liiiililii:
 
 LIBRARY ^ 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 RIVERSIDE
 
 A T THE CROSS-ROADS
 
 AT THE 
 CROSS-ROADS 
 
 BY 
 
 F! F. MONTRlfeSOR 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 "the one who looked on," "worth while" 
 
 SECOND EDITION 
 
 LONDON 
 
 HUTCHINSON & CO 
 
 34, PATERNOSTER ROW 
 1898
 
 
 ^ 
 
 Printed by Hazcll, Wation, <$• Yiney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.
 
 TO 
 
 DAISY
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 T HAVE called this story " At the Cross-Roads," 
 
 •*- because in it I have tried to describe how first 
 
 the man, and afterwards the woman, stood where 
 
 two ways met, where each was bound to make 
 
 that choice which is " Life's business." 
 
 They are (at least so it seems to me) everlastingly 
 together and yet everlastingly alone. Together, 
 because it is impossible for either to choose good 
 without blessing, or evil without cursing, the other ; 
 alone, because choice is of necessity individual and 
 lonely, and because we cannot take our neighbour's 
 place, even though we may pay " shrane for shame " 
 and " sin for sin " and " love for love." 
 
 F. F .M.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 part I 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 PAGE 
 
 BUT YOU ALONE 3 
 
 CHAPTER n 
 
 '"A PITY BEYOND ALL TELLING" . ' . . . l6 
 
 CHAPTER HI 
 "the LADY DOTH PROTEST" 3 1 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 " WHITHER THOU GOEST, I WILL GO " . . .42 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THE DEEP UNREST 62 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 YOUR WORLDLY WIFE" . . . . . • 7S 
 
 IX
 
 X Contents 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE GHOSTS OF BYGONE YEARS 93 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 " SHE IS LAYING UP NO CROWNS OF GLORY " . . lo6 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 THIS KIND GOETH NOT OUT Il8 
 
 part II 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 THIS TIME I FELT LIKE MARY I39 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 "they are not so very happy" .... 155 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 "you are no true priest" 170 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 can the creature fathom the creature? . . 188 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 A woman, and a beggar ..... 202 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 between 'm\n and man . , . . . .217
 
 <l 
 
 Contents xi 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 PAGE 
 
 SINCE I HAVE HAD GOLIATH " . - ■ -237 
 
 CHAPTER XVH 
 OUR FATAL SHADOWS 255 
 
 CHAPTER XVni 
 
 "THE HEART KNOWETH HIS OWN BITTERNESS" • • 279 
 
 Ipart III 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 ANOTHER FAITHFUL FAILURE 299 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 "life's NOT LONG ENOUGH FOR HONEST MEN TO 
 
 QUARREL in" '312 
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 "1 WILL HAVE NO MORE TO DO WITH HEr" , .327 
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 "OUR WAYS ARE BOUND TO DIVERGE" . , • 35^ 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 INVISIBLE BONDS 37 1 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 THE SALVATION OF TWO . . . . . . 383
 
 part I.
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 BUT YOU ALONE. 
 
 " For in my mynde, of all mankynde 
 I love but you alone." 
 
 The Nut Browne Maydc. 
 
 IN a room in the top story ot one of the houses in the 
 Strand a woman was waiting for the man she loved. 
 
 She had poked the fire into a blaze, and albeit she had 
 not much money to spend, she had filled the place with 
 flowers. Outside it was snowing, but this upper chamber 
 was warm and light and sweet. 
 
 The stairs were uncarpeted and dreary, but so soon as her 
 guest should open the door he should feel the welcome 
 that waited for him. For once Gillian was glad that the 
 stone steps were so bare, for she would hear his footstep 
 the sooner. 
 
 She wandered restlessly about ; now putting a picture 
 straight, now moving a chair, now pushing a table nearer 
 to the window, and again moving it back again. She was 
 not ordinarily a nervous person, but just now she found it 
 impossible to be still. 
 
 The clock struck seven. She went up to the fireplace 
 and looked at the time, as though she feared she had counted 
 the strokes wrong. Yes, the hour had come. It was an 
 hour she had looked forward to for seven years. The last 
 moments of that long waiting were slipping by quickly, 
 quickly. Surely she heard the step on the stairs ? Day 
 
 3
 
 4 Ht tbc Cro06»'IRoa&5 
 
 by day, month by month, the woman seemed to see those 
 years that were passed roll out — all the hard-working days, 
 all the weary months, since she had bidden her lover good- 
 bye and had told him she could wait. She had never quite 
 lost courage before, but now her heart waxed faint. There 
 is something awful in realisation after years of expectancy. 
 Gillian had not guessed that it would be awful ; she was 
 surprised to find herself trembling from head to foot. She 
 remembered that dying people are supposed to see their 
 lives rise before them at the last. " What if I were to 
 die of joy?" thought she; and then the door opened, and 
 she saw him. 
 
 The two stood face to face once more. The man in the 
 doorway was her Jack, and yet not her Jack. 
 
 For full half a minute they stood so, each looking for the 
 other (known erstwhile) through the development of six 
 years. 
 
 Then the man made a quick step forward, and the 
 woman held out her hands to him, with a cry like the cry 
 of a frightened child, and at that his face reddened and his 
 lip quivered. '* Why, Gillian, Gillian, is it really you ? " 
 said he. 
 
 At the sound of his voice she clung to him, her head on 
 his shoulder, and he put his arms round her and his lips 
 to her hair, for her face was hidden. 
 
 " My God ! " he cried ; " so you've actually waited. And 
 I'm not worth it now ! Oh, Gillian, I'm not good enough 
 now ! " 
 
 They had supper together later, and Gillian, having 
 retired to bathe her eyes and recover her composure, 
 presently returned with a fresh ribbon round her waist, 
 and a bunch of violets at her throat. 
 
 Gillian had a pretty figure, and the clothes which might 
 have looked slightly worn and old on any one else never 
 looked anything but just right on her. The way in which
 
 But 12ou mom 5 
 
 she moved and made the tea, and even the way in which 
 she ate, reminded the man of the adoration of his youth. 
 How he had worshipped this girl six years ago ! But one 
 can't put Time's clock back. There was the prison life, 
 and all it had taken away of youth and hope between them. 
 There was an ugly fact besides, which he never cared to 
 think about over much. 
 
 He watched her with a curious, regretful look in his eyes, 
 but she met his glance with one that was overflowing with 
 love pure and simple. 
 
 Gillian had often been accounted hard, and she was 
 certainly far from perfect in her relations to her own family ; 
 yet where Jack Cardew was concerned, I think that she 
 knew how to give good measure, without stint, and running 
 over. She was at her best to-night, and she was happy. 
 
 To be loving and giving is the natural prerogative of 
 all Mother Eve's daughters, I suppose, whether they be 
 Friday's bairns or Saturday's. They are stinted of their 
 birthright sometimes, poor souls, and Gillian at any rate 
 had had arid seasons in her life ; seasons which had left deep 
 traces on her. There was, however, this difference between 
 the man and the woman. He, who by natural tempera- 
 ment had been the more impulsive of the two, now remem- 
 bered the past, and thought about the future; but she, 
 who had been noted for practical wisdom, who in the old 
 days he had laughingly called "worldly-wise," flung all 
 care from her, and revelled in this hour that brought him to 
 her, drinking deep, deep of joy, to the forgetting of all else. 
 
 She waited on him with an evident delight that was 
 purely womanly. She noted several things while she did 
 so. The roughness of his hands, for example, of which 
 the nails were broken; the way in which sun and 
 wind had tanned his face and neck, and even his hair (his 
 hair had once been golden red, but it was duller than 
 heretofore, and it had become white on the temples) ; also
 
 6 Ht tbe Cros5»=1Roa&5 
 
 the rareness of his smile, and the curiously watchful 
 expression of his eyes — eyes that had been so frank and 
 often merry, but that had somehow acquired the look ot 
 one who lives amongst enemies. 
 
 The changes she noticed sent momentary stabs ol 
 sympathy and pain through Gillian, but she was not critical 
 where Jack was concerned, though on every one else her 
 judgments were shrewd and swift. One must hold at arm's 
 length in order to criticise — Gillian generally held people 
 so — but he lay at her heart of hearts, too close for judgment. 
 
 Presently the bell rang again, and Gillian, going to the 
 door, admitted a tall, thin old man, who followed her into 
 the room awkwardly, and sat down opposite to Jack 
 Cardew without speaking. His big, ugly mouth worked 
 nervously, and he crossed and uncrossed his legs and 
 drew his thick eyebrows together, looking earnestly the 
 while at Gillian's visitor. He had been very fond of 
 Cardew years ago; he had obstinately believed in him, 
 even in despite of judge and jury, but he was of an 
 unready tongue; moreover, he could not recognise the boy 
 he had liked so well, in this rough stranger. 
 
 Jack made no remark, but waited rather defiantly for 
 whatever greeting Mr. Molyneux might choose to bestow 
 on him. He had not, he told himself, expected any 
 welcome from Gillian's relatives. He was certainly not 
 going to make advances. 
 
 Jack had had a charming filial manner to the old man — once. 
 
 " I am glad that you are a free man again," said Mr. 
 Molyneux slowly, and held out his hand. 
 
 Jack nodded curtly. He did not accept the overture, 
 and his watchful blue eyes rested on his quondam fnend 
 with a scrutiny that the next moment changed to amuse- 
 ment. " Are you, sir ? Well, that's almost more than I 
 expected," said he. 
 
 Mr. Molyneux contorted his face and crossed his legs
 
 But li)ou Hloue 7 
 
 afresh, but before he was ready to speak Gillian took up 
 the word. 
 
 " Uncle Stephen has been good to me during all these 
 years that you have been away." 
 
 Her voice was a contralto, and very soft and full in tone. 
 Jack laid down his knife and fork when she spoke. It was 
 strange to hear those familiar tones again. 
 
 " He is the only one among my relatives who has stood 
 by me," she remarked. " But I think that my step-father 
 would have forgiven me for going my own way if only I 
 had proved incapable. He can't quite swallow this small 
 amount of success ! It's such a bad moral, you see." 
 
 Jack glanced round the room while she spoke. Its 
 shabbiness was partly hidden by the flowers and the 
 firelight, but it struck him that the success must have 
 been only comparative. 
 
 " Do you mean to sa\' that you are quite on your own 
 hook, and that Mr. Clovis allows you nothing ?" he asked. 
 
 " Oh, he behaved very well," said Gillian, " though 
 naturally he thought that I was mad. He hoped that I 
 should be starved into a right way of thinking ; and if I 
 had come home, he would, I am sure, have killed the 
 fatted calf at a moment's notice. He was quite prepared 
 to play the good father to my prodigal." 
 
 " Why did not you let him do so ? " 
 
 Gillian coloured. " There are occasionally reasons for 
 preferring husks," said she. " But I have no complaint 
 against Mr. Cloves." 
 
 " And your mother ? " said the man. 
 
 "Mammy has just put my little step-brother into 
 velveteen knickerbockers. He is much prettier than I 
 was at seven years old, and I think that he more than 
 makes up for my shortcomings," said Gillian. 
 
 She smiled, but there was a touch of unconscious sadness 
 in her tone. The man remembered that Gillian's remarks
 
 8 Ht tbe Cross^lRoa^s 
 
 had often been shrewd, but the sadness was new to him. 
 No doubt she too had had a hard time of it. 
 
 His ideas as to what he meant to say to her were 
 undergoing a transformation. 
 
 The two men were silent for a space. Mr. Molyneux 
 had come to countenance his niece, but he did not think 
 it necessary to talk. Jack had fallen into a habit of 
 appearing stolidly impassive. 
 
 He had broadened since Gillian had last seen him ; she 
 was sure that he must measure a good deal more across 
 the chest. She felt half inclined to laugh at the way in 
 which he sat composedly eating, while her uncle was so 
 much more evidently touched by this reunion. 
 
 She alone chattered, feeling all the while that it would 
 take very little to make her cry. 
 
 Gillian had a good deal of self-command as a rule, and 
 was rather by way of despising emotional women ; but, 
 as she remarked, " It isn't every day that one's dream of 
 six years comes true." 
 
 Jack Cardew pushed away his plate when she said that, 
 and got up suddenly, and came round to where she was 
 sitting, and put his hand on her shoulder. 
 
 " Gillian, how soon will you marry me ? " 
 
 Gillian looked up at him, at the face that time and 
 sorrow and bitterness had written strange things on. For 
 a moment a mist swam before her eyes. 
 
 "Just as soon as ever you like," she said simply. "We 
 have waited long enough. Jack." 
 
 Mr. Molyneux rose from his seat with a sigh. His long 
 lean figure, his good, ugly face, were not without dignity, in 
 spite of his grotesque awkwardness. 
 
 " I hope that you are worth it, lad," he said. 
 
 ** You're sanguine if you hope as much as that," said the 
 man. " No fellow in this world is worth what Gillian has 
 given. Six years 1 Good Lord, six years ! "
 
 But i5ou Hion^ 9 
 
 " They are over and gone like a cloud," said Gillian ; but 
 he shook his head. 
 
 When Mr. Molyneux had presently left them alone 
 together he drew his chair closer to Gillian. 
 
 " They are over," he said, " but they have made 
 another man of me. Can't you see that ? " 
 
 He hesitated a moment, then jerked his head backwards 
 with a decisive jerk, which it did Gillian's heart good to 
 see, because it was a trick she remembered of old. 
 
 "I want to tell you about it — dear," he said. 
 
 The "dear" came out shamefacedly and shyly, and 
 Gillian laughed with the tears in her eyes. 
 
 ** You are out of practice — dear," she cried, with tender 
 mockery. 
 
 Her uncle might not recognise Jack in this new guise ; 
 but as for her, she had found him again ; she would have 
 known him anywhere. 
 
 "After the first year or two I could not believe that you 
 would really stick to me," he said. *' Oh, of course I was 
 sure of you at first. I was sure of everything to start 
 with, you know — of my own innocence, and of the justice 
 of Heaven, that was to come triumphantly to the rescue 
 long before the sentence was up. Also of my courage, 
 and my power of making people trust me. We were 
 awfully courageous when we took leave of each other, 
 weren't we ? I know I felt like all the martyrs rolled into 
 one. Well, I kept that up for a month or two, I really 
 did ! Then I got a touch of sunstroke, and was sent to 
 hospital for a bit. The prison chaplain came to see me 
 and tried to convert me. I told him that I was as honest 
 as himself. The fellow was a gentleman — at least, so I 
 fancied — and sickness makes one soft. I had a longing to 
 pour out my story to some one. It seemed as if it 
 would be a sort of of help. He heard me through to the 
 end quite quietly, and then he waved his hand.
 
 lo Fit. tbe Cross^lRoaDij 
 
 " 'My good man, I've been chaplain here for three years,' 
 he said, 'and I can assure you that I've never yet come 
 across any one who considers that he has been justly 
 convicted. You are all sure that you've been ill-used, you 
 know, every one of you.' I can't explain how I felt, but 
 that sickened me, GiUian. All at once my pluck went, 
 like the wind out of a pricked bag. I had stood the 
 hardships, and the scanty food, and the plank bed, pretty 
 well. I'd thought of you a good deal, night and morning, 
 and I had had an idea that I was rather a fine fellow 
 through it all, of whom you need not really be ashamed. I 
 suppose I had seen it all in a sort of coloured light. That 
 parson, confound him, let in the day ! 
 
 " The certainty came to me then, like a new horror, that 
 I was in for three years ; and that three years meant 
 hundreds of days, and thousands of hours and millions of 
 minutes, and that it made no practical odds that I was 
 innocent. It had to be gone through just exactly in the 
 same way as if I were guilty. I was a scoundrel among 
 fellow-scoundrels, to all intents and purposes. A fellow 
 dared give me the lie, and I couldn't cram it down his 
 throat, and / could not make him believe me. It gives one a 
 turn to say a thing from one's heart, and find that one 
 simply is not believed. It is as if you had run hard and 
 banged your head against a blank wall." 
 
 Gillian nodded comprehendingly. She was taking in 
 this story with both heart and brain. She would need 
 both, if she meant to cling to Jack still. 
 
 " I am very glad that I have never liked parsons," she 
 remarked ; " now I will hate them. Go on, Jack." 
 
 " I was in a dead funk, and that is the truth," he said. 
 " Ot course I got well after a time, and had to begin work 
 again. But it was not the work, though that was no trifle, 
 it was the dead, hopeless grind of monotony that I believed 
 would drive me mad. I don't want to make excuses — it's
 
 But l!)ou Hlone n 
 
 not worth while — I suppose, though, that I must have been 
 rather off my head when I tried to escape." He paused, 
 and glanced sharply at her. "You heard about that 
 unlucky attempt ? " 
 
 " I heard. Of course I knew that you were not to 
 blame." 
 
 " The warder died. I lengthened my sentence by two 
 years, as you know. It was rather a heavy price to pay 
 for three minutes' enjoyment. I got a cut over the eye — 
 the scar is there now — and luckily that finished me for the 
 time. I did not know any more till I woke in the infirmary 
 ward again, and heard the doctor say I was dying. I did 
 not want to die then. It was queer, for I was quite willing 
 to before ; I shouldn't have shirked it fighting, but somehow 
 I could not bear to slip out of the world through that 
 
 d d infirmary bed — not even though three years of 
 
 hell was before me if I lived. Well, I told you that my 
 youthful pluck, such as it was, had been knocked out of 
 me; but I got a second wind after that illness, and that 
 lasted. I gave up the Eternal Justice, and that sort of 
 fable, and I had no more hopes of a reprieve, but I learnt 
 a few dodges which made things rub less, and I — oh, well, 
 I worked through, and came out of it sane and well, as 
 you see. After all, I am only thirty-one now, and I may 
 live long enough to have a pretty good time of it yet. 
 There is nothing like starvation for giving one an appetite." 
 
 Gillian looked straight at him, with an infinity of pity and 
 understanding in her eyes. She, too, had been a-hungered 
 though not quite in the sense he meant. She, too, knew 
 what it was to grow bitter with a hope deferred. 
 
 " Oh yes, 1 know," she murmured. 
 
 " No, my dear, I hope you don't," said he, with an odd, 
 unexpected touch of gentleness. 
 
 " After I got my release I worked my way out to 
 South Africa."
 
 12 Ht tbc Cro5S=1Roa&5 
 
 " Oh, Jack ! But that was very obstinate of you, when 
 I sent you the money for the passage." 
 
 " It was wonderfully good of you, Gillian," he said grate- 
 fully. " I was awfully surprised. I could not have spent 
 your present on first-class accommodation ! I really 
 couldn't. I kept it, and it brought me luck. Yet if I had 
 taken in the fact that it was money that you had earned, 
 I " 
 
 " Well, dear ? » 
 
 " I should have sent it back to you," he said, reddening. 
 " The Lord knows I am not much to boast of, but I have 
 not fallen so low as to be willing to eat up what a woman 
 has slaved for." 
 
 " But it comforted me to work for you," she cried. " it 
 was just the only comfort I had." 
 
 And that was true enough. The fruit of her labour 
 had been given gladly. Yet no one save the One who 
 knows all secrets, ay, even the secrets of women's hearts, 
 guessed how much it had cost Gillian to speed Jack on his 
 way. How she had longed to bid him come home to her 
 first ! and yet had understood, in spite of that weary longing, 
 that it must be better for the man's self-respect that he 
 should go, and rid himself of the prison taint, before he 
 should come to claim her. 
 
 A more eager expression came into Cardew's face and 
 he put his hand on Gillian's. " What I am now going to 
 tell you is the most extraordinary part of the whole story, 
 and if it had not happened I should not be here. Gill, I 
 told you that your present brought me luck ! I bought 
 shares in a gold mine with it, and to begin with they 
 were a good speculation, and within the year my capital 
 was doubled." 
 
 " It was time that the luck changed," said Gillian ; but 
 she drew back a little, and a shadow came over her joy. 
 
 "The fellow who persuaded me to take the shares was
 
 JSut ^on Hlone 13 
 
 a rum sort of chap, but I've seen worse," said Jack. " I 
 went on an expedition up country with him. He had a 
 wife up in the mountains, a big negress, and he had 
 a whole swarm of children ! Most of them were as black 
 as my boots, and some of them were brown, but one was 
 as fair as you are ! " 
 
 " This is an extraordinary story ! " Gill ejaculated 
 
 softly. 
 
 " The old chap was fond of the fair one — he was quite 
 silly over him, and so was the negress. When the child 
 got lost I thought both father and mother would go out of 
 their minds ! I couldn't stand the row about it and so I — 
 I went to look for the little fellow." 
 
 " Did you find him ? " 
 
 "I found his body," said Jack, frowning. "He must 
 have fallen into a stream at the back of the hut, and he 
 had been washed miles down between the mountains. I 
 carried him heme as best I could. It wasn't easy, but 
 I knew that they would want to bury him. The stream 
 was quite shallow; I climbed up its bed. The water was 
 never above my waist. I was pretty sick though, before 
 I got through with the job 1 It was the toughest thing I've 
 done ! " 
 
 " It was good of you," said Gillian. ** Were they 
 grateful ? " 
 
 *' The mother howled. It was like a wild animal ! " said 
 Jack. " And the father swore once — when he took it from 
 me — afterwards he didn't say anything. I'd not like to see 
 that again. It's queer that people should get set like that 
 on a child." 
 
 He relapsed into gloomy silence, forgetting the point 
 of the narrative till Gillian reminded him of it with a 
 question. 
 
 *' You said ' the luck changed,' but this is not a cheerful 
 talc, is it, Jack ? "
 
 14 Bt tbe Cross*1Roat)s 
 
 He laughed then. "Oh yes, it is, but I have left out 
 the cheerful part. I was toiling up that stream with the 
 poor little chap's body when — I hit upon diamonds. It 
 was by the veriest chance ! I wasn't hunting for them, I 
 wasn't thinking of them ; I couldn't believe in what I'd 
 found. I just stuffed the specimens in my pocket to show 
 Bransome (that's the name of the man I stayed with), but 
 I forgot to show them, till I brought them out by chance 
 one day. Bransome pounced on them with a yell ! I 
 think if I'd been any other chap I'd hardly have got out of 
 that place alive, but he played the game squarely with me 
 — and he told me what to do. He is my partner, and 
 he manages the concern out there ! It's a pretty big 
 concern. As far as money goes I'm very rich." 
 
 " But if it had not happened you would not have come 
 back," the woman repeated slowly. 
 
 She was a woman who liked what money can buy, but 
 at that moment she thought only of that which can neither 
 be bought nor sold. 
 
 "You would never have come back. And during all 
 these years I have believed that you were sure to 
 come ! " 
 
 " I wouldn't have come to you poor," he said doggedly. 
 " I was in two minds about it, as it was. I am a dis- 
 graced man, and poverty and disgrace together are too 
 strong a couple of devils for any woman to tackle ; but I — 
 I did not forget you, Gillian." 
 
 Neither of them spoke for a minute. Gillian sat staring 
 into the fire, with compressed lips. Jack Cardew remained 
 stolidly quiescent. He felt that he cut a poor figure beside 
 this woman, whose faith fairly startled him. Yet he knew 
 that according to his lights he would have been right not 
 to come near her again, had this wonderful fortune not 
 befallen him. 
 
 " You see," he said awkwardly, " I used to be a gentle-
 
 But 150U Blone 15 
 
 man, and there are some things a man (even if he has 
 been a convict) can't drag a woman into." 
 
 Gillian turned round at that, and drew her hand gently 
 away from his. "Jack, I think I understand," she said. 
 " And I shall never blame you, but answer me this 
 honestly. Do you want me to be your wife or not? If 
 not, say so now, and go, for the sake of our — seven years 
 of waiting." 
 
 She wore a little turquoise ring on her left hand, and 
 she put the fingers of her right hand over it while she 
 spoke. 
 
 *' I am not going to boast about constancy," she said, 
 " That's just a matter of temperament. I know that many 
 women, who are infinitely better than I am, can love first 
 one man, and then, if he dies or fails them, another. I 
 know that I only care and only shall care about you. But 
 that is because I am made in that way. I can't help it. 
 1" — with a faint smile — " don't think I should have chosen 
 such an inconvenient characteristic, if I had been allowed any 
 say in the matter. But one thing I can choose, and I will. 
 I hate getting on stilts, you know, but I must say this 
 strongly. I would rather be dead, and I loathe the thought 
 of death, than married to you if you don't love me. I 
 could not stand it. You owe me nothing else, but you owe 
 me so much honesty, Jack." 
 
 Then the defiant look on the man's face melted, and his 
 manhood rose up. He caught her in his arms and pressed 
 her close to him. 
 
 " Before God, I am not such a cur as to lie to you," he 
 cried. "I had come here meaning to say you had better 
 for your own sake give me up, because I am not the man 
 I was, and you won't like me when you know me — I can't 
 say it now, for I love you — I swear I love you, Gillian, I 
 am not a quarter good enough now, but at least 1 love 3'ou." 
 
 "Then that is all I want," said Gillian.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 "A PITY BEYOND ALL TELLING.'' 
 
 "A pity beyond all telling 
 Is hid in the heart of love." 
 
 W. B. Yeats. 
 
 IT is strange to realise in what different worlds the 
 denizens of the same street live. The place, for 
 example, where Gillian met her lover was lifted more 
 than its actual five stories above the work-a-day life. It 
 was hallowed for evermore for the woman who had wel- 
 comed love there. Gillian was almost sorry to bid it 
 farewell ; she thought whimsically of the old Bible story 
 of Jacob, who set up a pillar in the place where he had 
 wrestled and prevailed. Not that she had much conscious 
 religion, or that her pillar would have borne any grateful 
 inscription. 
 
 Gillian rather prided herself on being essentially of this - 
 world, though she had never scoffed at spirituality in others 
 since she had counted Jane Ogland as her friend. 
 
 On the Sunday after Jack Cardew's return Lady Jane 
 sat alone in her small, bare room, enjoying the luxury of 
 solitude. She greatly liked to be alone, though in her 
 busy life she reserved little time, as well as little of 
 everything else, for herself. 
 
 It was six o'clock in the evening. Jane had lit her 
 lamp, and now sat quite still in an old-fashioned wooden 
 armchair, that was furnished with linen-covered cushions. 
 Jane always rested on Sunday. " The Imitation of Christ," 
 
 i6
 
 *'U ^it^ Begonb all UelliUG" 17 
 
 that book that appeals to so many souls of all sects, lay 
 on her knee ; she read it in the Latin edition, for the 
 stateliness of the old language pleased her. Like her 
 namesake of long ago she possessed scholarly tastes, though 
 few people guessed as much. 
 
 Lady Jane was a very small woman, with delicate, finely 
 cut features and pencilled eyebrows. She had been rather 
 pretty when she was young, though some people had con- 
 sidered her too colourless; now that she was middle-aged 
 her beautiful soul had had time to impress its character 
 unmistakably on her face. She wore white cambric frills 
 in her sleeves and round her throat. They relieved the 
 extreme severity of her black gown. Her hair, which was 
 flaxen in hue, and very fine and soft, was parted in the 
 middle and brushed plainly on either side of her white 
 forehead. Despite the extreme simplicity of her attire, 
 and the scantiness of her furniture, there was a certain 
 quality of dainty freshness about her person, and of dis- 
 tinction about her room. Lady Jane was a very dignified 
 lady, and the singularly muddy places she had walked in 
 from her early girlhood had apparently left no stain on 
 her. Yet she had been very sad in her youth, and the 
 peace that rested on her now had been bought with a 
 heavy price. 
 
 A square table with carved legs was placed by her chair, 
 and a bunch of violets in a cut glass stood on it. An old- 
 fashioned chiffonnier, and a stool comprised the rest of her 
 furniture. The walls were distempered blue. With the 
 exception of the glass full of violets there were no orna- 
 ments in the room ; yet it was a pleasant place, and one 
 that sometimes saggested a reminiscence of some far-away 
 French convent cell. 
 
 Jane read on quite undisturbed by all the noises in the 
 street. At one period of her life, the sound of a crying child, 
 or of a scolding woman, or of a drunken man, would have 
 
 2
 
 1 8 Ht tbe Cross^lRoaDs 
 
 so distressed her that she would have laid aside her silver- 
 clasped book, and would have told herself anxiously that 
 while these sad things happened she had no right to peace. 
 But that phase was long over now. Her deep sympathy 
 had found its vent, and was no longer morbid or restless. 
 
 Indeed, it was her restfulness that had first attracted 
 Gillian Molyneux. " It's so extraordinary to meet a 
 woman who is satisfied," that young woman once re- 
 marked. " Most people take to good works when other 
 things fail them. They feel lonely and dull, and have to 
 fill up their lives somehow, poor things, so they try to 
 pretend that they have got what they want, or, at any rate, 
 that they are doing good. I should hate them all if I were 
 a poor person ! But Lady Jane is different. She is as 
 diff'erent as a piece of real sixteenth-century tapestry is 
 to my mother's new ' antique embroidery.' I like Lady 
 Jane." 
 
 Lady Jane had liked Gillian too, and had felt, at first 
 sight, a strong instinctive tenderness that was almost pity, 
 for the girl. 
 
 Mr. Molyneux was an old friend of Jane's, but Gillian 
 had never seen her great-uncle before the day when she 
 came to stay with him in London, She was then just one 
 and twenty, and in the heyday of youth and prosperity. 
 
 Jane soon discovered that old Mr. Molyneux was rather 
 overwhelmed by the very modern niece who was ol so 
 different a type to the women he had been acquainted with 
 in his youth. The girl's freedom of speech and high 
 spirits had startled him, while the punctilious politeness 
 with which he had treated her had rather oppressed 
 Gillian. 
 
 " I am not at all the sort of woman Uncle Stephen has 
 been accustomed to," she had confided to Lady Jane. " He 
 tries to be kind, you know, but I can feel that he doesn't 
 approve me. I can't act up to being something between
 
 ft 
 
 a pits JBei^ou5 all ITellino" 19 
 
 a Madonna in a shrine and a Queen of Sheba on a visit ! 
 I was not brought up on those lines. You see I've had 
 a very liberal education." 
 
 And Jane, who had also had a "very liberal education," 
 and who, moreover, remembered having met Gillian's 
 mother before the fortunate advent of Mr. Clovis, had 
 suddenly understood Gillian, even better than Gillian 
 guessed. 
 
 She had rejoiced heartily when the engagement to Jack 
 Cardew was announced. 
 
 Jack Cardew was the lion of that season ; he had made 
 a great literary hit, and Gillian, who liked lions to roar 
 softly at her pretty feet, had begun by being laughingly 
 amused by his preference, and had ended by (immensely 
 to her own surprise) falling in love with him. She had 
 fully intended to make a rich marriage ; she was almost 
 comically discomforted at her own backsliding. It was 
 really a shock to her to find that her " worldliness " was 
 apparently only skin deep, but Jane, who had always 
 suspected her of hiding a heart, was gently triumphant. 
 
 " She has never had love enough to ripen in. It's the 
 best thing that could possibly happen to her," Jane 
 declared. 
 
 At fifteen Gillian had been distinctly original ; at one 
 and twenty she was fascinating, though there were always 
 diverse opinions as to her claim to beauty. Her eyes were 
 curiously two-coloured, red-brown near the pupil, and 
 almost blue-grey near the outer edge of the iris; they 
 often laughed when her lips were grave. 
 
 Gillian attracted more attention than many a prettier 
 girl during the season that preceded her engagement. She 
 was a very amusing and wonderfully self-possessed young 
 woman, and she was sometimes accused of being an arrant 
 flirt. Flirtation, however, implies at least a touch of senti- 
 ment, and her warmest admirers seldom ventured so far
 
 20 Ht tbe Cros5*lRoaC>s 
 
 as a lowered voice or tender glance ; for her sense of 
 humour was keen, and her amusement disconcerting. 
 Her abounding health and vitality showed itself in every 
 movement. It was a pleasure to see her dance or run 
 or play cricket ; she never tired, and was never out of 
 temper. 
 
 Gillian's complexion in those days was not pink and 
 white like her mother's, but sun-kissed and clear like a 
 boy's ; her bright rippling hair was the only beauty she 
 had inherited from Mrs. Clovis, whose refined and delicate 
 features were far more regular than the daughter's. 
 Gillian's mouth was large, and her chin very round and 
 full. The lower part of her face was perhaps too massive, 
 though it showed character. Mrs. Clovis liked to dabble 
 in soft emotions, while Gillian (till the day she met Jack) 
 scoffed at, and shunned them ; yet Gillian in reality was 
 passionate, where her mother was sentimental. 
 
 The course of love had run pretty smoothly at first. 
 Lady Jane had gone to see Gillian's trousseau (or at least 
 such portions of it as were visible at the Metropole, where 
 Mr. and Mrs. Clovis had taken rooms) and she had renewed 
 acquaintaince with Gillian's mother. Lady Jane frequently 
 took herself to task for the strong antipathies that none 
 would have guessed lay beneath her gently composed 
 manner. In spite of her best endeavours she disliked 
 Mrs. Clovis. 
 
 Jane had worked a dainty set of handkerchiefs for the 
 bride, rising earlier than usual to embroider delicate 
 flowing G's. She delighted in giving, and Gillian had been 
 very pleased. 
 
 Then, most unexpectedly, the crash had come. One 
 fine morning, when the wedding day was supposed to be 
 drawing quite near, Jane heard that Jack Cardew, that 
 promising genius, for whose writings publishers and editors 
 contended, had lately sued the Planet Insurance Company,
 
 (( 
 
 H piti^ Be^onD all Uellina" 21 
 
 which had refused to pay the insurance money on the 
 burnt MS. of a political novel. 
 
 Jane remembered, as if it were yesterday, how scorn- 
 fully Gillian had laughed at the whole affair. 
 
 " What fools they must be ! " the girl had cried. 
 "Well, Jack will bring a second action for libel and get 
 heavy damages, and that will be rather a blessing, for he 
 is awfully in debt. I tell him / shall be both mercenary 
 and revengeful enough to be pleased at that." 
 
 A faint uneasiness had touched Jane at the words, 
 though she had been far from guessing what would be 
 the result of the trial. 
 
 Gillian had been rather fond of declaring herself mer- 
 cenary. Her mother was a woman who always expressed 
 the most delicate and unworldly sentiments in the choicest 
 language, but who, if given an inch, was apt, in the most 
 lady-like manner possible, to take an ell. The girl suffered 
 slightly from reaction. She inherited a love of luxury, but 
 no one could accuse her of veiling her inclinations in fine 
 words. 
 
 Cardew's story, to which he adhered steadily throughout 
 the trial, was simple in the extreme. The novel had been 
 very heavily insured. It was to be published serially in 
 a leading magazine (beginning to run with the New Year) 
 but it was not to come out in book form till the following 
 autumn. He had (he said) taken up his manuscript in order 
 to look through it. He had been interrupted by a friend, in 
 whose company he had gone out of the house, leaving his 
 novel on the writing-table, with a lighted candle beside it. 
 He had left his door open. On his return he found that 
 the candle had been blown over on to his papers, and 
 the novel had been reduced to ashes. He consequently 
 claimed the insurance money. The company refused to 
 meet their policy on the ground that the loss was not 
 accidental.
 
 22 Ht tbe Ci:o5S*1Roat)5 
 
 Cardew lost his case, and on leaving the court was 
 arrested by the public prosecutor for attempting to obtain 
 money under false pretences. All the evidence that had 
 been given on the defendant's side in the previous trial 
 was sifted again in the criminal court. It was shown that 
 Cardew was heavily in debt. It was further shown that 
 the story of the accident was untenable. The writing-table 
 stood close to an open window, but the muslin curtains 
 that shaded the window were unsinged. The sheets of 
 paper had been piled about twelve inches high ; it was 
 impossible that they should have been so entirely con- 
 sumed unless they had been wilfully destro3'ed. A paper 
 almanac that stood on the table was uninjured, and the 
 table-cloth had not so much as a hole in it. 
 
 The most curious feature in the whole business was that 
 Cardew should have invented so lame a tale. 
 
 The girl who was housemaid at the time swore that no 
 one had entered the house during Mr. Cardew's absence ; 
 there was no ground for supposing that the novel had been 
 maliciously destroyed by any one but the author. There 
 was one motive which might have actuated him. It was 
 proved that he was in very pressing need of ready money. 
 He was, at the time of the trial, engaged to be married to 
 the step-daughter of a rich man. It was probable that 
 he was anxious to realise enough to stave off an impending 
 bill of sale on his furniture. 
 
 Lady Jane had not followed the course of the first trial 
 with much attention, but she read the daily summaries 
 of the second, in which Mr. Cardew was prisoner instead 
 of plaintiff, with growing fear. She did not believe him 
 guilty, but her heart ached for Gillian. How terrible all 
 these disclosures must be to the girl to whom he was 
 engaged ! How awful it was that all a man's sins and 
 extravagances should be dragged into such a piercing 
 light, and sifted publicly ! It was difficult to realise that
 
 "H ipit^ 3Bei5ont) all Uclliuo" 23 
 
 publicity was but a small evil compared to that which 
 was approaching. 
 
 Jack Cardew was found guilty and sentenced to four 
 years' penal servitude. It was the maximum sentence, 
 but as he grimly remarked, he was always unlucky. 
 
 He had done his best to release Gillian from her 
 engagement, but Gillian had refused to be released. She 
 had bidden him good-bye tearlessly, but with white 
 lips. 
 
 " Do not waste time in talking nonsense. Jack," she had 
 said. " You cannot break with me, because you are part of 
 me. You'll find me waiting for you when you have lived 
 through this. You must live through it, for my sake." 
 
 He had broken down when she touched him, but she 
 had been determined not to cry. 
 
 "There will be time enough to be sorry — afterwards," 
 she had said. 
 
 Jack was hotly in love with her at that time, yet it 
 flashed across him that he had never known this woman 
 before. 
 
 "Gill — I — I have done such idiotic things — I thought 
 when you heard all they said at the trial (and lots of it 
 was true) that you would hate me," he cried. 
 
 He had been boyish still, in spite of his twenty-four 
 years. He had looked at her through unshed tears that 
 he tried to wink away, that he was horribly ashamed of. 
 
 " But I am not a scoundrel, though they have proved me 
 one," he added, with an attempt at a smile. 
 
 Gillian had laughed, with a short, scornful laugh that 
 had startled them both. "Was it necessary to tell me 
 that ? " she had cried. Then a protecting tenderness shone 
 in her eyes. Some day Jack's children would see that 
 look. It brought the blood to his cheek, and he carried 
 the memory of it away with him. " Was it necessary ? 
 Why, Jack, I love you ! " And so they had parted.
 
 24 Bt tbc (^ros5*lRoa^5 
 
 It had surprised every one but Jane that Miss Molyneux 
 had insisted on holding to her engagement to Mr. Cardew 
 in spite of his conviction and of the opposition of her 
 relatives. Gillian detested poverty, but a certain sturdy 
 self-respect and sense of justice made it impossible to her 
 to accept support from her step-father while she was 
 strenuously resisting his authority. 
 
 She had that genuine faculty for business that so many 
 French, and so few English women possess, she was 
 enterprising and industrious, and she very quickly dis- 
 covered her own worth. 
 
 " If you were not as a rule so uncommonly sensible, I 
 should say you were stark, staring mad," her step-father 
 had declared when Gillian had first announced her 
 intentions of accepting a post as accountant to the "Co- 
 operative Cooking and Housekeeping Association," which 
 was then only just starting on its highly fashionable career. 
 " Post ? What should my step-daughter want with a 
 post ? A post means working her fingers to the bone for 
 a mere pittance (and precious fortunate if she can get that) 
 where a woman's concerned." 
 
 But Mr. Clovis had proved wrong. Gillian made a 
 good deal more than a pittance, and though her carpet was 
 threadbare, and her gloves were carefully mended, it by 
 no means followed that her purse was empty. She had 
 succeeded beyond expectation, and she had known how to 
 take advantage of good fortune. 
 
 Indeed, Gillian usually got what she set her heart on, 
 and did what she meant to do. One had only to look at 
 her, to see that she possessed in herself some of the 
 elements of success. 
 
 Lady Jane had felt deeply for the girl's loneliness when 
 she had heard of the step Gillian had taken. She had 
 even, in spite of an almost morbid horror of interfering, 
 offered to find rooms for her friend under the roof that
 
 i( 
 
 U piti^ JSeigouD all UelUna" 25 
 
 sheltered herself. But Gillian had refused the offer, after 
 a moment's consideration. 
 
 " It would not do," she had said. ** You see, Lady Jane, 
 you and I like each other rather, don't we ? and you know 
 so much more about me than other people know. You 
 are too sorry for me. I could not live with so much 
 sympathy, it would unstring me. I can and I will get 
 through these years of waiting, but they will be hard, and 
 I can only get through them in my own way. I feel a 
 brute, but I can't help it. Dear Jane, I am very grateful, 
 but I must harden my heart and set my teeth — and you 
 would make me soft, and I could not bear it." 
 
 And since that day she had talked no more of Jack, and 
 had faced the hard days bravely, in her own way. And 
 behold now they were over ! That fact had been conveyed 
 to Jane by a telegram on Saturday night; it was no 
 wonder that she was haunted by the thought of Gillian 
 even while she read her Thomas a Kempis. 
 
 Jane thought of the girl who had undertaken to work 
 and wait for a disgraced man ; she thought of the woman 
 whose whole mind had apparently become absorbed in 
 business, and who had shown herself so uncommonly 
 capable of managing both men and money. 
 
 Jane had a large capacity for loving faith, but even she 
 had sometimes wondered if Gillian still cared at all for 
 anything unconnected with her work. Miss Molyneux had 
 been the making, and had become the manager, of the 
 company for '' Baking other people's pies." She was 
 always immensely amusing on the subject of her experi- 
 ences, and her anecdotes betrayed a shrewd and serviceable 
 knowledge of human nature. She was an apparently frank 
 companion, but there is no reserve so impassible as the 
 reserve that wears apparent frankness like an armour. 
 
 Jane was still meditating on these things when the 
 subject of her meditations came to see her.
 
 26 Ht tbc (Iros5*1Roa&5 
 
 Gillian greeted her very quietly, and made some trifling 
 remark about the weather and the price of coals, unbutton- 
 ing her gloves the while with rather needless slowness and 
 precision. 
 
 London had robbed her of her colour, and there was 
 a little upright line between her eyebrows that told of care 
 and responsibility. Yet to-day she looked younger and 
 softer and altogether unlike her usual self. She glanced 
 up suddenly. 
 
 " You know, don't you, Jane ? " she said. 
 
 " Yes, I know that he has come back, and I am very 
 glad," said Jane. 
 
 Gillian laid aside her hat and jacket, and sat down by 
 the fire. " Sit down in your own chair, please. It rests me 
 to look at you. Your room is like a Quakers' meeting. I feel 
 as if it was a great deal better for me than going to church." 
 
 Jane complied and waited for further revelations. Pre- 
 sently Gillian laughed, with the tears standing in her eyes. 
 
 " Glad ? And what do you think I must be ? " she said. 
 " Oh, Jane, I have no words fit to say in it. ' Very glad ' 
 sounds so inadequate. One is * very glad ' when one does 
 a good stroke of business, or when one comes into an 
 unexpected fortune (which, by the way, has happened to 
 Jack). I was ' very glad ' when he first made love to me, 
 
 when I was a girl. But now Ah, when you have waited 
 
 six years, and when every day of all that time you have 
 felt so sore for him that you had to tell yourself not to 
 think, — and when you have longed for him so that it was 
 like something fierce locked up in a secret place, and you 
 knew you simply dared not unlock the longing, lest it 
 should be too strong, dared not, except sometimes when 
 
 every one else was asleep, why then " 
 
 " Oh, my dear," said Jane softly, and laid her hand on 
 Gillian's half shyly. At the touch Gillian suddenly put 
 her head down on Jane's knee, and sobbed.
 
 it 
 
 H pit^ Be^ont) all ZcWim" 27 
 
 " 1 must cry," she said. "Oh, Jane, it does not in the 
 least matter how silly I am now, does it ? He has come 
 back, he has come back. And sometimes I thought he 
 would die first, but I never told myself I thought so, for 
 fear that— oh, Jane, I want to hear some one say the 
 words to me. Say it please! Say, 'Yes, he has really 
 come back, and all the long years are over, and you have 
 got your heart's desire.' I can hardly believe it, but 
 if it was not true I should not be crying for joy in this 
 absurd way, should I ? Jane, say it to me." 
 
 " Jack Cardew has really come back. And all the long 
 years are over, Gillian, And you have got your heart's 
 desire," said Jane, in the gently decided accents that always 
 carried conviction with them. Even her voice shook 
 a little as she added, "And, thank God, it is quite 
 true." 
 
 She was a little awestruck at this breakdown of Gillian's 
 reserve. Presently Gillian lifted her head, and pressed her 
 hands to her flushed cheeks. 
 
 " Dear saint ! " she cried, smiling, " What funny things 
 we poor mortals do when we get into your palace of truth ! 
 Truth is very demoralising. I was very wise not to come 
 too often while Jack was away. But I can afford to be 
 a fool to-day. 
 
 "I am glad of that," said Jane. "For I think it is high 
 time that you should be a little foolish, my dear, and I am 
 more thankful than I can well express that he has been 
 brought back." 
 
 Gillian sat upright, and shook her head, the pucker be- 
 tween her brows deepening. " You are the only saint 1 
 love," she remarked. " And I don't feel good at all ! Jack 
 brought himself, and Providence has not been particularly 
 kind to him. / have stuck to him because I am a woman, 
 and could not help doing so, but I do not see that he has 
 much to thank God for,"
 
 28 Bt tbe crross*1Roa&s 
 
 "It seems to me," said Jane tenderly, " that you are no 
 small gift." 
 
 " I am like part of himself, and you do not say ' thank 
 you ' for part of yourself," said Gillian. Presently she 
 added reflectively, " But we've changed sides, you know." 
 
 Jane waited expectantly. "You see," said Gillian, 
 staring intently into the fire — " You see, Jack was rather up 
 in the clouds when I first knew him. He was chock full 
 of theories. He was a poet, and he had a great many 
 illusions. Of course he had had a rough time of it before 
 his book was taken, and yet I believe that I had really seen 
 more of the mean side of life than he had. Jack was 
 always getting into scrapes, because he was so extravagant, 
 and so awfully sorry for ' any poor chap in a hole,' but I 
 always knew that I was not half so good as he was (in 
 spite of the scrapes). Why, I became ashamed of lots of 
 things, after I knew him, that I had never thought twice about 
 before ! Mammy and I were so very poor before we met 
 Mr. Clovis. Poverty is uncommonly bad for a girl's morals, 
 I think ! Well, Jack is nof up in the clouds any longer, 
 and I am sure that I don't wonder at that ! " A fierce 
 light came into Gillian's expressive eyes. " He has been 
 abominably used," she declared. " Small blame to him if 
 he is rather bitter, and if he wants to make up for the bad 
 time. All you good people may be shocked at the change 
 in him, but I am not, no, not in the least ! " 
 
 " But you must not be bitter too," said Jane, " for, dear 
 Gill, you are so fortunate. So few of us who want 7nnch 
 get the thing we have passionately longed for." 
 
 Gillian drew Jane's face down to hers and kissed her. 
 "Then I won't be bitter," she said, "and, indeed, on the 
 whole I am not. The only person I bear malice against is 
 the parson who did not believe in Jack, when he turned to 
 him in his worst hour." 
 
 " It was a shame, but he did not know," said Jane. " I
 
 44 
 
 a ipiti^ Bei^on^ all XTellina" 29 
 
 sometimes think that when knowledge comes to us, that 
 in itself will be both reward and punishment enough." 
 
 Gillian made a funny little grimace. " Enough for saints, 
 perhaps ! But I must say I hope that chaplain will be 
 punished in a less purely spiritual manner ! I may be 
 wronging the poor dear gentleman, but I can't help a 
 suspicion that he would feel a less refined retribution more ! 
 There, what a blessing it is that you can laugh." 
 
 Jane shook her head. She had never harboured a desire 
 for revenge on any one, but some inexplicable affinity made 
 her always quick to understand Gillian. 
 
 " But I have once or twice felt more inclined to cry, 
 Gill," she said. 
 
 Gillian got up from the floor, and began to put on her 
 hat. "Some day I shall give this room a looking-glass, 
 for my own benefit. Did you hear me tell you that Jack 
 has made a fortune ? Or did you think that the fact was 
 not worth your consideration ? He struck on diamonds 
 somewhere or other in South Africa. We shall be very 
 rich." 
 
 " I am glad. You will not have to think so much about 
 money then, and you will like having it very much, will 
 you not ? " 
 
 " Certainly, and other people will like it too, and we 
 very much hope that some will have reason not to like it. 
 Had Jack come back poor, we should have started for 
 Australia, and I would have set to work to cook and wash 
 and sew for him — that is, if he would have let me. Now I 
 must set to work, after quite another fashion, to re-establish 
 him in society. I shall like that even better than the other 
 plan, for it requires especial talent, whereas any one can 
 cook and sew." 
 
 Lady Jane's delicate cheek flushed. " I should imagine 
 that those who hold that Mr. Cardew was wrongly sentenced 
 will be proud to stand by him, and in your place I should
 
 30 Bt tbe (Ivo5S*1Roat)s 
 
 welcome them gladly. The others you would surely not 
 wish to meet." 
 
 Gillian looked at her with a twinkle of amusement. 
 "Yes, that is how you would behave. You would hold 
 your chin right up in the air, and you would not condescend 
 to notice the unbelieving majority. You would only say 
 quite gently, ' Poor creatures. They know no better ! ' 
 Oh, I know you, my friend. You are much prouder than 
 I am ! But that is not the way to make the majority veer 
 round. You don't care about having the world on your 
 side, so long as you have Heaven, do you ? /do. I have 
 always a preference for the bird in hand." 
 
 " I am not in the least proud," said Lady Jane. " But 
 there can be no doubt that the people who are likely to 
 be influenced by the fact of Mr. Cardevv's having money 
 are people whose opinions are not worth our consideration." 
 
 " Individually they are not worth a snap," said Gillian. 
 " But collectively they count. Public opinion does matter, 
 to every man who is not mad or an enthusiast. Do you 
 think I do not see how much it has embittered Jack to have 
 it against him ? He says he does not care. But he does." 
 
 She put her hands before her eyes, for a moment, with 
 rather a weary gesture. She knew that with Jack's arms 
 round her she could forget all else, but, alas ! her arms, though 
 she clung very close to him, could never shut out care. 
 
 " Men are not like us. They are so much more — 
 sensible," she said. " Now, Jane, if we were poor, do you 
 suppose that after what has happened there would be 
 a chance for us in this country ? You may say that there 
 is not much chance now. But you wait and see." Her 
 face dimpled with a mischievous smile. " You see if I 
 don't make friends with the world, and the flesh, and 
 the Oh, I beg your pardon, dear." 
 
 " Very well," said Jane, laughing in spite of herself. 
 " But they are none of them worth it ! "
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " THE LADY DOTH PROTEST." 
 
 "The lady doth protest too much, methinks." 
 
 OAKLANDS PARK" was the name of the brand 
 new " place " that Gillian's step-father had perched 
 on the summit of a Devonshire hill. 
 
 Mr. Clovis had an ornate taste in architecture, and his 
 bride had secretly shuddered when first introduced to the 
 aggressive mansion, that was large without being dignified, 
 and pretentious without being comfortable. 
 
 Oaklands Park possessed nine towers and a drawbridge ; 
 but its windows were of modern shape, and it was fitted 
 throughout with electric light. In the fond eyes of its 
 owner it combined all the beauties of an old castle with 
 all the conveniences of a modern hotel. Mr. Clovis was 
 nearly as proud of his house as he was of his wife — and 
 that is saying a great deal. 
 
 Mr. Clovis had become acquainted with Mrs. Molyneux 
 and her daughter when he was taking a holiday at 
 Boulogne. The pretty and elegant widow, in her simple 
 black dress, had seemed to him a singularly touching and 
 pathetic figure. 
 
 Mrs. Molyneux was gentle, and he admired gentleness ; 
 she was fond of church-going, and easily distressed at the 
 least approach to un-orthodoxy ; the soap-boiler secretly 
 had a deep reverence for piety in women. 
 
 Mrs. Molyneux was slight — far slighter than Gillian — and 
 very fair, with small, regular features, and a marvellous
 
 32 Bt tbe Cro5S*1RoaC>s 
 
 and quite genuine complexion. When she and her daughter 
 walked together people often exclaimed that it was 
 impossible to believe that " that great girl " was the little 
 widow's child. The great girl was always being bidden 
 to " take care of her dear mother." Indeed, Gillian under- 
 took the office of caretaker at a very early age, and the 
 post was no sinecure, for Mrs. Molyneux was one of those 
 people who require, and usually get, a good deal of 
 attention. 
 
 Mr. Clovis was then a man of about fifty. He was short 
 and square. He had rather protuberant eyes, and scanty 
 grey whiskers. He wore a large diamond on his little 
 finger, and a large pearl in his tie. He was extremely 
 careful about his aspirates. He had been successful in 
 business, and was a shrewd judge of character where men 
 were concerned, but during the process of building up 
 a fortune he had had little time to study women. 
 
 Mr. Clovis told Mrs. Molyneux all about Oaklands Park, 
 which was then being built, and about a scheme for 
 "improving" a little Devonshire fishing village into "quite 
 a smart watering place." She, in return, confided to him 
 the sad story of her poverty and her debts, of her devo- 
 tion to her fatherless child, and of the hard struggle that 
 her " perhaps foolish " pride of birth led her to hide from 
 a rough world. 
 
 A delicate compliment was implied. Mr. Clovis, in 
 spite of those too careful " h's," was not put on a level with 
 the vulgar herd, for to him she revealed herself. He cer- 
 tainly proved worthy of the confidence. His final advice, 
 for they had many consultations, was simple and practical. 
 There was an easy way out of the monetary difficulties 
 that so beset her. The rough world would be pretty 
 considerably smoother in its manners when she was in 
 a position to tip it freely. The fatherless child should get 
 as good a father as she had lost (he felt that this was
 
 u 
 
 trbe Xat)^ t>oth {protest" 33 
 
 putting it modestly, for the late Mr. Molyneux had not, 
 apparently, done well for wife and daughter) ; as for the 
 unkind relatives-in-law, she might, if she so pleased, snap 
 her fingers at them all, and start with a fresh set ! 
 
 Mrs. Molyneux had bravely suppressed a shudder. She 
 hardly looked forward with joy to her introduction to the 
 Clovis family. " But for one's child one can do anything," 
 she said to herself. When she did not quite come up to 
 the high standard demanded by her " pride of birth " she 
 generally assured her conscience that she sacrificed her 
 feelings to Gillian's welfare. Some uncomfortable natures 
 cannot let a lie pass, and must needs rub the gilt off the 
 gingerbread before they will swallow it, but Gillian's 
 mother was never one of those. "He will be another 
 father to you, my precious," she had said to Gillian, who 
 was then a sturdy girl of fourteen ; but Gillian had shaken 
 her head. 
 
 "One can't have iwo fathers, mammy," she remarked, 
 " and I have not forgotten mine. 
 
 Mr. Clovis stayed to lunch the day after the engagement 
 was announced. He took the bottom of the table, and 
 Gillian stared frankly at him. Mr. Clovis had never had 
 much to do with young girls, and was more abashed than 
 she was. He became pompous when he was not at ease ; 
 he used very long words, and flourished his dinner-napkin. 
 By the time the second course was served Mrs. Molyneux 
 almost wished that she had not accepted him. 
 
 Then he grew a trifle bolder and made jokes, and Gill's 
 eyes brightened. She always saw a joke, and she never 
 giggled, but threw her head back and laughed outright, with 
 a ringing peal of laughter that disconcerted her mother. 
 
 " My dear love ! " Mrs. Molyneux murmured, in the 
 soft voice that yet had a touch of acidity in it. 
 
 But Mr. Clovis smiled benignantly. He stretched out his 
 be-ringed hand and patted Gillian's head. " We are going
 
 34 Bt tbe Cross*1Roa^s 
 
 to be great friends, and I h-hope you will be h-happy in your 
 new home, and like your new papa, my dear," he said. 
 
 " People can't have two papas, and I've had mine, you 
 know," Gillian replied frankly. She was a young woman 
 who could stick to her point. " But," she added after a 
 moment's reflection, " I am very glad when you come to 
 see us, it makes lunch so much more amusing, and then I 
 am allowed to put cloves in the apple-pie." 
 
 Mrs. Molyneux looked nervous, for the worst of Gill was 
 that she was occasionally possessed by a spirit of mischief, 
 and at such moments there was no knowing what she 
 would say. 
 
 " And how is that ? " asked the would-be papa. 
 
 " I roll the pastry, for I have a lighter hand than m.ammy, 
 and I like cooking ever so much better than lessons," ex- 
 plained Gill. " But mammy does not like cloves — in tarts, 
 you know. She says that they taste too strong, /have 
 got a vulgar taste. I like them very much. They make 
 the apples more interesting, I think." 
 
 " I hope that Miss Gillian will continue to like Cloves," 
 said the guest. He could never refrain from a pun. 
 
 *' Oh yes," said Gillian, her face dimpling with laughter. 
 " And, if you please, may I call you ' Mr. Cloves ' when 
 you marry mammy ? It would be so much nicer than 
 * papa.' Papa would be such a silly name for you, and 
 Mr. Cloves sounds quite right, and really means something, 
 because " 
 
 " My darling girl ! " interpolated her mother warningly ; 
 but Gillian was determined to get out her sentence. 
 
 "Because you are like the cloves in the tart, you see. 
 You are strong, and dark, and " 
 
 " And I give a masculine flavour to the feast, eh ? " he 
 cried. He shouted with laughter. " Miss Gillian knows 
 what's what. She likes the masculine flavour. She is a 
 sensible little giil !"
 
 **Z\K XaD^ 5otb protest" 35 
 
 " Then I need never call you * papa,' or ' father ' ; and I 
 may call you * Mr. Cloves ' ? " said Gillian triumphantly 
 And " Mr. Cloves " he was from that day. 
 
 The incident had been characteristic of Gillian, who was 
 both good-tempered and self-willed. She took up her own 
 position, but she met the inevitable step-father pleasantly. 
 Indeed, she did more than that ; she helped to make his 
 home bright, for she had a light hand for other things 
 than pastry. She had positive genius for keeping house 
 in the broadest sense of the term. She loved to make 
 every one thoroughly comfortable ; she also loved to be 
 thoroughly comfortable herself. 
 
 " Mr. Cloves," for his part, had been a kind step-father 
 to her, and her distinct appreciation of all the luxuries 
 he gave her amused and pleased him. 
 
 Mrs. Clovis had been Mrs. Clovis six years when a son 
 and heir was born. In the spring following Gillian became 
 engaged, and in the succeeding autumn she left home. 
 
 It was against all her principles to be the cause of daily 
 jars. " I had rather be bad, or mad, or both together, than 
 a bone of contention," she had declared. "You can't help 
 railing at Jack and I can't help standing up for him, so I 
 had better go." 
 
 Mr. Clovis had comforted his wife somewhat grimly. 
 Miss Gillian would stick to her convict just as long as 
 her funds held out, he opined ; she would be glad enough 
 to return to the lap of luxury when poverty began to 
 pinch. 
 
 But seven years had passed, and Gillian had not returned. 
 
 During that time her mother had heard pretty constantly 
 from her, and had even, on one occasion, visited her in 
 London. There was no vulgar quarrel between them. 
 
 " I miss my dear love constantly," Mrs. Clovis often 
 averred. " But I do not think it is the mother's part to 
 stand in the way of her daughter's best happiness. If my
 
 3<5 Ht tbe (Iios3=1Roat)s 
 
 darling girl feels that she has a vocation, why should I 
 withhold her from a wider sphere of usefulness ? " 
 
 It was inferred that the vocation lay in the direction 
 of "Co-operative Housekeeping," and Jack Cardew was 
 never mentioned, Mrs, Clovis had a way of ignoring 
 inconvenient facts, and "Gillian's convict" was decidedly 
 inconvenient. Mrs. Clovis preferred not to think about 
 him — for more reasons than one. 
 
 The mistress of the house lay on her sofa, with a letter 
 from her daughter open on her lap. The sofa was heaped 
 with cushions and drawn up to the fire, for she loved 
 warmth and softness. 
 
 The big drawing-room that the soap-boiler had never 
 (by his unaided efibrts) managed to make home-like, was 
 very cosy and cheerful now. The coldness of the state 
 apartment had thawed under feminine influence. 
 
 The hard, gilded chairs, and the alabaster figures, that 
 Mr. Clovis had admired, but never felt at ease with, had 
 been gently banished one by one. The sj'mmetrically 
 arranged poets, that had once rested in calf-bound glory 
 on an inlaid table, had given way to magazines and novels 
 from Mudie's, Bits of needlework lay about. A big 
 basket of toys stood in the bay-window. Mrs. Clovis 
 herself gave the finishing touch to the air of refined 
 comfort that pervaded the room. 
 
 Her fair hair was still untouched by time, and there were 
 only a few fine lines about the corners of her mouth and 
 eyes. Her fur-trimmed tea-gown suited her slim figure. 
 Mr. Clovis liked to see her attired in soft clinging raiment, 
 and she liked his admiration, 
 
 Gillian's father had had an unpleasant habit of turning 
 everything inside out, and examining the wrong side, but 
 Mr, Clovis took the angelic qualities of his wife for granted, 
 and she was aware that her lines had fallen in pleasant 
 places.
 
 '*Zbc OLabs t)otD {protest" 37 
 
 Nevertheless there was an anxious expression on her 
 pretty face to-day. 
 
 " My dear Mother " (wrote Gillian), " Jack has come 
 home at last. You and I have not spoken of him of late 
 years, for it seemed that there was no use in repeating 
 the same arguments over and over again, but you know 
 that I have always (since the day that we were engaged) 
 considered myself bound to him. I have never, for a 
 moment, wished to be free, and, as I explained when I 
 left home, I made myself independent of my step-father's 
 bounty solely in order that I might marry Jack whenever 
 he should come to claim me. We were married yesterday 
 at St. Clement's. Uncle Stephen and Lady Jane were 
 present. 
 
 " Jack has come back rich, which of course will make 
 everything easier. I knew that it would be impossible, 
 after all that has been said against Jack, for you or Mr. 
 Clovis to approve my marriage, but I have hopes, now 
 that the thing is done, that you will let me come to see 
 you both. I do not think that Mr. Clovis will abuse my 
 husband to my face. 
 
 " We are going to Paris, but shall be in England again 
 in a fortnight's time. Then we shall take rooms at the 
 White Hart, and I shall walk in one day and pay you a 
 morning call. 
 
 " I know that Mr. Clovis will be angry, but I don't think 
 that he will set the dogs at me. Tell him so from me, 
 please. 
 
 " Your affectionate daughter, 
 
 "Gillian Cardew. 
 
 "I believe in my husband with all my heart, and with 
 my brains as well ! I am absolutely convinced that the 
 world will come round to him yet." 
 
 Mrs. Clovis read the letter for the third time, and sighed
 
 J 
 
 s Bt tbe Cro5S*1Roa^5 
 
 so heavily that her husband, entering the room at that 
 moment, asked what was the matter. She stretched out 
 her hand to him without rising. 
 
 " Dear George," she said, " I am terribly shocked and 
 distressed about my poor unhappy child." 
 
 " What ? Miss Gill ? " he asked cheerfully. " Come 
 now, don't you worry over that young woman. She is 
 precious well able to look after herself! I heard only 
 yesterday that that Co-operative business of hers is doing 
 remarkably well. More than she deserves, I say ! " He 
 spoke with some chagrin. 
 
 " I do not imagine that she is thinking much about the 
 business at present, George." 
 
 Mr. Clovis's face brightened ; he sat down by his wife's 
 sofa, and patted her hand kindly. 
 
 " I suppose then that she wants to return to the paternal 
 roof? I am glad of it. She's got tired of slaving for idle 
 women who can't manage their own households, or roast 
 their own legs of mutton, eh ? Well, well, I always told 
 her she would sicken of it ! And mind you, I don't forget 
 I promised to be a father to the girl. I sha'n't be 
 hard on her, my dear. Let her come home. The only 
 condition I make is that we have no more of the convict 
 business." 
 
 " But he is in England again," said Mrs. Clovis faintly. 
 " And — oh, George, it is too terrible — she — she — has 
 married him." 
 
 Mr. Clovis bounced out of his chair with an oath. His 
 face grew quite red with indignation and distress. " The 
 scoundrel ! " he cried. 
 
 Mrs, Clovis put her handkerchief to her eyes. " It has 
 been a fearful shock to me," she repeated. " To think that 
 my own girl should have shown so little confidence in me ! 
 It has hurt my deepest feelings." ' 
 
 Mr. Clovis was excitedly walking up and down the room.
 
 "XTbe Xa&s ^otb {protest" 39 
 
 " Married ! Is it actually done ? Give me the letter, 
 Eva." He caught it out of her hand. His prominent 
 eyes started with eagerness while he read it. Mrs. Clovis 
 sobbed softly. She was aggrieved at the way in which 
 he took the news. He hardly realised her trouble suffi- 
 ciently. " Dear George " was sometimes wanting in delicate 
 perception. 
 
 "A mother's heart yearns over her lost child. I know 
 that my darling girl has no thought of the pain she gives 
 me. Gillian can never even understand " 
 
 '^ Yes, she has evidently been and gone and done it," 
 interrupted Mr. Clovis. " Too late to interfere now ! 
 The fat's in the fire, and no mistake ! I would have 
 given a hundred pounds to have stopped this, I would 
 indeed." 
 
 His voice sounded quite husky with emotion. 
 
 " Poor girl ! poor girl ! Married to that d d black- 
 guard. We ought never to have let her go away. But 
 that was my fault ! Why did I not keep a still tongue 
 in my head ? She could not bear to hear her thief rated 
 at ! But that was natural enough. ' I believe in my 
 husband with all my heart, and with my brains as well.' 
 The deuce she does ! Poor thing, poor thing ! No, I 
 sha'n't set the dogs on her. What would be the use of that ? 
 But I'd like to duck the convict in the pond, and give him 
 a roll in the pig-stye after, if I could get the chance. 'Pon 
 my word I would ! " 
 
 Mrs. Clovis shivered. Her husband was terribly 
 unrefined. 
 
 " Gillian says that he is very rich," she said presently. 
 "That of course can make no difference to the way in 
 which I regard the matter, but the world has a respect 
 for wealth." 
 
 " Respect ? Of course it has ! And a precious ass it 
 would be if it had not," said Mr. Clovis explosively. " But
 
 40 at tbe Cros5s=1Roat)6 
 
 it don't follow that it has no sense of decency. Why, 
 Cardew has been convicted of fraud, he is worse than a 
 common thief. That pill will want a good deal of gilding 
 if people are to swallow it. I don't think somehow that 
 Miss Gillian will ever get 'em to take it down. In spite 
 of his riches — which we've only his word for — I should 
 think it would make most honest folk " 
 
 " Don't talk in that way, dearest, if you please," cried 
 Mrs. Clovis, a trifle fretfully. " I can hardly bear to think 
 of it." 
 
 Mr. Clovis pulled himself up, and looked at the fair 
 woman on the sofa with compunction and tenderness. He 
 was often called vulgar, and his wife's large circle of ac- 
 quaintance wondered how she could have married him ; he 
 sometimes wondered at it himself. 
 
 '* She is your daughter, my dear," he said, with a gentle- 
 ness that was not without dignity. "And I was fond 
 of Miss Gill, for her own sake too. Tell her that she 
 may come when she likes. To my thinking she's been 
 a great fool, but she ain't the only woman that has been 
 taken in by a rogue, and it ain't for me to shut the door on 
 your girl. But I won't have her convict here, and that's 
 flat. I am sorry for Gillian, I am sorrier than I can say 
 about it, and I don't feel as if I had done my duty by 
 her, but I won't have Jack Cardew contaminate your 
 drawing-room ! " 
 
 Mrs. Clovis flushed nervously, and put a white diamond 
 be-ringed hand on her husband's arm. 
 
 " Dearest George, I know how much you think of poor 
 me/' she said gently, " but I feel that I ought to say that 
 I am sure you make a mistake, and that Jack Cardew 
 never committed a fraud in his life." 
 
 "Pooh !" said her husband, frowning. "What do you know 
 about it ? " Sure ? Why, how can you possibly be sure ? 
 Did you steal up to town on a broomstick, missus, and fly
 
 (( 
 
 Zbc XaD^ t)otb {protest" 41 
 
 down Mr. Jack's chimney and burn his precious book for 
 him, while I thought you were asleep by my side ? " He 
 laughed himself into good humour again. "That was it, no 
 doubt," said he. 
 
 Gill's humour was not inherited from her mother : Mrs. 
 Clovis wept instead of smiling. 
 
 " I could never have done such a wicked thing as to 
 destroy his manuscript," she cried seriously. " But please 
 remember, George, that I have always, always told you 
 that he was innocent." 
 
 There was an anxious eagerness about this asseveration 
 that might have seemed ridiculous to some men. but Mr. 
 Clovis was always tender to his wife's ways. 
 
 " Lord bless you ! The convict ain't worth your crying 
 about, my dear ! " he said with cheerful common sense. 
 " You are a deal too soft-hearted — though that is the right 
 fault for women, after all — and there ain't no use in your 
 taking on so." 
 
 He patted her delicate fingers with the palm of his 
 broad brown hand. "You are too good," he repeated. 
 
 " No, no," she protested. " I am not so good as all that. 
 But I have told you that I know he was innocent. I — I 
 have done all I could do. I — I could not do any more." 
 
 " Why, of course not," said Mr. Clovis soothingly. 
 
 Eva was very foolish at times, but he liked her 
 foolishness.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 ^'WHITHER THOU GOEST, J WILL GOr 
 
 "Whither thou goest, 1 will go; and' where thou lodgest, I will 
 ledge : thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God." 
 
 C'^ ILLIAN had been married in the last week in 
 T February. 
 
 It was in April that the newly married couple returned 
 to Devonshire. The day after her arrival was soft and 
 balmy, the warm touch of spring was already in the air. 
 
 Jack and Gillian walked through the lanes that smelt of 
 wet moss and rich mould. There were primroses in the 
 banks, and the branches above their heads were covered 
 with ruddy buds and with tiny curly leaves, creased still 
 from their tight packing. The sun had had no time to 
 kiss the deeper colour into these wee baby things, they 
 were as yet more silver grey than green and full of the 
 tender freshness of infancy. 
 
 Gillian Cardew stretched up her arms, and broke off the 
 crisp, juicy twigs while she walked. In her face was the 
 joy of living, but not the unconscious joy of early youth. 
 She knew that she was happy, she was tasting every 
 moment. 
 
 "The sap is rising everywhere. I think that it we 
 were to hold our breath, and keep silent, we might hear 
 the stir of life and growth," she said. " Oh, Jack, why did 
 I never know before that spring was so wonderful, so 
 very wonderful ? " 
 
 42
 
 n 
 
 Mbitbet Z\m\ Goest, 5 Mill Go" 4: 
 
 "It promises well," said he. "But one never can 
 tell what the year will be. All those poor little beggars 
 that have been in such a hurry to come out will get 
 nipped by a hard frost, as likely as not, or" — with a 
 glance at her bunch of sprigs — " they will be broken off 
 by a cruel fate before they have had time to unfold." 
 
 "Oh, that won't matter in the least, if they help to 
 make your room bright ! " said Gillian. 
 
 She smiled while she spoke, but the jesting words held 
 truth. To bring brightness into his life was indeed what 
 she was trying to do, and it was probable that she would 
 not stick at a trifle, with that end before her. 
 
 Gillian had a warm heart — for one person — and her love 
 was too absolute to be ashamed. 
 
 Her companion drew a long breath, and looked at her 
 with the odd, wondering look that always made Gill laugh 
 with a lump in her throat. Nothing, not even the finding 
 of the gold, had astounded Jack so much as the unlimited 
 welcome he had received from this woman ; but he could 
 not rid himself of the impression that he was in a fool's 
 paradise. The iron had so entered into his soul that it 
 was hard for him to trust in happiness. 
 
 Presently they came to a gap in the hedge, and a stile, 
 on which they sat, Gillian at the top and Jack on the step. 
 The stile led into a field, and a red bullock was munching 
 hard by. Gillian, who loved all four-footed creatures, tried 
 to coax him to come nearer still, but he only stared at her, 
 with the wise, soft eyes whose placidity had never been 
 troubled by the loves and hates of poor humanity, and 
 returned comfortably to his meal. Beyond the field was a 
 copse of firs, and through their dark branches one could 
 catch a glimpse of blue sea. 
 
 Gillian rested her ungloved hand on Jack's shoulder, 
 and began to sing softly for pure pleasure in the fresh 
 sweetness of the country : —
 
 44 Bt tbe Cro5s*1Roa55 
 
 " In Scarlet towne, where I was born, 
 There was a fair maid dwelling 
 Made every youth cry, ' Well-a-daye 1 ' 
 Her name was Barbara Allen. 
 
 " All in the merry month of May, 
 
 When green buds they were swelling, 
 Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay 
 For love of Barbara Allen." 
 
 Her voice was a full and very sweet contralto. Jack 
 was struck by its richness. 
 
 "Why do you stop ?" he said, when she paused at the 
 end of the second verse. 
 
 "I like the singing of the birds better," she said. "There 
 is nothing sad in their chirruping, but a woman's voice is 
 bound to have a pathetic tone in it." 
 
 " Yours has," he said. 
 
 He reflected silently for a time. Gill gave him plenty 
 of food for reflection. 
 
 " Look here," he began presently, " we've made no plans 
 yet. Where do you want to live, and what do you want 
 to do ? You shall always do just whatever you like, Gill." 
 
 " Am I to have my own way always ? " she laughed. 
 "What an excellent and much-to-be-applauded arrange- 
 ment ! But" — with a merry glance at him — " I don't quite 
 believe in it." Her eyes rested on the mouth that fell 
 into rather sullen lines when he was silent, on the blue 
 eyes that encountered the world somewhat defiantly. 
 " You don't look as if you were a very yielding character, 
 do you know ! 
 
 " I should be an ungrateful brute if I did not give you 
 all that is in my power," he said. "That means all that 
 I can buy, my dear. There are some little trifles, such as 
 a good name, that can't be bought for love or mone3\" 
 
 " I am not so sure of that," said she. " Well, Jack, I 
 should like a house in Park Lane."
 
 *i 
 
 Mbitber Zboxx Goest, 5 Mill (3o" 45 
 
 " Good ! we'll have it. But " — with some surprise — " I 
 should have thought you had had enough of London ! " 
 
 " Enough ? We've not begun the siege. I want a 
 country house as well, with plenty of room in it. We 
 will ask the world to shoot (you are a good shot, are you 
 not ?), and the world's wife shall come too, and act in 
 amateur charades." 
 
 Jack frowned. " I don't think that you understand, 
 in spite of all my explanations, that men won't want to 
 shoot with me — that is, the respectable sort won't. As for 
 the other kind — -well, I am not such a blackguard as to 
 let you know the other kind." 
 
 "You just see whether they'll come or no! But we 
 must whistle the right tune. I am thinking what it had 
 better be." She rounded her lips to a whistle, and began 
 piping scraps of tunes, some merry, some mournful 
 Presently she broke off short. 
 
 " Philanthropy, in a new form, will really be the safest 
 card to play. The new form must be sure to hit the public 
 taste, though. The scheme shall have something to do 
 with children. How would it do to start free play-rooms 
 all over London ? The children might trot in and out of 
 the streets and play in them. There should be a rocking- 
 horse and battledores and shuttlecocks in each room. 
 Yes, and on cold days we will have a fire burning. There 
 shall be a girl in charge, who shall wear a scarlet skirt 
 and a white apron. ' The Children's Room ' shall be 
 painted on the door, and no one over twelve years old 
 shall be admitted. Have you money enough to do all 
 that, Jack ? " 
 
 "I believe so," he said. "And it is a pretty enough 
 idea." 
 
 " It is picturesque, and I fancy it would be popular," she 
 said thoughtfully. "And," as an afterthought, "it really 
 would not be at all bad for the children. But it must be
 
 46 at tbe Cro55*1Roat)S 
 
 done on a big scale, and the rooms must all be thrown 
 open at once. It will propitiate the East End parson ! " 
 
 " Now that I am free I don't want to propitiate him " — 
 Jack's voice took the rather sullen tone that Gillian was 
 beginning to know — "and I thought you hated the species, 
 Gill." 
 
 " Oh, to be sure, so I do," cried Gillian cheerfully. " But 
 we can't afford to despise any body of people yet. It does 
 not do to be too fastidious at first. We'll be more parti- 
 cular later on ; but " — with a twinkle in her eyes — " if we 
 mean to make friends with the world, we must have the 
 Church on our side." 
 
 The man laughed rather scornfully. "Do as you 
 choose," he said. 
 
 Gillian slid off the top rail, and stood beside him. Her 
 face wore momentarily a tenderer and graver expression. " I 
 only want whatever you want," she said earnestly. " Where 
 you go I must go, the people who believe in you I love, 
 and your enemies are mine. Oh, good gracious ! that 
 sounds like a bit out of the Bible, but I said it out of my 
 own heart. Did some Jewish woman say it before me ? " 
 
 " * Whither thou goest, I will go ; and where thou 
 lodgest, I will lodge : thy people shall be my people, and 
 thy God, my God,' " Jack quoted slowly. Then he laughed 
 aloud. " To think of you and me, of all people, taking to 
 quoting Scripture ! How remarkably pious ! The last 
 part of the vow does not mean much to us, does it? 
 Moreover, darling, that Jewish girl made that promise to a 
 good old woman, unless my memory is quite at fault, not 
 to a disgraced man." 
 
 " She made it to the person she liked best in all the 
 world, I suppose," said Gillian. "And so do I." 
 
 They climbed the stile, and went on across the field, 
 she with her hand on his arm. There had been a 
 heavy dew, and the butter-cups held tiny drops in their
 
 ''Mbitber Zboix Goest, 5 Mill Go" 47 
 
 golden cups, and the thistle's spiky leaves glistened with 
 moisture. 
 
 " It is almost dazzlingly bright, after London," said 
 Gillian. " I think that a sun bath is very good for you 
 and me. Jack, tell me, please, where would you have gone, 
 and what would you have done with all this wonderful 
 fortune, if I had not been waiting for you ? " 
 
 He glanced sidelong at her, and shrugged his shoulders. 
 " Hardly worth inquiring into. It is not a pretty subject, 
 perhaps. What would you have done if I had died in 
 gaol, eh?" 
 
 " The best of me would have died with you," she said. 
 " And the other part would have grown fat and prospered. 
 Perhaps it would have married some one else — I don't 
 know. I am not a Lady Jane. That is not a pretty subject 
 either, for I should not have made a good wife to any one 
 but you." 
 
 " Upon my word, I am glad the other chap did not have 
 a chance of trying you ! " he cried wrathfully. 
 
 They reached the fir plantation now, and were confronted 
 with a huge board, with "Trespassers will be prosecuted " 
 on it. Gillian got over the fence. 
 
 " It is my step-father's property," she said, " and Mr. 
 Clovis won't prosecute me. I will go on up the hill, 
 and show mammy my wedding-ring. I think " — hesi- 
 tatingly — "I think that for just this once I had better 
 go alone." 
 
 " I should imagine that they would certainly prefer that 
 you should," said Jack grimly. 
 
 Gillian was standing under the shadow of the firs now, 
 and he on the other side of the fence. 
 
 " When you say that, I feel inclined to clamber back 
 again," she exclaimed. " I don't care a fig what any one 
 but you prefers. There ! I am glad I've made you smile. 
 Good-bye ! "
 
 48 at tbe Cross^lRoabs 
 
 She turned away, and began to walk quickly up the 
 winding brown path, singing again as she went. Jack 
 Cardew stretched himself at full length on the grass, with 
 his hands under his head and his straw hat tilted over his 
 eyes. The sunshine soaked through the brim, just as 
 Gillian's warm, passionate love pierced through the crust 
 that misery and injustice had formed round him. 
 
 " It's wonderful ! " he muttered. And his heart added, 
 in defiance of his scepticism, and really because there is no 
 other way of expressing a benediction, " God bless her ! " 
 
 Gillian walked a little slower when she found herself, 
 once more, in the familiar garden that had been the joy 
 of her early girlhood. It was true that she had very little 
 sentiment for any one but Jack, yet this return to her old 
 home touched her more than she had expected. 
 
 The whole place was less aggressively new than it had 
 been. Nature works quickly in Devonshire ; and the brick 
 walls were clothed with creepers now, while the lawn was 
 soft as velvet, and the heart-shaped flower-beds, that were 
 dotted about on it, were full of hyacinths and crocuses. 
 
 A chubby little boy, in an inappropriately smart suit of 
 clothes, was digging up bulbs with such energy that he did 
 not hear Gillian's step till she was quite close to him. 
 
 " Why are you pulling up those poor flowers ? " she asked. 
 
 The small boy turned round to stare at her with the 
 frank stare of childhood. Then he rubbed his earthy 
 hands on his knees, and smiled, a friendly, broad smile. 
 
 " There isn't room for them all," he said. " Look here," 
 producing a paper bag from the pocket of his knicker- 
 bockers. " These are what I've bought with my own 
 money. I must find a place for them, so I had to dig 
 up the wrong ones." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Gillian. " Why are yours more * right ' 
 than the others, I wonder ? And are you allowed to 
 revolutionise the beds ? " 

 
 "Iimbitbet tlbou Goest, 5 Mill Go" 49 
 
 "Father lets me," said he. "Are you a visitor? The 
 visitors' door is round the other side. Mother is in the 
 drawing-room. I'll show you the way if you like." 
 
 " I know my way, thank you," said Gillian, 
 
 It amused her that this little innovation should ofifer to 
 take her to her own mother. " So you are my step- 
 brother ? How you have grown ! " 
 
 " I am George Algernon Clovis," he replied, with some 
 pride. " But I am called George. Father has got one 
 
 Christian name, but I have got more than him, because " 
 
 He paused and rubbed the back of his head, with a gesture 
 that reminded Gillian of Mr. Clovis. *'I can't remember 
 because why, but father knows. There he is ! Hallo ! 
 Hallo, father!" 
 
 He waved his spade above his head, and ran to meet 
 Mr. Clovis. Gillian, with a smile, watched the two coming 
 towards her. 
 
 The child had been a pretty baby in short frocks on the 
 last occasion on which she had seen him ; he was not in 
 the least pretty now, except in the eyes of his proud 
 parents. His broad, good-tempered face, his comically 
 round little figure made Gillian laugh. 
 
 "It is really a pity that both mammy's children should 
 have taken after their respective fathers in looks,'' she 
 remarked to herself. 
 
 " How do you do, Mr. Clovis ? How well George 
 seems, and how did you ever persuade mammy to consent 
 to the cutting off of his curls ? " she said. 
 
 She was anxious to avoid anything like a scene, and 
 was apparently much less embarrassed than her step- 
 father. But Mr. Clovis refused to take the situation so 
 lightly. 
 
 " Well, Miss Gill," he said, " your mother has carried 
 a heavy heart on your account for the last six years. And 
 now I hear that you've married against her will. I used 
 
 4
 
 50 Bt tbe Cross*1Roa&s 
 
 to think better of you when you were a little girl, I did 
 indeed. I ain't going to continue the subject, because the 
 thing is done. In fact, I hadn't intended to have spoken 
 my mind at all. But I am not going to pretend that 
 nothin' has happened, and that we can just say * Good- 
 morning ' and ' How well little George looks ' as if it 
 was yesterday you left us ! " 
 
 Gillian gasped. She was taken by surprise. She did 
 not for a moment believe that her mother had ever 
 " carried a heavy heart " on any one's account for the 
 space of six years. Yet her step-father's rebuke actually 
 made her blush. 
 
 " You think that I am a horribly hard and light-minded 
 young woman, don't you ? " she said, " Well, so I was — 
 till I liked Jack ; and so I am, I daresay, where he is not 
 concerned." 
 
 George had returned gaily to his work of destruction, 
 Gillian and her step-father walked across the sunny lawn, 
 and up the steps to the terrace where the peacocks were 
 spreading their tails in the sun. 
 
 When they reached the French drawing-room windows 
 Mr. Clovis paused. 
 
 "Your mother is in there," he said, pointing with his 
 thumb. " You had better go in by yourself." He looked 
 across the lawn at his son, who was throwing spadefuls of 
 earth on to the trim grass. " I make no doubt that if you 
 had had a father alive he would have prevented all this, 
 I am sorry if I was hard on you, Gillian." 
 
 "Oh," she answered, with an odd mixture of levity 
 and earnestness, " no number of irate fathers would have 
 prevented me from marrying Jack, so do not reproach 
 yourself on that score. I don't think you were exactly 
 hard on me, Mr. Cloves, But you see some circum- 
 stances " (she could not quite say, " You see my mother ") 
 "differently." Something in the expression of his face
 
 "Mbttber Zbon Goest, 3 Mill Go" 51 
 
 moved her to add with apparent irrelevance, " But, all the 
 same, George is a lucky boy," 
 
 The window was ajar, she opened it, and walked into 
 the pretty room. Her mother rose from the sofa to meet 
 
 her. 
 
 " So at last you have remembered your poor mother, 
 dear love," she cried. 
 
 "Why, mammy, you look even younger than you did 
 when I saw you in London. I declare you look younger 
 than I do now ! " said Gillian. " And how nice and * comfy ' 
 everything is. The whole place is immensely improved 
 since last I was in it." 
 
 She bestowed on her mother a brisk and unemotional 
 kiss, and unbuttoned her jacket. " May I stay to lunch ? 
 I've encountered Mr. Cloves, and he has lectured and 
 forgiven me, so it will be all right. Look ! " — holding up 
 her hand — "Look with what a very thick ring Jack has 
 wedded me ! I tell him that it is vulgarly ostentatious. 
 Is it not a blessing that the wedding is over ? I am not 
 nervous, as you know, but I was so dreadfully afraid that 
 something would happen at the last moment; I nearly 
 shouted for joy when we were pronounced man and wife. 
 Oh dear ! please don't cry, mammy. It really is so much 
 the best possible end to the story. And" — in a gentler 
 tone — " I think I've had my share of weary waiting." 
 
 "You wrote such a cold, such a heartless letter, dear 
 Gillian," said her mother reproachfully. 
 
 <'Did I? I am very sorry," said Gillian. "But you 
 know I can't write tender letters." She blushed slightly, 
 with a sudden recollection of a letter she had once written 
 to Jack in prison. " The fact is, that if one is in love 
 with such an unlucky person as Jack, one's whole supply 
 of the milk of human kindness gets used up," said she. 
 " There has been such a demand on my sympathy on his 
 account, that I've had none over for the rest of the world.
 
 52 Ht tbe Cro5s*^Roa^s 
 
 You wait till you have been in love with a convict, mammy, 
 and then see if you can't make excuses for me. But " — 
 rather shyly — " I will try to be nicer now." 
 
 " I am ready to forget and forgive," said Mrs. Clovis. 
 " But I cannot bear that light way of speaking of serious 
 things. I do not think that a newly married woman 
 should jest about love. To me it is quite a sacred sub- 
 ject." 
 
 "To be sure, so it is. I forgot that," said Gillian 
 gravely. She never bandied words with her mother. In 
 the days when they had lived together she had generally 
 let all Mrs. Clovis's fine sentiments pass unchallenged. 
 They had left as much impression as water leaves on a 
 duck's back. Their intei-course had been peaceful as a 
 rule, and her mother had only accused Gillian of undue 
 levity on the rare occasions when the girl had spoken from 
 her heart. 
 
 Mrs. Clovis leant back on her sofa; she was easily 
 appeased by acquiescence. *' It is a great joy to me to see 
 you again, dear love. Now tell me all about yourself," 
 she said. 
 
 Gillian sat down on an easy chair, with her foot on the 
 fender-stool, and proceeded to enlarge on her plans. She 
 never despised her mother's opinion on any subject that 
 required worldly wisdom in the solving. Mrs. Clovis 
 listened with interest. She was by no means devoid of 
 natural affection. She was fond of Gillian ; and though, 
 when their interests clashed, she was incapable of putting 
 her own last, she was nevertheless genuinely eager for her 
 daughter's welfare. 
 
 They were discussing affairs very amicably, when they 
 were interrupted by an early visitor. 
 
 Lady Hammerton was announced, and trotted into the 
 room close on the footman's heels, her bright, mobile old 
 face shining with intelligent interest at sight of Gillian,
 
 *'mbitbct Ubott (Boest, 3 Mill Go" 53 
 
 her worn, silver-clasped bag hanging over her arm. The 
 old lady's eyes vs;ere as alert as those of a hungry robin 
 on the look out for crumbs. Her cheeks had still a pretty 
 touch of pink in them. Her hair was silvery white. In 
 her youth she had been the toast of the county, and as 
 popular as she was pretty. 
 
 Mrs. Clovis greeted her with effusion. 
 
 " Dear me ! Why, here is the prodigal daughter ! " cried 
 the old lady. "And what have you been doing all this 
 time, eh, Gillian ? " 
 
 Gillian had been a great favourite with her, and though 
 she had heard all about the dear girl's " vocation " and the 
 mother's " self-sacrifice," she tenaciously, and somewhat 
 unfairly, clung to the opinion that Mrs. Clovis told " tally- 
 diddles," and that Gillian had been harshly treated. 
 
 " I have been making and saving money for a man who, 
 after all, does not need it," Gillian unexpectedly replied. 
 " And, quite lately, I have been engaged in marrying and 
 honey-mooning with him." 
 
 " Come, that is a very interesting reply," said Lady 
 Hammerton approvingly. " You were always original, my 
 dear — especially in the excellent and business-hke way 
 in which you kept the accounts of my society. I have 
 had a series of incapables since you left, and we are 
 terribly in arrears. Well," opening her bag, " I daresay 
 that you can guess what I have come for, at this early 
 hour." 
 
 " Yes, to get subscriptions for ' The Home of Rest for 
 worn-out Race-Horses,' " said Gillian promptly. 
 
 She looked on with amusement while Lady Hammerton 
 " collected " from her mother. The sprack old lady, so 
 intent on business, Mrs. Clovis with her many little airs 
 and graces, seemed to her to be playing exactly the same 
 comedy, even to the saying of just the same things to each 
 other, as they had plaj^ed years ago when she had lived
 
 54 Ht tbe (Iross*1Roa&5 
 
 at home. Only she herself was changed ; changed by the 
 whole breadth and depth of the love that was the most 
 vivid part of her life. 
 
 " Now what will you give me ? " said Lady Hammerton, 
 turning round to Gillian with the bag still gaping open- 
 mouthed. " I remember that you would never subscribe, 
 my dear, but seeing that ' the man does not need it ' it 
 really seems a pity " 
 
 " The man is Jack Cardew," said Gillian. " And I think 
 that he would probably subscribe if you were to ask 
 him." 
 
 "I asked you, Gillian," said the old lady briskly. 
 
 " I keep my purse in my husband's pocket," Gillian 
 replied unblushingly. " We are staying at the White 
 Hart at present; but we are thinking of taking a house 
 in the neighbourhood. If you will come to tea or luncheon 
 with us one day, we will see if we can't get something " — 
 she smiled, the dimples showing bewitchingly in her cheek 
 and chin — " something handsome out of Jack." 
 
 Lady Hammerton shut her bag with a doubtful little 
 shake of the head. She was both parsimonious and 
 generous. She lived in a rambling under-servanted house, 
 that had been in her family for generations, and she openly 
 screwed down the very necessaries of life, for the sake 
 of her rather eccentric charities. Yet she was greatly 
 respected in the neighbourhood. Her opinion carried 
 weight. No one could fail to be impressed by a woman 
 who was so absolutely without fear of what people might 
 say. At the present moment she was perfectly well aware 
 that Mrs. Cardew was offering her a direct bribe. 
 
 Lady Hammerton habitually rode her hobbies insanely 
 hard, consequently she wanted the money badly. Yet 
 if she had no fear of man, she had an old-fashioned fear 
 of God before her eyes, and an equally old-fashioned sense 
 of her responsibilities as a great lady.
 
 **Mbitbeu ZbovL Oocst, 3 Mill Oo" 55 
 
 Gillian saw the struggle between conscience and desire. 
 "I should not ask you to come," she said, "if I did not 
 know that my husband is absolutely innocent of the thing 
 with which he was charged. I am very proud of Jack." 
 
 The old lady held out a slim little hand, encased in 
 a threadbare black cotton glove. " Then he ought to make 
 a good fight for your sake," said she, " and I hope he will. 
 I'll take your word for him, my dear, in spite of judge and 
 jury. I have always had a respect for your excellent good 
 sense, Gillian. I do not think that you would be easily 
 hood-winked. When I remember how beautifully you 
 kept the accounts of my society, I hope that my confidence 
 is justified." 
 
 " Thank you," said Gillian, with the light of victory in 
 her eyes. " It will be justified." 
 
 Lady Hammerton took her leave with a sympathy for 
 Mrs. Cardew warming her heart. She was old, but she 
 had plenty of spirit left. She had no patience with the 
 pessimistic fashion of the day. She was a little hard on 
 the softness that complains of the sadness of life. But 
 Gill had always attracted her. The ring in the younger 
 woman's voice brought an answering fire to her eyes. 
 Yes, she would certainly call on the Cardews, and, what 
 was more, she should tell every one of her intention. 
 After all, what was a trial by jury? Why should she 
 take the opinion of twelve ignorant men against one of 
 her own class ? She had known Jack Cardew both as boy 
 and youth. He was a gentleman, and a cousin of her 
 own. 
 
 Gillian having escorted her champion to the hall door, 
 returned laughing to the drawing-room. 
 
 " Isn't that splendid, mammy?" she cried. ** And you 
 see there is no doubt about Jack's character, because / kept 
 that stupid old society's accounts so well ! " 
 
 She lunched with excellent appetite after that small
 
 56 Ht tbe Cros5*1Roa&s 
 
 success. She coaxed her step-father into good humour, 
 and made friends with her step-brother. Every one was 
 sorry when she declared it time for her to depart. 
 
 " I asked father, and he says I've got twice his number 
 of names 'cos I have got to be just twice the man he is," 
 the son and heir said to her, when she bid him good-bye. 
 " I shall have to be awfully big, if I am twice as big as 
 father," he added rather doubtfully. 
 
 " George will probably go into the Horse Guards," said 
 Mr. Clovis, eyeing the little dumpling of a boy with a kind 
 of prospective pride. " I don't say it is a paying pro- 
 fession, mind you. But he won't have to trouble his head 
 about that. He'll begin where his father left off," 
 
 George, who was fortunately a very simple little fellow, 
 looked puzzled and rather bored at this conversation about 
 himself. 
 
 "Never mind," said Gillian, "I should not try to be twice 
 as big as Mr. Cloves if I were you. I think" — with a 
 friendly glance at her step-father — " I think that if you do 
 as well you'll be all right." And she meant what she said, 
 for Gillian had a genuine respect for Mr. Clovis. 
 
 She started on her homeward walk in good spirits, and 
 at a round pace. She hated to be long parted from Jack, 
 because (though this was a weakness that she never con- 
 fessed) she was apt to be haunted by a purely unreasonable 
 terror lest he should have vanished — back again to that 
 prison where it seemed to her at times that she too had 
 laboured and despaired. 
 
 Had there ever been an evening when the remembrance 
 of him had not been present with her while she walked 
 from her office to her room in the Strand ? Had there 
 ever been a morning when she had not known on waking 
 that his day's toil had begun ? 
 
 While she made her way through these deep winding 
 lanes, looking up at the dappled sky through interlacing
 
 "Mbttber Ubou Goest, 5 mill 60" 57 
 
 branches, she thought of her many journeys to and fro 
 in London. 
 
 ** How many weary women are there in England, who 
 are working and waiting, and trying not to feel too much ? " 
 she wondered idly, then noticed a very evidently " weary 
 woman" sitting at a little distance from her, at the foot 
 of the hill that had to be ascended before the village was 
 reached. 
 
 The woman was holding a baby, slung in a shawl, the 
 ends of which were tied round her own neck. The baby 
 was a puling delicate little mite, and the mother too was 
 sickly. She had seated herself on a stone at the bottom 
 of the hill in order to suckle her child. Presently she rose 
 and toiled on, pausing often to regain her breath. 
 
 Gillian always averred that she was not philanthropic. 
 She had none of Lady Jane's craze for saving and helping 
 every poor and miserable creature that she came across; 
 yet when her vigorous walk brought her alongside of the 
 wayfarers, the sight of the baby made her pause. 
 
 **You are fagged out," she said. "Shall I carry the 
 child up this hill for you ? " 
 
 The woman stood still, and gazed dully at the lady. 
 Knees and arms were shaking, and she was so physically 
 over-strained that she was incapable of mental effort. 
 
 Gillian put one hand under the child, and with the other 
 loosened the knot of the shawl. 
 
 " Why, it is no weight at all ! " she cried, taking possession 
 of the small burden. The baby was wailing, a weak, fretful 
 little wail. 
 
 " She is hungry," said the woman. ** I have been poorly, 
 and 1 have not got milk enough for her. There ain't no 
 use in her carrying on like that. I can't give her what I 
 haven't got. I can't help it ! " 
 
 "No, I don't suppose you can," said Gillian. In her 
 heart she considered that it was very hard on the baby
 
 58 Ht tbe Cross^lRoaDs 
 
 that so incapable a " poor thing " should have the respon- 
 sibilities of motherhood. " I should think that you had 
 never been able to help anything," she added. 
 
 She drew the folds of her own cloak round the child, 
 that it might be sheltered from the dust that the warm 
 south wind was blowing in their faces. When she reached 
 the top of the hill she sat down on a strip of grass to wait 
 for the woman. The baby felt more comfortable in her 
 strong young arms, and stopped crying. Gillian laid her 
 cheek against its head and felt the pulses beating under- 
 neath the soft down. She had never imagined herself to 
 be fond of children, but she coloured and laughed with 
 pleasure when the little aimless fingers clutched at her 
 hair. She made cooing, coaxing noises to the baby, she 
 talked to it in a wonderfully tender voice. GilHan had a 
 voice that could be sweet as honey — Jack knew that well 
 enough. She had never in her life before spoken so softly 
 to any one save him. And the odd part of it all v.^as that 
 this particular baby was nothing in the world to her. She 
 could not imagine why to hold it in her arms seemed to 
 bring her into closer kinship with the whole beauty of that 
 spring day — she who was never a poet like Jack. 
 
 When the mother came up to her, she relinquished the 
 child with some secret unwillingness, but asked no 
 questions, and offered no farther aid. 
 
 Gillian had lived long enough in London to be chary of 
 promiscuous alms-giving ; moreover, she had hardened her 
 heart on principle, for she had needed all her savings for Jack. 
 
 The mother nodded her thanks sullenly, and so they 
 parted. 
 
 Gillian gave her husband a highly coloured and amusing 
 account of all that had happened to her since she had left 
 him in the morning. They dined tete-a-tete, and both 
 laughed over her story of Lady Hammerton and the sub- 
 scription. Gillian was triumphant when she succeeded in
 
 <( 
 
 Mbitbcu Zbon (3oest, 5 Mill Go" 59 
 
 making Jack laugh. She took great pains to amuse him, 
 and she always dressed beautifully for his benefit. 
 
 " Well, I daresay that you'll succeed in buying some 
 votes for me," he said. " But do you really think it is worth 
 your while to take this trouble ? " 
 
 " Ah, that is what Jane said," said Gillian. 
 
 She pushed her chair back, and, walking across to the 
 window, stood looking out at the night to hide her mo- 
 mentary disappointment. Trouble ? She would have 
 counted nothing a trouble that was done for Jack. It is to 
 be feared indeed that at this stage in her life Gillian would 
 very cheerfully have sacrificed every and any one's happiness 
 for the sake of saving him a finger-ache. Yet, and alas ! 
 even now she felt the working of that inexorable law — not 
 even her love could step between him and mortal suffering. 
 
 " What is it that you want most — most in all the world ? " 
 she asked wistfully. "Once upon a time it was to write 
 beautiful poems, and to make a great name." 
 
 " I made a name with a vengeance, didn't I ? " said Jack. 
 *' Oh, I am not ambitious now, my dear, and I could not 
 write any more. The person who wrote ' beautiful poems ' 
 does not exist. He got knocked on the head in gaol. What 
 do I want ? To be thoroughly lazy and comfortable, 
 unless " he hesitated for a moment. 
 
 " Well ? " she said eagerly. 
 
 " Unless I could see a chance of finding out who 
 
 was my enemy, and making him swallow his lies first, and 
 be punished for them afterwards," he said slowly. 
 
 " Ah, then you want to punish him, even more than you 
 want justice," she cried. 
 
 In the days when she had first known Jack he had been 
 hot-tempered and thin-skinned. She had been wont to 
 laughingly assure her lover that she could see that he had 
 a very red-haired temper. Yet she had known him to be 
 generous, and if he gave offence thoughtlessly, he at least
 
 6o at tbe (Iross*1Roat>s 
 
 never bore malice. Something in the slow bitterness of 
 his tone now made her hotly indignant, not with him, but 
 with the hardness of the fate that had so changed him. 
 
 She had suffered for and with Jack, as only a woman 
 can suffer for some one else. But it was in the daily 
 contact of their married life that she realised most fully all 
 the evil that adversity had worked. 
 
 Gillian had never railed against destiny, because she 
 was an essentially practical person, to whom prayers and 
 curses seemed as a rule equally beside the point. She 
 had set herself to do what she could for Jack, finding some 
 salve for her painful sympathy in the hard work that 
 enabled her to lay by money for him. It was characteristic 
 of her that she no sooner felt sad than she began to make 
 a plan to relieve her feelings. 
 
 " Let us set to work to find out,' she said. 
 
 But the eagerness had died out of the man's face. "What 
 is the use ? The evidence was all thoroughly threshed at 
 the trial. No reasonable person could have had any doubts 
 about it. If I wasn't guilty I ought to have been, and we 
 shall never find out any more. We won't waste our time 
 in hopeless races after justice. We've done with shadows." 
 
 " But the truth must be somewhere," she said. 
 
 " When we are all dead some one may possibly fish it 
 up," he answered. " If I saw a real chance of getting at it 
 I'd take it. Gill, but I'm not going in for wild goose chases. 
 Let's enjoy ourselves now. We'll eat and drink, my 
 darling, for to-morrow — it won't matter to us how the 
 world wags. Another set of poor beggars will be shifted 
 up and down instead of us; and those at the top will have 
 excellent reasons for believing in Providence, and those at 
 the bottom will perhaps believe in the devil. It is all the 
 same in the end, but in the meantime one may as well 
 take what one can get. Why do you stand at that window? 
 Come over here, Gill."
 
 ''Mbttber XTbou Goest, 5 Mill 60" 61 
 
 She came quickly, and sitting on his knee, hid her face 
 on his shoulder, 
 
 "Jack, Jack, I cannot bear to think of the end," she 
 whispered. " How can we ever be parted ? Hold me fast. 
 That's right. Oh, I wish we could drink the water that 
 made people forget. What was it called ? You wrote a 
 poem about it once. Lethe? Yes, that was it. I want 
 so to forget all the misery that is over, and all the 
 blankness that waits for us at the bottom of the hill." 
 
 He comforted her tenderly enough, though rather 
 awkwardly. He was surprised, for Gillian was supposed 
 to have no nerves. " Why, you never used to trouble 
 your head about anything but the present," he said. " It 
 is all that confounded time alone in London that has tried 
 your nerve." 
 
 Gillian looked up with a smile. 
 
 " I am sure I was meant to be a most comfortable, stolid 
 sort of person. If I did not care about you, I should never 
 worry about anything. It is you who wake up the soul in 
 me — even now." 
 
 That night a sudden idea came to her, just as she was 
 dropping to sleep. 
 
 *' Was there ever any woman who had reason to hate 
 you ?" she asked. 
 
 **No. And no woman would have seen a man sen- 
 tenced, and held her tongue," he said. " Women are not 
 so cruel." 
 
 "It might have been for some one else," said Gillian. 
 "She would not have thought about the cruelty then. 
 One might do anything in the world for some one else."
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE DEEP UNREST. 
 
 "Oh passionate wail, that is not sound alone, 
 Nor only man's, O Nature, but thy breast 
 Unveiling, doth proclaim the deep unrest, 
 Thy dole and ours, that maketh us as one." 
 
 THE big new house that Jack Cardew had built in 
 Park Lane was lit up and garnished. The window- 
 boxes were filled with flowers, and more than one of 
 the passers-by had paused to feast his eyes on the blaze 
 of colour — the brave show of pinks and crimsons and 
 blues. 
 
 The season was at its height, and the discussion about 
 the Cardews, which had raged so hotly at one period of it, 
 was practically at an end. Some few people refused to 
 have anything to say to them, but on the whole Mrs. 
 Cardew was well supported. A wonderfully large number 
 among her acquaintance took a highly charitable view of 
 the case ; Mr. Cardew was very liberal, and was con- 
 sequently, in some quarters, liberally judged. 
 
 Moreover, there were elements in the story that hit 
 the public fancy. Gillian was decidedly fascinating, 
 and some men thought her beautiful. It must be owned 
 that she got on better with men than with women, but 
 she was careful not to make enemies, and prosperity 
 suited her. 
 
 We all like to hear about love on a grand scale. Jack 
 
 62
 
 Ube H)eep XHnrest 63 
 
 and Gillian were a really refreshing example of it. One 
 lady averred that a man who had it in him to be faithful 
 for six years could not have done all the dreadful things 
 that Mr. Cardew was accused of Gillian laughed over 
 that speech, but she knew perfectly well that it represented 
 what many felt. 
 
 " I refrained from telling her that I simply threw myself 
 into your arms, Jack," she said. " Really you had not much 
 chance of flirting in gaol, had you ? " 
 
 The hot summer day had worn to its close, and the 
 scent of the flowers was heavy on the evening air, when 
 a girl who had been walking up and down in front of the 
 new house, paused, and leaned wearily against the area 
 railing, and looked up at the dining-room windows. 
 
 " I shall always hate the scent of pelargoniums ! " she 
 said to herself. 
 
 Then she walked on, and returned again, and at last ran 
 quickly up the steps of the house and put her hand on 
 the door bell. Apparently the handle burned her, for 
 she withdrew her fingers, with a hasty glance round, 
 and once more took up her troubled pacing up and down, 
 up and down. A policeman stared suspiciously at her. 
 This was the fourth time that he had seen her run up those 
 same steps and make a futile attempt to ring that bell. 
 Was she mad, or up to no good ? 
 
 " What are you about that you can't leave that there bell 
 alone ? " he asked. 
 
 The girl started, looked at him with frightened eyes 
 and hurried away without answering. She took a longer 
 walk this time, but came back again, as if the house were 
 a magnet, drawing her in spite of herself. This time she 
 did not ascend the steps, but stood at the bottom and 
 scolded herself. 
 
 "Oh, you coward, you horrid little thing! You came 
 here on purpose. Why can't you find the pluck to ask for
 
 64 Ht tbe Ccos5*1Roa&s 
 
 him ? Here you stand with your ridiculous feelings, and 
 let Geoffrey die, just because you are such a pitiful idiot ! I 
 wish that I could beat you." 
 
 She bit her lips, and clenched her small hands hard. She 
 really would do it this time. Then the hall door opened, 
 and the master of the house came out. 
 
 It was years since the girl had last met him, and his 
 face was a little turned from her, but she knew by his 
 size and by the colour of his hair that he was Mr, 
 Cardew. She was blushing, a burning shamed blush that 
 seemed to tingle all over her. She made a step forward, 
 and tried to arrest him. 
 
 He passed on without paying any heed to her. The 
 words she had meant to say stuck in her throat. She was 
 physically incapable of bringing them out. 
 
 A wave of despair came over her. She put her hands 
 before her face, and choked back a sob. 
 
 *' I can't do it ! " she cried. Her weak flesh occasionally 
 appealed, in vain, for pity, to her stern spirit. 
 
 Mr. Cardew stopped, and turned round. " I beg your 
 pardon. Did you speak to me ? " he said. 
 
 He supposed that she was begging. She looked like 
 a lady, but beggars of every kind and description assailed 
 the house in Park Lane. He did not, as a rule, believe 
 their tales, but he frequently gave, all the same. He was 
 the despair of the " Charity Organisation." He was terribly 
 given to encouraging the undeserving. 
 
 "No — I mean yes," said the girl breathlessly. "I am 
 afraid you don't remember me at at all, Mr. Cardew. I 
 am Bertram's and Geoffrey's sister." 
 
 He repeated the words wonderingly, then he remem- 
 bered. " Oh — yes, we saw a great deal of each other once. 
 That was before anything happened." 
 
 He was not pleased. The girl saw and felt that. She 
 turned as if to flee. When Jack had been poor he had
 
 Zbc 2)eep Xllnrest 65 
 
 been very generous, now that he was absurdly and 
 fabulously wealthy, he probably suspected and resented 
 attempts on his pocket, thought she. Every one knows 
 that the poor give more willingly than the rich. Never 
 again would she dream of asking a rich person for help. 
 
 As a matter of fact, Jack hated to be confronted with 
 ghosts from the other side of that gulf that lay between 
 his youth and his manhood. But the sight of her dis- 
 tressed face made him endeavour to put aside his rather 
 morbid dislike. 
 
 " How curious it is that we should meet," he said, 
 trying to speak easily, " and how clever of you to recognise 
 me after all these years ! " 
 
 " It wasn't very curious," the girl blurted out. ** And 
 it wasn't clever. I don't think I should have known you 
 if we had met in Oxford Street. But I heard that you 
 had built this house, and I have been walking about out- 
 side." 
 
 She had carefully rehearsed all that she had intended 
 to say to Mr. Cardew. Her little speech was to have been 
 dignified and straightforward. 
 
 "You were my brother's great friend, and my father 
 always trusted you, and so I have ventured to come to you 
 for advice " — that was how she had meant to have opened 
 the conversation. Behold she had forgotten every word 
 that she had prepared. She blundered painfully and 
 naturally. 
 
 Jack was surprised, even dismayed. " You waited out- 
 side ? But why on earth, since you were so kind as to 
 wish to see me, did you not ring the bell and come in ? " 
 Then at last a faint suspicion that she was in some trouble 
 dawned on Jack. 
 
 *' Will you come in now ? I want to hear all about my 
 old friends. Why, Enid " — he had always called her by 
 her Christian name when she was a child — ** Why, Enid, it 
 
 5
 
 66 Bt tbe Cross^lRoaDs 
 
 is uncommonly nice of you to have thought of looking me 
 up." He held the hand he had taken in his, and led her 
 straight into the hall. He saw when the light fell on her 
 face that she was very white and tired, and after one 
 glance at her he took her into the dining-room and 
 deposited her in an armchair. 
 
 " Sit still. I am going to give you some wine," he 
 said, 
 
 *' Oh, nonsense ! " in answer to a faint remonstrance. " It 
 is not the first time by a good many that we've had 
 supper together. Do you suppose that I am going to let you 
 drop down dead on the way home ? " 
 
 *' I shouldn't do that. I always look a great deal more 
 delicate than I am," said she. 
 
 She was a slight girl and she was most unbecomingly 
 dressed. Her face was full of expression, and very bright 
 when she was amused. Life had been hard on her, but 
 she could still laugh and she was easily interested. Her 
 hair was uncompromisingly scraped oflf her broad fore- 
 head, and plaited in tight plaits. It was a soft light 
 brown, but it never had a chance of looking pretty. Her 
 eyes were dark blue, but the lids were red, for she was 
 apt to work at all hours. Enid liked pretty things on 
 other people, but she was absolutely regardless of her own 
 personal appearance, having long ago given herself up as 
 a bad job. 
 
 "No complexion, and no features. Only bones!" she 
 had once severely remarked, on a rare occasion when she 
 had looked in the glass. 
 
 But the glass was unfair ! Only an extraordinarily dull 
 person could have talked five minutes to her without 
 seeing anything but her physical defects. 
 
 She had the charm of a wonderfully quick sympathy, 
 and her devotion to the people she loved was unstinted 
 and singularly unconscious.
 
 XTbe 2)eep XHnrest 67 
 
 Enid had gone through agonies of anticipation, and had 
 crucified an inherent sense of independence on her way 
 to Park Lane. But while she looked at her old friend, 
 she forgot all about herself; even, momentarily, forgot her 
 reasons for coming. Jack Cardew had been immensely 
 admired by the Haubert family. Enid thought ruefully, 
 " How sad it would have made father to see him now ! " 
 
 Enid had been a little girl when Jack had first become 
 intimate with her brother; she had shared in the family 
 pride and delight in the recognition of his genius. The 
 Hauberts were exceedingly literary and artistic, and 
 though Mr. Cai-dew was originally " Bertram's friend " 
 they all took the deepest interest in him. Enid had been 
 just seventeen at the time of the trial. 
 
 Gillian herself was not more absolutely certain of Jack's 
 innocence than were the Hauberts; but they had their 
 own heavy troubles just then. It seemed to Enid that up 
 to this moment she had never fully realised what a crushing 
 thing it was that had befallen this man. His whole 
 expression was changed, even the way in which he walked 
 was different. She noticed too that his manner of speech 
 was slower and more deliberate. When he was a young 
 man he had talked quickly and impulsively; sometimes 
 brilliantly. 
 
 *' You did not wait outside just in order to welcome me 
 back to London. What is it that you wish to say ? " he 
 asked, when she had finished drinking the wine which 
 he had poured out. He had made an evident effort to 
 be friendly, to set her at ease, to bridge the years that lay 
 between their old friendship and the present moment. 
 Enid felt the effort, and wished that she had never come. 
 She did not know this Jack Cardew, this grave, middle- 
 aged, bronzed person. 
 
 " I made a mistake," she cried. 
 
 At that his effort relaxed and he laughed outright. Her
 
 68 Ht tbe Cross^lRoaDs 
 
 last words did really carry him back to the past. Enid 
 had always been the most rash member of a rash and 
 improvident family. 
 
 " But you are in for it now," he said. 
 He recollected a funny scrape that he had helped her 
 out of when she was a child. Bertram had got her into 
 it, but it was always Enid who bore the brunt of a mishap. 
 Jack had taken people very much at their own valuation 
 when he was a boy, yet he had liked Enid the best. Some 
 instinct had told him, even then, that the little quixotic 
 sister had finer stuff in her than had the brother she 
 worshipped. 
 
 " I hope that Geoffrey is taking care of you," he said. 
 " I am sure that you are wearing yourself out, for you 
 were always the hardworking member of the family." 
 
 " Ah, then you do not know," she cried. " Geoff was 
 dreadfully hurt when he was playing in a football match 
 at school. We did not think that it mattered much at 
 first, and doctors are so expensive, you know. We let him 
 go on till" — her voice broke a little — ** till it was too 
 late. He was badly kicked here,"— putting her hand to 
 her back. " It was by an accident, of course. He did not 
 even know who did it — that is, if he did know he would 
 not tell us. But — he has not been able to sit upright 
 for the last five years. It happened just six months after 
 the other." 
 
 Jack guessed that by " the other " she meant Bertram's 
 death. Bertram had been killed by an accident on the very 
 same unlucky day that had seen the beginning of all Jack's 
 own troubles. 
 
 Jack recollected that he had been very shocked at the 
 time. Later, his overwhelming sense of the injustice that 
 had overtaken himself had swamped his pity for his 
 friends. Death in life had seemed to him a harder fate 
 than death. *
 
 Zbc Deep XHnrest 69 
 
 Enid stood upright. His silence hurt her. " I do not 
 think you care in the least about Geoff now," she said. 
 " I was quite wrong to trouble you. Good-bye." 
 
 She was a quaint little figure, indignant and disappointed. 
 She had thought that she could ask him for help, but she 
 could not when it came to the point. Enid was always 
 embarking in inadequate cockle-shells on rough seas. She 
 had immense spirit, but, unlike Gillian, she was not born 
 to succeed. Her temperament and her soul were unequally 
 yoked. 
 
 " No, you were quite right, but you don't give me any 
 time to take in all this information about you," said Jack. 
 His smile was still kind. "Poor chap! So he is a prisoner 
 And without hope of release, eh ? " 
 
 Enid shook her head. " The doctor at the hospital said 
 that there is no hope of complete recovery, but he may 
 live as long as any one else." 
 
 " He is a weight on your hands, then, I suppose, for Mr. 
 Haubert never managed to bring much grist to the mill." 
 
 " Geoff isn't a weight, he is what makes everything worth 
 doing," she cried. " And my father is dead." 
 
 " I am sorry," said Jack. 
 
 It sounded curt, but he really meant it. Somehow the 
 remembrance of the gentle drawing-master, who had had 
 a great deal of talent, and no idea whatever of teaching, 
 who had been full of ideas, that other men reaped, who 
 was always a failure, but always sweet-natured, softened 
 him. The Hauberts were all so fond of each other. This 
 poor girl must have suffered a great deal. 
 
 " Mr. Haubert was such a very good sort," he said gently. 
 " Of course you know that better than I do, but I wish I 
 could have seen him again. So you and Geoff are left all 
 alone. I would come and look him up if he would like 
 to see me. But perhaps he wouldn't. Is there anything 
 that I may do for you ? "
 
 70 Bt tbe (Iross*1Roa&s 
 
 " If you would help me to find work," she said breath- 
 lessly. " I was at a type-writing office, but they have just 
 turned me off. It wasn't my fault. I worked very hard. 
 They have taken somebody else instead. She lives with 
 her father and mother, and does not have to pay for her 
 board, so she can come for less money than I can. She 
 does not want it half so much. She only buys new clothes 
 with her salary," Enid cried, with tears in her voice. 
 " And Geoff and I lived on what I earned. I've got nothing 
 else." 
 
 " Poor little girl ! It is horribly unjust," said Jack. 
 " But most things are. Yes, I can find you something to 
 do. Gillian has all sorts of schemes on hand. Ah, you 
 have heard about them," for she nodded brightly, the smile 
 coming back to her face. "Well she is sure to find room, 
 for you in one of them. You shall turn out some one else 
 this time, to make it even, if you like." 
 
 " No, I wouldn't like, unless it is some one with a hundred 
 a 3'ear, and even then I had rather not. Isn't there " — 
 wistfully — " Isn't there any fair place for me anywhere ? " 
 
 Mr. Cardew smiled. " I think I may safely swear that 
 there is. And, I say, the salary is always paid in advance 
 in Gillian's schemes." He drew out his pocket-book 
 shyly. 
 
 " I don't see how Mrs. Cardew can always do that," said 
 Enid bluntly. " I would not take it if I had anything left. 
 I'll work it out, every penny. Oh no, not all that." 
 
 " Why," he exclaimed, with a sudden inspiration, " this 
 isn't an advance, Enid. It is what I actually owe you. 
 We used not to be so proud about borrowing from each 
 other ! I got ten pounds from poor Bertram on the 
 evening of that awful accident. It ought to have been 
 repaid to you long ago, but my own affairs put everything 
 else out of my head. This is yours, and with the interest — " 
 
 " Oh, never mind the ifiterest. I am not a Jew," she
 
 Ubc 2)eep XHnrest 71 
 
 cried happily. " But is it truly Bertram's ? I thought 
 that it -was you who generally lent to him." 
 
 " Yes, but I was in a hole just before the smash up," 
 he answered, with so gloomy a face that she perforce 
 believed him. " Did you not see in the trial how it came 
 out that I had been borrowing money ? " 
 
 " We all knew that the evidence at the trial was false, 
 because they found the wrong verdict," she said. "And 
 now I am going home to Geoff. I can't tell you how 
 thankful I am. You won't ever know, I am afraid." 
 
 She was in such a transparent hurry to be off now, with 
 the precious note in her hand, that he kept her no longer. 
 He only insisted on the reckless extravagance of a cab. 
 
 " For if you walk, you will be robbed to a dead certainty," 
 he said ; "you were always unlucky." 
 
 " Not to-day ! How kind you have been. And this," — 
 with a glance at her tightly clenched hand, in which the 
 note was screwed up — "this is like a present from dear 
 Bertie." 
 
 Jack smiled to himself. " But I thought that it was you 
 who generally gave him presents ! " 
 
 He walked on towards the Embankment after that, 
 instinctively making his way river-wards. There is some- 
 thing in the flow of water that is fascinating to a troubled 
 spirit. Jack was becoming restless; luxury was already 
 beginning to pall on him. If it were not for Gillian he 
 would have stepped on board a steamer and gone off 
 somewhere. He had sworn that the only aim of his life 
 was to be lazy and comfortable, but then that ideal is not 
 altogether easy ot attainment. How could he be comfort- 
 able when every one was bent on confronting him with the 
 ghost of his former self? 
 
 It was refreshing to get away from the fashionable 
 quarter of the town. He was glad that Gill was enjoying 
 this plunge into society, and that she knew better than to
 
 72 Bt tbe Cros6*1Roa&6 
 
 bother him to share all these gaieties with her. It was only 
 fair that she should have a merry time now. She was 
 quite right, and he wished he could follow her example. 
 Somehow the spring of enjoyment was broken in him. 
 
 He leaned over the stonework of Blackfriars Bridge, 
 and watched the flow of the tide. The expression ot his 
 face was so melancholy that it awakened the suspicions ot 
 a Salvationist " captain " on the prowl for " souls to be 
 saved." 
 
 " You will not find any help in the river, my friend," said 
 the captain. 
 
 Jack not unnaturally resented both the interference and 
 the assumption of friendship. He was unfortunately re- 
 minded of the gaol parson. " I am afraid I shall not," he 
 retorted, " seeing that in this benighted country one is not 
 allowed to give impertinence the ducking it deserves." 
 
 He stood upright to look at the man who had disturbed 
 him, then half repented of his reply. The "captain " was 
 very small and puny, with the sunken narrow chest and 
 round shoulders of the city bred. Jack could have picked 
 him up with one hand, and when he saw him wince at the 
 rough words he felt as if he had struck a girl. 
 
 " I only saw your face, sir," said the Salvationist apolo- 
 getically. " I did not notice that you were not a poor man. 
 Some one jumped off there the night before last, and I was 
 just too late to stop him. He was starving, and it has 
 been on my mind since." 
 
 " And since we are on the subject, what earthly right 
 had you to suppose that he didn't know his own business 
 
 best ? " asked Jack. " And why the d , if you are to 
 
 interfere, should my broadcloth be more protection than 
 his rags ? " 
 
 The captain coloured. He was a fair-skinned, almost 
 boyish-looking person, with, the luminous eyes that are so 
 often seen in consumptive subjects.
 
 Ube 2>ecp "Clnrest 73 
 
 " It should not make any difference," he said ; " but," he 
 added with a simpHcity that amused Jack, " I find it hard 
 to act on that. I am naturally a shy man, sir, and the 
 flesh is weak." 
 
 He coughed at the end of the sentence, and the handker- 
 chief he put to his lips had dull red stains on it. 
 
 Now Mr. Cardew had started in life with a heart that 
 was unusually soft where other people's physical pain or 
 weakness was concerned. Experience had hardened him 
 (if he had not felt so keenly it would have hardened him 
 less), but to this day a sort of fierce sympathy often lay at 
 the root of his bitterness. 
 
 " I have no mission of interference," he remarked, " but 
 I should imagine that you are killing yourself at this work 
 just as surely as if you jumped into the river." 
 
 " I sha'n't live many months, anyhow," said the Salva- 
 tionist eagerly. " So I may as well make the most of the 
 time. If I could only persuade you " 
 
 " But you can't," said Jack, this time good-naturedly. 
 " And what is more, you don't even know that I am in 
 any need of persuasion. I am not your friend any more 
 than you are mine. Why have not I every bit as good a 
 right to go my way as you have to go to Heaven ? " 
 
 The captain stared dumbly at his interluctor. A thought 
 was evidently struggling for expression, but he could not 
 not manage to express it. He was not a man of a ready 
 tongue. He took refuge in a cant phrase and walked off 
 with a hot sense of failure and shame at his heart. It 
 seemed to him that the stranger's blue eyes pierced straight 
 through the evasion, their momentary friendliness changing 
 to a rather scornful amusement. The captain had an 
 ingrained respect for the upper classes, he recognised with 
 self-reproach that a most unworthy bashfulness had pre- 
 vented his " testifying " truly. Bashfulness is perhaps not 
 the fault to which the disciples of the gospel of noise are
 
 74 Bt tbe Cross*1Roat)s 
 
 most prone, but this especial soldier was always haunted 
 by a miserable conviction of his own weakness. 
 
 Jack leaned again over the balustrade, and watched a 
 handful of straws stick for a second against the bridge, and 
 then whirl under it, carried away by the current. " Like 
 straws on a river," " Like straws on a river," he repeated 
 to himself aloud, and then quite unexpectedly the old 
 surging craving for expression began to rise up. He was 
 like one who has been half frozen, and who begins anew to 
 feel life tingling painfully in all his veins. 
 
 He had fancied that that desire to clothe his sensations 
 in words, to make manifest had died for ever. He was 
 wrong. It was not dead, but sleeping, and One passing 
 by had awakened it. 
 
 Quicker and quicker images thronged by him. His own 
 broken life was but one among a miUion. From every 
 corner of the city the voices of victims went up. The 
 taint of the smoke of the sacrifice was on everything. 
 
 He thought of Geoffrey Haubert bound by a life sentence 
 of imprisonment. He thought of the hundreds to whom 
 existence is a foregone failure. It seems to him that the 
 profound immorality of the whole scheme of creation 
 shouted aloud to — to what ? To any man with a spark of 
 justice in his soul ? 
 
 He had always realised that the evils he himself had 
 suffered were not the fault of those who had convicted 
 him, but rather of an overruling fate that so disposed 
 events that no jury could have found him otherwise than 
 guilty. Gillian was inclined to be bitter against men, but 
 Jack, in his cooler moments, acquitted them. He had been 
 the companion of thieves, and deep in his heart he cherished, 
 not scorn, but indignation for the outcasts of humanity. 
 
 " We breed criminals and then we build prisons for 
 them," he had once remarked to the chaplain. " It seems 
 illogical to the lay intelligence. But we only follow the
 
 Ube Deep Xllnrest 75 
 
 example oi the power that creates everything. That does 
 the same thing on a much larger scale." That was before 
 the time when he had ceased to argue with and contradict 
 his spiritual pastor, and had fallen in with the custom 
 by which the rubbing of the burden was eased. Now, 
 while he stood a free man again on the city bridge, he 
 thought of those first months in the prison — months that 
 had been followed by a merciful deadening. It was borne 
 in on him that he was awake once more, and that for him 
 to live by his senses only was impossible. 
 
 He might have done it. He might have made a brute 
 of himself, but he had married Gillian, and he was never 
 a man who could take a middle course. Yet there had 
 been moments when he had almost regretted the com- 
 pulsion that saved him. He must needs swim strongly 
 who swims against the tide, and Jack was aweary of 
 trouble. Shall the unjustly treated be just? Shall man 
 be better than the gods ? 
 
 "Nay, but Gill had waited." The answer came not 
 from his brain but from his heart. " She and I must 
 always stick together, whatever happens," he said aloud. 
 That " must " had already kept out a good many devils. 
 
 It was nearly twelve o'clock when he reached home. 
 The drawing-room door was ajar, and he went in wonder- 
 ing that Gillian should still be up, and, to his dismay, 
 stumbled upon guests. It seemed to Jack that his house 
 was never free of them. Gillian was everlastingly 
 entertaining. Then he remembered that she had told him 
 that it was a " debate " night, and that that was the reason 
 why they had had dinner early, and why he had gone out. 
 
 The pretty room was lit by a number of pink wax 
 candles, and about twenty men and as many ladies in 
 evening dress were comfortably disposed on low chairs 
 and sofas. Gillian always declared that to make people
 
 76 m the Cross*1Roa&s 
 
 thoroughly comfortable was the first step towards a 
 successful entertainment. 
 
 There was a moment's hush when the master of the 
 house came in. He looked curiously unlike the other 
 men who were present ; he seemed to bring quite a 
 different atmosphere into the room. It appeared to him 
 that every one was rather startled ; a little doubtful what 
 to say to him. He derived a grim amusement from the 
 scene. He avoided this sort of social gathering as a rule, 
 but he was not exactly shy. 
 
 Gillian had been making her guests laugh. Her remarks 
 sometimes inclined to the audacious, but no debate that 
 she took part in was ever dull. She looked her best at 
 night, for her bare neck and arms were beautiful, and her 
 odd, two-coloured eyes shone like stars. 
 
 When she caught sight of Jack standing in the doorway 
 her expression changed, and she was momentarily silent. 
 Then she laughed merrily. " My husband is always too 
 much in earnest to debate," she said. " You have come in 
 by accident, haven't you, Jack ? But now that you are here, 
 do please stay and support my side." 
 
 Jack walked across the room, and stood facing them all, 
 with his back to the fireplace. 
 
 " What is it about ? " he asked. A thrill of pleasure 
 made Gillian's eyes sparkle more brightly than ever. 
 Among all these people, Jack was the only one who 
 seemed to her worth looking at. She loved the tones of 
 his voice, the very way in which he stood. No other man 
 had ever so much as caused her pulses to quicken. She 
 always agreed with Lady Jane that she was a lucky 
 woman, in that, having been born with the sort of tempera- 
 ment that made it impossible to her to give of her best 
 to more than one person, she had actually become that 
 person's wife. The lady vvho was sitting next her had 
 observed the graver expression that had softened her
 
 Ube Deep TUnrest 77 
 
 bright face, and secretly pitied her. " Mrs. Cardew carries 
 it off well, but of course she must feel the awkwardness 
 of the situation. And he really was a convict, though no 
 doubt he was very unfortunate," she said to herself 
 
 "The question is, 'Is the sense of justice innate or 
 acquired ? ' " Gill replied, in answer to his question. There 
 was a touch of mockery in her voice. Mrs. Cardew went 
 in for debates because they were the fashion of the year, 
 but her practical mind secretly revolted at the futility of 
 discussing the unalterable. 
 
 "Innate," said Jack. "We are born just. That is why 
 the nobler among us wear themselves out in hopeless 
 rebellion. The majority grow less just as they get older 
 and weaker. The power that turns the world round is too 
 strong for us in the end. We succumb to the inevitable, 
 and invent pretty fictions to prove that the inevitable is 
 inevitably good. We fall in with the fallacy that priests 
 have " 
 
 '* But, my dear Jack, you are arguing on the wrong 
 side," cried Gillian. " I maintained that justice is not 
 innate, but acquired."
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 « YOUR WORLDLY WIFE." 
 
 GEOFFREY and Enid Haubert lived in what Geoffrey 
 called "a room and a cupboard," in the attics of 
 the Middlesex Buildings, a huge block of houses in the 
 neighbourhood of King's Cross. Geoffrey slept in the room 
 which was also their sitting-room ; Enid had the tiny 
 chamber that was made her own private property by a 
 wooden partition. 
 
 Enid was fond ot her home. The ascent to it was 
 toilsome, but when you had once reached it you had a 
 really wonderful view over chimney-pots. The wooden 
 partition gave character to the " whole place," she declared- 
 The " whole place " was not very spacious if you judged 
 it by its actual dimensions, but then there are so many 
 things that cannot fairly be measured by a carpenter's rule. 
 
 The partition was stained to a walnut shade (Enid had 
 stained it), and little unframed sketches, chiefly of London, 
 were pinned up all over it. The walls were of a faded 
 salmon pink, and the ceiling sloped towards the fireplace. 
 Geoffrey's sofa stood by the window in summer, and by 
 the fire in winter. A square deal table was by his side. 
 
 The brother and sister had taken possession of their 
 quaint eyrie with great delight. They had moved into it 
 after their father's death, when it became clearly impossible 
 to afford the rent for the house he had lived in. 
 
 In spite of Geoffrey's misiortune, in spite of the recent 
 
 78
 
 "l^out MorlM^ Mite" 79 
 
 bereavement that was so tender a grief to them, they had 
 both enjoyed the move. The Hauberts all possessed a 
 great capability for finding fun and pleasure in small 
 things. It was a quality that perhaps counterbalanced 
 their general uuluckiness. They had made very merry 
 over the furnishing of that attic. It was so delightfully 
 cheap that Enid blithely declared that she should always 
 have a margin over to spend on extras. They were, 
 considering all things, pathetically courageous. Geoffrey 
 was carried up the long flights of stairs by two kindly 
 medical students who had made friends with him in the 
 hospital. It did not strike him that the room was a prison ; 
 on the contrary, he shared with Enid a proud sense of 
 ownership. 
 
 That was two years ago, and alas ! since then " the 
 beautiful, cheap, airy place " had been the scene of a 
 struggle that came very near to tragedy. 
 
 Hardly any one knew how poor the couple on the top 
 floor really were. They hid their difficulties bravely. An 
 injudiciously kind lady had once come to see them, and had 
 offered to send " the poor cripple " to a Home for incurable 
 patients. From that day Geoffrey and Enid, though by 
 nature sociable, had fought shy of genteel visitors. 
 
 It is needless to say that the margin that Enid had 
 counted on was invariably used up in advance. " Extras " 
 were out of the question. She lay awake at night planning 
 how to provide Geoff with necessaries. She earned a 
 somewhat uncertain livelihood by illustrating for cheap 
 magazines. She had a good deal of talent, but she had 
 never been properly trained. Indeed, it may fairly be said 
 that she had never been trained at all. She had picked up 
 hints from her father, who had delighted in her bright 
 fancy, but who, with characteristic want of forethought, 
 had never considered the desirableness of giving her a 
 profession at her fingers' ends. Geoffrey, who on the
 
 8o at tbe Cro5s*1RoaDs 
 
 whole had always been the least artistic of the family, had 
 yet the delicacy of touch that distinguished every member 
 of it. He had learnt to mount specimens for the micro- 
 scope, and only gfieved that there was so small a demand 
 for his one accomplishment. Geoffrey and Enid both loved 
 their handicrafts and would have been very happy had it 
 not been that they unfortunately found themselves nearer 
 starving than living. 
 
 They held on as long as possible, but at last Enid 
 announced one day, with would-be cheerfulness, that she 
 had taken a place in a type-writing office, where she hoped 
 eventually to earn sixteen shillings a week. "A good, 
 steady income." The hours in the office were long, and 
 it was a great wrench to her to give up the employment 
 that she enjoyed (even though she had grown thin over 
 it) for a mechanical work that wearied and bored her. It 
 was sad too to leave poor Geoffrey without the companion- 
 ship he needed ; yet with the wolf half-way in at the 
 door she was bound to take whatever she could get. 
 
 Enid, in common with her father and Bertram, had 
 always loathed monotony. She was easily made happy, 
 and she could work enthusiastically hard, but she liked 
 her freedom. When she woke up on Monday morning 
 her spirits sank at the consciousness that every minute of 
 the week's work was cut out for her. Nothing but the 
 near view she had had of starvation, and the bug-bear 
 raised by the philanthropic lady, would have induced her 
 to persevere. She did persevere, and grew less childish 
 and less light-hearted in the eftort. At nineteen she had 
 taken on herself the responsibility of breadwinner without 
 a qualm ; but at three-and-twenty she was an anxious- 
 minded little woman. 
 
 It was late by the time that Enid reached home after 
 her expedition to the West End. The shops in Cromer 
 Street were still open, for working people do their shopping
 
 I 
 
 in the evening. She made a variety ot purchases on the 
 way. Jack Cardew had paid the cabman. She trembled 
 to think what that long, long drive must have cost ! She 
 turned the last curl of the spiral staircase breathlessly. 
 She had run all the way up the stone steps. Her feet had 
 hastened to carry good news to Geoft. 
 
 "It's all right," she cried on entering the room. "Oh, 
 Geoff, he is quite sure he can find something for me to do, 
 and I have brought back all sorts of things for supper, and 
 I paid the rent before I came up, and he was very kind, 
 only so altered, and I am dreadfully late because I waited 
 so long outside the door." 
 
 Geoff, who had been lying with his face to the window, 
 gave a funny little grunt, and turned towards her. 
 
 " I say, I had made up my mind that you had been run 
 over," he said. " You do give a fellow shocks, you know." 
 
 Geoff had a comical face, that had once been very round 
 and freckled. He had been distinctly an out-of-door boy. 
 Bertram had been very handsome, but Geoff had never 
 had any pretensions to good looks. His nose turned up, 
 and his mouth was too wide, albeit pleasant in expression. 
 His brown eyes were candid, and good to meet. 
 
 Enid sat on the floor by his sofa, while she poured forth 
 her story in a disjointed and somewhat confused fashion. 
 Enid told Geoffrey a good many things, especially a good 
 many amusing things. She had a habit of treasuring up 
 any small episode that she might make a story of it when 
 she got home. The boy looked at the outside world 
 through the girl's eyes. Yet he thought for himself too, 
 and his reflective powers were fast developing in this 
 unboyish life that had been forced on him. 
 
 Presently Enid drew down the blinds and prepared 
 supper. She had bought candles on the way home, and 
 she recklessly lit three. " Let us pretend we are rich, just 
 for to-night," she said. " It will do us so much good ! "
 
 82 Ht tbe CrosB^IRoaDs 
 
 She wheeled Geoffrey up to the table, and stood blushing 
 deeply. 
 
 "What is the matter, Judy? " the boy asked. (No one 
 knew why Enid had always been called Judy by her 
 brothers.) 
 
 " For ivhaf we are going to receive the Lord make us truly 
 thankful" said Enid. 
 
 She rushed through the grace at an almost unintelligible 
 rate. It was a reminiscence of nursery days. It did not 
 sound very reverent, yet it meant a good deal. Enid had 
 had a hard time, and had carried through it a very childlike 
 quality of religious belief. 
 
 " Don't laugh, Geoff. I am so thankful," she said. 
 
 " All right. I don't mind," said Geoffrey. " I am sure 
 I am precious glad too." 
 
 They enjoyed their supper thoroughly. It reminded Enid 
 of the first meal they had eaten in their own room — but 
 with a difference. The wolf was driven away, for the time 
 being, but he is a visitor whom it is difficult to forget. 
 Enid could still be merry, but her old careless light-hearted- 
 ness was dead. 
 
 She revelled in doing nothing after supper. From talking 
 of Mr. Cardew, the brother and sister turned to memories 
 of the old days when their father had been alive, and 
 when Bertram had been Enid's pride and hope. It was 
 not often that they talked of the past, they were both too 
 young and too interested in the present to indulge in 
 much retrospect, but this was an especial occasion. On 
 especial occasions Enid's thoughts always turned lovingly 
 to the father and brother in the next world. 
 
 "Bert would have been pretty well astonished if he 
 could know all that has happened to his friend," said 
 Geoffrey. " Poor Bert ! How sold he was when his 
 manuscript was returned to him. You've got it still, 
 haven't you ? " 
 
 J
 
 " It is in the old pla^'-box in my room. I put it away 
 with his cigar case and his photograph album, and those 
 pictures of the ballet-dancer that he would hang up in 
 the parlour. It is tied up just as he left it." Enid sighed 
 heavily. " I wish that the publishers had not been so 
 stupid ! " she said. 
 
 Her faithful heart still grieved that Bertram had been 
 disappointed. She had renounced her own ambitions with 
 less pain than she had felt over his failures. 
 
 " I wonder " began Geoffrey, and then stopped 
 
 short. 
 
 He had been on the point of wondering whether Bertram's 
 book had been worth printing, but a sense of loyalty 
 prevented the remark. Moreover, though Enid had a good 
 temper on the whole, she invariably lost it ii she heard 
 any one she was fond of disparaged, whether justly or 
 unjustly. He was disinclined to tease her to-night. 
 
 " Do you know what I've been thinking ? " he said 
 presently. " I've been thinking that I ought not to have 
 let you go to Mr. Cardew. He used to be a good chap, I 
 know, and of course we never believed a word of what they 
 said about him, but all the same there are some things a 
 man should not have his sister do." 
 
 Enid opened her eyes wide with astonishment. To 
 think of Geoffrey — Geoffrey, who had always been her 
 charge, and who was five years and a half younger than 
 she was — holding forth on what a man should not let his 
 sister do ! She was amused, and yet very tenderly 
 amused. She was an exceedingly womanly little woman, 
 and his assumption of protection gave her a secret thrill of 
 pleasure. 
 
 " How ridiculous ot you ! " she cried, laughing. 
 
 "Well, I don't see that," said Geoffrey sturdily. "Of 
 course if I was like other fellows I should provide for you." 
 He so seldom referred to his own incapacity that Enid was
 
 84 Bt tbe Cross*1Roat)S 
 
 quite startled at the allusion to it, and began to wonder 
 uneasily whether he felt worse. *' But I am not, and I 
 suppose I never shall be now. I've only earned ten and 
 sixpence during this last month, and I cost you a lot 
 more than that. You see, Judy, when it comes to your 
 
 
 Oh, don't," she cried, interrupting in disma}'. "Geoff, 
 dear, don't say that you believe that it is your duty to 
 follow the advice of that dreadful woman in the frightful 
 beaded jacket, who wanted to take you away from me." 
 
 To Geoffrey's utter dismay she began to cry. She was 
 worn out by the over-strain and under-feeding of the last 
 few weeks, she was unstrung by the excitement of the day, 
 and Geoffrey's alarmed scolding had no effect, till the 
 moment when he impatiently wished the philanthropic 
 lady at the bottom of the sea. Then indeed Enid sat up- 
 right, and dashed away her tears, declaring in a rather 
 shaky voice that she had only been laughing all the time. 
 
 " But it was a stupid joke," she said wistfully. 
 
 Geoffrey looked away from her thin, eager little face. 
 " All the same one ought not to live on one's sister — when 
 it is all she can do to keep herself," he said. 
 
 Geoffrey had been slower of development than the rest 
 of his family, but he was also more pertinacious. Enid 
 had more than once been impressed by certain qualities in 
 him that had struck her as unfamiliar, unlike the ways of 
 the two men she had known best. She got up, and moved 
 restlessly about the room till he called to her not to fidget. 
 Then she turned round sharply. 
 
 " Geoff," she said, " I think it would be awful to live 
 alone ! I could not do it> Some girls don't mind it, but 
 I should just feel that there was no more reason for doing 
 anything if I had only myself to work for, I simply could 
 not stand it. I believe I should let myself starve. You 
 see if there was no one to come home to, nothing would
 
 be worth bothering about, it would all be so pointless and 
 so horribly blank. It frightens me even to fancy it. I've 
 always pitied the poor things who have no one belonging 
 to them. When you have got some one, why, of course 
 you are anxious, I don't deny that — but then you are not 
 all by yourself in the crowd. You see I think about this 
 room when I am at work, but I should never live in it 
 without you, because without you it would be like a tomb. 
 The streets give me a sort of queer feeling sometime?, they 
 are so full of people who pass without caring or knowing 
 anything about each other ; but then I know they have 
 most of them got their own belongings somewhere, just 
 as I have got you. If you were not here the crowd 
 would — would scare me. There would be nothing to hold 
 on to." 
 
 Geoffrey's face flushed. " All right, Judy. I had not 
 seen it like that. I don't want to go into one of their 
 beastly homes. I should hate it. It was only that I 
 thought that you would have a better chance without me. 
 I suppose that it is because you are a girl that you feel 
 such odd things." 
 
 "I suppose so," said Enid, with a quick smile. 
 
 "We'll stick together then," said he. "And I say, we 
 won't talk such rot any more." Whereupon they both 
 cheered up, and were merry enough for the rest of the 
 evening. 
 
 Yet— tor the doors that divide one phase of our lives 
 from the next hang on wondrous small hinges — yet from 
 that evening the sister recognised that Geoff" had grown 
 up, and that their relations to each other had changed. 
 Accident had made the lad physically dependent on his 
 sister ; but character, which is stronger than anything that 
 touches us from the outside, was fast tending to make her 
 seek and find moral support in him. 
 
 " Geofl' is growing into a man," thought she, then
 
 86 Ht tbe Cross*=1Roat)s 
 
 sighed to think of the limitations of that manhood, remem- 
 bering with a little stab of pain what Jack Cardew had 
 said — " a prisoner without hope of release." Happily 
 Geoffrey never took life bitterly, nor added to pain by 
 forestalling it. 
 
 Two days later a letter arrived from Mrs. Cardew, 
 who never let the grass grow under her feet, and who 
 fixed a day and hour of meeting, and begged that Enid 
 would bring her samples of anything that she could do, 
 and any certificates that she might possess, Gillian wrote 
 in a very business-like manner. Whatever might be the 
 ulterior object of her philanthropy, she always set to 
 work with a will, and on a basis of excellent common sense. 
 
 "But I haven't a certificate to my name," poor Enid 
 cried hopelessly. 
 
 "Take your drawings. Drawing is the thing you do 
 best, and I will write a character for you," cried Geoffrey — 
 which he did in terms that made them both laugh. 
 
 " I know that Mrs. Cardew will be capable, and cheerful 
 and managing, and I shall loathe myself for being so 
 ungrateful as to hate her," Enid declared. " It's so de- 
 pressing to feel that one ought to like a person when one 
 doesn't. When I am rich I will never be kind, I think ! 
 At least, if I am, I will never let any one know it. I will 
 give every one what they want anonymously." 
 
 " You might stick oranges full of sovereigns, and throw 
 them in at windows," suggested Geoffrey. " I say, what 
 a lark that would be ! But in the meantime dp unpin 
 those sketches that are stuck up on the partition and put 
 them together; and oh, Judy, can't you do something to 
 your boots to make them appear decent ? 
 
 " I have inked the white places on my gloves, and I can't 
 bother about my clothes any more," said Enid. " It really 
 does not matter what I look like ; I am not going in for an 
 ornamental situation. Oh dear me, I wish I did not feel 
 
 J
 
 "I^our morlMp Mite" 87 
 
 so shy of Mrs. Cardew. 1 wish she were not such a very 
 fashionable person." 
 
 " How do you know that she is ? " asked Geoffrey. 
 
 " I have heard a great deal about her," said Enid with 
 a sigh. " The girl who sat next me at the office is a niece 
 of Mrs. Cardew's dressmaker. There are columns about 
 Mrs. Cardew's dresses in the fashion papers. She has 
 as many clothes as Queen Elizabeth, and her ball was 
 the biggest entertainment of the season. The flowers 
 were all roses, and they grew the whole way up the stair- 
 case, and cost hundreds of pounds. She goes in for all 
 kinds of charitable schemes, but she says quite openly that 
 that is because her husband wishes to spend his money 
 generously, and that she does not care about poor people 
 herself. At the Fancy Fair her stall was crowded, and they 
 say that she is the most beautiful woman in London." 
 
 " Then you will like her," observed Geoffrey. " For 
 you fall in love with any one who is beautiful. You take 
 after father and Bertie in that respect." 
 
 And Geoffrey was right, for Enid returned from the 
 dreaded interview Gillian's warm admirer. 
 
 She told her brother all that had happened in the 
 detailed manner that Geoff was accustomed too, " Mrs. 
 Cardew is not a bit the sort of person I had fancied she 
 would be," she said. '* That picture of her in the Queen is 
 not in the least like her. There is a great deal of char- 
 acter in her face. It is so strong. Do you know, I think 
 that she is a very fashionable lady only on the surface, 
 and that underneath she is — oh, I don't know how to 
 explain it to you — she is more of a primitive woman 
 than most of us. But I admired her. Do you remember 
 how well the peasant women walked at that funny place 
 in the mountains where they all carried their goods to 
 market on their heads ? Mrs. Cardew walks just as 
 they do, and she holds her head up as if she were wear-
 
 88 Ht tbe Cro5S=1Roa^5 
 
 ing a crown, and were proud of it. She has lovely eyes 
 that are set wide apart, under very straight eyebrows. 
 The curve of her lips is very full, and her chin very 
 round, and her throat like a column. How I should love 
 to take her portrait ! I was shown into the library. It 
 is a large room, with carved oak book-cases ; presently 
 she came in. She shook hands with me. Her hands 
 are well shaped and strong, not narrow and small as mine 
 are. Then she said, * I am glad to meet any old friend 
 of my husband's. He has been telling me that he once 
 saw a great deal of you.' Her voice is deep for a woman's, 
 with a great deal of tone in it. I believe that Mr. Cardew 
 must have asked her to be very nice to me, and I think 
 that she likes him very much — more," added Enid quaintly, 
 "more than most people like their husbands. I said, 'Yes 
 indeed, we were all fond of Mr. Cardew years ago,' and 
 she was interested, and would have me tell her all about 
 that time when we were in North Crescent, and when 
 Jack and Bertram were so often together. I could see, 
 though, that it was not about us that she really cared to 
 hear, but about her husband. She listened with great 
 attention. I fancy that she hopes that she may some 
 day get some clue to that mystery that led to the trial." 
 
 *' Well, she tried to make use of you, it seems to me ! " 
 cried Geoffrey. " I don't know that I admire your beauti- 
 ful lady." 
 
 " Oh, but you would it you could see her," said the 
 girl quickly, " and if I were a man, she is the kind of 
 woman that I should want to marry. When she had 
 heard all that I could possibly remember about the Jack 
 Cardew we used to be so fond of, she made a funny little 
 face, and said, ' And now for business.' She asked direct 
 questions, and in less than a quarter of an hour she found 
 out just what I can, and just what I can't do. Every now 
 and then her eyes laughed. She was sure that I had
 
 ^'l^our MorlMs Mife" 89 
 
 better not attempt to be any one's secretary, or to keep 
 accounts, or to teach. She looked at my sketches, and 
 said, ' What a pity that your drawing is weak, when your 
 colour is so good and you have so much imagination ! 
 But this is what you enjoy doing, is it not? I am con- 
 vinced that it is a great mistake to waste your time over 
 anything that you don't like.' I said, ' Yes, but I must take 
 what I can get, and one can always make oneself do the 
 sort of work one hates.' The she gave a little decided 
 nod. ' Oh yes, it is possible to cut a round peg into a 
 square one, and vice versa; but it is a painful process, 
 and the bother of it is that you are bound to lose so much 
 material in whittling. I don't approve ot waste. Let's 
 try to find a tolerably fitting hole.' " 
 
 " And has she found it ? " asked Geoffrey. 
 
 " She is going to," said Enid, (Gillian had evidently 
 inspired her with confidence.) " I am sure that she will. 
 I mean to strengthen my drawing, Geoff". I am going to 
 the free classes that Mr. Cardew has started in the East 
 End. Mrs. Cardew is to lend me the money for bus fares 
 till I am earning something. I would not let her give it 
 to me ; and she said that was quite right. She says she 
 was rather poor once, and that it was very bad for her 
 morals and did her a lot of harm. She never agrees with 
 the people who say that poverty is good for girls. She is 
 not even certain that it is good for boys ! " 
 
 ** Hear, hear ! What an immoral lady ! " said Geoff"rey. 
 " She does not seem to have said any of the things be- 
 nevolent people generally say. I think that she must be 
 rather nice after all." 
 
 Gillian's account of the interview was shorter. It had 
 been no great affair to her. She had not looked forward 
 to it with dread, nor gone away elated. It had been but 
 one small episode in her busy day. 
 
 " I have seen your friend, Miss Haubert," she said to
 
 90 Bt tbe Cross^lRoa^s 
 
 Jack, while she poured out his coffee the next morning, 
 " She is a good little soul, and I fancy cleverish in her way. 
 Her sketches are full of spirit and fancy, and her eyes were 
 taking me in all the time ; but she is not the sort of girl to 
 get on in the world," 
 
 " The ' getting on ' instinct is not in her family," said 
 Jack. " But do what you can for her. You can make 
 some work for her somehow, and pay her well for it, can't 
 you?" 
 
 "Yes, I could easily do that," said Gillian, frowning 
 thoughtfully. " But it would be such bad economy. One 
 makes jobs for the incapable, whose name is legion ; but 
 Miss Haubert really has some talent, I hate to do a thing 
 in a wasteful way." 
 
 Jack laughed. " You are a born manager ! You started 
 all these schemes in order to woo the world on my account, 
 but I believe that now you are bitten by philanthropy," 
 
 She shook her head. " Oh no, philanthropists seem to me 
 to attack symptoms ; they are quacks, each advertising his 
 own especial nostrum. I never for a moment flatter myself 
 that I do the least permanent good to mankind at large. 
 One man is enough for my ambition to work for, dear ! 
 See, what a pile of invitations. Three are to Scotch 
 moors and two to Yorkshire, and one to yacht in the 
 Mediterranean," 
 
 Jack looked at her with rather lazy admiration. " Yes, 
 you have conquered London society," he said, " How 
 much longer is this whirl going to last ? Even you are 
 fagged. Gill ; and, except at this hour in the morning, you 
 never have a spare moment. Do you really enjoy this 
 sort of thing ? It seems to me that we are in rather a 
 stifling atmosphere, and that there is not room to stretch in." 
 
 Gillian, who was watching him, read the expression on 
 his face aright, " You are longing to be off, alone, some- 
 where," said she.
 
 (( 
 
 l^our MorlM^ Mtfe" 91 
 
 " No, no, I don't want to leave you," he answered, with 
 some compunction, and a passing wonder as to how Gill 
 knew. *' It is only that I have an idiotic fancy that I could 
 get my bearings better if I were to go to the North Pole, 
 or the top of a mountain, or the middle of a desert, or — 
 anywhere out of reach of humanity, where there would be 
 boundless space, and leisure to turn things over. I felt a 
 bit dazed with the turn of the wheel at first, and now I 
 want to get far enough away to see things. I don't know 
 that I can explain. It's only a fancy." 
 
 Gillian played with her untasted breakfast lor a while ; 
 then did the very hardest thing that she had yet done, 
 even for his dear sake. 
 
 " Do go," she said. " I shall be all right.-' 
 
 He got up, and paced the room with long, energetic 
 strides. He was longing to go, yet he was fond of Gillian, 
 fonder possibly than he knew. 
 
 " What will you do ? " he said. 
 
 " I will go on wooing the world on your account," said 
 she. "It is a most amusing occupation, Jack — and it is 
 useful too ! I do not need solitude and boundless space, 
 for / don't puzzle my head over Life, with a big L, dear. 
 Who was the clever person who remarked that women 
 do not see the wood for the trees, nor men the trees 
 for the wood ? I am a woman. I do not care about 
 general views." 
 
 Jack smiled. "There is no doubt that you are very 
 much a woman. So I am to start off, eh ? Are you sure 
 that you won't be dull ? " 
 
 He did not often smile and — perhaps this also was 
 because she was a woman — the smile strengthened her 
 resolution. 
 
 " Oh, I should be ashamed to be that," cried she. " If I 
 feel so, no one shall guess it. Have it all out with your- 
 self under the stars, but come back to me in time for "
 
 92 at tbe Cro65*lRoa&s 
 
 " For what, Gill ? " 
 
 " For Christmas Day," she said, in a low voice. 
 
 He looked puzzled. " But I thought you did not care 
 about that sort of thing ? " 
 
 Gill laughed, and blushed, and turned her head away. 
 " Oh, my stupid Jack ! " she said. " Are all geniuses 
 so slow in the uptake ? Of course I am a thoroughly 
 worldly woman, but the world is full of babies, you 
 know ! I do not understand prayers and meditations, but 
 I understand that." 
 
 " Oh, I say ! " he exclaimed, startled. 
 
 "You need not say anything," said Gillian, "but come 
 back in time — won't you — to your worldly wife ? "
 
 & 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 THE GHOSTS OF BYGONE YEARS. 
 
 GILLIAN was not whimsical. She was a youn 
 woman who had usually a very distinct reason for 
 whatever she did. She was not subject, as Jack was, to 
 sudden cravings for either solitude or travel ; when there- 
 fore she refused all gayer invitations in order to bury 
 herself at Drayton Court with old Lady Hammerton, she 
 had, as she frankly confessed, an end in view. 
 
 Lady Hammerton was third cousin to Sir Edward Bevan, 
 with whom Jack had contended lustily during the whole 
 time of his legal infancy. Sir Edward had, most unfortu- 
 nately, been constituted Cardew's guardian. Unfortunately, 
 because never was a man, good in his way, more unfitted 
 for the charge of boys. 
 
 The old knight was not in truth very popular with any 
 one. He was a low Churchman ot an almost extinct 
 type, and a renowned temperance lecturer. He was 
 also a millionaire. He spent thousand of pounds in a 
 somewhat belligerent form of philanthropy. He both 
 bribed and drove unwilling sheep into the path that was 
 presumably of salvation. In his own family he was 
 cordially disliked and feared. Yet he had fine qualities, 
 and, to the best of his belief, his life exemplified his preach- 
 ing. His integrity was absolute, and that he was an 
 unpleasing example was perhaps not entirely his own fault. 
 
 Sir Edward was a stern and aggressive ascetic. He 
 
 93
 
 94 Ht tbe Cross^lRoa^s 
 
 did not fast because he would have considered such a 
 practice papistical ; but the monkish spirit that sees evil 
 in all that gives pleasure to the senses was his, in large 
 measure. His son was fourteen years Jack's senior ; he 
 had been a man when Jack at twelve years old had been 
 delivered to Sir Edward's injudicious mercies. Cyril 
 Bevan had been preached to from his earliest infancy, 
 and familiarity had bred in him a contempt of a good many 
 things that most of us hold sacred. It was tragic enough 
 that the son of so scrupulous a father should be a profligate 
 and, when it suited his purpose, a hypocrite ; but there 
 are some lessons that mother nature teaches with a heavy 
 and unsparing hand. 
 
 Jack had been an incorruptibly honest boy, with clean 
 and wholesome instincts, and warm affections. Sir Edward 
 ruined his temper, but Jack somehow managed to preserve 
 his honesty intact, which, considering all things, was a 
 good deal to his credit. He hated Cyril Bevan heartily 
 and his guardian boyishly. He would probably have 
 done exceedingly well at a public school ; but Sir Edward 
 regarded public schools as sinks of iniquity, and kept the 
 lad, so far as it was possible, under his own eye. 
 
 The painstaking stupidity of the conscientious seems 
 at times to bear more bitter fruit than the carelessness 
 of worse men. Jack was a real grief to his guardian, 
 who, though he certainly never spared the rod, had at 
 moments a dim idea that the child was spoilt. The boy 
 became more insubordinate as he grew older and began 
 to feel his strength. There came a day when the time- 
 honoured practice of Solomon's advice became an impossi- 
 bility for a very simple reason. After a highly undignified 
 scuffle, such as only a very stupid man would have pro- 
 voked. Jack broke both the rod and the last remnant of 
 authority that his guardian had possessed, and went out of 
 the house never to return to it.
 
 XTbe abosts of Bi^oone l^ears 95 
 
 It was after this lamentable occurrence that Lady 
 Hammerton had chanced to meet the lad, and had per- 
 suaded him to take refuge with her at Draycott Court. She 
 had hoped to patch up a reconciliation between guardian 
 and ward, but gave up the attempt when she discovered 
 how far matters had gone. 
 
 Lady Hammerton was one of the few people who under- 
 stood Sir Edward, but she had the deepest pity for Sir 
 Edward's ward. She had in her youth refused an offer 
 of marriage from her third cousin, and had since congratu- 
 lated herself on her wisdom, but she liked him none the 
 less for that. 
 
 Now that she was an old woman and Sir Edward was 
 an old man, they were still friends, and Sir Edward was 
 expected at Draycott Court on the occasion of Mrs. Cardew's 
 visit. 
 
 Draycott Court is an old timbered house, built with 
 wings at right angles, that shelter the rose-garden. The 
 timber is black with age, and the roses have bloomed 
 against it for Heaven knows how many summers. 
 
 Gillian had no great love of old buildings ; she preferred 
 everything that was new, but even she was impressed b}'^ 
 the dignified pathos of the place. 
 
 Beyond the rose-garden, that Lady Hammerton herself 
 kept in order, and which seemed to hold in its heart the 
 very sweetness and charm of b3'gone days, was the outer 
 garden, and that, alas ! was neglected and overgrown. A 
 blush would sometimes rise to Lady Hammerton's cheek 
 when she walked in it. The grass paths that needed 
 clipping, the sweet tangle of flowers, the delicate garden 
 ladies half choked and crowded out by their hardier cousins, 
 the wild wreaths of convolvulus that barred her way, all 
 seemed to breathe reproach upon her — a reproach that 
 was insistent «nd silent! 
 
 What would her forefathers have said ? Would clean
 
 96 Ht tbe Cross*1Roa&5 
 
 kennels for homeless curs, and fields where worn-out cart- 
 horses might rest their weary legs, appease those angry 
 ghosts ? 
 
 " But I am perfectly justified," the old lady would reply 
 to these accusing thoughts. "'I inherited debts, and I have 
 paid them off. That is something. As to the rest, I have 
 no child, and why should I spend money for the benefit 
 of Cyril Bevan ? Sir Edward is as old as I am, and my 
 life is the better of the two. It is his son who will come 
 after me. What is the use of bolstering up the old place 
 for such as him ? " and she continued to save and scrape 
 that she might give with both hands to her fads. 
 
 Lady Hammerton w^as not in the habit of having visitors 
 to stay with her. They cost too much. But she always 
 made an exception to her rule for her cousin, and on this 
 occasion she broke through it for the Cardews. 
 
 Hammertons, Cardews, Bevans — these were all riders of 
 hobbies. They had intermarried for generations; they 
 were cranky and ill to live with. They carped at each 
 other's madness ; they quarrelled bitterly and often, and 
 forgave seldom. Yet when an outsider attacked one of 
 them, the others were all absolutely certain that that out- 
 sider was wrong. 
 
 Mr. Cardew had contributed handsomely to the old lady's 
 charities, but it is probable that she would have stood by 
 him in any case. She was sorry that Gillian came alone. 
 
 Gillian arrived one fine summer evening, and seemed to 
 bring with her an atmosphere of present-day energy and 
 bustle, that was foreign to the quiet old house. 
 
 In the hot weather the hall door at Draycott Court stood 
 wide open all day. L'ady Hammerton came down to the 
 hall to welcome her guest. She had put on her best dress 
 to do Gillian honour ; it was of that peculiar blue that is 
 only seen in very old silks, and that is just the colour 
 of columbines ; the pink in her cheeks reminded Gillian of
 
 Ubc 6b05t5 ot JS^^cone l^ears 97 
 
 a faded blush-rose. She greeted her friend very kindly, 
 but with old-fashioned ceremony. Gillian smiled to think 
 what a different flavour her welcome here had to the 
 reception she would have met with at any of the other 
 houses to which she might have gone. Not that she would 
 not have been gladly received anywhere, for Gillian was 
 a much sought after person nowadays, but here she 
 instinctively felt that her visit was a really important 
 event. 
 
 There is an especial charm about the hospibality, as 
 there is about the friendship, that is extended to a few 
 only. 
 
 "We have been considering where you would prefer to 
 drink your tea, my dear," said Lady Hammerton, " and I 
 think that you will like best to have it on the terrace. 
 Londoners like to see green trees. But I will take you to 
 your room first." 
 
 The oak-panelled raftered hall seemed silent and vast as 
 some dark old church. The evening light fell through a 
 stained window on to the broad, shallow staircase and on 
 to the young woman and the old woman as they mounted 
 the polished black steps. 
 
 " The carpet has worn out," said Lady Hammerton. 
 " But the oak looks handsome enough without it, and there 
 are no children to clatter up and down. The maids go by 
 the back way, and the ghost makes no noise." 
 
 "Have you seen the ghost?" asked Gillian. 
 
 " Oh yes," said the old lady simply. " Many and many 
 a time ; but he does me no harm, and I do not think that 
 he even notices me. We come and go, but he stays on. 
 When I am dead he v/ill still be here ; and Cyril Bevan 
 will be afraid of him." 
 
 " You are not afraid ?" 
 
 " Dear me, n© ! " said Lady Hammerton. " But I come 
 of gentle blood on both sides, my love — not that that is 
 
 7
 
 98 Bt the (Iros9*1Roa^s 
 
 anything to boast of, for the Almighty puts us in our 
 places — and good blood is not cowardly. Poor Cyril's 
 mother was a nobody. You can see that by the way 
 Cyril tells lies. Not that I have met him since he was 
 twenty-four, but he told me a fib then, and I have never 
 forgotten it." 
 
 " I do not like Mr. Bevan either," said Gillian. " Mammy 
 and I saw rather too much of him once. All the same, 
 when you come to consider that he must now be nearly 
 fifty, it seems rather hard to remember a fib that he fibbed 
 at twenty-four. Oh, good gracious ! " cried Gill, stopping 
 short suddenly, and regarding the old lady with laughter- 
 filled eyes. " I've told heaps of white lies in the course of 
 my life, and I would tell a jet-black one, any minute, in 
 order to save Jack from any harm ! I am sure that I 
 would. Now, do you think, after this, that you want to 
 have me to stay with you ? " 
 
 "There are fibs and fibs," said Lady Hammerton 
 sturdily. " I have always respected you, my dear, and I 
 am very pleased to have you here. Look, this is to be 
 your room." 
 
 Gillian glanced round eagerly as they entered. The 
 walls of the chamber were hung with tapestry, and 
 over the fireplace was an extraordinary old picture, in a 
 black frame. 
 
 " It is not at all a proper subject, but it is one that the 
 old masters were unaccountably fond of," said Lady 
 Hammerton. " The replica of that picture hangs in the 
 National Gallery. When your husband was a boy, and 
 stayed in this very room, I turned it with its face to the 
 wall." 
 
 "Susannah and the Elders!" cried Mrs. Cardew 
 triumphantly. " Oh, I am so glad that I have got Jack's old 
 room. He once told me all about it." 
 
 Lady Hammerton shook her head. " I am afraid that
 
 Zbc 0bosts of :B^Qonc l^ears 99 
 
 Jack must have peeped," she said regretfully. " And I 
 have always assured Sir Edward that he was really a 
 nice-minded boy." 
 
 " So he was," said Gillian quickly. " He was always the 
 
 most generous and honourable Oh, I forgot that I did not 
 
 know him then ! " 
 
 She laughed and blushed, but Lady Hammerton saw 
 nothing to laugh at. 
 
 " You must talk to Sir Edward," she said. " I have 
 often endeavoured to persuade him that he does not 
 understand boys. He is too suspicious. You will see him 
 to-morrow, and I hope that you will support me." 
 
 Gillian had a curious sensation for a moment. She felt 
 as if, in this queer old room, she had seen the man with 
 the hour-glass pushed back. The old lady was not childish 
 or dreamy ; she understood, when it was put before her, 
 that Mr. Cardew was no longer a boy, but a man verging 
 on middle age, and a man who had been the victim of a 
 most terrible misfortune. She knew that Sir Edward had 
 long ceased to be Jack's guardian. Yet the old miserable 
 quarrels were still fresher to her mind than the later 
 tragedy, and the poor lad more vivid to her than the man. 
 
 " I want to talk to Sir Edward Bevan about Jack," 
 said Gillian. Indeed, truth to say, that was her first 
 object in coming. Yet she had had another reason too. 
 She had had a fancy to see the house that had sheltered 
 her husband when he was a boy, and a desire to give 
 pleasure to the woman who had befriended him. 
 
 Lady Hammerton found her young friend greatly 
 improved by matrimony. Gillian, whom she had once 
 fancied a trifle too hard, was now both gentle and merry. 
 She never intf^rrupted a long story nor showed the 
 least weariness of the ways of old age. She was sym- 
 pathetic as well ,as amusing. She waited on the old lady 
 like a daughter, and was respectful as she had never been
 
 loo Bt tbe Cros6*1Roat)9 
 
 before. Lady Hammerton was charmed, and Gillian took 
 infinite pains to be charming. 
 
 Gillian slept in the tapestried chamber where an angry, 
 sore boy had found sanctuary, and her gratitude took 
 shapes that were pretty as the grey doves that flew over 
 the roses and cooed in the elms. She could not do enough 
 for her hostess. She was an essentially practical person, 
 and to do was always her instinct. When she was a girl 
 Gillian had not cared about the society of old people, but 
 it never occurred to Lady Hammerton that all this tender, 
 willing service was given for Jack's sake. It is not always 
 that good deeds, like curses, come home to roost in recog- 
 nisable form. 
 
 " I never before wished for a daughter, but I should 
 really like to have you for my constant companion," the old 
 lady said one day. " I feared that you might find it dull 
 here, for you were so fond of gaiety, but you seem quite 
 content." 
 
 And Gillian, although she had no desire to be the 
 constant companion of any one save Jack, to whom her 
 thoughts flew like homing birds, and though she could not 
 have borne to have lived in this haunted, old-world place, 
 turned her bright face to Lady Hammerton with a smile 
 that was as warm as summer sunshine. 
 
 " I am very content to be with you," she said. 
 
 The two ladies sat at tea on the terrace on the evening 
 of the day on which Sir Edward was expected. 
 
 " I am delighted that my cousin will meet you," Lady 
 Hammerton remarked, with a pretty little air of triumph, 
 " for I am sure that he would never have given poor Jack 
 credit for so good a clioice." 
 
 Gillian looked straight before her under her level brows. 
 Lady Hammerton little guessed how hot an indignation 
 some of her old stories aroused. 
 
 " I mean Sir Edward to like me," she said, " because I
 
 TLbc 6bosts of IB^Qonc l^ears loi 
 
 believe that it will be good for Jack's reputation that he 
 should say publicly that he has never believed that judg- 
 ment just. In London people live so fast ! they have 
 pretty well forgotten what the trial was all about, but here 
 in Jack's own county it is different." 
 
 "But my cousin Edward had never much faith in any 
 one's goodness," said Lady Hammerton ; " I noticed that 
 when I was young. I felt that I could not marry a man 
 who had not got it in him to thoroughly trust another 
 person." 
 
 "I think that you were wise," said Gillian. "But Sir 
 Edward does know that Jack never tried to get money on 
 false pretences. If he did not believe that I would not 
 
 shake hands with him to-day. As it is " She set her 
 
 small square teeth hard together, and left the sentence 
 unfinished. As is was, she found it difficult to forgive the 
 tyranny that had shadowed Jack's youth. 
 
 " But it is silly to take matters tragically," she remarked. 
 " It is a kind of cutting off one's nose to spite one's face. 
 Do you know that when Jack was in prison Sir Edward 
 wrote to him ? There was a great deal of— preach " (Gill 
 had been about to say of cant, but changed the word in 
 deference to Sir Edward's cousin) " and ot moralising in 
 the letter. The writer seemed to imagine that all Jack's 
 misfortunes were a judgment on gambling and racing and 
 going to plays. It irritated me ! But Jack was surprised 
 that Sir Edward should actually have been sure that he 
 was innocent." 
 
 There was a tone in Gillian's deep voice that made her 
 companion look at her with quickened interest. 
 
 " Think of that ! he was immensely surprised. One 
 learns to be thankful for small mercies ! " said Jack's wife. 
 
 And at that moment a spare, grey-complexioned man 
 came round th^ left wing of the house and walked towards 
 them between the bushes.
 
 I02 Bt tbe Cross*lRoat)s 
 
 Lady Hammerton greeted the new comer with just a 
 tiny flutter of excitement. Thirty years ago Sir Edward 
 had proposed to marry her, here in this very rose-garden. 
 Since then he had divorced his wife, and had quarrelled 
 with his only son, and had taken to lecturing on temperance, 
 and to protesting against papistical tendencies in the 
 Church. Since then Lady Hammerton had grown old and 
 a trifle eccentric, but the rose-garden was the same as ever, 
 and the ghosts of roses long dead haunted the old couple 
 still, and sweetened their intercourse. Sir Edward had 
 never a hard word for his cousin Anne, and Lady Hammerton 
 was the one person in the world who was disinterestedly 
 glad to see him. 
 
 Gillian's keen sight was softened by no kindly mist of 
 b3'gone years. She thought Sir Edward a sour and 
 peevish old man. He had a high, narrow forehead, and a 
 scanty fringe of grey beard grew under his long chin. 
 The lines that ran from his nostrils to the corners of his 
 thin lips were very deep. The cut of his coat gave him 
 the look of a Dissenting minister. 
 
 Nevertheless Mrs. Cardew smiled brightly when he was 
 introduced to her ; and the clasp of her firm hand, the 
 abundant health and strength that seemed to emanate from 
 her, gave the visitor a sense of warmth and comfort. He 
 was a constitutionally chilly person, apt to shiver on the 
 warmest day. 
 
 Gillian, at her friend's request, presided over the tea- 
 table, and she made the centre of a picture pretty enough 
 to cheer even an old man's heart. Sir Edward had expected 
 to see a smartly-dressed and bepowdered town lady. Mrs. 
 Cardew, in her loose cambric blouse, with her glossy hair 
 brushed back in waves from her forehead, with her straight 
 glance and stately bearing, took him by surprise. He 
 approved the simplicity of her dress, not guessing that 
 fresh simplicity, though becoming, is by no means cheap. 
 
 1
 
 Ubc Obosts of :Bmo\\c l^eacs 103 
 
 It appeared to him that, in respect to marriage, Cardew 
 must have had better luck than he deserved. Then he 
 reflected that beauty is but skin deep, and very deceitful ; 
 but the reflection halted. It was difficult to think of the 
 mortality of mortals while watching Gillian. Gillian was 
 so very much alive. 
 
 They lingered over tea till the sun began to cast long 
 shadows ; then Mrs. Cardew wandered off to read the old 
 dial and to feed the pigeons, and presently betook herself 
 to the house to write to Jack. Lady Hammerton's bright 
 old eyes followed the younger woman's movements with 
 approving pleasure. 
 
 " Mrs. Cardew has grown a notable person," said she. 
 " I do not know another, of the present generation, who 
 can walk across a lawn as she does. I always say that it 
 takes brains as well as health to walk well." 
 
 *' She has a most independent carriage," said Sir Edward, 
 He could not help admiring Mrs. Cardew, but he did not 
 think so much independence befitting in so young a woman. 
 
 " Well, cousin," said Lady Hamerton briskly, " I must 
 say that it is lucky sometimes when girls have got wills of 
 their own. I do not know what would become of some of 
 the Jacks if all the Jills were of the gentle and yielding kind.'' 
 
 Sir Edward relaxed into a grim smile. " Jack has a will, 
 and a temper too," he remarked, " though I ought to have 
 broken it." 
 
 " Now, there I am convinced you were mistaken," Cousin 
 Anne replied, with an emphatic nod of her head. And 
 they plunged into the old, old dispute, that had lost its 
 bitterness through age, and argued quite amicably, with 
 blunted weapons that gave no wounds. 
 
 Gillian, standing by her window, watched the old couple 
 for a minute, then turned away with a smile, and began to 
 write to Jack.* 
 
 "Dearest" — she wrote — " Sir Edward Bevan and Lady
 
 104 Bt tbe Cro55*1Roat)5 
 
 Hammerton are carrying on the ghost of a flirtation in the 
 rose-garden, and they do not want me, who am no ghost, but 
 quite vulgarly alive, and of to-day. The atmosphere is full 
 of the past ; it almost makes me sad. I wish for you every 
 moment of the day, but I am glad that you are miles away, 
 and that I had strength of mind enough not to go too. I am 
 so properly behaved here, that you would hardly recognise 
 me. I visit poor people, and go to see my mother (who 
 is looking worn and nervous), and retire to bed at ten every 
 night, and hardly ever shock my dear old lady. I do not 
 think that I can stand Sir Edward Bevan long. I tingle 
 with rage when I consider how bad he must have been for 
 you when you were a boy. No wonder that you have such 
 a red-haired temper, and are altogether such a bad lot. 
 I think that his religion is heavy enough to drag him down 
 
 to where do you suppose, darling ? But I daresay that 
 
 the recording angel will remember that he wrote to you 
 in prison, and that that may pull the other way. I will 
 try to remember that fact too. I hope that the desert is 
 doing you good ! I am manfully, no, womanfully, endeavour- 
 ing not to be jealous of it. Men are jealous of other men 
 only ; it is women who are jealous of the interests they 
 can't share. But do write books again, Jack. I do so want 
 you to take your place in the world once more. You must 
 not be wasted because that awful unjust thing happened. 
 I know that it would have spoilt most men's lives, but you 
 are not like most men ; you are my Jack, whose little finger 
 is worth more than all the world to me. My dear, my dear, 
 I sometimes could wish that I were a good woman such as 
 Jane is, because then I might be more of an inspiration to 
 you ; but perhaps if I had b^en religious I should not have 
 loved you quite so well. You would not have got it all. 
 
 " Now do not go in for a black wife in the desert, because 
 if you do she will be sure to follow you to England. It 
 takes all my civilisation to prevent me from trotting off to
 
 Ube Gbosts of Mmonc lears 105 
 
 Africa, and the happy Blackamoor (or will she be brown ?) 
 won't be hampered by petticoats or scruples. Mammy 
 would be so shocked ! Do not get a sun-stroke, because I 
 should mind that more than a regiment of black wives. 
 I am all right as usual — except that I ache to see you. 
 
 " Yours (quite and entirely), 
 
 " Gillian." 
 
 She tolded her letter with a shrug of her shoulders. 
 It seemed feeble and inadequate. It was impossible to 
 express to Jack the half of what she felt and hoped for 
 him. Then she put on her hat and went out again, calling 
 cheerily to her hostess as she passed through the garden, — 
 
 " I have been writing a line to my husband, to tell him 
 how well we do without him. It does not do to let him 
 grow conceited ! "
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 "SHE IS LAYING UP NO CROWNS OF GLORY." 
 
 THE village post-office was but a quarter of a mile 
 from the Court, and Gillian, having posted her letter, 
 was loth to turn back. The atmosphere of Draycott 
 Court seemed to her to be mentally as well as morally 
 stifling. The importance given to the smaller details of 
 life, the routine of minor duties, worried her to-day. Even 
 her amusement at the pretty philandering of the old 
 cousins was tinged with impatience. 
 
 Stress and passion were all over for the kind old lady 
 who pursued her fads with an aftermath of energy. Mrs. 
 Cardew was too much a woman of the world and had too 
 much self-control to allow herself to appear bored, but 
 there were moments when the fundamental difference 
 between youth and age made her impatient, when she felt 
 as if she were a giantess bound by cobwebs. 
 
 She had got half-way to Oaklands Park when, at a turn 
 of the winding lane, she met a funeral. She squeezed into 
 the hedge to let it go by, averting her eyes with a qualm 
 of sick disgust. Gillian was no coward, and would have 
 faced any danger with decision and presence of mind, but 
 she hated to come in contact with death. The sight of a 
 dead beast filled her with just the same sort of horrified 
 revolt as did the sight of a dead man. She had an almost 
 Oriental shrinking from a corpse. 
 
 The procession was very simple. A cart with a village- 
 
 io6 
 
 J 
 
 I
 
 a 
 
 %n^im "dp no Crowns of Olov^" 107 
 
 made coffin on it was followed by four mourners, who 
 tramped along with business-like gravity, but who were by 
 no means overcome by grief. One of the men touched his 
 hat to Mrs. Cardew. 
 
 " We are after buryin' Liza Pocock, ma'am," said he. 
 
 " Oh, poor thing ! " cried Gillian with a shudder. 
 
 Then they tramped steadily on their way, and Gillian 
 hurried on, scoffing at herself because her heart beat 
 faster, as if in protest against that which would one day 
 still it. 
 
 Gillian had lately learnt that Liza Pocock was the name 
 of the woman whom she had once met carrying a baby up 
 the Drum Hill. Liza had been in service in London, but 
 had returned to her native village to die. Her husband 
 had not accompanied her. He was an old man, and 
 reputed a miser. It was said that he grudged the journey 
 money, and had let her kill herself by tramping. Gill had 
 heard this gossip from Lady Hammerton, who always took 
 a keen interest in the affairs of the village, and who dealt 
 out blankets, beef-tea, and advice, with sprightly beneficence. 
 Mrs. Cardew said to herself, with the humour that often 
 tinged her reflections, that Liza, who had always offended 
 by her sullen reserve, had now put the last stone on the 
 heap of her delinquencies, by slipping out of the world 
 without giving due warning. 
 
 What had become of the baby ? Gillian wondered if the 
 poor mite had survived its mother. She turned a few 
 steps out of the road, in order to knock at the door of the 
 cottage where lived Liza's " granny." 
 
 Mrs. Adams was sitting by the fireplace, rocking a 
 wooden cradle with her foot, and reading from a Bible that 
 rested on the table in front of her. She considered it 
 right and proper to read her Bible while her grand-daughter 
 was being buried, but her eyes were tired, and she was 
 not sorry to be interrupted.
 
 xo8 at tbe Cross*1Roa&s 
 
 Mrs. Cardew seemed to bring a wave ot fresh air into 
 the stuffy room. " I have come to ask how baby is. May 
 I peep at her ? " said she. She knelt down by the cradle, 
 and gently lifted a corner of the sheet. " She is dreadfully 
 thin, and her arms are hke sticks ! Do you think that you 
 are giving her the right food ? " 
 
 "There isn't no manner of use, to my mind, in pamper- 
 ing her up with first one thing and then another," replied 
 Mrs. Adams. " That child ain't meaning to live whatever 
 is done. She dwindles every day. Have you heard that 
 Liza was took three nights ago ? " 
 
 " Yes," replied Gillian shortly. She was anxious to 
 avoid hearing details about Liza's last hours, and her usual 
 savoir-faire deserted her. Gillian always owned that she 
 had no talent whatever for visiting the poor. 
 
 " She had a great fancy to see you, ma'am, just on the 
 last evening about eight o'clock, but I didn't see what call 
 you had to come through all that thunder-storm, and so I 
 told her. " ' 'Tisn't likely I should ask such a thing of 
 Mrs. Cardew,' " says L " ' But I'll send for the vicar if you 
 wishes it, Liza, for that is a different matter altogether, and 
 it is what he is for, and it is only fitting, and high time 
 too, that you should begin to think about your soul.' For 
 indeed, ma'am, I knew by her breathing that the end was 
 not far off, and Liza was always a terrible heathen. But 
 she wouldn't 'ave the vicar, not even though I told her 
 plain that it was her bounden duty to turn her thoughts 
 that way. It was you she kept wantin' to talk to." 
 
 " Me ! " cried Gillian. " But what possible good could I 
 have done to her ? " 
 
 "That is what I said, ma'am — meaning no offence. 
 ' Mrs. Cardew is young,' I says — 'though not so very young 
 now. And though she may 'ave got religion, she don't 
 appear as if she 'ad. She'll leave without a word of sacred 
 things, or so much as offering to read the Bible, and she 
 
 I
 
 t( 
 
 Xa^ino XHp no Crowns ot 6lori5" 109 
 
 don't speak as I've always been accustomed to 'ear ladies 
 speak.' (You'll excuse my outspokenness, ma'am, for I am 
 meaning no disrespect.) 'I can't feel sure,' says I, 'that 
 she will even pray by your dying bed.' That is what I said 
 to poor Liza, ma'am — I would not make so bold as to rebuke 
 my betters, for I know my place." 
 
 There was a stern gleam in the old woman's light blue 
 eyes, that brightened into anger when the corners of Mrs. 
 Cardew's lips twitched with a suppressed smile. 
 
 " You were perfectly right," said Gillian. " I am sure 
 that it would never have occurred to me to pray by Liza's 
 bed ; but no one who knows me would ever expect that 
 sort of thing from me. What could she have wanted ? " 
 
 " I could not say for certain, I'm sure, ma'am," said 
 Mrs, Adams. Then she added unwillingly, for her 
 conscience pricked her for disregarding her grand-daughter's 
 last wishes, " It had to do with something she'd said in a 
 witness box at a trial, but as I says to her, she had no 
 time to go worriting over that, when she had so soon to 
 stand before the Judgment Seat." 
 
 Mrs. Cardew sprang to her feet with an exclamation of 
 dismay. But the moment before she had congratulated 
 herself that she had not been summoned ; now she would 
 have given pounds to have been in time to have heard 
 Liza's belated confession. 
 
 " Oh, why did you not send for me ? " she cried. 
 
 Mrs. Adams pursed her lips, and looked askance at her 
 visitor. She had never approved of Mrs. Cardew. She 
 resented the jokes that Gillian made, the way in which she 
 laughed, the strain ot originality that ran through her 
 character. She was a conservative old woman, and she 
 also, though secretly, resented the fact of a self-made man 
 rebuilding Oaklands Park. Mr. Clovis was a kind land- 
 lord, and she never dreamed of refusing to take advantage 
 of his kindness, but in her own mind she did not put
 
 no Ht tbe Cro9s*lRoat)S 
 
 either him, or his wife, or his step-daughter, on a level with 
 the " real gentry." 
 
 " I hadn't no thought that it might be a convenience to 
 you to send up to the Court," said she. " My mind was 
 took up with Liza's dying." 
 
 Gillian stood silent for a moment. She was not a child to 
 let her anger master her sense of the expedient. There would 
 be no use, but rather hindrance, in expressing indignation. 
 
 " Of course you could not possibly know that I should 
 be interested," said she. " But please try now to remember 
 exactly what Liza said to you." 
 
 She put her hand in her pocket, and held half-a-crown 
 between her finger and thumb. Gillian never gave gold 
 where silver would do as well. Cardew was extravagant ; 
 but his wife, albeit she could spend lavishly, was apt to 
 get her money's worth. 
 
 After all there was not much information to be gathered. 
 Liza Pocock had been parlour-maid in the house where 
 Jack had lodged in his bachelor days. It had been her 
 business to answer the front-door bell. She had sworn at 
 the trial that she had let no one into his rooms between 
 the hours of five and seven. It appeared that she had sworn 
 falsely. She had said to her grandmother, " I did not 
 mean to do Mr. Cardew any harm, but now I think I did 
 injure him without wishing to. I would like to tell her, 
 before I go. I fancied I might get him into trouble if I let 
 on that he had gone into Mr. Cardew's room. He told me 
 not to tell of it. I did not know then that he was dead. 
 No one guessed that he was anything to me. How should 
 they ? I did not hear of the accident till a month later, 
 and then by chance. By that time I could not go back 
 on what I had sworn, and I didn't take in that Mr. Cardew 
 could be punished. I was mazed with my ov.x troubles. 
 I didn't understand till quite the last." 
 
 It was a confused statement at the best, and Gillian
 
 *'Xai5ing Tap no Crowns of 6lor^" 
 
 III 
 
 found it hard to disentangle the pronouns, and to detach 
 what Liza had said from the grandmother's comments and 
 guesses. 
 
 She questioned and cross-questioned, till the old woman 
 grew huffy and tacitly refused to answer any more. Then 
 she put the half-crown down on the table. 
 
 " If I had been sent for I might have got on the track 
 of the truth," she said. "But even then Liza's confession 
 would have been too late. Nothing can ever undo what 
 been has done. Nothing." 
 
 She spoke with a sternness that made Mrs. Adams 
 momentarily uncomfortable. 
 
 " I did not get at the rights of all that Liza was telling," 
 she said, " It did seem more befitting that she should turn 
 her mind to solemn things, ma'am. But if she had done 
 Mr. Cardew a wrong, no doubt she wanted to ask you to 
 pardon it, he being in foreign parts." 
 
 Mrs. Cardew paused on the threshold of the door. 
 
 " I should certainly not have forgiven her — if she swore 
 against my husband. Perhaps it is as well for her that I 
 did not come," she said briefly. " Well, Mrs. Adams, I will 
 ask Mr. Clovis if he will let you have the milk for the baby 
 from that cow that has just lost her calf. Good-evening." 
 
 Mrs. Adams shook her head. " S//g ain't laying by any 
 crowns of glory for herself," said she. 
 
 Gillian went on her way with a grave face. She felt 
 excited, but at the same time baffled. She was a brave 
 woman, but there were moments when the sense of the 
 inevitable subdued and almost terrified her. Through 
 good report and ill she had clung to Jack. She knew in 
 her heart that, though she was no saint like Jane, she had 
 yet fought i7i her own fashion with devils of despair and 
 recklessness, that had all but pulled her lover down. She 
 knew too that the struggle had been none the less grim 
 because she had never spoken of it, or posed as a saviour. 

 
 112 Ht tbc Cros5*lRoa&s 
 
 She had a confidence in herself that was not vanity but 
 was founded on experience. She was a woman who held 
 very strong natural weapons, and who knew how to use 
 them ; but no natural weapon can force Death to relinquish 
 that which he has set his seal on. He alone hears no 
 argument, and has absolutely no price. Gillian felt that 
 he had shut a door in her face, and that her warm hands 
 might beat against it in vain. The thought depressed her. 
 She had ceased to enjoy her walk, and the very beauty of 
 the evening jarred on her. She said to herself that she 
 disliked pathos, and that there was always something 
 unavoidably pathetic in the going down of the sun. 
 
 She found Mrs. Clovis in the garder, entertaining a bevy 
 of ladies. They were all discoursing on the iniquities of 
 Miss Nina Tyrell, a black though pretty sheep from whom 
 whiter and better folded lambs were carefully guarded. 
 
 " I have told Alice and Ethel that I really will not have 
 them speak to Nina," a stout, motherly looking lady was 
 saying when Mrs. Cardew joined them on the lawn. " Of 
 course we must bow when we meet her, for I always say 
 that there is no need to be rude to any one, and her father 
 is a gentleman, though he has married his cook. But after 
 her behaviour at the hunt ball I should not like my girls 
 to be seen talking v.ith her. I wish that she did not sit 
 next us in church ! " 
 
 Mrs. Cardew smiled. She reflected that Mrs. Lacy's 
 girls must be thirty if they were a day, and that Nina 
 must be now nearly nineteen. 
 
 " It certainly would be dreadful if little Nina were to 
 have a dangerous influence over the Miss Lacys," said she. 
 " How does she get on with her step-mother? " 
 
 But no one could answer that question, for the new Mrs. 
 Tyrell was not visited. 
 
 " She goes to all the dances at the barracks unchaperoned," 
 said the vicar's wife. " She let Mr. Dagmar drive her
 
 **Xa^ing xap no Crowns ot Glor^" "3 
 
 home in his dog-cart, and they both smoked all the 
 way." 
 
 " If it were only Mr. Dagmar, but there is Captain 
 Hartfield too, and he is a married man," said Mrs. Lacy. 
 
 " We are giving a little carpet dance next week, and I 
 have been wondering whether there would be any harm 
 in inviting her," said a very gentle little lady timidly. " I 
 should not wish to do anything that could give offence, 
 but " 
 
 " I should not ask her," said Mrs. Lacy decidedly ; " one 
 ought to consider one's own children first." 
 
 " I was quite willing to have her to the school feast," 
 said the vicar's wife. " She might have helped to cut the 
 bread and butter, and a school feast is always more or less 
 of a public entertainment — one asks every one. But I 
 would not go beyond that, and I should have kept Rose 
 and Ernest at the other tabic. Ernest always wants to 
 be too friendly." 
 
 " She did not go to cut the bread and butter, did she ? " 
 said Gillian. 
 
 " No, she did not. I thought her note most ungrateful," 
 said Mrs. Dawson ; " but Nina Tyrell has no nice feeling." 
 
 " That is exactly what mammy used tV say about me 
 when I annoyed her," cried Mrs. Cardew, laughing. " I 
 Vv-as always such an unfeeling girl, was I not, mammy ? 
 Poor Nina I I wonder whether it would amuse her to come 
 to stay with me in London. We might manage to crowd 
 the ineligible Mr. Dagmar and the old married flirt out of 
 her head." 
 
 Mrs. Lacy grew red with eagerness. " Amuse her ! You 
 are almost too good-natured, Mrs. Cardew," she said. "Why, 
 I am sure that there are many really nice girls who would 
 dance for joy at the chance. It does seem almost a 
 pity " 
 
 She broke off short, for Mrs. Cardew was looking at her 
 
 8
 
 114 Bt tbe Cross*1Roa&s 
 
 with rather a disconcerting twinkle in her eyes. Some of 
 the matrons agreed afterwards that the poor lady's evident 
 eagerness was rather ridiculous, and yet there was no 
 doubt that since Mrs. Cardew was so hospitably inclined it 
 did certainly seem almost a pity 
 
 Gillian lingered till they had all gone, and then sat down 
 in a garden chair by her mother. 
 
 " I am not at all fond of girls, and it will be a great 
 nuisance to have to look after Nina," she remarked, " but 
 I was determined to make Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Dawson 
 envy her ! I think I succeeded." 
 
 " But really, dear love," said Mrs. Clovis languidly, " Mrs. 
 Brown has every right to take care of her own daughters, 
 and a vicar's wife is so bound to be particular." 
 
 " Is she ? " said Gillian. ** She belongs to a society that 
 professes to rescue girls out of the streets, does not she ? 
 Yes, I know that she does, for she bothered me to collect 
 subscriptions on a horrid little card, no longer ago than 
 yesterday. Well, mammy, if she sets a dozen poor 
 creatures who have come to grief at a dozen washtubs, do 
 you suppose that that will be a set-off against having given 
 one girl of her own class a good shove on the road down ? " 
 
 Mrs. Clovis evaded the question. " I do not like to 
 hear you jeer at a religious work," she said gently. 
 
 " But if Nina is really in danger of going too far," per- 
 sisted Gillian, " is it not absurd that these extra-pious 
 people should devote all their energies to amusing and 
 enlightening Whitechapel when they have got a subject close 
 at hand ? and if she is only rather silly, then why do they 
 draw their skirts away ? Naturally she flirts with men 
 who are bad style, when all the respectable mothers keep 
 their children at the other side of the table. Any one can 
 see that it is her nature to flirt with some one." 
 
 " I am glad that you did not say all this to Mrs. Dawson, 
 dearest," said Mrs. Clovis with genuine thankfulness.
 
 n 
 
 Xa^ing "dp no Crowns ot 6Iojp*' 115 
 
 " Oh, well, what Mrs. Dawson ought to do, in order to 
 be consistent, is not, after all, my business," said Gillian. 
 " Neither for the matter of that is what becomes of Nina 
 Tyrell. I do not profess to interfere with any one's soul. 
 In fact, I have been reproved on that score this very 
 afternoon, by old Mrs. Adams. Do you know that Liza 
 bore false witness at the trial ? " 
 
 Mrs. Clovis gave a little jump. She had always been a 
 nervous woman, and her present easy life seemed to have 
 increased her delicacy in this respect. 
 
 "How you startle me!" she cried. "You introduce 
 painful subjects so violently. Surely, dear Gillian, it is 
 better to forget that miserable business entirely. It is all 
 over, and nothing that we can do or say can make any 
 difference now. Jack cannot be tried again in any case ; 
 and I for one always felt certain that he was innocent." 
 
 Gillian could have replied that her mother had taken an 
 odd way of showing her confidence, 'but she refrained, 
 having seldom any desire to quarrel. 
 
 " It is easy to talk of forgetting," she said, with a smile 
 that was unconsciously sad. " I think that forgetfulness and 
 forgiveness are both constitutional, and have very little to 
 do with one's will. Of course it is more comfortable to 
 forget, but if one has been pretty deeply marked, why 
 then the scars won't ever quite rub out. I should never 
 wish to forgive a person who had deliberately done harm 
 to Jack. I should be ashamed of myself if I could. Why, 
 what is the matter, mammy? " 
 
 Mrs. Clovis had uttered a sharp exclamation of genuine 
 horror, and pressed her lace handkerchief to her face. 
 She was reaily moved, and her voice trembled. 
 
 " You speak so — so profanely," she said, " sometimes you 
 quite frighten me ! I know that, if I say to you that that is 
 not what the Church teaches us we should feel to our 
 enemies, you will laugh at me, for you always laugh at
 
 II 6 at tbe Cross*1Roa^s 
 
 sacred things. Perhaps that is my fault, Gillian (though I 
 must say that I have always been a good church-woman), 
 for I know that before my second marriage I was some- 
 times driven to-^to pursue a course of action that I should 
 not countenance now. But I was never profane, never. 
 It hurts me to hear you declare that you would actually be 
 ashamed to forgive — that is Jack's influence." 
 
 "No," said Gillian gravely, "Jack is softer than I 
 am." But the sight of her mother's distress surprised and 
 filled her \wth compunction. She put her cool strong hand 
 on Mrs. Clovis's small delicate one, with an unusual 
 demonstration of affection. 
 
 " I am a brute," she said. " I did not in the least mean 
 to shock you. I am sorry I aired my heathenish senti- 
 ments ! But I do think that you are dreadfully easily upset 
 to-day. I suppose that is because there is thunder in the 
 air. You never can stand thunder, and I am like a 
 cart-horse ! No change of climate affects me in the least. 
 Look here, do you think that Liza's baby might be supplied 
 with milk from the farm ? I do not know whether she is 
 insured, but I am quite sure that she is not properly fed 
 at present." 
 
 Mrs. Clovis brightened up at the suggestion. She was 
 always kind to poor people, and she was very glad to put 
 that other subject aside. There was no doubt in her mind 
 that she would always have been a scrupulously honour- 
 able woman had she started with plenty of money. Since 
 she had married Mr. Clovis she had played the role that he 
 had expected her to play con amorc. She had not been in 
 love with " dearest George " on her wedding day, and his 
 vulgarities had then been very obvious to her, but now 
 she was surprisingly fond of her good husband. He had 
 lifted her suddenly from overwhelming difficulties into an 
 atmosphere of admiration and luxury. To do her justice, 
 it was not the luxury that touched what heart she possessed.
 
 '^Xa^ina xap no Crowns of 6lotv" 117 
 
 She did not wish to be reminded that she had ever been a 
 little less angelic than he thought her, and perhaps that 
 feeling was not entirely to be condemned. Mrs. Clovis 
 loved her son too; he was dearer to her than her daughter 
 had ever been. Gillian had faced angry duns, and had 
 been consulted on all kinds of unchildish subjects before 
 she was fourteen, but the boy had seen no ugly side of 
 life, he simply adored his pretty mother. Mrs. Clovis had 
 leaned heavily on Gill, but had yet been secretly sore at 
 the girl's want of respect. She was an illogical woman, 
 who was apt to consider it hard that she could never have 
 her cake after she had eaten it. 
 
 Mr. Clovis joined the ladies on the lawn presently, and 
 took a rather fussy interest in the consultation about Liza's 
 baby. 
 
 He enjoyed doing village-benefactor, and his step- 
 daughter's keen sense of humour was often tickled by him. 
 
 " When are you coming to stay Vv'ith us, Miss Gill ? 
 What? Oh, to be sure, I should have said Mrs. Gill, but 
 the other comes pat to me," he said when she took her 
 leave. 
 
 "When you invite my husband," answered Gillian, with 
 the directness that sometimes disconcerted people. "Cer- 
 tainly not before." 
 
 Mr. Clovis shook his head ruefully as he subsided into 
 the chair that Gillian had vacated. 
 
 " She is very fond of her convict," he remarked. " It is 
 a sad pity, a sad pity ! She is a loyal wife. But that she 
 could not fail to be, considering whose daughter she is, eh, 
 my dear ? "
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THIS KIND GOETH NOT OUT. 
 
 "This can come forth by nothing but by prayer and fasting." 
 
 GILLIAN hurried along the road on her way back, 
 fearing lest she should be late for dinner ; but she 
 was destined to meet with one more interruption. She had 
 reached the turn of the lane where she had encountered the 
 funeral, when she came upon another unexpected sight. 
 
 A girl, in a pink cotton dress, and a short fair man were 
 loitering side by side, he with his arm round his companion's 
 waist. The girl slid from his embrace when she saw Mrs. 
 Cardew, and lifting a pair of very beautiful dark eyes, stared 
 defiantly, but the man raised his hat. 
 
 " Why, I believe we are quite old friends. Won't you 
 remember me ? " he said, holding out his hand to Gillian. 
 
 He had a winning smile, and his light-coloured eyes had 
 a twinkle of fun in them. One hardly noticed at first that 
 they were rather shifty and difficult to meet. He appeared 
 younger than his years, till a close inspection showed the 
 tell-tale crow's feet. He had a singularly pleasant and 
 melodious voice, and was indeed a most easy-tempered 
 rascal. 
 
 Gillian evaded the hand, but answered him civilly. "Dear 
 me, yes ! I remember that wc met at Monte Carlo," she 
 said. " It must be fifteen years since I last saw you, Mr. 
 Bevan, but I never forget a face — even of the most casual 
 acquaintance." 
 
 iiS
 
 XTbis IRint) 6oetb Mot ©ut ng 
 
 The recollection amused her. She had once been afraid 
 lest her mother should marry the " horrid little man." 
 She had had an instinctive girlish distrust of him. He 
 could do her no harm now, and though she was by no 
 means inclined to grant friendship, it was not her way to 
 make enemies. Cyril Bevan was not worth her enmity. 
 
 Mr. Bevan glanced up at her with his head on one side. 
 He possessed unbounded assurance, and though he was 
 quick-witted, he was apparently impervious to a snub. 
 
 " You were in short petticoats, with your hair in a pig- 
 tail," said he. " It is immensely clever of me to recognise 
 you ! " 
 
 He thoroughly appreciated the improvement that years 
 had worked. The sturdy, independent school-girl, who 
 had frequently stood in his way at Monte Carlo, had turned 
 into an unusually distinguished woman. She was not so 
 pretty as her mother had been, but she had more aplomb, 
 and more character. 
 
 Mrs, Cardew smiled in a politely perfunctory manner. 
 " Immensely," she assented. " I must leave you to that 
 comfortable reflection." She turned to the girl, " I am 
 lucky to have met you, Nina. I have been wishing to talk 
 to you. Will you walk a little way with me ? for I shall 
 be late for dinner if I stop." 
 
 Nina Tyrell hesitated. She was surprised, and she was 
 rather curious to know what Mrs. Cardew could possibly 
 have to say to her. 
 
 The girl had noted the change of manner when Gillian 
 addressed her. Mrs. Cardew had then spoken in a friendly 
 way, but she had held Mr. Bevan at arm's length. Nina 
 was accustoQied to being ostracised, and was morbidly 
 conscious of shades of expression. 
 
 While she debated, Gillian settled the question. " You 
 must forgive me for robbing you of your companion. Good- 
 evenkig — so amusing to have met again," she said to Cyril
 
 120 Bt tbe Cros5=1Roa^s 
 
 Bevan, with a slight bow of dismissal, and somehow Nina 
 found herself walking on. 
 
 "You don't mind hurrying, do you? My old lady will 
 be so put out if I am unpunctual," said Gillian. " Every- 
 thing goes by clock-work at the Court. I could not live 
 that kind of life, but it is a refreshing change for a time. 
 There is no sense in staying with the same kind of people 
 one is accustomed to seeing at home. We talk about 
 change of air, but it is change of mental atmosphere that 
 we want. Don't you think so ? " 
 
 '* I don't know. I don't often think," said the girl 
 defiantly. 
 
 She was pouting, and she was a trifle sulky. She was 
 habitually on the defensive when she was in the society 
 of women, and a sudden suspicion that Mrs. Cardew was 
 about to improve the occasion had assailed her. She turned 
 carelessly away from Gillian, and plunged her hand into 
 the hedge to pick a wild rose. Her own clear pink colour 
 was as pure and transparent as that of the newly plucked 
 flower that she stuck in her belt. The light brown hair 
 on her forehead curled in a way that called to mind the 
 tendrils of a vine. 
 
 "At least she will be no trouble to launch," thought 
 Gillian. 
 
 " I hoped that you would agree with me," Mrs. Cardew 
 said pleasantly. 
 
 " It does not matter whether I agree or no," replied Nina. 
 " I am nobod}'." 
 
 Gillian smiled, but with a keen perception of the soreness 
 that underlay that last speech. " My remark was not dis- 
 interested," she said. " I wanted you to agree, because I 
 wish to persuade 3^ou to come to London with me when I 
 return there. Come and find out how you like the atmo- 
 sphere of town, Nina. For my part I enjoy the winter 
 season more than the summer."
 
 XTbts mmt) aoetb 1Klot©ut I2T 
 
 "Oh!" said Nina, standing still. It was such a big, 
 surprised " Oh," that they both laughed, and the girl's 
 distrust melted a little, 
 
 " Well ? " said Gill. 
 
 Nina pulled her flower to pieces, and blushed. " Why, 
 of course I should like it," she said. " But I am sure I 
 can't think why you should invite me. I don't suppose 
 you would if you knew all about us. My father has 
 married Polly — she was our cook, you know — and no 
 one calls. Not that I care about that. We are much better 
 without visitors. I don't want the stupid old cats to come 
 and pity me — and I am fond of Polly," 
 
 "Are you? That is right," said Gillian. "I found a 
 step-parent not half bad myself." 
 
 " Ah, that was different," said Nina wistfully. " Every 
 one respects Mr. Clovis, and you have a mother." 
 
 " Will you come in November ? " said Gillian. 
 
 " It would be great fun," the girl answered, wavering. 
 She reflected rapidly that she had no dresses fit to wear, and 
 that she hated to be patronised ; but her youth jumped at the 
 idea of change and pleasure. " It is very kind of you, but 
 I get along all right with Polly, you know. If you are 
 asking me just because you are sorry for me, I must tell 
 you that I much prefer my step-mother to any of the ladies 
 I've ever met. I could not have stayed in the house with 
 Mrs. Dawson or Mrs. Brown, or any of them! I don't 
 need to be pitied a bit." 
 
 Gillian's eyes flashed' understanding. "Oh dear! I 
 was not attempting to pity you," she said. " That is not 
 my line. I am dull while Jack's away, so do come, Nina." 
 
 "Thanks awfully," said Nina shortly, and so it was 
 settled. 
 
 " Am I really bitten by philanthropy ? " Gillian asked 
 herself mockingly while she hurried on. " No ' It must 
 have been the spirit of contradiction that made me invite
 
 122 Bt tbe (rross=1Roa&9 
 
 that little goose ! Mrs. Dawson always irritated me. Yet 
 being married to Jack is having an extraordinary effect on 
 me ! I am getting appallingly soft-hearted. I really don't 
 know what I shall come to if this goes on." 
 
 The clock in the gateway was chiming the hour when 
 Gillian entered the quadrangle ; but Lady Hammerton was 
 still out in the rose-garden. 
 
 " You would be late, my dear, had 1 not put dinner 
 off for half an hour," said the old lady. " I did that on 
 account of Sir Edward. He has been much perturbed this 
 afternoon. I did not think that it would be wise for him 
 to dine while he was so excited. Young Edward has been 
 here. Young Edward is slippery and plausible like his 
 mother. I sometimes fear that he purposely enrages his 
 father when he has failed to get his way. Sir Edward 
 suffers greatly from liver. It is very bad for him to be 
 angered." 
 
 The little old lady looked very bright. Perhaps she 
 unconsciously enjoyed a stirring up of the waters. Real 
 sorrow no longer came nigh her — that was a thing of the 
 past. 
 
 " Young Edward ! " cried Gillian, laughing. " Why, he is 
 quite elderly ! He used to philander with mammy at Monte 
 Carlo ! Luckily Mr. Clovis came to the rescue, like the 
 good old dear he is. It was funny to meet Mr. Bevan 
 again. He reminded me of uncomfortable times in bad 
 lodgings." 
 
 Gillian had had rather an exciting afternoon too, and 
 though her liver was not affected, the thought of Liza 
 Pocock's funeral would have haunted her, had she not 
 valiantly exerted herself to amuse the old people. 
 
 She made the poor old father forget his bad son while 
 he listened to her merry talk, and after dinner she sang 
 love-songs, to his mingled pleasure and dismay. 
 
 Gillian sang with verve. She sent the fire and glory of
 
 trms minC) eoetb not ®ut 123 
 
 youth thrilling through the old drawing room. The pathos 
 and longing of years of waiting were in her voice, the 
 passion of pity that had been poured out as precious 
 ointment for one man, the triumphant joy that was pathetic 
 too, seeing that keenest pleasure touches pain, and grief 
 alone comes unalloyed. 
 
 Lady Hammerton nodded over her knitting, and mur- 
 mured, "Very pretty. Very pretty indeed, my love," at 
 the conclusion of each song ; but Sir Edward moved 
 uneasily, and shook his head. He understood better than 
 his cousin Anne did. 
 
 Because in his day he too had loved hotly, he could not 
 help but be moved by the tones of this woman's voice ; 
 because he had learnt to count all violent emotion as 
 impure, because he believed .that to please Heaven one 
 must become more or less than human, he was shocked 
 and distrustful. 
 
 He got up at last and went to the piano. Gillian's 
 curious eyes welcomed him with a smile. 
 
 " I can see that you like music," she said. 
 
 " I like her only when she acts as the hand-maiden of 
 religion," answered the old knight, who, whatever his faults 
 might be, always stuck to his guns. 
 
 " Oh, but I cannot sing spiritual psalms," said Gillian. 
 "There is no use in trj'ing to convey a sentiment that one 
 does not in the least comprehend. Do you wish me to 
 shut the piano ? " 
 
 Sir Edward struggled for a moment with what he 
 considered his unregenerate self. " Yes," he said. 
 
 Gillian promptly did so. " It is always a comfort when 
 people know > their own minds," she remarked good- 
 humouredly. 
 
 Sir Edward looked at her with a fanatical light in his 
 eyes. " When I was young I went to many concerts and 
 plays. I saw and heard much that is calculated to appeal
 
 124 Ht tbe Cros5*1Roat)s 
 
 to and foster the emotions, but I do not think that I have 
 anywhere heard a more beautiful voice than yours. I am 
 old now, so perhaps you will let me say that it seems to 
 me sad and deplorable that your great gifts should be 
 devoted to the service of the world." 
 
 " They are generally devoted to Jack," said Gillian 
 calmly. "Jack is my religion. I had none before I met 
 him. I am glad to have this opportunity of talking to you 
 about him. I have been wishing to tell you that your 
 belief in his innocence greatly astonished and gratified 
 him." 
 
 "Was he astonished?" said Sir Edward; somehow the 
 phrase seemed to hurt him. " Jack gave me a great deal 
 of trouble when he was a lad, but I never knew him steal 
 or lie. His faults were exceedingly grave, but they were 
 not of that kind. Was he astonished ? " 
 
 " Of course he was," said Jack's wife, with the candour 
 that could be unsparing on occasion. " He had imagined 
 that you had always been of the opinion that he was 
 thoroughly bad. He had fancied that you would, if you 
 felt anything on the subject, have been pleased when your 
 view of him was so confirmed." 
 
 Sir Edward winced. " We are all bad," he said at last. 
 " The best among us are full of wickedness. Jack was an 
 unruly lad, and from what I have heard since, I fear that 
 he is an ungodly man." 
 
 " Did you read his book ? " asked Gill. 
 
 " I read but one book," replied the old knight. " That 
 teaches me all I need to know — it shows me my own great 
 sinfulness, and the efficacy of the one and only sacrifice." 
 
 " I see. But for people who do care about something 
 besides their own souls, Jack's book was wonderfully 
 interesting," said Gillian. " It was so alive and burning 
 with sympathy ! It actually impressed even me, who am 
 not at all the sort of person that he was when he wrote 
 
 1
 
 xrws mtuD aoetb not ®ut 125 
 
 that. You see, I am naturally callous. I don't care 
 a button about ' humanity ' so long as I am comfortable. 
 Now don't you think that a man who could make a 
 thoroughly selfish young woman almost ashamed must 
 have had some godliness in him ? That is, if godliness 
 means goodness." 
 
 "My dear lady, I can hardly doubt that the j'oung 
 woman was, and is, biassed by her partiality for the 
 writer," said Sir Edward. " And if I might venture so far 
 I would earnestly warn her against that too intense love of 
 the creature that leads astray." He spoke with real 
 feeling, and Gillian's reply came quick and warm from 
 her very heart. 
 
 " It's not intensity that leads astray," she cried. " If I 
 were a preacher how I would preach on that ! When you 
 don't care enough, when the fire is a flash in the pan that 
 is fed by the worst, not the best of you, then you may be 
 overcome by your feelings. Oh, of course there is that 
 kind too — need we call it love ? There is another name for 
 it, I think. Do you know what I would preach ? I would 
 say, try if you possibly can to find some one you like better 
 than your own body and soul. It makes a wonderful 
 difference when you do ! It gives you self-control (for you 
 are no earthly use to the some one if you have not that). 
 It occasionally keeps you straight. It obliges you to 
 patience. It forces you to courage. Is that leading 
 astray ? " 
 
 The old man sighed heavily. "No human affection is 
 perfectly pure," he said. "You trust too much to it, 
 though you speak persuasively." Yet he looked at her 
 with interest. "* This woman, who was Jack's wife, had fine 
 possibilities in her; he would willingly have converted 
 her. 
 
 "I spoke warmly," Gillian answered, with a touch of 
 dignity, "but few of us can bear to hear our religion
 
 X26 at tbe Cross^lRoaDs 
 
 blasphemed." Then she held out her hand to Sir Edward, 
 with a very frank and stately friendliness, " We have 
 been outspoken ! Will you be equally so in declaring 
 your conviction of Jack's integrity? Here, in your, and 
 his, own county your opinion carries weight." 
 
 Sir Edward smiled, a slow, stiff smile, for he was out 
 of practice in that line. 
 
 " I imagine that you seldom lose sight of the end that 
 you have in view. Yes, I will do as you ask," he said. 
 " And I only hope that Cardew is grateful to you." And 
 Gillian went to bed that night well pleased. 
 
 A few weeks later she returned to town in quite a 
 triumphant trame of mind. There was no doubt that her 
 plans carried well, and that her tactics seldom failed. She 
 missed Jack sadly, but at least she could work on his 
 behalf with good assurance of success. The torturing know- 
 ledge of a misery that might be driving him to madness 
 was a thing of the past now. That is, it was so far past, 
 that Gillian could rejoice in the certainty that he was free 
 and that she was his wife. In one sense, indeed, nothing 
 that cuts deep is ever " done with." 
 
 Gillian carried Nina Tyrell back to London with her, 
 and here it must be owned that for once she was non- 
 plussed. Nina was even easier to float than had been 
 imagined. Nina's manners improved with marvellous 
 rapidity, and she took to society as a duck to water. She 
 had more than beauty, she had charm, that indefinite 
 quality which, like charity, can cover a multitude of sins. 
 The defiance, which had been so evident in her manner, 
 was driven back into some dim recess of her soul from 
 whence it peeped only at rare intervals. Yet Mrs. Cardew 
 possessed enough penetration to be aware that she did not 
 thoroughly understand her guest. 
 
 " Nina is like a little cat," Gill said once. " She is so 
 graceful and quick, and to a certain point she is friendly, 
 
 I
 
 tlbis mnt> eoetb IWot ®ut 127 
 
 but at the bottom of her nature there is something that 
 eludes one. I beheve that it is something untameable." 
 
 Mrs. Cardew would have gladly done a little match- 
 making on Nina's behalf; but Nina, while more than ready 
 to flirt, had no intention of being bound. Gillian's kind 
 intentions were frustrated, a fact that rather piqued her, 
 for she had counted merrily on success. She remonstrated 
 with the girl one day, being moved partly by a shrewd 
 suspicion of the difficulties that surrounded Nina at 
 home. 
 
 " You had much better marry, little Ninon," she said. 
 " I don't think that you are cut out for single blessedness. 
 You will be very dull when you grow old I Do not let all 
 the chances go by." 
 
 Nina was sitting on the fender-stool, playing with her 
 rings. She lifted her slim hand and dropped the trinkets 
 into her lap one by one. 
 
 " There goes the fat major," she said ; " but none of 
 my rings are heavy enough to represent him adequately. 
 There is Mr. Dagmar (one of the stones has come out, but 
 you know his reputation is rather damaged). There is 
 Mr. Wilmot (that is the ring you gave me, and it is much 
 the best that I have). Oh, Mr. Wilmot, you should not 
 roll away and hide under the coal-scuttle when I am 
 praising you. It is not polite to do that." 
 
 Gillian laughed. " It is not at all polite, but I agree 
 with you that that is the best you have," she said signi- 
 ficantly. And at that, the untameable demon peeped at 
 her from between Nina's heavily fringed eyelids. 
 
 " It is very kind of you to take any trouble about me. I 
 cannot think why you should care," said Nina. 
 
 " And upon my word no more can I ! " cried Gill. But 
 after a minute's reflection, she apparently found the reason. 
 *' The whole fact of the matter is this. I have a naturally 
 economical spirit," she said. " It strikes me as such terrible
 
 128 m tbe Cross^lRoatJS 
 
 waste when a girl makes a mess of life, and joins the 
 depressing army of more or less unhappy women. I 
 might have done it myself if I had not married Jack. Not 
 that I should have moped or have made a fool of myself, 
 for I am not that kind, but I believe I should have become 
 rather bad. It is not good for any one to fight solely for 
 her own hand ; if she is self-dependent it makes her hard, 
 and if she isn't it makes her melancholy." 
 
 " Oh," said Nina, with an odd little grimace, " I wonder 
 why married people aren't nicer, if matrimony has such 
 an effect on their characters ? Will any man do, please, 
 Mrs. Cardew?" 
 
 Mrs. Cardew preserved a discreet silence. 
 
 Nina arranged all her rings on the palm of her small, 
 pink hand, and considered them with mock gravity. 
 
 " Keep one, and throw the others away," said Gillian. 
 
 " But I should be certain to get so awfully tired of one," 
 cried Nina lightly. 
 
 The discussion dropped there, for Gillian was too 
 sensible to preach long to an unimpressionable hearer. 
 This pretty little enigma must buy her experience. Pro- 
 bably Mrs. Cardevv's attempts to advise would have ended 
 at that point had not an officious acquaintance induced her 
 to warn the girl once more. 
 
 The officious acquaintance had met Miss Tyrell in the 
 Lowther Arcade, walking with Mr. Cyril Bevan, who at 
 one time had been a well-known figure in London society. 
 
 "Dear me! how very funny,"' Mrs. Cardew had replied, 
 when, to her secret annoyance, she was presented with 
 this bit of information. " How very funny ! This is the 
 second time that Nina's step-brother has been taken for 
 that scamp. I see the likeness myself— it struck me to-day 
 when Mr. Wood came to fetch the child. But Mr. Bevan 
 is much the better looking of the two ! Between ourselves, 
 I wish Nina were clear of her step-relatives. Her father
 
 xrbts mint) 6oetb mot ©ut 129 
 
 married beneath him, but Nina is curiously loyal, and won't 
 hear a word against her step-mother. She will be so 
 amused when I tell her what you fancied. You had 
 rather I did not mention it ? Oh, but it is too good a joke 
 to be lost. If you only knew Mr. Wood ! If you could 
 only talk to the excellent dull man ! I have to shovel up 
 his dropped ' h's' when he has been calling here. He is 
 rather a trial to me, but he is attached to Nina, and he is 
 unsophisticated beyond belief! Directly he opens his lips 
 that odd likeness vanishes. I am convinced that he fancied 
 the Lowther Arcade was quite the right place to take Nina 
 to. I am bound to own that the rascal is much the more 
 amusing of the two." 
 
 They both smiled at that, but Gillian's face grew grave 
 when the visitor had left. She had invented " Mr. Wood " 
 on the spur of the moment. It must be allowed that on 
 the few occasions when she did tell lies, she did it, as she 
 did most things, with spirit and freedom, and for a very 
 distinct purpose. 
 
 " But I doubt whether Nina Tyrell is worth it," she said 
 to herself 
 
 Gillian felt that it was as well to stand by a girl, for 
 girls have often a pretty bad time of it, and are frequently 
 such little fools. The motherly element in her inchned her 
 to the protection of anything that was weaker and younger 
 than herself. Yet when Nina made her appearance, 
 Gillian addressed her with decision and vigour. 
 
 "You should not force your hostess to invent stories on 
 your behalf," she said. "Mr. Bevan is an altogether 
 impossible person.* Of course, if you choose to know him, 
 that is your affair, but you must not make appointments 
 with him while you are staying in this house — for that is 
 my business." 
 
 Nina blushed under the sudden attack. She was looking 
 unusually pretty in the black velvet hat that Gillian had 
 
 9
 
 I30 Ht tbc Cros5*'1Roat>s 
 
 given her, and when she pouted, her red lips were more 
 fascinating than at any other time. 
 
 "Oh, I know that all the respectable people turn up 
 their noses at Mr. Bevan," she said. "Well, they turn 
 them up at me, too ! He and I, we are in the same boat. 
 He always says so." 
 
 " You and he I Good heavens, you baby ! " cried Mrs. 
 Cardew. 
 
 She broke off short, and looked at Nina with an ex- 
 pression in her beautiful eyes that the girl did not in the 
 least comprehend. " I hope to goodness that mine will be 
 a boy, for I don't think that boys are quite so ridiculously 
 silly," Gillian murmured sotto voce. Then she took Nina 
 by the shoulders and forced her into an armchair. 
 
 "If I were a crying woman I declare I should cry to 
 hear you talking about things that you don't in the 
 slightest degree understand ! " she said. " Cyril Bevan 
 ought to be gently chloroformed out of existence — I will 
 not wish him a painful death, because he is not worth 
 hating — for daring to put himself on a level with you. To 
 begin with he is certainly old enough to be your father. 
 How old are you, Nina ? nineteen ? " 
 
 " I shall be twenty in January," said Nina. " But I am 
 not a baby. I know perfectly well what I am about." She 
 drew off her gloves deliberately, and held up her left hand, 
 on which a ruby glowed. 
 
 "Yes, I see. Very pretty," said Gillian drily. "Mr. 
 Bevan has lately been through the bankruptcy court. 
 Does he intend to marry you on his debts ? " 
 
 " We do not intend to marry till Sir Edward dies," said 
 Nina coolly. " Cyril will be rich then — that is, if he only 
 holds out, and with me to back him I think that he 
 will." 
 
 She nodded her head with an amount of determination 
 that was certainly not childish. In spite of the round
 
 XTbis l^in^ 6oetb mot ®ut 131 
 
 infantine curve of Nina's cheek, and the pout of the pretty 
 lips, she was by no means softly sentimental. 
 
 "Sir Edward is trying to bribe Cyril to join with him 
 in cutting off the entail," she explained. " But Cyril shall 
 not give in ! No, not if I have anything to do with him. 
 Sir Edward must surely die soon. Only fancy what 
 a horrid shame it would be, if, after waiting for years for 
 the estate, poor Cyril were to be cheated in the end. It 
 shall not happen ! " 
 
 " I am almost sorry for Jack's old guardian," said Gillian. 
 
 " I am glad to hear you say so. It sounds as though you 
 thought we should win," Nina exclaimed triumphantly. 
 " We simply must, you know. Why, Mrs. Cardew, you 
 ought to be on my side, for you waited too." 
 
 " I ? I waited for Jack. That was an entirely different 
 matter," said Gillian. While she spoke a wave of pity 
 filled her heart. 
 
 Yes, she had waited for the man who had certainly 
 touched whatever was finest in her. Her love for him 
 had constantly given the lie to certain elements of cynicism 
 and hardness that were also in her character. 
 
 " There was no question of dead men's shoes. I saved 
 every penny I could because I fancied that, for a time at 
 any rate, we should be poor." 
 
 " Did you ? " said Nina, in Jta'ive surprise. " Oh, I 
 should never have supposed " 
 
 " That I should have married a poor man," said Gillian. 
 " Oh well, if it had been any other poor man I should not 
 have done it. A cottage never seemed to me the most 
 delightful place for love's abode. I infinitely prefer a big 
 house. But you are setting your affections on such a very 
 distant and shadowy palace. I doubt whether you'll find 
 its glories satisfying. I sincerely trust that you won't 
 get there." 
 
 " Why, that isn't a bit kind I " Nina declared. And
 
 132 Bt tbe Cross=lRoaD5 
 
 Gillian wondered whether the occasionally childish manner 
 was consciously assumed, or whether the girl was less 
 calculating than she appeared. 
 
 Gillian had known the evils of genteel poverty herself, 
 and was not as shocked as many women might have been 
 at Nina's eagerness to possess Sir Edward's money. 
 
 " It is not unkind, Ninon," she said. " It only means that 
 I think that you are too good to be sold to Mr. Bevan, 
 even supposing that he were likely to pay the price. As 
 a matter of fact, I believe that he has seldom been known 
 to pay any debt." 
 
 " I told you that I know all that ! " said Nina. " I do 
 not imagine that Cyril Bevan is what people call ' nice.' 
 No more am I. I do not think there is any one at Churton 
 Regis, excepting you, who would ask me inside her drawing- 
 room. Cyril is good company, anyhow, which good people 
 generally are not. He is kind, too, and he is the one 
 person I know who never wearies me and is never shocked. 
 He comes to see me when I am at home. Do you think 
 that I would let any of the others do that ? He never 
 laughs at poor dear Polly, or thinks her * awful ' ! When 
 I marry him I may see as much of her as ever I like, and 
 have her to stay, and give her a thoroughly happy time. 
 He won't mind a scrap. Fancy having Polly to stay in 
 Mr. Wilmot's house ! Now, could I ? " 
 
 Gillian had a vague recollection of having seen " Polly " 
 blowsy, red, utterly unpresentable, and not too sober. At 
 the recollection, her heart warmed again to Nina. "No, 
 you could not. It would be most unwise," she said. " But 
 is Mrs. Tyrell indispensable ? " 
 
 " Yes, she is — there ! " For one second the black 
 eyelashes glistened with moisture. " She is. I like Polly. 
 You do not know how she has stood by me. I would 
 rather die," cried Nina with a flash of pride — " I would 
 rather die than that all the old gossips at Churton Regis
 
 Ubls Mn^ 6oetb IRot ®ut 133 
 
 should know what my home has been. But since Polly 
 has married my father I have had a better time. A lady 
 could not manage him as she does. It was dreadful before. 
 I won't break with her. I won't marry a man who would 
 despise her and me." 
 
 " There is no reason why he should," said Gillian. 
 
 "But he would, if he was Mr. Wilmot and I was 
 irrevocably married to him," said Nina. " And the moment 
 he began to disapprove I should want to be free of him ! 
 I hate disapproving people ! They make me wickeder 
 than I naturally am. I know quite well that I should 
 have to stand on tiptoe to get anywhere near him, and 
 standing on tiptoe bores me. I like to sit in a cosy low 
 chair, and to be amused by a good-tempered person who 
 does not expect too much. I believe I could make quite 
 a good sort of wife to that kind." 
 
 She twisted her ring round so that it might catch the 
 light. " You see, Mrs. Cardew, I believe I do really like 
 Mr. Bevan," she said. " Of course I know he is oldish, 
 and a funny, unromantic little man, isn't he ? But I was 
 not meant for grand experiences. I can't bear men who 
 expect me to feel a great deal. It would be charming if 
 we came in for the property together! How I should 
 laugh. What a sell for Churton Regis if I were to end 
 by being quite prosperous." 
 
 " Yes, I agree that that would be delightful," assented 
 Gillian. She reflected for a minute ; then, " If my husband 
 says that a man is a bad lot, that man must be pretty far 
 gone," she said. "Jack has a soft side for rogues and 
 vagabonds." 
 
 " Mr. Cardew is the one person in the world for whom 
 Cyril has a bona-fide dislike. I have no doubt the dislike 
 is mutual," Niaa answered calmly. And again Gillian 
 laughed, with an odd sense of sadness underlying her 
 amusement.
 
 134 Ht tbe Cross^lRoa^s 
 
 That Nina should be really fond of that sHppery, shame- 
 less rogue ; that, though she was but nineteen, she should 
 have no ideal of what a lover should be, but should be con- 
 tent to marry on a basis of mutual toleration, did strike 
 Mrs. Cardew as somewhat melancholy. She decided silently 
 that she would write to her husband, and that she would 
 ask him to tell her exactly what he knew to Mr. Bevan's 
 discredit. Facts were evidently the only efficient argu- 
 ments, and if Nina refused to alter her course for them, 
 she must e'en go her own way. 
 
 Jack's reply was decisive enough. The story he told 
 was put as briefly as possible. It was neither pretty nor 
 edifying, and need not be given here. Gillian handed the 
 letter to Nina without comment. Most women would have 
 refrained from showing it to a girl, but Gillian never went 
 in for half measures. 
 
 Nina turned rather white on reading it, and put it into 
 the fire when read. She did not, alas ! doubt the truth of 
 the accusation. " I did not ever suppose that Cyril Bevan 
 was exactly good," she said at last. 
 
 Gillian Cardew held out her hands to the girl. " Ninon, 
 forget all about him," she cried. " You are so young 
 and so pretty, and you have never really been in love 
 with any one. There are dozens of honest men in the 
 world, and you shall see plenty of them here. Marry one 
 of them ! " 
 
 Nina was still pale — perhaps it was her pallor that made 
 her look older and harder. She stared into the fire for a 
 minute, then raised her eyes to Mrs. Cardew's. Once 
 more the reckless demon looked out of them, and almost 
 startled Gillian. 
 
 " That is a nasty story. It is almost too bad, even for 
 me," she said. " But, do you know, I've had about enough 
 of honest and good people. They are generally cruel, I 
 think. It is amusing to imagine how the honest and good
 
 Ubfs mint) aoetb IRot ®ut 13s 
 
 man would look if he were to see my father in the state I've 
 seen him in. And I can picture the excellent gentleman's 
 disgust when he first realises how his wife is regarded at 
 Churton Regis ! But thank you very much for the trouble 
 you have taken. You are always so sensible, and I have 
 no doubt that you are quite right." And with that Nina 
 quitted the room, and left Mrs. Cardew to her own 
 reflections, which, on the whole, were hardly pleasant. 
 
 Gillian had been sensible, and to the best of her belief 
 she had been kind, and common sense and kindliness go a 
 very long way. " But Jane would have done much better," 
 Gillian said to herself At that moment she vaguely felt 
 that there are evils that turn the edge of any such 
 weapons as she held, and the thought depressed her. She 
 shivered, just as she always shivered when she met a 
 funeral. 
 
 •' I believe that women really need a religion to keep them 
 straight," she said to herself. " And poor little Ninon has 
 nothing. I at least have Jack." And with that her lips 
 parted in a smile that was so sweet that it seemed a pity 
 Jack was not by to see it.
 
 part !!♦ 
 
 137
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
 s
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THIS TIME I FELT LIKE MARY. 
 
 "This time I felt like Mary, had my babe 
 Lying a little on my breast like hers." 
 
 "The night was darker than ever before 
 
 (So dark is sin) 
 When the Great Love came to the stable door 
 
 And entered in, 
 And laid Himself in the breath of kine 
 
 And the warmth of hay, 
 And whispered to the star to shine 
 
 And to break, the day." 
 
 " /~^ OME back for Christmas," Gillian had said. It was 
 V_x actually on Christmas Day itself, that Jack stood 
 
 by his wife's bedside, and looked with an odd mixture of 
 
 satisfaction and amusement at the child she had given him. 
 It was early morning. The nurse had just put out the 
 
 lamp and let the daylight into the room. Some children 
 
 were singing carols in the street. 
 
 " Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel ! 
 This is the salutation of the Angel Gabriel." 
 
 The little lads stamped and beat their arms to keep 
 themselves warm. They sang with cheerful lack of ex- 
 pression, but with great decision. 
 
 "When Mary had swaddled her young Son so sweet, 
 Within an ox manger she laid Him to sleep," 
 
 they shouted in their shrill, boyish voices. 
 
 139
 
 I40 Ht tbc Cro5S«1Roa^5 
 
 Jack laughed as the sounds reached him. It could hardly 
 be said that he believed in that old story, yet the sight of 
 Gill's happy face made him realise with unusual tenderness 
 the picture that the quaint words called up. Heavenly 
 hosts and angelic choirs were not "in his line," but the 
 tiny head on Gillian's breast seemed somehow connected 
 with the Christmas carol, with that other Baby who lay in 
 the warm hay of the manger. 
 
 " Our child ? Is it really ? It is very small and red 
 and ugly, isn't it ? " said he. 
 
 He gave a quick glance round to make sure that they 
 were alone, then knelt down by Gillian and kissed her. 
 In his secret soul he had been afraid, more afraid than he 
 would have cared to own. Misfortune had so hounded him 
 that he was inclined to reckon on the jade as his most 
 probable companion. He was the son of a gambler, and a 
 deep-seated belief in luck was in his very blood. On this 
 occasion Gill's star had evidently been in the ascendant. 
 His heart throbbed with relief. 
 
 " You are all right, are you not ? " he asked. " And 
 you've got your own way, eh. Gill ? " 
 
 Gillian smiled, with a soft, tender triumph in her eyes. 
 She was rather pale, but the round curve of her cheek was 
 as perfect as ever. Already she had forgotten pain in the 
 joy of having brought a man-child into the world. 
 
 " I was sure that I should give you a boy, darling," 
 she whispered, " and you know that I am always suc- 
 cessful. Take him. I want to see him in your arms, 
 Jack." 
 
 Jack put his hands under the little creature, and lifted 
 it very gingerly. 
 
 " It is so ridiculously tiny and soft ! " he said, biting his 
 under lip, which quivered oddly. 
 
 " Do you know that I — love him ? " she murmured, in 
 a half-laughing, half-wondering whisper. " I never before
 
 Ubis Zimc 5 jfelt Xihe /IDars 141 
 
 really loved any one but you in this sort of hot, silly way. 
 Now there are three of us." 
 
 " Three of us against the world," he said. " I only wish 
 it had a luckier father." 
 
 " You must not call him * it.' He is a person. He has got 
 a brand new soul, in a brand new body ! He is immensely 
 important ! " She laughed again, but with happy tears in 
 her eyes. " Oh, Jack, it is so wonderful ! " she said ; and 
 the words made him think of the spring day in Devonshire, 
 when she had cried the same thing while they had walked 
 together under the budding trees. 
 
 " It is very funny. I never in my life saw such an 
 indecently helpless and absurd little object as this," said 
 Jack "Are they always so ridiculous?" 
 
 The nurse coming in at that moment exclaimed indig- 
 nantly. " It is a most remarkably fine boy, sir ! " she said, 
 in an aggrieved tone. " I never before saw one so big 
 nor yet so strong. But three hours old, and see how he 
 lifts his little head already! But indeed, sir, you ought 
 not to be talking in here at all. The lady would have you 
 sent for, but she ought to be asleep, and it is not to be 
 expected that you should understand anything about 
 the blessed child." She eyed him with great disfavour. 
 " Absurd little object ! " she repeated under her breath. 
 " And he the father of as beautiful a boy as ever was." 
 
 Jack laughed outright, and laid the baby down on 
 Gillian's arm. " Go to sleep. Gill," he said. " Good-bye, 
 Goliath, I shall have quite enough of you by-and-by." 
 
 He smiled agaii^ while he ran down the stairs, amused 
 at the nurse's ready partisanship. " Three hours old, and 
 he has found a champion already," thought the new-made 
 father. " What a queer fuss women make about babies." 
 
 He sat at his writing-table, with his pen in his hand and 
 a sheet of foolscap before him. He had taken to writing 
 again of late. He stared straight before him, but wrote
 
 142 at tbe Cross*1Roat)s 
 
 never a word. Presently his head sank on to his hands. 
 " Us three ! and I might have been one alone," he said. 
 
 Us three ! It surprised the master of the house to find 
 how large and important a place the third member of the 
 coalition took. He had known no family life in his own 
 boyhood ; he was amused at the elaborate nursery arrange- 
 ments, at the amount of time Gillian spent over her baby. 
 
 He was very tender to his wife in the early days of her 
 convalescence. He was secretly proud that she would 
 let no one but himself carry her. Weakness always 
 appealed strongly to him. 
 
 As for Gillian — Lady Jane, for whom she had sent a 
 week before the child was born, felt that the change in her 
 was as beautiful as the miracle that yearly clothes the 
 branches with tender green. Mrs. Cardew with a baby in 
 her arms was another woman. Or rather, perhaps, that 
 other woman that had always existed in her was freed, 
 and crowned, and allowed to have full sway for a short 
 season. 
 
 " I should like you to come to me, Jane," she had 
 written. " I have not many superstitions, but I think it 
 will be good for my baby to be in your arms. I want to 
 see you in my nursery. You must be my boy's patron 
 saint. Mammy can come later. Mr. Clovis is still obstinate 
 about meeting Jack, but he has a very soft side, and I don't 
 think he will hold out much longer. We shall have the 
 house full for the christening ; but just at first I shall keep 
 the outer door shut, and I want you alone. When the 
 world and the etceteras arrive on the scene I know that 
 you will depart." 
 
 And Lady Jane went to her, tor she loved Gillian very 
 well, the world and the etceteras notwithstanding. 
 
 " But do you not think that we should be prepared for 
 the possibility that the child may be a girl ? " she had 
 gently suggested during the first moments of her visit.
 
 Zbis Uimc 3 felt Xifte /IDar^ 143 
 
 Jane was conscientious and sympathetic. The " we " 
 showed her sympathy, and the question her conscience. 
 
 Gillian's face dimpled with laughter. " No, my friend," 
 she said, "I refuse to prepare for misfortunes. That is 
 a waste of power, for when they happen no preparation 
 makes the least difference. I may have a girl, and I may 
 die, you know, but I don't mean to ! The boy will arrive 
 all safe." And so he did. 
 
 Lady Jane had seldom been happier in the course of her 
 quiet life than she was during those weeks, when Gillian 
 was getting stronger every day, and when Gillian's child 
 lay often on her knee. She had befriended many people, 
 but yet had known few personal and equal friendships. 
 She enjoyed Gillian's society greatly. There was a strength 
 of character in Mrs. Cardew that was akin to something in 
 Jane's own personality. The two women understood each 
 other's silences, as well as each other's speech. 
 
 " Mammy is coming next Thursday," Gillian said with a 
 sigh, when her baby was a month old. " She is rather 
 piqued because I had you in the house when the boy was 
 born, but I know that she cannot bear any one but herself 
 to be invalidish. She will enjoy her visit much more 
 now than she would have when I was upstairs. I know 
 how to make mammy comfortable." 
 
 " You are very clever at making every one comfortable," 
 said Jane. "I must be leaving you to-morrow, if you 
 please." 
 
 " Exit the saint, and enter the world ! " said Gill. " I 
 can always see tha^ you do not like my mother, Jane, in 
 spite of your polite endeavours to hide the fact. Jack does 
 not like her, either. But he is not so conscientious, and 
 never takes any trouble to dissemble. He infinitely prefers 
 my step-father. Yet mammy has been quite polite to him, 
 and Mr. Clovis is quite the contrary ! The perverseness 
 of man is unaccountable ! Well, I have got my way, and
 
 144 Ht tbe <Ii:os5*1Roat)s 
 
 she is coming. I am determined that I will not quarrel 
 with her. It looks much better that Jack should be on 
 good terms with my people. Besides," with a glance at 
 the child in her arms, " she is my mother, after all." And 
 that last reason had more weight than might have been 
 inferred from Gillian's tone. 
 
 " I think that you always get your own way," said Lady 
 Jane, with a smile. 
 
 Gillian shook her head wisely. " No, not always, but I 
 seem to because I know better than to mention my defeats. 
 There is wisdom in that, Jane ! " Jane smiled over the 
 characteristic reply. " But I sometimes break my rules 
 for you," said Gill (it was no wonder that she fascinated 
 Jane). " I will tell you of a defeat now. I wanted him," 
 laying her cheek against her child, " to be called Jack, after 
 his father. I like no other name so well. But Jack will 
 not allow it. He says the little chap shall not be named 
 after an unlucky person. I have been obliged to give way, 
 and to retire gracefully to a second choice." 
 
 " And what is that ? " 
 
 " Stephen Hope," she replied. " Stephen was my 
 father's name, and I was fond of him. I like my uncle 
 Stephen too, though he does not approve of me. I shall ask 
 him to be baby's godfather. That will be an excellent 
 move, for it will bring Jack and him together once more." 
 
 " And why Hope ? " 
 
 An odd, wistful look softened Gillian's expression. " Oh, 
 I don't know. Jack is melancholy, but baby is going to 
 be the antidote to all that. His wee fingers may be stronger 
 than mine," she said. 
 
 " Ah, yes," said Lady Jane dreamily. " It was a baby 
 in a manger that was the Hope of all the world." 
 
 " I am not religious, you know," Gill hastened to as- 
 severate. She would have laughed had any one save Jane 
 ventured on such a remark in her presence, but there was
 
 an absolute simplicity about the little lady that made it 
 impossible for an honest person to distrust her. Jane's 
 soul, like flame, leaped up instinctively, and all that she felt 
 and saw fed the fire. 
 
 " I do not know whether I am, either," she answered 
 simply. " But I am the better for being here. You and 
 the child have shown me many things." 
 
 " I ? My goodness ! (but I really require a much stronger 
 expression.) My good friend, your charity is wide, but 
 do not let it dress me up as an angel, please. White never 
 suited me, and I can't play the part of moral teacher ! " 
 
 " I do not fancy," said Jane, with the slow thoughtfulness 
 that rather quaintly emphasised her remarks — " I do not 
 fancy that an angel would be able to teach one much. 
 It is birth and death and love and hate that teach one. 
 But I have seen motherhood only through other women's 
 eyes." 
 
 Gillian nodded. "But you have seen the other three 
 through your own," she said to herself. And how she 
 knew that I cannot explain, though it is a knowledge that 
 women recognise in each other. 
 
 Lady Jane pursued her own thought. "It is not yet 
 the time for angels. They wait. They are always there, 
 like the still peace that is always on the tops ot the 
 mountains. They hold a secret in their hands, but they 
 are in no hurry, because they see eternity." 
 
 "Some people climb up to the tops of the mountains 
 in hopes of getting a glimpse of that secret," said Gillian. 
 
 *'I know that they do," said Lady Jane. "I daresay 
 that they are right, but " 
 
 " But what, Jane ? " 
 
 Tears stood in Jane's eyes. " I have not found it there," 
 she said. " But sometimes I have caught a glimpse of it 
 among men and women down below, — among those we 
 call bad, as well as among those we call good. Even a 
 
 10
 
 146 Ht tbe Ct05S*1Roa&5 
 
 glimpse is enough to save one from breaking one's heart 
 over the misery that one cannot help." 
 
 " There are some people who do not possess such un- 
 comfortable possessions as hearts," said Gillian. " And 
 perhaps they are the best off, after all." 
 
 " Are there ? " said Lady Jane. " But I have never 
 met with any such." 
 
 Gillian wrote to Mr. Molyneux that same day, and invited 
 him to be one of the godfathers. She meant to persuade 
 Mr. Clovis to be the other. 
 
 Lady Jane, and Mr, Clovis, and her uncle Stephen were 
 the three people she respected most in the world, putting 
 her husband, who was on a different level altogether, out 
 of the question. She never consciously considered how 
 much she respected Jack, hardly even how much she loved 
 him. One does not stop to analyse the way in which one 
 draws one's breath. 
 
 Old Stephen Molyneux, whose life had never been so 
 closely bound up with any one's that he could not consider, 
 reflected long over Gillian's request. He had not seen the 
 notice of the child's birth that was in the Times, for he 
 never read the newspapers. He forgot all about his break- 
 fast, and let his coffee cool while he chewed the cud of 
 this piece of news. 
 
 His maid Elizabeth came in presently with a tray in 
 her hands, and looked with disfavour at the untouched 
 meal. Elizabeth was a comfortable, fresh-complexioned 
 woman of a strangely old-fashioned type. Gillian called 
 her " the prehistoric survival." To a certain extent she 
 ruled in the master's house, but there were limits to her 
 power. She managed his household, but not him. 
 
 Mr. Molyneux had a chivalrous and rather distant respect 
 for women, but no one woman had ever had great influence 
 over him. So far, at least, as any one knew. One would 
 have said that he was born to be a bachelor, except for
 
 Ubls Zimc 5 felt %ikc /IDar^ 147 
 
 the rather contradictory fact that he had a great and 
 pathetic love for little children. 
 
 " Shall I make some fresh coffee and boil another egg ? " 
 asked Elizabeth, with as much reproach as she dared throw 
 into her voice, 
 
 *' Eh ? Why, it is eight o'clock. Time to have done 
 breakfast. You can clear away," said her master. 
 
 " And he not so much as tasted bite or sup ! " the poor 
 woman cried indignantly when she got outside the door. 
 " A baby of three days old has more sense of whether he is 
 full or empty! The master is that unnoticing that if I 
 was not here to bring him up his meals he would die of 
 forgetting to eat, and would never find out what he was 
 dying of till after he was in his coffin." 
 
 For all that she did not venture to remonstrate, and the 
 old man pursued his reverie undisturbed. 
 
 So Jack had got a son ! It was not an improbable occur- 
 rence, but it surprised Mr. Molyneux, who had never 
 thought of that likehhood. Gillian's uncle was much 
 fonder of Jack than he was of his niece, whose worldliness 
 repelled and shocked him. Yet he had respected the girl 
 for. sticking to her lover through such adverse circumstances. 
 He had been greatly astonished at her steadfastness. He 
 could not comprehend how a young woman who talked 
 so cynically and lightly could yet have a capability for 
 faithful attachment. He owned to himself that he had 
 not done Gillian justice. He was too old to understand 
 so new-fashioned a lady ; but he had liked Jack Cardew 
 at first sight. 
 
 Mr. Molyneux was a collector ; his rooms were full of 
 all sorts of curious hoards. He followed his own fancy, 
 and collected only what struck him as beautiful, valuing 
 nis treasures in proportion to the pleasure they gave him, 
 and caring not at all for the conventional standard of worth. 
 What friends he had he had chosen equally arbitrarily.
 
 148 at tbe Ct05s*1Roa&s 
 
 He had missed the spark of genius — he was only eccentric. 
 He had artistic taste of all kinds, but the power to turn 
 it to account was lacking. He saw that power in the 
 younger man, and he hailed it with rare delight. 
 
 Jack's pride had been very much on the alert in those 
 early days before the book succeeded, but Mr. Molyneux 
 was so curiously simple-minded in some respects that the 
 most wrong-headed and touchy genius could hardly have 
 suspected him of offensive patronage, and the young man 
 was warm-hearted as well as warm-tempered. 
 
 If Jack built castles in the air, they were quite out- 
 topped by his friend's. In his secret soul Mr. Molyneux 
 was sure that this boy would be the greatest writer of his 
 century, that he would stand a giant among men. He had 
 no qualms of doubt, he was absolutely convinced of Jack's 
 genius. 
 
 The success of the book had made no difference in his 
 estimation of it. Had it failed to win popular approval, 
 that would have made no difference either, it would scarcely 
 even have disappointed him. Mr. Molyneux, though kindly, 
 was out of touch with his fellows ; though humble-minded 
 as to his own deserts, he was incapable of taking the 
 standard of the majority. Jack Cardew was more human, 
 consequently he was a more vulnerable, yet in some 
 respects a stronger man. 
 
 Possibly Stephen Molyneux's life had held few bitterer 
 moments than those when he sat dumbly watching the 
 Cardew who had come out of prison, changed, hardened 
 beyond his recognition, though not beyond Gillian's. 
 
 Mr. Molyneux had heard of the attempt to break bonds 
 that had resulted in the death of the warder. Jack had 
 got more than half through his time when he had lengthened 
 his sentence by that mad, hopeless outbreak. It had seemed 
 to the older man that — if only for the sake of the woman 
 who waited — Jack ought to have forborne. Perhaps constant 
 
 1
 
 Ubis Uime 3 felt Xif?e /IRari? 149 
 
 intercourse with books, that appealed rather to the brain 
 than to the emotions, had not fitted the old recluse to 
 understand so passionate and unphilosophic a nature as 
 Cardew's. He had not meant to be hard on the " poor lad," 
 but the bitterness of his disappointment had an element of 
 sternness in it. 
 
 He had endeavoured to be kind to Gillian while she 
 was alone in London, but her bid for popularity had 
 appeared to him frankly vulgar. The sort of thing to be 
 expected of her mother's daughter ! He had not gone near 
 the grand new house, he had not desired to visit Jack and 
 Gillian again. 
 
 Yet now he was conscious of an inconsistent wish to talk 
 to Jack once more. He would like, too, to see the child. 
 Children were so easy to get on with, they did not mind 
 ungainliness, they took every one naturally and simply. 
 He found them pretty — prettier than anything in his collec- 
 tion. He stretched his long, thin legs, and shambled out. 
 He walked with long, uneven strides. He was a person 
 with whom it was impossible to keep in step, either 
 metaphorically or Uterally, but he got over the ground 
 fast. In less than an hour he was in Park Lane. 
 
 The man-servant stared with some surprise at the tall, 
 shabby old gentleman, who had apparently no idea that 
 nine o'clock was an odd hour for a call. " I don't know 
 whether Mr. Cardew is up yet, sir," he said doubtfully. 
 
 '* I have got a book in my pocket, so I can wait," said 
 the old gentleman, and forthwith produced a small, calf- 
 bound volume and sat down on the chair nearest to him. 
 
 m 
 
 He curled one leg round the other, and became at once 
 absorbed, bending his long back over his book, happily 
 unconscious of his surroundings, rejoicing in that treasure 
 that does not wax corrupt, and that age has but mellowed 
 like old wine. Every now and then he read aloud, the 
 stately Greek sounding strangely in that modern hall.
 
 ISO Bt tbe Ci*05S*1Roab6 
 
 " Since, my friend, there are two models in the nature 
 of things, one divine and most happy, and the other un- 
 godly and most miserable, they, not perceiving that this 
 is the case, through stupidity and extreme folly unknown 
 to themselves, become similar to the one by unjust actions, 
 and dissimilar to the other. Wherefore they are punished 
 by leading a life suited to that to which they are assimilated." 
 He paused, nodded in assent, as if the old philosopher were 
 present, and repeated the passage : " Wherefore they are 
 punished by leading a life suited to that to which they are 
 assimilated." 
 
 " Oh, dearest Uncle Stephen, I am so distressed that 
 you should be left sitting in the hall ! I heard your voice 
 as I ran down the stairs, and I knew it could only be you 
 who would quote Greek at this hour, and in such an un- 
 comfortable chair ! But how charming of you to come to 
 see my darling child. Dear Gill will be so touched ! " 
 
 Mr. Molyneux hastily slipped his book into his pocket, 
 and turned to confront Mrs. Clovis, It went against his 
 instinct to be rude to a lady, therefore he was obliged to 
 take the hand she held out to him ; but he had never 
 trusted " Eva," and his distrust was plainly to be seen in 
 the expression of his face. It was many years since Mrs. 
 Clovis had last met her first husband's uncle, and their 
 relations to each other had not been of the pleasantest, but 
 she glided over rough places with wonderful facility. 
 
 " You have always been so good to my girl," she mur- 
 mured. "And I can think of nothing but her just now." 
 
 Mr. Molyneux stammered violently, and twisted his lips 
 in such an extraordinary fashion that Mrs. Clovis hastily 
 looked away from him. Her uncle's uncouth ways were 
 always repulsive to her. She shrank from any form of 
 material ugliness, and, oddly enough, rather prided herself 
 on this trait. Moral and physical fastidiousness are not 
 at all the same thing, but it pleased her to fancy them
 
 Ubis mme 5 jfelt Xifte /IDar^ 151 
 
 allied, and her husband encouraged her by being honestly 
 proud of his wife's " delicate fancies." 
 
 " My dear Gill is so strong," she went on, finding that 
 Mr, Molyneux could not bring himself to the point of 
 coherent speech. " She was always so healthy when she 
 was a child. I could have found it in my heart to envy 
 her, if a mother's heart could envy." 
 
 "I came to see Cardew," said Mr. Molyneux, getting 
 out the words at last. He stood looking down at the 
 pretty lady with a total disregard of her charms that would 
 have piqued her had she not always considered that Uncle 
 Stephen was decidedly " wanting " — almost idiotic, in fact, 
 in some respects — in spite of his reputation for learning. 
 He did not notice how soft and fair she looked in her dove- 
 coloured dress, with the bit of fine baby-work in her hand, 
 nor how young she was to be a grandmother, nor how her 
 fresh white apron became her (and these were all things 
 that most people would have seen) ; but at the moment 
 he mentioned Jack's name he distinctly apprehended some- 
 thing that would have eluded nine men out of ten. He 
 knew, by one of those flashes of intuition that occasionally 
 startled those who took his absence of mind for granted, 
 that Mrs. Clovis was afraid of Jack Cardew. 
 
 " Poor dear fellow ! " she murmured softly, and at that 
 moment Jack made his appearance. 
 
 "I am glad to hear this news," said the old man, "and 
 I have come to congratulate you." 
 
 Jack held out his hand with one of the rather rare smiles 
 that made him look like his old self. When their fingers 
 met the friendship that had once been leaped between them. 
 
 " He is the ugliest little chap ! " said Jack, " and she is 
 as well and jolly as possible. She has set her heart on your 
 being godfather." 
 
 " I should rather like to see your boy. Jack," said Mr. 
 Molyneux shyly, and drawing Jack aside.
 
 152 at tbe Ctoss:s1Roa^5 
 
 The father stared in amazement. He had never before 
 happened to stumble on this trait in his friend's character. 
 
 Mrs. Clovis laughed; her gentle laugh always set the 
 bachelor's nerves on edge. 
 
 " How charming of you to want to see baby ! Will you 
 come up to the nursery with me ? Dearest Gillian will be 
 quite delighted." 
 
 But Jack came to the rescue, " No. I will fetch Goliath 
 down to the library," he said. " Masculine society will do 
 the fellow good after so much petticoat worship." 
 
 Mrs. Clovis fluttered upstairs after him. She was proud 
 of her grandson, and hoped that Gillian would know better 
 than to trust him to Jack's want of tenderness. Her own 
 sentiment being a good deal on the surface, she was jarred 
 and repelled by surface roughness. But Gillian was pleased 
 when Jack demanded his son. 
 
 " I should like to see you and Uncle Stephen and baby 
 conversing together," said she ; " but I am sure that Uncle 
 Stephen does not want me. Don't let him give baby the 
 ink to suck, please ; he is capable of any atrocity when 
 he has got an absent fit on, and baby puts everything into 
 his mouth." 
 
 " Dear Jack is so rough. I do hope that he will take 
 care of the darling," Mrs. Clovis whispered somewhat 
 reproachfully. A remark that brought a smile to the lips 
 of Jack's wife. 
 
 Gill would have laughed outright could she have peeped 
 at the scene in the library where Jack had cleared the oak 
 table and had piled together the sofa cushions, flanked with 
 big books, and had laid his son and heir down in the middle 
 of the impromtu cradle. 
 
 " He hits out well, doesn't he ? " said Jack, and the two 
 men stared down at the little atom of humanity with quaint 
 gravity. 
 
 " He is born with a silver spoon in his mouth/' said
 
 Ubis Ufme 5 3felt Xifte /IDacs 153 
 
 Mr. Molyneux, "but I don't know that that is much 
 advantage." 
 
 The younger man shrugged his broad shoulders. " Oh, 
 you are a philosopher, sir," said he. 
 
 " He is Uke you already." 
 
 Jack frowned. "So Gillian says. I had rather that he 
 was not." 
 
 Mr. Molyneux stammered painfully, and shook his head. 
 " With a son to come after you, and so devoted a wife," 
 he said (but mention of the wife was evidently an after- 
 thought), "you — you have no business to despond." 
 
 " I know that. I mean to play again now," said Jack. 
 There was a decision in his voice, and a purpose in his 
 blue eyes that rejoiced his friend. 
 
 " This chap would not be at the table at all if it were 
 not for Gill and me," he remarked. "The cards are 
 queerly dealt ! I had almost come to the conclusion that it 
 is not worth while to take any trouble about the game. The 
 odds are generally against the players ! But one can't be 
 such a sneak as not to do what one can for the child one 
 is responsible for. I won't repeat history." He glanced, 
 in speaking, though hardly knowing that he did so, at a 
 water-colour sketch that hung on the wall. 
 
 " Is that your father ? " asked Mr. Molyneux. " Yes, I 
 see that it is. It is like you. The face is more oval, 
 though, and handsomer. The mouth is weaker, but better- 
 tempered, and the forehead is higher, and not so broad. 
 He died young, did not he ? " 
 
 " He won an immense sum at Monte Carlo and the 
 morning after he was found dead, shot through the heart." 
 
 " Murdered ? " 
 
 " No, he killed himself," said Jack. " He lound that the 
 game was not worth winning, I suppose. But it was a bit 
 hard on my mother and on me, eh, Goliath ? " 
 
 " Goliath " roared lustily in reply. His father picked
 
 154 Ht tbe Cross*1Roa&s 
 
 him up with awkward gentleness. Already the child liked 
 to feel himself in those strong arms. 
 
 Mr. Molyneux looked from the portrait to the man before 
 him. Jack had a stronger grip on life than his father had 
 had. His throwing up of the cards would have been moral 
 rather than physical. The old man wrestled silently with 
 many unaccustomed thoughts. It was perhaps as well that 
 there had been a woman in this case. He could not have 
 done much for Jack. He did not consider Gillian a high- 
 principled lady, but there is a saving power in love itselt 
 that lies below all principles. 
 
 " Give my kindest regards to Gillian, if you please, and 
 tell her that I shall esteem it a great honour to be her son's 
 godfather," he said, with old-fashioned politeness.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 ''THEY ARE NOT SO VERY HAPPY." 
 
 "And withal we are conscious of evil 
 
 And good — of the spirit and the clod ; 
 Of the power in our hearts of a devil, 
 
 Of the power in our souls of a God 
 Whose commandments are graven in no cipher, 
 
 But clear as His sun — from our youth 
 One at least we have cherished — 
 
 ' An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.' " 
 
 THE christening of Stephen Hope was a very grand 
 affair. It took place in a highly fashionable church, 
 and the pomps and vanities that were to be vicariously 
 renounced were very well represented. 
 
 "One would think it was his wedding instead of his 
 christening, by the look of the carriages, and the red 
 cloth, and the beautiful dresses." the nurse had remarked 
 gleefully. 
 
 The little speech was repeated among the guests, and 
 there was a soft ripple of laughter, subdued out of respect 
 to the church, but bearing witness to the spirit with which 
 any entertainment in which Mrs. Cardew played hostess 
 was carried out. 
 
 I say " entertainment " advisedly, for Gillian did not 
 greatly trouble her head about the religious aspect of the 
 ceremony. She was very happy; she was enjoying her 
 social success; she did not attempt to disguise the fact that 
 she was a proud woman when she walked up the aisle 
 
 155
 
 156 Bt tbe Cros5='Koa&5 
 
 with her boy in her arms. She could not refrain from 
 shooting a merry glance from under her eyelids at Lady 
 Jane, when that little lady renounced the devil and all 
 his works, with the glory of the world and the carnal 
 desires of the flesh, in the name of Stephen Hope. It 
 struck Gillian that Jane was really taking a good deal on 
 herself — considering whose son the baby was. 
 
 Stephen roared lustily when the drops of water woke 
 him to a consciousness of being in strange hands; his 
 mother gathered him into her arms, laughing under her 
 breath. 
 
 " Baby is like his father and mother. He does not approve 
 of parsons," she whispered in Lady Jane's ear. 
 
 Jack Cardew was not present. " He could not," he said, 
 " stand so much tom-foolery," To tell the truth, the whole 
 business struck him as unpleasantly profane, and he had 
 no taste for profanity. 
 
 " I do not see why the boy should be baptised at all," 
 he had said. " But if you wish it done, why not let the 
 clergyman and the godparents carry it through between 
 them, without all this fuss ? Lady Jane will mean every 
 word that she says, and I daresay that if you set about 
 searching carefully, you might find such a thing as an honest 
 parson, eh? Still, do as you choose, Gill. A baby is 
 chiefly its mother's aff"air, I suppose. I will come and 
 support you if j^ou really want me to." 
 
 " I never want you to do anything that you do not like," 
 she had answered, "but I think that baby must be properly 
 christened, dear. It is all very well for you, who are a 
 genius, to despise conventionalities, but I should feel that 
 we had not given the boy — who may turn out to be quite 
 a matter-of-fact and ordinary person, like his mamma — a 
 fair start in the world, if we were to omit the opening 
 ceremony." 
 
 So " the opening ceremony " was as elaborate as it could
 
 "Uhc^ Bre IPlot So IDer^ 1bapp^" 157 
 
 well be made, and the font was wreathed in white flowers, 
 and the most exquisite choir in London sang the hymns. 
 
 Mr, Clovis was not present. Lord Brancaster took the 
 place that Gillian had hoped that her step-father would have 
 been cajoled into filling. Lord Brancaster would doubtless 
 be useful to his godson hereafter ; he had influence in the 
 diplomatic service. Gillian had considered that point ; yet 
 she was sorry, no one guessed how sorry, that her kindly 
 obstinate " Mr. Cloves " still refused to countenance her 
 marriage. 
 
 Cardew leaned against the churchyard railings, and 
 waited for the christening party to come out. 
 
 His stature always gave him an advantage in a crowd, 
 and he was amused to see that quite a large number of 
 idlers had been attracted by the smart carriages and the 
 red cloth. 
 
 Jack despised parade of any kind, but he was aware that 
 Gillian rather enjoyed it, as a sign of success. He laughed 
 at this trait in his wife, but he never laughed bitterly at 
 her, for if Gillian liked pomps and vanities, he had very 
 good reason to know that she loved him incomparably 
 better. There was a wide gap between her love and her 
 liking. 
 
 Cardew thought a good deal about his boy while he 
 waited. He was making more vigorous efforts than had 
 hitherto seemed to him worth while, to dive to the bottom 
 of that miserable mystery that had so nearly wrecked his 
 whole life. Nearly ? Once he would have said " quite," 
 but the woman and the child between them had forbidden 
 the luxury of despair. For Stephen's sake he would 
 endeavour to clear his name, so far as it was possible to do 
 30. There was one stain that no explanation could wash 
 away, that his son would one day know of and pass 
 judgment on. 
 
 Cardew took no lenient view of himself, and since he
 
 IS 8 Bt tbe Cro5s*1Roa^s 
 
 had struggled out of the slough of apathy into which he 
 had sunk, he had despised himself for sinking, with a 
 severity that it was to be hoped that Stephen would never 
 emulate. 
 
 To struggle up is a painful process ; most painful because 
 no outside criticism touches us so keenly as the censure of 
 our higher self on the self that fell. That, indeed, is the 
 very judgment of God, before which every soul stands 
 ashamed, and beside which the blame and praise of the 
 world is nothing and of no account. Indeed, the opinion 
 of his fellows was becoming of curiously little moment to 
 this man, whose ambitions and plans were weaving them- 
 selves daily more tightly round the boy. He had sworn 
 he would do his best for the chap, and Cardew's best 
 meant a good deal. He was bound to make his son respect 
 him if he could ; he knew by his own experience that a 
 shattered faith in the goodness of fatherhood is a sorry gift 
 to give one's child. 
 
 Well, his boy would not believe him guilty of a crime 
 which he denied. Jack knew that his son and Gillian's 
 could never make that mistake. Yet Stephen would one 
 day see the blood on his father's hands. Jack would not 
 deny that, nor even make excuses for it. 
 
 ** Poor little chap, will he take it to heart when he 
 knows ? I took it to heart when my father shot himself 
 and deserted my mother and me," thought Jack. Which, 
 he wondered, was the blacker crime — that a man should 
 kill himself and so betray the two who trusted him, or that 
 in a blind fight for his freedom he should inadvertently 
 send some one else to his death ? Inadvertently, for 
 Cardew had not meant to kill, he had only meant to get 
 out. That inner judge at least acquitted him of malice. 
 
 Jack had laughed when he heard the medical evidence 
 which proved that that particular gaoler had suffered from 
 a weak heart. The laugh had been taken as a sign of his
 
 "Zbc^ Hte not So \Da^ 1l3app^" 159 
 
 callous brutality. The doctor alone, who had oddly enough 
 conceived a liking for him, had understood that the jeer 
 was at persistent, dogging ill-luck, and that No. 48 was more 
 mad than callous. He would probably actually have lost 
 his wits if his captivity had lasted another year. His mind 
 reverted too often to his prison experiences, they were 
 vividly present to him while he waited in the crowd ; he 
 was still dwelling on them when he felt a touch on his arm, 
 and, turning sharply, confronted one of his clerks. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir," said the man. " Your butler 
 told me that I should find you here." 
 
 " Anything wrong at the office ? " asked Jack. 
 
 "No, sir. It is only that a boy has been caught in the 
 act of stealing from the till. Mr. Whiteman said I was to 
 tell you that he would have sent for the police at once, 
 but that he did not wish to act without your orders," 
 
 " Where is the boy ? " 
 
 " In your room, sir. Mr. Whiteman turned the key on 
 him." 
 
 " Very well. Say that I will come in the course of an 
 hour," said Cardew. " The lad may cool his heels and 
 repent for a bit." 
 
 The office was in the Strand. Cardew and Bransome 
 had formed a company for the working of the mine. Gillian 
 took the keenest pleasure in every detail of the business, and 
 possession had apparently awakened new capabilities in 
 Jack. In his younger days, his talents had seemed to lie in 
 the direction of spending rather than of making money, 
 but he was not lacking in power, and he worked hard in 
 the endeavour to master the intricacies of business. It 
 was significant that the manager knew that it was necessary 
 to suspend judgment till Mr. Cardew had been consulted 
 about the delinquent. 
 
 Jack waited till the christening party came out of 
 church ; then he put his wife into the carriage — looking
 
 i6o Bt tbe Cross*1Roa&5 
 
 somewhat amused at his son's lusty roar. " The chap does 
 not at all like being made a Christian of," he remarked. 
 
 " It is lucky for the baby to cry. He is a lucky boy," 
 said the mother. " Oh, Jack, are you not even going to 
 eat his christening cake ? " 
 
 " I have to pass judgment on some one else's boy who 
 is not lucky," said Cardew, turning away. 
 
 He took a hansom to the city with the sound ot 
 " Goliath's " healthy voice still ringing in his ears. He 
 was silently proud that the child was so vigorous and fine. 
 He felt singularly disinclined for the errand on which he 
 was bound. Boys had become interesting to him of late, 
 and though not much given to false sentiment, he hated 
 being the means of sending any one to prison. Perhaps 
 there was some mistake. At any rate the lad should have 
 the benefit of any shade of doubt. 
 
 On reaching the office, Cardew listened to the story that 
 was told him, with that impassive expression that he had 
 acquired in gaol and that he was apt to put on in an 
 unpleasant emergency. He asked one or two questions, 
 and then held out his hand for the key of his room. " I 
 will see the boy alone," he said. 
 
 The boy heard the master's heavy tread on the passage, 
 and sat upright with brightening eyes. He was a thin 
 scarecrow of a creature, and at that moment he was so 
 painfully hungry that he found it difficult to think con- 
 nectedly of anything but his bodily sensations. He wished 
 to collect his scattered wits, but his brain seemed to be 
 working so fast and excitedly, that it was impossible to 
 frame a coherent sentence. 
 
 When Mr. Cardew, having shut the door carefully behind 
 him, came up to the table by which the boy sat, the boy 
 stared up at him with a fierce, intent stare like a trapped 
 rat, but was quite speechless. Cardew's large and sub- 
 stantial figure loomed bigger, and wavered in a mist, in a
 
 "trbc^ Ere IRot So Decs H^appi?" i6i 
 
 very remarkable manner, and his voice seemed to come 
 from some miles away. The boy could not quite grasp 
 what was being said to him. Then he lelt a hand on his 
 shoulder, shaking him slightly. 
 
 " Wake up, I am asking you when you last had any- 
 thing to eat. Are you hungry ? " said Jack. 
 
 The boy made a violent effort to get a mental hold on 
 the situation. This was not a policeman, it was Mr. Cardew. 
 He was not in a street, he was in a room. He felt better 
 when Cardew opened a window, and when a plate of bread 
 and meat was put before him ; he grabbed at it in a way 
 that unmistakably answered Jack's last question. 
 
 ^' I don't want you to give me anything," he said sullenly ; 
 but he was too famished to resist eating, and drank some 
 beer eagerly. When he had cleared the plate the quick 
 throbbing in his head ceased, and he could again see 
 distinctly. 
 
 Mr. Cardew was sitting at the opposite side of the 
 table reading a newspaper, which he put down at the 
 same moment that the boy laid down his knife and 
 fork. 
 
 "There is no fair speech between a full man and a 
 hungry," said Jack. " Now, what were you doing at the 
 till ? " 
 
 The boy looked quickly round for a way of escape. 
 The door was locked, and the key was in Cardew's pocket. 
 He was silent. 
 
 "It you have anything to say for yourself, you had 
 better say it now," Jack remarked. " Appearances are 
 against you, you know, but appearances are sometimes 
 against the innocent. Mind, I don't say that I will believe 
 any cock-and-bull story that I am told, but I will listen." 
 He paused a moment. That sharp glance round had 
 pretty well convinced him that the lad was guilty. " Or if 
 you like to make a clean breast of it," he said, "now is 
 
 II
 
 1 62 at tbe Cross«'1Roat)s 
 
 your best chance. I don't promise to let you go scot free, 
 but I advise you to tell me the truth." 
 
 "Ain't going to be beholden \.o yoii,^^ said the boy. Then 
 he looked at his empty plate, and actually blushed. 
 
 " I couldn't help eating, but I wouldn't have touched 
 your food if you had not put it where I could smell the 
 bread and meat," 
 
 He spoke resentfully, and Cardew was more than a 
 little surprised. The stress on the pronoun made him 
 wonder. Was this some dismissed servant who had 
 a grudge against him ? 
 
 " My food ? Does that mean that you have an especial 
 grievance against me ? " he asked. This was becoming 
 interesting. On close inspection, Jack was sure that the 
 lad did not belong to the habitual criminal class. 
 
 The blush had faded. The boy's thin hand was clenched 
 hard on the edge of the table ; he leaned forward, staring 
 at Mr. Cardew again with the same fierce, half-fascinated 
 stare that had surprised Jack before. ** You — you killedimy 
 father, and every bad thing that has happened — is all 
 because of you ! " he cried. 
 
 He was incoherent, and desperate, and violently excited. 
 It was as if he had flung his light weight against Mr. Cardew, 
 who sat very still, and outwardly stolid. 
 
 " Whose son are you ? " asked Jack at last. He knew 
 what the answer would be, and it did not occur to him to 
 doubt the truth of it. 
 
 " My father was Adam Henderson, and you killed him, 
 and now you can send me to prison it you like," said the 
 boy. His voice rose to a high, hysterical pitch. " Do ! I 
 don't care. I ain't a bit ashamed of stealing from you," he 
 cried. " It is all your fault. We was all respectable while 
 father was alive. If you had not killed him we should 
 have kept straight all along. Mother wouldn't have got 
 drunk, and I wouldn't have lost my place, and Jane
 
 "ZTbes Bre Mot So IDer^ Ibappp" 163 
 
 wouldn't 'ave gone on the streets. You are rich, and I 
 am starving, and it is your doing. But I've spoke my 
 mind, anyway — all our minds, for mother she says the 
 same — and I don't care if you hang me for it." 
 
 " Don't be such a fool," said Jack roughly. " Your neck 
 is in no sort of danger, and you know that as well as I do." 
 
 Then he got up heavily, and unlocked the door, and 
 flung it wide open. "There," he said briefly, "go! But 
 don't try it on again. That I killed Henderson is no reason 
 for your being a thief, and next time it won't save you." 
 
 The boy gave one sharp glance at him, and was off like 
 a shot. Cardew sat down again, and fell into a train of 
 thought that, to judge by his face, was gloomy enough. A 
 clerk knocked at the door and looked in, but Mr. Cardew 
 did not hear or see him, and the man withdrew again with 
 lifted eyebrows. 
 
 " The boss looks fit to kill himself. You mark my words, 
 he will one of these days. He is not himself when these fits 
 of the blues are on him, and there is no knowing what will 
 start them," he remarked when he returned to the office. 
 
 " He is a kind man," his companion replied gratefully; 
 for Cardew had kept his place open for him during a very 
 long spell of illness — " He is a kind man, though he is 
 a bit queer-tempered. I daresay he is sorry for that boy." 
 
 " He has let him go," said the other, " and that is what 
 he had no business to do. It ain't right nor just to let a 
 thief loose on society, because you are soft about punish- 
 ing him. We all know that Mr. Cardew has got especial 
 reasons for disliking " 
 
 He stopped short, for his fellow nudged him violently — 
 Mr. Cardew had opened the office door. 
 
 Jack paused for a second on his way across the room. 
 "Yes," he said, looking straight at the clerk, "I had 
 especial reasons for fighting shy of sending that particular 
 lad to goal. It is not a reason that applies to any other
 
 1 64 Bt tbe Cross^lRoabs 
 
 case. You are quite right, Mr. Smith, laxness is unfair 
 to the community. There is too much talking here. Keep 
 the discussion till after hours." 
 
 He walked home, striding along fast, with his head 
 down, looking neither to the right nor to the left. Hender- 
 son's boy had made an impression on him that he did not 
 even attempt to shake off. No man can sin to himself 
 alone. Jack Cardew recognised that fact, with a realisation 
 that was vivid because he was a man of vivid imagination, 
 and morbid because circumstances had fostered in him a 
 deep and ineradicable melancholy. 
 
 Gillian had a dinner-party that evening. Her dinners 
 were usually successful, but on this occasion the host was 
 so absent-minded and silent that for once she remonstrated. 
 
 " I know that these people bore you dreadfully," she 
 said. " But I don't very often inflict any of the entertaining 
 on you. You might have pretended not to hate them 
 for one night. I was obliged to be civil to Lord Brancaster 
 for baby's sake, and a dinner a trois, when two of the 
 three won't talk is too appalling. Lord Brancaster always 
 rubs you the wrong way, so I fancied that you would 
 have objected more to having him by himself" 
 
 " So I should have," said Jack shortly. 
 
 The guests had all gone, and the husband and wife were 
 alone together. Gillian rubbed the tip of her pretty foot 
 along the fender rail. Her shining silken dress clung close 
 to her figure and took golden and green lights when she 
 moved, the diamonds on her neck sparkled. Jack put his 
 hand before his eyes as if all this brilliancy jarred on him. 
 
 " I saw Henderson's son to-day," he said suddenly. 
 " He was caught stealing money from the till. He is 
 going to the devil as fast as he can go. His mother 
 drinks, and his sister is on the streets. Henderson was 
 an honest man. They were all right while he was alive."
 
 "XTbe^ Hre IRot So IDcr^ Dappp" 165 
 
 " Were they ? " queried Gill. She was rather startled by 
 this bit of news, but her shrewdness was seldom caught nap- 
 ping. " Were they indeed ? You don't know that, dear, 
 unless Henderson confided his private and domestic affairs to 
 you, which isn't likely. Well, I am sorry that you caught 
 that boy. It was unlucky for you. I conclude " — and her 
 voice sounded a trifle hard — " that you let him off." 
 
 Jack nodded. "I am not squeamish," he said, "but 
 I could not — I could not have handed Henderson's son 
 over to the police. He said that his ruin lay at my door, 
 Gill, and I don't deny it." 
 
 "/ deny it," cried Gillian, "and most emphatically. 
 The boy lied, my dear, and if you were not morbid on 
 this subject, you would say so too. It is absurd to put the 
 sins of his family to your account. Sudden misfortune 
 does not send people to moral ruin, unless they are 
 already inclined that way. I suppose the boy implied that 
 they were all patterns of virtue once ? " 
 
 " I don't know. It wasn't what he said, it is what I 
 feel," said Jack. " There is no use in arguing about it. 
 I won't shirk facts." He stared gravely into the fire. " If 
 it had not been for you and the child I'd have drowned 
 the consciousness of them. As things are I must meet 
 them. I won't pretend that they are not there." 
 
 Gill moved impatiently. " I wish you would be happy," 
 she said. " You are a dreadful person to have to deal 
 with, darling ! You seem to fancy that you must either 
 hang your self-respect and morality altogether, or else 
 encourage your conscience to ride rough- shod and tyrannise 
 over you. I've never met any one with less capability of 
 striking a medium. Good gracious ! it is close upon twelve, 
 and the carriage has been waiting for ages. I suppose you 
 will not come with me to Lady Braintree's ? " 
 
 " I shall try to get hold of that chap. I wish that I had 
 insisted on taking his address," said Jack.
 
 i66 Ht tbe (rross«1Roa&s 
 
 " I hope you won't find him again. You will only make 
 yourself more miserable than you are at present — if that 
 is possible." She put her hands on his shoulders, and 
 stood on tiptoe, with upHfted face. " Good-night. Do you 
 know, Jack, that if you were any other man " 
 
 " What then ? " he said absently. 
 
 '* Why, then you would not keep me waiting when I 
 offer you a kiss," said Gill with a laugh. But when she 
 was in the carriage the brightness faded from her face. 
 Indeed, at heart she was a little sad, though she pulled 
 herself together, and banished traces of care so soon as 
 she entered the ball-room. 
 
 Mrs. Cardew would have considered it cowardly (as well 
 as bad-mannered) to appear sad at a ball. " It is a point 
 of honour to second one's hostess's efforts, and to play the 
 game," she would have said. " If you cannot trust yourself 
 enough for that, you've no business to accept an invitation.'' 
 And in very truth a sometimes abused frivolous society 
 teaches some most excellent lessons in self-control and 
 unselfishness, and the children of light have perhaps in 
 this respect something to learn from the so-called worldly. 
 Mrs. Cardew did not enjoy that ball, but she successfully 
 looked as if she did, and, as usual, she was surrounded 
 by admirers. 
 
 One curious little incident that occurred, amused, though 
 its comedy was not devoid of sting for her. 
 
 She had seized upon a miomentarily vacant chair, while 
 her partner plunged into the crowd round the supper-table. 
 She turned with a laughing apology to the lady who was 
 sitting next to her, and who was wedged almost into her 
 pocket. 
 
 " I am afraid that I am crushing you," she said. ** This 
 is like 'chair-game' on a huge scale, isn't it ?" 
 
 " Oh," said the lady with a gasp, " I have never before 
 been to a London ball, and I do not think that I ever wish
 
 "Ubes Hre 1Flot So IDet^ Ibapp^" 167 
 
 to go again. There are so many people that one cannot 
 really see any one, and yet I know that there are all kinds 
 of interesting celebrities present." 
 
 The keen disappointment in her voice amused, and at 
 the same time struck Gillian as almost pathetic. 
 
 "That is Lord Salisbury there, with his back to the lady 
 with the wonderful rope of pearls. That Chinaman is 
 a member of the Chinese Embassy. The short girl on our 
 left, in a green dress, is Miss Randedecken, the American 
 heiress, and the tall lady with black hair is the wife of 
 the Italian ambassador," Gillian said good-naturedly. " Let 
 me see what more I can tell you." 
 
 " Oh, thank you," said the lady. " But the person I want 
 to see is Mrs. Cardew. I suppose you must have met her, 
 for you seem to know every one. Do you think that she 
 is as beautiful as they say ? " 
 
 " No," said Gillian. " I think that her beauty is over 
 rated and that she is no better-looking than — I am." 
 
 " Are you a friend of hers ? " the lady asked. 
 
 " I should not describe myself as Mrs. Cardew's friend, 
 but I have some knowledge of her. Why are you so 
 curious about her ? " 
 
 " Why, hers is such an odd story," said the lady (who 
 was a born gossip, and who had now thrown prudence to 
 the winds). " It sounded so romantic ! but they say now 
 that she did not really care about Mr. Cardew. She 
 married him for his immense fortune, you know, and she 
 is so clever she has certainly helped him to live down 
 disgrace. I have heard that the Insurance Company is 
 sorry that it ever brought that action ! It has lost more 
 than it gained by it." 
 
 "Ah, I am delighted to hear that," said Gillian, with an 
 emphasis that made the lady open her sharp little eyes. 
 
 " You like Mr. Cardew the better of the two ? " she 
 ventured.
 
 i68 Bt tbe Ct06S*1Roa5s 
 
 Gillian's laugh was a little scornful. "Very much the 
 better of the two ! There is no comparison between them." 
 
 " I have heard that he hates society, but that he lets 
 her spend his money and do what she likes. They are 
 not so very happy together after all. I do not think it 
 sounds as if she were quite nice, do you ? " 
 
 " I daresay she isn't always ' quite nice,' " said Gillian. 
 " She has had a hard fight for him, according to her lights. 
 For my part, I wish her well." 
 
 "Oh," said the inquisitive lady, with a belated qualm 
 of doubt as to the wisdom of her remarks, " I fancied that 
 you did not like her." 
 
 " There are only two people in the world of whom I am 
 fonder, and whose interests I should put before hers," said 
 Gillian. " But here comes my ice at last." 
 
 She nodded and smiled with a mischievous twinkle in 
 her eyes when she moved away. "How dismayed she 
 will be when she prosecutes her inquiries a little farther ! 
 It will serve her perfectly right for being so dense and 
 so rash," thought Mrs, Cardew, but her laugh was not 
 quite mirthful. The strictures on her own conduct had 
 not hurt her in the least. Any one was welcome to suppose 
 that she had married Jack for his money, for none of us 
 mind an arrow that flies quite wide of the mark ; but one 
 sentence stuck to her uncomfortably — " They are not so 
 very happy together after all." 
 
 A light was still burning in the library when she got 
 home. Gillian pushed the door open very gently and 
 peeped in, but Jack was too intent on his work to see or 
 hear her, and she stole away softly without disturbing him. 
 She was glad that he had taken to writing again, that the 
 old instincts were awake, yet it sometimes seemed to 
 her that his books were nearer his heart than she was. 
 
 The fire in her room was cosy and cheerful, and the 
 hardships she had once endured had given Gill an abiding
 
 " Xlbe^ Bre 1Rot So DeiT t)app^ " 169 
 
 pleasure in luxury. She took off her ball-dress, slipped 
 on her dressing-gown, and ran lightly down the passage 
 into the night-nursery. Her baby was sleeping soundly. 
 She bent over the cradle, shading the light from him with 
 one hand. 
 
 The boy lay with one arm thrown above his head. 
 Gillian kissed his little pink palm gently, and listened 
 to the sound of his soft breathing with a rapture with 
 which no other music had ever filled her. 
 
 " You are growing very like him, my boy. I hope that 
 you will have a happier life," she murmured. 
 
 She tucked the blanket round the child, and putting her 
 candle down, knelt for a minute beside the cot. The 
 yearning instinct to protect and guard, that should be in 
 every woman, was strong in Gillian, While she knelt she 
 shivered with a sudden fear of all the dangers that her 
 love might not avert. Such a tender, easily-hurt wee body, 
 such a precious little life, that might be so quickly blown 
 out ! There are two powers that the strongest of us are 
 apt to own our masters, and one is Death and the other 
 is Love, but most women feel that the last will be the 
 final victor. '* And Jane is sure of it," Gillian said to 
 herself, with the tenderly amused smile that the thought 
 of Jane often brought to her lips. " But people like me, 
 people who are naturally unspiritual, how on earth are 
 we to know ? "
 
 CHAPTER XIL 
 YOU ARE NO TRUE PRIEST. 
 
 THE new rector of Churton Regis stood at his garden 
 gate and gazed rather gloomily at the smiling south 
 country in which his lot had been cast. 
 
 Mr. Strode was a spare man, full of energy. He was 
 nearer fifty than forty, but his black eyes were as bright 
 and keen as they had been in his youth. His forehead 
 was narrow and high, and his nose aquiline. He was 
 olive-complexioned, but his character and manner were 
 essentially English. 
 
 Mr. Strode might have sat for the picture of some Italian 
 prelate, but he had none of the diplomatic tact that has 
 characterised the magnates of the Church of Rome. Far 
 from being " all things to all men," he was a trifle inclined 
 to wave a red flag (metaphorically) whenever he encountered 
 a bull. 
 
 He habitually wore his cassock — to the scandal and dis- 
 gust of his parishioners, who looked upon him as a Papist 
 in disguise — and a silver cross hung round his neck. He 
 was, at present, the square peg in the round hole, whose 
 position Gillian had once deprecated. 
 
 Mr. Strode did not like this fat and prosperous pasture. 
 He was irritated by the ways of these slow, comfortable 
 sheep ; they showed a most reprehensible tendency towards 
 reversing the right order of things and attempting to lead 
 their shepherd. He had become accustomed to dealing 
 
 170
 
 l^ou Hre 1Flo XTruc {priest 171 
 
 with goats, and he was not sure that he did not after all 
 prefer them. Yet he was by no means one of those men 
 who are born saviours, and to whom the seeking of the 
 lost is a sort of spiritual necessity. During his ten years' 
 chaplaincy to one of Her Majesty's gaols he had, perforce, 
 seen a shady and somewhat hopeless side of human 
 nature, and the sight had hardened him. Mr. Strode was 
 an honourable man, impelled by a sense of duty ; there- 
 fore he had worked to the best of his ability in a cause 
 which he privately considered pretty hopeless. He had 
 administered the law and the gospel (or at any rate his 
 version of them), undeterred by the certainty that the ground 
 he sowed was sterile. His duty, in any case, was to scatter 
 the seed. 
 
 It was impossible for him to have faith in the efficacy 
 of his own preaching ; but he had at first been more hope- 
 ful as to the possibility of doing useful work by helping 
 the men on their discharge. Repeated failures had brought 
 home to him the truth of the proverb about sows' ears and 
 silk purses. He did not succeed in his endeavours ; possibly 
 because, in order to perform miracles, something is required 
 that he lacked. Yet he went on with his endeavour un- 
 swervingly. He was grimly loyal to the service in which 
 he had, perhaps mistakenly, enlisted. 
 
 Mr. Strode woudd have made a fine soldier. He tried 
 to make a good priest, and gradually a deep and stubborn 
 affection grew and took possession of him. One must love 
 something, and some men seem to be most fortunate, 
 perhaps because least exacting, when they expend their 
 devotion on an impersonal object. A woman had once 
 played Mr. Strode false (that was in the days of his youth, 
 when he had taken her, as later in life he took his convicts, 
 in the wrong way), but Mother Church remained steadily 
 on her high pedestal. He was a rich man nowadays, 
 unexpectedly rich through a legacy that might have pre-
 
 172 Ht tbe Cro5s*1Roa&s 
 
 vented him from taking orders, had it fallen to him in 
 time, but he lavished the greater part of his income on 
 his love. His study table was covered with plans for the 
 rebuilding of the parish church ; his hot-houses were full 
 of sweet white flowers that were destined to adorn the 
 altar. 
 
 In enforcing the rules of the rubric, in fasting on fast 
 days, and in strenuously asserting his right to dip unwilling 
 babies bodily into the font, Mr. Strode was satisfying an 
 instinct that might have found vent in a scrupulous exact- 
 ness and smartness, had he held his commission in the 
 Queen's service. 
 
 He was not verging towards Rome, though his shocked 
 parishioners believed him to be so doing. He had seldom, 
 to tell the truth, reflected deeply on the tenets of faith ; 
 but he was a martinet by nature, and red tape of any kind 
 was congenial to him. His living was in Lady Hammerton's 
 gift, and the present mistress of Draycott was his godmother. 
 
 Mr. Strode strongly objected to the system of lay- 
 patronage. He had thought fit to explain his attitude in 
 a somewhat ungracious letter. 
 
 " I am bound to state that in the event of my accepting 
 the living, I should hold myself in no way bound to defer 
 to you in any matter pertaining to my office. I think, 
 therefore, that you may very probably prefer to reconsider 
 your offer," he had written. 
 
 His godmother had chuckled with amusement. She came 
 of a family of honourable and crotchety gentlemen, and she 
 understood Henry Strode much better than he understood 
 her. 
 
 The view that the rector looked at was beautiful with 
 the full, rich beauty of Devon. From where he stood he 
 could see the woods of Draycott to the west. On the 
 summit of the hill to the right was Oaklands Park, rebuilt 
 within the last ten years by the rich soap-boiler, whose
 
 l^ott Bte IRo Znxc ipricst 173 
 
 charming wife was devoted to the service of the church. 
 Farther east again was a bit of heather-covered moor, the 
 nearest spur of Exmoor. Mr. Cardew had lately built a 
 hunting-box there, and the priest's face darkened when his 
 glance wandered in that direction. He hated Jack Cardew 
 with what he believed to be a purely impersonal and 
 righteous hatred. Here, he said, was a man who had been 
 proved a scoundrel by the law of his country, who lived 
 an openly irreligious life, but who was accepted in society, 
 not as a repentant sinner, but as a wealthy and prosperous 
 county magnate. 
 
 The hot anger that rose in Mr. Strode's heart when he 
 thought about these things sometimes warmed his usually 
 cold sermons into something approaching eloquence. He 
 was not addicted to making personal allusions in the 
 pulpit — he was neither of the school nor the type that does 
 that; but he did denounce the time-serving and mean 
 spirit that respects money more than honour, and which, 
 regardless of mud, licks the shoes of the rich man, with a 
 force that surprised and puzzled his congregation. It 
 puzzled, because the new parson was strictly conservative 
 in politics, and denunciations against wealth were usually 
 associated with expositions of so-called socialism in the 
 village tap-room. 
 
 His reflections on his parishioners were not on the whole 
 sympathetic, though he was full of plans for their benefit. 
 The last incumbent had been a King Log ; but here was 
 a King Stork ready to stir up the pond to some purpose. 
 
 King Stork presently set out at a brisk pace for Draycott 
 Court. He was engaged to dine with Lady Hammerton, 
 and the prospect of a dinner-party added to his gloom. 
 He was not naturally sociable, and he was not at his ease 
 with women, but he had no excuse for refusing ; unfortu- 
 nately it was not a fast day. 
 
 He had determined to walk the ten miles, for he was
 
 174 Bt tbe Cro5S*lRoat)5 
 
 both fond of exercise and parsimonious in his personal 
 expenditure. 
 
 Mr. Strode had more than one of the family characteristics 
 strongly developed. Like his godmother, he was inclined to 
 cut down pence and live abstemiously, that he might have 
 the more pounds to lavish on his hobby. It was a fine trait ; 
 but a generosity that takes the form of meanness is not 
 popular, nor perhaps easy to live with ; he was not liked, 
 even by those of his own household. 
 
 Unhappily for Mr. Strode, Devonshire lanes were never 
 made for the man with a purpose, and his walk did not 
 improve his humour. The sudden twist to the right that 
 showed so enchanting a vista of green trees, the curve 
 down into a hollow where the lords and ladies grew by 
 a still pool, the twist back to the right that seemed to bring 
 him almost to the point at which he had started, caused 
 the priest to tighten his lips in a way which suggested an 
 irritable temper ridden with a curb. 
 
 He had no love of scenery, and Devonshire lanes are 
 made for their lovers. They are as full of sweet surprises 
 as a maid in her teens; but they tease the unfortunate 
 person who has no capability for loafing in him. 
 
 Mr. Strode prided himself on his punctuality, and he 
 was late. Consequently his lean, close-shaven, face looked 
 blacker than usual when he was shown into the drawing- 
 room. His old cousin greeted him kindly, but with some 
 perturbation of manner. 
 
 " My dear Henry, I thought that you were never behind 
 time," said she. 
 
 " I started in excellent time, but your road through the 
 wood misled me. I apologise," said Mr. Strode. 
 
 "And there ought to be a court-martial held on the 
 road ! " put in a voice behind Lady Hammerton. 
 
 The priest looked over the old lady's head, and his eyes 
 met Gillian Cardew's. He was not a man at whom people
 
 l^ou Bre Bo Uruc ipriest 175 
 
 often ventured to laugh. He had but small sense of 
 humour, and he was apt to be morally overpowering. He 
 felt, at that moment, as if he had crossed swords with an 
 adversary. 
 
 Mrs. Cardew had spoken jestingly, but her expression 
 was rather scornful than merry. Mr. Strode resented 
 that expression indignantly. As a man he had given no 
 woman reason to despise him. As a priest he was entitled 
 to respect. 
 
 " Let me introduce you to Miss Haubert," said his 
 godmother. She rested the tips of her mittened fingers 
 on his arm, and led him across the room. 
 
 " I begged you to come early, for I wished to prepare 
 you," she whispered. "But there is no opportunity now! 
 You must just make the best of it. Luckily you are 
 both gentlemen." 
 
 " What can you mean ? What did you wish to prepare 
 me for ? " he asked in the clear, uncompromising tones that 
 never sank to asides. " Why is it lucky that — ah ! " 
 
 "'An' he might he would have sworn. The way in 
 which he presses his lips together amounts to several big 
 * D's,' " Gillian remarked under her breath. 
 
 Jack Cardew, who had been standing with his back to 
 the priest, turned round now and nodded curtly. 
 
 " I fancy that you and I have met before," said he. 
 
 " He was always a shameless reprobate. Any other 
 man would have been abashed," the ex-chaplain reflected. 
 He found it difficult after that unexpected meeting to bring 
 his mind to bear on his social duties. Mr. Strode was not, 
 as his hostess observed, " a good dinner-party man." He 
 talked down to the supposed level of Miss Haubert's 
 understanding, and his thoughts wandered constantly from 
 her to Mr. Cardew. 
 
 How well he knew that bronzed, square-jawed face, 
 and those bright blue eyes, that had once sought his in
 
 176 Ht tbe (Iross*lRoa&s 
 
 eager hope, but that had ever after regarded him with 
 unconcealed insolence. Jack Cardew would never appeal 
 to any one now. That was plainly to be seen. There was 
 a force and dignity about him that surprised Mr. Strode. 
 What right had such a man to dignity ? Was it only the 
 prison clothes that had made Cardew appear so different 
 once? He tried to picture Jack once more in a convict's 
 suit, but was interrupted by the sound of his neighbour's 
 voice. He was vaguely aware that he had not attended 
 to her last remark. 
 
 " I beg your pardon. What did you say ? " he asked 
 perfunctorily. 
 
 Enid Haubert's bright, sensitive face quivered with half- 
 amused indignation. She was shy, but she was not wanting 
 in spirit. 
 
 " I do not think that I need repeat my saying, for I have 
 said it three times already," she remarked. " You were 
 listening to your own thoughts all the while." 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said Mr. Strode shortly. Then 
 something in the quaintness of her phrase made him smile. 
 
 " I was listening to my own thoughts," he owned. " But 
 you would hardly wonder at my bad manners did you 
 know what an extraordinary experience I have had to-night. 
 I suppose that you have heard, for every one in the county 
 has heard, Mr. Cardew's story. Well, I saw him last when 
 I was chaplain of Dartmoor gaol." He spoke under cover 
 ot the general buzz of conversation, but Enid answered 
 very softly, fearing lest Cardew should overhear. 
 
 "Oh, indeed; it is no wonder that you can think of nothing 
 else," she said. " How glad you must have been that you 
 were chaplain at that time." 
 
 "Must I? But why?" 
 
 " I meant that you must have been so glad that you had 
 the opportunity to help, so far as it was possible for any 
 one, in such an awful, incomprehensible misfortune."
 
 l^ott Hrc IRo XTrue iprfest 177 
 
 Mr. Strode trowned. Enid had spoken in perfect good 
 faith, but her words irritated him. 
 
 "I have no desire to be uncharitable," he said. "Indeed, 
 as a priest my natural inclination must always be on the 
 side of mercy, but I am bound to say that I consider that 
 this modern sentimentalism about crime, this weak treating 
 of sin as ' misfortune,' is leading the nation to the very hell 
 in which it now professes disbelief. I see, of course, that 
 you, in taking this view, are only carelessly repeating what 
 hundreds of people are writing. Yet the youngest child, 
 the most irresponsible woman among us, should be careful 
 not to advocate these loose and pernicious principles." 
 
 Enid gasped, and Mr. Strode became conscious that he 
 had been lecturing with some heat. 
 
 " I did not mean to speak harshly," he began. 
 
 "No, and it can hardly matter to me whether you do 
 so or not," said Miss Haubert, rather unexpectedly. " But 
 I did not at first understand what you meant. Do you 
 really not believe in Mr. Cardew?" She glanced across 
 the table at Jack. "If you were the youngest child, or the 
 most irresponsible woman among us, you would know an 
 honest man when you met him," said she, and after that 
 she would speak no more to Mr. Strode, who, for his part, 
 was quite untroubled by her bad opinion, having but 
 slight respect for the intelligence of young ladies. 
 
 It was not a large dinner-party ; there were but four 
 men present besides Mr. Strode, and those four had all 
 undoubting faith in Jack Cardew's honesty. Sir Edward 
 Bevan took the bottom of the table, in right of his relation- 
 ship to the hostess. The young squire of East Cheapham 
 devoted himself to pretty Nina Tyrell (Gillian had used all 
 her influence to persuade Lady Hammerton to invite Nina), 
 and he wondered that he had never before met so strikingly 
 handsome a girl. Colonel Hanson, a stout, middle-aged 
 soldier sat beside Mrs. Cardew, and came to the conclusion 
 
 12
 
 178 Ht tbc Cross*=1Roa^s 
 
 that he was making himself unusually interesting, and 
 that he had happened to hit on the very subject that 
 Mrs. Cardew had most at heart. It was a conclusion 
 that most men arrived at when Gillian took the trouble 
 to please them. 
 
 Gillian's laugh was infectious, and so long as she was 
 in the room the conversation never flagged, but the men 
 had very little to say to each other when they were left 
 alone. Sir Edward was never a genial host ; Jack Cardew 
 was in a silent mood ; and the priest and the soldier agreed 
 so heartily in their strictly conservative politics that there 
 was nothing for them to discuss. 
 
 In the drawing-room the conversation was much brighter. 
 Gillian was making her friends laugh over a story about 
 an old woman who had told her that she wasn't " laying 
 up any crowns ot glory." Gillian's stories were always 
 amusing, and they never lost in the teUing. She had a 
 quick eye for character, and her neighbours' weaknesses 
 amused her. Life had taught her not to betray all 
 she saw, and she preferred to turn the point of a tale 
 against herself, because, since her marriage, she had aimed 
 at popularity. Yet she was, even now, more liked by 
 men than by women. Women suspected the keenness of 
 her observation, and recognised her cleverness with some 
 misgivings. Her present company was exceptionally fond 
 of her. With Lady Hammerton Gillian was always at her 
 best and gentlest, Nina Tyrell liked her (with reservations), 
 Enid Haubert cordially loved and admired her. 
 
 Enid was engaged to decorate the new club-room for 
 boys that had been built by Cardew. She was staying 
 at the hunting-box, and was enjoying the moorland scenery 
 with an intensity that seemed to her hostess almost pathetic. 
 Enid was the only person who saw and understood an odd 
 passage of arms that occurred during the course of the 
 evening.
 
 3^ou arc no TLnxc ffi>rfest 179 
 
 Nina was singing, in a strong, untrained voice. Jack 
 and the colonel were standing by the piano. Lady Ham- 
 merton was talking brightly to her cousin, when the young 
 squire crossed the drawing-room, followed by the black- 
 visaged high churchman who had taken Miss Haubert in 
 to dinner. 
 
 " Will you let me introduce Mr. Strode to you, Mrs. 
 Cardew ? " said the squire cheerfully. For his part he 
 was glad to be rid of the priest, who had made him feel 
 like a schoolboy, and with whom he had nothing in 
 common. He retreated hastily to the piano, where Jack, 
 with an almost imperceptible shrug of his broad shoulders, 
 gave up the place by the music-stool. 
 
 Mrs. Cardew raised her head and looked steadily at 
 Mr. Strode, and again he felt that her look was an insult. 
 
 " We hardly need an introduction," she said, and at the 
 sound of her voice Enid glanced up, startled. " I have 
 heard about you from my husband. You did a lasting 
 piece of work in Dartmoor." 
 
 Mr. Strode's sallow cheek warmed as if some one had 
 struck it. He felt challenged, and he had good fighting 
 blood in his veins. He had never, since he was in his 
 twenties, been so indignant with a woman. 
 
 "I will not pretend not to understand you," he replied. 
 "You are resentful because I saw no reason to believe 
 that, in one especial case, a jury had been mistaken in their 
 verdict. I do not consider that I was in any degree blame- 
 worthy. I feel it due to my profession to say this. As a 
 man it can be of no vital interest to me " — he hesitated for 
 one second, because Mrs. Cardew smiled contemptuously, 
 and the smile angered him — " it can be of no vital interest 
 to me to defend myself. As a priest I am bound to hold 
 my office beyond reproach." 
 
 " I see. I congratulate you on the way in which you 
 do so," said Gillian.
 
 i8o 
 
 Bt tbe Cross*1Roat>s 
 
 Enid moved her chair as if to break the tension of the 
 situation. The concentrated bitterness in Gillian's low 
 voice, the white anger expressed in the priest's face, made 
 her heart beat fast. She would not have been the artist 
 she was had she not been quickly susceptible to moral 
 atmosphere ; but all her sympathy was with the woman. 
 Gillian's words were like knives ; in a more primitive 
 state of society Gillian would hav'e tried to have killed the 
 man who had sneered at Jack. And little Enid, whose 
 life had been crossed by no such passionate love-story, 
 who shrank from killing a fly, yet understood. " Was he 
 unkind to Mr. Cardew in prison ? Why, then, of course 
 she must hate him," thought Enid. 
 
 " Lady Hammerton is making signs to you, Enid. I 
 hope that she is going to ask you to show Sir Edward 
 those designs for the new club-room," said Gillian. 
 
 She turned round with the frank interest that she always 
 accorded to Enid Haubert. 
 
 " If he offers to give you a commission don't put too low 
 a value on what you do," she whispered as Enid passed 
 her. " Your work is worth double what it was before you 
 had those lessons, and it never pays to be modest." 
 
 Enid smiled at the characteristic bit of advice, and 
 crossed the room full of hope that more good luck was 
 about to befall her. Mr. Strode sat down on the chair 
 she had vacated. As he did so a rather fierce thrill of 
 satisfaction ran through Gillian's veins. She, too, said to 
 herself, "This is good luck"; but she would not forget 
 that he was Lady Hammerton's guest yet. 
 
 Her nostrils dilated, and she put one hand over the 
 other, and twisted her thick wedding-ring, not nervously — 
 for Gillian had never known the fear of man — but with the 
 determination to control her speech. 
 
 " Lady Hammerton, who is my very dear old friend, 
 did not know that you and my husband had met before
 
 l^ou Hre IRo tTrue priest iSi 
 
 until I told her so," said Mrs. Cardew. Her speech was 
 a trifle slower than usual, but the priest knew that she 
 was excited. 
 
 "Jack would not let her cancel the invitation on his 
 account, for he says that he does not in the least mind 
 with whom he eats." 
 
 (The convict's toleration afforded Mr. Strode a momentary 
 grim amusement.) 
 
 " And I," she went on, " I had no intention of being 
 uncivil to Lady Hammerton's guest. I had not supposed 
 that you would have wished to be introduced to me." 
 
 That you would have " ventured " was what she meant, 
 and the man mentally put in the word. 
 
 " Do you not think that, because you are her guest, you 
 had better let us end our conversation now ? " she asked. 
 
 The priest rose to his feet with kindling eyes. " Shall 
 we look at the flowers in the conservatory ? " he said ; and 
 Mrs. Cardew smiled again, that scornful smile that was 
 a challenge. 
 
 " Oh, certainly, since you wish it, with the greatest 
 pleasure," she said. 
 
 She walked across the long drawing-room with the free, 
 stately gait that Lady Hammerton so approved. Her 
 husband raised his eyebrows when the folds of her satin 
 gown swept by him. 
 
 Was Gillian bent on captivating the parson? For his 
 part he hated meeting the fellow, though a dogged pride 
 had prevented him from sparing himself the ordeal, and 
 had carried him safely through it with apparent imper- 
 turbability. Gillian's spirits were equal to anything ! But 
 then. Gill had not been in Dartmoor. 
 
 " We are going to look at the lilies, dear,'' said Gill. 
 " Mr. Strode covets them for his altar, I believe." 
 
 But when she and Mr. Strode stood alone together in 
 the conservatory, in which indeed there was no great show,
 
 1 82 Ht tbe CroBSs'lRoaDs 
 
 but only a pot or two of tiger-lilies, and a clambering mass 
 of passion-flower, then she faced Jack's old enemy without 
 any pretence of frivolity. A very intense emotion, whether 
 it be of love or of hate, seems at times scarcely to need 
 words in order to be made manifest. Gillian's indignant 
 scorn burnt at white heat. 
 
 "What canyon have to say to me ? " she asked. 
 
 " I have this to say," said the man. " You take upon 
 yourself to congratulate me ironically on the way in which 
 I did my duty as a priest. I conclude that you refer to 
 something that Mr. Cardew has told you. You speak 
 without justification." He held his head high but spoke 
 with measured carefulness. He was fighting for the honour 
 of his cloth, " I am not excusing myself," he said ; " neither 
 do I wish for one moment to deny or retract anything I 
 may once have said. Even had I held a most extraordinary 
 opinion as to the innocence of one of the prisoners com- 
 mitted to my spiritual charge, I should yet not have had 
 the right to ventilate it." 
 
 " Most people," said Gillian, " would have hesitated, 
 under any circumstances, about kicking a man who was 
 down. But 1 forget — you say you are not concerned to 
 defend your conduct as a man. It is only in your official 
 capacity that you are beyond reproach. I am not very 
 clear about Church matters. I suppose that your priest- 
 hood lifts you above ordinary considerations." 
 
 " Pardon me, but you do not really suppose that," said 
 the priest. " My office is to succour the helpless and to 
 absolve the penitent. I have no commission to set myself 
 in absurd opposition to the judgment of the law." 
 
 " It was no case of opposing the law," said Gillian quickly. 
 She put her hands before her face for a moment. She 
 would make this man see what he had done. She would 
 make him ashamed. She was not crying. There were 
 no tears in her eyes. She was but collecting all her force,
 
 l^ou Hre 1Flo Tlrue ipriest 183 
 
 in the effort to impress her view of his conduct on this 
 antagonist, who had insulted Jack in the hour of sorest 
 need. So long as he lived Mr. Strode never quite forgot 
 that gesture, nor the thrill of passion in her voice. 
 
 " Listen," she said. " My husband was absolutely 
 innocent. You do not believe that because you are no 
 priest by nature. You are not of the kind who know when 
 they touch the truth. I do not say that that is your fault. 
 Every one cannot hold a divining rod. You were evidently 
 not given one. Jack was sent to prison, but he was a 
 very plucky boy, and he would not lose hope. He be- 
 lieved in several things that very few of us believe in now 
 — in God, and in justice, and in the goodness of men. The 
 hardships of the Ufe broke his health, almost broke his 
 spirit — but not quite. He was sent to the infirmary, and 
 you visited him there. He turned to you, because you 
 were a gentleman, and he wanted a word from one of his 
 own sort. What had all that to do with the law ? He did 
 not ask you to agitate for his freedom, or to sign a petition, 
 or to force the prison doors for him, did he? He felt 
 himself on the verge of sinking, and you profess to help 
 any one in spiritual need. Jack was never soft. He must 
 have been pretty desperate when he told you that story. 
 Do you happen to remember what you said to it ? " 
 
 " I cannot, at this distance of time, recall the exact words 
 that I used," said Mr. Strode. " But I am perfectly aware 
 that I put no faith in his story." 
 
 "You heard him through to the end, and then you 
 waved your hand," said Gillian. " ' My good man,' you 
 said, ' I've been chaplain here for three years. I can assure 
 you that I have never yet come across any one who con- 
 siders that he has been justly convicted. You all think 
 that you have been ill-used, you know, every one of you ! ' 
 Those were your very words. That you disbelieved was 
 perhaps your misfortune. But I wonder why it was neces-
 
 i84 Ht tbe Cro5s*lRoa&5 
 
 sary to insult him ? " Mrs. Cardew's tace had turned 
 rather white, and her eyes blazed. " Jack held out his 
 hand to you when the waters were going over him, and 
 you gave it a kick. You did your utmost to damn the soul 
 that was — how do you put it ? — that was committed to your 
 spiritual charge. He did not drown — but that was not your 
 fault. I hope — yes, I hope with all my strength, that on 
 the day when the deep waters are going over you, you 
 may call on the power that you trust in, and that it may 
 kick you farther down." 
 
 " Gillian," said a voice behind her. 
 
 Gillian turned round and confronted Jack. "Oh, Jack 
 dear," she cried lightly, " Mr. Strode and I have not found 
 any white flowers. There are only flame-coloured lilies 
 here, which I like better, but they are not so appropriate 
 to a church, are they?" 
 
 She wondered whether Jack had overheard anything. It 
 was impossible to guess, but she rather hoped that he 
 had not. So long as she lived Jack was the one man in 
 all the world to Gillian. Nevertheless, he and she had 
 journeyed somewhat apart of late years. An impalpable 
 barrier had thickened between them. Gillian had under- 
 stood the recklessness that had possessed the returned 
 convict. She had understood and sympathised with a 
 tenderness and wisdom that had been unfailing and tire- 
 less. Now, as her husband's character righted and re- 
 asserted itself, she was dumbly aware that she was often 
 at variance with him. Gillian was essentially practical, 
 and Jack theoretical. His way was not her way, and his 
 aims were often incomprehensible to her. 
 
 Jack paid no attention to the remark about the lilies. 
 "John Saunders has ridden over to fetch us," he said 
 gravely. " There has been an accident. The nursery 
 curtains caught fire, and the house is burning." 
 
 " Stephen ? " cried Gillian breathlessly.
 
 12011 Bre IFlo Urue priest 185 
 
 " Stephen is at your step-father's house. The httle chap 
 was a bit hurt — not killed." 
 
 "Let us make haste to get to him," she said. "Are 
 they putting the horse to ? I saw the colonel drive up in 
 a light dog-cart. His mare is very fast. Ask him to lend 
 you his trap, Jack. We shall get there all the sooner. 
 He can have ours." 
 
 Jack nodded. " That is a clever thought. Put on your 
 cloak, Gill. I'll be ready by the time you are down." 
 
 She went at once. She had forgotten Mr. Strode. She 
 did not even see him when he held the conservatory door 
 open for her. She had no thought for anything but to get 
 as soon as possible to her child. 
 
 In the passage she met Enid. 
 
 " Why, of course, you must come too," she said. 
 " Borrow something warm to put over your head, Enid. 
 We shall drive in an open trap." 
 
 Enid looked rather startled. "I hope that no one is 
 hurt ! " she cried. 
 
 " No one — except my boy," said Gillian. 
 
 Two minutes later the two women came down into the 
 hall where the whole party had assembled to see them 
 off. 
 
 " Jack is getting the mare in as quickly as ever he can. 
 There is no use in fussing," said Mrs. Cardew. "Yes, 
 please, Lady Hammerton, I will take that brandy-flask with 
 me. Some one always faints or makes a fool of herself 
 when there is an accident. It is quite likely to be useful. 
 Oh dear, no, thank you, I don't want any. I have not got 
 any nerves. I am not in the least upset." 
 
 Colonel Hanson was a little uneasy at having to trust 
 his mare to Cardew's furious driving, but he valiantly rose 
 to the occasion. Sir Edward kept making futile suggestions 
 as to the cause of the fire. His first instinct was to find 
 out who was to blame.
 
 1 86 Bt tbe Cross*lRoa&s 
 
 "An accident? How do we know that it was an 
 accident ? " he repeated. 
 
 Lady Hammerton trotted about with her arms full of 
 warm wraps. Mr. Strode, somewhat out of it among all 
 these staunch friends of the convict, watched the scene 
 grimly. Mrs. Cardew's words were still ringing in his 
 ears : " I hope that when the waters are going over you " 
 
 Why, the woman had actually cursed him ! 
 
 Mr. Strode was not superstitious, and he was angry, 
 and anger is an antidote to fear, yet the force of Gillian's 
 hate had made itself felt. 
 
 They were off at last, driving full tilt down the long 
 avenue. 
 
 " So sorry to have given so much trouble," Gillian called 
 out cheerfully, as they dashed away. 
 
 " Is the boy hurt ? The mother does not seem at all 
 anxious," the colonel said doubtfully. 
 
 The guests stood in the porch, watching for the last flash 
 of the gig-lamp at the turn of the road. 
 
 " There ! He is clear of the elms. He is driving like 
 Jehu," said the colonel. 
 
 " Ah, look ! " cried Nina Tyrell. " That must be it." 
 
 They all looked in the direction in which she pointed. 
 There was a quivering red glow above the tree-tops. Now 
 it died down, and then again shot up as the westerly wind 
 fanned it. 
 
 " It's lucky he is so rich," said the squire. " Not like 
 us poor beggars who depend on the land. Why, it will 
 be nothing to Cardew to build another shooting-box." 
 
 "Sons cannot be bought," said Sir Edward snappishly. 
 
 "Jack is proud of his boy. I trust there is no great 
 harm done," said Lady Hammerton. " You are quite right, 
 Edward, one can't buy children." And she sighed, thinking 
 of the unworthy heir who would come after her. 
 
 " It is just like Mr. Cardew's bad luck," said Nina.
 
 l^ou Bre 1Flo XLtxxc ip»rlest 187 
 
 And at that Sir Edward turned severely on her. He 
 never lost an opportunity of preaching, and all times were 
 in season to him. 
 
 " There is no such thing as luck, my dear young lady. 
 There is Satan, who works mischief, and there is God, who 
 chastises us for our good, but nothing is left to chance." 
 
 " Oh well, I did not think it sounded proper to say, * It 
 is the devil,' " Nina retorted. 
 
 She had really, for reasons of her own, intended to make 
 friends with Sir Edward, but she could not stand being 
 lectured. The least suspicion of a sermon always drove 
 Nina to open revolt.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 CAN THE CREATURE FATHOM THE CREATURE? 
 
 " ' Thou hast gone astray,' quoth the preacher, 
 ' In the gall of thy bitterness.' 
 Thou hast taught me in vain, O teacher, 
 I neither blame thee, nor bless. 
 
 Can the creature fathom the creature 
 " Whose Creator is fathomless ? " 
 
 SIR EDWARD stayed after the other guests. He was 
 a lonely man, and his cousin's society was very 
 pleasant to him. 
 
 The meeting with Cardew had excited him ; he thought 
 a great deal about Jack during the dull drive to Highfields. 
 
 The square, grey house, that was full of bitter memories, 
 the house that his wife had fled from, and that Cyril, whom 
 he had really loved, had deserted, seemed colder and 
 gloomier than usual when he reached it. He seldom 
 stayed long at Highfields, and when he was forced to go 
 there, he lived in two rooms, so that there should be no 
 need to uncover the main part of the furniture. 
 
 The pictures were protected from dust by newspapers. 
 The chairs and sofas were shrouded in sheets. Draycott 
 Court, which Gillian thought gloomy, was cheerful com- 
 pared to Highfields. 
 
 The old butler tried to arrest his master in the hall, 
 explaining nervously that some one had arrived, but Sir 
 
 i88
 
 Can tbe Creature 3fatbom the Creature? 189 
 
 Edward was getting deaf, and he was always impatient ; 
 he would not wait to hear what the man had to say, but 
 went on to the library. 
 
 The room was unexpectedly light. Sir Edward was 
 stingy over the consumption of gas and coal, but here was 
 a fire blazing half up the chimney, the gas at full cock, 
 and a reading lamp alight by the sofa. 
 
 " Why, what is the meaning of this ? " Sir Edward cried 
 wrathfully. " Why is my room lit up like a gin-palace ? 
 Who is responsible for this wicked extravagance ? " 
 
 He stopped, and rubbed his eyes. A short, fair man 
 rose from the sofa, where he had been making himself 
 extremely comfortable, and came forward with an engaging 
 smile. " Oh, father," he said, " it is ages since we have 
 met, is not it ? I have answered your letter in person, 
 as you see." 
 
 He spoke lightly, with an assumption of ease. Only a 
 very acute observer could have seen a suggestion of anxiety 
 in his eyes that rather belied the frank smile on his lips. 
 
 Sir Edward shut the door carefully behind him (his 
 family troubles were too big to be concealed, but he was 
 proud, and he could not bear to think that the servants 
 should overhear a quarrel) then — 
 
 " I long ago forbade you the house, sir," said he. 
 
 " Yes, yes, I know. That was most unfortunate," Cyril 
 replied. He had the air of generously overlooking his 
 father's peculiarities. " I had not forgotten that you did 
 so, but it seemed really necessary that we should discuss 
 this proposal of yours. It hardly strikes me as feasible, 
 you know." 
 
 He put his head slightly on one side, and glanced up at 
 his father. Then he shifted the lamp, and pushed forward 
 an armchair. 
 
 " Won't you sit down comfortably, father ? " 
 
 Sir Edward stared gloomily at his son. His silence
 
 19° Bt tbe <Iro55*1Roa&s 
 
 became oppressive. At last he spoke. " Three years ago 
 I would have had you kicked out ot the house," he said. 
 " But to-night I will hear you, Cyril, for after to-night I do 
 not think that we shall meet again." He sat down, lean- 
 ing his head on his hand and gazing into the fire. " I do 
 not know what I have done wrong," he said wearily. " I 
 should have liked to have had an honest son — I should 
 have been as proud as other fathers are. But God is not 
 unjust, and I am punished. I must have been in fault." 
 
 Cyril Bevan moved hastily, and turned his head away. 
 His conscience was of a singularly rudimentary kind ; it 
 had troubled him very little. He was naturally light, as 
 his mother had been. Yet at that moment, and for the 
 space of one moment, he was ashamed. The sensation 
 was so displeasing that he hastened to be rid of it. 
 
 " Fault ? Oh, it was nobody's fault, certainly not yours," 
 he said cheerfully. " You lectured me, and you licked 
 Cardew often enough, but we were both bound, from the 
 start, to go to the bow-wows. That sort of thing is in the 
 blood." 
 
 " Vessels chosen for perdition," the old man muttered. 
 
 His Calvinism chimed oddly in accord with the modern 
 theory ot hereditary taint. 
 
 " But Jack Cardew is honest," he added, after a pause. 
 
 "The jury were not of your opinion," said Cyril. 
 
 He did not, however, pursue the subject, which had no 
 vital interest for him. He had not taken the trouble to 
 come to this inhospitable house and to beard this unpleasant 
 father for the sake of discussing Cardew's character. He 
 had, in fact, come to see how his father was wearing. He 
 noticed that the old man was shrivelled and yellow. It 
 was a pity that it was so impossible to tell how much 
 longer he would last. 
 
 Cyril Bevan was not young himself. He had, as he 
 sometimes pathetically remarked, reached an age at which
 
 Can tbe (Tteatute ifatbom tbe Creature? 19^ 
 
 most men are fatherless, and Time, that patient teacher, 
 had at last taught him some prudence. He was inclined 
 to refuse to entertain the somewhat stern offer that Sir 
 Edward had made once before, and had lately renewed. 
 
 If Cyril would join in cutting off the entail on the estate 
 his father would pay p^2o,ooo to be clear of him. 
 
 "The offer made in the spring of '91 still stands," Sir 
 Edward had written, in reply to his son's last application. 
 
 He had written on a postcard. He would not waste a 
 penny on his unworthy and unwelcome heir, when a hall- 
 penny would do. 
 
 " I received your kind communication," Cyril remarked 
 with a smile, "but it grows late. Had we not better 
 discuss this little business to-morrow ? " 
 
 " No. I'll take your answer now," said the old man. 
 "You'll have trouble in knocking them up at the Golden 
 Lion if you do not go soon, and you will want a bed 
 there." 
 
 " Oh, very well," said Cyril, and his momentary shame 
 vanished. 
 
 His dealings had been crooked enough, as all the world 
 knew ; but he would not, under any circumstances, have 
 refused a bed (that is, had he plenty of spare rooms) to 
 any needy, relative. 
 
 His father, he reflected, was about the meanest person 
 he had ever stumbled across in the course of a pretty 
 varied experience. 
 
 Cyril had no more conception of the moral indignation 
 and horror that fflled the old knight than had his collie, 
 to whom this poor specimen of humanity was adorable. 
 
 He sat down again on the sofa and played with his dog's 
 silky ears. He was kind to animals, and he felt supported 
 by this faithful retainer's loyalty. 
 
 " So you want me to sell my birthright for a large mess 
 of pottage," he said. " And of course you are aware that
 
 192 Ht tbe Cross*1Roa^s 
 
 I am hungry." He laughed softly. He had a pleasant 
 and musical laugh. " It is such a quaint position for one's 
 father to take up," he remarked by the way. 
 
 Sir Edward waited for the upshot of this preamble in 
 melancholy silence. Once that casual comment would have 
 roused him to an outburst of indignation. A quaint position, 
 forsooth ! Why, it was terrible, heart-breaking. Did not 
 this degenerate son know that his father would have died 
 a hundred deaths rather than that such disgrace should 
 have fallen on his house ? 
 
 But now the old knight said nothing — there was no use 
 in more words. 
 
 " I allow that the proposal is very tempting to a man who 
 is as hard up as I am. You have never wanted money, so 
 you won't give me credit for the amount of resistance I 
 am displaying. Twenty thousand is a flea-bite to you." 
 
 " Yes or no ? " said Sir Edward. 
 
 Cyril played with his dog and reflected. If by hook or 
 by crook he could but hold on for a few more years then 
 all this vast estate would be his. And it was not prudence 
 alone that bade him wait. Nina's pretty lips had strongly 
 given the same counsel, and Nina would not marry a poor 
 man. On the other hand, creditors were pressing hard ; 
 he literally had barely half a crown in his purse, and he 
 felt weary, and disinclined for roughing it. The prospect 
 of bodily discomfort had, as his father knew, great weight 
 with this easy-going scamp. He would have sold his soul 
 any day that his body might lie in soft linen. This, how- 
 ever, was a case of selling his patrimony, and the bargain 
 was harder. After all, he had something of his father in 
 him, and he waxed obstinate on any one's attempting to 
 coerce him. 
 
 " I wish that you would give up playing Jacob," he 
 said whimsically. " Give me twenty pounds without con- 
 ditions, instead of twenty thousand with them, and I'll say
 
 Can tbe Creature ifatboin tbe Creature? 193 
 
 thank you. And what is more," he added with a half- 
 deprecating smile — " And what is more, I will do my best 
 for the estate when it comes to me. You do not believe 
 this, I know, but I am quite ready to be a pattern landlord. 
 I will even marry, if you like. At one time you were very 
 anxious that I should marry." 
 
 "At one time I still had hopes," said Sir Edward. "But 
 I wish for no grandson now. It is better that the line 
 should die out. Is it yes, or no ? " 
 
 " No," said Cyril. And there was an unusual ring of 
 decision in his voice. 
 
 He got up with a slight shrug of his shoulders. The 
 lamplight showed the ignoble lines on his face ; but for 
 once his shifty eyes looked quite steadily at his father. 
 
 " You need not make that offer again," he said ; " it 
 wastes stamps. Come along. Gyp. You and I will go and 
 ask Cousin Anne for a bed if we cannot get in at the inn. 
 You won't shake hands. No ; I thought you wouldn't. 
 Good-bye, father." 
 
 He walked across the room jauntily enough, but paused 
 when his hand was on the handle of the door. 
 
 " Gyp is lame. He is like his master, he is not so 
 young as he was, and it is pouring with rain." 
 
 Sir Edward made no sign, and he went out. 
 
 Meantime, the three in the dogcart were exchanging but 
 few words during that fast drive to Oaklands. Once Gill 
 broke the silence with a question, — 
 
 " Can you not make the mare go faster ? Give me the 
 whip. Jack." 
 
 And Jack shook his head. " Stephen will not see you 
 any the sooner if we are overturned into a ditch by the 
 roadside. I am letting her go as fast as I dare. She isn't 
 ray horse. I say," after a pause, " very likely the chap's 
 more scared than hurt," 
 
 13
 
 194 Bt tbe Croess-IRoaDs 
 
 " Very likely," Gillian assented, in a hard voice ; and 
 Jack made no more futile attempts at crying peace. 
 
 They were eagerly watched for at the Park. The gates 
 were wide open, and Mrs. Clovis met them in the hall 
 and clung to Gillian with broken exclamations of sympathy 
 and pity. 
 
 " My dearest love, how frightened you must have been ! 
 What a shock for you, but, luckily, you have such iron 
 nerves. To think of your pretty drawing-room being all 
 spoilt, and the poor darling " 
 
 " Where is he ? " cried Gillian. " Did you send for 
 a doctor ? Oh, mammy, tell me quickly where you've put 
 him ? Which room shall I go to ? " 
 
 " Why, Gillian, you actually bruise my poor arm when 
 you grasp it in that rough way ! " cried Mrs. Clovis, 
 aggrieved. " The dear boy is in the room next to my own. 
 I could not bear to " 
 
 But Gillian was gone. 
 
 Jack followed her after a minute's hesitation. He had 
 never set foot inside this house since the early days of his 
 courtship. He knew that Gillian's step-father would have 
 nothing to say to him, but there was no room for pride 
 at this moment. He must find out how much Goliath 
 was hurt. 
 
 The sound of the child's cries guided him to the right 
 room. He pushed the door open, and looked in. 
 
 Gillian was walking up and down with her boy in her 
 arms. She made a sign to Jack that he was not to disturb 
 her. There was a bright spot of colour in either cheek, 
 but she was singing in a very soothing, crooning fashion, 
 and by degrees the screams subsided and the child 
 drowsed in her arms. 
 
 "His left arm is scorched, but not at all badly," she 
 whispered. " I shall get him to sleep if no one else comes 
 in."
 
 Can tbe Creature ifatftom tbe Creature? 195 
 
 Jack heaved a mighty sigh of relief. " You can't walk 
 up and down long with that rascal," he said. " He is 
 a good weight. Hand him over here, Gill." 
 
 But the cessation of the song disturbed " Goliath," who 
 began to roar afresh. 
 
 " Do go away," said Gillian, and Jack nodded, and went 
 off to look at his remarkably large bonfire. 
 
 The house was still crackling gaily, in spite of the efforts 
 of the firemen, who had arrived too late to save it. It had 
 been panelled and raftered with old oak, and it burned 
 like tinder. The stables had been caught by the flames, 
 but the horses had been rescued. No life had been 
 lost and all the refugees had been conveyed safely to 
 Oaklands Park. 
 
 Jack elicited all the information he could while he stood 
 in the midst of the crowd, and, with the greatest philosophy, 
 watched his house burn. 
 
 " It is a bit of a waste, but it might have been worse," 
 he said, in answer to some condolences. 
 
 He felt, in his secret soul, that that worse being escaped, 
 he could hardly entertain any sense of injury. 
 
 The small figure with his night-shirt in a blaze in the 
 night-nursery — the same little figure safe in Gillian's arms, 
 with only his curls singed off, that was what the master 
 saw. Goliath, though his inches only measured 37, managed 
 to quite dwarf all else. 
 
 " You take it easy, sir," said the young groom to whom 
 Jack had spoken ; " but for my part, I could cry to think 
 of those beautiful new stables — that haven't their equal in 
 the county — being all so much charred tinder." 
 
 Jim's coat smelt of fire and one of his hands was bound 
 up. He had, he explained, had a tough job to get the 
 roan out, and had been obliged to bandage her eyes with 
 his neckerchief. Excitement had loosened Jim's tongue 
 (he was usually a shy youth), and he had momentarily
 
 196 Bt tbe Cro66*1Roa&6 
 
 forgotten his awe of Mr. Cardew. Jim had a great admira- 
 tion for his master, and had, on one occasion, fought a bigger 
 man than himself because the latter had declared that 
 Cardew was no better than a thief. 
 
 " I would have got the harness out, too, if they had let 
 me," he said regretfully. " They hung on to me when 
 I was going into the stable the third time, but I believe 
 I could have done it. I would have risked it, anyway." 
 
 " You would have been a fool for your pains, then," said 
 Cardew curtly. " It's bad play to throw down trumps for 
 the sake of trash." 
 
 " I don't take your meaning, sir," said the lad half sullenly, 
 " but I was never one to mind a bit of risk." Mr. Cardew 
 might, he thought, have shown more appreciation of his 
 zeal. 
 
 " That's it," Cardew answered, with the smile that was 
 so extraordinarily good to meet. " It is a good thing not 
 to mind danger. There is never too much pluck in the 
 world. Keep yours for something that is worth saving 
 and having." 
 
 Even while Jack spoke he could have laughed at the 
 commiseration that was offered to him on all sides. That 
 illumination had made extraordinarily clear to him what 
 was "worth having." When the fire was at last subdued, 
 and he stood, in the grey dawn of the morning, surveying 
 the water-drenched walls, his good spirits were not in 
 the least assumed. 
 
 He treated the firemen and stablemen to a big breakfast 
 at the Golden Lion. They all tramped down to the inn, 
 and ate heartily after the night's unsuccessful work. Mr. 
 Cardew's health was drunk with a good deal of shouting 
 and with genuine enthusiasm. Jack never tried to be 
 popular; but more than one of the men commented 
 admiringly on the way in which the master took his 
 misfortune.
 
 Can tbe Cveaturc jfatboiu tbe Creature? 197 
 
 Cardew engaged a room for himself at the Golden Lion. 
 Mr. Clovis happened to be away on business, but Jack had 
 no intention of quartering himself on the hospitality of 
 Gillian's relatives. When he had had a tub and a sleep 
 he intended to go to Oaklands to express his thanks to 
 his mother-in-law for her kindness to Gillian and the boy. 
 That he did not altogether like Mrs. Clovis was an additional 
 reason for being punctilious in his behaviour to her. 
 
 He was just about to set out on this praiseworthy 
 errand when he was delayed by the unexpected appear- 
 ance of Sir Edward Bevan. The old man accepted his 
 offer of lunch (rather to his surprise), and the two sat 
 down to their meal in the best parlour of the little inn — 
 Jack being filled with odd recollections that made him half 
 inclined to laugh. 
 
 Cardew remembered that the last dinner he had par- 
 taken of in his guardian's house had been of bread and 
 water ! Regular prison fare. The knight's ideas of 
 punishment had been stern and primitive. How very 
 long ago that time was ! Jack bore no malice now, for 
 he felt as if that boy he remembered, that unlucky boy 
 who had always been getting into scrapes, were quite 
 another person ; besides, when all was said and done, the 
 boy had got the best of the last tussle — though possibly 
 that was not a victory to be proud of. 
 
 " How is your son ? " asked the old man. 
 
 " Oh, he is all right, I believe," Cardew answered care- 
 lessly. " His mother was a bit anxious about him till we 
 got to Oaklands and saw that he was safe. Women are 
 apt to get in a fuss, but of course he was all right." 
 
 " I am glad, for Mrs. Cardew's sake, that he is safe," 
 said Sir Edward. He was a person of such slow percep- 
 tion that he really fancied Jack was indifferent to his 
 child. Then he added gloomily, " I say that I am glad, 
 but it may be no matter for sorrow when a child is taken
 
 198 Bt tbe Ctos5*1Roa&s 
 
 away in a state of comparative innocence, and no cause for 
 rejoicing when he lives." 
 
 Jack was amused at the characteristic suggestion. " You 
 mean that if a chap's born to be hung, he'll escape burning, 
 eh ? " he said. " But the boy will do well, I think. He 
 is his mother's son as well as mine. You are not eating 
 anything, sir." 
 
 Sir Edward sighed, and pushed his plate away. " It is 
 strange that we should meet again, Cardew. I have 
 thought of late j-^ears — only quite of late years — that 
 perhaps I made some mistakes when you were a boy. 
 You were a stubborn lad, and unruly, and noisy, and very 
 bad-tempered, and Cyril was far more docile. I fancied 
 that Cyril had the better disposition of the two ; y-et 
 Cyril " 
 
 He stopped short, and put his hand before his eyes. 
 
 " I say," Jack said awkwardly, " it is all such ages ago. 
 Why bring up old mistakes ? Is that claret thick ? You 
 are not touching it. Oh, I forgot, you never touch wine." 
 
 " It does not seem so long ago to me. I shall not last 
 much longer, and one's latter years fly fast. That is why 
 I wish to make peace with you. ' Agree with thy adversary 
 quickly, whiles thou art in the way with him ; lest at any 
 time the adversary deliver thee to the judge, and the judge 
 deliver thee to the officer, and thou be cast into prison.' " 
 
 " Ah ! " said Cardew, "but I am generally rather loth 
 to do that to any one, sir. I have had enough of prisons 
 myself." 
 
 He remembered that he used to be intensely irritated 
 by Sir Edward's trick of quoting Scripture. It had once 
 seemed to him that the Bible was a sort of armoury, from 
 which such men as his guardian gathered weapons to throw 
 at the ungodly majority. 
 
 " If you do not wish to be reconciled, say so," said the 
 old man with sudden petulance.
 
 Can tbe Creature fatbom tbe Creature? 199 
 
 Jack hesitated for a moment. Then he held out his 
 hand. Were any man ever to treat " Gohath " as Sir 
 Edward had once treated him, Jack felt that that scoundrel 
 would deserve kicking ; yet he was sorry for the old man, 
 whose son had turned out such a mean sneak. 
 
 " You did make mistakes," he said gravely, " But I 
 daresay I needed a good deal of hcking — and you believed 
 'in me when most people did not. It's all right, sir." 
 
 It was certainly extraordinary and unexpected that after all 
 these years he should meet his old guardian and make it up. 
 
 Sir Edward could never shake hands heartily. His 
 fingers felt cold and limp. Neither could he ever have 
 received an apology as frankly as Cardew did — he was not 
 generous, but his conscientiousness was of heroic proportion. 
 
 " I hope that your own son will turn out well, and that 
 you realise your responsibilities," he said. " You seem 
 to be endeavouring to use your wealth as a means of 
 doing good. I do not entirely sympathise with some of 
 your schemes ; to my mind you leave out the one thing 
 needful, but I recognise " (there was a wonder in his tone 
 that touched Jack's sense of humour) — " I recognise that 
 you are trying to do good." 
 
 " Not at all. You are mistaken," said Jack. 
 
 Sir Edward waved aside the protest exactly as in the 
 days of Jack's youth he had often waved aside the boy's 
 denial of some unjust charge, and continued his oration in 
 the high-pitched, dogmatic voice that awakened so many 
 memories. Jack listened with mingled sensations. 
 
 " How the old fellow lays down the law still ! He isn't 
 so 'much altered, except that he has aged so. I daresay 
 he never meant to do badly by me. Good heavens ! what 
 is all this he is sajang ? He means to cut off the entail on 
 the estate and leave the old place to me ? — but I don't want 
 it ! Why, he must be mad. Too much water drinking 
 has turned his brain."
 
 200 Bt tbe (Iro55*1Roa&5 
 
 But there was no breaking into Sir Edward's speech. 
 Jack had to sit it out. He listened to all the bitter reasons 
 why this thing was necessary; why Cyril was unfit to 
 bear rule after his father in the place where generations 
 of Bevans had lived, and quarrelled, more or less, with 
 their neighbours, and done their duty by their estate, and 
 been finally buried in the family vault. 
 
 "He is bad — bad," said the old knight. "And it may 
 be that I was in fault. I wish that my son had not been 
 born." 
 
 " I say ! " ejaculated Jack. He said no more for a 
 minute. Then — " But it strikes me that one is bound to 
 stick to one's own child whatever happens," he remarked. 
 He had an absurd sensation of surprise at his own words. 
 The moment after he had spoken it appeared to him 
 singularly comical that he should have admonished Sir 
 Edward. " Not that the way you treat your son is my 
 affair," he added hastily, "only I do not want you to 
 leave the estate to me. The idea is preposterous." 
 
 " Cyril's consent is necessary to the cutting off of the 
 entail : he must be forced to give it," said Sir Edward. He 
 had an irritating way of going on with his remarks without 
 paying the slightest heed to protests. " I have cut off his 
 allowance, and he has not the courage to starve." 
 
 "It is true that Cyril will never starve," Jack assented. 
 He wondered, by the way, what that plausible rascal would 
 do. " I'll have no part in this business," he said gravely. 
 " Your son and I have never tolerated each other, but I 
 have no desire to step into his shoes. I have enough on 
 my hands." 
 
 " Your money will do the old place no harm," persisted 
 Sir Edward. " And my will shall prove to the world that 
 I, at least, have some respect for you. Your wife thinks 
 that I was unfair to you. I do not know about that. You 
 were not a serious-minded lad — but you may have repented
 
 Can tbe Creature jfatbom tbe Creature? 201 
 
 now." He scanned Jack's countenance with an eagerness 
 that was almost pathetic. " I trust that you have repented, 
 and that you will do the best you can with your steward- 
 ship. I have never allowed any alcoholic liquor to be 
 sold on my property. I do not think I am asking too 
 much, when I say that I beg you will respect my views, 
 even though your own are unfortunately at variance with 
 them." 
 
 " My good sir, in the event of your leaving Highfields 
 to me, I shall build pot-houses, at intervals of ten yards, 
 all down the avenue," said Cardevv. " And if that won't 
 knock this insanity on the head, I don't know what will," 
 he reflected. 
 
 He had, at any rate, given Sir Edward food for con- 
 sideration. The old man got up and put on his overcoat 
 in depressed silence. He stumbled on the threshold as 
 he was going out, and at that Jack's heart smote him. 
 
 *' It was good of you to have lunch with me, sir," he 
 said, "and I ought to be obliged to you for your kind 
 intentions. I am afraid that I have not expressed my 
 gratitude very prettily. I am much more grateful to you 
 for an unexpected letter that I got in gaol." 
 
 They stood in the porch of the inn. Jack's old guardian 
 lingered for a moment. Again he remembered that he 
 had always fancied that Cardcw was heartless and that 
 Cyril was affectionate. But the time of his guardianship 
 was over now. Nothing that he could do or say was any 
 longer of much avail. 
 
 " Wherein I erred, may God in His mercy forgive," said 
 he. Then with sudden sharpness, " But I hear that you 
 are too clever to believe in Him. Eh ? " 
 
 " Do you ? " said Jack stolidly. " Well, what I believe 
 seems to me to be rather my own private business, you 
 know. Good-bye, sir."
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 A WOMAN, AND A BEGGAR. 
 
 MRS. CLOVIS stood by the drawing-room window, 
 watching Jack walk up the drive. Her pretty and 
 delicate face wore a depressed expression, and it showed 
 undoubted signs of age to-day. Little Stephen had wailed 
 incessantly all night, and she wished now that she had not 
 put the dear child in the room next to her own ; she was 
 not like Gillian, she could not stand sleepless nights. She 
 wore lace ruffles at her throat and wrists, and her fair 
 hair was becomingly puffed on her forehead, but she had 
 just seen herself in the glass, and had observed how worn 
 and thin she was growing. 
 
 In her husband's admiring eyes she was still beautiful, 
 but even his admiration sometimes sharpened a secret pain 
 that had of late taken alarming proportions. She suffered 
 from a phj'sical ache, too, at times ; she felt vaguely as 
 if the one had something to do with the other, but she 
 tried to ignore both. She had been a malade imaginairc 
 half her life, but now she shrank from doctors. She did 
 not wish to talk about this strange uneasiness. She always 
 felt ill when she had to encounter Jack Cardew, What 
 had Gillian seen in this big, rough man, who was such 
 an uncomfortable person at best, and at worst absolutely 
 rude ? 
 
 Mrs. Clovis had never liked Cardew, not even in the 
 days when he had been young, and the fashion, and a 
 
 202
 
 H Moman, an^ a JBcQQav 203 
 
 literary lion ! His birth had counted for something — she 
 had been anxious that Gillian should marry into a " good 
 family" — but she had never felt at ease with him. It had 
 seemed strange to her that he should be popular ; she 
 had privately considered him an impracticable person, who 
 either talked too vehemently on uninteresting and uncon- 
 ventional subjects, or was tiresomely and absolutely silent. 
 But the distaste she had felt then was a very different 
 emotion to the nervousness, almost amounting to terror, 
 which she now experienced in his presence. 
 
 She flushed nervously when he came into the room. 
 " Well, dear Jack, have you come to see after the darling 
 boy ? " she said. " Dr. Ferrol — such a charming young 
 fellow, and so sympathetic — assures me that he will be 
 quite his dear little self in a few days' time." 
 
 She had turned to meet Jack, and she looked up at him 
 with a smile, though her lips quivered ; she hoped that 
 he did not notice the tremor in her voice. 
 
 "That is good," said Jack. He held her hand for a 
 second longer than usual, and there was an unv/onted 
 kindliness in his tone. " Why, you are fagged out," he 
 remarked. " The way in which we have taken possession 
 of your house is too bad. I daresay that rascal kicked up 
 no end of a hullabulloo last night. I should not be 
 surprised to find out that he started the bonfire. He had 
 always an unholy hankering after the match-box. Nothing 
 will persuade Goliath to give up the thing on which he 
 has set his affections. Takes after his mother, I sup- 
 pose." 
 
 " He takes after some one else as well," said Mrs. Clovis 
 with an attempt at playfulness. She was proud of her 
 grandson, but she could not help wishing that he were not 
 so like Jack. 
 
 " Shall I tell Gillian that you are here ? " 
 
 " She saw me from the nursery window ; she'll be
 
 204 Bt tbe Cros5==lRoa^s 
 
 down in a minute," said Jack. " I wanted to see you alone 
 to thank you for your kindness." 
 
 " My darling girl is more than welcome to anything that 
 I can do for her," murmured Mrs. Clovis. Jack Cardew's 
 thanks embarrassed her. I 
 
 Jack fancied that he understood her feeling. "You 
 think it is almost impertinent of me to thank you for 
 what you do for your own daughter, eh ? " he said. 
 " Well, I did not exactly mean to do that ! Of course I 
 know that Gillian is welcome — ^just as my own boy will 
 always be welcome to all that I can give him." 
 
 His rather stern face to©k its gentlest expression as he 
 spoke; and Mrs. Clovis actually understood for one moment 
 why it was that some women liked Jack Cardew so much. 
 
 " But," he added, " it was good of you to ask me to 
 stay here. I cannot do it, you know ! I will not stay in 
 this house, because — to put it plainly — Mr. Clovis believes 
 me to be a rogue. He is quite justified," said Jack, with 
 his quick, whimsical smile, " and I rather respect him for 
 sticking to his own opinion, but it prevents me from 
 accepting your kind invitation, though it does not prevent 
 my recognition of your kindness." 
 
 He had never before made such a pretty speech to 
 Mrs. Clovis. It sounded a trifle stiff, perhaps ; that was 
 because he had rehearsed it beforehand, but he was 
 decidedly proud of it. Gillian sometimes told him that he 
 was tactless. It was a pity she had not heard that ! 
 
 Yet oddly enough it seemed to have anything but a 
 pleasing eft'ect on Mrs. Clovis. 
 
 "Oh," she cried plaintively, "you will fancy that 
 people still think dreadful things about you. But in reality 
 no one remembers about that unfortunate mistake. It is 
 put aside by the world. It is as if it had never been now." 
 
 Jack stared in some surprise. He said to hiipself that 
 he never could " make out " Gill's mother.
 
 H Moinan, ant) a IBcgQav 205 
 
 " There was not much fancy about the consequences of 
 that little mistake," he replied drily. " As for its ' being 
 as if it had never happened/ that is sheer nonsense. If it 
 had not happened I should be a different man and Gillian 
 a different woman." 
 
 " Oh, dear Jack, how you contradict me ! " she cried ; 
 and to his immense amazement he saw that tears stood in 
 her ej'es. 
 
 Now, tears in a woman's eyes invariably filled this man 
 with the deepest remorse and compassion. Indeed, his 
 wife was apt to declare that a crying woman could get 
 anything in the world out of Jack, and that she was 
 convinced that it was a thousand pities that she herself 
 was not of that species. 
 
 "I did not mean to say anything that could possibly vex 
 you," he said gently. " You are quite right. The way in 
 which people pretend to have forgotten is amazing. 
 Gillian's cleverness has had something to do with their 
 charitably bad memories, I fancy — only, you see, it is not 
 possible that / should forget ! " He threw back his head 
 with the gesture that Gillian knew well. " Neither is 
 there any reason why I should pretend to, for I was the 
 injured person, as I hope yet to prove one day, for my 
 son's sake. These excellent people who eat my dinners 
 are very careful not to hurt my feelings — they only fail 
 (some of them) to understand that I am not ashamed of 
 that verdict." 
 
 There were things that he was ashamed of, but he 
 would not talk of them to Mrs. Clovis. He was vaguely 
 aware that every word he said jarred on her. He was 
 glad when Gillian interrupted the tete-a-tete. 
 
 Gillian was paler than usual, but she would never own 
 to being tired. Stephen was very cross, she said. He 
 wailed if any one but herself held him, and she had been 
 up all night.
 
 2o6 Bt tbe Cross^lRoaDs 
 
 " It is most fortunate that you are so strong, dear love. 
 I am nearly worn out with weariness and anxiety, and 
 Jack will not listen to my persuasions," said Mrs. Clovis. 
 
 The regret in her tone was forced, but Gillian looked 
 eagerly at her husband. 
 
 "Goliath is not any worse ? You are sure of that. Gill ? 
 Oh well, then, I can't stop," said he. 
 
 " I will leave you to coax him, dear one. He v/on't attend 
 to poor me," said Mrs. Clovis as she left the room. 
 
 She had not tried very hard to persuade him, but then 
 Jack was so obstinate that it would have been mere waste 
 of breath to have argued the question. 
 
 "Dear Gillian has a will of her own, too, but she cannot 
 always manage Jack ; I do not think that he will give in," 
 the mother reflected. " And, really, George would be so 
 put out if he did by chance come back in time to find Jack 
 here that it is just as well as it is. Gillian was anxious 
 that I should invite her husband, but I need never tell 
 George that I did so." 
 
 There were a good many little facts that Mrs. Clovis 
 never told. She was fond of her husband, but she was 
 one of the people who cannot be undeviatingly loyal to any 
 one person — not even to the man whom they love best. 
 
 " Gillian," said Jack suddenly, " I can quite understand 
 that it is natural enough that your mother should not like 
 me, but why does she try to propitiate me ? and what the 
 dickens makes her afraid of me ? Does she think that I 
 may knock her down, or that I shall steal her spoons? 
 If so, why does she take pains to be so polite to me ? " 
 
 " Your imagination is too lively," said Gillian. " It is 
 absurd to suppose that mammy has any reason to be afraid 
 of you, but your downrightness is unpleasant to her. 
 You are not the kind of man she gets on with. She makes 
 a point of calling you ' dear Jack ' because she dislikes 
 family quarrels as much as a pussy-cat dislikes cold water."
 
 H Moman, an& a Bea^ar 207 
 
 " But I don't understand," he persisted. 
 
 " You never will, my dear," said Gillian, laughing. 
 
 There was a slight sharpness in her tone that was a 
 sign that she was secretly anxious. Gill did not mean to 
 entertain fear, but he is a guest who has no manners, who 
 will force himself in, despite denial. 
 
 "I almost wish that you would stay, Jack," said she. 
 " I hate to accept my step-father's hospitality without you, 
 but the boy would not be so comfortable in a hotel. 
 Moreover, it would really be an excellent move to make 
 friends with Mr. Clovis." 
 
 "It was not I who refused to meet your step-father," said Jack. 
 
 " I know that he is as obstinate as an old mule," said 
 Gill, " but he has been longing to relent for some time. 
 When he hears that the roof has been burnt over our 
 heads, he will feel that he has a valid excuse." 
 
 ** If I was not an honest man before, I am no cleaner for 
 the burning of my house, am I ? " 
 
 "You are not. But the majority of people are not 
 logical," said Gillian shrewdly. "Pure reason is a stick 
 that has precious little weight in the world. You and I 
 may be reasonable, darling (especially I), but we are fools 
 if we use that weapon as an every-day means of persuasion ! 
 I gave it up long ago ! It is too fine." 
 
 " Anyhow, I cannot possibly accept favours from Mr. 
 Clovis," said Jack, and Gillian dropped the contention. 
 
 She was reasonable, as she said, and knew when to hold 
 her tongue. Nevertheless, she was half humorously and 
 yet truly disconcerted when Cardew told her about his 
 interview with Sir Edward Bevan. 
 
 " Dear me, if Sir Edward is pining to leave his estate to 
 you, why not encourage him ? " cried she. " The public 
 avowal of his belief in you would do good. After all, you 
 are his cousin, and it is all in the family. 1 think you were 
 very silly. Jack ! "
 
 2o8 Bt tbe (Iross*1Roa^5 
 
 " Yes ; I knew that you would think so," he said. 
 
 He always recognised Gillian's right to her own opinion, 
 and Gillian sometimes felt as if the very recognition put 
 her farther away from him. She had a contempt for 
 sensitive women who are hurt by shades of expression, so 
 she laughed and shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 " It is lucky you can afford to be quixotic ! I must say 
 that I should at least like you to have the credit of the 
 refusal. May I tell mammy the story, in strictest con- 
 fidence ? It will soon be all over the place, then." 
 
 " No, you may not," said Jack shortly, for his wife's tone 
 jarred on him. " But," he added after a moment's thought, 
 " I do not think that your mother is one of the women who 
 must blab." 
 
 " Nor do I," cried Gill, with mischief dancing in her 
 eyes. " Mammy has plenty of discretion, she does not 
 require nearly so many explanations as you. She 
 understands which secrets to divulge and which to keep — 
 as well as I do." 
 
 Jack laughed, but rather on the wrong side of his mouth. 
 He found Gillian a bit too sharp, sometimes, and to-day 
 she was in a hard humour. How was he to know that 
 that was because Stephen's fretful wail was still ringing in 
 her ears ? He changed the subject, with an acceptance of 
 their widely differing points of view that was again 
 unwittingly galling. 
 
 "I have a letter from Mr. Molyneux," he said. "Do 
 you gather from it that the old man is ill ? " 
 
 Gill read the crabbed handwriting with some difficulty, 
 and reflected silently for a minute. 
 
 " Yes, and I think that he wants very much to see you," 
 she said at last. "I suppose that you had better go. 
 Perhaps he wants to leave you his money, but that need 
 not deter you 1 You can always fling it back in his face, 
 you know."
 
 a Moman, ant) a Beooar 209 
 
 " Shall I go ? But I won't if Goliath is really bad," 
 said Jack. 
 
 Gill hesitated for a second. The doctor had given a 
 most excellent report. The child's arm had only been 
 very slightly injured, though the shock had made him 
 fractious. She did not wish to own, even to herself, that 
 she was foolishly anxious. Neither would she cajole her 
 husband into staying. Gillian had small scruple about 
 what stick she used where the world was concerned, but 
 she was scrupulously honest with Jack. Better women 
 than she might have seen no shame in small wiles that 
 she refrained from ; but then, as she had once declared, 
 her love for Jack was her religion, and perhaps the better 
 women worshipped at another shrine. 
 
 "He wants you very much," she repeated. "Poor old 
 Uncle Stephen, he never quite manages to like me ! I am 
 not his sort ! I am too modern for him. But he was very 
 kind to me — and I think that he loves you, Jack." 
 
 " Well, then, I will run up to London to-morrow, and I 
 will look in again after dinner to hear the last news of the 
 giant. Must you go now ? I say, Gill, I am sorry you are 
 vexed about what I said to Sir Edward. What shall I do 
 to make up ? " He caught her arm, as she was leaving 
 the room, and held her for a moment. " Have you any 
 wants left?" 
 
 Jack enjoyed buying presents for her. 
 
 Gillian twisted herself free. It was odd, but at that 
 moment she felt as if the touch of his hand was more than 
 her composure could bear. 
 
 "It is an extraordinary fact, but I do not want you to 
 give me any more diamonds," she cried, with a laugh that 
 did not ring quite true. "Your disinterestedness must be 
 catching. One of these days we shall find ourselves 
 setting forth on a wild-goose chase, clad in yellow 
 dressing-gowns, with china bowls in our hands, and 
 
 14
 
 2IO Ht tbe Cross*1Roa&s 
 
 leaving all our possession behind, like Prince what-was-his- 
 name. There, I hear Stephen yelling ! Good-bye ! " 
 
 Jack went thoughtfully out of the house. Something 
 was wrong between them, but he did not quite know what. 
 It was part of the general wrongness of everything, he 
 supposed. He did not attempt to analyse the situation. 
 Gillian had stuck to him when no one else had ; she had 
 been his salvation. Therefore he would never throw any 
 blame on her, even in his innermost thoughts. When 
 their opinions clashed he took refuge in silence and went 
 his own way — leaving to her a like liberty. It did not 
 occur to him that liberty was not what Gillian wanted. 
 
 He took a letter from his pocket and read it while he 
 walked across the flowery lawn and down the avenue 
 of young trees. His correspondent was a London detective 
 who fancied that he had found a clue to the identity of 
 that mysterious person, who, according to Liza Pocock's 
 confession, had gone into Mr. Cardew's room, and who 
 had since inconveniently departed to that land to which 
 no detective can follow. 
 
 Since the birth of his son Cardew had not ceased in his 
 efforts to unravel that old mystery that Mrs. Clovis was 
 so anxious to bury in oblivion. Once he had told Gill 
 that he did not mean to waste time and substance in 
 hopeless races after justice, but now his mind was changed. 
 The instinct of care for his race had taken a strong hold 
 on him. It is an instinct that is stronger in men than in 
 women. A woman loves her own children, the babies 
 she has born and suckled. The individual and personal 
 touches her, but it is the man who is moved by the idea 
 of glory or shame in ages to come. To both the child may 
 be saviour — the child whose small hands are so mighty 
 to compel sacrifice. 
 
 Jack frowned as he read. He entirely disbelieved in 
 the widow woman of great respectability who swore that
 
 H Momaiit anO a Beggar 211 
 
 her brother (since killed in an Egyptian campaign) had 
 been the lover of Liza Pocock. This was only one more 
 of the many questionable specimens of humanity who were 
 attracted by the hope of getting money out of him, and 
 who were ready to swear anything with that end in view. 
 At first he had been excited and keen on following up the 
 least suspicion of scent. Now he was sick and disgusted 
 with the whole dirty business. Only a dogged persistence 
 for his boy's sake made him stick to it. His reading 
 was violently interrupted by some one who ran full tilt 
 against him ; some one who was equally determined in 
 pursuit of an object. 
 
 " Hallo ! why don't you look where you are going to ? " 
 said Jack. 
 
 George Clovis, junior, whose bullet head had struck 
 Jack, stopped perforce, and rubbed both hands through 
 his short brov>;^n hair. " I was looking. I was going 
 after that cat," he panted ; " I was looking after her so 
 hard that I did not see you. I hope " — as an after-thought — 
 "I hope I did not hurt you much." 
 
 Cardew laughed. " You should hit your own size, 
 sonnie. You might have knocked me down, you 
 know." 
 
 George took the remark with matter-of-fact simplicity, 
 and apologised with the utmost good temper. " I am 
 awfully sorry," he declared. 
 
 " Such a big fellow should be careful," said Jack. " And 
 my constitution is delicate, you see ! Where has the cat 
 got to now ? " 
 
 The boy rested both his hands on his knees, and con- 
 sidered a high brick wall that divided the garden from the 
 wood. " She went up over that," he said. " I believe 
 I could get over it too, if — if you wouldn't mind giving 
 me a lift." He blushed in making the request, and looked 
 at the big stranger with deprecating friendliness. His
 
 212 Bt tbe (Iross*1Roa&s 
 
 mother would say that he was too bold, but he did so 
 very much want to scale that wall. 
 
 " And how about getting down on the other side ? " said 
 Jack. 
 
 Master George was momentarily nonplussed ; then he 
 grinned cheerfully. " I can see about that when I am up. 
 It ain't any use thinking about gettin' down from the 
 bottom." 
 
 Jack laughed again, and swung the child suddenly up 
 on to his shoulder, from whence with a shout of delight 
 George scrambled on to the top of the wall and sat astride, 
 with his short legs dangling. 
 
 " I have always, all my life — ever since I was quite 
 little — wanted to be up here ! " said George, in accents that 
 were almost solemn. 
 
 " Then I hope that you like the situation as much as 
 you expected to," returned Jack. 
 
 The boy comically resembled his father. Mr. Clovis, 
 Jack remembered, combined some practical readiness with 
 a sort of pompous simplicity. 
 
 " I like it more," said George, drawing a long breath. 
 " It is the very beautifullest place to sit on that I ever saw. 
 I should think " — with a proprietary wave of his hand — 
 " that it was one of the beautifullest places in all the 
 world. It does not matter about holding on to my boot, 
 thank you. I am quite safe." 
 
 "Well, there is a gate ten yards farther on," said 
 Cardew ; " I think I will go through it — though I know 
 that's an inglorious way of getting to the other side of a 
 wall — if you will promise to sit steadily. You won't be 
 giddy, will you ? " 
 
 " I don't know what giddy is," said George convincingly, 
 and Jack walked through the gate, little guessing, while 
 he did so, that he was on the track of game more elusive 
 than the yellow cat.
 
 H Moman, an& a 3Be^cjar 213 
 
 He liked this ugly, sturdy boy ; boys had become 
 interesting to him of late. He helped George down on the 
 other side, and the two plunged together into the plantation. 
 
 " She must be wild, I think, don't you ? " George said 
 eagerly. "She is sandy with orange stripes, and she eats 
 baby rabbits. Tame cats drink milk, you know. I don't 
 believe this one looks at milk ; she is much too fierce. 
 She would bite your hand just as soon as not. I should 
 not wonder if she were spitting at us from a tree now ! 
 Do you think that she will spring out like a tiger ? Oh, 
 I wish she would ! Then I could shoot — that is, I could 
 if I had a gun. I wish dad would let me have a gun. 
 Do you think you could say to dad that it would be such a 
 useful thing for the estate if I had a gun ? You see there 
 are wild cats and there are poachers, and — oh, I forgot ! " 
 
 He stopped short, and his funny, freckled face became the 
 picture of dismay. "That reminds me," he said, "my 
 mother told me not to come in here to-day, because of traps 
 for the poachers ! I quite clean forgot ! It is dreadful how 
 things go out of one's mind when one has got business to 
 do, I had to go after that cat. I suppose " — reluctantly — 
 " I suppose I must go home and ask her if I mayn't go on 
 with you. You could always unhook me out of a trap, 
 couldn't you ? Hallo ! there is a man's hat bobbing about 
 there, behind that fir-tree. Perhaps that is a poacher ; 
 anyhow, he is a trespasser — and dad is awfully angry about 
 trespassers — so I must go on and speak to him." 
 
 Jack looked in the direction at which this small lord of 
 the soil pointed with his grubby little brown thumb. 
 Yes, undoubtedly there was some one in the plantation. 
 George set off" fussily, with evident intention of asserting 
 his father's rights. Cardew followed to see the upshot of 
 the interview. When they were both within a few yards 
 ot the firs George stopped, and looked round at his com- 
 panion with a puzzled expression.
 
 214 Bt tbe Cro6s*1Roa^s 
 
 " Why, there is some one there who is talking in mother's 
 headache voice," he said. "But I ^«ozy that mother is in 
 her bedroom." 
 
 Jack stood still — a rather high-pitched plaintive voice 
 distinctly reached his ear. 
 
 "Oh, it is not the money that I grudge (though, indeed, 
 you have already had an immense deal, Cyril), but it is that 
 I cannot bear to deceive my dear husband. Besides, how 
 do I know that it is for the last time ? How am I to trust 
 one word that you say ? How am I to " 
 
 " There goes the cat ! I saw her tail up that tree ! " 
 shouted Jack. He pointed in the opposite direction to that 
 from which " mother's headache voice " issued ; then, as 
 George darted off, he shoved his way through the firs and 
 confronted Mrs. Clovis and Cyril Bevan. 
 
 His cousin smiled amicably. " Why, Jack, how are you ? 
 I hear you and the old governor have made up your 
 differences," he said. " Poor old governor ! I am glad of it." 
 
 Jack stared. He had not met Cyril since they were 
 young, but he retained a contempt for him that he did not 
 attempt to conceal, and that was perhaps the more galling 
 because Jack was anything but Pharisaical. 
 
 Cyril was accustomed to being snubbed, but for once his 
 philosophy failed him. He very heartily wished Cardew 
 back in Dartmoor. 
 
 " Which is my shortest way back to the village, Mrs. 
 Clovis ? Will you show me ? " he said. 
 
 Cardew turned to Mrs. Clovis with an absolutely stolid 
 expression of countenance. " If you like," he said, in the 
 level, expressionless voice that might hide anything or 
 nothing, " I can easily show this — gentleman the way out 
 of your wood." 
 
 Mrs. Clovis shrank from him with a nervous, involuntary 
 movement. She had every reason to dislike Cyril Bevan, 
 and Jack had never injured her, yet it seemed to her that
 
 a Moman, ant) a JBeooar 215 
 
 there was brutality in the way in which he ignored his 
 cousin's greeting. 
 
 " Oh no, dear Jack, there is really no occasion for you 
 to trouble yourself at all," she answered quickly, 
 
 " All right. I don't want to interfere. I fancied I might 
 have saved you some trouble, that's all," said Jack. 
 
 He saw them walk away together without further 
 remark. His natural impulse had been to make his 
 presence known at once. He hated eaves-dropping ; he 
 was sorry that he had unwittingly overheard so much. 
 The very last thing he would have chosen was to be the 
 discoverer of a woman's secret. He almost wished that 
 he had gone away without speaking to Mrs. Clovis, but 
 (little as she gave him credit for such a motive) he had 
 been actuated by the simple desire to stand by her. 
 
 So Cyril Bevan was trying to get money out of Gillian's 
 mother ! Poor lady ! Jack was sorry enough for her if 
 she was in any degree in that dirty little sneak's power. 
 
 George came running back presently, shouting, " Mother, 
 mother," with all his might, and was much disappointed to 
 find that she had disappeared. 
 
 " Was it not mother after all ? " he said. " It sounded 
 just like her voice, didn't it? But I know" — with the im- 
 portance of an only son — " I know that she would have 
 waited till I came back. Who was it, if it wasn't 
 mother? " 
 
 " Why, it was a woman and a beggar," said Jack. 
 " Look here, George, I am sorry that we came into this 
 wood, since it is against orders. Let us get out of it as 
 quickly as we can ! " 
 
 He strode along so fast that the little boy could hardly 
 keep pace with him, and was filled with the idea that Mr. 
 Cardew was troubled by conscience. 
 
 " I don't think it was your fault," George remarked con- 
 solingly. *' I did not tell you that I might not go in the
 
 2i6 Bt tbe Cross^lRoabs 
 
 wood till after we were over the wall ; and you could not 
 possibly know, because always, till to-day, I have been 
 allowed to come in here whenever I have wanted to. So 
 you need not feel grave about it. I say, Mr. Cardew, what 
 cheek of the beggars to trespass ! I wish you had caught 
 them ! Mother will laugh when I tell her that the beggar- 
 woman talked in her headache voice, won't she ? " 
 
 " Do you always tell your mother everything ? " 
 
 "Yes, I do. I tell her all my secrets, and she tells me 
 all hers," said George. " She has told me an enormous 
 big one this week that even dad does not know. It is 
 about his birthday, and it is put away with a secret of mine 
 in the right-hand drawer in the wardrobe in her room. 
 It is in a little box, done up in cotton wool. It is partly 
 gold, and it is partly off my head and partly off mother's 
 head, and it will hang from a watch-chain — but I must not 
 tell what it is, and dad can never guess, though he is 
 always trying." 
 
 " Poor old Clovis ! " muttered Jack. 
 
 They were out of the wood now, and he put his hand on 
 the boy's shoulder as he bid him good-bye. " Look here, 
 youngster," said he, " you are to tell your mother from me 
 that I am sorry we went into that wood, but that I meant 
 no harm. Tell her, too, that I strongly advise her to 
 speak to Mr. Clovis about beggars, because I know that 
 the beggar I saw to-day is a very bad one, who has done 
 worse things than I could talk about to a woman. Will 
 you remember all that ? " 
 
 " Oh yes," said George. " And mother will be sure to 
 tell dad, for she is awfully afraid of tramps. I am glad 
 she was not in the wood if the beggar was such a dreadful 
 bad one, though of course I should have taken care of her." 
 
 " Of course," said Jack.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 BETWEEN MAN AND MAN. 
 
 MRS. CLOVIS hurried home by way of the village. 
 She was nervously afraid to return by the wood ; 
 she felt that she had not the nerve to risk another encounter 
 with her son-in-law. She was aware, when she considered 
 the matter, that her fear was absolutely foolish. Jack had 
 no right, and, in all probability, no inclination, to interfere 
 with anything that she might choose to do ; yet whenever 
 her conscience distressed her with visions of judgment to 
 come, she invariably saw this big, blue-eyed man as a 
 merciless executor of justice. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Clovis was certainly not cut out to be the 
 villain of any tale. Never was there a woman who more 
 fully appreciated the advantages of respectability, or who 
 shrank more sensitively from the least suspicion of blame. 
 She had indeed been foolish when she was younger, but 
 she felt that it was very hard that her foolishness should 
 have had such extraordinarily grave results. It was doubly 
 hard that because she had once, in what had seemed an 
 insignificant matter, deceived Mr. Clovis, she should now 
 be bound to go on deceiving him. 
 
 Her head ached violently after the excitement of her 
 interview with Cyril Bevan, but when she heard the church 
 bell ring she turned aside, weary as she was, to enter the 
 parish church, and to form one of an exceedingly scanty 
 congregation at the Friday evening service. 
 
 217
 
 2i8 Bt tbe Cross*1Roa^5 
 
 Two old women (they were pensioned by Mrs. Clovis, 
 and were very anxious that she should notice them) were 
 present, and Enid Haubert was sitting in a corner finishing 
 a sketch of the west window. No one else attended the 
 service, saving the clerk, who strongly objected to these 
 innovations of the new parson, but who was forced willy- 
 nilly to bear part in them. 
 
 Mr. Strode cast a quick glance round him when he 
 entered the empty church. His clear resonant voice rang 
 and echoed through the building as he read the " Dearly 
 beloved brethren." 
 
 " He ought to have said ' brother,' for there is only one 
 old man here," thought Enid. 
 
 It amused her that he should think it worth while to 
 intone the service every Friday to nearly vacant pews. 
 She observed that the altar was decorated with hot-house 
 flowers. The flowers came out of the priest's own garden. 
 
 A bullet-riddled shred of an old flag (it was once carried 
 on a desperate venture by a hand that is now dust before 
 the desert wind) hung above Mr. Strode's head. It occurred 
 to the little artist that here was a good and rather pathetic 
 subject. She sharpened her charcoal and began to sketch 
 vigorously. The prayers being read, Mr. Strode delivered 
 a short address, to which no one paid much attention. The 
 old clerk sniffed contemptuously, the two old women 
 nodded, Mrs. Clovis leaned back with her hand pressed to 
 her throbbing forehead. She had already done more than 
 her duty in coming to church on a week-day evening. This 
 was a work of supererogation which she felt ought to count 
 very much to her credit, and enlist Heaven on her side. 
 
 It had seemed to her as if the devil himself were black- 
 mailing her, and she longed to outwit him. It was not 
 a time to be slack in religious observances — yet she could 
 have spared the sermon. W/iy she believed that it would 
 please Providence that she should sit with an aching head
 
 Between /iDan ant) /ll>an 219 
 
 through a Friday service I cannot explain. Our poor 
 brother the ass, as the most human of saints called his 
 body, seems made to be arbitrarily punished for the sins 
 that his driver commits. It must be allowed that, like 
 most unfairly treated creatures, he is apt to bear malice 
 and bide his time for revenge. 
 
 Mr. Strode was just about to cross the aisle on his way 
 to the vestry, when an exclamation from the clerk made 
 him look round. The grey-robed graceful lady, whose 
 presence at these extra services had sometimes seemed 
 to him like sweet incense, had fallen on the floor of the 
 pew in a faint. 
 
 Enid Haubert ran to the rescue from her corner by the 
 door, leaving her drawing block and crayons to be con- 
 fiscated by the old clerk, but it was the priest who picked 
 the poor lady up and carried her to the church porch, 
 where the soft westerly wind blowing in revived her 
 immediately. 
 
 Mr. Strode was invariably prompt. Having deposited 
 his burden on the broad stone seat, he went in search 
 of water, and the next minute returned with a tumbler- 
 ful. He found Mrs. Clovis sitting upright, and apologising 
 profusely in her pretty soft voice. 
 
 " I am so subject to fainting fits. I always faint in the 
 hot weather, especially when I am over-tired ; but I cannot 
 forgive myself for having given you so much trouble, 
 Mr. Strode — and Miss Haubert too." 
 
 " I fancied that you were in bed with a headache," said 
 Enid. " It must have been very bad for you to get up 
 to come to church. I do not know what Mrs. Cardew 
 would say." 
 
 " I cannot bear to miss this service, but dear Gillian 
 is so different," said Mrs. Clovis gently. 
 
 The speech irritated Enid, perhaps because she greatly 
 admired Gillian.
 
 220 Bt tbe (Iro55*=1Roa^5 
 
 " Mrs. Cardew has been in the nursery all day. She 
 cannot leave her little boy," she said. 
 
 " There is seldom much difficulty in finding reasons 
 that prevent people from attending church," remarked 
 Mr. Strode. " I wish that a few more among my 
 parishioners would err on the side of over-much zeal." 
 
 Mrs. Clovis stood up at this juncture, a graceful swaying 
 figure, and announced her intention of walking home. 
 Her companions were still urging the advisability of 
 sending for a conveyance when the discussion was ended 
 by the advent of Mr. Clovis, who was driving from the 
 station, and who on catching sight of his wife called to 
 the footman to stop, and jumped out of the carriage with 
 as much alacrity as if he had been a young lover, instead 
 of an elderly husband of ten years' standing. He bustled 
 up the churchyard path with a beaming face, which fell 
 comically at sight of the cassocked priest at his wife's side. 
 " Well, my dear, how lucky I came by this way," said 
 he. " But to-day ain't Sunday, so why are you at 
 church ?" 
 
 " It is Friday evensong, dear George," said Mrs. Clovis. 
 " You have not been introduced to our new vicar, have you ?" 
 
 Mr. Clovis nodded grudgingly, but the new vicar was 
 unfeignedly glad to see him. Mr. Strode had had enough 
 of Mrs. Clovis, and was now eager to get her off his hands. 
 He had no great liking for women. 
 
 " We have been trying to dissuade Mrs. Clovis from 
 attempting to walk to the Park. The heat in church was 
 was too much for her," he explained. 
 
 The concern and anxiety that were instantly painted 
 on the face of Mr. Clovis seemed to the priest somewhat 
 absurd. 
 
 " Why, what is the matter ? Now I come to look at 
 you I see that you are as white as a lily." (Mr. Clovis 
 never likened his wife to anything ungraceful, though
 
 Between /ll>an an& /iDan 221 
 
 where others were concerned his similes were apt to be 
 homely in the extreme.) " What have they been doing to 
 you while I have been away ? " 
 
 " Nothing, dearest. I have only been anxious and tired. 
 My poor darling little grandson was hurt, and there was so 
 much to arrange." 
 
 Mr. Clovis drew her arm through his with a protecting 
 tenderness that was very pleasant to her. 
 
 " You would think it was me who ought to be troubled 
 with grandsons, wouldn't you?" he said jocularly to 
 Mr. Strode, who did not respond. " I don't know why it 
 is that the best people seem to want so much praying. It 
 is like the clean ones who never do a thing to dirty their 
 hands, but who wash after every meal." 
 
 He helped her into the carriage, with that almost 
 exaggerated care which he enjoyed bestowing on this 
 finest and most reverenced of all his possessions. Enid 
 and Mr. Strode watched the carriage drive off. It 
 appeared odd to Mr. Strode that so refined a woman 
 should have married such a vulgar old shopkeeper. 
 Almost unwittingly he gave expression to his thought. 
 
 " I had not happened to meet him before. I should 
 hardly have guessed that he was the husband of that lady," 
 
 "I like him very much. I don't think he is in the least 
 really vulgar," said Enid quickly. 
 
 Mr. Strode raised his black ej'^ebrows. He now recog- 
 nised that he had met Miss Haubert before. This was 
 the second time that this slip of a girl had unexpectedly 
 dissented from his opinion. He found his present 
 parishioners so slow of comprehension (though it is 
 possible that they occasionally understood more than their 
 parson guessed) that he was out of the habit of expecting 
 any one to grasp the meaning of a tone, and he was 
 consequently annoyed that he had betrayed an opinion, 
 which he was, however, too honest to retract.
 
 222 Ht tbe (Iross=1Roa&s 
 
 He turned away silently, and was just about to lock the 
 church door when Enid prevented him. 
 
 "Oh, please may I fetch my sketching block before you 
 shut up ? I left it by the font when I ran to help Mrs. 
 Clovis." 
 
 "Then I imagine that Mr Jones has already pounced on 
 it," said Mr. Strode. " He has my orders to confiscate any 
 playthings that he finds in church. There are already 
 three sticks of peppermint, one Robinson Crusoe, and 
 two penny whistles in the collection. There was a 
 dormouse, but I let that go." 
 
 " My sketching block isn't a plaything,'' said Enid. " It 
 is a working woman's tool, and it helps me to earn bread 
 and butter. I cannot afford to lose it." 
 
 " A working woman's tool." He looked at her with 
 some surprise and a glimmer of interest. It had not 
 occurred to him that a girl whom he had met at Draycott 
 Court could be earning her own livelihood. Now he 
 understood why she was slightly different to the majority of 
 the young ladies he had come across at dinner-parties. She 
 was more independent and less self-conscious. " Come 
 along. I'll get it for you," he said, swinging back the big 
 door. 
 
 Enid followed him anxiously to the vestry. "The 
 sketch of that old window is for an art magazine," 
 she said, when he had found the block. " One is obliged 
 to make every line very clear and sharp for printing. It 
 took me a long time to do." 
 
 " It seems to me excellent," said the priest, with some 
 interest. " May I look at this loose sheet too ? Is it a 
 fancy picture ? Ah ! " 
 
 The exclamation, short and sharp, revealed that he had 
 grasped the meaning of the artist. 
 
 It was a rough charcoal sketch of himself, in the act of 
 preaching to two sleeping parishioners, and to a vista of
 
 JSetween /IDan ant) /IDan 223 
 
 empty pews. His spare, energetic figure was portrayed 
 with some force. Above his head drooped the old flag. 
 Above the flag was scribbled " Forlorn Hopes." 
 
 Enid coloured. " I am sorry you have seen that," she 
 said. 
 
 " VoH at any rate have turned my sermon to some 
 account," said Mr. Strode drily. " It is very clever. What 
 magazine is it to appear in ? " 
 
 " In none. I only did it for my brother, and that is the 
 same as for myself. Geoff'rey likes to know all about 
 everything, and it is easier to me to draw than to write 
 what I see. But I will tear it up if you like." 
 
 She made the offer regretfully, moved thereto by his 
 evident displeasure. Enid could not bear to hurt any one's 
 feelings, but she knew that the sketch was good. 
 
 " I really did listen to your sermon," she added in 
 extenuation, " I know just what it was all about ; and I did 
 not draw while the prayers were going on, so I was not so 
 very bad. It was the sight of that old flag that put the 
 idea into my head. An old flag touches one so." 
 
 She smiled as she spoke, and the colour came into her 
 little thin, wedge-shaped face. Mr. Strode was mollified. 
 
 " Yes, that flag preaches a sermon that even the sleepiest 
 and densest member of my congregation understands," he 
 said. " Do not tear up your sketch. May I — if you were 
 not going to sell it — may I have it ? As a matter of fact, 
 /, too, care about my commission ! " 
 
 " Why, of course you do," said Enid, who was puzzled 
 by the defensive tone of the assertion, which had not been 
 addressed to her, but to an invisible accuser. 
 
 In the intervals of his work Mr. Strode was constantly 
 holding a silent argument with a voice which most unfairly 
 and bitterly told him that he was no true priest ; that on 
 the contrary he had done his best to damn a soul committed 
 to his charge. He stoutly denied the accusation ; he
 
 224 Ht tbe Cross*1Roa&5 
 
 triumphantly proved his accuser to be utterly in the wrong;' 
 he found excellent rejoinders that he had had no time to 
 frame during that scene in the conservatory. Yet the voice 
 was still persistent, perhaps because it was a woman's 
 voice and unamenable to reason, 
 
 "Do have it, if you would like to," said Enid. 
 
 Mr. Strode looked at the sketch with kindling eyes. " One 
 could hardly wish any one a much better fate than that he 
 should be the successful leader of a forlorn hope," said 
 he. 
 
 " Hardly," agreed the little artist. " There is one person 
 for whom one feels more reverence." 
 
 " Who is that ? " asked the priest. 
 
 " Oh, the unsuccessful leader," said the woman softly. 
 
 The shadows were lengthening when they stepped out 
 through the vestry door into the churchyard. 
 
 "I wonder whether I shall have time to do an hour's 
 work before dinner. My wall is nearly finished," Enid 
 said. 
 
 But in spite of her ardour for work, she could not but 
 pause for a minute to look at the soft, wooded landscape 
 that lay below her, at the blue line of sea in the distance, 
 at the pink roses that clambered over the graves at her feet. 
 Beauty was truly to her "the vision of Him who reigns." 
 Like Era Angelica, she worshipped with her pencil ; and 
 if the apparent results of her labour were poorer, who 
 knows, after all, how little apparent results matter in the 
 spiritual world ? 
 
 "Ah, you are decorating the club-room that Mr. Cardew 
 has seen fit to build in my parish," said Mr. Strode. 
 
 He was not pleased at these doings that had been 
 inaugurated during the reign of King Log. He had medi- 
 tated starting a rival church club, but the lay influence 
 was so strong that he was aware that his failure would be 
 a foregone conclusion.
 
 Between /Iftan ant) ^an 225 
 
 Enid promptly invited him to come and see her design. 
 She was, she assured him, very lucky to get the chance. 
 No one ever had kinder friends than the Cardews. 
 
 " I am aware that Mrs. Cardew is extremely popular," 
 said Mr. Strode in a non-committal tone. 
 
 He walked down the hill and through the village street 
 by Enid's side. It would have been petty to refuse to 
 look at the inside of that new building, the sight of which 
 fretted him every time he passed by. Mr. Strode was a 
 person who tried his smallest action by a strict standard. 
 His temper occasionally suffered from the strain ; he took 
 himself too seriously. 
 
 " I think," said Enid, who always quickly repented of 
 anger — " I think that I was hasty at dinner the other night. 
 You see one cannot help getting hot if any one implies 
 things against one's friends. Afterwards I remembered 
 that you could not know all that I knew." 
 
 " What do you know ? " said Mr. Strode. 
 
 "I knew Mr. Cardew before all that happened," said 
 Enid simply. " He was quite young then, and very high- 
 spirited and very clever. We all thought a great deal of 
 him. He was just the very last person in all the world 
 to dream of going in for the sort of deliberate fraud that 
 he was accused of. None of his friends ever could believe 
 that he was in the wrong. It was an impossible thing to 
 believe. I have been wanting very much to explain this 
 to you. I daresay that you would be glad to believe that 
 he is good, and of course it is difficult for you to be sure 
 of that, because you were not his friend before. He has 
 got into a way of looking like — like a blank wall, when he 
 is with any one who does not trust him. I daresay that 
 he put on that look when you met him in prison, and that 
 it was no wonder that you could not get past it." 
 
 They had reached the club-room now, and stood in a 
 very pleasant place. The walls were decorated with a 
 
 IS
 
 226 Bt tbe Cross*1Roa^5 
 
 design of tall hollyhocks, and the wooden floor smelt 
 refreshingly of turpentine and bees-wax, Mr, Strode stared, 
 with unseeing eyes, at the painting on the wall. 
 
 "Do you like it?" asked the little artist eagerly, "or 
 do you think that there are too many pink flowers ? 
 Those grey buds come in well, but Mrs. Cardew does not 
 like them. She cannot bear anything that is fading. Is 
 not that curious ? Still, one must paint a thing as one 
 sees it oneself. It is not honest work if one considers one's 
 patron too much. Do you like it ? " 
 
 "No," said Mr. Strode sternly. "That is not an excuse 
 that I should desire to urge; but no excuse is needed." 
 
 Enid started with surprise. She sometimes complained 
 that people did not take art seriously enough, but here, 
 indeed, was a critic who did not fail in that respect ! 
 
 " I was not excusing it," she said faintly, then saw with 
 momentary chagrin that it was not of flowers and buds 
 that he was thinking. 
 
 " No excuse is needed," he repeated. " For I was and 
 am convinced that the man was guilty. When he first 
 spoke to me he was eager, and apparently almost boyishly 
 expansive; an inexperienced person might have been 
 deceived, but I had seen so many of them ! Later he 
 evinced a recklessly stubborn disposition that no discipline 
 could subdue. Appealed to me ? No, no, it was no 
 genuine appeal. It was an attempt to deceive " 
 
 " Hush ! " Enid interrupted. " Whatever you may be 
 unfortunate enough to imagine about Mr. Cardew, you 
 must not say such things to me." 
 
 She took up her palette and paint-brushes, as a sign to 
 him to go. She could not see to paint. She was vexed 
 and disappointed. 
 
 " It was my fault for being so silly as to think that I 
 could persuade you to believe in him. It would have been 
 much wiser to have held my tongue," she said. After a
 
 Between /IDan an& /iDan 227 
 
 moment's pause she added wistfully, " But I thought that 
 perhaps yoii would have been glad to be persuaded." 
 
 Mr. Strode ceased to argue with that accusing voice. 
 His gentlemanly feeling asserted itself. 
 
 " I beg your pardon. I was not thinking of you, but I 
 certainly ought not to have spoken against Mr. Cardew 
 before his guest," he said. " Of course I should be only 
 too glad if " 
 
 But he left the sentence unfinished, for his honesty 
 choked him. 
 
 Then he stooped to pick up his hat and went out. He 
 would have given a good deal to have been able to have 
 completed that remark. As it was, the accusing voice 
 pounced triumphantly on his failure. 
 
 " Ah, you cannot say it. You would not be glad to see 
 Cardew cleared. In your heart you would be sorry. You 
 are no true shepherd of souls." 
 
 Meanwhile Mrs. Clovis leaned back in the carriage and 
 accepted her husband's attentions with a faint, weary smile. 
 When they reached the house George rushed to welcome 
 his father and was immensely surprised to see his mother. 
 
 " Why, mother, I ran up to your room and the door 
 was locked. Gillian told me your head was still bad," he 
 cried. " And, I say, I have got a lot of queer things to tell 
 you, and Mr. Cardew sent you a message. He says the 
 beggar we met in the plantation is an awful bad beggar, 
 and that he advises you to tell dad about him. But of 
 course you don't understand, because you weren't in the 
 plantation. Oh, mother, isn't it awfully funny — do you 
 know what I thought ? I thought— just for a minute, you 
 know — that the beggar-woman's voice was yours ! Of 
 course I did not see her, because just then the cat ran up 
 the tree. But where have you been, mother, and is your 
 head well ? "
 
 228 Bt tbe Ci*oss*1Roat>s 
 
 "Don't you pester her with so many questions," said 
 Mr. Clovis. "She's been praying. That's what she's 
 been after." 
 
 He spoke with the funniest mixture of admiration and 
 irritation. His wife's piety always seemed to him to be a 
 very touching crown to her womanHness, but he was 
 jealous of the exactions of the Church. 
 
 " You ain't strong enough to be leaning up against hard 
 wooden chairs. I sha'n't allow it now I am home," he 
 said. " I'll be bound that long-faced gentleman don't pray 
 till he is faint." 
 
 " I do not like to hear you speak against a clergyman," 
 she said gently. " But, indeed, I have had a most weary 
 time, and I am thankful to have you back." 
 
 And here at least she spoke the absolute truth. Mrs. 
 Clovis missed her husband's petting when he was away ; 
 comfort and safety seemed to return with him. Her 
 conscience had been playing bully all day, Jack had 
 (unwittingly) terrified her, Cyril Bevan had meanly black- 
 mailed her. She had felt herself a forlorn and tempest- 
 tossed sinner, whose only refuge lay in penance and 
 prayer. Now the very sound of her husband's hearty 
 voice drove back these terrors. When he arranged her 
 sofa cushions, and fussed over her, and scolded her for 
 being "too much of a saint," it was as if she had stepped 
 from a dark, cold waste into a cheerful, well-lighted room. 
 She knew at the bottom of her heart that nothing was 
 really changed ; the howling wilderness might yet be her 
 portion, but for the time she could forget it. In truth, she 
 had managed to ignore uncomfortable facts during a good 
 many years. She lay very cosily among the cushions, and 
 her head ceased to ache. She enjoyed describing the 
 thrilling event of the week, and all the worry and anxiety 
 it had entailed on her. 
 
 Mr. Clovis was a person who liked to hear every detail,
 
 Between /IDan anb /Ilbatt 229 
 
 and, like little George, he firmly believed that Eva told 
 him " all her secrets." 
 
 " So Madam Gill is staying with us, after all ! " he said 
 triumphantly, " She swore she would not till I asked her 
 convict." 
 
 " I wish you would not call Jack by horrid names," said 
 Mrs. Clovis. "Dear Gillian is wilful, I know. On this 
 occasion she gave way for the boy's sake. The shock 
 seems to have made him very nervous, and it was unwise 
 to move him again." 
 
 Mr. Clovis drummed on the table — a symptom that he 
 was perturbed, "She would do anything for her boy or 
 her husband," he remarked. "I believe she would even 
 swallow humble pie, which is a dish Miss Gill was never 
 partial to. Look here, Eva — suppose she is right, and 
 he never was in fault after all, eh ? " 
 
 " I always have said that I never believed him to be 
 guilty of swindling," said Mrs. Clovis. 
 
 "Yes — you said," he repeated doubtfully. "But you 
 were dead against the marriage, my dear, so somehow 
 I never thought you had much faith in him. There, don't 
 look distressed. I tell you I am almost coming round. 
 I've always seen that if you give a rogue rope enough he 
 is safe to hang himself in time. Now Cardew's had 
 plenty of rope since his marriage, and what's the result ? 
 He has been gradually righting himself. Just at first I 
 didn't think he would, but he has. I wish I knew the 
 truth." 
 
 " Every one believes in him now," said Mrs. Clovis, 
 shutting her eyes wearily. She wished that George had 
 not hit on this subject. 
 
 " I have always vowed I would not have him here, just 
 because Madam Gillian has managed to brazen it out 
 and make the most of his money. I am honest myself. 
 I draw the line before convicts. I don't think much of
 
 23° Bt tbe (Ero55*1RoaC)5 
 
 ' every one,' " said Mr. Clovis sturdily. " There is one 
 whose real opinion I should like to get at, my dear." 
 
 "Whose? Gillian's?" 
 
 " No, not Gillian's — though I doubt if any one could keep 
 the truth from his wife — not Gillian's, but Jack's." I 
 should like to go up to him of a sudden, when he wasn't 
 prepared. ' Look here, between man and man,' I would 
 say, 'and in strictest confidence, just so as to know what 
 to be at, did you do it, or did you not ? ' I can't but fancy 
 I could tell by the first look of his face whether he did." 
 
 " But that is quite absurd, dear George, and I hope you 
 will never do anything so very ridiculous. It is so much 
 better to drop the whole matter and behave as if it had 
 never happened." 
 
 Mr. Clovis shook his head regretfully. " I can't lump 
 things like that. It ain't my nature," he said. " What's 
 more, my idea isn't so ridiculous as it sounds. They say 
 a criminal always gets possessed with a longing to confess. 
 That's how lots of 'em come to the gallows. Why, what's 
 wrong, my dear ? " 
 
 "My head is throbbing again. I do not think I. shall 
 come down to dinner ; but you ought to go to dress, dear, 
 the bell has sounded." 
 
 " Well, you just stay quiet and take care of yourself, for 
 good people are scarce," said he. " I'll tell you if I do ask 
 the convict that question." 
 
 The fancy, perhaps by reason of its absurd simplicity, 
 had taken hold of Mr. Clovis. All the while that he was 
 dressing for dinner he kept wondering how it would be 
 supposing that he were to present his naive inquiry 
 suddenly as if he were putting a pistol to the man's head. 
 He chuckled to himself, and played with the thought. It 
 seemed to him that he might jerk the truth to the surface. 
 
 He was preoccupied when he went down to dinner, and 
 Gillian wondered why.
 
 Between /IDan ant) /iDan 231 
 
 " So you've come to stay with us, for all you said you 
 wouldn't," he said on meeting her. 
 
 " I did not reckon on our roof being burned over our 
 heads, or on my boy being hurt. You have every right to 
 your triumph," said Gill. 
 
 At that her step-father repented him of his speech, which 
 indeed it would have been better to have left unsaid. 
 Madam Gillian had a way of making a man feel small when 
 she chose. 
 
 Nevertheless he recovered his spirits during dinner, and 
 patronised Miss Haubert, with every intention of kindness, 
 though with too much evident consciousness of the difference 
 between the magnificence of his table and the sort of dinner 
 she was accustomed to at home. Luckily, Enid had a 
 bright and sympathetic nature, and was more easily amused 
 than offended ; moreover, she was upheld by the secret 
 knowledge that she was not pitiable in reality, and that 
 she would not have changed places with her host (had 
 such a transformation been possible) for all the good things 
 in the world. 
 
 Fancy having Mrs. Clovis to live with instead of Geoffrey ! 
 Fancy how dull to be quite old, v/ith no visions of what 
 one might live to do in the dim future ! And oh, how sad 
 to have so little colour in life that one's dinner became a 
 source of interest, and one actually submitted to five courses, 
 served by powdered footmen every night! That was all 
 very well for a change, but how terribly tedious for a 
 continuance ! Pcor rich man ! She was very sorry for 
 him. 
 
 George came in at dessert time, and stayed to chatter to 
 his father when the ladies had left the dining-room. Mr. 
 Clovis and George were excellent companions. 
 
 " There was an awfully bad set of poachers in our wood 
 to-day," George informed his father, " but Mr. Cardew 
 frightened them away."
 
 232 Ht tbe Cro55=1Roa&5 
 
 " I did not wish you to have anything to do with Mr. 
 Cardew, my lad." 
 
 " Why, he is an awfully nice chap," said George earnestly. 
 " You would like him no end if you knew him as well as 
 I do." 
 
 Mr. Clovis frowned. "As well as you do? What 
 business had the fellow to be making friends with you ? " 
 
 " Oh, he only talked to me to-day," George owned. 
 " And that was because I nearly knocked him down. I 
 was racing after the cat, you see. So then of course I had 
 a conversation with him, and then he helped me over a 
 wall." 
 
 " Humph ! What did you converse about ? " 
 
 " Wild cats and poachers," said George. " What makes 
 you say 'humph,' father?" 
 
 Mr. Clovis rubbed the back of his head, as he alwaj's 
 did when he was considering. " I don't see why I should 
 not explain it to 3'ou," he said at last. " To tell you 
 the truth, my boy, I don't know whether Mr. Cardew 
 is a good chap or a downright bad one. There 
 was a nasty thing happened to him once. He was con- 
 victed and sent to prison for trying to get money under 
 false pretences — that means, by telling a heap of lies — but 
 there are folks who have it that he never did the thing in 
 spite of judge and jury, and there are others who will 
 forget a deal if a man's got a mint of money, d'ye see ? 
 Now, you and I, we come of a clean family. We don't 
 want no dealings with rogues — and that is a thing I want 
 you to remember, though you won't be in the business — 
 you come of a clean stock that has never had any call to be 
 ashamed. When you are all among lords and ladies — as 
 you will be — and thinking as likely as not of marrying a 
 Lady Evelina de something or other, you can bear it in 
 mind. ' My father was in frade, but I come of a clean 
 stock, sir,' saj's 3'ou. And I should not wonder if that
 
 Between /Iftan aiiD /iDan 233 
 
 won't be more than your lady's father will be able to trump ; 
 for the Lord knows that half those grand families was 
 started the wrong side of the blanket." 
 
 Mr. Clovis was apt to wax eloquent on this topic, but 
 George was quite uninterested in his future proposal for 
 the hand of Lady Evelina. 
 
 " Was Gillian sent to prison too," he asked, " and did 
 they have planks beds and water gruel ? I suppose that 
 they had to share one gruel between them as they were 
 married ? " 
 
 Like his father, George had a great love of minute 
 practical detail. 
 
 "Your step-sister was not married then. She waited 
 till he came out of prison." 
 
 " Why, then of course he did not do it ; besides, I know 
 he didn't, anyway," said George. 
 
 "Know? What do you know. Jackanapes ? " said his 
 father, laughing. 
 
 Mr. Clovis had told the little boy the story in much the 
 same spirit as that in which his grandfather — who had been 
 uneducated — had occasionally consulted his Bible with a key, 
 thrust at random between the leaves ; but the grandson 
 would not own that the oracle had weight. 
 
 "What do you know. Jackanapes ? " 
 
 " He didn't tell lies, because he doesn't," said George 
 conclusively. " Dad, may I have a real gun to go about the 
 wood with, please, because there are so many fierce 
 poachers about ? " 
 
 Mr. Clovis having refused this often preferred request, 
 which George brought out regularly at dessert time, always 
 with a fresh reason attached to it, sent his son and heir 
 to bed, and took counsel with his pipe in the garden. 
 
 " Because he doesn't." Well, was not that, after all, 
 the ground on which more than one honourable man built 
 his faith where Cardew was concerned ? A liar can no
 
 234 Ht tf3e Cross*1Roat)s 
 
 more keep his tongue from lying than a toper can keep 
 his Hps from the bottle. A man's character, like murder, 
 will out. It was all very well to declare that Cardew's 
 money and Gillian's cleverness bought golden opinions — 
 to a certain extent, and with a certain class, no doubt 
 they did — yet in his heart Mr. Clovis knew well that here in 
 Cardew's own county there were men who trusted him now 
 who had been inclined at first to hold back, and whose 
 opinion could never have been bought. Moreover, these 
 men were willing that their wives should meet the convict, 
 and that was a very crucial proof of the genuineness of their 
 trust. Then again, women believed in Jack, and that 
 might perhaps count for something. Women, Mr. Clovis 
 reflected, have a curious instinct for character. They have 
 frequently been on the right side, even from the days when 
 they followed the Galilean, w^eeping. 
 
 " I wish I knew," he muttered for the hundredth time, 
 and at that moment he saw Jack coming up the drive; and 
 impelled by a half-formed purpose, he walked up to the 
 front door. 
 
 The two men met just under the hanging electric light 
 that the soap-boiler had suspended from the roof of his 
 Gothic porch. Jack lifted his hat rather stiffly. 
 
 " I should apologise for coming to your house," he said, 
 " but I am bound to hear how the boy is before I finally 
 decide to go up to town to-morrow." 
 
 Cardew was less embarrassed than Mr. Clovis ; indeed, 
 he was surprised to see that Gillian's step-father had some 
 difficulty in speaking to him. He supposed, a little scorn- 
 fully, that the old fellow was overcome by rage. 
 
 " There is no need for me to go inside your house," he 
 said. " Gillian can talk to me here." 
 
 He was about to pull the bell, when, to his further 
 astonishment, Mr. Clovis arrested the movement. 
 
 " No ; don't ring. Wait a bit," said the master of the
 
 Between /Iftan an& ffban 235 
 
 house. " It ain't that I would prevent your going in to 
 speak to Madam Gill — for choose what a man may be, he 
 has a right to his wife — but there is a thing I would so 
 much like to ask you, that — well, 'pon my word, I can't 
 keep it back any more." 
 
 " I cannot guess what you can possibly have to ask me," 
 said Jack. 
 
 The soap-boiler got redder still, and his protuberant 
 eyes seemed to start with eagerness. Jack noticed that the 
 diamond-ringed thick-fingered hand shook. He wondered 
 what "old Cloves" had in his head. Was it something to 
 do with money ? He was not inclined to be encouraging. 
 
 " Well ? " he said coldly. 
 
 " As man to man," Mr. Clevis blurted out suddenly, 
 "and before God, were you guilty of fraud or no ? " 
 
 " No," said Jack. 
 
 Then, almost as the emphatic denial crossed his lips, his 
 pride told him that he had been a fool to reply. . 
 
 " I was not called on to answer you," he said, the next 
 moment. " It is a farce to ask me such a question. Had 
 I done the thing, do you suppose I should stick at swearing 
 I had not ? You are just as wise as you were before." 
 
 Mr. Clovis drew himself up and held out his hand. "I 
 believe you, Cardew," he said simply. " And I wish 1 
 had done that before. It seems childish — though, for that 
 matter, children ain't easily gulled by a bad person — but I 
 believe you, and I am glad I do ! I wasn't sure that it 
 would convince me, but it has." 
 
 Cardew laughed outright. " The thing is manifestly 
 absurd," said he. 
 
 Mr. Clovis still stood perseveringly holding out his hand. 
 Jack's laughter ceased. Something seemed to have got 
 into his throat. It was absurd, of course, yet the obstinate 
 and kindly old soap-boiler's ridiculous proceeding made the 
 world the sounder to him.
 
 236 Bt tbe Cros5*1Roa&5 
 
 He grasped Mr. Clovis by the hand with a force that 
 made that gentleman exclaim, for the diamond ring had cut 
 his finger. 
 
 " That will do, that will do," cried Mr. Clovis. " But I 
 do not see that I am at all absurd ! '" 
 
 " All right," said Cardew, trying rather awkwardly to 
 finish his laugh. " But if it is not you, why, then, it is the 
 arrangement of everything that is mad, sir. No, I wasn't 
 guilty. But I don't think we shall ever see that fact 
 proved. Except for my son's sake I don't much care 
 nowadays." 
 
 Mr. Clovis had opened the hall door and they were 
 crossing the hall together. He shook his head over the last 
 words. " You ought to care for your own sake. You are 
 young yet," he said. 
 
 " I am close on the forties," said Jack. " Well, possibly 
 one does not get much understanding in forty years, or in 
 eighty either ! One begins to have a rough guess at what 
 is not worth having, that's all."
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 "SINCE I HAVE HAD GOLIATH:' 
 
 "Whate'er thou lovest, man, that too become thou must: 
 God, if thou lovest God; dust, if thou lovest dust." 
 
 Johannes Schcffer. 
 
 CARDEW found his old friend sitting up in bed, with 
 his long legs drawn up to make a rest for a book. 
 
 " I am not done for this time, Jack," he said, " though 
 I fancy that the next wrestle will about finish me." 
 
 He was gaunter than ever, but there was a good deal 
 of vigour in the grasp of the long lean fingers, and the 
 black eyes were not devoid of fire. He was unshaven, 
 for he would not allow a nurse to shave him, and the 
 bed-clothes were twisted uncomfortably. The room looked 
 comfortless, even to the eyes of a man who seldom observed 
 details. 
 
 " I do not see why it should finish you, if you take 
 proper precautions," said Jack. 
 
 He had been waylaid by Elizabeth on the stairs, and 
 had been entreated with tears to " speak reason to the 
 master," whose curious and perverse methods of dealing 
 with illness were driving her to despair. 
 
 " If you insist on bleeding yourself, and on sleeping 
 with your window open, and on not seeing a doctor " 
 
 " There, there, that's no matter," interrupted the old 
 man. "What, Jack, are we a couple of crones that we 
 
 237
 
 238 Ht tbe Cross^lRoa^s 
 
 must converse together ol pills and cossetings ? I won't 
 have it. I have one disease that's bound to kill me anyhow, 
 and that's age. I thought I should have got the worst 
 of this year's round — and that is why I had a desire to see 
 you again — but no, I am too tough for the choker yet ! " 
 He laughed with a queer twist of his big, humorous 
 mouth. " Too tough, though I am an old customer," he 
 repeated triumphantly. "But next time. Jack, Age will come 
 behind and strike me in the back when bronchitis has his 
 grip on my windpipe — and then this ugly body will be 
 done for, hey ? And mind you bury it in the garden 
 in a basket, for I hate paraphernalia. I have made you 
 executor." 
 
 " But you may live another ten years if " 
 
 "You may go if you can't talk sense," cried Mr. Molyneux. 
 "I am not so old that 1 can stand interference, sir. When 
 I feel that that period is approaching I shall certainly 
 give my flesh the slip." 
 
 And Jack was silenced. 
 
 *' Not but what I am obliged to you for coming here, 
 and glad to see you, and I did not mean to seem the 
 contrary," the old man said restlessly, and after an uneasy 
 pause. He plucked at the counterpane with restless 
 fingers ; he was a bad patient, and weakness made him 
 irritable, but he loved Jack Cardew. " Can't you sit 
 down and smoke ? We've had a good many smokes 
 together. You will find a pipe and matches on the 
 mantelpiece. Lady Jane comes to see me, and she is 
 the only other visitor I care about, but of course she 
 can't smoke. You and I sat up half the night the first 
 time you dined with me. Do you remember ? You were 
 full of ideas then. Lord ! what wonders you were to do. 
 I was thinking last night that I should like to bave you sit 
 and smoke by me again." 
 
 Cardew did as he was bid, and drew his chair up to the
 
 ** Since 5 bave Mt> aollatb" 239 
 
 bedside. The pipe set him at ease, j'et he rather wished 
 that Mr. Molyneux had not suggested it. How kind the 
 old fellow had been to that eager youth who — save during 
 the moments when he was sure he was the veriest fool 
 alive — had expected to set the Thames on fire. Jack puft'ed 
 vigorously ; the smoke must have got into his eyes, for the 
 water stood in them, 
 
 " I am sure I don't know why you troubled yourself 
 about a conceited young ass," he said. " I suppose it was 
 because — as one gets on in years — boys have a sort of 
 interest for one." 
 
 " I don't know that I cared about 'em as a rule," said 
 Mr. Molyneux. "You've got more humanity in you than 
 ever I had. It told in your writings, it will tell again. 
 You're a much bigger chap than me, Cardew. I was born 
 a pedant and bookworm, but you were meant to help the 
 world to live." 
 
 "No, I made a hash of it," said Jack. He smoked 
 silently for a time, then broke out gloomily, 'You know 
 that I did, sir. You were ashamed of me when we met 
 in Gillian's room after I came back. Do you suppose I did 
 not see that ? Mind, I did not wonder. I am ashamed of 
 that time now. If she had been ashamed too, the devil 
 knows where I should be." 
 
 "That is true," said Mr. Molyneux. "And she was right, 
 and I was wrong ; but I was disappointed in you. Jack." 
 
 Jack laughed, but rather sadly. " You naturally ex- 
 pected me to be a hero after all the fine heroics that 
 I wrote," he said. " And I succumbed to the force of 
 circumstances, and the brute in me got loose" — his 
 forehead contracted as if with pain — " got loose and killed 
 a man. You would never have done that." 
 
 " No, I should not have done that," agreed the old man. 
 "And so I took upon myself to be disappointed. "Upon 
 myself!" There was a certain fierce mockery in his tone.
 
 240 at tbe Cross^lRoa^s 
 
 Stephen Molyneux set no store by the opinion of the 
 majority, but he was given at times to a bitter self- 
 disparagement. It is perhaps as well for the sake of our 
 sanity that we do not see ourselves too plainly — but 
 Stephen had always been eccentric. 
 
 " And why not ? " said Cardew shortly. " I've told you 
 I wasn't surprised. Of course I knew that I had gone 
 some way to the bad. Gill surprised me, not you. Of 
 course I knew that I had fallen below your level. You 
 couldn't help being the better man." 
 
 " Ay, but there's the mistake, said Mr. Molyneux. He 
 relapsed into silence, watching Jack with a satisfaction that 
 needed no outlet in words. The better man ? No, no, only 
 the smaller man. The man with fewer temptations and 
 the less complete nature. He was glad he saw that now. 
 
 " I doubt he is not far off after all — he seems to have 
 lent me glasses," he muttered dreamily. 
 
 When Jack asked "Who?" he repeated the question 
 almost merrily, " Who ? who ? The one doctor who cures, 
 lad." 
 
 Later his mind reverted again to the former subject. 
 ** See now, I should not have broken out in despair. No, 
 for my blood was never so hot as yours. I should have 
 frozen more likely. But it was because of the fire in you 
 that I liked you — and then I was surprised because it 
 flashed out and burned. Poor lad, poor lad ! Why, you 
 never took anything coldly in your life ! " 
 
 " What I did, I did," said Cardew, looking straight before 
 him. " And it is to God, if there is one — and since I've had 
 Goliath I think that there is — it is to Him that I must 
 answer. I don't want excuses made for me. That one is 
 mad with rage and misery is no justification, when just 
 the business of life, if one allows of a right and a wrong at 
 all, is to keep that brute self in a leash, I knew what I 
 was letting go."
 
 "Since 5 bavc ba^ Goliatb" 241 
 
 ** Well, well, you repent, like David," said the old man ; 
 and while he spoke the last remnants of disappointment 
 and estrangement rolled away, and it seemed to him that 
 he saw of a certainty that which should be. 
 
 " The old crank dies childless, and it is a natural law and 
 right that it should be so," he said. *' But your sons and 
 grandsons are proud of the name you hand down to them, 
 and you beget spiritual children too. Yes, yes — and I am 
 glad that I have lived to see it." 
 
 Jack started, and took his pipe from his lips. Was 
 Mr. Molyneux wandering ? 
 
 " You are seeing a long way ahead, sir," he said. 
 
 *' I have nearly done with time," said Mr. Molyneux. 
 '* But I have liked you above a little, Jack, and that I think 
 I shall take with me," and a long silence fell between them. 
 
 So it happened for the third time within a week that a 
 man Cardew respected, but from whom he had received 
 hard measure, offered him expressions of renewed trust — 
 his quondam guardian, Gillian's step-father, and now this 
 old friend, whose disaffection he had accepted with secret 
 bitterness, whose prophecy he heard with a strange 
 sensation of awe. ** I am glad that I have lived to see it" — 
 but he had not seen it. Yet what is prophecy but the 
 escape from the bond of time ? and who could say what the 
 the brave spirit even now beheld, as it neared its freedom ? 
 
 Anyhow the illumination, or aberration, whichever it 
 might be, was over. Mr. Molyneux spoke next in an 
 irritable tone. " I hear you have come out in a new 
 character, and are counted a good man of business in these 
 days. You may as well give me your advice, then — though, 
 mind you, I don't approve this money-grabbing phase. 
 
 " Of course I will help if I can," said Jack. 
 
 The accusation of money-grabbing only amused him, for 
 whatever his faults might be they did not lie in that 
 direction. 
 
 - 16
 
 242 Bt tbe Cros6*lRoa&s 
 
 " Do you remember that print we talked ot the last time 
 we met ? It is in the market now, and the British Museum 
 is bidding for it. I fully think it genuine. Now if I buy 
 it, I cannot afford to live more than another six months. 
 There is only four hundred left now, besides what I have 
 always put aside for Elizabeth — you'll see that she gets her 
 legacy, won't you ? — and that print will cost three hundred, 
 
 I fancy. I wish that you would find out how far Mr. 
 
 is prepared to go for the British ? " 
 
 " Very well," said Jack. " What do you mean, sir, when 
 you say you cannot afford to live for more than another 
 six months ? " 
 
 He asked in some trepidation, for Mr. Molyneux was 
 apt to resent questions. He knew that Gillian was under 
 the impression that her great-uncle was very rich, but rich 
 men sometimes fancy themselves poor. On the other 
 hand, he had had suspicions that old Stephen muddled his 
 money matters. 
 
 Mr. Molyneux was momentarily inclined to snub the 
 inquiry, but he relented. Jack might take some liberties 
 that were not permitted to any one else. 
 
 " The fact is, I have lived on my capital for the last ten 
 years," he said. " Why not ? I have no son, and you 
 have money enough. My father died at eighty-six, and so 
 did my grandfather. I did not reckon on passing that 
 period, and have not left a large margin. You might wire 
 to me when you have spoken to Mr. ." 
 
 " Do you mean to tell me that you have only four 
 hundred pounds between you and destitution ? " said Jack. 
 
 He turned round on his chair, and resting his arms on 
 the back of it faced Mr. Molyneux. The old man smiled, 
 a kindly, amused smile, such as a grown man vouchsafes 
 to a child who is importunate over matters of no im- 
 portance. 
 
 "Three from four leaves one, Jack," he said. "I must
 
 4i 
 
 Since 3 bave ba& 6oUatb" 243 
 
 certainly have that print. Luckily I spend little on other 
 things. Oh, I daresay the hundred will last my time. 
 There are one or two books that I should like Lady Jane 
 to have. I picked them out before I took to bed. One 
 must be careful what one gives to a lady. And there is an 
 ornament or two that your wife might like. I know that 
 she will send them to a shop to have the jewels reset, and 
 that goes against me, rather ; but all the same she shall 
 have 'em, because I do not think that I did her justice. 
 The colour of her hair reminded me of her mother, and 
 that prejudiced me. But it was Gillian who stood by you, 
 and I would make her my most humble apologies if I 
 supposed that she ever cared about what an old fogey 
 thought." 
 
 " Gill shall not have your stones reset, and she does 
 not in the least resemble her mother," said Jack. 
 
 ** That recalls to me that there is another thing I had a 
 mind to tell you of. I have thought a good deal over it. 
 I was fond of Gillian's father, but her mother is a lady who 
 does not command my esteem." 
 
 Jack smiled involuntarily. It was unnecessary to have 
 informed him of that fact, for Mr. Molyneux was no adept 
 at dissembling, and the lady in question was fully aware 
 of his sentiments. 
 
 " Gill has told me that you never hit it off with Mrs. 
 Clovis ; but that does not much matter, does it ? " said he. 
 
 " She is not honest," said the old man. " I once sent 
 her money for her daughter's education. I found out by 
 chance years afterwards that she had never sent Gillian to 
 school, and that she had paid her milliner with the sum I 
 had given towards schooling. It was inexcusable. I did 
 not of course press her on the subject, but the transaction 
 proved her to be entirely unworthy of any trust." 
 
 Cardew sent the smoke up to the ceiling in rings, and 
 said nothing. He inclined, in these days, to a large silence.
 
 244 Bt tbe (Iross*1Roat>s 
 
 He did not trust Mrs, Clovis, but this irrevocable judgment 
 struck him as " rough on her." Jack could be furiously 
 angry and even implacable on occasion, but a woman 
 pressed by duns would never get a stern sentence from 
 him. Perhaps by reason of the " more blood in his veins " 
 sex weighed the scales heavily when Cardew held them. 
 
 " Thus knowing her to be devoid of principle," Mr. 
 Molyneux continued, " I observed with curiosity that she 
 has some secret reason to fear you, I am not a tatler, 
 therefore I have not mentioned this fact before, but I am 
 persuaded that Mrs. Clovis burned your manuscript and is 
 at the bottom of all your trouble." 
 
 " But that is quite impossible ! " cried Jack, 
 
 While Mr. Molyneux spoke he had been rather impressed 
 by the circumstance of some one else having noticed that 
 Mrs. Clovis was afraid. He had occasionally refused 
 admittance to the fancy that assailed him in his mother- 
 in-law's presence. But the next minute he recognised 
 plainly and sensibly enough that the old man was not 
 quite himself to-day, that his prejudices, both for and 
 against people were accentuated ; they stood out, like the 
 veins on a dying leaf, but reason was fading. 
 
 " Well, well, I fancied that you might be interested to 
 know who did it, so I told you," Mr. Molyneux said. 
 " But you are right to take no notice. The punishment 
 of the unjust is not in our hands, neither does it consist, as 
 
 the vulgar imagine, in stripes and death, but " The 
 
 sentence ended in a Greek quotation, and Cardew, whose 
 Greek was somewhat rusty, shook his head. 
 
 " I was never philosophical," he said ; " but I do not 
 think that I have an enemy. It was fate — or something 
 else. Here is Elizabeth with your gruel, sir." 
 
 "Throw it out of the window. I do not need it," 
 said the patient. " Let mc see, what were we saying ? " 
 
 Elizabeth, with swollen eyelids, and with her usually
 
 ''Since 5 bave bat) 6oUatb" 245 
 
 comely face puckered with grief, whispered pathetically 
 to Jack, " The master won't listen to a woman. Do you 
 make him swallow something, sir." 
 
 Jack, full of pity for her, and greatly oppressed by a 
 sense of his own incapacity, took the tray, and sitting close 
 to the bed coaxed and coerced with a rough tenderness that 
 brought fresh tears to the woman's eyes. 
 
 It was terrible to her to see the awkwardness with 
 which Jack fed the old master, and to feel how much 
 more handily and comfortably she could have done it. 
 There was tragedy to her faithful soul in the muddled bed- 
 clothes (which she was not suffered to put straight) and in 
 the way the smoke from Mr. Cardew's pipe curled over 
 the food. But the feminine element that — so far as was 
 known — had had no sway in the bachelor's life, was not 
 allowed to smooth his death-bed. 
 
 " He is that scared of a woman meddling when he is ill, 
 though as polite a gentleman as ever was when he is well, 
 that I do believe there must once have been one who 
 was too much for him," Elizabeth said to herself " And 
 his contrary ways now is all her fault." 
 
 Jack found her sitting on the stairs when he come out 
 with the empty basin in his hand. 
 
 " I made him eat it, Elizabeth," said he. " But it was 
 the toughest job I've ever been set to, and if it had not 
 been that you were crying I should have given up. Now 
 do for goodness' sake dry your eyes." 
 
 Elizabeth loved Jack Cardew, and in common with the 
 rest of her sex had known better than to doubt him. She 
 dried her eyes on her apron, and took the tray. 
 
 " God bless you, sir," said she. " You was always that 
 kind-hearted. But what do you think about the master? 
 He has not spoken a word of late till to-day ; but since you 
 come, I have heard his dear voice a-going and a-going 
 whenever I've crept to the door to listen ; and angry he
 
 246 Bt tbc Cros5*1Roa&s 
 
 would be if he knew how often I do that by night as 
 well as by day." 
 
 " I have never heard him talk so fast before," said 
 Jack. 
 
 " Did he speak quite sensible, sir ? " 
 
 " Yes — I think so," said Jack doubtfully. " He is 
 rather excited, and he said something I did not quite 
 understand about a man who is walking in the garden 
 and who can answer all the questions. Is any one in 
 the garden ? " 
 
 Jack unfastened the glass door that opened from the 
 staircase on to the leads, and running down the grimy 
 stone steps, stood among the flower-beds. 
 
 There was something pathetic in this smoky house- 
 encircled oasis. A London garden is so surrounded by 
 enemies. Cats and green blight lie in wait to destroy. 
 The very petals of the flowers are touched with London 
 black. Poor dainty little ladies blooming under sad 
 difficulties ! Since the master had been laid up the 
 garden had been sadly ravaged. Mr. Molyneux had 
 been in the habit of getting up at four o'clock every 
 morning to dig. 
 
 " Dear me, sir, how pleased he was, the first time 
 you ofFs with your coat and digs too ! " said Elizabeth. 
 " I remember it as if it was yesterday. ' Elizabeth,' 
 says he, ' whenever Mr. Cardew comes, I am at home, 
 mind. Not that it is likely he'll want to come again,' 
 says he." 
 
 Elizabeth had followed Mr. Cardew wistfully, and again 
 stood close behind him. Jack would fain have been alone, 
 but he could not shake her off; she was terrified by 
 her master's condition, and as restlessly uneasy as Mr. 
 Molyneux's Persian cat, who had been wandering from 
 room to room all day. She was no gossip as a rule, but 
 anxiety had loosened her tongue.
 
 *'Since 5 Mvc bat> 6oliatb*' 247 
 
 " He seemed often a bit lonesome before you come, and 
 a deal worse after you went," she said. " But oh ! 
 
 if he would but let me do for him " and she began 
 
 to sob afresh. 
 
 " Look here, I shall stay the night here, and if he should 
 be any worse you shall fetch a doctor, whether he likes it 
 or no, and I will take the responsibility," said Jack. " But 
 for goodness' sake don't cry ! " 
 
 Elizabeth made him a funny old-fashioned curtsey, and 
 dried her eyes on her apron. 
 
 " Then I am to say it is by your orders, sir," she said. 
 She had been a woman who had been jealous of inter- 
 ference, but in this trouble which she could not grapple 
 with. Jack's masculine decision was of untold comfort 
 to her. She retreated, a good deal cheered, but Mr. 
 Cardew sat down on the garden bench in great depression 
 of spirit. The place in itself saddened him, the place 
 that was haunted by that hopeful and aspiring youth ! The 
 middle-aged man seemed to see the boy before him, and 
 put the vision aside with an impatient " pshaw." 
 
 Presently he walked to the nearest post-office and 
 cancelled all his engagements by telegram. Gillian would 
 mock at this sudden change in his plans ; she would say 
 Elizabeth was too much for him. Indeed, the idea of the 
 poor woman creeping at night to the door of her master's 
 room had had something to do with his resolution ; perhaps 
 it was no wonder that her sex trusted Jack Cardew. 
 
 Dinner was a rather melancholy affair, but Jack ate and 
 drank as best he could, having a thoroughly English horror 
 of giving way to sentiment. Elizabeth brought out the 
 best port, brushing the dust off each bottle as she plumped 
 it down. 
 
 " I know that the master would wish you to drink it, for 
 he always kept it for you," said she. " Indeed, sir, it was 
 always called Mr. Cardew's port from the first evening you
 
 248 at tbe Cro5Ss»1Roa^s 
 
 dined in this room, and he would not so much as look at 
 it after you was gone." 
 
 Wouldn't he? "To the master's health," said Cardew 
 with forced cheerfulness. 
 
 He raised the glass to his lips and sipped the wine with 
 apparent gusto, and Elizabeth was satisfied. 
 
 It had been like the old man to pour out of his best for 
 an impecunious youth who would have been equally pleased 
 with a hot new brand, but, after all, that characteristic and 
 unpractical generosity was not unappreciated. In truth, 
 one learns to doubt whether any gift that has in it the 
 element of our very best ever is wasted ; it is perhaps 
 rather the second-best, which is made up with just an alloy 
 of calculation, that is exchanged for disappointment. Those 
 who break their alabaster boxes and recklessly lavish all 
 their sweet ointment are not the people who cry out on the 
 ingratitude of the world. 
 
 Jack ate his dinner with outward stolidity, and a secret 
 wish that all the old things in the room would not appeal to 
 him. Imagination may be a gift of the gods, but there are 
 moments when it makes its possessor miserable. Cardew 
 would often have suffered and would perhaps have sinned 
 less without it — but possibly the celestial gifts are not 
 intended to conduce to our comfort. 
 
 When the meal was over Jack went upstairs again and 
 entered the sick-room. Finding the old man asleep, he 
 established himself in an armchair by the window with 
 every intention ot watching ; but presently, as the night 
 grew old, he nodded. Elizabeth had gone to bed with full 
 confidence in Mr. Cardew, and in the silent house the hours 
 slipped by on tip-toe. 
 
 It is odd to see how a person's expression may change in 
 sleep, how the character that lies below the surface peeps 
 out and shows itself unawares. One may feel ashamed to 
 scrutinise a sleeping person, in the same way that one
 
 "Since 5 bav>c f)a^ 6oUatb" 249 
 
 would feel ashamed to surprise a secret. Cardew's face 
 was very sad when he was sleeping, but it was not ignoble. 
 Funnily enough the dream spirit had carried him to the 
 night-nursery in which he had been put to bed when he 
 was a small boy. His ambitious youth, his clouded and 
 tragic manhood were forgotten, but he admired again the 
 pattern of stiff pink flowers with violet centres that covered 
 the nursery wall, and he saw the black streaks on the rails 
 of the cot, where the paint had been scraped off by his 
 own mischievous thumb-nails while he was longing for the 
 time to get up. Some noise in the street outside 
 momentarily disturbed him, and the dream shook and 
 altered slightly, as the colours on a soap-bubble change at 
 a breath. The cot was still there, but the wall paper was 
 adorned with pictures from fairy tales. It was no longer 
 himself. It was his boy who was kicking restlessly, and 
 pulling with eager fingers at the brass knobs at the corners 
 of the crib. 
 
 " The chap is like what I was," Jack said to himself. 
 He was amused when the little lad scrambled over the 
 rails, and, after several unsuccessful attempts, set his 
 chubby bare feet on a cane-bottomed chair that stood by 
 the bedside, and then slid on to the floor. The sleeper 
 laughed with a fellow-feeling when the boy chuckled with 
 adventurous delight and advanced half-fearfully into the 
 shadowy room, making straight for the long coveted box 
 of matches that lay on the wash-hand stand. Goliath, 
 secured the matches, and then trotted back and sat down 
 on the floor in an ecstasy of somewhat guilty joy, with 
 his pink toes tucked under him. He struck match after 
 match, throwing each behind him when the flame got close 
 to his fingers. He had an air of intense earnestness and 
 importance. 
 
 " Little villain ! somebody must certainly smack you 
 for this," Jack thought in his dream. The somebody
 
 250 Bt tbe Cross=«1Roa&s 
 
 would probably be Gillian, for Goliath was too much for 
 his father, who was exaggeratedly afraid of "hurting too 
 much." 
 
 Then with a thrill of horror Jack became aware that 
 the curtain behind the boy was on fire, and it seemed to 
 him that the child jumped up suddenly, and rushed into 
 the middle of the room screaming, with his night-shirt 
 in a blaze. The next momejit the nurse ran in, and 
 enveloped the little figure in a rug, putting out the fire, 
 then fled across the room with her burden. She tripped 
 over a marble in her flight, and, instinctively stretching 
 out her arms, let the boy, who was yelling lustily, fall 
 on to his back on to the floor — and at that Jack woke. 
 
 " I must have jerked forward in my chair, and it was 
 that that made me fancy Goliath had had a bad fall. 
 What an old womanish dream ! " Jack said to himself. 
 But it had been so unpleasant that he was disincHned to 
 shut his eyes again. 
 
 Towards three o'clock the patient woke, raised himself 
 on his pillow and smiled kindly at Jack, evincing no 
 surprise at sight of him. 
 
 " It is nearly morning, and he will soon be out walking 
 in the garden, you know," he remarked confidentially. 
 " A London garden is never up to much, as you see. I 
 was half afraid he would not care to come. My flowers 
 have not had so good a chance as some." 
 
 " I am going to make some tea for you," said Jack, in 
 his most matter-of-fact tone ; " how many lumps of sugar 
 shall I put in ? The spirit-lamp is blazing away like fun. 
 The water will boil in a minute." 
 
 He feared that the old man was "queer" again, and 
 made up his mind to fetch a doctor so soon as Elizabeth 
 should relieve guard. In the meantime it seemed to him 
 best to steadily ignore the " queerness." 
 
 Mr. Molyneux gulped down the tea eagerly. He was
 
 ''Since 3 bare ba& 6oliatb" 251 
 
 thirsty, and his lips were dry. Then he flung his long 
 legs out of bed. " Now I shall dig," he said ; " I always 
 dig before breakfast." 
 
 ** No, no, sir, it is still dark," said Jack. ** There will 
 be no daylight for another three hours." 
 
 " What are you doing here ? But there, there, you are 
 always welcome, I hope you know that," said Mr. Molyneux. 
 *' Yes, you are very welcome, Cardew — but I must ask 
 you to leave me for a few minutes, for I must dress myself. 
 What is that you said to me about having no dress clothes ? 
 Nonsense, lad, I asked you to dine, I don't care about your 
 clothes ; but at this moment I must get up." 
 
 " I cannot dine with you to-night. If you'll get back 
 into bed I'll explain why I cannot," said Jack; but Mr. 
 Molyneux was not to be cajoled. 
 
 By degrees he became angry at his guest's unaccountable 
 behaviour, and his excitement grew. Jack saw with dismay 
 that he should have to use force to prevent him from 
 wandering into the garden. 
 
 The necessity was painful to Cardew. He was miser- 
 able when he saw his friend's old-fashioned politeness 
 struggling with a sense of outrage. He felt brutal when 
 he used his strength, and he reddened with shame when 
 Mr. Molyneux at last lay back panting on his pillow, and 
 said reproachfully, " I could never have believed that 
 you could have behaved so, Cardew." 
 
 It was ridiculous to take that to heart, and equally 
 ridiculous to waste breath in trying to explain the situ- 
 ation, but Jack would have given a thousand pounds to 
 have been sure that old Stephen Molyneux would not go 
 out of the world angry and disappointed with him. Jack, 
 as his wife often remarked, was not a very ** reasonable 
 person." 
 
 He was thankful when the old man shut his eyes and 
 lay apparently exhausted by the struggle. He stole out
 
 252 Ht tbe Cross^lRoabs 
 
 and called softly to Elizabeth, who came down ready to 
 relieve him. 
 
 " I am very certain now that you ought not to be 
 left alone with him," said Jack. " But he has worn himself 
 out for the present. He will be quiet enough for the next 
 few hours, I fancy. I'll have a tub and some breakfast, 
 and then I will look up the doctor myself." 
 
 " He'll be very angry with you, sir," said EHzabeth, 
 but she was thankful that Mr. Cardew should take the 
 responsibility on his own broad shoulders. 
 
 The morning was grey, as the previous evening had 
 been. Cardew lingered in the garden when he had had 
 his coffee, for it was barely six— the doctor would scarcely 
 be up yet. He picked off the faded flowers in the heart- 
 shaped border on the lawn, and pulled up a few weeds, 
 wondering the while how Goliath was getting on. 
 
 Cardew's friendship was warm and genuine, but his own 
 boy was much more to him than all the old men in the 
 world. He was surprised at his own strength of affection 
 for his son. Mr. Molyneux had been more unreserved than 
 was his wont during the conversation of the previous day. 
 Both men had possibly been touched by the knowledge 
 that the time could not be far distant when they should 
 neither listen nor talk to each other any more, but the 
 prophecy about sons and grandsons was the point to which 
 Jack's mind reverted. 
 
 " Your sons and grandsons will be proud of the name 
 you hand down to them." 
 
 Well, if that were so, what did anything else matter ? 
 Life is hardly a merry business at best, but if a man's 
 sons and grandsons hand down an honoured name through 
 generations, why, then there seems some sort of satisfaction 
 to be got out of the contemplation of it. 
 
 Jack stooped to tie up a straggling flower, and as he 
 did so an understanding that was rather painful than
 
 ** Since 3 bavc bab 6oUatb" 253 
 
 otherwise came to him. He realised, as he had never 
 quite realised before, how much store that old man had set 
 by him, how bitter his disappointment must at one time 
 have been, and how pathetic a childless man's fondness for 
 a lad is. 
 
 ** I am glad Gill insisted on his being godfather to my 
 boy." thought Cardew. " I wonder why these lonely, 
 
 oddly constituted lives Hallo. His meditation was 
 
 sharply cut short. The door that led from the steps 
 on to the garden was opened. Mr. Molyneux came towards 
 him, attired in a yellow dressing-gown, swinging a watering- 
 pot in one hand, and with an eager, pleased smile on his 
 lips. The old man's grey hair was dishevelled, and his 
 step unsteady, but when Jack hurried to meet him he 
 shook his head impatiently. 
 
 "What, what? You mean well, Cardew, but you get 
 in the way just now. Don't stop me, for I tell you that 
 he is here." His tongue tripped a little, and his voice was 
 thick. " I am late as it is," he said ; " I ought to have 
 been out before, but he has waited on purpose to explain 
 that passage. Ah, yes, you said your Greek was rusty — • 
 poor boy, no wonder ! but you must not interfere, Jack. 
 Who are you to stop me ? " 
 
 He shook off Jack's hand with unexpected strength, but 
 overbalanced himself in the effort and staggered forward. 
 
 Jack was just in time to catch the tall, swaying figure 
 in his arms. He put it down on the gravel path and was 
 about to shout to Elizabeth, when a sudden fear arrested 
 him. Mr. Molyneux lay perfectly still, and the light had 
 died out of his half-closed eyes. Cardew knelt down and 
 put his hand to the old man's heart. There was no 
 movement, but the lips smiled a peaceful, inscrutable smile. 
 
 In the smoky little garden a sparrow began to chirp, 
 and the water from the overturned flower-pot trickled 
 towards the dry borders. The flowers had missed the
 
 2 54 Ht tbe Ctos5«1Roa&5 
 
 master's ministrations, but flowers and birds make no fuss 
 about death. 
 
 Elizabeth came flying out of the house with terrified 
 face and uplifted hands. " Oh, sir, the master has gone," 
 she screamed. " He has clean gone ! I left him fast 
 asleep, and went to get him some broth ready for when 
 
 he should wake, and when I But oh, my goodness 
 
 me, what's this, sir?" 
 
 "Hush — don't make a row. You could not help it," said 
 Jack. He rose from his knees and stood beside her. 
 " Don't be frightened. We must carry him into the 
 house — but there is nothing to be done. It is over," 
 he said. 
 
 Elizabeth trembled and clutched Jack's arm, forgetting 
 her manners, forgetting everything but the human need 
 for support before the great mystery — which, after all, is 
 perhaps less mysterious than life. 
 
 *' He isn't — he can't be," she said. 
 
 Jack took off his hat, and stood bareheaded looking 
 down. Perhaps he, too, had a vague idea that an unseen 
 presence was still walking in the garden. " He has gone. 
 I don't think we need pity him. He has found the 
 answer," said Jack. 
 
 I
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 OUR FATAL SHADOWS. 
 
 "Our acts our angels are, or good or ill, 
 Our fatal shadows that walk by us still." 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher. 
 
 IT is curious to note how the shadow of ill-luck seems 
 to hang over some families. Sir Edward was an 
 unlucky man, Jack Cardew was unlucky, Henry Strode, 
 who possessed — his godmother averred — all the family 
 characteristics, was unlucky too, though he was only a 
 distant cousin of the Bevans and Cardews. Probably, 
 seeing that character is destiny, the ill-luck was in his very 
 blood. 
 
 Mr. Strode was a singularly upright man, but he was 
 also a singularly unpopular one. Every one at Churton 
 Regis knew that the new parson was Lady Hammerton's 
 cousin, and that it was by reason of his connection with 
 her that he held the living ; yet I do not think that any 
 radical objection to lay patronage was at the root of the 
 slow disfavour with which he was regarded. 
 
 These south country people were not violent in their 
 expressions of dislike ; they did not heave bricks at a 
 stranger — not even when he wore a silver cross and 
 walked about the village in a gown — but they presented 
 to him an unbroken front of tolerably civil disapprobation. 
 He made no way with them, and a depression that he 
 
 255
 
 256 Bt tbe Cross*lRoat)s 
 
 tried manfully to shake oft' was riding him day in and 
 day out. 
 
 Perhaps the soft climate of the valley, in which the 
 rectory was situated, told on a constitution that had been 
 fed on moorland air, and then, though he did not own 
 this to himself, Mr. Strode was exceeding lonely. He 
 was not a man who made friends easily, yet, like many 
 reserved natures, he needed companionship; his very 
 goodness was apt to become morbid ; his immense fund 
 of energy craved outlet. In default of a friend he would 
 have been cheered could he only have found some enemy, 
 such as starvation or drunkenness, with whom it would 
 have been his sacred duty to wage war; but this comfortable 
 and fortunate village was well looked after by the two 
 rich families who had taken up their abode there. Mrs. 
 Clovis was both charitable and pious, Mr. Cardew was 
 a most generous landlord. 
 
 The parson could not complain because misery and 
 destitution did not stalk the streets of his parish, but he 
 would have been a happier man had he been thrust into 
 rougher surroundings. Nothing frets more than a grievance 
 of which the owner is ashamed. A grievance that can 
 be openly worn is nothing in comparison. Mr. Strode 
 was addicted to several private penances at this time : 
 he fasted more than was good for him, and he mortified 
 the flesh in other ways that were the concern of no one 
 but himself Yet I fancy that these penances partook 
 rather of the nature of counter-irritants than of aids to 
 holiness. They certainly did not increase the geniality 
 of his temper, and they rather deepened the gulf, already 
 too deep, between him and his fellows. 
 
 On one especial Sunday, however (it was the Sunday 
 after Miss Haubert had gone home), Mr. Strode did, by 
 a rare chance, hit on a theme that brought him in touch 
 with his congregation. He preached on the flag that
 
 ©ur ifatal Sba^ow5 257 
 
 waved from the wall, and on the spirit which leads forlorn 
 hopes and walks gaily to martyrdom. He would himself 
 have made an unflinching martyr had he lived in the days 
 when the Christians were thrown to the beasts. He 
 never lacked courage, either moral or physical, therefore 
 it was the harder on him when he lacked lions. He did 
 not, as a rule, enjoy preaching ; he was quite aware that 
 he had no gift of eloquence, and an ineradicable honesty 
 made him loth to coin sentences when he had nothing 
 in special to say, but he waxed warm over the " Forlorn 
 Hopes," and an unconscious fellow-feeling for men who 
 strive companionless and alone lent pathos to his words. 
 
 Mrs. Clovis, her delicate, cameo-like face uplifted, listened 
 with devoted admiration. Mr. Clovis nodded appreciatively 
 more than once : he usually dozed during the sermon, 
 and it was a triumph to have kept him awake. Old Lady 
 Hammerton's brave eyes brightened, and Sir Edward — 
 who had come to take notes of papistical practices — put 
 oft counting the number of candlesticks till the preacher 
 should have finished. 
 
 Mr. Strode was not eager to catch the attention of the 
 great people among his parishioners — indeed, like most of 
 the High Church clergy, he felt that his work ought to lie 
 more especially among the poor — but he was pleased to see 
 that the farm hands and villagers were also, for once, listen- 
 ing to him. The little artist had given him a useful hint. 
 
 He was in better spirits than usual when he took off 
 his surplice in the vestry, but as he walked through the 
 churchyard a scrap of conversation that he inadvertently 
 overheard brought back the cloud to his brow. 
 
 " You may say what you like, Jim, but I know the parson 
 made your heart beat, by the way you snorted when he 
 said that about the soldiers whose bones lie in nameless 
 graves, but who won't be out of hearing when the roll-call 
 is read." 
 
 17
 
 2s8 m tbe Ctoss^lRoa&s 
 
 It was Jim's sweetheart who spoke, and Jim was the 
 young groom who had wished to plunge a second time into 
 the burning stables to save Mr. Cardew's property. 
 
 " So he did — for the minute," Jim allowed. ** But, bless 
 you, a parson's sermon ain't got anything to do with what 
 he is out of the pulpit. He talks as if he was the sort 
 of chap to stand by any one who was down, but by all 
 accounts that's the very thing he don't do. I was a bit 
 taken by what he said about Christianity being the creed 
 of the men who ain't afraid of pain, and of living and 
 dying alone, and who ain't scared by what the world thinks, 
 but when he is out of his surplice you don't find him 
 backing the one against a hundred, 'No thank you, my 
 man, I don't see myself consorting with such as you,' 
 says he. ' The judge and bishops are all against you, and 
 so you must be going to hell and I sha'n't believe a word 
 you say.' " 
 
 "Oh, Jim, but did he ever say that ? " 
 
 "He did — to Mr. Cardew when he was in gaol for 
 something I'll swear he never did. The butler at Draycott 
 Court told me, and whenever I think of it I want to fight 
 the parson," said Jim. 
 
 It was not what the parson had said, and the aspersion 
 cast on him was most unfair, for Mr. Strode would never 
 have turned his back on any man merely because he was 
 in a minority. He had simply been incapable of dis- 
 tinguishing an extraordinary exception to a general rule, 
 but those who give, pretty generally receive, hard measure. 
 
 Mr. Strode was not a person who greatly cared what 
 people said of him, and he was the last to change his 
 tactics for the sake of public opinion — in truth, an adverse 
 criticism was apt to render him obstinate — but this was 
 neither the first nor second time that his behaviour to 
 Cardew had been held up to reprobation ; he had become 
 aware that the stalwart figure of the ex-convict actually
 
 ®ur iFatal Sba^ows 259 
 
 stood between him and any chance he might have had 
 of successfully serving the cause of the Church in Churton 
 Regis. 
 
 He strode quickly through the churchyard and slammed 
 the gate in Lady Hammerton's face. He was sick to death 
 of Jack Cardew. He was weary of that eternal argument 
 which his mind could not dismiss. He was going over 
 the same old ground again when he was forced to interrupt 
 himself in order to apologise for his awkwardness. 
 
 " You need not tell me that you did not see who was 
 behind you," said Lady Hammerton. " You were walking 
 as if you had the family black dog sitting on your shoulders. 
 But you preached a very well-written sermon. I con- 
 gratulate you on it." 
 
 " I fear I cannot thank you for your congratulations," 
 said the priest, with a severity that would have overawed 
 any one but his intrepid little godmother. " The preacher 
 has missed his mark when the listener thinks rather of 
 the style than of the message." 
 
 " Dear me, dear me ! " cried the old lady. ** Something 
 really has put you out. It is absurd to talk of me as 'the 
 listener ' when I held you in mj'^ arms the very first time 
 you ever went to church. You live too much alone, Henry. 
 Now I know you want to get rid of me, but I am going 
 to ask you to let me have a look at your garden. There 
 is a cutting I should very much like to beg from your 
 gardener." 
 
 Mr. Strode's mouth did not relax its grimness. At that 
 moment a very small excuse would have made him throw 
 up his new living on the spot. He had indeed a good 
 deal of provocation. A man should not expect to be a 
 prophet in his own family, but it is especially trying to 
 be met by some one who puts aside a serious speech with 
 a reference to the time when the teacher was in long 
 clothes. Lady Hammerton was not usually tactless, but
 
 26o at tbe Cross*lRoa&5 
 
 she was perhaps not quite devoid of a spark of mischief, 
 though she was sprightly rather than malicious, and her 
 temper was of the kind that flashes and snaps, and is over 
 in a moment, rather than of the more dangerous sort that 
 smoulders in silence. 
 
 " I shall be delighted to give you a cutting from any 
 plant in my garden," said her godson gravely. 
 
 He had plenty of self-control, and his godmother 
 respected him despite that remark about his infancy. 
 
 She trotted along at his side, holding her well-darned 
 silk skirt high up out of the mud. She had driven to 
 church in a wicker chair, drawn by an old white pony, 
 but the country people all bobbed to her as she passed, 
 which was more than they did for Mrs. Clovis. 
 
 Mr. Strode's humour softened when they reached the 
 garden and stood among the flower-beds, which were 
 much better kept than the flower-beds at Draycott Court. 
 
 " What a number of white blossoms ! The garden looks 
 as if you were preparing for a wedding, Henry," said Lady 
 Hammerton. 
 
 " Ah ! I grow them for my church," he answered, with 
 just that added touch of warmth in his tone that a woman 
 — even an old woman — is quick to hear. It was as if he 
 had said, " I grow them for my bride." 
 
 The old lady lingered among the flowers, and her god- 
 son unbent and thawed in her cheerful presence. He had 
 been too much alone and he enjoyed her appreciation of 
 his improvements. 
 
 " These two long borders down the whole length of the 
 lawn, with the narrow strip of grass between, are copied 
 from those at Draycott Court, as you see," he said. " I have 
 no originality — even the sermon you admired was sug- 
 gested by that little artist who sat next to me at dinner 
 at your house." 
 
 The allusion to the sermon was a token of peace made ;
 
 ®ur jfatal Sba^ow5 261 
 
 the scrupulous honesty ot the disavowal of originality was 
 characteristic. 
 
 "Talking of that dinner, Henry," said his godmother, 
 "I do sincerely wish that you could see your way to — 
 well, to a civil understanding with Jack Cardew." 
 
 They were walking in single file, for there was not 
 space for two to walk abreast down the avenue of tall 
 white lilies. Lady Hammerton could not see his face, 
 but she knew from the set of her cousin's shoulders that 
 he resented that bit of interference. He was absolutely 
 silent for a while ; then he made a remark on the weather, 
 but she was not to be so put aside. 
 
 "You heard what I said, Henry, and I have no doubt 
 that you think I am trying to advise you on the strength 
 of having given you a living. Yes, I remember quite well 
 what you wrote to me. But this has nothing to do with 
 your office. I would not touch anything appertaining to 
 that for the world ! It is simply as an old woman, and 
 from the social point of view, that I speak. I am nearly 
 seventy-five, you know, and I have kept my eyes open 
 ever since I came of age and had to manage my own 
 affairs. I have had to do with many men, good, bad, and 
 indifferent, and I think that my opinion should count for 
 something." 
 
 " My dear godmother," said the priest, turning round 
 sharply, " I have no manner of doubt — in fact, I have the 
 clearest proof — that your opinion counts for very much in 
 this little corner of the world. So does Sir Edward Bevan's, 
 and you and he have both voted openly for Mr. Cardew, 
 and by so doing have given lesser people the excuse for 
 following their inclinations and condoning a rich man's 
 sins. As for me, my influence is of the slightest — there 
 is hardly a place in England where the Church is less 
 respected than she is here. For that very reason her 
 servant is bound to lift again her high standard ; she, at
 
 262 Bt tbe (Iro55*1Roa^5 
 
 any rate, is no respecter of persons. I do not imagine that 
 either you or Sir Edward are anything but disinterested," 
 he added, with a swift turning of the tables that half- 
 amused half-chagrined his would-be counsellor, "but I 
 trust that you have fully realised your responsibility in 
 this matter." 
 
 But an hour ago Mr. Strode had not been quite so 
 certaih of the justice of his own conclusions, but Lady 
 Hammerton did not guess that. The man was a priest, and 
 he was not going to allow her to reverse the right order 
 of things and preach to him ; whether on the score of old 
 age, or on the more offensive score of patronage. Possibly 
 she really liked him none the less for his independence ; 
 at any rate she gave up the attack with a good grace. 
 
 "I trust we have, Henry," she replied meekly, though 
 with a twinkle in her eyes. " Sir Edward is obstinate 
 too, but he has come round to Jack Cardew in a way I 
 hardly dared to expect. I had more to say to you, but 
 I see that there is no use in saying it. Yet, Henry, old 
 people are sometimes right, and suppose — only suppose 
 that one day it were absolutely proved that a terrible 
 mistake had been made, that Cardew was honest after 
 all — as his friends have always maintained — would not 
 the Church's uncompromising attitude become a little 
 awkward ? " 
 
 " It is scarcely within the bounds ot possibility that such 
 a thing should happen. Mr. Cardew cannot in any case be 
 tried over again," said he, frowning impatiently. " Unless 
 an angel comes to convict me of error, I fear that I must 
 continue to believe that the judge and jury knew what 
 they were about." 
 
 " I do not think that you would receive that angel very 
 warmly, Henry," the old lady murmured ; but her cousin 
 took no notice of that feminine last word, and the subject 
 was dismissed.
 
 Qwt jfatal Sbat)ow5 263 
 
 Later in the day, long after his godmother and the white 
 pony had jogged home, Mr. Strode received a note from 
 Oaklands Park, but it did not occur to him that that effusive 
 and delicately scented missive had anything to do with 
 angelic messages. 
 
 He read the letter with some misgiving, for though Mrs. 
 Clovis was the type of woman whom he admired in theory, 
 in practice she occasionally wearied him. Mr. Strode 
 preached on the advisability of confession to a priest, but 
 his single convert sometimes made him repent his zeal. 
 Whatever his failings he had no liking for spiritual gossip, 
 and he was thoroughly manly. What was he to say to a 
 lady who confessed that she slept too long in the morning, 
 and that she had twice put sugar in her tea on a Friday ? 
 Mr. Strode had had very little to do with women. He 
 supposed these trivial matters really did weigh on his 
 penitent, though to his grosser mind they appeared slight. 
 Yet surely once a week was often enough for any one to 
 confess. Why did Mrs. Clovis so especially wish to see 
 him now ? 
 
 " Dear Mr. Strode," — she wrote — " I am in great (spirit- 
 ual) distress, and I most earnestly desire your help. Would 
 it be asking too much of you to beg that you would come 
 up to Oaklands Park this evening at about six o'clock ? I 
 have given orders that you may be shown into the boudoir, 
 where I shall most confidently await you. I am sure 
 (knowing your views on the subject of priestly counsel) 
 that you will not fail me, and I rely entirely on you. 
 " I am sincerely and gratefully yours, 
 
 "Eva Clovis." 
 
 It was not easy to refuse this request, and yet it was 
 with the greatest unwillingness that Mr. Strode complied 
 with it. He had seldom bent his neck to any yoke save 
 that of the Church, but the tyranny of the weak is curiously
 
 264 Bt tbe Cross*1Roa&s 
 
 compelling and binding. That gentle despotism dragged 
 him, much against the grain, up the hill to Oaklands, and 
 forced him to present himself with a very stern air and 
 bad grace at the door of Mrs. Clovis's boudoir just as the 
 clock struck the hour she had appointed. 
 
 Mrs. Clovis rose from her sofa as he entered, and met 
 him with a pretty air of deference. " This is so good of 
 you ; but I was sure that you would come," she said. 
 
 Somehow her soft voice, the luxury of the exquisitely 
 furnished room, the effect of the lamp-light falling on the 
 graceful, womanly figure, irritated Mr. Strode afresh. 
 " You left me no choice, madam," he said. " I am bound 
 to come when any parishioner — whether poor or rich — 
 sends for me in my capacity of priest." 
 
 " Yes, yes, and that is such a comfort," she answered. 
 " I never realised till quite lately what a real support and 
 comfort the Church may be, and that she does truly hold 
 out her hands to all who are in great distress." 
 
 " In great distress." The words struck oddly on Mr. 
 Strode's ear, but he reflected that the lady was prone to 
 exaggeration. " Great distress " sometimes meant gaunt 
 starvation tearing at a door, ready to lay hold of the little 
 ones ; in this case it probably denoted a very refined and 
 impalpable bogey. Mr. Strode had really more sympathy 
 for material than he had for spiritual pain. Nature had 
 not intended him for a confessor, and though he looked 
 the part well enough, he was, at moments, dimly aware 
 that his creed and his instincts were at war. 
 
 " Will you explain what it is that troubles you ? " he 
 said with a sigh, and he set himself to listen with a sort 
 of grim patience. 
 
 Mrs. Clovis did not dare to offer him a cup of tea, though 
 the little silver teapot, standing close at hand on a silver 
 tray, and a plate of pink-sugared cakes were all ready 
 for him. He would not take the armchair that was placed
 
 ®ur 3fatal Sba&ow5 265 
 
 cosily for him, but stood by the mantelpiece and looked 
 down on the penitent on the sofa. 
 
 " I hardly know how to explain," she sighed, " I have 
 been so forced into such a terrible position." She paused, 
 but he made no comment, and she was obliged to go on. 
 
 "Before I married Mr. Clovis we were poor, really 
 pinchingly poor. In those days my heart often ached for 
 my darling girl, and the only rich connection I had was 
 so hard on me. Why are rich men so hard ? My husband 
 indeed is an exception ; he is most liberal. But then some 
 women have a very softening influence over men ; do you 
 not think so ? I am always so sorry for any one who is 
 poor, having known how constant worry wears one's soul 
 out." 
 
 Mr. Strode glanced at the clock, " If there is any par- 
 ticular point on which you wish for spiritual guidance I am 
 here to help you," he said. 
 
 " But if I do not tell you how I was situated how can 
 you see how everything combined against me ? " she cried 
 piteously. " Indeed, I do not think you will enter into 
 my difficulty in any case, but I must speak of my trouble 
 to some one, and no one but a priest is quite safe. You 
 are bound to be secret, are you not ? " 
 
 She asked the question with sudden sharpness, and 
 Mr. Strode was considerably surprised. Surely this 
 gracious and liberal devote had no secret crime on her 
 conscience ? He had expected to be consulted on some 
 such point as the necessity of fasting before taking the 
 sacrament, or the advisability of going into a retreat (which 
 Mr. Clovis objected to) during Lent ; but he could not 
 fail to observe that this was an anxiety of very different 
 colour to any that she had owned to before. Her lips 
 twitched, and her eyes looked away from him. Nothing 
 but that curious impulse that drives a criminal to unburden 
 the mind to some one had made her send for him now.
 
 266 Bt tbc Cro55«»1Roat)S 
 
 " I should certainly hold myself bound not to betray 
 a confession, though in the English Church we take no 
 vow on the subject," he replied stiffly. " You had every 
 opportunity of confessing in church last Friday. Has 
 anything happened since then that has caused you to fall 
 into serious temptation ? " 
 
 " Last Friday ? Oh yes, I remember I confessed all 
 the little things I had done wrong since the Friday before 
 — but this is a real difficulty that has been hanging over 
 me for years. I could not have told you about it in 
 church. One cannot explain a serious matter when one 
 begins with a bit out of the prayer-book and talks into 
 some one's ear. Besides that, I know that if any one were 
 to sit in the front bench of the free seats in the left aisle 
 they could hear what you say. Your voice is so very 
 clear. It is not at all safe. I have heard that in the 
 Romish Church " 
 
 " What have you to say, madam ? " said Mr. Strode, 
 in that same uncompromisingly penetrating voice that she 
 had complained of. 
 
 It seemed odd, even to himself, that he should have 
 inspired her to confidence — a confidence greater than 
 she had reposed in the most adoring of husbands ; but 
 perhaps his very want of sympathy made her trust him. 
 Mr. Strode was not quite a man to Mrs. Clovis, but some- 
 thing sexless and symbolical ; something on which one 
 could fling the burden of responsibility without fear of 
 betrayal ; something that by imposing penances stood 
 between her and a much more awful wrath, and that by 
 sharing her secret seemed in some vague way to lessen 
 her guilt. 
 
 " But if you hurry me I shall never be able to tell you," 
 she cried tearfully ; and again he curbed his impatience. 
 
 "We were poor," she repeated, "and I was never 
 intended to rough it. I am not at all that kind of woman.
 
 ®ur jfatal Sba&ows 267 
 
 If I sometimes knew people in those days who were not 
 in all respects all that could be desired, it was because 
 when one is driven by necessity one cannot afford to be 
 so very, very particular. There was one person of whom 
 I saw a good deal, but you must not for a moment suppose 
 that he was then what he is now. Oh, indeed, he was 
 charming then, though Gillian never liked him ; Gillian 
 was wilful and had very decided opinions for her age. 
 If it had not been that Mr. Clovis was, I may say, pro- 
 videntially thrown in my way just then, I might have 
 married Mr. Bevan ; but for the dear girl's sake it seemed 
 my duty to " 
 
 "To take the richer man," said Mr. Strode dryly. 
 
 " Not that I am mercenary," she said, blushing. (Mrs. 
 Clovis could still blush as readily as a girl.) "No one 
 loves to give more than I do. No one can truly say that 
 I am greedy of money. Still, there was no doubt which 
 man would make the best step-father to dearest Gillian, 
 and, besides, one cannot be too careful about moral character. 
 It seemed so clearly meant that I should marry Mr. Clovis. 
 You believe in the leading of Providence, too ; do you not, 
 Mr. Strode ? " 
 
 She paused for a moment as it expecting him to endorse 
 her sentiment, and he smiled sardonically. 
 
 Mr. Strode was not a person who possessed much sense 
 of humour, but he felt a certain grim irony in her question. 
 The poor lady was quite guiltless of any satirical intention, 
 but Fate has a way of giving us sly hits at times. Yes, he 
 too believed in the direct leading ot Providence. Good 
 heavens, had he ever blasphemed to this extent ? Had he 
 ever worked for his private ends, persuaded himself that 
 the voice of his inclinations was the voice of God ? 
 
 "I ? I believe in a very just God, and in a lying devil," 
 said he sternly. 
 
 " Oh yes, of course ; I never have agreed with the un-
 
 268 Bt tbe (rros5*1Roat>5 
 
 orthodox people who do not think that there really is such 
 a person as the last," she said eagerly. " If one once begins 
 to doubt things there may be no end to it — I always say 
 that. I believe in every single article that our dear Church 
 teaches, for one had so much better be on the safe side, 
 anyhow ; and I am sure in these days when people have 
 such strange ideas, it ought to count a little to my credit 
 that I have never, never been anything but religious. I 
 always insisted on Gillian's attending service when she was 
 a girl ; but Jack Cardew has the most extraordinary notions, 
 he always had- " 
 
 " Ah ! " said the priest. " Now I believe that I can guess 
 what sin is weighing on your conscience." 
 
 A more human and personal interest warmed his tone ; 
 his severity melted slightly. A light seemed to have 
 broken on him. 
 
 " I saw something of your son-in-law when he was in 
 gaol. I can understand that you have bitterly repented 
 having allowed your daughter to marry him. No doubt 
 his immense wealth was a temptation." 
 
 Mrs. Clovis laughed hysterically. The guess was wide 
 enough of the mark. 
 
 " Allowed ! " she cried. " Why, you don't know my 
 daughter! If all the mothers and all the priests in the 
 world had forbidden her, she would still have married 
 Jack. She would not have given their objections so much 
 as one thought. His wealth had nothing to do with it. 
 Gillian likes good things — who doesn't? — but she would have 
 taken him without a penny. No, no, that was no fault of 
 mine. It is not that. Gillian would never forgive me it 
 she knew, and I think that he would — would kill .me. I 
 wake up constantly in the night and see them both staring 
 at me with knowledge in their eyes. It frightens me so ! 
 Do you really believe that every secret will be known one 
 day, and that all the wrong things we have done will be
 
 ®ur J'atal Sbat)ovvs 269 
 
 called from the housetops ? But that would be so terribly 
 cruel ! Who could bear it ? One could never explain 
 then, and it would all sound so much worse than it really 
 was ! " Her face was blanched, and she looked up at the 
 priest piteously. " I am not a bad woman. I could not 
 help myself, that is all. Indeed, I was never quite sure 
 that what he told me was so important, and to run the risk 
 of ruining my life — for dear George is so devoted to me and 
 I cannot live without affection — of ruining my life for a 
 scruple would have been foolish and — and almost wicked, 
 would it not ? " 
 
 " If you could prevail on yourself to tell me what you 
 did, in the first place, I might understand why you did it 
 afterwards," said Mr. Strode. 
 
 Only a dogged tenacity that made him always determined 
 to carry out his purpose prevented him from taking curt 
 leave. The woman seemed to be incapable of telling a 
 story straight. Yet he had sometimes wondered at the 
 extreme tenderness of her conscience at the weekly con- 
 fessions. 
 
 A small, hard smile that made no pretensions to mirthful- 
 ness flickered on her white lips. 
 
 " Oh no, I do not think that you will," said she, " because, 
 you see, you are not of the kind who understand." And 
 the words, unexpected enough, pricked him. What was it 
 that they reminded him of? 
 
 " But I will tell you, because the thing has got on my 
 nerves and I shall go crazy over it if I keep it to myself." 
 
 She looked nervous, and her fragile hands clasped and 
 unclasped each other while she spoke, but the story was 
 still in the tone of a defence. 
 
 " Mr. Bevan often met me after I became dear George's 
 wife, but I need hardly say that I was never one of those 
 women who allow flirtations after marriage. I did 
 not wish, for many reasons which I need not enter into,
 
 270 Ht tbe Cross^lRoaDs 
 
 to make an enemy. It is always a mistake, and it is 
 so unwomanly to do that. Mr. Bevan was staying in 
 our house at the time when Jack Cardew was first engaged 
 to my daughter. I did not quite like the engagement, 
 but Gillian took her affairs into her own hands. Jack 
 Cardew had just made a great literary success, and he 
 was much run after, but I always thought that Gillian 
 might have done better. For my part, I never could read 
 his books, and he never took any trouble to make himself 
 agreeable — in fact, he was rude to any one he did not like. 
 I remember that I tried to patch up a reconciliation between 
 him and Mr. Bevan, for I have always been a peacemaker, 
 and I detest family dissensions. Mr. Bevan was quite 
 inclined to be friendly, but Jack was almost brutal. * I 
 am not strait-laced, but I draw the line at shaking hands 
 with him ! ' Jack said. It was most unpleasant, and very 
 rude to me. I never could quite get over it. Well, it was 
 after all our guests had left us that I renewed a corre- 
 spondence with Mr. Bevan. I had not been accustomed to 
 living in the depths of the country, and I felt triste just 
 then. Dearest Gillian was away on a visit, and Mr. Bevan's 
 letters amused me. Mr. Bevan can write charmingly, and I 
 assure you that his letters were quite harmless ; I should 
 never have tolerated them had they contained the least 
 suspicion of anything that my dear husband would have 
 had reason to complain of. The reason that I did not tell 
 George about them was simply that I cannot bear a fuss ; 
 and owing to something that Jack Cardew had told him, 
 George had taken a violent dislike to Mr. Bevan. It has 
 always seemed to me best to avoid any subject that may 
 lead to dissension ; I have a horror of harsh words. One 
 morning — I think it came by the second post — I got the 
 letter which — which has troubled me from the day I set eyes 
 on it till now. I destroyed it long ago, but, unfortunately, 
 I remember what was written in it, word for word."
 
 ®uc jfatal Sba&ow5 271 
 
 Again she stopped for a minute ; her breath came faster, 
 and there was a spot of colour on either cheek. Mr. Strode 
 was silent now from sheer perplexity ; he knew not what 
 to expect. Had Mr. Bevan, about whom he vaguely 
 recollected having heard some unsavoury story, written 
 insulting words which the poor lady could not dismiss from 
 her mind, which, perchance, to a morbid sensitiveness, it 
 had seemed a crime to have read, and an impossibility to 
 forget? But no, she had just said that the letters were 
 quite harmless. 
 
 "This is what he wrote, and I wish I had never read it," 
 she said, speaking very quickly, and clasping her fingers 
 tightly together as she reached the point at last : — ' I 
 have not seen your dear son-in-law lately j but yesterday 
 I ran across a fellow who had just played a practical joke 
 on him that had a bit of a sting in it. My cousin Jack, 
 who is such a great man nowadays, had apparently 
 squashed his brother-author's literary attempt with rather 
 a heavy hand. Jack can be brutal on occasion. The 
 injured genius, who is an acquaintance of mine, had just 
 played the old trick of changing babies ; he had put his 
 own burnt child in the cradle of Jack's infant, and was in 
 the act of carrying off pro tern, the prosperous heir to 
 riches and fame.' " Mrs. Clovis heaved a long sigh, and 
 leant back on the sofa as if a weight had been lifted from 
 her. " I have never before mentioned that letter to any 
 one, but it has haunted me. But indeed, my unfortunate 
 silence has been my only — mistake. It is hardly quite a 
 sin, is it ? The rest is all sheer misfortune." 
 
 Mr. Strode put his hand before his eyes ; his brain 
 seemed in a whirl. When he at last spoke his voice 
 sounded hoarse. " But what did it mean ? ' The injured 
 genius put his own child ' — why, that must have been his 
 book, the literary attempt that Jack Cardew had squashed 
 — ' in the cradle of Jack's infant ' and he carried off'Cardew's
 
 272 Bt tbe CroBs*lRoat)s 
 
 book? But it was Cardew's book that was supposed to 
 have been fraudently destroyed for the sake of the insurance 
 money, was it not ? You do not mean that you knew of 
 
 a fact that might have Good God, madam ! You ca^it 
 
 mean that you knew, that you actually knew something 
 that might have proved that man's innocence and that you 
 kept silence ! You — you can't possibly mean that ! " 
 
 His dismay was overwhelming ; never in the course of 
 his ministry had he been so utterly shocked and dumb- 
 foundered ; but Mrs. Clovis, having got over her confession, 
 found it easy to pour out excuses, and defended herself 
 almost brightly. 
 
 " Oh no, dear Mr. Strode, I do not mean that exactly," 
 she said. " In fact, that is where circumstances were so 
 hard on me. Of course I had not the least idea that I had 
 been told anything of importance ; neither had Mr. Bevan, 
 when he wrote, the faintest suspicion that anything serious 
 would result from the joke. The next thing that I heard 
 was that Jack Cardew's book had been destroyed by an 
 accident, and that the Insurance Company refused to pay 
 up. My husband shook his head over that ; he said that 
 the refusal was most extraordinary, for that unless they 
 thought that they had a very clear case they would never 
 have ventured on such a step ; he said, too, that Cardew 
 was bound to bring an action against them. Then, indeed, 
 it did occur to me that that letter had some bearing on the 
 matter, but I did not at all wish to speak about it, because 
 — well, because my dear husband was just a wee bit 
 inclined to be jealous, and not having mentioned that he 
 wrote to me — you understand — besides, it was hardly my 
 business, was it ? And I am sure that I have never 
 approved of practical jokes. I must say, too, that 1 always 
 have made a point of declaring on every occasion that, 
 however extravagant Jack may have been, he never could 
 have destroyed his own manuscript. I have said it over
 
 ®ur 3fatal Sba^ovvs 273 
 
 and over again. Or course Jack was very extravagant ; 
 disclosures were made at that trial that might have made 
 any tender mother — and I am devoted to Gillian — shy of 
 giving her consent to her daughter's marriage with him. 
 It appeared that he owed money to all sorts of dreadful 
 people with Old Testament names. He had backed some 
 friend's bill for an enormous sum, and the friend had left 
 him in the lurch, and there had been a bill of sale on his 
 furniture ; he gambled too, as his father did before him. 
 There is no doubt that his misfortunes were largely due to 
 his own reckless carelessness, for the suspicions of the 
 company would never have been aroused if he had not 
 been so heavily involved. Of course I was terribly grieved 
 about the whole affair, but I felt convinced every morning 
 when I took up the Times that I should read that the 
 practical joker had turned up to give evidence, or else that 
 Mr. Bevan had at last come forward with a statement. 
 I read every word of the account of the trial, but neither 
 the man who perpetrated the joke, if it was a joke, or 
 Mr. Bevan, ever appeared in the court at all. Jack lost 
 the libel case and was arrested by the public prosecutor. 
 It was a fearful moment for me when I heard what had 
 happened. I would have given any sum of money that I 
 possessed, I would gladly have sold every ornament that 
 I had, if by so doing I could have ensured the poor fellow's 
 acquittal. Dear Gillian was not nearly so much alarmed 
 as I was. She was so convinced that Jack's innocence 
 must be proved. / suffered tortures, simply tortures." 
 
 " Why did you not insist on Mr, Bevan's making his 
 knowledge public ? " said the priest. 
 
 " Insist ? why, I did insist by every post," she cried, 
 " My husband was quite annoyed because I was always 
 writing letters, but I felt that it was my duty to use all 
 my influence." 
 
 "Then why djid you not inform Mr, Bevan that you 
 
 18
 
 274 Bt the Cro55*'B?oa^5 
 
 would take the matter into your own hands, and tell your 
 husband of all that you knew ? " 
 
 " Oh, I wrote all that," she answered with a faint smile, 
 "and a great deal more besides. He never answered a 
 word; he was most careful not to commit himself, and I 
 had no proof I had torn up his letter ; he knew that, too, 
 for it has always been my habit to tear up letters. Of 
 course I threatened to explain the whole situation to 
 George, but — well, Mr. Bevan is clever in his way — though 
 it is quite a different sort of cleverness to Jack Cardew's — 
 and I suppose he guessed that I should not do it. You 
 see, my dear husband has so high an opinion of me, and 
 would have been so very surprised that I had not told him 
 before, that his confidence in me might have been quite 
 shaken. One should be very careful how one shakes 
 any one's confidence, and a wife's first duty is to her 
 husbund, surely. I know you will agree with me there. 
 Then, I often fancied that I must have misread that sen- 
 tence. How could I suppose that Jack Cardew's friend 
 would be so wickedly malicious ? It seemed inconceiv- 
 able ! It was more likely that my eyes or my memory 
 had played me false." 
 
 Again the man's voice broke in with a short, concise 
 question that cut through the web of excuses. " Then 
 what leads you to tell me all this now ? " 
 
 " Mr. Bevan is getting all the money he can out of me," 
 she said. " Oh, it always comes to a question of money 
 in the end, with that kind of rogue ! I ought to have known 
 that ! But, you see, I was really rather fond of him once, 
 before I married George, who is so different and the best 
 man I have ever met. George has such a respect for 
 me, but Cyril Bevan has kept all my letters, and if he 
 chooses he can sweep all the happiness of my life 
 away." 
 
 There was real tragedy in those last words. Mrs. Clovis
 
 ®ur ifatal Sba&ow5 275 
 
 spoke in a low, hard voice that had a ring of despair in it ; 
 her face seemed to have grown suddenly old and worn ; 
 it was as if she had dropped a mask. To some she would 
 have been pitiable, in spite of, nay, rather by very reason 
 of, her sins, but the confessor's moral indignation was 
 stronger than his humanity. He was so angry that he 
 could not trust himself to comment on the story, and before 
 he had found words she went on. 
 
 " Cyril Bevan has no character to lose now, and no one 
 could do anything to him, even if it were actually proved 
 that he could have given evidence that might have made 
 a difference to the verdict. As for Jack, his troubles are 
 all over now, if he would but think so. All the burden 
 and worry falls on me at present, and sometimes it seems 
 more than I can bear. I used to turn to Gillian in any 
 difficulty ; she has such a strong nature and no nerves ; 
 she was a great stand-by; but I should be afraid to tell 
 her what I have told you." 
 
 " I can imagine that you would be afraid to make such 
 a confession to Mr. Cardew's wife." 
 
 "From the day she fell in love with Jack she seemed to 
 think that no one's interests ought to weigh a feather- 
 weight against his. She was cold as a girl — not like me in 
 any way — but she is never cold about Jack. She must 
 never, never guess. I must fight through my troubles 
 alone, so far as my family is concerned, but I do feel that 
 it would be a comfort to have the Church's absolution for 
 what I may have done, or perhaps left undone, in the past ; 
 and I should like to have your advice, too. When one is 
 very harassed one clings so to religion ! " 
 
 Mr. Strode stifled an exclamation that would have been 
 stronger had he not remembered his cloth. 
 
 " I cannot give you absolution," he said; "the Church I 
 serve does not bless hypocrisy. The only counsel I have 
 is that you should make what tardy reparation you can
 
 276 Bt tbe Cross«1RoaC)s 
 
 to the man on whom your culpable silence inflicted such 
 bitter injustice. I can scarcely bear to contemplate the 
 extent of the injury that was done to Mr. Cardew. Good 
 
 heavens ! I myself have added to You have much to 
 
 answer for, much indeed, madam. I wish that, by any 
 means, you could be brought to realise what he, an innocent 
 man, must have suffered. I wish that " 
 
 He pulled himself up with a jerk, and Mrs. Clovis laughed 
 hysterically in a way which struck him as absolutely 
 shameless. 
 
 " You were on the point of wishing me hard labour in a 
 convict prison ! " she cried. " And I would rather that than 
 that George should know; I would much, much rather 
 die than be lowered in his esteem. Ah, you do not 
 understand, Mr. Strode ; you would have to be a woman, 
 and a woman who has been knocked about among horrid 
 people, and who has had no money in her pocket, before 
 you could sympathise with the intense relief a man's 
 respect gives ! I will not lose it, whatever happens. I 
 will not " 
 
 " Eva, Eva, where are you, my dear ? " shouted a hearty 
 voice on the stairs. 
 
 Mr. Strode made no movement; the whole course of 
 events seemed beyond his control. Mrs. Clovis spranglup 
 and ran to the looking-glass, with an instinct born, not of 
 vanity, but of self-defence. She pressed her lace hand- 
 kerchief to her eyes, and bit her pale lips, and rubbed her 
 cheeks softly with the palms of her hands, and put the 
 curls on her forehead in order. The priest smiled ironically, 
 and his smile helped to restore her self-control. 
 
 " We are such vain and frivolous creatures, are we 
 not?" she said, and then flung the door wide open and 
 admitted Mr. Clovis. 
 
 " What on earth are you doing in here ? Why are not 
 you having tea in the drawing-room ? " said he, eyeing the
 
 ©ur jfatal Sbabows 277 
 
 black-robed figure with evident and somewhat comical 
 disfavour. 
 
 " Why, dear, because I did not wish to be interrupted," 
 she replied, with that candour which is of all defences the 
 most impregnable. " I was consulting Mr. Strode about 
 something very important." She smiled brightly at her 
 husband, whose momentary ill-humour melted when he 
 met her glance. " I am glad that you have come in in 
 time to join in the consultation! I was half afraid that 
 some tiresome visitor would call. I am just going to show 
 Mr. Strode the design for the new altar cloth that little 
 Enid Haubert drew for me. You must both of you tell me 
 exactly what you think of it. I always put more oonfidence 
 in a man's taste than in a woman's." 
 
 She went to a cupboard and produced the design in 
 question, spreading it out on the floor for both men to 
 see. 
 
 " It is to be worked in gold thread on white satin," said 
 she. 
 
 Mr. Strode glanced perfunctorily at the pattern of lilies, 
 and then picked up his hat and took an exceedingly curt 
 leave. He felt stifled; he could not stay in that pretty 
 room, or listen to the gentle lady's soft voice a moment 
 longer. Mr. Clovis shook his head with an air ot worldly 
 wisdom as the door closed. 
 
 " I know those fellows better than you do, Eva," said he. 
 " He wasn't half pleased at my coming in just now ! Oh, 
 you are all right, my love — don't think I don't know that 
 much ! But these petticoated gentry, they ain't quite arch- 
 angels for all their airs. I would be careful if I was you. 
 Don't you be taken in by him." 
 
 " But, dear George, Mr. Strode does not even like me," 
 said Mrs. Clovis, truly enough ; " and he never looks at a 
 woman — as a woman." 
 
 "Don't you believe that!" said the soap-boiler earnestly.
 
 2 78 Ht tbe Cross^lRoabs 
 
 " If he says that, he tells lies, Eva. The man was clearly 
 put out and couldn't meet my eye. You being the sort 
 of woman you are, he would not dare say a word he 
 shouldn't to you, but I don't trust his thoughts. Why 
 couldn't he speak natural to me, eh ? " 
 
 " He has a most ungracious manner," said Mrs. Clovis, 
 " but I do not believe that he has ever flirted with any 
 one in his life. He would be simply horrified at your 
 coarse ideas, George." 
 
 *' Coarse ? bless me, I am coarse compared to you, and 
 that is just why I warn you ! " said Mr. Clovis sturdily. 
 " I declare, Eva, sometimes when I think what dangers you 
 must have run, when I wasn't by to take care of you, it 
 gives me a cold shudder ; it does, indeed. A good woman 
 like you simply doesn't understand ; but as for that great, 
 strapping chap, with his shaven chin and his monkish ways, 
 he ain't so refined and innocent as all that comes to ! He 
 was ashamed, my love, that's what he was. I saw it in 
 his face ! "
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 " THE HEART KNOWETH HIS OWN BITTERNESS:' 
 
 " The heart knoweth his own bitterness ; and a stranger doth not 
 intermeddle with his Joy." 
 
 MR. MOLYNEUX was not buried in the garden, as 
 he had desired, but in Kensal Green. Jack would 
 willingly have carried out the old man's orders, but he 
 found that there were obvious and insurmountable difScul- 
 ties in the way ; and, after all, it mattered but little where 
 the worn-out shell was put. 
 
 Cardew and Lady Jane and Elizabeth were the only 
 mourners at the grave. Elizabeth wept heartily and 
 naturally. Jane's hands were full of flowers, and her 
 small white face was sad, but its peaceful serenity was 
 hardly disturbed. Jane's eyes had seen sadder things than 
 death. Cardew's imagination was possessed by the memory 
 of that last scene in the garden ; his was not the type of 
 mind which naturally inclines to materialism ; it seemed to 
 him impossible that the keen, eager soul, that had so 
 scoffed at its ugly old body, should be buried with that 
 which it had always over-ridden and despised. The sight 
 of death brings to some — though not to all people — an in- 
 extinguishable belief in immortality. Cardew might have 
 listened unmoved to a hundred pulpit discourses, and have 
 turned away with a shrug of his shoulders and the remark 
 that it was waste of breath to try to prove the unprovable ; 
 yet when the earth fell on the coffin of the old man who 
 
 279
 
 28o Bt tbe (rross»»1Roat)s 
 
 had loved him, his heart said instinctively, as men's hearts 
 have said again and again at the graveside, " He is not 
 here." 
 
 Just before they left the churchyard Jane laid her flowers 
 on the new-made mound. " I would not scatter them on his 
 coffin," she said, "for he was so fond of flowers that he 
 would not have liked them to have been buried, but I do 
 not think he would mind my putting them here in this 
 little pot full of water. He was so very, very kind to me. 
 If one could bring all the kind deeds he has done and heap 
 them on his grave, I think they would be piled up higher 
 than the cemetery wall." 
 
 Jack nodded. The thought pleased him. Jane and 
 Elizabeth gave a touch of womanly tenderness to that grim, 
 last ceremony. 
 
 " He was a bit lonely, I am afraid," Jack said. ** Well, I 
 suppose most people are that ; but he did more good than 
 he knew, and I should think that no man had ever led a 
 more innocent life. He was like the chap in the Bible, 
 * without guile.' He was an uncommonly good friend for 
 a lad, I know that, and if ever any one's eyes were pure 
 
 enough to see " He left the sentence unfinished, and 
 
 Jane asked no question. 
 
 These two whom the old man had loved had spoken his 
 funeral oration in those broken phrases. Both felt more 
 than they expressed, and both were tenderly shy of saying 
 more than the dead man would have approved. 
 
 " Shall I see you home ? " asked Jack ; but Jane shook 
 her head. 
 
 " It is impossible not to be sad to-day, and, like Gillian, I 
 prefer to do my sadness alone," she said. 
 
 " Gill is not often sad," said Jack, who had sometimes 
 wondered at the friendship and Understanding between his 
 brilliant wife and this quakerish little lady. 
 
 " Oh, I hope not now," said Lady Jane, smiling.
 
 ''Zbc Ibeact Iknovvetb Ibis ®\vn JSitterness" 281 
 
 They left the cemetery together, and parted company at 
 the gate. 
 
 " You don't mind going home by yourself? " Jack asked. 
 
 "Why, no; I am usually by myself," she answered, 
 with a faint surprise. 
 
 Jack stood still by the gate, and watched her small figure 
 till it was lost in the everlasting stream of people. He had 
 a trick, at which Gillian often laughed, of standing still in 
 the street to follow out the thread of his thoughts. It 
 seemed to him unnatural and altogether wrong that any 
 woman should be usually alone ; but he was glad that Jane 
 had not needed his escort, for he was anxious to get through 
 all the necessary business that had to be accomplished, and 
 to go home to see " Goliath." He had missed two of 
 Gillian s letters through having forgotten to let her know 
 
 that he was sleeping in the old house in Street instead 
 
 of Park Lane. 
 
 Mr. Molyneux had left everything in an inconceivable 
 muddle. Jack had already spent weary hours in tearing 
 up hoards of old letters, and in sorting a heterogeneous 
 collection of prints, china, books, stones, and pictures. He 
 had found one tiny sealed parcel with, "To be buried with 
 me," written on it. Thai he had slipped into the coffin 
 himself, unopened. He told no one of it, and he had no 
 idea what it contained. Mr. Molyneux had chosen his 
 executor well. 
 
 Elizabeth dried her eyes on the way home, and seemed 
 to return to her every-day capable self. Cardew secretly 
 hated having to lay sacrilegious hands on the old man's 
 possessions ; but Elizabeth was pleased that she might at 
 last dust and tidy to her heart's content. Her very real 
 and honest affection for her old master did not prevent her 
 from finding speedy and natural comfort in work. She 
 had wept genuine tears over his grave, but now it was 
 time to draw up the blinds.
 
 282 at tbe CrossslRoabs 
 
 There was still one drawer full of papers to be looked 
 through. Cardew returned to the uncongenial work with 
 a sigh, while Elizabeth bustled off quite cheerfully to pack 
 up the china. He had, however, hardly begun his task, 
 ■when she came into the library with a yellow envelope in 
 her hand, 
 
 "This has just been forwarded to you from Park Lane, 
 sir," she said. 
 
 " Come at once. Stephen dangerously ill. Dog-cart will 
 meet night train.^^ 
 
 Cardew read the message, and folded the telegram into a 
 neat square, staring straight before him the v^hile. 
 
 " I hope, if I may make so bold, that there is nothing 
 wrong, sir ? " said Elizabeth. 
 
 Jack vs/as still staring at space, and he made no answer. 
 When she repeated the question he laughed oddly. 
 "Wrong? The boy is dead, Elizabeth. That's all," he 
 said. 
 
 He went to Devonshire that evening, leaving many 
 things undone. What, after all, did anything matter ? The 
 absolute certainty that had seized him when he read 
 Gillian's message never loosened its hold on him during 
 the journey. The boy was dead ; he was as sure of that 
 fact as if he had seen the little life flicker out before his 
 eyes. He read the Daily Chronicle during the journey to 
 Devon, and between the sentences that his eyes followed 
 he repeated to himself that it was over. There was no 
 use in doing or feeling or saying anything, for it was over. 
 He had come to the full stop, that dead wall against which 
 love beats his wings in vain. 
 
 "It is impossible to foresee what will be the issue of 
 the blunder which the Government has insisted on making," 
 he read, and added to himself, as he turned the page, "The 
 boy is dead." 
 
 In a vague way he was surprised that he did not
 
 "Ube Ibeart mnowetb Ibis ®wn Bitterness" 283 
 
 suffer more. He had fancied himself uncommonly fond of 
 " Goliath," but he was not conscious of pain. Gill would 
 feel it, he supposed, but as for himself — why, the thing was 
 done. 
 
 There was an old gentleman who sat opposite to him 
 and talked to him about politics ; after a time the old 
 gentleman got out at a country station, and then Jack was 
 not quite sure whether he had had a companion in the 
 carriage or no. Everything seemed shadowy and uncertain 
 by the side of the one incontrovertible fact that the child 
 was dead. When the train reached the south country it 
 slackened speed, and stopped constantly. A High Church 
 clergyman got in at the third station before Churton Regis ; 
 he was discomposed when he saw Jack. 
 
 '* I rode out to see a sick woman at Simonsbath," he 
 explained. " I was forced to accept a lift in the carrier's 
 cart to Minehead, for my horse met with an accident. I 
 barely caught the train. I did not see that you were in 
 this carriage." 
 
 Jack burst into a loud laugh. " Why, man, do you take 
 me for a girl ? I am not afraid of being alone with you ! " 
 
 Mr. Strode, for he it was, frowned and drew himself up. 
 He thought that Mr. Cardew was purposely insulting, and 
 that his ill-timed laughter sounded as if he were hardly 
 sober. He did not guess that his companion was not 
 drunk with wine, but with trouble. Mr. Strode had had 
 a bad time of late. If he had shown small mercy to Mrs. 
 Clovis, he had at least not spared himself He would 
 willingly have undergone any humiliation that would have 
 helped to restore his self-respect. Now, in spite of the 
 ex-convict's rough words, he plunged into that apology 
 that he had sworn to himself that he would proft'er on the 
 first opportunity. He could not prevail on his soul to like 
 Cardew any the better because of the revelation that had 
 been made, but he could and would do his duty ; and
 
 284 Ht tbe Cross*lRoat>s 
 
 he did it, with a disregard ot anything else that was 
 characteristic of him. 
 
 "After ail, it is fortunate that we have happened to 
 meet," he said, speaking between his teeth, which was a 
 trick he had when he was excited. " It is fortunate, 
 because there is something that I feel I am bound to say 
 to you. Circumstances have unexpectedly led me to 
 acknowledge that I was utterly and culpably in the wrong 
 in once refusing to believe your assertion of innocence. 1 
 do not in the least expect you to believe me now ; but it is 
 a fact that I would cut off my right hand, if by so doing I 
 could undo the mistake I made, and the discredit that I 
 brought, in your eyes, on the Church I serve ! " 
 
 Cardew's blue eyes rested on him with an expression 
 that he could not interpret. 
 
 " Eh ? what ? why, here is some one else coming round 
 to me ! " cried Jack. " And what on earth do I care what 
 all the people in the world think ? What does it matter ? 
 I would rather have the little chap ! It is a bad bargain — 
 I won't clinch it, I say. They are all coming round and I 
 lose, * Goliath.' No, no, I'll keep * Goliath,' and let them 
 all go to " 
 
 Mr. Strode stared, with suddenly arrested attention. 
 He had not expected, he possibly scarcely desired, Cardew 
 to receive his apology kindly : the effort he had made had 
 been for his own honour's sake, not for Jack Cardew's; but 
 this reply shook him out of himself at last. He vaguely 
 recollected having heard that the little boy at the Park was 
 ill, but the news had not greatly impressed him. It 
 dawned on him now that Mr. Cardew was in trouble. 
 He seemed fated to misjudge this man. 
 
 Jack put his hand to his forehead and pulled himself 
 together. 
 
 " Why, it is the chaplain," he said. " I did not notice 
 who you were. Very sorry I can't attend to what you've
 
 " Zhc Ibeart mnowetb ITdIs ®wn Bitterness " 285 
 
 got to say just now. We are nearly at the station, and I 
 am in the deuce of a hurry." 
 
 The train slackened speed while he was speaking; he 
 sprang out of the carriage before it quite stopped. Mr. 
 Strode followed. A dog-cart was waiting ; Jack sprang up 
 and took the reins, leaving the groom behind. Mr. Strode 
 went up to the young fellow — whose conversation he had 
 once unluckily overheard — and asked him what news there 
 was of the child. 
 
 Jim, whose face was very red, and whose temper was 
 apparently very short, muttered something that sounded 
 like, " What's that to you ? " but, on the priest's repeating 
 the question sharply and authoritatively, replied "that 
 the little boy was dead, worse luck." Then — "But I 
 lied to him," he added, turning from the priest to the 
 station master, and pointing in the direction in which 
 Jack had driven off. " I couldn't for the Ufa of me shape 
 the words to the master ! Not that it made a bit of differ- 
 ence, for he knew." 
 
 The blaze of light made Jack blink as he stepped into 
 the warm hall. Mr. Clovis met him, and grasped his hand 
 with a pressure that was partly nervous. 
 
 ** I do not know how to tell you, Cardew," he said, 
 " Eva should not have left me to break the news. Women 
 understand how to — to say these sad things, but, upon my 
 soul, I " 
 
 " When did the little chap die ? " said Jack. 
 
 " Four o'clock this morning. There ! I have done it very 
 badly." 
 
 "There is no use in talking about it — it's done," said. 
 Jack heavily. "Where is my wife?" 
 
 " She will not leave the child. Her mother cannot get 
 her away ; you must do something with her, Jack ; you 
 must exert your authority. She is in the nursery."
 
 286 at tbc Cross^lRoabs 
 
 Jack went up the stairs slowly and heavily, and opened 
 the nursery door. Gillian sat in the rocking-chair, with the 
 little white body across her knee. Her face was colourless, 
 and her eyes were full of pain. Jack shut the door, 
 walked across the room, and put his hands on her shoulders. 
 When she did not stir he knelt down by her and touched 
 the child's waxen cheek with the back of his hand. Then 
 she spoke, 
 
 " It is of no use." (The words were like the echo of his 
 own.) "You can do nothing, and I cannot give my child 
 life again. We have lost this time. Jack, though I tried my 
 hardest. It — it wasn't my fault." 
 
 " I know, I know. Poor Gill, poor mother ! " he said, 
 under his breath. 
 
 Gillian shivered, and her expression changed. " I would 
 not let any one take him out of my arms till you should 
 come." 
 
 Jack put his hands under the child's body and lifted it. 
 
 "This is not the Httle chap," he said brokenly. "Why 
 it is not in the very least him, you know. Gill." 
 
 " No, but it is all there is left of him," said Gillian, with 
 white lips. She was quite tearless, and her voice sounded 
 hard. 
 
 " I don't believe he isn't somewhere," cried Jack. 
 
 It was the protest of his nature, sudden and illogical and 
 passionate ; but when Gillian shook her head he felt help- 
 less to comfort her. No words could still that hungry 
 yearning. 
 
 " It's part of me that has been torn away — but there is 
 no use in crying out," she said. " Jack, I will be sensible 
 presently, but you won't let them come near me — yet — 
 will you ? " Some one knocked at the door. " Oh, I can't 
 bear them ! " Gill cried. 
 
 Jack, with an instinct of protection, stood in front of her. 
 He felt that it was not fair that any one should spy on
 
 *' Zbc Ibeart IRnowetb HDfs ®\vn Bitterness " 287 
 
 Gillian in her hour of grief — on Gillian who was so strong 
 as a rule. 
 
 "Don't come in. I'll come," he shouted. 
 
 He kissed the small peaceful face on his arm, and laid 
 the little figure down on the bed, holding Gillian back 
 when she would have taken it again. She yielded with a 
 hopeless gesture that went to his heart, and sat down with 
 empty hands dropping idly on her lap. Jack went to the 
 door, and found Mrs. Clovis crying in the passage. 
 
 " Oh, Jack, it is not right that my dearest Gillian should 
 not allow her own mother to comfort her, and you must 
 not let her sit in there all day and night," the poor lady 
 cried. 
 
 " I don't know that there is much comfort," Jack said, in 
 a dull voice. " But you had better let her alone. Gill is 
 sure to be reasonable — she'll come round after a bit," 
 
 He shut the door again, and Gillian looked up at him 
 with a wintry smile. " Mammy will think that was brutal 
 of you, my dear," she said. " But I wi/i come round if 
 you'll give me time. Just now the pain of it makes me — 
 fierce." 
 
 She rocked to and fro in the rocking-chair, and Jack sat 
 down by the table with his head resting on his hands. 
 
 That awful anguish of bereaved motherhood was more 
 than he could bear to watch. It might have been better 
 had he taken her in his arms, but he was always shy ot 
 endearments. 
 
 Presently she stopped rocking, and began to tell him 
 all that there was to tell. She had been dissatisfied, and 
 had at last sent for a London doctor. The child's arm had 
 healed, but he had a pain in his head, and was constantly 
 sick. She had written to Jack, and had expressed her 
 anxiety strongly in her last letter, which had been sent to 
 Park Lane, and had, through some mistake ot the servant's, 
 never reached him.
 
 288 Ht tbe Cros5*1Roa&s 
 
 " I wish I had not gone up to London," he said at this 
 point. 
 
 " I ought not to have let you go," she answered ; " I was 
 anxious even then." 
 
 " You told me that you were not," said Jack. 
 
 " Yes, I remember that I said I was not. I was a 
 coward. I did not dare own to myself that I was afraid — 
 and he seemed a little better that day. Mammy and the 
 doctor were both sure that he was better, and I did so want 
 to believe them — but it was cowardliness. You ought to 
 be angry with me. Jack ! I almost wish you would be. It 
 would hurt in a new place." 
 
 "It is all bad enough without that," said Jack. "And, 
 Gill, I couldn't be angry here." 
 
 He spoke under his breath, and nodded towards the 
 bed. 
 
 " Go on — tell me the rest now." And Gillian told the 
 short, pitiable story very quietly. 
 
 The child had been seized with convulsions, and had 
 died just before the London doctor had arrived. 
 
 " He could not have prevented it though. No one could 
 have prevented it. Fate is too strong, and it is very 
 cruel," she said. 
 
 Jack stood again by the bedside, and a long silence fell 
 on them. 
 
 " It is something that we do not understand. Gill," he 
 said at last slowly. 
 
 " Ah," cried she, " I do not want to understand any 
 more. My baby who was alive is dead — that is enough 
 for me. Jack." 
 
 She shed no tears, and she could not eat that day, nor 
 sleep that night. Jack wondered whether she too would 
 fall ill, but her excellent physical health seemed to stand 
 the strain, and by the next morning she had recovered her 
 composure.
 
 '' XTbe Ibeart Iknowetb Ms ®\vn Bitterness " 289 
 
 She insisted on attending the funeral, and bore herself 
 very composedly, though she turned white when the little 
 coffin was lowered into its last resting-place. She defended 
 herself, on her return, from any allusions to her loss. 
 
 Jack went for long, solitary walks, and was more silent 
 than ever. Stern necessity had once taught him to meet 
 his troubles alone. It is very difficult for any one who 
 has thoroughly learnt that lesson to admit companionship 
 in any crisis of life. There are veiled mysteries which 
 meet each of us as we go on our way ; strange figures 
 that rise before us in the path, as in the old Jewish 
 story, the " angel of the Lord " barred the path of the 
 prophet. Jack was by nature susceptible to spiritual im- 
 pressions, though the monotony and misery of his life had 
 at one time driven him to do his best, or his worst, to kill 
 his soul. Moreover, he was chivalrous, and the weakness 
 of childhood had laid tight hold on his affections. Well, 
 the child was dead — but behold, after all, that was noi 
 "all," for the father's love was still painfully alive. This 
 mystery filled him with a grief which, after the first shock, 
 was not wholly bitter. He met it again and again, and 
 perhaps arrived at some sort of conclusion as to its mean- 
 ing ; at any rate he took the blow that had shattered a good 
 many hopes with some dignity. It was his interference 
 alone which prevented Gillian from sending away the 
 nurse without a character. 
 
 "The doctor hinted that the child had had some fall 
 that we do not know about," Gill said. " If that is so 
 some one ought to be punished. I hope that the woman 
 — if she dropped my boy — will never get another place. 
 I hope that she will starve." 
 
 Jack frowned thoughtfully. He remembered that odd 
 dream, but he was too manly to let such stuff carry 
 practical weight. 
 
 " We have no actual proof against the nurse," he said, 
 
 19
 
 290 at tbe Cros5*1Roa&5 
 
 " and the boy was fond of her. We cannot stain the little 
 chap's memory by cruelty," 
 
 " Why should we be the only people to suffer ? " said 
 Gillian ; and Jack made no reply. 
 
 Their points of view had diverged widely ot late, and 
 both were conscious of that fact ; Jack in a puzzled, vague 
 way, Gillian sorely, and almost angrily. 
 
 Gill's seemingly equable temper had always been one of 
 her strong points, but it was distinctly strained at present, 
 and she was easily jarred and irritated. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Clovis, who was really grieved at her grand- 
 son's death, was shocked at the manner in which Gill 
 accepted the inevitable. Gillian burnt all the letters of 
 condolence that were sent to her — unread, and resisted, 
 nay, laughed at attempts at consolation. Mrs, Clovis, who 
 thoroughly enjoyed expressions of sympathy, could not in 
 the least understand her daughter's shrinking from them. 
 Cardew, on coming into the drawing-room one evening, found 
 her in the lowest possible spirits over Gillian's behaviour, 
 
 "Dearest Gillian is so hard," she complained, "and she 
 really does say the most shocking things ! I suppose she 
 loved the poor little darling, but she behaves as if she had 
 no feeling whatever. Dear Mrs. Lacy has just been here ; 
 she is a charming woman, and I thought it might cheer 
 Gillian to talk to her. Mrs. Lacy lost a child last year of 
 whooping-cough, and she was most anxious to meet Gill. 
 She said, so touchingly, that she liked to think that her 
 own dear little one, and Gillian's boy are now at play 
 together in the golden streets of heaven, and oh. Jack, 
 Gillian actually laughed quite loud. ' I have no imagination, 
 Mrs. Lacy,' she said, ' but my baby always wanted to 
 fight with other children, and a golden street sounds to 
 me a dangerous place for a tumble ! ' Mrs. Lacy was 
 most dreadfully hurt, and so am I ! How can dear Gillian 
 bear to jest on such a subject ? "
 
 *' TLDc Ibeart IRnovvetb Ibis ®\vn Bitterness " 291 
 
 " Gillian is too sore to stand sentiment," said Jack, 
 tugging at his moustache. " I don't suppose that she feels 
 particularly merry." 
 
 He was not feeling particularly merry himself, but he 
 noticed, as he had noticed once before, that Mrs. Clovis was 
 looking unusually ill and frail and worn, and the observation 
 made his tone gentler than it would otherwise have been. 
 
 " I am sorry that we have brought you so much trouble,'' 
 he said, and the kindliness of his voice seemed to affect his 
 mother-in-law strangely. 
 
 " Oh, Jack, if you only knew ! " she cried brokenly, 
 
 Cardew was just about to leave the room in search of 
 Gillian, but at that he came back to the sofa. 
 
 " I say," said he, " I do know that something is wrong." 
 
 She looked up at him with frightened, resentful eyes, and 
 he hastened to reassure her. "Do not be alarmed. I am not 
 the sort of brute to harry a woman, whatever my sins may 
 be. I never meant to say anything to you about what I 
 overheard ; but I cannot help seeing that you are distressed, 
 and I cannot help guessing that that dirty little beggar 
 who was blackmailing you in the wood may still be at it. 
 You had m.uch better tell Mr. Clovis, but if you can't do 
 that, why, here am I at your service. I think I can promise 
 to tackle Cyril Bevan. Of course, anything you choose to 
 tell me shall go out at the other ear when I have done 
 helping you." He smiled the sudden, frank smile that 
 seemed to some people to throw an odd, unexpected light 
 on his character. " I do not mean to be impertinent," he 
 said, "but somehow I fancy it may be easier to speak of 
 a — mistake to a fellow for whom you have no especial 
 affection, and who has stumbled into pretty bad holes him- 
 self, than to speak of it to the man who worships you. 
 But mind, you'll be wiser if you tell him.'' 
 
 Mrs. Clovis listened to this speech with a surprise that 
 was unfeigned. That Cardew should have come to so clear
 
 292 Ht tbe Cross^lRoaDs 
 
 a conclusion, yet never before have said a word about it, 
 that he should show so unexpected a tenderness for her, 
 and so intuitive an understanding, set all her preconceived 
 notions about him upside down. Gillian always said that 
 Jack was soft about women. Perhaps, after all, it was 
 no such great wonder that Gillian was so fond of him. For 
 the space of one moment confession all but trembled on 
 her lips; then she recovered her self-control, and looked 
 back with horror at the wild impulse that had assailed her. 
 
 "Why, you ridiculous Jack," she cried Hghtly, "there 
 really is nothing to make a fuss about ! " 
 
 " All right," said Jack. " I am going to find Gill now." 
 
 " I gave poor Mr. Bevan a — a little assistance for the 
 sake of old times. There was no harm in that, was there ? 
 But still I hope you will not mention what you may have 
 happened to hear," she said, putting a detaining hand on 
 his arm. 
 
 Jack freed himself a trifle roughly. " I am not a cad ! " 
 said he, and thereby unwittingly effaced the excellent 
 impression that he had equally unwittingly made. 
 
 He found Gillian in the nursery ; she was busy putting 
 away sundry small garments in a cedar-wood box. Her 
 capable, finely formed hands folded and smoothed un- 
 falteringly, and there were no tears in her eyes. The 
 sight of those wee bits of things and of his wife's occupation 
 gave Cardew a lump in his throat. He stood fiddling with 
 a pair of black buttoned shoes, till Gillian, with a touch of 
 sharpness, asked him whether he wanted her for anything, 
 and begged him not to fidget. He put the little shoes down 
 silently, and she repented of her impatience. 
 
 "I am just as cross as a bear with a sore head," she 
 cried. "Why don't you say so, Jack ? I am getting as full 
 of nerves as mammy ! " 
 
 " Your mother seems to be very unhappy about you ! " 
 said Jack.
 
 " Zbc ifDcart mnowetb Mb Qwn Bitterness " 293 
 
 "Yes, mammy is more than I can bear just now," said 
 Gillian. " I can put up with anything but condolence — but 
 that is too much for me ! You don't know what it is, my 
 dear, for men are exempt from that form of torture. No 
 one would dare to condole with you. Can't we go away 
 from this place, Jack ? " 
 
 "We will go to-morrow if you like," said he. "But 
 the house is being painted, and I fancied you would hardly 
 be up to the bustle of a hotel." 
 
 " Not ' up to it.' Why not ? I am perfectly well, and I 
 should like a bustle ; it would do me all the good in the 
 world. This quietness is awful. Jack. I can't sit opposite 
 grief with my hands folded. I must do something, or I 
 shall go mad." 
 
 The restless misery in her voice was not lost on Jack, 
 but the next minute she laughed. "How shocked poor 
 mammy will be ! " 
 
 " Of course I know that Mrs. Clovis does not like me, 
 but you and she always seemed to get on. Why is she no 
 comfort to you now ? " said he. 
 
 " Oh, we get on beautifully in smooth water," said Gill, 
 " but at bottom I am a coarse person with no pretty 
 sentiment about me! Mammy hates coarseness." Some 
 old memory made her smile, though rather bitterly. " She 
 never could understand why I stuck to you, but still we 
 never actually quarrelled, not even when I was most 
 unhappy. Really, you know, mammy and I have some 
 traits in common, and her advice is often excellent. She 
 helped me arrange my first dinner-party splendidly, though 
 she has worried me to distraction lately. I ought, in justice, 
 to remember that." 
 
 " I don't know whether you are speaking seriously or 
 not," said Jack, who indeed found Gill's w^ay of being 
 unhappy somewhat hard to grapple with, " but I see you 
 hate that any one should try to comfort you."
 
 294 Ht tbe Cro5S*1Roat)5 
 
 Gillian looked at him wistfully. "They talk such 
 nonsense ! " she said. " When one is starving one ceases 
 to be amused at the nice, polished little stones that are 
 commonly offered for bread. What is the use of telling me 
 that I shall meet my baby again in heaven? It is so 
 silly ! I know that I am not a good woman, Jack, but 
 even / would not have my poor little darling remain a 
 baby always in order that I might have the satisfaction of 
 seeing him again. A childhood that never could grow into 
 youth and manhood would not be beautiful ; it would be 
 sad and hopeless. I think my boy is dead — altogether 
 dead — but that is better than their ridiculous theories ! 
 ' Always a little innocent child in heaven,' they say. 
 My poor Goliath — who was stretching out his little round 
 limbs and laying hold of life with his growing mind every 
 hour of the day — who never stood still for a second, 
 always a child ? Indeed, I should hope not." 
 
 "You don't believe it, so why mind what foolishness 
 they talk ? " said Jack. 
 
 " Oh, because " she cried, and then swallowed some- 
 thing that seemed to rise in her throat and dropped the 
 subject. 
 
 Because she was a woman, and her whole soul, and her 
 body, too, were crying out for her child. Because she 
 wanted him, though her reason told her that she should 
 never see or feel him again. 
 
 "Jack, dear, I am ashamed of being such a fool," she 
 said after a pause, " but the fact is I can't trust myself 
 to be civil just at present. Acquaintances are not nearly 
 so trying as near relatives on these occasions, because they 
 do not ' console ' one. Let us go to-morrow, and I will 
 promise to be myself again ! " 
 
 " We will," said Jack. 
 
 He did not venture on any attempts at consolation after 
 that bitter little comment of hers, though he was dumbly
 
 b 
 
 *' Ube Ibeart Iknovvetb Ibis ©wn JBttterness " 295 
 
 sorry for Gill. It was a pity ! for he could have accom- 
 plished what no one else could. One word or touch of 
 his might have loosed the tears that would not flow, and 
 to have broken down would have done Gillian good. 
 Comfort is no matter of words, and reason is singularly 
 incompetent in the place where fierce misery reigns ■ but 
 Jack had had but little experience in women, and had not 
 yet learned that it does not in the least matter what a man 
 says, so long as he is the right person to say it.
 
 part III. 
 
 297
 
 CHAPTER XIX. \ 
 
 ANOTHER FAITHFUL FAILURE. 
 
 "Give him a march with his old bones; there, out of the glorious 
 sun-coloured earth, out of the clay and the dust and the ecstasy — 
 there goes another Faithful Failure." 
 
 SIR EDWARD BEVAN sat resting from his labours 
 in the great hall at Highfields. He had been busily 
 engaged in dusting his ancestors, whose long-chinned, 
 narrow faces looked down on him from the walls ; a large 
 silk handkerchief was spread over his knees. 
 
 Sir Edward had a fancy for doing odd jobs with his 
 own hands. An irritable restlessness was perhaps partly 
 answerable for these freaks ; but he always declared and 
 believed that he did such things in order to set an example 
 of economy to his servants. It was a form of economy 
 that did not conduce to popularity. After his death Sir 
 Edward was recognised as a public benefactor, and the 
 Spartan simplicity of his life received some meed of 
 approbation, but during his lifetime his virtues wore a 
 peculiarly irritating garb. 
 
 Sir Edward sat in a high-backed oak chair by the 
 carved stone mantelpiece. He had climbed the ladder in 
 order to dust his namesake, who had ridden by Cromwell 
 at Marston Moor and had prayed with the men of his 
 own household before the storming of Dartmouth, and had 
 finally been killed in battle. Sudden death was a late 
 
 299
 
 o 
 
 oo Ht tbe Cross^lRoabs 
 
 which had overtaken a large proportion of Bevans. It 
 was said, indeed, that no firstborn son of the elder line 
 ever died in his bed. 
 
 Sir Edward thought of that superstition while he 
 smoothed and folded the silk handkerchief. He thought 
 of it and sighed enviously. To have been killed while 
 fighting the Lord's battles was a death that any man 
 might count most fortunate ; but as for him, his lines had 
 fallen in evil and inglorious times ! Moreover, he was 
 ashamed because of the mean scamp who, alas ! called 
 him father. 
 
 His meditations had just reached this melancholy point — 
 at which they invariably arrived, no matter what started 
 them — when an imperious ring at the bell surprised him. 
 
 " I suppose I am to say ' not at home,' sir ? " asked the 
 old butler, with a disgusted glance at the ladder and the 
 silk handkerchief. 
 
 Sir Edward had been about to deny himself to the 
 intruder, but the question rubbed him the wrong way. 
 
 " You will do nothing of the sort," he said. " I do not 
 engage you to suppose or tell lies, but to open the hall 
 door for me." 
 
 So it came about that the visitor was admitted and that 
 she stepped into the dreary hall, where both the Sir 
 Edwards seemed to be regarding her beauty with the 
 gravest suspicion. 
 
 She was quite young, and her cheeks were glowing and 
 her eyes shining. She wore a dark-green fur-lined cloak 
 that set off her pure and brilliant colour as green leaves set 
 off the petals of a pink flower. When she caught sight of 
 Sir Edward, she walked straight up to him without more ado. 
 
 The old man stood up to receive her, but did not put out 
 his hand. " I cannot remember that I have had the honour 
 of meeting you before. May I ask what is your business 
 with me ? " he said.
 
 Hnotbet jfaitbtul ^failure 3^1 
 
 " Don't you remember me, Sir Edward ? We met last 
 at Draycott Court," said the girl. 
 
 Her heart was beating fast, but excitement always 
 became her; and, fortunately for her, she was aware of 
 that fact, and the knowledge inspired her with a kind of 
 desperate courage. She knew that her beauty always 
 fought for her. 
 
 At the mention of Draycott Court Sir ^^dward did 
 remember her. " To be sure, to be sure. You are Miss 
 Tyrell," said he. 
 
 " No, I am not not Miss Tyrell," said Nina. 
 
 Something seemed to catch at her breath, and she pressed 
 both hands to her heart, with a gesture that was quite 
 natural and unstudied. She was impatient with her own 
 folly ; she was in the habit of fancying herself a bolder 
 and worse woman than she actually was. 
 
 "You are nervous," said the old man, not unkindly. 
 " Sit down, and take your time." 
 
 "No, no, I hate waiting! I'll tell you at once — that's 
 what I have come for. I am not Miss Tyrell any longer ; 
 Sir Edward, I am Nina Bevan — I am your son's wife." 
 
 She expected an outburst, perhaps of astonishment, 
 perhaps of rage. Cyril frequently made fun of the 
 "governor's abominable temper," and Nina, who had 
 unfortunately found it impossible to respect her own father, 
 was unprepared to respect her husband's. She was ready 
 to cajole or to defy. She had rehearsed the interview 
 many times. It had always been dramatic in rehearsal, 
 and she had always played the leading part. It was, as 
 usual, the unexpected that occurred. 
 
 In small matters Sir Edward Bevan was often petulant 
 and ludicrous ; his son, being a person of small soul and 
 quick humour, had seen the ridiculous side of him ; but 
 where the question was of large issues the old knight's 
 absolute sincerity rang true and gave him dignity.
 
 302 m tbe Cross*1Roa&5 
 
 " My son's wife ! " he repeated gravely. Then his 
 querulous, deeply-lined face shone with an expression of 
 deepest pity. 
 
 " You poor girl ! Now God help you ! " he said. " For 
 I fear that if you are Cyril's wife you have fallen into sore 
 straits." 
 
 Nina stood and stared at him, with just such a look as 
 a very naughty child may wear who in the midst of her 
 naughtiness is seized with misgivings. The green fur 
 cloak slipped from her shoulders to the ground. She 
 blushed, and stooped blindly to lift it from the floor. 
 Shame and a desire to run away suddenly possessed her. 
 
 Sir Edward took the cloak and hung it over the back 
 of the chair which he offered her. He had no idea of 
 the impression he had made on this little reprobate. Sir 
 Edward was always eager to convert sinners, but he would 
 have been surprised had he known that he had never 
 before so nearly realised his ambition. No thought ot 
 preaching was in his mind ; he was simply filled with 
 horror because so young a girl had been beguiled into 
 matrimony with such a man as Cyril. 
 
 " Sit down and tell me whether my son sent you here," 
 said he. 
 
 " Oh no, I just came on my own account," she answered, 
 and the reply was partly true and partly false. 
 
 This move had been of Nina's devising, but she and 
 Cyril had thoroughly discussed it. A bold strategy always 
 commended itself to this girl, who had certainly a spice 
 of the born adventuress in her. 
 
 " The governor is so stingy that he may refuse to have 
 anything to do with you," Cyril had remarked. " If that 
 happens you must just wire to me and join me in London. 
 On the other hand, it is possible that he may look on yon 
 as a brand to be saved from burning ; and in that case you 
 might come round him and eventually patch up a peace
 
 Bnotbet f aitbful ifailute 303 
 
 between us. I am tired of being tabooed. I'm getting 
 old, Nina ! You may truly assure my father that my mouth 
 waters for a slice of fatted calf — but he's a precious long 
 time about killing and cooking it ! " 
 
 Nina thought of that conversation while she sat in the 
 high-backed chair, and endeavoured to collect her wits. 
 She was fond of Cyril, and, strange as such a fact may 
 appear, it was not unaccountable, for the slippery, elderly 
 scamp had very companionable qualities. She had been 
 ready to play her husband's game and out-general the 
 enemy. She was puzzled by the moral shock that Cyril's 
 father had given her ; she made an effort to overcome it. 
 
 " We were married in Liverpool, where I was staying 
 with a great-aunt, who is very old and childish. We have 
 been married six months. Would you like to look at 
 this ? " she said. 
 
 She held out a copy of the marriage certificate. 
 
 The old knight put on his spectacles and read the 
 document aloud, very slowly and carefully. His eyesight 
 was beginning to fail, and he interrupted himself to carp 
 at the faintness of the ink and to rub his glasses. Nina 
 fought with an almost hysterical desire to snatch the paper 
 from his hand and read it for him. 
 
 The situation tried her nerves more than she fancied 
 that it would, though it was not, after all, in the least 
 degree melodramatic. 
 
 Sir Edward, having at last finished reading, returned 
 the document to her with a stiff little bow, and pushed 
 his spectacles on to his forehead. 
 
 " It is probably correct," he said. " I conclude that you 
 married without your father's consent ? Obedience to the 
 fifth commandment has gone out of fashion." 
 
 A very bitter expression crossed Nina's face. 
 
 " I did not ask my father's consent, and I believe that 
 he does not wish to have anything more to do with me."
 
 304 Ht tbe Cros5*TRoab5 
 
 " That's bad, very bad," said Sir Edward. " You were 
 exceedingly wrong. You have given great provocation ; 
 yet children have done worse things and been forgiven." 
 
 He sighed so heavily that the sigh was almost a groan. 
 
 " If that were all " he muttered. Ah, if he could but 
 
 wake to find that bad record a dream, and that the extent 
 of his child's misdoings had been a rash marriage, how 
 gladly he could have forgiven ! 
 
 "But he is without conscience and without natural 
 affection. A nature thoroughly depraved," he said 
 sternly. 
 
 Nina, full of her own schemes, did not understand. " I 
 thought it best to come straight to you," she said ap- 
 pealingly, and at that the man's heart smote him. 
 
 If Cyril had no conscience, Sir Edward had a singularly 
 exacting one, and his sense of responsibility was keen 
 and vigorous. This girl had flung herself on his hands 
 because — to his bitter grief — he was Cyril's father. He 
 accepted the situation. 
 
 " I shall go to see Captain Tyrell," he said. " I will do 
 what I can to appease his just anger. In the meantime 
 you must remain here." 
 
 "There is no use in your going to see my father," said 
 Nina calmly, "and his anger is not just. My father" — 
 she hesitated a moment, for a certain pathetic pride had 
 always hitherto restrained her from making family reve- 
 lations — " has never had any fatherly feeling for me ! He 
 grossly ill-treated me when I was a small girl, but Polly 
 — who is now my step-mother — protected me, Polly will 
 tell you some very odd stories if you go to my home and 
 ask her whether I have spoken the truth. Perhaps you 
 will understand then why it is that / am not so shocked at 
 poor Cyril. Cyril is kind, anyhow ! I don't think he would 
 try to hurt a child. The fifth commandment sounds like a 
 satire to me ! But I hope you won't let all Churton Regis
 
 Hnotber jfaitbful jfatlure 305 
 
 know about what you may hear from Polly ! I don't mind 
 its bad opinion, but I won't have its pity." 
 
 She hid her face against the back of the chair in a way 
 that was almost childish. 
 
 " Oh ! don't look at me like that,^' she cried. *' I never 
 guessed that you would be so horribly shocked ! I fancied 
 that you were never sorry for people." 
 
 Sir Edward opened his lips to speak, but restrained 
 himself and turned away from her. 
 
 No good man — and he was good — could have heard such 
 words and not burnt with righteous indignation against 
 Nina's father^; but he was also suspicious, and he seldom 
 trusted either his own or other people's impulses. It was 
 always possible that the young woman might be telling 
 lies. 
 
 He took up his hat and stick and put on his coat. Was 
 this thing true ? Well, he would know whether she spoke 
 truth before the sun set. 
 
 Sir Edward went out of the house without another word 
 to the distressed lady who had flung herself on his pro- 
 tection. He was not going to commit himself, or to take 
 sides against parental authority without just cause ; yet 
 on his plain face there was a look such as his ancestor 
 might have worn when he was going to fight the " curled, 
 blaspheming courtiers " of the Stewarts. It was a look 
 that boded the captain no good. 
 
 " If the man is what she describes, it is time that some 
 one should tell him that he is a blackguard," Sir Edward 
 said to himself, and he forgot that his years numbered 
 nigh on eighty. It was a fine forgetfulness, which I think 
 must have counted in his favour when the last hours of 
 strenuous, if somewhat injudicious, service were accom- 
 plished and his sword was delivered to the Master, who 
 judges not as men judge. 
 
 As for Nina, she was left to that which she most dreaded 
 
 20
 
 3o6 
 
 Bt tbe Ci'oss*1Roa&5 
 
 — to solitary reflection. She got off the high-backed chair 
 after a time, for it wearied her and made her back ache. 
 She spread her cloak — it was a present of Gillian's — on 
 the stone floor and sat down on it, nestling close to the 
 fire for warmth. The hall was cold, for Sir Edward was 
 chary of coal. She looked very pretty and pathetic as 
 she sat all alone in that great gloomy place, yet she did 
 not conceal from herself that she was in reality no high- 
 minded heroine. An odd touch of self-scorn often coloured 
 Nina's meditations. 
 
 She presently pulled a pencil and a pocket-book out of 
 her pocket and began to scribble a letter to her fellow- 
 conspirator. How amused Cyril would be ! Cyril always 
 saw the funny side of everything ! On the whole she 
 fancied that she had been successful, though she had felt 
 much more uncomfortable than she had expected to feel — 
 and Sir Edward had not been funny ! 
 
 Nina's pencil paused in the middle of a sentence, and 
 the tears rushed into her eyes. " I'm a bad sort — I always 
 was — but I will never laugh at Cyril's father again. Never, 
 so long as I live ! " she promised herselt. 
 
 At that moment the butler came into the hall and looked 
 curiously at her. " Sir Edward said you was going to wait 
 here till he came back, miss, and that that wouldn't be for 
 some hours," said Miller. " Shall I fetch you a cup of tea ? " 
 
 Miller would have been more than human had he not 
 experienced some curiosity about this sudden appearance 
 of Miss Tyrell ; but he was kind as well as inquisitive. 
 He had a wife and daughters of his own, and he was 
 convinced that whatever misfortunes the poor lady was in, 
 a cup of tea could not come amiss. 
 
 Nina accepted the suggestion with gratitude, and Miller 
 took her into the library where Cyril had had his last 
 interview with his father. There was a picture of Cyril 
 on the wall. It represented him as a very angelic little
 
 Bnotber jFaitbful jf allure 307 
 
 boy, with long golden curls, and a sweet smile, and a pink- 
 and-white complexion. 
 
 " That was Mr. Cyril at the age of seven, miss," said 
 Miller ; " I remember when it was taken." 
 
 He brought in the tray with bread and butter and tea, 
 and he dragged Sir Edward's writing-table up to the fire- 
 place and lit the fire. It was strange to see this beautiful 
 lady sitting in Sir Edward's leathern arm-chair. Miller 
 could not but wonder what would come of it. 
 
 Nina's spirits began to revive. Anything was better 
 than waiting alone. She suddenly confided in Miller. 
 " / am Mr. Cyril's wife," said she, and this time she 
 enjoyed the sensation that the announcement caused. 
 
 The old butler, who perhaps knew more about the ways 
 of gentlefolk than did Nina, was indeed aware that it was 
 very odd of her to take him into her confidence, and as 
 for the startling news, he was perhaps not (jiiitp. so sur- 
 prised as he appeared — he had gathered something from 
 his master's face — but he was a good old fellow and he 
 was thankful that he had been wise enough to bring up 
 the tray with his own hands. 
 
 The family honour was safe with him, but the footman 
 might have presumed on the lady's incautiousness. For 
 the rest, Miller considered that poor Mr. Cyril might have 
 done worse than this. 
 
 " He was always an affable gentleman, miss — ma'am, 
 I should say," Miller said, when he had regained his breath, 
 "and he was clever with dumb animals. He sat up the 
 whole ol one night with an old bull-dog that was dying. 
 I always said after that that Mr. Cyril had a deal of 
 kindness in him, though he had been so unfortunate," 
 
 " Oh, tell me some more nice things that he did," cried 
 Nina, with unconscious pathos. 
 
 She had heard so many bad things that it pleased her 
 to hear some good of Cyril.
 
 3o8 Ht tbe Cro55*1Roa05 
 
 Miller was pleased, too. Miller did not think of Mr. 
 Cyril with the horrified loathing with which most decent 
 men who knew his story regarded him. Perhaps the 
 butler judged the family he had served from boyhood by a 
 different standard to that which is applied to ordinary 
 mortals; or perhaps the elderly scamp was still in his 
 eyes but a yoimg gentleman after all. He searched his 
 memory diligently for some more creditable tales. 
 
 "He once brought back a prize; I think it was for 
 proficiency in arithmetic, ma'am. Sir Edward did not 
 appear to take any pleasure in it, and I can call to mind 
 that Master Cyril was a bit disappointed. He gave the 
 prize to me — I was under footman then, and I was fond of 
 books — and though I could not read it, seeing it was in a 
 foreign tongue, I took it very kindly of Master Cyril. I 
 have it by me still, and the binding is beautiful ! " 
 
 That was the extent of Miller's evidence in Master Cyril's 
 favour. Perhaps it hardly counted for much ! Cyril had 
 been kind to animals and quite ready to give away that 
 which cost him nothing. Nina, however, made the very 
 most of it. 
 
 "Thank you, Miller, I have enjoyed hearing all that," 
 she said. " What you have told me quite proves how 
 harshly people judge him. There has never been any one 
 to put things in a right light." 
 
 "No, ma'am, nor there has, ma'am," said old Miller 
 with comfortable acquiescence. "And Mr. Cyril had a 
 heavy cold on him last time he come ; it did seem a pity 
 he couldn't have stayed the night peaceful and natural ! 
 But, as you say, ma'am, there never was no one here to put 
 things in the right fight." 
 
 " If only there had been he might have been just as 
 good as other people," said Nina wistfully. 
 
 Mr, Bevan would certainly have been amused could he 
 have heard that conversation ! Perhaps he would have been
 
 Bnotber jfaitbful ^failure 309 
 
 touched. No one is utterly bad, and, after a fashion of his 
 own, he was fond of Nina; indeed, he was actually fond 
 enough of her to put himself to some inconvenience for 
 her sake. At the very moment when she was standing 
 up for him in his father's house he was on his way to 
 Devonshire. 
 
 Cyril had a good deal of confidence in Nina's powers of 
 fascination; but he had also great belief in Sir Edward's 
 capability for being disagreeable. The possibility that Nina 
 might be turned away from the door at Highfields, or that 
 his father might take it on himself to lecture her, made 
 Nina's husband distinctly uncomfortable. Cyril was seldom 
 angry, and he was still seldomer uncomfortable on some 
 one else's behalf. The sensation greatly surprised him ! 
 
 He had told Nina to wire to him should her scheme 
 fail; yet, on consideration, he felt that he should prefer to 
 be at hand to help her. Hence his sudden journey. It 
 may safely be averred that he had never before taken so 
 much trouble for an unselfish motive; but the miracles 
 that love works are happily unlimited. Like the sun, it 
 shines on the just and the unjust, and brings manifestations 
 of life out of ugly places. 
 
 Mr. Bevan travelled in a first-class carriage; for, however 
 hard up he might be, he usually managed to secure to 
 himself creature comforts. The little middle-aged gentle- 
 man in the fur-lined coat was treated with respect by the 
 guards and porters. In spite of his insignificant height he 
 could look as if he were "Somebody," and his pleasant 
 manner won for him an easy popularity. Cyril had more 
 than one manner; he was a born actor, and could play 
 almost any role he chose, but the grand gentleman pose 
 came quite naturally to him. Despite all his shady and 
 disreputable experiences he cherished the belief that he 
 should one day turn over a new leaf and be the master of 
 Highfields and a county magnate.
 
 3IO • Ht tbe Cro55*'1Roa&5 
 
 He owed his father a double grudge for having lived too 
 long and for trying to baulk him of his reformation. 
 
 It was nine o'clock when the train reached Churton 
 Regis. Cyril strolled, in a leisurely manner, towards 
 Captain Tyrell's house. Polly would tell him the news, 
 and he should hear from her whether Nina had really had 
 the audacity to carry out her plan. 
 
 " She has ' cheek ' enough for anything," he said to 
 himself with a smile. 
 
 It was lucky that the evening was dark. Even in this 
 apparently peaceful corner of England there were un- 
 pleasant people who would dun him if they got the chance. 
 He limped slightly, and his lameness annoyed him ; he put 
 that, too, to his father's account. He had been very ill with 
 rheumatic fever after his last interview with Sir Edward. 
 He had got wet through and through on his way to the 
 inn, and during his illness he had been entirely dependent 
 on the kindness of the inn-keeper, to whom he, at present, 
 owed money. 
 
 Sir Edward would not pay a penny of the bill ! Sir 
 Edward was still trying to force his son to consent to the 
 cutting off of the entail. 
 
 It was a curious fact that that son, who had never before 
 showed any interest in the old place, or any tenacity of 
 purpose, should now evince an obstinacy that equalled his 
 father's. It perhaps proved that Cyril was, after all, no 
 changeling ; he had, at any rate, one family characteristic ! 
 
 " It is only a question of holding out ; but ' holding out ' 
 is deucedly unpleasant," Cyril said to himself. " There's 
 a terrible amount of vitality in the old man. I believe his 
 health's a good deal better than mine, in spite of his liver ! 
 He'll never give up the ghost while he can possibly hang 
 on to it. Hullo ! what's that ?" 
 
 He had just reached the cross-roads. To the right lay 
 the road that led to Captain Tyrell's house, to the left the
 
 Bnotbet ifaltbtul 3f allure 311 
 
 way to Draycott, and straight ahead was the village of 
 Churton Regis. A sign-post pointed in each direction ; 
 under the sign-post Cyril saw something — a something that 
 appeared monstrous and grotesque in the half-light. He 
 was near-sighted, and the thing seemed like a black, shapeless 
 body with a man's head protruding from its middle. When 
 he got close up to it, he saw that a horse had fallen on its 
 rider and had broken its knees; it turned agonised eyes 
 to him ; it was injured past recovery. Cyril was sorry 
 for the creature ; he was always much more pitiful to 
 animal than he was to human pain. 
 
 He lit a match in order that he might see whether the 
 rider were alive, but his first thought had been for the 
 horse. 
 
 " You must be a fool, or you must have been drunk, to 
 have let the poor beast down on this hill," he said coolly. 
 But he dropped the match with an exclamation of dismay 
 when the light fell on the dead man's face. 
 
 He scrambled hastily to his feet and shouted lustily, 
 then set off at full speed for the village. He was not 
 a good runner, he was inclined, like Hamlet, to be "fat 
 and scant of breath," but he ran with all his might. Horror 
 pursued him — sheer, unreasoning horror. It was Sir 
 Edward who lay at the cross-roads. 
 
 Had Cyril Bevan received the news of the old man's 
 death by letter he would not even have pretended grief. All 
 the world knew that he and his father had been at daggers 
 drawn for years. He had openly wished Sir Edward dead 
 time and again. He did not grieve now, but he shuddered. 
 
 It was appalling ! That grim, silent meeting had been 
 too much for his nerves. 
 
 Cyril, who had been so hopelessly unimpressionable, 
 who had been amused by all the knight's sermons, was 
 actually impressed at last !
 
 CHAPTER XX, 
 
 "LIFBS NOT LONG ENOUGH FOR HONEST MEN 
 TO QUARREL IN." 
 
 LONG mournings are out of fashion at present, but the 
 shortness of Mrs. Cardew's retirement rather scanda- 
 lised even the set in which she lived. 
 
 Gillian was absolutely greedy for enjoyment during the 
 winter that followed the child's death. She was livelier 
 than ever, though her high spirits were less catching than 
 they had been, and the healthiness of mind and body that 
 had characterised her seemed lacking. 
 
 Gillian had always been energetic. She had liked to be 
 "doing," because she was a capable woman to whom 
 action was joy. An underlying originality and breadth of 
 thought had been as salt in the baking of the pies into 
 which she had dipped her clever fingers. A kindliness, 
 often unconscious, but growing out of her tenderness for 
 her child, had sweetened and inspired much of her work. 
 
 The kindliness was missing when Gillian emerged from 
 her seclusion, her sallies inclined to be more caustic than 
 merry ; and while her reputation for brilliancy and the 
 multitude of her engagements grew, her popularity 
 decreased. 
 
 Cardew saw little of his wife during that winter. He 
 too was fully occupied, and their ways diverged more 
 widely than ever. He was uneasy about Gillian, but it 
 seemed that there was neither time nor opportunity to 
 
 312
 
 *' Xtfe's IRot %om TBnomh to (Siuarrel 5n " 313 
 
 express sympathy. She had buried her grief fathoms deep, 
 and apparently feared nothing so much as its resurrection. 
 
 One morning, when he came down to breakfast, he found 
 Gillian sighing over a long and highly perfumed letter. 
 
 " Mammy's letters are so terribly voluminous," she said, 
 " and her pretty pointed handwriting is not so legible as 
 it appears at first sight. I wish she would not write to me 
 so often." 
 
 Jack laughed. " You are the only woman I know who 
 does not like letters. Gill ! " 
 
 *' I don't like mammy's — they bore me, because they are 
 full of her feelings," said Gillian. ** Do you want to hear 
 the news? Mr. Clovis wishes to send George to school, 
 but mammy 'cannot but fear that her dearest boy's 
 peculiarly original character will not be properly under- 
 stood at Eton.' Dear me ! what fools mothers are ! 
 There are two sheets on the Eton question. Let's see 
 what else she says ? Mr. Clovis is * foolishly anxious about 
 her health, and wants her to consult a London doctor ' — 
 I suppose that I had better invite them to our house ! — 
 ' A most shocking event occurred yesterday. Sir Edward 
 Bevan was picked up at the cross-roads. His horse had 
 fallen on him, and he was ' — oh, Jack, butthis is news — * he 
 was quite dead, when his son, who was walking from the 
 station, discovered him ! ' " 
 
 Jack looked considerably startled. *' Dead ! " he repeated 
 blankly. Then after a pause, " Poor old chap ! I wish 
 I had behaved better to him ! " 
 
 " It is for Mr. Bevan' to say that, not you, Jack ; but 
 probably Mr. Bevan has no qualms ! Why, here is more 
 startling intelligence. ' You will be surprised to learn that 
 it has transpired that Cyril Bevan was privately married 
 to Nina Tyrell some months ago.' Good gracious ! that 
 was a bold stroke on Nina's part ! * So far as any one 
 knows at present Sir Edward has left no will.' If there is
 
 314 Ht tbe Cro55*1RoaDs 
 
 no will the money as well as the estate will fall to his son, 
 won't it ? Ninon is lucky ! " 
 
 Jack looked up with an expression of disgust. " Lucky ? 
 It's horrible ! " he said. *'If that girl had been my daughter 
 I'd rather have strangled her with my own hands than 
 have seen her the wife of that little brute." 
 
 " But you know you've got some very high-flown notions 
 about women, dear ! " said Gillian. "Nina does not expect 
 too much of Mr. Bevan, and, really, he is a very good- 
 tempered person. He won't beat her, or bully her. Pro- 
 bably he'll be respectable now that he has come in for the 
 property you despised. I daresay they'll get on as well as 
 most couples. Every one will eventually call on Nina. 
 You see if they don't ! " 
 
 Jack reddened. " I'm not over-nice," he said ; *' I'm the 
 last fellow in the world who has any right to be Pharisaical, 
 but I won't have you go inside Cyril Bevan's house. You 
 don't understand " 
 
 Gillian laughed, a hard little laugh. "My dear Jack, 
 one would fancy I was seventeen!" she said. "That's 
 how Mr. Cloves talks to mammy ! Mammy thoroughly 
 enjoys it, but / don't go in for such immaculate innocence. 
 I quite understood what you once told me, so did Nina 
 — and this is the result." 
 
 Jack got up quickly. He had a strong dislike to the 
 discussion and to Gillian's tone. When he got to the door 
 he turned round. 
 
 "I say. Gill, I wish you wouldn't talk in that sort of 
 way ; women are not meant to ! " he said. 
 
 Gillian laughed again, more bitterly than ever, birt her 
 laughter ceased abruptly when the door closed. His 
 rebuke touched her because she loved him, but the pain 
 that she tried to stifle was making her reckless. Sorrow 
 and loss seem to leave some natures unchanged, but Gillian 
 took them hard.
 
 " %itc'B IRot XoiiG Bnouob to (Sluarrel 5n " 315 
 
 " Perhaps they were not meant to be so unhappy. 1 
 am sure our afiections have got too largely developed ! " 
 she said to herself. " I wonder whether Nina will be 
 happy ? She can't possibly care for Mr. Bevan much. 
 Will she care for her babies if she has any ? Poor Ninon ! 
 I hoped I had succeeded in saving her from that marriage. 
 I dt'd save her for a time, but in the end I have failed." 
 Her face grew thoughtful. " That seems to be my usual 
 fate. I get what I want, but the upshot is failure ! " 
 
 The sense of failure was heavy on Jack too during the 
 whole of that foggy winter's day. Some few things that 
 he had striven hard to do he had done ; but he was too 
 sad to feel the satisfaction that he ought to have felt in an 
 accomplished task. 
 
 That very morning " Henderson's boy " took passage for 
 Australia, and started on what Cardew hoped would be a 
 new life. Jack had perseveringly and doggedly insisted on 
 that lad's reclamation. He had been absolutely determined 
 to save him. He had struggled as he would have struggled 
 for his own son. He had taken no oath, but he had held 
 himself bound to do his utmost. He considered himself in 
 debt to poor Henderson's ghost. Jack thought at times 
 that if ever Henderson and he were to meet in that next 
 world (where one cannot but hope that a good many 
 crooked things may be made straight) then the man he 
 had killed might, after all, be not unwilling to shake 
 hands with him. Henderson had been a straightforward, 
 manly fellow — perhaps he would recognise that the convict 
 had done his best for those children. 
 
 The fact of becoming a father had increased Jack's sense 
 of responsibility ; it had, as he himself was dimly aware, 
 made another man of him. 
 
 The boy was dead ; but Jack could never again be as if 
 " Goliath " had not been born. 
 
 " God sends to every man a prophet in his own tongue."
 
 3i6 at tbe Cro55*1Roa&s 
 
 Cardew held most sermons in abomination, but never- 
 theless a stammering little tongue, that had learnt but few 
 words, had taught him a new name for that strong eternal 
 power which we call as best we can — knowing always 
 that behind and beyond our feeble best is yet a better. 
 To find a new name for one's Deity is to find a new way 
 of looking at the whole of life. It is a discovery that 
 reaches backwards and forwards and causes a good deal 
 of revision. It is a discovery that is apt to seal a man's 
 lips — at least for a time. 
 
 Later in the day Cardew intended to make his way to 
 the Middlesex Buildings. He had long ago fulfilled his 
 promise to " look Geoff up." He was fond of Geoft' now, 
 and he liked to sit rather silently in that queer attic and 
 listen to the brother and sister's chatter. 
 
 Geoff was quite at home with Cardew, but Enid was 
 sometimes oppressed by memories. The young genius 
 who had been " Bertie's friend " had appeared to be not 
 so very much her senior ; but this grave, undemonstrative 
 man, who looked ten years older than his actual age, 
 seemed to belong to another generation, to be old enough 
 to be her father. Moreover, though Enid liked and 
 admired the Cardews — would, indeed, have gone through 
 fire and water for them, had there been a chance of so 
 showing her gratitude — she could never forget that she 
 had once begged of Jack. It had been for Geoff's sake, 
 but it was not the less a painful recollection. 
 
 The Hauberts had been singularly fortunate of late. 
 Enid's designs for wall-papers were becoming quite fashion- 
 able, and every one of the sketches she had made in 
 Devonshire had been sold. They were now preparing 
 to move into better quarters, where Enid would have a 
 studio and Geoffrey a room in which there should be 
 space for a big table with drawers for his microscopic 
 specimens. Geoff had lately had professional lessons in
 
 " Xife's 1Flot %om iBnowQh to (SHuavrel 3n " 317 
 
 the art of mounting ; but he had needed but little teaching. 
 His fingers were as delicate in touch as it is possible for 
 fingers to be, and he was keenly interested in his work. 
 Rather to Enid's amused surprise, he had lately found a 
 patron and a kindred spirit in Mr. Strode. 
 
 Geoflf was at present busy in mounting specimens for 
 Mr. Strode's microscope, and the attic was sweet with 
 flowers that had been grown in the priest's hot-house. 
 It was too sweet, Enid declared. The scent made her head 
 ache ; and she cried impatiently that the poor things looked 
 out of place in a garret. 
 
 There must certainly have been something especially 
 depressing in the air, for even Enid was decidedly cross. 
 After having vainly endeavoured to paint in a room reeking 
 with fog and hot with gas she flung down her palette and 
 brushes in despair and went out into the raw atmosphere 
 of the streets. 
 
 Enid was a born Londoner, and fog did not, as a rule, 
 dismay her, but this was certainly an exceptionally thick 
 one. When she first ventured into it it was yellow, 
 and the gaunt pile of the Middlesex Buildings could be 
 dimly seen like a ghost from the other side of the road. 
 Quite suddenly the yellow turned to a deep orange, and 
 the Buildings entirely disappeared. A dog ran against 
 Enid's knees and she was rather frightened, not because 
 she feared dogs, but because she could not see it ! She 
 turned round intending to go home ; she turned twice and 
 then lost her bearings. She fancied she had only turned 
 once, and that she was walking in the opposite direction. 
 
 She gave a boy, who carried a torch, a penny, in order 
 that he might escort her over the crossing. The boy 
 shouted lustily, and she held on to his arm, thinking the 
 while that this adventure would amuse Geoff in the re- 
 counting. She dismissed the boy when he had pioneered 
 her across.
 
 3i8 Bt tbe <Iro65*lRoa^s 
 
 " The street seems broader than usual, but oi course 
 that must be the effect of the darkness. Here is your 
 penny. I know that I must be close to the Middlesex 
 Buildings now," she said. 
 
 The boy shouted something in reply, but the sound of 
 his voice was mufQed. He grabbed at the penny and 
 was swallowed up by the fog. Enid laughed at the hob- 
 goblinish effect of the sudden disappearance of torch-bearer 
 and torch ; then she turned to look for the buildings, and 
 behold, they too had vanished. 
 
 Her hand struck against some area railings — she was in 
 a street of squalid private houses, though she could not 
 discern so much as that — and she held tight on to them 
 and groped her way along, with her face still set in the 
 wrong direction. 
 
 It seemed to her that she walked for hours, that she 
 became quite dazed with fatigue and hunger, that she was 
 in a bad dream, and that nothing about her was real. 
 Sometimes she heard shouts, and once or twice torches 
 flashed by her. Once a very thin, dirty hand caught her 
 dress and she shrieked and tore her skirt away and ran 
 a few steps — then she went on and on and on. 
 
 As a matter of sober fact, but ten minutes elapsed 
 between the moment when she parted with the boy at 
 the crossing and the moment when she met a friend, but 
 to the end of her days Enid could never believe that ! The 
 fog scare had caught her, and fear, like ecstasy, effaces 
 time. 
 
 If she momentarily lost her hold on the rails she was 
 in terror, and would creep back a step or two to find them 
 again. At last her trembling fingers closed on some one 
 else's fingers, and the some one said, " I beg your pardon," 
 curtly, but in the unmistakable accents of a gentleman. 
 
 " Oh, can you tell me where I am ? " cried Enid. 
 
 Something that was lamiliar to her in the man's voice
 
 *i 
 
 Xife's mot %om iSnowQly to (Quarrel 3n "319 
 
 gave her confidence, but caused her no surprise. In a bad 
 dream one is never surprised. 
 
 " I beheve that we are in the neighbourhood of King's 
 Cross," said the voice. 
 
 " But I've wandered for miles, and I started from that 
 neighbourhood ! " Enid cried. 
 
 She peered up anxiously at the stranger, trying in a 
 dazed way to remember who his voice and manner 
 reminded her of. He was tall and she could not distin- 
 guish his features till he stooped to look at her. Then 
 the little silver cross that he wore caught her eye, and she 
 clutched him with both hands and gasped with relief. 
 
 '* You are Mr. Strode," she said. " Oh, I am so glad to 
 see any one I know, because I have quite lost my way and 
 Geoff will be getting dreadfully alarmed, for I've been out 
 for hours and hours. But I can't be near King's Cross 
 still." 
 
 Almost while she spoke the fog changed colour and 
 became a shade lighter. The outline of shabby, dingy 
 houses was just visible, and the twinkle of a gas jet 
 glimmered in a window a few yards farther on. 
 
 " I am absolutely convinced that we are near King's 
 Cross," said the priest ; " I think that we are in a side 
 street leading oft the Pentonville Road. It's not a very 
 sweet part for you to be alone in " — an odour of rags and 
 poverty assailed his nostrils as he spoke. " Come, Miss 
 Haubert, where were you going ? " 
 
 " I was trying to go home," said Enid meekly ; " the 
 Middlesex Buildings are quite close to the Pentonville 
 Road, but I fancied that I was very far away. I don't mind 
 what street I am in so long as I know where it is," she 
 added confusedly. " I mean I'm not a bit afraid of being 
 in a poor street — I'm poor myself, no one could expect to 
 get anything from me ! I was frightened because I felt 
 lost and couldn't see my own hands, and thought I should
 
 320 Ht tbe Cro55*1Roa&5 
 
 never get back to Geoff. But it's better now — I can almost 
 distinguish your face ! " 
 
 She smiled, though it was not yet light enough for any 
 one to see that, Mr. Strode struck a match on the 
 friendly railing, and made a futile attempt to look at his 
 watch. 
 
 " I do not believe that it is at all late in the afternoon," 
 he said. " In a tog people frequently imagine that they 
 have wandered for a long time. I will see you to your 
 own door if you will allow me." 
 
 Enid made a funny little grimace and then accepted his 
 offer. She was piqued that he should fancy she had 
 " imagined things " ; but on the other hand the fog scare had 
 shaken her nerve, and her pride was not strong enough to 
 support her alone. That bad dream still hovered too near ! 
 
 " If it is not troubling you too much," she said ; " but you 
 were on your way to the station, were you not ? " 
 
 " Oh, my parish can survive without me," he said, with 
 a laugh that was not intended to be sad, but which at once 
 awakened Enid's quick and sympathetic attention. " Take 
 hold of my arm, please, and keep close. We will make 
 for the main road ; the shops there will give more light. 
 Yes, I shall miss my train, but that does not matter. I 
 can put up at an hotel for to-night. I have resigned the 
 living of Churton Regis. I came to town to-day to see an 
 old college friend who is working in the East End. He is 
 over-taxed, and I have offered to give him a hand, I am 
 not — so far as money goes — a poor man ; I can afford the 
 luxury of giving my work — such as it is. But I am bound 
 to own that the gift is of no great value. Hitherto I have 
 been worse than useless." 
 
 It was still so dark, and Enid was so much shorter than 
 her companion, that she could not actually see the expression 
 of his face when he had pronounced that sentence on 
 himself. Yet she knew how his lips closed and tightened.
 
 *' Xife's Bot %om BnouGb to (Sluarcel 5n " 321 
 
 Under ordinary circumstances he would not have spoken 
 of his own affairs to her. 
 
 " Don't you think that you are rather hard on — on Mr. 
 Strode?" she ventured in a low voice. 
 
 " On whom ? I don't catch your meaning." 
 
 " On yourself." 
 
 " Certainly not. There is never room for doubt about 
 plain facts," he answered sternly. '* A man does his work 
 well or he does it ill. / have done ill, or have made 
 culpable mistakes. Ah ! now we have hit on the Penton- 
 ville Road. Do you know at which end of the street stand 
 the buildings ? " 
 
 " Oh yes — even I can tell you that," Enid cried, laughing. 
 " Will you come in with me and see Geoffrey ? How long 
 poor Geoff must have been waiting ! " 
 
 She repeated the invitation some minutes later when 
 they stood in the courtyard of the buildings. She had, at 
 first, hoped that Mr. Strode would decline, for she was 
 longing to recount her adventures at ease ; but when she 
 saw his face, by the light of the gas jet that lit the public 
 entry, its troubled weariness gave her a positive ache. 
 Any suffering always touched the little artist; her vivid 
 imagination realised it at once. 
 
 " Oh, do come in," she cried impulsively. 
 
 " Thanks ; but I must be going on," said the priest, and 
 then some impulse made him for once change his mind. 
 " Yet, after all, I do not believe that there is a * must,' for 
 no one waits for me," he said, and followed her up the long, 
 dreary flights of stone steps. 
 
 Up and up and up they went, only pausing when their 
 ascent was impeded by families of babies who made the 
 public stairs their playground. The children grinned at 
 Enid and stared at the priest. They did not stare medi- 
 tatively like Devonshire children, but inquisitively and 
 cheerfully ; they hardly troubled themselves to move, but 
 
 21
 
 32 2 Bt tbe Ctoss^lRoaDs 
 
 glanced pertly up from between his feet, just as the London 
 sparrow glances up at the passer-by. Much has been 
 written about the sadness of childhood in our great and 
 beloved city, but our street urchins are not always doleful 
 — not even when they are at their dirtiest ! 
 
 " Our room is a long way up," said Enid apologetically, 
 "and we are very ' muddly ' to-day, because we are just 
 about to move into a new home. I hope you do not mind 
 a muddle. We mind it too little! We are an untidy 
 family." 
 
 Mr. Strode smiled stiffly, as people smile whose muscles 
 are unaccustomed to the exercise. He had found life no 
 joke of late. 
 
 To a man of the priest's temperament nothing perhaps is 
 more strange and painful than uncertainty. Mr. Strode 
 seldom debated long about anything; yet during the last 
 month he had been troubled by two questions. 
 
 On finding it beyond his power to persuade or to coerce 
 Mrs. Clovis to a full confession ought he to betray her 
 confidence and to make public what she had told him ? 
 Seeing that the woman, who had once said to him, " You 
 are no priest by nature," was proved right, and being con- 
 vinced that he was a bad and incompetent shepherd, ought 
 he to resign his charge ? 
 
 He had arrived at a conclusion on both points, but he 
 had suffered much and slept little while he was making up 
 his mind. It was a positive relief to be forced to talk and 
 think on a new subject. He felt that he should enjoy seeing 
 the lad who wrote such intelligent letters on botanical 
 subjects, and for whom Miss Haubert had made sketches of 
 the parson during the sermon. He was amused by the odd 
 place in which Enid lived. He looked round with kindly 
 interest when the girl opened the door and ushered him 
 in. Then his expression grew suddenly grave and tense. 
 Apparently, forgetfulness was never to be allowed him !
 
 " Xite's not %om Bnouab to (SHuarrel Sn " 323 
 
 Geoffrey was talking merrily, his snub-nosed, comical 
 face bright with pleasure. A broad-shouldered man sat 
 next the sofa, with his back to the door. On hearing 
 Enid's exclamation — which was not devoid of dismay — the 
 man turned to smile at his little hostess ; on seeing the tall 
 figure behind her he rose to his feet. 
 
 " Well, I'll look in to-morrow, Geoff. You may count 
 on me to do porter. Good-bye for the present," he said. 
 
 " But — oh, I say — you promised that you would stay to 
 tea, and you've only just come ! " cried Geoffrey. 
 
 Mr. Strode stood still, with his hand on the door-handle. 
 " There is no occasion for Mr. Cardew to cut his visit 
 short," he said. " Now that I have seen Miss Haubert 
 safely home I will take my leave." 
 
 " Oh, please, please don't," cried Enid. " Why, you 
 have just cUmbed up a hundred steps, and you mustn't, 
 either of you, go away like that ! " 
 
 Her distress was so real that, as she stood between them, 
 both men hesitated. 
 
 The Hauberts, like many poor people, were sensitively 
 hospitable. 
 
 Then Mr. Strode metaphorically drew out that private 
 scourge, which he was inclined to wield rather relentlessly. 
 " Mr, Cardew has not only the prior right to be here, but 
 he has also a right to object to my presence," he said. " I 
 have no legitimate reason to object to his. I have been in 
 the wrong," 
 
 Cardew raised his eyebrows. He vaguely recollected 
 that this old enemy of his had said something to the same 
 effect before in the train, but the words had then left no 
 clear impression on him. He did not like Mr. Strode ; he 
 had once heartily disliked him ; but he was keen enough 
 reader of character to guess how much that recantation 
 must have cost, and to respect its honesty. He sat down 
 again, to Enid's relief.
 
 324 Ht tbe Cross^lRoa^s 
 
 " On the whole, I am glad that you give me the oppor- 
 tunity of speaking with you," he said. " There is a question 
 that I should like to ask — that is, if Miss Haubert will not 
 mind my talking of my own affairs." 
 
 Mr. Strode crossed the room and seated himself by the 
 table. He was painfully conscious that this man had once 
 before had something to say to him ; but Jack had at 
 that moment no thought of the interview in the prison 
 infirmary. He was fast out-growing the bitterness that 
 had once possessed him. Enid perched herself on the foot 
 of Geoffs sofa. The brother and sister were very in- 
 terested spectators of this scene. How they would discuss 
 it when their visitors should have gone ! 
 
 " So long as you will both stay and have tea comfortably 
 you may talk about what you like," said she. " You were 
 right about the time, Mr. Strode, it is only 4.30, after all." 
 
 She felt that it was as well that Mr. Strode should be 
 proved right about something. When he had stood by 
 the door and stated, through his teeth, that he had been 
 in the wrong she had blushed hotly. She had a healthy 
 horror of scourges. 
 
 "You see," said Jack, who was very capable of going 
 straight to his point — " You see, I can't flatter myself that 
 my personality has ever inspired you with confidence; 
 but I understand, from what you have lately said, that 
 you have changed your opinion of me. I believe that you 
 told me as much when we travelled together. I am sorry, 
 by the way, that I hardly took in the gist of your remarks 
 then ; but I was a bit bothered about something. I con- 
 clude you had a cogent reason for changing your mind. 
 / have never been able to find tangible proof that I'm not 
 a blackguard. What is your reason ? I think that I have 
 the right to ask." 
 
 " No doubt ," said Mr. Strode ; " but I have not the 
 right to answer.*'
 
 **%ites> 1Flot %onQ ^Enouob to (Jiuanxl 5n " 325 
 
 There was no hesitation about him now. At that 
 moment his instinct, both as a man and as a priest, re- 
 volted from the idea of betrayal ! 
 
 " Then you are in possession of some knowledge that 
 nearly concerns me, and you deliberately withhold it." 
 
 " That is so," said the priest, nodding grimly. 
 
 Jack shrugged his shoulders and was eloquently silent. 
 Had he remonstrated Mr. Strode would have spent a 
 happier half-minute. Neither of these men had ever 
 shirked or dreaded an encounter with any antagonist in 
 the flesh; but in the silence Mr. Strode's own conscience 
 accused him. He could have argued stoutly with Cardew, 
 but, as it was, the strained expression returned to his eyes. 
 
 Enid broke the spell. "When I have any awful crime 
 to confess, I will confess it to you, for, after this, I shall 
 know that you will never tell ! " 
 
 " Oh, ho — then it was a confession, eh ? " said Jack. 
 
 Mr. Strode got up and pushed back his chair. " Miss 
 Haubert is too clever," he said, " I do not wish her to 
 find out more, so I will go. Yes, it was a confession. 
 Naturally you consider that I am acting unfairly by you, 
 but what you or any one may think is not my business. 
 I must do what seems right. I am trying hard to induce 
 the person who put me in possession of certain facts to 
 make her — his — iis disclosure public. I will swear, if 
 you like, never to rest till 1 have succeeded in that 
 endeavour ! " 
 
 He looked pale and worn and stern. Enid was again 
 sorry for him ; but Cardew was moved in another and 
 quite unexpected way. 
 
 " Oh, swear nothing of the sort on my account ! " he 
 cried. " The poor unfortunate devil ! What a time he or 
 she or ti must be having ! " 
 
 And at that Geoffrey suddenly broke into a peal of 
 laughter, and the tensity of the situation relaxed. Mr.
 
 326 Bt tbe Cros5=lRoat)s 
 
 Strode sat down and drank his tea, and no one asked any 
 more questions. Cardew looked steadily at him once or 
 twice, and on getting up to go held out his hand. " I 
 say, I suppose we may as well shake hands — that is, if 
 you'd like to," he said somewhat unexpectedly. 
 
 " I have certainly every reason to wish to shake hands 
 with you," said the priest; and the extreme severity of 
 his tone made Geoff smile again. 
 
 His long-fingered, nervous hand met Jack's unwillingly. 
 This perhaps was part of the penance. One can force 
 oneself to an avowal of past injustice, to reparation, to 
 anything in the world except to honest liking. There, the 
 strongest will is powerless. Love may be killed, but he 
 can never be coerced ; and no argument has ever yet 
 prevailed v;ith him. 
 
 Cardew smiled too. He suddenly understood this man. 
 Jack was occasionally visited by flashes of inspiration. 
 
 ** Life's not long enough for honest men to quarrel in," 
 said he ; " they may as well stand together against the 
 rogues — that's reason enough for me. I don't want any 
 other." 
 
 And at that the priest's long dislike melted all at once, 
 his sombre eyes lit up, and he returned Jack's grasp 
 firmly and warmly. 
 
 " But I wouldn't be too down on the black sheep if I 
 were a parson," Cardew added, and so went on his way ; 
 glad, on the whole, that that old feud was done away with. 
 He had never thought to have made friends with the 
 fellow, but it was not in his nature to meet an apology 
 coldly, and it is easy for the victor to be generous.
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 "/ WILL HAVE NO MORE TO DO WITH HER." 
 
 MR. STRODE paid a long visit. He had spent a bad 
 quarter of an hour, but now he was happier than 
 he had been for weeks. A sense of relaxation crept over 
 him; his somewhat morbid conscience was for once at 
 rest, and his stiffness vanished in Geoffrey's cheerful and 
 wholesome company. 
 
 Enid had no scientific knowledge of flowers, although 
 she loved them ; Latin names conveyed nothing to her. 
 Finding the conversation slightly tedious, she presently 
 slipped out of the room and betook herself to the packing 
 of her few possessions. She was almost sorry to bid fare- 
 well to the attics in which she and Geoff had fought so 
 hard a fight, but it was always the person, not the place, 
 that constituted home to her, and she was thankful that it 
 was a move for the better. 
 
 The howl of the gaunt wolf was very far away now : 
 tears were in her eyes when she considered how rich she 
 was. She presently began to overhaul the old play-box that 
 held her relics. They were all sacred to her dead brother's 
 memory, for this little artist had never been in love, though 
 she had loved much. Father and brothers had filled her 
 heart, and her work had been her romance. Yes, there 
 was poor Bertie's cigar-case, and the portrait of the 
 ballet-dancer, and the studs that a mysterious " some one " 
 had given him. These things could not be left behind. 
 
 327
 
 328 at tbe Cro56*1Roat)s 
 
 There, too, was that brown-paper parcel whose constant 
 return from publishers had caused so much heart-burning. 
 The very sight of it was painful to Enid, and yet she had 
 never had the courage to destroy it. She and Bertie had once 
 nearly quarrelled over that manuscript. She had copied 
 out the whole of his novel for him, and had certainly 
 not grudged the labour, though she had been obliged to 
 rise early to accomplish the task ; but she had been moved 
 to impatience when her brother had declared that her 
 babyish handwriting was the cause of its rejection by 
 publishers. Poor Enid had never owned to any one, not 
 even to Geoff, that her last words to Bertie had been words 
 of anger. Geoff would have said, " But you know it was 
 quite Bertie's fault, Judy ! " and she could never stand 
 hearing Bertie blamed. 
 
 She dragged the parcel from the bottom of the box and 
 sat pensively looking at it. She was a very loyal and 
 tender little soul, and I do not think she confessed to 
 herself that Geoff was more to her now than Bertie, with 
 his shallower and vainer nature, could ever have been. 
 She devoutly believed that had her elder brother lived he 
 would have been a great writer. Death had made her 
 faith secure, had carried poor Bertie beyond the reach of 
 unkind test or adverse criticism. Perhaps, on the whole, 
 death had not dealt harshly with Enid ! 
 
 We sometimes hear of so-called " strange " presentiments, 
 but it has always seemed to me that it is the absence of 
 intuitive foreknowledge that is really strange. Our bodies 
 give warning of coming illness, our ears catch the sound 
 of the footstep of any one we love afar off ; but our souls 
 may be within but a moment's distance of a great joy or 
 a great grief, and we may be utterly unconscious of what 
 is coming ; or we may touch the clue of a mystery and, 
 except in rare cases, no instinctive apprehension will thrill 
 us.
 
 '* 5 Mill bave no /Iftore to Do witb Ibec " 329 
 
 " I wonder if my handwriting has altered much since I 
 copied for Bertie ! I will just peep at it," thought Enid. 
 ***** 
 
 Some minutes later Mr. Strode, looking up from the 
 minute fragment that he was examining on a glass slide, 
 exclaimed in astonishment, — " Why, Miss Haubert, what 
 has happened ? Are you ill ? " he cried. 
 
 " My goodness, Judy, what's up ? " said Geoff. 
 
 Enid stood before them with a blanched face, holding a 
 huge pile of manuscript in her hands. 
 
 "Oh, Geoff, this— this, is Mr. Cardew's book!" she 
 gasped. *' And all those years, those dreadful years that 
 he was in prison, it has simply been lying at the bottom 
 of the old play-box under my bed ! It is his. It is signed 
 with his name, * Jack Cardew,' quite large and clear. / 
 copied Bertie's novel ; this is not in the least like my 
 writing. This never was Bertie's ; but I took it from the 
 policeman that dreadful morning when he was brought 
 home, and I put it away and could not bear to look at it. 
 It was done up in the brown paper that belonged to Bertie's 
 parcel. I am sure of that. See, the address on the outside 
 is in Bertie's writing, and I remember the bit of pink and 
 green twist. How could I know? It pretended to be 
 Bertie's ! " poor Enid cried in despair ; and then flung the 
 manuscript on the table, and buried her face in her hands. 
 " Oh, Geoff, just think of all those years ! all those years ! " 
 she sobbed. 
 
 Geoff whistled, and, leaning across the table, dragged 
 the pile of paper towards him, turned the pages over 
 and examined them with puckered lips and troubled 
 frown. 
 
 "Don't, Judy," he said at last, " don't be an idiot. There 
 is no use in going on like that. We must tell Mr. Cardew, 
 that's all. I should think that he'll be glad that it is found 
 anyhow, though how the dickens his story couid possibly
 
 33° Ht tbe Cro55*1Roa&5 
 
 have got inside Bertie's parcel beats me. It seems to be 
 a sort of conjuring trick. I suppose that it really is the 
 manuscript that there was the row about ? " 
 
 " He couldn't have lost two ! " said Enid, laughing 
 hysterically. " Oh, Geoff, he will think that it was poor 
 dear Bertie's fault, and I am sure that it wasn't." 
 
 " He won't ; he isn't that sort," said Geoff gruffly, 
 " Bertie was his friend. Mr. Cardew won't fancy beastly 
 things about his friend. He would be the last person in 
 the world to do that. I wonder you don't know him better, 
 Judy ! You don't understand him a bit if you think 
 Bertie's memory isn't safe with him." 
 
 Jack would have laughed had he heard that proud, 
 boyish declaration of faith ; but it stood for a good deal. 
 It is not every one who can inspire hero-worship. 
 
 Mr. Strode, who was watching this scene with mingled 
 feelings, marvelled at the lad's confidence. 
 
 It had never occurred to the priest that the manuscript 
 might be still in existence. His mind had been so full of 
 the ethical view of the situation that practical possibilities 
 had not suggested themselves to him. He took up his hat 
 and bade the brother and sister good-bye ; they evidently 
 wished to be left together, and, for his part, he desired to 
 be alone in order to think over what had happened. 
 
 They are happy who face life hand-in-hand, and the 
 close friendship of a brother or sister is a singularly good 
 gift to have received from the gods ; but Mr. Strode felt 
 an unaccountable irritation when he saw how Enid turned 
 at once to Geoffrey for counsel and support. 
 
 " It is high time for me to go. I am sorry that you are 
 distressed. Miss Haubert," he said. 
 
 " Why, it is awfully silly of Judy to take things so," said 
 Geoffrey with brotherly candour ; " I can't think what she 
 is fussing about. Mr. Cardew will be able to prove now 
 that he was all right. No one worth caring about ever
 
 ''3 Mill bave no /nbore to Do witb Iber " 33^ 
 
 believed he wasn't, but What are you frowning at me 
 
 for, Judy?" 
 
 Enid smiled with wet eyes, and made an eager en- 
 deavour to cover that last remark. 
 
 " We have not half thanked you, but I should never 
 have found my way without you. And we have said 
 nothing about all the beautiful hot-house flowers you have 
 sent Geoffrey." 
 
 "There is no occasion for your brother to thank me," 
 said Mr. Strode, " but I should strongly advise you to 
 avoid getting lost in back streets for the future." 
 
 He Hngered yet a moment ; Enid wondered why. He 
 opened the door, then turned as he crossed the threshold. 
 
 " If you have no objection I will come to see you in your 
 new quarters," he said, with that extreme decision of tone 
 that was, perhaps, a form of shyness. 
 
 Geoff chuckled when the door had closed on the tall, 
 spare figure. "/ should strongly advise 3''ou not to have 
 too much to do with that parson foi the future," he 
 remarked. "He might order you to marry him one da^'^, 
 and where would you be then ? " 
 
 " How can you laugh and talk nonsense ? " cried Enid. 
 "I feel as if I should never be merry again, when I think about 
 the awful, cruel thing that happened, and all by chance ! " 
 
 She was pale still ; the shock of the discovery had 
 unnerved her. Her imagination was more vivid than 
 Geoffs, and her childlike, trustful spirit seemed to be 
 suddenly confronted with the blank horror of a world 
 without a ruler. 
 
 " It was all a silly mistake, and that is what makes it 
 so awful," she cried piteously. " Why had Bertie got Mr. 
 Cardew's papers ? He never could have meant to do any 
 harm — and yet the harm was done. It is as if some 
 merciless, malicious fate were guiding — no, not guiding, 
 playing^with our lives. If an enemy had destroyed the
 
 332 Ht tbe Cros5*»1Roat)s 
 
 novel, one would say, ' How fearfully wicked ! ' but one 
 would know that in the end wickedness must be found 
 out and punished. That was what I always thought 
 would happen — some one would be found out and punished. 
 But after all it was no enemy. At the worst it could 
 only have been a practical joke on Bertie's part, and 
 then just by accident the joke was turned to bitter, 
 bitter earnest. Bertie was killed before he could tell 
 me what he had done. Nothing put it into my head 
 to open the parcel ! No, I just put it away without 
 cutting the string, without dreaming what finding those 
 papers would have meant. Mr. Cardew has been kind, 
 very, very kind to us, and we let him be sent to 
 years of misery when one look would have saved him. 
 But it wasn't our fault. It was blind chance ! It makes 
 me shiver. Anything may happen, I suppose — nothing 
 really interferes. Oh no, I don't mean it," she added, with 
 a swift recoil from her own words, " but it seems so, 
 Geoff." 
 
 Geoff fought for a moment with a boyish disinclination 
 to speak on so serious a subject. " He is a much bigger 
 sort of chap than either of us, Judy," he said at last. 
 " And he has gone through a lot more. Yet he does not 
 think that now. I know he doesn't, because once — when 
 I was feeling rather bad about something I couldn't do — 
 he told me so. He thinks it's not chance. I expect, some- 
 how, that he knows." 
 
 The next morning Jack told his wife of the incident 
 of the parson, Gillian was anything but pleased. 
 
 " I can't rise to these heights," she said ; " I can hate, 
 and I believe that I can love well, but I can't do first one 
 and then t'other. I do not understand blowing hot and 
 cold. You are growing much too angelic for me. Jack ! " 
 
 Jack was silent; and after a moment Gillian asked 
 sharply, " Was that all ? Do you mean to say that
 
 " 3 Mill bave no /IDore to &o witb Iber " 333 
 
 you did not even insist on Mr. Strode telling you what 
 he knew ? Oh, I wish my spirit might inhabit your big 
 body, my dear, if only for a day." 
 
 Jack laughed. "My big body would probably be hanged 
 for slaughtering a parson, or it might get the worst of 
 the encounter. In either case it would be in an undignified 
 predicament. But I tell you one thing. Gill, I firmly 
 believe now, that before we are many hours older we 
 shall know the truth about that old mystery." 
 
 " Why do you believe that ? " 
 
 " The secret is forcing its way out at last. It is strug- 
 gling to get free ! " said Jack. " But it has been a long 
 time in the dark — too long a time ! Even a year ago I 
 should have been more eager." 
 
 They looked at each other with a world of sadness in 
 their eyes. Then Gillian turned away with a hard little 
 smile. 
 
 " Yes, it will be too late ! " she said. " Well, for my 
 part, I do not believe in presentiments. I think that the 
 truth will emerge in time to dance over our graves. On 
 the day on which we are buried an ' Extraordinary Con- 
 fession of a Thief will be published." 
 
 " Gill, it is you who are bitter now," he said. 
 
 " Mammy and Mr. Cloves will reach Paddington by the 
 3.45," said Gillian, with a hasty change of subject. 
 " Mammy is sure to be knocked up by the journey, so I 
 fear that we must be a family party to-night. I suppose 
 you won't turn up till dinner-time ? Very well, I won't 
 expect you before then, unless your presentiment comes 
 true. Will you bet five pounds on hearing some startling 
 piece of intelligence to-day ? You won't ? Oh, then I 
 don't think much of your prophecy. Jack. You lack the 
 first requisite of a prophet, you are not cock-sure." 
 
 The lightness of her tone jarred on Jack. It was im- 
 possible to make Gillian take any subject seriously at
 
 334 Bt tbe (^ross*lRoa^s 
 
 present. Yet he knew that at heart she was anything but 
 gay. She irritated him at times, but the irritation was 
 only on the surface. He thought of her tenderly, though 
 with some perplexity. 
 
 When Jack had gone Gillian wrote dozens of business 
 letters; then she lunched out, and went to a scientific 
 meeting. She preferred to fill every moment of her day 
 as full as possible. Happy people can afford to rest, but 
 Gillian hated to possess her soul in quietness. 
 
 Then Mrs. Clovis arrived and GiUian welcomed and 
 made much of her. Gill was an excellent hostess, and 
 she really enjoyed surrounding her guests with luxuries. 
 
 Mrs. Clovis was finally settled on the sofa in the sitting- 
 room leading out of the bedroom that Gillian had arranged 
 for her. She glanced appreciatively at the many pretty 
 things round her. 
 
 " You are a most fortunate woman, dear love," she said, 
 with a gentle sigh. " It seems to me that you have every- 
 thing : health — which is so much greater a blessing than 
 money — and such an exquisite home. Why, what makes 
 you lift your eyebrows ? Oh, dearest, of course I had not 
 forgotten your sad loss, but you see you do not even wear 
 crape now, so really " 
 
 "Really what?" said Gill brusquely. "I don't know 
 what you mean, mammy. Yes, of course I am very lucky. 
 I bought those roses in Regent's Street to counteract the 
 depressing effect of the fog. Are not they lovely ? I think 
 I will put them by your sofa and leave you to dream that 
 it is summer. You ought to have a good sleep before 
 dinner." 
 
 She escaped from the room with a sense of relief that 
 she was half ashamed of. It was absurd after all these 
 months to be still so sore that she could not bear a casual 
 allusion to her " sad loss." 
 
 " I won't, no, I won't be such a fool ! " poor Gill said 
 
 I
 
 **5 Mill bave no /IDove to Do witb IfDcr" 335 
 
 angrily to herself. "Good heavens, one would think that 
 I was the only woman who had ever seen her baby die, 
 and the thing is as common as the eating of eggs ! " 
 
 The butler met her at the foot of the stairs, and interrupted 
 the scolding. 
 
 "What? A visitor so late as this? Why, it is nearly 
 time to dress for dinner ! " said she. 
 
 Gillian had no intimate friend save Lady Jane. She 
 expected to see that little lady's grey bonnet and quakerish 
 dress when she entered the drawing-room ; but it was a 
 very different figure that advanced to meet her, and the 
 tone that greeted her was half shy, half defiant — as unlike 
 Jane's as any voice could be. 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Cardew, I hope that you are pleased to see 
 me, even though I did not follow your advice," it said. " I 
 suppose that you have heard that I have married Cyril 
 Bevan after all." 
 
 "Nina!" exclaimed Gillian. She was actually taken 
 aback for once. The remembrance of Jack's very strongly- 
 expressed opinion flashed across her mind. 
 
 " Oh, you are not at all pleased," said Nina. " Then I 
 will go. Good-bye." 
 
 " No — stay," said Gillian. 
 
 Somehow some quality in this badly-behaved and rash 
 young woman always appealed to her. 
 
 " I will not pretend that I am glad that you are Mr. 
 Bevan's wife," she said frankly, " but you need not go on 
 that account, need you ? We have spoken rather freely to 
 each other before now. I am glad to see you again, Ninon. 
 I am glad you cared to come to see me. I will ring for 
 some fresh tea. Sit down, won't you ? " 
 
 " I do not want any tea, for I have something to tell you 
 that takes away my appetite," said Nina. 
 
 She sat down with a nervous laugh, and Gillian waited 
 wonderingly.
 
 336 Ht tbe CrosSi^lRoabs 
 
 " I was in two minds about whether I would come," 
 Nina proceeded. " If you had not been so kind to me once 
 nothing would have induced me to tell. It was a toss up, 
 you know, for I nearly walked off just now. But you are 
 much nicer than most women. I usually hate them. Mrs. 
 Cardew, will you promise faithfully that if I tell you some- 
 thing to my husband's discredit he shall never suffer by 
 my confidence ? " 
 
 " No," said Gillian ; " for I think it would be most foolish 
 of you to do any such thing. Keep your own counsel, 
 Ninon. If a woman once begins to confide, the desire to 
 go on doing so grows on her. The desire for sympathy is 
 like the craving for drink ; it had better be suppressed at 
 once." 
 
 " Oh, my goodness ! " ejaculated Nina. 
 
 She was not offended, but she stared hard at Mrs. Cardew, 
 and she arrived at a decided conclusion. She concluded 
 that Gillian was unhappy. 
 
 Gillian turned on the electric light and sat down on the 
 sofa ; she was quite unconscious of her visitor's penetration. 
 Nina, with her flashes of cleverness, her occasional un- 
 scrupulousness, her odd, persistent loyalty to her rough 
 step-mother, had always been interesting. Behold her 
 again, handsomer, more of a woman and more of an enigma 
 than ever ! Nina always brought the whiff of violets with 
 her ; their clinging, fresh scent was associated in Gillian's 
 mind with that strange, elusive personality. 
 
 " Was I ever too much given to confiding in other 
 women ? I should not have said so, but then we are told 
 that we do not know ourselves," Gill's visitor remarked 
 demurely. After a pause she added in a casual tone, but 
 with mischief peeping betwixt her eyelashes, " I fancied 
 that a piece of information I acquired lately would interest 
 you, because it concerns something that once, long, long 
 ago, happened to Mr. Cardew ; but I will not tell you now."
 
 '*3 Mill bave no /IDore to t)o wttb Ibec " 337 
 
 Gillian started and changed colour. " If it is anything 
 that concerns Jack, tell me quickly," she said. 
 
 Nina laughed triumphantly, and stretching out her slender 
 foot, pushed a ball of knitting-silk that lay on the floor, and 
 set it rolling. 
 
 " But certainly not, Mrs. Cardew. I have suppressed 
 the inclination to confidence now ; it might have led me 
 to delidum tremens, you know. I do not at all wish to 
 become a confirmed drunkard." 
 
 Mrs. Cardew clenched her fingers together and resisted 
 the temptation to shake her visitor. She was perfectly 
 aware that to betray anger would be fatal, but her self- 
 command had been over strained of late, and it was neither 
 so easy nor so perfect as it had once been. 
 
 "The retort is yours, Ninon," she said. "I promise 
 what you like. What have you heard that concerns my 
 husband ?" 
 
 " I have suppressed the inclination," Nina repeated, 
 with demure mischief. Then a half-melancholy expres- 
 sion shifted like a shadow across her beautiful face. " Ah, 
 how very much you care ! But you have always believed 
 implicitly in Mr, Cardew, have you not? " 
 
 " Yes," said Gillian shortly, 
 
 *' That is so odd. Now I only believe with reservations. 
 For example, I believe that Cyril usually tells me the truth, 
 for we are really very good chums and we stand by each 
 other. But if any one proved to me that in some particular 
 instance Cyril had thought fit to lie, I should not be sur- 
 prised ; dear me, no, not in the least ! I should not be 
 shocked, either, though I should think it very silly of him." 
 
 "I think you are wise there," said Gillian, "And I 
 hope that you are enjoying your good luck and the envy 
 of Churton Regis I " 
 
 " Oh yes, thank you. But I do not want to stay long 
 at Highfields. The place makes me dull. It has an even 
 
 22
 
 33^ Bt tbe (Iross^lRoaDs 
 
 more extraordinary effect on Cyril — it gives hini the creeps. 
 You would hardly credit it, but he has grown frightfully 
 nervous. Do you know that there is a saying that no head 
 of the family ever dies in his bed ? " 
 
 " Why, yes. Lady Hammerton firmly believes in it, and 
 also in a family ghost ; but surely Mr. Bevan, of all people, 
 does not pay heed to a superstition ? " 
 
 " But he does," said Nina. " Do you know, I do not 
 believe that Cyril ever realised till quite lately how much 
 of his father's blood is in him. He had no family feeling 
 at all, he often said so. He was proud of being cosmo- 
 politan. While the old man was alive he did nothing but 
 laugh at him. But now" — Nina paused dramatically — 
 " now we actually have prayers in the chapel every 
 morning, and they get longer and longer ! Yes, you may 
 well look surprised. I thought Cyril was joking when he 
 proposed that we should do such a thing ! It is really 
 very funny, isn't it? but it is also very cold and rather 
 
 gruesome." 
 
 " Do you mean to say that Mr. Bevan — Cyril, I mean — 
 reads prayers himself?" asked Gillian, whose imagination 
 was vainly endeavouring to picture that cheerfully callous 
 rascal engaged in such an incongruous occupation. 
 
 " No, that would be more than I could stand," said 
 Cyril's wife quickly. " Mr. Strode reads. It was his 
 idea. He has been staying with us. He is a very odd 
 person, but I think he is good, and Cyril has a respect for 
 religion." 
 
 Gillian put her hands to her head. " My dear Ninon, I 
 feel as if the world were turning somersaults. An ultra 
 High-Church parson staying at Highfields, and Mr. Bevan 
 filled with respect for religion ! " 
 
 " Yes, I know it is startling. I laughed a great deal at 
 first. Of course it is absurd. But one ceases to laugh 
 when one is third in a trio and the other two are in deadly
 
 *'3 Mill bave no /IDore to ^o witb Hdcv" 339 
 
 earnest. You cannot fency Cyril in earnest ? No more 
 could I unless I had seen him so. You see he got a scare 
 on the night when he found his father dead by the cross- 
 roads; added to that, he is out of health. He had an 
 attack of rheumatic fever last autumn, and he caught a 
 fresh chill at the funeral. He is terribly afraid of death." 
 Nina's upper lip curled disdainfully ; whatever her faults, 
 she, at least, was seldom afraid. 
 
 " I do not understand such nonsense," she said, " but 
 Cyril half believes in all sorts of bogies. He pretends that 
 he doesn't ; he is ashamed of his fears. But then, I find 
 him doing queer things in order to propitiate Some- 
 thing ; and I know that the creeping, secret terror is there 
 all the time. It is strange." 
 
 Gillian said nothing and thought a great deal. It certainly 
 was a strange tale. The family ghost most surely entered 
 into it. There was evidently a spirit that haunted even 
 this outcast son of the house — a half-religious, half- 
 superstitious instinct, that had ruled his forbears, that had 
 been trodden down by Cyril, but that now returned to 
 assail him. 
 
 The honest, fanatical father had rejoiced with a whole 
 heart in a somewhat narrow creed ; the son half believed, 
 against his will, and trembled. Cyril's first idea had 
 always been to cheat, and his second to compound with a 
 creditor. At present he was endeavouring to cheat the 
 devil. A good, honest repentance was beyond his reach, 
 but if possible he would evade penalties. 
 
 Nina's manner grew graver as she proceeded with the 
 story. *' Cyril had to go to bed after he got back from the 
 funeral. Mr. Strode helped him home. He was in violent 
 pain, and he was shivering and shaking so that he could 
 hardly speak intelligibly. I sent for the doctor, and for 
 poor dear old Polly, who is a good nurse when she is 
 sober. Old Dr. Macnaughty was very kind — doctors are
 
 340 at tbe Cros5*1RoaC)s 
 
 much kinder than other people ; I suppose, because they 
 are in the habit of thinking ' What is to be done ? ' instead 
 of * Who is to blame ? ' — but he had to go to look after a 
 tiresome woman in the village that night. Cyril was in a 
 high fever and delirious, and I could not keep him in bed, 
 and Polly had not come. Then Mr, Strode offered to stay, 
 and I was thankful that he did. It was an awful night ; I 
 do not care to remember it." 
 
 She shuddered at some recollection and then smiled 
 again, " It was dreadful — and yet I laughed, once, to think 
 how funny it was that Mr, Strode and I should be nursing 
 Cyril together. He was so decided, and rather cross, but 
 I do not know what I should have done without him. The 
 odd part of it all is that Cyril is grateful to him too. 
 Cyril begged him to stay with us when it was discovered 
 that the rectory drains were all wrong. To my surprise, 
 he came." 
 
 " I do not see that that was surprising," said Gillian ; 
 " parsons have an excellent way of dropping into comfort- 
 able quarters." 
 
 Nina shrugged her pretty shoulders. "You don't like 
 him ! You hardly ever say clap-trappy things, but that 
 remark was not a bit up to your style. It was wanting in 
 penetration. Mr. Strode is not the fat and comfortable 
 kind ; he is a most uncomfortable person. He fasts and 
 drinks nothing but water. I suspect he wears a hair shirt, 
 and a cross with sharp edges. I believe that he came with 
 the hope of converting Cyril. He has certainly managed 
 to frighten him ! Cyril is unnerved and utterly unlike 
 himself; he told me a great many things that I would 
 rather not have heard about, simply because his conscience 
 was bullying him. Among other stories he told me about 
 your mother and Mr. Cardew." 
 
 Nina paused, on the very brink of revelation, deterred 
 by a momentary qualm of doubt. " You are not very
 
 if 
 
 5 Mill bave no /Ilbore to t)o witb Iber" 341 
 
 devoted to your mother, are yon ? It would not break 
 your heart to hear something rather bad of her, would 
 it?" 
 
 "It would not break my heart to hear anything bad 
 about any one. Hearts don't break," said Gillian. 
 
 Nina looked dubious. She guessed that Mrs. Cardew 
 was still fretting about that child. For her own part she 
 did not understand why any one should care so much about 
 a baby. Nina's views on the subject of babies were 
 heterodox. Yet among all Gillian's acquaintances this un- 
 principled little lady was the one who was sorriest for her 
 and who did her the most justice. 
 
 "Well, I will tell you. It will give you something 
 fresh to think about," said she. " My husband and your 
 mother knew what happened to that manuscript. They 
 knew before the trial took place. Cyril and your husband 
 seem always to have had a strong antipathy to each other ; 
 I suppose that was why Cyril held his tongue. A friend of 
 Mr. Cardew's— I think the name was Halbert, or Hubbard, 
 or something like that — carried off that unlucky book and 
 left a heap of ashes in its place. He met Cyril just outside 
 Mr. Cardew's door, and told him what he had done. They 
 laughed together over the joke. Cyril says that it struck 
 him as a slightly dangerous game, and that he remarked at 
 the time, that Jack Cardew was a queer- tempered chap to 
 play tricks on. When he next wrote to Mrs. Clovis — they 
 seem to have written to each other pretty often — he told 
 her what had happened. He knew that she did not much 
 like his cousin, and he thought the story would amuse her. 
 He had not the faintest notion of what would eventually 
 come of it. It seems that the hansom that Mr. Hubbard — 
 no, Haubert, that is the man's name — took, ran into a 'bus ; 
 Mr. Haubert was thrown against a lamp-post and killed on 
 the spot. Cyril heard what had become of him months 
 later but while the trial was going on he wondered that
 
 342 Ht tbc Cross^lRoa^s 
 
 the practical joker did not come forward to explain matters. 
 He says that Bertie Haubert was only a young ass, and 
 that he meant no harm — but only to give Jack Cardew a 
 bit of a fright." 
 
 Gillian sat with her fingers tightly locked. Her brain 
 seemed working unnaturally fast. Already she had pieced 
 the puzzle together. What was it that Liza Pocock had 
 said ? Surely that all fitted in. " I did not mean to do 
 Mr. Cardew any harm ; but now I think that I did injure 
 him without wishing to. I fancied that I might get him " — 
 why, that must have been Bertie Haubert — " into trouble, 
 if I let on that he had gone into Mr. Cardew's room. He 
 told me not to tell of it. I did not know then that he was 
 dead. No one guessed that he was anything to me. How 
 should they ? " 
 
 " The housemaid swore at the trial that she let no one 
 into Jack's rooms during his absence ; she, too, ' meant no 
 particular harm,' " said Gillian bitterly. " All these people, 
 with the exception of Mr. Bevan, had no reason to be 
 malicious, and ' meant no harm.' They only played tricks, 
 stealing by way of a joke, perjuring themselves lest their 
 
 lovers should be blamed, suppressing evidence lest 
 
 But why did mammy suppress that letter?" She rose 
 suddenly and rang the bell. " I will send up to her room 
 to ask her to come down. We will have the truth out — 
 at last," 
 
 Nina jumped up ; she was actually a little frightened, 
 and it took a good deal to alarm her. 
 
 "Are you going in for a family row on the strength of this 
 information ? " said she. " Because if you are I will go. 
 You see, Mrs. Cardew, I have had a surfeit of family rows ! " 
 
 " Mammy and I have never had anything so vulgar as 
 a row in our lives ! " said Gillian. " We separated 
 amicably for some years while Jack was in prison, that 
 was all."
 
 *'3- Mill bave no /IDore to bo witb Ibec" 343 
 
 She made an effort to speak as usual, but her eyes were 
 very bright. Nina felt as if there were thunder in the 
 air. When the servant had gone with a message to Mrs. 
 Clovis, Gillian again prevented her guest's departure. 
 
 "No, Nina, I will not keep you more than five minutes, 
 but it is only fair that my mother should hear and refute 
 such a serious accusation. If you bring such a charge as 
 that against a woman you must be prepared to stand by 
 it or to retract it." 
 
 " Must ? I don't see any must ! " cried Nina petulantly. 
 
 " But I do," said Mrs. Cardew. " It is a pretty big one, 
 and it stands in front of the door." 
 
 She smiled with her lips, but her eyes were unsmiling. 
 Nina flushed with anger, but the next moment forgot 
 defiance in curiosity. Mrs. Clovis entered the room. 
 
 "Well, dear Gillian, you see I have managed to come 
 downstairs. Dear George is so foolish ! he never can 
 enjoy his dinner without me, so I determined to make the 
 eff'ort. Why did you send for me, my love ? Is it very 
 late?" 
 
 She walked across the room with slow, graceful gait 
 and bowed coldly to Lady Bevan. Mrs. Clovis considered 
 that Gillian was by no means so careful as she should be. 
 There were very extraordinary tales afloat about Nina's 
 marriage. It was a preposterous hour for any one to be 
 calling who was not on most intimate terms. She 
 glanced meaningly at the clock. 
 
 "Yes, it is late," said Gillian, "but Lady Bevan and I 
 have been having a very interesting conversation. One 
 moment, Nina, and then I won't delay you any more. I 
 do not want to make any mistake. Did you state that 
 you were told by Cyril that my mother knew — " she 
 stopped suddenly, because Mrs. Clovis had changed 
 colour and gave a suppressed cry, but the pause only 
 meant that she had observed, not that she pitied. At
 
 344 Ht tbe Cross-lRoa^s 
 
 that moment she had no pity — " that my mother knew that 
 which might have saved my husband ? Did you state 
 that ? " 
 
 " Do you know, I thought that you were a sensible 
 person who never made scenes ! " said Nina, hastily 
 putting on her veil. " How awfully mistaken I was ! But 
 one lives and learns. I simply must go now." 
 
 " Yes or no ? Did you mean me to understand that, 
 or have I entirely misunderstood you?" said Gillian. 
 
 Nina looked from daughter to mother. She had never 
 liked Mrs. Clovis, but her sympathy was nearly always on 
 the side of the culprit. She was half inclined to eat her 
 own words out of a curious and perverse desire to thwart 
 justice. 
 
 " It surprises me that you should listen to this — lady's 
 gossip, Gillian," said Mrs. Clovis; and that speech decided 
 Nina. 
 
 " You understood rightly," she said, " and I believe that 
 I could prove my words. That was what I said. I think 
 I've said about enough for one day." 
 
 Gillian hesitated a moment and looked at her mother. 
 Then she opened the door. " Thank you, Nina. I won't 
 keep you any longer." 
 
 "Oh!" said Nina with a gasp, "you are much angrier 
 than I expected. I think you are angrier than anj'' one I 
 have seen in my life," and she ran down the stairs quickly 
 and out of the house. 
 
 Gillian turned and faced her mother. 
 
 " It — it is not true," said Mrs. Clovis faintly. " That is, 
 it is not true in the way you imagine." 
 
 She gripped the back of a chair to save herself from 
 falling. This horrible bodily weakness that was always 
 playing her false made it impossible for her to concentrate 
 her energies on a losing game. " I do not understand why 
 you take her word against mine, Gillian," she said. " It is
 
 *' 5 Mill bav>c no /IDore to t)o witb 1bcr " 345 
 
 very unnatural of you to accuse your own mother — but you 
 were always unnatural." 
 
 " Turn round and look at yourself in the glass, mother. 
 I have not accused you." 
 
 Gillian stood very still and upright. Mrs. Clovis sank 
 on to the sofa and covered her face with her hands as if 
 she were warding off a blow. 
 
 "Don't, don't, dear Gillian," she cried, with a touch of 
 plaintive fretfulness. " You stand there and allow yourself 
 to think the most dreadful thoughts of me; and all the 
 time you have no conception of how I suffered or how it 
 happened." 
 
 " Do not trouble yourself to explain," said Gillian, " for 
 I feel that I am much too stupid to understand. If you 
 were to explain from now till Doomsday I should be no 
 nearer comprehending how a mother could let the man her 
 daughter loved suffer as my Jack suffered when she might 
 have prevented it. I would have died to help him. For 
 seven long years I was thankful when each day was over, 
 and all the day long his misery was heavy at my heart. 
 I hardly dared think what he was feeling, but I never 
 forgot it ; never once. Yet you had no mercy on him, 
 or me — though you must once have carried me as I carried 
 my baby. It is beyond my comprehension. Am I really 
 your flesh and blood ? " 
 
 " Hush ! hush ! Gillian. You must not say such things to 
 your mother." 
 
 " I am sorry that you are my mother," said Gillian. 
 
 She spoke gravely and simply, as one who states an 
 incontrovertible fact. Gillian was not self-conscious. Her 
 words were terrible, because they represented absolute 
 truth. 
 
 " It was Cj'ril Bevan's fault," said Mrs. Clovis eagerly, 
 " and, indeed, I always wished to tell. I was miserable. 
 The worry of it made me quite ill. But you see, my dear,
 
 346 Ht tbe Cros5*1RoaC>s 
 
 George would have been so surprised and so shocked if I 
 had told. Surely you do see that, Gillian ? I never could 
 bear family disturbances — of course, I know that that is my 
 weakness. I never was one of those women who do not 
 mind quarrels. Indeed, indeed, dearest, I did not mean 
 any harm to poor Jack. It was only that circumstances 
 were too strong for me. My heart is beating so fast that I 
 cannot explain properly, but if I could make you see how 
 it all was you would forgive." 
 
 " I think not," said Gillian slowly. " I do not doubt that 
 you have a hundred excuses for what you left undone. 
 They do not interest me ; keep them for your own comfort. 
 Only one fact concerns me. You let Jack be condemned, 
 knowing that he was innocent. I shall not forget that so 
 long as I live. If I wished to forget it I could not — but I 
 do not wish to." 
 
 " Now you are cruel ! and you are certainly very un- 
 reasonable," said Mrs. Clovis. " Every one ought to be 
 allowed to explain. Whatever my faults may have been, 
 I have never refused to listen to any one. The poorest 
 beggar " 
 
 " Ah, we know that you are so soft-hearted that you will 
 empty your purse for the beggar in the street rather than 
 refuse him alms, and you are also so soft-hearted that you 
 let my Jack be driven near to madness," cried Gillian, with 
 sudden passion. " Cruel ? What is cruelty ? Is it to wish 
 to give pain ? I am helpless ; I can't make you realise 
 what you left him to bear. If I could make you bear it 
 now I think I would." 
 
 " Hush ! hush ! You are talking wickedly," cried Mrs. 
 Clovis, "and your wild words positively horrify me. Don't 
 stare at me like that, my dear ; you almost frighten me." 
 
 " I was only thinking," said Gill, in an odd, impersonal 
 tone; "I was thinking over the cruelty question. It had 
 not occurred to me before that the cruellest people are
 
 *' 5 Mill bave no /IDore to ^o witb tKt " 347 
 
 those with such dehcate nerves that they cannot suffer 
 a pin-prick or a rough word. We poor sinners, who are 
 not so finely made, are not ' in it ' with them. I could not 
 have been silent as you were ; but then I was never 
 sensitive. My skin is not so thin. It would never have 
 occurred to me that it was possible to evade a prick at 
 the sacrifice of my child's happiness and by embittering 
 a man's life. You are a curious study. If you were not 
 my^ mother I should be interested — as it is, it's not 
 amusing." 
 
 She put her hand to her throat. Anger, and something 
 else that was not anger, seemed to choke her for a moment. 
 She had not been an admiring daughter, but she had 
 once had a protecting affection for Mrs. Clovis. 
 
 " As it is, I only hope that I shall never see you any 
 more," said she. And then, as so often happens, bathos 
 came tumbling in on the very heels of tragedy. 
 
 George Clovis junior burst into the room and dashed 
 up to his mother, talking very loud — his voice was like 
 his father's — and brimful of jollity. Behind him stood 
 Cardew, his face wearing that peculiarly stolid expression 
 that his wife knew was a sign that he was secretly 
 excited. 
 
 " Oh, mother, the circus was splendid ! Listen ! it was 
 such an awfully splendid joke ! The clown comes up to 
 the bobby like this, you know, and stares into the bobby's 
 face, and the bobby looks at him so — trying to be grand 
 and all that. And * what do j'ou sa}', sir ? ' says he. 
 ' What is the colour of my eye ? ' saj^s the clown, ' D'ye 
 
 see any green in it ? ' ' Why,' says the bobby But, 
 
 mother, you are not listening a bit." George's good-tempered 
 face clouded momentarily ; then he turned with unabated 
 eagerness to Gillian. " How do you do, Gillian ? Isn't it 
 jolly that we have come to London to stay with you ? Look 
 here, do let me tell you what the clown did. It really was
 
 348 Bt tbe Cross*1Roat>5 
 
 awfully funny. How far had I got ? Oh, I know. ' Why 
 green ?' says the bobby, and at that the clown " 
 
 " I am sure it is awfully funny, George," said Gillian, 
 " but I have just been hearing such an awfully funn}"^ 
 story that I do not feel equal to another." 
 
 Jack looked inquiringly at her over George's head. 
 Something in her tone arrested his attention. George 
 stared open-mouthed ; he had been sure of his step-sister's 
 sympathy ! Gillian liked boj's and was generally very 
 ready to laugh either at, or with, him. 
 
 " You do not ask me what my story is," said she. " But 
 you shall hear it, Jack, and so shall Mr. Clovis. It has 
 been kept secret quite long enough. It is this " 
 
 Mrs. Clovis sprang to her feet with a sharp cry, looked 
 wildly round her, and then almost threw herself upon Jack 
 Cardew. 
 
 " Stop her ! Don't let her go on. Jack ! Oh, Jack, not 
 before my boy," she cried. 
 
 It was no thought-out plan, but simply unerring instinct 
 that prompted that appeal. Mrs. Clovis knew at that 
 moment that of the two the man was the most inclined to 
 mercy, and that he alone could make Gillian pause. She 
 clung to him with hands that trembled, and her voice 
 broke with sobs. 
 
 Jack flushed to the roots of his hair. 
 
 Mr. Clovis's cheerful voice sounded from the staircase ; 
 he had a way of shouting a greeting before he entered the 
 room. " Hallo, hallo ? You all there. How is Madam 
 Gillian ? George and I have got back from the circus." 
 
 " Oh, Jack — not now, not just now," Mrs. Clovis gasped 
 in an agonised whisper. Her face was drawn, as if with 
 mortal pain. 
 
 Gillian's lip curled scornfully ; she did not hold out her 
 hand to her step-father. She was as merciless as fate 
 itself. " You have come just in time to hear," she said.
 
 *'3 Mill bave no /iDore to Do witb Iber" 349 
 
 But Jack stepped forward. " If it is something that the 
 boy ought noi to hear, then wait," he said. 
 
 At his sudden movement Mrs. Clevis's fingers relaxed 
 their hold on his arm ; almost before the words had passed 
 his lips she slipped in a faint on to the floor. 
 
 Mr. Clovis rushed forward with an exclamation of 
 dismay. " Why, what have you all been about ? " he 
 cried indignantly. " It don't seem to me that you take the 
 least care of Eva when I am not by ! Can't 3'ou even help 
 me, Gillian ? " 
 
 ' He was on his knees beside his wife, with red, anxious 
 face, fussy and perturbed. Gillian, who was usually the 
 most practical and helpful of women in an emergency, 
 stood like a statue, tacitly refusing to move a finger in aid. 
 George dashed upstairs to fetch his mother's maid. Jack, 
 after a moment's hesitation, lifted the poor lady in his 
 arms and carried her to the open window and flung up 
 the sash. The cold air revived Mrs. Clovis, and she was 
 presently escorted to her room by her devoted husband 
 and son, and by the maid, who had arrived on the scene 
 with smelling-salts. 
 
 When they were left alone together Jack turned to his 
 wife with wondering inquiry. " 1 have something to tell 
 you. Gill. But it seems to be a day of sudden reve- 
 lations. My dear girl, you looked like an embodiment of 
 ruthless vengeance just now. What on earth has your 
 mother done ? " 
 
 " You and Mr. Clovis would both have heard what she 
 has done if you had not stopped me," said Gillian. 
 
 " I stopped you because she was in an agony of terror 
 and because she said, ' Not before my boy.' But what 
 the dickens were you about to say ? " 
 
 " Oh, only this," Gillian answered bitterl)^, " only that 
 it seems that my mother knew, actually htezv what had 
 become of your manuscript. She did not mention that
 
 35° Bt tbe Cro55='lRoa^0 
 
 little fact. She let you go to penal servitude instead. 
 But, poor dear, she cannot bear to hear me tell the tale. 
 No, that is too much for her delicate nerves ! When it 
 comes to that she appeals successfully to the mercy of 
 the man she injured ! To your mercy, darling ! " She 
 wrung her hands together, and threw them out with 
 a gesture that was unconsciously dramatic and full of 
 passion. " I will have no more to do with her ! I hate my 
 mother. Jack. When I think of what she let you endure 
 I hate her, but most of all when I think that she dared — 
 she dared appeal X.o you to shield her."
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 "OUR WAYS ARE BOUND TO DIVERGE." 
 
 " Greed, cruelty, injustice, crave (we hold) 
 Due punisliment from somebody, no doubt." 
 
 JACK and Gillian dined together that night. There was 
 no family party after all. The maid presently came 
 down with a message from iVIr. Clovis to the effect 
 that his wife was better, but not equal to coming into the 
 dining-room, and that he and George would prefer to stay 
 with her. She was apparently seized with a nervous 
 dread of solitude, and could not bear to let her husband 
 or son out of her sight. 
 
 Mr. Clovis was accustomed to humour his wife's whims ; 
 indeed, he was proud of them. The way in which she 
 clung to him satisfied both his heart and his vanit}^ He 
 had been doubly tender and doubly fussy over her since 
 her illness. 
 
 " She ain't one of your great bouncing independent 
 women who can stand up for themselves," he would say. 
 " She is full of her little fancies, bless her ! She would 
 break her heart if I wasn't kind to her. / understand Eva, 
 but there isn't one in a hundred who would make her so 
 happy. Not that I am taking any praise to myself, mind 
 you. But I saw from the very first moment I set eyes on 
 her that she ought to be taken care of. * She ain't the sort 
 to rough it,' says I to myself, ' she is a deal too delicate, 
 inside and out,' and I was about right." 
 
 351
 
 352 Bt tbe (rro55*1Roa&s 
 
 Mrs. Clovis was not so good a woman as her husband 
 imagined. It is to be feared that the inside of the platter 
 left something to be desired ; yet I do not think that his 
 affection was therefore wasted. It is by giving that we 
 attain salvation. Her small soul added something to its 
 stature because she loved her kindly, admiring soap-boiler, 
 as she had not loved the more critical and keen-witted 
 husband of her youth. 
 
 Gillian's father had been too clever for the pretty lady. 
 He had turned her small pretences and affectations upside 
 down. He had waxed bitter and satirical over little every- 
 day insincerities. He had been a far abler man than Mr. 
 Clovis, but he had not made his wife happy, and he had 
 not made her a whit more honest ! Never yet, alas ! has 
 a soul been saved by adverse criticism. 
 
 " She is afraid," Gillian said contemptuously, when she 
 received the message. 
 
 After dinner Jack told his story. Enid had come to his 
 office that afternoon and had brought him the ill-fated 
 manuscript that had wrecked his youth. He made few 
 comments on what had been discovered, but when he had 
 finished the tale he said gravely, " I was sure that the 
 truth was struggling to get free. It is very extraordinary." 
 
 Gillian Hstened eagerly. She was still white and unlike 
 herself. She talked fast and excitedly. She made Jack 
 recount every detail that he could remember of Bertie 
 Haubert's visit to him. She laughed when Jack narrated 
 how ruthlessly he had crushed the young man's literary 
 attempts. 
 
 "You were rashly candid in those days," said she; 
 "but I think that Mr. Haubert had more than his fair 
 revenge." 
 
 " The poor chap did not in the least mean to hurt me," 
 said Jack quickly. 
 
 " Oh dear no ! he only did it," said Gillian. " No doubt
 
 '*©ur Maps are BounD to H>iperge" 353 
 
 his intentions were excellent. 'They were all — all 
 honourable men.' " 
 
 Jack raised his head as if to protest further in defence 
 of that friend of his boyhood, but the words did not come. 
 The habit of silence is hard to break, and he reflected 
 instead. He reflected that the curve of Gillian's cheek was 
 much less round than it had been, and that the vertical 
 line between her eyebrows, which he had first noticed 
 the week after her boy's death, had deepened. He also 
 reflected that he had never seen her look handsomer than 
 she had looked that evening when she had stood stern and 
 immovable while Mr. Clovis and George flew to her 
 mother's assistance. He said to himself that it was hard 
 on Gillian that her mother should have been the one to keep 
 so culpable and injurious a silence. He wished he knew 
 how to say to her that she had a hundred times made up 
 for anything that her mother might have done or left 
 undone. But he did not speak, and while he was still 
 pondering, the opportunity for speaking slid away. 
 
 George came into the room, and walked straight up to 
 him, with a somewhat defiant air. 
 
 " My mother sent me with a message to you," said the 
 boy. " She said I was to say, ' Please will you come 
 upstairs to say good-night ? ' and I was to give you this." 
 
 This was a tiny lolded slip of a note. Jack opened it, 
 and read the contents. His face wore its most stolid 
 expression the while. 
 
 " My dear Jack, — I entreat you — not for my own sake, 
 but for the sake of my boy — to hear me — only to hear me, 
 before you tell my husband, or let Gillian tell him. Think 
 what it is to spoil a child's faith ; and, besides, I never 
 meant to injure you. I am very, very miserable, and quite 
 upset about this sad affair. Surely you cannot be so hard 
 as not to listen to me. You must remember that I am 
 your wife's mother." 
 
 23
 
 354 Bt tbe (^ro55*1Roa^5 
 
 Gillian came behind her husband's chair, and read this 
 missive over his shoulder. She bit her lip when she got 
 to the last sentence. 
 
 " Unfortunately for your wife," she said in a low voice. 
 
 Jack put up his hand and caught hers as it rested on 
 the back of his chair. 
 
 "Why, your hand is burning. Gill!" he said. " I say, 
 this is a pretty business, isn't it ? And what on earth am 
 / to say ? If it were a man I should know w'ell enough 
 what to do ; but one simply can't pitch into a woman." 
 
 " That is exactly what she knows so remarkably well," 
 said Gillian. " It is a shame to her sex that she makes it 
 her refuge." 
 
 Jack frowned warningly, with a sudden recollection of 
 George's presence. " Cut away, old chap ; j'ou are not 
 wanted just now," he said. 
 
 George opened his eyes very wide, and his round face 
 grew very red. " I don't know what you and Gillian are 
 saying about my mother, but if you are saying horrid 
 things — and I believe you are — they are all horrid lies, 
 so there ! " he declared, with unexpected force and splutter- 
 ing with eagerness. 
 
 George and Mr. Clovis were both apt to turn scarlet and 
 to splutter, on the few occasions when they lost their tempers. 
 
 Jack patted the lad's shoulder. " I beg your pardon. 
 You are quite right, my boy," he said. " We forgot j'ou. 
 Now do make yourself scarce." 
 
 " I ain't going till you tell me what message I am to take 
 back," said George obstinately. " Mother told me to be 
 sure to bring back a message." 
 
 " Say that you will not go. Jack," said Gillian. 
 
 But he shook his head. " It is not fair to refuse to 
 listen to her. I suppose that I must go. I would a 
 hundred times rather not. All right, George ; you may 
 sny that I will come."
 
 ''Qnv Ma^s are IBoxwi^ to Biverge" 355 
 
 " Dad and I think that it is awfully good of my mother 
 to want to say good-night to you," said George, glaring 
 at his step-sister defiantly; and so departed, banging the 
 door after him. 
 
 Gillian laughed. "What it is to have such a devoted 
 son ! How much did he understand ? " 
 
 " He understood the tone of j^our voice and the ex- 
 pression of our faces," said Jack. " And I wish that he 
 had not. He is a very fine little chap ! " 
 
 "Oh, I daresay, for he takes after his father," said 
 Gillian. " But at this moment I can't like her child." 
 
 Jack got up ruefull}', and walked up and down. " Well, 
 I must face it," he said. 
 
 "Oh, do be angry, Jack! Do not look as i( you were 
 ashamed ! " his wife cried. 
 
 Jack shrugged his shoulders. " But I am. That is the 
 queer part of it. I am angry too, of course. It was a 
 pretty mean trick to play. I cannot for the life of me 
 understand about it. But one can't see a woman covered 
 with confusion and not feel awfully ashamed." 
 
 "Oh, don't! don't!" she cried passionately. "It 
 maddens me to hear you say that ! Don't pity her. Jack ; 
 she is not worth j'our pity. She has made profit out of 
 her * sensibilities.' She has flung her fine feelings down 
 on the counter till there is nothing honest about her; till 
 she hasn't a sentiment that rings true." 
 
 Jack looked at her wonderingly. This was that other 
 Gillian, whose very existence was known to so few. 
 
 " But you and I must go through with this dirty busi- 
 ness as best we can, my dear," he said gravely ; and so 
 left her. 
 
 Mrs. Clovis lay on the sofa in her sitting-room. She 
 was almost as white as the filmy white gown that she 
 wore. Jack, on entering the room, was shocked to see 
 how ghastly she looked. He cordially hated a scene, and
 
 356 Bt tbe Cross^lRoabs 
 
 the righteous indignation, which would have blazed hotly 
 had a man been the transgressor, did not break out now. 
 He had every right to be wrathful, but he did not feel 
 particularly inclined to vent anger on Mrs. Clovis. It was 
 so difficult for him to realise that a woman could have 
 behaved as, to all appearance, she had. 
 
 He sat down in an armchair a little way off from her, 
 and played with the knick-knacks on an ornamental table. 
 " You sent a message to me, so I have come," he said ; 
 " but I do not know that there is any use in listening. 
 Of course you must have had some sort of reason for your 
 silence, but I do not care much to hear what it was." 
 He looked at her for a second with, so at least she fancied, 
 the expression she had dreaded in her dreams. " I think 
 excuses are better let alone." 
 
 Then, to his immense surprise, she began to laugh 
 hi'sterically. 
 
 " My dear Jack, I was not going to offer excuses," she 
 cried. " I could explain — but I will not trouble you. Let 
 it be supposed, if you please, that I am the wickedest 
 woman and the most unnatural mother in the world. 
 Imagine, if you like, that I rejoice in cruelty, that I was 
 glad when you were sent to prison. Ah, if you only knew 
 
 what tortures But no matter — Gillian says that I am 
 
 cruel. Let my own daughter be my judge. She judged 
 me unheard ; but I am too weak and far too unhappy to 
 care to spend my breath in pleading for myself." 
 
 She paused, and pressed her wasted hands to her side. 
 Cardew shifted his chair uneasily and stared at the fire. 
 He was not a fool, and he knew that the woman was trying 
 to make capital out of his manliness. Yet there was no 
 doubt that she was frightfully ill ; she appeared to be almost 
 at death's door. 
 
 " It is not for myself that I am speaking," the faint voice 
 went on, " but — and, whether you believe me or not, this
 
 a 
 
 ®ur Mai^s are BounD to Diverge " 357 
 
 is true — I have always, always done my utmost for my dear 
 husband and for my boy. It is for their sakes, for their 
 sakes entirely, that I bring myself to entreat you to keep 
 silence about this miserable mistake. Do not tell them, 
 Jack ! Oh, surely, surely it can be no great deprivation 
 to you to forego hunting a poor unfortunate — for I have 
 been most unfortunate — woman to death ! " 
 
 " Hold hard ! " said Jack. 
 
 He twisted round in his chair and. addressed her with 
 an effort. He hated this interview more every moment ; 
 yet there was a dignity in his tone that overawed her. 
 " No one has any reason to imagine that I take a pleasure 
 in bullying women ; but you have no right to ask for my 
 siience. I will not promise it. If that is all that you wish 
 to say to me I will go." 
 
 " Jack, dear Jack," she cried weakly ; and dragging 
 herself up by the back of the sofa, she leant forward and 
 stretched out her hand to bar his way. 
 
 Jack paused, because, much as he longed to go, it would 
 have been sheer brutality to have thrust so weak an arm 
 aside. " I wish you wouldn't do this," he said awkwardly. 
 " See, Mrs. Clovis, I hate to come down hard on a woman ; 
 yet, after all, there is such a thing as justice. One does 
 not like, for the sake of one's own self-respect, to hit 
 any one who is down ; therefore I have not enlarged on 
 what injury you did to me, though, God knows, it was not 
 a light one, or on what you made Gillian suffer — besides, 
 that is too sacred to chatter over. But those facts are and 
 will always be. In the face of them, isn't it a little — 
 indecent, that you should say to me, * Keep silence, Jack, 
 lest now / suffer a little too ' ? " 
 '"' "Ah, not a little!" she cried. 
 
 Jack straightened his shoulders and drew back out of 
 reach. "The world shall not know," he said; "at least, 
 not through me. Mr. Clovis can do as he chooses. It is
 
 358 Bt tbe Cros3*lRoa&0 
 
 not probable that he will choose to publish such a story. 
 I have found the manuscript, or rather" — a touch of awe 
 unwittingly crept into his voice — " or rather, I did not find 
 it ; but it was brought back to me this very day. There 
 is, fortunately, no need that your name should appear in 
 the affair." 
 
 "Then why tell my husband anything ?" she cried with 
 painful insistence. "Jack, I do not believe that you will tell 
 him. I cannot believe it. But Gillian — Gillian is so hard to 
 me. She never has cared for any one in the world but you. 
 You can prevail with her ; you can persuade her. She is 
 like a stone to her poor mother ! She seems to forget " 
 
 " That is enough," said Jack sternly, and with a sinking 
 
 heart Mrs. Clovis realised that she had made a mistake. 
 
 " My wife requires no defence. It is simply absurd that 
 
 you should call her cruel. It is a little too much." And 
 
 so he left her. 
 
 Possibly his chivalry would have overcome his indigna- 
 tion had she not played that false note. But the limitations 
 of her character frustrated her design. Mrs. Clovis had 
 never been able to understand loyalty. It had not occurred 
 to her that to say one word against Jack's wife was to 
 compass her own undoing. 
 
 Jack found Mr. Clovis waiting for him outside the door. 
 " What is all this about ? " that honest gentleman asked 
 impatiently. " I can't make head or tail of it ! Here's my 
 wife fainting, and taking on, and declaring she must speak 
 to you alone. And there was Madam Gill staring like a 
 stuck pig, instead of helping her mother. And here are 
 you looking as solemn as if you were going to be hanged 
 — and what's it all about ? That's what I want to know ! 
 I have had enough to knock me down for one day without 
 coming home to fresh worries. It was all I could do to 
 put a bold face on and keep the corners of my mouth up 
 at that blessed circus ; but I wasn't going to disappoint the
 
 "®ut Mai^s are Bount) to Birerge" 359 
 
 boy. And now here's more trouble ; and I can't even put 
 a name to it ! What's it all about, eh ? " 
 
 " Let us have a smoke," said Jack, " I can't tell you on 
 the stairs." 
 
 But when Mr. Clovis was established with a pipe in the 
 smoking-room, Jack still found himself in no hurry to 
 begin the tale. It was an uncommonly awkward story to 
 have to narrate. Why, after all, should he be at the pains 
 of telling it ? Jack had a warm respect for " old Cloves " ; 
 he did not wish to quarrel with him. Yet you can hardly 
 tell a devoted husband that his wife is a deceiver and not 
 quarrel. Of course the accusation was provable ; but the 
 more Jack thought about it the less he liked the job of 
 driving the truth home. Mr. Clovis was so simple where 
 his wife was concerned ; so proud of her refinement, so 
 unselfishly devoted. It is only a mean nature that enjoys 
 the actual process of opening a good man's eyes to some 
 one's badness. In theory, and beforehand, one may indeed 
 strongly desire that the good man should be undeceived, 
 but when it comes to practice the operation is apt to turn 
 one sick. Jack began to forget the sinner's iniquities in 
 his sympathy for the husband. He suddenly made up his 
 mind that it was not his business to play executioner ; 
 though of course Gillian might do as she chose. 
 
 " You ain't throwing much light on the subject, Cardew," 
 said Mr. Clovis anxiously ; " I wish you would out with it, 
 if you have any bad news for me." He laughed nervously. 
 " But there, why should it be bad news ? The fact is, I 
 am a bit upset to-day, and I don't seem able to get a grasp 
 of things rightly. I have heard something that is rather 
 hard to digest. I shall have to get a night's sleep before 
 I'm my own man again." 
 
 " I am sorry that you have heard something bad," said 
 Jack ; " I hope that that smash up of Robson's hasn't 
 touched you ? " ' •
 
 36o Bt tbe Cros5*1RoaDs 
 
 " Bless you ! It's a deal worse than that. It ain't money 
 at all. It's about my wife." 
 
 " What ? " 
 
 " Yes, it's about Eva — that's where the damage is. I 
 went to her doctor this morning, to ask him privately what 
 he thought of her state of health. He is a great fool ! I 
 don't believe him, mind you. No, I don't believe hi?m at 
 all. He didn't give me the impression of a sharp man ; he 
 hummed and hawed too much. * There is one thing I 
 want to know,' says I, speaking quite cool and collectedly, 
 as I am speaking to you now, * will — will she live or 
 die ? ' " Mr. Clovis choked over the words, and Cardew 
 examined the sole of his boot and puffed vigorously. 
 " Now you would think I should get a direct answer out 
 of him, would not you ? Not a bit of it. ' We may be 
 wrong in our diagnosis,' says he, ' but if it is what I fear, 
 she has only a few months left.' ' I don't want any ifs,' 
 says I. ' It's impossible for me to say more than that,' says 
 he. ' Then what the deuce is the use of you ? ' says I. 
 * If you can't so much as give a straight answer to a simple 
 question, and if you can't cure her, what can you do ? 
 What are you paid for ? ' Well, I daresay I ought not to 
 have said that. It seemed to put my gentleman's back up. 
 But a man might make allowances when the other chap's 
 wife is dying of cancer. Not that I believe it. It ain't 
 likely, you know. Well, the doctor just rang the bell. 
 ' Good-day to you,' says he, as grand as you please. ' Good- 
 day, sir,' says I, as cheerful as possible, for I wasn't going 
 to let on that it had been any blow to me ; and out I 
 walked. I haven't told a soul expect you, Cardew, nor 
 don't mean to. If it is true — but it isn't — why, even then I 
 think I am right. Such as she don't need extra preparations 
 for death. Women ain't like us — I mean the good women 
 ain't. Their sins are sponged out when they say their 
 prayers every night at their bed-sides. But Eva is nervous.
 
 "®ur Ma^s are Bounb to Div?etge" 361 
 
 you know, and I won't have her worried. I shall just keep 
 a stiff lip, and I know you are safe — but you don't think it 
 is true, eh ? " 
 
 " If I were in your place I should have another opinion," 
 said Jack. 
 
 "Why, this is the second opinion. I didn't make much 
 by that move," saitl Mr. Clovis gloomily. " But there, it 
 is not to be expected that one big gun would say the other 
 big gun was wrong. Why, of course I know that ! I am 
 not so simple as to suppose they would contradict each 
 other. These doctors are as thick together as thieves. 
 Your pipe has gone out, Cardew." 
 
 " Oh, d n it all, it won't draw ! " said Jack. 
 
 Mr, Clovis struck a light and held it out. He was 
 cheered by something in the expression of Jack's face and 
 tone. Cardew was genuinely sorry ; " old Cloves " quite 
 understood that. 
 
 " You're a good chap. Jack," he said. " Now you may 
 as well tell me what else has gone crooked." 
 
 " Oh, nothing much," said Jack. He smoked silently 
 for a minute, and considered the situation. " We have 
 been having an exciting afternoon. I have made an odd 
 discovery, and women's nerves cannot stand excitement. 
 My wife and her mother had a bit of a row. I am sure 
 that my wife was entirely in the right, but you may tell 
 Mrs. Clovis that I have changed my mind — I'll do what 
 she wishes now. She wished me to speak to Gill for her, 
 and I refused — that's all." 
 
 " Good Lord ! " said Mr. Clovis. " You don't mean to 
 say that all that fuss was about nothing but a tiff? Well, 
 I take it very unkindly of Madam Gillian that she should 
 say a word to hurt her poor mother just now." 
 
 " Gillian is not unkind. She was justly angry on my 
 account," said Jack. *' But there is nothing to be gained 
 by reviving the discussion now. It is dead ; so let us
 
 362 Bt tbe Cro5S*1RoaC)s 
 
 bury it. Talking of burying " — he went on with a hurried 
 and transparent attempt to change the subject — " Talking 
 of burying, reminds me that I have not yet told you of a 
 most wonderful resurrection. I am pretty well cleared at 
 last, I fancy." 
 
 He plunged into the story about the manuscript, and 
 partially succeeded in arresting the attention of his guest. 
 At any other time Mr. Clovis would have been immensely 
 and jubilantly excited. As it was, the thought of Eva's 
 illness pressed on him, so that his effort to listen to Jack 
 was pathetic. He rose at last, with a smile which he 
 vainly tried to make cheerful. " I am truly glad that you 
 will be cleared. Eva will be very glad too," he said. " It 
 seems to me that somebody ought to be well whipped for 
 the mistake. It ain't fair that an honest man should 
 suffer like that and no one smart for it. You say it 
 was pure accident? Well, I am dull to-night. I don't 
 seem to take it all in. Look here, I don't believe what 
 that doctor said. I don't believe either of 'em. They 
 were in collusion, and they were backing each other up. 
 I shall try an outsider ; but don't you say a word about 
 it to my wife. Good-night, Cardew. I'm not surprised 
 that the murder's out. I knew you were an honest man 
 that time asked you the question, and as for George, 
 why, he didn't need to ask. Well, you may laugh, sir, but 
 I declare that little chap is as knowing as possible ! You 
 never managed to deceive him into thinking you a rogue." 
 
 " Oh, George and I are capital friends," said Jack. 
 
 " He stood by you finely," said the proud father. 
 
 " And perhaps some day I will stand by him," said Jack 
 Cardew. 
 
 When Mr. Clovis had gone, he sat with his head on 
 his hands and thought of his own boy, of George, of 
 George's father, and in his heart was a great pity, and 
 the strong sense of fellowship.
 
 *'®xxt Ma^s are Bounb to Diverae" 363 
 
 Presently Gillian entered the room. "Jack, have you 
 told him ?" she asked. 
 
 She was still white and stern. She mistrusted Jack's 
 mood. It is easier — for a woman at any rate — to forgive an 
 injury to herself than an injury to her dearest. That 
 last, to some of us, trenches on the impossible. Gillian 
 had never taken count of small injustices, she had never 
 been spiteful ; yet at that moment she would have seen 
 her mother in the dock without a pang of pity. Had she 
 not once seen Jack in gaol ? 
 
 " I have not told him, and I do not mean to," said Jack. 
 
 " Then I will," said Gillian. 
 
 Jack shook his head. "No. You will keep the secret, 
 Gill." 
 
 Gill was silent ; but the silence meant resistance. 
 
 Jack sighed. " Sit down, and let us talk about it," he 
 said. "We must thresh this matter out and have done 
 with it." 
 
 " There is no need to talk," his wife answered. " My 
 dear Jack, I foresaw that my mother would get the better 
 of you. I can imagine the whole scene. She wept pro- 
 fusely, and you relented. Tears always disarm you ! 
 Well, I know how much they are worth, and I am not 
 melted by them. There is nothing to discuss." 
 
 Jack kept his temper with an effort. " I am not a fool," 
 he said shortly. " As it happens, I was not overcome by 
 your mother's tears. I refused to make any promise of 
 silence to her. She should have been ashamed to have 
 asked it of me." 
 
 " She should indeed," said Gillian. " Yes, dear, I know 
 that I am unchristian, and I daresay I am undaughterly, 
 but I do not pretend to goodness." 
 
 " I wasn't going to preach," said Jack. " We will leave 
 Christianity out of the argument just now. I have promised 
 to persuade you to be silent ; but it was not for her sake
 
 364 Ht the Cro6s*1Roat)s 
 
 that I gave way. It was for the boy, and for old Cloves. 
 But I think that it was most of all for the boy." 
 
 Gillian's lips pressed harder together. " For the boy," 
 he said. She knew well enough that it was not of George 
 only that he was thinking. She was dimly aware that 
 the baby hands, for whose touch she yearned, had led her 
 husband a long way on a strange road. Yet the knowledge 
 seemed to make her heart the harder against Mrs. Glovis. 
 That a woman should deliberately and in cold blood sin 
 against her own child, for the sake merely of her own com- 
 fort, seems, to the ordinary and normal woman, a fact that 
 is monstrous and quite incomprehensible. The natural 
 instinct of womanhood was very strong in Gillian. She 
 had nothing but scorn for the mother who lacked the first 
 impulse of maternity. 
 
 " It is a pity for a little chap to hear bad things about 
 a parent. I know that by my own experience," Jack 
 went on. 
 
 "The pity lies in the parent's doing the bad things," 
 she retorted, 
 
 " The sin lies in the doing," Jack said gravely, " but 
 the shame falls on the children. That is a queer arrange- 
 ment, isn't it ? One is forced to make rough guesses at 
 its meaning, because one can't disbelieve in justice and 
 yet keep one's sanity. But that is not at all what I meant 
 to talk about. Under ordinary circumstances I should not 
 attempt to prevent you from telling Mr, Clovis anything 
 that you chose. The reason that makes me interfere is 
 very simple. Mr. Clovis has just told me that the doctor 
 believes your mother to be hopelessly ill — in fact, dying. 
 It seems that she has not many more months to live. In 
 that case we may as well stand aside, I think. We need 
 not add bitterness to her husband's grief, nor blacken her 
 boy's remembrance of her.'' 
 
 Gillian remained inscrutable and unmoved. At that
 
 *'0\xv Ma^s are 3BounD to Diverge" 365 
 
 moment Jack realised that his wife had drifted a long way 
 from him : he could no longer guess what she felt, nor 
 what she would say or do. She seemed indeed to feel 
 nothing but a certain annoyed perplexity. This piece of 
 intelligence, that had so startled him, left her cold. 
 
 "My mother has an extraordinary facility for shirking 
 consequences," she said at last, " and she cannot bear 
 to be thought ill of. If she sees no other door of escape, 
 perhaps she will die." 
 
 Jack was silent ; he was possibly shocked. Gillian 
 presently forced a yawn, though she was not in the least 
 sleepy. 
 
 ** I think that I may as well change my dress and go to 
 Mrs. Speake's * At Home ' now," she said. " It is late, 
 but her parties are late affairs." 
 
 Jack caught her dress as she would have left the room, 
 and detained her. 
 
 " But you will not tell Mr. Clovis. The poor old chap 
 was not a bad step-father to you. Gill — and he is a good sort." 
 
 " It is not my fault that his wife is not good," said 
 Gillian. He should have chosen better, dear. As for me, 
 I had no choice in mothers." She tried to speak lightly, 
 but the intensity of her indignation broke through the 
 forced lightness. " She should not sleep under this roof 
 to-night if this were my house, Jack," 
 
 ** It is lucky for you it is mine," he said gravely. 
 
 " For her, you mean." 
 
 *' No, for you," he repeated. ** Look here. Gill, you 
 shall not tell Mr. Clovis that story with my consent." 
 
 She looked at him, with some surprise at the unwonted 
 tone. 
 
 " I don't often interfere with you, do I ? ' he said. 
 
 *' No, not often," Gilian owned. Some thought made 
 her frown, and then smile a trifle bitterly. "Not too 
 often, for you and I have grown so thoroughly sensible."
 
 366 Bt tbe Cross«1Roat)s 
 
 He wondered a moment what she meant ; but he let 
 her go. Then the vague uneasiness that had often stirred 
 in him of late took form, and he wished that he had 
 begged her to stay. 
 
 It was not right that Gillian should be always going out 
 alone. It was strange that she should care to go, when 
 her boy — but no, he would not do her an injustice; he 
 knew well enough that she mourned her boy sorely, day 
 in and day out, though she could never wear her heart 
 on her sleeve. Cardew had no glibness of expression. 
 He could indeed write with a certain force — but he never 
 wrote about himself, and his pen was readier than his 
 tongue. He felt before he thought ; he had felt for a long 
 time that there was some shadow between him and Gill ; 
 but he had not cared to put the feeling into words. There 
 are people who are reserved even with themselves, and 
 who are loyal to their very core. They arrive at their 
 conclusions slowly in matters where their affections are 
 concerned, though they may be prompt in action. They 
 inspire the one or two who love them with a great trust. 
 They may have the most glaring and obvious faults, but 
 one is very sure of their virtues. 
 
 Jack could not sleep that night, and the morning brought 
 him no counsel. It brought him Gillian instead. She 
 came into the room, in morning dress, with her hat and 
 cloak on. 
 
 Jack sat up and rubbed his eyes. " Did you go to an 
 ' At Home ' in that gown ? " said he. . 
 
 *' No, dear. I am not quite a lunatic," said Gillian, 
 laughing. " It was three o'clock when I got home, and 
 it was not worth while to go to bed. I changed my dress 
 in the dressing-room and went for a walk. It was much 
 more like you than like me to go in for such an erratic 
 proceeding, wasn't it ? Well, I have been thinking over 
 our conversation of last night. It seems to me that on
 
 4( 
 
 ©ur Ma^s are Bouut) to Diverge" 367 
 
 the whole it is too silly of us to dispute over whether my 
 mother shall be punished or not. You prefer to leave 
 vengeance alone. Very well, I daresay that you are 
 right; and anyhow, I hate a fuss. Have it j'our own way, 
 Jack, only do not expect me to tolerate her, for I am not 
 cold-blooded enough. I am a pagan, you know. You see, 
 Jack, I am quite willing — no, I am not willing — I am quite 
 ready to allow that you have a right to be as good as you 
 choose J but I can't and won't be good too ; consequently^, 
 there is only one way out of the difficulty." 
 
 '• And what is that ? " he said. 
 
 " It is for me to go away," said Gillian cheerfully. " I 
 have arranged it very neatly. I have wired a message to 
 myself It will be here at breakfast time. My friend is 
 very ill and begs me to come at once. That is for the 
 benefit of Mr. Clovis and the servants. When my mother 
 has the grace to depart — I should think even she must 
 feel ashamed to stay long — I will come back to you. Dear 
 me ! you need not look grave. It is really a most excellent 
 plan. You may bless your lucky stars, dear, that your 
 wife does not fly out of your house in a rage, and leave 
 an enigmatical note pinned on to your pin-cushion ! I 
 declare I nearly did that, Jack ; but my sense of the 
 ridiculous saved me. I am not young enough to enjoy 
 emotional exits. Now mind that you remember to be 
 surprised when the telegram comes. You are very bad 
 at plots." 
 
 " But, I say ! I don't like this arrangement," said Jack. 
 
 " Neither do I like yours," said Gillian calmly. " If I 
 had my way Mr. Clovis should know everything at once. 
 Why should my mother be allowed to pose as a saint ? 
 Well, I won't enter into that argument again. We are not 
 children. We can agree to differ. I will not fly against 
 your commands, because it is very silly to make scenes ; 
 and you will not force me to meet my mother for the same
 
 368 Bt tbe <rross*1Roa&s 
 
 reason. I hope that you won't make your cold worse ; 
 your voice sounds as if it were on your chest. And, please, 
 don't forget my address. I will write it in your pocket- 
 book. See ? I am going to Lady Jane. She is such a 
 safe and respectable hostess." 
 
 "What, now?" said Jack. 
 
 His voice sounded so rueful and puzzled that Gillian 
 laughed. 
 
 " Oh no. Not this moment. My mother never comes 
 down to breakfast. I shall have time to pour out your 
 coffee just as usual; and then I shall interview the house- 
 keeper and tell her all about my sick friend, and arrange 
 about your dinners. Mrs. Brown is devoted to you ; she 
 will make you very comfortable. We won't have any 
 melodrama. I am afraid I was rather melodramatic 
 yesterday. Jack. I have an uncomfortable suspicion that 
 I behaved like a tragedy queen — I, who so despise volcanic 
 women ! I am sorry. I will not do that kind of thing 
 again, dear. I have got a box of cough lozenges, and I 
 have put it on the top of your razors. Do be sure to take 
 it in your pocket when you go out." 
 
 " Bother the cough lozenges ! Look here, I have not 
 agreed to this," said Jack. 
 
 Gillian turned round and faced him. "Then will you 
 tell my step-father the truth, and clear the house of my 
 mother ? " 
 
 " No. You know that I will not do that," he said slowly. 
 
 "And you know that I will not meet her," Gillian 
 returned. 
 
 She played with the things on the toilet-table, and tried 
 to master the tendency towards again becoming tragic. 
 In very truth she was startled at the intensity of her own 
 anger against Mrs. Clovis; just as she had once been 
 startled at the intensity of her own love for Jack. 
 
 " I really cannot play a game of hide-and-seek in my
 
 **®uc Mass are JBounC) to Biverge" 369 
 
 own home. It would be so tiresome," she said. " It is 
 a great pity that you do not Hke my little scheme ; but 
 you are so appallingly magnanimous that our ways are 
 bound to diverge ! It is better to diverge than to quarrel." 
 
 She left the room with a nod and a smile. Jack turned 
 the matter over and over in his mind while he was dress- 
 ing. Of course it would neither be fair nor possible to 
 insist on his wife's remaining. Mrs. Clovis's conduct had 
 been indefensible; Gillian had every right to be angry. 
 Jack had never coerced his wife in any manner. That was 
 not his way. He owned to himself, with a smile, that the 
 man who attempted such a thing would have a precious 
 stiff job. 
 
 Yet one remark of hers stuck in his mind. " It is better 
 to diverge than to quarrel." Was that indeed true ? 
 
 Jack held his temper with a very strong curb, never, 
 alas ! forgetting, that it had once killed a man. Gill had 
 a hearty contempt for the kind of woman who raises a 
 storm in a teacup. They never quarrelled. Yet the 
 question haunted Jack. 
 
 " The fact of the matter is that we have diverged such 
 a remarkably long way already," he said to himself, with 
 some pain, and a good deal of surprised realisation. 
 
 On the day when he had come home bitter and reckless, 
 a man whose life was, in his own estimation, spoilt, Gillian 
 had flung her soul at his feet— now it was often hidden 
 from him. Yet he loved her more now than he had loved 
 her then, and he was an infinitely better man. 
 
 Gillian came down to breakfast looking exactly as if 
 nothing had happened. When the telegram was handed 
 to her, she read it aloud with every appearance of surprise. 
 
 " I have received a message : ' Do come at once. You 
 are much wanted. Jane ill. No one else available.' What 
 am I to do ? But of course there is but one thing to do, 
 I must go." 
 
 24
 
 370 Ht tbe Cross*1RoaDs 
 
 " Why, you are not surely going away with your poor 
 mother so ill and all ? " said Mr. Clovis indignantly. 
 
 ** Is Mrs. Clovis worse this morning ? " Jack inquired 
 with an effort. 
 
 " Yes, she is. She did not sleep a wink all night. But 
 her daughter don't seem to think it worth while to ask 
 after her," said Mr. Clovis in a hurt tone. 
 
 " I am very sorry to appear unkind to you, Mr. Clovis," 
 said Gill. 
 
 " Well, well," he grunted, but half mollified, " it is not 
 to be expected that you should be as anxious as I am. 
 Still, I do think you might at least have been to your 
 mother's door to see how she was." 
 
 Gillian gave the telegram to Jack with a twinkle of 
 mischief in her eyes. " You see. Jack," she said, " I have 
 no choice. It is impossible for me not to go."
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 INVISIBLE BONDS. 
 
 " For man is a spirit, and bound to all men by invisible bonds." 
 
 — Carlyle, 
 
 GILLIAN sat in Lady Jane's peaceful room, and waited 
 for her friend to come in. She had not been near 
 Jane for a long time, but she had no doubt about the 
 welcome she would receive. 
 
 The quietness of that small, daintily clean home seemed 
 to Gillian like the quietness of a church after the rush of 
 a great thoroughfare. She was apt to mock at " sentimental 
 fancies " ; but, though she would not have owned to the 
 folly, she was haunted by the idea that the very atmosphere 
 was made sweet by prayers, and was full of a grave and 
 gentle peace. She leant back in Jane's chair with a look 
 of unwonted relaxation and weariness. 
 
 It was now nearly six o'clock, and Gill had been rushing 
 about all day. She had had lunch at the stores, and 
 had shopped all the afternoon in Regent Street. She had 
 taken a most matter-of-fact and cheerful leave of Jack. 
 Her last words to him had been an injunction to re- 
 member a business appointment that he had made for 
 that afternoon. Jack was careless about engagements. 
 
 No woman had ever left her husband's house in a more 
 unemotional and sensible manner. Yet she felt strangely 
 exhausted, and as if she had undergone a pretty severe 
 
 371
 
 372 Bt tbe Ci:oss*1Roat»s 
 
 moral strain. This rather surprised her; but the woman 
 who is capable of loving and hating as GiUian loved and 
 hated does not often analyse her emotions. 
 
 Presently Jane came in, and exclaimed in genuine delight 
 at sight of Gillian. " It is very long since I have seen you, 
 my friend." 
 
 " Very long," said Gillian, kissing her. *' I did not feel in- 
 clined to come near you before. I lost my boy, you know." 
 
 " Of course I know," said Jane. 
 
 "And I did not want to talk about it," Gillian added 
 quickly. " And yet to you I could not talk nonsense. I 
 am supposed not to mind much, you know. I had rather 
 people thought I did not mind much. Now we will change 
 the subject. Jane, I have a great deal to tell you about 
 Jack's affairs ; but before I begin I must ask if you will let 
 me sleep in your guest-room ? or is it at present occupied 
 by a repentant Magdalene ? " 
 
 " It will be the greatest treat I have had for years to 
 have you to stay with me ! " Jane said truthfully. " It 
 is very fortunate that I have no other guest. Come and 
 put away your hat and cloak. Have you any luggage ? " 
 
 "Only a bag which holds my night things. You are 
 supposed to be very ill, and you wired to me. Now I 
 wonder whether you really would have done anything so 
 sensible ? I have quarrelled with my mother — this is true, 
 Jane — and I have left her in possession of the house. It is 
 a first and a last quarrel. We shall not make it up. Jack 
 understands the situation ; but I do not wish to enter into 
 particulars." 
 
 " I will not ask questions," said Lady Jane. " But I 
 am sorry that you said that I was ill, because that is not 
 in the least true." 
 
 "Dear saint, I took your name terribly in vain! But 
 it could not be helped. Are you not shocked that I have 
 deserted my mother ? "
 
 invisible Bon^5 373 
 
 " No, for I am perfectly sure," said Jane with quiet 
 decision, "that Mrs. Clovis must have been entirely to 
 blame." 
 
 "That is right!" cried Gillian. "You know nothing 
 whatever about it, my dearest saint ! But I always feel 
 that the strength of your prejudices is refreshingly human ! 
 All the more so because you are under the impression that 
 you are unbiassed." 
 
 " I am not prejudiced," said Jane, colouring. " I simply 
 speak from knowledge of your and her characters." 
 
 They stood in the tiny guest-room, and Gillian glanced 
 round it. It was very small, and the walls were blue and 
 white. The bed had a white coverlet with a blue design 
 embroidered on it. The design was of a tree with 
 spreading branches ; that ' tree of life ' that is to be found 
 in much of the old English needlework. A scroll wound 
 among the branches, bearing the words, " No wind killeth 
 the tree that God planteth." 
 
 Gillian shrugged her shoulders. "And how about the 
 trees He does not plant, eh, Jane ? " 
 
 " They do not exist," said Jane placidly. 
 
 Opposite the bed hung a print of Albert Durer's picture 
 of the knight who rode through the valley of death. There 
 was a wooden cross above the door. 
 
 "Why, the room looks as if you had expected me," said 
 Gillian. " The bed is made, and there are clean towels 
 put out." 
 
 " The room is always ready," said Lady Jane. " And 
 it is never long empty. One never knows how suddenly 
 it may be wanted, and I could not bear to be unprepared 
 for those that are sent to me. But you, Gillian, you are 
 my very own friend ! When you come it is a holiday and 
 a festival." 
 
 Later in the evening, when they had had tea together, 
 Gillian told Jane of the finding of the manuscript and of
 
 374 Bt tbe Cro5s*lRoa&s 
 
 the steps that Jack was going to take to make the truth 
 known. Of her mother's guilt she said nothing. She 
 smiled a little sadly in response to Lady Jane's congratula- 
 tions. 
 
 "Yes, he is cleared," she said. "The oddest part of it 
 all is that we have lost the power of rejoicing. Jack and 
 I have been as solemn as two owls over the discovery ! 
 Once I should have been wild with triumph. Jane, I have 
 done all I told you that I would do. I have made friends 
 with the world and the etceteras for his sake — a little 
 bit for my own too — every one has come round to him, and 
 now a crowning proof lies in our hands. Why am I not 
 more glad ? " 
 
 " You have been over-working yourself," said Jane 
 tenderly. 
 
 " Over-playing is what you mean," said Gillian. " But 
 I tried to be quiet, and quietness nearly drove me into 
 Bedlam. I can't rest. I think that I must have eaten 
 witches' apples, and their juice has got into my blood." 
 " Then do not eat them any more," said Jane softly. 
 " One must eat something, and I am not pious," said 
 Gillian. 
 
 Jane sewed after tea. She worked exquisitely, and she 
 found great enjo3'ment in putting fine stitches into linen. 
 Gill watched her rather enviously. " Do you ever get 
 restless ? " she asked. 
 
 " I was unhappy once," said Jane ; " I am not now. 
 The world is sad, I think ; but underneath the sadness 
 one finds — God." 
 
 She spoke the last word in so low a whisper that Gillian 
 rather guessed than heard it. She sighed impatiently. 
 "My dear Jane, you possess a mysteriously spiritual 
 nature. I do not. Spiritual food is indigestible ttt me. 
 I never understand what sermons mean, even when I 
 believe them to be genuine. As a rule, I believe them to 
 
 J
 
 invisible 3Sont)6 375 
 
 be nothing of the sort. The worst of it is, that Jack has 
 developed a spiritual nature too, and he is getting beyond 
 me. He is struggling to altitudes that I can't breathe in. 
 I could help him when he was in despair, but he is the 
 sort who must either be very very good, or very reckless. 
 He never did anything by halves. You see, I can't be 
 very good. I don't even wish to be — so there is nothing 
 for it but more apples." 
 
 Jane opened her lips to speak, but thought better of it 
 and was silent. She was a woman of strong prejudices, 
 as Gillian had remarked, but she had also a certain dis- 
 cretion that had been learnt in the school where experience 
 teaches. Not that that stern dame manages to impart 
 the higher wisdom to the majority of her scholars. Jane 
 loved Gillian, as she loved no other woman, with a strong 
 and equal friendship. Yet she knew that she was not the 
 right person to help her. There was only one who held 
 the key to Gillian's heart. 
 
 " But men are often singularly dense," said Lady Jane 
 with much apparent irrelevance. " They have all the best 
 chances, and they frequently let them slip. We stand by 
 and see the pity of it, and can do nothing at all." 
 
 " My dear Jane, why this unprovoked diatribe ? " asked 
 Gillian, laughing. 
 
 " I was answering my own thoughts. It is a bad habit 
 that one falls into when one lives much alone," said Jane. 
 
 Gillian did not sleep that night, but that was no new 
 experience. She had suffered from insomnia ever since 
 her child's death. She lay wide awake, and wished that 
 she were among a crowd of people. When morning 
 dawned she stared at the picture of the knight. His 
 mouth, and something in the set of his shoulders, reminded 
 her of Jack. The gruesome phantoms that surround that 
 most excellent warrior made Gill feverishly angry and
 
 376 Ht tbe (Iross*1Roat)s 
 
 impatient. One's emotions are often unruly after an 
 unwilling vigil. 
 
 Few painters have portrayed silent conflict more vividly 
 than has Albert Durer in that curious picture of the man 
 riding through mopping and mowing shadows, with teeth 
 clenched, and a strong grip on the rein of his frightened 
 horse, 
 
 " You won't condescend to notice them. Well done ! 
 They are not worth looking at," Gill murmured. " But / 
 ought to be there to scare them away." 
 
 Gillian was not artistic, but she understood very well 
 what that old artist had meant. One learns more through 
 one's heart than through ne's brain, after all. 
 
 She stayed with Lady Jane for four days, and they were 
 among the most miserable days of her life. The restless 
 bitterness that possessed her was more or less apparent 
 in her conversation ; but she made herself very amusing, 
 and, at times, very useful to her hostess. She alluded 
 no more to " witches' apples," and Jane never forced a 
 confidence. 
 
 One day she remarked casually that her mother was 
 still too ill to be moved. " It must be a great bore for 
 Jack," she said. "But, of course, if people will go in for 
 being so preternaturally generous, they must expect to be 
 bored." 
 
 On the fourth day Jack made his appearance. He was 
 too large for the tiny room, and Ladj' Jane, who had grown 
 old-maidish, felt that he was somewhat out of place. He 
 stood in front of the fireplace, and fidgeted with the clock 
 on the mantelpiece. His shoulder brushed against Jane's 
 carefully trimmed lamp. 
 
 '* Please, will you sit down ? " said Lady Jane in her soft, 
 even voice. " I fear that you will inadvertently break that 
 globe." 
 
 " How is Gill ? " asked Jack abruptly.
 
 invisible Bonbs 377 
 
 "She is doing a great deal; she never tires," said Jane; 
 and at that moment Gillian came in. 
 
 "Dear me! Have you come to call upon me, Jack? 
 Hovi7 very amusing ! " said she. "Or," and there was an 
 involuntary eagerness in her tone^" Or has my mother 
 at last seen fit to depart ? " 
 
 ** I wish that you would come back," said Jack. " No, 
 Mrs. Clovis has not gone yet. But if you could see how 
 unhappy Mr. Clovis is about her, you would not care to 
 add to his troubles." 
 
 " I do not wish to add to his troubles," said Gillian 
 coldly. " You don't understand. Jack. If I went back 
 I should have to pretend that I was on my usual terms 
 with my mother. There are limits to my powers of pre- 
 tence, dear. I will not do it. No, Jane, j'ou need not go ; 
 we have nothing to discuss," But Jane went. 
 
 " She is the most gently obstinate person in the world ! " 
 Gillian remarked with a smile. " She does credit to my 
 nursing, does she not ? But I think she isn't quite out 
 of danger yet." 
 
 "You are making a mistake," said Jack. 
 
 " I can't help it ! " she answered. It seemed to her, 
 for a whimsical moment, as if two demons were fighting 
 for and in her. " I cannot get outside my own character. 
 I don't want to forgive her." 
 
 " Then you will not come ? Well, you are wrong," Jack 
 repeated. But he did not contest the point. 
 
 When he got to the hall door he found Jane waiting for him. 
 
 *' I want to speak to you," she said. " It is about some- 
 thin for Gillian. I do not wish her to hear." 
 
 To her surprise Jack frowned and reddened. His own 
 mind was so full of this perplexing estrangement that he 
 fancied that Lady Jane was about to intrude advice on him. 
 The next moment he was ashamed of his suspicion. 
 
 " To-morrow is her birthday," said Jane. " I have been
 
 378 Bt tbe (Iros6*lRoa^5 
 
 working a screen for her room ; it is being made up at 
 a shop in the Strand. The shopman promised me that 
 it should be sent home last week, but it has not yet come. 
 The shop is not far from the office of your Diamond Com- 
 pany, and Gillian tells me that you are often in that direc- 
 tion. I was intending to ask you it you would be so very 
 kind as to inquire about my work for me, should you 
 happen to be near the shop ; but I see that it would be 
 a trouble to you." 
 
 " Why, of course I will do that," said Jack. " I thought 
 you were going to say something quite different." 
 
 The little lady drew herself up, and looked at him with 
 such surprised dignity that he had the grace to be ashamed 
 of his suspicion. 
 
 " I beg your pardon. The fact of the matter is that I 
 have a guilty conscience," said he. " I know that I have 
 a genius for making a hash of things." He smiled ruefully. 
 " I am sure you must think so, don't you ?" 
 
 " Since you ask me — yes," said Jane. 
 
 " Gill is wearing herself out. I daresay it is just as well 
 that she should stay with you for a bit." He swung the 
 door to and fro and lingered. Seeing that Lady Jane had 
 not offered to interfere, he was half inclined to desire her 
 counsel ; at the same time nothing would have induced 
 him to tell her, or any woman, that anything was wrong 
 between himself and his wife. " She misses the — the little 
 chap rather, I suspect." 
 
 " Why, of course," said Jane. 
 
 " You can't reason about that sort of thing, can you ? " 
 
 " Reason ? " cried Jane with unexpected warmth. *' Does 
 reason ever help any one who is unhappy ? " 
 
 " No," he answered bluntly. " Nothing helps an un- 
 happy person except Well, good-night, Lady Jane." 
 
 It was freezing out of doors, A few small flakes were
 
 invisible :Bont>5 379 
 
 falling, but it was too cold to snow heavily. Cardew turned 
 his steps riverwards, and presently walked along the 
 Embankment. He stopped, in spite of the cold, to watch 
 the gulls skimming over the water and perching on the 
 floating lumps of ice. The yellow and dun snow-clouds 
 hung low, and the current ran black between the ice-blocks. 
 But a few miles out of town yesterday's snow was white 
 as a christening robe on the sleeping country; here the 
 coating on the stone balustrade was already thickly crusted 
 with smuts, and salt and cinders had been thrown down in 
 the roadway. London never sleeps ; she knows nothing 
 of the muffled stillness that reigns after a snowstorm in the 
 country. Yet her winter, too, has a penetrating beauty of 
 its own. Cardew was poet enough to feel the spell of the 
 city, v^hich, once felt, seems to enter into the very blood. 
 
 There is a dancing woman who wears a black veil, and 
 who jigs to strange tunes, barefooted, on the pavement — 
 and she is London. There is a tragic woman who cries 
 aloud to Heaven ; we shiver when we hear her voice, she 
 haunts us when we feast — and she is London. There is 
 a strong woman whose breasts have suckled great men, 
 who is the mother of a hundred inventions; whose chil- 
 dren struggle and attain, and give place to others in a 
 ceaseless stream — and she is London too. Once in a while 
 this woman lifts her veil, and her eyes meet yours. Then 
 you have seen something that you will not forget, however 
 far you may wander ; something that will remain with you 
 till the last silence falls. 
 
 Cardew was about to cross over to Norfolk Street, on 
 his way to the Strand, when a noisy procession of Salva- 
 tionists forced him to wait. The sight of them recalled 
 to his mind the recollection of the consumptive man who 
 had once accosted him on the bridge. 
 
 " Poor chap ! he was spitting blood then. By this time 
 he must be dead," thought Jack.
 
 38o Ht tbe Ccos6*1RoaC)s 
 
 The remembrance of the little " captain " momentarily 
 amused him. The " naturally shy man," driven to aggres- 
 sion by his aggressive form of religion, had seemed to 
 him both funny and pathetic. Jack wondered if the poor 
 chap was now reaping some reward of his ill-advised efforts. 
 Want of gumption is sorely punished in this world. Jack 
 thought of the hollow-cheeked, round-shouldered little 
 apostle with a smile and a sigh. Then all at once it 
 occurred to him that nowadays he often practically 
 recognised that the question which had nonplussed the 
 injudicious preacher might after all be answered. 
 
 " What earthly right has any one to interfere ? Why 
 have not I as good a right to go to Hell, if I choose, as you 
 have to go to Heaven ? " he had asked. 
 
 And even while he put the riddle the reply to it was 
 given in the fierce outraged- sympathy that he himself felt 
 for all who were going down, who were dogged by ill-luck, 
 and driven by despair; who, humanly speaking, had no 
 chance, and had never had a chance. No man is himself 
 alone. The " invisible bonds " that bind him to his kind 
 are as real as the flesh and blood that grew in his mother's 
 womb. He has a right to interfere, because the life of 
 every other man is, in a sense, his own. In his childhood 
 he knows this well enough ; injustice dismays and hurts 
 him with a sense of personal injury and perplexity; 
 possibly as he grows up the primitive instincts weaken, 
 but some among us keep their childlike outlook through 
 all the length of days. Perhaps he must be something of 
 a thinker who apprehends the fact of unity with his brain, 
 but the illiterate enthusiast who cannot fit two thoughts 
 logically together grasps it practically. 
 
 " At the same time there is no denying that the illiterate 
 brother is a great nuisance, when he takes to blaring 
 trumpets and to going into religious hysterics," thought 
 Jack as he made his way up the Strand.
 
 5nv>i5ible Bonbs 381 
 
 He had an antipathy to most reHgious forms, noisy or 
 otherwise. It was an antipathy that lasted his life. 
 
 He did Lady Jane's commission, and found that the shop 
 was actually under the very rooms in which Gillian had 
 been living when he came home from Africa. He was 
 possessed with the desire to see them, and he found, on 
 enquiry, that they were to let. They were seldom long 
 empty, but the last tenant had died suddenly. He mounted 
 the long flight of stairs very thoughtfully, and presently 
 stood in the very room to which he had come to meet the 
 woman who had waited for him. 
 
 The sitting-room was cheerless and cold. The small 
 bedroom that Gillian had slept in had no fireplace. 
 Cardew, who was aware how keenly Gill appreciated 
 luxury, wondered how she had put up with such dis- 
 comfort. He looked round him with a grave face; then, 
 sitting down by the window, he scribbled a few words 
 in his pocket-book, tore out the leaf, and asked for an 
 envelope. He enclosed his note, and directed it to Mrs. 
 Cardew. 
 
 " I will take these rooms from to-morrow," he said. 
 
 He had not had the faintest intention of writing a letter 
 or of entering that room when he went into the shop ; he 
 acted on one of the sudden impulses that occcasionally 
 impelled him. His grave and somewhat impassive manner 
 impressed the landlady ; but Gillian, had she been present, 
 would have laughed at the suddenness of his determination. 
 
 On his return home. Jack found Mr. Clovis in a state 
 of mingled exultation and misgiving. The exultation was 
 openly paraded, the misgiving lurked in the background. 
 
 It appeared that the new physician's opinion was 
 absolutely at variance with the opinion of both the other 
 doctors. 
 
 " He is the only sensible one of the lot ! " Mr. Clovis 
 cried. " I could see that with half an eye. He is a sharp
 
 382 at tbe Cross^lRoa^s 
 
 chap, if you like! He has got his wits about him. 'In 
 my opinion,' says he ' there is no maHgnant growth.' 
 * You mean,' says I, * that I was frightened with a pack 
 of lies ? ' But at that he drew in a bit. ' I meant nothing 
 of the sort. I should not dream of using such an offensive 
 term,' says he. All the same that was what he did mean, 
 Jack. That was the long and short of it." 
 
 Cardew smiled grimly. He was glad, for Mr. Clovis's 
 sake, that there was new hope. Moreover, he hated to 
 think of any woman suffering tortures. Yet there was 
 a certain irony in the situation that did not escape him. 
 He had nearly quarrelled with Gillian, who was worth 
 a hundred such selfish sentimentalists as her mother, 
 because he had been moved by the belief that the woman 
 who had injured him was dying. Now that she had his 
 promise of silence, she was perhaps after all not dying. 
 
 " Eva will get better yet. You think she will get better, 
 don't you ? " Mr. Clovis cried, with an appeal that was 
 almost child-like in its simplicity. 
 
 " Upon my word, I should not wonder a bit if she did ! " 
 said Jack ; and rather to Mr. Clovis's astonishment, he 
 laughed outright.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE SALVATION OF TWO. 
 
 "Love's not Time's fool, though rosy Hps and cheeks 
 Within his bending sickle's compass come. 
 Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks 
 But bears it on, e'en to the edge of doom — 
 If this be folly and upon me proved 
 I never writ and no man ever loved." 
 
 " O O you have come. I am glad of that," said Jack. 
 
 w3 He stood in the bare httle room in the Strand, and 
 he turned to greet Gillian with a half-deprecatory smile. 
 
 "Of course I know that you think that this is a very 
 foolish arrangement, Gill," he said. " But I was so 
 possessed with the desire to talk to you here. Do you 
 remember that it was on your birthday that I came 
 home ? " 
 
 Gillian did remember very well. "Oh, was it?" she 
 said carelessly. " My dear Jack, how badly this room 
 needs dusting ! " 
 
 She was beautifully dressed, but as her velvet cloak 
 brushed against the table it became marked with a line 
 of dust. 
 
 "Your note amused me, Jack — and surprised me. It 
 was very funny of you to give me these rooms for a birth- 
 day present. I ought to appreciate the sentiment, but I 
 could wish that you had had them cleaned. Look at 
 that ! " 
 
 383
 
 384 Bt tbc Cross*1Roa&s 
 
 She walked to the window, and as she spoke she rubbed 
 her finger along the window ledge, and held it up, coated 
 with black. 
 
 " Yes, it was in better order, and it was full of flowers 
 on the day when you waited for me," said Jack. 
 
 " Twopenny bunches of berries, and red chrysanthemums 
 from the basket at the corner of the Strand," said she. 
 " I did not know that you noticed them. I am glad that 
 you did not try to renew that effect to-day ! Don't sit on 
 that chair. I can see that its left leg is going to give way 
 under you. I never thought much of the furniture here, 
 and it is in worse condition now than it was in my time. 
 Besides, you don't grow lighter with advancing years, and 
 neither for the matter of that do I — and after all there is no 
 particular reason why we should be here at all, is there ? " 
 
 Jack kicked the chair aside, and seated himself on the 
 table. " Never mind the dust. I'll buy you a new gown," 
 he said. " Sit on the window seat. That's safe. Well, 
 yes, I have a sort of reason. It seemed to me I should 
 get at you better in this room. I daresay it appears absurd, 
 but I don't know that what a thing appears ever matters 
 in the least. You cannot say you hear some one ringing 
 at the bell here. Thank goodness no one knows where we 
 are. Gillian, have you and I quarrelled ? " 
 
 He saw the colour come into her face, but she answered 
 lightly, "Good gracious, I trust not! That would be such 
 a highly unoriginal thing for a husband and wife to do." 
 Then a rather odd expression came into her eyes. " Of 
 course it might be interesting to find out which of us is 
 really the strongest. But no ; quarrels are too vulgar and 
 brutal. We will have none of them. We have agreed to 
 differ, and that is all. You shield my mother because she 
 is a woman ; and I, because / am a woman, my dear, hate 
 her. I have come to the conclusion that men can't hate 
 as women can. What do you sav ? "
 
 Uhc Salvation at Zvoo 385 
 
 " I don't know, or care," he answered. " You are not 
 ' Woman ' in the abstract. You are ihe woman who was 
 fool enough to fall in love with me when we were young 
 and walked in a Fool's Paradise, and who — I suppose that 
 was more foolish still, eh ? — who stuck to me when there 
 wasn't much Paradise left, and the view had ceased to be 
 pretty. And I am not ' Man ' in the abstract, but the 
 man who is your husband. We have agreed to differ 
 too much. It is a bad plan. Look here, Gill, in theory 
 it is all right, but in practice it is — I beg your pardon — 
 it is damnation. It is freezing the life out of us." 
 
 " I thought that people were generally damned in a very 
 hot place; but no doubt you know best, dear," said Gillian, 
 
 She laughed nervously. She could not, for the life of 
 her, meet Jack's words simply. The trick of covering her 
 emotions with a jest had grown on her, and she was 
 strangely nervous. She did not wish to make an idiot of 
 herself; yet she felt helpless for once. Her attempts at 
 fencing were futile. Was she glad or sorry ? 
 
 " You thought wrong, then," said he. " Fire never 
 killed a soul yet, let the priests say what they will. It has 
 saved some, I think." 
 
 " Have you turned preacher ? " she cried. ** Because, if 
 you have, I will agree to all your arguments in advance, 
 and save the discussion. You can consider me converted, 
 dear ! Now don't you think that we had better be going? 
 We have sacrificed enough to memories, I am sure ! It is 
 the sort of thing I, personally, hate doing, my dear. It is 
 so much simpler to take each day as it comes and not 
 remember ! I only came because I am such an amenable 
 wife — except when you try to make me overlook mammy's 
 little peccadilloes — and because, fond as I am of Jane, the 
 undiluted society of my own sex does bore me after a — 
 rather short — time. Do not you think tliat is horrid of 
 me ? " 
 
 25
 
 386 at tbe aross*1Roa^s 
 
 " Gill," he said, " you are holding me back with all your 
 strength. Why ? " 
 
 Gillian stared out of the window, and a mist floated 
 before her eyes. " Don't, Jack," she said, in a low voice. 
 
 He got off the table and came nearer. " But why, Gill ? " 
 
 She was physically tired, and she was sick at heart. 
 She could not bear to feel that she was not mistress of 
 herself and of the situation. She had meant, at any rate, 
 to have avoided anything approaching to a scene — and yet 
 the traitor within the gates was glad because Jack was too 
 strong for the citadel. The traitor within the gates is such 
 an extraordinary, unaccountable person ! 
 
 " I have not had much need to do that. I have known 
 for some time that you and I are miles apart," said she. 
 
 "By my fault, eh?" 
 
 But at that her loyalty protested. "No, no; not by 
 your fault. I do not think exactly by my fault, either. 
 I suppose by the natural order of life. A woman falls in 
 love, and then she marries and bears children, and then 
 she begins to die. Do not look startled, dear. I am re- 
 markably strong and well. I am not going to tell you that 
 I have an incurable disease gnawing at my vitals, like the 
 Spartan boy's fox. But all the same I am beginning to 
 die. Every one is who has passed youth. That is why 
 everything seems on a dull level. That is why I do not 
 enjoy anything, or care for any one as I did once. Once 
 I was happy if you were in the same room with me. Now 
 we have grown older and more sensible. That is quite 
 right ; and when we get yet a little farther on it will not 
 any longer seem so dull. It is all perfectly natural, and 
 it is no one's fault." 
 
 Jack smiled in spite of himself. " That was a clever 
 answer, but it was not the truth, Gill," he said. " It did 
 not strike me that your emotions were wanting in vigour 
 when you heard what your mother had left undone. We
 
 Zbc Salvation of TLvoo 387 
 
 were not boy and girl when we were married, and we 
 are not growing younger — but it hardly seems to me that 
 we have no vitality left. It does not seem so to you 
 either." 
 
 " Perhaps not," said she. " But, my dear Jack, life would 
 become impossible, and barely decent, if one habitually 
 trotted out the whole naked truth," 
 
 Cardew glanced round the room, and then looked at 
 Gillian again. It was difficult to him to speak; he was 
 making such an effort as he had never made before. Un- 
 adorned truth is indeed a somewhat awful guest to enter- 
 tain. One can never forget her words. They mark a 
 crisis, and they have everlasting life in them. One hears 
 them through all succeeding years, and through the babel 
 of tongues. 
 
 " You spoke the very truth once — in this room," Cardew 
 said ; " and it saved me. It was the only thing that could 
 have saved me then. Nothing but your love for me stood 
 between me and the devil, Gillian. If you had not been 
 waiting that day " 
 
 " Oh, do you suppose I don't know ? I know, and I 
 knew. You need not tell me that," cried she. She held 
 up her hand to stop him, and the colour flooded her face 
 and the tears filled her eyes. " I made violent love to you. 
 Jack — but it was not the time to hesitate ; it was the only 
 thing to be done just then. You need not remind me of 
 that day. Do you think that — that one ever forgets ? But 
 now it is difterent. Whatever might happen to you, you 
 would never 'go to the devil ' now. You have found your 
 footing, and, what is more, you are climbing to heights that 
 are far beyond me." 
 
 "Why, Gill," he interrupted, with sudden illumination — 
 " Why, Gill, I am a stupid, blundering fool, but of course 
 I want you ! Did you think I didn't? I have let you go, 
 but I have wanted you all the time, and I believe that you
 
 388 Bt tbe Cross*1Roat)s 
 
 want me. Heights that are beyond you ? Nonsense, we 
 must stick together, my dear. Look here, I have been 
 idiotic enough to suppose that it was but fair to let you 
 follow your own way, but I had much better have made 
 you come mine, eh ? Gill, I am trying to get at the 
 meaning of all sorts of things — I can't understand them 
 alone. I worCt understand them alone." 
 
 She stared at him silently, with the unshed tears standing 
 in her eyes. She saw that he flushed to the roots of his 
 hair — that was turning grey now — with the endeavour to 
 force himself to speak of those deeper things that underlie 
 life and that make its reality, but which he could never 
 talk glibly about. 
 
 " I won't understand them alone," he repeated. " My 
 God must be your God, My dear, if He is to be found we 
 must find Him together." 
 
 She half turned from him, because she was afraid that 
 the tears would fall, and he put his hand on her arm. 
 
 " I could not say this to any one else in all the world," 
 he said simply, " and it is the sort of thing that it is 
 difficult to say — even to you. But you — why won't you 
 be yourself to me ? Gill, do look at me ! " 
 
 Gillian turned with quivering lips. " I wish you 
 wouldn't," she said. "The fact is, I don't dare be 
 
 myself, because " And then, without any warning, 
 
 she broke down, and slipping away from his grasp, sat 
 down on the chair by the table, and leaning her forehead 
 on the wood, sobbed and sobbed, with long, choking sobs 
 that frightened him. 
 
 The barriers were swept away at last. x 
 
 "Oh, Jack, I could not help myself!" she gasped at 
 last. " It was most dreadfully silly of me ! But I — I am 
 so awfully miserable about my boy still, and you seemed 
 to have got so far off. You are getting so — so good, you 
 see. But I — I long for my baby. I try not to give in.
 
 Ube Salvation of Uvoo 389 
 
 Other people lose their children and get over it. It is so 
 cowardly to make a great fuss when one is hurt, I don't 
 mean to. I did not mean to — but I do want my little boy 
 so much, so much." 
 
 And at that he took her in his arms and comforted her, 
 with words that were quite illogical — broken phrases 
 whispered for her only, that shall not be written here, 
 being sacred — but that, after all, held consolation. 
 
 And later Gillian dried her eyes and went home with him. 
 
 They walked together through the crowded street, and 
 talked but little by the way. When they got to their own 
 door Gillian remembered about her mother, and smiled. 
 
 "You are quite wrong," she said. "It is altogether 
 preposterous that mammy should be let off hke this; and 
 I am going in for an entirely immoral course of action in 
 supporting you. Mind, I do not forgive her now." 
 
 "All right," he said, "I daresay it is immoral, Gillian. 
 We must hang morality for once. You see, I can't round 
 on her now. After all, your mother is very unimportant. 
 What really matters is that you and I are going to keep 
 together." 
 
 And a laugh that was quite genuinely happy broke from 
 Gill's lips. It was a long while since he had heard her 
 laugh naturally, and the sound pleased him. 
 
 " That is all very well, darling," cried she. " But do you 
 know that you walk with very long strides occasionally, 
 and it is / who will have to keep in step ? " 
 
 She was ashamed when she went up to her room to 
 see how swollen and red her eyes were. " I have never, 
 never — but once before — been such a goose ! " she said to 
 herself. " And it was Jack's doing then." 
 
 The recollection reminded her of Jane. She had left 
 that little lady without a word ; she must write to her at 
 once. She hesitated for a second with her pen in her 
 hand, and then wrote very fast.
 
 39° Bt tbe Cross^lRoa^s 
 
 " My dearest Saint, — I have given in very absurdly, 
 and have gone home. If you were any one else I should 
 invent a hundred reasons for your edification, but I do not 
 mind owning to you that the whole proceeding is tm- 
 reasonable! Mammy is still here, but Jack has over- 
 persuaded me. He is determined to drag me up mountains. 
 It seems an unwise enterprise on his part, does it not ? 
 Yet I think on the whole that you will be glad, and so, 
 do you know, am I. Dear Jane, I am very grateful to you. 
 There was so much that you might have said, and so 
 many questions that any other woman would inevitably 
 have asked ! I am most grateful to you for your silence. 
 You gave me time and space to breathe in. That trio 
 about whom we have talked have not helped me to 
 forget my boy ; I doubt if they cure heart-ache, and they 
 charge heavily — and Jack has set his face against them. 
 I mean to throw away the witches' apples if I can. Of 
 course that is an odd thing for me to do ; but one is bound 
 to do odd things if one likes such an odd person as Jack. 
 I will send a man with this letter at once, and he can bring 
 back my box. I will come to see you very soon. I should 
 like you to burn this if you please — but you may keep my 
 love, dear saint. 
 
 ' Yours, 
 
 " Gillian Cardew." 
 
 Her head was aching so that she could hardly see to 
 sign her name. She despatched the note, and then threw 
 herself dov^n on the bed and shut her hot eyelids. The 
 walk had been long, and she was tired, but the restlessness 
 that had so possessed her was gone. Jack had apparently 
 exorcised that unquiet spirit. She slept soundly, and 
 Cardew, when he came up to dress for dinner, found her 
 sliU in a deep, dreamless slumber. 
 
 He stood bv her side with a great thankfulness in his
 
 Zbc Salvation ot Uvvo 391 
 
 heart. There would not have been much satisfaction in 
 seeing his good name wholly restored if the woman who 
 had clung to him through shame and ill-report had been 
 alienated, 
 
 Gillian would probably never have done anything very 
 outrageous ; her common-sense and her pride would have 
 prevented that. Yet there are more ways than one ot 
 going down hill, and there are paths that have no danger- 
 signals that yet wind to the bottom. 
 
 Jack was conscious that he had ** done a good day's 
 work " and that he held his wife's hand firmly in his own 
 again. 
 
 This hotly-loving and passionately-hating woman, with 
 her horror of mock sentiment, with her half-mocking out- 
 look on the world, of whose good things she was so willing 
 to make the most, with her surface frankness and her 
 real reserve, was bound to him by bonds that could only 
 be broken at the cost of all that was finest in her nature. 
 Gillian had challenged grief and found him strong ; but 
 she was not the woman to give in. Had she not met 
 love, too, there is little doubt that she would have hardened 
 her heart, and have ultimately won one of those victories 
 that cost more dearly than defeat. 
 
 Jack was glad that he and Gillian stood together once 
 more ; yet I doubt if he ever quite understood, that even 
 more surely than her love had once saved him, his had 
 that day saved her. 
 
 As for Mrs. Clovis, she hardly knew whether to be glad 
 or sorry when she was told that Gillian had returned. 
 The scene with her daughter had thoroughly unnerved 
 her. She was anxious to leave the house as soon as was 
 compatible with appearances ; yet from the bottom of her 
 heart she was desirous of departing in peace. She hoped 
 that Gillian had been brought to see things in a more 
 becoming and softer light, but was aware that she could
 
 392 at tbe Cto56*1RoaDs 
 
 seldom be cajoled into seeing through other people's 
 spectacles ! It was terrible that " the dear girl " should 
 be "so hard on her own mother," Mrs. Clovis repeated 
 sadly to herself. In spite of Gillian's plain speaking, she 
 did not grasp the fact that it was the desecration of mother- 
 hood that had fairly shocked Gillian. Neither did it occur 
 to her, while she speculated tremblingly on her daughter's 
 probable behaviour, that Gillian had simply flung reason 
 aside, and had come back because love is, after all, much 
 stronger than hate, and Jack wanted her. 
 
 "Your mother is very unimportant," Jack had said; but 
 that was from his point of view. The majority of us are 
 important to ourselves. 
 
 Gillian came down late for dinner, but took her place 
 with no apparent embarrassment, " Lady Jane is out of 
 danger," she said to her step-father, "and so, of course, 
 I was able to come home." 
 
 The old soap-boiler glared at her in silent indignation. 
 He had always before liked " Madam Gill." Yes, even 
 when she had defied his authority and stuck to her convict ; 
 but he could not get over her desertion of her mother. 
 
 He shook his head and turned to Jack. " She ain't fit 
 for the move yet," he said, pointing overhead with his 
 thumb ; " but so soon as she is we will be off." 
 
 The situation certainly was awkward, as Gill had known 
 it would be, but she cared very little about that. There 
 is a certain amount of danger in being one of the people 
 who care for a few things very much. So far as happiness 
 goes, one had perhaps better bring offerings to a row of 
 little minor deities ; but the other nature has its compen- 
 sations — sometimes. 
 
 During the following day, Gillian solved difficulties by 
 sticking close to Jack's side. There was a good deal to be 
 arranged, and she was in her element when she was 
 advising him on matters of business. It was at her
 
 Zbc Salvation ot Zvoo 393 
 
 suggestion that Geoffrey Haubert wrot« a letter to the 
 Times, in which he stated where and how Mr. Cardew's 
 manuscript had been discovered. In the same edition 
 appeared a letter from Cardew's publisher. This gentle- 
 man was ready to vouch for the fact of the recovered work 
 being identical with that which was to have run through 
 
 the Magazine in 1883. He had read the manuscript 
 
 himself in the first instance ; it had then been returned to 
 Cardew, on the latter's wishing to make some alteration 
 in the concluding chapters. This was followed by a short 
 letter from Cardew himself. 
 
 "It seems to me that it is my business to see that no 
 imputation rests on the name of my dead friend," Jack 
 wrote. " I am absolutely certain that the purloining of 
 my papers was an idle joke. The joke had somewhat 
 grim results, but it was a result that could not have been 
 foreseen by Mr. Haubert, and had he not been killed in 
 an accident on the afternoon of July 6th, 1882 (that is the 
 day on which he took the manuscript), no harm would have 
 resulted from the trick, and the parcel would certainly 
 have been returned to me." 
 
 " Is that your business ? " said Gillian. " Your friend 
 cost you pretty dear. I wonder why on earth it all 
 happened ? Probably there is no * reason why,' though ; 
 and there is nothing gained by puzzling over it," 
 
 " I think that there is a reason why," said Cardew. 
 " But I doubt if you and I shall hit on it on this side 
 of the grave, my dear. The circle may be a bit too big 
 for us to see." 
 
 *' Then we had better not trouble ourselves about it," 
 said she. 
 
 They were sitting in the library, with the letter before 
 them. Jack pushed it aside, and looked at Gillian with 
 the sudden smile that so transfigured his face.
 
 394 Bt tbe Cro5S*1Roat>5 
 
 " Oh, of course, there are lots of people who never do 
 trouble themselves about the why and wherefore," he said. 
 " But I must, Gill. I don't know why that is ; but I do 
 know that I must either sink, or else swim with the whole 
 of my strength. The reason of the pain and injustice that 
 one sees ? Good heavens ! it must be a precious big 
 reason, to justify the torture and hopelessness of half 
 creation ! " 
 
 "I was not worrying myself about 'half creation,' you 
 know," said Gillian calmly. " It is you that I care about ; 
 and if we come to why and wherefore, I am sure I can't 
 think why I was ever so silly as to start doing that ! " 
 
 Then she laughed contentedly. "Jack," she said, "after 
 all, I do know why. It is because I always felt that you 
 were bigger than most of us. You are meant to do big 
 things. You will help the world to live. Already weak 
 people are stretching out their hands to you." 
 
 He shook his head ; but he felt that it was curious that 
 she should use the very words that old Mr. Molyneux had 
 once said to him. Then the melancholy that had become 
 part of his nature, that in a weaker man would have 
 paralysed action, asserted itself. 
 
 " To me ? But they don't know — there are things that 
 never wear out, Gill." 
 
 Gillian sighed impatiently. " Jack, it is because of that," 
 she said. "Look here, I think that it is a shame that 
 you should have suftered. To me, other people's good 
 does not in the least make up for it ; because, as you 
 know, your little finger is worth more to me than all the 
 other people in the world. And yet — though I grudge it — 
 I see that that suffering has given you a sort of power 
 which not every one possesses. Somehow I have heard 
 before that going down into hell is a preliminary to saving 
 others. You can't, as a rule, help a person to get out of 
 a place without having been in it yourself. Mind, this
 
 Ube Salvation of XTwo 395 
 
 sort of transcendental theory isn't in my line ! I daresay 
 I am talking arrant bosh. I only think about these things 
 because you do. You'll never turn me into a Lady Jane, 
 my dear." 
 
 " I don't want to," said he, laughing. " I have the very 
 deepest reverence for Lady Jane; she is goodness itself; 
 but I should think she would be slightly chilling as a wife. 
 It is queer that you should be so fond of her." 
 
 " She is the only woman in whom I have ever had the 
 least inclination to confide," said Gillian. " Because you 
 see she too has been — but never mind ! Jane's affairs are 
 not our business. You have not dated that letter correctly, 
 dear. Shall I make a copy of it ? " 
 
 They plunged into business again, and talked no more 
 of those hard nuts on which mankind seem bound to cut 
 their wisdom teeth — whether they crack the shell or no. 
 Yet those few words had brought them into closer touch. 
 Sometimes on our way through the world we join hands 
 with those who are like ourselves, who are spiritual 
 brothers or sisters ; but the deeper and wider revelation 
 comes to the man or woman who learns to understand a 
 nature ttnVike his own. 
 
 Gillian had just left the library, when she was con- 
 fronted by Mr. Clovis. 
 
 " If I am not giving you too much trouble, I should 
 like to have a word with you before we leave this house," 
 said he, with something that sounded like the snort of an 
 angry bull. 
 
 "Oh, certainly," said Gillian. 
 
 She was rather sorry that her step-father was annoyed ; 
 but, whatever her failings, she was never in the least afraid 
 of any one's wrath. 
 
 " What have I done ? " she asked. " Are you going to 
 scold me? You never did that when 1 was a little girl. 
 Mammy always said that you spoilt me. Will you not
 
 396 Ht tbe Cro55*1Roa^s 
 
 come into the dining-room ? We cannot talk comfortably 
 here." 
 
 Mr. Clovis followed her into the dining-room, and 
 Gillian pushed an armchair and a footstool up to the fire 
 for him. Gillian had always looked after her step-father's 
 creature comforts. She instinctively liked to make people 
 comfortable. Mr, Clovis refused the armchair. It was 
 a little absurd of him, but he knew of old that " Madam 
 Gill" could, as he expressed it, come round him, and he 
 did not wish to be beguiled into amiability. He stood on 
 the hearth-rug and glowered at Gillian, who suppressed 
 an inclination to laugh. 
 
 "Dear me ! What is the matter ?" she asked. 
 
 " I ain't responsible for you now, Gillian," said her step- 
 father. " If your own conscience don't teach you what 
 is the matter, I don't know who is to. All I say is that 
 I hope you will be ashamed some day." 
 
 " I will not wait for some day. I will be sorry now, 
 if I have offended you," said Gillian, who had not the 
 least desire to quarrel with Mr. Clovis. 
 
 " Me ? It wouldn't so much matter how you behaved 
 to me. I ain't complaining on my own account, nor 
 haven't any cause to. It is your behaviour to your mother 
 that " 
 
 "Oh, it is that, is it?" interrupted Gillian. Her tone 
 changed and she drew herself up. '* My conduct appears 
 extraordinary and indefensible," she said. " I do not any 
 longer go near my mother. I do not press her to stay 
 with me. That is perfectly true. I admit it; and I do 
 not choose to offer any excuses. You have known me 
 since I was twelve years old, Mr. Clovis. I do not think 
 that I was a bad-tempered or sullen girl. I leave you to 
 draw what conclusion you like." 
 
 Now this was not a soft answer, and yet it stemmed the 
 torrent of the soap-boiler's indignation and made him reflect.
 
 Ube Salvation of Uvvo 397 
 
 He was not in the least a stupid man, and he saw the 
 force of Gillian's allusion to her childhood and girlhood. 
 It was true that he had often remarked admiringly that 
 " Miss Gill " had an uncommon lot of good sense. Gill 
 had never been jealou or irritable. Most girls would 
 have been at least a little sore at seeing themselves 
 superseded, but she had made the best of things and 
 fallen into place without a sigh. She had always been 
 ready to yield in small matters, for the sake of peace. 
 She had never shown a trace of that most common feminine 
 propensity for making mountains out of mole-hills. 
 
 Mr. Clovis sighed heavily and shook his head. 
 
 " What is the use of setting me conundrums to guess ?" 
 said he ; "I don't understand it. I am sick and tired of a 
 business I can't make head or tail of! that's what I am ! 
 But there is one thing I do see plain enough, and that is 
 that we ain't welcome here. I have ordered a carriage 
 to take us to the Metropole this afternoon, for my wife 
 seems a bit better to-day, and it will be round in half an 
 hour. Your mother seems to wish to say good-bye to you, 
 but I won't have her worried and upset. For my part, 
 I think if you cannot behave as a daughter should you had 
 best keep away." 
 
 " I quite agree with you," said Gillian gravely. 
 
 She was heartily sorry to hurt Mr. Clovis, but she felt 
 that the break between herself and her mother was final. 
 She had said that which could never be unsaid. She could 
 scarcely even understand how it was that Mrs. Clovis 
 could desire to patch up a semblance of peace. 
 
 " Then I will take my leave of you now, if you please," 
 said her step-father, fuming again at her cold reply. " I 
 am sorry we have troubled you ; but, to speak my mind 
 
 plainly for once, Gillian, I must say that " But she 
 
 held up her hand to stop him. 
 
 " No, no, Mr. Cloves," she said. " You have only heard
 
 398 Bt tbe (Ivos5=1Roa&s 
 
 one side of this case, and you will never hear the other. 
 You are not in a position to deliver judgment." 
 
 She spoke with some warmth, and possibly the nickname 
 that she had always called him by, when she lived under 
 his roof, recalled memories that softened him. He was 
 silent for a minute, and stared at her with an odd 
 mixture of shrewdness and kindliness. No one with the 
 least knowledge of character could look at this woman's 
 face and imagine her to be cold-hearted. 
 
 "Madam Gill," he said at last, "I am a great many 
 years older than you, and as you have just been sayin', you 
 were partly under my charge when you were a girl. I 
 have often and often thought as I did wrong when I let 
 you go and live all alone in London, because you stuck to 
 Cardew. I was riled at the way in which you set aside 
 our authority ; but I own now that there is an authority 
 higher than ours that makes it natural for a woman to 
 leave father and mother — let alone step-father — for the sake 
 of the man she is promised to. Now I say I was wrong, 
 and I don't want to wrong you twice. That's why I will 
 try to believe that your behaviour ain't quite so bad as it 
 seems, though, mind you, it is hard to swallow." 
 
 " I think that that is very good of you — but you are 
 good," said Gillian. For a moment the tears stood in her 
 eyes. She would have shaken hands with him, but seeing 
 that he was unwilling, she desisted. 
 
 " It is all beyond me ; but anyhow I am very fond of 
 my wife, and I don't believe she is in any way to blame — 
 and you know, choose what the reason is, you are not an 
 affectionate daughter to her ; and so " 
 
 " Oh, I understand," said Gillian half laughing. " I 
 understand quite well why you can't shake hands, for I am 
 very fond of some one too ! That is where it is ! You 
 and I are dreadfully human, Mr. Clovis ! " 
 
 So Mr. and Mrs. Clovis departed, and Gillian did not say
 
 Zbc Salvation of Uwo 399 
 
 good-bye to her mother ; but neither did she tell her 
 husband of her interview with her step-father. The 
 displeasure of " Mr. Cloves," was unavoidable, but it had 
 given her some pain, and she possessed a sturdy pride that 
 made her unwilling to fuss over small bruises. Jack 
 would have been indignant on her behalf had she told him, 
 and she wished to save him from minor troubles. Gillian's 
 comradeship would always carry with it practical use ; if 
 Jack insisted on making for the stars she, at least, would 
 not add to the number of stones in his path. He had also 
 insisted on her companionship, and therein lay cause for 
 content. 
 
 And here I feel as if the story should be left. 
 
 The man and woman whose twisted lives I have tried to 
 follow must soon be lost again in the crowd. That great 
 crowd that is always moving on to God knows what 
 mysterious goal. That great crowd that is made of indi- 
 vidual characters, whose limitations are set by the same 
 hand that set the boundaries of the salt waves, and that 
 yet seems at times to have one common life beating 
 through it. 
 
 I am loth to lose sight of Jack and Gillian, but they are 
 entering on a new phase, and the witches' apples are drop- 
 ping from her hands. There is perhaps no such thing as 
 an end to any life, but my pen shall soon write " finis." 
 
 Let them go, having saved each other ? Ay, but by 
 reason of that saving power, that I believe was before all 
 the worlds began, before men shaped creeds, or women 
 cried, " Nay, but greater than creed is love." 
 
 Yet, because some who have read this story may like 
 to know what happened next, I must own that Gillian has 
 not yet forgiven her mother. Indeed, of late years Mrs. 
 Clovis has begun to feel herself the injured person. It is, 
 as she plaintively remarks, so extraordinary that she should 
 have a daughter so unlike herself. " Dearest Gillian was
 
 400 Ht tbc Cross*1Roat)s 
 
 never demonstrative, but nowadays one would imagine 
 that she had no heart at all." This, however, is only 
 of late years, for months after she left her daughter's house 
 the impression made by Gillian's indignation, and by that 
 interview with Jack — which she never likes to remember 
 — lasted, even painfully. Moreover, Mr. Strode gave her 
 no peace on the subject of full confession ; and the fear 
 of death added point to his adjurations. Moved, or rather 
 driven by him, she did at last write a very lengthy state- 
 ment of her " mistake," which she gave to her husband, 
 begging him to read it when she was not in the room. 
 
 Mr. Clovis took the paper from her reluctantly. " I 
 don't believe that you ever did anything very bad, my 
 dear," he said. " But I can see that you are making your- 
 self miserable, and that the man in petticoats has been 
 bullying you. Do you really want me to read this ?" 
 
 "No — o, George. But I feel I — I ought to," she said 
 with white lips. 
 
 Mr. Clovis put the closely written document in the fire, 
 and she gave a little cry of surprise — perhaps of relief. 
 
 " Very well. Now you have done as you ought," he 
 said. " And whatever was in it has gone up the chimney. 
 But mind, Eva, there is one thing I don't like, and that 
 is priests about." 
 
 " Dear George, there was never anybody so good as you 
 are ! " she cried gratefully. " And I am sure that I never 
 wish to see Mr. Strode again, for the weight is off my mind 
 now." 
 
 " Then just you set yourself to getting well," he rejoined 
 with cheerful tenderness ; and from that moment, as he 
 always averred, she did begin to recover. 
 
 The third doctor was right. Mrs. Clovis bids fair to 
 live to a ripe old age, and she is still adored by her husband 
 and son. The church at Churton Regis owes much to her 
 munificence. It has never again been allowed to fall into
 
 Ubc Salvation of Uwo 4ot 
 
 the neglected condition from which that unpopular vicar, 
 Mr. Strode, first rescued it. 
 
 Lady Hammerton asserts that her godson was worth a 
 bnker's dozen of his successor; but Lady Hammerton is 
 in a minority. 
 
 "Henry Strode has all the family failings," she says. 
 " He always reminds me of my dear old friend, Sir Edward. 
 He is as obstinate as my white pony, and he was born 
 with blinkers on. He can only see one view of a case — 
 but at least he never squints at the loaves and fishes. He 
 is a man — not to say a gentleman — and there are not too 
 many of that sort left in the Church." 
 
 But Lady Hammerton is getting to the stage when the 
 light begins to fail, and her brave old eyes to see the world 
 in shadow. 
 
 Cyril has shut up High fields and has gone abroad. 
 He is an unexpectedly jealous husband, but no one knows 
 whether Nina repents of her bargain. 
 
 Enid and Geoffrey Haubert moved successfully into 
 bigger rooms, and they are happier than most people. 
 Mr. Strode goes to see them sometimes, but he will not 
 go too often. That peaceful home atmosphere disturbs him, 
 for he holds himself pledged to a life in which there is 
 no room for a woman. His conclusions may be just, or 
 they may be mistaken. Even the wisest among us are 
 bound to make so many blunders, that one learns to 
 suspect it is not so much what a man does, as why he 
 does it, which matters in the long run. Mr. Strode does 
 what he thinks right, even though it be to his own dis- 
 advantage ; and his singlc-mindedness tells a good deal 
 more than he guesses. It is a comforting fact that, though 
 the dust raised by the clash of conflicting opinions is some- 
 what perplexing, we are pretty much of one mind as to 
 ethical qualities. The wrong-headedness of my brother 
 may be extremely apparent to me, and the error of my 
 
 26
 
 402 Ht tbe Cross*1Roa&5 
 
 opinions may shock him at every turn, but we both of us 
 lift our hats to integrity and self-devotion, whenever we 
 are obliged to recognise them. 
 
 One painful memory Mr. Strode will carry with him 
 always ; but, because he remembers, many a black sheep 
 has found him unexpectedly helpful, and curiously slow 
 to judge. Had he never met Jack Cardew in prison, he 
 would never have been haunted by a bitter recollection — 
 and he would have been a harder man. So inextricably 
 woven are the threads that bind us to each other, so 
 unfathomable and far-reaching is the answer to Cain's 
 question. 
 
 Even as I write these last words, I know that the 
 thousands of stories that are never told, that no man puts 
 into words, are being lived out all around me, in the streets 
 and squares and alleys of this great London. Binding us 
 each to each is an invisible bond — for an injury done to the 
 weakest is done to us all, as our deepest instinct tells us — 
 and yet between us is that invisible wall that cannot be 
 passed ; for no one knows the whole of his brother's or 
 his sister's life. It is a mighty paradox, and hard to under- 
 stand ; but the children and the simple solve the problems 
 that the learned state. The man and the woman and the 
 child have w'andered far, since Eve, with Eden behind her, 
 and her first-born in her arms, cried, " I have gotten a man 
 from the Lord " ; yet, I think that when they find their 
 way, they will still find it together. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.
 
 tenth edition. 
 By F. F. MONTRESOR. 
 
 INTO THE HIGHWAYS AND HEDGES. 
 
 In crown 8vo., cloth gilt 6s. 
 
 A FEW PRESS OPINIONS. 
 
 Academy. 
 
 " This book is so admirably conceived and written that Mr. Montr^sor's 
 next venture must excite unusual interest." 
 
 Athenaeum. 
 "Whoever wrote ' Into the Highways and Hedges,' wrote no common 
 novel. A touch of idealism, of nobility of thought and purpose, mingled 
 with an air of reality and well-chosen expression, are the most notable 
 features of a book that has not the ordinary defects of such qualities. 
 With all its elevation of utterance and spirituality of outlook and insight 
 it is wonderfully free from overstrained or exaggerated matter, and it has 
 glimpses of humour. Most of the characters are vivid, yet there is 
 restraint and sobriety in their treatment." 
 
 Daily Telegraph. 
 
 "This exceptionally noble and stirring book. Recounted with un- 
 flagging verve and vigour, we unhesitatingly say that it has hardly a 
 dull or superfluous page." 
 
 New Age. 
 
 "A remarkably strong novel. I often thought of George Eliot when 
 reading this book, which I advise every one to read." (Katherine Tynan.) 
 
 Manchester Courier. 
 
 "Mr. Montr^sor's next book will be eagerly awaited by all those who 
 make the acquaintance of his first, for a more strikingly original or a 
 stronger novel has not appeared for some time." 
 
 World. 
 
 "'Into the Highways and Hedges' would have been a remarkable 
 work of fiction at any time ; it is phenomenal at this, for it is neither 
 trivial, eccentric, coarse, nor pretentious, but the opposite of all these, and 
 a very fine and lofty conception. The man is wonderfully drawn, realised 
 with a masterly completeness, and the woman is worthy of him. The whole 
 of the story is admirably conceived and sustained. A wonderful book." 
 
 Glasgow Herald. 
 "This is a remarkable and powerful book, which is likely to leave a 
 strong impression of itself upon every intelligent reader. One of the 
 most interesting novels that one has seen for some time." 
 
 Manchester Guardian. 
 
 "The characters are conceived strongly. Since the days of Dinah 
 Morris there has not, perhaps, been quite so successful a portrait of a 
 man or woman consumed by the passage of humanity. "The dialogue 
 throughout the book is excellent." 
 
 London: HUTCHINSON & CO., 34, Paternoster Row.
 
 SIXTH EDITION. 
 
 By F. F. MONTRESOR. 
 
 THE ONE WHO LOOKED ON. 
 
 In crown 8vo., cloth gilt 3s. 6d. 
 
 A FEW PRESS OPINIONS. 
 
 World. 
 
 " The author of ' Into the Highways and Hedges ' does more than fulfil 
 the promise and sustain the reputation of that work by the story she gives 
 us in ' The One Who Looked On." This is a tale ' of love that never 
 found its earthly close,' quite unusual, entirely unlike any other, full of 
 a strange power and reahsm, and touched with a fine humour. The 
 style will reveal, to those who know how such work must be done to 
 produce such an effect, the care with which the writer has wrought at 
 a task for which her reward will surely be full, in general appreciation. 
 The guardian and the ward, Sir Charles and Charlie, are achievements 
 of magnitude, the child's character especially. And the gentle, devoted, 
 true womanly 'one who looked on,' and paid for the onlook as only 
 such a woman could pay, is a great conception, or, as we prefer to 
 believe, a very lovely reality." 
 
 British Weekly. 
 
 " We recommend this book as one of the most remarkable and powerful 
 of the year's contributions, worthy to stand with Ian Maclaren's. The 
 beauty and pathos of the story. . . . We do not hesitate to say from the 
 evidence it gives that Miss ^Iontr^sor is the likeliest of all our women 
 writers to do something really great and lasting." 
 
 Weekly Sun. 
 
 " The high e.xpectations we formed of Miss Montr&or after reading 
 that powerful work, ' Into the Highways and Hedges,' have not been 
 disappointed. Her second work confirms our opinion other talents. She 
 has strength, humour, and something of George Eliot's penetrating insight. 
 At a time when the women %\Titers are in almost total eclipse this gleam 
 of pure brightness is the more to be welcomed. Touching and beautiful 
 is the love-story contained in 'The One Who Looked On.' The men 
 and women in this book are of flesh and blood compact. And as for 
 Charlie, we do not think the fine little chap has his fellow in literature. 
 No task is more difficult than to represent in fiction a boy with his love 
 of mischief, his innate nobility, and his wayward humours. Miss Montr(5sor 
 has done to perfection what most novelists, both male and female, have 
 failed in attempting. ' The One Who Looked On ' deserves great 
 popularity." 
 
 Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 " ' Into the Highways and Hedges' made a deep impression on all who 
 read it, and its authoress gives us a worthy successor in her new book. 
 The sweet young ' looker on ' tells her story with such pathos, humour, 
 and insight, that the reader, seeing with her eyes, laughs, wonders, and 
 saddens with her. The idea of the book is distinctly original." 
 
 London: HUTCHINSON k CO., 34, Paternoster Row.
 
 
 l.-'AA I U 
 
 . l-^KJl— 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 1 
 1 
 1 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 1 
 1 
 
 ! 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 CAYLORD 
 
 
 
 PRINTED IN U.S A.
 
 AA 000 589 552 9