity seemed 
 to have reached the old man's brain. The dawn
 
 308 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 of comprehension in the eyes was slow. The 
 colour sank slowly from the wrinkled face, and 
 left it grey. lie began to tremble ; he understood. 
 Twice his lips moved and Maurice listened, but 
 no sound came. 
 
 'You are 'Blake,' ' he said at last, tonelessly; 
 "you are not my son." He said it as if he were 
 trying to teach himself a lesson. 
 
 "I am not your son." 
 
 The white head drooped lower and lower, and 
 there was a long silence. The clock had ticked 
 away almost a minute before Sir Noel spoke 
 again : 
 
 "You are not my son." 
 
 Maurice strode to the door. "Let me get you 
 some brandy!" 
 
 "No, no ; I am all right. . . . Come back. Tell 
 me everything; I want to hear. It is — it seems 
 ■ — it's difficult to realise. Philip is dead — you are 
 not Philip at all." 
 
 "I have robbed you." 
 
 Sir Noel nodded. "Yes. I was thinking of 
 my son — that I have not known him. . . . Philip 
 is dead!" Then the most pathetic thing in life 
 happened ; an old man began to cry. 
 
 But the man who was watching him suffered 
 no less. 
 
 'Tell me everything," repeated Sir Noel pres-
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 309 
 
 ently. "That is why Helen has gone; I see! Oh, 
 how dared you marry her, how could you do it? 
 You have — have — God! . . . How did she dis- 
 cover it?" 
 
 "There was a woman your son used to know; 
 she came to England with me. She gave me 
 away out of spite." 
 
 "Your mistress?" 
 
 "No — his. My partner." 
 
 "Who is she? What is her name?" 
 
 "She has gone abroad. The responsibility was 
 mine. You needn't try to punish her" 
 
 "You have ruined that poor girl's future! 
 Your injury to me is bad enough, you have com- 
 mitted a fraud; but to Helen! No, she could 
 never live with you for a day again, of course — 
 no woman would go back to you. You are a 
 scoundrel, you should be sent to prison! And 
 you stand there like stone; you say nothing! 
 Have you no penitence, no shame?" 
 
 Maurice lifted his shoulders wearily. 
 
 "It'd be very cheap to talk of penitence now 
 I'm found out," he said. "Who do you think 
 would believe me? Would you?" 
 
 "But when you — you took my boy's place, you 
 were in difficulties, eh? You were poor — it was 
 a great temptation? You couldn't do such a 
 thing without a struggle?"
 
 310 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 "I did it," said Maurice for answer. 
 
 "You came to me without remorse. You pre- 
 tended to feel affection for me while you stole my 
 money. And — and I was fond of you — I was 
 proud of you at last!" 
 
 Maurice turned a little paler. 
 
 "It sounds like a whine," he said, "but you're 
 wrong in just one thing. I did feel what you 
 thought I felt; that wasn't pretence." 
 
 Because the assurance was so welcome, because 
 he resented the weakness that urged him to ac- 
 cept it, the old man answered more bitterly : 
 
 "I care nothing what you felt! You have 
 cheated me out of all I gave; it was my son I 
 loved, not you." He started with a sudden 
 thought. "He is dead — you are not deceiving 
 me still?" 
 
 "He is dead — he died as I have told you. He 
 died in Lennox Street, Kimberley; he is buried in 
 Kimberley. You can have the name of the doc- 
 tor that attended him." 
 
 "He — he spoke of me sometimes?" The voice 
 was very wistful. 
 i es. 
 
 "I don't know anything. Since he was a boy 
 
 I All that you told me when you arrived — 
 
 all that I believed, that I was happy to believe — 
 that was Philip's life, or yours?"
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 311 
 
 "The farm was his; the rest of it was mine." 
 
 Sir Xoel sighed. 
 
 "And his?" he asked. "Should I have been 
 happy to hear his ? When we parted he — he was 
 not all that I had hoped my boy would be; you 
 know that. It has been my greatest joy to think 
 that he had reformed, that he had come home so 
 different. It has been far more to me than every- 
 thing else; and now ! . . . Tell me: if he had 
 
 lived, he would have been good to me? he spoke 
 of me, you say, but — but not unkindly? he looked 
 forward to our meeting? I should have been 
 proud of my son, too ? Give me the truth, if you 
 have any conscience in you ! Should I have been 
 proud of my son?" 
 
 Maurice marvelled that a further falsehood 
 could be so abhorrent to him, but he did not hesi- 
 tate. He met the pitiful gaze boldly and lied 
 with a will. 
 
 "He spoke of you with affection and repent- 
 ance always. His life was a clean one. He was 
 an honest man, and a gentleman, and a fine fel- 
 low. You would have been proud of your son." 
 
 "I thank God," said Sir Xoel. He drew a 
 deep breath. "I thank God!" 
 
 The silence was broken by Maurice. 
 
 "What are you going to do?" 
 
 "I shall see, I — I must think."
 
 312 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 "If you consent to keep quiet till next month, 
 you will spare her a great deal. Only till the 
 beginning of the month !" 
 
 "I must think." lie pointed to the bell. 
 
 "Let me beg you not to go yet; you aren't fit 
 to travel. Wait till the morning, sir — it's your 
 own house. If you like, I'll leave you in it." 
 
 "No, no, I won't stop; I am better now." 
 
 "There isn't a train yet. Rest here alone. . . . 
 I'll come back if you want me." 
 
 He went downstairs and told Plummer to take 
 brandy to the drawing-room. No message was 
 brought to him ; and an hour later Sir Noel went 
 away.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 Coequal with her horror, there was in Helen's 
 mind a relief that amazed her, and that she 
 sought to ignore. It had surprised her in the 
 moment of its birth; here at Whichcote the re- 
 lief, and the astonishment had increased. She 
 had been mistaken! It mattered nothing; she 
 reflected that Philip — that "Maurice!" — had been 
 false to her in a way that all the world would 
 hold to be incomparably viler; but there were 
 seconds in which the thrill of thankfulness resem- 
 bled joy. He loved her! He was — her mind 
 cowered before the word ; but he loved her ! 
 
 For the most part she had passed the two days 
 alone in the garden. With the circumstances un- 
 explained, companionship could not be assuasive 
 — it was natural that her mother's dismay should 
 be mixed with irritation — and her only solace was 
 solitude. In the garden she sat for hours, gaz- 
 ing blankly across the tree-tops, wondering if he 
 would confess. She did not repent her pledge to 
 him; though the burden of reticence was crush- 
 ing her, the responsibility of revelation would 
 have been heavier still. She could not feel that 
 
 313
 
 314 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 it was for her to proclaim the fact that might 
 place him in the clock. But it was for him! A 
 thousand times she asked herself if he would do 
 it. Unlike her own assurance, his had been made 
 on impulse. Would it be fulfilled? She tried 
 to view the situation with the eyes of a man who 
 could act as this one had acted; and the stand- 
 point terrified her. Why should he confess? To 
 lift a weight from her conscience — the conscience 
 of a woman who would never return to him? To 
 free her from the sin of secrecy, which he might 
 persuade himself was venial, since she had no 
 share in the gain? It would be to renounce all 
 for nothing. He had smothered every scruple to 
 win the position; he had demonstrated how pre- 
 cious it was to him; he had risked imprisonment 
 for it: why shouldn't he keep it and live the lie 
 out if he trusted her — and he knew that he could 
 trust her? Dared she hope that when he had de- 
 liberated, he would see any need to ruin himself, 
 only to spare her a pain that he could not under- 
 stand? 
 
 She longed for him to do the right thing; she 
 longed for it passionately. While she relived 
 the scene of their good-bye, she believed that he 
 would have the strength. It appeared to her 
 more and more improbable that Sir Noel would 
 be merciless to him; and, at the worst, she felt it
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 315 
 
 better that he should be sentenced than that he 
 should prove himself callous. She felt that it 
 would be better for them both. It would be 
 ghastly, unspeakable — she would be the wife of 
 a convict; but she could think of him with pity 
 then; she could reflect that he had done his duty 
 at last, and of his own free will; she would feel 
 less degraded by her love. 
 
 In her thoughts she had said it. By her love! 
 She shivered ; it was as if her nature and she had 
 suddenly parted, as if she had been treacherous 
 to it. That she was loved she had triumphed to 
 remember, repeating that it mattered nothing — 
 she was a woman. That she loved was an ig- 
 nominv that she could not face. 
 
 On her third evening at Whichcdte, Lady 
 Wrensfordsley said to her: "Helen, I went to 
 see Sir Noel this morning. He has gone to 
 town to see your husband." 
 
 Helen looked at her with parted lips. The 
 news of the early drive had partially prepared 
 her, but the announcement was still a shock. She 
 did not know whether she was glad or sorry that 
 her suspense was so nearly ended. It seemed to 
 her that she was only frightened. 
 
 "You told me that you would do as I begged," 
 she said slowlv; "I didn't wish Sir Noel to learn 
 it from us."
 
 316 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 "My dear girl, I told you I wouldn't go to 
 Philip yet, that was all — I thought he would have 
 been down before this. You didn't really sup- 
 pose that it could be allowed to continue? You'll 
 both have to go to Pangbourne directly — there's 
 no time to waste. If neither you nor Philip will 
 make a move in the matter, somebody else has 
 got to do it; and the proper person is Sir Noel." 
 
 "He has gone, you say?" said Helen. "When 
 did he go?" 
 
 "He was going this afternoon. No doubt he 
 will come over to-morrow to luncheon — unless he 
 sleeps at Prince's Gardens to-night — and this ab- 
 surd affair'll be finished. I'm disappointed in 
 Philip ! Whatever he may have done, or you may 
 have said, it was his duty to follow you and make 
 you go back again. It isn't like him to behave so 
 foolishly." 
 
 Helen put her arm round her mother's neck, 
 and kissed her without speaking. For a moment, 
 as she thought of what the morrow might mean, 
 her wretchedness was purely compassion. Lady 
 Wrensfordsley patted her hand cheerfully, en- 
 couraged by the caress. Her discrimination was 
 too keen for her to feel as much confidence as 
 she had affected; and now, for the first time, she 
 believed that her daughter was eager for a recon- 
 ciliation after all.
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 317 
 
 But on the morrow Sir Noel did rot come to 
 luncheon. All the morning Helen sat listening 
 in the garden-chair for the sound of wheels. Had 
 he been told, or not? There was a humming in 
 her ears that made listening an effort, she felt a 
 little deaf. Overnight, fear had revived and she 
 was haunted by the thought that he might have 
 gone at once to his lawyers. Faith in her power 
 of dissuasion had deserted her; it seemed to her 
 even that she would be able to find no words at 
 all — that he would speak and she would stand 
 there dumb, acquiescing lifelessly. 
 
 During the afternoon the strain was greater. 
 The glare of the day subsided, and the servant 
 brought out the tea-table. Lady Wrensfordsley 
 remarked that she supposed Sir Noel had re- 
 mained in town. Her voice jarred Helen's every 
 nerve — she was listening now with an intensity 
 that delayed her breath. She nodded, and re- 
 plied in a low tone. 
 
 By six o'clock her anxiety was insupportable. 
 The Court was not much more than a mile away; 
 she determined to go there. 
 
 In the consciousness of approaching certainty, 
 she found the exercise a physical relief. She 
 wished that she had gone earlier. Repeatedly she 
 asked herself what she should say if he had come 
 back unenlightened, if he appealed to her for ex-
 
 318 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 plication. She could tell him no more than she 
 had told her mother, and the position would be 
 hideous; she would have to refuse to explain in 
 the moment of learning that Philip — that "Mau- 
 rice" — meant to go on robbing him! Still, her 
 visit would have only precipitated the ordeal; it 
 would be no less terrible if it came the next day! 
 Far better to bear it now, she felt, and to set her 
 doubts at rest. 
 
 Although it was in the highest degree unlikely 
 that he would have started so late, she had kept 
 to the carriage road, and she was not afraid of 
 hearing that he was out when she reached the 
 lodge. Rarely had she walked the length of the 
 avenue, and now it seemed to her more tedious 
 than the distance between the houses. As she 
 waited at the door, she wondered with what sen- 
 sations she would pass out of it. When it was 
 opened, she w r as informed that Sir Xoel had re- 
 turned from town the previous evening so fa- 
 tigued that he was unable to receive. 
 
 She knew that her gaze was betraying her, but 
 it felt fixed — she couldn't drop it. She stam- 
 mered an inquiry whether he was in his room, 
 and heard that he was down, but — the iteration 
 was mechanical — "verv fatigued, my lady." 
 
 She turned away dizzily. She never questioned 
 whether the excuse might not be partly true; she
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 319 
 
 did not reflect that it was natural that he should 
 feel unfit to bear an immediate interview with 
 her mother, and that her own visit had been un- 
 expected; she saw only that, after twenty-four 
 hours of rest, he had ordered the servants to deny 
 him to her. He knew ! he knew — and he wouldn't 
 see her ! Panic engulfed her ; her knees knocked 
 together; she did not doubt that he would prose- 
 cute after all. In the avenue she had to stop; 
 on a sudden the view had contracted and the col- 
 ours paled — it had changed to a little, dimmish 
 picture no bigger than a window-pane. She had 
 never fainted in her life, but for once she feared 
 that she was going to faint. 
 
 Then the thought came that Maurice had 
 shown greater fortitude — that she must be as 
 strong as he. He had confessed! He had con- 
 fessed without compulsion. Momentarily her 
 terror sank and the knowledge ruled supreme. 
 What he had told her was true — the position was 
 worthless to him now without her! The confu- 
 sion passed from her mind; only her limbs felt 
 very weak as she went on. She remembered that 
 now she might break the news to her mother ; she 
 thought that she would do so in the morning; 
 her mother would use her influence with Sir 
 Noel ! It recurred to her abruptly that the Rec- 
 tor and his wife had been invited for this evening;
 
 320 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 she had learned the fact when she arrived, and 
 now she quailed at the prospect. Her husband 
 was in danger of penal servitude, but she mustn't 
 be late for dinner! She forced herself to hurry, 
 wishing that a cab would come in sight. Pres- 
 ently she realised that she was dwelling as much 
 on the truth of his assertion to her as on the idea 
 of his imprisonment; she was bewildered to per- 
 ceive that amid her gusts of consternation she 
 was feeling glad. 
 
 She found Lady Wrensfordsley's maid wait- 
 ing for her. All but her most recent dresses — 
 those that might be paid for with her mother's 
 money — had been left behind; beside herself as 
 she was, she reflected that the one laid out would 
 embarrass the Rector's wife; she told the girl to 
 choose a frock that was simpler. She entered the 
 drawing-room in time; and she smiled and mur- 
 mured urbanities, and praised the new alms- 
 houses while her soul was on the rack. She 
 had been trained to do these things. 
 
 When she was alone again, she pushed up the 
 window and threw herself, dressed, upon the bed. 
 She was divided between terror and a sensation 
 that was indefinable. But the terror had dimin- 
 ished: she could not imagine her mother yielding 
 to such disgrace; Sir Noel would succumb to her 
 entreaties — he must ! The thought of his sorrow
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 321 
 
 did not reach her, and yet she was a generous 
 woman. All her sensibilities were absorbed by 
 the man she loved. It was typical of the sexes 
 that no sympathy for the other had entered her 
 mood yet and that it had been the adventurer, 
 not she, who pitied him. 
 
 She wondered what Maurice was feeling, in 
 which room he was sitting ; mentally she returned 
 to the home that she had left. He had confessed; 
 he needn't have done it, and he had confessed! 
 Craving to be proud of something, she exulted at 
 the thought of that. She went over to the ward- 
 robe and took out the envelope he had directed 
 to her, and sat looking at it. . . . Would he ever 
 write to her? . .' . What would become of him? 
 
 For the hundredth time she reminded herself 
 that he had been tempted by experiences that she 
 was hardly capable of conceiving. She upbraid- 
 ed herself that she had made no allowance for 
 that in the scene of his abasement ; he was in tor- 
 ture, and she had trampled on him. Oh, she had 
 been brutal! how could she have spoken so? She 
 began to sob — horribly — with her teeth set, and 
 her nails pressed into her palms. 
 
 He had been faithful to her! She no longer 
 turned her eyes from the immensity of its import 
 to her. She rejoiced — she gloried — to know that 
 he had been faithful. He had sinned, deeply,
 
 322 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 basely; a lifetime of privation could not have ex- 
 onerated him from the sin; but — he had been 
 faithful to her! The rest dwindled; he had held 
 her, body and soul; to the woman who loved him 
 everything was subordinate to the knowledge that 
 she was loved. She realised it — she knew she 
 had been paltering with the truth from the hour 
 of his exposure. She understood that he was 
 just as dear to her. 
 
 She sat at the edge of the bed quite still. She 
 did not marvel — the violence of emotion had 
 passed — she did not condemn herself, she was not 
 conscious that it would embitter her future; for 
 a minute she felt strangely peaceful; she felt hap- 
 pier than she had felt for months. 
 
 Reason asserted itself again. She was scourged 
 in recognising that by their marriage he had been 
 guilty twice; like lashes it fell upon her — "twice!"' 
 "twice!" And then, once more, her mind obeyed 
 the guidance of the infinite within her, never sur- 
 mising where it was led. She recalled his face as 
 he cried to her "I struggled!" She dwelt, as he 
 had dwelt, defenceless, on his belief that she was 
 safe. Eagerness, love, her womanhood found a 
 compellatory plea — he had been enslaved by her! 
 
 Her thoughts roved through their life together. 
 "Words that had conveyed no meaning to her 
 when they were spoken, came back to her and
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 323 
 
 spoke for him now. Comprehension staggered 
 her; something of the weight that had lain upon 
 the man's mind, rolled upon her own; she could 
 not imagine how he had supported it. In the 
 complexity of her commiseration she vaguely re- 
 sented his having suffered like that unknown to 
 
 A passion of reproach assailed her for the in- 
 difference by which she had intensified his pain. 
 "You're my all." She shut her eyes and heard 
 him say it. . . . "Conscience had cursed him" — 
 and she had denied him even the love he was 
 
 rjllA 
 
 thirsting for! He had submited to her coldness* 
 her petulance, her egotism, without a murmur; 
 even when he had lost hope he hadn't wavered 
 from her: "You're my all." And she had said 
 she hated him ! she had been frightened to believe 
 — she had still thought that woman was his mis- 
 tress then. . . . But she might have told him it 
 wasn't true before she said "good-bye"! 
 
 To sleep would have been impossible. She 
 moved to the window and sat looking out into the 
 darkness — her arms folded on. the sill, her chin 
 resting on her arms. She had never been a re- 
 ligious woman ; since she was a child she had not 
 uttered a spontaneous prayer; but presently she 
 began to pray.^j b[oi ^ M aH j^ gid ioa 
 
 oi ba.gfiss i9T3n bfirf sd bfifi <ii oi batoaas b£fi
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 Sir Noel deeply regretted the instructions 
 that he had given. He was as yet too shattered 
 to break the news to Lady Wrensfordsley, and, 
 thinking it likely she might call on him in her im- 
 patience, he had stated with emphasis that he was 
 at home to no one. She had said that Helen 
 knew nothing of her visit ; that Helen might call 
 he had not taken into account. She had not come 
 to him when she discovered the truth, and he had 
 had no reason to look for her on this especial 
 day. 
 
 It had already occurred to him to wonder at 
 her leaving her mother in ignorance, and now he 
 wished testily that she had unbosomed herself to 
 her directly she arrived. If she had done so, he 
 would have been spared the most distressing fea- 
 ture of the interview that he had to face. Later 
 than the morrow he could not wait, and he was in 
 no condition to perform a vicarious duty without 
 resenting it. 
 
 He had returned to the Court dazed. This was 
 not his son! He had been told it, and his nerves 
 had assented to it, and he had never ceased to 
 
 324
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 325 
 
 say it to himself, but many hours had passed be- 
 fore his brain could absorb the knowledge, before 
 he could compass the sense of actuality. The 
 shock was far greater than if he had been sud- 
 denly despoiled of a well-loved son by death; 
 the mind could have grasped a corporeal loss. It 
 was the fact that the man he had loved was liv- 
 ing, but a stranger, that constantly evaded him. 
 Bereavement broke his heart — and the man was 
 still alive. 
 
 Even when he had spoken to Maurice of prose- 
 cuting him, he had known that he would not do 
 it. He could meet him no more — the man must 
 go away and struggle for a livelihood again; he 
 must make a written statement of the facts, cor- 
 roborated as far as possible by documents, and 
 properly attested ; he must make a statutory dec- 
 laration verifying the statement, so as to prevent 
 all difficulties hereafter. He must go back to 
 the life he had left ; but there should be no prose- 
 cution ! The idea was repellent, Sir Noel shrank 
 from it; at first he was not conscious why. 
 
 It was by very slow degrees that recognition 
 came to him ; it was very gradually that he awoke 
 to the perception that his son had, in truth, been 
 nothing to him but a painful memory — that the 
 son who was buried less than three years since 
 had been dead to him for more than twenty-five.
 
 326 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 He realised confusedly that it was "Blake" who 
 had given him the joy of fatherhood at last, that 
 it was "Blake" who had wiped out his remem- 
 brance of ingratitude and dishonour; he saw that 
 he was mourning the loss of the living man and 
 not the dead one. 
 
 But even when he saw it, the aversion from 
 acknowledgement remained. It was not a thing 
 that the bitterness of injury would readily ac- 
 cept. He had heard of Helen's coming and been 
 chagrined, and dismissed the matter, before the 
 relief of surrender made it clear how wearily his 
 pride had been wrestling with his affection. He 
 owned to himself that to refrain from prosecut- 
 ing was insufficient to alleviate his sorrow — that 
 he could not endure the thought of the man's go- 
 ing from him in poverty, or living in need. 
 
 He recalled the sentiments with which he had 
 welcomed his "son's" return, and knew that they 
 were worldly compared with the feelings of six 
 months later. He recalled the wretchedness with 
 which he had parted from his son, and knew that 
 to part from Maurice hurt him more. The man 
 was a stranger — but he was the only son he had 
 known. 
 
 It was finished! He would never clasp his 
 hand again; never again stroll beside him and 
 feel so fatuously proud to be his father. The
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 327 
 
 delusion was over; he had now no cause for 
 gratitude but that his own son — his "own" son! 
 he whose personality was to-day so dim — had re- 
 deemed his youth. The rest had been a dream. 
 Only that was real; only that was left him as he 
 woke! 
 
 The man must go; but there must be . . . 
 something every year — two hundred, three hun- 
 dred — to guard against the possibility of want. 
 He must not go empty-handed; he must have a 
 sum to begin life afresh with, to provide him with 
 a chance ! 
 
 He went to his desk, and wrote a few difficult, 
 formal lines. And the next afternoon his note 
 was received. 
 
 It had seemed to Maurice that remorse could 
 extend no further; but, as he read, he knew that 
 he had underrated his capacity for suffering. Al- 
 most he regretted that he was called upon to bear 
 the poignancy of forgiveness. And then there 
 came a quick revulsion; the thousand pounds, the 
 three hundred a year were proffered to him — to 
 him, Maurice Blake ! Materially the promise was 
 valueless, but morally it was worth the fortune 
 he had renounced. It was an expression of re- 
 gard conceded to him in his own character; it 
 was a proof that he had, at any rate, filled the 
 dead man's place not unworthily.
 
 328 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 His impulse had been to decline the offer ii\ 
 the letter of repentance that he had already writ- 
 ten. But he would accept it instead — he need 
 never accept the money! Only a week, and Hel- 
 en's release would have come: why should he in- 
 flict pain by an unnecessary refusal? He would 
 add to his letter an assurance of his gratitude ; of 
 his contrition he could sav no more. 
 
 He w T ent out with the letter himself. He had 
 headed the postscript "Tuesday." Next Satur- 
 day he would be at Pangbourne; on the second 
 morning after his arrival he was going to drown. 
 He realised, as he went along, that this was the 
 last Tuesday he would be alive. 
 
 When he returned to the house, he heard that 
 Helen w r as in the drawing-room. 
 
 She stood up as he reached the threshold, and 
 for an instant they looked at each other breath- 
 lessly. 
 
 "I've come back," she said — "I know!" 
 
 "You've come back?" 
 
 "I know that you have told him; I have told 
 my mother — she'll see him, she'll do her utmost. 
 I came to tell you not to fear. You won't be 
 punished — I am sure, I am sure you won't! He'll 
 let you go; and I'll go with you." 
 
 "You'll go with me?" He could only echo 
 her.
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 329 
 
 "You have confessed," she muttered. "Haven't 
 you confessed? All last night I was awake. I 
 thought of you — I knew what you must feel. I've 
 come back to stop with you." 
 
 "Sit down," he said. "Dearest, you're trembl- 
 ing. Yes, I've confessed; but he has been very 
 generous — nothing will be done." 
 
 Her eyes closed, and he saw the upheaval of 
 her bosom by relief. Wide-eyed himself, he 
 moved towards her, wondering. Her face was 
 hidden, and he watched the tremor of her hands. 
 He stood by her diffidently, yearning but afraid. 
 
 "May I touch you?" he asked. 
 
 "Oh, my own! I love you, I love you!" she 
 cried, and held him fast in her arms. 
 
 When she withdrew her lips, he remembered 
 he was going to die. He knew that it was still 
 best for her that he should die, although a miracle 
 had happened. But he could say nothing; and 
 it was she who spoke, showing him her soul till 
 all was clear to his understanding, except how 
 the glory of this woman's love could have been 
 vouchsafed to him. 
 
 "What did he say?" 
 
 Mechanically he gave her Sir Noel's note. He 
 was aghast in the knowledge of what her love 
 meant, in realising that she could attain happi- 
 ness in the future only by passing through great-
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 er grief. ITe had thought to give her peace at 
 once — and first he would intensify her pain! 
 
 She read the note through very slowly, twice. 
 Its formality did not mislead her; she recognised 
 how the man who was able to pardon must have 
 suffered, and she was filled with pity and admira- 
 tion for him. A woman less great than she would 
 have hroken into wonder of his absolution and 
 troubled the abashment of the man who was ab- 
 
 Ived. She did not. She clasped Maurice's 
 hand, and their gaze dwelt together; that was all. 
 .bM'You'll take it," she murmured. 
 
 He shook his head. "I can't. I couldn't do 
 that even if I It would be impossible!" 
 
 "You can," she said; "he wishes you to take 
 it. He knows now, and he offers it to you.''' 
 
 Tie could not tell her his intention, and there 
 was no other answer. 
 
 "There are several reasons why you must take 
 it," she went on: "because it is to you yourself 
 he offers it; because he must care for you very 
 much to write so and your refusal would deepen 
 his distress; because I am willing to take it, and 
 you will accept it for me" 
 
 'You don't understand what you are saying!" 
 he exclaimed. "I adore you — you are being sub- 
 lime — but even if I took this money, what good 
 would it be? Compared with what you are used
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 331 
 
 to, it would be penury. I couldn't give you a 
 home; I should have nothing but the hope that, 
 with a little capital, I might find the struggle 
 easier than I did. I should have to leave you 
 anyhow — I should have to go abroad and work." 
 
 "I will go with you," she said. 
 
 She was pleading to him for his life, but she 
 did not guess it. He kissed her, and put her from 
 him. 
 
 "If I could keep you for my wife, knowing 
 you as I know you now," he said, "and knowing 
 that I did you no wrong by it, it would be the 
 highest heaven that I can conceive. But I should 
 be doing you a brutal wrong — another! Can 
 you picture what it would mean with me? It 
 would mean that your mother, and your friends, 
 were lost to you — not for a few years, or for 
 many years, but for always ; it would mean living 
 in a little house, in a middle-class street, in a 
 free-and-easy country, and facing a hundred 
 economies that to you would be hardships. For 
 acquaintances you would have the neighbours — 
 and nothing to say to them. All day long while 
 I was away, you would be alone, remembering. 
 My ceaseless aim would be to prove myself 
 worthy of his goodness before he died, and at last 
 the goading thought would harass you. The lux- 
 uries, the pleasures, the refinements that you have
 
 332 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 been brought up to take for granted would be re- 
 nounced for the companionship of a disgraced 
 man. You aren't much more than a girl, and 
 you'd be sacrificing the rest of your life." 
 
 "I will go with you," she said. 
 
 "Helen," he cried, "you came to tell me that 
 you'd stay until the worst happened; was your 
 mother willing that you should come?" 
 
 She was silent. 
 
 "No! And your duty is to her, darling, not 
 to me. To me you have no duty. She may live 
 for twenty, thirty years; and you are the only 
 child she has, she's very fond of you. Do you 
 think it would be right to leave her against her 
 will, to desert her for a scoundrel you owe noth- 
 ing to? She'd miss you very much; as she got 
 older she'd miss you more. She has her amuse- 
 ments now, she has her health; by-and-by she'll 
 have fewer amusements, she won't be so strong. 
 She would be very lonely without you, and you'd 
 know it every day. When you got her letters, 
 you'd cry — by yourself, so that you shouldn't 
 wound me. Oh my Love, my Love! let me do 
 what's best! Try to be happy without me. When 
 you grieve, think of the future and remind your- 
 self that grief can't last — that months of the 
 worst misery are better for you than being al- 
 ways chained to me!"
 
 THE WORLDLINGS 333 
 
 She looked up at him. She was very pale, but 
 her mouth was firm, and resolve rejoiced in the 
 splendour of her eyes. 
 
 "I will go with you!" she said. "I do not asjs: 
 my 'duty' — I am going because I love you — be- 
 cause I can't live without you — because you 
 shan't live without me. There is no duty to keep 
 a woman from the husband she loves, and if there 
 were a thousand, it should be the same. Your 
 hope of proving yourself grateful will harass me ? 
 Me? Your hope'll be mine, the very breath of 
 my life. The house will be very little? How 
 little you must think my love! Do you suppose 
 that luxury is dearer to me than you — how dare 
 you say it? I love my mother, but I love you 
 more; I may suffer sometimes to be separated 
 from her, but I should suffer worse to be away 
 from you. And I shan't hide my tears from you, 
 as you say — you shall know every thought and 
 impulse that I have. I shall give you all, because 
 you must give all to me. . . . You must let me 
 speak — I may never speak like it again — it isn't 
 long since I learnt to know myself; I want you 
 to know me, too. You're dearer to me than any- 
 thing on earth, your sin has made no difference to 
 my love; I never knew I could love as you have 
 made me. Think what vou feel for me, and 
 know that here in my heart, day and night, there
 
 334 THE WORLDLINGS 
 
 is the same for you. Take me with you, and 
 we'll be brave together. Take what lie offers, 
 as you care for me! I'll love you as you hoped 
 for once, and more — you shall find the reality 
 diviner than your dream. If you refuse, you'll 
 be penniless and you could starve; I would face 
 anything with you, but I know what would hap- 
 pen — we should have to take money from my 
 mother, and you would loathe that. His is of- 
 fered to you without thought of me — to you your- 
 self, for your own welfare, because he is attached 
 to vou, because he wishes vou to have it. For mv 
 sake, if you love me, if you want me, take it, and 
 begin again!" 
 
 "I will take it," he answered. "God bless you, 
 and help us both! . . . Will you say it — you've 
 never said it yet?" 
 
 She put her arms about his neck, and whis- 
 pered, knowing what he meant: 
 
 "Maurice! Maurice!" 
 
 "And you are sure, sure vou will never re- 
 gret?" 
 
 She drew him closer to her breast, and laughed. 
 
 TIIE END
 
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