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.
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