THE PASSION OF 
 ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 BY 
 MARTIN J. PRITCHARD
 
 Kf/ /\4f 
 
 -77 
 
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 THE PASSION OF 
 ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 UNIT. OF CALIF. LIBRARY. I/IS ANGELE9
 
 THE PASSION OF 
 ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 MARTIN J. PRITCHARD 
 
 AUTHOR OF "WITHOUT SIN 
 
 Can TVhdom be put in a Silver Rod, 
 Or Love in a Go/den Boivl?'* 
 
 HERBERT S. STONE AND COMPANY 
 
 CHICAGO AND NEW YORK 
 
 MDCCCXCIX
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1 899, BY 
 HERBERT S. STONE & CO.
 
 TO MT FATHER AND MO THER 
 
 You gathered wild flowers in the fields and brakes 
 And worthless shells and stones along the sands; 
 Tou brought and placed them in your parents' hands, 
 
 And they did hold them precious for your sakes. 
 
 And you were pleased. I too by sandy lakes 
 
 Of life, and in the mountains and lowlands, 
 Have gathered this poor nosegay, and it stands 
 
 For moon and stars that my ambition takes. 
 
 In all your love you gave me all my life, 
 In all my life I gave you all my love, 
 
 And though I know my mountain flowers are wild, 
 And from my gift there 1 s little to derive, 
 
 If you would smile upon them and approve, 
 I should be happy as a little child. 
 
 M. J. P.
 
 INDEX 
 
 I. The Hunt Ball, . 
 
 II. "The Year's at the Spring," 
 
 III. In the Studio, 
 
 IV. Prunes and Prisms, . 
 
 V. A Young Man's Fancy, . 
 
 VI. Man Proposes, 
 
 VII. Between the Acts, 
 
 VIII. While Houses Sleep, 
 
 IX. The Magistrate Disposes, 
 
 X. Charity, 
 
 XI. Mr. Kerquham Speaks, . 
 
 XII. Rosamund Writes a Letter, . 
 
 XIII. Paul's Answer, . 
 
 XIV. A Garden Fancy, . 
 XV. A Reason, 
 
 XVI. A Retreat, . 
 
 XVII. Rosamund Reads a Letter, 
 
 XVIII. A River Reverie, . 
 
 XIX. A Cloistered Life, 
 
 XX. Rosamund's Record, 
 
 XXI. Young Blood, 
 
 XXII. The Torture of Tantalus, 
 
 XXIII. "Yes," 
 
 XXIV. No ! " 
 
 XXV. Whom God Has Joined, 
 
 XXVI. Lord St. Ives Makes an Offer, 
 
 XXVII. Spoils, . . 
 
 XXVIII. A Climber's Village, 
 
 PAGE 
 I 
 
 2132148
 
 XXIX. High Places and Persons, 
 
 XXX. 'Mid Mosques and Minarets, 
 
 XXXI. The Wife of a Gentleman 
 Known in the Best Society, 
 
 XXXII. The Gander Fight, . 
 
 XXXIII. Fallen Among Thieves, . 
 
 XXXIV. In Snowy Arms, 
 XXXV. The Prisoner of God, . 
 
 XXXVI. Footsteps to Heaven, 
 
 XXXVII. The Monk's Story, 
 
 XXXVIII. In the Library, 
 
 XXXIX. The Blood Feud, 
 
 XL. A White Shroud, 
 
 XLI. The Legend of the Red Deer, 
 
 XLII. The Valley of the Dead, 
 
 XLIII. The Headman's House, . 
 
 XLIV. The Black Glacier, . 
 
 XLV. The Sin of Sex, . 
 
 XLVI. The Flood, . 
 
 XLVII. The Passion of Rosamund, 
 
 34 
 
 Well 
 
 33 1 
 345 
 356 
 3 6 7 
 
 377 
 39 1 
 398 
 408 
 
 421 
 427 
 
 43 2 
 440 
 
 448 
 
 457 
 465 
 
 472
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE HUNT BALL 
 
 "WHAT a glorious day and killed only four miles from 
 home ! Come along, uncle, we shall be back in time for 
 quite an early tea and a good long rest." 
 
 As Rosamund Keith pulled her horse round and pre- 
 pared to lead the way out of the small copse-edged field 
 where reynard had died the death, a young man who had 
 dismounted to give his mare a breather laid his hand on 
 her bridle. 
 
 "I must congratulate you, Miss Keith. You deserve 
 the brush. You rode splendidly. The way you took 
 Shellerly brook was magnificent." 
 
 Miss Keith gave a little laugh as she leant forward 
 and patted her horse's neck. 
 
 "I think we got rid of most of the field there, didn't 
 we?" 
 
 Paul Carr could only nod acquiescence. His eyes, 
 his thoughts, his whole personality were too absorbed 
 in contemplating the figure before him to speak. Cer- 
 tainly it was well worth looking at, and most men would 
 have forgiven his silent admiration. 
 
 Rosamund Keith was hot of the Dresden china or 
 pocket-Venus style of beauty. Rather was she one of 
 that splendid type of womanhood which seems to be the 
 essentially modern evolution of an English girl. Though 
 more than common tall, the perfect proportions of her 
 fine figure dispelled all accusations of ungainliness. Her
 
 2 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 greatest rivals had never dared to say she was either 
 weedy or coarse. Her severely plain, well-cut habit 
 showed to advantage the gracious outline of her shoul- 
 ders and the delicate fulness of her round bosom. From 
 her slender waist swelled her graceful hips in a fine 
 amplitude. The outdoor life she loved so well had 
 developed every budding beauty, and from constant 
 exercise she had acquired a free swing and movement of 
 the upper part of her body that was intensely fascinat- 
 ing. Now, as under Mr. Carr's restraining hand, Miss 
 Keith's mount grew impatient and curvetted restlessly, 
 the girl's lithe body swayed easily with every movement 
 like a flower in the wind. 
 
 "That young woman does know how to show off her 
 points," said Mrs. Crooksley of Crooksley Hall, ill- 
 naturedly. To-day was the third day running that Rosa- 
 mund Keith had carried off the brush from under her 
 very nose, and she was feeling very sore about it. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, madam," said Lord Clariston, 
 M.F. H., wheeling round sharply. "You are mistaken. 
 I've known Miss Keith since she was as high as my sad- 
 dle girth, and she couldn't show off if she tried. She's 
 the prettiest figure and the finest seat in the county, and 
 there's not a woman in England who can catch her when 
 she's in the first flight." 
 
 The old gentleman made a general bow to those about 
 him, and turned away for home. The little knot melted 
 away, too, as mist upon a mountain side. But still Paul 
 lingered at Miss Keith's blidle rein, until the mare 
 danced with impatience. 
 
 "Quiet! Lady Bird, quiet now," murmured Rosa- 
 mund. 
 
 Paul's eyes followed the course of her slim, well-gloved 
 hand upon the satin chestnut skin of the creature's neck,
 
 THE HUNT BALL 3 
 
 and then almost unconsciously he laid his hand where hers 
 had been. 
 
 "Are you going to be very fashionable to-night?" he 
 asked. "Shall you be very late at the ball?" 
 
 "Oh! I hope not!" cried Rosamund with enthusiasm. 
 "It's the last dance of the season. We must make the 
 most of it. But I'm nearly sure we shall be in good 
 time. Laura and Honor have made up their minds to a 
 long night of it, and if they really want to do a thing 
 Aunt Margot always gives way." 
 
 "Two against one, eh? Then you'll promise me the 
 first two dances, will you?" 
 
 Rosamund was as far removed from a coquette as it 
 was possible for any feminine entity to be, but she would 
 herself have frankly pleaded guilty to a certain vague 
 pleasure in her power as a pretty girl ; so she poised her 
 head daintily on one side and promised she would think 
 about it. 
 
 "It's not worth thinking about, Miss Keith," said 
 Carr, kicking at a withered tussock of grass. "If I were 
 you, I would just say 'Yes' without thinking at all." 
 
 Miss Keith bent lower over her saddle and let a mis- 
 chievous smile curl the corners of her mouth. 
 
 "If you were me, Mr. Carr, you would do just what I 
 mean to do. Yes, uncle, I'm coming." 
 
 She flicked the chestnut mare on her hind quarters 
 and cantered across the field, her supple body respond- 
 ing again to the lively movement of her steed. 
 
 So long as Mr. Carr could catch a glimpse of Miss 
 Keith's smart billy-cock hat above the bare hedgerows, 
 or the ring of her clear voice on the still air, he stood 
 motionless where she had left him. When all but the 
 memory of her had disappeared, he strode over to where 
 a lad held his horse, swung himself into the saddle, and
 
 4 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 jogged away in the direction of Shellerly Barracks, where 
 he had been staying with a friend, off and on, during the 
 past hunting season. 
 
 "What a glorious day we've had, dear," said Rosa- 
 mund, out of sheer lightness of heart, to her uncle. 
 "And what a glorious evening we're going to have." 
 
 The Honourable Alban Kerquham, R.A., pulled up 
 his big brown horse on the brow of the swelling hill they 
 had been slowly ascending, and looked out from under 
 his shaggy brows across the finest bit of hunting country 
 in the world. 
 
 "Look, my child, what a wonderful effect the vague, 
 almost invisible verdure of early spring has. It is like a 
 soft brown velvet that hints at green where the light 
 catches it. Now see that long shaft of pale yellow 
 light that strikes across those fields. What an effect! 
 What an effect!" 
 
 Mr. Kerquham dropped the reins on his horse's neck 
 and arched both hands above his eyes, the better to 
 enframe the picture. 
 
 "It is lovely, uncle," murmured Rosamund, scarcely 
 above her breath. 
 
 Upright as a dart, solid as a rock, Mr. Kerquham sat 
 his horse and gazed at the scene before him till the pale 
 light of the short February day faded feebly behind a 
 thin veil of gauzy mist. He was an anomaly, both in 
 character and in society. The descendant of a long line 
 of Scottish peers, all of whom had been as Calvinistic as 
 they were blue-blooded, he had when quite a young man, 
 outraged the family traditions and all the proprieties by 
 claiming his small allowance from his uncle, the Earl of 
 Kilbeggie, and going abroad not to make the "grand 
 tour," as befitted a young gentleman of his time, but to 
 take up his abode in a doubtful quarter of Paris and
 
 THE HUNT BALL 5 
 
 plunge into the study and pursuit of "Art." The 
 Family, which consisted almost exclusively of the old 
 earl and two sisters, had pronounced him dead both to 
 them and their world. To their astonishment, however, 
 Alban Kerquham emerged from the shades to which he 
 had been formally relegated, neither a ne'er-do-well nor 
 a returned prodigal, but as a successful artist, above 
 whose handsome head Fame was already hovering, and at 
 whose doors Fortune was knocking day and night. 
 
 But though the brilliant R.A. loved his work, and, as 
 he said himself, "kept his heart in a paint-box, ' ' the hunt- 
 ing instincts of his race never died within him, and his 
 quaint home, half hunting box, half old farmhouse, in 
 Midshire, where he spent each year so many happy 
 months, was as dear to him as his splendid house and 
 wonderful studio on Campden Hill. 
 
 A day's run with the East Midshire hounds was an 
 infinite delight to him, and as he once more gathered up 
 his reins and put spurs to his horse he re-echoed his 
 niece's sentiments. 
 
 "It's been a glorious day, Rosie. " He flung one 
 lingering glance at the fast fading landscape. "And it's 
 been a wonderful sunset. Come on, my dear, let's take 
 the horses in warm." 
 
 There was no time for any more words, for Mr. 
 Kerquham set Brown Billy to a smart pace, but as they 
 skirted the town, Rosamund waved her hand towards the 
 main street, where already gas stars and devices were 
 being lit and bunting run up in honour of the ball of the 
 year. 
 
 "Look, dear!" she cried in her fresh young voice, 
 "how gay it's all going to be." 
 
 ***** 
 
 Rosamund was right. How gay it was that evening
 
 6 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 in the old Town Hall, where tradition said that the pol- 
 ished floor was laid on carriage springs, and where the 
 Regimental Band of the Fiftieth Hussars, quartered at 
 Shellery, discoursed the merriest dance measures to 
 nearly five hundred of the flower of the hunting and 
 fashionable world. 
 
 The grey, distempered walls were covered with 
 emblems and trophies of the Sport of Kings, and the 
 tall, bare windows had been cunningly converted into 
 silk-lined alcoves, in which wide-spreading palms and 
 low-cushioned chairs encouraged even implored tete-a- 
 tetes. The shallow stone staircases had all been covered 
 with crimson cloth and fringed with white and red 
 camelia trees in pots. Tapestries hung before the doors, 
 and over all the pink-shaded lights shed a roseate glow. 
 
 "It's like fairyland!" cried Rosamund, as with her 
 two cousins she followed Mrs. Kerquham up the impos- 
 ing staircase. 
 
 "What rubbish you talk!" snapped Laura. "One 
 would think you'd just come out of the schoolroom 
 instead of having been through a London season." 
 
 Laura Kerquham was an exceedingly pretty girl in a 
 modish way. She was always a little in front of the 
 newest fashion too much so for an unmarried girl, most 
 women said and adapted what passed for her manners 
 to her company. An elderly admirer had once praised 
 her extraordinary adaptability of temperament. "You 
 mean she is all things to all men!" had rejoined a smart 
 woman. 
 
 The remark was as true as it was unkind. 
 
 "Posing for an ingenue, eh, dear?" sneered her 
 younger sister Honor. "Not quite suited to your classic 
 style, Rosamund." 
 
 Honor was a colourless copy of her more brilliant
 
 THE HUNT BALL 7 
 
 sister, plus a sour expression and a shrewish tongue. 
 She was practically tabooed by the young men of her 
 mother's set, and the knowledge that this was so had 
 not improved her temper. 
 
 But Rosamund was proof against every petty disagree- 
 able that night. The lights, the passing of friends, the 
 crash of music, the hum of many voices touched her 
 fresh nature and unspoiled imagination as new wine 
 touches men's brains. As she and her party neared 
 the head of the stairs, and were stayed a moment by the 
 crush of fast arriving guests, her slender feet in their satin 
 slippers figured a subdued measure beneath her flounces, 
 and her heart throbbed in her white bosom for very joy. 
 
 "By Jove! What a lovely girl!" 
 
 The remark came from a group of men who were 
 hanging over the low balustrade criticising the arrivals. 
 
 Rosamund felt herself blushing for pleasure. She had 
 longed to look her best to-night, and now a stranger 
 had said she was lovely. How good the world was she 
 raised her eyes and caught Paul Carr's gaze fixed on 
 her how like heaven. 
 
 "Have you thought over those dances?" said Carr's 
 voice in her ear, as he reached her side. 
 
 "I told you I never think I do things." With a shy 
 laugh Miss Keith slipped her white gloved hand into the 
 hollow of Paul's pink sleeve, and side by side they swept 
 with the crowd into the ball-room. 
 
 The salt of the earth and the chaperones were 
 ensconced on a charmingly arranged platform, from 
 which they could see and be seen. In the place of 
 honour sat the Duchess of Midshire, holding, as befitted 
 her position in the county, quite a court. She waved 
 Mr. Kerquham to her side as he led his wife to the top 
 of the room.
 
 8 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 "My good sir, why on earth wouldn't you look my 
 way at the meet this morning? I'd fifty things to say 
 to you. How do, Mrs. Kerquham?" 
 
 "Hounds are like time, Duchess, they wait for no 
 man," said Alban Kerquham, throwing back his hand- 
 some iron-grey head and laughing at his own remark. 
 
 "And that niece of yours is like the hounds. How 
 that girl rides! Now take that chair; I'm full of family 
 news. I met Kilbeggie last week and your aunt, Lady 
 Charlotte Lundy, at the Glensides in Stirlingshire. 
 Kilbeggie was as grumpy as ever." Her Grace of Mid- 
 shire, who was a large and co.mely person, chuckled at 
 the memories she had of the crusty old earl. "And 
 Charlotte Lundy was more starched than usual. Women 
 like that bring out all the vice that is in me. I always 
 long to shock her." 
 
 The Duchess looked over each plump shoulder to 
 make certain that Mrs. Kerquham was not within hear- 
 ing, and then leant forward and whispered to the Hon. 
 Alban Kerquham, "And I did, too." 
 
 Then she went on aloud. "But that's not what I 
 really wanted to talk to you about. I want you to paint 
 my portrait when we're all back in town. Something 
 really nice, you know. That little French idiot, Fer- 
 nand, whom they make such a fuss about, made a regular 
 frump of me more like a publican's wife than anything, 
 and I want something better than that to hand down to 
 posterity." 
 
 Mr. Kerquham bowed assent. The Duchess was 
 scarcely an ideal subject for his brush, but when a man 
 takes up the r6le of fashionable portrait painter he can- 
 not always choose his sitters. 
 
 "Can you begin sittings after Easter?" he asked.
 
 THE HUNT BALL 9 
 
 The Duchess nodded her marvellous tiara at him, and 
 then in her abrupt manner changed the subject. 
 
 "I say! your niece Keith's her name isn't it? is quite 
 the belle of the ball. Just look at the crowd of men 
 round her. She certainly is extraordinarily handsome. 
 Not at all in a modern way, though. She reminds me of 
 some picture or statue I have seen somewhere." 
 
 "All the artists say that Rosamund is the living, 
 breathing image of the 'Clytie. ' ' 
 
 "Ah, yes! to be sure. That's the bust with the ondule 
 hair and lily leaves all around her shoulders, isn't it? 
 Well, artists are supposed to know all about that kind of 
 thing, aren't they?" Her attention wandered once more. 
 "By-the-bye, do find out who is that dreadful little crea- 
 ture with the cropped head over there. She's quite 
 shocking; got on a high frock and a linen collar. I'm 
 longing to know if she's an eccentric American or a New 
 Woman." 
 
 Meanwhile Rosamund Keith was enjoying with all her 
 heart and soul her position as belle of the best ball of 
 the season. The rather cold statuesque manner which 
 came so naturally to her when she was surrounded by 
 strangers was lost to-night in the frank gaiety and unre- 
 strained happiness of a healthy-minded, light-hearted 
 girl. The velvety depths of her great dark eyes were 
 stirred with merriment as a silent pool is ruffled by a 
 summer breeze. The full bow of her rich red lips was 
 parted in smiles that chased one another over her usually 
 quiet face. The fascinating little droop of her head, 
 which had always accentuated her likeness to the famous 
 "Clytie," had given place to the upright carriage that 
 her triumph demanded. To Paul Carr, who was never 
 very far away from her side, she seemed that night
 
 16 THE PASSION Of ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 entirely desirable; yet, man-like, he was none too 
 pleased when he found some one else sharing his 
 opinions. 
 
 Rosamund was walking up to the top of the room to 
 dance in a quadrille with the Lord-Lieutenant of the 
 county; an antique gentleman, but one who had still an 
 eye for a pretty face and a pleasing if old-fashioned way 
 of turning a compliment. 
 
 "By Jove! how common she makes all the women 
 look, doesn't she?" 
 
 Paul Carr started, for the spoken words voiced his 
 own thoughts. 
 
 "Ah, Lord St. Ives! how are you? Didn't see you at 
 the meet this morning," said Paul, rather coolly. 
 
 "No. Just like my infernal luck. Had to go to town 
 last night, and only got back an hour ago. For the 
 Lord's sake, don't tell me again I've missed the best run 
 of the season. I've heard it fifty times already. They 
 say Miss Keith rode wonderfully." 
 
 Paul did not answer his lordship, but contented him- 
 self with watching the young lady mentioned. His eyes 
 grew dark with love as he devoured her from the top of 
 her delicately poised head to the pointed tip of her shoes 
 that peeped from beneath her gown as she paced through 
 the dance. She wore a white satin gown, severely plain 
 and moulded to the gracious curves of her swaying figure. 
 Light as the morning mist that hangs on the brows of 
 hills in summer time, about the edge of her bodice was 
 a frill of cobwebby lace that, as she moved, floated 
 indefinitely above the exquisite curves of her full white 
 arms and enhanced the mysterious charm of her superb 
 bosom and shoulders. Against the polished whiteness 
 of her neck, the delicate oval of her face, lit by the 
 glorious eyes and framed in a low-growing ripple of black
 
 TTIE HUNT BALL i I 
 
 hair, glowed like a flower. Above her dark brows, which 
 were so fine and true that a fairy might have pencilled 
 them, and just where her hair was parted shone a big 
 diamond star. It had been the only jewel that Rosa- 
 mund's young mother had ever possessed. It had been 
 the single legacy she had [been able to leave her new- 
 born infant before she herself died. 
 
 Yet Paul Carr thought her eyes flashed brighter even 
 than the gems, as when the quadrille was over he pushed 
 his way to the dais where Rosamund was sitting be- 
 tween the Duchess of Midshire and her uncle. 
 
 "Miss Keith!" he cried, as with his broad pink-clad 
 shoulders he made his way through the throng, "they're 
 going to dance a Highland Fling. It's an extra, do give 
 it to me." 
 
 "Bless the man!" said the Duchess in her loud, 
 cheery voice. "Can't you let Miss Keith be quiet for 
 one moment? You young men seem to think that no 
 one wants to look at or speak to a pretty girl except 
 yourselves." 
 
 "What's that, Carr?" interrupted Mr. Kerquham. 
 "A Highland Fling, did you say? Ah! there was a time 
 when I'd have danced it with a kitchen chair sooner than 
 stand down. Rosamund, my dear child, you must go. 
 But don't forget it's your last dance to-night. She 
 dances it better than any girl in the three kingdoms, 
 Duchess. I taught her myself." 
 
 Down again into the press and throng of the crowded 
 ball-room, where uniforms of scarlet and blue, pink coats 
 with gay-coloured facings, gold lace and glittering but- 
 tons made sharp contrast with snowy shoulders all 
 framed in tender blue, rose red, soft green, dense black, 
 and clear white, went the laughing girl and her partner. 
 
 The aged Lord-Lieutenant sank into Rosamund's
 
 12 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 vacant chair. He wore many medals on his breast and 
 a great jewel on a riband round his neck. 
 
 "Ah! ha! Duchess, we're going to see some dancing 
 now that will be worth looking at. Mr. Kerquham, I 
 congratulate you on your niece. She's the handsomest 
 young woman I've seen for years, and she's as sweet as 
 she's pretty." 
 
 The first notes from the pipes in the gallery above 
 drowned Mr. Kerquham's reply. The centre of the big 
 room cleared as if by magic, and the dance began. 
 
 "Southrons are no good at it," muttered Alban 
 Kerquham into his beard, as by degrees the panting 
 dancers mingled with the watching crowd. "One 
 must have it in the blood and have been properly 
 taught." 
 
 "Ha! ha! They've danced them down! Now time 
 them, somebody, and see how long they can last!" 
 
 The Duchess's ringing tones were heard by half the 
 room, and fifty watches were pulled out. Then Her 
 Grace, all a-beam with interest and smiles, rose to her 
 feet the better to see, and was followed by the Lord- 
 Lieutenant himself and all the great folk on the dais. 
 
 "Miss Keith! They're all watching us. Dance your 
 best," cried Paul Carr, as he waved the encroaching 
 crowd back. 
 
 Rosamund flashed a smile at him, and then with her 
 shapely head held high and her eyes flashing with the 
 joy of movement and of living, she began to dance in 
 earnest. Each rounded limb and supple muscle did her 
 bidding well, and like some fair flower that is tossed by 
 the wind, she danced on among the gaudy-tinted throng. 
 Now one white arm and now the other curved like a sec- 
 tion of an ivory arch high above the dusky coils of her 
 wavy hair. The jewel on her forehead twinkled like a
 
 THE HUNT BALL 13 
 
 big star; her scarlet lips, from which came short, sharp 
 cries, were parted and dewy as a budding rose. 
 
 "She's rippin'!" 
 
 "By Jove! As good as a play." 
 
 "Help me onto the seat so that I can see,." cried a 
 girl's shrill voice, and like weeds that grow in a night 
 a score of women sprang, in all the gay glory of their 
 smart frocks and jewels, onto the surrounding benches. 
 
 Rosamund laughed gleefully at the sight. The young 
 blood that loved exercise and_excitement was throbbing 
 in every pulse. 
 
 "Tell them to play faster faster!" she cried, intox- 
 icated with her own movements. The pipes skirled and 
 droned through the hot air, and Rosamund's feet scarcely 
 seemed to touch the floor. 
 
 "Go on a little longer." 
 
 Paul Carr was flagging, but her wqrds spurred him 
 on. Rosamund had caught sight of her uncle's face on 
 the crowded dais, and his evident delight in her triumph 
 was as fuel to the fire of her energy. She waved one 
 white hand to him, and the slight action, so heart whole, 
 so unaffected, caught the fancy of the whole room. 
 
 "Bravo! Bravo!" cried the Duchess, holding her 
 bejewelled arms high and applauding loudly. 
 
 "Bravo!" shouted Mr. Kerquham. "I'll paint her as 
 a 'Bacchante.' ' 
 
 "Bravo! Hurrah!" piped the Lord-Lieutenant. "Say 
 rather, Mr. Kerquham, as 'Herodias's Daughter,' for 
 she'd dance the head and the heart away from any man. " 
 
 Then the whole room broke into a salvo of hand-clap- 
 ping and "Hurrahs," and Rosamund, dazed at last, 
 gave one last shrill cry, and holding out her two hands to 
 Paul Carr, murmured between her quick-coming breaths: 
 "Stop me now! Hold me! Take me away!"
 
 H THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 In gracious abandon she let herself drop within the 
 shelter of his circling arms, and with panting bosom and 
 radiant face passed through the laughing, cheering 
 crowd that made an easy way for her out of the room. 
 
 As the Kerquham's carriage rattled down the stone- 
 paved sleeping street, Rosamund leaning forward caught 
 a glimpse of the radiant ball-room windows, while on 
 her ears throbbed the rhythmic beat of the well-known 
 words: 
 
 Do ye ken John Peel with his coat so gay? 
 Do ye ken John Peel at the break of day? 
 Do ye ken John Peel when he's far, far away? 
 With his hounds and his horn in the morning.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 "THE YEAR'S AT THE SPRING." 
 
 THE quaintly straggling house that formed the Kerqu- 
 ham's country seat glowed redly in the afternoon sun. 
 The western windows, which belonged to the "best" 
 rooms, seemed all afire and flared like flaming beacons 
 across the countryside. 
 
 In the long, low drawing-room the house party and 
 some half-dozen visitors were drinking tea. 
 
 "So you are really off to-morrow?" sighed a young 
 man from Shellerly Barracks, who had bicycled over to 
 take a long farewell of pretty Laura Kerquham. 
 
 "Yes! Isn't it lovely to think that in twenty-four 
 hours we shall be in town? Or, as near it as unfortunate 
 artistic people can live. I often wonder why my father 
 has never managed to fix up a studio in Park Lane or 
 Piccadilly. Campden Hill is awfully out of the way." 
 
 Miss Laura pouted delightfully as she handed her 
 swain a second cup of tea. His people had something 
 to do with trade, she knew, but they lived in Grosvenor 
 Square, and his mother gave a big ball every season, to 
 which all the best set went. Besides, all the new peer- 
 ages went to trade nowadays, so Laura Kerquham showed 
 her pretty white teeth in a perpetual smile, and even fore- 
 bore to snap when her mother asked her three times for 
 fresh tea for new arrivals. 
 
 It was quite the break-up of the hunting season. 
 Gentle rains and warm west winds had filled the whole 
 
 15
 
 1 6 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 air with the scent of blossoms and the rustle of baby 
 leaves. From London came rumours of full streets and 
 many gaieties. Day after day the meets grew smaller 
 and the country more blind. The Duchess of Midshire 
 had set the fashion by moving herself and her great 
 establishment up to Berkeley Square. The opening of 
 Parliament closed at least a dozen good houses in the 
 immediate neighbourhood. Laura had become restive 
 and Honor sulky. Mr. Kerquham, too, felt that he must 
 get back to earnest work in the studio that only ranked 
 second in his affection after his beloved countryside. 
 So the head servants were dispatched to prepare the town 
 house; the stables and coach house were denuded of 
 everything save a rough pony and a governess cart. 
 Room after room was stripped of its bibelots and curios, 
 and packing up and saying good-bye began in real earnest. 
 
 To-day the afternoon tea was brought earlier than 
 usual into the white-panelled, chintz-covered drawing- 
 room, for Lady Sophia Kerquham, the maiden sister of 
 the Earl of Kilbeggie, was about to betake herself once 
 more to the grey old castle in the Highlands, amid wild 
 moors and gloomy pine forests that had been the cradle 
 of the Kerquham family. Once a year Lady Sophia 
 quitted these fastnesses, and, as she considered, sacri- 
 ficed herself, her opinions, and her feelings on the altar 
 of family duty, and came south to see that Alban and 
 Margot Kerquham were ordering themselves and their 
 family in accordance with family tradition. 
 
 As Lady Sophia sat by the wide open fireplace, where 
 a hundred impertinent little flames played hide and seek 
 among the piled beech logs and polished brass dogs, the 
 reddening sunlight shone full on her rugged face. She 
 was of the fair, or sandy Scottish type, but the light 
 veddish hair, which was smoothed back under the frilled
 
 "THJS TEAR'S AT THE SPRING" 17 
 
 cap of her coarse straw cottage bonnet, was plentifully 
 streaked with grey, and though her high cheeks were 
 rosy, a multitude of fine wrinkles puckered the skin about 
 her eyes and mouth. A long full cloak of serviceable 
 grey cloth hung over the back of her chair, and a little 
 table before her held the tea and plate of scones that 
 careful Mrs. Kerquham always had served during Lady 
 Sophia's visit. 
 
 Alban Kerquham sat by her side. The strong strain 
 of clannishness that is inherent in every true Scotch- 
 man's nature bound him in a way that was unaccount- 
 able, even to himself, to this hard-featured, austere 
 member of his house. He alone could fathom beneath 
 her narrow ideas, and her bigoted notions, the sound 
 judgment, the true honesty of her rough nature. He 
 knew, for he had heard it from his own father, how Aunt 
 Sophia had given up her girlhood to good works among 
 the cotters on the family estate, and how her early wom- 
 anhood, the time of joy and love, had been embittered by 
 the death of her destined husband in the Crimea. Also 
 how she had sought comfort in religion, but throwing 
 herself on the stony bosom of the Church according to 
 Calvin, had only received threats and warnings as con- 
 solations. 
 
 That had hardened her nature, and the isolated life 
 she had led since then in the grim family mansion with 
 only the old earl and a handful of rough Highland ser- 
 vants had loosened the slight hold she had ever had on 
 her contemporary world. Yet Mr. Kerquham liked her, 
 for even _her sternest dictums, her narrowest and most 
 ridiculous opinions came to him as a breath of moorland 
 air comes to a man sated with the close perfumes of 
 boudoirs and alcoves. 
 
 The old lady was knitting at a long coarse stocking
 
 1 8 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 as she took her tea and made her valedictory remarks 
 to her nephew. She held it a sin to use the tongue and 
 leave the fingers unemployed. 
 
 "The devil is ever on the lookout for folded hands," 
 she would say, when she produced her rough work before 
 strangers. 
 
 "Well, Alban, I shall have much to tell Kilbeggie on 
 my return." 
 
 "Only good, I hope, Aunt Sophia. If your visit has 
 been as pleasant to you as to us, I trust it will be good. " 
 
 "As to that, I live my own life wherever I go, 
 nephew," said the old lady roughly. 
 
 Alban Kerquham smiled in his grizzled beard and his 
 brown eyes twinkled beneath his bushy brows. He was 
 going to be lectured, he knew, just as he had been fifty 
 years ago, when the Sundays at Kilbeggie had been 
 passed in chronicling his baby crimes of the previous 
 week and exhorting him in the words of sundry local 
 deacons and elders to improvement in the approaching 
 one. Lady Sophia took a sip of tea, and then began to 
 knit and talk at the same time. 
 
 "Your wife is a good woman, Alban, and sees that my 
 rooms are such as I can sit in when I please, but this 
 house is not the same as it used to be. It's not the 
 same and you're piling up a load of sorrows for your- 
 self, Alban Kerquham, with your indulgences and pam- 
 perings. " 
 
 She shot a keen glance of stern disapprobation 
 towards the big tea table. Laura, with her pretty golden 
 curls fluffing like an aureole round her gamine's face, was 
 sitting with her elbows among the cups and plates and 
 flirting with modern frankness with half a dozen young 
 officers who, in various degrees of riding and bicycling 
 dress, were lounging round her.
 
 "THE TEAR'S AT THE SPRING" 19 
 
 "Laura is very young," said Mr. Kerquham, following 
 Lady Sophia's eyes. 
 
 "All the more reason she should be put under some 
 discipline. Look at her now, sitting like a kitchen wench 
 and laughing like a hoyden. What are you and Margot 
 about to allow a daughter of yours to behave like 
 that?" 
 
 "My dear aunt, to reform Laura's manners would be 
 a Herculean [task. It would entail taking the whole of 
 the younger generation in hand, for they learn their 
 ways, monkey-like, from one another." 
 
 "True! true!" and the old lady nodded her head. 
 "And from some of the older ones, too, eh, Alban? 
 What would Kilbeggie have said if he could have seen 
 the Duchess of Midshire romping the other night with 
 all those lads and lassies? It's a bad world and it will 
 come to a bad end." 
 
 Alban Kerquham laughed. 
 
 "But, my dear aunt, a light pair of heels and a light 
 head don't of necessity mean wickedness." 
 
 "You're blinded along with the rest, nephew. Light 
 heads and light heels lead to light conduct, and a heart 
 that's so light it doesn't exist at all. When have you 
 known your Laura do any unselfish thing, or say a kind 
 one, except to some long-legged boy who ogles her all 
 the evening? When does Laura ever occupy herself save 
 when she's curling that yellow mop of hers before a glass 
 or sticking some tulle and sham flowers on the top of it? 
 I've no patience with a girl that cannot even put a sober, 
 decent hat on her head." 
 
 She added irrelevantly: "I often think, Alban, it's a 
 pity the days are gone by when the girls were whipped 
 for frivolity and idleness. They all want it nowadays 
 except "
 
 20 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 Lady Sophia's harsh face softened a little and her 
 voice sank to a lower key. 
 
 "Except Rosamund. Oh! don't think I approve of 
 her altogether." And she waved the stocking bristling 
 with bright steel needles before Mr. Kerquham's face. 
 "She's very emancipated as they call it now. Fifty 
 years ago it was 'unladylike.' But at least her instincts 
 are healthy. She'll get up in the dark of a winter's 
 morning to ride to a meet ten miles off, but Laura plays 
 'slug-a-bed' till eleven. Rosamund comes in late for 
 luncheon a tendency that should be checked with a firm 
 hand but says she has been taking the dogs for a run, 
 or fell in with a shooting party from the Towers and 
 stayed to watch the guns beat up the Long Wood. Your 
 Laura is lost for an afternoon, and explains when she 
 does condescend to reappear that young Trevoir has 
 been teaching her a stroke in billiards. Rubbish ! Both 
 those girls are modern. Both are impossible in my 
 eyes but with a difference. Laura always smells of 
 smoke and patchouli; Rosamund carries the scent of 
 new-turned earth and sweet, clean air in the folds of the 
 absurdly short cloth gowns she will wear. You brought 
 those two girls up together, Alban Kerquham; I fancy 
 you'll find you have made a mistake with one of them. 
 Rosamund sings like an angel in church on a Sunday 
 morning, and plays golf all the afternoon ; Laura goes to 
 church, too, but afterwards sleeps over one of those 
 wicked French novels till tea or a young man conies 
 to wake her up. Neither spends the Sabbaths as 
 I could wish, but there are degrees even in wrong- 
 doing." 
 
 "And Honor?" 
 
 "Is a nonentity and a shrew at that. She'll probably 
 marry the first, though. Rosamund is a good girl at
 
 "THE TEAR'S AT THE SPRING" 21 
 
 heart, and I pray that I may live to see her a happy 
 woman." 
 
 "Amen to that, Aunt Sophia!" said Alban Kerquham. 
 
 But the sun was sinking in a sea of crimson and gold, 
 and it was almost time for Lady Sophia Kerquham to 
 begin the elaborate exhortations and preparations that 
 invariably preceded her start on a journey. 
 
 Near the Manor House, where the trees grew high 
 and close, the shades of the early spring evening were 
 already drifting down, but out in the open country, two 
 miles away, where a great space of rough common land 
 lay like an ill-stretched carpet, all ups and downs, it was 
 still broad daylight. 
 
 Silhouetted against the rosy sky were three figures. 
 Paul Carr, stalwart and broad shouldered, looked the 
 epitome of athletic English manhood m his easy country 
 suit. A small lad standing at his side was gazing at him 
 with reverence. He had just won a game of golf with a 
 record stroke, and the caddie was proportionately 
 impressed. 
 
 A yard or two away, on a slight elevation, stood 
 Rosamund. She wore one of the short cloth skirts that 
 always roused Lady Sophia's ire, and a smart little Nor- 
 folk jacket was held closely round her slender waist by a 
 deep belt of russia leather. High boots of workmanlike 
 make encased her feet, while as she stood, tall and 
 straight against the sky line, she pushed her long white 
 hands into loose gloves of pale tan kid. A tarn o'shanter 
 cap was pulled over her rebellious locks, and from it rose 
 one brillant scarlet quill feather. The exercise and the 
 quickening spring breeze had whipped a delicious color 
 into her cheeks and tipped the curled edges of her 
 ears into the semblance of rosy shells. Little dark curls 
 blew across her eyes from time to time, at which she
 
 22 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 alternately laughed and exclaimed. Paul, looking up at 
 her, thought he had never seen so fair a creature. 
 
 "Here, take Miss Keith's things up to the house," 
 said Paul, tossing the caddie a silver piece. 
 
 The boy started off at a lumbering trot. Rosamund 
 laughed. 
 
 "And now that you have sent away my escert, what's 
 to become of me?" 
 
 "I am going to see you home," answered Carr, 
 authoritatively. 
 
 "But it's so out of your way!" said Rosamund, more 
 to salve her conscience for taking Mr. Carr in an 
 opposite direction from Shellerly, than for any other 
 reason. 
 
 Paul Carr's face would have insured him a measure of 
 popularity with the* female sex, even without the golden 
 halo of considerable wealth, which, in society's eyes, 
 cast a pleasing radiance over his well-cut features. His 
 pale olive skin and fine dark eyes had been highly com- 
 mended by connoisseurs of male beauty. It was only 
 the more thoughtful or the envious among his 
 acquaintances who said that the full curves of his clean- 
 shaven mouth were too womanly in their beauty, and that 
 his delicate chin indicated a want of grip of character. 
 Even his eyes, lustrous and deep, had been called too 
 dreamy and introspective. But no one could deny him 
 his superb height and magnificent shoulders, nor belittle 
 his prowess in the hunting field and on the moors. 
 
 He was a man of few words, and now he did not 
 speak, but merely extended one hand to help the girl 
 from her grassy elevation. Scarcely touching his fingers, 
 she sprang to his side, and then, taking a leaf out of his 
 book, walked on silently. 
 
 They had gone some little distance half across the
 
 "THE TEAR'S AT. THE SPRING" 23 
 
 links when some sudden impulse made her stop and 
 face round towards the way she had come. 
 
 "What a shame it seems to have to leave it all, just 
 when it is beginning to look its best," she said. 
 
 On every side the young grass was springing, cover- 
 ing the rough ground with a velvety carpet. The gorse 
 bushes were outlined against the tender verdure by sug- 
 gestions of golden yellow. The bramble thickets were 
 flinging off slender shoots of transparent green, and 
 where the sun had kissed them warmly were starred with 
 blossom. Bluebells danced and shook in the freshening 
 wind, and in sheltered spots mauve and yellow crocus 
 cups were spread upon the grass as though arranged for a 
 fairies' feast. 
 
 A group of blossoming hawthorn trees tossed their 
 white arms and showered a scented snow of loosened 
 petals over their knotted roots. 
 
 Rosamund lifted one hand. 
 
 "Listen! there's spring's harbinger. The cuckoo. 
 Oh! how dreadful to have to go to town." 
 
 "But you'll like it when you're there." 
 
 There was a rough palisade before them, and he 
 leaned his elbows on it. 
 
 "Yes!" said Rosamund rather reluctantly. "I am 
 afraid I am one of those unstable characters who enjoy 
 each thing as it comes." 
 
 She leaned upon the hurdles, too, so close to him 
 that he could see the faultless grain of her pure skin and 
 note the soft fulness of her dark eyelashes. 
 
 "I don't quite know how it is, but I seem to find 
 pleasure in everything. I am just as happy over a piece 
 of embroidery as I am at a dance. Golf gives me the 
 same delicious sensation of freedom and movement as 
 riding. I love my singing oh! so much but it is no
 
 24 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 disappointment to me to shut down the piano and go 
 with Uncle Alban to the studio to hunt up things for 
 him and set his palette. I am dreadfully afraid that I am 
 a person of no taste. What do you think?" 
 
 She turned her face to him and directed the level 
 gaze of her big eyes at him. 
 
 "I can't agree with you, Miss Keith. I have always 
 considered you as having tastes above the average." 
 
 "Oh! please don't exalt me at the expense of my 
 much abused sex," she said, parting her lips in a sunny 
 smile. "I am no better than any one else." 
 
 "In my opinion," said Paul Carr, "the question does 
 not admit of argument." And then he looked at her 
 with the frank, boyish admiration, which, when he was 
 in her presence, always astonished him by conquering 
 the more artificial side of his nature. "I think you are 
 quite the nicest girl in the whole world." 
 
 "And what about the poor others?" laughed Rosa- 
 mund, taking the little compliment without any con- 
 sciousness, and not changing colour in the least. 
 
 "Oh! the others don't count," he answered impetu- 
 ously. "They are most of them a lot of brainless dolls, 
 and I suppose you will think me very rude for saying 
 so, but those who do think at all, are as a rule not at all 
 improved by the process." 
 
 Rosamund shook back a wandering curl from her face. 
 
 "Now you think you are going to trap me into an 
 argument and get me to say all sorts of ridiculous things 
 to try and prove to you that every woman, merely 
 because she is a woman, is ten thousand times better 
 than a man, but I am not going to gratify you, Mr. 
 Carr." She looked out over the fair landscape. "It is 
 too lovely an evening to even chop logic." 
 
 Suddenly her eyes sparkled, and she cried:
 
 "TH TEAR'S AT THE SPRING" 2$ 
 
 "Look there! He knows the end of the hunting is 
 near, or he would not be out taking an evening walk in 
 that leisurely fashion." 
 
 She pointed to where an old dog fox was slinking 
 along in the distance among the gorse bushes. A rabbit 
 hung helpless, with little white dangling feet and drag- 
 gled fur, from his jaws. 
 
 "I am afraid he doesn't care much whether the hunt- 
 ing is over or not; he has been out to get his supper. 
 But are you not sorry," he went on, "you who are such 
 a sportswoman and who ride so awfully straight, that the 
 hunting is over?" 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "No; do you know, I don't think I am. The other 
 morning when Uncle Alban and I were riding to the last 
 meet it was as warm as May. In the meadows that we 
 passed by there were a whole lot of funny little lambs 
 bleating and skipping about, or nestling up against their 
 mothers' warm, woolly sides. The thrushes and star- 
 lings were out in the damp ditches by the roadside, for- 
 aging for fat worms, and in the hedges we could see 
 nests full of the queerest little creatures with gaping 
 beaks and bald heads. Sheelah, the mare that does the 
 work on the farm, had had a little foal that morning, 
 and I had been to see it; it was top-heavy and absurdly 
 knock-kneed, but it was young and just born. I sup- 
 pose you will have a very bad opinion of me, but I was 
 quite sorry that we killed that day. It seems such a 
 shame to go out and kill creatures just when everything 
 is springing into life. I think the spring ought to make 
 people more merciful. It always seems to me as if the 
 world were new and everything that is in it." 
 
 "And 'that is why you are glad that the hunting is 
 over, " said Paul.
 
 26 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KETTH 
 
 She nodded her head. 
 
 *'I should not go to a meet now if there were 
 another." 
 
 She raised herself from the rough hurdles and stood 
 upright, and he followed her example. He was half a 
 head taller than she, and looked down upon her for 
 a little space before they started to walk again. The 
 tarn o'shanter and her ruffled hair cast a shadow over 
 her low brow and deep eyes. The evening light rested 
 upon her mouth and the soft round curves of her chin. 
 For the first time he seemed to read a different expres- 
 sion in her face. 
 
 "I did not think you had any sentiment about you," 
 he said. "I have always thought one of your greatest 
 virtues was your common sense, and that you had such 
 a matter-of-fact way of looking at life." 
 
 "And we have been friends for over six months!" she 
 cried in mock reproach. "And you pretend to know 
 women well ! Every one of us the lightest-hearted and 
 the coldest-hearted, the most selfish and the most silly, 
 all have a streak of what you are pleased to call 'senti- 
 ment' in their natures. Of course it comes out in a dif- 
 ferent way with every one. One woman will cry over a 
 dog and strike a child ; another will shed tears at the 
 theater and gaze dry-eyed upon the most fearful human 
 suffering. But every woman has a soft spot somewhere. " 
 
 "And yours?" he asked, questioningly. 
 
 "I think mine is for nature. I am not very fond of 
 people. Perhaps the circumstances of my life have 
 rather set me apart from others of my sex and age. 
 You see, I never knew my parents, and although my 
 uncle has been more than good to me, although my heart 
 overflows with gratitude when I remember what he has
 
 "THE TEAR'S AT THE SPRING" 27 
 
 done for me, it would be false of me to pretend that I 
 regard him absolutely as I should have regarded my 
 father and mother." 
 
 "But your aunt and cousins?" 
 
 Rosamund began to walk slowly on. 
 
 "Aunt Margot and the two girls," she said. "Are 
 you trying to draw me again, Mr. Carr? You have been 
 in the neighborhood long enough to know what they are 
 and exactly what people think of them. Although they 
 are my relations, I am of the same opinion as their 
 merest acquaintances. Aunt Margot is a clever woman 
 up to a certain point, but her nature and her upbringing 
 have endowed her with a hardness, a lack of charity, 
 and a quality of calculation which to me are not com- 
 mendable traits in a woman. Laura has never had a 
 chance; she has been spoiled from the beginning. She 
 was so pretty as a child that she positively disarmed 
 criticism, while her temper was sufficiently hot to defy 
 control." 
 
 "She seems to have a very good time," said Paul 
 Carr. 
 
 Rosamund looked up at him with incredulous eyes. 
 
 "Is that what men call having a good time? To be 
 handed about in a ball-room from one man to another 
 like a shuttlecock ; to be laughed at as much as she is 
 laughed with; to be admired one moment and stared at 
 with astonishment the next. I suppose you men think 
 that if a girl always has a crowd of men about her she is 
 absolutely and supremely happy." 
 
 "I think most girls take care to give men that impres- 
 sion. " 
 
 "Perhaps they do," retorted Rosamund. "But I have 
 known Laura to dance and laugh and flirt all night at a
 
 28 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 ball, and then sit up and cry till dawn because the one 
 man in^the room she wanted to speak to had taken no 
 notice of her." 
 
 "She is a strange branch to have come from such a 
 tree," said Paul. 
 
 "Yes, she is a sort of changeling, I think, for she is 
 unsympathetic to her entire family and does not even 
 seem to care that she is so." 
 
 "And your other cousin?" asked Paul. 
 
 "Oh! Honor is quite colourless except when she is 
 put out." 
 
 "But, Miss Keith, all the women you have met are 
 not narrow minded like your aunt, vain like Miss Laura, 
 or bad-tempered like Miss Honor. Surely, there must 
 be some people whom you like." 
 
 Rosamund's face grew suddenly sad. 
 
 "That is one of my troubles," she said. "I think 
 there must be something wanting in my own nature, for, 
 as I told you before, I prefer dumb animals and the trees 
 and the sky and the sound of rushing waters to my fellow 
 beings." 
 
 "Are you never going to make any exception?" 
 
 He stood before her in the path and looked down into 
 her face with burning eyes. His gaze waked the con- 
 sciousness that lies in every woman, and she blushed 
 hotly all over her throat and face. She was angry with 
 herself and more angry with him for having forced from 
 her such a display of emotion. 
 
 "I really do not know, " she said, rather shortly. "I 
 have never thought of such things." 
 
 "But I want you to consider the subject, Miss Keith. " 
 
 "But why should I?" 
 
 For a moment he sought for an answer that was suffi- 
 ciently downright to suit her straightforward nature.
 
 " THE TEAR'S AT THE SPRING" 29 
 
 "Well, to please me, Miss Keith." 
 
 That seemed to amuse her, for the sternness of her 
 mouth relaxed into a little smile. 
 
 "And why should I try to please you, Mr. Carr?" 
 
 "I don't want you to try; I want it to come naturally 
 to you. I want you to feel that your heart prompts you 
 to think of me, and I want that thinking to grow to lik- 
 ing, and the liking to " 
 
 She raised her hand until it almost touched his mouth. 
 An instinctive shyness urged her to stay the words she 
 felt were coming. 
 
 "Well, I will go as far as liking," she said, "if that 
 will suit you." 
 
 "And you will think of me when you are in town?" 
 
 "But are you not coming to London soon yourself?" 
 she cried, with a startled air that betrayed her. 
 
 He feigned to hesitate, and wrinkled his brows 
 together as if he were calculating carefully time and dates. 
 
 "Well, you see, I am not quite sure. I have prom- 
 ised to stay down here with Jack Calverly for at least 
 another ten days, and then I rather think I shall run up 
 to my place in Scotland and see how the winter has 
 treated the grouse and the deer, and whether there is 
 such a thing as a bit of fishing to be had in my own par- 
 ticular stretch of water." 
 
 "You might as well acknowledge at once, Mr. Carr, 
 that you hate the London season," said Rosamund, with 
 some asperity in her tone. She felt a little ashamed to 
 think that she had perhaps given herself and her feelings 
 away to a man who was only playing with her after all. 
 
 "On the contrary, Miss Keith, I "adore the London 
 season. Town from May to July is a paradise, provided 
 the right sort of angels are in it. You see, I am not like 
 you, who pose for longing for a country life."
 
 30 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 "I told you before, Mr. Carr, that I am an unstable 
 creature, and that I like everything as it comes. If fate 
 ever set me down in the country, and hedged me round 
 so that I never need go to London again, I should be 
 quite happy, and I suppose if the same thing happened 
 as regards the town, I should be happy, too." 
 
 "Without any provision?" he asked, laughing and 
 trying to catch an answer from her eyes. 
 
 "For the third time, Mr. Carr, I am not going to 
 commit myself," she answered him back with a toss of 
 her head. "Your paradise wants the right sort of angels 
 to make it one; I desire no such qualifications." 
 
 *' Perhaps you think you are angel enough to make 
 your own heaven." 
 
 "Now that," she cried, shaking a forefinger at him, 
 "is a compliment after the approved manner of Lord St. 
 Ives. I don't like his lordship, I don't like his compli- 
 ments, and if you imitate him I shall not like you, 
 either." 
 
 She ran up the broad, low steps of the house and into 
 the hall where Lady Sophia Kerquham, a weird mass of 
 incongruous wrappings, was taking farewell of her family. 
 
 "Ah! Rosamund, you are just in time to say good-bye 
 to your aunt," said Mr. Kerquham. 
 
 Lady Sophia looked her great-niece up and down. 
 
 "Those skirts again!" she said, shaking her head 
 sternly. "And what a cap! It is easy to see you are 
 not a vain woman, niece Rosamund, or you would not 
 get yourself up like that!" 
 
 Her sharp eyes glanced from Rosamund's tall, slender 
 figure to where Laura, all feminine frills and fripperies, 
 lounged against the column of the mantelpiece and shed 
 smiles upon her attendant satellites. 
 
 "All the same," said the old lady, "vanity is a sign
 
 "THE TEAR'S AT THE SPRING" 31 
 
 of an empty head, and if you will go scouring the coun- 
 try as you do, perhaps you show your sense in putting 
 on clothes that will stand the wear and tear. What have 
 you been doing?" 
 
 "Playing a round of golf with Mr. Carr, " answered 
 Rosamund, who always addressed her great-aunt with 
 the direct bluntness the old lady used herself. 
 
 "And did you win?" queried her great-aunt. 
 
 "No, Mr. Carr beat me to-day, but I am still ahead 
 of him on the score we have been keeping." 
 
 "You would not have Scotch blood in your veins if 
 you let yourself be beaten by a Southerner at the game 
 of your father's country." 
 
 Then Lady Sophia proceeded to bestow chill embraces 
 and last words of advice on those about her. When she 
 neared Laura, the girl with a little supercilious sneer, 
 tilted her face up to her aunt's superior height. The 
 old lady shook her by the hand. 
 
 "It is evident that you did not mean me to kiss you 
 to-day, niece, or you would not have put all that stuff on 
 your face." 
 
 "I say, how beastly rude!" drawled a satellite as 
 Lady Sophia turned way. 
 
 "Cat!" said Laura, tossing her head and marching 
 out of the hall into the drawing-room. 
 
 "I like to kiss a clean face, if I have to do it at all," 
 said Lady Sophia, giving Rosamund a hearty smack on 
 both cheeks. "Good-bye, Mr. Carr. If you will come 
 up to Scotland and play golf there, you may be able to 
 beat Miss Keith one day." 
 
 Then she sailed down the steps into the waiting car- 
 riage, and with her maid and her dog, her wraps and her 
 baskets, was driven off to the station.
 
 $3 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 "She'seems very fond of you," said Mr. Carr, watch- 
 ing the retreating carriage through the hall door. 
 
 "Yes, I think she is in her way," replied Rosamund, 
 thoughtfully. "They are all rather afraid of her here, 
 but I do not mind her much, though of course one never 
 knows what she is going to do or say next." 
 
 "I think you inherit some of her downrightness. " 
 
 "Do I?" queried Rosamund. "Well, I might have 
 a worse trait than that, I suppose." 
 
 Mrs. Kerquham came to the door of the drawing- 
 room, and her sharp voice rang across the hall. 
 
 "Rosamund, come in and have some tea. You have 
 been out a very long time." A swift smile and a well- 
 assumed air of astonishment came to her face as she 
 caught sight of Paul. "Oh! I did not know Mr. Carr 
 was with you. Won't you come in to tea?" 
 
 Paul looked beyond Mrs. Kerquham to where the 
 room in the dusk was filled with young men and young 
 women, laughing and chattering, whispering and gig 7 
 gling, over the tea and cakes. After the wild beauty of 
 the links and the pure sweet air of the countryside, he 
 felt that it would suffocate him to go in there. He 
 wanted to remember Rosamund Keith as he had seen 
 her all the afternoon, with the fresh wind blowing the 
 little curls about her face, and her tall, shapely figure 
 swinging and swaying to every stroke of the game she 
 played so well. He looked at her, and seeing no invita- 
 tion in her eyes, which, indeed, were veiled by her white 
 lids and curling lashes, he answered : 
 
 "No, thank you, Mrs. Kerquham. I have to get 
 back to Shellerly. I hope we shall meet soon in Lon- 
 don." 
 
 "We shall be very glad if "you will call," said Mrs. 
 Kerquham, in her primmest manner.
 
 " THE TEAR^S AT THE SPRING" 33 
 
 "I shall come as soon as I reach town." He said 
 these last words to Rosamund as he took her hand and 
 held it for a brief space. 
 
 She watched him down the steps and across the lawns 
 to where the thick growth of evergreens made a thick 
 hedge between the gardens and the park. 
 
 "Are you not coming in to tea, Rosamund?" called 
 Mrs. Kerquham again. 
 
 "I think not, thank you, aunt. I have all my things 
 to change, you know. I will go straight upstairs," and 
 with a thoughtful face and a tread that was a little slower 
 than usual, Rosamund Keith went up the wide oak stair- 
 case to her room.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 IN THE STUDIO 
 
 UP on Campden Hill the early June morning was delight- 
 fully fresh. The noise of the busy Kensington streets 
 scarcely ever reached there, but yet the air was full of 
 sound, for the birds in the shady grounds round Holland 
 House were getting through their modicum of music 
 before the heat of the day set in. The Kerquham's 
 house stood alone in a garden of its own. There were 
 lawns and terraces and great trees all round it, and 
 on such a fair day it was like being in the heart of the 
 country. 
 
 The Honourable Alban Kerquham had been in his 
 studio betimes. He looked thinner than at the famous 
 hunt ball, and seemed dragged by the heat. Rosamund 
 Keith was with him. She wore a simple frock of pink 
 cotton that threw a rosy glow on the whiteness of her 
 skin. Her rippling-black hair was gathered into a close 
 knot at the back of her head, but no amount of care 
 could keep in complete order the little rings and waves 
 that would cast a faint shadow over her broad, low, brow 
 and the flawless skin which was perfect even in the glare 
 from the great north window. 
 
 "Now, uncle," she cried, brightly, as she pushed his 
 big chair into the exact position before the easel, "can I 
 be useful? The Duchess of Midshire does not come till 
 half-past eleven, you know, and it has only struck half- 
 past ten." 
 
 34
 
 IN THE STUDIO 35 
 
 i 
 
 Mr. Kerquham knitted his brows and peered first at 
 the picture on the easel, and then at Rosamund. 
 
 "Her hands will never do, my dear," he said, shaking 
 his head ; "they are dreadful ; they have got to come out. 
 The Duchess is not nearly as tall as you are, but her 
 hands are large and yours are small in proportion to your 
 height. I think you might sit for an hour, child." 
 
 Rosamund walked over to the model's throne, and as 
 she did so rolled back the sleeves of her cotton blouse to 
 just above her elbows. 
 
 "Now, uncle, how will you have me?" she said, seat- 
 ing herself in the wooden chair, and preparing to turn 
 the way to suit him. 
 
 Mr. Kerquham went over to her and arranged her 
 hands such slender, white hands in the position that 
 he wanted. 
 
 "The Duchess will be astonished, I should fancy," 
 laughed Rosamund, "if her own hands are so very large. " 
 
 "My dear, she doesn't think her own hands are ugly," 
 said Mr. Kerquham, with his quiet, slow smile. "All 
 women, particularly when they are very wealthy and 
 have every advantage that money can give them, think 
 they are perfect." 
 
 He walked over to the easel and began to work, and 
 Rosamund watched him with love in her eyes and respect 
 and admiration in her heart. Her uncle had been her 
 father, for she had known no other. That her home 
 with her aunt and cousins had always been congenial to 
 her, she could scarcely confess, but gratitude had ever 
 been her leading characteristic; gratitude and sincere 
 affection for her uncle. He had always 4oved the child ; 
 first, perhaps, because her rare beauty had appealed to 
 his artistic instincts, and afterwards because he found in 
 her the sympathy and appreciation, the loving care and
 
 36 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 tender solicitude which neither his stern wife nor his frivo- 
 lous daughters chose to give him. His own children 
 never came to the studio save to bother him for money 
 or to pester him to intercede with their mother with 
 regard to some party or jaunt. Mrs. Kerquham looked 
 upon her husband's workroom as anathema, although it 
 was there that he earned the large fortune that kept her 
 in extreme luxury. But from the beginning, as soon as 
 she had learnt to balance herself upon her baby feet, 
 Rosamund, all unabashed and confiding, would pat her 
 fat fists upon his door and demand an entrance, and play 
 either quietly or noisily, according to his mood, amid 
 all the paraphernalia of the big studio. And now in later 
 years it was she, and she only, who knew where every- 
 thing was; who would find this; tidy the other; freshen 
 the flowers, and, if need be, venture a loving criticism 
 on colours and draperies. Sometimes, as to-day, she 
 would sit to her uncle for her beautiful hands, or again 
 for a turn in her throat, or the carriage of her shoulders. 
 She was in the truest sense of the word sympathetic, and 
 Mr. Kerquham could never work so well as when his 
 dear Rosamund was about him. 
 
 "And what about Mrs. Toroni's reception last night?' ' 
 he said, presently. "Was my intercession with your 
 aunt worth while? Did you enjoy your first Sunday 
 party?" 
 
 "Laura did, I think," said Rosamund frankly. "She 
 is always so light-hearted and gets the best out of every- 
 thing. " 
 
 Mr. Kerquham smiled a little to himself. Although 
 he avoided as much as possible the "world" as London 
 knew it, he was not blind to his elder daughter's little 
 peculiarities. 
 
 "That means she had plenty of young men to talk to. "
 
 IN THE STUDIO 37 
 
 "Oh! any number, uncle. They all like her; she is 
 great fun, you know, and she looked so pretty last night. 
 She was wearing that blue frock ; the one you always 
 like her in." 
 
 "Yes, she looks nice in that," said Mr. Kerquham. 
 "She looks her best in blue. Just curve your fingers a 
 little more; that will do. And what about yourself? 
 How did you like it?" 
 
 Rosamund laughed rather nervously. 
 
 "Uncle, I am afraid I am a very dull person; I was 
 disappointed! You see we had always heard so much 
 about Mrs. Toroni's Sunday parties; that all the artistic 
 people went there, and that they were quite the most 
 amusing things in London." 
 
 Mr. Kerquham looked up at her from under his shaggy 
 brows. "My dear, you are not dull; I suppose the party 
 was." 
 
 "Well, it seemed so to me, but then you see I do not 
 care much about comic songs, and people who get up 
 sham quarrels, and mock recitations, and bad imitations 
 by amateurs of really clever people; and then it did not 
 strike me that the best of the artistic world was there. 
 It seemed a mixture of vapid-looking young men who 
 were either actors or painters or singers, according to 
 whether they shaved their upper lips or grew a mustache 
 and beard. All the women had an undefinable at- 
 mosphere about them [of dyed hair and too few clothes. 
 It was all noise, and the only method of expressing pleas- 
 ure or amusement was to shout loudly. I saw none of 
 your friends, dear." 
 
 Mr. Kerquham laughed, then shook his head a little 
 sadly. "I did not suppose you would, Rosamund; my 
 friends are not the sort of people Mrs. Toroni cares 
 about. They are people who work, and they have no
 
 38 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 time to sit up till four o'clock in the morning listening to 
 comic .songs. " 
 
 Rosamund ran on: 
 
 "But among the crowd, who do you think I did see? 
 Hamish Lundy! He saw me, too, and somehow, didn't 
 look best pleased." 
 
 Mr. Kerquham laughed quietly. 
 
 "Hamish Lundy at a Sunday party! Why, the 
 Kerquham family are coming out in quite a new light." 
 He glanced roguishly at Rosamund. "My child! lam 
 afraid that your cousin's Sabbath-breaking is a crime 
 that must be laid at your door." 
 
 "It brought it's own punishment, I fancy, dear; for 
 he seemed afraid to speak to me, though he was within 
 a yard of me at supper time." 
 
 "Conscience! my dear a clear case of conscience! 
 I expect his people didn't know he was there." 
 
 He painted for a few moments. "But surely, Rosie, 
 there was some gleam of pleasure for you? Did you see 
 nobody nice at all?" 
 
 "Yes," said Rosamund, slowly; "Mr. Carr took me 
 down to supper." 
 
 "Paul Carr, you mean, do you not?" 
 
 "Yes, uncle." 
 
 "Ah, he is a very nice young fellow. I do not know 
 much about him, but your aunt approves of him, and I 
 hear from her that he calls here sometimes. What does 
 he do?" 
 
 "I do not know, uncle. I think he is rich " 
 
 "Which means, I suppose, that he does nothing?" 
 
 "Well, he is not quite a drone in the hive; he sings a 
 great deal for charity. He told me once he wished he 
 had been poor, and then he should have been a profes- 
 sional."
 
 IN THE STUDIO 39 
 
 "Well, and what prevents him being one now, if he is 
 good enough?" 
 
 "Oh! he is quite good enough," cried Rosamund, 
 warmly, "but he always says that for a rich man who has 
 no need to earn his living to go into a profession is to 
 take bread out of some one else's mouth." 
 
 "There is something in that, of course," said Mr. 
 Kerquham. "What other characteristics has he?" 
 
 "Well, I don't quite know. He is very quiet; rather 
 an earnest sort of man. Uncle, I think that he is the 
 sort of young man that you would like." 
 
 Mr. Kerquham laughed and laid down his palette. 
 
 "Do you think so, my dear? Well, bring him to see 
 me one day, and we will have a chat together. There, 
 I have done with you for this morning. Come and see 
 what pretty hands the Duchess has now." 
 
 He slipped his arm round her waist as she came to 
 his side. "Yes, my dear," he said, gently, "you must 
 bring this young man to see me one day. There is the 
 Duchess's carriage coming up the drive. Now, run away. " 
 
 The Duchess of Midshire gave an unusually long sit- 
 ting that morning, and luncheon at "The Hurst" was 
 half over before the artist was able to join his family in 
 the oak-lined dining-room. A wide verandah that ran 
 round the ground floor of the house cast a pleasant shade 
 on the polished walls and the fine old silver and cut glass 
 that was scattered about the table in luxurious profu- 
 sion. To come from the studio, with its sharp reflected 
 north light, to the dim, scented room, which seemed to 
 enframe with its open bay windows the gorgeous golden 
 sunshine and riot of scarlet and yellow flower beds out- 
 side, gave the painter a thrill of artistic pleasure and an 
 almost unconscious sense of thankfulness that his life 
 was passed amid such satisfying surroundings.
 
 4 
 
 The girls, too, looked fresh and gay in their bright 
 summer frocks, and their faces with their clear skins and 
 luminous eyes gleamed like cameos against the carved 
 oak walls. The hat that crowned Laura's curly head 
 was like a great bouquet of freshly cut roses, and made 
 a charming splash of colour against the rich back- 
 ground. 
 
 "Are you very tired, dear uncle?" said Rosamund, 
 gently, as Mr. Kerquham sank into his high-backed chair 
 and slowly passed his hand across his eyes. "Has her 
 grace been more than usually talkative to-day?" 
 
 "How crooked was her wig?" asked Honor, with her 
 customary sub-acid manner. 
 
 "Good gracious, my dear!" cried light-hearted 
 Laura, with her pretty mouth as usual wide open with 
 laughter; "if I were a Duchess I would never care if my 
 wig were straight or awry. I should exercise the preroga- 
 tive of my undeniable position, and probably go about 
 bald-headed, especially on a scorching day like this." 
 She sank back in her chair, and waved her white, dimpled 
 hand in front of her face in lieu of a fan. 
 
 "Well, old Lady Trevannion had to do that last year 
 at Ostend for three days when her hat and postiche blew 
 into the sea and were drowned," said Honor. 
 
 "I heard she looked such a guy without her front, and 
 they say " tittered Laura. 
 
 " 'I heard,' and 'They say' girls! Girls, when will 
 you curb your tendency to idle and ill-natured gossip? 
 I do not know what your great-aunt Sophia would think 
 of you if she heard you talking like that." 
 
 Mrs. Kerquham bent slightly forward as she addressed 
 her daughters. She was a tall woman, and upright to 
 the extent of ungracefulness. Her features were typ- 
 ically Scotch, but their natural ruggedness would not
 
 IN THE STUDIO 41 
 
 have been unpleasing if they had not habitually worn an 
 expression of sourness and discontent, and if her plenti- 
 ful iron-grey hair had not been so uncompromisingly 
 dragged back over a high cushion. She always affected 
 an air of conscious superiority over the rest of the world. 
 Those who knew her best always described her as being 
 a very tiring woman to be with, for she seemed never to 
 rest herself nor to allow others to do so. No one had 
 ever seen her taking her ease in an arm-chair or indo- 
 lently lounging on a sofa. She had never been known, 
 even by her husband, to fritter away half an hour over 
 the pages of a novel or the harmless foolish columns of 
 a society paper. She always preached "duty," though 
 no one ever quite knew what that much-abused word 
 meant in her case, beyond the daily ordering of meals, 
 the examination of her household accounts, and the 
 strict supervision of her large and well-trained staff of 
 servants. Her daughters always said that she worried 
 over trifles. That was not exactly true, for Mrs. Kerqu- 
 ham was far too superior a person to worry, but she built 
 mountains out of mole- hills, and was too apt to regard 
 the smallest of her own affairs as being of universal 
 importance. She had bequeathed her temperament to 
 her second daughter, Honor, who at the age of twenty 
 was as carping and hypercritical as her mother had ever 
 been, though she had not acquired with that disposition 
 the finer qualities of rectitude and firmness that with 
 Mrs. Kerquham made for virtues. 
 
 Her inborn ignorance of the world had induced her 
 to give her daughters as they grew up the license 
 she noticed other girls enjoyed, but which in her heart she 
 secretly deplored, and when too late tried to check. 
 She was, however, too narrow and self-centred and too 
 sure of her family to see that Laura and Honor were
 
 42 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KETTH 
 
 going all the wrong way, and that it would be luck and 
 not wit that alone could save them from a more or less 
 deplorable ending. A sharp scolding, modelled on the 
 strictly old lines, and interlarded with many quotations 
 from her own mother's vocabulary and with reminis- 
 cences of her own bringing up, of which the girls took 
 no notice whatever, was her sole idea of discipline. 
 Altogether she was a strange example of the old order 
 on which the new had been grafted, and which had borne 
 fruit in the guise of two of the most frivolous and selfish 
 girls in London. 
 
 Mrs. Kerquham's reference to Lady Sophia Kerqu- 
 ham rather sobered Laura, who in her heart always 
 dreaded that her mother would carry out her threat of 
 sending her up to the north of Scotland, to be under 
 that worthy woman's care and discipline. Still, she was 
 not the girl to be brow-beaten, so she tossed her head 
 till all the roses in her hat nodded as she retorted, "I 
 should advise Aunt Sophia not to think of us at all if that 
 process is likely to be hurtful to her." 
 
 "Besides," joined in Honor, "the old lady has disap- 
 proved of us ever since we had our hair down our backs 
 and said 'prunes and prisms' in the schoolroom. It is 
 true she likes Rosamund, but," with a little sneer at her 
 cousin opposite, "Rosamund is scarcely a good specimen 
 of a real London girl." 
 
 Laura gave her irritating titter again. The two sisters 
 were never weary of giving little spiteful digs at their 
 cousin. Their natures were too utterly shallow and 
 trivial to do more than resent her infinite superiority of 
 character over themselves. Rosamund changed colour 
 a little at the unprovoked attack. 
 
 "They have all been very kind to me always," she 
 said quietly, "and when I stayed with Lord Kilbeggie
 
 IN THE STUDIO 43 
 
 and the old aunts up in Scotland I got on quite well with 
 them. But like all old people they are a little 'grovey. ' ' 
 
 "I wish you would not invent words," said Mrs. Ker- 
 quham, sharply, while she drew a letter out of her 
 pocket. "I have a letter from Lady Sophia this morn- 
 ing to say that she means to come to London this season. " 
 
 "Coming to London!" 
 
 "Not to stop?" cried Laura. 
 
 "We had a month of her in the winter at the Manor," 
 gasped Honor. 
 
 Mrs. Kerquham turned the letter over and looked at 
 it doubtfully. It was written on "Bath Post" paper in 
 a fine, very close hand. 
 
 "She suggests coming here, but I think that it will be 
 very much better for her if she goes to her sister, Lady 
 Charlotte Lundy." 
 
 "Oh, but she must," said Laura. "We cannot pos- 
 sibly have the old thing here ; it would be a frightful 
 nuisance, and in the middle of the season, too. She's 
 tiresome enough in the country." 
 
 "With her knitting and snuff and other horrors," 
 cried Honor. 
 
 "Your great-aunt," said Mrs. Kerquham, severely, 
 "is certainly a little old-fashioned in her ways, but I 
 should not for a moment allow that to interfere with her 
 proposed plans. It is her individual comfort I am think- 
 ing of." 
 
 This was scarcely the truth, and Mrs. Kerquham 
 knew it. She was quite aware that she did not want 
 Lady Sophia to come to Campden Hill in the middle of 
 the London season. She would be a great drag on her- 
 self, and there would probably be a great deal of trouble 
 between the old lady and the girls. Still, she lacked the 
 courage to say so outright. She glanced helplessly across
 
 44 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 the table to where her husband, silent and self-absorbed, 
 was quietly eating his luncheon. 
 
 "What is your opinion on the subject, Alban?" she 
 said. "Can you make any suggestions as to what is best 
 for us to do for dear Aunt Sophia's comfort and happi- 
 ness?" 
 
 Womanlike, in an emergency she appealed to the 
 man, and Mr. Kerquham, manlike, fell into the trap. 
 He laid down his knife and fork, and pushed his plate a 
 little to one side. 
 
 "I think, my dear, that under the circumstances, 
 Aunt Sophia would scarcely be in her element here. It 
 is the summer, you know, and we have so much tennis, 
 and so many young people coming perpetually to the 
 house, that I am afraid she might not like the noise and 
 the bustle ; then, again, there are the girls to consider. 
 They must be taken out at night, and Rosamund told me 
 this morning of at least half a dozen fresh invitations to 
 dances. The girls must enjoy themselves while they are 
 young. " He smiled indulgently at the three faces before 
 him. "And I think your first duty is to see that they 
 get the full measure of their enjoyment. I am afraid 
 Aunt Sophia would not approve of that. " 
 
 "Aunt Sophia would be horrified," said Mrs. Kerqu- 
 ham, in a rather depressed voice. "She thinks the girls 
 have too much dissipation in the country. She does not 
 realize the rush and fluster of a season in town." 
 
 "Poor old thing," laughed Laura. "I suppose she 
 would have a fit if she knew we went to two or three balls 
 anight, and restaurant suppers and music halls. " She 
 put her hands before her mouth to smother her amuse- 
 ment. "My goodness! what would she have said if she 
 had been at Mrs. Toroni's last night?" 
 
 Mrs. Kerquham drew her brows very close together.
 
 IN THE STUDIO 45 
 
 "Laura," she said, severely, "you and your father 
 persuaded me to let you go to Mrs. Toroni's house last 
 night. I have always set my face, as you know, against 
 going out on Sundays. You get more than your fair 
 share of pleasure during the week. Let me never hear 
 last night referred to again. I thought over the matter 
 very seriously after you had left, and I have quite made 
 up my mind that it must be the first and last Sunday 
 party you and your sister ever attend." 
 
 Laura was quite clever enough to know when she had 
 gone far enough with her mother, so she forced the smile 
 from her face and looked very business-like, as putting 
 her elbows on the table she leaned forward and re-directed 
 the conversation towards great-aunt Sophia. 
 
 "Do you think Lady Charlotte will take her in?" 
 
 The idea once suggested had taken root in Mrs. Ker- 
 quham's mind. She folded up the closely written letter 
 and returned it to her pocket. 
 
 "Your Aunt Charlotte should feel honoured; besides, 
 she has a very large spare room and nothing like the 
 social ties that I have. She has no daughters to take 
 about. . Rosamund, I should like you to go and see Lady 
 Charlotte this afternoon, and ask her for me if she will 
 be able to take in her sister from the tenth till the end 
 of the month. It is impossible for me to drive up to Wim- 
 pole Street this afternoon, as I have promised to take 
 the girls to Hurlingham. " 
 
 "Rosamund was asked to go to Hurlingham, too," 
 put in Laura, who, out of mere caprice could, when she 
 chose, be fairly good-natured to her cousin. 
 
 "Rosamund will do as I ask her," said Mrs. Kerqu- 
 ham, and rose from the table. "I hope you will go 
 soon, Rosamund. Remember that Lady Charlotte 
 always drives at half-past four at this time of the year."
 
 46 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 "Certainly, aunt, I will go," answered Rosamund. 
 
 As Mrs. Kerquham swept out of the dining-room, the 
 three girls strolled out to the verandah. 
 
 "Pooh! how hot it is!" said Honor, with a little 
 gasp. "I don't envy you having to pelt into town 
 directly. Thank goodness, we do not start till five!" 
 
 "Well, mind you make it all right with Aunt Charlotte, 
 or we shall all be furious with you," urged Laura. "Just 
 remember that we won't have Aunt Sophia here, we posi- 
 tively won't." 
 
 "I will do my best, you may be sure," said Rosamund, 
 brightly, as she turned into the house to get ready to 
 start on her pilgrimage to Lady Charlotte Lundy.
 
 PRUNES AND PRISMS 
 
 Two hundred Wimpole Street was typical of Sir Alexan- 
 der and Lady Charlotte Lundy, and they were typical 
 of it. In the downstairs windows were wire blinds and 
 red brocade curtains. When the windows were open 
 there was from outside an ample view of walls painted a 
 pale sea green and plentifully lined with yellow-faced 
 family portraits set in cumbersome gold frames. A huge 
 sideboard laden with heavy plate faced the windows, and 
 a row of stiff-backed mahogany chairs covered in maroon 
 leather stood shoulder to shoulder against the wall. A 
 gasalier with five engraved globes swung from a florid 
 ornament in the centre of the ceiling. On the heavily 
 carved mantelpiece stood a marble clock which was 
 always five minutes fast, and was flanked by a pair of 
 candelabra, which for modelling and design were an out- 
 rage on taste. How well Rosamund knew it all, as she 
 passed the windows, and after ringing at a loud clang- 
 ing bell and knocking at a huge lion's-head knocker, was 
 admitted into the wide, dim hall, which even on this hot 
 afternoon struck icy cold. 
 
 "Her ladyship is in the drawing-room," said the 
 family butler in a whisper as he led her up the staircase, 
 where the varnished marble paper looked chill as the 
 grave. 
 
 "Miss Rosamund Keith," announced the factotum, as 
 he flung open the big double doors. 
 
 47
 
 48 
 
 From the time she had been a little child, and even 
 now, Rosamund was always conscious of a feeling of 
 awkwardness which amounted to shy stupidity whenever 
 she entered that vast, solemn, hideous drawing-room in 
 Wimpole Street. The white, watered walls, with an 
 irritating pattern of small gold stars, were the same as 
 she remembered nearly twenty years ago, and she always 
 caught herself idly wondering how it was that Lady Char- 
 lotte Lundy managed to keep her drawing-room paper so 
 clean, when everybody else she knew had to do up their 
 rooms every three or four years. The centre of the room 
 was entirely bare of furniture, and gave an admirable 
 view of the huge red bouquets of cabbage roses which 
 were closely besprent on the green ground of the Brus- 
 sels carpet. In front of the centre window was a huge 
 table, monstrous of foot and shiny of top, on which lay, 
 ensconced on woolleji mats (Rosamund had made some of 
 those mats when she was a little girl), various standard 
 works bound in calf and uniformly dull. 
 
 A case of medals, popularly supposed to have been 
 won by Sir Alexander Lundy, stood on one table. An 
 Indian temple of carved ivory, and two baskets of wax 
 fruits, all under glass shades, decorated another. An 
 Ormolu head of Minerva frowned severely from the top 
 of a pink-faced china clock, and a full suite of carved 
 rosewood furniture, upholstered in crimson damask, was 
 ranged round the room. A grand piano and a music- 
 stand languished all unused in the far vista of the back 
 drawing-room. Some water colours, painted by Lady 
 Charlotte and her sisters in the forties, hung on the walls. 
 The whole apartment was symbolical of the abomination 
 of desolation. 
 
 As the big doors closed behind Rosamund a large form 
 loomed out of a small arm-chair near the fireplace. The
 
 PRUNES AND PRISMS 49 
 
 girl advanced, for she had been well trained in the eti- 
 que^tte of the family, which forbade the hostess to leave 
 the hearthrug. 
 
 "Good afternoon, Aunt Charlotte." 
 
 "Good afternoon, my dear," said Lady Charlotte in 
 her very deep voice, and pressing a cold salute on Rosa- 
 mund's cheek. "To what, pray, do I owe the pleasure 
 of seeing you?" 
 
 "I have come with a message from Aunt Margot. " 
 
 "Pray sit down," said Lady Charlotte, waving her 
 hand towards the nearest chair. Then she rang the bell, 
 and a dead silence ensued until it was answered. 
 
 "Pray tell Sir Alexander that his niece, Miss Rosa- 
 mund Keith, is here, ' ' she said to the servant, then turning 
 to Rosamund, she added: "Any message that you bring 
 from Margot I should like Sir Alexander to hear. You 
 know I make a point of taking his opinion on all ques- 
 tions in life." 
 
 Again there was a dead silence, and Rosamund shiv- 
 ered a little in her thin summer gown, not so much with 
 cold as with the sense of dulness and dreariness, the 
 stiffness and artificiality of the whole house and the peo- 
 ple in it. She glanced at Lady Charlotte, sitting upright 
 in her prune-coloured silk gown with a little white frill 
 at the throat and the wrists, and a long gold chain looped 
 up with a cameo brooch on her ample bosom. She 
 looked, as with fresh eyes, at the hard lines on the snuff- 
 brown wig planted above Aunt Charlotte's aquiline fea- 
 tures, and from that her eyes involuntarily fell to the 
 shiny toe-cap of a very large shoe which showed from 
 beneath Aunt Charlotte's plain and full skirts. 
 
 She always felt curious about Aunt Charlotte. She 
 had got used to the insincerities, the narrow-mindedness 
 and uncharitableness of her Aunt Margot, but Lady
 
 50 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 Charlotte Lundy always baffled the girl. She never quite 
 knew how much she was in earnest. She often won- 
 dered if she really was alive at all; if she had any heart 
 beating under her well whale-boned bodice, and if she 
 had such a thing, whose was the hand, and where was the 
 voice that could touch it. Not Sir Alexander's certainly, 
 for even as she went over the old ground again the little 
 piping old gentleman, with his stick and his skull cap, 
 came doddering into the room, and Lady Charlotte 
 waved him into another chair just as she had waved 
 Rosamund. 
 
 "Sir Alexander, our niece Kerquham has sent Rosa- 
 mund to see us this afternoon. She tells me she has 
 brought a message; I should like you to hear it." 
 
 The old paralysing nervousness that Rosamund knew 
 so well crept over her and almost froze the tongue in her 
 mouth. 
 
 "It is nothing very important," she began, with a 
 nervous laugh. "It is about a message a letter she 
 had from great-aunt Sophia." 
 
 "Everything to do with your great-aunt Sophia must 
 be of importance," corrected Lady Charlotte, severely. 
 "Sir Alexander, I hope you are listening. Now, child, 
 what is it?" 
 
 "Aunt Sophia has written to Aunt Margot. " 
 
 "You gave us to understand that before," said Lady 
 Charlotte. "It is a bad habit with young people of the 
 present day to repeat themselves. Sir Alexander always 
 says that young persons nowadays have no idea how to 
 express their thought." 
 
 Sir Alexander had never said anything of the sort; 
 he had probably never thought it, for, poor little old 
 gentleman, he had left the greater part of his wits and 
 all his will behind him in the Crimea, but it was Lady
 
 PRUNES AND PRISMS 51 
 
 Charlotte's idea of keeping up a proper discipline to 
 quote her lord and master when he could not speak for 
 himself. 
 
 "Tell me as clearly and as slowly and as plainly as 
 you can, if you please," went on her ladyship, "what 
 was the purport of the communication from your great- 
 aunt Sophia to your Aunt Margot. " 
 
 Rosamund really had to think quite hard for a mo- 
 ment; her whole brain was wandering under the influence 
 of that drawing-room, and she could only wonder how 
 long Sir Alexander's skull cap would stop on his head if 
 he kept on shaking it about so much. 
 
 "Great-aunt Sophia," she began very slowly, and 
 trying to weigh every word before she spoke it, "has 
 written to say that she is thinking of coming to London 
 in a few days." 
 
 "Sakes alive!" cried Lady Charlotte, momentarily 
 shaken out of her usual stately repose. "Sir Alexander, 
 did you ever hear such a thing? My dear sister Sophia 
 talks of coming to London." 
 
 Sir Alexander waggled his head a little more, but 
 expressed no opinion on the news either one way or the 
 other. 
 
 "She suggested, I believe," continued Rosamund 
 carefully, "for I have not seen the letter, that she should 
 come and stay at Campden Hill." 
 
 At this moment Lady Charlotte assumed such a dis- 
 pleased air that Rosamund stopped dead short and won- 
 dered how on earth she was going to advance Mrs. 
 Kerquham's request that Lady Sophia should go to 
 Wimpole Street. 
 
 "To Campden Hill!" cried Lady Charlotte. "Sir 
 Alexander, do you hear that? My dear sister can have 
 no idea of what life at Campden Hill can be." She
 
 52 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 turned to Rosamund. "I am sure, Rosamund, that Sir 
 Alexander feels with me that such a proposal is abso- 
 lutely out of the question. My poor dear sister would 
 be distracted in the midst of such disorder, such noise, 
 such goings and comings as are the rule of life at 'The 
 Hurst.' She has been accustomed to punctuality and 
 reasonable hours, to quietude and the correct order of a 
 perfect gentlewoman's life. Everything, in fact, that 
 she will not find at my niece Margot's house. Sir 
 Alexander has frequently expressed his astonishment at 
 the manner in which both your uncle and aunt have been 
 pleased to bring you all up. He has even spoken in 
 terms of the strongest disapproval of the people who 
 visit your aunt, and of the friends she has seen fit to 
 make since she cast in her lot with your Uncle Alban. 
 He, unfortunate man, has been led away by his absurd 
 craze for what he is pleased to term 'art.' He forgot 
 his duty to his family thirty-five years ago, and both Sir 
 Alexander and I are sorry to find how his influence has 
 perverted and changed Margot. We both noticed this 
 with regret while you and your cousins were still in the 
 schoolroom. Your introduction into society made but 
 little difference. Sir Alexander has always considered 
 you, my dear, a well-conducted and respectable young 
 person, but since Margot has brought out her own girls, 
 she and her whole establishment have greatly changed. 
 Of Laura I cannot trust myself to speak." 
 
 She gave a righteous shudder and closed her eyes for 
 a moment as though to shut out some horrid sight. "I 
 can only pray that she will find her just reward in the 
 reproaches of her own conscience. Honor is evil- 
 tongued, if better behaved than her sister, but neither 
 Sir Alexander nor I can approve of those two young 
 women, nor regard them with any other feelings than
 
 PRUNES AND PRISMS 53 
 
 those of displeasure. We both consider that our niece, 
 Margot Kerquham, has been a fool in the bringing up of 
 her daughters. Sir Alexander, I am sure, will wish my 
 dear sister Sophia to pass her time in London under our 
 roof, which we trust will be more congenial to her mind 
 and spirit than 'The Hurst' could ever hope to be." 
 
 Lady Charlotte folded her hands over her prune silk 
 lap. Sir Alexander waggled his head over his stick a 
 little, and Rosamund shook herself free from the torrent 
 of words to find that her task had been done for her; 
 that she had no request to make, no favour to ask, 
 and that she was free to get up and go home. 
 
 "Then what am I to tell Aunt Margot?" she asked, 
 advancing to the edge of Lady Charlotte's domain. 
 
 "Tell her that Sir Alexander and I wish my dear sis- 
 ter to come to us. I will write to her by this afternoon's 
 post. Will you also tell her from me that I hear Laura 
 wore a most decollette gown the other night at Mrs. 
 Benyon's. That girl is bound to end very baxlly 
 indeed." 
 
 She took Rosamund's cool, slim hand in hers and 
 shook it. 
 
 "You are a very good girl, my dear, to do this mes- 
 sage for your aunt," she said patronisingly. "She 
 ought sometimes to wish that her daughters were like 
 you." 
 
 Again she leant forward to deposit an icy salute on 
 Rosamund's cheek, when a little door at the further end 
 of the back drawing-room was opened, and a young man 
 entered the room. He was obviously short-sighted, for 
 a pair of pince-nez dangled over his waistcoat. He was 
 small like Sir Alexander Lundy, but had the pale, sandy- 
 coloured hair and light eyes that characterised all Lady 
 Charlotte's family. He was her only son.
 
 54 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KETTH 
 
 He advanced slowly as far as the centre of the room, 
 and then seeing that a third person was present, stopped 
 short awkwardly. 
 
 "I beg your pardon; I did not know you were 
 engaged." 
 
 "Come in, my dear boy," said Lady Charlotte, 
 blandly. "It is only Rosamund. She has brought a 
 message from Margot about your Aunt Sophia." 
 
 Mr. Hamish Lundy grew pink all over his face. It 
 was a trick he had whenever he saw Rosamund. He 
 put on his glasses, and after a minute's vague staring, 
 fixed his gaze upon her. 
 
 "How do you do, Rosamund? Hot to-day, isn't it? 
 Hope you are quite well." 
 
 Rosamund was taller than he and looked down at his 
 nervous, shuffling figure, as she assented to his remarks. 
 Lady Charlotte meanwhile had also risen, and was blandly 
 regarding the pair. 
 
 "Very nice, very nice," she murmured softly to her- 
 self. It was the one ambition of her life that Hamish 
 should marry Rosamund. True that the girl had no 
 money, and never would have, but her family was all 
 right, for was she not an offshoot of the family, and then 
 she was so ladylike, so quiet and so amenable. When 
 she remembered what most girls of the period were like, 
 Lady Charlotte had an inward conviction that Rosamund 
 would prove easier to manage than any other young 
 woman of her acquaintance. 
 
 "Hamish, my son," she said, "our dear Rosamund 
 has come to announce the speedy arrival of Aunt Sophia 
 in London. She will stop here during her stay, of 
 course, and I hope no I expect," with a stately bend 
 of the head, "that dear Rosamund will not omit the 
 opportunity of frequently coming to see my sister."
 
 PRUNES AND Pff/SMS 55 
 
 The clock on the mantelpiece struck half-past four. 
 Lady Charlotte turned to her husband: 
 
 "Sir Alexander, you will be reminding me in a 
 moment that the carriage is here; I must go and get my 
 bonnet." 
 
 She looked doubtfully for a moment from Rosamund 
 to her son and her husband, then with a great effort she 
 said: 
 
 "Rosamund, I will drive you back to 'The Hurst.' 
 I shall have just time to do so before going to Lady 
 Betty MacCan's to tea. Come with me, Sir Alexan- 
 der." 
 
 With a benign smile at her own cleverness in leaving 
 the two young people alone, Lady Charlotte tucked Sir 
 Alexander under her arm and walked out of the room. 
 Rosamund sank back into her chair again. Mr. Hamish 
 Lundy took one at a little distance, and with his glasses 
 on his nose proceeded to stare at her. 
 
 "How nice you look to-day, Rosamund so cool, just 
 as if it were not hot at all. I suppose it is that frock 
 you have got on; it is awfully nice." 
 
 "Is it?" said Rosamund. "It is only a cotton; I do 
 not think one could wear anything else this kind of 
 weather." 
 
 Mr. Hamish Lundy smoothed his sandy hair on his 
 head with both hands. 
 
 "I thought you looked very nice, too, at Mrs. 
 Toroni's last night," he said, tentatively, and looking at 
 her out of the corner of his eyes, "and you were not in 
 a cotton frock then, you know." 
 
 "Of course I was not, Hamish. People do not go to 
 evening parties in cottons." 
 
 "I say, Rosamund," said Hamish, in a low voice, and 
 looking over his shoulder to see that the big doors
 
 56 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 behind him were tightly shut, "you have not told my 
 mother, have you, about seeing me last night at Mrs. 
 Toroni's? Do be a good girl, and promise you won't." 
 
 "There is no question of a promise about it, Hamish. 
 First of all, I am not in the habit of gossiping about 
 whom I meet or whom I do not meet at parties; and 
 secondly, if you make a point of it, though I do not 
 know why you should, of course I will not mention to 
 your mother that I met you last night." 
 
 Hamish looked as ashamed of himself as anybody 
 belonging to Lady Charlotte Lundy could do. 
 
 "You see, Rosamund," he began, "my mother has 
 rather extraordinary ideas about Sundays. Of course I 
 think she is quite right up to a certain point, you know. 
 There is no doubt there is a dreadful amount of Sabbath- 
 breaking nowadays," and he looked as sanctimonious as 
 he could. "I think that the way people neglect their 
 church and go on the river and play tennis and golf and 
 things is nothing short of disgraceful ; but when Mrs. 
 Toroni asked me to go to her house last night I did not 
 see very much why I should not go." 
 
 "Why, of course not," said Rosamund, frankly. 
 "There is nothing in it. I did not care about the party 
 very much, but I do not suppose it would have been any 
 more pleasant on a Monday than on a Sunday." 
 
 "Er umph you see it is not exactly that. My 
 mother would not mind where I went on Monday, or any 
 other day in the week, but she does draw the line at 
 Sunday going-out." 
 
 "Then why did you go?" asked Rosamund, raising her 
 eyes and looking him full in the face. 
 
 He grew pink all over and smoothed his hair again. 
 
 "Well, you see " Rosamund saw that he was 
 searching for an excuse, and some little imp of mischief
 
 PRUNES AND PRISMS 57 
 
 whispered to her to help him out of the difficulty at his 
 own expense. 
 
 "You came to see me, I suppose," she said, laughing. 
 
 "That was it; that's exactly the whole truth of it!" 
 he cried with a relieved air. 
 
 "But," said Rosamund, with arched eyebrows, "how 
 did you manage to get out? I do not fancy that even my 
 presence would justify you in doing an action which she 
 could not approve." 
 
 He looked awkward again at once. 
 
 "No; you see I made an excuse to my mother." 
 
 "Hamish, " said Rosamund, with a little smile twitch- 
 ing on the corners of her mouth, "may I inquire what 
 you call an excuse?" 
 
 The unfortunate young man, goaded to desperation 
 between his tantalisingly pretty cousin and the awful 
 image of his severe mother, was on the point of com- 
 mitting himself to some quite serious statement when 
 Lady Charlotte's voice was heard outside. 
 
 "William, take my parasol, and then help Sir Alex- 
 ander into the carriage." 
 
 Then the double doors were flung wide. "Rosamund, 
 my dear, I am quite ready. I hope you and Hamish 
 have had a nice cousinly little chat." 
 
 Rosamund flashed an amused little smile into Hamish's 
 sheepish face, as she shook his limp hand. 
 
 "We have got along splendidly, aunt, thank you. 
 Hamish and I understand one another so well, you know. 
 Good afternoon, cousin," and then with a demure face 
 and a light step she followed her stately great-aunt down 
 the gloomy staircase to the carriage.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 A YOUNG MAN'S FANCY 
 
 IT was late afternoon. Paul had been busy all the 
 morning, for although he was a rich man, he was not of 
 the temperament of which drones are made. His morn- 
 ing had been passed in reviewing reports from the factor 
 of his little place in Scotland, in studying the estimates 
 for the repairing and fitting out of his yacht at South- 
 ampton for a summer cruise, and in the thousand and 
 one small affairs of social and business life which come 
 to every man who chooses to receive them. 
 
 Now the heat and burden of the day were over. 
 Below the open windows of his rooms in Piccadilly swept 
 the ceaseless tide of traffic towards the Park ; the pleas- 
 ure of the evening, which would live through the night 
 hours until the next day's dawn, had begun for his world, 
 and as the weary-eyed clerks and city toilers went 
 their way to the suburbs on the tops of omnibuses, look- 
 ing forward with what anticipation they might to a few 
 hours rest before their humble supper and bedtime came, 
 the set that Paul lived in waked from its day's sleep and 
 prepared to begin the life it loved best. 
 
 Twice his valet had been in to ask if he would dress 
 for the Park, and twice Paul had said he did not know, 
 and bade him come again in half an hour. He lit a 
 cigarette and wandered over to the window. The flowers 
 in the blue boxes bloomed in fine profusion; white 
 daisies and scarlet geraniums made a goodly show all 
 
 58
 
 A TOUNG MAN'S FANCT 59 
 
 along the line of his flat, while the scent of sweet mignon- 
 ette floated into his rooms and even up as far as the 
 next story. 
 
 He looked down at the crowded roadway and the 
 thronged pavements. Every turn of the wheels of 
 the smart carriages below brought some friend or 
 acquaintance within range of his vision, but as they did 
 not look up so high as his windows he was saved the 
 trouble of bowing to them. He could not see the pave- 
 ment directly beneath, but he knew by the noise of the 
 passing feet that it was thronged with men lounging to 
 and from their clubs, and with pretty girls hastening 
 to the Park to see and be seen. On the opposite side of 
 the road, under the trees of the Green Park, was a dif- 
 ferent crowd altogether. Many of them were loafers, 
 gossiping, swearing, and spitting as they leant up against 
 the railings. There were a few nurse-maids and chil- 
 dren and many business people and workmen. He 
 thought how strange it was that such a narrow roadway 
 should divide two such different streams of life as flowed 
 that afternoon down the north and south sides of Picca- 
 dilly. 
 
 Should he go out, or should he not go out? His valet 
 knocked for the third time at the door, and Paul from 
 force of habit turned and was walking to his dressing- 
 room, when by chance his eye fell on the largest and 
 most comfortable of his great padded arm-chairs. 
 
 "No, I will not change till dinner time," he said, and 
 the man left the room. 
 
 With a sigh of relief at having made up his mind, 
 Paul flung himself into the big chair, and for almost the 
 first time that day gave himself up to thoughts that 
 made for sweetness and happiness and all the domestic 
 virtues. His business was finished, his papers put aside;
 
 60 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 no one was likely to intrude upon him, and he was sur- 
 rounded by the richly reposeful colouring and beautiful 
 things that a man of wealth and taste is able to gather 
 round him. He was now going to think of Rosamund 
 Keith. He flung away the end of his cigarette as her 
 name, which signified so much sweetness and glorified 
 her as the rose of the world, passed through his mind 
 and broke from his lips. He laid back his head and 
 smiled as his fancy conjured her image to his side. 
 
 Paul Carr was essentially a product of modern soci- 
 ety, though scarcely perhaps so much by natural incli- 
 nation as by force of circumstances. He had been born 
 into it. His father and mother, at their marriage, 
 had been the handsomest couple of their day; both had 
 money, both had perfect physique and beauty, both were 
 worldly to the tips of their well-shaped fingers. Paul 
 had been their only child, and from the moment of his 
 arrival in the world had been looked upon as a necessary 
 evil; an item that was quite proper to be numbered in 
 the Carr family, but nevertheless one that, with childish 
 ailments, the necessities for education and social plac- 
 ing, was to be regarded as a nuisance in the absolutely 
 happy-go-lucky, thoughtless, selfish life of his popular 
 father and mother. 
 
 Paul could never remember the time that he had not 
 lived among perfumed laces and silken skirts, listening to 
 the tittle-tattle of a fashionable drawing-room, which was 
 varied only by the whispered stories and coarse innuen- 
 does of maids and valets. He always seemed, even from 
 his babyhood, to have seen through the sham of it all. 
 He had never heard his parents quarrel so long as they 
 lived, but he had always intuitively known that they 
 cared nothing for one another beyond the fact that each 
 was the social complement of the other. He had some-
 
 A TOUNG MAN'S FANCT 61 
 
 times wondered, even when quite a child, why his father 
 and mother played at everything. It was always like 
 being in a theater to sit with them, and as he grew a little 
 older his instinct taught him that his father and mother's 
 friends were no less puppets than they were themselves. 
 
 If his health had not been as perfect as it was possible 
 for it to be, he would have become a very morbid boy, 
 but Eton and Oxford developed every instinct of man- 
 hood that was in him, and while they never blinded him 
 to the falseness of the social world in which fortune had 
 set him, they enabled him as time went on to take a 
 more lenient view of the foibles that marked his sur- 
 roundings. 
 
 He was scarcely one and twenty when his father died. 
 His was just such a taking-off as the handsome, hard- 
 living man might have wished; a glorious day with 
 hounds, a splendid run, a perfect horse under him, a 
 trip, a roll over, and a broken neck. It was after that 
 that Paul's mother astonished him for the first and the 
 last time. She had never shown any affection for her 
 husband, and at first she had missed him a little more 
 perhaps than she would have missed a very good maid or 
 a favourite lap-dog. But the very suddenness of his 
 death seemed to take hold of her, and though she did 
 not exactly pine after her lost lord's memory, her health 
 failed her, and a slight chill undermined her weakened 
 constitution. Paul travelled with her to the Riviera, but 
 he came back to London alone, and found himself, while 
 little more than a boy, master of a fine income, two 
 country estates, and a house in town; amply provided 
 for with everything that the heart of man could desire, 
 always excepting illusions. 
 
 One thing other he possessed in common with very 
 many young men of his class. There was a turned-down
 
 62 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 page in his life-book. It had been very black, but in his 
 own eyes the law had whitened it. Still, it was one he 
 rigourously avoided re-reading, and now the details had 
 grown faint in his memory, and it was a story that nobody 
 had ever known. 
 
 So it was without illusions that he had lived until he 
 was eight and twenty until he met Rosamund Keith. 
 The first time he saw her he admired her for her physical 
 beauty, and set her down as being no different from the 
 other girls of her station. Then chance brought them 
 together, and he talked with her. The first five minutes 
 sufficed to show him that she was not clever or sharp; 
 that she did not say specially witty things; that she 
 aspired to the display of no particular branch of knowl- 
 edge; that she had practically no affectations. But 
 another five minutes revealed in her something that he 
 had found wanting in all the other women he had met 
 during his lifetime; she possessed an innate purity, an 
 almost childlike innocence that still was not the affected 
 ignorance of the society hack. She was not loud in 
 speech or free in manner; she was able to talk for a 
 quarter of an hour and express herself intelligibly with- 
 out the aid of slang or quotations from music-hall songs. 
 She had never cheapened herself or played with her sen- 
 sations by falling in love with actors or running after 
 society lions. He fathomed that, despite her warm col- 
 ouring and misty dark eyes, she was cold of temperament, 
 was not to be approached by the usual pretty compli- 
 ments and coarse attentions that catch the fancy of the 
 average girl, and that her life was not entirely bound up 
 in a round of race-meetings and dances, skating parties 
 and bicycling gymkhanas. 
 
 He could not discover, either from her manner or 
 from her speech, that she had had love affairs, or had
 
 A TOUNG MAWS FANCT 63 
 
 carried on clandestine correspondence with married 
 men. Her greatest friends were the men whose youth 
 had left them sixty years ago, and who came and spent 
 quiet sometimes silent evenings in her uncle's studio. 
 She would fill their pipes for them, and listen to such 
 scraps of conversation as these veterans in life's battle 
 chose to let drop in their less contemplative moments. 
 Paul was fastidious enough to notice that she dressed 
 well ; that she was always perfectly groomed, and that 
 without vanity she was careful to preserve all the good 
 points with which nature had endowed her; but he also 
 soon saw that she was not by way of changing the colour 
 of her hair with every season that passed; of unduly 
 curtailing her bodices or showing her pretty feet. That 
 she was, in fact, that rara avis in the world, as he knew 
 it, a really ladylike girl. 
 
 For some months he had considered her as nothing 
 more than that, until it had gradually dawned upon him 
 that she was a pearl laid before swine, and that the 
 circumstances governing her daily life were uncongenial 
 to her. He quickly saw through the shallowness of Mrs. 
 Kerquham's religion and strictness. He knew that she 
 would strain at a gnat and swallow a camel. She would 
 not go herself to certain houses and certain places, but 
 she allowed her daughters to over-persuade her, and per- 
 mitted them to be seen here, there, and everywhere, under 
 the chaperonage of the first lively young married woman 
 whose services they were able to command. It scarcely 
 needed his worldly knowledge to fathom the shallows of 
 Laura's nature, or to guess that in her domestic life 
 Honor's bad temper and sharp tongue must frequently 
 be called into play for the benefit of her poorer cousin. 
 When he had first realised this he got an odd fancy into 
 his head that Rosamund was his mission in life. He had
 
 64 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 always been looking for a mission, but his upbringing 
 had been against his taking anything really seriously. 
 Yet lately he had felt that to remove this girl from the 
 uncongeniality of her surroundings and set her feet in 
 the higher, nobler walks of life would be a fine thing to 
 do and then then almost unconsciously, he had fallen 
 in love with her. 
 
 He was still not quite sure how far that love would 
 carry him, for he had always made up his mind that he 
 would never link his life irrevocably with that of a woman. 
 But as that afternoon the thoughts of Rosamund and 
 love intermingled into one definite purpose, a smile of 
 grave happiness touched the corners of his mouth, and 
 so far from checking the longing for her sweet presence 
 that surged from heart to brain, he felt that to take her 
 hand in his and draw her to his side would be the doing 
 of a good thing; a thing that would make him happy, 
 and that would keep her unspotted from the world. He 
 felt that his mission in life would be complete, and that 
 he was born for domesticity. Not as his parents had 
 known it, but as he and Rosamund would make it for 
 themselves. He would tell her of his love, and they 
 would be married and go away, and wander through all 
 the beautiful countries of the world, seeing God's handi- 
 work only, and putting behind them the falseness and 
 sham, the lies and disappointments which man deals out 
 to man. He acknowledged to himself as he sat there 
 dreaming that he must have loved Rosamund for quite a 
 long time, although he had only lately known it. 
 
 "I have been shamming to myself," he thought. "I 
 have been playing at taking an interest in her when I was 
 in love with her; I wonder if her people will object? 
 Mrs. Kerquham has wanted Lord St. Ives for her. He 
 would have been in her eyes a brilliant match for Rosa-
 
 A TOUNG MAN'S FANCT 65 
 
 mund, for he is a man who only lives for the world and 
 for society. With Rosamund as his wife, Laura and 
 Honor might make sure of getting husbands. But once 
 Rosamund and I are married, we should just go away and 
 live our own lives, which, according to Mrs. Kerquham, 
 would mean that we should be of no use to her daugh- 
 ters. I wonder how soon I dare speak to Rosamund." 
 
 And so in dreams of the future and plans for the 
 present Paul Carr idled away the next hour. Then 
 the late afternoon post came, and with it the usual batch 
 of cards and letters, and little notes asking for appoint- 
 ments, and pressing invitations to quiet dinners in out- 
 of-the-way places, that beset the path of the eligible 
 bachelor as thickly as thorns in a hedge. He divided 
 them into two packets. 
 
 "Those I shall decline," he said aloud, "for she 
 does not go to those houses. These I shall accept, 
 because we shall meet." 
 
 The last letter he opened was from Mrs. Toroni; she 
 was full of some "Living Pictures" she was organising 
 in aid of a charity, and wanted him to help her. 
 
 "The dear Princess," she wrote, "sent for me yester- 
 day, and says the 'Home' is in a terribly destitute condi- 
 tion; she must have money for it at once, and she will 
 patronise any form of entertainment I choose to get up. 
 Isn't it charming of her? I want you so much to pose in 
 some of the pictures. All our set have promised their 
 help, and Miss Laura Kerquham, who is so clever, has 
 got some quite splendid ideas-. I had hoped Miss Rosa- 
 mund Keith would have been of some use in a classical 
 picture or two, but she has refused. What a very dull 
 girl she is! Her aunt, however, has promised that she 
 shall sing some songs between the pictures. I do hate 
 a girl who requires such a lot of pressing and arranging
 
 66 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 for; don't you? Pray come to dinner to-night; I am 
 not going out until eleven o'clock, and we can talk over 
 and decide what pictures we will have. I am hunting 
 my visiting list for all the pretty women I know. If we 
 only get them nice-looking enough, who knows but that 
 the Prince himself may come!" 
 
 Paul laid down the letter with a little laugh and a 
 little sigh. 
 
 "Poor Rosamund! she is dull and dowdy because she 
 won't stand half-naked before a room full of gaping 
 snobs, who pay their guineas to say that they have been 
 present at the same entertainment as a royal Princess. 
 Well, I shall not try to alter her determination, but she 
 must sing. Her singing is the loveliest thing in the 
 world." 
 
 He hummed a little favourite air of hers as he rose 
 and rang the bell. Then he scribbled a telegram and 
 handed it to his man. 
 
 "Send that off at once; I will dress now." 
 
 He read Mrs. Toroni's letter again, and then tore 
 it up. 
 
 "No, my dear lady," he thought, "I shall not dine 
 with you to-night. Am I not going to the opera to hear 
 'Siegfried' and chance meeting my lady love?"
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 MAN PROPOSES 
 
 THE servants at "The Hurst" were lighting up the fine 
 suite of rooms on the ground floor, and giving the last 
 touches to the draperies and palms which had transformed 
 Mrs. Kerquham's luxurious rooms into positive fairyland. 
 With much coaxing and trouble Laura and Honor had 
 induced their mother to give a dance. On the first floor, 
 where a long corridor ran from end to end of the large 
 house, all was hurry and confusion; the Kerquham girls 
 perpetually ringing and calling for their maid ; Rosamund 
 being summoned every five minutes to pronounce on the 
 success of a coiffure or the disposition of a flower or 
 feather; bouquets arriving for the young ladies, and all 
 the excitement which precedes a dance in a house. 
 
 At a quarter to ten Mr. Kerquham knocked at his 
 wife's dressing-room door. 
 
 "Come in," she said, and then catching sight of her 
 husband's face in the looking-glass as he advanced 
 towards her, she turned to her maid, "Parkins, you had 
 better see if there is anything you can do for the young 
 ladies before you go downstairs to the cloak-room. I 
 can do without you now." 
 
 As the maid closed the door behind her, Mrs. Kerqu- 
 ham rose from her chair and faced round on her husband. 
 
 44 Why are you not dressed yet, Alban? It is a quar- 
 ter to ten, and you know that some of these people are 
 sure to be punctual." Perhaps the weary look on his 
 
 67
 
 68 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 face, as he sank into a low chair before the draped fire- 
 place, touched her heart a little, for she added in more 
 gentle tones, "Is anything the matter? Are you not feel- 
 ing well?" 
 
 "Nothing much is the matter, my dear," he replied 
 in his usual courteous way, "but I am not the thing. 
 I've not felt really well ever since we came to town in 
 the spring, and any excitement seems to tire me." 
 
 He settled himself as though the question of dressing 
 to receive his guests was the last thing in the world that 
 need trouble him, and Mrs. Kerquham, for the moment 
 dominated by his air, sat herself on the end of the sofa, 
 and did not even proceed with the putting on of her 
 gloves. 
 
 "I wanted to talk to you, my dear," began Mr. Ker- 
 quham, breaking the silence, "and tell you that really 
 after this season it will not be possible for me to live this 
 double life of work and pleasure. It is, as you know, 
 my earnest desire to earn money for you and for the 
 girls, so long as I have the power and the opportunity. 
 I want, in case anything should happen to me, to leave 
 you above all question of monetary difficulties. I should 
 like to know that the girls were not pinched for so much 
 as a half-penny. Then, too, there is Rosamund; she is 
 to me like a third daughter." 
 
 Mrs. Kerquham pursed her lips and stiffened her back 
 a little at the reference to her niece, but she was too wise 
 to interrupt by word or any other movement her hus- 
 band's slow utterances. 
 
 "To do all this, my dear," he went on, "I must 
 work, and work hard. Do not think I am complaining 
 of that. I love my art, and after that my greatest hap- 
 piness lies in knowing that you and the girls have all 
 the luxury and indulgence that money can buy."
 
 MAN PROPOSES 69 
 
 He sighed heavily, and leaned forward with his 
 elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. Mrs. 
 Kerquham noticed for the first time how he had changed 
 since the winter. "It is the so-called pleasure that tires 
 me so. The dinners and dances; the first nights at 
 plays, and the receptions that do not begin till after 
 midnight and continue until the sun is up that is where 
 my weariness comes in. and that is what I feel I must 
 give up." 
 
 Mrs. Kerquham began slowly to draw on one of her 
 long gloves. "Then what is your idea?" she said, quietly. 
 
 "Well, I have been thinking it over in the studio this 
 evening just between the lights. What I should like to 
 do would be to let this house and go down to Midshire. " 
 
 "But the girls!" burst involuntarily from Mrs. Ker- 
 quham's lips. 
 
 Even as she spoke there was a swish of silken skirts 
 outside, and a ripple of light laughter which died away in 
 the rooms below. Mr. Kerquham shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "I think the girls will make themselves happy any- 
 where. They have had several seasons of this kind of 
 thing, and they can have just as much pleasure, only of a 
 different kind, at the Manor. I do not want to spoil 
 their lives for them. I do not want to dock them of a 
 single moment of happiness. They are young enough 
 and light-hearted enough to be as pleased with horses 
 and bicycles and golf and tennis as with supper parties 
 and balls, theaters and the Row on Sunday." 
 
 Mrs. Kerquham buttoned her first long glove with a 
 decided air. She said nothing, but her mind was filled 
 with doubts as to the reception that Laura and Honor 
 would give to the news that in a few short weeks their 
 career in London society was to end, and that they were 
 to be condemned to the country for an indefinite period.
 
 70 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 "What do you think of my idea?" said Mr. Kerqu- 
 ham, a little anxiously, trying to read something in his 
 wife's cold, impassive face. 
 
 "What I think, Alban, is that you should go and dress 
 and get ready to receive our guests. The suggestion 
 you make is far too startling a one to be either consid- 
 ered or discussed in the space of a few minutes. It is 
 striking ten now. At any moment I may be wanted 
 downstairs. We will certainly talk the matter over at 
 some future date." 
 
 Gathering up her fan and bouquet, and submitting 
 herself to a last inspection in the long mirror, Mrs. Ker- 
 quham swept downstairs in all the glory of brocade and 
 old lace, leaving her husband to walk slowly to his dress- 
 ing-room and go through the monotonous process of 
 getting into evening clothes. 
 
 As Mrs. Kerquham walked through her rooms and 
 gave a last inspection all round she was outwardly quite 
 calm, but in her heart she was more angry with her hus- 
 band than she had ever been since the day she married 
 him. She had been an ambitious woman for many years 
 for him, and since his position had become assured her 
 desires for aggrandisement had been centred on her 
 daughters. The day that Laura was seventeen and made 
 her debut into society, Mrs. Kerquham had solemnly 
 prayed to God that her girl should make a brilliant mar- 
 riage. It was to that end she had sat up late night after 
 night ; that she had done violence to her feelings and gone 
 to noisy suppers at the Savoy, and parties at houses where 
 the company was as mixed as it was merry. It was for 
 that that she had slaved through lists of afternoon calls; 
 had lived in poky lodgings at Henley during regatta 
 time; had joined gay parties for Ascot week, and, at the 
 end of the season, commenced the round all over again
 
 MAN PROPOSES 71 
 
 at Homburg in August. It was for the sake of her 
 daughters that she had known all sorts and conditions of 
 men, and women whom she thought might influence 
 those men. 
 
 For three years she had believed that Laura's Dres- 
 den-china beauty and piquant ways were going to win 
 her a rich and titled husband. It had only been during 
 the last few months that vague hints, half-formed suspi- 
 cions, and fleeting doubts had assailed her as to the 
 reasons for Laura's undoubted popularity with men. 
 She had caught the whispers of dowagers in ball-rooms 
 about "that fast Miss Kerquham." She had seen other 
 women, whose daughters had married straight from the 
 school-room, look at her rather pityingly when s.he went 
 about with the three girls at her skirts. She had watched 
 for little overt looks full of meaning, and had knowledge 
 of double meanings in apparently innocent sentences. 
 
 The beginning of this season had almost proved to 
 her that Laura was going to be a disappointment. She 
 refused to believe that her girl would not marry at all, 
 but she feared that she was going to marry badly. 
 
 After Honor's future state she had never troubled. 
 She was quite aware that she had a mauvaise langue, and 
 despite her youthful prettiness would probably grow at 
 an early age into a sour-looking woman, but she felt sure 
 she would marry some one a rising professional man 
 most likely, who would want a sharp-witted woman to 
 push him in the world and a shrew to look after his serv- 
 ants. 
 
 And what of Rosamund? When she had first come 
 into Mrs. Kerquham's calculations she had been only a 
 stumbling-block. But her rare, stately beauty, her dig- 
 nified, quiet manner, which had begun by being foils to 
 Laura's freer manners, ended by making the latter seem
 
 73 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 merely vulgar. At first Mrs. Kerquham had been afraid 
 that Rosamund would annex Laura's admirers, but she 
 was constrained to admit that the girl seemed utterly 
 oblivious of the existence of such people, and when, as 
 had happened on more than one occasion, a young man, 
 wounded by Miss Kerquham's arrant flirtations and 
 hopelessly inconstant ways, had attempted to fly to the 
 more staple and sedate Miss Keith for consolation, he 
 had been ignored with quiet scorn. 
 
 It had not been until all the girls had been out for 
 some two or three years that Mrs. Kerquham realised 
 that the one of them who might help the others in the 
 matter of marriage was Rosamund Keith, and that she 
 would best do so by marrying well herself. 
 
 When once she had got this idea into her head and 
 had grown accustomed to it, Mrs. Kerquham began to 
 lay snares. Various eligible young men, who to do them 
 justice were nothing loth, were trotted out for Miss 
 Keith's inspection and approval; but she simply would 
 not look at them. She had several very good proposals, 
 but contented herself with refusing one after another, 
 and going quietly back to her uncle's studio, where she 
 made herself happy in cleaning his brushes and setting 
 his palettes. 
 
 Mrs. Kerquham had at first been a little amused at 
 what she called the "picksomeness" of her husband's 
 niece, but as the months flew by matters grew more seri- 
 ous. Every fresh escapade of Laura's placed a good 
 marriage for her further out of the question, and now 
 here was this last blow of all. They were to go into 
 the country. She guessed how such a scheme would turn 
 out. It would mean Midshire in the hunting season and 
 Scotland in the summer, where the only people they would 
 see, except their own servants, would be a few old
 
 MAN PROPOSES 73 
 
 cronies who would come up for a fortnight's fishing when 
 the streams were in good ply. 
 
 How was Laura to get settled in such places? It was 
 positively ridiculous to anticipate her marriage under 
 such hopelessly disadvantageous circumstances, and yet 
 she dared not fight the plan too hard, for in her heart she 
 acknowledged that her husband was ailing. Margot 
 Kerquham was hard-headed enough to know what the 
 death of her husband would mean to her. It would 
 mean a critical income, a little house, no carriages and 
 horses, no pleasures save those that were cheap or free. 
 It would mean that the girls would have to make such 
 frocks as they could afford to buy material for, and trim 
 their own hats. She smiled a little grimly at the idea of 
 idle, do-nothing Laura trimming a hat. It would mean 
 that Honor's temper would get worse day by day, and 
 that Laura, sooner than face the existence that a small 
 competency entails, might kick over the traces alto- 
 gether. Altogether it was a pretty quandary, and as she 
 passed through her fine reception rooms, where already 
 the light dresses of the girls were making bright patches 
 of colour against the handsome hangings and dark foliage 
 of the palms, Mrs. Kerquham's state of mind was not 
 one to be envied. 
 
 She walked over to the great bay window of the draw- 
 ing-room, and cast an eye round the verandah, which, 
 draped with Eastern stuffs, filled with broad divans, and 
 lit with Chinese lanterns, made a deliciously cool retreat. 
 She looked at it with eyes that saw nothing, for she was 
 still absorbed in finding an answer to the great conun- 
 drum should she, or should she not, consent to leave 
 London? 
 
 Suddenly Laura caught her by the arm and in a 
 rather high voice said:
 
 74 
 
 "Mother, what on earth does this mean? The whole 
 of the verandah is enclosed round with netting wire 
 netting. Nobody can get outside and walk in the gar- 
 den. Whoever had such a thing done?" 
 
 "The verandah has been netted in by my orders, 
 Laura." 
 
 "By your orders, mother? Whatever for?" The 
 girl looked so annoyed that Mrs. Kerquham, whose 
 strong mind had always been subservient to her favourite 
 daughter's petulant will, attempted to excuse herself. 
 
 "My dear, I thought the garden would be damp, and 
 that some of you girls, in your thin shoes and low gowns, 
 would catch cold." 
 
 "Rubbish!" said Laura, rudely. "You know it is a 
 perfect night, as hot as possible, and here we are shut in 
 like so many children. Why have you done it?" She 
 stamped one satin-shod foot on the parquet floor. "You 
 will make us the laughing-stock of the town. Already 
 Mr. Morton and Mr. Abbotsford and Nellie Carmichael 
 over there are calling this place the hen-coop. It is a 
 positive disgrace." 
 
 Mrs. Kerquham plucked up some spirit in defence of 
 her own act. 
 
 "My dear Laura, I do not approve, and I never shall 
 approve, of young men and young women strolling about 
 at all hours of the night in gardens and places. There 
 is plenty of room here for your friends to sit out if they 
 choose, but I will not have it said that the same free and 
 easy manners prevail in my house as are customary in 
 other people's." 
 
 Honor overheard the last few words of her mother's 
 speech. 
 
 "Oh! you are insulting all our morals now," she said, 
 with a spiteful flash of her eyes. "Insinuating that we
 
 MAN PROPOSES 75 
 
 are none of us able to take care of ourselves. Perhaps 
 you would like me to tell the girls as they come in that 
 they are not proper people, and that you imagine they 
 can only be kept within the bounds of decent behaviour 
 by being watched all the evening." 
 
 But Laura's temper by now had simmered down. She 
 had a plan in her brain by which she and her particular 
 friends could easily slip out into the garden if they chose. 
 
 "Be quiet, Honor; of course it is ridiculous, but it is 
 no use making a fuss about it now." She drew her sis- 
 ter away, and as they walked over the polished floor, 
 she bent down and whispered in her ear: "Try the smok- 
 ing-room window ; they will not have wired that over. 
 Tell Nellie and Cora and the two Danvers girls, and of 
 course we can take out anybody we like that way." 
 
 As she saw her two daughters whispering together, 
 Mrs. Kerquham felt that all her misplaced efforts had 
 been in vain; that she had merely made herself and her 
 old-fashioned notions of decent, ladylike behaviour 
 ridiculous by wiring in the verandah, and that in half 
 an hour the moonlit gardens and its shady alleys would 
 be full of girls and young men, laughing and kissing 
 ' 'spooning,' I think they call it," she said to herself 
 to the tune of the nightingales. Altogether the evening 
 scarcely promised to be a pleasant one for Mrs. Kerqu- 
 ham, and as she turned from the window to take her 
 place by the door to receive her guests, she wished that 
 she had never acceded to Laura's wish at all, and con- 
 sented to give a ball. 
 
 As she reached the doorway she caught sight of Lord 
 St. Ives walking up the long corridor in his usual leis- 
 urely manner. He was the one man who might save the 
 situation, and so she forced a smile to her thin, hard 
 lips, and gave him a more than usually gracious greeting.
 
 76 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 "I am so very glad you have come, and in such good 
 time, too. There are so many things I wish to speak to 
 you about. I feel you are such a friend of the family 
 that I can say things to you that I should not care about 
 discussing with anybody else. I should like to speak to 
 you at supper time." 
 
 As Lord St. Ives bowed over her hand he wondered 
 to himself what it all meant. He was of the age when 
 a man ought to know the world; he would never see 
 forty-five again. He had led a life that was not exactly 
 conducive to ignorance, and in the early morning the 
 effect of it showed a little too distinctly on his face; but 
 he had managed to keep his figure, and being a well-bred 
 looking man, had by night an air of distinction about 
 him which certainly made him an ornament in any aver- 
 age drawing-room. 
 
 He passed on into the room, his eyes seeking every- 
 where for Rosamund Keith; Mrs. Kerquham knew per- 
 fectly well for whom he was looking, and she made up 
 her mind to accept the inevitable. For months she had 
 hoped that his frequent visits to the house would culmi- 
 nate in a proposal to Laura, but she had lately realised 
 that such remnants of a heart as were left to his lordship 
 had been laid at her niece's feet. He saw Rosamund 
 almost at once, for her more than common height made 
 her conspicuous even in a crowd. He did not walk 
 straight up to her, however, but stopped to exchange 
 words with almost every one, as he crossed the room. 
 
 "Some one is looking for you, Rosamund," said 
 Honor, as she saw Lord St. Ives' carefully arranged 
 head coming slowly through the swaying throng. 
 
 <4 I am to be found here," answered Rosamund quite 
 quietly, and to Honor's disappointment neither blushing 
 nor looking in the least conscious.
 
 MAN PROPOSES 77 
 
 Presently, and as though quite by accident, Lord St. 
 Ives stood before Rosamund. 
 
 "Ah! Good evening, Miss Keith. I trust you got 
 my flowers." He glanced at the big bouquet which she 
 carried in her hand; it was of white lilies, and not the 
 one he had sent her. 
 
 "Yes, and I thank you for them," said Rosamund, 
 simply. 
 
 "I had hoped that you would have carried them 
 to-night." 
 
 Most girls would have prevaricated and talked about 
 the colour of their gowns or the scent of the flowers, but 
 Rosamund, in her calm, direct way, looked into his eyes, 
 and said : 
 
 "Yours were very nice, Lord St. Ives, but I liked 
 these better," and she raised the lilies and laid them 
 against her face. 
 
 "Or the giver?" Lord St. Ives felt it was bad man- 
 ners, but he could not help the words slipping from him. 
 
 "Perhaps," said Rosamund. 
 
 "How cruel you are!" he said with a laugh, trying to 
 pass off his other remark. "How many dances are you 
 going to give me?" 
 
 "I will dance with you with pleasure." 
 
 "Yes, but how often? Once or twice?" 
 
 "It is early in the evening, Lord St. Ives, and I have 
 many great friends coming to-night; I cannot promise 
 you more than one." 
 
 She passed by him, leaving him sulkily leaning against 
 the wall. 
 
 "Commend me to that girl for pride," he muttered. 
 "One would think she was a duchess or the daughter of 
 a millionaire, instead of being a pauper and heaven 
 knows who! But she does fetch me, I never saw a girl
 
 78 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 I liked so much or wanted so badly. She doesn't make 
 herself cheap as the rest of them do." 
 
 He looked scornfully at the fluttering crowd of girls, 
 all smiling and nodding and hiding their disappoint- 
 ments and petty jealousies, and putting bold faces on 
 everything, all for the sake of getting a word or a dance 
 from the young men who hung round the doors and 
 windows in groups and laughed at them behind their 
 backs. 
 
 Lord St. Ives flattered himself he was a good judge of 
 women, and he certainly had had over twenty-five years' 
 experience of them and their ways. He watched Rosa- 
 mund now as she moved about the room, much as a lover 
 of horses watches and gloats over the points of some 
 thoroughbred animal that has caught his fancy and is to 
 make his fortune. She was in black; it was something 
 clear and soft that floated like a cloud about her and 
 made the dazzling whiteness of her neck and arms almost 
 too startling by contrast. A silver belt was clasped 
 about her waist, and as she danced her beautiful body 
 swayed from the hips up with the absolute freedom and 
 subtleness of healthy, perfectly-formed womanhood. A 
 little string of milk-white pearls was round her throat, 
 and at the back of her neck an airy cloud of ringlets cast 
 a faint shade. She wore no other jewels, and had 
 nothing but the perfect outlines of her bare shoulders 
 and bosom, the glorious column of her full white throat, 
 and the sweet small oval of her face to commend her. 
 But to-night she seemed very happy; her great velvety 
 eyes danced like stars, and her scarlet lips were parted 
 in radiant smiles. 
 
 "I never saw her look so well," thought St. Ives. 
 "I did not even know she had so much expression." 
 
 Then he caught sight of the man she was dancing
 
 MAN PROPOSES 79 
 
 with. It was Paul Carr, and he wore in his coat some 
 lilies like those that Rosamund carried in her hand. 
 
 "Damn!" muttered St. Ives to himself, and he strode 
 down the long corridor into the refreshment room. 
 
 Mrs. Kerquham, for the moment relieved from the 
 fatigues of "reception, was sipping a cup of coffee. One 
 glance at Lord St. Ives' face showed her that something 
 was wrong. She put down her cup and went over to him. 
 
 "Dreadfully hot in the ball-room, I suppose?" she 
 said. "I really had to leave it for a few moments. 
 Won't you come into the verandah?" Still glowering, 
 Lord St. Ives offered his hostess his arm. "It was so 
 kind of you to come all this way to-night," she began, 
 when once they were sitting in a lamp-lit corner. "We 
 live so far out from what all you men call 'London.' In 
 fact, I have often wondered lately how you could find 
 time to come here so much." 
 
 "Your house is so attractive, Mrs. Kerquham, and 
 the entertainment you give your guests so agreeable 
 that one thinks nothing of a little distance," said Lord 
 St. Ives, politely, and wondering as he spoke when that 
 confounded valse would stop, and when that tall fellow 
 Carr would take his arm from about Rosamund's slender 
 waist. 
 
 "Yes, our house is nice," said Mrs. Kerquham with a 
 carefully modulated sigh. "Our dear house! I shall 
 be so sorry to leave it." 
 
 "Ah! where are you off to this autumn, Mrs. Kerqu- 
 ham?" said Lord St. Ives, indifferently, and trying to 
 see if from where he sat he could get a^peep into the ball- 
 room. "Is it to be Homburg again, or Switzerland?"" 
 
 "Neither; we are going to Scotland." 
 
 "Charming! charming!" said Lord St. Ives. "Quite 
 the place to go to. There is nothing like it. It suits
 
 8o THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 me admirably. I wonder if you will be anywhere near 
 where I am booked for? But even if you are not, you 
 always come south early in the autumn, and I do not 
 think of staying away long this year myself." 
 
 "We are leaving London for good," said Mrs. Kerqu- 
 ham, tragically. 
 
 "For good? Going to give up 'The Hurst,' this aw- 
 fully nice house and everything! Why, what is that for?" 
 
 Lord St. Ives wondered whether Mr. Kerquham had 
 been speculating, or whether the price of pictures was 
 falling off, or what it could be that was affecting the 
 family finances, and as he wondered he thanked his stars 
 that his own monetary position placed him above any 
 consideration of marrying for money. 
 
 "Mr. Kerquham says he can work in London no 
 longer. His health is not what it was, and so we are 
 going to live between Scotland and Midshire. " 
 
 "But surely,*' said Lord St. Ives, "you and your 
 daughters and Miss Keith will be here." 
 
 Mrs. Kerquham drew herself up, and the Puritanical 
 expression settled down over her hard features. 
 
 "The place of a wife and children is by the side of 
 the husband and father, Lord St. Ives." 
 
 "Oh er ah yes I yes, of course! I beg your 
 pardon," stammered his lordship. 
 
 "Well, Lord St. Ives," went on Mrs. Kerquham con- 
 fidentially, "I do not mind telling you that this plan of 
 my husband's of leaving town is a great blow to me 
 and" looking at him out of the corners of her eyes and 
 watching the effect of every word "I think I may say 
 that it will be a great blow to at least one of my young 
 people." 
 
 Lord St. Ives settled his shirt front and stroked his 
 moustache.
 
 MAN PROPOSES 8 1 
 
 "You think that Miss?" 
 
 "Oh! no names, please!" cried Mrs. Kerquham. "I 
 have no desire to be your confidant, Lord St. Ives, until 
 you have something to tell me." 
 
 "Deuced clever woman that," said his lordship to 
 himself, as Mrs. .Kerquham left him to chew the cud of 
 her discourse. "I suppose they are going away directly; 
 I had better speak to-night, perhaps. When a family is 
 on the move you can never get a word with any one, and 
 Miss Keith is not the sort of girl one could ask out to a 
 quiet luncheon and have to one's self. Thank goodness, 
 that beastly valse is over!" 
 
 But when he got back into the ball-room he found 
 Rosamund engaged for the next six dances, and it was 
 not until after he had supped that he chanced to find her 
 for a moment alone and disengaged. 
 
 "Give me the next; I want to talk to you." 
 
 Rosamund Keith did not like Lord St. Ives; she was 
 always a little frightened of him, of his bold eyes and 
 of the peculiar smile he had whenever he looked at her, 
 but she knew her duty to her aunt's guests, and if she 
 took his arm with a lack of cordiality, she acceded with 
 sufficient politeness to his request that she would sit out 
 the dance with him in the verandah. 
 
 They had that haven of refuge all to themselves, for 
 the majority of the guests were supping, and only a few 
 inveterate dancers were floating over the polished floor. 
 
 "Let me get you some cushions," said Lord St. Ives, 
 collecting half a dozen and piling them behind her, and 
 in so doing making such a nest for her that without abso- 
 lutely rising she could not shift her place. Then he 
 flung himself down at her side, and leaning on his elbow, 
 began to look at her with that hateful coarse look that 
 made her feel ashamed and hot and red all over,
 
 82 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 "How splendid you are looking to-night!" he said 
 presently, half under his breath. "But you have been a 
 little cruel about the flowers, you know. I chose them 
 so especially for you great queenly red roses, I thought 
 they would just suit your style of beauty. Those things, " 
 and he flicked with his gloves the lilies lying in her lap, 
 "are so 'missish. ' ' 
 
 She did not answer, but merely took the bouquet in 
 her hand and placed it on her other side. 
 
 "Now I have offended you," he cried. "Who gave 
 you those flowers?" 
 
 "They came without any card, but I think that Mr. 
 Carr sent them." 
 
 He looked at her with admiration. 
 
 "By heavens! you are a wonder! Any other girl 
 would have told a lie about it." 
 
 "What for? I am not ashamed of receiving flowers 
 from Mr. Carr." 
 
 "Oh, bother Mr. Carr!" said St. Ives, edging still a 
 little nearer. "Let's talk about something else. Let's 
 talk about about you." 
 
 "I'm afraid I am not very interesting," said Rosa- 
 mund, forcing a little laugh and feeling furious with 
 herself, as against every instinct and wish of hers she 
 grew hotly red again. 
 
 His eyes burned with admiration as he looked at her. 
 
 "Interesting?" he said. "You are the most interest- 
 ing woman in all the world to me." 
 
 "Now that is a very pretty compliment, Lord St. 
 Ives," said Rosamund, fighting hard to get the conver- 
 sation back into a light, indifferent vein. 
 
 "It is not a compliment, and you know it," he said, 
 rather roughly. "You know perfectly well, without my 
 telling you, that I am awfully fond of you. I never was
 
 MAN PROPOSES 83 
 
 so gone on any woman before. Of course, I have always 
 liked your sex; I think they are charming, and one could 
 not quite get on without them, but " 
 
 She held up her hand. 
 
 "I have no desire to hear your confidences about 
 other women." 
 
 "Well, no; I do not suppose you have," he stam- 
 mered a little awkwardly, and put off for the moment by 
 her rather offended air. "I do not want to talk about 
 other women, either. I only want to talk of you." 
 
 "Please don't," said Rosamund. 
 
 "Well, then, I want to talk about myself. Shall we 
 put it that way?" 
 
 He took hold of a little piece of the stuff of her dress 
 and began fiddling with it with his large strong hands. 
 
 "I know I am not much of a subject to talk about, 
 but if you would only listen for a few minutes I want 
 to ask you " 
 
 The thick fingers crept up from her gown until they 
 touched her bare arm. With a little exclamation of 
 anger she sprang up, as though a hot iron had burned 
 her flesh. 
 
 "I beg a thousand pardons," he cried, rising, too. 
 "I did not know you were so particular as all that." 
 
 Something in her attitude seemed to madden him; he 
 advanced towards her and caught her two hands in his. 
 
 "I wonder if that prudish, icy way of yours is all put 
 on just to drive me mad. I wonder if you are any bet- 
 ter than the rest of your sex, and if you are not playing 
 with me all the time. But I do not care whether you are 
 or not. You are the girl I want, and the girl I will 
 have." 
 
 He had caught her by the arms now, and strong and 
 supple as she was, she felt herself being gradually drawn
 
 84 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 into his embrace. His burning eyes pierced hers, his hot 
 breath was close upon her mouth. 
 
 "Miss Keith, this dance is ours!" said a voice behind 
 them. 
 
 The words acted like ice upon Lord St. Ives. With 
 a muttered oath he released Rosamund, caught up his 
 hat, and strode into the house. She, with all her will 
 gone for the moment, and all her control broken down, 
 put out her hands to Paul Carr like a little child, and 
 tottered towards him, crying, "I am so frightened; I am 
 so frightened!" 
 
 For a moment Paul thought she was going to be hys- 
 terical, as she sank sobbing into his arms. Without a 
 moment's thought he dragged aside a strip of hanging 
 drapery, and by sheer weight forced a piece of the wire 
 netting away from its frail fastenings. 
 
 "Come into the air," he whispered in her ear. 
 
 A moment later she was standing with Paul out in the 
 clear, white flood of moonlight. The whole garden was 
 bathed in it, and the nightingales were singing at the 
 bottom of the avenue. The house before her was all lit 
 up, and the crash of music rose and fell on the night air. 
 They had been playing that bit of the valse a few minutes 
 ago, when the other man had caught her by her arms 
 and drawn her to him. With a shudder she drew her 
 hand across her mouth. Paul Carr guessed what the 
 action meant. 
 
 "He did not kiss you!" 
 
 She dropped her arms down to her sides again and 
 stared straight before her. Though she was now out- 
 wardly calm, her outraged womanhood, her insulted pur- 
 ity, was still surging and beating at her heart and in her 
 temples. She could almost have screamed at the mem- 
 ory of that moment.
 
 MAN PROPOSES 85 
 
 "Are you feeling better?" said Paul. "How white 
 you are, and you are shaking so! Walk a little; it will 
 do you good." 
 
 He drew one of her arms through his and led her 
 across the lawn to the avenue where the birds were sing- 
 ing. The moment she was out of the light her strained 
 nerves gave way, and putting her two hands before her 
 face, she began to cry. 
 
 "How that brute has frightened you!" cried Carr. 
 
 He did not try to stop her tears ; some instinct told 
 him she would be better for the shedding of them. 
 Gradually her sobs grew quieter, and with a little shame- 
 faced "I am very sorry," she dragged a scrap of a hand- 
 kerchief out of the bosom of her gown and dried her 
 eyes. 
 
 Presently with a long-drawn, trembling sigh she raised 
 her face. She was composed now, though the dark 
 fringes of her lashes sparkled with tears. Again a sob- 
 bing sigh swelled her white bosom, but she caught it in 
 her throat and strangled it, for in the low bough that 
 hung motionless in the warm air above her head a full- 
 voiced nightingale burst into a mighty flood of song. 
 
 Paul, watching every expression of her face, saw the 
 tension and the shame die out of it. He noted how her 
 quivering lips settled once more into their calm curves, 
 and how her gracious head fell into the tilted pose that 
 became her so well. 
 
 As the rich, throbbing song died in the blue night 
 Rosamund spoke: 
 
 "That music is like a message from heaven. How 
 foolish how idle to be angry or grieved at things 
 that happen, when God sends us such compensations as 
 that. Listen!" She lifted one slender hand. "He is 
 going to sing again!"
 
 86 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 A shaft of the white moon rays had pierced the thick 
 foliage and fell on her face and throat, as she stood 
 enraptured and all unconscious that Paul's soul was in 
 the eyes he bent on her. She did not even know that 
 his hand had crept to hers and held her slight, cool 
 fingers in an ardent clasp. 
 
 It was only when for a moment the little singing 
 bird checked his flood of melody that Rosamund started 
 to find Paul was so close to her. 
 
 "Ah! Rosamund, you will not draw away from me. 
 Dearest, let me tell you that I love you that I adore 
 you, reverence you, as a man worships a star or a saint." 
 
 Gently he drew her nearer to him, until, all trembling 
 and sweet, she stood within the circle of his arms. 
 
 "My dear love, do not fear do not tremble." Pale 
 as a lily, yet bravely fighting all the maiden modesty of 
 her pure nature, she raised her eyes twin lakes of can- 
 dour and truth to his. 
 
 "I do not fear you and if I tremble it is with joy!" 
 
 "Then you love me! Rosamund you love me!" 
 
 A divine blush swept across the marble of her throat 
 and cheeks; a delicious mist of passion grew in her dark 
 eyes; the delicate bow of her mouth broke in a shy 
 smile. 
 
 "I love you, Paul!" 
 
 His hands slipped from her waist to her wrists. Ten- 
 derly, slowly, he raised her white arms till their scented 
 warmth was laid about his neck. Then, with his eyes 
 searching the secrets of her own, and his mouth close to 
 hers, he whispered passionately, "Kiss me heart of my 
 heart!" 
 
 And as she gave him her virgin lips, and with them all 
 her troth and love, the nightingale thrilled the whole 
 avenue with the passion of his song.
 
 MAN PROPOSES 87 
 
 But Paul was only conscious that close above his 
 heart, clasped in his arms, was the one woman he had 
 ever loved, the only breathing handiwork of God he had 
 ever desired. The faint pulsing of her slender body, 
 the delicate perfume of her waving hair, the starry radi- 
 ance of her dreamy eyes, all intoxicated him. 
 
 A laughing group of girls flitted across the brilliant 
 whiteness of the wide lawn; the music from the ball- 
 room wailed and sobbed in a langourous valse measure; 
 the nightingale shook the very air, but he only heard 
 the words, "I love you, Paul!" 
 
 By-and-by some thought crossed Rosamund's mind, 
 and she drew herself from his embrace, and with her 
 palms laid upon his heart, to hold him from her, mur- 
 mured, plaintively, "Paul, you are not loving me out of 
 pity, are you, because I am poor ?" 
 
 He caught her back to him with a laugh. 
 
 "You sweetest soul! I love you for yourself, and for 
 that only. If all the world were rich and you were pen- 
 niless, I would have you and you alone for my wife." 
 
 He caught sight of her serious face and grew grave 
 too. 
 
 "Dearest you have said you love me. Will you 
 marry me?" 
 
 For answer she gave him her lips once more, with all 
 the frankness of her nature. 
 
 "Paul! I love you, and I will be your wife or no 
 man's." 
 
 They spoke but little after that ; pledged words were 
 enough between them. But they lingered beneath the 
 fragrant lime trees till the fiery-eyed carriages whirled 
 away the tired dancers, till the fiddles gave their last 
 scream, and till the faint flush of breaking day silenced 
 the heavenly song of the nightingale.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 BETWEEN THE ACTS 
 
 A LAST word from Rosamund to Paul Carr, as he took 
 leave of her after the Kerquham's dance, gave him 
 warning that all the family were to be at the opera the 
 next evening. 
 
 The longing to see and speak with his betrothed again 
 drove him to be punctually in his stall, and from it to 
 direct all his heart and thoughts to the big box on the 
 grand tier. Laura was looking quite her best, like a 
 beautiful, audaciously half-draped Dresden figure. A 
 group of young men were round her chair, and she kept 
 whispering to them behind a spangled fan. Even Honor 
 was smiling, and had caught some reflected beauty from 
 her sister. Mrs. Kerquham felt that the evening was 
 being quite a success, and though she was inwardly 
 dreadfully bored, and could not help wondering why such 
 discordant noises were necessary to the expression of 
 emotion, she managed to fix a fairly pleasant smile upon 
 her stern face. Rosamund, who adored music, looked 
 radiantly happy. She had flashed a little smile and the 
 faintest of blushes down to Paul on her first entrance, 
 and then gave herself up to whole-hearted enjoyment of 
 the glorious flood of sound. He noticed that she wore 
 some of the lilies that he had given her last night in her 
 bosom, and that a little brooch he had sent her during 
 the afternoon sparkled like a star among the thick masses 
 of her dark hair. 
 
 88
 
 BETWEEN THE ACTS 89 
 
 After the first act Paul went upstairs, but only to find 
 the box door wide open and a perfect flood of young men 
 overflowing into the corridor. Laura was standing out- 
 side, but Rosamund had not left her seat, and it was 
 quite impossible to force his way to her. Lord St. Ives 
 was sitting close to Mrs. Kerquham and evidently per- 
 suading her to fall in with some plan of his. Paul could 
 only smile at Miss Keith and bow to her aunt, and then 
 there was no choice left him but to talk nonsense to 
 Laura or to go to the smoking-room and have a cigarette. 
 
 In the second long interval the same scene was 
 enacted over again, but he was more persistent this time 
 and took up his stand outside the box, determined to get 
 a word with Rosamund. Yet again he was thwarted, 
 for as he leant idly against the wall, an arm was slipped 
 through his and a man he knew said: 
 
 "Oh, come along with me, Carr, and have a drink. 
 It is no use waiting about here." 
 
 They sauntered together down the corridor, Paul 
 listening to Mr. Trevor's confidence and comments. 
 
 "Those Kerquham girls will be unbearable if they see 
 such a lot of young men hanging round. They give 
 themselves airs enough already, goodness knows!" 
 
 They turned into the crush-room, which was full of 
 men who were discussing in loud voices every known 
 subject under the sun politics and finance, the scandal 
 of the boudoir and the coulisse; smoking-room stories, 
 rumours about so-and-so, racing tips, and gossip on 
 every conceivable subject. Guy Trevor loosed Paul's arm 
 the moment he got inside the door. 
 
 "Hallo! there is Tommy Coates over there; he can 
 give me a tip about the Ascot Cup," and he dashed off 
 into the crowd and was lost at once. 
 
 Paul leaned up against the wall. He nodded idly here
 
 90 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 and there to the men in the crowd whose faces he knew, 
 but he was a little vexed he did not quite know whether 
 with himself or with Rosamund and he was in no mood 
 for idle talk. In front of him stood a group of half a 
 dozen men. Three of them were drinking, the others 
 were talking. 
 
 "I say," drawled a gentleman whose strongly marked 
 features and pronounced twang stamped him as one of 
 the "Chosen People," "who the deuce is that pretty girl 
 on the grand tier? The one with something blue in her 
 head and not too much frock on. It is Lady Carruther's 
 box, but her ladyship is not there herself, so they can- 
 not be very intimate friends of hers." 
 
 A young man with a budding moustache lifted his 
 head from his tumbler. 
 
 "Yes, I have been looking at her myself. Smart 
 looking little bit of goods. But the girl who sits in the 
 far corner is better looking black hair, big eyes, and 
 such a lovely neck and shoulders!" 
 
 "Don't care for that sort myself," said the first 
 speaker. "The other's style is more to my taste. Won- 
 der who they are?" 
 
 "Don't you know?" queried a third. "I can tell you." 
 The group gathered closer together, and Paul writhed 
 inwardly, for he guessed so well what was going to be 
 said. 
 
 "They are the Kerquhams the artist's people, you 
 know." 
 
 "Fiddle-de-dee!" cried the youth. "Kerquham paints 
 ripping pictures and all that kind of thing, but I don't 
 mind betting you an even fiver that his women-folk are 
 not like that. That black-haired girl looks like a swell 
 of some sort." 
 
 "Nothing of the sort, nothing of the sort," said the
 
 BETWEEN THE ACTS 91 
 
 small man. "She is a poor relation, a niece or a cousin, 
 or an adopted daughter of old Kerquham's. They say 
 she is a very nice girl, and as straight as a die." 
 
 "She must be if St. Ives is after her, and I see he's 
 been in the box all the evening," remarked the Jew. 
 "He is very fond of a lark, but he means to marry all 
 right. He told me once that he did not intend to add 
 another shady Countess to the peerage." 
 
 "Is the girl going to have him?" asked some one. 
 "He is scarcely the kind of a man a nice young woman 
 would care about." 
 
 "Scarcely, but I do not suppose that she will have 
 very much choice in the matter," said the little man, 
 who posed for knowing all about everything. "It is a 
 question of Mrs. K. " He winked very solemnly. "She 
 wants to get one of those girls married, and as her 
 daughters are hanging fire a bit, she has just lately been 
 turning her attention to the other one." 
 
 The callow youth grew pink and ferocious. 
 
 "But you cannot force a girl in these times," he said. 
 "By Jove! it is a great shame, because you know, St. 
 Ives is a bit too thick for any decent woman." 
 
 "Don't you frighten yourself, old chappie; St. Ives 
 has pretty well sown his wild oats. He is getting on for 
 fifty, you know, and he has lived every minute of his 
 life. He will make a very good husband, you see if he 
 don't, and an earl with thirty thousand a year is not to 
 be sneezed at by a poor relation, you know, even although 
 she has got a big pair of eyes and fine dark hair." 
 
 "Well, I call it an absolute shame!" 
 
 "Call it what you like, dear boy; call it what you 
 like. Mrs. K. is a clever woman; she is Scotch and 
 canny, and I think she has got his lordship on the hook 
 by now. Hallo! there goes the bell; come along. "
 
 92 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 The black-coated stream, all laughing and joking, 
 filed past Paul back into the theatre. He sat down on 
 one of the big lounges and dropped his head into his 
 hands. So that was the way they talked of Rosamund 
 and her belongings as if she were so much flesh and 
 blood, just put up for sale; as though her purity and her 
 innocence, her goodness and her happiness were market- 
 able commodities that were bound to fetch a high price 
 in the world's market. Then he became conscious that 
 the people behind the bar were looking at him, and 
 he got up and walked into the corridor again. As he 
 passed Mrs. Kerquham's box, Lord St. Ives came out, 
 holding the door ajar behind him. 
 
 "I have just been making up a little supper party for 
 the Savoy to-night, Mr. Carr, " he said, with an assump- 
 tion of cordiality. "I hope you will join us there. Mrs. 
 Kerquham says she shall not stop till the end ; so will 
 you meet us there about eleven?" 
 
 It was on the tip of Paul's tongue to refuse, when he 
 caught sight of Rosamund through the nearly closed 
 door. She had heard Lord St. Ives' words, and had 
 turned her head eagerly and was looking at Paul. 
 
 "Yes, I will come," he said in a voice sufficiently loud 
 for her to hear. Her eyes smiled at him before she again 
 looked at the stage. 
 
 When he arrived at the Savoy none of Lord St. Ives' 
 party had appeared yet, but a table had been reserved. 
 He lit a cigarette and stood at the top of the steps of 
 the courtyard. Perhaps he might get a chance of taking 
 Rosamund's hand and whispering just one word in her 
 ear. Presently the whole party drove up. Mrs. Kerqu- 
 ham and the three girls in her own carriage; half a 
 dozen men packed into two hansoms, and Lord St. Ives 
 last of all, with a lady, in another cab.
 
 BETWEEN THE ACTS 93 
 
 "By-the-bye, Mrs. Kerquham," he said in his loud 
 voice to that lady, as she alighted from her carriage, "I 
 met Mrs. Rivington just as we were coming out, and 
 I brought her along with me." 
 
 Mrs. Kerquham bowed very stiffly. Mrs. Rivington 
 was a grass-widow, whom she knew more by repute than 
 personally. They exchanged cards once a year, but 
 there the acquaintanceship ceased, for even the Scotch- 
 woman's altered view of looking at things and people 
 in general had never been able to include Mrs. Rivington 
 within the bounds of her horizon. 
 
 "How awfully jolly!" cried Laura, shaking Mrs. Riv- 
 ington's hand. She did it as much to annoy her mother 
 as anything else, and also with an eye to secure an invi- 
 tation some time or other to the grass-widow's festive 
 Sunday luncheons, and tea-gown smoking parties, about 
 which such quite too shocking stories*were told. 
 
 With a rustle and much chatter the party filed upstairs 
 and into the long, brilliantly-lit supper room. The 
 theatres were over, and already the tables were filling 
 fast. Here and there, though, in cosy little corners 
 were tables which watchful waiters were reserving. They 
 were for late comers, for wealthy patrons of the restau- 
 rant and of pretty actresses who had to get out of their 
 stage clothes and put on their best diamonds and a fresh 
 layer of powder and rouge before they could come out 
 to supper. 
 
 With considerable noise Lord St. Ives' party settled 
 themselves down. Courtesy demanded that Mrs. Kerqu- 
 ham should sit by her host's right hand, but she felt very 
 out of it, for Mrs. Rivington was opposite, and was 
 already indulging in asides in which doubtful jokes, innu- 
 endoes and slang held the chief part. Paul slipped into 
 a seat next Rosamund, though to do so he had to roughly
 
 94 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 shoulder that same youth whose outspoken admiration 
 he had listened to an hour ago in the crush-room at 
 Covent Garden. As they drew their chairs to the table, 
 their hands met for a moment. 
 
 "What a piece of luck, my darling! I have been 
 wondering the whole night whether I should get a chance 
 of- speaking to you." 
 
 "Are you not going to Mrs. Tregaskis' dance to- 
 night?" said Rosamund. "I made sure we should meet 
 there, and so I did not mind so much when we could not 
 speak at the opera." 
 
 "I had not meant to go, but if you do, of course I 
 will." 
 
 "Aunt Margot is sure to take us," said Rosamund. 
 "You know she considers that she doesn't do her duty 
 unless she keeps us up till four o'clock every morning. 
 For my part, I faould rather go home if " and she 
 smiled an adorable little smile "if it were not for you." 
 
 "Oh, Rosamund, do look!" cried Laura, in her stri- 
 dent voice across the table; "there is that woman just 
 come in whom we saw dancing the other night at the 
 Paragon. Don't you remember the one who really did 
 cut it so awfully fine in the matter of clothes? Those 
 she had on looked as if they were going to drop off," she 
 added for the benefit of the giggling young men about 
 her. "Why she is not a bit pretty off the stage! Such a 
 coarse looking lump of a thing, but her diamonds are 
 lovely. Whoever gave them to her, I wonder?" 
 
 Laura, launched on the sea of social and theatrical 
 scandals, set to work to retail all the gossip and slander- 
 ous stories she had ever heard. She professed to know, 
 by sight, half the notorious women who were in the 
 room, and had something she would call "spicy" to tell
 
 BETWEEN THE ACTS 95 
 
 about every one of them. Now and then Mrs. Kerqu- 
 ham looked reproachfully in her daughter's direction, 
 but Laura was wound up. She had had her third glass 
 of champagne; she had got four young men to talk to; 
 she knew she looked her best, and that her shoulders 
 were as pretty as any other woman's; she was in the 
 seventh circle of her petty little heaven of delight 
 wherein she dwelt, until soon after midnight the party 
 rose from supper. 
 
 "You will give me the first dance when you arrive at 
 Portman Square," pleaded Paul, as he put Rosamund's 
 cloak about her. "You know we have not had a word 
 alone together yet, and I want to tell you how sweet you 
 are looking." 
 
 "Lord St. Ives, " broke in Mrs. Kerquham's cold 
 voice, "will not Mrs. Rivington come with me, and per- 
 haps you will take my niece Rosamund?" 
 
 But Mrs. Rivington, with her daringly cut gown, her 
 too yellow head, and her carefully bistred eyes, had for 
 the moment got the whip hand of Lord St. Ives' senses. 
 
 "Ha! ha! Mrs. Kerquham," he cried, with a loud 
 laugh. "Mrs. Rivington is under a promise to me, and 
 I am not going to let her off, you know. We shall meet 
 up at the Tregaskis' in a few minutes," and taking his 
 charge familiarly by the arm, Lord St. Ives turned 
 his now rather uncertain gait towards the outer staircase, 
 and drove off in a hansom with the grass-widow. 
 
 "If I can be of any use," said Paul, "my brougham 
 is here " 
 
 But Mrs. Kerquham was annoyed. If Lord St. Ives 
 intended to make a fool of himself, she did not intend 
 Rosamund to give him any loop-hole of complaint. 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. Carr, but we can manage. Now,
 
 96 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 girls, come along," and she unceremoniously hustled 
 her charges into the carriage. 
 
 "Keep me all the dances," whispered Paul, as Rosa- 
 mund passed him with downcast eyes. Then he turned 
 to the men: 
 
 "Now, then, to whom of you can I give a lift?" 
 And the procession started for Mrs. Tregaskis' ball 
 in Portman Square.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 WHILE HOUSES SLEEP 
 
 As two hours later the Kerquham carriage rolled away 
 from Mrs. Tregaskis' house, Paul Carr walked slowly 
 down the steps with his light overcoat over his arm. A 
 small group of pale-faced, yawning footmen were loung- 
 ing against the pillars and railings, and a few carriages 
 with sleeping horses and tired coachmen were ranked 
 close to the square railings. As he stepped onto the 
 pavement a hoarse-voiced linkman hailed a hansom, 
 but Paul shook his head, and turning sharply to the left 
 vanished into the darkness. He felt that he must move, 
 stretch his limbs, and exhale in deep breaths from his 
 heart the mingled fumes of wine, the perfume from 
 women's hair, and the faint, sickly smell of dying flow- 
 ers. He longed to drive from his brain, through the 
 medium of his regularly falling feet, the swinging meas- 
 ure of the sensuous string music, the witless talk and 
 aimless laughter. To add to all that confusion, the 
 rattle of cab wheels and the tinkle of a bell would be 
 more than his excited nerves could bear. He felt that 
 he must walk. 
 
 A moment later he was out of sight and hearing of 
 the brilliantly lit house, where silhouetted figures glided 
 before the shining windows, and where the long balcony 
 was filled with whispering couples. It was the stillest 
 hour of all the twenty-four. The short summer night 
 still held sway, though the pallid gleam that shone 
 
 97
 
 98 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 brightly from such upper windows as faced the east her- 
 alded the quickly coming day. 
 
 Paul was a Londoner born and bred, but as he reached 
 Oxford Street an overwhelming sense of desolation and 
 loneliness swept over him. The great thoroughfare was 
 still as the grave, and the only things that seemed to live 
 were the endless rows of gas lamps that at an immeasur- 
 able distance met in a tiny point before fading into noth- 
 ingness. Even at the coffee stall that twinkled like a 
 constellation before the Marble Arch all was still. He 
 felt for the moment as if he were the only waking man 
 in the whole world. 
 
 He crossed the wide road leisurely, finding an almost 
 childish attraction in the fact that he had not to hurry. 
 Audley Street was deserted, but in Grosvenor Square 
 another large party was breaking up, and he noticed 
 how haggard and drawn the women looked beneath their 
 powder and rouge, as they passed to their carriages, for 
 it was only here and there that one of them had the dis- 
 cretion to draw a film of lace across her face as she 
 emerged into the merciless light of the coming day. In 
 Mount Street and Berkeley Square it was the same, and 
 as he turned into Piccadilly and set his feet in the direc- 
 tion of his own rooms, he met many men in twos and 
 threes sauntering homewards as they smoked their last 
 cigars. Ten minutes ago he had fancied that all London 
 was sleeping, and that idea had soothed him. Now it 
 occurred to him that the whole city had been dancing all 
 night, and the reflection irritated him and chased away 
 such physical well-being as he had evolved from his 
 walk, bringing back to him in a flood of memory all the 
 events of the past night. 
 
 Spurred by his own thoughts, he turned round, and 
 crossing the road, walked rapidly down St. James' Street.
 
 WHILE HOUSES SLEEP 99 
 
 An enforced energy of thought and movement swept 
 over him, and he felt that his rooms, with their damask 
 curtains and Persian rugs, pillowed lounges and crowded 
 palms, would suffocate him. He must get out into the 
 open and breathe. He would go straight across the wide 
 Horse Guards Parade and on to the Embankment to 
 where the great waterway eternally ebbed and flowed. 
 
 It seemed at first almost dark on the Embankment; 
 they had already put out the lights, and the river looked 
 sullen and black under the cold grey sky. Involuntarily 
 Paul slipped on his coat. He was not cold, but the 
 impression of dreary desolation and the sad murmur of 
 the passing waves made him shudder. On the seats were 
 huddled shapeless masses of humanity, who had slept and 
 wakened, cursed and slept again all the night through. 
 Here and there some one had been lucky enough to get 
 a seat all to himself, and lay at full length, snoring luxuri- 
 ously. 
 
 Paul strolled along for a time, then, beneath the 
 shadows of two great hotels, leaned his arms on the low 
 parapet and stared into the rolling stream. Its dark 
 depths revealed to him all the events of the past few 
 hours. Again he saw the crush-room at the opera filled 
 with men of all ages, whose talk and gossip were even 
 more spiteful and biting than the tea-table gabble of their 
 wives and sisters. Again he saw the long supper-room 
 at the Savoy, with its myriad lights and scores of 
 crowded tables. He remembered how the skirts of the 
 lowest had flaunted past those of the highest; how men 
 in company with the painted toy of an hour had laughed 
 and nodded across the room at well-born, respectable 
 women. He heard again the clink of glasses, the shrill 
 screams of laughter, which told him that the last coarse 
 story had been enjoyed by an eager audience.
 
 100 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 Then his introspection narrowed, and he saw only the 
 table at which he had sat with Rosamund. He remem- 
 bered Laura's behaviour and Honor's talk and Lord St. 
 Ives' face, flushed with wine, bent down almost to Mrs. 
 Rivington's stripped shoulders. He recalled Guy Tre- 
 vor's vapid chatter and Dick Charteris' broad innuendoes. 
 He caught his breath at that last memory, when he saw 
 once more, in angry fancy, the swift wave of colour that 
 had swept over Rosamund's cheek at one of Dick's most 
 outrageous remarks. 
 
 And then the pictures faded, and the lights and music 
 died down, and only Rosamund's face, with its sweet 
 mouth and great starry dark eyes gazing at him from 
 beneath her broad, level brows, was reflected back at 
 him from the rushing tide, which was now turning a 
 sickly grey colour under the silvery heavens. 
 
 "My darling, my white rose, I must pluck you and 
 take you away from all this, or even your purity will be 
 smirched. I must see your uncle at once and ask him 
 to announce our marriage. Then we will shake the dust 
 and the soil of the world our world from our feet and 
 go out and make one of our own." 
 
 His dreams were cut short by an insistent hand- on 
 his arm and an incoherent voice that babbled meaning- 
 less words in his ear. A wretched figure in flaunting 
 rags and cheap paint, a caricature of womanhood, a stain 
 on civilisation, stood at his side. The creature swayed 
 a little, for she was not sober, and whined and leered. 
 Half sick with disgust, Paul stepped aside quickly from 
 this wretched remnant of femininity, and roughly bade 
 her go. 
 
 "D you for a mean hound! I was a beauty when 
 
 you were in your cradle. Twenty years ago the men ran 
 after me. Give me sixpence for a cup of coffee."
 
 WHILE HOUSES SLEEP IOI 
 
 She stretched out her hand as though to touch him. 
 Paul, thrilling with horror, turned on his heel and moved 
 away. 
 
 "Oh, my God! he is going to leave me to starve," 
 shrieked the woman in a voice that rent the grey air. 
 She made an unsteady run for the stone steps against 
 which the tide rippled and lapped. Losing her footing 
 she lurched and slipped with loud screams almost into 
 the heavy stream. Paul, with every manly instinct 
 roused, rushed after her and dragged her, soaked and 
 shrieking, once more back to the pavement. Mad with 
 drink and fright, she began to fight and scream, and it 
 was all that Paul, strong man as he was, could do to 
 hold her back. 
 
 "What are you doing here with this woman?" said a 
 rough voice. 
 
 "Oh! good sir, he is driving me to starvation and the 
 river." 
 
 Paul still held the struggling woman by both her arms, 
 and turned his head to the policeman. 
 
 "Nonsense! I do not know her. She spoke to me 
 and then tried to drown herself." 
 
 Another policeman came up, and the two looked very 
 serious. Such odd things did happen; one never knew 
 what steps these gentlemen would not take to get rid of 
 a woman who was in their way. 
 
 Meantime the wretched creature was pretending to 
 faint, and was hanging with all her weight on Paul's 
 hands, while the water streaming from her skirts formed 
 a pool about his feet. A few tattered, shadowy figures 
 loomed up in the vague light and hung round and won- 
 dered audibly what "the swell had been a-doing of." 
 Among these Paul saw a man who was better dressed 
 than the others, though he was distinctly frayed about
 
 102 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 the wrists and ankles. He was small and had a mean 
 sallow face, with red eyes which looked as though they 
 never rested or slept. Paul noticed him more particu- 
 larly because he pushed his way so aggressively through 
 the throng and stood so very closely behind the two 
 policemen. He pulled out a little book and began to 
 scribble in it fast, looking first at Paul and then at the 
 huddled-up, bedraggled woman. 
 
 "Here! can't you take her?" said Paul to one of the 
 policemen. "She's only pretending to be ill. Get an 
 ambulance." 
 
 "That's all very well, sir," replied one of the men, 
 "but we wants to know a little more about this before 
 we takes her off your hands." And the slowly gather- 
 ing crowd of tatterdemalions applauded the law, and 
 cried, "That's it, copper, don't you let him go!" 
 
 Paul looked at the faces of the people about him. 
 They were all low and debased, the very scum of the 
 earth. He knew that the very fact of his being a gen- 
 tleman was against him in their eyes, and that he would 
 get neither support nor sympathy from any of such a 
 crew. Suddenly a voice behind him spoke, a voice 
 whose ringing tones he seemed to know, and that brought 
 back to him memories of the happiest years of his life. 
 
 "What! is that you again, Kate Gray? Now, you are 
 only malingering, you know, unless you are too drunk to 
 move. Constable, you ought to know th'is woman. 
 Take her to the station at once." 
 
 The two policemen looked a little sheepish, and 
 advancing, relieved Paul of the most unpleasant burden. 
 Yet to show that they still had some independence, and 
 to keep up their character with the crowd that thronged 
 around, one of them said: 
 
 "All right, Father, we'll take your word for it, but
 
 WHILE HOUSES SLEEP 103 
 
 the gentleman must come with us and give his name and 
 address." 
 
 As though by magic an ambulance was fetched and 
 the wretched woman flung upon it, and then Paul found 
 himself the center of a shuffling, ragged, evil-smelling 
 crowd, walking up through the grey dawn to Bow Street 
 police station. He had tried for one brief moment to 
 slip away unobserved, but the people muttered angrily, 
 and the man whose voice he seemed to know had touched 
 him on the arm and said: 
 
 "Of course, you know nothing of this unfortunate 
 creature, but you had better come." 
 
 As they left the Embankment behind them and 
 walked up towards the Strand, Paul looked at the man 
 who paced by his side. He was of middle height, square 
 and sturdy in build, with a strong, plain face that was 
 lit with kindly eyes, and a firm mouth that indicated a 
 sense of humour. He wore the severely cut broadcloth 
 suit of a priest, while the plain band of the Roman collar 
 clearly indicated his form of faith. His hat was one of 
 soft felt, and his appearance in no way remarkable. As 
 Paul looked down from his superior height, the other 
 looked up, and then uttered an exclamation. 
 
 "Why, you are Paul Carr!" 
 
 And Paul held out his hand and cried, "And you are 
 Philip Steyne!" 
 
 "I was. I am Father Gregory now." 
 
 Paul looked him up and down, and the Father's stern 
 mouth melting into a smile, said: 
 
 "Yes! I suppose it was the outcome of the Oxford 
 movement. Do you remember how w? used to argue 
 when we were up there together? But four years ago I 
 entered on my novitiate, and I have been a monk for 
 nearly three now."
 
 104 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 "Fancy you doing such a thing as that!" 
 
 The other man laughed a little. 
 
 "Ah! my friend, we never know from year to year 
 where we may be or what we may become. When we 
 were in the playing fields at Eton and rowing in our col- 
 lege eight at Oxford that last term that we were 'up,' 
 we never thought we should meet again like this." 
 
 They were in Wellington Street now, and the great 
 market on their left was alive with carts and the tramp 
 of straining horses' feet and echoing the oaths of rough 
 men lifting enormous weights, and the shrill cries of the 
 flower girls of London, who had come to buy their daily 
 stock. It was almost day, and under the high, sharp 
 light that grew and quickened every moment, the 
 trampled refuse of the vegetables, the rank mud and the 
 toiling crowd, looked very unlovely in Paul's eyes. The 
 people about scarcely took any notice of the little pro- 
 cession. At that time in the morning such things as a 
 drunken woman, or a man hurt in a street brawl, were 
 very common sights. Besides, they were a hard-working 
 set, these market porters; their pay was not large, and 
 they had to look out for a job, so beyond laughing a bit 
 at the "swell" and exchanging a few coarse remarks 
 about the woman on the ambulance, they took no notice. 
 
 It was almost a relief to Paul to leave that noisy, 
 dirty crowd behind and step into the clean, whitewashed, 
 quiet precincts of the police station. There the men on 
 duty were all spick and span to a button, alert and civil. 
 It was all over in a few minutes. The woman was taken 
 to the cells, and some one at a high wooden desk wrote 
 down Paul's name and address. As he gave it, he was 
 again unpleasantly conscious of the sallow-faced, shabby 
 man with the notebook. He wondered why he, out of 
 all the crowd, had succeeded in getting into the police
 
 WHILE HOUSES SLEEP 105 
 
 station, and why, when the superintendent laid down his 
 pen, the shabby man walked up to the big book, in which 
 the entry had just been written, and began to make 
 notes with a very stumpy pencil on a dirty piece of paper. 
 Paul had the uncomfortable sensation of being watched, 
 but when Father Gregory's name was also taken and 
 they were both told to return to the police court at half- 
 past ten o'clock, he was free to go. 
 
 Almost unknowingly he retraced his steps back to the 
 Embankment. The whole affair had been so disagree- 
 able, so sudden, he had scarcely realised it, and was only 
 conscious that he had touched something unclean. He 
 walked rapidly on until he was again in sight of the river, 
 and not until then was he fully aware that Father Greg- 
 ory had kept pace with him and was by his side. The 
 sun was now up, and the river danced and twinkled like 
 a thousand diamonds in the new day. The pile of fac- 
 tories on the opposite side, faintly veiled on the right 
 and left by the pale morning mist, looked as fair and as 
 picturesque as a row of palazzi on a Venetian canal. 
 The trees on the Embankment were rustling in the fresh 
 morning air, and the birds singing as though it were the 
 country. Paul unfastened his coat and flung himself on 
 a seat. They were all empty now, these same wooden 
 beds, for their nightly occupants had gone into the by- 
 ways of the town to pick up the scraps and refuse that 
 were flung out into the streets at cleaning time. 
 
 For some little while the two men sat silent. Father 
 Gregory's short, strong fingers slipped over the beads 
 of his rosary and his lips moved in prayer. Paul could 
 only look about him and try and shake from his brain 
 the effects of what seemed a hideous dream. By-and- 
 bye, the priest let his beads fall with a little clatter at 
 his side.
 
 106 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 "You are taking this business very much to heart," 
 he murmured. "It is nothing; the woman is well 
 known to the police." 
 
 "Of course, of course," said Paul, shaking himself 
 out of his reverie. "But it is dreadful to know that such 
 creatures exist." 
 
 Father Gregory looked a little surprised. He had 
 never, in days gone by, considered Paul as being more 
 innocent or more ascetic than the average clean-minded, 
 healthy young man. 
 
 "What do you mean?" he said. "I do not under- 
 stand." 
 
 "Nor do I," said Paul. "I cannot exactly explain 
 what I mean, but just lately I have been living in a world 
 of my own making with another woman; a girl who is so 
 pure, so spotless, so genuine and true, that even her own 
 belongings and the people she moves among seem 
 scarcely worthy of her. I was thinking of her, almost 
 imagining she was by my side when that wretched 
 creature came up and laid her hand upon my arm." He 
 brushed his coat sleeve as though some stain remained 
 there. 
 
 "You are nervous and overwrought," said Father 
 Gregory in his quiet, kind voice. "It is not like you to 
 get hysterical and fanciful over things, even for a woman 
 you love." 
 
 Paul pulled himself together, and gave a little laugh. 
 
 "You are quite right, Philip. Ah! I beg your par- 
 don; the old name will come back, you know. But this 
 London life does not agree with me. I hate it from the 
 bottom of my soul and so does she. When we are mar- 
 ried we are going to live in the country." 
 
 A look of tender interest mingled with a sad wonder 
 filled the priest's eyes, but he spoke kindly.
 
 WHILE HOUSES SLEEP 107 
 
 "So you are going to be married? Next to religion, 
 a good wife is the best gift that God has to bestow on 
 man." 
 
 Then they fell to talking in detached sentences, Paul 
 asking questions, and Father Gregory recalling old times. 
 One thing led to another, and they spoke of nothing 
 long. It was a kind of resumt of their lives, which 
 opened up much that was pleasant and good, and noth- 
 ing that was regrettable and sad. 
 
 Behind them, as they sat and talked, London stirred 
 itself and waked to full life. Heavy carts and vans 
 thundered down the roadway, and often with their rattle 
 drowned the low question and answer. Home-going 
 cabs crept lazily along, and lumbering omnibuses brought 
 their first loads of workers from the pleasant suburbs 
 into the great seething city. With a snort and a splash, 
 the early morning boat bustled past, and the barges that 
 had been moored like great sleeping whales against the 
 opposite wharfs all night slipped slowly out into the 
 stream. Factory women, with flaunting feathers and 
 clean white aprons, passed chattering by, and flower 
 girls from the market, with thick shawls tied across their 
 broad shoulders, and short, full skirts pinned up well 
 over the tops of their rough boots, came down to the 
 river's edge to arrange their fragrant wares and sort 
 them out to the best advantage. With hands in pockets 
 and cloth caps tipped on the back of their heads, office 
 boys sauntered by. Some who had lain in bed late were 
 eating their breakfasts as they came. Others who had 
 much work to do were whistling shrilly the latest comic 
 songs as they stepped out. From Big Ben eight o'clock 
 throbbed out on the warm morning air. Across the 
 bridge that joins Charing Cross to the Surrey side 
 the first Continental train, with a shrill shriek, steamed
 
 io8 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 slowly out. Paul pulled his coat across his evening 
 dress once more and rose to his feet. 
 
 "It is late; I must get back." 
 
 Father Gregory rose, too. 
 
 "You will come and see me then," he said, holding 
 out his hand. "Our meeting has been very strange, but 
 our talk has been very pleasant. Mine is a poor place, 
 for I live among poor" people; but you will come?" 
 
 "I will indeed; I promise," said Paul. 
 
 The Father turned and walked citywards, and Paul, 
 hailing a passing hansom, sprang into it and was driven 
 back to his chambers in Piccadilly.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE MAGISTRATE DISPOSES 
 
 MRS. KERQUHAM had gone with Honor and Rosamund 
 to call on Mrs. Rivington. It had been no motive of 
 friendship that had induced her to take this step, but 
 rather of policy. She entirely disapproved of the lady 
 and of her way of life, but Lord St. Ives' pointed atten- 
 tions to her on the previous evening had made her think 
 that it might be as well to make friends with the mam- 
 mon of unrighteousness. 
 
 Mrs. Kerquham was quite aware of Paul's admiration 
 for her niece, but she still clung to the hope that matters 
 in that quarter would not come to a head. She did not 
 disguise from herself that Paul Carr, with his good social 
 position and his very satisfactory balance at the bankers, 
 was a suitable match for the penniless orphan girl of 
 whom she had had the bringing up. But like many 
 women of even good birth, a title dazzled her, and hav- 
 ing once realised that neither of her daughters would 
 ever have the faintest chance of becoming Countess of 
 St. Ives, she had seized eagerly on such indications as 
 had pointed to his lordship's admiration for Rosamund. 
 A few months ago she would have accepted Paul for 
 Rosamund with gladness, but she had set her heart 
 lately on her niece's becoming a great lady, and she 
 meant to cling to that hope and work to that end until 
 the very hour struck that might transform Miss Keith 
 into Mrs. Carr. 
 
 109
 
 110 THE PASSION OF ROSAMVND KEITH 
 
 As regards Lord St. Ives' attentions to the gay 
 widow, Mrs. Rivington, she was not much troubled. She 
 had seen too much of men and manners not to know 
 their little ways, and she felt that if the lady in question 
 had any influence over the earl at all, it was better to 
 have it exercised for than against her cherished plan. So 
 she had gone to call at the elaborately decorated, over- 
 draped, semi-darkened house in Stanhope Gardens where 
 Mrs. Rivington held her court, and to make the visit 
 less pointed, she had taken the two girls with her. 
 
 Tea, out of fragile cups of jewelled Sevres, accom- 
 panied by a large assortment of appetising sandwiches and 
 cakes, had just been served. The conversation had not 
 been of the most brilliant. Mrs. Kerquham had been 
 all the time trying to find out exactly on what terms Mrs. 
 Rivington was with Lord St. Ives. Rosamund, who, 
 with her customary straightforwardness, frankly disap- 
 proved of the lady, sat with folded hands and lowered 
 eyelids, on a high chair near the open window. Honor, 
 filled with the disagreeable desire to find out how such a 
 woman lived, had been too busy staring about the room 
 and making a mental inventory of its luxurious contents 
 to say much. Mrs. Rivington, all floating laces and 
 pale pink ribbons, golden curls and a strong atmosphere 
 of perfume, had been smothering her yawns and wonder- 
 ing why on earth such a dull set of people should come 
 to see her. 
 
 Suddenly the door opened, and Miss Glossop, a mid- 
 dle-aged lady, much over-dressed and flushed with 
 excitement, accompanied by Mr. Trevor, all mincing 
 and mannerisms, came into the room. There were 
 greetings all round, and then Miss Glossop cut across 
 the conversation with a loud-voiced, "Have you heard 
 the news?"
 
 THE MAGISTRATE DISPOSES HI 
 
 Mr. Trevor, looking portentously solemn, drew a 
 half-penny evening paper from the immaculate folds of 
 his frock-coat. 
 
 "Quite too awful, you know; could not have believed 
 it myself; always thought Carr was the straightest fellow 
 in the town. But there you never know your luck." 
 
 As he slowly unfolded the paper, Miss Glossop cried 
 eagerly: "Yes, it's quite too shocking! Really, to think 
 that one knows a man like that; that one met him only 
 last night! Well, it will give us all something to talk 
 about at any rate for a few days," and she smacked her 
 lips as though she had a dainty morsel between them. 
 
 "Mr. Carr? Why, what is the matter with him?" 
 said Mrs. Rivington, roused into some semblance of 
 wakefulness. "Is not he that awfully nice-looking young 
 fellow who was supping with us last night, Mrs. Kerqu- 
 ham? He is a great friend of yours, isn't he? People 
 are saying so." 
 
 Her eyes shot one little glance towards Rosamund, 
 who still sat near the window with lowered lids and 
 closed mouth, but who, beneath her mask of indiffer- 
 ence, was all a-quiver to know what they meant. Mrs. 
 Kerquham drew herself up very stiffly before she 
 answered. There was evidently something wrong about 
 Mr. Carr, and she did not intend to commit herself by an 
 excessive profession of friendship before Mrs. Rivington 
 and Miss Glossop. 
 
 "We do know Mr. Carr," she said, coldly. "But in 
 town one comes across so many people, and life here is 
 always such a bustle, that one has not always the time to 
 discriminate between the good and the bad as one might 
 wish." 
 
 "Well, just listen to this!" said Guy Trevor in his 
 high voice.
 
 113 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 Honor pulled her chair a little nearer into the circle. 
 Rosamund did not move, but her fingers clenched them- 
 selves tightly in her lap. Then, amid many exclamations 
 and interjections, with comments of his own, and remarks 
 from the ladies round him, Mr. Trevor read out a highly- 
 coloured report of Paul Carr's appearance at Bow Street 
 police court that morning, when he had given evidence 
 as to the miserable affair on the Embankment at early 
 dawn. 
 
 "Was it attempted murder or suicide?" burst in Miss 
 Glossop. 
 
 "Oh! I have not done yet," said Mr. Trevor, waving 
 her to silence with his hand. Then he went on to read 
 the magistrate's comments on the case; and on the sin- 
 gularity of a man of good position being on a place like 
 the Embankment with such a wretched creature as stood 
 in the dock, at any hour of the twenty-four. Father 
 Gregory's few words were put aside and the surmises of 
 the police as to the suspiciousness of the whole business 
 were emphasised. The affair ended in Paul's being 
 reprimanded for being mixed up in bad company, and 
 being warned to be more careful for the future. The 
 woman was sent to the workhouse. 
 
 Mr. Trevor dropped the paper on his knees, and 
 looked round at his audience. He felt he had made 
 quite a sensation. For a brief moment silence reigned, 
 and then in high, shrill argument their voices rose. In 
 Rosamund's ears they sounded like the waves of the sea. 
 Her one prayer all the time was that she should not 
 move or cry out or faint. She prayed as she had never 
 prayed before that she might not make an exhibition of 
 herself. She did not even dare to lean forward to catch 
 the faint breeze that blew in at the window for fear of 
 attracting attention, for she knew that her face was
 
 THE MAGISTRATE DISPOSES 113 
 
 grey and her mouth drawn with agony. Presently she 
 was able to open her eyes. The trees outside in the 
 square swam like a green sea before her imperfect vision, 
 but with returning consciousness came the sharpest pain 
 of all. What was this that they were saying? That Paul, 
 her lover, her affianced husband, was a man of the low- 
 est tastes; that he consorted with the scum of the earth; 
 that he had left her side, only that morning, to hold 
 converse with the vilest outcast that man could have 
 made of woman; that he had driven her to attempt sui- 
 cide, or that he had tried himself to make away with 
 his shame! They went over and over the same subject, 
 turning it this way and that, rolling it round their 
 tongues, and savouring it in their mouths. 
 
 Rosamund would not look towards them, but she 
 knew exactly how severe an expression Mrs. Kerquham 
 was wearing, and how Honor's narrow, hard mouth was 
 screwed together in shrewish delight. She caught a few 
 of Mrs. Rivington's coarse suggestions and of Mr. 
 Trevor's feeble excuses for the weaknesses of mankind, 
 which were worse than the most outspoken accusations. 
 She heard Miss Glossop, the old maid to whom nothing 
 was sacred, tearing Paul's reputation to rags, and accus- 
 ing him of every crime in the calendar. Yet she bore it 
 all, and with it that deadly sick feeling, that awful 
 blackness, that sound of many waters in her ears, and 
 fought as she had never fought before to keep her senses. 
 
 It was Honor's voice high and sneering that pierced 
 the armour of her self-control at last. 
 
 "Well! the knowledge that Carr is this kind of man 
 ought to effectually put a stop to his dangling round one 
 person whom we all know. That's to say, if she has a 
 spark of pride or decency about her." 
 
 Rosamund forgotten, or at least regarded as an
 
 114 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 indifferent listener started to her feet, and with ashen 
 face and a voice shaking with passionate emotion, cried, 
 "Honor! how can you so insult me?" 
 
 The women turned in their seats, and Mr. Trevor 
 rising, withdrew behind the shelter of Miss Glossop's 
 ample shoulders. 
 
 "Rosamund!" cried Mrs. Kerquham in expostulatory 
 tones. "What do you mean?" 
 
 "You know Aunt Margot and so does Honor and 
 all of you. You all know that Mr. Carr of whom you 
 have been saying such shameful things, and who is not 
 here to defend himself loves me. Two nights ago " 
 her voice broke, but she went bravely on "the other 
 night he told me so and asked me to be his wife." 
 
 "Miss Keith!" 
 
 "Rosamund! Be careful what you say." 
 
 "I am being careful, Aunt Margot. I only want to 
 tell you all that I accepted Mr. Carr's offer of marriage 
 and that therefore I hold myself engaged to him in the 
 face of every misfortune or shame that may come upon 
 him. Good-bye, Mrs. Rivington. I will walk home, 
 aunt!" She bowed coldly as she left the room. 
 
 "Good heavens!" cried Mrs. Kerquham, starting to 
 say a hurried good-bye. "What a terrible thing." 
 
 "But Mr. Carr's very rich," drawled Mrs. Rivington, 
 who was quite amused by such a display of emotion. 
 
 "What shall you really do about the engagement?" 
 asked Miss Glossop, whose curiosity at times over- 
 stepped the bounds of good manners. 
 
 Mrs. Kerquham hesitated for a brief space. Precipi- 
 tation might ruin everything. Lord St. Ives and Paul 
 Carr might both be lost together. 
 
 "I shall wait and see what other people think," she 
 said at length as she hurried from the room.
 
 THE MAGISTRATE DISPOSES 115 
 
 "Ha! you are always so clever," said Mr. Trevor, in 
 his most flattering tones. But Miss Glossop rather 
 spoiled his remark by adding sharply that "any fool could 
 have seen that." 
 
 Downstairs on the doorstep Rosamund was standing, 
 white and trembling. 
 
 A smile of amusement curved Honor's thin lips as she 
 passed her cousin and got into the carriage. Mrs. Ker- 
 quham looked at her niece. She was a woman who dis- 
 liked having her plans upset, neither did she approve of 
 the girl's being seen on foot in the streets in the after- 
 noon, but there was a look in Rosamund's eyes, a defiant 
 misery in the poise of her head, that warned her it would 
 be wiser for the moment to bow to the girl's expressed 
 wish. 
 
 "My dear, if you care to walk home, do so. But do 
 not go fast; it is still very warm. James, give Miss 
 Keith her parasol." 
 
 Still with her brain on fire and her heart stone cold, 
 Rosamund watched her aunt and cousin drive away, and 
 it was only by degrees that she became conscious that 
 the servant within the house was still holding the door 
 open, and evidently waiting for her to walk away. Very 
 slowly she went down the steps, having to feel for each 
 one before she set her foot upon it. As she reached the 
 pavement, the door was shut with a clang behind her, 
 and she turned up the square towards the Cromwell 
 Road. 
 
 Mrs. Kerquham was right; the afternoon was 
 intensely hot, and the streets were empty, save for a few 
 carriages filled with ladies paying their duty calls. She 
 wondered what they were all talking about; whether 
 they knew. For fear that some one should recognise her 
 and stop her, she put up her parasol and held it closely
 
 Il6 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 before her face. As the action of walking steadied her 
 senses, a mad desire to know the truth came upon her. 
 She had only up to now heard the interrupted reading 
 from the newspaper, which had been so interlarded with 
 comments and suppositions and assertions from Miss 
 Glossop and Mrs. Rivington that she had gathered noth- 
 ing more than that some hideous trouble had befallen 
 her beloved. She would stop at the station in Glouces- 
 ter Road and buy a paper; then perhaps she might get 
 a little nearer to the truth. Intent on doing so, she 
 slipped her hand into her pocket, but found she had no 
 purse with her. It was a small contretemps, but it wrung 
 her over-wrought nerves, and for the first time her 
 mouth began to quiver and her eyes filled with tears. 
 She forced them back, however, and walked on, trying 
 to school herself into the philosophical reasoning that as 
 she had borne so much she could bear a little more. Up 
 in the High Street the newspaper boys were flaunting 
 placards, across which was printed in thick, black let- 
 ters: "Serious scandal in the West End. Allegations 
 against a well-known gentleman." 
 
 The fighting instinct was roused in her again, even as 
 Honor's words had stirred it, and she could have torn 
 the papers to shreds. She felt the whole thing must be 
 a mistake, if not a lie. Paul, with his high-minded 
 notions, his particularity nay, his fastidiousness about 
 women could never have had any traffic with the 
 wretched creature, who, according to what Guy Trevor 
 had read, had appeared in the dock as a mere besotted 
 bundle of rags. Nothing would ever persuade her that, 
 except for motives of charity or kindness, he could ever 
 speak to such a wreck of womanhood. The papers 
 always made the worst of things, and she kept telling 
 herself that he would be able to explain it all away. Yet
 
 THE MAGISTRATE DISPOSES 117 
 
 not to her! God forbid that she should ask for any 
 explanation that she should insult him with even the 
 shadow of a doubt. But in the midst of all her personal 
 grief, she remembered that there would be others who 
 might not have the same faith in him that she herself 
 held. To her it could make no difference whether he 
 had done anything or whether he had done nothing. He 
 must always be the best, the truest-hearted, the most 
 noble man she had ever met. The man to whom she had 
 given her love; the man she had promised to marry. 
 She would have to fight his battles. She felt that, and 
 the sense of coming war roused her a little and drove 
 the blood into her clay-cold cheeks, and set her walking 
 up the hill with a freer step. Yes, she would fight for 
 him to the last, and stand by him. Nothing would 
 change her opinion of him, and she was angry with her- 
 self that she even remembered what had been said of 
 him, and determined to free her mind from the calumnies 
 and insinuations that even in her half-fainting condi- 
 tion had crept into her ears and found lodging in her 
 brain. 
 
 But as she rang the bell at "The Hurst" a sense of 
 shame, as though she had done wrong, flowed over her 
 once more. She imagined that the servant who opened 
 the door looked sympathetically at her, and she flushed 
 to the roots of her hair as she darted past the man and 
 up the first flight of stairs. 
 
 Once there, she paused and hung over the low balus- 
 trade. She would ask if her aunt had returned or if her 
 uncle were in the studio. Would it be an acknowledg- 
 ment of doubt on her part if she went to them and asked 
 their advice, or should she proudly ignore the whole sub- 
 ject and regard it as though it had never been? With 
 her hands still upon the oaken rail she stood, torn again
 
 IlS THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 by a thousand emotions, turning hot and cold, filled with 
 grief one moment, and proudly defiant of the world the 
 next. 
 
 The door bell rang sharply, and a knock she knew so 
 well followed it. Her heart leaped to her throat, for she 
 knew it was he. She heard the door open and Paul's 
 voice ask for Mr. Kerquham. Was it fancy that she 
 thought it was a little anxious? Before the echo of his 
 words had died in the hall, the door of the long library 
 opened sharply, and she heard her aunt say in loud, clear 
 tones: 
 
 "Will you tell Mr. Carr that Mr. Kerquham is at 
 home, but cannot see him?" 
 
 The hall door was shut, and Rosamund, writhing as 
 though she had been struck by the insult that had been 
 hurled at her lover, staggered to her room.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 CHARITY 
 
 PAUL CARR was scarcely surprised at what had happened 
 at " The Hurst " that afternoon. His first astonishment at 
 finding the events of the early morning so magnified and 
 distorted had seemed to deaden all other feeling within 
 him. He had vaguely wondered, through the luncheon 
 hour at his own rooms, why the police had insinuated 
 what they did; why Father Gregory's evidence had been 
 put aside, and why he had been so roughly warned 
 against consorting with bad characters. It never struck 
 him that the facts of his being a gentleman of good 
 birth and position were dead against him in the little 
 republic that forms the floating population of a police 
 court. 
 
 It was not until a man he knew brought him one of 
 the evening papers that he realised that this affair was 
 going to prove troublesome, and when an hour or two 
 later notes of half insulting sympathy and insinuating 
 condolence reached him, he awoke to the fact that he 
 had better go and see Rosamund's uncle. That she her- 
 self would require any explanation never occurred to 
 him, but he had all a young man's respect for the feel- 
 ings of older people than himself, and he remembered 
 that though Mr. Kerquham had lived his life in the 
 world, he had the blood of a Puritan family in his veins, 
 and Mrs. Kerquham, with her ineradically narrow views, 
 at his side. 
 
 119
 
 120 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 So he started for Campden Hill, where the repulse he 
 met showed him that already the poison had begun to 
 work against him. He jumped into his cab and was 
 driven back to his rooms, where he sat down and wrote 
 two long letters, one to Rosamund and the other to Mr. 
 Kerquham. After they were finished, an unusual curi- 
 osity drove him to send out for an evening paper. What 
 he read there seemed to alter the situation, and he 
 destroyed the letters he had written. Things were going 
 to be more serious than he imagined. Of course it was 
 all nonsense; it would only be a nine days' wonder even 
 if it attained to that; but meanwhile he must write noth- 
 ing hastily, and had better go down to the club and get 
 his dinner before going on to Lady Scarsdale's reception, 
 where he should meet Rosamund and where he could 
 better speak what he had to say. 
 
 He was dressed and running downstairs to his 
 brougham when a telegram was put into his hand. It 
 was from Lady Scarsdale, "Regret my reception post- 
 poned." He stuffed it into his pocket, feeling vaguely 
 annoyed to think that the opportunity of seeing his 
 betrothed that evening was gone. 
 
 He drove down to the club, and after ordering his 
 dinner went into the morning room. There had been a 
 great deal of talk going on as he opened the door, but 
 a sudden silence seemed to fall on all the members as 
 he walked into the room. It was still broad daylight, 
 and the evening sun was flinging broad beams through 
 the great plate-glass windows. 
 
 "By Jove! How pale he looks," whispered one man 
 to another. 
 
 "No wonder; he is in a nasty hole." 
 
 Two of his friends, with much show and ostentation, 
 walked across the room, grasped him by the hand, and
 
 CHARITT 121 
 
 after bidding him "buck up and face the music," 
 abruptly went out. Three others whom he knew sud- 
 denly became deeply absorbed in their papers. Half a 
 dozen men with whom he had no acquaintance whatever 
 stared rather rudely. He flung himself into a chair and 
 idly turned the pages of a magazine until he was told 
 that his dinner was ready. 
 
 He had an uncomfortable feeling that he was being 
 looked at and talked about all the while he ate. He tried 
 to shake it off, for he felt he was getting self-conscious 
 about this wretched business. But somehow the even- 
 ing seemed very lonely, and although there was one of 
 his favourite operas being given at Covent Garden, he 
 weakly yielded to a strange reluctance to go there. 
 
 After dinner the club was nearly empty, for in the 
 mid-season every man has some engagement or another 
 for the evening. It was horribly dull, and Paul sat by 
 the open window to catch the little air there was coming 
 in from the sun-baked street, feeling unusually de- 
 pressed and nervous. As the big clock behind him 
 struck eleven, he rose impatiently out of his chair. 
 
 "I'm not in the cue for society and ordinary people 
 to-night," he said to himself. "I will go down and see 
 Philip Father Gregory, as he calls himself now." 
 
 As he passed into the hall and picked up his light 
 overcoat three or four young men in spotless attire and 
 large button-holes were being helped into their coats. 
 
 "See you later at Lady Scarsdale's, dear boy," said 
 one. 
 
 "Yes, I shall turn up there about one. I promised to 
 meet some people at Princes' first. Are you going?" 
 
 "Rather!" said a third. "Lady Scarsdale's suppers 
 are some of the best in town, and old Scarsdale always 
 trots out such ripping cigars as one leaves."
 
 122 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 Paul walked past them with his head in the air and a 
 very set look on his handsome face. So Lady Scars- 
 dale's party was not postponed. It was merely he who 
 had been put off. It was a little thing, a mere pin prick, 
 dealt by the hand of a frivolous woman, but it hurt him 
 like a sword thrust. 
 
 "So things are going to take this turn," he thought, 
 as a swift cab bore him eastward. "Is this the begin- 
 ning of it? Are they all going to behave like this, and if 
 so what is going to be the end?" 
 
 He passed through the silent city, deserted and smell- 
 ing clean of freshly sprinkled water, on to where the 
 long row of lights and stalls and hoarse cries and frowsy 
 crowds made another world; where the people never 
 seemed to go to bed; where the streets were alive with 
 noise and light and music and quarrelling all the night 
 through. Where the public houses shut their doors for 
 a few brief hours, and where the wickedness and the 
 misery and the poverty of a whole world of people 
 seethed and fermented. 
 
 Paul seemed to drive for hours, and as they went fur- 
 ther east the cabman had to ask his way. Finally he 
 turned up a narrow street; it was unlit from end to end, 
 and made more dark by the height of the houses on the 
 other side. After the roar and clatter of the main road 
 it was very quiet. 
 
 "I think this must be the place, sir," said the cabman 
 through the trap, pulling up at a low, iron-studded door 
 in a dead wall. A bell handle on a rough cord dangled 
 high out of the reach of passing ragamuffins. 
 
 "I will try here," said Paul, getting out and pulling 
 at the handle. 
 
 A distant clang woke the echoes for one moment and
 
 CHARITT 123 
 
 then all was still again until the soft pattering of sandal- 
 shod feet came whispering down the long corridor. 
 
 "Is this the monastery?" said Paul to an indefinite 
 figure that, with a smoking lantern in its hand, stood 
 before him. 
 
 "Whom do you wish to see?" was the answer. 
 
 "Father Gregory; is he at home?" 
 
 The figure said "Yes," and Paul, tossing some money 
 to the cabman, entered under the low arch of the door- 
 way. 
 
 It was very quiet within, and cool and even sweet 
 after the close, foul streets through which he had driven. 
 Here and there at the corners of the stone corridors 
 small lamps burned feebly, but it was all on a level and 
 Paul strode on behind the white-habited figure that 
 seemed to glide in front of him. Presently he was 
 shown into a little room; it was the parlour of the 
 monastery, and as bare and plain and clean as such 
 places are. 
 
 "I will send Father Gregory to you," said the monk, 
 closing the door on Paul. 
 
 One candle burned in the centre of the table; an open 
 window was making it gutter, and it formed what old 
 women in the country call a "winding-sheet." Paul 
 smiled bitterly as he watched the dropping tallow harden, 
 and thinking of the past day muttered to himself, "I 
 wonder if it is an omen?" 
 
 He continued to stare gloomily, without thought or 
 movement, at the wavering light until a cheery voice from 
 the doorway cried: 
 
 "Ah! you have come so soon; that is what I call 
 keeping a promise." 
 
 Paul turned and took his old friend by the hand.
 
 124 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 "I can lay claim to no virtue on that score. I think 
 I am driven to you by trouble." 
 
 Father Gregory looked grave. "So that you come to 
 us at all, that is something. When people are happy and 
 all the world goes well with them God is little more than 
 a myth. It is only sorrow and pain and disappointment 
 that make men cry out to Him. I think that is why 
 such things are sent to us. Now, will you not come to 
 my room and we will have a talk, and " Then his eye 
 fell on Paul's immaculate evening dress. "But perhaps 
 you have no time ; you are going somewhere to-night, out 
 into society?" 
 
 Paul shrugged his shoulders. "No," he said, shak- 
 ing his head. "Society does not want me just now; I 
 have had a hint to stop away." 
 
 The feeling of childish petulance that comes to people 
 even in their greatest sorrows made him pull out the crum- 
 pled telegram from his pocket and toss it on the table. 
 
 "Read that," he said. "It is all a lie a sham! They 
 think I have done something wrong; that I am mixed 
 up with some low scandal, some vulgar intrigue. I am 
 not fit to be in a drawing-room with decent men and 
 women." 
 
 Father Gregory smoothed out the flimsy bit of paper 
 and read it. Then he laid one cool, strong hand on 
 Paul's feverish wrist. 
 
 "My son! my friend! you are taking this too much 
 to heart. You are over-wrought, and are laying too 
 great a stress on a mere trifle." 
 
 "Have you seen the evening papers?" said Paul. 
 Then remembering that he was speaking to one who had 
 relinquished the world, he checked himself and looked 
 around. "But perhaps here you do not know these 
 things."
 
 CHARITT 125 
 
 Father Gregory smiled again. "Oh, yes we do! We 
 are not a closed Order, and we are obliged to know 
 everything that goes on outside. It is impossible to help 
 people unless we know when and where to do it. Our 
 work is among the poorest and the most wretched. If we 
 were to shut our eyes and our ears to their needs and 
 their cries, our labour would be in vain. I have seen 
 the papers. You are paying, through them, the penalty 
 of your position." 
 
 "But it is unjust! It is a lie!" cried Paul, hotly. 
 
 "Certainly it is," said Father Gregory. "But you 
 must remember you know it, in fact, as well as I do 
 that all the world loves a sensation, more particularly 
 the set among which you move, for they have so few." 
 
 "You are right there," said Paul. "Dressing and 
 dining and dancing; going to the play and racing; meet- 
 ing in the Park in the morning and at the theatres at 
 night are their amusements. What a treadmill it all is!" 
 
 "Yes, I suppose so," assented the priest. "You know 
 my experience of it was very short. I had no leanings 
 that way, but the little I did see of it convinced me that 
 the reason of your world being so keen about scandalis- 
 ing one another is that you are hungry for a new emo- 
 tion. You are starving for a new flavour to tickle 
 your palates and your brains stagnate for want of exer- 
 cise. " 
 
 "Yet it is not fair," said Paul, "that I " 
 
 Father Gregory raised his hand. "It is you to-day; 
 it may be some one else to-morrow." 
 
 "But," cried Paul, impatient to speak, yet scarcely 
 knowing what to say, "what would they have me do? 
 Would they have had me let that wretched woman drown 
 like a kitten with a stone round its neck? Heaven 
 knows, the women of society are hard enough and bad
 
 126 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 enough and cruel enough for anything. Perhaps that 
 would have pleased them. Bah! we talk of our civilisa- 
 tion, but the women nowadays who pose for virtue and 
 go to court, and scream at the sight of a mouse, are not 
 a whit better than those aristocrats of Rome who sat 
 day after day in the circuses and watched their kind 
 being done to death by every torture that man could 
 devise." 
 
 "And yet there were good women in Rome," said 
 Father Gregory, quietly. "And there are good women 
 in London. I could tell you the names of scores who, 
 once a week, lay aside their fine dresses and jewels and 
 give up their receptions and gay assemblies and put on a 
 plain gown and quiet bonnet, and come down here and 
 work like angels in this hell." 
 
 "But all that," cried Paul, "only bears out your own 
 words. They do it for sensation. It is a novelty for a 
 woman who has ridden in a carriage all her life to travel 
 in a tram. She likes to look at herself in the glass when 
 her hair is tucked away behind her ears, and she has got 
 on a bonnet that her own kitchen maid would not wear. 
 It gives a new zest to their own idleness and luxury to 
 come down here and go among these loathsome dens, 
 and see these awful people who live and die in them. It 
 is not true charity, and you know it isn't. It is playing 
 at it; it is something to talk about over the dinner table 
 when they get home and have had their perfumed baths 
 and dressed themselves in their laces and silks. They 
 are all amateurs together. They have no sincerity, no 
 heart. They exercise hospitality towards those who can 
 return it. They profess charity and good works as a 
 means of making it up with their God. How many 
 women are there who do not, under the name of charity, 
 make exhibitions of themselves on stages and at bazaars;
 
 CHART TT 127 
 
 who do not flaunt their beauty as they flaunt their 
 wares ; who do not meet together day after day and chatter 
 and talk, and scandalise one another on the pretence of 
 holding meetings? They are all selfish and hollow 
 together. There is no true charity in the world I have 
 lived in ; no charity like yours. Why, Philip, I remember 
 the time when you were the hardest rider, the hardest 
 drinker, the gayest fellow in all our set at Oxford! What 
 good days they were ! We did not care much then for any- 
 thing but a good horse under us, or a long pull on the 
 dear old river at sunset. Fine ladies were not much in 
 our way, and though most of us had a bit of money, I 
 do not think that our particular set ever calculated on 
 the social advantage it might bring. We all used to 
 count upon having a good time shooting or fishing, and 
 some of us have had. Poor Billy Tenterden got his 
 quietus out in Africa after big game; he had his wish. 
 And Reggie Fitzurse went to find the North Pole and 
 never came back. Tim Mitford married and is a country 
 gentleman. He is all right; his wife is the dearest little 
 woman that ever wore shoe-leather, and you, though you 
 have chosen a strange path, you seem all right, too. I 
 am the only one who broke through the traditions and 
 went into Society, and now see what Society has done 
 for me!" 
 
 "My friend," murmured Father Gregory, laying his 
 hand on Paul's shoulder. "You are taking this very 
 badly, very bitterly." 
 
 "I have reason to do so; when I tell you the whole 
 truth you will understand, I think." 
 
 "Come to my room," said Father Gregory. "I can 
 give you an hour of my time." 
 
 Up the stone stairs they went to a narrow cell, and 
 Paul poured out all his love for Rosamund, his fears con-
 
 128 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 cerning her feelings towards him at this present juncture, 
 and what had happened at "The Hurst" that day. Then 
 Father Gregory spoke words of comfort and gave advice, 
 not as a preacher or as one who teaches, but as friend 
 to friend and man to man. They parted with a long 
 hand-clasp. 
 
 "Then you will come again," said Father Gregory. 
 
 "Yes, I will if I may," said Paul. "For you have 
 done me good. I wish you would let me do something 
 for you." 
 
 "That will be to come," said the monk, as he let 
 Paul out at the low door. "I will watch you as far as 
 the main road; this street is unlit and sometimes dan- 
 gerous at night." 
 
 As Paul stepped into the huge, wide, lively street, he 
 caught the faint echo of the monastery door as it swung 
 to with a clang.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 MR. KERQUHAM SPEAKS 
 
 BREAKFAST next morning at "The Hurst" was not a very 
 lively affair, and there were few words spoken to break 
 the song of the birds that floated in through the open 
 window. Rosamund had, as usual, come down first and 
 had superintended the mysteries of the teapot and coffee- 
 urn, but she was very pale, and the tell-tale circles round 
 her sorrowful eyes betrayed to Mrs. Kerquham's keen 
 understanding when she entered the room that the girl 
 had had a wakeful and a troubled night. She did not 
 know, however, that Rosamund's deepest sorrow lay in 
 the fact that she had as yet had no letter from Paul Carr. 
 It was this silence, more than anything else, that grieved 
 her. It seemed so mysterious, so strange, that in his 
 great trouble he should not have come first to her. 
 
 Neither Laura nor Honor was ever very brilliant in 
 the early morning, for they were girls who never at any 
 time troubled themselves to be either agreeable or amus- 
 ing in the bosom of their family. Mr. Kerquham, too, 
 was very silent. He had heard the previous evening at 
 the club the gossip about the "West End Scandal," as 
 Paul's affair was called, and his heart bled for the girl 
 of whom he was so devotedly fond, and so the meal 
 proceeded in almost unbroken silence, and very little 
 was eaten. 
 
 "Well, you are none of you very bright this morning, " 
 said Laura, with a loud yawn, as she rose from the table 
 
 129
 
 130 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 and stretched her arms lazily over her head. "Honor, 
 what are you going to do to-day?" 
 
 Honor shrugged her shoulders, and said acidly: 
 
 "Our amusements, my dear, will depend more than 
 usual upon our friends. It is quite on the cards that 
 under the present circumstances nobody will care to 
 come near us." 
 
 After delivering this little stab at her cousin, she 
 slowly sauntered out with her sister on to the verandah, 
 where on long, cushioned chairs, they prepared to dawdle 
 away the morning hours. 
 
 Mr. Kerquham then rose from the table, pushing his 
 chair back heavily and sighing. Poor Rosamund, yearn- 
 ing for some sympathy, for a tender touch or a kind 
 look, almost broke down as she caught sight of his sad 
 face. 
 
 "Uncle," she said, brokenly, "may I come to you 
 presently in the studio?" 
 
 "Certainly, my dear; you know I always like to see 
 you there," said Mr. Kerquham, dreading a scene, and 
 trying to put the most commonplace aspect on affairs. 
 
 Mrs. Kerquham looked from her husband to her niece. 
 There were times when she was jealous of Rosamund's 
 power over Alban Kerquham. She feared that at the 
 present juncture tears and prayers would be used, and 
 that the girl might carry a point which she considered 
 would be disastrous to the family fortunes. 
 
 "You can see your uncle presently, Rosamund. I 
 wish to speak to him for a few moments myself." 
 
 Rosamund took the hint and went with a slow, drag- 
 ging step, that was quite unlike herself, out of the room. 
 Her uncle looked after her, and his kind eyes glistened 
 under his bushy brows. Mrs. Kerquham moved over to 
 his side and forced him back into his chair again.
 
 MR. KERQUHAM SPEAKS 131 
 
 "Now, Alban," she began, "you must listen to me. 
 This business has got to be faced, and very firmly, too. 
 I know exactly what Rosamund wants. You are her 
 legal guardian, and, I firmly believe, the one person out 
 of all her family for whom she has any affection. She 
 means to persuade you to give our consent to her immedi- 
 ate marriage with this Mr. Carr. The thing is impossi- 
 ble. You must refuse at once, and for always." 
 
 Mr. Kerquham raised his hand. 
 
 "Why?" he asked. "If you consider the matter 
 calmly, you will see that this young man, of whom I 
 must confess I have formed a very high opinion, has 
 done nothing wrong; he has committed no crime, he 
 has outraged none of society's laws." 
 
 "Then what was he doing on the Thames Embank- 
 ment at four o'clock the other morning speaking to a 
 low woman?" 
 
 "I suppose you have read the papers," answered her 
 husband, "and his explanation of the business." 
 
 Mrs. Kerquham tossed her iron-grey head. 
 
 "Explanation, indeed! I wonder that you, as a man 
 of the world, do not judge your own sex better and 
 know that they will perjure themselves through thick 
 and thin if it suits them. Decent men go straight home 
 to bed after a ball, and do not loaf about the streets. 
 Rescuing people from drowning, indeed! That is not 
 the occupation of a gentleman. There are plenty of 
 police about, and it is their work." 
 
 "My dear! my dear!" said Mr. Kerquham. "Do 
 not put yourself in such a state about it. Mr. Carr did 
 what any man, gentle or simple, would have done. He 
 stopped a wretched, half-drunken woman from self-mur- 
 der. His act was one of common humanity." 
 
 Mrs. Kerquham, finding herself beaten on one point,
 
 132 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 namely, the abuse of Paul Carr, turned womanlike to 
 another. 
 
 "Of course, your argument is all very well, but think 
 what the world is saying. You know what people are; 
 they are sure to put the worst construction on such a 
 thing." Mr. Kerquham could scarcely help smiling to 
 himself at his wife's unconscious self-condemnation. 
 "If you had only heard the conversation at Mrs. Riving- 
 ton's yesterday afternoon, you would have known at 
 once that Paul Carr's social position has been very seri- 
 ously jeopardised." 
 
 "I am afraid, my dear, that Mr. Carr is scarcely likely 
 to appeal to a tribunal of Mrs. Rivington's friends." 
 
 "It is all very well for you to gird at Mrs. Riving- 
 ton, " said Mrs. Kerquham, who, to serve her own ends, 
 had suddenly taken up the cudgels for that most unde- 
 sirable lady, "but what is said in one drawing-room is 
 said in another, and I suppose you would not like Rosa- 
 mund to go about with a black mark against her name 
 for the rest of her days." 
 
 "Poor Rosamund," sighed Mr. Kerquham. "It 
 would be a great shame if people made her suffer for the 
 absolutely imaginary fault of some one else." 
 
 Mrs. Kerquham thought she had scored a point and 
 pressed her advantage. 
 
 "Yes! That is just what I want you to see, Alban, 
 only like all men you are so blind when it comes to the 
 little things of life. I am* sure I am very sorry for Mr. 
 Carr, and I am quite willing, if it pleases you, to 
 acknowledge that the whole thing is more of a misfor- 
 tune than a fault, only other people the world in gen- 
 eral will not be so broad-minded, and you know it. 
 Rosamund is a very proud girl, and although she may 
 feel giving up Mr. Carr for the moment, it would hurt
 
 MR. KERQUHAM SPEAKS 133 
 
 her a great deal more to see him snubbed and cut and 
 talked of as the man who was 'mixed up in the Embank- 
 ment Scandal.' " 
 
 "I think, my dear Margot, that you are imagining a 
 great deal of this social persecution. Paul Carr is young 
 and wealthy; he has plenty of time to live down any tit- 
 tle trouble his quixotic action may have brought upon 
 him. I am quite ready to stake my word that this time 
 next year the whole thing will be forgotten." 
 
 Mrs. Kerquham clutched at that saving clause as a 
 drowning man catches at a straw. 
 
 "In a year, you say? Very well, then, let that settle 
 it." 
 
 "Settle what? How do you mean?" 
 
 "I am convinced, Alban, that Rosamund is going to 
 ask you to let her marry Mr. Carr at once. Tell her she 
 must wait a year. Tell her you consider it is only fair 
 to us and to her cousins that she should not rush into a 
 marriage which will only revive the talk that is going on 
 now. If she cannot trust him for twelve months, then 
 she had better give him up altogether." 
 
 Mr. Kerquham leaned his head on his hands. Although 
 in many of the minor details of life he differed in opinion 
 from his wife, although his easy-going, kindly nature 
 was often at variance with her stern common-sense, yet 
 he felt that this time she was urging the right thing. 
 He could not bear the idea of paining Rosamund, but 
 still less could he face the prospect of her future unhap- 
 piness. Suppose, after all, there was something in what 
 people were saying about Mr. Carr? Many young men 
 had very dark corners in their lives, and many young 
 men had tried before now, more by force than by wit, to 
 make a clean sweep of the past before they married. 
 
 Perhaps the policy of temporising would be the wisest,
 
 134 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 for he knew Rosamund's nature too well to dream for 
 one moment of entirely breaking off her engagement. 
 So as he rose for the second time, he looked at Mrs. 
 Kerquham's hard face and said: 
 
 "I will speak to Rosamund in the studio and urge 
 her to look upon this matter in a reasonable and temper- 
 ate light. I cannot promise, however, that I shall suc- 
 ceed." 
 
 Mrs. Kerquham flushed with anger as she faced her 
 husband. 
 
 "But you must insist. She is your ward; she was 
 confided to you within a few weeks of her birth by the 
 rest of the family. She owes everything to you, her 
 position, the very food she eats, and the clothes she 
 wears. Just remind her of that, and bring her to her 
 senses." 
 
 "How cruel women can be to one another," thought 
 Mr. Kerquham, as he left the room and walked down 
 the long, sunny corridor to where his studio lay on the 
 cool, northern side of the house. But Mrs. Kerquham 
 felt that even in laying the embargo of gratitude on 
 Rosamund's shoulders she was doing right. She was 
 a woman who would not knowingly have committed a 
 wrong action, but the world and its teachings had warped 
 her narrow nature, and had led her to believe that any 
 means were justified to win the goal of social advance- 
 ment and position. 
 
 She had set her heart nearly a year ago on the cap- 
 ture of Lord St. Ives, and this not so much for her 
 niece's benefit as for the advancement of her own 
 daughters. It had been Paul Carr, and Paul Carr alone, 
 who had upset her plans, for she had refused to see or 
 admit that the earl might not in some respects prove 
 acceptable to Rosamund. She had counted on that mar-
 
 MR. KER^UHAM SPEAKS 135 
 
 riage coming off, and she had missed it ofice. Now she 
 was going to have a second chance, for with Rosamund's 
 engagement in abeyance, and Paul Carr forbidden the 
 house, she relied on her own powers and the glamour 
 of Lord St. Ives' flashy manners and coronet eventually 
 to win the day. So she was very well pleased with her 
 morning's work as she hurried forth on her domestic 
 duties, for she had gained what women prize above 
 rubies her own way. 
 
 Rosamund, from her favourite seat on the wide upper 
 landing, heard her uncle leave the dining-room and go 
 slowly to the studio. He had not shut the door behind 
 him, she knew, for the latch always rattled as it closed. 
 That was an old signal which dated back to her nursery 
 days, and meant that she was free to go to him, so she 
 slipped down the stairs and a moment later was in the 
 studio. 
 
 As she pushed open the door he feigned to be busy 
 with a canvas and palette, but as her slow step sounded 
 across the floor, in such different measure from the one 
 he loved so well, he dropped his sheaf of brushes, and 
 turning, opened wide his arms. 
 
 The tender expression of sympathy from the man who 
 all her life had been her dear friend, her more than 
 father, melted the icy restraint in which she had locked 
 her sorrow during the past hours. With a little yearning 
 cry she ran to him, and as he folded his arms about her 
 and laid one broad, kindly hand upon her hair, she broke 
 into a very passion of tears tears which were laden 
 with all the horror and anger, the love and anxiety, she 
 had suffered dry-eyed till now. 
 
 "Hush! Rosie. Hush! my child my poor little 
 girl," murmured Kerquham, drawing her to a couch and 
 rocking her there in his arms as he had done in her
 
 136 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 childhood. "There, my poor bird my Rosie don't 
 cry so bitterly not so bitterly, my child." 
 
 With fond incoherencies and soothing caresses he 
 held her close to him till the first storm of her grief was 
 over, and when she lay exhausted and sob-shaken on his 
 breast he drew out his silk handkerchief and passed it 
 over her flushed face and humid, tearful eyes. 
 
 For a time she was content to rest there, but with 
 composure came courage and a desire for speech. Yet 
 she did not raise her aching head as she said: 
 
 "Uncle Alban my dear uncle I've come to you in 
 great trouble and in more anxiety than I can bear." 
 
 A sob of self-pity shook her frame, and drew from Mr. 
 Kerquham another tender "Hush." 
 
 "I want you to help me and advise me. I know 
 you will give me the best of your sympathy and ad- 
 vice." 
 
 Alban Kerquham cleared his throat before he could 
 speak. 
 
 "All I can do for you I will, my dear, but I fear " 
 
 Rosamund raised her tear-stained face to his. 
 
 "Oh! uncle, don't doubt your own powers." She 
 put out her hands with a piteous gesture, and then let 
 them drop inert in her lap. "Tell me what to do. You 
 are the only real friend I have ever had. Paul is my 
 lover, and will be my husband, but somehow that is dif- 
 ferent from a friend. Please tell me what to do." 
 
 Her uncle took one of her hands in his. It was trem- 
 bling and cold; so unlike the firm, strong hand of his 
 dear Rosamund. 
 
 "Tell me, dear, first, what you want to know." 
 
 "Everything!" she answered. "Everything about 
 this unfortunate affair in which Paul has been mixed up. 
 What are people and the papers saying?"
 
 MR. KERQUHAM SPEAKS 137 
 
 The artist sighed. "Quixotism is not the fashion 
 nowadays, I fear, Rosie. " 
 
 Rosamund sighed, too, as she stared with heavy, 
 unseeing eyes before her. 
 
 Alban Kerquham patted the hand he held while she 
 was silent. He knew of what she was thinking, and was 
 turning over in his mind the best manner in which to 
 meet her next question. 
 
 "What should I do about my marriage, uncle? It 
 would be only honourable of me to write to Paul and 
 tell him I am willing to become his wife at once, or 
 he may think that I am repenting of my promise to 
 him." 
 
 Mr. Kerquham felt there was no help for it, and the 
 question had got to be faced. With great deliberation 
 and a final loving pat he laid Rosamund's hand on her 
 knee, and very slowly walked over to an old Spanish chair 
 that stood within the embrasure of the window. He was 
 thinking all the time, for though he scarcely dared 
 acknowledge it to himself, Mrs. Kerquham's words had 
 rooted quickly and sprung up and borne fruit. He felt 
 himself that Rosamund's marriage must be delayed. 
 Deeply as he loved his niece, it would not be fair to his 
 daughters to give them a cousin-in-law who had been so 
 disagreeably talked about. 
 
 Rosamund felt the subtle change in his manner, for 
 she, too, rose and stood with her fingers locked closely 
 together and her great mournful eyes fixed on him. 
 
 "Dearest, in giving you counsel about this sad matter 
 I want to advise you for the best only for the best. 
 Now, about your marriage with Mr. Carr I want you 
 to " 
 
 "Not to break it off?" cried Rosamund passionately, 
 while a great wave of colour flew over her white face.
 
 138 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 "You would never wish me to do anything so mean as 
 that. Uncle, you couldn't wish that." 
 
 "Hush! hush!" said Mr. Kerquham, coming towards 
 her. He saw at once that if he had ever had any idea 
 of expressing such a wish it would be absolutely useless 
 to voice it. "You must know me better, my dear, than 
 to imagine I should ever counsel you to do an ungenerous 
 action." He took her hand again in his, and drawing it 
 through his arm, made her walk with him up and down 
 the studio. It had ever been a favourite habit of theirs. 
 "But, dear, I want you to postpone your marriage, 
 and to let me write to Mr. Carr in the character of your 
 guardian and tell him that you agree with me, and that 
 such a step is desirable." 
 
 "Postpone our marriage?" said Rosamund, arresting 
 her steps and turning very white again. "But that would 
 imply a doubt; it would make him think that I believed 
 all the hateful stories that are going about." 
 
 "If he is a sensible man and if he loves you, he will 
 trust you, and he will see that his marriage with you just 
 now would not be to your advantage." 
 
 Rosamund would have broken in again, but he stayed 
 her eager words with a gesture. "You are very young, 
 my dear; you do not know the world as I do. You may 
 not believe it, and I fear, my poor child, that I hurt 
 you ; but for some months Mr. Cat r will be under a cloud, 
 and although you may be ready to give up sunshine for 
 his sake, it could scarcely add to his happiness to know 
 that you were in the dark with him." 
 
 "But is not my name to be considered, too?" pleaded 
 Rosamund. "You say that people are talking about 
 Paul. What will they say of me, except that I am try- 
 ing to find a way out of my engagement, and seeking for 
 an excuse to break my promise?"
 
 MR. KER^UHAM SPEAKS 139 
 
 "Dearest child, no one knows of your engagement 
 save some half-dozen people. And even if it were 
 guessed at it would occasion no talk if you do not marry 
 Mr. Carr for at least another year. ' ' 
 
 "A year!" cried Rosamund. "A whole year!" 
 
 "My dear, the time is not long, and it will be a pro- 
 bation for both of you. If you have any affection for 
 Mr. Carr it will strengthen it. If he has any desire to 
 prove himself worthy to be your husband he will so act 
 that this unhappy business will be wiped away." 
 
 Mr. Kerquham's heart bled as he noted the white, 
 set look that crept over the girl's sad face and there 
 was still one more condition that must be made. But 
 he nerved himself to the task. 
 
 "You must understand that when I say that your 
 marriage is not to take place for a year, I mean that 
 Mr. Carr is not to come to this house and you are 
 not to meet. I trust to your honour in that, Rosa- 
 mund." 
 
 "Not to meet! Not to see each other! Oh! uncle, 
 that is too hard. You are making it impossible. I am 
 sure he will not consent to that and I will not, unless 
 he wishes me to do so." 
 
 She had drawn herself away from him and up to her 
 full height, with upright head and flashing eyes. Mr. 
 Kerquham felt a little mean as he prepared to make his 
 last stand, but he had his wife and girls to consider, as 
 well as his niece's happiness. 
 
 "Rosamund," he began, "I said just now I would 
 trust to your honour; I find I must appeal to a still 
 higher sense. You were scarcely six weeks old when 
 you were given into my care. My sister, who was your 
 mother, had died in giving you birth, and your father 
 was shot in action out in India three weeks afterwards.
 
 140 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 An ayah brought you to Scotland, and there was a ques- 
 tion among the family as to who should take you, a little 
 black-browed, dark-skinned orphan." 
 
 Rosamund covered her face with her hands. Her 
 uncle's heart misgave him, but he had very little choice, 
 and he honestly believed he was working for her own 
 future good. 
 
 "Your great-aunt, Lady Charlotte Lundy, was at that 
 time just married. Sir Alexander was even then a selfish 
 hypochondriac, and absolutely refused to have any- 
 thing to do with an infant who was not of his own flesh 
 and blood. My uncle Kilbeggie Rosamund, my dear, 
 even then I did not think you would have liked to have 
 been brought up by Kilbeggie and Aunt Sophia. So we 
 took you, your Aunt Margot and I, and put you in the 
 nursery with our baby Laura, and made you one of our 
 own daughters. You have been that to me ever since 
 the sweetest, fondest daughter a man ever had. Per- 
 haps your aunt has, from time to time, let her maternal 
 affections override her sense of justice, but that you will 
 admit is only natural. We have done everything for 
 you even more than your parents could have done had 
 they lived. I now appeal to the gratitude which I know 
 you feel, to the affection and honour which I believe you 
 entertain for us, to be guided by me in this matter of 
 your marriage. As your guardian I might insist, but I 
 prefer rather to appeal to your affections, and I beg you 
 to accept cheerfully the dictum I must lay before you 
 and which I know will receive the approval of the rest of 
 the family. I want you to consider your engagement to 
 Mr. Carr in abeyance for a year; I want you to promise 
 me not to see him and not to write to him or receive let- 
 ters from him oftener than once a month; I want you to 
 look upon yourself as an absolutely free girl once more,
 
 MR. KER^UHAM SPEAKS 141 
 
 and to let me write to Mr. Carr and tell him that these 
 are your wishes." 
 
 Poor Rosamund looked about her like some hunted 
 animal that has been caught in a trap. In appealing to 
 her honour and her gratitude, her uncle had touched 
 her tenderest feelings. She had a higher sense than 
 most women of what was due to herself and to her peo- 
 ple, and her nature was deeply affectionate. She fully 
 realised what the Kerquhams had done for her, and that 
 without them she would have been an absolute outcast 
 and a pauper. She knew that she had lived in luxury, 
 had been well educated, and given every advantage and 
 amusement that the daughters of wealthy men regard as 
 their right. Yet in her loving heart she vaguely felt 
 that it had been scarcely fair of her uncle so to press 
 these things home to her, because she had always been 
 conscious of the debt she owed to him. 
 
 "I will give you twenty-four hours, if you wish, to 
 think the matter over," said Mr. Kerquham, his loving 
 tenderness asserting itself once more over the unnatural 
 firmness that had characterised him for the last few 
 minutes. 
 
 But Rosamund was stronger than he. The face she 
 turned to him was white and drawn, and her eyes were 
 dim with the passion of the soul through which she was 
 passing, but her voice was quite steady as she said: 
 
 "No, dear, I want no time to think. Such things, if 
 they must be done, are best done at once. I only ask 
 permission to write to-day to Paul, and tell him myself 
 to what I have agreed. ' ' 
 
 "Certainly, my dear, you may do that." 
 
 "After that, I have one more favour to ask, uncle. 
 Do not let me hear this business talked about; I will 
 bear it as best I can, but do not let me be tried too far."
 
 142 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 Fearful of once more losing the self-control to which 
 she was clinging with all the will and pride of her nature, 
 she turned hastily and went out of the studio. 
 
 "Poor child! poor child!" said Alban Kerquham, 
 flicking a tear from his eyelashes. "It is a bad business, 
 and she is taking it very hardly, but, thank God ! she 
 is young, and love's wounds heal very quickly. I hope 
 I have done for the best." 
 
 The door was flung wide open, and one of the elect, 
 frock-coated, and with a gorgeous button-hole, was 
 ushered into the studio. Mr. Kerquham dragged the big 
 easel into the proper light and took up his palette and 
 brushes. His first sitter for the day had arrived.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 ROSAMUND WRITES A LETTER 
 
 ROSAMUND wrote her letter to Paul that same evening. 
 "My DEAR PAUL: 
 
 "A silence that is sad as it is strange seems to have 
 fallen between us. I cannot tell what motives are work- 
 ing within you that you have not written to me during 
 the last few terrible hours. Perhaps what you are doing 
 is for the best and men are always said to be braver 
 than women but I have not your courage, and so must 
 speak, though what I have to say seems to me very sad. 
 
 "But first of all, before I write a single word of our 
 past hopes and of our future, I want to tell you that I 
 love you, that I believe in you, that all my heart and all 
 my trust is as much yours now as it ever was. I want 
 no excuses or even explanations from you, for they would 
 insult me as much as though you doubted my faith in 
 you. I only want you to believe that nothing that has 
 happened or that can happen will ever alter my feelings 
 towards you. 
 
 "I do not know that I have ever been very demon- 
 strative of my love for you, but every time I have heard 
 your voice and whenever our hands have met, I have 
 been thrilled with a passion towards you. My life, 
 despite its surroundings, has been so far as affection is 
 concerned a very lonely one. My only friend has been 
 my uncle, and the first man's lips that ever touched mine 
 were yours, dear Paul. 
 
 143
 
 144 T ^E PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 "I recall all this that you may know the better, if 
 indeed that were needful, how entirely my heart and 
 soul have been given to you, and I want you to remem- 
 ber this because what I have to say is very hard and bit- 
 ter. It is costing me tears of blood to write, and I know 
 that it will grieve you deeply. 
 
 "From the moment that I heard yesterday afternoon 
 what had befallen you I have suffered through the whole 
 gamut of emotions, with pity and love for the dominant 
 notes. But all through the past night the vows I made 
 to you and the love I pledged you a few days ago 
 remained the same. I had hoped I had prayed for a 
 letter from you this morning. Not one of excuse you 
 must understand that but just one little line to tell me 
 that you depended on me and that you trusted in me. I 
 wonder if, whether you had written me such a letter, this 
 that I am now sending to you would have been different. 
 I wonder if your silence is weakening my resolution. I 
 wonder, my darling, whether we have both made a fear- 
 ful mistake. 
 
 "For I have to tell you that our engagement must be 
 for a time at an end. Do not blame me too much; I 
 could not bear it. Do not think me weak or false or 
 worldly, even if you are angry with me, for in your calmer 
 moments you will reproach yourself for having so mis- 
 judged me, and I would not wish that you should have 
 one single added pang of grief just now. The words I 
 am writing you are not out of my own heart; they are 
 but the echo of my uncle's wish. He has spoken to me 
 this morning on the subject of our engagement, and has 
 told me that if our love is what we profess it to be it can 
 bear the probation of a year. 
 
 "Twelve long months, Paul, without even seeing one
 
 ROSAMUND WRITES A LETTER 145 
 
 another! It looks so cruel when it is written down that 
 I am almost tempted to go back upon my promise to him, 
 and fling every consideration to the winds and go straight 
 to you. One thing only holds me back, and that is the 
 knowledge that you yourself would not have me ungrate- 
 ful or lacking in duty and honour to the man who has 
 brought me up, who has fed me, educated and clothed 
 me since the time I was born. My uncle has been my 
 father. He has held me in trust for the rest of the 
 family, and he has appealed to me to-day to help him 
 fulfill that trust. 
 
 "Dearest, it is very hard, but what can I do? If even 
 now, at the eleventh hour, you. lift your hand and beckon 
 to me, if you bid me put behind me all the obedience 
 and respect that I owe to the Kerquhams I will do so, 
 but between us there will ever be the knowledge that I 
 have broken faith with those who were good to me, and 
 the time will come when you will wonder how soon I 
 shall break faith with you. Paul, I am racked with 
 trouble, torn with anxiety. Help me to be strong, help 
 me to keep my word, so that when the year is over I can 
 come to you with clean hands, and with the knowledge 
 that I have been true to myself as well as to you. 
 
 "I believe my uncle is writing to you to say that we 
 may send letters to one another. That at least will be 
 something. As to any talk of our broken engagement 
 and my consequent freedom, that is as idle as the sighing 
 of the wind in my ears. I have pledged myself to you; 
 I have given you my first love and my first kiss. Even 
 if we never meet again, if you cast me off as being weak 
 and unstable, if you forget me during the months that 
 are to come, or find consolation in some one else, I shall 
 always be the same to you. I am as much your wife as
 
 1 46 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 though the Church had joined us together, and, in my 
 sight, nothing that can happen on earth will ever loose 
 that bond. 
 
 "Always and ever your devoted 
 
 "ROSAMUND." 
 
 The dust danced high down the long hill of Piccadilly, 
 and in the pleasant afternoon sun the great streams of 
 traffic glittered like a rushing river. It was Saturday, 
 and crowds of smartly dressed women, with gorgeous 
 hats and airy flower-trimmed sunshades, were being 
 whirled down to Hurlingham and Ranelagh. 
 
 From where Paul Carr sat at his open windows, with 
 Rosamund's letter between his nerveless fingers, the 
 sound of their light laughter seemed to float up above 
 the whir of wheels and the beat of horses' feet. He had 
 the feeling of isolation and intense personal misery that 
 comes to all who are in trouble. What did the world 
 care for him? The women he had danced with and dined 
 with, the girls he had taken down to supper or walked 
 beside in the Park, had no more thought of him than as 
 of some one who had never existed. He had made a 
 mistake, though even to this moment he could not see 
 the reason of his ostracism, or why an act of common 
 charity should have been counted to him as a sin. Yet 
 a sin it was in the eyes of the selfish, dainty, overdressed 
 dolls, and they had put him outside the pale, and were 
 already speaking of him as "the man who got mixed up 
 with some nasty business in a police court." He 
 laughed aloud sardonically; he knew so well how they 
 would talk, or rather had talked, for he was man of the 
 world enough to be aware that by this time he and 
 the sordid affair were old and stale. Why should he fret 
 about such as they? They had cast him out from among 
 themselves; he would shut them out from his own sight
 
 ROSAMUND WRITES A LETTER 147 
 
 and hearing. With nervous impatience he rose and shut 
 down the windows of his room. 
 
 Ah! now it was quieter, and he could read her letter 
 again. For an hour he perused and re-perused the 
 closely written pages, exulting in her whole-hearted 
 love, and proud of her self-sacrifice, till his mood 
 changed, and he was almost angry with her for having 
 yielded to any wishes but his own. But deep in his own 
 heart he knew that Rosamund was right, and he knew 
 that Mr. Kerquham was right, too, for he had also 
 received a letter from that gentleman a letter full of 
 manly sympathy but firm determination; a letter that 
 appealed to him by his highest sense of honour not to 
 subject Rosamund to the social trouble that at present 
 overshadowed his own life; a letter that urged his good 
 feeling and his worldly wisdom to let matters take their 
 course and allow the scandal to die down and be buried 
 before he made Rosamund his wife. 
 
 But it was very hard. It was the last drop in the 
 bitter cup which all the time he knew had to be drained 
 to the bottom. He had unwittingly been mixed up in 
 a perfectly harmless business; he had played Don 
 Quixote, and quixotism was hopelessly out of fashion. 
 He must suffer, and he must suffer alone. 
 
 Alone! alone! As the meaning forced itself by cease- 
 less iteration upon him, it seemed to strike through his 
 brain to his heart, and he began to realise by degrees 
 what it meant. All his life, since his baby days, he had 
 never been alone. He had been in the world and of the 
 world. He had been bred in it, and it in him; he inher- 
 ited the love of it from his pretty, light-hearted mother, 
 and his cheery boon companion of a father. First it had 
 been a crowd of servants and the ladies in his mother's 
 drawing-room, and then the sycophantic following of
 
 148 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 admiring schoolboys. At Eton he had lived in a joyous, 
 merry circle, an adept at every sport, a favourite with 
 everybody in the school. At Oxford his fortune and his 
 bonhommie had made him troops of friends, and when he 
 had blossomed out in London as an eligible young man 
 all the world of fashion and beauty had been spread 
 before him. 
 
 Alone! alone! Now this was all to go. He was to 
 live in the middle of it and yet see it all pass him by, as 
 a broken branch caught in the middle of a rushing 
 stream withers and dies and is left behind by the watery 
 world that flows around it. How could he bear it? 
 True, there was the country, but to him it had always 
 meant delightful parties, with hunting and shooting by 
 day and dancing at night with smart women and the 
 cheeriest of good fellows. Lately he had longed to live 
 in the country with Rosamund, but he felt it would drive 
 him mad to go there quite alone. 
 
 How that hateful word throbbed through every nerve 
 in his body. He caught himself repeating it parrot-like, 
 and at that started up and began to pace his room, and 
 cried aloud, "Am I going mad?" 
 
 To and fro among the luxurious surroundings of what 
 were considered almost the smartest chambers in Lon- 
 don Carr paced. What use was it all now? the splendid 
 carpets and magnificent skins, the luxurious cosy corners 
 and the cunningly arranged lights. What did he care 
 for rare old china and glistening curios, for huge palms 
 and great banks of scented flowers? They had been the 
 picturesque background of Society, and now Society 
 would come there no more, and he would have the stage 
 all to himself. As he stood staring with wide, haggard 
 eyes at the broad mantelpiece, covered with little ivory 
 and silver toys and the many bits of bric-a-brac that men
 
 ROSAMUND WRITES A LETTER 149 
 
 had admired and pretty women had longed for, his eye 
 fell on a written note. "The Monastery of St. Dominic" 
 was printed in plain square letters across the head. 
 
 "Mr DEAR CARR: 
 
 "Will you come here to-morrow and sing for us? 
 Our tenor is ill, and High Mass to-morrow will be robbed 
 of its chiefest attraction to our poor little congregation 
 if we cannot give them some good music. 
 
 "Yours sincerely, GREGORY." 
 
 Paul took up the letter and read it again and again. 
 So dear old Philip (he always called him that in his own 
 mind) had remembered that he could sing, and for the 
 sake of his poor little congregation had written to him, 
 who was not of his faith, to come and help the modest 
 little colony get through their Sunday service. 
 
 "Why should I not do it?" cried Paul. "No one has 
 asked me to go on the river to-morrow; no one would 
 come with me, I suppose, if I invited him." 
 
 He walked over to where the grand piano stood with 
 an orderly cabinet of music by its side. Almost without 
 thinking he pulled open drawer after drawer, looking 
 through their contents and turning over loose leaves. 
 By-and-bye he came upon what he wanted a great pile 
 of Gregorian chants, and a volume containing some of 
 the great Masses. He opened the instrument and set 
 the music on the rack. Then he read Father Gregory's 
 letter once more. 
 
 "Yes, I will go. It is a selfish kindness to accept, for 
 at least it will give me something to do." 
 
 He sent a telegram to his friend, and then, as a mere 
 matter of form, telling his servant that he was not at 
 home to any one, he sat down and began to sing.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 PAUL'S ANSWER 
 
 PAUL spent the next day at the little monastery in the 
 East End. By daylight it looked an even poorer place 
 than he had thought, and though the day was warm and 
 brilliant outside, the tiny chapel, with its rows of 
 shabby, rush-bottomed seats, struck damp and cold. 
 The congregation was very small and wretchedly poor, 
 but the priests went through the services as though the 
 elect of the land had been before them. To Paul it was 
 all very new. Like most modern young men, he had 
 not troubled himself much about church-going, except 
 when he was in the country, when there had been no 
 hunting or shooting on the Sabbath morning, and he had 
 filled up the time between breakfast and luncheon by 
 drowsing in the corner of a pew. 
 
 Into a Roman Catholic church he had scarcely ever 
 been at all, except abroad, where he had regarded such 
 places as more or less necessary sights to be seen. He 
 thought the service very simple, and he remembered 
 enough of his Latin to follow the prayers and to note 
 that they were very earnest and heart-whole. The Mass 
 was served by four wretched little half-starved boys out 
 of the lowest streets in the neighbourhood, and their 
 demeanour had struck him strangely. He could guess 
 pretty well from the expression of their evil little coun- 
 tenances how they had spent their week days, but here, 
 in this bare, cold, whitewashed place, they had assumed
 
 PAUL'S ANSWER 151 
 
 a very creditable appearance of piety, with their sur- 
 plices, and he saw in neither look nor gesture the slight- 
 est levity or irreverence. 
 
 The Prior, Father Lawrence, a grey, sad-looking man, 
 asked him if he would stay to their mid-day meal. 
 Almost without knowing it, Paul assented, and at the 
 same time offered to sing again at benediction. The 
 dinner was very plain and well cooked of its kind. But 
 Paul was too interested in the conversation of Father 
 Lawrence and Father Gregory to take heed of what he 
 ate. 
 
 The long summer day was drawing to a close when 
 he took leave of Father Gregory and went out into the 
 evil-smelling street once more. 
 
 "It seems a very peaceful life," he thought, as he 
 walked along the wide road, where Jewesses in diamonds 
 and plush dresses were parading up and down, and where 
 round the door of every public-house seethed a foul- 
 mouthed, half-drunken crowd. "They must work very 
 hard, but they are so in earnest and so happy in the 
 small successes that they make down in this wretched 
 quarter of the town." 
 
 It was a long walk to the West End, but he was in no 
 mood for driving, for, like most active men, he could 
 think better when moving. It was quite dark when he 
 entered his rooms, and a dim lamp was burning in one 
 corner. On his table lay the pile of letters he had 
 received the day before. A little apart from the rest 
 was the one that Rosamund had sent him. As he took 
 it up tenderly in his fingers he was conscious of a vague 
 self-reproach; he had thought of her so little all the day. 
 
 "Am I so unstable as all that?" he cried aloud. "At 
 the first breath of novelty my trouble drops from me 
 like a loosened cloak, and the memory of her sweet faith
 
 152 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 and trust fades into nothingness. Is she the stronger 
 of the two? Sometimes I think she is, and that I am 
 nothing but a poor weak fool, tossed by every wind, 
 shaken and swayed by every .passing emotion. Yester- 
 day my heart was hers, to-day my heart slumbers, and 
 my thoughts and feelings have been absorbed by " 
 
 By what? He had been scarcely conscious himself 
 of the impression that the few hours spent among those 
 humble, hard-working men had made upon him. His 
 whole mind, although he scarcely knew it, was raw and 
 bleeding like an open wound, and the first healing touch 
 of sympathy and kindness soothed it. He had been 
 deeply impressed, more than he could say, by what he 
 had seen and heard that day, and almost his last words 
 to Father Gregory had been a promise of a speedy 
 return. Memories of the monastery and the whitewashed 
 chapel haunted him, even while he read and reread 
 Rosamund's letter. 
 
 Twelve months! Twelve months of probation. 
 Twelve months without seeing her. She said herself 
 how hard it would be, and how long they would seem. 
 Why should they be long? Why should they be hard? 
 
 A sudden fever of activity rushed over his mind and 
 drove him to his feet. He paced the room with short, 
 nervous strides, like a man who is faced by a great prob- 
 lem, the solution of which he cannot attain. Why should 
 the next year of his life be passed in vain regret and idle 
 solitude? Why should he not do as other men had done 
 in time of trouble? 
 
 Paul had never been an irreligious man, but it had 
 scarcely been his habit to cultivate that easy converse 
 with his God which so many people made a show of main- 
 taining. Even now, he scarcely thought of the future in 
 that way. He only felt he must do something be
 
 PAUL'S ANSWER 153 
 
 something that if he stagnated in these rooms of his in 
 Piccadilly or went into the country he should go mad or 
 take to drink, or perhaps to drugs, to dull his memory. 
 The Continent was an open book to him ; there was no 
 consolation there, while to go to further and more 
 deserted places seemed, so he argued to himself, to be 
 merely a cowardly shuffling of responsibilities. 
 
 But there must be consolation in work, or why did 
 men take to it? There must be healing power in reli- 
 gious exercises, or why did those in trouble flock to 
 church? 
 
 Church! He thought of church as he knew it, with 
 its set forms and impersonal doctrines; he thought of 
 the suave parsons and their consolations in little set 
 phrases men who, even as they spoke, stretched out a 
 greedy hand - for a donation. He thought of all the 
 clergymen he had known hard-riding, three-bottle men 
 in the shires, who had a merry eye for every pretty coun- 
 try wench they passed, and could tell as good a story in 
 the smoking-room as any youngster fresh from Sand- 
 hurst. He thought of comfortable bishops whose slight 
 ailments required them to spend winters on the Riviera 
 and summers in Scotland. He thought of the fashion- 
 able London clergymen, with a rustling, adoring congre- 
 gation of lovely women, each one redolent of perfume 
 and an admirable exponent of the latest modes from 
 Paris. He thought of them at smart afternoon teas, at 
 receptions in great houses, at theatres on first nights. 
 He recalled their stables, their well-dressed wives and 
 their daughters who lived only for society and husband- 
 catching. 
 
 Then, as in a flash, his mind went back to his old Oxford 
 friend a first-rate oar, a capital talker, who could play 
 billiards and shoot straight, and ride anything that ever
 
 154 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 was foaled. He thought of him in their 'Varsity days, 
 his broad shoulders in a suit of flannels, his square plain 
 face under a straw hat, swinging down the "High" in 
 the old university town, equally ready for a frolic as for 
 work, for a lazy day on the Cherwell, or a night's hard 
 cramming for an exam. Then he thought of him as he 
 was now Father Gregory with no surname and no 
 entity, a mere atom in a hard-working body of good 
 men, vowed to poverty and celibacy, cut off from all the 
 joys of healthy manhood, living a round of rescue work 
 among the lowest slums of London and of religious 
 exercise in a wretched little whitewashed chapel. 
 
 "He at least is a man," cried Paul aloud. "He has 
 sacrificed himself for his convictions and for the good of 
 others. Surely, if he can do it, I can do the same. 
 Life was as fair for him ten years ago as it was for me 
 until the beginning of this week He did not need a 
 tragedy to make him what he is. He simply became a 
 priest for the benefit of his fellow men. He is of sterner 
 stuff than I am, for I am only going to do what he has 
 done under the pressure of shame and unhappiness. " 
 
 He sat down, and drawing paper to him, began to 
 write quickly: 
 
 "MY DEAREST LOVE, 
 
 "My silence to you was cowardly; I should have 
 guessed that it added to your suffering. But a good 
 Father and an old friend of mine is sending you the 
 explanations and details that you say you will not accept 
 from me. 
 
 "The step I am now going to take will, I hope, bring 
 you some degree of peace. I am going to pass the 
 twelve months of waiting and probation by trying to 
 learn to be a better and a stronger man.
 
 PAUL'S ANSWER 155 
 
 "I shall write to you from time to time, and beg that 
 whatever you may hear, you will always keep the mem- 
 ory of my love and my faithfulness to you in your heart. 
 When the time is passed, we shall meet again. God 
 grant that neither of us will have changed towards the 
 other. Whatever it may please you to do, I shall ever 
 remain, in heart and in affection, 
 
 "Your husband, 
 
 "PAUL." 
 
 He sealed the letter, and then with a new energy 
 turned up the light in his rooms, and began to move 
 about them like a man who prepares for a journey. 
 Warm though the night was, he lit a fire, the better to 
 destroy such papers as he did not wish strangers to see. 
 Others he sealed into packets and directed to his lawyers 
 and his bankers. He had written many letters before 
 the early dawn flung its first rays through the open win- 
 dow. They lay in a large pile on the table, and by them 
 was a list of instructions to his servants as to the care 
 of his rooms and personal belongings. He worked quite 
 quietly, and never wavered for a moment, save when he 
 took up Rosamund's photograph and sealed it with the 
 letter she had sent him. For one moment he laid it 
 among the others that were ready for the post, but it 
 had scarcely left his fingers before he took it up again. 
 
 "I cannot part from that just yet," he murmured, 
 and slipped it into the breast pocket of his coat. 
 
 When his man came in and by his looks expressed 
 the astonishment he was too well trained to speak, Paul 
 had finished his self-imposed task. 
 
 "Barker," he said, quietly, "lam going away for a 
 year. You will find all my wishes on this piece of paper, 
 and you will carry them out. Those letters are to go 
 to the post, and any that come for me, you must take to
 
 156 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 my solicitors. I should wish you and your wife to remain 
 here in charge. Do not let there be any talk about my 
 departure. I have written to the bank about money 
 matters; everything will be all right. Now pack me a 
 few clothes, and bring me a cup of tea. Then call me 
 a hansom." 
 
 The man did as he was told, and an hour later Paul 
 Carr went down the stairs and into the cheerful street, 
 and setting his face towards the new risen sun, drove 
 from the west to the east.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 A GARDEN FANCY 
 
 THE season had gone apace. Ascot and Henley and the 
 society gatherings that are warranted by a couple of 
 smart cricket matches at Lord's were over. The grass 
 in the open spaces of the parks was burnt to a sickly 
 brown, and the poor thirsty trees, which but a few weeks 
 back had been radiant in their spring finery, were begin- 
 ning slowly to shed the first withered rags of their once 
 green garments. The women were getting to look a lit- 
 tle dragged and thin, and many of the young girls who 
 were in their first season had already begun surrep- 
 titiously to rouge their cheeks before starting out on a 
 long night of dances and receptions. The heat had been 
 intense, the season a good one, which meant that every- 
 body had worked hard in the pursuit of pleasure, and all 
 the world was beginning to long for the salt freshness of 
 the Solent, or the clean, crisp air of the purple northern 
 moors. 
 
 In the shady gardens of "The Hurst" it was stiil 
 green and fresh. A perfect army of men watered the 
 velvety lawns at dawn and at night, and there was 
 neither sufficient dust nor traffic in the neighbourhood 
 materially to mar the full foliage of the magnificent trees. 
 The flower beds were in the full tide of brilliant colour, 
 and the roses that grew over the verandah hung like 
 great flags of cream and pink and deep crimson. Never 
 had "The Hurst" looked so pretty, and never had things 
 gone so badly within its richly furnished walls.
 
 158 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 To begin with, Laura had given both her parents a 
 great deal of trouble. The girl had grown utterly out 
 of hand, and her insatiable desire for amusement, her 
 reckless and uncontrollable passion for flirtation and 
 admiration had only been satiated at the cost of all 
 decency, propriety, and although Mrs. Kerquham 
 scarcely acknowledged it even to herself reputation. 
 She had kicked over the traces completely, and within 
 the last few weeks had run serious risk of being mixed up 
 in a scandal with a married man, whose wife had proved 
 none too complacent under very trying circumstances. 
 In vain Mr. Kerquham had commanded and Mrs. Ker- 
 quham appealed; Laura had only tossed her head and 
 said she would have her own fun in her own way; she 
 would not marry if she could; she would not be tied to 
 one man even if he were ten times a millionaire and as 
 handsome as Apollo. 
 
 "I do not know where I have got it from," she had 
 cried, with her empty laugh, "but I am a free-lance. 
 I am bored to extinction if I see too much of one person, 
 and if you are at all a wise woman, mother, you will not 
 urge me any more to get married. It would only end in 
 a row, you know, and a scandal, and the divorce court 
 and things. Oh! it is all very shocking, I know, but I 
 think it is just as well to warn you. I am not quite the 
 fool you take me for, but I will not be tied down by any- 
 body." 
 
 And Mrs. Kerquham had set her mouth into a harder 
 line than ever, and talked bitterly among her friends of 
 the difficulty of keeping a girl in hand, and within the 
 narrow limits of her heart had wondered what she had 
 done that Providence should have laid such a scourge 
 upon her shoulders. Honor had become engaged, and it 
 was a strange irony of fate that the very thing that Mrs.
 
 A GARDEN FANCT 159 
 
 Kerquham would have desired with one daughter was a 
 grief to her in connection with the other. The young 
 man was a social nobody, a briefless barrister, without 
 either the desire or the means of pushing himself. He 
 and Honor would sit silent for hours together. Mr. 
 Kerquham vowed that it drove him mad to see two such 
 lymphatic lovers and Mrs. Kerquham felt bitterly that 
 her girl had only accepted this most ineligible offer as a 
 means of escaping from home. 
 
 Chiefest, however, of all Mrs. Kerquham's disap- 
 pointments had been Rosamund. When her husband 
 had told her that Rosamund had acceded to his proposi- 
 tion that her engagement with Paul Carr should be in 
 abeyance, and when she had noted how the girl had 
 borne her sorrow with dignity and quiet reticence, Mrs. 
 Kerquham had at once jumped to the conclusion that it 
 needed but a few weeks to heal the scratch, and that 
 before the end of the season her niece would be making 
 a brilliant marriage. 
 
 But Margot Kerquham, for all her Scotch acumen and 
 all her twenty years' experience of the social world, was 
 apt to look at things too much through her own'spec- 
 tacles. She desired her niece to marry well, and there- 
 fore she persuaded herself that such a thing would come 
 to pass. She adopted the policy of never mentioning 
 Paul Carr's name, of taking Rosamund about as much 
 as ever, of having Lord St. Ives, who, by the way, had 
 speedily wearied of la belle Rivington, perpetually at 
 "The Hurst." Because Rosamund did not go about 
 with red eyes and a perpetual sob in her throat, because 
 she took as much pains in the dressing of her waving 
 dark hair, and was as particular in the fit of her gowns as 
 ever, because she laughed at the play, and enjoyed the 
 opera, Mrs. Kerquham thought that the past was better
 
 160 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 than dead and buried that it was forgotten. Poor 
 lady, she had never made a greater mistake in her life, 
 and she was as ignorant of the working of Rosamund's 
 heart as is a baby of the mechanism of the toy that 
 pleases him. 
 
 Rosamund Keith was a proud girl and little given to 
 talking of herself and her sensations. The first shock of 
 her grief and disappointment over, she set herself to ful- 
 fill with a whole heart the promise she had made to her 
 uncle, and to go through, with what courage and self- 
 control she could, the twelve months of probation. She 
 was not the type of woman who wears her heart upon 
 her sleeve; she did not wander into her cousins' rooms 
 at night and bewail her lost love and the romantic 
 obstacles that barred immediate marriage. No barrier 
 had been raised between herself and her uncle, and when 
 with him she would chat brightly about generalities and 
 tell him little scraps of society gossip, or listen with all 
 her old interest when he spoke of deeper things. But 
 all the time the wound in her heart was green, and her 
 faith and love were ever springing. 
 
 She had only done what a proud woman should do 
 drawn a veil between her feelings and the world. She 
 was not going to let herself be a subject of idle jest or 
 scornful pity. Few outside her own family had known 
 of her engagement while it lasted; she was not going to 
 publish it to the world now that it was broken off. But 
 she suffered intensely. The very strength of her nature 
 gave her a greater capability of enduring agony. She 
 would dance all night, and then with unbound locks and 
 bare shoulders weep and pray and wrestle with her long- 
 ings till the dawn. The very capacity that helped her 
 to enjoy, enhanced the keenness of her pain. She was 
 like a great, deep lake that is only stirred and moved by
 
 A GARDEN FANCT 161 
 
 the most terrific forces of nature; the little breezes 
 and storms of life made no impression on her at all. 
 Outwardly, the only difference that was to be found in 
 her was a slightly increased pallor and a graver attitude, 
 but her aunt, hugging her own delusion that all was well 
 with Rosamund, would persist that the change was due 
 to the heat, and that it was the fatigue of the season 
 that sometimes made her look so tired. 
 
 Meantime Mrs. Kerquham's satisfaction with the way 
 that things were going gave Rosamund peace. Her aunt 
 was fully persuaded that before they all went to Scotland 
 at the end of the season Lord St. Ives would propose in 
 due form and the engagement would be announced. 
 Rosamund herself was but little impressed by the earl's 
 obvious intentions. She had been so used all her life to 
 a certain amount of admiration that a little more or less, 
 especially now when her whole brain and heart were 
 filled with one image, made no impression on her at all. 
 That Lord St. Ives came to lunch and tea and tennis and 
 dinner almost every day in the week did not seem 
 strange to her, because that particular season they had 
 had the house always full of people. He was only one 
 of the crowd, and he came and went, so far as regarded 
 herself, just as Honor's silent lover did, or the troop of 
 fast young men who hung like satellites round Laura's 
 brilliant beauty. That was another mistake that Mrs. 
 Kerquham made. She wanted Rosamund to get used to 
 Lord St. Ives, and she thought it was very clever to 
 treat him as one of a number and accept him as a matter 
 of course in the family circle. Her efforts certainly had 
 the result of avoiding any explosion between the girl 
 and herself, but further than that they were frustrated 
 by her niece looking upon him as a harmless if not very 
 agreeable appanage.
 
 162 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 Goodwood was at hand, and the last event of the 
 season, the Marlborough House garden party, was to 
 take place that afternoon. Mr. and Mrs. Kerquham and 
 the girls had started off to attend that brilliant function. 
 The most trivial excuse had won for Rosamund the rare 
 privilege of an afternoon to herself. Mrs. Kerquham 
 had really to acknowledge that the girl was not looking 
 quite the thing, so she graciously assented to her niece's 
 plea that she might spend the afternoon quietly and 
 alone in the garden. 
 
 As the carriage load drove down the long avenue, 
 Rosamund, with a book under her arm, and a big white 
 sunshade above her head, came slowly down the veran- 
 dah steps and across the sunny lawn to where the basket 
 chairs and hammocks with their gaudy cushions made a 
 brilliant splash of colour under the cool trees. With 
 a heavy sigh she flung herself into a low chair, and clos- 
 ing her parasol, dropped it at her feet, where a moment 
 later the unheeded volume, slipping from her knees, 
 joined it. 
 
 A great oppression lay upon her soul that day, a pre- 
 science of coming evil. Rosamund was not morbid, but 
 her nerves were all a-tingle with the expectation of bad 
 news. Perhaps it was the heat that made her feel so 
 cheerless and dejected. She pushed her broad-leafed 
 garden hat back from her low brow, and pressed her cool 
 palms against her throbbing temples. As she sat there, 
 looking out from the shade onto the blazing lawn, where 
 the scarlet and gold and purple of the flower beds quiv- 
 ered and danced in the sunshine, she was almost weak 
 enough to wish she had gone with the others. She had 
 so looked forward to this afternoon alone; she had an- 
 ticipated a long and happy dream of the sweet past and 
 the beautiful future that was to come, but she could
 
 A GARDEN FANCT 163 
 
 summon neither the one nor the other to her imagina- 
 tion; she could only sigh and cast anxious, frightened 
 looks about her, and feel that the present was heavy 
 with a coming grief.. 
 
 "How foolish I am!" she cried almost aloud to her- 
 self. "I have no reason to feel like this. I am sure 
 that Paul is the same as he was, and I know that I am 
 unaltered, and yet I feel somehow as though a wall, a 
 great invisible, insurmountable barrier had been built 
 between us, and was growing and growing and growing, 
 and that we shall be as far apart as though one were 
 dead and the other left alive. Ah! it is absurd." 
 
 Angry with herself, she 'drew her book onto her 
 knees again and opened it, but her eyes had scarcely 
 travelled twenty lines before they had wandered from 
 the page and stared unseeing once more out into the sun. 
 
 "Asleep, or only pretending?" cried a loud, clear 
 voice from the verandah, and Lily Baumer, a girl friend 
 of hers, all mauve muslin and faint blue ribbons, ran 
 across the lawn and greeted Rosamund in a hearty 
 boisterous fashion. 
 
 Miss Baumer was the daughter of a German artist, 
 and a fine specimen of a modern maid, tall and broad- 
 shouldered and with an opulence of physical charms that 
 gave her the only pangs of anxiety that ever clouded 
 her light-hearted disposition. Her skin of milk and 
 roses, her large light-blue eyes and masses of pale yellow 
 hair betrayed her German origin, which was further 
 accentuated by an obvious want of taste in her dress 
 and a tendency to untidiness. 
 
 "My dear! I was delighted when they told me you 
 were in. It was a positive instinct that made me guess 
 you would not go to that garden party to-day. It is sure 
 to be a fearful crowd ; not but that, of course, if I had
 
 164 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 been asked, I should have jumped at it like anything, 
 but you see we are not on the Marlborough House list." 
 
 She plumped herself down in a large chair, and 
 began to pull off her gloves. 
 
 "My goodness! Rosie, how lovely it is out here! 
 Why on earth you ever go anywhere is a mystery to me. 
 If I had a garden like this, you would never catch me 
 stuffing about in hot rooms and talking to the same 
 silly people every day and every night. Oh, dear! I 
 am glad the season is over. Do you know, I am going 
 to Cowes with Mrs. Toroni? She has got a yacht, and 
 no end of a jolly lot are going on it. Oh! here is tea 
 and strawberries and what cream! Now this is better 
 than all the parties in all the world." 
 
 Rosamund, roused from her despondent mood by her 
 friend's light chatter, busied herself in pouring out tea 
 and giving Miss Baumer the good things she loved so 
 well. Lily Baumer was exactly the sort of companion 
 that suited Rosamund at that moment. She ran on 
 with a trickle of light-hearted chatter, waiting for no 
 answer and needing none. It was no exertion to listen 
 to her, and her talk was not deep or abstruse enough to 
 require great exercise of thought or very much concen- 
 tration to follow. Lily passed in review their various 
 acquaintances, asked the date of Honor's marriage, and 
 hinted at some fresh escapade of Laura's. Suddenly 
 she put down her cup with a little clatter, and clasped 
 her large, elaborately ringed hands together. 
 
 "Oh! my dear! There, I was nearly forgetting it! 
 I knew I had something to tell you. Quite a piece of 
 news! How it has leaked out I do not know, but they 
 were all talking about it last night at Ranelagh. You 
 know he always used to be so great down there, what 
 with polo and pony racing and things."
 
 A GARDEN FANCT 165 
 
 "He? Who?" said Rosamund. Her voice was quite 
 calm, and her face was like a mask, but a little sickening 
 flutter stirred at her heart, and the sense of coming bad 
 news swept over her again as a cloud sweeps across a 
 sunny landscape. 
 
 "Why, my dear, that Mr. Carr, of course! Dear me, 
 I always did think he was such a handsome man; I used 
 quite to envy you girls here, who saw such a lot of him. 
 It is quite a dreadfully sad thing." 
 
 The instinct of hiding any emotion made Rosamund 
 lift her hand to the brim of her hat and drag it forward 
 over her eyes. 
 
 "Mr. Carr! What has happened? Is he ?" 
 
 "Oh, you are going to say 'dead' of course. I never 
 know why it is," chirped Miss Baumer in her cheeriest, 
 manner, "but whenever anybody mentions misfortune 
 or bad news about anybody, people always jump to the 
 conclusion that they are dead. I am sure I do not see 
 why people should trouble about things like that; we 
 have all got to die some time or other, you know. It is 
 queer, isn't it, to make a fuss about a thing that cannot 
 be helped?" 
 
 "What is the news?" asked Rosamund, in a low, dry 
 voice and taking no notice of Lily's irrelevant philosophy. 
 
 "You have not heard it, then? Well, I made sure, of 
 course, that as you had been such friends of his that 
 you would have been among the first people to know. 
 He has become a Roman Catholic. Just think of 
 that! He was 'received' I think that is the proper 
 expression into the Church last week. We had awful 
 arguments last night as to whether he was to be called a 
 convert or a pervert." 
 
 "Is that all?" murmured Rosamund, with an instinct 
 that there was more yet to know.
 
 1 66 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 "Oh, dear me, no! Why, that would not beany 
 news. Lots of people, quite in the best set, are being 
 made Roman Catholics nowadays. In fact, it is rather 
 a smart thing to do, I think." 
 
 "Well, go on," said Rosamund. She was staring out 
 at the ever-shifting colours of the flower beds, and her 
 voice as she spoke sounded very far away. She was 
 quite unnoticed by Lily, who was making an onslaught 
 on a dish of sweet cakes. But her hands were locked 
 together across her knees until the flowing of the blood 
 was arrested in them and they grew white as marble. 
 
 "He has gone into a monastery, you know. That is 
 the bit of news." 
 
 "A monastery," echoed Rosamund, vaguely trying to 
 collect her memories as to what such an action might 
 mean. 
 
 "Oh! he is not a real monk, you know," said Lily 
 Baumer, crunching her fine white teeth into an almond 
 cake. "He is a novice! He is serving his novitiate 
 that is the proper expression, I think. He can come 
 out, of course, whenever he likes." This with a know- 
 ing air as though very proud of her knowledge. "You 
 have to have an awfully long time of that kind of thing 
 before you are a real monk. Of course, people are say- 
 ing that he has only gone in there till that business you 
 know what I mean that happened in the spring has 
 been forgotten, and that then he will come out again and 
 everything will be just the same as ever. It would be a 
 pity, wouldn't it, if a handsome man like Mr. Carr really 
 went in for being a frowsy, dull, stupid old monk?" 
 
 Rosamund did not answer. She could not, even if she 
 had had anything to say. She was so overwhelmed with 
 the suddenness of the news, so filled with speculation as 
 to what it really might mean, that she could form no
 
 A GARDEN FANCY 167 
 
 sentences that might express commonplace curiosity or 
 idle wonder. Her silence attracted Miss Baumer's 
 attention to her. 
 
 "Why, Rosie, you look awfully odd! Have I told 
 you any bad news? Is it anything that you are upset at 
 hearing?" 
 
 The good-hearted girl, in a fit of ill-restrained emo- 
 tion, slipped out of her chair and down on to her knees 
 by Rosamund's side. "My dear, my dear, I am so 
 sorry. You know I would not have hurt you for the 
 world, and I did not think I did not know indeed, I 
 did not, that there had ever been anything between 
 you and Mr. Carr. Everybody knew that he admired you 
 very much, but then, you see, such lots of men do that 
 that we do not think anything of it, and since he has 
 disappeared from London you have been just the same. 
 Oh! poor darling, how much you must have suffered, and 
 how brave you have been, and what a brute I am to have 
 told you this dreadful thing just by way of idle talk! I 
 am so sorry, dear." 
 
 Rosamund pulled herself together, and looked down 
 into her friend's flushed face. Her big, dark eyes were 
 full of unshed tears, and her mouth was quivering like a 
 little child's. It had been Lily's rough sympathy that 
 had unnerved her, but in a moment she controlled her- 
 self, and laying her stone-cold hand upon her friend's, 
 said: 
 
 "My dear, I would sooner have heard it from you 
 than any one, for I am sure that you would not tell me 
 a thing with any unkind intent." 
 
 Then she went on in her simple, direct way that saw 
 no need of making a secret of her love: "Mr. Carr and 
 I were very fond of each other, Lil. We were engaged 
 and going to be married when that business happened.
 
 1 68 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 My uncle was very good about it. According to his 
 lights, he did the right thing. He insisted that for a 
 year we were both to be free, and not to meet, and that 
 things were to go on exactly as though Mr. Carr had 
 never spoken to me. The time is going by, of course, 
 but it has been very hard for me, and sometimes, Lil, I 
 am very, very unhappy." 
 
 "You brave darling," sobbed Lil, her sentimental 
 nature stirred to violent emotion, and crying all over the 
 bosom of her muslin frock. "Fancy you going about 
 as if nothing in the world were the matter! Mr. Carr 
 is able to go into a monastery to pass his time, but you, 
 you are braver than he is, for you are stopping out here 
 in the world among all of us, who are just a lot of idle, 
 heartless, empty-headed fools. How I hate them all, 
 and how I despise myself when I think of what you go 
 through without so much as a sigh." 
 
 "Hush! Lil," said Rosamund, trying to soothe the 
 girl. "It is not as bad really as that. We have sworn 
 to love one another, and I believe as much in Paul's 
 affection for me as I do in mine for him. I am sure that 
 what he has done he has done for the best. It was a 
 shock to me just now when you told me, for it made me 
 feel as though he had left me standing alone on a little 
 island in the middle of a great sea. It gave me a 
 deserted, lost feeling, and it was that that frightened 
 me." 
 
 "Did you not know of this at all?" said Lil. 
 
 "No, dear. We are allowed to write to one another, 
 but during the past few weeks we have exchanged no 
 letters. You see we have promised to be true to each 
 other we have said we would never marry except it was 
 one another there was nothing else to say."
 
 A GARDEN FANCY 169 
 
 Lily Baumer scrambled to her feet, and scrubbing at 
 her eyes, pushed her disordered hair back under her 
 hat. 
 
 "You are the bravest, most splendid girl I have ever 
 met. I do not think there is any one else like you in 
 the whole wide world. Good-bye, my dearest," and she 
 smothered Rosamund with kisses. "Mother only lent 
 me the carriage for an hour, and I must go home again ; 
 but you promise to forgive me, don't you?" 
 
 "There is nothing to forgive, dear," said Rosamund, 
 gently. "I have already told you that I would sooner 
 have heard this thing from you than from any one. 
 Good-bye, dear." 
 
 "So this was the evil that I had feared," thought 
 Rosamund, as she gazed once more upon the lawn, over 
 which the afternoon shades were creeping in long 
 straight lines. "Or perhaps it is not evil; perhaps it is 
 for the best, yet what a strange thing^to have done." 
 
 The strain of Scotch blood and the strict religious 
 bringing up of her life dominated her for a moment. 
 
 "Fancy a Protestant becoming a Roman Catholic. I 
 wonder why he did that? One does hear of others doing 
 such things, but I thought that Paul was much too good'a 
 man to change his religion. In a monastery, too; they 
 say such strange things go on in monasteries. Perhaps 
 he will never come out again ; perhaps they will influence 
 him and keep him there. Oh! but Paul is not a child; 
 he would never allow himself to be persuaded so much 
 against his will but it is very very strange." 
 
 Then her thoughts turned inwards. "I wonder if 
 it will make any difference between us. I wonder if his 
 new vows are going to wipe out those he made to me. 
 It was just here that he told me that he loved me, and
 
 170 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 asked me to be his wife. I remember thinking then it 
 was almost an idle thing to say, for somehow I knew 
 it for some weeks before he spoke. I wonder if he will 
 write to me." 
 
 And as the afternoon died into evening she sat on, a 
 little shocked, a little sad, and very fearful of what the 
 future would bring forth.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 A REASON 
 
 IF to Rosamund it had been strange that Paul Carr had 
 voluntarily become a member of the Roman Catholic 
 Church, it was to him little less than wonderful. He 
 had been broken and disappointed when he had first 
 taken to going to the little monastery in the vilest pur- 
 lieus of eastern London. The quietness and the sim- 
 plicity of the place, the lack of pretension and the 
 sincerity of its few inhabitants had for a time acted like 
 an anodyne on his overstrained nerves. It had soothed 
 him to sing in the little chapel, and it had given him a 
 sense of well-being to spend a few hours in Father 
 Gregory's poor cell, but the idea of his becoming a 
 Roman Catholic had been as far away from his thoughts 
 as that he should himself give up his present mode of life 
 and take on the habit and the vows of a monk. 
 
 Like most of the great things in either the world's 
 history or the little story of an individual life, an acci- 
 dent had proved the lever that moved him. He and 
 Father Gregory one afternoon were quietly discussing 
 the great Sacraments of their respective churches. They 
 had spoken of the Sacraments of marriage and confirma- 
 tion, and then of the greatest Sacrament that of bap- 
 tism, which in all churches seals the soul to Christ and 
 forms a palpable link between the body and a set form 
 of religion. Father Gregory had been speaking for 
 some moments, and then had stopped, waiting for Paul's 
 
 171
 
 172 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 answer. None came, and as the monk looked at the 
 young man he saw that his whole face was diffused with 
 a mingled look of horror and wonder. 
 
 "Of what are you thinking? Why do you look like 
 that?" the Father asked. 
 
 "I was wondering," said Paul, in alow, introspective 
 voice, as though he were trying to fling his memory 
 back into the earliest days of his life, "I was wondering 
 if I had ever been christened. While you have been 
 speaking I have been trying to remember when I first 
 went to church; it has only just come back to me that 
 it was not until I was at Eton." 
 
 "But many worldly parents neglect the religious edu- 
 cation of their children," said Father Gregory. "Be- 
 cause your father and mother never took you to church 
 it does not follow that you were never christened." 
 
 Paul passed his hands before his eyes as though he 
 were brushing aside a veil that hid the past. 
 
 "But more than that is coming back to me," he mur- 
 mured, brokenly. "I seem to remember hearing some 
 of my mother's relations argue with her on some course 
 she had adopted as regards my religion. I can recall 
 some one I think it must have been my grandmother 
 urging her to do her duty by her only child, and then 
 she laughed, and said the whole thing was a mockery 
 and a farce that no one was made either good or bad 
 by the commission or the omission of the sprinkling of 
 water and the consecrating to God. I remember now 
 that my grandmother was very angry, and told my 
 mother that she would live one day to regret the wrong 
 she had done me. Poor women, they are both dead 
 now. Neither will know whether the wrong has been 
 righted or what the results of it will be. Only it 
 remains that I have never been christened, and that in
 
 A REASON 173 
 
 the accepted sense of the word I must be an outcast from 
 every church and from every sect. I am not a Chris- 
 tian. " 
 
 Paul buried his head in his hands. The priest, reach- 
 ing across the narrow wooden table, laid one hand on 
 his shaking shoulders. 
 
 "What you tell me, my friend, is very strange, but at 
 least you have lived a life as good as the others of your 
 world." 
 
 "A life like the others!" cried Paul, rising to his feet. 
 "What kind of life do you think that is? You did well; 
 you left the world early, while the glamour of it was still 
 over you, while you still believed that all men were hon- 
 ourable and all women pure. I believe that even now 
 you have the heart of a child, and although you know 
 too well the misery and the sin that flows by your very 
 doorway here, I believe that you still think our world 
 the world of educated, well-born men and women is a 
 good one." 
 
 He laughed scornfully. "Your belief is the belief of 
 a child that knows no discrimination and judges every- 
 thing from the mere outside. You told me once that 
 people of my world came down here sometimes and did 
 charitable things and screwed up their senses to the 
 bearing of disgusting spectacles and fearful sounds. I 
 told you then it was all sham and advertisement and 
 merely a mad longing for a new sensation. I tell you 
 now that all the world is rotten! If a good action is 
 done it is not for the love of Christ or for the memory 
 of the sprinkled water. It is for a motive. Father, I 
 could almost find it in my heart to thank God that I am 
 not a Christian." 
 
 But as the storm spent itself a new mood took him, 
 and he seemed like a child lost in a dark forest, who
 
 174 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 stretches out its hands and finds no support; who cries 
 for help and is not heeded. 
 
 "Now I know," he said, "why I could not bear the 
 transient trouble and passing shame of that affair in May; 
 I had no one to turn to. The only reed in the world I 
 had to lean on was Rosamund Keith and I hope I am 
 too much of a man to cast my burden on the slender 
 shoulders of a mere girl." 
 
 "But she loved you!" said Father Gregory. 
 
 "Yes, she loved me. I feel sure she does so still, and 
 will do so to the end, but there again I was faced by 
 my own weakness. If I could have believed, really and 
 truly, in God, I should have felt sure of her. Don't 
 you see that faith is a thing that must be trained, as 
 every other attribute of humanity must be? If I had 
 been taught to believe that an omnipotent Power was ever 
 ready to help the weak and weary, I should have greater 
 faith is mere humans like myself." 
 
 "And what will you do?" asked the monk. 
 
 "What can I do? I cannot make myself as a little 
 child, simple and unthinking, and accepting everything 
 just as it is told to me. Yet neither can I live on with 
 this knowledge that I have no right even to pray." 
 
 "But you have yet to prove that the neglect you seem 
 to think was exercised towards you really did happen, 
 and that you were never christened." 
 
 "I can do that in a few days." 
 
 It was over a week before the dull corridors of the 
 little monastery resounded once more to Paul's firm, 
 ringing step. He went straight to Father Gregory, and 
 even before greeting him, cried aloud: 
 
 "It is as I thought. I Rave found out I have proved 
 that I was never christened."
 
 A REASON 175 
 
 And so it was that Paul, tossed on the sea of emo- 
 tion and despair and with never an anchor to cling to, 
 was swept by every sentiment and wish that swayed him 
 at that time, into the bosom of the holy Church of Rome. 
 He had so completely lost touch with every one who 
 might have influenced him to another course, so many 
 weeks had passed without his even hearing one word 
 from Rosamund, that it seemed only natural he should 
 turn to the first consolation that offered itself. 
 
 With his customary seriousness, he had taken the 
 whole thing very much to heart, and early in his prepara- 
 tions for his baptism had decided upon entering a 
 monastery. Not with a view of one day taking final 
 vows for the thoughts of Rosamund were very sacred 
 and very dear to him, and he still counted the hours to 
 the far-off end of that probationary year. But he was 
 very weak at that time ; he had been so accustomed all 
 his life to living in a whirl and in a crowd that the effect 
 upon him of social ostracism was very great, and resulted 
 in an almost morbid and unhealthy dread of everything 
 that appertained to Society. 
 
 So one afternoon, when he talked with the Prior after 
 he had finished his day's instruction, he said he would 
 like to go for some months into some quiet spot that 
 God and man had combined to hedge about with sweet 
 peace and silence and a simple, regular life; a spot where 
 the roar of the world's ocean was never heard, and 
 from which the tide of life seemed to have flowed away 
 forever. The Prior told him of many places, and with 
 Father Gregory he visited such monastic retreats as 
 lay within easy distance of London. Some seemed to 
 him unnecessarily lax; others, like the Passionists, aim- 
 lessly severe; Benedictines and Carmelites and Jesuits,
 
 176 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 he went among, and then last of all he was taken to a 
 small Dominican settlement or monastery of the Black 
 Friars, as they were called in older times. 
 
 His aesthetic tastes, which his new life had excited 
 within him, were pleased by what he saw there. The 
 long, low building, with two great wings stretching out 
 through lovely terraced gardens and framed in great 
 trees, pleased him. In the low meadowland that was 
 spread like a verdant carpet to the grey horizon the cows 
 grazed ankle-deep in the lush grass. Here and there 
 the steeple of some village church, or the whirling arms 
 of a windmill, broke the sky line, while in the north the 
 tender sheen of a sea of silver betokened the where- 
 abouts of one of the sleepiest of the Norfolk Broads. 
 It was all grey and green and very quiet, with just the 
 white-robed monks moving quietly about in twos against 
 the background of the old walled gardens and the low, 
 straggling house. 
 
 "I should like to come here," he had said to Father 
 Gregory. "Here I ought to find peace and happiness; 
 here I ought to be able to think calmly of things that 
 are now irritation to me. When I am christened I will 
 come to this place and be a novice here, subject to men 
 older and wiser than myself. I will try and begin a new 
 life, so that I may really be fit for Rosamund when the 
 year is over." 
 
 The little settlement in the East End, which laboured 
 so hard among such loathsome surroundings, was not 
 astonished that the new convert should choose so fair a 
 spot to live in. It was to them the haven of refuge, to 
 which they retired when the storm and stress of their 
 awful work was finished, and where sometimes one or 
 other of them went to gain back the lost health and
 
 A REASON 177 
 
 broken courage which had succumbed to the hideous 
 circumstances of the daily life they had taken upon them- 
 selves. 
 
 A week before Rosamund heard the news Paul was 
 baptised by the name he had always borne in the world, 
 into the church he had chosen, and a few hours after 
 the ceremony, with only a small portmanteau in his 
 hand, he set out for Norfolk.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 A RETREAT 
 
 THE flat, dyked country was flooded with the crimson 
 light of the setting sun as Paul Carr stepped from the 
 train at a little wayside Norfolk station. A lazy porter 
 lolled on a truck in the shade, and the stout station- 
 master, having seen the train move off again, pulled off 
 his official coat, and rolling up his shirt sleeves, picked 
 up a spade and resumed his interrupted occupation of 
 gardening. 
 
 Paul gave up his ticket to a little girl who stood at 
 the wicket gate, and picking up his bag, stepped out 
 into the road. He remembered the way, so he did not 
 need to ask for directions, and as there was no need to 
 hurry, he walked away quite slowly. His steps first led 
 him through a trim village, where the women, gossiping 
 at their gates, drawled their words and laughed the long, 
 deliberate laugh of the eastern counties. A windmill 
 and a church bounded the village, and then he set his 
 foot on the long, dyked road which was edged with 
 pollard willow trees, that with their round, clumped 
 heads, stood like a stiff row of sentinels between the 
 roadway and the grassy, sunken meadows. High up in 
 the sky that was paling from a deep blue to an opales- 
 cent grey, a lark was singing its evensong. A distant 
 sheep bell sounded hoarsely on the evening air now and 
 then; a cart rumbled in the distance, and then every- 
 thing was silent. 
 
 178
 
 A RETREAT 179 
 
 Paul, after the months of harassing worry and doubt, 
 the glare and glitter and the squalid horror of London, 
 felt as though he were treading the pathway to heaven. 
 The air was very warm, yet, coming over the flat country 
 straight from the sea, smacked of soft, foamy waves. 
 By-and-bye, a long line of red wall wandered like a 
 thread across the green country. It was the wall of the 
 monastery gardens. 
 
 With a sigh of ineffable happiness Paul rang at the 
 gate, which was opened from within the lodge by a 
 spring. As he passed through it, it shut with a heavy 
 crash behind him, and again he sighed, for he felt as 
 though behind that gate lay all the trouble and heart- 
 bitterness of the world. He crossed a meadow or two, 
 and then passing through an archway in a brick wall, 
 found himself in the straggling kitchen garden, and not 
 far from the main door of the monastery. This entrance 
 lay in the centre of the building, with the long wings 
 stretched out on either side of it. Some of the upper 
 .windows were a little open, and he anticipated with 
 pleasure the coolness and freshness of the simply-fur- 
 nished rooms within. He pulled the iron handle of a 
 great bell that sounded loudly a long way off. He was 
 evidently expected, for long before its clanging died 
 away the door was flung open and a cheerful Irishman 
 in a white cloth cassock, and with his tonsure covered by 
 a small black zuchetto, or skull cap, opened the door in 
 wide welcome. He was a lay brother, and his name was 
 Patrick. He greeted Paul with a broad smile, and told 
 him that the novice master, whose duty it was to receive 
 and take entire charge of the novices, was waiting for 
 him in the parlour. 
 
 The parlour was just within the door. It was pan- 
 elled with oak that had grown dark with age. The
 
 I So THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 wooden floor of narrow pitch-pine boards shone like a 
 mirror and gave off a scent suggestive of beeswax and 
 infinite cleanliness. The three long windows were opened 
 to the flower gardens, which sloped away from the house 
 on that side down to a little stream that ran through 
 the grounds. A picture of St. Dominic, crudely painted 
 and set in a very simple frame, hung above the mantel- 
 piece. Close by the door was a small wooden desk with 
 a stool before it. On it was a tall, black crucifix with 
 the Christ in white plaster. Two cheap glass vases, 
 gaudily painted, held some white lilies. The table in 
 the centre of the room was innocent of all books save a 
 "Life of St. Dominic" and a volume of sermons. Half 
 a dozen rush-bottomed chairs stood with formal neatness 
 round the room. 
 
 As Paul was ushered in, a large, stout man rose 
 from a chair in the furthest corner. He closed a little 
 book that he had been reading and slipped it in to the 
 pocket of his cassock. He advanced into the full light 
 and greeted Paul kindly. 
 
 "I am Father Zadock," he said, "and I am the 
 novice master. I trust you will be happy here and gain 
 such consolations as you may wish from your studies 
 and from our quiet life." 
 
 He was a kind-looking man, with a rather high voice 
 and a weak chin. Paul, in his quick fashion, took a 
 fancy to him at once, but read in every line of his large, 
 fleshy face and soft fat hands that he was easy-going 
 and of undecided character. 
 
 "To-night," said Father Zadock, "you will sup in the 
 guest chamber. You will see your fellow novices to-mor- 
 row. The Prior will also receive you in the morning. 
 Will you come this way with me?" 
 
 JJe walked before Paul down the long corridor, the
 
 A RETREAT 181 
 
 walls of which were distempered a French grey colour. 
 At each angle of the walls, pictures of saints were 
 roughly painted on the plaster. A stretch of cocoanut 
 matting ran between two shining lines of polished boards. 
 At the far end was the guest chamber. It was as 
 severely plain as the parlour, but Paul, whose fastidious 
 notions even his religious thirstings could not entirely 
 eliminate, noticed that the napery laid upon the small 
 table was very fine and white, and that the glass and 
 china upon which his supper was served were good, if of 
 simple form and decoration. 
 
 An ample meal was brought to him, well cooked and 
 savoury, and as he ate it with some appetite, Father 
 Zadock talked to him. A faint surprise struck Paul that 
 the good man did not lay much stress upon the manner 
 of his reception into the Church, nor did he express 
 particular gratification that a son of the world should be 
 content for a time to submit himself and the order of his 
 life to the strict discipline of a religious order. Rather 
 did the Father ask for news, interspersing his questions 
 with remarks that showed he was not badly informed on 
 the current topics of the day. Once, when Paul received 
 some question of his with frank astonishment, Father 
 Zadock leaned back in his chair and shook his fat sides 
 with hearty laughter. 
 
 "You are wondering that I know about that, I sup- 
 pose. Oh! please do not deny it; I can see it in your 
 face; but you must not think we are hermits here. We 
 read the papers, and people come and see us, and we 
 know pretty well what is going on." 
 
 It was not until he was left alone in his room that 
 Paul pondered over the worthy Father's words, and even 
 then their full 'significance did not come to him, for he 
 was busy spending the last hour of daylight in reviewing
 
 182 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 his surroundings. He had been led, after his supper, to 
 that wing of the monastery which was known as the 
 Novitiate. Here, on three floors, were instructed, fed, 
 and housed the novices who came to the monastery either 
 to prepare for the oriesthood or to retreat some time 
 from the world. 
 
 Paul's room was one of many off a long corridor, dis- 
 tempered and painted like the one downstairs. At the 
 extreme end of it was erected an altar with a triptych 
 above it and bearing a crucifix and a few flowers. Be- 
 hind it was a very small chapel, to which the novices 
 might repair at stated times for private prayer. 
 
 His own room was small. The fast-setting sun 
 flooded it and showed in one flash every detail of the 
 apartment. It was about ten feet square, with yellow 
 painted walls and a bare floor, polished like those he had 
 seen elsewhere in the house. Opposite the door was the 
 window; it was a lattice and was set in an embrasure 
 that was deep enough to form a seat. There was no 
 blind to the window, but a coloured cotton curtain drew 
 before the recess at night. One corner of the room was 
 cut across by a deal board, on which was a basin, a soap 
 dish, and other toilet necessaries. There was one chair, 
 and a small looking-glass in a common wooden frame 
 hung flat against the wall. One fine piece of furniture 
 only broke the monotony and ugliness of the room. It 
 was a small cupboard in fine old oak, black with age and 
 polished by centuries of use; the top sloped like a writ- 
 ing desk, and it suggested to Paul many happy hours of 
 sympathetic study. 
 
 Just inside the doorway hung a little plaster crucifix 
 and a shell moulded in cheap china, which held the holy 
 water. A gas bracket of plain iron jutted out from the 
 wall not far from the bed, which was made of three
 
 A RETREAT 183 
 
 planks laid across trestles, and mitigated only to the 
 human body by a single flock mattress, a small bolster, 
 and a pillow. Of sheets it was quite innocent, but the 
 two blankets and pillow slip were all of white wool, and 
 a great counterpane covered it. Three slips of wood, 
 held together by a worn red cord, formed the bookcase 
 that hung on the wall. 
 
 As the door shut upon Father Zadock's portly form, 
 Paul felt strangely lonely. Again, a self-conscious sense 
 of astonishment that there was such small interest taken 
 in the arrival of a wealthy English gentleman who had 
 been a member of the best Society in London, the scion 
 of a well-known Protestant family, swept over him and 
 held him spellbound. But he would not permit himself 
 to cavil at his reception. The men who lived here were 
 above worldly considerations; it did not matter to them 
 who a man had been; they would only consider him as 
 he was to be. The pasts of people were shut outside in 
 the road by the heavy wooden gate; it was only their 
 futures that concerned the good Fathers. 
 
 He unpacked his small bag, wondering if on the mor- 
 row he would be allowed to keep the very few and sim- 
 ple articles that he had brought with him. "Not that it 
 matters," he said to himself, "for I shall have many 
 other things to think of here. I have to make up for a 
 lifetime of ignorance and idle wrong-doing. I have to 
 wipe out the past and prepare for a fairer future with 
 Rosamund. Dear Rosamund, I wonder what she will 
 say when she knows of this?" 
 
 He walked over to the window and looked out across 
 the fields. A soft white mist was flowing up from them, 
 and lying in light wreaths about the little round-headed 
 trees; the sheep bell still rang hoarsely in the distance. 
 
 "I wonder," he cried to the rolling mist and the pale
 
 184 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 sky, "if I am really such a coward; if I am afraid to tell 
 her? If I am afraid for myself or for her? I do not 
 quite know. She is so brave and true, so broad-minded, 
 so large-hearted, that I think in her generosity she would 
 not have thwarted me in my wish to find grace. I 
 believe in my own heart it would have been a great 
 grief to her to know of my parents' neglect, and yet 
 and yet if I believe all this why have I not written to 
 her and told her everything?" He pulled himself up. 
 ''Paul Carr, you are a coward; you are afraid of yourself 
 and afraid of the woman you love, and you have all the 
 time intended to let her know you have done this thing 
 after the step has been taken. But now I must write to 
 her I will write to her and ask her forgiveness. Until 
 I have done that I shall feel as though I had not been 
 quite fair to my love." 
 
 Some one, he did not see who, came in and lit the gas, 
 and then slipped silently out again. For a moment 
 Paul's instinct was to turn and say the night was yet too 
 young to need artificial light. Then he checked himself, 
 and remembered that doubtless this was the rule of the 
 place. But he lowered the light a little, and went back 
 to the window, where he mused a*d dreamed as he 
 watched the wreaths of mist rise and fall like a ghostly 
 sea over the low-lying fields. After what seemed but a 
 few minutes, but was in reality half an hour, a loud bell 
 rang in the corridor outside. He did not move, how- 
 ever, until some moments later a sharp knock came to 
 his door, and a voice he had not heard before said, "You 
 must put out your light. " Silently he obeyed, and then, 
 by the clear radiance of the rising moon, slowly 
 undressed and prepared for bed. 
 
 The white woolen sheets had looked inviting enough, 
 but when he slipped between them he found that they
 
 A RETREAT 185 
 
 were rough and coarse, while the pillow, after his head 
 had been on it for a few moments, stung and burned as 
 though filled with nettles. He was almost despairing of 
 being able to rest, when he remembered that in his bag 
 he had a few silk handkerchiefs. Finding one, he spread 
 it beneath his face, which was already quite sore, and 
 then quickly lost himself and his doubts in dreams.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 ROSAMUND READS A LETTER 
 
 THE first news that Rosamund received from Paul was 
 forwarded to her in Scotland from "The Hurst." She 
 recognised his handwriting at once, and in a queer, 
 illogical way was almost surprised to find that it was not 
 at all altered as she had somehow expected it might have 
 been. The letter filled two large sheets of paper and 
 was very closely written, the only break in the lines 
 being made by a tiny sketch of the monastery that he 
 had put in one corner. 
 
 "My dearest Rosamund," it began, "if you were any 
 other woman than you are, if you were not the truest 
 and the most loving and the most sweet natured of your 
 sex, I should scarcely have dared to write to you after so 
 long a silence. The summer was in its fullest beauty 
 when we last met and when we parted, and now already 
 autumn has set her palette with brown and purple, yel- 
 low and gold, and passes the clear, cool nights in paint- 
 ing the great clumps of trees, the low shrubberies, and 
 the creepers that surround this place. When I look out 
 of my window, at early dawn, I see the mists lying thick 
 and white as carded wool over the dyked meadows. In 
 a few days September will be here, and the ring of the 
 guns shooting down the little brown birds among the 
 fields will sound all day long outside the high red wall 
 that makes this spot a haven from the turbulent world 
 without. 
 
 1 86
 
 ROSAMUND READS A LETTER 187 
 
 "I wonder where you are now. Not in London, of 
 course, though I send this letter to you there and 
 you would scarcely yet be settled in Midshire at the 
 Manor. I like best to think of you as being in Scotland, 
 pressing down the heather with your light step, in your 
 dainty tam-o'shanter with its scarlet feather and those 
 workmanlike short skirts of yours, in the wearing of 
 which you have learned to move and walk as no other 
 woman can do. That is how I picture you to myself, 
 out in' the fresh, free air, with the life-blood glowing 
 through your fine skin and your big eyes radiant with 
 the reflected sunshine and the clear blue light of the 
 northern sky. 
 
 "And I have an instinct, too, Rosamund, that you 
 think of me sometimes, yet it can only be in a vague 
 way. You do not know where I am or what I am doing. 
 I wonder if any one told you of the step I took last July. 
 It was only two months ago, and yet it seems as though 
 a whole cycle of time had passed since then. I wonder 
 if you heard that I had been received into the Roman 
 Catholic Church, and if so, what you thought? My dear, 
 I was very unhappy, very broken, and very lonely. Even 
 you were denied to me, and men are at best, with all 
 their pride and all their vaunted brains and intelligence, 
 such poor things that they must lean on some other but 
 themselves. So it is that when woman, the natural sup- 
 port of man, is taken away, he turns to God. I only 
 followed the instincts of human nature, and in doing so 
 discovered that I had really no God to turn to. 
 
 "An old friend of mine helped me then, and it was his 
 hand indirectly that led me out of the darkness into the 
 light. Were you very shocked? I am sure that your 
 family was, for it is difficult for people who have the 
 ideas of centuries bred in them, suddenly to uproot or
 
 1 88 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 change the thing that has become a vital part of their 
 natures. But I scarcely think you are like that. Con- 
 vention, as the world knows it, has never influenced you 
 much. You have lived a freer, less artificial life than 
 the average woman of your order. You have never 
 weakened your mind with foolish reading and light talk. 
 At least I hope, if at first you were startled at the step 
 I had taken, that your wise judgment, backed by the 
 affection I know you bear me, has exonerated me long 
 ago from any blame you may have been inclined to lay 
 at my door. 
 
 "Once again, I wonder what you think of me now 
 that you know I am in a monastery. I am half afraid 
 that you will think I have carried my new religion too 
 far, and that I am saving my own happiness and insuring 
 peace for myself at your expense. This is not so, Rosa- 
 mund, believe me. I have come here for peace, and I 
 have come here to learn how to be happy, but it is only 
 with a view of securing a more perfect life in the future 
 for us both. What that life may be I cannot yet decide. 
 Sometimes I think that the love of man for woman is not 
 everything, that there are other Sacraments besides 
 those of marriage; that more good may be done by 
 quietly quitting one's place in the outer world and set- 
 ting oneself apart to pray for the welfare of those one had 
 left behind. But of this I am not yet sure. I desire to 
 be convinced that these things are true, and I yet regard 
 them with the eye of disbelief. They tell me here that 
 as the weeks go by I shall become more firm and more 
 set in my purpose. Of that I am not certain, either, but 
 from time to time I will let you know if what they claim 
 to be the true life of a Christian proves to me to be so. 
 At present I am in a state of unrest. One hour I yearn 
 for the world, and in the next I hate it. At dawn the
 
 ROSAMUND READS A LETTER 189 
 
 chapel with the prayers and the dim light, the faint 
 odour of sanctity, the soft music and the peace, prevail 
 upon me to believe that here, and here only, is God to 
 be found. In the evening, under identical circum- 
 stances, my whole manhood revolts, and my body cries 
 out for the freedom that my soul will not permit it to 
 snatch. 
 
 "Shall I tell you a little of the life here? Perhaps it 
 will help you to form an opinion of my various moods 
 just now, which even to myself are sometimes inexplic- 
 able. 
 
 "It was an August evening when I came and was 
 received as a novice, a mere pupil in the profession of 
 religion, by the monk who has the care and ordering of 
 the lives of such who are as I am. This is a lovely place, 
 and the wing that is set apart for the novices is clothed 
 with creepers and small-leaved glistening ivy. The view 
 from my little window is miles and miles of flat country 
 towards a horizon which is but slightly broken by the low 
 undulations that lie about the town of Stamford. The 
 rooms that are on the other side of the corridor from 
 mine look over a country road. Now and then, in the 
 evening, a farm cart rumbles by carrying a load of weary 
 bumpkins and supplies from the nearest village. That 
 is all of outside life to be seen, and yet the novices 
 whose rooms look out that way tell me that they spend 
 hours crouching within the deep embrasures of their win- 
 dows, behind the little curtain that runs across each 
 alcove only to catch a view or an echo of strange faces 
 and passing wheels. 
 
 "Our life is very simple, and the monotony of it 
 sweeps away all marks of time. There is nothing here 
 but day and night, and one so overlaps the other that 
 each seems without end. When I first came it used to
 
 190 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 be dawn when we first rose for Matins, which are at four. 
 Now that the nights are lengthening, it is more diffi- 
 cult to wake and rise from bed, and, after having lit the 
 little taper which we all carry in our pockets, to pass 
 quickly from one cell to another, rousing the occupant 
 of each, and lighting the gas jets. That duty over and 
 it is one each novice takes in turn one goes downstairs, 
 and crossing the cloisters, which in these early autumn 
 mornings are sometimes very keen, goes into the chapel. 
 The little lamps that burn always before the statue of 
 the Blessed Virgin are a guide to the altar where the 
 candles are set ready to be lit. That done, one has to 
 go to the belfry. At the foot of the stairs that lead up 
 and away into an unseen distance there always stands a 
 lantern ready to be lighted. There are three bells at 
 the head of the staircase, and it is quite an art to ring 
 them. They are started with one foot, then with the 
 right hand and then with the left. Before the echo of 
 the little peal has died away, one is out again in the 
 cloisters ringing the sanctuary bell nine times. Then 
 follows the shuffling of feet, and the novices, sleepy-eyed 
 and yawning, come down in pairs and walk to their 
 places in the choir of the chapel. The monks follow 
 after in such order as best pleases them. 
 
 "When Matins are over most of us go back to bed 
 again, but I have spent many of the fairer mornings out 
 in the garden watching the sun rise and the silver mist 
 float away like torn shreds of gauze over the tree tops. 
 Morning after morning I have heard the lark's first song 
 and watched the bees come out and the butterflies settle 
 and feed on the dew-laden roses. 
 
 "Two hours later we all meet again in the choir for 
 'Prime,' and the day of study and prayer, and of such 
 intercourse and relaxation as are permitted, begins. At
 
 ROSAMUND READS A LETTER 191 
 
 'prime' we first see the lay brothers. They are good, 
 worthy men who have given up their pleasure and lives, 
 as men of their class know such things, for hard work, 
 implicit obedience, and endless service in the Church's 
 cause. At a quarter past seven we breakfast in silence. 
 At none of our meals are we allowed to speak, save at 
 the great feast of St. Dominic, and on such rare occasions 
 as the Bishop's visit to the monastery. Breakfast is the 
 simplest of our meals. We have bread and coffee with 
 sugar and milk; on Sunday we have butter. It is put 
 up into very long, thin rolls, and it is quite an art so to 
 help one's self as to get enough of it. It is strange to 
 see how the little characteristics of selfishness and greed- 
 iness come out over such a trifle, and how all 'the reli- 
 gion in the world does not seem to prevent a man from 
 taking more than his fair share of a thing he likes to eat. 
 
 "At nine o'clock we repeat the Office of the Blessed 
 Virgin Mary, and the time from then to mid-day is 
 either passed in study, in private prayer, or in walking 
 out in solemn silence in the gardens. I think that men 
 feel better when they are alone with nature. The gar- 
 dens here are very beautiful, and I never saw such roses, 
 and it is in looking at them that one- acknowledges the 
 greatness of God. We go to the choir for a few minutes 
 before dinner, which is at a quarter past twelve. 
 
 "The refectory, where all our meals are taken, is' a 
 large, well-lit room, with plain, distempered walls, only 
 broken here and there by the picture of a saint or the 
 presentment of some miracle. A great fixed seat goes 
 all round the room and a narrow table is in front of that. 
 The Prior sits at the head in an elbow chair and next to 
 him is the Sub-prior. Both of them are kindly, good 
 men, really imbued with the spirit of the religion they 
 profess and deeply anxious that others should see things
 
 192 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 with their eyes. The Fathers and monks sit in their 
 order of seniority all down the table on alternate sides. 
 Then come the novices, who are placed in the order as 
 they have entered the monastery. Such lay brothers 
 who are not engaged in household duties, which they all 
 take in turn, sit at the lower end of the table. We are 
 served from the lowest to the highest, and the tables 
 are cleared in the reverse order. In the centre of the 
 room stands a desk, at which the monks in turn read a 
 book, either of religious instruction or the life of one of 
 the saints. 
 
 "You are a woman, and therefore will like details, so 
 to* please you I will tell you what we have to eat. 
 
 "The soup is made from vegetables, but sometimes 
 we have a course of sardines or anchovies served with 
 toast. Many kinds of fish come next. All are good and 
 cooked to perfection, though very rarely is it fried. 
 Quantities of vegetables are served to us, and various 
 sorts of pastries and pies and fruit. Those who prefer 
 preserves can have marmalade with blanc mange. Cheese 
 and celery, with bread and one glass of beer, finish our 
 meal. I have not as yet eaten other food than this, for 
 the rules of the order ordain that no meat shall be served 
 in the refectory, and that those who are in health shall 
 observe the above diet. 
 
 "But near to where we dine is a small room called 
 the meat room. Here the soup is made from meat, and 
 joints and game are daily served. Twice a week and on 
 Sundays all novices, unless they are in good health or 
 desire to abstain, are obliged to dine in this room, and 
 the Fathers themselves who are preaching or teaching, 
 and all those who are in poor health or are engaged in a 
 deep course of study, are allowed to go there. Conver- 
 sation is permitted, and it must be very cheerful in there
 
 ROSAMUND READS A LETTER 193 
 
 and bright, for I often hear loud voices and much laugh- 
 ter, but I mean to keep from it as long as I can, for my 
 health is good, and the mood for companionship and con- 
 versation very seldom comes to me now. 
 
 "I do not want you, Rosamund, to think of me as 
 being sad or in poor health; I never was stronger in my 
 life. All my thoughts and instincts make for the best, 
 and I know that I am happier here, where I am merely 
 called Brother Paul, where no one knows who I really 
 am or anything about me, than I should be outside. If 
 I were, in the world I should eat out my heart that I 
 could not be with you, and a summer in Norway or 
 climbing in Switzerland would seem to me merely an 
 exile which would grow to be a purgatory. 
 
 "You see I am nearly at the end of my paper. We 
 have to ask Father Zadock, the novice master, a good, 
 kind soul, for writing materials. It is one of the petty 
 rules that- irks a little, for one is only given a single 
 sheet of paper at a time and has to quibble to get 
 another. I managed to get two to-day, and dare not ask 
 for a third. When this letter is finished I must take it to 
 Father Zadock unsealed, but he is a gentleman; he will 
 not read it. 
 
 "Will you write to me and tell me of yourself and if 
 you are angry with me or pleased? I have a feeling that 
 you will be neither. I pray that you will regard my 
 action as I want you to do merely a way of finding 
 patience and content until we may meet again. May 
 God bless you. PAUL."
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 A RIVER REVERIE 
 
 PAUL'S first letter was a great shock to Rosamund. 
 Since the day when Lily Baumer had told her that her 
 betrothed husband had, out of conviction, become a 
 Roman Catholic, and retired into a monastery for a period 
 of meditation and prayer, she had spent many anxious 
 hours in viewing what even now seemed to her a most 
 strange action. But out of her own simple faith she had 
 persuaded herself that it had been the voice of God that 
 had called to him to take this step. She had told the 
 news to her uncle with bated breath and a look that her 
 face might have worn if she had been announcing the 
 death of a dear friend. Man of the world as he was, and 
 viewing things from a wider ground than his niece could 
 do, 'he also experienced a feeling of shock at the intelli- 
 gence. He had always met Paul Carr in the hunting- 
 field or in the ball-room, bicycling at break-neck speed 
 down a quiet country road, or lounging in his stall at the 
 opera. He had looked upon him as a very fair specimen 
 of the average young English gentleman. If he had had 
 a son of his own he would have been quite satisfied for 
 him to be as Paul was well-mannered, well-spoken, 
 good-looking, and healthy-minded. 
 
 That a young man of Paul Carr's apparently unemo- 
 tional temperament and quiet common-sense should sud- 
 denly give himself over literally body and soul to a 
 Church which relied too much, as he thought, on outward 
 
 194
 
 A RIVER REVERIE 195 
 
 ceremony and sentimental show, he could not under- 
 stand. He could appreciate a woman doing such a 
 thing many of them who were soft and weak, nervous, 
 hysterical creatures who were soothed by the embroid- 
 eries on a vestment and exalted by a well-arranged 
 procession. As in duty bound he had spoken of the 
 matter to Margot Kerquham, and could scarcely help 
 echoing her heartfelt thanks that the strange step had 
 been taken before the rest of the family had been made 
 aware of the engagement between Paul and Rosamund. 
 
 "The earl would be horrified," Mrs. Kerquham had 
 said, "while as to the aunts, I cannot imagine what they 
 would say." 
 
 Rosamund, having done her duty as she felt it, did 
 not mention Paul's name again in the family circle, but 
 she thought of him often, and never resisted the tempta- 
 tion to pray for him every night as she might have 
 prayed for the soul of some one who was unregenerate, 
 or for a little child. And now this letter his letter 
 had followed her from London up to the Towers in Scot- 
 land, where the whole Kerquham family were assembled 
 together under Lord Kilbeggie's ancestral roof endur- 
 ing what Laura always called the yearly penance for 
 their sins. 
 
 Rosamund did not open her letter at the breakfast- 
 table, but slipped it into her lap, determined to wait until 
 she was away from all prying eyes in her favourite nook 
 at the head of the glen, a cool retreat where she spent 
 most of her time when at the Towers. 
 
 It was nothing more than a strange coincidence that 
 her great-uncle, the earl, who was possessed of a gaunt, 
 bony frame and a long, thin head fringed with scant 
 white hair, happened to read aloud that morning from 
 the day-old newspaper which came from Edinburgh,
 
 196 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 that the son of an old friend of his had just "gone over 
 to Rome." Lady Sophia Kerquham and Lady Charlotte 
 Lundy, who was also on a visit to their brother, laid 
 down their knives and forks in amazement, as the old 
 man, after reading out the news, dashed down his fist 
 upon the table and cried angrily: 
 
 "The power of these pestilent Priests grows every 
 day. Fancy one of that clan being caught by their 
 Popish mummeries." 
 
 "It will kill his mother," said Lady Sophia, shaking 
 her head ominously over her coffee-cup. "The only 
 comfort that she can find is that his father is dead. He 
 was a staunch supporter of the Church of Scotland, and 
 it would have broken his heart." 
 
 "If he had been a son of mine, I would have broken 
 his head," cried the old earl in impotent anger. 
 
 "I would rather that my Hamish married a ballet 
 girl than become a Roman Catholic," said Lady Char- 
 lotte, drawing herself up. 
 
 Lady Sophia shuddered at such a fearful alternative, 
 and Lord Kilbeggie tapped his plate irritably. 
 
 "Charlotte, Charlotte, you do not know what you are 
 saying. Heaven forfend that any one of our blood 
 should ever do either the one or the other. The priests 
 are bad enough, but I am not sure that those dancing 
 women are not worse." 
 
 Mrs. Kerquham, who always carried the respect for 
 her husband's relations to an exaggerated degree, ven- 
 tured to interpose. 
 
 "It is a shocking thing, as you say, but for my part 
 I think that for a young man to go on the turf is quite 
 as bad." 
 
 Lord Kilbeggie looked across the table from under 
 his white eyebrows.
 
 A RIVER REVERIE 197 
 
 "Niece Margot, you had best be holding your tongue. 
 The world has spoilt you, or you would not talk about 
 racing and betting and all such devil's inventions in any 
 house of mine." 
 
 Mrs. Kerquham returned confusedly to the study of 
 her plate. Honor, who was ready to argue with her 
 mother on most points, varied the proceedings now by 
 glaring at her great-uncle. Laura tittered in the aimless 
 way she affected when the conversation was either bor- 
 ing her or beyond her comprehension. Rosamund felt 
 her own bright colour fading from her cheeks. If they 
 all said these dreadful things about a mere distant 
 acquaintance who had changed his religion, what would 
 they think if they knew that she had at that moment in 
 her possession a letter dated from a monastery and writ- 
 ten by a man who wore a monastic habit? 
 
 A girlish dread of being caught and questioned about 
 her precious missive made her slip out of the room with 
 her cousin Laura before the rest of the party. 
 
 "I am sorry to see Rosamund growing lax in her man- 
 ners, " commented Lady Charlotte, rather severely, as the 
 girls' footsteps died away in the bare stone hall. 
 
 "Rosamund is going fishing," said Mr. Kerquham, 
 ever ready to stand up for his favourite. "And she told 
 Jock to be ready for her at the Water's Meet at nine 
 o'clock." 
 
 "Manners should come before an unladylike sport," 
 said Lady Charlotte, sternly, while the earl mumbled as 
 he pushed his chair back from the table that such things 
 as duty and politeness from the young to their elders 
 had become dead letters since his day. 
 
 Out in the hall Rosamund busied herself by pulling 
 on her tam-o'shanter and a pair of thick gloves, and see- 
 ing that her rod and flies were in order before she
 
 198 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 started. Laura sauntered over to the open doorway 
 and stretched her arms wide. 
 
 "Heigh-ho!" she cried. "Here is another ghastly 
 day begun." 
 
 "It is a lovely morning," said Rosamund, coming to 
 her side and looking first down the glen where the trout 
 stream rushed and swirled, and then up to the moors 
 where the flying clouds still made a delicate tracery like 
 lace above the purple heather. 
 
 "Oh! it's all very well for you," pouted Laura. 
 "You seem to find some fun in tearing all over the 
 place with a shock-headed gillie at your heels. What 
 you are made of, I don't know. When you are not fish- 
 ing you are clambering all over those dreadful moors 
 with their hard stones and hateful, scrubby heather." 
 
 "Oh! Laura, how can you! It is quite lovely up 
 there," expostulated Rosamund. "Why, yesterday 
 evening as I was coming down the hill it all looked as 
 though it were covered with purple plush. The sun 
 caught it, and it shimmered with colour and smelt oh! 
 so sweet. ' ' 
 
 "Well, you may like it," grumbled Laura, shrugging 
 her shoulders. "All I know is that it scratches my 
 shoes to pieces and makes me ache all over. One has 
 to step like a well-trained horse, up to one's nose, to 
 get about among the stuff." 
 
 Rosamund laughed as she looked down at Laura's 
 slender feet, which were thrust into narrow, high-heeled 
 slippers. 
 
 "My dear, you will walk about in such ridiculous 
 things," she said. "Of course you get your shoes 
 scratched and your ankles, too, when you go out in 
 flimsy, low-cut affairs." 
 
 "Well, if you think I am going to wear great, big
 
 A RIVER REVERIE 199 
 
 horrid boots with no heels and no shape, you are mis- 
 taken," cried Laura, rudely. "I would not make such 
 a fright of myself for anything. I would sooner sit in 
 the house forever than be obliged to put such things on 
 before I could go out." 
 
 Rosamund peeped down at her own sensibly shod 
 feet. 
 
 "Of course they are not pretty," she admitted cheer- 
 fully, "but then you see one doesn't dress for effect up 
 in the Highlands. You would be so much better, Laura, 
 if you came out and had some air instead of always stop- 
 ping in the house." 
 
 "You may think yourself lucky that I do not stay in 
 bed, for there is nothing to get up for. Why one is 
 obliged to come to such a hateful place as this I don't 
 know. As' to Uncle Kilbeggie and the aunts, they get 
 more impossible every year. Did you hear what they 
 were saying last night about the way my hair was 
 dressed? It was positively impertinent the remarks they 
 made." 
 
 "Of course, dear, they are not very much up in the 
 fashions about here," said Rosamund, soothingly, "and 
 your head was just the least little bit over-smart for a 
 quiet family party." 
 
 "Smart or not smart, they are a lot of horrid old peo- 
 ple, and I am sure I don't know why we are afflicted with 
 them. Thank goodness! it is only for another week, 
 and then we go to our own place and can have our own 
 friends." 
 
 From within the dining-room came the sound of the 
 pushing back of chairs and the tread of feet. Rosa- 
 mund, afraid of being caught and delayed, stepped out 
 on to the wide flight of grey stone steps. 
 
 "Well, I must be off or Jock will be tired of wait-
 
 200 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 ing," she cried, slinging her creel over one shoulder and 
 putting her rod over the other. "Wish me luck, Laura!" 
 
 "Shan't do anything of the kind," said Laura. "I 
 am sick to death of salmon." 
 
 A few yards from the house Rosamund plunged into 
 the very heart of the glen which cleft the Highlands just 
 there and made an evergreen wound in the deep bosom 
 of the purple hills. Turning sharply to the left, she 
 went up a narrow, rough path that overhung the brawl- 
 ing stream. It ran straight up the glen to where there 
 was an open space among the trees and a deep trout 
 pool famous for its fish and for the sport that could be 
 got there. The gillie was waiting for her, and took the 
 rod from her hands directly she came up, saying it was 
 a perfect morning for sport and that she ought to do 
 well to-day. But Rosamund's hand was in her pocket, 
 and her fingers were clasped round the letter that lay 
 there. 
 
 "I shall not fish this morning, Jock," she said. "You 
 can go. I think Mr. Kerquham may want you. I may 
 try a cast later on in the day; if so, I can manage by 
 myself." 
 
 The reluctant Jock went his way down the narrow 
 path, leaving Rosamund alone to enjoy the luxury of 
 Paul's first letter. Like a child that has some special 
 dainty on its plate which it keeps to the last, she teased 
 herself with enforced deliberation. Very slowly she put 
 her fishing basket on the ground and laid her rod beside 
 it. Then, with the calmest deliberation, she looked 
 about for a comfortable stone or mossy knoll, where she 
 might sit at her ease. Just above her was a group of 
 alders growing, and their roots, twining into the stony 
 earth, made a natural chair. The sunshine glinted 
 through the leaves and cast a golden pattern over the
 
 A RIVER REVERIE 2OI 
 
 scant grass and clumps of moss. She walked towards 
 the little knoll and carefully settled herself into it. Then 
 she took off her hat, and pushing back the heavy hair 
 from her forehead, drew out the letter and studied the 
 envelope. After quite five minutes she broke the seal. 
 
 A smile was on her face as she did so, but before she 
 unfolded the two closely written pages she compressed 
 the corners of her mouth; for in a flash it came to her 
 that it was no love letter that she was going to read, no 
 honey sweet phrases of love and burning desires. It 
 would be a chronicle of aspirations and fulfillments, a 
 record of the doubts and hopes of a man who had taken 
 the tremendous step of changing one religion for 
 another in the wish to find true happiness and peace. 
 With a face that was grave to sadness she ventured to 
 approach such an outpouring of the soul as she felt the 
 letter must contain. 
 
 She unfolded the sheets and began to read slowly 
 and steadily, as though each word, however trivial, held 
 a value of its owri in her mind. When at length she 
 had read to the last page and let the paper fall into her 
 lap, she raised her eyes that were full of unshed tears, 
 while her heart ached with the sense of pain and yearning 
 that comes to those who read the words of one long lost. 
 Two large drops fell, pattering on the paper she held in 
 her trembling fingers. She passed her hands several 
 times across her eyes before she could see to read the 
 letter through a second time. 
 
 Then it was that a vague sense of disappointment 
 mingled with her first sorrowful joy. "Why," she asked 
 herself,"does he tell me so little in so much? He writes 
 to me of the chapel and of the little sanctuary for private 
 prayers, but he does not tell me of his thoughts; he does 
 not even say whether he is happy. He only tells me
 
 202 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 that he eats so much fish and bread ; he paints for 
 me the rooms and the furniture. The three words, 'I am 
 happy," or 'I am content,' would have been enough for 
 me. I only want to think of him that way." 
 
 But after a time the sweetness of her nature and the 
 charity of her disposition overcame her first thrill of dis- 
 satisfaction. 
 
 "He has only written what he thinks will please 
 me best, and perhaps he is afraid of shocking me too 
 much by advancing his own tenets and writing of his 
 own new theories. I know he believes he gives me 
 greater happiness by the relation of his life's daily 
 details than if he poured out his soul's longings to me; 
 for it is impossible that the sum of his life is bounded by 
 such a narrow horizon as he speaks of. And he says 
 that he will write to me again. This is only a letter to 
 break things to me, and the next one will be different. 
 Perhaps, too, everything is so new to him that he feels 
 he must tell it to some one. But his faith his doc- 
 trine is new to me, too. I wish ah! I wish he had 
 written of that!" 
 
 She sighed a little. "I suppose he remembers that I 
 am only a woman and not supposed to understand such 
 things. Perhaps he is right. Perhaps he has done the 
 kindest thing. If he had sent me a letter filled with 
 longings and the dreams and desires that must come to 
 him in the dim chapel in the early morning, I might have 
 been .discontented and wanted to know how he slept and 
 lived and walked. One is never quite pleased with the 
 things one has. I am sure that out of his love for me he 
 has done the best." 
 
 She read the letter again in a happier spirit and found 
 a new interest waking in her about his little cell and the 
 big refectory he told her of, and the bare, cold corridors
 
 A RIVER REVERIE 203 
 
 with their grey painted walls. But each fresh turn of 
 thought carried her back to him in the chapel or at his 
 prayers. It was in those things that she was most inter- 
 ested, and it was about that part of his life that she 
 wanted to know. 
 
 Suddenly she cried aloud: "He asks me to write to 
 him. I suppose that I may. Yet I always thought that 
 they were so strict in monasteries. Shall I ask Uncle 
 Alban about it?" 
 
 She drew her brows together in thought. "He will 
 not know, and after what was said this morning I 
 scarcely like to remind him about what Paul has done. 
 I cannot make out why they all think it is so dreadful to 
 become a Roman Catholic. Aunt Charlotte said it was 
 like marrying a ballet girl or doing something disgrace- 
 ful like that. I think I shall ask Uncle Kilbeggie one 
 day if he would think it awfully wicked for a Roman 
 Catholic to become a Presbyterian. I wonder what he 
 would say. I wish I understood more about such things. 
 It seems to me that women are not taught any religion 
 at all. They are just made to put on their best clothes 
 and go to church on Sundays, and that is the beginning 
 and the end of it. We are not told why we pray or why 
 we must believe. We are simply taught how to find our 
 places in our prayer-books, and when we were small 
 Aunt Margot liked us to read a chapter out of the Bible 
 every day. We didn't do it often, and when we did we 
 were never told what bits to read, so I don't think it can 
 have done us much good. I wonder if Uncle Alban would 
 give me some books about religion. I should like to 
 know something about it, and what is the real difference 
 between my form of faith and Paul's. If I am going to 
 marry a Roman Catholic it is only right that I should 
 understand about these things. At present I know
 
 204 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 nothing and I do not fancy that Aunt Sophia or Aunt 
 Charlotte knows any more. They just do and say the 
 things that they have been accustomed to all their lives, 
 and they have been taught that to think differently or to 
 use another form of worship constitutes a sin. If one 
 comes to think it out, it is really impossible that it can 
 be like that. It cannot matter to God whether we kneel 
 in one place or stand up in another, or whether we say 
 our prayers in Latin or English, so long as we say them 
 at all." 
 
 Her face was calm almost happy as she folded 
 Paul's letter and put it into her pocket. She looked at 
 her rod and at the open book of flies that glistened in 
 all the glory of amber, green and purple in the sun. As 
 in a dream she picked up her hat and was about to put 
 it on her head, when she let it fall again. 
 
 "No!" she said, with that characteristic straightfor- 
 wardness of hers. "I will keep my promise to myself; 
 I will not fish this morning. I will sit here and think of 
 Paul."
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 A CLOISTERED LIFE 
 
 "My DEAR ROSAMUND: 
 
 "Having broken the ice by writing to you, I cannot 
 withstand the temptation of again sending you a letter. 
 I hope it will not be counted to me as a sin. 
 
 "Yesterday was the occasion of my formal reception 
 into the novitiate of this monastery and of my clothing 
 as a Dominican novice. I will not tell you, for perhaps 
 you would scarcely understand, of the spiritual prepara- 
 tion that I went through before this most important 
 ceremony. I had not slept for two nights, passing them 
 on my knees in the dark before the little crucifix that 
 hangs in my room, while such time as I could spare from 
 other studies I have been praying in the novices' private 
 chapel or downstairs in the big chapel. Father Zadock 
 helped me very much, and the Prior himself saw me 
 twice and gave me much good advice and wise counsel 
 about the step I was taking. 
 
 "The reception of a novice is very simple and yet 
 very impressive. It woke in me the feeling that I think 
 girls must have after they have been confirmed it was 
 as though part of me my heart or my soul had been 
 made new again. It was the first time that I had ever 
 been in the chapter room of the monastery. It is a fine 
 apartment, lighted with small windows set very high in 
 the walls, which are painted in frescoes with scenes 
 from the lives of saints of the Dominican order. All 
 
 205
 
 206 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 round are seats for the monks and Fathers and novices, 
 and the Prior's great elbow chair is in the centre. For 
 this occasion I cast aside the heavy black cassock and 
 leather belt which, since my arrival here, I have worn 
 over my ordinary clothes. The dean, who is the eldest 
 of the novices, cut my tonsure afresh, for though we are 
 all tonsured every fortnight in the summer, my hair 
 grows very quickly, and though it had been cut but ten 
 days before I had it done again for the ceremony of my 
 reception. 
 
 "Almost in the guise of a beggar I was admitted into 
 the chapter room, and prostrated myself in supplication 
 before the Prior, who, following the form set forth, con- 
 sented to receive me into the novitiate of St. Dominic. 
 Then I was led to the altar in the church and there 
 clothed by the Prior's own hands in a white cloth habit, 
 over which was placed the scapula, which hangs free and 
 loose both back and front. Then I was given a round 
 cape which just reaches my elbows, a white cowl, and the 
 small black skull cap which both novices and monks wear. 
 The black crucifix that hangs on my breast bears the 
 figure of Christ on it in moulded brass, and my rosary is 
 black, too. It is warm weather now, so I do not wear 
 the long black cloak which we always don in winter and 
 which earned us the name of the 'Black Friars.' After 
 my clothing followed a long service of jubilation at my 
 reception. The occasion was made one of great rejoic- 
 ing, because it is now some months since a novice has 
 been received here. 
 
 "I did not tell you, did I, in my last letter, of my fel- 
 low-novices? We are a strangely assorted little circle, 
 with nothing in common between us but religion, for 
 many of them, like myself, do not purpose taking the 
 full vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. The
 
 A CLOISTERED LIFE 207 
 
 dean, who is the superior novice in point of time, is a 
 man I do not like. He means well, and is very earnest, 
 but he is hard and narrow, not of gentle birth, and too 
 fond of exercising the authority which chance has given 
 him. It is his duty to see that the lights throughout 
 the novitiate are extinguished by half-past eight, and it 
 is he who passes down the corridors during the night to 
 listen if we sleep or are awake in our cells. His name is 
 Henry, and we all fear him, for he has it in his power to 
 get us punished, while we are helpless to refute such 
 charges as he may bring against us. 
 
 "Next in seniority to him is a queer little soul, who 
 was only nine months back a Protestant clergyman. He 
 is about forty-five years old, and makes no secret 
 of having joined the Holy Church because he was tired of 
 being an ill-paid curate to country parsons, and utterly 
 failed to get a living of his own. He has always struck 
 me as being deficient in the qualities that should go to 
 make a really good man. He is fretful and pettish, and 
 lays great weight on small things. Before he came to 
 live here he made it a condition with the authorities that 
 he should be permitted to have one pipe and a glass of 
 whisky and water every night before he went to bed. 
 He is allowed to do this, but he partakes of his indul- 
 gences in an empty cell between the hours of eight and 
 half-past. It seems such a solitary thing to do, to sit 
 all by oneself and smoke and drink, but he told me 
 that he could not do without it, and I believe that from 
 the moment he gets up in the morning he spends the 
 whole day in looking forward to his strange evening's 
 relaxation. 
 
 "Brother Peter is a novice who rather interests me, 
 for his cell is next to mine. He is a quiet, saturnine 
 man of about my own age. Like myself he is a convert,
 
 208 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 and was until about two years ago a civil servant in the 
 general post office. He is a little strange in his man- 
 ner. I hear him muttering to himself sometimes all 
 night long. He says that spirits visit him in his cell. 
 He is subject sometimes to the most extraordinary out- 
 bursts of rage, and only three days ago, in an uncontrol- 
 lable freak of temper, kicked the poor little ex-parson 
 most cruelly. He is always doing penance and being 
 punished for something or another, but he persists that 
 he has a vocation, and that when he is ordained a priest 
 he is going to be a great preacher among men. He has 
 a wonderful memory, of which he is very proud, and 
 which he cultivates to excess. He boasts that he knows 
 nearly the whole of the Bible by heart, and indeed i 
 believe that this is true, for often when I walk behind 
 him in the garden I hear him saying to himself whole 
 chapters from it. One Monday, when we novices with 
 Father Zadock and the dean were, according to rule, 
 strolling through the fields, this strange man, who 
 remained at my elbow the whole time, said to himself 
 the whole of the New Testament. 
 
 "Another of the novices used to be a Dissenter. I 
 often wonder what train of circumstances brought him 
 to such a change of thought and religion. He is a little, 
 fat man, not very earnest in his professions nor at all 
 clever. He seems to regard the services with less inter- 
 est than he does his meals, for he is fond of good living, 
 and takes every opportunity of going to the meat room. 
 On days that he is obliged to dine in the refectory with 
 the rest of us, he always stays behind after we have fin- 
 ished, and has as much of the meal as he can get served 
 to him over again. He has a disagreeable way of 
 smacking his lips and remarking on the food. He 
 strikes me as being a man who until he came here never
 
 A CLOISTERED LIFE 209 
 
 had sufficient to eat. He is already wondering how he 
 is going to manage when Lent comes, and he dreads the 
 Ember days that precede the Christmas feast. One day 
 last week I caught him stealing plums in the kitchen 
 garden. If it had been the dean that had seen him he 
 would have had to do penance after the next monthly 
 'proclamation,' when, in the common room of the noviti- 
 ate, the shortcomings and sins of the novices are pro- 
 claimed at full length, and punishment is meted out by 
 the dean and the novice master. 
 
 "Nothing to my mind so shows the worldly spirit that 
 animates even a holy community like this as this 'proc- 
 lamation.' It has in it an element of pettiness and 
 unfairness, for it seems to me unjust that men should be 
 set to spy upon one another's little failings and report 
 small breaches of rules. Each novice in his turn is 
 indicted, lying during the time on his right side at full 
 length on the floor, and forbidden by the rules of the 
 order to deny anything or to attempt any exculpation. 
 The whole system is governed on the lines of seniority, 
 and I, being the youngest novice here, can be indicted by 
 those above me, but may not in my turn, even if I would 
 wish to do so, bring any charge against them. 
 
 "I must admit, however, that the punishments and 
 penances, as a rule, are as petty as the crimes for which 
 they are dealt out. A very ordinary one is to be made 
 to kneel or to lie in the form of a cross and recite a 
 given number of paternosters. The other day after 
 Brother Peter had hurt Brother Henry by kicking him, 
 he was made to kneel before him and apol-ogise before 
 us all for his act. As he showed temper in doing this, 
 his first punishment was supplemented by an order to sit 
 on the floor of the refectory during the dinner hour and 
 eat his meals from his knees there. The greatest pun-
 
 210 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 ishment of all, and one which is but seldom administered, 
 obliges the delinquent, during supper time, to crawl on 
 his knees and hands under the refectory table, kissing 
 in turn the feet of the Fathers. Excommunication, 
 which practically means confinement to one's cell, is 
 also but seldom ordered, and then only under what are 
 considered the gravest circumstances. 
 
 "Have I told you that twice a week we retire to our 
 cells for the purpose of using the 'discipline?' The 
 amount of pain inflicted is optional, and very different 
 from the discomfort which arises during the weekly 
 'discipline' held in the common room during the Lenten 
 fast. Then, with bared shoulders each in turn receives 
 from the whip four strokes to each one of twenty verses 
 of the Psalm that begins: ' 'Miser -e, met Deus.' That is 
 the moment when a private quarrel or a personal dislike 
 can be avenged ; for if the lash is wielded roughly and 
 strikes the face or breast it cuts keenly. 
 
 "Once in each year all the denizens of the monastery 
 meet in the painted chapter room, and the Prior himself 
 'disciplines' us with a long, thin wand. 
 
 "The novice with whom I am most in sympathy is a 
 young man who came here a few weeks before I did. He 
 is known as Brother Basil, and he is a tradesman's son. 
 He is very simple in manner, and evidently never had any 
 knowledge of the world to lay aside when he came in. 
 His whole soul is wrapped in religion, and his greatest 
 ambition is to so mortify his flesh that his sacrifices shall 
 be counted for good against the overwhelming wicked- 
 ness of mankind. He fasts beyond the rules of the order, 
 and wears himself out with vigils. When of an evening 
 we are allowed to recreate ourselves in the common 
 room of the novitiate, where a few illustrated papers, 
 an old grand piano, and a musical box are kept, he sits
 
 A CLOISTERED LIFE 21 1 
 
 apart conning his prayers, or steals up to the private 
 chapel on the first floor. When we take our weekly walk 
 in the meadows, where we are allowed to smoke, to pluck 
 flowers, and to wander about as we choose in twos and 
 threes, he seats himself beneath a tree and tells his rosary 
 until it is time for us to return. During the first month 
 that he was here they found him one dawn in a dead 
 faint at the foot of the altar, and it then came out that 
 he had eaten no food for three days because he had at 
 one meal succumbed to the temptation and taken two 
 helpings of butter. Ordinary conversation, such talk as 
 we make among ourselves here, seems hateful to him, 
 and if one will not discuss religious subjects with him, he 
 goes away silent and sad to walk alone and meditate on 
 our sins and perhaps his own virtues. 
 
 "Poor fellow! I am very sorry for him, for the reli- 
 gion that he is hugging so fondly to his breast does not 
 even bring him happiness and consolation. He has 
 transformed his God into an angry being who is to pass 
 all time and all eternity in dealing out terrible punish- 
 ments to poor human souls. The Prior speaks with him 
 often, and has tried to point out to him that the Church 
 has consolation for those who live a higher life and die 
 in the odour of sanctity, but even that will not suit his 
 mood. He takes his religion as a child would take a 
 nasty medicine; believing on the one hand that it is 
 good for him, and yet dreading and fearing it. When he 
 administers self-chastisement twice a week in his cell, 
 he draws blood from his thin, starved body, and he 
 resents almost with tears the jokes that some of the 
 novices make about their own half-hearted administra- 
 tion of the 'discipline,' a whip which to the lay mind 
 would look like a cat-o'-five-tails. One night when 
 Brother Henry was saying how he had managed to stain
 
 212 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 the lashes of his 'discipline' with a little red sealing wax, 
 poor Brother Basil spent the night in the chapel praying 
 for one whose soul was so lost to all true righteousness. 
 He told me the other day he did not think he should 
 stay here long. He thinks no one here is earnest enough 
 in his prayers or sufficiently severe in his mortifications. 
 
 "He went to the library the other day and borrowed 
 some books about the Trappist monasteries which lie 
 hidden among the fastnesses of Eastern Europe. He 
 told me about them in such rare moments as he ever 
 devotes to speech, and as he spoke his pale face and hag- 
 gard eyes were quite transfigured at the idea that 
 somewhere on earth he could devote himself to a living 
 death. 
 
 "In strange contrast to him is Brother Martin, a red- 
 headed merry Irish lad^ He is always in disgrace, and 
 yet takes his punishments so cheerfully, and expresses 
 such genuine regret at his shortcomings that even the 
 Prior, before whom he has been sent several times, can- 
 not find it in his heart to be really angry with him. He 
 breaks every rule that governs the community with 
 the most extraordinary regularity. He talks during the 
 hours of enforced silence, whistles loudly as he runs up 
 and down the stairs, and chatters to the lay brothers 
 when he meets them in the garden or corridors and 
 this last is a most grave disobedience. He is lax in 
 chapel, and fidgety at choir practice. He stares about 
 him every time he goes into church, and if he is spoken 
 to answers in the fresh, breezy, loud-voiced manner with 
 which he must until a few months ago have hailed his 
 friends across the fields. He is altogether an undis- 
 ciplined, good-hearted soul. Why he came here I cannot 
 make out, for his religious exercises seem to bore him 
 consistently. I suppose, however, being one of many
 
 A CLOISTERED LIFE 213 
 
 sons in an old and poor Irish Catholic family, he was 
 destined from his birth for the priesthood, and against 
 his inclinations and his capabilities has been doomed 
 to it. 
 
 "Are we not a strange assortment? Very much out 
 of keeping with one another, I am afraid, and even in 
 our religious exercises having but little in common, for 
 we all view them from a different standpoint, and all 
 regard them as means to a different end. I did not 
 think when I came here that a monastery could be such 
 an epitome of the outside world. 
 
 "I have discovered that I have quite a talent for 
 using my fingers. We have here, on the upper floor of 
 the Novitiate, a fine large room almost the length of the 
 wing, where we are sent at stated times to do what is 
 called manual labour. Here we make the tapers which 
 we all carry in our pockets for use in the early morning 
 when we call one another and light the chapel gas for 
 Matins. Here, too, we make rosaries, and that is very 
 pretty work. The small plyers and the fine brass or 
 silver wire and the beads of different kinds are all dainty 
 and interesting to use. Some of the novices are so 
 devoted to the occupation that they make rosaries even 
 during their recreation time. There is a very fine plant 
 for bookbinding here, for two years ago one of the 
 novices was a bookbinder, and taught the trade to sev- 
 eral of the others. I am sorry that we are all ignorant 
 of it now, for I think I should have liked it. As it is, 
 we get no further than sewing the books, and when we 
 have fastened together all the loose leaves we can find, 
 we unpick the stitches and begin again. Some of us 
 would like to work in the garden, but we are not allowed 
 to do that. All other manual labour in the monastery, 
 save the cleaning and the tidying of each cell by its occu-
 
 214 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 pant, is done by the lay brothers, who are a pleasant, 
 cheery set of men. 
 
 "In such time as I have free from the daily round of 
 prayer, study, the hours of silence, and of choir practice 
 and the recital of offices, I read a great deal. The 
 library here is fairly well stocked with histories and 
 books of travel, and even story books. I am, however, 
 most interested in works that deal with the religion I 
 have adopted, for I feel that even now I am very igno- 
 rant on the subject. I have just finished Bishop Ulla- 
 thorn's great work on God, and am going to begin a 
 volume of Milner's 'Essays,' and Roderigue's 'Christian 
 Perfection,' which the Prior particularly wishes me to 
 study. 
 
 "Rosamund, when are you going to write to me? A 
 letter from you would be the best reading of all. Tell 
 me something of yourself, and tell me that you still think 
 of me as you did before we parted. Yours, 
 
 "PAUL."
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 ROSAMUND'S RECORD 
 
 IT took Rosamund some weeks to comply with Paul's 
 request that she would write to him. His second letter 
 had brought her a greater sense of disappointment and 
 doubt than his first had done. The smallness of the 
 details of his life struck her more keenly than before and 
 seemed to build a great wall of reserve between him 
 and herself. That she was a thing apart from- his occu- 
 pations and actions almost forced her to regard him as a 
 stranger, and not the Paul she had known and loved. 
 
 Perhaps, too, it was the vague, superstitious regard 
 which all women hold for religious institutions that 
 chained her thoughts when she at length took up her pen 
 and set paper before her to write to him. She could not 
 free herself from the idea that it could not be right for 
 her to comment on all the frivolous surroundings of her 
 life to a man, who, even for a time, was set apart in a 
 holy life. How could she tell him of the Highland meet- 
 ings and the balls which followed them? How could she 
 write to him about the number of salmon she had killed, 
 or relate the prowess of her uncle and his friends in 
 stalking deer? How could she retail to a man whose 
 mind should be filled with spiritual things the foolish 
 gossip that surrounded a quarrel Honor had had with her 
 fiance? 
 
 It would be impossible to tell him he who was cut 
 off from the world for the time and forbidden to see her 
 
 215
 
 2l6 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 for so many months that Lord St. Ives was staying on 
 a visit and again pressing his attentions upon her. Yet 
 these things made up the sum and parcel of her life that 
 autumn, for Rosamund had lately grown into the habit 
 of putting all thought behind her and of living merely for 
 the hour and what it brought. Almost unconsciously 
 she was giving way to a kind of moral dram-drinking, try- 
 ing by mental excitement and by physical exertion to 
 deaden the sense of weariness that crept over her when 
 she was alone or unoccupied. She sometimes feared 
 that she was weakly giving way to a bad habit, and that 
 she was shirking the responsibilities that would have to 
 be faced sooner or later. She felt that she was only 
 putting off an evil day which must inevitably come, but 
 more than anything she realised how utterly alone she 
 was at this time, for her uncle was shooting hard and 
 painting hard, and his moments of leisure were very 
 rare. 
 
 She sat for hours one morning in her room trying to 
 frame a letter to Paul. Her natural reserve and mod- 
 esty checked any indication or any terms of endearment, 
 pride stayed her when she longed to pour out her 
 troubles, and a sense of incongruity between her position 
 and his arrested all expression of mere worldly matters. 
 The morning had gone by and she had written nothing 
 and still was no nearer what she should write, only she 
 grew angry with herself for being so cowardly, so unde- 
 termined, and so weak. Then suddenly a thought came 
 to her. She would keep a diary, in which she would 
 record every incident of her daily life, and which, when 
 they met next year she would lay without reserve in 
 Paul's hands, so that at least he should never feel that 
 any one day of her life had been hidden from him. Now 
 she would merely write to him and say what she was
 
 ROSAMUND'S RECORD 217 
 
 doing, and promise to send him every now and again a 
 little line of assurance that she was well and true to him. 
 
 She wrote the words down. They were very few, and 
 did not fill more than the front of the sheet of paper. It 
 looked such a tiny scrap when it was finished that she 
 was almost ashamed to put it in an envelope and address 
 it to him, but she felt that it was best done that way, and 
 that she should never forgive herself if anything she 
 said in a longer, fuller letter distracted his thoughts 
 unduly or disturbed his life. 
 
 That done, she drew towards her a quantity of paper 
 and began with the careful minuteness that was part of 
 her nature to write down on it a statement of the facts 
 that were then influencing her daily life. She fenced 
 with nothing. She did not put anything down in extenu- 
 ation or exaggeration. She did her best to make it all 
 as truthful and as clear as possible. She tried hard to 
 keep her own feelings and her own thoughts within what 
 she wrote. It was only here and there that a faint note 
 of sorrow that she now saw so little of her uncle, or an 
 indication of the heart loneliness she was then suffering, 
 slipped among the pages. 
 
 "The surroundings of my life," she wrote, "are 
 imperceptibly but surely changed or is it I who am 
 changed and imagine a difference in others? Perhaps it 
 is my fancy that Aunt Margot looks upon me more 
 severely than she has ever done, and my cousins alter- 
 nately slight or sneer at me. While even my dear uncle 
 does not seem to have the leisure for my company that 
 he used to do. Sometimes I think that they are trying 
 to make me discontented, with a view to forcing me 
 into some other life. 
 
 "Lord St. Ives arrived here on a visit last week. He 
 has been out shooting almost every day with Uncle
 
 2l8 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 Alban and the other men who are in the house. I have 
 gathered from the way he speaks that his visit here is to 
 be an indefinite one. I am sorry for this, because I 
 cannot like him. I might perhaps get over my aversion 
 a little if he would not always so persistently intrude 
 himself upon my notice. But the longest days on the 
 moors come to an end, then there are the late afternoons 
 and dinners and the evenings, and Lord St. Ives is 
 always at my side. He has not since that night in May 
 ever dared to insult me again with any outspoken admir- 
 ation or demonstration, but I feel instinctively that he 
 is only here because of me. Of Honor he takes no 
 notice. Laura he treats like a spoilt child 
 
 "Every evening Lord St. Ives asks me to sing, and 
 if I demur at all or excuse myself he appeals to Aunt 
 Margot, and she commands me to do my best to make 
 myself agreeable, and not to give myself airs. He always 
 sits by the piano while I play, and however much I may 
 look at the keys or fix my eyes and my attention on the 
 music, I always know that his eyes are wandering over 
 my face and my throat and neck, and it makes me tingle to 
 the tips of my fingers. For the last three nights I have 
 made the excuse of having a cold, and have come down 
 to dinner in a high gown. He asked me last night why 
 I did so, and told me I had no business to cover myself 
 up as much as all that. I wish he would go away, or, 
 if he stays, I wish he would leave me alone 
 
 "Another fortnight has gone by, and Lord St. Ives is 
 still here. Twice the guests staying in the house have 
 been changed, but he shows no signs of leaving. Laura 
 this morning said she was sick of the sight of him, and 
 wished I would bring matters to a head so that I might 
 be engaged to him, and that then perhaps he would go. 
 'He wants you,' she said, in her blunt way, 'and mother
 
 ROSAMUNDS RECORD 219 
 
 means him to have you. You had better give in at 
 once.' But I cannot do it; Paul has my promise for a 
 year, and whatever happens at the end of that time I 
 will at least hold to my word until he himself tells me 
 
 that he loves me no longer 
 
 "I had another letter from Paul yesterday. I love 
 to see his handwriting on an envelope; it thrills me with 
 joy to press out the folds from the sheets of paper over 
 which his dear fingers have passed and yet I always 
 feel so unhappy by the time I have finished reading what 
 he has written. Like all the others it is full of triviali- 
 ties. He says the leaves are falling fast and the creep- 
 ers that grow over the house hang like flaming banners 
 of crimson silk against the grey walls. It is very cold 
 there in the early morning, and he dreads the days when 
 it is his turn to rise in the chill dark and rouse the 
 monastery for Matins. He says it is so eerie to go down 
 into the damp chapel, and by the light of a feeble taper 
 to wander up the aisles and make ghostly sounds with 
 his own footsteps. He tells me as a joke that when he 
 lit the gas one morning in Father Zadock's room and 
 gave him the greeting of the order, ' Benedicamus 
 Dominie,' instead of answering ' Deo gratius,' as he 
 should, the Father only roared from his bed, 'Put out 
 that gas and go to the devil!' He tells me that that 
 unfortunate creature who was so odd when he first went 
 there has since gone mad and tried to kill first a lay 
 brother and then himself. Paul has been preaching his 
 first sermon. It was at the eleven o'clock service, and 
 only those in the monastery were present. He says it 
 was very badly written, and he hopes he will not have 
 to do another. He has been punished for going into 
 the kitchen, where, it seems, he had no business, and he 
 and the head novice, whom he calls the dean, have
 
 220 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 fallen out about the cutting of his tonsure. He has 
 lately taken to collecting botanical specimens for a cer- 
 tain Father Lucius, who is something of a naturalist. 
 Father Lucius smokes a great deal, and the novices 
 make an excuse of going to his cell, so that their 
 clothes should not betray them when they smoke them- 
 selves 
 
 "The musical box in the common room of the novi- 
 tiate has a broken spring, and the novices have invented 
 a new game by which they can play the 'Dead March' in 
 'Saul' as fast as a galop or as slowly as a dirge, just as 
 it pleases them. Some one was ill in the monastery the 
 other day. Paul does not say who, but three or four 
 of them rummaged among the old bottles of medicine 
 which had been put aside from time immemorial in the 
 infirmorium, and picking out the first thing they could 
 find, gave it to the sick man. A monk has lately died 
 there. Paul tells me he was a bad-tempered man and 
 unpopular in the monastery, but was a wonderful artist. 
 He illustrated in black and white stories for some of the 
 magazines, and exhibited his pictures from time to time 
 in London. Just before he died he painted a portrait of 
 Paul. Paul says that if the portrait is like him, it shows 
 him to have grown thinner and to have lost the colour 
 of his eyes and lips. 
 
 "Paul is no longer the youngest novice. An Italian 
 has come to the monastery lately. He is a man of good 
 birth, but of strange habits and but little education. 
 He can only speak a jargon of Italian, Latin, and Eng- 
 lish, and his habits are ultra-foreign and unclean. The 
 others make him sing to them in the common room of 
 an evening, and he improvises tunes to words that have 
 no meaning. Paul says that the new novice spends most 
 of his time praying to a hideous little Italian picture of
 
 221 
 
 the Virgin, and that in his cell he keeps a queer collec- 
 tion of fruit and dead flowers, candle ends, and such 
 ragged bits of stuff and ribbon as he has been able to 
 accumulate. When on Sunday the Prior goes round the 
 monastery for Asperges and sprinkles every cell in turn, 
 the visit made to Brother Lorenzo's is the briefest. A 
 novice was severely punished the other day for picking 
 up his habit to run faster when playing football. 
 
 "And then Paul finishes his letter by telling me he 
 loves me and thinks of me and longs for me. What 
 does it all mean, this chronicling of childish punish- 
 ments and petty gossip this little, narrow, sordid world 
 in which nothing is of any moment save the looks or the 
 speech of any of the community? There is not one word 
 to imply that he has found the comfort he sought or 
 even that he has been disappointed. He only mentions 
 the chapel as a place that is cold and filled with weird 
 shadows and ghostly sounds in the early mornings. His 
 preaching has given him no pleasure; his whole life at 
 present seems to be wasted. Paul, Paul, what made 
 you do this thing? Why did you not come to me in your 
 great trouble, and together we might have met it and 
 fought it? .... 
 
 "I wonder whether I was weak and to blame in giving 
 way to my uncle's rule? Perhaps it has all been my 
 fault, and I should have forgotten the duty and the grati- 
 tude and the love I owed to my family, and left them all 
 in disobedience and in anger and gone to Paul and 
 helped him. Now it seems to me that we have both 
 made a fearful mistake I, in so easily giving him up, 
 and he in fearing his own strength and his capability to 
 live in the world without me to help him. Each time I 
 hear from him I grow more unhappy. I blame myself 
 for the past, and I tremble in anticipation of what the
 
 222 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 future may bring. I have sent him another little letter 
 to tell him I have received his. That is all I can do, 
 and I have, even in writing that, to force myself to 
 measure each word for fear that I should say too 
 much 
 
 "We all came to the Manor House three days ago 
 from Scotland, and go to London to-morrow to buy some 
 horses. Cubbing has already begun, and uncle is keen 
 to start work. I don't know that I am looking forward 
 to it. It must be myself, after all, that is changed, for 
 this time last year I was wild at the idea of having a 
 couple of mounts of my own, and of all the sport and fun 
 of the winter 
 
 "The last three weeks of our stay in Scotland were 
 not happy ones. Aunt Margot was not well. I think 
 she is changing very much, and I fear that among other 
 things she is troubled about Lord St. Ives and me. He 
 did not speak to me while we were there, but I know he 
 did to her, and his last words before leaving were that 
 he would be in Midshire early in December. How I 
 dread that time! It used to be such a happy month, 
 with Christmas for its ending, and all the good wishes 
 and presents and kindliness that came with that day. 
 This Christmas will be very different from last. Honor 
 will be married and gone away on her honeymoon, and 
 Paul will not be here. Paul's last letter tells me he has 
 not been well, and has been ordered to eat meat. He 
 and the dean have had more quarrels, and Paul was 
 excommunicated for two days to his cell. His letter 
 was very short and very hard. It seemed to me as 
 though it were written by a man whose heart was 
 crushed within him, or who was suffering from some ter- 
 rible disappointment. I do so pray that he is not finding 
 out that he has made a mistake
 
 ROSAMUND'S RECORD 22 3 
 
 "Honor's wedding is over, and the house is quiet 
 again. To-morrow is Christmas Day, but we are having 
 no party here. Aunt Margot's health grows worse, and 
 she never comes down now until nearly luncheon time. 
 I have not heard from Paul for three weeks. I wonder 
 if anything is wrong. Laura has gone away for Christ- 
 mas; I am glad, because the silence of this house 
 and her mother's illness were making her so irritable and 
 resentful against every one. She has grown to take it 
 as a personal injury to herself when, from one cause or 
 another, she cannot fill the house with her own friends. 
 My grey mare, 'Silvertop, ' broke her leg yesterday by 
 jumping short over that stone wall at the top of Farmer 
 Viner's copse. Uncle says she will have to be shot. I 
 am so sorry; she was such a darling, and carried me 
 beautifully. I wonder if I shall hear from Paul to-mor- 
 row or at the New Year 
 
 "I am writing to-day with all my windows wide open. 
 The rooks are so busy in the trees and all the little birds 
 are making love in the shrubbery that runs under my 
 window. The last meet will be in another fortnight, and 
 then back to town once more we go. Aunt Margot is 
 better, but the least thing fatigues her nowadays, and 
 we have had very few people staying here this winter 
 for the balls. Laura has taken to playing golf, or rather 
 she walks round the links with Captain Fairleigh, a 
 rather nice looking man who has for the past month been 
 quartered at Shellerly Barracks. He is supposed to 
 admire athletic girls, so Laura has copied the cut of my 
 country skirts and taken to wearing a deer-stalker hat 
 and going for long walks with the captain. Lord St. 
 Ives is in the south of France. He was here for a while 
 in January, but I am glad to say, left me more in peace. 
 I have not heard from Paul since the middle of Decem-
 
 224 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 ber, although I have written to him many times, beseech- 
 ing him to tell me if aught is amiss with him, or if his 
 heart is changed. In a few weeks now the time of our 
 probation will be over, and we shall be free at least to 
 meet if nothing more. Does he remember this, and 
 will he come to see me? After so long a silence on his 
 side, it is difficult for me to write again, but yet I feel 
 almost tempted to cast aside all reserve and pride and 
 tell him that I am longing for the hour that is to bring 
 
 us together once more 
 
 "We are settled down again in town for the season. 
 Uncle had hoped to let 'The Hurst,' but Aunt Margot, 
 though very weak, has insisted on one more season for 
 Laura. Honor and her husband are staying here. The 
 house is full from morning till night. Aunt Margot is 
 herself again, and we are engaged every day and evening 
 in the week. The past year might be nothing but an 
 evil dream if it were not that Paul is not here, but 
 to-day three weeks, if he remembers, and if he still loves 
 me, he ought to come."
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 YOUNG BLOOD 
 
 ONE day early in the long and bitter winter Paul wished 
 to write another letter to Rosamund. To obtain mate- 
 rials to do this he had to go through the form of asking 
 the novice master for envelope and paper. A week 
 earlier the good Father Zadock had left for Rome, to 
 sojourn there in one of the great Dominican monasteries 
 for the winter. He had been replaced in his position of 
 authority and responsibility by an austere member of the 
 brotherhood, whose reign over the novices threatened to 
 make their lives very different from those they had passed 
 under the easy-going, genial rule of Father Zadock. 
 
 Father Joseph was a stern man ; his early manhood 
 had been stormy, and his repentance and retirement from 
 the world accompanied by the upheaval of his entire 
 nature. Like many men who had passed loose lives out- 
 side, he was a martinet in all that concerned authority, 
 observance, and self-abasement, once he was within the 
 pale. He was a man who fasted and prayed and used 
 his "discipline" with a fierce satisfaction in every sting 
 it gave him. He was anticipating the monthly "procla- 
 mation" of his pupils' shortcomings with a sardonic 
 pleasure, and was already devising heavy punishments 
 for their peccadilloes and petty sins. He looked sternly 
 at Paul as he proffered his request. 
 
 "You write many letters, do you not, my son?" 
 "Not more than some of the others," answered Paul. 
 225
 
 226 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 "Do not spoil that sheet of paper," said the Father. 
 "You will get no more from me. Father Zadock was 
 too lenient in such matters." 
 
 Paul took up the single sheet of paper and envelope, 
 and moved to leave the room. 
 
 "Mind that your letter is brought here unsealed when 
 it is finished," said the monk. 
 
 "I have always observed the rules about letters," 
 answered Paul, rather defiantly, as he turned round in 
 the doorway. 
 
 Father Joseph affected not to hear, and bent again 
 over his book. 
 
 Paul in his letter to Rosamund laid this time but 
 little stress upon his own daily life. Rather did he write 
 of the New Year that was within measurable time and 
 was to bring them together once more. In a half- 
 hearted way for he dared not acknowledge it even to 
 himself he implied that his present life was fast becom- 
 ing a weariness to him; that he had not found in it that 
 which he had sought, and that though he meant to hold 
 to his word and keep his novitiate of twelve months, he 
 should, after the New Year, count the days that would 
 make him free once more and bring him to her side. 
 
 It was not a long letter, but it was quite enough for 
 Father Joseph when a little later he drew it out of the 
 envelope, and justified by the rules of his order read 
 it from beginning to end. With the document in his 
 hand he went straight to the Prior, and together they 
 read it again and again, gathering from it that the 
 novice Paul had been writing to a woman the whole time 
 he had been in the monastery, as well as receiving let- 
 ters from her. The Prior was deeply grieved, and 
 Father Joseph angry and outraged, but they decided that 
 for the moment Paul should not know his secret had
 
 YOUNG BLOOD 227 
 
 been discovered. These worthy men of God still 
 retained enough of the leaven of the devil to know that 
 a young man thwarted in his heart's desires is as likely 
 as not to prove troublesome, and openly to defy all the 
 rules of the order, and perhaps to leave the monastery in 
 scandalous haste. 
 
 Therefore they agreed between themselves that 
 special "novena," or prayers, should be said for him in 
 the chapel every day, though his name should not be 
 mentioned in them. And so Paul drifted on through 
 the dark winter months, writing his letters to Rosamund, 
 and wondering why none ever came from her. 
 
 As the new year grew to its second month, he wrote 
 her, saying he was now counting the hours, as a school- 
 boy counts the time to the holidays, to the fair morning 
 when he should go outside the gates a free man, take 
 train to London, and clasping her dear hands in his, 
 claim her for his own. Whatever faint idea he might 
 have had in the early days when he had decided to enter 
 the monastery of feeling a vocation for a secluded life 
 had dropped from him. The long months of rest, the 
 monotonous passage of the hours, the repeated periods 
 of solemn silence, during which he was free to think of 
 what he pleased, had all tended to make him regard life 
 from a healthier and wider point of view. He recognised 
 that what he had thought a terrible misfortune a few 
 months back had really been for his own good, that it 
 had steadied him, given him a newer sense of responsi- 
 bility and a more settled chance of true happiness. He 
 still felt that he did not wish to go back to society, but he 
 no longer endured the bitterness which had filled his 
 heart and soul when, in the past summer, all his world 
 had idly cut him for what he now realised was a mere 
 whim of fancy.
 
 228 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 He desired once more a healthy, manly life. He did 
 not regret for one moment that he had been received 
 into the Roman Catholic Church, for in his hour of trial 
 he had won great comfort from its ministrations, and 
 he still felt that it was the best and safest religion for 
 him. But he now perceived that men can do more 
 good out in the world, living clean lives themselves and 
 making others happy, than by wearing out their bodies 
 and breaking their hearts in dim, incense-perfumed 
 chapels, or amid the four walls of a living tomb. 
 
 He longed, with all the healthy instincts of a man 
 who has just recovered from a long illness, to live again. 
 He wanted to hear the babble of voices, and to feel the 
 touch of soft white hands. He wanted to feel the fresh 
 rush of air blow past his face as he rode over the green 
 fields. He longed for the kindly greeting, the cheery 
 word, the whole-hearted laugh of the men of his world, 
 and for the humanising instinct that comes from mingling 
 with gracious women and innocent children. 
 
 As day after day went by, and winter died before the 
 coming spring, his soul was more outside the high, red 
 walls than within them. Day after day he was 
 reproached for indifference at services, and reproved for 
 breaking the rules of the order. His heart was so light 
 that his voice and feet grew light with it, and he was in 
 perpetual disgrace for running or shouting or singing as 
 he passed along the straight garden paths and watched 
 the buds bursting on the trees and the fruit blossoms 
 gleaming like snow in the golden sunshine. 
 
 But he cared nothing for the punishments, the per- 
 petual excommunications and enforced apologies; his 
 only trouble was Rosamund's silence, and every day that 
 passed brought him nearer to an explanation of that. 
 His letters to her were all full of the future, and one
 
 TOUNG BLOOD 229 
 
 fair, warm day in mid-spring, when the life blood ran 
 hotly through his veins, he could not for the world's sake 
 restrain himself from pouring out to her all the passion 
 that he felt. 
 
 Father Joseph's brow, as he read that letter, grew 
 black as thunder. Generalities about the monastery, 
 foolish babblings about the spring, little messages indica- 
 tive of affection or regret might be overlooked, but 
 a letter that breathed in every line a man's passion for a 
 woman which was full of virile longing and the adoration 
 that flesh gives to flesh, was too much. 
 
 The next day Paul was summoned before the Prior 
 and his accuser, the novice master, and then he learned 
 the secret of Rosamu,nd's silence; learned, too, that dur- 
 ing all these months she must have deemed him forget- 
 ful if not untrue. In a moment his own disappointment 
 and the suffering she must have endured rushed upon 
 him like a sea. He forgot his vows as a novice, the 
 schooling of the past eleven months, the restraint that 
 enforced obedience had placed upon him for so long; he 
 forgot that he was before his superiors in age, in wisdom, 
 and in monastical life. He only remembered that he 
 was a man outraged by men. With all the restrained 
 passion boiling to his lips he accused them of having 
 spied upon him, of having betrayed him. He demanded 
 the letters which had been sent to him and which he had 
 never received; he ordered them to return those that 
 had been written and never sent. In a very frenzy of 
 rage, he plucked the crucifix from his neck and the 
 rosary from his side and flung them at the Prior's 
 feet. 
 
 "I will stay in this place no longer," he cried. "Reli- 
 gion or no religion, vows or no vows, you have deceived 
 me and deceived a woman who has done you no harm
 
 230 THE PASSION OP ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 whom you do not even know. I break such vows as I 
 have made, and I leave you now and for always." 
 
 He strode to his cell, where an hour later a lay 
 brother brought him the clothes he had laid aside so 
 many months ago. With hands that trembled with 
 excitement, he tossed aside everything that reminded 
 him of the past and resumed his own garments, feeling 
 that with them he assumed once more the ways and 
 habits of the world. He thrust such belongings as he 
 had into his bag, and then made for the door. One or 
 two of the novices met him on his way thither, for even 
 such a secret departure as Paul's becomes known in a 
 small community. 
 
 "Good-bye," they cried heartily; "good-bye, Brother 
 Paul. We wish you well." 
 
 But one monk, a very old man, whose feet were tread- 
 ing gravewards fast, shook him by the hands, and said in 
 his piping, feeble voice: 
 
 "You are going out again, but you will come back. 
 Mark my words, you will come back. Those who have 
 once known the peace that lies within the walls of a 
 monastery and the holy calm that rests within our 
 chapels can never stay outside." 
 
 But Paul laughed joyously in his face, and laughed 
 again as he almost ran down the avenue, and laughed loud- 
 est of all when the tall wooden gate swung behind him 
 and he stood out in the road with his bag in his hand, 
 a perfectly free man once more. Free to go back 
 to London and see his friends, glean news of his love, 
 and pass in delicious dreams the few short days that 
 were to end his time of probation.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 THE TORTURE OF TANTALUS 
 
 ROSAMUND KEITH had not been looking her best all the 
 season, and as June set in, hot and close, with long, 
 burning days, when the sky was like brass and the air 
 throbbed as do heat waves from a furnace, and the 
 nights were heavy with mist and close for want of fresh, 
 stirring air, she faded visibly. 
 
 Although she scarcely knew it herself, Rosamund was 
 suffering more from Paul's silence than from his absence. 
 She had written so often to him, urging and praying for 
 even the smallest word in reply. She only begged for an 
 assurance that he was well, but when no answer came 
 and the weeks of the early spring melted into the fierce 
 summer and brought her still no news, her faith in him 
 and in his steadfast love for her grew very faint some- 
 times. She herself was of so staunch and true a nature 
 that she could not understand that a man, who should 
 be stronger than a woman, could ever waver where he 
 had given his word. When she had plighted her troth 
 to Paul she had done so in no light spirit. She had 
 given him her love and her heart freely and frankly, and 
 it was inconceivable to her that she should ever take 
 back such gifts, or that having once accepted them Paul 
 should desire to return both to her. 
 
 Yet what was she to think during all that long 
 silence? Either he was dead or he had ceased to love her. 
 Either alternative was terrible, but the uncertainty of 
 
 231
 
 232 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 not knowing which one to believe was even worse. She 
 had no one to whom she could voice her troubles, for 
 having given her promise to her uncle to let the matter 
 rest for a year she felt in honour bound not to betray to 
 him that she was anxious as to the issue. To seek for 
 sympathy at the hands of her aunt or cousins would be 
 mere idle waste of time. Lily Baumer had gone back to 
 Germany to be married, and even if she had been still in 
 London she was scarcely the kind of girl before whom 
 Rosamund would have laid bare the secrets of her soul. 
 A loyal friend is not always a sympathetic one, and 
 Rosamund was too keenly jealous of her own and her 
 lover's honour to run the risk of being the subject of 
 light-hearted discussion over a tea-table or girlish con- 
 fidence at hair-brushing time. So she had nursed her 
 sorrow in her heart, and like all secrets it had fed upon 
 her and sapped her energy and strength and robbed all 
 her life of its savour. 
 
 Even when the passage of the weeks brought the end 
 of the twelve months nearer, Rosamund found that no 
 anticipation of happiness stirred in her bosom. She 
 could not bring herself to believe that any good was in 
 store for her, for although her healthy life had prevented 
 her from acquiring a morbid turn of mind, she was just 
 now in a sufficiently nervous, depressed condition to feel 
 sometimes as though fate were her enemy. 
 
 Little things, too, troubled her as they had never 
 done before. Mrs. Kerquham, for some reason of her 
 own, had suddenly taken to having long and confidential 
 talks with Rosamund. These interviews, which would 
 commence with a few generalities, invariably drifted to 
 the well-worn subject of Laura and her delinquencies. 
 In spite of her faults, her mother was proud of her, for 
 she was undeniably pretty and smart. But Mrs. Kerqu-
 
 THE TORTURE OF TANTALUS 233 
 
 ham's pride was her own punishment, for she had always 
 looked for Laura's advancement by marriage, and each 
 day that went by put such a contingency more out of 
 the question. The girl herself was growing embittered 
 by her failure to make a good settlement, and each out- 
 break of temper was always the forerunner of a fresh 
 escapade, which, as time went on, grew more and more 
 socially flagrant. 
 
 Mrs. Kerquham, her own health shaken by her illness 
 of the previous winter, had once gone so far as posi- 
 tively to weep before Laura and entreat her to moderate 
 in some degree her outrageous conduct. Only the day 
 before that scene Laura had been cut in the park by a 
 very influential lady, and smarting under what she con- 
 sidered a gross insult, was more set than ever on defy- 
 ing society and all its ways, and upon making her own 
 life and getting what fun she could out of it. 
 
 "You will never marry now, Laura," moaned Mrs. 
 Kerquham; "or if you do, it will be some wretched boy 
 with a few hundreds a year, and then all the world will 
 write you down as a failure." 
 
 "I'm not likely to marry in that kind of way, mother, 
 and you know it," snapped Laura. "But I must have 
 my fun, and you don't take us out nearly as much as you 
 used, so I have to go my own way." 
 
 "But, my dear child," said Mrs. Kerquham, giving 
 way to feminine weakness and wringing her hands, "I'm 
 not strong enough nowadays to take you out and chape- 
 rone you to good houses. You know that the doctors 
 have forbidden me to go out at night, and these great 
 afternoon crushes make me ill for days." 
 
 "Very well, then, don't complain if I go about with 
 other people." 
 
 "But it will be your ruin, my dear."
 
 234 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 "Ruin! Fiddlesticks! Why did you let Honor 
 engage herself to that booby? She should have married 
 well, and then she could have chaperoned me properly. 
 Nothing gets a girl married so well as when her sister 
 makes a good match." 
 
 "I know that; I know that, Laura," said Mrs. Ker- 
 quham. "But Honor " 
 
 "Oh, Honor is a cat, and of course no man in his 
 senses would have her but there is Rosamund." 
 
 "Ah! Rosamund is a great disappointment to both 
 your father and myself, " wailed Mrs. Kerquham. "If 
 she had married where she might have done, she could 
 have taken you into the very best society in London, 
 and with your face and clever ways and the money that 
 your father will settle upon you, you might have made a 
 brilliant match by this time." 
 
 "Then blame Rosamund and not me for it," cried 
 Laura, as she flung out of the room. 
 
 And Rosamund was blamed accordingly, sometimes 
 openly and sometimes by inference, when Mrs. Kerqu- 
 ham would retail with tears and sighs Laura's latest 
 outrages. 
 
 Rosamund gradually grew to know what it all meant. 
 She realised that the pressure that was being brought to 
 bear on her to accept Lord St. Ives when next it pleased 
 him to propose was becoming greater day by day. She 
 had fought against it all last autumn, and had been 
 thankful for the respite that the spring had brought her, 
 but now in mid-season, worn out in body, sick and dis- 
 appointed at heart, wearying for the love and sympathy 
 that seemed further away than ever, it was a very hard 
 struggle for the girl. She dreaded the time when her 
 own strength should give way, and she should weakly 
 yield and be forced to marry Lord St. Ives and to take
 
 THE TORTURE OF TANTALUS 235 
 
 Laura under her wing for the purpose of socially white- 
 washing her and finding her a husband. Every week 
 her courage slipped further from her, and as the June 
 days passed by and still no news came from Paul her last 
 hopes of resistance died within her, and she almost made 
 up her mind that the end was very near. 
 
 It was late afternoon in the big drawing-room at "The 
 Hurst." A few people had been in to tea and tennis, 
 but they had gone now. The lawns were shady, and the 
 gardeners were watering the hot earth, which steamed 
 and smoked after the baking it had had all day. At the 
 end of the avenue Honor and her husband, who were 
 spending the season at "The Hurst," were making up 
 one of their daily quarrels. Laura had gone to her room 
 to dress for dinner with some friends of hers. Mrs. 
 Kerquham was lying on a sofa in the window. She was 
 worn and aged, and her once abundant iron-grey hair 
 looked sparse and faded where it was brushed back 
 from her temples over a cushion. Close by the tea- 
 table, where she had sat all the afternoon, was Rosa- 
 mund. She was quite idle, and her hands, which were 
 thinner and more transparent than they used to be, were 
 limply crossed on her knee. Her head drooped a little 
 over one shoulder, and the long lashes of her lowered lids 
 swept over her pale cheeks. Alban Kerquham looked 
 over the top of his evening paper at the girl. 
 
 "How white and tired she looks," he thought. "I 
 wish I had held to my determination not to come to 
 town this year. Things are going so awry here this 
 year. The house isn't a bit like it used to be." 
 
 A sharp ring at the door bell echoed through the 
 silent house. Mrs. Kerquham heaved a little sigh from 
 the sofa, and Rosamund, with her neat instincts, began 
 mechanically to separate the used from the unused tea-
 
 236 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 cups. Across the hall and down the long corridor came 
 the echo of swiftly advancing footsteps. Some reminis- 
 cent ring in them struck Rosamund's ears, and she rose 
 slowly to her feet with her eyes fixed on the door. A 
 second later and it was flung wide, and "Mr. Carr" was 
 announced in a loud voice by the footman. 
 
 Mr. Kerquham started up at the sound of that well 
 remembered name, and Mrs. Kerquham rose, frigid and 
 stern, from her sofa. Rosamund swayed a little, but 
 uttered no cry, only a china cup she had been holding 
 in her fingers slipped to the floor and broke with a little 
 tinkle at her feet. 
 
 "Mr. Kerquham, how do you do? Mrs. Kerquham " 
 Paul bowed across the room to her. Then he advanced 
 with outstretched hands "Rosamund! my darling!" 
 
 But Rosamund did not move. She felt that the only 
 chance of keeping her senses at all was to cling to the 
 side of the table and remain silent. But her eyes burned 
 like great stars in her pale face, devouring Paul's every 
 feature, his every attitude. 
 
 "Mr. Carr," began Mr. Kerquham, in his coldest 
 manner, "what does this mean? By what right do you 
 come here without first communicating with me?" 
 
 "The right that you yourself gave me a year ago. 
 You parted Rosamund from me for twelve months. The 
 time is passed. I have come back to see her now, and 
 to ask her once again the question she answered so 
 sweetly before. Rosamund, my love, I want you for my 
 wife. Will you marry me?" 
 
 A little cry came from her parted lips, a cry of 
 ineffable happiness and deepest love, but still she did 
 not move. 
 
 "My niece is scarcely at liberty to answer you," said 
 Mr. Kerquham. "She owes a duty to us all "
 
 THE TORTURE OF TANTALUS 237 
 
 "Which she has paid long ago," retorted Paul. 
 "You only have to look at her face to see at what cost 
 she has discharged her debt. Have you no eyes that 
 you cannot see the change in her? Rosamund, my poor 
 love, what have they been doing to you?" 
 
 He held out his arms to her, and she, as though drawn 
 by some will stronger than her own, went slowly to him 
 and hid her face above his heart. 
 
 "Alban, are you going to allow this?" said Mrs. 
 Kerquham, her voice trembling with passion. "Are 
 you going to permit this gentleman to take Rosamund in 
 this fashion without one word from us, without even ask- 
 ing our consent, or explaining anything to us?" 
 
 "I am ready to explain everything," cried Paul, hold- 
 ing Rosamund in his arms, "and to ask you in due form, 
 as indeed I do now, for your niece's hand. But I warn 
 you beforehand, I will not take 'No' for an answer. I 
 yielded to your wishes a year ago, because I felt that, 
 rightly or wrongly, at that time my position might bring 
 some degree of trouble to Rosamund; but this time 
 things are different. I come to you with a perfectly 
 clear record. There is no reason why we should not be 
 married and go away and live at my own place in my 
 own county. I have been there for the last three weeks, 
 setting everything in order, and every one is waiting to 
 welcome me back with my bride. You have no reason 
 now for delaying our marriage, and it is merely as a 
 matter of courtesy that I ask your consent to it." 
 
 Mrs. Kerquham was about to break forth again when 
 her husband interposed. Paul's words had given him 
 time to reflect, and he had seen that in his niece's face 
 during the last few moments which had appealed to him 
 more than anything else could have done. He had seen 
 patience and suffering and love; and the affection that
 
 238 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 he bore her reminded him that her future happiness 
 was very dear to him. Turning to his wife he urged her 
 to leave the room. 
 
 "A scene will only make you ill again," he said, 
 kindly. "You had best go and lie down upstairs. I 
 promise you that nothing shall be definitely settled until 
 I have seen you again. " 
 
 He led her to the door, and she, whose spirit had 
 been broken by worry and illness, feeling that she had 
 done her duty by making such protest as she had uttered, 
 was not sorry to leave the burden of the fight upon her 
 husband's broad shoulders. 
 
 "You had better come to my room; we shall not b 
 interrupted there," said Mr. Kerquham, still with the 
 door open in his hand, and Paul, loosing Rosamund from 
 his embrace but still holding one of her hands in his, 
 followed Mr. Kerquham to the studio. 
 
 "Now, Mr. Carr, " said Mr. Kerquham, "let us talk 
 this matter over quietly and without prejudice. I wish, 
 first of all, however, to assure you that my chiefest care is 
 for my niece's happiness. Rosamund is as dear to me 
 as though she were my own daughter, and in addition to 
 that I feel towards her the responsibility that must ever 
 lie with a man who is placed in the position of trust as a 
 guardian. It was that very sense of responsibility that 
 urged me to act as I did a year ago, and you will have 
 to allay that sense, as well as satisfy my affectionate 
 solicitude for this dear child, before I can consent to 
 your marrying her." 
 
 Paul placed Rosamund tenderly in a chair. She was 
 looking very white and her mouth was quivering, and 
 now and then the tears rolled from her eyes over her 
 pale cheeks. He stood beside her as though she were a
 
 THE TORTURE OF TANTALUS 239 
 
 precious thing he had just regained and from which he 
 could not be parted. 
 
 "Mr. Kerquham," began Paul, "I have merely tried 
 to fulfil the conditions you imposed upon me. I have 
 been living at peace with my fellowmen and out of reach 
 of every possible temptation to which I might, in my 
 loneliness and despair, have succumbed." 
 
 "You have been living in a monastery, have you not?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Did you go there with any idea of taking the vows 
 in due time?" 
 
 Paul hesitated a moment before he spoke. It was a 
 difficult question to answer. 
 
 "I was very unhappy when I determined to cut myself 
 off from the world. I felt that, with the exception of 
 Rosamund, I never wished to see any one again. You 
 may say I took an exaggerated view of the case. Per- 
 haps I did but, Mr. Kerquham, you must forgive me if 
 I tell you that it was your action that warped my judg- 
 ment of the world. True, I was deeply wounded by 
 the slights of an idle society and the cold shoulder of the 
 clubs. But everything in our world is only a nine days' 
 wonder, and I knew that the very people who did not ask 
 me to their parties in the summer would be very pleased to 
 come and shoot with me in the autumn. It was your action 
 about Rosamund, and the view you took of matters, that 
 made me regard the whole business with a distorted 
 vision. I felt that if Rosamund was too good for me, 
 then I was too bad for the rest of the world, and that the 
 sooner I cut myself away from it and went somewhere 
 where my history would be unknown and my very name 
 changed, it would be best. But I can say with truth 
 that when I did take up my novitiate at the monastery
 
 240 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 I did so with the absolute intention of leaving that place 
 at the time my novitiate expired." 
 
 "Then you have left the monastery for good?" 
 queried Mr. Kerquham. 
 
 "Absolutely and forever. Even if I did wish to stay 
 they would not have me, for they found I had no voca- 
 tion for a monk's life." 
 
 "And you still love Rosamund?" said Mr. Kerquham. 
 
 For all answer Paul stooped and kissed her on the 
 mouth. 
 
 "The marriage must be a very quiet one," said Mr. 
 Kerquham; "for though you are in every other respect 
 a good match for my niece, the circumstances of the 
 past year had best not be in any way raked up." 
 
 "So that you give her to me, I don't mind how she 
 comes." 
 
 Mr. Kerquham looked at his niece. Already there 
 was a radiant glow in her face, and her eyes shone like 
 jewels as she looked up at her lover. He turned his 
 back on the pair for a moment, and feigned to be busy 
 at his painting table setting his brushes straight and 
 tidying a heap of paints. There was one question he 
 still had to ask, and he was coward enough not to want 
 to look at the two when he did so. 
 
 "Are you still a professing Roman Catholic?" 
 
 "Of course I am," answered Paul Carr, straightly. 
 "I was baptised into that church; I have never had any 
 other." 
 
 A silence fell, and Rosamund felt the blood go back 
 from her face and lie cold about her heart. She slipped 
 her trembling fingers into Paul's hand and clung to him 
 as a frightened child clings to one it trusts and loves. 
 
 "Has it ever struck you," said Mr. Kerquham, still
 
 THE TORTURE OF TANTALUS 241 
 
 from the far end of the dim studio, "that your religion is 
 likely to prove a bar to your marriage with my niece?" 
 
 Paul drew in his breath sharply before he answered. 
 
 "That did not strike me, Mr. Kerquham. I did not 
 know I did not think that in these days a mere ques- 
 tion of formula could weigh in such a matter as the mar- 
 riage of two people who love each other." 
 
 The studio was almost dark, for the sun had set in the 
 west, and only a little pale reflected light shone through 
 the north window. Mr. Kerquham's broad figure was 
 scarcely visible at the further end of the room, and his 
 voice came like the voice of fate out of the clouds. 
 
 "Then, Mr. Carr, I am afraid that for the moment I 
 can give you no definite answer on the question of your 
 marriage with Rosamund. I owe it to her and to myself 
 to lay the whole question before her father's family, who 
 confided her to me twenty years ago. You must under- 
 stand that they never heard of the first engagement 
 between you. I must now write and submit the whole 
 thing to them, and I must ask you to wait until I have 
 their opinion before you can consider yourself bound to 
 her. ' ' 
 
 "But, sir, this is too cruel," cried Paul, urged to 
 expostulate by the white and drawn face at his side. 
 
 "Uncle, must this be so?" said Rosamund. 
 
 Mr. Kerquham came out of the shadows into the ring 
 of pale light that still gleamed in the centre of the floor. 
 
 "My child, you know it must be, but I promise you 
 I will urge them to give an unqualified consent, for I 
 think myself that your happiness is bound up in Mr. 
 Carr." 
 
 "But when will you write? How soon?" she cried, 
 stretching out imploring hands to him.
 
 242 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 "I will write to-night to the earl and to Lady Sophia, 
 and I will call to-morrow on Lady Charlotte Lundy. " 
 
 "How long will it be before you know?" asked Paul 
 in a low, choked voice. 
 
 "Four days at the shortest, more likely a week. 
 Until I communicate with you, Mr. Carr, I must trust 
 to your honour as a gentleman " 
 
 "Not to see her again?" cried Paul. 
 
 "Oh! uncle, you cannot be so cruel as that!" 
 entreated Rosamund. 
 
 Almost Alban Kerquham yielded, but he felt that if 
 at the very last moment the cup was to be snatched from 
 their too eager mouths, it were best that they should 
 not even catch the savour of it. 
 
 "I think it is best that you should not meet, and I 
 trust you both in this matter." 
 
 "Oh, it is cruel, cruel!" cried Rosamund, leaning her 
 face against the back of Paul's hand and letting the 
 tears run unrestrainedly down her cheeks. 
 
 "Mr. Carr," said Mr. Kerquham in a low voice, "I 
 trust you to give her strength, and then not to see her 
 again until you hear from me." 
 
 He walked out of the studio, leaving the^n alone in 
 the dusk to crush into the next ten minutes all the bit- 
 terness of the past, all the pain of the present, and all the 
 sweetness of the future that they hoped for. 
 
 The moon was rising in the clear sky when Paul left 
 the house. It flung its beams through the tall studio 
 window and flooded with silver the old Persian rugs that 
 covered the floor. Wider and wider its radiance grew, 
 till it embraced within its magic circle the prone form of 
 Rosamund, who lay, face downwards on the floor, weep- 
 ing bitterly.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 "YES" 
 
 WHEN Paul left "The Hurst," and by the light of the 
 rising moon paced down the leafy roads of Campden 
 Hill, his heart was light within him, for he could not 
 conceive that such love as Rosamund and he bore each 
 other could go unrequited. He could not find it in him 
 to chide Rosamund for her tears and doubts, for he 
 ascribed her nervous breakdown to over-excitement. 
 That for a mere quibble of belief, a different form of 
 worshipping the same great God, the marriage would be 
 forbidden, seemed to him sanguine with high hope and 
 still thrilling at Rosamund's remembered touch and 
 voice little more than absurd. 
 
 In a few days all would be well, and they would be 
 married quietly and at once. With the swinging, long 
 stride of a happy man he threaded the crowded streets, 
 making his way, not to his own rooms in Piccadilly, but 
 to a small hotel in the unfashionable Bloomsbury district. 
 
 His absence from the world and the circumstances 
 which led to it had made him rather shy of returning 
 immediately to his old haunts, and no one knew he was 
 in town. At times he felt strangely like a man who 
 after an illness rises from a sick bed and essays to walk 
 alone. He wanted some one to lean upon, some one to 
 be always with him, some one to whom he could talk 
 and tell all his thoughts and the disappointments he had 
 suffered in the monastery. That some one was Rosa- 
 
 243
 
 244 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 mund. Her strong nature, he knew, would complete the 
 healing which had already begun, and with her by his 
 side he felt sure that mind and heart would recover their 
 healthy elasticity. All this he had felt before he had 
 seen her that afternoon, but now that he had touched 
 her hand and held her in his arms, had noted the many 
 subtle changes that had come over her, and been witness 
 to her grief at the idea of a further separation from him, 
 all that was best in his manhood was aroused, and he 
 forgot his own weaknesses and personal anxieties in a 
 mad desire to take her to him and bring the colour back 
 to her cheeks and the light of love and happiness to her 
 sad eyes. 
 
 Yet as his first elation and certainty of success cooled 
 down it was scarcely strange that he should chafe a little 
 at the fresh barrier that Mr. Kerquham's sense of 
 responsibility to the family had raised in his path. 
 Surely time enough had been wasted ; they had lost a 
 whole year out of their lives a year that might have 
 been so happy and that had been so barren of joy and 
 empty of result. And then he fell to wondering as he 
 walked whether the time had been really lost with him, 
 whether the months in the monastery had been mis- 
 spent, whether his reception into Roman Catholicism 
 had been a mistake, a mere foolish ebullition of hyster- 
 ical and ill-controlled emotion. He needed a wiser head 
 to decide the question for him, for the past year's reli- 
 ance on the judgment of others and his submission to a 
 life ordered by strict rule had weakened his own purpose 
 and filled him with doubt as to his own judgment on any 
 point. He must wait five days, a week if necessary, 
 until he saw Rosamund again. 
 
 That evening the time of waiting stretched before his 
 impatient mind to an interminable length. But when a
 
 " TBS " 245 
 
 few mornings later his man brought his letters from 
 Piccadilly and he saw her dear, well-known handwriting 
 among them, the past hours of anticipation seemed as 
 though they had been all too short. 
 
 <4 Mv DEAR PAUL: 
 
 "Will you come and see me to-day? 
 
 "Yours ever and ever, 
 
 "ROSAMUND." 
 
 The words had neither good news nor bad; they 
 were reticent and reserved almost to a fault. But 
 through the veil Paul caught the magnetism of joy and 
 guessed that all was well. 
 
 If he had doubted, one glance at her dear face must 
 have reassured him, when, later in the day, he was ush- 
 ered into the studio at "The Hurst." A delicious blush, 
 a lovely happy smile, formed her silent greeting to her 
 lover, as with punctilious respect he crossed the wide 
 room to greet Mr. Kerquham. 
 
 The firm, long hand-clasp over, Paul was free to turn 
 and with outstretched arms cry to her to come to him. 
 Like a tired bird she crept to his embrace, trembling 
 with happiness, tearful with joy. 
 
 "At last! my love! at last!" he murmured, bending 
 his face down to her rippling tresses. 
 
 "At last! dear Paul," she whispered back to him. 
 
 "Yes! young people, you may well say 'at last!' But 
 it has been a hardly grudged consent, I can tell you, and 
 Mr. Carr, if I had been anything but well-disposed 
 towards you and most anxious for my dearest ward's 
 happiness I am not sure but that I could have put 
 another interpretation on these letters." 
 
 There were tears in Mr. Kerquham's kindly eyes as
 
 246 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 he seated himself and pulled from the pocket of his 
 well-worn painting jacket three letters. 
 
 "Sit down, and I will read you what is necessary." 
 A grim smile crossed his face. "I think you had bet- 
 ter not see the letters in entirety. They are not uni- 
 formly pleasant." 
 
 The first he spread upon his knee was written in a 
 square, wavering hand on old-fashioned paper. 
 
 "From Lord Kilbeggie. He begins with an exordium 
 on the merits of the Church of Scotland, and a well a 
 sweeping condemnation of your faith, Mr. Carr. He 
 goes on with a lament about the wilfulness of modern 
 girls and the lack of deference they show to their elders. 
 He ends by saying, 'If she will marry this Papist, she 
 will, for Rosamund has something of the family spirit in 
 her. I will send her as a gift the Cairngorm necklace I 
 should have given her mother had she lived but you 
 may tell her I never wish to see her again.' ' 
 
 "Oh, uncle," cried Rosamund, "Lord Kilbeggie is 
 very hard." 
 
 "My dear child," said Kerquham, laying aside the 
 letter, "ten years ago you would never have won even 
 so half-hearted a consent from him. But he is very old 
 and breaking fast nowadays. Be content with small 
 mercies. Lady Charlotte Lundy begins her letter less 
 pleasantly. She considers you have deceived your 
 cousin Hamish." 
 
 They all laughed, the clear, happy laugh of people 
 who can afford to make merry over others' disappoint- 
 ments. 
 
 "I never could dissuade her," went on Mr. Kerqu- 
 ham, "that such a marriage was out of the question. 
 She made up her mind to it when you were a little child, 
 and she's a tenacious person. She quotes largely from
 
 " TES " 247 
 
 V 
 
 Sir Alexander's opinions which are rather uncompli- 
 mentary and then, like a true woman, wants to know 
 the date of the wedding, and who is going to make your 
 frock. Ah ! Rosamund, your sex loves a marriage even if 
 it is not one they care about. By-the-bye, in a postscript 
 she offers to find you a staff of servants. 'Girls are so 
 lamentably ignorant on such points. ' I think we may 
 take it as a consent." 
 
 Rosamund and Paul, who had been listening with 
 clasped hands and smiling mouths, looked with love- 
 laden eyes at each other. So they might marry, what 
 did it matter what was said? 
 
 "My third letter is from Lady Sophia Kerquham. 
 She writes temperately, Rosamund, but sadly. She was 
 always fond of you, and bewails the barrier that must 
 shut you out of her life. But she sends you her blessing 
 and prayers that you may be very happy." 
 
 "Poor Aunt Sophia," murmured Rosamund, gently. 
 
 "So you see, Mr. Carr, the family allow me to give 
 you my niece and ward." 
 
 Alban Kerquham rose and came towards them. The 
 hands he held out to them trembled, and his voice was 
 veiled with emotion. 
 
 "Paul! in giving you Rosamund I am giving you the 
 best and dearest part of myself. That you love her loy- 
 ally I am sure that you will be kind to her I believe. 
 Only in one thing will I charge you never betray her. 
 She is the soul of truth and honour. If you, willingly 
 or otherwise, deceive her if once you shake the per- 
 fect faith she has in you, you will break her heart." 
 
 He moved towards the door. "Rosamund, dear, 
 come presently to the drawing-room. You aunt will like 
 to see you both." 
 
 Then followed a rose-coloured week a week of days
 
 248 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 all pleasure and joy, and evenings all peace and love. 
 Night after night Paul and Rosamund stood hand in 
 hand and heart to heart in the long avenue beneath the 
 tree where a year ago they had plighted their troth, and 
 where now as then a nightingale poured out his amo- 
 rous lay to the summer moon. 
 
 They wondered sometimes if it was the same bird 
 which had hymned their betrothal and now chanted their 
 epithalamium. 
 
 Mrs. Kerquham, forced at last to abandon her cher- 
 ished dreams of Rosamund's future, had decided to 
 make the best of what in her heart she considered a bad 
 job. Still, things might be worse. Paul was rich and 
 full of hospitable instincts. Under the cegis of himself 
 and Rosamund, Laura might see a great deal of pleasant 
 society, might yacht, hunt, travel, and finally pick up 
 that long-sought-for husband. So Mrs. Kerquham, filled 
 with hopeful anticipations, made herself as pleasant as 
 she could to the young couple, and entered with such 
 animation as her health permitted into preparations for 
 a speedy wedding. 
 
 The day had been fixed and all preliminaries arranged. 
 Rather to Laura's disgust, the affair was to be very 
 quiet. 
 
 On that Paul had insisted, and Mr. Kerquham, who 
 feared over-exertion for his wife, had strongly supported 
 him. 
 
 Out in the garden, now but feebly lit by a waning 
 moon, Rosamund was saying "good night" to Paul. 
 Her slender hands, white and light as lily leaves, rested 
 on his shoulders. Her pure face, radiant with love and 
 happiness, was raised to his. 
 
 "Darling, how few more times have we to say 'good- 
 bye!' " she whispered.
 
 "Not many now, sweetheart! Now that our marriage 
 day is fixed, I feel nearer, closer to you almost as 
 though we belonged to each other. Nothing can part us 
 now!" 
 
 "Hush! hush!" she cried, one hand across his mouth. 
 "You should not boast. It is tempting Providence." 
 
 "Providence! Do you not think we have been the 
 sport of Providence long enough?" 
 
 Rosamund shivered as she drew closer to him and 
 her face grew pale. 
 
 "One never knows!" she murmured. 
 
 "Foolish little love!" laughed Paul, kissing the colour 
 back to her face. "Providence has given us one week 
 of heaven just as a taste, you know to prepare us for 
 more. You're trembling again, dear heart. You must 
 go indoors. There's a cool breeze blowing up and your 
 pretty gown is too thin. Good night. God bless you." 
 
 A moment later the echo of Paul's steps died away, 
 and she went back into the house to the discussion of 
 gowns and hats, shoes and coats, and all the details of a 
 luxurious trousseau.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 "NO!" 
 
 As Paul strolled down the hill a neighbouring church 
 clock struck ten. How early it was. What should he 
 do? Music halls the Exhibition ? No! he would pay 
 a long-owed, long-neglected visit. He would go down 
 to the East End and try to see Father Gregory. 
 
 It was a long distance, and clear as the streets were 
 it was fully an hour later before he arrived at the 
 familiar doorway in the little Whitechapel street. He 
 was told in answer to his ring that Father Gregory was in 
 his cell, but very ill and unable to see any one. 
 
 "But surely he will see me," Paul argued with the 
 lay brother at the door. 
 
 "I don't think he can see any one," said the man 
 sadly. "An hour ago he received the last offices of the 
 Church and he is very weak." 
 
 "The last office of the Church!" cried Paul. "Is 
 Father Gregory dying?" 
 
 "They say he cannot live through the night." 
 
 "I beg you to find out if I cannot speak to him, if it 
 is only for a few minutes." 
 
 Moved by his agitation, and remembering the friend- 
 ship that had existed between the good monk and the 
 young man a year ago, the lay brother went to inquire 
 if the dying father could see Paul Carr. He seemed gone 
 for ages, and Paul, sitting in the dim corridor, which was 
 draughty and damp even on this warm summer's night, 
 
 250
 
 "NOf" 251 
 
 felt the cold sense of a coming change creeping over his 
 heart. The intense happiness of the last few days 
 slipped from him like a garment, and as a wave sweeps 
 away traces in the sand, so memory obliterated all that 
 was fair in his future. He seemed merely able to 
 remember that he had been lost to life and the world for 
 a year past, and that he had come back again only to 
 find a difference. Even his old friend, the pal of his 
 school days, the chum of his college years, stood at 
 death's threshold. 
 
 "Father Gregory will see you," said a voice in his 
 ear. "Those who are with him say it can make very lit- 
 tle difference now. He is sinking fast." 
 
 With a heavy heart and bent head Paul walked slowly 
 up the familiar stairs and into the mean cell. 
 
 The narrow bed had been dragged into the middle of 
 the room, and the window thrust open wide to admit 
 what little air stirred in the closely built neighbourhood. 
 A pair of candles at the bed-head shed a ghastly light 
 over the monk's waxen countenance. Between them 
 was a crucifix and an open book. At the foot of the bed 
 knelt a priest praying, and a lay brother leaned with his 
 face against the pall in the corner sobbing monotonously. 
 Father Gregory was propped up with many pillows, but 
 even with their aid he seemed too weak to support his 
 head, which hung over one shoulder. His eyes were 
 closed, but his pale lips were murmuring in prayer as his 
 thin, worn fingers passed the beads of his rosary between 
 them. 
 
 "My friend Phil what is this?" cried Paul as he 
 entered the room, and forgetting all the present went 
 back to the past boyhood's days. 
 
 Father Gregory opened his eyes and turned them 
 painfully on the fresh face.
 
 252 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 "Is it you, Paul?" he [muttered in a harsh, low voice 
 that already rattled in his throat. 
 
 "Yes, it is I. I came to see you to-night to tell you 
 something of my past year's life and to ask your prayers 
 for my future." 
 
 The monk looked wistfully from his friend to his own 
 wasted form. 
 
 "My prayers," he murmured, lifting one hand and 
 dropping it again weakly on the sheet, "my prayers shall 
 be for you." 
 
 He made a motion with his hand, and the priest and 
 the lay brother crept outside the door, which they left 
 ajar and through which the sound of their prayers and 
 their sobs could be heard at intervals. 
 
 Paul knelt by the bed, and his old friend raised one 
 feeble hand and laid it on Paul's head, where the fresh 
 hair was springing up so fast and hiding the tonsure. 
 
 After a moment's pause, he said, weakly: 
 
 "So you left the monastery, my son. You failed in 
 your vocation there?" 
 
 "Yes, Father! I failed and lamentably. I recog- 
 nised many months before I left that I went there in the 
 wrong spirit that I had no real wish to succeed." 
 
 The dying man sighed, and a few words of a prayer 
 parted his pale lips. 
 
 "So you had no call to a higher life, my poor friend. 
 That has been a great grief to me I made so sure you 
 seemed so earnest. But tell me for my comfort that 
 you are still a professed Catholic." 
 
 "Now and always, Father. I swear it." 
 
 A faint ray of joy illumined the monk's worn features. 
 
 "I held to my faith," went on Paul, "even when my 
 love was thrown into the balance against it." 
 
 "Your love! What love?"
 
 "NO!" 253 
 
 "My love for the woman who loves me. Don't you 
 remember I told you about Rosamund Keith?" 
 
 A slow fire burned in the faded, sunken eyes. 
 
 "And it was for her sake that you left the monas- 
 tery?" 
 
 Paul bowed his head yet lower beneath the light touch 
 of his wasted hand. 
 
 "You read my heart, Father! But, oh! if you had 
 seen how she was changed, how pale and pitiful she 
 looked, you would not blame me. It was her love that 
 had been almost killing her. I think I only came back 
 in time." 
 
 "And now that you are back, what are you going to 
 do?" 
 
 "We are going to be married almost directly." 
 
 The dying man struggled to sit upright and his voice 
 grew strong and loud. 
 
 "Do you not know you cannot marry Miss Keith?" 
 
 Paul started to his feet, white with astonishment and 
 wonder. 
 
 "Not marry Rosamund! In heaven's name, what do 
 you mean? Surely not my religion? mixed marriages 
 take place every day." 
 
 "It is not your religion as you feel it. It is the 
 religion of the Holy Church of Rome. " Father Gregory 
 raised a gaunt, lean hand. "Have you forgotten Kittie 
 Clyde?" 
 
 Paul turned grey as the dying man before him. 
 "Kittie Clyde!" he gasped. "My " 
 
 "Your wife, Paul Carr! Married by you before God 
 ten years ago when we were both lads at Oxford." 
 
 Paul thrust out his arms in expostulation. "But the 
 law freed me a few months later. You know I divorced 
 her."
 
 254 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 Again the priest raised his hand. It was like the 
 hand of a cruel Fate. 
 
 "The Catholic Church does not recognise divorce. 
 In the eyes of the religion you swore a few moments 
 back to hold to and profess, you are already a married 
 man." 
 
 With a loud cry Paul fell on his knees and hid his 
 agonised face in his hands. 
 
 Father Gregory sank back among his pillows, with 
 the death dews starting on his pinched forehead. 
 
 "My God! my God!" moaned Paul, as a strong man 
 moans under a crushing blow. 
 
 The monk's sight was failing fast; for him the light 
 of the world was growing very dark, and the everlasting 
 radiance of heaven had not yet broken. He groped 
 feebly for Paul, and when he found what he sought, laid 
 his hand on his shoulder. 
 
 "The cup is bitter I know, my son but it must be 
 drained." 
 
 "I will not drink from it Father I cannot." Paul 
 lifted his distorted face from his clenched hands. "We 
 have borne so much suffered so much and now, when 
 life and love and all that makes this world fair to man 
 and woman is held out to us, you would dash it away 
 from our longing lips." 
 
 "It is not I it is your Church." 
 
 "Then," cried Paul, wildly, "we will go away together 
 where no one need know our names or faiths. By the 
 laws of this country we can be married." 
 
 "And by the laws of your Church you will be making 
 the woman you love a wanton and your children 
 bastards." 
 
 "Not that, my God! not that. Better to leave a 
 Church that has such cruel laws," groaned Paul.
 
 "NO!" 255 
 
 The monk's thin fingers, already clammy and cold 
 with the sweats of approaching death, caught the young 
 man's hands in an iron grasp as he went on in a hoarse 
 voice: 
 
 "Are you going to let your body damn your soul? 
 Are you going to give up the faith which you embraced 
 with such fervour a year ago, for the sake of a woman's 
 eyes and a woman's hair? Are you going to turn your 
 back on your salvation and the world to come for the 
 sake of a few short years of what men call love? Paul! 
 Paul ! when we were boys and young men together, your 
 nature was always easy and soft. You could be played 
 upon by every passing emotion, and you responded to 
 every careless hand. Are you going to let your past life 
 influence your eternal future?" 
 
 And Paul, torn by the old weaknesses, cried aloud: 
 
 "I don't know I don't know. Tell me teach me 
 show me what I am to do." 
 
 "How can I a wreck of humanity, already prepared 
 to appear before my God how can I, who have dropped 
 so early in the fight, hope to help you? In a few short 
 hours I shall be dead, but the woman you love and your 
 own passions will be alive. What I may say to you 
 to-night, she can undo by a word from her lips, a touch 
 of her hand to-morrow for you are weak, you are 
 unstable, you do not know whether you will serve God 
 or man." 
 
 "You speak truly," said Paul, once more dropping 
 his head upon his clasped hands. "You lay bare before 
 me the things that I scarcely dare admit to myself. I 
 am a moral coward ; I have been one all along. I came 
 to your Church because I was a coward ; I went into the 
 monastery because I was a coward ; I left it, and now 
 yearn to deny my God because I am a coward."
 
 256 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 "Then what can I hope to do for you," sighed Father 
 Gregory, "if you can do nothing for yourself?" 
 
 "Protect me from myself. Make me swear here by 
 your death-bed that I will hold to my Church and be sub- 
 ject to her laws." 
 
 "You took the vows at your baptism. How have 
 they helped you up to now?" murmured the Father. 
 "The resolution that requires an oath to back it is as 
 chaff before the wind. It is blown hither and thither 
 and is worthless. No, my friend my son the time is 
 too short with me to point out to you the temptations 
 and the dangers that lie at your feet. A year ago I 
 prayed earnestly for your happiness in this world, but if 
 it is only to be won by the committing of a sin against 
 your Church, against the woman you love, against your 
 unborn children, then may God guard you from it." 
 
 "Then you can do nothing for me?" said Paul, bro- 
 kenly. 
 
 "I can pray for you. I have made my own peace 
 with God my last moments shall be spent in interces- 
 sion for you." 
 
 His head fell back, and he gasped for breath through 
 a strained mouth. Paul started to his feet and called 
 for help, and the priest who had been there before 
 entered the room, and after giving his dying comrade a 
 cordial, knelt once more at the foot of the narrow bed 
 and prayed for the welfare of the parting soul. 
 
 Father Gregory was past all speech, but he laid his 
 hands once more upon Paul's head and rested them 
 there. All the night Paul knelt and watched the battle 
 between the human and the Divine. Life struggled 
 hard, but Death fought harder. Yet through all those 
 awful hours Paul heard his name from time to time pass
 
 "NO!" 257 
 
 from his friend's lips. At dawn the battle was almost 
 over and death had nearly won another victory. 
 
 "Oh! God, help this poor man to keep his vows 
 help him to hold to his faith. Give him strength to walk 
 straight in the path in which his feet are set. Let him 
 not turn back for earthly things grant that he be not 
 hindered in his journey to Thy throne and to the life 
 everlasting." 
 
 Heavier and heavier grew the monk's hands on Paul's 
 bowed head, and quieter and more calm the twitching 
 face. 
 
 "Holy Mother, I leave this erring soul to thee in 
 the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy 
 Ghost Amen." 
 
 With his right hand he feebly blessed him, and then 
 with a sigh sank into the arms of triumphant Death.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 WHOM GOD HAS JOINED 
 
 ROSAMUND was singing a happy song as she ran down 
 the long corridor to her aunt's room. She had been sent 
 for, to choose some hats that a smart milliner had 
 brought for inspection. 
 
 White and rose, amber and blue, each in turn crowned 
 her dusky locks, and each was criticised in the same 
 words: 
 
 "Do you think Paul will like this?" 
 
 Laura, all white muslin and azure ribbons, was 
 lounging in a low chair, and found cheap amusement in 
 the milliner's adulation and Rosamund's pretty anxieties. 
 
 The last airy creation of tulle and flowers had been sub- 
 mitted to the ordeal, when a maid, knocking at the door, 
 said that a messenger wished to see Miss Keith at once. 
 
 "I'll come directly," said Rosamund, patting her 
 ruffled hair into order. "Whom is he from?" 
 
 "From Mr. Carr, miss." 
 
 The words lent additional swiftness to her light steps. 
 In the hall stood Paul Carr's valet. He looked troubled 
 and strange as he handed a small sealed packet to Rosa- 
 mund. 
 
 "Did Mr. Carr send any message with this parcel?" 
 asked the girl. 
 
 "No, miss! only that you would find a letter inside." 
 
 "Thank you! Will you tell Mr. Carr that we expect 
 him to dinner to-night?" 
 
 258
 
 WHOM GOD HAS JOINED 259 
 
 The man's lips parted as though he were about to 
 speak, but he closed them again abruptly, and as Rosa- 
 mund turned away he left the house. 
 
 Rosamund with the packet in her hand and a slight 
 smile curving her lips went into a small apartment lit- 
 tered with books and work, music and flowers. Since 
 the girls had grown up, it had been called their sitting- 
 room. It was redolent of femininity. Some one had 
 been trimming a hat there that morning, and scraps of 
 ribbon and lace and a few sprays of artificial flowers 
 were littered on the floor in a broad patch of sunlight. 
 The open piano was covered with music Rosamund's 
 music and a bunch of fading roses. Some canaries in 
 the window were twittering and fluttering and preening 
 themselves in the hot afternoon air. 
 
 "Mv DARLING ROSAMUND: 
 
 "Pity me weep for me forgive me out of your 
 gracious, womanly heart, if you can, when you read the 
 few lines I have the courage to write to you. 
 
 "Yes! dear at last, in this most terrible crisis of our 
 lives, I have found the courage that has failed me always 
 before and has made shipwreck of our future. With 
 tears of blood and passion I am forced to tell you that 
 we you and I cannot be married. 
 
 "I only learned the truth last night after I left you 
 learned how the thoughtless, foolish act of a headstrong 
 boy can ruin the whole happiness of a man. 
 
 "When I was a lad, just nineteen, at Oxford, my 
 fancy was caught by a girl in the town. She was a 
 tradesman's daughter. Her name was Kitty Clyde. I 
 married her. God forgive me that I should say so but 
 my sense of honour was too great to believe she was not
 
 260 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 worthy to be my wife. Six months later I learned .1 was 
 her fool her dupe and I divorced her. 
 
 "Rosamund I swear before God that the whole of 
 this wretched business had so faded from my mind that 
 I never even thought I was keeping a secret from you 
 in not telling you of it. 
 
 "Would to Heaven that the memories of others had 
 been as short as mine. But last night one who had been 
 my friend at Oxford who knew the story faced me 
 with it and forbade my marriage with you or any 
 other woman. I believe his soul is now with God, for 
 he was dying last night. 
 
 "Dearest heart, I swore by his deathbed that I would 
 not drag you from your purity to be, in the eyes of my 
 Church, my mistress. I repeated that oath on the cross 
 they laid at dawn above his dead heart. 
 
 "I have sinned in my weakness in my cowardice 
 and the most poignant pang in my agony is that you, so 
 stainless and so brave, must bear the load of punishment 
 with me. 
 
 "I said I had found courage to write this to you. 
 That is only another weak excuse. I write this because 
 I am afraid to see you. I dare not trust myself again 
 within the magic of your presence the passion of your 
 grief. 
 
 "Do not write to me. Before you read this I shall 
 have left London, and England a few hours later. From 
 henceforth I shall be dead to the world dead even to 
 you. Forgive me pray for me as for one who is no more. 
 
 "PAUL." 
 
 The canaries twittered and fussed in the hot sunshine, 
 but Rosamund with an ashen face sat and trembled 
 as though it froze outside. God was good to her, and
 
 WHOM GOD HAS JOINED 261 
 
 for a time her only sensation was of intense cold, and it 
 was with shaking limbs and chattering teeth she stumbled 
 upstairs to her room. 
 
 Then, amid the disorder of her scattered trousseau 
 and the profusion of her wedding presents, something 
 snapped in her brain, and she fell, a huddled mass, to 
 the ground.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 LORD ST. IVES MAKES AN OFFER 
 
 "Is Mrs. Kerquham at home?" 
 
 Lord St. Ives, in irreproachable town attire, sat in 
 his phaeton while his smart tiger asked the question of 
 the footman at "The Hurst." 
 
 "Mrs. Kerquham is too ill to see any one, but the 
 young ladies are out on the lawn." 
 
 Lord St. Ives left his carriage and walked into the 
 house. It was refreshingly cool in the long corridors, 
 where the palm trees bent their huge leaves towards 
 each other and made pale green arches. It was a 
 delightful contrast to the streets, where the heat was 
 frightful. The pitch in the wood pavements was oozing 
 and bubbling in the sun. The men looked either apo- 
 plectic or faint, and the women all washed out and 
 dragged to death. Half way down the long corridor 
 Lord St. Ives stopped the footman who preceded him. 
 
 "Is the family going away?" he asked, looking about 
 him, and noting in the many rooms that opened on either 
 hand the unmistakable signs of an immediate flitting. 
 
 "Yes, my lord. They did hope to start the day after 
 to-morrow, and we all begun packing up last Monday, 
 but my mistress was taken very ill yesterday afternoon, 
 and there was three doctors here last night and a con- 
 sultation this morning. Two nurses came in just before 
 lunch, and they don't seem to know as when she will be 
 well enough to be moved. 
 
 "I am very sorry," said Lord St. Ives. 
 262
 
 LORD ST. IVES MAKES AN OFFER 263 
 
 He was a polite man, and very seldom forgot his man- 
 ners, even before servants. 
 
 If within the house all was disorder and trouble, out 
 in the garden there was no indication that the usual life 
 at "The Hurst" was in any way upset. The wide lawn 
 was scattered with tennis balls, and a fluffy lace sun- 
 shade had been dropped by one of the many girls who 
 formed a goodly group under the big beech trees. The 
 usual umbrella tent, the Japanese sunshades, the ham- 
 mock chairs and rockers were all as Lord St. Ives had 
 seen them before. The long, low table was spread for 
 tea and made charming by a big bowl of roses and cut 
 glass dishes piled high with strawberries. A score of 
 young men and girls were lounging about in the shade. 
 Those who had just finished a set were unbecomingly 
 hot and were clamouring for refreshments. The rest of 
 the party appeared aggravatingly cool. 
 
 "How kind of you to come," said Honor, who, as 
 married woman, was playing chaperone and aping her 
 mother's frigid little airs to perfection. "But you are 
 not dressed for tennis," she added, looking at his 
 immaculate frock coat, silk hat, and patent boots. 
 
 "It is rather too hot to play this weather. Besides, 
 I did not know you had anything of a party on. I only 
 came to make a call." 
 
 "Oh! no party, I assure you," minced Honor. "Just 
 a few young people in for the girls." 
 
 The phrase and manner were so ridiculously like 
 Mrs. Kerquham's that every one laughed. Honor flushed 
 with annoyance, and Lord St. Ives, under cover of the 
 foolish jest, slipped round to the very back of the group 
 where Rosamund was seated in a wicker chair listening 
 to the boyish confidences of a newly caught and very 
 amorous swain of Laura's.
 
 264 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 Rosamund gave the coldest nod to Lord St. Ives as 
 he approached her. For the moment she was half afraid 
 that he was going to take an empty chair on her right 
 hand, but he contented himself by standing at a little 
 distance and looking down at her as she sat there with 
 quiet hands and immobile face, listening to the nonsens- 
 ical talk of the love-sick youth. 
 
 Now and then she murmured some idle words in reply, 
 but Lord St. Ives, watching her with his eager eyes, 
 noted that she was absolutely inattentive to all that was 
 going on around her. 
 
 He was a man who heard most things that went on, 
 and he was one of the very few who knew that Paul Carr 
 had passed two or three weeks in London a month ago. 
 He guessed, though he had not been told so for a fact, 
 that that young gentleman had found his way to "The 
 Hurst" during that time. That his visits there, how- 
 ever, had not resulted in any settled engagement with 
 Rosamund Keith he felt certain. Even if there had 
 been anything of the kind proposed, he felt sure from 
 the pallor of Rosamund's face, the droop of her proud 
 head, and the dark rings round her velvety, dark eyes 
 that the wooing had had no happy termination. How- 
 ever proud a girl may be, and however still she may 
 keep her tongue, her face must betray her to those who 
 choose to study it, and for the past year or two Lord St. 
 Ives had gazed often enough at her to have learned by 
 heart every expression that reflected her thoughts. 
 
 As he looked down at her now with the glints of sun- 
 shine playing hide-and-seek in the warm shadows of her 
 throat and ears, he guessed by her attitude, by the list- 
 lessness of her air, from the very slackness of her open 
 hands as they lay in her lap, that she was unhappy. 
 
 "A heart is easier caught on the rebound," he thought
 
 LORD ST. IVES MAKES AN OFFER 265 
 
 to himself. "I will speak to her presently. Meanwhile, 
 I shall try her and see if there is any sympathy between 
 us at all." 
 
 He stood just behind her, a little out of the range of 
 her carelessly wandering eyes, then fixed his own gaze 
 on her so hard, and forced such a look of fiery passion to 
 his eyes that presently he noted a hot blush creep slowly 
 above the collar of her white gown and mount in a rosy 
 tide right to the roots of her hair. 
 
 "How divinely she blushes. It is the most fascinat- 
 ing thing in the world to see a woman blush naturally." 
 
 And feeling the satisfaction that fills a schoolboy 
 when he has tortured a helpless animal enough, he 
 strolled over to the tea table, and as he helped to serve 
 the strawberries and cream, whispered little scraps of 
 gossip and flattery into Laura's greedy ears. 
 
 "And what is the matter with your mother?" he asiced 
 later on, when the shadows began to stretch themselves 
 like long, grey fingers across the lawn and two fresh sets 
 for tennis were made up. 
 
 "I really don't know," answered Laura, pettishly. 
 "She has been frightfully tiresome lately, always grum- 
 bling about her health and making quite a fuss when we 
 want her to take us anywhere." 
 
 "Just as if I could not chaperone the girls," put in 
 Honor, "now that I'm married. She seems to think 
 that I am a baby still and not to be trusted with them." 
 
 Lord St. Ives murmured something polite about 
 Honor's youth and beauty making her a dangerous 
 chaperone, at which that acid young woman bridled and 
 looked intensely pleased so pleased, in fact, that when 
 a little later on Lord St. Ives addressed a request to her 
 under his breath, she nodded and smiled at him, and 
 said in a loud aside:
 
 266 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 "Certainly, with the greatest pleasure. You leave it 
 to me I will arrange it beautifully." 
 
 Ten minutes later, whether by accident or by Honor's 
 design, the shade of the beech trees was deserted, except 
 for Rosamund, who sat with her chin in her hands star- 
 ing at nothing, and Lord St. Ives, who under the plea of 
 being unsuitably dressed refused to play either tennis or 
 croquet, or to go to the paddock to see the new calf. 
 
 "Dear me!" he cried, suddenly breaking the silence, 
 "this is quite a ''solitude a deux.' ' 
 
 Rosamund started. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," she said. "I am afraid I am 
 very rude. I thought everybody had gone." 
 
 "Does that mean that I am nobody?" asked Lord St. 
 Ives, pulling his chair nearer hers and tossing his cigar- 
 ette into the shrubbery. 
 
 "Of course not," replied Rosamund. "Everybody is 
 somebody, you know. Perhaps I should have said I 
 thought I was alone." 
 
 "And believing you were alone you gave free rein to 
 your thoughts." 
 
 He leaned suddenly forward, resting his elbows on his 
 knees and bringing his head quite close to hers. "Whom 
 were you thinking about, Miss Keith?" 
 
 He had expected her to flush and prevaricate. He 
 knew the tricks of girls so well, but Rosamund disap- 
 pointed him and upset his calculations, for she did 
 neither. 
 
 "I was thinking of poor Aunt Margot. She is very ill. " 
 
 "So I hear," said Lord St. Ives, carelessly. "Do 
 you know what is the matter with her?' 
 
 "No! I don't think anybody does, only I fancy she 
 is very worried. She has often told me so these past few 
 months."
 
 LORD ST. IVES MAKES AN OFFER 267 
 
 "Worried? Why, whatever has Mrs. Kerquham got 
 to worry about? The money is all right here, and Ker- 
 quham is a good husband. He is not the kind of man 
 to give a woman any anxiety." 
 
 "It is neither of those things," said Rosamund 
 simply. "I think she is troubled a great deal about 
 Laura. She is disappointed in Laura, you see. She 
 doesn't marry." 
 
 "Isn't she also disappointed in some one else who 
 does not marry?" murmured Lord St. Ives, in a very low 
 voice. 
 
 Rosamund saw that she had fallen into a trap, and 
 drawing herself upright, pushed her chair back a little. 
 
 "I don't" 
 
 "You are not going to tell me that you don't know 
 what I mean, Miss Keith?" cried Lord St. Ives, deter- 
 mined on pushing the slight advantage he had gained. 
 He looked hastily around him. The tennis-players were 
 busy with their game; the croquet party was on the 
 farther side of the lawn ; Honor would be careful that 
 the visitors to the calf had plenty of time in which to 
 observe the beauties of that animal. 
 
 "You are a very truthful girl. I don't think I have 
 ever heard you tell even a white lie. Why beat about 
 the bush now?" 
 
 Again he drew nearer to her. "Miss Keith Rosa- 
 mund for months past I have seen that you are not 
 happy here. I think that you feel that you are wasting 
 your life amid these idle, foolish people. Your cousin 
 must be uncongenial to you, and your aunt's affection 
 is probably measured by what you can do for her. You 
 know that I'm awfully fond of you and that I have been 
 anxious for a long time past to make you my wife. You 
 shall have everything that the heart of a woman can
 
 268 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 desire and as much liberty as you like. I am not the 
 sort of man who would not trust the woman I married." 
 
 No one was looking at them, and he tried to take her 
 hand. "Rosamund, I ask you to marry me. Tell me 
 that you will do so, and I will go at once to your uncle 
 and ask his consent. He is scarcely likely to make any 
 difficulty about the matter." 
 
 He said the last words with intention, or at least she 
 thought he did, for she sprang to her feet and faced him 
 with scarlet cheeks and flashing eyes. 
 
 "Lord St. Ives, I have suffered your attentions too 
 long. I neither want your love nor your title nor all 
 the advantages and liberty you can give me. I would 
 not marry you if you were the last man in the world." 
 
 "Not even to please your people?" 
 
 "Not if they ordered me to do so. When I marry, 
 if ever I do, it will be to please myself and myself 
 alone." 
 
 She swept past him and ran across the lawn, disap- 
 pearing into the house. Lord St. Ives pulled at his 
 moustache a moment. 
 
 "What a difficult fish she is to play! I admire her for 
 it. She has got more pluck and more spirit than all the 
 girls in town put together, but I will catch her if I can. 
 I ought to have spoken to her people first. She is one 
 of the obedient, dutiful sort. If they managed things 
 properly she would give way in the long run. I will go 
 and see Kerquham now." 
 
 He knew every inch of the place, and so with his hat 
 in his hand and a freshly lit cigarette between his teeth 
 he sauntered round the garden till he reached the studio 
 window. Honor, in the paddock, quite tired of the calf 
 and bored by the silly remarks of the young people she 
 had with her, flattered herself that all was well.
 
 LORD ST. IVES MAKES AN OFFER 269 
 
 "Thank goodness! it is settled," she thought. "Now 
 Laura will have some one to look after her, for he is not 
 the man to stand any nonsense when he is her cousin, 
 and I shall get that diamond bangle he promised me if I 
 gave him a chance to speak to Rosamund." 
 
 Mr. Kerquham was putting the finishing touches to 
 a picture when the broad figure of Lord St. Ives flung a 
 shadow across his work. 
 
 "Good evening," he nodded, still painting. 
 
 "Good evening, Kerquham, good evening. Hot, 
 isn't it? But you look beautifully cool." 
 
 "Yes, it isn't bad in here. You look baked in those 
 town clothes of yours." 
 
 Lord St. Ives laughed gaily. 
 
 "Doesn't a man put on the garments of ceremony 
 when he comes on an important errand?" 
 
 "Tea and tennis on the lawn with the girls isn't so 
 important, is it?" queried Kerquham. 
 
 "I have not called to see the young ladies," said 
 Lord St. Ives. "I wanted to speak either to Mrs. Ker- 
 quham or you." 
 
 "My wife is very ill. A great pity, as we were to 
 have left this in a day or two. We all want a little 
 north country air, I think. Rosamund looks terribly 
 fagged." 
 
 "I have been very sorry to notice that Miss Keith has 
 not been looking well of late." Then after a pause he 
 went on, "It is about your niece, Miss Keith, that I 
 wish to see you." 
 
 Mr. Kerquham stopped painting at once and faced 
 round on his visitor. 
 
 "It would be idle pretending, Lord St. Ives, that I do 
 not guess the purport of your visit." 
 
 "Then that helps me out," said Lord St. Ives, with
 
 270 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 the engaging frankness he could assume with great suc- 
 cess when he chose. "I have come to-day to ask your 
 formal consent to " 
 
 He paused and wondered whether it was wise to tell 
 Rosamund's uncle that he had already been refused by 
 her. He decided to veil that little fact. 
 
 "I have come to ask you if you will intercede with 
 Miss Keith on my behalf. I wish most ardently to make 
 her my wife, and I can assure you that the provision I 
 will make for her will more than satisfy your most affec- 
 tionate desires." 
 
 Alban Kerquham laughed a little shortly. 
 
 "We have no desire to sell our niece, Lord St. Ives; 
 and if you love her and make her a good husband and 
 give her a comfortable home, that is all that we should 
 ever require. Her happiness would be our first thought. " 
 
 Alban Kerquham meant what he said, but Lord St. 
 Ives, who had for a long time seen through Mrs. Kerqu- 
 ham's schemes, knew that that lady would consider his 
 proposal from quite another point of view. 
 
 "Perhaps I ought not to have laid such stress upon 
 the mere worldly advantages," he said, graciously; 
 "but I know some people especially women attach 
 great importance to that kind of thing. I am sorry that 
 I could not myself have spoken to Mrs. Kerquham, 
 because I should have liked to have made my intentions 
 perfectly clear to her." 
 
 "You may trust me to let my wife know what you have 
 said." 
 
 "And Miss Rosamund?" queried Lord St. Ives. 
 
 "After I have seen my wife, either one or both of us 
 will speak to her. Rest assured that we shall do our best 
 to urge her to accept an offer which I feel sure would be 
 for her own welfare."
 
 LORD ST. IVES MAKES AN OFFER 271 
 
 "Oh, by-the-bye, " went on Mr. Kerquham, as Lord 
 St. Ives, after a ceremonious leave-taking, was about to 
 quit the studio, "has Rosamund any idea have you 
 spoken to her yourself on this subject?" 
 
 St. Ives assumed the embarrassment of a boy. 
 
 "Well, really, Mr. Kerquham, such words as have 
 passed between us are perhaps too sacred to be repeated 
 or even commented on. I am sure that Miss Keith is 
 quite aware of my admiration for her, but you know she 
 is cold and a little shy. It is for that reason that I think it 
 would be best for the proposal to come from the members 
 of her family, whom she trusts and who, she knows, love 
 her and would only advise her for her own benefit." 
 
 "I will speak to her this evening most probably, " said 
 Mr. Kerquham, turning again to his work as Lord St. 
 Ives left the studio. 
 
 "What an excellent thing it would be," thought the 
 good man as he painted on. "Give her a good husband, 
 and, please God, a lot of healthy, jolly babies, and Rosa- 
 mund will forget that sad business with Carr. It breaks 
 my heart sometimes to look at that poor child and see 
 how bravely she bears her sufferings. But she is so 
 sensible and I feel sure that such a settlement would 
 be for the best. When my time comes, as come it must 
 some day, she will be quite alone in the world or worse 
 than that, she would be buried alive with Kilbeggie and 
 the old aunts, and once they got hold of her they would 
 force her to marry that muff, Hamish Lundy. For her 
 own sake I must put it to her very plainly that she will 
 be very foolish to throw away such a chance. I must 
 tell her that it is not every girl who has nothing but her 
 face for her fortune who is asked in marriage by one of 
 the wealthiest men in London, and of irreproachable 
 lineage into the bargain."
 
 272 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 A soft tap came at the studio door, and a neatly- 
 gowned figure, crowned with a goffered cap and endowed 
 with very soft hands, murmured that Mrs. Kerquham had 
 just awakened from a nice sleep and felt a little better, and 
 would like Mr. Kerquham to come upstairs and see her. 
 
 The light was fading fast, but without a second 
 thought Alban Kerquham laid down his brushes and 
 palette and followed the nurse up to his wife's room. 
 He could tell her the good news at once, he thought. 
 She had always been so anxious about the girls' mar- 
 riages. It would cheer her up and probably help her 
 recover if she knew one of them was going to be so 
 splendidly settled in life. So with his strong, hearty 
 voice toned down to the silence of a sick chamber, Alban 
 Kerquham told his wife Margot of Lord St. Ives' pro- 
 posal. Her face was very sharp and bloodless from ill- 
 health, and it looked grey and hard as stone on the white 
 pillows. 
 
 "So now, my dear, all we have to do is to see Rosa- 
 mund and ask her what she thinks of the really splendid 
 proposal," finished up Mr. Kerquham. 
 
 "You will not do that," said Mrs. Kerquham, with a 
 flash of her old decided manner coming back to her. 
 "You will merely tell her that Lord St. Ives has pro- 
 posed to us for her hand and that we have accepted 
 him." 
 
 Alban Kerquham knitted his brows. 
 
 "Do you think that is quite the way to take Rosa- 
 mund? You must remember that that affair with Paul 
 Carr is still fresh in her memory. ' ' 
 
 "I trust," interrupted Mrs. Kerquham, "that Rosa- 
 mund will not forget the duty and obedience she owes us 
 and about which she has prated so often. Send for her 
 at once."
 
 LORD ST. IVES MAKES AN OFFER 273 
 
 The nurse was rung for and asked to fetch Miss Keith. 
 Then Mrs. Kerquham, to prepare herself for what 
 she thought might be a difficult task, but out of which she 
 intended to come triumphant, had some fresh pillows 
 put behind her back, and took a little beef tea to help 
 her through the coming conversation. 
 
 Rosamund, still in her white frock and garden hat, 
 came quickly into the room. Her light step made no 
 sound on the floor, and in the fading light, which was 
 only broken by a green shaded lamp, she looked, with 
 her slender form and pale face, like a spirit. 
 
 "I hope you are better this evening, dear aunt. You 
 must try and get your strength back again, and then we 
 can all go up to Scotland. You know that air always 
 suits you. Don't people say that their native air is best 
 for everybody?" 
 
 "I thank you for your inquiries, Rosamund," said 
 Mrs. Kerquham, "and 'for the affectionate solicitude you 
 display. Whether I get well -soon and am able to go to 
 Scotland depends very much upon you." 
 
 "Upon me?" Rosamund queried with astonished eye's, 
 and half inclined to think that her aunt's brain was wan- 
 dering. "What have I to do with it? I am not allowed 
 in here to nurse you. I would come at once if they 
 would let me." 
 
 "It is not lip service that I want but heart service," 
 muttered Mrs. Kerquham very sharply. 
 
 Her illness was of a nervous character, and the sus- 
 pense and anxiety were already making her worse. 
 
 "Speak to Rosamund, Alban, at once." 
 
 Mr. Kerquham cleared his throat. The memory of 
 Rosamund's tears and love for Paul were present with 
 him now, and in his heart he sorrowed for the girl. 
 
 "My dear child," he began gently, "your aunt and I
 
 274 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 have this evening received a most flattering offer of mar- 
 riage on your behalf. Without wishing in any way to 
 force your inclination, we urge you to give the matter 
 your most careful consideration, and not to dismiss 
 lightly or for a mere passing whim a chance which will 
 in all probability never come to you again." 
 
 "Rosamund, if you refuse this offer, I will never for- 
 give you, and I will never speak to you again," cried 
 Mrs. Kerquham from her pillows. 
 
 Rosamund looked from one to the other. She almost 
 guessed what was coming as her uncle again prepared 
 to speak. 
 
 "Lord St. Ives has spoken tome in terms of the high- 
 est admiration of you this afternoon, and has expressed 
 the most earnest desire which is prompted by the high- 
 est affection to make you his wife." 
 
 An uncontrollable scorn for the man, who having but 
 a few moments before been refused by her and who had 
 then resorted to the mean trick of bringing pressure 
 upon her to change her mind, filled Rosamund's heart. 
 An hour ago she had declared she would not marry him 
 if he were the only man in the world. Now, she felt 
 that she could never again look upon his face or touch 
 his hand, even as a distant acquaintance. 
 
 "Well, my dear," said Mr. Kerquham, "what have 
 you to say?" 
 
 "What should she say?" interposed Mrs. Kerquham. 
 "There is but one answer to a question like that, and 
 Rosamund must give it immediately." 
 
 "Lord St. Ives has already had my answer," replied 
 the girl, very quietly. "I refused him an hour ago in 
 the garden." 
 
 "Then you will reconsider your decision," said her 
 aunt, "and to-morrow when he calls you will accept him. "
 
 LORD ST. IVES MAKES AN OFFER 275 
 
 "I am sorry, Aunt Margot, but I cannot please you in 
 this matter." 
 
 "If you are sorry you can easily repent and accept 
 his lordship. " 
 
 "My dear Rosamund," put in Alban Kerquham, 
 kindly, "there is no need to come to a hasty decision. 
 Lord St. Ives particularly told me he would give you 
 time." 
 
 "I want no time, thank you, uncle. My mind is quite 
 made up. Nothing can ever change it." 
 
 "And pray why not?" asked Mrs. Kerquham. A 
 pale red flush was rising to her face and her small eyes 
 sparkled angrily. 
 
 "I do not love him," replied Rosamund, firmly. 
 
 Mrs. Kerquham laughed shrilly. She was fast losing 
 all self-control, and began to beat her hands upon the 
 bedclothes. 
 
 "Love! A nice maidenly thing to talk about. Ah! 
 if you had been brought up in Scotland by Lady Sophia 
 and the old earl, there would have been none of this 
 nonsense. You would have married the man they chose 
 for you or been put on bread and water till you came to 
 your senses." 
 
 Alban Kerquham caught one of his wife's restless 
 hands in his. 
 
 "My dear child, don't you see that what we are urg- 
 ing upon you is for your own good? Lord St. Ives is of 
 excellent family and very wealthy. He has promised 
 to make the most splendid settlements Think for one 
 moment what an anxiety you will take off our minds as 
 to your future." 
 
 "And pray remember how you can help Laura," urged 
 Mrs. Kerquham, clinging to her fetish till the end. 
 
 "Uncle Alban," said Rosamund, "I have obeyed you
 
 276 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 once about the disposal of my future. Over a year ago 
 you persuaded me to become a coward, and to give up 
 Paul Carr because he was in trouble. That act of mine 
 has spoiled both his life and mine. I cannot cannot let 
 you do it again." 
 
 "Isn't an earl good enough for you, then?" cried Mrs. 
 Kerquham in a voice that trembled with passion. "Isn't 
 a name and a family that is as old as your own and a big 
 rent roll and huge estates sufficient to satisfy you?" 
 
 "I want none of these things, aunt, but I did want 
 the man I loved and to whom I gave my heart. The 
 day I learned I could not marry Paul, I vowed I would 
 never marry any one else." 
 
 "Rosamund, you will kill me with your ingratitude!" 
 moaned Mrs. Kerquham, who was now crimson in the 
 face and shaking violently from head to foot. "Rosa- 
 mund, if I die remember it is you who will have killed 
 me. Get out of my sight and never come into it again. 
 I shall keep my oath I will never set eyes on you or 
 speak to you again so long as I live." 
 
 "My dear! Go at once," said Alban Kerquham. 
 "Send the nurse here directly. Your aunt is worse." 
 
 Sick at heart and broken in spirit, Rosamund, after 
 summoning the nurses, went to her room. Why was 
 life so hard for her? Why could she see no promise of 
 peace or rest? 
 
 By-and-bye she heard through her half-closed door one 
 of the nurses run downstairs and call to the footman to 
 drive into town and fetch the doctors. Then the young 
 people who had been wandering in the twilight came 
 shuffling into the hall and whispered together as they put 
 on their coats and hats. She heard her two cousins 
 come upstairs. Laura was sobbing noisily, and Honor 
 was trying to comfort her. The doctors came, and at
 
 LORD ST. IVES MAKES AN OFFER 277 
 
 nine o'clock dinner was served to two of them down- 
 stairs, while the third remained in the sick-room. Once 
 she went to the door of her aunt's bedroom, but from 
 within there was no sound save rustling and whispering 
 and the moaning cry of Laura. 
 
 Too sad and wretched to remember her own trouble, 
 she could only pace up and down the long corridor wait- 
 ing for such scraps of news as the hurrying nurses 
 brought out from time to time, and hoping to catch a 
 glimpse of her uncle. But he never left the room at all. 
 At midnight the women servants went up to bed. Their 
 staircase ran past her own door, and she could hear 
 them chattering in low tones and speculating as to what 
 kind of black dresses would be given to them. At one 
 o'clock two of the doctors drove away. "It is no use 
 waiting," she heard them say to each other as they 
 walked downstairs. "Henderson can see it through to 
 the end; it cannot be long now." 
 
 "How dreadful! Her aunt was dying without a word 
 of forgiveness or a sign of reviving remembrance of the 
 duty which had held the place of love between them both 
 all these years. She must go into the room, if only to 
 wait behind the screen and to be with them all at the 
 last. It made her feel such an outcast; it cut her so 
 adrift from them all to stay outside. 
 
 Softly she slipped into the room and stood behind the 
 high screen which stood between the bed and the door. 
 All was silent, and from the sound of breathing that 
 came from the bed it seemed as if her aunt were in a 
 drowsy sleep. But Rosamund did not realise that the 
 strong light, shining through the open door behind her, 
 threw her shadow in strong relief on the opposite wall, 
 where Mrs. Kerquham, if she opened her eyes, must 
 see it.
 
 278 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 The figure on the bed stirred a little. 
 
 "She is waking," said a nurse's voice. "We must 
 get her to take something at once." 
 
 There was the tinkle of a teaspoon and the rattle of a 
 glass. Then suddenly a loud cry rose from the bed. 
 
 "She is in the room! She is in the room!" screamed 
 Mrs. Kerquham in a frenzy of fury. "That wicked 
 girl has dared to come near me again. I know why she 
 has done it. She has come to see me die. She thinks 
 she has got her own way. She will be punished at the 
 last for her disobedience and her stubbornness. Take 
 her away! Take her away!" 
 
 Rosamund, cowering behind the screen, was invisible 
 to any one in the room, and they thought that Mrs. Ker- 
 quham was again raving, but Honor, who fancied she 
 had heard a slight sound from the door, looked round 
 and volunteered: 
 
 "Yes, mother, you are right. Rosamund is here." 
 
 "I knew it! I knew it!" shrieked the dying woman. 
 "May my death be upon her head!" 
 
 There was a rush of the nurses and a loud scream 
 from Laura. 
 
 "Good God! She is dying," cried Mr. Kerquham. 
 
 "All is over," said the doctor. 
 
 And Rosamund, unheeded and sorrowful, crept like a 
 criminal from the room.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 SPOILS 
 
 THE funeral was over, and "The Hurst," which for a 
 week had been a very haven of stillness and quietude, 
 now rang with the noise of hammers, the heavy tread of 
 workmen, the passage of hurrying footsteps, and the 
 flicking of impetuous housemaids' skirts. The win- 
 dows, which had been shaded for so long from the 
 glaring summer sun, had already been stripped of their 
 blinds and dainty frilled muslin curtains and heavy silken 
 hangings, while the verandah, which had been so gay with 
 carpets and the scarlet cushions of luxurious lounges, 
 was now swept and bare as is a ball-room the day after a 
 great festivity. Out in the garden men in shirt sleeves 
 were moving seats and tables and taking down the bright 
 umbrellas and snowy tents under which had been held so 
 many bright little gatherings. Men with shiny coats 
 and doubtful linen were to be met in odd corners of the 
 grounds and in every part of the house. They had little 
 notebooks in their hands and stumpy bits of pencil with 
 which they scribbled down lists of furniture and their 
 comments thereon. 
 
 Even the peace of the studio had been invaded. The 
 great Persian rugs that had clothed the floor with their 
 harmonious colouring were rolled aside and made a dingy 
 heap in one corner. Canvases and palettes, brushes 
 and paints, had been securely packed in huge cases 
 which, piled one upon the other, rose like a wooden 
 
 279
 
 280 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 mountain in the centre of the room. The pretty cush- 
 ions and quaint pieces of pottery, the stands of old arms, 
 and the silver hanging lamps had all been moved from 
 their accustomed places, and lay about dust-covered and 
 forlorn. In the drawing-room the silken furniture was 
 being shrouded in brown holland covers by the chatter- 
 ing housemaids, who seemed to enjoy the excitement 
 and the prospect of the compensating present which Mr. 
 Kerquham had promised them for such sudden dismissal 
 from his service. 
 
 For "The Hurst" and its contents, the silver and 
 china, the furniture and hangings, were all to be sold. 
 People who talked without thinking considered that it 
 was ultra-romantic that a man of Alban Kerquham's age 
 and calm disposition should take his wife's death suffi- 
 ciently to heart to vow he would never live in the house 
 again or use the things which she had chosen and bought 
 with him in the early days of their prosperity. His 
 family had argued with him on the point, his friends had 
 almost laughed in his face. But he was a man of strong 
 feelings, and under his calm Scotch exterior there was a 
 deeper well of tenderness than the world had any idea 
 of. His set had always regarded him as cheery and 
 easy-going, a man who was content to earn large sums 
 of money and then give them to his wife to spend or to 
 save. They always imagined that the married life of 
 the Kerquhams had drifted into that state of friendly 
 indifference which characterises the majority of unions 
 after five-and-twenty years. 
 
 Alban Kerquham, however, was not a man who pro- 
 tested overmuch. He had made no great scenes, he had 
 borne himself with a subdued dignity at the funeral. He 
 had set about the settlement of his affairs without any 
 nervous breakdown, and it was only Rosamund who
 
 SPOILS 281 
 
 even guessed how much he had suffered all the time. 
 He had never cared particularly for society. He had 
 been- happier working in his studio or rattling across 
 country behind a pack of hounds than lounging about in 
 drawing-rooms or eating large dinners in uncongenial 
 company and overheated rooms. His world had been in 
 his home, which he had worked very hard to make, and 
 the pivot of that home had been Margot Kerquham, with 
 her hard face and cold eyes and her high, clear voice. 
 
 And so "The Hurst" was to go. She had furnished 
 it, she had governed it, she had made all her social 
 successes under its hospitable roof, and she had died 
 there all excellent reasons in his eyes why he should 
 leave the place and sever all connection with it. Laura 
 had grumbled loudly, and cried that it was a cowardly 
 thing to do to condemn his only daughter to live in the 
 country or to wander about just anyhow among such peo- 
 ple as would have her to visit them. But when her first 
 annoyance simmered down she considered matters from 
 another point of view, and she thought perhaps it would 
 be for the best. It would save her the responsibility 
 and bother of housekeeping, and give her even more free- 
 dom than she had taken for herself during the last few 
 years. So she mapped out a long series of visits, and 
 interviewed her father on the question of her allowance 
 with a business capacity and thoroughness worthy of her 
 dead mother. 
 
 Rosamund had said nothing. But she had felt her 
 aunt's death most keenly, and even the sympathy and 
 kindness with which her uncle had tried to persuade her 
 that Mrs. Kerquham had been unconscious when she had 
 uttered those last fearful words could not rid her of an 
 uneasy feeling that if she had only done what she had 
 been expected to do, and unconditionally consented to
 
 282 
 
 marry Lord St. Ives, Aunt Margot would be alive now, 
 and this great grief would never have fallen upon her 
 uncle. 
 
 It was the belief that the whole thing had been her 
 fault that had added a poignancy to Rosamund's natural 
 sorrow, and that had made her since the sad event follow 
 Mr. Kerquham about with mute lips and great miserable 
 eyes, even as a dog that does not understand follows 
 his master. In her heart she vowed to devote her whole 
 life to him and try to make up in some small measure for 
 all that he had lost. She hated herself for what now 
 seemed the basest ingratitude, and even her broken 
 engagement, and the fact that she knew nothing of the 
 whereabouts of Paul Carr, faded for the time into noth- 
 ingness before her new determination to be her uncle's 
 constant companion and most faithful and obedient 
 niece so long as he lived. 
 
 In her own room, the room where the greater part of 
 her girlhood had been spent, where she had wept and 
 prayed for Paul, and grieved and shuddered over the 
 horror of her aunt's death, she was preparing to enter 
 upon the first stage of her life's devotion to Alban Ker- 
 quham. To-morrow the whole household would be 
 broken up, and strange men would come in and take away 
 the things that she had seen purchased and placed with 
 pride and care by the dead housewife. 
 
 Surrounded by large trunks and with every wardrobe 
 wide agape, she was busy with the sorry task of going 
 through her possessions and belongings, each one of 
 which recalled some incident of the past or of the nearer 
 present. Ball gowns and fete dresses, riding habits and 
 country suits all came out from the scented shelves, 
 and one by one were laid aside as being things that were 
 done with. There were letters to go through, invita-
 
 SPOILS 283 
 
 tions and little dainty cards [with glazed surfaces and 
 fancy pencils, scribbled over with the names of men she 
 had danced with. Each one was indicative of a triumph, 
 and each one reminded her of some pleasant, happy even- 
 ing. But they all went with the coloured frocks and the 
 crushed flowers and tumbled ribbons. Only a very few 
 she sorted out from the general confusion. Paul Carr 
 had written in them, and they were sacred. She tied 
 them up with his letters; the few notes she had had from 
 him from time to time and those longer, disappointing 
 missives he had written her from the monastery in Nor- 
 folk. They made but a small packet, and she smiled a 
 little sadly as she saw what a little room they took in 
 one of her trunks. 
 
 The few things and they were very few that her 
 aunt had given her she kept, wrapping each with rev- 
 erent care in silver paper, and packing it in orderly 
 fashion. Some photographs and favourite pictures, a 
 dozen little ornaments most of them childishly simple 
 and desirable only by reason of association she put 
 aside, purposing to give them as souvernirs to the ser- 
 vants she would never see again. Almost everything 
 else might go. The costly dressing-bag that her uncle 
 had given her on her last birthday she packed for travel- 
 ling, and also two small trunks. She and Mr. Kerquham 
 meant to go very far afield, and now that she was in such 
 deep mourning her wants were very few, and she could 
 always purchase what she needed in the cities they would 
 travel through. 
 
 When she had finished she sat down and looked 
 around her and then for the first time it struck her that 
 the wandering life that lay before her might mean a 
 great deal. It had already commenced by forcing her 
 to cut almost every link that had bound her to the lux-
 
 284 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 urious past. For what use was there in keeping things 
 that she might never want again? Amid all her grief 
 Rosamund still retained that streak of practicality 
 which had set her apart all her life from her cousins. 
 Yet she felt quite a personal grief in parting from her 
 dainty fans and scented gloves and silken hose, her lace- 
 trimmed petticoats and smart shoes and all the thousand 
 and one prettinesses that go to make up the toilet of a 
 well-dressed young lady of the present day. But even 
 that sentiment was assuaged after a few moments by the 
 thought that, if in years to come her uncle elected to 
 turn his face homeward and go down to the old Manor 
 House in Midshire, and perhaps spend the evening of 
 his days with his rod and his horses, she could easily 
 replace such things as she might require. 
 
 So with a smile struggling forth on her sad face, she 
 locked the two small trunks that were to travel with her, 
 and fastened up and sealed the other that contained her 
 letters and such things as she meant to keep. Then 
 with a brave heart she rang the bell and ordered the ser- 
 vant to take everything else away. It was a hard wrench 
 at the last, to know that when she came back into the 
 room everything that she had enjoyed having and loved 
 to wear would be gone. Yet she had never been a girl 
 to flinch or to spare herself, and the tears in her eyes 
 were hushed and the quiver of her lips brought to con- 
 trol as she walked down the long corridor to where, in 
 the distance, she could hear her cousins chattering and 
 wrangling. 
 
 They were in Mrs. Kerquham's room, the room that 
 since the night of her death Rosamund had hated to 
 enter. Even now, though the windows were stripped 
 bare, the bed taken away, the carpets up, and the whole 
 apartment littered and untidy, Rosamund could see in
 
 SPOILS 285 
 
 a flash the room as it looked that night, with the low 
 lights casting shadows on the wall, and the drawn cur- 
 tains and the screen behind which she had hidden, and 
 the forms that bent or knelt about the bed. She stood 
 irresolute at the door for a moment, and was about to 
 turn away when Honor caught sight of her. 
 
 "Oh! here you are, Rosamund. What have you 
 been doing all this morning? Packing up your own 
 things, I suppose, instead of coming here as you prom- 
 ised. Now I ask you didn't mother always say I should 
 have that Brussels flounce? Laura sticks out that it 
 ought to be hers, because she wore it on her presentation 
 gown, but I know I ought to have it. Laura has taken 
 the Venetian point and would like to put me off with the 
 Honiton set, but I hate Honiton and want the Brussels." 
 
 Rosamund leaned against the door post and looked at 
 her two cousins. They were gowned in the deepest and 
 the most fashionable black, but their grief was very much 
 on the outside, for their cheeks were scarlet and their 
 eyes shining over the division of the spoil. To Rosa- 
 mund their small white hands looked almost like claws 
 as they dragged out their dead mother's clothes from 
 the shelves and chests and quarrelled and haggled over 
 every gown and cloak. The dressing-table was piled 
 with jewellery, the big arm-chair was filled with fans and 
 feathers. Lengths of silks and velvet lay in shimmering 
 heaps on the floor. Where the bed had been a huge 
 cedar box stood wide open. The furs with which it had 
 been filled were all tossed and disarranged, and exhaled a 
 faint odour of the wood which had enclosed them, but to 
 Rosamund the room seemed filled with the heavy scent 
 of hot-house flowers, and to be dim and dark with the 
 light of a few candles. 
 
 "Honor is a perfect'pig!" cried Laura, stamping her
 
 286 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 foot. "She thinks that just because she is a married 
 woman she is to have everything. She seems to forget 
 the trousseau mother gave her. I never had a trous- 
 seau, so I am entitled to take the equivalent of it now. 
 Don't you think so, Rosamund?" 
 
 "Oh, that is like you," sneered Honor, "always sel- 
 fish. I have given in to you about the diamond neck- 
 lace. You know that was the best piece of jewellery 
 mother had, and you have got it. It is only fair that I 
 should have the Brussels lace." 
 
 Laura did not particularly want the Brussels lace. 
 She was only bent on driving a bargain with her sister, 
 and even as she argued with Honor, her bright eyes 
 were travelling round and round the room in search of 
 something that she could claim as a set off against the 
 disputed flounce. When she had made her choice she 
 gave in with an air of aggrieved virtue. 
 
 "Well, if you must have it, it is only on condition 
 that I take all the sables. They are the only furs of 
 mother's that would ever suit my complexion. Is that 
 a bargain?" 
 
 "What a Jew you are?" cried Honor. "But I sup- 
 pose you must have them." And with some sharp scis- 
 sors she ripped the coveted lace off a gown and tossed it 
 into a corner among a heap of other things. "That's 
 all right," she said, with a sigh as of one who had 
 fought and won a great battle. 
 
 "That's my heap of things, Rosamund, and those are 
 Honor's," explained Laura, complacent at having got 
 the furs she wanted, and pointing to two great piled 
 masses of property which were heaped at either end of 
 the room. "We neither of us want any of those gowns 
 over there. They might come in useful to you at some 
 time or another, if you like to take them."
 
 SPOILS 287 
 
 Rosamund looked with quiet scorn from one cousin 
 to the other. 
 
 "I am sure you are very kind, but I have no desire to 
 flaunt through the world in any of my dead aunt's 
 clothes." 
 
 Honor pulled down her mouth sourly, and Laura 
 shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "What a horrid way you have of putting things, Rosa- 
 mund. I suppose you mean that as a dig for us, but 
 really I do not see why we should not have our own 
 mother's things." 
 
 "Nor do I," answered Rosamund. "You have every 
 right to them. But is it worth while to quarrel about 
 them?" 
 
 "I am sure I did not wish to quarrel, but Honor is so 
 ridiculously self-willed. I was quite prepared to be most 
 amiable about them, only of course she wanted every- 
 thing that she knew would suit me." 
 
 "Well, and haven't you got them?" said Honor from 
 her knees on the floor, where she was smoothing out and 
 folding up a quantity of richly jewelled embroidery. 
 "You have got your own way about it all, I am sure." 
 
 The girls were just going to begin hostilities again 
 when a heavy footstep was heard advancing in the cor- 
 ridor. 
 
 Lady Charlotte Lundy, her arms full of a heterogeneous 
 collection of articles, loomed tall through the doorway. 
 
 "What on earth have you got there?" cried Laura and 
 Honor together. 
 
 Lady Charlotte sank heavily into an empty chair, and 
 dropping the armful of things into her lap, drew the hem 
 of her skirt round them, ostensibly to prevent them from 
 slipping to the floor, but really in order that her nieces 
 should not see what she had got.
 
 288 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 "Just a few slight remembrances of your poor dear 
 mother. As I came in this morning I met your father 
 and told him there were one or two little things I should 
 so like to have, and that really just now I was not in a 
 position to attend the sale and buy them. He told me I 
 could take what I liked, and so I have just been in the 
 drawing-room ' ' 
 
 Honor was on her feet in a moment. All the instincts 
 of acquisitiveness were aroused in her, and every drop of 
 Scotch blood in her veins was on fire to do battle for 
 what she considered as belonging either to herself or her 
 sister. 
 
 "We have not been in the drawing-room ourselves 
 yet, Aunt Charlotte. Father could never possibly have 
 meant that anybody should choose anything of mother's 
 until we had taken what we wanted ourselves." 
 
 With rude hands she pulled down Lady Charlotte's 
 protecting skirt and revealed to the cruel light of her 
 own and Laura's eyes a whole lapful of little curios and 
 rare toys. 
 
 "Well, I never!" she cried; and Laura, with her 
 greedy little hands up, added, "Oh, but you cannot have 
 those!" 
 
 Rosamund, leaning there with her white face and 
 quiet eyes, watched the fight begin all over again. Every 
 scrap of silver, every quaint carved ivory, miniature 
 jewelled watches, old daggers, and the thousand and one 
 expensive toys that nowadays crowd the little tables of 
 a fashionable lady's drawing-room were severally fought 
 over. Laura wanted the enamelled bonbonnteres, and 
 Honor, without a word, annexed the snuff-boxes. A 
 tiny fan, painted on chicken skin and accredited to 
 Marie Antoinette, was almost torn into pieces between 
 the three, who with scarlet cheeks and shrill voices
 
 SPOILS 289 
 
 squabbled disgracefully till Rosamund's very heart grew 
 sick within her. Suddenly above the noise her keen ear 
 caught a slow, heavy footstep coming up the big staircase 
 and advancing towards the room where they were. She 
 could not mistake the sound; she knew it was her uncle, 
 and she would not have him see for the world this 
 fight and wrangle over his dead wife's possessions. 
 Turning swiftly, she ran down the corridor and met 
 him. She slipped one hand through his arm and led him 
 to a window. 
 
 "Where were you going, dear?" 
 
 He looked a little strangely at her. His thoughts 
 had been for some time busy with the memory of his dead 
 wife, and for the moment he could not realise who was 
 speaking to him. 
 
 "Oh, is it you, Rosamund, my child?" he said, after a 
 minute or two, looking down into her eager face. "I 
 was going to your aunt's room, my dear." 
 
 "Not just now, uncle," she urged. "People are in 
 there the room is in disorder a little later when it is 
 tidied and straight." 
 
 She looked fearfully over her shoulder as she spoke, 
 afraid every minute lest the sound of the women's quar- 
 rel should reach his ears. 
 
 "Come down to the studio again, won't you, with me? 
 Is everything finished there? Are you certain you have 
 packed everything? You know, uncle, I feel now that I 
 must really look after you. I am perfectly sure that if 
 I went there now I should find no end of things in the 
 oak cabinet and the Italian chest." 
 
 "Perhaps, my dear, perhaps," said Mr. Kerquham. 
 
 "Well, then, why not come down with me and let us 
 have a final search? You see it would be such a pity if 
 after the rest of the things have gone away to be stored
 
 290 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 we should find that a lot had been left behind. Won't 
 you come?" 
 
 He looked longingly towards the far end of the cor- 
 ridor, but she continued talking, and insensibly to him- 
 self drew him down the stairs again. 
 
 He had altered very strangely since his wife's death. 
 A few people who had seen him said he would never hold 
 up his head again, for he looked old and worn beyond 
 his years. Others, however, and chief among them his 
 doctor, had said that all he wanted was change change 
 of surroundings and hours and food. 
 
 "Go away where you have never been before," the 
 cheery physician had cried. "See things that you have 
 never dreamed of and people whom you did not know 
 to exist. You will be back again in a year and will give 
 us a lot of wonderful new pictures." 
 
 Three minutes later the same cheery physician, look- 
 ing a little less pleased with himself than usual, had met 
 Rosamund in the hall. 
 
 "Your uncle has told me, my dear young lady, that 
 you propose to be his companion during the next few 
 months. I advise you very strongly to get him away as 
 soon as you can. He has been a wonderful specimen of 
 a fine, healthy man, but this shock has touched him very 
 nearly. Take him away, my dear, take him away at 
 once." 
 
 Since that day Rosamund's intention to be all in all 
 to her uncle had been strengthened, and she now felt 
 towards him as a mother feels towards her helpless baby. 
 
 Now she led him to the studio, and for an hour made 
 a gay pretence of turning out all sorts of forgotten treas- 
 ures. She engaged him in an animated discussion as to 
 whether he should keep or sell a box full of old costumes, 
 and as to whether the sketches of his youth should be
 
 SPOfLS 291 
 
 packed among his other drawings or incontinently 
 destroyed as mere scribbles. In her own endeavours to 
 keep him amused and to prevent him from carrying out 
 his intention of going to his wife's room, she forgot 
 much of her own trouble, and it was only when the 
 luncheon bell rang hollow and loud through the bare 
 house that she again thought of her cousins. 
 
 "Go into the dining-room, dear," she said to her 
 uncle. "I must just run upstairs and wash my hands; 
 just look how dusty they are." And she ran upstairs 
 lightly, and once again to Mrs. Kerquham's room. 
 
 The chief combatants had left the battle-field, carry- 
 ing with them the spoils of war. The place was now in 
 possession of half a dozen maid-servants, who were pick- 
 ing over and sorting out what had been left by Laura 
 and Honor. As she stole away Rosamund thought of a 
 picture she had once seen which depicted a crowd of 
 ghost-like, ragged, creeping creatures who come forth 
 in the depth of night and strip to the last rag the dead 
 bodies of those who have fallen on a battle-field. 
 
 In her own room the same thing had been going on. 
 Everything had been swept away. As she passed down 
 to lunch she heard the excited maids comparing notes 
 one with the other as to how smart they would look on 
 their next Sunday out.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 A CLIMBER'S VILLAGE 
 
 NEARLY fourteen months had passed since Mr. Kerqu- 
 ham and Rosamund Keith had left London and their 
 friends in search of the distraction and change of scene 
 which the former desired so much. During all that time 
 they had been wanderers over the face of Europe, had 
 wintered in Italy, spent Easter in Rome, and had passed 
 the early summer in Paris before starting on a pilgrim- 
 age which had carried them all through the picturesque 
 old towns and great galleries of Spain and Germany. In 
 early autumn Mr. Kerquham had the sudden revulsion 
 of fancy which comes to people who have been long 
 among the cities of the plain and the bustle and turmoil 
 of the great centres where men do congregate. He had 
 wakened one morning, and bade Rosamund pack her 
 trunks and make ready for a flight into the mountains, 
 and she, obedient to his slightest caprice, had done as 
 he wished, and had gone with him up and down the 
 highways and byways of Switzerland. 
 
 It was now the second week in September, the time 
 when, as a rule, the stolid German and the travelling 
 Englishman begin to turn their steps towards their 
 respective fatherlands, and when the great bare moun- 
 tain hotels dismantle their scantily furnished bedrooms, 
 close the wooden shutters, and dismiss their armies of 
 waiting men and women. But this year the season was 
 marvellously late. Glorious days were succeeded by 
 
 292
 
 A CLIMBER'S VILLAGE 293 
 
 summerlike nights, during which only the frozen dew 
 fell on the highest peaks. The steamers on the lakes 
 were still filled with passengers, and every gasthaus and 
 hotel was crowded to the door. 
 
 It was a magnificent afternoon when the little train 
 which runs from the Visp Valley pulled up at the spruce 
 terminus station of Zermatt, that famous hub of the 
 mountaineers' universe. From every open window 
 bristled alpenstocks and ice axes, and half a dozen 
 guides who lounged over the railings behind which the 
 omnibuses stood, smiled in their beards at the pleasing 
 sight of the newly arrived stream of visitors. 
 
 As Rosamund helped her uncle from the carriage she 
 asked him if he would drive or walk up to the hotel. 
 
 A year ago it would have been a strange question to 
 put to hale, hearty Alban Kerquham, but a subtle yet 
 sure change had come over him during his months of 
 wandering. His still broad shoulders had lost their 
 uprightness, while his fine chest had hollowed somewhat. 
 His hair was now almost white, and his once ruddy face 
 paler and loose-skinned. His fine eyes still shone with 
 kindliness from beneath the penthouse of his heavy 
 brows, but a net-work of little wrinkles marred their 
 beauty. He walked with a big stick by his niece's side 
 down the platform as he answered: 
 
 "I think we will take the omnibus, dear. It isn't far, 
 I know, but we have had a long pull in the train from 
 Geneva, and I feel a little tired." 
 
 Rosamund smiled sadly as she helped him into the 
 omnibus and with grave self-possession picked out her 
 luggage. How changed things were from the time she 
 and her uncle left "The Hurst"! At first he had found 
 amusement and distraction from his grief in arranging 
 and conducting all their journeys, but as the months
 
 294 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 went by she noticed that each move from city to city 
 interested him less. She had urged upon him the neces- 
 sity of employing a courier, but he had protested with 
 some heat that he was not yet so infirm or so ignorant 
 of the ways of travel as to need bear-leading, like a 
 Yankee or an old woman. Still, after a time, he had not 
 demurred when she herself took to arranging trains, 
 securing tickets and rooms, and he even permitted her 
 the doubtful privilege of investigating the bills and mak- 
 ing all the payments. 
 
 On her side she never attempted to alter any decision 
 he might come to or to thwart any wish he might express 
 with regard to their travels. Rather with sweet cheer- 
 fulness she made his desires her own, and it was with a 
 sympathetic and mutual pleasure that they found them- 
 selves in the great mountain valley that lies at the foot 
 of the mighty Matterhorn. 
 
 Rosamund was, in fact, delighted to have come here. 
 The magnificent scenery she had just passed through, 
 the rush of the mountain torrents, the sweet pure air 
 blowing down from the everlasting snows, had filled her 
 anew with that joy of living which for so long had been 
 in abeyance within her. The lakes had been beautiful, 
 but they were too hot and enervating for one of her 
 active temperament. So many of the people, too, in the 
 hotels down there were invalids, who were content to 
 bask all day in the hot sun and to sit at night under the 
 too luxuriant trees and watch the bats flitting out against 
 the evening sky. She had felt suffocated in such sur- 
 roundings. 
 
 As the lumbering omnibus rattled over the narrow 
 stone road, forcing the foot passengers on to such apol- 
 ogy for a footpath as there was, her appreciative eyes 
 noted with delight how different everything was up here.
 
 A CLIMBERS VILLAGE 295 
 
 Although it was evening and the sun was sinking fast 
 behind the mountains, the whole of the little village was 
 bustle and vivacity. When the omnibus pulled up before 
 the verandah of the Mont Cervin Hotel, Rosamund 
 noticed at once that the roadway, which had been 
 widened at that point, was quite taken up with a number 
 of mules and .pack horses, guides and travellers, who had 
 all come down from the Corner Grat and the Riffel Alp. 
 The party consisted mainly of Americans, who were talk- 
 ing at the tops of their voices and arguing with the guides 
 in a mingled patois of bad French and worse English on 
 the matter of payment. 
 
 On the wide steps where she stood to watch her lug- 
 gage sorted from the rest, a party of three young men 
 were preparing to set out on a long climb. Filled with 
 the novelty of the situation, and knowing that her uncle 
 was within, speaking about the rooms and asking for 
 his letters, she leaned against the low wooden balustrade 
 and watched the preparations that the mountaineers were 
 making. 
 
 Under ordinary circumstances, she thought, they might 
 be good-looking, smart young Englishmen. At the pres- 
 ent moment their appearance was anything but prepos- 
 sessing. Each man had the lower part of his legs encased 
 in the thickest and clumsiest of worsted stockings. 
 Huge boots, which were greased and decorated with 
 large, square nails,- about half an inch in height, were 
 bound round their ankles with heavy leathern laces. 
 Knickerbockers and a short, thick jacket of rough tweed 
 covered the flannel shirts and knitted Spencers, which, 
 while they were warm, were aesthetically ugly. Their 
 sun-bronzed throats and wrists were innocent of collars 
 and cuffs. Soft brown felt hats, round which were tied 
 a pair of blue glass spectacles, were pulled well down
 
 296 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 over their heads. One of them, a lithe, long lad of 
 twenty, had pinned several bunches of edelweiss that 
 woolly mountain flower in front of his hat. There 
 were four guides for the party, all dressed in the strong 
 brown clothes, the cloth for which is woven in the vil- 
 lage by the women during the long, dark, cruel, winter 
 months. With much laughing and talking the young 
 men were packing the bags which each one was to carry 
 on his back. Flannel shirts and woollen stockings, 
 pipes, tobacco, warm slippers, and comforters were all 
 lying on the floor of the verandah, and were thrust indis- 
 criminately into the packs. As each was filled its mouth 
 was drawn together by a strong rope that hissed sharply 
 through the steel rings. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said one of the young men, sud- 
 denly turning to Rosamund, and, stepping aside, she 
 found that she had been standing before a heap of well 
 used ice axes and alpenstocks, which were already deeply 
 scored with the names of conquered mountains. Each 
 man selected his own, while the guides slung over their 
 shoulders long coils of strong rope and stout leather 
 flasks holding brandy. A little crowd assembled to wish 
 the climbers good luck and a safe return. 
 
 "When do you come back?" cried a pretty girl from 
 a window which overlooked the verandah. 
 
 The three young men pulled their hats from their 
 heads, and one looking up at her, answered back: 
 
 "To-day is Monday; with luck we shall be back on 
 Friday night." 
 
 "So long as that?" pouted the young lady. "What 
 shall we all do while you are gone?" 
 
 "Why, look forward to our return, of course, and 
 speculate as to all the wonderful adventures we shall 
 tell you about."
 
 A CLIMBER'S VILLAGE 297 
 
 "You will have no adventures," interrupted a sun- 
 burnt, elderly man, taking his cigar from his mouth and 
 looking up at the quiet sky. "It will be the easiest thing 
 in the world. This weather is marvellous." 
 
 "Yes," chimed in another, "and the glass is as steady 
 as a rock." 
 
 "By Jove! I wish I were going with you," said a 
 rather languishing young man in the most immaculate of 
 clothes, who was leaning against the doorpost and suck- 
 ing a cigarette. 
 
 The four guides laughed among themselves, and the 
 eldest of the party cried: 
 
 "Miiller here thinks that a good joke. You would 
 be done up before we got to the SchVarz Zee." 
 
 But Miiller, the guide, was a business-like man, and 
 having had his laugh, thought it time to attend to work. 
 
 "We must start, gentlemen," he said in his guttural 
 Swiss-English. 
 
 "Good-bye! Good-bye! Good luck! Hope you will 
 have a good time!" and amid waving handkerchiefs and 
 feminine cries of felicitation and hopes for a safe return 
 the party started out, turning to the left as they got into 
 the road and making for the head of the valley. 
 
 "They have left a bit late," remarked a red-faced 
 man. "It will be quite dark before they get up to the 
 Black Lake." 
 
 A gong rang from within the house, and the little 
 party melted away. 
 
 "We have very nice 'rooms, my dear," said Mr. Ker- 
 quham at Rosamund's elbow. "I have ordered dinner in 
 an hour. It will be pleasanter to dine quietly by our- 
 selves after the table d'hote. Besides, there are a lot of 
 letters. Will you come upstairs?" 
 
 Mr. Kerquham was quite right; he and Rosamund
 
 298 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 had charming rooms on either side of a little salon on 
 the first floor and overlooking the open space in front of 
 the hotel. 
 
 "We shall see all that goes on here, uncle, without 
 any trouble," said Rosamund, as she closed the window, 
 and taking off her hat, prepared to unpack such things 
 as they would immediately require. 
 
 While she busied herself unpacking, Mr. Kerquham 
 sat in a big chair and opened a large batch of letters 
 which had been awaiting him for some days. 
 
 She was in her own room unfastening her dressing- 
 bag when she heard his voice calling her. 
 
 "Rosie, dear, here is a piece of news! I have a 
 letter from Laura." 
 
 She ran to him and stood with her head a little on one 
 side, and the smile with which she always listened to 
 his words curving the corners of her sweet, red lips. 
 
 "Now, uncle, I am going to try and guess what is in 
 that letter. Your face is going to tell me. It is news 
 that has astonished you. I can tell that. And you are 
 a little pleased a little disappointed, too. Now, there 
 is only one thing that could make you look like that. 
 Laura is going to be married." 
 
 Mr. Kerquham laughed and laid the letter on the 
 table. 
 
 "Rosamund, you are a witch. You have guessed 
 right at once." 
 
 "Yes, but I have not finished yet. I have only stated 
 a bald fact. I am going into details now. Laura is 
 going to be married to the very last man in the world 
 whom you would have expected her to look at or to look 
 at her." 
 
 "Right again, Rosamund. Now, are you clever 
 enough to tell me the name?"
 
 A CLIMBER'S VILLAGE 299 
 
 Rosamund put her lips together and knitted her 
 brows in thought. 
 
 "I must first think of the sort Laura would not have 
 married, uncle a kind of weeding-out process, you know. 
 He cannot be a poor man. He cannot be some one whom 
 she can't turn round her little finger. He cannot be 
 very handsome, because Laura would never stand divided 
 admiration, she would want it all for herself. He is not 
 a country man, because she adores London, and by the 
 same inference he is not a soldier or a sailor." 
 
 She clapped her hands together. "Uncle, I believe 
 I've guessed. For your own face has told me that he 
 is the most unlikely man in the world, and yet he is a 
 man who fulfils all the requirements that I know Laura 
 must have. It is Hamish Lundy, isn't it?" 
 
 Mr. Kerquham nodded his head, and Rosamund, see- 
 ing she had amused him, exerted herself still more, and 
 proceeded to bewail mockingly the faithlessness of one 
 who had once worshipped at her own shrine. Then she 
 finished by throwing up her hands and wishing them both 
 a happy life. 
 
 Mr. Kerquham, for answer to that, pushed another 
 letter towards her. 
 
 "That is from your great-aunt Charlotte, my dear. 
 She seems perfectly content; says Laura has steadied 
 down, and that all her previous faults have been merely 
 the error of youth and superabundant spirits." 
 
 Then he sighed. "I often wonder where Laura got 
 her disposition from, she was never a true Kerquham; 
 she had a strain in her that was alien to all the rest 
 of us. " 
 
 Later they dined almost alone at a small table in the 
 large salle. A score of waiters, who chatted among 
 themselves in bastard German, French, or Italian, were
 
 300 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 busy cleaning the three long tables where the multitude 
 of visitors had just been fed. Most of the lights were 
 out, but one was left for their use, and before they had 
 finished the soup another was switched on over the next 
 table to their own. They spoke but little as they ate, 
 and so Rosamund had ample leisure to study the solitary 
 man who a few minutes later swung with a heavy stride 
 down the long room and seated himself close by them. 
 
 He was a very big man, and would have been abnor- 
 mally tall but that his great breadth was in proportion 
 to his height. He wore the roughest of clothes, and his 
 heavy boots were "clogged with clay and mud. His face 
 and neck and hands were burnt almost as black as the 
 short, thick hair which grew in little tight curls all over 
 his head. To Rosamund, who had but just arrived 
 among the great mountains, and who had had her first 
 glimpse of life in what is called a "climber's village," 
 this new-comer, with his giant frame and his look of 
 indomitable courage and strength, seemed the very 
 epitome of the life about her. When he raised his eyes 
 from his plate and looked about the room, she saw that 
 they were of a light blue, yet misty and deep in expres- 
 sion as are the eyes of people who live much alone and 
 spend their days in communion with nature rather than 
 with their fellow-men. 
 
 He finished his meal before they did, and Rosamund 
 watched his broad back disappearing down the vista of 
 the now empty dining-room. When a little later she and 
 her uncle moved into the drawing-room of the hotel the 
 big man was there. He sat in a far corner, buried in a 
 huge chair, with a paper held before his face, and very 
 little else but his rough boots and coarse stockings and 
 his great, strong, brown hands to be seen. But the girl 
 noticed that all eyes in the room were perpetually being
 
 A CLIMBER'S VILLAGE 301 
 
 directed towards him, and when, by-and-bye, he picked 
 his way out of the room, passing with a certain clumsy 
 politeness among the crowds of women, her keen ears 
 caught on all sides the echoes of the chorus of wonder 
 and praise and admiration that rose up the moment he 
 had gone. 
 
 "The most wonderful thing ever done." 
 "It was he who saved the guides." 
 "They say up here that he bears a charmed life." 
 "The men positively worship him in these parts. " 
 When later on Rosamund went upstairs with her 
 uncle, who had been sitting during the evening over by 
 the wood fire and chatting with the circle grouped around 
 it, he said to her: 
 
 "We have quite a celebrity in the hotel." 
 "Have we, dear? I thought the only thing that peo- 
 ple here talk about or appreciate is climbing up a moun- 
 tain and scrambling down again. I have been amusing 
 myself listening to the chat this evening, and I feel as if 
 I have been up every mountain for miles round. Every 
 one has either been up or is going up. Such common- 
 place subjects as homes, relations, books, and newspapers 
 seem to be absolutely tabooed here. One little lady 
 to-night the one with the fair hair who was writing 
 letters at the table where I was sitting began to tell 
 another of the dreadful attack of whooping-cough her 
 baby had had last May. The other lady simply said: 
 'Oh! how very sad it must have been for you, but I 
 wonder what kind of mule I shall get to-morrow to take 
 me up to the Riffelberg. ' And then, for fear the little 
 woman should say any more about her baby, the other 
 one proceeded to relate her exploits last week on Mont 
 Rosa, and how she had twice been up as far as the 
 Grands Mulcts on Mont Blanc, but had been obliged each
 
 302 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 time to turn back by bad weather. I should have thought 
 that no ordinary celebrity not even a great painter like 
 yourself, dear would be even allowed to live up here." 
 
 "Of course not of course not," cried Mr. Kerquham, 
 rather shortly, for his mood in these latter days was 
 changeable. "We have left all that kind of nonsense 
 and chatter about fashions and domestic life down below. 
 We are up in the mountains now, my dear the glorious 
 mountains the finest works of God the most fascinat- 
 ing, beautiful things in the whole world and it is only 
 natural that people should talk of them and nothing else. 
 Wait till you see the Matterhorn to-morrow with the 
 morning sun shining on his great white sides. You will 
 say that it is a grander sight than all the pictures we 
 have seen in all the galleries of Europe. Celebrities as 
 they are known to us, with their little petty successes, 
 count for nothing in the face of such surroundings as 
 there are here. The best man in these parts is the man 
 who can do the biggest climb, who can conquer the peak 
 -that has been virgin up to now, or climb the 'chimney' 
 that has defeated the bravest and the best. That is 
 the sort of celebrity that you find here, and that is the 
 sort of celebrity who is stopping here now." 
 
 "Really, uncle?" said Rosamund. "And who may he 
 be? I have seen all sorts of famous men in my time. I 
 should like to see a great mountaineer." 
 
 "He is a very tall man, they tell me a fine fellow 
 an Englishman, of course, with the longest legs and 
 the broadest shoulders that were ever made. He has 
 travelled all over the world and done some splendid work 
 in the Andes and the Himalayas. They say that he 
 climbs these mountains here as if they were mere child's 
 play, and the best guides of the place look upon him as 
 a positive marvel. ' '
 
 A CLIMBER'S VILLAGE 303 
 
 "A big man, they say. I wonder was he in the 
 drawing-room this evening?" 
 
 "They said so," answered Mr. Kerquham, "but I did 
 not notice. However, a very nice fellow a General 
 Creighton, who is here with his wife, a lady you would 
 like to know, Rosamund has promised to introduce Mr. 
 Fraser to me to-morrow." 
 
 "Is that the celebrity?" 
 
 "Yes, Fraser, Hugh Fraser. They will have it that 
 he is English, but his name smacks of Scotland, and I 
 mean to ask him if he is any connection of the Frasers 
 of Lochie Hall. If so, he will be a distant connection of 
 my poor, dear wife." 
 
 For the next hour Rosamund sat and listened to her 
 uncle's speculations about Mr. Fraser and his probable 
 connection with her dead Aunt Margot. She always 
 rather dreaded Mrs. Kerquham's name in the con- 
 versation, for her uncle became depressed in spirits 
 and gloomy in thoughts when the remembrance of her 
 death came back to him. By the time she was free to go 
 to bed Rosamund could almost have found it in her gentle 
 heart to hate this Mr. Fraser and all his exploits, for 
 that he had innocently set her uncle on to a strain of 
 thought which was bad for him and painful to her.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 HIGH PLACES AND PERSONS 
 
 WHATEVER sense of vexation Rosamund might have felt 
 over night was dispelled in the morning when she was 
 awakened by the rumbling of the guides' rough voices 
 and the trampling of mules' feet on the gravel under her 
 window. Springing from her bed, she ran across the 
 polished wood floor, and peeping between the lattices 
 of her blind uttered a little cry of delight. For fear that 
 she should be detained by too long looking, she retreated 
 from the window and began to dress as fast as she 
 could. When her simple toilet was finished she crept 
 into her uncle's room, to find him still sleeping, so she 
 ran downstairs with a light heart and eyes that shone 
 with eagerness to see all she could. 
 
 The big square hall, with its grey stone floor, was 
 full of a lively crowd. Some pretty American girls, all 
 affectation, twang, and drawl, were making much of a 
 couple of St. Bernard dogs which lolled their tongues 
 and swung their tails with a lordly air of indifference to 
 the open admiration they excited. Young men with a 
 great deal of swagger and portentously thick boots were 
 talking loudly about their day's expedition, and betting 
 one another bottles of champagne as to the time in 
 which they would do such and such a walk. Trunks 
 were being lashed together and swung across the backs 
 of the patient mules, who knew perfectly well that they 
 would have to toil up the valley to the Riffelberg Hotel, 
 
 304
 
 HIGH PLACES AND PERSONS 305 
 
 which stood like a little toy house, clear and white 
 against the sky-line. Ladies in ostentatiously short 
 skirts and ludicrously heavy boots were laughing audibly 
 at others of their sex who were proposing to walk in 
 French heels and lace-trimmed petticoats. 
 
 Making her way through the merry throng, Rosamund 
 went out on to the verandah, down the few steps, and 
 across the small open space to the main street. Oppo- 
 site the hotel and on either side, in the morning sun, the 
 shopkeepers had set out their wares on trestles and 
 boards. Photographs and pressed mountain flowers, 
 alpenstocks, cow bells, coarse stockings and rough boots, 
 all basked in the sunshine together, for it was yet too 
 early to fix up the gay shreds of cloth and cotton which 
 during the mid-day sheltered the shops and the sellers 
 from the blinding glare. To the right, down the street, 
 a small glass window was filled with carved coral and 
 tortoise-shell. The wares were Italian, and a short, 
 beady-eyed, crop-headed Venetian stood in the doorway 
 and grinned cheerfully as a string of mules laden with 
 trunks passed slowly up the narrow street. Some new- 
 comers of the night before sauntered out of the hotel 
 and proceeded to choose alpenstocks and ice axes. The 
 men tried on some hats, and a pretty girl masked her 
 bright eyes behind a pair of blue spectacles. The whole 
 party laughed, and Rosamund, out of sheer lightness of 
 heart, laughed with them. 
 
 From the salle came the clatter of coffee cups, for 
 although it was still very early, the day's excursions were 
 already starting. Anxious fathers of families, desirous 
 of toiling with their stout wives and bouncing daughters 
 up to the wondrous Corner Grat, from the edge of which 
 great glacier they could see all the Alpine giants without 
 the trouble of climbing them, were anxiously consulting
 
 306 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 guides and engaging mules. A fragile little lady 
 swathed in deep black and attended by a maid was 
 brought out of the hotel wrapped in rugs and deposited 
 in a chaise-a-porter. 
 
 "Poor thing," said a sympathetic woman, as two 
 stalwart men lifted their light burden and marched away 
 with it up the street. "The doctors have sent her up to 
 the Riffel, but it will be no use; she will come down in 
 her coffin." 
 
 Rosamund sighed. Even in the midst of all this 
 brightness and life the shadow of Death was stalking. 
 The thought made her turn her eyes for a moment from 
 the gay scene about her, and she looked for the first time 
 up the valley to where the great Matterhorn reared its 
 terrific head and shoulders against the glorious blue sky. 
 She gave a little gasp. All through Switzerland, down 
 on the lakes and in the busy gay streets of the sun-bathed 
 towns, she had seen pictures of the Matterhorn, photo- 
 graphed in winter and in summer, draped in cloud or 
 sharply clear. Its splendid outline had become so 
 familiar to her that she had scarcely troubled to look at 
 it, but now that she really saw it for the first time, its 
 unassailable majesty and glorious grandeur thrilled her 
 to the soul. She could not have imagined that anything 
 so marvellous existed in the world without all that world 
 coming to see it. 
 
 The summer had been so open and the autumn so 
 warm and fair that all the snow had melted away from 
 one side, which rose, a sheer black wall of rock, in 
 sharpest contrast to the delicate white mantle that veiled 
 the other shoulder. Not so much as a wisp of cloud 
 lay across it. It seemed to her the most wonderful and 
 the most beautiful work of God she had ever seen in her 
 life, and as she looked from it to the great range that
 
 HIGH PLACES AND PERSONS Z7 
 
 stretched right down the valley and caught the sun 
 gleaming on the snowy sides, she ceased to wonder that 
 all this little village and the strangers who came to it 
 could only talk and think of mountains. No longer she 
 thought it strange that every morning the whole of Zer- 
 matt should rise intent on getting nearer to those vast 
 solitudes. She understood why at last in the drawing- 
 room the night before the old and the young, the men and 
 the women alike, could only speak of where they had been 
 and where they were going. Everything else seemed 
 small. The whole world was suddenly transformed into 
 great fields of ice, broken by mighty peaks, and she felt 
 as if she, too, had but one ambition, and that was to start 
 forth and go amongst them. 
 
 A party was starting, equipped like that she had seen 
 the previous evening, in coarse clothes with rough, 
 uncouth baggage strapped across their shoulders. They 
 said "good-bye," they and the guides, and went with a 
 swinging step out into the street. As they turned out of 
 sight she caught herself holding out her hands, and 
 almost fancied that she had said aloud the words that were 
 within her heart: "Take me with you. Let me go, too. " 
 
 "Your skirts are all right for walking, but your boots 
 would be no good," said a man's voice close by. 
 
 Rosamund, still with the sense upon her that she had 
 spoken her thought aloud, flushed crimson as she turned, 
 and found that the big man with the broad shoulders and 
 the sunburnt skin was standing close by her and looking 
 her up and down with an amused smile in his light blue 
 eyes. 
 
 "You would never get along in them, you know," he 
 said, shaking his head and looking at her neatly-shod 
 feet. "Nice, useful boots for an English country road, 
 but no good for work."
 
 308 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 "I am afraid that I am not going to do any work," 
 replied Rosamund, "if by that you mean climbing." 
 
 He looked her up and down again, his critical eyes 
 taking in every detail of her well-made, beautifully pro- 
 portioned body, her deep bust and fine shoulders, her 
 strong, lithe limbs, and the clear skin which told 
 of perfect health. He noticed how neat was her gown of 
 grey cloth, how closely her hair was bound about her 
 shapely head, and how serviceable was her little hat. 
 
 "Why shouldn't you climb?" he remarked presently. 
 "You look cut out for that kind of thing. Half the 
 women who go in for it break down at the very begin- 
 ning. That is why I never will work with ladies in a 
 party. It spoils the whole business. But you look as 
 if you would be different." 
 
 She flushed a little at the directness of his compli- 
 ments, but with feminine quickness she had already 
 gathered that a mountain hotel contains a community in 
 which none can stand apart. The ordinary etiquette of 
 life, that demands a certain amount of formality, is 
 abandoned in the face of the marvellous surroundings of 
 a "climbing" village. A mountain hotel is a republic. 
 Each man is as good as another, until he has won his 
 promotion by a mountaineering feat. Then, and then 
 only, is he a somebody and worthy of consideration from 
 his fellows. 
 
 Rosamund had appreciated that situation during the 
 first five minutes she had been in the hotel. Every one 
 spoke to every one else, for the mountains were a com- 
 mon bond of union between people of the most opposite 
 natures. 
 
 "But at least if you do not climb, you will go for 
 some walks."
 
 HIGH PLACES AND PERSONS 309 
 
 "I should like to, of course. It seems to me that 
 one's first instinct at a place like this is to get nearer to 
 those beautiful mountains," and she nodded towards the 
 great dentated wall of snow that filled the horizon. 
 "But I am here with my uncle, and I do not know if he 
 means to walk much." 
 
 "But that doesn't matter," said her companion 
 brightly. "There is a kind of freemasonry, you know, 
 among people of the same country when they meet in 
 these out-of-the-way places. Any of the ladies here, I 
 am sure, would be only too pleased to have you join their 
 parties." 
 
 "People are very kind," answered Rosamund, "and 
 it is probably my fault but I never ,get on very well 
 with strangers." 
 
 She did not mean to say anything rude, but Mr. 
 Fraser, like many big men, was inordinately shy, espe- 
 cially of the feminine sex, and at her words the light 
 melted out of his blue eyes, and squaring his big shoul- 
 ders he made a stiff bow and walked away. 
 
 "Rosamund! Rosamund! Why, you know the celeb- 
 rity. Who introduced him?" 
 
 Rosamund turned to her uncle, and by way of answer, 
 asked him another question. 
 
 "Have you had any coffee yet? The air is fresh out 
 here." 
 
 "No, I came to find you," he answered. "I have 
 been speaking to a most charming woman in the salle. 
 I want to introduce you to her at once. She is the most 
 wonderful traveller been everywhere and knows every- 
 thing. She says that she can tell us of a most interest- 
 ing trip for the coming winter." 
 
 Taking ^her arm, Mr. Kerquham led Rosamund
 
 310 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 through the busy hall into the big dining-room, where 
 two of the long tables were being perpetually relaid for 
 early breakfast. 
 
 "This is my niece Miss Sheldrake," said Mr. Ker- 
 quham, leading Rosamund up to a short, square lady, 
 who looked at her with very piercing eyes over the top 
 of a large piece of bread spread with honey. 
 
 "Sit down, my dear, sit down and give us some 
 coffee," Kerquham went on. "I want you to listen 
 carefully to what Miss Sheldrake says. Her proposition 
 is most interesting." 
 
 The short lady smiled a large smile, and Rosamund, 
 looking at her across the narrow table, thought she was 
 quite the ugliest woman she had ever seen. Her hair, 
 which was short and almost white, stood out in dishev- 
 elled, spiky locks about her round, ruddy face, which was 
 broad and flattened to an absurd degree. Her sturdy 
 shoulders and flat chest were loosely garbed in a red 
 merino blouse, which was caught in round the waist by 
 a well-worn leathern belt. In crossing the room, Rosa- 
 mund had noticed that her skirt of grey frieze was nar- 
 row and exceedingly short, and that her large square feet 
 were shod in the most approved type of mountaineering 
 boots. 
 
 "I have been talking to your uncle, Miss Keith," 
 began Miss Sheldrake in a loud, masculine voice. "He 
 tells me that he doesn't like this place at all. Too 
 many people about, and not at all the sort of thing he 
 wants." 
 
 Rosamund turned startled eyes on her uncle. Last 
 night he seemed perfectly pleased and contented with 
 everything. So far as she knew he had slept well. 
 Surely if there had been any complaint to make, it should 
 "have been to her and not to an utter stranger. Perhaps
 
 HIGH PLACES AND PERSONS 311 
 
 Mr. Kerquham read her thoughts, for he began in tender 
 apology: 
 
 "There is too much- noise here, my dear a great 
 deal too much noise. A lot of young men and women 
 chattering and clattering about the place. It disturbs 
 me and gets on my nerves. I feel I shall not be able to 
 work here. I was thinking while I dressed this morning 
 that we must move on to some place out of the beaten 
 track and then I met this lady on the stairs and she 
 quite agrees with me, Rosamund, that this is not at all 
 the place for me to be in. Presently she will tell you of 
 a most charming trip that she took herself a year ago. 
 Absolute solitude beautiful scenery delightful peo- 
 ple " 
 
 "So handsome! so picturesque!" ejaculated Miss 
 Sheldrake, smiling till her mouth stretched across her 
 face. 
 
 "Among whom," went on Mr. Kerquham, "we shall 
 be very happy, my dear. Just you and I, you know, in 
 a little world of our own with nobody to interrupt or to 
 worry us." 
 
 He held out his hand a hand that was thinner and 
 whiter than it used to be to Rosamund, and she, with 
 the motherly instinct that all true women feel towards 
 those they love, took his fingers in hers and stroked and 
 patted them. 
 
 "Drink your coffee, dear, while it is hot. Then we 
 will go outside and sit in the sun, and perhaps Miss Shel- 
 drake will tell us of this wonderful trip." 
 
 All the morning through Rosamund sat in the veran- 
 dah, staring at the immutable Matterhorn that only 
 changed its expression with the shifting sun, and listened 
 to Miss Sheldrake's harsh, monotonous voice. Only 
 half her attention was fixed on what the lady said, and it
 
 312 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 was not till they went indoors again for breakfast and 
 sat at the little table they had occupied the previous 
 night that she at all realised what the purport of the 
 morning's conversation had been. 
 
 "I must say, my dear," began Mr. Kerquham, "the 
 idea pleases me very much. We had better go straight 
 through to Budapest. We were in Vienna last 
 autumn, and don't want to stop there again. From 
 there we can get down quite easily, Miss Sheldrake 
 says, to Serajevo and on through Herzegovina to Cet- 
 tinje. Then we shall have left everything behind us, 
 dear, and can do just as we please and wander through 
 that strange, unknown country till the winter is past, 
 when we can go over the mountains into Greece or per- 
 haps Miss Sheldrake says that there are parts of 
 Salonica which are charming and well repay a visit." 
 
 Rosamund had dropped her knife and fork. 
 
 "But, uncle, when are we going to do all this?" 
 
 "Now, directly, of course," he replied, energetically. 
 "Bless my soul! I don't want to waste any more time 
 here. We cannot get back to Geneva to-day, but you 
 must pack up and we will start in the morning." 
 
 "Leave this to-morrow?" 
 
 "Certainly. Didn't I tell you that all these people 
 with their babel and noise are making me quite ill? 
 Surely you don't want to stop in a place that you see I 
 don't like." 
 
 His unusual impatience hurt the girl, and her eyes 
 filled with tears. 
 
 "Oh, uncle, you know that my desires are yours. Of 
 course I will pack to-day and we can go to-morrow. 
 Yet there are things I should like to have seen here." 
 
 "Miss Sheldrake says the scenery in Montenegro and 
 Albania is far finer than anything here. You ought to
 
 HIGH PLACES AND PERSONS 313 
 
 be very pleased, Rosamund, to be going to a place where 
 scarcely an Englishwoman has ever set foot. Now, my 
 dear, I will write my letters home this afternoon, and 
 tell Laura I am glad to hear her news. Then we will 
 walk down to the station and find out whether it is best 
 for us to go back to Geneva or if we can get to Vienna 
 any shorter way." 
 
 Rosamund finished her meal in depressed silence. 
 She was working hard to do her duty, and till lately it 
 had been a labour of the purest love, but she was young 
 and healthy and active, and every instinct of her nature 
 cried aloud for more varied companionship and a more 
 natural occupation than tending the whims of a man, 
 who as despite her love she could not help noticing, 
 was growing more difficult to please and cheer every 
 month of their wandering. 
 
 When he went upstairs to write his letters, she still 
 sat at the luncheon table with her chin in her hand, star- 
 ing out of the window at the nearer pine-clad mountains 
 and the distant snowy peaks. She had made up her 
 mind that morning that she could be so happy here. It 
 was all so fresh and clear after the close, hot cities in 
 which they had lived for so long. Without wishing to 
 make friends with any of the people about her, their 
 bright talk and their daily movements interested her so 
 much. She had even hoped to have gone a little nearer 
 these unattainable summits that were now to prove 
 to her nothing but dreams. 
 
 By-and-bye she pushed her chair back and sauntered 
 dispiritedly out of the room. She knew her uncle was 
 busy upstairs, so she crept back again to the corner in 
 the verandah where she had spent the morning. The 
 place was almost empty now. A few guides lounged in 
 the patch of shade, but most of Zermatt was up among
 
 3H THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 the mountains, for the weather was so fair and promised 
 so well that every day saw the start of big expeditions. 
 
 At the far end of the little wooden terrace two Ger- 
 mans were discussing their coffee and vermouth. Other- 
 wise she was alone. No, not exactly, for there was Mr. 
 Fraser again, walking up the gravel road with his heavy 
 stride, and in his shy, strange way taking off his cap to 
 her. It was a sense of loneliness that drove her to speak 
 to him. She leaned over the balustrade and said: 
 
 "You advised my taking some walks about here, and 
 I told you I did not think I should be able to. Now I 
 know I cannot." 
 
 "Why not? Do your boots hurt you?" 
 
 Rosamund shook her head and smiled. 
 
 "You seem to have a very bad opinion of my boot- 
 maker, or else of me, for you persist in thinking that I 
 am ill shod. But it is not my boots. I am going away 
 to-morrow." 
 
 "What for?" said Mr. Fraser. He came up the steps 
 of the verandah, and gaining her side sat down in a 
 wicker chair, which creaked beneath his weight. . "Is 
 the hotel uncomfortable? If so, I will just speak to the 
 people here. They know me and will do anything I ask 
 them." 
 
 "Our rooms are charming." 
 
 "Then what is it?" 
 
 "A lady here has been putting it into my uncle's head 
 that it is not a very nice place, and has been advising 
 him to take the most extraordinary journey into the 
 most out-of-the-way part of the world." 
 
 Mr. Fraser leaned forward on his knees. 
 
 "Miss Sheldrake?" he queried. 
 
 Rosamund nodded. 
 
 "Do you know her?" she said.
 
 HIGH PLACES AND PERSONS 315 
 
 "Don't I? If she were not a woman I should say she 
 was the original wandering Jew, and the worst of her is 
 that because she is always on the move herself, she 
 thinks everybody else ought to be so, too. It makes her 
 positively miserable to see people arriving at a place 
 with a lot of trunks and bags and things and settling 
 down for a nice comfortable stay. On what track has 
 she sent your uncle off?" 
 
 "I scarcely know," said Rosamund, shaking her 
 head. "I am afraid I am very ignorant, but I know we 
 go to Budapest and then to Herzegovina and Mon- 
 tenegro. " 
 
 "You and your uncle? That old gentleman I saw 
 with you last night are going on that journey alone?" 
 
 "Yes; we have no one else to go with us." 
 
 Mr. Eraser's light eyes grew dark with thought for a 
 moment. 
 
 "I was proposing to go that way myself soon," he 
 said. "When do you start?" 
 
 "We leave here to-morrow morning.' 
 
 "Ah! I had thought of going to-morrow, too. Will 
 you introduce me to your uncle?" 
 
 "With pleasure," answered Rosamund; "here he is." 
 
 Mr. Kerquham came out of the hotel with some let- 
 ters in his hand. 
 
 "Uncle," cried Rosamund, springing to her feet, "this 
 gentleman has been talking to me about the journey you 
 propose to make." 
 
 Mr. Kerquham looked up and lifted his soft felt hat 
 from his head with old-fashioned courtesy. 
 
 "I am delighted to meet you, sir. I was hearing only 
 last night of your exploits. You are quite a celebrity 
 here. Your name, I think, is Fraser. " 
 
 Mr. Fraser bowed.
 
 316 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 "I wonder if by chance you are related to the 
 Frasers of Lochie Hall." 
 
 "Certainly; my father was a second cousin of the 
 present laird." 
 
 At that Mr. Kerquham slipped his arm into Mr. Fra- 
 ser's and forgot all about Rosamund. The two men 
 walked down the steps and across to the post office. For 
 a moment she hesitated, and [then followed them. From 
 the post office they went down to the station, where Mr. 
 Kerquham delved into the intricacies of Swiss time- 
 tables and through services to Austro-Hungary. Now 
 and then Rosamund caught a few words which induced 
 her to think that Mr. Fraser was trying to dissuade her 
 uncle from his projected journey. Once, indeed, he 
 turned aside to her and murmured : 
 
 "He has a will of his own, your uncle." 
 
 Rosamund smiled gravely. 
 
 "You are very kind. I know what you are doing, but 
 it is no use. He has made up his mind to go on this 
 journey, and he will do so." 
 
 "Then that settles it," said Hugh Fraser, in his 
 blunt way, and offered his arm once more to Mr. Ker- 
 quham. 
 
 When they left the station they went up the street as 
 far as the little storm-beaten church, where in the nar- 
 row limits of the churchyard lie so many men who have 
 died terrible deaths on the mountain sides. In the angle 
 of a buttress Rosamund read the inscriptions on the 
 tombs of those Englishmen whose lives were demanded 
 in speedy sacrifice by the first conquered Matterhorn. 
 On the other side of the church and under the lee of the 
 little mortuary chapel, where even that afternoon a dead 
 guide lay waiting burial, she saw the rows of graves, each 
 with a little wooden cross at its head, and all so simple
 
 HIGH PLACES AND PERSONS 317 
 
 and poor. On one side of her were the hotels where the 
 wealthy English and Americans danced and flirted and 
 passed such hours as they had to spare between their 
 mountain scrambles. On the other hand were the 
 guides' cottages wretched little wooden huts, stained 
 by the weather to a soft, velvety brown, falling into a 
 thousand pieces and leaning over on their worn piles 
 into the ooze and dirt of the narrow street. 
 
 On the green hillside behind the cottages the tethered 
 cows were being milked, and broad-faced women with 
 small eyes and scanty hair were labouring up and down 
 the little sheeptracks laden with heavy pails. Already 
 the return of the day's excursionists had begun, and as 
 she and her uncle and Mr. Fraser walked along, they 
 were jostled and pushed by the patient mules on to the 
 little footpath which, in its turn, was overhung almost 
 to the edge by the stalls of the shopkeepers. What a 
 strange mixture, she thought to herself, as she looked at 
 the village round her, with its poverty and wealth, and 
 then up at the mighty, frozen mountains, all flushed rose 
 pink in the setting sun. And she remembered that this 
 wretched place was only kept alive and for the handful 
 of moneyed people who went there year after year and 
 used it as a playground for a few weeks. 
 
 The two men stopped in front of the Mont Rosa Hotel, 
 and sitting down at a little table ordered some coffee. 
 
 "And what is your real opinion of Zermatt?" said Mr. 
 Fraser to Rosamund, as they sat together. 
 
 "I don't quite know. This morning from the hotel 
 verandah it looked the brightest, happiest, merriest 
 place in the world, but now, since I have gone up the 
 street and seen the poor little church and the God's 
 Acre full of the dead fathers and sons of the women who 
 live here, now that I have seen their wretched homes,
 
 31 8 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 their awful poverty and their unspeakable dirt, I think 
 it is a very sad place." 
 
 "They are not so poor as you think," said Fraser. 
 "In bad years it goes hard with them, for they live for 
 nine months out of every twelve on what is made during 
 the tourists' season, but a splendid year like this, when 
 from May to September Zermatt is crowded, means pros- 
 perity to the whole community." 
 
 "But why don't they make it any cleaner?" she cried 
 a little disgustedly, as a tired pack horse stumbled 
 through the mire, splashing her neat gown. 
 
 "To alter Zermatt would be to spoil it. I have come 
 here ever since I was a boy, and my father came for 
 years before me. I do not believe a cottage has been 
 mended since I knew it, or the road even cleaned; but 
 we old habitues love it best like that. It is picturesque, 
 and it reminds us of all the good times we have had 
 here." 
 
 "Rosamund is much too particular," remarked Mr. 
 Kerquham, helping himself to a second glass of fine 
 champagne. "From what Miss Sheldrake tells me, she 
 will have a lot to put up with when we get down into 
 Turkey." 
 
 "Then I'm afraid I shan't like it, uncle," said Rosa- 
 mund, with a grave smile. 
 
 "lam afraid you will not," assented Fraser, under 
 his breath.
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 'MID MOSQUES AND MINARETS 
 
 THE Kerquhams' journey, in which Mr. Fraser joined 
 them, commenced under the most commonplace circum- 
 stances. It was only when they swept through the val- 
 leys and gorges of the Austrian Tyrol, and he saw the 
 little cottages nestling among the woods, that Mr. Ker- 
 quham expressed any pleasure. 
 
 Even Budapest, the "Pearl of the Danube," with 
 its handsome women and its fine men, had no attraction 
 for him, and they only rested there twenty-four hours 
 before taking train for the East. 
 
 For it was indeed the East, with its dirt and its pic- 
 turesqueness, its dark-skinned men and its veiled women, 
 into which Rosamund stepped with magic sudden- 
 ness when she alighted from the train at Bosnia's border 
 town of Brod. The porters at the dingy little station 
 wore the fez, the embroidered jacket, and the loose 
 trousers that mark the Turk, and as the train rumbled 
 away, Rosamund caught sight of a veiled face peeping 
 curiously through a latticed window. As the sun rose 
 and a flood of pink light revealed the whole landscape to 
 her wondering eyes, she thought for a moment that she 
 was back in Switzerland. Great rounded hills swelled 
 up on either side of the railway. Close to the track 
 rushed and roared an angry little stream that leaped over 
 stones and gurgled round boulders in a fashion that was 
 quite familiar to her.
 
 320 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 "Are you disappointed?" asked Fraser from his seat 
 opposite her, when, after gazing out of the window for 
 an hour, she leaned back and half-closed her eyes. 
 
 "A little, perhaps, but I suppose I expected too much, 
 and yet I do not quite know what I thought I should 
 see." 
 
 "Wait till we get to Serajevo! That is Oriental, if 
 you like, from one end of the town to the other. It 
 might be a bit of Persia cut out and dropped into 
 Europe." 
 
 Mr. Kerquham looked up from among his papers. 
 
 "That is the worst of it," he said. "Serajevo is a 
 town. My niece will have no new sensations till she 
 finds herself in the Highlands of Albania." 
 
 Mr. Fraser faced round in his seat. 
 
 "Are you serious, Mr. Kerquham, in your determina- 
 tion to go so far at this time of the year?" 
 
 "This time of the year?" he repeated, sharply. 
 "What is the matter with the time of the year?" 
 
 "It is very late, and the weather is treacherous in 
 these southern countries." 
 
 "Nonsense! it is the most open year they have had 
 within the memory of man. I do not mind betting you, 
 Mr. Fraser, that they are still climbing at Zermatt. " 
 
 "But Zermatt is not Albania, Mr. Kerquham. There 
 is half a continent between the two places." 
 
 Rosamund slipped her foot from under her skirt and 
 touched Mr. Fraser, while her big eyes implored him 
 dumbly to change the conversation, or at any rate to 
 cease to discuss the proposed trip. 
 
 He looked back at her now with a reassuring smile, 
 and turning again to the window studied the landmarks 
 and told her that within an hour she would see the white 
 minarets of Serajevo. Until then there was plenty to
 
 'MZD MOSQUES AND MINARETS 321 
 
 look at, for as they came nearer the town the country 
 grew full of life. 
 
 The road ran close by the railway, and country carts, 
 laden high with field produce and driven by cross-legged 
 Turks, were creeping along with Oriental slowness. 
 Women, who looked mere bundles of garments, were 
 filling water-pots from the stream. In the middle of 
 every little cluster of cottages the minarets of white 
 mosques gleamed like snowy marble among the still 
 green trees. The line crossed a plain that was verdant 
 and smooth as a lawn. It was girdled by high hills, 
 some of them bare and stern, others clothed with foliage 
 as a stately dame is clothed in green velvet. Suddenly 
 Hugh Fraser leaned forward and caught Rosamund by the 
 arm. 
 
 "Look now!" he cried. "There is Serajevo. They 
 call it the 'Golden City.' Is it not beautiful?" 
 
 And beautiful it was to the girl whose eyes had been 
 sated with the regularity and stateliness, the order and 
 method which has governed the building of all the great 
 cities of Europe. The jumble of white palaces and little 
 hovels, the exquisite mosques towering up against the 
 blue sky, and the flat mud-coloured houses that clustered 
 round them, the incongruous solid red brick buildings 
 that the Austrians had built, the babble of an unknown 
 tongue, and the passing of an unknown people all 
 delighted her, as she stepped from the train. 
 
 The whole city was dominated by the great citadel, 
 and the big hotel to which they went in search of rooms 
 was a fine specimen of western architecture. But the 
 .girl cared for neither of these, and was only perfectly 
 happy when Hugh Fraser took her to the bazaar. 
 
 What a magically suggestive word is that! To Euro- 
 peans it seems to mean so much until it is attained, and
 
 322 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 then they find it means nothing at all. Never could 
 Rosamund have imagined such a maze of narrow streets, 
 darkened by the overhanging roofs of the low houses, 
 which nearly met overhead. The narrow opening that 
 was left between the eaves was overgrown by a tangle 
 of a climbing plant, which cast a greenish shadow over 
 the scene beneath. The road for there was no pave- 
 ment was ankle-deep in mud and dirt, and she found 
 it hard to force her way between the stalls which were 
 let down from the fronts of the houses and laden with 
 the most strange collection of goods she could have 
 imagined. Here a board was filled with fruit fine plums 
 and pumpkins and next to that was a pile of gold 
 embroidery worked upon crimson velvet and fine black 
 cloth. A man sold fezes just beyond, and three half- 
 grown lads were carefully suiting themselves with head- 
 gear in the middle of the jostling crowd. 
 
 At the corner of one street an aroma of coffee filled 
 the air, and opposite a Spanish Jew was vaunting in loud 
 tones the merits of his wonderful nargilehs. At one little 
 shop it was a mere hole in the wall Rosamund paused 
 and bought a fine gold chain to send to Laura as a wed- 
 ding present. He was a grey-bearded Turk who sold it 
 to her, and the bargaining between himself and Mr. 
 Fraser was long and fierce. Rosamund thought it would 
 never end, and a dozen times urged her companion to 
 pay the price that was asked and let them go away. But 
 Hugh Fraser had not travelled the world for nothing, 
 and he only smiled his quiet smile at her, squared his big 
 shoulders, and returned to the fray with unabated vigour. 
 
 "There!" he said at last as he put the parcel into her 
 hands, "you have only paid a quarter more than the 
 value of the thing. I would have beaten him down to 
 the proper price if you had let me."
 
 MOSQUES AND MINARETS 323 
 
 She laughed. "How do the natives manage?" 
 
 She stepped aside out of the mire to let a string of 
 donkeys laden with market produce go by. Women with 
 long veils and heavy cloaks were driving them. 
 
 "I suppose they do not rob one another much," she 
 went on. 
 
 "No, it is a question of degree; the Jews rob the 
 Turks, of course, and the Greeks best the Jews. Now 
 I am going to take you to see the great mosque here. 
 It is pure Byzantine, and they say that the lime tree 
 that grows in the court is the biggest in the world. It 
 was high summer when I came here last, and of an evert- 
 ing, in the fountain that lies beneath its shade, there 
 were scores of Turks bathing." 
 
 "But I thought," cried Rosamund, "that the Turks 
 never did bathe." 
 
 "Most of them don't, but a certain amount of water 
 enters into their religion. Apart from that they are the 
 most frankly unwashed people that exist. You will 
 find that out a little later as you travel further south." 
 
 "How can we get to Jajace?" asked Mr. Kerquham, 
 when at length they returned to the hotel. 
 
 "We can go by train to the foot of the old Citadel," 
 answered Mr. Fraser, "that wonderful monument which 
 will keep in the memory of man forever the name of 
 Keglevitch, who held it against all Turkey, and who, 
 when he died, was still unconquered." 
 
 They were roused at dawn the next day by the call- 
 ing of the "muezzin" to prayer. From the roof of every 
 mosque the summons went forth, and Rosamund, lean- 
 ing from her window, thought how wonderful it was that 
 at that moment every true Mussulman in the city was 
 sending up the same petition to his God. 
 
 They started betimes, for the trip was a long one,
 
 324 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 among high mountains that were virgin to the foot of 
 man, and past valleys in which they could see the maize 
 crops and the pastures where the sheep fed. When they 
 arrived at Jajace they fulfiled the traditions of all trav- 
 ellers. They wondered at the citadel and drank coffee 
 in the beautiful old gateway. They climbed the winding 
 streets that cut a tortuous way between the thickly 
 placed houses; they marvelled at the holy ramparts, and 
 then wended their way down the rough path to see 
 the great cascade which shakes the old city by day and 
 by night, and fills the air with an everlasting roar of 
 many waters. They stood at the foot of the ravine and 
 watched the two rivers Plevna and Verbas meet and 
 mingle their floods and fling them over the side of the 
 great ravine into the river-bed, where huge boulders and 
 rocks break the waters into foam rich with a thou- 
 sand iridescent colours. 
 
 Then they took a carriage a queer little wooden 
 box devoid of springs or cushions, and drawn by three 
 rough ponies and dashed out to Jezero, the fashionable 
 suburb of the older town, where there was a lake bor- 
 dered with graceful villas surrounded by verandahs. 
 
 Such were Rosamund's memories of Bosnia, for within 
 a few hours they were again in the train, and leaving the 
 swelling wood-clad hills behind them, they rushed into 
 the bare, sun-scorched, awe-inspiring Herzegovina. 
 
 The day was not hot enough to travel in the roofless 
 carriages and the train was stuffy and close, while the 
 limestone dust which lay thick on everything choked 
 them. The passes through which they sped were 
 broken merely by great crags and the sparsest of coarse 
 vegetation. It was all very grand, very lonely, and very 
 terrible. It was only when they came down into the 
 plain of Mosta that lines of green and patches of trees
 
 'MID MOSQUES AND MINARETS 325 
 
 broke the bare aspect of the country. It was growing 
 dusk as they steamed towards the city, but there was 
 light enough to see that Hugh Eraser's keen eyes looked 
 troubled and grave. . 
 
 "They have had a very bad summer here," he said, 
 drawing his head in from the open window. "The 
 tobacco has all been burned up with the heat and there 
 is next to no maize crop." 
 
 "Yes, but look at those lovely pomegranate bushes," 
 cried Rosamund. "I can see their flowers like great 
 flames through the gloom." 
 
 "I am afraid that they are no sign of fertility and a 
 good harvest, but when we drive out to-morrow you will 
 see what an awful climate this place has. They are 
 burnt up for eight months out of the twelve and frozen 
 for the other four. I would sooner live anywhere than 
 here." 
 
 "Even in Albania?" said Rosamund, with a little 
 laugh, for Mr. Fraser's dislike for that country had 
 become a joke with the party. 
 
 At Mosta the hotel was good, and to Rosamund's 
 astonishment the man who attended on them at dinner 
 spoke a fair smattering of English. In the evening they 
 walked out for an hour before retiring to bed. Every 
 door and window of the houses was closed with thick 
 shutters, only the upper stories having light green blinds, 
 which indicated that the harem lay behind them. The 
 housetops were flat, and here and there a head peeped 
 above the coping and stared at the travellers below. 
 The streets were narrow and crowded and smelt most 
 evilly, for Mosta is more than Eastern in its dirt. 
 
 Next morning, before leaving, they went to see the 
 famous bridge that single arch of which the inhabitants 
 are so proud. In the streets, which were bright and
 
 326 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 sunny, although it was October, Rosamund's keen eyes 
 noticed how lazily the men lounged against the houses. 
 No one seemed to work, and when later on they drove 
 through the little fields most of them seeming no bigger 
 than a tablecloth she noticed that they were quite 
 deserted, and that only here and there, at rarest in- 
 tervals, a brown-skinned, prematurely-aged woman 
 scratched the uncongenial soil. They drove across the 
 plain to a little village which clustered round a great 
 house. 
 
 "They are making wine here," said Hugh Fraser. 
 "It is awful stuff, but it is what they drink among them- 
 selves." 
 
 The carriage pulled up, and the whole picturesque 
 scene was before them. Men and women together were 
 working, and the red grapes, the blatimea, and the white 
 Zelenka were brought, mixed together, in rough baskets 
 and low wooden carts. Without being sorted or over- 
 looked they were tossed into a low vat, and there trod- 
 den and pressed in the most primitive fashion. A num- 
 ber of half-naked, brown children scrambled about on 
 the ground among the workers. Their mouths and 
 faces were stained with grape juice, and though they 
 were extremely and unspeakably dirty, they had yet the 
 charm and beauty that appertains to all young things. 
 Rosamund, who had left the carriage, caught one of the 
 little creatures in her arms, and picking it up, pressed 
 its dimpled face against her own. A big, fat woman, 
 who had thrown aside her heavy cloak and was helping 
 to fling the grapes into the wine-press, laughed and 
 nodded at the English girl. 
 
 "Are you so fond of children?" said Fraser. 
 
 "Indeed I am," she answered, hugging the little kick- 
 ing thing to her, and laughing at its impotent struggles
 
 'MID MOSQUES AND MINARETS 327 
 
 to get free. "Who could help loving such funny little 
 beings as these? They would be nicer of course if they 
 were washed, but they are so innocent and so young, and 
 their brown skins are so firm and dimpled that they are 
 quite irresistible." 
 
 She let the little one go after pressing some silver 
 into its dirty, fat palm, and then, leaning against the 
 carriage, began to ask questions about the wine-making 
 and how they tended the vines. Fraser answered her 
 at random, for all his thoughts were occupied with noting 
 her fine physique and frank nature, her perfectly healthy 
 mind and her exquisitely proportioned body. Surely 
 she was destined to be a good mother to handsome chil- 
 dren. 
 
 But she chattered on about the people and the scene. 
 A young Turk came and stood by them and told them 
 that the people hoped to do better with the grapes than 
 they had with the plums that year, that there had been 
 no rain all the summer through, and that the caterpillars 
 had eaten the leaves and the fruit had dried up on the 
 trees. 
 
 "The whole country lives on those kind of things," 
 said Fraser, when he had finished translating to Rosa- 
 mund. "Their tobacco and their plums are the only 
 things they manage to sell to other countries. They 
 drink the wine themselves, and the maize they use for 
 bread. They could do much better if they would only 
 allow Western invention to come to their aid a little." 
 
 But Rosamund was looking now at something else. 
 
 "Ah, see!" she cried. "She is the most typical 
 woman I have seen yet." 
 
 The woman at whom she pointed was evidently a 
 stranger in those parts, for all the people were looking 
 at her. She was dressed in an immensely full pair of
 
 328 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 black shalvars, or Turkish trousers, which by reason 
 of their fulness made her ankles look singularly slender 
 and her feet very small. A little jacket of purple velvet, 
 edged with a narrow fringe of gold, crossed her shoulders 
 and opened over the bosom to show a finely pleated 
 chemisette of white crepe. On her head was a small 
 turban, kept in its place by large gold pins and from 
 beneath which her black hair hung in two long plaits 
 which were fastened at the ends by golden ornaments. 
 
 "She comes from the Bosnian frontier, I think," said 
 Fraser. "How picturesque she is, and how well you 
 would look in a dress like that." 
 
 Mr. Kerquham leaned out of the carriage. 
 
 "Rosamund, when we get back to Mosta we must try 
 and get a costume like that for you. I will paint you in 
 it." 
 
 They drove back to Mosta by the light of the setting 
 sun. 
 
 "How short the days are getting," sighed Rosamund, 
 as they turned their backs on the merry group of wine- 
 makers. 
 
 "Yes, it is almost the middle of October," said 
 Fraser. 
 
 The thought that this fast-aging old man and this 
 young girl were going in a few days to leave behind 
 them every vestige of civilisation and go alone into an 
 absolutely unknown country struck him again, and he 
 resolved to make another effort to prevent what he con- 
 sidered a most foolish expedition. He called up to the 
 driver in Italian: "When does your winter begin here? 
 You must have had enough of this hot weather." 
 
 The man leaned back in his seat, letting his horses go 
 their own way.
 
 >MID MOSQUES AND MINARETS 329 
 
 "The summer has been terrible," he said in his 
 bastard language; "but the winter will be worse." 
 
 "What do you mean by that?" asked Mr. Kerquham. 
 
 "We have had no rain all the summer, signer. The 
 sky has been cloudless for many months, but Allah is 
 just and makes everything equal, and what does not fall 
 in the summer must come down in the winter." 
 
 "Then you fear the snows?" 
 
 "We get winds here and rains," said the man, "but 
 from the mountains the workpeople are coming down 
 fast. The Italians are hurrying home. They do not 
 like the cold, and a brother of mine who works at Cataro 
 says the town is crowded, for there is no money to be 
 earned in the Highlands until the spring comes." 
 
 "Attend to your horses, my good man," cried Mr. 
 Kerquham, sharply, for he guessed the drift that the 
 conversation would take. Then, with the obstinacy of 
 a man who feels that he has made a mistake in the 
 beginning, but intends to go through with it, he turned 
 to Rosamund and said: "If there is any chance of the 
 weather breaking, we had better go to Cettinje at once. 
 The sooner we get into the Highlands, the sooner we 
 shall be in some sweet, sheltered spot in Greece." 
 
 "You think of going on to Greece?" asked Fraser. 
 
 "I am not quite sure. I shall see. Sometimes I 
 fancy I shall make for Constantinople." 
 
 The sun had set by now, and over the plain a grey 
 dimness had crept. Mosta, with its low houses and .fair 
 white minarets, looked like a dream city in the distance. 
 Rosamund leaned back as well as she could in the rough 
 carriage and sighed. It seemed a pity that Mr. Fraser 
 should worry so about the journey into Albania. Every- 
 thing had been so pleasant up till now. The people
 
 330 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 were courteous, the hotels were good, and the cities and 
 sights were beautiful. It was to her a very pleasant 
 way of travelling more congenial to her by far than 
 putting up in the huge caravanseras and spending long 
 weary days in picture galleries and museums. She 
 almost wished that he would not be so persistent. It 
 would be so much better to leave things as they were, 
 and let her uncle carry through his pet scheme.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 THE WIFE OF A GENTLEMAN WELL KNOWN IN 
 THE BEST SOCIETY 
 
 THE further out of the beaten track Rosamund and her 
 uncle travelled, the more did Mr. Kerquham's health 
 and spirits seem to improve. The autumn days were 
 perfectly radiant, and the scenery through which they 
 passed was the most exquisite they had ever seen. The 
 valleys which lay between the wooded hills had already 
 been cleared of their crops of maize and rye, and the 
 tobacco fields had almost everywhere been stripped, but 
 it was easy to see in those low lands, which are often 
 inundated in the spring months and where the climate 
 is always warm and moist, that the crops had been good 
 and that fertility was the general rule. The little vil- 
 lages, too, although poor and simple, were well kept, and 
 the huts of wattle and mud were in good repair and 
 occupied by a contented people. 
 
 At Cettinje they left the train for good and all. The 
 evening before they left the tiny capital of Montenegro, 
 which in the distance looked like nothing more than a 
 handful of rocks strewed upon an arid plain, Hugh 
 Fraser took Rosamund to the bazaar, and there made 
 ner buy one of the heavy cloaks which the country peo- 
 ple wear during the winter. In vain she argued that she 
 had some furs with her, a sealskin coat, and a boa of 
 sable. 
 
 33'
 
 33 2 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 "You won't regret your purchase," he answered, 
 "and after all, if you don't want it, you can bestow it in 
 charity on some one who does." 
 
 The guide they engaged was called Matia. He was 
 tall, lithe, and fair of hair, like all the Miridite tribe 
 Highlanders who live in the fastnesses of the Black 
 Mountains of Montenegro and the north of Albania. He 
 did not wear the loose, easy clothes of the Turk, or the 
 flowing petticoats and embroidered jacket of the coun- 
 try, for his lower limbs were clothed in tight trousers. 
 About his waist he carried such arms as he could afford 
 and a yatakhan. Across his back was strapped the uni- 
 versally worn long-barrelled Martini-Peabody rifle, and 
 the close-fitting cap on his head was bound round his 
 brows by a twisted red shawl. He was a Skreli guide, 
 and had passed his whole life between the ports of 
 Cataro, San Giovanni di Medua, and the capital, and had 
 even so he said been over to Italy. He spoke a 
 language which he called Italian, but which bore a very 
 distant resemblance to such. Neither Rosamund nor 
 Hugh Fraser liked him, for his fine blue eyes had a 
 queer trick of shifting from the face of the person to 
 whom he spoke, but he pleased Mr. Kerquham with his 
 picturesque, swaggering air and his assurances that he 
 knew every pass that led over the Charra Dagh Moun- 
 tains into Turkey. It was Matia, too, who, when Rosa- 
 mund and Fraser pointed out to Mr. Kerquham the 
 crowds of labourers, Italians, Swiss, Austrians, and Hun- 
 garians, who were trooping from the uplands towards 
 the sea coast, laughed at the implication that they were 
 fleeing before coming bad weather. 
 
 "They have earned their money," he cried, airily, and 
 shrugging his fine shoulders. "They are going home to 
 spend it."
 
 THE WIFE OF A GENTLEMAN 333 
 
 "But I heard some of the Swiss say that the snows 
 were falling already in the Highlands." interposed Rosa- 
 mund. 
 
 "What can mademoiselle expect? It is not always 
 summer. But a little snow should not frighten the Eng- 
 lish people." 
 
 Mr. Kerquham turned sharply on his niece. 
 
 "Rosamund, once and for all, I tell you that I will 
 brook no interference in this matter. For some reason 
 of your own you have set your face against this expedi- 
 tion. If you are afraid to go with me, say so at once, 
 and I will arrange that you return to Scotland while I 
 go on by myself." 
 
 Rosamund flushed a little at her uncle's words, but 
 she answered as sweetly and as patiently as ever: 
 "Uncle, you know I would not do such a thing, and if I 
 dread this journey it is on your account, dear. I am only 
 afraid that it will prove too rough and uncomfortable 
 for you." 
 
 The artist drew himself up to his full height, and for 
 a moment looked quite his former self. 
 
 "Pooh! my dear," he cried with a light laugh. 
 "There is plenty of life in me yet; you need not be 
 afraid on my account." 
 
 That night, after he had retired to rest, Rosamund, 
 full of doubt and fearful of what the future might bring 
 forth, slipped out of her room again and went down the 
 narrow stairs to the general sitting-room, where they 
 had all dined together. The hotel was a very rough 
 one a foretaste of what they were to find further up 
 the country. In one corner of the room two solemn 
 Turkish merchants were smoking their nargilehs. A 
 Montenegran gentleman one of the Prince's court with 
 rich embroidery and gold bosses on his red velvet gyves,
 
 334 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 a spotlessly white and stiffly kilted petticoat, a vest of 
 scarlet covered with fine gold thread, which in its turn 
 was partly hidden by the large silver butts of the pistols 
 thrust into his sash, was talking to Mr. Fraser, who 
 in his rough cloth suit and flannel shirt looked peculiarly 
 unpicturesque among such surroundings. At sight of 
 her the two men stopped talking. The Montenegran 
 rose from his seat, and making a bow first to Rosamund 
 and then to Mr. Fraser, left the room. 
 
 Rosamund looked after him. 
 
 "What splendid fellows these are." 
 
 "Yes," said Hugh Fraser, "and very good chaps to 
 boot. I have been having a long talk with him. He is 
 the Prince's chamberlain, and hears most things that go 
 on in these parts." 
 
 Miss Keith laughed as she sat down in the vacant 
 chair and leaned her elbows on the table. 
 
 "Well, and what is the local news?" 
 
 "May I smoke?" asked Hugh Fraser by way of 
 answer. 
 
 Rosamund nodded. 
 
 "I shall probably have to take to doing it myself if 
 we go very much farther afield. Some of the inns we 
 have passed the last day or two did not look very invit- 
 ing." 
 
 Hugh Fraser pulled two or three times at his pipe, for 
 like all travellers he refused to be bound down by the 
 strictures of cigar smoking. 
 
 "Miss Keith," he began suddenly, fixing his eyes on 
 the opposite wall and knitting his hands together in a 
 way that Rosamund had learned to know meant a certain 
 amount of embarrassment, "must you go on this jour- 
 ney?" 
 
 "You heard what my uncle said this evening, Mr.
 
 THE WIFE OF A GENTLEMAN 335 
 
 Eraser. I have done my best to make him alter his mind, 
 but he is not easy to influence nowadays. He suffered a 
 great grief last year and he often " 
 
 "Oh! you are trying to excuse him, I know, for his 
 whims and sharp words, but I have not minded them. 
 He is an older man than I am, and, besides, every one 
 is entitled to his own opinions. Still I don't like your 
 going on this trip." 
 
 "What more can I do?" asked Rosamund. 
 
 Fraser smoked hard for a moment. Then he pulled 
 his pipe from his mouth and laid it on the table. 
 
 "Do you think your uncle would undertake this jour- 
 ney quite alone?" 
 
 "I don't think he would, although he says that noth- 
 ing would alter his determination." 
 
 "Why not try the experiment?" suggested Fraser. 
 "Why not tell him to-morrow that you absolutely refuse 
 to go on?" 
 
 "Oh! I could not do that. I have no reason," re- 
 turned Rosamund, clasping her slim white hands on the 
 rough wooden table, and looking in Mr. Fraser's face 
 with anxious eyes. 
 
 "Make me the reason," said Hugh Fraser. 
 
 "You? I don't understand." 
 
 "Yes! me." 
 
 He loosed his hands and slipped one across the table 
 until his fingers lay close to Rosamund's. "Miss Keith, 
 will you marry me? Oh! please do not think I am ask- 
 ing you to be my wife out of any pity," he added in a 
 pained voice as he saw her start. "I am not a ladies' 
 man, I know. I have lived too rough a life and been too 
 much by myself to have very fine manners or to know 
 quite the kind of way in which to make up to women, but I 
 have admired you ever since that first evening I saw you
 
 33 6 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 up at Zermatt, and in a very few hours admiration 
 changed into something else, and ever since then I have 
 only been waiting for a chance of asking you to be my 
 wife. The chance has come now. You want a reason 
 we both want a reason to stop this mad journey. Let 
 us go to your uncle to-morrow morning and tell him we 
 are going to be married in Vienna, Paris, London, 
 where you will, so long as we tan get him to leave this 
 and come west with us at once." 
 
 From the far corner Rosamund heard the gentle gur- 
 gle of the nargilehs and the murmurous voices of the 
 cross-legged Turks. From the streets there seemed to 
 come no sounds at all. The bare room faded away, the 
 walls melted into trees, and the flaring lamp into a white, 
 round moon. Again she heard Paul's voice in the gar- 
 den of "The Hurst," telling her that he loved her and 
 would be faithful to her forever. Again she felt the 
 pressure of his hands and the touch of his lips against 
 her cheek as he asked her to marry him. How long ago 
 all that seemed! Life at "The Hurst" was like a dream, 
 and Paul Paul, for all she knew, was dead, or if he were 
 alive, could not marry her. For sixteen months she had 
 had no sign from him. She did not know whether he was 
 true to her memory or whether his heart still beat. 
 
 And then the London garden faded away, and Paul's 
 voice died in the distance, and before her lay an awful 
 range of mountain passes and wild gorges filled with a 
 savage people or with a solitude that was even more ter- 
 rible. In her ears there rang the changed notes of her 
 uncle's voice, the tones of a man who had lost the savour 
 of life, and who only sought to speed the few last years 
 by perpetual change and a feverish desire of excitement. 
 
 As in a dream her past and future melted into the 
 present, the little room in the Montenegran inn and
 
 THE WIFE OF A GENTLEMAN 337 
 
 Hugh Fraser. She never for a moment doubted his sin- 
 cerity, she never for one second dreamed that he would 
 be anything but a most loving and true husband to her. 
 She grieved within her own heart that she could not just 
 move her hand and lay her fingers in his and tell him 
 that she would be his wife. It was almost a prophetic 
 instinct that made her wish that she could go away with 
 him at once and turn her back upon all this mysterious 
 wild East, and just wander through the world with his 
 broad shoulders and strong arms to keep trouble and 
 anxiety from her. But she could not even formulate the 
 wish clearly to herself, and an invisible force locked her 
 hands within one another so that she could not move 
 them. 
 
 "Will you give me your answer now, or would you 
 rather wait till the morning?" asked Fraser. 
 
 But Rosamund feared what the thoughts and tempta- 
 tions of the night might be, so she turned her soft eyes 
 on him and answered him: 
 
 "I thank you, Mr. Fraser, but I cannot marry you. 
 I am not so foolish as to believe that you are merely 
 asking me to be your wife out of pity. I do not think 
 you are the sort of man who would marry a woman 
 unless you really loved her, and it is because I feel sure 
 that you love me that I must say No. I could not give 
 you half of myself. My heart belongs already to another 
 man." 
 
 "And he?" whispered Fraser, leaning forward eagerly. 
 
 Rosamund shook her head. 
 
 "I do not know where he is. If he is alive my heart 
 is in his keeping. If he is dead, it is in his grave. It 
 is not mine to give." 
 
 Hugh Fraser struck a match and lit his pipe again. 
 
 "I am sorry, Miss Keith, that I have been too late."
 
 33$ THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 They both rose from the table and walked across the 
 room to the foot of the stairs. There he held out his 
 hand. 
 
 "Then to-night it is, I am afraid, 'Good-bye.' ' 
 
 "Good-bye!" she cried, a sudden fear blanching her 
 cheek and catching at her heart. "You are going 
 to leave us?" 
 
 "I had a telegram to-day which forces me to return to 
 England. I had hoped that you would have gone with 
 me. If before dawn you think differently, give me a 
 sign, and I will wait for you." 
 
 "You go at dawn!" 
 
 "Yes. But for you I should have gone to-night." 
 
 She took a voiceless farewell of him, simply clasping 
 his big brown hand in her two slender ones, and then 
 passing from his sight up the dingy staircase. 
 
 At her uncle's door Rosamund listened. Mr. Kerqu- 
 ham was already asleep. The future did not trouble 
 him at all. To-morrow he was going to start for the 
 mountains and for the life of solitude and strange scenes 
 which he so much desired. 
 
 For an hour Rosamund paced her narrow chamber. 
 Never for one moment did her trust and faith in Paul 
 falter, but the physical fear that comes even to the brav- 
 est at times was heavy upon her. She had struggled so 
 hard, to prevent this journey. She was so sure in her 
 own mind that the expedition could be of no good, that 
 to be forced to give up the last hope of escape from it 
 frightened her. It seemed as though the hand of Fate 
 were dragging her somewhere against her will, as though 
 everything were against her, and as if she were being 
 forced into some unknown land filled with vague terrors 
 and indefinite formless shapes which threatened evil. 
 
 All the night through she struggled with her fears,
 
 THE WIFE OF A GENTLEMAN 339 
 
 telling herself a thousand times that other people had 
 travelled into wild countries without undue danger or 
 difficulties. A thousand times, too, she was tempted to 
 devise some signal by which she could stay Mr. Eraser's 
 going in the morning, but the hours slipped by and the 
 black night grew grey, and she was still merely a fright- 
 ened, undecided girl. 
 
 At dawn the clatter of hoofs in the street below car- 
 ried her with swift feet to her window. He was going. 
 His well-worn portmanteaux were flung across a mule's 
 back, his rugs and sticks, tied in a rough bundle, were 
 shouldered by a strapping porter. A moment later and 
 he himself walked out into the roadway, wearing the 
 rough iron-shod boots, the shabby dittoes, and the form- 
 less hat in which she had first seen him. He was smok- 
 ing, but as the sun leaped over the hills and flung its first 
 pale rays across the plain he looked up at the shuttered 
 face of the house. At that moment Rosamund would 
 have given her soul to have been able to cry out to him 
 to stay or to have pushed aside the shutter and beck- 
 oned with her hand to him; but everything was dead 
 within her except her eyes, and they, haggard and miser- 
 able, watched him, after a moment's pause, swing him- 
 self into the saddle and ride slowly down the street. At 
 the corner he turned, and shading his eyes from the 
 morning sun, once more looked back. As Rosamund 
 almost found voice a heavy sob caught in her throat and 
 a rush of tears blinded her sight. When she had dashed 
 them away he was gone. 
 
 Too weary and heartsick even to lie on the bed, 
 Rosamund bathed her tired eyes, and then to pass the 
 hours till her uncle should call her, opened the bundle 
 of letters and newspapers she had found on her arrival 
 the previous day.
 
 340 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 Her correspondence was meagre and uninteresting, 
 and the papers but little better. But in idly turning the 
 Times over in her listless hands her attention was caught 
 by a paragraph and a name! 
 
 The few lines stated that a woman of the unfortunate 
 class had been knocked down and run over in the Strand. 
 At the hospital, after her death, one of her own kind had 
 identified her by the name of Kitty Clyde. Some humble 
 folk from Oxford had also come to London and claimed 
 the body. The woman had been at one time the wife of 
 a gentleman well known in the best society, from whom 
 she had been divorced. The gentleman's name did not 
 transpire. 
 
 "Good God!" cried Rosamund, holding the paper 
 before her pale face with hands that shook like leaves. 
 "That was the name of Paul's wife and she is dead. 
 Oh! heaven forgive me that I am thankful for he he is 
 free. Paul is free as air, and there is now no bar to our 
 marriage." 
 
 The words died on her lips, the tide of living joy froze 
 in her throat, and a great wail broke from her. 
 
 "Paul! Paul! my beloved do you know this thing, 
 or are you lost to me forever? Ah! God is too 
 unkind. He has given you to me so often, and each 
 time each time you have been taken away." 
 
 With trembling fingers she cut the paragraph from 
 the paper. 
 
 "At least at least I have been saved from one 
 great mistake. If I had said Yes to Hugh Fraser last 
 night and known the truth too late, what should I have 
 done? What should I have done? I think the irony of 
 it would have killed me." 
 
 As she grew calmer she fell on her knees and prayed 
 that the bitter cup might in time pass from her, and that
 
 THE WIFE OF A GENTLEMAN 341 
 
 some day not too far off she and Paul might meet 
 once more as happy lovers. 
 
 Her prayers were crossed at last by her uncle's voice 
 calling her to his room. 
 
 She went to him, thankful that the dim light hid her 
 white face and tear-stained eyes. 
 
 "Were those our horses come already?" asked Mr. 
 Kerquham, eagerly. 
 
 "No, uncle. It is Mr. Fraser, who has gone away." 
 
 "Well, I am not sorry," said Mr. Kerquham. "He 
 was very interfering the last few days, and for some rea- 
 son or other did all he could to put you against our 
 expedition. But now, my dear, we are all by ourselves, 
 and I will see that lad, Matia, this afternoon and arrange 
 everything for our start to-morrow. Rosamund, my 
 child, we are going to have a beautiful journey. From 
 what people tell me, we shall see the loveliest country 
 in the world and places that have not yet been spoilt by 
 men and by civilisation. We are going to be face to 
 face with Nature in her wildest and grandest moods. 
 As you pack, dear, see that all my sketching things are 
 handy. I expect I shall want them every mile of the 
 road." 
 
 And Rosamund, patient and quiet, holding to the 
 promise she had made herself to be the faithful compan- 
 ion of her uncle, passed the day in packing and repack- 
 ing their belongings, for as yet her new-found joy was 
 too sweetly sacred to be shared even with her only com- 
 panion. 
 
 They were to take merely the barest necessities with 
 them. Everything else was to be sent on to Athens by 
 train. 
 
 Only once during that day did the mantle of forebod- 
 ing and heaviness drop from her. Matia, _the guide,
 
 34 2 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 brought a string of horses round to the door, from which 
 his new employers were to choose their mounts, and 
 Rosamund, with her old love for animals roused within 
 her, spent an hour among them. They were all small, 
 light of build, and obviously half-bred Arabs. Most of 
 them were half-broken, but were young and warranted 
 sure-footed. She was amused at the way in which they 
 were shod, with flat plates covering the entire frog of the 
 hoof and strangely curled up nails set all round. 
 
 "That is to give them a good grip," explained Matia 
 in his strange Italian. "We have rough work before 
 us." 
 
 Rosamund chose a grey mare for her uncle. She 
 seemed a quiet creature, with large soft eyes, and 
 nestled her head against the girl's shoulder in a most 
 engaging way. For herself she chose a chestnut horse, 
 a fine upstanding animal, who looked to have plenty of 
 pace in him if he were put to it. Some mules were then 
 brought, and wooden pack-saddles, clumsy, ill-made 
 things, on which the luggage was to be placed. A small 
 boy, who, according to Matia and the innkeeper, was a 
 Miridite, but who looked to Rosamund's inexperienced 
 eyes a very swarthy gipsy, was engaged to drive the 
 mules. This done, Mr. Kerquham considered that he 
 had made all necessary arrangements, and it was not 
 until Rosamund asked him tentatively if he intended to 
 carry any arms with him or not, that, accompanied by 
 Matia, he wandered down to the bazaar and invested in 
 an out-of-date pair of heavy pistols. 
 
 The news that a party of Europeans were going to 
 start for the Albanian Highlands the next day had spread 
 through the little town by eventide, and to celebrate the 
 event, as well as to wring some money out of the travel- 
 lers, a large party of dancers and musicians came up to
 
 THE WIFE OF A GENTLEMAN 343 
 
 the inn in the evening. With great formality the host, 
 a truculent-looking gentleman who walked about his own 
 house armed to the teeth, begged that the visitors would 
 patronise the entertainment. 
 
 It was a very cold evening, and Rosamund wrapped 
 both herself and her uncle in heavy cloaks before they 
 went out on to the terrace, where the dancing was to 
 take place. The moon lay low on the horizon and gave 
 but little light, but some spluttering lanterns hung on 
 poles lent an intermittent illumination to the strange 
 scene. Seats were brought for the English visitors, the 
 rest of the company either stood or sat cross-legged in 
 a ring. Then there flitted into the centre a man and a 
 woman, who began the national dance, with springs and 
 bounds and arms waved high above their heads. As the 
 dance went on they twisted their bodies when in the air, 
 and when a couple retired exhausted another took their 
 place. The exercise was certainly violent, and as a 
 gymnastic entertainment not unworthy of notice, but it 
 could scarcely be called dancing. Rosamund was better 
 pleased with a girl who, with her legs tucked under her, 
 began to play the ghauzla, a one-stringed instrument not 
 unlike a mandolin. Some of the girls sang to it, and 
 the music was plaintive and wild, like that of all the 
 mountainous countries. The native audience seemed so 
 in love with it that they stayed on the terrace half through 
 the night, and long after Rosamund had lain down to 
 rest she heard the wail of the monotonous, single string 
 and the plaintive voices which seemed to sing to her of 
 Paul. 
 
 The strange, sad music still throbbed in Rosamund's 
 ears during the next few days, as they wandered through 
 the beautiful Zeta valley, past old monasteries and ruined 
 forts, and by quaint villages, where Matia and the boy
 
 344 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 cooked the food they had brought with them in the 
 khans by the roadside. It beat in time to the horses' 
 hoofs as they clattered over the rough highways and 
 narrow wooden bridges. It seemed to echo back at her 
 from the sides of the lofty Dormitor, and to wander with 
 the wind through the forests of beech which were now a 
 blaze of gold and crimson and were casting about their 
 feet a brilliant carpet. It seemed to echo the mingled 
 joy and passion in her heart when they passed whole 
 families by the roadside, shaking with the malaria and 
 the agues that in the autumn months sap the health of 
 the dwellers in the valleys and plains. She hummed 
 snatches of the strange tunes while she ate the black, 
 gritty bread they bought in the villages, or made believe, 
 to please her uncle, that she enjoyed the sour jam called 
 bestilj.
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 THE GANDER FIGHT 
 
 THE progress of the little caravan proved to be a very 
 slow one, for Mr. Kerquham, on the plea of lingering 
 among the gorgeous valleys that lay between the spurs 
 of the Albanian Alps, never rode many miles a day. 
 Only Rosamund, who knew every tone of his voice and 
 expression of his face, was fearful that it was fatigue 
 that made him, after a few hours, dismount from his 
 high-peaked saddle and seek the shelter of some squalid 
 wayside khan. But he had all the obstinacy of a man 
 who knows his health is failing, and only answered her 
 tender inquiries with assurances that he was quite well. 
 
 Day by day the stages that they travelled grew 
 shorter, and day by day, although the sky was clear and 
 the sun shone brilliantly, the winds that blew down the 
 valleys grew more keen and the evening hours brought 
 with them a touch of sharp frost. When they started at 
 dawn Matia would shiver and utter strange oaths between 
 his chattering teeth, and tie the ends of the red shawl 
 that bound his brows under his chin. Still Mr. Kerqu- 
 ham persisted that no snow ever fell, even in the highest 
 passes, until the beginning of the new year, and that 
 long before that they would be basking amid the olive 
 groves of Greece. 
 
 For several days they had travelled amid the wildest 
 and most lonely scenery. All verdure was left behind 
 them long ago, and they seemed to be locked in an end- 
 
 345
 
 346 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 less valley formed of giant rocks and frowning crags, 
 where only here and there a hardy pine tree had thrust 
 its roots into some little cranny and found sustenance 
 for its funereal foliage in the scant earth. A stream 
 tumbled far below the road. Its waters were thick and 
 bluish. Rosamund looked down at it one morning as 
 they rode and said to her uncle: 
 
 "There must have been snow somewhere, uncle. 
 That is snow water surely." 
 
 Matia, when he was questioned, shrugged his shoul- 
 ders and said in his bad Italian that possibly the signorina 
 was right. 
 
 That day there was a new sensation in the air. It 
 was sharp and keen and almost cut the skin as it whipped 
 across their faces. Mr. Kerquham was not in his usual 
 bright spirits, although he would not acknowledge any 
 illness to Rosamund. She begged him hard to stop and 
 rest at the small khans, which in this lonely part of the 
 country were merely little caves built of loose stones 
 rolled one upon the other, but the guide urged him to 
 go on. There was a village, he said, higher up the 
 gorge, called Rosega. They might rest there for a day 
 or two if they pleased, and the beasts could get some 
 fresh food, and they might all be warmed and better fed. 
 Rosamund joined her entreaties to his, and early in the 
 afternoon they rounded a sharp spur in the valley and saw 
 above them a tiny village a mere handful of mud huts 
 clustered close about a whitewashed mosque and tucked 
 into the hollow of the mountain side. To Rosamund's 
 surprise, the narrow road that lay between them and Ro- 
 sega was dotted with various groups of hurrying people. 
 
 "What is going on?" she asked Matia. "Where do 
 all these people come from, and why are they running 
 towards the village?"
 
 THE GANDER FIGHT 347 
 
 Matia grinned until he showed all his white teeth. 
 
 "There is a great feast at Rosega to-night. They 
 are going to have a Gander Fight, and the people have 
 come down from the hills to see it." 
 
 "But how do you know?" said Rosamund. 
 
 Matia looked at her with his fine eyes half closed in a 
 scornful way. 
 
 "The signorina did not notice me speak to one who 
 passed us on the way this morning. He was the herald 
 sent out to warn the countryside of the fight that is 
 going to take place this afternoon." 
 
 Rosamund, as she urged her weary horse up the steep 
 slope, remembered that some hours back a rough fellow 
 had passed them and had exchanged a nod and word 
 with Matia as he went by. That was the reason evi- 
 dently that the, guide was so anxious to reach the village 
 quickly. 
 
 But she, too, would be glad to be once more amongst 
 people, even if it were the unwashed natives, for the 
 loneliness of the great mountains and the awful silence 
 that had wrapped her round for days past were weighing 
 heavily on her nerves and spirits. Yet as they forced 
 their horses among the filthy, ragged crowd that thronged 
 the narrow streets of Rosega, she repented that they had 
 come. Where could they rest that night? The squalor 
 and dirt were something unspeakable, and she grew faint 
 and sick when Matia drew up before the principal khan 
 of the place, and helping her down, showed her into the 
 room where they would have to eat and pass the evening. 
 At least, out on the solitary hillside, where there were 
 but few people save the shepherds, the lodgings they 
 had had, though rough, had been cleaner than this. She 
 was for mounting her weary horse again and pressing on, 
 but a glance at her uncle's face, which was paler than
 
 34 8 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 its wont, was enough. At all costs they must rest there 
 that night, so once more she helped Matia to unstrap the 
 bedding from the wooden pack-saddles and arrange the 
 wraps and pillows they had with them. 
 
 She was so busy in settling their belongings for her 
 uncle's comfort that she did not notice a large crowd 
 gathering in the open space before the khan. When at 
 last her ears and her sense of smell made her realise the 
 fact, she turned to Matia: 
 
 "What are they going to do? Why is there such a 
 crowd?" 
 
 "It is the Gander Fight!" cried the guide. "It takes 
 place here; come and see, signorina; come and see!" 
 
 Against her will, he seized her by the arm and 
 dragged her through the evil-smelling crowd, which, 
 with a certain rough politeness, made way for her, and 
 led her into the front row of spectators. A space had 
 been cleared, and round it were grouped a ring of men 
 and women. The latter were born Mohammedans, but 
 under the plea of having become Christians, they had 
 cast aside their veils and mingled freely with the men. 
 The first two or three rows of spectators were crouched 
 on their knees. Behind them stood, ten deep, an excited 
 throng. Many of the men wore the soft, spotless white 
 skirts of the country; others had the tight, close-fitting 
 trousers of the true mountaineers. The Mussulmans 
 had the loose, ungraceful costume of the Turk, but the 
 fez was universal, and every man was engirdled with a 
 whole armoury of pistols and swords. 
 
 Amid cries of exultation and excitement, the ganders 
 two fine birds which had been trained to their work and 
 fed for some weeks on a particular herb to render them 
 fierce and pugnacious were brought into the circle. The 
 owners of the creatures gesticulated wildly to one
 
 THE GANDER FIGHT 349 
 
 another, and Rosamund guessed that they were wagering 
 on their chances of success. Then, urged on by cries, 
 the two birds began to fight. After a few moments 
 Rosamund shut her eyes, for she could not force her 
 way back through the crowd that pressed so closely be- 
 hind her. She wished that Providence would close her 
 ears too, for by the shouts and yells, the shrieks of anger 
 and the clamour of encouragement, she could gather 
 how the battle was going. 
 
 High above the general din rang the shrill peal of a 
 girl's laugh. She was next to Rosamund, who had 
 noticed her for her fair beauty, her glorious eyes and 
 scarlet mouth. Between her bursts of laughter, Rosa- 
 mund could hear her in a sneering tone speaking to those 
 behind her, and her instinct warned her that this wild 
 daughter of the mountains was laughing at the ultra- 
 refinement of the English woman, who, for all the 
 vaunted bravery of her race, turned pale at the sight of 
 blood. 
 
 For what seemed a lifetime the riot and noise and 
 excitement endured. She found afterwards that two 
 hours had passed before one bird had so completely 
 vanquished the other that there was neither pluck nor 
 struggle left in him. When Matia touched her arm and 
 told her that it was all over, she staggered to her feet 
 stiffly, for she had become cramped crouched down upon 
 her knees. She gave one hurried glance towards the 
 spot where the fight had been. It was strewn with feath- 
 ers and blood, and a wretched carcass, that once had 
 been a bird but was now a mere mass of bleeding flesh, 
 lay upon the ground. A fight between two men was 
 going on at the further corner, and she hurried into the 
 khan so that the sound of blows and angry words should 
 not reach her.
 
 350 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 She found her uncle standing at the door lighting his 
 pipe. Matia then built the fire, and leaving it to burn 
 went out into the village to see what he could get to 
 eat. A moment later he returned, preceded by a tall, 
 handsome man, splendidly dressed in the national cos- 
 tume. 
 
 "It is the Agha a great man in Rosega, " whispered 
 Matia in Rosamund's ear. "He has come to bid you 
 sup with him to-night." 
 
 It suited Matia that the invitation should be accepted 
 by the English travellers, for it meant that he, too, 
 would be treated as a guest in his capacity of interpreter. 
 
 The Agha stood in the doorway of the khan, while his 
 .invitation was translated and accepted. He dropped his 
 hand to his knee, as though he were raising the hem of a 
 garment, then raised it to his chest, his mouth and his 
 forehead. It was the gesture of greeting and respect of 
 the country, and infinitely picturesque and suggestive. 
 Then the great Boluk-Bashi swung out of the khan and 
 took his gorgeously apparelled form up the road to his 
 own quaint home, where a feast in honour of the stran- 
 gers was being organised. 
 
 "It will be dark before they eat," said Matia. "Will 
 not the signorina go down to the well and see the women 
 drawing water? The sun will be set in half an hour." 
 
 Anxious to get away from the horrible lodging and to 
 breathe again a little pure air, Rosamund gladly went 
 outside, and following the main road soon reached the 
 rough mud wall and heavy wooden gate that formed 
 the boundary of the town. After the noise and bustle 
 that had accompanied the Gander Fight it soothed her to 
 find the streets so quiet. 
 
 Only one figure broke the solitude, that of an old 
 man, white-locked and bearded. He wore the close-fit-
 
 THE GANDER FIGHT 351 
 
 ting Miridite costume, and was crouched on a low stone 
 with a long-barrelled Martini-Peabody rifle laid across his 
 knees. 
 
 Rosamund thought he was a guard set at the gate, 
 till she saw him with a savage growl spring to his feet. 
 The door of a house a little larger and cleaner than the 
 rest had been flung wide, and a man whom she recog- 
 nised as the Agha appeared in the centre of a crowd of 
 young men and children. They were closely followed 
 by half a dozen Turkish zaptiehs. 
 
 The old man sank down on the stone as with flashing 
 eyes and haughty mien the cavalcade swept past. 
 
 Matia's laugh sounded in Rosamund's ears. 
 
 "He's clever is the Agha. He and the old one there 
 started a blood feud at 'Ramazin' five year ago. Grey- 
 beard has sat at his gates ever since, but the Agha never 
 goes out alone, and has besides asked for a guard from 
 the State. But, signorina, here come the women from the 
 well." 
 
 A score of women were coming through the gate. 
 Those who were in their first youth were surpassingly 
 beautiful, with exquisite white skins and golden hair that 
 fell in long plaits to their knees. Their forms were lithe 
 and supple, and their natural grace was in no way hidden 
 by the loose trousers and short embroidered jackets that 
 they wore. The more coquettish of the girls had bound 
 their sashes so closely round their forms that they looked 
 as slender as sylphs. Each carried on her head a metal 
 water pot, which glittered in the last rays of the sinking 
 sun. 
 
 Chief among them was the girl who had been next her 
 at the Gander Fight. Her eyes were of a deep blue, and 
 her hair was thick and long. Her dress was of richer 
 material than was that of her companions, and of finer
 
 35 2 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 colour. Heavy bracelets of gold jangled on her slender 
 wrists as she swung the pot from her head to the well's 
 side, and the long, loose coat that she wore was held 
 together across her bosom by two huge bosses of gold 
 set with uncut turquoises. Rosamund heard the others 
 call her Kitza, and noticed that they all paid her some 
 deference. She was evidently an aristocrat among these 
 poverty-stricken villagers. 
 
 As Rosamund went through the gloom back to the 
 village and the khan she passed Matia, the guide. He 
 was holding close converse with two dark men whose 
 head shawls were dragged so closely about their mouths 
 that the lower parts of their faces could not be seen. 
 They were more than common tall, and singularly 
 swarthy when contrasted with the fair Albanians of the 
 Highlands. They were speaking, too, in a language she 
 had never heard before. She would scarcely have 
 noticed them, perhaps, save that as she approached, 
 Matia laid his hands upon his lips, and the two men 
 slipped back among the bushes. She thought no more 
 of it, however, for, arrived at the khan, she found her 
 uncle awaiting her impatiently, and Matia, who had 
 somehow arrived there before her, urged an immediate 
 start for the Agha's house. 
 
 A fire made from small trees gave them a warm wel- 
 come. It leaped from the centre of the floor and flared 
 ruddily almost up to the low ceiling. In honour of the 
 strangers' visit, the Agha had donned fresh clothes. 
 A small fez decked with an enormous blue silk tassel cov- 
 ered that part of his head which was shaved. The rest 
 of his hair was cut very close. Instead of his full kilt, 
 he wore tight-fitting trousers, seamed with heavy stripes 
 of gold lace. His waistcoat of crimson velvet was com-
 
 THE GANDER FIGHT 353 
 
 pletely covered with gold embroidery and rows of finely 
 wrought buttons. The short jacket was also stiff with 
 needlework, and the jack boots, which reached to his 
 knees, were covered with a fantastic design of gold and 
 silver wire. He had laid aside his yatakhan, but the 
 three heavy pistols he wore in his crimson sash had butts 
 of sparkling silver. 
 
 He welcomed his guests with considerable grace, and 
 led them to a low wooden stool, which, so far as Rosa- 
 mund could see by the fitful firelight, was the only furni- 
 ture in 'the large room. Directly they were placed 
 several stalwart men entered, bearing on a huge spit a 
 newly-killed sheep, which was set above the fire to roast. 
 .Matia at the sight beamed with delight, for a sheep 
 roasted whole is the greatest honour that an Albanian 
 mountain chief can show to his guests. Of plates and 
 knives and forks the feast was innocent, but Rosamund 
 was hungry, and to her own astonishment was able to 
 eat with a certain amount of enjoyment the pieces of 
 meat which the Agha offered her from time to time. 
 Some cakes steeped in honey and a dish of sheep's kid- 
 neys were the next delicacies. The wine was home- 
 made, and tasted faintly of pears. The men drank from 
 a big gourd filled with fiery raki y which was passed round 
 from time to time. 
 
 When her appetite failed her, she noticed in the 
 shadows that the women of the house sat in the far cor- 
 ner spinning yarn and talking and whispering among 
 themselves. The yellow-haired Kitza was there, and 
 seemed to find infinite amusement in the English girl's 
 endeavours to conform with the local customs. By-and- 
 bye the mountaineers took to telling fortunes among 
 themselves from a blade bone of the sheep. They had
 
 354 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 picked it clean and white, and held it between their faces 
 and the brilliant firelight and read coming events in the 
 transparent edges of the bone. The feast lasted till mid- 
 night, when in dense cold Mr. Kerquham and Rosamund 
 took leave of their host and, accompanied by a band of 
 cheery mountaineers, swinging lanterns and chanting a 
 chorus, went back to their khan. Matia was left behind, 
 for the sheep was not yet finished, and there was plenty 
 more eating and drinking to be done. Mr. Kerquham 
 was delighted with the evening's entertainment, and a 
 thousand times went over and over every picturesque 
 detail and fresh touch of colour to Rosamund. 
 
 "Did I not say you should see something new?" he 
 cried, exultingly, as she covered him with rugs. "Are 
 not these simple, wild people, with their primitive habits 
 and unaffected natural ways, far preferable to the toilers 
 in cities, who scheme and plot all the time to make what 
 they can out of you, to rob you and to back-bite you? 
 Ah! my dear child, I shall make you acknowledge before 
 we have finished that I did well to be so firm in fighting 
 your wishes to give up this expedition. As to Mr. 
 Fraser, his objections were absurd. What does a little 
 cold matter? We have plenty of good wraps and the 
 weather remains fair." 
 
 Then he gave her his blessing and turned over to 
 sleep, but Rosamund sat in the doorway of the khan and 
 looked up at the clear frosty sky, where the stars were 
 dancing like Kitza's eyes, and wearily wondered how 
 soon this journey would come to an end, and where Paul 
 was, and why Matia had been talking to those strange, 
 evil-looking men who had slunk away so guiltily as she 
 had passed them. 
 
 The whole valley was asleep, for even at the Agha's
 
 THE GANDER FIGHT 355 
 
 house they were gorged with mutton and ra&i, and snored 
 round the fire beneath their blankets. The deadly 
 silence of the clear night was only broken by the wild 
 howling of the savage dogs that were held by strong 
 chains before every house. They cried like wolves, and 
 now and again Rosamund fancied that she heard on the 
 night wind an answering howl from the far mountain 
 sides.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 FALLEN AMONG THIEVES 
 
 THE start was not early the next morning, and the guide, 
 when he did make his appearance, looked puffy about the 
 eyes, and was most unnecessarily fussy and apologetic in 
 manner, but Mr. Kerquham had rested well, and Rosa- 
 mund prepared for the day's journey with a light heart. 
 At the distant head of the gorge a great grey mass had 
 risen since early morning, and lay there heavy and solid 
 as a rampart wall. 
 
 "Surely there were no mountains there," said Rosa- 
 mund, staring up at the new appearance from under her 
 hand. 
 
 "It is a cloud," volunteered the native boy who drove 
 the mules and to whom she had learned to speak a little. 
 
 He was going to add something more to his words, 
 but Matia took him by the shoulder and flung him across 
 the road, muttering something under his breath about 
 interfering children. 
 
 "Is not the weather going to change, Matia?" asked 
 Rosamund, thinking in her heart that if it were they had 
 better stop in this little squalid village than venture forth 
 again among the mountains. 
 
 Matia shrugged his shoulders airily, and assured the 
 signorina that it was nothing but the morning mist. 
 
 "I have never seen it look like that before," she said, 
 still doubting his assurance. 
 
 "Things look different in 'the mountains," was his 
 356
 
 FALLEN AMONG THIEVES 357 
 
 curt reply, as he helped Mr. Kerquham into his saddle, 
 and the cavalcade started out of the village. 
 
 The ascent began the moment that they left the last 
 of the huts behind them. The air was very crisp and 
 sharp, and the fern in the hollows, which all the way up 
 had been looking green and fresh, was curled and brown 
 at the edges, as though frost fingers had touched it. 
 
 Within the first hour they came upon some shepherds, 
 wild men of the mountains, all heavily armed and shod 
 in rough goatskin boots, driving before them their flocks. 
 They pulled up by the roadside as they met the little 
 party coming up, and one of them stopped Matia and 
 said something to him, but the guide laughed in his 
 frank, careless way, and urged on the horses. Rosa- 
 mund, however, noticed that the boy hung back and 
 spoke some minutes with the shepherds, and only came 
 trailing reluctantly at the heels of his mules when Matia 
 yelled to him. 
 
 "What did they say?" said Rosamund in her imper- 
 fect language to the muleteer. 
 
 The lad shook his tangled head and pointed with a 
 bare brown arm towards the head of the gorge. 
 
 "Cold, very cold," he muttered, "the snows are com- 
 ing." 
 
 Matia must have guessed the purport of the few 
 words, for when Rosamund rode on and tried to over- 
 take Mr. Kerquham, who was in front, the guide inter- 
 posed himself between the uncle and niece and effectually 
 prevented her from uttering her renewed fears aloud. 
 
 The gradient now became exceedingly steep, and the 
 horses scrambled like cats and the mules struggled along 
 the loose stones in the sharp ascent. The tumbling 
 river below them was voiceless, for they were too far 
 above it to catch the sound of the rush and boil of the
 
 358 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 waters. They seemed all alone in the world, those four. 
 There was not a bird in the sky or the tinkle of a sheep 
 bell anywhere. Huge pinnacles of rock reared their 
 stern heads into the air or leaned over from beetling crags 
 as though the next moment they would crash into the val- 
 ley beneath. All around them vegetation had ceased, 
 though some distance off Rosamund's keen eyes caught 
 the black stain of a patch of pine trees against the uni- 
 versal greyness. Among themselves they scarcely 
 exchanged a word, and the beat of the horses' feet and 
 the rattle of the loosened stones falling into the valley 
 by-and-bye grew so monotonous that Rosamund could 
 have screamed, if only to make fresh echoes. Once she 
 fancied that she heard, a long way off, the same long- 
 drawn howl that had answered the barking dogs during 
 the night. It thrilled her with a sense of vague fear, 
 and she cried out to Matia, "What is that?" 
 
 "A shepherd's dog," he answered back over his 
 shoulder. "The signorina need not mind that." 
 
 But the native boy turned a shade paler under his 
 brown skin, and muttered beneath his breath, just loud 
 enough for her to hear: 
 
 "It is the wolves. They smell the snow." 
 
 It was impossible to count the time, and it may have 
 been a few minutes after that or half an hour, when with 
 a sudden cry Matia flung himself down in the roadway. 
 Rosamund, feeling sure the man was hurt, sprang from 
 her saddle and rushed to his side. He was writhing 
 pitifully and holding his hands across his body. 
 
 "Oh! I am ill; I am ill! Those dogs have poisoned 
 me. I shall die." 
 
 He groaned and wept with all the exaggerated emo- 
 tion of a Southerner, and Rosamund, certain that some- 
 thing was amiss, drew her flask of brandy from her
 
 FALLEN AMONG THIEVES 359 
 
 pocket and poured some between the man's clenched 
 teeth. 
 
 "Are you better?" she cried, anxiously, while Mr. 
 Kerquham , too, reined his horse round and looked with 
 pitying eyes at the wriggling form before him. 
 
 "I don't know. I feel very bad," and he howled and 
 groaned aloud. 
 
 "See," said Rosamund, taking a sudden resolution. 
 "I will put you on my horse. I can walk, and we will go 
 down again to Rosega. " 
 
 But at that Matia sat up in the road, and still moan- 
 ing and mopping his brow vowed that he would not give 
 the signorina such trouble, and it would be a pity if they 
 had had the journey in vain. 
 
 "I am better," he said, dragging himself painfully to 
 his feet. "I can go on." 
 
 "But if you are in such pain it is impossible that you 
 should goon," said Rosamund, catching at a straw of 
 hope that this misfortune might induce her uncle to 
 abandon the journey, at least for the moment. "We can 
 go down at once. You might be taken ill on the road 
 higher up, and then what should we do?" 
 
 Matia, with his slender, graceful body ostentatiously 
 bent in half, caught hold of Mr. Kerquham's reins and 
 turned the horses up the gorge once more. 
 
 "I promised that I would see you to the end of your 
 journey. Matia is not a man who goes against his 
 word," and without more ado he resumed the march. 
 
 Rosamund stood in the road staring at him, and with 
 a vague doubt forming in her mind. Surely he was not 
 shamming illness nobody could look so pale and utter 
 such fearful cries unless he was suffering terribly, and 
 yet now he was walking as well as before the seizure. 
 The cure was as sudden as the attack had been Any
 
 360 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 way, Mr. Kerquham was almost out of sight round a 
 turn in the ever-winding road, so she sprang into her 
 saddle again and urged her horse on. 
 
 But the few moments that she had lost in thought had 
 taken the front part of the cavalcade beyond her vision, 
 round a sharp rock which overhung the valley like a 
 citadel built by human hands. As she, with the little 
 muleteer and his patient beasts behind her, turned the 
 corner she was astonished to see Matia and her uncle 
 pulled up in the midst of a small gipsy encampment. A 
 little clump of pines grew back from the road and gave 
 some slight shelter from the piercing north wind which 
 swept down the gorge. There was some bracken, too, 
 and among it sat the ox-eyed, black-haired Romany 
 women, with their babies tied to their backs and their 
 brows and bosoms covered with gay coloured handker- 
 chiefs. Mr. Kerquham waved joyously to her. He was 
 off his horse and was sitting on a bundle of cut ferns. 
 A freshly lit fire was spluttering and crackling in the 
 brisk wind. It all looked so cheerful after the frightful 
 loneliness that Rosamund felt her heart leap with joy. 
 
 "Come, my dear!" said her uncle, as she pulled up 
 her horse. "These good people have asked us to stop 
 and eat with them, and Matia is ill again, so we must 
 stay here for a bit." 
 
 Nothing loth, the girl slipped from the saddle. She 
 was stiff and sore and cold, and glad to cower near the 
 fire and watch the women making broth in a big iron pot. 
 
 Presently, when they had eaten of the savoury stew, 
 she heard the wail of a sick baby just behind her, and 
 turning, saw a pretty young girl, evidently in weak 
 health, trying to hush a little black-polled, swarthy- 
 skinned infant to sleep. But the more the girl crooned 
 and rocked it, the more the child screamed and kicked.
 
 FALLEN AMONG THIEVES 361 
 
 "Let me take it," said Rosamund in English. Then 
 remembering that the gipsy could not understand, she 
 merely held out her hands, and the girl, after one glance 
 into her face, gave her the child and sank wearily into 
 the bracken. 
 
 Rosamund quickly lulled the child to sleep, and after 
 exchanging a few words with her uncle, who was smoking 
 peaceably, she stepped into the road and wandered a 
 few yards from the encampment. She was looking with 
 troubled eyes at that great grey wall that stretched 
 across the head of the gorge and seemed to bridge moun- 
 tain peak with mountain peak. She was trying to think 
 if it had grown thicker and higher since the morning, 
 when her keen ear caught the sibilant tones that she had 
 overheard yesterday afternoon by the well at Rosega. 
 She drew back a moment into the bracken. The child 
 was asleep on her breast and would not betray her. Yes, 
 they were the same voices the voices of the two dark 
 men who had long, lank black hair and their mouths hid- 
 den with their turban shawls, and those were Matia's 
 lighter tones, hissing and soft and treacherous as the 
 sound of a snake. They were whispering fast to one 
 another, and then Matia laughed a low laugh that drove 
 the blood back cold to Rosamund's heart. 
 
 Although she could guess nothing of what they said, 
 her instinct warned her that something was wrong. 
 
 Indeed, things were wrong, for when a few minutes 
 later her hurrying footsteps carried her back to the camp 
 she found the tents struck and the pack horses laden 
 with the gipsies' scant property and all ready to start, 
 save Matia, who once more lay groaning on the ground. 
 She could scarcely believe her eyes. A moment ago she 
 had heard his voice, and he seemed then to be in perfect 
 health.
 
 362 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 "Rosamund, my dear," said her uncle, coming up to 
 her and laying his hand upon her arm, "this poor fellow 
 is dreadfully ill. It is impossible he can go on, but he 
 tells me that these good folks, who know the country 
 well and are honest, for all their black brows and forbid- 
 ding looks, are going up the gorge, and that we had 
 better go on with them. Matia will wait behind till he 
 is better, and then follow on by a short cut that he knows 
 of over the mountains and join us at the monastery of 
 Chatista, where, you know, we are to rest for two days." 
 
 Almost unconsciously Rosamund handed the sleeping 
 child back to its mother, and then turned to her uncle. 
 
 "Uncle, you will never be so mad as to trust yourself 
 with these people! You only need to look at them to 
 see that they are a lawless crew, to whom neither prop- 
 erty nor life are sacred. I beseech, I implore you, to 
 turn back while there is yet time. We have been five 
 hours coming here from Rosega; we can get down in 
 two. We may meet people on the way; they are 
 scarcely likely to molest us. For heaven's sake! do as 
 I ask you." 
 
 Mr. Kerquham drew himself up in his stiffest manner, 
 and looked at his niece with displeased astonishment. 
 
 "Rosamund, I never knew you were a coward before!" 
 
 She flushed as scarlet as though he had struck her, 
 and with a sigh turned away. It was quite useless. She 
 could not voice her fears any further than she had done. 
 The best thing to do was to stay by her uncle and to 
 hope that the day would come when she would laugh at 
 herself for being so foolish. 
 
 Surrounded by the gipsy band, which numbered about 
 thirty, and was a silent, truculent crowd, Mr. Kerquham 
 and Rosamund set out again upon their journey. Though 
 they were now very high up in the valley and the road
 
 FALLEN AMONG THIEVES 363 
 
 was running almost along the brows of the mountains, 
 the afternoon drew on apace, and the dusk swept quickly 
 on. As the light failed, Rosamund noticed that the great 
 grey wall of cloud had added many cubits to its height, 
 that it was slowly spreading and spreading, and shutting 
 out the pale blue sky bit by bit. It was no longer in 
 front of them. It was creeping above them. 
 
 In the rarefied air every sound became painfully sharp. 
 Each time a shod hoof struck a stone or a woman's high 
 voice spoke Rosamund's nerves twanged like an over- 
 strung instrument. The air was full of electricity, as it 
 is before a coming storm, and the cold that had up till 
 now been bearable, became piercing, and she was more 
 than glad when the chief of the band pulled up short in 
 the middle of the road, and, waving his hand towards a 
 small recess among the beetling crags, ordered his people 
 to make a camp there. 
 
 In a few minutes the travellers' bedding was dragged 
 from their horses and flung upon the ground, and some 
 bundles of cut fern were spread above that. Over a 
 handful of sticks some broth was warmed, and each one 
 had a cup of it. Worn out by the long day's ride and 
 made drowsy by the cold, Mr. Kerquham, after the hot 
 broth, was soon asleep, and Rosamund, too, wearied by 
 her previous night's vigil, and despite her uneasiness and 
 physical discomfort, was already closing her eyes, when 
 light fingers that seemed to creep out of the darkness 
 were laid on her shoulder. A woman's voice murmured 
 something she did not know what in her ear, and she 
 fancied that through the night a white hand waved and 
 pointed down the valley. Rosamund, lifting her own 
 hand to the face that bent above her, felt it was that of 
 a girl, and then she knew it was the mother of the sick 
 baby, who was trying to convey some warning or mes-
 
 364 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 sage to her. Again and again the girl whispered eagerly, 
 urging her to some action, but Rosamund could only 
 shake her head. She could understand nothing. Sud- 
 denly a coarse voice broke through the stillness; the 
 gipsy girl gave a low cry, and Rosamund heard her 
 dragged back into the tent that was pitched against the 
 rock behind her. "She was trying to tell me some- 
 thing," thought the girl. "I fear there is some danger 
 that threatens us." 
 
 At length her natural fatigue wore out her nervous 
 watchfulness, and she slept, not quietly or restfully, but 
 lightly and always with a sense of impending danger. 
 Once she half rose up and thought she heard Matia's 
 high voice and light laugh close by her, and again she 
 half roused herself in the midst of a dream about horses 
 that were trampling past in an endless defile. But as 
 the night wore away she grew quieter, and might have 
 slept for hours but that the intense cold, that increased 
 with the growing day, woke her up, numbed and shiver- 
 ing. 
 
 Her senses were alive before her eyes were open, and 
 with a cry she staggered to her feet. What had hap- 
 pened? Why was she out there in the open, chilled to 
 the bone? Where was her uncle? Where were the 
 gipsies? Her eyes wandered round her. Her uncle was 
 there, sleeping like a child in his rugs, but every one 
 everything else was gone, save the handful of ashes 
 where the fire had been lit the previous evening. 
 
 With the instinct that she must not wake Mr. Kerqu- 
 ham too suddenly she clasped her hands across her 
 mouth to stifle the shriek that broke from her lips, for 
 in a moment she guessed all. Matia had betrayed them ! 
 They were robbed and deserted! Left alone on this 
 hideous mountain side with nothing but a cruel wind and
 
 FALLEN AMONG THIEVES 365 
 
 a bare rock to watch them die. For one moment she 
 gave way to an absolute panic, and scream after scream 
 strangled in her throat. Then, with a great effort of 
 her will, she curbed her fear and set all her wits to work 
 to fight this fearful calamity. 
 
 The day was dawning, but in a cold, grey, sickly way 
 that frightened her again. There was no sun to rise, 
 no soft pink tints upon the frowning mountain tops. 
 The whole world seemed wrapped in that hideous grey 
 cloud which now hid the sky from horizon to horizon and 
 mountain peak to mountain peak. "The days are 
 short," she thought, despairingly. "God knows what 
 little light there may be to-day. I must rouse him at 
 once. Poor uncle, it seems cruel to wake him to such 
 fearful news, but we cannot stop here. We must move 
 on somewhere.." 
 
 She shook her uncle, and then as he lazily woke, she 
 told him in a few hurried words what had happened. 
 He took the news better than she had expected, and, 
 rested after a good night's sleep, he rose with vigour to 
 his feet and prepared to go with her which way she 
 would. She decided at once that to attempt to descend 
 the gorge would be rushing into sure death. The gipsies 
 would have gone that way, and if they came upon them 
 would certainly murder them to escape the inevitable 
 punishment that would follow their theft. They must 
 try and make for the monastery for which they had been 
 bound, and where they had hoped to rest for a while 
 before going over the mountain pass down towards 
 Greece. 
 
 "Uncle," she said presently, and forced her voice to 
 steadiness, "think, dear, and help me. Can you tell me 
 now, looking at them from here, under which peak the 
 monastery lies? You know we have had it in view for
 
 3 66 
 
 the past three days, but these heavy clouds have altered 
 things this morning, and I am not sure of the way we 
 should make." 
 
 "It is the Argentalia mountain," Mr. Kerquham 
 answered. "It has a double peak. Is not that it over 
 there?" 
 
 Rosamund nodded, while a sick feeling clutched at 
 her heart. How far off those double peaks looked, and 
 how cruel, striking like two jagged teeth up at the heavy 
 sky. 
 
 "It was three days from here by road," she said, and 
 then she sighed. How were they to walk that rough 
 track for three days? They had no food, nothing but a 
 little brandy. She drew the flask from her pocket and 
 smiled bitterly to think that Matia had had the greater 
 portion of its contents. 
 
 "Uncle, we must try some of the sheep tracks. We 
 know the monastery is there between the peaks. We were 
 told there is a shorter way to it that the peasants use. 
 They get about the country so quickly. We must try 
 and see if we can be as clever as they." 
 
 She bound one of the rugs round Mr. Kerquham's 
 shoulders and another over her own, but the rest they 
 had to leave behind, for she dare not overweight herself, 
 fearing that sooner or later she would have her uncle to 
 support. With a knife that hung at her girdle she cut 
 from the stunted bushes two sticks, and after trimming 
 them gave her arm to her uncle and set forth with him 
 up the first track that branched from the beaten road 
 towards Argentalia.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 IN SNOWY ARMS 
 
 THAT day passed for Rosamund like some evil dream. 
 All thought of Paul, all hopes of their reunion were 
 lost in the sheer struggle for shelter and food. Their 
 progress was so slow that sometimes she fancied her feet 
 were tied to the earth. Now and again, when she 
 looked behind her, she saw within range the same clump 
 of stunted bushes or heap of frost-killed fern that she 
 had passed hours ago. They met no one, and at times 
 the silence of the great gorge, lying still as death under 
 the canopy of the snow clouds, was so painful that her 
 ears ached, and when her uncle spoke to her his quiet 
 tones seemed to echo from rock to rock until they died 
 away like mocking laughter in the distant fastnesses of 
 the close-ranged mountains. 
 
 There was no sun, so she could not judge when noon 
 arrived, for the intense cold had stopped both their 
 watches. Luckily there was but little air stirring, for 
 she knew that if there had been they must soon have 
 been numbed and frozen into a speedy death. But 
 everything was so fearfully still. All nature seemed 
 waiting for the bursting of the great clouds that rolled 
 like a never-ending sea over the wild mountain tops. 
 Thicker and thicker they grew, and greyer and greyer 
 the landscape became until on a sudden a shifting white- 
 ness filled all the air, and Rosamund saw upon her sleeve 
 the first fine snowflake. 
 
 367
 
 368 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 She knew but little of mountain climbing, and had 
 only gathered by hearsay a slight knowledge of the dan- 
 gers that lie in a great snowstorm. She recognised in a 
 few minutes, however, how true such travellers' tales 
 had been, for even as she urged Mr. Kerquham to 
 fresher exertions, the air was one dancing whirl of thick, 
 white flakes, and not only the double-peaked Argentalia 
 and the opposite side of the gorge, but even the very 
 path before them became obscured. 
 
 "We must find shelter, dear," she cried, "somewhere! 
 somehow!" She forced her voice to keep steady and 
 clenched her fingers within her thick gloves to prevent 
 herself from wringing her hands. "A little while ago, 
 before the snow came, just when we turned that last 
 curve, I thought I saw a patch of dead fern. It cannot 
 be far. If we could get there we might rest' ' she raised 
 heavy, despairing eyes to the lowering skies "and 
 perhaps the storm will pass over." 
 
 Her uncle, who had stopped to listen to her words, 
 swayed a little on his feet. His face looked strangely 
 blue and drawn, and his breath came in heavy gasps, for 
 with the snow had risen an icy wind that caught them by 
 the throat and almost stopped their breathing. 
 
 "I will try, my dear," he said, setting his tired feet 
 once more among the loose stones and leaning heavily 
 on his rough staff. "I will try." 
 
 With encouraging words and strong, young arms, she 
 helped her uncle a little higher up the track and found 
 what she had hoped for a small hole, probably scooped 
 by some watching shepherd, in the limestone rock and 
 overhung by a few scant bushes. Thrusting her uncle 
 into the farthest corner of the meagre shelter, she set 
 herself "with all her strength to uproot such miserable 
 vegetation as there was. It strained even her young
 
 IN SNOWY ARMS 369 
 
 muscles and cut her hands to pull the twigs and leaves 
 from their foothold in the rock, but after a time she had 
 got an armful, enough to make a rough pillow for Mr. 
 Kerquham, who was now breathing heavily, as a man 
 does when unconsciousness is creeping over him. They 
 had no food with them, and there were but a few drops 
 of brandy in the bottom of the flask. Rosamund, in her 
 agony, cursed the lying Matia for robbing them of the 
 only thing that was now likely to be of any use. As she 
 held the little silver cup to her uncle's blue lips, he tried 
 to push it aside. 
 
 "Take it yourself, Rosie. It will help you to get on 
 to the top. Nothing can be of any use to me now; I am 
 finished." 
 
 But with firm hands she forced him to take the spirits, 
 telling him that he would be better soon after he had 
 had some sleep, and that in the morning the snow would 
 probably have stopped, and they would see the peaks of 
 Argentalia again. But in her brave heart she knew that 
 she lied, and when she had laid him back on the rough 
 bed she had made for him and covered him with the 
 rugs they had, and went to the edge of the little cave to 
 look out upon the waste of whiteness, despair seized 
 upon her soul, and she clasped her hands together and 
 prayed that the end might come quickly. 
 
 By-and-bye, however, she noticed that the wind, 
 which had risen to a shrill shrieking blast, was driving 
 the snow into eddies and drifts. In the more sheltered 
 places the white carpet was thickening moment by mo- 
 ment, but where the mountain sides were exposed at all 
 not a flake rested. Then she prayed to God that the 
 wind might hold, and that the track which they were fol- 
 lowing might be blown bare during the oncoming night, 
 which was now sweeping up the valley and turning the
 
 370 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 grey and white to one universal blackness. She tried 
 to guess the time and rewind her watch, which she 
 slipped into her bosom in the hope that the warmth of 
 her body might set it going again. She thought it might 
 be four o'clock, but the day had never been more than 
 a prolonged dawn, and the evening had come so soon 
 that she feared she was wrong in her calculations. 
 
 She stood at the mouth of the little cave, and so long 
 as her eyes could pierce the dense blackness she watched 
 to see if the mountain track remained clear of snow. 
 Yes! thank God! the wind still set fair for them. 
 
 It was a cruel blast that hissed and lashed and tore 
 and raved down the gorge. It caught the snow even in 
 the air, and swept it clear away in huge waves. It froze 
 the girl almost to a stone as she stood there, filled with 
 only one fear and one hope. As the pall of night fell 
 she heard her uncle's voice behind her. It sounded 
 very feeble, and he seemed to be crying, as a tired child 
 cries. 
 
 "Rosamund, where are you? I cannot see you. I 
 am so cold; come and sit by me, dear." 
 
 Feeling her way by the side of the rocks she crept to 
 his side, and sitting on the floor, drew the rugs closer 
 round him and tried to get him to sleep again, but the 
 poor man was filled with regrets and self-reproaches. 
 He repeated a thousand times how wrong he had been to 
 disregard Hugh Eraser's advice and the instincts of 
 women, who foresaw dangers before they came, and he 
 wished that he had been guided by her dislike to the 
 expedition. He cursed the Skreli guide and called down 
 the wrath of God upon the thieving gipsies. 
 
 After a time his brain, weakened by the cold and lack 
 of food, wandered a little, and he talked of his studio 
 at "The Hurst" and of his dead wife, Margot, and com-
 
 IN SNOWT ARMS 37 1 
 
 plained how cold the house was, and that the doors and 
 windows must all have been left open. Rosamund, with 
 dry eyes and a bleeding heart, could do nothing but sit 
 and listen. Her words of comfort and encouragement 
 fell on deaf ears, for her uncle had drifted into the land 
 of unconsciousness, and could only mutter about what 
 he found there. The girl was getting numbed to the 
 bone from sitting so long in one position, when suddenly 
 her uncle's head dropped on her shoulder. 
 
 "I am so cold," he whispered, and then he went to 
 sleep. 
 
 Though she was aching in every limb and sick with 
 hunger, Rosamund remained staunch to her grand 
 resolve of taking care of the one being in the world who 
 had done all in his power to guard her own life. Gently 
 and by degrees she shifted herself and the sleeping man 
 into a more comfortable position, and then wound her 
 arms closely round him, determined that up to the last 
 she would give him all the best of her warmth and 
 strength. 
 
 Full of pain and weariness as she was, she must have 
 lost consciousness for some time, for the night seemed 
 to slip away very quickly and the ghastly pallor of the 
 dawn crept over the ragged mountain tops almost 
 before she thought it was possible. 
 
 Her first waking thought concerned the mountain 
 track. If that was lost in the snow, then they had bet- 
 ter stay where they were and wait for the end. If it 
 was bare, they might still struggle on, for she felt sure 
 that sooner or later the rough path must bring them to 
 the monastery or to some mountain village. Mr. Ker- 
 quham was sleeping heavily, though his eyes were not 
 quite closed, but she felt that he was warmer, and she 
 saw that the bliie look had gone from about his mouth.
 
 372 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 So set were her own limbs that she could not rise to her 
 feet when she had laid her uncle down, but she managed 
 painfully and slowly to drag herself on her hands to the 
 mouth of the cave. Thank heaven! the snow had 
 stopped falling and the track was clear. Everything 
 else was robed in whiteness and it seemed as though 
 Providence itself had traced the little pathway up the 
 hills on which they might walk to shelter and safety. 
 
 The head of every mountain round was robed in 
 sullen clouds, and at any moment the storm might 
 recommence. There was no time to be lost, and after 
 she had rubbed some life back to her feet and hands she 
 roused Mr. Kerquham. He seemed less weak than he 
 had done the night before, and he got to his feet 
 and out into the air with more activity than she had 
 hoped for. Again wrapping themselves in their rugs 
 they started up the hill, though the mighty wind that 
 roared and lashed their faces seemed to cut them to the 
 bone. 
 
 Rosamund's watch was now going, and she timed the 
 first part of their journey. They had walked quite 
 briskly for nearly two hours, and had made good prog- 
 ress, when Mr. Kerquham, with a little cry, clutched at 
 her arm, and then fell face downwards on the stony track. 
 
 "He has fainted from hunger," cried Rosamund 
 aloud to the pitiless crags and frowning skies. "Good 
 God! What am I to do now? I cannot leave him to die 
 here." 
 
 She stopped and tried to lift him in her arms, but her 
 own strength had left her. She wrung her hands. 
 
 "What am I to do? What am I to do? This is the 
 worst of all. If I could only get him back to the cave, 
 at least he would die in some shelter." 
 
 Her own frantic cries so filled her ears that she did
 
 IN SNOWr ARMS 373 
 
 not hear the tinkle of a bell or the scrambling steps of 
 an approaching horse. It was only when another voice 
 mingled with her own that she stayed her wailing and 
 listened with sharp up-pricked ears. 
 
 "Who is there? Is any one in trouble?" 
 
 It was a man's voice speaking in Italian. 
 
 "Yes, yes," shouted Rosamund with all her strength. 
 "Come quickly! There is a man dying." 
 
 A moment later there stood before her in the path a 
 small sturdy pony, trapped with a rough saddle and bear- 
 ing on his back a man armed to the teeth and wearing 
 the Albanian dress. His fez was bound to his head with 
 the customary red shawl, which had been tied about his 
 mouth, but which he had dragged aside to speak the 
 clearer. He had gyves upon his legs and goatskin shoes. 
 Over all he wore the brown capa of a Franciscan monk. 
 
 "Good heavens!" he cried, "who are you? How 
 have you got here?" 
 
 But Rosamund could only point to her uncle, who 
 still lay stretched in the track, motionless and apparently 
 dead. All speech was strangled in her throat, for now 
 that relief had come, hysteria had seized her and she 
 felt that if she spoke she must scream. 
 
 With a swing of his strong arms, the sturdy fellow 
 raised up Mr. Kerquham, and pulling from his waist- 
 band a big leather flask studded round the neck with 
 small nails, forced some spirit between the dying man's 
 clenched teeth. Then, still murmuring to himself a 
 strange mixture of prayers and objurgations, he handed 
 the bottle to the girl, while he began to chafe Mr. Ker- 
 quham's icy hands. 
 
 "So, so," he said presently, looking from one to the 
 other of the travellers, "you have had an adventure up 
 here."
 
 374 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 Rosamund could still only nod. She was past all 
 speech, though the ardent spirit she had taken was 
 beginning to thaw her freezing limbs and stir her poor 
 numbed brain to activity once more. Presently the 
 monk for such he was, despite his strangely incongru- 
 ous attire rose from his knees by Mr. Kerquham. He 
 looked at Rosamund, at the horse, and at the unconscious 
 man on the ground. 
 
 "Can you walk?" he asked her. 
 
 Rosamund said, "Yes." She felt as if new life were 
 thrilling through her, and as though, now that help was 
 so near at hand, she could struggle on for hours. 
 
 "Well, so can I," said the good Franciscan, "and 
 the poor signer shall have the horse, for he is past every- 
 thing, I think." 
 
 He lifted Mr. Kerquham into the saddle, and turned 
 the horse's head up the steep track again, holding the 
 unconscious, swaying figure between the high wooden 
 peaks with one sunburnt hand. Slowly as the horse 
 went, slipping and sliding at every step, Rosamund was 
 so weak that she had great difficulty in keeping pace with 
 it, but now and then in the course of the wearisome 
 progress the monk flung a question or a word of encour- 
 agement to her over his shoulder. By-and-bye her 
 brain grew sufficiently active to ask where they were 
 going. 
 
 "To the monastery of Chatista, " was the answer. 
 
 "That is where we were bound for," said Rosamund. 
 "We should have been there yesterday, I suppose, only 
 some gipsies robbed us of our horses and our luggage 
 and left us by the roadside." 
 
 The monk shook his head. 
 
 "They are the curse of the country those vile brig- 
 ands." He significantly touched the gleaming barrels
 
 IN SNOWT ARMS 375 
 
 of the pistols in his girdle. "We are always prepared to 
 account for some of them." 
 
 Rosamund, looking at his kindly face and twinkling 
 little eyes, could not help wondering at the strangeness 
 of a country which forced the men of God to go about 
 armed against their fellows. 
 
 "Are we far from the monastery now?" gasped Rosa- 
 mund as she felt herself growing weaker and weaker and 
 her footsteps more uncertain. 
 
 "If it were not so black, you could see the peaks of 
 Argentalia high above our heads," said the monk. 
 "The monastery lies on a terrace of the nearer one, but 
 it is another hour's scramble." 
 
 Suddenly he stopped his horse before a sharp turn out 
 of the track which wandered away to the left round the 
 foot of a low hill and was lost in the snows. 
 
 "We go this way, to the right," he said, gently, lead- 
 ing the animal round the sharp curve, and beginning a 
 steeper ascent than they had yet compassed. "That 
 other path leads to the Chatista valley and the village 
 that lies in it." 
 
 For one moment Rosamund stopped to take fresh 
 breath and cast a look about her. Down below, that 
 hideous Valley of Death from which Providence had 
 rescued her was already hidden in lowering masses of 
 driving clouds. To the left wandered the little track, 
 and as she thought that she might have followed that 
 unknowingly and been lost forever in the wide snow- 
 filled valley that lay beyond, she shuddered. 
 
 On the right was a steep, stony path, bordered with 
 rocks and furrowed by the course of heavy rains. At 
 the juncture of the rough roads where she stood was 
 reared a huge black wood cross. It was so high that it 
 appeared to dominate the whole landscape round, and its
 
 37^ THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 great arms, finished at either end with the trefoil that is 
 emblematical of the Trinity, seemed flung abroad more 
 in menace than in blessing. For one moment as she 
 stood there the sun broke through a ragged rent in the 
 scurrying clouds and the shadow of the cross was cast 
 at Rosamund's feet. After the whiteness which had 
 blinded her eyes for so many hours, the sharp denseness 
 of the shadow looked like a rift in the ground. She did 
 not know why, but as she started up the mountain once 
 more she carefully stepped over the shadow, as she would 
 have set her foot across a little brook. 
 
 She had no breath now for speech, for it took all her 
 thoughts and strength and will to enable her to struggle 
 through the next hour. Long as the time seemed, she 
 was startled when suddenly a great wall loomed before 
 her, and a moment later the monk was standing at the 
 top of a wide flight of stone steps and knocking with a 
 huge iron hammer at a heavily-nailed door. 
 
 "Where is this place?" said Mr. Kerquham, roused 
 from his torpor by the heavy strokes of the hammer. 
 
 "It is the monastery, dear," Rosamund said through 
 her sobbing breath. "The monastery of Chatista. " 
 
 The door opened, and the monk came down again 
 and helped them in. Mr. Kerquham trembled and shiv- 
 ered. 
 
 "What a dreadful looking place," he murmured as he 
 painfully descended from the horse and, bent nearly 
 double, slowly crept up the stone steps.
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 THE PRISONER OF GOD 
 
 ROSAMUND, aching in every limb and with her strength 
 spent, followed her uncle and the monk under the wide 
 archway, above which hung the magnificent antlers of a 
 red deer. As they set foot across the threshold a great 
 peal of bells rang forth through the thick, snow-laden 
 air. It was the customary welcome that was given to 
 all travellers. 
 
 They slowly crossed a great square court, surrounded 
 by cloisters on three sides and overlooked by narrow 
 windows, in which small panes were set in herring-bone 
 pattern. From the far corner of the cloisters, where a 
 faint light showed the bottom of a wide wooden staircase, 
 a tall monk, clad like their escort and carrying a bunch of 
 heavy keys jangling among the barrels of his pistols, 
 appeared. His face was rugged and worn, but he gave 
 Mr. Kerquham and Rosamund a kindly greeting in Ital- 
 ian, and telling them he was steward of the monastery, 
 bade them follow him into the building. 
 
 Mr. Kerquham was too exhausted even to thank the 
 father, but Rosamund murmured a few words between 
 her dried lips. As they walked slowly through the 
 cloisters they passed many monks, all dark-eyed and 
 swarthy, and each sheltered from the piercing cold by 
 the heavy brown monk's habit which looked so incon- 
 gruous above the truculent and gaudy national dress. 
 On reaching the staircase in the corner, Rosamund her- 
 
 377
 
 378 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 self had to help her uncle up the wide shallow steps. 
 The steps were of stone, but the balustrade was of a 
 dark oak, richly carved, and even in the midst of her 
 weariness and physical suffering the girl noticed the 
 beauty of the lintel and sideposts of the doorway through 
 which they passed when they reached the first floor. 
 
 Here the gallery was warm and comfortable. The 
 windows were so small and set in such thick walls that 
 the outer cold did not seem to penetrate at all. Coarsely 
 woven carpets, that yet were thick and warm, were 
 strewn over the polished boards, and the low ceiling of 
 oaken beams gave an air of extreme comfort. They 
 were ushered at once into a small room, where, on a wide 
 hearth, set with small red bricks in a florid Oriental 
 pattern, a young monk was blowing into life a large fire 
 of logs. Wooden settles were placed all round the wall, 
 and the steward led Mr. Kerquham to one of them. A 
 moment later a couple of tawny-skinned, stalwart youths 
 entered, carrying with them a ponderous high-backed 
 chair built of black oak and covered in well-worn tapes- 
 try. They set it on the hearth, which spread far into 
 the room, and supported Mr. Kerquham to its cosy 
 depths. 
 
 All this time Rosamund was gazing with apathetic 
 eyes at the bustling preparations. She was roused from 
 her reverie by the steward's question: 
 
 "Are you this gentleman's daughter?" 
 
 "I am his niece," answered Rosamund. "We were 
 travelling to your monastery, and meant, after asking 
 your hospitality, to go over the pass into Greece, but 
 now I fear my uncle is too ill." 
 
 The monk followed her eyes from the huddled up form 
 of Mr. Kerquham to the narrow window, across which a 
 few light, airy flakes were slowly floating.
 
 THE PRISONER OF GOD 379 
 
 "You cannot move at present," said he, in his deep 
 voice. "I will send you some food at once, and then 
 ask the Abbot to receive you." 
 
 Wine and bread and a dish of stewed meat were soon 
 brought into the room, and Rosamund dragged herself 
 over to the table and the fire and tried to get her uncle 
 to take some food. She herself felt sick and faint, but 
 the wine, rough as it was, in some measure restored her, 
 so that she was able to eat a little of the savoury stew 
 and the coarse brown bread. She was grieved that 
 beyond taking a few sips of the wine, Mr. Kerquham 
 could swallow nothing. As the warmth of the pleasant 
 fire crept over her, the buoyancy of youth asserted itself 
 and her courage came back once more. 
 
 "A few days here," she thought, "and uncle will be 
 quite well again. It is no good forcing him to eat, he 
 is too worn out just now." 
 
 But Rosamund's hopes were fathers to her thoughts, 
 for as the hours stole by and the short day dwindled into 
 night, Mr. Kerquham sank into an apathetic, uncon- 
 scious state. The good monks, who had some rough 
 knowledge of medicine, carried him gently to the next 
 room and laid him in the bed. From time to time they 
 forced some spirits between his lips, but nothing roused 
 him, and it seemed at one time as if he had died in his 
 sleep. 
 
 The monks were too humane to ask Rosamund to 
 leave her uncle, and so the Abbot came himself to her. 
 He was the wreck of a fine man, with a long grey beard 
 and bent shoulders. Instead of the Albanian fez, which 
 the other monks wore, his white hair was covered with 
 a small black skull cap. Unlike the other whom Rosa- 
 mund had seen, he did not seem a pure-bred Italian. 
 There was a dreamy look in his large soft eyes and a
 
 380 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 certain immobility about his strongly-marked features 
 that pointed to an Oriental descent, though he spoke the 
 soft Southern language very well. 
 
 The few words that he said to the unhappy girl were 
 full of sympathy and genuine sorrow. All that could be 
 done should be done, he promised, and he and the com- 
 munity would offer up special prayers for the life of her 
 uncle and for the comfort of herself in the chapel. 
 
 For three days Mr. Kerquham lay in the low-canopied 
 bedstead like one who is dead. For three days Rosa- 
 mund sat scarcely conscious of her own weariness, only 
 eating and drinking when the monks forced food upon 
 her, and realising nothing but that once more she was 
 face to face with Death. On the morning of the fourth 
 day her uncle gave a sigh and died quite quietly, utterly 
 unconscious that he was surrounded by kindly hands and 
 friendly faces. 
 
 Too stunned for outward grief, Rosamund submitted 
 to be led away into another room that the steward told 
 her had been prepared for her. It seemed a long way 
 off, along corridors and through many carved doorways 
 and up and down little flights of steps, the purpose of 
 which she did not divine. 
 
 "You had better rest here," they said. "The rooms 
 have been prepared for you. We will let you know 
 when all is ready." 
 
 For the first time for many days Rosamund was left 
 alone. At first the sensation of solitude brought peace 
 with it, but by-and-bye remembrance touched her with 
 a rude hand, and she wept long and bitterly for the loss 
 of her dead and dearest friend. Yet that night, worn 
 out with weary watching, she slept well, and with the 
 morning the solemn tolling of a muffled bell woke her 
 with both brain and body well refreshened. She felt able
 
 THE PRISONER OF GOD 381 
 
 once more to face life again and set her foot on the path 
 that lay before her. 
 
 It was the steward's voice that spoke to her half an 
 hour later through the door. 
 
 "The signor is lying in the chapel," he said. 
 "Though you are not of our Church, we feel sure you 
 will not resent a few prayers being said for the peace of 
 his soul. If you will follow me, I will take you there." 
 
 And so Mr. Kerquham's life ended, as so many lives 
 do, with a strange irony. He who had been born and 
 brought up in the hard faith of Calvin, and who, despite 
 his worldly knowledge and big heart, had shunned the 
 forms and ceremonies and professions of the Catholic 
 Church, now lay in death, a poor shrunken body, on a 
 hand bier in a monastic chapel. Rosamund's tears at 
 first took an added bitterness from the thought, as she 
 knelt by the black and silver pall that covered the 
 remains of the courtly gentleman and successful artist 
 and heard from behind the heavy curtains of the choir 
 the deep voices chanting a Requiem Mass. But even as 
 she wept, reason came to her, and she knew that the 
 Father had been right. A Christian should have a Chris- 
 tian burial, whatever the outward forms might be. 
 
 A sweet silence reigned for some time, and Rosamund 
 in sacred solitude took farewell of her dead. Then at 
 the end of the Mass four stalwart monks took the bier 
 with its light burden and bore it from her sight. The 
 brotherhood, with bent heads, their cowls completely 
 shrouding their faces, formed behind in a solemn proces- 
 sion and passed out of the chapel. 
 
 Rosamund lost all count of time as she crouched on 
 the flagged floor with hidden face and sob-shaken frame. 
 She was only roused by a light touch upon her shoulder. 
 
 "We feared the cold might have caused you to sleep,
 
 382 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 you were so still," said the monk at her side. She 
 recognised him as having been her saviour on the moun- 
 tain side. "Death happens that way sometimes when we 
 have these fearful storms." 
 
 As she rose stiffly to her feet, catching at the low 
 bench in front of her for support, he added: 
 
 "You have knelt here too long. The Abbot would 
 like to see you if you can come to him. He would like 
 to speak with you." 
 
 Brushing the tears from her lashes, Rosamund fol- 
 lowed the monk. This time she was taken through 
 many rooms, all panelled with oak, and many of them 
 hung with rich, gold Venetian leathers. On every wide- 
 throated hearth roaring fires blazed on dogs of quaintly 
 beaten iron. Here and there a dim corner was glorified 
 by a tall cabinet of ebony and ivory, a vase of polished 
 metal, or a settle of oak that from age and use shone like 
 bronze in the firelight. The sound of footsteps struck 
 no echo from the cross-beamed ceiling, for the carpets 
 that lay upon the floors were very thick. Before each 
 door curtains of old tapestry or leather hung in ample 
 folds, and the whole atmosphere breathed of warmth 
 and refined comfort. 
 
 At the end of the long suite her pilot paused, and 
 after knocking at a door entered for a moment, leaving 
 her outside. She heard a few words exchanged. They 
 were not in Italian, but in the bastard language that 
 many of the monks of mixed nationalities speak among 
 themselves. Then the door opened and the Abbot's 
 voice bade her enter. 
 
 She found herself in a long, low room, the five win- 
 dows of which looked from under the shadow of the 
 cloisters into the courtyard. Sacred pictures hung on 
 the walls, and the high mantel-shelf was graced with
 
 THE PRISONER OF GOD 383 
 
 some old bronze candlesticks of rare beauty. A long 
 table, black with age and with a deep carved edge, was 
 littered with papers and books. Before the fire were 
 arm-chairs, high-backed and deep-seated. The Abbot 
 motioned her to one of them kindly, and then spoke a 
 few words of respectful sympathy for the loss she had 
 suffered. Rosamund, with clasped hands and her white 
 face standing out like an ivory carving against the dark 
 walls, thanked the Abbot for his kindness, and then with 
 a sigh added: 
 
 "I will ask you to be good enough to put me on the 
 road to get to some town. Perhaps you will tell me 
 where I should go, for I feel lost. My uncle knew the 
 road he meant to follow, but he never confided his entire 
 plans to me. " 
 
 "All plans are useless, my daughter," said the Abbot, 
 "for you can go nowhere. You cannot leave this 
 place." 
 
 Rosamund turned her tear-laden eyes from the burn- 
 ing logs and looked in the Abbot's face. 
 
 "Cannot go!" she exclaimed. "I don't understand. 
 I am quite rested now or at least I shall be in another 
 day or two. If I may have an escort to the nearest vil- 
 lage, I am sure I can manage for myself." 
 
 "It is not the question of escort or of your own cour- 
 age, my daughter. God for His own purpose has so 
 arranged it that you must stay here. Though it is 
 against the rules of our order that other than a sick 
 woman shall lie beneath our roof, Providence has 
 decreed it otherwise. If by keeping you here we break 
 those rules, at least we are fulfilling the first laws of 
 Christianity, which ordain that all must succour one 
 another." 
 
 "But I wish to go," cried Rosamund, starting to her
 
 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 feet with an unknown fear knocking at her heart. "I 
 cannot stop here." 
 
 "We cannot burden our souls with the crime of mur- 
 der by letting you go." 
 
 "Murder? Letting me go! Am I in any danger?" 
 
 The Abbot looked at her for a moment with his large 
 Eastern eyes. 
 
 "Is it possible," he said in his soft, thick voice, "that 
 your sorrow has blinded you to what has happened dur- 
 ing these last three days? Ah! I see that it has. The 
 snows have fallen, and no one can leave this place and 
 hope to live until the spring comes." 
 
 "The snows? Are we snowed up?" 
 
 "The snows lie so thick about us that neither man 
 nor beast nor any living creature, save a bird, can come 
 to this place or leave it till many months are passed. 
 To drive you from our doors would be to send you to 
 certain death." 
 
 Rosamund sank back into the deep chair with a little 
 cry. 
 
 The Abbot rose from his seat, and crossing over to 
 her, laid his hand upon her head. 
 
 "The prospect is a strange one to you at first. I can 
 quite understand that you are filled with grief and dis- 
 may, but it is our mission in life to minister to the 
 unhappy, and to do what we can to reconcile them to life. 
 Everything will be done for your comfort, and so far as 
 is in our power and we are permitted by the rules of our 
 order, we will grant you every consideration. Even 
 now they are arranging rooms for you." 
 
 A mad idea seized her that she was being made a 
 prisoner. Tales of people who had disappeared mysteri- 
 ously, ransoms, tortures, and a score of other horrors 
 filled her brain. She started wildly from her chair.
 
 THE PRISONER OF GOD 385 
 
 "I only want to go," she cried, stretching out plead- 
 ing hands to him. "For heaven's sake, let me go. I 
 would rather die out there in the snow than stop here. 
 The loneliness would drive me mad. Don't think I am 
 ungrateful but I should do nothing but think and think 
 and think until I should not be able to bear it." 
 
 "I know, I know," said the Abbot, soothingly. 
 "Your thoughts can be none too happy just now, my 
 poor child." 
 
 "The monk who brought us here told me there was a 
 village in the valley. Let me go there. The snows will 
 melt there sooner, and then I can get away." 
 
 "I would sooner see you dead than set your foot 
 towards that village. They are a wild and lawless set 
 down there. They are still sunk in Mohammedanism, 
 and are superstitious and savage. It would not be safe 
 for you to go among them." 
 
 "But there must be some other way down," she per- 
 sisted. 
 
 "There is no way, my daughter. For six months in 
 every twelve this monastery is a living tomb. We are 
 cut off from everything. Even the bears and the 
 wolves that haunt these mountains do not come here." 
 
 Rosamund sank back in her chair, her whole face and 
 attitude bespeaking the mental collapse which was over- 
 taking her. The Abbot seated himself, and leaning his 
 head on his hands gazed into the fire. Presently he said : 
 
 "My daughter, the manner of your coming and your 
 enforced stay here are so extraordinary that I cannot 
 but believe that Providence is working to some end. I 
 will do for you what has never been done for another 
 woman, and if there is any sin in it I will confess it and 
 bear the punishment. You shall go each day to the 
 library. We have one that is well stocked here, for
 
 386 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 most of us read much at these times. The good Father 
 who is custodian of our books shall find for you such as 
 he may think fit for your reading. Come to the chapel 
 everyday. Oh! do not think that we are going to try 
 to convert you. If it is decreed that you are to become 
 of our faith, God will move your heart towards us in his 
 own good time. Meanwhile, to pray and to listen to the 
 beautiful music which was made by great men for all 
 religions may help and soothe you. Do not always keep 
 to your own rooms; walk in the corridor that lies outside 
 them and in the one that runs beyond that again. There 
 is a screen there which lies between the monastic quar- 
 ters and those that are set apart by the rules of our 
 order for the visitors that come to us. In that way you 
 will get change and the benefit of exercise." 
 
 The Abbot paused and looked keenly at the girl's 
 face. Her habits of self-control and reserve had helped 
 her to conquer the emotion that had so shaken her a 
 while back. Now with drooping head, set mouth, and 
 veiled eyes she was as immobile as a statue. 
 
 "We have in our brotherhood a countryman of yours. 
 I will see him and bid him sometimes talk with you. 
 You must eat by yourself in your own room. Our order 
 is particular about that rule." 
 
 "I thank you for your consideration." 
 
 A rolling sound, like the beat of a drum, suddenly 
 echoed along the dim cloisters, and Rosamund, turning 
 her head, saw a monk in the quadrangle, holding in his 
 left hand a narrow piece of wood about ten feet long, 
 and in his right hand a small hammer. He was striking 
 the wood in rhythmical, regular manner, walking slowly 
 in a circle as the sound grew and increased in intensity. 
 Finally he struck the lathe one sharp, hard blow, and 
 ended the roll-call abruptly.
 
 THE PRISONER OF GOD 387 
 
 "It is the hour of Compline, and I must leave you, my 
 daughter; but we will pray for you in the chapel this 
 evening, and I trust that you will be happier when you 
 have more occupation. Father Antonio shall come to 
 you to-morrow and take you to the library. He is a 
 good man and very learned. He will help you in your 
 choice of books and he will talk with you, if you so wish 
 it." 
 
 He raised his hand in a blessing, and so left Rosa- 
 mund, soothed by his quiet voice and kindly words. 
 On quitting the Abbot's room she was taken up another 
 staircase from the one she had come down. It was 
 winding and steep, and it led into a narrow corridor 
 which looked as though it were seldom used. Kindly 
 hands, however, had lit the usual wood fire, and her 
 guide told her that in an hour or so carpets would be 
 placed there and curtains hung before the doors. 
 
 The brilliant reflected light that is drawn up from the 
 snow at once attracted her attention, and she guessed 
 that the windows were in the outer wall of the building. 
 Now she could see for herself if what the Abbot had 
 told her was true, for she could not conceive that in 
 three days such snow should fall as to isolate and cut off 
 a whole community. She ran to the first window, only 
 to draw back appalled. The whole world seemed lev- 
 elled by the snow. Rifts and rocks, even the few scant 
 pines, had been wiped out. It was no longer like living 
 among mountains, but like being set in the midst of a 
 vast plain, for as far as she could see down the valley it 
 was one great drift. 
 
 For a moment a childish fear tore at her heart that 
 the snows might fall and fall until the feathery masses 
 overtopped the monastery and transformed what was 
 already a tomb for the living into a veritable grave for the
 
 388 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 dead. The strange terror died as it was born, for her 
 quick eyes had caught sight of a narrow path scarcely 
 wide enough to let two people pass. It had evidently 
 been cut from a small doorway through the white mass 
 which hedged it on either side with icy walls ten feet 
 high. It was but a few yards long, and led to what 
 looked like a little billow among the general flatness, 
 pierced by a door in which an iron grille had been set. 
 
 "What is that path?" she cried to her guide. "Where 
 does it lead?" 
 
 The Father crossed himself reverently and in a low 
 voice said: 
 
 "That is our morgue. Here there is not earth 
 enough to bury those who have not the right to lie in the 
 vaults beneath our chapel, and so " 
 
 "My uncle lies there?" asked Rosamund. 
 
 The monk bowed his head. 
 
 "Yes. His tomb is of snow and ice." 
 
 She shuddered as she thought of her poor uncle lying 
 in the little building which the snows had wrapped round 
 with an icy mantle. The cold had killed him and the 
 cold would hold him forever. 
 
 The monk saw her tremble, and said: 
 
 "This side of the house is cold. We do not see many 
 women here, and it is two years since a traveller of your 
 sex has lain in these rooms." 
 
 Then he opened a door, and as she entered her 
 apartments he shut it behind her, and she was alone in 
 her own domain. 
 
 The view from the windows was quite different from 
 that seen from the corridor. The rooms were comfort- 
 ably furnished, and the hearths were wide and cheerful 
 looking. On the high mantel-shelves were quaint can- 
 dlesticks and vases like those she had noticed in the
 
 THE PRISONER OF GOD 389 
 
 Abbot's room. A heavy oak table filled the centre of 
 one room, and she guessed that it was there she was to 
 eat and to live. The room beyond was smaller still, and 
 was half filled by a splendid canopied bedstead of carved 
 walnut, inlaid with ebony and hung with damask curtains 
 of deep crimson and gold. Between the two windows 
 was a praying chair, and on the dark wall hung a deli- 
 cately sculptored ivory Christ. A picture of the Virgin 
 was let into the panel over the fireplace. The face was 
 very sweet and womanly, and Rosamund felt almost as 
 if a friend were there waiting to greet her. At the foot 
 of the bed a settle had been placed, and two chairs and 
 a table, above which hung an old glass set in a quaint 
 frame of Italian metal work. A cedar chest, with 
 wrought silver handles, filled the other end of the room, 
 and before the windows hung ample curtains of the crim- 
 son damask. 
 
 She walked from one room to the other, noting with 
 her artistic eye the rare beauty of her surroundings. 
 Then she went back to the .sitting-room, and kneeling 
 on the hearth, where the red bricks gave forth such a 
 cheerful heat, she busied herself for a time deciphering 
 the design on the great iron fire plate. It was Biblical 
 and quaint, and distracted her until the short day died 
 and the fire grew low. She made it up again from the 
 large baskets of logs which stood in either room. As 
 she moved about once more, she remembered that she 
 had never looked out from her windows. It was too 
 late now to see anything, for the pallid night had fallen 
 and nothing was visible but the strange gleam of the 
 snow. She tried to open one of the lattices, but it was 
 still stiff and would not yield for some time. At length 
 it gave way and she thrust her hand out into the air, but 
 drew it back sharply with a cry of pain. It was like
 
 390 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 plunging it into boiling water, and her skin tingled and 
 ached afterwards. She fastened the window quickly 
 and drew the curtains, and with a wax taper that she 
 found lit the roughly made candles and set them on the 
 table. Scarcely had she done so when a voice told her 
 that her supper was ready, and would she take it in. 
 
 She stepped into the corridor, but there must have 
 been some hidden door there, for whoever had spoken 
 had disappeared. On a low table was spread her meal 
 of steaming soup and bread, a piece of mutton, some 
 cheese made from goat's milk, and a flask of wine. She 
 carried the tray into her room, and when she had supped 
 set the remains of her meal outside again. 
 
 Then she prayed, staying on her knees until weari- 
 ness overcame her, and she crept to her bed. 
 
 During the night, from time to time, she heard the 
 bells peal out from the little pointed roof of the chapel, 
 which stood at the far end of the quadrangle, and 
 guessed that the monks were praying. It comforted her 
 in a vague way, and gave her a sense of companionship 
 and peace.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 FOOTSTEPS TO HEAVEN 
 
 WITH the first promise of day Rosamund rose and went 
 to her window. The view was so different from what 
 she had expected that a cry of astonishment broke from 
 her. Neither courtyard, walls, nor mountain path were 
 to be seen. She looked straight out across the wide 
 waste of a snow-wrapped valley which lay nearly one 
 thousand feet below the vast crag on which the monas- 
 tery grey and bird-like was perched. Her window 
 overhung a precipice so sheer that instinctively her hands 
 clutched at the broad ledge as though to save herself 
 from falling when she pressed her face closer to the 
 small panes in an effort to pierce the depths below. 
 
 Across the valley, and right opposite her windows, a 
 giant range of mountains, magnificent and awful in their 
 white winter robes, reared rugged heads against the pale 
 sky. From right to left they swept a lordly chain the 
 ends of which were lost in pearly vapours. 
 
 From their silent summits her eyes dropped again to 
 the valley. She caught her breath, and a warm colour 
 dyed her pale cheeks. Set in a basin, which seemed as 
 if it had been scooped out by a giant hand below the 
 level of the rest of the valley, was a village, clustering 
 about a small, white-domed mosque. 
 
 She knew it was a large group of houses, for although 
 the broad-eaved roofs were covered with many feet of 
 snow, faint wisps of smoke drifted over them through
 
 392 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 the clear air, and she could distinguish narrow ways cut 
 from house to Chouse, and now and then a tiny black 
 figure moving against the white background. For a 
 brief moment the shock of finding that she was doomed 
 to imprisonment while living within so short a distance 
 of a village teeming with life, freedom, and activity, 
 made her senses reel. She rebelled furiously against the 
 declared necessity that she must stay where she was, 
 until in a flash of memory she saw again the gaunt Black 
 Cross and the dividing tracks. The narrow road which 
 she had noticed as she came up had trended to the left 
 until it was lost behind the low hill, must be the only 
 approach to the village in the valley below. That road 
 would now be lost beneath many feet of snow. With a 
 sigh she realised at last that though the monastery and 
 the hamlet were within view of one another, they were 
 as sundered as the poles. 
 
 With every moment the morning brightened, and the 
 faint clouds, caught by the wind, were wafted from the 
 head of the valley into nothingness. By looking to 
 the right Rosamund could see as far as where the crowd- 
 ing mountains shut in the gorge. There it was that her 
 eye caught a long bright thread of falling water that 
 gleamed Hke silver in the sun. Behjnd this solitary 
 moving thing stretched a smooth, white plain. "That 
 must be a frozen lake," thought Rosamund to herself. 
 "And that shaft of lonely, falling water must flow from 
 it and feed a stream that runs down the valley." 
 
 She strained her eyes to trace the river's course, but 
 failing, promised herself that she would inquire from the 
 next monk whom she saw whether her conjectures were 
 correct. 
 
 Meanwhile she was content to stand at her window 
 and try to imagine what the prospect looked like in the
 
 FOOTSTEPS TO HEAVEN 393 
 
 fair spring days and the fulness of summer time. But at 
 last that relaxation palled. Memories of the shires 
 in soft April mornings, and the fair "Hurst" gardens in 
 their full summer beauty, rushed to her mind and blurred 
 the landscape before her with hot, unshed tears. She 
 turned from the window with a sigh, and stared aimlessly 
 about the room for something to do. Everything was 
 neat and tidy, for she had nothing that could get out of 
 place. With clasped hands and her face set she paced 
 the floor, fighting wildly against the flood of recollections 
 that threatened to overwhelm every barrier of self-control 
 that she could raise. 
 
 Suffocating with suppressed sobs, she flung wide the 
 door of her room and ran into the corridor outside. 
 Still the passion of recollection and grief raged within 
 her, and she pressed her locked fingers against her 
 mouth till they scored rosy lines across her white skin. 
 For a moment her ears were filled with the surging of 
 her own blood ; then, as the roar died down and courage 
 came back to her again, she remembered she had per- 
 mission to go to the chapel when she pleased. 
 
 "Perhaps I shall be able to pray," she thought, steal- 
 ing softly down the stone stairs she had traversed the 
 previous day. 
 
 With timid hands a moment later she pushed open 
 the heavy padded doors that shut the chapel off from 
 the monastery. One glance showed her the place was 
 empty. Slowly she moved to the front row of seats and 
 fell on her knees. The heavy curtain that generally hid 
 the chancel and the brotherhood from view was pulled 
 back, and the high altar, rich in gilt marble, silver ves- 
 sels and fine lace, closed with a blaze of gorgeous colour 
 the dim vista of the rarely carved oak stalls. 
 
 Mass had not long been over, and a faint cloud of
 
 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 perfumed incense still floated in ghostly wreaths round 
 a pair of chased metal lamps which swung on silver 
 chains from the painted roof. Down either side of the 
 church were deep alcoves, filled with side altars of many 
 coloured marbles and lit by narrow pointed windows of 
 wonderful stained glass. Above one altar, guarded by 
 glass and resting in a narrow recess, was a jewelled cas- 
 ket, holding, so the words beneath it said, rare relics of 
 St. Francis. Pictures of saints, set in deep carved frames, 
 hung above the others. Over the high altar was a deep- 
 toned picture of the Crucifixion, with the Mother of 
 many Sorrows weeping at the foot of the cross. 
 
 Close by Rosamund was the pulpit, decorated with 
 panels bearing on the life and death of the patron saint 
 of the order. Near the door was the font. It was of 
 roughly-hewed stone, but crowned with a carved cover 
 fine as lacework. Near the chancel steps stood a coffin- 
 shaped box, the four black sides painted in white with 
 skulls and cross-bones. It bore an inscription, 
 " AujourcT hut ci mot, demain a Tot." 
 
 The roof was high and dim, but as a shaft of brilliant 
 sunshine pierced the rose window above the high altar 
 it lit the richly-tinted paintings that were set there in 
 florid borderings of gilt plaster work. In the shifting 
 light the whole place glowed like a multi-coloured gem, 
 and the silver lamps and carven wood, the marbles of 
 rose and orange, malachite green and polished black, 
 and the embroidered hangings of the altars mingled 
 their separate gorgeousness into one glittering, exquisite 
 whole. 
 
 Rosamund, with all her nervous fears and longing 
 doubts soothed by her fair surroundings, covered her 
 face and began to pray. 
 
 "Oh! Mother of God, intercede for me! Oh! Son of
 
 FOOTSTEPS TO HEAVEN 395 
 
 God, grant me strength! The cup Thou still holdest to 
 my lips is bitter as gall. Grant in Thy mercy that it 
 may soon pass from me." 
 
 Who was that who spoke? Whose prayers crossed her 
 own? Still with covered eyes Rosamund knelt on, but 
 her straining ears, her throbbing senses, told her that 
 some one was praying aloud in the shadow of the high 
 altar. 
 
 "Forgive me, Mary, Most Merciful, for my sin 
 against my love. Forgive me that in blind ignorance I 
 took her troth and pledged her mine. Forgive me that 
 I was the cause of such grief such sorrow as she has 
 endured and ah! Holy Mother Immaculate of all save 
 divine Passion forgive me that I love her still. For- 
 give! Forgive! and when my full pardon is accom- 
 plished " 
 
 With a muffled cry Rosamund struggled to her feet. 
 Her senses reeled as she staggered up the chancel steps. 
 The praying monk, roused by the flutter of a sigh, the 
 faint fall of an unknown step, rose, too, and advanced, 
 gaunt and tall, into the full flood of light that bathed the 
 altar. 
 
 "Paul!" 
 
 With weakly outstretched hands and steps that tot- 
 tered, she advanced towards the silent figure. 
 
 "Rosamund!" 
 
 At the sound of his voice her strength failed her, and 
 she would have crashed to the marble pavement but that 
 he caught her in his arms and drew her to his heart. 
 
 "You live! You are not a beautiful dream!" 
 
 She could not speak but for answer she lifted one 
 of his hands and passed it tenderly over her smooth 
 cheek. 
 
 "How did you come here?"
 
 396 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 She paused before answering, and when she spoke it 
 was in a low, awe-struck voice. 
 
 "Paul! It was the hand of God that led me back to 
 you." 
 
 Then a wave of recollection swept over her, and she 
 cried, "But oh! the price the price I have paid." 
 
 Paul passed his hand before his eyes. 
 
 "Your uncle? Was he the traveller who died here a 
 few days back and were you with him?" 
 
 She mutely assented, for tears choked her voice. 
 
 "I only heard vaguely of it I have been ill and in 
 my cell for some time." 
 
 "You are changed!" she said, raising her swimming 
 eyes to his face. 
 
 "Changed! my poor love- by sorrow and repentance. 
 Ah! Rosamund, when I remember all the wrong I did 
 you, my grief has been beyond words. When I think 
 that even now I am dragging your life into the ruin I 
 have made of my own, I see that my sin is unpardonable. 
 Even if you forgive me I can never forgive myself." 
 
 Shaken with emotion, he bowed his head upon her 
 shoulder. 
 
 "And now that we meet again," he went on, "by a 
 freak of fate or by God's good guidance your pres- 
 ence your voice your very faithfulness are like new 
 lashes on an ever-open wound. Truly, this should be 
 the end for my punishment is greater than I can bear. " 
 
 With outstretched, trembling hands he turned to the 
 high altar. 
 
 "Christ help me! Guide me! I am lost in sor- 
 row!" 
 
 Softly her hand slipped round his throat, warm and 
 sweet between his flesh and the coarse habit; gently her 
 voice whispered in his ear until his grief died down.
 
 FOOTSTEPS TO HEAVEN 397 
 
 "Paul dearest Paul God has helped you God has 
 been very good to us both. We have been tried ; He 
 knows how much but our probation is overpast, and we 
 are together once more." 
 
 Paul lifted his worn face to hers. 
 
 "But the bar I cannot dare not overlook that. " 
 
 Rosamund laid her face close against his. 
 
 "Dearest I told you God had been good to us. She 
 who was your wife is dead. You are a free man in the 
 sight of heaven and earth." 
 
 "Free! Free!" 
 
 "I only knew it myself a little while back. How 
 little I thought I should ever meet you when I read 
 the few words that told me the news." 
 
 With the love-light growing in his eyes he rose and 
 took her in his arms. 
 
 "My love! My wife!" 
 
 He bent his mouth close to hers, but she, with a quick 
 movement, slipped her hand between them across his 
 lips. 
 
 "Not here, Paul! Not in this sacred place!" 
 
 "All shall be as you ordain," he answered humbly, 
 loosing her from his arms. "You have given me back 
 love, freedom, life you shall do with me as you please." 
 
 She placed her hand in his. 
 
 "Paul, let us kneel here and pray for her soul!" 
 
 As they sank together on their knees he murmured, 
 
 "And for our own and for our happy future. "
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 THE MONK'S STORY 
 
 THE violent emotions of the morning had their revenge 
 on Rosamund, and left her for the time being almost 
 incapable of consecutive thought, and merely the weak 
 victim of thrills and physical emotions. 
 
 She was glad, therefore, when, after her simple mid- 
 day meal, a voice outside her door apprised her that 
 Father Antonio was ready to show her to the library. 
 He proved to be a round, jolly-looking little man, who 
 had sufficient fat on his bones to keep even the cold 
 of that fearful climate out of them. He talked in 
 a chirrupy voice. When in the course of conversa- 
 tion he learned that she knew his beloved Italy by 
 heart, his round face beamed with delight, and so far 
 as his vows permitted he became at once her humble 
 slave. 
 
 The library was a fine square room with windows on 
 two sides of it. One set overlooked the cloisters 
 and quadrangle; the other had the same view down 
 that sheer, awful precipice into the mountain valley that 
 Rosamund could see from her own room. Bookcases, 
 protected with wire screens, surrounded the entire room. 
 They were beautifully ornamented along the top with 
 carved figures of saints, while the doorways were edged 
 with religious symbols and surmounted by groups of 
 cherubs' heads. The big fire that burnt on the brass 
 dogs had drawn out a pleasant, warm smell of leather, 
 
 398
 
 THE MONK'S STORT 399 
 
 and was striking a thousand twinkling stars from the 
 shining wires. 
 
 "I am the librarian," said Father Antonio, proudly, 
 as he drew from his girdle a bunch of little keys, "and 
 you have only to tell me what books you would like to 
 read and you shall have them." 
 
 With a growing sense of calm happiness and well- 
 being Rosamund strolled leisurely round the room, peep- 
 ing through the crossway bars of wire at the backs of 
 the books. The titles of many of them were undeciph- 
 erable to her, for there were works in Russian and 
 Turkish and sundry offshoots of the Slav tongue, but to 
 make up for that there were many famous books in 
 French and Italian, and tucked away in one corner some 
 old favourites of hers in German. There were histories 
 of the Church, its rise and its struggles and its success 
 in Bulgaria and the Balkan peninsula. There were books, 
 too, about the very country she was in, Albania, and 
 records of that wonderful spot, Mount Athos, which is 
 dotted with monasteries, and where the foot of anything 
 that is created female has never been permitted to fall. 
 
 "You may read here in the morning and afternoon," 
 said the father, as he unlocked the case she indicated 
 and drew her down some books. "And our good Abbot 
 gave leave for you to take some reading to your rooms 
 with you. He fears your health might suffer if you give 
 too much time to thought." 
 
 Rosamund took an armful of books and drew a big 
 chair up to the casement that gave on to the air and on 
 to the mountains. Father Antonio, doubtless by virtue 
 of his office, remained in the library, softly moving about 
 in his goatskin shoes, rearranging the contents of some 
 glass-covered tables of curios and old coins or fluttering 
 the pages of a book. All was peace in the warm, com-
 
 400 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 fortable room, yet Rosamund read but little. The 
 change of scene and atmosphere, the knowledge that 
 this new ground was to be almost as her own territory, 
 were all pleasant to her. She was content to lay the 
 books upon her knee and fold her hands over them, and 
 look about her at the carved saints above the bookcases 
 and at the rude picture of the holy St. Francis that hung 
 above the high mantel-shelf. 
 
 A great peace had fallen on her peace and happiness 
 so completely satisfying, so intense, that she did not 
 even seek to examine or recall their origin. She lulled 
 herself with the mere consciousness that all was well 
 with him and with herself, and for the moment that was 
 enough. 
 
 Yet after a time it grew upon her senses that the 
 librarian was very restless. He heaved big sighs, 
 unlocked and opened with considerable noise glass case 
 after glass case, re-arranged and disarranged their con- 
 tents, muttered to himself, and behaved like a person 
 who is desirous of opening a conversation. 
 
 "Perhaps he wants to talk to me," thought Rosa- 
 mund. She thrust her formless dreams aside with her 
 books, and rising looked from the window out on to the 
 wintry world. 
 
 "What a strange place this is! It seems wonderful 
 that, with so many fairer spots in the world, people should 
 ever have thought of living here." 
 
 Father Antonio bustled to her side. His face beamed 
 with delight, and in his hands were several worn old 
 copies and shapeless pieces of metal. 
 
 "Ah!" he cried gaily, "the signorina speaks as do all 
 strangers who have ever set foot in this wild spot. 
 It is indeed past understanding, but to us to all the 
 Church, indeed this is a sacred spot, bound up with the
 
 THE MONK^S STORT 401 
 
 earliest history of our faith and consecrated by the 
 blood of many martyrs. " 
 
 The monk looked quite eagerly at Rosamund. 
 
 "Shall I tell you something of the story of the famous 
 monastery of Chatista? For it is famous, alike in Chris- 
 tian and pagan annals." 
 
 "I shall be pleased if you will," answered the girl, 
 sweetly. 
 
 Father Antonio motioned her back to her chair, and 
 drew one close to it for himself. 
 
 "Chatista's monastery was not the first building 
 that man's hands hung on the lip of this terrific preci- 
 pice. In that brilliant era when Greek art and arms 
 ruled so much of the Eastern world, a great general, in 
 honour of a victory won in the valley below over a horde 
 of savage people, raised here a small temple to the God 
 of war. It was at once a place of worship and a watch 
 tower, for here in my glass cases are fragments of pottery 
 utensils and arms which tell us that a camp was pitched 
 close here. 
 
 "Here, too, have been found coins and votive tablets 
 of a later date and Roman make. Think what a fight 
 must have raged up here, with what a crash the dead and 
 dying must have fallen into the valley below before the 
 Romans wrested the pass from the Greeks. The temple 
 of Mars was destroyed as well, and on virgin ground 
 the spot where the morgue now stands (indeed, that is 
 built from some of the self-same stones) the conquer- 
 ing legions of Rome built a temple to Jupiter. 
 
 "The Romans subjugated the wild people of the 
 mountains better than the Greeks had done for among 
 my treasures here, and mingled with the remains of the 
 Romans, are many rough-hewn offerings brought to the 
 temple as propitiatory sacrifices against the avalanches
 
 402 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 and floods which from the world's beginning have from 
 time to time devastated these mountain valleys." 
 
 Father Antonio dropped his handful of rough coins 
 into Rosamund's lap. 
 
 "See! here are moneys and tokens of the time of the 
 great Alexander, Lysimachus and Mithridates, Juba, 
 two of the Ptolemys, the beautiful Cleopatra, Julius 
 Caesar, Dionysius a score of mighty rulers." 
 
 He opened, without rising, a case at his elbow. 
 
 "Look at these rings those of gold and these arm- 
 lets are of metal the mixture of which we do not know. 
 That is an altar lamp this is part of a necklace; the 
 beads are of glass. Here is a hand cast in bronze, and 
 the snake that twines about the ring finger is pure gold. 
 Those statuettes are bronze." 
 
 He locked down the glass cover again. 
 
 "They made a road those fine Roman fellows a 
 road that centuries later, when Jupiter's little temple 
 was crumbling to ruins, many of the Crusaders from the 
 centre of Europe travelled on their way to Palestine. 
 Then was a shelter first built here for those same war- 
 riors, and then began the period of bloodshed and fire 
 which, through the Middle Ages, won for Argentalia the 
 name of the Death Mountain." 
 
 The monk shook his head mournfully. 
 
 "It was in the time of that most Christian monarch, 
 Charlemagne of France, that His Holiness Pope Adrian I. 
 granted permission for a retreat and house of refuge. 
 The tribes a furious people took umbrage, and the 
 first members of the brotherhood were burnt with their 
 house. Under the protection of arms another small 
 monastery was built, only to meet a century later with 
 the same fate. But at that time God worked out his
 
 THE MONK'S STORT 403 
 
 'own vengeance. Over a thousand men and women, with 
 their herds and huts, were destroyed by a mighty flood." 
 
 "A flood!" said Rosamund. 
 
 The monk pointed from the window to the right, 
 where the silver thread of falling water emerged from 
 the silent, level plain of snow. "Up there, where the 
 snow lies so smoothly, is a lake. It is fair and blue as 
 the skies in summer, and the stream that flows from it 
 waters the whole valley. 
 
 "Records that have been preserved through all the 
 vicissitudes of the monastery relate that once, where 
 the lake now lies, only a narrow torrent raced between 
 the spurs of the mountains. It was so rapid that it had 
 never been known to freeze altogether. But during the 
 winter that followed the outrages on God's ordained 
 servants, a glacier the Black Glacier, as it is called 
 which lies on the other side of the double peaks, flung, 
 week by week, huge masses of ice down into the gorge. 
 With unceasing regularity they fell, crashing with a 
 hideous sound upon the rocks, and by the force of their 
 own weight building an impenetrable wall across the bed 
 of the stream. Held back by the barrier, the prisoned 
 waters rose and grew to an enormous lake, which, when 
 the spring came and fed it with streams of melting snow 
 and avalanches and heavy rains, swelled to a vast size, 
 till one night the mighty wall, weakened by the weight 
 of water, gave way, and the enormous lake surged 
 through the valley, carrying trees and rocks, houses and 
 cattle upon its broad bosom. The torrent destroyed 
 many villages, and even Rosega, which you know, was 
 annihilated." 
 
 Father Antonio nodded. 
 
 "After that the tribes, wild men from the steppes and
 
 404 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 wandering bands of lawless people from Hungary and 
 the Carpathians, left the good monks in peace, save 
 once, when a bishop and his suite were murdered on the 
 spot where the Black Cross now stands. A splendid 
 church was built here, and the Pope sent delegates to 
 consecrate it. It became a treasure house, filled with 
 gold and silver and many fair things. Then Turkey 
 ever greedy and rapacious and seeking everywhere the 
 wherewithal to pay her vast armies cast eyes this way, 
 and again the flames licked the skies and the red blood 
 of martyred men flowed down the mountain side." 
 
 "How cruel!" 
 
 "It was a cruelty that lasted until the State gave 
 reluctant consent to Christians to make abiding places 
 and to convert. You know, however, that only the 
 Catholic Church is tolerated. The Greek Church is 
 tabooed, and no Mussulman if he would live at peace 
 with his neighbours and the State may join it." 
 
 "And lately the monastery has flourished?" 
 
 Father Antonio shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "Yes! thanks be to God. But we never leave our 
 door unless we carry arms. The gipsies are a lawless 
 and a savage crew and the villagers in these mountains, 
 though they take our charity, and, when it suits them, 
 are baptised and worship in the chapel here, are treach- 
 erous. " 
 
 The loud drumming summons to Compline sounded. 
 Father Antonio, fussily jingling his keys, began to lock 
 away his treasures and books. 
 
 "Which book may I take with me?" asked Rosa- 
 mund. 
 
 "Whichever you like," he answered, nodding cheer- 
 fully at her. 
 
 She looked at the three or four she held.
 
 THE MONK'S STORY 405 
 
 "It shall be this, I think," and she selected a work 
 on Rome, which, though it was little more than an his- 
 torical guide-book, she knew would revive pleasant 
 memories of the past. 
 
 ''A good book, a good book," chirruped Father 
 Antonio. "You do well to read it." Then as he put 
 away the others and locked them up he said, "Are you 
 going to High Mass to-morrow morning?" 
 
 "Is to-morrow Sunday?" queried Rosamund. 
 
 "Yes, it is. You have been here almost a week." 
 
 "How quickly the time has gone," murmured Rosa- 
 mund, thoughtfully, "and yet it seems ages since " 
 
 Father Antonio assumed a sympathetic expression. 
 
 "God is very merciful. He puts a great , sorrow a 
 very long way off in a few days. But shall I fetch you 
 in time for High Mass?" 
 
 "If you please. I should like to go and hear the 
 music." 
 
 The little monk rubbed his hands. 
 
 "Ah! the music is beautiful here. We are nearly all 
 Italians in this place. We cannot help but sing, we 
 sons of Italy, and your countryman, too, has a rare 
 voice. I will fetch you in good time, but you must 
 wear a warm cloak, for the chapel is cold these days. 
 Can you find your way back to your rooms?" 
 
 "Yes, thank you," said Rosamund, and with her book 
 under her arm and a brighter expression in her pale 
 face, she walked through the corridors in the direction 
 of her own rooms. 
 
 As she went she remembered that the Abbot had told 
 her that she might take exercise in the gallery beyond 
 the one outside her door. Every one was in the chapel 
 now; she could almost fancy she heard the organ peal- 
 ing. The monastery was as quiet as the tomb it really
 
 406 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 was. Feeling sure that she would meet no one, she ran 
 with fleet steps into the corridor that was at right angles 
 to her own. She found that its windows overlooked the 
 cloisters, and she was standing at one of them looking 
 down into the courtyard, where the snow was piled high 
 against the pediments of the supporting pillars, when 
 she remembered what Father Antonio had said about the 
 windows in the library. 
 
 "I must try to remember not to look out here," she 
 said to herself. "I must keep faith with them, for they 
 are being so good and so kind to me. " 
 
 She wal'ked on till she found her way barred by a tall, 
 carved screen, reaching from the floor nearly to the 
 raftered Ceiling. It was of olive wood and the colour 
 and texture of gold satin. It was delicately wrought 
 with leaves and flowers and little figures of animals and 
 people. Two cerrturies ago a dreamy monk had con- 
 ceived it and had carved it. A scroll was woven through 
 the branches of the mimic trees, and on it was graven 
 "Paradise." 
 
 Rosamund knew then that beyond it lay the monks' 
 quarters in the monastery, and the carved legend set 
 her wondering if the maker had labelled the monastical 
 side with the name of Paradise, or whether he had 
 intended the word as a description of that part of the 
 building which was free to all comers as the air itself. 
 
 She leaned against the screen for some time, tracing 
 with the tip of one slender finger the quaintly designed 
 animals, the many graceful olive leaves, and the beautiful 
 pomegranate flowers which were mingled so incon- 
 gruously. 
 
 As she stood with a happy smile flitting now and then 
 across her face, the sweet wail of a tenderly touched 
 violin floated like a spirit sigh through the barren
 
 THE MONK'S STORY 407 
 
 silence. It thrilled her with intensest joy, and she 
 pressed closer to the screen and turned her head that 
 she might catch every throb of sound. 
 
 "It is Paul! Ah! how good God has been to bring 
 us together once more to let us meet in a hcuse devoted 
 to his worship and praise." 
 
 She did not voice her gratitude, but it welled higher 
 and higher in her heart and winged heavenwards in the 
 breath of the music. 
 
 How sweet it all was an impassioned melody of 
 Gounod's a plain, solemn chant by Palestrina an 
 intricate passage by Bach a grand phrase from Beetho- 
 ven all like pearls strung together on a golden chain of 
 delicious modulations and exquisite cadences. 
 
 When silence fell once more she still leaned by the 
 carven screen and was filled with a great content. By- 
 and-bye she heard in the distance footsteps and voices. 
 The monks were leaving the chapel and going to their 
 cells. She, too, made for her own rooms, meeting as she 
 went Father Antonio. As he greeted her he glanced 
 from the corridor window and remarked in his garrulous 
 fashion : 
 
 "It is going to be a fearful winter, and there is some 
 more snow to come." He pointed up to the patch of 
 sky which hung over the quadrangle. "That silvery 
 look which seems as if the sky had drawn a veil across 
 her blue face always means snow. The heavens will be 
 dark grey by sundown, and to-night the snows will fall 
 again." 
 
 His words brought back to Rosamund all the terrors 
 of her fearful journey. With her heart full of thankful- 
 ness that this time at least when the snows came she 
 would be safely housed, warmed, and with good friends, 
 she bade the monk good evening and entered her room.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 IN THE LIBRARY 
 
 FOR the next three days, although Rosamund went to the 
 chapel and the library, she did not see Paul. Yet she 
 was not disappointed or unhappy. She had endured so 
 many weary months of heart pain after she knew her mar- 
 riage with him was impossible, she had been for so long 
 schooling herself to believe him dead to her and his love 
 nothing but a sad memory, that the certainty of his wel- 
 fare and whereabouts were enough joy for her. 
 
 Already he had been assured of his freedom and of 
 her faithfulness and in her trusting mind a few speeches 
 more or less could make no difference. During the 
 many hours she now devoted to thought she came to 
 the conclusion that Paul, too, might see matters from 
 the same standpoint. She was the more surprised there- 
 fore when, on the afternoon of the fourth day, he came 
 quietly into the library. 
 
 She was sitting in the place she had established for 
 herself near the window that overlooked the valley. 
 Though all the view was monotonously white, and fre- 
 quently the whole landscape was blurred with blinding 
 snow-storms, it gave her almost a sense of physical 
 freedom and exercise to travel with her eyes the great 
 gorge that fell so gradually from where the lake lay in 
 icy silence to the low round hill which marked the track 
 to Rosega and the great Cross. 
 
 As usual her eyes were staring more at the scene than 
 408
 
 IN THE LIBRART 409 
 
 at the volume on her knee when she heard Paul's voice 
 addressing Father Antonio. She tried hard to keep calm 
 as he presently came over to her and in Italian asked 
 after her health and inquired what book she was read- 
 ing. But the love-light would shine in her dewy eyes 
 and a faint flush flare for a moment on her cheeks. 
 
 After a moment's pause he drew a chair close to hers. 
 "It has been such a struggle to keep from you the last 
 few days, but I thought it best. It has given us both 
 time to think. Tell me, dearest, that you are not angry 
 with me." 
 
 She replied, as he had spoken, low and in English. 
 
 "I have known that you were here. That has 
 sufficed." 
 
 "Trusting and faithful as ever, dear heart." 
 
 "Have I not been rewarded, Paul? But see, here is 
 what I promised to show you. Please read it, and then 
 never let us speak of her again." 
 
 Paul read twice or thrice the scrap of paper Rosa- 
 mund had cut from the Times. 
 
 "That is done with, thank God!" He crumpled the 
 paper between his fingers. "Let us talk, dear, of your- 
 self. My story you know. Tell me yours. " 
 
 So that afternoon she unveiled the past to him, not 
 dwelling on her own grief at his loss, and passing over 
 with but a few words Lord St. Ives' proposal and her 
 aunt's death. Rather did she talk of her travels and the 
 sights she had seen. She told him, too, with honest 
 eyes and unfaltering lips, of Hugh Eraser's devotion. 
 
 "I like to tell you that," she said, simply. "He was 
 a good man." 
 
 "Who could help being good to you?" was all Paul 
 said. 
 
 Then she spoke of Matia and his betrayal, of the
 
 410 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 awful night on the mountain side, of her terrors and 
 fears. She grew so pale at the recollection that Paul 
 stayed her words. 
 
 "Dearest, you must forget these things. Look for- 
 ward and not back. ' ' 
 
 She smiled faintly at him through the tears of self- 
 pity her own words had brought to her eyes. 
 
 "I am hopeful, dear, but they say the winter will be 
 very long." 
 
 Father Antonio, who had been drowsing by the fire, 
 drew near them, and Paul, to cover Rosamund's confu- 
 sion, cried lightly to the good man : 
 
 "The signorina is grieving that the winter will be so 
 long." 
 
 "Then, Brother Paul, we must devise means to pass 
 the days for her." 
 
 With his head on one side he regarded her with twink- 
 ling, beady eyes. 
 
 "The signorina should study. She speaks Italian so 
 well and French, I dare say that the trick of languages 
 should be easy to her. Why not learn Turkish? When 
 the spring comes and the signorina leaves us, she will 
 find it useful on her travels." 
 
 "Will you be my master, good Father?" asked Rosa- 
 mund. 
 
 The fat monk shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "My own language, with French and Latin for my 
 prayers, have ever been enough for me, but there is a 
 fine Turkish scholar here rough-mannered, perhaps 
 but you will learn quickly from him." 
 
 "Do you mean Father Ludovic?" queried Paul. 
 
 "Yes, brother, the same. He is a strange man but 
 good at heart, good at heart." 
 
 Father Antonio returned to the fire and his doze.
 
 Itf THE LIBRARY 411 
 
 "That is a good idea, dearest," said Paul. "Above 
 all things you must have occupation here. Last winter 
 I should have gone mad if it had not been for my 
 music." 
 
 Rosamund smiled at him. 
 
 "It was you, then, playing the violin the other after- 
 noon. My heart told me so. " 
 
 "You heard me! Why, where were you?" 
 
 "Close very close to the screen of olive wood." 
 
 Paul nodded his head. 
 
 "Ah! that saved another man. All the beautiful 
 things you see here the carvings and tooled leathers, the 
 paintings and the rugs, have all been made by men who 
 found in their work more consolation than in their God. 
 The long periods of isolation sometimes even worse 
 that befall the dwellers in these mountain monasteries 
 render even religious exercises a mental torture, and 
 physical enjoyment is necessary to the health, or the 
 sanity, of many who come here. Yes! last year my 
 violin and a little carving saved me. This year I 
 have you!' ' 
 
 "But you will not desert your music? It sounds so 
 sweet among these picturesque old surroundings." 
 
 "If it pleases you I shall play every day." 
 
 ''And to please you and so that you may know I am 
 not drifting into idleness I shall try and learn Turkish. " 
 
 "But your fingers must work, too. I will speak to 
 our steward. He is a most kindly man. You used to 
 work so much in those dear Midshire days. Would you 
 not like to make yourself a cloak and gown?" 
 
 With the prettiest blush of confusion Rosamund 
 looked down at herself and carefully considered her 
 appearance. Her cloth skirt, which had been cut short 
 to a nicety for walking and climbing, now seemed in her
 
 412 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 eyes ridiculously curtailed. Already the edges of the 
 sleeves of her coat were worn, and she had a rent in one 
 elbow that she had acquired during those last few hours 
 on the mountain. The warm woollen waistcoat that she 
 had donned for the last stages of her journey she had 
 managed to wash in her own room, but her efforts on 
 her linen collar had proved quite fruitless, and she had 
 supplied its absence by a knotted handkerchief. 
 
 "I'm very shabby, I'm afraid." 
 
 Paul smiled. 
 
 "You are as true a woman in little things as in greater 
 ones. But you will be warmer in a. woollen gown, and 
 you need some goatskin shoes instead of those thick 
 boots." 
 
 He cast a look at Father Antonio, quietly snoring in 
 the red glow of the hearth. Then he leaned forward and 
 took her hand in his. 
 
 "Darling you will so soon now be all my own that 
 I feel I must care for you as I would for myself." 
 
 The call to the chapel sounded. 
 
 "Farewell for to-day. In an hour you will hear me 
 playing to you."
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX 
 
 THE BLOOD FEUD 
 
 WHEN next Rosamund went to the library she looked as 
 fair as one of Mary's own lilies. She had sewn for her- 
 self a straight falling gown of the white woollen stuff 
 the peasants make for their own use. A long hooded 
 cloak of the same material hung from her shoulders. 
 Her feet were shod in soft, white buskins, and her hair 
 rippled and waved into a heavy coil at the back of her 
 neck. 
 
 "Santa Madonna! but she is beautiful!" ejaculated 
 Father Antonio. 
 
 In Paul's eyes she looked like a queen or a saint. 
 
 A third monk was present that day Father Ludovic, 
 the Turkish scholar. He was a gaunt, ascetic-looking 
 man, and the sparseness of his figure was enhanced by 
 the folds of his coarse habit that looked as though it 
 were hanging on a mere skeleton. The bones of the 
 forehead and the cheeks were painfully sharp, and 
 the eyes that glittered in the sunken sockets were like 
 live coals. 
 
 For a moment Rosamund allowed the Father's looks to 
 dominate her feelings, but Paul had said he was a good- 
 hearted though strange man, and she conquered herself 
 and smiled sweetly into his dark, stern face. 
 
 "Father Ludovic is glad to have a pupil," said Paul. 
 
 "You will find you have set yourself a very difficult 
 task," said the grim father. "It really takes years to 
 
 413
 
 41 4 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 understand the language. You will get but a smattering 
 of it during the time that you are here." 
 
 "At least it will pass the time for me. My reading 
 till now has been very purposeless, and I find the even- 
 ings are long." 
 
 "The signorina does well to make use of the hours," 
 murmured the dark monk, taking down some books from 
 an upper shelf and bringing them to a table near the 
 fire. 
 
 They made a strange group in the glow of the logs, 
 round-faced Father Antonio, drowsing over a small 
 case of his favourite coins, the swarthy Ludovic, with 
 his fierce eyes and guttural voice, Paul, with a smile 
 flitting from time to time across his handsome face and a 
 neglected book in his hand. And amidst these brown- 
 frocked monks sat Rosamund, with her white draperies 
 falling about her and her delicate brows crinkled with 
 anxiety and attention. 
 
 All was quiet and peaceful in the room. Only Father 
 Antonio breathed heavily now and again, and the logs 
 crackled and spluttered on the hearth. 
 
 Suddenly, through the intense stillness, the sharp ring 
 of a shot tore the air. The monks knew what had hap- 
 pened, but Rosamund was ignorant even of whence the 
 sound had come till she caught sight of a tiny puff of 
 blue smoke floating lazily across the street of the village 
 below. Some one had fired a shot down there. She 
 leaned a little forward, pressing her forehead against the 
 icy cold window. Another and another puff of smoke 
 floated out, followed a second later by the hiss of a shot. 
 Against the universal whiteness she caught sight of two 
 or three figures running in mad haste across the village 
 street. A door was flung wide, and a man who by his 
 gait she guessed to be old and slow of movement, stag-
 
 THE BLOOD FEUD 415 
 
 gered out into the road. Once more a shot was fired, 
 and the old man, flinging up his arms, fell forward on 
 his face, a dark figure silhouetted against the spotless 
 ground. For a moment Rosamund could scarcely realise 
 what had happened. It was all so far away, although 
 yet within sight, that she felt as though she had been 
 watching a scene in a play. But a moment or two later 
 she drew back with a sharp cry from the window, for 
 from beneath the black shadow of the body, something 
 that was red crept and slipped like a snake over the 
 white snow. 
 
 "Ah! they have shot him!" she cried, speaking Eng- 
 lish in her excitement. 
 
 "It is the Blood Feud," said Father Ludovic. "It 
 has broken out again. Now they will fight all the winter 
 through. " 
 
 "The Blood Feud," repeated Rosamund, drawing 
 back from the embrasure of the window that she might 
 no longer see that fearful thing down below. "Do they 
 kill each other? What does it mean?" 
 
 "Have you not already heard of that custom of this 
 country during the afternoons you have spent here?" 
 
 "Father Antonio has never told me of anything so 
 dreadful," answered Rosamund. 
 
 "They do not call it dreadful," said the monk, look- 
 ing towards the village, where once again all seemed 
 peace, and the only thing that moved was that long, red, 
 thin line creeping over the snow. "You are disturbed 
 to-day. Come back to the fire and we will tell you of 
 the custom." 
 
 Paul, with a twisted piece of iron, stirred -the embers 
 into a blaze. He flung on some fresh logs which crackled 
 cheerily and sent bright shafts of light into the furthest 
 corners of the dim room.
 
 416 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 Father Ludovic alone of the party did not sit. He 
 seemed to glory in his great height, for he drew himself 
 up to his tallest as he leaned against a bookcase and 
 looked down at the others. 
 
 "The history of Albania," began the Father, "is so 
 wrapped in legend, superstition, and mystery that no man 
 knows when the Blood Feud first commenced, or whose 
 hand it was that inaugurated the series of violent deaths 
 which have carried off the flower of the country from 
 century to century. We Italians and Austrians I am an 
 Austrian" he interpolated "have been told that since 
 all time this fierce feud has existed. The tradition is 
 this: If you kill a man, you owe his family a debt of 
 blood which only your own death can wipe out. The 
 man who claims his family's debt from you is himself a 
 creditor to the head of your own family, and so it goes 
 on descending from father to son, from brother to 
 brother. Sometimes, as has happened to-day, it is an 
 old man who falls, but as often as not it is a child, some- 
 times even an infant. I think I know the man down 
 there. If so, he has been hiding in this village here, and 
 he fled to it from Rosega, far down the valley. He 
 and his sons had a feud which was bequeathed to them 
 for five generations, and in Rosega he used to sit with 
 a loaded rifle watching by day and by night till he 
 who owed him blood should emerge alone from his 
 door." 
 
 "I saw the man myself," cried Rosamund. "Our 
 guide told me that he waited for the Agha. I did not 
 understand then." 
 
 "The debt must have been paid, or the old man would 
 not have fled up here. He doubtless thought he 
 would be safe during the winter, but some one must
 
 THE BLOOD FEUD 417 
 
 have followed him. Perhaps before the snows fell his 
 enemy came here and has waited for his chance." 
 
 "And what will happen now that he is dead? Is it 
 all finished?" 
 
 The monk shook his head. 
 
 "Did I not tell you that he had three sons in Rosega? 
 When the snows melt and the paths are clear again and 
 the news is known down there, the Blood Feud will begin 
 again, and hide how he will, or be guarded how he may, 
 one day the murderer will pay his debt." 
 
 "But is no man ever tried for murder in this country?" 
 
 The monk smiled. 
 
 "In the towns the Turkish zaptiehs make matters 
 worse by trying to interfere, but the people of these 
 mountains, this great Clementi tribe, and those who like 
 them live in wild fastnesses and gorges where the foot of 
 no Lowlander can find a hold, know no laws but their 
 own. We, who have been called to a higher life, try 
 from time to time to heal those breaches and to urge 
 that 'Bessa, ' the peace of forgiveness, should be estab- 
 lished among them." 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders expressively, till the sharp 
 bones stood out beneath the folds of his habit. "But 
 what will you? During the summer months when we 
 pass among them they keep peace, except perhaps dur- 
 ing the fast of 'Ramazin.' But in the winter, when we 
 in these mountain monasteries are held prisoners by 
 nature's hands, what can we do? Down in the villages 
 they pass the winter in drinking and idleness. No man 
 can work, be he ever so willing, for their idleness is 
 forced upon them by God ; so they get quarrelsome, and 
 the old trouble breaks out again. I have passed seven- 
 teen years here, and I shall stay here till I die. Every
 
 418 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 summer we get these wild men to consent to the 'Bessa, ' 
 and every winter the Martini-Peabodys echo round the 
 hills and the red blood stains the white snow, and there 
 are fewer mouths to feed in the cottages." 
 
 "But it is hateful; it is frightful!" cried Rosamund. 
 "They do not look such cruel people as all that. Those 
 whom I saw at Rosega seemed kindly and hospitable ; 
 not as if they had blood upon their hands." 
 
 "The .signorina should not have come to travel in 
 these wild parts," Father Antonio said, suavely. "There 
 are few men who have not some blood debt upon their 
 souls. Why, the lay brother who takes you your food is 
 himself a refugee. When the spring comes and he sets 
 foot upon the mountain side again, he will fall where he 
 stands." 
 
 "The man who brings me my meals, " said Rosamund, 
 "a tall, fair man, who walks like one accustomed to 
 much exercise. I saw many of the same type at Rosega. " 
 
 "So you have seen him?" said the monk. 
 
 "Yes. I happened to open my door one day before 
 he had left the gallery. Does he owe a blood debt?" 
 
 "Yes, and his history is a strange one. He killed a 
 child." 
 
 Paul instinctively moved nearer to her as she turned 
 pale and wrung her hands. 
 
 "Oh, how fearful! How dreadful! A poor little child. 
 Oh, that could not be fair, if there is any fairness in such 
 a fearful custom." 
 
 "The child's father had killed his father, and has 
 never been seen since; so the debt came to the child." 
 
 "And that man killed it?" 
 
 "Yes, down there in the village street, three days 
 before the snow fell." 
 
 Rosamund shuddered, for she pictured the tall, fair
 
 THE BLOOD FEUD 419 
 
 man, with the easy, swinging walk, stained with innocent 
 baby blood. 
 
 "He was a coward, too," interposed Father Ludovic, 
 "for when he had shot down the little one, he ran for 
 asylum to the mother's house, and flung himself on his 
 knees and prayed that she would grant him the 'Bessa. ' 
 By their strange customs the woman was obliged to give 
 him the oath of protection. When the rest of the family 
 came to the door and cried to him to come out and pay 
 the debt, she herself went out to them and said she had 
 granted him 'Bessa' until noon. Then she hid him up in 
 the mountains and told him to escape. The murderer, 
 who is a cur, for all his fine shoulders and yellow hair, 
 fled from house to house, hiding now here, now there, in 
 the cellars, the balconies, even under the eaves. They 
 hunted him out and fired at him a score of times, but 
 the darkness veiled him. Their rifles are bad, their pow- 
 der is large-grained and inferior, and they cannot aim 
 without a rest, so he escaped. At dawn he took to the 
 mountains and arrived here for sanctuary at the mid- 
 day. Our Abbot, who is most charitable and good, took 
 him in and clothed him and out of gratitude the man 
 his name is Hassan, and he is at heart a Mussulman was 
 baptised into our Church, and is called Brother Gabriel. 
 He is a menial, and no one likes him here. I fear that 
 when the spring comes and the path is open he will find 
 himself forced to go down to the village." 
 
 "It is a fearful story," said Rosamund, rising and 
 drawing her cloak round her. "Poor man, how he must 
 have suffered. Surely no one will drive him from the 
 sanctuary of this place?" 
 
 Father Antonio shrugged his round shoulders. 
 
 "There is humanity even in a monastery, signorina. " 
 
 Then Father Ludovic set her a lesson for the next day,
 
 420 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 and with friendly farewells they parted. As she passed 
 down the corridor she saw that the snow was beginning 
 to fall again, not in a light and whirling shower, but in 
 huge soft flakes like feathers, which lay where they fell, 
 and piled themselves higher and higher in an ever- 
 thickening sheet of whiteness.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 A WHITE SHROUD 
 
 THE lamp in Paul's cell began to burn sickly yellow in 
 the growing dawn. Prayers in the winter were not until 
 half-past five, and were said in the refectory for warmth's 
 sake. High Mass in the chapel had also been over for 
 some time. He had snatched a cup of coffee and hot 
 milk and a morsel of black bread and cheese, and had 
 then come up to his cell. With almost feminine particu- 
 larity he made all tidy before sitting down to study his 
 part in the Mass that was to be sung on the following 
 Sunday. 
 
 Rosamund had been many weeks in the monastery of 
 Chatista, and it was of her and not of the music spread 
 open before him that Paul was thinking that morning. 
 His violin was tuned, his bow held in position, but no 
 sound rose from them. With dreamy eyes he stared at 
 the notes, but it was her face only that he saw. Her 
 face, with the tender, bowed mouth, the white-lidded 
 eyes, the pensive droop, all enframed in waved masses 
 of dusky hair. 
 
 As her image dominated his thoughts, his hands 
 relaxed, and the violin slipped to his knees. 
 
 "How like a saint she is in this sad place," he mur- 
 mured to himself. "Even love's passion dies at one 
 glance from her pure eyes. And yet and yet will the 
 time never pass? The days shorten, and sometimes it 
 seems as though an everlasting night were going to fall." 
 
 421
 
 422 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 He stretched out his arms longingly. 
 
 "Ah! for the spring and the fair countryside at 
 home and you my darling. You, who have been, who 
 are, my good angel. Angel, indeed, for you brought me 
 the news of my release, and you are giving me strength 
 to wait with patience." 
 
 The dying lamp flared and smoked, and he put it out. 
 A feeble sun-ray pierced through the small double win- 
 dow, which was in a deep recess opposite the door. It 
 shone upon his face and hands, and he, in the pale radi- 
 ance, leaned back in his wide-armed black oak chair and 
 rested his head against the faded rose-coloured brocade 
 with which it was upholstered. 
 
 The cell was of fair proportions, and like all the rest 
 of the monastery, warmed during the awful winter 
 months by heated air. A small wood fire also burned 
 on the red brick hearth, for in that climate, cold meant 
 death. An old piano helped to fill the wall opposite the 
 curtained bed. It was flanked by a bookcase and a nar- 
 row writing desk. At the bed-head was a prie dieu. 
 Paul had carved it himself during his first winter there. 
 Above it hung a rare crucifix of ivory and silver one of 
 the many splendid gifts that from time to time wealthy 
 patrons or grateful travellers had lavished on the com- 
 munity. Rugs and mats of deer and wolf skin lay upon 
 the floor. Music and books were neatly piled on the 
 piano top. The panelled walls were almost hidden with 
 sacred pictures. Many were crude and poorly drawn, 
 but they gave an air of comfort and colour to the place. 
 A leather curtain hung before the door, near which was 
 fixed a heart-shaped white benitier. On a small table were 
 toilet necessaries and two or three photographs. One, by 
 the costume, was quite thirty years old. It represented 
 Paul's mother, holding him as an infant in her arms.
 
 A WHITE SHROUD 423 
 
 Amid such surroundings Paul had passed more than 
 eighteen months. He had taken two years' vows, and 
 dedicated himself to the higher life and the order of St. 
 Francis. But in the spring he would be free, and when 
 the mountain track that led back to the world to hap- 
 piness to her, was open, his feet would travel it. 
 
 Paul, the Franciscan brother, vowed to austerity and 
 abnegation, was still Paul, the man of easy life and weak 
 temperament, and his heart turned readily to dreams of 
 a brighter future. He remembered and a smile broke 
 the weary lines of his mouth that during their frequent 
 interviews Rosamund had never spoken of his obliga- 
 tions, had never asked him when his freedom would be 
 complete. 
 
 "Ah, how proud, how modest she is how full of faith 
 and trust! All her strong nature turns to lean on me 
 and I am so unworthy!" 
 
 No music sounded that morning from Brother Paul's 
 cell, and he was paler than usual when after the mid-day 
 meal he entered the library, and by his coming caused a 
 slight stir among those assembled there. 
 
 Nursing the fire were Father Antonio and Father 
 Nicholas, a countryman of the first named, who from 
 ennui had lately developed a taste for numismatics. 
 Their ruddy, round faces glowed like full moons in the 
 hot blaze, as they argued and gesticulated like the Ital- 
 ians they were. 
 
 At a small table drawn close to the window sat Rosa- 
 mund and her tutor. Father Ludovic was intent on his 
 task, but Rosamund's mouth and eyes warned Paul that 
 something was amiss. 
 
 "How does your pupil progress, Father?" he asked. 
 Father Ludovic lifted his hollow eyes from the page 
 before him.
 
 424 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 "The signorina is apt and very quick. Her progress 
 is extraordinary but to-day 
 
 "Father Ludovic has just told me that one of your 
 brotherhood is very ill," interrupted Rosamund. "It 
 seems so sad that any one should be ill here isolated 
 from home and friends." She thought of her uncle and 
 sighed. "I hope it is but a passing indisposition, 
 and that he will be well again soon." 
 
 "Illnesses do not pass here, my daughter," said 
 Father Ludovic. "Once the sands of life run low in 
 this climate it is the soul that passes." 
 
 The air of the room was hot and heavy with the pun- 
 gent odour of leather-bound books. There was more 
 snow, too, in the sullen, grey sky, and an air of lassitude 
 dominated the apartment. Now and again Rosamund 
 shot a glance at Paul, but she felt little desire to speak 
 with him. Their life streams were running so-tranquilly 
 just now that there seemed no need to stir their depths. 
 They were together so often in the chapel and the library 
 that they had small need of words. And then every day, 
 as the light died and night dropped her dark mantle 
 over the white world, he played to her and poured out 
 all the love and passion he could not speak. 
 
 In her present mood a time of recovery from much 
 mental suffering and nervous trial that intercourse was 
 sufficient for her. Peace and the assurance of his love 
 were all she needed. Yet her very tranquillity could 
 bear but little ruffling, and when at the break of the next 
 dawn she was awakened from her slumber by the dole- 
 ful, monotonous throbbing of a single bell, she sorrowed 
 deeply. The snow was falling through the thick air and 
 the sound was muffled, but each note struck proclaimed 
 the news that a member of the brotherhood made one 
 by isolation had passed away in the night.
 
 A WHITE SHROUD 425 
 
 That afternoon out of respect she did not go to the 
 library, but only left her room for half an hour to pace 
 up and down the long corridor outside it. It was while 
 she was there that she heard the shuffling of feet on the 
 stone pavement of the cloisters below and the droning of 
 a funeral hymn. She crept to one of the windows and 
 looked down upon the sad procession of monks with 
 their brown cowls pulled over their bent heads and the 
 beads hanging from hands that were crossed upon their 
 breasts. Four of them carried the bier. The sight 
 brought a pang of sorrow to her heart, for it reminded 
 her acutely that she was learning to forget the memory 
 of her dear uncle whom she had lost. 
 
 As the melancholy procession passed very slowly by 
 and was swallowed up in the dimness of an angle of the 
 cloisters, Rosamund's eyes, sharpened by love, pierced 
 through the awkwardly cut, rough garments and discov- 
 ered Paul in the dismal ranks. 
 
 When the last of the procession, which was closed by 
 a group of lay brothers, had passed away, she still leaned 
 against the window. The courtyard of the monastery 
 was almost new ground to her, and she looked curiously 
 at the long rows of small leaded panes, the carved mul- 
 lions, the old iron water-spouts, wrought into a hundred 
 different heads of griffins and devils, each of which now 
 wore a long beard of ice. On the wall that faced south 
 a hardy creeper grew. It had straggled between the 
 close-set windows right up to the roof, and had flung one 
 long branch round a low chimney stack. It was covered 
 with snow, which had frozen hard and looked like a 
 frosted silver pattern against the grey walls of the old 
 house. Then she looked downwards to where, in the 
 centre of the courtyard, the snow lay in an ever-growing 
 heap, for the cloisters were swept clean each day, and
 
 426 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 the white expanse was a miniature mountain range of 
 ups and downs. 
 
 A dreary sound rent the silence. It was the mourn- 
 ful funeral chant that pierced the walls and floated like 
 a dismal wail round the desolate quadrangle. It 
 sounded inexpressibly sad in the gloom of the dying 
 afternoon. It was dusk before the sound of footsteps 
 passing again over the flagged walk told her that the 
 service was ended, and that yet another monk had been 
 laid to his long rest in the vault beneath the chancel. 
 
 As she stood there, oblivious of darkness and cold, 
 she fell to wondering whether many of them died like 
 that during these terrible winters. She knew so little of 
 those who dwelt with her inside these thick grey walls, 
 and save for the chance words let drop by Paul from time 
 to time, the habit of their lives was almost a sealed book 
 to her. She recalled how changed Paul was, and how 
 she had been told by Mr. Fraser that the Italians and 
 other Southern-bred men who exiled themselves, either 
 for political, family, or religious reasons, in these deso- 
 late mountain monasteries, were always regarded and 
 spoken of by their friends as being dead men. 
 
 "Dead!" she cried to the darkness. "Shall we 
 Paul and I ever leave this place alive?" 
 
 With a new doubt a growing horror added to the 
 monotony of her days, she went slowly back to her 
 rooms. That evening Paul did not play to her, and she 
 was very sad.
 
 CHAPTER XLI 
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE RED DEER 
 
 THE Advent fasts and Christmas feasts were past. To 
 Rosamund they had only served as a mark in the passage 
 of time. She fancied that a depression and anxiety filled 
 the air. Father Ludovic grew more lean and silent, 
 Paul looked ill and sad, and even Father Antonio's 
 unquenchable Southern temperament seemed dim and 
 subdued. 
 
 She wondered at the gradual change, and one day she 
 knew the truth. 
 
 She was sitting alone in the library. A Turkish book 
 was in her hands, and she was diligently reading it, and 
 as she went, carefully translating each sentence. 
 
 "Rosamund!" said Paul's voice over her shoulder. 
 She did not start. It seemed quite natural to have him 
 there. 
 
 "Give me your attention for a moment, dearest." A 
 graver cadence than usual in his voice made her turn 
 sharply in her chair, letting the volume fall all unheeded 
 among the folds of her white gown. 
 
 "Is there any trouble, Paul? How pale and anxious 
 you look." 
 
 She put out a loving, tender hand to him. 
 
 "You seem so tired so worn. Ah! Paul, now that 
 I have come so far and braved such dangers to be near 
 you you must not fail me." 
 
 He caught her fingers between his two palms, but 
 only the ghost of a smile flickered over his face. 
 
 427
 
 428 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 "Dearest, we must each help the other now. To-day 
 I am the Abbot's messenger to you." 
 
 "The Abbot has sent me a message? He wants me 
 to help him?" 
 
 "He wants you to be brave. That is the help we all 
 have to give each other now." 
 
 Paul pulled one of the heavy carved chairs to her 
 side and sat down. 
 
 "Listen, dear, to what he says. God, for His own 
 good purposes, has made you one of our community, and 
 the Abbot looks upon it merely as an act of justice that 
 you should know how matters stand with us, who are by 
 the will of that same God prisoners here now. The 
 winter through which we are passing is the most terrible 
 that has ever been known, even in these wild parts. We 
 have much sickness in the house, and one already of our 
 community has been called from earth to heaven. Now 
 we find ourselves almost at the end of our stores and 
 food. The Abbot wishes you to know this, that you 
 may not think that you are treated with any lack of hos- 
 pitality if from to-day your fare is of the roughest. All 
 of us will feed alike until it pleases Providence to send 
 us flesh or fowl." 
 
 Rosamund smiled in Paul's face. 
 
 "Dearest, as you fare so am I content to do." 
 
 Paul gazed at her, so brave in her youth and strength, 
 so fair and simple in her white. woollen gown. 
 
 "You are of the stuff that once made martyrs and 
 saints. But perhaps there will be compensation in the 
 scales of justice. When the weather is very bitter among 
 the passes and the snow lies thick for many weeks on the 
 ground, the wild red deer, which herd in the pine forests 
 and in the more sheltered gorges, grow quite tame, and 
 come here the only habitation of man on all Argen-
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE RED DEER 429 
 
 talia's rugged sides for food. Those of long experi- 
 ence here say that the deer must now be on the verge of 
 starvation, and yesterday two lay brothers scattered 
 some hay a few yards from the entrance. This morn- 
 ing it was gone." 
 
 "Oh! Paul," cried Rosamund, "they are going to 
 trap the poor, pretty creatures." 
 
 "My dearest, we owe it to our Maker to preserve the 
 lives He gave us. Yes! Each night now the great 
 gates will be set open and the courtyard strewn with 
 sweet hay." 
 
 He caught sight of her distressed face. 
 
 "Dear, tender heart, we but fulfil the laws of nature. 
 Ah! I have hurt you." 
 
 To distract her thoughts he picked up her dropped 
 book. 
 
 "What a linguist you will be, Rosamund, by the time 
 you leave here. Father Ludovic is a good master." 
 
 "He is most patient and most kind," answered the 
 girl, anxious to interest herself in other subjects. "But, 
 Paul, how strangely he looks sometimes half sad, half 
 fierce. Has he a history?" 
 
 "Yes. He is that social anomaly an anarchist. He 
 escaped from justice to these fastnesses seventeen years 
 ago. For months half a regiment of the Albanian Guard 
 scoured the mountains for him. The Abbot gave him 
 sanctuary, and found out later that he, in his youth, had 
 been acquainted with Ludovic's family. It was that 
 bond that made him keep him here. Now all his strong 
 will and fierce passions have turned to religion. He 
 flagellates himself at night in his cell until the walls are 
 splashed with his own blood. He fasts and prays till he 
 faints on the altar steps. I think now he only tastes of 
 peace when he is with you."
 
 430 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 "Poor man! If my presence brings any happiness to 
 him I am glad." 
 
 But for the next few weeks there was little happiness 
 and much anxiety in the monastery. So unusually early 
 had the winter begun that the store of birds and mut- 
 ton and venison, which is made in these mountain valleys 
 with the idea that it will last through the winter months, 
 had almost given out. Nothing but black bread, coarse 
 and gritty as ashes, and goats' milk cheese was served at 
 every meal. Often, as Rosamund sat at her books or 
 needlework, her head swam and her sight grew dim, yet 
 she bore the trial better than some, who became more 
 shadowy and wan as the long January weeks crept by. 
 
 The red deer picked shyly at the scattered hay some- 
 times, but, as the monks said, were not yet tame enough 
 to venture within the heavy gates. 
 
 But at last a morning came when Rosamund was 
 startled from her sleep by shouts and cries and shots. 
 Dragging on her gown and cloak, she ran to her door. 
 Scattered outside was her daily supply of fire-logs. 
 Hassan, the Albanian lay brother, had evidently been 
 disturbed at his work of neatly piling them. Half fear- 
 ful, half curious, the girl ran to the corridor window 
 that overlooked the quadrangle. 
 
 The sight that met her eyes filled her with mingled 
 wonder and horror. During the night a herd of red deer, 
 driven at last from the mountains by storms, cold, and 
 the ravages of the wolves, had rushed into the trap set 
 for them. The piled snow in the quadrangle had been 
 trodden in every direction by their futile efforts to escape. 
 In the cloisters were all the monks and the denizens of 
 the monastery. The Abbot himself was leaning from a 
 window. His long beard was blown over one shoulder 
 and his arms were waving directions to those below.
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE RED DEER 431 
 
 "Not too fast! Not too fast, my children!" he cried, 
 as a shot "pinged" from the long barrel of a Martini- 
 Peabody and another lordly creature fell. "Above all, 
 spare the does spare the does." 
 
 And Ludovic, from the angle by the chapel door, 
 shouted: "Kill only three! They will suffice for the 
 present." 
 
 An hour later Hassan knocked at Rosamund's door. 
 He was smiling broadly all over his fair, handsome face, 
 and bore some steaming stew upon a platter. 
 
 "The good God has sent us some food," he cried in 
 his strange language. "There is no need now to eat dry 
 bread or starve." 
 
 With all her natural longing for the food, Rosamund 
 endured a moment of revulsion. She had seen the 
 pretty animals shot out there, and even now their blood 
 was staining the snow. Although her hands went out 
 for the plate she shook her head at the Albanian. 
 
 "Do you know the legend, signorina, that you fear to 
 eat? The mountain folk vow that ill-luck follows the 
 killing of a wild red deer." He shrugged his broad 
 shoulders expressively as he thrust the food into her 
 reluctant hands. "But you, signorina, are English 
 and a Christian lady. You would not believe such idle 
 talk. Neither do I. It is only for dogs of Mussul- 
 mans." 
 
 And the recently converted son of Islam hastened 
 down the corridor intent on his own dinner.
 
 CHAPTER XLII 
 
 THE VALLEY OF THE DEAD 
 
 FEBRUARY had set in and the Lenten fasts were close at 
 hand. Although the days were longer, the monastery, 
 with its narrow, lead-surrounded windows and black 
 oaken walls, was very dark and gloomy. The sun had 
 for days been hidden by ragged clouds, which poured a 
 never-ceasing stream of mingled snow and rain upon the 
 countryside. The cold became more difficult to bear, 
 for the air was laden with damp and mist. So bad was 
 the weather that the red does that had lived comfort- 
 ably in the courtyard during the extreme frost were now 
 stabled with the horses and mules. 
 
 Rosamund often visited them in their warm, steamy 
 shelter, and made a playmate of a baby fawn that was 
 there. She had to struggle hard in those days against 
 a nervous depression, which when she was alone almost 
 killed the strong spirit within her. The many months 
 of close confinement to the house, the monotony of the 
 hours, the sameness of her surroundings, told even on 
 her equable nature. Then, too, as the days, crept by 
 she could not help speculating on the future. 
 
 In their daily intercourse which, even when they 
 met alone, she and Paul by unspoken consent held in 
 the leashes of self-restraint and emotional suppression 
 the coming of spring and its consequences were now 
 never mentioned. But in her solitary hours Rosamund's 
 imagination won compensating sway, and she built a 
 
 432
 
 THE VALLEY OF THE DEAD 433 
 
 thousand castles, refuted hundreds of arguments, and 
 dreamed endless dreams. 
 
 Of her own release directly it should be safe for her 
 
 to leave the monastery she had no doubt. The Abbot 
 
 . himself had spoken of it, and promised her assistance. 
 
 Of money she would have plenty for her journey, for the 
 
 Fathers held for her the pocket-book found on her uncle. 
 
 But Paul what of him? 
 
 Her very uncertainty as to Paul's future stayed her 
 from speaking to him of it. That his two years' vow 
 was drawing to a close she knew, but suppose pressure 
 force were brought to bear upon him, and he should stay 
 in the monastery? She longed to ask him if the brother- 
 hood would be willing to let him go. She knew herself 
 to be a coward, she despised herself for postponing the 
 question. But she loved him so dearly, she dreaded so 
 much the thought of going back alone to a world that 
 for her held nothing but empty memories, that she 
 lacked the courage to meet the worst. 
 
 Her chiefest happiness she now found in the chapel. 
 Among the pictured saints and silver swinging lamps, 
 the brilliant gilding, the statues, waxen flowers, and 
 coloured marbles, surrounded by everything she had 
 been taught to abjure, her soul found peace and her 
 heart patience. 
 
 She had prayed a long time one day before the altar 
 of the Blessed Virgin. A calm-eyed, sweet-faced picture 
 hung above the candles and the dried flowers. After 
 she had finished praying she knelt on, gazing at the 
 tender features till they seemed to pulsate with life. 
 
 Suddenly with a cry she held out her hands to the 
 picture. "Ah ! Mother of God, grant me courage if thou 
 canst not give me happiness." 
 
 Then as though impelled by an invisible hand, she
 
 434 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 leaned forward and kissed the pierced feet of the ivcry 
 Christ that stood upon the altar. As she did so a dull 
 roar rolled through the heavy air and muttered and 
 echoed in the chapel roof. 
 
 She rose to her feet quickly. 
 
 "That sound again! What can it be? I heard it 
 sleeping and waking in the night." 
 
 A little later she entered the library. Of the three 
 brown-habited monks present, Ludovic and Paul were 
 seated by the fire, while Father Antonio was with a mag- 
 nifying glass examining a coin by the window. 
 
 The room was so warm, and the occupants, who 
 might have looked strange in fresh eyes, but to whom 
 she had grown accustomed, looked so cheerful and con- 
 tented that much of her own depression fled at the sight 
 of them. 
 
 Father Antonio called her as she entered. 
 
 "See here, signorina! Here's quite a new coin for 
 you to-day. I found a leather pouch last week in an old 
 chest that stands in the refectory, and this was in it. 
 The first Russian money that was ever struck." 
 
 He expatiated on it for some moments before turning 
 away to seek a place for it in the already over-full glass 
 cases. 
 
 Rosamund looked from the window. Huge masses of 
 cloud were lying all along the mountain tops, and the 
 valley beneath the leaden canopy looked inexpressibly 
 mournful. She shivered at the prospect, but with idle 
 eyes stared on. 
 
 Father Antonio was now by the fire, round which the 
 conversation by degrees took on quite a genial tone. 
 The monks having dined well and being warmed by the 
 cheerful flames, told stories among themselves and 
 laughed and gesticulated, Even Father Ludovic unbent
 
 THE VALLET OF THE DEAD 435 
 
 a little, and Rosamund heard his harsh voice from time 
 to time raised in quite animated controversy above 
 Paul's full, clear tones and the chirrup of Father 
 Antonio. 
 
 "Is not the signorina cold over there? The wind 
 comes down the valley at this season and strikes upon 
 the windows that overlook the village," said Father 
 Ludovic after a time. 
 
 "I am not cold, thank you," said Rosamund. "I 
 have my cloak," and she pulled the warm, white gar- 
 ment still closer about her shoulders. 
 
 "Is there any new interest in the landscape to-day?" 
 said Paul. "There are not many features left by this 
 awful snow." 
 
 Rosamund leaned one shoulder against the window- 
 frame and turned her face towards the group by the fire. 
 
 "I have not seen the valley for the clouds for some 
 days, and now this afternoon I seem to miss a familiar 
 object. It all seems different, and yet it is still white, 
 just as it has been ever since I came here. Yet to-day 
 it looks dead, as though something that had lived and 
 illuminated the whole scene had gone out of it." 
 
 Father Ludovic lifted his gaunt height from the elbow 
 chair and came over to her side, looking with curious 
 eyes right up the gorge. Paul followed him to the win- 
 dow. 
 
 After a minute or two Paul touched Ludovic on the 
 arm. 
 
 "The water has ceased to fall from the lake up there, 
 has it not, Father Ludovic?" 
 
 Ludovic nodded his lean, brown head. 
 
 "Yes. It is as the signorina says the light and the- 
 life have gone out o the. valley, anxl it. looks one de.ad 
 waste."
 
 43 6 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 Father Antonio thrust himself into the group. "A 
 valley of the dead," he murmured to himself. "I shall 
 not be surprised if that is what it will prove to be." 
 
 A warning look passed between the two Fathers, and 
 in deep and whispered conversation they presently left 
 the room together. 
 
 Paul still stood looking from the window up towards 
 the frozen lake. Rosamund with a sigh was turning 
 towards the fire, when once again a fearful roar,' fol- 
 lowed by a splitting, crashing sound tore the sullen 
 silence. 
 
 The suddenness of the sound, acting on her over- 
 wrought nerves, startled her, and she gave a slight 
 scream. 
 
 "Paul!" she cried, her carefully guarded self- 
 restraint breaking down before the instinct that drives a 
 woman in danger to the man she loves. 
 
 As a spark fires fuel, her plaintive cry, her trembling 
 outstretched hands made him, too, forget. 
 
 "My darling my sweet come to me." 
 
 He caught her in his arms, and as the magic of her 
 eyes drew his will his soul from him, he kissed her on 
 the mouth. 
 
 Ah! the heaven of that kiss! The rare fulfilment of 
 a starved desire. 
 
 It thrilled her, too. with rapture, and drove the blood 
 madly through her veins. But it also roused memory 
 and honour. She drew herself from his embrace. 
 
 "Paul! Let us not have one thought one word to 
 reproach ourselves with in the future." 
 
 "The future! Rosamund, it grows nearer every 
 hour." 
 
 She crept close to him again, but only laid a hand 
 upon his arm. He smiled as he saw it there, resting
 
 THE VALLET OF THE DEAD 437 
 
 upon the coarse brown habit, as a white rose-leaf lies on 
 the bare ground. 
 
 "Paul, you speak hopefully of the future. Dear, 
 that gives me courage. Is there to be a future for us 
 together?" 
 
 "Dearest there is! There must be. God's hand 
 has ruled our destinies from the first. Ah! if you could 
 only know how I tried to kill myself and my love and 
 my memory for you. A thousand times when I first 
 came here I prayed to heaven that I might die. Last 
 winter I lay at death's door for weeks, and they told me 
 when I was well again that my restoration to health was 
 a sign from the Almighty that I was destined for other 
 things than to be thrust into a coffin and buried away 
 out of sight. I thought in my foolishness that some day 
 I might be a great preacher or reformer among men; 
 that I might go out among these poor heathens here and 
 reclaim some of them and bring them to the true God. 
 But now I know that I was not saved for that. I know 
 that I was saved for you, and you only. It must be 
 that, or why did Providence bring you to these doors 
 when there was the whole of Europe for you to wander 
 over, and thousands of monasteries could shelter you?" 
 
 He took her hand and led her over to the fire. 
 "Don't shake your head, my dear love, and don't look 
 so sad. Don't you see that we are in God's hands 
 that we cannot help ourselves, you and I? We were 
 meant for one another from the first. I myself, by the 
 folly of my youth, by the ill-considered actions of my 
 manhood, raised between us the greatest barriers that 
 man knows of. But love has triumphed and destiny has 
 won, Rosamund, and we are going away from here not, 
 perhaps, back to the world, but to some sweet, quiet 
 spot where we can thank Providence for its goodness,
 
 438 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 and be happy till the real time of our inevitable separa- 
 tion comes." 
 
 Rosamund raised her eyes questioningly to his. 
 
 "Back to the world, Paul? Ah! would that we were 
 there now. But we are prisoners here." 
 
 "Yes, dearest, prisoners for the moment, but not for- 
 ever. The spring is coming, and with the spring, deliv- 
 erance. When the snows melt and the paths are free 
 again they will send you with an escort down the moun- 
 tain, and you can wait for me in some safe refuge till I 
 come to you." 
 
 A few weak tears welled in her eyes. 
 
 "When will that be, dear? Paul, it is such a terror 
 to me to think that we must be parted, even for a little 
 while. Cannot we leave together?" 
 
 "Perhaps. The two years for which I took my vows 
 are nearly over. It may be that the same day will set 
 us both free; and even if we cannot go together, be 
 sure that my feet will tread the paths that yours will 
 have touched, and once I am with you, darling, we 
 shall never be parted again." 
 
 He wiped the tears gently from her pale cheeks and 
 drew her head down to his shoulder. 
 
 "Why, you used to be so brave, Rosamund. I always 
 looked to you and leaned upon you, and now it is I who 
 am the stronger." 
 
 "I am afraid," she said at length. "I am so afraid 
 up here. They have all been good and kind to me, and 
 I am sure that they will let me go in the springtime, but 
 there are many weeks till that time comes." 
 
 A loud roll, sullen and muffled, shook the earth. She 
 trembled and clung to him. 
 
 "Rosamund, Rosamund, you must not give way to 
 such idle fears. Look what we have lived through, you
 
 THE VALLET OF THE DEAD 439 
 
 and I. As to that noise, it is but the first snows slipping 
 from the steeper peaks to the valley. If the clouds did 
 not lie so low, you could watch the avalanches. When 
 the sun shines on them they are like falls of molten 
 silver. Why, dearest, they are the harbingers of spring. 
 Now you know that, I expect you to count each one as a 
 friend." 
 
 "But that strange, crackling noise there it is again- 
 that can't be snow." 
 
 "Avalanches often carry rocks in their fall. I must 
 go. It is just the hour for vespers," 
 
 She caught a fold of his habit in her hand. 
 
 "Paul, at what time do you all pray in the evening?" 
 
 "At nine o'clock, dear, in the refectory. We spend 
 our hour of recreation there also, after we've finished 
 supper." 
 
 "At nine. Paul, remember to-night that at the same 
 hour I shall be praying, too." 
 
 She glided softly out of the room. When he was 
 alone, he ran quickly to the window and strained his 
 eyes in vain to pierce the heavy clouds that lay like a 
 pall over the upper end of the valley. 
 
 "Almost I could fancy that those noises were thun- 
 der, save that the Fathers looked so grave." 
 
 The summons to vespers sounded. With a pale, 
 thoughtful face he took his way to the chapel.
 
 CHAPTER XLIII 
 
 THE HEADMAN'S HOUSE 
 
 IN the Headman's house down in the village of Chatista 
 the wood fire burnt low, and the lazy smoke scarcely 
 reached the ceiling, but hung in blue wreaths among the 
 low rafters. It was at the end of the day, and the 
 women of the house were busy in a dark corner prepar- 
 ing the evening meal. Nearer to the brazier of charcoal 
 sat the Headman himself, a powerful giant, with a blue- 
 tasselled fez upon his head and a red shawl bound 
 tightly round his throat. He was addressing, in low, 
 measured terms, a group of about twenty neighbours, half 
 of whom squatted cross-legged on the mud floor, while 
 the others either leaned against the wooden walls or paced 
 to and fro just within the open door. That some 
 trouble was afoot it was easy to see, for the faces of the 
 men, dark and heavily moustached as they were, all 
 betrayed anxiety or anger. 
 
 "Catanio's son is dead," said the Headman, shaking 
 his head at his friends. That is the third child he has 
 lost this winter, and it is the twentieth youth whom 
 death has claimed since the snows fell." 
 
 Several of the men on the floor raised their hands 
 with a gesture of sorrow. 
 
 "The times are surely bad," went on the Headman, 
 "when the village sees the flower and pride of its man- 
 hood dying like sheep." 
 
 One who was dressed as a Mahomedan spoke next, 
 taking his long pipe from his mouth. 
 
 44
 
 THE HEADMAN'S HOUSE 441 
 
 "And what of the women?" he said. "My wife Aisha 
 is no more, and the wife of my neighbour Ali is dead. 
 Tell us where we are to get new women to tend our huts 
 and draw the water." 
 
 The Albanian flashed a scornful look at the Turk. 
 He had been born of a Christian mother and a Mahome- 
 dan father, and his upbringing had been a mingling of 
 both religions, and had made him neither a follower 
 of God nor of His Prophet. Though he had married a 
 Turkish girl, it had been in the Albanian fashion, taking 
 her from the priest's house. He had the scorn of a 
 healthy living man for the more sensual and idle Turks, 
 who, however poor they were, kept their wives in strict 
 seclusion, and though they treated them little better 
 than animals, looked upon them as absolute necessities 
 to their existence. 
 
 "I think there is a curse upon this place," cried a 
 swarthy mountaineer from the background. "Never 
 since the time of my grandfather peace be to his 
 soul! have we had such snows." 
 
 "And never has death been so rife among us," said 
 another. 
 
 "And never have we starved so long," put in a short 
 man with a wide, animal mouth. 
 
 One who was leaning against the door, nis brown 
 head crowned with a white felt skull cap and his 
 straight lower limbs outlined by the tight-fitting panta- 
 loons of the true Albanian mountaineer, stepped forward 
 into the circle. 
 
 "You think there is a curse upon this place," he said. 
 "I know there is." 
 
 "What do you know, Agar?" asked Nikleka, the 
 Headman, fiercely. 
 
 "Perhaps one of the younger monks who lives in that
 
 44 2 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 eagle's nest above us proves he is still a man and has 
 cast eyes on that new slave of yours that you brought up 
 from Rosega last autumn. A woman of the village said 
 she was beautiful." 
 
 "Silence there!" thundered the other. "The girl is 
 dead. Dead of the same strange, mysterious disease 
 that has killed so many during the last few weeks, and as 
 to that, Selim, I would like to see one of them dare set 
 so much as an eye upon one of my women." He tossed 
 his head back and laughed. "They do not want our 
 women." 
 
 A thrill ran through the group gathered in the 
 shadows cast by the fire. All these men Albanians and 
 Turks, Mussulmans and Christians whatever they said 
 among themselves from time to time about the saintly 
 priesthood that lived year in and year out on the crags 
 above them, in their hearts had always felt that grudging 
 admiration which brave men grant to brave men. Liv- 
 ing as they did themselves in the comparative shelter of 
 the valley, even their hardy natures could never with- 
 hold a tribute of "wonder to these, most of whom they 
 knew came from softer climes than their own, who vol- 
 untarily exiled themselves to the bleakest and most 
 exposed spot on the mountains for many miles round. 
 Their hard-working efforts in the summer months, their 
 privations during the long winter, the stoicism with 
 which they bore isolation and desolation had always 
 wrung from these rough mountaineers a certain measure 
 of respect. Above all, those who were Mahomedans, 
 and absolutely free in their domestic relations, had 
 always been struck with the fact that these strange 
 Christian men h#d voluntarily deprived themselves of 
 one of the joys of life the companionship of women. 
 They laughed in their beards sometimes and called them
 
 THE HEADMAN'S HOUSE 443 
 
 fools; they made coarse jokes among themselves, and 
 yet every man believed secretly that by what they 
 deemed this chiefest sacrifice these Christian men were 
 laying up for themselves a certain future of beatitude. 
 Those among them who had from time to time left the 
 mountains and been down to the great cities had told 
 them of pious Mussulmans who had deprived themselves 
 also of all the joys of life, and they could appreciate and 
 admire, though they never wished to follow, the 
 example of such an existence. 
 
 "Ah! but they kill and eat the red deer," cried 
 Selim. "They have hung the bare bones and antlers of 
 a red deer's head above their doorway. That in itself 
 is a defiance to us." 
 
 "Never mind the red deer. That is an old wife's 
 tale," sneered Nikleka. "God is angry with us or with 
 them. ' You all know there is a God, whether it is He to 
 whom they pray or our own, and this region has been 
 blasted by His fury." 
 
 "Ala who akbar; la Ala il ala!" muttered a grey- 
 bearded Turk, crouching near the brazier. "Sickness 
 and starvation and cold have come upon us, and we are 
 helpless." 
 
 "Nikleka is right!" cried two or three voices, as the 
 Albanian finished, while an old woman, in a far corner 
 began to croon a dirge about punishment and sin, and 
 in strange rhythmical lines urged on the men to remove 
 the stain from the village. 
 
 "Silence there!" shouted Nikleka, noticing how in a 
 few minutes the droning words had fired the men and 
 how they were muttering threats and curses among 
 themselves. 
 
 "What matters it if I am silent?" called back the 
 hag. "A sin once committed cries aloud for punish-
 
 444 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 ment. Wine that is spilt must be wiped up, or it leaves 
 a stain forever. A sin has been committed. Let those 
 who have done it meet with the just reward." 
 
 The shadowy figure sank again to the floor and the 
 long, withered hands of the old woman began again to 
 knead the coarse maize bread. 
 
 Nikleka looked round him. He was a fair-minded 
 man, though stern and strict in the administration of 
 justice in the village. He was born of a savage people, 
 and had been brought up amid savage surroundings. 
 The laws he administered were almost all those of his 
 own making, and were governed by the crudest sense of 
 right and wrong. Still, in his rough way, he had always 
 entertained a sympathy for those men who lived out their 
 voluntary exile so far above his head, and if he felt any- 
 thing at the vague hint that they had fallen from the 
 pedestal on which he had placed them, it was a sense of 
 disappointment more than of anger. But the men about 
 him, his neighbours in the village and some were 
 almost as powerful and as rich in flocks and herds as 
 himself would not be easy to manage, he felt, if in the 
 spring a collision occurred between his own people 
 and the monks. Leaning his head upon his hand, he 
 stared into the embers, while the men about him whis- 
 pered together, and Agar, standing again by the door, 
 was addressing in angry tones the two or three who had 
 followed him. 
 
 Suddenly a great roar resounded through the air. It 
 was followed by a heavy crash that shook the whole vil- 
 lage. It reverberated back in thunderous waves from 
 mountain top to mountain top, and bellowed hoarsely in 
 the slumbrous, snow-bound valleys. Every man started 
 to his feet and made for the narrow doorway, rushing
 
 THE HEADMAN'S HOUSE 445 
 
 pell-mell into the street and standing with wide eyes and 
 open mouth staring about him. But as the sound died 
 away a dead silence followed, and all was still and at 
 peace again, save that here and there some of the sleepy 
 peasants peered from their doorways, and then crept 
 back to their blankets by their firesides. 
 
 "The Black Glacier is moving fast to-night," said 
 Nikleka. He cast his eyes up the valley, but in the 
 darkness nothing was to be seen. "I have never heard 
 so great a fall." 
 
 A trembling Mahomedan on the outskirts of the 
 group looked up at the monastery. 
 
 "I thought it was an explosion, and that Allah had 
 wiped out the Christian dogs and the building that they 
 have made." 
 
 Selim spoke next. 
 
 "Say rather that Allah is wiping us out. Listen! 
 They are wailing down at Selza's hut. That means his 
 child is dead. The little one was only taken ill three 
 hours ago. I feared it would not live." 
 
 He spoke truly, for the howl of the mourning women 
 pierced the quiet night air and made each man draw 
 shudderingly nearer to his neighbour. Truly it was a 
 fearful and a deadly sickness that walked their village 
 street and entered at their doors, and no one knew who 
 might be stricken next. Then each man grasped another 
 by the arm, for a second and then a third crash sounded 
 from the head of the gorge. 
 
 "How the ice comes down," said one to his neigh- 
 bour. "Surely the glacier is not going to topple over 
 altogether," he cried. He had jested before, and he 
 now made a feeble attempt to be merry again. "It will 
 be a fine sight if it does."
 
 44 6 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 "Stop thy foolish tongue," said Nikleka, sharply. 
 Then he raised his hand again above his eyes and tried 
 to pierce the dense darkness. 
 
 "Would it were not so dark a night, that we might 
 see what is going on up there. The Black Glacier has 
 been moving fast for the last few weeks, and much ice 
 has fallen since the new year. I cannot make it out." 
 
 Agar shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "Another trouble." 
 
 Nikleka turned his fierce eyes on the pessimist. 
 
 "There may be more trouble than you think, friend 
 Agar. I mind me of a story that I heard when I was yet 
 a little child. It is an old tale almost a legend that 
 has lived through the centuries. My father told it to 
 me. It bodes no good when the Black Glacier stirs in 
 its bed." 
 
 "Is it truly a portent?" cried one. 
 
 "Was the story an evil one?" said another. 
 
 Nikleka shook his head. 
 
 "I cannot tell till dawn, and even then the snows lie 
 so thick that I doubt if we can get beyond the village, 
 but you must sleep now, good friends, for there may be 
 work before us." 
 
 But the group, still reluctant to part and bound to- 
 gether by an unknown fear, clustered closely in the nar- 
 row street. The wail of the women in the house where 
 the child had just died had sunk for a moment into 
 nothingness. The silence could almost be felt. Sud- 
 denly every man's head turned, and over every man's 
 face, in the dim light that shone from the open door of 
 Nikleka's hut, a strange look, half of expectation, half 
 of astonishment, crept. A tiny, faint, trickling sound 
 cut through the darkness. It was very soft and very 
 sharp at the same time. It was the sound of trickling
 
 THE HEADMAN'S HOUSE 447 
 
 water, falling and dropping from a rock. Nikleka raised 
 his hand. 
 
 "Friends, the snows are melting; the spring is at 
 hand. We must try in a few days to get up the gorge 
 and see what the great glacier is doing. Now, good 
 night." 
 
 As each went down the white silent street to his own 
 hut once more the great ice river stirred in its bed, and 
 once more the roar and crash of the falling of tons of 
 splintered ice pierced the night. As Agar reached his 
 own hovel he turned and stared in the direction of the 
 distant beetling crag with its crown of buildings. He 
 shook his fist fiercely towards the silent mass before 
 entering his own dark hut and shutting the tiny door 
 behind him.
 
 CHAPTER XLIV 
 
 THE BLACK GLACIER 
 
 THE days were slowly lengthening and the weeks well set 
 in the second quarter of the year when one day the Abbot 
 sent for Rosamund to come to his room and told her that 
 she might now walk, if she so pleased, upon the narrow 
 terrace that overhung the cliff. She heard his words with 
 astonishment, and could not keep her eyes from travel- 
 ling to the window, from which nothing was to be seen 
 but a great waste of pure white snow. The good Father 
 smiled at the look of incredulity that came into her face. 
 
 "You think there is no change out there," he said. 
 "It is not so. It is within these thick walls that there is 
 no change. Once the biting colds and damps of the 
 winter make their way in here it takes many weeks of 
 sunshine and pure air to drive them out. But I beg you 
 to put on your cloak to-day and walk on the terrace. 
 Directly you set foot there you will understand why I 
 advised you to go." 
 
 And when a few minutes later Rosamund, with her 
 big white capa drawn about her and the cowl pulled over 
 her dark locks, stepped on to the clean swept flags of 
 the narrow promenade, she knew that the Abbot had 
 been right. True that the snows were still thick on all 
 sides, and that the skies here and there were veiled with 
 a grey gauze that circled round the mountains and 
 stretched like scarfs between the hills. But the keen 
 cruelty had died from the air, and when she placed her 
 hand upon the glistening snow that lay upon the parapet 
 
 44 8
 
 THE BLACK GLACIER 449 
 
 she drew it back all wet, for the sun was shining and a 
 west wind was blowing and the snows were beginning to 
 melt. 
 
 A strange exultation filled her heart at the idea, and 
 yet for all her growing happiness she felt guilty of 
 ingratitude to those who had saved her from a lingering 
 death, and out of their own meagre store had fed and 
 clothed her all the winter through. She pressed her 
 hands over her eyes and stood with her face covered for 
 a moment. As she dropped them again she saw Paul 
 standing before her. 
 
 "You here! You and the spring together. Oh! Paul, 
 is this really the beginning of the end? Are we soon 
 going to be free?" 
 
 "The beginning of the end!" he cried. "No, it is the 
 beginning of the beginning. The Abbot has already been 
 considering how soon it will be safe to send you down 
 to Rosega and who are to be your escort." 
 
 "How kind he is," said Rosamund, her eyes filling 
 with tears at the delicious prospect that opened up 
 before her. 
 
 "Yes, he is a good man," Paul sighed. "It is the 
 thought that in leaving this place I shall grieve him that 
 is my one sorrow. But he is human; he is a man; and 
 I think when I go to him and tell him that I cannot 
 renew my vows when he hears the story of our ill- 
 starred love I think that he will be the first to bid me 
 go and to wish me, 'God-speed.' ' 
 
 "Paul, when will that be? How soon shall I be able 
 to go, and how soon will you be able to follow me?" 
 
 "The spring comes in quickly in these parts, but the 
 path down the mountains will not be safe for some time 
 yet. Not till next month." 
 
 "Another month only another month! Paul, it
 
 45 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 seems too good to be true after this long imprisonment. 
 And you you will come at once?" 
 
 "As quickly as I can, dear love. You will not be 
 more impatient for my coming than I shall be to join 
 you. You must wait for me at Rosega, and together 
 we will go to San Giovanni di Medua on the coast. 
 From there we can take ship to Trieste, and once in 
 Italy we shall be married before the Consul." 
 
 Rosamund, with her heart on her lips and all her 
 love shining in her eyes, slipped her hand for one brief 
 moment into Paul's. 
 
 "Dearest," she murmured, "our happiness will be all 
 the greater then, for being so long deferred. " 
 
 "It is a fair and promising day, is it not, signorina?" 
 murmured a voice behind them. 
 
 Father Ludovic stood within a pace of Rosamund's 
 shoulder. She, startled for a moment out of her self- 
 possession, uttered a slight scream as she sprang back 
 against the low parapet. Like lightning the monk's lean 
 hand caught her arm. 
 
 "Be careful," he cried, warningly. "The wall is very 
 low; you nearly fell over. And it would be a pity if 
 you fell down there just now," continued Father Ludo- 
 vic, advancing between the two, and himself leaning over 
 the parapet. "There has been some trouble in the vil- 
 lage the last few days, and I do not think they would 
 take kindly to strangers just now." 
 
 Almost mechanically Rosamund's eyes followed his 
 thin, pointing finger. Down below, the narrow village 
 street seemed full of people. There was much hurrying 
 to and fro, but by-and-bye the men detached them- 
 selves from the women and children and set forth, about 
 a hundred of them, up the winding road that led from 
 the village to the head of the gorge.
 
 THE BLACK GLACIER 45 l 
 
 "The thaw is more advanced down there," said 
 Father Ludovic. "The road is almost clear. See, they 
 walk with comparative ease." 
 
 The watchers on the terrace saw that his words were 
 true, for although the snow still lay all round the vil- 
 lage, it was undoubtedly soft and turning to water, for 
 every footprint left a great brown mark on the hitherto 
 virgin ground. 
 
 "They carry picks and implements of labour, good 
 Father," remarked Paul. "Yet it is not seed time. The 
 fields are still wrapped in snow." 
 
 The priest nodded his head gravely. 
 
 "They dread a harvest of another kind, I fear. 
 Watch and you will see." 
 
 A black and straggling procession amid the white- 
 ness, the villagers toiled ankle-deep in slush and water 
 up the narrow path. After a time they stopped, and 
 those from above could see that they gathered together 
 in a knot, talking and gesticulating and pointing at some- 
 thing that seemed to bar their progress. 
 
 "What are they doing?" asked Rosamund, with curi- 
 osity. 
 
 "The signorina's eyes are not used to gazing at the 
 snows, or she would see amid the universal whiteness 
 that those men are stopped, not by snow, but by ice." 
 
 "Is that where the Black Glacier has been flinging 
 down so much ice the last few weeks?" said Rosamund, 
 remembering the crashing sounds that had sounded day 
 and night through the valley for so long. 
 
 "Yes," replied Father Ludovic. "God has built a 
 wall there that man is not going to break down in 
 a hurry." 
 
 Presently they saw two figures, with picks and axes 
 and long iron-shod poles, slowly begin to climb the vast
 
 452 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 dam formed from the thousands of tons of ice that had 
 accumulated right across the bed of the stream. For 
 over an hour they scrambled and slipped, pulling them- 
 selves up by the aid of their picks, and always exhorted 
 to further efforts by the cries and shouts of the men 
 below. Father Ludovic brushed some of the soft snow 
 from the top of the parapet and leaned his elbows on the 
 wet coping-stone. 
 
 "They will have hard work to get to the top," he 
 said. "That wall is at least four hundred and fifty feet 
 high. I cannot think how such simple folk unlearned 
 as they are in science or mechanics are going to avert 
 the danger that their untaught instinct warns them is 
 threatening them." 
 
 "Danger?" echoed Rosamund. 
 
 Father Ludovic turned his head and looked up into 
 her inquiring face. 
 
 "Has no one ever told you the story of the great flood 
 that centuries ago devastated these valleys? It is writ- 
 ten in the history of the monastery, and is a legend with 
 the people down there." 
 
 Suddenly he started to his full height. 
 
 "Ah, the news is bad! Watch how these two, perched 
 on that giddy height, wring their hands and shout and 
 sign to their friends. See how those below run about 
 like frightened ants." 
 
 And indeed in the far distance the little dark figures, 
 alternately crowding together and then separating amid 
 the surrounding whiteness, looked like terrified insects. 
 In desperate haste, the two men who had scaled the ice 
 barrier descended once more to the ground, and then 
 there was evidently a consultation and a drawing up of 
 plans. One, who from his superior height and better 
 dress, seemed to be the Headman, began to harangue
 
 THE BLACK GLACIER 453 
 
 the others, who pressed round him. They were a motley 
 crowd. Some wore the pleated white kirtle and the 
 richly embroidered vest; others the loose, baggy Turkish 
 trousers and the scarlet fez ; others again and they were 
 by far the finest and hardiest men the tight pantaloons 
 and close fitting vests that, even on a working day, were 
 of velvet covered with embroidery. 
 
 In her eagerness to catch each action of the throng, 
 Rosamund leaned far over the parapet, unconscious that 
 the rough, warm wind had blown back the cowl from her 
 head and that she stood betrayed for what she was, a 
 woman. Suddenly those below caught sight of her and 
 her companions. A tall man sprang before the others 
 and with menacing finger pointed up at her. 
 
 His fierce gestures were evidently accompanied by 
 fiercer words, for the other men surrounded him, some 
 following his waving hand, and others endeavouring to 
 soothe him. 
 
 Father Ludovic, who had grown strangely grey under 
 his brown skin, thrust his head further and further over 
 the parapet as though straining to catch the words that 
 accompanied the all-expressive gestures. 
 
 By-and-bye he spoke, but without moving: 
 
 "The signorina had best go within." 
 
 As Paul made to follow her he caught him by the 
 habit and signed to him to remain where he was. For a 
 while Father Ludovic was silent, and when he spoke it 
 was in grave, low tones. 
 
 "I am sorry they saw the signorina. They are a sav- 
 age, undisciplined people, and this threatened danger" 
 he waved his hand towards the ice dam "may inflame 
 their superstitious dislike to our community." 
 
 "But do they really hate us?" asked Paul. 
 
 "No! But they do that which is akin to hate; they
 
 454 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 fear us. In the summer, when the roads are open, 
 they beg from us maize for their fields and physic for 
 their sick. But in their eyes we are men who by reason 
 of our ascetic lives and our abstention from all that 
 makes existence dear to them, command a respect that 
 borders on fear. I am afraid that now they have seen a 
 woman's face and form within our walls, that respect 
 and that fear will turn to the dangerous fanatical 
 hatred with which a heathen people ever regard those 
 of a different faith." 
 
 "You think, then, that some ill may come of this?" 
 Father Ludovic did not answer, for he was ever a man 
 of few words. He was gazing down into the valley again. 
 The Headman was appealing and not in vain to the 
 villagers, to consider the present danger that menaced 
 them. With agitated gestures he pointed to the great 
 ice wall, and seemed to be urging some immediate 
 action. One by one the people turned again to him, 
 leaving the tall man who had first seen Rosamund to 
 himself. The Headman now addressed his people. 
 Presently he snatched a pick from a bystander, and dash- 
 ing at the vast barrier attacked it with fury. A score 
 more followed -him. For a few moments all seemed 
 mere confusion to the watchers on the terrace. But by 
 degrees they saw that a certain order had been arranged 
 among the workers, and as each body grew weary another 
 shift was ready to take up the task. 
 
 "They have a plan their Headman, Nikleka, was 
 ever an able, quick-witted fellow. Brother Paul, if, as 
 I think, they have set themselves the enormous task of 
 tunnelling that vast wall, they will have work that will 
 keep them busy for many days. They will have no time 
 to think of us or of the signorina. "
 
 THE BLACK GLACIER 455 
 
 Late in the afternoon the two monks repaired again 
 to the terrace. 
 
 "It is as I fancied," cried Father Ludovic. "They 
 mean to try and cut a tunnel, through which the 
 dammed up waters of the lake may escape gradually. 
 See how they have marked out with their picks the width 
 and height. The idea is worthy of a cleverer head even 
 than Nikleka, but the task will be a long one and a dan- 
 gerous. " 
 
 The low rumble of an avalanche cut across his words. 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "The snows are sliding fast, and help to feed the 
 dammed up lake, while every warm day now makes 
 the mountain sides alive with little rivulets that all flow 
 to the same spot." 
 
 "How much water do you think is there now?" 
 
 "The basin that the barrier has formed is nearly 
 seven thousand feet in length, and the depth varies from 
 sixty feet to two hundred. Remember, too, that every 
 hour the fast-melting snows are added to the volume of 
 the prisoned water." 
 
 "No wonder they work so hard," said Paul. 
 
 A number of women were dragging up the rough 
 road, now trodden to a watery mire, two huge iron 
 braziers. Others were laden with fuel and torches made 
 from pine staves. 
 
 "They mean to work all night," he added, as through 
 the gathering dusk the braziers were lit. Bravely they 
 flared and smoked by the side of the miry road, while a 
 score of torches flung a lurid light on the ever-shifting 
 crowd. Now and then a sharp puff from the warm west 
 wind drove heavy wreaths of smoke across the scene, 
 but by-and-bye some dusky figures dragged the fire-
 
 45 6 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 baskets further under the lee of the frozen barrier, and 
 the obscuring curtain trailed raggedly away. 
 
 All during that April month and far into May did the 
 villagers of Chatista work by day and night, while from 
 time to time the Black Glacier heaped fresh tons of ice 
 upon the lofty wall, and the melting snows slipped and 
 trickled into the lake that grew with every hour. The 
 men worked now in the very heart of the icy mass, and 
 were only seen as they went in and came out of the 
 tunnel. At night the braziers and torches shone like 
 giant rubies through the hundreds of feet of clear blue 
 ice. And Rosamund, watching the strange scene from 
 her window, thought how beautiful it was, and promised 
 herself to carry every detail of it back to England in her 
 memory.
 
 CHAPTER XLV 
 
 THE SIN OF SEX 
 
 THE first half of May was lost in the lap of time when 
 Rosamund, leaving the terrace walk in the dusk of the 
 spring afternoon, was summoned to the Abbot's presence. 
 
 The long winter had tried him severely, but he rose 
 to his feet as she entered the dim room. 
 
 "My daughter!" he began in a kindly voice that 
 trembled as he spoke, "I have sent for you to say 'fare- 
 well.' ' 
 
 "Farewell! Then I may go?" 
 
 The brilliant colour leaped to her cheeks, and her 
 eyes sparkled like twin stars. 
 
 The Abbot smiled back at her a little sadly, and 
 bowed his head in mute assent. 
 
 At his gesture all that was tender and womanly rose 
 within her. She drew near him and held out a pleading 
 hand. 
 
 "I pray you, forgive me for my hasty expression of 
 joy. Gratitude and sincere thankfulness should have 
 sprung first from my lips." 
 
 The old man took her hand in his. 
 
 "My child, your natural delight pleases me, for it 
 shows me that your spirits have not suffered during your 
 long imprisonment. Of gratitude pay none to us, but 
 rather to the good God, who set your feet in the path to 
 this place. We have but done our duty, and in so doing 
 we find our reward. " 
 
 457
 
 45$ THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 He moved over to the table. 
 
 "Here is the pocketbook that belonged to your uncle. 
 To-morrow at dawn the lay brother, Gabriel, who quits 
 our roof, will be your escort down the mountain side." 
 
 "Brother Gabriel he is Hassan the Albanian, is he 
 not?" 
 
 "The same! He will take you on the road so far as 
 the great Cross. He knows the track well, and will be a 
 sure guide." 
 
 "But I thought," said Rosamund, pausing an instant, 
 "that a price was set upon his head down there that 
 he dare not be seen in the village." 
 
 "I did not say he would go to the village. I told 
 you he would take you down to where the roads meet," 
 answered the Abbot. "From there the road to Rosega 
 is not difficult; and the Headman there will if you give 
 him this letter provide you safe escort to Cettinje. " 
 
 With the letter and the pocke'tbook clasped in her 
 hands and her thanks all given, Rosamund still lingered. 
 
 The Abbot smiled inscrutably into her eyes until they 
 fell, abashed at the thought that he could read the ques- 
 tions her lips dared not utter. 
 
 "I myself, my daughter, will convey the news of 
 your departure to those of the community with whom 
 you have been friendly. Now, farewell." 
 
 He raised his hands in prayerful benediction, and 
 Rosamund, falling on her knees, received his blessing. 
 
 A gentle tapping on the panel of her door roused the 
 girl at earliest daybreak. Starting from her bed she 
 found that already her room was grey with the pale light 
 of a new-born spring day. It was a very soft tapping, 
 and for the moment she thought she must have dreamed 
 the sound, until she remembered that her hour of free- 
 dom was come. Hastily dressing she unlatched her
 
 THE SIN OF SEX 459 
 
 door. The Albanian, Hassan, with all semblance of his 
 lay brotherhood put aside with his brown habit, stood 
 outside. He had a cup full of milk and some bread in 
 his hands, which he asked Rosamund to take quickly. 
 "We both have to journey far to-day. We must start at 
 once." 
 
 A few moments later she was crossing the cloistered 
 courtyard. The air there was keen and damp, for the 
 sodden melting snow still lay in the shady corners. 
 The fawn with which she had played so often thrust a 
 velvety nose from the ill-closed stable door as she 
 passed. She patted it, and found it in her heart to be 
 sorry to leave the little creature. She paused, too, by 
 the chapel door, wondering if she should steal in and 
 pray there for the last time. She had already raised her 
 hand to push the door open when Hassan caught her by 
 the cloak and hurried her on. 
 
 Outside the gloomy walls the day seemed lighter and 
 the air dry and sweet. At the foot of the steps she had 
 climbed so painfully many months ago the Albanian 
 paused and hacked from a bush a stout staff. 
 
 "The way is rough. You will want it," he said in 
 the bastard Italian he had picked up while he had been 
 in the monastery. 
 
 Then he ran up the steps again and pulled the heavy 
 door to with a crash. 
 
 Rosamund turned at the sound, and with parted lips 
 and dewy eyes took silent leave of the place that had 
 given her life, love, and home. 
 
 "Come to me soon, my dearest, come!" she whis- 
 pered as she set her feet in the mountain path. 
 
 The snow had melted quite away from the rough 
 track, and Rosamund, now that she faced a different 
 view of her surroundings, was astonished to find how far
 
 460 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 the spring had really advanced. On either side of her the 
 fresh grass was growing, and already the wild flowers 
 were pushing their heads from among the tender green 
 leaves. Down the mountain side on her right little 
 silver streams slipped like snakes among the long grass. 
 The pines were fast shedding their dead needles, which 
 formed a fragrant carpet about their feet, and pale green 
 spiky sprouts decorated the tip of every branch. Over- 
 head the sky was a brilliant blue that grew deeper and 
 clearer as the moments went by. Some shrill-voiced 
 birds were singing high above her head and mingling 
 their spring song with the feeble bleat of the baby lambs 
 down in the meadows below. 
 
 The way wound so abruptly down the mountain side 
 that in a few moments she had lost sight of the great 
 grey building where she had passed so many months, and 
 when she looked back it was only to find the pine forest 
 clustering closely about her, and no trace of human 
 habitation within sight or sound. The only being was 
 the tall Albanian, who strode before her with heavy, 
 sure steps in the loose stone path, and who as he walked 
 looked now and again with eager eyes from side to side. 
 
 The solitude, save for the carolling of the birds and 
 the silent, swinging figure of Hassan, was so complete, 
 that Rosamund was unduly startled by suddenly catching 
 sight of a figure crouched in the shelter of some low- 
 growing bushes. Even as she turned astonished eyes in 
 that direction, the man slipped out of sight so quickly 
 and silently that she thought the appearance merely 
 a trick of imagination. 
 
 Yet a vague sensation that stealthy footsteps and 
 peering eyes were dogging her progress grew on her 
 startled senses, and with a new feeling at her heart she 
 hastened her pace down the ill-made path.
 
 THE SIN OF SEX 461 
 
 Perhaps it was the sound of her hurrying steps or the 
 momentary flash of a scarlet fez from among a clump of 
 pines that made the Albanian who walked before her 
 suddenly pause. 
 
 As Rosamund, with throbbing heart and quick-drawn 
 breath came up with him, he made the salutation, as of 
 lifting his garment to his breast, his mouth, and his fore- 
 head, which she had seen in the mountain villages. 
 
 She saw at once that he was pale, and that every 
 moment his fine, blue eyes stared to right and left. "I 
 must leave you here," he said, hurriedly. 
 
 "Leave me here?" cried Rosamund. "The Abbot 
 told me you would set me in the path for the village of 
 Rosega." 
 
 He pointed with his staff down the mountain side, 
 and she saw that the hand that carried it shook. 
 
 "There is only this path till you come to the great 
 Cross, and then there is one road up the valley and 
 another that goes down to Rosega. You cannot make a 
 mistake; there are no other ways." 
 
 "And you what will become of you?" 
 
 He glanced fearfully about him before he answered 
 hurriedly: "They told me in the monastery that I must 
 go when the spring came. I owe a debt of blood, and 
 they do not wish me to pay it up there. I am going 
 to make for the pass by a goat track, and so get down to 
 Greece. Farewell." 
 
 In another second he plunged into a thicket, and a 
 moment later even his footsteps crashing among the 
 dried ferns and loose stones could be heard no longer. 
 
 Rosamund was determined to let not even the shadow 
 of fear possess her. The day was too fair to admit any 
 doubt of happiness or security. It was down hill to 
 Rosega, where doubtless the people would remember
 
 462 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 her as having passed among them the previous autumn, 
 and if now and again a pair of eyes peeped from among 
 the bushes, or a heavily armed man slunk across her 
 road, she could scarcely hope to have, on such a fair 
 spring day, the whole teeming, sun-bathed mountain 
 path to herself. 
 
 There could be nothing to fear. 
 
 She pushed back the hood from her head and let the 
 sunshine play upon her face and hair. She tried once 
 more to see if she could catch a glimpse of the monas- 
 tery where Paul still was, and then she smiled to think 
 that perhaps in another few hours his feet would tread 
 where hers were now, and that he would hurry down the 
 steep track to join her. 
 
 The birds sang on, and the sky grew bluer. At every 
 fresh turn a thousand little streams came into view, rat- 
 tling and tinkling in their self-made courses. Every 
 yard that she descended the bleating of the lambs and 
 the lowing of the cows, turned after the long winter into 
 the sweet, fresh pastures, sounded clearer and plainer, 
 and Rosamund, full of thanks to God and gratitude to 
 man that she had been preserved from an awful death 
 and had lived safely and warmly through the past dreary 
 months, thrust her strong staff into the loose stones 
 before her, and with light feet almost ran down the 
 mountain side. 
 
 She ran on with light in her eyes and a song on her 
 lips. Every pulse throbbed with the joy of motion and 
 the passing of the sweet, soft air across her face. 
 
 She ran on until by degrees her lightly moving feet 
 scarcely touched the ground in her swift flight, until 
 the lilting song died on her white lips, and the blood ran 
 icy cold through her veins. For all unconsciously the 
 knowledge came to her that she was being followed.
 
 THE SIN OF SEX 463 
 
 She never turned her head or looked from right to left, but 
 the rustle of the bushes, the rattle of stones in the loose 
 path, the short pant of heavily drawn breath, warned 
 her keen senses that her footsteps were beset on all sides. 
 
 She ran on, till the whole vista of the smiling valley 
 was stretched out before her unseeing eyes; ran till the 
 track was flat and she knew she was near the cross roads. 
 It was then that her foot slipped on a round stone, and 
 she must have fallen prone in the path had not a strong 
 hand gripped her by the arm. 
 
 "Well run! well run!" cried a mocking voice in her 
 ears. 
 
 With a fierce energy born of a ghastly terror she tried 
 to twist herself from the determined clutch. 
 
 "Let me go!" she cried, holding her head high and 
 looking about her. 
 
 Before her lay the divided ways, one leading uphill to 
 the monastery, one round the base of the low hill she 
 remembered, towards the village, the third, which was 
 barred by the sharp black shadow of the Black Cross, 
 down to Rosega. But all this her eyes saw in a flash, 
 for a moment later she was walled about with men and 
 women, gaunt, fierce people who seemed to spring out of 
 the earth. 
 
 It was a tall, black-browed man who held her in so 
 close a grasp. 
 
 "Hold her, Agar!" cried the others. "Bring her to 
 the village." 
 
 "That Nikleka should let her go again?" exclaimed 
 Agar. 
 
 A woman, bent and hideous, thrust her way through 
 the crowd and leered up in the girl's white face. 
 
 "What's that about Nikleka?" she screamed. "Agar 
 is right; the Headman would only set the witch free."
 
 464 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 The beldame's voice rose to a wild shriek as she raised 
 her withered arms aloft. 
 
 "You've got the Sin of the Christian here the Sin 
 under which we've groaned and starved and died all the 
 winter through. Let the Punishment be here as well." 
 
 A wild yell answered the hag's words as the crowd 
 closed in on the fainting girl.
 
 CHAPTER XLVI 
 
 THE FLOOD 
 
 OVERNIGHT the evening of the day on which Rosamund 
 had left the monastery the Abbot had sent for Paul 
 and told him that as the term of his vows had expired 
 he was free to leave the monastery. 
 
 "The signorina has already gone twelve hours," he 
 had said. "It was to save scandal that I did not 
 allow you to leave together, and it is to prevent undue 
 comment among the brotherhood that I wish you to go 
 in the morning without farewells or speech with any 
 one." 
 
 The morning was a symphony of blue and gold. 
 The sun was making a royal progress up the heavens as 
 Paul sprang from his bed and made his final preparations 
 for departure. At the last he caught up his strong 
 oaken staff and heavy cloak, and from sheer habit thrust 
 a knife and pair of long-barrelled pistols into his girdle. 
 A moment later he was treading the polished floor of 
 the quiet corridor and the stone staircase that led to the 
 cloisters. 
 
 Over the well-worn flags he hurried to the iron- 
 studded door which swung on chased hinges in the thick 
 stone wall. 
 
 He stood upon the flight of rough steps, and with the 
 joy of a free man inhaled deep breaths of the sweet 
 morning air. He looked about him in all the delight 
 and wonder with which a man regards a new world. 
 
 4 6 5
 
 466 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 In the night a great snow field had slipped from the 
 rocky side of the overhanging mountain. The scattered 
 snow lay in patches and heaps everywhere, but the sun 
 was fast reducing them to sparkling rivulets. Close by 
 the edges of the track the hardy Alpine roses were put- 
 ting forth green shining buds from their fantastically 
 twisted branches. 
 
 In a hollow where the snow still lay, the tawny hairs 
 of curled fern fronds had pushed valiantly through. 
 Paul remembered that last May the ground about there 
 was carpeted with dancing harebells. How beautiful it 
 had all been then, and how beautiful it would all be 
 again when he and Rosamund were far away amid the 
 rolling English grasslands. 
 
 As he set foot upon the ground and followed the path 
 that ran beneath the outer wall of the monastery before 
 beginning to descend, a rain of song floated down to 
 him from the brilliant ether above. It was a lark, 
 carolling its morning hymn. To Paul its notes sounded 
 sweet and clear as a message from God. Jubilant he 
 strode past the frowning walls till he rounded an angle 
 and faced the rolling panorama of the valley and the 
 further mountain range. 
 
 Save where a beetling crag cast a cold shadow, or a 
 deep cleft marred the mountain side, all the lower slopes 
 and undulating spurs were free from snow and looked in 
 the morning sun as though spread with carpets of bril- 
 liant emerald green. Here and there were dotted 
 groups of browsing cattle and white, heavy-fleeced 
 sheep, at whose sides new-born lambs nestled and 
 played. 
 
 Though he had every incentive to hurry, he was for 
 the moment content to saunter down the first sharp dip 
 in the path. As he went slowly on, his gaze remained
 
 THE FLOOD 467 
 
 riveted on the fair expanse of pasture land. He watched 
 some women cross a field. They were calling the cows 
 to be milked. He knew that in reality they were toil- 
 worn, unwashed creatures, but to him at that exquisite 
 moment when the fulfilment of his own desires was so 
 near attainment they represented the sweetest ties of 
 humanity and home. The tender thought that but a few 
 hours before his love had gazed upon the same scene, 
 set him dreaming for a while about her and of the life 
 that was so soon to come to them together. 
 
 "How brave how dear she is," he murmured 
 fondly to himself. "What other woman's love would 
 have stood such trials and such temptations? Oh! 
 Rosamund, my love, my heart, nothing that I can ever 
 do can requite you for your staunch faith your trust in 
 me. From the hour in which I join you, I swear to 
 devote my whole life to you and to your happiness. 
 God send it may be soon! God send it may be " 
 
 Suddenly a great crash split the air. With it came 
 the cries of men and the booming thunder of swiftly 
 running water. At the sound Paul gathered the heavy 
 folds of his cloak about him and ran with sure, swift feet 
 down the stony path. It twisted so erratically between 
 high rocks and overhanging pines that in his impatience 
 he fancied he had missed his way. But suddenly a sharp 
 turn brought him again within full view of the ice dam 
 and the prisoned lake behind it. 
 
 "The water flows! Thank God! The water flows," 
 he cried. 
 
 The work of thirty-six days and nights had met with 
 its reward at last. From the great, gaping mouth of the 
 tunnel cut in the wall of ice a mighty jriver of thick, 
 creamy snow water was pouring at fearful speed. 
 
 It foamed and roared as it struck the earth and tore
 
 468 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 a course for itself through the mire and slush, fighting 
 its way to its natural channel. Blocks of dislodged ice, 
 and masses of frozen snow were forced through the open- 
 ing. They shook the earth as they fell, but the people 
 only waved gleeful hands as they stood and watched the 
 waterfall. 
 
 The sight was grand and fascinating, but his heart 
 urged his feet to leave the spot. For a few moments 
 the pathway overhung the valley, then the track took an 
 easier gradient and^ bent its course round a small wood 
 of hardy pine trees. As he stepped within their shelter, 
 the roaring of the liberated waters sank to a murmurous 
 song, which harmonised with the twitter of the mating 
 birds and the soft sighing of the western breezes in the 
 waving branches, and helped to make love music in his 
 ears. Out of very joy he sang too. Strains that breathed 
 of love and nature strains that he had thought never 
 to sing again rose in his heart and poured from his lips. 
 His feet and the sharp ring of his iron-shod staff beat 
 time to the songs and kept him company until the swell- 
 ing thunder of the torrent once more grew insistent and 
 warned him that the pathway was bearing him again 
 towards the face of the mountain and a view of the valley. 
 
 What a crowd there was about the waterfall. Bent 
 harridans and dotards waggled their palsied heads; half- 
 naked brats splashed in the ooze; women, all cumbered 
 with their flowing garments, heaped together a false 
 bank for the foaming waters; the men lounged and 
 laughed and exchanged greetings. 
 
 Suddenly a sound of music a rolling, sonorous* hymn 
 floated up to him. The populace knelt and with raised 
 hands and fervent voices thanked Allah that the dread- 
 ful winter was passed and the danger which had threat- 
 ened their lives and homesteads was averted.
 
 THE FLOOD 469 
 
 As the people -rose to their feet again, Paul crossed 
 himself and murmured "Amen!" then set out once more 
 upon his way. 
 
 He was now half-way down the mountain of Argen- 
 talia, and the bleak monastery, hanging cold and grey 
 on the cruel crag, looked from where he stood a mere 
 rock among rocks. How sweetly different the scene was 
 about him. 
 
 Long grasses and starry flowers peeped out shyly from 
 the rough shelter of moss-grown boulders. The low 
 bushes and saplings were tufted with bunches of bursting 
 leaves. Glancing between the trees as he went, he saw 
 a shepherd lad leading a flock of sheep up th'e slopes of 
 a mountain on the further side of the valley to sweeter 
 pastures. 
 
 The watercourse that meandered along the bottom 
 of the valley was full, and the white, frothy waters shone 
 like molten metal in the sun. All about his feet little 
 streamlets sang blithe songs as they twisted like gleam- 
 ing ribbons from shady spots where the snow lay wet and 
 soft, out to the free, warm air of the mountain side. A 
 butterfly, with gorgeous colouring, shining like cut gems, 
 danced across Paul's path. 
 
 His eager steps brought him to a sheltered hollow low 
 on the southern flank of the mountain. It was a favoured 
 spot, where spring had fully come, and the tall, pale 
 green fern sprang from a gaudy carpet of multi-coloured 
 blossoms. 
 
 He pulled his cowl over his head, for the sun was hot, 
 then flung himself upon the scented earth to rest a mo- 
 ment before surmounting the low hill which would lead 
 him to the cross roads and the track to Rosega. Before 
 him lay the sun-bathed panorama, backed by the great 
 lake and the everlasting mountains. He was facing the
 
 47 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 waterfall now, and could see it very clearly, though the 
 distance softened its mighty roar to his ears. 
 
 Suddenly he leaned forward with both elbows on his 
 knees. 
 
 "I did not think they had made so wide a tunnel," he 
 said to himself, with puckered brows. "It looks so large 
 from here as though the waters themselves had cut the 
 ice away and widened the. aperture. " 
 
 As the words still lingered on his lips and in his brain 
 the whole mountain trembled beneath him. With the 
 hideous splitting sound, as of a riven creation, his hor- 
 rified eyes saw the mighty wall of ice flung skywards in 
 ten thousand pieces. Huge blocks of ice were tossed 
 aloft like pebbles, and in their fall rent and ground one 
 another with a sickening crash. It was as though a giant 
 explosion had liberated the vast lake from its imprison- 
 ment. 
 
 The immense weight of water had burst the under- 
 mined ramparts of ice, which now, like a vast wall toppling 
 to earth, fell in one terrific volume on the village. 
 
 As the awful mass of water struck the quivering 
 ground, it uplifted fields and pastures like a gigantic 
 plough. The tender green maize and the newly grown 
 grass were torn up in sods that the water soaked instantly 
 into pulp. 
 
 Amid the swirling waves the cottages of mud and 
 laths melted and sank into the furious waters, as sand 
 castles disappear at the first touch of a rising tide. 
 With a ripping sound the wooden, white dome of the 
 mosque was wrenched from its supporting walls, which in 
 their turn were split to matchwood. 
 
 An orchard, hung with white blossoms and set like a 
 fair bouquet amid the green, was crushed into nothing- 
 ness, and only a branch of delicate bloom floating mo-
 
 THE FLOOD 471 
 
 mentarily upon the dark bosom of the furious flood 
 showed that it had ever existed. The grazing flocks and 
 gambolling lambs were caught in the icy water and 
 strangled out of life, and the quiet herds were swept like 
 flies off the fields where they were browsing. In irresisti- 
 ble, rolling waves that thundered and foamed, the 
 waters tore at the mountain's sides. Enormous boulders 
 that for centuries had rested among the swards were torn 
 from their beds and plunged headlong into the flood, 
 leaving behind them in the grass-grown slopes gaping 
 empty places that yawned like open, bleeding wounds. 
 
 Still the insatiable waves leapt on and up. A shep- 
 herd's hut here, a sheltered group of maize ricks there, 
 were plucked away and tossed into the hideous broth. 
 Higher the flood rose, louder it roared, hissing and boiling 
 about a thick belt of lordly pine trees. Root and branch 
 the waters dragged them from their mother earth and 
 flung them hither and thither mere slivers of splintered 
 wood in the awful chaos. 
 
 The great mass of water dashed ^its ice-strewn waves 
 from side to side of the valley till the mountains rocked 
 to their foundations. To Paul, paralysed at the fearful 
 spectacle, the quivering of the earth and the wild chaos 
 of the churning waters seemed heralds of complete dis- 
 solution. 
 
 "My God!" he cried at last, and scrambling to his 
 feet. "The flood ! the flood ! ' '
 
 CHAPTER XLVII 
 
 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND 
 
 MAD with sheer terror, unseeing, unthinking, with only 
 the animal instinct of self-preservation hammering at his 
 brain, Paul started to run. The track trended upwards 
 again over the brow of the low hill beyond which lay the 
 cross roads. The way was rough and the loose stones 
 slipping from beneath his flying feet tripped him at every 
 yard. But he was conscious of nothing but that he must 
 run or die. A pandemonium of roaring water, a veritable 
 hell of human cries pierced the shuddering air, but he 
 ran on with never a backward look or a thought of help- 
 ing any drowning creature. 
 
 At last he surmounted the hill. The path sloped 
 gently downwards to where the cross roads, themselves 
 elevated above the level of the valley, met. The flood, 
 which was swirling like a millrace round the spur of the 
 hill on which Paul stood, had not yet drawn the narrow 
 tracks into its devouring embrace. So much and no 
 more his wild eyes saw as he plunged headlong downhill, 
 racing with death, until at the foot of the Black Cross he 
 paused a moment for breath. 
 
 His heart beat like an iron hammer in his breast, the 
 blood thundered louder than the rising waters in his 
 ears. His eyes were strained to bursting. He pressed 
 his hot palms over them. 
 
 "Paul! Paul!" 
 
 He hesitated and turned his pale face back over his 
 472
 
 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND 473 
 
 shoulder. Was it the sound of the waters, or the scream 
 of some drowning woman, or the echoing cries of the 
 frightened birds that seemed to shape his name? 
 
 "Paul! Paul!" 
 
 Weak and yet piercing, distant and yet at hand, his 
 name throbbed on the air and rang in his ears. 
 
 "Paul!" 
 
 It was like a sigh, so mysterious that the hair rose 
 on his head and the hot blood flowed back cold to his 
 heart. 
 
 "Paul!" 
 
 The word was scarcely articulate, yet it crashed upon 
 his senses with a voice of thunder. 
 
 It sounded like Rosamund's voice that called, and it 
 was Rosamund's name he hurled again and again to the 
 empty sky and the roaring waters and the ever-circling 
 screaming birds, that, save himself, seemed the only liv- 
 ing things in all that awful valley. 
 
 "Paul! Paul!" 
 
 The wailing cry tortured him. 
 
 "My love! My love! Where are you?" he gasped 
 between the breaths that came like sobs from his heav- 
 ing chest. 
 
 As he spoke, a long, rolling wave dashed madly 
 against some jagged rocks that rose near his right hand. 
 The waters broke with a roar and flung a cloud of 
 spray high above the rocks and Paul and the Black Cross. 
 He was brushing the icy drops from his eyes when he 
 heard his name again: 
 
 "Paul!" 
 
 The sound came like the sigh of a departing spirit 
 from the clear air. He raised his haggard face and then 
 gave a loud cry in which despair and love, rage and hor- 
 ror were commingled.
 
 474 
 
 Far, far above him, with only the clear, blue sky for 
 a background and her maiden purity for a garment, hung 
 Rosamund Keith, lashed by rough thongs and ropes of 
 leather to the gigantic Crucifix. 
 
 He clasped his hands before his aching eyes to shut 
 out the dreadful vision, praying as he did so that when 
 he looked again it might prove to be nothing more than 
 a hideous dream. 
 
 But when he dropped his clenched fingers to his heart 
 and raised his tortured gaze again the figure and the 
 Cross were still there. 
 
 Across the gracious curves of her white body and the 
 sweet fulness of her bosom her unbound hair waved like 
 a gauzy veil, enhancing the silver fairness of her flesh. 
 One long tendril whipped the brisk air and fluttered 
 like a waving black ribbon out against the azure heavens. 
 From throat to feet the spray from the dashing waves 
 sparkled on her marble skin like glittering gems. Some 
 of the drops hung on her pale cheeks and looked like 
 tears. 
 
 In her passion she seemed unearthly, for the light of 
 her eyes gleamed sombrely beneath her drooping white 
 lids, and it was only when he saw the bow of her sad 
 mouth part now and again in the unconscious uttering of 
 his name that Paul realised that it was his beloved who 
 hung martyred above him. 
 
 "God of Heaven! She is dying! They have cruci- 
 fied her!" 
 
 At last Paul's sleeping manhood woke in him; his 
 virility and courage stirred at length. 
 
 With his knife between his teeth he leapt upon the 
 stony mound, and with hands and knees clutched the 
 rugged Cross. He first hastily hacked through the leather 
 thongs that bound her feet, but the groan that parted
 
 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND 475 
 
 her white lips as the whole weight of her body swung 
 from her bruised wrists stabbed him to the heart. 
 
 "Courage! my love, courage!" he cried, as he pain- 
 fully dragged himself higher and with frantic efforts 
 slashed at the cruel bonds. 
 
 The contact of his body, the sound of his voice 
 seemed to rouse in the girl some fearful memory. Her 
 great eyes, filled with an awful horror, opened wide, her 
 mouth parted in an effort to scream. 
 
 "Rosamund! 'Tis I! Paul!" he gasped, with chill 
 fear knocking at his heart, as he struggled to unloose 
 the knotted ropes. 
 
 The blinding spray from the tossing waves dashed 
 again in his face, the bitter drops stinging like the lash 
 of a whip. 
 
 He could hear the stones at the foot of the Crucifix 
 slipping into the ever-rising waters, he could feel the 
 great tree tremble and sway with every motion of his 
 body. Would the knife never sever the fastenings, or 
 must they die together? 
 
 With a final mighty effort he cut the last strand, and 
 the white wonder of Rosamund's body fell forward into 
 his arms. 
 
 "Paul!" she cried in a low voice, as she felt his 
 warm lips pressed against her cold cheek. 
 
 He saw now how the flood had swollen, and how like 
 a boiling rapid it came tearing between the jutting spurs 
 of the mountains. So high had the water risen that 
 already between the Cross and the slope of the grassy 
 hill down which he had run in his anxiety to escape, a 
 pool had formed. He knew that the next wave must 
 drag the fatal tree and all that surrounded it to the uni- 
 versal destruction on all sides. 
 
 Bracing himself for one last struggle, he put forth all
 
 476 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 his strength, and with his love held against his heart, 
 leapt the ever-widening gulf. Then, with the water 
 streaming from the edges of his cloak, his goatskin 
 shoes sodden to a pulp, and the lifeless form of the girl 
 he loved in his arms, he toiled up the steep rugged path, 
 scaling rocks and fording streams, and only raising his 
 eyes from her dear face to seek some safe, sun-warmed 
 spot, where he might lay his burden down. 
 
 His head swam and his knees trembled under him 
 before he found the refuge he sought. It was a nook 
 high up in the mountains, flower-carpeted, and hedged 
 about with tall ferns and low, thick bushes. From the 
 rock that overhung it fell a tiny stream with a tinkle 
 like the ringing of fairy bells. Folding his cloak about 
 Rosamund, and binding for greater warmth the long 
 masses of her hair about her throat, he chafed the blood 
 back to her clay-cold feet and poor bruised wrists. 
 
 She moaned, even at his tender touch, but the heavy 
 lids still hung over her eyes, and her mouth was grey 
 and drawn. Almost in despair he filled his curved palms 
 from the singing stream and dashed the water in her face. 
 
 "Paul!" had been her last cry and "Paul!" was her 
 first on wakening. 
 
 "Dearest love, I am here. Please God! you are 
 safe!" he murmured, bending over her. 
 I ^ She smiled up at him, expressing all her love and her 
 gratitude in one look of her radiant trust.' 
 
 With reviving strength came confidence and courage, 
 and while Paul pulled some broad, cool leaves and bound 
 them with long grass about her wounded white wrists 
 and slender feet, from sheer exhaustion she fell asleep. 
 He kissed her as he folded her closer in the cloak. 
 
 He went a little way apart to seek a path which they 
 might follow to shelter and safety. Higher up the hill
 
 THE PASSION OF ROSAMUND 477 
 
 he turned and gazed down at the ruin that spread from 
 end to end of the valley. He saw the waste of waters, 
 surging to and fro, dashing high hungry waves over 
 barren mountain slopes that less than an hour back had 
 looked so green and peaceful. The turgid, foam-flecked 
 surface of the flood was broken with the wreckage of a 
 hundred farms and homesteads. Cattle and the women 
 who had tended them, babes and their bearded fathers, 
 ricks of- maize, straw, and hay, fragments of houses and 
 of the white mosque itself, tossed in one frightful chaos 
 of destruction and death on the boiling waters; while 
 now and then, as though the work were not yet done, 
 mighty ice floes rolled by, crushing to pulp everything 
 that came in their furious course. 
 
 Over all the terrible scene the sweet sun shone 
 and birds, heavy in flight and cruel-beaked, wheeled and 
 croaked. Sickened at last, he turned from the terrible 
 sight, and made his way over the side of the mountain. 
 As he climbed the brow of the hill the blue smoke of a 
 camp fire met his sight and the welcome sound of voices 
 struck his ears. 
 
 He hastened back to Rosamund, who had already 
 wakened and was calling his name. At sight of Paul she 
 struggled to her feet, but tottered weakly and stretched 
 out her hands in a mute appeal for his support. 
 
 He hastened to her, and caught her in his arms. 
 
 "Dearest, come away from this place. I have found 
 help and good people who will take us to safety and hap- 
 piness. " 
 
 She raised her dark eyes, swimming with love and 
 tears to his face. 
 
 He stooped and kissed her on the mouth.
 
 PRINTED BY R. R. DONNELLEY 
 AND SONS COMPANY AT THE 
 LAKESIDE PRESS, CHICAGO, ILL.
 
 " "in minim minim mi |||l 
 
 A 000126858 o
 
 THE PASSION OF 
 ROSAMUND KEITH 
 
 BY 
 MARTIN I. PRITCHARD